so full of nice odd things. But are your albums in America at all like
ours?"

"Why yes! we get most of them from Paris and London."

"Oh dear! how strange--but don't you long to see this new treasure
of Lady Holberton's--that dear nice letter of Otway's, written while
he was starving?" inquired the charming Emily, helping herself to a
bit of pate de Perigord.

{pate de Perigord = an expensive French delicacy: goose liver pate
with truffles.}

"Yes, I am exceedingly curious to see it."

"You don't believe it was written by that coarse, vulgar Butler, do
you?"

"No, indeed,--it is the pathetic Otway's, beyond a doubt!"

My neighbor, the Butlerite, gave a contemptuous shrug, but I paid
him no attention, preferring to coincide with the soft eyes on my
right, rather than dispute with the learned spectacles to the left.

After dinner when we had done full justice to the bill of fare,
concluding with pines, grapes, and Newtown pippins, we were all
gratified with a sight of the poor poet's letter, by way of bonne
bouche. A little volume written by Lady Holberton--printed but not
published--relating its past history from the date of its discovery in
the library of Lord G-----, her grandfather, to the present day, passed