| | 1 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | The miscellaneous works of N.P. Willis  | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | I have not written to you in your boy's lifetime—
that fine lad, a shade taller than yourself, whom I
sometimes meet at my tailor's and bootmaker's. I
am not very sure, that after the first month (bitter
month) of your marriage, I have thought of you for
the duration of a revery—fit to be so called. I loved
you—lost you—swore your ruin and forgot you—
which is love's climax when jilted. And I never expected
to think of you again. Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on
your table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended
to prepare you for that critical campaign. You
must know the ammunition with which you go into
the field. I have seen service, as you know, and,
from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise
strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with
discretion. Set your glass before you on the table,
and let us hold a frank council of war. My dear widow: For the wear and tear of your
bright eyes in writing me a letter you are duly credited.
That for a real half-hour, as long as any ordinary
half-hour, such well-contrived illuminations
should have concentrated their mortal using on me
only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience
of any two stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats
(if not thrown in) turning the comparison a
little in your favor. Thanks—of course—piled high
as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the
attainment of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In
other words, I wish the sin of the Faculty well repented
of, in having endorsed upon parchment such a
barefaced fabrication. Put the document in your pocket,
and come away! There will be no occasion to
air it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for
you, it will then revert to the Faculty. Quiescat adhuc—as
I used to say of my tailor's bills till they came
through a lawyer. Dear reader: A volume of poems goes from us
in an extra of the Mirror this week, which leaves us
with a feeling—we scarce know how to phrase it—a
feeling of timidity and dread—like a parent's apprehensiveness,
giving his child into the hands of a stranger.
It is not Pliny's “quam sit magnum dare aliquid
in manus hominum,” nor is it, what the habitual avoidance
of grave themes looks like, sometimes—a preference
“to let the serious part of life go by
Like the neglected sand.”
We are used to buttering curiosity with the ooze of
our brains—careful more to be paid than praised—
and we have a cellar, as well as many stories, in our
giddy thought-house; and it is from this cave of privacy
that we have, with reluctance, and consentings far
between, drawn treasures of early feeling and impression,
now bound and offered to you for the first time
in one bundle. Oh, from the different stories of the
mind—from the settled depths, and from the effervescent
and giddy surface—how different looks the world!
—of what different stuff and worth the link that binds
us to it! In looking abroad from one window of the
soul, we see sympathy, goodness, truth, desire for us
and our secrets, that we may be more loved; from
another, we see suspicion, coldness, mockery, and ill-will—the
evil spirits of the world—lying in wait for
us. At one moment—the spirits down, and the heart
calm and trusting—we tear out the golden leaf nearest
the well of life, and pass it forth to be read and wept
over. At another, we bar shutter and blind upon prying
malice, turn key carefully on all below, and,
mounting to the summit, look abroad and jest at the
very treasures we have concealed—wondering at our
folly in even confessing to a heartless world that we
had secrets, and would share them. We are not always
alike. The world does not seem always the
same. We believe it is all good sometimes. We believe
sometimes, that it is but a place accursed, given
to devils and their human scholars. Sometimes we
are all kindness—sometimes aching only for an an
tagonist, and an arena without barrier or law. And
oh what a Procrustes's bed is human opinion—trying
a man's actions and words, in whatever mood committed
and said, by the same standard of rigor! How
often must the angels hovering over us reverse the
sentence of the judge—how oftener still the rebuke
of the old maid and the Pharisee. Sir: A French writer wittily turns the paradox:
“Il faut de l'argent même pour se passer d'argent”—
(is it necessary to have money to be able to do without
it)—and we please ourselves with suspecting that it is
only amid the forgetful ease of possession that you can
have made up your mind to forego us. If so, and
your first se'ennight of unmirrored solitude prove
heavier to bear than the aching three dollar void
balanced against it—so! The pathos of this parting
will have been superfluous. Ladies and gentlemen: In the eleven thousand
shining sixpences which duly rise and dispense their
silver light upon our way, we see of course the
“Heaven of eternal change” toward whose “patines
of bright gold” we have been long stretching with
tiptoe expectation. We trust that, like the unpocketable
troop whose indefatigable punctuality you emulate,
there are still comers to your number unarrived,
and that the “Lost Pleiad” (the single heavenly body
upon whose discontinuance to rise we indited the
foregoing epistle), will come round again in his erratic
orbit, and take his place in the constellation he has
deserted. We give notice here, however, that, at
eleven thousand, we shall, like the nuns of St. Ursula,
stop numbering. There have been virgins since the
shelving of the bones of the “eleven thousand virgins
of Cologne,” yet the oft-told number is still told,
without increase, in the holy tradition. We believe
with the sainted sisterhood that human credence can
go no farther—that 'twixt millions and billions of
virgins the disciple's mind would not be likely to discriminate.
You will still permit us, therefore, to cast
our horoscope upon this nominal number. As other
starry sixpences fall into the chinks of boundless space,
the perceptible increase of our brightness will alone
tell the tale—but they will be marked and welcomed
in the careful astronomy of our leger. You are feeding the news-hopper of your literary
mill, my dear poet, and I am trying on the old trick
of gayety at Saratoga. Which of us should write
the other a letter? You, if you say so—though as I
get older, I am beginning to think well of the town,
even in August. You have your little solaces, my fast
liver! Dear Willis: Your kind note to St. John, of the
Knickerbocker, got me the state-room with the picture
of “Glenmary” on the panel, and I slept under
the protection of your household gods—famously, of
course. The only fault I found with that magnificent
boat, was the right of any “smutched villain” to walk
through her. It is a frightful arrangement that can
sell, to a beauty and a blackguard, for the same money,
the right to promenade on the same carpet, and go to
sleep with the same surroundings on the opposite
sides of a pine partition! Give me a world where
antipodes stay put! But what a right-royal, “slap-up”
supper they give in the Knickerbocker! They'll
make the means better than the end—travelling better
than arriving—if they improve any more! I had a
great mind to go back the next day, and come up
again. “Dear Willis: You frightened me to-day, terribly,
in the hint you threw out in the course of conversation
with the `brigadier,' to wit: `Shall we
make it into a monthly?' “Dear Bel-Phœbe: I have been `twiddling my
sunbeam' (you say my letters are `perfect sunshine')
for some time, more or less, in a quandary as to what
is now resolved upon as `Dear Bel-Phœbe'—the beginning
of this (meant-to-be) faultless epistle. I
chanced to wake critical this morning, and, `dear
Phœbe,' as the beginning of this letter of mine, looked
both vulgar and meaningless. I inked it out as you
see. A reference to my etymological dictionary,
however, restored my liking for that `dear' word. It
is derived from the Anglo-Saxon verb Der-ian, which
means to do mischief. Hence dearth, which, by doing
mischief, makes what remains more precious, and
hence dear, meaning something made precious by having
escaped hurting. `Dear Phœbe,' therefore (meaning
unhurt Phœbe), struck me as pretty well—you being
one of those delicious, late-loving women, destined
to be `hurt' first at thirty. Still, the sacred word
`Phœbe' was too abruptly come upon. It sounded
familiar, and familiarity should be reserved for the
postscript. I should have liked to write `dear Lady
Phœbe,' or `dear Countess Phœbe'—but we are not
permitted to `read our title clear,' in this hideously-simple
country. Might I invent an appellative? We
say char-woman and horse-man—why not put a descriptive
word before a lady's name, by way of respectful
distance. Phœbe Lorn is a belle—why not
say Bel-Phœbe? Good! It sounds authentic. This
letter, then, is to Phœbe, unhurt and beautiful (alias),
`Dear Bel-Phœbe!' “Dear Madam: The undersigned, booksellers,
publishers, and authors, of the city of New York,
have long felt desirous of transmitting to you a memorial
of the high and respectful admiration which
they entertain for one to whose pen we are indebted
for some of the purest and most imaginative productions
in the wide range of English literature. As the
authoress of `Thaddeus of Warsaw,' the `Scottish
Chiefs,' &c., your name has spread over the length
and breadth of our land, and the volumes of your delightful
works may be found gracing alike the abodes
of the wealthy, and the humble dwellings of the
poor. And deservedly so—for if purity of sentiment,
felicity of expression, and the constant inculcation of
the noblest lessons of religion and morality, be any
passport to literary fame, then will the name of Miss
Porter rank high on the list of those whom the present
age delights to honor, and for whom coming ages
will entertain a deep feeling of reverential esteem. Dear Jack: Since my compulsory budding, flowering,
and bearing fruit, have been accelerated to one
season per diem, to feed a daily paper, you will easily
understand that I found it necessary at first to work
all my sap into something useful—omitting as it were,
the gum deposite of superfluous correspondence. I
accordingly left you off. Your last letter was slipped
into the no-more-bother hole, without the usual endorsement
of “answered,” and I considered you like
a trinket laid aside before a race—not to encumber
me. I miss the writing of trumpery, however. I miss
the sweeping out of the corners of my mind—full of
things fit only for the dust-pan, but still very possibly
hiding a silver-spoon. Messrs. Editors: My friend John Smith is to be
married to Lucy Jones. She issues a card of invitation
like this:— Dear Custom: Your friend is wrong, from the
egg to the apple. Miss Lucy Jones has a mother, or
father, guardian, or friend, at whose house she is to be
married. The invitation should come from the person
under whose protection she is given away—(sent,
if you please, to Mr. Smith's friends, with Mr. Smith's
card, but understood by Miss Lucy Jones's friends,
without card or explanation). It is tampering with
serious things, very dangerously, to circulate the three
words, “and Mrs. John Smith,” one minute before
the putting on of the irrevocable ring. The law
which permits ladies (though not gentlemen) to
change their minds up to the last minute before wed
lock, exacts also that the privileged angels should not
be coerced by the fear of seeing the escaped name
afterward on a wedding card! Besides, such a card,
so issued, would be received from Mrs. Smith before
there was any such person. “Dear Sir: I am directed by the committee of the `Travellers'
to inform you that they have great pleasure in admitting
you as a visiter to the club for the ensuing month, and
that they hope to be favored with your frequent attendance. “Sir: I am directed to inform you that the committee of
the `Athenæum' have ordered your name to be placed on
the list of distinguished foreigners residing in London, who
are invited to the house of the club for three months, subject
to the same regulations as the members are required to
observe. “Je suis vraiment desolée de ne pouvoir aller ce soir chez
Lady Morgan. Je dine chez le Prince Esterhazy ou je dois
passer la soirée. Demain au soir, j'ai un concert pour M. Laporte,
le reste de la semaine je suis libre et tout à vos ordres.
Si vous croyez de combiner quelque-choze avec Lady Morgan,
comptez sur moi! Demain je passerai chez Lady Morgan
pour faire mes excuses en personne. “Mr. Editor: I observe that a `bachelor,' writing
in the `American,' recommends to `invited'
and `inviters,' to send invitations and answers, stamped,
through the penny-post. This is a capital idea,
and I shall adopt it for one. I perceive that a bachelor
in another paper says, `it will suit him and his fellow-bachelors,'
for reasons set forth, and that he will adopt
the plan. Now, Mr. Editor, I am a housekeeper,
and married, and my wife requires the use of all my
servants, and can not spare them to be absent three or
four days, going round the city, delivering notes, on
the eve of a party. These notes could, by the plan
suggested, be delivered in three hours, and insure a
prompt answer. I can then know exactly who is
coming and who is not—a very convenient point of
knowledge! “Right Trusty and Right Well-beloved
Cousin.—We greet you well. Whereas, the 1st day
of March next (or thereabouts) is appointed for our
coronation.—These are to will and command you (all
excuses set apart) to make your personal attendance
on us at the time above-mentioned, furnished and appointed
as to your rank and quality appertaineth.—
There to do and perform all such services as shall be
required and belong to you.—Whereof you are not to
fail.—And so we bid you heartily farewell. “Mr. Editor: One of the greatest treats you
could give your country lady readers, would be to
furnish them from time to time, with brief hints as to
the actual style of fashions in the metropolis. We
have, all along, depended for information on this important
subject, upon the monthly magazines, all of
which profess to give the fashions as worn, but we find
out to our dismay, that they pick up their fashions
from the Paris and London prints at random—some
of them adopted by our city ladies, some not! It thus
happens that we country people, who like to be in the
fashion, are often subjected to great expense and mortification—relying
too implicitly upon the magazine
reports. We cause a bonnet or a dress to be made
strictly in accordance with the style prescribed in the
fashion plate of the magazine, and when we hie away
to the city with our new finery, we discover that our
costume is so outrè that every one laughs at us! Now,
should there not be some remedy for this evil? “`Madam: There is a fund applicable, as vacancies
may occur, to the grant of annual pensions of very
limited amount, which usage has placed at the disposal
of the lady of the first minister. On this fund
there is a surplus of £20 per annum. Dear Fanny: Would your dark eyes vouchsafe
to wonder how I come to write to you? Thus it
befell:— To a lady-friend in the country: I am up to the
knees in newspapers, and write to you under the stare
of nine pigeon-holes, stuffed with literary portent.
Were there such a thing (in this world of everythings)
as papyral magnetism, you would get a letter, not
only typical in itself, but typical of a flood in which
my identity is fast drowning. Oh, the drown of news,
weighed unceasingly—little events and great ones—
against little more than the trouble of snipping round
with scissors! To a horrid death—to a miraculous
preservation—to a heart-gush of poesy—to a marriage
—to a crime—to the turn of a political crisis—to
flashing wit and storied agonies—giving but the one
invariable first thought—“Shall I cut it out?” Alas,
dear beauty-monarch of all you survey!—your own
obitnary, were I to read it in a newspaper of to-morrow,
would speak scarce quicker to my heart than to
those scissors of undiscriminating circum-cision!
With the knowledge that the sky above me was enriched,
as Florence once was, by the return of its
long-lost and best model of beauty, I should ask,
with be-paragraphed grief—“will her death do for
the Mirror?” My Dear Sir: To ask me for my idea of General
Morris is like asking the left hand's opinion of the
dexterity of the right. I have lived so long with the
“brigadier,” known him so intimately, worked so constantly
at the same rope, and thought so little of ever
separating from him (except by precedence of ferriage
over the Styx), that it is hard to shove him from me
to the perspective distance—hard to shut my own partial
eyes, and look at him through other people's. I
will try, however, and as it is done with but one foot
off from the treadmill of my ceaseless vocation, you
will excuse both abruptness and brevity. “Has there been any mistake in the two-penny post
delivery, that I have not received your article for this
mouth? If so, please send me the rough draught by
the bearer (who waits), and the compositors will try
to make it out. “Dear Mr. Clay: From causes which you will
probably understand, I have been induced to reconsider
your proposal of marriage to my niece.—Imprudent
as I must still consider your union, I find myself
in such a situation that, should you persevere, I must
decide in its favor, as the least of two evils. You will
forgive my anxious care, however, if I exact of you,
before taking any decided step, a full and fair statement
of your pecuniary embarrassments (which I
understand are considerable) and your present income
and prospects. I think it proper to inform you that
Miss Gore's expectations, beyond an annuity of £300
a year, are very distant, and that all your calculations
should be confined to that amount. With this understanding,
I should be pleased to see you at Ashurst
to-morrow morning. “Dear Lady Fanny: If you have anything beside
the ghost-room vacant at Freer Hall, I will run
down to you. Should you, by chance, be alone, ask
up the curate for a week to keep Sir Harry off my
hands; and, as you don't flirt, provide me with somebody
more pretty than yourself for our mutual
security. As my autograph sells for eighteen pence,
you will excuse the brevity of “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission,
which I know not how to broach to you, except by
simple proposal. Will you forgive my abrupt brevity,
if I inform you, without further preface, that the
Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high birth and
ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your
hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are
not irrevocably given to another, I can conceive no
sufficient obstacle to your acceptance of this brilliant
connexion. The countess is twenty-two, and not
beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but she has
high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any
man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of
course, and conceived a passion for you, of which this
is the result. I am directed to add, that should you
consent, the following conditions are imposed—that
you marry her within four days, making no inquiry
except as to her age, rank, and property, and that,
without previous interview, she come veiled to the
altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to
consider the extraordinary proposition made me in
your letter. The subject, since it is to be entertained
a moment, requires, perhaps, still further reflection—
but my reply shall be definite, and as prompt as I can
bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “Dear Fred: Nothing going on in town, except
a little affair of my own, which I can't leave to go
down to you. Dull even at Crocky's—nobody plays
this hot weather. And now, as to your commissions.
You will receive Dupree, the cook, by to-night's mail.
Grisi won't come to you without her man—`'twasn't
thus when we were boys!'—so I send you a figurante,
and you must do tableaux. I was luckier in finding
you a wit. S— will be with you to-morrow, though,
by the way, it is only on condition of meeting Lady
Midge Bellasys, for whom, if she is not with you, you
must exert your inveiglements. This, by way only
of shuttlecock and battledore, however, for they play
at wit together—nothing more, on her part at least.
Look out for this devilish fellow, my lord Fred!—
and live thin till you see the last of him—for he'll
laugh you into your second apoplexy with the dangerous
ease of a hair-trigger. I could amuse you with
a turn or two in my late adventures, but black and
white are bad confidants, though very well as a business
firm. And, mentioning them, I have drawn on
you for a temporary £500, which please lump with
my other loan, and oblige “Dear Sir Humphrey: Perhaps you will scarce
remember Jane Jones, to whom you presented the
brush of your first fox. This was thirty years ago.
I was then at school in the little village near Tally-ho
hall. Dear me! how well I remember it! On hearing
of your marriage, I accepted an offer from my late
husband, Mr. S—, and our union was blessed
with one boy, who, I must say, is an angel of goodness.
Out of his small income, my dear James furnished
and rented this very genteel house, and he
tells me I shall have it for life, and provides me one
servant, and everything I could possibly want. Thrice
a week he comes out to spend the day and dine with
me, and, in short, he is the pattern of good sons. As
this dear boy is going down to Warwickshire, I can not
resist the desire I have that you should know him,
and that he should bring me back an account of my
lover in days gone by. Any attention to him, dear
Sir Humphrey, will very much oblige one whom you
once was happy to oblige, and still “Dear Sir: I remember Miss Jones very well,
God bless me, I thought she had been dead many
years. I am sure I shall be very happy to see her
son. Will you come out and dine with us?—dinner
at seven. “Dear Nuncle: It's hard on to six o'clock, and
I'm engaged at seven to a junketing at the `Hen and
chickens,' with Stuggins and the maids. If you intend
to make me acquainted with your great lord, now
is time. If you don't, I shall walk in presently,
and introduce myself; for I know how to make my
own way, nucle—ask Miss Bel's maid, and the other
girls you introduced me to at Tally-ho hall! Be in
a hurry, I'm just outside. “My dear Lord: In the belief that a frank communication
would be best under the circumstances, I
wish to make an inquiry, prefacing it with the assurance
that my only hope of happiness has been for
some time staked upon the successful issue of my
suit for your daughter's hand. It is commonly understood,
I believe, that the bulk of your lordship's fortune
is separate from the entail, and may be disposed
of at your pleasure. May I inquire its amount, or
rather, may I ask what fortune goes with the hand of
Lady Angelica. The Beauchief estates are unfortunately
much embarrassed, and my own debts (I may
frankly confess) are very considerable. You will at
once see, my lord, that, in justice to your daughter, as
well as to myself, I could not do otherwise than make
this frank inquiry before pushing my suit to extremity.
Begging your indulgence and an immediate answer, I
remain, my dear lord, “Dear Lord Frederick: I trust you will not
accuse me of a want of candor in declining a direct
answer to your question. Though I freely own to a
friendly wish for your success in your efforts to engage
the affections of Lady Angelica, with a view to marriage,
it can only be in the irrevocable process of a
marriage settlement that her situation, as to the probable
disposal of my fortune, can be disclosed. I may
admit to you, however, that, upon the events of this
day on which you have written (it so chances), may
depend the question whether I should encourage you
to pursue further your addresses to Lady Angelica. “My dear Angelica: I am happy to know that
there are circumstances which will turn aside much
of the poignancy of the communication I am about to
make to you. If I am not mistaken at least, in believing
a mutual attachment to exist between yourself
and Count Pallardos, you will at once comprehend
the ground of my mental relief, and perhaps, in
a measure, anticipate what I am about to say. “Dear Count: You will wonder at receiving a
friendly note from me after my refusal, two months
since, to meet you over `pistols and coffee;' but reparation
may not be too late, and this is to say, that
you have your choice between two modes of settlement,
viz:—to accept for your stable the hunter you
stole from me (vide police report) and allow me to take
a glass of wine with you at my own table and bury the
hatcher, or, to shoot at me if you like, according to
your original design. Manners and Beauchief hope
you will select the latter, as they owe you a grudge
for the possession of your incomparable bride and her
fortune; but I trust you will prefer the horse, which
(if I am rightly informed) bore you to the declaration
of love at Chasteney. Reply to Crockford's. “My dear St. Leger: Enclosed you have the
only surviving lock of my grizzled wig—sign and symbol
that my disguises are over and my object attained.
The wig burns at this instant in the grate, item my
hand-ruffles, item sundry embroidered cravats a la
vielle cour, item (this last not without some trouble at
my heart) a solitary love-token from Constantia Hervey.
One faded rose—given me at Pæstum, the day
before I was driven disgraced from her presence by
the interference of this insolent fool—one faded rose
has crisped and faded into smoke with the rest. And
so fled from the world the last hope of a warm and
passionate heart, which never gave up its destiny till
now—never felt that it was made in vain, guarded, refined,
cherished in vain, till that long-loved flower lay
in ashes. I am accustomed to strip emotion of its
drapery—determined to feel nothing but what is real—
yet this moment, turn it and strip it, and deny its illusions
as I will, is anguish. `Self-inflicted,' you smile
and say! “I have followed up to this hour, my fair cousin, in
the path you have marked out for me. It has brought
me back, in this chamber, to the point from which I
started under your guidance, and if it had brought me
back unchanged—if it restored me my energy, my
hope, and my prospect of fame, I should pray Heaven
that it would also give me back my love, and be content—more
than content, if it gave me back also my
poverty. The sight of my easel, and of the surroundings
of my boyish dreams of glory, have made my
heart bitter. They have given form and voice to a
vague unhappiness, which has haunted me through all
these absent years—years of degrading pursuits and
wasted powers—and it now impels me from you, kind
and lovely as you are, with an aversion I can not control.
I can not forgive you. You have thwarted my
destiny. You have extinguished with sordid cares a
lamp within me that might, by this time, have shone
through the world. And what am I, since your wishes
are accomplished? Enriched in pocket, and bankrupt
in happiness and self-respect. Dined with F—, the artist, at a trattoria. F— is
a man of genius, very adventurous and imaginative in
his art, but never caring to show the least touch of
these qualities in his conversation. His pictures have
given him great vogue and consideration at Rome, so
that his daily experience furnishes staple enough for
his evening's chit-chat, and he seems, of course, to be
always talking of himself. He is very generally set
down as an egotist. His impulse to talk, however,
springs from no wish for self-glorification, but rather
from an indolent aptness to lay hands on the readiest
and most familiar topic, and that is a kind of egotism
to which I have very little objection—particularly
with the mind fatigued, as it commonly is in Rome,
by a long day's study of works of art. “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy
Ione S— calls to thee from the aching void of her
lonely spirit! What name bearest thou? What path
walkest thou? How can I, glow-worm like, lift my
wings and show thee my lamp of guiding love? Thus
wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou art,
perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants!
Rest not till ye meet his eye. “`Dear Miss Blidgims: Feeling quite indisposed
myself, and being firmly persuaded that we are
three cases of cholera, I have taken advantage of a
return calesino to hurry on to Modena for medical
advice. The vehicle I take, brought hither a sister of
charity, who assures me she will wait on you, even in
the most malignant stage of your disease. She is
collecting funds for an hospital, and will receive compensation
for her services in the form of a donation to
this object. I shall send you a physician by express
from Modena, where it is still possible we may meet.
With prayers, &c., &c. “The delivery of this was subject, of course, to
the condition of the ladies when they should arrive,
though I had a presentiment they were in for a serious
business. “Baron: Before taking the usual notice of the occurrence
of this morning, I wish to rectify one or two
points in which our position is false. I find myself,
since last night, the accepted lover of Lady Imogen
Ravelgold, and the master of estates and title as a
count of the Russian empire. Under the etourdissement
of such sudden changes in feelings and fortune,
perhaps my forgetfulness of the lady, in whose cause
you are so interested, admits of indulgence. At any
rate, I am so newly in love with life, that I am willing
to suppose for an hour that had you known these circumstances,
you would have taken a different view of
the offence in question. I shall remain at home till
two, and it is in your power till then to make me the
reparation necessary to my honor. “Dear Sir: My wife wishes me to write to you,
and inform you of her marriage, which took place a
week or two since, and of which she presumes you
are not aware. She remarked to me, that you thought
her looking unhappy last evening, when you chanced
to see her at the play. As she seemed to regret not
being able to answer your note herself, I may perhaps
convey the proper apology by taking upon myself to
mention to you, that, in consequence of eating an imprudent
quantity of unripe fruit, she felt ill before going
to the theatre, and was obliged to leave early.
To day she seems seriously indisposed. I trust she
will be well enough to see you in a day or two—and
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