the most exquisite relish. At length, after this had gone on for some time, with the air of a man who has had enough of trifling, and must now apply himself to matters of graver importance, he arose, hung up his guitar, sent his chair, which was upon casters, rolling to the far end of the room, and proceeded to arrange the curls of one of the two magnificent perukes, on which it was his privilege to operate. After having applied himself with uncommon attention to this labour of taste for some time in silence, he retired a few paces to contemplate the effect of his performance—whereupon he fell into a musing mood, and began after his fashion to soliloquize with a good deal of energy and volubility in that dialect which had become more easy to him than his mother tongue.
"Corpo di Bacco! what thing is life! who would believe thirty years ago I should be here now in a barbaroose island to curl the wig of an old gouty blackguard—but what matter. I am a philosopher—damnation—it is very well as it is—per Bacco! I can go way when I like. I am reech leetle fellow, and with Sir Richard, good Sir Richard, I do always whatever I may choose. Good Sir Richard," he continued, addressing the block on which hung the object of his tasteful labours, as if it had been the baronet in person—"good Sir Richard, why are you so kind to me, when you are so cross as the old devil in hell with all the rest of the world?—why, why, why? Shall I say to you the reason, good, kind Sir Richard? Well, I weel. It is because you dare not—dare not—dare not-da-a-a-are not vaix me. I am, you know, dear Sir Richard, a poor, leetle foreigner, who is depending on your goodness. I 'ave nothing but your great pity and good charity—oh, no! I am nothing at all; but still you dare not vaix me—you moste not be angry—note at all—but very quiet—you moste not go in a passion—oh! never—weeth me—even if I was to make game of you, and to insult you, and to pool your nose."
Here the Italian seized, with the tongs which he had in his hand, upon that prominence in the wooden block which corresponded in position with the nose, which at other times the peruke overshadowed, and with a grin of infinite glee pinched and twisted the iron instrument until the requirements of his dramatic fancy were satisfied, when he delivered two or three sharp knocks on the smooth face of the block, and resumed his address.
"No, no—you moste not be angry, fore it would be great misfortune—oh, it would—if you and I should quarrel together; but tell me now, old truffatore—tell me, I say, am I not very quiet, good-nature, merciful, peetying faylow? Ah, yees—very, very—Madre di Dio—very moche; and dear, good Sir Richard, shall I tell you why I am so very good-nature? It is because I love you joste as moche as you love me—it is because, most charitable patron, it is my convenience to go on weeth you quietly and 'av no fighting yet—bote you are going to get money. Oh! so coning you are, you think I know nothing—you think I am asleep—bote I know it—I know it quite well. You think I know nothing about the land you take from Miss Mary. Ah! you are very coning—oh! very; but I 'av hear it all, and I tell you—and I swear per sangue di D——, when you get that money I shall, and will, and moste—mo-ooste 'av a very large, comfortable, beeg handful—do you hear me? Oh, you very coning old rascal; and if you weel not geeve it, oh, my dear Sir Richard, echellent master, I am so moche afaid we will 'av a fight between us—a quarrel—that will spoil our love and friendship, and maybe, helas! horte your reputation—shoking—make the gentlemen spit on you, and avoid you, and call you all the ogly names—oh! shoking."
A man sitting in a chair and facing his wig, which is on a wig stand.
Here he was interrupted by a loud ringing in Sir Richard's chamber.
"There he is to pool his leetle bell—damnation, what noise. I weel go up joste now—time enough, dear, good, patient Sir Richard—time enough—oh, plainty, plainty."
The little man then leisurely fumbled in his pocket until he brought forth a bunch of keys, from which, having selected one, he applied it to the lock of the little press which we have already mentioned, whence he deliberately produced one of the flasks which we have hinted at, along with a tall glass with a spiral stem, and filling himself a bumper of the liquor therein contained, he coolly sipped it to the bottom, accompanied throughout the performance by the incessant tinkling of Sir Richard's hand-bell.
"Ah, very good, most echellent—thank you, Sir Richard, you 'av give me so moche time and so moche music, I 'av drunk your very good health."
So saying, he locked up the flask and glass again, and taking the block which had just represented Sir Richard in the imaginary colloquy in his hand, he left his own chamber, and ran upstairs to the baronet's dressing-room. He found his master alone.
"Ah, Jacopo," exclaimed the baronet, looking somewhat flushed, but speaking, nevertheless, in a dulcet tone enough, "I have been ringing for nearly ten minutes; but I suppose you did not hear me."
"Joste so as you 'av say," replied the man. "Your signoria is very seldom wrong. I was so charmed with my work I could not hear nothing."
"Parucci," rejoined Sir Richard, after a slight pause, "you know I keep no secrets from you."
"Ah, you flatter me, Signor—you flatter me—indeed you do," said the valet, with ironical humility.
His master well understood the tone in which the fellow spoke, but did not care to notice it.
"The fact is, Jacopo," continued Sir Richard, "you already know so many of my secrets, that I have now no motive in excluding you from any."
"Goode, kind—oh, very kind," ejaculated the valet.
"In short," continued his master, who felt a little uneasy under the praises of his attendant—"in short, to speak plainly, I want your assistance. I know your talents well. You can imitate any handwriting you please to copy with perfect accuracy. You must copy, in the handwriting of this manuscript, the draft of a letter which I will hand you this evening. You require some little time to study the character; so take the letter with you, and be in my room at ten to-night. I will then hand you the draft of what I want written. You understand?"
"Understand! To be sure—most certilly I weel do it," replied the Italian, "so that the great devil himself will not tell the writing of the two, l'un dall' altro, one from the other. Never fear—geeve me the letter. I must learn the writing. I weel be here to-night before you are arrive, and I weel do it very fast, and so like—bote you know how well I can copy. Ah! yees; you know it, Signor. I need not tell."
"No more at present," said the baronet, with a gesture of caution. "Assist me to dress."
The Italian accordingly was soon deep in the mysteries of his elaborate functions, where we shall leave him and his master for the present.
Chapter XVII.
Dublin Castle by Night—The Drawing-Room—Lord Wharton and His Court
Sir Richard Ashwoode had set his heart upon having Lord Aspenly for his son-in-law; and all things considered, his lordship was, perhaps, according to the standard by which the baronet measured merit, as good a son-in-law as he had any right to hope for. It was true, Lord Aspenly was neither very young nor very beautiful. Spite of all the ingenious arts by which he reinforced his declining graces, it was clear as the light that his lordship was not very far from seventy; and it was just as apparent that it was not to any extraordinary supply of bone, muscle, or flesh that his vitality was attributable. His lordship was a little, spindle-shanked gentleman, with the complexion of a consumptive frog, and features as sharp as edged tools. He condescended to borrow from the artistic talents of his valet the exquisite pencilling of his eyebrows, as well as the fine black line which gave effect to a set of imaginary eyelashes, and depth and brilliancy to a pair of eyes which, although naturally not very singularly effective, had, nevertheless, nearly as much vivacity in them as they had ever had. His smiles were perennial and unceasing, very winning and rather ghastly. He used much gesticulation, and his shrug was absolutely Parisian. To all these perfections he added a wonderful facility in rounding the periods of a compliment, and an inexhaustible affluence of something which passed for conversation. Thus endowed, and having, moreover, the additional recommendation