have enemies��and I have, there's no doubt about that��I serve them out whenever
and wherever I can. And let me tell you I don't half relish having my conduct
called base. Its only natural; and it's right. Perhaps you would like to praise
your enemies, and abuse your friend? If that's your line, let me tell you you
won't do in the noospaper business, and had better take to some other trade."
And the employer parted from his subordinate in some heat.
Mugford, indeed, feelingly spoke to me about this insubordination of Philip.
"What does the fellow mean by quarrelling with his bread and butter?" Mr.
Mugford asked. "Speak to him, and show him what's what, Mr. P., or we shall come
to a quarrel, mind you ��and I don't want that, for the sake of his little wife,
poor little delicate thing. Whatever is to happen to them, if we don't stand by
them?"
What was to happen to them, indeed? Any one who knew Philip's temper, as we did,
was aware how little advice or remonstrance were likely to affect that
gentleman. "Good heavens?" he said to me, when I endeavoured to make him adopt a
conciliatory tone towards his employer, "do you want to make me Mugford's
galley-slave? I shall have him standing over me and swearing at me as he does at
the printers. He looks into my room at times when he is in a passion, and glares
at me, as if he would like to seize me by the throat; and after a word or two he
goes off, and I hear him curse the boys in the passage. One day it will be on me
that he will turn, I feel sure of that. I tell you the slavery is beginning to
be awful. I wake of a night and groan and chafe, and poor Char, too, wakes and
asks, 'What is it, Philip?' I say it is rheumatism. Rheumatism!" Of course to
Philip's malady his friends tried to apply the commonplace anodynes and
consolations. He must be gentle in his bearing. He must remember that his
employer had not been bred a gentleman, and that though rough and coarse in
language, Mugford had a kind heart. "There is no need to tell me he is not a
gentleman, I know that," says poor Phil. "He is kind to Char and the child, that
is the truth, and so is his wife. I am a slave for all that. He is my driver. He
feeds me. He hasn't beat me yet. When I was away at Paris I did not feel the
chain so much. But it is scarcely tolerable now, when I have to see my gaoler
four or five times a week. My poor little Char, why did I drag you into this
slavery?"
"Because you wanted a consoler, I suppose," remarks one of Philip's comforters.
"And do you suppose Charlotte would be happier if she were away from you? Though
you live up two pair of stairs, is any home happier than yours, Philip? You
often own as much, when you are in happier moods. Who has not his work to do,
and his burden to bear? You say sometimes that you are imperious and
hot-tempered. Perhaps your slavery, as you call it, may be good for you."
"I have doomed myself and her to it," says Philip, hanging down his head.
"Does she ever repine?" asks his adviser. "Does she not think herself the
happiest little wife in the world? See, here, Philip, here is a note from her
yesterday in which she says as much. Do you want to know what the note is about,
sir?" says the lady, with a smile. "Well, then, she wanted a receipt for that
dish which you liked so much on Friday, and she and Mrs. Brandon will make it
for you."
"And if it consisted of minced Charlotte," says Philip's other friend, "you know
she would cheerfully chop herself up, and have herself served with a little
cream-sauce and sippets of toast for your honour's dinner."
This was undoubtedly true. Did not Job's friends make many true remarks when
they visited him in his affliction? Patient as he was, the patriarch groaned and
lamented, and why should not poor Philip be allowed to grumble, who was not a
model of patience at all? He was not broke in as yet. The mill-horse was restive
and kicked at his work. He would chafe not seldom at the daily drudgery, and
have his fits of revolt and despondency. Well? Have others not had to toil, to
bow the proud head, and carry the daily burden? Don't you see Pegasus, who was
going to win the plate, a weary, broken-knee'd, broken-down old cab hack
shivering in the rank; or a sleek gelding, mayhap, pacing under a corpulent
master in Rotten Row? Philip's crust began to be scanty, and was dipped in
bitter waters. I am not going to make a long story of this part of his career,
or parade my friend as too hungry and poor. He is safe now, and out of all
very wistfully lest the wolf should enter at the door. He never laid claim to be
a man of genius, nor was he a successful quack who could pass as a man of
genius. When there were French prisoners in England, we know how stout old
officers who had plied their sabres against Mamelouks, or Russians, or Germans,
were fain to carve little gimcracks in bone with their penknives, or make
baskets and boxes of chipped straw, and piteously sell them to casual visitors
to their prison. Philip was poverty's prisoner. He had to make such shifts, and
do such work, as he could find in his captivity. I do not think men who have
undergone the struggle, and served the dire task-master, like to look back and
recal the grim apprenticeship. When Philip says now, "What fools we were to
marry, Char," she looks up radiantly, with love and happiness in her eyes��looks
up to heaven, and is thankful; but grief and sadness come over her husband's
face at the thought of those days of pain and gloom. She may soothe him, and he
may be thankful too; but the wounds are still there which were dealt to him in
the cruel battle with fortune. Men are ridden down in it. Men are poltroons and
run. Men maraud, break ranks, are guilty of meanness, cowardice, shabby plunder.
Men are raised to rank and honour, or drop and perish unnoticed on the field.
Happy he who comes from it with his honour pure! Philip did not win crosses and
epaulets. He is like us, my dear sir, not a heroic genius at all. And it is to
be hoped that all three have behaved with an average pluck, and have been guilty
of no meanness, or treachery, or desertion. Did you behave otherwise, what would
wife and children say? As for Mrs. Philip, I tell you she thinks to this day
that there is no man like her husband, and is ready to fall down and worship the
boots in which he walks.
How do men live? How is rent paid? How does the dinner come day after day? As a
rule, there is dinner. You might live longer with less of it, but you can't go
without it and live long. How did my neighbour 23 earn his carriage, and how did
24 pay for his house? As I am writing this sentence, Mr. Cox, who collects the
taxes in this quarter, walks in. How do you do, Mr. Cox? We are not in the least
afraid of meeting one another. Time was��two, three years of time��when poor
Philip was troubled at the sight of Cox; and this troublous time his biographer
intends to pass over in a very few pages.
At the end of six months the Upper Ten Thousand of New York heard with modified
wond
er that the editor of that fashionable journal had made a retreat from the
city, carrying with him the scanty contents of the till; so the contributions of
Philalethes never brought our poor friend any dollars at all. But though one
fish is caught and eaten, are there not plenty more left in the sea? At this
very time, when I was in a natural state of despondency about poor Philip's
affairs, it struck Tregarvan, the wealthy Cornish member of Parliament, that the
Government and the House of Commons slighted his speeches and his views on
foreign politics; that the wife of the Foreign Secretary had been very
inattentive to Lady Tregarvan; that the designs of a certain Great Power were
most menacing and dangerous, and ought to be exposed and counteracted; and that
the peerage which he had long desired ought to be bestowed on him. Sir John
Tregarvan applied to certain literary and political gentlemen with whom he was
acquainted. He would bring out the European Review. He would expose the designs
of that Great Power which was menacing Europe. He would show up in his proper
colours a Minister who was careless of the country's honour, and forgetful of
his own: a Minister whose arrogance ought no longer to be tolerated by the
country gentlemen of England. Sir John, a little man in brass buttons, and a
tall head, who loves to hear his own voice, came and made a speech on the above
topics to the writer of the present biography; that writer's lady was in his
study as Sir John expounded his views at some length. She listened to him with
the greatest attention and respect. She was shocked to hear of the ingratitude
of Government; astounded and terrified by his exposition of the designs of��of
that Great Power whose intrigues were so menacing to European tranquillity. She
was most deeply interested in the idea of establishing the Review. He would, of
course, be himself the editor; and��and�� (here the woman looked across the
table at her husband with a strange triumph in her eyes)��she knew, they both
under Sir John��a gentleman, one of the truest that ever lived��a university
man; a man remarkably versed in the European languages�� that is, in French most
certainly. And now the reader, I dare say, can guess who this individual was. "I
knew it at once," says the lady, after Sir John had taken his leave. "I told you
that those dear children would not be forsaken." And I would no more try and
persuade her that the European Review was not ordained of all time to afford
maintenance to Philip, than I would induce her to turn Mormon, and accept all
the consequences to which ladies must submit when they make profession of that
creed.
"You see, my love," I say to the partner of my existence, "what other things
must have been ordained of all time as well as Philip's appointment to be
sub-editor of the European Review. It must have been decreed ab initio that Lady
Plinlimmon should give evening parties, in order that she might offend Lady
Tregarvan by not asking her to those parties. It must have been ordained by fate
that Lady Tregarvan should be of a jealous disposition, so that she might hate
Lady Plinlimmon, and was to work upon her husband, and inspire him with anger
and revolt against his chief. It must have been ruled by destiny that Tregarvan
should be rather a weak and wordy personage, fancying that he had a talent for
literary composition. Else he would not have thought of setting up the Review.
Else he would never have been angry with Lord Plinlimmon for not inviting him to
tea. Else he would not have engaged Philip as sub-editor. So, you see, in order
to bring about this event, and put a couple of hundreds a year into Philip
Firmin's pocket, the Tregarvans have to be born from the earliest times; the
Plinlimmons have to spring up in the remotest ages, and come down to the present
day: Dr. Firmin has to be a rogue, and undergo his destiny of cheating his son
of money:��all mankind up to the origin of our race are involved in your
proposition, and we actually arrive at Adam and Eve, who are but fulfilling
their destiny, which was to be the ancestors of Philip Firmin."
"Even in our first parents there was doubt and scepticism and misgiving," says
the lady, with strong emphasis on the words. "If you mean to say that there is
no such thing as a Superior Power watching over us, and ordaining things for our
good, you are an atheist��and such a thing as an atheist does not exist in the
world, and I would not believe you if you said you were one twenty times over."
I mention these points by the way, and as samples of lady-like logic. I
acknowledge that Philip himself, as he looks back at his past career, is very
much moved. "I do not deny," he says, gravely, "that these things happened in
the natural order. I say I am grateful for what happened; and look back at the
past not without awe. In great grief and danger maybe, I have had timely rescue.
Under great suffering I have met with supreme consolation. When the trial has
seemed almost too hard for me it has ended, and our darkness has been
lightened." Ut vivo et valeo��si valeo, I know by Whose permission this is,��and
would you forbid me to be thankful? to be thankful for my life; to be thankful
for my children; to be thankful for the daily bread which has been granted to
me, and the temptation from which I have been rescued? As I think of the past
and its bitter trials, I bow my head in thanks and awe. I wanted succour, and I
found it. I fell on evil times, and good friends pitied and helped me��good
friends like yourself, your dear wife, many another I could name. In what
moments of depression, old friend, have you not seen me, and cheered me? Do you
know in the moments of our grief the inexpressible value of your sympathy? Your
good Samaritan takes out only twopence maybe for the wayfarer whom he has
rescued, but the little timely supply saves a life. You remember dear old Ned
St. George��dead in the West Indies years ago? Before he got his place, Ned was
hanging on in London, so utterly poor and ruined, that he had not often a
shilling to buy a dinner. He used often to come to us, and my wife and our
children loved him; and I used to leave a heap of shillings on my study-table,
so that he might take two or three as he wanted them. Of course you remember
him. You were at the dinner which we gave him on his getting his place. I forget
the cost of that dinner; but I remember my share amounted to the exact number of
shillings which poor Ned had taken off my table. He gave me the money then and
there at the tavern at Blackwall. He said it seemed providential. But for those
shillings, and the constant welcome at our poor little table, he said he thought
he should have made away with his life. I am not bragging of the twopence which
I gave, but thanking God for sending me there to give it. Benedico benedictus. I
wonder sometimes am I the I of twenty years ago? before our heads were bald,
friend, and when the little ones reached up to our knees? Before dinner you saw
me in the library reading in that old European Review wh
ich your friend
Tregarvan established. I came upon an article of my own, and a very dull one, on
a subject which I knew nothing about. "Persian politics, and the intrigues at
the Court of Teheran." It was done to order. Tregarvan had some special interest
about Persia, or wanted to vex Sir Thomas Nobbles, who was Minister there. I
breakfasted with Tregarvan in the Albany, the facts (we will call them facts)
and papers were supplied to me, and I went home to point out the delinquencies
of Sir Thomas, and the atrocious intrigues of the Russian Court. Well, sir,
Nobbles, Tregarvan, Teheran, all disappeared as I looked at the text in the old
volume of the Review. I saw a deal table in a little room, and a reading lamp,
and a young fellow writing at it, with a sad heart, and a dreadful apprehension
torturing him. One of our children was ill in the adjoining room, and I have
before me the figure of my wife coming in from time to time to my room and
saying, "She is asleep now, and the fever is much lower."
Here our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a tall young lady, who
says, "Papa, the coffce is quite cold: and the carriage will be here very soon,
and both mamma and my godmother say they are growing very angry. Do you know you
have been talking here for two hours?"
Had two hours actually slipped away, as we sate prattling about old times? As I
narrate them, I prefer to give Mr. Firmin's account of his adventures in his own
words, where I can recal or imitate them. Both of us are graver and more
reverend seigniors than we were at the time of which I am writing. Has not
Firmin's girl grown up to be taller than her godmother? Veterans both, we love
to prattle about the merry days when we were young��(the merry days? no, the
past is never merry)��about the days when we were young; and do we grow young in
talking of them, or only indulge in a senile cheerfulness and prolixity?
Tregarvan sleeps with his Cornish fathers: Europe for many years has gone on
without her Review: but it is a certainty that the establishment of that occult
organ of opinion tended very much to benefit Philip Firmin, and helped for a
while to supply him and several innocent people dependent on him with their
daily bread. Of course, as they were so poor, this worthy family increased and
multiplied; and as they increased, and as they multiplied, my wife insists that
I should point out how support was found for them. When there was a second child
in Philip's nursery, he would have removed from his lodgings in Thornhaugh
Street, but for the prayers and commands of the affectionate Little Sister, who
insisted that there was plenty of room in the house for everybody, and who said
that if Philip went away she would cut off her little godchild with a shilling.
And then indeed it was discovered for the first time, that this faithful and
affectionate creature had endowed Philip with all her little property. These are
the rays of sunshine in the dungeon. These are the drops of water in the desert.
And with a full heart our friend acknowledges how comfort came to him in his
hour of need.
Though Mr. Firmin has a very grateful heart, it has been admitted that he was a
loud, disagreeable Firmin at times, impetuous in his talk, and violent in his
behaviour: and we are now come to that period of his history, when he had a
quarrel in which I am sorry to say Mr. Philip was in the wrong. Why do we
consrot with those whom we dislike? Why is it that men will try and associate
between whom no love is? I think it was the ladies who tried to reconcile Philip
and his master; who brought them together, and strove to make them friends; but
the more they met the more they disliked each other; and now the Muse has to
relate their final and irreconcilable rupture.
Of Mugford's wrath the direful tale relate, O Muse! and Philip's pitiable fate.