Next to him sat the stately, intellectual, and warm-hearted Mrs. ——, who, according to her witty neighbour, always looks “up to an epic.” I suppose he will call _this_ a betrayal of confidence; but when these pages meet his eyes, I shall fortunately be far beyond the reach of his cutlass-irony; so spare yourself, till I come back, “most potent, grave, and reverend seignor,” and don’t “waste your _satire_ on the desert air.” In earnest conversation with the lovely and loveable Mrs. S——, was young ——. His rare and pure intellect; his “Doric delicacy” of taste; his gentle and winning manners; his sensitive, generous, and trustful nature, are best appreciated by those who know him best. Well—first we played the game of “What is my thought like.” Smile not, sagacious reader—Canning did the same. Several good answers were elicited in the course of the game, among which were the following:— “Why is a dew-drop like Miss R’s sash?” “Because it trembles on a flower.” “Why is fame like a clasp?” “Because it is all a catch.” “Why is Mrs. —— like an omnibus?” “Because we are all carried away by her.” “Why is my heart like a mirror?” “Because you can see _yourself_ in it.” When the game was over, one of the gentlemen took from his pocket a volume of poems, by that Proteus author, “Anon,” of which he happened to have the only copy in the country, and read aloud the following verses, in a voice tremulous with the weight of its own melody and feeling:— TO ——. You would make hearts your stepping stones to power. And trample on them in your triumph-hour; But mine was formed for nobler fate than this, It knows the treachery of your Judas-kiss. You talk of “lofty feelings pure and high, Too pure, alas!” and then you gently sigh; You mourn the trials, which a soul like yours, So true—amid the meaner herd endures. You say ’tis sad, but yet you would not part, For worlds, with that proud dignity of heart! Now never breathed in woman’s breast, I ween. So poor a spirit, ’neath so bold a mien. I’ve learned you well—too well—your serpent-smile Is fond and fair; but cannot “me beguile.” I’ve seen it called, and on your soft lip worn, To win a heart those lips had laughed to scorn. I’ve heard that voice—’tis very sweet, I own, Almost _too much_ of softness in its tone; I’ve heard its tender modulations tried, On one you’d just been slandering—aside. I’ve seen you welcome, with that fond embrace, A friend who trusted in your frank, bright face; And while her parting steps the threshold pressed, Her love, her looks, her manners turned to jest.