“It is a servant of
      course,” I said; “what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of
      so obvious a solution!” And then I again repaired to the list—but
      here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party,
      although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring
      one—for the words “and servant” had been first written and then
      overscored. “Oh, extra baggage, to be sure,” I now said to
      myself—“something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something
      to be kept under his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and
      this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the
      Italian Jew.” This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my
      curiosity for the nonce. Wyatt’s two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever
      girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never
      yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence,
      however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her
      as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was,
      therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance. On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt
      and party were also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I
      waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of
      being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. “Mrs. W.
      was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until
      to-morrow, at the hour of sailing.”

      The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the
      wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, “owing to
      circumstances” (a stupid but convenient phrase), “he rather
      thought the ‘Independence’ would not sail for a day or two, and
      that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know.” This
      I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as
      “the circumstances” were not forthcoming, although I pumped for
      them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return
      home and digest my impatience at leisure. I did not receive the expected message from the captain for
      nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went
      on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and every thing
      was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt’s party
      arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two
      sisters, the bride, and the artist—the latter in one of his
      customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to
      these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not
      even introduce me to his wife—this courtesy devolving, per force,
      upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in
      a few hurried words, made us acquainted. Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil,
      in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly
      astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not
      long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a
      reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist,
      when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When
      beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared
      into the regions of the purely ideal. The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a
      decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was
      not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in
      exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she had captivated
      my friend’s heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect
      and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her
      state-room with Mr. W.

      My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that
      was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage. After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong
      pine box, which was every thing that seemed to be expected. Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time
      were safely over the bar and standing out to sea. The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet
      in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it
      attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar;
      and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the
      accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be
      remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist,
      would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he
      had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino:—and now
      here was a box, which, from its shape, could possibly contain
      nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo’s “Last Supper;” and
      a copy of this very “Last Supper,” done by Rubini the younger, at
      Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of
      Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently
      settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It
      was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of
      his artistical secrets; but here he evidently intended to steal a
      march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my
      very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved
      to quiz him well, now and hereafter. One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go
      into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt’s own; and
      there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the
      floor—no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his
      wife;—this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it
      was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong,
      disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On
      the lid were painted the words—“Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New
      York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled
      with care.”

      Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the
      artist’s wife’s mother,—but then I looked upon the whole address
      as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my
      mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get
      farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend, in
      Chambers Street, New York. For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although
      the wind was dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward,
      immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers
      were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I
      must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly,
      and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the
      party. Wyatt’s conduct I did not so much regard.