old gentleman began to address his plate vigorously, poured out his Madeira, and chuckled, as the familiar ideas engendered by good wine were revived in him. Jonathan reported at the bar that the old gentleman was all right again.
One would like here to pause, while our worthy ancient feeds, and indulge in a short essay on Habit, to show what a sacred and admirable thing it is that makes flimsy Time substantial, and consolidates his triple life. It is proof that we have come to the end of dreams, and Time’s delusions, and are determined to sit down at Life’s feast and carve for ourselves. Its day is the child of yesterday, and has a claim on to-morrow. Whereas those who have no such plan of existence and sum of their wisdom to show, the winds blow them as they list. Sacred, I say; for is it not a sort of aping in brittle clay of the everlasting Round we look to? We sneer at the slaves of Habit, we youth; but may it not be the result of a strong soul, after shooting vainly thither and yon, and finding not the path it seeketh, lying down weariedly and imprinting its great instinct on the prison-house where it must serve its term? So that a boiled pullet and a pint of Madeira on Thursdays, for certain, becomes a solace and a symbol of perpetuity; and a pint of Port every day, is a noble piece of Habit, and a distinguishing stamp on the body of Time, fore and aft; one that I, for my part, wish every man in these islands might daily affix. Consider, then, mercifully, the wrath of him on whom carelessness or forgetfulness has brought a snap in the links of Habit. You incline to scorn him because, his slippers misplaced, or asparagus not on his table the first day of a particular spring month, he gazes blankly and sighs as one who saw the End. To you it may appear small. You call to him to be a man. He is: but he is also an immortal, and his confidence in unceasing orderly progression is rudely dashed. Believe me, the philosopher, whose optics are symbols, weeps for him!
But the old gentleman has finished his dinner and his Madeira, and says: “Now, Jonathan, ‘thock’ the Port!”—his joke when matters have gone well: meant to express the sound of the uncorking, probably. The habit of making good jokes is rare, as you know: old gentlemen have not yet attained to it: nevertheless Jonathan enjoys this one, which has seen a generation in and out, for he knows its purport to be, “My heart is open.”
And now is a great time with the old gentleman. He sips, and in his eyes the world grows rosy, and he exchanges mute or monosyllable salutes here and there. His habit is to avoid converse; but he will let a light remark season meditation.
He says to Jonathan: “The bill for the month.”
“Yes, sir,” Jonathan replies. “Would you not prefer, sir, to have the items added on to the month ensuing?”
“I asked you for the bill of the month,” said the old gentleman, with an irritated voice and a twinkle in his eye.
Jonathan bowed; but his aspect betrayed perplexity, and that perplexity was soon shared by the landlady: for Jonathan said, he was convinced the old gentleman intended to pay for sixteen days, and the landlady could not bring her hand to charge him for more than two. Here was the dilemma foreseen by the old gentleman, and it added vastly to the flavour of the Port.
Pleasantly tickled, he sat gazing at his glass, and let the minutes fly. He knew the part he would act in his little farce. If charged for the whole month, he would peruse the bill deliberately, and perhaps cry out “Hulloa?” and then snap at Jonathan for the interposition of a remark. But if charged for two days, he would wish to be told whether they were demented, those people outside, and scornfully return the bill to Jonathan.
A slap on the shoulder, and a voice: “Found you at last, Tom!” violently shattered the excellent plot, and made the old gentleman start. He beheld Mr. Andrew Cogglesby.
“Drinking Port, Tom?” said Mr. Andrew. “I’ll join you:” and he sat down opposite to him, rubbing his hands and pushing back his hair.
Jonathan, entering briskly with the bill, fell back a step, in alarm. The old gentleman, whose inviolacy was thus rudely assailed, sat staring at the intruder, his mouth compressed, and three fingers round his glass, which it was doubtful whether he was not going to hurl at him.
“Waiter!” Mr. Andrew carelessly hailed, “a pint of this Port, if you please.”
Jonathan sought the countenance of the old gentleman.
“Do you hear, sir?” cried the latter, turning his wrath on him. “Another pint!” He added: “Take back the bill;” and away went Jonathan to relate fresh marvels to his mistress.
Mr. Andrew then addressed the old gentleman in the most audacious manner.
“Astonished to see me here, Tom? Dare say you are. I knew you came somewhere in this neighbourhood, and, as I wanted to speak to you very particularly, and you wouldn’t be visible till Monday, why, I spied into two or three places, and here I am.”
You might see they were brothers. They had the same bushy eyebrows, the same healthy colour in their cheeks, the same thick shoulders, and brisk way of speaking, and clear, sharp, though kindly, eyes; only Tom was cast in larger proportions than Andrew, and had gotten the grey furniture of Time for his natural wear. Perhaps, too, a cross in early life had a little twisted him, and set his mouth in a rueful bunch, out of which occasionally came biting things. Mr. Andrew carried his head up, and eyed every man living with the benevolence of a patriarch, dashed with the impudence of a London sparrow. Tom had a nagging air, and a trifle of acridity on his broad features. Still, any one at a glance could have sworn they were brothers, and Jonathan unhesitatingly proclaimed it at the Aurora bar.
Mr. Andrew’s hands were working together, and at them, and at his face, the old gentleman continued to look with a firmly interrogating air.
“Want to know what brings me, Tom? I’ll tell you presently. Hot,—isn’t it?”
“What the deuce are you taking exercise for?” the old gentleman burst out, and having unlocked his mouth, he began to puff and alter his posture.
