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To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN L161—O-1096 ADVENTURESOF PHILIP ~ ON HIS WAY THROUGH THE WORLD ; SHOWING WHO ROBBED HIM, WHO HELPED HIM, AND WHO PASSED HIM BY. TO WHICH IS NOW PREFIXED Pettey Gen ver STORY Brew MM. THACKERAY. HOUSEHOLD EDITION. ae ee CNS Me eres) GO) OD & CO, SUCCESSORS TO TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 1869. CONTENTS, A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. . How “Mrs. Gann RECEIVED Two LopGErs . A SHappy GENTEEL DINNER, AND OTHER INCIDENTS OF A LIKE NATURE . In waica Mr. Fitcu PROCLAIMS HIS Loy, AND Mr. Bee DON PREPARES FOR WAR ConTAINS A GREAT DEAL OF GombuicktED Love- MARING . DESCRIBES A SHABBY GENTEEL MARRIAGE AND MORE LOVE- MAKING . . WHICH BRINGS A GREAT NumBer OF “PEOPLE ro MARGATE BY THE STEAMBOAT . WHICH TREATS OF WAR AND Love, AND MANY Tunes THAT ARE NOT TO BE UNDERSTOOD IN Cuap. VII. WHICH THREATENS DEATH, BUT CONTAINS A GREAT DEAL oF MARRYING . : ; : : : : : THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Docror Friu : - , . a A ; . At SCHOOL AND AT Homz : ¢ ‘ . - 7 . A CONSULTATION . ; : ; : ; A GENTEEL FAMILY ‘ . ‘ A = ‘ Tue Nosie KInsMAN . : ‘ ; ; : ; . BRANDON’S : ; ‘ . : H ‘ : . Impctetur VETERIS “Baccur . WILL BE PRONOUNCED TO BE CYNICAL BY THE BENEVo- LENT . CONTAINS ONE RIDDLE “WHICH 18 SOLVED, AND PERHAPS SOME MORE . . . ° ° IN WHICH WE VISIT «ADMIRAL ‘Brxe ” . IN wuHicu PHILIP IS VERY ILL TEMPERED ‘ , . DAMOCLES . ; : - = F 4 P . LOVE ME, LOVE MY “Doe : < . a . ; ConTains TWO OF PHILIP’S MISHAPS ; 3 A + . SAMARITANS . . A - ~ : ‘ “ ; RR CG & XVI. XVIL. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. XXII. MLV. XXV. XXVI. XXVII. XX VILL XXIX. XXX. XXXI. XXXII. AXA. XXXIV. XXXV. XXAVI. XXXVILI. XXX VIII. XXXIX. XL. XLI. XLII. CONTENTS. In wuica Paine snows uis Merrie . ; : BREVIS ESSE LABORO : : 3 é DruM IST’s SO WOHL MIR IN DER WeLr : ; 5 Qu’on EST BIEN A ViNGT ANS ' é ‘ ; Coursre or TRun LOVE : ; ; ‘ : Treats or Dancine, DINING, Dying : ‘ ' Putvis Er UMBRA SUMUS . : ; ; : IN WHICH WE STILL HOVER avour THE ELYSIAN FIigLbDs . - ; Nrc DULCES cones SPERNY, Purr, NEQUE TU CHo- REAS . 5 ; : : ; : : ; INFANDI DOLORES : ; E . é . Contains A TuG oF WAR . ‘ : ; ; ; I cHARGE you, Drop youR DAGGERS _. In wuich Mrs. MacWuirter HAS A New Borne In tHE DerarTMENTS OF Sein5, Loire, AND STYX (INFERIEUR) . : : : ‘ : . : RETURNS TO Op FRIENDS . : NARRATES THAT FAMOUS JOKE ABOUT Miss GRricsBy Ways AND Mmans. ‘ ; : 4 : a DESCRIBES. A. SITUATION INTERESTING BUT NOT UN- EXPECTED In wuHicu I own THAT Punir TELLS AN Unrrute . Res Ancusta Domi . ; : . : ; : Ix WHICH THE DRAWING-ROOMS ARE NOT FURNISHED AFTER ALL : P : ‘ . 3 NrEc PLENA CRUORIS Hizupo E 3 : ‘ % THe BEARER OF THE BOWSTRING IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE HAVE THEIR TRIALS ‘ In wuicn THE LUCK GOES VERY MUCH AGAINST US. IN WHICH WE REACH THE LAST STAGE BUT ONE OF THIS JOURNEY : : 4 i : % z Tue Reaums oF Biss. , ; ; é eee ° ° yn ADVERTISEMENTS. WueEn the “ Shabby Genteel Story” was first reprinted with other stories nd sketches by Mr. Thackeray, collected together under the title of ‘“ Mis- ellanies,” the following note was appended to it :— It was my intention to complete the little story, of which only the first part is ere written. Perhaps novel-readers will understand, even from the above chap- ars, what wastoensue. Caroline was to be disowned and deserted by her wicked usband: that abandoned man was to marry somebody else: hence, bitter trials nd grief, patience and virtue, for poor little Caroline, and a melancholy ending, -as how should it have been gay? Thetale was interrupted at a sad period of he writer’s own life. The colors are long since dry; the artist’s hand is changed. tis best to leave the sketch, as it was when first designed seventeen years ago. ‘he memory of the past is renewed as he looks at it, — die Bilder froher Tage Und manche liebe Schatten steigen auf. | W. M. T. Lonpon, April 10, 1857. _ Mr. Brandon, a principal character in this story, figures prominently in ‘The Adventures of Philip,” under his real name of Brand Firmin; Mrs. 3randon, his deserted wife, and her father, Mr. Gann, are also introduced ; herefore the “ Shabby Genteel Story” is now prefixed to “ The Adventures f Philip.” A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. CHAPTER I. , T that remarkable period when A Louis XVIII. was restored a second time to the throne of his fathers, and all the English who had money or leisure rushed over to the Continent, there lived in a certain boarding-house at Brussels a genteel young widow, who bore the elegant name of Mrs. Wellesley Macarty. In the same house and room with the widow lived her mamma, a lady who was called Mrs. Crabb. Both professed to be rather fashionable people. The Crabbs were of a very old English stock, and the Macartys iwere, as the world knows, County ‘Cork people; related to the Sheenys, Finnigans, Clancys, and other distin- guished families in their part of Ire- land. But Ensign Wellesley Mac, not having a shilling, ran off with Miss Crabb, who possessed the same independence; and after having been married about six months to the jady, was carried off suddenly, on the 8th of June, 1815, by a disease very forevalent in those glorious times, — vhe fatal cannon-shot morbus. He, nd many hundred young fellows of jis regiment, the Clonakilty Fencibles, jvere attacked by this epidemic on the fame day, at a place about ten miles irom Brussels, and there perished. |The ensign’s lady had accompanied | ner husband to the Continent, and bout five months after his death prought into the world two remark- bly fine female children. | Mrs. Wellesley’s mother had been ‘A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. —_—_——— reconciled to her daughter by this time, — for, in truth, Mrs. Crabb had no other child but her runaway Juli- ana, to whom she flew when she heard of her destitute condition. And, in- deed, it was high time that some one should come to the young widow’s aid; for as her husband did not leave money, nor anything that represented money, except a number of tailers’ and boot-makers’ bills, neatly docket- ed, in his writing-desk, Mrs. Welles- ley was in danger of starvation, should no friendly person assist her. Mrs. Crabb, then, came off to her daughter, whom the Sheenys, Finni- gans, and Clancys refused, with one scornful voice, to assist. The fact is, that Mr. Crabb had once been butler to a lord, and his lady a lady’s-maid ; and at Crabb’s death, Mrs. Crabb disposed of the “Ram” hotel and posting-house, where her husband had made three thousand pounds, and was living in genteel ease ina country town, when Ensign Macarty came, saw, and ran away with Juliana. Of such a connection, it was impossible that the great Clancys and Finnigans could take notice ; and so once more Widow Crabb was compelled to share with her daughter her small income of a hundred and twenty a year. Upon this, at a boarding-house in Brussels, the two managed to live pretty smartly, and to maintain an honorable reputation. The twins were put out, after the foreign fashion, to nurse, at a village in the neighbor- hood ; for Mrs. Macarty had been too ill to nurse them; and Mrs. Crabb 4 A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. could not afford to purchase that most expensive article, a private wet- nurse. There had been numberless_ tiffs and quarrels between mother and daughter when the latter was in her maiden state; and Mrs. Crabb was, to tell the truth, in no wise sorry when her Jooly disappeared with the en- sign, —for the old lady dearly loved a gentleman, and was not a little flat- tered at being the mother to Mrs. Ensign Macarty. Why the ensign should have run away with his lady at all, as he might have had her for the asking, is no business of ours ; nor are we going to rake up old stories and village scandals, which insinuate that Miss Crabb ran away with him, for with these points the writer and the reader have nothing to do. Well, then, the reconciled mother and daughter lived once more togeth- er, at Brussels. In the course of a year, Mrs. Macarty’s sorrow had much abated; and having a great natural love of dress, and a tolerably hand- some face and person, she was in- duced, without much reluctance, to throw her weeds aside, and to appear in the most becoming and varied costumes which her means and in- genuity could furnish, Considering, indeed, the smallness-of the former, it was agreed on all hands that Mrs. Crabb and her daughter deserved wonderful credit,—that is, they managed to keep up as respectable an appearance as if they had five hun- dred a year; and at church, at tea- parties, and abroad in the streets, to be what is called quite the gentle- women. If they starved at home, nobody saw it; if they patched and pieced, nobody (it was to be hoped) knew it; if they bragged about their relations and property, could any one say them nay? Thus they lived, hanging on with desperate energy to the skirts of genteel society; Mrs. Crabb, a sharp woman, rather re- spected her daughter’s superior rank ; and Mrs. Macarty did not quarrel so much as heretofore with her mamma, ~ on whom herself and her two children i were entirely dependent. 4 While affairs were at this juncture, — it happened that a young Englishman, | James Gann, Esq., of the great oil-— house of Gann, Blubbery, and Gann — (as he took care to tell you before you _ had been an hour in his company), | —it happened, I say, that James — Gann, Esq., came to Brussels for a month, for the purpose of perfecting | himself in the French language ; and while in that capital went to lodge at. the very boarding-house which con- tained Mrs. Crabb and her daughter. | Gann was young, weak, inflammable ; he saw and adored Mrs. Wellesley Macarty; and she, who was at this. period all but engaged to a stout old | wooden-legged Scotch regimental sur-. gcon, pitilessly seat Dr. M‘Lint about. his business, and accepted the ad- dresses of Mr. Gann. How the young: man arranged matters with his papa the senior partner, I don’t know ; but. it is certain that there was a quarrel, and afterwards a reconciliation ; and. it is also known that James Gann fought a duel with the surgeon, — receiving the /@sculapian fire, and discharging his own bullet into the azure skies. About nine thousand) times in the course of his after years did Mr. Gann narrate the history of the combat; it enabled him to go through life with the reputation of a man of courage, and won for bim, as he said with pride, the hand of his) Juliana; perhaps this was rather a questionable benefit. One part of the tale, however, honest James never did dare to tell, except} when peculiarly excited by wrath or liquor; it was this: thaton the day after the wedding, and in the presence of many friends who had come to offer their congratulations, a stout nurse, bearing a brace of chubby little ones made her appearance ; and these ros} urchins, springing forward at the sigh of Mrs. James Gann, shouted affec tionately, “ Maman! maman!” a which the lady, blushing rosy red said, “James, these two are yours ”’; and poor James wellnigh fainted at this sudden paternity so put upon him. “ Children!” screamed he, aghast ; “whose children?” at which Mrs. Crabb, majestically checking him, said, ‘‘These, my dear James, are the daughters of the gallant and good Ensign Macarty, whose widow you yesterday led to the altar. May you be happy with her, and may these blessed children ” (tears) “ findin you a father, who shall replace him that fell in the field of glory !” Mrs. Crabb, Mrs. James Gann, Mrs. Major Lolly, Mrs. Pitiler, and several ladies present, set up a sob immediately; and James Gann, a good-humored, soft-hearted man, was quite taken aback. Kissing his lady hurriedly, he vowed that he would take care of the poor little things, and proposed to kiss them likewise ; which caress the darlings refused with many roars. Gann’s fate was sealed from that minute; and he was _ properly henpecked by his wife and his mother- in-law during the life of the latter. Indeed, it was to Mrs. Crabb that the stratagem of the infant concealment was due; for when her daughter in- nocently proposed to have or to see the children, the old lady strongly pointed out the folly of such an ar- rangement, which might, perhaps, frighten away Mr. Gann from_ the delightful matrimonial trap into which | (lucky rogue!) he was about to fall. Soon after the marriage, the happy pair returned to England, occupying the house in Thames Street, City, until the death of Gann senior ; when his son, becoming head of the firm of mal precincts of Billingsgate and » colonized in the neighborhood of Put- mney; where a neat box, a couple of | spare bedrooms, a good cellar, and a smart gig to drive into and out from town, made a real gentleman of him. Mrs. Gann treated him with much > scorn, to be sure, called him a sot, and abused hugely the male compan- ions that he brought down with him Gann and Blubbery, quitted the dis- A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. | 5 to Putney. ‘\\Honest James would listen meekly,\would yield, and would bring down a krace more friends the next day, with whom he would dis- cuss his accustomed*uumber of bottles of port. About this period,a daughter was born to him, called “Caroline Brandenburg Gann ; so named alter a large mansion near Hammersmith, and an injured queen who lived there at the time of the little girl’s birth, and who was greatly compassioned and patronized by Mrs. James Gann, and other ladies of distinction. Mrs. James was a lady in those days, and gave evening-partics of the very first order. At this period of time, Mrs. James Gann sent the twins, Rosalind Clan- cy and Isabella Finnigan Wellesley Macarty to a _ boarding-school for young ladies, and grumbled much at the amount of the half-years’ bills which her husband was called upon to pay for them; for thongh James discharged them with perfect good- humor, his lady began to entertain a mean opinion indced of her pretty young children. They could expect no fortune, she said, from Mr. Gann, and she wondered that he should think of bringing them up expensive- ly, when he had a darling child of his own, for whom he was bound to save all the money that he could lay by. Grandmamma, too, doted on the little Caroline Brandenburg, and vowed that she would leave her three thousand pounds to this dear infant ; for in this*way does the world show its respect for that most respectable thing prosperity. Who in this life get the smiles, and the acts of friend- ship, and the pleasing legacies 4 — The rich. And I do, for my part, heartily wish that some one would leave me a trifle, —say twenty thou- sand pounds, — being perfectly confi- dent that some one else would leave me more; and that I should sink into my grave worth a plum at least. Little Caroline then had her maid, her airy nursery, her little carriage to drive in, the promise of her grand- 6 A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. mamma’s consols, and that priceless treasure, — her mamma’s undivided affection. Gann, too, loved her sin- cerely, in his careless, good-humored way; but he determined, notwith- standing, that his step- daughters should have something handsome at his death, but— but for a great Bur. Gann and Blubbery were in the oil line, —have we not said so? Their profits arose from contracts for lighting a great number of streets in London; and about this period Gas came into use. Gann and Blubbery appeared in the Gazette ; and, I am sorry to say, so bad had been the management of Blubbery, — so great the extravagance of both partners and their ladies, — that they only paid their creditors fourteenpence halfpenny in the pound. When Mrs. Crabb heard of this dreadful accident, — Mrs. Crabb, who dined thrice a week with her son-in- law; who never would have been al- lowed to enter the house at all had not honest James interposed his good- nature between her quarrelsome daughter and herself, — Mrs. Crabb, I say, proclaimed James Gann to be a swindler, a villain, a disreputable, | tipsy, vulgar man, and made over her money to the Misses Rosalind Clancy | and Isabella Finnigan Macarty ; leav- ing poor little Caroline without one single maravedi. Half of one thou- sand five hundred pounds allotted to each was to be paid at mgrriage, the other half on the death of Mrs. James Gann, who was to enjoy the interest thereof. Thus do we rise and fall in this world, — thus dogs Fortune shake her swift wings, and bid us abruptly to resign the gifts (or rather loans) which we haye had from her. How Gann and his. family lived after their stroke of misfortane, I know not; but as the failine trades- man is going through the process of bankruptcy, and for some months afterwards it may be remarked that he has usually some mysterious means of subsistence, — stray spars of the wreck of his property, on which he manages to seize, and to float for a_ During his retirement, in an — while. obscure lodging in Lambeth, where the poor fellow was so tormented by his wife as to be compelled to fly to the public-house for refuge, Mrs. Crabb died; a hundred a year thus came into the possession of Mrs. Gann ; and some of James’s friends, — who thought him a good fellow in his prosperity, came forward, and fur- nished a house, in which they placed him, and came to see and comfort — him. quite so often; then they found out Then they came to see him not — that Mrs. Gann was a sad tyrant, and — a silly woman; then the ladies de- clared her. to be insupportable, and — Gann to be a low, tipsy fellow: and — the gentlemen could but shake their — heads, and admit that the charge was true. ‘Then they left off coming to see him altogether; for such is the © way of the world, where many of us — have good impulses, and are generous © on an occasion, but are wearied by perpetual “want, and begin to grow angry at its importunities, — being very properly vexed at the daily re- currence of hunger, and the impu- dent unreasonableness of starvation. Gann, then, had a genteel wife and children, a furnished house, and a handred pounds a year. he live ? rt etal 4 How should — The wife of James Gann, | Esq., would never allow him to de- | mean himself by taking a clerk’s place; and James himself, being as idle a fellow as ever was known, was fain to acquiesce in this determination of hers, and to wait for some more genteel employment. And a curious list of such genteel employments might be made out, were one inclined to follow this interesting subject far ; shabby compromises with the world, | into which poor fellows enter, and | still fondly talk of their “ position,” and strive to imagine that they are | really working for their bread. Numberless lodging-houses are kept | by the females* of families who haye met with reverses: are not “ board- A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 7 ing-houses, with a select musical so- ciety, in the neighborhood of the squares,” maintained by such? Do not the gentlemen of the boarding- houses issue forth every morning to the City, or make believe to go thith- er, On some mysterious business which they have? After a certain period, Mrs. James Gann kept a lodging-house (in her own words, received “two inmates into her fam- ily”), and Mr. Gann had his myste- rious business. In the year 1835, when this story begins, there stood in a certain back street in the town of Margate a house, on the door of which might be read, in gleaming brass, the name of Mr. Gann. It was the work of a single smutty servant-maid to clean this brass plate every morning, and to at- tend as far as possible to the wants of Mr. Gann, his family, and lodgers ; and his house being not very far from the sea, and as you might, by climbing up to the roof, get a sight between two chimneys of that multi- tudinous element, Mrs. Gann set down her lodgings as fashionable ; and declared on her cards that her house commanded “a fine view of the sea.” On the wire window-blind of the parlor was written, in large charac- ters, the word Orricr; and here it was that Gann’s services came into play. He was very much changed, poor fellow! and humbled ; and from two cards that hung outside the blind, I am led to believe that he did not disdain to be agent to the “ London and Jamaica Ginger-Beer Company,” and also for a certain preparation called ‘‘ Gaster’s Infants’ Farinacio, or Mothers’ Invigorating Substitute,” — a damp, black, mouldy, half-pound packet of which stood in -permanence at oneend of the “office” mantel-piece ; while a fly-blown ginger-beer bottle occupied the other extremity. Noth- ing else indicated that this ground- floor chamber was an office, except a huge black inkstand, in which stood a stumpy pen, richly crusted with ink at the nib, and to all appearance for many months enjoying a sinecure. To this room. you saw every day, at two o’clock, the emp/loyé from the neighboring hotel bring two quarts of beer; and if you called at that hour, a tremendous smoke, and smell of dinner, would gush out upon you from the “ office,” as you stumbled over sundry battered tin dish-covers, which lay gaping at the threshold. Thus had that great bulwark of gen- tility, the dining at six o’clock, been broken in ; and the reader must there- fore judge that the house of Gann was in a demoralized state. Gann certainly was. After the ladies had retired to the back-parlor (which, with yellow gauze round the frames, window-curtains, a red silk cabinet piano, and an album, was still tolerably genteel), Gann remained, to transact business in the office. This took place in the presence of friends, and usually consisted in. the produc- tion of a bottle of gin from the corner cupboard, or, mayhap, a litre of brandy, which was given by Gann with a knowing wink, and a fat finger placed on a twinkling red nose : when Mrs. G. was out, James would also produce a number of pipes, that gave this room a constant and agree- able odor of shag tobacco. In fact, Mr. Gann had nothing to do from morning till night. He was now a fat, bald-headed man of fifty ; a dirty dandy on week-days, with a shawl-waistcoat, a tuft of hair to his great double chin, a snuffy shirt-frill, and enormous breast-pin and seals: he had a pilot-coat, with large moth- er-of-pearl buttons, and always wore a great rattling telescope, with which he might be seen for hours, on the sea- shore or the pier, examining the ships, the bathing-machines, the ladies’ schools as they paraded up and down the esplanade, and all other objects which the telescopic view might give him. He knew every person con- nected with every one of the Deal and Dover coaches, and was sure to be witness to the arrival or departure of 8 A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. several of them in the course of the day; he had a word for the ostler about “that gray mare,” a nod for the “shooter” or guard, and a bow for the dragsman; he could send parcels for nothing up to town; had twice had Sir Rumble Tumble (the noble driver of the Flash-o’-light- ning-light-four-inside-post-coach) *‘ up at his place,’ and took care to tell you that some of the party were retty considerably “sewn up,” too. He did not frequent the large hotels ; but in revenge he knew every person who entered or left them; and was a great man atthe ‘ Bag of Nails ” and the “ Magpie and Punchbowl,” where he was president of a club.; he took the bass in “Mynheer Van Dunk,” “The Wolf,” and many other morsels of concerted song, and used to go backwards and forwards to London in the steamers as often as ever he liked, and have his “grub,” too, on board. Such was James Gann. Many people, when they wrote to him, addressed him James Gann, Esq. His reverses and former splendors afforded a never-failing theme of con- versation to honest Gann and the whole of his family; and it may be remarked that such pecuniary mis- fortunes, as they are called, are by no means misfortunes to people of certain dispositions, but actual pieces of good luck. Gann, for instance, used to drink liberally of port and claret, when the house of Gann and Blub- bery was in existence, and was henceforth compelled to imbibe only brandy and gin. Now he loved these a thousand times more than the wine; and had the advantage of talking about the latter, and of his great merit in giving them up. In those prosperous days, too, being a gentle- man, he could not frequent the public- house as he did at present; and the sanded tavern-parlor was Gann’s supreme enjoyment. He was obliged to spend many hours daily in a dark unsavory room in an alley off Thames Street; and Gann _ hated: books and business, except of other people’s. His tastes were low; he loved public-house jokes and com- pany; and now being fallen, was voted at the “Bag of Nails” and the ‘‘ Magpie ” before mentioned a tip-top fellow and real gentleman, whereas he had been considered an ordinary vulgar man by his fashion- able associates at Putney. . Many men are there who are made to fall, and to profit by the tumble. As for Mrs. G., or Jooly, as she was indifferently called by her hus- band, she, too, had gained by her losses. She bragged of her former acquaintances in the most extraordi- nary way, and to hear her you would fancy that she was known and con- nected to half the peerage. Her chief occupation was taking medicine, and mending and altering of her gowns. She had a huge taste for cheap finery, loved raffles, tea-parties, and walks on the pier, where she flaunted her- self and daughters as gay as butter- flies. She stood upon her rank, did not fail to tell her lodgers that she was ‘“‘a gentlewoman,’ and was mighty sharp with Becky the maid, and poor Carry, her youngest child. For the tide of affection had turned now, and the ‘‘ Misses Wellesley Ma- carty” were the darlings of their mother’s heart, as Caroline had been in the early days of Putney prosper- ity. Mrs. Gann respected and loved her elder daughters, the stately heir- esses of £1,500, and scorned poor Caroline, who was likewise scorned (like Cinderella in the sweetest of all stories) by her brace of haughty, thoughtless sisters. These young women were tall, well-grown, black- browed girls, little scrupulous, fond of fun, and having great health and spirits. Caroline was pale and thin, and had fair hair and meek gray eyes ; nobody thought her a beauty in her moping cotton gown; whereas the sisters, in flaunting printed muslins, with pink scarfs, and artificial flow- ers, and brass jferronniéres, and other fallals, were voted very charming and A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 9 genteel by the Ganns’ circle of friends. ‘They had pink cheeks, white shoul- ders, and many glossy curls stuck about their shining foreheads, as damp and as black as leeches. Such charms, madam, cannot fail of having their effect ; and it was very lucky for Caroline that she did not possess them, for she might have been ren- dered as vain, frivolous, and vulgar, as these young ladies were. While these enjoyed their pleasures and tea-parties abroad, it was Carry’s usual fate to remain at home, and help the servant in the many duties which were required in Mrs. Gann’s establishment. She dressed that lady and her sisters, brought her papa his tea in bed, kept the lodgers’ bills, bore their scoldings if they were ladies, and sometimes gave a hand in the kitchen if any extra pie-crust or cook- ery was required. At two she made a little toilet for dinner, and was em- ployed on numberless household darn- ings and mendings in the long even- ings, while her sisters giggled over the jingling piano, mamma sprawled on the sofa, and Gann was over his glass at the club. A weary lot, in sooth, was yours, poor little Caroline ! since the days of your infancy, not one hour of sunshine, no friendship, no cheery playfellows, no mother’s love; but that being dead, the affec- tions which would have crept round it withered and died too. Only James Gann, of all the household, _ had a good-natured look for her, and a coarse word of kindness; nor, in- deed, did Caroline complain, nor shed many tears, nor call for death, as she would if she had been brought up in genteeler circles. The poor thing did not know her own situation ; her mis- ery was dumb and patient; it is such as thousands and thousands of wo- men in our society bear, and pine, and die of; made up of sums of small tyrannies, and long indifference, and bitter, wearisome injustice, more dreadful to bear than any tortures that we of the stronger sex are pleased to cry Ai! Ai! about. In our inter- 1* _ course with the world — (which is conducted with that kind of cordial- ity that we see in Sir Harry and my Lady in a comedy—a couple of painted, grinning fools, talking parts that they have learned out of a book), —as we sit and look at the smiling actors, we get a glimpse behind the scenes from time to time; and alas for the wretched nature that appears there!— among women especially, who deceive even more than men, having more to hide, feeling more, levying more than we who have our business, pleasure, ambition, which carries us abroad. Ours are the great strokes of misfortune, as they are called, and theirs the small miseries. While the male thinks, labors, and battles without, the domestic woes and wrongs are the lot of the women ; and: the little ills are so bad, so infi- nitely fiercer and bitterer than the great, that 1 would not change my condition, —no, not to be Helen, Queen Elizabeth, Mrs. Coutts, or the luckiest she in history. Well, then, in the manner we have described lived the Gann _ family. Mr. Gann all the better for his “ mis- fortunes,”’ Mrs. Gann little the worse ; the two young ladies greatly improved by the circumstance, having been cast thereby into a society where their ex- pected three thousand pounds made great heiresses of them; and poor Caroline, as luckless a being as any that the wide sun shone upon. Bet- ter to be alone in the world and utter- ly friendless, than to have sham friends and no sympathy; ties of kindred which bind one as it were to the corpse of relationship, and oblige one to bear through life the weight and the em- braces of this lifeless, cold connection. I do not mean to say that Caroline would ever have made use of this metaphor, or suspected that her con- nection with her mamma and sisters was anything so loathsome. She felt that she was ill treated, and had no companion ; but was not on that ac- count envious, only humble and de- pressed, not desiring so much to resist 10 as to bear injustice, and hardly ven- turing to think for herself. This tyr- anny and humility served her in place of education, and formed her man- ners, which were wonderfully gentle and calm. It was strange to see such a person growing up in such a fam- ily; the neighbors spoke of her with much scornful compassion. ‘A poor, half-witted thing,” they said, “ who could not say bo! to a goose”; and I think it is one good test of gentility to be thus looked down on by vulgar people. It is not to be supposed that the elder girls had reached their present age without receiving a number of of- fers of marriage, and being warmly in love a great many times. But many unfortunate occurrences had compel- led them to remain in their virgin condition. There was an attorney who had proposed to Rosalind ; but finding that she would receive only £750 down, instead of £1500, the monster had jilted her pitilessly, handsome as she was. An apothe- cary, too, had been smitten by her charms ; but to live in a shop was be- neath the dignity of a Wellesley Ma- carty, and she waited for better things. Lieutenant Swabber, of the coast-cuard service, had lodged two months at Gann’s ; and if letters, long walks, and town-talk could settle a match, a match between him and Isa- bella must have taken place. Well, Isabella was not married; and the lieutenant, a colonel in Spain, seemed to have given up all thoughts of her. She meanwhile consoled herself with a gay young wine-merchant, who had lately established himself at Brighton, kept a gig, rode out with the hounds, and was voted perfectly genteel; and there was a certain French marquess, with the most elegant black musta- chios, who had made a vast impres- sion upon the heart of Rosalind, hav- ing met her first at the circulating library, and afterwards, by the most extraordinary series of chances, com- ing upon her and her sister daily in their walks upon the pier. A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. Meek little Caroline, meanwhile, — trampled upon though she was, was — springing up to womanhood; and — though pale, freckled, thin, meanly dressed, had a certain charm about her which some people might prefer — to the cheap splendors and rude red ~ and white of the Misses Macarty. In © fact, we have now come to a period of her history when, to the amaze of © her mamma and sisters, and not a _ little to the satisfaction of James Gann, Esquire, she actually inspired a passion in the breast of a very respect- able young man. —o— CHAPTER II. HOW MRS. GANN RECEIVED TWO LODGERS. Ir was the winter season when the — events recorded in this history occur- red; and as at that period not one — out of a thousand lodging-houses in — Margate is let, Mrs. Gann, who gen- erally submitted to occupy her own first and second floors during this cheerless season, considered herself | more than ordinarily lucky when cir- | cumstances occurred which brought no less than two lodgers to her estab- lishment. : She had to thank her daughters for the first inmate; for, as these two | young ladies were walking one day © down their own street, talking of the | joys of the last season, and the de- | light of the raffles and singing at the libraries, and the intoxicating pleas- | ures of the Vauxhall balls, they were | remarked and evidently admired by | a young gentleman who was saun- . tering listlessly up the street. He stared, and it must be confessed that the fascinating girls stared too, and put each other’s head into each » other’s bonnet, and giggled and said, — “ Lor!” and then looked hard at Their | eyes were black, their cheeks were | very red. Fancy how Miss -Bella’s » and Miss Linda’s hearts beat when the gentleman, dropping his glass out — the young gentleman again. A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. of his eye, actually stepped across the street, and said, ‘‘ Ladies, I am seek- ing for lodgings, and should be glad to look at those which I see are to let in your house.” “How did the conjurer know it was our house?” thought Bella and Linda (they always thoughtin coup- les). From the very simple fact that Miss Bella had just thrust into the door a latch-key. Most bitterly did Mrs. James Gann regret that she had not on her best gown when a stranger —a stranger in February — actually called to look at the lodgings. She made up, how- ever, for the slovenliness of her dress by the dignity of her demeanor ; and asked the gentleman for references, in- formed him that she was a gentlewo- man, and that he would have peculiar advantages in her establishment ; and, finally, agreed to receive him at the rate of twenty shillings per week. The bright eyes of the young ladies had done the business ; but to this day Mrs. James Gann is convinced that her peculiar dignity of manner, and great fluency of brag regarding her family, have been the means of bring- ing hundreds of lodgers to her house, who but for her would never have visited it. “ Gents,” said Mr. James Gann, at the “ Bag of Nails” that very even- ing, “ we have got a new lodger, and I’ll stand glasses round to his jolly good health!” The new lodger, who was remark- able for nothing except very black eyes, a sallow face, and a habit of smoking cigars in bed until noon, gave his name as George Brandon, Esq. As to his temper and habits, when humbly requested by Mrs. Gann to pay in advance, he Jaughed and pre- sented her with a bank-note, never quarrelled with a single item in her bills, walked much, and ate two mut- ton-chops per diem. The young ladies, who examined all the boxes and let- ters of the lodgers, as young ladies will, could not find one single docu- ment relative to their new inmate, ex- 11 cept a tavern-)ill of the “ White Hart,” to which the name of Gcorge Brandon, Esquire, was pretixed. Any other papers which might elucidate his history were locked up in a Bra- mah box, likewise marked G. B.; and though these were but unsatis- factory points by which to judge a man’s character, there was a some- thing about Mr. Brandon which caused all the ladies at Mrs. Gann’s to vote he was quite a gentleman. When this was the case, I am hap- py to say it would not unfrequently happen that Miss Rosalind or Miss Isabella would appear in the lodger’s apartments, bearing in the breakfast- cloth, or blushingly appearing with the weekly bill, apologizing for mam. ma’s absence, “and hoping that everything was to the gentleman’s liking.” Both the Misses Wellesley Macarty took occasion to visit Mr. Brandon in this manner, and he received both with such a fascinating ease and gen- tleman-like freedom of manner, scan- ning their points from head to foot, and fixing his great black eyes so earnestly in their faces, that the blush- ing creatures turned away abashed, and yet pleased, and had many con- versations about him. “ Law, Bell,” said Miss Rosalind, “ what a chap that Brandonis! I don’t half like him, I do declare!” Than which there can be no great- er compliment from a woman to a man. “No more do I neither,” says Bell. “The man stares so, and says such things! Just now, when Becky brought his paper and sealing-wax, — the silly girl brought black and red too, —I took them up to ask which he would have, and what do you think he said ?” “ Well, dear, what?” said Mrs. Gann. “Miss Bell,’ says he, looking at me, and with such eyes! ‘Ill keep everything: the red wax, because it ’s like your lips; the black wax, be- cause it’s like your hair; and the 12 satin paper, because it ’s like your skin!” Was n’t it genteel ?”’ “Law, now!” exclaimed Mrs. Gann. “ Upon my word, I think it ’s very rude!” said Miss Lindy ; “ andifhe’d said so to me, I’d have slapped his face for his imperence !”” And much to her credit, Miss Lindy went to his room ten minutes after to see if he would say anything to her. What Mr. Brandon said, I never knew ; but the little pang of envy which had caused Miss Lindy to retort sharply upon her sister had given place to a pleased good-humor, and she allowed Bella to talk about the new lodger as much as ever she liked. And now if the reader is anxious to know what was Mr. Brandon’s charac- ter, he had better read the following let- ter fromhim. It was addressed to no less a person than a viscount; and given, perhaps, with some little osten- tation to Becky, the maid, to carry to the post. Now Becky, before she executed such errands, always showed the letters to her mistress or one of the young ladies (it must not be sup- posed that Miss Caroline was a whit less curious on these matters than her sisters ); and when the family beheld the name of Lord Viscount Cinqbars upon the superscription, their respect for their lodger was greater than ever it had been :— MARGATE, February, 1835. “My pEArR Viscount, —For a reason I have, on coming down to Margate, I with much gravity in- formed the people of the ‘ White Hart’ that my name was Brandon, and intend to bear that honorable appellation during my stay. For the same reason (I am a modest man, and love to do good in secret), I left the public hotel immediately, and am now housed in private lodgings, humble, and at a humble price. Iam here, thank Heaven, quite alone. Robinson Crusoe had as much society in his island, as Lin this of Thanet. In compensation I sleep a great deal, A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. do nothing, and walk much, silent, by the side of the roaring sea, like Calchas, priest of Apollo. “The fact is, that until papa’s wrath is appeased, I must live with the utmost meekness and humility, and have barely enough money in my possession to pay such small current — expenses as fall on me here, where strangers are many and credit does not exist. I pray you, therefore, to tell Mr. Simpson the tailor, Mr. Jack- son the boot-maker, honest Solomon- son the discounter of bills, and all such friends in London and Oxford — as may make inquiries after me, that I am at this very moment at the city of Munich in Bavaria, from which I shall not return until my marriage with Miss Goldmore, the ereat Indian heiress ; who, upon my honor, will have me, I believe, any — day for the asking. “Nothing else will satisfy my hon- ored father, I know, whose purse has already bled pretty freely for me, I must confess, and who has taken the great oath that never is broken, to bleed no more unless this marriage is brought about. Come it must. I can’t work, I can’t starve, and I can’t live under a thousand a year. ‘“‘ Here, to be sure, the charges are not enormous ; for your edification, read my week’s bill : — ‘George Brandon, Esq., ‘To Mrs. James Gann. s. d. A week’s lodging,.......... 100 Breakfast, cream, eggs ......0 9 0 Dinner (fourteen mutton-chops) 0 10 6 Fire, boot-cleaning, &c. .....0 3 6 £230 ‘Settled, Juliana Gann.’ “Juliana Gann! Is it not a sweet name ? it sprawls over half the paper. Could you but see the owner of the name, my dear fellow! I love to ex- amine the customs of natives of all countries, and upon my word. there are some barbarians in our own less known, and more worthy of being known, than Hottentots, wild Irish, A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. Otaheiteans, or any such savages. If you could see the airs that this woman gives herself; the rouge, rib- bons, rings, and other female gim- cracks that she wears; if you could hear her reminiscences of past times, ‘when she and Mr. Gann moved in the very genféelest circles of socie- ty’; of the peerage, which she knows by heart; and of the fashionable novels, in every word of which she believes, you would be proud of your order, and admire the intense respect which the canaille show towards it. ‘There never was such an old woman, not even our tutor at Christchurch. “There is a he Gann, a vast, bloat- ed old man, in a rough coat, who has met me once, and asked me, with a grin, if my mutton-chops was to my liking? The satirical monster! What can I eat in this place but mutton-chops? A great bleeding beefsteak, or a filthy, recking gigot a Veau, with a turnip poultice? I should die if I did. As for fish in a watering-place, I never touch it; it is sure to be bad. Nor care I for little sinewy, dry, black-legged fowls. Cutlets are my only resource; I have them nicely enough broiled by a little humble companion of the family, {a companion, ye gods, in this family!) who blushed hugely when she confessed that the cooking was hers, and that her name was Caroline. For drink I indulge in gin, of which I consume two wineglasses daily, in two tumblers of cold water; it is the only liquor that one can be sure to find genuine in a common house in England. “This Gann, I take it, has similar likings, for I hear him occasionally at midnight floundering up the stairs (his boots lie dirty in the passage) — floundering, I say, up the stairs, and cursing the candlestick, whence es- _ cape now and anon the snuffers and — extinguisher, and with brazen rattle disturb the silence of the night. Thrice a week, at least, does Gann breakfast in bed, — sure sign of pri- _ dian intoxication ; and thrice a week, 13 in the morning, I hear a hoarse voice roaring for ‘my soda-water. How long have the rogues drunk soda- water ? ‘At nine, Mrs. Gann and daugh- ters are accustomed to breakfast; a handsome pair of girls, truly, and much followed, as I hear, in the quarter. ‘These dear creatures are always paying me _ visits, — visits with the tea-kettle, visits with the newspaper (one brings it, and one comes for it); but the one is always at the other’s heels, and so one can- not show one’s self to be that dear, gay seducing fellow that one has been, at home and on the Continent. Do you remember cette chere marquise at Pau? That cursed conjugal pistol- bullet still plays the deuce with my shoulder. Do you remember Betty Bundy, the butcher’s daughter? A pretty race of fools are we to go mad after such women, and risk all, — oaths, prayers, promises, long weari- some courtships, —for what ?— for vanity, truly. When the battle is over, behold your conquest! Betty Bundy is a vulgar country wench ; and cette belle marquise is old, rouged, and has false hair. Vanitas vanita- tum! what a moral man I will be some day or other! “T have found an old acquaintance, (and be hanged to him!) who has come to lodge in this very house. Do you recollect at Rome a young artist, Fitch by name, the handsome gaby with the large beard, that mad Mrs. Carrickfergus was doubly mad ~ about? On the second floor of Mrs. Gann’s house dwells this youth. His beard brings the gamins of the streets trooping and yelling about him; his fine braided coats have grown some- what shabby now; and the poor fellow is, like your humble servant (by the way, have you a 500 franc billet to spare ?) — like your humble servant, I say, very low in pocket. The young Andrea bears up gayly, however; twangles his guitar, paints the worst pictures in the world, and pens sonnets to his imaginary mis- 14 tress’s eyebrow. Luckily the rogue did not know my name, or I should have been compelled to unbosom to him; and when I called out to him, dubious as to my name, ‘ Don’t you know me? I met you in Rome. My name is Brandon,’ the painter was perfectly satisfied, and majestically bade me welcome. ““Fancy the continence of this young Joseph,—he has absolutely run away from Mrs. Carrickfergus ! ‘Sir,’ said he, with some hesitation and blushes, when I questioned him about the widow, ‘ I was compelled to leave Rome in consequence of the fatal fondness of that woman. I am an ’andsome man, sir, —I know it, —all the chaps in the Academy want me for a model; and that woman, sir, is sixty. Do you think I would ally myself with her; sacrifice my happiness for the sake of a creature that’s as hugly as an ’arpy? I’d rather starve, sir. I ’d rather give up my hart and my ’opes of rising in it than do a haction so dishhhhonorable.’ “ There is a stock of virtue for you ! and the poor fellow half starved. He lived at Rome upon the seven por- traits that the Carrickfergus ordered of him, and, as I fancy, now does not make twenty pounds in the year. O rare chastity! O wondrous silly hopes! O motus animorum, atque O certamina tanta ! — pulveris exigur jac- tu, in such an insignificant little lump of mud as this! Why the deuce does not the fool marry the widow ? His betters would. There was a cap- tain of dragoons, an Italian prince, and four sons of Irish peers, all at her feet; but the Cockney’s beard and whiskers have overcome them all. Here my paper has come to an end; and I have the honor to bid your Lordship a respectful farewell. GB. Of the young gentleman who goes by the name of Brandon, the reader of the above letter will not be so mis- cuided, we trust, as to have a very exalted opinion. The noble viscount A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. read this document to a supper-party in Christchurch, in Oxford, and. left it in a bowl of milk-punch ; whence a scout abstracted it, and handed it over tous. My Lord was twenty years of age when he received the epistle, and had spent a couple of years abroad, before going tothe University, under the guardianship of the worthy individual who called himself George Brandon. Mr. Brandon was the son of a half- pay colonel, of good family, who, honoring the great himself, thought his son would vastly benefit by an ac- quaintance with them, and sent him to Eton, at cruel charges upon a slen- der purse. From Eton the lad went to Oxford, took honors there, fre- quented the best society, followed with a kind of proud obsequiousness all the tufts of the University, and left it owing exactly two thousand pounds. Then there came storms at home; fury on the part of the stern old “ governor”; and final payment of the debt. But while this settlement was pending, Master George had con- tracted many more debts among bill- discounters, and was glad to fly to the Continent as tutor to young Lord Cinqbars, in whose company °he learned every one of the vices in Eu- rope; and having a good natural genius, and a heart not unkindly, had used these qualities in such an admirable manner as to be at twenty- seven utterly ruined in purse and principle, — an idler, a spendthrift, and a glutton. He was free of his — money ; would spend his last guinea — for a sensual gratification ; would - borrow from his neediest friend; had — no kind of conscience or remorse left, — but believed himself to be a good- — natured devil-may-care fellow ; had a _ good deal of wit, and indisputably — good manners, and a pleasing, dash- — ing frankness in conversation with men. I should like to know how — many such scoundrels our universi- ties have turned out; and how much ruin has been caused by that accursed — system which is called in England A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. “ the education of a gentleman.” Go, my son, for ten years to a public school, that ‘‘ world in miniature ”’; learn “ to fight for yourself” against the time when your real struggles shall begin. Begin to be selfish at ten years of age ; study for other ten years ; get a competent knowledge of boxing, swimming, rowing, and crick- et, with a pretty knack of Latin hex- ameters and a decent smattering of Greek plays, —do this and a fond father shall bless you, — bless the two thousand pounds which he has spent in acquiring all these benefits for you. And, besides, what else have you not learned? You have been many hundreds of times to chap- el, and have learned to consider the religious service performed there as the vainest parade in the world. If your father is a grocer, you have been beaten for his sake, and have learned to be ashamed of him. You have learned to forget (as how should you remember, being separated froin them for three fourths of your time?) the ties and natural affections of .home. You have learned, if you have a kind- ly heart and an open hand, to com- pete with associates much more wealthy than yourself; and to con- sider money as not much, but honor —the honor of dining and consort- ing with your betters —as a great deal. All this does the public-school and college boy learn ; and woe be to his knowledge! Alas, what natural tenderness and kindly clinging filial affection is he taught to trample on and despise! My friend Brandon had gone through this process of edu- cation, and had been irretrievably ruined by it, — his heart and his hon- esty had been ruined by it, that is to say; and he had received, in return for them, a small quantity of classics and mathematics, — pretty compen- sation for all he had lost in gaining them ! But I am wandering most absurdly from the point; right or wrong, so nature and education had . formed _ Mr. Brandon, who is one of a con- 15 siderable class. Well, this young gen- tleman was established at Mrs. Gann’s house; and we are obliged to enter into all these explanations con- cerning him, because they are neces- sary to the right understanding of our story, — Brandon not being al- together a bad man, nor much worse than many a one who goes through a course of regular selfish swindling all his life long, and dies religious, re- signed, proud of himself, and univer- sally respected by others; for this eminent advantage has the getting- and-keeping scoundrel over the ex- travagant and careless one. One day, then, as he was gazing from the window of his lodging-house, a cart, containing a vast number of eas- els, portfolios, wooden cases of pictures, and a small carpet-bag that might hold a change of clothes, stopped at the door. The vehicle was accom- panied by a remarkable young fellow, — dressed in a frock-coat covered over with frogs, a dirty turned-down shirt- collar, with a blue satin cravat, and a cap placed wonderfully on one ear, — who had evidently hired apartments at Mr. Gann’s. This new lodger was no other than Mr. Andrew Fitch; or, as he wrote on his cards, without the prefix, Chndua Sitch. Preparations had been made at Gann’s for the reception of Mr. Fitch, whose aunt (an auctioneer’s lady in the town) had made arrangements that he should board and lodge with the Gann family, and have the apart- ments on the second floor as his pri- vate rooms. In these, then, young Andrea was installed. He was a youth of a poetic temperament, loving solitude; and where is such to be found more easily than on the storm- washed shores of Margate in winter ? Then the boarding-house keepers have shut up their houses and gone away 16 in anguish; then the taverns take their carpets up, and you can have your choice of a hundred and twenty beds in any one of them; then but one dismal waiter remains to super- intend this vast echoing pile of lone- liness, and the landlord pines for sum- mer; then the flys for Ramsgate stand tenantless beside the pier; and about four sailors, in pea-jackets, are to be seen in the three principal streets; in the rest, silence, closed shutters, torpid chimneys enjoying their unnatural winter sinecure, — not the clack of a patten echoing over the cold dry flags ! This solitude had been chosen by Mr. Brandon for good reasons of his own; Gann and his family would have fled, but that they had no other house wherein to take refuge; and Mrs. Hammerton, the auctioneer’s lady, felt so keenly the kindness which she was doing to Mrs. Gann, in providing her with a lodger at such a period, that she considered herself fully justified in extracting from the latter a bonus of two guineas, threat- ening on refusal to send her darling nephew to a rival establishment over the way. Andrea was here then, in the loneli- ness that he loved,—a_ fantastic youth, who lived but for his art; to whom the world was like the Coburg Theatre, and he in a magnificent cos- tume acting a principal part. His art and his beard and whiskers were the darlings of his heart. His long pale hair fell over a high polished brow, which looked wonderfully thoughtful; and yet no man was more guiltless of thinking. He was always putting himself into attitudes ; he never spoke the truth; and was so entirely affected and absurd, as to be quite honest at last: for it is my be- lief that the man did not know truth from falsehood any longer, and was when he was alone, when he was in company, nay, when he was uncon- scious and sound asleep snoring in bed, one complete lump of affectation. When his apartments on the second A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. floor were arranged according to his fancy, they made a tremendous show. He had a large Gothic chest, in which he put his wardrobe (namely, two vel- vet waiscoats, four varied satin under ditto, two pairs braided trousers, two shirts, half a dozen false collars, and a couple of pairs of dreadfully dilapi- dated Blucher boots). He had some pieces of armor ; some China jugs and Venetian glasses; some bits of old damask rags, to drape his doors and windows: and a rickety lay figure, in a Spanish hat and cloak, over which slung a long Toledo rapier and a guitar, with a ribbon of dirty sky- blue. Such was our poor fellow’s stock in trade. He had some volumes of poems, —‘‘ Lalla Rookh,” and the sterner compositions of Byron: for, to do him justice, he hated ‘ Don Juan,” and a woman was in his eyes an angel; a hangel, alas! he would call her, for nature and the cireum- stances of his family had taken sad Cockney advantages over Andrea’s pronunciation. The Misses Wellesley Macarty were not, however, very squeamish with regard to grammar, and, in this dull season, voted Mr. Fitch an elegant young fellow. His immense beard and whiskers gave them the highest opinion of his genius; and before long the intimacy between the young people was considerable, for Mr, Fitch insisted upon drawing the por- traits of the whole family. He paint- ed Mrs. Gann in her rouge and ribbons, as described by Mr. Bran- don; Mr. Gann, who said that his picture would be very useful to the artist, as every soul in Margate knew him; and the Misses Macarty (a neat group, representing Miss Bella em- bracing Miss Linda, was was pointing to a pianoforte). “T suppose you 7Il do my Carry. next?”’ said Mr. Gann, expressing his approbation of the last picture. “Law, sir,’ said Miss Linda, “‘ Carry, with her red hair !—it would be ojus.” A OS Seta an a at a ge ag A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. _ “Mr. Fitch might as well paint Becky, our maid,” said Miss Bella. _ “Carry is quite impossible, Gann,” said Mrs. Gann; ‘she has n’t a gown fit to be seen in. She’s not been at church for thirteen Sundays in conse- quence.” “ And more shame for you, ma’am,” said Mr. Gann, who liked his child; “Carry shali have a gown, and the best of gowns.” And jingling three- and-twenty shillings in his pocket, Mr. Gann determined to spend them ul in the purchase of a robe for Carry. But alas, the gown never came; half the money was spent that very even- ang at the “ Bag of Nails.” “Ts that—that young lady, your laughter?” said Mr. Fitch, sur- orised, for he fancied Carry was a jumble companion of the family. “Yes, she is, and a very good laughter, too, sir,’ answered Mr. aann. Fetch and Carry I call her, or se Carryvan,—she’s so_ useful. Ain’t you, Carry?” “Tm very glad if I am, papa,” said the young lady, who was blush- ng violently, and in whose presence all ihis conversation had been carried on. “ Hold your tongue, miss,” said her nother ; “‘ you are very expensive to 1s, that you are, and need not brag bout the work you do. You would 10t live on charity, would you, like iome folks?” (here she looked fierce- y at Mr. Gann;) “and if your sisters ind me starve to keep you and some olks, I presume you are bound to nake us some return.” When any allusion was made to Mr. Gann’s idleness and extrava- yance, or his lady showed herself in my way inclined to be angry, it was ionest James’s habit not to answer, ut to take his hat and walk abroad 0 the public-house; or if haply she colded him at night, he would turn is back and fall a-snoring. These vere the only remedies he found for drs. James’s bad temper, and the irst of them he adopted on hearing hese words of his lady, which we have ust now transcribed. ; LF Poor Caroline had not her father’s refuge of flight, but was obliged to stay and listen; and a wondrous elo- quence, God wot! had Mrs. Gann upon the subject of her daughter’s ill- conduct. The first lecture Mr, Fitch heard, he set down Caroline for a monster. Was she not idle, sulky, scornful, and a sloven? For ‘these and many more of her daughter’s vices Mrs. Gann vouched, declaring that Caroline’s misbehavior was has- tening her own death, and finished by a fainting-fit. In the presence of all these charges, there stood Miss Caro- line, dumb, stupid, and careless; nay, when the fainting-fit came on, and Mrs. Gann fell back on the sofa, the unfeeling girl took the opportunity to retire, and never offered to smack her mamma’s hands, to give her the smelling-bottle, or to restore her with a glass of water. One stood close at hand; for Mr. Fitch, when this first fit occurred, was sitting in the Gann parlor, painting that lady’s portrait ; and he was mak- ing towards her with his tumbler, when Miss Linda cried out, “Stop! the water ’s full of paint”; and straightway burst out laughing. Mrs. Gann jumped up at this, cured sud- denly, and left the room, looking somewhat foolish. “You don’t know Ma,” said Miss Linda, still giggling; ‘‘she ’s always fainting.” “Poor thing!” cried Fitch ; “ very nervous, I suppose ?” “Q, very!” answered the lady, ex- changing arch glances with Miss - Bella. “ Poor dear lady!” continued the artist; “I pity her from my hinmost soul. Doesn’t the himmortal bard of Havon observe, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thank- less child? And is it true, ma’am, that that young woman has been the ruin of her family ¢” “Ruin of her fiddlestick!”’ replied Miss Bella. “Law, Mr. Fitch, you don’t know Ma yet; she is in one of her tantrums.” B 18 “ What, then, it 7s n’t true?” cried simple-minded Fitch. ‘To which nei- ther of the young ladies made any answer in words, nor could the little artist comprehend why they looked at each other, and burst out laughing. But he retired pondering on what he had seen and heard; and being a very soft young fellow, most implicitly be- lieved the accusations of poor dear Mrs. Gann, and thought her daughter Caroline was no better than a Regan or Goneril. A time, however, was to come when he should believe her to be a most pure and gentle Cordelia; and of this change in Fitch’s opinions we shall speak in Chapter III. ap CHAPTER ITI. A SHABBY GENTEEL DINNER, AND OTHER INCIDENTS OF A LIKE NA- TURE. Mr. Branpon’s letter to Lord Cingbars produced, as we have said, a great impression upon the family of Gann; an impression which was con- siderably increased by their lodger’s subsequent behavior: for although the persons with whom he now asso- ciated were of a very vulgar, ridicu- lous kind, they were by no means so low or ridiculous that Mr. Brandon should not wish to appear before them in the most advantageous light; and, accordingly, he gave himself the great- _ est airs when in their company, and bragged incessantly of his acquaint- ance and familiarity with the nobil- ity. Mr. Brandon was a tuft-hunter of the genteel sort; his pride being quite as slavish, and his haughtiness as mean and cringing, in fact, as poor Mrs. Gann’s stupid wonder and respect for all the persons whose names are written with titles before them. O free and happy Britons, what a miserable, truckling, cringing race ye are! The reader has no doubt encoun- A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. tered a number of such swaggerers in. the course of his conversation with the world, — men of a decent middle | rank, who affect to despise it, and herd only with persons of the fashion. | This is an offence in a man which none of us can forgive; we call him tuft-hunter, lickspittle, sneak, un- manly; we hate, and profess to @e-_ spise him. I fear it is no such thing, | We envy Litkspittle, that is the fact; and therefore hate him. Were he to plague us with the stories of Jones and Brown, our familiars, the man) would be a simple bore, his stories heard patiently; but so soon as he talks of my Lord or the Duke, we are in arms against him. I have seen a whole merry party in Russell Square grow suddenly gloomy and dumb, be-) cause a pert barrister, in a loud, shrill, voice, told a story of Lord This, or the Marquis of That. We all hated | that man; and I would lay a wager that every one of the fourteen per-| sons assembled round the boiled tur- key and saddle of mutton (not to, mention side-dishes from the pastry- cook’s opposite the British Museum) —I would wager, I say, that every, one was muttering inwardly, “A plague on that fellow! he knows a lord, and I never spoke to more than’ three in the whole course of my life To our betters we can reconcile our- selves, if we please, respecting thea ! very sincerely, laughing at their jokes, making allowance for their stu- pidities, meekly suffering their inso- lence; but we can’t pardon our equals going beyond us, A friend of mine who lived amicably and happily among his friends and relatives at Hackney was on a sudden disowned by the latter, cut by the former, and doomed in innumerable prophecies to ruin, because he kept a foot-boy, —a harmless little blowsy-faced urchin, in light, snuff-colored clothes, glister- ing over with sugar-loaf buttons} There is another man, a great man, a literary man, whom the public loves, and who took a sudden leap from oft scurity into fame and wealth. This Barts th was a crime; but he bore his rise with so much modesty, that even his brethren of the pen did not envy him. One luckless day he set up a - one-horse chaise; from that minute he was doomed. . “Have you seen his new car- riage?” says Snarley. “Yes, says Yow; “he’s so con- sumedly proud of it, that he can’t see his old friends while he drives.” “Ith it a donkey-cart,” lisps Sim- per, “thit gwand cawwaige ? [always thaid that the man, from hith thtile, wath fitted to be a vewy dethent coth- _termonger. 4 |< Yes, yes,” cries old Candor, “a , Sad pity indeed ! — dreadfully extrava- “gant, 1 ’m told, — bad health, — ex- |pensive family, — works going down every day, — and now he must set up (a carriage forsooth ! ” _Snarley, Yow, Simper, Candor, hate their brother. If he is ruined, they will be kind to him and just, but he is successful, and woe be to him ! * * * * * _ This trifling digression of half a page or so, although it seems to have nothing to do with the story in hand, jhas, nevertheless, the strongest rela- tion to it; and you shall hear what. In one word, then, Mr. Brandon bragged so much, and assumed such airs of superiority, that after a while she perfectly disgusted. Mrs. Gann and ithe Misses Macarty, who were gentle- folks themselves, and did not at all Jike his way of telling them that he was their better. Mr. Fitch was ‘swallowed up in his hart as he called it, and cared nothing for Brandon’s airs. Gann, being a low-spirited fel- tow, completely submitted to Mr. Brandon, and looked up to him with deepest wonder. And _ poor little Caroline followed her father’s faith, and in six weeks after Mr. Brandon’s arrival at the lodgings had grown to believe him the most perfect, finished, polished, agreeable of mankind. In- deed, the poor girl had never seen a ee oman before, and towards such r gentle heart turned instinctively. > a ee as A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 19 Brandon never offended by hard words ; insulted her by cruel scorn, such as she met with from her mother and her sisters; there was a quiet manner about the man quite different to any that she had before seen amongst the acquaintances of her family; and if he assumed a tone of superiority in his conversation with her and the rest, Caroline felt that he was their superior, and as such ad- mired and respected him. What happens when in the innocent bosom of a girl of sixteen such sensa- tions arise ? What has happened ever since the world began 2 I have said that Miss Caroline had no friend in the world but her father, and must here take leave to recall that assertion ;—a friend she most cer- tainly had, and that was honest Becky, the smutty maid, whose name has been mentioned before. Miss Caro- line had learned, in the course of a life spent under the tyranny of her mamma, some of the notions of the latter, and would have been very much offended to call Becky her friend : but friends in fact they were; and a great comfort it was for Caroline to descend to the calm kitchen from the stormy back-parlor, and there vent some of her little woes to the compassionate servant of all work. When Mrs. Gann went out with her daughters, Becky would take her work and come and keep Miss Caro- line company ; and if the truth must be told, the greatest enjoyment the pair used to have was in these after- noons, when they read together out of the precious greasy, marble-covered volumes that Mrs. Gann was in the habit of fetching from the library. Many and many a tale had the pair so gone through. I can see them over ‘ Manfrone; or the One-handed Monk,’? —the room dark, the street silent, the hour ten, —the tall, red, lurid candlewick waggling down, the flame flickering pale upon Miss Caro- line’s pale face as she read out, and lighting up honest Becky’s goggling eyes, who sat silent, her work in her 20 lap: she had not done a stitch of it for an hour. As the trap-door slowly opens, and the scowling Alonzo, bend- ing over the sleeping Imoinda, draws his pistol, cocks it, looks well if the priming be right, places it then to the sleeper’s ear, and —thunder-under-under — down fall the snuffers ! Becky has had them in hand for ten minutes, afraid to use them. Up starts Caro- line, and flings the book back into her mamma’s basket. It is that lady re- turned with her daughters from a tea- party, where two young gents from London have been mighty genteel in- deed. For the sentimental, too, as well as for the terrible, Miss Caroline and the cook had a strong predilection, and had wept their poor eyes out over “Thaddeus of Warsaw” and the “Scottish Chiefs.’”’ Fortified by the examples drawn from thoseinstructive volumes, Becky was firmly convinced that her young mistress would meet with a great lord some day or other, or be carried off, like Cinderella, by a brilliant prince, to the mortification of her elder sisters, whom Becky hated. And when, therefore, the new lodger * came, lonely, mysterious, melancholy, elegant, with the romantic name of George Brandon, — when he wrote a letter directed to a lord, and Miss Caroline and Becky together exam- ined the superscription, such a look passed between them as the pencil of Leslie or Maclise could alone describe for us. Becky’s orbs were lighted up with a preternatural look of wonder- ing wisdom ; whereas, after an instant, Caroline dropped hers, and blushed, and said, ‘‘ Nonsense, Becky ! ” “Zs it nonsense?” said Becky, grinning and snapping her fingers with a triumphant air; “the cards comes true; I knew they would. Did n’t you have king and queen of hearts three deals running? What did you dream about last Tuesday, tell me that ?”’ But Miss Caroline never did tell, for her sisters came bouncing down the stairs, and examined the lodger’s yee Si A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. letter. Caroline, however, went away — musing much upon these points ; and she began to think Mr. Brandon more © wonderful and beautiful every day. 4 In the mean time, while Miss Caro- line was innocently indulging in her inclination for the brilliant occupier — of the first floor, it came to pass that the tenant of the second was inflamed. by a most romantic passion for her. For, after partaking for about a fortnight of the family dinner, and passing some evenings with Mrs. Gann and the young ladies, Mr. Fitch, though by no means quick of» comprehension, began to perceive that the nightly charges that were brought against poor Caroline could : not be founded upon truth. “ Let’s — see,” mused he to himself. “Tues-_ day, the old lady said her daughter was bringing her gray hairs with | sorrow to the grave, because the cook / had not boiled the potatoes. Wed- | nesday, she said Caroline was an as- | sassin, because she could not find her own thimble. Thursday, she vows Caroline has no religion, because that | old pair of silk stockings were not darned. And this can’t be,’’ reason-_ ed Fitch, deeply. “A eal haint a murderess because her Ma can’t find her thimble. A woman that goes to_ slap her grown-up daughter on the back, and before company too, for such a paltry thing as ahold pair of | stockings, can’t’ be surely a speaking — the truth.” * And thus gradually his _ first impression against Caroline | wore away. As this disappeared, pity took possession of his soul, — and we know what pity is akin to; 36 and, at the same time, a correspond. | ing hatred for the oppressors of a creature so amiable. | To sum up, in six short weeks afte the appearance of the two gentlemen, - we find our chief dramatis spasone as” follows : — : CAROLINE, an innocent young woman, in. love with BRanpon. G Fircn, a celebrated painter, almost in love with CAROLINE. a} BRANDON, a young gentleman in love with 1 himself. / A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. At first he was pretty constant in his attendance upon the Misses Ma- earty when they went out to walk, nor were they displeased at his atten- tions; but he found that there were a great number of Margate beaux — ugly, vulgar fellows as ever were — who always followed in the young ladies’ train, and made themselves in- finitely more agreeable than he was. These men Mr. Brandon treated with a great deal of scorn: and, in return, they hated him cordially. So did the ladies speedily : his haughty manners, though quite as impertinent and free, were not half so pleasant to them as Jones’s jokes or Smith’s charming romps ; and the girls gave Brandon very shortly to understand that they were much happier without him. _“Jadies, your humble,” he heard Bob Smith say, as that little linen- draper came skipping to the door from which they wereissuing. ‘The sun ’s hup and trade is down; if you ’re for a walk, I’m your man. And Miss Linda and Miss Bellaeach took an arm of Mr. Smith, and sailed _ down the street. “T’m glad you ain’t got that proud gent with the glass hi,” said Mr. Smith; “he ’s the most hill-bred, supercilious beast I ever see.” “ So he is,” says Bella. | “Hush!” says Linda. The “proud gent with the glass hi” was at this moment lolling out | | ‘of the first-floor window, smoking his accustomed cigar; and his eyeglass was fixed upon the ladies, to whom he made a very low bow. It may be ‘imagined how fond he was of them afterwards, and what looks he cast at Mr. Bob Smith the next time he met him. Mr. Bob’s heart beat for a day afterwards; and he found he had | business in town. But the love of society is stronger than even pride; and the great Mr. Brandon was sometimes fain to 'descend from his high station and -consort with the vulgar family with whom he lodged. But, as we have said, he always did this with a won- _derfully condescending air, giving his : a4 associates to understand how great was the honor he did them. One day, then, he was absolutely so kind as to accept of an invitation from the ground-floor, which was de- livered in the passage by Mr. James Gann, who said “It was hard to see a gent eating mutton-chops from week’s end to week’s end; and if Mr. Brandon had a mind to meet a devil- ish good fellow as ever was, my friend Swigby, a man who rides his horse, and has his five hundred a year to spend, and to eat a prime cut out of as good a leg of pork (though he said it) as ever a knife was stuck into, they should dine that day at three o’clock sharp, and Mrs. G. and the gals would be glad of the honor of his company.” The person so invited was rather amused at the terms in which Mr. Gann conveyed his hospitable mes- sage; and at three o’clock made his appearance in the back-parlor, whence he had the honor of conducting Mrs. Gann (dressed in a sweet yellow mousseline de laine, with a large red turban, a ferronniére, and a smelling- bottle attached by a ring to a very damp, fat hand) to the “office,” where the repast was set out. The Misses Macarty were in costumes equally tasty: one on the guest’s right hand; one near the boarder, Mr. Fitch, — who, in a large beard, an amethyst velvet waistcoat, his hair fresh wetted, and parted accurately down the middle to fall in curls over his collar, would have been irresisti- ble if the collar had been a little, little whiter than it was. Mr. Brandon, too, was dressed in his very best suit; for though he af- fected to despise his hosts very much, he wished to make the most favorable impression upon them, and took care to tell Mrs, Gann that he and Lord So-and-so were the only two men in the world who were in possession of that particular waistcoat which she admired: for Mrs. Gann was very gracious, and had admired the waist- coat, being desirous to impress with 2 2 awe Mr. Gann’s friend and admirer, Mr. Swigby, — who, man of fortune | as he was, was a constant frequenter of the club at the ‘ Bag of Nails.” About this club and its supporters Mr. Gann’s guest, Mr. Swigby, and Gann himself, talked ver y gayly be- fore dinner ; all the jokes about all the club being roared over by the pair. Mr. Brandon, who felt he was the great man of the party, indulged him- self in his great propensities “without restraint, and told Mrs. Gann sto- ries about half the nobility. Mrs. Gann conversed knowingly about the Opera; and declared that she thought Taglioni the sweetest singer in the world. “ Mr. — a— Swigby, have you ever seen Lablache dance?” asked Mr. Brandon of that gentleman, to whom he had been formally introduced. Miss CAROLINE. 1. Mr. Fitca. Potatoes. A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. “At Vauxhall. is he?” sai Mr. Swigby, who was just fro’ town. “Yes, on the tight-rope; a charn ing performer.” On which Mr. Gann told how h had been to Vauxhall when th princes were in London ; lady talked of these knowingly. then they fell to conversing about fire works and rack-punch ; Mr. Brando assuring the young ladies that Vaus hall was the very pink of the fashior and longing to have the honor o dancing a quadrille with them ther Indeed, Brandon was. so very sarca: tic, that not a single soul at table un derstood him. The table, from Mr. Brandon’ plan of it, which was afterwards sen to my Lord Cinqbars, was arrange as follows : — Miss L, Macarty. 3. : = : a . A roast leg of | Three shreds Boiled haddock, | > & | pork, with sage and | of celery in a | removed by hashed | § a onions. glass, mutton. R ar) Q a 9, Cabbage. 4, “fe Mr. Swicsy. Miss B. Macarty. Mr. BRANDON. 1 and 2 are-pots of porter; quart of ale, Mrs. Gann’s favorite drink ; 4, a bottle of fine old golden sherry, the real produce of the Uva grape, purchased at the “Bag of Nails”? Hotel for 1s. 9d. by Mr. J. Gann. Mr. Gann. “Taste that sherry, sir. Your ’ealth, and my services to you, sir. ‘That wine, sir, is given me as a particular favor by my — ahem ! —my wine-merchant, who only will | part with a small quantity of it, and | imports it direct, sir, from — ahem ! — from — Mr. Brandon. course. “From Xeres, of. 3, a It is, I really think, the finest | wine I ever tasted in my life, — at commoner’s table, that is.” Mrs. Gann. “O, in course, a co moner’s table!— we have no titles sir (Mr. Gann, I will trouble you fo some more crackling), though m poor dear girls are related, by thei blessed father’s side, to some of thi first , nobility in the land, I assur ou.’ Mr. Gann. “Gammon, Jooly m dear. Them = Irish nobility, you know, what are they? And _ be sides, it ’s my belief that the: gal are no more related to them than . am.’ Miss Bella (to Mr. Brandon, cor A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. identially). “ You must find that poor Yar is sadly vuigar, Mr. Bran- lon.” Mrs. Gann. “Mr. Brandon has ever been accustomed to such lan- ‘uage, Lam sure; and I entreat you vill excuse Mr. Gann’s rudeness, ir.” Miss Linda. “Indeed, I assure ‘ou, Mr. Brandon, that we ’ve high onnections as well as low; as high 's some people’s connections, per’aps, hough we are not always talking of he nobility.’ This was a double hot: the first barrel of Miss Linda’s ‘entence hit her step-father ; the second jart was levelled directly at Mr. 3randon. “Don’t you think I’m ‘ight, Mr. Fitch?” Mr. Brandon. “You are quite ‘izht, Miss Linda, in this as in every ther instance ; but I am afraid Mr. fitch has not paid proper attention o your excellent remark: for, if I lon’t mistake the meaning of that yeautiful design which he has made vith his fork upon the table-cloth, his oul is at this moment wrapped up in lis art.” This was exactly what Mr. Fitch vished that all the world should sup- jose. He flung back his hair, and tared wildly for a moment, and said, ‘Pardon me, madam: it is true my houghts were at that moment far way in the regions of my hart.” Je was really thinking that his atti- ude was a very elegant one, and that i large garnet ring which he wore on iis forefinger must be mistaken by all ‘he company for a ruby. “Art is very well,” said Mr. Bran- lon; “but with such pretty natural ibjects before you, I wonder you were ot content to think of them.” ' “Do you mean the mashed pota- oes, sir?” said Andrea Fitch, won- ering. _ “T mean Miss Rosalind Macarty,” wnswered Brandon, gallantly, and aughing heartily at the painter’s sim- icity. But this compliment could iot soften Miss Linda, who had an measy conviction that Mr. Brandon 20 was laughing at her, and disliked him accordingly. At this juncture, Miss. Caroline en- tered and took. the place marked as hers, to the left hand of Mr. Gann, vacant. An old rickety wooden stool was placed for her, instead of that elegant and commodious Windsor chair which supported every other person at table; and by the side of the plate stood a curious old battered tin mug, on which the antiquarian might possibly discover the inscrip- tion of the word ‘ Caroline.” This, in truth, was poor Caroline’s mug and stool, having been appropriated to her from childhood upwards; and here it was her custom meekly to sit, and eat her daily meal. It was well that the girl was placed near her father, else I do believe she would have been starved; but Gann was much too good-natured to allow that any difference should be made between her and her sisters. There are some meannesses which are too mean even for man, — woman, lovely woman alone, can venture to commit them. Well, on the present occasion, and when the dinner was half over, poor Caroline stole gently into the room and took her ordinary place. Caroline’s pale face was very red ; for the fact must be told that she had been in the kitchen, helping Becky, the universal maid; and_ having heard how the great Mr. Brandon was to dine with them upon that day, the simple girl had been showing her respect for him, by compiling, in her best manner, a certain dish, for the cooking of which her papa had often praised her. She took her place, blushing violently when she saw him, and if Mr. Gann had not been mak- ing a violent clattering with his knife and fork, it is possible that he might have heard Miss Caroline’s heart thump, which it did violently. Her dress was somehow a little smarter than usual; and Becky the maid, who brought in that remove of hash- ed mutton which has been set down in the bill of fare, looked at her 24 young lady with a good deal of com- placency, as, loaded with plates, she quitted the room. Indeed, the poor girl deserved to be looked at: there was an air of gentleness and inno- cence about her that was apt to please some persons, much more than the bold beauties of her sisters, ‘The two young men did not fail to remark this; one of them, the little painter, had longesince observed it. “You are very late, miss,” cried Mrs. Gann, who affected not to know what had caused her daughter’s de- lay. ‘You’re always late!” and the elder girls stared and grinned at each other knowingly, as they always did when mamma made such attacks upon Caroline, who only kept her eyes down upon the table-cloth, and began to eat her dinner without say- ing a word. ee Come, my dear,” cried honest Gann, “if she is late you know why. A girl can’t be here, and there too, as Tsay; can they, Swigby ?” “Impossible!” said Swigby. “Gents,”’ continued Mr. Gann, “our Carry, you must know, has been down stairs, making the pudding for her old pappy; and a good pudding she makes, I can tell you.” Miss Caroline blushed more vehe- mently than ever; the artist stared her full in the face; Mrs. Gann said, “Nonsense!” and “ Stuff!” very ma- jestically ; only Mr. Brandon inter- posed in Caroline’s favor. “JT would sooner that my wife should know how to make a_ pud- ding,”’ said he, ‘‘ than how to play the best piece of music in the world! ” “Law, Mr. Brandon! I, for my part, wouldn’t demean myself by any such kitchen-work!” cries Miss Linda. “ Make puddens, indeed; it ’s ojous!”’ cries Bella. “For you, my loves, of course! ” interposed their mamma. ‘ Young women of your family and circum- stances is not expected to perform any such work. It’s different with Miss Caroline, who, if she does make A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. make herself near so useful as sh should, considering that she ’s not a@ shilling, and is living | on our charity like some other folks.” ae Thus did this amiable woman neg lect no opportunity to give her oa ions about her husband and daugh- ter. The former, however, cared not a straw; and the latter, in this in- stance, was perfectly happy. Had not kind Mr. Brandon approved of her work; and could she ask for more ? a “Mamma may say what she pleases. to-day,” thought Caroline. “I a % b too shappy to be made angry her.” Poor little mistaken Caroline, td think you were safe against three women! The dinner had not 4 vanced much further, when Miss Isa. bella, who had been examining h younger sister curiously for some | short time, telegraphed Miss Linda across the table, and nodded, and winked, and pointed to her own neck; a very white one, as I have be= fore had the honor to remark, and quite without any covering, except 4. smart necklace of twenty-four rows of the lightest blue glass beads, fin- ishing in a neat tassel. Linda had a similar ornament of a vermilion color ¢ whereas Caroline, on this occasion, | wore a handsome new collar up to’ the throat, and a brooch, which looked | all the smarter for the shabby frock | over which they were placed. As) soon as she saw her sister’s signals, the poor little thing, who had only’ just done fluttering and blushing, fell | to this same work over again. Down went her eyes once more, and her face and neck lighted" up to the color of” Miss Linda’s sham cornelian. =| ‘““What ’s the gals giggling and. ogling about?” said Mr. Gann, in- nocently. “What is it, my darling loves?” said stately Mrs. Gann. 4 “Why, don’t you see, Ma?” said Linda. ‘Look at Miss Carry! Pm blessed if she has flot got on Becky’s col< : A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 1? her . The young ladies fell back in up- ‘roarious fits of laughter, and laughed all the time that their mamma was thundering out a speech, in which she declared that her daughter’s con- uct was unworthy a gentlewoman, and bid her leave the room and take off those disgraceful ornaments. There was no need to tell her; the poor little thing gave one piteous look at her father, who was whistling, and seemed indeed. to think the mat- er a good joke; and after she had managed to open the door and totter ‘mto the passage, you might have yeard her weeping there, weeping years more bitter than any of the many she had shed in the course of her life. Down she went to the sitchen, and when she reached that fumble place of refuge, first pulled at her neck and made as if she would jake off Becky’s collar and brooch, and then flung herself into the arms of that. honest scullion, where she sried and cried till she brought on the irst fit of hysterics that ever she had iad. This crying could not at first be jeard in the parlor, where the young adies, Mrs. Gann, Mr. Gann, and his riend from the “ Bag of Nails,” were ‘oaring at the excellence of the joke. Mir. Brandon, sipping sherry, sat by, ‘ooking very sarcastically and slyly rom one party to the other; Mr. Vitch was staring about him too, but vith a very different expression, anger md wonder inflaming his bearded countenance. At last, as the laugh- younced up from his chair and rushed pat of the room, exclaiming, — _ “ By Jove, it’s too bad!” _ “What does the man mean?” said Vrs. Gann. _ He meant that he was from that noment over head and ears in love vith Caroline, and that he longed to seat, buffet, pummel, thump, tear to 2 25 , Jar and brooch that Sims the pilot gave | pieces, those callous ruffians who so pitilessly laughed. at her. “ What ’s that chop wi’ the beard in such tantrums about?” said the gentleman from the ‘“ Bag of Nails.” Mr. Gann answered this query by some joke, intimating that “ per’aps Mr. Fitch’s dinner did not agree with him,”’ at which these worthies roared again. The young ladies said, ‘ Well, now, upon my word!” ““Mighty genteel behavior truly!” cried mamma; “but what can you expect from the poor thing ?”’ Brandon only sipped more sherry, but he looked at Fitch as the latter flung out of the room, and his counte- nance was lighted up by a more un- equivocal smile. ; * * * ¥* These two little adventures were fol- lowed by a silence of some few minutes, during which the meats re- mained on thé table, and no signs were shown of that pudding upon which poor Caroline had exhausted her skill. The absence of this deli- cious part of the repast was first re- marked, by Mr. Gann; and his lady, after jangling at the bell for some time in vain, at last begged one of her daughters to go and hasten mat- ters. “Becky!” shrieked Miss Linda from the hall, but Becky replied not. “Becky, are we to be kept waiting all day?” continued the lady, in the same shrill voice. ‘‘ Mamma wants the pudding !” “TELL HER TO FETCH IT HER- seLF!” roared Becky, at which re- mark Gann and _ his facetious friend once more went off into fits of laugh- ter. “This is too bad!” said Mrs. G., starting up; “she shall leave the house this instant!” and so no doubt Becky would, but that the lady owed her five quarters’ wages; which she, at that period, did not feel inclined to pay. Well, the dinner at last was at an end; the ladies went away to tea, 26 leaving the gentlemen to their wine; Brandon, very condescendingly, par- taking of a bottle of port, and listen- | ing with admiration to the toasts and | sentiments with which it is still the | custom among persons of Mr. Gann’s rank of life to preface each glass of wine. ~ thus :— Glass 1. “ Gents,” says Mr. Gann, | rising, «this glass I need say nothink about. Here’s the king, ‘and long | life to him and the family !” Mr. Swigby, with his glass, goes | Knock, knock, knock on the table; | and saying gravely, “The king!” | drinks of his glass, and smacks his ; lips afterwards. Mr. Brandon, who had drank half | his, stops in the midst and says, “QO, | ‘the king’! ” Mr. Swighy. ar . 4 good glass of wine | that, Gann my boy!” Mr. Brandon. *« Capital, really; | though, upon my faith, I’m no judge | of port.” r. Gann (smacks). “A fine fruity | wine as ever I tasted. I suppose you, Mr. B., are accustomed only to claret. | I’ve ’ad it, too, in my time, sir, as Swigby there very well knows. I travelled, sir, sure le Continong, I assure you, and drank my glass of claret with the best man in France, | or England either. I wasn’t always | what I am, sir.” Mr. Brandon. if you were.’ Mr. Gann. “No, sir. Before that | gas came in, I was head, sir, of one of the fust ’ouses in the hoil-trade, | Gann, Biubbery & Gann, sir,— ‘Thames Street, City.- I’d my box at. Putney, as good a gig and horse as | my friend there drives.” Mr. Swigiy. “ Ay, and a better too, | Gann, I make no doubt.” Mr. Gann. “ Well, say a better. I. had a better, if money could fetch it, sir; and I did n’t spare that, | warrant | you. No, no, James Gann didn’t | grudge his purse, sir; and had his friends around him, as “he’s ‘appy to *ave now, sir. ’ealth, sir, and may we hoften meet | A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. “You don’t look a Mr. Brandon, your | ‘under this ma’ogany. Swigby n | boy, God bless ma!” ‘Mr. Brandon. “Your very ge . health.” = Mr. Swighy. “'Thank you, Here ’s to you, and long life and pre _ perity and happiness to you and your _ Bless you, Jim my boy; Heaven bie: you! I say this, Mr. Bandon- Brandon —what ’s your name— ain’t a better fellow in all Margate ‘than James Gann,—no, nor in all _England. Here’s Mrs. Gann, ¢ and the family. Mrs. Gaxn!? wid’ Bi Par bregiber ORR a sir! Sucha i: Mr. Swighy. “You ’d choose ne | but a good “un, I war’nt. Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Gann. “Did I ever tell be _of my duel along with the doctor? No! Then I will I+ a young chap, en ER and when I saw her at Brussels— ( Brusell, they call it) —1 was igh slick up over head and ears in lor | with her at once. But what was 6 be done? : Cm lady,’ and so I made so bold. _ took me, sent the doctor to the ri | about. T met him one morning i : _ the park at Brussels, and stood f /him, sir, like a man. When “affair Was over, nae eae: a left |ant of dragoons told ‘ Ge | says. he, ‘1? ve seen many a mit | under fire, —I* m a Waterloo ma says he,—‘and have rode by We lington many a long day; but I ne er, for coolness, see such a man you.’ Gents, here ’s the Dake © | Wellington and the British ae Sep a ae, | _ Afr. Brandon, “Did you kill ¢ doctor, sir?” - &.terp&e ean arco ek. Pet 1 4 ) Mr. Gann. n the hair.” \ Mr. Brandon. “Shot him in the tair! Egad, that was a severe shot, ind a very lucky escape the doctor aad of it? Whereabout in the hair ? ' whisker, sir; or, perhaps, a pig- gil’ ?”? + Mr. Swigby. ‘Haw, haw, haw! hot’n in the hair, — capital, capi- tal }” | Mr. Gann, who has grown very red. ‘No, sir; there may be some mis- ake in my pronounciation, which I id n’t expect to have laughed at, at jay hown table.” _ Mr. Brandon. ‘rotest and vow — / Mr. Gann. “Never mind it, sir. | gave you my best, and did my best 9 make you welcome. If you like ‘etter to make fun of me, do, sir. “hat may be the genteel way, but ‘ang me if it ’s hour way; is it, ack? Our way; I beg your par- jon, sir.” ‘Mr. Swigby. “Jim, Jim! for feaven’s sake ! — peace and harmony if the evening — conviviality — so- val enjoyment — did n’t mean it — fid you mean anything, Mr. What- | sre 92 r. Brandon. ‘Nothing, upon my onor as a gentleman !” Mr. Gann. “ Well, then, there ’s ‘y hand!” and good-natured Gann ter to forget the insult, and to talk “Why, no, sir; I shot | “My dear sir! I ”? 3 if nothing had occurred: but he id been wounded in the most sensi- ive point in which a man can be vuched by his superior, and never irgot Brandon’s joke. That night | the club, when dreadfully tipsy, he ade several speeches on the subject, id burst into tears many times. \he pleasure of the evening was quite oiled ; and, as the conversation be- ‘me vapid and dull, we shall refrain om reporting it. Mr. Brandon veedily took leave, but had not the urage to face the ladies at tea; to eee it appears, the reconciled ecky had brought that refreshing erage. | A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 27 CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH MR. FITCH PROCLAIMS HIS LOVE, AND MR. BRANDON PRE- PARES FOR WAR. From the splendid hall in which Mrs. Gann was dispensing her hospi- tality, the celebrated painter, Andrea Fitch, rushed forth in a state of mind even more delirious than that which he usually enjoyed. He looked abroad into the street: all there was dusk and lonely ; the rain falling heavily, the wind playing Pandean pipes and whistling down the chimney-pots. “TI love the storm,” said Fitch, sol- emnly ; and he put his great Spanish cloak round him in the most approved manner (it was of so prodigious a size that the tail of it, as it twirled over his shoulder, whisked away a lodging-card from the door of the house opposite Mr. Gann’s). “I love the storm and solitude,” said he, lighting a large pipe filled full of the fragrant Oronooko ; and thus armed, he passed rapidly down the street, his hat cocked over his ringlets. Andrea did not like smoking, but he used a pipe as a part of his pro- fession as an artist, and as one of the picturesque parts of his costume ; in like manner, though he did not fence, he always travelled about with a pair of foils; and quite unconscious of music, nevertheless had a guitar con- stantly near at hand. Without such properties a painter’s spectacle is not complete ; and now he determined to add to them another indispensable requisite, ——a mistress. ‘‘ What great artist was ever without one?” thought he. Long, long had he sighed for- some one whom he might love, some one to whom he might address the poems which he was in the habit of making. Hundreds of such frag- ments had he composed, addressed to Leila, ° Ximena, Ada, — imaginary beauties, whom he courted in dreamy verse. With what joy would he re- place all those by a real charmer of flesh and blood! Away he went, then, on this evening, — the tyranny 28 of Mrs. Gann towards poor Caroline haying awakened all his sympathies in the gentle girl’s favor, — determined now and forever to make her the mis- tress of his heart. Monna-Lisa, the Fornarina, Leonardo, Raphael, — he thought of all these, and vowed that his Caroline should be made famous and live forever on his canvas. While Mrs. Gann was preparing for her friends, and entertaining them at tea and whist ; while Caroline, all uncon- scious of the love she inspired, was weeping up Stairs in her little garret ; while Mr. Brandon was enjoying the refined conversation of Gann and Swigby, over their glass and pipe in the office, Andrea walked abroad by the side of the ocean; and, before he was wet through, walked himself into the most fervid affection for poor per- secuted Caroline. The reader might have observed him (had not the night been very dark, and a great deal too wet to allow a sensible reader to go abroad on such an errand) at the sea- shore standing on a rock, and draw- ing from his bosom a locket which contained a curl of hair tied up in ribbon. He looked at it for a mo- ment, and then flung it away from him into the black boiling waters be- low him. “No other ’air but thine, Caroline, shall ever rest near this ’art!” he said, and kissed the locket and re- stored it to its place. Light-minded youth, whose hair was it that he thus flung away? How many times had Andrea shown that very ringlet in strictest confidence to several brethren of the brush, and declared that it was the hair of a dear girl in Spain whom he loved to madness? Alas! ’t was but a fiction of his fevered brain; every one of his friends had a locket of hair, and Andrea, who had no love until now, had clipped this precious token from the wig of a lovely lay- figure, with cast-iron joints and a eard-board head, that had stood for some time in his atelier. I don’t know that he felt any shame about the proceeding, for he was of such a A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. warm imagination that he had grown to believe that the hair did actually come from a girl in Spain, and onl: parted with it on yielding to a superio) attachment. ood This attachment .being fixed on the young painter came home we} through ; passed the night in readimg Byron; making sketches, and burn: ing them ; writing poems to Caroline and expunging them with pitiless india-rubber. A romantic man make: a point of sitting up all night, anc pacing his chamber; and you may see many a composition of Andrea’: dated “Midnight, 10th of March, A F.,” with his peculiar flourish over thi initials. He was not sorry to be tol¢ in the morning, by the ladies at break: fast, that he looked dreadfully pale: and answered, laying his hand on his forehead, and shaking his heac gloomily, that he could get no sleep and then he would heave a huge sigh and Miss Bella and Miss Linda woul¢ look at each other, and grin according to their wont. He was glad, I say, t have his woe remarked, and continuec his sleeplessness for two or thre nights; but he was certainly stil more glad when he heard Mr. Bran don, on the fourth morning, cry out in a shrill angry voice, to Becky the maid, to give the gentleman up stair his compliments, — Mr. Brandon’ compliments, —and tell him that he could not get a wink of sleep for th horrid trampling he kept up. “I am hanged if I stay in the house a nigh longer,” added the first-floor sharply “if that Mr. Fitch kicks up such ¢ confounded noise!” Mr. Fitch’ point was gained, and henceforth hi was as quiet as a mouse ; for his wisl was not only to be in love, but to le everybody know that he was in love or where is the use of a belle passion? So, whenever he saw Caroline, a meals, or in the passage, he used t stare at her with the utmost power ol his big eyes, and fall to groaning mos pathetically. He used toleave his meal untasted, groan, heave sighs, and star incessantly. Mrs. Gann and he bldest daughters were astonished at shese manceuvres; for they never suspected that any man could possibly be such a fool as to fall in love with ‘Saroline. At length the suspicion game upon them, created immense ‘aughter and delight; and the ladies did not fail to rally Caroline in their usual elegant way. Gann, too, loved joke (much polite waggery had this worthy man practised in select inn- yarlors for twenty years past), and would call poor Caroline “ Mrs. F.” ; and say that instead of Fetch and Carry, as he used to name her, he should style her Fitch and Carry for the future; and laugh at this great pun, and make many others of a similar sort, that set Caroline blushing. , Indeed, the girl suffered a great deal imore from this yaillery than at first may be imagined ; for after the first awe inspired by Fitch’s whiskers had passed away, and he had drawn the young ladies’ pictures, and made designs in their albums, and in the midst of their (jokes and conversation had remained perfectly silent, the Gann family had determined that the man was an idiot : and, indeed, were not very wide of the mark. In everything except his own peculiar art honest Fitch was an idiot ; ‘and as upon the subject of painting, the Ganns, like most people of their ielass in England, were profoundly ignorant, it came to pass that he ‘would breakfast and dine for many days in their company, and not utter jone single syllable. So they looked ‘upon him with extreme pity and con- tempt, as a harmless good-natured, ‘erack-brained creature, quite below ‘them in the scale of intellect, and only to be endured because he paid a certain number of shillings weekly to the Gann exchequer. Mrs. Gann in all companies was accustomed to talk about her idiot. Neighbors and chil- ‘dren used to peer at him as he strutted down the street; and though every young lady, including my dear Caro- jline, is flattered by having a lover, at deast they don’t like such a lover as ‘this. The Misses Macarty (after hav- | . | | | | A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 29 ing set their caps at him very fiercely, and quarrelled concerning him on his first coming to lodge at their house) vowed and protested now that he was no better than a chimpanzee; and Caroline and Becky agreed that this insult was as great as any that could be paid to the painter. ‘“ He ’s a good creature, too,” said Becky, ‘ crack- brained as he is. Do you know, miss, he gave me half a sovereign to buy a new collar, after that business t’other day ?” « And did — Mr. »— did the first -floor say anything?” asked Caroline. “Did n’t he! he ’s a funny gentle- man, that Brandon, sure enough; and when I took him up breakfast next morning, asked about Sims the pilot, and what I gi’ed Sims for the collar and brooch, — he, he!” And this was indeed a correct re- port of Mr. Brandon’s conversation with Becky; he had been infinitely amused with the whole transaction, and wrote his friend the viscount a capital facetious account of the man- ners and customs of the native inhab- itants of the isle of Thanet. And now, when Mr. Fitch’s passion was fully developed, — as far, that is, as sighs and ogles could give it utter- ance, —a curious instance of that spirit of contradiction for which our race is remarkable was seen in tlie behavior of Mr. Brandon. Although Caroline, in the depths of her little silly heart, had set him down for her divinity, her wondrous fairy prince, who was to deliver her from her present miserable durance, she had never by word or deed acquainted Brandon with her inclination for him, but had, with instinctive modesty, avoided him more sedulously than before. He, too, had never bestowed a thought upon her. How should such a Jove as Mr. Brandon, from the cloudy summit of his fashionable Olympus, look down and_ perceive such an humble, retiring being as poor little Caroline Gann? Think- ing her at first not disagreeable, he 30 had never, ner, bestowed one single further thought upon her; and only when exasperated by the Miss Macartys’ behavior towards him, did he begin to think how sweet it would be to make them jealous and unhappy. “ The uncouth grinning monsters,’ said he, ‘ with their horrible court - Bob Smiths and Jack Joneses, daring to look down upon me, a gentleman, me, the celebrated mangeur des cceurs,— a man of genius, fashion, and noble family! IfI could but revenge my- self on them! What injury can I invent to wound them.” It is curious to what points a man in his passion will go. Mr. Brandon had long since, in fact, tried to do the greatest possible injury to the young ladies ; for it had been, at the first dawn of his acquaintance, as we are bound with much sorrow to confess, his fixed intention to ruin one or the other of them. And when the young ladies had, by their coldness and indif- ference to him, frustrated this benevo- lent intention, he straightway fancied that they had injured him severely, and cast about for means to revenge himself upon them. This point is, to be sure, a very delicate one to treat, — for in words, at least, the age has grown to be wonderfully moral, and refuses to hear discourses upon such subjects. But human nature, as far as I am able to learn, has not much changed since the time when Richardson ‘wrote, and Hogarth painted, a cen- tury ago. There are wicked Love- laces abroad, ladies, now as then, when it was considered no shame to expose the rogues; and pardon us, therefore, for hinting that such there be. Elegant acts of rouerie, such as that meditated by Mr. Brandon, are often performed still by dashing young men of the world, who think no sin of an amourette, but glory in it, especially if the victim be a person of mean condition. Had Brandon suc- ceeded (such is the high moral state of our British youth), all his friends A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. until the day of the din- | would have pronounced him, and | would have considered himself, to be a very lucky, captivating dog; nor, as_ I believe, would he have had a single ; pang of conscience for the rascally action which he had committed. | This supreme act of scoundrelism has man permitted to himself—to de ceive women. When we consider how he has availed himself of the ' privilege so created by him, indeed one may sympathize with the ad- | vocates of woman’s rights who point | out this monstrous wrong. We haye read of that wretched woman of old | whom the pious Pharisees were for. stoning incontinently ; but we don’t | hear that they mide any outcry | against the man who was concerned in | the crime. Where was he ? Happy, no doubt, and easy in. mind, and re- galing some choice friends over a bottle with the history of his success. Being thus injured then, Mr. Bran- don longed for revenge. How should » he repay these impertinent aioe | women for slighting his addresses “ Pardi,” said he; “just to punish their pride and insolence, I hed great mind to make love to thei sister.” He did not, however, for some timem condescend to perform this threat. | Kagles such as Brandon do not sail down from the clouds in order y pounce upon small flies, and soar air wards again, contented with such an | ignoble booty. In a word, he co gave a minute’s thought to Miss Car line, until further circumstances oe: consider her as an object somewhat worthy of his remark. The violent affection suddenly axe hibited by Mr. Fitch, the painter, to- wards poor little Caroline was the point which determined Brandon to begin to act. at “My pEar Viscount,” — (wrote he'to the same Lord Cingbars whom he formerly addressed) — “ Give me joy; for in a week’s time it is my in tention to be violently in love, — and Jove is no small amusement in a water- ing-place in winter. | “T told you about the fair Juliana Gann and her family. I forgot whether I mentioned how the Juliana aad two fair daughters, the Rosalind and the Isabella; and another, Caro- ine by name, not so good-looking as ner half-sisters, but, nevertheless, a oleasing young person. | “ Well, when I came hither, I had aothing to do but to fall in love with jhe two handsomest ; and did so, tak- ng many walks with them, talking much nonsense ; passing long dismal evenings over horrid tea with them and their mamma: laying regular siege, in fact, to these Margate beau- jles, who, according to the common vule in such cases, could not, I -hought, last long. | “Miserable deception! disgusting wistocratic blindness!”? (Mr. Bran- don always assumed that his own high birth and eminent position were granted.) ‘‘ Would you believe it, ‘hat I, who have seen, fought, and sonquered in so many places, should ave been ignominiously defeated aere? Just as American Jackson de- ‘eated our Peninsular veterans, I, an »ld Continental conqueror too, have »een overcome by this ignoble enemy. ‘hese women have intrenched them- elves so firmly in their vulgarity, what I have been beaten back several yimes with disgrace, being quite un- able to make an impression. The monsters, too, keep up a dreadful fire rom behind their intrenchments ; nd besides have raised the whole ,ountry against me: in a word, all he snobs of their acquaintance are in rms. There is Bob Smith, the ‘men-draper ; Harry Jones, who keeps ihe fancy tea-shop; young Glauber, jhe apothecary; and sundry other versons, who are ready to eat me vhen they see me in the streets; and ire. all at the beck of the victorious Amazons. _ “ How is agentleman to make head gainst such a canaille as this?—a ‘egular jacquerie. Once or twice I A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 31 have thought of retreating; but a re- treat, for sundry reasons I have, is in- convenient. I can’t go to London; I am known at Dever; I believe there is a bill against me at Canterbury ; at Chatham there are sundry quartered regiments whose recognition Ishould be unwilling to risk. I must stay here —and be hanged to the place — until my better star shall rise. “But I am determined that my stay shall be to some purpose; and so to show how persevering I am, I shall make one more trial upon the third daughter, — yes, upon the third daughter, a family Cinderella, who shall, I am determined, make her sis- ters crever with envy. I merely mean fun, you know, — not mischief, — for Cinderella is but a little child: and, besides, I am the most harmless fel- low breathing, but must have my joke. Now, Cinderella has a lover, the bearded painter of whom I spoke to you in a former letter. He has lately plunged into the most extraor- dinary fits of passion for her, and is more mad than even he was before. Woe betide you, O painter! I have nothing to do: a month to do that nothing in; in that time, mark my words, I will laugh at that painter’s beard. Should you like a lock of it, or a sofa stuffed with it? there is beard enough: or should you like to see a specimen of poor little Cinderel- la’s golden ringlets? Command your slave. I wish I had paper enough to write you an account of a grand Gann dinner at which I assisted, and of a scene which there took place; and how Cinderella was dressed out, not by a fairy, but by a charitable kitchen- maid, and was turned out of the room by her indignant mamma, for appear- ing in the scullion’s finery. But my Jorte does not lie in such descriptions of polite life. We drank port, and toasts after dinner: here is the menu, and the names and order of the eaters.” * * * * * The bill of fare has been given al- 32 ready, and need not, therefore, be again laid before the public. “ What a fellow that is!” said young Lord Cingbars, reading the letter to his friends, and in a profound admiration of his tutor’s genius. “ And to think that he was a read- ing man, too, and took a double first,” cried another; ‘“ why, the man is an Admirable Crichton.” i Upon my life, though, he’s a little too bad,” said a third, who was a moralist. And with this afresh bowl of milk-punch came reeking from the college butteries, and the jovial party discussed that. ——-¢-— CHAPTER V. CONTAINS A GREAT DEAL OF COM- PLICATED LOVE-MAKING. Tue Misses Macarty were exces- sively indignant that Mr. Fitch should have had the audacity to fall in love with their sister; and poor Caroline’s life was not, as may be imagined, made much the happier by the envy and passion thus excited. Mr Fitch’s amour was the source of a great deal of pain to her. Her mother would tauntingly say, that as both were beg- gars, they could not do better than marry ; and declared in the same sa- tirical way, that she should like noth- ing better than to see a large family of grandchildren about her, to be plagues and burdens upon her, as her daughter was. The short way would have been, when the young painter’s intentions were manifest, which they pretty speedily were, to have requested him immediately to quit the house ; or, as Mr. Gann said “to give him the sack at once”; to which measure the worthy man indignantly avowed that he would have resort. But his lady would not allow of any such rudeness ; although, for her part, she professed the strongest scorn and contempt for the painter. For the painful fact must be stated: Fitch had a short time. previously paid no less a sum than a whole quarter’s board and A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. lodging in advance, at Mrs. Gann’s humble request, and he possessed hig landlady’s receipt for that sum; the mention of which circumstance si: lenced Gann’s objections at once, And indeed, it is pretty certain that, with all her taunts to her danghiag and just abuse of Fitch’s poverty, Mrs. Gann in her heart was not, alto- gether averse to the match. In the first place, she loved match-making; next, she would be glad to be rid of. her daughter at anyrate; and, besides, — Fitch’s aunt, the auctioneer’s wife | was rich, and had no children; paint- | ers, as she had heard, make ‘often a great deal of money, and Fitch might be a clever one, for aught she knew. | So he was allowed to remain in the house, an undeclared but very assidiy ous lover ; ; and to sigh, and to moan, | and make verses and portraits of his beloved, and build castles in the air. as best he might. Indeed our hum- ble Cinderella was in avery curious | position. She felt a tender passion» for the first-floor, and was adored ee the second-floor, and had to wait up" of either; and as the poor little ‘hing 3 was compelled not to notice any of | the sighs and glances which the paint- er bestowed upon her, she also had | schooled herself to maintain a oe | I think it may be laid down as | pretty general rule, that mostromanti¢ | little girls of Caroline’s age have such a budding sentiment as this young person entertained ; quite innocent, Be | course ; nourished and talked of in delicious secrecy to the confidante of | the hour. Or else what are novel S| made for? Had Caroline read of | Valancourt and Emily for nothing, or | gathered no good example from those | five tear-fraught volumes which de | scribe the loves of Miss Helen Mar and Sir William Wallace? Many a) time had she depicted Brandon in @ | fancy costume, such as the fascinating | Valancourt wore ; or painted herself 's Helen, tying a sash round her night’s cuirass, and watching him orth to battle. Silly fancies, no ‘oubt; but consider, madam, the poor ‘irl’s age and education ; the only in- truction she had ever received was ‘com these tender, kind-hearted, silly cooks: the only happiness which Fate -ad allowed her was in this little silent vorld of fancy. It would be hard to ‘rudge the poor thing her dreams; nd many such did she have, and im- art blushingly to honest Becky, as hey sat by the humble kitchen-fire. Although it cost her heart a great sang, she had once ventured to im- ‘lore her mother not to send her up airs to the lodgers’ rooms, for she ‘hrunk at the notion of the occurrence hat Brandon should discover her re- vard for him ; but this point had never mtered Mrs. Gann’s sagacious head. ihe thought her daughter wished to ‘void Fitch, and sternly bade her do ser duty, and not give herself such impertinent airs ; and, indeed, it can’t ‘e said that poor Caroline was very orry at being compelled to continue lo see Brandon. To do both gentle- aen justice, neither ever said a word ‘nfit for Caroline to hear. Fitch ould have been torn to pieces by a Jhousand wild horses rather than ;ave breathed a single syllable to curt her feelings; and Brandon, ‘aough by no means so squeamish on irdinary occasions, was innately a ‘entleman, and from taste rather than om virtue, was carefully respectful 1 his behavior to her. | As for the Misses Macarty them- alves, it has been stated that they iad already given away their hearts everal times; Miss Isabella being at ais moment attached to a certain ‘oung wine-merchant, and to Lieuten- nt or Colonel Swabber of the Span- sh service; and Miss Rosalind havy- ga decided fondness for a foreign iobleman, with black mustachios, tho had paid a visit to Margate. if Miss Bella’s lovers, Swabber had A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 33 believed had gone very nigh to accept him. As for Miss Rosalind, I am sorry to say that the course of her true love ran by no means smoothly: the Frenchman had turned out to be not amarquess, but a billiard-marker ; and a sad, sore subject the disappoint- ment was with the neglected lady. We should have spoken of it long since, had the subject been one that was much canvassed in the Gann family ; but once when Gann had endeavored to rally his step-daughter on this unfortunate attachment (using for the purpose those delicate terms of wit for which the honest gentleman was always famous), Miss Linda had flown into such a violent fury, and comported herself in a way so dread- ful, that James Gann, Esquire, was fairly frightened out of his wits by the threats, screams, and imprecations which she uttered. Miss Bella, who was disposed to be jocose likewise, was likewise awed into silence; for her dear sister talked of tearing her eyes out that minute, and uttered some hints, too, regarding love-mat- ters personally affecting Miss Bella herself, which caused that young lady to turn pale-red, to mutter something about ‘‘ wicked lies,” and to leave the room immediately. Nor was the subject ever again broached by the Ganns. Even when Mrs. Gann once talked about that odious French im- poster, she was stopped immediately, not by the lady concerned, but by Miss Bella, who cried, sharply, “Mamma, hold your tongue, and don’t vex our dear Linda by alluding to any such stuff.” It is most proba- ble that the young ladies had had a private conference, which, beginning a little fiercely at first, had ended amicably : and so the marquess was mentioned no more. Miss Linda, then, was comparative- ly free (for Bob Smith, the linen-dra- per, and young Glauber, the apothe- cary, went for nothing); and, very luckily for her, a successor was found ‘issappeared ; but she still met the| for the faithless Frenchman, almost mme-merchant pretty often, and it is | immediately. 2 * | Cc 34 This gentleman was a commoner, to be sure; but had a good estate of five hundred a year, kept his horse and gig, and was, as Mr. Gann re- marked, as good a fellow as_ ever lived. Let us say at once that the new lover was no other than Mr. Swigby. From the day when he had been introduced to the family he appeared to be very much attract- ed by the two sisters; sent a turkey off his own farm, and six bottles of prime Hollands, to Mr. and Mrs. Gann, in presents ; and, in ten short days after his first visit, had informed his friend Gann that he was violently in love with two women whose names he would never — never breathe. The worthy Gann knew right well how the matter was ; for he had not failed to remark Swigby’ s melancholy, and to attribute it to its right cause. Swigby was forty-eight years of age, stout, hearty, gay, much given to drink, and had never been a lady’s man, or, indeed, passed half a dozen evenings in ladies’ society. He thought Gann the noblest and finest fellow in the world. He never heard any singing like James’s, nor any jokes like his; nor had met with such an accomplished gentleman or man of the world. “ Gann has his faults,” Swigby would say at the “ Bag of Nails’; ‘ which of us has not ?— but I tell you what, he’s the greatest trump lever see.” Many scores of scores had he paid for Gann, many guineas and crown-pieces had he lent him, since he came into his property some three years before. What were Swigby’s former pursuits I can’t tell. What need we care? Hadn’t he five hundred a year now, and a horse and gig? Ay, that he had. Since his accession to fortune, this gay young bachelor had taken his share (what he called “ his whack”’) of pleasure; had been at one— nay, perhaps, at two — public-houses every night; and had been tipsy, I make no doubt, nearly a thousand times in the course of the three years. Many people had tried to cheat him; but, A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. no, no! he knew what was what, in all matters of money was simple and shrewd. Gann’s gentility won him ; his bragging, his ton, and the stylish tuft on his chin. To be in-. vited to his house was a proud mo- ment; and when he went away, after the banquet described in the last chapter, he was in a perfect ferment of love and liquor. “What a stylish woman is that Mrs. Gann !” thought he, as he tum- bled into bed at his inn; “fine she must have been as a gal! 1” fourteen stone now, without saddle or bridle, and no mistake. And them Miss. Macartys. Jupiter! what spank. ing, handsome, elegant creatures ! — real elegance in both on ’em ! Such. hair ! — black’s the word — as black as my mare; such cheeks, such necks, and shoulders!” At noon he re peated these observations to Gann himself, as he walked up and down the pier with that gentleman, smok- | ing Manilla cheroots. He was in raptures with his evening. Gann re- ceived his praises with much majestig, good-humor. “Blood, sir!” said he, “ blood ’s. | everything ! Them gals have been brought up as few ever have. I don’t speak of myself ; but their mother — their mother ’s a lady, sir. Show me: a woman in England as is better bred or knows the world more than | Juliana!” “Tt ’s impawssible,” said Swigby. : “Think of the company we ‘ve kep’, sir, before our misfortunes, — the. fust in the land. Brandenburg House, sir,— England’s injured queen. | Law bless you! Juliana was alway, | there.” = “JT make no doubt, sir; you can see it in her,” said Swigby, solemnl} a “And as for those gals, why, ain't they related to the fust families in Ireland, sir?—JIn course they are. As I said before, blood ’s everything; and those young women have the best of it: they are connected with the reg’ lar old noblesse.” | “‘ They have the best of everythink, 3? A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. “%m sure,” said Swigby, “and de- erve it, too,” and relapsed into his aorning remarks. ‘‘ What creatures! vhat elegance! what hair and eyes, ir!— black, and all ’s black, as I ay. What complexion, sir!—ay, nd what makes, too! Such a neck nd shoulders I never see!” » Gann, who had his hands in his wockets (his friend’s arm being hooked nto one of his), here suddenly with- ‘rew his hand from its hiding-place, Jenched his fist, assumed a horrible mowing grin, and gave Mr. Swigby uch a blow in the ribs as wellnigh ent him into the water. “You sly fog!” said Mr. Gann, with inex- sressible emphasis; “you ’ve found hat out, too, have you? Have a ‘are, Joe my boy, — have a care.” - And herewith Gann and Joe burst nto tremendous roars of laughter, tesh explosions taking place at inter- ‘als of five minutes during the rest if the walk. The two friends parted ‘xceedingly happy; and when they ‘et that evening at “The Nails” jzann drew Swigby mysteriously into he bar, and thrust into his hand a riangular piece of pink paper, which ‘he latter read : — / “Mrs. Gann and the Misses Ma- ‘arty request the honor and pleasure if Mr. Swigby’s company (if you ave no better engagement) to tea to- norrow evening, at half past five. «Margaretta Cottage, Salamanca Road » North, Thursday evening.” ' The faces of the two gentlemen ‘vere wonderfully expressive of satis- ‘action as this communication passed vetween them. And I am led to be- jieve that Mrs. Gann had been un- Asually pleased with her husband’s ‘onduct on that day, for honest James ‘iad no Jess than thirteen and sixpence ‘n his pocket, and insisted, as usual, ‘rpon standing glasses all round. Joe Swigby, left alone in the little parlor jehind the bar, called for a sheet of aper, a new pen and a wafer, and nthe space of half an hour concocted ‘. very spirited and satisfactory an- 39 swer to this note; which was carried off by Gann, and duly delivered. Punctually at half past five Mr. Jo- seph Swigby knocked at Margaretta Cottage door, in his new coat with glistering brass buttons, his face clean shaved, and his great ears shining over his great shirt-collar delightfully bright and red. What happened at this tea-party 1t is needless here to say ; but Swigby came away from it quite as much en- chanted as before, and declared that the duets sung by the ladies in hideous discord were the sweetest music he had ever heard. He sent the gin and the turkey the next day; and, of course, was invited to dine. The dinner was followed up on his part by an offer to drive all the young ladies and their mamma into the country; and he hired a very smart barouche to conduct them. The in- vitation was not declined; and Fitch, too, was asked by Mr. Swigby, in the height of his good-humor, and ac- cepted with the utmost delight. “Me and Joe will go on the box,” said Gann. “You four ladies and Mr. Fitch shall go inside. Carry must go bodkin; but she ain’t very big.” “ Carry, indeed, will stop at home,” said her mamma; “she’s not fit to go out.” At which poor Fitch’s jaw fell; it was in order to ride with her that he had agreed to accompany the party; nor could he escape now, having just promised so eagerly. “O, don’t let’s have that proud Brandon,” said the young ladies, when the good-natured Mr. Swigby proposed to ask that gentleman ; and therefore he was not invited to join them in their excursion ; but he stayed at home very unconcernedly,, and saw the barouche and its load drive off. Somebody else looked at it from the parlor-window with rather a heavy heart, and that some one was poor Caroline. The day was bright and sunshiny; the spring was beginning early ; it would have been pleasant to have been a lady for once, and to have 36 driven along in a carriage with! and to whom and her mamma prancing horses. Mr. Fitch looked af: ter her in a very sheepish, melancholy way; and was so dismal and silly during the first part of the journey, that Miss Linda, who was next to him, said to her papa that she would change places with him; and actually mounted the box by the side of the happy, trembling Mr. Swigby. How proud he was, to be sure! How knowingly did he spank the horses along, and fling out the shillings at turnpikes ! “Bless you, he don’t care for change!’ said Gann, as one of the toll - takers offered to render some coppers; and Joe felt infinitely obliged to his friend for setting off his amiable | qualities in such a way. O mighty Fate, that over us mis- erable mortals rulest supreme, with what small means are thy ends ef- fected !— with what scornful ease and mean instruments does it please thee to govern mankind! Let each man think of the circumstances of his life, and how its lot has been determined. The getting up a little earlier or later, the turning down this street or that, the eating of this dish or the other, may influence all the years and ac- tions of a future life. Mankind walks dewn the left-hand side of Regent Street instead of the right, and meets a friend who asks him to dinner, and goes, and finds the turtle remarkably good, and the iced punch very cool and pleasant; and, being in a merry, jovial, idle mood, has no objection to a social rubber of whist, — nay, to a few more glasses of that cool punch. In the most careless, good-humored way, he loses a few points; and still feels thirsty, and loses a few more points ; and, like a man of spirit, in- creases his stakes, to be sure, and | just by that walk down Regent Street | is ruined for life. Or he walks down the right-hand side of Regent Street instead of the left, and, good Heay- ens! who is that charming young creature who has just stepped into her carriage from Mr. Frascr’s shop, A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. you have an account at your banker’ 3 Fraser has made the most elegant bow in the world? It is the lovely Miss Moidore, with a hundred thou- sand pounds, who has remarked your elegant figure, and regularly drives to town on the first of the month, to. purchase her darling Magazine. You | drive after her as fast as the hack- cab will carry you. She reads the, Magazine the whole way. She stops | at her papa’s elegant villa at Hamp- stead, with a conservatory, a double coach-house, and a_ park-like pad- dock. As the lodge gate separates /you from that dear girl, she looks — back just once, and blushes. Hrubuit, — salva est res. She has blushed, and you are all right. In a week you are. introduced to the family, and pro- | : nounced a charming young fellow of © | high principles. In three weeks you, have danced twenty-nine quadrilles . with her, and whisked her through several miles of waltzes. Ina month | Mrs. O’Flaherty has flung herself into the arms of her mother, just having come from a visit to the vile lage of Gretna, near Carlisle; and ever after. What is the cause of all this good fortune?—a walk on @ particular side of Regent Street. And so true and indisputable is this fact, that there’s a young north country gentleman with whom I am acquainted, that daily paces up and down the above-named street for many hours, fully expecting tha such an adventure will happen to him ; for which end he keeps a cab. in readiness at the corner of Vige Lane. Now, after a dissertation in this history, the reader is pretty sure to- which are to be drawn from the abo little essay on fate, are simply these: 1. If Mr. Fitch had not heard Mr, Swigby invite all the ladies, he would have refused Swigby’s invitation, and. stayed at home. 2. If he had not been in the carriage, it is quite cer- tain that Miss Rosalind Macarty ‘would not have been seated by him ‘on the back seat. 3. If he had not ‘been sulky, she never would have ‘asked her papa to let her take his place on the box. 4. If she had not taken her papa’s place on the box, ‘not one of the circumstances would have happened which did happen ; ‘and which were as follows : — ‘1. Miss Bella remained inside. / 9. Mr. Swighy, who was wavering ‘between the two, like a certain ani-, ‘mal between two bundles of hay, was ‘determined by this circumstance, and ‘made proposals to Miss Linda, whis- ipering to Miss Linda: “ Miss, I ain’t ‘equal to the like of you; but I’m ‘bearty, healthy, and have five hun- dred a year. Will you marry me?” In fact, this very speech had been ‘taught him by cunning Gann, who saw well enough that Swigby would ‘speak to one or other of his daugh- ters. And to it the young lady re- plied, also in a whispering, agitated tone, “Law, Mr. 8.! What an odd man! Howcan you?” And, after alittle pause, added, “ Speak to mam- ma.” 8. (And this is the main point of my story.) If little Caroline had been allowed to go out, she never would ‘have been left alone with Brandon at Margate. When Fate wills that something should come to pass, she sends forth a million of little circum- stances to clear and prepare the way. _ In the month of April (as indeed ‘n half a score of other months of the year) the reader may have remarked shat the cold northeast wind is prev- alent; and that when, tempted by a ‘glimpse of sunshine, he issues forth 40 take the air, he receives not only ‘t, but such a quantity of it as is /mough to keep him shivering through che rest of the miserable month. On oe of these happy days of English weather (it was the very day before ‘he pleasure-party described in the ast chapter) Mr. Brandon cursing qeartily his country, and thinking ow infinitely more congenial to him I A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 37 were the winds and habits prevalent in other nations, was marching over the cliffs near Margate, in the midst of a storm of shrill east wind which no ordinary mortal could bear, when he found perched on the chiff, his fingers blue with cold, the celebrated Andrea Fitch, employed in sketching a land or a sea scape on a sheet of gray paper. “You have chosen a fine day for sketching,” said Mr. Brandon, bitter- ly, his thin aquiline nose peering out livid from the fur collar of his coat. Mr. Fitch smiled, understanding the allusion. “ An hartist, sir,” said he, “‘ does n’t mind the coldness of the weather. There was a chap in the Academy who took sketches twenty degrees below zero in Hiceland, — Mount ’Ecla, sir! # was the man that gave the first hidea of Mount ’Ecla for the Surrey Zodlogical Gardens.” “He must have been a wonderful enthusiast!” said Mr. Brandon; “I faney that most would prefer to sit at home, and not numb their fingers in such a freezing storm as this!” “Storm, sir!” replied Fitch, ma- jestically ; “I live in a storm, sir! A true hartist is never so ’appy as when he can have the advantage to gaze upon yonder tempestuous hocean in one of its hangry moods.’ “Ay, there comes the steamer,” answered Mr. Brandon; “I can fancy that there are a score of unhap- py people on board who are not artists, and would wish to behold your ocean quiet.” “ They are not poets, sir: the glori- ous hever-changing expression of the great countenance of Nature is not seen by them. I should consider myself unworthy of my hart, if I could not bear a little privation of cold or ’eat for its sake. And besides, sir, whatever their hardships may be, such a sight hamply repays me; for, although my private sorrows may be (has they are) tremendous, I never can look abroad upon the green hearth and hawful sea, without in a meas- 38 ure forgetting my personal woes and wrongs; for what right has a poor creature like me to think of his affairs in the presence of such a spectacle as this ? myself; I bow my ’ead and am quiet. When I set myself to examining hart, sir (by which I mean nature), I don’t dare to think of anything else.” “You worship a very charming and consoling mistress,” answered Mr. Brandon, with a supercilious air, lighting and beginning to smoke a cigar; “ your enthusiasm does you credit.” “Tf you have another,” said Andrea Fitch, “I should like to smoke one, for you seem to have a real feeling about hart, and I was a getting so deucedly cold here, that really there was scarcely any bearing of it.” “The cold is very severe,” replied Mr. Brandon. " “No, no, it’s not the weather, sir!”? said Mr. Fitch; “it’s here, sir, here”’ (pointing to the left side of his waistcoat. ) “What! you, too, have had sor- rows?” “Sorrows, sir! hagonies, — hago- nies, which I have never unfolded to any mortal! I have hendured hal- most heverything. Poverty, sir, ’unger, hobloquy, ’opeless love! but for my hart, sir, I should be the most miserable wretch in the world !” And herewith Mr. Fitch began to pour forth into Mr. Brandon’s ears the history of some of those sorrows under which he labored, and which he communicated to every single per- son who would listen to him. Mr. Brandon was greatly amused by Fitch’s prattle, and the latter told him under what privations he had studied his art: how he had starved for three years in Paris and Rome, while laboring at his profession: how meanly jealous the Royal Academy was which would never exhibit a single one of his pictures; how he had been driven from the Heternal City by the attentions of an immense A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. i | I can’t, sir; I feel ashamed of fat Mrs. Carrickfergus, who absolute- ly proposed marriage to him; and how he was at this moment (a fact of which Mr. Brandon was already quite aware) madly and desperately in love with one of the most beautiful maid- ens in this world. For Fitch, having’ a mistress to his heart’s desire, was. boiling with impatience to have a confidant; what, indeed, would be the joy of love, if one were not allowed to speak of one’s feelings toa friend who could know how to sym- pathize with them? Fitch was sure Brandon did, because Brandon was the very first person with whom the) painter had talked since he had come to the resolution recorded in’ the last chapter. | ‘T hope she is as rich as that un- lucky Mrs. Carrickfergus, whom you treated so cruelly?” said the confi-, dant, affecting entire ignorance. “ Rich, sir? no, I thank Heaven, she has not a penny!” said Fitch. “IT presume, then, you are yourself. independent,” said Brandon, smiling; “for in the marriage state, one or the other of the parties concerned should bring a portion of the filthy lucre ?” “ Haven’t I my profession, sir?” said Fitch, majestically, having de- clared five minutes before that he starved in his profession. “Do you suppose a painter gets nothing? Have n’t I horders from the first peo- ple in Europe ? — commissions, sir, to hexecute “istory- pieces, battle- pieces, haltar-pieces ?”” & ‘“Masterpieces, I am sure,” said. Brandon, bowing politely; “for a gentleman of your astonishing genius can do no other.” a The delighted artist received this. compliment with many blushes, and vowed and protested that his perform- ances were not really worthy of such high praise ; but he fancied Mr. Bran- don a great connoisseur, nevertheless, and unburdened his mind to him in. manner still more open. Fitch’ sketch was by this time finished ; a putting his drawing-implements t¢ gether, he rose, and the gentlemen Ge | ] ‘walked away. The sketch was hugely ‘admired by Mr. Brandon, and when ‘they came home, Fitch, culling it dex- ‘terously out of his book, presented it ‘in a neat speech to his friend, “ the ‘gifted hamateur.”’ '~ “The gifted hamateur ”’ received the ‘drawing with a profusion of thanks, ‘and so much did he value it, that he ‘had actually torn off a piece to light ‘a cigar with, when he saw that words ‘were written on the other side of the ‘paper, and deciphered the follow- ae: — “SONG OF THE VIOLET. ' © 4 bumble flower long time I pined, f Upon the solitary plain. And trembled at the angry wind, I And shrunk before the bitter rain. _ And, oh! ’t was in a blessed hour, A passing wanderer chanced to see And, pitying the lonely flower, To stoop and gather me. J fear no more the tempest rude, | On dreary heath no more I pine, ' But left my cheerless solitude, To deck the breast of Caroline. Alas! our days are brief at best, Nor long I fear will mine endure, Though sheltered here upon a breast So gentle and so pure, _ “Tt draws the fragrance from my leaves, It robs me of my sweetest breath ; __ And every time it falls and heaves, It warns me of my coming death. But one I know would glad forego All joys of life to be as [ ; An hour to rest on that sweet breast, And then, contented, die. “ ANDREA.” ——<$——<—— __ When Mr. Brandon had finished ‘the perusal of these verses, he laid ‘them down with an air of considera- ‘ble vexation. “Egad!” said he, “this fellow, fool as he is, is not so ‘great a fool as he seems; and if he ‘goes on this way, may finish by turn- ing the girl’s head. They can’t re- ‘sist a man if he but presses hard ‘enough, — I know they can’t!” ‘And here Mr. Brandon mused over his various experience, which con- firmed his observation, that be a man ‘ever so silly, a gentlewoman will ‘yield to him out of sheer weariness. And he thought of several cases in A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 39 which, by the persevering application of copies of verses, young ladies had been brought from dislike to suffer- ance of a man, from sufferance to partiality, and from partiality to St. George’s, Hanover Square. “A ruf- fian who murders his /h’s to carry off such a delicate little creature as that!” cried he, in a transport: ‘it shall never be if I can prevent it!” He thought Caroline more and more beautiful every instant, and was him- self by this time almost as much in love with her as Fitch himself. Mr. Brandon, then, saw Fitch de- part in Swigby’s carriage with no or- dinary feelings of pleasure. Miss Caroline was not with them. “Now is my time!” thought Brandon; and ringing the bell, he inquired with some anxiety, from Becky, where Miss Caroline was? It must be con- fessed that mistress and maid were at their usual occupation, working and reading novels in the back parlor. Poor Carry! what other pleasure had she 4 She had not gone through many pages, or Becky advanced man stitches in the darning of that table- cloth which the good housewife, Mrs. Gann, had confided to her charge, when an humble knock was heard at the door of the sitting-room, that caused the blushing Caroline to trem- ble and drop her book, as Miss Lydia Languish does in the play. . Mr. George Brandon entered with a very demure air. He held in his hand a black satin neck-scarf, of which a part had come to be broken. He could not wear it in its present con- dition, that was evident; but Miss Caroline was blushing and trembling a great deal too much to suspect that this wicked Brandon had himself torn his own scarf with his own hands one moment. before he entered the room. I don’t know whether Becky had any suspicions of this fact, or whether it was only the ordinary roguish look which she had when anything pleased her, that now lighted up her eyes and caused her mouth to expand smil. 40 A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. ingly, and her fat red checks to gather | little fingers were occupied in roe up into wrinkles. “T have had asad misfortune,”’ said he, ‘and should be very much obliged indeed to Miss Caroline to repair it.” (Caroline was said with a kind of tender hesitation that caused the young woman, so named, to blush more thanever.) ‘ It is the only stock I have in the world, and I can’t go barenecked into the street; can I, Mrs. Bee} cys @”? “No, sure,” said Becky. “Not unless I was a celebrated painter, like Mr. Fitch,’ added Mr. Brandon, witha smile, which was reflected speedily upon the face of the lady whom he wished to interest. “Those great geniuses,” he added, “may do anything.” “For,” says. Becky, “hee’s got enough beard on hees faze to keep hees neck warm!” At whichremar k, though Miss Caroline very properly said, “ For shame, Becky !”’ Mr. Bran- don was so convulsed with laughter, that he fairly fell down upon the sofa on which Miss Caroline was seated. How she startled and trembled, as he flung his arm upon the back of the couch! Mr. Brandon did not attempt to apologize for what was an act of considerable impertinence, but con- tinued mercilessly to make many more jokes concerning poor Fitch, which were so cleverly Suited to the compre- hension of the maid and the young mistress, as to elicit a great number of roars of laughter from | the one, and to cause the other to smile in spite of herself. Indeed, Brandon had gained a vast reputation with Becky in his morning colloquies with her, and she was ready to laugh at any single word which it pleased him to utter. How many of his good things had _ this honest scullion earried down stairs to Caroline? and how pitilessly had she contrived to estropier them in their passage from the drawing-room to the kitchen ? Well, then, while Mr. Brandon ‘was a going on” as Becky said, Car- Cie had taken his stock, and her | ducing young bachelors. pairing the damage he had done to it. Was it clumsiness on her part?” Certain it is that the rent took several ~ minutes to repair: of them the man-_ geur de cours did not fail to profit, : conversing in an easy, kindly, confi- — dential way, which set our fluttering heroine speedily at rest, and enabled her to reply to his continual queries, — addressed with much adroitness and an air of fraternal interest, by a number of those pretty little timid — whispering yeses and noes, and those gentle, quick looks of the eyes, where- with young and modest maidens are wont to reply to the questions of Se Dear yeses — and noes, how beautiful you are when gently whispered by pretty lips!— glances of quick innocent eyes, how charming are you !— and how charm- — ing the soft blush that steals over the _ cheek towards which the dark lashes are drawing the blue-veined evolaay down. And here let the writer of this — solemnly declare, upon his veracity, that he means nothing but what is right and moral. But look, I pray yeaah at an innocent, bashful eirl of sixteen: if she be but eood, she must be pret She is a woman now, but a girl still. How delightful all her ways are! How exquisite her instinctive grace! All the arts of all the Cleopatras are not so captivating as her nature. Who can a resist her confiding simplicity, or fail, to be touched and “conquered by her gentle appeal to protection ? oS All this Mr. Brandon saw and felt as many a gentleman educated in this _ school will. It is not because a man is a rascal himself, that he cannot ap- | preciate viriue and purity very keenly ; and our hero did feel for this simple, tender, artless creature, a real respec and sympathy, — a sy mpathy so fres and delicious, that he was but too glad to yield to it and indulge in it, and which he mistook, probably, for areal love of virtue, anda return to the days of his innocence. 4 A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. ind debauch were stale for the mo- nent, and this pretty virtue new. It vas only because your cloyed appetite vas long unused to this simple meat hat you felt so keen a relish for it ; ind i thought of you only the last essed Saturday, at Mr. Lovegrove’s, ‘West India Tavern,” Blackwall, vhere a company of fifteen epicures, vho had scorned the turtle, pooh- i0ohed the punch, and sent away the vhitebait, did suddenly and simulta- ‘eously make a rush upon —a dish of eans and bacon. And if the assiduous eader of novels will think upon some f the most celebrated works of that pecies, which have lately appeared in his and other countries, he will find, midst much debauch of sentiment nd enervating dissipation of intellect, hat the writers have from time to ime a returning appetite for innocence nd freshness, and indulge us with ccasional repasts of beans and bacon. Tow long Mr. Brandon remained by iss Caroline’s side I have no means f judging ; it is probable, however, tat he stayed a much longer time an was necessary for the mending f his black satin stock. I believe, ideed, that he read to the ladies a reat part of the “‘ Mysteries of Udol- ho,” over which they were engaged ; nd interspersed his reading with Aany remarks of his own, both tender ‘nd satirical. Whether he was in her ompany half an hour or four hours, ais is certain, that the time slipped way very swiftly with poor Caroline ; id when a carriage drove up to the dor, and shrill voices were heard cry- ig “ Becky!” “Carry!” and Rebec- 1 the maid, starting up, cried, “ Lor’, ore ’s missus!” and Brandon jumped ther suddenly off the sofa, and fled 0 the stairs, —when all these events jk place, I know Caroline felt very 1d, indeed, and opened the door for vf parents with a very heavy heart. Swighy helped Miss Linda off the Ox with excessive tenderness. Papa as bustling and roaring in high vod-humor, and called for “ hot ater and tumblers immediately.” 41 Mrs. Gann was gracious; and Miss Bell sulky, as she had good reason to be, for she insisted upon taking the front seat in the carriage before her sister, and had lost a husband by that very piece of obstinacy. Mr. Fitch, as he entered, bestowed upon Caroline a heavy sigh and deep stare, and silently ascended to his own apartment. He was lost in thought. The fact is, he was trying to remember some verses regarding a violet, which he had made five years before, and which he had somehow lost from among his papers. So he went up stairs, muttering, “A humble flower long since I pined Upon a solitary plain —” —¢— CHAPTER VI. DESCRIBES A SHABBY GENTEEL MAR- RIAGE, AND MORE LOVE-MAKING. Ir will not be necessary to describe the particulars of the festivities which took place on the occasion of Mr. Swigby’s marriage to Miss Macarty. The happy pair went off in a post- chaise and four to the bridegroom’s country-seat, accompanied by the bride’s blushing sister; and when the first week of their matrimonial bliss was ended, that worthy woman, Mrs. Gann, with her excellent husband, went to visit the young couple. Miss Caroline was left, therefore, sole mis- tress of the house, and received especial cautions from her mamma as to pru- dence, economy, the proper manage- ment of the lodgers’ bills, and the necessity of staying at home. Considering that one of the gentle- men remaining in the house was a declared lover of Miss Caroline, I think it is a little surprising that her mother should leave her unprotected ; but in this matter the poor are not so particular as the rich; and so this young lady was consigned to: the guardianship of her own innocence, and the lodgers’ loyalty: nor was there any reason why Mrs. Gann 42 should doubt the latter. As for Mr. Fitch, he would have far preferred to be torn to pieces by ten thousand wild horses, rather than to offer to the young woman any unkindness or insult; and how was Mrs. Gann to suppose that her other lodger was a whit less loyal? that he had any par fality for a person of whom he al- ways spoke as a mean, insignificant little baby? So, without any mis- givings, and ina one-horse tly with Mr. Gann by her side, with a bran new green coat and gilt buttons, Juliana Gann went forth to visit her beloved child, and console her in her married state. Ani here, were I allowed to occupy the reader with extraneous matters, I could give a very curious and touch- ing picture of the Swigby ménaye. Mrs. 8., 1 am very sorry to say, quarrelled with her husband on_ the third day after their marriage, — and for what, pr’thee?, Why, because he would smoke, and no gentleman ought to smoke. ly resigned his pipe, and with it one of the quietest, happiest, kindest com- panions of his solitude. He was a different man after this; his pipe was asalimbofhis body. Having on Tues- day conquered the pipe, Mrs. Swigby on Thursday did battle with her hus- band’s rum-and-water, a drink of an odious smell, as she very properly observed ; and the smell was doubly odious, now that the tobacco-smoke no longer perfumed the parlor breeze, and counteracted the odors of the juice of West India sugai-canes. On Thurs- day, then, Mr. Swigby and rum held out pretty bravely. . S. attacked the punch with some grin shooting, and fierce charges of vulgarity ; to which S. replied, by opening the battery of oaths (chiefly directed to his own eyes, however), and loud pro- testations that he would never surren- der. In three days more, however, the rum-and-water was gone. Mr. Swigby, defeated and prostrate, had given up that stronghold; his young wife and sister were triumphant; and A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. Swizby, therefore, patient- - his poor mother, who occupied her son’s house, and had till now taken her place at the head of his table, saw that her empire was forever lost, and was preparing suddenly to succumb to the imperious claims of the mista of the mansion. All this, I say, I wish [had the liber. ty to describe at large, as also to narrate the arrival of majestic Mrs. Gann; and a battle-royal which speedily took place between the two worthy moth: ers-in-law. Noble is the hatred of ladies who stand in this relation to| each other; each sees what injury the other is inflicting upon her darling child; éach mistrusts, detests, and to! her offspring privily ‘abuses the arts and crimes of the other. A house with a wife is often warm enough; a house with a wife and her mother is rather warmer than any spot on the known globe; a house with two mothers-in-law is so excessively hot, that it can be likened to no place on earth at all, but one must go lower for a simile. Think of a wife who despises her husband, and_ teaches him manners ; of an ‘elegant sister, who joins in rallying him (this was almost the only point of union be- teen Bella and Linda now, —for since the marriage, Linda hated her sister consumedly). ‘Think, I say, of two mothers - in - law, — one, large, pompous, and atrociously genteel, — another coarse and shrill, determined not to have her son put upon, — and you may see what a happy fellow Joe Swigby was, and into what a piece of good luck he had fallen. ‘3 What would have become of han without his father-in-law ? Indeed one shudders to think; but the conse \ quence of that gentleman’s arrival and intervention was speedily this :— About four o’clock, when the ding was removed, and the _quarrelling used commonly to set in, the two gents took their hats, and sallied out ; and as one has found when the body is inflamed that the application of stringent medicine may cause the to disappear for a while, only to im elsewhere with greater force ; in ke manner, Mrs. Swigby’s sudden ‘etory over the pipe and rum-and- jater, although it had caused a tem- rary cessation of the evil of which ae complained, was quite unable to op it altogether; it disappeared om one spot only to rage with more ;olence elsewhere. In Swigby’s par- (r, tum and tobacco odors rose no ‘ore (except, indeed, when Mrs. ann would partake of the former as ‘restorative); but if you could have yen the ‘‘ Half-Moon and Snuffers ” ywn the village ; if you could have ‘en the good dry skittle-ground which iretched at the back of that inn, and -e window of the back-parlor which uperintended that skittle-ground; if ‘e hour at which you beheld these yjects was evening, what time the ustics from their toils released trolled | ‘e stout ball amidst the rattling pins | ‘he oaken pins that standing in the jn did cast long shadows on the olden sward) ; if you had remarked this, I say, you would have also ‘en in the back parlor a tallow can- -e twinkling in the shade, and stand- ‘g on a little greasy table. Upon /e greasy table was a pewter porter- at and to the left a teaspoon glitter- vese two delicacies was a pipe of ‘bacco; and behind the pipes sat ‘xr. Gann and Mr. Swigby, who now vade the “ Half-Moon and Snuffers ” ieir usual place of resort, and forgot yeir married cares. \Inspite of all our promises of brevity, ese things have taken some space to yscribe; and the reader must also now that some short interval elapsed 2 they occurred. A month at least issed away before Mr. Swigby had -eidedly taken up his position at the itle inn: all this time, Gann was aying with his son-in-law, at the “tter’s most earnest request; and rs. Gann remained under the same ‘of at her own desire. Not the hints her daughter, nor the broad ques- oms of the dowager Mrs. Swigby, ‘uld induce honest Mrs. Gann to ‘gin a glass of gin; close to eachof. A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. 43 stir from her quarters. She had had her lodgers’ money in advance, as was the worthy woman’s custom ; she knew Margate in April was dreadfully dull, and she determined to enjoy the country until the jovial town season arrived. The Canter- bury coachman, whom Gann knew, and who passed through the village, used to take her cargo of novels to and fro; and the old lady made her- self as happy as circumstances would allow. Should anything of im- portance occur during her mamma’s absence, Caroline was to make use of the same conveyance, and inform Mrs. Gann in a letter. Miss Caroline looked at her papa and mamma, as the vehicle which wus to bear them to the newly mar- ried couple moved up the street ; but, strange to say, she did not feel that’ heaviness of heart which she before had experienced when forbidden to share the festivities of her family, but was on this occasion more happy than any one of them,—so happy, that the young woman felt quite ashamed of herself; and Becky was fain to re- mark how her mistress’s cheek flushed, and her eyes sparkled (and turned perpetually to the door), and her whole little frame was in a flutter. “T wonder if he will come,” said the little heart; and the eyes turned and looked at that well-known sofa- corner, where He had been placed a fortnight before. He looked exactly like Lord Byron, that he did, with his pale brow, and his slim bare neck ; only not half so wicked —no, no. She was sure that her — her Mr. B , her Bran , her George, was as good as he was beautiful. Don’t let us be angry with her for calling him George ; the girl was bred in an humble sentimental school ; she did not know enough of society to be squeamish; she never thought that she could be his really, and gave way in the silence of her fancy to the full extent of her affection for him. She had not looked at the door above twenty-five times,— thatis to say, her 44 parents had not quitted the house ten minutes, — when, sure enough, the latch did rattle, the door opened, and, with a faint blush on his cheek, divine Georgeentered Hewas going to make some excuse, as on the former occasion ; but he looked first into Caroline’s face, which was beaming with joy and smiles ; and the little thing, in return, regarded him, and — made room*for him on the sofa. O sweet instinct of love! Brandon had no need of excuses, but sat down, and talked away as easi- ly, happily, and confidentially, and nei- ther took any note of time. Andrea Fitch (the sly dog!) witnessed the Gann departure with feelings of ex- ultation, and had laid some deen plans of his own with regard to Miss Caroline. So strong was his confi- dence in his friend on the first floor, that Andrea actually descended to those apartments, on his way to Mrs. Gann’s parlor, in order to consult Mr. Brandon, and make known to him his plan of operations. It would have made your heart break, or, at the very least, your sides ache, to behold the countenance of poor Mr. Fitch, as he thrust his bearded head in at the door of the parlor. There was Brandon lolling on the sofa, at his ease; Becky in full good-humor; and Caroline, al- ways absurdly inclined to blush, blushing at Fitch’s appearance more than ever! She could not help look- ing from him slyly and gently into the face of Mr. Brandon. That gen- tleman saw the look, and did not fail to interpret it. It was a confes- sion of love,— an appeal for protec- tion. his heir. If somebody or some jody of savans would write the 125 history of the harm that has been done in the world by people who be- lieve themselves to be virtuous, what a queer, edifying book it would be, and how poor oppressed rogues might look* up! Who burns the Protes- tants?— the virtuous Catholics, to be sure. Who roasts the Catholics ? the virtuous Reformers. Who thinks J am a dangerous character, and avoids me at the club ¢ — the virtuous Squaretoes.. Who scorns ? who per- secutes ¢ who does n’t forgive ? — the virtuous Mrs. Grundy. She remem- bers her neighbor’s peccadilloes to the third and fourth generation ; and if she finds a certain man fallen in her path, gathers up her affrighted garments with a shriek, for fear the muddy bleeding wretch should ¢on- taminate her, and passes on. I do not seek to create even sur- prises in this modest history, or con- descend to keep candid readers in suspense about many matters which might possibly interest them. For instance, the matter of love has in- terested novel-readers for hundreds of years past, and doubtless will con- tinue so to interest them. Almost all young people read love books and histories with eagerness, as oldsters read books of medicines, and what- ever it is,—heart complaint, gout, liver, palsy, — cry, “ Exactly so, pre- cisely my case!” Phil’s first love- affair, to which we are now coming, was a false start. I own it at once. And in this commencement of his career I believe he was not more or less fortunate than many and many a man and woman in this world. Sup- pose the course of true love always did run smooth, and everybody mar- ried his or her first love. Ah! what would marriage be ? A generous young fellow comes to market with a heart ready to leap out of his waistcoat, forever thump- ing and throbbing, and so wild that he can’t have any rest till he has dis- posed of it. What wonder if he falls® upon a wily merchant in Vanity Fair, and barters his all for a stale 126 bauble not worth sixpence? Phil chose to fall in love with his cousin ; and I warn you that nothing will come of that passion, except the in- fluence which it had upon the young man’s character. Though my wife did not love the Twysdens, she loves sentiment, she loves love-affairs, — all women do. Poor Phil used to bore me after dinner with endless rodomontades about his passion and his charmer; but my wife was never tired of listening. “You are a self- ish, heartless, blasé man of the world, you are,” he wouldsay. “ Your own immense and undeserved good fortune in the matrimonial lottery has ren- dered you hard, cold, crass, indifferent. You have been asleep, sir, twice to- night, whilst I was talking. I will go up and tell madam everything. She has a heart.” And presently, engaged with my book or my after- dinner doze, I would hear Phil striding and creaking overhead, and plunging energetic pokers in the drawing-room fire. Thirty thousand pounds to begin with; a third part of that sum com- ‘ing to the lady from her mother ; all the doctor’s savings and property ; here certainly was enough in posses- sion and expectation to satisfy many young couples ; and as Phil is twenty- two, and Agnes (must I own it?) twen- ty-five, and as she has consented to listen to the warm outpourings of the eloquent and passionate youth, and exchange for his fresh, new-minted, golden sovereign heart, that used lit- tle threepenny-piece, her own, — why should they not marry at once, and so let us have an end of them and this history? They have plenty of money to pay the parson and the post-chaise ; they may drive off to the country, and live on their means, and Jead an existence so humdrum and tolerably happy that Phil may grow quite too fat, lazy, and unfit for his present post of hero of a novel. But ® stay — there are obstacles; coy, re- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. wild, reckless, blundering boy, tree ing upon everybody’s dress-skir smashing the little Dresden om ments and the pretty little decoro gimcracks of society, life, conver tion; —but there is time yet. 4 you so very sure about that mone of his mother’s? and how is it that his father, the Doctor, has not settled accounts with him yet? C”est louche A family of high position and princi ple must look to have the money mat- ters in perfect order, before they ¢on sion a darling accustomed to every luxury to the guardianship of a con- fessedly wild and eccentric, though generous and amiable young man. Besides —ah! besides — besides! coo! Jes horrible, 7 ae It’s cruel, Arthur! It’s a sham judge a woman, or Christian peo so! Oh! my loves! my blessi would I sell you?”’ says this y mother, clutching a little bel befurbelowed being to her heart, int tine, squalling, with blue shou ribbons, a mottled little arm tha just been vaccinated, and the swe red shoes. ‘ Would I sell y says mamma. Little Arty, I squalls; and little Nelly look from her bricks with a won whimpering expression. Well, I am ashamed to say the “besides” is; but the fact that young Woolcomb of the Guards Green, who has inher immense West India property, we will say, just a teaspoonf that dark blood which makes a naturally partial to blonde bea’ has cast his opal eyes very Ws upon the golden-haired Agnes of has danced with her not a little when Mrs. Twysden’s barou pears by the Serpentine, you may unfrequently see a pair of the little yellow kid gloves just pl with the reins, a pair of the pi little boots just touching the st a magnificent horse dancing tittupping, and tossing, and pet ing the most graceful caracole luctant, amorous delays. After all, Philip is a dear, brave, handsome, gambadoes, and on the magm THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. horse a neat little man with a blazing | red flower in his bosom, and glancing opal eyes, and a dark complexion, and hair so very black and curly, that really almost think in some of the Southern States of America he would be likely to meet with rude- ness in a railway-car. _ But in England we know better. In England Grenville Woolcomb is a man and a brother. Half of Arrow- root Island, they say, belongs to him; besides Mangrove Hall, in Hertford- shire ; ever so much property in other epunties, and that fine house in Berkeley Square. He is called the Black Prince behind the scenes of many theatres: ladies nod at him from those broughams which, you anderstand, need not be particula- cized. The idea of his immense tiches is confirmed by the known fact shat he is a stingy Black Prince, and most averse to parting with his money except for his own adornment oy amusement. When he receives at iis country-house, his entertainments are, however, splendid. He has been lattered, followed, caressed all his Afe, and allowed by a fond mother to jaye his own way; and as this has jever Jed him to learning, it must be »wned that his literary acquirements ire small, and his writing defective.’ Sutin the management of his pecu- Mary affairs he is very keen and cley- . His horses cost him less than ‘my young man’s in England who is ‘0 well mounted. No dealer has ever yeen known to get the better of him; ‘nd, though he is certainly close bout money, when his wishes have ery keenly prompted him, no sum vas been known to stand in his way. _ Witness the purchase of the ; out never mind scandal. Let by- vones be bygones. A young doctor’s on, with a thousand a year for a for- ‘ane, may be considered a catch in ome circles, but not, vous concevez, in i upper regions of society. And ar woman, — dear, angelic, highly -complished, respectable woman, — oes she not know how to pardon | | i 127 many failings in our sex? Age? psha! She will crown my bare old poll with the roses of her youth. Complexion? What contrast ig sweeter and more touching than Des- demona’s golden ringlets on swart Othello’s shoulder? A past life of selfishness and bad company ? Come out from among the swine, my prodi- gal, and I will purify thee! This is what is called cynicism, you know. Then I suppose my wife is a cynic, who clutches her children to her pure heart, and prays gracious Heaven to guard them from selfish- ness, from worldliness, from heartless- ness, from wicked greed. ——4—— CHAPTER IX. CONTAINS ONE RIDDLE WHICH IS SOLVED, AND PERHAPS SOME MORE. Mine is a modest muse, and as the period of the story arrives when a description of love-making is justly due, my Mnemosyne turns away from the young couple, drops a little curtain over the embrasure where they are whispering, heaves a sigh from her elderly bosom, and lays a finger on her lip. Ah, Mnemosyne dear! We will not be spies on the young people. We will not scold them. We won’t talk about their doings much. When we were young, we too, perhaps, were taken in under Love’s tent; we have eaten of his salt : and partaken of his bitter, his deli- cious bread. Now we are padding the hoof lonely in the wilderness, we will not abuse our host, will we? We will couch under the stars, and think fondly of old times, and to-morrow resume the staff and the journey. And yet, if a novelist may chronicle any passion, its flames, its raptures, its whispers, its assignations, its son- nets, its quarrels, sulks, reconcilia- tions, and so on, the history of such a love as this first of Phil’s may be excusable in print, because I don’t be- lieve it was a real love at all, only a 128 little brief delusion of the senses, from which I give you warning that our hero will recover before many chap- ters are over. What! my brave boy, shall we give your heart away for good and all, for better or for worse, tiil death do you part? What! my Corydon and sighing swain, shall we irrevocably bestow you upon Phillis, who, all the time you are piping and paying court to her, has Melibceus in the cupboard, and ready to be pro- duced should he prove to be a more eligible shepherd than t’other ? IJ am not such a savage towards my readers or hero, as fo make them undergo the misery of such a marriage. Philip was very little of a club or society man. He seldom or ever en- tered the ‘‘ Megatherium,” or when there stared and scowled round him savagely, and laughed strangely at the ways of the inhabitants. He made but a clumsy figure in the world, though in person handsome, active, and proper enough; but he would for- ever put his great foot through the World’s flounced skirts, and she would stare, and cry out and hate him. He was the last man who was aware of the Woolcomb flirtation, when hundreds of people, I dare say, were simpering over it. “ Who is that little man who comes to your house, and whom I sometimes see in the Park, aunt, —that little man with the very white gloves and the very tawny complexion?” asks Philip. “That is Mr. Woolcomb, of the Life Guards Green,” aunt remembers. * An officer is he?” says Philip, turning round to the girls. ‘ I should have thought he would have done better for the turban and cymbals.” And he laughs and thinks he has said a very clever thing. O, those good things about people and against people! Never, my dear young friend, say them to anybody, — not to a stranger, for he will go away and tell; not to the mistress of your affec- tions, for you may quarrel with her, and then she will tell; not to your THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. son, for the artless child will return to | his school-fellows and say: ‘Papa says Mr. Blenkinsop isa muff.” My child, or what not, praise everybody: smile on everybody: and everybody will. smile on you in return, a sham smile, and hold you out a sham hand; and, in a word, esteem you as you de- serve. No. I think you and I will take the ups and the downs, the roughs | and the smooths of this daily exist- ence and conversation. We will! praise those whom we like, though, nobody repeat our kind sayings ; and say our say about those whom we dis-. like, though we are pretty sure our words will be carried by tale-bearers, and increased and multiplied, and re- membered long after we have forgot-. ten them. We drop a little stone,— alittle stone that is swallowed up and. disappears, but the whole pond is set. in commotion, and ripples in con-. tinually widening circles long after the original little stone has popped down and is out of sight. Don’t) your speeches of ten years ago— maimed, distorted, bloated it may be out of all recognition — come strange-, ly back to their author @ . Phil, five minutes after he | made the joke, so entirely forgot his, saying about the Black Prince and es a the cymbals, that, when Captain Woolcomb scowled at him with his fiercest eyes, young Firmin thought) that this was the natural expression of the captain’s swarthy countenance, and gave himself no further trouble regarding it. “By George! sir,’ said Phil afterwards, speaking of this officer, ‘I remarked that he grinned, and chattered and showed his teeth} and remembering it was the nature of such baboons to chatter and grin, had no idea that this chimpanzee was more angry with me than with any other gentleman. You see, Pen, I am a white-skinned man; I am pronounced even red-whiskered by the ill-natured. It is not the prettiest color. But I had no idea that I was to have a mulatto for a rival. I am not so rich, certainly, but I hay aS THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. enough. I can read and spell correct- ly, and write with tolerable fluency. could not, you know, could I, reason- ably suppose that I need fear compe- tition, and that the black horse would beat the bay one? Shall I tell you what she used to say to me? There isno kissing and telling, mind you. No, by George. Virtue and prudence were forever on her lips! She warbled little sermons to me ;- hinted gently that I should see to safe invest- ments of my property, and that no man, not even a father, should be the sole and uncontrolled guardian of it. She asked me, sir, scores and scores of little sweet, timid, innocent questions about the Doctor’s property, and how much did I think it was, and how had ne laidit out? What virtuous parents that angel had! How they brought der up, and educated her dear blue eyes to themain chance! She knows she price of housekeeping, and the value of railway shares; she invests sapital for herself in this world and she next. She may n’t do right al- vays, but wrong? O fie, never! I say, Pen, an undeveloped angel with vings folded under her dress; not derhaps your mighty, snow-white, lashing pinions that spread out and oar up to the highest stars, but a pair of good, serviceable drab dove-colored vings, that will support her gently ind equably just over our heads, and ‘1elp to drop her softly when she con- lescends upon us. When I think, sir, hat IT might have been married to a ‘enteel angel and am single still, — ‘h! it ’s despair, it ’s despair ! ” But Philip’s little story of disap- ‘ointed hopes and bootless passion ust be told in terms less acrimonious ‘nd unfair than the gentleman would ‘Se, naturally of a sanguine, swag- ering talk, prone to exaggerate his ‘Wn disappointments, and call out, oar, —I dare say swear,—if his wn corn was trodden upon, as loud- 7as some men who may have a leg aken off. - This I ean vouch for Miss Twys- ‘en, Mrs, * Schigeny and all the rest * 129 of the family: — that if they, what you call, jilted Philip, they did so without the slightest hesitation or no- tion that they were doing a dirty ac- tion. Their actions never were dirty or mean ; they were necessary, I tell you, and calmly proper. They ate cheese-parings with graceful silence; they cribbed from board-wages ; they turned hungry servants out of doors ; they remitted no chance in their own favor; they slept gracefully under scanty coverlids; they lighted nig- gard fires; they locked the caddy with the closest lock, and served the teapot with the smallest and least fre- quent spoon. But you don’t suppose they thought they were mean, or that they did wrong? Ah! it is admira- ble to think of many, many, ever so many respectable families of your ac- quaintance, and mine, my dear friend, and how they meet together and humbug each other! “My dear, I have cribbed half an inch of plush out of James’s small-clothes.” “ My love, I have saved a halfpenny out of Mary’s beer. Is n’t it time to dress for the duchess’s; and don’t you think John might wear that livery of Thomas’s, who only had it a year, and died of the small-pox? It’s a little tight for him, to be sure, but,” &¢c. What is this? I profess to be an impartial chronicler of poor Phil’s fortunes, misfortunes, friendships, and what-nots, and am getting almost as angry with these Twysdens as Philip ever was himself. “ Well, I am not mortally angry with poor Traviata tramping the pavement, with the gas-lamp flaring on her poor painted smile, else my indignant virtue and squeamish mod- esty would never walk Piccadilly or get the air. But Lais, quite moral, and very neatly, primly, and strait- ly laced ;— Phryne, not the least dishevelled, but with a fixature for her hair, and the best stays, fastened by mamma ; — your High Church or Evangelical Aspasia, the model of all proprieties, and owner of all vir- gin-purity blooms, ready to sell her I 130 cheek to the oldest old fogy who has money and a title ; — these are the Unfortunates, my dear brother and sister sinners, whom I should like to see repentant and specially trounced first. Why, some of these are put into reformatories in Grosvenor Square. They wear a prison dress of dia- monds and Chantilly lace. Their parents cry, and thank Heaven as they sell them; and all sorts of revered bishops, clergy, relations, dowagers, sign the book, and ratify the ceremony. Come! let us call a midnight meeting of those who have been sold in marriage, I say, and what a respectable, what a genteel, what a fashionable, what a brilliant, what an imposing, what a multitudi- | p nous assembly we will have; and where ’s the room in all Babylon big enough to hold them ? Look into that grave, solemn, din- gy, somewhat naked, but elegant drawing-room in Beaunash Street, and with a little fanciful opera-glass you may see a pretty little group or two engaged at different periods of the day. It is after lunch, and before Rotten Row ride time (this story, you know, relates to a period ever so re- mote, and long before folks thought of riding in the Park in the forenoon). After lunch, and before Rotten Row time, saunters into the drawing-room a fair-haired young fellow with large feet and chest, careless of gloves, with auburn whiskers blowing over a loose collar, and — must I confess it ?—a most undeniable odor of cigars about his person. He breaks out re- garding the debate of the previous night, or the pamphlet of yesterday, or the poem of the day previous, or the scandal of the week before, or up- on the street-sweeper at the corner, or the Italian and monkey before the Park, — upon whatever, in a word, moves his mind for the moment. If Philip has had a bad dinner yester- day (and happens to remember it), he growls, grumbles, nay, 1 dare say, cuses the most blasphemous language ‘against the cook, against the waiters, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. against the steward, against the com- mittee, against the whole society of the club where he has been dining. If Philip has met an organ-girl with pretty eyes and a monkey in the street, he has grinned and wondered over the monkey ; he has wagged his head, and sung all the organ’s tunes; he has discovered that the little girlis the most ravishing beauty eyes ever looked on, and that her scoundrelly Savoyard father is most likely an Al pine miscreant who has bartered away his child to a pedler of the beggarly cheesy valleys, who has sold her to a friend qui. fait la traite des hurdigurdies, and has disposed of her in England If he has to discourse on the poem, amphlet, magazine article, — it is written by the greatest genius, or th< greatest numskull, that the worlc now exhibits. He write! A mar who makes fire rhyme with Marire This vale of tears and world which we inhabit does not contain such ar idiot. Or have you seen Dobbins’ poem ? Agnes, mark my words fo it, there is a genius in Dobbins whicl some day will show what I have al ways surmised, what I have alway imagined possible, what I reba ways felt to be more than probable what, by George! I feel to be pertect ly certain, and any man is a humbu, who contradicts it, and a malignan miscreant, and the world is full of fe lows who will never give anothe man credit; and I swear that to rev ognize and feel merit in poetry, pain ing, music, rope-dancing, anything, | the greatest delight and joy of m existence. I say — what was I say ing 4 Aas “ You were saying, Philip, that yo love to recognize the merits of all me whom you see,” says gentle Agne “and I believe you do.” el “Yes!” cries Phil, tossing abor the fair locks. “I think Ido. Thar Heaven, I do. I know fellows wl can do many things better thanId — everything better than I dow»! “© Philip!” sighs the lady. “ But I don’t hate ’em for i THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. “You never hated any one, sir. You are too brave! Can you fancy Philip hating any one, mamma ?” Mamma is writing : “ Mr. and Mrs. ‘TatBot TwYspeEn request the honor of Admiral and Mrs. Davis LockeEr’s company at dinner-on Thursday the so-and-so.” ‘Philip what?” says mamma, looking up from her card. “Philip hating any one! Philip eat- ing any one! Philip! we have a little dinner on the 24th. We shall ask your father to dine. We must not have too many of the family. Come in afterwards, please.” “Yes, aunt,” says downright Phil, TJ “ll come, if you and the girls wish. ‘You know tea is not my line; and I don’t care about dinners, except in my own way, and with —” “And with your own horrid set, sir!” “Well,” says Sultan Philip, flinging himself out on the sofa, and lording ‘on the ottoman, “I like mine ease ‘and mine inn.” _ “Ah, Philip! you grow more self- ish every day. I mean men do,” sighed Agnes. You will suppose mamma. leaves the room at this juncture. She has ‘hat confidence in dear Philip and the Tear girls, that she sometimes does eave the room when Agnes and Phil are together. She will leave REuBeEn, be eldest born, with her daughters : ut my poor dear little younger son of a Joseph, if you suppose she will ‘eave the room and you alone in ‘t,—O my dear Joseph, you may yast jump down the well at once! Mamma, I say, has left the room at ast, bowing with a perfect sweetness ‘md calm grace and gravity; and she 4as slipped down the stairs, scarce nore noisy than the shadow that lants over the faded carpet (oh! the ‘aded shadow, the faded sunshine !)— ‘oamma is gone, I say, to the lower gions, and with perfect good-breed- ng is torturing the butler on his »ottle-rack, —is squeezing the house- seeper in her jam-closet, — is watch- ‘Ng the three cold cutlets shuddering 1o1 in the larder behind the wires, — is blandly glancing at the kitchen-maid until the poor wench fancies the piece of bacon is discovered which she gave to the erossing-sweeper, — and calmly penetrating John until he feels sure his inmost heart is revealed to her, as it throbs within his worsted-laced waistcoat, and she knows about that pawning of master’s old boots (beastly old high-lows !) and — and, in fact, all the most intimate circumstances of his existence. A wretched maid, who has been ironing collars, or what not, gives her mistress a shuddering cour- tesy, and slinks away with her laces ; and meanwhile our girl and boy are prattling in the drawing-room. About what? About everything on which Philip chooses to talk. There is nobody to contradict him but himself, and then his pretty hear- er vows and declares he has not been so very contradictory. He spouts his favorite poems. ‘“ Delightful! Do, Philip, read us some Walter Scott! He is, as you say, the most fresh, the most manly, the most kindly of poetic writers, — not of the first class, cer- tainly. In fact, he Kas written most dreadful bosh, as you call it so drolly ; and so has Wordsworth, though he is one of the greatest of men, and has reached sometimes to the very great- est height and sublimity of poetry ; but now you put it, I must confess he is often an old bore, and I certainly should have gone to sleep during the ‘Excursion, only you read it so nicely. You don’t think the new composers as good as the old ones, and love mamma’s old-fashioned play- ing? Well, Philip, it is delightful, so ladylike, so feminine!” Or, perhaps, Philip has just come from Hyde Park, and says, “ As I passed by Aps- ley House, I saw the Duke come out, with his old blue frock and white trou- sers and clear face. J have seen a pic- ture of him in an old European Mag- azine, which I think I like better than all, — gives me the idea of one of the brightest men in the world. The brave eyes gleam at you out of 132 the picture; and there ’s a smile on the resolute lips, which seems to in- sure triumph. Agnes, Assaye must have been glorious ! ” “ Glorious, Philip!” says Agnes, who had never heard of Assaye before in her life. Arbela, perhaps ; Salamis, Marathon, Agincourt, Blenheim, Bu- saco, — where dear grandpapa was killed, — Waterloo, Armageddon ; but Assaye? Que voulez-vous ? «Think of that ordinarily prudent man, and how greatly he knew how to dare when oceasion came! I should like to have died after winning such a game. He has never done anything so exciting since.” “A game? I thought it was a battle just now,” murmurs Agnes in her mind; but there may be some misunderstanding. ‘Ah, Philip,” she says, “I fear excitement is too much the life of all young men now. When will you be quiet and steady, sir?” “ And go to an office every day, like my uncle and cousin; and read the newspaper for three hours, and trot back and see you.” “Well, sir! that ought not to be such very bad amusement,” says one of the ladies. “ What a clumsy wretch I am! my foot is always trampling on something or somebody!” groans Phil. “You must come to us, and we will teach you to dance, Bruin!” says gentle Agnes, smiling on him. I think when very much agitated, her pulse must have gone up to forty. Her blood must have been a light pink. The heart that beat under that pretty white chest, which she exposed so liberally, may have throbbed_ pret- ty quickly once or twice with waltz- ing, but otherwise never rose or fell beyond its natural gentle undulation. It may have had throbs of grief at a disappointment occasioned by the mil- liner not bringing a dress home; or have felt some little fluttering impulse of youthful passion when it was in short frocks, and Master Grimsby at THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. the dancing-school showed some pref- erence for another young pupil out of the nursery. But feelings, and hopes, and blushes, and passions now? Psha! They pass away like nursery dreams. Now there are only proprieties. What is love, young heart? It is two thousand a year, at the very lowest computation; and, with the present rise in wages and house-rent, that calculation can’t last very long. Love? Attachment? Look at Frank Maythorn, with his vernal blushes, his leafy whiskers, his sunshiny, laughing face, and all the birds of spring carolling in his jolly voice ; and old General Pinwood hob- bling in on his cork leg, with his stars and orders, and leering round the room from under his painted eye- brows. Will my modest nymph go to Maythorn, or to yonder leering Satyr, who totters towards her in his white and rouge? Nonsense. She gives her garland to the old man, to be sure. He is ten times as rich as the young one. And so they went on in Arcadia itself, really. Not in that namby-pamby ballet and idy) world, where they tripped up to each other in rhythm, and talked hexame ters; but in the real downright, no. mistake country, — Arcadia, — where Tityrus, fluting to Amaryllis in the shade, had his pipe very soon pul out when Melibceus (the great gra zier) performed on his melodious, ex quisite, irresistible cowhorn ; ant where Daphne’s mother dresssed he! up with ribbons and drove her t market, and sold her, and swappet her, and bartered her like any othe: lamb in the fair. This one has beet trotted to the market so long noy that she knows the way herself. He baa has been heard for —do not le us count how many seasons. 8 has nibbled out of countless hand frisked in many thousand dance come quite harmless away from good ness knows how many wolves. Al ye lambs and raddled innocents 0 our Arcadia! Ah, old Hwe! Is of your Ladyship this fable i ‘yated? I say it is as old as Cad- ‘mus, and man and mutton kind. © $0, when Philip comes to Beau- mash Street, Agnes listens to him ‘most kindly, sweetly, gently, and af- fectionately. Her pulse goes up very ‘nearly half a beat when the echo of his horse’s heels is heard in the quiet street. It undergoes a corresponding depression when the daily grief of parting is encountered and overcome. Blanche and Agnes don’t love each other very passionately. If I may say as much regarding those two ‘ambkins, they butt at each other, — they quarrel with each other, ~ but they have secrét understandings. During Phil’s visits the girls re- main together, you understand, or mamma is with the young people. female friends may come in to call on Mrs. Twysden, and the matrons whis- ver together, and glance at the cous- ‘ns, and look knowing. “Poor or- shan boy!”” mamma says to a sister ‘aatron. “Iam like a mother to him ince my dear sister died. His own ‘ome is so blank, and ours so merry, O affectionate! There may be inti- ‘lacy, tender regard, the utmost con- ‘dence between cousins, — there may e future and even closer ties between ‘em,—but you understand, dear Mrs. Tatcham, no engagement between tem. He is eager, hot-headed, im- etuous, and imprudent, as we all now. She has not seen the world dough, — is not sure of herself, poor ‘ar child! Therefore every circum- ection, every caution is necessary. ‘here must be no engagement, no ‘ters between them. My darling ‘Snes does not write to ask him to mer without showing the note to Corher father. My dearest girls re- ect themselves.” “Of course, my ‘ar Mrs. Twysden, they are admi- ‘ble, both of them. Bless you, dar- ‘igs! Agnes, you look radiant! ‘b, Rosa, my child, I wish you had ar Blanche’s complexion ! ” “And is n’t it monstrous keeping at poor boy hanging on until Mr. oolecomb has made up his mind : | | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 1388 about coming forward 2” Says dear Mrs. Matcham to her own daughter, as her brougham door closes on the pair. “Here he comes! Here is his cab. Maria Twysden is one of the smartest women in England, — that she is.” “ How odd it is, mamma, that the beau cousin and Captain Woolcomb are always calling, and never call to- gether!” remarks the ingénue. “They might quarrel if they met. They say young Mr. Firmin is very quarrelsome and impetuous!” says mamma. ‘“ But how are they kept apart?” “Chance, my dear! mere chance!” says mamma. And they agree to say it is chance, — and they agree to pre- tend to believe one another. And the girl and the mother know everything about Woolcomb’s property, every- thing about Philip’s property and ex- pectations, everything about all the young men in London, and those coming on. And Mrs. Matcham’s girl fished for Captain Woolcomb last year in Scotland, at Lock-hookey ; and stalked him to Paris; and they went down on their knees to Lady Banbury when they heard of the theatricals at the Cross; and pursued that man about until he is forced to say, “ Confound me! hang me! it ’s too bad of that woman and her daugh- ter, it is now, I give you my honor it is! And all the fellows chaff me! And she took a house in Regent’s Park, opposite our barracks, and asked for her daughter to learn to ride in our school, —I ’m blest if she did n’t, Mrs. Twysden ! and I thought my black mare would have kicked her off one day, —I mean the daugh- ter, — but she stuck on like grim death ; and the fellows call them Mrs. Grim Death and her daughter. Our surgeon called them so, and a doosid rum fellow,—and they chaff me about it, you know, — ever so many of the fellows do, —and J ’m not going to be had in that way by Mrs. Grim Death and her daughter! No, not as I knows, if you please !” 134 - © You are a dreadful man, and you gave her a dreadful name, Captain Woolcomb!” says mamma. “Jt was n’t me. It was the sur- geon, you know, Miss Agnes: a doosid funny and witty fellow, Nixon is, —and sent a thing once to Punch, Nixon did. I heard him make the riddle in Albany Barracks and. it riled Foker so! You ’ve no idea how it riled Foker, for he ’s in it!” “In it?” asks Agnes, with the gentle smile, the candid blue eyes, — the same eyes, expression, lips, that smile and sparkle at Philip. “Here it is! Capital! Took it down. Wrote it into my pocket-book at once as Nixon made it. ‘ All doc- tors like my first, that’s clear!’ Doc- tor Firmin does that. Old Parr Street party! Don’t you see, Miss Agnes? Fer! Don’t you see? 4 “Fee! © you droll thing!” cries Agnes, smiling, radiant, very much uzzled. “ «My second,’ ” goes on the young officer, — “ ‘ My second gives us foker’s beer !?” “¢ My whole ’s the shortest month in all the year!’ Don’t you see, Mrs. Twysden? Frr-BReweErY, DON’T you ste? February! A doosid good one, is n’t it, now ? and I won- der Punch never put itin. And upon my word, I used to spell it Febuary before, I did; and I dare say ever so many fellows do still. And I know the right way now, and all from that riddle which Nixon made.” The ladies declare he is a droll man, and full of fun. He rattles on, artlessly telling his little stories of ‘sport, drink, adventure, in which the , dusky little man himself is a promi- Not honey -mouthed Plato would be listened to more kind- ly by those three ladies. A bland, frank smile shines over Talbot Twys- den’s noble face, as he comes in from his office, and finds the creole prat- “ What! you here, Wool- {” nent figure. tling. comb? Hay! Glad to see you And the gallant hand goes out and ae THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. meets and grasps kid glove. “ He has Tell papa that riddle you made, Captain Woolcomb ?”’ ‘p “That riddle I made? That rid. dle Nixon, our surgeon, made. ‘Al! doctors like my first, that’s clear,’” &e. | And da capo. And the family, a: he expounds this admirable rebus gather round the young officer im < group, and the curtain drops. me | As in a theatre booth at a fair ther: are two or three performances im : day, so in Beaunash Street a littl: genteel comedy is played twice :— at four o’clock with Mr. Firmin,'a five o’clock with Mr. Woolcomb. and for both young gentlemen, sam. smiles, same eyes, same voice, sam welcome. Ah, bravo! ah, encore! laughing ! —_—_@~— CHAPTER X. ee? IN WHICH WE VISIT “ ADMIRA BYNG.”’ vd From long residence in Bohemi: and fatal love of bachelor ease an habits, Master Philip’s pure tast were so destroyed, and his manners ¢ perverted that, you will hardly belie it, he was actually indifferent to tl pleasures of the refined home we ha’ just been describing ; and, when A nes was away, sometimes even wh¢ she was at home, was quite relieved” get out of Beaunash Street. He hardly twenty yards from the doc when out of his pocket there comes case; out of the case there jumps + aromatic cigar, which is scatteri fragrance around as he is marehil priskly northwards to his next hov of call. The pace is even more live now than when he is hastening « what you call the wings of love ? Beaunash Street. At the hov whither he is now going, he and t cigar are always welcome. +1 no need of munching orange ch! | j Woolcomb’s tiny been so amusing, papa ! He has been making us die with THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. or chewing scented pills, or flinging “your weed away half a mile before you reach Thornhaugh Street, — the i, vulgar place. I promise you Phil may smoke at Brandon’s, and find others doing the same. He may set the house on fire, if so minded, such a favorite is he there; and the Little Sister, with her kind, beaming smile, will be there to bid him wel- come. How that woman loved Phil, and how he loved her, is quite a curi- osity; and both of them used to be twitted with this attachment by their mutual friends, and blush as they ac- knowledged it. Ever since the little nurse had saved his life as a school- boy, it was @ /a vie a la mort between them. Phil’s father’s chariot used to i with the Little Sister. come to Thornhaugh Street some- times, — at rare times, — and the Doc- tor descend thence and have colloquies She attended a patient or two of his. She was certainly very much better off in her money matters in these late years, since she had known Dr. Firmin. Do you think she took money from ‘him? As a novelist, who knows constrained to say, Yes. everything about his people, I am She took enough to pay some little bills of her 'weak-minded old father, and send the bailiffs hand from his old collar. But no more. “T think you owe him as much as that,” she said to the Doc- tor. But as for compliments between ‘them,— “Dr. Firmin, I would die {rather than be beholden to you for anything,” she said, with her little limbs all in a tremor, and her eyes flashing anger. “ How dare you, sir, ‘after old days, be a coward and pay ‘compliments tome; I will tell your ‘son of you, sir!” and the little wo- ‘man looked as if she could have Stabbed the elderly libertine there as hestood. And he shrugged his hand- ‘some shoulders: blushed a little too, ers : gave her one of his darkling Jooks, and departed. She had be- lieved him once. She had married him, as she fancied. He had tired of ‘her; forsaken her; left her, — left you ever see such eyes ? 135 her even without a name. She had not known his for long years after her trust and his deceit. “No, sir, I would n’t have your name now, not if it were a lord’s, I would n’t, and a coronet on your carriage. You are beneath me now, Mr. Brand Firmin!”’ she had said. How came she to love the boy so? Years back, in her own horrible ex- tremity of misery, she could remem- ber a week or two of a brief, strange, exquisite happiness, which came to her in the midst of her degradation and desertion, and for a few days a baby in her arms, with eyes like Philip’s. It was taken from her, after a few days — only sixteen days. Insanity came upon her, as her dead infant was carried away : — insanity, and fever, and struggle—ah! who knows how dreadful? She never does. There is a gap in her life which she never can recall quite. But George Brand Firmin, Esq., M.D., knows how very frequent are such cases of mania, and that women who don’t speak about them often will cherish them for years after they ap- pear to have passed away. The Lit- tle Sister says, quite gravely, some- times, “ They are allowed to come back. They do come back. Else what ’s the good of little cherubs be- in’ born, and smilin’, and happy, and beautiful — say, for sixteen days, and then an end? I’ve talked about it to many ladies in grief sim’lar to mine was, and it comforts them. And when I saw that child on his sick-bed, and he lifted his eyes, J knew him, I tell you, Mrs. Ridley. I don’t speak about it; but I knew him, ma’am; my angel came back again. I know him by the eyes. Look at’em. Did They look as if they had seen heaven. His fa- ther’s don’t.” Mrs. Ridley believes this theory solemnly, and I think I know a lady, nearly connected with myself, who can’t be got quite to dis- own it. And this secret opinion to women in grief and sorrow over their new-born lost infants Mrs. Brandon 136 persists in imparting. “JZ know a case,” the nurse murmurs, “ of a poor mother who lost her child at sixteen days old; and sixteen years after, on the very day, she saw him again.” Philip knows so far of the Little Sister’s story, that he is the object of this delusion, and, indeed, it very strangely and tenderly affects him. He remembers fitfully the illness through which the Little Sister tend- ed him, the wild paroxysms of his fever, his head throbbing on her shoulders, cool tamarind drinks which she applied to his lips, great gusty night shadows flickering through the bare school dormitory, the little figure of the nurse gliding in and out of the dark. He must be aware of the rec- ognition, which we know of, and which took place at his bedside, though he has never mentioned it, — not to his father, not to Caroline. But he clings to the woman, and shrinks from the man. Is it instinc- tive love and antipathy ? The special reason for his quarrel with his father the junior Firmin has never explicitly told me then or since. I have known sons much more confidential, and who, when their fathers tripped and stumbled, would bring their acquaint- ances to jeer at the patriarch in his fall. One day, as Philip enters Thorn- haugh Street, and the Sister’s little parlor there, fancy his astonishment on finding his father’s dingy friend, the Rev. Tufton Hunt, at his ease by the fireside. ‘‘ Surprised to see me here, eh?”’ says the dingy gentleman, with a sneer at Philip’s lordly face of wonder and disgust. “Mrs. Bran- don and I turn out to be very old friends.” “ Yes, sir, old acquaintances,” says the Little Sister, very gravely. “The captain, brought me home from the club at the ‘Byng.’ Jolly fellows the Byngs. My service to ou, Mr. Gann and Mrs. Brandon.” And ths two persons addressed by the gentleman, who is “taking some| his will. He made the place B refreshment,” as the phrase is, made| house of call; and in the Doe fas a Fn sre Td THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. a bow in acknowledgment of this sal- utation. re) “You should have been at Mr Philip’s call-supper, Captain Gann,” the divine resumes. “That was a night! Tip-top swells — noblemen —first-rate claret. That claret of your father’s, Philip, is pretty mear- ly drunk down. And your song was famous. Did you ever hear him sing, Mrs. Brandon ?” Bae ‘Who do you mean by him?” says Philip, who always boiled with rage before this man. Caroline i divines the antipathy. She lays a little hand on Philip’s arm. “Mr. Hunt has been having too much, I think,” she says. “TI did know him ever so long ago, Philip!” au" “What does he mean by Him?” again says Philip, snorting at Tufton Hunt. Bs “Him%— Dr. Luther’s Hymn!) ‘Wein, Weber, und Gesang,’ to be sure!” cries the clergyman, hum- ming the tune. “I learned it m Germany myself — passed a good deal of time in Germany, Captain Gann — six months in a specially shady place — Quod Strasse, im Frankfort on-the-Maine — being per- secuted by some wicked Jews there. And there was another poor English chap in the place, too, who used to chirp that song behind the bars, and died there, and disappointed the Philistines. I’ve seen a deal of life, I have; and met with a precious deal of misfortune; and borne it pretty stoutly, too, since your father and I were at college together, Philip. You don’t do anything in this way ! Not so early, eh? It’s good rum) Gann, and no mistake.” And again the chaplain drinks to the captait who waves the dingy hand of hosp: tality towards his dark guest. For several months past Hunt hac now been a resident in London, anc a pretty constant visitor at Dr. Fir He came and went a) min’s house. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 137 trim, silent, orderly mansion, was | Mr. Hunt, and his gayety and famil- perfectly free, talkative, dirty, and familiar. Philip’s loathing for the man increased till it reached a pitch of frantic hatred. Mr. Phil, theoret- ieally a Radical, and almost a Repub- liean (in opposition, perhaps, to his father, who, of course, held the highly respectable line of politics), — Mr. Sansculotte Phil was personally one of the most aristocratic and overbear- ing of young gentlemen; and had a contempt and hatred for mean people, ‘or base people. for servile people, and especially for too familiar people, which was not a little amusing some- ‘mes, which was provoking often, mut which he never was at the least dains of disguising. His uncle and vousin Twysden, for example, he ‘reated not half so civilly as their ootmen. Little Talbot humbled imself before Phil, and felt not bways easy in hiscompany. Young Cwysden hated him, and did not dis- juise his sentiments at the club, or to heir mutual acquaintance behind *hil’s broad back. And Phil, for his vart, adopted towards his cousin a ‘iek-me-down-stairs manner, which I ‘wn must have been provoking to hat gentleman, who was Phil’s senior ‘y three years, a clerk in a public fiice, a member of several good clubs, nd altogether a genteel member of oeiety. Phil would often forget Mngwood Twysden’s presence, and jursue his own conversation entirely 2gardless of Ringwood’s observations. fe was very rude, I own. Que | us? We have all of us our ‘ttle failings, and one of Philip’s was 1 ignorant impatience of bores, par- sites, and pretenders. , So no wonder my young gentleman a8 not very fond of his father’s jend, the dingy jail chaplain. I, ho am the most tolerant man in the orld, as all my friends know, liked ‘unt little better than Phil did. The ‘an’s presence made me _ uneasy. 4s dress, his complexion, his teeth, 's leer at women —Que sais-je? — /erything was unpleasant about this iarity more specially disgusting than even his hostility. The wonder was that battle had not taken place be- tween Philip and the jail clergyman, who, I suppose, was accustomed to be disliked, and laughed with cynical good-humor at the other’s disgust. Hunt was a visitor of many tavern parlors; and one day, strolling out of the “Admiral Byng,” he saw his friend Dr. Firmin’s well-known equipage stopping at a door in Thorn- haugh Street, out of which the Doctor presently came; “ Brandon ” was on the door. Brandon, Bran- don? Hunt remembered a dark transaction of more than twenty years ago, — of a woman deceived by this Firmin, who then chose to go by the name Brandon. “He lives with her still, the old hypocrite, or he has gone back to her,” thought the par- son. QO you old sinner! And the next time he called in Old Parr Street on his dear old college friend, Mr. Hunt was specially jocular, and frightfully unpleasant and familiar. “Saw your trap Tottenham Court Road way,” says the slang parson, nodding to the physician. “‘ Have some patients there. Peo- ple are ill in Tottenham Court Road,” remarks the Doctor. “ Pallida_mors cequo pede — hay, Doctor? What used Flaccus to say, when we were undergrads 2?” “ Aiquo pede,” sighs the Doctor, casting up his fine eyes to the ceiling. “Sly old fox! Not a word will he say about her!” thinks the clergy- man. “Yes, yes, lremember. And, by Jove! Gann was the name.” Gann was also the name of that queer old man who frequented the *‘ Admiral Byng,”’ where the ale was so good, — the old boy whom they called the Captain. Yes; it was clear now. That ugly business was patched up. The astute Hunt saw it all. ‘The Doctor still kept up a con- nection with the — the party. And that is her old father, sure enough. “The old fox, the old fox! I’ve 138 earthed him, have 1? This is a good game. I wanted a little something to do, and this will excite me,” thinks the clergyman. I am describing what I never could have seen or heard, and can guaran- tee only verisimilitude, not truth, in my report of the private conversa- tion of these worthies. The end of scores and scores of Hunt’s conversa- tions with his friend was the same, — an application for money. If it rained when Hunt parted from his college chum, it was, “I say, Doctor, I shall spoil my new hat, and I’m blest it th have any money to take a cab, Thank you, old boy. Au revoir.” If the day was fine, it was, “My old blacks show the white seams so, that you must out of your charity rig me out with a new pair. Not your tailor. He is too expensive. Thank you, — a couple of sovereigns will do.” And the Doctor takes two from the mantel- piece, and the divine retires, jingling the gold in his greasy pocket. The Doctor is going after the few words about pallida mors, and has taken up that well-brushed broad hat, with that ever-fresh lining, which we all admire in him, — “O, I say, Firmin!” breaks out the clergyman. “Before you go out, you must lend me a few sovs, please. They ’ve cleaned me out in Air Street. That confounded roulette! It’s a mad- ness with me.” “By George!” cries the other, with a strong execration, “you are too bad, Hunt. Every week of my life you come to me for money. You have had plenty. Goelsewhere. I won't give it you.” “Yes, you will, old boy,” says the other, looking at him a terrible look ; “for —” “For what?” says the Doctor, the veins of his tall forehead growing very full. “Por old times’ sake,” says the clergyman. ‘“ There’s seven of em on the table in bits of paper, — that I do nicely. And he sweeps the fees with a dirty hand into a dirty pouch. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. “falloa! Swearin’ and cursin’ be fore a clergyman. Don’t cut yy rough, old fellow! Go and take th, air. It’ll cool you.” sy “J don’t think I would like tha fellow to attend me, if I was sick, says Hunt, shuffling away, rolling th plunder in his greasy hand. “Idon’ think I’d like to meet him by moor light alone, in a very quiet lane. Te | a determined chap. And his eyc mean miching malecho, his eyes di Phew!” And he laughs, and mak a rude observation about Dr. Firmin eyes. Sy; | That afternoon, the gents who us¢ the “ Admiral Byng” remarked tl reappearance of the party who look: in last evening, and who now sto classes round, and made himself u common agreeable to be sure. O Mr. Ridley says he is quite the ge tleman. ‘“ Hevident have been im ft ing parts a great deal, and speaks t languages. Probbly have ’ad m fortunes, which many ’ave ’ad the! Drinks rum-and-water tremenjoi Ave scarce no heppytite. Many ¢ into this way from misfortunes. .. plesn man, most well informed on most every subjeck. Think he’, clergyman. He and, Mr. Gann he madeé quite a friendship together, ’ and Mr. Gann ’ave. Which #l’ talked of Watloo, and Gann is w fond of that, Gann is, most certm’ I imagine Ridley delivering these s- tences, and alternate little volleys: smoke, as he sits behind his sober (- umet and prattles in the tavern par’. After Dr. Firmin has careed through the town, standing by sic beds with his sweet sad smile, fonéd and blessed by tender mothers ‘0 hail him as the savior of their ¢* dren, touching ladies’ pulses wit hand as delicate as their own, patle little fresh cheeks with courtly k} ness, — little cheeks that owe t™ roses to his marvellous skill; afte has soothed and comforted my Li: shaken hands with my Lord, loc in at the club, and exchanged cou’. salutations with brother big-wigs, ! THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 139 ‘riven away in the handsome carriage | and dislikes, Philip,” says the father with the noble horses, — admired, re- | then, with a tone that smites strange- specting, respectful, saluted, salut- ly and keenly on the young man. ng, — so that every man says, “ Ex- There is a great tremor in Philip’s cellent man, Firmin. Excellent doc- | voice, as he says, “ No, father, I ‘or, excellent man. Safe man. Sound | can’t bear that man, and I can’t ‘man. Man of good family. Mar-| disguise my feelings. I have just ‘ied a rich wife. Lucky man.” And/| parted from the man. I have just ‘oon. After the day’s triumphant | met him.” vareer, I fancy I see the Doctor driv-| “ Where?” ng homeward, with those sad, sad| “ At—at Mrs. Brandon’s, father.” vyes, that haggard smile. He blushes like a girl as he speaks. - He comes whirling up Old Parr} At the next moment he is scared Street just as Phil saunters in from | by the exccration which hisses from Xegent Street, as usual, cigar in| his father’s lips, and the awful look ‘aouth. He flings away the cigar as| of hate which the elder’s face as- ‘ie sees his father, and they enter the | sumes, — that fatal, forlorn, fallen, ouse together. lost look which, man and boy, has “Do you dine at home, Philip 2” | often frightened poor Phil. Philip ‘he father asks. did not like that look, nor indeed ~“QYDo you, sir? I willif you do,” | that. other one, which his father cast ‘ays the son, “ and if you are alone.” | at Hunt, who presently swaggered '**Alone. Yes. That is, there Il) in. ‘e Hunt, I suppose, whom you don’t| “What! you dine here? We rare- ke. But the poor fellow has few ly do papa the honor of dining with laces to dine at. What? D him,” says the parson, with his know- ‘unt? That’s a strong expression ing leer. “I suppose, Doctor, it is ‘bout a poor fellow in misfortune, | to be fatted-calf day now the prodigal ‘nd your father’s old friend.” has come home. ‘There’s worse ‘I am afraid Philip had used that things than a good fillet of veal ; ‘icked monosyllable whilst his father | eh ¢” vas ee: and at the mention of| Whatever the meal might be, the te clergyman’s detested name. “TI greasy chaplain leered and winked *g your pardon, father. It slipped | over it as he gave it his sinister bless- ‘It im spite of me. I can’t help it.|ing. The two elder guests tried to ‘hate the fellow.” be lively and gay, as Philip thought, “You don’t disguise your likes or | who took such little trouble to dis- ‘slikes, Philip,” says, or rather guise his own moods of gloom or *oans, the safe man, the sound man, | merriment. Nothing was said re- \@ prosperous man, the lucky man, garding the occurrences of the morn- ‘€ miserable man. For years and ing when my young gentleman had vars he has known that ‘his boy’s | been rather rude to Mr. Hunt; and ‘art has revolted from him, and de- Philip did not need his father’s cau- ‘sted him, and gone from him; and | tion to make no mention of his pre- th shame and remorse, and sicken- | vious meeting with their guest. Hunt, 'g feeling, he lies awake in the night-{ as usual, talked to the butler, made ‘utches, and thinks how he is alone, | sidelong remarks to the footman, and alone in the world. Ah! Love your | garnished his conversation with slip- Tents, young ones! O Father| pery double-entendre and dirty old- “meficent ! strengthen our hearts: | world slang. Betting-houses, gam- ‘engthen and purify them so that bling-houses, Tattersall’s fights and may not have to blush before our | their frequenters, were his cheerful ‘dren ! themes, and on these he descanted as “You don’t disguise your likes|usual. The Doctor swallowed this 140 dose, which his friend poured out, without the least expression of dis- gust. On the contrary, he was cheer- ful: he was for an extra bottle of claret, — it never could be in better order than it was now. The bottle was scarce put on the table, and tasted and pronounced perfect, when — Oh! disappointment ! —the butler reappears with a note for the Doctor. One of his patients. He must go. She has little the matter with her. She lives hard by, in May Fair. “ You and Hunt finish this bottle, unless I am back before it is done; and if it is done, we’ll have another,” says Dr. Firmin, jovially. “Don’t stir, Hunt,” —and Dr. Fir- min is gone, leaving Philip alone with the guest to whom he had certainly been rude in the morning. “ The Doctor’s patients often grow very unwell about claret time,” growls Mr. Hunt, some few minutes after. “Never mind. The drink ’s good, — good! as somebody said at your famous call-supper, Mr. Philip, — won’t call you Philip, as you don’t like it. You were uncommon crusty to me in the morning, to be sure. In my time there would have been bottles broke, or worse, for that sort of treat- ment,” “JT have asked your pardon,” Philip said. ‘I was annoyed about —no matter what,—and had no right to be rude to Mrs. Brandon’s uest.”’ “Tsay, did you tell the governor that you saw me in Thornhaugh Street ?”’ asks Hunt. “T was very rude and ill-tempered, and again I confess I was wrong,” said Phil, boggling and stuttering, and turning very red. He remem- bered his father’s injunction. “T say again, sir, did you tell your THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. have told him. He’s a nice mar your father is, for a moral man.” ‘Tam not anxious for your opinio about my father’s morality, M) Hunt,” says Philip, gasping in a bi wildered manner, and drumming th table. “Iam here to replace him i his absence, and treat his guest wit civility.” a “ Civility! Pretty civility!” say the other, glaring at him. a “Such as it is, sir, it is my bes and —I-—I have no other,” groai the young man. ie «Old friend of your father’s, a ur versity man, a Master of Arts, a ge tleman born, by Joye! a clergym: —though I sink that —” an “ Yes, sir, you do sink that,” sa Philip. es | «Am I a dog,” shrieks out t clergyman, ‘to be treated by you, this way? Who are yout Doy know who you are?” an “Sir, I am_ striving with all 1 strength to remember,” says Philip “Come! I say! don’t try any your confounded airs on me!” shri¢ Hunt, with a profusion of oaths, a: swallowing glass after glass from +} various decanters before him. “ Ha} me, when I was a young man, I wo! have sent one—two at your ni, though you were twiceas tall! W) are you, to patronize your seni, your father’s old pal—a univers) man: — you confounded, superc: ous — ” ol “Tam here to pay every attent1 to my father’s guest,” says PI: “but if you have finished your wi I shall be happy to break up i meeting as early as you please.” “You shall pay me; I swear } shall,” said Hunt. val “OQ Mr. Hunt!” cried Philip, ju? ing up, and clenching his great fis Dd { father of our meeting this morning ¢”’ demands the clergyman. “And pray, sir, what right have you to ask me about my private con- versation with my father?” asks Philip, with towering dignity. “You won't tell me? Then you “T should desire nothing better.” The man shrank back, thinks Philip was going to strike him! Philip told me in describing the see and made for the bell, but when butler came, Philip only asked» coffee; and Hunt, uttering a ‘thor two, staggered out of the room ver the servant. Brice said he had én drinking before he came. He ts often so. And Phil blessed his ‘ws that he had not assaulted his her’s guest then and there, under 's own roof-tree. He went out into the air. He sped and cooled himself under the us. He soothed his feelings by his ‘stomary consolation of tobacco. remembered that Ridley in Thorn- ‘ugh Street held a divan that night; d jumped into a cab, and drove ‘his old friend. The maid of the house, who came the door as the cab was driving vay, stopped it; and as Phil entered 2 passage, he found the Little Sister .d his father talking together in the ‘ll. The Doctor’s broad hat shaded 4) face from the hall-lamp, which s burning with an extra brightness, t Mrs. Brandon’s was very pale, .d she had been crying. ‘She gave a little scream when she iv Phil. “Ah! is it you, dear?” : said. She ran up to him: seized Uh his hands: clung to him, and bea a thousand hot tears on his ‘id. “TI never will. O, never, ver, never!” she murmured. The Doctor’s broad chest heaved as Ee great sigh of relief. He looked the woman and at his son with trange smile; — not a sweet smile. “God bless you, Caroline,” he said, is pompous, rather theatrical way. “Good night, sir,” said Mrs. Bran- ‘A, still clinging to Philip’s hand, ; making the Doctor a little nble courtesy. And when he was sles again she kissed Philip’s hand, 1 dropped her tears on it, and said, lever, my dear ; no, never, never !” —+— | CHAPTER XI. | WHICH PHILIP IS VERY ILL TEMPERED. ae | "inate had long divined a part of dear little friend’s history. An | » i ae ce eo + THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 141: uneducated young girl had been found, cajoled, deserted by a gentle- man of the world. And poor Caro- line was the victim, and Philip’s own father the seducer. He easily guessed as much as this of the sad little story. Dr. Firmin’s part in it was enough to shock his son with a thrill of dis- gust, and to increase the mistrust, doubt, alienation, with which the father had long inspired the son. What would Philip feel, when all the pages of that dark book were opened to him, and he came to hear of a false marriage, and a ruined and out- cast woman, deserted for years by the man to whom he himself was most bound? In a word, Philip had considered this asa mere case of early libertinism, and no more; and it was as such, in the very few words which he may have uttered to me respecting this matter, that he had chosen to regard it. I knew no more than my friend had told me of the story as yet; it was only by degrees that I learned it, and as events, now subse- quent, served to develop and explain lt. The elder Firmin, when questioned by his old acquaintance, and, as it appeared, accomplice of former days, regarding the end of a certain intrigue at Margate, which had occurred some four or five and twenty years back, and when Firmin, having reason to avoid his college creditors, chose to live away and bear a false name, had told the clergyman a number of false- hoods which appeared to satisfy him. What had become of that poor little thing about whom he had made such a fool of himself? O, she was dead, dead ever so many years before. He had pensioned her off. She had married, and died in Canada, — yes, in Canada. Poor little thmg! Yes, she was a good little thing, and, at one time, he had been very soft about her. I am sorry to have to state of a respectable gentleman that he told lies, and told lies habitually and easily. But, you see, if you commit a crime, and break a seventh com- 142 mandment let us say, or an eighth, or choose any number you will, — you will probably have to back the lie of action by the lie of the tongue, and so you are fairly warned, and I have no help for you. If 1 murder a man, and the policeman inquires, “ Pray, sir, did you cut this here gentleman’s throat 2” I must bear false witness, you see, out of self-defence, though 1 may be naturally a most reliable, truth-telling man. And so with re- gard to many crimes which gentle- men commit, —it is painful to have to say respecting gentlemen, but they become neither more nor less than habitual liars, and have to go lying on through life to you, to me, to the servants, to their wives, to their children, to — O awful name! I bow and humble myself. May we kneel, may we kneel, nor strive to speak our falsehoods before Thee! And so, my dear sir, seeing that after committing any infraction of the moral laws, you must tell lies in order to back yourself out of your scrape, let me ask you, as a man of honor and agentleman, whether you had not better forego the crime, so as to avoid the unavoidable, and unpleasant, and daily-recurring ne- cessity of the subsequent perjury ? A poor young girl of the lower orders, cajoled, or ruined, more or less, is of course no great matter. The little baggage is turned out of doors, — worse luck for her ! — or she gets a place, or she marries one of her own class, who has not the ex- quisite delicacy belonging to “ gentle blood,” — and there is an end of her. But if you marry her privately and irregularly yourself, and then throw her off, and then marry somebody else, you are brought to book in all sorts of unpleasant ways. I am writing of quite an old story, be pleased to remember. The first part of the history I myself printed some twenty years ago; and if you fancy I allude to any more modern period, madam, you are entirely out in your conjecture. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. od eae | It must have been a most unpleas ant duty for a man of fashion honor, and good family, to lie t a poor tipsy, disreputable bankrup merchant’s daughter, such as Carolin Gann, but George Brand Firmir Esq., M. D., had no other choice, an when he lied, —as in severe case when he administered calomel, —h thought it best to give the drug fre: ly. Thus he lied to Hunt, sayin that Mrs. Brandon was long sin dead in Canada; and he lied to Ca oline, prescribing for her the ver same pill, as it were, and saying th Hunt was long since dead in Canat too. And I can fancy few mo painful and humiliating positions fi 2 man of rank and fashion and reput tion, than to have to demean himse so far as to tell lies to alittle low-br: person, who gets her bread as a nur of the sick, and has not the proper u of her /’s. a “Q yes, Hunt!” Firmin had s: to the Little Sister, in one of the sad little colloquies which sometim took place between him and his v tim, his wife of old days. “A -wi bad man, Hunt was, — in days wh I own I was little better! I he: deeply repented since, Caroline; | nothing more than of my conduct) you; for you were worthy of a t: ter fate, and you loved me truly, madly.” ie “Yes,” says Caroline. | “JT was wild then! I was des rate! I had ruined my fortunes,» tranged my father from me, was | ing from my creditors under | assumed name, — that under whic saw you. Ah, why did I ever © to your house, my poor child? a mark of the demon was upon me. did not dare to speak of marriage’ fore my father. You have yours, | tend him with your ever const! goodness. Do you know that father would not see me when! died? 0, it’s a cruel thing to tl of!” And the suffering | bling hand; and some of I slaps his tall forehead with h THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘bout his own father, I dare say, is | ineere, for he feels the shame and emorse of being alienated from his avn son. As for the marriage, — that it was /most wicked and unjustifiable deceit ie owned ; but he was wild when it ook place, wild with debt and with espair at his father’s estrangement rom him, —but the fact was it was Oo marriage. “T am glad of that!” sighed the oor Little Sister. “Why?” asked the other eagerly. lis love was dead, but his vanity was till hale and well. ‘ Did. you care or somebody else, Caroline? Did ou forget your George whom you sed to —” “No!” said the little woman, ravely. “ But I could n’t live with /man who behaved to any woman > dishonest as you behaved to me. liked you because I thought you ‘asa gentleman. My poor painter ‘as whom you used to despise ad trample to hearth,—and my 2ar dear Philip is, Mr. Firmin. But entlemen tell the truth! gentlemen om’t deceive poor innocent girls, -and »sert ‘em without a penny!” “Caroline! I was driven by my jeditors. I—”’ “Never mind. It’s over now. I var you no malice, Mr. Firmin, but would not marry you, no, not to be »ctor’s wife to the Queen !” This had been the Little Sister’s mguage when there was no thought ' the existence of Hunt, the clergy- an who had celebrated their mar- age; and I don’t know whether ‘Tmin was most piqued or pleased at € divorce which the little. woman onounced of her own decree. But jen the ill-omened Hunt made his ‘pearance, doubts and terrors filled ® physician’s mind. Hunt was edy, greedy, treacherous, unscrupu- 48, desperate. He could hold this uriage over the Doctor. He could veaten, extort, expose, perhaps in- lidate Philip’s legitimacy. The st marriage almost certainly was | } 145 null, but the scandal would be fatal to Firmin’s reputation and practice. And the quarrel with his son entailed consequences not pleasant to think of. You see George Firmin, Esq., M.D., was aman with a great development of the back head; when he willed a thing, he willed it so fiercely that he must have it, never mind the conse- quences. And so he had willed to make himself master of poor little Caroline: and so he had willed, as a young man, to have horses, splendid entertainments, roulette and écarté, and so forth ; and the bill came at its natural season, and George Firmin, Esq., did not always like to pay. But for a grand, prosperous, highly bred gentleman in the best society — with a polished forehead and manners, and universally looked up to — to have to tell Jies te a poor little, timid, uncomplaining, sick-room nurse, it was humiliating, wasn’t it? And I can feel for Firmin. To have to lie to Hunt was disgust- ing: but somehow not so exquisitely mean and degrading as to have to cheat a little trusting, humble, house- less creature, over the bloom of whose gentle young life his accursed foot had already trampled. But then this Hunt was such a cad and ruffian that there need be no scruple about hum- bugging Aim; and if Firmin had had any humor he might have hada grim sort of pleasure in leading the dirty clergyman a dance thoro’ bush thoro’ briar. So, perhaps (of course I have no means of ascertaining the fact), the Doctor did not altogether dislike the duty which now devolved on him of hoodwinking his old acquaintance and accomplice. I don’t like to use such a vulgar phrase regarding a man in Doctor Firmin’s high social posi- tion, as to say of him and the jail chaplain that it was “thief catch thief” ; but at any rate Hunt is such a low graceless, friendless vagabond, that if he comes in for a few kicks, or is mystified, we need not be very sor- ry. When Mr. Thurtell is hung we don’t put on mourning. His is a 144 painful position for the moment ; but, after all, he has murdered Mr. Wil- liam Weare. Firmin was a bold and courageous man, hot in pursuit, fierce in desire, but cool in danger, and rapid in ac- tion. Some of his great successes as a physician arose from his daring and successful practice in sudden emer- While Hunt was only lurch- gency. ing about the town an aimless miscreant, living from dirty hand to dirty mouth, and as long as he could get drink, cards, and shelter, tolerably content, or at least pretty easily appeased by a guinea-dose or two, — Firmin could adopt the palliative system ; soothe his patient with an occasional bounty; set him to sleep with a composing draught of claret or brandy; and let the day take care of itself. He might die; he might have a fancy to go abroad again; he might be transported for forgery or some other rascaldom, Dr. Firmin would console himself; and he trusted to the chapter of accidents to get rid of his friend. But Hunt, aware that the woman was alive whom he had actually, though unlawfully, married to Firmin, became an enemy whom it was necessary to subdue, to cajole, or to bribe, and the sooner the Doctor put himself on his defence the better. What should the defence be? Per- haps the most effectual was a fierce attack on the enemy ; perhaps it would be better to bribe him. The course to be taken would be best ascertained after a little previous reconnoitring. “ He will try and inflame Caroline,” the Doctor thought, “‘ by representing her wrongs and her rights to her. He will show her that, as my wife, she has a right to my name and a share of my income. A less merce- nary woman never lived than this poor little creature. She disdains money, and, except for her father’s sake, would have taken none of mine. But to punish me for certainly rather shabby behavior; to claim and take her own right and position in the world as an honest woman, may she THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. > ie not be induced to declare war against me, and stand by her marriage? After she left home, her two | half-sisters deserted her and > upon her; and when she would haye returned, the heartless women droye her from the door. O the vixens! And now to drive by them in hei carriage, to claim a maintenance from me, and to have a right to my honorable name, would she not hav her dearest revenge over her sister, by so declaring her marriage ? as Firmin’s noble mind misgave hin very considerably on this point. Hi knew women, and how those ha treated their little sister. Was it i human nature not to be revenged | These thoughts rose straightway i) Firmin’s mind, when he heard tha the much dreaded meeting betwee; Caroline and the chaplain had to pass. ; a As he ate his dinner with his gues’ his enemy, opposite to him, he wa ee ° itis! determining on his plan of actior The screen was up, and he wa laying his guns behind it, so to speal Of course he was as civil to Hunts the tenant to his landlord when bh comes with no rent. So the Doetc laughed, joked, bragged, talked h best, and was thinking the whi. what was to be done against th danger. aa He had a plan which might suceee! He must see Caroline immediatel: He knew the weak point of her hear and where she was most likely to} vulnerable. And he would @ against her as barbarians of 0 acted against their enemies, whé they brought the captive wives al children in front of the battle, ar bade the foe strike through ther He knew how Caroline loved his bo It was through that love he wou work upon her. As he washes 4 pretty hands for dinner, and | t bath. his noble brow, he arranges his lit plan. He orders himself to be se for soon after the second bott claret, —and it appears the Di tor’s servants were accustomed 10 t bi (hk S - ae 4 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. lelivery of these messages from their naster to himself. The plan arranged, iow Jet us take our dinner and our vine, and make ourselves comfortable intil the moment of action. In his vild-oats days, when travelling ibroad with wild and noble compan- ons, Firmin had fought a duel or two, nd was always remarkable for his ayety of conversation and the fine ppetite which he showed at breakfast efore going .on to the field. So, erhaps, Hunt, had he not been tupefied ‘by previous drink, might ave taken the alarm by remarking irmin’s extra courtesy and gayety, 3 they dined together. It was nune mum, cras cequor. When the second bottle of claret as engaged, Dr. Firmin starts. He as an advance of half an hour at ast on his adversary, or on the man ho may be his adversary. If the ittle Sister is at home, he will sce ”,—he will lay bare his candid art to her, and make a clean breast ‘it. The Little Sister was at yme. “T want to speak to you very par- ularly about that case of poor Lady umandhaw,” says he, dropping his ee, - “Twill step out, my dear, and take ittle fresh air,” says Captain Gann; saning that he will be off to the Admiral Byng”; and the two are rether. “T have had something on my con- ence. I have deceived you, Caro- @,” says the Doctor, with the beau- ul shining forehead and hat. “Ah, Mr. Firmin,” says she, bend- $ Over her work; “you’ve used me that.” “Aman whom you knew once, and © tempted me for his own selfish ls todo avery wrong thin g by you, 2 man whom I thought’ dead is ’e:— Tufton Hunt, who performed t—that illegal ceremony‘at Mar- ® of which so often and often on Knees I have repented, Caro- i aed ‘he beautiful hands are clasped, : 7 145 the beautiful deep voice thrills lowly through the room; and if a tear cr two can be squeezed out of the beau- tiful eyes, I dare say the Doctor will pot be sorry. “He has been here to-day. Him and Mr. Philip was here and quar- relied. Philip has told you, I sup- pose, sir?” “Before Heaven, ‘on the word of a gentleman,’ when I said he was dead, Caroline, I thought he was dead! Yes, I declare, at our college, Max- well — Dr. Maxwell — who had been at Cambridge with us, told me that our old friend Hunt had died in Can- ada.”” (This, my beloved friends and readers, may not have been the pre- cise long bow which George Firmin, Esq., M.D., pulled; but that he twanged a famous lie out, whenever there was occasion for the weapon, [ assure you is an undoubted fact.) “Yes, Dr. Maxwell told me our old friend was dead,—our old friend 2 My worst enemy and yours! But let that pass. It was he, Caroline, who led me into crimes which I have never ceased to deplore.” “Ah, Mr. Firmin,” sighs the Lit- tle Sister, “since I’ve known you, you was big enough to take care of yourself in that way.” “I have not come to excuse myself, Caroline,” says the deep, sweet voice. “T have done you enough wrong, and I feel it here — at this heart. I have not come to speak about myself, but of some one I love the best of all the world, — the only being I do love, — some one you love, you good and generous soul, — about Philip.” “What is it about Philip?” asks Mrs. Brandon, very quickly. “Do you want harm to happen to him 2?” “O my darling boy, no!” cries the Little Sister, clasping her little hands. “Would you keep him from harm ?” “Ah, sir, you know I would. When he had the scarlet fever, did n’t I pour the drink down his poor throat, J 146 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. and nurse him, and tend him, as if, | immense danger menaces him, ‘anc as if—as a mother would her own | may come upon him any day as long child 2” as yonder scoundrel is alive. Sup “You did, you did, you noble, no- | pose his character is assailed; sup ble woman; and Heaven bless yon | pose, thinking you dead, I marric for it! A father does. I am not all | another 4” aie heartless, Caroline, as you deem me, “Ah, George, you never though perhaps.” me dead; though, perhaps, yo “J don’t think it’s much merit, wished it, sir. And many woul your loving im,” says Caroline, re- | have died,” added the poor Littl suming her sewing. And, perhaps, | Sister. ei) she thinks within herself, “ What is “Took, Caroline! If I was ma he a coming to?” You see she was ried to you, my wife — Philip’s motl a shrewd little person, when her pas- | er — was not my wife, and he is he sions and partialities did not over- natural son. ‘The property he inhe come her reason; and she had come its does not belong to him. Tl to the conclusion that this elegant children of his grandfather's oth Dr. Firmin, whom she had admired | daughter claim it, and Philip is | so once, was a—not altogether vera- beggar. Philip, bred as he has bee. cious gentleman. In fact, I heard | — Philip, the heir to a mother’s lar; her myself say afterwards, “ La! he | fortune.” ; ay used to talk so fine, and slap his hand} “ And — and his father’s, too! on his heart, you know; but 1 | asks Caroline, anxiously. <4 used n’t to believe him, no more than “JT daren’t tell you — though, ny a man inaplay.” “It’s not much | by Heavens! Ican trust you Wi merit your loving that boy,” says | everything. My own great gai Caroline, then. “But what about have been swallowed up in specu’ him, sir?” tions which have been almost } Then Firmin explained. This man fatal. ‘There has been a fate hangt Hunt was capable of any crime for | over me, Caroline, — a righteous pv money or revenge. Seeing Caroline | ishment for having deserted you, | was alive... sleep with a sword over my head whi. “JT s’pose you told him I was dead | may fall and destroy me. I we too, sir,” says she, looking up from | with a voleano under my feet, wht the work. | may burst any day and annihil ? “ Spare me, spare me! Years ago, |me. And people speak of the fame perhaps, when I had lost sight of you, | Dr. Firmin, the rich Dr. Firmin, ° I may, perhaps, have thought . . . ” | prosperous Dr. Firmin bb shall hi «And it’s not to you, George | a title soon, I believe. Iam belie! Brandon, —it’s not to you,” cries | to be happy, and I am alone, and Caroline, starting up, and speaking wretchedest man alive.” eer with her sweet, innocent, ringing| “ Alone, are you?” said Carol? voice, “it’s to kind, dear friends, — | “There was a woman once we' it’s to my good God that I owe my have kept ‘by you, only you— |! life, which you had flung it away. | flung her away. Look. here, Gee 7 And I paid you back by guarding | Brandon. It’s over with us. +! your boy’s dear life, I did, under —| and years ago it lies where a |} ‘inder Him who giveth and taketh. | cherub was buried. But I love: And bless His name!” Philip; and I won’t hurt him, ° “ You are a good woman, and T am | never, never, never!” a bad, sinful man, Caroline,” says the And as the Doctor turned. tof other. “You saved my Philip’s—| away, Caroline followed him wist!” ‘our Philip’s life, at the risk of your into the hall, and it was there 2 own. Now I tell you that another Philip found them. “@aroline’s tender “never, never,” ‘ang in Philip’s memory as he sat at ‘Ridley’s party, amidst the artists and ‘thors there assembled. Phil was ‘houghtful and silent. He did not ugh very loud. He did not praise ‘yr abuse anybody outrageously, as vas the wont of that most emphatic young gentleman. He scarcely con- radicted a single person; and _ per- iaps, when Larkins said Scumble’s ast picture was beautiful, or Bunch, ‘he critic of the Connoisseur, praised 3owman’s last novel, contented him- elf with a scornful “ Ho!” and a mull at his whiskers, by way of’ pro- ‘est and denial. Had he been in his (stal fine spirits, and enjoying his ‘rdinary flow of talk, he would have ‘formed Larkins and the assembled Ompany not only that Scumble was ‘n impostor, but that he, Larkins, yas an idiot for admiring him. yould have informed Bunch that he yas infatuated about that jackass Sowman, that cockney, that wretched ynoramus, who did n’t know his own T any other language. He would ave taken down one of Bowman’s tories from the shelf, and proved the ily, imbecility, and crass ignorance fthat author. (Ridley has a simple tile stock of novels and poems in an {td cabinet in his studio, and reads ‘ad respect.) Or, to be sure, Phil ‘ould have asserted propositions the kact contrary of those here main- amed, and declared that Bowman ‘aS a genius, and Scumble a most complished artist. But then, you ‘AoW, somebody else must have com- ‘eneed by taking the other side. ertainly a more paradoxical, and ‘oyoking, and obstinate, and contra- ‘Ctory disputant than Mr. Phil I ver knew. I never met Dr. John- ‘n, who died before I came up to wn; but I do believe Phil Firmin duld have stood up and argued even ith him. At these Thursday divans the host ‘vided the modest and kindly re- *shment, and Betsy the maid, or i THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. He | 4em still with much artless wonder. 147 Virgilio the model, travelled to and fro with glasses and water. Each guest brought his own smoke, and I promise you there were such liberal contributions of the article, that the studio was full of it ; and new-comers used to be saluted by a roar of laugh- ter as you heard, rather than saw, them entering, and choking in the fog. It was, ‘ Holloa, Prodgers! is that you, old boy ?” and the beard of Prodgers (that famous sculptor) would presently loom through the cloud. It was, ‘‘Newcome, how goes?” and Mr. Clive Newcome (a mediocre artist, I must own, but a famous good fellow, with an uncom- monly pretty villa and pretty and rich wife at Wimbledon) would make his appearance, and be warmly greet- ed by our little host. It was “Is that you, F. B.? would you like a link, old boy, to see you through the fog ?”’ And the deep voice of Fred- erick Bayham, Esquire (the eminent critic on Art), would boom out of the tobacco-mist, and would exclaim, ‘A link? I would like a drink.” Ah, ghosts of youth, again ye draw near! Old figures glimmer through the cloud. Old songs echo out of the dis- tance. What were you saying anon about Dr. Johnson, boys? I am sure some of us must remember him. As for me, I am so old, that I might have been at Edial school,—the other pu- pil along with little Davy Garrick - and his brother. We had a bachelor’s supper in the Temple so lately that I think we | must pay but a verv brief visit to a smoking-party in Thornhaugh Street, or the ladies will say that we are tco fond of bachelor habits, and keep our friends away from their charming and amiable socicty. A novel must not smell of cigars much, nor should its refined and genteel page be stained with too frequent brandy-and-water. Please to imagine, then, the prattle of the artists, authors, and amateurs as- sembled at Ridley’s divan. Fancy Jarman, the miniature-painter, drink- ing more liquor than any man present, 148 asking his neighbor (sub voce) why Ridley does not give his father (the old butler) five shillings to wait ; suggesting that perhaps the old man is gone out, and is getting seven-and- sixpence elsewhere ; praising Ridiey’s picture aloud, and sneering at it in an undertone; and when a man of rank happens to enter the room, shambling up to him and fawning on him, and cringing to him with ful- Asome praise and flattery. When the ‘4 gentleman’s back is turned, Jarman can spit epigrams at it. I hope he will never forgive Ridley, and always continue to hat; him: for hate him Jarman will, as long as he is pros- perous, and curse him as long as the world esteems him. Look at Pym, the incumbent of Saint Bronze hard by, coming in to join th» literary and artistic assembly, and choking in his white neckcloth to the diversion of all the company who can see him! Sixteen, eighteen, twenty men are assembled. Open the windows, or sure they will all be stifled with the smoke! Why, it fills the whole house so, that the Little Sister has to open her parlor window on the ground-floor, and gasp for fresh air. Phil’s head and cigar are thrust out from a window above, and he lolls there, musing about his own af- fairs, as his smoke ascends to the skies. Young Mr. Philip Firmin is known to be wealthy, and his father gives very good parties in Old Parr Street, so Jarman sidles up to Phil and wants alittle fresh air too. He enters into conversation by abusing Ridley’s picture that is on the ea- sel. “Everybody is praising it ; what do you think of it, Mr. Firmin? Very queer drawing about those eyes, ig t there 2” “Ts there? growls Phil., “Very loud color.” “Oh!” says Phil. “The composition prigged from Raphael.” “Indeed t””. “TJ beg your pardon. Idon’t think is so clearly THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ne 2. you know who I am,” continues: thy other, with a simper. — “Yes, I do,” says Phil, glaring a him. . “ You’re a painter and you name is Mr. Envy.” tea « Sir!” shrieks the painter ; but h is addressing himself to the tails o} Phil’s coat, the superior half of Mi Firmin’s body is stretching out of th window. - Now, you may speak of. man behind his back, but not to hin So Mr. Jarman withdraws, and a¢ dresses himself, face to face, to som body else in the company. I dare sa he abuses that upstart, impuden bumptious young doctor’s son. Hav. I not owned that Philip was ofte very rude? and to-night he is in| specially bad humor. pec | As he continues to stare into tl street, who is that who has just reele up to the railings below, and is tal’ ing in at Mrs. Brandon’s window Whose blackguard voice and laug are those which Phil recognizes wit a shudder? It is the voice and laug of our friend, Mr. Hunt, who Philip left not very long since, ne, his father’s house in Old Parr Stree and both of those familiar soun! are more vinous, more odious, mo impudent than they were even hours ago. ei ‘“Holloa ! I say with a laugh and a curse. ; Mrs. What-d’you-call’em! Hang i don’t shut the window. Leta fell in!” and as he looks towards t) upper window, where Philip’s he: and bust appear dark before the lig, Hunt cries out, ‘“Holloa! wh game’s up now, wonder* Sup} and ball. Should n’t be surprisec And he hiccups a waltz tune, al clatters time to it with his di’ boots. Lge “Mfrs. What - @you-eall! M. B—!” the sot then recommences? shrick out. ‘‘ Must see you—m particular — business. Private a! confidential. Hear of something ? your advantage.” And rap, rap, T he is now thundering at the door. } the clatter of twenty voices few ht 1” he calls o MBs, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Junt’s noise except Philip; or, if hey do, only imagine that another of tidley’s guests is arriving. At the hall door there is talk and Jtereation, and the high shriek of a vell-known odious voice. Philip noves quickly from his window, houlders friend Jarman at the studio oor, and hustling past him obtains, o doubt, more good wishes from that agenious artist. Philip is so rude nd overbearing that I really have a iind to depose him from his place of ero—only, you see, we are com- titted. His name is on the page yerhead, and we can’t take it down nd put up another. The Little Sis- wis standing in her hall by the just- ned door, and remonstrating with r. Hunt, who appears to wish to wee his way in. “Pooh! shtuff, my dear! If he’s ere I musht see him — particular usiness— get out of that!” and he els forward and against little Caro- ne’s shoulder. “Get away, you brute, you!” cries ie little lady. “Go home, Mr. ‘unt; you are worse than you were lis morning.” She is a resolute lit- ¢ woman, and puts out a firm little ‘™ against this odious invader. She 8 Seen patients in hospital raging fever: she is not frightened by a Osy man. “La! is it you, Mr. hilip? Who ever will take this mrid man? He ain’t fit to go up airs among the gentlemen; indeed sain’t.” “You said Firmin was here — and isn’t the father. It’s the cub! I mt the Doctor. Where’s the Doc- rt?” hiccups the chaplain, lurching ‘ainst the wall; and then he looks Philip with bloodshot eyes, that inkle hate. ‘Who wantsh you, I like to know? Had enough of you veady to-day. Conceited brute. mn’t look at me in that sortaway ! ain't afraid of you—ain’t afraid dy. Time was when I was a tng man fight you as soon as look you. Isay, Philip!” “Go home, now. Do go home, p 4a 149 there’s a good man,” says the land- lady. “I say! Look here — hic— hj! Philip! On your word as a gentle- man, your father’s not here? He’ a sly old boots, Brummell Firmin is — Trinity man —1’m not a Trinity man— Corpus man. I say, Philip, give us your hand. Bear no malice. Look here — something very particu- lar. After dinner—went into Air Street — you know — rouge gagne, et couleur — cleaned out. Cleaned out, on the honor of a gentleman and master of arts of the University of Cambridge. So was your father — no, he went out in medicine. I say, Philip, hand us out five sovereigns, and let’s try the luck again! What, you won’t! It’s mean, I say. Don’t be mean.” “O, here’s five shillings! Go and have a cab. Fetch a cab for him, Virgilio, do!” cries the mistress of the house. ‘““That’s not enough, my dear!” cries the chaplain, advancing towards Mrs. Brandon, with such a leer and air, that Philip, half choked with passion, runs forward, grips Hunt by the collar, and crying out, “You filthy scoundrel! as this is not my house, I may kick you out of it!” — in another instant has run Hunt through the passage, hurled him down the steps, and sent him sprawl- ing into the kennel. ‘Row down below,” says Rose- bury, placidly, looking from above. “Personal conflict. Intoxicated in- dividual — in gutter. Our impetuous friend has floored him.” Hunt, after a moment, sits up and glares at Philip. He is not hurt. Perhaps the shock has sobered him. He thinks, perhaps, Philip is going to strike again. ‘“ Hands off, Bas- TARD!” shrieks out the prostrate wretch. ‘‘O Philip, Philip! He’s mad, he’s tipsy!” cries out the Little Sis- ter, running into the street. She puts her arms round Philip. ‘Don’t mind him, dear, — he’s mad! Police- 150 man! The gentleman has had too much. Come in, Philip; come in!” She took him into her little room. She was pleased with the gallantry of the boy. She liked to see him just now, standing over her enemy, cour- ageous, victorious, her champion. «fa! how savage he did look; and how brave and strong you are! But the little wretch ain’t fit to stand be- fore such as you!”’ And she passed her little hand down his arm, of which the muscles were all in a quiver from the recent skirmish. “ What did the scoundrel mean by calling me bastard?” said Philip, the wild blue eyes glaring round about with more than ordinary fierceness. “Nonsense, dear! Who minds anything he says, that beast? His language is always horrid; he’s not a gentleman. He had had too much this morning when he was here. What matters what he says? He won’t know anything about it to-mor- row. But it was kind of my Philip to rescue his poor little nurse, was n’t it? Like a novel. Come in, and let me make you some tea. Don’t go to no more smoking: you have had enough. Come in and talk to me.” And, as a mother, with sweet pious face, yearns to her little children from her seat, she fondles him, she watches him; she fills her teapot from her singing kettle. She talks — talks in her homely way, and on this subject and that. It is a wonder how she prattles on, who is generally rather silent. She won’t see Phil’s eyes, which are following her about very strangely and fiercely. And when again he mutters, “What did he mean by...” “La, my dear, how cross you are!” she breaks out. “t's always so; you won’t be happy without your cigar. Here’s a che- root, a beauty! Pa brought it home from the club. A China captain gave him some. You must light it at the little end. There!” And if I could draw the picture which my mind sees of her lighting Phil’s che- root for him, and smiling the while, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. the little innocent Delilah coaxing and wheedling this young Samson, I know it would be a pretty picture, I wish Ridley would sketch it for me. . eee | 1 bis | CHAPTER XI > hey ——_@— cree DAMOCLES. Yet On the next morning, at an how so early that Old Parr Street wa scarce awake, and even the maids whi wash the broad steps of the houses ol the tailors and medical gentlemen wh inhabit that region had not ye gone down on their knees before thei respective doors, a ring was heard a Dr. Firmin’s night-bell, and when th) door was opened by the yawning @ tendant, a little person in a gray gow and a black bonnet made her appea’ ance, handed a note to the servan and said the case was most urger and the Doctor must come at one Was not Lady Humandhaw the nob person whom we last mentioned the invalid about whom the Doct and the nurse had spoken a few wor on the previous evening? The Litt Sister, for it was she, used the ve! same name to the servant, who retir grumbling to waken up his mast and deliver the note. Nurse Brandon sat awhile im t great gaunt dining-room where hw the portrait of the Doctor in his sple did black collar and cuffs, and co templated this master-piece until . invasion of housemaids drove «} from the apartment, when she to: refuge in that other little room ? which Mrs. Firmin’s portrait | been consigned. | “That’s like him ever so m2/ years and years ago,” she thin. “Tt is a little handsomer ; ee a piiees “4 but its his wicked look that I used to th so killing, and so did my sso of them,—they were ready to 1! out each other’s eyes for jealoui: And that’s Mrs. Firmin! W' suppose the painter have n't; her. Ifhe have she could haw THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. no great things, Mrs. F. could n’t.” And the Doctor, entering softly by the opened door and over the thick Tur- key carpet, comes up to her noiseless, and finds the Little Sister gazing at the portrait of the departed lady. “QO, it’s you, is it? I wonder whether you treated her no better than you treated me, Dr. F. I’ve a notion she’s not the only one. She don’t look happy, poor thing,” says the little lady. _ “What is it, Caroline?” asks the deep-voiced doctor ; “ and what brings you so early ¢” The Little Sister then explains to him. “Last night after he went away Hunt came, sure enough. He had been drinking. He was very rude, and Philip would n’t bear it. Philip had a good courage of his own anda hot blood. And Philip thought Hunt was insulting her, the Little Sister. So he up with his hand and down goes Mr. Hunt on the pavement. Well, when he was down he was in a dreadful way, and he called Philip a dreadful name.” “A name? what name?” Then Caroline told the Doctor the name Mr. Hunt had used ; and if Firmin’s face usually looked wicked, I dare say it did not seem very angclical vhen he heard how this odious name tad been applied to his son. “Can te do Philip a mischief?” Caroline tontinued. “TI thought I was bound 0 tell his father. Look here, Dr. F., don’t want to do my dear boy a jarm. But suppose what you told ‘ne last night is n’t true, — as I don’t hink you much mind !— mind — ‘aying things as are incorrect you now, when us women are in the ase. But suppose when you played ‘he villain, thinking only to take in a ‘or innocent girl of sixteen, it was ou who were took in, and that I was our real wife after all ? There would € a punishment ! ” “IT should have an honest and good ‘ife, Caroline,” said the Doctor with / groan. “This would be a punishment, not ] j | : | | 151 for you, but for my poor Philip,” the woman goes on. ‘ What has he done, that his honest name should be took from him,—and_ his fortune perhaps? I have been lying broad awake all night thinking of him. Ah, George Brandon! Why, why did you come to my poor old father’s house, and bring this misery down on me, and on your child unborn 2” “On myself, the worst of all,” the Doctor. “You deserve it. But-it’s us in- nocent that has had, or will have, to suffer most. O George Brandon! Think of a poor child, flung away, and left to starve and die, without even so much as knowing your real name! Think of your boy, perhaps brought to shame and poverty through your fault ! ” “Do you suppose I don’t often think of my wrong ?” says the Doc- tor. “That it does not cause me sleepless nights, and hours of anguish 2 Ah! Caroline!” and he looks in the glass; ‘“‘I am not shaved, and it’s very unbecoming,” he thinks ; that is, says if 1 may dare to read his thoughts, as I do to report his unheard words. “You think of your wrong now it may be found out, I dare say!” says Caroline. “ Suppose this Hunt turns against you? He is desperate; mad for drink and money; has been in jail, —as he said this very night to me and my papa. He’ll do or say anything. If you treat him hard, and Philip have treated him hard, — not harder than served him right though, —he’ll pull the house down and himself under it; but he ’ll be re- venged. Perhaps he drank so much last night that he may have forgot. But I fear he means mischief, and I came here to say so, and hoping that you might be kep’ on your guard, Doctor F., and if you have to quarrel with him, I don’t know what you ever will do, I am sure,— no more than if you had to fight a chimney- sweep in the street. I have been awake all night thinking, and as soon 152 as ever I saw the daylight, I deter- mined I would run and tell you.” “« When he called Philip that name, did the boy seem much disturbed ¢” asked the Doctor. “Yes; he referred to it again and again, — though I tried to coax him out of it. But it was on his ‘mind last night, and I am sure he will think of it the first thing this morn- ing. Ah yes, Doctor! conscience THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. will sometimes let a gentleman doze : but after discovery has come, and opened your curtains, and said, ‘ You desired to be called early!’ there ’s little use in trying to sleep much. You look very much frightened, Doc- tor F.,” the nurse continues. “ You have n’t such a courage as Philip has ; or as you had when you were a young man, and came a leading poor girls astray. You used to be afraid of nothing then. Do you remember that fellow on board the steamboat in Scotland in our wedding-trip, and, la! I thought you was going to kill him. That poor little Lord Cinqbars told me ever so many stories then about your courage and shooting people. It was n’t very courageous, leaving a poor girl without even a name, and scarce a guinea, was it? But I ain’t come to call up old stories, —only to warn you. Even in old times, when he married us, and I thought he was doing a kindness, I never could abide this horribleman. In Scotland, when you was away shooting with your poor little lord, the things Hunt used to say and look was dreadful. I won- der how ever you, who were gentle- men, could put up with such a fellow! Ah, that was a sad honeymoon. of ours! I wonder why I’m a thinking of it now? Isuppose it’s from hav- _ ing seen the picture of the other one, —poor lady!” “T have told you, Caroline, that I was so wild and desperate at that un- happy time, I was scareely accounta- ble for my actions. If I left you, it was because I had no other resource but flight. I was a ruined, penniless man, but for my marriage with Ellen a 4 Ringwood. You don’t suppose the marriage was happy ? Happy! when | have I ever been happy? My lotus: to be wretched, and: bring wretched- ness down on those I love! On you, on my father, on my wife, on my boy, —Iamadoomedman. Ah, that the: innocent should suffer for me!” And our friend looks askance in the, glass, at the blue chin, and hollow eyes which make his guilt look the more haggard. cK “JT never had my lines,” the Little Sister continued, “I never knew there were papers, or writings, or anything but a ring and aclergyman, when you married me. But I’ve heard tell that people in Scotland don’t want aclergyman atall; andif they call themselves man and wife, they are man and wife. Now, sir’, Mr. and Mrs. Brandon certainly did travel together in Scotland, — witness that man whom you were going “tc throw into the lake for being rude t¢ your wife, —and.... La! Don’t fly out so! It wasn’t me, a pool girl of sixteen, who did wrong. 1 was you, a man of the world, who wai years and years older.” "hae When Brandon carried off his poo: little victim and wife, there had been+ journey to Scotland, where Lor Cinqbars, then alive, had sportiny quarters. His Lordship’s chaplain Mr. Hunt, had been of the party which fate very soon afterwards sepa rated. Death seized on Cinqbars 4 Naples. Debt caused Firmin = Brandon, as he called himself then = to fly the country. ‘The chaplai wandered from jail to jail. Anda for poor little Caroline Brandon,” suppose the husband who had ma’ ried her under a false name thouldl that to escape her, leave her, and di own her altogether was an easier an less dangerous plan than to continv relations with her. So one day, for months after their marriage, the youn couple being then at Dover, Car line’s husband happened to go out fc a walk. But he sent away a por manteau by the back door when I THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. went out for the walk, and as Caro- line was waiting for her little dinner some hours after, the porter who car- ried the luggage came with a little note from her dearest G. B.; and it was full of little fond expressions of regard and affection, such as gentle- men put into little notes ; but dearest G. B. said the bailiffs were upon him, and one of them had arrived that morning, and he must fly; and he took half the money he had, and left half for his little Carry. And he would be back soon, and arrange matters; or tell her where to write and follow him. And she was to take care of her little health, and to write a great deal to her Georgy. And she idid not know how to write very well then; but she did her best, and im- proved a great deal; for, indeed, she wrote a great deal, poor thing. Sheets and sheets of paper she blotted with ink and tears. And then the money was spent; and the next money ; and 0 more came,and no more letters. And she was alone at sea, sinking, sinking, when it pleased Heaven to send that friend who rescued her. It ‘8 such a sad, sad story, that in fact [ don’t like dwelling on it; not caring to look upon poor innocent, trusting creatures in pain. — ..... Well, then, when Caroline exclaimed, “ La! don’t fly out so, Dr. irmin!” I suppose the Doctor had Deen crying out, and swearing fiercely, ut the recollections of his friend Mr. Brandon, and at the danger which oossibly hung over that gentleman. Marriage ceremonies are dangerous ‘isks in jest or in earnest. You can’t »retend to marry even a poor old bank- jupt lodging-house keeper’s daughter vithout some risk of being brought ‘ubsequently to book. If you have a /ulgar wife alive, and afterwards hoose to leave her and marry an arl’s niece, you will come to trouble, owever well connected you are and ighly placed in society. " If you have _ag thirty thousand pounds with wife lo. 2, and have to pay it back on a adden, the payment may be incon- | 7% 153 venient. You may be tried for biga- my, and sentenced, goodness knows to what punishment. At any rate, if the matter is made public, and you are amost respectable man, moving in the highest scientific and social cir- cles, those circles may be disposed to request you to walk out of their cir- cumferencs. A novelist, I know, ought to have no likes, dislikes, pity, partiality for his characters ; but I declare I cannot help feeling a respect- ful compassion for a gentleman who, in consequence of a youthful, and, I ‘am sure, sincerely regretted folly, may be liable to lose his fortune, his place in society, and his considerable prac- tice. Punishment has n’t a right to come with such a pede claudo. There ought to be limitations; and it is shabby and revengeful of Justice to pre- sent her little bill when it has been more than twenty yearsowing. .... Having had his talk out with the Lit- tle Sister, having a long-past crime suddenly taken down from the shelf ; having aremorse, long since supposed to be dead and buried, suddenly starting up in the most blustering, boisterous, inconvenient manner; having a rage and terror tearing him within ; I can fancy this most respect- able physician going about his day’s work, and most sincerely sympathize with him. Who is to heal the physi- cian? Is he not more sick at heart than most of his patients that day ? He has to listen to Lady Megrim cackling for half an hour atleast, and describing her little ailments. He has to listen, and never once to dare to say, ‘“‘ Confound you, old chatter- box! What are you prating about your ailments to me, who am suffer- ing real torture whilst I am smirking in your face?”’ He has to wear the inspiriting smile, to breathe the gen- tle joke, to console, to whisper hope, to administer remedy; and all day, perhaps, he sees no one so utterly sick, so sad, so despairing, as himself. The first person on whom he had to practise hypocrisy that day was his own son, who chose to come to 154 breakfast, — a meal of which son and father seldom now partook in com- pany. “ What does he know, and what does he suspect?” are the father’s thoughts; but a lowering gloom is on Philip’s face, and the father’s eyes look into the son’s, but cannot penetrate their darkness. “Did you stay late last night, Philip ?” says papa. “ Yes, sir, rather late,” answers the son. “Pleasant party +” “No, sir, stupid. Your friend Mr. Hunt wanted to come in. He was drunk, and rude to Mrs. Bran- don, and I was obliged to put him 4 out of the door. He was dreadfully violent and abusive. “ Swore a good deal, I suppose ?” “ Fiercely, sir, and called names.” I dare say Philip’s heart beat so when he said these last words, that they were inaudible: at all events, Philip’s father did not appear to pay much attention to the words, for he was busy reading the Morning Post, and behind that sheet of fashionable news hid whatever expression of agony there might be on his face. Philip afterwards told his present biographer of this breakfast meeting and dreary téte-i-téte. ‘I burned to ask what was the meaning of that scoundrel’s words of the past night,” Philip said to his biographer ; “but I did not dare, somehow. You see, Pendennis, it is not pleasant to say point-blank to your father, ‘Sir, are you a confirmed scoundrel, or are you not? Is it possible that you have made a double marriage, as yonder other rascal hinted ; and that my own legitimacy and my mother’s fair fame, as well as poor, harmless Caroline’s honor and happiness, have been de- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. stroyed by your crime?’ But I had lain awake all night thinking about that scoundrel Hunt’s words, and whether there was any meaning beyond drunken malice in what he said.” So we find that three people had passed a bad night in con- sequence of Mr. Firmin’s evil behav- ior of five-and-twenty years back, which surely was a most unreasona ble punishment for a sin of such old date. I wish, dearly beloved brother sinners, we could take all the punishment for our individual crimes on our indi- vidual shoulders: but we drag them all down with us, — that is the fact; and when Macheath is condemned to hang, it is Polly and Lucy who have to weep and suffer and wear piteous mourning in their hearts long after the dare-devil rogue has jumped off the Tyburn ladder. - “ Well, sir, he did not say a word,” said Philip, recounting the meeting to his friend; “not a word, at least, regarding the matter both of us had on our hearts. But about fashion, parties, politics, he discoursed much. more freely than was usual with him. He said I might have had Lord Ring- wood’s seat for Whipham but for my unfortunate politics. What made a Radical of me, he asked, who was naturally one of the most haughty of men?” (and that, I think, perhaps i am,” says Phil, “and a good many liberal fellows are.””) ‘I should calm down, he was sure, —I should calm down, and be of the politics des hommes du monde.” — oe Philip could not say to his father, “ Sir, it is seeing you cringe before ereat ones that has set my own back up.” There were countless points about which father and son could no! speak ; and an invisible, unexpress L perfectly unintelligible mistrust. al: ways was present when those tw were téte-a-téte. Their meal was scarce ended whet entered to them Mr. Hunt, with hi hat on. I was not present at th time, and cannot speak as a Cel tainty; but I should think at hi ominous appearance Philip may hay, turned red and his father pal “ Now is the time,” both, I dare say thought ; and the Doctor remembere his stormy young days of foreig, gambling, intrigue, and duel, wae he was put on his ground befor adversary, and bidden, at a = Wad THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. signal, to. fire. One, two, three! Each man’s hand was armed with malice and murder. Philip had plenty of pluck for his part, but I should think on such an occasion might be a little nervous and flut- tered, whereas his father’s eye was keen, and his aim rapid and steady. “You and Philip had a ditierence Jast night, Philip tells me,” said the ‘Doctor. “Yes, and I promised he should pay me,” said the clergyman. ~ “And I said I should desire no bet- ter,” says Mr. Phil. _*“ He struck his senior, his father’s friend — a sick man, a clergyman,” gasped Hunt. “Were you to repeat what you did last night, I should repeat what I did,” said Phil. “You insulted a ‘vood woman.” “Tt’s a lie, sir,” cries the other. “You insulted a good woman, a lady in her own house, and | turned you out of it,” said Phil. “17 say again, it is a lie, sir!” screams Hunt, with a stamp on the table. | “That you should give me the lie, ot otherwise, is perfectly immaterial some. But whenever you insult Mrs. Brandon, or any harmless woman in my presence, I shall do my best to thastise you,” cries Philip of the red ‘nustaches, curling them with much lignity. ~ “You hear him, Firmin?” says the arson. “Faith, I do, Hunt!” says the ohysician; “and I think he means what he says, too.” “Oh! you take that line, do you?” ‘ries Hunt of the dirty hands, the lirty teeth, the dirty neckcloth. “T take what you call that line; ind whenever a rudeness is offered to ‘hat admirable woman in my son’s tearing, I shall be astonished if he loes not resent it,” says the Doctor. F Thank you, Philip!” ' The father’s resolute speech and sehavior gave Philip great momentary omfort. Hunt’s words of the night | 155 before had been occupying the young man’s thoughts. Had Firmin been criminal, he could not be so bold. “You talk this way in presence of your son? You have been talking over the matter together before ¢” asks Hunt. ‘““We have been talking over the matter before, — yes. We were en- gaged on it when you came in to breakfast,” says the Doctor. “Shall we go on with the conversation where we left it off 2” “ Well, do, — that is, if you dare,” said the clergyman, somewhat as- tonished. “Philip, my dear, it is ill for a man to hide his head before his own son; but if I am to speak, — and speak I must one day or the other, — why not now @” “Why at all, Firmin?” asks the clergyman, astonished at the other’s rather sudden resolve. “Why? Because I am sick and tired of you, Mr. Tufton Hunt,” cries the physician, in his most lofty manner, ‘‘of you and your presence in my house; your blackguard be- havior and your rascal extortions, — because you will force me to speak one day or the other, — and now, Philip, if you like, shall be the day.” “Hang it, I say! Stop a bit!” cries the clergyman. “J. understand you want some more money from me.” “‘T did promise Jacobs I would pay him to-day, and that was what made me so sulky last night; and, perhaps, I took a little too much. You see my mind was out of order; and what ’s the use of telling a story that is no good to any one, Firmin, — least of all to you,” cries the parson, darkly. “ Because, you ruffian, Ill bear with you no more,” cries the Doctor, the veins of his forehead swelling as he looks fiercely at his dirty ad- versary. ‘In the last nine months, Philip, this man has had nine hun- dred pounds from me.” “The luck has been so very bad, 156 so bad, upon my honor, now,” grum- bles the parson. “To-morrow he will want more ; and the next day more; and the next day more; and, in fine, I won’t live with this accursed man of the sea round my neck. You shall have the story; and Mr. Hunt shall sit by and witness against his own crime and mine. I had been very wild at Cam- bridge, when I was a young man. I had quarrelled with my father, lived with a dissipated set, and beyond my means; and had had my debts paid so often by your grandfather, that I was afraid to ask for more. He was stern to me; I was not dutiful to him. I own my fault. Mr. Hunt can bear witness to what I say. “T was in hiding at Margate, under a false name. You know the name.” “Yes, sir, I think I know the name,” Philip said, thinking he liked his father better now than he had ever liked him. in his life, and sighing, “Ah, if he had always been frank and true with me!” “T took humble lodgings with an obscure family.” (If Dr. Firmin had a prodigious idea of his own grandeur and importance, you see I cannot help it, —and he was long held to be such a respectable man.) ‘And there I found a young girl, — one of the most innocent beings that ever a man played with and betrayed. Betrayed, I own it, Heaven forgive me! The crime has been the shame of my life, and darkened my whole career with misery. I got aman worse than my- self, if that could be. I got Hunt for a few pounds, which he owed me, to make a sham marriage between me and poor Caroline. My money was soon gone. My creditors were after me. I fled the country, and I left her.” “A sham marriage! a sham mar- riage!” cries the clergyman. “ Did n’t you make me perform it by hold- ing a pistol tomy throat? A fellow won’t risk transportation for nothing. But I owed him money for cards, and he had my bill, and he said he would | a wreck THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. let me off, and that’s why I hely him. Never mind. I am out of | business now, Mr. Brummell Fir and you are in it. I have read Act, sir. The clergyman who p forms the marriage is liable to p ishment, if informed against within three years, and it’s twenty years or. more. But you, Mr. Brummell Fir. min, —-your case is different; a you, my young gentleman, with the fiery whiskers, who strike down old. men of a. night, — you may find some. of us know how to revenge ourselves, though we are down.” And with: this, Hunt rushed to his greasy hat, | and quitted the house, discharging imprecations at his hosts as he passed through the hall. Pit Son and father sat awhile silent, after the departure of their common | enemy. At last the father spoke. “This is the sword that has alwa been hanging over my head, and itis | now falling, Philip.” get | “ What can the man do? Is the first marriage a good marriage?” asked Philip, with alarmed face. — “Tt is no marriage. It is void all intents and purposes. Yout suppose I have taken care to learn law about that. Your legitimae: safe, sure enough. But that man can ruin me, or nearly so. He will ty to-morrow, if not to-day. As longa you or I can give him a guinea, he will take it to the gambling-house, 1 had the mania on me myself onee. My poor father quarrelled with me im consequence, and died without seeing me. I married your mother— Heaven help her, poor soul! and fo give me for being but a harsh~ band to her— with a view of men ing my shattered fortunes. I wi she had been more happy, poor thing: But do not blame me utterly, Philip: I was desperate, and she wish the marriage so much! I had looks and high spirits in those People said so.’ (And he glances obliquely at his ow some portrait.) “Now lama 12? e “J conceive, sir, that this will an- oy you; but how can it ruin you?” iked Philip. “What becomes of my practice as family physician? The practice is ot now what it was, between our- ‘Ives, Philip, and the expenses seater than you imagine. I have ade unlucky speculations. If you ‘unt upon much increase of wealth ‘om me, my boy, you will be disap- »inted ; though you were never mer- ‘mary, no, never. But the story ‘uited about by this rascal, of a phy- sian of eminence engaged in two ‘arriages, do you suppose my rivals on’t hear it, and take advantage of ‘—my patients hear it, and avoid aa? ““Make terms with the man at once, en, sir, and silence him.” “To make terms with a gambler is ypossible. My purse is always there ‘en for him to thrust his hand into ten he loses. No man can with- ‘md such a temptation. I am glad w have never fallen into it. I have _arrelled with you sometimes for liv- ‘g with people below your rank: rhaps you were right, and I was ong. I have liked, always did, I in’t disguise it, to live with persons ‘station. And these, when I was | the University, taught me play and ‘wayagance; and in the world vent helped me much. Who juld? Who would?” and_ the ctor relapsed into meditation. ‘A little catastrophe presently oc- ered, after which Mr. Philip Firmin id me the. substance of this story. “deseribed his father’s long acqui- cence in Hunt’s demands, and sud- (1 resistance to them, and was at a ls to account for the change. I did 1 tell my friend in express terms, » I fancied I could account for the nge of behavior. Dr. Firmin, in interviews with Caroline, had had tind set at rest about one part of “danger. The Doctor need no ger fear the charge of a double tage. The Little Sister resigned past, present, future. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 157 If a gentleman is sentenced to be hung, I wonder is it a matter of com- fort to him or not to know beforehand the day of the operation? Hunt would take his revenge. When and how? Dr. Firmin asked himself. Nay, possibly, you will have to learn that this eminent practitioner walked about with more than danger hang- ing imminent over him. Perhaps it was a rope: perhaps it was a sword: some weapon of: execution, at any rate, as we frequently may see. A day passes: no assassin darts at the Doctor as he threads the dim opera- colonnade passage on his way to his club. A week goes by: no stiletto is plunged into his well-wadded breast as he steps from his carriage at some noble patient’s door. Philip says he never knew his father more pleasant, easy, good-humored, and affable than during this period, when he must have felt that a danger was hanging over him of which his son at this time had no idea. I dined in Old Parr Street once in this memorable period (memorable it seemed to me from im- mediately subsequent events). Never was the dinner better served: the wine more excellent: the guests and conversation more gravely respectable than at this entertainment; and my neighbor remarked with pleasure how the father and son seemed to be on much better terms than ordinary. The Doctor addressed Philip pointed- ly once or twice; alluded to his for- eign travels, spoke of his mother’s family, —it was most gratifying to see the pair together. Day after day passes so. The enemy has disap- peared. At least, the lining of his dirty hat is no longer visible on the broad marble table of Dr. Firmin’s hall. But one day — it may be ten days after the quarrel —a little messenger’ comes to Philip; and says, “ Philip dear, I am sure there is something wrong ; that horrible Hunt has been here with a very quiet, soft-spoken old gentleman, and they have been going on with my poor pa about my 158 wrongs and his, — his, indeed ! — and they have worked him up to believe that somebody has cheated his daugh- ter out of a great fortune; and who ean that somebody be but your father ? And whenever they see me coming, apa and that horrid Hunt go off to the ‘Admiral Byng’: and one night when pa came home he said, ‘ Bless you, bless you, my poor, innocent, injured child; and blessed you will be, mark a fond father’s words ! f They are scheming something against Philip and Philip’s father. Mr. Bond the soft-spoken old gentleman’s name ~ THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. is: and twice there has been a Mr. Walls to inquire if Mr. Hunt was at our house.”’ “Mr. Bond ?— Mr. Walls ?—A gentleman of the name of Bond was Uncle Twysden’s attorney. An old gentleman, with a bald head, and one eye bigger than the other 2” “ Well, this old man has one smaller than the other, I do think,” says Caroline. “ First man who came was Mr. Walls, —a rattling young fashionable chap, always laughing, talking about theatres, op- eras, everything, — came home from the ‘Byng’ along with pa and his new friend, —oh! I do hate him, that man, that Hunt !— then he brought the old man, this Mr. Bond. What are they scheming against you, Philip? I tell you this matter is all about you and your father.” Years and years ago, in the poor mother’s lifetime, Philip remembered an outbreak of wrath on his father’s part, who called Uncle Twysden a. swindling miser, and this very Mr. Bond a scoundrel who deserved to be hung, for interfering in some way in the management of a part of the prop- erty which Mrs. Twysden and her sister inherited from their own moth- er. That quarrel had been made up, as such quarrels are. The brothers- in-law had continued to mistrust each good terms together. Philip’s unel lawyers engaged with his fat debtor and enemy against Dr. min: the alliance boded no good “J won’t tell you what I thi Philip,” said the father. “ You fond of your cousin 2”), 7 ae “Oh! forev—” ey “Forever, of course! At least! until we change our mind, or of us grows tired, or finds a be mate!” i “Ah, sir!” cries Philip, but denly stops in his remonstrance. — «"What were you going to- Philip, and why do you pause?” “T was going to say, father, 1 might without offending, that It you judge hardly of women. Tk two who haye been very fait you.” «“ And I a traitor to both of Yes ; and my remorse, Philip, remorse!” says his father im deepest tragedy voice, clutching hand over a heart that I beliey very coolly. But, psha! why an Philip’s biographer, going out of way to abuse Philip’s papa? 4s the threat of bigamy and exp¢ enough to disturb any man’s nimity ? I say again, suppo is another sword — a rope, if you so call it — hanging over the h our Damocles of Old Parr Sti _... Howbeit, the father and son met and parted in these days? ‘unusual gentleness and cordie And these were the last days in they were to meet together could Philip recall without sa tion, afterwards, that the han he took was pressed and given real kindness and cordiality. Why were these the last day: and father were to pass tog Dr. Firmin is still alive. Phil very tolerably prosperous gent He and his father parted goo and it is the biographer’s bust narrate how and wherefore. other; but there was no reason why the feud should descend to the chil- dren; and Philip and his aunt, and one of her daughters at least, were on Philip told his father that | Bond and Selby, his uncle Tw: attorneys, were suddenly i — THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 159 bout Mr. Brandon and his affairs, he father instantly guessed, though he son was too simple as yet to inderstand, how it was that these fentlemen interfered. If Mr. Bran- {on-Firmin’s marriage with Miss tingwood was null, her son was ille- ‘itimate, and her fortune went to her ister. Painful as such a duty might e to such tender-hearted people as ur Twysden acquaintances to de- rive a dear nephew of his fortune, et, after all, duty is duty, and a arent must sacrifice everything for ustice and his own children. ‘“ Had been in such a case,” Talbot Twys- em subsequently and repeatedly de- vared, “‘I should never have been | ‘sy a moment if I thought I pos- sssed wrongfully a beloved nephew’s roperty. 1 could not have slept in vace; I could not have shown y face at my own club, or to my Wn conscience, had I the weight of tch an injustice on my mind.” In “word, when he found that there asa chance of annexing Philip’s tare of the property to his own, ‘wysden saw clearly that his duty as to stand by his own wife and uildren. ‘The information upon which Talbot epcen, Esq., acted, was brought to m at his office by a gentleman in ngy black, who, after a long inter- 2w with him, accompanied him to s lawyer, Mr. Bond, before men- med. . Here, in South Square, ‘tey’s Inn, the three gentlemen held ‘consultation, of which the results ‘gan quickly to show themselves. ess. Bond and Selby had an ex- edingly lively, cheerful, jovial, and velligent confidential clerk, who ? utmost affability, and was ac- og with a thousand queer ngs, and queer histories about eer people in this town; who lent ey; who wanted money; who Sin debt: and who was outrunning constable ; whose diamonds were ‘pawn; whose estates were over- tgaged; who was over-building ‘mbined business and pleasure with | himself; who was casting eyes of longing at what pretty opera dancer, —about races, fights, ‘bill-brokers, qucqud agunt homines. This Tom Walls had a deal of information, and imparted it so as to make you die of laughing. The Reverend Tufton Hunt brought this jolly fellow first to the “ Admiral Byng,” where his amiability won all hearts at the club. At the “ Byng,” it was not very difficult to gain Cap- tain Gann’s easy confidence. And this old man was, in the course of a very trifling consumption of rum-and- water, brought to see that his daugh- ter had been the object of a very wicked conspiracy, and was the right- ful and most injured wife of a man who ought to declare her fair fame before the world, and put her in pos- session of a portion of his great fortune. A great fortune? How great a fortune? Was it three hundred thousand, say? Those doctors, many of them, had fifteen thousand a year. Mr. Walls (who perhaps knew better) was not at liberty to say what the fortune was: but it was a shame that Mrs. Brandon was kept out of her rights, that was clear. Old Gann’s excitement, when this matter was first broached to him (under vows of profound secrecy) was so intense that his old reason tottered on its rickety old throne. He well- nigh burst with longing to speak upon this mystery. Mr. and Mrs. Oves, the esteemed landlord and lady of the “ Byng,” never saw him so excited. He had a great opinion of the judgment of his friend, Mr. Rid- ley ; in fact, he must have gone to Bedlam, unless he had talked to somebody on this most nefarious transaction, which might make the blood of every Briton curdle with horror, — as he was free to say. Old Mr. Ridley was of a much cooler temperament, and altogether a more cautious person. The Doctor rich? He wished to tell no secrets, nor to meddle in no gentleman’s affairs: but he have heard very difter- 160 ent statements regarding Dr. Firmin’s affairs. When dark hints about treason, wicked desertion, rights denied, “and a great fortune which you are kep’ out of, my poor Caroline, by a ras- cally wolf in sheep’s clothing, you are; and I always mistrusted him, from the moment I saw him, and said to your mother, ‘ Emily, that Bran- don is a bad fellow, Brandon is’ ; and bitterly, bitterly I’ve rued ever receiving him under my _ roof.” When specches of this nature were made to Mrs. Caroline, strange to say, the little lady made light of them. “0, nonsense, Pa! Don’t be bringing that sad old story up again. I have suffered enough from it already. ,If Mr. F. left me, he was n’t the only one who flung me away; and I have been able to live, thank mercy, through it all.” This was a hard hit, and not to be parried. The truth is, that when poor Caroline, deserted by her hus- band, had come back, in wretched- ness, to her father’s door, the man, and the wife who then ruled him, had thought fit to thrust her away. And she had forgiven them: and had been enabled to heap a rare quantity of coals on that old gentleman’s head. When the captain remarked his daughter’s indifference and unwilling- ness to reopen this painful question of her sham marriage with Firmin, his wrath was moved, and his suspicion excited. “Ha!” says he, “have this man been a tampering with you again?” “ Nonsense, Pa!’’? once more says Caroline. “I tell you, it is this fine- talking lawyers’ clerk has been tam- pering with you. You’re made a tool of, Pa! and you’ve been made a tool of all your life!” “ Well, now, upon my honor, my good madam,” interposes Mr. Walls. “Don’t talk to me, sir! I don’t want any lawyers’ clerks to meddle in my business!” cries Mrs. Brandon, very briskly. “I don’t know what you’re come about. I don’t want to THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. know, and I’m most certain it no good.” ie ‘“T suppose it was the ill success o his ambassador that brought Mt Bond himself to Thornhaugh Street and a more kind, fatherly, little may never looked than Mr. Bond, — he may have had one eye smalle than the other. ‘ What is this, m dear madam, I hear from my confi dential clerk, Mr. Walls?” he askec of the Little Sister. “‘ You refuse t give him your confidence because hi is only aclerk? I wonder whethe: is fo) you will accord it to me as a pring al ta" eee “She may, sir, she may, — ever} confidence!” says the Captain, lay ing his hand on that snuffy satu waistcoat which all his friends so long admired on him. “She might hay spoken to Mr. Walls.” ih “Mr. Walls is not a family man Iam. Ihave children at home, Mrs Brandon, as old as you are,” says the benevolent Bond. ‘I would hav justice done them, and for you too.” “You’re very good to take s much trouble about me all of asud den, to be sure,” says Mrs. Brandon demurely. ‘I suppose you don’t d it for nothing.” aE: “T should not require much fee t help a good woman to her rights and a lady I don’t think needs mucl persuasion to be helped to her advan tage,” remarks Mr. Bond. Bee “That depends who the helper is. “ Well, if I can do you no harm and help you possibly to a name, to. fortune, to a high place in the world I don’t think you need be frightenec I don’t look very wicked or very ar' ful, do 1?” igi)! “ Many is that don’t look so. 1’ learned as much as that about yo gentlemen,” remarks Mrs. Brandon “You have been wronged by on man, and doubt all.” oe “Not all. Some, sir!” “Doubt about me if I can by possibility injure you. But how why should I? Your good knows what has brought me h rags hietd a THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ave no secret from him. Have I, Mr. Gann, or Captain Gann, as Ihave leard you addressed ?”’ “Mr., sir, — plain Mr. —No, sir; our conduct have been most open, ijonorable, and like a gentleman. Yeither would you, sir, do aught to isparage Mrs. Brandon; neither rould I, her father. Noways, I hink, would a parent do harm to his wn child. May Ioffer you any re- reshment, sir ?’’ andashaky, a dingy, ut a hospitable hand is laid upon he glossy cupboard, in which Mrs. srandon keeps her modest little store f strong waters. “Not one drop, thank you! You rust me, I think, more than Mrs. tr —I beg your pardon — Mrs. irandon, is disposed to do.” At the utterance of that monosyl- ible %rm Caroline became so white, ad trembled so, that her interlocutor ‘opped, rather alarmed at the effect f his word— his word ! — his syllable fa word. The old lawyer recovered himself ‘ith much grace. “Pardon me, madam,” he said: Tknow your wrongs; I know your ost melancholy history; I know our name, and was going to use it, utit seemed to renew painful recol- ietions to you, which I would not eedlessly recall.” ‘Captain Gann took out a snuffy ocket-handkerchief, wiped two red res and a shirt-front, and winked at t€ attorney, and gasped in a pathetic canner. ‘You know my story and name, t, who are a stranger to me. Have ou told this old gentleman all about eand my affairs, Pa?” asks Caro- Je, with some asperity. “ Have you ld him that my ma never gave mea ord of kindness, — that I toiled for yucand her like a servant, — and hen I came back to you, after being ‘ceived and deserted, that you and ‘@ shut the door in my face? You d! you did! I forgive you; but a idred thousand billion years can’t end that injury, father, while you 161 broke a poor child’s heart with it that day! My pa has told you all this, Mr. What’s-your-name ? I’m s’prised he didn’t find something pleasanter to talk about, I’m sure!” “My love!” interposed the Cap- tain. “Pretty love! to go and tell a stranger in a public-house, and ever so many there besides, I suppose, your daughter’s misfortunes, Pa, Pretty love! 'That’s what I’ve had from you!” “Not a soul, on the honor of a gen- tleman, except me and Mr. Walls.” “Then what do you come to talk about me at all for? and what scheme on hearth are you driving at? and what brings this old man here?” cries the landlady of Thornhaugh Street, stamping her foot. “ Shall I tell you frankly, my good lady ¢ I called you Mrs. Firmin now, because, on my honor and word, I believe such to be your rightful name, — because you are the lawful wife of George Brand Firmin. If such be your lawful name, others bear it who have no right to bear it, —and in- herit property to which they can lay no just claim. In the year 1827, you, Caroline Gann, a child of sixteen, were married by a clergyman whom you know, to George Brand Firmin, calling himself George Brandon. He was guilty of deceiving you; but you were guilty of no deceit. He was a hardened and wily man, but you were an innocent child out of a schoolroom. And though he thought the marriage was not binding upon him, binding it is by Act of Parlia- ment and judges’ decision, and you are as assuredly George Firmin’s wife, madam, as Mrs. Bond is mine!” “You have been cruelly injured, Caroline,” says the Captain, wagging his old nose over his handkerchief. Caroline seemed to be very well versed in the law of the transaction. “You mean, sir,” she said slowly, “that if me and Mr. Brandon was married to each other, he knowing that he was only playing at marriage, K 162 and me believing that it was all for good, we are really married.” “Undoubtedly you are, madam, — my client has— that is, 1 have had advice on the point.” “But if we both knew that it was — was only a sort of a marriage — an irregular marriage, you know # - THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. “Then the Act says that to all in- tents and purposes the marriage is null and void.”’ “But you didn’t know, my poor innocent child!” cries Mr. Gann. “How should you? How old was you? Shewas a child in the nursery, Mr. Bond, when the villain inveigled her away from her poor old father. She knew nothing of irregular mar- riages.” “Of course she didn’t, the poor creature,” cries the old gentleman, rubbing his hands together with per- fect good-humor. ‘Poor young thing, poor young thing!” As he was speaking, Caroline, very pale and still, was sitting looking at Ridley’s sketch of Philip, which hung in her little room. Presently she turned round on the attorney, folding her little hands over her work. “Mr. Bond,” she said, “ girls, though they may be ever so young, know more than some folks fancy. I was more than sixteen when that — that business happened. I wasn’t happy at home, and eager to get away. I knew that a gentleman of his rank would n’t be likely really to marry a poor Cinderella out of a lodging-house, like me. If the truth must be told, 1—I knew it was no marriage —never thought it was a marriage — not for good, you know.” And she folds her little hands to- gether as she utters the words, and I dare say once more looks at Philip’s portrait. “Gracious goodness, madam, you must be under some error !”’ cries the attorney. ‘‘ How should a child like you know that the marriage was: ir- regular ?”’ “ Because I had no lines!” cries Caroline quickly. ‘ Never asked for none! And our maid we had t¢ said to me, ‘Miss Carry, whe your lines? And it’s no good wit out.’ And I knew it wasn’t! And I’m ready to go before the Lord Chancellor to-morrow and say so!” cries Caroline, to the bewilderment of her father and her cross-exami nant. ah «Pause, pause ! my good madam!” exclaims the meek old gentleman, rising from his chair. | “ Go and tell this to them as sen’ you, sir!” cries Caroline, very im, periously, leaving the lawyer amazed and her father’s face in a bewilder ment, over which we will fling hi snuffy old pocket-handkerchief. «Tf such is unfortunately the case! — if you actually mean to abide by this astonishing confession, — whiel) deprives you of a high place in socie ty, —and — and casts down the hopi we had formed of redressing your in jured reputation, —I have nothing for it! I take my leave, mada Good morning, Mr. Hum!—M) Gann!” And the old lawyer walk| out of the Little Sister’s room. “ She won’t own to the marriage She is fond of some one else, th little suicide!” thinks the old] as he clatters down the street neighboring house, where his an principal was in waiting. “ fond of some one else!” 7 Yes. But the some one else who! Caroline loved was Brand Firmin son; and it was to save Philip fro) ruin that the poor Little Sister cho. to forget her marriage to his father. ‘Fh old folks and ladies peep over battlements, to watch the turns ! the combat, and the behavior ¢ knights. To princesses in old d whose lovely hands were to t stowed upon the conqueror, | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. vave been a matter of no small inter- ‘st to know whether the slim young hampion with the lovely eyes on the nilk-white steed should vanquish, or je dumpy, elderly, square - shoul- ered, squinting, carroty whiskerando fa warrior who was laying about im so savagely ; and so in this bat- @, on the issue of which depended 1¢ keeping or losing of poor Philip’s theritance, there were several non- ymabatants deeply interested. Or ippose we withdraw the chivalrous ‘mile (as in fact the conduct and jews of certain parties engaged in ‘le matter were anything but what ‘e call chivalrous), and imagine a ily old monkey who engages a cat y take certain chestnuts out of the ve, and pussy putting her paw arough the bars, seizing ‘the nut and aen dropping it? Jacko is disap- ‘oimted and angry, shows his sharp ‘eth, and bites if he dares. When ‘1e attorney went down to do battle wr Philip’s patrimony, some of those ho wanted it were spectators of the ‘rht, and lurking up a tree hard by. /hen Mr. Bond came forward to 'y and seize Phil’s chestnuts, there ‘asa wily old monkey who thrust ie cat’s paw out, and proposed to »bble up the smoking prize. Tf you have ever been at the “ Ad- ‘iral Byng,” you know, my dear adam, that the parlor where the ‘ub meets is just behind Mrs. ‘ves’s bar, so that by lifting up the ‘sh of the window which communi- Wee between the two apartments, ‘at good-natured woman may put her ‘ce into the club-room, and actually ‘one of the society. Sometimes for ‘mpany, old Mr. Ridley goes and Ss with Mrs. O in her bar, and ‘ads the paper there. He is slow at sreading. The long words puzzle € worthy gentleman. As he has enty of time to spare, he does not ‘udge it to the study of his paper. On the day when Mr. Bond went “persuade Mrs. Brandon in Thorn- ‘ugh Street to claim Dr. Firmin for 'r husband, and to disinherit poor 163 Philip, a little gentleman wrapt most solemnly and mysteriously in a great cloak appeared at the bar of the “ Admiral Byng,” and said in an aristocratic manner, “You have a parlor, show me to it.” And being introduced to the parlor (where there are fine pictures of Oves, Mrs. O , and “ Spotty-nose,” their fay- orite defunct bull-dog), sat down and called for a glass of sherry and a news- paper. Tike civil and intelligent potboy of the “ Byng” took the party The Ad- vertiser of yesterday (which to-day’s paper was in ’and) and when the gentleman began to swear over the old paper, Frederic gave it as his opinion to his mistress that the new- comer was a harbitrary gent, — as, indeed, he was, with the omission, perhaps, of a single letter; a man who bullied everybody who would submit to be bullied. In fact, it was our friend Talbot Twysden, Esq., Commissioner of the Powder and Pomatum Office; and I leave those who know him to say whether he is arbitrary or not. To him presently came that bland old gentleman, Mr. Bond, who also asked for a parlor and some sherry- and-water; and this is how Philip and his veracious and astute biog- rapher came to know for a certainty that dear uncle Talbot was the person who wished to—to have Philip’s chestnuts. Mr. Bond and Mr. Twysden had been scarcely a minute together, when such a storm of imprecations came clattering through the glass-window which communicates with Mrs. Oves’s bar, that I dare say they made the jugs and tumblers clatter on the shelves, and Mr. Ridley, a very mod- est-spoken man, reading his paper, — lay it down with a scared face, and say, — “ Well, Inever.’”’ Nor did he often, I dare to say. This volley was fired by Talbot Twysden, in consequence of bis rage at the news which Mr. Bond brought him. 164 “ Well, Mr. Bond ; well, Mr. Bond! What does she say ?”’ he asked of his emissary. “ She will have nothing to do with the business, Mr. Twysden. We can’t touch it; and I don’t see how we can move her. She denies the marriage as much as Firmin does: says she knew it was a mere sham when the ceremony was performed.” “ Sir, you did n’t bribe her enough,” THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 3 shricked Mr. Twysden. ‘“‘ You have bungled this business ; by George you have, sir.”’ “ Go and do it yourself, sir, if you are not ashamed to appear in it,” says the lawyer. “You don’t suppose I did it because I liked it; or want to take that poor young fellow’s inheritance from him, as you do.” “I wish justice and the law, sir. If I were wrongfully detaining his property I would give it up. Iwould be the first to give it up. I desire justice and law, and employ you because you are a law agent. Are you not?” “«« And I have been on your errand, and shall send in my bill in due time ; and there will be an end of my con- nection with you as your law agent, Mr. Twysden,” cried the old lawyer. “ You know, sir, how badly Firmin acted to me in the last matter.” “ Faith, sir, if you ask my opinion as a law agent, I don’t think there was much to choose between you. How much is the sherry-and-water ? — keep the change. Sorry I had no better news to bring you, Mr. T’., andas you are dissatisfied, arain recommend you to employ another law agent.” “My good sir, 1—” “My good sir, I have had other dealings with your family, and am no more going to put up with your highti-tightiness than I would with Lord Ringwood’s when I was one of his law agents. I am not going to tell Mr. Philip Firmin that his uncle and aunt propose to ease him of his property; but if anybody else does — that good little Mrs. Brandon —or that old goose Mr. What-d’ye-call-um, her father, —I don’t suppose he wil be over well pleased. I am speakin, as a gentleman now, not as a lay agent. You and your nephew ha each a halfshare of Mr. Philip Fir min’s grandfather’s property, and yoi wanted it all, that’s the truth, am set a law agent to get it for you; am swore at him because he could not ge it from its right owner. And s0, sii I wish you a good-morning, and rec ommend you to take your papers t some other agent, Mr. ‘Twysden. And with this, exit Mr. Bond. An now, I ask you if that secret could b kept which was known through — trembling glass door to Mrs. Ovyes 0 the “Admiral Byng,”’ and to M Ridley the father of J. J., and th obsequious husband of Mrs. Ridley On that very afternoon, at tea-tim¢ Mrs. Ridley was made acquainted b her husband (in his noble and cireum locutory manner) with the conyers tion which he had overheard. It wa agreed that an embassy should be ser to J. J. on the business, and his adyic taken regarding it; and J.J.’s opinio was that‘ the conversation certainl should be reported to Mr. Philip Fi min, who might afterwards act upo it as he should think best. ge | What? His own aunt, cousin) and uncle agreed in a scheme to Ove) throw his legitimacy, and depriy, him of his grandfather’s inheritance It seemed impossible. Big with tl tremendous news, Philip came oa adviser, Mr. Pendennis, of the Ter ple, and told him what had oceurre on the part of father, uncle, and Litt Sister. Her abnegation had been | noble that you may be sure Phil appreciated it; and a tie of friendsh was formed between the young mi and the little lady even more clo and tender than that which hi bound them previously. But Twysdens, his kinsfolk, to emp! lawyer in order to rob him inheritance! — O, it was dasta Philip bawled, and stamped, thumped his sense of the wro ‘his usual energetic manner. — THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘scousin, Ringwood Twysden, Phil ad often entertained a strong desire / wring his neck and pitch him own stairs. “ As for Uncle Talbot: ‘at he is an old pump, that he is a mipous old humbug, and the queer- told sycophant, I grant you; but I yald n't have believed him guilty of is. And as for the girls — O Mrs. endennis, you who are good, you ho are kind, although you hate em, I know you do,—you can’t 4y, you won’t say, that they were in ia conspiracy ¢” “But suppose Twysden was ask- g only for what he conceives to be s rights?’”? asked Mr. Pendennis. ‘Had your father been married to its. Biandon, you would not have ven Dr. Firmin’s legitimate son. fad you not been his legitimate son, bu had no right to a half-share of our grandfather's property. Uncle Yalbot acts only the part of honor ad justice in the transaction. He Brutus, and he orders you off to ath with a bleeding heart.” » “And he orders his family out of ne way,” roars Phil, ‘“‘so that they iayn’t be pained by seeing the exe- ition! I see it all now. I wish mebody would send a knife through be ated and put anend tome. I ‘eit all now. Do you know that r the last week I have been to Beau- ish Street and found nobody? Ag- 48 had the bronchitis, and her moth- was attending to her; Blanche me for a minute or two, and was as ‘ol—as cool as I have seen Lady ‘eberg be cool to her. Then they ‘ast go away for change of air. hey have been gone these three “ys: whilst Uncle Talbot and that per of a Ringwood have been clos- 2d with their nice new friend, Mr. unt. O conf ! I beg your _rdon, ma’am; but I know you al- ays allow for the energy of my lan- lage.” 7 should like to see that Little ster, Mr. Firmin. She has not en selfish, or had any scheme but * your good,” remarks my, wife. 165 “A little angel who drops her h’s, —a little heart, so good and tender that I melt as I think of it,” says Philip, drawing his big hand over his eyes. “ What have men done to get the love of some women? We don’t earn it ; we don’t deserve it, perhaps. We don’t return it. They bestow it on us. I have given nothing back for all this love and kindness, but I look a little like my father of old days, for whom — for whom she had an attachment. And see now how she would die to serve me! You are wonderful, women are! your fidelities and your ficklenesses alike marvel- lous. What can any woman haye found to adore in the Doctor? Do you think my father could ever have been adorable, Mrs. Pendennis 2? And yet I have heard my poor mother say she was obliged to marry him. She knew it was a bad match, but she could n’t resist it. In what was my father so irresistible? He is not to my taste. Between ourselves, I think he is a— well, never mind what.” “JT think we had best not mind what !”’ says my wife with a smile. “ Quite right — quite right; only I blurt out everything that is on my mind. Can’t keep it in,” cries Phil, gnawing his mustachios. “If my fortune depended on my silence I should be a beggar, that’s the fact. And, you see, if you had such a fa- ther as mine, you yourself would find it rather difficult to hold your tongue about him. But now, tell me: this ordering away of the girls and Aunt Twysden, whilst the little attack upon my property is being carried on, — is n’tit queer?” “The question is at an end,” said Mr. Pendennis. ‘‘ You are restored to your atavis regibus and ancestral honors. Now that Uncle T’wysden- can’t get the property without you, have courage, my boy, —he may take it, along with the encumbrance.” Poor Phil had not known, — but some of us, who are pretty clear-sight- ed when our noble selves are not con- cerned, had perceived that Philip’s 166 dear aunt was playing fast and loose with the lad, and when his back was turned was encouraging a richer suit- or for her daughter. Hand on heart I can say of my wife, that she meddles with her neigh- bors as little as any person I ever knew ; but when treacheries in love affairs are in question, she fires up at once, and would persecute to death almost the heartless male or female criminal who would break love’s sa- cred laws: The idea of a man or wo- man trifling with that holy compact awakens in her a flame of indignation. In curtain confidences (of which let me not vulgarize the arcana) she had given me her mind about some of Miss Twysden’s behavior with that odious blackamoor, as she chose to call Captain Woolcomb, who, I own had a very slight tinge of complexion ; and when, quoting the words of Ham- let regarding his father and mother, LT asked, ‘ Could she on this fair moun- tain leave to feed, and batten on this Moor?” Mrs. Pendennis cried out that this matter was all too serious for jest, and wondered how her husband could make word plays about it. Perhaps she has not the exquisite sense of humor possessed by some folks ; or is it that she has more rev- erence? In her creed, if not in her church, marriage is a sacrament, and the fond believer never speaks of it without awe. Now, as she expects both parties to the marriage engagement to keep that compact holy, she no more under- stands trifling with it than she could comprehend laughing and joking in a church. She has no patience with flirtations as they arecalled. “Don’t tell me, sir,” says the enthusiast, “a light word between a man and a married woman ought not to be per- mitted.” And this is why she is harder on the woman than the man, in cases where such dismal matters happen to fall under discussion. A look, a word from a woman, she says, will check a libertine thought or word in a man; and these cases might be = r THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. stopped at once if the woman showed the slightest resolution. 8 is thus more angry (1 am only m tioning the peculiarities, not defendi the ethics of this individual moralis — she is, I say, more angrily dispos towards the woman than the man such delicate cases: and, I am afta considers that women are for the m part only victims because they cho to be so. Ai Now, we had happened during | season to be at several entertainme) routs, and so forth, where poor PF) owing to his unhappy Bohemian}, erences and lov: of tobadéeo, &&., ¥ not present,— and where we Miss Agnes Twy ‘en carrying oni a game with the ony Woogouiy set Mrs. Laur: a tremor Of fy nation. What ough Agnems)) eyed mamma ¢ near her blue daughter and k_ ~ her keen clearo, perfeetly wide o, » and cognizant all that happened? So much | worse for her, the worse for both. was a shame and a sin that a Chi tian Lnglish mother’should suffer | daughter to deal lightly with the my holy, the most awful of human tracts ; should be preparing her eli who knows for what after misery mind and soul. Three months 4 you saw how she encouraged Philip, and now see her with this » latto ! iW, “Ts he not a man, and a brot! my dear?” perhaps at this Mr. dennis interposes. ae ‘“Q, for shame, Pen, no levity. this — no sneers and laughter of | most sacred subject of all.” & here, I dare say, the woman falls caressing her own children and ly ging them to her heart as her mati was when moved. Que voulev0 There are some women in the we, to whom love and truth are all in) here below. Other ladies there who see the benefit of a good jom'\ a town and country house, #1)! forth, and who are not so very J ular as to the character, inte complexion of gentlemen who: ition to offer their dear girls these nefits. In fine, I say, that regard- ug this blue-eyed mother and daugh- fer, Mrs. Laura Pendennis was in gueh a state of mind that she was beady to tear their blue eyes out. _ Nay, it was with no little difficulty that Mrs. Laura could be induced to hold her tongue upon the matter and not give Philip her opinion. ‘‘ What?” she would ask, ‘‘ the poor young man # to be deceived and cajoled ; to be taken or left as it suits these people ; to be made miserable for life certainly if she marries him; and his friends are not to dare to»warn him? The cowards! The cc ~ardice of you men, Pen, upon matters of opinion, of you masters and lore» sf!treation, is really despicable, sir! ~ su dare not have opinions, or hole’ g them you dare nob declare the ‘and act by them. You compromise with crime every day because yov' sink it would be of- ‘ious to declare yourself and inter- fire, You are not afraid of outraging nidrals, but of inflicting ennui upon so- eiety, and losing your popularity. You ave as cynical as —as, what was the naime of the horrid old man who lived in the tub — Demosthenes ? — well, Diogenes then, and the name does not fatter a pin,sir. You are as cynical, ily you wear fine ruffled shirts and ristbands, and you carry your lan- fern dark. It is not right to ‘put your oar in,’ as you say in your Jar- fon (and even your slang is a sort of cowardice, sir, for you are afraid to speak the feelings of your heart :) — it is not right to meddle and speak the vuth, not right to rescue a poor soul whoisdrowning—of course not. What eall have you fine gentlemen of the world to put your oar in? Let him per- ‘sh! What did he in that galley? Thatis the language of the world, daby, darling. And, my poor, poor vhild, when you are sinking, nobody is ‘0 Stretch out a hand to save you!” As for that wife of mine, when she sets ‘orth the maternal plea, and appeals to he exuberant school of philosophers, (know there is no reasoning with her. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 167 I retire to my books, and leave her to kiss out the rest of the argument over the children. Philip did not know the extent of the obligation which he owed to his little friend and guardian, Caroline; but he was aware that he had no bet- ter friend than herself in the world; and, I dare say, returned to her, as the wont is in such bargains between man and woman — woman and man, at least — a sixpence for that pure gold treasure, her sovereign affection. I suppose Caroline thought her sac- rifice gave her a little authority to counsel Philip; for she it was who, I believe, first bid him to inquire whether that engagement which he had virtually contracted with his cousin was likely to lead to good, and was to be binding upon him but not on her? She brought Ridley to add his doubts to her remonstrances. She showed Philip that not only his un- cle’s conduct, but his cousin’s, was interested, and set him to inquire into it further. That peculiar form of bronchitis under which poor dear Agnes was suffering was relieved by absence from London. The smoke, the crowded parties and assemblies, the late hours, and, perhaps, the gloom of the house in Beaunash Street, distressed the poor dear child; and her cough was very much soothed by that fine, cut- ting east wind, which blows so lib- erally along the Brighton cliffs, and which is so good for coughs, as we all know. But there was one fault in Brighton which could not be helped in her bad case: it is too near Lon- don. The air, that chartered liber- tine, can blow down from London quite easily ; or people can come from London to Brighton, bringing, I dare say, the insidious London fog along with them. At any rate, Agnes, if she wished for quiet, poor thing, might have gone farther and fared better. Why, if you owe a tailor a bill, he can run down and present it in a few hoyrs. Vulgar, inconven- ient acquaintances thrust themselves 168 upon you at every moment and cor- Was ever such a tohubohu of ner. people as there assembles ? You can’t be tranquil, if you will. Or- gans pipe and scream without cease at your windows. Your name is put down in the papers when you arrive ; and everybody meets everybody ever so many times a day. On finding that his uncle had set lawyers to work, with the charita- ble purpose of ascertaining whether Philip’s property was legitimately his own, Philip was a good deal disturbed in mind. He could not appreciate that high sense of moral obligation by which Mr. Twysden was actuated. At least, he thought that these in- quiries should not have been secretly set afoot; and as he himself was perfectly open —a great deal too open, perhaps —in his words and his actions, he was hard with those who attempted to hoodwink or de- ceive him. It could not be; ah! no, it never could be, that Agnes the pure and gentle was privy to this conspiracy. But then, how very — very often of late she had been from home; how very, very cold, Aunt Twysden’s shoulder had somehow become. Once, when he reached the door, a fish- monger’s boy was leaving a fine salmon at the kitchen, — a salmon and a tub of ice. Once, twice, at five o’clock, when he called, a smell of cooking pervaded the hall, — that hall which culinary odors very seldom visited. Some of those noble Twys- den dinners were on the tapis, and Philip was not asked. Not to be asked was no great deprivation; but who were the guests? To be sure, these were trifles light as air; but Philip smelt mischief in the steam of those Twysden dinners. He chewed that salmon with a bitter sauce as he saw it sink down the area steps (and disappear with its attendant lobster) in the dark kitchen regions. Yes ; eyes were somehow averted that used to look into his very frank- ly ; a glove somehow had grown over THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. a little hand which once used to lis man to cease to love him ? | carry on ever so long for fear of that declaration that allis over. No con- fession is more dismal to make. The sun of love has set. We sit in the dark. I mean you, dear madam, an Corydon, or I and Amaryllis; un comfortably, with nothing more to: say to one another; with the night dew falling, and a risk of catching cold, drearily contemplating the | ing west, with “the cold remains of lustre gone, of fire long past away.” Sink, fire of love! Rise, gentie moon, and mists of chilly evening. And, my good Madam Amaryllis, let us go} home to some tea and a fire. : So Philip determined to go seek his cousin. Arrived at his ho (and if itwerethe * * Ican’te ceive Philip in much better quarters) he had the opportunity of inspectin, those delightful newspaper arrival perusal of which has so often edi us at Brighton. Mr. and Mrs. Pen fold, he was informed, continued thei residence, No. 96 Horizontal Place; and it was with those guardians knew his Agnes was staying. — speeds to Horizontal Place. Twysden is out. He heaves a si and leaves a card. Has it ever h pened to you to leave a card at house — that house which was 0 THE house —almost your own ; W you were ever welcome; where kindest hand was ready to g yours, the brightest eye to greet y And now your friendship has d\ dled away to a little bit of pastebo shed once a year, and poor, dear Mrs Jones (it is with J. you have q relled) still calls on the ladies of y: family and slips her husband’s ti upon the hall table. O, life and that it should have come to this! gracious powers! Do you recall t | 4 aT u time when Arabella Briggs was Ara- bella Thompson? You call and talk Jadaises to her (at first she is rather nervous, and has the children in); ou talk rain and fine weather; the last novel; the next party ; Thomp- son in the City? Yes, Mr. Thomp- gon is in the City. He’s pretty well, thank you. Ah! Daggers, ropes, and poisons, has it come to this? You are talking about the weather, and another man’s health, and another nan’s children, of which she is moth- mw, to her? ‘Time was the weather was all a burning sunshine, in which vou and she basked; or if clouds vathered, and a storm fell, such a slorious rainbow haloed round you, uch delicious tears fell and refreshed ‘ou, that the storm was more ravish- ng than the calm. And now another aan’s children are sitting on her knee —their mother’s knee; and once a ear Mr. and Mrs. John Thompson equest the honor of Mr. Brown’s Ompany at dinner ; and once a year ou read in ‘The Times, “In Nursery street, the wife of J. Thompson, Esq., faSon.” ‘To come to the once-be- ved one’s door, and find the knocker ed up with a white kid glove, is hu- uliating,—say what you will, it is ‘umiliating. Philip leaves his card, and walks ‘7 to the Cliff, and of course, in three \inutes, meets Clinker. Indeed, who tet Went to Brighton for half an hour ithout meeting Clinker 2 “Father pretty well? His old pa- ent, Lady Geminy, is down here ith the children ; what a number of jem there are, to be sure! Come to ake any stay? See your cousin, iss Twysden, is here with the Pen- lds. Little party at the Grigsons’ ‘st might; she looked uncommonly ull; danced ever so many times with 'e Black Prince, Woolcomb of the “eens. Suppose I may congratulate ‘U. Six thousand five hundred a jar now, and thirteen thousand when * grandmother dies; but those ne- ®%sses live forever. I suppose the hg is settled. I saw them on the A i 8 ‘THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 169 pier just now, and Mrs. Penfold was reading a book in the arbor. Book of sermons it was,— pious woman, Mrs. Penfold. I dare say they are on the pier still.” Striding with hur- ried steps Philip Firmin makes for the pier. The breathless Clinker can- not keep alongside of his face. I should like to have seen it when | Clinker said that “the thing” was settled between Miss Twysden and the cavalry gentleman. There were a few nursery govern- esses, maids, and children, paddling about at the end of the pier; and there was a fat woman reading a book in one of the arbors, — but no Agnes, no Woolcomb. Where can they be? Can they be weighing each other 2 or buying those mad pebbles, which people are known to purchase? or having their si/houettes done in black 2 Ha! ha! Woolcomb would hardly have his face done in black. The idea would provoke odious comparisons. I see Philip is in a dreadfully bad sar- castic humor. Up there comes from one of those trap-doors which lead down from the pier-head to the green sea-waves ever restlessly jumping below, — up there comes a little Skye-terrier dog with a red collar, who, as soon as she sees Philip, sings, squeaks, whines, runs, jumps, flumps up on him, if I may use the expression, kisses his hands, and with eyes, tongue, paws, and tail shows him a thousand marks of welcome and affection. “What, Brownie, Brownie!” Philip is glad to see the dog, an old friend who has many a time licked his hand and bounced upon his knee. The greeting over, Brownie, wag- ging her tail with prodigious activity, trots before Philip, — trots down an opening, down the steps under which the waves shimmer greenly, and into quite a quiet remote corner just over the water, whence you may command a most beautiful view of the sea, the shore, the Marine Parade, and the ‘“‘ Albion Hotel,” and where, were I five-and-twenty say, with nothing else 170 to do, I would gladly pass a quarter of an hour talking about “ Glaucus, or the Wonders of the Deep” with the object of my affections. Here, amongst the labryinth of piles, Brownie goes flouncing along till she comes to a young couple who are looking at the view just described. In order to view it better, the young man has laid his hand, a pretty little hand most delicately gloved, on the lady’s hand; and Brownie comes up and nuzzles against her, and whines and talks as much as to say, “ Here’s somebody,” and the lady says, “Down Brownie, miss.” “Tt’s no good, Agnes, that dog,” says the gentlem1n (he has very curly, not to say woolly hair, under his natty little hat). “I’ll give you a pug with a nose you can hang your hat on. I do knowof one now. My man Rummins knows of one. Do you like pugs ?”’ “JT adore them,” says the lady. “Tl give you one, if I have to pay fifty pounds for it. And they fetch a good figure, the real pugs do, T can tell you. Once in London there was an exhibition of ’em, and —” “ Brownie, Brownie, down!” cries Agnes. The dog was jumping ata gentleman, a tall gentleman with a red mustache and beard, who ad- vances through the checkered shale, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP, “OQ Philip an attack of that dread stops further utterance. 1” says the lady; but ful coughing —_4— CHAPTER XIV. CONTAINS TWO OF PHILIP’S MIS-. HAPS. af" You know that, in some parts of India, infanticide is the common custom. It is part of the religion of} the land, as, in other districts, widow- burning used to be. I can’t imagine that ladies like to destroy either them, selves or their children, though they submit with bravery, and even cheer’ fulness, to the decrees of that religion which orders them to make away. with their own or their young ones lives. Now, suppose you and Lyeac! Europeans, happened to drive uj where a young creature was just about to roast herself, under the advice of her family and the highest dignitaries of her church; what could we do’ Rescue her? No such thing. Wi know better than to interfere witl her, and the laws and usages of he country. We turn away with a sig) from the mournful scene; we pull ou) our pocket-handkerchiefs, tell coacl man to drive on, and leave her to he) under the ponderous beams, over the translucent sea. “Pray don’t mind, Brownie won't hurt me,” says a perfectly well-known voice, the sound of which sends all the color shuddering out of Miss Agnes’s pink checks. “You see I gave my cousin this dog, Captain Woolcomb,” says the gentleman; “and the little slut re- members me. Perhaps Miss Twysden prefers the pug better.” Lt oe Ns “Tf it has a nose you can hang your hat on, it must be a very pret- suppose you intend t a good ty dog, and I to hang your hat on i deal.” sad fate. ae.) Now about poor Agnes Twysden how, in the name of goodness, ¢a we help her? You see she is a wel, brought-up and religious young wi man of the Brahminical sect. — Its! is to be sacrificed, that old Brahmi her father, that good and devo) mother, that most special Brat 1 ¢! her brother, and that admirable her strait-laced sister, all insist up her undergoing the ceremony, — al deck her with flowers ere they her to that dismal altar flame. — pose, I say, she has made up mind to throw over poor Philip take on with some one else? — sentiment ought our virtuous DP to entertain towards her? A THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. {have just been holding a conversa- ‘jon with a young fellow in rags and vithout shoes, whose bed is common- y adry arch, who has been repeated- y inprison, whose father and mother vere thieves, and whose grandfathers vere thieves ;— are we to be angry vith him for following the paternal profession? With one eye brimming vith pity, the other steadily keeping vatch over the family spoons, I listen ‘0 his artless tale. I have no anger wainst that child; nor towards thee, Agnes, daughter of Talbot the Brah- nin. - For though duty is duty, when it ‘omes to the pinch, it is often lard to lo. Though dear papa and mamma ‘ay that here is a gentleman with iver sO many thousands a year, an indoubted part in So-and-So-shire, ind whole islands in the western aain, who is wildly in love with your air skin and blue eyes, and is ready 0 fling all his treasures at your feet ; vet after all, when you consider that je is very ignorant, though very cun- ‘ing ; very stingy, though very rich; ‘ery ill-tempered, probably, if faces ‘md eyes and mouths can tell truth: ‘nd as for Philip Firmin — though ‘etually his legitimacy is dubious, as ve have lately heard, in which case ismaternal fortune is ours, — and as or his paternal inheritance, we don’t now whether the doctor is worth hirty thousand pounds or a shilling ; -yet, after all—as for Philip — he ;aman; he is a gentleman; he has ‘he best feelings to his cousin : —I ay, when a poor girl has to be off ‘ith that old love, that honest and ur love, and be on with the new one, ‘9e dark one, I feel for -her; and aough the Brahmins are, as we now, the most genteel sect in Hin- ‘ostan, I rather wish the poor child ould have belonged to some lower ‘ndess rigid sect. Poor Agnes! to unk that he has sat for hours, with amma and Blanche or the govern- 38, of course, in the room (for, you ‘Yains in his head, anda great honest | ‘eart of which he has offered to give | 171 know, when she and Philip were quite wee wee things dear mamma had little amiable plans in view) ; has sat for hours by Miss Twysden’s side pouring out his heart to her; has had, mayhap, little precious moments of confidential talk, — little hasty whis- pers in corridors, on stairs, behind window-curtains, and —and so forth in fact. She must remember all this past; and can’t, without some pang, listen on the same sofa, behind the same window-curtains, to her dark suitor pouring out his artless tales of barracks, boxing, horseflesh, and the tender passion. He is dull, he is mean, he is ill-tempered, he is igno- rant, and the other was ....; but she will do her duty: O yes! she will do her duty! Poor Agnes! C'est a fendre le caur. I declare I quite feel for her. When Philip’s temper was roused, I have been compelled, as his biogra- pher, to own how very rude and disa- greeable he could be; and you must acknowledge that a young man has some reason to be displeased, when he finds the girl of his heart hand-in-hand with another young gentleman in an occult and shady recess of the wood- work of Brighton Pier. The green waves are softly murmuring: so is the officer of the Life Guards Green. The waves are kissing the beach. Ah, agonizing thonght! I will not pursue the simile, which may be but a jealous man’s mad fantasy. Of this I am sure, no pebble on that beach is cooler than polished Agnes. But, then, Philip drunk with jealousy is not a reasonble being like Philip so- ber. ‘He had a dreadful temper,” Philip’s dear aunt said of him after- wards, — “I trembled for my dear gentle child, united forever to a man of that violence. Never, in my secret mind, could I think that their union could be a happy one. Besides, you know, the nearness of their relation- ship. My sernples on that score, dear Mrs. Candor, never, never could be quite got over.” And these scruples came to weigh whole tons, when 172 Mangrove Hall, the house in Berke- ley Square, and .Mr. Woolcomb’s West India island were put into the scale along with them. Of course there was no good in re- maining amongst those damp, reeking timbers, now that the pretty litile téte- w-téte was over. Little Brownie hung fondling and whining round Philip’s ankles, as the party ascended to the upper air. “ My child, how pale you look!” cries Mrs. Penfold, putting down her volume. Out of the Cap- tain’s opal eyeballs shot lurid flames, and hot blood burned behind his yel- low cheeks. In a quarrel, Mr. Philip Firmin could be particularly cool and self-possessed. When Miss Agnes rather piteously introduced him to Mrs. Penfold, he made a bow as po- lite and gracious as any performed by his royal father. ‘“ My little dog knew me,” he said, caressing the ani- mal. ‘She is a faithful little thing, and she led me down to my cousin ; and — Captain Woolcomb, I think, is your name, sir?” ‘As Philip curls his mustache and smiles blandly, Captain Woolcomb pulls his and scowls fiercely,“ Yes, sir,’ he mutters, “my name is Woolcomb.” Another bow and a touch of the hat from Mr. Firmin. A touch? —a gracious wave of the hat; acknowledged by no means so gracefully by Captain Woolcomb. To these remarks Mrs. Penfold says, “Oh!” In fact,“Oh! ” is about the best thing that could be said un- der the circumstances. “My cousin, Miss Twysden, looks so pale because she was out very late dancing last night. [hear it was avery pretty ball. But ought she to keep such late hours, Mrs. Penfold, with her delicate health? Indeed, you ought not, Agnes! Ought she to keep late hours, Brownie? There —don’t, you little foolish thing! I gave my cousin the dog: and she’s very fond of me—the dog is—still. You were saying, Captain Woolcomb, when I came up, that you would give Miss Twysden a dog on whose nose THE ADVENTURES. OF PHILIP. you could hang your....Ib pardon ?”’ . Mr. Woolcomb, as Philip ma this second allusion to the peculiar nasal formation of the pug, ground his little white teeth together, and let slip a most improper monosyllable, More acute bronchial suffering was manifested on the part of Miss Twys. den. Mrs. Penfold said, “The day is clouding over. I think, Agnes, ] will have my chair, and go home.” | “May I be allowed to walk with you as far as your house?” says Philip, twiddling a little locket which he wore at his watch-chain. It was ¢ little gold locket, with a little pal hair inside. Whose hair could it hax been that was so pale and fine? Ai for the pretty, hieroglyphical A. T at the back, those letters might indi cate Alfred ‘Tennyson, or Anthon) Trollope, who might have given + lock of their golden hair to Philip, ft I know he is an admirer of thei, works. ae | Aenes looked guiltily at the litth locket. Captain Woolcomb _pulle his mustache so, that you would hav thought he would have pulled it off and his opal eyes glared with fearfu confusion and wrath. ee “ Will you please to fall back an let me speak to you, Agnes ? Pardo me, Captain Woolcomb, I have a pri vate message for my cousin; and came from London expressly to deliy ert Ay; me t withdraw, ment,” says the Captain, clen the lemon-colored gloves. ae lived t. Woolcomb ?”’ ; “ Not if Miss Twysden don’t. wat me to hear it..... D the litt brute.”’ . “Don’t kick poor little harn Brownie! He sha’ n’t kick you, he, Brownie?” ip “If the brute comes between THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 1735 shins, I’1] kick her!” shrieks the Captain. ‘ Hang her, I'll throw her into the sea!” “Whatever you do to my dog, Iswear I will do to you!” whispers Philip to the Captain. “Where are you staying ? shrieks the Captain. ‘ Hang you, you shall hear from me.” ~ “Quiet —‘ Bedford Hotel.’ Easy, or I shall think you want the ladies to overhear.” “Your conduct is horrible, sir,’ says Agnes, rapidly, in the French language. ‘‘Mr. does not compre- ‘hend it.” ~*——it! If you have any secrets ‘o talk, Ill withdraw fast enough, Miss Agnes,” says Othello. “© Grenville! can I have any secrets from you? Mr. Firmin is my irst-cousin. We have lived together ul our lives. Philip, I—I don’t ‘now whether mamma announced to you—my—my engagement with Vaptain Grenville Woolcomb.” The gitation has brought on another se- ‘ere bronchial attack. Poor, poor ‘ittle Agnes! What it isto havea {elicate throat ! . The pier tosses* up to the skies, as hough it had left its moorings,— the ‘onses on the cliff dance and reel, as hough an earthquake was driving hem,—the sea walks up into the odging-houses,— and Philip’s legs re failing from under him: it is nly fora moment. When you have large, tough double tooth out, oes n’t the chair go up to the ceiling, ‘nd your head come off too? Butin ie next instant, there is a grave gen- on before you, making you a bow, ‘nd concealing something in his right ‘eve. The crash is over. You are ‘man again. Philip clutches hold f the chain-pier for a minute : it does ot sink under him. The houses, 'fter reeling for a second or two, re- 3sume the perpendicular, and bulge ieir bow-windows towards the main. “€ ean see the people looking from 1¢ windows, the carriages passing, ‘Tofessor Spurrier riding on the cliff with eighteen young ladies, his pupils. In long after-days he remembers those absurd little incidents with a curious tenacity. “This news,” Philip says, “ was not—not altogether unexpected. I congratulate my cousin, I am sure. Captain Woolcomb, had I known this for certain, J am sure I should not have interrupted you. You were going, perhaps, to ask me to your hos- pitable house, Mrs. Penfold?” “Was she though?” cries the Captain. “JT have asked a friend to dine with me at the ‘ Bedford,’ and shall go to town, I hope, in the morning. Can I take anything for you, Agnes? Good by”: and he kisses his hand in quite a dégagé manner, as Mrs. Pen- fold’s chair turns eastward and he goes to the west. Silently the tall Agnes sweeps along, a fair hand laid upon her friend’s chair. It’s over! it’s over! She has done it. He was bound, and kept his hon- or, but she did not: it was she who forsook him. And I fear very much My. Philip’s heart leaps with pleasure and an immense sensation of relief at thinking he is free. He meets half a dozen acquaintances on the cliff. He laughs, jokes, shakes hands, invites two or three to dinner in the gayest manner. He sits down on that green, not very far from his inn, and is laughing to himself, when he suddenly feels something nestling at his knee, — rubbing, and nestling, and whining plaintively. ‘What, is that you?” It is little Brownie, who has followed him. Poor little rogue! Then Philip bent down his head over the dog, and as it jumped on him, with little bleats, and whines, and innocent caresses, he broke out into a sob, and a great refreshing rain of tears fell from his eyes. Such a little illness! Such a mild fever! Such a speedy cure! Some people have the complaint so mildly that they are scarcely ever kept to their beds. Some bear its scars forever. Philip sat resolutely at the hotel 174 all night, having given special orders to the porter to say that he was at home, in case any gentleman should call. He had a faint hope, he after- wards owned, that some friend of Captain Woolecomb might wait on him on that officer’s part. He had a faint hope that a letter might come explaining that treason, — as people will have a sick, gnawing, yearning, foolish desire for letters, — letters which contain nothing, which never did contain anything, — letters which, nevertheless, you —. You know, in fact, about those letters, and there is no earthly use in asking to read Philip’s. Have we not all read those love-letters which, after love-quarrels, come into court sometimes? We have all read them; and how many have written them?. Nine o’clock. Ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock. No challenge from the Captain; no ex- planation from Agnes. Philip de- clares he slept perfectly well. But poor little Brownie the dog made a piteous howling all night in the stables. She was not a well-bred dog. You could not have hung the least hat on her nose. We compared anon our dear Agnes to a Brahmin lady, meekly offering herself up to sacrifice according to the practice used in her highly re- spectable caste. Did we speak in anger or in sorrow ? — surely in terms of re- spectful grief and sympathy. And if we pity her, ought we not likewise to pity her highly respectable parents ? When the notorious Brutus ordered his sons to execution, you can’t sup- pose he was such a brute as to be pleased? All three parties suffered by the transaction ; the sons, proba- bly, even more than their austere father ; but it stands to reason that the whole trio were very melancholy. At least, were I a poet or musical composer depicting that business, I certainly should make them so. The sons, piping ina very minor key indeed; the father’s manly basso, ac- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘father, and her brother.” Though pretty fair Agnes is being led to execution, I don’t suppose she likes it, or that her parents are hap- py, who are compelled to order the tragedy. a That the rich young proprietor of Mangrove Hall should be fond of her was merely a coincidence, Mrs. Twys- den afterwards always averred. Not for mere wealth—ah no! not for mines of gold — would they sacrifice their darling child. But when that sad Firmin affair happened, you see it also happened that Captain Woolcomb was much struck by dear Agnes, whom he met everywhere. Her scapegrace of a cousin would go no- where. He preferred his bachelor asso: ciates, and horrible smoking and drinking habits, to the amusements and pleasures of more refined society, He neglected Agnes. There is no! the slightest doubt he neglected anc mortified her, and his wilful and | quent absence showed how little he cared for her. Would you blame thc dear girl for coldness to a man whc himself showed such indifference t¢ her? “No, my good Mrs. Candor Had Mr. Firmin been ten times as rich as Mr. Woolcomb, I should ha counselled my child to refuse him take the responsibility of the meas ure entirely on myself,—I, and So Twysden afterwards spoke, in circle where an absurd and odious ru yan, that the Twysdens had their daughter to jilt young M min in order to marry a weall quadroon. People will talk . know, de me, de te. If Woolcom dinners had not gone off so after h marriage, I have little doub scandal would have died away, he and his wife might have pretty generally respected and Vi Nor must you suppose, as we hay said, that dear Agnes gave up Hf first love without a pang. bronchitis showed how acutely | poor thing felt her-position. It out very soon after Mr. Woolee companied by deep wind instruments, and interrupted by appropriate sobs. attentions became a little pal THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. and she actually left London in con- sequence. It is true that he could follow her without difficulty, but so, for the matter of that, could Philip, as we have seen when he came down and behaved so rudely to Captain ~Wooleomb. And before Philip came, poor Agnes could plead, “‘ My father pressed me sair,” as in the case of the notorious Mrs. Robin Gray. Father and mother both pressed her sair. Mrs. Twysden, I think I have mentioned, wrote an admirable letter, and was aware of her accom- plishment. She used to write reams _ of gossip regularly every week to dear -uncle Kingwood when he was in the country: and when her daughter Blanche married, she is said to have | written several of her new son’s ser- mons. As a Christian mother, was she not to give her daughter her ad- _ vice at this momentous period of her | life? ‘That advice went against poor | Philip’s chances with his cousin, who /was kept acquainted with all the cir- ‘cumstances of the controversy of which we have just seen the issue. I ‘do not mean to say that Mrs. Twysden igave an impartial statement of the _ease. What parties in a lawsuit do speak impartially on their own side or their adversaries’? Mrs. Twys- den’s view, as I have learned subse- ety, and as imparted to her daughter, was this :— That most un- principled man, Dr. Firmin, who had already attempted, and unjustly, to ideprive the Twysdens of a part of ‘their property, had commenced in quite early life his career of outrage vand wickedness against the Ring- »wood family. He had led dear Lord ‘Ringwood’s son, poor dear Lord _Cingbars, into a career of vice and ‘extravagance which caused the pre- Mature death of that unfortunate ‘young nobleman. Mr. Firmin had then made a marriage, in spite of the tears and entreaties of Mrs. Twysden, with her late unhappy sister, whose whole life had been made wretched by the Doctor’s conduct. But the climax of outrage and wickedness was, that 175 when he — he, a low, penniless -ad- venturer — married Colonel Ring- wood’s daughter, he was married al- ready, as could be sworn by the re- pentant clergyman who had _ been forced, by threats of punishment which Dr. Firmin held over him, to perform the rite? “The mind” — Mrs. Talbot Twysden’s fine mind — “ shuddered at the thought of such wickedness.” But most of all (for to think ill of any one whom she had once loved gave her pain) there was reason to believe that the unhappy Philip Firmin was his father’s accom- plice, and that he knew of his own illegitimacy, which he was determined to set aside by any fraud or artifice — (she trembled, she wept to have to say this: O Heaven! that there should be such perversity in thy creatures !) And so little store did Philip set by his mother’s honor, that he actually visited the abandoned woman who acquiesced in her own infamy, and had brought such unspeakable dis- grace on the Ringwood family! The thought of this crime had caused Mrs. T'wysden and her dear husband nights of sleepless anguish,— had made them years and years older,— had stricken their hearts with a grief which must endure to the end of their days. With people so unscrupulous, so grasping, so artful as Dr. Firmin and (must she say?) his son, they were bound to be on their guard; and though they had avoided Philip, she had deemed it right, on the rare occa- sions when she and the young man whom she must now call her ¢legiti- mate nephew met, to behave as though she knew nothing of this most dreadful controversy. - “And now, dearest child”... Surely the moral is obvious. The dearest child ‘must see at once that any foolish plans which were formed in childish days and under former de- lusions must be cast aside forever as impossible, as unworthy of a Twys- den — of a Ringwood. Be not con- cerned for the young man himself,” wrote Mrs. Twysden,— “I blush 176 that he should bear that dear father’s name who was slain in honor on Busaco’s glorious field. P. F has associates amongst whom he has ever been much more at home than in our refined circle, and habits which will cause him to forget you only too easily. And if near you is one whose ardor shows itself in his every word and action, whose wealth and proper- ty may raise you to a place worthy of my child, need I say, a mother’s, a father’s ‘blessing go with you.’ This letter was brought to Miss Twysden, at Brighton, by a special messenger; and “the ‘superseription announced that it was “honored by Captain Grenville Woolcomb.” Now when Miss Agnes has had a letter to this effect (f may at some | time tell you how I came to be ac- quainted with its contents); when she remembers all the abuse her brother lavishes against Philip as, Heaven bless some of them! dear, relatives can best do: when she thinks how cold he has of late been, — how he wil come smelling of cigars, — how he won’t conform to the usages du monde, and has neglected all the decencies of society, — how she often can’t understand his strange rhapso- dies about poetry, painting, and the like, nor how he can live with such associates as those who seem to de- light him, — and now how he is show- ing himself actually unprincipled and abetting his horrid father ; when we consider mither pressing sair, and all these points in mither’s favor, I don’t think we can order Agnes to instant execution for the resolution to which she is coming. She will give him up —she will give him up. Good by, Philip. Good by, the past. Be for- gotten, be forgotten, fond words spok- en in not unwilling ears! Be still and breathe not, eager lips, that have trembled so near to one another! Unlock, hands, and part forever, that seemed to be formed for life’s THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.” long journey! Ah, to part forever is hard; but harder and more humil- lating still to part without regret! That papa and mamma had ffi enced Miss ‘Twysden in her behavior my wife and I could easily imagine, when Philip, in his wrath and grief, 3 came tous and poured out the feel- ings of his heart. My wife is a re- positary of men’s secrets, an un- tiring consoler and comforter ; and | she knows many a sad story which — we are not at liberty to tell, like this’ one of which this person, Mr. Fir- min, has given us possession. “Father and mother’s orders,” shouts Philip, ‘I dare say, Mrs. Pen- dennis; but the wish was father to the thought of parting, and it was” for the blackamoor’s parks and acres — that the girl jilted me. Look here. I told you just now that I slept per- fectly well on that infernal night after — I had said farewell to her. “Well, r didn’t. It was alie.. I walked ever so many times the whole length of the cliff, from Hove to Rottingdean | almost, and then went to bed after-— wards, and slept a little out of sheer fatioue. And as I was passing by Horizontal Terrace (— I happened to pass by there two or three times in the moonlight, like a great jackass —) you know those verses of min which I have hummed here some times?”’ (hummed! he used to roar them!) “When the locks of bur- nished gold, lady, shall to silver turn!’ | Never mind the rest. You know ae i verses about fidelity and old age? She was singing them on that night, to that negro. “And I heard the ba gar’s voice say, “Bravo 1 through the open windows.” “ Ah, Philip! it was cruel,” says my wife, heartily pitying our friend’ anguish and misfortune. “ It was cruel indeed. Iam sure we can fee for you. But think what certan misery a marriage with such a pel son would have been! Think of your warm heart given away forever to tha heartless creature.” ; “Laura, Laura, have you not ofter : warned me not to speak ill of people ¢ says Laura’s husband. “JT can’t help it sometimes,” erie Ses A? THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Laura in a transport. “TI try and do my best not to speak ill of my neigh- bors ; but the worldliness of those peo- ple shocks me so that I can’t bear to benear them. They are so utterly tied and bound by conventionalities, so _ perfectly convinced of their own exces- sive high-breeding, that they seem to me more odious and more vulgar than quite low people; and I’m sure Mr. _Philip’s friend, the Little Sister, is in- finitely more ladylike than his dreary aunt oreither of his supercilious cous- ins!” Upon my word, when this lady did speak her mind, there was no mis- taking her meaning. I believe Mr. Firmin took a consid- erable number of people into his con- fidence regarding this love-affair. He is one of those individuals who can’t keep their secrets ; and when hurt he roars so loudly that all his friends can ‘hear. It has been remarked that the _ sorrows of such persons do not endure _very long ; nor surely was there any “great need in this instance that Phil- ip’s heart should wear a lengthened “mourning. Erelong he smoked his _ Pipes, he played his billiards, he shout- _ed his songs ; he rode in the Park for the pleasure of severely cutting his aunt and cousins when their open car- Tage passed, or of riding down Cap- tain Woolcomb or his cousin Ring- ‘wood, should either of those worthies ‘come in his way, | One day, when the old Lord Ring- {wood came to town for his accustomed ‘spring visit, Philip condescended to ‘Wait upon him, and was announced to his Lordship just as Talbot Twys- den and Ringwood his son were tak- dng leave of their noble kinsman. Philip looked at them with a flashing eye and a distended nostril, according to his swaggering wont. I dare say they on their part bore a very mean and hangdog appearance; for my ‘Lord laughed at their discomfiture, and seemed immensely amused as they slunk out of the door when Philip ‘came hectoring in. “So, sir, there has been a family tow. Heard all about it: at least, their gx i 177 side.. Your father did me the favor to marry my niece, having another wife already # ”” “ Having no other wife already, sir, — though my dear relations were anx- ious to show that he had.” ‘“ Wanted your money ; thirty thou- sand pound is not a trifle. Ten thou- sand apiece for those children. And no more need of any confounded pinching and scraping, as they have to do at Beaunash Street. Affair off between you and Agnes? Absurd af- fair. So much the better.” “ Yes, sir, so much the better.” “ Have ten thousand apiece. Would have twenty thousand if they got yours. Quite natural to want it.” * Quite.” “ Woolcomb a sort of negro, I un- derstand. Fine property here; be- sides the West India rubbish. Violent man,—so people tell me. Luckily Agnes seems a cool, easy-going wo- man, and must put up with the rough as well asthe smooth in marrying a property like that. Very lucky for you that that woman persists there was no marriage with your father. Twysden says the Doctor bribed her. Take it he’s not got much money to bribe, unless you gave some of yours.” “J don’t bribe people to bear false witness, my Lord, — and if—” “Don’t be in a huff; I didn’t say so. Twysden says so,—perhaps thinks so. When people are at law they believe anything of one another.” “TI don’t know what other people may do, sir. If I had another man’s money, I should not be easy until I had paid him back. Had my share of my grandfather’s property not been lawfully mine, — and for a few hours Ithought it was not, — please God, I would have given it up to its rightful owners, — at least, my father would.” “Why, hang it all, man, you don’t mean to say your father has not set- tled with you ?” Philip blushed a little. He had been rather surprised that there had been no settlement bétween him and his father. L 178 “JT am only of age a few months, sir. J am not under any apprehen- sion. I get my dividends regularly enough. One of my grandfather’s trustees, General Baynes, is in India. He is to return almost immediately, ~ or we should have sent a power of at- torney out tohim. ‘There’sno hurry about the business.” Philip’s maternal grandfather, and Lord Ringwood’s brother, the late Colonel Philip Ringwood, had died possessed of but trifling property of his own; but his wife had brought him a fortune of sixty thousand pounds, which was settled on their children, and in the names of trustees, — Mr. Briggs, a lawyer, and Colonel Baynes, an Hast India officer, and friend of Mrs. Philip Ringwood’s family. Colonel Baynes had been in England some eight years before ; | and Philip remembered a kind old gentleman coming to see him at School, and leaving tokens of his | bounty behind. ‘The other trustee, Mr. Briggs, a lawyer of considerable county reputation, was dead long since, having left his affairs in an in- volved condition. During the trus- tee’s absence and the son’s minority, Philip’s father received the dividends on his son’s property, and liberally spent them on the boy. Indeed, I be- lieve that for some little time at college, and during his first journeys abroad, Mr. Philip spent rather more than the income of his maternal inher- itance, being freely supplied by his father, who told him not to stint him- self. He was a sumptuous man, Dr. Firmin, — open-handed, — subscrib- ing to many charities, —a lover of solemn good cheer. The Doctor’s dinners and the Doctor’s equipages were models in their way; and I re- member the sincere respect with which | my uncle the Major (the family guide | in such matters) used to speak of Dr. Firmin’s taste. ‘‘ No duchess in Lon- don, sir,” he would say, “ drove bet- ter horses than Mrs. Firmin. Sir George Warrender, sir, could not give a better dinner, sir, than that to THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. | ch which we sat down yesterday.” And for the exercise of these civic virtues the Doctor had the hearty respect of - the good Major. a “Don’t tell me, sir,” on the other hand, Lord Ringwood would say ; “J dined with the fellow once, —a swaggering fellow, sir; but a servile fellow. The way he bowed and flat- tered was perfectly absurd. Those fellows think we like it,—and we may. Even at my age, I like flat- tery, — any quantity of it; and not what you call delicate, but strong, sir. I like a man to kneel down and kiss my shoestrings. 1 have my own opinion of him afterwards, but that is what I like, — what all men like; and that is what Firmin gave in quantities. But you could see that his house was monstrously ex- pensive. His dinner was excellent, and you saw it was good every day, —not like your dinners, my good Maria; not like your wines, Twys- den, which, hang it, I can’t swallow, unless I send ’em in myself. Even at my own house, I don’t give that kind of wine on common occasions which Firmin used to give. I drink | the best myself, of course, and give it" to some who know; but I don’t give. ‘it to common fellows, who come fo. hunting-dinners, or to girls and boys’ : ‘ Ee ay who are dancing at my balls.” “Yes; Mr. Firmin’s dinners were: very handsome, — and a pretty end came of the handsome dinners?!” sighed Mrs. T'wysden. 2 | “That ’s not the question ; 4 only speaking about the fellow’s meat: and drink, and they were both good. And it ’s my opinion, that fellow will have a good dinner wherever he oes.”” ‘ ha I had the fortune to be present at one of these feasts, which Lord Ring- wood attended, and at which 1 Philip’s trustee, General Baynes, had just arrived from India. IT member now the smallest details the little dinner, — the brightne the old plate, on which the Do prided himself, and the quiet con { | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. not to say splendor, of the entertain- ment. ‘The General seemed to take a great liking to Philip, whose grand- father had been his special friend and comrade in arms. He thought he saw something of Philip Ringwood in Philip Firmin’s face. “Ah, indeed!” growls Lord Ring- wood. “You ain’t a bit like him,” says the downright General. ‘ Never saw a handsomer or more open-looking fellow than Philip Ringwood.” “Oh! I dare say I looked pretty open myself forty years ago,” said my Lord; “now I ’m shut, I suppose. Idon’t see the least likeness in this young man to my brother.” “That is some sherry as old as the century,” whispers the host; ‘it is the same the Prince Regent liked so at a Mansion House dinner, five-and- twenty years ago.” “ Never knew anything about wine; was always tippling liquors and punch. What do you give for this sherry, Doctor ?” _ The Doctor sighed, and looked up to the chandelier. ‘ Drink it while it lasts, my good lord ; but don’t ask me the price. The fact is, I don’t like to say what I gave for it.” “You need not stint yourself in the price of sherry, Doctor,” cries the General gayly; “you have but one son, and he has a fortune of his own, as I happen to know. You have n’t dipped it, Master Philip ?” “1 fear, sir, I may have exceeded my income sometimes, in the last | three years ; but my father has helped me. “Exceeded nine hundred a year! Upon my word! When I was a sub, my friends gave me fifty pounds a year, and I never was a shilling in debt! What are men coming to now ie ” “Tf doctors drink Prince Regent’s ‘Sherry at ten guineas a dozen, what can you expect of their sons, General Baynes?” gruimbles my Lord. oe a y father gives you his best, my Lord,” says Philip, gayly; “if you 179 know of any better, he will get it for you. Sinon his uteremecum! Please to pass me that decanter, Pen !”’ J thought the old lord did not seem ill pleased at the young man’s free- dom; and now, as I recall it, think I can remember that a peculiar silence and anxiety seemed to weigh upon our host, — upon him whose face was commonly so anxious and sad. The famous sherry, which had made many voyages to Indian climes before it acquired its exquisite flavor, had travelled some three or four times round the Doctor’s polished table, when Brice, his man, entered with a letter on his silver tray. Perhaps Philip’s eyes and mine exchanged glances in which ever so small a scin- tilla of mischief might sparkle. The Doctor often had letters when he was entertaining his friends; and his pa- tients had a knack of falling ill at awkward times. “ Gracious Heavens cries the Doctor, when he read the despatch — it was a telegraphic message. ‘The poor Grand Duke!” “What Grand Duke?” asks the surly lord of Ringwood. “‘ My earliest patron and friend, — the Grand Duke of Groningen! Seized this morning at eleven at Pot- zendorff! Has sent forme. I prom- ised to go to him if ever he had need of me. I must go! I can save the night-train yet. General! our visit to the City must be deferred till my return. Get a portmanteau, Brice; and call a cab at once. Philip will entertain my friends for the evening. My dear lord, you won’t mind an old doctor leaving you to attend an old patient? Iwill write from Gron- ingen. Ishall be there on Friday morn- ing. Farewell, gentlemen! Brice, an- other bottle of that sherry! I pray, don’t let anybody stir! God _ bless you, Philip, my boy!” And with this the Doctor went up, took his son by the hand, and laid the other very kindly on the young man’s shoulder. Then he made a bow round the table to his guests, — one of his graceful ~ 1» 180 bows, for which he was famous. I can see the sad smile on his face now, and the light from the chandelier over the dining-table glancing from his shining forehead, and casting deep shadows on to his cheek from his heavy brows. The departure was a little abrupt, and, of course, cast somewhat of a gloom upon the company. “« My carriage ain’t ordered till ten, — must go on ‘sitting here, L suppose. Confounded life doctor’ s must be! Called up any hour in the night ! Get their fees! Must go!’ > srowled the great man of the party. % People are glad enough to have them when they : are ill, my Lord. I think I have heard that once when you were at Ryde...” The great man started back as if a little shock of cold water had fallen on him; and then looked at Philip with not unfriendly glances. “ ‘T'reat- ed for gout,—so he did. Very well, too! 1” said my Lord ; and ywhis- pered, not inaudibly, “Cool hand, that boy.” And then his Lordship fell to talk with General Baynes about his campaigning and his early ac- quaintance with his own brother, Philip’s grandfather. The General did not care to brag about his own feats of arms, but was joud in the praises of his old comrade. Philip was pleased to hear his grand- sire so well spoken of. The General had known Dr. Firmin’s father also, who likewise had been a colonel in the famous old Peninsular army. “A Tartar that fellow was, and no mis- take!” said the good officer. “ Your father has a strong look of him; and you have a glance of him at times. But you remind me of Philip Ring- wood not a little; and you could not belong to a better man.’ “Ha!” says my Lord. There had been differences between him and his | brother. He may have been think- ing of days when they were friends. Lord Ringwood now graciously asked if General Baynes was staying in London ? THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. But the General had only | J a = come to do this piece of business, which must now be delayed. He was too poor to live in London. He must look out for a country place, where he and his six children could live cheaply. “ ‘Three boys at school, and one at college, Mr. Philip, — you know what that must cost ; though, thank my stars, my college boy does not spend nine hundred a year. Nine hundred! Where should we be if he did?” In fact, the days of nabobs are long over, and the General had come back to his native country with only very small means for the sup- port ofa great family. When my Lord’s carriage came, he departed, and the other ouests pres- ently took their leave. The General, who was a bachelor for the nonce, remained awhile, and we three prat- tled over cheroots in Philip’s smok- — ing-room. It was a night like a hun- dred I have spent there, and yet how welll remember it! We talked about | Philip’s future prospects, and he commence ae his intentions to us in- his lordly way. As for practising at the bar: “No, sir,” he said, in reply to General Baynes’ s queries, “he - should not make much hand of that; | should n’t if he were ever so poor. | He had his own money, and his fa- | ther’s ’; and he condescended to say - that “he might, perhaps, try for Par liament should an eligible opportu- nity offer.” “ Here’s a fellow born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” says the General, as we walked away together. “A fortune to begin with; a fortune to inherit. My fortune was two thousand pounds, and the price | of my two first commissions; and | when I die my children will not be | quite so well off as their father was when he began!” Having parted with the old office | at his modest sleeping-quarters near his club, I walked to my own home, little thinking that yonder cigar, of which I had shaken some of the as in Philip’s smoking-room, was t the last tobacco I ever should sm there. The pipe was smoked The wine was drunk. When that door closed on me, it closed for the last time, — at least was never more to ad- mit me as Philip’s, as Dr. Firmin’s, guest and friend. I pass the place often now. My youth comes back to meas I gaze at those blank, shining windows. I see myself a boy and Philip a child; and his fair mother ; and his father, the hospitable, the melancholy, the magnificent. I wish [could have helped him. I wish somehow he had borrowed money. \He never did. He gave me his often. Lhave never seen him since that night when his own door closed upon him. . Onthesecond day after the Doctor’s my family, I received the following wetter; — . “My pEar PrenpEeNnis, — Could Thave seen you in private on Tues- day night, I might have warned you of the calamity which was hanging over my house. But to what good md? ‘That you should know afew weeks, hours, before what all the wvorld will ring with to-morrow ? Neither you nor I, nor one whom we 0th love, would have been the hap- pier for knowing my misfortunes a ew hours sooner. In four-and-twen- y hours every club in London will be yasy with talk of the departure of the elebrated Dr Firmin, — the wealthy Jr. Firmin; afew months more and ‘Thave strict and confidential reason 90 believe) hereditary rank would ‘ave been mine, but Sir George Fir- in would have been an insolvent gan, and his son Sir Philip a_ beg- var. Perhaps the thought of this sonor has been one of the reasons hich has determined me on expatri- ting myself sooner than I otherwise -eeded to have done. “George Firmin, the honored, the vealthy physician, and his son a beg- ar? Isee you are startled at the ews! You wonder how, with a Teat practice, and no great ostensible xpenses, such ruin should have come ‘ponme—upon him. It hasseemed Jeparture, as I was at breakfast with | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 181 as if for years past Fate has been de- termined to make war upon George Brand Firmin; and who can battle against Fate? A man _ universally admitted to be of good judgment, I have embarked in mercantile specula- tions the most promising. Every- thing upon which I laid my hand has crumbled to ruin; but I can say with the Roman bard, ‘/mpavidum ferient ruine.’ And, almost penniless, al- most aged, an exile driven from my country, I seek another where I do not despair, — J even have a firm belief that I shall be enabled to repair my shattered fortunes! My race has never been deficient in courage, and Philip and Philip’s father must use all theirs, so as to be enabled to face the dark times which menace them. Si celeres quatit pennas Fortuna, we must resign what she gave us, and bear our calamity with unshaken hearts ! _ “There is aman, I own to you, whom I cannot, I must not face. General Baynes has just come from India, with but very small savings, I fear ; and these are jeopardized by his imprudence and my most cruel and unexpected misfortune. IJ need not tell you that my all would have been my boy’s. My will, made long since, will be found in the tortoise-shell sec- retaire standing in my consulting- room under the picture of Abraham offering up Isaac. In it you will see that everything, except annuities to old and deserving servants and a leg- acy to one excellent and faithful wo- man whom IJ own I have wronged, — my all, which once was considerable, is left to my boy. “Tam now worth less than noth- ing, and have compromised Philip’s property along with my own. As a man of business, General Baynes, Colonel Ringwood’s old companion in arms, was culpably careless, and I —alas! that 1 must own it —de- ceived him. Being the only surviv- ing trustee (Mrs. Philip Ringwood’s other trustee was an unprincipled at- torney who has been long dead), Gen- 182 eral B. signed a paper authorizing, as he imagined, my bankers to receive Philip’s dividends, but, in fact, giv- ing me the power to dispose of the capital sum. On my honor, as a man, as a gentleman, as a father, Pendennis, I hoped to replace it! I took it; I embarked it in sveculations in which it sank down with ten times the amount of my own private prop- erty. Half-year after half-year, with straitened means and with the greatest difficulty to. myself, yy poor boy has had his dividend; and he at least has never known what was want or anx- iety until now. Want? Anxiety? Pray Heaven he never may suffer the sleepless anguish, the racking care which has pursued me! ‘ Post equatem sedet atra cura,’ our favorite poet says. Ah! how truly, too, does he remark, ‘Patrice quis exul se quoque fugit?’ Think you where I go grief and re- morse will not follow me? They will never leave me until I shall re- turn to this country, — for that I shall return, my heart tells me, — until I can reimburse General Baynes, who stands indebted to Philip through his incautiousness and my overpowering necessity ; and my heart —an erring but fond father’s heart — tells me that my boy will not eventually lose a penny by my misfortune. “Town, between ourselves, that this illness of the Grand Duke of Groningen was a pretext which I put forward. You will hear of me ere- long from the place whither for some time past I have determined on bend- ing my steps. I placed £100 on Sat- urday, to Philip’s credit, at his bank- er’s. I take little more than that sum with me; depressed, yet full of hope; having done wrong, yet deter- mined to retrieve it, and vowing that ere I die my poor boy shall not have to blush at bearing the name of “GeorGE Brand FirMin. “Good by, dear Philip! Your old friend will tell you of my misfortunes. When I write again, it will be to tell you where to address me; and wher- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ever I am, or whatever misfortunes oppress me, think of me always as your fond ; “ FATHER.” I had scarce read this awful letter when Philip Firmin himself came into our breakfast-room looking very much disturbed. BESS CHAPTER XV. SAMARITANS. Tue children trotted up to then friend with outstretched hands ane their usual smiles of welcome. Phil ip patted their heads, and sat dowr with very woe-begone aspect at the family table. ‘ Ah, friends,” said he “do you know all?” in “Yes, we do,” said Laura, sadly who has ever compassion for others misfortunes. ie “What! is it all over the towr already ¢”? asked poor Philip. . “We have a letter from yow father this: morning.” And wi brought the letter to him, and showec him the affectionate special messagt for himself. a “His last thought was for you Philip!” cries Laura. ‘See here those last kind words!” ey Philip shook his head. “It is no untrue, what is written here: buti is not all the truth.” And Phily Firmin dismayed us by the intelli gence which he proceeded to give There was an execution in the hous: in Old Parr Street. A hundret clamorous creditors had already ap peared there. Before going away the Doctor had taken considerabl sums from those dangerous financi | to whom he had been of late resorting They were in possession of number less lately signed bills, upon whicl the desperate man had raised money He had professed to share with Philip but he had taken the great share, a left Philip two hundred pounds of own money. All the rest was g0 All Philip’s stock had been sold THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 183 The father’s fraud had made him master of the trustee’s signature: and Philip Firmin, reputed to be so wealthy, was a beggar, in my room. Luckily he had few, or very trifling, debts. Mr. Philip had a lordly im- patience of indebtedness, and, with a good bachelor income, had paid for all his pleasures as he enjoyed them. Well! He must work. A young man ruined at two-and-twenty, with a couple of hundred pounds yet in his pocket, hardly knows that he is ruin- ed. He will sell his horses, —live in chambers, — has enough to go on for ayear. ‘When lam very hard put to it,” says Philip, “I will come and dine with the children at one. I dare say you haven’t dined much at Williams’s in the Old Bailey? You can get a famous dinner there for a shilling, — beef, bread, potatoes, beer, and a penny for the waiter.” Yes, Philip secmed actually to enjoy his discomfiture. It was long since we had seen him in such spirits. ‘The weight is off my mind now. It has deen throttling me for some time oast. Without understanding why or wherefore, I have always been look- ng out for this. My poor father had ‘uin written in his face: and when ‘hose bailiffs made their appearance n Old Parr Street yesterday, I felt as fIhad known them before. I had seen their hooked beaks in my dreams.” ' “That unlucky General Baynes, vhen he accepted your mother’s trust, 00k it with its consequences. If the entry falls asleep on his post, he nust pay the penalty,” says Mr. Pen- ‘ennis, very severely. “Great powers, you would not ‘ave me come down on an old man Vom a large family, and ruin them Ul?” cries Philip. “No: I don’t think Philip will do hat,” says my wife, looking exceed- agly pleased. “Tf men accept trusts they must ufil them, my dear,” cries the master f the house. “And I must make that old gen- man suffer for my father’s wrong ? If I do, may I starve! there!” cries Philip. “ And so that poor Little Sister hag made her sacrifice in vain!” sighed my wife. “As for the father—O Arthur! I can’t tell you how odious that man was to me. There was something dreadful about him. And in his manner to women — oh ! —” “Tf he had been a black draught, my dear, you could not have shud- dered more naturally.” “Well, he was horrible; and I know Philip will be better now he is gone.” Women often make light of ruin. Give them but the beloved objects, and poverty is a trifling sorrow to bear. As for Philip, he, as we have said, is gayer than he has been for years past. The Doctor’s flight oc casions not a little club talk: but, now he is gone, many people see quite well that they were aware of his in- solvency, and always knew it must endso. The case is told, is canvassed, is exaggerated as such cases will be. I dare say it forms a week’s talk. But people know that poor Philip is his father’s largest creditor, and eye the young man with no unfriendly looks when he comes to his club after his mishap,— with burning cheeks, anda tingling sense of shame, imagining that all the world will point at and avoid him as the guilty fugitive’s son. No: the world takes very little heed of his misfortune. One or two old acquaintances are kinder to him than before. A few say his ruin, and his obligation to work, will do him good. Only a very very few avoid him, and look unconscious as he passes them by. Amongst these cold countenances, you, of course, will rec- ognize the faces of the whole Twys- den family. Three statues, with marble eyes, could not look more stony-calm than Aunt Twysden and her two daughters, as they pass in the stately barouche. The gentlemen turn red when they see Philip. It is rather late times for Uncle Twysden to begin blushing, to be sure. “ Hang eee ee ee ee ee 184 the fellow! he will, of course, be coming for money. Dawkins, I am not at home, mind, when young Mr. Firmin calls.” So says Lord Ring- wood, regarding Philip fallen among thieves. Ah, thanks to Heaven, travellers find Samaritans as well as Levites on life’s hard way! Philip told us with much humor of a rencon- tre which he had had with his cousin, Ringwood Twysden, in a_ public place. Twysden was enjoying him- self with some young clerks of his office; but as Philip advanced upon him, assuming his fiercest scowl and most hectoring manner, the other lost heart, and fled. And no wonder. “Do you suppose,’ says Twysden, “T will willingly sitin the same room with that cad, after the manner in which he has treated my family! No, sir!” And so the tall door in Beaunash Street is to open for Philip Firmin no more. The tall door in Beaunash Street flies open readily enough for another gentleman. A splendid cab-horse reins up before it every day. A pair of varnished boots leap out of the cab, and spring up the broad stairs, where somebody is waiting with a smile of genteel welcome, —the same smile, —on the same sofa,—the same mamma at her table writing her let- ters. And beautiful bouquets from Covent Garden decorate the room. And after half an hour mamma goes out to speak to the housekeeper, vous comprenez. And thereis nothing par- ticularly new under the sun. It will shine to-morrow upon pretty much the same flowers, sports, pastimes, &¢., which it illuminated yesterday. And when your lovemaking days are Over, miss, and you are married, and advantageously established, shall not your little sisters, now in the nursery, trot down and play their little games? Would you, on your conscience, now,—you who are rather inclined to consider Miss Agnes Twysden’s conduct as heartless, — would you, I say, have her cry her pretty eyes out about a young man THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. who does not care much for her, fo whom she never did care much her self, and who is now, moreover, — beggar, with a ruined and disgraced father and a doubtful legitimacy % Absurd! That dear girl is like beautiful fragrant bower-room at the “Star and Garter” at Richmond, with honeysuckles mayhap trailing round the windows, from which you behold one of the most lovely and pleasant of wood and river scenes, The tables are decorated with flow- ers, rich wine-cups sparkle on the board, and Captain Jones’s party haye- everything they -can desire. Their dinner over, and that company gone, the same waiters, the same flowers, the same cups and crystals, array themselves for Mr. Brown and jus party. Or, if you won’t have Agnes ‘Twysden compared to the “ Star and Garter Tavern,” which must admit mixed company, liken her to the chaste moon who shines on shepherds of all complexions, swarthy or fair, — When oppressed by superior odds, a commander is forced to retreat, we like him to show his skill by carry- ing off his guns, treasure, and camp equipages. Doctor Firmin, beaten by fortune and compelled to fly, showed quite a splendid skill and coolness in his manner of decamping, and left the very smallest amount of - spoils in the hands of the victorious enemy. His wines had been famous amongst the graye epicures with whom he dined: he used to boast, like a worthy bon vivant who knows the value of wine-conversation after dinner, of the quantities which he possessed, and the rare bins which he— had in store; but when the execu-— tioners came to arrange his sale, there was found only a beggarly accoun of empty bottles, and I fear some the unprincipled creditors put q great quantity of bad liquor wat they endeavored to foist off on t public as the genuine and caretul selected stock of a well-known noisseur. News of this dishones ceeding reached Dr, Firmin pre THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘in his retreat ; and he showed by his ‘letter a generous and manly indigna- tion at the manner in which his cred- itors had tampered with his honest name and reputation as a bon vivant. ‘He have bad wine! For shame! ‘He had the best from the best wine- merchant, and paid, or rather owed, ‘the hest prices for it; for of late years the Doctor had paid no bills at all: and the wine-merchant appearedin juite a handsome group of tigures in ‘hisschedule. In like manner his books were pawned to a book-auctioneer ; md Brice, the butler, had a bill of sale for the furniture. J irmin re- created, we will not say with the hon- ors of war, but as little harmed as dossible by defeat. Did the enemy want the plunder of his city? He jad smuggled almost all his valuable ‘roods over the wall. Did they desire ais ships? He had sunk them: and ‘when at length the conquerors poured ‘to his stronghold, he was far be- yond the reach of their shot... Don’t ve often hear still that Nana Sahib 's alive and exceedingly comfortable ? Wedo not love him; but we can’t 1elp having a kind of admiration for shat slippery fugitive who has escaped pos the dreadful jaws of the lion. ‘n @ word, when Firmin’s furniture ‘ame to be sold, it was a marvel how ittle his creditors benefited by the ‘ale. Contemptuous brokers de- ‘lared there never was such a shab- ‘y lot of goods. A friend of the ‘ouse and poor Philip bought in his nother’s picture for a few guineas; nd as for the Doctor’s own state por- cait, 1 am afraid it went for a few hillings only, and in the midst of a ‘ar of Hebrew laughter. I saw in Vardour Street, not long after, the ‘oetor’s sideboard, and what dealers aeerfully call the sarcophagus cel- wet! Poor Doctor! his wine was ll drunken ; his meat was eaten up; ut his own body had slipped out of ae reach of the hook-beaked birds of rey. — We had spoken rapidly in under- mes, innocently believing that the 185 young people round about us were tak- ing no heed of our talk. But in a lull of the conversation, Mr. Pendennis junior, who had always been a friend to Philip, broke out with, — “ Philip! if you are so very poor, you ’ll be hun- gry, you know, and you may have my piece of bread and jam. And I don’t want it, mamma,” he added; “ and you know Philip has often and often given me things.” Philip stooped down and kissed this good little Samaritan. ‘I’m not hungry, Arty my boy,” he said; “and I’m not so poor but I have got — look here —a fine new shilling for Arty!” “QO Philip, Philip!” cried mam- ma. : “Don’t take the money, Arthur,” cried papa. And the boy, with a rueful face but a manly heart, prepared to give back the coin. “It’s quite a new one; and it’s a very pretty one: but I won’t have it, Philip, thank you,” he said, turning very red. “Tf he won’t, I vow I will give it to the cabman,” said Philip. “Keeping a cab all this while? O Philip, Philip!” again cries mam- ma the economist. “Loss of time is loss of money, my dear lady,” says Philip, very gravely, “‘T have ever so many places to go to. When I am set in for being ruined, you shall see what a screw I will be- come! I must go to Mrs. Brandon, who will be very uneasy, poor dear, until she knows the worst.” “O Philip, I should like so to go with you!” cries Laura. “ Pray, give her our very best regards and respects.” “Merci!” said the young man, and squeezed Mrs. Pendennis’s hand in his own big one. “I will take your message to her, Laura. J’aime qu’on Vaime, savez-vous ?” “That means, I love those who love her,” cries little Laura; “but, I don’t know,” remarked this little per- son afterwards to her paternal confi- dant, “that I like all people to love 186 my mamma. That is, I don’t like her to like them, papa,—only you may, papa, and Ethel may, and Ar- thur may, and, I think, Philip may, now he is poor and quite, quite alone, — and we will take care of him, won’t we? And, I think, 1’ll buy him something with my money which Aunt Ethel gave me.” “And I’ll give him my money,” cries a boy. “And [7ll div him my —my — Psha! what matters what the little sweet lips prattled in their artless kindness? But the soft words of love and pity smote the mother’s heart with an exquisite pang of gratitude and joy; and I know where her thanks were paid for those tender words and thoughts of her little ones. Mrs. Pendennis made Philip prom- ise to come to dinner, and also to re- member not to take a cab, — which promise Mr. Firmin had not much difficulty in executing, for he had but a few hundred yards to walk across the Park from his club; and I must say that my wife took a special care of our dinner that day, preparing for Philip certain dishes which she knew he liked, and enjoining the butler of the establishment (who also happened to be the owner of the house) to fetch from his cellar the very choicest wine in his possession. I have previously described our friend and his boisterous, impetuous, generous nature. When Philip was moved, he called to all the world to Witness his emotion. When he was angry, his enemies were all the rogues and scoundrels in the world. He vowed he would have no mercy on them, and desired all his acquaintances to participate in his anger. How could such an open- mouthed son have had such a close-spoken father ? I dare say you have seen very well- bred young people, the children of vulgar and ill-bred parents; the swag- gering father have a silent son; the loud mother a modest daughter. Our friend is not Amadis or Sir Charles Grandison; and I don’t set him up for ? THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. a moment as a person to be reve or imitated; but try to draw faithfully, and as nature made h As nature made him, so he was. don’t think he tried to improve h self much. Perhaps few people do. - They suppose they do; and you. read, in apologetic memoirs, and fond biographies, how this man cured his bad temper, and t’other worked and strove until he grew to be almost. faultless. Very well and good, my. good people. You can learn a lan- guage ; you can master a science; I have heard of an old square-toes of sixty who learned, by study and in- tense application, very satisfactorily to dance; but can you, by taking thought, add to your moral stature? Ah me! the doctor who preaches is only taller than most of us by the height of the pulpit: and when he steps down, I dare say he cringes to. the duchess, growls at his children, . scolds his wife about the dinner. All is vanity, look you: and so th preacher is vanity, too. “3 Well, then, I must again say 1 Philip roared his griefs: he sh his laughter: he bellowed hi plause: he was extravagant in humility as in his pride, in hi miration of his friends and conte! for his enemies: I dare say not a. man, but I have met juster me half so honest; and certainly ne faultless man, though I know men not near so good. So, I be my wife thinks: else why shoul be so fond of him? Did we not boys who never went out of bo and never were late for school, and never made a false concord or quan ty, and never came under the fert and others who were always play truant, and blundering, and Master Goodchild? Naughtyboy came to dine with | the first day of his ruin, he b face of radiant happiness, laughed, he bounced about ressed the children; now he t THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. couple on his knees; now he tossed the baby to the ceiling; now he sprawled over a sofa, and now he rode ‘upon a chair; never was a penniless gentleman more cheerful. As for his ‘dinner, Phil’s appetite was always ‘fine, but on this day an ogre could ‘searcely play a more terrible knife vand fork. He asked for more and ‘more, until his entertainers wondered ‘to behold him. “ Dine for to-day and to-morrow too; can’t expect such fare as this every day, you know, | This claret, how good it is! May I ypack some up in paper, and take it home with me?” ‘The children ‘roared with laughter at this admira- ble idea of carrying home wine in a ;sheet of paper. I don’t know that it ‘is always at the best jokes that chil- dren laugh : — children and wise men too. _» When we three were by ourselves, ‘and freed from the company of ser- vants and children, our friend told us the cause of his gayety. “By George!” he swore, “it is worth be- ‘ing ruined to find such good people in ithe world. My dear, kind Laura,” — here the gentleman brushes his eyes ‘with his fist, — “it was as much as I bod do this morning to prevent my- self from hugging you in my arms, you were so generous, and — and so kind, and so tender, and so good, by ods And after leaving you, where do you think I went?” “T think I can guess, Philip,” says Laura, > “Well,” says Philip, winking his byes again, and tossing off a great »umper of wine, “I went to her, of sourse. I think she is the best friend (have in the world. The old man vas out, and I told her about every- hing that had happened. And what lo you think she has done? She ew she has been expecting me — she las; and she has gone and fitted up troom with a nice little bed at the op of the house, with everything as jleat and trim as possible; and she ls and prayed I would go and ‘tay with her, — and I said I would, 187 to please her. And then she takes me down to her room; and she jumps up to a cupboard, which she unlocks ; and she opens and takes three-and- twenty pounds out of a — out of a tea — out of a tea-caddy, — confound me!— and she says, ‘ Here, Philip,’ she says, and — Boo! what a fool I am!’? and here the orator fairly broke down in his speech. —o— CHAPTER XVI. IN” WHICH PHILIP METTLE. SHOWS HIS WueEn the poor Little Sister prof- fered her mite, her all, to Philip, I dare say some sentimental passages occurred between them which are much too trivial to be narrated. No doubt her pleasure would have been at that moment to give him not only that gold which she. had been saying up against rent-day, but the spoons, the furniture, and all the valuables of the house, including, perhaps, J. J.’s bricabrac, cabinets, china, and so forth. To perform a kindness, an act of self-sacrifice ; — are not these the most delicious privileges of female tenderness? Philip checked his little friend’s enthusiasm. He showed her a purse full of money, at which sight the poor little soul was rather dis- appointed. He magnified the value of his horses, which, according to Philip’s calculation, were to bring him at least two hundred pounds more than the stock which he had al- ready in hand; and the master of such a sum as this, she was forced to confess, had no need to despair. In- deed, she had never in her life pos- sessed the half of it. Her kind dear little offer of a home in her house he would accept sometimes, and with gratitude. Well, there was a little consolation in that. In a moment that active little housekeeper saw the room ready; flowers on the mantel- piece ; his looking-glass, which her fa- ther could do quite well with the little 188 *, one, as he was always shaved by the ~-barber now ;, the quilted counterpane, which she had herself made: — I know not what more improvements she devised; and I fear that at the idea of having Philip with her, this little thing was as extravagantly and unreasonably happy as we have just now seen Philip to be. What was that last dish which Peetus and Arria shared in common? I have lost my Lempriere’s dictionary (that treasury of my youth), and forget whether it was a cold dagger au naturel, or a dish of hot coals & la Romaine, ,of which they partook ; but, whatever it was, she smiled, and delightedly received it, happy to share the beloved one’s fortune. “Yes: Philip would come home to his Little Sister sometimes : sometimes of a Saturday, and they would go to church on Sunday, as he used to do when he was a boy at school. “ But then, you know,” says Phil, “law is law; study is study. I must devote my whole energies to my work,— get up very early.” “Don’t tire your eyes, my dear,” interposes Mr. Philip’s soft judicious friend. “There must be no trifling with work,” says Philip, with awful gravity. “There ’s Benton the Judge: Benton and Burbage, you know.” “©, Benton and Burbage whispers the Little Sister, not a little bewildered. wks “ How do you suppose he became a judge before forty ¢” “ Before forty who? law bless me!” “‘ Before he was forty, Mrs. Carry. When he came to work, he had his own way to make: just like me. He had a small allowance from his father : that’s not like me. He took chambers in the Temple. He went to a pleader’s office. He read fourteen, fifteen hours every day. He dined on a cup of tea and a mutton-chop.” “Ta, bless me, child! I would n’t have you to do that, not to be Lord Chamberlain — Chancellor what ’s his name? Destroy your youth with $7 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. reading, and your eyes, and go with: out your dinner? You ’re not us to that sort of thing, dear; and i would kill you!” es Philip smoothed his fair hair off his” ample forehead, and nodded his head, smiling sweetly. I think his inward monitor hinted to him that there was” not much danger of his killing himself by overwork. “To succeed at the law, as in all other professions,” he continued, with much gravity, “re quires the greatest perseverance, and industry, and talent; and then, per- haps, you don’t succeed. Many have failed who have had all these quali- ties.” a “But they have n’t talents like my Philip, I know they have n't. AndT had to stand up in a court once, and was cross-examined by a vulgar man before a horrid deaf old judge; and I ’m sure if your lawyers are like them I don’t wish you to succeed at all. And now, look! there ’s a nice loin” of pork coming up. Pa loves roast pork; and you must come and have » some with us; and every day and all days, my dear, I should like to see you seated there.” And the Little | Sister frisked about here, and bustled - there, and brought a cunning bottle of wine from some corner, and made the boy welcome. So that, you see, far from starving, he actually had two- dinners on that first day of his ruin. — Caroline consented to a compromise - regarding the money, on ilip’s © solemn vow and promise that she should be his banker whenever neces- | sity called. She rather desired his | poverty for the sake of its precious | reward. She hid away a little bag of gold for her darling’s use whenever he should need it. I dare say she pinched and had shabby dinners at home, so as to save yet more, and 8Q_ caused the captain to grumble. | for that boy’s sake, I believe would have been capable of sha her lodgers’ legs of mutton, and I ing a tax on their tea-caddie baker’s stuff. If you don’t like principled attachments of this e. _ 5 > on = ind only desire that your womankind should love you for yourself, and ac- ording to your deserts, 1 am your rery humble servant. Hereditary yondswomen ! you know, that were rou free, and did you strike the blow, ny dears, you were unhappy for your vain, and eagerly would claim your yonds again. hat sentiment ? It is perfectly true, ind I know will receive the cordial | ipprobation of the dear ladies. _ Philip has decreed in his own mind hat he will go and live in those hambers in the Temple where we tave met him. Vanjohn, the sport- ng gentleman, had determined for pecial reasons to withdraw from law ‘nd sport in this country, and Mr. ‘irmin took possession of ‘his vacant leeping-chamber. ‘To furnish a bach- dors bedroom need not be a matter f much cost; but Mr. Philip was too | ,ood-natured a fellow to haggle about | he valuation of Vanjohn’s “bedsteads nd chests of drawers, and generously k them at twice their value. He nd Mr. Cassidy now divided the oss in equal reign. Ah, happy oms, bright rooms, rooms near the ky, to remember you is to be young gain! for I would have you to know at when Philip went to take posses- ion of his share of the fourth floor in he Temple, his biographer was still omparatively juvenile, and in one r two very old-fashioned families was alled “ young Pendennis.” So Philip Firmin dwelt in a garret ; nd the fourth part of a laundress and he half of a boy now formed the do- estic establishment of him who had een attended by housekeepers, but- urs, and obsequious liveried menials. ‘o be freed from that ceremonial and and worsted lace fas an immense relief to Firmin. lis pipe need not lurk in crypts or jack closets now: its fragrance reathed over the whole ch ambers, nd rose up to the sky, their nea bor. The first month or two after being aimed, Philip vowed, was an uncom- '- a eoS- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 189 monly pleasant time. He had still plenty of-money in his pocket; and the sense that, perhaps, it was impru- dent to take a cab or drink a bottle of wine, added a zest to those enjoy- ments which they by no means pos- _sessed when they were easy and of daily occurrence. What poet has uttered J am not certain that a dinner of beef and porter did not amuse our young man almost as well as banquets much more costly to which he had been accustomed. He laughed atthe pretensions of his boyish days,:;when he and other solemn young epicures used to sit down to elaborate tavern banquets, and pretend to criticise vintages, and sauces, and turtle. As yet there was not only con- | tent with his dinner, but plenty there- with ; and I do not wish to alarm you by supposing that Philip will ever have to encounter any dreadful extremities of poverty and hunger in the course of his history. The wine in the jug was very low at times, but it never was quiteempty. This lamb was shorn, but the wind was tempered to him. So Philip took possession of his rooms in the Temple, and began act- ually to reside there just as the long vacation commenced, which he in- tended to devote to a course of seri- ous study of the law and private preparation, before he should venture on the great business of circuits and the bar. Nothing is more necessary for desk-men than exercise, so Philip took a good deal; especially on the water, where he pulled a famous oar. | Nothing is more natural after exer- cise than refreshment; and Mr. Fir- min, now he was too poor for claret, showed a great capacity for beer. After beer and bodily labor, rest, of course, is necessary; and Jirmin slept nine hours, and looked as rosy as a girl in her first season. Then such a man, with such a frame and health, must have a good appetite for breakfast. And see every man who wishes to succeed at the bar in the senate, on the bench, in the House of Peers, on the Woolsack, must know 190 the quotidian history of his country; so, of course, Philip read the newspa- per. Thus, you see, his hours of study were perforce curtailed by the necessary duties which distracted him from his labors. It has been said that Mr. Firmin’s companion in chambers, Mr. Cassidy, was a native of the neighboring king- dom of Ireland, and engaged in litera- ry pursuits in this country. A merry, shrewd, silent, observant little man, he, unlike some of his compatriots, . always knew how to make both ends meet; feared no man alive in the character of a dun; and out of small earnings managed to transmit no small comforts and subsidies to old parents living somewhere in Munster. Of Cassidy’s friends was Finucane, | now editor of the Pall Mall Gazette : he married the widow of the late ec- | centric and gifted Captain Shandon, | and Cass himself was the fashionable correspondent of the Gazette, chron- icling the marriages, deaths, births, dinner-parties of the nobility. ‘These Irish gentlemen knew other Irish gen- tlemen connected with other newspa- pers, who formed a little literary society. They assembled at each other’s rooms, and at haunts where social pleasure was to be purchased at no dear rate. Philip Firmin was known to many of them before his misfortunes occurred, and when there was gold in plenty inshis pocket, and never-failing applause for his songs. When Pendennis and his friends wrote in this newspaper, it was im- pertinent enough, and many men must have heard the writers laugh at the airs which they occasionally thought proper to assume. The tone which they took amused, annoyed, tickled, was popular. It was continued, and, of course, caricatured by their sucees- sors. They worked for very moderate | fees: but paid themselves by imper- | tinence, and the satisfaction of assail- ing their betters. Three or four persons were reserved from their abuse ; but somebody was sure every week to be tied up at their post, and THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. the public made sport of the victi contortions. ‘The writers were scure barristers, ushers, and colle; men, but they had omniscience at t pen’s end, and were ready to | down the law on any given subj —to teach any man his busines were it a bishop in his pulpit, a Mi ister in his place in the House, a ca tain on his quarter-deck, a tailor on his shopboard, or.a jockey im his saddle. =. Since those early days of the Pe Mall Gazette, when old Shandon wielded his truculent tomahawk, and Messrs. W-rr-ngt-n and P-n-& 'n-s followed him in the war - pat! the Gazette had passed through s eral hands; and the victims who, were immolated by the editors of 'day were very likely the objects. of the best puffery of the last dynasty ''To be flogged in what was your 'school-room, — that, surely, is a queer sensation ; and when my Report was published on the decay of the sea ing-wax trade in the three kingdoms (owing to the prevalence of gum ‘envelopes, —as you may see in masterly document), I was horse¢ ‘and smartly whipped in the Gaz by some of the rods which had ¢ out of pickle since my time. not good Dr. Guillotin executed his own neat invention? I d know who was the Monsieur San who operated on me; but ha ways had my idea that Digges, Corpus, was the man to whom flagellation was intrusted. His ft keeps a ladies’ school at Hae but there is an air of fashion in @ thing which Digges writes, and chivalrous conservatism which me pretty certain that D. was m; _searifier. All. this, however, i) naught. Let us turn away fron the author’s private griefs and tisms to those of the hero of th story. ' Does any one remember pearance some twenty years — a little book called “ Trumy —a book of songs and poe ed to his brother officers by Cornet terton? His trumpet was very Nerably melodious, and the cornet yed some small airs on it with some little grace and skill. But this poor Canterton belonged to the Life Guards Green, and Philip Firmin would have liked to have the lives of ome or two troops at least of that ‘orps. Entering into Mr. Cassidy’s ‘oom, Philip found the little volume. de set to work to exterminate Can- ‘erton. He rode him down, trampled »ver his face and carcass, knocked the “Trumpet Calls” and all the teeth ut of the trumpeter’s throat. Never Vas such a smashing article as he yrote. And Mugford, Mr. Cassidy’s thief and owner, who likes always to ave at least one man served up and jashed small in the Pall Mall Jazette, happened at this very junc-| ure to have no other victim ready in| ‘is larder. Philip’s review appeared ‘here in print. He rushed off with ‘mmense glee to Westminster, to how us his performance. Noth- ‘ng must content him but to give eae . . dinner at Greenwich on his suc- ess. O Philip! We wished that | ‘his had not been his first fee; | ‘md that sober law had given it > him, and not the graceless and ‘ckle muse with whom he had been irtng. For, truth to say, certain 7ise old heads which wagged over his. erformance could sce but little merit ait. His style was coarse, his-wit | tumsy and savage. Never mind haracterizing either now. He has | ®en the error of his ways, and di- ‘oreed with the muse whom he never ught to have wooed. ‘The shrewd Cassidy not only Yuld not write himself, but knew he ould not,—or, at least, pen more jan a plain paragraph, or a brief mtence to the point, but said he ould carry this paper to his chief. ‘His Excellency” was the nickname | Y which this chief was called by is familiars. Mugford — Frederick ‘fugford was his real name, — and ‘Atting out of sight that little defect in | iiss THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 191 his character, that he committed a sys- tematic literary murder once a week, a more worthy good-natured little mur- derer did not live. Hecame of the old school of the press. Like French marshals, he had risen from the ranks, and retained some of the man- ners and oddities of the private soldier. A new race of writers had grown up since he enlisted as a print- er’s boy,—men of the world, with the manners of other gentlemen. Mugford never professed the least gentility. He knew that his young men laughed at his peculiarities, and did not care a fig for their scorn. As the knife with which he conveyed his victuals to his mouth went down his throat at the plenteous banquets which he gave, he saw his young friends wince and wonder, and rather rel- ished their surprise. Those lips never cared in the least about placing his W’s in right places. They used bad language with great freedom (to hear him bullying a printing - office was a wonder of eloquence), — but they betrayed no secrets, and the words which they uttered you might trust. He had belonged to two or three parties, and had respected them all. When he went to the Under- Secretary’s office he was never kept waiting; and once or twice Mrs. Mugford, who governed him, ordered him to attend the Saturday reception of the Ministers’ ladies, where he might be seen, with dirty hands, it is true, but a richly embroidered waist- coat and fancy satin tie. His heart, however, was not in these entertain- ments. J have heard him say that he only came because Mrs. M. would have it; and he frankly owned that he “would rather ’ave a pipe, and a drop of something ’ot, than all your ices and.rubbish.” Mugford had a curious knowledge of what was going on in the world, and of the affairs of countless people. When Cass brought Philip’s article to his Excellency, and mentioned the author’s name, Mugford showed him- self to be perfectly familiar with the 192 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. histories of Philip and’ his father. | riage, but we ain’t above our b “The old chap has nobbled the young fellow’s money, almost every shilling of it, I hear. Knew he ney- er would carry on. His discounts would have killed any man. Seen his paper about this ten year. Young one is a gentleman, — passionate fel- low, hawhaw fellow, but kind to the poor. Father never was a gentle- man, with all his fine airs and fine waistcoats. I don’t set up in that line myself, Cass, but I tell you I know ’em when I see ’em.” Philip had friends and private pa- trons whose influence was great with the Mugford family, and of whom he little knew. Every year Mrs. M. was in the habit of contributing a Mugford to the world. She was one of Mrs. Brandon’s most regular cli- ents; and year after year, almost from his first arrival in London, Rid- ley, the painter, had been engaged as portrait painter to this worthy family. Philip and his illness; Philip and his horses, splendors, and entertain- ments; Philip and his lamentable | downfall and ruin, had formed the subject of many an interesting talk between Mrs. Mugford and her friend the Little Sister; and as. we know Caroline’s infatuation about the young fellow, we may suppose that his good qualities lost nothing in the description. When that article in the Pall Mall Gazette appeared, Nurse Brandon took the omnibus to Haverstock Hill, where, as you know, Mugford had his villa; — arrived at Mrs. Mueford’s, Gazette in hand; and had a long and delight- ful conversation with that lady. Mrs. Brandon bought I don’t know now many copies of that Pall Mall Gazette. She now asked for it re- peatedly in her walks at sundry gin- ger-beer shops, and of all sorts of news- venders. I have heard that when the Mugfords first purchased the Gazette, Mrs. M. used to drop bills from her pony-chaise, and distribute placards setting forth the excellence of the journal. ‘ We keep our car- al ness, Brandon,” that good la would say. And the business pr pered under the management of the worthy folks; and the pony-cha unfolded into a noble barouche ; a the pony increased and multipliy and became a pair of horses; a there was not a richer piece of ¢ lace round any coachman’s hat | London than now decorated Jol who had grown with the growth his master’s fortunes, and drove chariot in which his worthy empl¢ ers rode on the way to Hampstes honor, and prosperity. “ All this pitching into the p is very well, you know, Cassidy says Mugford to his subordine “It’s like shooting a butterfly wit blunderbuss ; but if Firmin likes f] kind of sport, I don’t mind. Th won’t be any difficulty about taki his copy at our place. The duch knows another old woman who a friend of his ” (“ the duchess” y the title which Mr. Mugford was. the playful habit of conferring uf his wife). “It’s my belief young had better stick to the law, and les the writing rubbish alone. But) knows his own affairs best, and, m you, the duchess is determined shall give him a helping hand.” Once, in the days of his prosper and in J. J.’s company, Philip ] visited Mrs. Mugford and her fam —a circumstance which the gen mun had almost forgotten. 4 painter and his friend were takiny Sunday walk, and came upon Mi ford’s pretty cottage and garden, ; were hospitably entertained there the owners of the place. It has | appeared, and the old garden has k since been covered by terraces } villas, and Mugford and Mrs. | good souls, where are they? - the lady thought she had never § such a fine-looking young fellow Philip; cast about in her mind wl of her little female Mugfords she marry him ; and insisted upon 0} ing her guest champagne. £ THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. il! So, you see, whilst, perhaps, was rather pluming himself upon ' literary talents, and imagining tt he was a clever fellow, he wag y the object of a job on the part two or three good folks, who »w his history, and compassionated ‘misfortunes. Mugford recalled himself to Phil- ‘recollection, when they met after appearance of Mr. Phil’s first formance in the Gazette. If he | took a Sunday walk, Hamp- id way, Mr. M. requested him to ember that there was a slice of fand a glass of wine at the old p. Philip remembered it well ugh now: the ugly room, the y family, the kind worthy people. long he learned what had been | | Brandon’s connection with a, and the young man’s heart | softened and grateful as he ight how this kind, gentle crea- had been able to befriend him. ; we may be sure, was not a lit- proud of her protégé. TI believe grew to fancy that the whole news- r was written by Philip. She & her fond parent read it aloud te worked. Mr. Ridley, senior, Ounced it was remarkably fine, now ; without, I think, entirely wWehending the meaning of the Ments which Mr. Gann gave ‘in his rich loud voice, and often ding asleep in his chair during sermon. ‘he autumn, Mr. Firmin’s friends, d Mrs. Pendennis, selected the tic seaport town of Boulogne eir holiday residence; and havin g ¥ quarters in the old town, we Mr. Philip an invitation to pay "sit whenever he could tear him- Way from literature and law. me in high spirits. He amused “W proprietor and master, Mr. ord,— his blunders, his bad Jan- | ] » his good heart. One day, | Expected a celebrated liter- acter to dinner, and Philip | ‘ Y were invited to meet him, 9 1938 The great man was ill, and was un- able to come. “Don’t dish up the side-dishes,”’ called out Mugford to his cook, in the hearing of his other guests. “ Mr. Lyon ain’t a coming.” They dined quite sufficiently without the side-dishes, and were perfectly cheerful in the absence of the lion. Mugford patronized his young men with amusing good-nature, « Firmin, cut the goose for the duchess, will you? Cass can’t say Bo! to one, he can’t. Ridley, a little of the stuffing. It’ make your hair curl.’ And Philip was going to imitate a fright- ful act with the cold steel (with which I have said Philip’s master used to convey food to his mouth), but our dear innocent third daughter uttered a shriek of terror, which caused him to drop the dreadful weapon. Our darling little Florence is a nervous child, and the sight of an edged tool causes her anguish, ever since our darling little Tom nearly cut his thumb off with his father’s razor. ur main amusement in this de- lightful place was to look at the sea- sick landing from the steamers ; and one day, as we witnessed this phe- nomenon, Philip sprang to the ropes Which divided us from the auriving passengers, and with a cry of “ How do you do, General ? ” greeted a yellow-faced gentleman, who started back, and, to my thinking, seemed but ill inclined to reciprocate Philip’s friendly greeting. The General was fluttered, no doubt, by the bustle and interruptions incidental to the land- ing. A pallid lady, the partner of his existence probably, was calling out, Doo !” line, and who seemed little interested by this family news. A governess, a tall young lady, and several more ‘imitations and descriptions of | male’ and female children, followed the pale lady, who, as I thought, “Noof et doo domestiques, to the sentries who kept the ooked strangely frightened when the gentleman addressed as General com- municated to her ~ Philip’s name. ‘Is that him?” said the lady in questionable grammar ; and the tall M 194 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. made a shroud of his Morning Heralll He would have flung the sheet oy his whole body, and lain hidden the from all eyes. | “The fan, my dears, is that yo! father is ruined: that’s the fun. your porridge now, little ones. Che jotte, pop a bit of butter in Carricl porridge ; for you may n’t have al to-morrow.” : “Q, gammon,” cries Moira. “You'll soon see whether i gammon or not, sir, when youll starving, sir. Your father has rum us, — and a very pleasant mornin work, I am sure.” * ‘And she calmly rubs the nose of I youngest child who is near her, a too young, and innocent, and ¢a less, perhaps, of the world’s censi as yet to keep ina strict cleanlin her own dear little snub nose dappled cheeks. ‘We are only ruined, and shall starving soon, my dears, and ii General has bought a pony, — dare say he has; he is quite cai of buying a pony when we are ing, — the best thing we can do eat the pony. M/‘Grigor, don’t l Starvation is no laughing When we were at Dumdum, it we atesome colt. Don’t you ber Jubber’s colt, —Jubber Horse Artillery, General? 1} tasted anything more tender in 2 life. Charlotte, take Jany’s out of the marmalade! We ruined, my dears, as sure as our is Baynes.” Thus did the mo the family prattle on in the m her little ones, and announce to the dreadful news of impendin vation. “General Baynes, D carelessness, had allowed Dr. J to make away with the mone, which the General had been se tinel. Philip might recover 10 trustee, and no doubt woul young lady turned a pair of large eyes upon the individual designated as “him,” and showed a pair of dank ringlets, out of which the envious sea-nymphs had shaken all the curl. The general turned out to be General Baynes ; the pale lady was Mrs. General B.; the tall young lady was Miss Charlotte Baynes, the General’s eldest child ; and the other six, forming nine, or “ noof,” in all, as Mrs. General B. said, were the other members of the Baynes family. And here I may as well say why the General looked alarmed on seeing Philip, and why the General’s lady frowned at him. In action one of the bravest of men, in common life General Baynes was timorous and weak. Specially he was afraid of Mrs. General Baynes, who ruled him with a vigorous authority. As Philip’s trustee, he had allowed Philip’s father to make away with the boy’s money. He learned with a ghastly terror that he was answerable for his own re- missness and want of care. For a long while he did not dare to tell his commander-in-chief of this dread- ful penalty which was hanging over him. When at last he ventured upon this confession, I do not envy him the scene which must have ensued between him and his com- manding officer. The morning after the fatal confession, when the chil- dren assembled for breakfast and prayers, Mrs. Baynes gave their young ones their porridge : she and Charlotte poured out the tea and cof- fee for the elders, and then addressing her eldest son Ochterlony, she said, “Ocky, my boy, the General has an- nounced a charming piece of news this morning.” “ Bought that pony, sir?” says Ocky. “O, what jolly fun !” says Moira, the second son. “Dear, dear papa! what’s the matter, and why do you look so?” cries Charlotte, looking behind her father’s paper. That guilty man would fain have haps he would not press his My dear, what can you exp the son of such a father? on it, Charlotte, no good f come from a stock like the on is a bad one, the father is a bad ‘ne, and your father, poor dear soul, is ot fit to be trusted to walk the street ‘ithout some one to keep him from ambling. Why did I allow him to © to town without me? We were uartered at Colchester then: and I ,ould not move on account of your rother M‘Grigor. ‘ Baynes,’ I said }) your father, ‘assure as I let you go jway to town without me, you will mme to mischief.’ And go he did, nd come to mischief he did. And ough his folly I and my poor chil- ren must go and beg our bread in ie streets, —I and my seven poor, dbbed, penniless little ones. O, it’s ‘uel, cruel! ” Indeed, one cannot fancy a more ‘smal prospect for this worthy moth- ‘and wife than to see her children ithout provision at the commence- ent of their lives, and her luckless asband robbed of his life’s earnings, id ruined just when he was too old ) work. ‘What was to become of them 2 Ow poor Charlotte thought, with |imgs of a keen remorse, how idle she id been, and how she had snubbed ‘© governesses, and how little she jew, and how badly she played the fano. O neglected opportunities ! Temorse, now the time was past idirrecoverable! Does any young idy read this who, perchance, ought | be doing her lessons? My dear, jy down the story-book at once. Go ) to your school-room, and _ practise ur piano for two hours this mo- ’nt; so that you may be prepared to pport your family, should ruin in /y case fall upon you. A great girl ; Sixteen, I pity Charlotte Baynes’s lings of anguish. She can’t write ery good hand; she can scarcely Swer any question to speak of in \y educational books ; her pianoforte tying is very very so-so indeed. es is to go out and get a living for }? family, how, in the name of good- 438, is she to set about it? What 3 they to do with the boys, and the jmey that has been put away for THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 195 Ochterlony when he goes to college, and for Moira’s commission ¢ “ Why we can’t afford to keep them at Dr. Pybus’s where they were doing so well; and they were ever so much bet- ter and more gentlemanlike than Colo- nel Chandler’s boys ; and to lose the army will break Moira’s heart, it will. And the little ones, my little blue- eyed Carrick, and my darling Jany, and my Mary, that I nursed almost miraculously out of her scarlet fever. God help them! God help usall!” thinks the poor mother. No wonder that her nights are wakeful, and her heart in a tumult of alarm at the idea of the impending danger. And the father of the family ?— the stout old General whose battles and campaigns are over, who has come home to rest his war-worn limbs, and make his peace with Heaven ere it calls him away,— what must be his feelings when he thinks that he kas been entrapped by a villain into com- miting an imprudence which makes his children penniless and himself dis- honored and a beggar? When he found what Dr. Firmin had done, and howhe had beencheated, he went away, aghast, to his lawyer, who could give him no help. Philip’s mother’s trus- tee was answerable to Philip for his property. It had been stolen through Baynes’s own carelessness, and the law bound him to replace it. Gen- eral Baynes’s man of business could not help him out of his perplexity at all; and I hope my worthy reader is not going to be too angry with the ‘General for what I own he did. You never would, my dear sir, I know. No power on earth would induce you to depart one inch from the path of rectitude ; or, having done an act of imprudence, to shrink from bearing the consequence. The long and short of the matter is, that poor Baynes and his wife, after holding agitated, stealthy councils together, — after believing that every strange face they saw was a bailiff’s coming to arrest them on Philip’s account, — after horrible days of remorse, misery, 196 guilt, —I say the long and the short of the matter was that these poor people determined to run away. ‘They would go and hide themselves any- where, —in an impenetrable pine forest in Norway, — up an inaccess- ible mountain in Switzerland. They would change their names ; dye their mustachios and honest old white hair; fly with their little ones away, away, away, out of the reach of law and Philip; and the first flight lands them on Boulogne Pier, and there is Mr. Philip holding out his hand and actually eying them as they got out of the steamer! ying them? It is the eye of Heaven that is on those criminals. Holding out his hand to them? It is the hand of fate that is on their wretched shoulders. No wonder they shuddered and turned pale. That which I took for sea-sick- ness, I am sorry to say was a guilty conscience: and where is the steward, my dear friends, who can relieve us of that ? As this party came staggering out of the Custom-house, poor Baynes still found Philip’s hand stretched out to eatch hold of him, and salut- ed him with a ghastly cordiality. “These are your children, General, and this is Mrs. Baynes?” says Philip, smiling, and taking off his hat. *“Q yes! I’m Mrs. General Baynes!” says the poor woman ; “and these are the children, — yes, yes. Charlotte, this is Mr. Firmin, of whom you have heard us speak ; and these are my boys, Moira and Ochterlony.” “T have had the honor of meeting General Baynes at Old Parr Street. Don’t you remember, sir?”’ says Mr. Pendennis, with great affability to the General. ““ What, another who knows me?” I dare say the poor wretch thinks ; and glances of a dreadful meaning pass between the guilty wife and the guilty husband. “ You are going to stay at any hotel ?” “<¢ Fi6tel des Bains!’” “‘ Hotel THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. du Nord!’” “‘Hétel d’Angli terre!’?” here cry twenty commi sioners in a breath. . “Hotel? O yes! That is, 7 have not made up our minds wheth¢ we shall go on to-night or whethe¢ we shall stay,” say those guilty one) looking at one another, and the) down to the ground; on which o1| of the children, with a roar says,— | “OQ ma, what astory! You saj you’d stay to-night; and I was § sick in the beastly boat, and I won travel any more!” And tears chol his artless utterance. “And ye said Bang to the man who took yoi) keys, you know you did,” resum) the innocent, as soon as he can gat! a further remark. “Who told you to speak?” cri mamma, giving the boy a shake. | “ This is the way to the ‘ Hotel d) Bains,” says Philip, making Mi Baynes another of his best bow And Miss Baynes makes a courtes) and her eyes look up at the handson young man, —large brown hone eyes in a comely round face, on eat side of which depend two straig’ wisps of brown hair that were ne | when they left Folkestone a few hou since. ey + “O, I say, look at those womi with the short petticoats ! and wood) shoes, by George! Oh! it’s joll ain’t it?’’ cries one young ¢ man. i. ‘By George, there’s a man Wi) ear-rings on! There is, Ocky, up! my word!” calls out another. the elder boy, turning round to } father, points to some soldiers. ~ “ D| you ever see such little beggars ed says, tossing his head up. “Th would n’t take such fellows into 0 line.” pe “Tam not at all tired, thank says Charlotte. “I am accus to carry him.” I forgot to sa the young lady had one of the ¢ dren asleep on her shoulder ; and other was toddling at her side, ing by his sister’s dress, an miring Mr. Firmin’s whiske = dJamed and curled very luminously and gloriously, like to the rays of the setting sun. _ “Tam very glad we met, sir,” says Philip, in the most friendly manner, aking leave of the General at the sate of his hotel. ‘I hope you won’t 0 away to-morrow, and that I may ome and pay my respects to Mrs. 3aynes.” Again he salutes that lady vith a coup de chapeau. Again he ows to Miss Baynes. She makes a retty courtesy enough, considering hat she has a baby asleep on her houlder. And they enter the hotel, jhe excellent Marie marshalling them 9 fitting apartments, where some of aem, I have no doubt, will sleep very soundly. How much more comfort- bly might poor Baynes and his wife ave slept, had they known what were /hilip’s feelings regarding them ! | We both admired Charlotte, the All girl who carried her little brother, nd around whom the others clung. ind we spoke loudly in Miss Char- »tte’s praises to Mrs. Pendennis, hen we joined that lady at dinner. ithe praise of Mrs. Baynes we had ot a great deal to say, further than lat she seemed to take command of te whole expedition, including the eral officer, her husband. ‘Though Marie’s beds at the “ H6- Ides Bains” are as comfortable as ty beds in Europe, you see that Imirable chambermaid cannot lay jit a clean, easy conscience upon je@ clean, fragrant pillow-case; and eneral and Mrs. Baynes owned, in jter days, that one of the most eadful nights they ever passed was }at of their first landing in France. | hat refugee from his country can fl y pm himself? Railways were not yet in that part of France. The neral was too poor to fly with a uple of private carriages, which he ast have had for his family of oof,” his governess, and two ser- nts. Encumbered with such a jun, his enemy would speedily have jtsued and overtaken him. It is a \t that, immediately after landing THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 197 at his hotel, he and his commanding officer went off to see when they could get places for — never mind the name of the place where they really thought of taking refuge. They never told, but Mrs. General Baynes had a sister, Mrs. Major MacWhirter (married to MacW. of the Bengal Cavalry), and the sisters loved each other very affectionately, especially by letter, for it must be owned that they quarrelled frightfully when together; and Mrs. MacWhirter never could bear that her younger sister should be taken out to dinner before her, because she was married to a superior officer. Well, their little differences were for- gotten when the two ladies were apart. The sisters wrote to each other pro- digious long letters, in which house- hold affairs, the children’s puerile diseases, the relative prices of veal, eggs, chickens, the rent of lodging and houses in various places, were fully discussed. And as Mrs. Baynes showed a surprising knowledge of Tours, the markets, rents, clergymen, society there, and as Major and Mrs. Mac. were staying there, I have little doubt, for my part, from this and another not unimportant cireum- Stance, that it was to that fair city our fugitives were wending their way, when events occurred which must now be narrated, and which caused General Baynes at the head of his domestic regiment to do what the King of France with twenty thousand men is said to have done in old times. Philip was greatly interested about the family. The truth is, we were all very much bored at Boulogne. We read the feeblest London papers at the reading-room with frantic assiduity. We saw all the boats come in: and the day was lost when we missed the Folkestone boat or the London boat. We consumed much time and absinthe at cafés; and tramped leagues upon that old pier every day. Well, Philip was at the “Hotel des Bains” at a very early hour next morning, and there he saw the General, with a woe-worn face, 198 leaning on his stick, and looking at his luggage, as it lay piled in the porte-cochere of the hotel. ‘There they lay, thirty-seven packages in all, including washing-tubs, and a child’s India sleeping-cot; and all. these packages were ticketed M. LE GE- NeRAL BAYNES, OrriciER ANGLAIS, Tours, TouRAINeE, France. I say, putting two and two together ; calling to mind Mrs. General’s singular knowledge of Tours and familiarity with the place and its prices ; remem- bering that her sister Emily — Mrs. Major MacWhirter, in fact — was there; and seeing thirty-seven trunks, bags, and portmanteaus, all directed “M. le Général Baynes, Officier Anglais, Tours, Touraine,” am I wrong in supposing that Tours was the General’s destination? On the other hand, we have the old officer’s declaration to Philip that he did not know where he was going. O you sly old man! O you gray old fox, beginning to double and to turn at sixty-seven years of age! Well? ‘The General was in retreat, and he did not wish the enemy to know upon what lines he was retreating. What is the harm of that, pray ? Besides he was under the orders of his commanding officer, and when Mrs. General gave her orders, I should have liked to see any officer of hers disobey. “What a pyramid of portman- teaus! You are not thinking of moving to-day, General?” says Philip. “Jt is Sunday, sir,’ says the General ; which you will perceive was not answering the question; but in truth, except for a very great emer: gency, the good General would not travel on that day. “T hope the ladies slept well after their windy voyage.” “Thank you. My wife is an old -sailor, and has made two voyages out and home to India.” Here, you un- derstand, the old man is again eluding his interlocutor’s artless queries. “T should like to have some talk THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. with you, sir, when you are free,’ continues Philip, not having leisur as yet to be surprised at the other’ demeanor. “ There are other days besides Sun day for talk on business,” says tha piteous sly-boots of an old officer Ah, conscience! conscience! Twen ty-four Sikhs, sword in hand, tw, dozen Pindarries, Mahrattas, Ghooi kas, what you please, — that old ma felt that he would rather have me them than Philip’s unsuspecting blu eyes. ‘These, however, now lighte up with rather an angry, “ Well, su as you don’t talk business on Su day, may I call on you to-morro morning ¢” And what advantage had the pot old fellow got by all this doublin) and hesitating and artfulness ? B | respite until to- morrow morning Another night of horrible wakefulne) and hopeless guilt, and Philip wal ing ready the next morning with h little bill, and, “ Please pay me tl) thirty thousand which my fath, spent and you owe me. Please tt tur out into the streets with your | and family, and beg and _ stary) Have the goodness to hand me 0) your last rupee. Be kind enough | sell your children’s clothes, and yo wife's jewels, and hand over the pt) ceeds to me. Ill call to-morro) Bye, bye.’’ iei| Here there came tripping overt) marble pavement of the hall of t! hotel a tall young lady in a broy silk dress, and rich curling ringh falling upon her fair young neck, | eautiful brown curling ringlets, w comprenez, not wisps of moisten hair, and a broad, clear forehead, a) two honest eyes shining below if, a) cheeks not pale as they were yest) day ; and lips redder still; and §) says, “ Papa, papa, won't you CO) to breakfast? The tea is —” Wl) the precise state of the tea is I do) know, —none of us ever shall, —/ here she says, “O Mr. Firmin) and makes a courtesy. = 1 To which remark Philip repli THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. “Miss Baynes, I hope you are very well this morning, and not the worse or yesterday’s rough weather.” “Tam quite well, thank you,” was Miss Baynes’s instant reply. The \imswer was not witty, to be sure; but don’t know that under the circum- ‘tances she could have said anything aore appropriate. Indeed, never was | pleasanter picture of health and ‘ood-humor than the young lady pre- ented ; a difference more pleasant to ‘ote than Miss Charlotte’s pale face jrom the steamboat on Saturday, and himing, rosy, happy, and innocent, ‘a the cloudless Sabbath morn. f | “A Madame, Madame le Major MacWhirter, i “ 4 Tours, “ Touraine, | gua “ France. } “TINTELLERIES, BOULOGNE-SUR-Mer, i “ Wednesday, August 24, 18—. “Dearest Emity,— After suffer- ig more dreadfully in the two hours’ ‘assage from Folkestone to this place jan I have in four passages out and ome from India, exeept in that ter- ble storm off the Cape, in Septem- or, 1824, when I certainly did sufter ‘ost cruelly on board that horrible oop-ship, we reached this place last jaturday evening, having a full deter- (mation to proceed immediately on jr route. Now, you will perceive at our minds are changed. We und this place pleasant, and the dgings besides most neat, comfort- ‘le, and well found in everything, pre reasonable than you proposed to /t for us at Tours, which I am told 30 is damp, and might bring on the jneral’s jungle fever again. Owing the whooping-cough having just enin the house, which, praised be rey, all my dear ones have had it, j2luding dear baby, who is quite well jrough it, and recommended sea air, ) got this house more reasonable than (ces you mention at Tours. hot good enough for, &c., THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. &c. Who has not met with these dif. — ficulties in life, and who can escape them? “Hang it, sir,” Phil would ~ say, twirling the red mustache, “I¥ like to be hated by some follows ? + if and it must be owned that Mr. ‘Philip’ 3 got what he liked. I suppose Mr. — Philip’s friend and biographer had — something of the same feeling. At any rate, in regard to this lady the hypocrisy of politeness was very hard — to keep up; wanting us for reasons — of her own, she covered the dagger bear which she would have stabbed — : but we knew it was there clenched * in ie skinny hand in her meagre pocket. She would pay us the most — fulsome compliments with anger raging out of her eyes, — a little hate-~ bearing woman, envious, malicious, — but loving her cubs, and nursing — them, and clutching them in her lean arms with a jealous strain. It was — “Good by, darling! I shall leave you” here with your friends. O, how kind — you are to her, Mrs. Pendennis Wg How can I ever thank you, and Mr, P., I am sure”; and she looked as if she could poison both of us, as ee went away, courtesying and darting” | dreary parting smiles. : This lady had an intimate friend and companion in arms, Mrs. Colonel Bunch, in fact, of the —th Bengal Cavalry, who was now in Europe’ with Bunch and their children, who were residing at Paris for the young — folks’ education. At first, as we have heard, Mrs. Baynes’s predilections — had been all for Tours, where her sis- ter was living, aud where lodgings were cheap and food reasonable in- proportion. But Bunch happening — to pass through Boulogne on his way” to his wife at “Paris, and meeting his old comrade, gave General Baynes such an account of the cheapness and pleasures of the French capital, as to induce the General to think of bend-— ing his steps thither. Mrs. Baynes would not hear of sucha plan. S was all for her dear sister and Tours; but when, in the course of conversa: | tion, Colonel Bunch described a b THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. at the Tuileries, where he and Mrs. B. had been received with the most flattering politeness by the royal fam- ily, it was remarked that Mrs. Baynes’s mind underwent a change. When Bunch went on to aver that the balls at Government House at Calcutta were nothing compared to those at the Tuileries or the Prefecture of the Seine; that the English were invited and respected everywhere ; that the ambassador was most hos- pitable; that the clergymen were ad- ‘mirable ; and that at their boarding- house, kept by Madame la Générale Baronne de Smolensk, at the “ Petit Chateau d’Espagne,” Avenue de Valmy, Champs Elysées, they had balls twice a month, the most com- fortable apartments, the most choice society, and every comfort and luxury at so many francs per month, with an allowance for children, —I say Mrs. ‘Baynes was very greatly moved. “It ‘is not,” she said, “in consequence of the balls at the Ambassador’s or the Tuileries, for I am an old woman; ‘and in spite of what you say, Colonel, ‘I can’t fancy, after Government ‘House, anything more magnificent in vany French palace. It is not for me, goodness knows, I speak: but the children should have education, and my Charlotte an entrée into the world ; and what you say of the in- valuable clergyman, Mr. X——, I ‘have been thinking of it all night; but ‘above all, above all, of the chances of education for my darlings. Noth- ‘ing should give way to that, — noth- ing!” On this a long and delightful ‘conversation and calculation took place. Bunch produced his bills at the Baroness de Smolensk’s. The ‘two gentlemen jotted up accounts, jand made calculations all through the ‘evening. It was hard even for Mrs. Baynes to force the figures into such a shape as to make them accord with the General’s income ; but, driven away by one calculation after another, shere- ‘turned again and again to the charge, until she overcame the stubborn arith- Metical difficulties, and the pounds, | 209 shillings, and pence lay prostrate be- fore her. ‘They could save upon this point; they could screw upon that ; they must make a sacrifice to educate the children. ‘Sarah Bunch and her girls go to Court, indeed! Why should n’t mine go?” sheasked. On which her General said, “By George, Eliza, that ’s the point you are think- ing of.” On which Eliza said, “‘ No,” and repeated ‘‘No”’ a score of times, growing more angry as she uttered each denial. And she declared before Heaven she did not want to ge to any Court. Had she not refused to be presented at home, though Mrs, Colonel Flack went, because she did not choose to go to the wicked ex- pense of a train? And it was base of the General, base and mean of him to say so. And there was a fine scene, as I am given to understand ; not that I was present at this family fight: but my informant was Mr. Firmin ; and Mr. Firmin had his in- formation from a little person who, about this time, had got to prattle out all the secrets of her young heart to him; who would have jumped off the pier-head with her hand in his if he had said “Come,” without his hand if he had said “Go”: a little person whose whole life had been changed, — changed for a month past, changed in one minute, that minute when she saw Philip’s fiery whiskers and heard his great big voice saluting her father amongst the commission- ers on the quai before the custom- house. Tours was, at any rate, a hundred and fifty miles farther off than Pafis trom —from a city where a young gentleman lived in whom Miss Char- lotte Baynes felt an interest ; hence, I suppose, arose her delight that her parents had determined upon taking up their residence in the larger and nearer city. Besides, she owned, in the course of her artless confidences to my wife, that, when together, mamma and Aunt Mac Whirter quar- relled unceasingly; and had once ; caused the old boys, the Major and N 210 the General, to call each other out. She preferred, then, to live away from Aunt Mac. She had never had such a friend as Laura, never. She had never been so happy as at Bou- logne, never. She should always love everybody in our house, that she should, forever and ever, —and_ so forth, and so forth. The ladies meet; cling together; osculations are carried round the whole family circle, from our wondering eldest boy, who cries, “I say, hullo! what are you kissing me so about?” to darling baby, crowing and sputtering uncon- scious in the rapturous young girl’s embraces. I tell you, these two women were making fools of them- selves, and they were burning with enthusiasm for the “ preserver ”’ of the Baynes family, as they called that big fellow yonder, whose biographer I have aspired to be. The lazy rogue lay basking in the glorious warmth and sunshine of early love. He would stretch his big limbs out in our garden; pour out his feelings with endless volubility; call upon hominum divumque voluptas, alma Venus ; vow that he had never lived or been happy until now; declare that he laughed poverty to scorn and all her ills; and fume against his masters of the Pall Mall Gazette, because they declined to insert certain love verses which Mr. Philip now composed al- most every day. Poor little Char- -lotte! And didst thou receive those treasures of song; and wonder over them, not perhaps comprchending them altogether; and lock them up in thy heart’s inmost casket as well as in thy little desk; and take them out in quiet hours, and kiss them, and bless Heaven for giving thee such jewels? I dare say. I can fancy all this, without seeing it. I can read the little letters in the little desk, without picking lock or breaking seal. Poor little letters! Sometimes they are not spelt right, quite ; but I don’t know that the style is worse for that. Poor little letters! You are flung to the winds sometimes and forgotten THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. of with all your sweet secrets and loving artless confessions; but not always, —no, not always. 214 would have done much better to marry. And so Philip is actually gone after his charmer, and is pursuing her summa diligentia? The Baynes family has allowed this penniless young law student to make love to their daughter, or accompany them to Paris, to appear as the almost recognized son of the house. “ Other people, when they were young, wanted tc make imprudent marriages,” says my wife (as if that wretched tu quoque were any answer to my remark!) “This penniless law student might have a good sum of money if he chose to press the Baynes family to pay him what, after all, they owe him.” And so poor little Charlotte was to be her father’s ransom! To be sure, little Charlotte did not object to offer herself up in payment of her papa’s debt! And though I objected as a moral man and a prudent man, anda father of a family, I could not e very seriously angry. J am secret- ly of the disposition of the time- honored pére de famille in the come- dies, the irascible old gentleman in the crop wig and George-the-Second coat, who is always menacing “ Tom the young dog” with his cane. When the deed is done, and Miranda (the little sly-boots!) falls before my squaretoes and shoe-buckles, and Tom, the young dog, kneels before me in his white ducks, and they ery out in a pretty chorus, ¢ Forgive us, grandpapa!” I say, “ Well, you rogue, boys will be boys. ‘Take her, sitrah! Be happy with her; and, hark ye! in this pocket-book you will find ten thousand,” &c., &e. You all know the story: I cannot help liking it, however old it may be. In love, somehow, one is pleased that young people should dare a little. Was not Bessy Eldon famous as an economist, and Lord Eldon celebrated for wisdom and caution ? and did not John Scott marry Elizabeth Surtees when they had scarcely twopence a year between them? “Of course, my dear,’ I say to the partner of my THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. existence, “now this madcap f is utterly ruined, now is the time he ought to marry. The’ cepted doctrine is that a man shoul spend his own fortune, then his wife's) fortune, and then he may _ begin to! get on at the bar. Philip has a hundred pounds, let us say ; Charlotte has nothing; so that in about six weeks we may look to hear of Philip) being in successful practice—” “Successful nonsense!”’ cries th lady. do. ence. WILL be provided for! be forever taking care of the morrow, and not trusting that we shall be cared for? You may call your - of thinking prudence. I call it si worldliness, sir.” “When my life- ner speaks in a certain strain, I know that remonstrance is useless, and argument unavailing, and I generally. resort to cowardly subterfuges, anc sneak out of the conversation by ¢ pun, a side joke, or some flippancy.* Besides, in this cas though I argue against my wife, m sympathy is on her side. I kno Philip is imprudent and headstr but I should like him to succeed, | be happy. I own he is a scape but I wish him well. So, just as the diligence of L and Caillard is clearing out of logne town, the conductor caus carriage to stop, and a young has mounted up on the roof twinkling; and the postilion s: “ Hi!” to his horses, and away squealing grays go clattering. . a young lady, happening to look of one of the windows of the inté has perfectly recognized the gentleman who leaped up to t so nimbly; and the two bo; ba THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. -were in the rotonde would have recog- nized the gentleman, but that they were already eating the sandwiches which my wife had provided. And so the diligence goes on, until it ‘reaches that hill, where the girls used to come and offer to sell you apples ; ‘and some of the passengers descend and walk, and the tall young man on the roof jumps down, and approaches the party in the interior, and a young Tady cries out “La!” and her mam- ‘ma looks impenetrably grave, and not ‘in the least surprised ; and her father gives a wink of one eye, and says, “Tt ’s him, is it, by George!” and the two boys coming out of the rotonde, their mouths full of sand- Wich, cry out, “Hullo! It ’s Mr. ‘Firmin.” | “How do you do, ladies 2” he says, ‘blushing as red as an apple, and his heart thumping, — but that may be from walking up hill. And he puts ‘ahand towards the carriage-window, and a little hand comes out and lights on his. And Mrs. General Baynes, who is reading a religious work, looks ‘ap and says, “Oh! how do you do, Mr. Firmin?” And this is the re- markable dialogue that takes place. It is not very witty; but Philip’s tones send a rapture into one young aeart: and when he is absent, and aas climbed up to his place in the sabriolet, the kick of his boots on the i gives the said young heart inex- pressible comfort and consolation. Shine stars and moon. Shriek gray 4orses through the calm night. Snore weetly, papa and mamma, in your a with your pocket-handker- /hiefs tied round your old fronts! I ‘uppose, under all the stars of heaven, here is nobody more happy than that ‘hild in that carriage, — that wakeful jirl, in sweet maiden meditation, — vho has given her heart to the keeping f the champion who is so near her. Tas he not been always theirchampion md preserver? Don’t they owe to tls generosity everything in life? One if the little sisters wakes wildly, and Ties in the night, and Charlotte takes 215 the child into her arms and soothes her. “ Hush, dear! He’s there, — he ’s there,” she whispers, as she bends over the child. Nothing wrong can happen with Aim there, she feels. If the robbers were to spring out from yonder dark pines, why, he would jump down, and they would all fly before him! The carriage rolls on through sleeping villages, and as the old team retires all in a halo of smoke, and the fresh horses come clattering up to their pole, Charlotte sees a well-known white face in the gleam of the carriage lanterns. Through the long avenues the great vehicle rolls on its course. The dawn peers over the poplars: the stars quiver out of sight: the sun is up in the sky, and the heaven is all in a flame. The night is over,—the night of nights. In all the round world, whether lighted by stars or sunshine, there were not two people more happy than these had been. A very short time afterwards, at the end of October, our own little sea- side sojourn came to anend. That astounding bill for broken glass, chairs, crockery, was paid. The London steamer takes us all on board on a beautiful, sunny autumn evening, and lands us at the Custom-house Quay in the midst of a deep dun fog, through which our cabs have to work their way over greasy pavements, and bearing two loads of silent and terrified children. Ah, that return, if but after a fortnight’s absence and holiday ! O, that heap of letters lying in a ghastly pile, and yet so clearly visible in the dim twilight of master’s study ! We cheerfully breakfast by candle- light for the first two days after my arrival at home, and I have the pleas- ure of cutting a part of my chin off because it is too dark to shave at nine o’clock in the morning. My wife can’t be so unfeeling as to laugh and be merry because I have met with an accident which tempor- arily disfigures me? If the dun fog makes her jocular she has a very queer sense of humor. She has a letter 216 before her, over which she is perfectly radiant. When she is especially pleased I can see by her face and a particular animation and _atfection- ateness towards the rest of the family. On this present morning her face beams out of the fog-clouds. The room is illuminated by it, and perhaps by the two candles which are placed one on either side of the urn. The fire crackles, and flames, and spits most cheerfully ; and the sky without, which is of the hue of brown paper, seems to set off the brightness of the little interior scene. “A letter from Charlotte, papa,” cries one little girl, with an air of con- sequence. ‘And a letter from Uncle Philip, papa!” cries another, “ and they like Paris so much,” continues the little reporter. « And there, sir, did n’t I tell you ?” cries the lady, handing me over a letter. “Mamma always told you so,” echoes the child, with an important nod of the head; “and I should n’t be surprised if he were to be very rich, should you, mamma ?” continues this arithmetician. I would not put Miss Charlotte’s letter into print if I could, for do you know that little person’s grammar was frequently incorrect; there were | three or four words spelt wrongly ; and the letter was so scored and marked with dashes under every other word, that it is clear to me her educa- tion had been neglected; and as I am. very fond of her, Ido not wish to make fun of her. And I can’t print Mr. Philip’s letter, for I have n’t kept it. Of what use keeping letters? I say, Burn, burn, burn. No heart- pangs. No reproaches. No yester- day. Was it happy, or miserable ? To think of it is always melancholy. Go to! Idare say it is the thought ef that fog which is making this sentence so dismal. Meanwhile there is Madame Laura’s face smiling out of the darkness, as pleased as may be; and no wonder, she is always happy when her friends are so. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Charlotte’s letter contained a full account of the settlement of the Baynes family at Madame Smolensk’s boarding-house, where they appear to have been really very comfortable, and to have lived at avery cheap rate. As for Mr. Philip, he made his way to acrib, to which his artist friends’ had recommended him, on the Fan, bourg St. Germain side of the water, — the “ Hotel Poussin,” in the street; of that name, which lies, you know,) between the Mazarin Library and) the Musée des Beaux Arts. In for’ mer days, my gentleman had lived in’ state and bounty in the English hotels and quarter. Now he found himself) very handsomely lodged for thirty francs per month, and with five or six pounds, he has repeatedly said since’ he could carry through the mont! very comfortably. I don’t say, my young traveller, that you can be s¢ lucky nowadays. Are we not tell) ing a story of twenty years ago) Aye marry. Ere steam-coaches hac begun to scream on French rails and when Louis Philippe was king. | As soon as Mr. Philip Firmin i ruined he must needs fallin love. I order to be near the beloved object he must needs follow her to Paris and give up his promised studies fo the bar at home; where, to do hir justice, I believe the fellow woul) never have done any good. And h has not been in Paris a fortnigl) when that fantastic jade Fortun’ who had seemed to fly away fro him, gives him a smiling look ¢ recognition, as if to say, “ Youn gentleman, I have not quite dor with you.” || The good fortune was not muc! Do not suppose that Philip sudden drew a twenty-thousand pound pri; in a lottery. But, being in mu¢ want of money, he suddenly four himself enabled to earn some in way pretty easy to himself. . In the first place, Philip found bh friends Mr. and Mrs. Mugford in bewildered state in the midst of Par. in which city Mugford would nev la consent to have a laquais de place, being firmly convinced to the day of his death that he knew the French language quite sufficiently for all pur- poses of conversation. Philip, who had often visited Paris before, came 0 the aid of his friends in a two-frane lining-house, which he frequented ‘or economy’s sake; and they, be- tause they thought the banquet there wovided not only cheap, but most Magnificent and satisfactory. He mterpreted for them, and rescued hem from their perplexity, whatever twas. He treated them handsomely 0 caffy on the bullyvard, as Mugford aid on returning home and in re- sounting the adventure to me. “He jan’t forget that he has been a swell: md he does do things like a gentle- fan, that Firmin does. He came vack with us to our hotel, — Meu- ice’s,” said Mr. Mugford, “ and who should drive into the yard and step vut of his carriage but Lord Ring- ‘vood, — you know Lord Ringwood 2 werybody knows him. As he gets ut of his carriage —‘ What! is that ou, Philip ¢’ says his Lordship, giv- ag the young fellow his hand. /Come and breakfast with me to- orrow morning.’ And away he oes most friendly.” » How came it to pass that Lord singwood, whose instinct of self- /Peservation was strong,—who, I yar, was rather a selfish nobleman, — nd who, of late, as we have heard, ad given orders to refuse Mr. Philip itrance at his door, — should all of » sudden turn round and greet the ung man with cordiality ? In the tst_place, Philip had never troubled $s Lordship’s knocker at all; and second, as luck would have it, on this vty day of their meeting, his Lordship »id been to dine with that well-known Arisian resident and bon vivant, my ord Viscount Trim, who had been vernor of the Sago Islands when ‘eine Baynes was there with his ‘giment, the gallant 100th. And “e General and his old West India Wernor meeting at church, my | 10 1 : THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 217 Lord_Trim straightway asked Gen- eral Baynes to dinner, where Lord Ringwood was present, along with other distinguished company, whom at present we need not particularize, Now it has been said that Philip Ringwood, my Lord’s brother, and Captain Baynes in early youth had been close friends, and that the Colo- nel had died in the Captain’s arms. Lord Ringwood, who had an excel- lent memory when he chose to use it, was, pleased on this occasion to re- member General Baynes and _ his intimacy with his brother in old days. And of those old times they talked; the General waxing more eloquent, I suppose, than his wont over Lord Trim’s excellent wine. And in the course of conyer- sation Philip was named, and the General, warm with drink, poured out a most enthusiasfic eulogium on his young friend, and mentioned how noble and self-denying Philip’s con- duct had been in his own case. And perhaps Lord Ringwood was pleased at hearing these praises of his broth- er’s grandson; and perhaps he thought of old times, when he had a heart, and he and his brother loved each other. And though he might think Philip Firmin an absurd young blockhead for giving up any claims which he might have on General Baynes, at any rate I have no doubt his Lordship thought, “This boy is not likely to come begging money from me!” Hence, when he drove back to his hotel on the very night after this dinner, and in the court- yard saw that Philip Firmin, his brother’s grandson, the heart of the old nobleman was smitten with a kindly sentiment, and he bade Philip to come and see him. I have described some of Philip’s oddities, and amongst these was a very remarkable change in his appear- ance, which ensued very speedily after his ruin. I know that the greater number of story-readers are young, and those who are ever so old remem- ber that their own young days occurred 218 but a very, very short while ago. Don’t you remember, graye, and reveren were a junior, pleased with new new coat or a waisic any pleasure now ¢ stituted middle rather tr sensation of uneasines the tightness of the fit, a reason, — but from splendor. When my | Mrs. , gave me the emerald t net waistcoat, rocks, I wore it 0 mond to dine with her ; clothes ? that I am sure nobody in th saw what a painted vest I had on Gold sprigs and emeraldtabinet, what It has formed ament of I have | -never dared to wear it since, I always a gorgeous raime ! for ten years the chief orn my wardrobe; and though think with a secret pleasure of pos sessing that treasure. Do women when they are and fashionable appearance 4 Look at Lady blushing ch splendid garments ! sition may be carried length. I want to no has occurred not seldom in my expe rience, — that men great dandies will o ly give up their splendor of most happy and contented, ften and sudden majority of men are not vain abou their dress. For instance, very few ye feet. See they have kicked their pretty boot off almost to a man, and wear great, ss, comfortable walking- aceful thick, formle boots, of shape scarcely more gr than a tub ! When Philip Firmin first came on the town, there were dandies still there were dazzling waistcoats THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. most potent, d senior, when you and actually rather Does a oat cause you To a well-con- -aged gentleman, i ust a smart new suit causes & s,—not from which may be the gloss and ate kind friend, abi- with the gold sham- nee to go to Rich- but I buttoned myself so closely in am upper coat, e omnibus sixty, like handsome attire, and a youthful Jezebel’s eek, her raven hair, her | But this disqui- to too great a te a fact which who have been long - accustomed | dress, and walk about, | with the shabbiest of coats and hats. No. The within a ars, men used to have pretty in what a resolute way of velvet and brocade, and tall stocks with cata- | | splendors of youth. boots grew upon forests of trees. had a most resplendent silver-gi dressing-case, presented to him by hi for which, it is true, the Dox tor , leaving the duty to his son). mony,” said the worthy Doctor, cumbrous thing you may fancy ¢ first ; but take it about with you. . looks well on a man’s dressing-tab at a country-house. It poses a ma you understand. I have known men come in and peep at it. A you may say, my b is the use of ‘in life away ?” tune came, young Philip flung aw all these magnificent follies. J wrapped himself virtute sua; and L¢ bound to say a more queer-looki fellow than friend Philip seld¢ walked the pavement of London | Paris. He could not wear the nap | all his coats, or rub his elbows i rags in six months ; but, as he wot say of himself with much simplici “1 do think I run to seed more qui ly than any fellow T ever knew. | mv socks in holes, Mrs. Pendenn t-buttons gone, I give } know how d why t I suspe tril ? | id ay t S a contented spirit. began to crack and then Philip wore them with perfect ¢ nimity. Where were the beat lavender and lemon gloves of year? His great naked hands ( which he gesticulates so gral were as brown as an Indian’s b We had liked him heartily in his days of splendor ; we loved him now in his threadbare suit. | Ican fancy the young man striding ‘to the room where his Lordship’s guests were assembled. In the pres- ‘ee of great or small, Philip has al- ways been entirely unconcerned, and ie is one of the half-dozen men I have en in my life upon whom rank made no impression. It appears hat, on occasion of this breakfast, here were one or two dandies present vho were aghast at Philip’s freedom # behavior. He engaged in conver- ation with a famous French states- nan; contradicted him with much mergy in his own language; and vhen the statesman asked whether ‘aonsieur was membre du Parlement 2 ?hilip burst into one of his roars of aughter, which almost breaks the lasses on a table, and said, “Je suis ‘ournaliste, monsieur, 2% vos ordres ! ” Young Timbury of the Embassy was ghast at Philip’s insolence; and Dr. otts, his Lordship’s travelling physi- dan, looked at him witha terrified face. i bottle of claret was brought, which Imost all the gentlemen present be- \ THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. an to swallow, until Philip, tasting is glass, called out, “Faugh! It’s jorked!” ‘So it is, and very badly orked,” growls my Lord, with one if his usual oaths. “ Why didn’t ,me of you fellows speak? Do you ke corked wine?” There were Allant fellows round that table who ‘ould have drunk corked black dose, jad his Lordship professed to like | , The old host was tickled and | “ Your mother was a quiet | jul, and your father used to bow 6 a dancing-master. You ain’t juch like him. I dine at home most jlys. Leave word in the morning \ith my people, and come when you ke, Philip,” he growled. A part of | is news Philip narrated to us in his tter, and other part was given ver- ily by Mr. and Mrs. Mugford on ,eir return to London. “TI tell you, 5° says Mugford, “he has been ken by the hand by some of the tip- 219 top people, and I have booked him at three guineas a week for a letter to the Pall Mall Gazette.” And this was the cause of my wife’s exultation and triumphant “ Did n’t I tell you?” Philip’s foot was on the ladder; and who so capable of mounting to the top? When hap- piness and a fond and lovely girl were waiting for him there, would he lose heart, spare exertion, or be afraid to climb? He had no truer well-wisher than myself, and no friend who liked him better, though, I dare say, many admired him much more than I did. But these were women for the most part ; and women become so absurdly unjust and partial to persons whom they love, when these latter are in misfortune, that I am surprised Mr. Philip did not quite lose his head in his poverty, with such fond flatterers and sycophants round about him. Would you grudge him the consola- tion to be had from these sweet uses of adversity? Many a heart would be hardened but for the memory of past griefs ; when eyes, now averted, perhaps, were full of sympathy, and hands, now cold, were eager to soothe and succor. ——o—— CHAPTER XIX. QU’ON EST BIEN A VINGT ANS. A FAIR correspondent —and TIT would parenthetically hint that all cor- respondents are not fair— points out the discrepancy existing between the text and the illustrations of our story ; and justly remarks that the story dat- ed more than twenty years back, while the costumes of the actors of our little comedy are of the fashion of to- day. My dear madam, these anachron- isms must be, or you would scarcely be able to keep any interest for our characters. What would be a woman without a crinoline petticoat, for ex- ample ¢ an object ridiculous, hateful, I suppose hardly proper. What would you think of a hero who wore 220 a large high black-satin stock cascad- ing over a figured silk waistcoat; and a blue dress-coat, with brass. but- tons, mayhap? If a person so attired came up to ask you to dance, could you refrain from laughing? ‘Time was when young men so decorated found favor in the eyes of damsels who had never beheld hooped petti- coats, except in their grandmother’s portraits. Persons who flourished in the first part of the century never thought to see the hoops of our ances- tors’ age rolled downwards to our con- temporaries and children. Did we ever imagine that a period would ar- rive when our young men would part their hair down the middle, and wear a piece of tape for a neckcloth? As soon should we have thought of their dyeing their bodies with woad, and arraying themselves like ancient Brit- ons. So the ages have their dress and undress; and the gentlemen and ladies of Victoria’s time are satisfied with their manner of raiment; as no doubt in Boadicea’s court they looked charming tattooed and painted blue. The times of which we write, the times of Louis Philippe the king, are so altered from the present, that when Philip Firmin went to Paris it was absolutely a cheap place to live in; and he has often bragged in subse- quent days of having lived well during a month for five pounds, and bought a neat waistcoat with a part of the mon- ey. “A capital bedroom, au premier, for a franc a day, sir,” he would call all persons to remark, ‘a bedroom as good as yours, my Lord, at Meu- rice’s. Very good tea or coffee break- fast, twenty francs a month, with lots of bread and butter. Twenty francs a month for washing, and fifty for dinner and pocket-money, — that ’s about the figure. The dinner, I own, is shy, unless I come and dine with my friends ; and then I make up for ban- yan days.” And so saying Philip would call out for more truflled par- tridges, or affably filled his goblet with my Lord Ringwood’s best Sillery. ** At those shops,” he would observe, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. “where I dine, I have beer: I can’t stand the wine. And you see, I can’ go to the cheap English ordinaries, of which there are many, because Eng. lish gentlemen’s servants are there, you know, and it’s not pleasant to sit with a fellow who waits on you the day after.” eS ‘Oh! the English servants go to bi the cheap ordinaries, do they?” asks! my Lord, greatly amused, “ and you drink biére de Mars at the shop where you dine ?” 5. | “And dine very badly, too, I can tell you. Always come away hungry, Give me some champagne, — the dry, if you please. They mix very well together, —sweet and dry. Did yon! ever dine at Flicoteau’s, Mr. Pecker?”! “J dine at one of your horrible tw franc houses?” cries Mr. Pecker, witha look ofterror. ‘ Do you know, my Lord, there are actually houses where people dine for two francs 4 “Two francs! Seventeen sou bawls out Mr. Firmin. ‘“ The so the beef, the roti, the salad, the sert, and the whitey-brown bread : discretion. It’s not a good din certainly, —in fact, it is a drea bad one. But to dine so woul some fellows a great deal of good.” “ What do you say, Pecker? | coteau’s ; seventeensous. We’llm a little party and try, and Fi shall do the honors of his r rant,” says my Lord, with a gri “ Mercy !” gasps Mr. Pecker. “T had rather dine here, i please, my Lord,” says the young “This is cheaper, and certainly ter.7? r My Lord’s doctor, and many of guests at his table, my Lord’s h men, flatterers, and led - cap looked aghast at the freedom 0 young fellow in the shabby coat they dared to be familiar with host, there came a scowl over th ble countenance which was a face. They drank his corke meekness of spirit. They la his jokes trembling. One other, they were the objects — ‘satire; and each grinned piteously, as he took his turn of punishment. Some dinners are dear, though they ‘cost nothing. At some great tables ‘are not toads served along with the mtrées? Yes, and many amateurs ‘are exceedingly fond of the dish. | How do Parisians live at all? isa juestion which has often set me won- Hering. How do men in public offices, ‘vith fifteen thousand francs, let us say, ‘or a salary, — and this, for a French pfficial, is a high salary, — live in handsome apartments; give genteel ‘ntertainments ; clothe themselves and heir families with much more sump- ‘uous raiment than English people of ‘he same station can afford; take heir country holiday, a six weeks’ so- ‘ourn, aux eaux; and appear cheerful ‘nd to want for nothing? Paterfa- ‘nilias, with six hundred a year in “ondon, knows what a straitened fe his is, with rent high, and beef at | shilling a pound. Well, in Paris, ‘ent is higher, and meat is dearer; and ‘@ madame is richly dressed when ou see her; monsieur has always a ttle money in his pocket for his club, T his café; and something is pretty arely put away every year for the ) Se portion of the young folks. Sir,” Philip used to say, describing ‘us period of his life, on which and N most subjects regarding himself, 'y the way, he was wont to be very elo- aent, “when my income was raised to ve thousand francs a year, I give you y my French acquaintance. I gave ar sous to the waiter at our dining- ace: — in that respect I was always ‘tentatious:— and I believe they led me Milor. I should have been por in the Rue de la Paix: but I was ealthy in the Luxembourg quarter. on’t tell me about poverty, sir! verty is a bully if you are afraid of th or truckle to her. Poverty is 0d-natured enough if you meet her seaman. You saw how my poorold ‘ther was afraid of her, and thought @ world would come to an end Dr. Firmin did not keep his butler, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘y word I was considered to be rich | 221 and his footman, and his fine house, and fine chariot and horses? He was a poor man, if you please. He must have suffered agonies in his struggle to make both ends meet. Everything he bought must have cost him twice the honest price ; and when I think of nights that must have been passed without sleep, —of that proud man having to smirk and cringe before creditors, — to coax butchers, by George, and wheedle tailors, — I pity him: I can’t be angry any more. That man has suffered enough. As for me, haven’t you remarked that since I have not a guinea in the world, I swagger, and am a much greater swell than before?” And the truth is that a Prince Royal could not have called for his gens with a more mag- nificent air than Mr. Philip when he summoned the waiter, and paid for his petit verre. Talk of poverty, indeed! That period, Philip vows, was the happiest of his life. He liked to tell in after days of the choice acquaintance of Bohemians which he had formed. Their jug, he said, though it contained but small beer, was always full. Their tobacco, though it bore no higher rank than that of caporal, was plentiful and fragrant. He knew some admirable medical students: some ‘artists who only wanted talent and industry to be at the height of their profession: and one or two of the magnates of his own calling, the newspaper correspondents, whose houses and tables were open to him. It was wonderful what se- crets of politics he learned and trans- mitted to his own paper. He pursued French statesmen of those days with prodigious eloquence and vigor. At the expense of that old king he was wonderfully witty and_ sarcastical. He reviewed the affairs of Europe, settled the destinies of Russia, de- nounced the Spanish marriages, dis- posed of the Pope, and advocated the Liberal cause in France with an un- tiring eloquence. ‘‘ Absinthe used to be my drink, sir,” so he was good enough to tell his friends. ‘‘ It makes 222 the ink run, and imparts a fine elo- quence to the style. Mercy upon us, how I would belabor that poor king of the French under the influence of absinthe, in that café opposite the Bourse where I used to make my let- ter! Who knows, sir, perhaps the influence of those letters precipitated the fall of the Bourbon dynasty! Be- fore I had an office, Gilligan, of the Century, and I, used to do our let- ters at that café; we compared notes and pitched into each other ami- eably.” Gilligan of the Century, and Fir- min of the Pall Mall Gazette, were, however, very minor personages amongst the London newspaper cor- respondents. Their seniors of the daily press had handsome apartments, gave sumptuous dinners, were clos- eted with ministers’ secretaries, and entertained members of the Chamber of Deputies. Philip, on perfectly easy terms with himself and the world, swaggering about the embassy balls, —Philip, the friend and rela- tive of Lord Ringwood, — was viewed by his professional seniors and supe- riors with an eye of favor, which was | not certainly turned on all gentlemen following his calling. Certainly poor Gilligan was never asked to those din- ners, which some of the newspaper ambassadors gave, whereas Philip was received not unhospitably. Gil- ligan received but a cold shoulder at Mrs. Morning Messenger’s Thurs- days; and as for being asked to din- ner, “ Bedad, that feliow, Firmin, has an air with him which will carry him through anywhere!” Phil’s brother correspondent owned. “ He seems to patronize an ambassador when he goes up and speaks to him; and he says to a secretary, ‘My good fellow, tell your master that Mr. Firmin, of the Pall Mall Gazette, wants to see him, and will thank him to step over to the Café de la Bourse.’” I don’t think Philip, for his part, would have seen much matter of surprise in a Minister stepping over to speak to him. To him all folk were alike, a: a be a THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ereat and small; and it is recorded of him that when, on one occasion, Lord Ringwood paid him a visit at his lodgings in the Faubourg St. Ger- main, Philip affably offered his Lord- ship a cornet of fried potatoes, with which, and plentiful tobacco of course, Philip and one or two of his friends were regaling themselves when Lord Ringwood chanced to call on his kinsman. a0 A crust and a carafon of small beer, a correspondence with a weekly pa per, and a remuneration such as that we have mentioned, — was Philip Firmin to look for no more than this pittance, and not to seek for more permanent and lucrative employ. ment? Some of his friends at home were rather vexed at what Phill chose to consider his good fortune namely, his connection with the news paper, and the small stipend it gaw him. He might quarrel with his em ployer any day. Indeed no man wai more likely to fling his bread-and butter out of window than Mr. Philip He was losing precious time at thi bar; where he, as hundreds of ofl poor gentlemen had done before him might make a career for himse For what are colonies made? sioners, magistrates 4 a newspaper remains all his li newspaper reporter. Philip, 1 would but help himself, had friend in the world who might aid effectu ly to advance him. So it was pleaded with him in the language’ moderation, urging the dictat common sense. As if moderati and common sense could be got move that mule of a Philip Fir as if any persuasion of ours induce him to do anything but » he liked to do best himself! f “That you should be worldly poor fellow” (so Philip wrote to present biographer), — “ that should be thinking of money an THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘main chance, is no matter of surprise ‘tome. You have suffered under that ‘curse of manhood, that destroyer of generosity in the mind, that parent ‘of selfishness,— a little fortune. You have your wretched hundreds ” (my ‘eandid correspondent stated the sum correctly enough ; and I wish it were ‘double or treble ; but that is not here the point) “paid quarterly. The miserable pittance numbs your whole existence. It prevents freedom of Ve and action. It makes a Serew of a man who is certainly not without -gencrous impulses, as I ‘know, my poor old Harpagon: for hast thou not offered to open thy ‘purse tome? I tell you I am sick of ‘the way in which people in London, especially good people, think about ‘money. You live up to your income’s edge. You are miserably poor. You brag and flatter yourselves that you ‘Owe no man anything; but your ‘estate has creditors upon it as insatia- ‘ble as any usurer, and as hard as any bailiff. You call me reckless, and Jorodigal, and idle, and all sorts of ‘james, because I live in a single ‘oom, do as little work as I can, and ‘70 about with holes in my boots: ‘ind you flatter yourself you are pru- jlent, because you have a_ genteel jouse, a grave flunkey out of livery, nd two green-grocers to wait when ‘ou give your half-dozen dreary din- ‘er-parties. Wretched man! You Te aslave: not aman. You area auper, with a good house and good lothes. You are so miserably pru- ent, that all your money is spent 4 you, except the few wretched allings which you allow yourself for ocket-money. You tremble at the /Spense of acab. I believe you act- te look at half a crown before ‘ou spend it. The landlord is your taster. The livery-stable keeper is our master. A train of ruthless, seless servants are your pitiless “editors; to whom you have to pay sorbitant dividends every day. I, ith a hole in my elbow, who live 90n a shilling dinner, and walk on | 223 cracked boot-soles, am called extrav- agant, idle, reckless, I don’t know what; while you, forsooth, consider yourself prudent. Miserable delu- sion! You are flinging away heaps of money on useless flunkeys, on use- less maid-servants, om useless lodg- ings, on useless finery, — and you say, ‘ Poor Phil! what a sad idler he is! how he flings himself away! in what a wretched, disreputable ‘man- ner he lives!’ Poor Phil is as rich as you are, for he has enongh, and is content. Poor Phil can afford to be idle, and you can’t. You must work in order to keep that great hulking footman, that. great rawboned cook, that army of babbling nursery-maids, and I don’t know what more. And if you choose to submit to the slavery and degradation inseparable from your condition ;—the wretched in- spection of candle-ends, which you call order ;— the mean self-denials, which you must daily practise, —I pity you, and don’t quarrel with you. But I wish you would not be so in- sufferably virtuous, and ready with your blame and pity for me. If Iam happy, pray need you be disquieted 2 Suppose I prefer independence, and shabby boots? Are not these better than to be pinched by your abomina- ble varnished conventionalism, and to be denied the liberty of free ac- tion? My poor fellow, I pity you from my heart; and it grieves me to think how those fine, honest children — honest, and hearty, and frank, and open as yet — are to lose their natu- ral good qualities, and to be swathed, and swaddled, and stifled out of health and honesty by that obstinate world- ling, their father. Don’t tell me about the world; I know it. People sacrifice the next world to it, and are all the while proud of their prudence. Look at my miserable relations, Steeped in respectability. Look at my father. There is a chance for him, now he is down and in poverty. I have had a letter from him, con- taining more of that dreadful worldly advice which you Pharisees give. If 224 it were n’t for Laura and the children, sir, I heartily wish you were ruined like your affectionate — P. F. “N. B., P.S. —O Pen! I am so happy! She is such a little darling! I bathe in her innocence, sir ! strengthen myself in her purity. I kneel before her sweet goodness and unconsciousness of guile. I walk from my room, and see her every morning before seven o’clock. I see her every afternoon. She loves you and Laura. And you love her, don’t you? And to think that six months ago I was going to marry a woman without a heart! Why, sir, blessings be on the poor old father for spending our money, and rescuing me from that horrible fate! I might have been like that fellow in the ‘ Arabian Nights,’ who married Amina, — the respectable woman, who dined upon grains of-rice, but supped upon cold dead body. Was it not worth all the money I ever was heir to to have es- caped from that ghoul? Lord Ring- wood says he thinks I was well out of that. He calls people by Anglo- Saxon names, and uses very expres- sive monosyllables; and of Aunt Twysden, of Uncle Twysden, of the girls, and their brother, he speaks in a way which makes me see he has come to just conclusions about them. “P.S. No. 2,—Ah, Pen! She is such a darling. I think I am the happiest man in the world.” And this was what came of being ruined! A scapegrace, who, when he had plenty of money in his pocket, was ill-tempered, imperious, and dis- contented, now that he is not worth twopence, declares himself the happi- est fellow in the world! Do you re- member, my dear, how he used to grumble at our claret, and what wry faces he made when there was only cold meat for dinner? The wretch is absolutely contented with bread and cheese and small beer, even that | was flinging up showers of diam bad beer which they have in Paris! THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Now and again, at this time, and as our mutual avocations permitted, I saw Philip’s friend, the Little Sister. He wrote to her dutifully from time to time. He told her of his love-af- fair with Miss Charlotte; and my wife and I could console Caroline, by assuring her that this time the young man’s heart was given to a worthy mistress. I say console, for the news, after all, was sad for her. In the lit- tle chamber which she always kept ready for him, he would lie awake, and think of some one dearer to him than a hundred poor Carolines. She would devise something that should be agreeable to the young lady. At Christmas time there came to Miss Baynes a wonderfully worked cam- bric pocket-handkerchief, with “ Char lotte” most beautifully embroidered in the corner. It was this poor wid- ow’s mite of love and tenderness, which she meekly laid down in the place where she worshipped. “ And { have six for him, too, ma’am,” Mrs, Brandon told my wife. ‘“ Poor fel- low! his shirts was in a dreadful way when he went away from here, and that you know, ma’am.” So you see this wayfarer, having fallen among undoubted thieves, yet found many kind souls to relieve him, and many a good Samaritan ready with twopence, if need were. The reason why Philip was thi happiest man in the world of course you understand. French people ar very early risers; and, at the little hotel where Mr. Philip lived, the whole crew of the house were @ hours before lazy English masters an servants think of stirring. At ever so early an hour Phil had a fine boy of coffee and milk and bread for h breakfast ; and he was striding dow to the Invalides, and across the bridg to the Champs Elysées, and the fume: of his pipe preceded him with a ple ant odor. And a short time afte passing the Rond Point in the Elys ian fields, where an active fount to the sky, — after, I say, leavin THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ond Point on his right, and passing ider umbrageous groves in the di- ction of the present Castle of Flow- 8, Mr. Philip would see a little per- nm. Sometimes a young sister or ‘other came with the little person. ymetimes only a blush fluttered on xr cheek, and a sweet smile beamed her face as she came forward to veethim. For the angels were scarce wer than this young maid; and na was no more afraid of the lion, an Charlotte of her companion with e loud voice and the tawny mane. vould not have envied that repro- te’s lot who should have dared to y a doubtful word to this Una: but 2 truth is, she never thought of nger, or metwith any. The work- mM were going to their labor; the dies were asleep ; and considering air age, and the relationship in eh they stood to one another, I ‘i not surprised at Philip for an- uncing that this was the happiest ‘ae of his life. In later days, when 0 gentlemen of mature age hap- jaed to be in Paris together, what jist Mr: Philip Firmin do but insist on walking me sentimentally to t; Champs Elysées, and looking at old house there, a rather shabby _ house in a garden. “That was place,” sighs he. ‘ That was dame de Smolensk’s. That was _ window, the third one, with the en jalousie. By Jove, sir, how ypy and how miserable I have been ind that green blind!” And my md shakes his large fist at the Aewhat dilapidated - mansion, emce Madame de Smolensk and boarders have long since depart- fear that baroness had engaged in enterprise with insufficient capital, conducted it with such liberality ther profits were-eaten up by her rders. I could tell dreadful sto- ‘Impugning the baroness’s moral acter. People said she had no At to the title of baroness at all, or she noble foreign name of Smo- ‘K. People are still alive who | 10 * 225 knew her under a different name. The baroness herself was what some amateurs call a fine woman, especial- ly at dinner-time, when she appeared in black satin and with checks that blushed up as far as the eyelids. In her peignoir in the morning, she was perhaps the reverse of fine. Contours which were round at night, in the forenoon appeared lean and angular. Her roses only bloomed half an hour before dinner-time on a cheek which was quite yellow until five o’clock. I am sureit is very kind of elderly and ill-complexioned people to supply the ravages of time or jaundice, and pre- sent to our view a figure blooming and agreeable, in place of an object faded and withered. Do you quarrel with your opposite neighbor for paint- ing his house-front or putting roses in his balcony? You are rather thankful forthe adornment. Madame . de Smolensk’s front was so decorated of afternoons. Geraniums were set pleasantly under those first-floor win- dows, her eyes. Carcel lamps beamed from those windows: lamps which she had trimmed with her own scis- sors, and into which that poor widow poured the oil which she got somehow and anyhow. When the dingy break- fast papillotes were cast of an after- noon, what beautiful black curls ap- peared round her brow! The dingy papillotes were put away in the draw- er: the peignoir retired to its hook be- hind the door: the satin raiment. came forth, the shining, the ancient, the well-kept, the well-wadded: and at the same moment the worthy wo- man took that smile out of some cun- ning box on her scanty toilet-table — that smile which she wore all the evening along with the rest of her toilet, and took out of her mouth when she went to bed and to think — to think how both ends were to be made to meet. Philip said he respected and ad- mired that woman: and worthy of respect she was in her way. She painted her face and grinned at poy- erty. She laughed and rattled with O 226 care gnawing at her side. She had to coax the milkman out of his hu- man kindness: to pour oil — his own oil — upon the stormy épicier’s soul ; to melt the butter-man: to tap the wine-merchant : to mollify the butch- er: to invent new pretexts for the landlord: to reconcile the lady board- ers, Mrs. General Baynes, let us say, and the Honorable Mrs. Boldero, who were always quarrelling: to see that the dinner, when procured, was cooked properly; that Frangois, to whom she owed ever so many months’ wages, was not too rebellious or in- toxicated; that Auguste, also_ her creditor, had his glass clean and his lamps in order. And this work done and the hour of six o’clock arriving, she had to carve and be agreeable to her table; not to hear the growls of the discontented, (and at what table- d’hoéte are there not grumblers?) to have a word for everybody present ; a smile and a laugh for Mrs. Bunch (with whom there had been very like- ly a dreadful row in the morning) ; a remark for the Colonel; a polite phrase for the General’s lady; and even a good word and compliment for sulky Auguste, who just before din- ner-time had unfolded the napkin of mutiny about his wages. Was not this enough work for a woman todo? To conduct a great house without sufficient money, and make soup, fish, roasts, and halfa dozen entrées out of wind as it were ? to conjure up wine in piece and by the dozen ? to laugh and joke without the least gayety? to receive scorn, abuse, rebuffs, insolence, with gay good-humor? and then to go to bed wearied at night, and have to think about figures, and that dread- ful, dreadful sum in arithmetic,— given £5 topay £6% Lady Macbeth is supposed to have been a resolute woman: and great, tall, loud, hector- ing females are set to represent the character. I say No. She was a weak woman. She began to walk in her sleep, and blab after one disagree- able little incident had occurred in! adored Indian shawls. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. her house. She broke down, and gi all the people away from her own table in the most abrupt and clumsy manner, because that drivelling, epi- leptic husband of hers fancied he saw a ghost. In Lady Smolensk’s place Madame de Macbeth would have broken down in a week, and Smo- lensk lasted for years. If twenty gib: bering ghosts had come to the board. ing-house dinner, madame woul¢ have gone on carving her dishes, an¢ smiling and helping the live guests the paying guests ; leaving’ the deac guests to gibber away and help them selves. ‘ My poor father had to keey up appearances,” Phil would say, re! counting these things in after days’ “but how? You know he alway looked as if he was going to be hung.’ Smolensk was the gayest of the gay always. That widow would hav tripped up to her funeral pile an kissed her hands to her friends with smiling ‘“ Bon jour!” | “Pray, who was Monsieur @ Smolensk?” asks a simple lady wh: may be listening to our friend’s nat| rative. a “Ah, my dear lady! there was, as | pretty disturbance in the house whei that question came to be mooted, | promise you,”’ says our friend, laugh ing, as he recounts his adventures And, after all, what does it matter you and me and this story wh Smolensk was? I am sure this poo lady had hardships enough in life campaign, and that Ney hi could not have faced fortune constancy more heroical. Well. When the Bayneses fr came to her house, I tell you Sm lensk and all round her smiled, an our friends thought they were lande in a real rosy Elysium in the Cham] of that name. Madame had a Ca rick « VIndienne prepared in comp! ment to her guests. She ha many Indians in her establish She adored Indians. Nétait polygamie,— they were most esti people the Hindus. fee ne 3 wie Madame la Générale was ravishing. Che company at Madame’s was pleas- mt. The Honorable Mrs. Boldero yas a dashing woman of fashion and ‘espectability, who had lived in the »est world, — it was easy to see that. he young ladies’ duets were very triking. The Honorable Mr. Bol- ‘ero was away shooting in Scotland ‘this brother, Lord Strongitharm’s, nd would take Gaberlunzie Castle nd the Duke’s on his way south. firs. Baynes did not know Lady Es- ridge, the ambassadress? When he Estridges returned from Chan- illy, the Honorable Mrs. B. would be ‘elighted to introduce her. “ Your retty girl’s name is Charlotte? S 3 Lady Estridge’s, — and very nearly stall;—fine girls the Estridges ; ne long necks,—Jlarge feet, — but sour girl, Lady Baynes, has beautiful vet. Lady Baynes, I said? Well, ‘ou must be Lady Baynes soon. ‘he General must be. a K.C.B. after is services. What, you know Lord ‘rim ? ou. If not, my brother Strongi- iarm shall.” I have no doubt, Mrs. saynes was greatly elated by the at- mtions of Lord Strongitharm’s sis- er; and looked him out in the Peer- ye, where his Lordship’s arms, pedi- vee, and residence of Gaberlunzie astle are duly recorded. ‘The Hon- cable Mrs. Boldero’s daughters, the disses Minna and Brenda Boldero, jayed some rattling sonatas on a ano which was a good deal fatigued 7 their exertions, for the young dies’ hands were very powerful. md madame said, “Thank you,” ith her sweetest smile ; and Auguste mded about on a silver tray, —I y silver, so that the conyenances ay not be wounded, — well, say ver that was blushing to find itself. ‘pper,—handed up on a tray a. hite drink which made the Baynes ‘ys cry out, “I say, mother, what ’s is beastly thing?” On which adame, with the sweetest smile, ap- aled to the company, and _ said, ‘They love orgeat, these dear in- | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. He will, and must, do it for ' 227 fants! ’? and resumed her piquet with old M. Bidois,— that odd old gentle- man in the long brown coat, with the red ribbon, who took so much snuff and blew his nose so often and so loudly. One, two, three rattling sonatas Minna and Brenda played; Mr. Clancy, of Trinity College, Dub- lin (M-. de Clanci, madame called him), turning over the leaves, and presently being persuaded to sing some Irish melodies for the ladies. I don’t think Miss Charlotte Baynes listened to the music much. She was listening to another music, which she and Mr. Firmin were performing together. O, how pleasant that music used tobe! There was a sameness in it, I dare say, but still it was pleasant to hear the air over again. ‘The pretty little duet a@ quatre mains, where the hands cross over, and hop up and down the keys, and the heads get so close, so close. O duets, O re- egrets! Psha! no more of this. Go down stairs, old dotard. Take your hat and umbrella and go walk by the sea-shore, and whistle a toothless old solo. ‘“ These are our quiet nights,” whispers M. de Clanci to the Baynes ladies, when the evening draws to anend. “ Madame’s Thursdays are, I promise ye, much more fully attend- ed.” Good night, good night. A squeeze of a little hand, a hearty hand-shake from papa and mamma, and Philip is striding through the dark Elysian fields and over the Place of Concord to his lodgings in the Faubourg St. Germain. Or, stay! What is that glowworm gleaming by the wall opposite Madame de Smo- lensk’s house? —a glowworm that wiaffs an aromatic incense and odor ? I do believe it is Mr. Philip’s cigar. And he is watching, watching a window by which a slim figure flits now and again. Then darkness falls on the little window. The sweet eyes are closed. O blessings, blessings be upon them! ‘The stars shine over- head. And homeward stalks Mr. Firmin, talking to himself, and bran- dishing a great, stick. 228 I wish that poor Madame Smolensk could sleep as well as the people in her house. But care, with the cold feet, gets under the coverlid, and says, “ Here I am; you know that bill is coming due to-morrow.” Ah, atra cura! can’t you leave the poor thing a little quiet? Has n’t she had work enough all day ? —_@—- CHAPTER XX. COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. We beg the gracious reader to remember that Mr. Philip’s business at Paris was only with a _ weekly London paper as yet; and hence that he had on his hands a great deal of leisure. He could glance over the state of Europe; give the Jatest news from the salons, im- parted to him, I do believe, for the most part, by some brother hireling scribes; be present at all the the- atres by deputy ; and smash Louis Philippe or Messieurs Guizot and Thiers in a few easily turned par- agraphs, which cost but a very few hours’ labor to that bold and rapid pen. A wholesome though humiliating thought it must be to great and learned public writers, that their eloquent sermons are but for the day ; and that, having read what the philosophers say on Tues- day or Wednesday, we think about their yesterday’s sermons or essays no more. A score of years hence, men will read the papers of 1861 for the occurrences narrated, — births, marriages, bankruptcies, elections, murders, deaths, and so forth; and not for the leading articles. “ ‘Though there were some of my letters,’ Mr. Philip would say, in after times, “that I fondly fancied the world would not willingly let die. I wanted to have them or see them reprinted in a volume, but I could find no pub- lisher willing to undertake the risk. A fond being, who fancies there is genius in everything I say or write, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. would have had me reprint my letters” to the Pall Mall Gazette ; but I wa too timid, or she, perhaps, was too confident. The-letters never were republished. Let them pass.’”’ They have passed. And he sighs, in men- tioning this cireumstance; and I think tries to persuade himself, rather than others, that he is an unrecognized renius. a “ And then, you know,” he pleads, “‘ T was in love, sir, and spending all my days at Omphale’s knees. I did n’t do justice to my powers. If I had had a daily paper, I still think I might have made a good public writer ; and that I had the stuff in me, — the stuff in me, sir!” ase The truth is that, if he had had a daily paper, and ten times as much work as fell to his lot, Mr. Philip would have found means of pursu- ing his inclination, as he ever through | life has done. The being whom a young man wishes to see, he sees. What business is superior to that of seeing her? ’T is a little Helles- pontine matter keeps Leander from his Hero? He would die rather than not see her. Had he swum out of: that difficulty on that stormy night, and carried on a few months later, it might have been, “ Beloved ! cold and rheumatism are so sev that the doctor says I must not ¢ of cold bathing at night” ; or, “ Dear est ! we have a party at tea, and j must n’t expect your ever fond Lai da to-night,” and so forth, am forth. But in the heat of his ] sion water could not stay him; t pests could not frighten him ; and- one of them he went down, while poor Hero’s lamp was twinkling and | spending its best flame in vain. 50 Philip came from Sestos to A daily, — across one of the brids and paying a halfpenny toll” likely, — and, late or early, poor 1 tle Charlotte’s virgin lamps W lighted in her eyes, and watchin him. 3 Philip made many sacrifices, : you: sacrifices which all men } | | ; ’ THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. -not in the habit of making. When | Lord Ringwood was in Paris, twice, | thrice he refused to dine with his | Lordship, until that nobleman smelt 'a rat, as the saying is, — and said, _ “Well, youngster, I suppose you are | going where there is metal more attractive. When you come to twelve lustres, my boy, you’ll find yanity and yexation in that sort of thing, and a good dinner better, and cheaper, too, than the best of them.” And when some of Philip’s rich col- lege friends met him in his exile, and -asked him to the “ Rocher ” or the _ “ Trois Freres,” he would break away /from those banquets; and as for Meeting at those feasts doubtful com- )panions, whom young men_ will / sometimes invite to their entertain- “ments, Philip turned from such with /seorn and anger. His virtue was oud, and he proclaimed it loudly. | He expected little Charlotte to give / him credit for it, and told her of his / self-denial. And she believed anything jhe said ; -and delighted in everything ihe wrote; and copied out his articles » for the Pall Mall Gazette; and treas- ured his poems in her desk of desks : ‘and there never was in all Sestos, in all Abydos, in all Europe, in all Asia Minor or Asia Major, such a noble ‘creature as Leander, Hero thought; meyer, never! I hope, young ladies, you may all have a Leander on his way to the tower where the light of )your love is burning steadfastly. I hope, young gentlemen, you have each of you a beacon in sight, and ‘may meet with no mishap in swim- ‘ming to it. _ From my previous remarks regard- ‘ing Mrs. Baynes, the reader has been ‘made aware that the General’s wife ‘was no more faultless than the rest of her fellow-creatures ; and having al- Yeady candidly informed the’ public that the writer and his family were no favorites of this lady, I have now the /pleasing duty of recording my own Opinions regarding her. Mrs. General ‘B. was an early riser. She was a fru- gal woman ; fond of her young, or, 229 let us say, anxious to provide for their maintenance; and here, with my best compliments, I think the cata- logue of her good qualities is ended. She had a bad, violent temper ; a disa- greeable person, attired in very bad taste; a shricking voice; and two manners, the respectful and the pat- ronizing, which were both alike odious. When she ordered Baynes to marry her, gracious powers! why did he not run away? Who dared first to say that marriages are made in heay- ent We know that there are not only blunders, but roguery in the marriage office. Do not mistakes oc- cur every day, and are not the wrong people coupled? Had heaven any- thing to do with the bargain by which young Miss Blushrose was sold to old Mr. Hoarfrost? Did heaven order young Miss Tripper to throw over poor Tom Spooner, and marry the wealthy Mr. Bung? You may as well say that horses are sold in heay- en, which, as you know, are groomed, are doctored, are chanted on to the market, and warranted by dexterous horse-venders as possessing every quality of blood, pace, temper, age. Against these Mr. Greenhorn has his remedy sometimes ; but against a mother who sells you a warranted daughter, what remedy is there? You have been jockeyed by false rep- resentations into bidding for the Ce- cilia, and the animal is yours for life. She shies, kicks, stumbles, has an in- fernal temper, is a crib-biter, — and she was warranted to you by her mother as the most perfect, good-tem- pered creature, whom the most timid might manage! You have bought her. She is yours. Heaven bless you! Take her home, and be miser- able for the rest of your days. You have no redress. You have done the deed. Marriages were made in heay- en, you know ; and in yours you were as much sold as Moses Primrose was when he bought the gross of green spectacles. I don’t think poor General Baynes ever had a proper sense of his situa- 230 tion, or knew how miserable he ought by rights to have been. He was not uncheerful at times; a silent man, lik- ing his rubber and his glass of wine ; a very weak person in the common affairs of life, as his best friends must own; but, as I have heard, a very tiger in action. ‘ I know your opin- ion of the General,” Philip used to say to me, in his grandiloquent way. “You despise men who don’t bully their wives; you do, sir! Youthink the General weak, I know, I know. Other brave men were so about wo- men, as I dare say you have heard. This man, so weak at home, was mighty on the war-path ; and in his wigwam are the scalps of countless warriors.” “In his wig what?” say I. The truth is, on his meek head the General wore a little curling chestnut top-knot, which looked very queer and out of place over that wrinkled and war-worn face. “Tf you choose to laugh at your joke, pray do,” says Phil, majestically. ‘‘T make a noble image of a warrior. You prefer a barber’s pole. Bon! Pass me the wine. The veteran whom I hope to salute as father erelong, — the soldier of twenty battles ; — who saw my own brave grandfather die at his side, — die at Busaco, by George ; you laugh at an account of his wig. It’s a capital joke.” And here Phil scowled and slapped the table, and passed his hand across his eyes, as though the death of his grandfather, which occurred long before Philip was born, caused him a very serious pang of grief. Philip’s newspaper busi- ness brought him to London on oc- casions. I think it was on one of these visits that we had our talk about General Baynes. And it was at the same time Philip described the boarding-house to us, and its inmates, and the landlady, and the doings there. For that struggling landlady, as for all women in distress, our friend had a great sympathy and liking; and she returned Philip’s kindness by THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. being very good to Mademoiselle Charlotte, and very forbearing with the General’s wife and his othe children. The appetites of those — little ones were frightful, the temper of Madame la Générale was almos intolerable, but Charlotte was ai angel, and the General was a mutton —atrue mutton. Her own father had been so. ‘The brave are often muft- tons at home. I suspect that, though madame could have made bu little profit by the General’s family his monthly payments were vy welcome to her meagre little ex chequer. ‘“ Ah! if all my locataire were like him!” sighed the po lady. ‘“‘ That Madame Boldero, who the Generaless treats always as Hon: orable, I wish I was as sure of her! And others again !” at I never kept a boarding-house, but — Iam sure there must be many pain ful duties attendant on that profe sion. What can you do if a lad or gentleman does n’t pay his bill Turn him or her out? Perhaps very thing that lady or gentlem would desire. They go. Those trunks which you have insanely de . tained, and about which you haye — made a fight and a scandal, do not — contain a hundred francs’ worth © goods, and your creditors never come — back again. You do not like to have arow in a boarding-house any m than you would like to have a pe with scarlet feverin your best bed | room. The scarlet-fever party stays, — and the other boarders go aw What, you ask, do I mean by this — mystery? Jam sorry to have to up names, and titled names. I sorry to say the Honorable | Boldero did not pay her bills: was waiting for remittances, W the Honorable Boldero was drea ly remiss in sending. A dre man! He was still at his Lords at Gaberlunzie Castle, shooting wild deer and hunting the roe. — though the Honorable Mrs. heart was in the Highlands, of cou how could she join her High THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 231 chief without the money to pay madame? The Highlands, indeed! One dull day it came out that the Honorable Boldero was amusing himself in the Highlands of Hesse Homburg; and engaged in the dan- gerous sport which is to be had in the green plains about Loch Baden- badenoch ! “Did you ever hear of such de- pravity? The woman is a desperate and unprincipled adventuress! I wonder madame dares to put me and my children and my General down at table with such people as those, | Philip!” cries Madame la Générale. “JT mean those opposite, — that wo- man and her two daughters who have n’t paid madame a shilling for three months,— who owes me five hundred francs, which she borrowed ‘until next Tuesday, expecting a re- ‘mittance—a pretty remittance in- ‘deed — from Lord Strongitharm. ‘Lord Strongitharm, I dare say! ‘And she pretends to be most intimate at the embassy; and that she would ) Introduce us there, and at the Tuiler- ies: and she told me Lady Garterton ‘had the small-pox in the house; and »when I said all ours had been vac- ) cinated, and I did n’t mind, she fobbed “me off with some other excuse ; and ‘It’s my belief the woman’s a hum- bug. Overhear me! I don’t care if ‘she does overhear me. No. You “May look as much as you like, my \ Honorable Mrs. Boldero; and I don’t care if you do overhear me. Ogoost! ‘Pomdytare pour le Général! How ‘tough Madame’s boof is, and it’s boof, boof, boof every day, till I’m ‘sick of boof. Ogoost ! why don’t you ‘attend to my children?” And so ‘forth. | By this report of the worthy -Woman’s conversation, you will see that the friendship which had sprung ‘up between the two ladies had come ‘to an end, in consequence of painful ‘pecuniary disputes between them ; “that to keep a boarding-house can’t be a very pleasant occupation; and ‘that eyen to dine in a boarding-house “oe arr must be only bad fun when the com- pany is frightened and dull, and when there are two old women at table ready to fling the dishes at each other’s: fronts. At the period of which I now write, I promise you, there was very little of the piano-duet business going on after dinner. In the first place, everybody knew the girl’s pieces ; and when they began, Mrs. General Baynes would lift up a voice louder than the jingling old instru- ment, thumped Minna and Brenda ever so loudly. “ Perfect strangers to me, Mr. Clancy, I assure you. Had I known her, you don’t suppose I would have lent her the money. Honorable Mrs. Boldero, indeed! Five weeks she has owed me five hundred frongs. Bong swor, Mon- sieur Bidois! Sang song frong pas payy encor! Prommy, pas payy!” Fancy, I say, what, a dreary life that must have been at the select boarding- house, where these two parties were doing battle daily after dinner! Fancy, at the select soirées, the Gen- eral’s lady seizing upon one guest after another, and calling out her wrongs, and pointing to the wrong- doer ; and poor Madame Smolensk, smirking, and smiling, and flying from one end of the salon to the other, and thanking M. Pivoine for his charming romance, and M. Brumm for his admirable perform- ance on the violoncello, and even asking those poor Miss Bolderos to perform their duet, — for her heart melted towards them. Not ignorant of evil, she had learned to succor the miserable. She knew what poverty was, and had to coax scowling duns, and wheedle vulgar creditors. “ Te- nez, Monsieur Philippe,” she said, “the Générale is toocruel. There are others here who might complain, and are silent.” Philip felt all this; the conduct of his future mother-in-law filled him with dismay and horror, And some time after these remarkable circumstances, he told me, blushing as he spoke, a humiliating secret. “Do you know, sir,” says he, “ that . 232. that autumn I made a pretty good thing of it with one thing or another. I did my work for the Pall Mall ‘Gazette: and Smith of the Daily In- telligencer, wanting a month’s holi- day, gave me his letter and ten francs a day. And at that very time I met Redman, who had owed me twenty pounds ever since we were at college, and who was just coming back flush from Hombourg, and paid me. Well, now. Swear you won't tell. Swear on your faith as a Christian man! With this money I went, sir, privily to Mrs. Boldero. I said if she would pay the dragon, — I mean Mrs. Baynes, — I would lend her the money. And I did lend her the money, and the Boldero never paid back Mrs. Baynes. Don’t mention it. Promise me you won't tell Mrs. Baynes. I never expected to get Redman’s money, you know, and am no worse off than. before. One day of the Grandes Kaux we went to Versailles, I think, and the Honorable Mrs. Boldero gave us the slip. She left the poor girls behind her in pledge, who, to do them justice, cried and were in a dreadful way ; and when Mrs. Baynes, on our re- turn, began shrieking about her ‘sang song frong,’ Madame Smolensk fairly lost patience for once, and said, ‘Mais, madame, vous nous fatiguez avec vos cing cent franes’; on which the other muttered something about ‘Ansolong,’ but was. briskly taken up-by her husband, who said, ‘ By George, Eliza, madame is quite right. And I wish the five hundred frances were in the sea.’”’ Thus, you understand, if Mrs. Gen- eral Baynes thought some people were ‘“stuck-up people,” some people can—and hereby do by these pres- ents — pay olf Mrs. Baynes, by fur- nishing the public with a candid opinion of that lady’s morals, man- ners, and character. How could such a shrewd woman be dazzled so re- peatedly by ranks and titles? There used to dine at Madame Smolensk’s boarding-house a certain German bar- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ~ on, with a large finger-ring, upon a dingy finger, towards whom the lady was pleased to cast the eye of favor, — and who chose to fall in love with her pretty daughter; young Mr. Clancy, the Irish poet, was also smitten with the charms of the fair young lady; and this intrepid mother encouraged | both suitors, to the unspeakable ago- nies of Philip Firmin, who felt often that whilst he was away at his work — these inmates of Madame Smolensk’s house were near his charmer, —at~ her side at lunch, ever handing her the cup at breakfast, on the watch form her when she walked forth in che gar den; and I take the pangs of jealousy to have formed a part of those un- Al 4 speakable sufferings which Philip said~ he endured in the house whither h came courting. ey Little Charlotte, in one or two of her letters to her friends in Queen Square, London, meekly complain of Philip’s tendency to jealousy. “Does he think, after knowing him, I can think of these horrid men?” — she asked. “T don’t understand | what Mr. Clancy is talking about, when he comes to me with his ‘pomes _ and potry’; and who can read poetry like Philip himself? Then the Ger: man baron — who does not call evel himself baron: it is mamma who wi insist upon calling him so — has su very dirty things, and smells so of cigars, that I don’t like to come near him. Philip smokes too, bu his cigars are quite pleasant. A dear friend, how could he ever thi such men as these were to be put im comparison with him! And he scolds so; and scowls at the poor men im the evening when he comes! and hi temper is so high! Do say a word. him — quite cautiously and gentl you know —in behalf of your fond attached and most happy —only he will make me unhappy sometime but you ’ll prevent him, won’t you! — CHARLOTTE B.” soe I could fancy Philip hectori through the part of Othello, and _ poor young Desdemona not a li rightened at his black humors. Such entiments as Mr. Philip felt strongly, ie expressed with an uproar. Char- otte’s correspondent, as usual, made ight of these little domestic confi- ences and grievances. ‘ Women ion’t dislike a jealous scolding,” she aid. “It may be rather tiresome, jut it is always a compliment. Some jusbands think so well of themselves, hat they can’t condescend to be ealous.” ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘ women refer to have tyrants over them. ur mind to her as best you can. mortification. There was a _ very _ This is the plan which the Vicomte | painful scene, at which, thank mercy, » Loisy used to adopt. He was fol-| poor Charlotte thought, Philip was wing a cours of English according | not present. Were it not for the , the celebrated méthode Jobson. The | General’s cheveux blancs (by which urs assembled’ twice a week: and | phrase the Vicomte very kindly desig- Vicomte, with laudable assiduity, | nated General Baynes’s chestnut top- ent to all English parties to which | knot), the Vicomte would have had 4s could gain an introduction, for | reason from him. ‘Charming miss,” @ purpose of acquiring the English | he said to Charlotte, ‘your respect- Mguage, and marrying wne Anglaise. | able papa is safe from my sword! ‘is industrious young man even | Madame your mamma las addressed entau Temple on Sundays for the | me words which I qualify not. But arpose of familiarizing himself with | you — you are too ’andsome, too e English language ; and as he sat | good, to despise a poor soldier, a poor der Doctor Murrogh Macmanus of | gentleman!” I have heard the Vi- (C. D., a very eloquent preacher at | comte still dances at boarding-houses (wis in those days, the Vicomte ac- | and is still in pursuit of an Anglaise. aired a very fine pronunciation. At-| He must be a wooer now almost as hed to the cause of unfortunate | elderly as the good General whose marchy all over the world, the Vi- | scalp he respected. ‘mte had fought in the Spanish Carl- Mrs. Baynes was, to be sure, a 4 armies. He waltzed well: and | heavy weight to bear for poor madame, sadame thought his cross looked nice | but her lean shoulders were accus- her parties. Will it be believed | tomed to many a burden; and if the at Mrs. General Baynes took this | General’s wife was quarrelsome and ntleman into special favor; talked | odious, he, as madame said, was as 240 soft as a mutton; and Charlotte’s pretty face and manners were the ad- miration of all. The yellow Miss Bolderos, those hapless elderly or- phans left in pawn, might bite their lips with envy, but they never could make them as red as Miss Charlotte’s smiling mouth. To the honor of Madame Smolensk be it said that never by word or hint did she cause those unhappy young ladies any need- less pain. She never stinted them of any meal. No full-priced pensioner of madame’s could have breakfast, luncheon, dinners served more regu- larly. The day after their mother’s flight, that good Madame Smolensk took early cups of tea to the girls’ rooms, with her own hands ; and I believe helped to do the hair of one of them, and otherwise to soothe them in their misfortune. They could not keep their secret. It must be owned that Mrs. Baynes never lost an oppor- tunity of deploring their situation and acquainting all new-comers with their mother’s flight and transgres- sion. But she was good-natured to the captives in her grim way : and ad- mired madame’s forbearance regard- ing them. The two old officers were now especially polite to the poor things: and the General rapped one of his boys over the knuckles for say- ing to Miss Brenda, “If your uncle is a lord, why does n’t he give you any money?” ‘And these girls used to hold their heads above mine, and their mother used to give herself such airs!” cried Mrs. Baynes. « And Eliza Baynes used to flatter those poor girls and their mother, and fancy they were going to make a woman of fashion of her!” said Mrs. Bunch. “We all have our weak- nesses. Lords are not yours, my dear. Faith, I don’t think you know one,” says stout little Colonel Bunch. “J would n’t pay a duchess such court as Eliza paid that woman!” cried Sarah; and she made sarcastic inquiries of the General, whether Eliza had heard from her friend, the Hon- orable Mrs. Boldero? But for all THE ADVENTURES OF .PHILIP. this Mrs. Bunch pitied the young’ dies, and I believe gave them al supply of coin from her private pur A word as to their private histo Their mamma became the terror of boarding-house keepers: and the poor girls practised their duets all over Eu- rope. Mrs. Boldero’s noble nephew, the present Strongitharm (as afi “end who knows the fashionable world in- forms me) was victimized by his own uncle, and a most painful affair oc curred between them at a game al “blind hookey.” The Honorabk Mrs. Boldero is living in the pre cinets of Holyrood; one of her dai igh: ters is happily married to a minister and the other to an apothecary wh« was called in to attend her in quinsy So I am inclined to think that phras about “select” boarding-houses 1s : mere complimentary term; and ai for the strictest references being givel and required, I certainly should no lay out extra money for printing tha expression in my advertisement, wer I going to set up an establishmen myself. ae Old college friends of Philip’s vis ited Paris from time to time; and re joiced in carrying him off to “Be rel’s”” or the “Trois Jréres,” am! hospitably treating him who had bee so hospitable in his time. Yes, thank be to Heaven, there are good Samar tans in pretty large numbers in thi world, and hands ready enough 1 succor a Man in misfortune. could name two or three gentleme who drive about in chariots and loo at people’s tongues and write que figures and queer Latin on note-pape who occultly made a purse conta ing some seven or ten score fees, am sent them out to Dr. Firmin in h banishment. The poor wretch he behaved as ill as might be, but he w: without a penny ora friend. Ida say Dr. Goodenough, amongst othi philanthropists, put his hands in his pocket. Having heartily dislike and mistrusted Firmin in prosperit |in adversity he melted towards U poor fugitive wretch; he even ©ou iene | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. jheve that Firmin had some skill in ‘8 profession, and in his practice was yt quite a quack. 'Philip’s old college and school cro- es laughed at hearing that, now his ‘m was complete, he was thinking ‘Out marriage. Such a plan was of ‘piece with Mr. Firmin’s known udence and foresight. But they ide an objection to his proposed jon, which had struck us at home eviously. Papa-in-law was well ough, or at least inoffensive: but ', ye powers! what a mother-in- 'v was poor Phil laying up for his pure days! Two or three of our tual companions made this remark “Tettirning to work and chambers ‘er their autumn holiday. - We yer had too much charity for Mrs. yynes; and what Philip told us out her did not serve to increase t regard. About Christmas Mr. Firmin’s own urs brought him on a brief visit to ndon. We were not jealous that ‘took up his quarters with his little md of Thornhaugh Street, who $8 contented that he should dine hus, provided she could have the asfite of housing him under her dshelter. High and mighty peo- ‘as we were,—for under what ‘mble roofs does not Vanity hold | Sway ?— we, who knew Mrs. tndon’s virtues, and were aware of | early story, would have conde- aded to receive her into our soci- 3 but it was the little lady herself » had her pride, and held aloof. 'y parents did not give me the ed- tion you have had, ma’am,” Car- ‘said to my wife. “My place is here, I know very well; unless should be took ill, and then, am, you ’ll see that I will be glad agh to come. Philip can come “see me; and a blessing it is to to seteyeson him. But I should ‘be happy in your drawing-room, you in having me. The dear dren look surprised at my way of ing; and no wonder: and they jh sometimes to one another, God 11 241 bless *°em! I don’t mind. My edu- cation was not cared for. I scarce had any schooling but what I taught myself. My pa had n’t the means of learning me much; and it is too late to go to school at forty odd. I’ve got all his stockings and things darned ; and his linen, poor fellow ! — beautiful: I wish they kep’ it as nice in France, where he is! Youll give my love to the young lady, won’t you, ma’am ? and oh! it’s a blessing to me to hear how good and gentle sheis! He has a high temper, Philip have: but them he likes can easy manage him. You have been his best kind friends ; and so will she be, I trust ; and they may be happy though they ’re poor. But they ’ve time to get rich, haven’t they? And it’s not the richest that ’s the happi- est, that I can see in many a fine house where Nurse Brandon goes and has her eyes open, though she don’t say much, you know.” In this way Nurse Brandon would prattle on to us when she came to see us. She would share our meal, always thank- ing by name the servant who helped her. She insisted on calling our children “ Miss ” and “ Master,” and I think those young satirists did not laugh often or unkindly at her pecu- liarities. I know they were told that Nurse Brandon was very good; and that she took care of her father in his old age; and.that she had passed through very great griefs and trials ; and that she had nursed Uncle Philip when he had been very ill indeed, and when many people would have been afraid to come near him; and that her life was spent in tending the sick, and in doing good to her neighbor. One day during Philip’s stay with us we happen to read in the paper Lord Ringwood’s arrival in London. My Lord had a grand town-house of his own which he did not always in- habit. He liked the cheerfulness of a hotel better. Ringwood House was too large and too dismal. He did not care to eat a solitary mutton-chop in a great dining-room surrounded by P * 242 ghostly images of dead Ringwoods, — his dead son, a boy who had died in his boyhood ; his dead brother attired in the uniform of his day (in which pic- ture there was no little resemblance to Philip Firmin, the Colonel’s grand- son); Lord Ringwood’s dead self, finally, as he appeared still a young man, when Lawrence painted him, and when he was the companion of the Regent and his friends. “Ah! that’s the fellow I least like to look at,” the old man would say, scowling at the picture, and breaking out into the old-fashioned oaths which gar- nished many conversations in his young days. “ That fellow could ride all day; and sleep all night, or go without sleep, as he chose ; and drink his four bottles, and never have a headache; and break his collar- bone, and see the fox killed three hours after. That was once a man, as old Marlborough said, looking at his own picture. Now my doctor’s my master; my doctor and the in- fernal gout over him. I live upon pap and puddens, like a baby ; only I’ve shed all my tecth, hang ’em. I drink three glasses of sherry, my butler threatens me. You young fel- low, who have n’t twopence in your pocket, by George, I would like to change with you. Only you would n't, hang you, you would n’t. Why, I don’t believe Todhunter would change with me: would yon, Tod- | hunter ?— and you’re aout as fond of a great man as any fellow I ever knew. Don’t tell me. You are, sir. Why, when I walked with you on Ryde sands one day, I said to that fellow, ‘Todhunter, don’t you think I could order the sea to stand still ¢’ I did. And you had never heard of King Canute, hanged if you had, and neyer read any book except the Stud- book and Mrs. Glasse’s Cookery, hanged if you did.” Such remarks and conyersations of his relative has Philip reported to me. Two or three men about town had very good imi- tations of this toothless, growling, blasphemous old cynic. He was splen- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. If | . did and penurious; violent and e| ily led ; surrounded by flatterers utterly lonely. He had old-world1 tions, which, I believe, have pass out of the manners of great fo now. He thoaght it beneath him travel by railway, and his post-cha was one of the last on the road. I tide rolled on in spite of this old ¢ nute, and has long since rolled him and his post-chaise. Why, | most all his imitators are actua dead; and only this year, when ¢ Jack Mummers gave an imitation him at “ Bays’s ” (where Jack’s mi icry used to be received with sho of laughter but a few years, sine there was a dismal silence in the ¢ fee-room, except from two or th young men at a near table, who sa “‘ What is the old fool mumbling a swearing at now? An imitation Lord Ringwood, and who was he So our names pass away, and are 1 gotten: and the tallest statues, not the sands of time accumulate 4 overwhelm them? J have not for, ten my Lord; any more than I forgotten the cock of my school, a whom, perhaps, you don’t hear. I see my Lord’s bald and hooked beak, and bushy brows, and tall velvet collar, brass buttons, and great black m and trembling hand, and trem parasites around him, and I can his voice, and great oaths, and la ter. You parasites of to-day bowing to other great people; 4 this great one, who was alive yesterday, is as dead as George or Nebuchadnezzar. Well, we happen to read Philip’s noble relative Lord wood has’ arrived at @ whilst Philip is staying with us; I own that I counsel my friend 1 and wait upon his Lordship. been very kind at Paris: he hac dently taken a liking to F Firmin ought to go and se Who knows? Lord Rin might be inclined to do some! his brother’s grandson. 2 This was just the point which any who knew Philip should have itated to urge upon him. ‘To try Tl make him bow and smile on a at man with a.view to future fa- ‘'s was to demand the impossible m Firmin. The king’s men may the king’s horses to the water, i the king himself can’t make them ok. I own that I came back to subject, and urged it repeatedly my friend. “I have been,” said ilip sulkily. ‘I have left a card m-him. If he wants me, he can d to No. 120 Queen Square, West- ister, my present hotel. But if { think he will give me anything ond a dinner, I tell you you are taken.” Ve dined that day with Philip’s Moyer, worthy Mr. Mugford, of Pall Mall Gazette, who was pro- in his hospitalities, and especial- fracious to Philip. Mugford was ised with Firmin’s letters; and “tay be sure that severer critics ‘Not contradict their friend’s good- ared patron. We drove to the jarban villa at Hampstead, and ‘ming odors of soup, mutton, bns, rushed out into the hall to : us welcome, and to warn us of good cheer in store for the party. § Was not one of Mugford’s days ‘countermanding side-dishes, I mise you. Men in black with le white-cotton gloves were in ng to receive us ; and Mrs. Mug- }, in a rich blue satin and feathers, ‘ofusion of flounces, laces, mara- 8, jewels, and eau-de-Cologne, to welcome us from a stately , Where she sat surrounded by Children. These, too, were in ‘iant dresses, with shining new- jbed hair. The ladies, of course, amtly began to talk about their tren, and my wife’s unfeigned ad- ition for Mrs. Mucford’s last baby mk won that worthy lady’s good- | at once. I made some remark rding one of the boys, as being picture of his father, which was sucky. I don’t know why, but THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 2 43 I have it from her husband’s own admission, that Mrs. Mugford always thinks I am ‘“chafting ” her. One of the boys frankly informed me there was goose for dinner; and when a cheerful cloop was heard from a neighboring room, told me that was Pa drawing the corks. Why should Mrs. Mugford reprove the outspoken child and say, ‘‘ James, hold your tongue, do now?” Better wine than was poured forth, when those corks were drawn, never flowed from bottle. — I say, I never saw better wine nor more bottles. If ever a table may be said to have groaned, that expression * might with justice be applied to Mug- ford’s mahogany. Talbot Twysden would have feasted forty people with the meal here provided for eight by our most hospitable entertainer. Though Mugford’s editor was pres- ent, who thinks himself a very fine fellow, I assure you, but whose name I am not at liberty to divulge, all the honors of the entertainment were for the Paris Correspondent, who was specially requested to take Mrs. M. to dinner. As an earl’s grand- nephew, and a lord’s great-grandson, of course we felt that this place of honor was Firmin’s right. How Mrs. Mugford pressed him to eat! She carved, —I am very glad she would not Iet Philip carve for her, for he might have sent the goose into her lap, — she carved, I say, and I really think she gave him more stufiing than to any of us, but that may have “been mere envy on my part. Allusions to Lord Ringwood were repeatedly made during dinner. ‘Lord R. has come to town, Mr. F., I perceive,” says Mugford, winking. ‘ You’ve been to see him, of course?”” Mr. Firmin glared at me very fiercely, he had to own he had been to call on Lord Ringwood. Mugford led the conver- sation to the noble lord so frequently that Philip madly kicked my shins under the table. I don’t know how many times I had to suffer from that “foot which in its time has trampled on so many persons; a kick for each 244 time Lord Ringwood’s name, houses, parks, properties, were mentioned was a frightful allowance. Mrs. Mugford would say, ‘“ May I assist you to a little pheasant, Mr. Firmin ? I dare say they are not as good as Lord Ringwood’s” (a kick from Philip) ; or Mugford would exclaim, “Mr. F., try that ’ock! Lord Ring- wood has n’t better wine than that.” (Dreadful punishment upon my tibia under the table.) “John! Two ’ocks, me and Mr. Firmin. Join us, Mr. P.,” and so forth. And after dinner, to the ladies, —as my wife, who betrayed their mysteries, in- formed me, — Mrs. Mugford’s conver- sation was incessant regarding the Ringwood family and Firmin’s -rela- tionship to that noble house. The meeting of the old lord and Firmin in Paris was discussed with immense interest. ‘His Lordship called him Philip most affable! he was very fond of Mr. Firmin.” A little bird had told Mrs. Mugford that some- body else was very fond of Mr, Fir- min. She hoped it would be a match, and that his Lordship would do the handsome thing by his nephew. What? My wife wondered that Mrs. Mugford should know about Philip’s affairs ? (and wonder indeed she did. ) A little bird had told Mrs. M., a friend of both ladies, that dear, good little nurse Brandon, who was en- gaged — and here the conversation went off into mysteries which I cer- tainly shall not reveal. Suffice it that Mrs. Mugford was one of Mrs. Brandon’s best, kindest, and most constant patrons,—or might I be permitted to say matrons ¢ — and had received a most favorable report of us from’ the little nurse. And here Mrs. Pendennis gave a verbatim report not only of our hostess’s speech, but of her manner and accent. “Yes, ma’am,” says Mrs. Mugford to-Mrs. Pendennis, “ our friend Mrs. B. has told me of a certain gentleman whose name shall benameless. His manner is cold, not to say ’aughty. seems to be laughing at people some- y £ cA me He THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘times, —don’t say No; I saw h ‘once or twice at dinner, both him a) Mr. Firmin. But he is a true frier Mrs. Brandon says he is. And wh| you know him, his heart is goo¢ Is it? Amen. A_ distinguish writer has composed, in not very k days, a comedy of which.the cheer moral is, that we are ‘‘ not so bad: we seem.” Aren't we? Ami again. Give us thy hearty hay Iago! Tartuffe, how the world 1) been mistaken in you! Macbeth!] that little affair of the murder out: It was a momente you! expression : of all prayer-books ; open the pc holes of all hulks; break the cha) of all convicts; and unlock the bo of all spoons. ‘a As we discussed Mr. Mugford’s tertainment on our return home; improved the occasion with Phil I pointed out the reasonableness. the hopes which he might entert; of help from his wealthy kinsm and actually forced him to promis wait upon my Lord the next d Now, when Philip Firmin did a thi against his will, he did it with a] grace. When he is not pleas he does not pretend to be hap and when he is sulky, Mr. Fin is a very disagreeable compan Though he never once reproached afterwards with what happened own that I have had cruel twinge conscience since. If I had not £ him on that dutiful visit to his gré uncle, what occurred might perhaps, have occurred at _ acted. for the best, and that I however~I_may grieve for the quences which ued when th fellow followed my advice. _ Tf Philip held aloof from Lore wood in,London, you may PD Philip’s dear cousins were in V on his Lordship, and never lost wrtunity of showing their respectful ‘mpathy. Was Lord Ringwood ail- gt Mr. Twysden, or Mrs. Twys- im, or the dear girls, or Ringwood ‘eir brother, were daily in his Lord- \ip’s antechamber, asking for news ‘his health. They bent down re- ‘ectfully before Lord Ringwood’s ma- m-domo. ‘They would have given m money, as they always averred, ily what sum could they give to such man as Rudge? ‘They actually of- red to bribe Mr. Rudge with their ine, over which he made _ horrible ces. They fawned and smiled before malways. I should like to have seen vat calm Mrs. 'Twysden, that serene, igh-bred woman, who would cut her sarest friend if misfortune befell her, ' the world turned its back ;—I vould like to have seen, and can see r in my mind’s eye, simpering and “axing, and wheedling this footman. 4e made cheap presents to Mr. udge: she smiled on him and asked ter his health. And of course Tal- ot Twysden flattered him too in Tal- ots jolly way. It was a wink, and od, and a hearty “ How do youdo?”’ -and (after due inquiries made and iswered about his Lordship) it would 4, “Rudge! I think my housekeeper is a good glass of port wine in her om, if you happen to be passing that ay, and my Lord don’t want you!” ‘nd with a grave courtesy, I can fan- * Mr. Rudge bowing to Mr. and Mrs. wysden, and thanking them, and de- ending to Mrs. Blenkinsop’s skinny om where the port-wine is ready,— ad if Mr. Rudge and Mrs. Blenkin- p are confidential, I can fancy their Iking over the characters and pecu- Wities of the folks up stairs. Servants metimes actually do; and if master id mistress are humbugs, these retched menials sometimes find them it. Now, no duke could be more lord- /and condescending in his bearing ‘an Mr. Philip Firmin towards the enial throng. In those days, when » had money in his pockets, he gave ‘x. Rudge out of his plenty ; and the THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 245 man remembered his gencrosity when he was poor; and declared —in a se- lect society, and in the company of the relative of a person from whom I have the information — declared in the pres- ence of Captain Gann at the “ Admiral B-ng Club” in fact, that Mr. Heff was always a swell; but since he was done, he, Rudge, “was blest if that young chap warn’t a greater swell than hever.” And Rudge actually liked this poor young fellow better than the family in Beaunash Street, whom Mr. R. pronounced to be “a shabby lot.” And in fact it was Rudge as well as myself, who advised that Philip should see his Lordship. When at length Philip paid his see- ond visit, Mr. Rudge said, “ My Lord will see you, sir, I think. He has been speaking of you. He’s very unwell. He’s going to have a fit of the gout, I think. 171] tell him you are here.” And coming back to Philip, after a brief disappearance, and with rather a scared face, he repeated the permission to enter, and again cautioned him, say-. ing, that “my Lord was very queer.” In fact, as we learned afterwards, through the channel previously indi- cated, my Lord, when he heard that Philip had called, cried, ‘‘ He has, has he? Hang him, send him in”; us- ing, 1 am constrained to say, in place of the monosyllable “ hang,’ a much sfronger expression. “QO, it’s you, is it?” says my Lord. “You have been in London ever so long. ‘Twysden told me of you yes- terday.” “T have called before, sir,’ said Philip, very quietly. ‘“T wonder you have the face to call at all, sir!” cries the old man, glaring at Philip. His Lordship’s counte- nance was of agamboge color: his no- ble eyes were bloodshot and starting ; his voice, always very harsh and stri- dent, was now specially unpleasant ; and from the crater of his mouth, shot loud exploding oaths. “Face, my Lord?” says Philip, still very meek. “Yes, if you call that a face which 246 is covered over with hair like a ba- boon!” growled my Lord, showing his tusks. ‘‘ Twysden was here last night, and tells me some pretty news about you.” Philip blushed ; he knew what the news most likely would be. “Twysden says that now you area pauper, by George, and living by breaking stones in the street,— you have been such an infernal, drivelling, hanged fool, as to engage yourself to another pauper!” Poor Philip turned white from red ; and spoke slowly: “I beg your par- don, my Lord, you said —” “T said you were a hanged fool, sir!” roared the old man; “can’t ou hear? ” ‘“‘T believe I am a member of your family, my Lord,” says Philip, rising up. In a quarrel, he would some- times lose his temper, and speak out his mind; or sometimes, and then he was most dangerous, he would be especially calm and Grandisonian. “Some hanged adventurer, think- ing you.were to get money from me, has hooked you for-his daughter, has ne?”’ “JT have engaged myself to a young lady, and I am the poorer of the two,” says Philip. “She thinks’ you will get money from me,” continues his Lordship. “Does she? I never did!”’ replied Philip. - “ By Heaven, you sha’ n’t, unless you give up this rubbish.” | “T sha’ n’t give her up, sir, and I shall do without the money,” said Mr. Firmin very boldly. “Go to Tartarus!” old man. On which Philip told us, “‘ I said ‘ Se- niores priores, my Lord,’ and turned on my heel. So you see if he was going to leave me something, and he nearly said he was, that chance is passed now, and I have made a pretty morn- ing’s work.” And a pretty morn- ing’s work it was: and it was I who had set him upon it! My brave Philip not only did not rebuke me screamed the THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Baas = ners a for having sent him on this erran’ but took the blame of the business ¢) himself, “Since I have been @ gaged,” he said, “I am growit dreadfully avaricious, and am almo as sordid about money as those Twy dens. I cringed to that old man; crawled before his gouty feet.. Wel I could crawl from here to San James’s Palace to get some mont for my little Charlotte.’ Phil cringe and crawl! If there were 1 posture-masters more supple tha Philip Firmin, kotowing would be lost art, like the Menuet de la Cou But fear not, ye great! Men’s bael were made to bend, and the race ¢ parasites is still in good repute. — When our friend told us how h brief interview with Lord Ringwoc had begun. and ended, I think tho: who counselled Philip to wait upe his grand-uncle felt rather ashame of their worldly wisdom and the ai vice which they had given. W ought to have. known our Hare sutticiently to be aware that it was dangerous experiment to set him boy ing in lords’ antechambers. We not his elbows sure to break: son courtly china, his feet to trample ar tear some lace train? So all @ rood we had done was to occasion quarrel between him and his patro Lord Ringwood avowed that he hi intended to leave Philip money ; ar by thrusting the poor fellow into tl old nobleman’s sick-chamber, we hi occasioned a quarrel between fl relatives, who parted with muta threats and anger. “O dear met I groaned in connubial colloquic “Let us get him away. He will! boxing Mugford’s ears next, and te ing Mrs. Mugford that she is vul; and a bore.” He was eager fe back to his work, or rather toh lady-love at Paris. We did not t to detain. him. For fear of furth accidents we were rather anxious he should be- gone. Crestfallen. sad, I accompanied him to the J logne boat. He paid for his place the second cabin, and stoutly bad pl vdieu. A rough night: a wet, slip- pery deck: a crowd of frowzy fellow- passengers: and poor Philip in the midst of them in a thin cloak, his ‘yellow hair and beard blowing about: Eee the steamer now, and left her with I know not what feelings of con- ition and shame. Why had I sent Philip to call upon that savage, over- bearing old patron of his? Why sompelled him to that bootless act of submission? Lord Ringwood’s brutalities were matters of common notoriety. A wicked, dissolute, cyni- sal old man: and we must try to make friends with this mammon of unrighteousness, and set poor Philip to bow before him and flatter him ! Ah, mea culpa, mea culpa! The wind blew hard that winter night, and many tiles and chimney-pots blew own: and as I thought of poor ‘cabuf, Lrolled about my own bed very uneasily. » I looked into “ Bays’s Club” the day after, and there fell on both the ‘Twysdens. The parasite of a father fof ason came to the club in Captain way. I was sure they did. Talbot ‘LIwysden, pouring his loud, braggart eyed me with a glance of triumph, and talked and swaggered so that I should hear. Ringwood Twysden and Woolcomb, drinking absinthe to glances and grins. swallowed. I did not see that T'wys- den tore off one of Lord Lepel’s but- tons, but that nobleman, with a scared countenance, moved away rapidly from his little persecutor. ‘ Hang him, throw him over, and come to me!” I heard the generous Twysden say. “I expect Ringwood and one ‘or two more.” At this proposition, ‘Lord Lepel, in a tremulous way, muf- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Philip tossing in the frowzy second- | was clinging to the button of a great. jman when | entered : the little reptile Woolcomb’s brougham, and in that, ‘distinguished mulatto officer’s compa-_ ny. They looked at me in a peculiar talk in the ear of poor Lord Lepel, | whet their noble appetites, exchanged | Woolcomb’s eyes | ‘were of the color of the absinthe he | 247 tered that he could not break his en- gagement, and fled out of the club. ‘lwysden’s dinners, the polite read- er has been previously informed, were notorious; and he constantly bragged of having the company of Lord Ringwood. Now it so hap- pened that on this very evening, Lord Ringwood, with three of his follow- ers, henchmen, or led-captains, dined at Bays’s club, being determined to see a pantomime in which a yery pretty young Columbine figured: and some one in the house joked with his Lordship, and said, “ Why, you are going to dine with Talbot ‘Twys- den. He said, just now, that he ex- pected you.” “Did he?” said his Lordship. “Then Talbot Twysden told a hanged lie!” And little Tom Eaves, my in- formant, remembered these remark- able words, because of a circumstance which now almost immediately fol- lowed. A very few days after Philip’s de- parture, our friend, the Little Sister, came to us at our breakfast-table, wearing an expression of much trouble and sadness on her kind little face; the causes of which sorrow she explained to us, as soon as our chil- dren had gone away to their school- room. Amongst Mrs. Brandon’s friends, and one of her father’s con- stant companions, was the worthy Mr. Ridley, father of the celebrated painter of that name, who was him- self of much too honorable and noble a nature to be ashamed of his humble paternal origin. Companionship be- tween father and son could not be very close or intimate; especially as in the younger Ridley’s boyhood, his father, who knew nothing of the fine arts, had looked upon the child as a sickly, half-witted creature, who would be to.his parents but a grief and a burden. But when J. J. Rid- ley, Esq., began to attain eminence in his profession, his father’s eyes were opened; in place of neglect and con- tempt, he looked up to his boy with a | sincere, naive admiration, and often, | | 248 with tears, has narrated the pride and pleasure which he felt on the day when he waited on John James at his master Lord Todmorden’s table. Ridley senior now felt that he had been unkind and unjust to his boy in the latter’s early days, and with a very touching humility the old man acknowledged his previous. injustice, and tried to atone for it by present respect and affection. Though fondness for his son, and delight in the company of Captain Gann, often drew Mr. Ridley to Thornhaugh Street, and to the “ Ad- miral Byng” Club, of which both were leading members, Ridley senior belonged to other clubs at the West End, where Lord Todmorden’s butler consorted with the confidential but- lers of others of the nobility: and I am informed that in those clubs Rid- ley continued to be called ‘‘ Todmor- den” long after his connection with that venerable nobleman had ceased. He continued to be called Lord 'Tod- morden, in fact, just as Lord Popin- jay is still called by his old friends Popinjay, though his father is dead, and Popinjay, as everybody knows, is at present Earl of Pintado. At one of these clubs of their order, Lord Todmorden’s man was in the constant habit of meeting Lord Ring- wood’s man, when their Lordships (master and man) were in town. These gentlemen had a regard for each other; and, when they met, communicated to each other their views of society, and their opinions of the characters of the various noble lords and_ influential commoners whom they served. Mr. Rudge knew everything about Philip Firmin’s af- fairs, about the Doctor’s flight, about Philip’ S$ generous behavior.“ Gene- rous! J call it admiral!” old Ridley remarked, while narrating this trait of our friend’s, — and his “present po- sition. And Rudge contrasted Phil- ip’s manly -behavior with the conduct of some sneaks which he would not name them, but which they were al- ways speaking ill of the poor young THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. fellow behind his back, and sneaking up to my Lord, and greater skinflints and meaner humbugs neyer were and there was no “accounting for. tastes, but he, Rudge, would not) marry his daughter to a black man. | Now: that day when Mr. Firmin: went to see my Lord Ringwood was: one of my Lord’s very worst days, when it was almost as dangerous tal go near him as to approach a Bengal tiger. When he is going to have a fit, of gout, his Lordship (Mr. Rudge re- | marked) was hawful. He curse and swear, he do, at everybody ; ; even the clergy or the ladies, — all’s one. On’ that very day when Mr. Firmin called) he had said to Mr. Twysden, “ Get out, and don’t come slandering, and) backbiting, and bullying that poor devil of a boy any more. It’s black guardly, by George, sir, —it’s black- guardly.” And "Twysden came out: with his tail between his legs, and he) says to me,—“‘ Rudge,” says be “my Lord ’s uncommon bad to-day.” Well, he had n’t been gone an hour. when pore Philip comes, bad luck to; him, and my Lord, who had just heard from Twysden all about that’ young woman —that party at Paris, Mr. Ridley — and it 7s about as great | a piece of folly,as ever I heard tell of —my Lord turns upon the pore young fellar and call him names, worse than Twysden. But Mr, Fir- min ain’t that sort of man, he isn’t. He won’t suffer any man to call him: names; and I suppose he gave my Lord his own back again, for I heard, my Lord swear at him tremendous, I did, with my own ears. When my Lord has thé gout flying about I told you he is awful. When he takes his colchicum he’s worse. Now, we have | gota party at Whipham at Christmas, and at Whipham we must be. And he took his colchicum night before, last, and to-day he was in such a tre-| mendous rage of swearing, cursing, and blowing up everybody, that it was as if he was red-hot. And when Twysden and Mrs. Twysden called that day (if you kiek that fellar oug it the hall door, I’m blest if he won’t ome smirkin’ down the chimney), — md he would n’t see any of them. ‘And he bawled out after me, ‘If Fir- ‘in comes, kick him down stairs, — lo you hear?’ with ever so many yvaths and curses against the poor fel- ow, while he vowed he would never ee his hanged impudent face again. 3ut this was n’t all, Ridley. He sent lor Bradgate, his lawyer, that very ‘ay. He had back his will, which I igned myself as one of the witnesses, '—-me and Wilcox, the master of the otel, — and I know he had left Fir- ain something in it. ‘Take my word rit. To that poor young fellow he faeans mischief.” A full report of his conversation Mr. Ridley gave to ‘is little friend Mrs. Brandon, know- ag the interest which Mrs. Brandon ok in the young gentleman; and vith these unpleasant news Mrs. 3randon came off to advise with hose who—the good nurse was leased to say —were Philip’s best riends in the world. We wished we ould give the Little Sister comfort : ut all the world knew what a man zord Ringwood was, — how arbitrary, ow revengeful, how cruel ! I knew Mr. Bradgate the lawyer, fo whom I had business, and called pon him, more anxious to speak bout Philip’s affairs than my own. “Suppose I was too eager in coming 2 my point, for Bradgate saw the yeaning of my. questions, and de- ilimed to answer them. “My client md I are not the dearest friends in ae world,” Bradgate said, “but I aust keep his counsel, and must not ‘ll you whether Mr. Firmin’s name § down in his Lordship’s will or not. fow should I know? He may have Itered his will. He may have left Fir- vim money; he may have left him one. I hope young Firmin,does not Suntonalegacy. That’sall. He may & disappointed if he does. Why, umay hope for a legacy from Lord Mmgwood, and you may be disap- ointed. I know scores of people sho do hope for something, and who LL? THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 249 won’t get a penny.” And this was. all the reply I could get at that time from the oracular little lawyer. I told my wife, as of course every dutiful man_ tells everything to every dutiful wife: — but, though Bradgate discouraged us, there was somehow a lurking hope still that the old noble- man would provide for our friend. Then Philip would marry Charlotte. Then he would earn ever so much more money by his newspaper. Then he would be happy ever after. My wife counts eggs not only before they are hatched, but before they are laid. Never was such an obstinate hope- fulness of character. J, on the other hand, take a rational and despondent view of things; and if they turn out better than I expect, as sometimes they will, I affably own that I have been mistaken. ; But an early day came when Mr. Bradgate was no longer needful, or when he thought himself released from the obligations of silence with regard to his noble client. It was two days before Christmas, and I took my accustomed afternoon saun- ter to “‘ Bays’s,” where other habitués of the*club were assembled. There was no little buzzing and excitement among the frequenters of the place. Talbot Twysden always arrived at “ Bays’s”’ at ten minutes past four, and scufiled for the evening paper, as if its contents were matter of great importance to Talbot. He would hold men’s buttons, and discourse to them the leading: article out of that paper with an astounding emphasis and gravity. On this day, some ten minutes after his accustomed hour, he reached the club. Other gentle- men were engaged in perusing the evening journal. The lamps on the tables lighted up the bald heads, the gray heads, dyed heads, and the wigs of many assembled fogies,— murmurs went about the room: “ Very sud- den.” “Gout in the stomach.” “Dined here only four days ago.” “ Looked very well.” ‘‘ Very well? No! Never saw a fellow look worse’ ind 50 2 in my life.” ‘“ Yellow as a guinea.” “ Could n’t eat.” ‘“ Swore dreadfully at the waiters, and at Tom Eaves who dined with him.” “ Seventy-six, T see. —Born in the same year with the Duke of York.” “ Forty thou- sand a year.” “Forty? fifty-eight THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. thousand three hundred, I tell you. Always been a saving man.” “ Hs- tate goes to his cousin, Sir John Ringwood; not a member here, — member of ‘ Boodle’s.’” ‘‘ Hated each other furiously. Very violent temper, the old fellow was. Never got over the Reform Bill, they used to say.” “ Wonder whether he’ll leave any- thing to old bow-wow Twys—” Here enters Talbot Twysden, Esq. — “Ha, Colonel! How are you? What’s the news to-night? Kept late at my office, making up accounts. Going down to Whipham to-morrow to pass Christmas with my wife’s uncle, — Ringwood, you know. Al- ways go down to Whipham at Christ- mas. Keeps the pheasants for us. No longer a hunting man myself. Lost my nerve, by George.” Whilst the braggart little creature indulged in, this pompous talk, he did | not see the significant looks which | were fixed upon him, or, if he remarked them, was perhaps pleased by the at- tention which he excited. “ Bays’s”’ had long echoed with Twysden’s ac- count of Ringwood, the pheasants, his own loss of nerve in hunting, and the sum which their family would in- herit at the death of their noble rela- tive. herit,’ Y 2 2») : “ Ah! Twysden, he’s past marr ing,” groans Mr. Hookham. ‘ “Not at all. Sober man, now. Stout man. Immense powerful man, Healthy man, but for gout. I often say to him, ‘ Ringwood! I say —”” “‘Q, for mercy’s sake, stop this!” groans old Mr. Tremlett, who always’ begins to shudder at the sound of poor Twysden’s voice. “Tell him, some body.” eh ““Haven’t you heard, Twysden' Haven't) you seen? Don’t you know?” asks Mr. Hookham, solen ] I say; ‘why don’t you m I a “ Heard, seen, known — what?” cries the other. ‘a “ An-accident has happened to Loré Ringwood. Look at the paper. Her it is.’ And Twysden pulls out hit great gold eyeglasses, holds the papel as far as his little arm will reach, ant —and merciful Powers !— but I-wil not venture to depict. the agony or that noble face. Like Timanthes thi painter, I hide this Agamemnon witl a veil. I cast the Globe newsp over him. Jilabatur orbis: imagination depict our Twysden ba | der the ruins. a What Twysden read in the Gle was a mere curt paragraph; bu 'next morning’s Times there was’ of those obituary notices to which no blemen of éminence must submit fron the mysterious necrographer engage by that paper. “T think I have heard you say Sir John Ringwood inherits after your rel- ative?’ asked Mr. Hookham.’ “Yes; the estate, not the title. The earldom goes to my Lord and his heirs, —Hookham. Why should n’t he marry again ? I often say to him, ‘Ringwood, why don’t you marry, if it’s only to disappoint that Whig fellow, Sir John?’ You are fresh and hale, Ringwood. You may live twen- ty years, five-and-twenty years. If you leave your niece and my children anything, we ’re not in a hurry to in- ee CHAPTER XXII. PULVIS ET UMBRA SUMUS. Tue first and only Earl of R wood has submitted to the fate w peers and commoners are alike tined to undergo. Hastening magnificent seat of Whipham Mai where he proposed to entertain 2 lustrious Christmas party, his J ship left London scarcely recov: from an attack of gout to wh mas been for many years a martyr. The disease must have flown to his stomach, and suddenly mastered him. At Turreys Regum, thirty miles from iis own princely habitation, where he aad been accustomed to dine on his ilmost royal progresses to his home, 1€ was already in a state of dreadful iuffering, to which his attendants did ot pay the attention which his condi- ion ought to have excited; for when jaboring under this most painful mala- ly his outcries were loud, and his lan- suage and demeanor exceedingly vio- ent. He angrily refused to send for nedical aid at ‘lurreys, and insisted m continuing his journey homewards. de was one of the old school, who 1ever would enter a railway (though ais fortune was greatly increased by she passage of the railway through ;is property) ; and his own horses al- Vays met him at “ Popper’s Tavern,” jm obscure hamlet, seventeen miles rom his princely seat. He made no ign on arriving at “ Popper’s,” and poke no word, to the now serious Jarm of his servants. When they yame to light his carriage-lamps, and 00k into his post-chaise, the lord of ho thousand acres, and, according 9 report, of immense wealth, was ead. The journey from Turreys ‘ad been the last stage of a long, a ‘Tosperous, and, if not a famous, at be a notorious and magnificent ca- eer, _ “The late John George, Earl and yaron Ringwood and Viscount Cing- ars, entered into public life at the angerous period before the French ‘evolution; and commenced his ca- er as the friend and companion of 1e Prince of Wales. When his Roy- Highness seceded from the Whig arty, Lord Ringwood also joined te Tory side of politicians, and an wldom was the price of his fidelity. /ut on the elevation of Lord Steyne ? @ marquisate, Lord Ringwood /larrelled for a while with his royal yttron and friend, deéming his own /Tvices unjustly slighted, as a like /gmity was not conferred on him- “THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 251 self. On several occasions he gave his vote against Government, and caused his nominees in the House of Commons to vote with the Whigs. He never was reconciled to his late Majesty George LV., of whom he was in the habit of speaking with charac- teristic bluntness. The approach of the Reform Bill, however, threw this nobleman definitively on the Tory side, of which he has ever since re- mained, if not an eloquent, at least a violent supporter. He was said to be a liberal landlord, so long as his ten- ants did not thwart him in his views. His only son died early ; and his Lord- ship, according to report, has long been on ill terms with his kinsman and successor, Sir John Ringwood, of Appleshaw, Baronet. The Barony has been in this ancient family since the reign of George I., when Sir John Ringwood was ennobled, and Sir Francis, his brother, a Baron of the Exchequer, was advanced to the dig- nity of Baronet by the first of our Hanoverian sovereigns.” This was the article which my wife and I read on the morning of Christ- mas eve, as our children were decking lamps and looking-glasses with ‘holly and red berries for the approaching festival. I had despatched a hurried note, containing the news, to Philip on the night previous. We were painfully anxious about his fate now, when a few days would decide it. Again my business or curiosity took me to see Mr. Bradgate, the lawyer. He was in possession of the news of course. He was not averse to talk about it. The death of his client un- sealed the lawyer’s lips partially; and I must say Bradgate spoke in a manner not flattering to his noble de- ceased client. The brutalities of the late nobleman had been very hard to bear. On occasion of their last meet- ing his oaths and disrespectful behay- ior had been specially odious. He had abused almost every one of his relatives. His heir, he said, was a prating, republican humbug. He had a relative (whom Bradgate said 252 he would not name) who was a schem- ing, swaggering, swindling lickspittle parasite, always cringing at his heels and longing for his death. And he had another relative, the impudent son of a swindling doctor, who had ‘nsulted him two hours before in his own room ; —a fellow who was a pau- er, and going to propagate a breed for the workhouse; for, after his be- havior of that day, he would be con- demned to the lowest pit of Acheron, before he, Lord Ringwood, would give that scoundrel a penny of his money. «‘ And his Lordship desired me to send him back his will,” said Mr. Bradgate. And he destroyed that will before he went away: it was not the first he had burned. “And I may tell you, now all is over, that he had left his brother’s grandson a handsome legacy in that will, which your poor friend might have had, but that he went to see my Lord in his unlucky fit of gout.” Ah, mea culpa! mea culpa! And who sent Philip to see his rela- tive in that unlucky fit of gout? Who was so worldly-wise, —so Twys- den-like, as to counsel Philip to flat- tery and submission? But for that advice he might be wealthy now; he might be happy; he might be ready to marry his young sweetheart. Our Christmas turkey choked me as I ate of it. The lights burned dimly, and the kisses and laughter under the mis- tletoe were but melancholy sport. But for my advice, how happy might my friend have been! I looked ask- ance at the honest faces of my chil- dren. What would they say if they knew their father had advised.a friend to cringe, and bow, and humble him- self before a rich, wicked old man? I sat as mute at the pantomime as at a burial; the laughter of the little ones smote me as with areproof. A burial? With plumes and _ lights, and upholsterers’ pageantry, and mourning by the yard measure, they, were burying my Lord Ringwood, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. who might have made Philip Firmin rich but for me. All lingering hopes regarding our friend were quickly put to an end. A will was found at Whipham, dated a year back, in which no mention was made of poor Philip Firmin. Small. legacies — disgracefully shabby and small, Twysden said — were left to the T'wysden family, with the full- length portrait of the late Earl in his coronation robes, which, I should think, must have given but small satisfaction to his surviving relatives; for his Lordship was but an ill-favor- ed nobleman, and the price of the carriage Of the large picture from Whipham was @ tax which poor Tal- bot made very wry faces at paying. Had the picture been accompanied by thirty or forty thousand pounds, or fifty thousand, — why should he not have left. them fifty thousand ?— how different Talbot’s grief would have been! Whereas when Talbot counted up the dinners he had given to Lord Ringwood, all of which he could easily calculate by his cunning ledgers and journals in which was noted down every feast at which his Lordship attended, every guest assem- bled, and every bottle of wine drunk, Twysden found that he had absolute: ly spent more money upon my Lord than the old man had paid back in his will. But all the family went into mourning, and the Twysden coachman and footman turned out i black-worsted epaulettes in honor of the illustrious deceased. It is nol every day that a man gets a chanet of publicly bewailing the loss of ar Earl his relative. I suppose Twysder took many hundred people into hi confidence on this matter, and bt wailed his uncle’s death and his owl wrongs whilst clinging to many score of button-holes. oo And how did poor Philip bear th disappointment? He must have fel it, for I fear we ourselves had encout aged him in the hope that his gram uncle would do something to re his necessity.* Philip put a bi crape round his hat, wrapped him in his shabby old mantle, and clined any outward show of griet : THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. all. If the old man had left him ‘money, it had been well. As he did ‘not, — a puff of cigar, perhaps, ends ‘the sentence, and our philosopher ‘gives no further thought to his disap- ‘pointment. Was not Philip the poor as lordly and independent as Philip ‘the rich? A struggle with poverty is ‘a wholesome wrestling-match at three ‘or five and twenty. ‘The sinews are oung, and are braced by the contest. It is upon the aged that the battle falls hardly, who are weakened by failing health, and perhaps enervated by long years of prosperity. _ Firmin’s broad back could carry a heavy burden, and he was glad to take all the work which fell in his ‘way. Phipps, of the Daily Intelli- -gencer, Wanting an assistant, Philip ‘gladly sold four hours of his day to ‘Mr. Phipps: translated page after ‘page of newspapers, French and Ger- ‘man; took an occasional turn at the ‘Chamber of Deputies, and gave an account of a sitting of importance, ‘and made himself quite an active lieutenant. He began positively to ‘save money. He wore dreadfully ‘shabby clothes, to be sure: for Char- lotte could not go to his chamber and ‘mend his rags as the Little Sister had ‘done: but when Mrs. Baynes abused him for his shabby appearance, — and indeed it must have been mortifying sometimes to see the fellow in his old clothes swaggering about in Madame Smolensk’s apartments, talking loud, contradicting, and laying down the ilaw,— Charlotte defended her ma- ligned Philip. ‘Do you know why Monsieur Philip has these shabby clothes?” she asked of Madame de Smolensk. ‘Because he has_ been sending money to his father in Amer- ica.” And Smolensk said that Mon- sieur Philip was a brave young man, and that he might come dressed _ like an Iroquois to her soirée, and he should be welcome. And Mrs. Baynes was rude to Philip when he was present, and scornful in her re- marks when he was absent. And Philip trembled before Mrs. Baynes ; °: 258 and he took her boxes on the ear with much meekness; for was not his Charlotte a hostage in her mother’s hands, and might not Mrs. General B. make that poor little creature suffer 2 One or two Indian ladies of Mrs. Baynes’s acquaintance happened to pass this winter in Paris, and these persons, who had furnished lodgings in the Faubourg St. Honoré, or the Champs Elysées, and rode in their carriages with, very likely, a footman on the box, rather looked down upon Mrs. Baynes for living in a boarding- house, and keeping no equipage. No woman likes to be looked down upon by any other woman, especially by such a creature as Mrs. Batters, the lawyer’s wife, from Calcutta, who was not in society, and did not go to Government House, and here was driving about in the Champs Elysées, and giving herself such airs, indeed ! So was Mrs. Doctor Macoon, with her /ady’s-maid, and her man-cook, and her open carrvage, and her close car- riage. (Pray read these words with the most withering emphasis which you can lay upon them.) And who was Mrs. Macoon, pray? Madame Béret, the French milliner’s daugh- ter, neither more nor less. And this creature must scatter her mud over her betters who went on foot. “T am telling my poor girls, madame,” she would say to Madame Smolensk, “that if I had been a milliner’s girl, or their father had been a pettifog- ging attorney, and not a soldier, who has served his sovereign in every quarter of the world, they would be better dressed than they are now, poor chicks ! — we might have a fine apart- ment in the Faubourg St. Honoré, — we need not live at a boarding-house.” “ And if Z had been a milliner, Madame la Générale,” cried Smo- lensk, with spirit, ‘“ perhaps I should not have had need to keep a board- ing-house. My father was a general officer, and served his emperor too. But what will you? We have all to do disagreeable things, and to live with disagreeable people, madame!” O54 And with this Smolensk makes Mrs. General Baynes a fine courtesy, and goes off to other affairs or guests. She was of the opinion of many of Philip’s friends. ‘ Ah, Monsieur Philip,” she said to him, “‘ when you are married, you will live far from that woman ; is it not?” Hearing that Mrs. Batters was going to the Tuileries, I am sorry to say a violent emulation inspired Mrs. Baynes, and she never was easy until she persuaded her General to take her to the ambassador’s, and to the en- tertainments of the citizen king who ‘governed France in those days. It would cost little or nothing. Char- lotte must be brought out. Her aunt, MacWhirter, from Tours, had sent Charlotte a present of money fora dress. To*do Mrs. Baynes justice, she spent very little money upon her own raiment, and extracted from one of her trunks a costume which-had done duty at Barrackpore and Cal- eutta. “After hearing that Mrs. Batters went, I knew she never would be easy,” General Baynes said, with asigh. His wife denied the accusa- tion as an outrage, said that men al- ways imputed the worst motives to women, whereas her wish, Heaven knows, was only to see her darling child properly presented, and her hus- band in his proper rank in the world. And Charlotte looked lovely, upon the evening of the ball ; and Madame Smolensk dressed Charlotte’s hair very prettily, and offered to lend Auguste to accompany the General’s carriage ; but Ogoost revolted, and said, ‘‘ Non, merci! he would do any- thing for the General and Miss Char- lotte, — but for the Générale, no, no, no!” and he made signs of violent abnegation. And though Charlotte looked as sweet as a rosebud, she had little pleasure in her ball, Philip not being present. And how could he be present, who had but one old coat, and holes in his boots ? So you see, after a sunny autumn, a cold winter comes, when the wind is bad for delicate chests, and muddy THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. | % for little shoes. How could Charlotte | come out at eight o’clock through, mud or snow of a winter’s morning, if she had been out at an evening party late overnight? Mrs- Genenilt Baynes began to go out a good deal) to the Paris evening-parties, — I mean to the parties of us Trojans, — parties where there are forty English people, three Frenchmen, and a German who. plays the piano. Charlotte was very. much admired. The fame of her good looks spread abroad. I promise you that there were persons of much more importance than the poor Vi. comte de Garconboutique who were. charmed by her bright eyes, her, bright smiles, her artless, rosy beauty, Why, little Hely, of the Embassy, | actually invited himself to Mrs. Doe tor Macoon’s, in order to see this young beauty, and danced with her, without ceasing: Mr. Hely, who was. the pink of fashion, you know; who, danced with the royal princesses ; and was at all the grand parties of the. Faubourg St. Germain. He saw her, to her carriage (a very shabby fly, it must be confessed ; but Mrs. Baynes: told him they had been accustomed to avery different kind of equipage im, India). He actually called at the boarding-house, and left his card, M. Walsingham Hely, attaché a 0 Ambas: sade de S. M. Britannique for General Baynes and his lady. -To what balls, would Mrs. Baynes like to go? to the .Tuileries ? to the Embassy ? to the Faubourg St. Germain? to the Faubourg St. Honoré? I could name many more persons of distinction who were fascinated by pretty Miss Char- lotte. Her mother felt more and more ashamed of the shabby fly, in which our young lady was conveye to and from her parties ;— of the shabby fly, and of that shabby caya- lier who was in waiting sometimes put Miss Charlotte into her carriage: Charlotte’s mother’s ears were only too acute when disparaging rema were made about that caval What? engaged to that queer f bearded fellow, with the ragged shirt Oo THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 255 oe ollars, who trod upon everybody in | Peplow, for Heaven’s sake don’t give he polka? A newspaper writer, was | us any of that rot. I would as soon iet The son of that Doctor who | hear one of your own prize poems.” ‘an away after cheating everybody? | Rot, indeed! What an expression! What a very odd thing of General | Of course Mr. Peplow was very much Jaynes to think of engaging his|annoyed. And this from a mere ‘anghter to such a person ! newspaper writer. Never heard of “So Mr. Firmin was not asked to} such rudeness! Mrs. Tuffin said she aany distinguished houses, where his | took her line at once after seeing this Yharlotte was made welcome; where | Mr. Firmin. “ He may be an earl’s here was dancing in the saloon, very | grand-nephew, for what I care. He jild negus and cakes in the salle-a- | may have been at college: he has not ‘anger, and cards in the lady’s bed- | learned good manners there. He may som. And he did not care to be| be clever,—I don’t profess to be a isked; and he made himself very ar- | judge. But he is most overbearing, Jgant and disagreeable when he was} clumsy, and disagreeable. I shall 'sked ; and he would upset tea-trays, | not ask him to my Tuesdays; and, nd burst out into roars of laughter Emma, if he asks you to dance, I beg it all times, and swagger about the | you wili do no such thing!” A bull, rawing-room as if he were a man of you understand, in a meadow, or on nportance, — he indeed, — giving a prairie with a herd of other buffa- ‘imself such airs because his grand- | loes, is a noble animal: but a bull in Mther’s brother was an earl! Anda china-shop is out of place; and ‘hat had the earl done for him, pray? even so was Philip amongst the «nd what right had he to burst eut | crockery of those little simple tea- ‘ughing when Miss Crackley sang a/ parties, where his mane, and hoofs, ttle outoftune? Whatcould General | and roar caused endless disturbance. “aynes mean by selecting such a hus-| ‘These remarks concerning the ac- and for that nice, modest young girl ? cepted son-in-law Mrs. Baynes heard . “The old General sitting in the best | and, at proper moments, repeated. ‘droom, placidly playing at whist She ruled Baynes; but was very cau- ‘ith the other British fogies, does not tious, and secretly afraid of him. »ar these remarks, perhaps, but little| Once or twice she had gone too far ‘rs. Baynes with her eager eyes and in her dealings with the quiet old fs sees and knows everything. | man, and he had revolted, put her any people have told her that Philip down and never forgiven her. Be- “a bad match for her daughter. yond a certain point, she dared not the has heard him contradict calmly | provoke her husband. She would tite wealthy people. Mr. Hobday, | say, “ Well, Baynes, marriage is a ho has a house in Carlton Terrace, | lottery; and I am afraid our poor ondon, and goes to the first houses | Charlotte has not pulled a prize”: on Paris, — Philip has contradicted | which the General would reply, “No m point-blank, until Mr. Hobday | more have others, my dear!” and so med quite red, and Mrs. Hobday | drop the subject for the time being. dn’% know where to look. Mr.|On another occasion it would be, “plow, a clergyman and a baronet’s | “ You heard how rude Philip Firmin ‘est son, who will be one day the | was to Mr. Hobday?” and the Gen- ev. Sir Charles Peplow of Peplow | eral. would answer, “I was at cards, anor, was praising Tomlinson’s|my dear.” Again she might say, 4ems, and offered: to read out at Mr. | “ Mrs. Tuffin says she will not have jadger’s, — and he reads very finely, | Philip Firmin to her Tuesdays, my ough a little perhaps through his | dear”: and the General’s rejoinder se, —and when he was going to would be, “ Begad, so much the bet- gin, Mr. Firmin said, “My dear|ter for him!” “Ah,” she groans, ~ - 256 “he’s always offending some one “JT don’t think he seems to please you much, Eliza!” responds the General : and she answers, “No, he don’t, and that I confess; and I don’t like to think, Baynes, of my sweet child given up to certain poverty, and such aman!” Atwhich the General with some of his garrison phrases would break out with a “ Hang it, Eliza, do you suppose I think it is a very good match?” and turn to the wall, and, I hope, to sleep. As for poor little Charlotte, her mother is not afraid of little Charlotte, and when the two are alone the poor child knows she is to be made wretch- ed by her mother’s assaults upon Philip. Was there ever anything so bad as his behavior, to burst out laugh- ing when Miss Crackley was singing ? Was he called upon to contradict Sir Charles Peplow in that abrupt way, and as good.as tell him he was a fool? It was very wrong certainly, and poor Charlotte thinks, with a blush perhaps, how she was just at the point of ad- miring Sir Charles Peplow’s reading very much, and had been prepared to think Tomlinson’s poems delightful, until Philip. ordered her to adopt a contemptuous opinion of the poet. « And did you see how he was dressed ? a button wanting on his waistcoat, and a hole in his boot ?” “Mamma,” cries Charlotte, turning very red. ‘‘ He might have been bet- ter dressed, —if —if—”’ “That is, you would like your own father to be in prison, your mother to beg her bread, your sisters to go in rags, and your brothers to ‘Starve, Charlotte, in order that we should pay Philip Firmin back the money of which his father robbed him! Yes. That’s your meaning. You need n’t explain yourself. Ican understand quite well, thank you. Goodnight. I hope you’ll sleep well; J sha’ n’t after this conver- sation. Good night, Charlotte! ” Ah me. O course of true love, didst thou ever run smooth? As we peep into that boarding-house ; whereof I haye already described the mistress as 1” THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. wakeful with racking care regarding! the morrow; wherein lie the Miss Bolderos, who must naturally be | uncomfortable, being on sufferance and as it were in pain, as they lie on their beds ;— what sorrows do we not perceive brooding over the nightcaps4 There is poor Charlotte who has said her prayer for her Philip; and as she lays her young eyes on the pillow, they wet it with their tears. Why does her mother forever and forever speak; against him? Why is her father so cold when Philip’s name is mentioned4 Could Charlotte ever think of any) but him? — O, never, never! And so the wet eyes are veiled at last; and close in doubt and fear. and _ care, And in the next room to Charlotte’s) a little yellow old woman lies stark awake; and in the bed by her side an} old gentleman-can’t close his eyes for thinking, — my poor girl is promised to a beggar. All the fine hopes which we had of his getting a legaey from that lord are over. Poor child| poor child, what will become of hert Now, Two Sticks, let us fly over the river Seine to Mr. Philip Firmin’ quarters: to Philip’s house, who has not got a penny ; to Philip’s bed, whe has made himself so rude and disa greeable at that tea-party. He has idea that he has offended anybo He has gone home perfectly we pleased. He has kicked off the tat tered boot. He has found a little fir lingering in his stove by which he hai smoked the pipe of thought. Ere he has jumped into his bed he has knel: a moment beside it; and with all hi heart—oh! with all his heart ant soul— has committed the dearest on’ to Heaven’s loving protection! An¢ now he sleeps like a child. ae oe CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH WE STILL HOVER AB THE ELYSIAN FIELDS. _ Tur describer and biographer my friend Mr. Philip Firmin ied to extenuate nothing; and, I ope, has set down naught in malice. ‘Philip's boots had holes in them, I ave written that he had holes in his yots. If he had a red beard, there it ' red in this story. I might have led it with a tinge of brown, and uinted it a rich auburn. Towards odest people he was very gentle and nder; but I must own that in gen- al society he was not always an sreeable companion. He was often aughty and arrogant: he was_im- wtient of old stories : he was intole- mtof commonplaces. Mrs, Baynes’s aecdotes of her garrison experiences / India and Europe got a very im- itient hearing from Mr. Philip; id though little Charlotte gently re- nstrated with him, saying, “ Do, y let mamma tell her story out ; and m’t turn away and talk about some- ing else in the midst of it; and ym’t tell her you have heard the sto- « before, you rude man! If she is it pleased with you, she is angry ‘th me, and I have to suffer when wm are gone away.” Miss Charlotte d not say how much she had to suf- * when Philip was absent; how mstantly her mother found fault th him; what asad life, in conse- ence of her attachment to him, the ung maiden had to lead; and I that clumsy Philip, in his selfish oughtlessness, did not take enough unt of the sufferings which his be- vior brought on the girl. You see am acknowledging that there were my faults on his side, which, per- ps, may in some degree excuse or sount for those which Mrs. General lynes certainly committed towards n. She did not love Philip natural- ; and do you suppose she loved 'n because she was under great ob- ations to him? Do you love your ditor because you owe him more m you can ever pay? If I never id my tailor, should I be on good ms with him? I might go on lering suits of clothes from now to » year nineteen hundred; but I yuld hate him worse year after | | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 257 year. I should find fault with his cut and his cloth: I dare say I should end by thinking his bills extortionate, though I never paid them. Kindness is very indigestible. It disagrees with very proud stomachs. I wonder was that traveller who fell among the thieves grateful afterwards to the Samaritan who rescued him? He gave money certainly ; but he did n’t miss it. The réligious opinions of Samaritans are lamentably hetero- dox. O brother! may we help the fallen still though they never pay us, and may we lend without exacting the usury of gratitude! Of this I am determined, that whenever I go courting again, I will not pay my addresses to my dear crea- ture, — day after day, and from year’s end to year’s end, very likely, with the dear girl’s mother, father, and half a dozen young brothers and sisters in the room. I shall begin by being civil to the old lady, of course. She is flattered at first by having a young fellow coming courting to her daugh- ter. She calls me “dear Edward” ; works me a pair of braces; writes to mamma and sisters, and so forth. Old gentleman says “Brown my boy” (I am here fondly imagining myself to be a young fellow named Edward ‘Brown, attached, let us ‘say, to Miss Kate Thompson), — Thomp- son, I say, says, ‘“ Brown my boy, come to dinner at seven. Cover laid for you always.” And of course, de- licious thought ! that cover is by dear- est Kate’s side. But the dinner is bad sometimes. Sometimes I come late. Sometimes things are going badly in the City. Sometimes Mrs. Thompson is out of humor ;— she always thought Kate might have done better. And in the midst of these doubts and delays, suppose Jones appears, who is older, but of a better temper, a better family, and — plague on him ! — twice as rich? What are engagements ? What are promises ? It is sometimes an affectionate moth- er’s DUTY to break her promise, and that duty the resolute matron will do. Q 258 Then Edward is Edward no more, but Mr. Brown; or, worse still, name- less in the house. ‘Then the knife and fork are remoyed from poor Kate’s side,- and she swallows her own sad meal in tears. ‘Then if one of the little Thompsons says, artless- ly, “Papa, I met Teddy Brown in Regent Street; he looked g0 ==) “Hold your tongue, unfeeling wretch!” cries mamma. “ Look at that dear child!” Kate is swooning. She has sal-volatile. The medical man is sent for. And_ presently — Charles Jones is taking Kate Thomp- son to dinner. Long voyages are dangerous; so are long courtships. In long voyages passengers. perpetu- ally quarrel (for that Mrs. General could vouch); in long courtships the same danger exists; and how much the more when in that latter ship you have a mother who is forever putting in her oar! And then to think of the annoyance of that love voyage when you and the beloved and beloved’s papa, mamma, half a dozen brothers and sisters, are all in one cabin! For economy’s sake the Bayneses had no sitting-room at madame’s, —for you could not call that room on the second floor a sitting-room which had two beds in it, and in which the young ones practised the piano, with poor Charlotte as their mistress. Philip’s courting had to take place for the most part before the whole family ; and to make love under such difficul- ties would have been horrible and maddening and impossible almost, only we have admitted that our young friends had little walks in the Champs Elysées ; and then you must own that it must have been delightful for them to write each other perpetual little notes, which were delivered occultly under the very nose of papa and mamma, and in the actual presence of the other boarders at madame’s, who, of course, never saw anything that was going on. Yes, those sly monkeys actually made little post- offices about the room. ‘There was, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. for instance, the clock on the mante piece in the salon on which wi carved the old French allegory, “Zi temps fait passer amour.” One of those artful young people would po a note into Time’s boat, where yot may be sure no one saw it. ‘Thi trictrac board was another post-office So was the drawer of the music! stand. So was the Sevres chin: flower-pot, &e., &c. ; to each of whiel the eyes moisten and brighten; t cheeks fill and blush again. I pre test there is nothing so beautiful a Darby and Joan in the world. ~ hope Philip and his wife will be Dath; and Joan to the end. I tell you the are married ; and don’t want to mak any mysteries about the busin I disdain that sort of artifice. In th days of the old three-volume novelt did n’t you always look at the end, see that Louisa and the earl (or youn clergyman, as the case might be were happy? If they died, or mi with other grief, for my part 1] the book away. This pair, then well; are married; are, I tras happy: but before they married an afterwards, they had great griefs an troubles ; as no doubt you have hai dear sir or madam, since you unde went that ceremony. Married? € course they are. Do you suppose would have allowed little Charlot to meet Philip in the Cham) Elysées with only a giddy litt boy of a brother for a comp who would turn away to see Pune Guignol, the soldiers marching 4 the old woman’s gingerbread toffy stall and so forth? Do say, suppose I would have ali those two to go out together, 4% a! ao whey were to be married afterwards 2 Jut walking together they did go; ind, once, as they were arm-in-arm n the Champs Elysées, whom should /hey see in a fine open carriage but roung Twysden and Captain and Mrs. Woolcomb, to whom, as they passed, Philip doffed his hat with a profound iow, and whom he further saluted vith a roar of immense laughter. YVoolcomb must have heard the peal. ‘dare say it brought a little blush ato Mrs. Woolcomb’s cheek ; and — nd so, no doubt, added to the many ttractions of that elegant lady. I ave no secrets about my characters, md speak my mind about them quite veely. They said that Woolcomb vas the most jealous, stingy, osten- tious, cruel little brute; that he id his wife a dismal life. Well? If edid%? I’m sure, I don’t care. There is that swaggering bankrupt eggar Firmin!” cries the tawny tidegroom, biting his mustache. Impudent ragged blackguard,” says ‘wysden minor, “I saw him.” “Had n’t you better stop the car- ‘age, and abuse him to himself, and ot to me?” says Mrs. Woolcomb, nguidly, flinging herself back on or Cushions. “Go on, hang you! Ally! Vite!” ‘y the gentlemen in the carriage to te laquais de place on the box. “Tecan fancy you don’t care about eing him,” resumes Mrs. Woolcomb. He has a violent temper, and I ould not have you quarrel for the orld” So I suppose Woolcomb ‘ain swears at the laquais de place : id the happy couple, as the saying roll away to the Bois de Boulogne. “What makes you laugh so?” ys little Charlotte, fondly, as she /ps along by her lover’s side. Because I am so happy, my dear- t! says the other, squeezing to his pe the little hand that lies on his m. As he thinks on yonder woman, d then looks into the pure eager pe of the sweet girl beside him, the wnful laughter occasioned by the ‘dden meeting which is just’ over THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. hushes ; and an immense feeling of thankfulmess fills the breast of the young man :— thankfulness for the danger from which he has escaped, and for the blessed prize which has fallen to him. But Mr. Philip’s walks were not to be all as pleasant as this walk; and we are Now coming to a history of wet, slippery roads, bad times, and winter weather. All I can promise about this gloomy part is, that it shall not be a long story. You will acknowledge we made very short work with the love-making, which I give you my word I consider to be the very easiest part of the novel-writer’s business. As those rapturous scenes between the captain and the heroine are going on, a writer who knows his business may be thinking about anything else, — about the ensuing chapter, or about what he is going to have for dinner, or what you will; therefore, as we passed over the raptures and joys of the courting so very curtly, you must please to gratify me by taking the grief in a very short measure. If our young people are going to suffer, let the pain be soon over. _* Sit down in the chair, Miss Baynes, if you please, and you Mr. Firmin, in this. Allow me to examine you; just open your mouth, if you please; and—O, O, my dear Miss —there it is out! A little eau-de-Cologne and’ water, my dear. And now, Mr. Firmin, if you please, we will — what fangs! what a - big one! Two guineas. Thank you. Good morning. Come to me once ‘a year. John, show in the next party.” About the ensuing painful business, then, I protest I don’t intend to be much Jonger occupied than thehumane and dextcrous operator to whom I have made so’ bold as to liken myself. If my pretty Charlotte is to have a tooth out, it shall be removed as gently as possible, poor dear. As for Philip, and his great red-bearded jaw, I don’t care so much if the tug makes him roar a little. And yet they remain, they remain and throb in after life, those wounds of early days. Have I 260 not said how, as I chanced to walk with Mr. Firmin in Paris, many years after the domestic circumstances here recorded, he paused before the window of that house near the Champs Elysées where Madame Smolensk once held her pension, shook his fist at a jalouste of the now dingy and dilapidated mansion, and intimated to me that he had undergone severe sufferings in the chamber lighted by yonder win- dow? So have we all suffered; so, very likely, my dear young Miss or Master who peruses this modest page, will you have to suffer in your time. You will not die of the operation, most probably : but it is painful: it makes a gap in the mouth, voyez-vous ? and years and years, maybe, after, as you think of it, the smart is renewed, and the dismal tragedy enacts itself over again. Philip liked his little maiden to go out, to dance, to laugh, to be admired, to be happy. In her artless way she told him of her balls, her tea-parties, her pleasures, her partners. Inagirl’s first little season nothing escapes her. Have you not wondered to hear them tell about the events of the evening, about the dresses of the dowagers, about the compliments of the young men, about the behavior of the girls, and what not ? Little Charlotte used to enact the overnight’s comedy for Philip, pour- ing out her young heart in her prattle as her little feet skipped by his side. And to hear Philip roar with laughter ! Tt would have done you good. You might have heard him from the Obelisk to the Etoile. People turned round to look at him, and shrugged their shoulders wonderingly, as good- natured French folks will do. How could a man who had been lately ruined, a man who had just been dis- appointed of a great legacy from the THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. be happy! The fact is, that clap o laughter smote those three Twysde people like three boxes on the ea and made all their cheeks tingle ar blush at once. At Philip’s merrimer clouds which had come over Char- lotte’s sweet face would be cha away. As she clung to him doubts which throbbed at the girl’s heart would vanish. When she was acting those scenes of the past night’s enter. tainment, she was not always happy. As she talked and prattled, her own spirits would rise; and hope and natural joy would spring in her heart again, and come flushing up to he check. Charlotte was being ah crite, as, thank Heaven, all good women sometimes are. She had eriefs: she hid them from him. 5 ic had doubts and fears : they fled whe he came in view, and she clung to his strong arm, and looked in his hones’ blue eyes. She did not tell him o those painful nights when her eye were wakeful and tearful. A yel ov old woman in a white jacket, with: nightcap and a. night-light, wot i come, night after night, to the side if her little bed; and there stand, am with her grim voice bark agains Philip. That old woman’s lean fing would point to all the rents in pot Philip’s threadbare paletot of a char acter, — point to the holes and t them wider open. Shewould stamp 0 those muddy boots. She would thr i up her peaked nose at the idea of th poor fellow’s pipe, — his pipe, h ereat companion and comforter whe his dear little mistress was awa. She would discourse on the parte! of the night; the evident attentic of this gentleman, the politeness ar high breeding of that. cod And when that dreary nightly to ture was over and Charlotte’s mot had left the poor child to hersel Earl his great-uncle, a man whose boots were in that lamentable con- dition, laugh so, and have such high spirits? ‘To think of such an impu- dent ragged blackeuard, as Ringwood Twysden called his cousin, daring to sometimes Madame Smolensk, sittir up over her ledgers and bills, 4 wakeful with her own cares, wou steal up and console poor Charlott and bring her some tisane, exc for the nerves ; and talk to her —about the subject of which Char- atte best liked to hear. And though jmolensk was civil to Mrs. Baynes the morning, as her professional uty obliged her to be, she has owned hat she often felt a desire to strangle Madame la Générale for her conduct o her little angel of a daughter; mells the pipe, parbleu ! ape! The cowards, the cowards! \ soldier’s daughter is not afraid of it. Merci! Tenez, M. Philippe,” she aid to our friend when matters came jo an extremity. yhat in your place I would do? ‘To i Frenchman I would not say so; that understands itself. But these things make themselves otherwise in ingland. jaye a cachemire. ‘f ITwere you, I would make a little yoyage to Gretna Grin.” ’ And now, if you please, we will uit the Champs Elysées. We will ies the road from madame’s board- ‘ng-house. We will make our way ‘nto the Faubourg St Honoré, and ctually enter a gate over which ty L-on, the Un-c-rn, and the t-y-l Cr-wn and A-ms of the ‘Three K-ngd-ms are sculptured, and going under the porte-cochere, and turning to the right, ascend a ittle stair, and ask of the attendant m the landing, who is in the chan- vellerie? The attendant says, that ‘everal of those messieurs y sont. In act, on entering the room, you find “ir. Motcomb,—let us say, — Mr. ‘uowndes, Mr. Halkin, and our young ‘riend Mr. Walsingham Hely, seated ke their respective tables in the midst of considerable smoke. Smoking in ‘he midst of these gentlemen, and estriding his chair, as though it were nis horse,’ sits that gallant young ‘trish chieftain, The O’Rourke. Some pf the gentlemen” are copying, in a arge handwriting, despatches on Yoolscap paper. I would rather be torn to pieces by O’Rourke’s wildest | ‘ | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. nd all because Monsieur Philippe | "What? a | amily that owes you the bread which | hey eat; and they draw back for a_ “Do you know | /ham_ before, by the way ? I have no money, but I) Take. him ; and | 261 horses, than be understood to hint at what those despatches, at what those despatch-boxes contain. Perhaps they contain some news from the Court of Spain, where some intrigues are carried on, a knowledge of which would make your hair start off your head ; perhaps that box, for which a messenger is waiting in a neighboring apartment, has locked up twenty-four yards of Chantilly lace for Lady Belweather, and six new French farces for Tom Tiddler of the Foreign Office, who is mad about the theatre. It is years and years ago ; how should I know what there is in those de- spatch-boxes ? But the work, whatever it may be, is not very pressing, — for there is only Mr. Chesham, — did J say Ches- You may call him Mr. Sloanestreetif you like. There is only Chesham (and he al- ways takes things to the grand serious) who seems to be much en- gaged in writing; and the conversa- tion goes on. “Who gave it?’ asks Motcomb. “The black man of course, gave it. We would not pretend to compete with such a long purse as his. You should have seen what faces he made’ at the bill! ‘Thirty francs a bottle for Rhine wine. He grinned with the most horrible agony when he read the addition. He almost turned yellow. He sent away his wife early. How long that girl was hanging about London ; and think of her hooking a millionnaire at last! Othello is a frightful screw, and diabolically jeal- ous of his wife.” “What is the name of the little man who got so dismally drunk, and began to cry about old Ring- wood ?” “Twysden, — the woman’s brother. Don’t you know Humbug Twysden, the father? The youth is more of fensive than the parent.” “A most disgusting little beast. Would come to the Variétés, because we said we were going: would go to Lamoignon’s, where the Russians 262 gave a dance and a lansquenet. Why did n’t you come, Hely ? ” Mr. Hely. 1 ‘tell you I hate the whole thing. Those painted old ac- tresses give me the horrors. ‘What do I want with winning Motcomb’s money who hasn’t ot any? Do you think it gives me any pleasure to dance with old Caradol? She puts mein mind of my grandmother, — only she is older. Do you think I want to go and see that insane old Boutzoff leering at Corinne and Pal- myrine, and making a group of three old women together ! I wonder how you fellows can go on. pect of yonder placid moon and twinkling stars, and that he had altogether forgotten his trumpery lit- tle accident and torn coat and waist- coat; but I doubt about the entire truth of this statement, for there have been some occasions when he, Mr. Philip, has mentioned the subject, and owned that he was mortified and in a rage. — ‘Well. He went into the garden, and was calming himself by contem- templating the stars, when, just by that fountain where there is Pradier’s little statue of — Moses in the Bulrushes, let us say, —round which there was a beautiful row of illuminated lamps, | lighting up a great coronal of flowers, which my dear readers are at liberty to select and arrange according to their own exquisite taste ; — near this little fountain he found three gentle- men talking together. The high voice of one Philip could hear, and knew from old days. Ring- wood Twysden, Esquire, always liked to talk and to excite himself with other persons’ liquor. He had been drink- ing the Sovereign’s health with great assiduity, I suppose, and was exceed- ingly loud and happy. With Ring- wood was Mr. Woolcomb, whose countenance the lamps lit up ina fine lurid manner, and whose eyeballs gleamed in the twilight: and the third of the group was our young ° friend Mr. Lowndes. ’ “JT owed him, one, you see, Lowndes,” said Mr. Ringwood Twys- “den. “I hate the fellow! Hang him, always did! I saw the great hulkin’ brute standin’ there. Couldn’t help my self. Give you my honor, could n’t help myself. I just drove Miss Trotter at him, — sent her elbow well into him, and spun him up against the wall. The buttons cracked off the _beggar’s coat, begad! What business had he there, hang him? Gad, sir, he made a cannon off an old woman in blue, and wentinto ....” Here Mr. Ringwood’s speech came . to an end; for hiscousin stood before is mind was soothed by the as- | him, grim and biting his mustache. R O74 | “Hullo!” piped the other. “Who wants you to overhear my conversa- tion? Dammy,Isay! I... .” Philip put out that hand with the torn glove. The glove was in a dreadful state of disruption now. He worked the hand well into his kins- man’s neck, and twisting Ringwood round into a proper position, brought that poor old broken boot so to bear upon the proper quarter, that Ring- wood was discharged into the little font, and lighted amidst the flowers, and the water, and the oil-lamps, and made a dreadful mess and splutter amongst them. And as for Philip’s coat, it was torn worse than ever. I don’t know how many of the brass buttons had revolted and parted company from the poor: old cloth, which cracked and split, and tore under the agitation. of that beating angry bosom. I blush as I think of Mr. Firmin in this ragged state, a great rent all across his back, and his prostrate enemy lying howling in the water, amidst the sputtering, crash- ing oil-lamps at his feet. When Cinderella quitted her first ball, just after the clock struck twelve, we all know how shabby she looked. Philip was a still more disreputable object when he slunk away. I don’t know by what side door Mr. Lowndes elim- inated him. He also benevolently took charge of Philip’s kinsman and antagonist, Mr. Ringwood Twysden. Mr. Twysden’s hands, coat-tails, &c., were very much singed and scalded by the oil, and cut by the broken glass, which was all extracted at the Beaujon. Hospital, but not without much suffering on the part of the pa- tient. But though young Lowndes spoke up for Philip, in describing the scene (1 fear not without laughter), his Excellency caused Mr. Firmin’s name to be erased from his party lists: and J am sure no sensible man will defend Philip’s conduct for a mo- ment. Of this lamentable fracas which oc- curred in the Hotel Garden, Miss Baynes and her parents had no THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. knowledge for a while. Charlo was too much occupied with dancing, which she pursued with her might; papa was at cards ¥ some sober male and female vetera and mamma was looking with deligh at her daughter, whom the young gentlemen of many embassies * were charmed to choose for a partne When Lord Headbury, Lord Hs ridge’s son, was presented to Mis Baynes, her mother was so elated tha she was ready to dance too. I do not envy Mrs. Major MacWhirter, at Tours, the perusal of that immense manuscript in which her sister re- corded the events of the ball. Here was Charlotte, beautiful, elegant, ac- complished, admired everywhere, with young men, young noblemen of im- mense property and expectations, wid about her; and engaged by a promise to a rude, ragged, presumptuous, ill- bred young man, without a penny in the world, —was n’t it provoking ? Ah, poor Philip! How that little sour, yellow mother-in-law elect did scowl at him when he’ came with rather a shamefaced look to pay his duty to his sweetheart on the day after the ball! Mrs. Baynes had caused her daughter to dress with ex tra smartness, had forbidden the poor child to go out, and coaxed her, and wheedled her, and dressed her wifl “a know not what ornaments of her own, with a fond expectation that Lord Headbury, that the yellow young Spanish attaché, that the sprightly Prussian secretary, and Walsingham. Hely, Charlotte’s partners at the ball would certainly call; and the only equipage that appeared at Madame Smolensk’s gate was a hack cab, which drove up at evening, and ‘out of which poor Philip’s well-known tattered boots came striding. Such a fond mother as Mrs. Baynes may well have been out of humor. = As for Philip, he was unusually shy and modest. He did not know im what light his friends would regard his escapade of the previous evening. He had been sitting at home all the a THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. jorning in state, and in company ‘ith a Polish colonel, who lived in is hotel, and whom Philip had se- ‘eted to be his second in case the attle of the previous night should ave any suite. -He had left that olonel in company with a bag of Sbacco and an order for unlimited eer, whilst he himself ran up totatch “glimpse of his beloved. The Sayneses had not heard of the battle f the previous night. They were all of the ball, of Lord Estridge’s ffability, of the Golconda ambassa- ‘or’s diamonds, of the appearance of he royal princes who honored the éte, of the most fashionable Paris alk in a word. Philip was scolded, nubbed, and coldly received by mam-. na; but he was used to that sort of treatment, and greatly relieved by inding that she was unacquainted vith his own disorderly behavior. de did not tell Charlotte about the quarrel: a knowledge of it might ularm the little maiden ; and so for onee our friend was discreet, and held iis tongue. ' But if he had any influence with the editor of Galignani’s Messenger, why did he not entreat the conductors of that admirable journal to forego all nention of the fracas at the Embassy sall? Two days after the fete, I am sorry to say, there appeared a para- zraph in the paper narrating the tireumstances of the fight. And the tuilty Philip found a copy of that pa- jer on the table before Mrs. Baynes ind the General when he came to the Champs Elysées according to_ his vont. Behind that paper sat Major- general Baynes, C. B., looking con- ‘used, and beside him his lady frown- ng like Rhadamanthus. But no Char- otte»was in the room. ; —_¢—— CHAPTER XXV. DOLORES. 1 INFANDI i] i b y ; _ Puintp’s heart beat very quickly at seeing this grim pair, and the guilty | : 275 newspaper before them, on which Mrs. Baynes’s lean right hand was laid. “So, sir,” she cried, “ you still honor us with your company: after distin- guishing yourself as you did the night before last. Fighting and boxing like a porter at his Excellency’s ball. It’s disgusting! I have no other word for it: disgusting !”’ And here I suppose she nudged the General, or gave him some look or signal by which he knew he was to come into action; for Baynes straightway advanced and de- livered his fire. “Faith, sir, more bub-ub-black- guard conduct I never heard of in my life! That’s the only word for it: the only word for it,” cries Baynes. “The General knows what black- guard conduct is, and yours is that conduct, Mr. Firmin! It is all over the town: is talked of everywhere : will be in all thenewspapers. When his Lordship heard of it, he was furi- ous. Never, never, will you be ad- mitted into the Embassy again, after disgracing yourself as you have done,” cries the lady. “Disgracing yourself, that’s the word. — And disgraceful your con- duct was, begad!” cries the officer second in command. ~“You don’t know my provoca- tion,” pleaded poor Philip. “As I came up to him Twysden was boast- ing that-he had struck me,— and — and laughing at me.” «“ And a pretty figure you were to come to a ball. Who could help laughing, sir?” “He bragged of having insulted me, and I lost my temper, and struck him in return. The thing is done and can’t be helped,” growled Philip. ‘‘ Strike a little man before ladies ! Very brave indeed !” cries the lady. “Mrs. Baynes !” “JT call it cowardly. In the army we consider it cowardly to quarrel before ladies,” continues Mrs. Gen- eral B. “T have waited at home for two days to see if he wanted any more,” groaned Philip. cowardice, I dare say. 276 ; “O yes! After insulting knocking a little man down, you want to murder him! And you call that the conduct of a Christian, — the conduct of a gentleman !” “The conduct of a ruffian, by George!” says General Baynes. “It was prudent of you to choose a very little man, and to have the ladies within hearing !” continues Mrs. Baynes. “ Why, I wonder you have n’t’ beaten my dear children next. Don’t you, General, wonder he has not knocked down our poor boys? They are quite small. And it is evident that ladies being present is no hindrance to Mr. Firmin’s box- ing-matches.” “The conduct is gross and un- worthy of a gentleman,’ reiterates the General. “ You hear what that man says, — that old man, who never says an un- kind word? That veteran, who has been in twenty battles, and never struck’ a man before women yet ? Did you, Charles? He has given you his opinion. He has called you a name which I won’t soil my lips” with repeating, but which you de- serve. And do you _ suppose, sir, that I will give my blessed child to a man’ who has acted as you’ have acted, and fe ealled a a Charles!) General! I will go to my grave r wth el see my daugt - ter given up to such aman!” “Good Heavens!” said Philip, his knees trembling under him. “You don’t mean to say that you intend 0 go from your word, and — ase you threaten about money, do you? Because your father was a cheat, you intend to try and make us sutfer, do you?” shrieks the lady. “ A man who strikes a little man be- fore ladies will commit any act of And if you wish to beggar my family, because your father was a rogue — ” ‘““My dear!” interposes the Gen- eral. “ Was n’t he a rogue, Baynes ? and THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Is there any denying it? Have " you said so a hundred and a hundrec times ? A nice family to marry in to! No, Mr. Firmin! You maj insult me as you please. You may strike little men before ladies. You may lift your great wicked han against that poor old man,.in one of your tipsy fits : but I know a mother’s love, a mother’s duty, — and I dest that we see you no.more.” “Great Powers!” cries Philip aghast. ‘You don’t mean to— te separate me from Charlotte, General ‘ I have your word. You encouraged me. I shall break my heart. 11 go down on my knees to that fellow. I’1l—oh!—you don’t mean what you say!” And, seared and _ sob- bing, the poor fellow clasped _ his strong hands together, and appealed to the General. fe Baynes was under his wife’s eye. “T think,” he: said, ‘“ your conduct has been confoundedly bad, disorder- ly, and ungentlemanlike. You can’t support my child, if you marry her. ‘And if you have the least spark of honor in you, as you say you have, it is. you, Mr. Firmin, who will break off the match, and ‘rélease the poor child from certain misery. By George, sir, how is a man who fights and quarrels i in a nobleman’s ball-room* get on in the world? How is a man, who can’t afford a decent coat to h back, to keep a wife? The ae have known you, the more I have felt that the engagement would bring misery upon my child! Is that what you want ? A man’ of honor—” (‘‘ Honor!” -in italics, from Mrs. Baynes.) “ Hush, my dear! —A man of spirit would give her up, sit. What have you to offer but begea “4 by George? Do you want m ee to come home to your lodging mend your clothes?” —“I think I put that point pretty well, Bunch, my boy,” said the General, talking of the matter afterwards. “I h him there, sir.’ The old soldier did indeed stri his adversary there with a vital stab ‘hhilip’s coat, no doubt, was ragged, nd his purse but light. He had sent 1oney to his father out of his small yock. ‘There were one or two ser- ants in the old house in Parr-Street, who had been left without their ‘ages, and a part of these debts ‘hilip had paid. He knew his own jolence of temper, and his unruly udependence. He’ thought very umbly of his talents, and often ioubted of his-capacity to get on in ne world. In his less hopeful moods, ‘e trembled to think that he -might ‘e bringing poverty and unhappiness pon his dearest little maiden, for rhom he would joyfully have sacri- eed his blood, his life. Poor Philip nk back sickening and fainting most under Baynes’s words. + “You'll let me — you’ll let me see er?” he gasped out. »“She’s unwell. She is in her bed. vhe can’t appear to-day!” cried the other. ("0 -Mrs. Baynes! I must—I ‘aust see her,” Philip said, and fairly ‘roke out in a sob of pain: “This is the man that strikes men iefore women!” said Mrs. Baynes. ) Very courageous, certainly !”’ '“By George, Eliza!” the General ied out, starting up, “it’s too ad —’ '“Tnfirm of purpose, give me the faggers!”’ Philip yelled out, whilst eseribing the scene to his biographer 1 after days. ‘Macbeth would fever have done the murders but for aat little quiet woman at his side. Vhen the Indian prisoners are killed, ae squaws always invent the worst wtures. You should have seen that nd and her livid smile, as she was | tilling her gimlets into my heart. “don’t know how I offended her. ‘tried to like her, sir. I had humbled tyself before her. I went on her er- imds. I played cards with her. I wand listened to her dreadful sto- ‘es about Barrackpore and the Goy- /mor-General. I wallowed in the ‘ast before her, and she hated me. / ean see her face now, —her cruel | | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 27F yellow face, and her sharp teeth, and her gray eyes. -It was the end of August, and pouring a storm that day. I suppose my poor child was cold and suffering up stairs, for I heard the poking of a fire in her little room. When I hear a fire poked overhead now, — twenty years after, — the whole thing comes back to me ; and I suffer over again that infernal agony. Were I to live a thousand years, I could not forgive her. I never did her a wrong, but I can’t forgive her. Ah! my Heaven, how that woman tortured me!” “T think I know one or two simi- lar instances,” said Mr. Firmin’s bi- ographer. ‘You are always speaking ill of women,” said Mr. Firmin’s biogra- pher’s wife. . “No, thank Heaven!” said the gentleman. “I think I know some of whom I never thought or spoke a word of evil. My dear, will you give Philip some more tea?” and with this the gentleman’s narrative is re- sumed. ’ The rain was beating down the avenue as Philip went into the street. He looked up at Charlotte’s window: but there was no sign. ‘There was a flicker of a fire there. The poor girl had the fever, and was shuddering in her little room, weeping and sobbing on Madame Smolensk’s shoulder. “Que c’était pitié & voir,” madame said. Her mother had told_her she must break from Philip; had in- vented and spoken a hundred calum- nies against him; declared that he never cared for her; that he had loose principles, and was forever haunting theatres and bad company. “It’s not true, mother, it’s not true!” the little girl had cried, flam- ing up in revolt for a moment; but she soon subsided in tears and misery, utterly broken by the thought of her calamity. Then her father had been brought to her, who had been made to believe some of the stories against poor Philip, and who was commanded by his wife to impress them upon the * 278 girl. And Baynes tried to obey or- ders; but he was scared and cruelly pained by the sight of his little maid- en’s grief and suffering. He attempted a weak expostulation, and began a speech or two. But his heart failed him. He retreated behind his wife. She never hesitated in speech or reso- lution, and her language became more bitter as her ally faltered’ Philip was a drunkard; Philip was a prod- igal; Philip was a frequenter of dis- solute haunts and loose companions. She had the best authority for what she said. Was not a mother anxious for the welfare of her own child? (“Begad, you don’t suppose your own mother would do anything that was not for your welfare, now?” broke in the General, feebly.) ‘“ Do you think if he had not been drunk he would have ventured to commit such an atrocious outrage as that at the Embassy? And do you suppose IT want a drunkard and a beggar to marry my daughter? Your ingrati- tude, Charlotte, is horrible!” cries mamma. And poor Philip, charged with drunkenness, had dined for seventeen sous, with a carafon of beer, and had counted on a supper that night by little Charlotte’s side: so, while the child lay sobbing on her bed, the mother stood over her, and lashed her. For General Baynes — a brave man, a kind-hearted man — to have to look on whilst this torture was inflicted, must have been a hard duty. He could not eat the boarding- house dinner, though he took his ~place at the table at the sound of the dismal bell. Madame herself was not present at the meal; and you know poor Charlotte’s place was vacant. Her father went up stairs, and paused by her bedroom door, and listened. He heard murmurs within, and ma- dame’s voice, as he stumbled at the door, cried harshly, “Qui est la?” He entered. Madame was sitting on the bed, with Charlotte’s head on her lap. The thick brown tresses were falling over the child’s white night- _dress, and she lay almost motionless, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. and sobbing feebly.. ‘Ah, it is ye General!” said madame. “ You hav done a pretty work, sir!” “Mam: says, won’t you ‘take somethi Charlotte dear?” faltered the man. ‘Will you leave her tr quil?” said madame, with her d voice. The father retreated. W. madame went out presently, to get that panacea, une tasse de thé, for her poor little friend, she found the old gentleman seated ona portmanteau at his door. “Is she —is she a little better now?” he sobbed out. Ma- dame shrugged her shoulders, and looked down on the veteran with su- perb scorn. ‘“ Vous n’étes qu’un pol tron, Général!” she said, and swepi down stairs. Baynes was beaten in- deed. He was suffering horrible pain. He was quite unmanned, and tears were trickling down his old cheeks as he sat wretchedly there in the dark. His wife did not leave the table as long as dinner and dessert lasted. She read Galignani resolutely after- wards. She told the children not to make a noise, as their sister was up stairs with a bad headache. But she revoked that statement, as it were (as she revoked at cards presently), by asking the Miss Bolderos to play one of their duets. : ‘aa I wonder whether Philip walked up and down before the house that night? Ah! it was a dismal night for all of them: a racking paim, a cruel sense of shame, throbbed eo Baynes’s cotton tassel; and as fot Mrs. Baynes, I hope there was not much rest or comfort under her old ‘a a leg ‘nightcap. . Madame passed the great- er part of the night in a great chair in Charlotte’s bedroom, where. the poor child heard the hours toll one after the other, and found no comfort in the dreary rising of the dawn. At a very early hour of the dismal rainy morning, what made poor little Charlotte fling her arms round madame, and cry out, “Ah, que j vous aime! ah, que vous étes bonne, madame!” and smile almost happi} through her tears? In the first plac 3 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. madame went to Charlotte’s dressing- table, whence she took a pair of seissors. Then the little maid sat up on her bed, with her brown hair clustering over her shoulders; and madame took a lock of it, and cut a thick curl ; and kissed poor little Char- lotte’s red eyes ; and laid her pale cheek es the pillow, and carefully covered her; and bade her, with many tender words, to go to sleep. “If you are very good, and will go to sleep, he shall have it in half an hour,” madame said. “And asI go down stairs, I will tell Francoise to have some tea ready for you when you ring.” And this promise, and the thought of what madame was going to do, comforted Charlotte in her misery. And with many fond, fond prayers for Philip, and consoled by thinking, ‘‘ Now she must have gone the greater part of the way ; now she must be with him; now he knows I will never, never love any but him,” she fell asleep at length on her moistened pillow : and was smiling in ner sleep, and I dare say dreaming of Philip, when the noise of the fall wf a piece of furniture roused her, and she awoke-out of her dream to jee the grim old mother, in her white uighteap and white dressing-gown, itanding by her side. ' Never mind. “She has seen him iow. She has told him now,” was he child’s very first thought as her yes fairly opened. ‘“ He knows hat I never, never will think of my but him.” She felt as if she vas actually there in Philip’s room, peaking herself to him ; murmuring ‘ows which her fond lips had whis- yered many and many atime to her over. And now he knew she would ever break them, she was consoled nd felt more courage. “You have had some sleep, Char- otte?”’ asks Mrs. Baynes. _ “Yes, [have been asleep, mamma.” As she speaks, she feels under the illow a little locket containing — vhat? I suppose a scrap of Mr. *hilip’s lank hair. 279 “T hope you are ina less wicked frame of mind than when I left you last night,” continues the ma- tron. “Was I wicked for loving Philip ? Then Iam wicked still, mamma! ” cries the child, sitting up in her bed. And she clutches that little lock of hair which nestles under her pillow. A “What nonsense, child! This is what you get. out of your stupid novels. I tell you he does not think about you. He is quite a reckless, careless libertine.” “ Yes, so reckless and careless that we owe him the bread we eat. He does n’t think of me! Doesn’t he? Ah—” Here she paused as a clock in a neighboring chamber began to strike. ‘‘ Now,” she thought, “he has got my message!” bwel. The room was small; the reakfast was not fine ; the guests who ‘artook of it were certainly not re- tarkable for the luxury of clean lin- no; but Philip — who is many years Jder now than when he dweit in this otel, and is not pinched for money 't all you will be pleased to hear and between ourselves has become ather a gourmand) — declares he yas a very happy youth at this hum- le “Hotel Poussin,” and sighs for he days when he was sighing for Miss Tharlotte. ‘Well, he has passed a dreadful night f gloom and terror. I doubt that he ‘as bored Laberge very much with his ears and despondency. And now torning has come, and, as heis having is breakfast with one or more of the ‘efore-named worthies, the little boy- fall-work enters, grinning, his plumet inder his arm, and cries “ Une dame sour M. Philippe!” “Une dame!” says the French Olonel, looking up from his paper. “Allez, mauvais sujet !”’ “Grand Dieu! what has happen- 4d?” cries Philip, running forward, 'S he recognizes madame’s tall figure n the passage. They go up to his oom, I suppose, regardless of the qrins and sneers of the little boy with he plumet, who aids the maid-servant 281 to make the beds; and who thinks Monsieur Philippe has a very elderly acquaintance. ' Philip closes the door upon his visitor, who looks at him with so much hope,. kindness, confidence in her eyes, that the poor fellow is en- couraged almost ere she begins to speak. “Yes, you have’ reason; I come from the little person,’” Madame Smolensk-said. “ The means of re- sisting that poor dear angel! She has passed a sad night? What ? You, too, have not been to bed, poor young man!” Indeed Philip had only thrown himself on his bed, and had kicked there, and had groaned there, and had tossed there; and had tried to read, and I dare say, remembered afterwards, with a strange interest, the book he read, and that other thought which was throbbing in his brain all the time whilst he was read- ing, and whilst the wakeful hours went wearily tolling: by. “ No, in effect,” says poor Philip, rolling a dismal cigarette ; “ the night has not been too fine. And she has suffered too? Heaven bless her!” And then Madame Smolensk told how the little dear angel had cried all the night long, and how the Smolensk had not succeeded in comforting her, until she promised she would go to Philip, and tell him that his Charlotte would be his forever and ever; that she never could think of any man but him; that he was the best, and the dearest, and the bravest, and the truest Philip, and that she did not believe one word of those wicked stories told against him by—‘‘ Hold, Monsieur Philippe, I suppose Madame la Géne- rale has been talking about you, and loves you no more,” cried Madame Smolensk. ‘ We other women are assassins — assassins, see you! But Madame la Générale went too far with the little maid. She is an obedient little maid, the dear Miss ! — trem- bling before her mother, and always ready to yield, — only now her spirit is roused ; and she is yours and yours only. The little dear, gentle child! 282 Ah, how pretty she was, leaning on my shoulder. I held her there, — yes, there, my poor gar¢on, and I cut this from her neck, and brought it to thee. Come, embrace me. Weep; that does good, Philip. I love thee well. Go — and thy little — it is an angel!” And so, in the hour of their pain, myriads of manly hearts have found woman’s love ready to soothe their anguish. Leaving to Philip that thick curling lock of brown hair (from a head where now, mayhap, there is a line or two of matron silver), this Samar- itan plods her way back to her own house, where her own cares await her. But though the way is long, madame’s step is lighter now, as she thinks how Charlotte at the journey’s end is wait- ing for news of Philip; and I suppose there are more kisses and embraces, when the good soul meets with the little suffering girl, and tells her how Philip will remain forever true and faithful; and how true love must come to ahappy ending; and how she, Smolensk, will do all in her power to aid, comfort, and console her young friends. As for the writer of Mr. Philip’s memoirs, you see I never try to make any concealments. I have told you, all along, that Charlotte and Philip are married, and I believe they are happy. But it is certain that they suffered dreadfully at this time of their lives; and my wife says that Charlotte, if she alludes to the period and the trial, speaks as though they had both undergone some hideous op- eration, the remembrance of which forever causes a pang to. the memory. So, my young lady, will you have your trial one day, to be borne, pray Heaven, with a meek spirit. Ah, how surely the turn comes to all of us! Look at Madame Smolensk at her Juncheon-table, this day after her visit to Philip at his lodging, after com- forting little Charlotte in -her pain. How brisk she is! How good-na- tured! How she smiles! How she speaks to all her company, and carves | that she can come and join her You do not suppose | as she did yesterday. for her guests ! THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. she has no griefs and cares of her owt You know better. I dare say she, thinking of her creditors; of poverty; of that accepted bill wh will come due next week, and so fo1 The Samaritan who rescues you, mi likely, has been robbed and has ble in his day, and it is a wounded arm that bandages yours when bleeding If Anatole, the boy who sco the plain at the “ Hotel Pou with his plumet in his jacket-po and his slippers soled with scrub brushes, saw the embrace betw Philip and his good friend, I be in his experience at that hotel, he ne witnessed a transaction more ho ble, generous, and blameless. what construction you will on™ business, Anatole, you -little imp mischief! your mother never g: you a kiss more tender than that Madame Smolensk bestowed on Phi —than that which she gave Philiy than that which she carried back him and faithfully placed on poo tle Charlotte’s pale round cheek. J world is full of love and pity, Had there been less suffering, would have been less kindness. one, almost wish to be ill again, that the friends who succored might once more come to my Fr To poor little wounded Chai in her bed, our friend the mistre the boarding-house brought b expressible comfort. Whatevern betide, Philip would never dese “Think you I would ever have on such an embassy for a French or interfered between her and he ents?”” Madame asked. “ Never never! But you and Monsieur Pin lippe are already betrothed Heaven; and I should despi Charlotte, I should despise him, either to’ draw back.” ‘This poirit being settled in Miss Charl mind, I can fancy she is imme soothed.and comforted ; that hop courage settle in her heart; that th or comes back to her young ch “T told ever cared about him,” says Mrs. saynes to her husband. “ Faith, no, he can’t have cared much,” says Jaynes, with something of a sorrow hat his girl should be so light-minded. 3ut you and I, who have been behind he scenes, who have peeped into Phil- 9s bedroom and behind poor Char- otte’s modest curtains, know that he girl had revolted from her parents ; nd so children will if the authority xercised over them is too tyrannical ry unjust. Gentle Charlotte, who earce ever resisted, was aroused and a rebellion: honest Charlotte, who ysed to speak all her thoughts, now jid them~and deceived father and nother;— yes, deceived :—what a onfession to make regarding a young ady, the prima donna of our opeta ! ds. Baynes is, as usual, writing her angthy scrawls to Sister Mac W hirter +t Tours, and informs the Major’s ady that she has very great satisfac- ion in at last being able to announce ‘that that most imprudent and in all ‘espects ineligible engagement be- wween her Charlotte and a certain ‘oung man, son of a bankrupt London vhysician, is come to an end. Mr. ?’s conduct has been so wild, so gross, 0 disorderly, and ungentlemanlike, that he General (and you know, Maria, wow soft and sweet a-tempered man Baynes is) has told Mr. Firmin his »pinion in unmistakable words, and rbidden him to continue his visits. After seeing him every day for six months, during which time she has secustomed herself to his peculiarities, nd his often coarse and odious ex- oressions and conduct, no wonder ‘he separation has been a shock to dear Char, though I believe the young nan feels nothing who has been the ause of all this grief. That he cares mt little for her has been my opinion wll along, though she, artless child, ‘save him her whole affection. He ‘ias been accustomed to throw over -vyomen; and the brother of a young ‘ady whom Mr. F. had courted and left ‘and who has made a most excellent natch since) showed his indignation —— THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘father and mother. 283 at Mr. F.’s conduct at the Embassy ball the other night, on which the young man took advantage of his greatly superior size and strength to begin a vulgar boxing-match, in which both parties were severely wounded. Of course you saw the paragraph in Galignani about the whole affair. I sent our dresses, but it did not print them, though our names appeared as amongst the company. Anything more singular than the appearance of Mr. F. you cannot well imagine. {} wore my garnets; Charlotte (who attracted universal admiration) was in, &c. &e. Of course, the separation has occasioned her a good deal of pain; for Mr. F. certainly behaved with much kindness and forbearance ona previous occasion. But the Gen- eral will not hear of the continuance of the connection. He says the young man’s conduct has been too gross and shameful ; and when once roused, you know, I might as well attempt to chain a tiger as Baynes. Our poor Char will suffer no doubt in conse- quence of the behavior of this brute, but she has ever been an obedient child, who knows how to honor. her She bears up won- derfully, though, of course, the dear child suffers at the parting. I think if she were to go to you and Mac Whirter at Tours for a month or two, she would be all the better for change of air, too, dear Mac. Come and fetch her, and we will pay the dawk. She would go to certain poverty and wretchedness did she marry this most violent and disreputable young man. The Gen- eral sends regards to Mac, and I am,” &e. That these were the actual words of Mrs. Baynes’s letter 1 cannot, as a veracious biographer, take upon my- self to say. I never saw the docu- ment, though I have had the good fortune to peruse others from the same hand, Charlotte saw the letter some time after, upon one of those not unfrequent occasions, when a quarrel eccurred between the two sis- ters, — Mrs. Major and Mrs. General, 284. —and Charlotte mentioned the con- tents of the letter to a friend of mine who has talked to me about his affairs, and especially his love-affairs, for many and many a long hour. And shrewd old woman as Mrs. Baynes may be, you may see how utterly she ‘was mistaken in fancying that her daughter’s obedience was still secure, The little maid had left father and mother, at first with their eager sanc- tion; her love had been given to Fir- min; and an inmate —a prisoner if you will—under her father’s roof, her heart remained with Philip, how- ever time or distance might separate them. And now, as we have the command of Philip’s desk, and are free to open and read the private letters which re- late to his history, I take leave to put in a document which was penned in his place of exile by his worthy fa- ther, upon receiving the news of the quarrel described in the last» chapter of these memoirs ; — “ Astor House, New Yors, “ September 27. “Dear Puiiip,—I received the news in your last kind and affection- ate letter with not unmingled pleas- ure: but ah, what pleasure in life does not carry its amari aliquid along with it! That you are hearty, cheer- ful, and industrious, earning a.small competence, I am pleased indeed to think: that you talk about being married to a penniless girl I can’t say gives me a very sincere pleasure. With your good looks, good manners, attainments, you might have hoped for a better match than a half-pay officer’s daughter. But ’tis useless speculating on what might have been. We are puppets in the hands of fate, most of us. We are carried along by a power stronger than ourselves. It has driven me, at sixty years of age, from competence, general respect, high position, to poverty and exile. So be it! daudo manentem, as my. de- lightful old friend and philosopher teaches me, — si celeres quatit pennas, — THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. you know the rest. Whatever | fortune may be, I hope that my Phil and his father will bear it with courage of gentlemen. “Our papers have announce death of your poor mother’s un Lord Ringwood, and I had a for lingering hope that he might have le some token of remembrance to h brother’s grandson. He has You have probam pauperiem sine d You have courage, health, streng and talent. I was in greater str. than you are at your age. My fathe was not as indulgent as yours, I hope. and trust, has been. From debt dependence I worked myself up t proud: position by my own effo ‘That the storm overtook me and guifed me afterwards, is true. Bi I am like the merchant of my favo indocilis pauperiem pati. hoy to pay back to my dear boy that f tune which ought to have been | and which went down in my 0 shipwreck. Something tells m must, —I will! e “‘T agree with you that your ese from Agnes Twysden has been a p of good fortune for you, and am m diverted by your account of her d innamorato! Between ourselves, — fondness of the Twysdens for mo! amounted to meanness. And thor I always received Twysden in old Parr Street, as I trust a g man should, his company was in ferably tedious to me, and his v loquacity odious. His son also 7 little to my taste. Indeed I heartily relieved when I found y connection with that family was ove knowing their rapacity about mi and that it was your fortune, not you they were anxious to secure for A “ You will be glad to hear that in not inconsiderable practice alr My reputation as a physician had 7 ceded me to this country. ; on Gout was favorably noticed hi and in Philadelphia, and in Bost by the scientific journals of eat cities. “People are more gene- as and compassionate towards mis- ‘tune here than in our cold-hearted and. I could mention several gen- ‘men of New York who have suf- ‘ed shipwreck like myself, and are ‘w prosperous and respected. I had e good fortune to be of considerable ofessional service to Colonel J. B. ygle, of New York, on our voyage 't;-and the Colonel, who is a lead- gz personage here, has shown him- f not at all ungrateful. Those 40 fancy that at*‘New York people ‘nnot appreciate and understand the anners of a gentleman, are not a lit- mistaken; and a man who, like elf, has lived with the best society “London, has, I flatter myself, not ved in that society quite im vain. he Colonel is proprietor and editor one of the most brilliant and influ- ttial journals ofthe city. You jow that arms and the toga are ten worn here by the same individ- al, and — “TJ had actually written thus far hen I read in the Colonel’s paper — ie New York Emerald — an account ‘your battle with your cousin at the mbassy ball! O you pugnacious ‘hilip! Well, young Twysden was bry vulgar, very rude and overbear- ‘g, and, I have no doubt, deserved ie chastisement you gave him. By ie way, the correspondent of the Em- sald makes some droll blunders re- larding you in his letter. Weare all ‘ir game for publicity in this coun- “y, where the press is free with a ven- vance; and your private affairs, or Aine, or the President’s, or our gra- ‘ous Queen’s, for the matter of that, ‘re discussed with a freedom which rtainly amounts to license. The ‘olonel’s lady is passing the winter 1 Paris, where I should wish you to ‘ay your respects to her. _ Her hus- ‘and has been most kind to me. I ‘m told that Mrs. F. lives in the very hoicest French ‘society, and the ‘iendship of this family may be use- al to you as to your affectionate fa- ‘ber, . G: B. F. | | / | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP college friend 4 285, «“ Address as usual, until. you hear further from me, as Dr. Brandon, New York. I wonder whether Lord Estridge has asked you after his old When he was Head- bury and at Trinity, he and a certain pensioner whom men used to nick- name Brummell Firmin were said to be: the best-dressed men in the Uni- versity. Estridge has advanced to rank, to honors! You may rely on it, that he will have one of the very next vacant garters. What a differ- ent, what an unfortunate career, has been his quondam friend’s !— an ex- ile, an inhabitant of a small room in a great hotel, where I sit at a scram- bling public table with all sorts of coarse people! The way in which they bolt their dinner, often with a knife, shocks me. Your remittance was most welcome, small as it was. It shows my Philip has a kind heart. Ah! why, why. are you thinking of marriage, who are so poor? By the way, your encouraging account of your circumstances has induced me to draw upon you for 100 dollars. The bill will go to Europe by the packet which carries this letter, and has kindly been cashed for me by my friends, Messrs. Plaster and Shinman, of ‘Wall Street, respected bankers of this city. Leave your card with Mrs. Fogle. Her husband himself may be useful to you and your ever attached “FATHER.” We take the New York Emerald at “ Bays’s,” and in it I had read a very amusing account of our friend Philip, in an ingenious correspondence en- titled “Letters from an Attaché,” which appeared in that journal. I even copied the paragraph to show to my wife, and perhaps to forward to our friend. “J promise you,” wrote the at- taché, “the new country did not dis- grace the old at the British Embassy ball on Queen Vic’s birthday. Colo- nel Z. B. Hoggins’s ladyyof Albany, and the peerless bride of Elijah J. Dibbs, of Twenty-ninth Street in a your city; were the observed of all observers for splendor, for elegance, for refined native beauty. The Roy- al Dukes danced with nobody else ; and at the attention of one of the Princes to the lovely Miss Dibbs, I observed his Royal Duchess looked as black as thunder. Supper handsome. Back Delmonico to beat it. Cham- pagite so-so. By the way, the young fellow who writes here*for the Pall Mall Gazette got too much of the champagne on board, —as usual, I am told. The Honorable R. Twys- den, of London, was rude to my young chap’s partner, or winked at him offensively, or trod on his toe, or I don’t know what, —but young F. followed him into the garden; hit out at him; sent him flying like a spread eagle into the midst of an il- Jumination, and left him there sprawl- ing. Wild, rampageous fellow this young F.; has already spent his own fortune, and ruined his poot old fa- ther, who has been forced to cross the water. Old Louis Philippe went away early. He talked long with our Minister about his travels in our country. I was standing by, but in course ain’t so ill-bred as to say what passed between them.” In this way history is written. I dare say about others besides Philip, in English papers as well as Ameri- ean, have fables been narrated. Spe CHAPTER XXVI. CONTAINS A TUG OF WAR. Wuo was the first to spread the report that Philip was a prodigal, and had ruined his poor confiding father ? - I thought I knew a person who might be interested in getting under any shelter, and sacrificing even his own son-for his own advantage. I thought I knew a man who had done as much already, and surely might do so again; but my wife flew into one of her tempests of indignation, when I hinted something of this, clutched her | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘cent? Don’t you see him tumbling, own children to her heart, acco to her maternal wont, asked me ¥ there any power would cause me belie them? and sternly rebuked for daring to be so wicked, heartl and cynical. My dear creatt wrath is no answer. You call heartless and cynic, for saying men} are false and wicked. Have you never heard to what lengths some bankrupts will go? To appease the) wolves who chase them in the winter| forest, have you not read how some; travellers will cast all their provisions’ out of the sledge? then, when all the! provisions are gone, don’t you a that they will fling out perhaps the sister, perhaps the mother, perhaps) the baby, the little dear tender inno=| among the howling pack, and the| ‘wolves gnashing, gnawing, crashing, | eobbling him up in the snow? horror — horror! My wife draws all the young ones to her breast as L utter| these fiendish remarks. She hugs: them in her embrace, and says, “For shame!” and that 1am a monster,| and so one Go to! Go down on your knees, woman, and acknowledge the sinfulness of our. humankind. How long had our race existed ere murder and violence began ? and how old was the world ere brother slew brother 2 [os Well, my wife and I came to 4) compromise. I might have my opinion, but was there any need tc communicate it to poor Philip? No, surely. So I never sent him thc extract from the New York Emerald | though, of course, some other eood: natured friend did, and I don’t thipk my magnanimous friend eared much AS’ for supposing that his own father to cover his own character, would lic away his son’s,—such a piece of artifice was quite beyond Philip’ comprehension, who has been all his life slow in appreciating roguery, 0 recognizing that, there is meannes and doubledealing in the world When he once comes to understan¢ the fact; when he once comprehend at Tartuffe is a humbug and swell- x.Bufo is a toady; then my friend comes as absurdly indignant and istrustful as before he was admiring ‘dcontiding. Ah, Philip! Tartutte s a number of good, respectable idlities ; and Bufo, though an under- ound odious animal, may have a ecious jewel in his head. ’T is you cynical. J see the good qualities ‘these rascals whom you spurn. I e. Ishrug my shoulders. I smile: id you call me cynic. It was long before Philip could mprehend why Charlotte’s mother rned upon him, and tried to force ‘ daughter to forsake him. “I we offended the old woman in a amdred ways,” he wouldsay. “ My bacco annoys her; my old clothes fend her; the very English I speak ‘often Greek to her, and she can no ore construe my sentences than I wm the Hindostanee jargon she talks her husband at dinner.” ‘ My 2ar fellow, if you had ten thousand ‘year she would try and construe yur sentences, or accept them even “not understood,” I would reply. nd some men, whom you and I know » be mean, and to be false, and to »flatterers and parasites, and to be vexorably hard and cruel in their wn private circles, will surely pulla mg face to-morrow, and say, “Oh! ae man’s so cynical.” ‘Lacquit Baynes of whatensued. I old Mrs. B. to have been the crimi- al,—the stupid criminal. The hus- and, like many other men extremely vave in active life, was at home timid adirresolute. Of two heads that lie ‘de by side on the same pillow for airty years, one must contain the ‘onger power, the more enduring solution. ‘Baynes, away from his ife, was shrewd, courageous, gay at “mes; when with her he- was fasci- ated, torpid under the power of, this ‘aleful superior creature. ‘“ Ah, ‘hen we were subs together in camp ‘11803, what a lively fellow Charley Jaynes was!” his comrade, Colonel junch, would say. “ That was THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. * 287 before he ever saw his wife’s yellow face ;.and what a slave she has made of him!” After that fatal conversation which ensued on the day succeeding the ball, Philip did not come to dinner at madame’s according to his custom. Mrs. Baynes told no family stories, and Colonel Bunch, who had no special liking for the young gentle- man, did not trouble himself to make any inquiries about him. One, two, three days passed, and no Philip. At last the Colonel says to the Gen- eral, with a-sly look at Charlotte, “ Baynes, where is our young friend with the mustache? We have not seen him these three days.” And he . gives an arch look at poor Charlotte. A burning blush flamed up in little Charlotte’s pale face, as she looked at her parents and then at their old friend. ‘ Mr. Firmin does not come, because papa and mamma have for- bidden him,” says Charlotte. “TI suppose he only comes where he is welcome:” And, having made this audacious speech, I suppose the little maid tossed her little head ap; and wondered, in the silence which en- sued, whether all the company could hear her heart thumping. Madame, ‘from her central place, where she is carving, sees, from the looks of her guests, the indignant flushes on Charlotte’s face, the confu- sion on her father’s, the wrath on Mrs. Baynes’s, that some dreadtul words are passing; and in vain en- deavors to turn the angry current of talk. “Un petit canard délicicux, eotitez-en, madame!” she crics. Honest Colonel Bunch sees the little maid with eyes flashing with anger, and trembling in every limb. ‘The offered duck having failed to create a diversion, he, too, tries a fecble commonplace. ‘A little difference, my dear,” he says, in an under voice. “There will be such in the best-regu- lated families. Canard sauvage tres bong, madame, avec —”’ but he is al- lowed to speak no more, for — “What would you do, Colonel a 238 Bunch,” little Charlotte breaks out with her poor little ringing, trembling voice, — “ that is, if you were a young man, if another young man struck you, and insulted you?” I say she utters this in such a clear voice, that Francoise, the femme-de-chambre, that Auguste, the footman, that all, the guests hear, that all the knives and forks stop their clatter. “Faith, my dear, I ’d knock him down if I could,” says Bunch; and he catches hold of the little maid’s sleeve; and would stop her speaking if he could. “And that is what Philip did,” eries Charlotte aloud; ‘ and mamma has turned him out of the house, — yes, out of the house, for acting like a man of honor!” “Go to your room this instant, Miss!” shrieks mamma. As for old Baynes, his stained: old uniform is not THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. more dingy-red than his wrinkled face and his throbbing temples. He blushes under his wig, no doubt, could we see beneath that ancient artifice. “ What is it? madame your moth- er dismisses you of my table? I will come with you, my dear Miss Char- lotte!” says Madame, with much dignity. ‘Serve the sugared plate, Auguste!: My ladies, you will ex- cuse me! I go to attend the dear miss, who seems to me ill.” And she _ rises up, and she follows poor little blushing, burning, weeping Char- lotte: and again, I have no doubt, takes her in her arms, and kisses, and cheers, and caresses her, — at the threshold of the door, — there by the staircase, among the cold dishes of the dinner, where Moira and Mac- erigor had one moment before been ‘marauding. ‘Courage, ma fille, courage, mon enfant! ‘Tenez! Behold sometliing to console thee!” and madame takes out’of her pocket a little letter, and gives it to the girl, who at sight of it kisses the superscription, and then, in an anguish of love, and joy, and grief, falls on the neck of the kind woman, who consoles her in her misery. Whose writing is it Charlotte kisses’ Can you guess by any means? Upc my word, Madame Smolensk, I ne re recommend ladies to take daughter to your boarding-house. And I lik you so much, I would not tell of yor) but you know the house is shut u this many along day. Oh! the yea slip away fugacious; and the gras has grown over graves; and man and many joys and sorrows have bee born and have died since then fe Charlotte and Philip: but that gri¢ aches still.in their bosoms at times and that sorrow throbs at Charlotte heart again whenever she looks at little yellow letter in her trinket-box and she says to her children, “ Pay wrote that to me before we were ma ried, my dears.” There are scarce] half a dozen words in the little le ter, I believe; and two of them a “for ever.” * I could draw a ground-plan of m dame’s house in the Champs Elysé if I liked, for has not Philip show me the place and described it to n many times? In front, and facit the road and garden, were madame room and the salon; to the back w the salle-a-manger; and a stair ri up the house (where. the dishes us' to be laid during dinner-time, a where Moira and Macgrigor finger the meats and puddings). Mrs. Ge eral Baynes’s rooms were on the fil floor, looking on the Champs Elyse: and into the garden-court of the hou below. And on this day, as the di ner was necessarily short (owing unhappy circumstances), and the ge tlemen were left alone glumly drin ing their wine or grog, and M Baynes had gone up stairs to her o1 apartment, had slapped her boys a was looking out of window, — was not provoking that of all days int world young Hely should ride up the house on his capering mare, w' his flower in his button-hole, w his little varnished toe-tips just tout ing his stirrups, and after performi various caracolades and gambadc in the garden, kiss his yellow-kide nd to Mrs. General Baynes at the ndow, hope Miss Baynes was quite Il, and ask if he might come in and sea cup of tea? Charlotte, lying ‘madame’s bed in the ground-floor om, heard Mr. Hely’s sweet yoice sing after her health, and the inching of his horse’s hoofs on the ayel, and she could even catch mpses of that little form as the rse capered about in the court, »ugh of course he could not see her ere she was lying on the bed with * letter in her hand. Mrs. Baynes her window had to wag her with- d head from the casement, to groan 5, “My daughter is lying down, 1 has a bad headache, I am sorry say,” and then she must have had Mortification to see Hely caper , after waving her a genteel adieu. e ladies in the front salon, who as- ibled after dinner, witnessed the nsaction, and Mrs. Bunch, I dare » bad a grim pleasure at seeing za Baynes’s young sprig of fashion, whom Eliza was forever bragging, ae at last, and obliged to ride ay, not bootless, certainly, for ere were feet more beautifully ussés ? but after a bootless errand. Meanwhile the gentlemen sat awhile the dining-room, after the British tom which such veterans liked too 1 to give up. Other two gentle- 1 boarders went away, rather med by that storm and outbreak Which Charlotte had quitted the iner-table, and left the old soldiers sther, to enjoy, according to their \T-dinner custom, a sober glass of /mething hot,” as the saying is. ruth, madame’s wine was of the est; but what better could you ect for the money ? saynes was not eager to be alone unch, and I have no doubt be- _ to blush again when he found Self téte-a-téte with his old friend. | what was to be done? The eral did not dare to go up stairs to Own quarters, where poor Char- 2» was probably crying, and her ther in one of her tantrums. | oe ~ THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 289 Then in the salon there were the ladies of the boarding-house party, and there Mrs. Bunch would be sure to be at him. Indeed, since the Baynes were launched in the great world, Mrs. Bunch was untiringly sarcastic in her remarks about lords, ladies, attachés, ambassadors, and fine people in general. So Baynes sat with his friend, in the falling evening, in much silence, dipping his old nose in the brandy-and-water. Little square-faced, red-faced, whis- ker-dyed Colonel Bunch sat opposite his old companion, regarding him not without scorn. Bunch had a wife. Bunch had feelings. Do you suppose those feelings had not been worked upon by that wife in private collo- quies? Do you suppose, — when two: old women have lived together in pretty much the same rank of life, — if one suddenly gets promotion, is carried off to higher spheres, and talks of her new friends, the countesses, duchesses, ambassadresses, as of course she will, —do you suppose, I say, that the unsuccessful woman will be pleased at the successful woman’s success? Your knowledge of your own heart, my dear lady, must tell you the truth in this matter. I don’t want you to acknowledge that you are angry because your sister has been staying with the Duchess of Fitzbat- tleaxe, but you are, youknow. You have made sneering remarks to your husband on the subject, and such re- marks, I have no doubt, were made by Mrs. Colonel Bunch to her hus- band, regarding her poor friend Mrs. General Baynes. During this parenthesis we have left the General dipping his nose in the brandy-and-water. He can’t keep it there forever. He must come up for air presently. His face must come out of the drink, and sigh over the table. ““ What ’s this business, Baynes ?” says the Colonel. ‘“ What’s the matter with poor Charley ?” “Family affairs, -— differences will happen,” says the General. Ss 290 “J do hope and trust nothing has gone wrong with her and young Fir- min, Baynes ¢” The Genera fixed eyes staring at him under those bushy eyebrows, between those bushy, blackened whiskers. “ Well, then, yes, Bunch, some- thing has gone wrong ; and given me and-—and Mrs. Baynes—a deuced deal of pain too. The young fellow has acted like a blackguard, brawling and fighting at an ambassador’s ball, bringing us all to ridicule. He’s not a gentleman; that’s the long and short of it, Bunch; and so let ’s change the subject.’ «“ Why, consider the provocation he had!” cries the other, disregard- ing entirely his friend’s prayer. heard them talking about the business at Galignani’s this very day. A fel- low swears at Firmin; runs at him ; brags that he has pitched him over ; and is knocked down for his pains. By George! I think Firmin was quite right. Were any man to do as much to me or you, what should we do, even at our age?” “We are military men. Bunch,” says the General, in rather a lofty manner. “You mean that Tom Bunch has no need to put his oar in?” “Precisely so,” says the other, eurtly. «“ Mum’s the word! Let us talk about the dukes and duchesses at the ball. That ’s more in your line, now,” says the Colonel, with rather a sneer. ‘What do you mean by duchesses and dukes? What do you know about them,,or what the deuce do I care ?”’ asks the General. “©, they are tabooed too! Hang it, there ’s no satisfying you,” growls the Colonel. “ Look here, Bunch,” the General broke out ; “I must speak, since you won’t leave me alone. I am unhap- py: You can see that well enough. For two or three nights past I have This engagement of had no rest. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 1 does not like those | “JT You say, ‘ Hold your tongue,’ al T said [| did n’t wish to talk about the subject, | my child and Mr. Firmin can’t ¢ toany good. You see what he is,— an overbearing, ill-conditioned, quar relsome fellow. What chance I Charley of being happy with su h fellow ?” “T hold my tongue, Baynes. 1 told me not to put my oar in,” gr the Colonel. “O, if that ’s the way you take Bunch, of course there ’s no need. me to go on any more,” cries Gene Baynes. “If an old friend won'tg an old friend advice, by George, help him in astrait, or say a kind w when he ’s unhappy, I have done. have known you for forty years I am mistaken in you, — that ’s “There ’s no contenting shut my mouth. I hold my to and you say, ‘ Why don’t you speak: Why don’tI? Because you won’ t lik what I say, Charles Baynes: ands what ’s the good of more talking 7” “ Confound it!” cries Baynes, wit a thump of his glass on the | “but what do you say?” “T say, then, as you will have it, cries the other, clenching his fist his pockets, — “‘I say you are W ing a pretext for breaking off” match, Baynes. I don’t say it 1s good one, mind; but your wo passed, and your honor engaged young fellow to whom you are 1 deep obligation.” a “What obligation? Who — talked to you about my pri affairs 2” cries the General, re ing. ‘ Has Philip Firmin been b oO - »” ging about his — +? “You have yourself, B When you arrived here, you told over and over again what the ye fellow had done: and you cert thought he acted like a gent then. If you choose to break word to him now —” “Break my word! Great p do you know what you ares Bunch 2” “Yes, and what you are- Baynes.” “Doing? and what?” « A damned shabby action; that’s tat you are doing, if you want to tow. Don’t tell me. Why, do you ppose Sarah —do you suppose ey- ybody does n’t see what you are at ? ou think you can get a better match : the girl, and you and Eliza are ing to throw the young fellow over: d the fellow who held his hand, d might have ruined you, if he ed. Isay it isacowardly action!” “Colonel Bunch, do you dare to e such a word to me?” calls out 2 General, starting to his feet. “Dare be hanged! I say it’s a ibby action!” roars the other, too. “Hush! unless you-wish to disturb 2 ladies! nch?”’ and the General drops his ice and sinks back to his chair. “1 know what my words mean, dIstick to ’em, Baynes,” growls 2 other; “which is more than you n say of yours.” “T am dee’d if any man alive shall e this language to me,” says the meral, in the softest whisper, “ with- accounting to me for it.” “Did you ever find me backward, wnes, at that kind of thing?” wis the Colonel, with a face like a “ and eyes starting from his “Very good, sir. To-morrow, at ur earliest convenience. Galignani’s from eleven till one. ith a friend, if possible. — What is mylove? A game at whist? Well, rds to-night.” It was Mrs. Baynes who entered the om when the two gentlemen were atrelling; and the bloodthirsty pocrites instantly smoothed their filed brows and smiied on her with rfect courtesy. “Whist,— no! ould we send out to meet him ? neyer been in Paris.’’ Never been in Paris?” said the eneral, puzzled. I was thinking He ; Of course you know. at your expression means, Colonel | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. I shall be | , thank you; I think I won’t play | 291 “He will be here to-night, you know. Madame has a room ready for him.” - “The very thing, the very thing!” cries General Baynes, with great glee. And Mrs. Baynes, all unsuspicious of the quarrel between the old friends, proceeds to inform Colonel Bunch that Major MacWhirter was expected that evening. And then that tough old Colonel Bunch knew the cause of Baynes’s delight. A second was pro- vided for the General,— the very thing Baynes wanted. We have seen how Mrs. Baynes, after taking counsel with her General, had privately sent for MacWhirter. Her plan was that Charlotte’s uncle should take her for a while to Tours, and make her hear reason. Then Charley’s foolish passion for Philip would pass away. ‘Then, if he dared to follow her so far, her aunt and un- cle, two dragons of virtue and cireum- spection, would watch and guard her. Then, if Mrs. Hely was still of the same mind, she and her son might easily take the post to Tours, where, . Philip being absent, young Walsing- ham might plead his passion. The best part of the plan, perhaps, was the separation of our young couple. Char- lotte would recover. Mrs. Baynes was sure cf that. The little girl had 'made no Gutbreak until that sudden insurrection at dinner which we have witnessed ; and her mother, who had domineered over the child all her life, thought she was still in her power. She did not knew that she had passed the bounds of authority, and that with her behavior to Philip her child’s al- legiance had revolted. Bunch then, from Baynes’s look and expression, perfectly understood what his adversary meant, and that the General’s second was found. His own he had in his eye,— a tough little /old army surgeon of Peninsular and Indian times, who lived hard by, who would aid as second and doctor too, if need were,— and so kill two birds with one stone, as they say. The Col- onel would go forth that very instant 292 and seek for Dr. Martin, and be hanged to Baynes, and a plague on the whole transaction and the folly of two old friends burning powder in such a quarrel. But he knew what a blood-thirsty little fellow that hen- pecked, silent Baynes was when roused ; and as for himself,— a fellow use that kind of language to me? By George, ‘Tom Bunch was not going to balk him! Whose was that tall figure prowl- ing about madame’s house in the Champs Elysées when Colonel Bunch issued forth in quest of his friend ; who had been watched by the police and mistaken for a suspicious charac- ter; who had been looking up at ma- dame’s windows now that the evening shades had fallen? O you goose of a Philip ! (for of course, my dears, you guess that the spy was P. F., Esq.) you look up at the premier, and there is the Beloved in madame’s room on the ground floor; —in yonder room, where a lamp is burning and casting a faint light across the bars of the jalousie. If Philip knew she was there he would be transformed into a clem- atis, and climb up the bars of the window, and twine round them all night. But you see he thinks she is on the first floor ; and the glances of his passionate eyes are taking aim at the wrong windows. And now Colo- nel Bunch comes forth in his stout strutting way, in his little military cape,— quick march,— and Philip is startled like a guilty thing surprised, and dodges behind a tree in, the ave- nue. _ The Colonel departed on his murder- ous errand. Philip still continues to ogle the window of his heart (the wrong window), defiant of the police- man, who tells him to cireuler. He has not watched here many minutes more, ere a hackney-coach drives up with portmanteaus on the roof and a lady and gentleman within. You see Mrs. Mac Whirter thought she, as well as her husband, might have a peep at Paris. As Mac’s coach- hire was paid, Mrs. Mac could afford THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. a little outlay of money. And if tl were to bring Charlotte back,— Char lotte in grief and agitation, poor child,’ —a matron, an aunt, would b much fitter companion for her a major, however gentle. So the: of Mac Whirters journeyed from To a long journey it was before ways were invented,— and after for and-twenty hours of squeeze in diligence, presented _ themselves nightfall at Madame Smolensk’s. The Baynes boys dashed into garden at the sound of whee “Mamma —mamma! it’s Un Mac!” these innocents cried, as th ran to the railings. ‘Uncle M what could bring him? Oh! th are going to send me to him! are going to send me to him !”’ tho Charlotte, starting on her bed. Al on this, I dare say, a certain locke was kissed more vehemently that ever. oe “Tsay, Ma!” cries the ingenud Moira, jumping back to the house; “it’s Uncle Mac, and Aunt M: too!” oa “ What?” cries mamma, with thing but pleasure in her voice; al then turning to the dining - room) where her husband still sat, she call out, “General! here’s MacWhir and Emily !” | . Mrs. Baynes gave her sister a vé erim kiss. “ Dearest Eliza, I thought it such a good opportunity of coming and that I might be so useful, yor know !” pleads Emilv. e “Thank you. How do you ¢ MacWhirter ¢” says the grim ‘“G rale. “Glad to see you, Baynes boy!” ‘How d’ye do, Emily? Bo bring your uncle’s traps. Did know Emily was coming, Mac. - there’s room for her!” sighs th General, coming forth from his pai lor. = The Major was struck by the looks and pallor of his brother-in “By George, Baynes, you loo THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘ellow as a guinea. How’s Tom Sunch ¢” '“Come into this room along with re. Have some brandy-and-water, flac. Auguste! Odevie O sho!” alls the General; and Auguste, who ut of the new-comer’s six packages as daintily taken one very small nackintosh cushion, says ‘‘ Com- nent? encore du grog, Général?” nd, shrugging his shoulders, disap- ears to procure the refreshment at ‘is leisure. The sisters disappear to their em- races ; the brothers-in-law retreat to he salle-a-manger, where General saynes has been sitting, gloomy and omely, for half an hour past, think- ag of his quarrel with his old com- ade, Bunch. He and Bunch have ‘een chums for more than forty years. They have been in action together, nd honorably mentioned in the same eport. They have had a great re- ‘ard for each other ; and each knows he other is an obstinate old mule, nd, in a quarrel, will die rather than ive way. They have had a dispute ‘ut of which there is only one issue. Vords have passed which no man, ‘owever old, by George! can brook vom any friend, however intimate, y Jove! No wonder Baynes is rave. His family is large; his Neans are small. ‘T’o-morrow he may e under fire of an old friend’s pistol: m such an extremity he knows how ‘ach will behave. No wonder, I say, he General is solemn. ‘“What’s in the wind now, aia asks the Major, after a ttle drink and a long silence. “ How i poor little Char ? ” '“Infernally ill—I mean behaved iernally ill,” says the General, bit- ag his lips. “Bad business! Bad business ! ‘oor little child!” cries the Major. “Tnsubordinate little devil! ” says ae pale General, grinding his teeth. We ’ll see which shall be master ! ” “What! you have had words ¢”’ “ At this table, this very day. She at here and defied her mother and (293 me, by George! and flung out of the room like a tragedy queen. She must be tamed, Mac, or my name’s not. Baynes.” MacWhirter knew his relative of old, and that this quiet, submissive man, when angry, worked up to a white heat as it were. “ Sad affair; hope you’ll both come round, Bay- nes,” sighs the Major, trying bootless commonplaces ; and seeing this last remark had no effect, he bethought him of recurring to their mutual friend. ‘“ How’s Tom Bunch?” the Major asked, checrily. At this question Baynes grinned in such a ghastly way that MacWhirter eyed him with wonder. “ Colonel Bunch is very well,” the General said, in dismal voice; “at least, he was half an hour ago. He was sitting there” ; and he pointed to an empty spoon lying in an empty beaker, whence the’spirit-and-water had de- parted. “What has been the matter, Baynes ?” asked the Major. ‘“ Has anything happened between you and Tom?” “T mean that, half an hour ago, Colonel Bunch used words to me which Ill bear from no man alive; and you have arrived just in the nick of time, MacWhirter, to take my message to him. Hush! here’s the drink.” “Voici, Messieurs!”’ Auguste at length has brought up a second sup- ply of brandy-and-water. The vete- rans mingled their jorums ; and whilst his brother-in-law spoke, the alarmed MacWhirter sipped occasionally in- tentusque ora tenebut. eens cee CHAPTER XXVII. I CHARGE YOU, DROP YOUR DAGGERS ! GENERAL Baynes began the story which you and I have heard at length. He told it in his own way. He grew very angry with himself whilst de- 294 fending himself. He had to abuse Philip very fiercely, in order to ex- cuse his own act of treason. He had to show that his act was not his act ; that, after all he never had promised, and that, if he had promised, Philip’s atrocious conduct ought to. absolve him from any previous promise. I do not wonder that the General was abusive, and out of temper. Such a crime as he was committing can’t be a. cheerfully by a man who is rabitually gentle, generous, and hon- est. I do not say that men cannot cheat, cannot lie, cannot inflict torture, cannot commit rascally actions, with- out in the least losing their equanim- ity ; but these are men habitually false, knavish, and cruel. They are accus- tomed to break their: promises, to cheat their neighbors in bargains, and what not. A roguish word or action more or less is of little matter to .them: their remorse only awakens after detection, and they don’t begin to repent till they come sentenced out of the dock. But here was an ordi- narily just man withdrawing from his promise, turning his back on_ his benefactor, and justifying himself to himself by maligning the man whom he injured. It is not an uncommon event, my dearly beloved brethren and esteemed miserable sister sinners ; but you like to say a preacher is “eynical ” who admits this sad truth, —and, perhaps, don’t care to hear about the subject.on more than one day in the week. So, in order to make out some sort of case for himself, our poor good old General Baynes chose to think and declare that Philip was so violent, ill-conditioned, and abandoned a fel- - low, that no faith ought to be kept with him; and that Colonel Bunch had behaved with such brutal inso- lence that Baynes must call him to account. As for the fact that there was another, a richer, and a much more eligible suitor, who was likely to offer for his daughter, Baynes did not happen to touch on this point at all; preferring to speak of Philip’s THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. hopeless poverty, disreputable duct, and gross and careless behavi Now MacWhirter, having, I st pose, little to do at Tours, had. Mrs. Baynes’s letters to her sis Emily, and remembered them. deed, it was but very few months Eliza Baynes’s letters had been of praise of Philip, of his love for lotte, and of his noble generosity foregoing the great claim whi had upon the General, his mo careless trustee. Philip was the fi suitor Charlotte had had: in her firs glow of pleasure, Charlotte’s mother had covered yards of paper w compliments, interjections, and th scratches or dashes under her words, which some ladies are accustomed point their satire or emphasize tl delight. He was an admirable you man, — wild, but generous, handsoi noble! He had forgiven his fat thousands and thousands of pow which the Doctor owed him, —all mother’s fortune; and he had ae most nobly by her trustees, — that must say, though poor dear w Baynes was one of them! Bay who was as simple as a child. Mac and his wife had agreed » Philip’s forbearance was very gé rous and kind, but after all that th was no special cause for rapture at notion of their niece marrying a str gling young fellow without a pe in the world; and they had been a little amused’ with the change tone in Eliza’s later letters, when began to go out in the great wo and to look coldly upon poor, pel less Firmin, her hero of a few mon since. Then Emily remembered | Eliza had always been fond of g! people ; how her head was turne¢ going to a few parties at Governm House; how absurdly she wen with that little creature Fitzr (because he was an Honorable sooth) at Dumdum. Eliza we good wife to Baynes; a good mot to the children; and made both of a narrow income meet with sur ing dexterity; but Emily was ) say of her sister Eliza, that a more, ic., &e., &e. And when the news ame at length that Philip was to be yrown overboard, Emily clapped her ands together, and said to her hus- and, “Now, Mac, didn’t I always ‘you so? Ifshe could get a fash- mable husband for Charlotte, I knew vould suffer considerably, her aunt ‘as assured. Indeed, before her own nion with Mac, Emily had under- one heart-breakings and pangs of sep- ration on her own account. The oor child would want comfort and ompanionship. She would go to tech her niece. And though the Ma- or said, “‘ My dear, you want to goto “aris, and buy a new bonnet,” Mrs. nd came to Paris from a mere sense f duty. ' So Baynes poured out his history of rrongs to his brother-in-law, who jarvelled to hear a man, ordinarily ‘one a bad action, at least, after do- ag it, Baynes had the grace to be ery much out of humor. If I ever, or my part, do anything wrong in lustering passion. I won’t have wife rehildren question it. No querulous fathan of a family friend (or an acommodious conscience, maybe,) hall come and lecture me about my 1 doings. No—no. Out of the ‘ouse withhim! Away, you preach- ig bugbear, don’t try to frighten me ! aynes, I suspect, to browbeat, bully, d outtalk the Nathan pleading in ‘is heart, — Baynes will outbaw] that rating monitor, and thrust that in- onvenient preacher out of sight, out f hearing, drive him with angry vords from our gate. Ah! in vain reexpel him; and bid John say, not thome! There he is when we wake, itting at our bed-foot. We throw im overboard for daring to put Moar in our boat. Whose ghastly THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. facWhirter spurned the insinuation, | /murderous, and dissatisfied state of iy family, or to them, I accompany | hat action with a furious rage and | 295 head is that looking up from the wa- ter and swimming alongside us, row we never so swiftly ¢ Fire at him. Brain him with an oar, one of you, and pull on! Flash goes the pistol. Surely that oar has stove the old skull in¢ See! there comes the awful companion popping up out of wa- ter again, and crying, ‘“‘ Remember, remember, I.am_ here, I am here!” Baynes had thought to bully away one monitor by the threat of a pistol, and here was another swimming alongside of his boat. And would youhave it otherwise, my dear reader, for you, forme? That you and | shall commit sins, in this, and ensu- ing years, is certain; but I hope— I hope they won’t be past praying for. | Here is Baynes, having just done a bad action, in a dreadfully wicked, mind. His chafing, bleeding temper is one raw; his whole soul one rage, and wrath, and fever. Charles Baynes, thou old sinner, I pray that Heaven may turn thee to a better state of mind. JI will kneel down by thy side, scatter ashes on my own bald pate, and we will quayer out Peccuvimus together. “In one word, the young man’s conduct has been so outrageous and disreputable that I can’t, Mac, as a father of a family, consent to my girl’s marrying him. Out of a re- gard for her happiness, it is my duty to break off the engagement,” cries the General, finishing the story. “Has he formally released you from that trust business ?” asked the Major. “ Good Heavens, Mac cries the General, turning very red. “ You know I am as innocent of all wrong. towards him as you are!” “Innocent —only you did not look to your trust — ” “TJ think ill of him, sir. I think he is a wild, reckless, overbearing young fellow,” calls out the General, very quickly, “who would make my child miserable ; but I don’t think he is such a blackguard as to come down 1? 296 on a retired elderly man with a poor| may get somebody else to go ow family, — a numerous family ; a man who has bled and fought for his sov- ereign in the Peninsula, and in India, as the ‘Army List’ will show you, by George! I don’t think Firmin will be such a scoundrel as to come down on me, I say; and I must say, Mac Whirter, I think it most unhand- some of you to allude to it, — most unhandsome, by George !”’ “ Why, you are going to break off your bargain with him; why should he keep his compact with you ?” asks the gruff Major. “ Because,” shouted the General, “it would be a sin and a shame that an old man with seven children,-and broken health, who has served in every place, — yes, in the West and East Indies, by George! —in Canada — in the Peninsula, and at New Or- leans ; — because he has been deceiv- ed and humbugged by a miserable scoundrel. of a doctor into signing a sham paper, by George! should be ruined, and his poor children and wife driven to beggary, by Jove! as you seem to recommend young Fir- min to do, Jack MacWhirter; and Ill tell you what, Major Mac Whir- ter, I take it dee’d unfriendly of you; and Ill trouble you not to put your oar into my boat, and meddle with my affairs, that’s all, and I’ll know who’s at the bottom of it, by Jove! It’s the gray mare, Mac, — it’s your bet- ter-half, Mac Whirter — it’s that con- founded, meddling, sneaking, backbit- ing, domineering — ”’ “ What next ?” roared the Major. “Ha, ha, ha! Do you think I don’t know, Baynes, who has put you on doing what I have no hesitation in calling a most sneaking and rascally action, — yes, a rascally action, by George! I am not going to mince matters! Don’t come your Major- General or your Mrs. Major-General over me! It’s Eliza that has set you on. And if Tom Bunch has been telling you that you have been breaking from your word and are act- ing shabbily, Tom is right; and you THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. with you, General Baynes, for, | George, I won’t!” “‘ Have you come all the way ft Tours, Mac, in order to insult m asks the General. “‘T came to do you a friendly t to take charge of your poor girl on whom you are being very ha Baynes. And this is the reward I Thank you. -No more grog! W I have had is rather too. strong for already.” And the Major looks doy with an expression of scorn at emptied beaker, the idle spoon before him. As the warriors were quarrelling over their cups, there came to them ¢ noise as of brawling and of fem voices without. ‘‘ Mais, madame pleads Madame Smolensk, in- grave way. “ Taisez-vous, mada laissez - moi tranquille, s’il_ vo plait!” exclaims the well-kn voice of Mrs. General Baynes, whi I own was never very pleasant to either in anger or good-hum “And your Little — who tries sleep in my chamber!” again plea the mistress of the boarding-hou: “Vous n’avez pas droit d’appeler Mademoiselle Baynes petite!” calls out the General’s lady. And Bayni who was fighting and quarrelli himself just now, trembled when heard her. His angry face assu an alarmed expression. He _ loo for means of escape. He appealed protection to MacWhirter, whose nose he had been ready to pull anon. , Samson was a mighty man, but he was a fool in the hands of a woman, Hercules was a brave man and strong, but Omphale twisted h round her spindle. Even so Bayni who had fought in India, Spat America, trembled before the partn of his bed and name. : It was an unlucky afternoo Whilst the husbands had been qua relling in the dining-room over b dy-and-water, the wives, the siste had been fighting over their tea in t salon I don’t know what the otk varders were about. Philip never | ld me. Perhaps they had left the om to give the sisters a free opportu- ty for embraces and confidential mmunication. Perhaps there were lady boarders left. Howbeit, Em- “and Eliza had tea ; and before that reshing meal was concluded, those ar women were fighting as hard as eir husbands in the adjacent cham- iF Eliza, in the first place, was very ‘gry at Emily’s coming without in- tation. Emily, on her part, was very with Eliza for being angry. Lam sure, Eliza,’ said the spirited injured Mac Whirter, “ that is the ird time you have alluded to it since +have been here. Had you and all yur family come to-Tours, Mac and would have made them welcome, — THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘ldren and all; and I am sure surs make trouble enough in a use.” “A private house is not like a yarding-house, Emily. Here ma- ime makes us pay frightfully for ex- as,” remarks Mrs. Baynes. “Tam sorry I came, Eliza. Let {Say no more about it. I can’t go vay to-night,” says the other. “And most unkind it is that speech “make, Emily. Any more tea?” “Most unpleasant to have to make at speech, Eliza. To travel a hole day and night, — and I never le to sleep in a diligence, — to has- ‘n to my sister because I thought she ‘as in trouble, because I thought a ster might comfort her; and to be ceived as you re—as you—QO, O, —boh! How stoopid I am!” handkerchief dries the tears: a smell- g-bottle restores a little composure. ‘When you came to us at Dumdum, ith two—o—o children in_ the hooping-cough, I am sure Mac 1d I gave you a very different wel- ome.” The other was smitten with a re- orse. She remembered her sister’s indness in former days. ‘I did not ean, sister, to give you pain,” she ud. “ But lam very unhappy my- 13 * 297 self, Emily. My child’s conduct is making me most unhappy.” “And very good reason you have to be unhappy, Eliza, if woman ever had,” says the other. “QO, indeed, yes!” gasps the Gen- eral’s lady. “Tf any woman ought to feel re- morse, Eliza Baynes, I am sure it’s you. Sleepless nights! What was mine in the diligence, compared to the nights you must have? -I said so to myself. ‘I am wretched,’ I said, ‘but what must she be?’ ” “Of course, asa feeling mother, I feel that poor Charlotte is unhappy, my dear.” “But what makes her so, my dear?” cries Mrs. MacWhirter, who presently showed that she was mis- tress of the whole controversy. ‘“ No wonder Charlotte is unhappy, dear love! Can a girl be engaged to a young man, a most interesting young man, a clever, accomplished, highly educated young man —” “ What?” cries Mrs. Baynes. “Have n’t I your letters? I have them all in my desk. They are in that hall now. Didn’t you tell me so over and over again; and rave about him, till I thought you were in love with him yourself almost ? ’’ cries Mrs. Mac. ; “ A most indecent observation cries out Eliza Baynes, in her deep, awful voice. ‘‘ No woman, no sister, shall say that to me!” “Shall I go and get the letters ? It used to be, ‘Dear Philip has just left us. Dear Philip has been more than a son to me. He is our pre- server!’ Did n’t you write all that’ over and over again? And _ because you have found a richer husband for Charlotte, you are going to turn your preserver out of doors!” “Emily MacWhirter, am I to sit here and be accused of crimes, uninvit- ed, mind, —uninvited, mind, by my sister? Is a general officer’s lady to be treated in this way by a brevet- major’s wife? Though you are my senior in age, Emily, I am yours in 1? ° 298 rank. Out of any room in England, but this, I go before you! And if you have come uninvited all the way from Tours to insult me in my own house —”’ “ House, indeed! pretty house! Everybody else’s house as well as ours!” “Such as it is, I never asked you to come into it, Emily!” “QO yes! You wish me to go out in the night. Mac! I say!” i Emily ! !” cries the Generaless. “Mac, I say!” screams the Major- ess, flinging open the door of the salon, «y my sister wishes me to go. Do you hear me ?”’ “Au nom de Dieu, madame, pen- sez & cette pauvre petite, qui souffre a coté,”’ cries the mistress of the house, pointing to her own adjoining cham- ber, in which, we have said, our poor little Charlotte was lying. ““ Nappley pas Madamaselle Baynes petite, sivoplay!” booms out Mrs. Baynes’s contralto. “ MacWhirter, I say, Major Mac- Whirter !” cries Emily, flinging open the door of the dining-room where the two gentlemen were knocking their own heads together. ‘ Mac- Whirter! My sister chooses to in- sult me and say that a brevet-major’s wife— ”’ “By George! are you fighting, too 4 of asks the General. “ Baynes, Emily MacWhirter has insulted me!” cries Mrs. Baynes. “It seems to have been a settled thing beforehand,” yells the General. “Major MacWhirter has done the samé thing by me! that he is a gentleman, and that Tam.” “dle only insults you because he thinks you are his relative, and must bear everything from him, ps says the General’s wife. “By George! I will nor bear everything from him!” shouts the General. The two gentlemen and their two wives are squabbling in the hall. Madame and the servants are peering up from the kitchen-regions. I dare say the boys from the topmost THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. He has forgotten: banisters are saying to each other, “Row between Ma and Aunt Mac!” I dare say scared little Charlotte, in her temporary apartment, is, for a while, almost forgetful of her own grief ; and wondering what quarrel } is agitating her aunt and mother, her father and uncle? Place the remain- ing male and female boarders about. in the corridors and on the landings, in various attitudes expressive of in- terest, of satiric commentary, wrath at being disturbed by unseemly do- mestic “quarrel : —in what posture) you will. As for Mrs. Colonel) Bunch, she, poor thing, does not’ know that the General and her own Colonel: have entered on a mortal’ quarrel. She imagines the dispute is’ only between Mrs. Baynes and her| sister as yet; and she has known this’ pair quarreling for a score of years past. “ Toujours comme ga, fighting, vous savez, et puis make it up again. | Oui,” she explains to a French friend on the landing. In the very midst of this storm: Colonel Bunch returns, his friend and. second, Dr. Martin, on his arm. He does not know that two battles have | been fought since his own combat. His, we will say, was Ligny. Then) came Quatre-Bras, in which Baynes. and MacWhirter were engaged. Then came the general action of | Waterloo. And here enters Colonel. Bunch, quite unconscious of the great engagements which have taken place since his temporary retreat >| search of reinforcements. “How are you, MacWhirter 2”. cries the Colonel of the purple whiskers. ‘My friend, Dr. Mar- tin!” And as he addresses himself | to the General, his eyes almost start out of his head, as if they would shoot themselves into the breast | that officer. | “My dear, hush! Emily Mine Whirter, had we not better defer this. most painful dispute? The whole house is listening to us!” whispers the General, in a rapid low voice.} “Doctor — Colonel Bunch — Maj ¢ /MacWhirter, had we not better go ‘into the dining-room ?” , The General and the Doctor go - first, Major MacWhirter and Colonel » Bunch pause at the door. Says Bunch to MacWhirter : ‘‘ Major, you -act as the General’s friend in this _affair? It’s most awkward, but, by . George! Baynes has said things to -me that I won’t bear, were he my -own flesh and blood, by George! ' And I know him a deuced deal too _ well to think he will ever apologize !”’ » “ He has said things to Mg, Bunch, ' that I won’t bear from fifty brother- / in-laws, by George!” growls Mae- . Whirter. | “What? Don’t you bring me any » message from him ?” - “TJ tell you, Tom Bunch, I want » to send a message tohim. Invite me » to his house, and insult me and Emily ‘when wecome! By George, it makes _ my blood boil! Insult us after trav- / elling twenty-four hours in a con- founded diligence, and say we’re not ; Invited! He and his little catama- / ran.” “Hush!” interposed Bunch. “T say catamaran, sir! don’t tell me! They came and stayed with us » four months at Dumdum, — the chil- dren ill with the pip, or some con- founded thing, — went to Europe, and left me to pay the doctor’s bill; and i now, by —” - Was the Major going to invoke George, the Cappadocian champion, » or Olympian Jove? Atthis moment (a door, by which they stood, opens. / You may remember there were three ' doors, all on that landing; if you i doubt me, go and see the house _ (Avenue de Valmy, Champs Elysées, ' Paris). A.third door opens, and a » young lady comes out, looking very pale and sad, and her hair hanging over her shoulders ; — her _ hair, » which hung in rich clusters generally, _ but I suppose tears have put it all out of curl. -— “Tsit you, Uncle Mac? I thought _ Lknew your voice, and I heard Aunt -Emily’s,” says the little person. - a THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. gees, ty, P 299 4 Yes, it is:I, Chatley,” says Uncle Mac. And-he looks into the round ° face, which looks so wild and is so. full of grief unutterable that Uncle Mac is quite melted\\and takes the child to his arms, and\says, ‘‘ What is it, my dear?” And ‘he quite for- gets that he proposes tds,blow her father’s brains out in th@s morn; ing. “How hot your little hands are!” “Uncle, uncle!” she says, in a swift febrile whisper, “you ’re come to take me away, I know.. I heard you and papa, I heard mamma and Aunt Emily speaking quite loud! But if I go —1’11] — I'll never love any but him!” “ But whom, dear 2?” “But Philip, uncle.” “By George, Char, no more you shall!”’ says the Major. And here- with the poor child, who had been sit- ting up on her bed whilst this quar- relling of sisters, — whilst this brawl- ing of majors, generals, colonels, — whilst this coming of hackney- coaches, — whilst this arrival and de- parture of visitors on horseback, — had been taking place, gave a fine hysterical scream, and fell into her uncle’s arms laughing and crying wildly. This outcry, of course, brought the gentlemen from their adjacent room, and the ladies from theirs. “What are you making a fool of yourself about?” growls Mrs. Baynes, in her deepest bark. “By George, Eliza, you are too bad!” says the General, quite white. “Bliza, you are a brute!” cries Mrs, Mac Whirter. “So sue is!” shrieks Mrs. Bunch from the landing-place overhead, where other lady-boarders were as- sembled looking down on this awful family battle. Eliza Baynes knew she had gone too far. Poor Charley was scarce conscious by this time, and wildly screaming, “Never, never!” . +. . When, as I live, who should burst iv- to the premises but a young man with 500 fair hair, with flaming whiskers, with flaming eyes, who calls out, “ What is it 2 at am. here, Charlotte, Char- lotte !”’ Who is that young man? We had a glimpse of him, prowling about the Champs Elys¢ées just now, and dodg- ing behind a tree when Colonel Bunch went out in search of his second. Then the young man saw the Mac- Whirter hackney-coach approach the house. Then he waited and waited, looking to that upper window behind which we know his beloved was not reposing. Then he beheld Bunch and Doctor Martin arrive. Then he passed through the wicket into the “pad and heard Mrs. Mac and Mrs. Baynes fighting. Then there came from the passage — wheres you see, this battle was going on — that ringing dreadful laugh and scream of poor Charlotte; and Philip Firmin burst like a bombshell into the midst of the hall where the battle was raging, and of the family circle who were fighting and screaming. Here is a picture I protest. We haye — first, the boarders on the first landing, whither, too, the Baynes children have crept in their night- gowns. Secondly, we have Auguste, Francoise the cook, and the assistant coming up from the basement. And, third, we have Colonel Bunch, Doc- tor Martin, Major MacWhirter, with Charlotte in his arms; Madame, Gen- eral B., Mrs. Mac, Mrs. General B., all in the passage, when our friend the bombshell bursts in amongst them. “What is it? Charlotte, I am here!” cries Philip, with his great voice; at hearing which, little Char gives one final scream, and, at the next moment, she has fainted quite dead, — but this time she is on Philip’s shoulder. “You brute, how dare you do this?” asks Mrs. Baynes, glaring at the young man. “Tt is you who have Eliza!” says Aunt Emily. “ And so she has, Mrs. Mac Whir- done it, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ter!” calls out Mrs. Colonel Bunch, from the landing above. And Charles Baynes felt he had acted like a traitor, and hung down his head. He had encouraged his daughter to give her heart away, and she had obeyed him. When he saw Philip I think he was glad: so was the Major, though Firmin, to be sure, pushed him quite roughly up — | the wall. q “Is this vulgar scandal to go on | in the passage before the —— house?” gasped Mrs. Baynes. “Bunch brought me here to pre: | scribe for this young lady,” says little Doctor Martin, in a very courtly. way. “ Madame, ‘will you get a little | sal-volatile from Anjubeau’s in the | Faubourg; and let her be kept ej quiet !” “Come, Monsieur Philippe, it is” enough like that!” cries Madame, | who can’t repress a smile. ‘“ Come: | to your chamber, dear little !”’ fe | “Madame!” cries Mrs. Baynes, ‘une mere — ” Madame - shrugs shoulders. A her + ma | “Une mere, une belle mere, foi!”’ she says. “Come, mademoi- | selle ! 7’ ie There were only very few people i the boarding-house : if they aL = they saw, what happened, how can | we help ourselves? But that they | | had all been sitting over a powder- ° magazine, which might have blown | up and: destroyed one, two, three, five | people, even Philip did not know, until afterwards, when, laughing, » Major MacWhirter told him how that meek but most savage Baynes had — first challenged Bunch, had then chal- | lenged his “brother-in-law, and how | all sorts of battle, murder, sudden | death might have ensued ‘had the quarrel not come to an end. ae! Were your humble servant anxious | to harrow his reader’s feelings, or | display his own graphical powers, you understand that I never woul have allowed those two gallant office to quarrel and threaten each othet wiped out in blood. The Bois de Boulogne is hard by the Avenue de /Valmy, with plenty of cool fighting- ground. ‘The octrot officers never ‘stop gentlemen going out at the ‘neighboring barrier upon duelling ‘business, or prevent the return of the islain victim in the hackney-coach \when the dreadful combat is over. (From my knowledge of Mrs. Baynes’s jcharacter, I have not the slightest \donbt that she would have encouraged ‘her husband to fight; and, the Gen- feral down, would have put pistols into the hands of her boys, and bid- den them carry on the vendetia; but ‘as-I do not, for my part, love to see ‘brethren at war, or Moses and Aaron going to be no fight between the veterans, and that either’s stout old breast is secure from the fratricidal bullet. Major MacWhirter forgot all about bullets and battles when poor little the least jealous when he saw the ‘little maiden clinging on Philip’s arm. He was melted at the sight of that grief and innocence, when Mrs. (Baynes still continued to bark out her private rage, and said: “If the ‘General won’t protect me from insult, ‘I think I had better go.” “By Jove, I think you had lexckhaimed MacWhirter, to which remark the eyes of the Doctor ‘and Colonel Bunch gleamed an ap- ‘proval. )* Allons, Monsieur Philippe. Enough like that, — let me take her to bed again,’ Madame resumed. “Come, dear miss ! ” What a pity that the bedroom was ‘but a yard from where they stood! Philip felt strong enough to carry his little Charlotte to the Tuileries. The thick brown locks, which had fallen over his shoulders, are lifted ‘away. The little wounded heart that had laid against his own parts from him with a reviving throb. Madame and her mother carry away | ‘tugging white handfuls out of each | jother’s beards, I am glad there is | Charlotte kissed him, and was not in| | . . . night, where the rain was pouring, — THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. | 301 little Charlotte. The door of the neighboring chamber closes on her. The sad little vision has disappeared. The men, quarrelling anon in the passage, stand there silent. “T heard her voice outside,” said Philip, after a little pause (with love, with grief, with excitement, I sup- pose his head was ina whirl). “I heard her voice outside, and I could n’t help coming in.” “ By George, I should think not, young fellow!” says Major Mac- Whirter, stoutly shaking the young man by the hand. “ Hush, hush!” whispers the Doctor; “she must be kept quite quiet. She has had quite excite- ment enough for to-night. There must be no more scenes, my young fellow.” And Philip says, when’ in this agony of grief and doubt he found a friendly hand put out to him, he him- self was so exceedingly moved that he was compelled to fly out of the company of the old men, into the the gentle rain. While Philip, without Madame Smolensk’s premises, is saying his tenderest prayers, offering up his tears, heart-throbs, and most passion- ate vows of love for little Charlotte’s benefit, the warriors assembled with- in once more retreat to a colloquy in the salle-a-manger; and, in conse- quence of the rainy state of the night, the astonished Auguste has to bring a third supply of hot water for the four gentlemen attending the con- gress. The Colonel, the Major, the Doctor, ranged themselves on one side the table, defended, as it were, by a line of armed tumblers, flanked by a strong brandy-bottle and a stout earthwork, from an embrasure in which scalding water could be dis- charged.. Behind these fortifications the veterans awaited their enemy, who, after marching up and down the room for a while, takes position finally in their front and prepares to attack. The General remounts his 302 cheval de bataille, but cannot bring the animal to charge as fiercely as before. Charlotte’s white apparition has come amongst them, and flung her fair arms between the men of war. In vain Baynes tries to get up a bluster, and to enforce his passion with by Georges, by Joves, and words naugh- tier still. That weak, meek, quiet, henpecked, but most blood-thirsty old General found himself forming his own minority, and against him his old comrade Bunch, whom he ‘had in- sulted and nose-pulled ; his brother-in- law MacWhirter, whom he had nose- pulled and insulted ; and the Doctor, who had been called in as the friend of the former. As they faced him, shoulder to shoulder, each of those three acquired fresh courage from his neighbor. Each, taking his aim, deliberately poured his fire into Baynes. ‘To yield to such odds, on the other hand, was not so distaste- ful to the veteran as to have to give up his sword to any single adversary. Before he would own himself in the wrong to any individual, he would eat that individual’s ears and nose: but to be surrounded by three ene- mies, and strike your flag before such odds, was no disgrace; and Baynes could take the cireumbendi- bus way of apology to which some proud spirits will submit. could say to the Doctor, “ Well, Doctor, perhaps I was hasty in ac- cusing Bunch of employing bad language to me. A bystander can see these things sometimes when a principal is too angry; and as you vo against me — well —there, then, Task Bunch’s pardon.” That busi- ness over, the Mac Whirter reconcilia- tion was very speedily brought about. “Fact was, was in a confounded ill- temper, — very much disturbed by events of the day,—didn’t mean anything but this, that, and so forth.” If this old chief had to eat humble- pie, his brave adversaries were anx- ious that he should gobble up his portion as quickly as possible, and turned away their honest old heads as | breast-button of the old coat? THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Thus he | he swallowed it. One of the party told his wife of the quarrel which had. arisen, but Baynes never did. “I declare, sir,” Philip used to say, “ had she known anything about the quar. | rel that night, Mrs. Baynes would have made her husband turn out of - bed at midnight, and challenge his old friends over again!” But then there was no love between Philip and Mrs. Baynes, and in those whom he hates he is accustomed to see little’ good. . a Thus, any gentle reader who ex- pected to be treated to an account of | the breakage of the sixth command- ment will close this chapter disap- pointed. Those stout old rusty’ swords which were fetched: off their hooks by the warriors, their owners, were returned undrawn to their flan- nel cases. Hands were shaken after: a fashion, —at least no blood was: shed. But, though the words spoken between the old boys were civil enough, Bunch, Baynes, and the Doctor could not alter their opinion: that Philip had been* hardly used, ' and that the benefactor of his family merited a better treatment from Gen- eral Baynes. e | Meanwhile, that benefactor strode home through the rain in a state of perfect rapture. The rain refreshed him, as did his own tears. The dear- est little maiden had sunk for a mo- ment on his heart, and, as she lay there, a thrill of hope vibrate through his whole frame. Her fa- ther’s old friends had held out a hand. to him, and bid him not despair. Blow wind, fall autumn rains! In the midnight, under the gusty trees, amidst which the lamps of the éver- béres are tossing, the young fellow strides back to his lodgings. Heis poor and unhappy, but he has Hope along with him. He looks at a cer- tain breast-button of his old coat ere he takes it off to sleep. ‘‘ Her cheek was lying there,” he thinks, — “just there.” My poor little Charlotte: what could she have done to the |. CHAPTER XXVIII. ‘IN WHICH MRS. MACWHIRTER HAS t A NEW BONNET. Now though the unhappy Philip slept quite soundly, so that his boots, ‘those tramp-worn sentries, remained -en faction at his door until quite a _Jate hour next morning ; and though little Charlotte, after a prayer or two, sank into the sweetest and most re- freshing girlish slumber, Charlotte’s father and mother had a bad night; -and, for my part, I maintain that | they did not deserve a good one. It | was very well for Mrs. Baynes to de- _elare that it. was MacWhirter’s snor- five which kept them awake (Mr. and _Mrs. Mac being lodged in the bed- room over their relatives), —I don’t say a snoring neighbor is pleasant, »— but what a bedfellow is a bad con- ,science! Under Mrs. Baynes’s night- cap the grim eyes lie open all night ; (on Baynes’s pillow is a silent, wake- /ful-head that hears the hours toll. .“A-plague upon the young man!” ‘thinks the female bonnet de nuit; ‘“how dare he come in and disturb Meething 2 How pale Charlotte will look to-morrow when Mrs. Hely jealls with her son! When she has ‘been crying she looks hideous, and -her eyelids and nose are quite red. ‘She may fly out, and say something wicked and absurd, as she did to-day. ;IT wish I had never seen that insolent young man, with his carroty beard and vulgar blucher boots! If my boys were grown up, he should not )come hectoring about the house as he ee they would soon find a way of 1? ‘punishing his impudence Balked reyenge and a hungry disappoint- | ment, I think, are keeping that old ‘woman awake; and,if she hears the ‘hours tolling, it is because wicked thoughts make her sleepless. _ As for Baynes, I believe that old Man is awake because he is awake to ‘the shabbiness of his own conduct. ‘His conscience has got the better of him, which he has been trying to bully out of doors. Do what he will, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 803 that reflection forces itself upon him. Mac, Bunch, and the Doctor all saw the thing at once, and went dead against him. He wanted to break his word to a young fellow, who, whatever his faults might be, had acted most nobly and generously by the Baynes family. He might have been ruined but for Philip’s forbear- ance; and showed his gratitude by breaking his promise to the young fellow. He was a henpecked man, — that was the fact. He allowed his wife to govern him: that little old plain, cantankerous woman asleep yonder. Asleep was she? No. He knew she wasn’t. Both were lying quite still, wide awake, pursuing their dismal thoughts. Only Charles was owning that he was a sinner, whilst - Eliza his wife, in a rage at her last defeat, was meditating how she could continue and still win her battle. Then Baynes reflects how persever- ing his wife is; how, all through life, she has come back and back and back to her point, until he has ended by an almost utter subjugation. He will re- sist for a day: she will fight for a year, for a life. If once she hates people, the sentiment always remains with her fresh and lively. Her jeal- ousy never dies; nor her desire to rule. What a life she will lead poor Charlotte now she has declared against Philip! The poor child will be subject to a dreadful tyranny: the father knows it. As soon as_ he leaves the house on his daily walks the girl’s torture will begin. Baynes knows how his wife can torture a woman. As she groans out a hollow cough from her bed in the midnight, the guilty man lies quite mum undcr his own counterpane. If she fancies him awake, it will be Azs turn to re- ceive the torture. Ah, Othello mon ami! when you look round at mar- ried life, and know what you know, don’t you wonder that the bolster is not used a great deal more freely on both sides? Horrible cynicism! Yes, —Iknow. These propositions served’ raw are savage, and shock your sen- 504 sibility ; cooked with a little piquant sauce, they are welcome at quite po- lite tables. “Poor child! Yes, by George! What a life her mother will lead her!” thinks the General, rolling un- easy on the midnight pillow. “No rest for her, day or night, until she marries the man of her mother’s choosing. And she has a delicate chest, — Martin says she has; and she wants coaxing and soothing, and pretty coaxing she will have from mamma !” Then, I dare say, the past rises up in that wakeful old man’s uncomfortable memory. His little Charlotte is a child again, laughing on his knee, and _ playing with his accoutrements as he comes home from parade. He remembers the fever which she had, when she would take medicine from no other hand; and how, though silent with her mother, with him she would never tire of prattling, prattling. Guilt- stricken old man! are those tears trickling down thy old nose? It is midnight. We cannot see. When you brought her to the river, and parted with her to send her to Eu- rope, how the little maid clung to you, and cried, “ Papa, papa ! i: Staggering up the steps of the ghaut, how you wept yourself, — yes, wept tears of passionate, tender grief at parting with the darling of your soul. And now, deliberately, and for the sake of money, you stab her to the heart, and break your plighted honor to your child. “And it is yonder cruel, shrivelled, bilious, plain old woman who makes me do all this, and trample on my darling, and tor- ture her!” he thinks. In Zoffany’s famous picture of Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard as Macbeth and Lady Mac- beth, Macbeth stands in an attitude hideously contorted and constrained, while Lady Mac is firm and easy. Was this the actor’s art, or the poet’s device? Baynes is wretched, then. He is wrung with remorse, and shame, and pity. Well, I am elad of it. Old man, old man! how darest THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. thou to cause that child’s tender lit bosom to bleed? How bilious ] looks the next morning! I declar as yellow as his grim old w When Mrs. General B. hears the chi dren their lessons, how she will sco. them! It is my belief she will bark through the morning chapter, and scarce understand aword of its mean ing. As for Charlotte, when she aj pears with red eyes, and ever so litt e color in her round cheek, there is that. in her look and demeanor which warns her mother to refrain from too familiar abuse or scolding. The gi 4 is in rebellion. All day Char was in a feverish state, her eyes flashing | war. There was a song which Philip loved in those days: “the song of Ruth. Char sat down to the piano, and sang it with a strange ener i “Thy people shall be my people” she sang with all her heart — “ and thy God my God!” The slave had risen. The little heart was in arms and mutiny. The mother was scared by her defiance. Sor As for the guilty old father : Pie sued by the fiend remorse, he fled early from his house, and read all the papers at Galignani’s without cor ot expel them. ° Madly regardless of expense he then plunged into one of tho; luxurious restaurants in the Palais Royal, where you get soup, threé dishes, a sweet, and a ‘pint of delicious d wine for two frongs, by George! Bu all the luxuiies there presented to ce could not drive away care, or create appetite. Then the poor old wretch went off, and saw a ballet at the Grand Opera. In vain. The pink nymphs had not the slightest fascina-_ tion for him. He hardly was aware of their ogles, bounds, and capers. He saw a little maid with round, sad eyes : —his Iphigenia whom he was. stabbing. He took more brandy-and-_ water at cafés on his way home. 1 vain, in vain, I tell you! The old | wife was sitting up for him, scared at the unusual absence of her lord. 8. dared not remonstrate with him wh he returned. His face was pale. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. yes were fierce and bloodshot. When be General had a particular look, Tliza Baynes cowered in silence. Mac, he two sisters, and, I think, Colonel 3unch (but on this point my infor- gant, Philip, cannot be sure), were jaying a dreary rubber when the yeneral came in. Mrs. B. knew by jhe General’s face that he had been javing recourse to alcoholic stimulus. 3ut she dared not speak. A tiger in f jungle was not more savage than 3aynes sometimes. “ Where ’s Shar 2” he asked in his dreadful, his 3luebeard voice. ‘‘ Char was gone ‘o bed,” said Mamma, sorting her Tumps. “Hm! Augoost, Odevee, sho!” Did Eliza Baynes interfere, hough she knew he had had enough ? As soon interfere with a tiger, and jell him he had eaten enough Sepoy. ‘After Lady Macbeth had induced Mac fo go through that business with Dun- tan,‘ depend upon it she was very deferential and respectful to her gen- eral. No groans, prayers, remorses vould avail to bring his late Majesty back to life again. As for you, old man, though your deed is done, it is not past recalling. ‘Though you have withdrawn from your word on a sordid money pretext; made two hearts miserable, stabbed cruelly that one Which you love best in the world; acted with wicked ingratitude towards @ young man, who has been nobly iieeiving towards you and yours ; and are suffering with rage and remorse, as you own your crime to yourself ; — your deed is not past recalling as yet. ‘You may soothe that anguish, and dry those tears. It is but an act of resolution on your part, and a firm ‘resumption of your marital authority. Mrs. Baynes, after her crime, is quite humble and gentle. She has half ‘murdered her child, and _ stretched ‘Philip on an infernal rack of torture ; “but she is quite civil to everybody at ‘madame’s house. Not one word does she say respecting Mrs. Colonel ‘Bunch’s outbreak of the night before. ‘She talks to sister Emily about Paris, the fashions, and Emily’s walks on . | 305 the Boulevard and the Palais Royal with her Major. She bestows ghastly smiles upon sundry lodgers at table. She thanks Augoost when he serves her at dinner, — and says, “ Ah, ma- dame, que le boof est bong aujourdhui, rien que j’aime comme le potofou.” O you old hypocrite! But you know I, for my part, always disliked the wo- man, and said her good-humor was more detestable than her anger. You hypocrite!-I say again :— ay, and avow that there were other hypocrites at the table, as you shall presently hear. When Baynes got an opportunity of speaking unobserved, as he thought, to madame, you may be sure the guilty wretch asked her how his little Charlotte was. Mrs. Baynes trumped her partner’s best heart at that moment, but pretended to ob- serve or overhear nothing. “She goes better, —she sleeps,” Madame said. “Mr. the Doctor Martin has commanded her a calming potion.” And what if I were to tell you that somebody had taken a little letter from Charlotte, and actually had given fifteen sous to a Savoyard youth to convey that letter to some- body else? What if I were to tell you that the party to whom that let- ter was addressed straightway wrote an answer, — directed to Madame de Smolensk, of course? I know it was very wrong; but I suspect Philip’s prescription did quite as much good as Doctor Martin’s, and don’t intend to be very angry with madame for consulting the unlicensed practitioner. Don’t preach to me, madam, about morality, and’ dangerous examples set to young people. Even at your present mature age, and with your dear daughters around you, if your ladyship goes to hear the “ Barber of Seville,’ on which side are your sympathies, —on Dr. Bartolo’s, or Miss Rosina’s ? Although, then, Mrs. Baynes was most respectful to her husband, and by many grim blandishments, hum- ble appeals, and forced humiliations, Als 306 strove to conciliate and soothe him, the General turned a dark; lowering face upon the partner of his existence : her dismal smiles were no longer pleasing to him: he returned curt “Oh’s!” and “Ah’s!” to her re- marks. When Mrs. Hely and her son and her daughter drove up in their family coach to pay yet a sec- ond visit to the Baynes family, the General flew ina passion, and cried, “Bless my soul, Eliza, you can’t think of receiving visitors, with our poor child sick in the next room ? It’s inhuman!” The scared wo- man ventured on no remonstrances. She was so frightened that she did not attempt to scold the younger chil- dren. She took a piece of work, and sat amongst them, furtively weeping. Their artless queries and unseason- able laughter stabbed and punished the matron. You sce people do wrong, though they are long past fifty years of age. It is not only the schol- ars, but the ushers, and the head- master himself, who sometimes de- serve achastisement. I, for my part, hope to remember this sweet truth, though I live into the year 1900. To those other ladies boarding at madame’s establishment, to Mrs. Mac and Mrs. Colonel Bunch, though they had declared against him, and expressed their opinions in the frankest way on the night of the battle royal, the General was_provok- ingly polite and amiable. They had said but twenty-four hours since, that the General was a brute; and Lord Chesterfield could not have been more polite to a lovely young duchess than was Baynes to these matrons next day. You have heard how Mrs. Mac had a. strong desire to possess a new Paris bonnet, so that she might appear with proper lustre among the ladies on the promenade at Tours? Major and Mrs. Mac and Mrs. Bunch talked of going to the Palais Royal (where MacWhirter said he had remarked some uncommonly neat things, by George! at the corner shop under the glass gallery). On this, Baynes THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. started up, and said he would ac pany his friends, adding, “ You k Emily, I promised you a hat ev long ago!” And those four wi away together, and not one offer ¢ Baynes make to his wife to join thy party ; though her best bonnet, poo thing, was a dreadfully old perform ance, with moulting feathers, ram. pled ribbons, tarnished flowers, an¢ lace bought in St. Martin’s Alley months and months before. Emi to be sure, said to her sister, “ Kliza won’t you be of the party? We can take the omnibus at the corner, whick will land us at the very gate.” Bui as Emily gave this unlucky invita tion, the General’s face wore an ex: pression of ill-will so savage and ter: rific, that Eliza Baynes said, “No thank you, Emily ; Charlotte is still unwell and 1—I may be wanted ai home.” And the party went away without Mrs: Baynes ; and they wer absent I don’t know how long: and Emily MacWhirter came back to the boarding-house in a bonnet, —the sweetest thing you ever saw ! — green piqué velvet, with a ruche full of rose: buds, and a bird of paradise perched on the top, pecking at a bunch of the most magnificent grapes, poppies, ears of corn, barley, &c., all indica: tive of the bounteous autumn season. Mrs. General Baynes had to see her sister return home in this elegant bonnet; to welcome her; to acqui- esce in Emily’s remark that the Gen- eral had done the genteel thing; to hear how the party had. further been to Tortoni’s and had ices; and then to go up stairs to her own room, and look at her own battered, blowzy old chapeau, with its limp streamers, hanging from its peg. This humilia- tion, I say, Eliza Baynes had to bear in silence, without wincing, and, if possible, with a smile on her face. In consequence of circumstances before indicated, Miss Charlotte wa pronounced to be very much _ bette when her papa returned from his P: lais Royal trip: He found her sea on madame’s sofa, pale, but with the / mted sweetness in her smile. He | ssed and caressed her with many ader words. I dare say he told her ere was nothing in the world he yed so much as his Charlotte. He juld never willingly do anything to ye her pain, never! She had been good girl, and his blessing, all his e! Ah! that is a prettier little pic- re to imagine — that repentant ‘an, and his child clinging to him — fan the tableau overhead, viz. Mrs. aynes looking at her old bonnet. ot one word was said about Philip » the talk between Baynes and his aughter, but those tender paternal ‘oks and caresses carried hope into harlotte’s heart; and when her papa ent away (she said afterwards to a ‘male friend), “I got up and followed ‘m, intending to show him Philip’s tter. But at the door I saw mam- ‘acoming down the stairs; and she soked so dreadful, and frightened (eso, that I went back.” There are yme mothers I have heard of, who ‘on’t allow their daughters to read ie works of this humble homilist, “st they should imbibe “ dangerous ” tions, &c., &c. My good ladies, ive them “ Goody Twoshoes,” if you ke, or whatever work, combining in- ruction and amusement, you think 40st appropriate to their juvenile un- ‘erstandinys ; but I beseech you to be ‘entle with them. I never saw peo- le on better terms with each other, jore frank, affectionate, and cordial, aan the parents and the grown-up ‘oung folks in the United States. ind why? Because the children vere spoiled, to be sure! I say to ‘ou, get the confidence of yours, — efore the day comes of revolt and in- ‘ependence, after which love return- ‘th not. “Now, when Mrs. Baynes went in dher daughter, who had been sitting ‘retty comfortably kissing her father ‘n the sofa in madame’s chamber, all hose soft tremulous smiles and twink- ing dewdrops of compassion and ‘orgiveness which anon had come: to ‘oothe the little maid, fled from cheek THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 307 and eyes. They began to flash again with their febrile brightness, and her heart to throb with dangerous rapid- ity. ‘How are you now?” asks mamma with her deep voice. “Jam much the same,” says the girl, begin- ning to tremble. ‘ Leave the child ; you agitate her, madam,” cries the mistress of the house, coming in after Mrs. Baynes. That sad, humiliated, deserted mother goes out from her daughter’s presence, hanging her head. She put on the poor old bon- net, and had a walk that evening on the Champs Elysées with her little ones, and showed them Guignol: she gave a penny to Guignol’s man. It is my belief that she saw no more of the performance than her husband had seen of the ballet the night previ- ous, when Taglioni, and Noblet, and Duvernay, danced before his hot eyes. But then, you see, the hot eyes had been washed with a refreshing water since, which enabled them to view the world much more cheerfully and brightly. Ah, gracious Heaven gives us eyes to see our own wrong, how- ever dim age may make them; and. knees not too stiff to kneel in spite of years, cramp, and rheumatism! That stricken old woman, then, treated her children to the trivial comedy of Guig- nol. She did not cry out when the two boys climbed up the trees of the Elysian Fields, though the guardians bade them descend. She bought pink sticks of barley-sugar for the young ones. Withdrawing the glistening sweetmeats from their lips, they point- ed to Mrs. Hely’s splendid barouche as it rolled citywards from the Bois de Boulogne. The gray shades were falling, and Auguste was in the act of ringing the first dinner-bell at Ma- dame Smolensk’s establishment, when Mrs. General Baynes returned to her lodgings. Meanwhile Aunt MacWhirter had been to pay a visit to little Miss Char- lotte, in the new bonnet which the General, Charlotte’s papa, had bought for her. This elegant article had fur- nished a subject of pleasing conversa- 308 tion between niece and atint, who held each other in very kindly regard, and all the details of the bonnet, the blue flowers, scarlet flowers, grapes, sheaves of corn, lace, &c., were examined and admired in detail. Charlotte remem- bered the dowdy old English thing which Aunt Mac wore when she went out? Charlotte did remember the bonnet, and laughed when Mrs. Mac described how papa, in the hackney- coach on their return home, insisted upon taking the old wretch of a bon- net, and flinging it out of the coach window into the road, where an old chiffonnier, passing, picked it up with his iron hook, put it on his own head, and walked away grinning. I declare, at the recital of this narrative, Char- lotte laughed as pleasantly and happily as in former days; and no doubt, there were more kisses between this poor little maid and her aunt. Now, you will remark, that the General and his party, though they. returned from the Palais Royal in a hackney-coach, went thither on foot, two and two, — viz. Major Mac Whir- ter leading, and giving his arm to Mrs. Bunch (who, I promise you, knew the shops in the Palais Royal well), and the General following at some distance, with his sister-in-law for a partner. In that walk a conversation very important to Charlotte’s interests took place between her aunt and her father. “ Ah, Baynes! this is a sad busi- ness about dearest Char,” Mrs. Mac broke out with a sigh. “Tt is, indeed, Emily,” says the General, with a very sad groan on his part. “It goes to my heart to see you, Baynes; it goes to Mac’s heart. We talked about it ever so late last night. You were suffering dreadfully; and all the brandy-pawnee in the world won’t cure you, Charles.” “No, faith,” says the General, with a dismal screw of the mouth. “You see, Emily, to see that child suffer tears my heart out,—by George, it THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. - | foot-passenger, whom the Genera | ferule. a does. She has been the best chil and the most gentle, and the merries and the most obedient, and I ney had a word of fault to find with her and— poo-ooh!” Here the General’ eyes, which have been winking wit extreme rapidity, give way; an an. at the signal pooh! there issue ov from them two streams of that ey water which we have said is som times so good for the sight. a | ““My dear kind Charles, you wer always a good creature,” says Emily patting the arm on which hers rest Meanwhile Major-General Bayne C. B., puts his bamboo cane unde his disengaged arm, extracts from hi hind pocket a fine large yellow bar danna pocket-handkerchief, and pe forms a prodigious loud obligato,;= just under the spray of the Ronc point fountain, opposite the Bridge o the Invalides, over which poor Phili has tramped many and many a da and night to see his little maid. “ Have a care with your cane, ther old imbecile!” cries an approachin, meets and charges with his iro} Sed Tees “Mille pardong, mosoo; je vou demande mille pardong,” says the oli man, quite meekly. pa “You are a good soul, Charles, the lady continues; “and my littl Char is a darling. You never woul have done this of your own accord Mercy! And see what it was comin; to! Mac only told me last night You horrid, blood- thirsty creature Two challenges, — and dearest Maca hot as pepper! O Charles Baynes, | tremble when I think of the dange from which you have all been res cued! Suppose you brought homet Eliza, — suppose dearest Mac brough home to me killed by this arm 0! which I am leaning. O, it is dread ful, dreadful! We are sinners all that we are, Baynes!” see ‘If you had killed dear Mac, auld you ever have had rest again, arles ?” ‘No; I think not. verve it,’ answers nes. *You have a good heart. {you who did this. ss. She always had a dreadful aper. The way in which she used torture our poor dear Louisa who dead, I can hardly forgive now, jynes. Poor suffering angel! Eliza 's at her bedside nagging and tor- I should not the contrite It was -yants in India? The way in which e treated them was —”’ “Don’t say anymore. Iam aware my wife’s faults of temper. Heaven ows it has made me suffer enough!” wa. UWny, man,—do you intend to ve way to her altogether? the “ Army List” does n’t contain name of a braver man than harles Baynes, and is my sister liza to rule him entirely, Mac!’ I id. No, if you stand up to Eliza, I 1ow from experience she will give id hundreds, as you know, Baynes.” “Faith, I do,” owns the General, ‘ith a sad smile on his countenance. _“ And sometimes she has had the 4st and sometimes I ‘have had the ost, Baynes! But I never yielded, 3 you do, without a fight for my wn. No, never, Baynes! And me ad Mac are shocked, I tell you fairly, then we see the way in which you ive up to her!” “Come, come! I think you have did me often enough that I am hen- ‘ecked,”’ says the General. | “And you give up not yourself nly, Charles, but your dear, dear hild,— poor little suffering love!” “The young man’s a beggar!” ries the General, biting his lips. “What were you, what was Mac THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. I know who it | ving her up to the very last day. | 'd you ever see her with nurses and | : : f te 5 ys the General, hanging his head) I said | , Mac last night, ‘Mac, does he in- ad to give way to her altogether? ay. We have had quarrels, scores | 309 and me when we married? We hadn’t much beside our’ pay, had we? we rubbed on through bad weather and good, managing as best we could, loving each other, God be praised! And here we are, owing nobody anything, and me going to have a new bonnet!” and she tossed up her head, and gave her companion a good -natured look through her twinkling eyes. “Emily, you have a good heart ! that’s the truth,” says the General. “And you have a good heart, Charles, as sure as my name’s Mac- Whirter; and I want you to act up- on it, and I propose —”’ “ What?” “Well, I propose that—” But ' now they have reached the Tuileries earden gates, and pass through, and continue their conversation in the midst of such a hubbub that we can- not overhear them. They cross the garden, and so make their way into the Palais Royal, and the purchase of the bonnet takes place; and in the midst of the excitement occasioned ‘by that event, of course, all discus- sion of domestic affairs becomes unin- teresting. But the gist of Baynes’s talk with his sister-in-law may be divined from the conversation which presently oc- curred between Charlotte and her aunt. Charlotte did not come in to the public dinner. She was too weak for that; and ‘‘un bon bouillon” and a wing of fowl were served to her in the private apartment, where she had been reclining all day. At dessert, however, Mrs. MacWhirter took a fine bunch of grapes and a plump rosy peach from the table, and carried them to the little maid, and their in- terview may be described with. suffi- cient accuracy, though it passed with- out other witnesses. From the outbreak on the night of quarrels, Charlotte knew that her aunt was her friend. The glances of Mrs. MacWhirter’s eyes, and the ex- pression of her. bdnny, homely. face, told her sympathy to the girl. There 310 were no pallors now, no angry glances, no heart-beating. Miss Char could even make a little joke when her aunt appeared, and say, beautiful grapes! Why, aunt, you must have taken them out of the new bonnet.” “You should have had the bird of paradise, too, dear, only I see you have not eaten your chicken. She is a kind woman, Madame Smolensk. Llike her. She gives very nice din- ners. I can’t think how she does it for the money, I am sure!” “She has been very, very kind to me; and I love her with all my heart !”’ cries Charlotte. “Poor darling! We have all our trials, and yours have begun, my love!” “Yes, indeed, aunt!’ whimpers the young person ; upon which oscu- lation possibly takes place. “My dear! when your papa took me to buy the bonnet, we had a long talk, and it was about you.” “ About me, aunt?” warbles Miss Charlotte. “He would not take mamma; he would only go with me, alone. I knew he wanted to say something about you; and what do you think it was? My dear, you have been very much agitated here. You and your poor mamma are likely to disagree for some time. She will drag you to those balls and fine parties, and bring you those fine partners.” “QO, Lhate them!” cries Charlotte. Poor little Walsingham Hely, what had he done to be hated ? “Well. Itis not for me to speak of a mother to her own daughter. But vou know mamma has a way with her. She expects to be obeyed. She will give you no peace. She will come back to her point again and again. You know how she speaks of Some one —a certain gentleman 2 If ever she sees him, she will be rude to him. Mamma can be rude at times, —that I must say of my own sister. As long as you remain here —”’ THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. “ What}. Lose the chance of seeing her dear “O aunt, aunt! Don’t take ; away, don’t take me away!” ¢ Charlotte. o “My dearest, are you afraid your old aunt, and your uncle M who is so kind, and has always loy you? Major MacWhirter has ay of his own, too, though of cours¢ make no allusions. We know h admirably somebody has behavéd your family. Somebody who } been most ungratefully treated, thou of course I make no allusions. Ify have given away your heart to ¥g father’s greatest benefactor, do yop *, pose I and Uncle Mac will quar with you? When Eliza marr Baynes (your father was a pennil) subaltern, then, my dear, — and 4 sister was certainly neither a fortu nor a beauty) didn’t she go de against the wishes of our fathe Certainly she did! But she said § was of age,—that she was, and great deal more, too,— and she wot do as she liked, and she made Bayr marry her. Why should you afraid of coming to us, love? Y¥ are nearer somebody here, but ¢ you see him? Your mamma ¥ never let you go out, but she ¥ follow you like a shadow. You m write to him. Don’t tell me, chi Haven’t I been young myself; a when there was a difficulty betwe Mac and poor papa, did n't Mac wr to me, though he hates letters, pe dear, and certainly is a stick at ther And, though we were forbidden, h we not twenty ways of telegraphi to each other? Law! your pu dear grandfather was in such a re with me once, when he found o that he took down his great bug; whip to me, a grown girl!” | Charlotte, who has plenty of ] mor, would have laughed at this ¢ fession some other time, but now: was too much agitated by that invi tion to quit Paris, which her at had just given her. Quit Par’ friend, her protector? If he was 1 with her, was he not near her? Y ar her always! On that horrible sht, when all was so desperate, did t her champion burst forward to e rescue? O the dearest and west ! O .the tender and true! “You are not listening, you poor id!” said Aunt Mac, surveying her sce with looks of kindness. “‘ Now jen tome once more. Whisper!” id sitting down on the settee by sarlotte’s side, Aunt Emily first ised the girl’s round cheek, and 2m whispered into her ear. Never, I declare, was medicine so ‘éacious, or rapid of effect, as that pprous distilment which Aunt nily poured into her niece’s ear! J you goose!” she began by say- 2, and the rest of the charm she iispered into that pearly little pink ell round which Miss Charlotte’s ft brown ringlets clustered. Such sweet blush rose straightway to the eek! Such sweet lips began to y “O you dear, dear aunt,” and en began to kiss aunt’s kind face, at, I declare, if I knew the spell, I guld like to pronounce it right off, ‘th such a sweet young patient to actise on. “When do we go? imt, n’est-ce pas ? rong! never felt so well in my life! @ young person. . ““Doucement! Papa knows of the an. Indeed, it was he who pro- ysed it.” ‘“ Dearest, best father!” ejaculates dss Charlotte. “But mamma does not; mu show yourself very eager, Char- ‘tte, she may object, you know. eaven forbid that J should counsel Ssimulation to a child; but under ot hurt; and as for Baynes, I am are he would not hurt a fly. Never ‘as man more sorry. for what he done. He told me so whilst we falked away from the bonnet-shop, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. To-morrow, | O, I am quite | | Whirter went up in the most marked ll go and pack up this instant,” cries | glad to see you! Tours, mind, don’t forget my wile dil whilst he was carrying my old yellow. We met somebody near the Bourse. How sad he looked, and how hand- some, too! / bowed to him, and kissed my hand to him, that is, the knob of my parasol. Papa could n’t shake hands with him, because of my bonnet, you know, in the brown-pa- per bag. He has a grand beard, in- deed! He looked like a wounded lion. Isaid so to papa. And I said, ‘It is you who wound him, Charles Baynes!’ ‘I know that,’ papa said. ‘I have been thinking of it. I can’t sleep at night for thinking about it: and it makes me dee’d unhappy.’ You know what papa sometimes says ? Dear me! You should have heard them, when Eliza and I joined the army, years and years ago!” For once, Charlotte Baynes was happy at her father’s being unhappy. The little maiden’s heart had been wounded to think that her father could do his Charlotte a wrong. Ah! take warning by him, ye graybeards! And however old and toothless, if you have .done wrong, own that you have done so; and sit down and say grace, and mumble your humble-pie ! The General, then, did not shake hands with Philip; but Major Mac- way, and gave the wounded lion his own paw, and said, ‘Mr Firmin, If ever you come to and me. Fine day. Little patient much better! Bon courage, as they | say!” and if'| | Philip made of his correspondence | with the Pall Mall Gazette that night * _ Every man who lives by his pen, if by 'chance he looks back at his writings ‘e circumstances, my love — At of former years, lives in the past ast I own what happened between again. facandme. Law! / didn’tcare for | youth, our sorrows, our dear, dear ypa’s buggy-whip! I knew it would | friends, resuscitate. How we tingle IT wonder what sort of a bungle Our griefs, our pleasures, our with shame over some of those fine passages! How dreary are those disinterred jokes! It was Wednes- day night. Philip was writing off at home, in his inn, one of his grand 312 tirades, dated ‘ Paris, Thursday ” — so as to be in time, you understand, for the post of Saturday, when the little waiter comes and says, wink- ing, “ Again that lady, Monsieur Philippe!” “ What lady?” asks our own in- telligent correspondent. “That old lady who came the other day, you know.” “C’est moi, mon Madame Smolensk’s grave voice. ‘Here is a letter, d’- abord. But that says nothing. It was written before the grand nouvelle — the great news — the good news !”’ “ What good news ? ” asks the gen- tleman. “Tn two days miss goes to Tours with her aunt and uncle, — this good Macvirterre. places by the diligence of Lafitte and Caillard. They are thy friends. Papa encourages her going. Here is their ecard of visit. Go thou also; they will receive thee with open arms. What hast thou, my son?” Philip looked dreadfully sad. An injured and unfortunate gentleman at New York had drawn upon him, and he had paid away everything he had but four francs, and he was living on credit until his next remittance ar- rived. “'Thou hast no money! ami!” cries I have thought of it. Behold of it! Let him wait—the proprietor!” And she takes out a bank-note, which she puts in the young man’s hand. “Tiens, il Vembrasse encor c’te vieille!”’ says the little knife-boy. “ Jaimerai pas ¢a, moi, par examp!” SS Ses CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE DEPARTMENTS OF SEINE, LOIRE, AND STYX (INFERIEUR). Our dear friend Mrs. Baynes was suffering under the influence of one of those panics which sometimes seized her, and during which she re- mained her husband’s most obedient THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. well - known | They have taken their j Eliza and vassal. When Bayn wore a certain expression of counte: nance, we have said that his wite knew resistance to be useless. That expression I suppose he assumed, when he announced Charlotte’s de parture to her mother, and ordered Mrs. General Baynes to make the necessary preparations for the girl, “She might stay some time with her aunt,’ Baynes stated. “A change of air would do the child a great deal of good. Let everything necessary in the shape of hats, bonnets, winter clothes, and so forth, be got ready.” “Was Char, then, to stay away so long?” asked Mrs. B. ‘She has been so happy here that you want to ke@® her, and fancy she can’t be hap. py without you!” I can fancy the General grimly replying to the part ner of his existence. Hanging down her withered head, with a tear may: hap trickling down her cheek, I can fancy the old woman silently depart- ing to do the bidding of her lord, She selects a trunk out of the store of Baynes’s baggage. A young ‘as trunk was a trunk in those days. Now it is a two or three storied edifice of wood, in which two or three full: grown bodies of young ladies (without crinoline) might be packed. Isawa little old countrywoman at the Folke stone station last year with her travel: ling baggage contained in a bandbox tied up in an old cotton handkerchief! hanging on her arm ; and she surveyed Lady Knightsbridge’s twenty-three black trunks, each wellnigh as large as her Ladyship’s opera-box. Befor these great edifices that old womar stood wondering dumbly. That ol lady and I had lived in a time wher crinoline was not; and yet, I think| women looked even prettier in tha’ time than they do now. Well, 4 trunk and a bandbox were fetchec out of the baggage heap for littl Charlotte, and I dare say her litth brothers jumped and danced on thi box with much energy to make thi lid shut, and the General brought ou) his hammer and nails, and nailed rd on the box with “ Mademoiselle ‘aynes”’ thereon printed. And mam- ‘a had to look on and witness those eparations. And Walsingham He- i had called; and he would n’t ‘Il again, she knew; and that fair ‘ance for the establishment of her ‘ild was lost by the obstinacy of her fwilled, reckless husband. That oman had to water her soup with furtive tears, to sit of nights be- ‘ad hearts and spades, and brood ‘er her crushed hopes. If I contem- ate that wretched old Niobe much ager, I shall begin to pity her. yay, softness! Take out thy ar- vs, the poisoned, the barbed, the ‘akling, and prod me the old crea- re well, god of the silver bow! iza Baynes had to look on, then, ‘d see the trunks packed; to see ‘own authority over her own ‘fect delight and alacrity to go vay, without feeling a pang at leav- ya mother who had nursed her tough adverse illnesses, who had dided her for seventeen years. The General accompanied the tty to the diligence office. Little lar was very pale and melancholy leed when she took her place in % coupé. “She should have a mer: she had been ill, and ought ‘have a corner,” Uncle Mac said, Tcheerfully consented to be bodkin. ir three special friends are seated. i¢ other passengers clamber into wir places. Away goes the clatter- § team, as the General waves an eu to his friends.. ‘ Monstrous '@ horses those gray Normans; ‘nous breed, indeed,” he remarks to | wife on his return. “Indeed,” she echoes. “Pray, in ‘at part of the carriage was Mr. “min?” she presently asks. “In no part of the carriage at all!” /ynes answers fiercely, turning beet- it red. And thus, though she J been silent, obedient, hanging ‘head, the woman showed that she /S aware of her master’s schemes, 14 THE ADVENTUR ughter wrested away from her; to) » the undutiful girl prepare with | } os wip: _—"" ‘as and why her girl had been taken away. She knew; but she was beaten. It remained for her but to be silent and bow her head. I dare say she did not sleep one wink that night. . She followed the diligence in its journey. ‘‘Char is gone,” she thought. ‘ Yes; in due time he will take from me the obedience of my other children, and tear them out of my lap.” He—that is, the General — was sleeping meanwhile. He had had in the last few days four aw- ful battles, — with his child, with his friends, with his wife,—in which latter combat he had been conqueror. ‘No wonder Baynes was tired, and needed rest. Any one of those en- gagements was enough to weary the veteran. If we take the liberty of looking into double-bedded rooms, and _peer- ing into the thoughts which are pass- ing under private nightcaps, may we not examine the coupé of a jingling diligence with an open window, in which a young lady sits wide awake by the side of her uncle and aunt ? These perhaps are asleep ; but she is not. Ah! she is thinking of another journey ! that blissful one from Bou- logne, when he was there yonder in the imperial, by the side of the con- ductor. When the MacWhirter party had come to the diligence office, how her Jittle heart had beat! How she had looked under the lamps at all the people lounging about the court! How she had listened when the clerk called out the names of the passen- gers ; and, mercy, what a fright she had been in, lest he should be there after all, while she stood yet leaning on her father’s arm! But there was no — well, names, I think, need scarcely be mentioned. ‘There was no sign of the individual in question. Papa kissed her, and sadly said good by. Good Madame Smolensk came with an adieu and an embrace for her dear Miss, and whispered, “ Courage, mon enfant,” and then said, “ Hold, I have brought you some bonbons.” They were in a little packet. Little 314 Charlotte put the packet into her little basket. Away goes the dili- gence, but the individual had made no sign. Away goes the diligence; and every now and then Charlotte feels the little packet in her little basket. What does it contain — O, what ? If Char- lotte could but read with her heart, she would see in that little packet — the sweetest bonbon of all perhaps it might be, or, ah me! the bitterest almond! Through the night goes the diligence, passing relay after re- lay. Uncle Mac sleeps. I think I have said he snored. Aunt Mac is quite silent, and Char sits plaintively with her lonely thoughts and her bon- bons, as miles, hours, relays pass. “These ladies will they descend and take a cup of coffee, a cup of bou- illon?” at last cries a waiter at the coupé door, as the carriage stops in Orleans. “By all means a cup of coffee,” says Aunt Mac. “‘ The little Orleans wine is good,” cries Uncle | “ Descendons! ” ‘This way, “« Char- Mac. madame,” says the waiter. lotte my love, some coffee ? ” “J will —I will stay in the car- riage. I don’t want anything, thank you,” says Miss Charlotte. And the instant her relations are gone, enter- ing the gate of the “ Lion Noir,” where, you know, are the Bureaux des Messageries Lafitte, Caillard et Cie —I say, on the very instant when her relations have disappeared, what. do you think Miss Charlotte does * She opens that packet of bonbons with fingers that tremble — tremble so I wonder how she could undo the knot of the string (or do you think she had untied that knot under her shawl in the dark? I can’t say. We never shall know). Well; she opens the packet. She does not care one fig for the lollipops, almonds, and so forth. She pounces on a little scrap of paper, and is going to read it by the light of the steaming stable lan- terns, when—O, what made her start so? : In those old days there used to be THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. two diligences which travelled nigh ly to Tours, setting out at the sam hour, and stopping at almost th same relays. The diligence of Li titte and Caillard supped at the “ Lio! Noir,” at Orleans, — the diligence 0! the Messageries Royales aes: | the “ Ecu de France,” hard by. Al Well, as the Messageries Royak are supping at the “ cu de Frente a passenger strolls over from thi coach, and strolls and strolls unt) he comes to the coach of Lafitt Caillard, and Company, and to tl) coupé window where Miss Baynes | trying to decipher her bonbon, He comes up,—and as the nigh| lamps fall on his face and beard, —h rosy face, his yellow beard — ol) what means that scream of tl) young lady in: the coupe of Lafitt Caillard, et Compagnie! I decla) R | she has dropped the letter which’ sl! ‘was about to read. It has dropp! into a pool of mud under the di gence off fore-wheel. And he wii the yellow beard, and a sweet hap laugh, and a tremble in his de voice, says, “ You need not read } It was only to tell you what yc know.” s . Then the coupé window says, “| Philip! O my —” al My what? You cannot hear t words, because the gray Norm horses come squealing and clatreri up to their coach pole with such ¢ companying cries and imprecatio) from the horsekeepers and postilior that no wonder the little warble lost. It was not intended for y! and me to hear; but perhaps you ¢ guess the purport of the words. haps in quite old, old days, you my remember having heard such lit whispers, in a time when the sor birds in your grove carolled that ki of song very pleasantly and_ free) But this, my good madam, is Ww? ten in February. The birds are gor the branches are bare: the garde} has actually swept the leaves off walks: and the whole affair is) affair of a past year, you understa’ A! carpe diem, fugit hora, &c., &e. ‘ere, for one minute, for two min- s, stands Philip over the diligence _fore-wheel, talking to Charlotte the window, and their heads are te close — quite close. What are ise two pairs of lips warbling, whis- ing? “Hi! Gare! Ohé!” The tsekeepers, I say, quite prevent 1 from hearing; and here come ; passengers out of the “Lion ir,’ Aunt Mac still munching a at slice of bread-and-butter. Char- te is quite comfortable, and does ; want anything, dear aunt, thank a: Lhope she nestles in her cor- ;,and has a sweet slumber. On » journey the twin diligences pass a yrepass each other. Perhaps arlotte looks out of her window netimes and towards the other miage. I don’t know: It is a ig time ago. What used you to ‘mm old days, ere railroads were, d@ when diligences ran? They re slow enough: but they have got their journey’s end somehow. ley were tight, hot, dusty, dear, y, and uncomfortable; but, for that, travelling was good sport netimes. And if the world would ve the kindness to go back for five dtwenty or thirty years, some of who have travelled on the Tours d Orleans Railway very comfort- ly would like to take the diligence urmey now. Having myself seen the city of ours only last year, of course I m’t remember much about it. m remembers boyhoed, and the $t sight of Calais, and so forth. id th the world, to see a new town is be introduced to Jones. He is ‘e Brown; he is not unlike Smith. a little while you hash him up th Thompson. I dare not be par- jular, then, regarding Mr. Firmin’s e at Tours, lest I should make pographical errors, for which the itical schoolmaster would justly in- *t chastisement. In the last novel I ad about Tours there were blunders A! | it after much travel or converse | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 315 from the-effect of which you know the wretched author never recovered. It was by one Scott, and had young Quentin Durward for a hero, and Isa- bel de Croye for a heroine; and she sat,in her hostel, and sang, ‘“ Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh.” A pretty ballad enough: but what ignorance, my dear sir! What de- scriptions of Tours, of Liége, are in that fallacious story! Yes, so falla- cious and misleading, that I remem- ber I was sorry, not because the description was unlike Tours, but because Tours was unlike the descrip- tion. So Quentin Firmin went and put up at the snug little hostel of the “Faisan”; and Isabel de Baynes took up her abode with her uncle the Sire de MacWhirter; and I believe Master Firmin had no more money in his pocket than the Master Dur- ward whose story the Scottish novel- ist told some forty years since. And I cannot promise you that our young English adventurer shall marry a noble heiress of vast property, and engage the Boar of Ardennes in a hand-to-hand combat; that sort of Boar, madam, does not appear in our modern drawing-room histories. Of others, not wild, there be plenty. They gore you in clubs. They seize you by the doublet, and pin you against posts in public streets. They run at you in parks. I have seen them sit at bay after dinner, ripping, gashing, tossing, a whole company. These our young adventurer had in good sooth to encounter, as is the case with most knights. Wohoescapes them? JI remember an eminent per- son talking to me about bores for two hours once. O you stupid eminent person! You never knew that you yourself had tusks, little eyes in your hure; a bristly mane to cut into tooth-brushes ; and a curly tail! I have a notion that the multi- tude of bores is enormous in the world. If a man is a bore himself, when he is bored,—and you can’t deny this statement, — then what am 316 J, what are you, what your father, grandfather, son, — all your amiable acquaintance in a word? Of this I am sure. Major and Mrs. Mac Whir- ter were not brilliant in conversation. What would you and I do, or say, if we listen to the tittle-tattle of Tours. How the clergyman was certainly too fond of cards, and going to the cafe ; how the dinners those Popjoys gave were too absurdly ostentatious; and Popjoy, we know, in the Bench last year. How Mrs. Flights, gomg on with that: Major of French Carabi- niers, was really too, &c., &e. ‘How could I endure those people ?”’ Philip would ask himself, when talking of that personage in after days, as he loved, and loves to do. ‘‘ How could I endure them, I say? Mac was a good man; but I knew secretly in my heart, sir, that he was a bore. Well. I loved him. I liked his old stories. I liked his bad old dinners: there is a very comfortable Touraine wine, by the way,—a very warming little wine, sir. Mrs. Mac you never saw, my good Mrs. Pendennis. Be sure of this, you never would have liked her. Well, IL did. I liked her house, though it was. damp, in a damp garden, frequented by dull people. I should like to go and see that old- house now. Iam perfectly happy with my wife, but I sometimes: go away from her to enjoy the luxury of living over our old days again. With nothing in the world but an al- lowance which was precarious, and had been spent in advance; with no particular plans for the future, and a few five-frane pieces for the present, — by Jove, sir, how did I dare to be so happy? What idiots we were, my love, to be happy at all! We were mad to marry. Don’t tell me: with a purse which didn’t contain three months’ consumption, would we dare to marry now? We should be put into the mad ward of the work- house: that would be the only place for us. Talk about trusting in Heav- en. Stuff and nonsense, ma’am! I have as good a right to go and buy a THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. | Philip’s was a little bill, but he pa house in Belgrave Square, and tru to Heaven for the payment, as | to marry when I did. We we paupers, Mrs. Char, and you kno that very well!” a “OQ yes. We were very wrong very!” says Mrs. Charlotte, lool in up to her chandelier (which, by 1 way, is of very handsome Venetia) old glass). ‘“ We were very wroh were not we, my dearest?” Ay) herewith she will begin to kiss an fondle two or more babies that di port in her room,—as if two ¢ more babies had anything to do wi Philip's argument, that a man I no right to marry who has no pret! well-assured means of keeping | wife. ae Here, then; by the banks of Loir, although Philip had but a very fe) francs in his pocket and was obligy to keep a sharp lookout on his e penses at the Hotel of the “ Golde Pheasant,” he passed a fortnight ¢ such happiness as I, for my par wish to all young folks. who read h) veracious history. Though he wi so poor, and ate and drank so mode: ly in the house, the maids, waite the landlady of the ‘‘ Pheasant,” w: as civil to him, — yes, as civil as thi were to the gouty old Marchioness (| Carabas herself, who stayed here ( her way to the south, oceupied grand apartments, quarrelled wi) her lodging, dinner, breakfast, brea and-butter in general, insulted t. landlady ‘in bad French, and on paid her bill under compulsio " it cheerfully. He gave only a sm: gratuity to the servants, but he w kind and hearty, and they knew | was poor. “He was kind and hear! I suppose, because he was so hapy) I have known the gentleman to be no means civil; and have heard hi storm, and hector, and browbeat lar) lord and waiters, as fiercely as t Marquis of Carabas himself. B now Philip the Bear was the m¢ gentle of bears, because his Charlotte was leading him. — THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 317 Away with trouble and doubt, with queamish pride and gloomy care! *hilip had enough money for a fort- ight, during which Tom Glazier, of ‘he Monitor, promised to supply Phil- o’s letters for the Pall Mall Gazette. All the designs of France, Spain, Xussia, gave that idle “own corre- pondent ” not the slightest anxiety. n the morning it was Miss Baynes ; 1 the afternoon it was Miss Baynes. At six it was dinner and Charlotte ; t nine it was Charlotte and tea. “Anyhow, love- making does not poil his appetite,” Major Mac Whirter correctly remarked. Indeed, Philip ad a glorious appetite; and health loomed in Miss Charlotte’s cheek, ‘nd beamed in her happy little heart. Jr. Firmin, in the height of his prac- ice, never completed a cure more ‘kilfally than that which was _per- ormed by Dr. Firmin, junior. “TY ran the thing so close, sir,” I ‘emember Philip bawling out, in his sual energetic way, whilst describ- ng this period of his life’s greatest jappiness to his biographer, “ that ‘came back to Paris outside the dili- fence, and had not money enough to line on the road. But-I bought a jausage, sir, and a bit of bread, — md a brutal sausage it was, sir, — ind Ireached my lodgings with ex- cetly 3ontemps himself was not more con- ent than our easy philosopher. ~$o Philip and Charlotte ratified and sealed a treaty of Tours, which they determined should never be wroken by either party. Marry with- out papa’s consent ? O, never! Marry anybody but Philip? 0, vever — never! Not if she lived to ve a hundred, when Philip would in sonsequence be in his hundred and foam or tenth year, would this young Joan have any but her present Dar- yy.. Aunt Mac, though she may not lave been the most accomplished or lighly bred of ladies, was a warm- iearted and affectionate aunt Mac. She caught in a mild form the fever big these young people. She had | od two sous in my pocket.” Roger. not much to leave,and Mac’s relations would want all he could spare when he was gone. But Charlotte should have her garnets, and her teapot, and her India shawl, — that she should.* And with many blessings this en- thusiastic old lady took leave of her future nephew-in-law when he re- turned to Paris and duty. Crack your whip and scream your fz! and be off quick, postilion and diligence! Iam glad we have taken Mr, Firmin out of that dangerous, lazy, love-making place! Nothing is to me so sweet as sentimental writing. I could have written hundreds of pages describing Philip and Charlotte, Charlotte and Philip. But a stern sense of duty intervenes. My modest Muse puts a finger on her lip, and says, “‘ Hush about that business!” Ah, my worthy friends, you little know what soft-hearted people those cynics are! If you could have come on Diogenes by surprise, I dare say you might have found him reading sentimental novels and whimpering in his tub. Philip shall leave his sweetheart and go back to his business, and we will not have one word about tears, promises, raptures, parting. Never mind about these sentimentalities, but please, rather, to depict to yourself our young fellow so poor that when the coach stops for dinner at Orleans he can only afford to purchase # penny-loaf and a sausage for his own hungry cheek. When he reached the “ Ho- tel Poussin” with his meagre carpet- bag, they served him a supper which he ate to the admiration of all be- holders in the little coffee-room. He was in great spirits and gayety. He did not care to make any secret of his poverty, and how he had been un- able ‘to afford to pay for dinner. Most of the guests at ‘Hotel Poussin ” knew what it was to be poor. Often *JI am sorry to say that in later days, after Mrs. Major be A bee | decease, it was found that she had promised these treas- ures in writing to several members of her husband’s family, and that much heart-burn- ing arose in consequence. But our story has nothing to do with these painful disputes. 318 and often they had dined on credit when they put back their napkins into their respective pigeon-holes. But my landlord knew his guests. They were poor men, — honest men. They paid him in the end, and each could help his neighbor in a strait. After Mr. Firmin’s return to Paris, he did not care for a while to go to the Elysian Fields. They were not Elysian for him, except in Miss Charlotte’s company. He resumed his newspaper correspondence, which occupied but a day in each week, and he had the other six, —nay, he scribbled on the seventh day likewise, and covered immense sheets of letter- paper with remarks upon all man- ner of subjects, addressed to a certain Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle Baynes, chez M. le Major Mac, &c. On these sheets of paper Mr. Firmin could talk so long, so loudly, so fervently, so eloquently to Miss Baynes, that she was never tired of hearing, or he of holding forth. He began imparting his dreams and his earliest sensations to his beloved before breakfast. At noonday he gave her his opinion of the contents of the morning papers. His packet was ordinarily full and brimming over by post-time, so that his expressions of love and fidelity leaked from under the cover, or were squeezed into the queerest corners, where, no doubt, it was a delightful task for Miss Baynes to trace out and detect those little Cupids which a faithful lover despatched to her. It would be, “I have found this little corner unoccupied. Do you know what I have to say in it? O Char- lotte, I,” &c., &c. My sweet young lady, you can guess, or will one day guess, the rest; and will receive such dear, delightful, nonsensical double letters, and will answer them with that elegant propriety which I have no doubt Miss Baynes showed in her replies. Ah! if all who are writing and receiving such letters, or who have written and received such, or who remember writing and receiving such letters, would order a copy. of seers THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. this novel from the publishers, wl reams, and piles, and pyramids paper our ink would have to blacke Since Charlotte and Philip had be engaged to each other, he had sear ly, except in those dreadful, ghas days of quarrel, enjoyed the Nes of absence from his soul’s blessing, | the exquisite delights of writing, her. He could do few things — moderation, this man, — and of ti delightful privilege of writing to Ch) lotte he now enjoyed his heart’s fill After brief enjoyment of the wee of this rapture, when winter was co} on Paris, and icicles hung on 1 bough, how did it happen that o day, two days, three days passed, a) the postman brought no little letter the well-known little handwriting 4 Monsieur, Monsieur Philip Fide Paris? Three days, four days, a no letter. O torture, could she beil Could her aunt and uncle have tui ed against her, and forbidden her: write, as her father and mother h done before? O grief, and sorro and rage! As for jealousy, © leonine friend never knew such| passion. It never entered into | lordly heart to doubt. of his lit: maiden’s love. But still four, fi days have passed, and not one wo has come from Tours. The lit! “‘ Hdtel Poussin” was in a commotic I have said that when our friend f any passion very strongly he was st to speak of it. Did Don Quixc lose any opportunity of declaring the world that Dulcinea del To was peerless among women? —[ not Antar baw! out in battle, “Te the lover of Ibla?”’ Our knight h taken all the people of the hotel ir his confidence somehow. They — knew of his condition, —all, t painter, the poet, the half-pay Poli officer, the landlord, the hostess, do to the little knife-boy who used come in with, “The factor comes of pass, — no letter this morning.” — No doubt Philip’s political lett became, under this outward pressu very desponding and gloomy. 0 Ne ces ee ace ae a ooh day, as he sat gnawing his mustaches at his desk, the little Anatole enters his apartment and cries, “ Tenez, M. ‘Philippe. That lady again!” And the faithful, the watchful, the active ‘Madame Smolensk once more made her appearance in his chamber. Philip blushed and hung his head for shame. ‘“ Ungrateful brute that Iam,” he thought; “I have been ‘back more than a week, and never thought a bit about that good, kind ‘soul who came to my succor. I ‘am an awful egotist. Love is always So." As he rose up to greet his friend, ‘she looked so grave, and pale, and ‘sad, that he could not but note her ‘demeanor. ‘Bon Dieu! had any- ‘thing happened ? ” ' “Ce pauvre Général is ill, very ill, ‘Philip,’ Smolensk said, in her grave “voice. _. He was so gravely ill, madame ‘said, that his daughter had been sent ‘for. “Had she come?” asked Philip, with a start. | “You think but of her, — you care not for the poor old man. You are ‘all the same, you men. All egotists, ‘—all. Go! I know you! I never ‘knew one that was not,” said Ma- dame. Philip has his little faults : perhaps egotism is one of his defects. Perhaps /it is yours, or even mine. _ “You have been here a week since ' Thursday last, and you have never ‘ written or sent to a woman who loves ‘you well. Go! It was not well, Monsieur Philippe.” __ As soon as he saw her, Philip felt ‘that he had been neglectful and un- grateful. We have owned so much already. But how should madame know that he had returned on Thurs- day week? When they looked up after her reproof, his eager eyes seemed ' to ask this question. “Could she not write to me and tell me that you were come back ? Perhaps she knew that you would not do so yourself. A woman’s heart, THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 319 teaches her these experiences early,” continued the lady, sadly ; then she added : “I tell you, you are. good-for- nothings, all of you! And I repent me, see you, of having had the bétise to pity you!” “T shall have my quarter’s pay on Saturday. I was coming to you then,” said Philip. “Was it that I was speaking of? What ! you are all cowards, men all! O, that I have been beast, beast, to think at last I had found a man of heart !.”’ How much or how often this poor Ariadne bad trusted and been for- saken, I have no means of knowing, or desire of inquiring. Perhaps it is as well for the polite, reader, who is taken into my entire confidence, that we should not know Madame de Smolensk’s history from the first page to the last. Granted that Ari- adne was deceived by Theseus: but then she consoled herself, as we may all read in “ Smith’s Dictionary ”; and then she must have deceived her father in order to run away with The- seus. I suspect —I suspect, I say, that these women who are so very much betrayed, are — but we are speculating on this French lady’s an- tecedents, when Charlotte, her lover, and her family are the persons with whom we have mainly to do. These two, I suppose, forgot self, about which each for a moment had been busy, and Madame resumed . — “Yes, you have reason; Miss is here. It was time. Hold! Here is a note from her.” And Philip’s kind mes- senger once more put a paper into his hands. “ My dearest father is very, very ill. O Philip! I am so unhappy ; and he is so good, and gentle, and kind, and loves me so!” “Tt is true,’ Madame resumed. “Before Charlotte came, he thought only of her. When his wife comes up to him, he turns from her. I have not loved her much, that lady, that is true. But -to see her now, it is nayrant. He will take no medicine 320 from her. He pushes her away. Be- fore Charlotte came, he sent for me, and spoke as well as his poor throat would let him, this poor General ! His daughter’s arrival seemed to com- fort him. But he says, ‘Not my wife! not my wife!’ And the poor thing has to go away and cry in the chamber at the side. He says —in his French, you know — he has never been well since Charlotte went away. He has often been out. He has dined but rarely at our table, and there has always been a silence between him and Madame la Générale. Last week he had a great inflammation of the chest. Then he took to bed, and Monsieur the Docteur came, — the lit- tle doctor whom you know. Thena quinsy has declared itself, and he now is scarce able to speak. His condition is most grave. He lies suffering, dy- ing, perhaps, — yes, dying, do you hear? And you are thinking of your little school-girl! Men are all the same. Monsters! Go!” Philip, who, I have said, is very fond of talking about Philip, surveys his own faults with great magnanim- ity and good-humor, and acknowl- edges them without the least intention to correct them. ‘“ How selfish we are!” I can hear him say, looking at himself in the glass. ‘ By George! sir, when I heard simultaneously the news of that poor old man’s illness, and of Charlotte’s return, I felt that I wanted to see her that instant. I must go to her, and speak to her. The old man and his suffering did not seem to affect me. It is humili- ating to have to own that we are self- ish beasts. But we are, sir, — we are brutes, by George! and nothing else.’ —And he gives a finishing twist to the ends of his flaming mustaches as he surveys them in the glass. Poor little Charlotte was in such affliction that of course she must have Philip to console her at once. No time was to be lost. Quick! a cab this moment: and, coachman, you shal have an extra for drink if you go quick to the Avenue de Valmy! sentinel outside the sick - chamber. _ THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. ‘day the inflammation had increased ; ——— --- ———-- Madame puts herself into the carriage, and as they go along, tells Philiz more at length of the gloomy occur: rences of the last few days. Fou days since the poor General was sq bad with his quinsy that he thought he should not recover, and Charlotte| was sent for. He was a little better) on the day of her arrival; but yester- | he could not swallow ; he could not speak audibly ; he was in very great suffering and danger. He turned away from his wife. The unhappy Generaless had been to Madame Bunch in her tears and grief, com- plaining that after twenty years’ fide ity and attachment her husband had withdrawn . his regard from _her.| Baynes attributed even his illness to his wife; and at other times said it) was a just punishment for his wicked, conduct in breaking his word to Philip, and Charlotte. If he did not see his, dear child again he must beg her for-) giveness for having made her suffer’ so. He had acted wickedly and un-. gratefully, and his wife had forced: him to do what he did. He prayed, that Heaven might pardonhim. And) he had behaved with wicked injustice towards Philip, who had acted mosé. generously towards his family. And! he had been a scoundrel, — he knew. he had, —and Bunch, and Mae Whir- | ter, and the Doctor all said so, — and. it was that woman’s doing. And he pointed to the scared wife as he pain. fully hissed out these words of anger and contrition : — “ When I saw thai child ill, and almost made mad, be- cause I broke my word, I felt I was a scoundrel, Martin; and I was; and) that woman made me so; and I de- serve to be shot; and I sha’ n’t re- cover; I tell you I sha’ n’t.” Dae) z Martin, who attended the General, _ thus described his patient’s last talk | and behavior to Philip. Z| It was the doctor who sent ma-. dame in quest of the young man. He | found poor Mrs. Baynes with hot, | tearless eyes and livid face, a wretched ( THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. “Yon will find General Baynes very ill, sir,” she said to Philip with a ghastly calmness, and a gaze he could scarcely face. ‘My daughter is in the room with him. It appears LThave offended him, and he refuses toseeme.” Andshe squeezed a dry handkerchief which she held, and put on her spectacles again, and tried again to read the Bible in her lap. Philip hardly, knew the meaning of Mrs. Baynes’s words as yet. He was agitated by the thought of the 'General’s illness, perhaps by the no- tion that the beloved was so near. ‘Her hand was in his a moment after- wards; and, even in that sad cham- ‘ber, each could give the other a soft pressure, a fond, silent signal of mu- ‘tual love and faith. The poor man laid the hands of ‘the young people together, and his ‘own upon them. The suffering to ‘which he had put his daughter seemed ‘to be the crime which specially af- fected him. He thanked Heaven he ‘was able to see he was wrong. He ‘whispered to his little maid a prayer for pardon in one or two words, which caused poor Charlotte to sink on her knees and cover his fevered hand with tears and kisses. Out of all her heart she forgave him. She had felt that the parent she loved and was accustomed to honor had been mer- eenary and cruel. It had wounded ‘her pure heart to be obliged to think that her father could be other than ‘generous, and just,and good. That ‘he should humble himself before her ‘smote her with the keenest pang of ‘tender commiseration. I do not care ‘to pursue this last scene. Let us ‘close the door as the children kneel by the sufferer’s bedside, and to the ‘old man’s petition for forgiveness, ‘and to the young girl’s sobbing vows of love and fondness, say a reverent Amen. _ By the following letter, which he “wrote a few days before the fatal ter- ‘Mination of his illness, the worthy General, it would appear, had already ‘despaired of his recovery : — My dear 14 * 321 Mac, — I speak and breathe with such difficulty as I write this from my bed, that I doubt whether I shall ever leave it. Ido not wish to vex poor Eliza, and in my state cannot enter into dis- putes which I know would ensue regarding settlement of property. When I left England there was a claim hanging over me (young Fir- min’s) at which I was needlessly frightened, as having to satisfy it - would swallow up much more than everything I possessed in the world. Hence made arrangements for leaving everything in Eliza’s name and the children after. Will with Smith and Thompson, Raymond Buildings, Gray’s Inn. Think Char won’t be happy for a long time with her mother. To break from F., who has been most generous to us, will break her heart. Will you and Emily keep her for a little? I gave F’. my promise. As you told me, I have acted ill by him, which I own and deeply lament. - If Char marries, she ought to have her share. May God bless her, her father prays, in case he should not see her again. And with best love to Emily, am yours, dear Mac, sincerely, — CHARLES BAYNES. On the receipt of this letter, Char- lotte disobeyed her father’s wish, and set forth from Tours instantly, un- der her worthy uncle’s guardianship. The old soldier was in his comrade’s room when the General put the hands of Charlotte and her lover together. He confessed his fault, though it is hard for those who ex- pect love and reverence to have to own to wrong and to ask pardon. Old knees are stiff to bend : brother reader, young or old, when our last hour comes, may ours have grace to do so. —¢—— CHAPTER XXX. RETURNS TO OLD FRIENDS. Tue three old comrades and Philip formed the little mourning procession 322 which followed the General to his place of rest at Montmartre. When the service has been read, and the last volley has been fired over the buried soldier, the troops march to quarters with a quick step, and to a lively tune. Our veteran has been laid in the grave with brief ceremonies. We do not even prolong his obsequies withasermon. His place knows him no longer. There are a few who re- member him: a very, very few who grieve for him, —so few that to think of them is a humiliation almost. The sun sets on the earth, and our dear brother has departed off its face. Stars twinkle; dews fall; children go to sleep in awe and maybe tears ; the sun rises on a new day, which he has never seen, and children wake hungry. They are interested about their new black clothes, perhaps. They are presently at their work, plays, quarrels. They are looking forward to the day when the holidays will be over, and the eyes which shone here yesterday so kindly are gone, gone, gone. A drive to the cemetery, followed by a coach with four acquaint- ances dressed in decorous black, who separate and go to their homes or clubs, and wear your crape for a few days after,—can most of us expect much more? The thought is not en- nobling or exhilarating, worthy sir. And, pray, why should we be proud of ourselves? Is it because we have been so good, or are so wise and great, that we expect to be beloved, lamented, re- membered? Why, great Xerxes or blustering Bobadil must know in that last hour and resting-place how abject, how small, how low, how lonely they are, and what a little dust will cover them. Quick, drums and fifes, a lively tune! Whip the black team, coachman, and trot back to town again, —to the world, and to busi- ness, and duty! . I am for saying no single unkind- ness of General Baynes which is not forced upon me by my story-teller’s office. We know from Marlbor- ough’s story that the bravest man THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. and greatest military genius is not always brave or successful in his bat- tles with his wife; that some of the’ greatest warriors have committed er-! rors in accounts and the distribution’ of meum and tuum. We can’t dis- guise from ourselves the fact that Baynes permitted himself to be mis- led, and had weaknesses not quite consistent with the highest virtue. | When he became aware that his carelessness in the matter of Mrs.) Firmin’s trust-money had placed him} in her son’s power, we have seen how) the old General, in order to avoid be- ing called to account, fled across the. water with his family and all his lit- tle fortune, and how terrified he was’ on landing on a foreign shore to find’ himself face to face with this dread-| ful creditor. Philip’s renunciation of | all claims against Baynes soothed and pleased the old man wonderfully. | But Philip might change his mind, | an adviser at Baynes’s side repeatedly urged. To live abroad was cheaper: and safer than to live at home. Ac- cordingly Baynes, his wife, family, | and money, all went into exile, and. remained there. L: What savings the old man had I. don’t accurately know. He and his. wife were very dark upon this subject’ with Philip: and when the General died, his widow declared herself to be. almost a pauper! It was impossible | that Baynes should have left much | money; but that Charlotte’s share, should have amounted to— that sum. which may or may not presently be: stated — was alittle too absurd! You: see Mr. and Mrs. Firmin are travel-_ ling abroad just now. When I wrote! to Firmin, to ask if I might mention the amount of his wife’s fortune, he’ gave me no answer; nor do I like to enter upon these matters of calcula-. tion without his explicit permission. | He is of a hot temper; he might, on | his return, grow angry with the friend | of his youth, and say, “ Sir, how dare | you to talk about my private affairs? and what has the public to do with Mrs. Firmin’s private fortune?” THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. When, the last rites over, good- matured uncle Mac proposed to take Charlotte back to Tours her mother made no objection. ‘The widow had tried to do the girl such an injury, that perhaps the latter felt for- igiveness was impossible. Little ‘Char loved: Philip with ali her heart ‘and strength; had been authorized and encouraged to do so, as we have seen. To give him up now, because ‘aricher suitor presented himself, was ‘an act of treason from which her faith- ful heart revolted, and she never could pardon the instigator. You see, in ‘this simple story, I scarcely care even 'to have reticence or secrets. I don’t “want you to understand for a moment ‘that Walsingham Hely was still cry- ing his eyes out about Charlotte. ‘Goodness bless you! It was two or ‘three weeks ago, — four or five weeks ‘ago, that he was in love with her! He had not seen the Duchesse d’Ivry ‘then, about whom you may remember he had the quarrel with Podichon, at ‘the club in the Rue de Grammont. (He and the Duchesse wrote poems to each other, each in the other's native language.) The Charlotte had long passed out of the young fellow’s mind. That butterfly had fluttered off from “our English rosebud, and had settled on the other elderly flower! I don’t _know that Mrs. Baynes was aware of young Hely’s fickleness at this present \ time of which we are writing ; but his visits had ceased, and she was angry -and disappointed; and not the less -angry because her labor had been in ‘yain. On her part, Charlotte could also be resolutely unforgiving. Take her Philip from her! Never, never! ‘Her mother force her to give up the ‘man whom she had been encouraged ‘to love? Mamma should have de- fended Philip, not betrayed him! If Icommand my son to steal a spoon, shall he obey me! Andif he do obey and steal, and be transported, will he ‘love me afterwards? I think I can ‘ hardly ask for so much filial affection. - $o there was strife between mother _and daughter; and anger not the less 323 bitter, on Mrs. Baynes’s part, because her husband, whose cupidity or fear had, at first, induced him to take her side, had deserted her and gone over to her daughter. In the anger of that controversy Baynes died, leaving the victory and right with Charlotte. He shrank from his wife: would not speak to her in his last moments. The widow had these injuries against her daughter and Philip: and thus neither side forgave the other. She was not averse to the child’s going away to her uncle: put a lean, hungry face against Charlotte’s lip, and received a kiss which I fear had but little love init. Idon’t envy those children who remain under the widow’s lonely com- mand; or poor Madame Smolensk, who has to endure the arrogance, the grief, the avarice of that grim wo- man. Nor did madame suffer under this tyranny long. Galignani’s Mes- senger very soon announced that she had lodgings to let, and I remember being edified by reading one day in the Pall Mall Gazette, that elegant apartments, select society, and an ex- cellent table, were to be found in one of the most airy and fashionable quar- ters of Paris. Inquire of Madame la Baronne de §S sk, Avenue de Valmy, Champs Hiysées. We guessed without difficulty how this advertisement found its way to the Pall Mall Gazette ; and very soon after its appearance Madame de Smolensk’s friend, Mr. Philip, made his appearance at our tea-table in London. He was always welcome amongst us elders and children. He wore a crape on his hat. As soon as the young ones were gone, you may be sure he poured his story out; and enlarged upon the death, the burial, the quarrels, the loves, the partings we have narrated.: How could he be put in a way to earn three or four hundred a year? That was the pres- ent question. Ere he came to see us, he had already been totting up ways and means. He had been with our friend Mrs. Brandon: was staying with her. The Little Sister thought 324 three hundred would be sufficient. They could have her second floor, — not for nothing; no, no, bet at a’ moderate price, which would pay her. They could have attics, if more rooms were needed. ‘They could have her kitchen fire, and one maid for the present would do all their work. Poor little thing! She was very young. She would be past eighteen by the time she could marry; the Little Sister was for early marriages, against Jong courtships. ‘‘ Heaven helps those as helps themselves,” she said. And Mr. Philip thought this excellent ad- vice, and Mr. Philip’s friend, when asked for his opinion, —“ Candidly now, what’s your opinion?” — said, “Is she in the next room? Of. ‘ course you mean you are married al- ready.” Philip roared one of his great laughs. No, he was not married al- ready. Had he not said that Miss Baynes was gone away to Tours to her aunt and uncle? But that he wanted to be married; but that he could never settle down to work till he married; but that he could have no rest, peace, health, till he married that angel, he was ready to confess. Ready? All the street might hear him calling out the name and ex- patiating on the angelic charms and goodness of his Chariotte. He spoke so loud and long on this subject that my wife grew a little tired; and my wife always likes to hear other women praised, that (she says) I know she does. But when a man goes on roar- ing for an hour about Dulcinea? You know such talk becomes fulsome at last ; and, in fine, when he was. gone, my wife said, ‘ Well, he is very much in love; so were you, —I mean long before my time, sir; but does love pay the housekeeping bills, pray ?” “No, my dear. And love is always controlled by other people’s advice: — always,” says Philip’s friend ; who, I hope, you will perceive was speak- ing ironically. Philip’s friends had listened not impatiently to Philip’s talk about | What a man: what a father! O,h 4 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. -‘T am sure there will be a postscrip we: Philip. Almost all women will give: a sympathizing hearing to men who are in love. Be they ever so old, they grow young again with that conversation, and renew their own early times. Men are not quite so generous: ‘Tityrus tires of hearing’ Corydon discourse endlessly on the charms of his shepherdess. And yet egotism is good talk. Even dall) biographies are pleasant to read: and if to read, why not to hear? Had Master Philip not been such an egotist, he would not have been so pleasant acompanion. Can’t you like a man | at whom you laugh a little? I had rather such an open-mouthed conver- sationist than your cautious jaws that never unlock without a careful applica: tion of the key. As for the entrance to Mr. Philip’s mind, that door was' always open when he was awake, or | not hungry, or in a friend’s company. | Besides his love, and his prospects m life, his poverty, &c., Philip had other | favorite topics of conversation. His friend the Littlé Sister was a great theme with him ; his father was an- other favorite subject of his talk. By the way, his father had written to the. Little Sister. The Doctor said he was sure to prosper in his newly adopted country. He and another physician had invented a new medi: | He was never without one scheme or another for making that fortune | which never came.’ Whenever he | é ? drew upon Philip for little sums, his | letters were sure to be especially mag: | niloquent and hopeful. “ Whee the Doctor says he has invented the | philosopher’s stone,” said poor Philip, — to say that a little bill will be presented for so much, at so many days’ date.” Had he drawn on Philip lately? Philip told us when, and how often. | We gave him all the benefit of ou virtuous indignation. As for m wife’s eyes, they gleamed with anger. — was incorrigible! “ Yes, Iam afraid ae is,’ says poor Phil, comically, with his hands roaming at ease in his yockets. They contained little else than those big hands. ‘“ My father ,s of a hopeful turn. His views re- rarding property are peculiar. It is 1 comfort to have such a distinguished jarent, isn’t it? I am always sur- prised to hear that he is not married again. Isigh for a mother-in-law,” Philip continued. . “O, don’t, Philip!” cried Mrs. Laura, in a pet. ‘ Be generous : be orgivi be noble: be Christian ! cynical, and imitating — ou know whom !” Whom could she possibly mean, I wonder ? After flashes there came showers in this lady’s eyes. From ong habit I can understand her thoughts, although she does not utter shem. She was thinking of those oor, noble, simple, friendless young yeople ; and asking Heaven’s protec- ion for them. Iam not in the habit of over-praising my friends, goodness snows. The foibles of this one I nave described honestly enough. But ‘f I write down here that he was ourageous, cheerful in_ adversity, zenerous, simple, truth-loving, above a scheme, — after having said that he was a noble young fellow,— dizi; and I won’t cancel the words. . Ardent lover as he was, our friend was glad to be back in the midst of the London smoke, and wealth, and bustle. The fog agreed with his iungs, he said. He breathed more freely in our great city than in that little English village in the centre of Paris which he had been inhabiting. Inhis hotel, and at his café (where he _composed his eloquent ‘own correspondence”), he had occasion to speak a little French, but it never tame very trippingly from his stout English tongue. ‘“‘ You don’t suppose I would like to be taken for a French- man,” he would say, with much gravity. I wonder whoever thought of mistaking friend Philip for a ‘Frenchman ? THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 825 As for that faithful Little Sister, her house and heart were still at the young man’s service. We have not visited Thornhaugh Street for some time Mr. Philip, whom we have been bound to attend, has been too much occupied with his love-making to bestow much thought on his affee- tionate little friend. She has been trudging meanwhile on her humble course of life, cheerful, modest, la- borious, doing her duty, with a help- ing little hand ready to relieve many a fallen wayfarer on her road. She had a room vacant in her house when ° Philip came:— a room, indeed! Would she not have had a house va- cant, if Philip wanted it? But in the interval since we saw her last, the. Little Sister, too, has had to assume black robes. Her father, the old Cap- tain, has gone tohis rest. His place is vacant in the little parlor: his bed- room is ready for Philip, as long as Philip will stay. She did not profess to feel much affliction for the loss of the captain. She talked of him con- stantly as though he were present ; and made a supper for Philip, and seated him in her Pa’s chair. How she bustled about on the night when Philip arrived! What a beaming welcome there was in her kind eyes! Her modest hair was touched with silver now ; but her cheeks were like apples ; her little figure was neat, and light, and active: and her voice, with its gentle laugh, and little sweet bad grammar, has always seemed one of the sweetest of voices to me. Very soon after Philip’s arrival in London, Mrs. Brandon paid a visit to the wife of Mr. Firmin’s humble ser- vant and biographer, and the two women had a fine sentimental con- sultation. All good women, you know, are sentimental. The idea of young lovers, of match-making, of amiable poverty, tenderly excites and interests them. My wife, at this time, began to pour off fine long let- ters to Miss Baynes, to which the latter modestly and dutifully replied, with many expressions of fervor and 326 gratitude for the interest which her friend in London was pleased to take in the little maid. I saw by these answers that Charlotte’s union with Philip was taken as a received point by these two ladies. ‘They discussed the ways and means. ‘They did not talk about broughams, settlements, town and country houses, pin-moneys, trousseaux : and my wife, in comput- ing their sources of income, always pointed out that Miss Charlotte’s for- tune, though certainly small, would give a very useful addition to the young couple’s income. “ Fifty pounds a year not much! Let me tell you, sir, that fifty pounds a year is a very pretty little sum: if Philip ean but make three hundred a year himself, Mrs. Brandon says they ought to be able to live quite nicely.” You ask, my genteel friend, is it pos- sible that people can live for four hundred a year? How do they man- age, ces pauvres gens? They eat, they drink, they are clothed, they are warmed, they have roofs over their heads, and glass in their windows; and some of them are as good, happy, and well-bred as their neighbors who are ten times as rich. ‘Then, besides this calculation of money, there is the fond woman’s firm belief that the day will bring its daily bread for those who work for it and ask for it in the proper quarter ; against which reason- ing many a man knows it is in vain to argue. As to my own little ob- jections and doubts, my wife met them by reference to Philip’s former love-affair with his cousin, Miss Twys- en. >“ You had no objection in that case, sir,’ this logician would say. “You would have had him take a creature without a heart. You would cheerfully have seen him made mis- erable for life, because you thought there was money enough and a gen- teel connection. Money indeed ! Very happy Mrs. Woolcomb is with her money. Very creditably to all sides has that marriage turned out!” I need scarcely remind my readers of the unfortunate result of that mar- THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. riage. * Woolcomb’s behavior to a wife was the agreeable talk of Londoi society and of the London clubs ye soon after the pair were joined te gether in holy matrimony. Do - not all remember how Woolecomb was accused of striking his wife, of stary- ing his wife, and how she took refuge at home and came to her father’s house with a black eye? The two Twysdens were so ashamed of this transaction, that father and son left off coming to “ Bays’s,” where I never heard their absence regretted but by one man, who said that ‘T al- bot’ owed him money for losses at whist, for which he could get no settlement. im Should Mr. Firmin go and see his aunt in her misfortune? Bygones might be bygones, some of Philip’s’ advisers thought. Now Mrs. Twys- den was unhappy, her heart might lent to Philip, whom she certainly, had loved as a boy. Philip bad the magnanimity to call upon her; a found her carriage waiting at the door. But a servant, after keeping the gentleman waiting in the dreary, well-remembered hall, brought him word that his mistress was out, | smiled in his face with an engaging | insolence, and proceeded to put. cloaks, court-guides, and other female gear into the carriage in the presence’ of this poor deserted nephew. This visit, it must be owned, was one ¢ Mrs. Laura’s romantic efforts at re | onciling enemies : as if, my good crea ture, the Twysdens ever let a man into their house who was poor or out of fashion! ‘They lived in a constant’ dread lest Philip ‘should call to bor- row money of them. As if they ever lent money to a man who wag, in need! If they ask the respected read- | er to their house, depend upon it they | think he is well to do. On the other hand, the Twysdens made a very handsome entertainment for the new Lord of Whipham and Ringwood who now reigned after his a | death. They affably went and pe Christmas “with him in the countr, i THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. and they cringed and bowed before Sir John Ringwood as. they had bowed and cringed before the earl in his time. The old earl had beena Tory in his latter days, when Talbot . Twysden’s views were also very con- ‘servative. The present Lord of Ring- .wood was a Whig. It is surprising i 4 liberal the LTwysdens grew in the course of a fortnight’s after-din- mer conversation and pheasant-shoot- ing talk at Ringwood. ‘“ Hang it! you know,” young T'wysden said, in his office afterwards, “a fellow must go with the politics of his family, you know!” and he bragged about the dinners, wines, splendors, cooks, and preserves of Ringwood as freely as in the time of his noble grand-uncle. ,Any one who has kept a house-dog im London, which licks your boots vand your platter, and fawns for the .bones in your dish, knows how the janimal barks and flies at the poor who come to the door. The Twys- dens, father and son, were of this ca- ‘mine species : and there are vast packs ,of such dogs here and elsewhere. , If Philip opened his heart to us, and talked unreservedly regarding his hopes and his plans, you may be ssure_he had his little friend, Mrs. eandon, also in his confidence, and that no person in the world was more jeager to serve him. Whilst we were talking about what was to be done, ‘this little. lady was also at work in ,her favorite’s behalf. She had a firm ally in Mrs. Mugford, the propric- ‘tor’s lady of the Pall Mall Gazette. /Mrs. Mugford had long been inter- -ested in Philip, his misfortunes and ‘his love-affairs. ‘These two good wo- ‘men had made a sentimental hero of ‘him. Ah! that they could devise some feasible scheme to help him! And such ,a chance actually did very soon pre- sent itself to these delighted women. , In almost all the papers of the new \year appeared a brilliant advertise- ‘Ment, announcing the speedy ap- | one in Dublin of a new paper. It was to be called Toe SHAMROCK, and its first number was to be issued . 327 on the ensuing St. Patrick’s day. I need not quote at length the adver- tisement which heralded the advent of this new periodical. ‘The most famous pens of the national party in Ireland were, of course, engaged to contribute to its columns. Those pens would be hammered into steel of a different shape when the oppor- tunity should offer. Beloved prel- ates, authors of world-wide fame, bards, the bold strings of whose lyres had rung through the isle already, and made millions of noble hearts to beat, and, by consequence, double the number of eyes to fill ; philoso- phers, renowned for science; and illustrious advocates, whose manly voices had ever spoken the language of hope and freedom to an, &c., &c., would be found rallying round the journal, and proud to wear the sym- bol of THE SwHamrock. Finally, Michael Cassidy, Esq., was chosen to be the editor of this new journal. This was the M. Cassidy, Esq., who appeared, I think, at Mr. Firmin’s call-supper ; and who had long been the sub-editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. If Michael went to Dame Street, why should not Philip be sub-editor at Pall Mall? Mrs. Brandon argued. Of course there would be a score of can- didates for Michael’s office. The ed- itor would like the patronage. Bar- net, Mugford’s partner in the Gazette, would wish to appoint his man. Cas- sidy, before retiring, would assuredly intimate his approaching resignation | to scores of gentlemen of his nation, who would not object to take the Saxon’s pay until they finally shook his yoke oft, and would eat his bread until the happy moment arrived when they could knock out his brains in fair battle. As soon as Mrs. Brandon heard of the vacant place, that mo- ment she determined that Philip should. have it. It was surprising what a quantity of information our little friend possessed about artists, and press-men, and their lives, fami- lies, ways and means. Many gentle- men of both professions came to Mr. 028 Ridley’s chambers, and called on the} Little Sister on their way to and fro. How Tom Smith had left the Herald, and gone to the Post; what price Jack Jones had for his picture, and who sat for the principal figures. —I1 promise you Madam Brandon had all these interesting details by heart; and I think I have described this little person very inadequately if I have not made you understand that she was as intrepid a little jobber as ever lived, and never scrupled to go any length to serve a friend. To be Archbishop of Canterbury, to be professor of Hebrew, to be teacher of a dancing-school, to be organist for a church: for any conceivable place or function this little person would have asserted Philip’s capability. “ Don’t tell me! He can dance or preach (as the case may be), or write beautiful ! And as for being unfit to be a sub- editor, I want to know, has he not as good a head and as good an educa- tion as that Cassidy, indeed? And is not Cambridge College the best college in the world? It is, I say. And he went there ever so long. And he might have taken the very best prize, ‘only money was no object to him then, dear fellow, and he did not like to keep the poor out of what he did n’t want!” Mrs. Mugford had always consid- ered the young man as very haughty, but quite the gentleman, and speedily was infected by her gossip’s enthusi- asm about him. My wife hired a fly, packed several of the children into it, called upon Mrs. Mugford, and chose to be delighted with ‘that ‘lady’ S gar- den, with that lady’s nursery, — with everything that bore the name of Mugford. It was a curiosity to re- mark in what a flurry of excitement these women plunged, and how they schemed, and coaxed and caballed, in order to get this place for their pro- tégé. My wife thought — she mere- ly happened to surmise: nothing more, of course—that Mrs. Mug: ford’s fond desire was to shine in the world. “Could we not ask some THE ADVENTURES OF “PHILIP. people — with — with what you ¢ | handles to their names, —I think I sir — to meet the Mugfords ? Some of Philip’s old friends, who I am sur would be very happy. to serve him.” Some such artifice was, I own, prac. tised. We coaxed, cajoled, fondled the Mugfords for Philip’ s sake, a Heaven forgive Mrs. Laura h hypocrisy. We had an ‘entertainment then, I own. We asked our finest, company, and Mr. and Mrs. Mug-. ford to meet them: and we prayed that unlucky Philip to be on his best. behavior to all persons who were 7 | vited to the feast. Before my wife this lion of a Fir min was asalamb. Rough, captious, and overbearing in general societ ty) with those whom he loved and es- teemed Philip was of all men the | most modest and humble. He wou | never tire of playing with our chil dren, joining in their games, laug ing and roaring at their little sports. I have never had such a laugher at my jokes as Philip Firmin. I think my wife liked him for that noble eu with which he used to salute tho pieces of wit. He arrived a little late te sometimes with his laughing chorus, but ten people at table were not so loud as this faithful friend. On the contrary, when those people for whom he has no liking venture on a pun or other pleasantry, I am bound to own that Philip’s acknowledgment of their waggery must be anything | but pleasant or flattering to them. Now, on occasion of this important dinner, I enjoined him to be very kind, and very civil, and very much pleased with everybody, and to stamp upon nobody’s corns, as, indeed, why | should he, in life 2 ‘Who was he sf be censor morum? And it has bee said that no man could admit his own faults with a more engagin a candor than. our friend. We invited, then, Mugford, proprietor of the Pall Mall Gazet and os | rae a THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 329 Philip’s old College friend ; and one yr two more gentlemen. Our invita- jons to the ladies were not so fortu- yate. Some were engaged, others tway in the country keeping Christ- nas. In fine, we considered ourselves rather lucky in securing old Lady dixie, who lives hard by in West- ninster, and who will pass for a lady of fashion when no person of greater yote is present. My wife told her ‘that the object of the dinner was jo make our friend Firmin acquainted with the editor and proprietor of the Pall Mall Gazette, with whom it was mportant that he should be on the most amicable footing. Oh! very well. Lady Hixie promised to be yuite gracious to the newspaper yentleman and his wife ; and kept her oromise most graciously during the svening. Our good friend Mrs. Mugford was the first of our guests to arrive. She drove “in her trap”’ from her villa in the suburbs; and after putting up his carriage at a aeighboring livery-stable, her groom volunteered to help our servants in waiting at dinner. His zeal and activity were remarkable. China smashed, and dish-covers clanged in the passage. Mrs. Mugford said that “Sam was at his old tricks ” ; and I hope the hostess showed she was mistress of herself amidst that fall of china. Mrs. Mugford came before the appointed hour, she said, in order tosee our children. ‘‘ With our late London dinner-hours,” she remarked, “children was never seen now. At ‘Hampstead, hers always appeared at the dessert, and enlivened the table with their innocent outcries for oranges and struggles for sweetmeats. In the nursery, where one little maid, in her crisp long nightgown, was saying her prayers; where another little ‘person, in the most airy costume, was Standing before the great barred fire ; where a third Liliputian was sitting up in its nightcap and_ surplice, Surveying the scene below from its crib;—the ladies found our dear Little Sister installed. She had come to see her little pets (she had known two or three of them from the very earliest times). She was a great favorite amongst them all; and, I believe, conspired with the cook down below in preparing certain delicacies for the table. A fine conversation then ensued about our children, about the Mugford children, about babies in general. And then the artful women (the house mistress and the Little Sister) brought Philip on the tapis, and discoursed, a qui mieux, about his virtues, his misfortunes, his engagement, and that dear little creature to whom he was betrothed. This conversation went on until carriage-wheels were heard in the square, and the knocker (there were actually knockers in that old-fash- ioned place and time) began to peal. “QO, bother! There’s the company a-comin’,” Mrs. Mugford said; and arranging her cap and flounces, with neat- handed Mrs. Brandon’s aid, came down stairs, after taking a tender leave of the little people, to whom she sent a present next day of a pile of fine Christmas books, which had come to the Pall Mall Gazette for review. The kind woman had been coaxed, wheedled, and won over to our side, to Philip’s side. He had her vote for the sub-editorship, whatever might ensue. Most of our guests had already ar- rived, when at length Mrs. Mugford was announced. Iam bound to say that she presented a remarkable ap- pearance, and that the splendor of her attire was such as is seldom be- held. Bickerton and Philip were pre- sented to one another, and had a talk about French politics before dinner, during which conversation Philip be- haved with perfect discretion and po- liteness. Bickerton had happened to hear Philip’s letters well spoken of, —in a good quarter, mind; and his cordiality increased when Lord Eg- ham entered, called Philip by his surname, and entered into a perfectly free conversation with him. Old 300s Lady Hixie went into perfectly good society, Bickerton condescended to ac- knowledge. ‘‘ As for Mrs. Mugford,” says he, “with a glance of wondering compassion at that lady, ‘of course I need not tell you that she is seen nowhere, — nowhere.”” This said, Mr. Bickerton stepped forward, and calmly patronized my wife, gave me a good-natured nod for my own part, reminded Lord Egham that he had had the pleasure of meeting him at Egham; and then fixed on Tom Page, of the Bread-and-Butter Office (who, I own, is one of our most gen- teel ouests), with whom he entered into a discussion of some political matter of that day, —I forget what : but the main point was that he named two or three leading public men with whom he had discussed the question, whatever it might be. He named very great names, and led us to understand that with the proprie- tors of those very great names he was on the most intimate and confidential footing. With his owners, — with the proprietor of the Pall Mall Ga- zette, he was on the most distant terms, and indeed I am afraid that his behavior to myself and my wife was scarcely respectful. I fancied I saw Philip’s brow gathering wrinkles as his eye followed this man strutting from one person to another, and patronizing each. The dinner was a little late, from some reason _ best known in the lower regions. “I take it,” says Bickerton, winking at Philip, in a pause of the conversation, “that our good friend and host is not much used to giving dinners. The mistress of the house is evidently in a state of perturbation.” Philip gave such a horrible grimace that the other at first thought he was in pain. “You, who have lived a great deal with old Ringwood, know what a good dinner is,”’ Bickerton continued, giving Firmin a knowing look. “Any dinner is good which is ac- companied with such a welcome as I get here,” said Philip. ‘THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. “Oh! very good people, very good people, of course!” cries Bicker. ton. Re I need not say he thinks he tes perfectly succeeded in adopting the air of a man of the world. He went off to Lady Hixie and talked with her about the last great party at which he had met her; and then he turned to the host, and remarked that my friend, the Doctor’s son, was a fierce. looking fellow. In five minutes he had the good fortune to make him- self hated by Mr. Firmin. He walks through the world patronizing his betters. “Our good friend is mot much used to giving dinners,” —is n't he? Isay, what do you mean by continuing to endure this man? Tom Page, of the Bread-and-Butter Office, is a well-known diner-out ; Lord Egham is a peer ; Bickerton, in pretty loud voice, talked to one or other of these during dinner and across the table. He sat next to Mrs. Mugford, but he turned his back on that bewildered woman, and never condescended to address a word to her personally. “ Of course, I under-: stand you, my dear fellow, » he said to me when, on the retreat of the la- dies, we approached within whisper- ing distance. ‘ You have these peo- ple at dinner for reasons of state. You have a book coming out, and want to have it noticed in.the paper. I make a point of keeping these peo- ple at a distance,—the only way of dealing with them, I give you » word.” Not one offensive word had Philip said to the chief writer of the Pall Mall Gazette; and I began to con- gratulate myself that our dinner would pass without any mishap, when some one unluckily “happening to praise the wine, a fresh supply was ordered. “ Very good claret. Who is your wine-merchant ? Upon my word, I get better claret here than I do in Paris, —don’t you think so, Mr. Fermor? Where do you gen-' erally” dine at Paris?” va “T generally dine for — = | THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. and three francs on grand days, Mr. ‘Beckerton,” growls Philip. “My name is Bickerton. ” (What ‘a vulgar thing for a fellow to talk ‘about his thirty-sous dinners!” mur- ‘mured my neighbor to me.) ‘ Well, ‘there is no accounting for tastes! ‘When I go to Paris, I dine at the “Trois Freres.’ Give me the Bur- ‘gundy at ‘ Trois Freres.’ ” “That is because you great leader- 'writers are paid better than poor ‘eorrespondents. I shall be delighted ‘to be able to dine better.” And with this Mr. Firmin smiles at Mr. ‘Mugford, his master and owner. | “Nothing so vulgar as talking shop,” says Bickerton, rather loud. ~~ “JT am not ashamed of the shop I keep. Are you of yours, Mr. ‘Bickerton ?”? growls Philip. “F. had him there,” says Mr. Mugferd. Mr. Bickerton got up from table, ‘turning quite pale. ‘‘ Do you mean to be offensive, sir? ”’ he asked. “Offensive, sir? No, sir. Some men are offensive without meaning it. You have been several times to- night!” says Lord Philip. “JT don’t see that I am called upon to bear this kind of thing at any man’s table!” cried Mr. Bickerton. ‘ Lord Egham, I wish you good night !” “Tsay, old boy, what’s the row ‘about?” asked his Lordship. And /we were all astonished as my guest ‘rose and left the table in great wrath. | “Serve him right, Firmin, I say!” said Mr. Mugford, again drinking off “a glass. ' “Why, don’t you know?” says “Tom Page. “His father keeps a -haberdasher’s shop at Cambridge, ‘and sent him to Oxford, where he took a good degree.” And this had come ofa dinner of -eonciliation,— a dinner which was to advance Philip’s interest in life ! - “Hit him again, I say,” cried *Mugford, whom wine had rendered ‘eloquent. ‘‘He’s asupercilious beast ‘that Bickerton is, and I-hate him, “and so does Mrs. M.” 331 CHAPTER XXXI. NARRATES THAT FAMOUS JOKE ABOUT MISS GRIGSBY. « For once Philip found that he had offended without giving general of- fence. In the confidence of female intercourse, Mrs. Mugford had al- ready, in her own artless but power- ful language, confirmed her husband’s statement regarding Mr. Bickerton, and declared that B. was a beast, and she was only sorry that Mr. F. had not hit him a little harder. So differ- ent are the opinions which different individuals entertain of the same event! I happen to know that Bick- erton, on his side, went away, aver- ~ ring that we were quarrelsome, un- der-bred people; and that a man of any refinement had best avoid that kind of society. He does really and seriously believe himself our superior, and will lecture almost any gentle- man on the art of being one. This assurance is not at all uncommon with your parvenu. Proud of his newly acquired knowledge of the art of exhausting the contents of an egg, the well-known little boy of the apo- logue rushed to impart his knowledge to his grandmother, who had been for many years familiar with the process which the child had just diseovered. Which of us has not met with some such instructors? I know men who would be ready to step forward and teach Taglioni how to dance, Tom Sayers how to box, or the Chevalier Bayard how to be a gentleman. We most of us know such men, and un- dergo, from time to time, the ineffable benefit of their patronage. Mugford went away from our little entertainment vowing, by George, that Philip should n’t want for a friend at the proper season ; and this proper season very speedily arrived. I laughed one day, on going to the Pall Mall Gazette office, co find Philip installed in the sub-editor’s room, with a provision of scissors, wafers, and paste-pots, snipping paragraphs from this paper and that, altering, . 532 condensing, giving titles, and so forth ; and, in a word, in regular har- ness. The three-headed calves, the great prize gooseberries, the old maiden ladies of wonderful ages who at length died in country places, — it was wonderful (considering his little experience) how Firmin hunted out these. He entered into all the spirit of his business. He prided himself on the clever titles which he found for his paragraphs. When his paper was completed at the week’s end, he surveyed it fondly, — not the leading articles, or those profound and yet brilliant literary essays which ap- peared in the Gazette, — but— the births, deaths, marriages, markets, trials, and what not. As a shop-boy, having decorated his master’s win- dow, goes into the street, and pleased surveys his work; so the fair face of the Pall Mall Gazette rejoiced Mr. Firmin, and Mr. Bince, the printer of the paper. They looked with an honest pride upon the result of their joint labors. Nor did Firmin relish pleasantry on the subject. Did his friends allude to it, and ask if he had shot any especially fine canard that week? Mr. Philip’s brow would cor- rugate and his checks redden. He did not like jokes to be made at his expense: was not his a singular antipathy ? In his capacity of sub-editor, the good fellow had the privilege of tak- ing and giving away countless theatre orders, and panorama and diorama tickets: the Pall Mall Gazette was not above accepting such little bribes in those days, and Mrs. Mugford’s familiarity with the names of opera singers, and splendid appearance in an opera-box, was quite remarkable. Friend Philip would bear away a heap of these cards of admission, delighted to carry off our young folks to one exhibition or another. But once at the diorama, where our young people sat in the darkness, very much fright- ened as usual, a voice from out the midnight gloom cried out: “ Who has come tn with orders from the Pall Mall THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Gazette?”’ A lady, two scared chil- dren, and Mr. Sub-editor Philip, trembled at this dreadful summons, I think I should not dare to print th story even now, did I not know the Mr. Firmin was travelling abroa It was a blessing the place was dark so that none could see the poor si > editor’s blushes. Rather than’ cause any mortification to this lady, I am sure Philip would have submitted to. rack and torture. But, indeed, he annoyance was very slight, except in secing her friend annoyed. The hu-| mor of the scene surpassed the annoy ance in the lady’s mind, and caused. her to laugh at the mishap; but I own our little boy (who-is of an aris- tocratic turn, and rather too sensitive to ridicule from his school - fellows) was not at all anxious to talk upon the subject, or to let the world know. that he went to a place ‘of public amusement ‘ with an order.” | As for Philip’s landlady, the cu il- Sister, she, you know, had been fam iar with the press, and pressmen, a orders for the play for years past. She looked quite young and pretty, | with her kind smiling face and. neat tight black dress, as she came to the theatre —it was to an Eastér piece = on Philip’s arm one evening. Our children saw her from their cab, as. they, too, were driving to the same performance. It was, “Look, mam-. ma! There ’s Philip and the Little’ Sister!” And then came such smiles, | and nods, and delighted recognitions from the cab to the two friends on foot! Of course I have forgotten’ what was the piece which we all saw on | that Easter evening. But those chil-. dren will never forget ; no, though they live to be a hundred years old, and. though their attention was distracted | from the piece by constant observation | of Philip and his companion in the’ public boxes opposite. | Mr. Firmin’s work and pay were both light, and he accepted both very. cheerfully. He saved money out of | his little stipend. It was surprising | i how economically he could live with: Lom THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. js little landlady’s aid and counsel. Ye would come to us, recounting his sats of parsimony with a childish de- ight; he loved to contemplate his ‘overeigns, as week by week the little ile accumulated. He kept a sharp ye upon sales, and purchased now nd again articles of furniture. In his way he brought home a piano to tis lodgings, on which he could no nore play than he could on the tight- ‘ope; but he was given to understand hat it was a very fine instrument; md my wife played on it one day when we went to visit him, and he sat jstening, with his great hands on his snees, in ecstasies. He was thinking how one day, please Heaven, he should see other hands touching the keys, —and player and instrument disappeared in a mist before his hap- py eyes. His purchases were not al- ways lucky. For example, be was sadly taken in at an auction about a little pearl ornament. Some artful ‘Hebrews at the sale conspired and “yan him up,” as the phrase is, to a price more than equal to the value of the trinket. ‘“ But you know who it was for, ma’am,” one of Philip’s apolo- gists said. “If she would like to ‘wear his ten fingers he would cut ’em ‘off and send ’em to her. But he ‘keeps ’em to write her. letters and 'yerses, — and most beautiful they are ” “And the dear fellow, who was “bred up in splendor and luxury, Mrs. ‘Mugford, as you, ma’am, know too well, —he won’t drink no wine now. ‘A little whiskey and a glass of beer ‘is all he takes. And his clothes — “he who used to be so grand — you see “how he is now, ma’am. Always the _ gentleman, and, indeed, a finer or _ grander looking gentleman never en- tered a room; but he is saving, — you ‘know for what, ma’am.” _ And indeed, Mrs. Mugford did know; and so did Mrs. Pendennis ‘and Mrs. Brandon. And these three _ women worked themselves into a per- fect fever, interesting themselves for Mr. Firmin. And Mugford, in his 333 rough, funny way, used to say, “ Mr. P., a certain Mr. Heff has come and put our noses out of joint. He has, us sure as my name is Hem. And I am getting quite jealous of our sub- editor, and that is the long and. short of it. But it’s good to see him haw- haw Bickerton if ever they meet in the office, that it is! Bickerton won't (Qo bully Aim any more, I promise you! “4 The conclaves and conspiracies of these women were endless in Philip’s behalf. One day, i let the Little Sis- ter out of my house with a handker- chief to her eyes, and in a great state of flurry and excitement, which per- haps communicates itself to the gen- tleman who passes her at his own door. The gentleman’s wife is, on her part, not a little moved and ex- cited. “ What do you think Mrs. Brandon says? Philip is learning short-hand. He says he does not think he is clever enough to be a writer of any mark ;— but he can be a report- er, and with this, and his place at Mr. Mugford’s, he thinks he can earn enough to — O, he is a fine fellow! i I suppose feminine emotion stopped the completion of this speech. But when Mr. Philip slouched in to din- ner that day, his hostess did homage before him; she loved him; she treat- ed him with a tender respect and sym- pathy which her like are ever wont to bestow upon brave and honest men in misfortune. Why should not Mr. Philip Fir- min, batrister-at-law, bethink him that he belonged to a profession which has helped very many men to com- petence, and not a few to wealth and honors? A barrister might surely hope for as good earnings as could be made by a newspaper reporter. We all know instances of men who, having commenced their careers as writers for the press, had carried on the legal profession simultaneously, and attained the greatest honors of the bar and the bench. “Can I sit in a Pump Court garret waiting for attorneys?” asked poor Phil; “i shall break my heart before they 334 come. My brains are not worth much: I should addle them altogeth- er in poring over law books. I am not at all a clever fellow, you see; and I haven’t the ambition and obstinate will to succeed which carry on many aman with no greater capacity than my own. I may have as good brains as Bickerton, for example: but I am not so bumptious as he is. By claim- ing the first place wherever he goes, he gets it very often. My dear friends, don’t you see how modest I am? ‘There never was a man less likely to get on than myself,— you must own that; and I tell you that Charlotte and I must look forward to a life of poverty, of cheese-parings, and second-floor lodgings at Penton- ville or Islington. That’s about my mark. I would let her off, only JT know she would not take me at my word,— the dear little thing! She has set her heart upon a hulking pauper ; that’s the truth. And I tell you what I am going to do. I am going seriously to learn the profession of poverty, and make myse!f master of it. What’s the price of cowheel and tripe? You don’t know. I do; and the right place to buy ’em. I am as good a judge of sprats as any man in London. My tap in life is to be small-beer henceforth, and I am grow- ing quite to like it, and think it is brisk, and pleasant, and wholesome.” There was not alittle truth in Philip’s account of himself, and his capacities and incapacities. “Doubtless, he was not born to make a great name for himself in the world. But do we like those only who are famous ? As well say we will only give our regard to men who have ten thou- sand a year, or are more than six feet hich. While of his three female friends and advisers, my wife admired Phil- ip’s humility, Mrs. Brandon and Mrs. Mugford were rather disappointed at his want of spirit, and to think that he aimed so low. I shall not say which side Firmin’s biographer took in this matter. Was it my business THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. to applaud or rebuke him for bein humble-minded, or was I called upo! to advise at all? My amiable reade: acknowledge that you and I in li pretty much go our own way. W eat the dishes we like because we lik them, not because our neighbor re ishes them. We rise early, or sit u late; we work, idle, smoke, or wha not, because we choose so to do, nc because the doctor orders. — Philiy then, was like you and me, who wil have our own way when we ca Will we not? If you won’t, you di not deserve it. Instead of hungerin; after a stalled ox, he was accustomin; himself to be content with a dinne of herbs. Instead of braving the tem pest, he chose to take in sail, cree] along shore, and wait for calme weather. So, on Tuesday of every week le’ us say, it was this modest sub-editor’ duty to begin snipping and pasting paragraphs for the ensuing Satur day’s issue. He cut down the par liamentary speeches, giving due fa voritism to the orators of the Pal’ Mall Gazette party, and meagre out lines of their opponent’s discourses If the leading public men on the side of the Pall Mall Gazette gave enter. tainments, you may be sure they were duly chronicled in the fashionable intelligence; if one of their party wrote a book it was pretty sure ta get praise from the critic. I am speaking of simple old days, you un- derstand. Of course there is no puff: ing, or jobbing, or false praise, or un- fair censure now. Every critic knows what he is writing about, and writes with no aim but to tell truth. Thus Philip, the dandy of two years back, was content to wear the shabbiest old coat; Philip, the Phi- lippus of one-and-twenty, who rode | showy horses, and rejoiced to display’ his horse and person in the park, now humbly took his place in an omnibus, and only on occasions indulged ina cab. From the roof of the larger vehicle he would salute his fen with perfect affability, and stare down 1 his aunt as she passed in her ba- yache. He never could be quite made , acknowledge that she purposely ould not see him; or he would at- ibute her blindness to the quarrel hich they had had, not to his pov- “ty and present position. As for is cousin Ringwood, “That fellow ould commit any baseness,” Philip eknowledged ; “and it is I who have at him,” our friend averred. A real danger was lest our friend hould in his poverty become more anughty and insolent than he had een in his days of better fortune, and 4at he should make companions of jen who were not his equals. Wheth- r was it better for him to be slighted aa fashionable club, or to swagger ‘tthe head of the company in a tav- rn parlor? This was the danger we aight fear for Firmin. It was im- jossible not to confess that he was shoosing to take a lower place in the ‘yorld than that to which he had been oorn. “Do you mean that Philip is low- red, because he is poor?” asked an ingry lady, to whom this remark was nade by her husband,—man and wife being both very good friends to Mr, Firmin. _ “My dear,” replies the worldling of a husband, ‘‘ suppose Philip were 0 take a fancy to buy a donkey and jell cabbages? He would be doing 10 harm; but there is no doubt he would lower himself in the world’s 2stimation. q “Lower himself!” says the lady, with a toss of her head. “ No man lowers himself by pursuing an honest calling. No man!” “Very good. There is Grundsell, the green-grocer, out of Tuthill Street, who waits at our dinners. Instead of asking him to wait, we should beg him to sit down at table; or perhaps we should wait, and stand with a nap- Kin behind Grundsell.” “Nonsense!” © Grundsell’s calling is strictly hon- est, unless he abuses his opportuni- ‘ties, and smuggles away —” THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 335 «__ Smuggles away stuff and non- sense!” “Very good; Grundsell is not a fit- ting companion, then, for us, or the nine little Grundsells for our children. Then why should Philip give up the friends of his youth, and forsake a club for a tavern parlor? You can’t say our little friend, Mrs. Brandon, good as she is, is a fitting companion for him ?”’ “If he had a good little wife, he would have a companion of his own degree; and he would be twice as happy; and he would be out of all danger and temptation, — and the best thing he can do is to marry directly !” cries the lady. ‘And, my dear, I think I shall write to Charlotte and ask her to come and stay with us.” There was no withstanding this ar- gument. As long as Charlotte was with us we were sure that Philip would be out of harm’s way, and seek for no other company. There was a snug little bedroom close by the quarters inhabited by our own chil- dren. My wife pleased herself by adorning this chamber, and Uncle Mac happening to come to London on business about this time, the young lady came over to us under his con- voy, and I should like to describe the meeting between her and Mr. Philip in our parlor. No donbt it was very edifying. But my wife and I were not present, vous concevez. We only heard one shout of surprise and de- light from Philip as he went into the room where the young lady was wait- ing. We had but said, “Go into the parlor, Philip. You will find your old friend Major Mac there. He has come to London on business, and has news of—” There was no need to speak, for here Philip straightway bounced into the room. And then came the shout. And then out came Major Mac, with such a droll. twinkle in his eyes! What artifices and hypocrisies had we not to practise previously; so as to keep our secret from our children, who as-- suredly would have discovered it! I 336 must tell you that the paterfumilias had guarded against the innocent prattie and inquiries of the children regarding the preparation of the little bedroom, by informing them that it was intended for Miss Grigsby, the governess, with whose advent they had long been threatened. And one of our girls, when the unconscious Philip arrived, said, “ Philip, if you go into the parlor, you will find MJiss Grigsby, the governess, there.’ _ And then Philip entered into that parlor, and then arose that shout, and then out came Uncle Mace, and then, &c., &e. And we called Charlotte Miss Grigsby all dinner-time ; and we called her Miss Grigsby next day; and the more we called her Miss Grigs- by the more we all laughed. -And the baby, who could not speak plain yet, called her Miss Gibby, and laughed loudest of all; and it was such fun. But I think Philip and Charlotte had the best of the fun, my dears, though they may not have laughed. quite so loud as we did. As for Mrs. Brandon, who, you may be sure, speedily came to pay us a visit, Charlotte blushed, and looked quite beautiful when she went up and kissed the Little Sister. ‘He have told you about me, then she said, in her soft little voice, smoothing the young lady’s brown hair. “Should I have known him at all but for you, and did you not save his life for me when he was ill?” asked Miss Baynes. “And may n’t I love every- body who loves him?” she asked. And we left these women alone for a quarter of an hour, during which they became the most intimate friends in the world. And all our household, great and small, including the nurse (a woman of a most jealous, domi- neering, and uncomfortable fidelity), thought well of our gentle young guest, and welcomed Miss Grigsby. Charlotte, you see, is not so exceed- ingly handsome as to cause other wo- men to perjure themselves by protest- ing that she is no great things after all. At the period with which we are 1?? THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. concerned, she certainly had a lovely complexion, which her black dress set off, perhaps. And when Philip used to come into the room, she had al. ways a fine garland of roses ready to offer him, and growing upon her cheeks, the moment he appeared. Her manners are so entirely unaf- fected and simple that they can’t be otherwise than good: for is she not grateful, truthful, unconscious of self, easily pleased and interested in oth-| ers? Is she very witty? I never said so, — though that she appreciated some men’s wit (whose names need not be mentioned) I cannot doubt.) “‘T say,” cries Philip, on that memo-| rable first night of her arrival, and when she and other ladies had gone} to bed, “by George! is n’t she glori-) ous, I say! What can I have done! to win such a pure little heart as that? Non sum dignus. It is too’ much happiness, — too much, by’ George!” And his voice breaks be- hind his pipe, and he "squeezes two fists into eyes that are brimful of joy. and thanks. Where Fortune bestows such a bounty as this, I think we need not pity a man for what she with- draws. As Philip walks away at) midnight (walks away ? is turned out of doors; or surely he would have, gone on talking till dawn), with the: rain beating in his face, and fifty or a/ hundred pounds for all his fortune in| his pocket, I think there goes one of | the happiest of men, —the happiest) and richest. For is he not possessor, of a treasure which he could not buy, ; or would not sell, for all the wealth. of the world ? a | My wife may say what she will, but she assuredly is answerable for’ the invitation to Miss Baynes, and) for all that ensued in consequence. | At a hint that she would be a wel- come guest in our house, in London, — where all her heart and treasure lay, | Charlotte Baynes gave up straightway — her dear aunt at Tours, who had been | kind to her ; her dear uncle, her dear mamma, and all her dear brothers, — following that natural law which or- *: tains that a woman, under certain “ireumstances, shall resign home, )»arents, brothers, sisters, for the sake orth to be dearer to her than all. irs. Baynes, the widow, growled a ‘omplaint at her daughter’s ingrati- lude, but did not refuse her consent. She may have known that little He- y, Charlotte’s volatile admirer, had ‘\uttered off to another flower by this ‘ime, and that a pursuit of that but- erfly was in vain; or she may »ave heard that he was going to pass | ihe spring — the butterfly season — ‘a London, and hoped that he per- bony might again light on her girl. lowbeit, she was glad enough that jer daughter should accept an invita- ‘jon to our house, and owned that as Vet the poor child’s share of this life’s Measures had been but small. Char- /otte’s modest little trunks were again ‘acked, then, and the poor child was ent off, I won’t say with how small \ provision of pocket-money, by her nother. But the thrifty woman had ‘ut little, and of it was determined to ‘ive as little as she could. ‘‘ Heaven ‘ll provide for my child,” she would iously say ; and hence interfered ery little with those agents whom Heaven sent to befriend her children. ) Her mother told Charlotte that she ‘ould send her some money next ‘etween ourselves, I doubt whether oe will. Between ourselves, my ‘ster-in-law is always going to give voney next Tuesday: but somehow Vednesday comes, and the money as not arrived. I could not let the ‘ttle maid be without a few guineas, ‘nd have provided her out of a half- fay purse; but mark me, that pay- ‘ay Tuesday will never come.” Shall ‘deny or confirm the worthy Major’s ‘atement? Thus far I will say, that “uesday most certainly came; and a otter from her mamma to Charlotte, hich said that one of her brothers ynd a younger sister were going to say with: Aunt Mac; and that as if that one individual who is hence- ‘uesday,” the Major told us ; “ but,. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. vhar was so happy with her most matron, Charlotte’s 15 537 hospitable and kind friends, a fond widowed mother, who had given up all pleasures for herself, would not interfere to prevent a darling child’s happiness. It has been said that three women, whose names have been given up, were conspiring in the behalf of this young person and the young man her sweetheart. Three days after Char- lotte’s arrival at our house, my wife persists in thinking that a drive into the country would do the child good, orders a brougham, dresses Charlotte in her best, and trots away to see Mrs. Mugford at Hampstead. Mrs. Bran- don is at Mrs. Mugford’s, of course quite by chance. and I feel sure that Charlotte’s friend compliments Mrs. Mugford upon her garden, upon her nursery, upon her luncheon, upon everything that is hers. ‘ Why, dear me,” says Mrs. Mugford (as the ladies discourse upon a certain subject), what does it matter? Me and Mug- ford married on two pound a week ; and on two pound a week my dear eldest children were born. It was a hard struggle sometimes, but we were all the happier for it; and I’m sure if a man won’t risk a little he don’t deserve much. I know / would risk, if I were a man, to marry such a pretty young dear. And I should take a young man to be but amcan-spirited fellow who waited and went shilly- shallying when he had but to say the word and be happy. I thought Mr. F. was a brave, courageous gentleman, I did, Mrs. Brandon. Do you want me for to have a bad opinion of him ? My dear, a little of that cream. It ’s very good. We/’ad a dinner yester- day, and a cook down from town, on purpose.” This speech, with appro- priate imitations of voice and gesture, was repeated to the present biogra- pher by the present biographer’s wife, and he now began to see in what webs and meshes of conspira- cy these artful women had enveloped the subject of the present biography. Like Mrs. Brandon, and the other friend, Mrs. as * 338 Mugford became interested in_ the gentle young creature, and kissed her kindly, and made her a present on going away. It was a brooch in the shape of a thistle, if I remember aright, set with amethysts and a lovely Scottish stone called, I believe, a carumgorum. “She ain’t no style about her; and I confess, from a general’s daughter, brought up on the Continent, I should have expected better. But we’ll show her a little of the world and the opera, Brandon, and she’ll do very well, of that I make no doubt.” And Mrs. Mug- ford took Miss Baynes to the opera, and pointed out the other. people of fashion there assembled. And de- lighted Charlotte was. I make no doubt there was a young gentleman of our acquaintance at the back of the box who was very happy too. And this year, Philip’s kinsman’s wife, Lapy Rrxneawoop, had a box, in which Philip saw her and_ her daughters, and little Ringwood Twys- den paying assiduous court to her Ladyship. They met in the crush- room by chance again, and Lady Ringwood looked hard at Philip and the blushing young lady on his arm. And it happened that Mrs. Mugford’s carriage, — the little one-horse trap which opens and shuts soconveniently, —and Lady Ringwood’s tall, embla- zoned chariot of state, stopped the way together. And from the tall em- blazoned chariot the ladies looked not unkindly at the trap which contained the beloved of Philip’s heart: and the carriages departed each on its way ; and Ringwood Twysden, seeing his cousin advancing towards him, turned very pale, and dodged at a double- quick down an arcade. But he need not have been afraid of Philip. Mr. Firmin’s heart was all softness and benevolence at that time. He was thinking of those sweet, sweet eyes that had just glanced to him a tender good-night ; of that little hand which a moment since had hung with fond pressure on his arm. Do you sup- pose in such a frame of mind he had THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. leisure to think of a nauseous little reptile crawling behind him? He was so happy that night, that Philip was King Philip again. And he went to the ‘ Haunt,” and sang his song of Garryowen na gloria, and greeted the boys assembled, and spent at least three shillings over his supper and drinks. But the nex day being Sunday, Mr. Firmin was at Westminster Abbey, listening tc the sweet church chants, by the sid¢ of the very same young person whon| he had escorted to the opera on the night before. They sat together s¢ close that one must have heard exact, ly as well as the other. I dare say ij is edifying to listen to anthems a deus’ And how complimentary to the cler gyman to have to wish that the ser| mon was longer! Through the vas! cathedral aisles the organ notes pea, gloriously. Ruby and topaz an¢ amethyst blaze from the great churel windows. Under the tall arcades thi young people went together. Hand it hand they passed, and thought no ill Do gentle readers begin to tire of this spectacle of billing and cooing’ I have tried to describe Mr. Philip love-affairs with as few words and it as modest phrases as may be, — omit! ting the raptures, the passionati vows, the reams of correspondence and the usual commonplaces of hii situation. And yet, my dear madam| though you and I may be past th age of billing and cooing, thong! your ringlets, which I remember 4 lovely auburn, are now — well— are now a rich purple and gree: black, and my brow may be as bali as a cannon-ball ; —I say, though w are old, we are not too old to forge! We may not care about the pant mime much now, but we like to tak the young folks, and see them r¢ joicing. From the window where write, I can look down into the ga) den of a certain square. In tha garden I can at this moment see | young gentleman and lady of my ac quaintance pacing up and dowr They are talking some such talk a ‘Milton imagines our first parents ‘engaged in; and yonder garden is a paradise to my young friends. Did ‘they choose to look outside the rail- ings of the square, or at any other ‘objects than each other’s noses, they ‘might see— the tax-gatherer we will say, — with his book, knocking at one door, the doctor’s brougham at a second, a hatchment over the win- ‘dows of a third mansion, the baker’s boy discoursing with the house-maid over the railings of a fourth. But ‘what to them are these phenomena of life? Arm in arm my young folks ‘go pacing up and down their Eden, ‘and discoursing about that happy ‘time which I suppose is now drawing ‘near, about that charming little snug- ‘gery for which the furniture is or- ‘dered, and to which, miss, your old ‘friend and very humble servant will \take the liberty of forwarding his best ‘regards and a neat silver teapot. I ‘dare say, with these young people, as with Mr. Philip and Miss Charlotte, ‘all occurrences of life seem to have, ‘reference to that event which forms ‘the subject of their perpetual longing and contemplation. There is the doctor’s brougham driving away, and Tmogene says to Alonzo, “What ‘anguish I shall have if you are 8 Then there is the carpenter putting up the hatchment. ‘you were to die, I think they might ‘put up a hatchment for both of us,” ‘says Alonzo with a killing sigh. Both sympathize with Mary and the -baker’s boy whispering over the rail- ‘ings. Go to, gentle baker’s boy, we ‘also know what it is to love! _ The whole soul and strength of Charlotte and Philip being bent upon “marriage, I take leave to put in a ‘document which Philip received at ‘this time; and can imagine that it occasioned no little sensation : — a “ Astor Houss, New York. _ “And so you are returned to the ‘great city, — to the fimum, the strepr- tum, and I sincercly hope the opes of ‘our Rome! Your own letters are THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. | fourth estate. /and pressman and poverty were fora “Ah, my love, if 339 © but brief; but I have an occasional correspondent (there are few, alas! who remember the exile! ) who keeps me au courant of my Philip’s history, and tells me that you are industrious, that you are cheerful, that you pros- er. Cheerfulness is the companion of Industry, Prosperity. their offspring. That that prosperity may attain the fullest growth is an absent father’s fondest prayer! Perhaps erelong I shall be able to announce to you that I too am prospering. Iam engaged in pursuing a scientific discovery here (it is medical, and connected with my own profession), of which the results ought to lead to Fortune, unless the jade has forever deserted George Brand Firmin! So you have em- barked in the drudgery of the press, and have become a member of the It has been despised, Jong time supposed to be synonymous. But the power, the wealth of the press are daily developing, and they will increase yet further. I confess I should have liked to hear that my Philip was pursuing his profession of the bar, at which honor, splendid competence, nay, aristocratic rank, are the prizes of the bo’d, the industrious, and the deserving. Why should you not ?— should I not still hope that you may gain legal eminence and posi- tion? informed her were ‘“‘ from the coun- try.” “From Sir John Ringwood, no doubt?” said Mrs. Firmin, re- membering. the presents sent from Berkeley Square, and the mutton and the turnips. “ Well, eat and be thankful!” says the Little Sister, who was as gay asa little sister could be, and who had prepared a beautiful bread sauce for the fowl; and who had tossed the 1” 426 — baby, and who showed it to its ad- miring brother and sister ever so many times; and who saw that Mr. Philip had his dinner comfortable ; and who never took so much as a/ drop of porter, —at home a little glass sometimes was comfortable, but | on duty, never, never! No, not if| Dr. Goodenough ordered it! she | vowed. And the Doctor wished he could say as much, or believe as much, of all his nurses. Milman Street is such a quiet little street that our friends had not carpet- ed it in the. usual way; and three days after her temporary absence, as nurse Brandon sits by her patient’s bed, powdering the back of a small | pink infant that makes believe to. swim upon her apron, a rattle of, wheels is heard in the quiet street, — | of four wheels, of one horse, of a jing- | ling carriage, which stops before Philip’s door. “It’s the trap,” says | nurse Brandon, delighted.‘ It must | be those kind Ringwoods,” says Mrs. Philip. ‘“‘ But stop, Brandon. Did | not they, did not we ? — O, how kind of them!” She was trying to recall the past. Past and present for days had been strangely mingled in her fevered brain. “‘ Hush, my dear ! you are to be kep’ quite stll,”’ says the nurse,—and then proceeded to finish the polishing and powdering of | the pink frog on her lap. The bedroom window was open to- wards the sunny street: but Mrs. Philip did not hear a female voice say, ‘‘’Old the ’orse’s ’ead, Jim,” or she might have been agitated. The horse’s head was held, ‘and a gentle- man and a lady with a great basket containing pease, butter, greens, flowers, and other rural produce, descended from the vehicle and rang at the bell. Philip opened it; with his little ones, as usual, trotting at his knees. “ Why, my darlings, how you air grown!” cries the lady. ““Bygones be bygones. Give us your ‘and, Firmin: here ’s mine. My missus has brought some country THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. butter and things for your dear rood lady. And we hope you liked t chickens. And God bless you, old fellow, how are you?” ‘The ‘ean were rolling down the good man’s cheeks as he spoke. And Mrs. Mug ford was likewise exceedingly hot, | and very much affected. And the | children said to her, ‘‘Mamma ig better now: and we have a little | brother, and he is crying now up- Stairs.” Y Sid ve } “Bless you, my darlings!” Mrs. | Mugtord was off by this time. She put down her peace-offering of car- rots, chickens, bacon, butter. She cried plentifully. “It was Brandon | came and told us,”’ she said; ‘and | when she told us how all your great | people had flung you over, and you’d | | been quarrelling again, you naughty fellar, I says to Mugford, ‘ Let ’s g@e| and see after that dear thing, Mug- ford, Is says. And here we are. And year’s two nice cakes for your children ” (after a forage in the cor- | nucopia), “and, lor’, how they are grown!” A little nurse from the up-stairs re- gions here makes her appearance, holding a bundle of cashmere shawls, part of which is remeved, and dis-_ closes a being pronounced to be rav- ishingly beautiful, and “jest like Mrs. Mugford’s Emaly !” “T say,” says Mugford, “the old shop’s still open to you. ‘T’other . chap wouldn’t do at all. He was wild when he got the drink on board. Hirish. Pitched into Bickerton and blacked ’is eye. It was Bickerton who told you lies about that poor lady. Don’t see ’im no more now. Bor- rowed some money of me; haven 6 seen him since. We were both wrong, and we must make it up, — the mis- sus says we must.” “Amen!” said Philip, with a grasp of the honest fellow’s hand. And next Sunday he and a trim little sister, and two children, went to an old church in Queen Square, Blooms- bury, which was fashionable in the reign of Queen Anne, when Richard att ¥ “ig ral ‘. * | A i it rh Kt \ . » ‘which our entertainment has lasted, Steele kept house, and did not pay | yent, hard by. And when the clergy- | man in the thanksgiving particular- zed those who desired now to “ offer up their praises and thanksgivings for late mercies vouchsafed to them,” once more Philip Firmin said “Amen,” on his knees, and with all his heart. = ; ’ CHAPTER XLII. THE REALMS OF BLISS. ~ You know—all good boys and girls at Christmas know— that, before the last scene of the pantomime, when the Good Fairy ascends in a blaze of Jory, and Harlequin and Columbine | take hands; having danced through all their tricks and troubles and tumbles, there is a dark, brief, seemingly mean- ingless, penultimate scene, in which the performers appear to grope about perplexed, whilst the music of bas- soons and trombones, and the like, groans tragically. As the actors, with | gestures of dismay and out-stretched arms, move hither and thither, the wary frequenter of pantomimes sees the illuminators of the Abode of Bliss and Hall of Prismatic Splendor nim- Dly moving behind the canvas, and streaking the darkness with twinkling fires, —fires which shall blaze out presently in a thousand colors round the Good Fairy in the Revolving Temple of Blinding Bliss. Be hap- py, Harlequin! Love and be happy and dance, pretty Columbine! Chil- dren, mamma bids you put your shawls on. And Jack and Mary (who are young and love panto- mimes) look lingeringly still over the ledge of the box, whilst the fairy tem- ple yet revolves, whilst the fireworks play, and ere the Great Dark Cur- tain descends. My dear young people, who have ‘sat kindly through the scenes during be it known to you that last chapter was the dark scene. Look to your cloaks, and tie up your little throats, py , THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 427 for I tell you the great baize will soon fall down. ' Have I had any se erets from you all through the piece ? I tell you the house will be empty and you will be in the cold air, When the boxes have got their night- gowns on, and you are all gone, and J have turned off the gas, and am in the empty theatre alone in the dark- ness, 1 promise you I shall not be merry. Never mind! We can make jokes though we are ever so sad. We can jump over head and heels, though I declare the pit is half emptied al- ready, and the last orange-woman has slunk away. Encore une pirou- ette, Columbine! Saute, Arlequin, mon ami! Though there are but five bars more of the music, my good people, we must jump over them briskly, and then go home to supper and bed. Philip Firmin, then, was immense- ly moved by this magnanimity and kindness on the part of his old em- ployer, and has always considered Mugford’s arrival and friendliness as a special interposition in his favor. He owes it all to Brandon, he says. It was she who bethought herself of his condition, represented it to Mug- | ford, and reconciled him to his enemy. Others were most ready with their money. It was Brandon who brought him work rather than alms, and en- abled him to face fortune cheerfully. His interval of poverty was so short, that he actually had not occasion to borrow. A week more, and he could not have held out, and poor Brandon’s little marriage present must have gone to the cenotaph of sovereigns, ——the dear Little Sister’s gift which Philip’s family cherish to this hour. , So Philip, with a humbled heart and demeanor, clambered up on his sub-editorial stool once more at the Pall Mall Gazette, and again bran- dished the paste-pot and the scissors. I forget whether Bickerton still re- mained in command at the Pall Mall Gazette, or was more kind to Philip than before, or was afraid of him, 428 having heard of his exploits as a fire- eater; but certain it is, the two did not come to a quarrel, giving each other a wide berth, as the saying is, and each doing his own duty. Good by, Monsieur Bickerton. Except, mayhap, in the final group, round the Farry Cuarror (when, I promise you, there will be such a blaze of glory that he will be invisible), we shall never see the little spiteful en- vious creature more. Let him pop down his appointed trap-door; and, quick, fiddles! let the brisk music jig on. Owing to the coolness which had arisen between Philip and his father on account of their different views re- garding the use to be made of Phil- ip’s signature, the old gentleman drew no further bills in his son’s name, and our friend was spared from the unpleasant persecution. Mr. Hunt loved Dr. Firmin so ar- dently that he could not bear to be separated from the Doctor long. Without the Doctor, London was a dreary wilderness to Hunt. Unfor- tunate remembrances of past pecu- niary transactions haunted him here. We were all of us glad when he final- ly retired from the Covent Garden taverns and betook himself to the Bowery once more. And now friend Philip was at work again, hardly earning a scanty meal for self, wife, servant, children. It was indeed a meagre meal, and a small wage. Charlotte’s illness, and other mishaps, had swept away poor Philip’s little savings. It was deter- mined that we would let the elegant- ly furnished apartments on the first floor. You might have fancied the proud Mr. Firmin rather repugnant to such a measure. And so he was on the score of convenience, but of | dignity, not awhit. To this day, if necessity called, Philip would turn a mangle with perfect gravity. I be- lieve the thought of Mrs. General Baynes’s horror at the idea of her son-in-law letting lodgings greatly soothed and comforted Philip. The THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. lodgings were absolutely taken by | our country acquaintance, Miss Py-— bus, who was coming up for the May meetings, and whom we persuaded (Heaven be good to us!) that she would find a most desirable quiet resi- dence in the house of a man with three squalling children. Miss P. came, then, with my wife to look at the apartments; and we allured her by describing to her the delightful - musical services at the Foundling hard by; and she was very much pleased with Mrs. Philip, and did not even wince at the elder children, whose pretty faces won the kind old lady’s heart: and I am ashamed to say we were mum about the baby: and Pybus was going to close for the. lodgings, when Philip burst out of his — little room, without his coat, I be-— lieve, and objurgated a little printer’s © boy, who was sitting in the hall, waiting for some “copy” regarding which he had made a blunder; and ; Philip used such violent language to- wards the little lazy boy, that Pybus - said she “never could think of taking apartments in that house,” and hur- ried thence in a panic. When Bran-— don heard of this project of letting — She lodgings, she was in a fury. might let lodgin’s, but it was n’t for Philip to do so. “Let lodgin’s, in-— deed! Buy a broom and sweep a Brandon always thought — crossin’ ! 7’ Charlotte a poor-spirited creature, — and the way she scolded Mrs. Firmin — about this transaction was not a little amusing. She liked the scheme as little as Brandon. No other person ever asked for lodgings in Charlotte’s house. May and its meetings came to anend. ‘The old ladies went back © to their country towns. The mission- aries returned to Caffraria. (Ah! where are the pleasant -looking Quakeresses of our youth, with their comely faces, and pretty dove-colored — robes 2 dwindling, dwindling. ) esses went out of town: They say the goodly sect is The Quaker- fashionable world began to move: — ie Charlotte was not angry. — then the © THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. the Parliament went out of town. In a word, everybody who could made away for a holiday, whilst poor Philip remained at his work, snip- ping and pasting his paragraphs, and doing his humble drudgery. A sojourn on the sea-shore was prescribed by Dr. Goodenough, as absolutely necessary for Charlotte and her young ones, and when Philip pleaded certain cogent reasons why the family could not take the medicine prescribed by the Doctor, that eccen- tric physician had recourse to the same pocket-book which we have known him to’ produce on a former occasion ; and took from it, for what I know, some of the very same notes which he had formerly given to the Little Sister. “I suppose you may as well have them as that rascal Hunt?” said the Doctor, scowling yery fiercely. “Don’t tell me. Stuff and nonsense. Pooh! Pay me when you are a rich man!” And this Samaritan had jumped into his car- riage, and was gone, before Philip or Mrs. Philip could say a word of thanks. Look at him as he is going off. See the green brougham drive away, and turn westward, and mark it well. A shoe go after thee, John Goodenough; we shall see thee no more in this story. You are not in the secret, good reader: but I, who have been living with certain people for many months past, and have a hearty liking for some of them, grow very soft when the hour for shaking hands comes, to think we are to meet no more. Go to! when this tale be- gan, and for some months after, a pair of kind old eyes used to read these pages, which are now closed in the ‘sleep appointed for all of us. And so page is turned after page, and behold Finis and the volume’s end. So Philip and his young folks came down to Periwinkle Bay, where we were staying, and the girls in the two families nursed the baby, and the 429 finest sub-editor in the world, and I can tell you there is a great art in sub-editing a paper, — Mr. Mugford, I say, took Philip’s scissors and paste- pot, whilst the latter enjoyed his holiday. And J. J. Ridley, R.A., came and joined us presently, and we had many sketching-parties, and my drawings of the various points about the bay, viz. Lobster Head, the Mol- lusc Rocks, &c., &c., are considered to be very spirited, though my little boy (who certainly has not his father’s taste for art) mistook for the rock a really capital portrait of Philip, in a gray hat and paletot, sprawling on the sand. Some twelve miles inland from the bay is the little town of Whipham Market, and Whipham skirts the park palings of that castle where Lord Ringwood had lived, and where Philip’s mother was born and bred. There is a statue of the late lord in Whipham market-place. Could he have had his will, the borough would have continued to return two Members to Parliament, as in the good old times before us. In that ancient and grass-grown little place, where your footsteps echo as you pass through the street, where you hear distinctly the creaking of the sign of the “ Ring- wood Arms” hotel and posting-house, and the opposition creaking of the “Ram Inn” over the way, — where the half-pay captain, the curate, and the medical man stand before the fly- plown window-blind of the “ Ring- wood Institute” and survey the strangers, — there is still a respect felt for the memory of the great lord who dwelt behind the oaks in yonder hall. He had his faults. His Lord- ship’s life was not that of an anchorite. The company his Lordship kept, es- pecially in his latter days, was not of that select description which a nobleman of his Lordship’s rank might command. But he was a good friend to Whipham. He was a good landlord to a good tenant. If he had his will, Whipham would have kept its own. His Lordship paid half the child and mother got health and com- - fort from the fresh air, and Mr. Mug- _ ford, — who believes himself to be the > io Pers +430 expense after the burning of the town- hall. He was an arbitrary man, cer- teimly, and he flogged Alderman Dufile before his own shop, but he apologized for it most handsome after- wards. Would the gentleman like port or sherry ¢ Claret not called for in Whipham ; not at all: and no fish, because all the fish at Periwinkle Bay is bought up and goes to London. Such were the remarks made by the landlord of the “‘ Ringwood Arms ”’ to three cavaliers who entered the hos- telry. And you may be sure he told us about Lord Ringwood’s death in the post-chaise as he came from Tur- reys Regum; and how his Lordship went through them gates (pointing to a pair of “erates and lodges which skirt the town), and was drove up to the castle and laid in state; and his Lordship never would take the rail- way, never ; and he always travelled like a nobleman, and when he came to a hotel and changed horses, he al- ways called for a bottle of wine, and only took a glass, and sometimes not even that. And the present Sir Jobn has kept no company here as yet; and they say he is close of his money, they say he is. And this is certain, Whipham have n’t seen much of it, Whipham have n’t. We went into the inn yard, which may have been once a stirring place, and then sauntered up to the park gate, surmounted by the supporters and armorial bearings of the Ring- woods. ‘‘I wonder whether my poor mother came out of that gate when she eloped with my father?” said Philip. ‘Poor thing, poor thing!” The great gates were shut. The westering sun cast shadows over the sward where here and there the deer were browsing, and at some mile dis- tance lay the house, with its towers and porticos and vanes flaming in the sun. The smaller gate was open, and a girl was standing by the lodge door. Was the house to be seen ? “Yes,” says a little red-cheeked girl, with a courtesy. “No!” calls out a harsh voice THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. from: within, and»an old wom comes out from the lodge and loo at us fiercely. “Nobody is to go the house. The family is a coming.’ That was provoking. Philip woul have liked to behold the great hous where his mother and her ancestors Philip’s were born. “Marry, good dame,” companion said to the old beldam “this goodly gentleman hath a right of entrance to yonder castle, which, I trow, ye wot not of... Heard ye never tell of one Philip Ringwood, slain ag ; Busaco’s-glorious fi—— “‘ Hold your tongue,‘and.don’t cat | her, Pen,” erowled Biemin: “Nay, and she knows not Philip | Ringwood’s grandson,” continued, in a softened tone. will convinee her: of our right to en- ter. your queen?” 4 “ Well, I suppose ’ee can go up,” said the old woman, at the sight of this talisman. “There ’s only | two of them staying there, and they ’re out. a drivin’. 3 Philip was bent on seeing the halls of his ancestors. Gray and huge, with towers, and vanes, and porticos, they lay before us a mile off, separated from us by a streak of glistening river. A great chestnut avenue led the other wag up to the river, and in the dappled grass the deer were browsing. S| You know the house of course, There is a picture of it in Watts, bearing date 1783. A gentleman in a cocked hat and pigtail is rowing a © lady in a boat on the shining river: Another nobleman in a cocked hat is angling in the glistening river from the bridge, over which a post-chaise is passing. “Yes, the place is like enough,” said Philip; “but I miss the post | chaise going over the bridge, and the . lady in the punt with the tall parasol. Don’t you remember the print in our housekeeper’s room Street? My poor mother used to tell me about the house, and I ima- gined it grander than the palace of 66 This Canst recognize this image of — in Old Parr - @ant rooms. eo piece ere he goes out of the great te s 4 /Tiver, is it ? chaise went » ghostly gudgeon. ae Aladdin. It is: a very handsome house,” Philip went on. ‘“‘It ex- tends two hundred and sixty feet by seventy-five, and consists of a rustic basement and principal story, with an attic in the centre, the whole executed in stone. The grand front towards the park is adorned with a noble por- tico of the Corinthian order, and may with propriety be considered one of the finest elevations in the—.’ I tell you I am quoting out of Watts’s ‘Seats of the Nobility and Gentry,’ published by John and Josiah Boy- ‘dell, and lying in our drawing-room. Ah, dear me! I painted the boat and the lady and gentleman in the draw- ing-room copy, and my father boxed “my ears, and my mother cried out, poor dear soul! And this is the And over this the post- with the club-tailed horses, and here was the pig-tailed gentleman fishing. It gives me a queer sensation,” says Philip, stand- ing on the bridge, and stretching out his big arms. “Yes, there are the two people in the punt by the rushes. Ican see them, but you can’t; and I hope, sir, you will have good sport.” And here he took off his hat to. an imaginary gentleman supposed to be angling from the balustrade for We reach the house presently. We ring at the ‘door in the basement under the por- | tico. | some of the family-is down, but they / are out, to be sure. | erown argument answers with him “which persuaded the keeper at the The porter demurs, and says The same half- lodge. We go through the show- rooms of the stately but somewhat faded and melancholy palace. In the cedar dining-room there hangs the grim portrait of the late Earl; and that fair-haired officer in red? that must be Philip’s grandfather. And those two slim girls embracing, surely those are his mother and his aunt. Philip walks softly through the va- He gives the porter a all, forty feet cube, ornamented with » 2a THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 451 statues brought from Rome, by John first Baron, namely, Heliogabalus, Nero’s mother, a priestess of Isis, and a river god; the pictures over the doors by Pedimento; the ceiling by Leotardi, &c.; and in a window in the great hall there is a table with a visitors’ book, in which Philip writes his name. As we went away, we met a carriage which drove rapidly to- wards the house, and which no doubt contained the members of the Ring- wood family, regarding whom the porteress had spoken. After the fam- ily differences previously related, we did not care to face these kinsfolks of Philip, and passed on quickly in twi- light beneath the rustling umbrage of the chestnuts. J. J. saw a hundred fine pictorial effects as we walked ; the palace reflected in the water; the dappled deer under the checkered shadow of the trees. It was, “O what a jolly bit of color,’ and, “I say, look, how well that old woman’s red cloak comes in!” and so forth. Painters never seem tired of their work. At seventy they are students still, patient, docile, happy. May we too, my good sir, live for fourscore years, and never be too old to learn! The walk, the brisk accompanying conversation, amid stately scenery around, brought us with good appe- tites and spirits to our inn, where we were told that dinner would be served when the omnibus arrived from the railway. . At a short distance from the “Ringwood Arms,” and on the op- posite side of the street, is the “ Ram Inn,” neat post-chaises and farmers’ ordinary ; a house, of which the pre- tensions seemed less, though the trade was somewhat more lively. When the tcoting of the horn announced the arrival of the omnibus from the railway, I should think a crowd of at least fifteen people assembled at various doors of the High Street and Market. The half-pay captain and the curate came out from the “Ringwood Athenzum.” The doc- tor’s apprentice stood on the step of 432 ; . i the surgery door, and the surgeon’s} Well. It would be known immedi- lady looked out from the’ first floor. We shared the general curiosity. We and the waiter stoo at the-door of the “ Ringwood Arms.” mortified to see that of the five per- sons conveyed by the ’bus, one was a tradesman, who. descended at his door (Mr. Packwood, the saddler, so the waiter informed us), three travellers were discharged at the “Ram,” and only one came to us. “Mostly bagmen goes to the “Ram,” the waiter said, with a scornful air; and these bagmen, and their bags, quitted the omnibus. Only one passenger remained for the ‘Ringwood Arms Hotel,” and he presently descended under the porte cochére; and the omnibus — I own, with regret, it was but a one- horse machine, — drove rattling into | the court-yard, where the bells of the “Star,” the “‘ George,” the “Rod- ney,” the *‘ Dolphin,” and so on, had once been wont to jingle, and the | court had echoed with the noise and clatter of hoofs and hostlers, and the cries of “ First and second, turn out.” Who was the merry-faced little gentleman in black, who got out of the omnibus, and cried, when he saw us, “ What, you here?” It was Mr. Bradgate, that lawyer of Lord Ring- wood’s with whom we made a brief ‘ acquaintance just after his Lordship’s death. “ What, you here?” cries Bradgate, then, to Philip. ‘Come down about this business, of course 2 Very glad that you and — and certain parties have made it up. Thought you were n’t friends.” What business? What parties ? We had not heard the news? We had only come over from Periwinkle Bay by chance, in order to see the house. “How very singular! Did you meet the — the people who were stay- ing there’? ”’ We. said we had seen a carriage pass, but did not remark who was in THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. | We were ; 2 : o ately, and would appear in Tuesday’s Gazette. The news was that Sir Jolin Ringwood was going to take a peerage, and.that the seat for Whip- ham would be vacant. And_ here- with our friend produced from his travelling bag a proclamation, which he read to us, and which was ad- dressed — es “To the worthy and: independent Electors of the Borough of Ring- wood. “Lonpon, Wednesday. — ‘‘ GENTLEMEN,—A gracious Sover- eign having been pleased to order that the family of Ringwood should con- tinue to be represented. in the House - of Peers, I take leave of my friends and constituents who have given me their kind confidence hitherto, and promise them that my regard for them will never cease, or my interest in the town and neighborhood where my family have dwelt for many centuries. The late lamented. Lord Ringwood’s brother died in the service of his Sovereign in Portugal, following the same flag under which his ancestors for centuries have fought and bled. My own son serves the Crown ina civil capacity. It was natural that one of our name. and family should continue the relations which so long have subsisted’ between us and this loyal, affectionate, but indepen- dent borough. Mr. Ringwood’s on- erous duties in the office which he holds are sufficient. to occupy his time. A gentleman united to our family by the closest ties will offer himself as a candidate for your suffrages —”’ “Why, who isit? He is not go- ing to put in Uncle Twysden, or my sneak of a cousin ?”’ “No,” says Mr. Bradgate. “ Well, bless my soul! he can’t mean me,” said Philip. ‘“ Who is the dark horse he has in his stable 2” Then Mr. Bradgate laughed. “Dark horse you may call him. it. -What, however, was the news? | The new Member is to be Grenville . oF gd > eee PRB ergy THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Woolcomb, Esq., your West India ‘relative, and no other.” Those who know the extreme en- of Mr. P. Firmin’s language when “That miscreant: that skinflint: that wealthy crossing-sweeper: that ignoramus who scarce could do more than sign his name! O, it was hor- ‘yible, shameful! Why, the man is on such iH terms with his wife that they say he strikes her. When I see him I feel inclined to choke him, and “murder him. That brute going into Parliament, and the republican Sir John Ringwood sending him there ! It’s monstrous !” “Family arrangements. Sir John, "or, I should say, my Lord Ringwood, is one of the most affectionate of parents,” Mr. Bradgate remarked. “ He has a large family by his second marriage, and his estates go to his when it came. eldest son. We must not quarrel with Lord Ringwotd for wishing to provide for his young ones. I don’t say that he quite acts up to the ex- treme Liberal principle of which he was once rather fond of boasting. “But if you were offered a pecrage, “what would you do; what would I do? If you wanted money for your young ones, and could get it, would you not take it? Come, come, don’t Jet us have too much of this Spartan ‘virtue! If we were tried, my good friend, we should not be much worse or better than our neighbors. Is my fly coming, waiter??? We asked Mr. Bradgate to defer his departure, and ‘toshare our dinner. But he declined, and said he must go up to the great house, where he and his client had plenty of business to arrange, and where no doubt he would stay for tne night. He bade the inn servants put his portmanteau into his carriage “The old Lord had some famous port-wine,”’ he said; “T hope my friends have the key of the cellar.” The waiter was just putting our he is excited may imagine the: explosion of Philippine wrath which ensued as our friend heard this name. 433 meal on the table, as we stood in the bow-window of the ‘“ Ringwood Arms” coffee-room, engaged in this colloquy. Hence we could see the street, and the opposition inn of the “Ram,” where presently a great pla- card was posted. At least a dozen street-boys, shopmen, and rustics were quickly gathered round this manifesto, and we ourselves went out to examine it. The “ Ram” placard denounced, in terms of unmeasured wrath, the impudent attempt from the Castle to dictate to the free and independent electors of the borough. Freemen were invited not to prom- ise their votes; to show them- selves worthy of their name ; to submit to no Castle dictation. A country gen- tleman of property, of influence, of liberal principles,— no Wrst-INDIAN, no CasTLE FLrunKEY, but a TRUE Enciisn GENTLEMAN, would come forward to rescue them from the ty- ranny under which they labored. On this point the electors might rely on the word of A Briton. “This was brought down by the clerk from Bedloe’s. He and a news- paper man came down in the train with me; a Mr. - As he spoke, there came forth from the “Ram” the newspaper man of whom Mr. Bradgate spoke, — an old friend and comrade of Philip, that energetic man and able reporter, Phipps of the Daily Intelligencer, who recognized Philip, and cordially ereeting him, asked what he. did down here, and supposed he had come to support his family. Philip explained that we were strangers, had come from a neighbor- ing watering-place to see the home of Philip’s ancestors, and were not even aware, until then, that an elec- tioneering contest was peiding in the place, or that Sir John Ringwood was about to be promoted to the peer- age. Meanwhile, Mr. Bradgate’s fly had driven out of the hotel yard of the “ Ringwood Arms,” and the law- yer, running to the house for a bag of papers, jumped into the carriage and BB 434 called to the coachman to drive to the Castle. “ Bon appétit!” says he, ina con- fident tone, and he was gone. “Would Phipps dine with us?” Phipps whispered, “I am on the other side, and the ‘Ram’ is our house.” We, who were on no side, entered into the “ Ringwood Arms,” and sat down to our meal, —to the mutton and the catsup, cauliflower and pota- toes, the copper-edge side-dishes, and the watery melted butter, with which strangers are regaled in inns in declining towns. The town badauds, who had read the placard at the “Ram,” now came to peruse the proclamation in our window. I dare say thirty pairs of clinking boots stopped before the ‘one window and the other, the while we ate tough mutton and drank fiery sherry. And J. J., leaving his dinner, sketched ‘some of the figures of the townsfolk staring at the manifesto, with the old-fashioned “Ram Inn” for a background, —a picturesque gable enough. Our meal was just over, when, somewhat to our surprise, our friend Mr. Bradgate the lawyer returned to the “ Ringwood Arms.” He wore a disturbed countenance. He asked what he could have for Mutton, neither hot nor cold. Hum! That must do. So he had not been invited to dine at the Park? We rallied him with much facetiousness on this disappointment. Little Bradgate’s eyes started with wrath. “ What a churl the little black fellow is!” he eried. “TI took him his papers. I talked with him till dinner was laid in the very room where we were. French beans and neck of venison, —I saw the house- keeper and his man bring them in! And Mr. Woolcomb did not so much as ask me to sit down to dinner, — but told me to come again at nine o’clock! Confound this mutton, — it’s neither hot nor cold! The little skinflint! The glasses of fiery sherry which THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. dinner 2. pee Bradgate now swallowed served: rather | to choke than appease the lawyer; We laughed, and this jocularity | angered him more. ‘O,” said he, | ‘““T am not the only person Woolcomb was rude to. He was in a dreadful | ill temper. He abused his wife: and | when he read somebody’s name in | the strangers’ book, I promise you, | Firmin, he abused you. I hada mind | to say to him, ‘Sir, Mr. Firmin is | dining at the “ Ringwood re | and I will tell him what you say of him.’ What india-rubber mutton | this is!’ What villanous sherry! Go | back to him at nine o’clock, in- deed ! dence | “ You must not abuse Woolcomb | before Firmin,” said one of our party. “Philip is so fond of his cousin’s | husband, that he cannot bear to hear | the black man abused.” This was not a very brilliant joke, but Philip grinned at it with much savage Satisfaction. “Hit Woolcomb as hard as you please, he has no friends here, Mr. Bradgate,” growled Philip. ‘So he is rude to his lawyer, is he?” “I tell you he is worse than the old Earl,” cried the indignant Brad- gate. “ At least the old man was a peer of England, and could be a gentleman when he wished. But to be bullied by a fellow who might be a black footman, or ought to be sweeping a crossing! It’s mon- strous !”’ “Don’t speak ill of a man and a- brother, Mr. Bradgate. _Woolcomb can’t help his complexion.” “‘ But he can help his confounded impudence, and sha’ n’t practise it on me!” the attorney cried. As Bradgate called out from his box, puffing and fuming, friend J. J. was scribbling in the little sketch-book which he always carried. He smiled over his work. ‘I know,” he said, ‘“the Black Prince well enough. I have often seen him driving his chest- nut mares in the Park, with that bewildered white wife by his side. I Be hanged to his impu- 1 ‘am sure that woman is miserable, “and, poor thing —”’ “Serve her right! What did an ‘English lady mean by marrying such a fellow!” cries Bradgate. “A fellow who does net ask his lawyer to dinner!” rentatks one of the company; perhaps the reader’s very humble servant. “ But what an imprudent lawyer he has chosen, —a lawyer who speaks his mind.” ~ “T have spoken my mind to his betters, and be hanged to him! Do ou think I am going to be afraid of him?” bawls the irascible solicit- or. “ Contempsi Catiline gladios, — do ou remember the old quotation at school, Philip?” And here there was a break in our conversation, for chancing to look at friend J. J.’s sketch-book, we saw that he had made a wonderful little drawing, ‘representing Woolcomb and Wool- comb’s wife, grooms, phaeton, and chestnut mares, as they were to be seen any afternoon in Hyde Park, during the London season. _ Admirable! Capital! Everybody at once knew the likeness of the dusky _ charioteer. and sniggered over it. ‘‘ Unless you behave yourself, Mr. Bradgate, Ridley will make a picture of you,” says Philip. Bradgate made a comical face, and retreated into his box, of which he pretended to draw the curtain. But the sociable little man did not long remain in his retirement ; he emerged from it ina short time, his wine decanter in his hand, and \ joined our little party ; and then we fell to talking of old times ; and we all remembered a famous drawing by Hi. B., of the late Earl of Ringwood, in the old-fashioned swallow-tailed coat and tight trousers, on the old- fashioned horse, with the old-fashion- ed groom behind him, as he used to be seen pounding along Rotten Row. “JT speak my mind, do I?”’ says Mr. Bradgate, presently. “1 know somebody who spoke his mind to that old man, and who would have THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Tracundus himself smiled | 435 been better off if he had held his tongue.” “Come tell me, Bradgate,” cried Philip. ‘It is all over and past now. Had Lord Ringwood left me some- thing? I declare I thought at one time that he intended to do so.” “Nay, has not your friend here been rebuking me for speaking my mind? I am going to be as mum as a mouse. Let us talk about the election,” and the provoking law- yer would say no more on a subject possessing a dismal interest for poor Phil. “JT have no more right to repine,” said that philosopher, “ than a man would have who drew number x in the lottery, when the winning ticket was number y. Let us talk, as you say, about the election. Who is to oppose Mr. Woolcomb ?” Mr. Bradgate believed a neighbor- ing squire, Mr. Hornblow, was to be the candidate put forward against the Ringwood nominee. ““Hornblow! what, Hornblow of Greyfriars ?’’ cries Philip. “ A bet- ter fellow never lived. In this case he shall have our vote and interest ; and I think we ought to go over and take another dinner at the ‘ Ram.’ ” The new candidate actually turned out to be Philp’s old school and college friend, Mr. Hornblow. After dinner we met him with a staff of eanvassers on the tramp through the little town. Mr. Hornblow was paying his respects to such tradesmen as had their shops yet open. Next day being market-day, he proposed to canvass the market- people. ‘If I meet the black man, Firmin,” said the burly squire, ‘1 think I can chaff him off his legs. He is a bad one at speaking, 1 am told.” As if the tongue of Plato would have prevailed in Whipham and against the nominee of the great house! The hour was late to be sire, but the companions of Mr. Hornblow on his canvass augured. ill of his success after half an hour’s walk A436 at his heels. Baker Jones would not promise nohow: that meant Jones would vote for the Castle, Mr. Horn- blow’s legal aide-de-camp, Mr. Bat- ley, was forced to allow. Butcher Brown was having his tea, — his shrill-voiced wife told us, looking out from her glazed back parlor; Brown would vote for the Castle. Saddler Briggs would see about it. Grocer Adams fairly said he would vote against us,—against us? — against Hornblow, whose part we were taking already. I fear the flat- tering promises of support of a great body of free and unbiassed electors, which had induced Mr. Hornblow to come forward and, &c., were but inventions of that little lawyer, Bat- ley, who found his account in haying a contest in the borough. polling-day came, — you see, I dis- dain to make any mysteries in this simple and veracious story, — Mr. GRENVILLE Woo.coms, whose so- licitor and agent spoke for him, — Mr. Grenville Wooleomb, who could not spell or speak two sentences of decent English, and whose character for dulness, ferocity, penuriousness, jealousy, almost fatuity, was noto- rious to all the world, — was returned by an immense majority, and the country gentlemen brought scarce a hundred votes to the poll. ~ We who were in no wise engaged in the contest, nevertheless found amusement from it in a quiet country place where little else was stirring. We came over once or twice from Periwinkle Bay. Wemounted Horn- blow’s colors openly. We drove up ostentatiously to the “ Ram,” forsak- ing the “Ringwood Arms,” where Mr. Grenvitte Woorcoms’s Com- MITTEE-ROOM was now established in that very coffee-room where we had dined in Mr. Bradgate’s compa- ny. Wewarmed in the contest. We met Bradgate and his principal more than once, and our Montagues and Capulets defied each other in the ublic street. It was fine to see hilip’s great figure and noble scowl When the | eS THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. | when he met Woolcomb at the can- vass. Gleams of mulatto hate quiver- ed from the eyes of the little captain. Darts of fire flashed from beneath Philip’s eyebrows as he elbowed his way forward, and hustled Wooleomb off the pavement. Mr. Philip never disguised any sentiment of his. “ Hate. the little ignorant, spiteful, vulgar, ay-' aricious beast ? Of course I hate him, and I should like to pitch him into the river.” ‘OQ Philip!” Charlotte pleaded. But there was no reason- ing with this savage when in wrath. I deplored, though perhaps I was amused by, his ferocity. The local paper on our side was filled with withering epigrams against this poor Woolcomb, of which, I suspect, Philip was the author. I think I know that fierce style and tremendous invective. In the man whom he hates he can see no good: and in his friend no fault. When we met Bradgate apart from his princi- pal, we were friendly enough. He said we had no chance in the contest. He did not conceal his dislike and contempt for his client. He amused us in later days (when he actually became Philip’s man of law) by re-_ counting anecdotes of Woolcomb, his fury, his jealousy, his avarice, his bru- tal behavior. Poor Agnes had mar- ried for money, and he gave her none. Old Twysden, in giving his daughter — to this man, had hoped to have the run of a fine house; to ride in Wool- comb’s carriages, and feast at his table. But Woolcomb was so stingy that he grudged the meat which his wife ate, and would give none to her relations. He turned those relations out of doors. ‘T'wysden, he drove them both away. He lost a child, because he would not send for a physician. His wife never forzave him that meanness. Her hatred for him became open and avowed. ‘They parted, and she led a life into which we will look no fur- ther. She quarrelled with parents as well as husband. ‘‘ Why,” she said, “did they sell me to that man ?” Talbot and Ringwood — -THE-ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. Why did she sell herself? She re- quired little persuasion from father and mother when she committed that crime. To be sure, they had educated her so well to worldliness, that when the occasion came she was ready. We used to see this luckless wo- man, with her horses and servants decked with Woolcomb’s ribbons, driving about the little town, and making fecble efforts to canvass the towns-people. They all knew how she and her husband quarrelled. Re- aa came very quickly from the all to the town. Woolcomb had not been at Whipham a week when people began to hoot and jeer at him as he passed in his carriage. ‘ Think how weak you must be,” Bradgate said, “when we can win with this horse! I wish he would stay away, though. We could manage much better without him. He has insulted I don’t know many free and indepen- dent electors, and infuriated others, because he will not give them beer when they come to the house. If Woolcomb would stay in the place, and we could have the election next _ year, I think your man might win. But, as it is, he may as well give in, and spare the expense of a_ poll.” Meanwhile, Hornblow was very con- fident. We believe what we wish to believe. It is marvellous what faith an enthusiastic electioneering agent can inspire in his client. At any rate, if Hornblow did not win this time, he would at the next election. The old Ringwood domination in Whipham was gone henceforth for- ever. When the day of election arrived, ou may be sure we came over from eriwinkle Bay to see the battle. By this time Philip had grown so enthu- siastic in Hornblow’s cause —(Phi ip, by the way, never would allow the peers iy of a defeat) — that he had is children decked in the Hornblow ribbons, and drove from the bay, wearing a cockade as large as a pan- cake. He, I, and Ridley the painter, 437 went together in a dog-cart. We were hopeful, though we knew the enemy was strong; and cheerful, though, ere we had driven five miles, the rain began to fall. Philip was very anxious about a certain great roll of paper which we carried with us. When I asked him what it contained, he said it was a gun; which was absurd. _ Ridley smiled in his silent way. When the rain came, Philip cast a cloak over his artillery, and sheltered his pow- der. We little guessed at the time what strange game his shot would bring down. When we reached Whipham the polling had continued for some hours. The confounded black miscreant, as Philip called his cousin’s husband, was at the head of the poll, and with every hour his majority increased. The free and independent electors did not seem to be in the least influenced by Philip’s articles in the county pa- per, or by the placards which our side had pasted over the little town, and in which freemen were called up- on to do their duty, to support a fine old English gentleman, to submit to no Castle nominee, and so forth. The pressure of the Ringwood stew- ard and bailiffs was too strong. However much they disliked the black man, tradesman after tradesman, and tenant after tenant, came up to vote for him. Our drums and trumpets at the “‘Ram™” blew loud defiance to the brass band at the ‘“ Ringwood Arms.” From our balcony, I flatter myself, we made much finer speeches than the Ringwood people could de- liver. Hornblow was a popular man in the county. When he came for- ward to speak, the market-place echo- ed with applause. The farmers and small tradesmen touched their hats to him kindly, but slunk off sadly to the polling-booth, and voted according to order. A fine, healthy, handsome, red-cheeked squire, our champion’s personal appearance enlisted all the ladies in his favor. “Tf the two men,” bawled Philip, 438 from the “Ram” window, “could decide the contest with their coats off before the market-house yonder, which do you think would win, — the fair man or the darkey ?” “(Loud cries of Hornblow foriver!”’ or “ Mr. Philip, we ’ll have yew.”) “But you see, my friends, Mr. Woolcomb does not like a far fight. Why doesn’t he show at the ‘Ringwood Arms’ and speak? I don’t believe he can speak, — not English. Are you men? Are you Englishmen? Are you white slaves to be sold to that fel- low?” (Immense uproar. Mr. Finch, the Ringwood agent, in vain tries to get a hearing from the bal- cony of the “Ringwood Arms.’’) “ Why does not Sir John Ringwood —my Lord Ringwood now — come down amongst his tenantry, and back the man he has sent down? I sup- pose he is ashamed to look his ten- ants in the face. I should be, if I or- dered them to do such a degrading job. You know, gentlemen, that Iam a Ringwood myself. My grandfather lies buried — no, not buried —in yon- der church. His tomb is there. His body lies on the glorious field of Bu- pace)? (* Hurray }"?)) “IT amon Ringwood.” (Cries of ‘“ Hoo— down. No Ringwoods year. We wunt have un!”) “And _ before George, if I had a vote, I would give it for the gallant, the good, the ad- mirable, the excellent Hornblow. Some one holds up the state of the poll, and Woolcomb is ahead! I can only say, electors of Whipham, the more shame for you!” “ Hooray ! Bravo!” The boys, the people, the shouting, are allon our side. The voting, I regret to say, steadily continues in favor of the enemy. As Philip was making his speech, an immense banging of drums and blowing of trumpets arose from the balcony of the “ Ringwood Arms,” and a something resembling the song of triumph called, ‘‘ See the Conquer- ing Hero comes,”’ was performed by the opposition orchestra. The lodge gates of the park were now decorated THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. with the Ringwood and Woolcomb— flags. They were flung open, and a dark green chariot with four gray horses issued from the park. On the chariot was an Earl’s coronet, and the people looked rather scared as it came towards us, and said, ‘‘Do’ee | look, now, ’t is my Lard’s own post- chaise!” On former days Mr. Wool- comb, and his wife as his aide-de- camp, had driven through the town in an open barouche, but, to-day be- ing rainy, preferred the shelter of the old chariot, and we saw, presently, within, Mr. Bradgate, the London agent, and by his side the darkling figure of Mr. Woolcomb. He had passed many agonizing hours, we were told subsequently, in attempting to learn a speech. He cried over it. He never could get it by heart. He swore like a frantic child at his wife who endeavored to teach him his les- son. “Now ’s the time, Mr. Briggs!” Philip said to Mr. B., our lawyer’s clerk, and the intelligent Briggs sprang down stairs to obey his orders. Clear the road there! make way ! was heard from the crowd below us. The gates of our inn court-yard, which had been closed, were suddenly flung open, and, amidst the roar of the multitude, there issued out a cart drawn by two donkeys, and driven by a negro, beasts and man all wearing Woolcomb’s colors. In the cart was fixed a placard, on which a most un- deniable likeness of Mr. Wooleomb was designed : who was made to say, ‘“VOTE-FOR ME! Am I Nor A MAN AND A Brupper?” This cart trotted out of the yard of the “ Ram,” and, with a cortége of shouting boys, advanced into the market-place, which Mr. Woolcomb’s carriage was then crossing. Before the market-house stands the statue of the late Earl, whereof men- tion has been made. In his peer’s robes, a hand extended, he points towards his park gates. An inscrip- tion, not more mendacious than many other epigraphs, records his rank, \ | bandy legs here and frightened, no doubt; ~ maddened with fear. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. age, virtues, and the esteem in which the people of Whipham held him. The mulatto who drove the team of donkeys was an itinerant tradesman who brought fish from the bay to the little town; a jolly wag, a fellow of indifferent character, a frequenter of all the ale-houses in the neighbor- hood, and rather celebrated for his skill as a bruiser. He and his steeds streamed with Woolcomb_ ribbons. With ironical shouts of ‘‘ Woolcomb forever!” Yellow Jack urged his st towards the chariot with © the white horses. He took off his hat with mock respect to the candidate sitting within the green chariot. From the balcony of the “ Ram” we could see the two vehicles approach- ing each other ; and the Yellow Jack waving his ribboned hat, kicking his there, and ur- ging on his donkeys. What with the roar of the people, and the banging and trumpeting of the rival bands, we could hear but little: but I saw Woolcomb thrust his yellow head out of his chaise-window, — he pointed towards that impudent donkey-cart, and urged, seemingly, his postilions to ride it down. Plying their whips, the post-boys galloped towards Yellow Jack and his vehicle, a yelling crowd scattering from before the horses, and rallying behind them, to utter execra- tions at Woolcomb. His horses were for just as Yellow Jack wheeled nimbly round one side of the Ringwood statue, Woolcomb’s horses were all huddled together and plunging in confusion beside it, the fore-wheel came in ab- rupt collision with the stonework of the statue railing: and then we saw the vehicle turn over altogether, one of the wheelers down with its rider, and the leaders kicking, plunging, lashing out right and left, wild and Mr. Philip’s countenance, I am bound to say, wore a most guilty and queer expres- sion. This accident, this collision, this injury, perhaps death of Wool- comb and his lawyer, arose out of our 439 fine joke about the Man and the Brother. We dashed down the stairs from the “ Ram,” — Hornblow, Philip, and half a dozen more, — and made a way through the crowd towards the car- riage, with its prostrate occupants. The nrob made way civilly for the popular candidate, — the losing candi- date. When we reached the chaise, the traces had been cut: the horses were free : the fallen postilion was up and rubbing his leg: and, as soon as the wheelers were taken out of the chaise, Woolcomb emerged from it. He had said from within (accompany- ing his speech with many oaths, which need not be repeated, and showing a just sense of his danger), “Cut the traces, hang you! And take the horses away ; 1 can wait until they re gone. I’m sittin’ on my lawyer ; ain’t goin’ to have my head kicked off by those wheelers.” — And just as we reached the fallen post-chaise he emerged from it, laughing and say- ing, “Lie still, you old beggar!” to Mr. Bradgate, who was writhing un- derneath him. His issue from the carriage was received with shouts of laughter, which increased prodigious- ly when Yellow J ack, nimbly clam- bering up the statue-railings, thrust the outstretched arm of the statue through the picture of the Man and the Brother, and left that cartoon flapping in the air over Woolcomb’s head. Then a shout arose, the like of which has seldom been heard in that quiet little town. Then Woolcomb, who had been quite good-humored as he issued out of the broken post- chaise, began to shriek, curse, and re- vile more shrilly than before ; and was heard in the midst of his oaths, and wrath, to say “He would give any man a shillin’ who would bring him down that confounded thing !” Then scared, bruised, contused, confused, poor Mr. Bradgate came out of the carriage, his employer taking not the least notice of him. Hornblow hoped Woolcomb was 440 not hurt, on which the little gen- tleman turned round and said “ Hurt 2 no; who are you! Is no fellah goin’ to bring me down that con- founded thing? Ill give a shillin’, I say, to the fellah who does!” ‘A shilling is offered for that pic- ture!” shouts Philip with a red face, and wild with excitement. ‘ Who will take a whole shilling for that beauty ?” On which Woolcomb began to scream, curse, and revile more bitterly than before. ‘You here? Hang you, why are you here? Don’t come bullyin’ me. Take that fellah away, some of you fellahs. Bradgate, come to my committee-room. I won’t stay here, I say. Let’s have the beast of a carriage, and— Well, what’s up now?” While he was talking, shrieking, and swearing, half a dozen shoulders in the crowd had raised the carriage up on its three wheels. The panel which had fallen towards the ground had split against a stone, and a great gap was seen in the side. A lad was about to thrust his hand into the or- ifice, when Woolcomb turned upon him. “Hands off, you little beggar!” he cried, “no priggin’! Drive away some of these feilahs, you post- boys! -Don’t stand rubbin’ your knee there, you great fool. What’s this” and he thrusts his own hand into the place where the boy had just been marauding. In the old travelling carriages there used to be a well or sword-case, in which travellers used to put swords and pistols in days when such weap- “ons of defence were needful on the road. Out of this sword-case of Lord Ringwood’s old post-chariot, Wool- comb did not draw a sword, but a foolscap paper folded and tied with a red tape. And he began to read the superscription, — ‘‘ Will of the Right Honorable John, Earl of Ringwood. Bradgate, Smith, and Burrows.” “God bless my soul! It’s the will he had back from my office, and THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. — which I thought he had destroyed, My dear fellow, I congratulate you. And herewith | with all my heart!” Mr. Bradgate the lawyer began toshake Philip’s hand with much warmth. | ‘Allow me to look at that paper. Yes, this isin my handwriting. Let us come into the ‘Ringwood Arms’ — the ‘ Ram’, — anywhere, and read it to you!” . . . Here we looked up to the bal- cony of the ‘“ Ringwood Arms,” and beheld a great placard announcing the state of the poll at 1 o’clock. Woo.tcoms . HornBLow . ; “ We are beaten, ” said Mr. Horn- blow, very good-naturedly. “‘ We may take our flag down. comb, I congratulate you.” “J knew we should do it,” said Mr. Woolcomb, putting out a_ little yellow-kidded hand. ‘Had all the votes beforehand, — knew we should do the trick, Isay. Hi! you — What- do-you-call-’im — Bradgate! What is it about, that will? It does not do any good to that beggar, does it? ” and with laughter and shouts, and cries of ‘ Woolcomb forever,” and “Give us something to drink, your honor,’ the successful candidate marched into his hotel. And was the tawny Woolcomb the fairy who was to rescue Philip from grief, debt, and poverty? Yes. And the old post-chaise of the late Lord Ringwood was the fairy cha-— riot. You have read in a past chap- ter how the old lord, being trans- ported with anger against Philip, desired his lawyer to bring back a will in which he had left a hand- some legacy to the young man, as his ‘mother’s son. My Lord had in- tended to make a provision for Mrs. Firmin, when she was his dutiful niece, and yet under his roof. When she eloped with Mr. Firmin, Lord — Ringwood vowed he would give his — niece nothing. But he was pleased with the independent and forgiving Mr. Wool-. feta We aie 2 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. © “spirit exhibited by her son; and being a person of much grim hu- mor, I dare say chuckled inwardly at thinking how furious the Twysdens would be, when they found Philip was the old lord’s favorite. ‘Then Mr. Philip chose to be insubordinate, and to excite the wrath of his great- ‘uncle, who desired to have his will back again. He put the document into his carriage, in the secret box, as he drove away on that last jour- ney, in the midst of which death seized him. Had he survived, would he have made another will, leaving out all mention of Philip? Who shall say? My Lord made and can- celled many wills. This certainly, duly drawn and witnessed, was the last he ever signed ; and by it Philip is put in possession of a sum of money which is sufficient to insure a provis- ion for those whom he loves. Kind readers, I know not whether the fairies be rife now, or banished from this work-a-day earth, but Philip’s biographer wishes you some of those jn his trials: * en a se pen ag iavis oz #ta- blessings which never forsook Philip a dear wife and chil- dren to love you, a true friend or two to stand by you, and in health or sick- ness a clear conscience, and a kindly heart. If you fall upon the way, may succor reach you. And may you, in your turn, have help and pity in store _ for the unfortunate whom you over- | 4 “ff . - take on life’s journey. Would you care to know what hap- pened to the other personages of our narrative ? Old Twysden is still bab- bling and bragging at clubs, and though aged is not the least venera- ble. He has quarrelled with his son for not calling Woolcomb out, when that unhappy difference arose between the Black Prince and his wife. He says his family has been treated with eruel injustice by the late Lord Ring- wood, but as soon as Philip had a little fortune left him he instantly was reconciled to his wife’s nephew. There are other friends of Firmin’s who were kind enough to him in his evil days, but apa pardon his pros- 19 441 perity. Being in that benevolent mood which must accompany any leave-taking, we will not name these ill-wishers of Philip, but wish that all readers of his story may have like reason to make some of their acquaint- ances angry. Our dear Little Sister would never live with Philip and his Charlotte, though the latter especially and with all her heart besought Mrs. Brandon to come to them. That pure and useful and modest life ended a few years since. She died of a fever caught from one of her patients. She would not allow Philip or Charlotte to come near her. She said she was justly punished for being so proud as to refuse to live with them. All her little store she left to Philip. He has now in his desk the five guineas which she gave him at his marriage ; and J. J. has made a little picture of her, with her sad smile and her sweet face, which hangs in Philip’s drawing- room, where father, mother, and chil- dren talk of the Little Sister as though.she were among them still. She was dreadfully agitated when the news came from New York of Doctor Firmin’s second marriage. “ His second ? His third ?” she said. “The villain, the villain!” That strange delusion which we have de- scribed as sometimes possessing her increased in intensity after this news. More than ever, she believed that Philip was her own child. She came wildly to him, and cried that his father had forsaken them. It was only when she was excited that she gave utterance to this opinion. Doc- tor Goodenough says that though generally silent about it, it never left her. Upon his marriage Dr. Firmin wrote one of his long letters to his son, announcing the event. He de- scribed the wealth of the lady (a widow from Norfolk, in Virginia) to whom he was about to be united. He would pay back, ay, with interest, every pound, every dollar, every cent he owed his son. Was the lady 442 wealthy ? doctor’s word. Three months after his marriage he died of yellow fever, on his wife's estate. It was then the Little Sister came to see us in widow’s mourning, very wild and flushed. She bade our servant say, ‘‘ Mrs. Firmin was at the door ” ; to the astonishment of the man, who knew her. She had even caused a mourning-card to be printed. Ah, there is rest now for that little fevered brain, and peace, let us pray, for that fond faithful heart. The mothers in Philip’s household and mine have already made a match between our children. We had a THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. We had oe the poor great gathering the other day at Roe- i hampton, at the house of our friend, — Mr. Clive Newcome (whose tall boy, — my wife says, was very attentive to— our Helen), cated at the same school, we sat ever — so long at dessert, telling old stories, whilst the children danced to piano — music on the lawn. Dance on the lawn, young folks, whilst the elders - talk in the shade! What? The night is falling: we have talked enough over our wine: and it is time | Good © to go home? 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