was further rumoured that he was living like
a miser; that he had got an old man-servant,
named Shrowl, who was even a greater
enemy to mankind than himself; that he
allowed no living soul, not even an occasional
charwoman, to enter the house; that he was
letting his beard grow, and that he had
ordered his servant Shrowl to follow his
example. In the year eighteen hundred and
forty-four, the fact of a man's not shaving
was regarded by the enlightened majority of
the English nation as a proof of unsoundness
of intellect. At the present time, Mr.
Treverton's beard would only have interfered
with his reputation for respectability.
Thirteen years ago, it was accepted as so
much additional evidence in support of the
old theory that his intellects were deranged.
He was at that very time, as his stockbroker
could have testified, one of the sharpest men
of business in London; he could argue on
the wrong side of any question with an acuteness
of sophistry and sarcasm that Doctor
Johnson himself might have envied; he kept
his household accounts right to a farthing,
his manner was never disturbed in the
slightest degree from morning to night, his
eyes were all quickness and intelligence—but
what did these advantages avail him, in the
estimation of his neighbours, when he
presumed to live on another plan than theirs,
and when he wore a hairy certificate of
lunacy on the lower part of his face? We
have advanced a little in the matter of partial
toleration of beards since that time; but we
have still a great deal of ground to get over.
In the present year of progress, eighteen
hundred and. fifty-seven, would the most
trustworthy banker's clerk in the whole
metropolis have the slightest chance of keeping
his situation if he left off shaving his
chin?

Common report which calumniated Mr.
Treverton as mad, had another error to
answer for in describing him as a miser. He
saved more than two-thirds of the income
derived from his comfortable fortune, not
because he liked hoarding up money; but
because he had no enjoyment of the comforts
and luxuries which money is spent in procuring. To do him justice, his contempt for
his own wealth was quite as hearty as his
contempt for the wealth of his neighbours.
Thus characteristically wrong on both points,
in endeavouring to delineate his character,
report was, nevertheless, for once in a way,
inconsistently right in describing his manner
of life. It was true that he had bought the
first cottage he could find that was secluded
within its own walls—true that nobody was
allowed, on any pretence whatever, to enter
his doors—and true that he had met with a
servant, who was even bitterer against all
mankind than himself, in the person of Mr.
Shrowl.

The life these two led approached as nearly
to the existence of the primitive man (or
savage) as the surrounding conditions of
civilisation would allow. Admitting the necessity
of eating and drinking, the first object of
Mr. Treverton's ambition was to sustain life
with the least possible dependence on the
race of men who professed to supply their
neighbours' bodily wants, and who, as he
conceived, cheated them infamously on the
strength of their profession. Having a garden
at the back of the house, Timon of London
dispensed with the greengrocer altogether by
cultivating his own vegetables. There was no
room for growing wheat, or he would have
turned farmer also on his own account; but
he could outwit the miller and the baker, at
any rate, by buying a sack of corn, grinding
it in his own hand-mill, and giving the flour
to Shrowl to make into bread. On the same
principle, the meat for the house was bought
wholesale of the City salesmen—the master
and servant eating as much of it in the fresh
state as they could, salting the rest, and
setting butchers at defiance. As for drink,
neither brewer nor publican ever had the
chance of extorting a farthing from Mr.
Treverton's pocket. He and Shrowl were satisfied
with beer—and they brewed for
themselves. With bread, vegetables, meat, and
malt liquor, these two hermits of modern
days achieved the great double purpose of
keeping life in, and keeping the tradesmen
out.

Eating like primitive men, they lived in all
other respects like primitive men also. They
had pots, pans, and pipkins, two deal tables, two
chairs, two old sofas, two short pipes, and two
long cloaks. They had no stated meal-times,
no carpets and bedsteads, no cabinets,
bookcases, or ornamental knick-knacks of any
kind, no laundress, and no charwoman.
When either of the two wanted to eat and
drink, he cut off his crust of bread, cooked
his bit of meat, drew his drop of beer, without
the slightest reference to the other.
When either of the two thought he wanted a
clean shirt, which was very seldom, he went
and washed one for himself. When either of
the two discovered that any part of the house
was getting very dirty indeed, he took a
bucket of water and a birch-broom, and
washed the place out like a dog-kennel. And,
lastly, when either of the two wanted to go
to sleep, he wrapped himself up in his cloak,
and laid down on one of the sofas and took
what repose he wanted, early in the evening
or late in the morning, just as he pleased.

When there was no baking, brewing,
gardening, or cleaning to be done, the two sat
down opposite each other and smoked for
hours, generally without uttering a word.
Whenever they did speak, they quarrelled.
Their ordinary dialogue was a species of
conversational prize-fight, beginning with a
sarcastic affectation of good-will on either side,
and ending in hearty exchanges of violent
abuse—just as the boxers go through the
feeble formality of shaking hands before they