Jerrold said no more,
and I went on talking with Dr. ------; but, in a minute or two, I became
aware that something had gone wrong, and, looking at Douglas Jerrold,
there was an expression of pain and emotion on his face. By this time a
second bottle of Burgundy had been opened (Clos Vougeot, the best the
Club could produce, and far richer than the Chambertin), and that warm
and potent wine may have had something to do with the depth and vivacity
of Mr. Jerrold's feelings. But he was indeed greatly hurt by that little
word "acrid." "He knew," he said, "that the world considered him a sour,
bitter, ill-natured man; but that such a man as I should have the sane
opinion was almost more than he could bear." As he spoke, he threw out
his arms, sank back in his seat, and I was really a little apprehensive
of his actual dissolution into tears. Hereupon I spoke, as was good
need, and though, as usual, I have forgotten everything I said, I am
quite sure it was to the purpose, and went to this good fellow's heart,
as it came warmly from my own. I do remember saying that I felt him to
be as genial as the glass of Burgundy which I held in my hand; and I
think that touched the very right spot; for he smiled, and said he was
afraid the Burgundy was better than he, but yet he was comforted. Dr.
------ said that he likewise had a reputation for bitterness; and I
assured him, if I might venture to join myself to the brotherhood of two
such men, that I was considered a very ill-natured person by many people
in my own country.
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