Was I to accept that slippery morality that says,
"I see no more than I please in the man I dine
with," or was I to go coldly on and denounce
this offender to himself? What if he were to
say, "Potts, let us play fair! put your own
cards on the table, and let us see are you always
on the square? Who is your father? how
does he live? Why have you left home, and
how? What of that horse you have——"

"No, no, not stolen—on my honour, not
stolen!"

"Well, ain't it ugly? Isn't the story one that
any relating might, without even a spice of
malevolence, make marvellously disagreeable?
Is the tale such as you'd wish to herald you into
any society you desired to mix with?" It was
in this high, easy, and truly companionable style
that conscience kept me company while I ate
two eggs and a plate of buttered toast. "After
all," thought I, "might it not prove a great
mistake not to wait on him? How if, in our talk
over politics last night, I may have dropped
some remarkable expression, a keen
appreciation of some statesman, an extraordinary
prediction of some coming crisis? Maybe it
is to question me more fully about my 'views'
of the state of Europe." Now, I am rather given
to "views of the state of Europe." I like that
game of patience, formed by shuffling up all
the governments of the Continent, and then
seeing who is to have the most "tricks,"
who's to win all the kings, and who the knaves.
"Yes," thought I, "this is what he is at. These
diplomatic people are consummately clever
at pumping; their great skill consists in extracting
information from others and adapting it to
their own uses. Their social position confers
the great advantage of intercourse with whatever
is remarkable for station, influence, and ability;
and I think I hear his excellency muttering to
himself, 'Remarkable man, that—large views—
great reach of thought—wish I could see more of
him; must try what polite attentions may accomplish.'
"Well," said I, with a half sigh, it is the
old story, Sic vos non vobis; and I suppose it is
one of the curses on Irishmen that, from Edmund
Burke to Potts, they should be doomed to cram
others. I will go. What signifies it to me? I am
none the poorer in dispensing my knowledge
than is the nightingale in discoursing her sweet
music to the night air, and flooding the groves
with waves of melody: like her, I give of an
affluence that never fails me." And so I set
out for the legation.

As I walked along through the garden, a
trimly-dressed French maid passed me, turned,
and repassed, with a look that had a certain
significance." It was monsieur dined here
yesterday?" said she, interrogatively; and as I
smiled assent, she handed me a very small-sealed
note, and disappeared.

It bore no address, but the word Mr.——;
a strange, not very ceremonious direction.
"But, poor girl," thought I, "she knows me
not as Potts, but as Protector.  I am not the
individual, but the representative of that
widespread benevolence that succours the weak and
consoles the afflicted. I wonder has she been
touched by my devotion? has she imagined—
oh, that she would!—that I have followed her
hither, that I have sworn a vow to rescue and
to save her? or is this note the cry of a sorrow-
struck spirit, saying, 'Come to my aid ere I
perish'?"

My fingers trembled as I broke the seal;
I had to wipe a tear from my eye ere I could
begin to read. My agitation was great, it was
soon to be greater. The note contained very
few words; they were these:

"Sir,—I have not communicated to my
brother, Sir Shalley Doubleton, any circumstance
of your unaccountable conduct yesterday
evening. I hope that my reserve will be
appreciated by you, and

"I am, your faithful servant,

"MARTHA. KEATS."

I did not faint, but I sat down on the grass,
sick and faint, and I felt the great drops of
cold perspiration burst out over my forehead
and temples. "So," muttered I, "the
venerable person I have been lecturing is his
excellency's own sister! My exhortations to a
changed life have been addressed to a lady
doubtless as rigid in morals as austere in
manners." Though I could recal none of the words
I employed, I remembered but too well the
lesson I intended to convey, and I shuddered
with disgust at my own conduct. Many a time
have I heard severest censure on the preacher
who has from the pulpit scattered words of
doubtful application to the sinners beneath; but
here was I making a direct and most odious
attack upon the life and habits of a lady of
immaculate behaviour! Oh, it was too—too bad!
A whole year of sackcloth and ashes would not
be penance for such iniquity. How could she
have forgiven it? what consummate charity
enabled her to pardon an offence so gross and so
gratuitous? Or is it that she foresaw
consequences so grave, in the event of disclosure,
that she dreaded to provoke them. What might
not an angry brother, in such a case, be
warranted in doing? Would the world call any
vengeance exorbitant? I studied her last
phrase over and over, "'I hope my reserve will
be appreciated by you.' This may mean, 'I
reserve the charge—I hold it over you as a bail
bond for the future; diverge ever so little from
the straight road, and I will say, "Potts, stand
forward and listen to your indictment."' She
may have some terrible task in view for me,
some perilous achievement which I cannot now
refuse. This old woman may be to me as was
the Old Man of the Sea to Sindbad. I may be
fated to carry her for ever on my back, and the
dread of her be a living nightmare to me. At
such a price, existence has no value," said
I, in despair. "Worse even than the bondage
is the feeling that I am no longer, to my own
heart, the great creature I love to think myself.
Instead of Potts the generous, the high-spirited,
the confiding, the self-denying, I am Potts the
timorous, the terror-stricken, and the slave."