The Lady Angelica Headingham now bethought herself that she had a little poem, written by Mr. Alfred Percy, which had been given to her long ago by Miss Percy, and of which, at the time she received it, her ladyship had thought so little, that hardly deigning to bestow the customary tribute of a compliment, she had thrown it, scarcely perused, into her writing-box. It was now worth while to rummage for it, and now, when the author had a _name_, her ladyship discovered that the poem was charming--absolutely charming! Such an early indication of talents! Such a happy promise of genius!--Oh! she had always foreseen that Mr. Alfred Percy would make an uncommon figure in the world! “Bless me! does your ladyship know him?” “Oh! intimately!--That is, I never saw _him_ exactly--but all his family I’ve known intimately--ages ago in the country.” “I should so like to meet him! And do pray give me a copy of the verses--and me!--and me!” To work went the pens of all the female amateurs, in scribbling copies of “_The Lawyer’s May-day_.”--And away went the fair patroness in search of the author--introduced herself with unabashed grace, invited him for Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday--Engaged? how unfortunate!--Well, for next week? a fortnight hence? three weeks? positively she must have him at her conversazione--she must give him--No, he must give her a day, he must consent to lose a day--so many of her friends and real judges were dying to see him. To save the lives of so many judges, he consented to lose an evening--the day was fixed--Alfred found her conversazione very brilliant--was admired--and admired others in his turn as much as was expected. It was an agreeable variety of company and of thought to him, and he promised to go sometimes to her ladyship’s parties--a promise which delighted her much, particularly as he had not yet given a copy of the verses to Lady Spilsbury. Lady Spilsbury, to whom the verses quickly worked round, was quite angry that her friend Erasmus had not given her an early copy; and now invitations the most pressing came from Lady Spilsbury to her excellent literary dinners. If Alfred had been so disposed, he might, among these fetchers and carriers of bays, have been extolled to the skies; but he had too much sense and prudence to lose the substance for the shadow, to sink a solid character into a _drawing-room reputation_. Of this he had seen the folly in Buckhurst Falconer’s case, and now, if any farther warning on this subject had been wanting, he would have taken it from the example of _poor_ Seebright, the poet, whom he met the second time he went to Lady Angelica Headingham’s. _Poor Seebright_, as the world already began to call him, from being an object of admiration, was beginning to sink into an object of pity. Instead of making himself independent by steady exertions in any respectable profession, instead of making his way in the republic of letters by some solid work of merit, he frittered away