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ON HIS WAY THROUGH THE WORLD 165
CHAPTER VII
IMPLETUR VETERIS BACCHI
THAT time, that merry time, of Brandon's, of Bohemia, of
oysters, of idleness, of smoking, of song at night and profuse
soda-water in the morning, of a pillow, lonely and bachelor
it is true, but with few cares for bedfellows, of plenteous pocketmoney,
of ease for to-day and little heed for to-morrow, was often
remembered by Philip in after days. Mr. Phil's views of life were
not very exalted, were they ? The fruits of this world, which he
devoured with such gusto, I must own were of the common kitchengarden
sort ; and the lazy rogue's ambition went no farther than to
stroll along the sunshiny wall, eat his fill, and then repose comfortably
in the arbour under the arched vine. Why did Phil's mother's
parents leave her thirty thousand pounds? I daresay some misguided
people would be glad to do as much for their sons ; but, if
I have ten, I am determined they shall either have a hundred
thousand apiece, or else bare bread and cheese. " Man was made
to labour, and to be lazy," Phil would affirm with his usual energy
of expression. " When the Indian warrior goes on the hunting
path, he is sober, active, indomitable. No dangers fright him, and
no labours tire. He endures the cold of the winter ; he couches on
the forest leaves ; he subsists on frugal roots or the casual spoil of
his bow. When he returns to his village, he gorges to repletion ;
he sleeps, perhaps, to excess. When the game is devoured, and
the fire-water exhausted, again he sallies forth into the wilderness ;
he out-climbs the 'possum and he throttles the bear. I am the
Indian : and this ' Haunt ' is my wigwam ! Barbara my squaw,
bring me oysters ; bring me a jug of the frothing black beer of the
pale-faces, or I will hang up thy scalp on my tent-pole !" And
old Barbara, the good old attendant of this " Haunt" of Bandits,
would say, " Law, Mr. Philip, how you do go on, to be sure !"
Where is the " Haunt" now ? and where are the merry men all
who there assembled ? The sign is down ; the song is silent ; the
sand is swept from the floor ; the pipes are broken, and the ashes
are scattered.
A little more gossip about his merry days, and we have done.