I hate a drunken rogue.--Twelfth Night.
We took an affectionate leave of Mr. Gordon, and found ourselves once
more in the open air; the smoke and the purl had contributed greatly to
the continuance of our inebriety, and we were as much averse to bed
as ever. We conveyed ourselves, laughing and rioting all the way, to a
stand of hackney-coaches. We entered the head of the flock, and drove to
Piccadilly. It set us down at the corner of the Haymarket.
“Past two!” cried the watchman, as we sauntered by him.
“You lie, you rascal,” said I, “you have passed three now.”
We were all merry enough to laugh at this sally; and seeing a light
gleam from the entrance of the Royal Saloon, we knocked at the door, and
it was opened unto us. We sat down at the only spare table in the place,
and looked round at the smug and varment citizens with whom the room was
filled.
“Hollo, waiter!” cried Tringle, “some red wine negus--I know not why it
is, but the devil himself could never cure me of thirst. Wine and I
have a most chemical attraction for each other. You know that we always
estimate the force of attraction between bodies by the force required to
separate them!”
While we were all three as noisy and nonsensical as our best friends
could have wished us, a new stranger entered, approached, looked round
the room for a seat, and seeing none, walked leisurely up to our table,
and accosted me with a--“Ha! Mr. Pelham, how d’ye do? Well met; by your
leave I will sip my grog at your table. No offence, I hope--more the
merrier, eh?--Waiter, a glass of hot brandy and water--not too weak.
D’ye hear?”
Need I say that this pithy and pretty address proceeded from the mouth
of Mr. Tom Thornton. He was somewhat more than half drunk, and his light
prying eyes twinkled dizzily in his head. Dartmore, who was, and is,
the best natured fellow alive, hailed the signs of his intoxication as
a sort of freemasonry, and made way for him beside himself. I could
not help remarking, that Thornton seemed singularly less sleek than
heretofore: his coat was out at the elbows, his linen was torn and
soiled; there was not a vestige of the vulgar spruceness about him which
was formerly one of his most prominent characteristics. He had also
lost a great deal of the florid health formerly visible in his face;
his cheeks seemed sunk and haggard, his eyes hollow, and his complexion
sallow and squalid, in spite of the flush which intemperance spread over
it at the moment. However, he was in high spirits, and soon made himself
so entertaining that Dartmore and Tringle grew charmed with him.
As for me, the antipathy I had to the man sobered and silenced me for
the rest of the night; and finding that Dartmore and his friend were
eager for an introduction to some female friends of Thornton’s, whom he
mentioned in terms of high praise, I tore myself from them, and made the
best of my way home.