reside there just as the long vacation commenced, which he intended to devote to
a course of serious 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 exercise than
refreshment; and Mr. Firmin, now he was too poor for claret, showed a great
capacity for beer. After beer and bodily labour, rest, of course, is necessary;
and Firmin 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 then 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 the quotidian
history of his country; so, of course, Philip read the newspaper. Thus, you see,
his hours of study were perforce curtailed by the necessary duties which
distracted him from his labours.
It has been said that Mr. Firmin's companion in chambers, Mr. Cassidy, was a
native of the neighbouring kingdom of Ireland, and engaged in literary 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 eccentric and gifted Captain Shandon, and Cass. himself
was the fashionable correspondent of the Gazette, chronicling the marriages,
deaths, births, dinner-parties of the nobility. These Irish gentlemen knew other
Irish gentlemen, connected with other newspapers, 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 in his
pocket, and never-failing applause for his songs.
When Pendennis and his friends wrote in this newspaper, it was impertinent
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
successors. They worked for very moderate fees: but paid themselves by
impertinence, and the satisfaction of assailing their betters. There or four
persons were reserved from their abuse; but somebody was sure every week to be
tied up at their post, and the public made sport of the victim's contortions.
The writers were obscure barristers, ushers, and college men, but they had
omniscience at their pen's end, and were ready to lay down the law on any given
subject��to teach any man his business, were it a bishop in his pulpit, a
Minister in his place in the House, a captain on his quarter-deck, a tailor on
his shopboard, or a jockey in his saddle.
Since those early days of the Pall Mall Gazette, when old Shandon wielded his
truculent tomahawk, and Messrs. W-rr-ngt-n and P-nd-nn-s followed him in the
war-path, the Gazette had passed through several hands; and the victims who were
immolated by the editors of to-day were very likely the objects of the best
puffery of the last dynasty. To be flogged in what was your own
school-room��that, surely, is a queer sensation; and when my Report was
published on the decay of the sealing-wax trade in the three kingdoms (owing to
the prevalence of gummed envelopes��as you may see in that masterly document), I
was horsed up and smartly whipped in the Gazette by some of the rods which had
come out of pickle since my time. Was not good Dr. Guillotin executed by his own
neat invention? I don't know who was the Monsieur Samson who operated on me; but
have always had my idea that Digges, of Corpus, was the man to whom my
flagellation was entrusted. His father keeps a ladies'-school at Hackney; but
there is an air of fashion in everything which Digges writes, and a chivalrous
conservatism which makes me pretty certain that D. was my scarifier. All this,
however, is naught. Let us turn away from the author's private griefs and
egotisms to those of the hero of the story.
Does any one remember the appearance some twenty years ago of a little book
called Trumpet Calls��a book of songs and poetry, dedicated to his brother
cornet played 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 one or two troops at least of that corps. Entering
into Mr. Cassidy's room, Philip found the little volume. He set to work to
exterminate Canterton. He rode him down, trampled over his face and carcase,
knocked the Trumpet Calls and all the teeth out of the trumpeter's throat. Never
was such a smashing article as he wrote. And Mugford, Mr. Cassidy's chief and
owner, who likes always to have at least one man served up and hashed small in
the Pall Mall Gazette, happened at this very juncture to have no other victim
ready in his larder. Philip's review appeared there in print. He rushed off with
immense glee to Westminster, to show us his performance. Nothing must content
him but to give a dinner at Greenwich on his success. Oh, Philip! We wished that
this had not been his first fee; and that sober law had given it to him, and not
the graceless and fickle muse with whom he had been flirting. For, truth to say,
certain wise old heads which wagged over his performance could see but little
merit in it. His style was coarse, his wit clumsy and savage. Never mind
characterizing either now. He has seen the error of his ways, and divorced with
the muse whom he never ought to have wooed.
The shrewd Cassidy not only could not write himself, but knew he could not��or,
at least pen more than a plain paragraph, or a brief sentence to the point, but
said he would carry this paper to his chief. "His Excellency" was the nickname
by which this chief was called by his familiars. Mugford��Frederick Mugford, was
his real name��and putting out of sight that little defect in his character,
that he committed a systematic literary murder once a week, a more worthy
good-natured little murderer did not live. He came of the old school of the
press. Like French marshals, he had risen from the ranks, and retained some of
the manners and oddities of the private soldier. A new race of writers had grown
up since he enlisted as a printer'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 relished their surprise. Those lips never cared in the
least about placing his h'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 waistcoat and fancy satin tie. His heart,
however, was not in these entertainments. I 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 himself to be
perfectly familiar with the histories of Philp and his father. "The old chap has
nobbled the young fellow's money, almost every shilling of it, I hear. Knew he
never would carry on. His discounts would have killed any man. Seen his paper
about this ten year. Young one is a gentleman��passionate fellow, hawhaw fellow,
but kind to the poor. Father never was a gentleman, 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 patrons 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 clients; and year after year, almost from his first arrival in London,
Ridley, the painter, had been engaged as portrait painter to this worthy family.
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. Mugford's, Gazette in hand,
and had a long and delightful conversation with that lady. Mrs. Brandon bought I
don't know how many copies of that Pall Mall Gazette. She now asked for it
repeatedly in her walks at sundry ginger-beer shops, and of all sorts of
newsvendors. 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 carriage, but we ain't above
our business, Brandon," that good lady would say. And the business prospered
under the management of these worthy folks; and the pony-chaise unfolded into a
noble barouche; and the pony increased and multiplied, and became a pair of
horses; and there was not a richer piece of gold-lace round any coachman's hat
in London than now decorated John, who had grown with the growth of his master's
fortunes, and drove the chariot in which his worthy employers rode on the way to
Hampstead, honour, and prosperity.
"All this pitching into the poet is very well, you know, Cassidy," says Mugford
to his subordinate. "It's like shooting a butterfly with a blunderbuss; but if
Firmin likes that kind of sport, I don't mind. There won't be any difficulty
about taking his copy at our place. The duchess knows another old woman who is a
friend of his" ("the duchess" was the title which Mr. Mugford was in the playful
habit of conferring upon his wife). "It's my belief young F. had better stick to
the law, and leave the writing rubbish alone. But he knows his own affairs best,
and, mind you, the duchess is determined we shall give him a helping hand."
Once, in the days of his prosperity, and in J. J.'s company, Philip had visited
Mrs. Mugford and her family��a circumstance which the gentleman had almost
forgotten. The painter and his friend were taking a Sunday walk, and came upon
Mugford's pretty cottage and garden, and were hospitably entertained there by
the owners of the place. It has disappeared, and the old garden has long since
been covered by terraces and villas, and Mugford and Mrs. M., good souls, where
are they? But the lady thought she had never seen such a fine-looking young
fellow as Philip; cast about in her mind which of her little female Mugfords
should marry him; and insisted upon offering her guest champagne. Poor Phil! So,
you see, whilst, perhaps, he was rather pluming himself upon his literary
talents, and imagining that he was a clever fellow, he was only the object of a
job on the part of two or three good folks, who knew his history, and
compassionated his misfortunes.
Mugford recalled himself to Philip's recollection, when they met after the
appearance of Mr. Phil's first performance in the Gazette. If he still took a
Sunday walk, Hampstead way, Mr. M. requested him to remember that there was a
slice of beef and a glass of wine at the old shop. Philip remembered it well
enough now: the ugly room, the ugly family, the kind worthy people. Ere long he
learned what had been Mrs. Brandon's connection with them, and the young man's
heart was softened and grateful as he thought how this kind, gentle creature had
been able to befriend him. She, we may be sure, was not a little proud of her
prot�g�. I believe she grew to fancy that the whole newspaper was written by
Philip. She made her fond parent read it aloud as she worked. Mr. Ridley,
senior, pronounced it was remarkable fine, really now; without, I think,
entirely comprehending the meaning of the sentiments which Mr. Gann gave forth
in his rich loud voice, and often dropping asleep in his chair during this
sermon.
In the autumn, Mr. Firmin's friends, Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis, selected the
romantic seaport town of Boulogne for their holiday residence; and having roomy
quarters in the old town, we gave Mr. Philip an invitation to pay us a visit
whenever he could tear himself away from literature and law. He came in high
spirits. He amused us by imitations and descriptions of his new proprietor and
master, Mr. Mugford�� his blunders, his bad language, his good heart. One day,
Mugford expected a celebrated literary character to dinner, and Philip and
Cassidy were invited to meet him. The great man was ill, and was unable 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. "F
irmin, 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'll make your hair curl." And Philip was going to
imitate a frightful 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.
Our main amusement in this delightful place was to look at the sea-sick landing
from the steamers; and one day, as we witnessed this phenomenon, Philip sprang
to the ropes which divided us from the arriving 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 landing. A pallid lady, the partner of his existence,
probably, was calling out, "Noof et doo domestiques, Doo!" to the sentries who
kept the line, and who seemed little interested by this family news. A
governess, a tall young lady, and several more male and female children,
followed the pale lady, who, as I thought, looked strangely frightened when the
gentleman addressed as general communicated to her Philip's name. "Is that him?"
said the lady in questionable grammar; and the tall 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 remissness and want of care. For a long while he did not
dare to tell his commander-in-chief of this dreadful 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 commanding officer. The morning
after the fatal confession, when the children assembled for breakfast and
prayers, Mrs. Baynes gave their young ones their porridge: she and Charlotte
poured out the tea and coffee for their elders, and then addressing her eldest
son Ochterlony, she said, "Ocky, my boy, the general has announced a charming
piece of news this morning."
"Bought that pony, sir?" says Ocky.
"Oh, 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 made a shroud of his Morning Herald. He would
have flung the sheet over his whole body, and lain hidden there from all eyes.
"The fun, my dears, is that your father is ruined: that's the fun. Eat your
porridge now, little ones. Charlotte, pop a bit of butter in Carrick's porridge;
for you mayn't have any to-morrow."
"Oh, gammon," cries Moira.
"You'll soon see whether it is gammon or not, sir, when you'll be starving, sir.