ntleness, on hearing announced the name
of Mr. Soloman Snivel.

"What!--my old friend! I wish I had words to say how glad I am to see
you, Lady Swiggs!" exclaims a tall, well-proportioned and
handsome-limbed man, to whose figure a fashionable claret-colored frock
coat, white vest, neatly-fitting dark-brown trowsers, highly-polished
boots, a cluster of diamonds set in an avalanche of corded shirt-bosom,
and carelessly-tied green cravat, lend a respectability better imagined
than described. A certain reckless dash about him, not common to a
refined gentleman, forces us to set him down as one of those individuals
who hold an uncertain position in society; and though they may now and
then mingle with men of refinement, have their more legitimate sphere in
a fashionable world of doubtful character.

"Why!--Mr. Snivel. Is it you?" responds the old woman, reciprocating his
warm shake of the hand, and getting her hard face into a smile.

"I am so glad--But (Mr. Snivel interrupts himself) never mind that!"

"You have some important news?" hastily inquires Mrs. Swiggs, laying a
bit of muslin carefully between the pages of her Milton, and returning
it to the table, saying she has just been grievously provoked by one of
that black-coated flock who go about the city in search of lambs. They
always remind her of light-houses pointing the road to the dominions of
the gentleman in black.

"Something very important!" parenthesises Soloman--"very." And he shakes
his head, touches her significantly on the arm with his orange-colored
glove,--he smiles insidiously.

"Pray be seated, Mr. Snivel. Rebecca!--bring Mr. Snivel the
rocking-chair."

"You see, my good Madam, there's such a rumor about town this morning!
(Soloman again taps her on the arm with his glove.) The cat has got out
of the bag--it's all up with the St. Cecilia!--"

"Do, Rebecca, make haste with the rocking-chair!" eagerly interrupts
the old woman, addressing herself to the negress, who fusses her way
into the room with a great old-fashioned rocking-chair. "I am so
sensitive of the character of that society," she continues with a sigh,
and wipes and rubs her spectacles, gets up and views herself in the
glass, frills over her cap border, and becomes very generally anxious.
Mrs. Swiggs is herself again. She nervously adjusts the venerable red
shawl about her shoulders, draws the newly-introduced arm-chair near her
own, ("I'm not so old, but am getting a little deaf," s