d, and were not the folks
at Newcome Park particularly civil at that interesting period? So
Barnes Newcome mounts his pulpit, bows round to the crowded assembly
in acknowledgment of their buzz of applause or recognition, passes his
lily-white pocket-handkerchief across his thin lips, and dashes off into
his lecture about Mrs. Hemans and the poetry of the affections. A public
man, a commercial man as we well know, yet his heart is in his home, and
his joy in his affections; the presence of this immense assembly here
this evening; of the industrious capitalists; of the intelligent middle
class; of the pride and mainstay of England, the operatives of Newcome;
these, surrounded by their wives and their children (a graceful bow
to the bonnets to the right of the platform), show that they too have
hearts to feel, and homes to cherish; that they, too, feel the love of
women, the innocence of children, the love of song! Our lecturer then
makes a distinction between man's poetry and woman's poetry, charging
considerably in favour of the latter. We show that to appeal to the
affections is after all the true office of the bard; to decorate the
homely threshold, to wreathe flowers round the domestic hearth, the
delightful duty of the Christian singer. We glance at Mrs. Hemans's
biography, and state where she was born, and under what circumstances
she must have at first, etc. etc. Is this a correct account of Sir
Barnes Newcome's lecture? I was not present, and did not read the
report. Very likely the above may be a reminiscence of that mock lecture
which Warrington delivered in anticipation of the Baronet's oration.

After he had read for about five minutes, it was remarked the Baronet
suddenly stopped and became exceedingly confused over his manuscript:
betaking himself to his auxiliary glass of water before he resumed his
discourse, which for a long time was languid, low, and disturbed in
tone. This period of disturbance, no doubt, must have occurred when
Sir Barnes saw before him F. Bayham and Warrington seated in the
amphitheatre; and, by the side of those fierce scornful countenances,
Clive Newcome's pale face.

Clive Newcome was not looking at Barnes. His eyes were fixed upon the
lady seated not far from the lecturer--upon Ethel, with her arm round
her little niece's shoulder, and her thick black ringlets drooping down
over a face paler than Clive's own.

Of course she knew that Clive was present. She was aware of him as sh