That of an hour’s age doth hiss7 the speaker.
The World before the Flood or the Intermediate State of the Soul are never once thought of — such is the quick succession of subjects, the suddenness and fugitiveness of the interest taken in them, that the Twopenny Post Bag would be at present looked upon as an old-fashioned publication; and the Battle of Waterloo, like the proverb, is somewhat musty. It is strange that people should take so much interest at one time in what they so soon forget; — the truth is, they feel no interest in it at any time, but it does for something to talk about. Their ideas are served up to them, like their bill of fare, for the day; and the whole creation, history, war, politics, morals, poetry, metaphysics, is to them like a file of antedated8 newspapers, of no use, not even for reference, except the one which lies on the table! You cannot take any of these persons at a greater disadvantage than before they are provided with their cue for the day. They ask with a face of dreary9 vacuity10, ‘Have you anything new?’— and on receiving an answer in the negative, have nothing further to say. (They are like an oyster11 at the ebb12 of the tide, gaping13 for fresh tidings.) Talk of the Westminster Election, the Bridge Street Association, or Mr. Cobbett’s Letter to John Cropper of Liverpool, and they are alive again. Beyond the last twenty-four hours, or the narrow round in which they move, they are utterly14 to seek, without ideas, feelings, interests, apprehensions15 of any sort; so that if you betray any knowledge beyond the vulgar routine of SECOND EDITIONS and first-hand private intelligence, you pass with them for a dull fellow, not acquainted with what is going forward in the world, or with the practical value of things. I have known a person of this stamp censure17 John Cam Hobhouse for referring so often as he does to the affairs of the Greeks and Romans, as if the affairs of the nation were not sufficient for his hands: another asks you if a general in modern times cannot throw a bridge over a river without having studied Caesar’s Commentaries; and a third cannot see the use of the learned languages, as he has observed that the greatest proficients18 in them are rather taciturn than otherwise, and hesitate in their speech more than other people. A dearth19 of general information is almost necessary to the thorough-paced coffee-house politician; in the absence of thought, imagination, sentiment, he is attracted immediately to the nearest commonplace, and floats through the chosen regions of noise and empty rumours21 without difficulty and without distraction22. Meet ‘any six of these men in buckram,’ and they will accost23 you with the same question and the same answer: they have seen it somewhere in print, or had it from some city oracle24, that morning; and the sooner they vent25 their opinions the better, for they will not keep. Like tickets of admission to the theatre for a particular evening, they must be used immediately, or they will be worth nothing: and the object is to find auditors26 for the one and customers for the other, neither of which is difficult; since people who have no ideas of their own are glad to hear what any one else has to say, as those who have not free admissions to the play will very obligingly take up with an occasional order. It sometimes gives one a melancholy27 but mixed sensation to see one of the better sort of this class of politicians, not without talents or learning, absorbed for fifty years together in the all-engrossing topic of the day: mounting on it for exercise and recreation of his faculties28, like the great horse at a riding-school, and after his short, improgressive, untired career, dismounting just where he got up; flying abroad in continual consternation29 on the wings of all the newspapers; waving his arm like a pump-handle in sign of constant change, and spouting30 out torrents31 of puddled politics from his mouth; dead to all interests but those of the state; seemingly neither older nor wiser for age; unaccountably enthusiastic, stupidly romantic, and actuated by no other motive32 than the mechanical operations of the spirit of newsmongering.60
‘What things,’ exclaims Beaumont in his verses to Ben Jonson, ‘have we not seen done at the Mermaid33!
‘Then when there hath been thrown
Wit able enough to justify34 the town
For three days past, wit that might warrant be
For the whole city to talk foolishly!’
I cannot say the same of the Southampton, though it stands on classic ground, and is connected by vocal35 tradition with the great names of the Elizabethan age. What a falling off is here I Our ancestors of that period seem not only to be older by two hundred years, and proportionably wiser and wittier36 than we, but hardly a trace of them is left, not even the memory of what has been. How should I make my friend Mounsey stare, if I were to mention the name of my still better friend, old honest Signor Friscobaldo, the father of Bellafront; — yet his name was perhaps invented, and the scenes in which he figures unrivalled might for the first time have been read aloud to thrilling ears on this very spot! Who reads Decker now? Or if by chance any one awakes the strings37 of that ancient lyre, and starts with delight as they yield wild, broken music, is he not accused of envy to the living Muse38? What would a linen-draper from Holborn think, if I were to ask him after the clerk of St. Andrew’s, the immortal39, the forgotten Webster? His name and his works are no more heard of: though these were written with a pen of adamant40, ‘within the red-leaved tables of the heart,’ his fame was ‘writ in water.’ So perishable41 is genius, so swift is time, so fluctuating is knowledge, and so far is it from being true that men perpetually accumulate the means of improvement and refinement42. On the contrary, living knowledge is the tomb of the dead, and while light and worthless materials float on the surface, the solid and sterling43 as often sink to the bottom, and are swallowed up for ever in weeds and quicksands! — A striking instance of the short-lived nature of popular reputation occurred one evening at the Southampton, when we got into a dispute, the most learned and recondite44 that over took place, on the comparative merits of Lord Byron and Gray. A country gentleman happened to drop in, and thinking to show off in London company, launched into a lofty panegyric45 on The Bard46 of Gray as the sublimest48 composition in the English language. This assertion presently appeared to be an anachronism, though it was probably the opinion in vogue49 thirty years ago, when the gentleman was last in town. After a little floundering, one of the party volunteered to express a more contemporary sentiment, by asking in a tone of mingled51 confidence and doubt —‘But you don’t think, sir, that Gray is to be mentioned as a poet in the same day with my Lord Byron?’ The disputants were now at issue: all that resulted was that Gray was set aside as a poet who would not go down among readers of the present day, and his patron treated the works of the Noble Bard as mere52 ephemeral effusions, and spoke53 of poets that would be admired thirty years hence, which was the farthest stretch of his critical imagination. His antagonist54’s did not even reach so far. This was the most romantic digression we over had; and the subject was not afterwards resumed. — No one here (generally speaking) has the slightest notion of anything that has happened, that has been said, thought, or done out of his own recollection. It would be in vain to hearken after those ‘wit-skirmishes,’ those ‘brave sublunary things’ which were the employment and delight of the Beaumonts and Bens of former times: but we may happily repose55 on dulness, drift with the tide of nonsense, and gain an agreeable vertigo56 by lending an ear to endless controversies57. The confusion, provided you do not mingle50 in the fray58 and try to disentangle it, is amusing and edifying59 enough. Every species of false wit and spurious argument may be learnt here by potent60 examples. Whatever observations you hear dropt have been picked up in the same place or in a kindred atmosphere. There is a kind of conversation made up entirely61 of scraps62 and hearsay63, as there are a kind of books made up entirely of references to other books. This may account for the frequent contradictions which abound64 in the discourse65 of persons educated and disciplined wholly in coffee-houses. There is nothing stable or well-grounded in it: it is ‘nothing but vanity, chaotic66 vanity.’ They hear a remark at the Globe which they do not know what to make of; another at the Rainbow in direct opposition67 to it; and not having time to reconcile them, vent both at the Mitre. In the course of half an hour, if they are not more than ordinarily dull, you are sure to find them on opposite sides of the question. This is the sickening part of it. People do not seem to talk for the sake of expressing their opinions, but to maintain an opinion for the sake of talking. We meet neither with modest ignorance nor studious acquirement. Their knowledge has been taken in too much by snatches to digest properly. There is neither sincerity68 nor system in what they say. They hazard the first crude notion that comes to hand, and then defend it how they can; which is for the most part but ill. ‘Don’t you think,’ says Mounsey, ‘that Mr. ——— is a very sensible, well-informed man?’ ‘Why, no,’ I say, ‘he seems to me to have no ideas of his own, and only to wait to see what others will say in order to set himself against it. I should not think that is the way to get at the truth. I do not desire to be driven out of my conclusions (such as they are) merely to make way for his upstart pretensions69.’—‘Then there is ———: what of him?’ ‘He might very well express all he has to say in half the time, and with half the trouble. Why should he beat about the bush as he does? He appears to be getting up a little speech and practising on a smaller scale for a Debating Society — the lowest ambition a man can have. Besides, by his manner of drawling out his words, and interlarding his periods with innuendos70 and formal reservations, he is evidently making up his mind all the time which side he shall take. He puts his sentences together as printers set up types, letter by letter. There is certainly no principle of short-hand in his mode of elocution. He goes round for a meaning, and the sense waits for him. It is not conversation, but rehearsing a part. Men of education and men of the world order this matter better. They know what they have to say on a subject, and come to the point at once. Your coffee-house politician balances between what he heard last and what he shall say next; and not seeing his way clearly, puts you off with circumstantial phrases, and tries to gain time for fear of making a false step. This gentleman has heard some one admired for precision and copiousness71 of language; and goes away, congratulating himself that he has not made a blunder in grammar or in rhetoric72 the whole evening. He is a theoretical Quidnunc— is tenacious73 in argument, though wary74; carries his point thus and thus, bandies objections and answers with uneasy pleasantry, and when he has the worst of the dispute, puns very emphatically on his adversary’s name, if it admits of that kind of misconstruction.’ George Kirkpatrick is admired by the waiter, who is a sleek75 hand,61 for his temper in managing an argument. Any one else would perceive that the latent cause is not patience with his antagonist, but satisfaction with himself. I think this unmoved self-complacency, this cavalier, smooth, simpering indifference76 is more annoying than the extremest violence or irritability77. The one shows that your opponent does care something about you, and may be put out of his way by your remarks; the other seems to announce that nothing you say can shake his opinion a jot78, that he has considered the whole of what you have to offer beforehand, and that he is in all respects much wiser and more accomplished79 than you. Such persons talk to grown people with the same air of patronage80 and condescension81 that they do to children. ‘They will explain’— is a familiar expression with them, thinking you can only differ from them in consequence of misconceiving what they say. Or if you detect them in any error in point of fact (as to acknowledged deficiency in wit or argument, they would smile at the idea), they add some correction to your correction, and thus have the whip-hand of you again, being more correct than you who corrected them. If you hint some obvious oversight82, they know what you are going to say, and were aware of the objection before you uttered it:—‘So shall their anticipation83 prevent your discovery.’ By being in the right you gain no advantage: by being in the wrong you are entitled to the benefit of their pity or scorn. It is sometimes curious to see a select group of our little Gotham getting about a knotty84 point that will bear a wager85, as whether Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary was originally published in quarto or folio. The confident assertions, the cautious overtures86, the length of time demanded to ascertain87 the fact, the precise terms of the forfeit88, the provisos for getting out of paying it at last, lead to a long and inextricable discussion. George Kirkpatrick was, however, so convinced in his own mind that the Mourning Bride was written by Shakespear, that he ran headlong into the snare89: the bet was decided90, and the punch was drunk. He has skill in numbers, and seldom exceeds his sevenpence. — He had a brother once, no Michael Cassio, no great arithmetician. Roger Kirkpatrick was a rare fellow, of the driest humour, and the nicest tact91, of infinite sleights and evasions92, of a picked phraseology, and the very soul of mimicry93. I fancy I have some insight into physiognomy myself, but he could often expound94 to me at a single glance the characters of those of my acquaintance that I had been most at fault about. The account as it was cast up and balanced between us was not always very favourable95. How finely, how truly, how gaily96 he took off the company at the Southampton! Poor and faint are my sketches98 compared to his! It was like looking into a camera obscura— you saw faces shining and speaking — the smoke curled, the lights dazzled, the oak wainscotting took a higher polish — there was old Sarratt, tall and gaunt, with his couplet from Pope and case at Nisi Prius, Mounsey eyeing the ventilator and lying perdu for a moral, and Hume and Ayrton taking another friendly finishing glass! — These and many more windfalls of character he gave us in thought, word, and action. I remember his once describing three different persons together to myself and Martin Burney, viz. the manager of a country theatre, a tragic99 and a comic performer, till we were ready to tumble on the floor with laughing at the oddity of their humours, and at Roger’s extraordinary powers of ventriloquism, bodily and mental; and Burney said (such was the vividness of the scene) that when he awoke the next morning, he wondered what three amusing characters he had been in company with the evening before. Oh! it was a rich treat to see him describe Mudford, him of the Courier, the Contemplative Man, who wrote an answer to Coelebs, coming into a room, folding up his greatcoat, taking out a little pocket volume, laying it down to think, rubbing the calf100 of his leg with grave self-complacency, and starting out of his reverie when spoken to with an inimitable vapid exclamation101 of ‘Eh!’ Mudford is like a man made of fleecy hosiery: Roger was lank102 and lean ‘as is the ribbed sea-sand.’ Yet he seemed the very man he represented, as fat, pert, and dull as it was possible to be. I have not seen him of late:—
For Kais is fled, and our tents are forlorn.
But I thought of him the other day, when the news of the death of Buonaparte came, whom we both loved for precisely103 contrary reasons, he for putting down the rabble104 of the people, and I because he had put down the rabble of kings. Perhaps this event may rouse him from his lurking-place, where he lies like Reynard, ‘with head declined, in feigned105 slumbers106!’62
I had almost forgotten the Southampton Tavern107. We for some time took C—— for a lawyer, from a certain arguteness of voice and slenderness of neck, and from his having a quibble and a laugh at himself always ready. On inquiry108, however, he was found to be a patent-medicine seller, and having leisure in his apprenticeship109, and a forwardness of parts, he had taken to study Blackstone and the Statutes110 at Large. On appealing to Mounsey for his opinion on this matter, he observed pithily111, ‘I don’t like so much law: the gentlemen here seem fond of law, but I have law enough at chambers112.’ One sees a great deal of the humours and tempers of men in a place of this sort, and may almost gather their opinions from their characters. There is C——a fellow that is always in the wrong — who puts might for right on all occasions — a Tory in grain — who has no one idea but what has been instilled113 into him by custom and authority — an everlasting114 babbler on the stronger side of the question — querulous and dictatorial115, and with a peevish116 whine117 in his voice like a beaten schoolboy. He is a great advocate for the Bourbons and for the National Debt. The former he affirms to be the choice of the French people, and the latter he insists is necessary to the salvation118 of these kingdoms. This last point a little inoffensive gentleman among us, of a saturnine119 aspect but simple conceptions, cannot comprehend. ‘I will tell you, sir — I will make my propositions so clear that you will be convinced of the truth of my observation in a moment. Consider, sir, the number of trades that would be thrown out of employ if it were done away with: what would become of the porcelain120 manufacture without it?’ Any stranger to overhear one of these debates would swear that the English as a nation are bad logicians. Mood and figure are unknown to them. They do not argue by the book. They arrive at conclusions through the force of prejudice, and on the principles of contradiction. Mr. C—— having thus triumphed in argument, offers a flower to the notice of the company as a specimen122 of his flower-garden, a curious exotic, nothing like it to be found in this kingdom; talks of his carnations123, of his country-house, and old English hospitality, but never invites any of his friends to come down and take their Sunday’s dinner with him. He is mean and ostentatious at the same time, insolent124 and servile, does not know whether to treat those he converses125 with as if they were his porters or his customers: the prentice-boy is not yet wiped out of him, and his imagination still hovers126 between his mansion127 at ——— and the workhouse. Opposed to him and to every one else is B., a radical128 reformer and logician121, who makes clear work of the taxes and National Debt, reconstructs the Government from the first principles of things, shatters the Holy Alliance at a blow, grinds out the future prospects129 of society with a machine, and is setting out afresh with the commencement of the French Revolution five and twenty years ago, as if on an untried experiment. He minds nothing but the formal agreement of his premises130 and his conclusions, and does not stick at obstacles in the way, nor consequences in the end. If there was but one side of a question, he would be always in the right. He casts up one column of the account to admiration131, but totally forgets and rejects the other. His ideas lie like square pieces of wood in his brain, and may be said to be piled up on a stiff architectural principle, perpendicularly132, and at right angles. There is no inflection, no modification133, no graceful134 embellishment, no Corinthian capitals. I never heard him agree to two propositions together, or to more than half a one at a time. His rigid135 love of truth bends to nothing but his habitual136 love of disputation. He puts one in mind of one of those long-headed politicians and frequenters of coffee-houses mentioned in Berkeley’s Minute Philosopher, who would make nothing of such old-fashioned fellows as Plato and Aristotle. He has the new light strong upon him, and he knocks other people down with its solid beams. He denies that he has got certain views out of Cobbett, though he allows that there are excellent ideas occasionally to be met with in that writer. It is a pity that this enthusiastic and unqualified regard to truth should be accompanied with an equal exactness of expenditure137 and unrelenting eye to the main chance. He brings a bunch of radishes with him for cheapness, and gives a band of musicians at the door a penny, observing that he likes their performance better than all the Opera squalling. This brings the severity of his political principles into question, if not into contempt. He would abolish the National Debt from motives138 of personal economy, and objects to Mr. Canning’s pension because it perhaps takes a farthing a year out of his own pocket. A great deal of radical reasoning has its source in this feeling. — He bestows139 no small quantity of his tediousness upon Mounsey, on whose mind all these formulas and diagrams fall like seed on stony140 ground: ‘while the manna is descending,’ he shakes his ears, and, in the intervals141 of the debate, insinuates142 an objection, and calls for another half-pint. I have sometimes said to him, ‘Any one to come in here without knowing you, would take you for the most disputatious man alive, for you are always engaged in an argument with somebody or other.’ The truth is, that Mounsey is a good-natured, gentlemanly man, who notwithstanding, if appealed to, will not let an absurd or unjust proposition pass without expressing his dissent143; and therefore he is a sort of mark for all those (and we have several of that stamp) who like to tease other people’s understandings as wool-combers tease wool. He is certainly the flower of the flock. He is the oldest frequenter of the place, the latest sitter-up, well-informed, inobtrusive, and that sturdy old English character, a lover of truth and justice. I never knew Mounsey approve of anything unfair or illiberal144. There is a candour and uprightness about his mind which can neither be wheedled145 nor browbeat146 into unjustifiable complaisance147. He looks straight forward as he sits with his glass in his hand, turning neither to the right nor the left, and I will venture to say that he has never had a sinister148 object in view through life. Mrs. Battle (it is recorded in her Opinions on Whist) could not make up her mind to use the word ‘Go.’ Mounsey, from long practice, has got over this difficulty, and uses it incessantly149. It is no matter what adjunct follows in the train of this despised monosyllable — whatever liquid comes after this prefix150 is welcome. Mounsey, without being the most communicative, is the most conversible man I know. The social principle is inseparable from his person. If he has nothing to say, he drinks your health; and when you cannot, from the rapidity and carelessness of his utterance151, catch what he says, you assent152 to it with equal confidence: you know his meaning is good. His favourite phrase is, ‘We have all of us something of the coxcomb’; and yet he has none of it himself. Before I had exchanged half a dozen sentences with Mounsey, I found that he knew several of my old acquaintance (an immediate20 introduction of itself, for the discussing the characters and foibles of common friends is a great sweetener and cement of friendship)— and had been intimate with most of the wits and men about town for the last twenty years. He knew Tobin, Wordsworth, Porson, Wilson, Paley, Erskine, and many others. He speaks of Paley’s pleasantry and unassuming manners, and describes Porson’s long potations and long quotations153 formerly154 at the Cider Cellar in a very lively way. He has doubts, however, as to that sort of learning. On my saying that I had never seen the Greek Professor but once, at the Library of the London Institution, when he was dressed in an old rusty155 black coat with cobwebs hanging to the skirts of it, and with a large patch of coarse brown paper covering the whole length of his nose, looking for all the world like a drunken carpenter, and talking to one of the proprietors157 with an air of suavity158, approaching to condescension, Mounsey could not help expressing some little uneasiness for the credit of classical literature. ‘I submit, sir, whether common sense is not the principal thing? What is the advantage of genius and learning if they are of no use in the conduct of life?’— Mounsey is one who loves the hours that usher159 in the morn, when a select few are left in twos and threes like stars before the break of day, and when the discourse and the ale are ‘aye growing better and better.’ Wells, Mounsey, and myself were all that remained one evening. We had sat together several hours without being tired of one another’s company. The conversation turned on the Beauties of Charles the Second’s Court at Windsor, and from thence to Count Grammont, their gallant160 and gay historian. We took our favourite passages in turn — one preferring that of Killigrew’s country cousin, who, having been resolutely161 refused by Miss Warminster (one of the Maids of Honour), when he found she had been unexpectedly brought to bed, fell on his knees and thanked God that now she might take compassion162 on him — another insisting that the Chevalier Hamilton’s assignation with Lady Chesterfield, when she kept him all night shivering in an old out-house, was better. Jacob Hall’s prowess was not forgotten, nor the story of Miss Stuart’s garters. I was getting on in my way with that delicate endroit in which Miss Churchill is first introduced at court and is besieged163 (as a matter of course) by the Duke of York, who was gallant as well as bigoted164 on system. His assiduities, however, soon slackened, owing (it is said) to her having a pale, thin face: till one day, as they were riding out hunting together, she fell from her horse, and was taken up almost lifeless. The whole assembled court was thrown by this event into admiration that such a body should belong to such a face63 (so transcendent a pattern was she of the female form), and the Duke was fixed165. This, I contended, was striking, affecting, and grand, the sublime47 of amorous166 biography, and said I could conceive of nothing finer than the idea of a young person in her situation, who was the object of indifference or scorn from outward appearance, with the proud suppressed consciousness of a Goddess-like symmetry, locked up by ‘fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women,’ from the wonder and worship of mankind. I said so then, and I think so now: my tongue grew wanton in the praise of this passage, and I believe it bore the bell from its competitors. Wells then spoke of Lucius Apuleius and his Golden Ass4, which contains the story of Cupid and Psyche167, with other matter rich and rare, and went on to the romance of Heliodorus, Theagenes and Chariclea and in it the presiding deities168 of Love and Wine appear in all their pristine169 strength, youth, and grace, crowned and worshipped as of yore. The night waned170, but our glasses brightened, enriched with the pearls of Grecian story. Our cup-bearer slept in a corner of the room, like another Endymion, in the pale ray of a half-extinguished lamp, and starting up at a fresh summons for a further supply, he swore it was too late, and was inexorable to entreaty171. Mounsey sat with his hat on and with a hectic172 flush in his face while any hope remained, but as soon as we rose to go, he darted173 out of the room as quick as lightning, determined174 not to be the last that went. — I said some time after to the waiter, that ‘Mr. Mounsey was no flincher175.’ ‘Oh! sir,’ says he, ‘you should have known him formerly, when Mr. Hume and Mr. Ayrton used to be here. Now he is quite another man: he seldom stays later than one or two.’—‘Why, did they keep it up much then?’ ‘Oh! yes; and used to sing catches and all sorts.’—‘What, did Mr. Mounsey sing catches?’ ‘He joined chorus, sir, and was as merry as the best of them. He was always a pleasant gentleman!’— This Hume and Ayrton succumbed176 in the fight. Ayrton was a dry Scotchman, Hume a good-natured, hearty177 Englishman. I do not mean that the same character applies to all Scotchmen or to all Englishmen. Hume was of the Pipe–Office (not unfitly appointed), and in his cheerfuller cups would delight to speak of a widow and a bowling-green, that ran in his head to the last. ‘What is the good of talking of those things now?’ said the man of utility. ‘I don’t know,’ replied the other, quaffing178 another glass of sparkling ale, and with a lambent fire playing in his eye and round his bald forehead —(he had a head that Sir Joshua would have made something bland179 and genial180 of)—‘I don’t know, but they were delightful181 to me at the time, and are still pleasant to talk and think of.’—Such a one, in Touchstone’s phrase, is a natural philosopher; and in nine cases out of ten that sort of philosophy is the best! I could enlarge this sketch97, such as it is; but to prose on to the end of the chapter might prove less profitable than tedious.
I like very well to sit in a room where there are people talking on subjects I know nothing of, if I am only allowed to sit silent and as a spectator; but I do not much like to join in the conversation, except with people and on subjects to my taste. Sympathy is necessary to society. To look on, a variety of faces, humours, and opinions is sufficient; to mix with others, agreement as well as variety is indispensable. What makes good society? I answer, in one word, real fellowship. Without a similitude of tastes, acquirements, and pursuits (whatever may be the difference of tempers and characters) there can be no intimacy182 or even casual intercourse183 worth the having. What makes the most agreeable party? A number of people with a number of ideas in common, ‘yet so as with a difference’; that is, who can put one or more subjects which they have all studied in the greatest variety of entertaining or useful lights. Or, in other words, a succession of good things said with good-humour, and addressed to the understandings of those who hear them, make the most desirable conversation. Ladies, lovers, beaux, wits, philosophers, the fashionable or the vulgar, are the fittest company for one another. The discourse at Randal’s is the best for boxers184; that at Long’s for lords and loungers. I prefer Hunt’s conversation almost to any other person’s, because, with a familiar range of subjects, he colours with a totally new and sparkling light, reflected from his own character. Elia, the grave and witty185, says things not to be surpassed in essence; but the manner is more painful and less a relief to my own thoughts. Some one conceived he could not be an excellent companion, because he was seen walking down the side of the Thames, passibus iniquis, after dining at Richmond. The objection was not valid186. I will, however, admit that the said Elia is the worst company in the world in bad company, if it be granted me that in good company he is nearly the best that can be. He is one of those of whom it may be said, Tell me your company, and I’ll tell you your manners. He is the creature of sympathy, and makes good whatever opinion you seem to entertain of him. He cannot outgo the apprehensions of the circle, and invariably acts up or down to the point of refinement or vulgarity at which they pitch him. He appears to take a pleasure in exaggerating the prejudice of strangers against him; a pride in confirming the prepossessions of friends. In whatever scale of intellect he is placed, he is as lively or as stupid as the rest can be for their lives. If you think him odd and ridiculous, he becomes more and more so every minute, a la folie, till he is a wonder gazed (at) by all — set him against a good wit and a ready apprehension16, and he brightens more and more —
Or like a gate of steel
Fronting the sun, receives and renders back
Its figure and its heat.
We had a pleasant party one evening at Procter’s. A young literary bookseller who was present went away delighted with the elegance187 of the repast, and spoke in raptures188 of a servant in green livery and a patent lamp. I thought myself that the charm of the evening consisted in some talk about Beaumont and Fletcher and the old poets, in which every one took part or interest, and in a consciousness that we could not pay our host a better compliment than in thus alluding189 to studies in which he excelled, and in praising authors whom he had imitated with feeling and sweetness! — I should think it may also be laid down as a rule on this subject, that to constitute good company a certain proportion of hearers and speakers is requisite190. Coleridge makes good company for this reason. He immediately establishes the principle of the division of labour in this respect wherever he comes. He takes his cue as speaker, and the rest of the party theirs as listeners — a ‘Circa herd’— without any previous arrangement having been gone through. I will just add that there can be no good society without perfect freedom from affectation and constraint191. If the unreserved communication of feeling or opinion leads to offensive familiarity, it is not well; but it is no better where the absence of offensive remarks arises only from formality and an assumed respectfulness of manner.
I do not think there is anything deserving the name of society to be found out of London; and that for the two following reasons. First, there is neighbourhood elsewhere, accidental or unavoidable acquaintance: people are thrown together by chance or grow together like trees; but you can pick your society nowhere but in London. The very persons that of all others you would wish to associate with in almost every line of life (or at least of intellectual pursuit) are to be met with there. It is hard if out of a million of people you cannot find half a dozen to your liking192. Individuals may seem lost and hid in the size of the place; but in fact, from this very circumstance, you are within two or three miles’ reach of persons that, without it, you would be some hundreds apart from. Secondly193, London is the only place in which each individual in company is treated according to his value in company, and to that only. In every other part of the kingdom he carries another character about with him, which supersedes194 the intellectual or social one. It is known in Manchester or Liverpool what every man in the room is worth in land or money; what are his connections and prospects in life — and this gives a character of servility or arrogance195, of mercenaries or impertinence to the whole of provincial196 intercourse. You laugh not in proportion to a man’s wit, but his wealth; you have to consider not what, but whom you contradict. You speak by the pound, and are heard by the rood. In the metropolis197 there is neither time nor inclination198 for these remote calculations. Every man depends on the quantity of sense, wit, or good manners he brings into society for the reception he meets with in it. A Member of Parliament soon finds his level as a commoner: the merchant and manufacturer cannot bring his goods to market here: the great landed proprietor156 shrinks from being the lord of acres into a pleasant companion or a dull fellow. When a visitor enters or leaves a room, it is not inquired whether he is rich or poor, whether he lives in a garret or a palace, or comes in his own or a hackney coach, but whether he has a good expression of countenance199, with an unaffected manner, and whether he is a man of understanding or a blockhead. These are the circumstances by which you make a favourable impression on the company, and by which they estimate you in the abstract. In the country, they consider whether you have a vote at the next election or a place in your gift, and measure the capacity of others to instruct or entertain them by the strength of their pockets and their credit with their banker. Personal merit is at a prodigious200 discount in the provinces. I like the country very well if I want to enjoy my own company; but London is the only place for equal society, or where a man can say a good thing or express an honest opinion without subjecting himself to being insulted, unless he first lays his purse on the table to back his pretensions to talent or independence of spirit. I speak from experience.
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1
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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relishes
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| n.滋味( relish的名词复数 )；乐趣；（大量的）享受；快乐v.欣赏( relish的第三人称单数 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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antedated
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| v.（在历史上）比…为早( antedate的过去式和过去分词 )；先于；早于；（在信、支票等上）填写比实际日期早的日期 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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proficients
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| 精通的，熟练的( proficient的名词复数 ) | |
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dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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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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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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32
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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wittier
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的比较级 ) | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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38
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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40
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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42
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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44
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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sublimest
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| 伟大的( sublime的最高级 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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49
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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50
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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51
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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52
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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53
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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54
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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55
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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56
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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57
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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58
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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59
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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60
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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63
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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64
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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68
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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69
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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70
innuendos
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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71
copiousness
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| n.丰裕，旺盛 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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73
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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76
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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81
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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82
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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89
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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92
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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93
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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94
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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101
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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102
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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103
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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104
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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108
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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109
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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110
statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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pithily
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| adv.有力地，简洁地 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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115
dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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116
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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117
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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118
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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119
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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120
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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121
logician
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| n.逻辑学家 | |
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122
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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123
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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124
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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125
converses
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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127
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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128
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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129
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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130
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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131
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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132
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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133
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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134
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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135
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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136
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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137
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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138
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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139
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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141
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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142
insinuates
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| n.暗示( insinuate的名词复数 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入v.暗示( insinuate的第三人称单数 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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143
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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144
illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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145
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
browbeat
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| v.欺侮；吓唬 | |
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147
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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148
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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149
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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150
prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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151
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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152
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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153
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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154
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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155
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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156
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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157
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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158
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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159
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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160
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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161
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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162
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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163
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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165
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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166
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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167
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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168
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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169
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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170
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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171
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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172
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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173
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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174
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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175
flincher
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| （因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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177
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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178
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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179
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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180
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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181
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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182
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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183
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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184
boxers
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| n.拳击短裤；（尤指职业）拳击手( boxer的名词复数 )；拳师狗 | |
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185
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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186
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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187
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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188
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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189
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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190
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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191
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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192
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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193
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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194
supersedes
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| 取代，接替( supersede的第三人称单数 ) | |
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195
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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196
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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197
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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198
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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199
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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200
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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