hover, ofttimes I hover," which poor Foker began
piteously to hum, as he sat up in his bed under the crimson silken
coverlet. Opposite him was a French Print, of a Turkish lady and her
Greek lover, surprised by a venerable Ottoman, the lady's husband; on
the other wall was a French print of a gentleman and lady, riding and
kissing each other at full gallop; all round the chaste bedroom were
more French prints, either portraits of gauzy nymphs of the Opera, or
lovely illustrations of the novels; or mayhap, an English chef-d'oeuvre
or two, in which Miss Calverley of T. R. E. O. would be represented in
tight pantaloons in her favourite page part; or Miss Rougemont as Venus;
their value enhanced by the signatures of these ladies, Maria Calverley,
or Frederica Rougemont, inscribed underneath the prints in an exquisite
facsimile. Such were the pictures in which honest Harry delighted. He
was no worse than many of his neighbours; he was an idle jovial kindly
fast man about town; and if his rooms were rather profusely decorated
with works of French art, so that simple Lady Agnes, his mamma on
entering the apartments where her darling sate enveloped in fragrant
clouds of Latakia, was often bewildered by the novelties which she
beheld there, why, it must be remembered, that he was richer than most
young men, and could better afford to gratify his taste.

A letter from Miss Calverley written in a very degage style of
spelling and handwriting, scrawling freely over the filagree paper, and
commencing by calling Mr. Harry, her dear Hokey-pokey-fokey, lay on his
bed table by his side, amidst keys, sovereigns, cigar-cases, and a bit
of verbena, which Miss Amory had given him, and reminding him of the
arrival of the day when he was 'to stand that dinner at the Elefant and
Castle, at Richmond, which he had promised;' a card for a private box
at Miss Rougemont's approaching benefit, a bundle of tickets for 'Ben
Budgeon's night, the North Lancashire Pippin, at Martin Faunce's, the
Three-cornered Hat, in St. Martin's Lane; where Conkey Sam, Dick the
Nailor, and Deadman (the Worcestershire Nobber), would put on the
gloves, and the lovers of the good old British sport were invited to
attend'--these and sundry other memoirs of Mr. Foker's pursuits and
pleasure lay on the table by his side when he woke.

Ah! how faint all these pleasures seemed now. What did he care for
Conkey Sam or the Worcestershire Nobber? What for the French prints
oglin