sketch in the scene at that moment;—the old Squire in his chair, with his benevolent face turned towards Clifford, and his hands resting on his cane—Clifford himself bowing down his stately head to hear the details of the father;—the beautiful daughter on the other side of the chair, her laugh suddenly stilled, her gait insensibly more composed, and blush chasing blush over the smooth and peach-like loveliness of her cheek;—the party, of all sizes, ages, and attire, affording ample scope for the caricaturist; and the pensive figure of Augustus Tomlinson (who, by the by, was exceedingly like Liston,) standing apart from the rest, on the brow of the hill where Clifford had left him, and moralizing on the motley procession, with one hand hid in his waistcoat, and the other caressing his chin, which slowly and pendulously with the rest of his head, moved up and down.
As the party approached the brow of the hill, the view of the city below was so striking, that there was a general pause for the purpose of survey.
