le Prince chéri of the Park and Pall Mall—his dressing-room was one mirror—his sofas pink satin—his taste was as perfect in beauty as it was in perfume—his box at the Opera exhaled every evening a varying atmosphere; it was not the night of Medea or Otello, but that of the heliotrope or the esprit des violettes;—he talked of building a rival Regent Street with his invitation cards—and actually took a cottage "all of lilies and roses" at Richmond, as fitting warehouse for his pink and blue notes, "sweets to the sweet,"—and drove even Mr. Delawarr out of his patience and politeness, by asking who was prime minister.
But, alas, for the vanity of human enjoyment! we grow weary of even our own perfection. About July, fashion took a shade of philosophy—friends became weary, we mean wearisome—pleasures stale—pursuits unprofitable—and Lorraine decided on change; he was resolved to be natural, nay, a little picturesque; all that remained was the how, when, and where. He thought of the lakes—but they are given up to new married couples, poets, and painters; next, of the Highlands—but a steam-boat had profaned Loch Lomond, and pic-nics Ben Nevis; of Greece he had already
