Saint Peter of Alcantara, as I have read in a life of St. Theresa, informed that devout2 lady that he had passed forty years of his life sleeping only an hour and a half each day; his cell was but four feet and a half long, so that he never lay down: his pillow was a wooden log in the stone wall: he ate but once in three days: he was for three years in a convent of his order without knowing any one of his brethren except by the sound of their voices, for he never during this period took his eyes off the ground: he always walked barefoot, and was but skin and bone when he died. The eating only once in three days, so he told his sister Saint, was by no means impossible, if you began the regimen in your youth. To conquer sleep was the hardest of all austerities which he practised:— I fancy the pious3 individual so employed, day after day, night after night, on his knees, or standing4 up in devout meditation5 in the cupboard — his dwelling-place; bareheaded and barefooted, walking over rocks, briars, mud, sharp stones (picking out the very worst places, let us trust, with his downcast eyes), under the bitter snow, or the drifting rain, or the scorching6 sunshine — I fancy Saint Peter of Alcantara, and contrast him with such a personage as the Incumbent7 of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel8, Mayfair.
His hermitage is situated9 in Walpole Street, let us say, on the second floor of a quiet mansion10, let out to hermits11 by a nobleman’s butler, whose wife takes care of the lodgings12. His cells consist of a refectory, a dormitory, and an adjacent oratory13 where he keeps his shower-bath and boots — the pretty boots trimly stretched on boot-trees and blacked to a nicety (not varnished) by the boy who waits on him. The barefooted business may suit superstitious15 ages and gentlemen of Alcantara, but does not become Mayfair and the nineteenth century. If St. Pedro walked the earth now with his eyes to the ground he would know fashionable divines by the way in which they were shod. Charles Honeyman’s is a sweet foot. I have no doubt as delicate and plump and rosy16 as the white hand with its two rings, which he passes in impassioned moments through his slender flaxen hair.
A sweet odour pervades17 his sleeping apartment — not that peculiar18 and delicious fragrance19 with which the Saints of the Roman Church are said to gratify the neighbourhood where they repose20 — but oils, redolent of the richest perfumes of Macassar, essences (from Truefitt’s or Delcroix’s) into which a thousand flowers have expressed their sweetest breath, await his meek21 head on rising; and infuse the pocket-handkerchief with which he dries and draws so many tears. For he cries a good deal in his sermons, to which the ladies about him contribute showers of sympathy.
By his bedside are slippers22 lined with blue silk and worked of an ecclesiastical pattern, by some of the faithful who sit at his feet. They come to him in anonymous23 parcels: they come to him in silver paper: boys in buttons (pages who minister to female grace!) leave them at the door for the Rev24. C. Honeyman, and slip away without a word. Purses are sent to him — penwipers — a portfolio25 with the Honeyman arms; yea, braces26 have been known to reach him by the post (in his days of popularity); and flowers, and grapes, and jelly when he was ill, and throat comforters, and lozenges for his dear bronchitis. In one of his drawers is the rich silk cassock presented to him by his congregation at Leatherhead (when the young curate quitted that parish for London duty), and on his breakfast-table the silver teapot, once filled with sovereigns and presented by the same devotees. The devo-teapot he has, but the sovereigns, where are they?
What a different life this is from our honest friend of Alcantara, who eats once in three days! At one time if Honeyman could have drunk tea three times in an evening, he might have had it. The glass on his chimneypiece is crowded with invitations, not merely cards of ceremony (of which there are plenty), but dear little confidential27 notes from sweet friends of his congregation. “Ob, dear Mr. Honeyman,” writes Blanche, “what a sermon that was! I cannot go to bed to-night without thanking you for it.” “Do, do, dear Mr. Honeyman,” writes Beatrice, “lend me that delightful28 sermon. And can you come and drink tea with me and Selina, and my aunt? Papa and mamma dine out, but you know I am always your faithful Chesterfield Street.” And so on. He has all the domestic accomplishments29; he plays on the violoncello: he sings a delicious second, not only in sacred but in secular30 music. He has a thousand anecdotes31, laughable riddles32, droll33 stories (of the utmost correctness, you understand) with which he entertains females of all ages; suiting his conversation to stately matrons, deaf old dowagers (who can hear his clear voice better than the loudest roar of their stupid sons-inlaw), mature spinsters, young beauties dancing through the season, even rosy little slips out of the nursery, who cluster round his beloved feet. Societies fight for him to preach their charity sermon. You read in the papers, “The Wapping Hospital for Wooden-legged Seamen34. — On Sunday the 23rd, Sermons will be preached in behalf of this charity, by the Lord Bishop35 of Tobago in the morning, in the afternoon by the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M., Incumbent of,” etc. “Clergymen’s Grandmothers’ Fund. — Sermons in aid of this admirable institution will be preached on Sunday, 4th May, by the Very Rev. the Dean of Pimlico, and the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M.” When the Dean of Pimlico has his illness, many people think Honeyman will have the Deanery; that he ought to have it, a hundred female voices vow37 and declare: though it is said that a right reverend head at headquarters shakes dubiously38 when his name is mentioned for preferment. His name is spread wide, and not only women but men come to hear him. Members of Parliament, even Cabinet Ministers, sit under him. Lord Dozeley of course is seen in a front pew: where was a public meeting without Lord Dozeley? The men come away from his sermons and say, “It’s very pleasant, but I don’t know what the deuce makes all you women crowd so to hear the man.” “Oh, Charles! if you would but go oftener!” sighs Lady Anna Maria. “Can’t you speak to the Home Secretary? Can’t you do something for him?” “We can ask him to dinner next Wednesday if you like,” Says Charles. “They say he’s a pleasant fellow out of the wood. Besides there is no use in doing anything for him,” Charles goes on. “He can’t make less than a thousand a year out of his chapel, and that is better than anything any one can give him. A thousand a year, besides the rent of the wine-vaults39 below the chapel.”
“Don’t, Charles!” says his wife, with a solemn look. “Don’t ridicule40 things in that way.
“Confound it! there are wine-vaults under the chapel!” answers downright Charles. “I saw the name, Sherrick and Co.; offices, a green door, and a brass41 plate. It’s better to sit over vaults with wine in them than coffins42. I wonder whether it’s the Sherrick with whom Kew and Jack43 Belsize had that ugly row?”
“What ugly row? — don’t say ugly row. It is not a nice word to hear the children use. Go on, my darlings. What was the dispute of Lord Kew and Mr. Belsize, and this Mr. Sherrick?”
“It was all about pictures, and about horses, and about money, and about one other subject which enters into every row that I ever heard of.”
“And what is that, dear?” asks the innocent lady, hanging on her husband’s arm, and quite pleased to have led him to church and brought him thence. “And what is it, that enters into every row, as you call it, Charles?”
“A woman, my love,” answers the gentleman, behind whom we have been in imagination walking out from Charles Honeyman’s church on a Sunday in June: as the whole pavement blooms with artificial flowers and fresh bonnets44; as there is a buzz and cackle all around regarding the sermon; as carriages drive off; as lady-dowagers walk home; as prayer-books and footmen’s sticks gleam in the sun; as little boys with baked mutton and potatoes pass from the courts; as children issue from the public-houses with pots of beer; as the Reverend Charles Honeyman, who has been drawing tears in the sermon, and has seen, not without complacent45 throbs46, a Secretary of State in the pew beneath him, divests47 himself of his rich silk cassock in the vestry, before he walks away to his neighbouring hermitage — where have we placed it? — in Walpole Street. I wish St. Pedro of Alcantara could have some of that shoulder of mutton with the baked potatoes, and a drink of that frothing beer. See, yonder trots48 little Lord Dozeley, who has been asleep for an hour with his head against the wood, like St. Pedro of Alcantara.
An East Indian gentleman and his son wait until the whole chapel is clear, and survey Lady Whittlesea’s monument at their leisure, and other hideous49 slabs50 erected51 in memory of defunct52 frequenters of the chapel. Whose was that face which Colonel Newcome thought he recognised — that of a stout53 man who came down from the organ-gallery? Could it be Broff the bass54 singer, who delivered the “Red Cross Knight” with such applause at the Cave of Melody, and who has been singing in this place? There are some chapels55 in London, where, the function over, one almost expects to see the sextons put brown hollands over the pews and galleries, as they do at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.
The writer of these veracious56 pages was once walking through a splendid English palace, standing amidst parks and gardens, than which none more magnificent has been seen since the days of Aladdin, in company with a melancholy57 friend, who viewed all things darkly through his gloomy eyes. The housekeeper58, pattering on before us from chamber59 to chamber, was expatiating60 upon the magnificence of this picture; the beauty of that statue; the marvellous richness of these hangings and carpets; the admirable likeness61 of the late Marquis by Sir Thomas; of his father, the fifth Earl, by Sir Joshua, and so on; when, in the very richest room of the whole castle, Hicks — such was my melancholy companion’s name — stopped the cicerone in her prattle62, saying in a hollow voice, “And now, madam, will you show us the closet where the skeleton is?” The seared functionary63 paused in the midst of her harangue64; that article was not inserted in the catalogue which she daily utters to visitors for their half-crown. Hicks’s question brought a darkness down upon the hall where we were standing. We did not see the room: and yet I have no doubt there is such an one; and ever after, when I have thought of the splendid castle towering in the midst of shady trees, under which the dappled deer are browsing65; of the terraces gleaming with statues, and bright with a hundred thousand flowers; of the bridges and shining fountains and rivers wherein the castle windows reflect their festive66 gleams, when the halls are filled with happy feasters, and over the darkling woods comes the sound of music; — always, I say, when I think of Castle Bluebeard:— it is to think of that dark little closet, which I know is there, and which the lordly owner opens shuddering67 — after midnight — when he is sleepless68 and must go unlock it, when the palace is hushed, when beauties are sleeping around him unconscious, and revellers are at rest. O Mrs. Housekeeper: all the other keys hast thou: but that key thou hast not!
Have we not all such closets, my jolly friend, as well as the noble Marquis of Carabas? At night, when all the house is asleep but you, don’t you get up and peep into yours? When you in your turn are slumbering69, up gets Mrs. Brown from your side, steals downstairs like Amina to her ghoul, clicks open the secret door, and looks into her dark depository. Did she tell you of that little affair with Smith long before she knew you? Psha! who knows any one save himself alone? Who, in showing his house to the closest and dearest, doesn’t keep back the key of a closet or two? I think of a lovely reader laying down the page and looking over at her unconscious husband, asleep, perhaps, after dinner. Yes, madam, a closet he hath: and you, who pry70 into everything, shall never have the key of it. I think of some honest Othello pausing over this very sentence in a railroad carriage, and stealthily gazing at Desdemona opposite to him, innocently administering sandwiches to their little boy — I am trying to turn off the sentence with a joke, you see — I feel it is growing too dreadful, too serious.
And to what, pray, do these serious, these disagreeable, these almost personal observations tend? To this simply, that Charles Honeyman, the beloved and popular preacher, the elegant divine to whom Miss Blanche writes sonnets71, and whom Miss Beatrice invites to tea; who comes with smiles on his lip, gentle sympathy in his tones, innocent gaiety in his accent; who melts, rouses, terrifies in the pulpit; who charms over the tea-urn and the bland72 bread-and-butter: Charles Honeyman has one or two skeleton closets in his lodgings, Walpole Street, Mayfair; and many a wakeful night, whilst Mrs. Ridley, his landlady73, and her tired husband, the nobleman’s major-domo, whilst the lodger74 on the first floor, whilst the cook and housemaid and weary little bootboy are at rest (mind you, they have all got their closets, which they open with their skeleton-keys); he wakes up, and looks at the ghastly occupant of that receptacle. One of the Reverend Charles Honeyman’s grisly night-haunters is — but stop; let us give a little account of the lodgings, and of some of the people frequenting the same.
First floor, Mr. Bagshot, Member for a Norfolk borough76. Stout jolly gentleman; — dines at the Carlton Club; greatly addicted77 to Greenwich and Richmond, in the season: bets in a moderate way: does not go into society, except now and again to the chiefs of his party, when they give great entertainments; and once or twice to the houses of great country dons who dwell near him in the country. Is not of very good family; was, in fact, an apothecary78: married a woman with money, much older than himself, who does not like London, and stops at home at Hummingham, not much to the displeasure of Bagshot; gives every now and then nice little quiet dinners, which Mrs. Ridley cooks admirably, to exceedingly stupid jolly old Parliamentary fogies, who absorb, with much silence and cheerfulness, a vast quantity of wine. They have just begun to drink ‘24 claret now, that of ‘15 being scarce, and almost drunk up. Writes daily, and hears every morning from Mrs. Bagshot; does not read her letters always: does not rise till long past eleven o’clock of a Sunday, and has John Bull and Bell’s Life, in bed: frequents the Blue Posts sometimes; rides a stout cob out of his county, and pays like the Bank of England.
The house is a Norfolk house. Mrs. Ridley was housekeeper to the great Squire79 Bayham, who had the estate before the Conqueror80, and who came to such a dreadful crash in the year 1825, the year of the panic. Bayhams still belongs to the family, but in what a state, as those can say who recollect81 it in its palmy days! Fifteen hundred acres of the best land in England were sold off: all the timber cut down as level as a billiard-board. Mr. Bayham now lives up in one corner of the house, which used to be filled with the finest company in Europe. Law bless you! the Bayhams have seen almost all the nobility of England come in and go out, and were gentlefolks when many a fine lord’s father of the present day was sweeping82 a counting-house.
The house will hold genteelly no more than these two inmates83; but in the season it manages to accommodate Miss Cann, who too was from Bayhams, having been a governess there to the young lady who is dead, and who now makes such a livelihood84 as she can best raise, by going out as a daily teacher. Miss Cann dines with Mrs. Ridley in the adjoining little back-parlour. Ridley but seldom can be spared to partake of the family dinner, his duties in the house and about the person of my Lord Todmorden keeping him constantly near that nobleman. How little Miss Cann can go on and keep alive on the crumb85 she eats for breakfast, and the scrap86 she picks at dinner, du astonish Mrs. Ridley, that it du! She declares that the two canary-birds encaged in her window (whence is a cheerful prospect87 of the back of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel) eat more than Miss Cann. The two birds set up a tremendous singing and chorussing when Miss Cann, spying the occasion of the first-floor lodger’s absence, begins practising her music-pieces. Such trills, roulades, and flourishes go on from the birds and the lodger! it is a wonder how any fingers can move over the jingling88 ivory so quickly as Miss Cann’s. Excellent a woman as she is, admirably virtuous89, frugal90, brisk, honest, and cheerful, I would not like to live in lodgings where there was a lady so addicted to playing variations. No more does Honeyman. On a Saturday, when he is composing his valuable sermons (the rogue91, you may be sure, leaves his work to the last day, and there are, I am given to understand, among the clergy36 many better men than Honeyman, who are as dilatory92 as he), he begs, he entreats93 with tears in his eyes, that Miss Cann’s music may cease. I would back little Cann to write a sermon against him, for all his reputation as a popular preacher.
Old and weazened as that piano is, feeble and cracked her voice, it is wonderful what a pleasant concert she can give in that parlour of a Saturday evening, to Mrs. Ridley, who generally dozes94 a good deal, and to a lad, who listens with all his soul, with tears sometimes in his great eyes, with crowding fancies filling his brain and throbbing95 at his heart, as the artist plies96 her humble97 instrument. She plays old music of Handel and Haydn, and the little chamber anon swells98 into a cathedral, and he who listens beholds99 altars lighted, priests ministering, fair children swinging censers, great oriel windows gleaming in sunset, and seen through arched columns and avenues of twilight100 marble. The young fellow who hears her has been often and often to the opera and the theatres. As she plays Don Juan, Zerlina comes tripping over the meadows, and Masetto after her, with a crowd of peasants and maidens101: and they sing the sweetest of all music, and the heart beats with happiness, and kindness, and pleasure. Piano, pianissimo! the city is hushed. The towers of the great cathedral rise in the distance, its spires102 lighted by the broad moon. The statues in the moonlit place cast long shadows athwart the pavement: but the fountain in the midst is dressed out like Cinderella for the night, and sings and wears a crest103 of diamonds. That great sombre street all in shade, can it be the famous Toledo? — or is it the Corso? — or is it the great street in Madrid, the one which leads to the Escurial where the Rubens and Velasquez are? It is Fancy Street — Poetry Street — Imagination Street — the street where lovely ladies look from balconies, where cavaliers strike mandolins and draw swords and engage, where long processions pass, and venerable hermits, with long beards, bless the kneeling people: where the rude soldiery, swaggering through the place with flags and halberts, and fife and dance, seize the slim waists of the daughters of the people, and bid the pifferari play to their dancing. Blow, bagpipes104, a storm of harmony! become trumpets105, trombones, ophicleides, fiddles106, and bassoons! Fire, guns sound, tocsins! Shout, people! Louder, shriller and sweeter than all, sing thou, ravishing heroine! And see, on his cream-coloured charger Massaniello prances107 in, and Fra Diavolo leaps down the balcony, carabine in hand; and Sir Huon of Bordeaux sails up to the quay108 with the Sultan’s daughter of Babylon. All these delights and sights, and joys and glories, these thrills of sympathy, movements of unknown longing109, and visions of beauty, a young sickly lad of eighteen enjoys in a little dark room where there is a bed disguised in the shape of a wardrobe, and a little old woman is playing under a gas-lamp on the jingling keys of an old piano.
For a long time Mr. Samuel Ridley, butler and confidential valet to the Right Honourable110 John James Baron111 Todmorden, was in a state of the greatest despair and gloom about his only son, the little John James — a sickly and almost deformed112 child “of whom there was no making nothink,” as Mr. Ridley said. His figure precluded113 him from following his father’s profession, and waiting upon the British nobility, who naturally require large and handsome men to skip up behind their rolling carriages, and hand their plates at dinner. When John James was six years old his father remarked, with tears in his eyes, he wasn’t higher than a plate-basket. The boys jeered114 at him in the streets — some whopped him, spite of his diminutive115 size. At school he made but little progress. He was always sickly and dirty, and timid and crying, whimpering in the kitchen away from his mother; who, though she loved him, took Mr. Ridley’s view of his character, and thought him little better than an idiot until such time as little Miss Cann took him in hand, when at length there was some hope of him.
“Half-witted, you great stupid big man,” says Miss Cann, who had a fine spirit of her own. “That boy half-witted! He has got more wit in his little finger than you have in all your great person! You are a very good man, Ridley, very good-natured I’m sure, and bear with the teasing of a waspish old woman: but you are not the wisest of mankind. Tut, tut, don’t tell me. You know you spell out the words when you read the newspaper still, and what would your bills look like if I did not write them in my nice little hand? I tell you that boy is a genius. I tell you that one day the world will hear of him. His heart is made of pure gold. You think that all the wit belongs to the big people. Look at me, you great tall man! Am I not a hundred times cleverer than you are? Yes, and John James is worth a thousand such insignificant116 little chits as I am; and he is as tall as me too, sir. Do you hear that! One day I am determined117 he shall dine at Lord Todmorden’s table, and he shall get the prize at the Royal Academy, and be famous, sir — famous!”
“Well, Miss C., I wish he may get it; that’s all I say,” answers Mr. Ridley. “The poor fellow does no harm, that I acknowledge; but I never see the good he was up to yet. I wish he’d begin it; I du wish he would now.” And the honest gentleman relapses into the study of his paper.
All those beautiful sounds and thoughts which Miss Cann conveys to him out of her charmed piano, the young artist straightway translates into forms; and knights118 in armour119, with plume120, and shield, and battle-axe; and splendid young noblemen with flowing ringlets, and bounteous121 plumes122 of feathers, and rapiers, and russet boots; and fierce banditti with crimson123 tights, doublets profusely124 illustrated125 with large brass buttons, and the dumpy basket-hilted claymores known to be the favourite weapon with which these whiskered ruffians do battle; wasp-waisted peasant girls, and young countesses with oh, such large eyes and the lips! — all these splendid forms of war and beauty crowd to the young draughtsman’s pencil, and cover letter-backs, copybooks, without end. If his hand strikes off some face peculiarly lovely, and to his taste, some fair vision that has shone on his imagination, some houri of a dancer, some bright young lady of fashion in an opera-box, whom he has seen, or fancied he has seen (for the youth is short-sighted, though he hardly as yet knows his misfortune)— if he has made some effort extraordinarily126 successful, our young Pygmalion hides away the masterpiece, and he paints the beauty with all his skill; the lips a bright carmine127, the eyes a deep, deep cobalt, the cheeks a dazzling vermilion, the ringlets of a golden hue128; and he worships this sweet creature of his in secret, fancies a history for her; a castle to storm, a tyrant129 usurper130 who keeps her imprisoned131, and a prince in black ringlets and a spangled cloak, who scales the tower, who slays132 the tyrant, and then kneels gracefully133 at the princess’s feet, and says, “Lady, wilt134 thou be mine?”
There is a kind lady in the neighbourhood, who takes in dressmaking for the neighbouring maid-servants, and has a small establishment of lollipops135, theatrical136 characters, and ginger-beer for the boys in Little Craggs Buildings, hard by the Running Footman public-house, where father and other gentlemen’s gentlemen have their club: this good soul also sells Sunday newspapers to the footmen of the neighbouring gentry137; and besides, has a stock of novels for the ladies of the upper servants’ table. Next to Miss Cann, Miss Flinders is John James’s greatest friend and benefactor138. She has remarked him when he was quite a little man, and used to bring his father’s beer of a Sunday. Out of her novels he has taught himself to read, dull boy at the day-school though he was, and always the last in his class, there. Hours, happy hours, has he spent cowering139 behind her counter, or hugging her books under his pinafore when he had leave to carry them home. The whole library has passed through his hands, his long, lean, tremulous hands, and under his eager eyes. He has made illustrations to every one of those books, and been frightened at his own pictures of Manfroni or the One-handed Monk140, Abellino the Terrific Bravo of Venice, and Rinaldo Rinaldini Captain of Robbers. How he has blistered141 Thaddeus of Warsaw with his tears, and drawn142 him in his Polish cap, and tights, and Hessians! William Wallace, the Hero of Scotland, how nobly he has depicted143 him! With what whiskers and bushy ostrich144 plumes! — in a tight kilt, and with what magnificent calves145 to his legs, laying about him with his battle-axe, and bestriding the bodies of King Edward’s prostrate146 cavaliers! At this time Mr. Honeyman comes to lodge75 in Walpole Street, and brings a set of Scott’s novels, for which he subscribed147 when at Oxford148; and young John James, who at first waits upon him and does little odd jobs for the reverend gentleman, lights upon the volumes, and reads them with such a delight and passion of pleasure as all the delights of future days will scarce equal. A fool, is he? — an idle feller, out of whom no good will ever come, as his father says. There was a time when, in despair of any better chance for him, his parents thought of apprenticing149 him to a tailor, and John James was waked up from a dream of Rebecca and informed of the cruelty meditated150 against him. I forbear to describe the tears and terror, and frantic151 desperation in which the poor boy was plunged152. Little Miss Cann rescued him from that awful board, and Honeyman likewise interceded153 for him, and Mr. Bagshot promised that, as soon as his party came in, he would ask the Minister for a tide-waitership for him; for everybody liked the solemn, soft-hearted, willing little lad, and no one knew him less than his pompous154 and stupid and respectable father.
Miss Cann painted flowers and card-screens elegantly, and “finished” pencil-drawings most elaborately for her pupils. She could copy prints, so that at a little distance you would scarcely know that the copy in stumped155 chalk was not a bad mezzotinto engraving156. She even had a little old paint-box, and showed you one or two ivory miniatures out of the drawer. She gave John James what little knowledge of drawing she had, and handed him over her invaluable157 recipes for mixing water-colours —“for trees in foregrounds, burnt sienna and indigo”—“for very dark foliage158, ivory black and gamboge”—“for flesh-colour,” etc. etc. John James went through her poor little course, but not so brilliantly as she expected. She was forced to own that several of her pupils’ “pieces” were executed much more dexterously159 than Johnny Ridley’s. Honeyman looked at the boy’s drawings from time to time, and said, “Hm, ha! — very clever — a great deal of fancy, really.” But Honeyman knew no more of the subject than a deaf and dumb man knows of music. He could talk the art cant1 very glibly160, and had a set of Morghens and Madonnas as became a clergyman and a man of taste; but he saw not with eyes such as those wherewith Heaven had endowed the humble little butler’s boy, to whom splendours of Nature were revealed to vulgar sights invisible, and beauties manifest in forms, colours, shadows of common objects, where most of the world saw only what was dull, and gross, and familiar. One reads in the magic story-books of a charm or a flower which the wizard gives, and which enables the bearer to see the fairies. O enchanting161 boon162 of Nature, which reveals to the possessor the hidden spirits of beauty round about him! spirits which the strongest and most gifted masters compel into painting or song. To others it is granted but to have fleeting163 glimpses of that fair Art-world; and tempted164 by ambition, or barred by faint-heartedness, or driven by necessity, to turn away thence to the vulgar life-track, and the light of common day.
The reader who has passed through Walpole Street scores of times, knows the discomfortable architecture of all, save the great houses built in Queen Anne’s and George the First’s time; and while some of the neighbouring streets, to wit, Great Craggs Street, Bolingbroke Street, and others, contain mansions165 fairly coped with stone, with little obelisks166 before the doors, and great extinguishers wherein the torches of the nobility’s running footmen were put out a hundred and thirty or forty years ago:— houses which still remain abodes167 of the quality, and where you shall see a hundred carriages gather of a public night; Walpole Street has quite faded away into lodgings, private hotels, doctors’ houses, and the like; nor is No. 23 (Ridley’s) by any means the best house in the street. The parlour, furnished and tenanted by Miss Cann as has been described; the first floor, Bagshot, Esq., M.P.; the second floor, Honeyman; what remains168 but the garrets, and the ample staircase and the kitchens? and the family being all put to bed, how can you imagine there is room for any more inhabitants?
And yet there is one lodger more, and one who, like almost all the other personages mentioned up to the present time (and some of whom you have no idea yet), will play a definite part in the ensuing history. At night, when Honeyman comes in, he finds on the hall-table three wax bedroom candles — his own, Bagshot’s, and another. As for Miss Cann, she is locked into the parlour in bed long ago, her stout little walking-shoes being on the mat at the door. At 12 o’clock at noon, sometimes at 1, nay169 at 2 and 3 — long after Bagshot is gone to his committees, and little Cann to her pupils — a voice issues from the very topmost floor, from a room where there is no bell; a voice of thunder calling out “Slavey! Julia! Julia, my love! Mrs. Ridley!” And this summons not being obeyed, it will not unfrequently happen that a pair of trousers enclosing a pair of boots with iron heels, and known by the name of the celebrated170 Prussian General who came up to help the other christener of boots at Waterloo, will be flung down from the topmost story, even to the marble floor of the resounding171 hall. Then the boy Thomas, otherwise called Slavey, may say, “There he goes again;” or Mrs. Ridley’s own back-parlour bell rings vehemently172, and Julia the cook will exclaim, “Lor, it’s Mr. Frederick.”
If the breeches and boots are not understood, the owner himself appears in great wrath173 dancing on the upper story; dancing down to the lower floor; and loosely enveloped174 in a ragged175 and flowing robe de chambre. In this costume and condition he will dance into Honeyman’s apartment, where that meek divine may be sitting with a headache or over a novel or a newspaper; dance up to the fire flapping his robe-tails, poke176 it, and warm himself there; dance up to the cupboard where his reverence177 keeps his sherry, and help himself to a glass.
“Salve, spes fidei, lumen ecclesiae,” he will say; “here’s towards you, my buck178. I knows the tap. Sherrick’s Marsala bottled three months after date, at two hundred and forty-six shillings the dozen.”
“Indeed, indeed it’s not” (and now we are coming to an idea of the skeleton in poor Honeyman’s closet — not that this huge handsome jolly Fred Bayham is the skeleton, far from it. Mr. Frederick weighs fourteen stone). “Indeed, indeed it isn’t, Fred, I’m sure,” sighs the other. “You exaggerate, indeed you do. The wine is not dear, not by any means so expensive as you say.”
“How much a glass, think you?” says Fred, filling another bumper179. “A half-crown, think ye? — a half-crown, Honeyman? By cock and pye, it is not worth a bender.” He says this in the manner of the most celebrated tragedian of the day. He can imitate any actor, tragic180 or comic; any known Parliamentary orator14 or clergyman; any saw, cock, cloop of a cork181 wrenched182 from a bottle and guggling of wine into the decanter afterwards, bee buzzing, little boy up a chimney, etc. He imitates people being ill on board a steam-packet so well that he makes you die of laughing: his uncle the Bishop could not resist this comic exhibition, and gave Fred a cheque for a comfortable sum of money; and Fred, getting cash for the cheque at the Cave of Harmony, imitated his uncle the Bishop and his Chaplain, winding183 up with his Lordship and Chaplain being unwell at sea — the Chaplain and Bishop quite natural and distinct.
“How much does a glass of this sack cost thee, Charley?” resumes Fred, after this parenthesis184. “You say it is not dear. Charles Honeyman, you had, even from your youth up, a villainous habit. And I perfectly185 well remember, sir, in boyhood’s breezy hour, when I was the delight of his school, that you used to tell lies to your venerable father. You did, Charles. Excuse the frankness of an early friend, it’s my belief you’d rather lie than not. Hm”— he looks at the cards in the chimney-glass “Invitations to dinner, proffers186 of muffins. Do lend me your sermon. Oh, you old impostor! you hoary187 old Ananias! I say, Charley, why haven’t you picked out some nice girl for yours truly? One with lauds188 and beeves, with rents and consols, mark you? I have no money, ’tis true, but then I don’t owe as much as you. I am a handsomer man than you are. Look at this chest” (he slaps it), “these limbs; they are manly189, sir, manly.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Bayham,” cries Mr. Honeyman, white with terror; “if anybody were to come ——”
“What did I say anon, sir? that I was manly, ay, manly. Let any ruffian, save a bailiff, come and meet the doughty190 arm of Frederick Bayham.”
“Oh, Lord, Lord, here’s somebody coming into the room!” cries Charles, sinking back on the sofa, as the door opens.
“Ha! dost thou come with murderous intent?” and he now advances in an approved offensive attitude. “Caitiff, come on, come on!” and he walks off with a tragic laugh, crying, “Ha, ha, ha, ’tis but the slavey!”
The slavey has Mr. Frederick’s hot water, and a bottle of sodawater on the same tray. He has been instructed to bring soda191 whenever he hears the word slavey pronounced from above. The bottle explodes, and Frederick drinks, and hisses192 after his drink as though he had been all hot within.
“What’s o’clock now, slavey — half-past three? Let me see, I breakfasted exactly ten hours ago, in the rosy morning, off a modest cup of coffee in Covent Garden Market. Coffee, a penny; bread, a simple halfpenny. What has Mrs. Ridley for dinner?”
“Please, sir, roast pork.”
“Get me some. Bring it into my room, unless, Honeyman, you insist upon my having it here, kind fellow!”
At the moment a smart knock comes to the door, and Fred says, “Well, Charles, it may be a friend or a lady come to confess, and I’m off; I knew you’d be sorry I was going. Tom, bring up my things; brush ’em gently, you scoundrel, and don’t take the nap off. Bring up the roast pork, and plenty of apple-sauce, tell Mrs. Ridley, with my love; and one of Mr. Honeyman’s shirts, and one of his razors. Adieu, Charles! Amend193! Remember me.” And he vanishes into the upper chambers194.
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1
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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13
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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17
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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18
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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19
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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20
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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21
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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24
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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25
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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26
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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32
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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33
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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34
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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35
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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36
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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37
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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39
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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41
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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42
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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43
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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44
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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45
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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46
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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47
divests
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| v.剥夺( divest的第三人称单数 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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48
trots
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| 小跑，急走( trot的名词复数 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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49
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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50
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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51
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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52
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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54
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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55
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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56
veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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57
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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58
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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59
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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60
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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61
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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62
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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63
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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64
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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65
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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66
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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67
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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68
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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69
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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70
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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71
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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72
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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73
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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76
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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77
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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79
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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80
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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81
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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82
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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83
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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84
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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85
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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86
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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87
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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88
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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89
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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90
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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91
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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92
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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93
entreats
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
dozes
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| n.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的名词复数 )v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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96
plies
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的第三人称单数 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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97
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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98
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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99
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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100
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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101
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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102
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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103
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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104
bagpipes
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| n.风笛；风笛( bagpipe的名词复数 ) | |
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105
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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106
fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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107
prances
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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109
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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110
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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111
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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112
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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113
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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114
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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116
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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117
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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118
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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119
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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120
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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121
bounteous
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| adj.丰富的 | |
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122
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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123
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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124
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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125
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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126
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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127
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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128
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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129
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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130
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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131
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
slays
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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134
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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135
lollipops
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| n.棒糖，棒棒糖( lollipop的名词复数 )；（用交通指挥牌让车辆暂停以便儿童安全通过马路的）交通纠察 | |
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136
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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137
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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138
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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139
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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140
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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141
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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142
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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143
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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144
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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145
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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146
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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147
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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148
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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149
apprenticing
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的现在分词 ) | |
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150
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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151
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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152
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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153
interceded
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的过去式和过去分词 )；说情 | |
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154
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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155
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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156
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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157
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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158
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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159
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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160
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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161
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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162
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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163
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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164
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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165
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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166
obelisks
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| n.方尖石塔，短剑号，疑问记号( obelisk的名词复数 ) | |
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167
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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168
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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169
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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170
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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171
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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172
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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173
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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174
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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176
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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177
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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178
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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179
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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180
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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181
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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182
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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183
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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184
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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185
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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186
proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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187
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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188
lauds
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的第三人称单数 ) | |
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189
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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190
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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191
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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192
hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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193
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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194
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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