LONDON FOR THE RICH—A GOLDEN IMAGE—THE LADY OF FASHION—LIFE WELL SPENT—BOOK-WRITING AND BOOK-MAKING—THE DAY OF THE DRAWING-ROOM—GOING TO MY CLUB—THE AWFUL MOMENT—GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

London for the rich, though, is a different thing altogether. “Money cannot purchase happiness,” said the philosopher. “No,” replied a celebrated wit, himself well skilled in circulating the much-esteemed dross, “but it can purchase a very good imitation of it;” and none can gainsay the truth of his distinction. What can it do for us in the great Babylon? It can buy us airy houses—cool rooms—fragrant flowers—the best of everything to eat and drink—carriages—horses—excitement—music—friends—everything but a good appetite and content. London for the rich man is indeed a palace of delights. See him at the window of his club, in faultless attire, surrounded by worshippers who perform their part of the mutual contract most religiously, by finding conversation and company, both of the pleasantest, for him who provides drag and dinner, equally of the best. Though they bow before a calf, is it not a golden one? though they “eat dirt,” is it not dressed by a French cook? See him cantering in the Park—an animal so well broke as that would make John Gilpin himself appear a fine horseman. What envious glances follow him from the humble pedestrian—what sunny smiles shine on him from lips and eyes surmounting the most graceful shapes, the most becoming neck-ribbons! No, admiring stranger! You are not in the Bazaar at Constantinople—you are amidst England’s high-born beauties in the most moral country on earth; yet even here, with sorrow be it said, there is many a fair girl ready to barter love, and hope, and self-respect, for a box at the opera and an adequate settlement—only it must be large enough. Within fifty yards of this spot may Tattersall’s voice be heard any Monday or Thursday proclaiming, hammer in hand, his mercenary ultimatum, “The best blood in England, and she is to be sold.” Brain-sick moralists would read a lesson from the animal’s fate. Our men of the world are satisfied to take things as they are. Meanwhile the calf has shown himself long enough to his idolaters; he dines early to-day—a quarter past eight—therefore he canters home to dress. Man has no right to insult such a cook as his by being hungry, so he trifles over a repast that Apicius would have envied, and borrows half-an-hour’s fictitious spirits from a golden vintage that has well-nigh cost its weight in gold. What an evening is before him! All that can enchant the eye, all that can ravish the ear—beauties of earth and sounds of heaven—the very revelry of the intellect, and “the best box in the house” from which to see, hear, and enjoy. The calf is indeed pasturing in the Elysian fields, and we need follow him no longer. Can he be otherwise than happy? Can there be lips on which such fruits as these turn to ashes? Are beauty, and luxury, and society, and song, nothing after all but “a bore”? Nature is a more impartial mother than we are prone to believe, and the rich man need not always be such an object of envy only because he is rich.

But pretty Blanche Kettering enjoyed the glitter and the excitement, and the pleasures of her London life, even as the opening flower enjoys the sunshine and the breeze. It requires a season or two to take the edge off a fresh, healthy appetite, and ennui scowls in vain upon the very young. Gingham thought her young lady had never looked so well as she did to-day, of all days in the year the one in which Blanche was to be presented. Yes—it was the day of the Drawing-room, and our former Abigail forgot the supercilious manners of the new porter, and the high and mighty ways of the General’s gentleman, and even her own faded black silk, in a paroxysm of motherly affection and professional enthusiasm, brought on by the beauty of her darling, and the surpassing magnificence of her costume. Blanche was nearly dressed when she arrived, standing like a little princess amongst her many attendants—this one smoothing a fold, that one adjusting a curl, and a third holding the pincushion aloft, having transferred the greater portion of its contents to her own mouth.

Would that we had power to describe the young lady’s dress; would that we could delight bright eyes, should bright eyes condescend to glance upon our page, with a critical and correct account of the materials and the fashion that were capable of constituting so attractive a tout ensemble—how the gown was brocade, and the train was silk, and the trimmings were gossamer, to the best of our belief!—how pearls were braided in that soft brown hair, and feathers nodded over that graceful little head, though to our mind it would have been even better without these accessories—and how the dear girl looked altogether like a fairy queen, smiling through a wreath of mist, and glittering with the dewdrops of the morning.

“Lor’, miss, you do look splendid!” said Gingham, lost in admiration, partly at the richness of the materials, partly at the improvement in her old charge. Blanche was a very pretty girl, certainly, even in a court dress, trying as is that costume to all save the dark, tall beauties, who do indeed look magnificent in trains and feathers; but then the Anglo-Saxon blonde has her revenge next morning in her simple dÉshabillÉ at breakfast—a period at which the black-eyed sultana is apt to betray a slight yellowness of skin, and a drowsy, listless air, not above half awake. Well, they are all very charming in all dresses—it’s lucky they are so unconscious of their own attractions.

Blanche was anything but a vain girl; but of course it takes a long time to dress for a Drawing-room, and when mirrors are properly arranged for self-inspection, it requires a good many glances to satisfy ladies as to the correct disposition of “front, flanks, and rear”; so several minutes elapse ere Gingham can be favoured with a private interview, and she passes that period in admiring her young lady, and scanning, with a criticism that borders on disapprobation, the ministering efforts of Rosine, the French maid.

A few weeks of London dissipation have not yet taken the first fresh bloom off Blanche’s young brow; there is not a single line to herald the “battered look” that will, too surely, follow a very few years of late hours, and nightly excitement, and disappointments. The girl is all girl still—bright, and simple, and lovely. With all our prejudices in her favour, and our awe-struck admiration of her dress, we cannot help thinking she would look yet lovelier in a plain morning gown, with no ornament but a rose or two; and that Mary Delaval’s stately beauty and commanding figure would be more in character with those splendid robes of state. But Mary is only a governess, and Blanche is an heiress; so the one remains up-stairs, and the other goes to Court. What else would you have?

It is difficult for an inferior at any time to obtain an interview with a superior, and nowhere more so than in London. Gingham was secure of Blanche’s sympathy as of her assistance; but although the latter was forthcoming the very instant there was the slightest hesitation perceived in her answer to the natural question, “How are you getting on?” Gingham was deprived of her share of the former by a thundering double-knock, that shook even the massive house in Grosvenor Square to its foundation, and the announcement that Lady Mount Helicon had arrived, and was even then waiting in the carriage for Miss Kettering.

“Good-bye, good-bye, Gingham,” said Blanche, hurrying off in a state of nervous trepidation, she scarcely knew why; “I mustn’t keep Lady Mount Helicon waiting, and of course she won’t get out in her train—come again soon—good-bye;” and in another moment the steps were up, the door closed with a bang, and Blanche, spread well out so as not to get “creased,” by the side of stately Lady Mount Helicon, in a magnificent family coach, rich in state-liveried coachman and Patagonian footmen, to which Cinderella’s equipage in the fairy tale was a mere costermonger’s cart.

As the stout official on the box hammer-cloth, whose driving, concealed as he is behind an enormous nosegay, is the admiration of all beholders, will take some little time to reach the “string,” and when placed in that lingering procession, will move at a snail’s pace the whole way to St. James’s, we may as well fill up the interval by introducing to the reader a lady with whom Blanche is rapidly becoming intimate, and who takes a warm—shall we say a maternal?—interest in the movements of our young heiress.

Lady Mount Helicon, then, is one of those characters which the metropolis of this great and happy country can alone bring to perfection. That she was once a merry, single-hearted child, is more than probable, but so many years have elapsed since that innocent period—so many “seasons,” with their ever-recurring duties of card-leaving, dinner-receiving, ball-haunting, and keeping up her acquaintance, have been softening her brain and hardening her heart, that there is little left of the child in her world-worn nature, and not a great deal of the woman, save her attachment to her son. She is as fond of him as it is possible for her to be of anything. She is proud of his talents, his appearance, his acquirements, and in her heart of hearts of his wildness. Altogether, she thinks him a great improvement on the old lord, and would sacrifice anything for him in the world, save her position in society. That position, such as it is, she has all her life been struggling to retain. She would improve it if she could, but she will never get any farther. She belongs to the mass of good society, and receives cards for all the “best places” and most magnificent entertainments; but is as far removed as a curate’s wife in Cornwall from the inner circle of those “bright particular stars” with whom she would give her coronet to associate.

Lady Long-Acre bows to her, but she never nods. Lady Dinadam invites her to the great ball, which that exemplary peeress annually endures with the constancy of a martyr; but as for the little dinners, for which her gastronomic lord is so justly renowned, it is needless to think of them. She might just as well expect to be asked to Wassailworth. And although the Duke is hand-and-glove with her son, she well knows she has as much chance of visiting the Emperor of Morocco. Even tiny Mrs. Dreadnought alternately snubs and patronises her. Why that artificial woman, who has no rank and very little character, should be one of “the great people” is totally inexplicable; however, there she is, and Lady Mount Helicon looks up to her accordingly. Well, there are gradations in all ranks, even to the very steps before the throne. In her ladyship’s immediate circle are the Ormolus, and the Veneers, and the Blacklambs, with whom she is on terms of the most perfect equality; while below her again are the Duffles, and the Marchpanes, and the Featherheads, and a whole host of inferiors. If Lady Long-Acre is distant with her, can she not be condescending in her turn to Lady Tadpole? If Dinadam, who uses somewhat coarse language for a nobleman, says he “can’t stand that something vulgar woman,” cannot Lady Mount Helicon cut young Deadlock unblushingly in the street, and turn the very coldest part of her broad shoulder on Sir Timothy and Lady Turnstile? “City people, my dear,” as she explains for the edification of Blanche, who is somewhat aghast at the uncourteous manoeuvre. Has she not a grand object to pursue for eighteen hours out of every twenty-four? Must she not keep alive the recollections of her existence in the memories of some two or three hundred people, who would not care a straw if she were dead and buried before to-morrow morning? Is it not a noble ambition to arrive at terms of apparent intimacy with this shaky grandee, or that superannuated duchess, because they are duchesses and grandees? Can horses and carriages be better employed than in carrying cards about for judicious distribution? Is not that a delightful night of which two-thirds are spent blocked up in the “string,” and the remainder suffocated on the staircase? In short, can money be better lavished, or time and energy better applied, than in “keeping up one’s acquaintance”?

This is the noble aim of “all the world.” This it is which brings country families to London when their strawberries are ripe, and their roses in full bloom. The Hall looks beautiful when its old trees are in foliage, and its sunny meadows rippled with the fresh-mown hay. But, dear! who would be out of London in June? except, of course, during Ascot week. No, the gardener and the steward are left to enjoy one of the sweetest places in England, and the family hug themselves in the exchange of their roomy chambers, and old oak wainscoting, and fresh country air, for a small, close, ill-constructed house, redolent of those mysterious perfumes which are attributed to drains, and grimy with many a year’s accumulation of soot and other impurities, but happy, thrice happy in its situation—not a quarter of a mile from St. James’s Street, and within a stone’s throw of Berkeley Square! Year after year the exodus goes on. Year after year has the squire sworn stoutly that he will enjoy this summer at home, and perjured himself, as a man invariably does when he attests by oath an opinion in defiance of his wife. While there are daughters to marry off, and sons to get commissions for, we can account in a measure for the migratory movement, though based, we conceive, on fallacious principles. But when John has got his appointment, through the county member after all, and Lucy has married the young rector of the adjoining parish, who fell in love with her at the county archery meeting, why the two poor old folks should make their annual struggle, and endure discomfort, is only to be explained by the tenacity with which English people cling to their national superstitions and their national absurdities.

Even little Blanche, living in one of the best houses in Grosvenor Square, and going to Court under a peeress’s “wing,” sighed while she thought of Newton-Hollows and its shrubberies, and her garden just blooming into summer luxuriance. As they toiled slowly down St. James’s Street, envying the privileged grandees with the entrÉe through St. James’s Park, our pretty heiress would fain have been back in her garden-bonnet, tying up her roses, and watching her carnations, and idling about in the deep shades of her leafy paradise. Not so the chaperon. She was full of the important occasion. It was her pleasure to present Miss Kettering, and her business to arrange how that maidenly patronymic should be merged in the title of Mount Helicon: for this she was herself prepared to lapse into a dowager. Who but a mother would be capable of such a sacrifice? Yet it must be; none knew better than her ladyship—excepting, perhaps, the late lord’s man of business, and certain citizens of the Hebrew persuasion, collectors of noblemen’s and gentlemen’s autographs—how impossible it was for “Mount” to go on much longer. His book on the Derby was a far deeper affair than his “Broadsides from the Baltic”—where the publisher lost shillings on the latter, the author paid away hundreds on the former—and the literary sportsman confessed, with his usual devil-may-care candour, that “between black-legs and blue-stockings he was pretty nearly told-out!”—therefore must an heiress be supplied from the canaille to prop the noble house of Mount Helicon—therefore have the Mount Helicon arms, and the Mount Helicon liveries, and the Mount Helicon carriage, been seen day after day waiting in Grosvenor Square—therefore does their diplomatic proprietress speak in all societies of “her charming Miss Kettering,” and “her sweet Blanche,” and therefore are they even now arriving in company at St. James’s, followed by the General in his brougham, who has come to pay his respects to his sovereign in the tightest uniform that ever threatened an apoplectic warrior with convulsions. “My dear, you look exquisite,” says the chaperon, “only mind how you get out, and don’t dirty your train, and recollect your feathers; when you curtsey to the Queen, whatever you do, don’t let them bob in her Majesty’s face.” Blanche, albeit somewhat frightened, could not help laughing, and looked so fresh and radiant as she alighted, that the very mob, assembled for purposes of criticism, scarcely forbore from telling her as much to her face. “Don’t be nervous, my dear,” and “Pray don’t let us get separated,” said the two ladies simultaneously, as they entered the palace; and Blanche felt her knees tremble and her heart beat as she followed her conductress up the stately, well-lined staircase, between rows of magnificent-looking gentlemen-officials, all in full dress. The kettle-drums of the Life Guards booming from without did not serve to reassure her half so much as the jolly faces of the beef-eaters, every one of whom seems to be cut out to exactly the same pattern, and, inexplicable as it may appear, is a living impersonation of Henry VIII.; but she took courage after a time, seeing that nobody was the least frightened except herself, and that young Brosier of the Guards, one of her dancing-partners, and to-day on duty at St. James’s, was swaggering about as much at home as if he had been brought up in the palace instead of his father’s humble-looking parsonage. Blanche would have liked it better, though, had the staircase and corridor been a little more crowded; as it was, she felt too conspicuous, and fancied people looked at her as if they knew she was clutching those two tickets, with her name and her chaperon’s legibly inscribed thereon, for the information of an exalted office-bearer, because this was her first appearance at Court, and she was going to be presented. Innocent Blanche! The gentlemen in uniform are busy with their collars (the collar of a uniform is positive strangulation for everything but a bon fide soldier), whilst those in civil vestures are absorbed in the contemplation of their own legs, which, in the unusual attire of silk stockings and “shorts,” look worse to the owner than to any one else, and that is saying a good deal. The General is close behind his niece, and struts with an ardour which yesterday’s levee in that same tight coat has been unable to cool. The plot thickens, and they add their tickets to a table already covered by cards inscribed with the names of England’s noblest and fairest, for the information of the grand vizier, and—shall we confess it?—the gentlemen of the press! Lady Mount Helicon bows right and left with stately courtesy: Blanche seizes a moment to arrange her train and a stray curl unobserved; and the General, between gold lace and excitement, breaks out into an obvious perspiration. Blanche’s partners gather round her as they would at a ball, though she scarcely recognises some in their military disguises. And those who have not been introduced whisper to each other, “That’s Miss Kettering,” and depreciate her, and call her “very pretty for an heiress.” Captain Lacquers is magnificent; he has exchanged into the “Loyal Hussars,” chiefly on account of the uniform, and thinks that in “hessians” and a “pelisse” he ought not to be bought under half-a-million. He breakfasted with “Uppy” this morning, and rallied that suitor playfully on his advantage in attending the Drawing-room, whereas Sir Ascot was to be on duty, and is even now lost in jack-boots and a helmet, on a pawing black charger, outside. D’Orville is there too, with his stately figure and grave, handsome face. His hussar uniform sits none the worse for those two medals on his breast; and his beauty is none the less commanding for a tinge of brown caught from an Indian sun. He is listening to the General, and bending his winning eyes on Blanche. The girl thinks he is certainly the nicest person here. By a singular association of ideas, the whole thing reminds the General of the cavalry action at Gorewallah, and his energetic reminiscences of that brilliant affair are by no means lost on the bystanders.

“Blanche, my dear, there’s Sir Roger Rearsby—most distinguished officer. What?—I was his brigade-major at Chutney, and we—D’Orville, you know that man—how d’ye mean?—why, it’s Colonel Chuffins. I pulled him from under his horse in the famous charge of the Kedjerees, and stood across him for two hours—two hours, by the god of war!—till I’d rallied the Kedjerees, and we swept everything before us. I suppose you’ll allow Gorewallah was the best thing of the war. Zounds! I don’t believe the Sepoys have done talking of it yet! Look ye here: Marsh Mofussil occupied the heights, and Bahawdar Bang was detached to make a demonstration in our rear. Well, sir——”

At this critical juncture, and ere the General had time to explain the strategy by which Bahawdar Bang’s manoeuvre was defeated, he and his party had been swept onward with the tide to where a doorway stemmed the crowd into a mass of struggling confusion. Lappets and feathers waved to and fro like a grove of poplars in a breeze; fans were broken, and soft cheeks scratched against epaulettes and such accoutrements of war; here and there a pair of moustaches towered above the surface, like the yards of some tall bark in a storm; whilst ever and anon a heavy dowager, like some plunging seventy-four that answers not her helm, came surging through the mass with the sheer force of that specific gravity which is not to be denied. As the state-rooms are reached, the crowd becomes more dense and the heat insufferable. A red cord, stretched tightly the whole length of the room, offers an insuperable barrier to the impetuous, and compels the panting company to defile in due order of precedence—“first come first served” being here, as elsewhere, the prevailing maxim. And now, people being obliged to stand still, make the best of it, and begin to talk, their remarks being as original and interesting as those of a well-dressed crowd usually are. “Wawt a crush—aw”—says Captain Lacquers, skilfully warding off from Blanche the whole person of a stout naval officer, and sighing to think of the tarnish his beloved hessians have sustained by being trodden on—“there’s Lady Crane and the Miss Cranes—that’s Rebecca, the youngest, she’s going to be presented, poor girl!—aw—she’s painfully ugly, Miss Kettering—aw—makes me ill to look at her.” Poor Rebecca! she’s not pretty, at least in a court dress, and is dreadfully frightened besides. She knows the rich Miss Kettering by sight, and admires her honestly, and envies her too, and would give anything to change places with her now, for she has a slight tendresse for good-looking, unmeaning Lacquers. Take comfort, Rebecca, you will hardly condescend to speak to him, when you go through the same dread ordeal next year, in this very place, as Marchioness Ermindale. The Marquis is looking out for a young wife, and has seen you already, walking early, in shabby gloves, with your governess, and has made up his mind, and will marry you out of hand before the end of the season. So you will be the richest peeress in England, and have a good-looking, good-humoured, honest-hearted husband, very little over forty; and you will do pretty much what you like, and never go with your back to the horses any more; only you don’t know it, nor has it anything to do with our story, except to prove that the lottery is not, invariably, “all blanks and no prizes”—that a quiet, unassuming, lady-like girl has fully as good a chance of winning the game as any of your fashionable beauties—your dashing young ladies, with their pictures in print-books, and their names in the clubs, and their engagements a dozen deep, and their heart-broken lovers in scores—men who can well afford to be lovers, seeing that their resources will not admit of their becoming husbands. Such a suitor is Captain Lacquers to the generality of his lady-loves, though he means honestly enough as regards Blanche, and would like to marry her and her Three per Cents, to-morrow. Misguided dandy! what chance has he against such a rival as D’Orville? Even if there were no Frank Hardingstone, and Cousin Charlie were never to come back, he is but on a par with Sir Ascot, Lord Mount Helicon, and a hundred others—there is not a toss of a halfpenny for choice between them. Nevertheless, he has great confidence in his own fascinations, and not being troubled with diffidence, is only waiting for an opportunity to lay himself, his uniform, and his debts at the heiress’s feet.

The Major, meanwhile, whom Lady Mount Helicon thinks “charming,” and of whom she is persuaded she has made a conquest, pioneers a way for Blanche and her chaperon through the glittering throng. “It is very formidable, Miss Kettering,” says he, pitying the obvious nervousness of the young girl, “but it’s soon over, like a visit to the dentist. You know what to do, and the Queen is so kind and so gracious, it’s not half so alarming when you are really before her; now, go on; that’s the grand vizier; keep close to Lady Mount Helicon; and mind, don’t turn your back to any of the royalties. I shall be in the gallery to get your carriage after it’s over. I shall be so anxious to know how you get through it.”

“Thank you, Major D’Orville,” replied poor Blanche, with an upward glance of gratitude that made her violet eyes look deeper and lovelier than ever; and she sailed on, with a very respectable assumption of fortitude, but inwardly wishing that she could sink into the earth, or, at least, remain with kind, protecting Major D’Orville and Uncle Baldwin, and those gentlemen whose duty did not bring them into the immediate presence of their sovereign.

These worthies, having nothing better to do, began to beguile the time by admiring each other’s uniforms, criticising the appearance of the company, and such vague impertinences as go by the name of general conversation. Lacquers, who had just caught the turn of his hessians at a favourable point of view, was more than usually communicative. “Heard of Bolter?” says he, addressing the public in general, and amongst others a first cousin of that injured man. “Taken his wife back again—aw—soft, I should say—fact is, she and Fopples couldn’t get on; Frank kicked at the poodle directly he got to the railway station; he swore he would only take the parrot, and they quarrelled there. I don’t believe they went abroad at all, at least not together. Seen the poodle? Nice dog; they’ve got him in Green Street; very like Frank; believe he was jealous of him!” A general laugh greeted the hussar’s witticism, and the cousin being, as usual, not on the best of terms with his relation, enjoyed the joke more than any one else. Major D’Orville alone has neither listened to the story nor caught the point. Blanche’s pleading, grateful eyes haunt him still. He feels that the more he likes her, the less he would wish to marry her. “She is worthy of a better fate,” he thinks, “than to be linked to a broken-down rouÉ.” And as is often the case, the charm of beauty in another brings forcibly to his mind the only face he ever really loved; and the Major sighs as he wishes he could begin life again, on totally different principles from those he has all along adopted. Well, it is too late now. The game must be played out, and he proceeds to cement his alliance with the General by asking him to lunch with him at his club “after this thing’s over.”

“We’ll all go together,” exclaimed Lacquers, who had been meditating the very same move against his prospective uncle-in-law, only he couldn’t hit the right pronunciation of a dÉjeuner À la fourchette, the term in which he was anxious to couch his invitation.

“Not a member, sir,” says the General, with a well-pleased smile at the invitation; “cross-questioned by the waiter, kicked out by the committee—what?—only belong to ‘The Chelsea and Noodles’—don’t approve of clubs in the abstract—all very well whilst one’s a bachelor—eh? D—d selfish and all that—wife moping in a two-storied house at Bayswater—husband swaggering in a Louis Quatorze drawing-room in Pall Mall. Can’t dine at home to-day, my love; where’s the latch-key? Promised to have a mutton-chop at the club with an old brother-officer. Wife dines on chicken broth with her children, and has a poached egg at her tea. Husband begins with oysters and ends with a pint of claret, by himself too—we all know who the old brother-officer is—lives in the Edgeware Road!—how d’ye mean?” Lacquers goes off with a horse-laugh; he enjoys the joke amazingly; it is just suited to his comprehension. “Then we’ll meet in an hour from now,” says he, as the crowd, surging in, breaks up their little conclave; “should like to show you our pictures—aw—fond of high art, you know—and our staircase, Arabian, you know, with the ornaments quite Mosaic. A-diavolo!” And pleased with what he believes to be his real Spanish farewell, our dandy-linguist elbows his way up to Lady Ormolu, and gladdens that panting peeress with the pearls and rubies of his intellectual conversation.

All this time Blanche is nearing the ordeal. If she thought the crowd too dense before, what would she not give now to bury herself in its sheltering ranks? An ample duchess is before her with a red-haired daughter, but everywhere around her there is room to breathe, and walk, and to be seen. Through an open door she catches a glimpse of the Presence and the stately circle before whom she must pass. Good-natured royalties, of both sexes, stand smiling and bowing, and striving to put frightened subjects at their ease, and carrying their kind hearts on their handsome open countenances; but they are all whirling round and round to Blanche, and she cannot tell uniforms from satin gowns, epaulettes from ostrich plumes, old from young. It strikes her that there is something ridiculous in the way that a central figure performs its backward movement, and the horrid conviction comes upon her that she will have to go through the same ceremony before all those royal eyes, and think of her train, her feathers, her curtsey, and her escape, all at one and the same agonising moment. A foreign diplomatist makes a complimentary remark in French, addressed to his neighbour, a tall, soldier-like German with nankeen moustaches. The German unbends for an instant that frigid air of military reserve which has of late years usurped the place of what we used to consider foreign volubility and politeness—he stoops to reply in a whisper, but soon recovers himself, stiffer and straighter than before.

Neither the compliment nor its reception serves to reassure Blanche. In vain she endeavours to peep past the duchess’s ample figure, and see how the red-haired daughter pulls through. The duchess rejoices in substantial materials, both of dress and fabric, so Blanche can see nothing. Another moment, and she hears her own name and Lady Mount Helicon’s pronounced in a whisper, every syllable of which thrills upon her nerves like a musket-shot. She reaches the door—she catches a glimpse of a tall, handsome young man with a blue ribbon, and a formidable-looking phalanx of princes, princesses, foreign ambassadors, and English courtiers, in a receding circle, of which she feels she is about to become the centre. Blanche would like to cry, but she is in the Presence now, and we follow her no farther. It would not become us to enlarge upon the majesty which commands reverence for the queen, or the beauty which wins homage for the woman; to speak of her as do her servants, her household, her nobility, or all who are personally known to her, would entail such language of devoted affection as in our case might be termed flattery and adulation. To hurrah and throw our hats up for her, with the fervent loyalty of an English mob—to cheer with the whole impulse of every stout English heart, and the energy of good English lungs, is more in accordance with our position and our habits, and so “Hip, hip, hip—God save the Queen.”

“Oh, dear! if I’d only known,” said Blanche, some two hours afterwards, as Rosine was brushing her hair, and taking out the costly ostrich plumes and the string of pearls, “I needn’t have been so frightened after all! So good, so kind, so considerate, I shouldn’t the least mind being presented every day!”