CHAPTER XII.
| Your mountain Sack, your Frontignac, Tokay, and twenty more, sir, Your Sherry and Perry, that make men merry, Are deities I adore, sir; And well may Port Our praise extort, When from his palace forth he comes, And glucks and gurgles, fumes and foams. Gluck, gluck, Hickup, gurgle and gluck. OLD SONG. |
If one were to judge the traits of the vulgar from the indulgence they exhibit towards certain vices, or certain instances of their occurrence, it would be easy to show that man is, at bottom, a good-natured animal. It is certain that he betrays an extraordinary leniency in the case of a vice which all unite, in the abstract, to condemn; and that many men derive an importance from the sacrifice of reputation and mind to the Imp of the Bottle, which they might have failed to purchase by a life of wisdom and sobriety. It is not uncommon to find, in some rural districts, men of gross and degraded habits, whom a rational creature would spurn from him with contempt, and who are indeed the butts of ridicule or objects of commiseration, even among their own immediate neighbours; but who, strange to say, are regarded with a species of admiration, growing directly out of their profligacy. Such, we are sorry to say, are some of the rustic professors of law and physic, who, possessing a little talent, but no industry, prefer whiling the period of probationary idleness at the door, or in the bar-room, of the village tavern, to devoting it in the closet to that labour which is the only stepping-stone to distinction and fortune; and thus contracting a love for something more than idleness, and slipping, little by little, towards the bottom of the hill, are seen at last, downdraughts, with swollen visages and seedy garments, mingling among the coarse and base, themselves perhaps the coarsest and basest. You will see such a man gibed and laughed at by the lowest of his companions, as something that even they can despise; for whatever may be the hatred with which the humble regard the more lofty, they are the first to appreciate the degradation of a downfall; but the next moment you will hear them talk of him with praise. Is it 'the poor doctor at the Cross-Roads?' 'Oh, he is a ruined man, to be sure, and a sot; but he cures, when another man fails; somewhat dangerous now and then, when too "far in for it," but a marvellous hand at "rheumatisms and the fever."' Is it 'crusty Ned Jones, the lawyer?' 'Drinks like a fish, but with more sharp stuff in his brain than all the bar beside; a devil of a fellow to corner a witness, break a will, pick a flaw in an indictment, and set a jury a-sobbing: great pity he drinks,—but he's a tremendous orator, and all the better for a glass or two, in a hard case.' We have heard of a lawyer, a lover of his glass, who reformed his habits, and lost his practice.
The worthy Affidavy, who played so prominent a part in the jury of inquest, was one of this unfortunate class of beings, although he had commenced the world with as fair prospects as could be derived from a moderate share of talent, and some native energy of character, and was yet in the prime of his years. He had sunk into poverty and neglect, was any man's fellow, and every man's scorn; yet the lower he sunk, the loftier became men's opinions of his natural parts and his professional knowledge; and Squire Schlachtenschlager was wont to say, 'he pelieved Affidafy mate petter speeches now than he tidt afore, fen he fas a soper man.' While such generous opinions prevailed, the lawyer had still 'something to do' in the way of his profession; but the sad condition of his outward man showed that this was far from being profitable. Indeed, if the truth must be told, his admirers, though of humours sufficiently litigious, were oftener inclined to employ than able to pay; and those of better estates, however they marvelled at the sagacity, and applauded the speeches of the man of buckram, were rather shy of applying to him for assistance, until they felt their cases to be growing desperate. The consequence of this state of things was, that Mr. Theophilus Affidavy was compelled to resort to many shifts to obtain a subsistence, that added little to his reputation; and would indeed have been hooted from the county, had he not been protected by the armour of imputed genius, which his habits seemed to fasten around him.
The account he received of the wealth of the unfortunate Hyland produced a strong effect upon his acquisitive propensities; and he saw at a glance, that if his counsel could be of no benefit to the prisoner, it might undoubtedly be of some to himself. "He is a Hawk of the Hollow," he muttered to himself, "and so every one will be against him. Good! There will be much apparent merit therefore in undertaking his defence. His case is bad,—awful bad—better! To volunteer in such a case, will infer at once the possession of extraordinary skill, worthy of extraordinary reward. He has money—excellent! But, botheration, the other Jack-brains will find that out, and dive at him before me. Must have Schlachtenschlager's horse, if I have to steal him—nobody else will lend me one. An old ass; but can twist him round my thumb as easily as a tape of tobacco."
Such were the reflections of the attorney, as with his brother jurors, one of whom had given him a seat in his little Jersey wagon, he followed Schlachtenschlager, to share the feast this worthy had prepared for his associates at the Green Tree.
The soliloquy of the lawyer seemed to infer a doubt of the performance of the promise Schlachtenschlager had so generously made of lending him a horse. This doubt was engendered by a sudden change in the sky, which, from having been perfectly clear and placid, suddenly began to be covered with clouds, and these of an appearance so gloomy and menacing that full half the jurors became alarmed, and, excusing themselves from accepting the proffered hospitality, hurried to their homes, leaving the revels to be shared by those who dwelt in the Squire's immediate neighbourhood. The attorney, wonderful to be said, had as strong an impulse to be gone as others, although fully sensible of the excellence of the magistrate's potables, and of the painful sacrifice he should make in tearing himself away; but on the other hand, he perceived that a violent thunderstorm was brewing, and he knew the Squire to be a prudent man, who loved his beast as he loved his wife, and indeed a great deal better, and would be loath to lend him after the storm had once set in. For this reason, as soon as he had reached the inn, he reminded the Squire of his promise, swore he would drink but a single glass, and then be off, without waiting for the rain.
The Squire scratched his head, and replied,
"Vy, Mr. Affidafy, I don't know. The veather vill be padt, and I don't like it: it vill pe padt on the horse. So, Affidafy, ve vill vait a little and see; and, pesides, my poy," added the dignitary, clapping him on the shoulder, as if to atone by condescension for the disappointment he inflicted, "ve fill not forget the dtrinking, and the jolly-making. Py mine heart, my poy, ve fill have petter fun for you than trampling about in the rain mit a stumpling horse. Fat, man, fy we're all Deutschers put you! Here's Jake Musser, and Hans Fackeltrager, and Alberick Klappermuhle, and Franz Beschwerlich, and Simson Kleiber, and mineself; and then there's you. Mine Gott, ve fill be jolly; for I will proach a parrel of Nierensteiner,—mine soul! it is as goodt as any in the whole Rheingau! and I do keep it for mineself. And ve fill dtrink and ve fill sing, as if ve fas all in the Rheingau itself; for my voman, Gott pless her, she is cone to the fillage, and the poys is out a looking after the ploodty Hawks. Aha, Affidafy, my poy! you shall see fat it is to dtrink Rhine wine, mit six goodt Deutschers to help you. Fat do you say, poys? can you sing the Rheinweinlied in a t'under-storm? Aha, you see, Affidafy! Fell, if ve are few, vy ve fill be merry."
It was in vain to pursue his desire, at such a moment; and indeed the attorney's blood tingled with joy at the thought of the flowing bowls, offered in such an oration. "Very well, you old fool," he muttered to himself, "I will drink till your cursed sour old cider trash, that you call Rhine wine, has opened your heart; and then, botheration, I will bubble you out of the best horse in your stable. Well, it is well it's no worse: it will rain, and that cats and dogs."