“Hang it!” I exclaimed, as I thrust the poker violently into the grate, and slammed myself into an arm-chair before the fire, “I am the most unfortunate rascal in the world!”
I had just returned from the Hon. Mrs. Scatter’s squeeze. I can’t imagine why it should be the case, but it seems to be my unlucky destiny either to be thrust or to thrust myself eternally into the most inappropriate places possible. What the deuce should have taken me there? I know that I have no business at such assemblies—yet, oh, Julia!
She waltzed with that fool, Fitzcrocky. The fellow hasn’t a particle of brain, but such a moustache! And then the style of his dress. With what elegant ease he sports his habiliments! Such perfect taste in their arrangement, and so harmonious the tout ensemble! Then look at me. They were whispering. He cast a sneering glance at my exterior. I know she laughed at me. Zounds, I could tear my hair to tatters!
I never could dress well. If I have a handsome and well-made coat, the vest and pants are sure to be of the most unsuitable colors. That infernal tailor, I verily believe, takes every advantage to make me appear disadvantageously; and I could swear that he palms all his unsaleable remnants upon me. Let me see how he has figged me out for what I intended to be the victorious campaign of this evening. Scipio, wheel up that cheval glass. Gods and fishes! A purple coat with silver filagree buttons—a white satin vest—scarlet under ditto—light drab pantaloons, and a check cravat! Black silk stockings and pumps with rosettes. Jupiter and Moses! Why I look like one of Bunbury’s caricatures! Tregear’s shop-window never exhibited such a monster. No wonder they laughed at me. Ha! ha! By Jove, I can’t help laughing at myself, and it’s no joking matter, after I had laid myself out to make a deep impression.
There, Scipio, draw the curtains and go. Stay; hand me the brandy-bottle and some cigars before you make your final exit. I might as well get drunk, and by that means bury my woes in a temporary oblivion, despite of all temperance societies.
Give me my dressing-gown, and pitch this infernal coat out at the window. Ha! here’s another specimen of my undeniable taste. What man, save myself, would ever encase himself in a brocade of a pattern like a bed-curtain. No matter; your Persian says it is all takdeer—destiny. All this, I presume, was fore-ordained—it must have been predestined, this atrocious, villainous piece of business, and I suppose I can’t help it. Scipio, go to bed.
Scipio retired, and I was left alone. The night was dark and confoundedly cold. I picked up a volume. It was Peter Schlemihl. I lighted a cigar, and mixing some strong brandy-and-water, I applied myself to the business which the reader has been previously informed I had in contemplation.
But all would not do. I could not succeed in my intention. I smoked one Dos Amigos after another, and quaffed glass after glass of Seignette. The more I drank, in the more odious light did I appear to myself. I ruminated upon Julia’s flirtation with Fitzcrocky. I attempted to analyze the causes of my abominable want of taste in the components of costume.
“Deuce take me!” at last I cried, exhausted, and half mad with vexation, “I wish to Heaven that I could exchange this unlucky carcass with some more fortunate individual, whose kinder stars may have granted him a comelier body and a more recherché taste in its decoration than my miserable self!”
Scarcely had I spoken these words when a gentle cough attracted my attention. I looked up. Opposite to me there sat a gentleman of the most prepossessing exterior. He had drawn up a lounge to the side of the grate, and was seated, with patient politeness, as if in expectation of drawing my attention to himself. He was attired in a neat and elegant suit of black, which fitted him à merveille. A dark maroon velvet vest, buttoned tightly to his chest, and falling over into a rolling collar, displayed his linen of superb make and texture, fastened by a small diamond pin. His cravat was tied with a prim precision; his boots and gloves would have driven Staub and Walker to despair. His hat was of the most appropriate block, and a cambric handkerchief, delicate as the web of Arachne, and scented with bouquet du roi, was occasionally applied to his nose, in the most graceful manner. The contour of his face was perfect Grecian, and a mass of wavy chestnut-hair was negligently disposed over his forehead. He wore neither whisker nor moustache.