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 690 know so well how to give, when the great of the land come amongst them in the private capacity of ladies and gentlemen, he is quite in error; for that mouldy, mildewy blighting influence, called “etiquette,” settles upon and destroys in the bud any desire to do unostentatious honour to the visitors, and permits only a few of the haute noblesse to be invited to any entertainment where the cherubim with the flaming swords of formality keep guard. The officers of the regiment quartered at Brighton will most likely give a breakfast to the Royal party, and then it is that the mortal part of the otherwise immortal gods and goddesses of fashion are apparent, for there are not above a dozen people in the place whom it would be “etiquette” to ask to meet H.R.H.; and a lugubrious déjeûner, presided over by the colonel commanding the regiment, is the result. Such a breakfast had been given to the Princess of on the morning of the same day that Mrs. Grant gave her soirée, and those who know what English society is at the present day, will not be surprised when I state that the officers of the 70th Dragoons were courted and petted even more than usual, owing to their recent attrition—if I may be allowed the term—with a veritable member of the Royal Family of the Guelphs. The Misses Fastlie who were present, made themselves peculiarly conspicuous, and their style altogether was so unblushingly forward, that I expected to witness a scene out of the abduction of the Sabines, the attacking party being the fair ones themselves. The family of the Joneses, too, this evening were superb, and talked so fast and so incessantly, that I verily believe the noise was perpetrated (like a clacker in an orchard), to keep all the other little birds from attacking the cherries (in uniform), which they desired to monopolise. I must confess the gallant and agreeable young officers acted admirably; for though, as usual, they were politely insolent to the civilians present, they stood the fusillade opened upon them with perfect sang froid, and received the grape and grapnel of pretty speeches like tried and disciplined veterans.

Some acquaintances whom I was in the habit of meeting in the coffee-room of my hotel were present, and one we had named the “serious joker” was, as usual, making absurd speeches, in which his large brown serious eyes seemed to take no part. His companion with rosy cheeks, crisp, curly hair, and merry, care-devil countenance, was spinning round in the waltz, like a gyroscope, upsetting all the laws of gravitation, and glad to dance with any girl, plain or pretty, who was disengaged, for the young gentleman evidently loved dancing for the pure physical enjoyment of the exercise, and being myself a very poor waltzer, I felt immensely disgusted at his excellence in the art. A thin-legged individual, with features like Mr. Punch, was announced amongst other guests, and he appeared in a suit perfectly en règle for an evening party, but still there was an unmistakeable upper groom cut about him. He had not been in the room five minutes when I heard him exclaim: “Bet you five to one her hocks are as thin as a thorough-bred’s.” No fear of finding him unstable in any of the affairs of life.

A certain recondite Commissioner was down-stairs in the library playing whist, and, judging by the expression of his face, I should say fortune was disappointing him of his shilling points. A picture of Galatea in her car with dolphins drawing it, a copy by Jackson of Guido’s celebrated picture, hung on the wall near the card-table, and I heard the serious joker say as he peeped in and observed the group:

“Tom, here’s our learned friend of the Excrescent playing whist, and he’s sitting close to Galatea that he may get the Acis!”

I was not long suffered to be a mere spectator of the scene, and my observations and cogitations were interrupted by Mrs. Sweetlie Grant asking me to dance with a lady who at the distance looked very young, but when you came to see her more closely, showed many little flaws, wrinkles, and joins in her face, most artistically filled up with white paint, and I conclude, putty also. AVhen I asked her to do me the honour of dancing, she languidly replied:

“The third dance from this,” and she turned to resume her conversation with General Sir Archibald Macpherson O’Neil, a military hero, who spoke even to ladies with a short, sharp tone, exactly as he spoke on parade. The time being duly arrived for duty, I politely reminded the fair one that our dance had arrived, but without attempting any excuse, in the same drawling tone she answered:

“Oh, I am engaged to dance with Colonel Popham; see (showing me her carte de dance), I have put a line through your name, and written in his; the quadrille after I shall be happy to dance with you.”

I always smarted under this sort of insouciance, which, I will be bound to say, everybody has met with in a ball-room, so I replied—by the way, Colonel Popham was celebrated for his jockey acquirements:—

“Madam, if you will be so obliging as to seek the information from your partner, he will explain to you that a scratched horse never runs, and upon the same principle, a scratched partner never dances.”

Upon this, I bowed stiffly, and walked off, though I dare say the word “impertinent” was all the lady vouchsafed on the subject.

The truth is, I was always out of my element at what are termed evening-parties, and I ought never to have been asked to one. I was foolish enough—vanity, I believe, being the motive power—to resent all those little slights and small impertinences which all men, not thoroughly initiated into the sacred mysteries of Terpsichore, are sure to meet with in assemblies devoted to her worship.

Whether it was this or the natural moroseness of my nature I know not, but it is certain I regarded human beings dancing with a morbid disapproval, and I believe I made more enemies in a ball-room than in any place in my life. Mercy! how the music and the dancers are all at it now. There’s Miss MacSky, the reputed heiress to magnificent landed estates in Inverness-shire, whirling round the room with the major of the regiment, a fine dashing fellow, who enjoys