I am, perhaps, mystic! In my little ode in the Magazine of Fashion,' to-morrow-an ode, addressed to the Modern Herodotus'-you will see what I mean."

"I listen, like Pericles, to the voice of..." then recollecting that Aspasia was not a person to whom to compare Mrs. Fitzcribb, he corrected himself" I mean, I fancy myself Numa, and you Madam Egeria."

66

Ah, Egeria is for the grot, the forest, the woodland solitude, the silver fount."

"To the great mind, madam, as I have remarked in my work, The Philosophy of History and the History of Philosophy,' cities are crowded solitudes, and the historian and philosopher need an Egeria, and sigh for her in the midst of the hum and the tumult." This somewhat romantic flight had been suggested by Milton Fitzcribb.

"In future they shall call me Egeria. I will name you Numa. I shall no longer sign my sonnets in The Magazine of Fashion,' and the Boudoir of Beauty,' 'Thyrza' or ‘Mirza,' but Egeria.''

The splendid supper-tables, the brilliantlylighted rooms, the number of attendants, so astonished Mrs. Jobb, that she had almost loosed her hold of Lord Weaklington's arm. A prompt movement of his reminded her in time, and she clung to it, again venting her astonishment and delight in the expressive words

"Well, I never!!! Why, money must be like dirt to Mr. Lindsay!-And to think he's only mister, not a lord, not even a sir! Do look at the plate-do look at the chaney, my lord; to say nothing of the glass. Did you ever see such a supper?"

"I er er er hem hem hem."

"We'd better take seats while we can get them, my lord," said the lady; and Lord Weaklington, he scarce knew how, found himself seated by the "lovely young Lavinia," who took soup twice, breaking bread into it each time, put her knife in her mouth, and, in short, did all the things most excruciating to him, besides talking incessantly, and compelling him to answer her.

It was, in truth, a very brilliant scene: the peculiarities and richness of most of the costumes; the variety of beauty, both male and female, so remarkable in any assembly of the higher orders in England; the mirth, if not the wit, which began to effervesce and sparkle with the champagne; the bright smiles, the silver laughs, the gems, the flowers, the feathers, the perfumes, the unrivalled banquet, the countless tapers in their exquisite candelabras, and the soft band, loud enough to enliven, but not to drown, conversation— all was pronounced by the most initiated, a triumph of taste and wealth.

De Villeneuve, as Brian de Bois Guilbert, had ill performed the part of the bold Templar, by the melancholy devotion with which he followed Rowena, or the frivolous flirtation he carried on with Annie, which was like a light pastoral between the acts of a solemn tragedy he had succeeded in placing himself by the ladye of his love, and in contriving that the jealous and watchful Annie should sit at another table. Ivanhoe was blessed by

the side of Rebecca; Miss Tibby by an economical old Scotchman, Sir Fergus Macgregor, who had chosen to be Isaac of York; Wamba kept close to Cedric; Mrs. Fitzcribb to Grunter; Fitzcribb to the Morning Star; Sappho to Jobb, who, alert, daring, and aware that a Fitzcribb seldom sat down to a good table, proved a most active purveyor of dainties to the hungry and delighted child; while the lovely Corinna, as Carlo Dolce's Poesy, with her large hazel eyes, unbound auburn hair, her laurel wreath and starry robe, had completely captivated a ci-devant beau, an old nobleman, who thought himself a poet, but had never been able to get any one else to think so, and who was entranced to find in this fair young creature an authoress, one who had actually appeared in print, who had reviewed, in the "Boudoir of Beauty," his lordship's "Fugitive Follies," and most favourably, as Mrs. Mac Dactyl, the editress, had ordered a favourable review, because she wished to get his lordship to a little literary fête, and was besides flattered

at his sending a copy of his poems to the "Boudoir of Beauty," the only periodical which (en passant, be it said) had had the taste and feeling to notice the old lord's work.

Corinna, a worthy daughter of the house of Fitzcribb, was full of quotation, literary anecdote, and cant-author phrases. She knew much of the under-plots of literary history; knew what publishers had rejected Mr. Soand-So's book, and all it had gone through before it had struggled into print; how many copies of another's novel had gone off on subscription; what were new editions, and what had really been paid for a work.

Lord Madrigal was enchanted to be let into all these secrets, and to find how many whom he had envied for what he believed to be their success, were in reality groaning over a splendid failure.

"And so I owe to that fair hand the charming notice, in the 'Boudoir of Beauty,' of my Fugitive Follies.""

"I plead guilty," said Corinna, with the condescension of a first-rate critic.