their assistance, like the man in the play who forgot his
part, we will do without it. Now, have you thought of nothing new, for
we must not plagiarise even from fashionable novels?

_A_. I have thought--and thought--and can find nothing new, unless we
bring her in in a whirlwind: that has not yet been attempted.

_B_. A whirlwind! I don't know--that's hazardous. Nevertheless, if
she were placed on a beetling cliff, overhanging the tempestuous ocean,
lashing the rocks with its wild surge; of a sudden, after she has been
permitted to finish her soliloquy, a white cloud rising rapidly and
unnoticed--the sudden vacuum--the rush of mighty winds through the
majestic and alpine scenery--the vortex gathering round her--first
admiring the vast efforts of nature; then astonished; and, lastly,
alarmed, as she finds herself compelled to perform involuntary
gyrations, till at length she spins round like a well-whipped top,
nearing the dangerous edge of the precipice. It is bold, and certainly
quite novel--I think it will do. Portray her delicate little feet,
peeping out, pointing downwards, the force of the elements raising her
on her tip toes, now touching, now disdaining the earth. Her dress
expanded wide like that of Herbele in her last and best pirouette--
round, round she goes--her white arms are tossed frantically in the air.
Corinne never threw herself into more graceful attitudes. Now is seen
her diminishing ankle--now the rounded symmetry--mustn't go too high up
though--the wind increases--her distance from the edge of the precipice
decreases--she has no breath left to shriek--no power to fall--
threatened to be ravished by the wild and powerful god of the elements--
she is discovered by the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, who has just
finished his soliloquy upon another adjacent hill. He delights in her
danger--before he rushes to her rescue, makes one pause for the purpose
of admiration, and another for the purpose of adjusting his shirt
collar.

_A_. The devil he does!

_B_. To be sure. The hero of a fashionable novel never loses caste.
Whether in a storm, a whirlwind, up to his neck in the foaming ocean, or
tumbling down a precipice, he is still the elegant and correct
Honourable Augustus Bouverie. To punish you for your interruption, I
have a great mind to make him take a pinch of snuff before he starts.
Well--he flies to her assistance--is himself caught in the rushing
vortex, which prevents him from