Comical People | Page 4

who had a nice, dove-coloured dress on, appeared very desirous of pleasing the young Lord, and I thought they seemed very happy together. The other couples were Sir Hector Downcharge, of Kennelhouse, a great sportsman, who came in his militia uniform, and Miss Pie, the daughter of the celebrated Mrs. Margaret, or Mag Pie, as her neighbours call her. And opposite to them were a Mr. Puddock, a person connected with the City, who, through the death of a relative, has just come into possession of a fine marshy estate among the Lincolnshire Fens; and Miss Lavinia Greyhound, who, as all the world knows, was a long time engaged to young Hare, who ran away from her in a very shameful way, and hurt her feelings so much that she did not appear again in public for several months.
Drinkwater and I stood aside, and entertained ourselves with quiet remarks to each other, not always complimentary to the company. He thought Miss Pie the prettiest of the dancers, and certainly she was sweetly dressed, and looked very well. Her partner, Sir Hector, was, without doubt, the handsomest of the gentlemen, though he appeared to me to give himself airs, like an overfed spaniel that has been too much petted, and to lounge about in a way not at all becoming a lady's ball-room. The little fellow from the City, his vis-��-vis, was a very different person--he seemed determined to let us all know that he had lately been taking twelve dancing-lessons of Madame Hopper, for he turned his toes out in the most elegant way, and was evidently quite impressed with a belief that he was astonishing the spectators with his surprising agility. The very tie of his cravat made Drinkwater nearly die with suppressed laughter; and when the youth began dancing, we were obliged to take a walk into the adjoining Conservatory, lest our merriment should be discovered. I never knew a more delightful place than this Conservatory; the flowers in it are brighter than I have seen elsewhere; and some that Drinkwater gathered for me were far sweeter than any I had ever known before. We staid sometime in this Conservatory looking at the beautiful exotics, and talking of nothing else but of them and the weather; and it was not till we had been there more than half-an-hour that I discovered that we were quite alone. We immediately returned to the ball-room, where, luckily, our absence had not been discovered, and in a few minutes were whirling round in a most delightful waltz.
But I have forgotten the rest of the company. Foremost in dignity was the Countess Auk, of Stornaway Rock, in the Hebrides; and with her were her two nieces, Lady Isabella Snipe and the Honourable Miss Woodcock. I saw Mr. Reynard, the celebrated member for Hollowoak, having a long gossip with the Countess and her young charges, for both of whom he seemed to profess great admiration. Mr. Jay, the member for Chatterfield, was likewise there, and paid a good deal of attention, I thought, to the Honourable Miss Dove, a cousin of Miss Pigeon's. Miss Dove plays very nicely, and sometimes, when the band required rest, she rattled off a waltz in fine style, Mr. Jay most attentively turning the music-leaves.
Drinkwater also pointed out to me Miss Stork, the daughter of the Attorney-General, so famous for the length of his bill; Miss Blaccap, who, they say, sings as sweetly as a Robin-Redbreast; Lord Bruin, who has just come from a tour in Russia; the Right Honourable Mr. Ramshead; and a crowd of folks, more or less known, most of whom would stand by the doorway and prevent the servants and the fresh air from entering the room.
About three o'clock the Countess of Auk's carriage was summoned, and the company began to retire. Drinkwater and I stood shivering on the stairs full half-an-hour before Lady Goldfinch's brougham was announced; and when we reached home, I found I had been fast asleep with my head on Drinkwater's shoulder.
Ten days after Lady Chaffinch's ball, I was obliged to tear myself away from my kind aunt and my dear cousin, and with only Tom-tit for my companion, to return to this dismal Gorse Bush, which I used to think the sweetest of homes. Now I do nothing but wonder how long it will be before my aunt invites me to London again. Tom-tit brings me letters from the post-boy much oftener than before, and were it not for them, I do not think I could bear my existence.
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This is the substance of some letters I have lately received from my dear friend, Julia Linnet. She is a warm-hearted little thing, easily led away by her enthusiasm. At first, I was afraid she would pine away