416 FRAGMENT OF A JOURNAL. 



quel room was splendid. The beautiful hanging's and gilded panels 

 bespoke the riches and taste of the possessor. The rooms had been 

 fitted up by the hand of a well-known artiste. The supper table 

 was crowded with every dish that the best "cordon bleu" could fur- 

 nish. The most acute epicurean critic could have found nothing to 

 complain of. Wine sparkled in every direction. The dresses of the 

 females were of the richest stuffs, and made according to the very 

 last fashion. Every one was pleased, every one was delighted. I 

 took very little part in the conversation. The subjects that were dis- 

 cussed were not interesting to me. I was insensible to the praise 

 bestowed on some, and to the sarcasm cast on others. I was not in a 

 cheerful mood. My heart was sad. I could assign no cause for the 

 unusual depression of spirits under which I laboured. 



The company dispersed from the table. Some went to listen to 

 the exquisite music. Some joined in groups to converse. Some went to 

 the card table, and others to dice. I was amongst the latter : I 

 wanted something to rouse my spirits, something exciting to refresh 

 my heart. Fortune once more turned her back upon me. I was un- 

 lucky. I lost. Played on. I lost again, and again 1 staked a large sum. 

 I lost aorain. This soured my temper. A friend of mine came up 

 and offered to give me a chance of winning back from him what I 

 had lost. I accepted the proposition, but I was again unfortunate. 

 I could now no longer bear up. I quarrelled with my antagonist. I 

 broke forth with the most violent expressions. So far forgot 

 myself as to call him villain ! cheat ! I became furious, and upbraided 

 him for what I thought was undeserved treachery on his part. " Sir 

 Frederick Lytton'' said he, " I am not accustomed to hear such 

 words from you ! I demand an explanation. I answered him with 

 more opprobrious epithets. I forget the words I used. Never can I 

 remember the circumstances without feeling still the dire disgrace I 

 brought upon myself by my unguarded violence. It was arranged 

 we should meet the next morning at seven in the Bois de Boulogne. 

 The company dispersed. The party was broken up. Every one went 

 home with sad forebodings. 



Etienne de St. Foix, the man I had so grossly insulted, was the 

 only existing remnant of a noble French family. I had first met 

 him in England. During the revolution, and the reign of Buonaparte, 

 he had been one of those unfortunate emigrants from their native land 

 with whom England abounded at that time. A long acquaintance 

 with him had disclosed to me his noble character and unchangeable 

 devotion in friendship. We had lived as brothers, and till that night 

 not the slightest dispute had ever arisen between us. 



When I reached my home, and retired to my bed-room, I sunk 

 on my couch oppressed by successive feelings of rage, despair, and 

 shame. I remained with my face hid in my hands unmoved. The 

 most horrid reflections came across me. Scarce six hours were there 

 between me and the prospect of eternity ! On one hand, I thought 

 upon my own dreadful state should I be a murderer. On the other, 

 oh! what were not the awful thoughts of appearing unprepared be- 

 fore my Eternal Judge ! within the short space allotted to me. I 

 suddenly arose. I tried to write my last wishes. To whom could I leave 

 my wealth? To whom could I turn in this dreadful moment ? Oh! how 



