P. S. I forgot to mention, that the apothecary's lad brought a complaint the next morning against Master Theodore, for "breaking Mr. Gargle's head, in the storm, last night."

The Etonian.

SELECT SOCIETY.

WITH OBSERVATIONS ON THE MODERN ART OF

MATCH-MAKING.

Dulce sodalitium!

Connubio jungam stabili, propriumque dicabo.

IF society be the end and object of civilization, it must be confessed, that we English, of the 19th century, are in a very barbarous condition. Never was an intercourse with the world clogged with so many impediments as at the present moment: never did good company cost so much pains to arrive at, and never did it afford so little in return. God be with the good times, when the sole capacity required to figure among men, was that of a two-gallon cask, and when we were sure to get on with the females at the expense of a little" civil speaking, lying and slandering." Then, alas! any body was company for every body; and the first lord in the land did not think shame, faute de mieux, to take up with the conversation of his butler, or his game-keeper, over a tankard; while the young ladies, faute de tout, danced "Bobbing Joan," with

the rest of the domestics, in the servants' hall. But now-a-days, folks are grown so confoundedly precise,— or, to use their own word, so select, for sooth, in their society, that a man requires fresh qualifications for every house he enters. The rigour of the Vienna aristocracy of the first class, is not more unbending to the bourgeoise, nor more uncompromising in a quartering, than our pretenders to selection, in their several degrees. A stranger might as well attempt to "work his way" into a Freemason's Lodge without the sign, as one of the profane to find favour in the eyes of a coterie without its specific qualification. That the supreme bon ton of the supreme bon genre, should be a little particular is but right, seeing the number and pertinacity of the intruders. Almack's has nothing of the "facilis descensus Averni," nor should it. On the contrary, to get out of Newgate, or the Fleet, is less difficult than to get in to the rooms in King-street; and this I take to be a merciful dispensation of "their selectnesses,” the committee; since none but those bred to the trade are capable of standing the quietude of extremely fine manners, which is just one degree less than that of the tomb. But high rank and bon ton do not stand alone in this pretension. We have it running through all the classes and predicaments of society, from the Four-inhand Club to Mrs. Hourglass's "tea and tracts," the amateur concerts at the Jew's Harp, near Whitechapel, and our friend's blue-stocking association in Houndsditch. Even the footmen of the House of Lords, we are told, keep clear of the borough-mongers, and country puts of the lower house.

This selection is bore enough for those who have (to

use a French phrase, "germain to the matter") found their assiette in society; but to him who is not yet placed, it is a source of bitter disappointment. Shortly after leaving the university, on my arrival in London, I was asked to dine at the house of one of our country neighbours, who, having been nominated M. P., had moved to town. This struck me as an eligible opening for making my way in good company, and I accepted the invitation with eagerness. Upon entering the drawing room, I soon found that I was the only person not of "the house." Adam Smith, David Ricardo, and Mons. Say, would have been mere fourth-form boys to this quintessential selection of the "collective wisdom." The conversation was wholly of "the shop;" but though I do sometimes read the papers, I was very soon completely nonplused, and at once made up my mind to bound my ambition to acquiring the reputation of a good listener.

Sauntering down the street, something out of spirits at this discomfiture, I was attracted by the lights in my aunt Lady Mary Mildew's drawing room; and, arriving at the door, just as Mr. —, the bookseller, was "bundling out" a coach-load of literary lions for her Ladyship's inspection, I determined to step in, and see "what was going on." I had not been long in the room, when my aunt introduced me to a good-looking, but rather prim young lady, as newly arrived from Cambridge. Being a tolerably good French and Italian scholar, and having a bowing acquaintance with our best English writers, I thought I should find myself pretty much au fait to the young lady's indigo; and I entered the list with some spirit, in the deter

mination to make good my claim to a place among the blues, and to set myself off to advantage. But here again I was utterly thrown out: I could not tell my fair questioner, whether Lady Iodina Crucible was "intellectual," I had omitted to attend Mr. Sapphie's Lecture, at the institution, I mistook the author of the Fall of Jerusalem, for the American Addison, I was two novels behind-hand with the "Great Unknown,” Sydney Sm-th passed without returning my bow, and I totally failed in naming the authors of the two" crack" articles of the current Quarterly. Need I add, that I was, after five minutes effort at conversation, deserted by my companion, whose contemptuous dejection of countenance, as she whispered her next neighbour, and glanced her eye hastily at my person, convinced me that I was already black-balled, at least, by this member of Lady Mary's squad of selects.

Hurrying down stairs with the speed of a detected pick-pocket, I stumbled upon Tom Headlong, of Jesus, the squire's nephew of Headlong Hall, who found much favour in my sight, by voting my aunt a quiz, and her party, the blue devils, and, on this account, he had the less difficulty in carrying me to the club, of which I had just been elected a member. There, I thought I should, at least, be welcome; for my credit is good, and my money as acceptable as another's. But all is vanity and vexation of spirit. Notwithstanding that Newmarket is within fourteen miles of Cambridge, my ignorance of the technicalities of a horserace was sufficient to exclude me from the conversation of the night, which ran exclusively upon Epsom. My ominous silence on this interesting topic, boded

me no good. Then I could not name the odds at some point of the game, when asked; I mistook the round in which Gas had his " lights doused;" was totally out about his opponent's head being "in chancery." In short, I shewed myself up as complete as a Spooney, fell out of the conversation, and was left to eat my supper in silence, with what appetite I might.

The next disappointment I encountered was at the house of a maiden relation, whom I had not seen for some years. The memory of her good-natured and unpretending simplicity, of her moderate endowments, and still more moderate acquirements, assured me that I might make myself "quite at home" with her. On arriving at her house, I found a formidable circle of Quaker-looking ladies, in the midst of which, stood a spruce and punctiliously-dressed gentleman in black, who, somehow or other, brought to my mind a certain necessary personage in a sabbath of witches. My entrance interrupted the reading of some book, and as my fair relation came forward to greet me, I could not but observe, that though her reception was friendly, it was more measured and subdued than childish recollections induced me to expect. After the customary inquiries after absent friends, &c. the conversation seemed to lapse into a train of ideas, inspired by the now suspended " readings." Its subject seemed to be religious; but it was so wrapped up in something between technical jargon and cant, as to be nearly unintelligible, and I sunk by degrees into a reverie, in which my unfitness for society, and very imperfect education, formed a prominent and a painful part. Mortified by such repeated failures, I began to

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