A VISIT TO THE AUTOCRAT'S LANDLADY.
By the Special Reporter of the "Oceanic Miscellany".
The door was opened by a stout, red-armed lump of a woman, who, in
reply to my question, said her name was Bridget, but Biddy they
calls her mostly. There was a rickety hat-stand in the entry, upon
which, by the side of a schoolboy's cap, there hung a broad-brimmed
white hat, somewhat fatigued by use, but looking gentle and kindly,
as I have often noticed good old gentlemen's hats do, after they
have worn them for a time. The door of the dining-room was standing
wide open, and I went in. A long table, covered with an oil-cloth,
ran up and down the length of the room, and yellow wooden chairs were
ranged about it. She showed me where the Gentleman used to sit, and,
at the last part of the time, the Schoolmistress next to him. The
chairs were like the rest, but it was odd enough to notice that they
stood close together, touching each other, while all the rest were
straggling and separate. I observed that peculiar atmospheric flavor
which has been described by Mr. Balzac, (the French story-teller who
borrows so many things from some of our American loading writers,)
under the name of odeur de pension. It is, as one may say, an
olfactory perspective of an endless vista of departed breakfasts,
dinners, and suppers. It is similar, if not identical, in all
temperate climates; a kind of neutral tint, which forms the
perpetual background upon which the banquet of today strikes out
its keener but more transitory aroma. I don't think it necessary to
go into any further particulars, because this atmospheric character
has the effect of making the dining-rooms of all boarding-houses
seem very much alike; and the accident of a hair-cloth sofa, cold,
shiny, slippery, prickly,—or a veneered sideboard, with a scale off
here and there, and a knob or two missing,—or a portrait, with one
hand half under its coat, the other resting on a pious-looking book,
—these accidents, and such as these, make no great difference.
The landlady soon presented herself, and I followed her into the parlor, which was a decent apartment, with a smart centre-table, on which lay an accordion, a recent number of the "Pactolian," a gilt-edged, illustrated book or two, and a copy of the works of that distinguished native author, to whom I feel very spiteful, on account of his having, some years ago, attacked a near friend of mine, and whom, on Christian principles, I do not mention,—though I have noticed, that, where there is an accordion on the table, his books are apt to be lying near it.
The landlady was a "wilted," (not exactly withered,) sad-eyed woman, of the thin-blooded sort, but firm-fibred, and sharpened and made shrewd by her calling, so that the look with which she ran me over, in the light of a possible boarder, was so searching, that I was half put down by it. I informed her of my errand, which was to make some inquiries concerning two former boarders of hers, in whom a portion of the public had expressed some interest, and of whom I should be glad to know certain personal details,—as to their habits, appearance, and so on. Any information she might furnish would be looked upon in the light of a literary contribution to the pages of the "Oceanic Miscellany," and be compensated with the well-known liberality of the publishers of that spirited, enterprising, and very popular periodical.
Up to this point, the landlady's countenance had kept that worried, watchful look, which poor women, who have to fight the world single-handed, sooner or later grow into. But now her features
