LETTER XL. KENNY I. DODD TO THOMAS PURCELL, ESQ., OF THE GRANGE, BRUFF.
Constance, Switzerland.
My dear Tom,—Before passion gets the better of me, and I forget all about it, let me acknowledge the welcome arrival of your post bill for one hundred, but for which, Heaven knows in what additional embarrassment I might now be in. You will see, by the address, that I am in Switzerland. How we came here I 'll try and explain, if Providence grants me patience for the effort; this being the third time I have addressed myself to the task unsuccessfully.
I need not refer to the situation in which my last letter to you left us. You may remember that I told you of the various preparations that were then in progress for a certain auspicious event, whose accomplishment was fixed for the ensuing week. Amongst others, I wrote to Morris for some articles of dress and finery to be procured at Baden, and for, if possible, a comfortable travelling-carriage, with a sufficiency of boxes and imperials.
Of course in doing so it was necessary, or at least it was fitting, that I should make mention of the cause for these extraordinary preparations, and I did so by a very brief allusion to the coming event, and to the rank of my future son-in-law, the youthful Baron and heir of Wolfenfels. I am not aware of having said much more than this, for my letter was so crammed with commissions, and catalogues of purchases, that there was little space disposable for more intelligence. I wrote on a Monday, and on the following Wednesday evening I was taking a stroll with James through the park, chatting over the approaching event in our family, when a mounted postboy galloped up with a letter, which being marked "Most pressing and immediate," the postmaster had very properly forwarded to me with all expedition. It was in Morris's hand, and very brief. I give it to you verbatim:—
"My dear Sir,—For Heaven's sake do not advance another step
in this affair. You have been grossly imposed upon. As soon
as I can procure horses I will join you, and expose the most
scandalous trick that has ever come to the knowledge of
yours truly,
"E. Morris.
"Post-House, Tite See. 2 o'clock p.m. Wednesday."
You may imagine—I cannot attempt to describe—the feelings with which James and I read and re-read these lines. I suppose we had passed the letter back and forwards to each other fully a dozen times, ere either of us could summon composure to speak.
"Do you understand it, James?" said I.
"No," said he. "Do you?"
"Not unless the scoundrel is married already," said I.