Now it was the weakness of Topps never to confess ignorance of anything soever to his wife. “A man should never do it,” Topps has been known in convivial seasons to declare; “it makes ’em conceited.” Whereupon Topps, wrested from his first purpose of examination, by the query of his spouse, prepared himself, as was his wont, to make solemn, satisfying answer. Taking off his hat, and smoothing the wrinkles of his brow, Topps said—“Humph! what is dogmatism? Why, it is this—of course. Dogmatism is puppyism come to its full growth.”
CHAPTER XXII.
And Jericho lived in his large house, like a rat in a hole. Avarice had seized upon him; and with every hour bent and subdued every thought and purpose to coin all his possessions. He would have his millions of fighting pieces. Hence, he loathed to look upon the finery about him. It was a wicked, a wasteful folly. A shameful sacrifice to the eyes of others. He had discharged all his servants—had no one, save one old man; the pauper grandfather of one of his footmen, who had haunted the house for offal; and, as Jericho believed, was in lucky hour discovered by his master to become the most faithful of retainers. This old man seemed of congenial wickedness with Jericho. Indeed, there looked between them a strange similitude; twin brethren damned to the like sordidness, the like rapacity; with this difference, that the master could enjoy to his soul’s triumph the lust of wealth; whilst the more wretched serf was ravenous with the will alone. It was very odd. Jericho and old Plutus—the Man of Money was a grim wag; and in his savage drollery had nicknamed the crust-hunting pauper Plutus—Jericho and Plutus were in face and expression alike as two snakes; alike in key their voices, as viper’s hiss to hiss: though Plutus, be it known, was the fatter and the louder reptile.
The Man of Money sat in one of his garrets; a den of a place, though crowning the magnificent fabric of Jericho House. The scullion had slept there. And there remained the very bed, the very table, the one chair enjoyed by the discarded drudge. It was the worst, the meanest nook of the house; and therefore, Jericho rejoicing, took possession of its squalor. It was with one effort, a triumph over a lingering weakness for the nice, the soft appliances of life. He sat there, in that low, slant garret, the sovereign of himself; the conqueror of the spendthrift, the reveller, and the glutton. The wretchedness that surrounded him was the best, the seemliest pomp to declare and grace his victory.
“’Tis a pity, Plutus—a pity, you wretch—that all the vultures cannot alight in one day; a great pity; for I’ll not quit here, till all’s sold and the money bagged. A great pity. And they can’t all come to-morrow? But I’ll not leave the carcase. No. I’ll stop till all’s gone—all’s gone.” And Jericho swathed his gown, ostentatiously tattered, about his withering body; and rubbed together his transparent hands.
“Good master,” said the old slave, with a slavish cringe, “good master, if the dealers could come all in one day, would it be wise to have them in a crowd—all in a crowd?”
“Yes, wise; very wise. That they might maul and bid over one another. Nevertheless, be it as you say. But they’ll all come?”
“All; good, kind sir,” answered Plutus. “There’s Israel, and Ichabod, and Laban, and Seth, and Shem, and Issachar”—
“Peace, you old dog,” cried Jericho; and the menial bowed and smiled at the abuse—“you needn’t bark all their names. It is enough, if they will all come—all come. And when I have melted all that’s here—for every bit shall to the crucible—why, then there’s that accursed hermitage—that home of vanity that my wife made me buy. Me, poor fool! then as fine and brainless as a horse-fly. Where is”—and Jericho’s leaf-like body shook, and his eye glowed like a carbuncle as he dragged the words out—“where is that woman? Where, those young white-faced witches that would have me melt like wax before the fires of perdition; would utterly consume me, so they might live and rejoice, and array themselves in my destruction? What! They defy me in my own house? That woman, the mother witch, that years long-past ensnared me with a lie; that lured me to the church with what seemed gold. A damned jack-a-lanthorn! And there she stood; her hand in mine, and a lie in her heart. I see her now. Her large beautiful face—for it was beautiful—with a smile all over it; and that smile all a lie. Humph!”—said Jericho moodily, “I was a happy, careless jackass, till I thrust my neck under a yoke, running for what seemed golden oats—golden oats.”