Then he had dark moustaches, which he would gracefully finger into such an exact curve; and he had his small whiskers so neatly combed, and every hair on his head lay in unexceptional smoothness. The legation was not a little proud of Bolt, and on drawing-room days, when he blazed out in his gold lace and sword, would delight in watching the many dark, languishing eyes that would ogle him over the down of gorgeous fans. Bolt was not dead to this admiration, for we learned, from the constant wandering of his eye, that he rather appreciated his own popularity. For a lady to say she did not admire Mr. Secretary Bolt, was strong evidence of her want of taste. I do not choose to enlighten the world as to how Bolt came to be Secretary of Legation!' Here the old man would make a desperate flourish with his crutch, by which I was led to believe that the means were none of the cleanest; in fact that they were of a character very similar to those used at this day, and to which may be traced the cause of certain of Mr. Pierce's diplomatists having so distinguished themselves in Europe. 'Zounds!' the old man would continue, testily making a cross on the floor with his crutch, 'a desperate set was soon made on our Bolt by that little world of fashion and intrigue which, lizard-like, crawls about our Legations, and did more particularly so about the one he honored with his handsome person. The Countess of Longblower, very distinguished (according to the gossip of the kitchen), and wife of the celebrated Earl of that name, took him at once into the velvet of her good graces. Here, after a little ripening at the hands of Samuel, the polite footman in ordinary, he shone out the star of her small but wonderfully select firmament. There were suspicious whisperings and some scandal concerning what afterwards took place between my lady and Bolt; but as scandal and diplomacy seemed inseparable to an European atmosphere, we as noiselessly as possible laid the charge at the door of a certain sin.' Here he would fling down his crutch. 'The Countess's carriage was forever at the door, waiting the pleasure of Mr. Secretary Bolt; he had a plate reserved at her table; he was the Adonis of her drawing-room; there was a seat for him in her opera-box. In the front of the latter, facing the stately front of her ladyship, one of her sweetest smiles forced over her hard face, sat the handsome Bolt, now playing with the tassel of her fan, then passing upon the Cavatina a sort of rosewater approval. He had a fund of small talk always at hand, and as her mightiness was extremely fond of such wares, so also did Bolt become a very agreeable person. The Countess, too, would smile so condescendingly, and keep up such a conversation with her eyes, now and then glancing at the Earl, who dozed at a respectful distance in the rear. If unexpectedly he exhibited signs of consciousness, Bolt would immediately divert the subject by passing some facetious