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Updated: May 13, 2025
Well did we fare, too ay, sumptuously! for our outskirters, though they reserved their rifles for the appropriate game, were not so sparing with the shot-gun; so that, night after night, our chaldron reeked with the mingled steam of rabbit, quail, and partridge, seethed up a la Meg Merrilies, with fat pork, onions, and potatoes by the Lord Harry! Frank, a glorious and unmatched consummee.
Readers, it is not our purpose here to detail to you the life and adventures of Jack Robinson. We have recalled and recounted this brief passage in his eventful history, in order to give you some idea of what "outskirters," and wandering stars of humanity sometimes see, and say, and go through.
It is not our intention to give an account of Jack's adventurous life from beginning to end, but to detail the incidents of a sojourn of two months at Fort Desolation, in almost utter solitude, in order to show one of the many phases of rough life to which outskirters are frequently subjected.
To be even one of the outskirters of art leaves a fine stamp on a man's countenance. I remember once dining with a party in the inn at Château Landon. Most of them were unmistakable bagmen; others well-to-do peasantry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse, whose face stood out from among the rest surprisingly.
The louts he meets at church never had a fancy above Audrey's snood; but there is a reminiscence in Endymion's heart that, like a spice, keeps it fresh and haughty. To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine stamp on a man's countenance. I remember once dining with a party in the inn at Chateau Landon.
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