Port was my father’s favorite wine.  It warmed his heart, cooled his temper, and made him not only conversational, but expansive.  Leaning back complacently in his easy-chair, with the glass upheld between his eye and the window, he discoursed to me of my journey, of my prospects in life, and of all that I should do and avoid, professionally and morally.

“Work,” he said, “is the panacea for every sorrow—­the plaster for every pain—­your only universal remedy.  Industry, air, and exercise are our best physicians.  Trust to them, boy; but beware how you publish the prescription, lest you find your occupation gone.  Remember, if you wish to be rich, you must never seem to be poor; and as soon as you stand in need of your friends, you will find yourself with none left.  Be discreet of speech, and cultivate the art of silence.  Above all things, be truthful.  Hold your tongue as long as you please, but never open your lips to a lie.  Show no man the contents of your purse—­he would either despise you for having so little, or try to relieve you of the burden of carrying so much.  Above all, never get into debt, and never fall in love.  The first is disgrace, and the last is the devil!  Respect yourself, if you wish others to respect you; and bear in mind that the world takes you at your own estimate.  To dress well is a duty one owes to society.  The man who neglects his own appearance not only degrades himself to the level of his inferiors, but puts an affront upon his friends and acquaintances.”

“I trust, sir,” I said in some confusion, “that I shall never incur the last reproach again.”

“I hope not, Basil,” replied my father, with a smile.  “I hope not.  Keep your conscience clean and your boots blacked, and I have no fear of you.  You are no hero, my boy, but it depends upon yourself whether you become a man of honor or a scamp; a gentleman or a clown.  You have, I see, registered a good resolution to-day.  Keep it; and remember that Pandemonium will get paved without your help.  There would be no industry, boy, if there was no idleness, and all true progress begins with—­Reform.”

CHAPTER VII.

AT THE CHEVAL BLANC

My journey, even at this distance of time, appears to me like an enchanted dream.  I observed, yet scarcely remembered, the scenes through which I passed, so divided was I between the novelty of travelling and the eagerness of anticipation.  Provided with my letters of introduction, the sum of one hundred guineas, English, and the enthusiasm of twenty years of age, I fancied myself endowed with an immortality of wealth and happiness.

The Brighton coach passed through our town once a week; so I started for Paris without having ever visited London, and took the route by Newhaven and Dieppe.  Having left home on Tuesday morning, I reached Rouen in the course of the next day but one.  At Rouen I stayed to dine and sleep, and so made my way to the Cheval Blanc, a grand hotel on the quay, where I was received by an aristocratic elderly waiter who sauntered out from a side office, surveyed me patronizingly, entered my name upon a card for a seat at the table d’hote, and, having rung a feeble little bell, sank exhausted upon a seat in the hall.