Ly. O. has lost her vivacity and beauty. She is in a deplorable state of spirits, proceeding, I fancy, from an enthusiastic, romantic admiration of Sr. Francis’s ideal perfections. She fancies herself a victim of sensibility, and is really so drooping that I should scarcely be surprised if she perished from imagining grief. Mr. Knight encourages her in those _bursts_ of sensibility; he compares her tears to April showers that sprinkle and revive the freshness of the violet. Be the cause what it may, her beauty is impaired; her eyes, which were always full and prominent, now from thinness start out. It is also probable that her languor may arise from having lost the relish which the novelty gave of being a great lady. She appears from an affectation of _naïveté_ weaker than she is; in a whining, monotonous, childish tone she uses fine phrases for common conversation. She said to Ld. H. upon the Slave Trade, ‘I am always for justice and humanity, ar’n’t you?’ And to the General: ‘In case of a revolution, you, of course, would take the side of the people against the King, would not you?’ The house is comfortable, and they live with a degree of splendour they are unequal to, as he has ruined himself by his ostentation and her total ignorance of the value of money. Mr. Knight wrote a famous work upon the traces still to be found in Italy of a primitive worship. He has assembled a large collection of these symbols in bronze, marble, etc. He is a passionate admirer of the ancients, and studies in nature antique forms and contours. Ly. Hamilton was his favourite; she absent, the admiration is transferred to Ly. O. He is a middle-aged man, and has a large fortune. His pursuits are classical even to pedantry. He has made a good house and fine grounds, and lives with a degree of luxurious _recherche_.