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Updated: May 28, 2025
So the Papa says, 'I have got a letter from my friend, the Mister; and he wants a recommend from me, of a drawing-master, to go down to his house in the country. My-soul-bless-my-soul! when I heard the golden Papa say those words, if I had been big enough to reach up to him, I should have put my arms round his neck, and pressed him to my bosom in a long and grateful hug!
I teach the sublime Dante to the young Misses, and ah! my-soul-bless-my-soul! it is not in human language to say how the sublime Dante puzzles the pretty heads of all three! No matter all in good time and the more lessons the better for me. Now mind! Imagine to yourselves that I am teaching the young Misses to-day, as usual. We are all four of us down together in the Hell of Dante.
Can your friend produce testimonials letters that speak to his character? I wave my hand negligently. 'Letters? I say. 'Ha! my-soul-bless-my-soul! I should think so, indeed! 'Let him send them to me, with his name and address. And stop, stop, Mr. Pesca before you go to your friend, you had better take a note. 'Bank-note! I say, indignantly.
My-soul-bless-my-soul! only give it to me and my boots shall creak like the golden Papa's, with a sense of the overpowering richness of the man who walks in them!
When we reached the lobby the Count had disappeared, and the foreigner with the scar was gone too. "Come home," I said; "come home, Pesca to your lodgings. I must speak to you in private I must speak directly." "My-soul-bless-my-soul!" cried the Professor, in a state of the extremest bewilderment. "What on earth is the matter?" I walked on rapidly without answering.
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