My confessions, if recorded verbatim, from the notes of that four weeks’ sojourn, would only increase the already too prolix and uninteresting details of this chapter in my life; I need only say, that without falling in love with Mary Kamworth, I felt prodigiously disposed thereto; she was extremely pretty; had a foot and ancle to swear by, the most silvery toned voice I almost ever heard, and a certain witchery and archness of manner that by its very tantalizing uncertainty continually provoked attention, and by suggesting a difficulty in the road to success, imparted a more than common zest in the pursuit.  She was little, a very little blue, rather a dabbler in the “ologies,” than a real disciple.  Yet she made collections of minerals, and brown beetles, and cryptogamias, and various other homeopathic doses of the creation, infinitessimally small in their subdivision; in none of which I felt any interest, save in the excuse they gave for accompanying her in her pony-phaeton.  This was, however, a rare pleasure, for every morning for at least three or four hours I was obliged to sit opposite the colonel, engaged in the compilation of that narrative of his “res gestae,” which was to eclipse the career of Napoleon and leave Wellington’s laurels but a very faded lustre in comparison.  In this agreeable occupation did I pass the greater part of my day, listening to the insufferable prolixity of the most prolix of colonels, and at times, notwithstanding the propinquity of relationship which awaited us, almost regretting that he was not blown up in any of the numerous explosions his memoir abounded with.  I may here mention, that while my literary labour was thus progressing, the young lady continued her avocations as before—­not indeed with me for her companion—­but Waller; for Colonel Kamworth, “having remarked the steadiness and propriety of my man, felt no scruple in sending him out to drive Miss Kamworth,” particularly as I gave him a most excellent character for every virtue under heaven.

I must hasten on.—­The last evening of my four weeks was drawing to a close.  Colonel Kamworth had pressed me to prolong my visit, and I only waited for Waller’s return from Cheltenham, whither I had sent him for my letters, to make arrangements with him to absolve me from my ridiculous bond, and accept the invitation.  We were sitting round the library fire, the colonel, as usual, narrating his early deeds and hair-breadth ’scapes.  Mary, embroidering an indescribable something, which every evening made its appearance but seemed never to advance, was rather in better spirits than usual, at the same time her manner was nervous and uncertain; and I could perceive by her frequent absence of mind, that her thoughts were not as much occupied by the siege of Java as her worthy father believed them.  Without laying any stress upon the circumstance, I must yet avow that Waller’s not having returned from Cheltenham gave me some uneasiness, and I more