the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn’t hear of it on any account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible despatch- -Mrs. Leo Hunter’s usual course of proceedings being, to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed only the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of themselves. ‘Where is Mr. Pott?’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions around her. ‘Here I am,’ said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far beyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the hostess. ‘Won’t you come up here?’ ‘Oh, pray don’t mind him,’ said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging voice-- ‘you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter. You’ll do very well there, won’t you--dear?’ ‘Certainly--love,’ replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic force on public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious Mrs. Pott. Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman was doing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a degree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for the Eatanswill _Gazette_, was engaged in an impassioned argument with the young lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department on these occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less important people--suddenly called out-- ‘My dear; here’s Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.’ ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘how anxiously I have been expecting him. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr. Fitz- Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming so late.’ ‘Coming, my dear ma’am,’ cried a voice, ‘as quick as I can--crowds of people--full room--hard work--very.’ Mr. Pickwick’s knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the table at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking as if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice. ‘Ah!’ cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five- and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that remained between him and the table, ‘regular mangle--Baker’s patent--not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing--might have “got up my linen” as I came along--ha! ha! not a bad idea, that--queer thing to have it mangled when it’s upon one, though--trying process--very.’