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Chapter 7 Fred, said Mr Swiveller, remember the once popular melody of Begone dull care; fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of friendship; and pass the rosy wine. Mr Richard Swivellers apartments were in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and in addition to this convenience of situation had the advantage of being over a tobacconists shop, so that he was enabled to procure a refreshing sneeze at any time by merely stepping out upon the staircase, and was saved the trouble and expense of maintaining a snuff-box. It was in these apartments that Mr Swiveller made use of the expressions above recorded for the consolation and encouragement of his desponding friend; and it may not be uninteresting or improper to remark that even these brief observations partook in a double sense of the figurative and poetical character of Mr Swivellers mind, as the rosy wine was in fact represented by one glass of cold gin-and-water, which was replenished as occasion required from a bottle and jug upon the table, and was passed from one to another, in a scarcity of tumblers which, as Mr Swivellers was a bachelors establishment, may be acknowledged without a blush. By a like pleasant fiction his single chamber was always mentioned in the plural number. In its disengaged times, the tobacconist had announced it in his window as apartments for a single gentleman, and Mr Swiveller, following up the hint, never failed to speak of it as his rooms, his lodgings, or his chambers, conveying to his hearers a notion of indefinite space, and leaving their imaginations to wander through long suites of lofty halls, at pleasure. In this flight of fancy, Mr Swiveller was assisted by a deceptive piece of furniture, in reality a bedstead, but in semblance a bookcase, which occupied a prominent situation in his chamber and seemed to defy suspicion and challenge inquiry. There is no doubt that by day Mr Swiveller firmly believed this secret convenience to be a bookcase and nothing more; that he closed his eyes to the bed, resolutely denied the existence of the blankets, and spurned the bolster from his thoughts. No word of its real use, no hint of its nightly service, no allusion to its peculiar properties, had ever passed between him and his most intimate friends. Implicit faith in the deception was the first article of his creed. To be the friend of Swiveller you must reject all circumstantial evidence, all reason, observation, and experience, and repose a blind belief in the bookcase. It was his pet weakness, and he cherished it. Fred! said Mr Swiveller, finding that his former adjuration had been productive of no effect. Pass the rosy. Young Trent with an impatient gesture pushed the glass towards him, and fell again into the moody attitude from which he had been unwillingly roused. Ill give you, Fred, said his friend, stirring the mixture, a little sentiment appropriate to the occasion. Heres May the Pshaw! interposed the other. You worry me to death with your chattering. You can be merry under any circumstances. Why, Mr Trent, returned Dick, there is a proverb which talks about being merry and wise. There are some people who can be merry and cant be wise, and some who can be wise (or think they can) and cant be merry. Im one of the first sort. If the proverbs a good un, I supose its better to keep to half of it than none; at all events, Id rather be merry and not wise, than like you, neither one nor tother. Bah! muttered his friend, peevishly. With all my heart, said Mr Swiveller. In the polite circles I believe this sort of thing isnt usually said to a gentleman in his own apartments, but never mind that. Make yourself at home. Adding to this retort an observation to the effect that his friend appeared to be rather cranky in point of temper, Richards Swiveller finished the rosy and applied himself to the composition of another glassful, in which, after tasting it with great relish, he proposed a toast to an imaginary company. |
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