self no airs; but walks into a house with a knock and a demeanor so
tremulous and humble, that the servants rather patronize him. He does
not speak, or have any particular opinions, but when the time comes,
begins to dance. He bleats out a word or two to his partner during this
operation, seems very weak and sad during the whole performance, and, of
course, is set to dance with the ugliest women everywhere.

The gentle, kind spirit! when I think of him night after night, hopping
and jigging, and trudging off to Kentish Town, so gently, through the
fogs, and mud, and darkness: I do not know whether I ought to admire
him, because his enjoyments are so simple, and his dispositions so
kindly; or laugh at him, because he draws his life so exquisitely mild.
Well, well, we can't be all roaring lions in this world; there must be
SOME lambs, and harmless, kindly, gregarious creatures for eating
and shearing. See! even good-natured Mrs. Perkins is leading up the
trembling Larkins to the tremendous Miss Bunion!

MISS BUNION.

The Poetess, author of "Heartstrings," "The Deadly Nightshade," "Passion
Flowers," &c. Though her poems breathe only of love, Miss B. has never
been married. She is nearly six feet high; she loves waltzing beyond
even poesy; and I think lobster-salad as much as either. She confesses
to twenty-eight; in which case her first volume, "The Orphan of Gozo,"
(cut up by Mr. Rigby, in the Quarterly, with his usual kindness,) must
have been published when she was three years old.

For a woman all soul, she certainly eats as much as any woman I ever
saw. The sufferings she has had to endure, are, she says, beyond
compare; the poems which she writes breathe a withering passion, a
smouldering despair, an agony of spirit that would melt the soul of a
drayman, were he to read them. Well, it is a comfort to see that she
can dance of nights, and to know (for the habits of illustrious literary
persons are always worth knowing) that she eats a hot mutton-chop for
breakfast every morning of her blighted existence.

She lives in a boardinghouse at Brompton, and comes to the party in a
fly.

MR. HICKS.

It is worth twopence to see Miss Bunion and Poseidon Hicks, the great
poet, conversing with one another, and to talk of one to the other
afterwards. How they hate each other! I (in my wicked way) have sent
Hicks almost raving mad, by praising Bunion to him in confidence; and
you can drive Bunion out of the room by