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Chapter LVI
A day or two after the Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr Swiveller
walked into Sampson Brass's office at the usual hour, and being alone
in that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking
from his pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to
folding and pinning the same upon it, after the manner of a hatband.
Having completed the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his
work with great complacency, and put his hat on again - very much
over one eye, to increase the mournfulness of the effect. These
arrangements perfected to his entire satisfaction, he thrust his hands
into his pockets, and walked up and down the office with measured
steps.
'
'
It has always been the same with me,' said Mr Swiveller, 'always.
Twas ever thus - from childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes
decay, I never loved a tree or flower but 'twas the first to fade away; I
never nursed a dear Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but
when it came to know me well, and love me, it was sure to marry a
market-gardener.'
Overpowered by these reflections, Mr Swiveller stopped short at the
clients' chair, and flung himself into its open arms.
'
And this,' said Mr Swiveller, with a kind of bantering composure, 'is
life, I believe. Oh, certainly. Why not! I'm quite satisfied. I shall wear,'
added Richard, taking off his hat again and looking hard at it, as if he
were only deterred by pecuniary considerations from spurning it with
his foot, 'I shall wear this emblem of woman's perfidy, in remembrance
of her with whom I shall never again thread the windings of the mazy;
whom I shall never more pledge in the rosy; who, during the short
remainder of my existence, will murder the balmy. Ha, ha, ha!'
It may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any
incongruity in the close of this soliloquy, that Mr Swiveller did not
wind up with a cheerful hilarious laugh, which would have been
undoubtedly at variance with his solemn reflections, but that, being in
a theatrical mood, he merely achieved that performance which is
designated in melodramas 'laughing like a fiend,' - for it seems that
your fiends always laugh in syllables, and always in three syllables,
never more nor less, which is a remarkable property in such gentry,
and one worthy of remembrance.
The baleful sounds had hardly died away, and Mr Swiveller was still
sitting in a very grim state in the clients' chair, when there came a
ring - or, if we may adapt the sound to his then humour, a knell - at
the office bell. Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the
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