When the thunders of a people smite the quailing despot’s ear, And the earthquake of rebellion heaves-- No, I can’t get it right. How those cursed fiddlers are scraping! and either that glass maligns me, or I look a little drunk! This life don’t suit my style of beauty--something must be done. Shall I marry and pull up? Marry--will I! Bow my cultivated intellect before some savage maiden, and fatten like a tethered calf on the flat swamps of domestic respectability. Straps! go down and find out if many of the people are come.” “Several of the townspeople have arrived, my lord; but few of the county families as yet,” replies Straps, whose knowledge of a member of parliament’s duties would have qualified him to represent Guyville as well as his master. Lord Mount Helicon accordingly completes his toilet and proceeds to the ball-room, still mentally harping on “the thunders of a people,” and “the quailing despot’s ear.” The townspeople have indeed arrived in very sufficient numbers, yet is there a strong line of demarcation between their plebeian ranks and those of “the county families” huddled together at the upper end of the room. Britannia! Britannia! when will you cease to bring your coat-of-arms into society, and to smother your warm heart and sociable nature under pedigrees, and rent-rolls, and dreary conventionalities? When you do, you will enjoy yourself all the more, and be respected none the less. You will be equally efficient as a chaperon, though the trident be not always pointed on the defensive; and the lion may be an excellent watch-dog, without being trained to growl at every fellow-creature who does not happen to keep a carriage. His lordship’s business, however, lies chiefly with those, so to speak, below the salt. Voters are they, or, more important still, voters’ wives and daughters, and, as such, must be propitiated; for Mount Helicon, we need scarcely inform our readers, is not an English peerage, and my lord may probably require to sit again for the same incorruptible borough. So he bows to _this_ lady, and flirts with _that_, and submits to be patted on the shoulder and twaddled to by a fat little man, primed with port, but who, when not thus bemused, is an influential member of his committee, and a staunch supporter on the hustings. Nay more, with an effort that he deserves infinite credit for concealing with such good grace, he offers his arm to the red-haired daughter of his literally _warm_ supporter, and leads the well-pleased damsel, blushing much, and mindful “to keep her head up,” right away to the county families’ quadrille at the top of the room, where she dances _vis-à-vis_--actually _vis-à-vis_--to Miss Kettering and Captain Lacquers.