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“Snubbing the Viceroy.”

“Well, they are all employed, at least; and, as the French say, that’s always something. And who are the playmen now?”

“The old set. Tom Whaley and Lord Drogheda – your old friend, Giles Daxon – Sandy Moore – ”

“Ah, what of Sandy? They told me he won heavily at the October races.”

“So he did – beggared the whole club at hazard, and was robbed of the money the night after, when coming up through Naas.”

“Ha! I never heard of that, Billy. Let us hear all about it.”

“It’s soon told, sir. Sandy, who never tries economy till he has won largely, and is reckless enough of money when on the verge of ruin, heard, on leaving the course, that a strange gentleman was waiting to get some one to join him in a chaise up to Dublin. Sandy at once sent the waiter to open the negociations, which were soon concluded, and the stranger appeared – a fat, unwieldy-looking old fellow, with a powdered wig and green goggles – not a very sporting style of travelling companion; but no matter for that, he had a dark chestnut mare with him, that looked like breeding, and with strength enough for any weight over a country.

“‘She’ll follow the chaise – my son taught her that trick,’ said the old fellow, as he hobbled out of the inn, and took his place in the carriage.

“Well, in jumped Sandy, all his pockets bursting with guineas, and a book of notes crammed into his hat – very happy at his adventure, but prouder of saving half the posting than all besides.

“‘Keep to your ten miles an hour, my lad, or not a sixpence,’ said the old gentleman, and he drew his night-cap over his eyes, and was soon snoring away as sound as need be.

“That was the last was seen of him, however, for when the postillion drew up for fresh horses at Carrick’s, they found Sandy alone in the chaise, with his hands tied behind him, and his mouth gagged. His companion and the dark chestnut were off, and all the winnings along with them.”

“Cleverly done, by Jove,” cried Talbot, in an ecstacy of admiration.

“What a contemptible fellow your friend Sandy must be,” exclaimed Mark, in the same breath. “Man to man – I can’t conceive the thing possible.”

“A bold fellow, well armed, Mark,” observed Talbot, gravely, “might do the deed, and Sandy be no coward after all.”

Chatting in this wise, the first evening was spent; and if Mark was, at times, disposed to doubt the morality of his new friend, he was very far from questioning his knowledge of mankind; his observations were ever shrewd and caustic, and his views of life, those of one, who looked at the world with a scrutinizing glance, and although the young O’Donoghue would gladly have seen in his young companion some traces of the enthusiasm he himself experienced in the contemplated rising, he felt convinced that a cooler judgment, and a more calculating head than his, were indispensable requisites to a cause beset with so many dangers. He, therefore, implicitly yielded himself to Talbot’s guidance, resolving not to go anywhere, nor see any one, even his brother, save with his knowledge and consent.

If the scenes into which Talbot introduced Mark O’Donoghue were not those of fashionable life, they were certainly as novel and exciting to one so young and inexperienced. The taverns resorted to by young men of fashion, the haunts of sporting characters, the tennis court, but more frequently still the houses where high play was carried on, he was all familiar with – knew the precise type of the company at each, and not a little of their private history; still it seemed as if he himself were but little known, and rather received for the recommendation of good address and engaging manners, than from any circumstance of previous acquaintance. Mark was astonished at this, as well as that, although now several weeks in Dublin, Talbot had made no advance towards introducing him to the leading members of the insurgent party, and latterly had even but very rarely alluded to the prospect of the contemplated movement.

The young O’Donoghue was not one to harbour any secret thought long unuttered in his breast, and he briefly expressed to Talbot his surprise – almost his dissatisfaction – at the life they were leading. At first Talbot endeavoured to laugh off such inquiries, or turn them aside by some passing pleasantry; but when more closely pressed, he avowed that his present part was a duty imposed upon him by his friends in France, who desired above all things to ascertain the feeling among young men of family and fortune in the metropolis – how they really felt affected towards England, and with what success, should French republicanism fail to convert them, would the fascinations of Parisian elegance and vice be thrown around them.

“There must be bribes for all temperaments, Mark,” said he, at the end of a very lengthened detail of his views and stratagems. “Glory is enough for such as you, and happily you can have wherewithal to satisfy a craving appetite; but some must be bought by gold, some by promises of vengeance upon others, some by indemnities for past offences, and not a few by the vague hope of change, which disappointed men ever regard as for the better. To sound the depths of all such motives is part of my mission here, and hence, I have rigidly avoided those by whom I am more than slightly known; but in a week or two I shall exchange this part for another, and then, Mark, we shall mix in the gayer world of the squares, where your fair cousin shines so brilliantly. Meanwhile have a little patience with me, and suffer me to seem sometimes inconsistent, that I may be least so in reality. I see you are not satisfied with me, Mark, and I am sorry to incur a friend’s reproach even for a brief season; but come – I make you a pledge. To-day is the 12th; in five days more the Viceroy gives his St. Patrick’s ball, at which I am to meet one of our confederates. You seem surprised at this; but where can man speak treason so safely as under the canopy of the Throne?”

“But how do you mean to go there? You do not surely expect an invitation.”

“Of course not; but I shall go notwithstanding, and you with me. Ay, Mark, never frown and shake your head. This same ball is a public assembly, to which all presented at the Levees are eligible, without any bidding or invitation. Who is to say that Harry Talbot and Mark O’Donoghue have not paid their homage to mock royalty? If you mean that there is some danger in the step, I agree with you there is; but you are not the man, I take it, to flinch on that account.”

This adroit stroke of Talbot’s settled the matter; and Mark felt ashamed to offer any objection to a course, which, however disinclined to, he now believed was accompanied by a certain amount of peril.

CHAPTER XXXII. A PRESAGE OF DANGER

When the long-wished-for evening drew nigh, in which Talbot had pledged himself to reveal to Mark the circumstances of their enterprise, and to make him known to those concerned in the plot, his manner became flurried and excited; – he answered, when spoken to, with signs of impatience, and seemed so engrossed by his own thoughts, as to be unable to divert his attention from them. Mark, in general the reverse of a shrewd observer, perceived this, and attributing it to the heavy losses he had latterly incurred at play, forebore in any way to notice the circumstance, and from his silence Talbot became probably more indifferent to appearances, and placed less restraint on his conduct. He drank, too, more freely than was his wont, and appeared like one desirous by any means to rid himself of some unwelcome reflections.

“It is almost time to dress, Mark,” said he, with an effort to seem easy and unconcerned. “Let us have another flask of Burgundy before we go.”

“I’ll have no more wine, nor you, if you will be advised by me, either,” said Mark, gravely.

“Ha! then you would imply I have drank too much already, Mark? Not far wrong there, perhaps, and under ordinary circumstances such would be the case; but there are times when the mind, like the body, demands double nourishment, and with me wine strengthens, never confuses thought. Do you know, Mark, that I have a presentiment of some evil before me; – whence, and in what shape it is to come, I cannot tell you; but I feel it as certain as if it had been revealed to me.”

“You are despondent about our prospects,” said Mark, gloomily.

Talbot made no answer, but leaned his head on the chimney-piece, and seemed buried in deep thought; – then recovering himself, he said, in a low, but distinct accent —

“Did you take notice of a fellow at the tennis-court the other day, who stood beside me all the time I was settling with the marker? Oh! I forgot – you were not there. Well, there was such a one – a flashy-looking, vulgar fellow, with that cast of countenance that betokens shrewdness and cunning. I met him yesterday in the Park, and this evening, as I came to dinner, I saw him talking to the landlord’s nephew, in the hall.”

“Well, and what of all that? If any one should keep account of where and how often he had seen either of us, this week past, might he not conjure up suspicions fully as strong as your’s? Let us begin to take fright at shadows, and we shall make but a sorry hand of it, when real dangers approach us.”

“The shadows are the warnings, Mark, and the wise man never neglects a warning.”

“He who sees thunder in every dark cloud above him, is but the fool of his own fears,” said Mark, rudely, and walked towards the window. “Is that anything like your friend, Talbot?” added he, as he beheld the dark outline of a figure, which seemed standing, intently looking up at the window.

“The very fellow!” cried Talbot; for at the moment a passing gleam of light fell upon the figure, and marked it out distinctly.

“There is something about him I can half recognize myself,” said Mark; “but he is so muffled up with great-coat and cravat, I cannot clearly distinguish him.”

“Indeed! Do, for heaven’s sake, think of where you saw him, and when, Mark; for I own my anxiety about him is more than common.”

“I’ll soon find out for you,” said Mark, suddenly seizing his hat; – but at the same instant the door opened, and a waiter appeared.

“There’s a gentleman below stairs, Mr. Talbot, would be glad to speak a few words with you.”

Talbot motioned, by an almost imperceptible gesture, that Mark should retire into the adjoining room; and then, approaching the waiter, asked, in a low cautious voice, if the stranger were known to him.

“No, sir – never saw him before. He seems like one from the country: Mr. Crossley says he’s from the south.”

“Show him up,” said Talbot, hurriedly; and, as the waiter left the room, he seated himself in his chair, in an attitude of well-assumed carelessness and ease. This was scarcely done, when the stranger entered, and closed the door behind him.

“Good evening to you, Mr. Talbot. I hope I see your honor well,” said he, in an accent of very unmistakable Kerry Doric.

“Good evening to you, friend,” replied Talbot. “My memory is not so good as yours, or I’d call you by your name also.”

“I’m Lanty Lawler, sir – that man that sold your honor the dark chesnut mare down in the county Kerry, last winter. I was always wishing to see your honor again, by reason of that same.

“How so?” said Talbot, getting suddenly paler, but with no other appearance of emotion in his manner. “Was not our contract honestly concluded at the time?”

“It was, sir – there’s no doubt of it. Your honor paid like a gentleman, and in goold besides; – but that’s just the business I come about here. It was French money you gave me, and I got into trouble about it – some saying that I was a spy, and others making out that I was, maybe, worse; and so I thought I wouldn’t pass any more of it, till I seen yourself, and maybe you’d change it for me.”

While he was speaking, Talbot’s eye never wandered from him – not fixed, indeed, with any seeming scrutiny, but still intently watching every play of his features.

“You told me at the time, however, that French gold was just as convenient to you as English,” said he, smiling good-humouredly, “and from the company I met you in, I found no difficulty in believing you.”

“The times is changed, sir,” said Lanty, sighing. “God help us – we must do the best we can.”

This evasive answer seemed perfectly to satisfy Talbot, who assented with a shake of the head, as he said —

“Very well, Lanty; if you will come here to-morrow, I’ll exchange your gold for you.”

“Thank your honor kindly,” said Lanty, with a bow; but still making no sign of leaving the room, where he stood, changing from one foot to the other, in an attitude of bashful diffidence. “There was another little matter, sir, but I’d be sorry to trouble you about it – and sure you couldn’t help it, besides.”

“And that is – Let us hear it, Lanty.”

“Why, sir, it’s the horse – the mare with the one white fetlock. They say, sir, that she was left at Moran’s stables by the man that robbed Mr. Moore of Moorecroft. Deaf Collison, the post-boy, can swear to her; and as I bought her myself at Dycer’s, they are calling me to account for when I sold her, and to whom.”

“Why, there’s no end to your trouble about that unlucky beast, Lanty,” said Talbot, laughing; “and I confess it’s rather hard, that you are not only expected to warrant your horse sound, but must give a guarantee that the rider is honest.”

“Devil a lie in it, but that’s just it,” said Lanty, who laughed heartily at the notion.

“Well, we must look to this for you, Lanty; for although I have no desire to have my name brought forward, still you must not suffer on that account. I remember paying my bill at Rathmallow with that same mare. She made an overreach coming down a hill, and became dead lame with me; and I gave her to the landlord of the little inn in the square, in lieu of my score.”

“See now, what liars there’s in the world!” said Lanty, holding up his hands in pious horror. “Ould Finn of the Head Inn tould me she ate a feed of oats at the door, and started again for Askeaton, with a gentleman just like your honor, the night after I sold her. He knew the mare well; and by the same token he said she was galled on the shoulder with holsters that was fixed to the saddle. Now, think of that, and he after buying her! Is it early in the morning I’m to come to your honor?” said he, moving towards the door.

“Yes – that is – no, Lanty, no – about twelve o’clock. I’m a late riser. Wait a moment, Lanty; I have something more to say to you, if I could only remember it.” He passed his hand across his brow as he spoke, and looked like one labouring to recall some lost thought. “No matter,” said he, after a pause of some minutes; “I shall perhaps recollect it before to-morrow.”

“Good night to you, then, sir,” said Lanty, with a most obsequious bow, as he opened the door.

Their eyes met: it was only for a moment; but with such intelligence did each glance read the other, that they both smiled significantly. Talbot moved quickly forward at the instant, and closing the door with one hand, he laid the other gently on Lanty’s shoulder.

“Come, Lanty,” said he, jocularly, “I can afford to sport ten pounds for a whim. Tell me who it was sent you after me this evening, and I’ll give you the money.”

“Done, then!” cried Lanty, grasping his hand; “And you’ll ask no more than his name?”

“Nothing more. I pledge my word; and here’s the money.”

“Captain Hemsworth, the agent to the rich Englishman in Glen-flesk.”

“I don’t think I ever saw him in my life – I’m certain I don’t know him. Is he a tall, dark man?”

“I’ll tell you no more,” said Lanty. “The devil a luck I ever knew come of speaking of him.”

“All fair, Lanty – a bargain’s a bargain; and so, good-night.” And with a shake-hands of affected cordiality, they parted.

“Your conference has been a long one,” said Mark, who waited with impatience, until the silence without permitted him to come forth.

“Not so long as I could have wished it,” was Talbot’s reply, as he stood in deep thought over what had passed. “It is just as I feared, Mark; there is danger brewing for me in some quarter, but how, and in what shape, I cannot even guess. This same horsedealer, this Lanty Lawler – ”

“Lanty Lawler, did you say?”

“Yes. You know him, then?”

“To be sure I do. We’ve had many dealings together. He’s a shrewd fellow, and not over-scrupulous in the way of his trade; but, apart from that, he’s a true-hearted, honest fellow, and a friend to the cause.”

“You think so, Mark,” said Talbot, with a smile of significant meaning.

“I know it, Talbot. He is not an acquaintance of yesterday with me. I have known him for years long. He is as deep in the plot as any, and perhaps has run greater risks than either of us.”

“Well, well,” said Talbot, sighing, as though either weary of the theme, or disinclined to contradict the opinion; “let us think of other matters. Shall we go to this ball or not? I incline to say nay.”

“What! Not go there?” said Mark, starting back in astonishment. “Why, what in heaven’s name have we been waiting for, but this very opportunity? – and what reason is there now to turn from our plans?”

“There may be good and sufficient ones, even though they should be purely personal to myself,” said Talbot, in a tone of ill-dissembled pique. “But come; we will go. I have been walking over a mine too long to care for a mere petard. And now, let us lose no more time, but dress at once.”

“Must I really wear this absurd dress, Talbot? For very shame’s sake, I shall not be able to look about me.”

“That you must, Mark. Remember that your safety lies in the fact that we attract no notice of any kind. To be as little remarked as possible is our object; and for this reason I shall wear the uniform of an English militia regiment, of which there are many at every Levee. We shall separate on entering the room, and meet only from time to time; but as we go along, I’ll give you all your instructions. And now to dress, as quickly as may be.”

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE ST. PATRICK’S BALL

Much as O’Donoghue marvelled at the change effected in his own appearance by the court dress, he was still more surprised at finding what a complete transformation his friend Talbot had undergone. The scarlet uniform seemed to make him appear larger and fatter; while the assumption of a pair of dark whiskers added several years to his apparent age, and totally changed the character of his countenance.

“I see by your face, Mark,” said he, laughing, “that the disguise is complete. You could scarcely recognise me – I may safely defy most others?”

“But you are taller, I think?”

“About an inch and a-half only – false heels inside my boots give me a slight advantage over you. Don’t be jealous, however, I’m not your match on a fair footing.”

This flattery seemed successful, for Mark smiled, and reddened slightly. As they drove along, Talbot entered minutely into an account of the people they should meet with – warning Mark of the necessity there existed to avoid any, even the most trivial, sign of astonishment at anything he saw – to mix with the crowd, and follow the current from room to room, carefully guarding against making any chance acquaintance – and, above all, not to be recognised by his cousin Kate, if by any accident he should be near her.

In the midst of these directions, Talbot was interrupted by the sudden stoppage of the carriages in the line, which already extended above a mile from the Castle gate.

“Here we are at last, Mark, in the train of the courtiers – does your patriotism burn for the time when your homage shall be rendered to a native Sovereign. Ha! there goes one of the privileged class – that carriage, with the two footmen, is the Lord Chancellor’s, he has the right of the private ‘entrée,’ and takes the lead of such humble folk as we are mixed up with.”

A deep groan from the mob burst forth, as the equipage, thus noticed, dashed forward. Such manifestations of public feeling were then frequent, and not always limited to mere expressions of dislike. The very circumstance of quitting the regular line, and passing the rest, seemed to evoke popular indignation, and it was wonderful with what readiness the mob caught up allusions to the public or private life of those, thus momentarily exposed to their indignation. Some speech or vote in Parliament – some judicial sentence – or some act or event in their private history, was at once recalled and criticised, in a manner far more frank than flattering. None escaped this notice, for, notwithstanding the strong force of mounted police that kept the street clear, some adventurous spirit was always ready to rush forward to the carriage window, and in a moment announce to the others the name of its occupant. By all this, Mark was greatly amused – he had few sympathies with those in little favour with the multitude, and could afford to laugh at the sallies which assailed the members of the Government. The taunting sarcasms and personal allusions, of which the Irish members were not sparing in the house, were here repeated by those, who suffered the severity to lose little of its sting in their own version.

“Look at Flood, boys – there’s the old vulture with broken beak and cadaverous aspect – a groan for Flood,” and the demand was answered by thousands.

“There’s Tom Connolly,” shouted a loud voice, “three cheers for the Volunteers – three cheers for Castletown.”

“Thank you, boys, thank you,” said a rich mellow voice, as in their enthusiasm the mob pressed around the carriage of the popular member, and even shook hands with the footmen behind the carriage.

“Here’s Luttrel, here’s Luttrel,” cried out several together, and in a moment the excitement, which before was all of joy, assumed a character of deepest execration.

Aware of the popular feeling towards him, this gentleman’s carriage was guarded by two troopers of the horse police – nor was the precaution needless, for no sooner was he recognised, than a general rush was made by the mob, and for a moment or two the carriage was separated from the rest of the line.

“Groan him, boys, groan him, but don’t touch the traitor,” shouted a savage-looking fellow, who stood a head and shoulders above the crowd.

“Couldn’t you afford to buy new liveries with the eighty thousand pounds the Government gave you,” yelled another, and the sally was responded to with a burst of savage laughter.

“Throw us out a penny,” called a third, “it will treat all your friends in Ireland – let him go, boys, let him go on, he’s only stopping the way of his betters.”

“Here’s the man that knows how to spend his money – three cheers for the Englishman from Stephen’s-green – three cheers for Sir Marmaduke Travers,” and the cheers burst forth with an enthusiasm that showed, how much more a character for benevolence and personal kindness conciliated mob estimation, than all the attributes of political partizanship.

“Bring us a lamp here, bring us a lamp,” cried a miserable object in tattered rags, “take down a lamp, boys, till we have a look at the two beauties,” and strange as the suggestion may seem, it was hailed with a cry of triumphal delight, and in another moment a street lamp was taken from its place and handed over the heads of the mob, to the very window of Sir Marmaduke’s carriage; while the old Baronet, kindly humouring the eccentricity of the people, lowered the glass to permit them to see in. A respectful silence extended over that crowd, motley and miserable as it was, and they stood in mute admiration, not venturing upon a word nor a remark, until as it were overcome by a spontaneous feeling of enthusiasm they broke forth into one loud cheer that echoed from the College to the very gates of the Castle; and with blessings deep and fervent, as they would have bestowed for some real favour, the carriage was allowed to proceed on its way once more.

“Here’s Morris, here’s the Colonel,” was now the cry, and a burst of as merry laughter as ever issued from happy hearts, welcomed the new arrival; “make him get out, boys, make him get out, and show us his legs, that’s the fellow ran away in Flanders,” and before the mirth had subsided, the unhappy Colonel had passed on.

“Who’s this in the hackney-coach?” said one, as the carriage in which Talbot and Mark were seated came up. The window was let down in a moment, and Talbot, leaning his head out, whispered a few words in a low voice; whatever their import, their effect was magical, and a hurra, as wild as the war-cry of an Indian, shook the street.

“What was it you said?” cried Mark.

“Three word in Irish,” said Talbot, laughing; “they are the only three in my vocabulary, and their meaning is ‘wait awhile;’ and somehow, it would seem a very significant intimation to Irishmen.”

The carriage moved on, and the two friends soon alighted in the brilliantly-illuminated vestibule, now lined with battleaxe-guards, and resounding with the clangor of a brass band. Mixing with the crowd that poured up the staircase, they passed into the first drawing-room, without stopping to write their names, as was done by the others, Talbot telling Mark, in a whisper, to move up and follow him closely.

The distressing impression, that he himself would be an object of notice and remark to others, and which had up to that very moment tortured him, gave way at once, as he found himself in that splendid assemblage, where beauty, in all the glare of dress and jewels, abounded, and where, for the first time, the world of fashion and elegance burst upon his astonished senses. The courage that, with dauntless nerve, would have led him to the cannon’s mouth, now actually faltered, and made him feel faint-hearted, to find himself mixing with those among whom he had no right to be present. Talbot’s shrewd intelligence seemed to divine what was passing in Mark’s mind, for he took him by the arm, and as he led him forward, whispered, from time to time, certain particulars of the company, intended to satisfy him, that, however distinguished by rank and personal appearance, in reality, their characters had little claim to his respect. With such success did he demolish reputations – so fatally did his sarcasms depreciate those against whom they were directed – that, ere long, Mark moved along in utter contempt for that gorgeous throng, which at first had impressed him so profoundly. To hear that the proud-looking general, his coat a blaze of orders, was a coward; that the benign and mild-faced judge was a merciless, unrelenting tyrant; that the bishop, whose simple bearing and gentle quietude of manner were most winning, was in reality a crafty place-hunter and a subtle “intrigant” – such were the lessons Talbot poured into his ear, while amid the ranks of beauty still more deadly calumnies pointed all he said.

“Society is rotten to the very core here, Mark,” said he, bitterly. “There never was a land nor an age when profligacy stood so high in the market. It remains to be seen if our friends will do better – for a time, at least, they are almost certain to do so; but now, that I have shown you something of the company, let us separate, lest we be remarked. This pillar can always be our rallying spot. Whenever you want me, come here;” and so saying, and with a slight pressure of his hand, Talbot mixed with the crowd, and soon was lost to Mark’s view.

Talbot’s revelations served at first to impair the pleasure Mark experienced in the brilliant scene around him; but when once more alone, the magnetic influence of a splendour so new, and of beauty so dazzling, appealed to his heart far more powerfully than the cold sarcasms of his companion. Glances which, directed to others, he caught in passing, and felt with a throb of ecstasy within his own bosom; bright eyes, that beamed not for him, sent a glow of delight through his frame. The atmosphere of pleasure which he had never breathed before, now warmed the current of his blood, and his pulse beat high and madly. All the bitter thoughts he had harboured against his country’s enemies could not stand before his admiration of that gorgeous assemblage, and he felt ashamed to think that he, and such as he, should conspire the downfall of a system, whose very externals were so captivating. He wandered thus from room to room in a dream of pleasure – now stopping to gaze at the dancers, then moving towards some of the refreshment-rooms, where parties were seated in familiar circles, all in the full enjoyment of the brilliant festivity. Like a child roaming at will through some beauteous garden, heightening enjoyment by the rapid variety of new pleasures, and making in the quick transition of sensations a source of more fervid delight, so did he pass from place to place, and in this way time stole by, and he utterly forgot the rendezvous he had arranged with Talbot. At last, suddenly remembering this, he endeavoured to find out the place, and in doing so was forced to pass through a card-room, where several parties were now at play. Around one of the tables a greater crowd than usual was assembled. There, as he passed, Mark thought he overheard Talbot’s voice. He stopped and drew near, and, with some little difficulty, making his way through, perceived his friend seated at the table, deeply engaged in what, if he were to judge from the heap of gold before him, seemed very high play. His antagonist was an old, fine-looking man, in the uniform of a general officer; but while Mark looked, he arose, and his place was taken by another – the etiquette being, that the winner should remain until he ceased to win.

“He has passed eleven times,” said a gentleman to his friend, in Mark’s hearing; “he must at least have won four hundred pounds.”

“Do you happen to know who he is?”

“No; nor do I know any one that does. There! – see! – he has won again.”

“He’s a devilish cool player – that’s certain. I never saw a man more collected.”

“He studies his adversary far more than his cards – I remark that.”

“Oh! here’s old Clangoff come to try his luck:” and an opening of the crowd was now made to permit a tall and very old man to approach the table. Very much stooped in the shoulders, and with snow-white hair, Lord Clangoff still preserved the remains of one who in his youth had been the handsomest man of his day. Although simply dressed in the Windsor uniform, the brilliant rings he wore upon his fingers, and the splendour of a gold snuff-box surrounded by enormous diamonds, evinced the taste for magnificence for which he was celebrated. There was an air of dignity with which he took his seat, saluting the acquaintances he recognised about him, very strikingly in contrast with the familiar manners then growing into vogue, while in the courteous urbanity of his bow to Talbot, his whole breeding was revealed.