The cover image was restored by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE
EXCLUSIVES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
Printed by J. L. Cox, Great Queen Street,
Lincoln's-Inn Fields.

THE EXCLUSIVES.

CHAPTER I.

THE BOUDOIR.

The boudoir of a woman of fashion exhibits in its history, if faithfully recorded, a picture of the manners, modes, and morals of the times; and, however little such things in themselves might deserve to be handed down, or registered as objects of imitation, yet to chronicle them for the day would not be without its use. The sensible part of mankind would laugh at the follies, and wonder at the extravagance, which the page of such ephemeral history unfolded; while the actors in the scene might possibly view in the mirror held up to them their own lives, and their own actions, in a new and truer light.

Lady Tilney's boudoir,—the boudoir par excellence,—was not in fact a boudoir, according to the old legitimate meaning of the word. Indeed, Lady Tilney herself, the presiding deity of the sanctuary, professed her contempt of legitimacy in boudoirs, as well as in sovereigns; at least she did so in words, though, like many other professors, her words and actions frequently contradicted each other; and it may be questioned if there are any greater despots, than those who inveigh most against despotism.

But to return from this digression to the boudoir. Lady Tilney's boudoir was destined to the reception of far other votaries than those of the old rabattu god of love. No: her boudoir was visited by persons of a very different character from those who were formerly the frequenters of such a scene. Authors, poets, political intriguers, artists, and committees for the management of the state of society, formed the chief personages among those who figured there, and their business was of a very different complexion from that of the supposed use, or original meaning ascribed to a boudoir.

In the former, of old, the painted harpsichord, the huge cabinet, the gigantic chimney-piece, the tapestried wall, were suited to the silken garb, and bag and sword, that formed the attire of the male part of its visitants; as well as to the hoop and fly-cap of the ladies who presided there. In this modern temple of idolatry, only a few of the ancient decorations were allowed a place, such as the marquetry cabinet, the or-moulu clock, or vase of China; but for the rest, what a change!

Volumes of worth, and works of merit and deep learning, were now covered by the novels of the day, or hidden by trivial elegancies newly imported from Paris; while on the walls, the rare productions of Titian or Vandyck were intermingled with some chalky portrait of the modern school, tricked out in the millinery geer of the fashion of the day. Scattered on the tables, however, there was a redeeming feature in the character of the decorative objects which met the eye, for there lay some richly chased gold ornaments, the works of Benvenuto Cellini, or some one not less skilful, though it may be of forgotten name; and while these ornamented the apartment, they served the double purpose of affording Lady Tilney an opportunity, not only to discourse on their beauty, but to enter into all the particulars of Cellini's strange life.

Add to this description of the boudoir and its visitants, the occasional presence of Lady Tilney's beautiful children, and its portraiture is closed; but not so the genius and history of all the transactions, councils, and cabals which took place there. These will be best understood, by passing from the boudoir to Lady Tilney's own character and pursuits; if to describe these by any means were indeed possible: but it would be an endless, hopeless task, to enumerate all that Lady Tilney did, or fancied she did—still more what she said; for to do her justice, her's was no vapid existence of the mere routine of a London lady's life.

No—indolence was not the besetting sin, insipidity was not the vice of her morale or her physique. But as to enumerating severally the subjects which employed her care, and the various branches of these subjects into which she diverged, that indeed would be difficult. Her life and occupations may, perhaps, be best delineated by representing them as one vast bazar of interests, all equally claiming her attention—"the court, the camp, the senate, and the field:" certainly the field of Newmarket, where it is said she regulated her husband's calculations and interests with great success.

These objects, and many more than these, which, as the charlatans say at the end of their lists, are too tedious to mention, filled up the life of this laborious and distinguished lady. Nor were her labours less onerous in managing the government of the society of ton. Her rule was there despotic—her word was law;—and if some few persons pretended to step aside, not following the fashionable multitude in bowing the knee to Baal, or ventured to think for themselves in the circle in which she moved, immediately, as though by an enchanter's wand, they were banished thence, and some more amalgamating spirit was chosen to fill up the vacancy. There was a kind of air-gun fired, which was sure to hit the mark, without betraying the hand that drew the trigger: a sort of lettre-de-cachet, as effectual as those promulgated in the times of Louis le Grand, which consigned to oblivion the offending persons, while the victims themselves could not fathom any cause or assign any particular reason for the sentence.

Nevertheless, in the very midst of this ruling and reigning, this despotic sway in the court of ton, a secret dissatisfaction existed in the breast of Lady Tilney. She, indeed, was one of those haughty liberals who affect to despise kings and courts; not because they dislike those necessary evils, as they call them, but because they are themselves, or would be if they could, the greatest of all sovereigns.

Notwithstanding, therefore, the high ground of rank and situation on which she stood, it rankled at her heart to have offended her sovereign, and to feel herself an object of just dislike to him; for, however great the magnanimity shewn to her on the occasion of her offence, still to be aware that, under circumstances, she could no longer be considered a favourite at court, was in itself a source of the deepest mortification. Impressed with this consciousness, what was to be done? Why, render all courts the subject of flippant raillery; vote them and their sovereigns old-fashioned bores; erect herself into a queen, and have a court of her own. In truth, this plan agreed better with her self-love than any other; because sovereigns and courts, in as far as regards the outward decorum of forms, regulate and keep society in its proper course; whereas, under the sham dynasty of ton, caprice bears rule, and tyranny in its worst sense marks the conduct of those who sit on its ephemeral throne.

Connected with this system, the pride of ancestry too was necessarily another subject of ridicule with Lady Tilney, who thought that those who, on such grounds, pretended to take any lead in the world of fashion, had much better retire to their castles, and there indulge in dreams of their greatness.

Nor did Lady Tilney's thirst for power end with her effort for universal dominion in matters of ton—she had another ambition, that of leading and controlling the political party to which she had attached herself. Here, however, her sway was more imaginary than real; and often the long-headed politician, or crafty diplomate, as they listened with apparent complacency to her advice, allowed her words to fall unheeded on their ear, or laughed at her in secret. With the young and uninformed aspirants in the career of political life, Lady Tilney had, perhaps, more success; and many a rising scion of a noble house has been known to adopt, under the influence of her smiles, and from a foolish vanity of being noticed by her, a line of conduct quite at variance with the wishes of their parents, and to the sacrifice of their own best interests.

In this grasp at power, however successfully achieved, Lady Tilney felt herself ill at ease—her mind was continually harassed by reflections on the tottering and uncertain tenure of ton, and the possibility, nay, probability, of some younger, newer person, climbing to the envied seat which she then possessed. The fear of a certain Duchess of Hermanton was constantly before her imagination, as the embodied object of her alarm; and she considered it as a measure little short of self-preservation, to secure her influence, if possible, on a still firmer basis, by some decided act, or the invention of some fresh folly. As to Almack's, that circle of exclusiveness had been polluted; its brief course was run, and its brightness on the decline.

The more Lady Tilney reflected on the subject, the more she became convinced of the expediency of her intentions; and determined, therefore, to mature her plan immediately. Having despatched her notes to the Comtesse Leinsengen, Lady Tenderden, and Lady Ellersby, she commanded that no one should be admitted to her presence but themselves.

"Yet stay, Destouches," she added to the page, as she issued her orders; "Prince Luttermanne by all means, should he call." And then, having given audience to three cooks, four painters, two authors, an authoress, and several milliners, she finished with advice to a poet and a critique upon his work.

Lady Tilney, before the arrival of the personages she had written to (for Lady Tilney knew the value of intervals), arranged her list of engagements; tossing some into the fire—with the velocity of one well practised in the weight, measure, and value of names; and examining others of more importance. She determined to mar all that might interfere with her own views in society.—"Mrs. Annesly, truly what a griffin! and the Countess of Delamere, and Lady Melcombe!—but the Marchioness of Borrowdale! that indeed requires attention." Lady Tilney rang the bell—Destouches appeared in a minute—the peculiar hasty touch of call was known to the well-appointed page. "Send Arquimbeaud here!" and the distinguished Arquimbeaud soon obeyed the summons. "I have determined to have a party, Arquimbeaud, next Thursday; see that cards are issued for that day, according to this list."

As he withdrew, Comtesse Leinsengen was announced. The immense bonnet and deep veil—the splendid cashmere and still long petticoats (although they were generally worn very much shortened), afforded a favourable costume to the lady who now advanced; certain defects were thus concealed, and imagination might lend that delicacy of slimness and form to the feet and ancles which pervaded the rest of the person, but which did not characterize those of the Comtesse.

The rapid volubility of the one lady, and the sharp short sentences of the other, began the conference. Lady Tilney placed the most luxurious of all the luxurious chairs close to the fire, pushed forward the screen, and with the eagerness of apparent friendship, seemed to wish to make her visitor quite at home: or, as she expressed it, "deliciously comfortable." "You have learned that word now, dear Comtesse,—indeed you have adopted it; and there is no one who understands the thing so perfectly as yourself."

Midst all these courtesies and courtings the Comtesse observed a sort of abstracted air, though they were (and so far Lady Tilney was sincere) things of course.

"My dear Comtesse, I am so glad we have a minute alone, to discuss our plans. I have many things of consequence to say to you; but before I begin I must speak to you of that horrible affair of poor Lady Mailing's; it is quite impossible to support her any longer, for you are aware her secret is publicly known. So long as she was prudent, and observed appearances, it was all very well; but now it will be impossible for me to receive her. You know I never did receive any body who placed themselves in a similar situation—not even my own relations; my character has always been intacte, and I cannot compromète myself, though I am very sorry for poor Lady Mailing; and had she only avoided this esclandre, and managed her affair prudently, I would have stood by her to the end; but as it is—"

"Oh, certainly not," interrupted the Comtesse; "you must be conscious that every one knows Lady Tilney's high reputation, and it would never be supposed dat you would countenance a belle passion; vraiment, quand on est tellement dupe as to sacrifice sa position dans le monde, to a man's vanity, or to be playing de sentimentale at forty, it is quite enough to make one sick, and she well deserves to be vat you call blown. Mais, de grâce, do not let us prose more about her—vat sinifies?"

"Oh, very true, and then there are other matters of so much greater consequence to consider. Do you really think that this administration will hold—you who are in all the secrets?—positively you must tell me. I am sure if that man (lowering her voice to a whisper) is at the head of affairs, all must go wrong—poor England! what will become of you? But we will never allow that—shall we?"

"Oh! trève de politiques, ma chere, si vous m'aimez; it is a subject quite marital, and therefore, you know, not at all in my way. What I want to revolutionize, or rather to reform, is your state of society."

"Precisely, my dear Comtesse, it is the very subject on which I wished to talk to you, when I wrote requesting to see you—you received my note, did you not?"

"Oh, yes; but it is an affair on which we hold such very different opinions. My maxim is, se bien amuser d'après sa propre volonté—that is what I want to do; and to tell you the truth, I am ennuyé à la mort in your London world—every thing is so stupid here! Vat signify dat tiresome Almack, after all? It was good enough at first, when it put people in a passion, et pendant que se faisoit fureur; but now that, somehow or oder, you liberales admitted every petite demoiselle vid her red elbows, and vulgar mama to take care of her, it has lost all its character, and I positively intend to withdraw my name. Besides, de lady patronesses cannot even maintain a seat at de top of de room—de oder night I find Lady Melcombe and her daughter perch up in my seat; and though I walked over them and stared them down, dey positively took no hint, but sat still so comfortably vulgar it was quite provoking. No, no, my dear, Almack's day is finish and de thing must fall—so never stay by a falling friend; when a person or a ting begins to totter, leave it."

"Very true," rejoined Lady Tilney; "there is much truth in what you advise (and she looked very grave). But then, you know, my dear Comtesse, you must consider the independence of our constitution—which makes it very difficult—"

"Not to have a stupid society.—Agreed."

"But the great number of our nobility," rejoined Lady Tilney, "and the weight and consequence of a still greater number of influential members in the other house"——

"Renders all your pretences of a société choisie mere pretence."

"Pardon me, Comtesse, you have yourself owned that my parties are select; and you yourself, although in a public situation, contrive to leave out those who do not suit your purpose. After all, what can tend more to the preservation of society?—than such impertinence" was on Lady Tilney's tongue; but she checked herself, and added with a little cough that gave time for reflexion: "What can tend more to the maintenance of a société distinguée than the exercise of this choice, made without reference to the rank or situation of the parties, but merely dependent on the voice of the few who are formed to lead?"

"Very true," rejoined the Comtesse Leinsengen, "and if that system was properly upheld, it is the only chance of not being obsédé by vulgars;—but you do not act upon it sufficiently. As to myself, I can no long bear de whole ting; my health does not permit of your late hours, and I generally go away when your company are beginning to arrive. And then these great routs of your Duchess D'Hermantons and your Ladi Borrowdales and Aveling, sont à dormir de bout."

"Agreed, my dear Comtesse, I do so agree with you; it is the very matter I am longing to discuss with you. Do let us settle something amongst ourselves, that shall rid us of all these evils, and establish a société à part. I must tell you what I have already done to effect this purpose. You know that odious Lady Borrowdale has one of her everlasting At Homes next Thursday, to meet their Royal Highnesses the ---- as usual, that vulgar decoy; so I have therefore countermanded my former invitations, and issued my cards for that very day—Nobody will go there, will they?"

"Perhaps not many; and if some do, there are plenty left."

"Yes," said Lady Tilney, with ill-concealed anxiety, "but you know the royalties always do accept her invitations."

"What matters dat—you do not care for royalties." For an instant Lady Tilney's command of language was checked—she almost betrayed her vexation, when fortunately the name of Lady Ellersby was announced, whose dawdling drawl, as she entered the apartment, smoothed over the asperities which began to mark the conversation, and which might have rendered it in the end a little too piquante.

"My dear Lady Ellersby," said Lady Tilney, "how charmed I am to see you. I was dying to meet you, to consult you, to enjoy your entertaining society." The Comtesse Leinsengen smiled significantly, as she said, "And so was I."

"Consult me! La—well, that is something quite new—nobody ever consulted me; but pray explain what you mean."

"Oh! we want to establish some regulations by which our society shall be distinguished, and which shall save us from the inroads of all these people whom we are constantly meeting, and obliged to be civil to, whether we will or no—in short, something that shall make us, as we ought to be—a race à part."

"I thought," Lady Ellersby replied, "we always were that."—"To be sure we were; but then, my dear, you know abuses will creep in, and all constitutions require from time to time to be strengthened or reformed, according to circumstances; and you know, my dear Lady Ellersby, that we have all of us long since lamented that Almack's, which was excellent in its way, has now, from the infringement on its privileges, become quite corrupted from its original design, and something positively must be done, or we shall be overwhelmed en masse—something to stem this torrent, this inroad of Goths and Vandals."

"Dear me, that sounds very alarming—you quite frighten me; I don' t understand you—pray tell me what it is you propose."

"Why," answered Lady Tilney, "we wish to form a society entirely to ourselves, which shall be quite exclusive—a society for which we shall settle d'avance every particular and qualification of the persons who may be admitted to it. Thus you see (turning to the Comtesse Leinsengen), my dear Comtesse, we shall never do any thing but in concert with each other, and never invite any one but those who entirely suit us. You understand me now, don't you?" addressing Lady Ellersby.

"Oh dear, yes! I think I do."

"No, no, you do not understand her. Permettez—in one word I will explain vat Lady Tilney mean to say: voici le mot de l'énigme—you are all English, and though you do your possible you cannot help being English. You are all afraid in dis country to do vat you like best; and though Lady Tilney propose to ask only de chosen few, you will none of you do so in reality, take my word for dat. You talk freedom, but act in chains. Now we, au contraire, chez nous—we women I mean—do de freedom, and never tink of de chain at all; but whenever you ladies make your lists for your parties for instance; den comes—dis is not politic, toder is not right,—dis is not my husband's pleasure; some scarecrow or anoder is always driving you off de land of amusement. Now you say you will open your doors only to those you like, and you are right—dere is no oder secret for to make pleasant society; but you will not do it nevertheless, ladies, for you are all de cowards."

"Indeed, my dear Comtesse," rejoined Lady Tilney, "you will find that we shall, though—and I think effectually; although there are certain principles in our constitution which extend to the ruling even of private life—and these the wives of certain nobles cannot wholly overlook." Comtesse Leinsengen shrugged her shoulders.

"Ah, dear, it is as I thought, you are de woman I like best in dis country; but you are all over shackle, up to de ear in de qu'en dira t'on! De plebe ought to be made of de noble's opinion, not de noble constrained to dat of de vulgar."

"That may do very well with you," rejoined Lady Tilney, "but with us as an unqualified maxim it will never do. I grant, Comtesse, all that you say can be done in one's own house, where one makes one's own laws and rules in one's own way: so far it is only asserting one's own right to liberty, and as far as we can persuade people to be of the same way of thinking it is all right. But I have too much liberty in my heart to desire to tyrannize as you suggest; and, in fine, confess myself too much of an Englishwoman to wish to see your system prevailing amongst us."

Lady Tilney said this in a tone of English pride, which proved that she had not forgotten all that was best worth remembering, although it was in contradiction to the spirit of what had fallen from her a moment before.

Lady Tilney, however, dealt largely in contradiction at all times. The Countess Ellersby smiled; the Comtesse Leinsengen again shrugged her shoulders, drew her shawl around her, and was preparing to depart, saying, "Well! mes chères dames, I leave you to the enjoyment of your liberty, and have done."

"But I have not done," said Lady Tilney; "I am determined we shall have a society that shall be quite our own, and yet not subversive of principles we must uphold. (Another shrug of the shoulders.) Allow me to say, that if you, Comtesse, and you, my dear Lady Ellersby, will but second me, I am sure we shall not fail, and I know I may reckon on Prince Luttermanne co-operating with us;—so far so good."

"And Princesse Luttermanne?" inquired Lady Ellersby.

"Oh, for the prince's sake we must have her," replied the Comtesse Leinsengen, "D'ailleurs, dans ma position, it could not be oderwise—in all cases we must pass over des inconveniens—besides she is good-humoured, and has her own fry to fish, and will not trouble us much."

Lady Ellersby and Lady Tilney looked at each other, and laughed. "And then," observed Lady Tilney, "we have Princesse de la Grange, and Mrs. Kirchoffer; we must enrol them on our list (although they are sufficiently insipid), because they can be useful, and dare not act but in subserviency to us. But, Lady Boileau, what shall we do with her? She indeed has a will of her own, and she has a mother very much de trop, whom however she treats cavalierly enough (of which, by the way, I do not approve); but, notwithstanding, I think we must have her, though we can by no means be troubled with the mama."

"Certainment pas," cried the Comtesse, "for the Irish mama with her vulgar repartee would give a mauvaise tournure to de whole society."

"There you are right; and while we admit the daughter, remember, it is only on sufferance, just on the same footing as we admit Mrs. Kirchoffer, and as I propose that we should also do Lady de Chere and Lady Hamlet Vernon, and——"

"Mais, que faire de la jeune lady," interrupted the Comtesse, "qui parmi un certain set is a good deal de vogue, Ladi—Ladi,—vat you name her?"

"What, Lady Baskerville?" asked Lady Tilney; and then replied, "Oh she must be one of us, to be sure, for I think we can make use of her—she only longs to be in the fashion, and her husband also. Flatter their vanity, and you do with them what you chuse; make them believe they are of the ton, and you have them at command."

"Well, den, now you have named all de ladies I suppose, and dere is but one cavalier; do you mean us to be a convent, and have no gentlemen?"

"By no means, my dear Comtesse; of course there will be all our husbands." Here the Comtesse Leinsengen had recourse to her usual expressive gesture of contempt. "And then," proceeded Lady Tilney, "there is the Duke of Mercington, Lord Raynham, Lord Tonnerre, Leslie Winyard, and Frank Ombre,—Spencer Newcombe,—and we must not forget Lord Glenmore; though I wish he were more decided in his political creed. Besides we cannot omit Lord Albert D'Esterre, whom we must have on probation, for he is young and only just returned from the Continent; but they say he is very clever, and I think may in time become one of us. But, ere we decide further on the gentlemen, we must consult Prince Luttermanne."

"Ah! bon chere ladi" (with a nod of approval). "Quite so," added Lady Ellersby, languidly; "for, though he is called good-humoured, he can be as cross as is necessary. I never saw any body walk over people better than he does."

Lady Tilney, who had been for the last minute or two busily employed with her pen setting down the names which she had just mentioned, interrupted Lady Ellersby, saying, "By the bye, there is one rule very necessary to be observed, which I am sure we shall all agree in; that is, to admit no unmarried ladies, unless something very particular indeed should make us waive our resolve. When I say this, I do not, of course, mean to balls; but I mean to those coteries which will in fact constitute the élite of our society. And then I propose that we none of us go to the old-established dullifications; but, on their nights, each one of us must in turn take care to chuse that same evening for our coteries."

"Dat vill do very well for de Lady Borrowdale, and de Lady Aveling, and dat old Marchioness—vat you call her—Feuille morte; but La Duchesse D'Hermanton, vat vill you do vid her? it is not so easy to take dat lionne par la barbe."

"Oh," rejoined Lady Tilney, for this was a name she feared to offend, "the Duchess is not one of us, it is true; but we need only walk once a year through her apartments; and we can bear that—besides, she is a sort of person" (apart)—and Lady Tilney broke off abruptly from a subject, in itself always disagreeable to her.

"And now," she went on to say, "having formed the outline of our plan, we have only to follow it up, and I am sure it will be successful. I wonder Prince Luttermanne and Lady Tenderden are not come, for I wrote to them both; and I should have liked that we talked the matter over altogether. However, I cannot doubt but they will agree with us in our arrangements; and if you, dear Comtesse, and you Lady Ellersby, will see Princesse de la Grange and Mrs. Kirchoffer, and Lady Baskerville, I will take care to speak to the other parties. Of course I shall see Prince Luttermanne some time or other this day, and Lady Tenderden, for they must have received my notes; and I will settle with him about our gentlemen." Then addressing the Comtesse, she added, "I need not, I am sure, remind you, who are so discreet, that the success of every thing which is to produce éclat depends upon the secret combination of the movements; and therefore, in speaking to the different parties, pray impress on their minds the absolute necessity of privacy, and not to let our designs be known beforehand by a premature publication of them, but rather let them be developed by their effect; and when their existence will have been confirmed beyond the possibility of counteraction."

"Assurement laissez moi faire."—And here Lady Ellersby, looking at her watch, started from her chair, saying, "Dear me! I had no notion it was so late. I had an appointment with my Lord, and it is past the time. Bless me! what shall I do?" Then making her adieu, with more vivacity than was her custom, she departed in greater haste than she was ever known to do before.

"Who is her Milord just now?" asked Comtesse Leinsengen.

"Oh fie! malicieuse," replied Lady Tilney.

"Is it again dat little consequential personage who looks like a perdrix santé aux truffes? I fancy I saw something like a réchauffé getting up between them de oder night at Lady De Chere's."

"Now really, my dear Comtesse, I must defend my friend. People are always so ill-natured—one must have some cavalier, you know, to walk about with in public—and scandal always ascribes evil where none exists. No, no; Lady Ellersby has too charming a husband for this to gain credit for a moment." The Comtesse's usual shrug implied comme vous voulez, and she added, "it is truly extraordinary how any body can call dat ladi handsome, vid her drawn mouth and peevish expression!"

"Surely she has a sweet smile?"—"When it is not a bitter one," rejoined the Comtesse; "but what sinifies? she does very well for what she is good for. Now I must go, and you must be de active agent in settling our Lady Parliament; as for me, I will have a sinecure post."

"You are quite delightful, Comtesse, and ought to have every thing your own way; so good bye, if you must go. I will remember to see Prince Luttermanne; I will not let the matter rest—adieu," and they kissed each other's cheeks on both sides, "adieu!"—"You will not let de matter rest—no, I am sure you will not—nor any oder ting or person," thought the Comtesse, as she glided out of the room. "How frightfully red her nose is become," observed Lady Tilney, soliloquizing, as she looked at her own smooth cream-coloured skin in the glass.

CHAPTER II.

CHARACTERISTICS.

Of Lady Tilney's character a hasty outline has been attempted in the preceding chapter; falling short, however, as it is confessed every attempt must do, to delineate all its varied features. Something, however, may have been gathered, by viewing her in the midst of the group assembled in her boudoir; and the portraiture will be rendered still more distinct, as the character of her associates are further developed.

Of Lady Tilney herself it may be said, that that real or pretended contempt of rank which she affected to entertain, arose from the circumstances of her own parentage, which, on her mother's side at least, was not noble; to the same cause, also, may perhaps be attributed her anxious irritability, ill concealed under a forced gaiety, lest the respect and homage which she considered to be her due, should not be paid her. There was a restlessness in her assumed tranquillity, wholly unlike the easy natural languor of her friend Lady Ellersby, to which she would gladly have attained, and which it was always the object of her ambition to imitate; but she never reached that perfectibility of insouciance, which marks a superiority of birth and station.

Notwithstanding the part which she consequently was obliged to play, there was still a good deal of nature in her composition; much more than in that of the person whose demeanour she envied;—and had not her character been influenced by a life of dissipation, she seemed designed to have passed through existence diffusing usefulness and cheerfulness around her. Much might be said in extenuation of Lady Tilney's faults and follies, courted and caressed as she was; as indeed there is ever much indulgence to be extended to all who, in situations of power and of temptation (however many their foibles) remain free from positive vice. The voice of censure should be guarded therefore in its condemnation; remembering that the inability to do wrong, or the want of allurement to yield to it, are often the sole preservatives against similar errors.

In commenting upon such characters as Lady Tilney's, it is not for the purpose therefore of attaching blame to the defects of the individual, so much as to point out the dangers attendant on their peculiar stations, and to shew how far even noble natures are liable to be debased by constant exposure to a baneful influence. Were not this the object of a writer, idle and contemptible indeed would be the pen, which could waste its powers in tracing the vanities and follies of a race which always has existed in some shape or other, and possibly will always continue to do so.

There is an indulgence of spleen, a silly gossiping espionage, which delights in prying into the faults of others, without any motive but that of the gratification of its own mean nature—but there is an investigation into the habits and manners of the actors in the scene of fashionable folly, which, by dispelling the illusion, may preserve others from being heedlessly drawn into the vortex of so dangerous a career. A sermon would not, could not, descend from its sacred dignity, to effect this—a philosophical or moral discourse, would have as little chance of working such an end;—but a narrative of actual occurrences may perhaps give warning of a peril, which is the greater because it bears outwardly, and on a cursory view, no appearance of future evil; for to the young, and indeed to all, there is a charm, and a very great charm too, in being something superior, something that others are not, or cannot be. No one acquainted with human nature will ever contradict this. The question of vital importance to be asked is—In what ought this distinction to consist? and what will really give it? Certainly not a life of dissipation, in which the affectation of new modes and manners constitute the business of existence; certainly not the sacrifice of moral and religious duty, to a courting of frivolous homage and the pursuit of an empty éclat.

These, however, it is to be feared, are more generally the spurious objects of ambition with persons in fashionable life, than the solid advantages, and lasting fame, which their situations afford them the means of securing. And if it is thus with the world of fashion in general, how much more was it the case in the circle in which Lady Tilney reigned! Herself and her friends had no thought that tended to any specific moral purpose, in the strict sense of the word. The duties that were performed, were such only in a negative sense; they went to church, they lived with their husbands; some of them, but not all, had escaped scandal; they were fond mothers, at least in the eye of their world; they were alive to their offsprings' interests, at least their worldly interests; and beyond this, it is to be feared, neither for them, or for themselves, did their views extend.

Here may be closed the catalogue of their moral possessions. Of their outward shew of manner and courtesy, where so much in a soi-disant empire of ton might be expected, perhaps, there was still less to praise: a brusquerie of address took place of polished breeding, where intimacy permitted any address at all; and where none was allowable, an insolent carelessness marked the behaviour, instead of that polite courtesy which is ever the distinguishing mark of really good manners.

Lady Tilney, had she not stood on the 'vantage ground of ton, might have been called vulgar: the loud and incessant talking, the abrupt and supercilious glance and motion, had it not been backed by title and an assumed superiority, would have been designated by a very different name from that under which her manners passed current; and even as it was, they sometimes received a reproof which, however affectedly scorned, was deeply felt. An instance of this occurred on the occasion of her receiving the homage of a distinguished foreigner; when, in the intoxication of the moment's vanity, Lady Tilney forgot the respect due to one of exalted station, rudely turning her back, and brushing past him in the dance, a disregard of etiquette which he whose manners are all elegance and condescension, would never in his station have shewn to the meanest of his subjects, and whose sense of delicacy and propriety is so acute, that wherever female manners are concerned, none could better know how to condemn whatever derogated in the slightest degree from them.

It was to the displeasure incurred by this circumstance, and to the loss of favour which all who have ever lived in its sunshine cannot fail to lament when withdrawn, that allusion was made, in speaking of Lady Tilney's contempt of sovereigns and courts. Here was to be found one bad effect of a system which, while false in every sense, arrogated to itself perfection in all.

There was no immorality to rebuke in this instance of Lady Tilney's conduct; but it proceeded from a source, which if not in her, in others at least, might be productive of serious consequences; namely, from a contempt of established rules and received opinions; and if, in the midst of this arrogance there was a redeeming spirit of occasional kindness,—a smile which took the heart captive for the moment, and gave promise of better things,—it only caused a regret that the good which was there should be thus choaked by the noxious weeds of vanity.

Some of Lady Tilney's companions in ton had not, like her, escaped the breath of slander; one or more were supposed to have listened, at least, to that corruptive voice of gallantry, which withers the bloom and freshness of a married woman's reputation; whose error is remembered long after its cause has passed away—let it have been real or imaginary;—in either case the effect on a woman's character is the same. It is in vain that in a certain sphere there exists a tacit agreement to pass by, and gloss over such defamatory tales; the persons coming under their degrading mark have a seal set upon them, which, in spite of themselves, and maugre the usage of their world, is nevertheless destructive of peace; and it requires little penetration to see beneath the forced smiles which are put on with the adornments of the toilette, the gnawing worm that preys upon the heart.

The fatal effects of such errors attach only to those guilty of them; the feeling inspired for their situation would be one of pure commiseration; but, alas! the influence of example is contagious, and whatever is felt for the individual who thus errs, the sentence of condemnation must go forth against the crime. In regard to the other members who formed Lady Tilney's intimate circle, the Countess Tenderden, Princesse de la Grange, Lady de Chere, and Lady Boileau, for instance, there was equal matter for remark, varying with the character of each. The first of these, possessing nothing decided in her composition, had been, from the commencement, a follower in the track of others, and it was owing to this laziness of disposition that she became the ready and obedient slave of fashionable command, as well as from her early initiation into the secrets of ton, rather than from any other cause, that she held the place she did in Lady Tilney's estimation.

Lady Tenderden's unsatisfactory and frivolous existence had thus been passed without any decided plan, except that of being generally impertinent, and of courting personal admiration; which, when it is paid to beauty alone, ceases with the first cessation of youth: the consciousness of which fact added no genuine sweetness to the smile of Lady Tenderden; but left her, although in the possession of most of the outward circumstances which could grace existence, with a fading person and a dissatisfied mind.

Princesse de la Grange was a star in the midst of this false galaxy of ton, in as much as a strict regard to married duty, and a preservation of moral and religious principle, gave to her character a superior brightness; but whether from the taint of the poisonous air she breathed, or from a defect of strength of mind, or from the situation she filled, or from all these circumstances combined, the Princesse de la Grange did not escape entirely the pollution of folly, and she too delighted in the vanity of being exclusive.

In the love of being distinguished above her compeers, Lady de Chere, however, far excelled; attaining a perfection which her exceedingly clever and powerful understanding, together with the management of her conduct, and an appearance of general decorum, enabled her to preserve. Nor were her moral qualities alone conducive to her success: she had besides the advantage of being able to set her face like a flint (which indeed it resembled physically), and she deemed all emotion or all expression of natural feeling (even that of bodily kind) to be a weakness unworthy of a woman of fashion. Lady de Chere was once known on an occasion of personal suffering, when a few tears actually escaped her, to have exclaimed to her attendant: "You are the first person in the world who have ever seen me guilty of such weakness." Nay, she even carried this perfection of induration so far, as to boast of having cut her own mother.

In this last instance of the perfectibility of ton, Lady Boileau yielded not the palm—she had remained a good many more years than she had bargained for, unmarried—she had studied under a mother, whose lessons eventually were but too well rewarded in kind. This mother, however, had loved her; and with much and unremitting labour, had effected for her an alliance of title—of wealth. What more could either of them with their views desire?

Lady Marchmont had established her daughter greatly, and the daughter had accepted the marriage upon certain calculations: such as being her own mistress, independent of her husband, or her mother; who knew too well de quel bois elle se chauffoit, for Lady Boileau to like her surveillance. Lady Boileau had then made no scruple of swearing to love, honour, and obey him whom she loved not, held cheap, and determined to resist. But these words, and too many more, bear a totally different signification, it is well known, in the language of ton, from what they do in their common acceptation.

One of the first steps of Lady Boileau after her marriage, was to gain admission into the circle of Lady Tilney on a footing of intimacy; for although she had been on visiting terms with her, yet she was aware that the mere interchange of cards did not constitute her the friend or protégé of Lady Tilney, to which distinction she aspired. There were one or two circumstances, however, which rendered the attainment of this object rather difficult. In the first place, Lady Boileau had a mother whom it would require more decided measures to detach from her than, as it has been seen, Lady Tilney chose to countenance. The general tenour of her conduct, too, was a thing yet unproved, and it was, therefore, still unascertained how far she might be true to their esprit du corps, and be worthy of admission into this circle. Lady Boileau was considered, notwithstanding these impediments, to be a person of promise, and she was accordingly admitted, with the tacit understanding, however, that she was not to push Lady Marchmont indiscreetly on the scene; where her wit and plain speaking might break forth in corruscations too potent for the tendre demi-jour, or rather darkness, in which the proceedings of the ton par excellence were invariably to be veiled.

There was, however, one person whose name has not yet figured in the catalogue, but whose character of mixed good and evil, would require a powerful pencil to delineate; for the many amalgamating tints which united and harmonised its opposing lights and shades were any thing but an easy task to give—divested of these, the portrait would become caricature. How often does marriage, especially in early life, give a colour to the future conduct of women. Had Lady Hamlet Vernon married differently, she was possessed of qualities which would have rendered her estimable as well as amiable; and was mistress of talents which, if properly directed and matured, would have rendered her a being distinguished above her sex. But this was not so; she had married for situation, and soon found the burthen she had imposed upon herself far outweighed the advantages she had contemplated in the step she had taken. Unhappiness was the first natural result; and in the absence of religious principle, young, beauteous, and fascinating, she soon found in the universal admiration paid her, a delusive balm to alleviate the society of a husband considerably older than herself, and who had married her from the pride of calling a person so admired his own. Under these circumstances, Lady Hamlet Vernon could not remain without the stigma of slander attaching to her.

The early demise, however, of Lord Hamlet Vernon liberated her from the hazard of her situation, and at five-and-twenty she found herself again free. Titled, and with great wealth at her command, she was too clever for the empty votaries of folly, but too clever also to be entirely set aside by them. She was, at the same time, too much sujetté à caution to be admitted on terms of unguarded intimacy amongst those in her own sphere who were observers of religious and moral conduct, and who happily form the aggregate of distinguished society in England. Left without choice, therefore, as to who should be her associates, Lady Hamlet Vernon was drawn into a society where the errors of her early conduct were, by the contagion of example, sure to be confirmed, and the remainder of any good principles that she might have possessed, in danger of being subverted; for it was not the least evil arising out of the system of the society alluded to, that the persons composing it were under a compact of exclusion of all who differed from them in habit and opinions; and, thus deprived of the power of comparison, their own conduct wanted that useful touchstone of its rectitude.

We are all alive to impressions daily made upon us; and if a life of carelessness and dissipation is not to be checked by an occasional example of what is truly excellent and worthy in character, the moral perception between right and wrong of its mistaken votaries will soon be blunted, till at last both their ears and eyes are closed to all remonstrance. The riper in years, therefore, were sure to have their false estimate of life confirmed; they could not return on their steps, even if they wished it; while the young and the inconsiderate were taught to believe, that those who had so long followed in that destructive but glittering career, were the only objects worthy of imitation, and in their turn became hardened actors in the scene. Although the characters hitherto produced as slaves to this system have been of the weaker sex alone, still let it not be imagined that they were its only victims, or that they alone played their part in upholding it.

If possible, the men of the society were many of them as frivolous, and more vicious; and, though here and there might be found a character that, from family connection or ignorance of the tendency of the society, mingled in its contamination without infection, or making a wreck of principle, yet, far from these solitary instances detracting from the general truth of what has been said, it will be found that such persons, the moment they became aware of the lurking evil, broke from it abruptly; though perhaps, saving themselves with difficulty from the entanglement.

In the members, however, which swelled the list of the male part of this circle, few indeed were there who ever made an effort to withdraw from it. Vice and folly, in manners and in dress—male coquetry—ineffable impertinence—ignorance—detraction of virtue which might have resisted, or talents which eclipsed them—insipidity in mind, and effeminacy in person—devotion to luxury,—these, and more than these, if such could be catalogued, of the immoralities and follies of man, were all to be found here, in degree and kind, revolving in their different orbits—and fulfilling their allotted parts in the system, till their existence closed. What though wit might sometimes play around their board, or the quick repartee enliven the monotonous circle of the evening—what though talent might be allowed, for a brief season, to expatiate on higher topics, and the deep discourse of great human learning might be suffered to dwell at intervals on subjects more intellectual—yet what profited this to those who listened or to those who spoke?—The moment's amusement, the indulgence of mere curiosity, the establishing of some political tenet or philosophical dogma, were alone the objects looked to. Talents, when found in this society, were in fact directed to none but worldly views; and the feeling which should have guided their possessors to acknowledge the bounty of the Author who bestowed them, and a faithful employment of his gifts, was not only wanting, but the sacred religion of that very Author was too frequently made an exercise for them—a subject of their scorn or cavil.

Though untitled, yet of noble family, there was one, who figured first as most licentious and unprincipled among the devotees of ton. He was handsome, winning, specious; but he concealed under this attractive exterior a heart of the blackest dye; no sense of right or wrong checked its impulses. All to him was lawful that was attainable. Pleasure was his object; and he had sailed down the short voyage of his life unchecked by any of those reverses, unscared by any of those feelings of shame or compunction, which would have operated on a weaker mind; and if, for a moment, some enormity of conduct made the more timid—they could not be called the more virtuous—of his associates recoil, the hardened face, the laugh of carelessness, the ready excuse, soon dissipated these transient feelings of shame; and patronized, courted, upheld, in that true esprit de corps which bound each member of the society to protect the other, his youthful career had been run from excess to excess.

Although a person whose weight and influence in themselves were not great, yet he formed from his habits and opinions, and the talents which (though perverted) he really possessed, one of those ties in a fabric, which being multiplied, keep the whole body compact; and, having once obtained a footing in Lady Tilney's circle, it followed, as a matter of course, that he should be employed in that remodelling of her society, which it has been seen Lady Tilney was so anxious to effect, and his name therefore was not forgotten in the list, concerning which she intended to consult Prince Luttermanne.

It is well for human nature, that many characters such as have been just described are not often found; it certainly had no compeer in the circle in which it moved. And though the folly of dress—the waste of time—the uselessness of life—indulgence in the excess of luxury, are errors and faults that cannot be too strongly held up to animadversion, yet they are, by comparison, of a venial kind. Their effects, however, ultimately do not prove such; for degradation of intellect must follow a course of indolence, and an obtuseness of conscience must be the consequence of long-neglected duties. Let it not be supposed, therefore, that because Lord Boileau, Lord Baskerville, Lord Marchmont, or Lord Tonnerre, were younger and less matured in a vicious course than another, that therefore their conduct was less deserving of moral censure—the seed that is sown in spring time will grow up to the harvest, and it must be reaped accordingly. The pursuits of a careless life of pleasure, the gaming-table, the society of opera dancers, the intrigues of ton, are not preparations for the maintenance of family consequence and wealth, still less for the fulfilment of the duties of married life, the protection of a wife's conduct, or the education of their offspring. Yet these, it is to be feared, were the sole objects of Lord Boileau, of his companions, and of many others.

Besides these, however, there were characters intended to be included in Lady Tilney's arrangements of a far different complexion, and the very reverse of their inexistence—there were noble politicians, whose lives were passed in any thing but inactivity; there were titled wits, whose places were any thing but sinecures; poets, whose lays found frequent subjects in the galaxy of beauty that surrounded them; and painters, whose talents and winning flatteries constituted their patent of nobility. The admission of all the latter personages was a decided evidence of Lady Tilney's supremacy; for, with few exceptions, she alone considered that to be surrounded by talents was essential to high station, since with the generality of her coterie, the idea of mingling intellect in their pleasures, was rather to destroy than heighten them.

Lady Tilney, however, in the end prevailed, and no society of ton was in future considered complete without those appendages. But even Lady Tilney's command of the suffrage of talents was not always absolute; and once, it is said, a man of holy profession, whose celebrity in his calling had led the London world in crowds to be his auditors, though thrice bidden to the shrine of fashion, declined, with steady consistency, to form one of a circle whose conduct in life it was his duty to reprove.

It is not to be supposed that the list of cavaliers is yet full with the names of the persons just alluded to; there were many others too insignificant to bear designation—and enough of portraits. Catalogues of these can only be interesting to a few curious collectors, and are very unsatisfactory to the generality of persons. It is living with the actors on the shifting scene, which can alone, for any length of time, engage the attention, or be productive of any just understanding of the character. To note down their actions as they occur, and to develope the system by which their lives are regulated, will be the easiest, as well as the most profitable task; for although there may be something which at first appears unnatural, and scarcely to be recognised as truth, in the idea that there exists a regular and defined system in lives, which at a hasty glance seem spent in the careless manner of the persons represented, nevertheless it is so—and there is a depth in their folly, which requires to be sounded,—there is a mischief in their apparent carelessness, which it is wise to detect—there is a principle of latent evil under this seeming incipiency of conduct, which requires to be unfolded, and shewn in its true colours.

CHAPTER III.

AN OLD-FASHIONED ASSEMBLY.

Although the outlines of Lady Tilney's project had been generally settled, yet some of its details were still wanting; and in the interval, she determined on one of those movements in the game, which a crafty adversary sometimes makes to cover an ultimate and deeper end. The Marchioness of Feuillemerte held one of her assemblies, and as it was admissible to appear in such a circle once at least during the season, sans se compromettre, Lady Tilney devoted herself for that evening to the unpalatable task, and engaged Lady Ellersby to meet her.

After casting a glance of inquiry round the room, "My dear," said she, "did you ever in your life see such an heterogeneous multitude (she loved long, hard words) as are assembled here?"

"No, except here"—"Figures," continued Lady Tilney, "renouvellés des Grecs—creatures dug out of Herculaneum, only not so elegant; all George the Third's court I believe; and then such a tiresome eternity of royalty, persons who never die, and whom Lady Feuillemerte, and Lady Borrowdale have preserved, together with themselves, in spirits, I believe, to exhibit on their great nights."

"Yes," rejoined Mr. Frank Ombre, who had been permitted to overhear the whisper, and smiling with one of those doubtful expressions which might do for tragic or for comic effect, "we do not want royalty now to keep us in order,—that is quite an obsolete idea. No, we have more enlarged views; we like to turn every thing, sans dessus dessous—don't we Lady Tilney? I am sure I had rather bow to the sceptre of your beauty, than to that of any prince or princess—and you know I never flatter." At that moment a royal personage entered the assembly, when Lady Tilney, under pretence of going away, hurried to the door, saying, "oh, do let me avoid this seccatura."

"Do, Mr. Spencer Newcombe," addressing this privileged friend of her own circle who stood near her, "do call my carriage,"—in the meanwhile placing herself in a situation that made it impossible, without rudeness, for the person whose approach she would have appeared to shun, to pass her by unregarded; a behaviour which, however consistent with Lady Tilney's ill breeding, when she wished to shew dislike, was never known to attach to any of the family who were the objects of her pretended contempt.

Lady Tilney did not, on the present occasion, make her arrangements in vain, and was not only spoken to, but held so long in conversation by the royal person who entered, that she had the satisfaction of hearing her carriage repeatedly announced, till every individual of the assembly must have been aware of the cause of her delay. The dense crowd, however, which now encircled the prince, seemed to oppress Lady Tilney, and affecting to be almost overcome by the pressure,—a pressure which in fact she was herself causing, by obstinately keeping her place, and not allowing the conversation to drop—she was at length gratified by an offer of the arm of royalty to lead her to a seat, on which she sank affectedly, while the prince took that next to her. In one of the pauses of conversation which ensued, Mr. Ombre chanced to find himself exactly at the back of Lady Tilney's chair, and she took an opportunity of whispering to him, "how tiresome!" He shrugged his shoulders, and replied in her ear, "I pity you from the bottom of my heart," (adding aside to Spencer Newcombe), "As I do every one who always succeeds in every thing they wish."

Shortly after, the prince rose to depart to speak to others, while Lady Tilney having made good her right to royal attention, now prepared to express her contumely of every thing regal, and to resume the exercise of her own right to absolute power in her own person.

"Do, Mr. Ombre, sit down and let me have a little real conversation with you, for I am sick of all the fadaises which have just passed." "What a fortunate man," he rejoined, "shall I be, if I have only a little conversation with Lady Tilney!—you know I never flatter,—and besides that distinction, a seat,"—dropping carelessly into the one that was vacant.

But Lady Tilney did not read these words otherwise than in the sense to which they were agreeable to her, and immediately her hitherto repressed eloquence broke forth.

"Have you read the Male Coquet? Do tell me, is it not exquisite? Among all the trash heaped upon people of fashion, this alone is well done. It must be confessed that, in spite of its severity, the whole is well drawn, and though highly coloured, not a daub."

"Yes, I have read it, and I like it; but the world don't."

"No! well I cannot conceive why—perhaps you can tell me.—Not like it! indeed you surprise me! Why, it has already gone through three editions."

"Yes, in the advertisements! but they say the publisher is ruined, nevertheless."

"Well! that is quite extraordinary! I thought all the world approved it."

"The world!—the world, my dear Lady Tilney, is a very ill-natured world, though you have never found it so; but you will some day."

"Oh, do not imagine," cried Lady Tilney, a little displeased at her supposed want of discernment, "do not suppose that I am not quite aware of the world's ill-nature—only—"

"Only you are bound, my dear friend, to suppose it otherwise, since, in its opinion of you, it does indeed make an exception."

"You know I hate flattery, Mr. Ombre."—"Well, well, I have done; but in some cases, what appears flattery, is truth. Besides, I never do flatter."

"Come, come," said Lady Tilney, "never mind! let us return to the Male Coquet, I have not half done talking about it. What do you think of the character of Lord Algernon, is it not delightful, is it not quite perfect?—And for that very reason, quite detestable."

"My dear lady, I never knew but one perfect person in the world whom I could bear; do you guess who I mean?"

"Dear me, are you still here?" said Lady Ellersby, approaching at the moment.

"Yes—you know when those royalties will talk to one, it is impossible to get away."—"Ah, true—and it is so fatiguing."—"Royalties—dose royalties, and you mind dem?" said the Comtesse Leinsengen, who had caught Lady Tilney's words as she passed, leaning on the arm of the Minister for Foreign Affairs.

"My dear Lady Tilney, I wonder to see you here—but you always do de reverse of what you talk, you know—I tell your so."

Lady Tilney was embarrassed, and looked around for an escape from the conversation. She saw the half-formed sentence preparing by Lord Rainham; which, however, she knew must undergo the necessary process of preorganization and arrangement before it was addressed to her. Luckily the Comtesse Leinsengen pressed forward before this could take place, and Lady Tilney, to avoid any more sarcasm on her inconsistency, willingly allowed for once the witty Lord to pass without a word. Mr. Ombre, who was still by her side, and had lost nothing of the scene, gave his word of consolation to Lady Tilney, as he remarked:

"How appropriate to the situation which he fills;—the ready orator, the decided projector of measures and expedients,—how truly great a minister! You know, Lady Tilney, I never flatter. I really think so." Lady Tilney had no wish to continue the subject, and turning to Lady Ellersby, remarked,

"Did you ever see such jewels as the Duchess of Hermanton's? How vulgar to wear them in such quantities; she is like a walking chandelier. But, look, there is Lord Arlingford; he is coming this way—I want to speak to him, and if you move a step or two forward, I shall be able to do so." Lord Arlingford was accordingly arrested on his passage, for he had not intended to converse with Lady Tilney, but was looking on towards a group of persons, in the midst of whom stood the Duchess of Hermanton. "Well, Lord Arlingford, how surprised I am to see you here; are you not bored to death?"

"Why, Lady Tilney," he asked, in return, "should you be surprised to see me in an assembly to which half London is invited?"

"That is precisely the reason," she replied, "I should have thought you never went to these sort of things; they are very tiresome, and I am sure you must be dreadfully annoyed."

Lord Arlingford was not an apt élève of Lady Tilney's, although his high rank and connexions had made her sedulously endeavour to direct his education in the world of ton from his very first début.

"Pardon me, not in the least ennuyé. I do not come often enough, or remain long enough in these places, to be sickened by the shew—and as a shew, it is a very splendid one, and I like to see so much beauty as is here to-night gather together."

"Fewer at a time," said Lady Tilney, "would be more agreeable, I should think."

"Perhaps so, for habitual private society; but then that is quite another affair: all things are good in their way, and in their proper season and measure." Lady Tilney was mortified at this very rational distinction of the indocile Lord, but went on to say, "At least you will allow that a circle more choisie is preferable—and one comes to this sort of mob only as a kind of disagreeable duty."—"Duty! that is quite a new idea of duty to me—but I am happy to be taught by so fair an instructress." As he spoke, Lord Arlingford's grave countenance (for it was a countenance of gravity for so young a man) relaxed into something like vivacity; and Lady Tilney, profiting by the momentary gleam of expression, requested him to assist her through the crowd, in order that she might speak to the Duchess of Hermanton.

"You will come, will you not, Lady Ellersby?" turning her head over her shoulder as she spoke.

"No (for at this moment the Duke of Mercington was coming towards her), I have already seen the Duchess." Lady Tilney would then have lingered, glad to have exchanged the arm on which she leant for that of the man of still higher rank; but the Duke only making her the acknowledgment of a familiar nod, offered his arm to Lady Ellersby, and as her friend walked away in a contrary direction, Lady Tilney, mortified, bit her lip, and was obliged to proceed.

The crowd in the door-way soon stopped her progress, and turning to her companion, she observed,

"I wonder how many private couriers Lady Borrowdale keeps in pay, to bring over the newest fashions from Paris. Have you seen her to-night? did you ever behold any thing like the magnificence of her gown?"—"I think," replied Lord Arlingford, "that she is a very fine-looking person, and in her youth must have been perfectly beautiful; but I did not observe her gown." The subject seemed to inspire Lord Arlingford, who broke through the usual briefness of his sentences as he continued, "And her manner, I think, is excellent; there is so much dignity in it, united with so much courtesy; and she is never, I am told, capricious, or forgetful of good-breeding."

"Why, my dear Lord Arlingford, this is an oration—you are quite eloquent! But you cannot really like that old-fashioned manière of curtseying."

"Indeed I am serious; I like it very much: and if I were to point out the person whose manners I should like to see any one I loved adopt, in public at least—for I have not the honour of her intimate acquaintance—it would be Lady Borrowdale's."

"How singular you are! Really, if you entertain such opinions as these, we must expel you from our circle. But if you are determined to be extraordinary, I suppose you will tell me that you cannot bear any thing that is younger or more modern."

"Pardon me; there is Lady Georgina Melcombe, and the Ladies Fitzmaurice, and their cousins, the Ladies Partington, and many others, who look as if they were every thing which the young and lovely ought to be,—unaffected, cheerful, and courteous."

"Oh, this is worse and worse; you are becoming quite insufferable. But do tell me who is that person there, whose appearance is so particular, and who has so extraordinary an air—is he a foreigner?"

"No—that is Lord Albert D'Esterre. Are you not acquainted with him? He is a very charming person,—full of talent, and very handsome, as you see. But I forget—you cannot well recollect him, for he went to the Continent as a boy, and is only lately returned."

"True; I remember—I hear he is likely to distinguish himself—pray present him to me."

The presentation took place; and, after a few words, including an invitation to Lord Albert to her soirées, Lady Tilney passed on with Lord Arlingford to where the Duchess of Hermanton was standing.

To have taken pains thus to seek one whom she affected to despise, whose manners and right to fashion she was perpetually calling in question, might argue great inconsistency; but in this instance Lady Tilney's wishes to be well with the Duchess of Hermanton, far from being the result of any thing like the contradiction of a settled principle, were the absolute fruits of it, and were influenced by a feeling of fear—if she would have confessed it—by an apprehension that that really amiable person, possessing the envied superiority of united rank and birth and talent, should assume her proper place in society, and overthrow the false rule to which Lady Tilney herself laid claim. It was therefore conciliation rather; and, as she addressed the Duchess, she put on her sweetest smiles, and laid aside those indescribable airs which were displayed when she intended to scorn or crush; and, while uttering those nothings which form the sum and substance of what is said on such occasions, her manners were almost servile. The simplicity of unquestioned superiority is one of its most sure characteristics; and the Duchess of Hermanton's mode of receiving this homage was unaffected and courteous. But as the two persons had little similarity in their natures, the conference lasted only sufficiently long for Lady Tilney to preserve that degree of familiarity in acquaintance, which she determined should prevent her being a stranger to one too independent and distinguished to be altogether passed over.

Meanwhile, Lord Arlingford having profited by the opportunity to quit Lady Tilney, now joined Lady Georgina Melcombe and some of the persons standing together in another part of the room; and Lady Tilney, thus left alone, had, for a few moments, leisure to behold the splendour of the apartments and of the persons met in them. In her heart she could not but acknowledge that whatever London could boast as being most distinguished was present, and that the good and great predominated; but it was not exclusive—that is, it was an assembly constituted of almost all those whose rank entitled them to be on the list of Lady Feuillemerte's visitors.

It was numerous, therefore, which is the very essence of an assembly; for what is so insipid as public receptions where the members are few, the rooms half filled, and the scene unenlivened by those circumstances which a diversity of ages, characters, and dresses cast around?

Here all met the society which best accorded with their tastes. The politician, the courtier, the man of fashion, found here their associates and their amusement, each in their different sphere, as they retired from the rest to discuss some present topic of public interest, or glided through the throng with that easy politeness which breathed of the atmosphere they inhaled in the presence of their Sovereign, paying the well-timed compliment as they passed, or displaying the refinement of wit and repartee in their short and animated conversations.

Here, too, amidst the younger and fresher forms, beauties of former days still shone in the dignity of their manners, and of that air and carriage which the fashion of their time had rendered a portion of themselves; which lent a grace to their every movement, and might well have afforded a school of manners and propriety of outward bearing for the young who mingled with them—in counteraction of the oblivion and extermination of all manners, which the prevailing system of the soi-disant members of ton would have enforced.

Such, at least, were the external features of an old-fashioned assembly—in its moral character the advantages were no less. Its honest and avowed purpose was the interchange of those courtesies which render life agreeable, and the preservation of those general guards in society which, as checks to profligacy, are more useful than abstract theories of ethics, or codes of moral laws. People, unless lost, sin not so blindly in mixed communities—one individual forms a restraint on the others—children stand in awe of parents, and these, in their turn, acknowledge a wholesome control in the presence of their offspring—the good are a terror to the evil (for an alloy will ever exist); while the one and the other mutually afford examples of imitation, or beacons of danger to be avoided, which every individual may, if there be the will, turn to profit, in the correction of some temper, the curbing of some excess, the chastening of some wish, or the abandonment of some folly.

The more intimate associations in life are not here spoken of; but these in characters of the same description as Lady Feuillemerte's, would doubtless be founded on the same basis, and have the same objects in view; for whether in the cherishing of natural affections, the formation of those friendships which spring up in the domestic circle, the cultivation and exercise of talents which give a charm to existence, or the acquirement of more important attainments, the system which holds out examples, and affords restraint, will ever be best.

The "société choisie," however, which Lady Tilney desired to form, was, in its nature, the very reverse of what has been described. Its exclusive character was to consist, not in the selection of what was amiable in nobility, or virtuous in talent; it was not to be the circle drawn within a narrower circumference, for a more perfect enjoyment of private friendship, or the cultivation of more intellectual pursuits than the wide range of fashionable life could afford; it was not to be retirement from the busier throng, for the purposes of a more rational and purer existence; but it was to consist of those whose follies in the pursuit of pleasure, and whose weakness in the indulgence of all the empty toys of life, had given them a distinction above their fellows; of those who judged immorality, when burnished by the tinsel of superficial acquirements, as venial error;—of those, in short, who were either senseless or wicked enough to consider life but a bubble, to be blown down the current, according to the dictates of the will, and whose daily existence testified, that they were alike without a thought or a fear for the morrow's eternity. Such were to be its members, and its seclusion from the general eye of the world, its secession from all others but—; its rigid law, that unmarried women were not eligible to its chosen meetings—for what purpose, and to what end were these? If for vanity of distinction, merely, it was weak; if for the purpose of indulging in pursuits and conversation, which would receive a check in a society less selected for the object—it was wicked. In whichever point of view, a society so constituted must be demoralizing, for assuredly it would have the character of being, if it even were not, really vicious—and its example would have a contaminating effect in the corruption of morals, and the overthrow of the barriers of domestic peace.

It cannot be said that these were the reflections of Lady Tilney, as she stood for the few moments alone in the crowd at Lady Feuillemerte's. It would be injustice to her to suppose that they were, or that she contemplated in the formation of a coterie, according to her own peculiar prejudices, any of the evils with which the system was sure to be pregnant. It is thus, however, with all reforms, entered upon for private ends; the individual sees but the accomplishment of his own and his immediate associates' views, in what is to be overturned; and the fatal result accruing to the community, even if clearly distinguished, are at the moment but as dust in the balance of self.

It is more probable that, as Lady Tilney gazed on the mingled group around her, blind to the demerits of her projected revolution of society, and proud of influence, which over a certain portion of the London world she had succeeded in establishing, she became firmer in her purpose; and as her eye fell on one individual after another, whose manners, mode of life, dress, or very name were disagreeable to her, or proved them wanting in the stamp of ideal fashion, the necessity of the measure she contemplated she conceived became more and more imperative. Whatever might have been Lady Tilney's reflections, she was not long suffered to indulge them. In the tide which passed before her appeared Lord Rainham, unattended however, as previously, by the Comtesse Leinsengen: Lady Tilney therefore awaited his address, without any appearance of recurrence to her professed distaste for royalty.

"A marvel, I declare!" were the opening words of a speech already polished, usque ad unguam, before Lord Rainham ventured to give it utterance.—"Behold Lady Tilney without a crowd of worshippers at her feet!—Explain me this phenomenon, and say, have you been cruel to your slaves, and are they gone themselves, or have they forgotten their allegiance? Such things have been, though they ought not to be—and yet methinks you would find it sufficiently dull, if all things were as they ought to be, would you not? tell me the truth, and give me your confidence; I have long wished to have the confidence of a handsome woman, and I promise you indulgentia plenaria."

"No, not for the world!—I hold it to be quite a false maxim to have any confidants: besides I have nothing to confide."

"You are too wise to be so handsome," said Lord Rainham abruptly, "and so good night; for since you will not parley with me, 'tis in vain I linger;" and as he turned away, words of fresh impromptu on some other subject began audibly to escape his lips.

"In your orisons be all my sins remembered," whispered Mr. Ombre as he passed, and again found himself at Lady Tilney's side. "It is high time such bookworms as I should retire into our cells; so, lady sweet, good night.—You know it is not I who speak, but he, who would have been blest, could he have poured all his sweetest lays into that gentle ear." Lady Tilney considered the homage of talent as peculiarly her own, and would gladly have retained the speaker; but gliding with the gentle undulation of some shadowy form towards the door, he escaped the infliction of a penalty, which even the syren smiles which were his reward could hardly at times repay.

It was now growing late—the assembly was breaking up, and Lady Tilney looked anxiously for some cavalier to attend her to her carriage: but this was not a point of easy settlement. In degree he must be either of rank, or a dependent—one who was her equal, or one on whom she might confer distinction by her choice of his services. Neither such requisites, however, were to be found in the group around, and Lady Tilney, whilst feeling yet more and more the necessity of an exclusive circle, where such predicaments would be avoided, was doomed still further mortification in the approach of Colonel Temple, a person whom she hardly ever considered recognizable, and whose offer of assistance, made evidently with sarcastic reference to her being alone, came in a shape particularly offensive to her.

"Will you allow me to have the honour of calling your carriage," he said, addressing her with easy familiarity; "or if you are going to walk through the rooms, allow me to escort you?" (offering his arm).

"No," said Lady Tilney, in a manner that might have awed any one else; "I am going away immediately."

"Well, then, let me call your carriage," he replied, with a tenacity that nothing could evade—whilst Lady Tilney continued to move on, terrified lest she should be seen so attended.

This apparent anxiety to avoid him, was, however, with Colonel Temple, the surest incitement to a continuance of his proffered attentions. It might not have been exactly consistent with the general, high breeding and politeness which distinguished Lady Feuillemerte's assemblies, for any one to have acted under this influence perhaps; but Col. Temple was a character known to all the world as such, and privileged to do things which no one else did. He was a man, too, of family, and felt his situation in society, in the midst of all his eccentricities. His want of refinement had its compensation in an honesty of disposition quite at variance with the measured forms of fashionable exclusiveness, but which made him generally beloved; while his shrewd sense, mixed with a certain vein of sarcastic humour, always penetrated the littleness of vanity, and often inflicted on it its severest wounds.

Lady Tilney, from repeated slights, was a darling object of his attacks, and could she without compromise have purchased immunity from their never-failing and successful arrogance, by an honourable truce, she would gladly have done so. But Col. Temple was too arrogant, too presumptuous, to be checked by any defiance of ultra fashion—too independent, too high-spirited, to suffer a cold and haughty recognition, in place of the politeness and courtesy due to him as a gentleman, and thus this warfare had become interminable.

Enjoying his triumphs in the way in question, he followed Lady Tilney from room to room—even to the steps of her carriage, assuring her as they proceeded, that her apprehensions of being detected in his society were compliments to him beyond price; he was aware that, to be of importance, the next thing to being liked, was being feared—and bidding her be sure to send him a card for her next choice soirée, he handed his victim into her carriage, under a thousand half-pronounced inuendos upon his insufferable vulgarity, and the awful anathema of future exclusion.

CHAPTER IV.

A MODERN COTERIE.

If any circumstance had been wanting to give strength to Lady Tilney's resolves on the momentous question of social reform, the occurrences at Lady Feuillemerte's were in themselves sufficient—at least, they formed an addition to that kind of plausible excuse, sought for on all occasions where the will is previously set on a particular line of conduct, but which, without a pretext, it would hardly be safe for the individual to adopt.

The motley and unkindred assemblage of the previous evening, with its royal restraints, its want of organization in its inferior members, and the consequent offences experienced by those of higher order—for Lady Tilney, although she did not divulge the stain inflicted by Colonel Temple's assiduities, yet felt it deeply,—were points she dwelt upon to her colleagues in the following morning with that extreme pathos and eloquence which the sufferings of self never fail to produce, and which could not but enforce on her auditors conviction of the necessity of the measures she proposed.

Closeted, therefore, with the leading characters in her own peculiar circle, the final arrangements for that société choisie which was to eclipse courts and banish sovereigns, to school rank, and bring to maturity all the yet unripened follies of a soi-disant ton, were at length concluded. The lists were full—the doors were closed to all but the secret representatives of the system, and the anathema went forth. Strange that St. James's did not shake from its foundation, England's sovereign resign his sceptre, and her lengthened line of nobility crouch in the dust, under the awful denunciation of such an ascendancy. But though this were not so—yet must the loyalty of many a high-born subject, and the purity of many a noble and virtuous mind, have been outraged, when the results of a system at once so contemptuous and immoral began to be developed.

It will be remembered that Lady Tilney had already fixed on the evening of Lady Borrowdale's assembly as a fitting occasion for the display of her own undivided rule in the empire of fashion. Her cards had been issued for that purpose, and these were now followed by injunctions through various channels, requiring an early attendance—since the two syrens of the day, Pasta and Sontag, it was whispered, were engaged to give additional effect to the opening charms of exclusiveness, and render the blow struck at the existing state of society at once decisive.

Lady Borrowdale's apartments, it was decreed, should possess only the canaille of the fashionable world, and royalty be doomed to oblivion there, in the surpassing lustre which Lady Tilney's circle would display. To the authority that called for this ready obedience, none of the satellites of Lady Tilney's court were ever known to offer resistance;—and though the chiefs of her party alone knew the real object of the summons, yet the uninitiated hastened to obey it with the same alacrity as their superiors, satisfied that in so doing they were best consulting their views of advancement to the distinction courted by them, as well as securing a greater license in the indulgence of those follies and errors which made the sum of their daily occupation.

To tell of the decoration of the apartments, of the splendour and luxury which reigned around the mansion of Lady Tilney, to dwell on externals, would be to repeat descriptions a thousand times given, and tend to no developement of import. A plant, under the fairest guise of colour or of form, sometimes contains within its fibres the deadliest poison; and in the scorching plains of the East, the upas-tree extends an alluring shade over the exhausted and unconscious traveller, who is soon to sink beneath its deadly atmosphere. But what would it profit were the naturalist to dwell only on the pencilling and texture of the one, or the traveller describe vaguely the outspreading branches and inviting coolness of the other, and yet neglect to record the noxious qualities and inherent dangers of each. The plant and its virtues, not the scene in which it is to be found, must first be recognised and known, if escape from its contagion be intended;—and it is to the habits and system of a people, not to the country they inhabit, that we must look, rightly to understand the manner in which their lives are passed.

To a casual observer, Lady Tilney's assembly presented no distinguishing external marks at variance with received habits or customs. The rooms were not darkened, the servants passed through the apartments at intervals in the performance of their respective duties without constraint: the company, however, was less numerous, and more scattered and divided into detached parties. The conversation, with the exception of Lady Tilney herself, was carried on in a low tone, scarcely audible but to the individual addressed; the different members of the coterie, when they moved about, seemed to do so under certain measured and stated paces.

It was not, however, the step and air of real dignity of fashion, but rather the mincing minauderie of des petites maîtresses. Whatever was done or spoken (when for a moment some general observation was hazarded), appeared as if performed by rule, and under apprehension of drawing down ridicule, which at once went to destroy all natural grace of speech or demeanour. This sentiment attached more particularly to the younger and newer noviciates, who felt that an unguarded expression, or a movement at variance with the prescribed forms of the circle, would render them the objects of the malicious remarks and sneers of the more experienced—an uneasy restraint, therefore, was often the consequence; and had it not been, that to form part of so chosen a society, and under Lady Tilney's roof, was in itself an indescribable satisfaction—some who were there might have been suspected of suffering considerable ennui, and of being ready to admit, by the suppressed and ill-concealed yawn, that although the honour of exclusiveness was great, the pleasure was certainly small.

Not so, however, with the more initiated—these appeared by habit to take the part at once most to their tastes; to select the companion most agreeable to them; to remain under the eye of observation, or retire from it, as they chose, with indifference;—for it was not only in what was done or said, but in the manner, also, that the distinguishing characteristics of this coterie were to be detected. All things were lawful—but then under outward forms (not however of propriety always, or of morality), but of convention; and whoever attained fulfilment of these, had the privilege, the indulgentia plenaria, as proposed by Lord Rainham, to sin with impunity.

When it was said, therefore, that an assembly composed as the present differed not in its appearance from others passing under the same generic name, it was premised to be only under the impression of a first view;—a more intimate acquaintance with many of its laws and practices, so opposed to received customs in the world, could not in the end fail to astonish! And first the observer (the moral observer is meant) would have been struck by the discovery, that the young and beautiful in this magic circle were all married women, and that the person who individually (for the number was rarely more than singular) paid his assiduous court, leant over the chair, and whispered into the ear of the fair whom he selected or was selected by, was no aspirant to her hand in marriage, no relative—neither was he her husband—but a member of the privileged society, which was alone sufficient.

His astonishment would have been yet stronger on discovering that for a season, till mutual convenience, or disagreement dissolved their familiar acquaintance, each party, similarly paired, invariably met, conversed, and retired at the same time, when the circle broke up, or when they quitted it, apparently on the same footing of intimacy which the most holy ties could have sanctioned; while those whom such a tie actually bound to them were themselves pursuing a similar career.

Had the conversation which for the most part occupied this portion of the société choisie been reported, or reached the ear, it is possible a considerate mind might have thought, notwithstanding the singularity of a system which excluded the unmarried from scenes of amusement, that it was well they formed no portion of it; but still, in an escape from its early influence, enjoyed the opportunity of attaining to a degree of moral principle, and feminine decorum, which must otherwise have been swept away in the general license.

This, however, can unfortunately be said only of the one sex—the unmarried in the other, provided their attainments were of the kind to authorize admission, were not on the excluded list; and the young, well-principled, and ingenuous perhaps at their outset, might, in the examples constantly before them, have found incentive to conduct, which at a future day they would discover to have been the great bane and poison of their existence.—Of these the person who entered Lady Tilney's apartments when the coterie had nearly assembled, and who was new to most of them, offered an instance, for whom the liveliest fears with justice might have been entertained.

Young, strikingly handsome, talented, of high rank, of widely extended interest, and possessing all the means of gratifying every wish, to what dangers was not Lord Albert D'Esterre exposed, in such a scene as has been described, and on which he was from that evening to play a part! He seemed, with the impulse of natural politeness, to look around for Lady Tilney, as he entered, as if he would pay his first homage to her, whose self and not her house he visited; in a manner directly the reverse of that false refinement of modern ton, which seeks a display of its savoir vivre, in a pointed indifference to all the received forms of society.

Before he had reached the second room he was met by Lady Tilney, with a greater degree of courtesy and empressement than was usual in her receptions; and his address was listened to with more complacency and patience than generally marked her manner towards any one.—"Who is he?" passed in whispers round the circle amongst those to whom he was unknown.—"Did you hear his name announced?"—"No! I have seen him somewhere before, I think—is it not Lord Albert D'Esterre, Lord ——'s son?"

"Ah true, it is! but what an extraordinary lengthy speech he is making—surely Lady Tilney must be ready to expire under its duration."—"Not under its dulness, I am certain," said Lord Glenmore, as he caught Lady Baskerville's remark to Lord Rainham, "for, D'Esterre is too clever ever to say a dull thing." "Or ever do a wise one, perhaps," added Lord Rainham in his most caustic manner.

"Did you hear Rainham?" whispered Spencer Newcombe to Ombre; "there was no time for gestation there—it was really well said."—"Then, if so," replied his neighbour, "we may 'for once a miracle accept instead of wit.'"

"No; I do not allow of miracles now a days," said Lord Rainham, turning sharply round, having overheard the remark applied to him: "I do not believe in miracles—not even in the resurrection of the Glacier man—do you, Ombre?" The laugh was with the latter speaker; but Mr. Ombre thought that, in fact, miracles had not ceased when Lord Rainham could thus improvise two good things without incubation; and so he whispered into the ear of his friend Spencer Newcombe, as Lord Rainham moved away.

While Lord Albert D'Esterre was thus affording subject of remark to the coterie, and their observations in turn made matter of ill-natured review among themselves, he was addressing his courteous excuse to Lady Tilney for having disobeyed her commands, in arriving so late. Lady Baskerville was probably right in her conjecture, that Lady Tilney felt considerably bored by his doing so, and making reference to injunctions which she had forgotten the moment they were given, because certain they would be generally obeyed, and Lady Borrowdale's assembly be left untenanted by all her early visitors.

She heard him, however, with smiles and outward complaisance; for Lord Albert was of consequence enough in a political way, at least, for Lady Tilney to court; and as she assured him that he was still in good time, and that the Sontag had not yet sung, presented him to several persons, whom, she remarked, would be almost strangers to him after so long an absence from England.

In all, however, that Lord Albert had said, he had been sincere; and in his manner towards the different persons he was made known to, there was a genuine distinguished air of high breeding and politeness, as much at variance with the manners, as his ingenuousness was with the minds and dispositions of those who figured in the moral masquerade before him. Although fresh in this scene, and therefore without contamination, he was powerful, and, therefore, worth appropriation; and what was considered outré and too manière in his address, was partially overlooked at the moment, as certain to give way under the powerful influence of better examples.

The Sontag now came forward and poured her liquid notes mellifluous through the assembly. Every body was in raptures—indiscriminate raptures;—for though raptures were generally obsolete, there were a few short seasons for a few new things in which it was permitted to be rapturous; but woe to the unhappy individual who, ignorant of the mark, gave way to these ebullitions at unallowed times, or beyond the peculiar limits prescribed by ton.

When the aria was concluded, however, the remarks among the younger votaries of fashion were principally directed to the figure and appearance of the singer, rather than to her performance. Leslie Winyard admired her foot; Lady Boileau her eyes; Lord Gascoyne saw indescribable beauty in the delicacy of her waist; and Lord Tonnerre declared her neck to be as fine drawn and as perfect as that of a race-horse—a simile which was perhaps the only figure of speech the latter lord could have hazarded, consistently with his knowledge of any subject. These by turns approached the singer, and as they addressed her with an air of familiar condescension, seemed in their ungentle gaze to seek an opportunity of confirming their previous judgments; which, according to the result, were signified in the presence of the persons by a look, or a whisper, to one another.

If a few ventured an observation on what they had been listening to, it was in a tone either of indiscriminate praise, founded on some one's opinion in their own circle from whose decree there was no appeal; or else, measuring things in themselves admitting not of parallel, by one another, they drew an unfair comparison between the powers of Sontag and of Pasta; just in the same way as a pseudo connoisseur would measure the merits of Paul Veronese or Tintoretto by those of Raphael.

"I am surprised you waste so much time in this discussion," said Mr. Ombre, who was standing near the parties debating on the latter point; "there can be no question as to the merits of the case—Sontag is new."

"Is she not enchanting?" asked Lady Tilney, addressing Lord Albert D'Esterre, who had been listening with the utmost attention—"quite perfection!" He smiled; "I do not know that I ever heard or saw any thing quite perfect; at all events, I prefer Pasta."

"Well, you surprise me!" replied Lady Baskerville; "there is such brilliancy—such lightness, such fluency in the Sontag."

"But there is more depth, more pathos, more poetry in Pasta. Nevertheless I admire Mademoiselle Sontag; and because I prefer one, I am not deaf to the powers of another singer—a feeling of the sublime does not exclude the lesser sense of the beautiful."—"What a prosing, sententious popinjay; ay!" whispered Lord Baskerville to Lady Ellersby.

"But he is very handsome," she answered.

"I know not what you ladies may esteem handsome" (and here Lord Baskerville put himself in his best possible form, and bent his cane against the ground); "but I can see nothing in that stiff conceited face and figure to call handsome; and I would not be doomed to listen to his affected pretensions for half an hour together on any condition whatever—no, not to hear Sontag sing three songs consecutively—beautiful, charming, dear as she is!"

"Does beauty enter in at the ears?" asked Spencer Newcombe.

"Not exactly; but it goes a great way towards making what does enter there agreeable," replied Lord Baskerville.

"What do you say, Sir Henry D'Aubigne," addressing that celebrated artist: "is not the Sontag exceedingly lovely?"

"Indeed I have not yet had an opportunity of judging," was Sir Henry's discreet reply; for he gave offence to none. "There is considerable grace and play of countenance certainly; a fine-cut eye; and on the whole I should say she was a very pretty creature. But really, in this land of beauty, (looking round him as he spoke), one may be allowed to be difficult, and where there is so much to dazzle, confess oneself unable to decide."

"Sir Henry is almost as graceful in his speech as in his portraits; I wish I were such a poet!" sighed Mr. Ombre, "and then I might hope to turn all the ladies' hearts, for they accept your homage, but will not mine, although I never flatter."

Thus did the poet and the painter mutually pay their allotted fealties to the sovereigns of ton, when the whisper ran round the room that the Sontag was again about to sing.

During the performance, Lord Albert D'Esterre was standing at the back of Lady Hamlet Vernon's chair, addressing to her, at intervals, his conversation on the merits of the singer.

"I am told," said Lady Hamlet Vernon, when the music ceased, "that the Sontag is very like Lady Adeline Seymour. You will know, Lord Albert D'Esterre?" Lord Albert coloured.

"I do not see the least resemblance to my cousin;" and then he added: "I was not aware that Lady Adeline had the advantage of your acquaintance."

"I have not the pleasure of her's neither—I hear she is a most delightful person!" Lord Albert again coloured, and felt his heart beat quicker at the mention of a name so dear to him.

"Is Lady Dunmelraise expected in town this year?" continued Lady Hamlet Vernon; "I understand she has very bad health. A very intimate friend of mine, from whom I sometimes receive a letter, Mr. George Foley—you may perhaps know him—and who is at present staying at Dunmelraise, informs me that she is far from well."

Lord Albert D'Esterre found himself irresistibly drawn towards Lady Hamlet Vernon, by the circumstance of her knowledge of Lady Adeline Seymour, and they continued for a long while in conversation—till interrupted by Lord Rainham, who, quitting the circle of the political characters of the day, with whom he had been in apparently close discussion, addressed Lady Hamlet Vernon on some other topic, and Lord Albert turned aside.

"Tell me what is your real opinion of the person you have been conversing with?" said Lord Rainham, in a low voice, while his small quick eye followed Lord Albert; "is he clever? has he talent—tact, or any other serviceable quality?"—"I hardly know how to answer inquiries of such depth," answered Lady Hamlet Vernon, smiling; "had you asked me if he were agreeable, I could have answered yes. But to what do your questions tend—are they general or particular; or are they political, or what?"

"Oh, I mean, is he like other people, like other young men—empty—and conceited?—or has he wherewithal to make his conversation endurable—worth listening to—point—repartee—subject—does he talk of people or of things?"

"Of both. But shall I add another to your list of inquiries—To what side of the question does he lean? Does not this sum up all you would know from me? And what if I should tell you—I know nothing about the matter?"

"Psha! well: that may be too—what do you think—?"

"Why I think him very handsome."

"Aye, may be so; I dare say he is—but—"

"But has he avowed his political creed? will he support your favourite measures, or oppose them? I know that is all you wish me to say," replied Lady Hamlet Vernon.

"Why, to be sure, one judges in these days of a man's sense a little by his politics—one learns whether he thinks at all, or follows his interests."

"Oh, you all do that, my dear lord. But come; I will tell you what I think of Lord Albert D'Esterre: I think he is worth winning—and—"

"You will try," said Lord Rainham.

"Fi donc!—now I will tell you no more." And Lady Hamlet Vernon left the foiled diplomatist to lament the failure of his mission, and learn to play his part better for the future.

The evening, or rather the night, was wearing fast away; the Sontag had sung three times, and those who had formed part of Lady Tilney's first soirée choisie were soon to be left in possession only of the recollections—no—not the recollections—the life of the aggregate assembled there would banish such an exercise of mental powers—but in possession of the fact, that they had been of the chosen number; that they had heard the favourite of the hour, not in the too-frequented Opera, but in the privacy of the drawing-room; and that they alone could justly, therefore, weigh her merits, and determine her defects.

In follies such as these a large portion of Lady Tilney's associates were sure to find gratification on the morrow. And it might have been well had all contented themselves with these, so comparatively harmless, although such worthless, fruits of exclusive ton; but it may be feared that, with some, the result of that evening, and the prospect of others to succeed it of the same kind, held out objects of a far different complexion, which a sure immunity from censure, and a complete freedom from obnoxious comparisons, successfully tended to promote.

Lord Albert D'Esterre had turned away from a group of young men with whom he had been conversing, and whose discourse, assuming a tone and character equally indelicate and revolting to his feelings, he thus endeavoured to avoid, when he found himself near Lady Boileau.

"Lord Albert D'Esterre," she said, addressing him, "if you will excuse an invitation so destitute of form, will you do Lord Boileau and myself the pleasure of dining with us on Saturday—I will send you a card." Lord Albert bowed with courtesy, and expressed himself sorry that he was already engaged, and, after some conversation of little interest, as Lady Boileau's carriage was announced, she left the room. Leslie Winyard, with the familiarity of one well acquainted, whispered in Lord Albert's ear—

"You have échappéd belle from that."

"What do you mean?" asked the latter.

"Why, I mean that you have escaped a most uncomfortable concern by just refusing the invitation to the Boileaus."

"I thought I heard you say to Lady Boileau but now that you would be delighted to wait upon her."

"Oh yes, certainly, one says those sort of things; and if nothing better occurs, one does them;—but it does not always follow: for instance, if any one were to ask me whom I liked better, or if you, or some equally pleasant person, were to propose our dining together at Crockford's—"

"I am not a member of Crockford's," said Lord Albert D'Esterre, gravely.

"Oh! but your name is down, and you are certain of being admitted on the next ballot, and—" Lord Albert attempted to reply, but Leslie Winyard continued, "and, as I was telling you, if a pleasant dinner was prepared at Crockey's, I should, of course, not starve myself at the Boileaus."

"I confess myself at a loss to comprehend what you mean."

"Well then, some day go and try; find yourself frozen in rooms where the fire is lit only five minutes before the hour of your expected arrival—starve at the hands of the very worst cook in England,—and then, when you hear that my Lady spends twelve guineas on a new bonnet, squanders thousands on her journies to Paris, and ruins Boileau in articles for her toilette, marvel—but the thing is so."

"Is it possible?" Lord Albert continued saying to himself; as the person who had been talking to him turned away, half in derision of his unsophisticated expressions and manner of receiving what he said,—"is it possible that so much refinement of duplicity can exist, for an end so trivial—where the gratification of the spirit of falsehood, or the indulgence of an ill-bred impertinence, is the only object?"

Whilst thus musing, and preparing to leave a scene which, as he became more acquainted with the actors, appeared little suited to his tastes or modes of thinking, he saw Lady Hamlet Vernon approach the door unattended. A recollection that she alone, in the manner she spoke of Lady Adeline Seymour, had seemed to have any sentiment in common with himself, made him move towards her, and inquire if he could be of any service in seeing her to her carriage.

"I do not know if it is up," was her reply, "but perhaps you will have the goodness to ask." He did so, and in the interval, before it was announced, they continued conversing. "Je vous félicite," said Lord Rainham, addressing Lady Hamlet Vernon in a low tone as he passed, and looking significantly at the same time at Lord Albert D'Esterre.

"There is no cause," she replied, "I am waiting for my carriage, and I think it will never come."

"Discrète," answered Lord Rainham, as he moved towards the door, and signalled what he had observed to Leslie Winyard, whose answering nod expressed concurrence in his suspicions.

It was long before Lady Hamlet Vernon's carriage arrived, and she continued talking with Lord Albert on various topics; the societies of Paris and Vienna, compared with that of London; the state of the Opera, and the prevalent bad taste of music on the Continent. She inquired for many who in their exile in this country had been known to her, and with whom, in the splendour of restored rank and fortunes, she found Lord Albert had lived on terms of close intimacy. In speaking of them he seemed to dwell with pleasure on their recollection of the services rendered them in England, as a bright trait in the human character, which betokened feelings that it was plain to see were in accordance with his own generous and noble nature—and which had formed the basis of that familiar intercourse in which he had lived with them. Although the reverse of this picture has been ascribed to too many foreigners, who have with justice been accused of ingratitude, it ought not therefore to be recorded that all were subject to such condemnation. Lord Albert knew otherwise.

As he extolled their characters and perfections, and spoke of the charms which their society had always possessed for him, Lady Hamlet Vernon listened with increased attention, as if she would have gathered from his discourse the individual sources of that satisfaction, which he professed in so lively a manner to have found. "You are warm and enthusiastic in your eulogiums," she said: "I hope that in England, also, you may find those whom, with the same reasons, and an equal ardour of attachment, you will be disposed to admit to your friendship."

There was something in the tone in which these words were addressed to him, that made Lord Albert D'Esterre for a moment fix his eyes on the speaker; but they were as quickly withdrawn, when he saw Lady Hamlet Vernon blush, apparently confused, and then pluck a flower from a vase near her, while she endeavoured to hide her face by inhaling the perfume. There was an awkwardness in the pause which ensued, which neither seemed at the moment able to surmount; when fortunately Lady Hamlet Vernon's carriage was called, and as Lord Albert handed her to it, he received an invitation to her house in the evening, when Lady Tilney's coterie were to assemble there.

CHAPTER V.

"NEWSPAPERS"—"THE PARK."

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?"