Though a quadrille seems to me as dreary as a funeral, yet to look at a
polka, I own, is pleasant. See! Brown and Emily Bustleton are whirling
round as light as two pigeons over a dovecot; Tozer, with that wicked
whisking little Jones, spins along as merrily as a May-day sweep; Miss
Joy is the partner of the happy Fred Sparks; and even Miss Ranville
is pleased, for the faultless Captain Grig is toe and heel with her.
Beaumoris, with rather a nonchalant air, takes a turn with Miss Trotter,
at which Lord Methuseleh's wrinkled chops quiver uneasily. See! how the
big Baron de Bobwitz spins lightly, and gravely, and gracefully round;
and lo! the Frenchman staggering under the weight of Miss Bunion, who
tramps and kicks like a young cart-horse.
But the most awful sight which met my view in this dance was the
unfortunate Miss Little, to whom fate had assigned THE MULLIGAN as a
partner. Like a pavid kid in the talons of an eagle, that young creature
trembled in his huge Milesian grasp. Disdaining the recognized form of
the dance, the Irish chieftain accommodated the music to the dance of
his own green land, and performed a double shuffle jig, carrying Miss
Little along with him. Miss Ranville and her Captain shrank back
amazed; Miss Trotter skirried out of his way into the protection of the
astonished Lord Methuselah; Fred Sparks could hardly move for laughing;
while, on the contrary, Miss Joy was quite in pain for poor Sophy
Little. As Canaillard and the Poetess came up, The Mulligan, in the
height of his enthusiasm, lunged out a kick which sent Miss Bunion
howling; and concluded with a tremendous Hurroo!--a war-cry which caused
every Saxon heart to shudder and quail.
"Oh that the earth would open and kindly take me in!" I exclaimed
mentally; and slunk off into the lower regions, where by this time half
the company were at supper.