In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense
      of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_—as Lord
      Edouard in the “Julie” says it did him—_à la philosophie
      véritable_. Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree
      the occurrence had affected me, I determined at all events to
      conceal the matter from my wife, until further experience should
      discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity. Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its
      bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and
      coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and
      a kiss on the other, and without saying one syllable (Furies! I
      could not), left her astonished at my drollery, as I pirouetted
      out of the room in a _pas de zephyr_. Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful
      instance of the ill consequences attending upon
      irascibility—alive, with the qualifications of the dead—dead,
      with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face of the
      earth—being very calm, yet breathless. Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was
      entirely gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my
      life had been at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror. Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to the first
      overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon trial, that the
      powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the
      conversation with my wife, I then concluded to be totally
      destroyed, were in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered
      that had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to a
      singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to her the
      communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the
      guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath,
      but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat. Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed
      in meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory
      kind. A thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession
      of my soul—and even the idea of suicide flitted across my brain;
      but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the
      obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I
      shuddered at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities while
      the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very
      water-dog wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to
      itself much merit for the strength of its lungs, and all
      obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary incapacity. Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length
      heard the footsteps of my wife descending the staircase. Being
      now assured of her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart
      to the scene of my disaster. Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous
      search. It was possible, I thought, that, concealed in some
      obscure corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be
      found the lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory—it
      might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many
      points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William
      Godwin, however, says in his “Mandeville,” that “invisible things
      are the only realities,” and this, all will allow, is a case in
      point. I would have the judicious reader pause before accusing
      such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras,
      it will be remembered, maintained that snow is black, and this I
      have since found to be the case. Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the
      contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be
      only a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle
      of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well
      here observe that this confirmation of my lady’s partiality for
      Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lackobreath
      should admire anything so dissimilar to myself was a natural and
      necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent
      appearance, and at the same time somewhat diminutive in stature. What wonder, then, that the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance,
      and his altitude, which has grown into a proverb, should have met
      with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs. Lackobreath. But to
      return. My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet
      after closet—drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were
      scrutinized to no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself
      sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case,
      accidentally demolished a bottle of Grandjean’s Oil of
      Archangels—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the
      liberty of recommending. With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon
      some method of eluding my wife’s penetration, until I could make
      arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had
      already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I
      might, with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my
      unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more than beggary,
      to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down
      upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and
      the happy. I was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I
      committed to memory the entire tragedy of “Metamora.” I had the
      good fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of this drama,
      or at least of such portion of it as is allotted to the hero, the
      tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether
      unnecessary, and the deep guttural was expected to reign
      monotonously throughout. I practised for some time by the borders of a well frequented
      marsh;—herein, however, having no reference to a similar
      proceeding of Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and
      conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to
      make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with a passion
      for the stage. In this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to every
      question or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my
      most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some passage from the
      tragedy—any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure in
      observing, would apply equally well to any particular subject.