The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

the other hand, somewhat for his fierce revolt and profound distaste at much in

  his home circle which annoyed him. "By heaven!" (he would roar out, pulling his

  hair and whiskers, and with many fierce ejaculations, according to his wont,)

  "the solemnity of those humbugs sickens me so, that I should like to crown the

  old bishop with the soup tureen, and box Baron Bumpsher's ears with the saddle

  of mutton. At my aunt's, the humbug is just the same. It's better done, perhaps;

  but, O Pendennis! if you could but know the pangs which tore into my heart, sir,

  the vulture which gnawed at this confounded liver, when I saw women��women who

  ought to be pure��women who ought to be like angels ��women who ought to know no

  art but that of coaxing our griefs away and soothing our sorrows��fawning, and

  cringing, and scheming; cold to this person, humble to that, flattering to the

  rich, and indifferent to the humble in station. I tell you I have seen all this,

  Mrs. Pendennis! I won't mention names, but I have met with those who have made

  me old before my time��a hundred years old! The zest of life is passed from me"

  (here Mr. Phil would gulp a bumper from the nearest decanter at hand). "But if I

  like what your husband is pleased to call low society, it is because I have seen

  the other. I have dangled about at fine parties, and danced at fashionable

  balls. I have seen mothers bring their virgin daughters up to battered old

  rakes, and ready to sacrifice their innocence for fortune or a title. The

  atmosphere of those polite drawing-rooms stifles me. I can't bow the knee to the

  horrible old Mammon. I walk about in the crowds as lonely as if I was in a

  wilderness; and don't begin to breathe freely until I get some honest tobacco to

  clear the air. As for your husband" (meaning the writer of this memoir), "he

  cannot help himself; he is a worldling, of the earth, earthy. If a duke were to

  ask him to dinner to-morrow, the parasite owns that he would go. Allow me, my

  friends, my freedom, my rough companions, in their work-day clothes. I don't

  hear such lies and flatteries come from behind pipes, as used to pass from above

  whitechokers when I was in the world." And he would tear at his cravat, as

  though the mere thought of the world's conventionality well nigh strangled him.

  This, to be sure, was in a late stage of his career, but I take up the biography

  here and there, so as to give the best idea I may of my friend's character. At

  this time��he is out of the country just now, and besides, if he saw his own

  likeness staring him in the face, I am confident he would not know it��Mr.

  Philip, in some things, was as obstinate as a mule, and in others as weak as a

  woman. He had a childish sensibility for what was tender, helpless, pretty, or

  pathetic; and a mighty scorn of imposture, wherever he found it. He had many

  good purposes, which were often very vacillating, and were but seldom performed.

  He had a vast number of evil habits, whereof, you know, idleness is said to be

  the root. Many of these evil propensities he coaxed and cuddled with much care;

  and though he roared out peccavi most frankly, when charged with his sins, this

  criminal would fall to peccation very soon after promising amendment. What he

  liked he would have. What he disliked he could with the greatest difficulty be

  found to do. He liked good dinners, good wine, good horses, good clothes, and

  late hours; and in all these comforts of life (or any others which he fancied,

  or which were within his means) he indulged himself with perfect freedom. He

  hated hypocrisy on his own part, and hypocrites in general. He said everything

  that came into his mind about things and people; and, of course, was often wrong

  and often prejudiced, and often occasioned howls of indignation or malignant

  whispers of hatred by his free speaking. He believed everything that was said to

  him until his informant had misled him once or twice, after which he would

  believe nothing. And here you will see that his impetuous credulity was as

  absurd as the subsequent obstinacy of his unbelief. My dear young friend, the

  profitable way in life is the middle way. Don't quite believe anybody, for he

  may mislead you; neither disbelieve him, for that is uncomplimentary to your

  friend. Black is not so very black; and as for white, bon Dieu! in our climate,

  what paint will remain white long? If Philip was self-indulgent, I suppose other

  people are self-indulgent likewise: and besides, you know, your faultless heroes

  have ever so long gone out of fashion. To be young, to be good-looking, to be

  healthy, to be hungry three times a day, to have plenty of money, a great

  alacrity of sleeping, and nothing to do��all these, I daresay, are very

  dangerous temptations to a man, but I think I know some who would like to

  undergo the dangers of the trial. Suppose there be holidays, is there not

  work-time too? Suppose to-day is feast-day; may not tears and repentance come

  to-morrow? Such times are in store for Master Phil, and so please to let him

  have rest and comfort for a chapter or two.

  CHAPTER VII. IMPLETUR VETERIS BACCHI.

  That time, that merry time, of Brandon's, of Bohemia, of oysters, of idleness,

  of smoking, of song at night and profuse soda-water in the morning, of a pillow,

  lonely and bachelor it is true, but with few cares for bed-fellows, of plenteous

  pocket-money, of ease for to-day and little heed for to-morrow, was often

  remembered by Philip in after days. Mr. Phil's views of life were not very

  exalted, were they? The fruits of this world, which he devoured with such gusto,

  I must own were of the common kitchen-garden sort; and the lazy rogue's ambition

  went no farther than to stroll along the sunshiny wall, eat his fill, and then

  repose comfortably in the arbour under the arched vine. Why did Phil's mother's

  parents leave her thirty thousand pounds? I daresay some misguided people would

  be glad to do as much for their sons; but, if I have ten, I am determined they

  shall either have a hundred thousand apiece, or else bare bread and cheese. "Man

  was made to labour, and to be lazy," Phil would affirm, with his usual energy of

  expression. "When the Indian warrior goes on the hunting path, he is sober,

  active, indomitable. No dangers fright him, and no labours tire. He endures the

  cold of the winter; he couches on the forest leaves; he subsists on frugal roots

  or the casual spoil of his bow. When he returns to his village, he gorges to

  repletion; he sleeps, perhaps, to excess. When the game is devoured, and the

  fire-water exhausted, again he sallies forth into the wilderness; he outclimbs

  the possum and he throttles the bear. I am the Indian: and this haunt is my

  wigwam! Barbara, my squaw, bring me oysters; bring me a jug of the frothing

  black beer of the palefaces, or I will hang up thy scalp on my tent-pole?" And

  old Barbara, the good old attendant of this Haunt of Bandits, would say, "Law,

  Mr. Philip, how you do go on, to be sure!" Where is the Haunt now? and where are

  the merry men all who there assembled? The sign is down; the song is silent; the

  sand is swept from the floor; the pipes are broken, and the ashes are scattered.

  A little
more gossip about his merry days, and we have done. He, Philip, was

  called to the bar in due course, and at his call-supper we assembled a dozen of

  his elderly and youthful friends. The chambers in Parchment Buildings were given

  up to him for this day. Mr. Vanjohn, I think, was away attending a steeplechase;

  but Mr. Cassidy was with us, and several of Philip's acquaintances of school,

  college, and the world. There was Philip's father, and Philip's uncle Twysden,

  and I, Phil's revered and respectable school senior, and others of our ancient

  seminary. There was Burroughs, the second wrangler of his year, great in

  metaphysics, greater with the knife and fork. There was Stackpole, Eblana's

  favourite child��the glutton of all learning, the master of many languages, who

  stuttered and blushed when he spoke his own. There was Pinkerton, who, albeit an

  ignoramus at the university, was already winning prodigious triumphs at the

  Parliamentary bar, and investing in Consols to the admiration of all his

  contemporaries. There was Rosebury the beautiful, the May Fair pet and delight

  of Almack's, the cards on whose mantelpiece made all men open the eyes of

  wonder, and some of us dart the scowl of envy. There was my Lord Ascot, Lord

  Egham of former days. There was Tom Dale, who, having carried on his university

  career too splendidly, had come to grief in the midst of it, and was now meekly

  earning his bread in the Reporters' Gallery, alongside of Cassidy. There was

  Macbride, who, having thrown up his Fellowship and married his cousin, was now

  doing a brave battle with poverty, and making literature feed him until law

  should reward him more splendidly. There was Haythorn, the country gentleman,

  who ever remembered his old college chums and kept the memory of that friendship

  up by constant reminders of pheasants and game in the season. There were Raby

  and Maynard from the Guards' Club (Maynard sleeps now under Crimean snows), who

  preferred arms to the toga; but carried into their military life the love of

  their old books, the affection of their old friends. Most of these must be mute

  personages in our little drama. Could any chronicler remember the talk of all of

  them?

  Several of the guests present were members of the Inn of Court (the Upper

  Temple), which had conferred on Philip the degree of Barrister-at-Law. He had

  dined in his wig and gown (Blackmore's wig and gown) in the hall that day, in

  company with other members of his inn; and, dinner over, we adjourned to Phil's

  chambers in Parchment Buildings, where a dessert was served, to which Mr.

  Firmin's friends were convoked.

  The wines came from Dr. Firmin's cellar. His servants were in attendance to wait

  upon the company. Father and son both loved splendid hospitalities, and, as far

  as creature comforts went, Philip's feast was richly provided. "A supper, I love

  a supper, of all things! And in order that I might enjoy yours, I only took a

  single mutton-chop for dinner!" cried Mr. Twysden, as he greeted Philip. Indeed,

  we found him, as we arrived from Hall, already in the chambers, and eating the

  young barrister's dessert. "He's been here ever so long," says Mr. Brice, who

  officiated as butler, "pegging away at the olives and maccaroons. Shouldn't

  wonder if he has pocketed some." There was small respect on the part of Brice

  for Mr. Twysden, whom the worthy butler frankly pronounced to be a stingy

  'umbug. Meanwhile, Talbot believed that the old man respected him, and always

  conversed with Brice, and treated him with a cheerful cordiality.

  The outer Philistines quickly arrived, and but that the wine and men were older,

  one might have fancied oneself at a college wine-party. Mr. Twysden talked for

  the whole company. He was radiant. He felt himself in high spirits. He did the

  honours of Philip's table. Indeed, no man was more hospitable with other folk's

  wine. Philip himself was silent and nervous. I asked him if the awful ceremony,

  which he had just undergone, was weighing on his mind?

  He was looking rather anxiously towards the door; and, knowing somewhat of the

  state of affairs at home, I thought that probably he and his father had had one

  of the disputes which of late days had become so frequent between them.

  The company were nearly all assembled and busy with their talk, and drinking the

  doctor's excellent claret, when Brice entering, announced Dr. Firmin and Mr.

  Tufton Hunt.

  "Hang Mr. Tufton Hunt," Philip grumbled; but he started up, went forward to his

  father, and greeted him very respectfully. He then gave a bow to the gentleman

  introduced as Mr. Hunt, and they found places at the table, the doctor taking

  his with his usual handsome grace.

  The conversation, which had been pretty brisk until Dr. Firmin came, drooped a

  little after his appearance. "We had an awful row two days ago," Philip

  whispered to me. "We shook hands and are reconciled, as you see. He won't stay

  long. He will be sent for in half an hour or so. He will say he has been sent

  for by a duchess, and go and have tea at the club."

  Dr. Firmin bowed, and smiled sadly at me, as Philip was speaking. I daresay I

  blushed somewhat, and felt as if the doctor knew what his son was saying to me.

  He presently engaged in conversation with Lord Ascot; he hoped his good father

  was well?

  "You keep him so, doctor. You don't give a fellow a chance," says the young

  lord.

  "Pass the bottle, you young men! Hey! We intend to see you all out!" cries

  Talbot Twysden, on pleasure bent and of the frugal mind.

  "Well said, sir," says the stranger introduced as Mr. Hunt; "and right good

  wine. Ha, Firmin! I think I know the tap!" and he smacked his lips over the

  claret. "It's your twenty-five, and no mistake."

  "The red-nosed individual seems a connoisseur," whispered Rosebury at my side.

  The stranger's nose, indeed, was somewhat rosy. And to this I may add that his

  clothes were black, his face pale, and not well shorn, his white neckcloth

  dingy, and his eyes bloodshot.

  "He looks as if he had gone to bed in his clothes, and carries a plentiful flue

  about his person. Who is your father's esteemed friend?" continues the wag, in

  an under voice.

  "You heard his name, Rosebury," says the young barrister, gloomily.

  "I should suggest that your father is in difficulties, and attended by an

  officer of the sheriff of London, or perhaps subject to mental aberration, and

  placed under the control of a keeper."

  "Leave me alone, do!" groaned Philip. And here Twysden, who was longing for an

  opportunity to make a speech, bounced up from his chair, and stopped the

  facetious barrister's further remarks by his own eloquence. His discourse was in

  praise of Philip, the

  new-made barrister. "What! if no one else will give that toast, your uncle will,

  and many a heartfelt blessing go with you too, my boy!" cried the little man. He

  was prodigal of benedictions. He dashed aside the teardrop of emotion. He spoke

  with perfect fluency, and for a considerable period. He really made a good

  speech, and was greeted with deserved cheers when at length he sat down.

>   Phil stammered a few words in reply to his uncle's voluble compliments; and then

  Lord Ascot, a young nobleman of much familiar humour, proposed Phil's father,

  his health, and song. The physician made a neat speech from behind his ruffled

  shirt. He was agitated by the tender feelings of a paternal heart, he said,

  glancing benignly at Phil, who was cracking filberts. To see his son happy; to

  see him surrounded by such friends; to know him embarked this day in a

  profession which gave the greatest scope for talents, the noblest reward for

  industry, was a proud and happy moment to him, Dr. Firmin. What had the poet

  observed? "Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes" (hear, hear!) "emollit

  mores,"��yes, "emollit mores." He drank a bumper to the young barrister (he

  waved his ring, with a thimbleful of wine in his glass). He pledged the young

  friends whom he saw assembled to cheer his son on his onward path. He thanked

  them with a father's heart! He passed his emerald ring across his eyes for a

  moment, and lifted them to the ceiling, from which quarter he requested a

  blessing on his boy. As though spirits (of whom, perhaps, you have read in the

  Cornhill Magazine) approved of his invocation, immense thumps came from above,

  along with the plaudits which saluted the doctor's speech from the gentlemen

  round the table. But the upper thumps were derisory, and came from Mr. Buffers,

  of the third floor, who chose this method of mocking our harmless little

  festivities.

  I think these cheers from the facetious Buffers, though meant in scorn of our

  party, served to enliven it and make us laugh. Spite of all the talking, we were

  dull; and I could not but allow the force of my neighbour's remark, that we were

  sate upon and smothered by the old men. One or two of the younger gentlemen

  chafed at the licence for tobacco-smoking not being yet accorded. But Philip

  interdicted this amusement as yet.

  "Don't," he said; "my father don't like it. He has to see patients to-night; and

  they can't bear the smell of tobacco by their bedsides."

  The impatient youths waited with their cigar-cases by their sides. They longed

  for the withdrawal of the obstacle to their happiness.

  "He won't go, I tell you. He'll be sent for," growled Philip to me.

  The doctor was engaged in conversation to the right and left of him, and seemed

  not to think of a move. But, sure enough, at a few minutes after ten o'clock,

  Dr. Firmin's footman entered the room with a note, which Firmin opened and read,

  as Philip looked at me, with a grim humour in his face. I think Phil's father

  knew that we knew he was acting. However, he went through the comedy quite

  gravely.

  "A physician's time is not his own," he said, shaking his handsome melancholy

  head. "Good-by, my dear lord! Pray remember me at home! Good-night, Philip, my

  boy, and good speed to you in your career! Pray, pray don't move."

  And he is gone, waving the fair hand and the broad-brimmed hat, with the

  beautiful white lining. Phil conducted him to the door, and heaved a sigh as it

  closed upon his father��a sigh of relief, I think, that he was gone.

  "Exit Governor. What's the Latin for Governor?" says Lord Ascot, who possessed

  much native humour, but not very profound scholarship. "A most venerable old

  parent, Firmin. That hat and appearance would command any sum of money."

  "Excuse me," lisps Rosebury, "but why didn't he take his elderly friend with

  him��the dilapidated clerical gentleman who is drinking claret so freely? And

  also, why did he not remove your avuncular orator? Mr. Twysden, your interesting

  young neophyte has provided us with an excellent specimen of the cheerful

  produce of the Gascon grape."

  "Well, then, now the old gentleman is gone, let us pass the bottle and make a

  night of it. Hey, my lord?" cries Twysden. "Philip, your claret is good! I say,

  do you remember some Ch�teau Margaux I had, which Winton liked so? It must be