! but I forget the Potentate of the realm,--he may summon thee to his
counsels, as the Hoch Wohlgeborner und Gelehrter, Herr von O'Leary; and
thou may'st be found here some half century hence, with a pipe in thy
mouth, and thy hands in thy side pockets, discoursing fat consonants,
like any Saxon of them all. Run for it, man, run for it; away, with half
a leg, if need be; out of the kingdom with all haste; and if it be not
larger than its neighbours, a hop, step, and jump, ought to suffice for
it."

Will any one tell me--I'll wager they cannot--why it is, that if you
pass a week or a month, in any out-of-the-way place, and either from
sulk or sickness, lead a solitary kind of humdrum life; that when you
are about to take your leave, you find half the family in tears. Every
man, woman, and child, thinks it incumbent on them to sport a mourning
face. The host wipes his eye with the corner of the bill; the waiter
blows his nose in the napkin; the chambermaid holds up her apron; and
boots, with a side wipe of his blacking hand, leaves his countenance
in a very fit state for the application of the polishing brush. As for
yourself, the position is awkward beyond endurance.

That instant you felt sick of the whole household, from the cellar to
the garret. You had perilled your soul in damning them all in turn; and
now it comes out, that you are the "enfant cheri" of the establishment.
What a base, blackhearted fellow you must be all the time; in short, you
feel it; otherwise, why is your finger exploring so low in the recesses
of your purse. Confound it, you have been very harsh and hasty with the
good people, and they did their best after all.

Take up your abode at Mivart's or the Clarendon; occupy for the six
months of winter, the suite of apartments at Crillons or Meurice; engage
the whole of the "Schwann" at Vienna; aye, or even the Grand Monarque,
at Aix; and I'll wager my head, you go forth at the end of it, without
causing a sigh in the whole household. Don't flatter yourself that
Mivart will stand blubbering over the bill, or Meurice be half choked
with his sobs. The Schwann doesn't care a feather of his wing, and as
for the Grand Monarque, you might as well expect his prototype would
rise from the grave to embrace you, A civil grin, that half implies,
"You've been well plucked here," is the extent of parting emotion, and a
tear couldn't be had for the price of Tokay.

Well, I bid adieu to the Reuten Krantz, in a di