Alfred; or, The Adventures of a French Gentleman — page 156: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

OF A FRENCH GENTLEMAN, 129 CHAPTER XVIII. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. Liow beautiful is the ocean when its wide bosom is agitated by a gentle breeze, as the breast of a maiden heaves to the tale of her lover—when the sea-gull flaps its wing upon the crested billows as it skims them—when a few distant sails vary the dark blue of the horizon—and when theskyabove is like a canopy of costly silk, whose fringes touch the expanse of waters on every side! How beautiful is the ocean when the rays of a summer sun illume its surface—~ when the vessel dances gladly over the waves, dashing the white foam from its sharp prow—and when the heart of the passenger 1s so devoid of care as to enable him to enjoy the loveliness of the scene! QO it is indeed a scene of magnificence—grandeur—and sublime terror!—a scene which creates such strange emotions of ‘* pleasing pain ” that we gladly fly to it again. After an easy passage, the steam-vessel touched at Southampton ; and De Rosann, preceded by a porter carrying his baggage, went direct to a hotel. He had some difficulty to make himself unaer- stood; but the proprietors and domestics of the various inns in the town were so accustomed ‘o receive or attend upon French tra- vellers, that they had generally imbibed a smattering of the lan- guage, or anticipated the wants of their transmarine guests, which answered the same purpose, even if it were not preferable on the score of saving many useless demands and explanatory signs. Being shown to a bed-room, De Rosann prepared to change his linen and ‘perform his ablutions ere he thought of any thing else. But no one can conceive his rage and despair, when on opening the portmanteau he found that it was not his own. He stamped his feet, and clenched his fists, as if he were about to lay violent hands on himself; large drops of perspiration ran off his forehead down his cheeks,—his countenance turned pale and red alternately twenty times in a minute,—and his pulse beat quickly to a feverish degree. Such is a Frenchman’s anger; or rather, such are his mingled wrath and sorrow—an extreme, like his felicity. De Rosann cursed his unlucky stars—drageged forth article after article from the fatal portmanteau, and only found more convinc- ing proofs of the mistake, or intentional changes, whichever it might be. While he was endeavouring to compose his disordered pas- sions, to debate within himself on the best measures to be pursued in so terrible a dilemma, a morsel of paper, that had fallen from the box amongst other things, met his eyes. He hastily seizeil it; ‘twas a letter directed to himself: he tore it open, and read as follows :— ECORMICELOOOLKS (C@) 7