This, I will say, I was honest enough to refuse.
I left my cards, P.P.C., as they do, Mr Simple, in all well-regulated
society, and set off in the mail for London, where I fully resolved to
drop my title, and to proceed to Scotland to his lordship's mother, with
the mournful intelligence of his death--for you see, Mr Simple, no one
knew that his lordship was dead. The captain of the transport had put
him into the xebeque alive, and the vessel bound to Gibraltar had
received him, as they imagined. The captain of the frigate had very soon
afterwards advices from Gibraltar, stating his lordship's recovery and
return to England. Well, I had not been in the coach more than five
minutes, when who should get in but a gentleman whom I had met at the
port-admiral's; besides which the coachman and others knew me very well.
When I arrived in London (I still wore my midshipman's uniform), I went
to an hotel recommended to me, as I afterwards found out, the most
fashionable in town, my title still following me. I now determined to
put off my uniform, and dress in plain clothes--my farce was over. I
went to bed that night, and the next morning made my appearance in a
suit of mufti, making inquiry of the waiter which was the best
conveyance to Scotland.
"'Post chay and four, my lord. At what time shall I order it?'
"'O,' replied I, 'I am not sure that I shall go tomorrow.'
"Just at this moment in came the master of the hotel, with the _Morning
Post_ in his hand, making me a low bow, and pointing to the insertion of
my arrival at his hotel among the fashionables.
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