return home, had left it to Mons. Dessein's honour to make the most
of. Four months had elapsed since it had finished its career of
Europe in the corner of Mons. Dessein's coach-yard; and having
sallied out from thence but a vampt-up business at the first,
though it had been twice taken to pieces on Mount Sennis, it had
not profited much by its adventures,--but by none so little as the
standing so many months unpitied in the corner of Mons. Dessein's
coach-yard. Much indeed was not to be said for it,--but something
might;--and when a few words will rescue misery out of her
distress, I hate the man who can be a churl of them.

- Now was I the master of this hotel, said I, laying the point of
my fore-finger on Mons. Dessein's breast, I would inevitably make a
point of getting rid of this unfortunate desobligeant;--it stands
swinging reproaches at you every time you pass by it.

Mon Dieu! said Mons. Dessein,--I have no interest--Except the
interest, said I, which men of a certain turn of mind take, Mons.
Dessein, in their own sensations,--I'm persuaded, to a man who
feels for others as well as for himself, every rainy night,
disguise it as you will, must cast a damp upon your spirits: --You
suffer, Mons. Dessein, as much as the machine -

I have always observed, when there is as much sour as sweet in a
compliment, that an Englishman is eternally at a loss within
himself, whether to take it, or let it alone: a Frenchman never
is: Mons. Dessein made me a bow.

C'est bien vrai, said he.--But in this case I should only exchange
one disquietude for another, and with loss: figure to yourself, my