"Oh, dear no! I only meant you don't dance as if your heart were in it; in that, my lord, you're just like Jobb; he never sets, nor balances, nor chassés-in short, he takes it coolly, just as you do."

"Er r, hem, hem, er r r—"

"Don't you think it a charming ball, my lord? Every thing so genteel and tasty, and such very good company."

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Very mixed set-hem, em, er r," drawled

her partner.

Mrs. Jobb was piqued: she saw glances and smiles pass between him and a scornful Circassian beside him.

"How do you mean mixed, my lord ?"

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Oh, I mean, err r r-there are manyem em em-vulgar nobodies-er er r r-that one never sees anywhere-r r r r."

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Oh, is that all?—Now I call it mixed, because there are some young eadless fellers, giving themselves hairs, who'd be better behind a pinafore, with a fool's cap on, to my mind, my lord! . . .”

His lordship grew purple and silent.

"I have been at most elegant assemblies by the sea-side. There was a grand public fancy ball at Margate, most select. Were you ever at Margate, your lordship?"

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Margate? rrr-where's that? I never heard of the place-er r r."

"I don't know whether your hedication is considered completed, my lord, but, between you and I and the post, you can't know much of geography and the use of the globes,' as they say in advertisements. Why, my little Bob would tell you where Margate is."

6

Mrs. Jobb was fairly enraged, and "determined," as she said, " to give it him well.” "Oh, by George! I hope we're not going to have that confounded long new figure now."

"Then Hope must be your master, my lord!" with a playful twirl-" for I heard it called for."

His lordship did not know the figure, so he was obliged to be shoved here and pulled there, greatly to the amusement of his friends.

When it was done, "I declare I'm quite

'ot, my lord," said Mrs. Jobb, taking his

arm.

Before he could get rid of her, supper was served; each lady went down stairs with her partner.

"You've got to beau me, my lord, as I danced the last set with your lordship." Mrs. Jobb began to fear she should be left behind; so she hurried him on, still clinging to his

arm.

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Jobb, my dear," (to her husband, who was going down with Sappho Fitzcribb, the only person he could secure; and who, tricked out in flowers, shells, and feathers of birds, represented Fable)" sit near us-Lord Weaklington, Mr. Jobb. How do you get on, Sappher. I'm as 'ot as July. I 'ope you've enjoyed yourself. As for me, I never spent such an evening. What all this must have cost! You know my character, surely? Lavinier."

"The lovely young Lavinia," said Philosophy, hurrying by with the Morning Star on his arm.

"Once ad friends," said Mrs. Jobb, continuing the quotation, and offended at such a brief notice of her, with whom, in Great Quebec Street, he was often very glad to take tea and muffins, and jealous of his obsequious gallantry to one whom she pointed out to Lord Weaklington as a "half-starved skinflint of fashion, with a halfpenny 'ead and a farthing tail"-alluding to the diamond star and blonde veil on her forehead, and the somewhat faded blue gossamer of her train.

Lord Weaklington made some efforts to disengage his arm; he burned with indignation to find himself in such a set, and to see himself the butt of the quizzing of all his own cotorie, male and female. Mrs. Jobb only clung the tighter.

"Poor Weaklington!" said a young guardsman, dressed as De Bracy, "how he's victimised! If he were not such a confounded bore, it would be worth while to rescue him, and to cry aloud-' De Bracy à la rescousse!'" "Don't dream of such a deed," replied a languid Joan of Arc. "He bores me to

death. If you do, I shall never get rid of him. He don't mind how he victimises one; let him be victimised in his turn- now do, dear De Bracy."

"What a love Mr. Grunter looks to-night!" said Mrs. Jobb, to her noble beau.

"He's quite a marble statute!—how classic, how antick, his 'ead is!-Erodotus! what a good hidea! The rod comes in so well, you know! Report says-I speak in confidence, my lordship he was a husher once."

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"There are moments," sighed Mrs. Fitzeribb, much elated by the devotion of "the lion of the day," and wrought to rhapsody by the huge laurel crown which almost covered his eyebrows, as she moved down stairs, leaning on Grunter's arm, fragrant, fairy moments, moments when the spirit revels among 'the stars, which are the poetry of Heaven,' and the flowers, which are the poetry of earth -the triumph of a dear friend, long ambitious of the laurel, and publicly wearing it for the first time, forms a rich cluster of those starry moments-a very Pleiades of the soul! But