I was--I own it--worried and vexed by the clamour and movement, that not even coming night calmed down. The repose and quiet I had been so fully enjoying were gone, and, in their place, the vulgar noises and tumult of a little inn. All these interruptions, intimately associated in my mind with the traveller, invested him, to me, with a character perfectly detestable, so that there was somewhat of open defiance in my refusal to yield up my sofa. A pause followed. What was to come next? I listened and waited in half anxiety, wondering what new aggression might ensue; but all was still: nay, there was a clattering of knives and forks, and then went the pop of a cork--“the Prince” was eating. “Well,” thought I, “there is some vengeance here, for the _cuisine_ is detestable.” “His Highness” thought so too, for more than one _plat_ was dismissed, accompanied by a running commentary of abuse on the part of the Courier. At last came a really tranquil moment. The cheese had been sent away as uneatable, and the Courier had followed it, cursing manfully, if I might pronounce from the odour wafted to my own chamber, not unreasonably. “Mi Lor le Prince” was probably composing himself to a siesta; there was a stealthy quietude in the step of his servant along the corridor that said so much. I had scarcely made the reflection when a tap came to my door. “The Prince” wished for an English newspaper, and the host had seen two on my table. The “Post” and the “Chronicle” were both before me, and I sent them, half wondering which best might suit his Highness’s politics. Another tap at the door! Really this is intolerable. Has he not had my table, my arm-chair, my newspapers--what will he ask for next? “Come in,” said I, now trying English, after in vain shouting “Entrez” and “Herein” three times over. An English servant entered, and in that peculiarly low, demure tone, so distinctive of his caste, said,-- “Sir Robert Chawuth presents his compliments, and begs to know if he may pay his respects to Mr. Templeton?” “Is Sir Robert here? is that his carriage?” said I, hastily. “Yes, sir; he came about an hour ago.” “Oh, very well. Say, I shall feel great pleasure in seeing him. Is he disengaged at present?” “Yes, sir, he is quite alone.” “Shew me his apartment, then.” “So,” thought I, as I arose to seek the chamber, “this time they were nearer right than usual; for, if not an ‘English Prince,’ he has wielded more substantial power, and exerted a much wider sway over the destinies of the world, than ever a ‘foreign Prince’ from the Baltic to the Bosphorus.” Strange enough, our last meeting was at Downing Street; he was then Minister. I waited upon him by appointment, as I was leaving England for the Prussian mission, and _he_ desired to give me his own instructions before I sailed; and now, I visit him in a little Tyrol “Gasthaus,” he, destitute of power, and myself---- *****