which the rest of Europe have long ago persuaded themselves to think matter of history. The battle of Leipsic, for instance, he treats to this hour as a mere idle chimera of visionary politicians. Pure hypochondriacal fiction! says he: No such affair ever could have occurred, as you may convince yourself by looking at my private letters: they make no allusion to any transaction of that sort, as you will see at once; none whatever.—Such being the character of the Commissioner’s private correspondence, several councilmen were disposed on reflection to treat his recent communication as very questionable and apocryphal; amongst whom was the chairman or chief burgomaster; and the next day he walked over to Pig-house for the purpose of expressing his doubts. The Commissioner was so much offended, that the other found it advisable to apologize with some energy. “I protest to you,” said he, “that as a private individual I am fully satisfied: it is only in my public capacity that I took the liberty of doubting. The truth is, our town-chest is miserably poor: and we would not wish to go to the expense of a new covering for the council-table upon a false alarm. Upon my honour, it was solely upon patriotic grounds that I sided with the sceptics.” The Commissioner scarcely gave himself the trouble of accepting his apologies. And indeed at this moment the burgomaster had reason himself to feel ashamed of his absurd scruples: for in rushed a breathless messenger to announce that the blue landau and the gentleman with the “superb whiskers” had just passed through the north gate. Yes: Fitz-Hum and Von Hoax were positively here: not coming, but come; and the profanest sceptic could no longer presume to doubt. For whilst the messenger yet spoke, the wheels of Fitz-Hum’s landau began to hum along the street. The chief burgomaster fled in affright; and with him fled the shades of infidelity.
This was a triumph, a providential coup-de-théatre, on the side of the true believers: the orthodoxy of the Piggian Commercium Epistolicum was now for ever established. Nevertheless, even in this great moment of his existence, Pig felt that he was not happy—not perfectly happy; something was still left to desire; something which reminded him that he was mortal. “Oh! why,” said he, “why, when such a cornucopia of blessings is showered upon me, why would destiny will that it must come one day too soon: before the Brussels carpet was laid down in the breakfast-room, before the .” At this instant the carriage suddenly rolled up to the door: a dead stop followed, which put a dead stop to Pig’s soliloquy: the steps were audibly let down: and the Commissioner was obliged to rush out precipitately in order to do the honours of reception to his illustrious guest.
