The Christmas Books of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh | Page 8

lends him money: buys horses through
his recommendation; dresses after him; clings to him in Pall Mall, and
on the steps of the club; and talks about 'Bo' in all societies. It is his
drag which carries down Bo's friends to the Derby, and his cheques pay
for dinners to the pink bonnets. I don't believe the Perkinses know what
a rogue it is, but fancy him a decent, reputable City man, like his father
before him.
As for Captain Grig, what is there to tell about him? He performs the
duties of his calling with perfect gravity. He is faultless on parade;
excellent across country; amiable when drunk, rather slow when sober.

He has not two ideas, and is a most good-natured, irreproachable,
gallant, and stupid young officer.
CAVALIER SEUL.
This is my friend Bob Hely, performing the Cavalier seul in a quadrille.
Remark the good-humored pleasure depicted in his countenance. Has
he any secret grief? Has he a pain anywhere? No, dear Miss Jones, he is
dancing like a true Briton, and with all the charming gayety and
abandon of our race.
When Canaillard performs that Cavalier seul operation, does HE flinch?
No: he puts on his most vainqueur look, he sticks his thumbs into the
armholes of his waistcoat, and advances, retreats, pirouettes, and
otherwise gambadoes, as though to say, "Regarde moi, O monde!
Venez, O femmes, venez voir danser Canaillard!"
When De Bobwitz executes the same measure, he does it with smiling
agility, and graceful ease.
But poor Hely, if he were advancing to a dentist, his face would not be
more cheerful. All the eyes of the room are upon him, he thinks; and he
thinks he looks like a fool.
Upon my word, if you press the point with me, dear Miss Jones, I think
he is not very far from right. I think that while Frenchmen and Germans
may dance, as it is their nature to do, there is a natural dignity about us
Britons, which debars us from that enjoyment. I am rather of the
Turkish opinion, that this should be done for us. I think . . .
"Good-by, you envious old fox-and-the-grapes," says Miss Jones, and
the next moment I see her whirling by in a polka with Tom Tozer, at a
pace which makes me shrink back with terror into the little boudoir.
M. CANAILLARD, CHEVALIER OF THE LEGION OF HONOR.
LIEUTENANT BARON DE BOBWITZ.

Canaillard. Oh, ces Anglais! quels hommes, mon Dieu! Comme ils sont
habilles, comme ils dansent!
Bobwitz.--Ce sont de beaux hommes bourtant; point de tenue militaire,
mais de grands gaillards; si je les avais dans ma compagnie de la Garde,
j'en ferai de bons soldats.
Canaillard.--Est-il bete, cet Allemand! Les grands hommes ne font pas
toujours de bons soldats, Monsieur. Il me semble que les soldats de
France qui sont de ma taille, Monsieur, valent un peu mieux . . .
Bobwitz.--Vous croyez?
Canaillard.--Comment! je le crois, Monsieur? J'en suis sur! Il me
semble, Monsieur, que nous l'avons prouve.
Bobwitz (impatiently).--Je m'en vais danser la Bolka. Serviteur,
Monsieur.
Canaillard.--Butor! (He goes and looks at himself in the glass, when he
is seized by Mrs. Perkins for the Polka.)
THE BOUDOIR.
MR. SMITH, MR. BROWN, MISS BUSTLETON.
Mr. Brown.--You polk, Miss Bustleton? I'm SO delaighted.
Miss Bustleton.--[Smiles and prepares to rise.]
Mr. Smith.--D--- puppy.
(Poor Smith don't polk.)
GRAND POLKA.
Though a quadrille seems to me as dreary as a funeral, yet to look at a
polka, I own, is pleasant. See! Brown and Emily Bustleton are whirling
round as light as two pigeons over a dovecot; Tozer, with that wicked

whisking little Jones, spins along as merrily as a May-day sweep; Miss
Joy is the partner of the happy Fred Sparks; and even Miss Ranville is
pleased, for the faultless Captain Grig is toe and heel with her.
Beaumoris, with rather a nonchalant air, takes a turn with Miss Trotter,
at which Lord Methuseleh's wrinkled chops quiver uneasily. See! how
the big Baron de Bobwitz spins lightly, and gravely, and gracefully
round; and lo! the Frenchman staggering under the weight of Miss
Bunion, who tramps and kicks like a young cart-horse.
But the most awful sight which met my view in this dance was the
unfortunate Miss Little, to whom fate had assigned THE MULLIGAN
as a partner. Like a pavid kid in the talons of an eagle, that young
creature trembled in his huge Milesian grasp. Disdaining the
recognized form of the dance, the Irish chieftain accommodated the
music to the dance of his own green land, and performed a double
shuffle jig, carrying Miss Little along with him. Miss Ranville and her
Captain shrank back amazed; Miss Trotter skirried out of his way into
the protection of the astonished Lord Methuselah; Fred Sparks could
hardly move