The princess then spoke a little sentence—just enough to shew how much she intended to protect Lady Avondale. She addressed herself, besides, in many dialects, to an outlandish set of menials; appointing every one in the room some trifling task, which was performed in a moment by young and old, with surprising alacrity. Such is the force of fashion and power, when skilfully applied. After this, she called Calantha: a slight exordium followed then a wily pointed catechism; her Highness nodding at intervals, and dropping short epigrammatic sentences, when necessary, to such as were in attendance around her. “Is she acting?” said Calantha, at length, in a whisper, addressing the sallow complexioned Poet, who stood sneering and simpering behind her chair. “Is she acting, or is this reality?” “It is the only reality you will ever find in the Princess,” returned her friend. “She acts the Princess of Madagascar from morning till night, and from night till morning. You may fall from favour, but you are now at the height: no one ever advanced further—none ever continued there long.” “But why,” said Lady Avondale, “do the great Nabob, and all the other Lords in waiting, with that black horde of savages”—“Reviewers, you mean, and men of talents.” “Well, whatever they are, tell me quickly why they wear collars, and chains around their necks at Barbary House?” “It is the fashion,” replied the poet. “This fashion is unbecoming your race,” said Lady Avondale: “I would die sooner than be thus enchained.” “The great Nabob,” quoth Mr. Fremore, joining in the discourse, “is the best, the kindest, the cleverest man I know; but, like some philosophers, he would sacrifice much for a peaceable life. The Princess is fond of inflicting these lesser tyrannies: she is so helplessly attached to these trifles—so overweaningly fond of exerting her powers, it were a pity to thwart her. For my own part, I could willingly bend to the yoke, provided the duration were not eternal; for observe that the chains are well gilded; that the tables are well stored; and those who bend the lowest are ever the best received.” “And if I also bow my neck,” said Calantha, “will she be grateful? May I depend upon her seeming kindness?” The Poet’s naturally pale complexion turned to a bluish green at this enquiry.