wished you a more suitable companion. Indeed,
after what I had heard from his excellency about
you, I was terrified at the thought of my own
insufficiency."

"And pray what did he say of me?" asked I,
in a flutter of delight.

"Are you very fond of flattery?"

"Immensely!"

"Is it not possible that praise of you
could be so exaggerated as to make you feel
ashamed?"

"I should say, perfectly impossible; that is,
to a mind regulated as mine over-elation could
never happen. Tell me, therefore, what he said."

"I can't remember one half of it; he
remarked how few men in the career— I conclude
he meant diplomacy— could compare with you;
that you had such just views about the state of
Europe, such an accurate appreciation of public
men. I can't say how many opportunities you
mustn't have had, and what valuable uses you
have not put them to. In a word, I felt that I
was about to travel with a great statesman and
a consummate man of the world, and was
terrified accordingly."

"nd now that the delusion is dispelled, how
do you feel?"

"But is it dispelled? Am I not shocked with
my own temerity in daring to talk thus lightly
with one so learned?"

"If so," said I, "you conceal your
embarrassment wonderfully."

And then we both laughed, but I am not quite
sure it was at the same joke.

"Do you know where you are going?" said
I, taking out a travelling map as a means of
diverting our conversation into some higher
channel.

"Not in the least."

"Nor care?"

"Nor care."

"Well, I must say, it is a most independent
frame of mind. Perhaps you could extend this
fine philosophy, and add, 'Nor with whom!'"

I was not at all conscious of what an
impertinence I had uttered till it was out; nor,
indeed, even then, till I remarked that her cheek
had become scarlet, and her eyes double as dark
as their wont.

"Yes," said she, "there is one condition for
which I should certainly stipulate—not to travel
with any one who could needlessly offend me."

I could have cried with shame; I could have
held my hand in the flame of a fire to expiate
my rude speech. And so I told her; while I
assured her at the same time, with marvellous
consistency, that it was not rude at all; that it
was entirely misconception on her part; that
nous autres diplomates—Heaven forgive me the
lying assumption!  — had a way of saying little
smartnesses that don't mean much; that we
often made our coin ring on the table, though it
turned out bad money when it came to be looked
at; that Talleyrand did it, and Walewsky did
it, and I did it— we all did it!

Now, there was one most unlucky feature in
all this. It was only a few minutes before this
passage occurred, that I said to myself, "Potts,
here is one whose frank, fresh, generous nature
claims all your respect and devotion. No
nonsense of your being this, that, and t'other here.
Be truthful and be honest; neither pretend to
be man of fortune nor man of fashion; own fairly
to her by what chance you adventured upon this
strange life; tell her, in a word, you are the son
of Potts—Potts, the 'pothecary—and neither a
hero nor a plenipotentiary!"

I have no doubt, most amiable of readers, that
nothing can seem possibly more easy than to
have done all this. You deem it the natural
and the ordinary course; just as, for instance, a
merchant in good credit and repute would feel
no repugnance to calling all his creditors
together to inspect his books, and see that, though
apparently solvent, he was, in truth, utterly bankrupt.
And yet there is some difficulty in doing
this. Does not the law of England expressly
declare that no man need criminate himself?
Who accuses you, then, Potts? What is the
charge against you? And then I bethought me
of the worthy old alderman, who, on learning
that Robinson Crusoe was a fiction, exclaimed,
"It may be so; but I have lost the greatest
pleasure of my life in hearing it." What a
profound philosophy was there in that simple
avowal! With what illusions are we not cheered
on through life; how unreal the joys that
delight and the triumphs that elate us! for we
are all hypochondriacs, and are as often cured
with bread pills as with bold remedies. "Yes,"
thought I, "this young girl is happy in the
thought that her companion is a person of rank,
station, and influence; she feels a sort of
self-elation in being associated with one endowed
with all worldly advantages. Shall I rob her of
this illusion? Shall I rudely deprive her of
what imparts a charm to her existence, and
gives a sort of romantic interest to her daily
life? Harsh and needless would be the
cruelty!"

While I thus argued with myself, she had
opened her guide-book, and was eagerly reading
away about the road we were travelling. "We
are to halt at Bömerstein, are we not?" asked
she.

"Yes," said I, "we rest there for the night.
It is one of those little villages of which a
German writer has given us a striking
picture."

"Auerstadt," broke she in.

"So you have read him? You read German?"

"Yes, tolerably; that is, well enough for
Schiller and Uhland, but not well enough for
Jean Paul and Goethe."

"Never mind; trust me for a guide, you shall
now venture upon both."

"But how will you be able to give up time
valuable as yours to such teachings? Would it
be fair of me, besides, to steal hours that ought
to be devoted to your country?"

Though I had not the slightest imaginable
ground to suspect any secret sarcasm in this
speech, my guilty conscience made me feel it as