“An instance of this kind happened last year, when a Polish gentleman arriving in Boston, and finding the town too hot in the summer, was induced to take up his residence at the ‘Washington Hotel,’ which he was told, and with great justice too, furnished excellent accommodations at moderate prices, and commanded a fine view of the harbour.

“Scarcely had he removed thither, before his being announced ‘as a count,’ ‘a real count,’ ‘a count that was known to be a count,’ and who had brought letters proving him to be ‘every inch a count,’ caused such a sensation in the house, that the ladies refused to eat, drink, and even talk, except in company of ‘the count.’ The count could not but be flattered by these attentions, and in turn omitted nothing by which to testify his gratitude. He listened with the utmost patience to the accounts of their chivalrous ancestors,—for in Boston even the second society have ancestors,—sat without opening his lips when they mutually abused one another, and with incredible skill managed to remain on good terms with the various sets, divisions, and subdivisions, whose every-day regret it was to be obliged, ‘owing to the ridiculous American custom,’ to dine together at the same table.

“At last the melancholy hour drew near when the count was about to depart. When this sad intelligence was received, the ladies, with that tenderness which belongs to their sex, and the peculiar generosity which marks ‘the second society,’ determined to pay to the count a tribute of their respect, and accordingly met in conclave to consult as to the best manner of manifesting their sentiments. At first, the first section of the second society met, and agreed to give the count a ball. Then came the second, then the third, then again the élite of each section; and, wonderful! on this subject they all agreed.

“It was therefore intimated to the count that he must defer his departure until after the ball, to which the cavalier readily consented; assuring the ladies that their kindness should be engraven on his heart, and that he should never forget the amicable reception he had met with in Boston. The rest of my story is easily told. The evening was fixed for the party, the ‘ladies patronesses’ chosen from each set, (because, the count having been polite to all, none could very well be omitted,) and invitations sent out to three or four hundred people to pay to the count the tribute due to his rank and quality.

“At last the appointed evening arrived. The ball was superb,—the hall magnificently decorated,—the music exquisite,—the refreshments in excellent taste and in the greatest profusion. There was also a supper;—not indeed equal to one of Crockford’s, but, notwithstanding, nice, delicate, blending the French with the English art of cookery, and arranged in a style worthy of a prince. The selection of madeira and sherry corresponded with the supper; and there was a profusion of iced champaign for the ladies. The whole went off prosperously, with the exception of a single mistake; which, however, the count did not discover till the next morning, when the landlord, stepping into his room, presented him with a small piece of paper containing the disagreeable item of—

“‘To Ball, 1000 dollars.’

“The count was stupified,—changed colour,—declared that the ball had been given to him, and that he had nothing to do with settling the bill.

“The landlord withdrew; handed the bill to the ‘ladies patronesses,’ and respectfully demanded an explanation. Hereupon a grand meeting of all the sets was immediately convened, at which the best understanding prevailed throughout, the whole assembly coming to the unanimous resolution ‘that the count was a shabby fellow.’

“The day following, the count paid the bill and quitted the hotel, without leaving a single p. p. c. for any of its inmates.”

Here my cicerone finished his glass, locked the bottle and the empty tumblers carefully up in the closet, and, having put the key in his pocket, told me in the most solemn voice that it was not the custom in Boston to keep late hours, and that, in order not to lose his reputation as a moral man, he was now obliged to wish me a good night.