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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? “Thave a share in a great medical
_ discovery,* regarding which I have
“written to our friend, Mrs. Brandon,
587
mense profit, as introduced into
England by a physician so well known
—may I not say professionally? re-
spected as myself. The very first profits
resulting from that discovery I prom-
ise, on my honor, to devote to you.
They will very soon far more than
repay the loss which my imprudence
has brought on my dear boy. _Fare-
well! Love to your wife and little
ones. — G. B. F.”
——9—
CHAPTER XXXVI.
NEC PLENA CRUORIS HIRUDO.
Tue reading of this precious letter
filled Philip’s friend with an inward
‘indignation which it was very hard
to control or disguise. It is no pleas-
ant task to tell a gentleman that his
father is arogue. Old Firmin would
have been hanged a few years earlier,
for practices like these. As you talk
with a very great scoundrel, or with
a madman, has not the respected
teader sometimes reflected, with a
grim self-humiliation, how the fellow
Let us, dearly deloved, who are out-
| side, —I mean outside the hulks or
the asylum, — be thankful that we
have to pay a barber for snipping our
‘hair, and are intrusted with the
choice of the cut of our own jerkins.
As poor Philip read his father’s letter,
my thought was: * And I can re-
' member the soft white hand of that
scoundrel, which has just been forging
his own son’s name, putting sover-
eigns into my own palm, when I was
a school-boy.” I always liked that
man :— but the story is notde me, —
it regards Philip.
“You won’t pay this bill?” Phil-
ip’s friend indignantly said, then.
“ What can I do?” says poor
Phil, shaking a sad head.
“and which is sure to realize an im-
“ You are not worth five hundred
pounds in the world,” remarks the
friend.
“Who ever said I was? I am
_ -* ABther was first employed, I believe, in
_ America ; and I hope the reader will excuse
the substitution of Chloroform in this in-
‘ig ‘stance. — WwW. M. dye
588
worth this bill: or my credit is,”
answers the victim. .
“Tf you pay this, he will draw
more.” ©
“T dare say he will”:
admits.
“ And he will continue to draw as
long as there is a drop of blood to be
had out of you,’
“Yes,” owns poor Philip, putting
a finger to his lip.. He thought I
might be about to speak. His artless
wife and mine were conversing at
that moment upon the respective
merits of some sweet chintzes which
they had seen at Shoolbred’s, in ‘Tot-
tenham Court Road, and which were
so cheap and pleasant, and lively to
look at! Really those drawing-room
curtains would cost scarcely any-
thing! Our Regulus, you see, before
stepping into his torture-tub, was
smiling on his friends, and talking
upholstery with a cheerful, smirking
countenance, On chintz, or some
other household errand, the ladies
went prattling off: but there was no
eare, save for husband and children,
in Charlotte’s poor little innocent
heart just then.
“Nice to hear her talking about
sweet drawing-room chintzes, is n’t
it?” says Philip. “Shall we. try
Shoolbred’s or the other shop?”
And then he laughs. It was nota
very lively laugh.
“You mean that you are deter-
mined, then, on —”’
“On acknowledging my signature ?
Of course,” says Philip, “if ever it is
presented to me, I would own it.”
And having formed and announced
this resolution, 1 knew my stubborn
friend too well to think that he ever
would shirk it.
The most exasperating part of the
matter was, that however generously
Philip’s friends
towards, him, they could not in this
case give him a helping hand. The
Doctor would draw more bills and
more. As sure as Philip supplied,
the parent would ask; and that de-
vouring dragon of a doctor had
that Firmin
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
might be disposed |
jis n't?
stomach enough for the blood of all.
of us, were we inclined to give it.
In fact, Philip saw as much, and
owned everything with his usual cane
dor. “iEsee what 1 is going on in your.
mind, old boy,” the poor fellow said, ,
“as well as if you spoke. You mean
that 1 am helpless and irreclaimable,
and doomed to hopeless ruin. So it:
would seem. A man can’t escape
his fate, friend, and my father has
made mine for me. If I manage to
struggle through the payment of. this |
bill, of course he will draw another, |
My only chance of escape is, that he |
should succeed in some of his speculae |
tions. As he is always gambling, there
may be some-luck for him one day or |
another. He won’t benefit me, then,
That is not his way. If he makes a.
coup he will keep the money, or spend _
it. He won’t give me any. But he’
will not. draw. upon me as he does |
now, or send forth fancy imitations of /
the filial autograph. It is a blessing )
to have such a father, isn’t it? i
say, Pen, as I think from whom I am |
descended, and look at your spoons, | |
I am astonished I have not put any ©
of them in my pocket. You leave —
me in the room with ’em quite un-
protected. I say, it is quite affecting
the way in which you and your dear
wife have confidence in me. And.
with a bitter execration at his fate, »
the poor fellow pauses-for a moment
in his lament. 2 |
His father was his fate, he seemed
to think, and there were no means of
averting it. ‘You remember that
picture ‘of Abraham and Isaac in | ;
Doctor’s study in Old Parr Street 7 i
he would say. “ My patriarch has ;
tied me up, and had the knife in me
repeatedly. He does not sacrifice me |
at one operation ; but there will be
final one some day, and I shall bleed
no more. It’s gay and amusing
Especially when one has_
wife and children.” 1, for my pa
felt so indignant, that I was minde
to advertise in the papers that al
acceptances drawn in Philip’s nam
were forgeries ; and let his father tak
f
fa
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
the consequences of his own act.
But the consequences would have
been life imprisonment for the old
man, and almost as much disgrace
and ruin for the young one as were
actually impending. He pointed out
this clearly enough; nor could we
altogether gainsay his dismal logic.
It was better, at any rate, to meet his
‘Dill, and give the Doctor warning for
the future. Well: perhaps it was;
only suppose the Doctor should take
‘the warning in good part, accept the
rebuke with perfect meekness, and at
‘an early opportunity commit anoth-
‘er forgery? To this Philip replied,
‘that no man could resist his fate:
‘that he had always expected his own
doom through his father: that when
ithe elder went to America he thought
possibly the charm was broken ; “ But
‘you see it is not,” groaned Philip,
“and my father’s emissaries reach
me, and f am still under the spell.”
‘The bearer of the lowstring, we know,
was on his way, and would deliver
‘his grim message erelong.
_— Having frequently succeeded in ex-
torting money from Dr. Firmin, Mr.
‘Tufton Hunt thought he could not
‘do better than follow his banker
across the Atlantic; and we need not
describe the annoyance and rage of
‘the Doctor on finding this black care
‘still behind his back. He had not
‘much to give; indeed the sum which
he took away with him, and of which
he robbed his son and his other cred-
‘itors, was but small: but Hunt was
‘bent upon having a portion of this ;
‘and, of course, hinted that if the
Doctor refused, he would carry to the
‘New York press the particulars of
‘Firmin’s early career and latest de-
‘falcations. Mr. Hunt had been under
\the gallery of the House of Com-
‘mons half a dozen times, and knew
‘our public men by sight. In the
‘course of a pretty long and disrepu-
table career he had learned anecdotes
‘regarding members of the aristocracy,
‘turfmen, and the like ; and he offered
to sell this precious knowledge of his
‘to more than one American paper, as
389
other amiable exiles from our country
have done. But Hunt was too old,
and his stories too stale for the New
York public. They dated from
George IV., and the boxing “and
coaching times. He found but little
market for his wares; and the tipsy
parson reeled from tavern to bar,
only the object of scorn to younger
reprobates who despised his old-
fashioned stories, and could top them
with blackguardism of a much more
modern date.
After some two years’ sojourn in
the United States, this worthy felt
the passionate longing to revisit his
native country which generous hearts
often experience, and made his way
from Liverpool to London ; and when
in London directed his steps to the
house of the Little Sister, of which
he expected to find Philip still an in-
mate. Although Hunt had been
once kicked out of the premises, he
felt little shame now about re-enter-
ing them. He had that in his pocket
which would insure him respectful
behavior from Philip. What were the
circumstances under which that forged
bill was obtained ¢ Was it a specula-
tion between Hunt and Philip’s father?
Did Hunt suggest that, to screen the
elder Firmin from disgrace and ruin,
Philip would assuredly take the bill
up? That a forged signature was,
in fact, a better document than a
genuine acceptance ¢ We shall never
know the truth regarding this trans-
action now. We have but the state-
ments of the two parties concerned ;
and as both of them, I grieve to say,
are entirely unworthy of credit, we
must remain in ignorance regarding
this matter. Perhaps Hunt forged
Philip’s acceptance: perhaps his un-
happy father wrote it: perhaps the
Doctor’s story that the paper was ex-
torted from him was true, perhaps
false. What matters? Both the
men have passed away from amongst
us, and will write and speak no more
lies.
Caroline was absent from home
when Hunt paid his first visit after
390
his return from America. Her ser-
yant described the man, and his ap-
pearance. Mrs. Brandon felt sure
that Hunt was her visitor, and fore-
boded no good to Philip from the
parson’s arrival. In former days we
have seen how the Little Sister had
found favor in the eyes of this man.
The besotted creature, shunned of
men, stained with crime, drink, debt,
had still no little v: anity in his com-
position, and gave himself airs in the
tavern parlors which he frequented.
Because he had been at the University
thirty years ago, his idea was that he
Was superior to ordinar y men who had
not had the benefit of an education
at Oxford or Cambridge; and that
the ‘‘ snobs,” as he called them, re
spected him. He would assume
grandiose airs in talking to a trades-
man ever so wealthy; speak to such
aman by his surname ; and deemed
that he honored him by his patronage
and conversation. The Little Sis-
ter’s grammar, I have told you, was
not good ;
ly irregular. A letter was a painful
task to her. She knew how ill she
performed it, and that she was for-
ever making ‘blunders.
She would invent a thousand funny
little pleas and excuses for her faults
of writing. With all the blunders of
spelling, “her little letters had a pa-
thos which somehow brought tears
into the eyes. The Rev. Mr. Hunt be-
lieved himself to be this woman’s su-
perior. He thought his university
education gave him a claim upon her
respect, and draped himself and swag-
gered before her and others in his
dingy college gown. Hehad paraded
his Master of Arts degree in many
thousand tavern parlors, where his
Greek and learning had got him a
kind of respect. He patronized land-
lords, and strutted by hostesses’
bars with a vinous leer or a tipsy
solemnity. He must have been very
far gone and debased indeed when he
could still think that he was any liv-
ing man’s better: —he, who ought
to have waited on the waiters, and
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
her poor little 4’s were sad- |
blacked Boots’s own shoes. Wher
he had reached a certain stage of
liquor he commonly began to brag
about the University, and recite thi
titles of his friends of early days
Never was kicking more righteoush
administered than that which Phili
once bestowed on this miscreant
The fellow took to the gutter » came, and never mentioned
‘uut’s arrival and yisit to her, — the
ttle Sister made her way to another
b, and presently made her appear-
ce at the hguse of Philip’s friends
Queen Square. And _ here she
formed me, how Hunt had arrived,
‘d how she was sure he meant no
vod to Philip, and how she had told
ttain — certain stories which were
yt founded in fact—to Mr. Hunt;
y the telling of which fibs I am not
jout to endeavor to excuse her.
Though the interesting clergyman
ad not said one word regarding that
ji of which Philip’s father had
arned him, we believed that the docu-
ent was in Hunt’s possession, and
aat it would be produced in due sea-
m. We happened to know where
‘hilip dined, and sent him word to
ome to us.
“ What can he mean?” the people
sked at the, table,—a bachelors’
able at the Temple (for Philip’s good
rife actually encouraged him to go
broad from time to time, and make
aerry with his friends).
an this mean?” and they read out
he scrap of paper which he had cast
own as he was summoned. away.
Philip’s correspondent wrote: “ Dear
Philip, —I believe the BEARER OF
‘HE BOWSTRING has arrived; and
ias been with the L. 8, this very
lay.”’
The L. S.? the bearer of the bow-
tring? Not one of the bachelors din-
ng in Parchment Buildings could
ead the riddle. Only after receiving
jhe scrap of paper Philip had jumped
ip and left the room; and a friend
of ours, asly wag and Don Juan of
Pump Court, offered to take odds
that there was a lady in the case.
At the hasty little council which
was convened at our house on the re-
ceipt of the news, the Taina Sister,
17
“What |
393
whose instinct had not betrayed her,
was made acquainted with the precise
nature of the danger which menaced
Philip; and exhibited a fine hearty
wrath when she heard how he pro-
posed to meet the enemy. He had
a certain sum in hand. He would
borrow more of his friends, who
knew that he was an honest man.
This bill he would meet, whatever
might come; and avert at least this
disgrace from his father.
What? Give in to those rogues #
Leave his children to starve, and his
poor wife to turn drudge and house-
servant, who was not fit for anything
but a fine lady? (There was no love
lost, you see, between these two la-
dies, who both loved Mr. Philip.) It
was a sin and ashame! Mrs. Bran-
don averred, and declared she thought
| Philip had been a man of more spirit.
Philip’s friend has beture stated his
own private sentiments regarding the
calamity which menaced Firmin.
To pay this bill was to bring a dozen
more down upon him. Philip might
as well resist now as at a later day.
Such, in fact, was the opinion given
| by the reader’s very humble servant
) at command.
My wife, on the other hand, took
Philip’s side. She was very much
moved at his announcement that he
would forgive his father this once at
| least, and endeavor to cover his sin.
“As you hope to be forgiven your-
self, dear Philip, I am sure you are
doing right,” Laura said; ‘‘ lam sure
Charlotte will think so.”
“QO, Charlotte, Charlotte!” inter-
poses the Little Sister, rather peevish-
ly; “of course, Mrs. Philip thinks
whatever her husband tells her !”’
“In his own time of trial Philip
has been met with wonderful succor
and kindness,” Laura urged. “ See
how one thing after another has con-
tributed to help him! When he
wanted, there were friends always at
his need. If he wants again, | am
sure my husband and I will share
with him.” (I may have made a wry
‘face at this; for, with the best feel-
O04
ings towards a man, and that kind of
thing, you know it is not always con-
venient to be lending him five or six
hundred pounds without security.)
““My dear husband and I will share
with him,’ goes on Mrs. Laura;
“won't we, Arthur? Yes, Brandon,
that we will. Be sure, Charlotte and
the children shall not want because
Philip covers his father’s wrong, and
hides it from the world! God bless
you, dear friend!” and what does
this woman do next, and before her
husband’s face? Actually she goes
up to Philip; she takes his hand —
and— Well, what took place be-
fore my own eyes, I do not choose to
write down.
“She’s encouraging him to ruin
the children for the sake of that —
that wicked old brute!” cries Mrs.
Brandon. “It’s enough to provoke
a saint, it is!” And she seizes up
her bonnet from the table, and claps
it on her head, and walks out of our
room in a little tempest of wrath.
My wife, clasping her hands, whis-
pers a few words, which say: “ For-
give us our trespasses, as we forgive
them who trespass against us.”
“Yes,” says Philip, very much
moved. “It is the Divine order,
You are right, dear Laura. I have
had a weary time; and a terrible
gloom of doubt and sadness over my
mind whilst I have been debating this
matter, and before I had determined
to do as you would have me. Buta
great weight is off my heart since I
have been enabled to see what my
conduct should be. What hundreds
of struggling men as well as myself
have met with losses, and faced
them! I will pay this bill, and I will
warn the drawer to —to sparé me for
the future.”
Now that the Little Sister had
gone away in her fit of indignation,
you see I was left in a minority in the
council of war, and the opposition
Was quite too strong for me. I began
to be of the majority’s opinion. I
THE ADVENTURES. OF PHILIP.
| woman.
dare say I am not the only gentle-
man who has been led round by a
We men of great strengt
of mind very frequently are. Ye
my wife convinced me with passage
from her text-book, admitting of n
contradiction according to her judg
ment, that Philip’s duty was to fo
give his father. a
“ And how lucky it was we did no
buy the chintzes that day!” say
Laura, withalaugh. “ Do you knoy
there were two which were so prett;
that Charlotte could not make up he
mind which of the two she wouk
take ?”’ ae
Philip roared out one of his laughs
which made the windows shake. Hi
was in great spirits. For a man wh
was going to ruin himself, he was it
the most enviable good-humor. Dic
Charlotte know about this — thi
claim which was impending over him/'
No. It might make her anxious, —
poor little. thing! Philip had no;
told her. He had thought of conceal.
ing the matter from her. What neec
was there to disturb her rest, poo
innocent child? You see, we all
treated Mrs. Charlotte more or less
like a child. Philip played with her,
J.J., the painter, coaxed and dandled
her, so to speak. The Little Sister
loved her, but certainly with a loye
that was not respectful ; and Charlotte
took everybody’s good-will with a
pleasant meekness and sweet smiling
content. It was not for Laura to
give advice to man and wife ; (as if the
woman was not always giving lectures
to Philip and his young wife!) but
in the present instance she thought
Mrs. Philip certainly ought to know
what Philip’s real situation was ; what
danger was menacing ; “ and how ad-
mirable and right, and Christian —
and you will have your reward for it,
dear Philip!” interjects the enthusi-
astic lady —“ your conduct has
been !” ao
When we came, as we pies: |
did in a cab, to Charlotte’s house, t
expound the matter to her, goodness:
bless us! she was not shocked,
anxious, or frightened at all. ™
Brandon had just been with her,
told her of what was happening, and
she had said, ‘Of course, Philip
ought to help his father ; and Bran-
don had gone away quite in a tantrum
of anger, and had really been quite
ynde ; and she should not pardon her,
only she knew how dearly the Little
Sister loved Philip; and of course
they must help Dr. Firmin ; and what
‘dreadful, dreadful distress he must
have been in to do as he did! But
‘he had warned Philip, you know,”
‘and so forth. “And as for the chint-
ges, Laura, why I suppose we must
‘go on with the old shabby covers.
“You know they will do very well till
next year.’ This was the way in
which Mrs. Charlotte received the’
- news which Philip had concealed from
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
her, least it should terrify her. As
if a loving woman was ever very
much frightened at being called upon
to share her husband’s misfortune !
As for the little case of forgery, I
_ don’t believe the young person could
ever be got to see the heinous nature
of Dr. Firmin’s offence. The des-
- perate little logician seemed rather to
' pity the father than the son in the
hess. “How dreadfully pressed
he must have been when he did ‘it,
oor man!” shesaid. “To be sure,
he ought not to have done it at all; but
think of his necessity! That is what
[said to Brandon. Now there’s little
| Philip’s cake in the cupboard which
you brought him. Now suppose papa
was very hungry, and went and took
. some without asking Philly, he would
n’t be so very wrong, I think, would
he? A child is glad enough to give
for his father, is n’t he? And when
T said this to Brandon, she was so
rude and violent, I really have no
patience with her! And she forgets
that Iam a lady, and,” &c., &e. So
it appeared the Little Sister had made
a desperate attempt to bring over
her side, was still minded
to rescue Philip in spite of himself,
and had gone off in wrath at her
‘Charlotte to
4
defeat.
ihe
599
It had crossed the water and would
be at Philip’s door in a very few days.
Had Hunt brought it? The rascal
would have it presented through some
regular channel, no doubt ; and Philip
and allof us totted up ways and means,
and strove to make the slender figures
look as big as possible, as the thrifty
housewife puts a patch here and a
darn there, and cuts a little slice out
of this old garment, so as to m ake the
poor little frock serve for winter wear.
We had so much at the banker's.
A friend might help with a little ad-
vance, We would fairly ask a loan
from. the Review. We were in a
scrape, but we would mect with it.
And so with resolute hearts, we would
prepare to receive the Bearer of the
Bowstring.
ee
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE BEARER OF THE BOWSTRING.
Tue poor Little Sister trudged
away from Milman Street exasper
ated with Philip, with Philip’s wife,
and with the determination of the pair
to accept the hopeless ruin impending
over them. ‘Three hundred and
eighty-six pounds four and three-
ence,” she thought, “to pay for that
wicked old villain! It is more than
poor Philip is worth, with all his sav-
ings and his little sticks of furniture.
1 know what he will do: he will bor-
row of the money-lenders, and give
those bills, and renew them, and end
by ruin. When he have paid this
bill, that old villain will forge another,
and that precious wile of his will tell
him to pay that, I suppose ; and those’
little darlings will be begging for
bread, unless they come and eat mine,
to which — God bless them !-— they
are always welcome.” She calcu-
lated —it was a sum not difficult to
reckon — the amount of her own little
We looked to the Doctor’s letters,
and ascertained the date of the bill.
store of saved ready money. To pay
four hundred pounds out of such an
income as Philip’s, she felt, was an
attempt vain and impossible. “And
he must n’t have my poor little stock-
396
ing now,” she argued ; “ they will want
that presently when their pride is
broken down, as it will be, and my
dailings are hungering for their din-
ner!”’ Revolving this dismal matter
in her mind, and scarce knowing
where to go for comfort and counsel,
she made her way to her good friend,
Dr. Goodenough, and found that
worthy man, who had always a wel-
come for his Little Sister.
She found Goodenough alone in
his great dining-room, taking a very
slender meal, after visiting his hos-
pital and his fifty patients, among
whom I think there were more poor
than rich: and the good sleepy doctor
woke up with a vengeance, when he
heard his little nurse’s news, and fired
off a volley of angry language against
Philip and his scoundrel of a father ;
“ which it was a comfort to hear him,”
little Brandon told us afierwards.
Then Goodenough trotted out of the
dining-room into the adjoining library
and consulting-room, whither his old
friend followed him. Then he pulled
out a bunch of keys and opened a
secretaire, from which he took a
parchment-covered volume, on which
J. Goodenough, Esy., M. D., was writ-
ten in a fine legible hand, — and
which, in fact, was a banker’s book.
The inspection of the MS. volume in
question must have pleased. tlie wor-
thy physician ; for a grin camé over
his venerable features, and he straight-
way drew out of the desk a slim vol-
ume of gray paper, on each page of
which were inscribed the highly re-
spectable names of Messrs. Stu mpyand
. Rowdy and Co., of Lombard Street,
Bankers. On a slip of gray paper
the Doctor wrote a prescription for a
draught, statim sumendus — (a draught
—mark my pleasantry) — which he
handed over to his little friend.
“There, you little fool!” said he.
“The father is a rascal,but the boy is
a fine fellow; and you, you little silly
_ thing, I must help in this business my-
self, or you will go and ruin yourself ;
I know you will! Offer this to the
fellow for his bill. Or, stay!. How
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
much money is there in the house?
Perhaps the sight of notes and gold
will tempt him more than a check.”
And the Doctor emptied his pockets
of all the fees which happened to be
therein, —I don’t know how many
fees of shining shillings and sover-
eigns, neatly wrapped up in paper;
and he emptied a drawer in. which)
there was more silver and gold; and
he trotted up to his bedroom, and came :
panting, presently, down stairs with a
fat little pocket-book, containing a
bundle of notes, and with one thing
or another, he made up asum of —
I won’t mention what; but this sum
of money,I say, he thrust into the
Little Sister’s» hand, and. said, “ Try |
the fellow with this, Little Sister;
and see if you can get the bill from
him. Don’t say it’s my money, or
the scoundrel will be for haying»
twenty shillings in the pound. Say
it’s yours, and there ’s no more where |
that came from; and coax him, and_
wheedle him, and tell him pleuty of
lies, my dear. It won’t break your
heart to do that. What an immortal
scoundrel Brummel Firmin is, to be |
sure! Though, by the way, in two
more cases at the hospital I have tried —
that—’? And here the Docior went —
if into a professional conversation aT
with his favorite nurse, which I could —
not presume to repeat to any non-med- —
ical men. =
The Little Sister bade God bless Doc- —
tor Goodenough, and wiped her glis- |
tening eyes with her handkerchief, and
put away the notes and gold with a |
trembling little hand, and trudged off
with a lightsome step and a happy |
heart. Arrived at Tottenham Court a.
Road, she thought, shall I go home, or _|
shall I go to poor Mrs. Philip and take 4
her this money ? No. Their talk that ;
day had not been very pleasant:
words, very like high words, had —
passed between them, and our Little
Sister had to own to herself that she
had been rather rude in her late col-
loquy with Charlotte. And she was —
a proud Little Sister ; at least she did
not care for to own that she had been
hasty or disrespectful in her conduct
to that young woman. She had too
much spirit for that. Have we ever
said that our little friend was exempt
from the prejudices and vanities of
this wicked world? Well, to rescue
Philip, to secure the fatal bill, to go
with it to Charlotte, and say,
‘There, Mrs. Philip, there ’s your
‘Jhusband’s liberty.” It would be a
-yare triumph, that it would! And
Philip would promise, on his honor,
\ that this should be the last and only
pill he would pay for that wretched
old father. With these happy
thoughts swelling in her little lieart,
“Mrs. Brandon made her way to the
familiar house in Thornhaugh Street,
and would havea little bit of supper,
‘so she would. And laid her own lit-
tle oth; and set forth her little forks
and spoons, which were as bright as
rubbing could make them ; and J am
‘authorized to state that her repast
_ consisted of two nice little lamb-clops,
which she purchased from her neigh-
bor, Mr. Chump, in Tottenham Court
Road, after a pleasant little conversa-
tion with that gentleman and_ his
good lady. And, with her bit of sup-
per, after a day’s work, our little
friend would sometimes indulge in a
glass —a little glass — of some-
thing comfortable. The case-bottle
was in the cupboard, out of which her
poor Pa had been wont to mix his
tumblers for many a long
having prepared it with her own
hands, down she sat to her little meal
tired and happy ; and as she thought
of the o-currences of the day, and of
the rescue which had come so oppor-
tunely to her beloved Philip and _ his
children, I am sure she said a grace
before her meat.
Her candles being lighted and her
blind up, any one in the street could
see that her chamber was occupied ;
and at about ten o’clock at night there
- eae a heavy step clinking along the
pavement, the sound of which, I have
no doubt, made the Little Sister start
a little. The heavy foot paused be-
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
day. So, |
397
tered up the steps of her door.
Then, as her bell rang, —I consider
it is most probable that her check
flushed a little, —she went to her
hall door and opened it herself.
“Tor’, is it you, Mr. Hunt? Well,
I never ! thatis, I thought you might
come. Really, now,’ —and with
the moonlight behind him, the ding
Hunt swaggered in.
“How comfortable you looked at
your little table,” says Hunt, with his
hat over his eye.
‘Won't you step in and sit down
to it, and take something?” asks the
smiling hostess.
Of course Hunt would take some-
thing. And the greasy hat is taken
off his head with a flourish, and he
struts into the poor Little Sister’s lit-
‘tle room, pulling a wisp of grizzling
hair, and endeavoring to assume a ~
careless, fashionable look. ‘The din-
gy hand had seized the case-bottle in
a moment. ‘“ What! you do a little
in this way, do you?” he says, and
winks amiably at Mrs. Brandon and
the bottle. She takes ever so litle,
she owns ; and reminds him of days
which he must remember, when she
‘had a wineglass out of poor Pa’s
- fore her window, and presently clat-.
A bright little kettle is
singing on the fire, —will not Mr.
Hunt mix a glass for himselft She
takes a bright beaker from the corner
cupboard, which is near her, with her
keys hanging from it.
“Q —ho! that’s where we keep
the ginnims, is it?” says the grace-
ful Hunt with a laugh.
“My papa always kept it there,”
says Caroline meekly. And whilst
her back is turned to fetch a canister
from the cupboard, she knows that
the astute Mr. Hunt has taken the
opportunity to filla cood large meas-
ure from the square bottle. “ Make
yourself welcome,” says the Little
Sister, in her gay, artless way,
“there’s more where that came
from!” And Hunt drinks his hos-
tess’s health: and she bows to him,
and smiles, and sips a little from her
own glass: and the little lady looks
tumbler.
3098
quite pretty, and rosy, and bright.
Her cheeks are like apples, her figure
is trim and graceful, and always
attired in the neatest-fitting gown.
By the comfortable light of the can-
dies on her spar kling tables, you
scarce see the silver lines in her light
hair, or the marks which time has
made round her eyes. Hunt gazes
on her with admiration.
“Why,” says he, “ [vow you look
younger and prettier than when —
when I saw you first.”’ :
“ Ah, Mr. Hunt!” cries Mrs. Bran-
don, with a flush on her cheek, which
becomes it, “don’t reeall that time,
or that —that wretch who served me
so cruel!”
“He was a scoundrel, Caroline, to
treat as he did such a woman as
you! ‘The fellow has no principle ;
he was a bad one from the beginning.
Why, he ruined meas well as you:
got me to play ; run me into debt by
introducing me to his fine companions.
I was a simple young fellow then, and
thoughtit was a fine thing to live with
fellow-commoners and noblemen who
drove their tandems and gave their
grand dinners. It was he that led me
astray, I tell you.
Fellow of my college, — had a living,
— married a good wife, —risen to be a
bishop, by George !—for I had great
talents, Caroline; only I was so con-
founded idle, and fond of the cards
and the bones.”
“The bones? ”’ cries Caroline, with
a bewildered look.
“ The dice, my dear! ‘Seven ’sthe
main’ was my ruin. ‘Seven’s the
main’ and eleven ’s the nick to seven.
That used: to be the little game!”
And he made a graceful gesture with
his empty wineglass, as though he
were tossing a pair of dice on the ta-
ble.
knock his head off in Greek iambics
and Latin hexameters too. In my sec-
ond year I got the Latin declamation
prize, I tell you—”
“Brandon always said you were
one of the cleverest men at the college. !
THE ADVENTURES OF
I might have been:
—— they ride us down.
“The man next to me in lec- |
ture is a bishop now, and I could |
PHILIP.
He always said that, I remember,
remarks the lady, very respectfully.
“Did he? He did say. a good —
word for me then? Brummell Fir- |
min wasn’t a clever man; he wasn’t —
a reading man. Whereas I would ©
back myself for a Sapphic ode
against any man in my college,— _
against any man! ‘Thank you. |
You do mix it so uncommon hot and _
well, there’s no saying no; indeed, —
there ain’t!. Though I have had _
enough, — upon my honor, I have.” —
“Lor! I thought you men could
drink anything ! "And Mr. Brandon
— Mr. Firmin you said?”
“Well, I said Brummell Firmin |
was a swell somehow. He hada sort
of grand manner with him —” 4
“Yes, he had,” sighed Caroling!
And I dare say her thoughts wan-
dered back to a time long, long ago, —
when this grand gentleman had cap- _
tivated her. |
“ And it was trying to keep up with —
him that ruined me. Iquarrelled with |
my poor old governor about money, —
of course; grew idle, and lost my —
Fellowship. Then the bills came
down upon me. I tell you, there are _
some of my college ticks ain’t paid
now.’ of a
‘College ticks? Law!” ejacu-
lates the lady. “ And —” S
“ Tailors’ ticks, tavern ticks, livery- _
stable ticks, — for there were famous —
hacks in our days, and I used to hunt |
with the tip-top men. Iwas.n’t bad —
across country, I wasn’t. But we
can’t keep the pace with those rich —
fellows. We try, and they go ahead, —
Do you think, :
if I hadn’t been very hard up, i |
would have done what I did to you,
Caroline? You poor little innocent —
suffering thing. It was a shame.
It was a shame!” ;
“ Yes, a shame it was,” cries Car-
oline. ‘And that I never gainsay.
You did deal hard with a poor girl,
both of you.”
“Tt was rascally. But Firmin was
the worst. He had me in his power.
It was he led me wrong. It was he ©
*%
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
drove me into debt, and then abroad,
‘and then into qu— into jail, per-
haps: and then into this kind of
thing. (‘This kind of thing” has
before been explained elegantly to
signify a tumbler of hot grog.) “ And
my father wouldn’t see me on_ his
death-bed ; and my brothers and sis-
ters broke with me; and I owe it all
to Brummell Firmin, — all. Do you
think, after ruining me, he ought n’t
to pay me?” and again he thumps a
dusky hand upon the table. It made
dingy marks on the poor Little Sister’s
spotless table-cloth. It rubbed its
owner’s forehead, and lank, grizzling
hair.
“ And me, Mr. Hunt? What do
he owe me?” asks Hunt’s hostess.
“ Caroline!” cries Hunt, ‘‘I have
made Brummell Firmin pay me a
good bit back already, but I’ll have
more”; and he thumped his breast,
and thrust his hand into his breast-
pocket as he spoke, and clutched at
something within.
“Tt is there!” thought Caroline.
She might turn pale; but he did not
remark her pallor. He was all intent
on drink, on vanity, ‘on revenge.
“JT have him,” Isay. ‘He owes
me a good bit; and he has paid mea
good bit; and he shall pay mea good
bit more. Do you think I am a fel-
low who will be ruined and insulted,
and won’t revenge myself? You
should have seen his face when I
turned up at New York at the ‘As-
tor House,’ and said, ‘ Brummell, old
fellow, here I am,’ I said: and he
turned as white—as white as this
table-cloth. ‘J ’ll never leave you,
my boy,’ I said. ‘Other fellows may
go from you, but old Tom Hunt will
stick to you. Let’s go into the bar
and have a drink!’ and he was
obliged to come. And I have him
now in my power, I tell you. And
when I say to him, ‘ Brummell, have
a drink,’ drink he must. His bald
old head must go into the pail!”
And Mr. Hunt laughed a laugh which
I dare say was not agreeable.
After a pause he went on: “ Caro-
399
line! Do you hate him, I say? or
do you like a fellow who deserted you
and treated you like a scoundrel ?
Some women do. I could tell of wo-
men who do. JI could tell you of
other fellows, perhaps, but I won’t.
Do you hate Brummell Firmin, that
bald-headed Brum— hypocrite, and
that —that insolent rascal who laid
his hand on a clergyman, and an old
man, by George, and hit me—and
hit me in that street. Do you hate
him, Isay? Hoo! hoo! hick! I’ve
got ’em both!—here, in my pocket,
—both!”
“You have got— what?” gasped
Caroline.
“T have got their—hallo! stop,
what’s that to you what I’ve got?”
And he sinks back in his chair, and
grins, and leers, and triumphantly
tosses his glass.
“Well, it ain’t much to me; I—I
never got any good out of either of
7em yet,” says poor Caroline, with a
sinking heart. ‘“ Let’s talk about
somebody else than them two plagues.
Because you were a little merry one
night, —and I don’t mind what a
gentleman says when he has had a
glass, — for a great big strong man to
hit an old one —”’
“To strike a clergyman!” yells
Hunt.
“Tt was a shame,—a_ cowardly
shame! And | gave it him for it, [
promise you!” cries Mrs. Brandon.
“On your honor, now, do you hate
’em?” cries Hunt, starting up, and
clenching his fist, and dropping again
into his chair.
“Have I any reason to love ’em,
Mr. Hunt? Do sit down and have a
little —”’
“No: you have no reason to like
’em. You hate ’em,—I hate ’em.
Look here. Promise—’pon your
honor, now, Caroline —I’ve got ’em
both, I tell you. Strike a clergy-
man, will he? What do you say to
that?”
And starting from his chair once
more, and supporting himself against
the wall (where hung one of J. J.’s
400
pictures of Philip), Hunt pulls out
the greasy pocket-book once more,
and fumbles amongst the greasy con-
tents: and as the papers flutter on to
the floor and the table, he pounces
down on one with a dingy hand, and
yells a laugh, and says, ‘I’ve
cotched you! That’s it. What do
you say to that?— ‘London, July
4th. — Five months after date, I prom-
ise to pay to —’ No, you don’t.”
“La! Mr. Hunt, won’t you let
me look at it?” cries the hostess.
Whatever is it? A bill? My Pa
had plenty of ’em.”
“ What? with candles in the room ?
No, you don’t, I say.”
“ Whatisit? Won’t you tell me?”
“Tt’s the young one’s acceptance
of the old man’s draft,” says Hunt,
hissing and laughing.
“For how much ?”
“Three hundred and eighty-six
four three, — that’s all; and I guess.
I can get more where that came
from!” says Hunt, laughing more
and more cheerfully.
“ What will you take for it? Ill
buy it of you,” cries the Little Sister.
““{—TI’ve seen plenty of my Pa’s
bills; and I’1L—I17’ll discount this,
if you like.”
“What! are you a little dis-
counter? Is that the way you make
your money, and the silver spoons,
and the nice supper, and everything
delightful about you? A little dis-
countess, are you, — you little rogue ?
Little discountess, by George! How
much will you give, little discount-
ess?”? And the reverend gentleman
laughs and winks, and drinks and
laughs, and tears twinkle out of his tip-
sy old eyes, as he wipes them with one
hand, and again says, ‘“‘ How much
will you give, little discountess ? ”
When poor Caroline went to her
cupboard, and from it took the notes
and the gold which she had had we
know from whom, and added to these
out of a cunning box a little heap of
her own private savings, and with
trembling hands poured the notes,
and the sovereigns, and the shillings
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
into a dish on the table, I never heard —
accurately how much she laid down.
But she must have spread out every-
thing she had in the world; for she
felt her pockets and emptied them;
and, tapping her head, she again ap- —
plied to the cupboard, and took from
thence a little store of spoons and
forks, and then a brooch, and then a
watch ; and she piled these all up in
a dish, and she said, “ Now, Mr.
Hunt, I will give you all these for
that bill.’ And she looked up at
Philip’s picture, which hung over
the parson’s bloodshot, satyr face.
“Take these,” she said, “and give
me that! There’s two hundred
pound, I know; and there ’s thirty-
four, and two eighteen, thirty-six
eighteen, and there’s the plate and
watch, and I want that bill.”
“ What ? have you got all this, you
little dear?” cried Hunt, dropping
back into his chair again. “ Why,
you’re a little fortune, by Jove, —a ;
pretty little fortune, a little discount-
ess, a little wife, a little fortune. I
say, 1’m a University man; I could
write alcaics once as well as any
man. I’ma gentleman. I say, how
much have you got? Count it over
again, my dear.”
And again she told him the amount —
of the gold, and the notes, and the
silver, and the number of the poor
little spoons.
A thought came across the fellow’s
boozy brain: “ If you offer somuch,”
says he, “and you ’re a little discount-
ess, the bill ’s worth more; that fel- s :
low must be making his fortune!
Or do you know about it ?
do you know about it? No.
have my bond. I7Il have my bond
And he gave a tipsy imitation of
Til
|?
Shylock, and lurched back into his
chair, and laughed.
““ Let ’s have a little more, and talk
about things,” said the poor Little
Sister ; and she daintily heaped her —
little treasures and arranged them in
her dish, and smiled upon the parson —
laughing in his chair.
“Caroline,” says he, after a pause,
I say, :
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
“you are still fond of that old bald-
headed scoundrel! That’s it! Just
like you women, — just like, but I
won't tell! No, no, I won’t tell!
You are fond of that old swindler
still, I say! Wherever did you get
that lot of money? Look here now,
— with that, and this little bill in my
pocket, there’s enough to carry us
on
money ’s gone, I tell you I know
who ‘ll give us more, and who can’t
refuse us, I tell you. Look here,
Caroline, dear Caroline} Tm an old
fellow, I know ; but 1’m a good fellow :
I’m a classical scholar: and I’m a
gentleman.”
The classical scholar and gentle-
man bleared over his words as he ut-
tered them, and with his vinous eyes
and sordid face gave a leer which
must have frightened the poor little
lady to whom he proffered himself as
a suitor, for she started back with a
pallid face, and an aspect of such dis-
like and terror, that even her guest
remarked it.
“T said I was a scholar and gentle-
man,” he shrieked again. “Do you
doubt it? I am as good a man as
Brummell Firmin, I say. I ain’t so
tall.
aleaics or Greek iambics against him
or any man of my weight. Do you
mean to insult me? Don’t I know
who you are? Are you better than
a Master of Arts and a clergyman ?
He went out in medicine, Firmin did.
Do you mean, when a Master of Arts
and classical scholar offers you_ his
hand and fortune, that you ’re above
him and refuse him, by George ?”’
The Little Sister was growing be-
wildered and frightened by the man’s
energy and horrid looks. “O Mr.
Hunt!” she cried, “see here, take
this! See,—there are two hundred
and thirty —thirty-six pounds and
all these things! ‘ake them, and
give me that paper.”
“ Sovereigns, and notes, and
spoons, and a watch, and what I have
in my pocket, — and that ain’t much,
—and Firmin’s bill! Three hundred
for ever so long. And when this
But I’ll do a copy of Latin |
401
and eighty-six four three. It’s a
fortune, my dear, with economy ! I
won't have you going on being a
nurse and that kind of thing. I’ma
scholar and a gentleman, — I am, —
and that place ain’t fit for Mrs. Hunt.
We'll first spend your money. No:
we ll first spend my money, — three
hundred and eighty-six and — and
hang the change, — and when that’s
gone, we’ll have another bill from
that bald-headed old scoundrel: and
his son who struck a poor cler
We will, I say, Caroline, — we —’
The wretch was suiting actions to
his words, and rose once more, ad-
vancing towards his hostess, who
shrank back, laughing half-hysteri-
cally, and retreating as the other
neared her. Behind her was that
cupboard which had contained her
poor little treasure and other stores,
and appended to the lock of which
her keys were still hanging. As the
brute approached her, she flung back
the cupboard door smartly upon him.
The keys struck him on the head ;
and bleeding, and with a curse and a
ery, he fell back on his chair.
In the cupboard was that bottle
which she had received from’ America
not long since ; and about which she
had talked with Goodenough on that
very day. It had been used twice or
thrice by his direction, by hospital
surgeons, and under her eye. She
suddenly seized this bottle. As the
ruffian before her uttered his impre-
cations of wrath, she poured out a
quantity of the contents of the bottle
on her handkerchief. She said, ‘Ob!
Mr. Hunt, have J hurt you? I didn’t
mean it. But you should n’t —you
should n’t frighten a lonely woman
?
so! Here let me bathe you. Smell
this! It wifl—it will do you—
good —it will —it will, indeed.”
The handkerchief was over his face.
Bewildered by drink before, the fumes
of the liquor which he was absorbing
served almost instantly to overcome
him. He struggled fora moment or
two. “Stop — stop! you ’Il be better
ina moment,” she whispered. “Oyes!
Z
402
better, quite better!” She squeezed
more of the liquor from the bottle on to
the handkerchief. In a minute Hunt
was quite inanimate.
Then the little pale woman leant
over him, and took the pocket-book
out of his pocket, and from it the bill
which bore Philip’s name. As Hunt
lay in stupor before her, she now
squeezed more of the liquor over his
head; and then thrust the bill into
the fire, and saw it burn to. ashes.
Then she put back the pocket-book
into Hunt’s breast. She said after-
wards that she never should have
thought about that Chloroform, but
for her brief conversation with Dr.
Goodenough that evening, regarding
a case in which she had employed the
new remedy under his orders.
How long did Hunt’ lie in that stu-
por? It seemed a whole long night
to Caroline. She said afterwards
that the thought of that act that night
made her hair grow gray. Poor lit-
tle head! Indeed, she would have
laid it down for Philip.
Hunt, I suppose, came to himself
when the handkerchief was with-
drawn, and the fumes of the potent
liquor ceased to work on his brain.
He was very much frightened and
bewildered. “ What was it? Where
am I?” he asked, in a husky voice.
“Tt was the keys struck you in
the cupboard door when you— you
ran against it,’’ said pale Caroline.
“Look! you are all bleeding on the
head. Let me dry it.”
“No; keep off!” cried the terrified
man.
“Will you have acab to go home?
The poor gentleman hit himself
against the cupboard door, Mary.
You remember him here before, don’t
you, one night?” And Caroline,
with a shrug, pointed out to her
maid, whom she had summoned, the
great square bottle of spirits still on
the table, and indicated that there lay
the cause of Hunt’s bewilderment.
‘Are you better now? Will you
—will you — take a little more re-
freshment ?”’ asked Caroline.
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. a5
“No!” he cried with an oath, and
with glaring, bloodshot eyes he.
lurched towards his hat. — Pa
“Lor’, mum! whatever is it?
And this smell in the room, arid all
this here heap of money and things |
on the table ?”’ al
Caroline flung open her window. ,
“Tt ’s medicine, which Dr. Goode- |
nough has ordered for one of his pa-.
tients. JI must go and see her to-
night,” she said. And at midnight, |
looking as pale as death, the Litile |
Sister went to the Doctor’s house, —
and roused him up from his bed, and |
told him the story here narrated. “TI
offered him all you gave me,” she |
said, “‘and all I had in the world be- |
sides, and he would n’t —and—” >
Here she broke into a fit of hysterics.
The Doctor had to ring up his ser-
vants ; to administer remedies to his
little nurse ; to put her to bed in his |
own house. |
“By the immortal Jove,” he said —
afterwards, “I had a great mind to
beg her never to leave it! But that
my housekeeper would tear Caroline’s _
eyes out, Mrs. Brandon should be —
welcome to stay forever. Except her
h’s, that woman has every virtue:
constancy, gentleness, generosity, |
cheerfulness, and the courage of a
lioness! To think of that fool, that
dandified idiot, that triple ass, Fir- —
min” (there were few men in the’.
world for whom Goodenough enter- |
tained a greater scorn than for his late
confrere, Firmin of Old Parr Street), —
— ‘think of the villain having pos- |
sessed such a treasure, —let alone his |
having deceived and deserted her,— _
of his having ‘possessed such a treas- |
ure and flung it away! Sir, Lalways |
admired Mrs. Brandon; but I think |
ten thousand times more highly of |
her, since her glorious crime, and —
most righteous robbery. If the vil-
lain had died, dropped dead in the
street, —the dranken miscreant, for- |
ger, housebreaker, assassin, —so that _
|
no punishment could have fallen upon |
poor Brandon, I think I should haye
respected her only the more!”
~ At an early hour Dr. Goodenough
had thought proper to send off mes-
sengers to Philip and myself, and to
make us acquainted with the strange
adventure of the previous night. We
‘poth hastened to him. I myself was
summoned, no doubt, in consequence
‘of my profound legal knowledge,
which might be of use in poor lit-
‘4le Caroliné’s present trouble. And
Philip came because she longed to see
‘him. By some instinct she knew
wwhen he arrived. She crept down
from the chamber where the Doctor’s
‘housekeeper had laid her on a bed.
‘She knocked at the Doctor’s study,
qvhere we were all in consultation.
“She came in quite pale, and tottered
towards Philip, and flung herself into
“his arms, with a burst of tears that
‘greatly relieved her excitement and
fever. Firmin was scarcely less
“moved.
_ “You'll pardon me for what I have
done, Philip,” she sobbed. “ If they,
if they take me up, you won't for-
sake me?”
* “Forsake you? Pardon you?
' Come and live with us, and never
‘“Jeave us!” cried Philip.
“J don’t think Mrs. Philip would
like that, dear,” said the little woman
‘sobbing on his arm; “but ever since
the Greyfriars school, when you was
so ill, you have been like a son to me,
and somehow I could n’t help doing
‘that Jast night to that. villain—I
could n’t.
“Serve the scoundrel right. _Nev-
er deserved to come to life again, my
dear,” said Dr. Goodenough. “ Don't
you be exciting yourself, little Bran-
don! I must have you sent back to
"Jie down on your bed. Take her up,
Philip, tothelittleroom next min?; and
order her to lie down and be as quiet
asamouse. You are not to move till I
give you leave, Brandon,— mind that,
and come back to us, Firmin, or we
‘shall have the patients coming.”
So Philip led away this poor Little
Sister; and trembling, and clinging
“to his arm, she returned to the room
assigned to her.
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
403
“‘ She wants to be alone with him,”
the Doctor said ; and he spoke a brief
word or two of that strange delusion
under which the little woman labored,
that this was her dead child come back
to her.
“J know thatis in her mind,” Good-
enough said ; “ she never got over that
brain fever in which I found her. If I
were to swear her on the book, and
say, ‘Brandon, don’t you believe he
is your son alive again ¢’ she would
not dare to say no. She will leave
him everything she has got. I only
gave her so much less than that scoun-
drel’s bill yesterday, because I knew
she would like to contribute her own
share. It would have offended her
mortally to have been left out of the
subscription. They like to sacrifice
themselves. Why, there are women
in India who, if not allowed to roast
with their dead husbands, would die
of vexation.” And by this time Mr.
Philip came striding back into the
room again, rubbing a pair of very
red eyes.
“Tong ere this, no doubt, that
drunken ruffian is sobered, and knows
that the bill is gone. He is likely
enough to accuse her of the robbery,”
says the Doctor.
“ Suppose,” says Philip’s other
friend, “I had puta pistol to your
head, and was going to shoot you,
and the Doctor took the pistol out
of my hand, and flung it into the
sea, would you help me to prosecute
the Doctor for robbing me of the pis-
tol 4”
“You don’t suppose it will be a
pleasure to me to pay that bill?”
said Philip. ‘I said, if a certain bill
were presented to me, purporting to
be accepted by Philip Firmin, I would
pay it. But if that scoundrel, Hunt,
only says that he had such a bill, and
has lost it, I will cheerfully take my
oath that I have never signed any bill
at all,—and they can’t find Brandon
guilty of stealing a thing which never
existed.”
“Let us hope, then, that the bill
was not in duplicate !”
404
And to this wish all three gentle-
men heartily said Amen !
And now the Doctor’s door-bell be-
gan to be agitated by arriving patients.
His dining-room was already full of
them. ‘The Little Sister must lie still,
and the discussion of her affairs must
be deferred to a more convenient hour ;
and Philip and his friend agreed to
reconnoitre the house in Thornhauch
Street, and see if anything had hap-
pened since its mistress had left
it.
Yes: something had happened.
Mrs. Brandon’s maid, who ushered
us into her mistress’s little room, told
us that in the early morning that hor-
rible man who had come overnight,
and been so tipsy, and behaved so ill,
— the very same man who had come
there tipsy afore once, and whom Mr.
Philip had flung into the street,— had |
come battering at the knocker, and
pulling at the bell, and swearing and
cursing most dreadful, and calling
for “ Mrs. Brandon! Mrs. Brandon ! |
Mrs. Brandon!” and frightening the
whole street. After he had rung, he
knocked and battered ever so long.
Mary looked out at him from her up-
per window, and told him to go along
home, or she would call the police.
On this the man roared out that he
would call the police himself if Mary
did not let him in; and as he went on
calling “ Police!” and yelling from
the door, Mary came down stairs, and
opened the hall door, keeping the
cham fastened, and asked him what
he wanted 2
Hunt, from the steps without, be-
gan to swear and rage more loudly,
and to demand to be let in. He must
and would see Mrs. Brandon.
Mary, from behind her chain bar-
ricade, said that her mistress was not
at home, but that she had been called |
out that night to a patient of Dr.
Goodenough’s.
Hunt, with more shrieks and curses,
said it was a lie: and that she was at
home; and that he would see her ;
and that he must go into her rooms
and that he had left something there
?
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
door, confined by its chain: and he :
frantically reiterated his charge, that he
had been robbed and hocussed in
house, that night, by Mrs. Brand
pression, conveyed his utter
of the statement, and told t
disreputable man to move
to bed. Mr
and respected all round
esteemed. And by the word “ Gam-
mon,
sense of the utter absurdit
charge against the good lady.
that le had been robbed and hocussed ‘
and Mary from behind her door re-_
peated to the officer (with whom she |
| perhaps had relations not unfriendly) _
her statement that the beast had gone
reeling away from the house the night.
before, and if he had lost anything,
who knows wher
lost it ?
and out of this pocket-book,” howled
Hunt, clinging to the rail.
her in charge.
| charge!
canes
that he had lost something ; and tha
he would have it. |
“Lost something here?” eriec
Mary. ‘Why here? when you
reeled out of this house, you could n’j
scarce walk, and you almost fell inte
the gutter, which I have seen you
there before. Get away, and’ gq
home! You are not sober yet, you
horrible man !” a
On this, clinging on to the area
railings, and demeaning himself like
a madman, Hunt continued to eall
out, “Police, police! I have been
robbed, I’ve been robbed!» Police 1?
until astonished heads appeared at,
various windows in the quiet street,
and a policeman actually came Up. Fy
When the policeman appeared,
Hunt began to sway and pull at the.
that:
on.
The policeman, by a familiar ex.
disbelief
he dirty,
on, and ¢
8. Brandon was known
the neighbor.
ad befriended numerous |
|
hood. Sheh
poor round about; and was known |
for a hundred charities. She attend: -
ed many respectable families.
In
ore
the policeman expressed his _
y of the
that parish there was no woman m
3?
Hunt still continued to yell out
e he might not haye
&
“It was taken out of this pocket,
I give the house in
It’s a den of thieves!”
During this shouting and turmoil,
ye sash of a window in Ridley’s stu-
jo was thrown up. The painter was
‘oing to his morning work. He had
ppointed an early model. The sun
ould not rise too soon for Ridley ;
nd as soon as ever it gave its light
ound him happy at his labor. He
iad heard from his bedroom — the
awl going on about the door.
_ & Mr. Ridley !”’ says the policeman,
uching the glazed hat with much
sespect (in fact, and out of uniform,
4,25 has figured in more than one or
J. J.’s pictures), — “ Here ’s a fellow
jisturbing the whole _ street, and
shouting out that Mrs. Brandon have
sobbed and hocussed him !”
Ridley ran down stairs in a high
state of indignation. He is nervous,
dike men of his tribe; quick to feel,
to pity, to love, to be angry. He un-
did the chain, and ran into the street.
“J remember that fellow drunk
here before,” said the painter; “ and
‘lying in that very gutter.”
"Drunk and disorderly! Come
along!” cries Z 25; and his hand
was quickly fastened on the parson’s
greasy collar, and under its strong
grasp Hunt is forced to move on.
He goes, still yelling out that he has
-been robbed.
_ “Tell that to his Worship,” says
_the incredulous Z. And this was the
news which Mrs. Brandon’s friends
,received from her maid, when they
called at her house.
en Oe
CHAPTER XXXIX.
“IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE HAVE
THEIR TRIALS.
Ir Philip and his friend had
happened to pass through High
, Strect, Marylebone, on their way to
Thornhaugh Street to reconnoitre
“the Little Sister’s house, they would
have seen the Reverend Mr. Hunt, in
‘avery dirty, battered, ‘crestfallen and
unsatisfactory state, marching to
Marylebone from the station, where
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
405
the reverend gentleman had passed
the night, and under the custody of
the police. A convoy of street boys
followed the prisoner and his guard,
making sareastic remarks on both.
Hunt’s appearance was not improved
since we had the pleasure of meeting
him on the previous evening. With
a grizzled beard and hair, a dingy
face, a dingy shirt, and a countenance
mottled with dirt and drink, we may
fancy the reverend man passing in
tattered raiment through the street
to make his appearance before the
magistrate.
You have no doubt forgotten the
narrative which appeared in the
morning papers two days after the
Thornhaugh Street incident, but my
clerk has been at the pains to hunt
up and copy the police report, in
which events connected with our his-
tory are briefly recorded.
“ Maryrteponr, Wednesday. —
Thomas Tufton Hunt, professing to
be a clergyman, but wearing an ap-
pearance of extreme squalor, was
brought before Mr. Beaksby at this
office, charged by Z 25 with being
drunk and very disorderly on ‘Tuesday
se’nnight, and endeavoring by force
and threats to effect his re-entrance
into a house in Thornhaugh Street,
from which he had been previously
ejected in a most unclerical and in-
ebriated state. .
“On being taken. to the station-
house, the reverend gentleman lodged
a complaint on his own side, and
averred that he had been stupefied and
hocussed in the house in Thornhaugh
Street by means of some drug, and
that, whilst in this state, he had been
robbed of a bill for £386 4s. 3d.,
drawn by a person in New York, and
accepted by Mr. P. Firmin, barrister,
of Parchment Buildings, Temple.
“Mrs. Brandon, the landlady of
the house, No.— Thornhaugh Street,
has been in the habit of letting lodg-
‘ings for many years past, and several
of her friends, including Mr. Firmin,
Mr. Ridley, the Rl. Acad., and other
gentlemen, were in attendance to
406 -¢
speak to her character, which is most
respectable. After Z 25 had given
evidence, the servant deposed that
Hunt had been more than once disor-
derly and drunk before that house,
and had been forcibly ejected from it.
On the night when the alleged rob-
bery was said to have taken place, he
had visited the house in Thornhaugh
Street, had left it in an inebriated
state, and returned some hours after-
wards, vowing that he had been
robbed of the document in question.
“Mr. P. Firmin said: ‘I am a
barrister, and have chambers at Parch-
ment Buildings, Temple, and know
the person calling himself Hunt. I
have not accepted any bill of ex-
change, nor is my signature affixed
to any such document.’
“ At this stage the worthy magis-
trate interposed, and said that this
only went to prove that the bill was
not completed by Mr. F.’s acceptance,
and would by no means concludé the
case set up before him. Dealing with
it, however, on the merits, and look-
ing at the way in which the charge
had been preferred, and the entire ab-
sence of sufficient testimony to warrant
him in deciding that even a piece of
paper had been abstracted in that
house, or by the person accused, and
believing that if he were to commit, a
conviction would be impossible, he
dismissed the charge.
“The lady ‘left the court with her
friends, and the accuser, when called
upon to pay a fine for drunkenness,
broke out into very unclerical lan-
guage, In the midst of which he was
forcibly removed.”
Philip Firmin’s statement, that he
had given no bill of exchange, was
made not without hesitation on his
part, and indeed at his friends’ strong
entreaty. It was addressed not so
much to the sitting magistrate, as
to that elderly individual at New
York, who was warned no more to
forge his son’s name. I fear a cool-
ness ensued between Philip and his
parent in consequence of the younger
man’s behavior. ~The Doctor had
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
thought. better of his boy than
suppose that, at a moment of necessit
Philip would desert him: He fo
gave Philip, nevertheless. Perhaps
since his marriage other snflaaien |
were at work upon him, &. Th
parent made further remarks in this.
strain. A man who takes your
money is naturally offended if yeu.
remonstrate ; you wound his sense
of delicacy by protesting against his
putting his hand in your pocket.
The elegant doctor in New York con-
tinued to speak of his unhappy son
with a mournful shake of the head ;
he said, perhaps believed, that Phil 3 {
imprudénee was in part ‘the canse of 1
his own exile. ‘“ This is not the
kind of entertainment, to which [
would have invited you at my own
house in England,” he would say.
“T thought to have ended my days
there, and to have deft my sonin com-
fort, — nay, splendor. Iam an ex-
ile in poverty : and he — but I will
use no hard words.” And to his.
female patients he would say: ‘ No, |
my dear madam !— not a syllable of |
reproach shall escape these lips regard- |
ing that misguided boy! But you.
can feel for me; I know you can feel |
for me.” In the old days, a high-|
spirited highway man, who took a.
coach-passenger’s. purse, , thought
himself injured, and the traveller a
shabby fellow, if he secreted 4 guinea
or two under the cushions. In the
Doctor’s now rare letters, he breathed
a manly sigh here and there, to think
that he had lost the confidence of his
boy. Ido believe that certain ladies
of our acquaintance were inclined to
think that the elder Firmin had been
not altogether well used, however
much they loved and admired the
Little Sister for her lawless act in her
boy’s defenee. But this main point
we had won. The Doctor at New
York took the warning, and wrote his
son’s signature upon no more bills of
exchange. The good Goodenough’s
loan was carried back to him in the
very coin which he had _ supplied.
He said that his little nurse Brandon
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
was splendide mendax, and that her
robbery was a sublime and courageous
act of war.
In so far, since his marriage, Mr.
Philip had been pretty fortunate. At
need, friends had come to him. In
momentsof peril he had had succor and
relief. Though he had married with-
out money, faie had sent him a suf-
ficiency. His flask had never been
empty, and there was always meal in
his bin. But now hard trials were in
store for him: hard trials which we
have said were endurable, and which
he has long since lived through. Any
man who has played the game of lite
or whist knows how for one while he
will have aseries of good cards dealt |
him. and again will get no trumps at)
all. After he got into his house in
Milman Street and quitted the Lit- |
tle Sister’s kind roof, our friend’s
good fortune seemed to desert him.
“Perhaps it was a punishment for
my pride, because I was haughty
with her, and— and jealous of that
dear good little creature,’ poor Char-
lotte afterwards owned in conversation
with other friends, — “ but our for-
tune seemed to change when we were
away from her, and that I must
own.”
Perhaps, when she was yet under
lotte knew.
upon herself never spent an unneces-
sary shilling. Indeed, it was a won-
how neat and nice Mrs. Philip ever
looked. But she never could deny
herself when the children were in
question ; and had them arrayed in
all sorts of fine clothes ; and stitched
and hemmed all day and night to
decorate their little persons ; and in
reply to the remonstrances of the
--matrons her friends, showed how it
was impossible children could be
dressed for less cost. If anything
ailed them, quick, the doctor must be
sent for. Not worthy Goodenough,
Mrs. Brandon’s roof, the Little Sis: |
ter’s provident care had done a great
deal more for Charlotte than Char--
Mrs. Philip had the |
most simple tastes in the world, and
der, considering her small expenses, |
|
|
407
who came without a fee, and pooh-
poohed her alarms and anxieties }
but dear Mr. Bland, who had a feel-
ing heart, and was himself a father
of children, and who supported those
children by the produce of the pills,
draughts, powders, visits, which he
bestowed on all families into whose
doors he entered. Biand’s sympa-
thy was very consolatory ; but it was
found to be very costly at the end
of the year. “ And, what then #” says
Charlotte, with kindling checks. “ Do
you suppose we should grudge that
money, which was to give health to
our dearest, dearest babies? No.
You can’t have such a bad opinion
of me as that!” And accordingly
Mr. Bland received a nice little an-
nuity from our friends. Philip hada
joke about his wite’s housekeeping
which perhaps may apply to other
| young women who are kept by over-
watchful mothers too much wm statu
pupillari. When they were married,
or about to be married, Philip asked
Charlotte what she would order for
dinner? She promptly said she
would order leg of mutton. “ And
after leg of mution?” “ Leg of
beef, to be sure!” says Mrs. Char-
lotte, looking very pleased, and know-
ing. And the fact. is, as this little
housekeeper was obliged demurely to
admit, their household bills increased
prodigious!y after they left Thornhaugh
Street. “ And I can’t understand,
my dear, how the grocer’s book should
mount up so; and the butter-man’s,
and the beer,” &¢e., &¢ “We have
often seen the pretty little head bent
over the dingy volumes, puzzling,
puzzling : and the eldest child would
hold up a warning finger to ours,
and tell. them to be very quiet, as
mamma was at her “ atounts.”
And now, I grieve to say, money
became scarce for the payment of
these accounts; and though Philip
fancied he hid his anxieties from his
wife, be sure she Joved him too much
to be deceived by one of the clumsiest
hypocrites in the world. Only, being
a much cleverer hypocrite than her
408
husband, she pretended to be deceived,
and acted her part so well that poor |
| hard up I am.
Philip was mortified with her gayety,
and chose to fancy his wife was in-
different to their misfortunes. She
ought not to beso smiling and happy,
he ‘thought ; and, as usual, bemoaned
his lot to his friends. ‘‘I come
home racked with care, and think-
ing of those inevitable bills ; I shud-
der, sir, atevery note that lies on the
hall table, and would tremble as I
dashed them open as they do on the
stage. But I laugh and put on a
jaunty air, and humbug Char. And
I hear her singing about the house
and laughing and cooing with the
children, by Jove. She ’s not aware
of anything. She does not know how
dreadfully the res domi is squeezing
me. But before marriage she did, I
tell you. Then, if anything annoyed
me, she divined it. If I felt ever so
little unwell, you should have seen the
alarm on her face! It was, ‘ Philip
dear, how pale you are’; or, ‘ Philip,
how flushed you are’; or, ‘I am
sure.you have had a letter from your
father. Why do you conceal any-
thing from me, sir? You never
should, —never!’ And now when
the fox is gnawing at my side under
my cloak, I laugh and grin so natu-
rally that she believes I am all right,
and she comes to meet me flouncing
the children about in my face, and
wearing an air of consummate hap-
piness! I would not deceive her
for the world, you know. But it’s
mortifying. . Don’t tell me! It
es mortifying to be tossing awake
all night, and racked with care all
day, and have the wife of your bosom
chattering and singing and laughing,
as if there were no cares, or doubts,
or duns in the world. If I had the
gout and she were to laugh and sing,
I should not call that sympathy.
I were arrested for debt, and she were
to come grinning and laughing to
the sponging-house, I should not call
that consolation. Why does n’t she
feel? She ought to feel.. There ’s
Betsy, our parlor-maid. There’s the |
If |
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
old fellow who comes to clean thal
boots and knives. Zhey know how.
And my wife sings |
and dances whilst Lam on the verge _
of ruin, by Jove; and giggles and |
laughs as if life was a pantomime!
Then the man and woman into. |
whose ears poor Philip roared out his. |
copfessions and griefs hung dowels
their blushing heads in humbled Si-
lence. They are tolerably prosper- |
ous in life, and, I fear, are pretty well |
satisfied with themselves and each |
other.
does any wrong, and rules and gov- |
erns her own house and family as my.
, as the wife of the reader’s hum-
ble servant most notoriously does, of- .
ten becomes — must it be said ?—
too certain of her own virtue, and is |
too sure of the correctness of her own |
opinion. We virtuous people give
advice a good deal, and set a consid-
erable value upon that advice. We
meet a certain man who has fallen |
among thieves, let us say.
cor him readily enough. We take
him kindly to the inn, and pay his |
score there; but we say to the land- |
lord, “‘ You must give this poor man
his bed ; his medicine at such a time,
and his broth at such another. But,
mind you, he must have that physic,
and no other; that broth when we
order it. We take his case in hand,
you understand. Don’t listen to him.
or anybody else.
everything. Goodby. Take care
of him. Mind the medicine and the |
broth !”? and Mr. Benefactor or Lady |
Bountiful goes away, perfectly self- |
satisfied.
Do you take this allegory 2 When
Philip complained to us of his wife’s
friskiness and gayety ; when he bit-
terly contrasted her levity and .care-
lessness with his own despondency >
and doubt, Charlotte’s two principal .
friends were smitten by shame, ‘“ O
Philip! dear Philip!” his female ad- |
viser said (having looked at her hus-
band once or twice as Firmin spoke,
and in vain endeavored to keep her
guilty eyes down on her work),
Mo |
A woman who scarcely ever
}
i
i
We suc-— 4
We know all about |
©Charlotte has done this, because
she is humble, and because she takes
he advice of friends who are not.
3he knows everything, and more than
syerything ; for her dear tender heart
s filled with apprehension. But we
‘old her to show no sign of care, lest
her husband should be disturbed.
And she trusted in us; and she puts
her trust elsewhere, Philip ; and she
has hidden her own anxieties, lest
yours should be increased ; and has
met you gayly when her heart
was full of dread. We think she has
done wrong now ; but she did so be-
cause she was so simple, and trusted
in us who advised her wrongly. Now
perfect confidence always between
you, and that it is her simplicity and
faith in us which have misled her.” -
Philip hung down his head for a
moment, and hid his eyes; and we
‘knew, during that minute when his
face was concealed from us, how his
grateful heart was employed.
«“ And you know, dear Philip — ”
says Laura, looking at her husband,
and nodding to that person, who cer-
tainly understood the hint.
“And I say, Firmin,” breaks in
‘the lady’s husband, “ you understand,
if you are at all —that is, if you —
‘that is, if we can —”’
“Hold your tongue!” shouts Fir-
min, with a face beaming over with
happiness. “I know what you mean.
‘You beggar, you are going to offer
‘me money! I see it in your face ;
‘bless you both! But we'll try and
(‘do without, please Heaven. And —
‘and it ’s worth feeling a pinch of pov-
erty to find such friends as I have
had, and to share it with such a—
dash — dear little thing as I have at
“home. And I won’t try and humbug
Char any more. I’m bad at that
sort of business. And good night,
and I’Jl never forget your kindness,
never!”’ And he is off a moment af-
terwards;and jumping down the steps
of our door, and so into the park.
| And though there were not five
|| pounds in the. poor
| 1
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
we sce that there ought to have been |
little house in.
409
Milman Street, there. were not two
‘happier people in London that night
than Charlotte and Philip Firmin.
Tf he had his troubles, our friend had
hts immense. consolations, _ Fortu-
nate he, however. poor, who has
friends to help; and love-to console
him in his trials. ~ ai
=
“s ad
us
CHAPTER XL.
WHICH THE LUCK GOES VERY
MUCH AGAINST US.
IN
Every man and woman amongst
us has made his voyage to Liliput,
and his tour in the kingdom of Brob-
| dingnag. When I go to my native
country town, the local paper an-
nounces our arrival; the laborers
touch their hats, as the pony-chaise
passes, the girls and old women drop
courtesies; Mr. Hicks, the grocer and
hatter, comes to his door and makes
a bow, and smirks and smiles. When
our neighbor Sir John arrives at the
hall, he is a still greater personage ;
the bell-ringers greet the hall family
with a peal; the rector walks over on
an early day, and pays his visit ; and
the farmers at market press round for
a nod of recognition. Sir John at
home is in Liliput: in Belgrave
Square he is in Brobdingnag, where
almost everybody we meet is ever so
much taller than ourselves. ‘ Which
do you like best, to be a giant amongst
the pygmies, or a pygmy amongst the
giants?” I know what sort of com-
pany I prefer myself: but that is not
the point. What I would hint is,
that we possibly give ourselves pat-
ronizing airs before small people, as
folks higher placed than ourselves
give themselves airs before us. Pat-
ronizing airs? Old Miss Mumbles,
the half-pay lieutenant’s daughter,
who lives over the plumber’s with
her maid, gives herself in her degree
more airs than any duchess in Bel-
gravia, and would leave the room if
a tradesman’s wife sat down in it.
Now it has been said that few men
410
in this city of London are so simple
in their manners as Philip Firmin,
and that he treated the patron whose
bread he ate, and the wealthy relative
who condescended to visit him, with |
alike freedom. He is blunt but not
familiar, and is not a whit more po-
lite tomy Lord than to Jack or Tom
at the coffee-house. He resents fa-
miliarity from vulgar persons, and |
those who venture on it retire maimed
and mortified after coming into col-
lision with him. As for the people
he loves, he grovels before them, wor-
ships their boot-tips, and their gown-
hems. But he submits to them, not
for their wealth or rank, but for Jove’s
sake. He submitted very magnani-
mously, at first, to the kindnesses
and caresses of Lady Ringwood and
her daughters, being softened and
won by the regard which they showed
for his wife and children,
Although Sir John was for the
Rights of Man everywhere, all over
the world, and had pictures of Frank-
lin, Lafayette, and Washington in his |
library, he likewise had portraits of |
his own ancestors in that apartment,
and entertained a very high opinion |
ofthe present representative of the
‘Ringwood family. The character of
the late chief of the house was noto-
rious. Lord Ringwood’s life had been
irregular and his morals loose. His
talents were considerable, no doubt,
but they had not been devoted to se-
rious study or directed to useful ends.
A wild man in early life, he had only
changed his practices in later life in
consequence of ill health, and became
a hermit asa Certain Person became
a monk. He was a frivolous person
to the end, and was not to be con-
sidered as a public man and _states-
man; and this light-minded man of
pleasure had been advanced to the
third rank of the peerage, whilst his
successor, his superior in intellect and
morality, remained a baronet. still.
How blind the Ministry was which
refused to recognize so much talent
and worth! Had there been public
virtue or common sense in the goy-
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
'ernors of the natién,- merits like Sit
fe
John’s never could have been over:
looked. But Ministers were notori’
ously afamily clique, and only ee |
each other. Promotion and patron:
age were disgracefully monopolized
by the members of a very few families!
who were not. better men of business,
men of better character, men of more!
ancient lineage (though birth, of.
course, was a mere accident) than Sir
John himself. In a word, until they!
gave him a peerage, he saw very little)
hope for the cabinet or the country. |
In a very early page of this history)
mention was made of a certain Philip}
Ringwood, to whose protection Philip!
Firmin’s mother confided her _ boy
when he was first sent to school.’
Philip Ringwood was Firmin’s senior)
by seven years ; he came to Old Parr
Street twice or thrice during his stay,
at school, condescended to take the|
‘“‘tips,”’ of which the poor doctor was’
liberal enough, but never deigned to|
take any notice of young Firmin, whe)
looked up to his kinsman with awe)
and trembling. From school Phili
Ringwood speedily departed to a
lege, and then entered upon public
life. He was the eldest son of Sir!
John Ringwood, with whom our
friend has of late made acquaintance,
Mr. Ringwood was a much greatei|
personage than the Baronet his father;
Even when the latter succeeded te
Lord Ringwood’s estates and came tc
London, he could scarcely be said
to equal his son in social rank; and
the younger patronized his parent,
What is the secret of great social suc:
cess? Itis not to be gained by beau,
ty, or wealth, or birth, or wit, or val.
or, or eminence of any kind. It is a
eift of Fortune, bestowed, like that
goddess’s favors, capriciously. Look,
dear madam, at the most fashionable
ladies at present reigning in London,
Are they better bred, or more amiable,
or richer, or more beautiful than
yourself? See, good sir, the men
who lead the fashion, and stand in
the bow-window at “ Black’s ae Ns
they wiser, or wittier, or more agree:
ble people than you? And yet you
‘now what your fate would be if you
yere put up at that club. Sir John
Ringwood never dared to be proposed
here, even after his great accession of
yrtune on the Earl’s death. His son
Hid not encourage him. People even
aid that Ringwood would blackball
vis father if he dared to offer himself
is a candidate.
' [never, I say, could understand the
‘eason of Philip Ringwood’s success
‘n life, though you must acknowledge
hat he is one of our most eminent
Jandies. He is affableto dukes. He
patronizes marquises. He is not wit-
ty. He is not clever. He does not
give good dinners. How many baron-
ets are there in the British empire ?
Look to your book, and see. I tell
‘you there are many of these whom
Philip Ringwood would scarcely ad-
mit to wait at one of his bad dinners.
By calmly asserting himself in life,
this man has achieved his social emi-
mence. We may hate him; but we
‘acknowledge his superiority. For in-
istance, I should as soon think of ask-
‘ng him to dine with me, as I should
bd slapping the Archbishop of Canter-
‘bury on the back.
Mr. Ringwood has a meagre little
house in May Fair, and belongs to a
(public office, where he patronizes his
‘chef. Wis own family bow down be-
fore him ; his mother is humble in his
‘eompany ; his sisters are respectful ;
his father does not brag of his own
‘liberal principles, and never alludes to
the rights of man in the son’s pres-
ence. He is called “ Mr. Ringwood ”
‘in the family. The person who is
‘least in awe of him is his younger
brother, who has been known to
make faces behind the elder’s back.
But he is adreadfully headstrong and
ie child, and respects nothing.
‘Lady Ringwood, by the way, is Mr.
| Ringwood’s step-mother. His own
mother was the daughter of a noble
‘ house, and died in giving birth to this
| paragon.
'” Philip Firmin, who had not set
eyes upon his kinsman since they
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
411
were at school together, remembered
some stories which were current
about Ringwood, and by no means to
that eminent dandy’s credit, — stories
of intrigue, of play, of various liber-
tine exploits on Mr. Ringwood’s
part. One day, Philip and Charlotte
dined with Sir John, who was talk-
ing and chirping, and laying down
the law, and bragging away accord-
ing to his wont, when his son entered
and asked for dinner. He had _ac-
cepted an invitation to dine at Gar-
terton House. The Duke had one of
his attacks of gout just before dinner.
The dinner was off. If Lady Ring-
would give him a slice of mutton, he
would be very much obliged to her.
A place was soon found for him.
“ And, Philip, this is your namesake,
and our cousin, Mr. Philip Firmin,”
said the Baronet, presenting his son
to his kinsman.
“ Your father used to give me sov-
ereigns, when I was at school. I
have a faint recollection of you, too.
Little white-headed boy, were n’t you?
How is the Doctor, and Mrs. Firmin ?
All right ?”
“ Why, don’t you know his father
ran away?” calls out the youngest
member of the family. “ Don’t kick
me, Emily. He did run away.”
Then Mr. Ringwood remembered,
and a faint blush tinged his face.
“Lapse of time, I know. Should n’t
have asked, after such a lapse of
time.” And he mentioned a case in
which a duke, who was very forget-
ful, had asked a marquis about his
wife who had run away with an earl,
and made inquiries about the mar-
quis’s son, who, as everybody knew,
was not on terms with his father.
“This is Mrs. Firmin, — Mrs.
Philip Firmin,” cried Lady Ring-
wood, rather nervously; and I sup-
pose Mrs. Philip blushed, and the
blush became her ; for Mr. Ringwood
afterwards condescended to say to one
of his sisters, that their new-found rel-
ative seemed one of your rough-and-
ready sort of gentlemen, but his wife
| was really very well bred, and quite
412
a pretty young woman, and present;
able anywhere, — really anywhere.
Charlotte was asked to sing one or
two of her little songs after dinner.
Mr. Ringwood was delighted. Her
voice was perfectly true. What she
sang, she sang admirably. And he
was good enough to hum over one of
her songs (during which performance
he showed that his voice was not ex-
empt from little frailties), and to say
he had heard Lady Philomela Shaker-
ley sing that very song, at Glenmavis,
last autumn; and it was sucha favor-
ite that the Duchess asked for it every
night, — actually every night. When
our friends were going home, Mr.
Ringwood gave Philip almost the
whole of one finger to shake; and
while Philip was inwardly raging at
his impertinence, believed that he had
entirely fascinated his humble rela-
tives, and that he had been most
good-natured and friendly.
I cannot tell why this man’s patron-
age chafed and goaded our worthy
friend so as to drive him beyond the
bounds of all politeness and reason.
The artless remarks of the little boy,
and the occasional simple speeches of
the young ladies, had only tickled
Philip’s humor, and served to amuse
him when he met his relatives. I sus-
pect it was a certain free-and-easy
manner which Mr. Ringwood chose
to adopt towards Mrs. Philip, which
annoyed her husband. He had said
nothing at which offence could be
taken: perhaps he was quite uncon-
scious of offending; nay, thought
himself eminently pleasing: perhaps
he was not more impertinent towards
her than towards other women: but,
in talking about him, Mr. Firmin’s
eyes flashed very fiercely, and he
‘spoke of his new acquaintance and
relative, with his usual extreme can-
dor, as an upstart, and an arrogant
conceited puppy whose ears he would
like to pull.
How do good women learn to dis-
cover men who are not good? Is it
by instinct ?
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
How do they learn|on the woman’s - art.
those stories about men? I protest | was splendid, but :-can and misera-
Rava a
et emer Ver
I never told my wife anything 200
or bad regarding this Mr. Ringwood
though, of course, as a man abou
town, | have heard — who has not
— little anecdotes regarding his ¢a
reer. His conduct in that affair witl
Miss Willowby was heartless anc
cruel; his behavior to that |
Blanche Painter nobody can defend
My wife conveys her opinion regard
ing Philip Ringwood, his life, prin
ciples, and morality, by looks an¢
silences which are more awful an¢
killing than the bitterest words of sar.
casm or reproof. Philip Firmin, whe
knows her ways, watches her features|
and, as I have said, humbles himself.
at her feet, marked the lady’s awful
looks, when he came to describe to us
his meeting with his cousin, and the
magnificent patronizing airs which
Mr. Ringwood assumed. 4
“What?” he said, “you don’t like)
him any more than I do? I thought.
you would not; and I am so glad.” |
Philip’s friend said she did not
know Mr. Ringwood, and had never
spoken a word to him in her life.
“Yes; but you know of him,”
cries the impetuous Firmin. ‘“ What
do you know of him with his mon-
strous puppyism and arrogance ? ”
O, Mrs. Laura knew very little of
him. She did not believe— she had
much rather not believe— what the
world said about Mr. Ringwood.
“ Suppose we were to ask the Wool-
combs their opinion of your charac-
ter, Philip?” cries that gentleman’s:
biographer, with a laugh.
“My dear!” says Laura, with a
yet severer look, the severity of which
glance I must explain. The differ-
ences of Woolcomb and his wife were
notorious. Their unhappiness was
known to all the world. Society was
beginning to look with a very, very
cold face upon Mrs. Wooleomb. Af
ter quarrels, jealousies, battles, recon-
ciliations, scenes of renewed violence
and furious language, had come indif-
ference, and the mo.t reckless gayety
Her home
all sorts of stories were rife re-
le;
brutal treat-
‘arding her husband’s
gent of poor Agnes, and her own
mprudent behavior, Mrs. Laura
yas indignant when this unhappy
yoman’s name was ever mentioned,
xcept when she thought how our
yarm, true-hearted Philip had escaped
om the heartless creature. ‘“‘ What
A blessing it was that you were ruined,
Philip, and that she deserted you!”
Laura would say. “ What fortune
would repay you for marrying such a
woman ?”
" “Tndeed it was worth all I had to
lose her,” says Philip, ‘‘and so the
Doctor and I are quits. If he had
not spent my
oe married me. 4f she had married
me, I might have turned Othello, and |
have been hung for smothering her.
Why, if I had not been poor,
‘should never have been married to
Fittle Char,—and fancy not being |
married to Char! ” The worthy fel-
low here lapses into silence, and in-
‘dulges in an inward rapture at the
idea of his own excessive happiness.
Then he is scared again at the thought
which his own imagination has raised.
“Tsay! Fancy being without the
kids and Char!” he cries with a blank
look.
__ “That horrible father — that dread-
‘fal mother — pardon me, Philip; but
‘when I think of the worldliness of
those unhappy people, and how that
_ poor unhappy woman has been bred
“in it, and ruined by it, — I am so, s0,
so enraged, that I can’t keep my tem-
| per!” cries the lady. “ Is the woman
answerable, or the parents, who hard-
ened her heart, and sold her —sold
her to that—O!” Our illustrious
friend Woolcomb was signified by
© that O,” and the lady once more
paused, choked with wrath as she
thought about that O, and that O’s
wife.
“J wonder he has not Othello’d
her,” remarks Philip, with his hands
in his pockets. “TI should, if she had
-been mine, and gone on as they say
_ she is going on.”
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
fortune, Agnes would |
413
“Jt is dreadful, dreadful to con-
template!” continues the lady“ To
think she was sold by her own parents,
poor thing, poor thing ! The guilt is
with them who led her wrong.”
“Nay,” says one of the three inter-
locutors. “ Why stop at poor Mr.
and Mrs. Twysden? Why not let
them off, and accuse their parents?
who lived worldly too in their genera-
tion Or stay; they descend from
William the Conqueror. Let us ab-
solve poor Weldone Twysden and
his heartless wife, and have the Nor-
man into court.”
«Ah, Arthur! Did not our sin be-
gin with the beginning,” cries the la-
dy, “ and have we not its remedy? O,
this poor creature, this poor creature !
May she know where to take refuge
from it, and learn to repent in time ! .
The Georgian and Circassian girls,
they say, used to submit to their lot
very complacently, and were quite
eager to get to market at Constanti-
nople and be sold. Mrs. Woolcomb
wanted nobody to tempt her away
from poor Philip. She hopped away
from the old love as soon as ever the
new one appeared with his bag of
money. She knew quite well to whom
she was selling herself and for what.
The tempter needed no skill, or arti-
fice, or eloquence. He had _ none.
But he showed her a purse, and three
fine houses, — and she came. Inno-
cent child, forsooth! She knew quite
as much about the world as papa and
mamma; and the lawyers did not look
to her settlement more warily, and
coolly, than she herself did. Did she
not live on it afterwards? I do not
say she lived reputably, but most com-
fortably ; as Paris, and Rome, and
Naples, and Florence can tell you,
where she is well known; where she
receives a great deal of a certain kind
of company; where she is scorned
and flattered, and splendid, and lone-
ly, and miserable. She is not misera-
ble when she sees children: she does
not care for other persons’ children,
as she never did for her own, even
when they were taken from her.
AL4
She is of course hurt and angry, when
quite common, vulgar people, not in
society, you*understand, turn away
from her, and avoid her, and won’t
come to her parties. She gives ex-
cellent dinners which jolly fogies,
rattling bachelors, and doubtful ladies
frequent: but she is alone and unhap-
py, — unhappy because she does not
see parents, sister, or brother % A/llons,
mon bon Monsieur! She never cared
for parents, sister, or brother; or for
baby; or for man (except once for
Philip a little, little bit, when her
heart would sometimes go up two
beats in a minute at his appearance.)
But she is unhappy, because she is
losing her figure, and from tight lac-
ing her nose has become very red, and
the pearl-powder won’t lie on it some-
how. And though you may have
thought Woolcomb an odious, igno-
rant, and underbred little wretch, you
must own that at least he had red
blood in his veins. Did he not spend
a great part of his fortune for the
possession of this cold wife. For
whom did she ever make a sacrifice,
or feel a pang? Jam sure a greater
misfortune than any which has befall-
en friend Philip might have happened
to him, and so congratulate him on
his escape.
Having vented his wrath upon the
arrogance and impertinence of this
solemn puppy of a Philip Ringwood,
our friend went away somewhat
soothed to his club in St. James’s
Street. The “Mevatherium Club ”
is only avery few doors from the much
more aristocratic establishment of
“ Black’s.” Mr. Philip Ringwood
and Mr. Woolcomb were standing on
the steps of ‘ Black’s.” Mr. Ring-
wood waved a graceful little kid-
gloved hand to Philip, and smiled on
him. Mr. Woolcomb glared at our
friend out ofhis opal eyeballs. Philip
had once proposed to kick Woolcomb
into the sea. He somehow felt as if
he would like to treat Ringwood to
the same bath. Meanwhile, Mr.
Ringwood labored under the notion
that he and his new-found acquaint-
THE ADVENTURES ‘OF PHILIP.
terms. a
At one time poor little Woolecomb
loved to_be seen with Philip Ring:
wood. He thought he acquired dis.
tinction from the companionship of
that man of fashion, and would hang
on Ringwood as they walked the
Pall Mall payement. i
“Do you know that great hulking,
overbearing brute?” says Woolcomb
to his companion on the steps of:
“ Black’s.” Perhaps somebody over-
heard them from the bow-window.
(I tell you everything is overheard!
in London, and a great deal more
too. )
“ Brute, is he?” says Ringwood;
“seems a rough, overbearing sort of |
chap.” |
“ Blackguard doctor’s son. Bank-
rupt. Father ran away,” says the
dusky man with the opal eyeballs.
“T have heard he was a rogue, —
the Doctor; but Ilike him. Remem-.
ber he gave me three sovereigns when
I was at school. Always like a fellow
who tips you when you are at =
And here Ringwood beckoned _ his
brougham which was in waiting.
“Shall we see you at dinner?
Where are you going?” asked Mr.
Woolcomb.
39
“If you are going A |
i
wards —
“Towards Gray’s Inn, to see my
lawyer; have an appointment there;
be with you at eight!” And Mr,
Ringwood skipped into his little
brougham and was gone.
Tom Eaves told Philip. Tom
Eaves belongs to “ Black’s Club,” to
“Bays’s,” to the “ Megatherium,” I
don’t know to how many clubs in St.
James’s Street. Tom Eaves knows
everybody’s business, and all the
scandal of all the clubs for the last
forty years. He knows who has lost
money and to whom; what is the
talk of the opera-box and what the
scandal of the coulisses; who is mak-
ing love to whose daughter. What-
ever men and women are doing in
May Fair is the farrago of Tom’s
libel.
He knows so many stories,
names sometimes, and says that Jones
jis on the verge of ruin, when he is
thriving and prosperous, and it is
poor Brown who is in difficulties ;
‘or informs us that Mrs. Fanny is
flirting with Captain Ogle when both
are as innocent of a flirtation as you
and I are. Tom certainly is mis-
-chievous, and often is wrong, but
‘when he speaks of our neighbors he
is amusing.
“Jt is as good as a play to see
Ringwood and Othello together,”
says Tom to Philip. “ How proud
the black man is to be seen with him !
“Heard him abuse you to Ringwood.
Ringwood stuck up for you and for
your poor governor, —spoke up like
a man,— like a man who sticks up for
a fellow who is down. How the black
/man brags about having Ringwood
to dinner! Always having him to
- dinner. You should have seen Ring-
“wood shake him off! Said he was
. going to Gray’s Inn. Heard him say
Gray’s Inn Lane to his man. Don’t
believe a word of it.”
Now I dare say you are much too
fashionable to know that Milman
Street is a little cul de sac of a street,
which leads into Guildford Street,
which leads into Gray’s Inn Lane.
Philip went his way homewards,
‘shaking off Tom Eaves, who, for his
part, trotted off to his other clubs,
telling people how he had just been
talking with that bankrupt doctor’s
son, and wondering how Philip should
get money enough to pay his club
subscription. Philip then went on
his way, striding homewards at his
usual manly pace.
Whose black brougham was that *
-—the black brougham with the chest-
‘nut horse walking up and down
Guildford Street. Mr. Ringwood’s
erest was on the brougham. When
_ Philip entered his drawing-room, hay-
ing opened the door with his own
_key, there sat Mr. Ringwood, talking
to Mrs. Charlotte, who was taking a
cup of tea at five o’clock. She and
the children liked that cup of tea.
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
‘that of course he makes mistakes in |
ALS
Sometimes it served Mrs. Char for
dinner when Philip dined from home.
“If T had known you were coming
here, you might have brought me
home-and saved me a long walk,”
said Philip, wiping a burning fore-
head.
“So I might, —so I might!” said
the other. ‘I never thought of it.
I had to see my lawyer in Gray’s
Inn; and it was then I thought of
coming on to see you, as I was telling
Mrs. Firmin; and a very nice quiet
place you live in!”
This was very well. But for the
first and only time of his life, Philip
was jealous.
«“jjon’t drub so with your feet!
Don’t like to ride when you jog so on
the floor,” said Philip’s eldest dar-
ling, who had clambered on papa’s
knee. “ Why do you lookso? Don’t
squeeze my arm, papa ! pt
Mamma was utterly unaware that
Philip had any cause for agitation.
“ You have walked all the way from
Westminster, and the club, and you
are quite hot and tired! ” she said.
“ Some tea, my dear?”
Philip nearly choked with the tea.
From under his hair, which fell over
his forehead, he looked into his wife’s
face. It wore such a sweet look of
innocence and wonder, that, as he re-
garded her, the spasm of jealousy
passed off. No: there was no look
of guilt in those tender eyes. Philip
could only read in them the wife's
tender love and anxiety for himself.
But what of Mr. Ringwood’s face ?
When the first little blush and_hesi-
tation had passed away, Mr. Ring-
wood’s pale countenance reassumed
that calm self-satisfied smile, which it
customarily wore. “ The coolness of
the man maddened me,” said Philip,
talking about the little occurrence
afterwards, and to his usual confi-
dant.
“ Gracious powers,” cries the other.
«Jf T went to sce Charlotte and the
children, would you be jealous of me, .
you bearded Turk ? Are you pre-
pared with sack and bowstring for
6
416
every man who visits Mrs. Firmin? | Ringwood.
If you are to come out in this charac-
ter, you will lead yourself and your
wife pretty lives. . Of course you
quarrelled with Lovelace then and
there, and threatened to throw him
out of window then and there? Your
custom is to strike when you are hot,
Witness —”
“OQ dear, no!”’ cried Philip, inter-
rupting me. “I have not quarrelled
with him yet.” And he ground his
teeth, and gave a very fierce glare
with his eyes. ‘I sat him out quite
civilly. I went with him to the door;
and I have left directions that he is
never to pass it again,—that’s all.
But I have not quarrelled with him
in the least. Two men_ never be-
haved more politely than we did.
We bowed and grinned at each other
quite amiably. But I own, when he
held out his hand, I was obliged to
keep mine behind my back, for they
felt very mischievous, and inclined
to— Well, never mind. Perhaps it
is, as you say; and he meant no sort
of harm.”
Where, I say again, do women
learn all the mischief they know ?
Why should my wife have such a
mistrust and horror of this gentle-
man? She took Philip’s side en-
tirely. She said she thought he was
quite right in keeping that person out
of his house. What did she know
about that person? Did I not know
myself? He was a libertine, and led
a bad life. He had led young men
astray, and taught them to gamble,
and helped them to ruin themselves.
We have all heard stories about the
late Sir Philip Ringwood; that last
1»
.
scandal in which he was engaged,
three years ago, and which brought
his career to an end at Naples, I need
not, of course, allude to. But four-
teen or fifteen years ago, about which
time this present portion of our little
Story is enacted, what did she know
about Ringwood’s misdoings 4
No: Philip Firmin did not quarrel
with Philip Ringwood on this occa-
sion. But he shut his door on Mr.
THE ADVENTURES *OF PHILIP.
d. He refused all invita
tions to Sir Jolin’s house, which, o
course, came less frequently, and |
which then ceased to come at all dj.
Rich folks do not like to be so treated |
by the poor. Had Lady Ringwood a |
notion of the reason why Philip kept |
away from her house? I think it is |
more than possible. Some of Philip’s |
friends knew her; and she seemed
Street. ’
“Your friend seems very hot-
headed and violent tempered,” Lady |
Ringwood said, speaking of that very
quarrel.
kind of company. Iam sure it must _
be too expensive for him.” :
|
:
only pained, not surprised or angry, |
at a quarrel which somehow did take —
place between the two gentlemen not
very long after that visit of Mr. |
Ringwood to his kinsman in Milman
“Tam sorry he keeps that.
As luck would have it, Philip’s old _.
school-friend, Lord Egham, met us
a very few days after the meeting and
bachelor’s dinner on the river. Our
wives (without whose sanction no good
man would surely ever look a white-
bait in the face) gave us permission
to attend this entertainment, and re-
mained at home, and partook of a,
tea-dinner (blessings on them! ) with
the dear children. Men grow young
again when they meet at these par-
ties. We talk of-flogging, proctors,
old cronies ; we recite old school and
coliege jokes. JI hope that some of
us may carry on these pleasant enter-
tainments until we are fourscore, and ¢
that our toothless old gums will
mumble the old stories, and will »
laugh over the old jokes with ever-
renewed gusto. Does the kind read-
er remember the account of such a
dinner at the commencement of this —
history ? On this afternoon, Egham,
Maynard, Burroughs (several of the
men formerly mentioned), reassem-
bled. I think we actually like each
other well enough to be pleased to
hear of each other’s successes. I
know that one or two good fellows,
parting of Philip and his cousin in —
Milman Street, and invited us to a |
;
|
|
upon whom fortune has frowned,
_hhave found other good fellows in
| that company to help and aid them ;
and that all are better for that
| kindly freemasonry.
_ Before the dinner was served, the
' guests met on the green of the hotel,
and examined. that fair landscape,
which surely does not lose its charm
in our eyes because it is commonly
seen before a good dinner. The
crested elms, the shining river, the
emerald meadows, the painted par-
"terres of flowers around, all wafting an
agreeable smell of friture, of flowers
and flounders exquisitely commin-
gled. Who has not enjoyed these de-
lights? May some of us, I say, live
to drink the ’58 claret in the year
1900! I have no doubt that the
survivors of our society will still
Jaugh at the jokes which we used to
relish when the present century was
still only middle-aged. Egham was
going to be married. Would he be
allowed to dine next year? Frank
Berry’s wife would not let him come.
Do you remember his tremendous
ficht with Biggs? Remember? who
didn’t? Marston was Berry’s bot-
tle-holder; poor Marston, who was
killed in India. And Biggs and Ber-
ry were the closest friends in life ever
after. Who would ever have thought
of Brackley becoming serious, and
being made an archdeacon? Do you
remember his fight with Ringwood ¢
What an infernal bully he was, and
how glad we all were when Brackley
thrashed him. What different fates
await men! Who would ever have
imavined Nosey Brackley a curate in
the mining districts, and ending by
_ wearing a rosette in his hat? Who
would ever have thought of Ring-
wood becoming sueh a prodigious
swell and leader of fashion? He was
a very shy fellow; not at all a good-
looking fellow: and what a wild fel-
low he had become, and what a lady-
killer! Isn’t he some connection of
yours, Firmin? Philip said yes, but
_ that he had scarcely met Ringwood at
= all. And one man after another told
- 18 *
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
417
anecdotes of Ringwood ; .how he had
young men to play in his house ; how
he had played in that very “ Star
and Garter’’; and how he always
won. You must please to remember
that our story dates back some six-
teen yéars, when the dice-box still
rattled occasionally, and the king
was turned.
As this old school gossip is going
on, Lord Egham arrives, and with
him this very Ringwood about whom
the old school-fellows had just been
talking. He came down in Egham’s
phaeton. Of course, the greatest man
of the party always waits for Ring-
wood. “If we had had a duke at
Greyfriars,” says some grumbler,
“Ringwood. would have made the
duke bring him down.”
Philip’s friend, when he beheld the
arrival of Mr. Ringwood, seized Fir-
min’s big arm and whispered, —
“ Hold your tongue. No fighting.
No quarrels. Let bygones be by-
gones. Remember, there can be no
earthly use in a scandal.’
“Leave me alone,” says Philip,
“and don’t be afraid.”
I thought Ringwood seemed to
start back for a moment, and perhaps
fancied that he looked a little pale,
but he advanced with a gracious smile
towards Philip, and remarked, “ It is
a long time since we have seen you at
my father’s.”
Philip grinned and smiled too.
“Tt was a long time since he had
been in Hill Street.” But Philip’s
smile was not at all pleasing to be-
hold. * Indeed, a worse performer of
comedy than our friend does not walk
the stage of this life. |
On this the other gayly remarked
he was glad Philip had leave to join
the bachelor’s party. ‘‘ Meeting of ©
old school-fellows very pleasant:
Hadn’t been to one of them for a
long. time: though the ‘ Friars’ was
an abominable hole: that was the
truth. Who was that in the shovel-
hat? a bishop ? what bishop ¢”’
It was Brackley, the Archdeacon,
who turned very red on seeing Ring-
AA
418
wood. For the fact is, Brackley was
talking to Pennystone, the little boy
about whom the quarrel and fight had
taken place at school, when k ingwood
had proposed forcibly to take Penny-
stone’s money from him. “I think,
-Mr. Ringwood, that Pennystone is
big _cnoug h to hold his own now,
don't you ? ” said the Archdeacon ;
and with this the Venerable man
turned on his heel, leaving Ringwood
to face the little Pennystone of former
years ; now a gigantic country squire,
with health ringing in his voice, and
apair of great arms and fists that
would have demolished six Ring-
woods in the field.
‘The sight of these quondam. ene-
mies rather disturbed Mr. Ringwood’s
tranquillity.
“JT was dreadfully bullied at that
school,” he said, in an appealing
manner, to Mr. Pennystone. ‘I did
as others did. It was a_ horrible
place, and I hate the name of it. I
say, Egham, don’t you think that
Barnaby’s motion last night was
very ill timed, and that the Chancellor
of the Exchequer answered him very
neatly ?”
This became a cant phrase amongst
some of us wags afterwards. When-
ever we wished to change a conver-
sation, it was, “I say, Egham, don’t
you think Barnaby’s motion was very
ill timed ; and that the Chancellor of
the Exchequer answered him very
neatly?”? You know Mr. Ringwood
would scarcely have thought of coming
amongst such common people as his
old school-fellows, but sceing Lord
Egham’s phaeton at “ Black’s, ” he
condescended to drive down to Rich-
mond with his Lordship, and I hopea
great number of his friends in St.
James’s Strect saw him in that noble
company.
Windham was the chairman of the
evening, — elected to that post because
he is very fond of making speeches to
which he does not in the least expect
you tolisten. All men of sense are
glad to hand over this office to him:
and I hope, for my part, a day will
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
soon arrive (but I own, mind y
that I do not carve well) a ve
shall have the speeches pale by - a
skilled waiter at the side-table, as wee -
now have the carving. Don’t yo
find that you splash the gravy, that
you mangle the meat, that you can’t
nick the joint in helping the company _
to-a dinner-speech ?
I, for my part, |
t
own that lam in a state of tremor —
and absence of mind before the opera-
tion; in a condition of imbecility
duri ng the business; and that Iam
sure of a headache and indigestion
the next morning. What then?
Have I not seen one of the bravest
men in the world, at. a City dinner
last year, in a state of equal panic ?
—I feel that I am wandering from
Philip’s adventures to his biograph-
er’s, and confess I am thinking of the
dismal fiasco | myself made on this
occasion at the Rachmond dinner.
You see, the order of the day at
these meetings is to joke at everything,
—to joke at the chairman, at all
the speakers, at the army and navy,
at the venerable the legislature, at
the bar and bench, and so forth. If
we toast a barrister, we show how
admirably «he would ‘have figured in
the dock: if a sailor, how lamentably
sea-sick he was: if a soldier, how
nimbly he ran away. For example, |
we drank the Venerable Archdeacon
Brackley and the army.
the perverseness which had led him to”
adopt a black coat instead of a red.
We deplored ©
War had evidently been his vocation, |
as he had shown by the frequent
battles in which he had been engaged
at school.
great warrior of the age famous ? for
that Roman feature in his face, which
distinguished, which gave a name to,
our Brackley,—a name by which
we fondly clung (cries of ‘ Nosey,
Nosey!”) Might that feature orna-
ment erelong the face of — of one of
the chiefs of that army of which
he was a distinguished field-officer!
Might— Here I confess I fairly
broke down, lost the thread of my
joke, — at which Brackley seemed to
For what was the other-
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP-
Jook rather severe, — and finished the
speech with a gobble about regard,
esteem, everybody respect you, and
good health, old boy, — which answer-
ed quite as well as a finished oration,
however the author might be discon-
tented with it.
The Archdeacon’s little sermon
was very brief, as the discourses of
sensible divines sometimes will be.
He was glad to meet old friends, — to
make friends with old foes (loud cries
of “ Bravo, Nosey!”) In the battle
of life, every man must meet with a
blow or two; and every brave one
would take his facer with good-
humor. Had he quarrelled with
any old school-fellow, in old times ?
He wore peace not only on his coat,
but in his heart. Peace and good-
will were the words of the day in the
army to which he belonged ; and he
hoped that all officers in it were
animated by one esprit de corps.
A silence ensued, during which men
looked towards Mr. Ringwood, as the
“old foe” towards whom the Arch-
deacon had held out the hand of
amity ; but Ringwood, who had lis-
tened to the Archdeacon’s speech with
an expression of great disgust, did not
rise from his chair, — only remarking
to his neighbor Egham, “ Why should
I get up? Hang him, I have nothing
tosay. Isay, Egham, why did you
induce me to come’ into this kind of
thing ?”’
Fearing that a collision might take
place between Philip and his kinsman,
T had drawn Philip away from_ the
‘place in the room to which Lord
Egham beckoned him, saying, ‘“ Nev-
er mind, Philip, about sitting by the
Jord,” by whose side I knew perfectly
well that Mr. Ringwood would find a
place. But it was our lot to be separ-
ated from his Lordship by merely the
table’s breadth, and some intervening
vases of flowers and fruits through
which we could see and hear our
opposite neighbors. When Ringwood
spoke “of this kind of thing,” Philip
glared across the table, and started as
if he was going to speak; but his
419
neighbor pinched him on the knee,
and whispered to him, “ Silence, — no
scandal. Remember!” The other
fell back, swallowed a glass of wine,
and made me far from comfortable by
performing a tattoo on my chair.
The speeches went on. If they
were not more eloquent they were
more noisy and lively than before.
Then the aid of song was called in
to enliven the banquet. The Arch-
deacon, whe had looked a little un-
easy for the last half-hour, rose up at
the call for a song, and quitted the
room. “Let us go too, Philip,” said
Philip’s neighbor. ‘“ You don’t want
to. hear those dreadful old college
songs over again?” But Philip
sulkily said, “ You go, I should like
to stay.”
Lord Egham was seeing the last of
his bachelor life. He liked those last
evenings to be merry; he lingered
over them, and did not wish them toend
too quickly. His neighbor was long
since tired of the entertainment, and
sick of our company. Mr. Ringwood
had lived of late in a world of such
fashion that ordinary mortals were
despicable to him. He had no affec-
tionate remembrance of his early days,
or of anybody belonging to them.
Whilst Philip was singing his song
of “ Doctor Luther,” I was glad that
he could not see the face of surprise
and disgust which his kinsman bore.
Other vocal performances followed,
including a song by Lord Egham,
which, I am bound to say, was hide-
ously out of tune; but was received
by his near neighbor complacently
enough.
The noise now began to increase,
the choruses were fuller, the speeches
were louder and more incoherent. I
don’t think the company heard a
speech by little Mr. Vanjohn, whose
health was drunk as representative
of the British Turf, and who said that
he had never known anything about
the turf or about play, until their old
school-fellow, his dear friend, —his
swell friend, if he might be permit-
ted the expression, — Mr. Ringwood,
420
taught him the use of cards ; and once
in his own house, in May Fair, and
once in this very house, the “ Star
and Garter,’”’ showed him how to play
the noble game of Blind Hookey.
“The men are drunk. Let us go
away, Egham. I did n’t come for this
kind of thing!” cried Ringwood,
furious, by Lord Egham’s side.
This was the expression which
Mr. Ringwood had used a short time
before, when Philip was about to in-
terrupt him.
to fire then, but his hand had been
held back. The bird passed him once
more, and he could not help taking
aim. ‘This kind of thing is very
dull, is n’t it, Ringwood?” he called
across the table, pulling away a
flower, and glaring at the other
through the little open space.
“Dull, old boy? I call it doosed
good fun,” cries Lord Egham, in the
height of good-humor.
“Dull? What do you mean?”
asked my Lord’s neighbor.
“T mean you would prefer having
a couple of packs of cards, and a little
room, where you could win three or
four hundred from a young fellow ?
It’s more profitable and more quiet
than ‘ this kind of thing.’ ”
“T say, I don’t know what you
mean!” cries the other.
“What! You have forgotten al-
ready ? Has not Vanjohn just told
you, how you and Mr. Deuceace
brought him down here, and won his
money from him; and then how you
gave him his revenge at your own
house in —”
“Did I come here to be insulted by
that fellow?” eries Mr. Ringwood,
appealing to his neighbor.
“Tf that is an insult, you may put
it in your pipe and smoke it, Mr.
Ringwood!” cries Philip.
“Come away, come away, Egham!
Don’t keep me here listening to this
bla—— ”
“If you say another word,” says
Philip, “I’ll send this decanter at
your head !”’
“Come, come, —nonsense! No
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP...
He had lifted his gun |
quarrelling! Make it up!
body has had ‘too much! 3
bill, and order the omnibus round!” |
A crowd was on one side of the table,
and the other. One of the cousins
had not the least wish that the quar-
rel should proceed any further. a
When, being in a quarrel, Philip |
Firmin assumes the calm and stately
manner, he is perhaps in his most —
dangerous state. Lord Egham’s
phaeton’ (in which Mr. Ringwood °
showed a great unwillingness to take
a seat by the driver) was at the hotel |
gate, an omnibus and a private car-.
riage or two were in readiness to take
home the other guests of the feast.
Egham went into the hotel to light a
final cigar, and now Philip springing |
forward, caught by the arm the gen-
tleman sitting on the front seat of the |
phaeton. ag
“Stop!” he said. ‘You used a.
word just now —” =i
“What word? I don’t know any- |
thing about words!” cries the other, |
in a loud voice. e:
“ You said ‘ insulted,’ ’ murmured
Philip, in the gentlest tone. “
“JT don’t know what I said,” said
Ringwood, peevishly. ol
“JT said, in reply to the words —
which you forget, ‘that I would
knock you down,’ or words to that
effect. If you feel in the least
aggrieved, you know where my cham-
bers are, — with Mr. Vanjohn, whom |
you and your mistress inveigled to play
cards when he wasa boy. You are
not fit to come into an honest man’s
house. It was only because I wished
to spare a lady’s feelings that I re-
frained from turning you out of mine.
Good night, Egham !” and with great
majesty Mr. Philip returned to his
companion and the Hansom cab
which was in waiting to convey these —
two gentlemen to London.
I was quite correct in my surmise |
that Philip’s antagonist would take
no further notice of the quarrel to—
Philip personally. Indeed, he affect-—
ed to treat it as a drunken brawl, re- —
garding which no man of sense would —
= |
6
‘a fugitive,
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
allow himself to be seriously dis-
turbed. A quarrel between two men
of the same family : — between Philip
and his own relative who had only
wished him well?— it was absurd
and impossible. What Mr. Ring-
wood deplored was the obstinate ill
temper and known violence of Philip,
which were forever leading him into
these brawls, and estranging his fam-
ily from him. A man seized by the
coat, insulted, threatened with a de-
eanter! A man of station so treated
by a person whose own position was
most questionable, whose father was
and who himself was
struggling for precarious subsistence !
The arrogance was too great. With
the best wishes for the unhappy young
“man, and his amiable (but empty-
headed) little wife,
it was impossible
to take further notice of them. Let
the visits cease. Let the carriage no
more drive from Berkeley Square to
Milman Street. Let there be no
presents of game, poultry, legs of
mutton, old clothes, and what not.
Henceforth, therefore, the Ringwood
earriage was unknown in the neigh-
borhood of the Foundling, and the
Ringwood footmen no more scented
with their powdered heads the Fir-
mins’ little hall ceiling. Sir John
said to the end that he was about
to procure a comfortable place for
now when the evil days
Philip, when his
jations
never appear
deplorable violence
obliged Sir John to break off all re-
with the most misguided
young man.
Nor was the end of the mischief
here. We have all read how the gods
alone, — the gods bring-
ing good or evil fortune. When two
or three little pieces of good luck had
befallen our poor friend, my wife
triumphantly cried out, “I told you
so! Did I not always say that
Heaven would befriend that dear in-
nocent wife and children ; that brave,
generous, imprudent father”? And
came, this
~ monstrous logician in-isted that pov-
erty, sickness, dreadful
doubt and
_ terror, hunger and want almost, were
ta
1
“a
421
all equally intended for Philip’s ad-
vantage, and would work for good in
the end. So that rain was good, and
sunshine was good; so that sickness
was good, and health was good ; that
Philip ill was to be as happy as Philip
well, and as thankful for a sick house
and an empty pocket as for a warm
fireside and a comfortable larder.
Mind, I ask no Christian philosopher
to revile at his ill fortunes, or to
despair. I will accept a toothache
(or any evil‘of life), and bear it with-
out too much grumbling. But I
cannot say that to have a tooth puiled
out is a blessing, or fondle the hand
which wrenches at my jaw.
“They can live without their fine
relations, and their donations of
mutton and turnips,” cries my wife
with a toss of her head. “ ‘The way
in which those people patronized
Philip and dear Charlotte was per-
fectly intolerable. Lady Ringwood
knows how dreadful the conduct of
that Mr. Ringwood is, and —and I
have no patience with her!” How,
I repeat, do women know about men ?
How do they telegraph to each other
their notices of alarm and mistrust ?
and fly as birds rise up with a rush
and a skurry when danger appears to
be near? All this was very well.
But Mr. Tregarvan heard some ac-
count of the dispute between I’hilip
and Mr. Ringwood, and applied to
Sir John for further particulars ; and
Sir John —liberal man as he was
and ever had been, and priding him-
self Jittle, Heaven knew, on the priv-
ilege of rank, which was merely ad-
ventitious — was constrained to con-
fess that this young man’s conduct
showed a great deal too much laissez
aller. He had constantly, at Sir
John’s own house, manifested an
independence which had bordered on
rudeness; he was always notorious
for his quarrelsome disposition, and
lately had so disgraced himself inva
scene with Sir John’s eldest son, Mr.
Ringwood, — had exhibited such bru-
tality, ingratitude, and — and inebri-
ation, that Sir John was free to con-
422
fess he had forbidden the gentleman
his door.
“* An insubordinate, ill-conditioned
fellow, certainly !” thinks Tregarvan.
(And Ido not say, though Philip is
my friend, that Tregarvan and Sir
John were altogether wrong regard-
ing their protégé.) Twice Tregarvan
had invited him to breakfast, and
Philip had not appeared. More than
once he had contradicted Tregarvan
about the Review. He had said that
the Review was not gett#ng on, and if
you asked Philip his candid opinion,
it would not get on. Six numbers
had appeared, and it did not meet with
that attention which the public ought
to pay to it. The public was careless
as to the designs of that Great Pow-
er which it was Tregarvan’s aim to
defy and confound. He took counsel
with himself. He walked over to
the publisher’s, and inspected the
books ; and the result of that inspec-
tion was so disagreeable, that he
went home straightway and wrote a
letter to Philip Firmin, Esq., New
Milman Street, Guildford Street,
which that poor fellow brought to
his usual advisers.
That letter contained a check for
a quarter’s salary, and bade adieu to
Mr. Firmin. The writer would not
recapitulate the causes of dissatisfac-
tion which he felt respecting the con-
duct of the Review. He was much
disappointed in its progress, and dis-
satisfied with its general management.
He thought an opportunity was lost
which never could be recovered for
exposing the designs of a Power
which menaced the liberty and tran-
quillity of Europe. Had it been
directed with proper energy that Re-
view might have been an zgis to that
threatened liberty, a lamp to lighten
the darkness of that menaced free-
dom. It might have pointed the way
to the cultivation bonarum literarum ;
it might have fostered rising talent,
it might have chastised the arrogance
of so-called critics; it might have
served the cause of truth. Tregar-
van’s hopes were disappointed: he
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
4
would not say by whose remissnesg
or fault. He had done Ais utmost in
the good work, and, finally, would
thank Mr. Firmin to print off the
articles already purchased and paid
for, and to prepare a brief notice for
the next number announcing the dis-,
continuance of the Review; and
Tregarvan showed my wife a cold
shoulder for a considerable time after-
wards, nor were we asked to his
tea-parties, I forget for how many
seasons. a |
This to us was no great loss or
subject of annoyance : but to poor Phil- |
ip ? It was a matter of life and almost,
death to him. He never could save
much out of his little pittance. Here.
were fifty pounds in his hand, it is
true ; but bills, taxes, rent, the hun-.
dred little obligations of a house, |
were due and pressing upon him ; and |
in the midst of his anxiety, our dear
little Mrs. Philip was about to present
him with a third ornament to his,
nursery. Poor little Tertius arrived
duly enough; and, such hypocrites
were we, that the poor mother was.
absolutely thinking of calling the
child Tregarvan Firmin, as a com-.
pliment to Mr. Tregarvan, who had
been so kind to them, and Tregarvan
Firmin would be such a pretty name,
she thought. We imagined the
Little Sister knew nothing about
Philip’s anxieties. Of course, she
attended Mrs. Philip through her
troubles, and we vow that we never
said a word to her regarding Philip’s
own. But Mrs. Brandon went in to
Philip one day, as he was sitting
very grave and sad with his two first-
born children, and she took both his
hands, and said, “‘ You know, dear, I
have saved ever so much: and I
always intended it for—you know
who.” And here she loosened one
hand from him, and felt in her pocket
for a purse, and put it into Philip’s
hand, and wept on his shoulder. And
Philip kissed her, and thanked God
for sending him such a dear friend,
and gave her back her purse, though
indeed he had but five pounds left in
THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP.
his own when this benefactress came
‘to him. ,
_ Yes, but there were debts owing
tohim. There was his wife’s little
portion of fifty pounds a year, which
had never been paid,since the second
‘quarter after their marriage, which
had happened now more than three
lyears ago. As Philip had scarce a
‘guinea in the world, he wrote to
‘Mrs. Baynes, his wife’s mother, to
explain his extreme want, and to re-
mind her that this money was due.
' Mrs. General Baynes was living at
Jersey at this time in a choice society
of half-pay ladies, clergymen, cap-
tains and the like, among whom I
have no doubt she moved as a great
lady. She wore a large medallion of
the deceased General on her neck.
|
]
(
(
(
She wept dry tears over that interest-
‘ing cameo at frequent tea-parties.
‘She never could forgive Philip for
taking away her child from her, and
if any one would take away others
of her girls, she would be equally un-
forgiving. Endowed with that won-
derful logic with which women are
plessed, I believe she never admitted,
or has been able to admit to her own
‘mind, that she did Philip or her
‘daughter awrong. In the tea-parties
of her acquaintance she groaned over
the extravagance of her son-in-law
‘and his brutal treatment of her bless-
ed child. Many good people agreed
with her and shook their respectable
noddles when the name of that prod-
igal Philip was mentioned over her
“muffins and Bohea. He was prayed
for; his dear widowed mother-in-law
_-was pitied, and blessed with all the
were wronged.
comfort reverend gentlemen could
supply on the spot. “Upon my
honor, Firmin, Emily and I were
“made to believe that you were a
-monster, sir,” the stout Major Mac-
Whirter once said ; “ and now I have
heard your story, by Jove, I think it
is you; and not Eliza Baynes, who
She has a deuce
_ of a tongue, Eliza has: and a temper,
—poor Charles knew what that
was!” In fine, when Philip, re-
Pa
423
duced to his last guinea, asked
Charlotte’s mother to pay her debt
to her sick daughter, Mrs. General
B. sent Philip a ten-pound note,
open, by Captain Swang, of the
Indian army, who happened to be
coming to England. And that,
Philip says, of all the hard knocks of
fate, has been the very hardest which
he has had to endure.
But the poor little wife knew noth-
ing of this cruelty, nor, indeed, of the
very poverty which was hemming
round her curtain ; and in the midst
of his griefs, Philip Firmin was im-
mensely consoled by the tender fidel-
ity of the friends whom God had sent
him. Their griefs were drawing to
an end now. Kind readers all, may
your sorrows, may mine, leave us
with hearts not imbittered, and hum-
bly acquiescent to the Great Will!
—_@—_-
CHAPTER XII.
IN WHICH WE REACH THE LAST
STAGE BUT ONE OF THIS JOUR-
NEY.
AurnovcH poverty was knocking
at Philip’s humble door, little Char-
lotte in all her trouble never knew how
menacing the grim visitor had _ been.
She did not quite understand that her
husband in his last necessity sent to
her mother for his due, and that the
mother turned away and refused him.
“ Ah,” thought poor Philip, groaning
in his despair, “I wonder whether
the thieves who attacked the man in
the parable were robbers of his own
family, who knew that he carried
money with him to Jerusalem, and
waylaid him on the journey 7” But
again and again he has thanked God,
with grateful heart, for the Samari-
tans whom he has met on life’s road,
and if he has not forgiven, it must be
owned he has never done any wrong
to those who robbed him.
Charlotte did not know that her
husband was at his last guinea, anda
prey to dreadful anxiety for her dear
424
/
sake, for after the birth of her child a
fever came upon her; in the delirium
consequent upon which the poor thing
was ignorant of all that happened
round her.
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? Good night.
night, friends, old and young? ‘The
night will fall : the stories must end:
and the best friends must part.
THE END.
Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
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