edition of ladies now struck Seymour vividly,
and said he: 'I 'll be secretary'; and began applying to the ladies
for permission to put down their names. Many declined, with brevity,
muttering, either aloud or to themselves, 'unwomanly'; varied by
'unladylike': some confessed cowardice; some a horror of the noise
close to their ears; and there was the plea of nerves. But the names of
half-a-dozen ladies were collected, and then followed much laughter, and
musical hubbub, and delicate banter. So the ladies and gentlemen fell
one and all into the partridge pit dug for them by the Countess: and
that horrible 'Hem!' equal in force and terror to the roar of artillery
preceding the charge of ten thousand dragoons, was silenced--the pit
appeared impassable. Did the Countess crow over her advantage? Mark her:
the lady's face is entirely given up to partridges. 'English sports are
so much envied abroad,' she says: but what she dreads is a reflection,
for that leads off from the point. A portion of her mind she keeps to
combat them in Lady Jocelyn and others who have the tendency: the rest
she divides between internal-prayers for succour, and casting about
for another popular subject to follow partridges. Now, mere talent, as
critics say when they are lighting candles round a genius, mere talent
would have hit upon pheasants as the natural sequitur, and then
diverged to sports--a great theme, for it ensures a chorus of sneers at
foreigners, and so on probably to a discussion of birds and beasts best
adapted to enrapture the palate of man. Stories may succeed, but they
are doubtful, and not to be trusted, coming after cookery. After an
exciting subject which has made the general tongue to wag, and just
enough heated the brain to cause it to cry out for spiced food--then
start your story: taking care that it be mild; for one too marvellous
stops the tide, the sense of climax being strongly implanted in all
bosoms. So the Countess told an anecdote--one of Mel's. Mr. George
Uplift was quite familiar with it, and knew of one passage that would
have abashed him to relate 'before ladies.' The sylph-like ease with
which the Countess floated over this foul abysm was miraculous. Mr.
George screwed his eye-lids queerly, and closed his jaws with a report,
completely beaten. The anecdote was of the character of an apologue,
and pertained to game. This was, as it happened, a misfortune; for Mr.
Raikes had felt himself left behind by the subject;