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. He was gloomy,
even beyond his usual habit--in fact he was MOROSE--but in him I
was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could
make no excuse.
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