That man! What man? That man of whom I said that his magnificent countenance11 exhibited the noblest tragic woe12. He was not of European blood, he was handsome, but not of European beauty. His face white — not of a Northern whiteness; his eyes protruding13 somewhat, and rolling in their grief. Those eyes had seen the Orient sun, and his beak14 was the eagle’s. His lips were full. The beard, curling round them, was unkempt and tawny15. The locks were of a deep, deep coppery red. The hands, swart and powerful, accustomed to the rough grasp of the wares16 in which he dealt, seemed unused to the flimsy artifices17 of the bath. He came from the Wilderness18, and its sands were on his robe, his cheek, his tattered19 sandal, and the hardy20 foot it covered.
And his grief — whence came his sorrow? I will tell you. He bore it in his hand. He had evidently just concluded the compact by which it became his. His business was that of a purchaser of domestic raiment. At early dawn nay21, at what hour when the city is alive — do we not all hear the nasal cry of “Clo?” In Paris, Habits Galons, Marchand d’habits, is the twanging signal with which the wandering merchant makes his presence known. It was in Paris I saw this man. Where else have I not seen him? In the Roman Ghetto22 — at the Gate of David, in his fathers’ once imperial city. The man I mean was an itinerant23 vender24 and purchaser of wardrobes — what you call an . . . Enough! You know his name.
On his left shoulder hung his bag; and he held in that hand a white hat, which I am sure he had just purchased, and which was the cause of the grief which smote25 his noble features. Of course I cannot particularize the sum, but he had given too much for that hat. He felt he might have got the thing for less money. It was not the amount, I am sure; it was the principle involved. He had given fourpence (let us say) for that which threepence would have purchased. He had been done: and a manly26 shame was upon him, that he, whose energy, acuteness, experience, point of honor, should have made him the victor in any mercantile duel27 in which he should engage, had been overcome by a porter’s wife, who very likely sold him the old hat, or by a student who was tired of it. I can understand his grief. Do I seem to be speaking of it in a disrespectful or flippant way? Then you mistake me. He had been outwitted. He had desired, coaxed28, schemed, haggled29, got what he wanted, and now found he had paid too much for his bargain. You don’t suppose I would ask you to laugh at that man’s grief? It is you, clumsy cynic, who are disposed to sneer30, whilst it may be tears of genuine sympathy are trickling31 down this nose of mine. What do you mean by laughing? If you saw a wounded soldier on the field of battle, would you laugh? If you saw a ewe robbed of her lamb, would you laugh, you brute32? It is you who are the cynic, and have no feeling: and you sneer because that grief is unintelligible33 to you which touches my finer sensibility. The OLD-CLOTHES’-MAN had been defeated in one of the daily battles of his most interesting, chequered, adventurous34 life.
Have you ever figured to yourself what such a life must be? The pursuit and conquest of twopence must be the most eager and fascinating of occupations. We might all engage in that business if we would. Do not whist-players, for example, toil35, and think, and lose their temper over sixpenny points? They bring study, natural genius, long forethought, memory, and careful historical experience to bear upon their favorite labor36. Don’t tell me that it is the sixpenny points, and five shillings the rub, which keeps them for hours over their painted pasteboard. It is the desire to conquer. Hours pass by. Night glooms. Dawn, it may be, rises unheeded; and they sit calling for fresh cards at the “Portland,” or the “union,” while waning37 candles splutter in the sockets38, and languid waiters snooze in the ante-room. Sol rises. Jones has lost four pounds: Brown has won two; Robinson lurks39 away to his family house and (mayhap indignant) Mrs. R. Hours of evening, night, morning, have passed away whilst they have been waging this sixpenny battle. What is the loss of four pounds to Jones, the gain of two to Brown? B. is, perhaps, so rich that two pounds more or less are as naught40 to him; J. is so hopelessly involved that to win four pounds cannot benefit his creditors41, or alter his condition; but they play for that stake: they put forward their best energies: they ruff, finesse42 (what are the technical words, and how do I know?) It is but a sixpenny game if you like; but they want to win it. So as regards my friend yonder with the hat. He stakes his money: he wishes to win the game, not the hat merely. I am not prepared to say that he is not inspired by a noble ambition. Caesar wished to be first in a village. If first of a hundred yokels44, why not first of two? And my friend the old-clothes’-man wishes to win his game, as well as to turn his little sixpence.
Suppose in the game of life — and it is but a twopenny game after all — you are equally eager of winning. Shall you be ashamed of your ambition, or glory in it? There are games, too, which are becoming to particular periods of life. I remember in the days of our youth, when my friend Arthur Bowler45 was an eminent46 cricketer. Slim, swift, strong, well-built, he presented a goodly appearance on the ground in his flannel47 uniform. Militasti non sine gloria, Bowler my boy! Hush48! We tell no tales. Mum is the word. Yonder comes Chancy his son. Now Chancy his son has taken the field and is famous among the eleven of his school. Bowler senior, with his capacious waistcoat, &c., waddling49 after a ball, would present an absurd object, whereas it does the eyes good to see Bowler junior scouring50 the plain — a young exemplar of joyful51 health, vigor52, activity. The old boy wisely contents himself with amusements more becoming his age and waist; takes his sober ride; visits his farm soberly — busies himself about his pigs, his ploughing, his peaches, or what not! Very small routinier amusements interest him; and (thank goodness!) nature provides very kindly53 for kindly-disposed fogies. We relish54 those things which we scorned in our lusty youth. I see the young folks of an evening kindling55 and glowing over their delicious novels. I look up and watch the eager eye flashing down the page, being, for my part, perfectly56 contented57 with my twaddling old volume of “Howel’s Letters,” or the Gentleman’s Magazine. I am actually arrived at such a calm frame of mind that I like batter-pudding. I never should have believed it possible; but it is so. Yet a little while, and I may relish water-gruel. It will be the age of mon lait de poule et mon bonnet58 de nuit. And then — the cotton extinguisher is pulled over the old noddle, and the little flame of life is popped out.
Don’t you know elderly people who make learned notes in Army Lists, Peerages, and the like? This is the batter-pudding, water-gruel of old age. The worn-out old digestion59 does not care for stronger food. Formerly60 it could swallow twelve-hours’ tough reading, and digest an encyclopaedia61.
If I had children to educate, I would, at ten or twelve years of age, have a professor, or professoress, of whist for them, and cause them to be well grounded in that great and useful game. You cannot learn it well when you are old, any more than you can learn dancing or billiards62. In our house at home we youngsters did not play whist because we were dear obedient children, and the elders said playing at cards was “a waste of time.” A waste of time, my good people! Allons! What do elderly home-keeping people do of a night after dinner? Darby gets his newspaper; my dear Joan her Missionary63 Magazine or her volume of Cumming’s Sermons — and don’t you know what ensues? Over the arm of Darby’s arm-chair the paper flutters to the ground unheeded, and he performs the trumpet64 obligato que vous savez on his old nose. My dear old Joan’s head nods over her sermon (awakening though the doctrine65 may be). Ding, ding, ding: can that be ten o’clock? It is time to send the servants to bed, my dear — and to bed master and mistress go too. But they have not wasted their time playing at cards. Oh, no! I belong to a Club where there is whist of a night, and not a little amusing is it to hear Brown speak of Thompson’s play, and vice66 versa. But there is one man — Greatorex let us call him — who is the acknowledged captain and primus of all the whist-players. We all secretly admire him. I, for my part, watch him in private life, hearken to what he says, note what he orders for dinner, and have that feeling of awe67 for him that I used to have as a boy for the cock of the school. Not play at whist? “Quelle triste vieillesse vous vous preparez!” were the words of the great and good Bishop68 of Autun. I can’t. It is too late now. Too late! too late! Ah! humiliating confession69! That joy might have been clutched, but the life-stream has swept us by it — the swift life-stream rushing to the nearing sea. Too late! too late! Twentystone my boy! when you read in the papers “Valse a deux temps,” and all the fashionable dances taught to adults by “Miss Lightfoots,” don’t you feel that you would like to go in and learn? Ah, it is too late! You have passed the choreas, Master Twentystone, and the young people are dancing without you.
I don’t believe much of what my Lord Byron the poet says; but when he wrote, “So for a good old gentlemanly vice, I think I shall put up with avarice,” I think his lordship meant what he wrote, and if he practised what he preached, shall not quarrel with him. As an occupation in declining years, I declare I think saving is useful, amusing, and not unbecoming. It must be a perpetual amusement. It is a game that can be played by day, by night, at home and abroad, and at which you must win in the long run. I am tired and want a cab. The fare to my house, say, is two shillings. The cabman will naturally want half a crown. I pull out my book. I show him the distance is exactly three miles and fifteen hundred and ninety yards. I offer him my card — my winning card. As he retires with the two shillings, blaspheming inwardly, every curse is a compliment to my skill. I have played him and beat him; and a sixpence is my spoil and just reward. This is a game, by the way, which women play far more cleverly than we do. But what an interest it imparts to life! During the whole drive home I know I shall have my game at the journey’s end; am sure of my hand, and shall beat my adversary70. Or I can play in another way. I won’t have a cab at all, I will wait for the omnibus: I will be one of the damp fourteen in that steaming vehicle. I will wait about in the rain for an hour, and ‘bus after ‘bus shall pass, but I will not be beat. I WILL have a place, and get it at length, with my boots wet through, and an umbrella dripping between my legs. I have a rheumatism71, a cold, a sore throat, a sulky evening — a doctor’s bill tomorrow perhaps? Yes, but I have won my game, and am gainer of a shilling on this rubber.
If you play this game all through life it is wonderful what daily interest it has, and amusing occupation. For instance, my wife goes to sleep after dinner over her volume of sermons. As soon as the dear soul is sound asleep, I advance softly and puff72 out her candle. Her pure dreams will be all the happier without that light; and, say she sleeps an hour, there is a penny gained.
As for clothes, parbleu! there is not much money to be saved in clothes, for the fact is, as a man advances in life — as he becomes an Ancient Briton (mark the pleasantry)— he goes without clothes. When my tailor proposes something in the way of a change of raiment, I laugh in his face. My blue coat and brass73 buttons will last these ten years. It is seedy? What then? I don’t want to charm anybody in particular. You say that my clothes are shabby? What do I care? When I wished to look well in somebody’s eyes, the matter may have been different. But now, when I receive my bill of 10L. (let us say) at the year’s end, and contrast it with old tailors’ reckonings, I feel that I have played the game with master tailor, and beat him; and my old clothes are a token of the victory.
I do not like to give servants board-wages, though they are cheaper than household bills: but I know they save out of board-wages, and so beat me. This shows that it is not the money but the game which interests me. So about wine. I have it good and dear. I will trouble you to tell me where to get it good and cheap. You may as well give me the address of a shop where I can buy meat for fourpence a pound, or sovereigns for fifteen shillings apiece. At the game of auctions75, docks, shy wine-merchants, depend on it there is no winning; and I would as soon think of buying jewellery at an auction76 in Fleet Street as of purchasing wine from one of your dreadful needy77 wine-agents such as infest78 every man’s door. Grudge79 myself good wine? As soon grudge my horse corn. Merci! that would be a very losing game indeed, and your humble80 servant has no relish for such.
But in the very pursuit of saving there must be a hundred harmless delights and pleasures which we who are careless necessarily forego. What do you know about the natural history of your household? Upon your honor and conscience, do you know the price of a pound of butter? Can you say what sugar costs, and how much your family consumes and ought to consume? How much lard do you use in your house? As I think on these subjects I own I hang down the head of shame. I suppose for a moment that you, who are reading this, are a middle-aged81 gentleman, and paterfamilias. Can you answer the above questions? You know, sir, you cannot. Now turn round, lay down the book, and suddenly ask Mrs. Jones and your daughters if THEY can answer? They cannot. They look at one another. They pretend they can answer. They can tell you the plot and principal characters of the last novel. Some of them know something about history, geology, and so forth82. But of the natural history of home — Nichts, and for shame on you all! Honnis soyez! For shame on you? for shame on us!
In the early morning I hear a sort of call or jodel under my window: and know ’tis the matutinal milkman leaving his can at my gate. O household gods! have I lived all these years and don’t know the price or the quantity of the milk which is delivered in that can? Why don’t I know? As I live, if I live till tomorrow morning, as soon as I hear the call of Lactantius, I will dash out upon him. How many cows? How much milk, on an average, all the year round? What rent? What cost of food and dairy servants? What loss of animals, and average cost of purchase? If I interested myself properly about my pint83 (or hogshead, whatever it be) of milk, all this knowledge would ensue; all this additional interest in life. What is this talk of my friend, Mr. Lewes, about objects at the seaside, and so forth?30 Objects at the seaside? Objects at the area-bell: objects before my nose: objects which the butcher brings me in his tray: which the cook dresses and puts down before me, and over which I say grace! My daily life is surrounded with objects which ought to interest me. The pudding I eat (or refuse, that is neither here nor there; and, between ourselves, what I have said about batter-pudding may be taken cum grano — we are not come to that yet, except for the sake of argument or illustration)— the pudding, I say, on my plate, the eggs that made it, the fire that cooked it, the tablecloth84 on which it is laid, and so forth — are each and all of these objects a knowledge of which I may acquire — a knowledge of the cost and production of which I might advantageously learn? To the man who DOES know these things, I say the interest of life is prodigiously85 increased. The milkman becomes, a study to him; the baker86 a being he curiously87 and tenderly examines. Go, Lewes, and clap a hideous88 sea-anemone into a glass: I will put a cabman under mine, and make a vivisection of a butcher. O Lares, Penates, and gentle household gods, teach me to sympathize with all that comes within my doors! Give me an interest in the butcher’s book. Let me look forward to the ensuing number of the grocer’s account with eagerness. It seems ungrateful to my kitchen-chimney not to know the cost of sweeping89 it; and I trust that many a man who reads this, and muses90 on it, will feel, like the writer, ashamed of himself, and hang down his head humbly91.
30 “Seaside Studies.” By G. H. Lewes.
Now, if to this household game you could add a little money interest, the amusement would be increased far beyond the mere43 money value, as a game at cards for sixpence is better than a rubber for nothing. If you can interest yourself about sixpence, all life is invested with a new excitement. From sunrise to sleeping you can always be playing that game — with butcher, baker, coal-merchant, cabman, omnibus man — nay, diamond merchant and stockbroker92. You can bargain for a guinea over the price of a diamond necklace, or for a sixteenth per cent in a transaction at the Stock Exchange. We all know men who have this faculty93 who are not ungenerous with their money. They give it on great occasions. They are more able to help than you and I who spend ours, and say to poor Prodigal94 who comes to us out at elbow, “My dear fellow, I should have been delighted: but I have already anticipated my quarter, and am going to ask Screwby if he can do anything for me.”
In this delightful95, wholesome96, ever-novel twopenny game, there is a danger of excess, as there is in every other pastime or occupation of life. If you grow too eager for your twopence, the acquisition or the loss of it may affect your peace of mind, and peace of mind is better than any amount of twopences. My friend, the old-clothes’-man, whose agonies over the hat have led to this rambling97 disquisition, has, I very much fear, by a too eager pursuit of small profits, disturbed the equanimity98 of a mind that ought to be easy and happy. “Had I stood out,” he thinks, “I might have had the hat for threepence,” and he doubts whether, having given fourpence for it, he will ever get back his money. My good Shadrach, if you go through life passionately99 deploring100 the irrevocable, and allow yesterday’s transactions to embitter101 the cheerfulness of today and tomorrow — as lief walk down to the Seine, souse in, hats, body, clothes-bag and all, and put an end to your sorrow and sordid102 cares. Before and since Mr. Franklin wrote his pretty apologue of the Whistle have we not all made bargains of which we repented103, and coveted104 and acquired objects for which we have paid too dearly! Who has not purchased his hat in some market or other? There is General M’Clellan’s cocked hat for example: I dare say he was eager enough to wear it, and he has learned that it is by no means cheerful wear. There were the military beavers105 of Messeigneurs of Orleans:31 they wore them gallantly106 in the face of battle; but I suspect they were glad enough to pitch them into the James River and come home in mufti. Ah, mes amis! A chacun son schakot! I was looking at a bishop the other day, and thinking, “My right reverend lord, that broad-brim and rosette must bind107 your great broad forehead very tightly, and give you many a headache. A good easy wideawake were better for you, and I would like to see that honest face with a cutty-pipe in the middle of it.” There is my Lord Mayor. My once dear lord, my kind friend, when your two years’ reign74 was over, did not you jump for joy and fling your chapeau-bras out of window: and hasn’t that hat cost you a pretty bit of money? There, in a splendid travelling chariot, in the sweetest bonnet, all trimmed with orange-blossoms and Chantilly lace, sits my Lady Rosa, with old Lord Snowden by her side. Ah, Rosa! what a price have you paid for that hat which you wear; and is your ladyship’s coronet not purchased too dear! Enough of hats. Sir, or Madam, I take off mine, and salute108 you with profound respect.
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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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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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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bolstering
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| v.支持( bolster的现在分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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ghetto
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itinerant
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vender
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smote
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manly
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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haggled
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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adventurous
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toil
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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yokels
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| n.乡下佬，土包子( yokel的名词复数 ) | |
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bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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46
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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47
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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48
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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49
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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50
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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51
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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52
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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53
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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54
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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55
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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56
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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57
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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58
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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59
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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60
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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61
encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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62
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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63
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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64
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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66
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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67
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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71
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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72
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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74
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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auctions
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| n.拍卖，拍卖方式( auction的名词复数 ) | |
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76
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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77
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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infest
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| v.大批出没于；侵扰；寄生于 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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80
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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82
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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83
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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84
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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85
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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86
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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88
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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89
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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90
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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92
stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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94
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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95
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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96
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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97
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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98
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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99
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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100
deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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101
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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102
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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103
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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105
beavers
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| 海狸( beaver的名词复数 )； 海狸皮毛； 棕灰色； 拼命工作的人 | |
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106
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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107
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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108
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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