he had taken to galloping in Hyde Park, leaping turnpike gates, gambling, treating the dandies without ceremony; he had an unequalled success, and, to crown the whole, he ended by carrying off an entire family, father, mother, and children."

In 1836 Lady Blessington removed to Gore House in Kensington Gore, once the abode of William Wilberforce, while Count d'Orsay occupied a villa near at hand, No. 4, Kensington Gore. At Seamore Place, Disraeli, Bulwer, Moore, Haydon, and many other men of note gathered; but at Gore House the society was somewhat different, there was more gravity and formality, more purpose. Lady Blessington and Count d'Orsay tried to draw together people of the same pursuits, and to incline competitors for fame in politics, art, or literature to a tolerant, just, and charitable opinion of each other.

They also aimed at removing national jealousies and misapprehensions between people of different countries, at knocking down those barriers of prejudice which stood between Englishmen and foreigners. Thus they gathered in the salon men of all shades of opinion on every subject-politicians, statesmen, legal functionaries and divines-as well as members of literary and artistic circles.

D'Orsay and Lady Blessington had each a strong sense of humour, which on occasions they exercised with the double desire of amusing the assembly and gratifying the pride or vanity of some one member of it. Madden, in his Life of Lady Blessington, tells of an incident of this kind. There often came to Lady Blessington's evenings an old Frenchman, Monsieur Julien le Jeune de Paris as he styled himself. He never appeared without a roll of manuscript showing from his

The Poet's "Chagrins' "

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side-pocket, it being a canto of his "Chagrins Politiques," which he loved to recite in a doleful voice. He would enter the room and stoop to kiss his hostess's hand with all the courtliness of a grand seigneur, being radiant in smiles, and all urbanity. Then D'Orsay would entreat him to give a recital of another canto of his political afflictions.

No, no, it would be impossible. He prayed, he implored to be excused, the Count, with kind gravity, meeting all his excuses, and in the end asserting that Mr. Madden had never heard them; for his sake—

At last the old man gave a reluctant consent to the doing of that which he had come with the full intention of doing, but he still had to play off all the bashful airs of a shy young lady, while he placed himself at the upper end of the room near a table upon which were wax lights, pulled the paper from his pocket, and began to recite one of his "Chagrins," with tears in his voice. Lady Blessington sat to his left, looking with anxious. solicitude into his face; D'Orsay sat near the front with a handkerchief ready to raise to his eyes, now and then applauding or groaning at some passage. Once, when the narrator's tearfulness was at its height, the Beau whispered to his neighbour: "Weep, weep now!"

Dr. Quin, who was there, would interject, "Magnifique !" "Superbe!" and ask that the passage might be re-read, which was eagerly done. At last, at the end, the old Frenchman, with tears in his eyes, would be led by D'Orsay to Lady Blessington, where he would receive her smiles and the congratulations of the assembly. He felt himself the lion of the evening, and the other guests had been entertained by a pleasant comedy. It might seem sharp practice to get amusement of this kind from a guest, but Monsieur Julien loved attention

even better than his "Chagrins," and was really the most amused person in the room.

D'Orsay was clever and entertaining, and much liked by all his friends. Charles Dickens indeed used to say that he had a marvellous power of bringing out the best elements of the society around him, and of miraculously putting out the worst. He wished to be regarded as muscularly strong, and when he shook hands it was with such a grasp of palm and fingers that he drove the blood from the limb he held, and pressed the rings almost to the bone. Those who were aware of this peculiarity would be ready for his grip, and exert their own muscles in like fashion. The kind expression of his good-looking face, and the frankness of his manner as he cried in greeting, "Ah, ah, mon ami!" were charming.

Grantley Berkeley says of him: "Poor, dear D'Orsay! He was a very accomplished, kind-hearted, and graceful fellow, and much in request in what may be called the fashionable world. I knew him well in his happier hours, I knew him when he was in difficulties, and I knew him in distress; and when in France, I heard from Frenchmen that those in his native country to whom he looked for high lucrative employment and patronage, and from whom D'Orsay thought he had some claim to expect them, rather slighted his pretensions; and when in his last lingering, painful illness, left him to die too much neglected and alone!

"That D'Orsay was unwisely extravagant, as well as not over-scrupulous in morality, we know; but that is a man's own affair, not that of his friends. His faults, whatever they were, were covered, or at least glossed over, by real kindness of heart, great generosity, and prompt good nature; grace in manner, accomplishments,

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and high courage; therefore, place him side by side with many of the men with whom he lived in England, D'Orsay, by comparison, would have the advantage in many things.

He certainly retained my friendship to the last, and induced in me very great regret for the circumstances which, in the end, disappointed him, and to a very great extent, I fear, embittered his last moments.'

D'Orsay was over six feet in height, his neck long, shoulders broad, and waist narrow; his limbs slight, with beautiful feet and ankles. His chestnut hair hung in waving curls, his forehead was high and wide, his features regular, and his complexion glowing. His eyes were hazel, he had full lips, and very white teeth, which however were placed a little apart-giving him at times a rather cruel and sneering look. He was handsome, and he knew this thoroughly, taking great care of his beauty. He was much more extravagant in dress than Brummell, though not so original nor so unostentatious. Hats, coats, boots-in fact, all kinds of garments-were named after him, and he was responsible for many little changes, one being light wristbands turned back upon the sleeve of his coat. He did not bathe in milk like Brummell, but in perfumed water; and where Brummell carried about with him full appliances in silver, even to the wash-hand basin, for his toilette, D'Orsay was accompanied with a dressing-case filled with articles made of silver and old gold, so weighty that it took two men to carry it.

CHAPTER XX

"Marquis, I arrest you!" cried the triumphant Bum, as his debtor and now prisoner essayed to gain the knocker of the outer gate.

"It is not twelve," replied our hero, within a few words of being speechless with horror.

"What's the time?" hallooed Mr. Sloughman to a policeman passing on the opposite side of the way.

"Ten minutes past twelve," replied he hoarsely, as if there were a conglomeration of fog and night air lodging in his throat. "Then I'm lost!" exclaimed the Marquis.

COUN

JOHN MILLS, D'Horsay, or Follies of the Day.

OUNT D'ORSAY fought several duels, and might have fought more but for his own good heart and the good judgment of his friends. Reynolds, the editor of the Keepsake, was a man of a morbid, nervous character, constantly being cheated and easily enraged. He had just been taking a house, and was very sore at finding that he had, as usual, accepted appearances too easily, and had again been taken advantage of. Meeting D'Orsay, he told him he thought he should write a book. "Do, my dear fellow," replied the Beau, "and call it 'ze Diary of a Dupe.'

This irritated Reynolds beyond endurance. He went to Grantley Berkeley in violent agitation, who tells us that, "As he stood the shivering of his frame shook the room, and his hands, arms, and lips trembled as if they had been withered leaves about to fall from the trunk of a tree. When he told me he must have an apology from D'Orsay, or a duel, and saw that I noticed the agitated state of his limbs, he held his arm across the table,