The newspapers of the following morning had devoted columns to the description of Lady Borrowdale's entertainment, and the numbering of the distinguished persons assembled there; the dresses, the apartments, the decorations, the viands, and every minute arrangement, were all detailed with an accuracy which an eye-witness of the scene would readily have acknowledged, and which none but an eye-witness could possibly have succeeded in giving.

In a far less conspicuous and pretending manner, did the announcement figure in the same paper, that "Lady Tilney yesterday evening received a select circle of her friends at her house in —— Street, where the Sontag gave several specimens of her unrivalled talents." An uninstructed reader would have been misled by these harbingers of public events; and from the tone of the respective affichÉs feel justified in the conclusion, that the one must have been the production of Lady Borrowdale's own pen, or at least from her dictation, while the other appeared naturally as the result of that publicity, to which the actions of the great are always subjected. But this would have been far from the fact, or rather the very opposite to it; it was to the milliners, the confectioners, the musicians, the maÎtre d'hotel, and the other individuals interested in affording publicity to the dresses and entertainments of their employers, that the long and circumstantial details of Lady Borrowdale's, or any other great assembly, are to be attributed; free from any petty interference, or the gratification of a silly vanity on the part of the principals themselves.

That this was the fact, was a circumstance which could not escape Lady Tilney; and aware that such evidence, if it reached the public eye, would destroy at once all the sacredness of her select coteries, and the charms of the sociÉtÉ choisie which she was labouring to form, she determined on suppressing it, and issued orders, not to be disobeyed with impunity, for the effectual prevention of any announcement of whom the circle consisted of on the evening in question, and of its proceedings, with the exception that it excelled all other of the same date, by the possession of Sontag's inimitable powers. A mystery, which suited well with the ideas of Lady Tilney and of her friends on the subject of exclusive ton, would thus, she conceived, be thrown over their actions, and the rites of the supreme deity of fashion impenetrably veiled from the prying, inquisitive eye, and vulgar imitation of its pretending votaries.

Humility is a duty of as especial injunction in the sacred volume, as its opposite is of strict prohibition; and let it not surprise, therefore, that Lord Albert D'Esterre, young in the world's masquerade, and imbued with feelings, which if not religiously grounded, were at least, from their purity, analogous to the moral doctrine which religion teaches, should be struck, as he perused the two paragraphs, by the apparent vanity of the one compared with the unostentatious wording of the other, and drew his inferences accordingly.

"What silly pomp in Lady Borrowdale; how unworthy her rank—how positively little, thus to set forth the splendour of her entertainment, which is worth nothing when it loses the character of being a natural consequence of her station in society. What could be more brilliant than Lady Tilney's assembly; and yet there is no parade—no catalogue raisonnÉe of all that was seen, done, or said in her drawing-rooms—how much more like a woman of real fashion."

Had Lord Albert D'Esterre been acquainted with the actual truth, in all probability the opinion which he passed on this trivial circumstance, as he took his breakfast, would have been the very reverse of what it was; and, however he might hold cheap any silly ostentatious display of wealth or rank, he would certainly have been more ready to overlook Lady Borrowdale's carelessness whether her assembly was reported accurately, or not at all, than he would have been to forgive Lady Tilney's over-anxiety and ultra, tonism (if such a word may be coined), to screen the names and numbers of her guests, and give celebrity to the coterie by making it a matter of secrecy and of injunction to her domestics.

The mornings of Lord Albert, however, were generally passed in reflections of much more use and importance than such as newspaper subjects could furnish. During the whole of his residence abroad, his time had been employed in acquirements of a solid kind. He had studied men and things—had made himself acquainted with the constitutions, governments, resources, and political importance of all the great European states; had lived amongst their inhabitants for the purpose of acquiring that accurate knowledge of their habits and dispositions, which tends so much to a just appreciation of the line of policy to be observed towards them, and which must ever be influenced by an acquaintance with national character.

While receiving their instructions he had formed friendships with some of their most distinguished literati in all the different branches of knowledge, and had returned to England fully prepared for the commencement of that public career to which his inclination led him; and in which, amongst those who knew him intimately, and could appreciate his abilities, he was justly expected to shine.

The habit of occupation which he had formed whilst thus pursuing his studies on the Continent, did not desert Lord Albert D'Esterre, even in the noise and bustle of London society, in the midst of which he now found himself; but in the mass of business which now fell upon him in consequence of his taking possession of his large estates, in the conferences of lawyers and agents, in the answering of letters on these matters of varied interest which now occupied him, and in the attentions to those minor cases of life, the etiquettes and forms of the world, he still found leisure for serious and studious application; nor indulged in the idleness of fashion till the duties of the morning had been performed, when alone he availed himself of them, for the purpose of relaxation and the unbending of his mind.

It was the morning after Lady Tilney's soirÉe, and when he had gone through his usual course of occupations, that Lord Albert recollected, with what would be called old-fashioned politeness, "the propriety of leaving his cards with the persons to whom he had been presented the preceding evening, and more particularly with Lady Tilney herself; and he determined to do so on his way to the Park. On arriving at Lady Tilney's door he was informed that she was at home (for his name was already on the list of those who had the entrÉe), and he was preparing to dismount when he saw the carriage of the Countess Leinsengen drive up. She bowed to him, and he was presently at the portiÈre to hand her out; and offering her his arm, conducted her to Lady Tilney's boudoir. "Comment Ça va-t-il chÈre Comtesse," said the former addressing her; "I congratulate you on possessing de acquaintance of de only polite Englishman I have ever known—Dare is milor Albert D'Esterre had vraiement de galanterie to get off his horse and conduct me from my carriage. N'est-ce pas merveilleux in dis country!"

Lord Albert bowed to the compliment; but added: "I am sure Lady Tilney will not allow such a cruel sentence on our nation to pass even your lips, Comtesse; and will agree with me, that though a few may have taken up a false system, and assumed an air of disregard to the courtesies of life, yet it is only such as seek for distinction by false means, and by doing the reverse of what others do: we cannot, therefore, allow the censure to be general on us all; indeed, I do my sex but justice I hope, when I say, that they are in this country invariably the friends and supporters of women, and—" "Oh yes; perhaps if one tumble down, or break one's leg, or meet vid any personal danger or affront, dis may be so; but dese affairs do not arise every day: and for de little cares of de men, les petits soins, I never knew one of your country men who knew vat dey meant."

Lord Albert smiled at the manner in which the argument in favour of his politeness was maintained; but perceiving Lady Tilney little inclined to keep up a conversation on the subject of national manners, he refrained from drawing the comparison, which would have been just, between a natural politeness, arising as much from feeling and imbued delicacy of sentiment, as from habit, and the mere outward forms of courtesy and etiquette, which in those most profuse of them have seldom any thing of sincerity.

"Well, I suppose ve must go to dat tiresome Almack dis evening. You go?" said the Comtesse Leinsengen, addressing Lady Tilney; "for my part I tink I shall viddraw my name."

"Oh, certainly I shall go," replied the latter, "for it is absolutely necessary you know, my dear Comtesse, that some of us should be there; and besides I am of opinion that as people must have something to keep them quiet, and which they think recherchÉ, Almack's is as good as any thing else, and therefore I shall support it—In regard to us, I agree perfectly with you, it is passÉe, and no longer what was intended." The Comtesse shrugged her shoulders: "You will be at Almack's to-night," said Lady Tilney, turning to Lord Albert D'Esterre, "although we are giving it such a bad name, will you not?"

"Your hours of admission are limited you know, and I scarcely think I can get away in time from ——"

"There is no debate of consequence, is there?" rejoined Lady Tilney with earnestness—"I may forget, but should there be, of course——"

"I did not mean from the house," continued Lord Albert, "but I am going to dine where I shall meet Baron H.; I have known him on the continent, and his conversation is so very interesting."—"And so very long," added the Comtesse Leinsengen, interrupting him, and with a look which was intended to repay many discussions she had been constrained to endure at Lady Tilney's hands; "I wonder he ever finds people to listen to him."—"But where do you dine," said Lady Tilney, seeming to disregard the opinion just uttered. "I know Barnette, and he is very agreeable, very clever, but I wonder he allows himself to be so fÉtÉd by people so little known in the world. I shall be happy, I am sure—"

"I am to meet him at the Miss D.'s," replied Lord Albert, interrupting her, and who felt that this was the point he was called upon to answer, and not that of who were or who were not known in Lady Tilney's estimation.

"And do you really visit them?" said the latter with great surprise, "are you not ennuyÉ to death at their parties?"

"EnnuyÉ! no—but then I must premise that I never am so under any circumstances."

"Ah, bon! do tell me how that is, Milor," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, "precisely, do tell me how you avoid infection from dat prevalent disease of your island, dat bore you call it."

"Oh, I always do what I like," replied Lord Albert with a smile.

"Cela ne fait rien À l'affaire, one do not always know vat von like."

"I have nothing to reply to that; but for myself, if I do not find exactly what I like I always endeavour to extract entertainment from the persons or place, where, or with whom I may chance to be."

"Par exemple, at the Miss D.'s, what can you find at their horrible conversaziones to keep you awake," asked Lady Tilney, "c'est un ennui À pÉrir, it makes me yawn to think of it."

"Oh, he goes to do penance for his sins, and purchase indulgence for dose to come, n'est ce pas, Milor?"

"Neither, I assure you; I was really more entertained during a soirÉe there last week than I have been since my return to England."

"Ah, le beau compliment! de grÂce do not avow it," said the Comtesse.

Lady Tilney looked amazed at these opinions, like one in doubt if she had not with too much precipitation admitted an enemy within the camp, in the person of Lord Albert; and whilst canvassing the necessity of retrieving her error, by his future exclusion, and at the same time the policy of retaining one of his interest and promise in her circle, with a view to his reform, she directed her enquiries to him in a tone almost dictatorial, as to the ground of his faith in the merits of the society he had been extolling. "Will you tell me, Lord Albert, of whom are these parties generally composed? I have yet to learn that there are distinguished individuals capable of creating such great interest apart from what is generally termed the society of London; or, I must conclude—but I will not do that hastily—that you yourself have imbibed ideas quite foreign to propriety, and have given way to associations quite unfitting your situation in the world."

Lord Albert in his turn seemed astonished at these categories, but answered with perfect ease: "I have found at the Miss D.'s many whom I meet elsewhere and, every where; but my chief attraction is the number of talented persons who are often assembled in the circle, and whose conversation affords me the greatest interest, and much instruction."

"One do not go into society to be instructed," said the Comtesse Leinsengen with a sneer.

"Surely not," added Lady Tilney, "clever people are well in their way,—I mean your really learned persons—men who have read, travelled, written all their lives, but then it is in one's own apartment in the morning that they are sufferable. I know but very few indeed, who are presentable, or who have the true talent of turning their powers to account, without torturing one to death with their learning; and then without great circumspection they become familiar, and one is obliged to take so much trouble, and be so much on one's guard, to keep them in their place. Be assured, Lord Albert, you will find this to be the case," continued Lady Tilney, "if you give unlimited encouragement to gens de ce grade—There is but one subject on which you may listen to them, I mean politics; but how few there are of the class who are enlightened enough to speak on that subject. We have, it is true, D— and B— C—, and the Count K—, sometimes with us; and among our own countrymen, we have M— and a few others, but—"

The Countess Leinsengen's impatience was here manifested by the usual shrug of her shoulders, and as she perceived Lady Tilney embarking on the interminable ocean of politics, turning quickly to Lord Albert she enquired,

"But who may be de very clever persons, Milor, who give you so much amusement in dis very charming society?"

"Where there are so many to name, it is hard to select," replied Lord Albert; "but there was the great traveller, who has been further into the interior of Africa than any one has yet penetrated. His descriptions of deserts, and skies, and camels, conveyed me beside him in his pilgrimage; the trackless sands in which no insect can find subsistence; the well by which the caravan halted, the only visible friend of the traveller throughout the vast desert; the wide canopy of starry heavens, spread out above; those heavens and those stars, of whose clear brightness we in these cloudy regions have but a faint idea; the varied and picturesque garb of guides and guards; the meekness of the patient camel; the silence of the march, unless some alarm from the fierce and wandering tribes of the country disturbed its tranquillity; and then the noise, and gesticulation, and activity, which accompanied the pitching of the tents for the night's or noon's repose, were circumstances all described and dwelt upon by the traveller, with a nervous strength and accuracy of delineation which nothing but original description can give, and which came to me with so much force and truth, and such beauty of imagery, that I thought, as he spoke, travelling was the only delightful way of passing one's life."

Lady Tilney and the Comtesse Leinsengen exchanged looks, while Lord Albert was thus giving way to the natural feelings of a mind yet untinctured with the follies of fashion, and which saw no degradation to his rank in seeking and finding amusement in the society of enlightened persons.

"Tell me," at length asked Lady Tilney, with an expression something like contempt, "had you no changement de dÉcoration; was all your talk about camels, and deserts, and wells, and stars?"—"Ah," cried the Comtesse Leinsengen, "avouez moi, Milor, que la nouvelle du jour vaut been mieux." Lord Albert smiled, and allowed that this was amusing too in its way; but he added,

"We had a change of divertissement I assure you, after dinner; Il cantar che nel' anima si sente took the place of conversation for a time, and Mr. M—"

"Oh he is well enough," said Lady Tilney, "in his place, and sings charmingly;" (for the person in question was the Anacreon of her party, and sometimes tuned his lays to subjects on which party feeling and political animosity loved to cast derision)—"he is well enough."—"And sings, do you not think," rejoined Lord Albert, "divinely? I have heard others sing finely—sweetly—scientifically—even feelingly; but such lightness, such magic bursts of imagery, such painting of sounds, I never heard but in his song."

"And you have heard de Sontag: you heard her dis last evening?"

"Oh yes, often; I heard her at Vienna before she came to England."

"Well, and you prefer dis little gentleman—tout les gens sont respectables;" and she sneered, as if in contradiction to the words.

"Perhaps the parties will not bear a comparison," added Lady Tilney, jealous of one whom she patronized, and whose merits she had in a measure acknowledged; and then, turning to Lord Albert, she continued—

"You must not mistake me, my dear lord; I have no objection to the sort of thing you have been describing. I honour talent, and delight in conversation; but then it must be on a proper footing; in circles where those persons who talk, and talk very well I dare say, should be under restraint; where they would feel themselves debarred entirely from undue license, and a consideration that they formed part of the society, and where they would appear in their true characters—to direct and amuse others when called upon; just as actors and singers come upon the stage to play their parts, and then retire. Now in the circle you allude to all this necessary distinction is overthrown at once—every one there, from the nature of things, considers himself pair et compagnon of the company, and behaves accordingly. In small rooms—"

"On meurt de chaud au de froid, par parenthÈse," interrupted the Comtesse, who dreaded one of Lady Tilney's long discussions; "for dere is one moment a thorough air, and de next all is shut up, and one fries vid de fire; but dat is always de case where dere is no poÊle stove—However, adieu ma belle; I must go and leave you and Milor dere to settle all de points about dat sociÉtÉ which he likes so much—adieu—au revoir, Milor, je vous salue."

Lord Albert would have followed his natural impulse of politeness, and handed the Comtesse Leinsengen to her carriage; disposed, perhaps, also to escape further conversation with Lady Tilney on topics where they seemed to hold no ideas in common. This, however, he was not permitted to do, the Comtesse declining his offered arm, saying she should never be forgiven if Lady Tilney were deprived of the triumph of converting him from his errors;—and closing the door, as she insisted on his remaining, Lord Albert was left tÊte-À-tÊte with Lady Tilney.

"Do you not think she is terribly gone off this year?" said the latter.

"I do not know if I understand you. If it be that her beauty is gone off, I should say yes—but I never heard she was handsome."

"No?" asked Lady Tilney, with an expression of satisfaction; "but she is surely very distinguÉ looking."—"She has the advantage of that species of polish which the world gives," was Lord Albert's reply; "but this often covers an unpolished mind—and I am not sure it is the first thing I should look for."

"I like nature as much as you can do, my dear lord; I ever stood up for that liberty and freedom attendant on persons not quite fait au feu; but I must confess that I like to have them a little dressed, not perfectly raw."

How far Lord Albert might have found it possible to agree with Lady Tilney in this new question, so suddenly started, it was not left him to discover; for at that moment fresh visitors were announced—and, as they entered, Lord Albert prepared to depart. Not, however, till Lady Tilney—who, spite of what she called his false theories, saw he was a person by no means to be hastily rejected—had bidden him to her box at the Opera on Saturday evening. "I am determined to be at the rising of the curtain," she said, "to hear the Sontag—only it is so difficult to be in time. Were you ever in time in your life?"—

"Yes, I have," answered Lord Albert, smiling.

"Then be at the very premier congÉ d'arche on Saturday," added Lady Tilney, as he bowed to her and left the apartment; glad to have gotten over a visit of ceremony, where, from the tone of conversation which had passed, he augured that little in future would be found consonant to his ideas or his tastes.

As he rode from the door, Lord Albert turned his horse towards the Park. It was one of the first Spring days that had shone in the early year, and all the gayest of London seemed hastening to enjoy its genial influence.—Yes, even the weary and the blazÉ in life's crooked paths appeared for a moment to acknowledge the charm which the brilliancy of the scene and the brightness of the atmosphere combined to form. Smiles were in every face and cheerfulness in every movement.

Than the throng of Hyde Park there is perhaps no promenade in Europe more dazzling; none where more magnificence of equipage, or more beauty of human form is displayed; and it is difficult for the young, and the handsome more particularly, not to feel intoxicated as they enter on a stage where the whole appearance is so fair, and where a consciousness of personal charms assures them they must themselves shine.—It is not probable that Lord Albert D'Esterre, philosophical as he has just appeared while discoursing with Lady Tilney, was altogether free from feelings so natural to his years, or from that species of vanity which seeks a display of personal beauty, or whatever other quality may best glitter in such a scene.

He was young, strikingly handsome, possessing a form of perfect symmetry, and moreover one of the finest horsemen of his time. What wonder then if, as he sought the crowded road of the Park, something like self-love had a share in the direction which he took, and the choice made of the spot where he might breathe the balmy air of such a day. As he joined some of his acquaintances in the Ride, and stopped to speak to others, passing from right to left and from north to south in the gay and splendid crowd, his recollections were naturally turned to similar parades in other countries, and he felt pride as an Englishman in considering how far our national display of beauty and of wealth outshone that of other capitals.

"Neither Vienna, nor Paris, nor St. Petersburgh, can rival this, Glenmore," he said, in the buoyancy of his gratification at the scene—"nothing that we ever beheld there is comparable with this—now is it?"

"You have chosen your day well," replied the latter, "because, if it had been one of those three hundred and sixty-five days of mist which we generally enjoy in this metropolis, I should be disposed to dispute the point with you, and set the sunshine of a Parisian Spring against the brilliancy of our ladies' eyes and the splendour of their retinues. And would you not agree with me?"

"Why, as a mere animal, I might, perhaps—climate does affect our physique, I will allow; but the national pride—"

"Oh, bah! my dear D'Esterre your national pride in this instance has nothing to do with the matter;—and if the belles of Paris, or Vienna, or the Calmuck beauties of St. Petersburgh, could rival ours, their horses and coach-makers surpass what you see before you, and their summers be eternal, your amour de la patrie, I fear, would not long continue to bias your judgment. No, no, D'Esterre, that feeling does not live on food like this; but we have other and better sources for it, as you well know and feel."

Lord Albert's face shewed, in the generous glow which suffused it, a sense of his friend's appreciation of his sounder judgment; but he added, with a smile, "if you will not allow my present admiration to proceed from such a noble spring, at least do not accuse me of a reverse of sentiment, if I draw a comparison, in another respect, not at all favourable to my countrymen. Do you observe that line of men drawn up in battle array, and with impertinent nonchalance passing judgment on the women who drive before them? It must, or ought to be, at least, offensive to the pride and delicacy of the former; it would shock any European, and is a custom more suited to eastern despotism, and to the rules of an Asiatic slave mart, than to a civilized nation."

"But do you conclude, therefore, that the men are alone to blame in this?" asked Lord Glenmore; "and is it to be presumed that they would have forgotten the courtesies and respect due from them, if women in general had been more true to the delicacies and decencies of their own sex. Do justice to the men while you blame the practice of the day, and acknowledge, that if the nod, or motion of the hand, or impertinent glance of recognition now takes place of the bow and respectful salutation of other times, yet that there must have been a sufferance of the change, if not an encouragement of it, and an equal alteration of manners on the other hand, or it would never have been."

"I dare say you are right, Glenmore; and if so the more the pity. But although custom sanctions all change in reciprocal demeanour between men and women, yet because the stiff and maniÈre address of the last century was laid aside with the silk coat, and bag-wig, and sword, I do not see why courtly manners should have been exiled at the same time. So long as society is to exist on a proper footing, there must be an outward shew of proper feelings; and when all deference in minor points ceases, it is quite certain that all consideration of respect in more serious matters will cease too."—"What is that I hear?" cried Leslie Winyard, riding up to Lord Glenmore's side, and nodding familiarly to his companion;—"what is that I hear about proper feelings, and all consideration of respect? You are not moralizing in Hyde Park I hope."

"D'Esterre says that you men do very wrong to sit on your horses, rank and file, and let the ladies parade before you; and I think what he says is true."

"Indeed!" replied Mr. Leslie Winyard, and looking round in Lord Albert D'Esterre's face with a sneer, "I believe if we were not to do so, you would have very few beauties to admire in your ride,—the women only come here to see us."—"And what do you come for?" asked Lord Glenmore smiling.—"Oh, to shew ourselves, certainly: to be admired." Before he could reply to the insufferable impertinence of this speech—if indeed he would have deemed it worthy any reply—an equipage caught the eye of Lord Glenmore as it entered the gate, and putting spurs to his horse he was at its side in a moment and speaking to the ladies in it. "Whose carriage is that?" asked Lord Albert of Leslie Winyard, who continued to saunter his horse in company with him.

"It's the Melcombe's," he replied, after a pause, and having put the handle of his whip, which contained a glass, to his eye—"it's the Melcombe's: Georgina is a d—d fine girl. Don't you know Georgina? they say Glenmore is smitten,—I'll go and see the fun;" and, with these words, this model of the gallantry of the nineteenth century rode off. "What can he mean," said Lord Albert to himself, "by calling any woman familiarly by her name in that manner, unless she be his sister or near relative; but to me, a stranger almost to himself, and to the party utterly unknown, what abominable vulgarity, what detestable insolence!"

There is no saying how far Lord Albert might have gone on in his animadversions on the manners of his sex, if he had been left quite to himself, for there was enough around him, and before his eyes, to provoke remark even in a mind less alive to the niceties and decorum of polished life. But his attention was called another way, and he in turn was to become a subject of flippant ridicule; to be set down as a person À prÉtension, by the young men whose manners he had very justly condemned, and who chose to attribute to coxcombry and to affectation, a demeanour and a bearing which they had not the power to imitate.

A graceful inclination of the head from some lady passing in the throng, and whose feathers waved in unison with the movement, as she bowed to Lord Albert, caught his eye. He gazed for a moment, not recognizing the party, but lifted his hat courteously from his head, and as he looked back to ascertain better who it was, perceived the carriage had stopped near the gate. Turning his horse, therefore, he rode in the direction, and discovered that it was Lady Hamlet Vernon who had saluted him. He approached the carriage, with all the air and gallantry of a really high bred person, thanked Lady Hamlet Vernon for the honour she had done him, in recognizing him in the crowd; apologized for his own blindness, and continued for some minutes in conversation with her on the beauty and gaiety of the scene, and on the current topics of the day. His back was turned at the time to the phalanx of horsemen, whose ranks, and avowed occupation, had given occasion to his remarks on the bad manners of the age; and who now, assembled in closer body by the gate, were ready to give their last glance of scrutiny or recognition to the departing carriages.

"That's a fine horse that man is upon," said Lord Tonnerre, pointing to Lord Albert; "who the devil is he?"

"Oh! its D'Esterre," said Leslie Winyard, "do you not know him a mile off, by all his bows and grimaces: for me, I could 'wind him i' the lobby, any where.'"

"Damn the fellow, what business has he with such a horse—can he ride?"

"I should think not," drawled out Lord Baskerville; "he is the most conceited animal London has boasted for some centuries. I heard him talk last night about that dear Sontag, till I was sick."—"And, my lords and gentlemen," said Leslie Winyard, in mock solemnity, "he talked not only most fancifully, as my Lord Baskerville avers, last night, but on this morning too: and upon what? Divine, O ye augurs! declare it, ye soothsayers!—Why he discovered, in the very age and body of the time—its forms and its complexion, and pronounced our manners, rude; our bearing, unlike gentlemen; our noble array here, barbaric and uncivilized;—in short, [assuming his natural tone] he is a d—d puppy. I caught him, but now, preaching in this strain to Glenmore, who, like a fool, said he agreed with him!"—A general murmur burst from the circle which had listened to Leslie Winyard, and the words coxcomb, ass, puppy, poppinjay, and jackanapes, issued simultaneously from the lips of these polished ultras of ton.

Lord Tonnerre alone was silent, but his features shewed him to be as little in a mood for gentleness as any of them. When having grasped his rein, and put his horse on his haunches, he glanced a look of intelligence to those around him, and was off at full speed towards the spot where Lord Albert, leaning from his horse, was still conversing with Lady Hamlet Vernon. Regardless of courtesy, or the consequences of his impetuosity, he kept his violent course till within half a neck of the carriage, and then suddenly endeavoured to wheel round, and pass on the other side. Lord Albert's horse, startled at this close and sudden approach, plunged, and alarmed at the carriages and noise, became, for a moment, unmanageable, and broke away. His rider's admirable dexterity and coolness, however, soon enabled him to rein in this movement, and return towards the spot from which he had started, and where his preoccupation had prevented his observing that a crowd of horsemen had gathered, who partially stood round, or were dismounting, seemingly to assist in some accident. He moved at a quicker pace, and found that Lord Tonnerre's horse, on being so roughly checked, had reared, and fallen back on his rider.

Lord Albert was on his feet in an instant, and making his way through the throng was as eager in his inquiries, and prompt to render assistance to the sufferer, as if he had been personally interested in him. He found, however, no serious mischief had occurred. Lord Tonnerre, with the exception of having been stunned with the fall, and not yet able to rise, seemed perfectly himself, and careless of what had happened.

His first inquiries were for his horse; and having been assured by several of his friends that no injury had been sustained in that quarter, he swore loudly against the animal for a fault which had been entirely his own, gave way to the most violent gesticulations of angry passion against the curiosity (as he called it) of the by-standers, and so disgusted Lord Albert D'Esterre by his want of proper feeling under an accident that might have ended fatally, that the latter mounted his horse once more, rode round to the other side of Lady Hamlet Vernon's carriage to assure her that she need be under no apprehension for Lord Tonnerre's safety, and continuing by her side as she proceeded out of the Park, left the actors of this paltry scene to bear their discomfiture as they best could.