mes;
prints, after Ross, of her Majesty and Prince Albert, of course; and
mezzotints of the Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert Peel, for whom the
gentility-monger has a profound respect, and of whom he talks with a
familiarity showing that it is not _his_ fault, at least, if these
exalted personages do not admit him to the honour of their acquaintance.

In fact, you see the drawing-room is not intended for sitting down in,
and when the lady appears, you are inclined to believe she never sits
down; at least the full-blown swell of that satin skirt seems never
destined to the compression of a chair. The conversation is as
usual--"Have you read the morning paper?"--meaning the Court Circular
and fashionable intelligence; "do you know whether the Queen is at
Windsor or Claremont, and how long her Majesty intends to remain;
whether town is fuller than it was, or not so full; when the next
Almacks' ball takes place; whether you were at the last drawing-room,
and which of the fair _debutantes_ you most admire; whether Tamburini is
to be denied us next year?" with many lamentations touching the possible
defection, as if the migrations of an opera thrush were of the least
consequence to any rational creature--of course you don't say so, but
lament Tamburini as if he were your father; "whether it is true that we
are to have the two Fannies, Taglioni and Cerito, this season; and what
a heaven of delight we shall experience from the united action of these
twenty supernatural pettitoes." You needn't express yourself after this
fashion, else you will shock miss, who lounges near you in an agony of
affected rapture: you must sigh, shrug your shoulders, twirl your cane,
and say "divine--yes--hope it may be so--exquisite--_exquisite_." This
naturally leads you to the last new songs, condescendingly exhibited to
you by miss, if you are _somebody_, (if _nobody_, miss does not appear;)
you are informed that "_My heart is like a pickled salmon_" is dedicated
to the Duchess of Mundungus, and thereupon you are favoured with sundry
passages (out of Debrett) upon the intermarriages, &c., of that
illustrious family; you are asked whether Bishop is the composer of "_I
saw her in a twinkling_," and whether the _minor_ is not fine? Miss
tells you she has transposed it from G to C, as suiting her voice
better--whereupon mamma acquaints you, that a hundred and twenty guineas
for a harp is moderate, she thinks; you think so too, taking that
opportunity