and
bag, and peach-coloured silk-stockings with silver clasps. The lady
in the mask gave a start as his Excellency came forward. "Law, mother,
don't squeege so," said Tom. The poor woman was trembling in every limb,
but she had presence of mind to "squeege" Tom a great deal harder; and
the latter took the hint, I suppose, and was silent.

The splendid Count came up. Ye gods, how his embroidery glittered in the
lamps! What a royal exhalation of musk and bergamot came from his wig,
his handkerchief, and his grand lace ruffles and frills! A broad yellow
riband passed across his breast, and ended at his hip in a shining
diamond cross--a diamond cross, and a diamond sword-hilt! Was anything
ever seen so beautiful? And might not a poor woman tremble when such
a noble creature drew near to her, and deigned, from the height of his
rank and splendour, to look down upon her? As Jove came down to Semele
in state, in his habits of ceremony, with all the grand cordons of his
orders blazing about his imperial person--thus dazzling, magnificent,
triumphant, the great Galgenstein descended towards Mrs. Catherine.
Her cheeks glowed red-hot under her coy velvet mask, her heart thumped
against the whalebone prison of her stays. What a delicious storm of
vanity was raging in her bosom! What a rush of long-pent recollections
burst forth at the sound of that enchanting voice!

As you wind up a hundred-guinea chronometer with a twopenny
watch-key--as by means of a dirty wooden plug you set all the waters of
Versailles a-raging, and splashing, and storming--in like manner, and by
like humble agents, were Mrs. Catherine's tumultuous passions set going.
The Count, we have said, slipped up to his son, and merely saying, "How
do, Tom?" cut the young gentleman altogether, and passing round to the
lady's side, said, "Madam, 'tis a charming evening--egad it is!" She
almost fainted: it was the old voice. There he was, after seventeen
years, once more at her side!

Now I know what I could have done. I can turn out a quotation from
Sophocles (by looking to the index) as well as another: I can throw off
a bit of fine writing too, with passion, similes, and a moral at the
end. What, pray, is the last sentence but one but the very finest
writing? Suppose, for example, I had made Maximilian, as he stood by the
side of Catherine, look up towards the clouds, and exclaim, in the words
of the voluptuous Cornelius Nepos,

'Aenaoi nephelai
'Arthoo