That time, that merry time, of Brandon’s , of Bohemia, of oysters1, of idleness, of smoking, of song at night and profuse2 soda-water in the morning, of a pillow, lonely and bachelor it is true, but with few cares for bed-fellows, of plenteous pocket-money, of ease for to-day and little heed3 for to-morrow, was often remembered by Philip in after days. Mr. Phil’s views of life were not very exalted4, were they? The fruits of this world, which he devoured5 with such gusto, I must own were of the common kitchen-garden sort; and the lazy rogue’s ambition went no farther than to stroll along the sunshiny wall, eat his fill, and then repose6 comfortably in the arbour under the arched vine. Why did Phil’s mother’s parents leave her thirty thousand pounds? I daresay some misguided people would be glad to do as much for their sons; but, if I have ten, I am determined7 they shall either have a hundred thousand apiece, or else bare bread and cheese. “Man was made to labour, and to be lazy,” Phil would affirm, with his usual energy of expression. “When the Indian warrior8 goes on the hunting path, he is sober, active, indomitable. No dangers fright him, and no labours tire. He endures the cold of the winter; he couches on the forest leaves; he subsists9 on frugal10 roots or the casual spoil of his bow. When he returns to his village, he gorges11 to repletion12; he sleeps, perhaps, to excess. When the game is devoured, and the fire-water exhausted13, again he sallies forth14 into the wilderness15; he outclimbs the possum and he throttles16 the bear. I am the Indian: and this haunt is my wigwam! Barbara, my squaw, bring me oysters; bring me a jug18 of the frothing black beer of the palefaces, or I will hang up thy scalp on my tent-pole?” And old Barbara, the good old attendant of this Haunt of Bandits, would say, “Law, Mr. Philip, how you do go on, to be sure!” Where is the Haunt now? and where are the merry men all who there assembled? The sign is down; the song is silent; the sand is swept from the floor; the pipes are broken, and the ashes are scattered19.
A little more gossip about his merry days, and we have done. He, Philip, was called to the bar in due course, and at his call-supper we assembled a dozen of his elderly and youthful friends. The chambers20 in Parchment Buildings were given up to him for this day. Mr. Vanjohn, I think, was away attending a steeplechase; but Mr. Cassidy was with us, and several of Philip’s acquaintances of school, college, and the world. There was Philip’s father, and Philip’s uncle Twysden, and I, Phil’s revered21 and respectable school senior, and others of our ancient seminary. There was Burroughs, the second wrangler22 of his year, great in metaphysics, greater with the knife and fork. There was Stackpole, Eblana’s favourite child — the glutton23 of all learning, the master of many languages, who stuttered and blushed when he spoke24 his own. There was Pinkerton, who, albeit25 an ignoramus at the university, was already winning prodigious26 triumphs at the Parliamentary bar, and investing in Consols to the admiration27 of all his contemporaries. There was Rosebury the beautiful, the May Fair pet and delight of Almack’s , the cards on whose mantelpiece made all men open the eyes of wonder, and some of us dart28 the scowl29 of envy. There was my Lord Ascot, Lord Egham of former days. There was Tom Dale, who, having carried on his university career too splendidly, had come to grief in the midst of it, and was now meekly30 earning his bread in the Reporters’ Gallery, alongside of Cassidy. There was Macbride, who, having thrown up his Fellowship and married his cousin, was now doing a brave battle with poverty, and making literature feed him until law should reward him more splendidly. There was Haythorn, the country gentleman, who ever remembered his old college chums and kept the memory of that friendship up by constant reminders31 of pheasants and game in the season. There were Raby and Maynard from the Guards’ Club (Maynard sleeps now under Crimean snows), who preferred arms to the toga; but carried into their military life the love of their old books, the affection of their old friends. Most of these must be mute personages in our little drama. Could any chronicler remember the talk of all of them?
Several of the guests present were members of the Inn of Court (the Upper Temple), which had conferred on Philip the degree of Barrister-at-Law. He had dined in his wig17 and gown (Blackmore’s wig and gown) in the hall that day, in company with other members of his inn; and, dinner over, we adjourned32 to Phil’s chambers in Parchment Buildings, where a dessert was served, to which Mr. Firmin’s friends were convoked33.
The wines came from Dr. Firmin’s cellar. His servants were in attendance to wait upon the company. Father and son both loved splendid hospitalities, and, as far as creature comforts went, Philip’s feast was richly provided. “A supper, I love a supper, of all things! And in order that I might enjoy yours, I only took a single mutton-chop for dinner!” cried Mr. Twysden, as he greeted Philip. Indeed, we found him, as we arrived from Hall, already in the chambers, and eating the young barrister’s dessert. “He’s been here ever so long,” says Mr. Brice, who officiated as butler, “pegging away at the olives and maccaroons. Shouldn’t wonder if he has pocketed some.” There was small respect on the part of Brice for Mr. Twysden, whom the worthy34 butler frankly35 pronounced to be a stingy ‘umbug. Meanwhile, Talbot believed that the old man respected him, and always conversed36 with Brice, and treated him with a cheerful cordiality.
The outer Philistines37 quickly arrived, and but that the wine and men were older, one might have fancied oneself at a college wine-party. Mr. Twysden talked for the whole company. He was radiant. He felt himself in high spirits. He did the honours of Philip’s table. Indeed, no man was more hospitable38 with other folk’s wine. Philip himself was silent and nervous. I asked him if the awful ceremony, which he had just undergone, was weighing on his mind?
He was looking rather anxiously towards the door; and, knowing somewhat of the state of affairs at home, I thought that probably he and his father had had one of the disputes which of late days had become so frequent between them.
The company were nearly all assembled and busy with their talk, and drinking the doctor’s excellent claret, when Brice entering, announced Dr. Firmin and Mr. Tufton Hunt.
“Hang Mr. Tufton Hunt,” Philip grumbled39; but he started up, went forward to his father, and greeted him very respectfully. He then gave a bow to the gentleman introduced as Mr. Hunt, and they found places at the table, the doctor taking his with his usual handsome grace.
The conversation, which had been pretty brisk until Dr. Firmin came, drooped40 a little after his appearance. “We had an awful row two days ago,” Philip whispered to me. “We shook hands and are reconciled, as you see. He won’t stay long. He will be sent for in half an hour or so. He will say he has been sent for by a duchess, and go and have tea at the club.”
Dr. Firmin bowed, and smiled sadly at me, as Philip was speaking. I daresay I blushed somewhat, and felt as if the doctor knew what his son was saying to me. He presently engaged in conversation with Lord Ascot; he hoped his good father was well?
“You keep him so, doctor. You don’t give a fellow a chance,” says the young lord.
“Pass the bottle, you young men! Hey! We intend to see you all out!” cries Talbot Twysden, on pleasure bent41 and of the frugal mind.
“Well said, sir,” says the stranger introduced as Mr. Hunt; “and right good wine. Ha, Firmin! I think I know the tap!” and he smacked42 his lips over the claret. “It’s your twenty-five, and no mistake.”
“The red-nosed individual seems a connoisseur,” whispered Rosebury at my side.
The stranger’s nose, indeed, was somewhat rosy43. And to this I may add that his clothes were black, his face pale, and not well shorn, his white neckcloth dingy44, and his eyes bloodshot.
“He looks as if he had gone to bed in his clothes, and carries a plentiful45 flue about his person. Who is your father’s esteemed47 friend?” continues the wag, in an under voice.
“You heard his name, Rosebury,” says the young barrister, gloomily.
“I should suggest that your father is in difficulties, and attended by an officer of the sheriff of London, or perhaps subject to mental aberration48, and placed under the control of a keeper.”
“Leave me alone, do!” groaned49 Philip. And here Twysden, who was longing50 for an opportunity to make a speech, bounced up from his chair, and stopped the facetious51 barrister’s further remarks by his own eloquence52. His discourse53 was in praise of Philip, the
new-made barrister. “What! if no one else will give that toast, your uncle will, and many a heartfelt blessing54 go with you too, my boy!” cried the little man. He was prodigal55 of benedictions56. He dashed aside the teardrop of emotion. He spoke with perfect fluency57, and for a considerable period. He really made a good speech, and was greeted with deserved cheers when at length he sat down.
Phil stammered58 a few words in reply to his uncle’s voluble compliments; and then Lord Ascot, a young nobleman of much familiar humour, proposed Phil’s father, his health, and song. The physician made a neat speech from behind his ruffled59 shirt. He was agitated60 by the tender feelings of a paternal61 heart, he said, glancing benignly62 at Phil, who was cracking filberts. To see his son happy; to see him surrounded by such friends; to know him embarked63 this day in a profession which gave the greatest scope for talents, the noblest reward for industry, was a proud and happy moment to him, Dr. Firmin. What had the poet observed? “Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes” (hear, hear!) “emollit mores64," — yes, “emollit mores.” He drank a bumper65 to the young barrister (he waved his ring, with a thimbleful of wine in his glass). He pledged the young friends whom he saw assembled to cheer his son on his onward66 path. He thanked them with a father’s heart! He passed his emerald ring across his eyes for a moment, and lifted them to the ceiling, from which quarter he requested a blessing on his boy. As though spirits (of whom, perhaps, you have read in the Cornhill Magazine) approved of his invocation, immense thumps67 came from above, along with the plaudits which saluted68 the doctor’s speech from the gentlemen round the table. But the upper thumps were derisory, and came from Mr. Buffers69, of the third floor, who chose this method of mocking our harmless little festivities.
I think these cheers from the facetious Buffers, though meant in scorn of our party, served to enliven it and make us laugh. Spite of all the talking, we were dull; and I could not but allow the force of my neighbour’s remark, that we were sate70 upon and smothered71 by the old men. One or two of the younger gentlemen chafed72 at the licence for tobacco-smoking not being yet accorded. But Philip interdicted73 this amusement as yet.
“Don’t,” he said; “my father don’t like it. He has to see patients to-night; and they can’t bear the smell of tobacco by their bedsides.”
The impatient youths waited with their cigar-cases by their sides. They longed for the withdrawal74 of the obstacle to their happiness.
“He won’t go, I tell you. He’ll be sent for,” growled75 Philip to me.
The doctor was engaged in conversation to the right and left of him, and seemed not to think of a move. But, sure enough, at a few minutes after ten o’clock, Dr. Firmin’s footman entered the room with a note, which Firmin opened and read, as Philip looked at me, with a grim humour in his face. I think Phil’s father knew that we knew he was acting76. However, he went through the comedy quite gravely.
“A physician’s time is not his own,” he said, shaking his handsome melancholy77 head. “Good-by, my dear lord! Pray remember me at home! Good-night, Philip, my boy, and good speed to you in your career! Pray, pray don’t move.”
And he is gone, waving the fair hand and the broad-brimmed hat, with the beautiful white lining78. Phil conducted him to the door, and heaved a sigh as it closed upon his father — a sigh of relief, I think, that he was gone.
“Exit Governor. What’s the Latin for Governor?” says Lord Ascot, who possessed79 much native humour, but not very profound scholarship. “A most venerable old parent, Firmin. That hat and appearance would command any sum of money.”
“Excuse me,” lisps Rosebury, “but why didn’t he take his elderly friend with him — the dilapidated clerical gentleman who is drinking claret so freely? And also, why did he not remove your avuncular80 orator81? Mr. Twysden, your interesting young neophyte82 has provided us with an excellent specimen83 of the cheerful produce of the Gascon grape.”
“Well, then, now the old gentleman is gone, let us pass the bottle and make a night of it. Hey, my lord?” cries Twysden. “Philip, your claret is good! I say, do you remember some Chateau84 Margaux I had, which Winton liked so? It must be good if he praised it, I can tell you. I imported it myself, and gave him the address of the Bordeaux merchant; and he said he had seldom tasted any like it. Those were his very words. I must get you fellows to come and taste it some day.”
“Some day! What day? Name it, generous Amphitryon!” cries Rosebury.
“Some day at seven o’clock. With a plain, quiet dinner — a clear soup, a bit of fish, a couple of little entrées, a and a nice little roast. That’s my kind of dinner. And we’ll taste that claret, young men. It is not a heavy wine. It is not a first-class wine. I don’t mean even to say it is a dear wine, but it has a bouquet85 and a pureness. What, you will smoke, you fellows?”
“We will do it, Mr. Twysden. Better do as the rest of us do. Try one of these.”
The little man accepts the proffered86 cigar from the young nobleman’s box, lights it, hems87 and hawks88, and lapses89 into silence.
“I thought that would do for him,” murmurs90 the facetious Ascot. “It is strong enough to blow his old head off, and I wish it would. That cigar,” he continues, “was given to my father by the Duke of Medina Sidonia, who had it out of the Queen of Spain’s own box. She smokes a good deal, but naturally likes ’em mild. I can give you a stronger one.”
“Oh, no. I dare say this is very fine. Thank you!” says poor Talbot.
“Leave him alone, can’t you?” says Philip. “Don’t make a fool of him before the young men, Ascot.”
Philip still looked very dismal91 in the midst of the festivity. He was thinking of his differences with his absent parent.
We might all have been easily consoled, if the doctor had taken away with him the elderly companion whom he had introduced to Phil’s feast. He could not have been very welcome to our host, for Phil scowled92 at his guest, and whispered, “Hang Hunt!” to his neighbour.
“Hang Hunt” — the Reverend Tufton Hunt was his name — was in nowise disconcerted by the coolness of his reception. He drank his wine very freely; addressed himself to his neighbours affably; and called out a loud “Hear, hear,” to Twysden, when that gentleman announced his intention of making a night of it. As Mr. Hunt warmed with wine he spoke to the table. He talked a great deal about the Ringwood family, had been very intimate at Wingate, in old days, as he told Mr. Twysden, and an intimate friend of poor Cinqbars, Lord Ringwood’s only son. Now, the memory of the late Lord Cinqbars was not an agreeable recollection to the relatives of the house of Ringwood. He was in life a dissipated and disreputable young lord. His name was seldom mentioned in his family; never by his father, with whom he had had many quarrels.
“You know I introduced Cinqbars to your father, Philip?” calls out the dingy clergyman.
“I have heard you mention the fact,” says Philip.
“They met at a wine in my rooms in Corpus. Brummell Firmin we used to call your father in those days. He was the greatest buck93 in the university — always a dressy man, kept hunters, gave the best dinners in Cambridge. We were a wild set. There was Cinqbars, Brand Firmin, Beryl, Toplady, about a dozen of us, almost all noblemen or fellow-commoners — fellows who all kept their horses and had their private servants.”
This speech was addressed to the company, who yet did not seem much edified94 by the college recollections of the dingy elderly man.
“Almost all Trinity men, sir! We dined with each other week about. Many of them had their tandems95. Desperate fellow across country your father was. And, but we won’t tell tales out of school, hey?”
“No; please don’t sir,” said Philip, clenching96 his fists, and biting his lips. The shabby, ill-bred, swaggering man was eating Philip’s salt; Phil’s lordly ideas of hospitality did not allow him to quarrel with the guest under his tent.
“When he went out in medicine, we were all of us astonished. Why, sir, Brand Firmin, at one time, was the greatest swell97 in the university,” continued Mr. Hunt, “and such a plucky98 fellow! So was poor Cinqbars, though he had no stamina99. He, I, and Firmin, fought for twenty minutes before Caius’ Gate with about twenty bargemen, and you should have seen your father hit out! I was a handy one in those days, too, with my fingers. We learned the noble art of self-defence in my time, young gentlemen! We used to have Glover, the boxer100, down from London, who gave us lessons. Cinqbars was a pretty sparrer — but no stamina. Brandy killed him, sir — brandy killed him! Why, this is some of your governor’s wine! He and I have been drinking it to-night in Parr Street, and talking over old times.”
“I am glad, sir, you found the wine to your taste,” says Philip, gravely.
“I did, Philip, my boy! And when your father said he was coming to your wine, I said I’d come to.”
“I wish somebody would fling him out of window,” groaned Philip.
“A most potent101, grave, and reverend senior,” whispered Rosebury to me. “I read billards, Boulogne, gambling-houses, in his noble lineaments. Has he long adorned102 your family circle, Firmin?”
“I found him at home about a month ago, in my father’s ante-room, in the same clothes, with a pair of mangy moustaches on his face; and he has been at our house every day since.”
“échappé de Toulon,” says Rosebury, blandly103, looking towards the stranger. “Cela se voit. Homme parfaitement distingué. You are quite right, sir. I was speaking of you; and asking our friend Philip where it was I had the honour of meeting you abroad last year? This courtesy,” he gently added, “will disarm104 tigers.”
“I was abroad, sir, last year,” said the other, nodding his head.
“Three to one he was in Boulogne gaol105, or perhaps officiating chaplain at a gambling-house. Stop, I have it! Baden Baden, sir?”
“I was there, safe enough,” says the clergyman. “It is a very pretty place; but the air of the Après kills you. Ha! ha! Your father used to shake his elbow when he was a youngster, too, Philip! I can’t help calling you Philip. I’ve known your father these thirty years. We were college chums, you know.”
“Ah! what would I give,” sighs Rosebury, “if that venerable being would but address me by my Christian106 name! Philip, do something to make your party go. The old gentlemen are throttling107 it? Sing something, somebody! or let us drown our melancholy in wine. You expressed your approbation108 of this claret, sir, and claimed a previous acquaintance with it?”
“I’ve drunk two dozen of it in the last month,” says Mr. Hunt, with a grin.
“Two dozen and four, sir,” remarks Mr. Brice, putting a fresh bottle on the table.
“Well said, Brice! I make the Firmin Arms my head-quarters; and honour the landlord with a good deal of my company,” remarks Mr. Hunt.
“The Firmin Arms are honoured by having such supporters!” says Phil, glaring and with a heaving chest. At each moment he was growing more and more angry with that parson.
At a certain stage of conviviality109 Phil was fond of talking of his pedigree; and, though a professor of very liberal opinions, was not a little proud of some of his ancestors.
“Oh, come, I say! Sink the heraldry!” cries Lord Ascot.
“I am very sorry! I would do anything to oblige you, but I can’t help being a gentleman!” growls110 Philip.
“Oh, I say! If you intend to come King Richard III. over us — ” breaks out my lord.
“Ascot! your ancestors were sweeping111 counters when mine stood by King Richard in that righteous fight!” shouts Philip.
That monarch112 had conferred lands upon the Ringwood family. Richard III. was Philip’s battle-horse; when he trotted113 it after dinner he was splendid in his chivalry114.
“Oh, I say! If you are to saddle White Surrey, fight Bosworth Field, and murder the kids in the Tower!” continues Lord Ascot.
“Serve the little brutes115 right!” roars Phil. “They were no more heirs of the blood royal of England than — ”
“I daresay! Only I’d rather have a song now the old boy is gone. I say; you fellows; chant something, — do now! Bar all this row about Bosworth Field and Richard the Third! Always does it when he’s beer on board — always does it, give you my honour!” whispers the young nobleman to his neighbour.
“I am a fool! I am a fool!” cries Phil, smacking116 his forehead. “There are moments when the wrongs of my race will intervene. It’s not your fault, Mr. What-d’ye-call-’em, that you alluded117 to my arms in a derisive118 manner. I bear you no malice119! Nay120, I ask your pardon! Nay! I pledge you in this claret, which is good, though it’s my governor’s. In our house everything isn’t, hum — Bosh! it’s twenty-five claret, sir! Ascot’s father gave him a pipe of it for saving a life which might be better spent; and I believe the apothecary121 would have pulled you through, Ascot, just as well as my governor. But the wine’s good! Good! Brice, some more claret! A song! Who spoke of a song? Warble us something, Tom Dale! A song, a song, a song!”
Whereupon the exquisite122 ditty of “Moonlight on the Tiles” was given by Tom Dale with all his accustomed humour. Then politeness demanded that our host should sing one of his songs, and as I have heard him perform it many times, I have the privilege of here reprinting it: premising that the tune123 and chorus were taken from a German song-book, which used to delight us melodious124 youth in bygone days. Philip accordingly lifted up his great voice and sang:—
DOCTOR LUTHER.
“For the souls’ edification Of this decent congregation, Worthy people! by your grant, I will sing a holy chant, I will sing a holy chant. If the ditty sound but oddly, ’Twas a father, wise and godly, Sang it so long ago. Then sing as Doctor Luther sang, As Doctor Luther sang, Who loves not wine, woman, and song, He is a fool his whole life long.
“He, by custom patriarchal, Loved to see the beaker sparkle, And he thought the wine improved, Tasted by the wife he loved, By the kindly126 lips he loved. Friends! I wish this custom pious127 Duly were adopted by us, To combine love, song, wine; And sing as Doctor Luther sang, As Doctor Luther sang, Who loves not wine, woman, and song, He is a fool his whole life long.
“Who refuses this our credo, And demurs128 to drink as we do, Were he holy as John Knox, I’d pronounce him heterodox, I’d pronounce him heterodox. And from out this congregation, With a solemn commination, Banish129 quick the heretic, Who would not sing as Luther sang, As Doctor Luther sang, Who loves not wine, woman, and song, He is a fool his whole life long.” The reader’s humble130 servant was older than most of the party assembled at this symposium131; but as I listened to the noise, the fresh laughter, the songs remembered out of old university days, the talk and cant132 phrases of the old school of which most of us had been disciples133, dear me, I felt quite young again, and when certain knocks came to the door about midnight, enjoyed quite a refreshing134 pang135 of anxious interest for a moment, deeming the proctors were rapping, having heard our shouts in the court below. The late comer, however, was only a tavern136 waiter, bearing a supper-tray; and we were free to speechify, shout, quarrel, and be as young as we liked, with nobody to find fault, except, perchance, the bencher below, who, I daresay, was kept awake with our noise.
When that supper arrived, poor Talbot Twysden, who had come so far to enjoy it, was not in a state to partake of it. Lord Ascot’s cigar had proved too much for him; and the worthy gentleman had been lying on a sofa, in a neighbouring room, for some time past in a state of hopeless collapse137. He had told us, whilst yet capable of speech, what a love and regard he had for Philip; but between him and Philip’s father there was but little love. They had had that worst and most irremediable of quarrels, a difference about twopence half-penny in the division of the property of their late father-in-law. Firmin still thought Twysden a shabby curmudgeon138; and Twysden considered Firmin an unprincipled man. When Mrs. Firmin was alive, the two poor sisters had had to regulate their affections by the marital139 orders, and to be warm, cool, moderate, freezing, according to their husbands’ state for the time being. I wonder are there many real reconciliations140? Dear Tomkins and I are reconciled, I know. We have met and dined at Jones’s . And ah! how fond we are of each other! Oh, very! So with Firmin and Twysden. They met, and shook hands with perfect animosity. So did Twysden junior and Firmin junior. Young Twysden was the elder, and thrashed and bullied141 Phil as a boy, until the latter arose and pitched his cousin downstairs. Mentally, they were always kicking each other downstairs. Well, poor Talbot could not partake of the supper when it came, and lay in a piteous state on the neighbouring sofa of the absent Mr. Vanjohn.
Who would go home with him, where his wife must be anxious about him? I agreed to convoy142 him, and the parson said he was going our way, and would accompany us. We supported this senior through the Temple, and put him on the front seat of a cab. The cigar had disgracefully overcome him; and any lecturer on the evils of smoking might have pointed144 his moral on the helpless person of this wretched gentleman.
The evening’s feasting had only imparted animation145 to Mr. Hunt, and occasioned an agreeable abandon in his talk. I had seen the man before in Dr. Firmin’s house, and own that his society was almost as odious125 to me as to doctor’s son Philip. On all subjects and persons, Phil was accustomed to speak his mind out a great deal too openly; and Mr. Hunt had been an object of special dislike to him ever since he had known Hunt. I tried to make the best of the matter. Few men of kindly feeling and good station are without a dependent or two. Men start together in the race of life; and Jack146 wins, and Tom falls by his side. The successful man succours and reaches a friendly hand to the unfortunate competitor. Remembrance of early times gives the latter a sort of right to call on his luckier comrade; and a man finds himself pitying, then enduring, then embracing a companion for whom, in old days, perhaps, he never had had any regard or esteem46. A prosperous man ought to have followers147: if he has none, he has a hard heart.
This philosophizing was all very well. It was good for a man not to desert the friends of his boyhood. But to live with such a cad as that — with that creature, low, servile, swaggering, besotted — How could his father, who had fine tastes, and loved grand company, put up with such a fellow? asked Phil. “I don’t know when the man is the more odious, when he is familiar or when he is respectful; when he is paying compliments to my father’s guests in Parr Street, or telling hideous148 old stale stories, as he did at my call-supper.”
The wine of which Mr. Hunt freely partook on that occasion made him, as I have said, communicative. “Not a bad fellow, our host,” he remarked, on his part, when we came away together. “Bumptious, goodlooking, speaks his mind, hates me, and I don’t care. He must be well to do in the world, Master Philip.”
I said I hoped and thought so.
“Brummell Firmin must make four or five thousand a year. He was a wild fellow in my time, I can tell you — in the days of the wild Prince and Poyns — stuck at nothing, spent his own money, ruined himself, fell on his legs somehow, and married a fortune. Some of us have not been so lucky. I had nobody to pay my debts. I missed my Fellowship by idling and dissipating with those confounded hats and silver-laced gowns. I liked good company in those days — always did when I could get it. If you were to write my adventures, now, you would have to tell some queer stories. I’ve been everywhere; I’ve seen high and low — ‘specially low. I’ve tried schoolmastering, bear-leading, newspapering, America, West Indies. I’ve been in every city in Europe. I haven’t been as lucky as Brummell Firmin. He rolls in his coach, he does, and I walk in my highlows. Guineas drop into his palm every day, and are uncommonly149 scarce in mine, I can tell you; and poor old Tufton Hunt is not much better off at fifty odd than he was when he was an undergraduate at eighteen. How do you do, old gentleman? Air do you good? Here we are at Beaunash Street; hope you’ve got the key, and missis won’t see you.” A large butler, too well bred to express astonishment150 at any event which occurred out of doors, opened Mr. Twysden’s and let in that lamentable151 gentleman. He was very pale and solemn. He gasped152 out a few words, intimating his intention to fix a day to ask us to come and dine soon, and taste that wine that Winton liked so. He waved an unsteady hand to us. If Mrs. Twysden was on the stairs to see the condition of her lord, I hope she took possession of the candle. Hunt grumbled as we came out: “He might have offered us some refreshment153 after bringing him all that way home. It’s only half-past one. There’s no good in going to bed so soon as that. Let us go and have a drink somewhere. I know a very good crib close by. No, you wont154? I say” (here he burst into a laugh which startled the sleeping street), “I know what you’ve been thinking all the time in the cab. You are a swell, — you are, too! You have been thinking, ‘This dreary155 old parson will try and borrow money from me.’ But I won’t, my boy. I’ve got a banker. Look here! Fee, faw, fum. You understand. I can get the sovereigns out of my medical swell in Old Parr Street. I prescribe bleeding for him — I drew him to-night. He is a very kind fellow, Brummell Firmin is. He can’t deny such a dear old friend anything. Bless him!” And as he turned away to some midnight haunt of his own, he tossed up his hand in the air. I heard him laughing through the silent street, and policeman X, tramping on his beat, turned round and suspiciously eyed him.
Then I thought of Dr. Firmin’s dark, melancholy face and eyes. Was a benevolent156 remembrance of old times the bond of union between these men? All my house had long been asleep, when I opened and gently closed my house door. By the twinkling night-lamp I could dimly see child and mother softly breathing. Oh, blessed they on whose pillow no remorse157 sits! Happy you who have escaped temptation!
I may have been encouraged in my suspicions of the dingy clergyman by Philip’s own surmises158 regarding him, which were expressed with the speaker’s usual candour. “The fellow calls for what he likes at the Firmin Arms,” said poor Phil; “and when my father’s bigwigs assemble, I hope the reverend gentleman dines with them. I should like to see him hobnobbing with old Bumpsher, or slapping the bishop159 on the back. He lives in Sligo Street, round the corner, so as to be close to our house and yet preserve his own elegant independence. Otherwise, I wonder he has not installed himself in Old Parr Street, where my poor mother’s bedroom is vacant. The doctor does not care to use that room. I remember now how silent they were when together, and how terrified she always seemed before him. What has he done? I know of one affair in his early life. Does this Hunt know of any more. They have been accomplices160 in some conspiracy161, sir; I daresay with that young Cinqbars, of whom Hunt is for ever bragging162: the worthy son of the worthy Ringwood. I say, does wickedness run in the blood? My grandfathers, I have heard, were honest men. Perhaps they were only not found out; and the family taint163 will show in me some day. There are times when I feel the devil so strong within me, that I think some day he must have the mastery. I’m not quite bad yet: but I tremble lest I should go. Suppose I were to drown, and go down? It’s not a jolly thing, Pendennis, to have such a father as mine. Don’t humbug164 me with your charitable palliations and soothing165 surmises. You put me in mind of the world then, by Jove, you do! I laugh, and I drink, and I make merry, and sing, and smoke endless tobacco; and I tell you I always feel as if a little sword was dangling166 over my skull167 which will fall some day and split it. Old Parr Street is mined, sir, — mined! And some morning we shall be blown into blazes — into blazes, sir; mark my words! That’s why I’m so careless and so idle, for which you fellows are always bothering and scolding me. There’s no use in settling down until the explosion is over, don’t you see? Incedo per ignes suppositos, and, by George! sir, I feel my bootsoles already scorching168. Poor thing! poor mother” (he apostrophized his mother’s picture which hung in the room where we were talking,)“were you aware of the secret, and was it the knowledge of that which made your poor eyes always look so frightened! She was always fond of you, Pen. Do you remember how pretty and graceful143 she used to look as she lay on her sofa upstairs, or smiled out of her carriage as she kissed her hand to us boys? I say, what if a woman marries, and is coaxed169 and wheedled170 by a soft tongue, and runs off, and afterwards finds her husband has a cloven foot?”
“Ah, Philip!”
“What is to be the lot of the son of such a man? Is my hoof171 cloven, too?” It was on the stove, as he talked, extended in American fashion. “Suppose there’s no escape for me, and I inherit my doom172, as another man does gout or consumption? Knowing this fate, what is the use, then, of doing anything in particular? I tell you, sir, the whole edifice173 of our present life will crumble174 in and smash.” (Here he flings his pipe to the ground with an awful shatter.) “And until the catastrophe175 comes, what on earth is the use of setting to work, as you call it? You might as well have told a fellow, at Pompeii, to select a profession the day before the eruption176.”
“If you know that Vesuvius is going to burst over Pompeii,” I said, somewhat alarmed, “why not go to Naples, or farther, if you will?”
“Were there not men in the sentry-boxes at the city gates,” asked Philip, “who might have run, and yet remained to be burned there? Suppose, after all, the doom isn’t hanging over us, — and the fear of it is only a nervous terror of mine? Suppose it comes, and I survive it? The risk of the game gives a zest177 to it, old boy. Besides, there is Honour: and some One Else is in the case, from whom a man could not part in an hour of danger.” And here he blushed a fine red, heaved a great sigh, and emptied a bumper of claret.
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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subsists
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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repletion
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| n.充满，吃饱 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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throttles
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| n.控制油、气流的阀门( throttle的名词复数 )；喉咙，气管v.扼杀( throttle的第三人称单数 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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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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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrangler
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| n.口角者，争论者；牧马者 | |
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glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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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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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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convoked
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| v.召集，召开（会议）( convoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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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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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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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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47
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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48
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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49
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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50
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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51
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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52
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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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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54
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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55
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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56
benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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57
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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58
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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mores
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| n.风俗，习惯，民德，道德观念 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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buffers
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| 起缓冲作用的人（或物）( buffer的名词复数 )； 缓冲器； 减震器； 愚蠢老头 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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71
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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72
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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74
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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75
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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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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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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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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avuncular
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| adj.叔伯般的，慈祥的 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hems
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| 布的褶边，贴边( hem的名词复数 )； 短促的咳嗽 | |
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
tandems
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| n.串联式自行车( tandem的名词复数 ) | |
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96
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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97
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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98
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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99
stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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100
boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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101
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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102
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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103
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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104
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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105
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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106
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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107
throttling
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| v.扼杀( throttle的现在分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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108
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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109
conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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110
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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111
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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112
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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113
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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114
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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115
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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116
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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117
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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119
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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120
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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121
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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122
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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123
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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124
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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125
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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126
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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127
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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128
demurs
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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129
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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130
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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131
symposium
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| n.讨论会，专题报告会；专题论文集 | |
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132
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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133
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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134
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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135
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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136
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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137
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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138
curmudgeon
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| n. 脾气暴躁之人，守财奴，吝啬鬼 | |
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139
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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140
reconciliations
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| 和解( reconciliation的名词复数 )； 一致； 勉强接受； （争吵等的）止息 | |
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141
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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143
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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144
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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145
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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146
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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147
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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148
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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149
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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150
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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151
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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152
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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153
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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154
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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155
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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156
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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157
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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158
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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159
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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160
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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161
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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162
bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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163
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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164
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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165
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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166
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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167
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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168
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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169
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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170
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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171
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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172
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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173
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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174
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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175
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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176
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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177
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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