that she would be a welcome 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 ordains that a woman, under certain
circumstances, shall resign home, parents, brothers, sisters, for the sake of
that one individual who is henceforth to be dearer to her than all. Mrs. Baynes,
the widow, growled a complaint at her daughter's ingratitude, but did not refuse
her consent. She may have known that little Hely, Charlotte's volatile admirer,
had fluttered off to another flower by this time, and that a pursuit of that
butterfly was in vain: or she may have heard that he was going to pass the
spring��the butterfly season��in London, and hoped that he perchance might again
light on her girl. Howbeit, she was glad enough that her daughter should accept
an invitation to our house, and owned that as yet the poor child's share of this
life's pleasures had been but small. Charlotte's modest little trunks were again
packed, then, and the poor child was sent off, I won't say with how small a
provision of pocket-money, by her mother. But the thrifty woman had but little,
and of it was determined to give as little as she could. "Heaven will provide
for my child," she would piously say; and hence interfered very little with
those agents whom heaven sent to befriend her children.
"Her mother told Charlotte that she would send her some money next Tuesday," the
major told us; "but, between ourselves, I doubt whether she will. Between
ourselves, my sister-in-law is always going to give money next Tuesday: but
somehow Wednesday comes, and the money has not arrived. I could not let the
little maid be without a few guineas, and have provided her out of a half-pay
purse; but mark me, that pay-day Tuesday will never come." Shall I deny or
confirm the worthy major's statement? Thus far I will say, that Tuesday most
certainly came; and a letter from her mamma to Charlotte, which said that one of
her brothers and a younger sister were going to stay with aunt Mac; and that as
Char was so happy with her most 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 Charlotte'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. Brandon 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 Mugford 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 I would risk, if I were a man, to marry such a pretty young
dear. And I should take a young man to be but a mean-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 yesterday, and a cook down from town, on purpose."
This speech, with appropriate imitations of voice and gesture, was repeated to
the present biographer by the present biographer's wife, and he now began to see
in what webs and meshes of conspiracy these artful women had enveloped the
subject of the present biography.
Like Mrs. Brandon, and the other matron, Charlotte's friend, Mrs. 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. Mugford took Miss Baynes to the
opera, and pointed out the other people of fashion there assembled. And
delighted 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, Lady Ringwood, had a box, in which Philip saw her and
her daughters, and little Ringwood Twysden 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 so
conveniently��and Lady Ringwood's tall, emblazoned chariot of state, stopped the
way together. And from the tall emblazoned 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 suppose in such a
frame of mind he had 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 Garry-owenna-gloria, and greeted the
boys assembled, and spent at least three shillings over his supper and drinks.
But the next day being Sunday, Mr. Firmin was at West- minster Abbey, listening
to the sweet church chants, by the side of the very same young person whom he
had escorted to the opera on the night before. They sate together so close that
one must have heard exactly as well as the other. I daresay it is edifying to
listen to anthems � deux. And how complimentary to the clergyman to have to wish
that the sermon was longer! Through the vast cathedral aisles the organ notes
peal gloriously. Ruby and topaz and amethysts blaze from the great church
windows. Under the tall arcades the young people went together. Hand in 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's love affairs with as few words and in as modest
phrases as may be��omitting the raptures, the passionate
vows, the reams of
correspondence, and the usual commonplaces of his situation. And yet, my dear
madam, though you and I may be past the age of billing and cooing, though your
ringlets, which I remember a lovely auburn, are now��well��are now a rich purple
and green black, and my brow may be as bald as a cannon-ball;��I say, though we
are old, we are not too old to forget. We may not care about the pantomime much
now, but we like to take the young folks, and see them rejoicing. From the
window where I write, I can look down into the garden of a certain square. In
that garden I can at this moment' see a young gentleman and lady of my
acquaintance pacing up and down. They are talking some such talk as Milton
imagines our first parents engaged in; and yonder garden is a paradise to my
young friends. Did they choose to look outside the railings 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 windows of a third mansion; the baker's boy
discoursing with the housemaid 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 snuggery for which the furniture is ordered,
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 daresay, 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 Imogene says to Alonzo, "What anguish I shall have if you are ill!"
Then there is the carpenter putting up the hatchment. "Ah, my love, if you were
to die, I think they might put up a hatchment for both of us," says Alonzo, with
the railings. 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:��
Astor House, New York.
"And so you are returned to the great city��to the fumum, the strepitum, and I
sincerely hope the opes of our Rome!" Your own letters are but brief; but I have
an occasional correspondent (there are few, alas! who remember the exile!) who
keeps me au cournat of my Philip's history, and tells me that you are
industrious, that you are cheerful, that you prosper. 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 ere
long I shall be able to announce to you that I too am prospering. I am 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 for ever deserted George Brand Firmin! So you have embarked in the drudgery
of the press, and have become a member of the fourth estate. It has been
despised, and press-man and poverty were for a long 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 honour, splendid
competence, nay, aristocratic rank, are the prizes of the bold, the industrious,
and the deserving. Why should you not��should I not��still hope that you may
gain legal eminence and position? A father who has had much to suffer, who is
descending the vale of years alone and in a distant land, would be soothed in
his exile if he thought his son would one day be able to repair the shattered
fortunes of his race. But it is not yet, I fondly think, too late. You may yet
qualify for the bar, and one of its prizes may fall to you. I confess it was not
without a pang of grief I heard from our kind little friend Mrs. B., you were
studying shorthand in order to become a newspaper reporter. And has Fortune,
then, been so relentless to me, that my son is to be compelled to follow such a
calling? I shall try and be resigned. I had hoped higher things for you��for me.
"My dear boy, with regard to your romantic attachment for Miss Baynes, which our
good little Brandon narrates to me, in her peculiar orthography, but with much
touching simplicity,"��I make it a rule not to say a word of comment, of
warning, or remonstrance. As sure as you are your father's son, you will take
your own line in any matter of attachment to a woman, and all the fathers in the
world won't stop you. In Philip of four-and-twenty I recognize his father thirty
years ago. My father scolded, entreated, quarrelled with me, never forgave me. I
will learn to be more generous towards my son. I may grieve, but I bear you no
malice. If ever I achieve wealth again, you shall not be deprived of it. I
suffered so myself from a harsh father, that I will never be one to my son!
"As you have put on the livery of the Muses, and regularly entered yourself of
the Fraternity of the Press, what say you to a little addition to your income by
letters addressed to my friend, the editor of the new journal, called here the
Gazette of the Upper Ten Thousand. It is the fashionable journal published here;
and your qualifications are precisely those which would make your services
valuable as a contributor. Doctor Geraldine, the editor, is not, I believe, a
relative of the Leinster family, but a self-made man, who arrived in this
country some years since, poor, and an exile from his native country. He
advocates Repeal politics in Ireland; but with these of course you need have
nothing to do. And he is much too liberal to expect these from his contributors.
I have been of service professionally to Mrs. Geraldine and himself. My friend
of the Emerald introduced me to the doctor. Terrible enemies in print, in
private they are perfectly good friends, and the little passages of arms between
the two journalists serve rather to amuse than to irritate. 'The grocer's boy
from Ormond Quay' (Geraldine once, it appears, engaged in that useful but humble
calling), and the 'miscreant from Cork' (the editor of the Emerald comes from
that city) assail each other in public, but drink whiskey-and-water galore in
disrespectful about grocers' boys. His dollars are good silver, of that you may
be sure. Dr. G. knows a part of your history: he knows that you are now fairly
engaged in literary pursuits; that you are a man of education, a gentleman, a
man of the world, a man of courage. I have answered for your possessing all
these qualities. (The doctor, in his droll, humorous way, said that if you were
a chip of the old block you would be just what he call
ed 'the grit.') Political
treaties are not so much wanted as personal news regarding the notabilities of
London, and these, I assured him, you were the very man to be able to furnish.
You, who know everybody; who have lived with the great world��the world of
lawyers, the world of artists, the world of the university��have already had an
experience which few gentlemen of the press can boast of, and may turn that
experience to profit. Suppose you were to trust a little to your imagination in
composing these letters? there can be no harm in being poetical. Suppose an
intelligent correspondent writes that he has met the D-ke of W-ll-ngt-n, had a
private interview with the Pr-m-r, and so forth, who is to say him nay? And this
is the kind of talk our gobemouches of New York delight in. My worthy friend,
Doctor Geraldine, for example (between ourselves his name is Finnigan, but his
private history is strictly entre nous,) when he first came to New York
astonished the people by the copiousness of his anecdotes regarding the English
aristocracy, of whom he knows as much as he does of the Court of Pekin. He was
smart, ready, sarcastic, amusing; he found readers: from one success he advanced
to another, and the Gazette of the Upper Ten Thousand is likely to make this
worthy man's fortune. You really may be serviceable to him, and may justly earn
the liberal remuneration which he offers for a weekly letter. Anecdotes of men
and women of fashion��the more gay and lively the more welcome��the quicquid
agunt homines, in a word, ��should be the farrago libelli. Who are the reigning
beauties of London? (and Beauty, you know, has a rank and fashion of its own.)
Has any one lately won or lost on the turf or at play? What are the clubs
talking about? Are there any duels? What is the last scandal? Does the good old
duke keep his health? Is that affair over between the Duchess of This and
Captain That?
"Such is the information which our badauds here like to have, and for which my
friend the doctor will pay at the rate of�� dollars per letter. Your name need
not appear at all. The remuneration is certain." C'est � prendre ou � laisser,
as our lively neighbours say. Write in the first place in confidence to me; and
in whom can you confide more safely than in your father?
"You will, of course, pay your respects to your relative the new lord of
Ringwood. For a young man whose family is so powerful as yours, there can surely
be no derogation in entertaining some feudal respect, and who knows whether and
how soon Sir John Ringwood may be able to help his cousin? By the way, Sir John
is a Whig, and your paper is a Conservative. But you are, above all, homme du
monde. In such a subordinate place as you occupy with the Pall Mall Gazette, a
man's private politics do not surely count at all. If Sir John Ringwood, your
kinsman, sees any way of helping you, so much the better, and of course your
politics will be those of your family. I have no knowledge of him. He was a very
quiet man at college, where, I regret to say, your father's friends were not of
the quiet sort at all. I trust I have repented. I have sown my wild oats. And
ah! how pleased I shall be to hear that my Philip has bent his proud head a
little, and is ready to submit more than he used of old to the customs of the
world. Call upon Sir John, then. As a Whig gentleman of large estate, I need not
tell you that he will expect respect from you. He is your kinsman; the
representative of your grandfather's gallant and noble race. He bears the name
your mother bore. To her my Philip was always gentle, and for her sake you will
comply with the wishes of your affectionate father,
"G. B. F."
"I have not said a word of compliment to made-moiselle. I wish her so well that
I own I wish she were about to marry a richer suitor than my dear son. Will