Lady Castlemaine flaunt athwart the hall, blazing like a meteor, her whole dress being illuminated with jewels: she was succeeded shortly: afterwards by Mistress Wells, Mistress Stewart, and others of the King's real or reputed mistresses, all decorated with a magnificence that eclipsed other competitors, although it did not equal that of Lady Castlemaine. Lord Mordaunt and an elderly lady were seated at a little distance, noticing this procession of emblazoned wantons, and coupling it with the King's lavish expenditure upon Nell Gwynn and Moll Davies, for whom he had lately been fitting up houses in Pall Mall and Suffolk Street, when the Lady exclaimed-" Ought not such shameless and wasteful hussies to be impeached ?”

"No, indeed," replied Lord Mordaunt, "we should rather erect statues to the patriotic courtezans who make their lover dependant upon Parliament for his subsistence. The people would soon be slaves, if the King were not always a beggar." Conceiving from the tenor of

their conversation that it was not meant to be overheard, Jocelyn left his retreat, and again mixed himself with the company, anxious to get near the fantastical Duchess of Newcastle, whom he saw at a little distance, attracting all eyes by the preposterous singularity of her dress and discourse. This lady, who had written thirteen volumes upon speculative subjects, was inquiring of the Bishop of Chester, who had attempted to show the possibility of a voyage to the moon, where she was to stop and bait, supposing she were to undertake the journey. "Madam," said the Bishop," of all people in the world I should least have expected that question from you, who have built so many castles in the air, that you might sleep every night in one of them." Notwithstanding this rebuff, her Grace was preparing to renew her attack, and Jocelyn was anticipating some amusement from the keen encounter of two such original wranglers, when, as his evil destiny ordained, he was pounced upon and seized, beyond all possibility of escape,

by his old assailant Lady Babington, who thus began to pour out upon him the inexhaustible poverty of her ideas, nodding at intervals, and bestowing a word or two upon her passing friends.

"Vastly well, thank ye; how do you do? La! how pale you look, and thin! So, you've got your fine sword still.-Isn't it a dreadful thing, this plague? They say it has killed a hundred thousand people already. I declare it makes one quite low.-He, he! did you hear of the poor tipsy piper, that laid himself down upon a bulk to sleep-How do, Lady Sanderson ?that's the mother of the maids-and so being taken for a corpse, was tossed into the dead-cart, where he presently came to his senses, and tuning up a jig upon his pipes, frightened the driver and the burier out of their wits. Monstrous droll, wasn't it? There goes Oliver's Fiddler, as they call him-Sir Robert L'Estrange. Only think of poor Tom Chiffinch's death, the King's closet-keeper! playing tables last night as well

as ever, and dead this morning before seven o'clock.-How do, Clifford ?-Ah, my Lord Ashley! I heard of your quarrel t' other day with Lord Ossory.-La! my dear Mrs. Price, a thousand thanks for the Service Marmalade, and the Rob of Cornelian Cherry quite delicious! Where did you get your still-room maid?-What a beautiful Demi-Sultane, and all trimmed with Pointe d'Espagne ! no, the Engageans* are only Colbertine or Campanie, I believe. Allow me, my dear; there's one of your star-patches coming off your cheek, and there's your Palisade† mixed with the Berger.‡ What bungler dressed your hair? Where do you get your Spanish paper? what a beautiful colour it gives you! Good bye. She's one of the maids of honour, and the Duke's favourite. Did you hear of her mad pranks t' other day with Mrs. Jennings, dressing themselves up as orange-girls, and how Tom Killigrew took

Deep double ruffles, down to the wrists.

+ Part of the head-dress.

A plain small lock, turned up with a puff.

liberties with them?—very improper !—Ah, my dear Mrs. Jennings, how do? just talking of you. How well you 're looking. I saw you yesterday, bobbing along in your gay sedan. La! what a pretty gold knob for holding your pomander ball; and fastened, I See, with a French pennache. Can you spare me any more of your nice Pastillos di Bocca? They are much better than Dr. Goddard's Drops.-So the Doctor ran away from London when the plague began.-What a rich Pointe de Venise round your Echelles !*-How do, Duke of Buckingham? I heard of your scuffle, and pulling off the Marquis of Dorchester's perriwig t'other day, when you were all sitting in council. Mighty fine doings! By the bye, who will purchase perriwigs hereafter? they will all be made of hair from the heads of the nasty people that die in the plague. Isn't it dangerous? How do, Arlington ?—I have now seen the whole of the Cabal, hav'n't I? Clifford, Ash

* A stomacher laced with ribbon.