A short time after the piece of good fortune which befell Colonel Altamont at Epsom, that gentleman put into execution his projected foreign tour, and the chronicler of the polite world who goes down to London Bridge for the purpose of taking leave of the people of fashion who quit this country, announced that among the company on board the Soho to Antwerp last Saturday, were “Sir Robert, Lady, and the Misses Hodge; Mr. Serjeant Kewsy, and Mrs. and Miss Kewsy; Colonel Altamont, Major Coddy, etc.” The Colonel travelled in state, and as became a gentleman: he appeared in a rich travelling costume; he drank brandy-and-water freely during the passage, and was not sick, as some of the other passengers were; and he was attended by his body-servant; the faithful Irish legionary who had been for some time in waiting upon himself and Captain Strong in their chambers1 of Shepherd’s Inn.
The Chevalier partook of a copious2 dinner at Blackwall with his departing friend the Colonel, and one or two others, who drank many healths to Altamont at that liberal gentleman’s expense. “Strong, old boy,” the Chevalier’s worthy3 chum said, “if you want a little money, now’s your time. I’m your man. You’re a good feller, and have been a good feller to me, and a twenty-pound note, more or less, will make no odds4 to me,” But Strong said, No, he didn’t want any money; he was flush, quite flush — “that is, not flush enough to pay you back your last loan, Altamont, but quite able to carry on for some time to come,” and so, with a not uncordial greeting between them, the two parted. Had the possession of money really made Altamont more honest and amiable5 than he had hitherto been, or only caused him to seem more amiable in Strong’s eyes? Perhaps he really was better, and money improved him. Perhaps it was the beauty of wealth Strong saw and respected. But he argued within himself, “This poor devil, this unlucky outcast of a returned convict, is ten times as good a fellow as my friend Sir Francis Clavering, Bart. He has pluck and honesty in his way. He will stick to a friend, and face an enemy. The other never had courage to do either. And what is it that has put the poor devil under a cloud? He was only a little wild, and signed his father-inlaw’s name. Many a man has done worse, and come to no wrong, and holds his head up. Clavering does. No, he don’t hold his head up: he never did in his best days.” And Strong, perhaps, repented6 him of the falsehood which he had told to the free-handed Colonel, that he was not in want of money; but it was a falsehood on the side of honesty, and the Chevalier could not bring down his stomach to borrow a second time from his outlawed7 friend. Besides, he could get on. Clavering had promised him some: not that Clavering’s promises were much to be believed, but the Chevalier was of a hopeful turn, and trusted in many chances of catching8 his patron, and waylaying9 some of those stray remittances10 and supplies, in the procuring11 of which for his principal lay Mr. Strong’s chief business.
He had grumbled12 about Altamont’s companionship in the Shepherd’s Inn chambers; but he found those lodgings13 more glum14 now without his partner than with him. The solitary15 life was not agreeable to his social soul; and he had got into extravagant16 and luxurious17 habits, too, having a servant at his command to run his errands, to arrange his toilets, and to cook his meal. It was rather a grand and touching18 sight now to see the portly and handsome gentleman painting his own boots, and broiling19 his own mutton chop. It has been before stated that the Chevalier had a wife, a Spanish lady of Vittoria, who had gone back to her friends, after a few months’ union with the Captain, whose head she broke with a dish. He began to think whether he should not go back and see his Juanita. The Chevalier was growing melancholy20 after the departure of his friend the Colonel; or, to use his own picturesque21 expression, was “down on his luck.” These moments of depression and intervals22 of ill fortune occur constantly in the lives of heroes; Marius at Minturme, Charles Edward in the Highlands, Napoleon before Elba. What great man has not been called upon to face evil fortune?
From Clavering no supplies were to be had for some time, the five-and-twenty pounds or the “pony,” which the exemplary Baronet had received from Mr. Altamont, had fled out of Clavering’s keeping as swiftly as many previous ponies24. He had been down the river with a choice party of sporting gents, who dodged25 the police and landed in Essex, where they put up Billy Bluck to fight Dick the cabman whom the Baronet backed, and who had it all his own way for thirteen rounds, when, by an unlucky blow in the windpipe, Billy killed him. “It’s always my luck, Strong,” Sir Francis said; “the betting was three to one on the cabman, and I thought myself as sure of thirty pound, as if I had it in my pocket. And dammy, I owe my man Lightfoot fourteen pound now which he’s lent and paid for me: and he duns me — the confounded impudent26 blackguard: and I wish to Heaven I knew any way of getting a bill done, or of screwing a little out of my lady! I’ll give you half, Ned, upon my soul and honour, I’ll give you half if you can get anybody to do us a little fifty.”
But Ned said sternly that he had given his word of honour, as a gentleman, that he would be no party to any future bill transactions in which her husband might engage (who had given his word of honour too), and the Chevalier said that he, at least, would keep his word, and would black his own boots all his life rather than break his promise. And what is more, he vowed27 he would advise Lady Clavering that Sir Francis was about to break his faith towards her upon the very first hint which he could get that such was Clavering’s intention.
Upon this information Sir Francis Clavering, according to his custom, cried and cursed very volubly. He spoke28 of death as his only resource. He besought29 and implored30 his dear Strong, his best friend, his dear old Ned, not to throw him over: and when he quitted his dearest Ned, as he went down the stairs of Shepherd’s Inn, swore and blasphemed at Ned as the most infernal villain31, and traitor32, and blackguard, and coward under the sun, and wished Ned was in his grave, and in a worse place, only he would like the confounded ruffian to live, until Frank Clavering had had his revenge out of him.
In Strong’s chambers the Baronet met a gentleman whose visits were now, as it has been shown, very frequent in Shepherd’s Inn, Mr. Samuel Huxter, of Clavering. That young fellow, who had poached the walnuts33 in Clavering Park in his youth, and had seen the Baronet drive through the street at home with four horses, and prance34 up to church with powdered footmen, had an immense respect for his Member, and a prodigious35 delight in making his acquaintance. He introduced himself with much blushing and trepidation36, as a Clavering man — son of Mr. Huxter, of the market-place — father attended Sir Francis’s keeper, Coxwood, when his gun burst and took off three fingers — proud to make Sir Francis’s acquaintance. All of which introduction Sir Francis received affably. And honest Huxter talked about Sir Francis to the chaps at Bartholomew’s: and told Fanny, in the lodge37, that, after all, there was nothing like a thoroughbred un, a regular good old English gentleman, one of the olden time! To which Fanny replied, that she thought Sir Francis was an ojous creature — she didn’t know why — but she couldn’t abear him — she was sure he was wicked, and low, and mean — she knew he was; and when Sam to this replied that Sir Francis was very affable, and had borrowed half a sov’ of him quite kindly38, Fanny burst into a laugh, pulled Sam’s long hair (which was not yet of irreproachable39 cleanliness), patted his chin, and called him a stoopid, stoopid, old foolish stoopid, and said that Sir Francis was always borrering money of everybody, and that Mar23 had actially refused him twice, and had had to wait three months to get seven shillings which he had borrowed of ‘er.
“Don’t say ‘er but her, borrer but borrow, actially but actually, Fanny,” Mr. Huxter replied — not to a fault in her argument, but to grammatical errors in her statement.
“Well then, her, and borrow, and hactually — there then, you stoopid,” said the other; and the scholar made such a pretty face that the grammar master was quickly appeased40, and would have willingly given her a hundred more lessons on the spot at the price which he took for that one.
Of course Mrs. Bolton was by, and I suppose that Fanny and Dr. Sam were on exceedingly familiar and confidential41 terms by this time, and that time had brought to the former certain consolations42, and soothed43 certain regrets, which are deucedly bitter when they occur, but which are, no more than tooth-pulling, or any other pang44, eternal.
As you sit, surrounded by respect and affection; happy, honoured, and flattered in your old age; your foibles gently indulged; your least words kindly cherished; your garrulous45 old stories received for the hundredth time with dutiful forbearance, and never-failing hypocritical smiles; the women of your house constant in their flatteries; the young men hushed and attentive46 when you begin to speak; the servants awestricken; the tenants47 cap in hand, and ready to act in the place of your worship’s horses when your honour takes a drive — it has often struck you, O thoughtful Dives! that this respect, and these glories, are for the main part transferred, with your fee-simple, to your successor — that the servants will bow, and the tenants shout, for your son as for you; that the butler will fetch him the wine (improved by a little keeping) that’s now in your cellar; and that, when your night is come, and the light of your life is gone down, as sure as the morning rises after you and without you, the sun of prosperity and flattery shines on your heir. Men come and bask48 in the halo of consols and acres that beams round about him: the reverence49 is transferred with the estate; of which, with all its advantages, pleasures, respect, and good-will, he in turn becomes the life-tenant. How long do you wish or expect that your people will regret you? How much time does a man devote to grief before he begins to enjoy? A great man must keep his heir at his feast like a living memento50 mori. If he holds very much by life, the presence of the other must be a constant sting and warning. “Make ready to go,” says the successor to your honour; “I am waiting: and I could hold it as well as you.”
What has this reference to the possible reader, to do with any of the characters of this history? Do we wish to apologise for Pen because he has got a white hat, and because his mourning for his mother is fainter? All the lapse51 of years, all the career of fortune, all the events of life, however strongly they may move or eagerly excite him, never can remove that sainted image from his heart, or banish52 that blessed love from its sanctuary53. If he yields to wrong, the dear eyes will look sadly upon him when he dares to meet them; if he does well, endures pain, or conquers temptation, the ever present love will greet him, he knows, with approval and pity; if he falls, plead for him; if he suffers, cheer him; — be with him and accompany him always until death is past; and sorrow and sin are no more. Is this mere54 dreaming, or, on the part of an idle story-teller, useless moralising? May not the man of the world take his moment, too, to be grave and thoughtful? Ask of your own hearts and memories, brother and sister, if we do not live in the dead; and (to speak reverently) prove God by love?
Of these matters Pen and Warrington often spoke in many a solemn and friendly converse55 in after days; and Pendennis’s mother was worshipped in his memory, and canonised there, as such a saint ought to be. Lucky he in life who knows a few such women! A kind provision of Heaven it was, that sent us such; and gave us to admire that touching and wonderful spectacle of innocence56, and love, and beauty.
But as it is certain that if, in the course of these sentimental57 conversations, any outer stranger, Major Pendennis for instance, had walked into Pen’s chambers, Arthur and Warrington would have stopped their talk, and chosen another subject, and discoursed58 about the Opera, or the last debate in Parliament, or Miss Jones’s marriage with Captain Smith, or what not,— so, let us imagine that the public steps in at this juncture59, and stops the confidential talk between author and reader, and begs us to resume our remarks about this world, with which both are certainly better acquainted than with that other one into which we have just been peeping.
On coming into his property, Arthur Pendennis at first comported60 himself with a modesty61 and equanimity62 which obtained his friend Warrington’s praises, though Arthur’s uncle was a little inclined to quarrel with his nephew’s meanness of spirit, for not assuming greater state and pretensions63 now that he had entered on the enjoyment64 of his kingdom. He would have had Arthur installed in handsome quarters, and riding on showy park hacks65, or in well-built cabriolets, every day. “I am too absent,” Arthur said, with a laugh, “to drive a cab in London; the omnibus would cut me in two, or I should send my horse’s head into the ladies’ carriage-windows; and you wouldn’t have me driven about by my servant like an apothecary66, uncle?” No, Major Pendennis would on no account have his nephew appear like an apothecary; the august representative of the house of Pendennis must not so demean himself. And when Arthur, pursuing his banter67, said, “And yet, I dare say, sir, my father was proud enough when he first set up his gig,” the old Major hemmed68 and ha’d, and his wrinkled face reddened with a blush as he answered, “You know what Buonaparte said, sir, ‘Il faut laver son linge sale en famille.’ There is no need, sir, for you to brag69 that your father was a — a medical man. He came of a most ancient but fallen house, and was obliged to reconstruct the family fortunes as many a man of good family has done before him. You are like the fellow in Sterne, sir — the Marquis who came to demand his sword again. Your father got back yours for you. You are a man of landed estate, by Gad70, sir, and a gentleman — never forget you are a gentleman.”
Then Arthur slily turned on his uncle the argument which he had heard the old gentleman often use regarding himself. “In the society which I have the honour of frequenting through your introduction, who cares to ask about my paltry71 means or my humble72 gentility, uncle?” he asked. “It would be absurd of me to attempt to compete with the great folks; and all that they can ask from us is, that we should have a decent address and good manners.”
“But for all that, sir, I should belong to a better Club or two,” the uncle answered: “I should give an occasional dinner, and select my society well; and I should come out of that horrible garret in the Temple, sir.” And so Arthur compromised by descending73 to the second floor in Lamb Court: Warrington still occupying his old quarters, and the two friends being determined74 not to part one from the other. Cultivate kindly, reader, those friendships of your youth: it is only in that generous time that they are formed. How different the intimacies75 of after days are, and how much weaker the grasp of your own hand after it has been shaken about in twenty years’ commerce with the world, and has squeezed and dropped a thousand equally careless palms! As you can seldom fashion your tongue to speak a new language after twenty, the heart refuses to receive friendship pretty soon: it gets too hard to yield to the impression.
So Pen had many acquaintances, and being of a jovial76 and easy turn, got more daily: but no friend like Warrington; and the two men continued to live almost as much in common as the Knights77 of the Temple, riding upon one horse (for Pen’s was at Warrington’s service), and having their chambers and their servitor in common.
Mr. Warrington had made the acquaintance of Pen’s friends of Grosvenor Place during their last unlucky season in London, and had expressed himself no better satisfied with Sir Francis and Lady Clavering and her ladyship’s daughter than was the public in general. “The world is right,” George said, “about those people. The young men laugh and talk freely before those ladies, and about them. The girl sees people whom she has no right to know, and talks to men with whom no girl should have an intimacy78. Did you see those two reprobates79 leaning over Lady Clavering’s carriage in the Park the other day, and leering under Miss Blanche’s bonnet80? No good mother would let her daughter know those men, or admit them within her doors.”
“The Begum is the most innocent and good-natured soul alive,” interposed Pen. “She never heard any harm of Captain Blackball, or read that trial in which Charley Lovelace figures. Do you suppose that honest ladies read and remember the Chronique Scandaleuse as well as you, you old grumbler81?”
“Would you like Laura Bell to know those fellows?” Warrington asked, his face turning rather red. “Would you let any woman you loved be contaminated by their company? I have no doubt that the poor Begum is ignorant of their histories. It seems to me she is ignorant of a great number of better things. It seems to me that your honest Begum is not a lady, Pen. It is not her fault, doubtless, that she has not had the education, or learned the refinements82 of a lady.”
“She is as moral as Lady Portsea, who has all the world at her balls, and as refined as Mrs. Bull, who breaks the King’s English. and has half a dozen dukes at her table,” Pen answered, rather sulkily. “Why should you and I be more squeamish than the rest of the world? Why are we to visit the sins of her father on this harmless kind creature? She never did anything but kindness to you or any mortal soul. As far as she knows she does her best. She does not set up to be more than she is. She gives you the best dinners she can buy, and the best company she can get. She pays the debts of that scamp of a husband of hers. She spoils her boy like the most virtuous83 mother in England. Her opinion about literary matters, to be sure, is not much; and I daresay she never read a line of Wordsworth, or heard of Tennyson in her life.”
“No more has Mrs. Flanagan the laundress,” growled84 out Pen’s Mentor85; “no more has Betty the housemaid; and I have no word of blame against them. But a high-souled man doesn’t make friends of these. A gentleman doesn’t choose these for his companions, or bitterly rues86 it afterwards if he do. Are you, who are setting up to be a man of the world and a philosopher, to tell me that the aim of life is to guttle three courses and dine off silver? Do you dare to own to yourself that your ambition in life is good claret, and that you’ll dine with any, provided you get a stalled ox to feed on? You call me a Cynic — why, what a monstrous87 Cynicism it is, which you and the rest of you men of the world admit! I’d rather live upon raw turnips88 and sleep in a hollow tree, or turn backwoodsman or savage89, than degrade myself to this civilisation90, and own that a French cook was the thing in life best worth living for.”
“Because you like a raw beefsteak and a pipe afterwards,” broke out Pen, “you give yourself airs of superiority over people whose tastes are more dainty, and are not ashamed of the world they live in. Who goes about professing91 particular admiration93, or esteem94, or friendship, or gratitude95 even, for the people one meets every day? If A. asks me to his house, and gives me his best, I take his good things for what they are worth and no more. I do not profess92 to pay him back in friendship, but in the conventional money of society. When we part, we part without any grief. When we meet, we are tolerably glad to see one another. If I were only to live with my friends, your black muzzle96, old George, is the only face I should see.”
“You are your uncle’s pupil,” said Warrington, rather sadly; and you speak like a worldling.”
“And why not?” asked Pendennis; “why not acknowledge the world I stand upon, and submit to the conditions of the society which we live in and live by? I am older than you, George, in spite of your grizzled whiskers, and have seen much more of the world than you have in your garret here, shut up with your books and your reveries and your ideas of one-and-twenty. I say, I take the world as it is, and being of it, will not be ashamed of it. If the time is out of joint97, have I any calling or strength to set it right?”
“Indeed, I don’t think you have much of either,” growled Pen’s interlocutor.
“If I doubt whether I am better than my neighbour,” Arthur continued, “if I concede that I am no better,— I also doubt whether he is better than I. I see men who begin with ideas of universal reform, and who, before their beards are grown, propound98 their loud plans for the regeneration of mankind, give up their schemes after a few years of bootless talking and vainglorious99 attempts to lead their fellows; and after they have found that men will no longer bear them, as indeed they never were in the least worthy to be heard, sink quietly into the ranks-and-file,— acknowledging their aims impracticable, or thankful that they were never put into practice. The fiercest reformers grow calm, and are faire to put up with things as they are: the loudest Radical100 orators102 become dumb, quiescent103 placemen: the most fervent104 Liberals when out of power, become humdrum105 Conservatives or downright tyrants106 or despots in office. Look at the Thiers, look at Guizot, in opposition107 and in place! Look at the Whigs appealing to the country, and the Whigs in power! Would you say that the conduct of these men is an act of treason, as the Radicals108 bawl,— who would give way in their turn, were their turn ever to come? No, only that they submit to circumstances which are stronger than they,— march as the world marches towards reform, but at the world’s pace (and the movements of the vast body of mankind must needs be slow), forgo109 this scheme as impracticable, on account of opposition,— that as immature110, because against the sense of the majority,— are forced to calculate drawbacks and difficulties, as well as to think of reforms and advances,— and compelled finally to submit, and to wait, and to compromise.”
“The Right Honourable111 Arthur Pendennis could not speak better, or be more satisfied with himself, if he was First Lord of the Treasury112 and Chancellor113 of the Exchequer,” Warrington said.
“Self-satisfied? Why self-satisfied?” continued Pen. “It seems to me that my scepticism is more respectful and more modest than the revolutionary ardour of other folks. Many a patriot114 of eighteen, many a Spouting-Club orator101, would turn the Bishops116 out of the House of Lords tomorrow, and throw the Lords out after the Bishops, and throw the Throne into the Thames after the Peers and the Bench. Is that man more modest than I, who takes these institutions as I find them, and waits for time and truth to develop, or fortify117, or (if you like) destroy them? A college tutor, or a nobleman’s toady118, who appears one fine day as my right reverend lord, in a silk apron119 and a shovel-hat, and assumes benedictory airs over me, is still the same man we remember at Oxbridge, when he was truckling to the tufts, and bullying120 the poor undergraduates in the lecture-room. An hereditary121 legislator, who passes his time with jockeys and black-legs and ballet-girls, and who is called to rule over me and his other betters because his grandfather made a lucky speculation122 in the funds, or found a coal or tin mine on his property, or because his stupid ancestor happened to be in command of ten thousand men as brave as himself, who overcame twelve thousand Frenchmen, or fifty thousand Indians — such a man, I say, inspires me with no more respect than the bitterest democrat123 can feel towards him. But, such as he is, he is a part of the old society to which we belong and I submit to his lordship with acquiescence124; and he takes his place above the best of us at all dinner-parties, and there bides126 his time. I don’t want to chop his head off with a guillotine, or to fling mud at him in the streets. When they call such a man a disgrace to his order; and such another, who is good and gentle, refined and generous, who employs his great means in promoting every kindness and charity, and art and grace of life, in the kindest and most gracious manner, an ornament127 to his rank — the question as to the use and propriety128 of the order is not in the least affected129 one way or other. There it is, extant among us, a part of our habits, the creed130 of many of us, the growth of centuries, the symbol of a most complicated tradition — there stand my lord the bishop115 and my lord the hereditary legislator — what the French call transactions both of them,— representing in their present shape mail-clad barons131 and double-sworded chiefs (from whom their lordships the hereditaries, for the most part, don’t descend), and priests, professing to hold an absolute truth and a divinely inherited power, the which truth absolute our ancestors burned at the stake, and denied there; the which divine transmissible power still exists in print — to be believed, or not, pretty much at choice; and of these, I say, I acquiesce125 that they exist, and no more. If you say that these schemes, devised before printing was known, or steam was born; when thought was an infant, scared and whipped; and truth under its guardians132 was gagged, and swathed, and blindfolded133, and not allowed to lift its voice, or to look out or to walk under the sun; before men were permitted to meet, or to trade, or to speak with each other — if any one says (as some faithful souls do) that these schemes are for ever, and having been changed and modified constantly are to be subject to no further development or decay, I laugh, and let the man speak. But I would have toleration for these, as I would ask it for my own opinions; and if they are to die, I would rather they had a decent and natural than an abrupt134 and violent death.”
“You would have sacrificed to Jove,” Warrington said, “had you lived in the time of the Christian135 persecutions.”
“Perhaps I would,” said Pen, with some sadness. “Perhaps I am a coward,— perhaps my faith is unsteady; but this is my own reserve. What I argue here is that I will not persecute137. Make a faith or a dogma absolute, and persecution136 becomes a logical consequence; and Dominic burns a Jew, or Calvin an Arian, or Nero a Christian, or Elizabeth or Mary a Papist or Protestant; or their father both or either, according to his humour; and acting139 without any pangs140 of remorse141,— but, on the contrary, notions of duty fulfilled. Make dogma absolute, and to inflict142 or to suffer death becomes easy and necessary; and Mahomet’s soldiers shouting, ‘Paradise! Paradise!’ and dying on the Christian spears, are not more or less praiseworthy than the same men slaughtering143 a townful of Jews, or cutting off the heads of all prisoners who would not acknowledge that there was but one Prophet of God.”
“A little while since, young one,” Warrington said, who had been listening to his friend’s confessions145 neither without sympathy nor scorn, for his mood led him to indulge in both, “you asked me why I remained out of the strife146 of the world, and looked on at the great labour of my neighbour without taking any part in the struggle? Why, what a mere dilettante147 you own yourself to be, in this confession144 of general scepticism, and what a listless spectator yourself! You are six-and-twenty years old; and as blase148 as a rake of sixty. You neither hope much nor care much, nor believe much. You doubt about other men as much as about yourself. Were it made of such pococuranti as you, the world would be intolerable; and I had rather live in a wilderness149 of monkeys, and listen to their chatter150, than in a company of men who denied everything.”
“Were the world composed of Saint Bernards or Saint Dominies, it would be equally odious,” said Pen, “and at the end of a few scores of years would cease to exist altogether. Would you have every man with his head shaved, and every woman in a cloister,— carrying out to the full the ascetic151 principle? Would you have conventicle hymns153 twanging from every lane in every city in the world? Would you have all the birds of the forest sing one note and fly with one feather? You call me a sceptic because I acknowledge what is; and in acknowledging that, be it linnet or lark154, or priest or parson, be it, I mean, any single one of the infinite varieties of the creatures of God (whose very name I would be understood to pronounce with reverence, and never to approach but with distant awe), I say that the study and acknowledgment of that variety amongst men especially increases our respect and wonder for the Creator, Commander, and Ordainer155 of all these minds, so different and yet so united,— meeting in a common adoration156, and offering up, each according to his degree and means of approaching the Divine centre, his acknowledgment of praise and worship, each singing (to recur157 to the bird simile) his natural song.”
“And so, Arthur, the hymn152 of a saint, or the ode of a poet, or the chant of a Newgate thief, are all pretty much the same in your philosophy,” said George.
“Even that sneer158 could be answered were it to the point,” Pendennis replied; “but it is not; and it could be replied to you, that even to the wretched outcry of the thief on the tree, the wisest and the best of all teachers we know of, the untiring Comforter and Consoler, promised a pitiful hearing and a certain hope. Hymns of saints! odes of poets! who are we to measure the chances and opportunities, the means of doing, or even judging, right and wrong, awarded to men; and to establish the rule for meting159 out their punishments and rewards? We are as insolent160 and unthinking in judging of men’s morals as of their intellects. We admire this man as being a great philosopher, and set down the other as a dullard, not knowing either, or the amount of truth in either, or being certain of the truth anywhere. We sing Te Deum for this hero who has won a battle, and De Profundis for that other one who has broken out of prison, and has been caught afterwards by the policeman. Our measure of rewards and punishments is most partial and incomplete, absurdly inadequate161, utterly162 worldly, and we wish to continue it into the next world. Into that next and awful world we strive to pursue men, and send after them our impotent party verdicts of condemnation164 or acquittal. We set up our paltry little rods to measure Heaven immeasurable, as if, in comparison to that, Newton’s mind or Pascal’s or Shakspeare’s was any loftier than mine; as if the ray which travels from the sun would reach me sooner than the man who blacks my boots. Measured by that altitude, the tallest and the smallest among us are so alike diminutive165 and pitifully base, that I say we should take no count of the calculation, and it is a meanness to reckon the difference.”
“Your figure fails there, Arthur,” said the other, better pleased; “if even by common arithmetic we can multiply as we can reduce almost infinitely166, the Great Reckoner must take count of all; and the small is not small, or the great great, to his infinity167.”
“I don’t call those calculations in question,” Arthur said; “I only say that yours are incomplete and premature168; false in consequence, and, by every operation, multiplying into wider error. I do not condemn163 the men who murdered Socrates and damned Galileo. I say that they damned Galileo and murdered Socrates.”
“And yet but a moment since you admitted the propriety of acquiescence in the present, and, I suppose, all other tyrannies?”
“No: but that if an opponent menaces me, of whom and without cost of blood and violence I can get rid, I would rather wait him out, and starve him out, than fight him out. Fabius fought Hannibal sceptically. Who was his Roman coadjutor, whom we read of in Plutarch when we were boys, who scoffed169 at the other’s procrastination170 and doubted his courage, and engaged the enemy and was beaten for his pains?”
In these speculations171 and confessions of Arthur, the reader may perhaps see allusions172 to questions which, no doubt, have occupied and discomposed himself, and which he has answered by very different solutions to those come to by our friend. We are not pledging ourselves for the correctness of his opinions, which readers will please to consider are delivered dramatically, the writer being no more answerable for them, than for the sentiments uttered by any other character of the story: our endeavour is merely to follow out, in its progress, the development of the mind of a worldly and selfish, but not ungenerous or unkind or truth-avoiding man. And it will be seen that the lamentable173 stage to which his logic138 at present has brought him, is one of general scepticism and sneering174 acquiescence in the world as it is; or if you like so to call it, a belief qualified175 with scorn in all things extant. The tastes and habits of such a man prevent him from being a boisterous176 demagogue, and his love of truth and dislike of cant177 keep him from advancing crude propositions, such as many loud reformers are constantly ready with; much more of uttering downright falsehoods in arguing questions or abusing opponents, which he would die or starve rather than use. It was not in our friend’s nature to be able to utter certain lies; nor was he strong enough to protest against others, except with a polite sneer; his maxim178 being, that he owed obedience179 to all Acts of Parliament, as long as they were not repealed180.
And to what does this easy and sceptical life lead a man? Friend Arthur was a Sadducee, and the Baptist might be in the Wilderness shouting to the poor, who were listening with all their might and faith to the preacher’s awful accents and denunciations of wrath181 or woe182 or salvation183; and our friend the Sadducee would turn his sleek184 mule185 with a shrug186 and a smile from the crowd, and go home to the shade of his terrace, and muse187 over preacher and audience, and turn to his roll of Plato, or his pleasant Greek songbook babbling188 of honey and Hybla, and nymphs and fountains and love. To what, we say, does this scepticism lead? It leads a man to a shameful189 loneliness and selfishness, so to speak — the more shameful, because it is so good-humoured and conscienceless and serene190. Conscience! What is conscience? Why accept remorse? What is public or private faith? Mythuses alike enveloped191 in enormous tradition. If seeing and acknowledging the lies of the world, Arthur, as see them you can with only too fatal a clearness, you submit to them without any protest further than a laugh: if, plunged192 yourself in easy sensuality, you allow the whole wretched world to pass groaning193 by you unmoved: if the fight for the truth is taking place, and all men of honour are on the ground armed on the one side or the other, and you alone are to lie on your balcony and smoke your pipe out of the noise and the danger, you had better have died, or never have been at all, than such a sensual coward.
“The truth, friend!” Arthur said, imperturbably194; “where is the truth? Show it me. That is the question between us. I see it on both sides. I see it on the Conservative side of the house, and amongst the Radicals, and even on the ministerial benches. I see it in this man, who worships by Act of Parliament, and is rewarded with a silk apron and five thousand a year; in that man, who, driven fatally by the remorseless logic of his creed, gives up everything, friends, fame, dearest ties, closest vanities, the respect of an army of churchmen, the recognised position of a leader, and passes over, truth-impelled, to the enemy, in whose ranks he will serve henceforth as a nameless private soldier:— I see the truth in that man, as I do in his brother, whose logic drives him to quite a different conclusion, and who, after having passed a life in vain endeavours to reconcile an irreconcilable195 book, flings it at last down in despair, and declares, with tearful eyes, and hands up to heaven, his revolt and recantation. If the truth is with all these, why should I take side with any one of them? Some are called upon to preach: let them preach. Of these preachers there are somewhat too many, methinks, who fancy they have the gift. But we cannot all be parsons in church, that is clear. Some must sit silent and listen, or go to sleep mayhap. Have we not all our duties? The head charity-boy blows the bellows196; the master canes197 the other boys in the organ-loft; the clerk sings out Amen from the desk; and the beadle with the staff opens the door for his Reverence, who rustles199 in silk up to the cushion. I won’t cane198 the boys, nay200, or say Amen always, or act as the church’s champion and warrior201, in the shape of the beadle with the staff; but I will take off my hat in the place, and say my prayers there too, and shake hands with the clergyman as he steps on the grass outside. Don’t I know that his being there is a compromise, and that he stands before me an Act of Parliament? That the church he occupies was built for other worship? That the Methodist chapel202 is next door; and that Bunyan the tinker is bawling203 out the tidings of damnation on the common hard by? Yes, I am a Sadducee; and I take things as I find them, and the world, and the Acts of Parliament of the world, as they are; and as I intend to take a wife, if I find one — not to be madly in love and prostrate204 at her feet like a fool — not to worship her as an angel, or to expect to find her as such — but to be good-natured to her, and courteous205, expecting good-nature and pleasant society from her in turn. And so, George, if ever you hear of my marrying, depend on it, it won’t be a romantic attachment206 on my side: and if you hear of any good place under Government, I have no particular scruples207 that I know of, which would prevent me from accepting your offer.”
“O Pen, you scoundrel! I know what you mean,” here Warrington broke out. “This is the meaning of your scepticism, of your quietism, of your atheism208, my poor fellow. You’re going to sell yourself, and Heaven help you! You are going to make a bargain which will degrade you and make you miserable209 for life, and there’s no use talking of it. If you are once bent210 on it, the devil won’t prevent you.”
“On the contrary, he’s on my side, isn’t he, George?” said Pen with a laugh. “What good cigars these are! Come down and have a little dinner at the Club; the chef’s in town, and he’ll cook a good one for me. No, you won’t? Don’t be sulky, old boy, I’m going down to — to the country tomorrow.”
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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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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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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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outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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waylaying
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的现在分词 ) | |
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remittances
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| n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 )；汇款，汇款额 | |
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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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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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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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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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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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prance
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| v.（马）腾跃，(人)神气活现地走 | |
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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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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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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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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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52
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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56
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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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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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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reprobates
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| n.道德败坏的人，恶棍( reprobate的名词复数 ) | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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grumbler
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| 爱抱怨的人，发牢骚的人 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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rues
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| v.对…感到后悔( rue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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98
propound
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| v.提出 | |
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99
vainglorious
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| adj.自负的；夸大的 | |
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100
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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101
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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102
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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103
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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104
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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105
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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106
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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107
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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108
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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109
forgo
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| v.放弃，抛弃 | |
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110
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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111
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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112
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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113
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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114
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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115
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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116
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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117
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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118
toady
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| v.奉承；n.谄媚者，马屁精 | |
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119
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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120
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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121
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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122
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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123
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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124
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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125
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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126
bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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127
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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128
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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129
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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130
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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131
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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132
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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133
blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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134
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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135
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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136
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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137
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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138
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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139
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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140
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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141
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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142
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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143
slaughtering
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的现在分词 ) | |
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144
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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145
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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146
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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147
dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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148
blase
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| adj.厌烦于享乐的 | |
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149
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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150
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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151
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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152
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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153
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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154
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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155
ordainer
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156
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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157
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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158
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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159
meting
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的现在分词 ) | |
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160
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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161
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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162
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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163
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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164
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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165
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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166
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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167
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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168
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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169
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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171
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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172
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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173
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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174
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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175
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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176
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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177
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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178
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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179
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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180
repealed
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| 撤销，废除( repeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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182
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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183
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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184
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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185
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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186
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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187
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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188
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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189
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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190
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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191
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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193
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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194
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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195
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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196
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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197
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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198
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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199
rustles
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| n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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200
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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201
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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202
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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203
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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204
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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205
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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206
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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207
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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208
atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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209
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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210
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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