‘Well, well, such is life!’ said the red-nosed curate, who had been listening attentively. ‘I suppose we’re all villains of necessity, and fools by a divine thrusting on. What’s the odds as long as we’re happy? Look at my learning, my abilities, my virtues—where am I the better? Are we not all on the same low level? All, if I may be pardoned the phrase, a little shaky, a little down in the world? Let’s liquor up,’ said he, bringing out of his side pocket a bottle of rum, and passing it round, often tasting with evident gusto its contents.
In the midst of the excitement a gent came in apparently much excited. I say gent, as he was not a gentleman. He had too red a nose and too sodden an appearance to be taken for anything of the kind. He was a perfect picture of a human wreck as, unwashed and unshaven, with a short pipe in his mouth, he joined the drinking group.
‘Hollo, parson,’ they all exclaimed, ‘wot’s the row? Anythink up?’
‘Nothing particular, only a highway robbery in the Black Country, and a farmer left for dead.’
‘In the Black Country? Where’s that?’ asked the tramp. ‘Whoever heard of such a place?’
‘Why, you just said you’d been down there,’ said one of the party.
‘Well, what if I did? You don’t suppose I had anything to do with the job?’ said the new-comer angrily.
‘Of course not,’ was the universal reply.
Harmony being restored, the bottle of gin was drunk, and another sent for. The fun grew fast and furious. The conviviality was of the choicest character, or rather it degenerated into an orgie. Does the reader recollect that splendid passage of Lord Bacon, in which he tells us, ‘In Orpheus’s theatre all the birds assembled, and forgetting their several appetites—some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel—stood all sociably together, listening to the concert, which no sooner ceased, or was drowned by some louder noise, but every beast returned to his own nature.’ The gin in the low lodging-house had produced a similar effect. While it lasted the partakers for the time being had forgot their several appetites—some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel—and stood or sat all sociably together. No sooner had the supply of liquor ceased than the good-fellowship became changed into hate and discord, as the various natures of the guests reasserted themselves.