Yet one could censure2 you a woodcock’s carving3.
Like any courtier at the ordinary.
THE ORDINARY.
The person who appeared at the door of the little inn to receive Ganlesse, as we mentioned in our last chapter, sung, as he came forward, this scrap4 of an old ballad5 —
“Good even to you, Diccon;
And how have you sped;
Bring you the bonny bride
To banquet and bed?”
To which Ganlesse answered, in the same tone and tune6 —
“Content thee, kind Robin7;
He need little care,
Who brings home a fat buck8
Instead of a hare.”
“You have missed your blow, then?” said the other, in reply.
“I tell you I have not,” answered Ganlesse; “but you will think of nought9 but your own thriving occupation — May the plague that belongs to it stick to it! though it hath been the making of thee.”
“A man must live, Diccon Ganlesse,” said the other.
“Well, well,” said Ganlesse, “bid my friend welcome, for my sake. Hast thou got any supper?”
“Reeking like a sacrifice — Chaubert has done his best. That fellow is a treasure! give him a farthing candle, and he will cook a good supper out of it. — Come in, sir. My friend’s friend is welcome, as we say in my country.”
“We must have our horses looked to first,” said Peveril, who began to be considerably10 uncertain about the character of his companions —“that done, I am for you.”
Ganlesse gave a second whistle; a groom11 appeared, who took charge of both their horses, and they themselves entered the inn.
The ordinary room of a poor inn seemed to have undergone some alterations12, to render it fit for company of a higher description. There were a beaufet, a couch, and one or two other pieces of furniture, of a style inconsistent with the appearance of the place. The tablecloth13, which was already laid, was of the finest damask; and the spoons, forks, &c., were of silver. Peveril looked at this apparatus14 with some surprise; and again turning his eyes attentively15 upon his travelling companion, Ganlesse, he could not help discovering (by the aid of imagination, perhaps), that though insignificant16 in person, plain in features, and dressed like one in indigence17, there lurked18 still about his person and manners, that indefinable ease of manner which belongs only to men of birth and quality, or to those who are in the constant habit of frequenting the best company. His companion, whom he called Will Smith, although tall and rather good-looking, besides being much better dressed, had not, nevertheless, exactly the same ease of demeanour; and was obliged to make up for the want, by an additional proportion of assurance. Who these two persons could be, Peveril could not attempt even to form a guess. There was nothing for it but to watch their manner and conversation.
After speaking a moment in whispers, Smith said to his companion, “We must go look after our nags19 for ten minutes, and allow Chaubert to do his office.”
“Will not he appear, and minister before us, then?” said Ganlesse.
“What! he? — he shift a trencher — he hand a cup? — No, you forget whom you speak of. Such an order were enough to make him fall on his own sword — he is already on the borders of despair, because no craw-fish are to be had.”
“Alack-a day!” replied Ganlesse. “Heaven forbid I should add to such a calamity20! To stable, then, and see we how our steeds eat their provender21, while ours is getting ready.”
They adjourned22 to the stable accordingly, which, though a poor one, had been hastily supplied with whatever was necessary for the accommodation of four excellent horses; one of which, that from which Ganlesse was just dismounted, the groom we have mentioned was cleaning and dressing23 by the light of a huge wax-candle.
“I am still so far Catholic,” said Ganlesse, laughing, as he saw that Peveril noticed this piece of extravagance. “My horse is my saint, and I dedicate a candle to him.”
“Without asking so great a favour for mine, which I see standing24 behind yonder old hen-coop,” replied Peveril, “I will at least relieve him of his saddle and bridle25.”
“Leave him to the lad of the inn,” said Smith; “he is not worthy26 of any other person’s handling; and I promise you, if you slip a single buckle27, you will so flavour of that stable duty, that you might as well eat roast-beef as ragouts, for any relish28 you will have of them.”
“I love roast-beef as well as ragouts, at any time,” said Peveril, adjusting himself to a task which every young man should know how to perform when need is; “and my horse, though it be but a sorry jade29, will champ better on hay and corn, than on an iron bit.”
While he was unsaddling his horse, and shaking down some litter for the poor wearied animal, he heard Smith observe to Ganlesse — “By my faith, Dick, thou hast fallen into poor Slender’s blunder; missed Anne Page, and brought us a great lubberly post-master’s boy.”
“Hush, he will hear thee,” answered Ganlesse; “there are reasons for all things — it is well as it is. But, prithee, tell thy fellow to help the youngster.”
“What!” replied Smith, “d’ye think I am mad? — Ask Tom Beacon30 — Tom of Newmarket — Tom of ten thousand, to touch such a four-legged brute31 as that? — Why, he would turn me away on the spot — discard me, i’faith. It was all he would do to take in hand your own, my good friend; and if you consider him not the better, you are like to stand groom to him yourself tomorrow.”
“Well, Will,” answered Ganlesse, “I will say that for thee, thou hast a set of the most useless, scoundrelly, insolent32 vermin about thee, that ever ate up a poor gentleman’s revenues.”
“Useless? I deny it,” replied Smith. “Every one of my fellows does something or other so exquisitely34, that it were sin to make him do anything else — it is your jacks-of-all-trades who are masters of none. — But hark to Chaubert’s signal. The coxcomb35 is twangling it on the lute36, to the tune of Eveillez-vous, belle37 endormie. — Come, Master What d’ye call (addressing Peveril) — get ye some water, and wash this filthy38 witness from your hand, as Betterton says in the play; for Chaubert’s cookery is like Friar Bacon’s Head — time is — time was — time will soon be no more.”
So saying, and scarce allowing Julian time to dip his hands in a bucket, and dry them on a horse-cloth, he hurried him from the stable back to the supper-chamber.
Here all was prepared for their meal, with an epicurean delicacy39, which rather belonged to the saloon of a palace, than the cabin in which it was displayed. Four dishes of silver, with covers of the same metal, smoked on the table; and three seats were placed for the company. Beside the lower end of the board, was a small side-table, to answer the purpose of what is now called a dumb waiter; on which several flasks40 reared their tall, stately, and swan-like crests42, above glasses and rummers. Clean covers were also placed within reach; and a small travelling-case of morocco, hooped43 with silver, displayed a number of bottles, containing the most approved sauces that culinary ingenuity44 had then invented.
Smith, who occupied the lower seat, and seemed to act as president of the feast, motioned the two travellers to take their places and begin. “I would not stay a grace-time,” he said, “to save a whole nation from perdition. We could bring no chauffettes with any convenience; and even Chaubert is nothing, unless his dishes are tasted in the very moment of projection45. Come, uncover, and let us see what he has done for us. — Hum! — ha! — ay — squab-pigeons — wildfowl — young chickens — venison cutlets — and a space in the centre, wet, alas46! by a gentle tear from Chaubert’s eye, where should have been the soupe aux écrevisses. The zeal47 of that poor fellow is ill repaid by his paltry48 ten louis per month.”
“A mere49 trifle,” said Ganlesse; “but, like yourself, Will, he serves a generous master.”
The repast now commenced; and Julian, though he had seen his young friend the Earl of Derby, and other gallants, affect a considerable degree of interest and skill in the science of the kitchen, and was not himself either an enemy or a stranger to the pleasures of a good table, found that, on the present occasion, he was a mere novice50. Both his companions, but Smith in especial, seemed to consider that they were now engaged in the only true business of life; and weighed all its minuti? with a proportional degree of accuracy. To carve the morsel51 in the most delicate manner — and to apportion52 the proper seasoning53 with the accuracy of the chemist — to be aware, exactly, of the order in which one dish should succeed another, and to do plentiful55 justice to all — was a minuteness of science to which Julian had hitherto been a stranger. Smith accordingly treated him as a mere novice in epicurism56, cautioning him to eat his soup before the bouilli, and to forget the Manx custom of bolting the boiled meat before the broth57, as if Cutlar MacCulloch and all his whingers were at the door. Peveril took the hint in good part, and the entertainment proceeded with animation58.
At length Ganlesse paused, and declared the supper exquisite33. “But, my friend Smith,” he added, “are your wines curious? When you brought all that trash of plates and trumpery59 into Derbyshire, I hope you did not leave us at the mercy of the strong ale of the shire, as thick and muddy as the squires60 who drink it?”
“Did I not know that you were to meet me, Dick Ganlesse?” answered their host. “And can you suspect me of such an omission61? It is true, you must make champagne62 and claret serve, for my burgundy would not bear travelling. But if you have a fancy for sherry, or Vin de Cahors, I have a notion Chaubert and Tom Beacon have brought some for their own drinking.”
“Perhaps the gentlemen would not care to impart,” said Ganlesse.
“Oh, fie! — anything in the way of civility,” replied Smith. “They are, in truth, the best-natured lads alive, when treated respectfully; so that if you would prefer ——”
“By no means,” said Ganlesse —“a glass of champagne will serve in a scarcity63 of better.”
“The cork64 shall start obsequious65 to my thumb,”
said Smith; and as he spoke66, he untwisted the wire, and the cork struck the roof of the cabin. Each guest took a large rummer glass of the sparkling beverage67, which Peveril had judgment68 and experience enough to pronounce exquisite.
“Give me your hand, sir,” said Smith; “it is the first word of sense you have spoken this evening.”
“Wisdom, sir,” replied Peveril, “is like the best ware54 in the pedlar’s pack, which he never produces till he knows his customer.”
“Sharp as mustard,” returned the bon vivant; “but be wise, most noble pedlar, and take another rummer of this same flask41, which you see I have held in an oblique69 position for your service — not permitting it to retrograde to the perpendicular70. Nay71, take it off before the bubble bursts on the rim72, and the zest73 is gone.”
“You do me honour, sir,” said Peveril, taking the second glass. “I wish you a better office than that of my cup-bearer.”
“You cannot wish Will Smith one more congenial to his nature,” said Ganlesse. “Others have a selfish delight in the objects of sense, Will thrives, and is happy by imparting them to his friends.”
“Better help men to pleasures than to pains, Master Ganlesse,” answered Smith, somewhat angrily.
“Nay, wrath74 thee not, Will,” said Ganlesse; “and speak no words in haste, lest you may have cause to repent75 at leisure. Do I blame thy social concern for the pleasures of others? Why, man, thou dost therein most philosophically76 multiply thine own. A man has but one throat, and can but eat, with his best efforts, some five or six times a day; but thou dinest with every friend that cuts a capon, and art quaffing77 wine in other men’s gullets, from morning to night — et sic de c?teris.”
“Friend Ganlesse,” returned Smith, “I prithee beware — thou knowest I can cut gullets as well as tickle78 them.”
“Ay, Will,” answered Ganlesse carelessly; “I think I have seen thee wave thy whinyard at the throat of a Hogan-Mogan — a Netherlandish weasand, which expanded only on thy natural and mortal objects of aversion — Dutch cheese, rye-bread, pickled herring, onion, and Geneva.”
“For pity’s sake, forbear the description!” said Smith; “thy words overpower the perfumes, and flavour the apartment like a dish of salmagundi!”
“But for an epiglottis like mine,” continued Ganlesse, “down which the most delicate morsels79 are washed by such claret as thou art now pouring out, thou couldst not, in thy bitterest mood, wish a worse fate than to be necklaced somewhat tight by a pair of white arms.”
“By a tenpenny cord,” answered Smith; “but not till you were dead; that thereafter you be presently embowelled, you being yet alive; that your head be then severed80 from your body, and your body divided into quarters, to be disposed of at his Majesty’s pleasure. — How like you that, Master Richard Ganlesse?”
“E’en as you like the thoughts of dining on bran-bread and milk-porridge — an extremity81 which you trust never to be reduced to. But all this shall not prevent me from pledging you in a cup of sound claret.”
As the claret circulated, the glee of the company increased; and Smith placing the dishes which had been made use of upon the side-table, stamped with his foot on the floor, and the table sinking down a trap, again rose, loaded with olives, sliced neat’s tongue, caviare, and other provocatives for the circulation of the bottle.
“Why, Will,” said Ganlesse, “thou art a more complete mechanist than I suspected; thou hast brought thy scene-shifting inventions to Derbyshire in marvellously short time.”
“A rope and pullies can be easily come by,” answered Will; “and with a saw and a plane, I can manage that business in half a day. I love the knack82 of clean and secret conveyance83 — thou knowest it was the foundation of my fortunes.”
“It may be the wreck84 of them too, Will,” replied his friend.
“True, Diccon,” answered Will; “but, dum vivimus, vivamus — that is my motto; and therewith I present you a brimmer to the health of the fair lady you wot of.”
“Let it come, Will,” replied his friend; and the flask circulated briskly from hand to hand.
Julian did not think it prudent85 to seem a check on their festivity, as he hoped in its progress something might occur to enable him to judge of the character and purposes of his companions. But he watched them in vain. Their conversation was animated86 and lively, and often bore reference to the literature of the period, in which the elder seemed particularly well skilled. They also talked freely of the Court, and of that numerous class of gallants who were then described as “men of wit and pleasure about town;” and to which it seemed probable they themselves appertained.
At length the universal topic of the Popish Plot was started; upon which Ganlesse and Smith seemed to entertain the most opposite opinions. Ganlesse, if he did not maintain the authority of Oates in its utmost extent, contended, that at least it was confirmed in a great measure by the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, and the letters written by Coleman to the confessor of the French King.
With much more noise, and less power of reasoning, Will Smith hesitated not to ridicule87 and run down the whole discovery, as one of the wildest and most causeless alarms which had ever been sounded in the ears of a credulous88 public. “I shall never forget,” he said, “Sir Godfrey’s most original funeral. Two bouncing parsons, well armed with sword and pistol, mounted the pulpit, to secure the third fellow who preached from being murdered in the face of the congregation. Three parsons in one pulpit — three suns in one hemisphere — no wonder men stood aghast at such a prodigy89.”
“What then, Will,” answered his companion, “you are one of those who think the good knight90 murdered himself, in order to give credit to the Plot?”
“By my faith, not I,” said the other; “but some true blue Protestant might do the job for him, in order to give the thing a better colour. — I will be judged by our silent friend, whether that be not the most feasible solution of the whole.”
“I pray you, pardon me, gentlemen,” said Julian; “I am but just landed in England, and am a stranger to the particular circumstances which have thrown the nation into such a ferment91. It would be the highest degree of assurance in me to give my opinion betwixt gentlemen who argue the matter so ably; besides, to say truth, I confess weariness — your wine is more potent92 than I expected, or I have drunk more of it than I meant to do.”
“Nay, if an hour’s nap will refresh you,” said the elder of the strangers, “make no ceremony with us. Your bed — all we can offer as such — is that old-fashioned Dutch-built sofa, as the last new phrase calls it. We shall be early stirrers tomorrow morning.”
“And that we may be so,” said Smith, “I propose that we do sit up all this night — I hate lying rough, and detest93 a pallet-bed. So have at another flask, and the newest lampoon94 to help it out —
‘Now a plague of their votes
Upon Papists and Plots,
And be d — d Doctor Oates.
Tol de rol.’”
“Nay, but our Puritanic host,” said Ganlesse.
“I have him in my pocket, man — his eyes, ears, nose, and tongue,” answered his boon95 companion, “are all in my possession.”
“In that case, when you give him back his eyes and nose, I pray you keep his ears and tongue,” answered Ganlesse. “Seeing and smelling are organs sufficient for such a knave96 — to hear and tell are things he should have no manner of pretensions97 to.”
“I grant you it were well done,” answered Smith; “but it were a robbing of the hangman and the pillory98; and I am an honest fellow, who would give Dun* and the devil his due. So,
‘All joy to great C?sar,
Long life, love, and pleasure;
May the King live for ever,
’Tis no matter for us, boys.’”
* Dun was the hangman of the day at Tyburn. He was successor of Gregory Brunden, who was by many believed to be the same who dropped the axe99 upon Charles I., though others were suspected of being the actual regicide.
While this Bacchanalian100 scene proceeded, Julian had wrapt himself closely in his cloak, and stretched himself on the couch which they had shown him. He looked towards the table he had left — the tapers101 seemed to become hazy102 and dim as he gazed — he heard the sound of voices, but they ceased to convey any impression to his understanding; and in a few minutes, he was faster asleep than he had ever been in the whole course of his life.
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1
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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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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nags
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| n.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的名词复数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的第三人称单数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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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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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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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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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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flasks
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| n.瓶，长颈瓶， 烧瓶( flask的名词复数 ) | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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hooped
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| adj.以环作装饰的；带横纹的；带有环的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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apportion
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| vt.（按比例或计划）分配 | |
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seasoning
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| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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epicurism
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| n.贪口福，美食主义 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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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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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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quaffing
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| v.痛饮( quaff的现在分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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lampoon
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| n.讽刺文章；v.讽刺 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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100
bacchanalian
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| adj.闹酒狂饮的；n.发酒疯的人 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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102
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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