We have now to record an extraordinary adventure. Our later education
was derived in some considerable measure from the writings of Mr. Henry
James. This to explain our emotion. We had never expected to behold
himself, the illustrious expatriate who had so far enlightened an
unkempt mind. But the night before we had been talking of him.
Indeed, it is impossible for us to fail to perceive here something of
the supernatural.

But hold! "William Edwards," says a newspaper notice, "who used to
drive a post stage between New York and Albany, died on Saturday at his
home. He was born in Albany," and so and so, "and many were the
stories he had to tell of incidents connected with the famous men who
were his passengers." Even so. We were ourselves a clerk. That is,
for a number of years we waited on customers in a celebrated book shop.
This is one of the stories we have to tell of the personages who were,
so to say, our passengers. Or perhaps we are more in the nature of
those unscrupulous English footmen to high society, of whom we have
heard, who "sell out" their observation and information to the society
press.

Anyhow, we are of a loquacious, gossipy turn; and we were booksellers,
so to speak, to crowned heads. We have recently heard, too, of another
precedent to our garrulous performance, the publication in Rome of the
memoirs of an old waiter, who carefully set down the relative
liberality of prominent persons whom he served. After having served
Cardinals Rampolla and Merry del Val, this excellent memoirist entered
opposite their names, "Both no good." With this we drop the defensive.

We noticed Mr. Wharton sitting down, legs crossed, smoking a cigar.
Awaiting, we presumed, his wife. A not unpicturesque figure, tall,