A History of Pendennis, Volume 1

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  WHICH IS PASSED IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF LUDGATE HILL.

  Our imprisoned captain announced, in smart and emphatic language in hisprospectus, that the time had come at last when it was necessary for thegentlemen of England to band together in defense of their common rightsand their glorious order, menaced on all sides by foreign revolutions,by intestine radicalism, by the artful calumnies of mill-owners andcotton-lords, and the stupid hostility of the masses whom they gulledand led. "The ancient monarchy was insulted," the captain said, "by aferocious republican rabble. The Church was deserted by envious dissent,and undermined by stealthy infidelity. The good institutions, whichhad made our country glorious, and the name of English Gentleman theproudest in the world, were left without defense, and exposed to assaultand contumely from men to whom no sanctuary was sacred, for theybelieved in nothing holy; no history venerable, for they were tooignorant to have heard of the past; and no law was binding which theywere strong enough to break, when their leaders gave the signal forplunder. It was because the kings of France mistrusted their gentlemen,"Mr. Shandon remarked, "that the monarchy of Saint Louis went down: itwas because the people of England still believed in their gentlemen,that this country encountered and overcame the greatest enemy a nationever met: it was because we were headed by gentlemen that the Eaglesretreated before us from the Douro to the Garonne: it was a gentlemanwho broke the line at Trafalgar, and swept the plain of Waterloo."

  Bungay nodded his head in a knowing manner, and winked his eyes when thecaptain came to the Waterloo passage: and Warrington burst out laughing.

  "You see how our venerable friend Bungay is affected," Shandon said,slily looking up from his papers--"that's your true sort of test. I haveused the Duke of Wellington and the battle of Waterloo a hundred times:and I never knew the Duke to fail."

  The captain then went on to confess with much candor, that up to thepresent time the gentlemen of England, confident of their right, andcareless of those who questioned it, had left the political interestof their order as they did the management of their estates, or thesettlement of their legal affairs, to persons affected to each peculiarservice, and had permitted their interests to be represented in thepress by professional proctors and advocates. That time, Shandonprofessed to consider, was now gone by: the gentlemen of England mustbe their own champions: the declared enemies of their order were brave,strong, numerous, and uncompromising. They must meet their foes in thefield: they must not be belied and misrepresented by hireling advocates:they must not have Grub-street publishing Gazettes from Whitehall;"that's a dig at Bacon's people, Mr. Bungay," said Shandon, turninground to the publisher.

  Bungay clapped his stick on the floor. "Hang him, pitch into him,capting," he said, with exultation: and turning to Warrington, waggedhis dull head more vehemently than ever, and said, "For a slashingarticle, sir, there's nobody like the capting--no-obody like him."

  The prospectus-writer went on to say that some gentlemen, whose nameswere, for obvious reasons, not brought before the public (at which Mr.Warrington began to laugh again), had determined to bring forward ajournal, of which the principles were so and so. "These men are proudof their order, and anxious to uphold it," cried out Captain Shandon,flourishing his paper with a grin. "They are loyal to their sovereign,by faithful conviction and ancestral allegiance; they love their Church,where they would have their children worship, and for which theirforefathers bled; they love their country, and would keep it what thegentlemen of England--yes, _the gentlemen of England_ (we'll have thatin large caps., Bungay, my boy) have made it--the greatest and freestin the world: and as the names of some of them are appended to the deedwhich secured our liberties at Runnymede--"

  "What's that?" asked Mr. Bungay.

  "An ancestor of mine sealed it with his sword-hilt," Pen said, withgreat gravity.

  "It's the Habeas Corpus, Mr. Bungay," Warrington said, on which thepublisher answered, "All right, I dare say," and yawned, though he said,"Go on, capting."

  --"at Runnymede; they are ready to defend that freedom to-day with swordand pen, and now, as then, to rally round the old laws and liberties ofEngland."

  "Brayvo!" cried Warrington. The little child stood wondering; the ladywas working silently, and looking with fond admiration. "Come here,little Mary," said Warrington, and patted the child's fair curls withhis large hand. But she shrank back from his rough caress, and preferredto go and take refuge at Pen's knee, and play with his fine watch-chain:and Pen was very much pleased that she came to him; for he was verysoft-hearted and simple, though he concealed his gentleness under a shyand pompous demeanor. So she clambered up on his lap, while her fathercontinued to read his programme.

  "You were laughing," the captain said to Warrington, "about 'theobvious reasons' which I mentioned. Now, I'll show ye what they are,ye unbelieving heathen. 'We have said,'" he went on, "'that we can notgive the names of the parties engaged in this undertaking, and thatthere were obvious reasons for that concealment. We number influentialfriends in both Houses of the Senate, and have secured allies in everydiplomatic circle in Europe. Our sources of intelligence are such as cannot, by any possibility, be made public--and, indeed, such as no otherLondon or European journal could, by any chance, acquire. But this weare free to say, that the very earliest information connected with themovement of English and continental politics, will be found only in thecolumns of the 'Pall Mall Gazette.' The statesman and the capitalist,the country gentleman, and the divine, will be among our readers,because our writers are among them. We address ourselves to the highercircles of society: we care not to disown it--the 'Pall Mall Gazette' iswritten by gentlemen for gentlemen; its conductors speak to the classesin which they live and were born. The field-preacher has his journal,the radical free-thinker has his journal: why should the gentlemen ofEngland be unrepresented in the Press?'"

  Mr. Shandon then went on with much modesty to descant upon the literaryand fashionable departments of the "Pall Mall Gazette," which were tobe conducted by gentlemen of acknowledged reputation; men famous at theUniversities (at which Mr. Pendennis could scarcely help laughing andblushing), known at the Clubs, and of the Society which they described.He pointed out delicately to advertisers that there would be no suchmedium as the "Pall Mall Gazette" for giving publicity to their sales;and he eloquently called upon the nobility of England, the baronetage ofEngland, the revered clergy of England, the bar of England, the matrons,the daughters, the homes and hearths of England, to rally round the goodold cause; and Bungay at the conclusion of the reading woke up from asecond snooze in which he had indulged himself, and again said it wasall right.

  The reading of the prospectus concluded, the gentlemen present enteredinto some details regarding the political and literary management of thepaper, and Mr. Bungay sate by listening and nodding his head, as if heunderstood what was the subject of their conversation, and approved oftheir opinions. Bungay's opinions, in truth, were pretty simple. Hethought the captain could write the best smashing article in England.He wanted the opposition house of Bacon smashed, and it was his opinionthat the captain could do that business. If the captain had written aletter of Junius on a sheet of paper, or copied a part of the ChurchCatechism, Mr. Bungay would have been perfectly contented, and haveconsidered that the article was a smashing article. And he pocketed thepapers with the greatest satisfaction: and he not only paid for the MS.,as we have seen, but he called little Mary to him, and gave her a pennyas he went away.

  The reading of the manuscript over, the party engaged in generalconversation, Shandon leading with a jaunty fashionable air incompliment to the two guests who sate with him, and who, by theirappearance and manner, he presumed to be persons of the _beau monde_.He knew very little indeed of the great world, but he had seen it, andmade the most of what he had seen. He spoke of the characters of theday, and great personages of the fashion, with easy familiarity andjocular allusions, as if it was his habit to live among them. He toldanecdotes of their private life,
and of conversations he had had, andentertainments at which he had been present, and at which such and sucha thing occurred. Pen was amused to hear the shabby prisoner in atattered dressing-gown talking glibly about the great of the land. Mrs.Shandon was always delighted when her husband told these tales, andbelieved in them fondly every one. She did not want to mingle in thefashionable world herself, she was not clever enough; but the greatsociety was the very place for her Charles: he shone in it: he wasrespected in it. Indeed, Shandon had once been asked to dinner by theEarl of X.; his wife treasured the invitation-card in her work-box atthat very day.

  Mr. Bungay presently had enough of this talk and got up to take leave,whereupon Warrington and Pen rose to depart with the publisher, thoughthe latter would have liked to stay to make a further acquaintance withthis family, who interested him and touched him. He said something abouthoping for permission to repeat his visit, upon which Shandon, with arueful grin, said he was always to be found at home, and should bedelighted to see Mr. Pennington.

  "I'll see you to my park-gate, gentlemen," said Captain Shandon, seizinghis hat, in spite of a deprecatory look, and a faint cry of "Charles"from Mrs. Shandon. And the captain, in shabby slippers, shuffled outbefore his guests, leading the way through the dismal passages of theprison. His hand was already fiddling with his waistcoat pocket, whereBungay's five-pound note was, as he took leave of the three gentlemen atthe wicket; one of them, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, being greatly relievedwhen he was out of the horrid place, and again freely treading the flagsof Farringdon-street.

  Mrs. Shandon sadly went on with her work at the window looking into thecourt. She saw Shandon with a couple of men at his heels run rapidly inthe direction of the prison tavern. She had hoped to have had him todinner herself that day: there was a piece of meat, and some salad in abasin, on the ledge outside of the window of their room, which she hadexpected that she and little Mary were to share with the child's father.But there was no chance of that now. He would be in that tavern untilthe hours for closing it; then he would go and play at cards or drink insome other man's room, and come back silent, with glazed eyes, reeling alittle in his walk, that his wife might nurse him. Oh, what varieties ofpain do we not make our women suffer!

  So Mrs. Shandon went to the cupboard, and, in lieu of a dinner, madeherself some tea. And in those varieties of pain of which we spoke anon,what a part of confidante has that poor tea-pot played ever since thekindly plant was introduced among us! What myriads of women have criedover it, to be sure! What sick beds it has smoked by! What fevered lipshave received refreshment from out of it! Nature meant very gently bywomen when she made that tea-plant; and with a little thought what aseries of pictures and groups the fancy may conjure up and assembleround the tea-pot and cup. Melissa and Sacharissa are talking lovesecrets over it. Poor Polly has it and her lover's letters upon thetable; his letters who was her lover yesterday, and when it was withpleasure, not despair, she wept over them. Mary comes trippingnoiselessly into her mother's bed-room, bearing a cup of the consolerto the widow who will take no other food. Ruth is busy concocting it forher husband, who is coming home from the harvest-field--one could fill apage with hints for such pictures; finally, Mrs. Shandon and little Marysit down and drink their tea together, while the captain goes out andtakes his pleasure. She cares for nothing else but that, when herhusband is away.

  A gentleman with whom we are already slightly acquainted, Mr. JackFinucane, a townsman of Captain Shandon's, found the captain's wife andlittle Mary (for whom Jack always brought a sweetmeat in his pocket)over this meal. Jack thought Shandon the greatest of created geniuses;had had one or two helps from the good-natured prodigal, who had alwaysa kind word, and sometimes a guinea for any friend in need; and nevermissed a day in seeing his patron. He was ready to run Shandon's errandsand transact his money-business with publishers and newspaper editors,duns, creditors, holders of Shandon's acceptances, gentlemen disposedto speculate in those securities, and to transact the thousand littleaffairs of an embarrassed Irish gentleman. I never knew an embarrassedIrish gentleman yet, but he had an aid-de-camp of his own nation,likewise in circumstances of pecuniary discomfort. That aid-de-camphas subordinates of his own, who again may have other insolventdependents--all through his life our captain marched at the head ofa ragged staff, who shared in the rough fortunes of their chieftain.

  "He won't have that five-pound note very long, I bet a guinea," Mr.Bungay said of the captain, as he and his two companions walked awayfrom the prison; and the publisher judged rightly, for when Mrs.Shandon came to empty her husband's pockets, she found but a couple ofshillings, and a few half-pence out of the morning's remittance. Shandonhad given a pound to one follower; had sent a leg of mutton and potatoesand beer to an acquaintance in the poor side of the prison; had paid anoutstanding bill at the tavern where he had changed his five-poundnote; had had a dinner with two friends there, to whom he lost sundryhalf-crowns at cards afterward; so that the night left him as poor asthe morning had found him.

  The publisher and the two gentlemen had had some talk together afterquitting Shandon, and Warrington reiterated to Bungay what he had saidto his rival, Bacon, viz., that Pen was a high fellow, of great genius,and what was more, well with the great world, and related to "no end"of the peerage. Bungay replied that he should be happy to have dealingswith Mr. Pendennis, and hoped to have the pleasure of seeing both gentsto cut mutton with him before long; and so, with mutual politeness andprotestations, they parted.

  * * * * *

  "It is hard to see such a man as Shandon," Pen said, musing, and talkingthat night over the sight which he had witnessed, "of accomplishmentsso multifarious, and of such an undoubted talent and humor, an inmateof a jail for half his time, and a bookseller's hanger-on when out ofprison."

  "I am a bookseller's hanger-on--you are going to try your paces asa hack," Warrington said, with a laugh. "We are all hacks upon someroad or other. I would rather be myself, than Paley, our neighbor inchambers: who has as much enjoyment of his life as a mole. A deuced dealof undeserved compassion has been thrown away upon what you call yourbookseller's drudge."

  "Much solitary pipes and ale make a cynic of you," Pen said. "You area Diogenes by a beer-barrel, Warrington. No man shall tell me that aman of genius, as Shandon is, ought to be driven by such a vulgar slavedriver, as yonder Mr. Bungay, whom we have just left, who fattenson the profits of the other's brains, and enriches himself out of hisjourneyman's labor. It makes me indignant to see a gentleman the serf ofsuch a creature as that, of a man who can't speak the language that helives by, who is not fit to black Shandon's boots."

  "So you have begun already to gird at the publishers, and to take yourside among our order. Bravo, Pen, my boy!" Warrington answered, laughingstill. "What have you got to say against Bungay's relations withShandon? Was it the publisher, think you, who sent the author to prison?Is it Bungay who is tippling away the five-pound note which we saw justnow, or Shandon?"

  "Misfortune drives a man into bad company," Pen said. "It is easy to cry'Fie!' against a poor fellow who has no society but such as he finds ina prison; and no resource except forgetfulness and the bottle. We mustdeal kindly with the eccentricities of genius, and remember that thevery ardor and enthusiasm of temperament which makes the authordelightful often leads the man astray."

  "A fiddlestick about men of genius!" Warrington cried out, who wasa very severe moralist upon some points, though possibly a very badpractitioner. "I deny that there are so many geniuses as people whowhimper about the fate of men of letters assert there are. There arethousands of clever fellows in the world who could, if they would,turn verses, write articles, read books, and deliver a judgment uponthem; the talk of professional critics and writers is not a whit morebrilliant, or profound, or amusing, than that of any other society ofeducated people. If a lawyer, or a soldier, or a parson, outruns hisincome, and does not pay his bills, he must go to jail; and an authormust go, too. If an author fuddles himself, I don'
t know why he shouldbe let off a headache the next morning--if he orders a coat from thetailor's, why he shouldn't pay for it."

  "I would give him more money to buy coats," said Pen, smiling. "Isuppose I should like to belong to a well-dressed profession. I protestagainst that wretch of a middle-man whom I see between Genius and hisgreat landlord, the Public, and who stops more than half of thelaborer's earnings and fame."

  "I am a prose laborer," Warrington said: "you, my boy, are a poet in asmall way, and so, I suppose, consider you are authorized to be flighty.What is it you want? Do you want a body of capitalists that shall beforced to purchase the works of all authors, who may present themselves,manuscript in hand? Every body who writes his epic, every driveler whocan or can't spell, and produces his novel or his tragedy--are they allto come and find a bag of sovereigns in exchange for their worthlessreams of paper? Who is to settle what is good or bad, salable orotherwise? Will you give the buyer leave, in fine, to purchase or not?Why, sir, when Johnson sate behind the screen at Saint John's Gate, andtook his dinner apart, because he was too shabby and poor to join theliterary bigwigs who were regaling themselves round Mr. Cave's besttable-cloth, the tradesman was doing him no wrong. You couldn't forcethe publisher to recognize the man of genius in the young man whopresented himself before him, ragged, gaunt, and hungry. Rags are nota proof of genius; whereas capital is absolute, as times go, and isperforce the bargain-master. It has a right to deal with the literaryinventor as with any other;--if I produce a novelty in the book trade,I must do the best I can with it; but I can no more force Mr. Murray topurchase my book of travels or sermons, than I can compel Mr. Tattersallto give me a hundred guineas for my horse. I may have my own ideas ofthe value of my Pegasus, and think him the most wonderful of animals;but the dealer has a right to his opinion, too, and may want a lady'shorse, or a cob for a heavy timid rider, or a sound hack for the road,and my beast won't suit him."

  "You deal in metaphors, Warrington," Pen said; "but you rightly saythat you are very prosaic. Poor Shandon! There is something about thekindness of that man, and the gentleness of that sweet creature of awife, which touches me profoundly. I like him, I am afraid, better thana better man."

  "And so do I," Warrington said. "Let us give him the benefit of oursympathy, and the pity that is due to his weakness: though I fear thatsort of kindness would be resented as contempt by a more high-mindedman. You see he takes his consolation along with his misfortune, and onegenerates the other or balances it, as is the way of the world. He is aprisoner, but he is not unhappy."

  "His genius sings within his prison bars," Pen said.

  "Yes," Warrington said, bitterly; "Shandon accommodates himself to acage pretty well. He ought to be wretched, but he has Jack and Tom todrink with, and that consoles him: he might have a high place, but, ashe can't, why he can drink with Tom and Jack;--he might be providing forhis wife and children, but Thomas and John have got a bottle of brandywhich they want him to taste;--he might pay poor Snip, the tailor, thetwenty pounds which the poor devil wants for his landlord, but Johnand Thomas lay their hands upon his purse;--and so he drinks whilehis tradesman goes to jail and his family to ruin. Let us pity themisfortunes of genius, and conspire against the publishing tyrants whooppress men of letters."

  "What! are you going to have another glass of brandy-and-water?" Pensaid, with a humorous look. It was at the Back Kitchen that the abovephilosophical conversation took place between the two young men.

  Warrington began to laugh as usual. "_Video meliora proboque_--I mean,bring it me hot, with sugar, John," he said to the waiter.

  "I would have some more, too, only I don't want it," said Pen. "It doesnot seem to me, Warrington, that we are much better than our neighbors."And Warrington's last glass having been dispatched, the pair returned totheir chambers.

  They found a couple of notes in the letter-box, on their return, whichhad been sent by their acquaintance of the morning, Mr. Bungay. Thathospitable gentleman presented his compliments to each of the gentlemen,and requested the pleasure of their company at dinner on an early day,to meet a few literary friends.

  "We shall have a grand spread," said Warrington. "We shall meet allBungay's corps."

  "All except poor Shandon," said Pen, nodding a good night to his friend,and he went into his own little room. The events and acquaintances ofthe day had excited him a good deal, and he lay for some time awakethinking over them, as Warrington's vigorous and regular snore from theneighboring apartment pronounced that that gentleman was engaged in deepslumber.

  * * * * *

  Is it true, thought Pendennis, lying on his bed and gazing at a brightmoon without, that lighted up a corner of his dressing-table, and theframe of a little sketch of Fairoaks, drawn by Laura, that hung over hisdrawers--is it true that I am going to earn my bread at last, and withmy pen? that I shall impoverish the dear mother no longer; and that Imay gain a name and reputation in the world, perhaps? These are welcomeif they come, thought the young visionary, laughing and blushing tohimself, though alone and in the night, as he thought how dearly hewould relish honor and fame if they could be his. If fortune favors me,I laud her; if she frowns, I resign her. I pray Heaven I may be honestif I fail, or if I succeed. I pray Heaven I may tell the truth as far asI know it: that I mayn't swerve from it through flattery, or interest,or personal enmity, or party prejudice. Dearest old mother, what a pridewill you have, if I can do any thing worthy of our name! and you, Laura,you won't scorn me as the worthless idler and spendthrift, when yousee that I--when I have achieved a--psha! what an Alnaschar I am becauseI have made five pounds by my poems, and am engaged to write half adozen articles for a newspaper. He went on with these musings, morehappy and hopeful, and in a humbler frame of mind, than he had felt tobe for many a day. He thought over the errors and idleness, the passions,extravagancies, disappointments, of his wayward youth: he got up fromthe bed: threw open the window, and looked out into the night: and then,by some impulse, which we hope was a good one, he went up and kissed thepicture of Fairoaks, and flinging himself down on his knees by the bed,remained for some time in that posture of hope and submission. Whenhe rose, it was with streaming eyes. He had found himself repeating,mechanically, some little words which he had been accustomed to repeatas a child at his mother's side, after the saying of which she wouldsoftly take him to his bed and close the curtains round him, hushing himwith a benediction.

  * * * * *

  The next day, Mr. Pidgeon, their attendant, brought in a large brownpaper parcel, directed to G. Warrington, Esq., with Mr. Trotter'scompliments, and a note which Warrington read.

  "Pen, you beggar!" roared Warrington to Pen, who was in his own room.

  "Hullo!" sung out Pen.

  "Come here, you're wanted," cried the other, and Pen came out. "What isit?" said he.

  "_Catch!_" cried Warrington, and flung the parcel at Pen's head, whowould have been knocked down had he not caught it.

  "It's books for review for the 'Pall Mall Gazette': pitch into 'em,"Warrington said. As for Pen, he never had been so delighted in his life:his hand trembled as he cut the string of the packet, and beheld withina smart set of new neat calico-bound books, travels, and novels, andpoems.

  "Sport the oak, Pidgeon," said he. "I'm not at home to any body to-day."And he flung into his easy chair, and hardly gave himself time to drinkhis tea, so eager was he to begin to read and to review.