Having succeeded in procuring a private room and a fire, I ignited an
execrable cigar, (ah, how unlike thy _principes_, dear S.,) and
endeavored to lose myself in the agreeable occupation of castle
building while supper was preparing. Alas! my fancy came not at my
call. I had lost my power of abstraction--the realities around me were
too engrossing. Ere the dying shriek of a majestic rooster had ceased
to sound in my ear, his remains were served upon my table, together
with a cup or two of very villanous gunpowder tea, and a pitcher of
cider, with coarse bread and butter _ad libitum_. Supper was soon
despatched, and in answer to a bell, lightly touched, a
vinegar-visaged waiting-maid, of the interesting age of forty-five,
entered and removed the scarcely touched viands--the _rudis
indigestaque moles_. I ventured to address her, with a request that I
might be supplied with a few books, to enable me to while away the
evening. I anticipated a literary feast from the readiness with which
she rushed from the room; but she reappeared, bringing only Young's
Night Thoughts, (very greasy,) a volume of tales with the catastrophes
torn out, a set of plays consisting only of first acts, and an odd
number of the Eclectic Magazine. This was sufficiently provoking; but
I read a few pages, and tried a second cigar, and made the tour of the
apartment, examining a family mourning-piece worked in satin, a
genealogical tree done in worsted, and a portrait of the mutton-headed
landlord and his snappish wife. I counted the ticks of the clock for
half an hour, and was finally reduced to the forlorn expedient of
seeing likenesses in the burning embers. When the clock struck nine, I
rang for slippers and a guide to my bed room, and the landlord
appeared, candle in hand, to usher me to my sleeping apartment. As I
followed him up the creaking staircase, and along the dark upper
entry, I could not help regretting that fancy was unable to convert
him into the seneschal of a baronial mansion, and the room to which I