ants preceding him, banging tomtoms and blowing conchshells, and twenty-seven of his favourite wives bringing up the rear, and in this grandeur going to open a palaver; whether Royalty assume any of these forms of self-assertion, it seems clear to me that we must have some sort of a show, and a pageant, and a "barbaric pomp" of procession. For if all things, my dear, on this earth were reduced to their very cheapest form of expression, and to their abstract conditions, we might find out some day that we could get on without Kings and Chancellors, Emperors and Popes, Bishops and Ushers of the Black Rod. A discovery which would utterly destroy the framework of society, and is therefore to be strongly deprecated.

But we will talk no longer on subjects of which, as women, we can of course know nothing at all, and come back like volatile, frivolous, inconsequential beings as we are, to millinery and mantua-making. 'Tis the ministers' duty to compose Her Majesty's speech, and to dole out through its paragraphs that remarkably short allowance of English grammar so characteristic of orations from the throne. It is our province to superintend the snipping and stitching of our court dresses, to take care that our complexions look as well by day as by candlelight, and so avoid as far as possible tripping ourselves up with our trains. For the days of black boys are departed; and although the Queen has her pages, a couple of juvenile train-bearers, of either sex, would be looked upon as ostentation by the censorious persons about the Court. Envy and malevolence, my angel, do not always dwell in caves underground, nor are they perpetually occupied in gnawing their own viscera. They come out into the sunlight frequently, are seen at the best end of St. James's Street, rattle down the Mall in carriages, sweep through the Ambassador's court, and are ushered into the very Presence itself.

I would have given, ah! how many months of my weary old life, to have seen you dressed and ready-blooming, radiant, comely, as I am sure you were—to wait upon your Sovereign. Lady Coseymore came for you in that stout, roomy, bottle-green carriage of hers, with the coat-of-arms displayed on a sort of patchwork counterpane, forming the hammercloth, with the fat, leisurely horses, the fat, responsible-looking coachman, the upright, contemplative footmen, all arrayed in a becoming, but severe and dignified splendour. These old noble families differ so much in their equipages and appointments from the parvenus, from the Manchester aristocrats, and stock-broking politicians, from the nouveaux riches, in a word. I can see my Lady Coseymore in her diamonds, and that wonderful skirt of silver tissue she wore, I am given to understand, at the marriage of the Princess Charlotte; I can see the final glance of inspection and approval given to my Louisa by the feminine De Fytchetts; I can see her mounting with modesty, yet with dignity, into the august, double-bodied vehicle awaiting her at the door; the stowing away of the tremendous length and breadth of drapery, the starting of the stately steeds towards their exalted destination. You see I have been inspired by reading the Morning Post.

You departed; two vulgar little boys at the corner of Great Mandarin Street, you tell me, bawled out a "hooray," as the cortège-can one carriage make a cortége?-swept by. Who knows but that there may have been some little envy and malevolence looking out of the dining-room windows of the house on either side of you in Pagoda Square? Who knows but that in the upper chambers of the house you had just quitted, some tiny grains of and malevolence may have been lingering? But my Louisa went onwards. Some wretched debtor, perhaps, whom the bailiffs were taking

envy

to captivity in a cab, caught a glance at the radiant lady as she was borne swiftly past. Ah! hill of Piccadilly, on your foot-pavement how many poor forlorn souls may have been trudging along; how many faded, wistful eyes from beneath shabby hats and battered bonnets may have been cast towards the gorgeous chariots, with their serene occupants, as the tide of grandeur rolled towards the top of St. James's Street! Where there was a stoppage, of course, as in the old days, when I used to go to Court; but Bow-Street officers, dressed something like country squires in a comedy, used to perform the duties which now devolve on the polite and silver-laced and white-gloved inspectors of police. Yes; there was Mr. Townshend, from Bow Street; likewise Mr. Lavender, and Mr. Ruthven, and Mr. Smithers, who was killed by Mr. Thistlewood. Then slowly, as on the Derby Day, one defiled in a barouche and four, the post-boys holding up their whips in warning, through Cheam Gate. I see the double, single stream of carriages passing down St. James's Street; the pavement crowded, and among the black-coated or brown-skirted commons who stare and wonder, a sprinkling of officers in glittering uniforms, of Deans and University Dons in full canonicals and academicals, of those anomalous Deputy. Lieutenants, and of foreign notabilities in strange handsomecostumes, who have come out of the Clubs, and are modestly walking to the Palace. There:-I imagine you arrived in front of that dingy black brick structure. The officers of the Life Guards are prancing and pawing—at least their trained. chargers so prance and paw at the corner of Pall Mall, just. by the fashionable emporium where Mr. Sams has for so many years obligingly dispensed Opera boxes and stalls.. The Life Guards' Band, with gold coats, and jack-boots, and jockey caps, are braying and banging away on the other side of the street close to Mr. Porpa, the tailor's. The horses sit

as quiet under the braying and banging, as though they had been bred at Astley's. The private Life Guardsmen look reserved and severe, fully impressed, of course, with the gravity of their position. A grave position it is, and a weighty one, to have to sit among so much sheepskin on that large sable dray-horse, to have to wear all that polished hardware on the back and breast, that German-silver pipkin on the head, and those immense jack-boots.

And after this, it was a gorgeous vision. It was a magnificent and delightful dream. You were squeezed and crushed, and carried upstairs and downstairs, and through chambers painted and panelled, and gilt, amidst a Mob-yes, mob is the only word-of people in stars and plumes, and uniforms and diamonds. You lost your fan, which somebody -who was it, Miss ?-bought you on new year's day in Paris as étrennes, and which cost a hundred francs. Lady Coseymore lost a little gold pouncet box, ornamented with emeralds, which had once belonged, dit-on, to Sophia Dorothea of Hanover. People are always losing something at drawing-rooms, and in the old days of the "Pen," which is now, I am pleased to learn, abolished, not only fans, but handkerchiefs, epaulettes, sword-scabbards, bouquets, shoes, and even trains were torn and wrenched away, trodden under foot, ruined, and lost. Of all mobs, a well-dressed one is the worst. Fortunately your adventures were unmarked by any serious casualty; but I find that you, too, testify to a certain amount of squeezing and confusion in the general arrangements. Then you had an indistinct notion of an embroidered coat sleeve being thrust through the press of struggling splendour, and of a hand taking the cards on which your name, and that of Lady Coseymore were, written. Then you moved on again, plumes waved, diamonds sparkled, trains rustled; but your impression of things grew more and

more indefinite. The heat, the odour of perfumes, the confused murmur of all these gilded butterflies flapping their wings, the shifting kaleidoscopic nature of the whole scene, dazzled and confused you.

At last you saw a Lady with a kind face and a tiara of glittering gems. There were more faces round you, faces of ladies in ringlets, faces of bald old men with great collars and chains of gold and jewels round their necks. Bars of blue ribbon cut your field of vision with scarlet spots between, as though you had been gazing on the sun. You did not faint, your stout neighbour in brocade trod too hard on your toes for syncope to be possible. You were elated, delighted, transported, and yet you say you felt very much inclined to have a good cry. But at length it was all over. You seemed to be sinking into the earth, when somebody mumbled out your name. Then you sank deeper into the earth, and somebody-was it a Cabinet Minister?-said it was very warm. How you found yourself in another gilt and panelled room, fanning yourself, you don't know; but there you were. An attaché of the French Legation was whispering a funny story to Lady Coseymore, who tapped him on the arm with her flacon d'odeurs, and called him mauvais sujet. The dear old dame said that she had never remembered to have seen Her Majesty looking better, and that she would very much like, herself, a macaroon and a glass of malmsey. A sallow Turk with a blue-black beard, a fez cap, and a great diamond gorget at his coat collar, was staring you out of countenance. He said something, doubtless complimentary, but decidedly guttural, to another Turk, who also stared. But you no longer felt inclined to faint or to cry. You had been presented and you were happy.

Once upon a time, my dear, thousands of years ago so far