them down with a bottle of the worst liquor ever
dignified with the venerabile nomen of claret. The bird was tough enough
to have passed for an ostrich in miniature; and I felt its ghost hopping
about the stomachic sepulchre to which I consigned it, the whole of that
evening and a great portion of the next day, when a glass of curacoa
laid it at rest.

After this splendid repast, I flung myself back on my chair with the
complacency of a man who has dined well, and dozed away the time till
the hour of dressing.

"Now," thought I, as I placed myself before my glass, "shall I gently
please, or sublimely astonish the 'fashionables' of Cheltenham? Ah, bah!
the latter school is vulgar, Byron spoilt it. Don't put out that chain,
Bedos--I wear--the black coat, waistcoat, and trowsers. Brush my hair as
much out of curl as you can, and give an air of graceful negligence to
my tout ensemble."

"Oui, Monsieur, je comprends," answered Bedos.

I was soon dressed, for it is the design, not the execution, of all
great undertakings which requires deliberation and delay. Action cannot
be too prompt. A chair was called, and Henry Pelham was conveyed to the
rooms.

CHAPTER XL.

Now see, prepared to lead the sprightly dance, The lovely nymphs, and
well dressed youths advance: The spacious room receives its jovial
guest, And the floor shakes with pleasing weight oppressed.--Art of
Dancing.

Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrell.--Richard III.

Upon entering, I saw several heads rising and sinking, to the tune
of "Cherry ripe." A whole row of stiff necks, in cravats of the most
unexceptionable length and breadth, were just before me. A tall thin
young man, with dark wiry hair brushed on one side, was drawing on a
pair of white Woodstock gloves, and affecting to look round the room
with the supreme indifference of bon ton.

"Ah, Ritson," said another young Cheltenhamian to him of the Woodstock
gauntlets, "hav'n't you been dancing yet?"

"No, Smith, 'pon honour!" answered Mr. Ritson; "it is so overpoweringly
hot; no fashionable man dances now;--it isn't the thing."

"Why," replied Mr. Smith, who was a good-natured looking person, with
a blue coat and brass buttons, a gold pin in his neckcloth, and
kneebreeches, "why, they dance at Almack's, don't they?"

"No, 'pon honour," murmured Mr. Ritson; "no, they just walk a quadrille
or spin a waltz, as my friend, Lord Bobadob, calls it, nothing more--no,
hang dancing, 'tis so vulga