RANK AND TALENT;

A NOVEL.

BY THE

AUTHOR OF "TRUCKLEBOROUGH-HALL."

Why, Sir, 'tis neither satire nor moral, but the mere passage of an history; yet there are a sort of discontented creatures, that bear a stingless envy to great ones, and these will wrest the doings of any man to their base malicious appliment.

Marston.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1829.

CONTENTS.

RANK AND TALENT.

CHAPTER I.

"Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this!"
Shakspeare.

The season commenced in London much as usual. New faces were prepared, and old ones repaired, for exhibition. All the world was weary of the country; the ocean was monotonous; and the game all killed. Equipages came in one after another. Saloons were lighted up; and every successive night the noise of wheels and brilliancy of town-mansions increased. Cards were handed about; and in the distribution our queer friend, old John Martindale, was not forgotten. Many a saucy, lace-bedizened lacquey sneered at the humble-looking residence of a man whom nobility of the first rank condescended to notice. The report was quickly spread abroad, that old Mr. Martindale had discovered a daughter of the days of his imprudence. Many romantic tales were told of the discovery; and many a wonder-exciting paragraph was inserted in the newspapers, but nobody knew their authors. Brigland may be a famous place for gossip, but London is infamous. Country-made lies and wonders are nothing to be compared with those manufactured, swallowed, printed, and circulated in London.

Old Mr. Martindale was overwhelmed with astonishment at the numbers who paid their respects and congratulations personally. He had not read the paragraphs in the newspapers. He had not heard that all the world was talking of Signora Rivolta as the finest woman living, and of Clara as the brightest jewel of a beauty. He did not know that Colonel Rivolta was supposed to have been in the confidence of Napoleon Bonaparte, and to be intimately acquainted with the secret history of most of the courts of Europe. All these reports brought together a multitude of curious and inquiring geniuses to pay their respects to Mr. Martindale, who was ungrateful enough to call them a set of simpletons for their pains. In the course of one week, Mr. Martindale and his family received invitations to upwards of twenty parties of one kind or another. The old gentleman himself could not tolerate any species of visit except a snug quiet dinner-party. He resolved, however, in order to gratify his daughter by the exhibition of what might be to her a curiosity, to take her to some evening-party. With this view he looked over the cards of invitation, in order to select one which might be the least intolerable. The inviters