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