Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

the coast of Africa, or congealing on the shores of Greenland, I am

far far better there than here.’ (In this sentiment my cooler

judgment perceives that the family of the beloved object would have

most completely concurred.) ‘If I ever emerge from obscurity, and

my name is ever heralded by Fame, it will be for her dear sake. If

I ever amass Gold, it will be to pour it at her feet. Should I on

the other hand become the prey of Ravens – ‘ I doubt if I ever

quite made up my mind what was to be done in that affecting case; I

tried ‘then it is better so;’ but not feeling convinced that it

would be better so, I vacillated between leaving all else blank,

which looked expressive and bleak, or winding up with ‘Farewell!’

This fictitious correspondence of mine is to blame for the

foregoing digression. I was about to pursue the statement that on

my twenty-first birthday I gave a party, and She was there. It was

a beautiful party. There was not a single animate or inanimate

object connected with it (except the company and myself) that I had

ever seen before. Everything was hired, and the mercenaries in

attendance were profound strangers to me. Behind a door, in the

crumby part of the night when wine-glasses were to be found in

unexpected spots, I spoke to Her – spoke out to Her. What passed,

I cannot as a man of honour reveal. She was all angelical

gentleness, but a word was mentioned – a short and dreadful word of

three letters, beginning with a B- which, as I remarked at the

moment, ‘scorched my brain.’ She went away soon afterwards, and

when the hollow throng (though to be sure it was no fault of

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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

theirs) dispersed, I issued forth, with a dissipated scorner, and,

as I mentioned expressly to him, ‘sought oblivion.’ It was found,

with a dreadful headache in it, but it didn’t last; for, in the

shaming light of next day’s noon, I raised my heavy head in bed,

looking back to the birthdays behind me, and tracking the circle by

which I had got round, after all, to the bitter powder and the

wretchedness again.

This reactionary powder (taken so largely by the human race I am

inclined to regard it as the Universal Medicine once sought for in

Laboratories) is capable of being made up in another form for

birthday use. Anybody’s long-lost brother will do ill to turn up

on a birthday. If I had a long-lost brother I should know

beforehand that he would prove a tremendous fraternal failure if he

appointed to rush into my arms on my birthday. The first Magic

Lantern I ever saw, was secretly and elaborately planned to be the

great effect of a very juvenile birthday; but it wouldn’t act, and

its images were dim. My experience of adult birthday Magic

Lanterns may possibly have been unfortunate, but has certainly been

similar. I have an illustrative birthday in my eye: a birthday of

my friend Flipfield, whose birthdays had long been remarkable as

social successes. There had been nothing set or formal about them;

Flipfield having been accustomed merely to say, two or three days

before, ‘Don’t forget to come and dine, old boy, according to

custom;’ – I don’t know what he said to the ladies he invited, but

I may safely assume it NOT to have been ‘old girl.’ Those were

delightful gatherings, and were enjoyed by all participators. In

an evil hour, a long-lost brother of Flipfield’s came to light in

foreign parts. Where he had been hidden, or what he had been

doing, I don’t know, for Flipfield vaguely informed me that he had

turned up ‘on the banks of the Ganges’ – speaking of him as if he

had been washed ashore. The Long-lost was coming home, and

Flipfield made an unfortunate calculation, based on the well-known

regularity of the P. and O. Steamers, that matters might be so

contrived as that the Long-lost should appear in the nick of time

on his (Flipfield’s) birthday. Delicacy commanded that I should

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