THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING.
It may easily be imagined that Steinfeld, brave as he unquestionably
was, did not feel particularly pleased at finding himself called upon to
risk his life in a profitless duel, at the very moment when that life
had acquired fresh value in his eyes, through his acquisition of a
pretty wife and a handsome fortune. The former, it is true, the baron,
whose utter selfishness made him incapable of love in the higher sense
of the word, prized only as a child does a new plaything, or an epicure
a fresh dish presented to his sated palate. Pretty and attractive as
his bride was, her personal charms weighed far less with him than her
golden ones. Even in these he had been somewhat disappointed. Although
considerable, they were less than Fatello's round-numbered generalities
had led him to expect; and, moreover, when the time came to discuss
the settlements, the banker fought hard to secure his sister-in-law's
fortune upon her own head and that of her children. This, however,
Steinfeld vigorously resisted, urging the necessity of extricating his
estates from pawn; and Sebastiana, enamoured of her handsome bridegroom,
and whose ardent and jealous imagination drew a romantic picture of a
_tete-a-tete_ existence in a secluded chateau, far from the rivalries of
a capital, expressed so strongly her will to apply her fortune in the
manner Steinfeld desired, that Fatello, after much opposition, and with
no good grace, was compelled to yield the point. The sum thus placed in
the Austrian's power, although less than he had anticipated, was yet so
large to a man in his position, that its possession threw a pleasant
rose-coloured tint over his existence, of which the prospect of poverty
and the annoyances of duns had for some time past deprived it. So that
when, upon his wedding-day, Fatello fiercely taxed him with his perfidy,
repeated the words of insult he had addressed to him on the morrow of
the masquerade, and insisted upon a duel, the baron did all in his power
to pacify him, urging their new but near connection as an insuperable
obstacle to a quarrel, and even humbling himself to express contrition
for his offence, which he persisted, however, would have been viewed as
but a venial one by any but so morbid, jealous, and vindictive a person
as Fatello, and which, in no case, considering the relation they now
stood in to each other, could be held to justify them in seeking each
other's life. But to his expostulations, apologies, and arguments,
Fatello replied with such savage invective and ungovernable violence,
taunting the baron with cowardice, and threatening him, if he
refused the reparation demanded, with public exposure and manual
chastisement--threats, of whose execution Fatello's intemperate
character and colossal frame (the latter still muscular and powerful
in spite of the disease mining it) allowed very little doubt--that
Steinfeld saw there was no alternative but to accept the meeting;
and, assuming the cold and haughty tone of an injured man, he briefly
arranged with Fatello its principal conditions. To avoid scandal, and
to insure, as far as possible, the safety of the survivor, the duel was
to take place in the grounds of a country-house belonging to the banker,
at about a league from Paris, and the seconds and surgeon were to be
pledged to the strictest secresy. Fatello named Captain Carcassonne,
and Steinfeld the Viscount Arthur de Mellay, between whom the details
of the affair were to be settled.
Both the principals, however, in this singular duel, were destined to
experience difficulties from the friends they had fixed upon to second
them. Captain Carcassonne, who himself cared no more for a duel than an
English prizefighter does for a round with the gloves, and who never
slept a wink the fewer, or ate a mouthful less breakfast before going
out to fight one, was seized with a sudden trepidation when he learned
that his friend, whom he well knew to be unskilled in fence and fire,
was to enter the field with a man reputed expert in both. At first
he would not hear of the meeting taking place, swearing, in direct
opposition to what he had just before said, that he should not think of
fighting for such a trifle. When this plea was overruled, a bright idea
struck him. He would pick a quarrel with Steinfeld, and wing him with
a pistol-shot, or spoil his beauty with a sabre cut, just as Fatello
chose; ay, would kill him outright, if nothing less would satisfy his
vindictive friend. But Fatello, whose morbid desire of revenge had
assumed the character of a monomania, rejected all the captain's plans;
and Carcassonne, whose affection and deference for his old companion
and benefactor were unbounded, ceased to make objections, and fixed
his thoughts solely upon the necessary preliminaries. As to Fatello's
announcement of the danger his life was in from lurking disease (a
danger more remote, but also more certain than that he would incur upon
the morrow), it would deeply have grieved the worthy captain had he
attached the least credit to it; but his contempt for doctors and their
prognostications prevented his dwelling on it longer than to give a
smile to the credulity of his friend. Meanwhile Steinfeld had some
trouble with de Mellay. It not being the fashion in France for
newly-married couples to escape from the place of their wedding as fast
as four posters can carry them, the baron had taken his bride to his
house in the Rue St Lazare, which a little arrangement had adapted for
their residence during the few days that were to elapse before their
departure for Germany. There, upon the evening of his wedding-day, he
had a conference with the viscount, who, startled, like Carcassonne, at
the news of the projected duel, insisted on full explanations before
consenting to render Steinfeld the service required of him. These
explanations Steinfeld was compelled to give; and although he spread
over them a varnish favourable to himself, de Mellay plainly saw that
the part the Austrian had played in the whole affair did him no credit,
and that Fatello's extraordinary vindictiveness, if not justified, was
in some degree extenuated, by his adversary's perfidious manoeuvres
and gross breach of hospitality. He at first insisted on attempting a
reconciliation, but Steinfeld having convinced him of its impossibility,
he would not refuse to stand by an intimate friend and companion,
who had more than once gone upon the ground with him. He suggested,
however--almost, indeed, made it a condition--that the baron should fire
wide, or not at all, the first time, in doing which he ran little risk,
for Fatello was known to be unskilled with the pistol. De Mellay
resolved to place the duellists as far apart as possible, and to make
them fire together. He made sure Fatello would miss the first shot, and
that then, if Steinfeld had not fired, the affair could easily be made
up.
It was three in the afternoon, and the snow lay thick upon the ground,
when Steinfeld and his second entered a small door in the paling of the
banker's park, at a short distance from which they had dismissed their
hackney coach. Fatello, Carcassonne, and Dr Pilori, had preceded them
in the banker's carriage. The five men met upon a bowling-green
surrounded by trees, which, although leafless, were so thickly planted as
to form an impervious screen. More for form's sake and the satisfaction
of conscience, than with hope of success, the seconds essayed a
reconciliation. The attempt was rendered fruitless by Fatello's firm
determination; and after a brief conference between the viscount and
Carcassonne, the combatants were placed at twenty paces. It was agreed
they were to fire together, when six had been counted. The seconds
stepped aside. Carcassonne counted. When he came to "_six_," a single
report followed. Steinfeld staggered. De Mellay ran to him.
"Nothing," said the baron. "My dear brother-in-law shoots better than I
thought, that is all." And he showed a rent made by Fatello's bullet in
the front of his tightly-buttoned surtout, near the waist. A button had
been cut away, and the ball had grazed the skin, but without drawing
blood.
"This shall not avail you, sir," cried Fatello, in a tone of
indescribable exasperation. "We came to fight, not to play. Fire, sir!"
And he stood sideways, expecting his adversary's bullet.
Steinfeld smiled bitterly. Then, raising his pistol, he took aim at a
redbreast, which, scared from the bough by Fatello's fire, had again
settled, tamed by cold and hunger, upon a sapling five-and-twenty paces
off. Bark and feathers flew at the same time, and the unlucky little
bird lay disembowelled upon the snow. Carcassonne and de Mellay
exchanged a word or two, and advanced towards Fatello.
"Enough done, my dear Sigismund," said the captain. "After the baron's
forbearance, this can go no farther."
Fatello's reply was a torrent of imprecations. His eyes were bloodshot,
his cheeks pale as death; he was insane with passion. The captain in
vain endeavoured to soothe and calm him. He raged and stormed like a
madman.
"Monsieur Fatello," said de Mellay with surprise--almost with
disgust--"for heaven's sake compose yourself. This persistence is
unworthy of you. What injury have you received to justify such
malignity? Neither your second nor myself can let this affair proceed,
otherwise than to a reconciliation."
There was a decision in the young man's tone and manner that seemed to
strike Fatello and check his fury. For a moment or two he gazed silently
at the viscount, as if recalled to reason by his remonstrance. It was
the trick of the maniac, to put the keeper off his guard. Suddenly
pushing Carcassonne aside, he reached, in two bounds, a pistol-case that
lay open at a short distance, and, seizing one of the weapons, levelled
it at Steinfeld. With a cry of horror, de Mellay and Carcassonne threw
themselves before the baron.
"This is murder!" exclaimed the viscount.
"Stop!" said Steinfeld, pale, but quite calm. "Wait a moment, sir, and
you shall be satisfied. There is no alternative, my dear de Mellay.
Monsieur Fatello insists. Give me the other pistol."
De Mellay hesitated, and looked at the captain.
"_Ma foi!_" said Carcassonne, shrugging his shoulders, as if he thought
a bullet more or less hardly worth so much discussion--"if they _will_
have it!" The principals resumed their ground, and the word was again
given. This time both pistols were discharged. Steinfeld stirred not,
but Fatello fell to the ground and lay there without motion. Dr Pilori
ran forward, and, kneeling beside him, unbuttoned his coat. There was a
small blue spot on the breast, from which oozed a drop or two of blood.
The doctor seized the wrist of the fallen man. Steinfeld and the seconds
gazed anxiously in his face, awaiting his verdict.
"I aimed at his arm," said Steinfeld gloomily, "but the cold made my
hand shake."
Carcassonne seemed not to hear the remark. De Mellay glanced at the
baron, and then at the bird that lay upon the blood-sprinkled snow more
than twenty yards off.
"Quite dead," said Pilori, letting the arm fall. "It is a painful thing
to kill a man," added the materialist doctor to Steinfeld, who stood
regarding his victim with a moody and regretful gaze. "It may be
satisfactory to you to know that he could not have lived six months
longer."
In France, a few years ago, duels, even when fatal in result, did
not necessarily entail strict judicial investigation, unless such
investigation was provoked by the friends of the fallen man. In the
instance here recorded no one thought proper to take vindictive steps.
Fatello's coachman was instructed, and largely bribed, to say that his
master had been struck with apoplexy in his carriage, and that, on
discovering his condition, he had at once driven him to Dr Pilori. The
physician's arrival at the house, in company with the corpse, and the
absence of hemorrhage from the wound, rendered it easy to conceal the
latter, and gave plausibility to the story, which found general credit.
It was not till several days afterwards that a report spread of the real
cause of the banker's death. Even then it attained little publicity, and
by many was looked upon as a malicious fabrication. Before it got wind,
however, the survivors of the domestic drama we have narrated, were
far from its scene. By a will made a month before his death, Fatello
had left the whole of his great riches, with the exception of some
munificent donations to public charities, and of an ample legacy to
Captain Carcassonne, to a cousin of his own name in Alsace. But he
could not alienate his wife's fortune, or deprive her of the splendid
jointure secured to her by her father's cautious greediness; and these
constituted very large wealth, with which his widow, shortly after his
death, left Paris for her native country. Her Parisian friends and
acquaintances were edified, in the highest degree, by the grief she
displayed at Fatello's decease. She was disconsolate; and, for at least
a day and a half, "_cette pauvre Madame Fatello_" was the prevailing
topic of conversation, and the object of universal sympathy. Henpecked
husbands held her up as a model of conjugal affection; and wicked wives
secretly wondered at the poignant regret shown by such a young, rich,
and handsome widow, for so ugly, unprepossessing, and morose a man. But
it occurred to no one to seek the cause of her excessive grief in a
bridal wreath instead of in a funeral shroud; to trace the source of her
sorrow to the loss of an expected husband whom she passionately loved,
not to that of a departed one, whom she never regretted.
Although little apprehensive of persecution, many motives concurred to
render Paris an undesirable residence for the survivor of the duel in
which Fatello met his death. The day after the fatal meeting, a
travelling carriage left Paris by the road to Brussels. It contained
Ernest von Steinfeld and his bride. In spite of some practice in
duelling, and of the triple armour of selfishness in which he was
habitually cased, there was a cloud upon the baron's brow which change
of scene and the caresses of his young wife did not always suffice to
dissipate. And, although sensible to his bride's beauty and fascination,
and grateful, as far as it was in his nature to be so, for the
passionate affection she showed him, it may be doubted whether he would
not have repulsed her endearments, and spurned her from him, had he
detected a secret that lay buried in the innermost recesses of her
heart--had he recognised, in Sebastiana Gonfalon, the writer of the two
anonymous letters that tended so materially to bring about her marriage,
and the violent death of Sigismund Fatello.
As it was, the Baroness von Steinfeld had not long to congratulate
herself on the success of her culpable manoeuvres, whose sole
extenuation was to be found in the fiery passions of her race, and in a
moral education totally neglected. Doubtless, when planning and carrying
out her guilty scheme, the possibility of so terrible a result never
occurred to her; and it were attributing improbable depravity to one so
young to doubt that she felt remorse at the catastrophe. She did not
long await her punishment. Bright as were her hopes of happiness when
led to the altar by the man she adored, she soon was bitterly convinced,
that no true or permanent felicity could be the consequence of a union
achieved by guilty artifice, and sealed with a brother's blood. A few
months were sufficient to darken her destiny and blight her joys. Her
fortune swallowed up by Steinfeld's debts and extravagance, her person
speedily became indifferent to the sated and cold-hearted voluptuary;
and whilst her reckless husband, faithful to nothing but to his hatred
of matrimonial ties, again galloped upon the road to ruin, in the most
dissipated circles of the Austrian capital, she saw herself condemned to
solitude and unavailing regrets, in the very castle where she had
anticipated an existence of unalloyed bliss.
THE BOXES.
[_MAGA._ FEBRUARY 1829.]
Sir,--In the course of my study in the English language, which I made
now for three years, I always read your periodically, and now think
myself capable to write at your Magazin. I love always the modesty, or
you shall have a letter of me very long time past. But, never mind. I
would well tell you, that I am come to this country to instruct me in
the manners, the customs, the habits, the policies, and the other
affairs general of Great Britain. And truly I think me good fortunate,
being received in many families, so as I can to speak your language now
with so much facility as the French.
But, never mind. That what I would you say, is not only for the
Englishes, but for the strangers, who come at your country from all the
other kingdoms, polite and instructed; because, they tell me, that they
are abonnements[B] for you in all the kingdoms in Europe, so well as in
the Orientals and Occidentals.
[Footnote B: Abonnements--subscriptions.]
No, sir, upon my honour, I am not egotist. I not proud myself with
chateaux en Espagne. I am but a particular gentleman, come here for that
what I said; but, since I learn to comprehend the language, I discover
that I am become an object of pleasantry, and for himself to mock, to
one of your comedians even before I put my foot upon the ground at
Douvres. He was Mr Mathew, who tell of some contretemps of me and your
word detestable, _Box_. Well, never mind. I know at present how it
happen, because I see him since in some parties and dinners; and he
confess he love much to go travel and mix himself altogether up with the
stage-coach and vapouring[C] boat for fun, what he bring at his theatre.
[Footnote C: Bateau a vapeur--a steamboat.]
Well, never mind. He see me, perhaps, to ask a question in the
paquebot--but he not confess after, that he goed and bribe the garcon at
the hotel and the coachman to mystify me with all the boxes; but, very
well, I shall tell you how it arrived, so as you shall see that it was
impossible that a stranger could miss to be perplexed, and to advertise
the travellers what will come after, that they shall converse with the
gentlemen and not with the badinstructs.
But it must that I begin. I am a gentleman, and my goods are in the
public rentes,[D] and a chateau with a handsome propriety on the bank of
the Loire, which I lend to a merchant English, who pay me very well in
London for my expenses. Very well. I like the peace, nevertheless that I
was force, at other time, to go to war with Napoleon. But it is passed.
So I come to Paris in my proper post-chaise, where I selled him, and
hire one, for almost nothing at all, for bring me to Calais all alone,
because I will not bring my valet to speak French here where all the
world is ignorant.
[Footnote D: Rentes--public funds.]
The morning following, I get upon the vapouring boat to walk so far as
Douvres. It was fine day--and, after I am recover myself of a malady of
the sea, I walk myself about the shep, and I see a great mechanic of
wood, with iron wheel, and thing to push up inside, and handle to turn.
It seemed to be ingenuous, and proper to hoist great burdens. They use
it for shoving the timber, what come down of the vessel, into the place;
and they tell me it was call "Jaques in the _box_:" and I was very much
please with the invention so novel.
Very well. I go again promenade upon the board of the vessel, and I look
at the compass, and little boy sailor come and sit him down, and begin
to chatter like the little monkey. Then the man what turns a wheel about
and about laugh, and say, "Very well, Jacques," but I not understand one
word the little fellow say. So I make inquire, and they tell me he was
"_box_ the compass." I was surprise, but I tell myself, "well, never
mind;" and so we arrive at Douvres. I find myself enough well in the
hotel, but as there has been no _table-d'hote_, I ask for some dinner,
and it was long time I wait: and so I walk myself to the customary
house, and give the key to my portmanteau to the Douaniers, or
excisemen, as you call, for them to see as I had not no smuggles in my
equipage. Very well--I return at my hotel, and meet one of the waiters,
who tell me (after I stand little moment to the door to see the world
what pass by upon the top of a coach at the instant), "Sir," he say,
"your dinner is ready." "Very well," I make response, "where was it?"
"This way, sir," he answer, "I have put in a _box_ in the cafe room."
"Well--never mind," I say to myself, "when a man himself finds in a
stranger country, he must be never surprised. 'Nil admirari.' Keep the
eyes opened, and stare at nothing at all."
I found my dinner only [E] there there, because I was so soon come from
France; but I learn another sort of the box was a partition and table
particular in a saloon, and I keep there when I eated some good sole
fritted, and some not cooked mutton cutlet; and a gentleman what was put
in another _box_, perhaps Mr Mathew, because nobody not can know him
twice, like a cameleon he is, call for the "pepper _box_." Very well. I
take a cup of coffee, and then all my hardes and portmanteau come with
a wheelbarrow; and, because it was my intention to voyage up at London
with the coach, and I find my many little things was not convenient, I
ask the waiter where I may buy a night sack, or get them tie up all
together in a burden. He was well attentive at my cares, and responded,
that he shall find me a _box_ to put them all into. Well, I say nothing
of all but, "Yes," for fear to discover my ignorance; so he bring the
little _box_ for the clothes and things into the great _box_ what I was
put into; and he did my affairs in it very well. Then I ask him for
some spectacle in the town, and he send boot-boy with me so far as the
Theatre, and I go in to pay. It was shabby poor little place, but the
man what set to have the money, when I say "how much," asked me if I
would not go into the _boxes_. "Very well," I say, "never mind--oh
yes--to be sure;" and I find very soon the _box_ was the loge, same
thing. I had not understanding sufficient in your tongue then to
comprehend all what I hear--only one poor maigre doctor, what had been
to give his physic too long time at a cavalier old man, was condemned to
swallow up a whole _box_ of his proper pills. "Very well," I say, "that
must be egregious. It is cannot be possible;" but they bring little a
box not more grand nor my thumb. It seem to be to me very ridiculous;
so I returned to my hotel at despair how I could possibility learn a
language what meant so many differents in one word.
[Footnote E: La, la, signifies passable, indifferent.]
I found the same waiter, who, so soon as I come in, tell me, "Sir, did
you not say that you would go by the coach to-morrow morning?" I replied
"Yes--and I have bespeaked a seat out of the side, because I shall wish
to amuse myself with the country, and you have no cabriolets[F] in your
coaches." "Sir," he say, very polite, "if you shall allow me, I would
recommend you the _box_, and then the coachman shall tell everything."
"Very well," I reply, "yes; to be sure--I shall have a _box_ then--yes;"
and then I demanded a fire into my chamber, because I think myself
enrhumed upon the sea, and the maid of the chamber come to send me in
bed: but I say, "No so quick, if you please; I will write to some friend
how I find myself in England. Very well--here is the fire, but perhaps
it shall go out before I have finish." She was pretty laughing young
woman, and say, "Oh no, sir, if you pull the bell, the porter, who sit
up all night, will come, unless you like to attend to it yourself, and
then you will find the coal-_box_ in the closet." Well--I say nothing
but "yes--oh yes." But when she is gone, I look direct into the closet,
and see a _box_ not no more like none of the other _boxes_ what I see
all day than nothing.
[Footnote F: The cabriolet is the front part of the old French
diligence, with a hood and apron, holding three persons, including the
guard, or "conducteur."]
Well--I write at my friends, and then I tumble about when I wake, and
dream in the sleep what should possible be the description of the _box_
what I must be put in to-morrow for my voyage.
In the morning, it was very fine time, I see the coach at the door, and
I walk all round before they bring the horses; but I see nothing what
they can call _boxes_, only the same kind as what my little business
was put into. So I ask for the post of letters at a little boots boy,
who showed me by the Quay, and tell me, pointing by his finger at a
window--"There see, there was the letter-_box_," and I perceive a
crevice. "Very well--all _box_ again to-day," I say, and give my letter
to the master of postes, and go away again at the coach, where I very
soon find out what was coach-_box_, and mount myself upon it. Then come
the coachman, habilitated like the gentleman, and the first word he say
was--"Keep, horses! Bring my _box_-coat!" and he push up a grand capote
with many scrapes.
"But--never mind," I say; "I shall see all the _boxes_ in time." So he
kick his leg upon the board, and cry "cheat!" and we are out into the
country in lesser than one minute, and roll at so grand pace, what I
have had fear we will be reversed. But after little times, I take
courage, and we begin to entertain together: but I hear one of the
wheels cry squeak, so I tell him, "Sir--one of the wheel would be
greased;" then he make reply, nonchalancely, "Oh--it is nothing but one
of the _boxes_ what is too tight." But it is very long time after as I
learn that wheel a _box_ was pipe of iron what go turn round upon the
axle.
Well--we fly away at the pace of charge. I see great castles many; then
come a pretty house of country well ornated, and I make inquire what it
should be. "Oh!" responsed he, "I not remember the gentleman's name, but
it is what we call a snug country _box_."
Then I feel myself abymed at despair, and begin to suspect that he
amused himself. But, still I tell myself, "Well--never mind; we shall
see." And then after some times, there come another house, all alone
in a forest, not ornated at all. "What, how you call that?" I demand
of him. "Oh!" he responded again, "that is a shooting _box_ of Lord
Killfots." "Oh!" I cry at last out, "that is little too strong;" but
he hoisted his shoulders and say nothing. Well, we come at a house of
country ancient, with the trees cut like some peacocks, and I demand,
"What you call these trees?" "_Box_, sir," he tell me. "Devil is in the
_box_!" I say at myself. "But--never mind; we shall see." So I myself
refreshed with a pinch of snuff, and offer him, and he take very polite,
and remark upon an instant, "That is a very handsome _box_ of yours,
sir."
"Morbleu!" I exclaimed with inadvertencyness, but I stop myself. Then
he pull out his snuff-_box_, and I take a pinch, because I like at
home to be sociable when I am out at voyages, and not show some pride
with inferior. It was of wood beautiful with turnings, and colour of
yellowish. So I was pleased to admire very much, and inquire the name of
the wood, and again he say, "_Box_, sir!" Well--I hold myself with
patience, but it was difficilly; and we keep with great gallop, till we
come at a great crowd of the people. Then I say, "What for all so large
concourse?"--"Oh!" he response again, "there is one grand _boxing_
match--a battle here to-day."--"Peste!" I tell myself, "a battle of
_boxes_! Well, never mind! I hope it can be a combat at the outrance,
and they all shall destroy one another, for I am fatigued."
Well--we arrive at an hotel, very superb, all as it ought, and I demand
a morsel to refresh myself. I go into a salon, but, before I finish,
great noise come into the passage, and I pull the bell's rope to demand
why so great tapage? The waiter tell me, and he laugh at same time, but
very civil no less, "Oh, sir, it is only two of the women what quarrel,
and one has given another a _box_ on the ear."
Well--I go back on the coach-box, but I look, as I pass, at all the
women ear, for the _box_; but not none I see. "Well," I tell myself once
more, "never mind, we shall see;" and we drive on very passable and
agreeable times till we approached ourselves near London; but then come
one another coach of the opposition to pass by, and the coachman say,
"No, my boy, it shan't do!" and then he whip his horses, and made
some traverse upon the road, and tell to me, all the times, a long
explication what the other coachmen have done otherwhiles, and finish
not till we stop, and the coach of opposition come behind him in one
narrow place. Well--then he twist himself round, and with full voice,
cry himself out at the another man, who was so angry as himself, "I'll
tell you what, my hearty! if you comes some more of your gammon at me,
I shan't stand, and you shall yourself find in the wrong _box_." It
was not for many weeks after as I find out the wrong _box_ meaning.
Well--we get at London, at the coaches office, and I unlightened from my
seat, and go at the bureau for pay my passage, and gentleman very polite
demanded if I had some friend at London. I converse with him very little
time in voyaging, because he was in the interior; but I perceive he is
real gentleman. So, I say, "No, sir, I am stranger." Then he very
honestly recommend me at an hotel, very proper, and tell me, "Sir,
because I have some affairs in the Banque, I must sleep in the City this
night; but to-morrow I shall come at the hotel, where you shall find
some good attentions if you make the use of my name." "Very well," I
tell myself, "this is best." So we exchange the cards, and I have
hackney-coach to come at my hotel, where they say, "No room, sir,--very
sorry,--no room." But I demand to stop the moment, and produce the card
what I could not read before, in the movements of the coach with the
darkness. The master of the hotel take it from my hand, and become very
polite at the instant, and whisper to the ear of some waiters, and then
come at me, and say, "Oh yes, sir, I know Mr _Box_ very well. Worthy
gentleman, Mr Box. Very proud to incommode any friend of Mr Box--pray
inlight yourself, and walk in my house." So I go in, and find myself
very proper, and soon come so as if I was in my own particular chamber;
and Mr Box come next day, and I find very soon that he was the
_right_ Box, and not the _wrong_ box. Ha, ha!--You shall excuse my
badinage,--eh? But never mind--I am going at Leicestershire to see the
foxes hunting, and perhaps will get upon a coach-box in the spring, and
go at Edinburgh; but I have fear I cannot come at your "Noctes," because
I have not learnt yet to eat so great supper. I always read what they
speak there twice over, except what Monsieur Le "Shepherd" say, what I
read three time; but never could comprend exactly what he say, though
I discern some time the grand idea, what walk in darkness almost
"visible," as your divine Milton say. I am particular fond of the
poetry. I read three books of the "Paradise Lost" to Mr Box, but he
not hear me no more--he pronounce me perfect.
After one such compliment, it would be almost the same as ask you for
another, if I shall make apology in case I have not find the correct
ideotism of your language in this letter; so I shall not make none at
all--only throw myself at your mercy, like a great critic. But, never
mind--we shall see. If you take this letter as it ought, I shall not
promise if I would not write you one other some time.
I conclude in presenting at you my compliments very respectful. I am
sorry for your gout and crutchedness, and hope you shall miss them in
the spring.
I have the honour of subscribe myself,
SIR,
Your very humble and much
obedient Servant,
LOUIS LE CHEMINANT.
_P.S._--Ha, ha!--It is very droll!--I tell my valet, we go at
Leicestershire for the hunting fox.--Very well.--So soon as I finish
this letter, he come and demand what I shall leave behind in orders for
some presents, to give what people will come at my lodgments for
Christmas _Boxes_.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the authors' words and
intent.