n 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 veranda, 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. The mention of this book reminds me of
another and far racier picture of our island life. The latter parts of
_Rocambole_ are surely too sparingly consulted in the country which they
celebrate. No man's education can be said to be complete, nor can he
pronounce the world yet emptied of enjoyment, till he has made the
acquaintance of "The Reverend Patterson, director of the Evangelical
Society." To follow the evolutions of that reverend gentleman, who goes
through scenes in which even Mr. Duffield would hesitate to place a
bishop, is to rise to new ideas. But, alas! there was no Patterson about
the Toll House. Only, alongside of "From Palace to Hovel," a sixpenny
"Ouida" figured. So literature, you see, was not unrepresented.

The school-ma'am had friends to stay with her, other school-ma'ams
enjoying their holidays, quite a bevy of damsels. They seemed never to
go out, or not beyond the veranda, but sat close in the little parlour,
quietly talking or listening to the wind among the trees. Sleep dwelt in
the Toll House, like a fixture: summer sleep, shallow, soft, and
dreamless. A cuckoo clock, a great rarity in such a place, hooted at
intervals about the echoing house; and Mr. Jennings would open his eyes