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214 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP .
in his usual fine spirits, and enjoying his ordinary flow of talk, he
would have informed Larkins and the assembled company not only
that Scumble was an impostor, but that he, Larkins, was an idiot
for admiring him. He would have informed Bunch that he was
infatuated about that jackass Bowman, that cockney, that wretched
ignoramus, who didn't know his own or any other language. He
would have taken down one of Bowman's stories from the shelf, and
proved the folly, imbecility, and crass ignorance of that author.
(Ridley has a simple little stock of novels and poems in an old
cabinet in his studio, and reads them still with much artless wonder
and respect.) Or, to be sure, Phil would have asserted propositions
the exact contrary of those here maintained, and declared that
Bowman was a genius, and Scumble a most accomplished artist.
But then, you know, somebody else must have commenced by taking
the other side. Certainly a more paradoxical, and provoking, and
obstinate, and contradictory disputant than Mr. Phil I never knew.
I never met Dr. Johnson, who died before I came up to town ; but
I do believe Phil Firmin would have stood up and argued even
with him.
At these Thursday divans the host provided the modest and
kindly refreshment, and Betsy the maid, or Virgilio the model,
travelled to and fro with glasses and water. Each guest brought
his own smoke, and I promise you there were such liberal contributions
of the article, that the studio was full of it ; and newcomers
used to be saluted by a roar of laughter as you heard,
rather than saw, them entering, and choking in the fog. It was,
" Holloa, Prodgers ! is that you, old boy ?" and the beard of
Prodgers (that famous sculptor) would presently loom through
the cloud. It was " Newcome, how goes ?" and Mr. Clive Newcome
(a mediocre artist, I must own, but a famous good fellow,
with an uncommonly pretty villa and pretty and rich wife at
Wimbledon) would make his appearance, and be warmly greeted
by our little host. It was " Is that you, F. B. ? would you like a
link, old boy, to see you through the fog ?" And the deep voice
of Frederick Bayham, Esquire (the eminent critic on Art), would
boom out of the tobacco-mist, and would exclaim " A link ? I
would like a drink." Ah, ghosts of youth, again ye draw near !
Old figures glimmer through the cloud. Old songs echo out of
the distance. What were you saying anon about Dr. Johnson,
boys] I am sure some of us must remember him. As for me,
I am so old, that I might have been at Edial school—the other
pupil along with little Davy Garrick and his brother.
We had a bachelor's supper in the Temple so lately that I
think we must pay but a very brief visit to a smoking party in