When Lord Baskerville announced to Lady Baskerville the names of those who composed Sir William Temple's dinner party, she was sufficiently astonished; but felt there could be no compromise in being present, and at once accepted his invitation. The affair being considered rather in the light of a party to Richmond, or some similar gaiety, several of the guests went together. Prince Luttermanne attended Lady Tilney; the Boileaus joined Lady Hamlet Vernon; and Lord Baskerville engaged his friend Lord Tonnerre to accompany himself and Lady Baskerville.

As the carriage of the latter proceeded down ---- street, they passed the church at the moment when Lord Albert D'Esterre was leaving the door, after evening service. Lady Baskerville's quick eye immediately recognized him, although mingled in a crowd of those denominated the common people; and pointing him out to Lord Tonnerre, the latter asked, in his usual tone of command,

"What can he be doing in that crowd?"

"Isn't it Sunday?" rejoined Lord Baskerville, yawning. "He has been, I suppose, (hem!) to some conventicle. (hem!)"

"Yes, he looks like one of those d—d Methodists, who would ring people to church from morning to night, by G—;" (Lord Tonnerre forgot that swearing was no longer a fashionable vice) "they ought to be scouted from society."

"True," replied Lord Baskerville, "I think (hem!) that it would do a great deal of good to society, if (hem!) they were all run up, À la lanterne."

"Ay, hang them—hang them as high as you can see," continued Lord Tonnerre; "rid the land of them any how. There's my father—I wish he had them for once in his hands; there's not a stricter person on earth than my father; he'll suffer no immorality, he'll have no profligacy in the family; but if one of these canting rascals was ever known to cross his door, or to be found on his estates, he'd make short work with him—he'd send him away with marks which the fellow would carry to his grave,—by G— would he. All this comes, however, from the manner in which we pass our Sundays. I hate foreigners and all their d—d ways; but they act more sensibly than we do in regard to Sunday: they let the people amuse themselves after church. It's right to go to church, and all that,—that I'll allow; but I am sure the common people would be much better afterwards with what is fitting for them, quoits, or nine-holes, or cricket, or something to busy them with, instead of going to Methodist meetings, where they turn saints, merely because they have no better amusement; unless, indeed, it be the alehouse."

"And there get drunk," remarked Lady Baskerville; "that would be vastly better, vastly more moral. When you and Baskerville rule the state, things will be much better managed, no doubt." This was said half sneeringly; for Lady Baskerville for some reason was not in very good humour.

"Hem!" rejoined Lord Baskerville; "I must beg your Ladyship would limit what you say to yourself. It is (hem!) a liberty I never take with you, to say what you would or would not do (hem!)" Upon this a silence ensued in the trio; when a few minutes broke the awkwardness occasioned by it, and they found themselves arrived at Sir William Temple's door.

Lord Tonnerre offered his arm to Lady Baskerville as they alighted; while Lord Baskerville, to avoid the unfashionable appearance of entering the room with his wife, stopped, seemingly for the purpose of giving orders to his servants, till such time as he imagined he could walk in alone. There were arrived of the party only Lady Tilney and Prince Luttermanne. Lord Baskerville, having made his bow, retired to a sofa, discomposed at finding that the Comtesse Leinsengen, on whose appearance he had staked the whole of his consequence, and the excuse of his presence, was not yet come. Lord Tonnerre too, displeased that Sir William Temple continued to occupy Lady Baskerville with the profusion of his acknowledgments for the honour done him, and that Lady Tilney appeared too much engaged to notice any one, stood for some moments in gloomy silence, when at length Lord Somerton entered.

"How d'ye do, Somerton?—glad to see you," was Sir William's salutation to his guest, as he held out a finger to him, and continued talking to Lady Baskerville.

"Tonnerre," said Lord Somerton, turning away from this brief reception with a degree of contempt; "come aside, I have something to tell you;" when a deep discussion on matters interesting and intelligible to the former seemed to ensue, since it was productive of a partial relaxation of the scowl which generally characterized his face when he felt himself, as in the present instance, overlooked, or when subjects indifferent to him, or above his comprehension, were alluded to.

Lady Tilney, hitherto absorbed in her conversation with Prince Luttermanne, now looked up, and addressing Lady Baskerville with an air of protection, invited her to come and take the seat next to her. "What a vastly pretty cap you have on!—do tell me where you got it; and, my dear Lady Baskerville, if you have nothing better to do, pray don't forget to come to me to-morrow night. Have you seen any thing of Lord Albert D'Esterre to-day? What do you think of him? I can hardly understand him yet; sometimes I think one thing, sometimes another. They say he is a Methodist—how extraordinary! if he was not young, or not handsome, or not d'une bonne tournure, one might suppose such a thing; but as it is I don't believe it—do you?"

"I have not seen enough of him to judge," was the cautious reply (for Lady Baskerville could be cautious where so deep a stake was at hazard as fashionable consideration); "but I think he rather affects singularity."

"Perhaps so; but then you know he will soon correct that fault when he has lived a little longer amongst us. I have heard that he is engaged to be married;—do you know if it is true?"

"I did hear," said Lady Baskerville, "something about a Lady Adeline Seymour, a cousin of his who has been brought up in the shades, and is said to be a world's wonder of beauty, and purity, and perfection; but the engagement was an affair of the papa's and mamma's, and probably the parties themselves will hate each other in consequence."

At this moment the Comtesse Leinsengen was announced, and then followed Lord and Lady Boileau, Lady Hamlet Vernon, Mr. Spencer Newcombe, and Lord Gascoigne, each received with that portion and kind of welcome which marked a well-studied knowledge of Debrett on the part of Sir William Temple, who felt himself the deity of the day, and who, complimentary, facetious, pompous, affairÉ, and familiar by turns, according to the calibre of the person he addressed, moved about the apartments like some presiding Joss or Amsterdam Cupid. The whole party were at length assembled, the dinner announced, and the company withdrew to enjoy the very best artiste's best efforts, put forth on an occasion so replete with honour and distinction to his employÉ. Lord Baskerville contrived to place himself next to the Comtesse Leinsengen, whose hand, in her qualitÉ d'ambassadrice, the master of the feast had shewn his skill in precedence by soliciting, as he led the way to the dining-room; a circumstance, by the way, fortunate for him on his dÉbut, for although Lord Baskerville's arm would have been far more agreeable, yet the Comtesse would never have pardoned such a neglect of her grade in favour of her dear friend Lady Tilney.

Of the other arrangements of the party it would be unnecessary to speak, and equally useless to catalogue the dinner itself. It is known to all that in London, after the first few weeks of the season, every one's table who gives a dinner is covered in exactly the same way—there may be degrees of excellence in the flavour and science of the dishes; but the things themselves are, as the Geneva traveller said of travelling, "toujours la mÊme chose, toutes les villes sont les mÊmes, vous avez des maisons À droite et des maisons À gauche—et la rue au milieu—c'est toujours la mÊme chose."

It is true there are certain critical periods in a spring season, in which nature's fruits, still immatured, are brought to perfection by the fostering hand of man; and on these the deep and skilful in gastronomy will seize as apt occasions for a display of superior taste and refinement; then, and then only is it, as is well known, that cucumbers are lawful, green peas to be suffered, and strawberries and peaches tolerated; but beyond this there is even yet another point—"a grace beyond the reach of art"—the very North Pole of elegance—the paradox, it may be called, of the gastronomic system—it is to display these productions when positively they are not to be got. Happy the man who so succeeds—thrice happy Sir William, that on this day the stars so ordered it, that while London was yet innocent of cucumbers or peas, you should be profuse of both;—that when peaches and strawberries had not so much as crossed the thoughts of the most refined, they too in abundance graced your board. Oh! happy consummation of those honours, which from the last evening seemed about to centre round your head, and raise you to the pinnacle of gastronomy and of ton. During the first moments of all dinners a very few monosyllables are uttered—a sort of murmuring conversation then ensues between the parties nearest each other,—till at last one individual more gifted or more hardy than the rest hazards a remark across the table, and the talking becomes general.

It was Lady Tilney who on the present occasion broke the monotony of those half-audible sounds that whispered round the table. "Lord Gascoigne," she said aloud, "I hope you are really going to put down that vile newspaper, The ——, it is a disgrace to London."

"I should have thought that you, Lady Tilney, would rather have upheld a paper of its principles, and which affords such a proof of what you always profess to have so much at heart—the liberty of the press."

"You must pardon me, it has nothing to do with the liberty of the press,—but a great deal with its abuse,—besides, the liberty of the press applies only to politics—not to private affairs."

"C'est selon," replied Lord Gascoigne with provoking suavity of manner; "if we publish ourselves what we do, we court public remark."

"She cannot forget or forgive," whispered Spencer Newcombe to Lord Baskerville, "that she herself was once the target at which some of the severest shots of this paper were sent."

"How?" asked the latter.

"Why, when, for party's sake, she was once about to take a step.... I cannot tell you about it now—some other time," he added, as he turned to Lady Boileau, who had asked the same question of him thrice.

"Publish ourselves! my dear Lord," continued Lady Tilney to Lord Gascoigne, "why we never do that if our actions attract notice from our situation."

"They should be more looked to," was the reply of the latter, interrupting her; "if there is nothing to censure, the satirist's occupation is gone."

"Vraiment Milor treats de subject en moraliste, and as if himself vas a paragon of excellence dat could not err. Pray, Milor, do you always tink so wisely on vat you do, dat you never do nothing wrong yourself?"

"Oh, do wrong—yes a thousand times a day, Comtesse,—but when I do, I do not quarrel with the world because it will not think me right, nor if it call me a fool or a knave, am I angry—for perhaps it is a truth—at any rate, other and better men than I have been called the same."

"It is an execrable paper," said Lady Tilney; "and ought to be burnt by the hangman."

"It is an abominable ting," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, "and would not be suffered in any country but England."—Lady Tilney would have interrupted her, but the Comtesse was bent on proceeding: "I repeat, as I have often had de honor to tell you, dat de English are a people of contradictions; dey talk always of dere great puritÉ,—dere virtue—and den suffer so quietly all dose vile tings to be said of dem in de public prints." Lord Gascoigne, who did not care one straw what was said either of himself or any one else, perceiving he had sufficiently fanned the growing indignation of Lady Tilney by his apparent callousness to public attack, for a moment remained silent, amused to hear the topic discussed in other hands. Lady Tilney loved argument, and for its sake often adopted opinions which at other times she would as strongly have opposed.

"If the things alluded to are done," she continued, addressing herself to the Comtesse Leinsengen, "they are better told—I always like every thing to be told."

"Vid de exception always, ma chere amie, of vat concerns one's-self," replied the Comtesse sharply.

"But I deny that there is any truth," rejoined Lady Tilney, not appearing to notice this last remark; "I deny that there is any truth in any thing that comes through such an abominable channel as that paper; all its remarks are the offspring of impertinent malice or envious vulgarity, and all its facts, falsehoods."

"Hem!" said Lord Baskerville, in his slowest and most imposing tone, "these things have always been, Lady Tilney, and always will be. Some satirist or other, (hem!) has always lived since the Flood, from Lycophron down to our own day, to lash the vice and follies of the age, as they say; but in fact to indulge that spleen which is common to the canaille at all periods. And after all, what does it signify? Nobody thinks about any thing that is said of any body—hem!—nine days after it is said—hem!"

"If I ever saw my name in that d—d paper," exclaimed Lord Tonnerre, while his brow was knit in tremendous frowns, "if ever allusion were made to me—the writer should eat his words."

"My dear Tonnerre," rejoined Lord Gascoigne, once more taking up the conversation, "you would find he has an ostrich's stomach. But why should such a toy trouble you?"

"By G——, the writer shall suffer," replied Lord Tonnerre, furiously, "he shall suffer—he shall pay—"

"Who," asked Lady Boileau quietly, "who shall pay?"

"The scoundrel—the —— who has dared to use my name," answered Lord Tonnerre, after several efforts at utterance, which his passion for some moments impeded.

"But you must discover who is the who," replied Lord Gascoigne, with provoking calmness of manner.—"Junius himself was never hid so successfully as is this writer. You will find it fencing in the dark, Tonnerre, if you meddle with him.—But I see you are angry; now take my advice, when you are so use this antidote—it is an excellent rule I learned from my grandfather—repeat your alphabet; and that being done, your anger will be over too." Lord Tonnerre's face moved convulsively in every muscle, and his whole frame seemed to writhe under the words of Lord Gascoigne.

"He boils like a pot," whispered Spencer Newcombe.

"Oh, do not vex him, pray," said Lady Baskerville; "he is only nervous."

"Mad, mad!" rejoined Lord Gascoigne, "pray take heed." With many hems and ha's, Sir William Temple remarked, that for his part he thought it cruel to delight in mischief; that to him it always appeared a most uncharitable practice to wound another's feelings—and somewhat rude too; fit only for the vulgar.

"The pleasure or amusement," he continued, "of saying ill-natured things is quite beyond my comprehension—quite inconceivable. I remember, when I used to live a good deal at D—— House, there was a rule established that no one should notice, remark, or seem to observe what was passing;—it was considered so very vulgar to interfere with other people's affairs—all were left at large without account or question—and the consequence was, there never was any thing so enchanting since the world began as that society—so suave, so equal, so gentle, so serene;—not a voice ever heard louder than a whisper—every one so well amused, every one so well employed, that ennui was unknown. There never was any thing to compare to that society."

"De graces!" exclaimed the Comtesse Leinsengen, as Sir William concluded this effusion of his reminiscences, "de graces! do not tell us, Sir Villiam, of vat VAS: to talk of tings gone being delightful is like telling a woman who is passÉe, 'I remember when you were so admired.' De ting to talk of is to-day."

"Oh, of course," rejoined Sir William, taking the Comtesse's last words au pied de la lettre, "of course the society of to-day—the society here—is par excellence, the most delightful in the world." A nod here passed between Spencer Newcombe and Lord Gascoigne, indicative of Sir William having escaped from his blunders with more adroitness than they had given him credit for; and at the same moment the ladies rose to depart.

"Vraiment," exclaimed the Comtesse Leinsengen, as she entered the drawing-rooms, "I do tink, as we are de deities of dis fÊte, ces messieurs might for once have broken through dere abominable customs, and accompanied us; but dat terrible Lord Somerton and dat young milor Tonnerre would tink, I suppose, de constitution in danger, if dey did not remain at de table after de ladies.—I vonder, Miladi Baskerville, comme Milor est votre ÉlÉve, dat you do not teach him better."

"Dear Comtesse, not I, I assure you—it is quite enough to take care of one's-self; I never interfere with other people's affairs—nothing would induce me to undertake any body's education."

"I believe you are very wise," said Lady Boileau; "the laissez faire and the laissez aller is the best rule."

"I do not quite agree with you in that," said Lady Tilney; "how could we have a pleasant or a distinguished society if that system was allowed to prevail? how could we—"

"La! what sinifies dat?" said the Comtesse Leinsengen, as she arranged her bÉrin at the glass; "Vos milliners ne valent rien—I have just sent to Paris, and then I shall have a coiffure that will not be so hideous."

"Did you observe the Duchesse D'Hermanton's last dress?" asked Lady Baskerville; "she did think it was perfection; one feather on the top of another, flower upon flower, flounce upon flounce, jewel upon jewel, till she was one mass of moving millinery—I never saw such a figure since the days of Lady Aveling's ambassadress' glory."

"Vat sinifie vat dose women do? D'ailleurs les Angloises ont toujours singÉ les modes." In this, and similar conversation, passed the hour of separation in the drawing-rooms, while at the dinner-table the subject of discussion possessed as little interest as is generally found in society so constituted.

"Baskerville, Boileau, Gascoigne," said Sir William Temple, as he resumed his chair after the departure of the ladies, "will you not come up, and in the short absence we are doomed to suffer from our fair companions, let us find comfort in this poor earthly Nectar?" (Sir William believed his wines to be the best in creation.) "Baskerville, what wine do you take?"

"Claret," was the reply of the latter, accompanied by a look of surprise which seemed to say, "of course."—"Did you ever hear such a question!" he added in an under-tone to Lord Boileau.

"Never—he might as well have asked if one would try Chambertin after Truites À l'Aurore, or Clos de Voguet after BÉcasses À la Luculle!" rejoined Lord Baskerville.

"Fools were made for jests to men of sense," whispered Spencer Newcomb, "and I know of no one who affords more amusement than my friend there, Sir William."

"How officious and affairÉ he was in contriving this party," said Lord Gascoigne.

"And how puzzled, lame, and lost in prosecuting it!" rejoined the other.

"He is a most substantial ass," said Lord Baskerville.

"Tonnerre," asked Sir William at the moment, and affecting to vary the theme, according to the taste of the person, "Do you know which is the favourite for the Derby?"

"Gad, he turns his words as many ways as a lathe," whispered Lord Gascoigne again—"understands all subjects alike, and is as learned as the occult philosopher of Hudibras."

"And as much renowned for profound and solid stupidity," rejoined the latter. A laugh escaped at these words; and as their "ha! ha! ha!" passed round, Sir William laughed louder.

"Very good that, Spencer, I just caught the end of it—the point is always in the tail you know."

"He caught it," said Lord Gascoigne, repeating the words, and looking at Spencer Newcomb; "do you think he did?"

"If it was with his mouth, he might certainly—for it is large enough to catch any thing—and he is welcome; I give him my jest for his dinner, it is the only return I ever make."

"And you thrive on your bargain generally, Spencer, I should suppose."

"How long do you think I took from Penzance to town?" said Lord Tonnerre aloud; and without waiting for any reply added,—"Eighteen hours by ——, in hack chaises too, changing every stage."

"I do not conceive it much to do," rejoined Lord Baskerville. "I remember, (hem!) once leaving town seven hours after the mail; and though I had rips of horses, I arrived, (hem!) at twenty minutes before his Majesty's stage coach, (hem!)"

"Well," said Lord Gascoigne, "well, Basky, that is excellent,—ha! ha! ha! that is excellent,—ha! ha! ha!" The abbreviation of his patronymic was always distasteful to Lord Baskerville, and on this occasion he not only felt his dignity compromised by the license of Lord Gascoigne's address, but was himself offended by the covert suspicion conveyed of the substantiality of the fact he had related; turning therefore away with an air of contempt, he addressed himself to another of the party. Lord Gascoigne, however, was not so easily to be silenced, and exchanging looks with those who had watched the scene, added, with very provoking calmness,

"Basky, you were not offended, I hope, with any thing I said, I meant only—"

"Not at all," replied Lord Baskerville, the corners of his mouth dropping in the exact angle of scorn by which, as a mathematical man of ton, he would have described his contempt of the speaker,—"not at all, Gascoigne; I beg you won't think of it;"—and he turned again to the party with whom he was conversing.

"Beat—beat, Gascoigne," exclaimed Spencer Newcomb.—Lord Baskerville looked around with a dignified air, and for a moment silence ensued, not however without a wink passing from Spencer Newcomb, implying that they had gone as far as was advisable. But Lord Gascoigne was not to be stopped without a farewell shot, as he added, "Well, Baskerville, we start at eight, and breakfast at nine, is it not so?" The latter again tried to look grave, but obliged at length in self-defence to join in the laugh which followed these words, he let fall for an instant the mask that too often covered his most trivial actions, and appeared the good-hearted good-humoured creature nature had made him.

"Somerton," said Sir William Temple, breaking the subject of conversation, "do you remember when you were at my chateau in the north?"

"Yes," was the dry reply he received from one who, though he eat his dinners, held him in the most sovereign disdain, and this "yes" sounded harshly on the ears of Sir William, living as he did in the praises bestowed on his establishments, and never losing an opportunity of referring to the subject of them; nor was he less annoyed, as he observed a whisper pass between his northern guest and Lord Tonnerre, to whom Lord Somerton had turned after his very short and laconic reply, and added,

"The fellow had one covey of partridges, two dozen of Burgundy, and a mistress; I made love to the one, drank the other, killed the third, and then quitted."

"Good," said Spencer Newcomb, who had overheard what passed; "he would have pardoned you, however, the first, if you had praised the others."

"No doubt he would," replied Lord Somerton, "but on my conscience I could not do it, and I presume he feels this as well as myself, for I shall make him give me a dinner the first day in the week I am disengaged." Thus fared Sir William Temple in the hands of those for whom he had lavished, and incessantly lavished, an expense which, if properly directed, would have rendered him an amiable, respectable, and happy individual. As it was, he spent his money on objects despicable in themselves, and for persons absolutely turning him into ridicule while enjoying his bounty.

The party from the dining-table soon after arose, some having attained the object for which alone they came, the enjoyment of a dinner; others who had yet a further motive, ascended to the drawing-rooms, and after passing there sufficient time to complete arrangements, arrange departures, and fix dry points that needed discussion for the morrow's amusement or occupation, took their departure also, leaving Sir William Temple to feed on the empty honour which remained to him, of having entertained in his house in May-fair so distinguished a party; none of whom, however, beyond the dinner-living Lord Somerton, Spencer Newcomb, and one or two lordlings, ever intended to think more of him for the future.