During this walk Mr. Palmer had taken no part in the conversation; he had seemed engrossed with his own thoughts, or occupied with observing the beauties of the place. Tired with her walk--for Mrs. Beaumont always complained of being fatigued when she was vexed, thus at once concealing her vexation, and throwing the faults of her mind upon her body--she stretched herself upon a sofa as soon as she reached the house, nor did she recover from her exhausted state till she cast her eyes upon a tamborine, which she knew would afford means of showing Miss Hunter’s figure and graces to advantage. Slight as this resource may seem, Mrs. Beaumont well knew that slighter still have often produced great effects. Soon afterward she observed her son smile repeatedly as he read a passage in some book that lay upon the table, and she had the curiosity to take up the book when he turned away. She found that it was Cumberland’s Memoirs, and saw the following little poem marked with reiterated lines of approbation: “Why, Affectation, why this mock grimace? Go, silly thing, and hide that simp’ring face. Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait, All thy false mimic fooleries I hate; For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she Who is right foolish hath the better plea; Nature’s true idiot I prefer to thee. Why that soft languish? Why that drawling tone? Art sick, art sleepy? Get thee hence: begone. I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears, Those flutt’rings, faintings, and unreal fears. Can they deceive us? Can such mumm’ries move, Touch us with pity, or inspire with love? No, Affectation, vain is all thy art! Those eyes may wander over ev’ry part; They’ll never find their passage to the heart.” “Why, Affectation, why this mock grimace? Go, silly thing, and hide that simp’ring face. Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait, All thy false mimic fooleries I hate; For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she Who is right foolish hath the better plea; Nature’s true idiot I prefer to thee. Why that soft languish? Why that drawling tone? Art sick, art sleepy? Get thee hence: begone. I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears, Those flutt’rings, faintings, and unreal fears. Can they deceive us? Can such mumm’ries move, Touch us with pity, or inspire with love? No, Affectation, vain is all thy art! Those eyes may wander over ev’ry part; They’ll never find their passage to the heart.”