I had a thousand questions to ask my friend, a thousand memories to disinter from their graves in my heart, past follies to re-enact, past scenes to re-people.  We began with our school-days, pursued the subject to Cambridge, carried it back again to Reading, and thence traced it through all its windings, now in sunshine, now in gloom, till the canvass of our recollection was fairly filled with portraits.  In this way, time, unperceived, slipped on; noon deepened into evening, evening blackened into midnight, yet nothing but our wine was exhausted.

At last, after a long evening spent in the freest and most social converse, my friend quitted the coffee-room, while I—­imitating, as I went, the circumlocutory windings of the Meander—­proceeded to my allotted chamber.  Unfortunately, on reaching the head of the first staircase, where two opposite doors presented themselves, I opened (as a matter of course) the wrong one, which led me into a spacious apartment, in which were placed two fat, full-grown beds.  My lantern happening to go out at the moment, I was compelled to forego all further scrutiny, so without more ado, flung off my clothes, and dived, at one dexterous plunge, right into the centre of the nearest vacant bed.  In an instant I was fast asleep; my imagination, oppressed with the day’s events, had become fairly exhausted, and I now lay chained down in that heavy, dreamless sleep, which none but fatigued travellers can appreciate.  Towards daybreak, I was roused by a peculiar long-drawn snore, proceeding from the next bed.  The music, though deep, was gusty, vulgar, and ludicrous, like a west wind whistling through a wash-house.  I should know it among a thousand snores.  At first I took no notice of this diversified sternutation, but as it deepened every moment in energy, terminating in something like a groan, I was compelled to pay it the homage of my admiration and astonishment.  This attention, however, soon flagged; in a few minutes I was a second time asleep, nor did I again awake till the morning was far advanced.  At this eventful juncture, while casting my eyes round the room with all the voluptuous indolence of a jaded traveller, they suddenly chanced to fall on a gaunt, spectral figure, undressed, unwashed, unshaved, decked out in a red worsted night-cap, its left cheek swollen, as if with cold or tooth-ache, and seated bolt upright in the very next bed, scarce six inches off my nose.  And this figure was——­but I need add no more; the reader must by this time have fully anticipated my discovery.

That night I started from Bologne.  I could no more have endured to stop there, conscious that the town contained my persecutor, than I could have flown.  Accordingly, after a hurried breakfast, I proceeded to arrange what little business I had to transact; and this completed, away I posted to the well-known shop of Monsieur ——­, dentist, perruquier, and general agent to the steam-packet company.  Fortunately the little man was at home, and received