ed the same CONTREDANSE. She had a Polyanthus in her bouquet.
Waggle, I HAVE IT NOW.' His countenance assumes an agonized and
mysterious expression, and he buries his head in the sofa cushions, as
if plunging into a whirlpool of passionate recollections.

Last year he made a considerable sensation by having on his table a
morocco miniature-case locked by a gold key, which he always wore round
his neck, and on which was stamped a serpent--emblem of eternity--with
the letter M in the circle. Sometimes he laid this upon his little
morocco writing-table, as if it were on an altar--generally he had
flowers upon it; in the middle of a conversation he would start up and
kiss it. He would call out from his bed-room to his valet, 'Hicks, bring
me my casket!'

'I don't know who it is,' Waggle would say. 'Who DOES know that fellow's
intrigues! Desborough Wiggle, sir, is the slave of passion. I suppose
you have heard the story of the Italian princess locked up in the
Convent of Saint Barbara, at Rimini? He hasn't told you? Then I'm not
at liberty to speak. Or the countess, about whom he nearly had the duel
with Prince Witikind of Bavaria? Perhaps you haven't even heard about
that beautiful girl at Pentonville, daughter of a most respectable
Dissenting clergyman. She broke her heart when she found he was engaged
(to a most lovely creature of high family, who afterwards proved false
to him), and she's now in Hanwell.'

Waggle's belief in his friend amounts to frantic adoration. 'What a
genius he is, if he would but apply himself!' he whispers to me. 'He
could be anything, sir, but for his passions. His poems are the most
beautiful things you ever saw. He's written a continuation of "Don
Juan," from his own adventures. Did you ever read his lines to Mary?
They're superior to Byron, sir--superior to Byron.'

I was glad to hear this from so accomplished a critic as Waggle; for
the fact is, I had composed the verses myself for honest Wiggle one
day, whom I found at his chambers plunged in thought over a very dirty
old-fashioned album, in which he had not as yet written a single word.

'I can't,' says he. 'Sometimes I can write whole cantos, and to-day not
a line. Oh, Snob! such an opportunity! Such a divine creature! She's
asked me to write verses for her album, and I can't.'

'Is she rich?' said I. 'I thought you would never marry any but an
heiress.'

'Oh, Snob! she's the most accomplished, highly-connected creature!--and
I can