The Hon. Mrs. Rattletrap's Julia Rose; a lively creature, and "gives tongue" beautifully. Mrs. Major Fubbs's Clementina Louisa; very dumpy and dull—sure to be "latter'd." Mrs. General Rowdedow's Lucidora; all that heart could wish—fine nose, capital mouth, splendid chest, and a forehand and arm of perfect symmetry. There were one or two others introduced during the evening, but none of them possessed the necessary qualifications for the Belgrave Square Harriers. "The beaters" upon this occasion had been my brother Charles, whose Captaincy, by purchase, depends upon my being eligibly married off papa's hands; young Musparrot, similarly circumstanced; and old Major Muggs with four daughters, aged respectively twenty-six, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and thirty. [Illustration: THE HEIR-PRESUMPTIVE OF GREASE. ] They had great fears at one time that our first meet would prove "blank," as they had beat up all the clubs during September and October without "pricking" an Heir either apparent or presumptive. Major Muggs had the good fortune to hit upon a track at last, and a finer specimen I never saw during my short experience. Five feet eleven, Roman nose, D'Orsay whiskers, and said to be worth twelve thousand a year when of age in January next. He was found lying in some elegantly furnished apartments in the Albany, sitting on a beautiful form of velvet. As soon as he made his appearance in the enclosure at Lady Hurtleberry's the pack was laid on. Amelia Frog-morton "challenged" first; I, you may be sure, was not slow in answering her. The Heir first made for a _Polka Quadrille_, closely waited on by Amelia, with myself for a _vis-à-vis_. Having got as far as _Pastorale_, he "doubled" round by the piano, Mary Warbleton having "turned him" by Jenny Lind's _Ran tan plan_, from _Il Figlia del Regimento_. He then "took away" to the card room, but being "headed" by my brother Charles, who was purposely stationed in the doorway, he made for the harp, where I pressed him very hard with _Bochsa's Fancies_. He doubled again, and ran straight to the supper-room, closely followed by the entire pack, but the champagne coming on pretty briskly, Lady Hurtleberry thought it right to "call us off" for the evening, the Heir being ultimately bagged by the Major and Musparrot, and carried to the —— Club; for what purpose I leave you to guess. The Heir has been "turned down" twice since, and already shows symptoms of distress. I have not the least doubt that in a short time longer, _I_, yes _I_, my dear Eliza, shall have the pleasure (but this is _entre nous_) of introducing you to a real juggled heir. By-the-bye, I must send you a copy of a song written by that rattlepate Rattletraps. It is to the air of "Bright chanticleer proclaims the morn."