ifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Dingwall might be
properly impressed with their amiable treatment.

Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson the writing-master, and his wife.
The wife in green silk, with shoes and cap-trimmings to correspond: the
writing-master in a white waistcoat, black knee-shorts, and ditto silk
stockings, displaying a leg large enough for two writing-masters. The
young ladies whispered one another, and the writing-master and his wife
flattered the Miss Crumptons, who were dressed in amber, with long
sashes, like dolls.

Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous to particularise:
papas and mammas, and aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the
different pupils; the singing-master, Signor Lobskini, in a black wig;
the piano-forte player and the violins; the harp, in a state of
intoxication; and some twenty young men, who stood near the door, and
talked to one another, occasionally bursting into a giggle. A general
hum of conversation. Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of by
fat mammas, who looked like the stout people who come on in pantomimes
for the sole purpose of being knocked down.

The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival; and he having, at the
request of the Miss Crumptons, undertaken the office of Master of the
Ceremonies, the quadrilles commenced with considerable spirit. The young
men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of the room, and in
time became sufficiently at ease to consent to be introduced to partners.
The writing-master danced every set, springing about with the most
fearful agility, and his wife played a rubber in the back-parlour--a
little room with five book-shelves, dignified by the name of the study.
Setting her down to whist was a half-yearly piece of generalship on the
part of the Miss Crumptons; it was necessary to hide her somewhere, on
account of her being a fright.

The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl present, who
appeared to take no interest in the proceedings of the evening. In vain
was she solicited to dance; in vain was the universal homage paid to her
as the daughter of a member of parliament. She was equally unmoved by
the splendid tenor of the inimitable Lobskini, and the brilliant
execution of Miss Laetitia Parsons, whose performance of 'The
Recollections of Ireland' was universally declared to be almost equal to
that of Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement of the arrival o