You know me- I'm a man of my word- now
be off!" Here he swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the
room in despair.
A very "fine old English gentleman," was my grand-uncle
Rumgudgeon, but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points. He was
a little, pursy, pompous, passionate semicircular somebody, with a red
nose, a thick scull, [sic] a long purse, and a strong sense of his own
consequence. With the best heart in the world, he contrived, through a
predominant whim of contradiction, to earn for himself, among those
who only knew him superficially, the character of a curmudgeon. Like
many excellent people, he seemed possessed with a spirit of
tantalization, which might easily, at a casual glance, have been
mistaken for malevolence. To every request, a positive "No!" was his
immediate answer, but in the end- in the long, long end- there were
exceedingly few requests which he refused. Against all attacks upon
his purse he made the most sturdy defence; but the amount extorted
from him, at last, was generally in direct ratio with the length of
the siege and the stubbornness of the resistance. In charity no one
gave more liberally or with a worse grace.
For the fine arts, and especially for the belles-lettres, he
entertained a profound contempt. With this he had been inspired by
Casimir Perier, whose pert little query "A quoi un poete est il
bon?" he was in the habit of quoting, with a very droll pronunciation,
as the ne plus ultra of logical wit.
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