This chapter shall be, I think, what that delightful wight, Washington Irving, would call a Salmagundi, or, as it should be, perhaps, a _Salmi à la Gondi_; but, having mentioned that name, Irving, I dedicate this book to you. It is long since we first met--long since we last parted--and it may be long, long, ere we meet again. Nevertheless, Heaven speed you, wherever you are, and send you forward on your voyage, with a calm sea and a swelling sail! In all the many that I have known, and among the few that I have loved and esteemed, there is not now a living man that can compete with you in that delightful conversation where the heart pours forth its tide, and where fancy and feeling mingle together, and flow on in one ever sparkling stream. The dim Atlantic--whose very name sounds like that of eternity--may roll between us till death close the eyes of one or the other; but till the things of this world pass away, you shall not be forgotten. Although we have now brought up the events in London nearly to the same point as the events in the country, we must still leave Henry Burrel strolling on through Emberton Park beside Blanche Delaware, while we turn for a moment to his silent servant, who having, on the same morning, walked with his usual slow and quiet step to the post-office, brought home, and deposited upon his master's table, two or three letters, after first gleaning every possible information that their outside or their inside could furnish. He then proceeded to inspect the contents of another epistle, which bore his own name and superscription. The words therein written had a considerable effect upon him, causing more twitches and contortions of the muscles of his countenance than was usually visible upon that still and patient piece of furniture. The first expression was certainly full of pleasure; but that soon relapsed into deep thought, and then a grave shake of the head, and close setting of the lower jaw, might be supposed to argue a negative determination. "No, no, Mr. Tims," he muttered, "that won't do! If one could make sure of getting clear off--well and good. But first, there is the chance of my not being sent for the money--then you would take good care to have me closely watched; and then, again, I do not know whether the chance here at Emberton may not be worth ten of the other--and I may come in for my share of the other too. No, no, Mr. Tims, it won't do!--so I will come the conscientious upon you." And down he sat to indite an epistle to Mr. Peter Tims, the agent of Lord Ashborough. It was written in one of those fair, easy, but vacillating, running-hands, which bespeak a peculiar and inherent gift or talent for committing forgery; and was to the following effect:-- "Emberton, September, 18--