I have just time before the packet sails to send you an anecdote, that is bought out of the London papers. A nobleman, living near Belgrave square, received a visit a day or two ago from a police officer, who stated to him, that he had a man-servant in his house, who had escaped from Botany Bay. His Lordship was somewhat surprised, but called up the male part of his household, at the officer's request, and passed them in review. The culprit was not among them. The officer then requested to see the female part of the establishment; and, to the inexpressible astonishment of the whole household, he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the lady's confidential maid, and informed her she was his prisoner. A change of dress was immediately sent for, and miladi's dressing-maid was re-metamorphosed into an effeminate-looking fellow, and marched off to a new trial. It is a most extraordinary thing, that he had lived unsuspected in the family for nine months, performing all the functions of a confidential Abigail, and very much in favor with his unsuspecting mistress, who is rather a serious person, and would as soon have thought of turning out to be a man herself. It is said, that the husband once made a remark upon the huskiness of the maid's voice, but no other comment was ever made, reflecting in the least upon her qualities as a member of the beau sexe. The story is quite authentic, but hushed up out of regard to the lady.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] I remember hearing a friend receive a severe reproof from one of the most enlightened men in our country, for offering his daughter an annual, upon the cover of which was an engraving of these same "Graces."
——"A long swept wave about to break,
And on the curl hangs pausing."
[3] On my way to Rome (near Radicofani, I think), we passed an old man, whose picturesque figure, enveloped in his brown cloak and slouched hat, arrested the attention of all my companions. I had seen him before. From a five minutes' sketch in passing, Mr. Cole had made one of the most spirited heads I ever saw, admirably like, and worthy of Caravaggio for force and expression.
[4] The name of a wooden frame by which a pot of coals is hung between the sheets of a bed in Italy.
[5] As if everything should be poetical on the shores of the Clitumnus, the beggars ran after us in quartettes, singing a chaunt, and sustaining the four parts as they ran. Every child sings well in Italy; and I have heard worse music in a church anthem, than was made by these half-clothed and homeless wretches, running at full speed by the carriage-wheels. I have never met the same thing elsewhere.
[6] The Tuscans, who are the best governed people in Italy, pay twenty per cent. of their property in taxes—paying the whole value of their estates, of course, in five years. The extortions of the priests, added to this, are sufficiently burdensome.