The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

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

  a killing sigh. Both sympathize with Mary and the baker's boy whispering over

  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

  private. If you write for Geraldine, of course you will say nothing

  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