r unguarded corner. The wary stuff their ears, the stolid bid
her best sayings rebound on her reputation. Nevertheless the world, as
Christian, remembers its professions, and a portion of it joins the burly
in morals by extending to her a rough old charitable mercifulness; better
than sentimental ointment, but the heaviest blow she has to bear, to a
character swimming for life.

That the lady in question was much quoted, the Diaries and Memoirs
testify. Hearsay as well as hearing was at work to produce the abundance;
and it was a novelty in England, where (in company) the men are the
pointed talkers, and the women conversationally fair Circassians. They
are, or they know that they should be; it comes to the same. Happily our
civilization has not prescribed the veil to them. The mutes have here and
there a sketch or label attached to their names: they are 'strikingly
handsome'; they are 'very good-looking'; occasionally they are noted as
'extremely entertaining': in what manner, is inquired by a curious
posterity, that in so many matters is left unendingly to jump the empty
and gaping figure of interrogation over its own full stop. Great ladies
must they be, at the web of politics, for us to hear them cited
discoursing. Henry Wilmers is not content to quote the beautiful Mrs.
Warwick, he attempts a portrait. Mrs. Warwick is 'quite Grecian.' She
might 'pose for a statue.' He presents her in carpenter's lines, with a
dab of school-box colours, effective to those whom the Keepsake fashion
can stir. She has a straight nose, red lips, raven hair, black eyes, rich
complexion, a remarkably fine bust, and she walks well, and has an
agreeable voice; likewise 'delicate extremities.' The writer was created
for popularity, had he chosen to bring his art into our literary market.

Perry Wilkinson is not so elaborate: he describes her in his
'Recollections' as a splendid brune, eclipsing all the blondes coming
near her: and 'what is more, the beautiful creature can talk.' He
wondered, for she was young, new to society. Subsequently he is rather
ashamed of his wonderment, and accounts for it by 'not having known she
was Irish.' She 'turns out to be Dan Merion's daughter.'

We may assume that he would have heard if she had any whiff of a brogue.
Her sounding of the letter R a trifle scrupulously is noticed by Lady
Pennon: 'And last, not least, the lovely Mrs. Warwick, twenty minutes
behind the dinner-hour, and r-r-really fearing she wa