shame at their short blue silk skirts. Sultanas radiant in their mothers' diamonds, which they seemed terribly afraid of losing; and beauties in the style of Charles the Second, wholly engrossed by the relaxation of their ringlets.
But if the ladies were bad, the cavaliers were worse. Was there a youth with a bright English colour, and a small nose with an elevated termination, "he stuck a turban on his brow, and called himself Abdallah." Was there a "delicate atomy" of minute dimensions and pale complexion, he forthwith strutted a hardy Highlander. But our very pages would grow weary were we to enumerate the solemn Rochesters, the heavy Buckinghams, contrasted by Spaniards all slip, slide, and smile—and officers with nothing warlike about them but their regimentals. The very drawing-rooms partook of the general discomfort: one was fitted up as a Turkish tent, where, à propos des Turcs, the visitors drank champagne and punch; while a scene in Lapland, terribly true as to chilliness, was filled with écarté players and most rheumatic draughts. The master of the house wandered about, looking as if he longed to ask his way; and the mistress, who was queen of some country—whether African or
