For instance, at the dinner-party at which I had the honour of assisting, and at which, on the right hand of Lady Thrum, sat the oblige nobleman, whom the Thrums were a great deal too wise to omit (the sight of a lord does good to us commoners, or why else should we be so anxious to have one?). In the second place of honour, and on her ladyship's left hand, sat Mr. Slang, the manager of one of the theatres; a gentleman whom my Lady Thrum would scarcely, but for a great necessity's sake, have been induced to invite to her table. He had the honour of leading Mrs. Walker to dinner, who looked splendid in black velvet and turban, full of health and smiles. Lord Roundtowers is an old gentleman who has been at the theatres five times a week for these fifty years, a living dictionary of the stage, recollecting every actor and actress who has appeared upon it for half a century. He perfectly well remembered Miss Delancy in Morgiana; he knew what had become of Ali Baba, and how Cassim had left the stage, and was now the keeper of a public-house. All this store of knowledge he kept quietly to himself, or only delivered in confidence to his next neighbour in the intervals of the banquet, which he enjoys prodigiously. He lives at an hotel: if not invited to dine, eats a mutton-chop very humbly at his club, and finishes his evening after the play at Crockford's, whither he goes not for the sake of the play, but of the supper there. He is described in the Court Guide as of “Simmer's Hotel,” and of Roundtowers, county Cork. It is said that the round towers really exist. But he has not been in Ireland since the rebellion; and his property is so hampered with ancestral mortgages, and rent-charges, and annuities, that his income is barely sufficient to provide the modest mutton-chop before alluded to. He has, any time these fifty years, lived in the wickedest company in London, and is, withal, as harmless, mild, good-natured, innocent an old gentleman as can readily be seen. “Roundy,” shouts the elegant Mr. Slang, across the table, with a voice which makes Lady Thrum shudder, “Tuff, a glass of wine.” My Lord replies meekly, “Mr. Slang, I shall have very much pleasure. What shall it be?” “There is Madeira near you, my Lord,” says my Lady, pointing to a tall thin decanter of the fashion of the year. “Madeira! Marsala, by Jove, your Ladyship means!” shouts Mr. Slang. “No, no, old birds are not caught with chaff. Thrum, old boy, let's have some of your Comet hock.” “My Lady Thrum, I believe that IS Marsala,” says the knight, blushing a little, in reply to a question from his Sophia. “Ajax, the hock to Mr. Slang.” “I'm in that,” yells Bludyer from the end of the table. “My Lord, I'll join you.” “Mr. ----, I beg your pardon--I shall be very happy to take wine with you, sir.” “It is Mr. Bludyer, the celebrated newspaper writer,” whispers Lady Thrum.