ON the evening of the third day from the arrival of
Mr. Mivers, he, the Parson, and Sir Peter were seated
in the host’s parlour, the Parson in an armchair
by the ingle, smoking a short cutty-pipe; Mivers at
length on the couch, slowly inhaling the perfumes of
one of his own choice trabucos. Sir Peter
never smoked. There were spirits and hot water
and lemons on the table. The Parson was famed
for skill in the composition of toddy. From time
to time the Parson sipped his glass, and Sir Peter
less frequently did the same. It is needless to
say that Mr. Mivers eschewed toddy; but beside him,
on a chair, was a tumbler and a large carafe of iced
water.
SIR PETER.—“Cousin Mivers, you have
now had time to study Kenelm, and to compare his character
with that assigned to him in the Doctor’s letter.”
MIVERS (languidly).—“Ay.”
SIR PETER.—“I ask you, as a man of
the world, what you think I had best do with the boy.
Shall I send him to such a tutor as the Doctor suggests?
Cousin John is not of the same mind as the Doctor,
and thinks that Kenelm’s oddities are fine things
in their way, and should not be prematurely ground
out of him by contact with worldly tutors and London
pavements.”
“Ay,” repeated Mr. Mivers more languidly
than before. After a pause he added, “Parson
John, let us hear you.”
The Parson laid aside his cutty-pipe and emptied his
fourth tumbler of toddy; then, throwing back his head
in the dreamy fashion of the great Coleridge when
he indulged in a monologue, he thus began, speaking
somewhat through his nose,—
“At the morning of life—”
Here Mivers shrugged his shoulders, turned round on
his couch, and closed his eyes with the sigh of a
man resigning himself to a homily.
“At the morning of life, when the dews—”
“I knew the dews were coming,” said Mivers.
“Dry them, if you please; nothing so unwholesome.
We anticipate what you mean to say, which is plainly
this, When a fellow is sixteen he is very fresh:
so he is; pass on; what then?”
“If you mean to interrupt me with your habitual
cynicism,” said the Parson, “why did you
ask to hear me?”
“That was a mistake I grant; but who on earth
could conceive that you were going to commence in
that florid style? Morning of life indeed! bosh!”
“Cousin Mivers,” said Sir Peter, “you
are not reviewing John’s style in ‘The
Londoner;’ and I will beg you to remember that
my son’s morning of life is a serious thing
to his father, and not to be nipped in its bud by
a cousin. Proceed, John!”
