on was not loud, but deep. Every day in the smoking-room we
contrived the most ingenious and monstrous, plans for his undoing in this
world and the next; the least cruel being a project to lure him to the
upper deck on a dark night and send him unshriven to his account by way of
the lee rail; but as none of us knew enough Italian to tell him the
needful falsehood that scheme of justice came to nothing, as did all the
others. At the wharf in New York we parted from Madame more in sorrow than
in anger, and from her conquering cavalier with polite manifestations of
the contempt we did not feel.

That evening I called on her at her hotel, facing Union Square. Soon after
my arrival there was an audible commotion out in front: the populace,
headed by a brass band and incited, doubtless, by pure love of art, had
arrived to do honor to the great singer. There was music--a
serenade--followed by shoutings of the lady's name. She seemed a trifle
nervous, but I led her to the balcony, where she made a very pretty little
speech, piquant with her most charming accent. When the tumult and
shouting had died we re-entered her apartment to resume our conversation.
Would it please monsieur to have a glass, of wine? It would. She left the
room for a moment; then came the wine and glasses on a tray, borne by that
impossible Italian! He had a napkin across his arm--he was a servant.

Barring some of the band and the populace, I am doubtless the Sole
Survivor, for Madame has for a number of years had a permanent engagement
Above, and my faith in Divine Justice does not permit me to think that the
servile wretch who cast down the mighty from their seat among the Sons of
Hope was suffered to live out the other half of his days.

* * * * *

A dinner of seven in an old London tavern--a good dinner, the memory
whereof is not yet effaced from the tablets of the palate. A soup, a plate
of white-bait be-lemoned and red-peppered with exactness, a huge joint of
roast beef, from which we sliced at will, flanked by various bottles of
old dry Sherry and crusty Port--such Port! (And we are expected to be
patriots in a country where it cannot be procured! And the Portuguese are
expected to love the country which, having it, sends it away!) That was
the dinner--there was Stilton cheese; it were shameful not to mention the
Stilton. Good, wholesome, and toothsome it was, rich and nutty. The
Stilton that we get here, clouted in