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TYLNEY HALL. 253

tice. He made a dozen ineffectual offers with the trap-bat

at the ball, bobbed a fishing-line up and down in the fish-

pond, seized Mrs. Deputy Dobbs, and cut a brief caper with

her on the grass-plot, and finally, fitting an arrow to a bow,

the shaft escaped from his fingers, and passed through

Mrs. Tipper's turban, where it lodged, like a skewer a la

Grecque. Such a commencement made every one averse to

archery, and particularly as Mrs. Twigg requested that before

shooting any more arrows, they would let her put corks

on all the points. As to angling, it seemed universally

agreed, that on such a day no fish would take a bait and

;

with regard to dancing, Twigg's tarantula did not bite any

more than the fish, whilst the trap-ball and the cricket-ball

were as much out of favour as the ball on the lawn. Music

itself seemed for once to have lost its charms, and the most

popular of Mr. Hopkinson's songs attracted no auditor but

Dr. Bellamy, who sat gravely bowing time, and waving his

hand in accompaniment of the long, elaborate, rambling

cadences then in fashion, and which might aptly be compared

to the extraneous flourishes so much in vogue at the

same period, when the pen went curvetting off from plain

pothooks and hangers into ornamental swans, ships, dragons,

eagles, and fierce faces in flowing wigs. Indeed, from the

evolutions of Old Formality's right hand and fore-finger,

their sweeps, and wavings, and circumgyrations, and occasional

rapid spinnings, a deaf man would certainly have

thought that he was meditating and practising some such

caligraphic devices on the empty air.

At last Massa Baronet Tyrrel was announced by the ob-

sequious Pompey, and the jovial Sir Mark immediately

appeared, with his family, including his daughter elect,

Grace Rivers, the avocations of the Justice not allowing him

to be present so early. The Baronet, delivered from gout,

was in excellent health and spirits; Mrs. Hamilton seemed

unusually cheerful ; Raby and Grace were of course happy

in each other's society ; and even Ringwood and St. Kitts

appeared either to have forgotten their old feud, or to have

agreed on an armistice for the day. The host and hostess

were loud and eager in their welcome and salutations.

"

Oh, Sir Mark Tyrrel, Baronet," exclaimed Mrs. Twigg,

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