By the soul of the great Malebranche, who made “A Search after Truth,” and discovered everything beautiful except that which he searched for — by the soul of the great Malebranche, whom Bishop6 Berkeley found suffering under an inflammation in the lungs, and very obligingly talked to death (an instance of conversational8 powers worthy9 the envious10 emulation11 of all great metaphysicians and arguers) — by the soul of that illustrious man, it is amazing to us what a number of truths there are broken up into little fragments, and scattered13 here and there through the world. What a magnificent museum a man might make of the precious minerals, if he would but go out with his basket under his arm, and his eyes about him! We ourselves picked up this very day a certain small piece of truth, with which we propose to explain to thee, fair reader, a sinister14 turn in the fortunes of Paul.
“Wherever,” says a living sage15, “you see dignity, you may be sure there is expense requisite16 to support it.” So was it with Paul. A young gentleman who was heir-presumptive to the Mug, and who enjoyed a handsome person with a cultivated mind, was necessarily of a certain station of society, and an object of respect in the eyes of the manoeuvring mammas of the vicinity of Thames Court. Many were the parties of pleasure to Deptford and Greenwich which Paul found himself compelled to attend; and we need not refer our readers to novels upon fashionable life to inform them that in good society the gentlemen always pay for the ladies! Nor was this all the expense to which his expectations exposed him. A gentleman could scarcely attend these elegant festivities without devoting some little attention to his dress; and a fashionable tailor plays the deuce with one’s yearly allowance.
We who reside, be it known to you, reader, in Little Brittany are not very well acquainted with the manners of the better classes in St. James’s. But there was one great vice17 among the fine people about Thames Court which we make no doubt does not exist anywhere else — namely, these fine people were always in an agony to seem finer than they were; and the more airs a gentleman or a lady gave him or her self, the more important they became. Joe, the dog’s-meat man, had indeed got into society entirely19 from a knack20 of saying impertinent things to everybody; and the smartest exclusives of the place, who seldom visited any one where there was not a silver teapot, used to think Joe had a great deal in him because he trundled his cart with his head in the air, and one day gave the very beadle of the parish “the cut direct.”
Now this desire to be so exceedingly fine not only made the society about Thames Court unpleasant, but expensive. Every one vied with his neighbour; and as the spirit of rivalry21 is particularly strong in youthful bosoms22, we can scarcely wonder that it led Paul into many extravagances. The evil of all circles that profess23 to be select is high play; and the reason is obvious: persons who have the power to bestow24 on another an advantage he covets25 would rather sell it than give it; and Paul, gradually increasing in popularity and ton, found himself, in spite of his classical education, no match for the finished, or, rather, finishing gentlemen with whom he began to associate. His first admittance into the select coterie26 of these men of the world was formed at the house of Bachelor Bill, a person of great notoriety among that portion of the elite27 which emphatically entitles itself “Flash.” However, as it is our rigid28 intention in this work to portray29 at length no episodical characters whatsoever30, we can afford our readers but a slight and rapid sketch31 of Bachelor Bill.
This personage was of Devonshire extraction. His mother had kept the pleasantest public-house in town, and at her death Bill succeeded to her property and popularity. All the young ladies in the neighbourhood of Fiddler’s Row, where he resided, set their caps at him: all the most fashionable prigs, or tobymen, sought to get him into their set; and the most crack blowen in London would have given her ears at any time for a loving word from Bachelor Bill. But Bill was a longheaded, prudent32 fellow, and of a remarkably33 cautious temperament34. He avoided marriage and friendship; namely, he was neither plundered35 nor cornuted. He was a tall, aristocratic cove1, of a devilish neat address, and very gallant36, in an honest way, to the blowens. Like most single men, being very much the gentleman so far as money was concerned, he gave them plenty of “feeds,” and from time to time a very agreeable hop7. His bingo [Brandy] was unexceptionable; and as for his stark-naked [Gin], it was voted the most brilliant thing in nature. In a very short time, by his blows-out and his bachelorship — for single men always arrive at the apex37 of haut ton more easily than married — he became the very glass of fashion; and many were the tight apprentices38, even at the west end of the town, who used to turn back in admiration39 of Bachelor Bill, when of a Sunday afternoon he drove down his varment gig to his snug40 little box on the borders of Turnham Green. Bill’s happiness was not, however, wholly without alloy41. The ladies of pleasure are always so excessively angry when a man does not make love to them, that there is nothing they will not say against him; and the fair matrons in the vicinity of Fiddler’s Row spread all manner of unfounded reports against poor Bachelor Bill. By degrees, however — for, as Tacitus has said, doubtless with a prophetic eye to Bachelor Bill, “the truth gains by delay,”— these reports began to die insensibly away; and Bill now waxing near to the confines of middle age, his friends comfortably settled for him that he would be Bachelor Bill all his life. For the rest, he was an excellent fellow — gave his broken victuals42 to the poor, professed43 a liberal turn of thinking, and in all the quarrels among the blowens (your crack blowens are a quarrelsome set!) always took part with the weakest. Although Bill affected44 to be very select in his company, he was never forgetful of his old friends; and Mrs. Margery Lobkins having been very good to him when he was a little boy in a skeleton jacket, he invariably sent her a card to his soirees. The good lady, however, had not of late years deserted46 her chimney-corner. Indeed, the racket of fashionable life was too much for her nerves; and the invitation had become a customary form not expected to be acted upon, but not a whit47 the less regularly used for that reason. As Paul had now attained48 his sixteenth year, and was a fine, handsome lad, the dame49 thought he would make an excellent representative of the Mug’s mistress; and that, for her protege, a ball at Bill’s house would be no bad commencement of “Life in London.” Accordingly, she intimated to the Bachelor a wish to that effect; and Paul received the following invitation from Bill:—
“Mr. William Duke gives a hop and feed in a quiet way on Monday next, and hops50 Mr. Paul Lobkins will be of the party. N. B. Gentlemen is expected to come in pumps.”
When Paul entered, he found Bachelor Bill leading off the ball to the tune5 of “Drops of Brandy,” with a young lady to whom, because she had been a strolling player, the Ladies Patronesses of Fiddler’s Row had thought proper to behave with a very cavalier civility. The good Bachelor had no notion, as he expressed it, of such tantrums, and he caused it to be circulated among the finest of the blowens, that he expected all who kicked their heels at his house would behave decent and polite to young Mrs. Dot. This intimation, conveyed to the ladies with all that insinuating51 polish for which Bachelor Bill was so remarkable52, produced a notable effect; and Mrs. Dot, being now led off by the flash Bachelor, was overpowered with civilities the rest of the evening.
When the dance was ended, Bill very politely shook hands with Paul, and took an early opportunity of introducing him to some of the most “noted53 characters” of the town. Among these were the smart Mr. Allfair, the insinuating Henry Finish, the merry Jack45 Hookey, the knowing Charles Trywit, and various others equally noted for their skill in living handsomely upon their own brains, and the personals of other people. To say truth, Paul, who at that time was an honest lad, was less charmed than he had anticipated by the conversation of these chevaliers of industry. He was more pleased with the clever though self-sufficient remarks of a gentleman with a remarkably fine head of hair, and whom we would more impressively than the rest introduce to our reader under the appellation54 of Mr. Edward Pepper, generally termed Long Ned. As this worthy was destined55 afterwards to be an intimate associate of Paul, our main reason for attending the hop at Bachelor Bill’s is to note, as the importance of the event deserves, the epoch56 of the commencement of their acquaintance.
Long Ned and, Paul happened to sit next to each other at supper, and they conversed57 together so amicably58 that Paul, in the hospitality of his heart, expressed a hope that he should see Mr. Pepper at the Mug!
“Mug — Mug!” repeated Pepper, half shutting his eyes, with the air of a dandy about to be impertinent; “ah, the name of a chapel59, is it not? There’s a sect60 called Muggletonians, I think?”
“As to that,” said Paul, colouring at this insinuation against the Mug, “Mrs. Lobkins has no more religion than her betters; but the Mug is a very excellent house, and frequented by the best possible company.”
“Don’t doubt it!” said Ned. “Remember now that I was once there, and saw one Dummie Dunnaker — is not that the name? I recollect61 some years ago, when I first came out, that Dummie and I had an adventure together; to tell you the truth, it was not the sort of thing I would do now. But — would you believe it, Mr. Paul? — this pitiful fellow was quite rude to me the only time I ever met him since; that is to say, the only time I ever entered the Mug. I have no notion of such airs in a merchant — a merchant of rags! Those commercial fellows are getting quite insufferable.”
“You surprise me,” said Paul. “Poor Dummie is the last man to be rude; he is as civil a creature as ever lived.”
“Or sold a rag,” said Ned. “Possibly! Don’t doubt his amiable62 qualities in the least. Pass the bingo, my good fellow. Stupid stuff, this dancing!”
“Devilish stupid!” echoed Harry63 Finish, across the table. “Suppose we adjourn64 to Fish Lane, and rattle65 the ivories! What say you, Mr. Lobkins?”
Afraid of the “ton’s stern laugh, which scarce the proud philosopher can scorn,” and not being very partial to dancing, Paul assented66 to the proposition; and a little party, consisting of Harry Finish, Allfair, Long Ned, and Mr. Hookey, adjourned67 to Fish Lane, where there was a club, celebrated68 among men who live by their wits, at which “lush” and “baccy” were gratuitously69 sported in the most magnificent manner. Here the evening passed away very delightfully70, and Paul went home without a “brad” in his pocket.
From that time Paul’s visits to Fish Lane became unfortunately regular; and in a very short period, we grieve to say, Paul became that distinguished72 character, a gentleman of three outs — “out of pocket, out of elbows, and out of credit.” The only two persons whom he found willing to accommodate him with a slight loan, as the advertisements signed X. Y. have it, were Mr. Dummie Dunnaker and Mr. Pepper, surnamed the Long. The latter, however, while he obliged the heir to the Mug, never condescended73 to enter that noted place of resort; and the former, whenever he good-naturedly opened his purse-strings, did it with a hearty74 caution to shun75 the acquaintance of Long Ned — “a parson,” said Dummie, “of wery dangerous morals, and not by no manner of means a fit ‘sociate for a young gemman of cracter like leetle Paul!” So earnest was this caution, and so especially pointed76 at Long Ned — although the company of Mr. Allfair or Mr. Finish might be said to be no less prejudicial — that it is probable that stately fastidiousness of manner which Lord Normanby rightly observes, in one of his excellent novels, makes so many enemies in the world, and which sometimes characterized the behaviour of Long Ned, especially towards the men of commerce, was a main reason why Dummie was so acutely and peculiarly alive to the immoralities of that lengthy78 gentleman. At the same time we must observe that when Paul, remembering what Pepper had said respecting his early adventure with Mr. Dunnaker, repeated it to the merchant, Dummie could not conceal79 a certain confusion, though he merely remarked, with a sort of laugh, that it was not worth speaking about; and it appeared evident to Paul that something unpleasant to the man of rags, which was not shared by the unconscious Pepper, lurked80 in the reminiscence of their past acquaintance. How beit, the circumstance glided81 from Paul’s attention the moment afterwards; and he paid, we are concerned to say, equally little heed82 to the cautions against Ned with which Dummie regaled him.
Perhaps (for we must now direct a glance towards his domestic concerns) one great cause which drove Paul to Fish Lane was the uncomfortable life he led at home. For though Mrs. Lobkins was extremely fond of her protege, yet she was possessed83, as her customers emphatically remarked, “of the devil’s own temper;” and her native coarseness never having been softened84 by those pictures of gay society which had, in many a novel and comic farce85, refined the temperament of the romantic Paul, her manner of venting86 her maternal87 reproaches was certainly not a little revolting to a lad of some delicacy88 of feeling. Indeed, it often occurred to him to leave her house altogether, and seek his fortunes alone, after the manner of the ingenious Gil Blas or the enterprising Roderick Random89; and this idea, though conquered and reconquered, gradually swelled90 and increased at his heart, even as swelleth that hairy ball found in the stomach of some suffering heifer after its decease. Among these projects of enterprise the reader will hereafter notice that an early vision of the Green Forest Cave, in which Turpin was accustomed, with a friend, a ham, and a wife, to conceal himself, flitted across his mind. At this time he did not, perhaps, incline to the mode of life practised by the hero of the roads; but he certainly clung not the less fondly to the notion of the cave.
The melancholy92 flow of our hero’s life was now, however, about to be diverted by an unexpected turn, and the crude thoughts of boyhood to burst, “like Ghilan’s giant palm,” into the fruit of a manly93 resolution.
Among the prominent features of Mrs. Lobkins’s mind was a sovereign contempt for the unsuccessful. The imprudence and ill-luck of Paul occasioned her as much scorn as compassion94; and when for the third time within a week he stood, with a rueful visage and with vacant pockets, by the dame’s great chair, requesting an additional supply, the tides of her wrath95 swelled into overflow96.
“Look you, my kinchin cove,” said she — and in order to give peculiar77 dignity to her aspect, she put on while she spoke97 a huge pair of tin spectacles — “if so be as how you goes for to think as how I shall go for to supply your wicious necessities, you will find yourself planted in Queer Street. Blow me tight, if I gives you another mag.”
“But I owe Long Ned a guinea,” said Paul; “and Dummie Dunnaker lent me three crowns. It ill becomes your heir apparent, my dear dame, to fight shy of his debts of honour.”
“Taradididdle, don’t think for to wheedle98 me with your debts and your honour,” said the dame, in a passion. “Long Ned is as long in the forks [fingers] as he is in the back; may Old Harry fly off with him! And as for Durnmie Dunnaker, I wonders how you, brought up such a swell91, and blest with the wery best of hedications, can think of putting up with such wulgar ‘sociates. I tells you what, Paul, you’ll please to break with them, smack99 and at once, or devil a brad you’ll ever get from Peg100 Lobkins.” So saying, the old lady turned round in her chair, and helped herself to a pipe of tobacco.
Paul walked twice up and down the apartment, and at last stopped opposite the dame’s chair. He was a youth of high spirit; and though he was warm-hearted, and had a love for Mrs. Lobkins, which her care and affection for hire well deserved, yet he was rough in temper, and not constantly smooth in speech. It is true that his heart smote101 him afterwards, whenever he had said anything to annoy Mrs. Lobkins, and he was always the first to seek a reconciliation102; but warm words produce cold respect, and sorrow for the past is not always efficacious in amending103 the future. Paul then, puffed104 up with the vanity of his genteel education, and the friendship of Long Ned (who went to Ranelagh, and wore silver clocked stockings), stopped opposite to Mrs. Lobkins’s chair, and said with great solemnity —
“Mr. Pepper, madam, says very properly that I must have money to support myself like a gentleman; and as you won’t give it me, I am determined105, with many thanks for your past favours, to throw myself on the world, and seek my fortune.”
If Paul was of no oily and bland106 temper, Dame Margaret Lobkins, it has been seen, had no advantage on that score. (We dare say the reader has observed that nothing so enrages107 persons on whom one depends as any expressed determination of seeking independence.) Gazing therefore for one moment at the open but resolute108 countenance109 of Paul, while all the blood of her veins110 seemed gathering111 in fire and scarlet112 to her enlarging cheeks, Dame Lobkins said —
“Ifeaks, Master Pride-induds! seek your fortune yourself, will you? This comes of my bringing you up, and letting you eat the bread of idleness and charity, you toad113 of a thousand! Take that and be d — d to you!” and, suiting the action to the word, the tube which she had withdrawn114 from her mouth in order to utter her gentle rebuke115 whizzed through the air, grazed Paul’s cheek, and finished its earthly career by coming in violent contact with the right eye of Duinmie Dunnaker, who at that exact moment entered the room.
Paul had winced116 for a moment to avoid the missive; in the next he stood perfectly117 upright. His cheeks glowed, his chest swelled; and the entrance of Dummie Dunuaker, who was thus made the spectator of the affront118 he had received, stirred his blood into a deeper anger and a more bitter self-humiliation. All his former resolutions of departure, all the hard words, the coarse allusions119, the practical insults he had at any time received, rushed upon him at once. He merely cast one look at the old woman, whose rage was now half subsided120, and turned slowly and in silence to the door.
There is often something alarming in an occurrence merely because it is that which we least expect. The astute121 Mrs. Lobkins, remembering the hardy122 temper and fiery123 passions of Paul, had expected some burst of rage, some vehement124 reply; and when she caught with one wandering eye his parting look, and saw him turn so passively and mutely to the door, her heart misgave125 her, she raised herself from her chair, and made towards him. Unhappily for her chance of reconciliation, she had that day quaffed126 more copiously127 of the bowl than usual; and the signs of intoxication128 visible in her uncertain gait, her meaningless eye, her vacant leer, her ruby129 cheek, all inspired Paul with feelings which at the moment converted resentment130 into something very much like aversion. He sprang from her grasp to the threshold.
“Where be you going, you imp18 of the world?” cried the dame. “Get in with you, and say no more on the matter; be a bob-cull — drop the bullies131, and you shall have the blunt!”
But Paul heeded132 not this invitation.
“I will eat the bread of idleness and charity no longer,” said he, sullenly133. “Good-by; and if ever I can pay you what I have cost you, I will.”
He turned away as he spoke; and the dame, kindling134 with resentment at his unseemly return to her proffered135 kindness, hallooed after him, and bade that dark-coloured gentleman who keeps the fire-office below go along with him.
Swelling136 with anger, pride, shame, and a half-joyous feeling of emancipated137 independence, Paul walked on, he knew not whither, with his head in the air, and his legs marshalling themselves into a military gait of defiance138. He had not proceeded far before he heard his name uttered behind him; he turned, and saw the rueful face of Dummie Dunnaker.
Very inoffensively had that respectable person been employed during the last part of the scene we have described in caressing139 his afflicted140 eye, and muttering philosophical141 observations on the danger incurred142 by all those who are acquainted with ladies of a choleric143 temperament; when Mrs. Lobkins, turning round after Paul’s departure, and seeing the pitiful person of that Dummie Dunnaker, whose name she remembered Paul had mentioned in his opening speech, and whom, therefore, with an illogical confusion of ideas, she considered a party in the late dispute, exhausted144 upon him all that rage which it was necessary for her comfort that she should unburden somewhere.
She seized the little man by the collar — the tenderest of all places in gentlemen similarly circumstanced with regard to the ways of life — and giving him a blow, which took effect on his other and hitherto undamaged eye, cried out —
“I’ll teach you, you blood-sucker [that is, parasite], to sponge upon those as has expectations! I’ll teach you to cozen145 the heir of the Mug, you snivelling, whey-faced ghost of a farthing rushlight! What! you’ll lend my Paul three crowns, will you, when you knows as how you told me you could not pay me a pitiful tizzy? Oh, you’re a queer one, I warrants; but you won’t queer Margery Lobkins. Out of my ken12, you cur of the mange! — out of my ken; and if ever I claps my sees on you again, or if ever I knows as how you makes a flat of my Paul, blow me tight but I’ll weave you a hempen146 collar — I’ll hang you, you dog, I will. What! you will answer me, will you? Oh, you viper147, budge148 and begone!”
It was in vain that Dummie protested his innocence149. A violent coup-depied broke off all further parlance150. He made a clear house of the Mug; and the landlady151 thereof, tottering152 back to her elbow-chair, sought out another pipe, and, like all imaginative persons when the world goes wrong with them, consoled herself for the absence of realities by the creations of smoke.
Meanwhile Dummie Dunnaker, muttering and murmuring bitter fancies, overtook Paul, and accused that youth of having been the occasion of the injuries he had just undergone. Paul was not at that moment in the humour best adapted for the patient bearing of accusations153. He answered Mr. Dunnaker very shortly; and that respectable individual, still smarting under his bruises154, replied with equal tartness155. Words grew high, and at length Paul, desirous of concluding the conference, clenched156 his fist, and told the redoubted Dummie that he would “knock him down.” There is something peculiarly harsh and stunning157 in those three hard, wiry, sturdy, stubborn monosyllables. Their very sound makes you double your fist if you are a hero, or your pace if you are a peaceable man. They produced an instant effect upon Dummie Dunnaker, aided as they were by the effect of an athletic158 and youthful figure, already fast approaching to the height of six feet, a flushed cheek, and an eye that bespoke159 both passion and resolution. The rag-merchant’s voice sank at once, and with the countenance of a wronged Cassius he whimpered forth160 —
“Knock me down? O leetle Paul, vot wicked vhids are those! Vot! Dummie Dunnaker, as has dandled you on his knee mony’s a time and oft! Vy, the cove’s ‘art is as ‘ard as junk, and as proud as a gardener’s dog vith a nosegay tied to his tail.” This pathetic remonstrance161 softened Paul’s anger.
“Well, Dummie,” said he, laughing, “I did not mean to hurt you, and there’s an end of it; and I am very sorry for the dame’s ill-conduct; and so I wish you a good-morning.”
“Vy, vere be you trotting162 to, leetle Paul?” said Dummie, grasping him by the tail of the coat.
“The deuce a bit I know,” answered our hero; “but I think I shall drop a call on Long Ned.”
“Avast there!” said Dummie, speaking under his breath; “if so be as you von’t blab, I’ll tell you a bit of a secret. I heered as ‘ow Long Ned started for Hampshire this werry morning on a toby [Highway expedition] consarn!”
“Ha!” said Paul, “then hang me if I know what to do!”
As he uttered these words, a more thorough sense of his destitution163 (if he persevered164 in leaving the Mug) than he had hitherto felt rushed upon him; for Paul had designed for a while to throw himself on the hospitality of his Patagonian friend, and now that he found that friend was absent from London and on so dangerous an expedition, he was a little puzzled what to do with that treasure of intellect and wisdom which he carried about upon his legs. Already he had acquired sufficient penetration165 (for Charles Trywit and Harry Finish were excellent masters for initiating166 a man into the knowledge of the world) to perceive that a person, however admirable may be his qualities, does not readily find a welcome without a penny in his pocket. In the neighbourhood of Thames Court he had, indeed, many acquaintances; but the fineness of his language, acquired from his education, and the elegance167 of his air, in which he attempted to blend in happy association the gallant effrontery168 of Mr. Long Ned with the graceful169 negligence170 of Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, had made him many enemies among those acquaintances; and he was not willing — so great was our hero’s pride — to throw himself on the chance of their welcome, or to publish, as it were, his exiled and crestfallen171 state. As for those boon172 companions who had assisted him in making a wilderness173 of his pockets, he had already found that that was the only species of assistance which they were willing to render him. In a word, he could not for the life of him conjecture174 in what quarter he should find the benefits of bed and board. While he stood with his finger to his lip, undecided and musing175, but fully71 resolved at least on one thing — not to return to the Mug — little Dummie, who was a good-natured fellow at the bottom, peered up in his face, and said —
“Vy, Paul, my kid, you looks down in the chops; cheer up — care killed a cat!”
Observing that this appropriate and encouraging fact of natural history did not lessen176 the cloud upon Paul’s brow, the acute Dummie Dunnaker proceeded at once to the grand panacea177 for all evils, in his own profound estimation.
“Paul, my ben cull,” said he, with a knowing wink178, and nudging the young gentleman in the left side, “vot do you say to a drop o’ blue ruin? or, as you likes to be conish [genteel], I does n’t care if I sports you a glass of port!” While Dunnaker was uttering this invitation, a sudden reminiscence flashed across Paul: he bethought him at once of MacGrawler; and he resolved forthwith to repair to the abode179 of that illustrious sage, and petition at least for accommodation for the approaching night. So soon as he had come to this determination, he shook off the grasp of the amiable Dummie, and refusing with many thanks his hospitable180 invitation, requested him to abstract from the dame’s house, and lodge181 within his own until called for, such articles of linen182 and clothing as belonged to Paul and could easily be laid hold of, during one of the matron’s evening siestas183, by the shrewd Dunnaker. The merchant promised that the commission should be speedily executed; and Paul, shaking hands with him, proceeded to the mansion184 of MacGrawler.
We must now go back somewhat in the natural course of our narrative185, and observe that among the minor causes which had conspired186 with the great one of gambling187 to bring our excellent Paul to his present situation, was his intimacy188 with MacGrawler; for when Paul’s increasing years and roving habits had put an end to the sage’s instructions, there was thereby189 lopped off from the preceptor’s finances the weekly sum of two shillings and sixpence, as well as the freedom of the dame’s cellar and larder190; and as, in the reaction of feeling, and the perverse191 course of human affairs, people generally repent192 the most of those actions once the most ardently193 incurred, so poor Mrs. Lobkins, imagining that Paul’s irregularities were entirely owing to the knowledge he had acquired from MacGrawler’s instructions, grievously upbraided194 herself for her former folly195 in seeking for a superior education for her protege; nay196, she even vented197 upon the sacred head of MacGrawler himself her dissatisfaction at the results of his instructions. In like manner, when a man who can spell comes to be hanged, the anti-educationists accuse the spelling-book of his murder. High words between the admirer of ignorant innocence and the propagator of intellectual science ensued, which ended in MacGrawler’s final expulsion from the Mug.
There are some young gentlemen of the present day addicted198 to the adoption199 of Lord Byron’s poetry, with the alteration200 of new rhymes, who are pleased graciously to inform us that they are born to be the ruin of all those who love them — an interesting fact, doubtless, but which they might as well keep to themselves. It would seem by the contents of this chapter as if the same misfortune were destined to Paul. The exile of MacGrawler, the insults offered to Dummie Dunnaker — alike occasioned by him — appear to sanction that opinion. Unfortunately, though Paul was a poet, he was not much of a sentimentalist; and he has never given us the edifying201 ravings of his remorse202 on those subjects. But MacGrawler, like Dunnaker, was resolved that our hero should perceive the curse of his fatality203; and as he still retained some influence over the mind of his quondam pupil, his accusations against Paul, as the origin of his banishment204, were attended with a greater success than were the complaints of Dummie Dunnaker on a similar calamity205. Paul, who, like most people who are good for nothing, had an excellent heart, was exceedingly grieved at MacGrawler’s banishment on his account; and he endeavoured to atone206 for it by such pecuniary207 consolations208 as he was enabled to offer. These MacGrawler (purely, we may suppose, from a benevolent209 desire to lessen the boy’s remorse) scrupled210 not to accept; and thus, so similar often are the effects of virtue211 and of vice, the exemplary MacGrawler conspired with the unprincipled Long Ned and the heartless Henry Finish in producing that unenviable state of vacuity212 which now saddened over the pockets of Paul.
As our hero was slowly walking towards the sage’s abode, depending on his gratitude213 and friendship for a temporary shelter, one of those lightning flashes of thought which often illumine the profoundest abyss of affliction darted214 across his mind. Recalling the image of the critic, he remembered that he had seen that ornament215 of “The Asinaeum” receive sundry216 sums for his critical lucubrations.
“Why,” said Paul, seizing on that fact, and stopping short in the street — “why should I not turn critic myself?”
The only person to whom one ever puts a question with a tolerable certainty of receiving a satisfactory answer is one’s self. The moment Paul started this luminous217 suggestion, it appeared to him that he had discovered the mines of Potosi. Burning with impatience218 to discuss with the great MacGrawler the feasibility of his project, he quickened his pace almost into a run, and in a very few minutes, having only overthrown219 one chimney-sweeper and two apple-women by the way, he arrived at the sage’s door.
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1
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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5
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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6
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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8
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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9
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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10
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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11
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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12
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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13
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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14
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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15
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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16
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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17
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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18
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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19
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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20
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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21
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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22
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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23
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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24
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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25
covets
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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27
elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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28
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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29
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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30
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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31
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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32
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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33
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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34
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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35
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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37
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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38
apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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39
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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40
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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41
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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42
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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43
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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44
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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45
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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46
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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47
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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48
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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49
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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50
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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51
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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52
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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53
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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54
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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55
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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56
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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57
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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58
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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59
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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60
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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61
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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62
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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63
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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64
adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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65
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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66
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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69
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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70
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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71
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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72
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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73
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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74
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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75
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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76
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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77
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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78
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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79
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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80
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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81
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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82
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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83
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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84
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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85
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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86
venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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87
maternal
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|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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88
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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89
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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90
swelled
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|
| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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91
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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92
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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93
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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94
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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95
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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96
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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97
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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98
wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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99
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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100
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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101
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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102
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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103
amending
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| 改良，修改，修订( amend的现在分词 )； 改良，修改，修订( amend的第三人称单数 )( amends的现在分词 ) | |
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104
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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105
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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106
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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107
enrages
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| 使暴怒( enrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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109
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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110
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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111
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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112
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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113
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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114
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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115
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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116
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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118
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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119
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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120
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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121
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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122
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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123
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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124
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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125
misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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126
quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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127
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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128
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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129
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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130
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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131
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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132
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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134
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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135
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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137
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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139
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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140
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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142
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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143
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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144
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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145
cozen
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| v.欺骗，哄骗 | |
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146
hempen
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| adj. 大麻制的, 大麻的 | |
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147
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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148
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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149
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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150
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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151
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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152
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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153
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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154
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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155
tartness
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| n.酸，锋利 | |
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156
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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158
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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159
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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160
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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161
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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162
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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163
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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164
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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166
initiating
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| v.开始( initiate的现在分词 )；传授；发起；接纳新成员 | |
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167
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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168
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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169
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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170
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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171
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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172
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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173
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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175
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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176
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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177
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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178
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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179
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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180
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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181
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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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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183
siestas
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| n.（气候炎热国家的）午睡，午休( siesta的名词复数 ) | |
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184
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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185
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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186
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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187
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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188
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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189
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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190
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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191
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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193
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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194
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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196
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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197
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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199
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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200
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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201
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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202
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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203
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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204
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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205
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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206
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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207
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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208
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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209
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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210
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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212
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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213
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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214
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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215
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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216
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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217
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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218
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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219
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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