It is surprising what a change twenty years of a tropical sun can make in the human constitution.  The captain went forth a good-looking, good-tempered man, destitute neither of kind feelings nor masculine beauty:  the general returned bloated, bilious, irascible, entirely selfish, and decidedly ill-favoured.  Such affections as he ever had seemed to have been left behind in India—­that new world, around which now all his associations and remembrances revolved; and the reserve (clearly reproduced in Charles), the habit of silence whereof we took due notice in the spring-tide of his life, had now grown, perhaps from some oppressive secret, into a settled, moody, continuous taciturnity, which made his curious wife more vexed at him than ever; for, notwithstanding all the news he must have had to tell her, the company of John George Julian Tracy proved to his long-expectant Jane any thing but cheering or instructive.  His past life, and present feelings, to say nothing of his future prospects, might all be but a blank, for any thing the general seemed to care:  brandy and tobacco, an easy chair, and an ordnance map of India, with Emily beside him to talk about old times, these were all for which he lived:  and even the female curiosity of a wife, duly authorized to ask questions, could extract from him astonishingly little of his Indian experiences.  As to his wealth, indeed, Mrs. Tracy boldly made direct inquiry; for Julian set her on to beg for a commission, and Charles also was anxious for a year or two at college; but the general divulged not much:  albeit he vouchsafed to both his sons a liberally increased allowance.  It was only when his wife, piqued at such reserve, pettishly remarked,

“At any rate, sir, I may be permitted to hope, that Miss Warren’s friends are kind enough to pay her expenses;”

That the veteran, in high dudgeon at any imputation on his Indian acquaintances, sternly answered,

“You need not be apprehensive, madam; Emily Warren is amply provided for.”  Words which sank deep into the prudent mother’s mind.

But we must not too long let dock-leaves hide a violet; it is high time, and barely courteous now, to introduce that beautiful exotic, Emily Warren.  Her own history, as she will tell it to Charles hereafter, was so obscure, that she knew little of it certainly herself, and could barely gather probabilities from scattered fragments.  At present, we have only to survey results in a superficial manner:  in their due season, we will dig up all the roots.

No heroine can probably engage our interest or sympathy who possesses the infirmity of ugliness:  it is not in human nature to admire her, and human nature is a thing very much to be consulted.  Moreover, no one ever yet saw an amiable personage, who was not so far pleasing, or, in other parlance, so far pretty.  I cannot help the common course of things; and however hackneyed be the thought, however common-place the phrase, it is true, nevertheless, that beauty, singular beauty, would be the first idea of any rational creature, who caught but a glimpse of Emily Warren; and I should account it little wonder if, upon a calmer gaze, that beauty were found to have its deepest, clearest fountain in those large dark eyes of heir’s.