to such hazards? Bring me some of this
fricandeau with chicory, waiter, and a pint of
Beaune; fried potatoes, too.—Would that I
could tell her to fear nothing," thought I.
"Would that I could just whisper, 'Potts is
here; Potts watches over you; Potts will be
that friend, that brother, that should have come
to meet you! Sleep soundly, and with a head
at ease. You are neither friendless nor
forsaken!'" I feel I must be naturally a creature
of benevolent instincts; for I am never so truly
happy as when engaged in a work of kindness.
Let me but suggest to myself a labour of charity,
some occasion to sorrow with the afflicted, to
rally the weak-hearted and to succour the
wretched, and I am infinitely more delighted
than by all the blandishments of what is called
"society." Men have their allotted parts in
life, just as certain fruits are meet for certain
climates. Mine was the grand comforting line.
Nature meant me for a consoler.  I have none of
those impulsive temperaments which make what
are called jolly fellows. I have no taste for those
excesses which go by the name of conviviality.
I can, it is true, be witty, anecdotic, and
agreeable; I can spice conversation with epigram,
and illustrate argument by apt example; but
my forte is tenderness.

"Is not this veal a little tough, waiter?" said
I, in gentle remonstrance.

"Monsieur is right," said he, bowing; "but
if a morsel of cold pheasant would be acceptable
—mademoiselle, the lady in mourning, has just
taken a wing of it——"

"Bring it directly.—Oh, ecstasy of ecstasies!
We are then, as it were, supping together—
served from the same dish!—May I have the
honour?" said I, filling out a glass of wine and
bowing respectfully and with an air of deep
devotion across the table. The pheasant was
exquisite, and I ate with an epicurean enjoyment.
I called for another pint of Beaune, too. It
was an occasion for some indulgence, and I
could not deny myself. No sooner had the
waiter left me alone, than I burst into an
expansive acknowledgment of my happiness, "Yes,
Potts," said I, "you are richer in that
temperament of yours than if you owned half
California. That boundless wealth of good
intentions is a well no pumping can exhaust. Go on
doing imaginary good for ever. You are never
the poorer for all the orphans you support, all
the distresses you relieve. You rescue the
mariner from shipwreck without wetting your
feet. You charge at the head of a squadron
without the peril of a scratch. All blessed be
the gift which can do these things!"

You call these delusions; but is it a delusion
to be a king, to deliver a people from slavery,
to carry succour to a drowning crew? I have done
all of these; that is, I have gone through every
changeful mood of hope and fear that accompanies
these actions, sipping my glass of Beaune
between whiles.

When I found myself in my bedroom I had no
inclination for sleep; I was m a mood of enjoyment
too elevated for mere repose. It was so
delightful to be no longer at sea, to feel rescued
from the miseries of the rocking ship and the
reeking cabin, that I would not lose the rapture
by forgetfulness. I was in the mood for great
things, too, if I only knew what they were to be.
"Ah!" thought I, suddenly, "I will write to
her. She shall know that she is not the friendless
and forsaken creature that she deems herself;
she shall hear that, though separated from
home, friends, and country, there is one near to
watch over and protect her, and that Potts
devotes himself to her service." I opened my
desk, and in all the impatience of my ardour
began:

"'DEAR MADAM'——Quære: Ought I to say
'dear'? We are not acquainted, and can I
presume upon the formula that implies
acquaintanceship? No. I must omit 'dear;' and then
'Madam' looks fearfully stern and rigid, particularly
when addressed to a young unmarried
lady; she is certainly not 'Madam' yet, surely.
I can't begin 'Miss.' What a language is ours!
How cruelly fatal to all the tenderer emotions
is a dialect so matter-of-fact and formal. If I
could only start with 'Gentilissima Signora,' how
I could get on! What an impulse would the
words lend me! What 'way on me' would they
impart for what was to follow! In our cast-
metal tongue there is nothing for it but the
third person: 'The undersigned has the honour,'
&c. &c. This is chilling—it is positively
repulsive. Let me see, will this do?—

"'The gentleman who was fortunate enough
to render you some trivial service at the Milford
station two days ago, having accidentally
learned that you are here and unprovided with a
protector, in all humility offers himself to afford
you every aid and counsel in his power. No
stranger to the touching interests of your life,
deeply sensible of the delicacy that should
surround your steps, if you deign to accept his
devoted services, he will endeavour to prove
himself, by every sentiment of respect, your
most faithful, most humble, and most grateful
servant.

"'P.S.—His name is Potts.'

"Yes, all will do but the confounded postscript.
What a terrible bathos—'His name is
Potts!' What if I say: 'One line of reply is
requested, addressed to Algernon Sydney
Pottinger, at this hotel'?"

I made a great many copies of this document,
always changing something as I went. I felt
the importance of every word, and fastidiously
pondered over each expression I employed. The
bright sun of morning broke in at last upon my
labours and found me still at my desk, still
composing. All done, I lay down and slept soundly.

"Is she gone, waiter?" said I, as he entered
my room with hot water. "Is she gone?"

"Who, sir?" asked he, in some
astonishment.

"The lady in black, who came over in the last
mail packet from Dover; the young lady in deep
mourning, who arrived all alone."

"No, sir. She has sent all round the hotels
this morning to inquire after some one who was