Kitabı oku: «The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume I», sayfa 22

CHAPTER XXVII. A SMALL DINNER AT THE VILLINO ZOE

AMONG the penalties great folk pay for their ascendancy, there is one most remarkable, and that is, the intense interest taken in all their affairs by hundreds of worthy people who are not of their acquaintance. This feeling, which transcends every other known description of sympathy, flourishes in small communities. In the capital of which we are now speaking, it was at its very highest pitch of development. The Onslows furnished all the table-talk of the city; but in no circle were their merits so frequently and ably discussed as in that little parliament of gossip which held its meetings at the “Villino Zoe.”

Mrs. Ricketts, who was no common diplomatist, had done her utmost to establish relations of amity with her great neighbor. She had expended all the arts of courtesy and all the devices of politeness to effect this entente cordiale; but all in vain. Her advances had been met with coldness, and “something more;” her perfumed little notes, written in a style of euphuism all her own, had been left unanswered; her presents of fruit and flowers unacknowledged, it is but fair to add, that they never proceeded further than the porter’s lodge, even her visiting-cards were only replied to by the stiff courtesy of cards, left by Lady Hester’s “Chasseur;” so that, in fact, failure had fallen on all her endeavors, and she had not even attained to the barren honor of a recognition as they passed in the promenade.

This was a very serious discomfiture, and might, when it got abroad, have sorely damaged the Ricketts’s ascendancy in that large circle, who were accustomed to regard her as the glass of fashion. Heaven knew what amount of insubordination might spring out of it! what rebellious notions might gain currency and credit! It was but the winter before when a Duchess, who passed through, on her way to Rome, asked “who Mrs. Ricketts was?” and the shock was felt during the whole season after. The Vandyk for whose authenticity Martha swore, was actually called in question. The “Sevres” cup she had herself painted was the subject of a heresy as astounding. We live in an age of movement and convulsion, no man’s landmarks are safe now, and Mrs. Ricketts knew this.

The Onslows, it was clear, would not know her; it only remained, then, to show why she would not know them. It was a rare thing to find a family settling down at Florence against whom a “true bill” might not easily be found of previous misconduct. Few left England without a reason that might readily become an allegation. Bankruptcy or divorce were the light offences; the higher ones we must not speak of. Now the Onslows, as it happened, were not in this category. Sir Stafford’s character was unimpeachable, her Ladyship’s had nothing more grave against it than the ordinary levities of her station. George “had gone the pace,” it was true, but nothing disreputable attached to him. There was no use, there fore, in “trying back” for a charge, and Mrs. Ricketts perceived that they must be arraigned on the very vaguest of evidence. Many a head has fallen beneath the guillotine for a suspicion, and many a heart been broken on a surmise!

A little dinner at the Villino opened the plan of proceedings. It was a small auto-da-fe of character at which the Onslows were to be the victims, while the grand inquisitors were worthily represented by the Polish Count, Haggerstone, Purvis, and a certain Mr. Foglass, then passing through Florence on his way to England. This gentleman, who was the reputed son of a supposed son of George the Fourth, was received as “very good royalty” in certain circles abroad, and, by virtue of a wig, a portly chest, and a most imposing pomposity of manner, taken to be exceedingly like his grandfather, just on the same principle as red currant jelly makes middling mutton resemble venison.

To get rid of his importunity, a Minister had made him Consul in some remote village of the East, but finding that there were neither fees nor perquisites, Foglass had left his post to besiege the doors of Downing Street once more, and if rejected as a suppliant, to become an admirable grievance for a Radical Member, and a “very cruel case of oppression” for the morning papers.

Foglass was essentially a “humbug;” but, unlike most, if not all other humbugs, without the smallest ingredient of any kind of ability. When men are said to live by their wits, their capital is, generally speaking, a very sufficient one; and that interesting class of persons known as adventurers numbers many clever talkers, shrewd observers, subtle tacticians, and admirable billiard-players; with a steady hand on a pistol, but ready to “pocket” either an “insult” or a “ball.” if the occasion require it. None of these gifts pertained to Foglass. He had not one of the qualities which either succeed in the world or in society, and yet, strange to say, this intolerable bore had a kind of popularity, that is to say, people gave him a vacant place at their dinners, and remembered him at picnics.

His whole strength lay in his wig, and a certain slow, measured intonation which he found often attracted attention to what he said, and gave his tiresome anecdotes of John Kemble, Munden, and Mathews the semblance of a point they never possessed. Latterly, however, he had grown deaf, and, like most who suffer under that infirmity, taken to speaking in a whisper so low as to be inaudible, a piece of politeness for which even our reader will be grateful, as it will spare him the misery of his twaddle.

Haggerstone and he were intimates were it not a profanation of the word, we should say friends. They were, however, always together; and Haggerstone took pains to speak of his companion as a “monstrous clever fellow, who required to be known to be appreciated.” Jekyl probably discovered the true secret of the alliance in the fact that they always talked to each other about the nobility, and never gave them their titles, an illusory familiarity with Dukes and Earls that appeared to render them supremely happy. Richmond, Beaufort, Cleveland, and Stanley were in their mouths as “household words.”

After all, it was a harmless sort of pastime; and if these “Imaginary Conversations” gave them pleasure, why need we grumble?

We have scruples about asking our reader even to a description of the Ricketts’s dinner. It was a true Barmecide feast. There was a very showy bouquet of flowers: there was a lavish display of what seemed silver; there was a good deal of queer china and impracticable glass; in short, much to look at, and very little to eat. Of this fact the Pole’s appreciation was like an instinct, and as the entrees were handed round, all who came after him became soon aware of. Neither the wine nor the dessert were temptations to a long sitting, and the party soon found themselves in the drawing-room.

“Son Excellence is going to England?” said the Pole, addressing Foglass, who had been announced as an Ambassador; “if you do see de Count Ojeffskoy, tell him I am living here, as well as a poor exile can, who have lost palaces, and horses, and diamonds, and all de rest.”

“Ah! the poor dear Count!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, while Martha prolonged the echo.

“You carry on the war tolerably well, notwithstanding,” said Haggerstone, who knew something of the other’s resources in piquet and ecarte.

“Carry on de war!” rejoined he, indignantly; “wid my fader, who work in de mines; and my beautiful sisters, who walk naked about de streets of Crakow!”

“What kind of climate have they in Crak-Crak-Crak – ” A fit of coughing finished a question which nobody thought of answering; and Purvis sat down, abashed, in a corner.

“Arthur, my love,” said Mrs. Ricketts, she was great at a diversion, whenever such a tactic was wanted, “do you hear what Colonel Haggerstone has been saying?”

“No, dearest,” muttered the old General, as he worked away with rule and compass.

“He tells me,” said the lady, still louder, “that the Onslows have separated. Not an open, formal separation, but that they occupy distinct apartments, and hold no intercourse whatever.”

“Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee” said Haggerstone, who, having already told the story seven times the same morning, was quite perfect in the recital, “Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee, with a small door into the garden. My Lady retains the entire first floor and the grand conservatory. George has a small garcon apartment off the terrace.”

“Ho! very distressing!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, whose woe-worn looks seemed to imply that she had never heard of a similar incident before; “and how unlike us, Arthur!” added she, with a smile of beaming affection. “He has ever been what you see him, since the day he stole my young, unsuspecting heart.”

The Colonel looked over at the object thus designated, and, by the grin of malice on his features, appeared to infer that the compliment was but a sorry one, after all.

“‘John Anderson my Jo, John,’” muttered he, half aloud.

“‘We’ve climbed the hill toge-ge-ge-ther,’” chimed in Purvis, with a cackle.

“Gather what, sir? Blackberries, was it?” cried Haggerstone.

“Don’t quote that low-lived creature,” said Mrs. Ricketts; “a poet only conversant with peasants and their habits. Let us talk of our own order. What of these poor Onslows?”

“Sir Stafford dines at two, madam. A cutlet, a vegetable, and a cherry tart; two glasses of Gordon’s sherry, and a cup of coffee.”

“Without milk. I had it from Proctor,” broke in Purvis, who was bursting with jealousy at the accuracy of the other’s narrative.

“You mean without sugar, sir,” snapped Haggerstone. “Nobody does take milk-coffee after dinner.”

“I always do,” rejoined Purvis, “when I can’t get mara-mara-mara – ”

“I hope you can get maraschino down easier than you pronounce it, sir.”

“Be quiet, Scroope,” said his sister; “you always interrupt.”

“He do make de devil of misverstandness wit his whatye-call-’em,” added the Pole, contemptuously.

And poor Purvis, rebuked on every side, was obliged to fall back beside Martha and her embroidery.

“My Lady,” resumed Haggerstone, “is served at eleven o’clock. The moment Granzini’s solo is over in the ballet, an express is sent off to order dinner. The table is far more costly than Midchekoff’s.”

“I do believe well,” said the Count, who always, for nationality’s sake, deemed it proper to abuse the Russian. “De Midchekoff cook tell me he have but ten paoli how you say par tete by the tete for his dinner; dat to include everyting, from the caviar to de sheeze.”

“That was not the style at the Pavilion formerly,” roared out Haggerstone, repeating the remark in Foglass’s ear.

And the ex-consul smiled blandly towards Mrs. Ricketts, and said he ‘d take anything to England for her “with pleasure.”

“He ‘s worse than ever,” remarked Haggerstone, irritably. “When people have a natural infirmity, they ought to confine themselves to their own room.”

“Particularly when it is one of the tem-tem-temper,” said Purvis, almost choked with passion.

“Better a hasty temper than an impracticable tongue, sir.” said Haggerstone.

“Be quiet, Scroope,” added Mrs. Ricketts; and he was still. Then, turning to the Colonel, she went on: “How thankful we ought to be that we never knew these people! They brought letters to us, some, indeed, from dear and valued friends. That sweet Diana Comerton, who married the Duke of Ellewater, wrote a most pressing entreaty that I should call upon them.”

“She did n’t marry the Duke; she married his chap-chaplain,” chimed in Purvis.

“Will you be quiet, Scroope?” remarked the lady.

“I ought to know,” rejoined he, grown courageous in the goodness of his cause. “He was Bob Nutty. Bitter Bob, we always called him at school. He had a kind of a poly-poly-poly – ”

“A polyanthus,” suggested Haggerstone.

“No. It was a poly-polypus a polypus, that made him snuffle in his speech.”

“Ach Gott!” sighed the Pole; but whether in sorrow for poor “Bob,” or in utter weariness at his historian, was hard to say.

“Lady Foxington, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts, “made a serious request that we should be intimate with her friend Lady Hester. She was candid enough to say that her Ladyship would not suit me. ‘She has no soul, Zoe,’ wrote she, ‘so I need n’t say more.’”

“Dat is ver bad,” said the Pole, gravely.

“Still, I should have made her acquaintance, for the sake of that young creature Miss Dalton, I think they call her and whom I rather suspect to be a distant cousin of ours.”

“Yes; there were Dawkinses at Exeter a very respectable solicitor, one was, Joe Dawkins,” came in Purvis; “and he used to say we were co-co-co-connections.”

“This family, sir, is called Dalton, and not even a stutter can make that Dawkins.”

“Couldn’t your friend Mr. Foglass find out something about these Daltons for us, as he goes through Germany?” asked Mrs. Ricketts of the Colonel.

“No one could execute such a commission better, madam, only you must give him his instructions in writing. Foglass,” added he, at the top of his voice, “let me have your note-book for a moment.”

“With pleasure,” said he, presenting his snuff-box.

“No; your memorandum-book,” screamed the other, louder.

“It’s gone down,” whispered the deaf man. “I lost the key on Tuesday last.”

“Not your watch, man. I want to write a line in your note-book;” and he made a pantomimic of writing.

“Yes, certainly; if Mrs. R. will permit, I’ll write to her with pleasure.”

“Confound him!” muttered Haggerstone; and, taking up a visiting-card, he wrote on the back of it, “Could you trace the Daltons as you go back by Baden?”

The deaf man at once brightened up; a look of shrewd intelligence lighted up his fishy eyes as he said,

“Yes, of course; say, what do you want?”

“Antecedents family fortune,” wrote Haggerstone.

“If dey have de tin,” chimed in the Pole.

“If they be moral and of irreproachable reputation,” said Mrs. Ricketts.

“Are they related to the other Dawkinses?” asked Purvis. “Let him ask if their mother was not godfather to no, I mean grandfather to the Reverend Jere-Jere-Jere – ”

“Be quiet, Scroope will you be quiet?”

“There, you have it all, now,” said Haggerstone, as he finished writing; “their ‘family, fortune, flaws, and frailties’ ‘what they did, and where they did it’ observing accuracy as to Christian names, and as many dates as possible.”

“I’ll do it,” said Foglass, as he read over the “instruction.”

“We want it soon, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Tell him we shall need the information at once.”

“This with speed,” wrote Haggerstone at the foot of the memorandum.

Foglass bowed a deep assent.

“How like his grandfather!” said Mrs. Ricketts, in ecstasy.

“I never knew he had one,” whispered Haggerstone to the Pole. “His father was a coachmaker in Long Acre.”

“Is he not thought very like them?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, with a sidelong glance of admiration at the auburn peruke.

“I’ve heard that the wig is authentic, madam.”

“He has so much of that regal urbanity in his manner.”

“If he is not the first gentleman of England,” muttered Haggerstone to himself, “he is the first one in his own family, at least.”

“By the way,” said Mrs. Ricketts, hastily, “let him inquire into that affair of Lord Norwood.”

“No necessity, madam. The affair is in ‘Bell’s Life,’ with the significant question, ‘Where is he?’ But he can learn the particulars, at all events.” And he made a note in the book.

“How dreadful all this, and how sad to think Florence should be the resort of such people!”

“If it were not for rapparees and refugees, madam, house-rent would be very inexpensive,” said the Colonel, in a subdued voice; while, turning to the Pole, he added, “and if respectability is to be always a caricature, I’d as soon have its opposite. I suppose you do not admit the Viscount, madam?”

“He has not ventured to present himself,” said Mrs. Ricketts, proudly. “I hope that there is, at least, one sanctuary where virtue can live unmolested.” And, as she spoke, she looked over at Martha, who was working away patiently; but whether happy in the exclusive tariff aforesaid, or somewhat tired of “protection,” we are unable to say.

“What has he do?” asked the Count.

“He has done the ‘ring’ all round, I believe,” said Haggerstone, chuckling at a joke which he alone could appreciate.

“Dey do talk of play in England!” said the Pole, contemptuously. “Dey never do play high, wit there leetle how do you call ‘em? bets, of tree, four guinea, at ecarte. But in Polen we have two, tree, five tousand crowns on each card. Dere, crack! you lose a fortune, or I do win one! One evening at Garowidsky’s I do lose one estate of seventeen million florins, but I no care noting for all dat! I was ver rich, wit my palaces and de mayorat how you call dat?”

Before this question could be answered, the servant threw open the double door of the salon, and announced, “Milordo Norwood!” A shell might have burst in the apartment and not created much more confusion. Mrs. Ricketts gave a look at Martha, as though to assure herself that she was in safety. Poor Martha’s own fingers trembled as she bent over her frame. Haggerstone buttoned up his coat and arranged his cravat with the air of a man so consummate a tactician that he could actually roll himself in pitch and yet never catch the odor; while Purvis, whose dread of a duel list exceeded his fear of a mad dog, ensconced himself behind a stand of geraniums, where he resolved to live in a state of retirement until the terrible Viscount had withdrawn. As for the Count, a preparatory touch at his moustache, and a slight arrangement of his hair, sufficed him to meet anything; and as these were the ordinary details of his daily toilet, he performed them with a rapidity quite instinctive.

To present oneself in a room where one’s appearance is unacceptable is, perhaps, no slight test of tact, manner, and effrontery; to be actually indifferent to the feelings around is to be insensible to the danger; to see the peril, and yet appear not to notice it, constitutes the true line of action. Lord Norwood was perfect in this piece of performance, and there was neither exaggerated cordiality nor any semblance of constraint in his manner as he advanced to Mrs. Ricketts, and taking her hand, pressed it respectfully to his lips.

“This salutation,” said he, gayly, “is a commission from Lord Kennycroft, your old and constant admirer. It was his last word as we parted: ‘Kiss Mrs. Ricketts’s hand for me, and say I am faithful as ever.’”

“Poor dear Lord! General, here is Lord Norwood come to see us.”

“How good of him how very kind! Just arrived from the East, my Lord?” said he, shaking Foglass by the hand in mistake.

“No, sir; from Malta.” He wouldn’t say England, for reasons. “Miss Ricketts, I am most happy to see you and still occupied with the fine arts? Haggy, how d’ye do? Really it seems to me like yesterday since I sat here last in this delightful arm-chair, and looked about me on all these dear familiar objects. You ‘ve varnished the Correggio, I think?”

“The Vandyk, my Lord.”

“To be sure the Vandyk. How stupid I am! Indeed, Lady Foxington said that not all your culture would ever make anything of me.”

“How is Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, this being the familiar for Lady F.

“Just as you saw her last. Thinner, perhaps, but looking admirably.”

“And the dear Duke how is he?”

“Gouty always gouty but able to be about.”

“I am so glad to hear it. It is so refreshing to talk of old friends.”

“They are always talking of you. I’m sure, ‘Zoe’ forgive me the liberty Zoe Ricketts is an authority on every subject of taste and literature.”

“How did you come here, my Lord?” whispered Haggerstone.

“The new opera broke down, and there is no house open before twelve,” was the hasty reply.

“Is Jemima married, my Lord?”

“No. There ‘s something or other wrong about the settlements. Who’s the foreigner, Haggy?”

“A Pole. Petrolaffsky.”

“No, no not a bit of it. I know him,” said the other, rapidly; then, turning to Mrs. Ricketts, he grew warmly interested in the private life and adventures of the nobility, for all of whom she entertained a most catholic affection.

It was, indeed, a grand field-day for the peerage; even to the “Pensioners” all were under arms. It was a review such as she rarely enjoyed, and certainly she “improved the occasion.” She scattered about her noble personages with the profusion of a child strewing wild-flowers. There were Dukes she had known from their cradles; Marchionesses with whom she had disported in childhood; Earls and Viscounts who had been her earliest playmates; not to speak of a more advanced stage in her history, when all these distinguished individuals were suppliants and suitors. To listen to her, you would swear that she had never played shuttlecock with anything under an Earl, nor trundled a hoop with aught below a Lord in Waiting! Norwood fooled her to the top of her bent. To use his own phrase, “he left her easy hazards, and everything on the balls.” It is needless to state that, in such pleasant converse, she had no memory for the noble Viscount’s own transgressions. He might have robbed the Exchequer, or stolen the Crown jewels, for anything that she could recollect! and when, by a seeming accident, he did allude to Newmarket, and lament his most “unlucky book,” she smiled complacently, as though to say that he could afford himself even the luxury of being ruined, and not care for it.

“Florence is pretty much as it used to be, I suppose,” said he; “and one really needs one’s friends to rebut and refute foolish rumors, when they get abroad. Now, you ‘ll oblige me by contradicting, if you ever hear, this absurd story. I neither did win forty thousand from the Duke of Stratton, nor shoot him in a duel for non-payment.” Both these derelictions were invented on the moment. “You ‘ll hear fifty other similar offences laid to my charge; and I trust to you and the Onslows for the refutation. In fact, it is the duty of one’s own class to defend ‘their order.’”

Mrs. Ricketts smiled blandly, and bowed, bowed as though her gauze turban had been a coronet, and the tinsel finery jewelled strawberry leaves! To be coupled with the Onslows in the defence of a viscount was a proud thought. What if it might be made a grand reality?

“Apropos of the Onslows, my Lord,” said she, insidiously, “you are very intimate with them. How is it that we have seen so little of each other? Are we not congenial spirits?”

“Good Heavens! I thought you were like sisters. There never were people so made for each other. All your tastes, habits, associations forgive me, if I say your very, antipathies are alike; for you both are unforgiving enemies of vulgarity. Depend upon it, there has been some underhand influence at work. Rely on ‘t, that evil tongues have kept you apart.” This he said in a whisper, and with a sidelong glance towards where Haggerstone sat at ecarte with the Pole.

“Do you really think so?” asked she, reddening with anger, as she followed the direction of his eyes.

“I can hit upon no other solution of the mystery,” said he, thoughtfully; “but know it I will, and must. You know, of course, that they can’t endure him?”

“No, I never heard that.”

“It is not mere dislike, it is actual detestation. I have striven to moderate the feeling. I have said, ‘True enough, the man is bad ton, but you needn’t admit him to anything like intimacy. Let him come and go with the herd you receive at your large parties, and, above all, never repeat anything after him, for he has always the vulgar version of every incident in high life.’”

Mrs. Ricketts raised her arched eyebrows and looked astonished; but it was a feeling in which acquiescence was beautifully blended, and the Viscount marked it well.

“You must tell me something of this Miss Dalton,” said he, drawing his chair closer; “they affect a kind of mystery about her. Who is she? What is she?”

“There are various versions of her story abroad,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who now spoke like the Chief Justice delivering a charge. “Some say that she is a natural daughter of Sir Stafford’s; some aver that she is the last of a distinguished family whose fortune was embezzled by the Onslows; others assert that she is a half-sister of Lady Hester’s own; but who ought to know the truth better than you, my Lord?”

“I know absolutely nothing. She joined them in Germany; but where, when, and how, I never heard.”

“I ‘ll soon be able to inform you, my Lord, on every detail of the matter,” said she, proudly. “Our kind friend, yonder, Mr. Foglass, has undertaken to discover everything. Mr. F., will you touch his arm forme, Martha?” and, the gentleman being aroused to consciousness, now arose, and approached Mrs. Ricketts’s chair, “may I be permitted to take a glance at your note-book?” This speech was accompanied by a pantomimic gesture which he quickly understood. “I wish to show you, my Lord,” said she, addressing the Viscount, “that we proceed most methodically in our searches after title, as I sometimes call it ha, ha, ha! Now, here is the precious little volume, and this will explain the degree of accuracy such an investigation demands. This comes of living abroad, my Lord,” added she, with a smile. “One never can be too cautious, never too guarded in one’s intimacies. The number of dubious people one meets with, the equivocal characters that somehow obtain a footing in society here, I really must ask you to decipher these ingenious hieroglyphics yourself.” And she handed the book to his Lordship.

He took it courteously at the spot she opened it; and as his eyes fell upon the page, a slight very slight flush rose to his cheek, while he continued to read the lines before him more than once over. “Very explicit, certainly!” said he, while a smile of strange meaning curled his lip; and then, closing the book, he returned it to the lady’s hand; not, however, before he had adroitly torn out the page he had been looking at, and which contained the following words: “Norwood’s affair the precise story of the N. M. business if cut in England, and scratched at the ‘Whip.’”

“I cannot sufficiently commend either your caution or your tact, Mrs. Ricketts,” said he, bowing urbanely. “Without a little scrutiny of this kind our salons would be overrun with blacklegs and bad characters!”

It was now late, late enough for Lady Hester, and the Viscount rose to take his leave. He was perfectly satisfied with the results of his visit. He had secretly enjoyed all the absurdities of his hostess, and even stored up some of her charming flights for repetition elsewhere. He had damaged Haggerstone, whose evil-speaking he dreaded, and, by impugning his good breeding, had despoiled him of all credit. He had seen the Polish Count in a society which, even such as it was, was many degrees above his pretensions; and although they met without recognition, a masonic glance of intelligence had passed between them; and, lastly, he had made an ally of the dear Zoe herself, ready to swear to his good character, and vouch for the spotless honor of all his dealings on turf or card-table.

“Has he explained the Newmarket affair, madam?” said Haggerstone, as the door closed on the Viscount’s departure.

“Perfectly, Colonel; there is not the shadow of a suspicion against him.”

“And so he was not scr-scr-scratched at the ‘Whip’?” cried Purvis, emerging from his leafy retreat.

“Nothing of the kind, Scroope.”

“A scratch, but not a wound, perhaps,” said Haggerstone, with a grin of malice.

“I am ver happy please ver moosh,” said the Count, “for de sake of de order. I am republiquecain, but never forget I ‘m de noble blood!”

“Beautiful sentiment!” exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts, enthusiastically. “Martha, did you hear what the Count said? General, I hope you didn’t lose it?”

“I was alway for de cause of de people,” said the Count, throwing back his hair wildly, and seeming as if ready to do battle at a moment’s warning.

“For an anti-monarchist, he turns up the king wonderfully often at ecarte” said Haggerstone, in a low muttering, only overheard by Martha.

“I don’t think the demo-demo-demo” But before Purvis had finished his polysyllabic word, the company had time to make their farewell speeches and depart. Indeed, as the servant came to extinguish the lamps, he found the patient Purvis very red in the face, and with other signs of excitement, deeply seated in a chair, and as if struggling against an access of suffocation.

What the profound sentiment which he desired to enunciate might therefore be, is lost to history, and this true narrative is unable to record.