bent just one jint of his back very
slitely; I retund his stare with equill hottiness. 'Go and see for Lady
Bareacres' carridge, George,' says his Lordship; and vispers to me, 'a
cousin of ours--a poor relation.' So I took no notis of the feller when
he came back, nor in my subsquint visits to Hill Street, where it seems
a knife and fork was laid reglar for this shabby Capting."

"Thusday Night.--O Hangelina, Hangelina, my pashn for you hogments
daily! I've bean with her two the Hopra. I sent her a bewtifle Camellia
Jyponiky from Covn Garding, with a request she would wear it in
her raving Air. I woar another in my butnole. Evns, what was my
sattusfackshn as I leant hover her chair, and igsammined the house with
my glas!

"She was as sulky and silent as pawsble, however--would scarcely speek;
although I kijoled her with a thowsnd little plesntries. I spose it
was because that wulgar raskle Silvertop WOOD stay in the box. As if he
didn't know (Lady B.'s as deaf as a poast and counts for nothink) that
people SOMETIMES like a tatytaty."

"Friday.--I was sleeples all night. I gave went to my feelings in the
folloring lines--there's a hair out of Balfe's Hopera that she's fond
of. I edapted them to that mellady.

"She was in the droring-room alone with Lady B. She was wobbling at the
pyanna as I hentered. I flung the convasation upon mewsick; said I
sung myself (I've ad lesns lately of Signor Twankydillo); and, on her
rekwesting me to faver her with somethink, I bust out with my pom:

"'WHEN MOONLIKE OER THE HAZURE SEAS.

"'When moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily's bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline! R lady mine!
Dost thou remember Jeames?

"'I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where Englands loveliest shine--
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.
My soul, in desolate eclipse,
With recollection teems--
And then I hask, with weeping lips
Dost thou remember Jeames?

"'Away! I may not tell thee hall
This soughring heart endures--
There is a lonely sperrit-call
That Sorrow never cures;
There is a little, little Star,