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Astoria, attracted to the subject by an early fond- | ness for the character of the trappers and voyageurs whom he had seen in his youth in Canada. He was assisted in the preparation of this work by his nephew, Mr. Pierre M. Irving.*

Another undertaking of a similar character was his Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U.S.A., in the Rocky Mountains and the Far West, prepared from the MSS. of that traveller, but made an original work by the observation and style of the writer. From 1839, for two years, Irving contributed a series of papers monthly to the Knickerbocker Magazine. Among these tales and sketches are two narratives, The Early Experiences of Ralph Ringwood, and Mountjoy, or some Passages out of the Life of a Castle Builder. A number of these papers, with some others from the English Annuals and other sources, have been collected in 1855 in a volume, with the title of Wolfert's Roost.

In February, 1842, he was appointed Minister to Spain, an office which he occupied for the next four years. He then returned home, and has since

Sunnyside.

continued to reside at his cottage residence, "Sunnyside," near Tarrytown, on the banks of the Hudson, the very spot which he had described years before in the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow," as the castle of the Heer van Tassel, illuminated with the throng of country beauties, and that prodigality of " a genuine Dutch country tea-table," in the presence of which the mouth of the schoolmaster Ichabod watered, and his skin dilated as it embraced the ample cheer. Of this neighborhood, Irving also wrote in that tale of his youth" If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remainder of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley." At this retreat since his last return from Europe he has lived, in the midst of a family circle composed of his brother and his nieces,

*An interesting communication from Irving on this subject, contradicting a story of Mr. Astor having paid him five thousand dollars to "take up the MSS." will be found in the Literary World for November 22, 1851. The only compensation Irving received was his share of the profits from his publisher.

hospitably entertaining his friends, occasionally visiting different portions of the country, and einploying his pen in the composition of his Life of Washington, the first volume of which, as we write, is in progress through the press. The preparation of this, the publication of Oliver Goldsmith, a Biography, an enlargement of a life which he had prefixed to an edition in Paris of that author's works, adapting the researches of Prior and Forster, and a revised edition of his own writings published by Putnam, of which several of the volumes have been published in a more costly form, enriched by the vigorous and refined designs of Darley, have been his latest literary productions.

In estimating the genius of Irving, we can hardly attach too high a value to the refined qualities and genial humor which have made his writings favorites wherever the English language is read. The charm is in the proportion, the keeping, the happy vein which inspires happiness in return. It is the felicity of but few authors, out of the vast stock of English literature, to delight equally young and old. The tales of Irving are the favorite authors of childhood, and their good humor and amenity can please where most literature is weariness, in the sick room of the convalescent. Every influence which breathes from these writings is good and generous. Their sentiment is always just and manly, without cant or affectation; their humor is always within the bounds of propriety. They have a fresh inspiration of American nature, which is not the less nature for the art with which it is adorned. The color of personality attaches us throughout to the author, whose humor of character is always to be felt. This happy art of presenting rude and confused objects in an orderly pleasurable aspect, everywhere to be met with in the pages of Irving, is one of the most beneficent in literature. The philosopher Hume said a turn for humor was worth to him ten thousand a year, and it is this gift which the writings of Irving impart. To this quality is allied an active fancy and poetic imagination, many of the choicest passages of Irving being interpenetrated by this vivifying power. On one or two occasions only, we believe, in some stanzas to the Passaic River, some delicate lines, descriptive of a painting by Gilbert Stuart Newton, and a theatrical address, once pronounced by Cooper at the Park Theatre, has he ever put pen to verse; but he is an essential poet in prose, in many exquisite passages of vivid description from Westminster Abbey and English rural scenery to the waste beauties of the great region beyond the Mississippi. Parallel with the ruder but more

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An old philosopher is reading, in this picture, from a folio, to a young beauty who is asleep in a chair on the other side of the table. It is a fine summer's day, and the warm atmosphere is let in through the open casement. These are the lines which Irving wrote at his friend Newton's request, as a description of the picture :

THE DULL LECTURE.

Frostie age, frostie age,
Vain al thy learning;
Drowsie page, drowsie page,
Evermore turning.

Young head no lore will heed,
Young heart's a reckless rover,
Young beauty, while you read,
Sleeping dreams of absent lover.

robust and athletic writings of Cooper, the volumes of Irving improved American society, and rendered the national name beloved and respected abroad. Both, to the honor of the country, have never lacked admirers from the start; both have been followed by diligent schools of imitators, and their books will continue to be read together, with equal honor, as the complement of each other.

We may here properly introduce some notices of the elder brothers of Washington Irving, who, together with him-elf, established the family reputation in literature. They were four-William, Peter, Ebenezer, and John Treat. All were engaged in literary or professional life except Ebenezer, who pursued a mercantile career.

He

WILLIAM IRVING was born in New York, August 15, 1766. He commenced life as an Indian trader, residing at Johnstown and Caughawaga on the Mohawk, from 1787 to 1791. married a sister of the author, James K. Paulding, November 7, 1793. At the date of Salmagundi he was a merchant at New York, with the character of a man of wit and refinement, who hal alded to a natural genial temperament the extensive resources of observation, and a fresh experience of the world, gathered in his border life. The part which he took in Salmagundi was chiefly the contribution of the poetical pieces, which are mainly from his pen-the letters and proclamations, the humorous and sentimental verse, "from the mill of Pindar Cockloft." These poems are in a happy vein, and if separately published with the author's name, would have long since given him a distinct place in the collections of the American literati. In furtherance of the prevailing humor of the book, they celebrate the simpler manners of former days, and the eccentricities and scandals of the passing time. The satire is pungent and good-natured, and the numbers felicitous. A few stanzas will show how pleasantly Pindar Cockloft, Esq., blended mirth with sentiment.

VISION OF TWO SISTERS IN A BALL-ROOM.

How oft I breathe the inward sigh,
And feel the dew-drop in my eye,
When I behold some beauteous frame,
Divine in everything but name,
Just venturing, in the tender age,
On Fashion's late new-fangled stage!
Where soon the guileless heart shall cease
To beat in artlessness and peace;
Where all the flowers of gay delight
With which youth decks its prospects bright,
Shall wither 'mid the cares-the strife-
The cold realities of life!

Thus lately, in my careless mood,
As I the world of fashion viewed,
While celebrating great and small,
That grand solemnity-a ball,
My roving vision chanced to light
On two sweet forms, divinely bright;
Two sister nymphs, alike in face,
In mien, in loveliness and grace;
Twin rose-buds, bursting into bloom,
In all their brilliance and perfume;
Like those fair forms that often beam,
Upon the eastern poet's dream:

For Eden had each lovely maid
In native innocence arrayed,-
And heaven itself had almost shed
Its sacred halo round each head!

They seemed, just entering hand in hand,
To cautious tread this fairy land;
To take a timid hasty view,
Enchanted with a scene so new.
The modest blush, untaught by art,
Bespoke their purity of heart;
And every timorous act unfurled
Two souls unspotted by the world.

Oh, how these strangers joyed my sight,
And thrilled my bosom with delight!
They brought the visions of my youth
Back to my soul in all their truth,
Recalled fair spirits into day,
That time's rough hand had swept away!
Thus the bright natives from above,
Who come on messages of love,
Will bless, at rare and distant whiles,
Our sinful dwelling by their smiles!

Oh! my romance of youth is past,
Dear airy dreams too bright to last!
Yet when such forms as these appear,
I feel your soft remembrance here;
For, ah! the simple poet's heart,
On which fond love once played its part,
Still feels the soft pulsations beat,
As loth to quit their former seat.
Just like the harp's melodious wire,
Swept by a bard with heavenly fire,
Though ceased the loudly swelling strain,
Yet sweet vibrations long remain.

Full soon I found the lovely pair
Had sprung beneath a mother's care,
Hard by a neighbouring streamlet's side,
At once its ornament and pride.
The beauteous parent's tender heart
Had well fulfille 1 its pious part;
And, like the holy man of old,
As we're by sacred writings told,
Who, when he from his pupil sped,
Poure 1 two-fold blessings on his head,--
So this fond mother had imprest
Her early virtues in each breast,
And as she found her stock enlarge,
Had stampt new graces on her charge.

The fair resigned the calm retreat,
Where first their souls in concert beat,
And flew on expectation's wing,
To sip the joys of life's gay spring;
To sport in fashion's splendid maze,
Where friendship fades, and love decays.
So two sweet wild flowers, near the side
Of some fair river's silver tide,

Pure as the gentle stream that laves
The green banks with its lucid waves,
Bloom beauteous in their native ground,
Diffusing heavenly fragrance round:
But should a venturous hand transfer
These blossoms to the gay parterre
Where, spite of artificial aid,
The fairest plants of nature fade;
Though they may shine supreme awhile,
Mid pale ones of the stranger soil,
The tender beauties soon decay,
And their sweet fragrance dies away.

Blest spirits! who enthroned in air,
Watch o'er the virtues of the fair,
And with angelic ken survey,

Their windings through life's chequered way;

Who hover round them as they glide
Down fashion's smooth deceitful tide,
And guard them o'er that stormy deep
Where Dissipation's tempests sweep:
Oh, make this inexperienced pair,
The objects of your tenderest care.
Preserve them from the languid eye,
The faded cheek-the long drawn sigh;
And let it be your constant ain
To keep the fair ones still the same:
Two sister hearts, unsullied, bright
As the first beam of lucid light,
That sparkled from the youthful sun,
When first his jocund race begun.

So when these hearts shall burst their shrine,
To wing their flight to realms divine,
They may to radiant mansions rise
Pure as when first they left the skies.

In his poem entitled Tea, which is "earnestly recommended to the attention of all maidens of a certain age," there is this introduction of the time-out-of-mind scandal associated with that beverage.

In harmless chit-chat an acquaintance they roast, And serve up a friend, as they serve up a toast, Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake, Is like sweetmeats delicious, or relished as cake; A bit of broad scandal is like a dry crust,

It would stick in the throat, so they butter it first
With a little affected good-nature, and cry
"No body regrets the thing deeper than I."
Our young ladies nibble a good name in play,
As for pastime they nibble a biscuit away:
While with shrugs and surmises, the toothless old
dame,

As she mumbles a crust she will mumble a name;
And as the fell sisters astonished the Scot,
In predicting of Banquo's descendants the lot,
Making shadows of kings, amid flashes of light,
To appear in array and to frown in his sight;
So they conjure up spectres all hideous in hue,
Which, as shades of their neighbors, are passed in
review.

In the more concentrated social humors of that day, there was opportunity for much satirical pleasantry, which is now lost among the nuinerous interests of metropolitan life. The fops and belles were then notabilities and subjects to be cared for by men of wit and society. One of the clever pleasantries of William Irving of that now distant time, which has never before peared in print, was recently called up for us by Washington Irving, who recited the lines from memory, and kindly furnished us with a copy. It is in a style formerly in vogue in the days of Pindar and Colman-a trifle in allusion to an absurdity in the whisker line of the fops in the early years of the century.

Sir! said a barber to a thing going by his shop,
Sir, said he, will you stop

ap

And be shaved? for I see you are lathered already, I've a sweet going razor, and a hand that is steady. Sir! damme, said the creature standing stiff on two feet,

Damme, Sir, do you intend to bore one in the street?

Don't you see that à la mode de Cockney, I am shaved and drest?

Lord, Sir, said the barber, I protest,

I took that load of hair, and meal, and lard,
That lies about your mouth to be a lathered beard.

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To the prose of Salmagundi William Irving furnished occasional hints and sketches, which were worked up by his brother. Among these were the letters of Mustapha in numbers five and fourteen, the last of which is the amusing sketch of the political logocracy. Mr. Irving was in Congress from 1813 to 1819. He died in New York, November 9, 1821.

PETER IRVING, the second brother, was born October 30, 1771. He studied medicine, without, however, devoting himself to the profession, though it gave him the title of Doctor through life. He was proprietor and editor of the Morning Chronicle newspaper, the first number of which he published in New York, October 1, 1802. This paper was in the democratic interest, and for the time was a warm advocate of Burr. It had among its contributors, besides the editor's brothers, Washington and John T. Irving, Paulding, William A. Duer, and Rudolph Bunner. As a tender to the daily, a more convenient method of parrying the opposition, and serving a temporary purpose on the eve of an election, the Corrector, a weekly newspaper, the work of several hands, was issued anonymously in March and April, 1804. Dr. Irving would probably have returned the compliments of the articles which his brother Washington had published in his newspaper, by contributing to Salmagundi, but he was abroad travelling in Europe during the time that work was issued. He left in December, 1806, and returned in January, 1808. He then projected with his brother the work which afterwards grew in the hands of the latter into Knickerbocker's New York; but before it was written sailed for Europe at the beginning of 1809, and remained there until the spring of 1836, when he embarked for home. In this period a novel appeared from his pen in New York, from the press of Van Winkle in 1820. It was, as its title intimates, an adaptation from the French, though with extensive alterations, Giovanni Sbogarro: A Venetian Tale [taken It is a from the French], by Percival Gstirring tale of piratical adventure, in a now somewhat exploded school of fiction, and is written in a happy style.

Dr. Irving did not long survive his return to America. He died at his residence in New York, June 27, 1838.

EBENEZER IRVING was born January 27, 1776. He has long since retired from mercantile life, and his residence with his brother is one of the

pleasing associations of the family home at Sunnyside.

JOHN T. IRVING was born May 26, 1778. He studied the profession of the law, in which he acquired a reputation that secured him, on the creation of the Court of Common Pleas for the city and county of New York in 1821, the appointment of First Judge. He presided in this court for seventeen years, till his death. As a judge, he is worthily pronounced to have been "in many

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integrity and a strong love of justice, he united the most exact and methodical habits of busine-s; attentive, careful, and painstaking, few judges in this state ever have been more accurate, or perhaps more generally correct in their decisions."* In his early days we have seen him a contributor to his brother's newspaper. He was fond of compo ition, had the family elegance of style, and wrote brilliant political verses in the party conflict of his day. He died in New York, March 15, 1838.

Of the younger members of the family, John Treat Irving, son of Judge Irving, is the author of several works of distinguished literary merit. In 1835 he published Indian Sketches, a narrative of an expedition to the Pawnee Tribes, a book of lively, spirited description. He is also the author of two novels, remarkable for their striking pathetic and humorous qualities: The Attorney, and Harry Harson, or the Benevolent Bachelor. Both of these were first published in the Knickerbocker Magazine, with the signature of John Quod, the well known title to many a pleasant article in that journal. The locality is New York, and the interest of each turns upon passages of the author's profession, the law. With the graver themes of rascality are mingled the humors of low life, both sketched with a firm hand.

Theodore, the son of Ebenezer Irving, joined his uncle, Washington Irving, in Europe in 1828, and resided with him in Spain and England. From 1836 to 1849 he was Professor of History and Belles Lettres at Geneva College, and subsequently held a similar position in the Free Academy in New York. In 1835 he published an historical work, The Conquest of Florida, by Hernando de Soto, to the composition of which he was led by his studies in Spain. It is written with ease and elegance, and has been well received, having been recently reprinted in 1851. Mr. Irving is also the author of a devotional volume, The Fountain of Living Waters. In 1854 he received orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church.

THE STOUT GENTLEMAN-FROM BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

It was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering; but was still feverish, and obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn!— whoever has had the luck to experience one can alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my bedroom looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of ehimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck; there were several half-drowned

* Daly's History of Judicial Tribunals of New York, p. 65.

fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable, crest-faller cock, drenched out of all life and spirit; his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back; near the cart was a halfdozing cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapor rising from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a doghouse hard by, uttered something every now and then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; every thing, in short, was comfortless and forlorn, except a crew of hardened ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor.

I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My room soon became insupportable. I abandoned it, and sought what is technically called the travellers'-room. This is a public room set apart at most inns for the accommodation of a class of wayfarers, called travellers, or riders; a kind of commercial knights-errant, who are incessantly scouring the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the only successors that I know of at the present day, to the knights-errant of yore. They lead the same kind of roving adventurous life, only changing the lance for a driving whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat of mail for an upper Benja min. Instead of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about, spreading the fame and standing of some substantial tradesman or manufacturer, and are ready at any time to bargain in his name; it being the fashion now-a-days to trade, instead of fight, with one another. As the room of the hostel, in the good old fighting times, would be hung round at night with the armor of way-worn warriors, such as coats of mail, falchions, and yawning helmets; so the travellers'-room is garnished with the harnessing of their successors, with box-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth covered hats.

I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk with, but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or three in the room; but I could make nothing of them. One was just finishing his breakfast, quarrelling with his bread and butter, and huffing the waiter; another buttoned on a pair of gaiters, with many execrations at Boots for not having cleaned his shoes well; a third sat drumming on the table with his fingers and looking at the rain as it streamed down the window-glass; they all appeared infected by the weather, and disappeared, one after the other, without exchanging a word.

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people, picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted midleg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself with watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite; who, being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at the front windows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further from without to amuse me.

What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day? I was sadly nervous and lonely; and everything about an inn seems calculated to make a dull day ten times duller. Old newspapers, smelling of beer and tobacco smoke, and which I had already read half a dozen times. Good for nothing books, that were worse than rainy weather. I bored myself to

death with an old volume of the Lady's Magazine. I read all the commonplaced names of ambitious travellers scrawled on the panes of glass; the eternal families of the Smiths, and the Browns, and the Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons; and I deciphered several scraps of fatigui. g in-window poetry which I have met with in all parts of the world.

The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along; there was no variety even in the rain: it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter-patter -patter, excepting that now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella.

It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase of the day) when, in the course of the morning, a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, coweri g under cotton umb. eilas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjami..s.

The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed ho tier, and that nondescript animal yeleped Boots, and all the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was transient; the coach again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes; the street again became silent, and the rain continued to rain on. In fact, there was no hope of its clearing up; the barometer pointed to rainy weather: mine hostess's tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears; and, on referring to the Almanae, I found a direful prediction stretching from the top of the page to the bottom through the whole month, "expect-much-rain— about-this-time!"

I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep by. The very ticking of the clock became irksome. At length the stillness of the house was interrupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly after I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar: "The stout gentleman in No. 13, wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter, with ham and eggs; the eggs not to be too much done."

In such a situation as mine every ineident is of importance. Here was a subject of speculation presented to my mind, and ample exercise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pictures to myself, and on this occasion I had some materials to work upon. Had the guest up stairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or merely as "the gentleman in No. 13," it would have been a perfect blank to me. I should have thought nothin of it; but The stout gentleman!"-the very name had something in it of the picturesque. It at once gave the size; it embodied the personage to my mind's eye, and my fancy did

the rest.

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He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty; in all probability, therefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as they grow old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the necessity of early rising; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gentleman.

There was another violent ringing. The stout gentleman was impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man of importance; "well to do in the world;" accustomed to be promptly waited upon; of a keen appetite, and a little cross when hungry; "perhaps," thought I, "he may be some London Al

derman; or who knows but he may be a Member of Parliament?"

The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short interval of silence; he was, doubtless, making the tea. Presently there was a violent ringing; and before it could be answered, another ri gig still more violent. "Bless me! what a choleric old gentleman!" The waiter came down in a huff. The butter was rancid, the eggs were over-done, the ham was too salt:-the stout gentleman was evidently Lice in his eating; one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and live in a state militant with the household.

The hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was a brisk, coquettish woman: a little of a shrew, and something of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal; with a Lincompoop for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She rated the servants roundly for their neg.igen ce in sending up so bad a breakfast, but said not a word against the stout gentleman; by which I clearly perceived that he must be a man of consequence, entitied to make a noise and to give trouble at a country inn. Other eggs, and ham, and bread and butter were sent up. They appeared to be more graciously received; at least there was no further complaint.

I had not made many turns about the travellers'room, when there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a stir and an inquest about the house. The stout gentleman wanted the Times or the Chronicle newspaper. I set him down, therefore, for a whig; or atlier, from his bei: g so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large man; "who knows," thought I, "but it is hunt himself!"

My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the waiter who was this stout gentleman that was making all this stir; but I could get no information: nobody seemed to know his name. The landlords of bustling inus seldom trouble their heads about the names or occupations of their transient guests. The color of a cont, the shape or size of the person, is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is either the tall gentleman, or the short gentleman, or the gentleman in black, or the gentleman in stuffcolor; or, as in the present instance, the stout gentleman. A designation of the kind once hit on answers every purpose, and saves all further in quiry.

Rain-rai-ain! pitiless, ceaseless 1ain! No such thing as putting a foot out of doors, and no occupation for amusement within. By and by I heard some one walking over head. It was in the stout gentleman's room. He evidently was a large man by the heaviness of his tread; and an old man from his weari: g such creaking soles. "He is doubtless," thought 1, "some rich old square-toes of regular habits, and is now taking exercise after breakfast."

I now read all the advertisements of coaches and hotels that were stuck about the mantel-piece. The Lady's Magazine had become an abomination to me; it was as tedious as the day itself. I wandered out, not knowing what to do, and ascended again to my room. I had not been there long, when there was a squall from a neighboring bedroom. A door opened and slammed violently; a chambermaid, that I had remarked for having a ruddy, good-bun ored face, went down stairs in a violent flurry. The stout gentleman had been rude to her!

This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce in a moment. This unknown personage could not be an old gentleman; for old gei tlemen are not apt to be so obstreperous to chambermaids. He could not be a young gentleman; for young gentle

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