hought of

"Pauline, by pride
Angels have fallen ere thy time!"

when I recalled her with the pearls above her brow, and her passionate,
gleaming eyes, and her fearless, scornful, haughty anguish, as she had
stood before me that night when Pride _v_. Pride caused the wreck of
both their lives.

IV.

WHERE I SAW BEATRICE BOVILLE AGAIN

I don't belong to St. Stephen's myself, thank Heaven. Very likely they
would have returned me for the county when the governor departed this
life had I tried them; but as I generally cut the county, from not being
one of the grass countries, and as I couldn't put forward any patriotic
claims like Mr. Harper Twelvetrees, (who, as he's such a slayer of
vermin, thought, I suppose, that he'd try his hand at the dry-rot and
the red tapeworms, which, according to cotton grumblers, are sapping the
nation,) I haven't solicited its suffrages. The odds at Tattersall's
interest me more than the figures of the ways and means; and
Diophantus's and Kettledrum's legerdemain at Newmarket and Epsom is more
to my taste than our brilliant rhetorician's with the surplus. I don't
care a button about Lord Raynham and Sir C. Burrell's maids-of-all-work;
they are not an attractive class, I should say, and, if they like to
amuse their time tumbling out of windows, I can't see for the life of me
why peers and gentlemen should rush to the rescue like Don Quixote to
Dulcinea's. And as for that great question, Tea _v_. Paper, bohea
delights the souls of old ladies and washerwomen--who destroy crumpets
and character over its inebriating cups, and who will rush to crown Lord
Derby's and Mr. Disraeli's brows with laurels if they ever go to the
country with a teapot blazoned on their patriotic banners--more than it
does mine, which prefers Bass and Burgundy, seltzer and Sillery; and,
though I dare say Brown, Jones, and Robinson find the Divorce News
exciting, and paper collars very showy and economical, as I myself am
content with the _Times_ and its compeers, and think, with poor Brummel,
that life without daily clean linen were worthless, _that_ subject
doesn't absorb me as it does those gentlemen who find "the last tax of
knowledge" so grandiloquent and useful a finishing period. So I have
never stood for the county, nor essayed to stand for it, seeing that to
one Bernal Osborne there are fifty prosers in St. Stephen's, and to be
bored is, to a butterfly flutterer, as the young lady whose name heads