retired fox-hunter) as a riding-house. And being
a man who much affected the diffusion of
knowledge, he proposed to open this museum to the
admiration of the general public, and, at his
death, to bequeath it to the Athenaeum or Literary
Institute of his native town. Margrave,
seconded by the influence of the mayor's daughters,
had scarcely been three days at L———before he
had persuaded this excellent and public-spirited
functionary to inaugurate the opening of his
museum by the popular ceremony of a ball. A
temporary corridor should unite the drawing-rooms,
which were on the ground floor, with the building
that contained the collection; and thus the
fête would be elevated above the frivolous
character of a fashionable amusement, and
consecrated to the solemnisation of an intellectual
institute. Dazzled by the brilliancy of this idea,the
mayor announced his intention to give a ball that
should include the surrounding neighbourhood,
and be worthy, in all expensive respects, of the
dignity of himself and the occasion. A night
had been fixed for the ball— a night that became
memorable indeed to me! The entertainment
was anticipated with a lively interest, in which
even the Hill condescended to share. The Hill
did not much patronise mayors in general; but
when a mayor gave a ball for a purpose so
patriotic, and on a scale so splendid, the Hill liberally
acknowledged that Commerce was, on the
whole, a thing which the Eminence might, now
and then, condescend to acknowledge without
absolutely derogating from the rank which
Providence had assigned to it amongst the High
Places of earth. Accordingly, the Hill was
permitted by its Queen to honour the first
magistrate of Low Town by a promise to attend
his ball. Now, as this festivity had originated
in the suggestion of Margrave, so, by a natural
association of ideas, every one, in talking of the
ball, talked also of Margrave.

The Hill had at first affected to ignore a stranger
whose debut had been made in the mercantile
circle of Low Town. But the Queen of the Hill
now said, sententiously, "This new man in a
few days has become a Celebrity. It is the policy
of the Hill to adopt Celebrities, if the Celebrities
pay respect to the Proprieties. Dr. Fenwick is
requested to procure Mr. Margrave the advan-
tage of being known to the Hill."

I found it somewhat difficult to persuade
Margrave to accept the Hill's condescending overture.
He seemed to have a dislike to all societies
pretending to aristocratic distinction— a
dislike expressed with a fierceness so unwonted,
that it made one suppose he had at some time or
other been subjected to mortification by the
supercilious airs that blow upon heights so
elevated. However, he yielded to my instances, and
accompanied me one evening to Mrs. Poyntz's
house. The Hill was encamped there for the
occasion. Mrs. Poyntz was exceedingly civil to him,
and after a few common-place speeches, hearing
that he was fond of music, consigned him to the
caressing care of Miss Brabazon, who was at the
head of the musical department in the Queen of
the Hill's administration.

Mrs. Poyntz retired to her favourite seat near
the window, inviting me to sit beside her; and
while she knitted in silence, in silence my eye
glanced towards Margrave in the midst of the
group assembled round the piano.

Whether he was in more than usually high
spirits, or whether he was actuated by a malign
and impish desire to upset the established laws
of decorum by which the gaieties of the Hill
were habitually subdued into a serene and somewhat
pensive pleasantness, I know not; but it
was not many minutes before the orderly aspect
of the place was grotesquely changed.

Miss Brabazon having come to the close of a
complicated and dreary sonata, I heard Margrave
abruptly ask her if she could play the Tarantella,
that famous Neapolitan air which is founded on
the legendary belief that the bite of the tarantula
excites an irresistible desire to dance. On.
that high-bred spinster's confession that she was
ignorant of the air, and had not even heard of
the legend, Margrave said, " Let me play it to
you, with variations of my own." Miss
Brabazon graciously yielded her place at the instrument.
Margrave seated himself— there was great
curiosity to hear his performance. Margrave's
fingers rushed over the keys, and there was a
general start, the prelude was so unlike any
known combination of harmonious sounds. Then
he began a chant— song I can scarcely call
it— words certainly not in Italian, perhaps in
some uncivilised tongue, perhaps in impromptu
gibberish. And the torture of the instrument
now commenced in good earnest: it shrieked, it
groaned: wilder and noisier. Beethoven's Storm,
roused by the fell touch of a German pianist, were
mild in comparison; and the mighty voice,
dominating the anguish of the cracking keys, had
the full diapason of a chorus. Certainly I am
no judge of music, but to my ear the discord was
terrific— to the ears of better informed amateurs
it seemed ravishing. All were spell-bound; even
Mrs. Poyntz paused from her knitting, as the
Fates paused from their web at the lyre of
Orpheus. To this breathless delight, however, soon
succeeded a general desire for movement. To my
amazement, I beheld these formal matrons and
sober fathers of families forming themselves into a
dance, turbulent as a children's ball at Christmas.
And when, suddenly desisting from his music,
Margrave started up, caught the skeleton hand
of lean Miss Brabazon, and whirled her into the
centre of the dance, I could have fancied myself
at a witch's sabbat. My eye turned in scan-
dalised alarm towards Mrs. Poyntz. That great
creature seemed as much astounded as myself.
Her eyes were fixed on the scene in a stare of
positive stupor. For the first time, no doubt, in
her life, she was overcome, deposed, dethroned.
The awe of her presence was literally whirled
away. The dance ceased as suddenly as it had
begun. Darting from the galvanised mummy
whom he had selected as his partner, Margrave