* * * * *
I was in company the other evening where Westmacott, the sculptor, was
telling a story of himself and Leigh Hunt. They were together one day
at Fiesole, when a butterfly, of an uncommon sable color, alighted on
Westmacott's forehead, and remained there several minutes. Hunt
immediately cried out, "The spirit of some dear friend is departed,"
and as they entered the gate of Florence on their return, some one met
them and informed them of the death of Byron, the news of which had at
that moment arrived.
* * * * *
I have just time before the packet sails to send you an anecdote, that
is _bought out_ of the London papers. A nobleman, living near Belgrave
square, received a visit a day or two ago from a police officer, who
stated to him, that he had a man-servant in his house, who had escaped
from Botany Bay. His Lordship was somewhat surprised, but called up
the male part of his household, at the officer's request, and passed
them in review. The culprit was not among them. The officer then
requested to see the _female_ part of the establishment; and, to the
inexpressible astonishment of the whole household, he laid his hand
upon the shoulder of the _lady's confidential maid_, and informed her
she was his prisoner. A change of dress was immediately sent for, and
miladi's dressing-maid was re-metamorphosed into an effeminate-looking
fellow, and marched off to a new trial. It is a most extraordinary
thing, that he had lived unsuspected in the family for nine months,
performing all the functions of a confidential Abigail, and very much
in favor with his unsuspecting mistress, who is rather a serious
person, and would as soon have thought of turning out to be a man
herself. It is said, that the husband once made a remark upon the
huskiness of the maid's voice, but no other comment was ever made,
reflecting in the least upon her qualities as a member of the _beau
sexe_. The story is quite authentic, but hushed up out of regard to
the lady.
End of Project Gutenberg's Pencillings by the Way, by N. Parker Willis