ds beauty on the ideas of
ancient sculptors and poets, not of modern poetasters, who, with their
airy-like sylphs and their smoke-like verses, fight for want of flesh in
woman and want of fact in poetry as parallel beauties.

_They are,_ my lads.--_Continuez!_

These women had a grand corporeal trait; they had never known a corset!
so they were straight as javelins; they could lift their hands above
their heads!--actually! Their supple persons moved as Nature intended;
every gesture was ease, grace and freedom.

What with their own radiance, and the snowy cleanliness and brightness
of their costume, they came like meteors into the apartment.

Lord Ipsden, rising gently from his seat, with the same quiet politeness
with which he would have received two princes of the blood, said, "How
do you do?" and smiled a welcome.

"Fine! hoow's yoursel?" answered the dark lass, whose name was Jean
Carnie, and whose voice was not so sweet as her face.

"What'n lord are ye?" continued she; "are you a juke? I wad like fine to
hae a crack wi' a juke."

Saunders, who knew himself the cause of this question, replied, _sotto
voce,_ "His lordship is a viscount."

"I didna ken't," was Jean's remark. "But it has a bonny soond."

"What mair would ye hae?" said the fair beauty, whose name was Christie
Johnstone. Then, appealing to his lordship as the likeliest to know, she
added, "Nobeelity is jist a soond itsel, I'm tauld."

The viscount, finding himself expected to say something on a topic he
had not attended much to, answered dryly: "We must ask the republicans,
they are the people that give their minds to such subjects."

"And yon man," asked Jean Carnie, "is he a lord, too?"

"I am his lordship's servant," replied Saunders, gravely, not without a
secret misgiving whether fate had been just.

"Na!" replied she, not to be imposed upon, "ye are statelier and prooder
than this ane."

"I will explain," said his master. "Saunders knows his value; a servant
like Saunders is rarer than an idle viscount."

"My lord, my lord!" remonstrated Saunders, with a shocked and most
disclamatory tone. "Rather!" was his inward reflection.

"Jean," said Christie, "ye hae muckle to laern. Are ye for herrin' the
day, vile count?"

"No! are you for this sort of thing?"

At this, Saunders, with a world of _empressement,_ offered the Carnie
some cake that was on the table.

She took a piece, instantly spat it out into her hand, and with more