Throughout his polished pages no thought shocks by
its extravagance, no word offends by vulgarity or
affectation.—_Edinburgh Review._
A Rainy Sunday in an Inn.
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 I was still feverish, and was 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 bed-room
looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, 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 travelers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool
of water surrounding an island of muck; there were several half-drowned
fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable
crest-fallen 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 half-dozing 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 dog-house hard by,
uttered something every now and then between a bark and a yelp; a drab
of a kitchen wench tramped backward and forward through the yards in
pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; everything, in short,
was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks,
assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a riotous noise
over their liquor.
I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people picking their
way to church, with petticoats hoisted mid-leg high, and dripping
umbrellas. The bells 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 without to amuse me.
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, cowering
under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the
steams of wet box-coats and upper benjamins. The sound brought out from
their lurking-places a crew of vagabond boys and vagabond dogs, and the
carroty-headed hostler, and that nondescript animal yclept 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.
The evening gradually wore away. The travelers read the papers two
or three times over. Some drew round the fire and told long stories
about their horses, about their adventures, their overturns and
breakings-down. They discussed the credits of different merchants and
different inns, and the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty
chambermaids and kind landladies. All this passed as they were quietly
taking what they called their nightcaps; that is to say, strong glasses
of brandy and water or sugar, or some other mixture of the kind; after
which they one after another rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and
walked off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvelously uncomfortable
slippers. There was only one man left,—a short-legged, long-bodied
plethoric fellow, with a very large sandy head. He sat by himself
with a glass of port wine negus and a spoon, sipping and stirring,
and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He
gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the empty glass
standing before him; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the
wick grew long and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little
light that remained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was
contagious. Around hung the shapeless and almost spectral box-coats of
departed travelers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the
ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping
toper, and the drippings of the rain—drop, drop, drop—from the eaves of
the house.
Irving’s Last Interview with Scott.
It was at Sunnyside, on a glorious afternoon in June, 1855, that
surrounded by scenery which Irving has best described, he narrated to me
(S. Austin Allibone) the following account of his last interview with
Scott:
“I was in London when Scott arrived after his attack of paralysis, on
his way to the continent in search of health. I received a note from
Lockhart, begging me to come and take dinner with Scott and himself the
next day. When I entered the room Scott grasped my hand, and looked me
steadfastly in the face. ‘Time has dealt gently with you, my friend,
since we parted,’ he exclaimed:—he referred to the difference in himself
since we had met. At dinner, I could see that Scott’s mind was failing.
He was painfully conscious of it himself. He would talk with much
animation, and we would listen with the most respectful attention; but
there was an effort and an embarrassment in his manner; he knew all was
not right. It was very distressing, and we (Irving, Lockhart, and Anne
Scott) tried to keep up the conversation between ourselves, that Sir
Walter might talk as little as possible. After dinner he took my arm to
walk up-stairs, which he did with difficulty. He turned and looked in my
face, and said, ‘They need not tell a man his mind is not affected when
his body is as much impaired as mine.’ This was my last interview with
Scott. I heard afterward that he was better; but I never saw him again.”
Two years later (in 1857), in narrating the same event, Irving told me
that as Scott passed up the stairs with him after dinner, he remarked,
“Times are sadly changed since we walked up the Eildon hills together.”