"Ah! well-a-day! whither are ye fled, ye blissful dreams of coming
fortune, when I proudly thought that here I might even reach the
height of Privy Secretary? And has not my evil star estranged from me
my best patrons? I learn, for instance, that the Councilor, to whom I
have a letter, cannot suffer cropped hair; with immensity of trouble,
the barber fastens me a little cue to my hindhead; but at the first
bow his unblessed knot gives way, and a little shock-dog, running
snuffling about me, frisks off to the Privy Councilor with the cue in
his mouth. I spring after it in terror, and stumble against the
table, where he has been working while at breakfast; and cups, plates,
ink-glass, sand-box, rush jingling to the floor, and a flood of
chocolate and ink overflows the "Relation" he has just been writing.
'Is the Devil in the man?' bellows the furious Privy Councilor, and
shoves me out of the room.
"What avails it that Corrector Paulmann gave me hopes of a writership:
will my malignant fate allow it, which everywhere pursues me?
Today even! Do but think of it! I was purposing to hold my good old
Ascension-day with right cheerfulness of soul; I would stretch a point
for once; I might have gone, as well as any other guest, into Linke's
Bath, and called out proudly: 'Marqueur! a bottle of double beer; best
sort, if you please!' I might have sat till far in the evening, and,
moreover, close by this or that fine party of well-dressed ladies.
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