he most
distressing ones that ever preceded Douglas and Sherwood's were nothing
to him! he reminded one constantly of an Egyptian feast. He looked
sadly at children, and gave little Henry Parsons, his godchild, a
miniature dagger with a jewelled handle, with which the child nearly
destroyed his right hand. When poor Mary was married, he walked
mournfully up to the altar, and stared during the ceremony unmistakably
at an imaginary coffin, hanging, like Mohammed's, midway between the
ceiling and the floor. Poor man, it's really curious, but he contrives
to be always in mourning, and everybody knows that he goes only to see
tragedies, and has the dyspepsia, like Regina and her diamond cross,
from principle. He composes epitaphs for all the ladies of his
acquaintance, and presents them, like newspaper-carrier addresses, on
New Year's days. I have one in my writing desk in a very secret drawer;
a _soul_-cheering effusion, but not particularly agreeable to the
physical humanity. This I intend to bequeath to the British museum,
where it will be in future ages as great a treat to the antiquary as the
Elgin marbles. What a doleful subject--pass him by!'

'Don't forget Leon Channing,' suggested Fanny, who was listening with
great interest, and from a natural dread of ghosts and vampires was glad
to see that Mr. Rawdon had come to a crisis.

'Dear me, no!' said Henrietta, cheerily, 'it's quite refreshing to come
to an individual who creates a smile. I never was born for tears and
lamentations, Bertha, any more than a lily was made to be merry; and if
it were not for Len Channing, I don't suppose I should ever have been
sharpened to such a dangerous degree; it's this constant friction, you
know; well, as some darling of a cosmopolite has said, 'We must allow
for friction in the most perfect machinery--yes, be glad to find it--for
a certain degree of resistance is essential to strength. I like Leon
very well. No one is more safe in a parlor engagement, always in the
right place at the right tune, never embarrassed, never _de trop_; but
then the queer consciousness, when he's giving you a meringue or an ice,
that if you were a 'real pretty,' graceful, conversible fawn or dove he
would be doing it with the same interest! _Why?_ Oh, because he says
women belong to a lower order in the animal creation! Yes, veil your
face, Mr. Lenox Raleigh, and be mournful that you are a man! 'A lower
order of humanity!' Well, of course, I'm always qu