Every well-bred English female will sympathize with the subject of the harrowing tale, the history of Sackville Maine, I am now about to recount.

The pleasures of Clubs have been spoken of: let us now glance for a moment at the dangers of those institutions, and for this purpose I must introduce you to my young acquaintance, Sackville Maine.
It was at a ball at the house of my respected friend, Mrs.Perkins, that I was introduced to this gentleman and his charming lady.

Seeing a young creature before me in a white dress, with white satin shoes; with a pink ribbon, about a yard in breadth, flaming out as she twirled in a polka in the arms of Monsieur de Springbock, the German diplomatist; with a green wreath on her head, and the blackest hair this individual set eyes on--seeing, I say, before me a charming young woman whisking beautifully in a beautiful dance, and presenting, as she wound and wound round the room, now a full face, then a three-quarter face, then a profile--a face, in fine, which in every way you saw it, looked pretty, and rosy, and happy, I felt (as I trust) a not unbecoming curiosity regarding the owner of this pleasant countenance, and asked Wagley (who was standing by, in conversation with an acquaintance) who was the lady in question?
'Which ?' says Wagley.
'That one with the coal-black eyes,' I replied.
'Hush!' says he; and the gentleman with whom he was talking moved off, with rather a discomfited air.
When he was gone Wagley burst out laughing.

'COAL-BLACK eyes!' said he; 'you've just hit it.

That's Mrs.Sackville Maine, and that was her husband who just went away.