Now see, prepared to lead the sprightly dance, The lovely nymphs, and well dressed youths advance: The spacious room receives its jovial guest, And the floor shakes with pleasing weight oppressed.—Art of Dancing.

Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrell.—Richard III.

Upon entering, I saw several heads rising and sinking, to the tune of “Cherry ripe.” A whole row of stiff necks, in cravats of the most unexceptionable length and breadth, were just before me. A tall thin young man, with dark wiry hair brushed on one side, was drawing on a pair of white Woodstock gloves, and affecting to look round the room with the supreme indifference of bon ton.

“Ah, Ritson,” said another young Cheltenhamian to him of the Woodstock gauntlets, “hav’n’t you been dancing yet?”

“No, Smith, ‘pon honour!” answered Mr. Ritson; “it is so overpoweringly hot; no fashionable man dances now;—it isn’t the thing.”

“Why,” replied Mr. Smith, who was a good-natured looking person, with a blue coat and brass buttons, a gold pin in his neckcloth, and kneebreeches, “why, they dance at Almack’s, don’t they?”

“No, ‘pon honour,” murmured Mr. Ritson; “no, they just walk a quadrille or spin a waltz, as my friend, Lord Bobadob, calls it, nothing more—no, hang dancing, ‘tis so vulgar.”

A stout, red-faced man, about thirty, with wet auburn hair, a marvellously fine waistcoat, and a badly-washed frill, now joined Messrs. Ritson and Smith.

“Ah, Sir Ralph,” cried Smith, “how d’ye do? been hunting all day, I suppose?”

“Yes, old cock,” replied Sir Ralph; “been after the brush till I am quite done up; such a glorious run. By G—, you should have seen my grey mare, Smith; by G—, she’s a glorious fencer.”

“You don’t hunt, do you, Ritson?” interrogated Mr. Smith.

“Yes, I do,” replied Mr. Ritson, affectedly playing with his Woodstock glove; “yes, but I only hunt in Leicestershire with my friend, Lord Bobadob; ‘tis not the thing to hunt any where else, ‘tis so vulgar.”

Sir Ralph stared at the speaker with mute contempt: while Mr. Smith, like the ass between the hay, stood balancing betwixt the opposing merits of the baronet and the beau. Meanwhile, a smiling, nodding, affected female thing, in ringlets and flowers, flirted up to the trio.

“Now, reelly, Mr. Smith, you should deence; a feeshionable young man, like you—I don’t know what the young leedies will say to you.” And the fair seducer laughed bewitchingly.

“You are very good, Mrs. Dollimore,” replied Mr. Smith, with a blush and a low bow; “but Mr. Ritson tells me it is not the thing to dance.”

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Dollimore, “but then he’s seech a naughty, conceited creature—don’t follow his example, Meester Smith;” and again the good lady laughed immoderately.

“Nay, Mrs. Dollimore,” said Mr. Ritson, passing his hand through his abominable hair, “you are too severe; but tell me, Mrs. Dollimore, is the Countess St. A—coming here?”

“Now, reelly, Mr. Ritson, you, who are the pink of feeshion, ought to know better than I can; but I hear so.”

“Do you know the countess?” said Mr. Smith, in respectful surprise, to Ritson.

“Oh, very well,” replied the Coryphaeus of Cheltenham, swinging his Woodstock glove to and fro; “I have often danced with her at Almack’s.”

“Is she a good deencer?” asked Mrs. Dollimore.

“O, capital,” responded Mr. Ritson; “she’s such a nice genteel little figure.”

Sir Ralph, apparently tired of this “feeshionable” conversation, swaggered away.

“Pray,” said Mrs. Dollimore, “who is that geentleman?”

“Sir Ralph Rumford,” replied Smith, eagerly, “a particular friend of mine at Cambridge.”

“I wonder if he’s going to make a long steey?” said Mrs. Dollimore.

“Yes, I believe so,” replied Mr. Smith, “if we make it agreeable to him.”

“You must positively introduce him to me,” said Mrs. Dollimore.

“I will, with great pleasure,” said the good-natured Mr. Smith.

“Is Sir Ralph a man of fashion?” inquired Mr. Ritson.

“He’s a baronet!” emphatically pronounced Mr. Smith.

“Ah!” replied Ritson, “but he may be a man of rank, without being a man of fashion.”

“True,” lisped Mrs. Dollimore.

“I don’t know,” replied Smith, with an air of puzzled wonderment, “but he has L7,000. a-year.”

“Has he, indeed?” cried Mrs. Dollimore, surprised into her natural tone of voice; and, at that moment, a young lady, ringletted and flowered like herself, joined her, and accosted her by the endearing appellation of “Mamma.”

“Have you been dancing, my love?” inquired Mrs. Dollimore.

“Yes, ma; with Captain Johnson.”

“Oh,” said the mother, with a toss of her head; and giving her daughter a significant push, she walked away with her to another end of the room, to talk about Sir Ralph Rumford, and his seven thousand pounds a-year.

“Well!” thought I, “odd people these; let us enter a little farther into this savage country.” In accordance with this reflection, I proceeded towards the middle of the room.

“Who’s that?” said Mr. Smith, in a loud whisper, as I passed him.

“‘Pon honour,” answered Ritson, “I don’t know! but he’s a deuced neat looking fellow, quite genteel.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ritson,” said my vanity; “you are not so offensive after all.”

I paused to look at the dancers; a middle-aged, respectable looking gentleman was beside me. Common people, after they have passed forty, grow social. My neighbour hemmed twice, and made preparation for speaking. “I may as well encourage him,” was my reflection; accordingly I turned round, with a most good-natured expression of countenance.

“A fine room this, Sir,” said the man immediately.

“Very,” said I, with a smile, “and extremely well filled.”

“Ah, Sir,” answered my neighbour, “Cheltenham is not as it used to be some fifteen years ago. I have seen as many as one thousand two hundred and fifty persons within these walls;” (certain people are always so d—d particularizing,) “ay, Sir,” pursued my laudator temporis acti, “and half the peerage here into the bargain.”

“Indeed!” quoth I, with an air of surprise suited to the information I received, “but the society is very good still, is it not?”

“Oh, very genteel,” replied the man; “but not so dashing as it used to be.” (Oh! those two horrid words! low enough to suit even the author of”—.”)

“Pray,” asked I, glancing at Messrs. Ritson and Smith, “do you know who those gentlemen are?”

“Extremely well!” replied my neighbour: “the tall young man is Mr. Ritson; his mother has a house in Baker-street, and gives quite elegant parties. He’s a most genteel young man; but such an insufferable coxcomb.”

“And the other?” said I.

“Oh! he’s a Mr. Smith; his father was an eminent merchant, and is lately dead, leaving each of his sons thirty thousand pounds; the young Smith is a knowing hand, and wants to spend his money with spirit. He has a great passion for ‘high life,’ and therefore attaches himself much to Mr. Ritson, who is quite that way inclined.”

“He could not have selected a better model,” said I.

“True,” rejoined my Cheltenham Asmodeus, with naive simplicity; “but I hope he won’t adopt his conceit as well as his elegance.”

“I shall die,” said I to myself, “if I talk with this fellow any longer,” and I was just going to glide away, when a tall, stately dowager, with two lean, scraggy daughters, entered the room; I could not resist pausing to inquire who they were.

My friend looked at me with a very altered and disrespectful air at this interrogation. “Who?” said he, “why, the Countess of Babbleton, and her two daughters, the Honourable Lady Jane Babel, and the Honourable Lady Mary Babel. They are the great people of Cheltenham,” pursued he, “and it’s a fine thing to get into their set.”

Meanwhile Lady Babbleton and her two daughters swept up the room, bowing and nodding to the riven ranks on each side, who made their salutations with the most profound respect. My experienced eye detected in a moment that Lady Babbleton, in spite of her title and her stateliness, was exceedingly the reverse of good ton, and the daughters (who did not resemble the scrag of mutton, but its ghost) had an appearance of sour affability, which was as different from the manners of proper society, as it possibly could be.

I wondered greatly who and what they were. In the eyes of the Cheltenhamians, they were the countess and her daughters; and any further explanation would have been deemed quite superfluous; further explanation I was, however, determined to procure, and was walking across the room in profound meditation as to the method in which the discovery should be made, when I was startled by the voice of Sir Lionel Garrett: I turned round, and to my inexpressible joy, beheld that worthy baronet.

“God bless me, Pelham,” said he, “how delighted I am to see you. Lady Harriett, here’ your old favourite, Mr. Pelham.”

Lady Harriet was all smiles and pleasure. “Give me your arm,” said she; “I must go and speak to Lady Babbleton—odious woman!”

“Do, my dear Lady Harriett,” said I, “explain to me what Lady Babbleton was?”

“Why—she was a milliner, and took in the late lord, who was an idiot.—Voila tout!”

“Perfectly satisfactory,” replied I.

“Or, short and sweet, as Lady Babbleton would say,” replied Lady Harriett, laughing.

“In antithesis to her daughters, who are long and sour.”

“Oh, you satirist!” said the affected Lady Harriett (who was only three removes better than the Cheltenham countess); “but tell me, how long have you been at Cheltenham?”

“About four hours and a half!”

“Then you don’t know any of the lions here?”

“None.”

“Well, let me dispatch Lady Babbleton, and I’ll then devote myself to being your nomenclator.”

We walked up to Lady Babbleton, who had already disposed of her daughters, and was sitting in solitary dignity at the end of the room.

“My dear Lady Babbleton,” cried Lady Harriett, taking both the hands of the dowager, “I am so glad to see you, and how well you are looking; and your charming daughters, how are they?—sweet girls!—and how long have you been here?”

“We have only just come,” replied the cidevant milliner, half rising and rustling her plumes in stately agitation, like a nervous parrot; “we must conform to modern ours, Lady Arriett, though for my part, I like the old-fashioned plan of dining early, and finishing one’s gaieties before midnight; but I set the fashion of good ours as well as I can. I think it’s a duty we owe to society, Lady Arriett, to encourage morality by our own example. What else do we have rank for?” And, so saying, the counter countess drew herself up with a most edifying air of moral dignity.

Lady Harriett looked at me, and perceiving that my eye said “go on,” as plain as eye could possibly speak, she continued—“Which of the wells do you attend, Lady Babbleton?”

“All,” replied the patronizing dowager. “I like to encourage the poor people here; I’ve no notion of being proud because one has a title, Lady Arriett.”

“No,” rejoined the worthy helpmate of Sir Lionel Garrett; “every body talks of your condescension, Lady Babbleton; but are you not afraid of letting yourself down by going every where?”

“Oh,” answered the countess, “I admit very few into my set, at home, but I go out promiscuously;” and then, looking at me, she said, in a whisper, to Lady Harriett, “Who is that nice young gentleman?”

“Mr. Pelham,” replied Lady Harriett; and, turning to me, formally introduced us to each other.

“Are you any relation (asked the dowager) to Lady Frances Pelham?”

“Only her son,” said I.

“Dear me,” replied Lady Babbleton, “how odd; what a nice elegant woman she is! She does not go much out, does she? I don’t often meet her.”

“I should not think it likely that your ladyship did meet her much. She does not visit promiscuously.”

“Every rank has its duty,” said Lady Harriett, gravely; “your mother, Mr. Pelham, may confine her circle as much as she pleases; but the high rank of Lady Babbleton requires greater condescension; just as the Dukes of Sussex and Gloucester go to many places where you and I would not.”

“Very true!” said the innocent dowager; “and that’s a very sensible remark! Were you at Bath last winter, Mr. Pelham?” continued the countess, whose thoughts wandered from subject to subject in the most rudderless manner.

“No, Lady Babbleton, I was unfortunately at a less distinguished place.”

“What was that?”

“Paris!”

“Oh, indeed! I’ve never been abroad; I don’t think persons of a certain rank should leave England; they should stay at home and encourage their own manufactories.”

“Ah!” cried I, taking hold of Lady Babbleton’s shawl, “what a pretty Manchester pattern this is.”

“Manchester pattern!” exclaimed the petrified peeress; “why it is real cachemere: you don’t think I wear any thing English, Mr. Pelham?”

“I beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons. I am no judge of dress; but to return—I am quite of your opinion, that we ought to encourage our own manufactories, and not go abroad: but one cannot stay long on the Continent, even if one is decoyed there. One soon longs for home again.”

“Very sensibly remarked,” rejoined Lady Babbleton: “that’s what I call true patriotism and morality. I wish all the young men of the present day were like you. Oh, dear!—here’s a great favourite of mine coming this way—Mr. Ritson!—do you know him; shall I introduce you?”

“God forbid!” exclaimed I—frightened out of my wits, and my manners. “Come, Lady Harriett, let us rejoin Sir Lionel;” and, “swift at the word,” Lady Harriett retook my arm, nodded her adieu to Lady Babbleton, and withdrew with me to an obscurer part of the room.

Here we gave way to our laughter for some time, till, at last, getting weary of the Cheltenham Cleopatra, I reminded Lady Harriett of her promise to name to me the various personages of the assemblage.

“Eh bien,” began Lady Harriett; “d’abord, you observe that very short person, somewhat more than inclined to enbonpoint?”

“What, that thing like a Chinese tumbler—that peg of old clothes—that one foot square of mortality, with an aquatic-volucrine face, like a spoonbill?”

“The very same,” said Lady Harriett, laughing; “she is a Lady Gander. She professes to be a patroness of literature, and holds weekly soirees in London, for all the newspaper poets. She also falls in love every year, and then she employs her minstrels to write sonnets: her son has a most filial tenderness for a jointure of L10,000. a-year, which she casts away on these feasts and follies; and, in order to obtain it, declares the good lady to be insane. Half of her friends he has bribed, or persuaded, to be of his opinion: the other half stoutly maintain her rationality; and, in fact, she herself is divided in her own opinion as to the case; for she is in the habit of drinking to a most unsentimental excess, and when the fit of intoxication is upon her, she confesses to the charge brought against her—supplicates for mercy and brandy, and totters to bed with the air of a Magdalene; but when she recovers the next morning, the whole scene is changed; she is an injured woman, a persecuted saint, a female Sophocles—declared to be mad only because she is a miracle. Poor Harry Darlington called upon her in town, the other day; he found her sitting in a large chair, and surrounded by a whole host of hangers-on, who were disputing by no means sotto voce, whether Lady Gander was mad or not? Henry was immediately appealed to:—‘Now, is not this a proof of insanity?’ said one.—‘Is not this a mark of compos mentis?’ cried another. ‘I appeal to you, Mr. Darlington,’ exclaimed all. Meanwhile the object of the conversation sate in a state of maudlin insensibility, turning her head, first on one side, and then on the other; and nodding to all the disputants, as if agreeing with each. But enough of her. Do you observe that lady in—”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed I, starting up, “is that—can that be Tyrrell?”

“What’s the matter with the man?” cried Lady Harriett.

I quickly recovered my presence of mind, and reseated myself: “Pray forgive me, Lady Harriett,” said I; “but I think, nay, I am sure, I see a person I once met under very particular circumstances. Do you observe that dark man in deep mourning, who has just entered the room, and is now speaking to Sir Ralph Rumford?”

“I do, it is Sir John Tyrrell!” replied Lady Harriett: “he only came to Cheltenham yesterday. His is a very singular history.”

“What is it?” said I, eagerly.

“Why! he was the only son of a younger branch of the Tyrrells; a very old family, as the name denotes. He was a great deal in a certain roue set, for some years, and was celebrated for his affaires du coeur. His fortune was, however, perfectly unable to satisfy his expenses; he took to gambling, and lost the remains of his property. He went abroad, and used to be seen at the low gaming houses at Paris, earning a very degraded and precarious subsistence; till, about three months ago, two persons, who stood between him and the title and estates of the family, died, and most unexpectedly he succeeded to both. They say that he was found in the most utter penury and distress, in a small cellar at Paris; however that may be, he is now Sir John Tyrrell, with a very large income, and in spite of a certain coarseness of manner, probably acquired by the low company he latterly kept, he is very much liked, and even admired by the few good people in the society of Cheltenham.”

At this instant Tyrrell passed us; he caught my eye, stopped short, and coloured violently. I bowed; he seemed undecided for a moment as to the course he should adopt; it was but for a moment. He returned my salutation with great appearance of cordiality; shook me warmly by the hand; expressed himself delighted to meet me; inquired where I was staying, and said he should certainly call upon me. With this promise he glided on, and was soon lost among the crowd.

“Where did you meet him?” said Lady Harriett.

“At Paris.”

“What! was he in decent society there?”

“I don’t know,” said I. “Good night, Lady Harriett;” and, with an air of extreme lassitude, I took my hat, and vanished from that motley mixture of the fashionably low and the vulgarly genteel!