life? Cassidy was a newspaper reporter, and young Vanjohn a betting man who was
always attending races. Dr. Firmin had a horror of newspaper men, and considered
they belonged to the dangerous classes, and treated them with a distant
affability.
"Look at the governor, Pen," Philip would say to the present chronicler. "He
always watches you with a secret suspicion, and has never got over his wonder at
your being a gentleman. I like him when he does the Lord Chatham business, and
condescends towards you, and gives you his hand to kiss. He considers he is your
better, don't you see? Oh, he is a paragon of a p�re noble, the governor is! and
I ought to be a young Sir Charles Grandison." And the young scapegrace would
imitate his father's smile, and the doctor's manner of laying his hand to his
breast and putting out his neat right leg, all of which movements or postures
were, I own, rather pompous and affected.
Whatever the paternal faults were, you will say that Philip was not the man to
criticize them; nor in this matter shall I attempt to defend him. My wife has a
little pensioner whom she found wandering in the street, and singing a little
artless song. The child could not speak yet��only warble its little song; and
had thus strayed away from home, and never once knew of her danger. We kept her
for a while, until the police found her parents. Our servants bathed her, and
dressed her, and sent her home in such neat clothes as the poor little wretch
had never seen until fortune sent her in the way of those good-natured folks.
She pays them frequent visits. When she goes away from us, she is always neat
and clean; when she comes to us, she is in rags and dirty. A wicked little
slattern! And, pray, whose duty is it to keep her clean? and has not the parent
in this case forgotten to honour her daughter? Suppose there is some reason
which prevents Philip from loving his father��that the doctor has neglected to
cleanse the boy's heart, and by carelessness and indifference has sent him
erring into the world. If so, woe be to that doctor! If I take my little son to
the tavern to dinner, shall I not assuredly pay? If I suffer him in tender youth
to go astray, and harm comes to him, whose is the fault?
Perhaps the very outrages and irregularities of which Phil's father complained,
were in some degree occasioned by the elder's own faults. He was so laboriously
obsequious to great men, that the son in a rage defied and avoided them. He was
so grave, so polite, so complimentary, so artificial, that Phil, in revolt at
such hypocrisy, chose to be frank, cynical, and familiar. The grave old bigwigs
whom the doctor loved to assemble, bland and solemn men of the ancient school,
who dined solemnly with each other at their solemn old houses��such men as Lord
Botley, Baron Bumpsher, Cricklade (who published Travels in Asia Minor, 4to,
1804), the Bishop of St. Bees, and the like��wagged their old heads sadly when
they collogued in clubs, and talked of poor Firmin's scapegrace of a son. He
would come to no good; he was giving his good father much pain; he had been in
all sorts of rows and disturbances at the university, and the Master of Boniface
reported most unfavourably of him. And at the solemn dinners in Old Parr
Street��the admirable, costly, silent dinners��he treated these old gentlemen
with a familiarity which caused the old heads to shake with surprise and choking
indignation. Lord Botley and Baron Bumpsher had proposed and seconded Firmin's
boy at the Megatherium club. The pallid old boys toddled away in alarm when he
made his appearance there. He brought a smell of tobacco-smoke with him. He was
capable of smoking in the drawing-room itself. They trembled before Philip, who,
for his part, used to relish their senile anger; and loved, as he called it, to
tie all their pigtails together.
In no place was Philip seen or heard to so little advantage as in his father's
house. "I feel like a humbug myself amongst those old humbugs," he would say to
me. "Their old jokes, and their old compliments, and their virtuous old
conversation sicken me. Are all old men humbugs, I wonder?" It is not pleasant
to hear misanthropy from young lips, and to find eyes that are scarce twenty
years old already looking out with distrust on the world.
In other houses than his own I am bound to say Philip was much more amiable, and
he carried with him a splendour of gaiety and cheerfulness which brought
sunshine and welcome into many a room which he frequented. I have said that many
of his companions were artists and journalists, and their clubs and haunts were
his own. Ridley the Academician had Mrs. Brandon's rooms in Thornhaugh Street,
and Philip was often in J. J.'s studio, or in the widow's little room below. He
had a very great tenderness and affection for her; her presence seemed to purify
him; and in her company the boisterous, reckless young man was invariably gentle
and respectful. Her eyes used to fill with tears when she spoke about him; and
when he was present, followed and watched him with sweet motherly devotion. It
was pleasant to see him at her homely little fireside, and hear his jokes and
prattle, with a fatuous old father, who was one of Mrs. Brandon's lodgers.
Philip would play cribbage for hours with this old man, frisk about him with a
hundred harmless jokes, and walk out by his invalid chair, when the old captain
went to sun himself in the New Road. He was an idle fellow, Philip, that's the
truth. He had an agreeable perseverance in doing nothing, and would pass half a
day in perfect contentment over his pipe, watching Ridley at his easel. J. J.
painted that charming head of Philip, which hangs in Mrs. Brandon's little
room��with the fair hair, the tawny beard and whiskers, and the bold blue eyes.
Phil had a certain after-supper song of "Garryowen na Gloria," which it did you
good to hear, and which, when sung at his full pitch, you might hear for a mile
round. One night I had been to dine in Russell Square, and was brought home in
his carriage by Dr. Firmin, who was of the party. As we came through Soho, the
windows of a certain club-room called the "Haunt" were open, and we could hear
Philip's song booming through the night, and especially a certain wild Irish
war-whoop with which it concluded, amidst universal applause and enthusiastic
battering of glasses.
The poor father sank back in the carriage as though a blow had struck him. "Do
you hear his voice?" he groaned out. "Those are his haunts. My son, who might go
anywhere, prefers to be captain in a pothouse, and sing songs in a taproom!"
I tried to make the best of the case. I knew there was no harm in the place;
that clever men of considerable note frequented it. But the wounded father was
not to be consoled by such commonplaces; and a deep and natural grief oppressed
him, in consequence of the faults of his son.
What ensued by no means surprised me. Among Dr. Firmin's patients was a maiden
lady of suitable age and large fortune, who looked upon the accomplished doctor
with favourable eyes. That he should take a companion to cheer him in his
solitude
was natural enough, and all his friends concurred in thinking that he
should marry. Every one had cognizance of the quiet little courtship, except the
doctor's son, between whom and his father there were only too many secrets.
Some man in a club asked Philip whether he should condole with him or
congratulate him on his father's approaching marriage? His what? The younger
Firmin exhibited the greatest surprise and agitation on hearing of this match.
He ran home: he awaited his father's return. When Dr. Firmin came home and
betook himself to his study, Philip confronted him there. "This must be a lie,
sir, which I have heard to-day," the young man said, fiercely.
"A lie! what lie, Philip" asked the father. They were both very resolute and
courageous men.
"That you are going to marry Miss Benson."
"Do you make my house so happy, that I don't need any other companion?" asked
the father.
"That's not the question," said Philip, hotly. "You can't and mustn't marry that
lady, sir."
"And why not, sir?"
"Because in the eyes of God and heaven you are married already, sir. And I swear
I will tell Miss Benson the story to-morrow, if you persist in your plan."
"So you know that story?" groaned the father.
"Yes. God forgive you," said the son.
"It was a fault of my youth that has been bitterly repented."
"A fault!��a crime!" said Philip.
"Enough, sir! Whatever my fault, it is not for you to charge me with it."
"If you won't guard your own honour, I must. I shall go to Miss Benson now."
"If you go out of this house, you don't pretend to return to it?"
"Be it so. Let us settle our accounts, and part, sir."
"Philip, Philip! you break my heart," cried the father.
"You don't suppose mine is very light, sir?" said the son.
Philip never had Miss Benson for a mother-in-law. But father and son loved each
other no better after their dispute.
CHAPTER VI. BRANDON'S.
Thornhaugh Street is but a poor place now, and the houses look as if they had
seen better days: but that house with the cut centre drawing-room window, with
the name of Brandon on the door, was as neat as any house in the quarter, and
the brass plate always shone like burnished gold. About Easter time many fine
carriages stop at that door, and splendid people walk in, introduced by a tidy
little maid, or else by an athletic Italian, with a glossy black beard and gold
earrings, who conducts them to the drawing-room floor, where Mr. Ridley, the
painter, lives, and where his pictures are privately exhibited before they go to
the Royal Academy.
As the carriages drive up, you will often see a red-faced man, in an olive-green
wig, smiling blandly over the blinds of the parlour, on the ground-floor. That
is Captain Gann, the father of the lady who keeps the house. I don't know how he
came by the rank of captain, but he has borne it so long and gallantly that
there is no use in any longer questioning the title. He does not claim it,
neither does he deny it. But the wags who call upon Mrs. Brandon can always, as
the phrase is, "draw" her father, by speaking of Prussia, France, Waterloo, or
battles in general, until the Little Sister says, "Now, never mind about the
battle of Waterloo, papa" (she says Pa��her h's are irregular��I can't help
it)��"Never mind about Waterloo, papa; you've told them all about it. And don't
go on, Mr. Beans, don't, please, go on in that way."
Young Beans has already drawn "Captain Gann (assisted by Shaw, the
Life-Guardsman) killing twenty-four French cuirassiers at Waterloo." "Captain
Gann defending Hugoumont." "Captain Gann, called upon by Napoleon Buonaparte to
lay down his arms, saying, 'A captain of militia dies, but never surrenders.'"
"The Duke of Wellington pointing to the advancing Old Guard, and saying, 'Up,
Gann, and at them.'" And these sketches are so droll, that even the Little
Sister, Gann's own daughter, can't help laughing at them. To be sure, she loves
fun, the Little Sister; laughs over droll books; laughs to herself, in her
little quiet corner at work; laughs over pictures; and, at the right place,
laughs and sympathizes too. Ridley says, he knows few better critics of pictures
than Mrs. Brandon. She has a sweet temper, a merry sense of humour, that makes
the cheeks dimple and the eyes shine; and a kind heart, that has been sorely
tried and wounded, but is still soft and gentle. Fortunate are they whose
hearts, so tried by suffering, yet recover their health. Some have illnesses
from which there is no recovery, and drag through life afterwards, maimed and
invalided.
But this Little Sister, having been subjected in youth to a dreadful trial and
sorrow, was saved out of them by a kind Providence, and is now so thoroughly
restored as to own that she is happy, and to thank God that she can be grateful
and useful. When poor Montfitchet died, she nursed him through his illness as
tenderly as his good wife herself. In the days of her own chief grief and
misfortune, her father, who was under the domination of his wife, a cruel and
blundering woman, thrust out poor little Caroline from his door, when she
returned to it the broken-hearted victim of a scoundrel's seduction; and when
the old captain was himself in want and houseless, she had found him, sheltered
and fed him. And it was from that day her wounds had begun to heal, and, from
gratitude for this immense piece of good fortune vouchsafed to her, that her
happiness and cheerfulness returned. Returned? There was an old servant of the
family, who could not stay in the house because she was so abominably
disrespectful to the captain, and this woman, said she had never known Miss
Caroline so cheerful, nor so happy, nor so good-looking, as she was now.
So Captain Gann came to live with his daughter, and patronized her with much
dignity. He had a very few yearly pounds, which served to pay his club expenses,
and a portion of his clothes. His club, I need not say, was at the "Admiral
Byng," Tottenham Court Road, and here the captain met frequently a pleasant
little society, and bragged unceasingly about his former prosperity.
I have heard that the country-house in Kent, of which he boasted, was a shabby
little lodging-house at Margate, of which the furniture was sold in execution;
but if it had been a palace the captain would not have been out of place there,
one or two people still rather fondly thought. His daughter, amongst others, had
tried to fancy all sorts of good of her father, and especially that he was a man
of remarkably good manners. But she had seen one or two gentlemen since she knew
the poor old father��gentlemen with rough coats and good hearts, like Dr.
Goodenough; gentlemen with superfine coats and superfine double-milled manners,
like Dr. Firmin, and hearts��well, never mind about that point; gentlemen of no
h's, like the good, dear, faithful benefactor who had rescued her at the brink
of despair; men of genius, like Ridley; great, hearty, generous, honest
gentlemen, like Philip;��and this illusion about Pa, I suppose, had vanished
alo
ng with some other fancies of her poor little maiden youth. The truth is, she
had an understanding with the "Admiral Byng:" the landlady was instructed as to
the supplies to be furnished to the captain; and as for his stories, poor
Caroline knew them a great deal too well to believe in them any more.
I would not be understood to accuse the captain of habitual inebriety. He was a
generous officer, and his delight was, when in cash, to order "glasses round"
for the company at the club, to whom he narrated the history of his brilliant
early days, when he lived in some of the tiptop society of this city, sir��a
society in which, we need not say, the custom always is for gentlemen to treat
other gentlemen to rum-and-water. Never mind ��I wish we were all as happy as
the captain. I see his jolly face now before me as it blooms through the window
in Thornhaugh Street, and the wave of the somewhat dingy hand which sweeps me a
gracious recognition.
The clergyman of the neighbouring chapel was a very good friend of the Little
Sister, and has taken tea in her parlour; to which circumstance the captain
frequently alluded, pointing out the very chair on which the divine sate. Mr.
Gann attended his ministrations regularly every Sunday, and brought a rich,
though somewhat worn, bass voice to bear upon the anthems and hymns at the
chapel. His style was more florid than is general now among church singers, and,
indeed, had been acquired in a former age and in the performance of rich
Bacchanalian chants, such as delighted the contemporaries of our Incledons and
Brahams. With a very little entreaty, the captain could be induced to sing at
the club; and I must own that Phil Firmin would draw the captain out, and
extract from him a song of ancient days; but this must be in the absence of his
daughter, whose little face wore an air of such extreme terror and disturbance
when her father sang, that he presently ceased from exercising his musical
talents in her hearing. He hung up his lyre, whereof it must be owned that time
had broken many of the once resounding chords.
With a sketch or two contributed by her lodgers�� with a few gimcracks from the
neighbouring Wardour Street presented by others of her friends��with the chairs,
tables, and bureaux as bright as bees'-wax and rubbing could make them��the
Little Sister's room was a cheery little place, and received not a little
company. She allowed Pa's pipe. "It's company to him," she said. "A man can't be
doing much harm when he is smoking his pipe." And she allowed Phil's cigar.
Anything was allowed to Phil, the other lodgers declared, who professed to be
quite jealous of Philip Firmin. She had a very few books. "When I was a girl I
used to be always reading novels," she said; "but, la, they're mostly nonsense.
There's Mr. Pendennis, who comes to see Mr. Ridley. I wonder how a married man
can go on writing about love, and all that stuff!" And, indeed, it is rather
absurd for elderly fingers to be still twanging Dan Cupid's toy bow and arrows.
Yesterday is gone��yes, but very well remembered; and we think of it the more
now we know that To-morrow is not going to bring us much.
Into Mrs. Brandon's parlour Mr. Ridley's old father would sometimes enter of
evenings, and share the bit of bread and cheese, or the modest supper of Mrs.
Brandon and the captain. The homely little meal has almost vanished out of our
life now, but in former days it assembled many a family round its kindly board.
A little modest supper-tray��a little quiet prattle��a little kindly glass that
cheered and never inebriated. I can see friendly faces smiling round such a
meal, at a period not far gone, but how distant! I wonder whether there are any
old folks now in old quarters of old country towns, who come to each other's
houses in sedan-chairs, at six o'clock, and play at quadrille until supper-tray
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