matist, unrivalled for his management of an opera; and his consort,
with a countenance like Cleopatra and a tiara like a constellation,
famed alike for her shawls and her snuff. There were Lord and Lady
Bloomerly, who were the best friends on earth: my Lord a sportsman, but
soft withal, his talk the Jockey Club, filtered through White's; my Lady
a little blue, and very beautiful. Their daughter, Lady Charlotte, rose
by her mother's side like a tall bud by a full-blown flower. There were
the Viscountess Blaze, a peeress in her own right, and her daughter,
Miss Blaze Dash-away, who, besides the glory of the future coronet,
moved in all the confidence of independent thousands. There was the
Marquess of Macaroni, who was at the same time a general, an ambassador,
and a dandy; and who, if he had liked, could have worn twelve orders;
but this day, being modest, only wore six. There, too, was the
Marchioness, with a stomacher stiff with brilliants extracted from the
snuff-boxes presented to her husband at a Congress.

There were Lord Sunium, who was not only a peer but a poet; and his
lady, a Greek, who looked just finished by Phidias. There, too, was
Pococurante, the epicurean and triple millionaire, who in a political
country dared to despise politics, in the most aristocratic of kingdoms
had refused nobility, and in a land which showers all its honours upon
its cultivators invested his whole fortune in the funds. He lived in a
retreat like the villa of Hadrian, and maintained himself in an elevated
position chiefly by his wit and a little by his wealth. There, too, were
his noble wife, thoroughbred to her fingers' tips, and beaming like the
evening star; and his son, who was an M.P., and thought his father a
fool. In short, our party was no common party, but a band who formed the
very core of civilisation; a high court of last appeal, whose word was
a fiat, whose sign was a hint, whose stare was death, and
sneer----damnation!

The Graces befriend us! We have forgotten the most important personage.
It is the first time in his life that Charles Annesley has been
neglected. It will do him good.

Dandy has been voted vulgar, and beau is now the word. It may be doubted
whether the revival will stand; and as for the exploded title, though it
had its faults at first, the muse of Byron has made it not only English,
but classical. Charles Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a
beau. There was nothing in his dress--though som