"Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?"
than in any of the products of his brain that he has given us. His brothers, Eben and Philander, have become stage-struck, and expect to excel in the Protean art. Their guardian, himself a great lover of drama, having foolish confidence in their success, grants them plenary indulgence in all their whims. They are habitués of the theatre, and have fitted up a suite of apartments next to a suit of rooms occupied by some stock actors, with whom they are bound in indissoluble bonds of friendship. There they spend the day in practice, and if you should call at any hour, there is no telling what will present itself to you. Perhaps Macbeth with the glamour of his eyes, viewing the imaginary gouts of blood; or Banquo with his gory locks; or some knight with his cuirass on and his visor down, plunging, without a qualm, his carmine-stained poniard into the jugular of some patriot. Possibly, Othello the Moor, King John with the Magna Charta, or a legendary warrior of frightful mien with his falchion drawn, will admit you. Or you may see a viscount with falcon, a rampant villain, a jocund host, or an irate, splenetic old man with spectacles, pronouncing with senile vehemence a curse upon some fragile female in negligee before him, who beseeches the aid of an immobile statue in a niche in the wall. You may get there in the nick of time to save Desdemona by an exposé of Iago'so villainy, to rescue Pythias whom Damon holds by the nape of the neck on the threshold of eternity, or to restrain the suicidal design of the Montague by informing him that the fair Capulet is only under the influence of a soporific—not dead. You may arrive soon enough to arouse the womanhood in the docile Kate, making her less docible, and talk woman's rights to Petruchio, making him more lenient.
And you will find the guardian of these promising youths, sitting there all day shouting encore to their absurdities, and not rational enough to see his indiscretion in permitting their frivolity.
The ennui, recently complained of, was relieved by an invitation to a party given by the Mesdames B., the same you met at the conversazione of the church guild. The ladies received their guests with their usual suavity. Their niece, Rosamond, recently from Madrid, was the attraction of the evening; she wore an elegant moire antique with a profusion of valenciennes; she had a beautiful set of jewelry—opal and diamonds. It was marvelous how her tiny hands flew over the piano-forte. She sings very sweetly too; her voice is a sort of mezzo-soprano. The naïve Miss Ursula was present, nearly smothered in black silk and guipure. She looks much prettier in dishabille. The little piquant Miss Irene, with her plaited hair, sang with a voice like a paroquet her favorite, "Tassels on the Boots." That disgusting young Leopold was there, feeling as important as a Rothschild, making his salams, and palavering sotto voce to all the girls, circulating his monogram cards and sporting his paste pin with its dazzling facets. He thinks he cuts a wide swath.
Late in the evening those that were fond of Terpsichorean amusement were ushered into a room where the tapestry was covered and there spent several hours in minuets, waltzes, quadrilles, etc.
The topics of conversation amongst the more sensible during the evening were the object of the visit of the new prelate, and the recent speeches of Disraeli and Thiers.
Madame B. caused a good deal of merriment by describing an improvement in her cuisine that had been introduced that day. Bridget, a late importation from Belfast, who had charge of the culinary department, was told to send for some vermicelli to put in the soup, but she ordered spermaceti instead.