 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
THE STROLLING MANAGER.
As I was walking one morning with
Buckthorne near one of the principal
theatres, he directed my attention to a
group of those equivocal beings that may
often be seen hovering about the stage-doors
of theatres. They were marvellously
ill-favoured in their attire, their
coats buttoned up to their chins; yet
they wore their hats smartly on one
side, and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike
air, which is common to
the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne
knew them well by early experience.
"These," said he, "are the ghosts of
departed kings and heroes; fellows who
sway sceptres and truncheons; command
kingdoms and armies; and after
giving away realms and treasures over
night, have scarce a shilling to pay for
have the true vagabond abhorrence of all
useful and industrious employment; and
they have their pleasures too; one of
which is to lounge in this way in the
sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals,
and make hackneyed theatrical
jokes on all passers-by. Nothing is
more traditional and legitimate than the
stage. Old scenery, old clothes, old
sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes,
are handed down from generation to generation;
and will probably continue to
be so until time shall be no more.
Every hanger-on of a theatre becomes a
wag by inheritance, and flourishes about
at tap-rooms and sixpenny clubs with
the property jokes of the green-room."
While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring
this group, we noticed one in
particular who appeared to be the oracle.
He was a weatherbeaten veteran, a little
bronzed by time and beer, who had no
doubt grown gray in the parts of robbers,
cardinals, Roman senators, and
walking noblemen.
"There is something in the set of that
hat, and the turn of that physiognomy,
that is extremely familiar to me," said
Buckthorne. He looked a little closer.
"I cannot be mistaken," added he, "that
must be my old brother of the truncheon,
Flimsey, the tragic hero of the Strolling
Company."
It was he in fact. The poor fellow
showed evident signs that times went
hard with him, he was so finely and
shabbily dressed. His coat was somewhat
threadbare, and of the Lord Townley
cut; single-breasted, and scarcely
capable of meeting in front of his body,
which, from long intimacy, had acquired
the symmetry and robustness of a beer
barrel. He wore a pair of dingy-white
stockinet pantaloons, which had much
ado to reach his waistcoat; a great
quantity of dirty cravat; and a pair of
old russet-coloured tragedy boots.
When his companions had dispersed,
Buckthorne drew him aside, and made
himself known to him. The tragic
veteran could scarcely recognise him, or
believe that he was really his quondam
associate, "little gentleman Jack."
Buckthorne invited him to a neighbouring
coffee-house to talk over old times;
and in the course of a little while we
were put in possession of his history in
brief.
He had continued to act the heroes in
the strolling company for some time after
Buckthorne had left it, or rather had
been driven from it so abruptly. At
length the manager died, and the troop
was thrown into confusion. Every one
aspired to the crown, every one was for
taking the lead; and the manager's
widow, although a tragedy queen, and a
brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly
impossible for a woman to keep any control
over such a set of tempestuous rascallions.
"Upon this hint, I spake," said Flimsey.
I stepped forward, and offered my
services in the most effectual way.
They were accepted. In a week's time
I married the widow, and succeeded to
the throne. "The funeral baked meats
did coldly furnish forth the marriage
table," as Hamlet says. But the ghost
of my predecessor never haunted me;
and I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls,
daggers, and all the stage-trappings and
trumpery, not omitting the widow, without
the least molestation.
I now led a flourishing life of it; for
our company was pretty strong and attractive,
and as my wife and I took the
heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great
saving to the treasury. We carried off
the palm from all the rival shows at
country fairs; and I assure you we have
even drawn full houses, and been applauded
by the critics at Bartlemy Fair
itself, though we had Astley's troop, the
Irish giant, and "the death of Nelson"
in wax-work, to contend against.
I soon began to experience, however,
the cares of command. I discovered that
there were cabals breaking out in the
company, headed by the clown, who
you may recollect was a terribly peevish,
fractious fellow, and always in ill-humour.
I had a great mind to turn him
off at once, but I could not do without
him, for there was not a droller scoundrel
on the stage. His very shape was
comic, for he had but to turn his back
upon the audience, and all the ladies
were ready to die with laughing. He
felt his importance, and took advantage
of it. He would keep the audience in a
the scenes, and fret and fume, and play
the very devil. I excused a great deal
in him, however, knowing that comic
actors are a little prone to this infirmity
of temper.
I had another trouble of a nearer and
dearer nature to struggle with, which
was the affection of my wife. As ill-luck
would have it, she took it into her
head to be very fond of me, and became
intolerably jealous. I could not keep a
pretty girl in the company, and hardly
dared embrace an ugly one, even when
my part required it. I have known her
reduce a fine lady to tatters, "to very
rags," as Hamlet says, in an instant,
and destroy one of the very best dresses
in the wardrobe, merely because she saw
me kiss her at the side scenes; though I
give you my honour it was done merely
by way of rehearsal.
This was doubly annoying, because I
have a natural liking to pretty faces, and
wish to have them about me; and because
they are indispensable to the success
of a company at a fair, where one
has to vie with so many rival theatres.
But when once a jealous wife gets a freak
in her head, there's no use in talking of
interest or any thing else. Egad, sir,
I have more than once trembled when,
during a fit of her tantrums, she was
playing high tragedy, and flourishing
her tin dagger on the stage, lest she
should give way to her humour, and stab
some fancied rival in good earnest.
I went on better, however, than could
be expected, considering the weakness of
my flesh, and the violence of my rib. I
had not a much worse time of it than old
Jupiter, whose spouse was continually
ferreting out some new intrigue, and
making the heavens almost too hot to
hold him.
At length, as luck would have it, we
were performing at a country fair, when
I understood the theatre of a neighbouring
town to be vacant. I had always
been desirous to be enrolled in a settled
company, and the height of my desire
was to get on a par with a brother-in-law,
who was manager of a regular
theatre, and who had looked down upon
me. Here was an opportunity not to
be neglected. I concluded an agreement
with the proprietors, and in a few days
opened the theatre with great eclat.
Behold me now at the summit of my
ambition, "the high top-gallant of my
joy," as Romeo says. No longer a
chieftain of a wandering tribe, but a
monarch of a legitimate throne, and entitled
to call even the great potentates of
Covent Garden and Drury Lane cousins.
You, no doubt, think my happiness complete.
Alas, sir! I was one of the most
uncomfortable dogs living. No one
knows, who has not tried, the miseries
of a manager; but above all of a country
manager. No one can conceive the contentions
and quarrels within doors, the
oppressions and vexations from without.
I was pestered with the bloods and
loungers of a country town, who infested
my green-room, and played the mischief
among my actresses. But there was no
shaking them off. It would have been
ruin to affront them; for though troublesome
friends, they would have been dangerous
enemies. Then there were the
village critics and village amateurs, who
were continually tormenting me with advice,
and getting into a passion if I
would not take it; especially the village
doctor and the village attorney, who had
both been to London occasionally, and
knew what acting should be.
I had also to manage as arrant a crew
of scapegraces as ever were collected together
within the walls of a theatre. I
had been obliged to combine my original
troop with some of the former troop of
the theatre, who were favourites of the
public. Here was a mixture that produced
perpetual ferment. They were all
the time either fighting or frolicking with
each other, and I scarcely know which
mood was least troublesome. If they
quarrelled, every thing went wrong; and
if they were friends, they were continually
playing off some prank upon each
other, or upon me; for I had unhappily
acquired among them the character of
an easy good-natured fellow—the worst
character that a manager can possess.
Their waggery at times drove me
almost crazy; for there is nothing so
vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and
hoaxes and pleasantries of a veteran
band of theatrical vagabonds. I relished
them well enough, it is true, while
as manager I found them detestable.
They were incessantly bringing some
disgrace upon the theatre by their tavern
frolics, and their pranks about the
country town. All my lectures about
the importance of keeping up the dignity
of the profession and the respectability
of the company were in vain. The villains
could not sympathize with the delicate
feelings of a man in station. They
even trifled with the seriousness of stage
business. I have had the whole piece
interrupted, and a crowded audience of
at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting,
because the actors had hid away the
breeches of Rosalind; and have known
Hamlet to stalk solemnly on to deliver
his soliloquy, with a dishclout pinned to
his skirts. Such are the baleful consequences
of a manager's getting a character
for good-nature.
I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the
great actors who came down starring, as
it is called, from London. Of all baneful
influences, keep me from that of a
London star. A first-rate actress going
the rounds of the country theatres is as
bad as a blazing comet whisking about
the heavens, and shaking fire and plagues
and discords from its tail.
The moment one of these "heavenly
bodies" appeared in my horizon, I was
sure to be in hot water. My theatre
was overrun by provincial dandies, copper-washed
counterfeits of Bond Street
loungers, who are always proud to be in
the train of an actress from town, and
anxious to be thought on exceeding good
terms with her. It was really a relief
to me when some random young nobleman
would come in pursuit of the bait,
and awe all this small fry at a distance.
I have always felt myself more at ease
with a nobleman than with the dandy of
a country town.
And then the injuries I suffered in my
personal dignity and my managerial
authority from the visits of these great
London actors! 'Sblood, sir, I was no
longer master of myself on my throne.
I was hectored and lectured in my own
green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop
on my own stage. There is
no tyrant so absolute and capricious as
a London star at a country theatre. I
dreaded the sight of all of them, and yet
if I did not engage them, I was sure of
having the public clamorous against me.
They drew full houses, and appeared to
be making my fortune; but they swallowed
up all the profits by their insatiable
demands. They were absolute tapeworms
to my little theatre; the more it
took in the poorer it grew. They were
sure to leave me with an exhausted
public, empty benches, and a score or
two of affronts to settle among the
town's folk, in consequence of misunderstandings
about the taking of places.
But the worse thing I had to undergo
in my managerial career was patronage.
Oh, sir! of all things deliver me from
the patronage of the great people of a
country town. It was my ruin. You
must know that this town, though small,
was filled with feuds, and parties, and
great folks; being a busy little trading
and manufacturing town. The mischief
was that their greatness was of a kind
not to be settled by reference to the court
calendar, or college of heraldry; it was
therefore the most quarrelsome kind of
greatness in existence. You smile, sir,
but let me tell you there are no feuds
more furious than the frontier feuds which
take place in these "debatable lands" of
gentility. The most violent dispute that
I ever knew in high life was one which
occurred at a country town, on a question
of precedence between the ladies of
a manufacturer of pins and a manufacturer
of needles.
At the town where I was situated there
were perpetual altercations of the kind.
The head manufacturer's lady, for instance,
was at daggers-drawings with the
head shopkeeper's, and both were too
rich and had too many friends to be
treated lightly. The doctor's and lawyer's
ladies held their heads still higher;
but they in their turn were kept in check
by the wife of a country banker, who
kept her own carriage: while a masculine
widow of cracked character and
secondhand fashion, who lived in a large
house, and claimed to be in some way
related to nobility, looked down upon
them all. To be sure, her manners were
not over elegant, nor her fortune over
large; but then, sir, her blood—oh, her
blood carried it all hollow: there was no
in her veins.
After all, her claims to high connexion
were questioned, and she had frequent
battles for precedence at balls and assemblies
with some of the sturdy dames of
the neighbourhood, who stood upon their
wealth and their virtue; but then she
had two dashing daughters, who dressed
as fine as dragons, had as high blood as
their mother, and seconded her in every
thing: so they carried their point with
high heads, and every body hated, abused,
and stood in awe of the Fantadlins.
Such was the state of the fashionable
world in this self-important little town.
Unluckily, I was not as well acquainted
with its politics as I should have been. I
had found myself a stranger and in great
perplexities during my first season; I
determined, therefore, to put myself under
the patronage of some powerful name,
and thus to take the field with the prejudices
of the public in my favour. I cast
round my thoughts for the purpose, and
in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs. Fantadlin.
No one seemed to me to have
a more absolute sway in the world of
fashion. I had always noticed that her
party slammed the box-door the loudest
at the theatre; that her daughters entered
like a tempest with a flutter of red shawls
and feathers; had most beaus attending
on them; talked and laughed during the
performance, and used quizzing-glasses
incessantly. The first evening of my
theatre's re-opening, therefore, was announced
in staring capitals on the playbills,
as under the patronage of "The
Honourable Mrs. Fantadlin."
Sir, the whole community flew to
arms! Presume to patronise the theatre!
Insufferable! And then for me to
dare to term her "The Honourable!"
What claim had she to the title, forsooth!
The fashionable world had long groaned
under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and
were glad to make a common cause
against this new instance of assumption.
All minor feuds were forgotten. The
doctor's lady and the lawyer's lady met
together, and the manufacturer's lady
and the shopkeeper's lady kissed each
other: and all, headed by the banker's
lady, voted the theatre a bore, and determined
to encourage nothing but the
Indian Jugglers and Mr. Walker's Eidouranion.
Such was the rock on which I split. I
never got over the patronage of the Fantadlin
family. My house was deserted;
my actors grew discontented because
they were ill paid; my door became a
hammering place for every bailiff in the
country; and my wife became more and
more shrewish and tormenting the more
I wanted comfort.
I tried for a time the usual consolation
of a harassed and henpecked man: I took
to the bottle, and tried to tipple away my
cares, but in vain. I don't mean to decry
the bottle; it is no doubt an excellent
remedy in many cases, but it did not
answer in mine. It cracked my voice,
coppered my nose, but neither improved
my wife nor my affairs. My establishment
became a scene of confusion and
peculation. I was considered a ruined
man, and of course fair game for every
one to pluck at, as every one plunders a
sinking ship. Day after day some of the
troop deserted, and, like deserting soldiers,
carried off their arms and accoutrements
with them. In this manner my
wardrobe took legs and walked away,
my finery strolled all over the country,
my swords and daggers glittered in every
barn, until, at last, my tailor made "one
fell swoop," and carried off three dress
coats, half a dozen doublets, and nineteen
pair of flesh-coloured pantaloons.
This was the "be all and the end all" of
my fortune. I no longer hesitated what
to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is
the order of the day, I'll steal too: so I
secretly gathered together the jewels of
my wardrobe, packed up a hero's dress
in a handkerchief, slung it on the end of
a tragedy sword, and quietly stole off at
dead of night, "the bell then beating
one," leaving my queen and kingdom to
the mercy of my rebellious subjects, and
my merciless foes the bumbailiffs.
Such, sir, was the "end of all my
greatness." I was heartily cured of all
passion for governing, and returned once
more into the ranks. I had for some time
the usual run of an actor's life: I played
in various country theatres, at fairs, and
in barns; sometimes hard pushed, sometimes
flush, until, on one occasion, I
came within an ace of making my fortune,
of the age.
I was playing the part of Richard the
Third in a country barn, and in my best
style; for, to tell the truth, I was a little
in liquor, and the critics of the company
always observed that I played with most
effect when I had a glass too much.
There was a thunder of applause when I
came to that part where Richard cries
for "a horse! a horse!" My cracked
voice had always a wonderful effect here;
it was like two voices run into one; you
would have thought two men had been
calling for a horse, or that Richard had
called for two horses. And when I flung
the taunt at Richmond, "Richard is
hoarse with calling thee to arms," I
thought the barn would have come down
about my ears with the raptures of the
audience.
The very next morning a person waited
upon me at my lodgings. I saw at once
he was a gentleman by his dress; for he
had a large brooch in his bosom, thick
rings on his fingers, and used a quizzingglass.
And a gentleman he proved to
be; for I soon ascertained that he was a
kept author, or kind of literary tailor to
one of the great London theatres; one
who worked under the manager's directions,
and cut up and cut down plays,
and patched and pieced, and new-faced,
and turned them inside out: in short, he
was one of the readiest and greatest
writers of the day.
He was now on a foraging excursion
in quest of something that might be got
up for a prodigy. The theatre, it seems,
was in desperate condition—nothing but
a miracle could save it. He had seen
me act Richard the night before, and had
pitched upon me for that miracle. I had
a remarkable bluster in my style and
swagger in my gait. I certainly differed
from all other heroes of the barn: so the
thought struck the agent to bring me out
as a theatrical wonder, as the restorer of
natural and legitimate acting, as the only
one who could understand and act Shakspeare
rightly.
When he opened his plan I shrunk
from it with becoming modesty, for, well
as I thought of myself, I doubted my
competency to such an undertaking.
I hinted at my imperfect knowledge of
Shakespeare, having played his characters
only after mutilated copies, interlarded
with a great deal of my own talk by
way of helping memory or heightening
the effect.
"So much the better," cried the gentleman
with rings on his fingers; "so
much the better. New readings, sir!—
new readings! Don't study a line—let
us have Shakespeare after your own
fashion."
"But then my voice was cracked; it
could not fill a London theatre."
"So much the better! so much the
better! The public is tired of intonation
the ore rotundo has had its day. No, sir,
your cracked voice is the very thing—
spit and splutter, and snap and snarl,
and `play the very dog' about the stage,
and you'll be the making of us."
"But then,"—I could not help blushing
to the end of my very nose as I said
it, but I was determined to be candid;—
"but then," added I, "there is one awkward
circumstance; I have an unlucky
habit—my misfortunes, and the exposures
to which one is subjected in country
barns, have obliged me now and then to—
to—take a drop of something comfortable—and
so—and so—"
"What! you drink?" cried the agent
eagerly.
I bowed my head in blushing acknowledgment.
"So much the better! so much the
better! The irregularities of genius! A
sober fellow is commonplace. The public
like an actor that drinks. Give me
your hand, sir. You're the very man
to make a dash with."
I still hung back with lingering diffidence,
declaring myself unworthy of such
praise.
"'Sblood, man," cried he, "no praise
at all. You don't imagine I think you a
wonder; I only want the public to think
so. Nothing is so easy as to gull the
public, if you only set up a prodigy.
Common talent any body can measure
by common rule; but a prodigy sets all
rule and measurement at defiance."
These words opened my eyes in an
instant; we now came to a proper understanding;
less flattering, it is true, to my
vanity, but much more satisfactory to
my judgment.
It was agreed that I should make my
appearance before a London audience, as
a dramatic sun just bursting from behind
the clouds: one that was to banish all
the lesser lights and false fires of the
stage. Every precaution was to be taken
to possess the public mind at every avenue.
The pit was to be packed with
sturdy clappers; the newspapers secured
by vehement puffers; every theatrical
resort to be haunted by hireling talkers.
In a word, every engine of theatrical
humbug was to be put in action. Wherever
I differed from former actors, it was
to be maintained that I was right and
they were wrong. If I ranted, it was to
be pure passion; if I were vulgar, it was
to be pronounced a familiar touch of nature;
if I made any queer blunder, it
was to be a new reading. If my voice
cracked, or I got out in my part, I was
only to bounce, and grin, and snarl at
the audience, and make any horrible
grimace that came into my head, and
my admirers were to call it "a great
point," and to fall back and shout and
yell with rapture.
"In short," said the gentleman with
the quizzing-glass, "strike out boldly
and bravely: no matter how or what
you do, so that it be but odd and strange.
If you do but escape pelting the first
night, your fortune and the fortune of
the theatre is made."
I set off for London, therefore, in company
with the kept author, full of new
plans and new hopes. I was to be the
restorer of Shakespeare and Nature, and
the legitimate drama; my very swagger
was to be heroic, and my cracked voice
the standard of elocution. Alas, sir, my
usual luck attended me: before I arrived
at the metropolis a rival wonder had appeared;
a woman who could dance the
slack-rope, and run up a cord from the
stage to the gallery with fireworks all
round her. She was seized on by the
manager with avidity. She was the saving
of the great national theatre for the
season. Nothing was talked of but Madame
Saqui's fireworks and flesh-coloured
pantaloons; and Nature, Shakespeare,
the legitimate drama, and poor Pilgarlick
were completely left in the lurch.
When Madame Saqui's performance
grew stale, other wonders succeeded:
horses, and harlequinades, and mummery
of all kinds; until another dramatic
prodigy was brought forward to play
the very game for which I had been
intended. I called upon the kept author
for an explanation, but he was deeply
engaged in writing a melo-drama or a
pantomime, and was extremely testy on
being interrupted in his studies. However,
as the theatre was in some measure
pledged to provide for me, the manager
acted, according to the usual phrase,
"like a man of honour," and I received
an appointment in the corps. It had
been a turn of a die whether I should
be Alexander the Great or Alexander
the coppersmith—the latter carried it.
I could not be put at the head of the
drama, so I was put at the tail of it. In
other words, I was enrolled among the
number of what are called useful men;
those who enact soldiers, senators, and
Banquo's shadowy line. I was perfectly
satisfied with my lot; for I have always
been a bit of a philosopher. If my situation
was not splendid, it at least was
secure; and in fact I have seen half a
dozen prodigies appear, dazzle, burst
like bubbles and pass away, and yet
here I am, snug, unenvied and unmolested,
at the foot of the profession.
No, no, you may smile; but let me
tell you, we useful men are the only
comfortable actors on the stage. We
are safe from hisses, and below the hope
of applause. We fear not the success
of rivals, nor dread the critic's pen. So
long as we get the words of our parts,
and they are not often many, it is all we
care for. We have our own merriment,
our own friends, and our own admirers
—for every actor has his own friends
and admirers, from the highest to the
lowest. The first-rate actor dines with
the noble amateur, and entertains a
fashionable table with scraps and songs,
and theatrical slipslop. The second-rate
actors have their second-rate friends
and admirers, with whom they likewise
spout tragedy and talk slipslop—and so
down even to us; who have our friends
and admirers among spruce clerks and
aspiring apprentices—who treat us to a
dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth
hand the same scraps and songs and
slipslop that have been served up by our
the great.
I now, for the first time in my theatrical
life, experience what true pleasure
is. I have known enough of notoriety
to pity the poor devils who are called
favourites of the public. I would rather
be a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child,
to be one moment patted and pampered,
and the next moment thumped over the
head with the spoon. I smile to see our
leading actors fretting themselves with
envy and jealousy about a trumpery renown,
questionable in its quality, and
uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too,
though of course in my sleeve, at the
bustle and importance, and trouble and
perplexities of our manager, who is harassing
himself to death in the hopeless
effort to please every body.
I have found among my fellow-subalterns
two or three quondam managers,
who like myself have wielded the sceptres
of country theatres, and we have
many a sly joke together at the expense
of the manager and the public. Sometimes
too, we meet, like deposed and exiled
kings, talk over the events of our
respective reigns, moralize over a tankard
of ale, and laugh at the humbug of
the great and little world; which, I take
it, is the essence of practical philosophy.
Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne
and his friends. It grieves me much that
I could not procure from him further particulars
of his history, and especially of
that part of it which passed in town.
He had evidently seen much of literary
life; and, as he had never risen to eminence
in letters, and yet was free from
the gall of disappointment, I had hoped
to gain some candid intelligence concerning
his contemporaries. The testimony
of such an honest chronicler
would have been particularly valuable
at the present time; when, owing to the
extreme fecundity of the press, and the
thousand anecdotes, criticisms, and biographical
sketches that are daily poured
forth concerning public characters, it is
extremely difficult to get at any truth
concerning them.
He was always, however, excessively
reserved and fastidious on this point, at
which I very much wondered, authors
in general appearing to think each other
fair game, and being ready to serve each
other up for the amusement of the public.
A few mornings after our hearing the
history of the ex-manager, I was surprised
by a visit from Buckthorne before
I was out of bed. He was dressed for
travelling.
"Give me joy! give me joy!" said
he, rubbing his hands with the utmost
glee, "my great expectations are realized!"
I gazed at him with a look of wonder
and inquiry.
"My booby cousin is dead!" cried he;
"may he rest in peace! he nearly broke
his neck in a fall from his horse in a
fox-chase. By good luck, he lived long
enough to make his will. He has made
me his heir, partly out of an odd feeling
of retributive justice, and partly because,
as he says, none of his own family or
friends know how to enjoy such an estate.
I'm off to the country to take possession.
I've done with authorship. That
for the critics!" said he, snapping his
fingers. "Come down to Doubting Castle,
when I get settled, and, egad, I'll give
you a rouse." So saying, he shook me
heartily by the hand, and bounded off in
high spirits.
A long time elapsed before I heard
from him again. Indeed, it was but
lately that I received a letter, written in
the happiest of moods. He was getting
the estate into fine order; every thing
went to his wishes, and, what was more,
he was married to Sacharissa, who it
seems had always entertained an ardent
though secret attachment for him, which
he had fortunately discovered just after
coming to his estate.
"I find," said he, "you are a little
given to the sin of authorship, which I
renounce: if the anecdotes I have given
you of my story are of any interest,
you may make use of them; but come
down to Doubting Castle, and see how
we live, and I'll give you my whole
London life over a social glass; and a
rattling history it shall be about authors
and reviewers."
If ever I visit Doubting Castle and get
the history he promises, the public shall
be sure to hear of it.
| The works of Washington Irving | |