“The D——— of B——— presents his compliments to Mr.
Templeton, and begs to inform him that his ancestor was not
the Marquis of T——— who conducted the negotiations at
Malaga;’ neither were ‘thirty thousand pounds voted by the
last Parliament to the family by way of secret service for
parliamentary support,’ but in compensation for two patent
offices abolished—Inspectorship of Gold Mines, and Ordnance
Comptrollership. And, lastly, that ‘Infamous speech,’ so
pathetically alluded to, was made at a private theatrical
meeting at Lord Mudbury’s in Kent, and not ‘on the
hustings,’ as Mr. T. has asserted.”
So much for one event, and in itself a trivial one! Who shall say that any act of his life is capable of exciting even an approach to unanimous praise or censure? This speech, which on one side won me the adhesion of some half-dozen clubs, the praise of a large body of the Upper House, the softest words that the “beauty of the season” condescended to utter, brought me, on the other, the coldness of the Minister, the chilling civility of mock admiration, and lost me the friendship—in House of Commons parlance—of the leading member of the Government!
And here is a strange, square-shaped epistle, signed in the corner, “Martin Haverstock.” This rough-looking note was my first step in Diplomacy! I was a very young attaché to the mission at Florence, when, on returning to England through Milan, I was robbed of my trunk, and with it of all the money I possessed for my journey. It was taken by a process very well known in Italy, being cut off from the back of the carriage, not improbably, with the concurrence of the driver. However that might be, I arrived at the “Angelo d’Oro” without a sou. Having ordered a room, I sat down by myself, hungry and penniless, not having a single acquaintance at Milan, nor the slightest idea how to act in the emergency. My very passport was gone, so that I had actually nothing to authenticate my position—not even my name.
I sent for the landlord, who, after a very cold interview, referred me to the Consul; but the Consul had on that very morning left the city for Verona, so that his aid was cut off. My last resource—my only one, indeed—was to write to Florence for money, and wait for the answer. This was a delay of seven, possibly of eight, days, but it was unavoidable.
This done, I ordered supper—a very humble one too, and befitting the condition of one who had not wherewithal to pay for it. I remember still the sense of shame I felt as the waiter, on entering, looked around for my luggage, and saw neither trunk nor carpet-bag—not even a hat-box. I thought—nay, there could be no mistake about it, it was quite clear—he laid the table with a certain air of careless and noisy indifference that bespoke his contempt. The very bang of the door as he went out, was a whole narrative of my purseless state.
I had been very hungry when I ordered the meal. I had not tasted food for several hours, and yet now I could not eat a morsel; chagrin and shame had routed all appetite, and I sat looking at the table, and almost wondering why the dishes were there. I thought of all the kind friends far away, who would have been so delighted to assist me; who, at that very hour perhaps, were speaking of me affectionately; and yet I had not one near, even to speak a word of counsel, or say one syllable of encouragement. It was not, it may well be believed, the monied loss that afflicted me—the sum was neither large, nor did I care for it. It was the utter desolation, and the sense of dependence, that galled me—a feeling whose painful tortures, even temporary as they were, I cannot, at this hour, eradicate from my memory.
Had I been left enough to continue my journey in the very humblest way, on foot even, it would have been happiness compared with what I felt. I arose at last from the table, where the untasted food still stood, and strolled out into the streets. I wandered about listlessly, not even feeling that amusement the newly seen objects of a great city almost always confer, and it was late when I turned back to the inn. As I entered, a man was standing talking with the master of the house, who, in his broken English, said, as I passed, “There he is!” I at once suspected that my sad adventure had been the subject of conversation, and hurried up the stairs to hide my shame. In my haste, however, I forgot my key at the porter’s lodge, and was obliged to go back to fetch it. On doing so, I met on the stairs a large, coarse-looking man, with a florid face, and an air of rough but of simple good-nature in his countenance. “You are a countryman, I believe?” said he in English. “Well, I’ve just heard of what has happened to you. The rascals tried the same trick with me at Modena; but I had an iron chain around my trunk, and as they were baulked, and while they were rattling at it, I got a shot at one of them with a pistol—not to hurt the devil, for it was only duck-shot; not a bullet, you know. Where’s your room?—is this it?”
I hesitated to reply, strange enough; though he shewed that he was well aware of all my loss. I felt ashamed to shew that I had no baggage, nor any thing belonging to me. He seemed to guess what passed in my mind, and said,—
“Bless your heart, sir, never mind me. I know the rogues have stripped you of all you had; but I want to talk to you about it, and see what is best to be done.”
This gave me courage. I unlocked the door, and shewed him in.