But a greater and a better man than the king of the French has honored this roof.  Here, in 1789, came George Washington, the President of the United States, to pay his final complimentary visit to the State dignitaries.  The wainscoted chamber where he slept, and the dining-hall where he entertained his guests, have a certain dignity and sanctity which even the present Irish tenants cannot wholly destroy.

During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, an ancient lady, Dame Jocelyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notable building.  She was a dashing young belle at the time of Washington’s first visit to the town, and must have been exceedingly coquettish and pretty, judging from a certain portrait on ivory still in the possession of the family.  According to Dame Jocelyn, George Washington flirted with her just a little bit—­in what a stately and highly finished manner can be imagined.

There was a mirror with a deep filigreed frame hanging over the mantel-piece in this room.  The glass was cracked and the quicksilver rubbed off or discolored in many places.  When it reflected your face you had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself.  It gave your features the appearance of having been run through a mince-meat machine.  But what rendered the looking-glass a thing of enchantment to me was a faded green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped from the top of the tarnished gilt mouldings.  This feather Washington took from the plume of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his own hand to the worshipful Mistress Jocelyn the day he left Rivermouth forever.  I wish I could describe the mincing genteel air, and the ill-concealed self-complacency, with which the dear old lady related the incident.

Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed up the rickety staircase to that dingy room, which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to sit on a stiff-backed chair and listen for hours together to Dame Jocelyn’s stories of the olden time.  How she would prattle!  She was bedridden—­poor creature!—­and had not been out of the chamber for fourteen years.  Meanwhile the world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn.  The changes that had taken place under her very nose were unknown to this faded, crooning old gentlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had neglected to take away with the rest of its odd traps.  She had no patience with newfangled notions.  The old ways and the old times were good enough for her.  She had never seen a steam engine, though she had heard “the dratted thing” screech in the distance.  In her day, when gentlefolk traveled, they went in their own coaches.  She didn’t see how respectable people could bring themselves down to “riding in a car with rag-tag and bobtail and Lord-knows-who.”  Poor old aristocrat The landlord charged her no rent for the room, and the neighbors took turns in supplying her with meals.  Towards the close of her life—­she lived to be ninety-nine—­she grew very fretful and capricious about her food.  If she didn’t chance to fancy what was sent her, she had no hesitation in sending it back to the giver with “Miss Jocelyn’s respectful compliments.”