She had chosen this outlying situation, I understood,
for her health. Mr. Corwin was consumptive; so was Rufe; so was
Mr. Jennings, the engineer. In short, the place was a kind of
small Davos: consumptive folk consorting on a hilltop in the most
unbroken idleness. Jennings never did anything that I could see,
except now and then to fish, and generally to sit about in the bar
and the verandah, waiting for something to happen. Corwin and Rufe
did as little as possible; and if the school-ma'am, poor lady, had
to work pretty hard all morning, she subsided when it was over into
much the same dazed beatitude as all the rest.
Her special corner was the parlour--a very genteel room, with Bible
prints, a crayon portrait of Mrs. Corwin in the height of fashion,
a few years ago, another of her son (Mr. Corwin was not
represented), a mirror, and a selection of dried grasses. A large
book was laid religiously on the table--"From Palace to Hovel," I
believe, its name--full of the raciest experiences in England. The
author had mingled freely with all classes, the nobility
particularly meeting him with open arms; and I must say that
traveller had ill requited his reception. His book, in short, was
a capital instance of the Penny Messalina school of literature; and
there arose from it, in that cool parlour, in that silent, wayside,
mountain inn, a rank atmosphere of gold and blood and "Jenkins,"
and the "Mysteries of London," and sickening, inverted snobbery,
fit to knock you down.
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