house in Thornhaugh Street, from which he had been previously ejected in a most
unclerical and inebriated state."
"On being taken to the station-house, the reverend gentleman lodged a complaint
on his own side, and averred that he had been stupefied and hocussed in the
house in Thornhaugh Street by means of some drug, and that whilst in this state
he had been robbed of a bill for 386l. 4s. 3d., drawn by a person in New York,
and accepted by Mr. P. Firmin, barrister, of Parchment Buildings, Temple."
"Mrs. Brandon, the landlady of the house, No.??, Thornhaugh Street, has been in
the habit of letting lodgings for many years past, and several of her friends,
including Mr. Firmin, Mr. Ridley, the Rl. Acad., and other gentlemen, were in
attendance to speak to her character, which is most respectable. After Z 25 had
given evidence, the servant deposed that Hunt had been more than once disorderly
and drunk before that house, and had been forcibly ejected from it. On the night
when the alleged robbery was said to have taken place, he had visited the house
in Thornhaugh Street, had left it in an inebriated state, and returned some
hours afterwards vowing that he had been robbed of the document in question."
"Mr. P. Firmin said: 'I am a barrister, and have chambers at Parchment
Buildings, Temple, and know the person calling himself Hunt. I have not accepted
any bill of exchange, nor is my signature affixed to any such document."'
"At this stage the worthy magistrate interposed, and said that this only went to
prove that the bill was not completed by Mr. F.'s acceptance, and would by no
means conclude the case set up before him. Dealing with it, however, on the
merits, and looking at the way in which the charge had been preferred, and the
entire absence of sufficient testimony to warrant him in deciding that even a
piece of paper had been abstracted in that house, or by the person accused, and
believing that if he were to commit, a conviction would be impossible, he
dismissed the charge."
"The lady left the court with her friends, and the accuser, when called upon to
pay a fine for drunkenness, broke out into very unclerical language, in the
midst of which he was forcibly removed."
Philip Firmin's statement that he had given no bill of exchange, was made not
without hesitation on his part, and indeed at his friends' strong entreaty. It
was addressed not so much to the sitting magistrate, as to that elderly
individual at New York, who was warned no more to forge his son's name. I fear a
coolness ensued between Philip and his parent in consequence of the younger
man's behaviour. The doctor had thought better of his boy than to suppose that,
at a moment of necessity, Philip would desert him. He forgave Philip,
nevertheless. Perhaps since his marriage other influences were at work upon him,
The parent made further remarks in this strain. A man who takes your money is
naturally offended if you remonstrate; you wound his sense of delicacy by
protesting against his putting his hand in your pocket. The elegant doctor in
New York continued to speak of his unhappy son with a mournful shake of the
head; he said, perhaps believed, that Philip's imprudence was in part the cause
of his own exile. "This is not the kind of entertainment to which I would have
invited you at my own house in England," he would say. "I thought to have ended
my days there, and to have left my son in comfort, nay splendour. I am an exile
in poverty: and he??but I will use no hard words." And to his female patients he
would say: "No, my dear madam! Not a syllable of reproach shall escape these
lips regarding that misguided boy! But you can feel for me; I know you can feel
for me." In the old days, a high-spirited highwayman, who took a
coach-passenger's purse, thought himself injured, and the traveller a shabby
fellow, if he secreted a guinea or two under the cushions. In the doctor's now
rare letters, he breathed a manly sigh here and there, to think that he had lost
the confidence of his boy. I do believe that certain ladies of our acquaintance
were inclined to think that the elder Firmin had been not altogether well used,
however much they loved and admired the Little Sister for her lawless act in her
boy's defence. But this main point we had won. The doctor at New York took the
warning, and wrote his son's signature upon no more bills of exchange. The good
Goodenough's loan was carried back to him in the very coin which he had
supplied. He said that his little nurse Brandon was splendide mendax, and that
her robbery was a sublime and courageous act of war.
In so far, since his marriage, Mr. Philip had been pretty fortunate. At need,
friends had come to him. In moments of peril he had had succour and relief.
Though he had married without money, fate had sent him a sufficiency. His flask
had never been empty, and there was always meal in his bin. But now hard trials
were in store for him: hard trials which we have said were endurable, and which
he has long since lived through. Any man who has played the game of life or
whist, knows how for one while he will have a series of good cards dealt him,
and again will get no trumps at all. After he got into his house in Milman
Street and quitted the Little Sister's kind roof, our friend's good fortune
seemed to desert him. "Perhaps it was a punishment for my pride, because I was
haughty with her, and??and jealous of that dear good little creature," poor
Charlotte afterwards owned in conversation with other friends:??"but our fortune
seemed to change when we were away from her, and that I must own."
Perhaps, when she was yet under Mrs. Brandon's roof, the Little Sister's
provident care had done a great deal more for Charlotte than Charlotte knew.
Mrs. Philip had the most simple tastes in the world, and upon herself never
spent an unnecessary shilling. Indeed, it was a wonder, considering her small
expenses, how neat and nice Mrs. Philip ever looked. But she never could deny
herself when the children were in question; and had them arrayed in all sorts of
fine clothes; and stitched and hemmed all day and night to decorate their little
prsons; and in reply to the remonstrances of the matrons her friends, showed how
it was impossible children could be dressed for less cost. If anything ailed
them, quick, the doctor must be sent for. Not worthy Goodenough, who came
without a fee, and pooh-poohed her alarms and anxieties; but dear Mr. Bland, who
had a feeling heart, and was himself a father of children, and who supported
those children by the produce of the pills, draughts, powders, visits, which he
bestowed on all families into whose doors he entered. Bland's sympathy was very
consolatory; but it was found to be very costly at the end of the year. "And,
what then?" says Charlotte, with kindling cheeks. "Do you suppose we should
grudge that money, which was to give health to our dearest, dearest babies? No.
You can't have such a bad opinion of me as that!" And accordingly Mr. Bland
received a nice little annuity from our friends. Philip had a joke about his
wife's housekeeping which perhaps may apply to other young wom
en who are kept by
over-watchful mothers too much in statu pupillari. When they were married, or
about to be married, Philip asked Charlotte what she would order for dinner? She
promptly said she would order leg of mutton. "And after leg of mutton?" "Leg of
beef, to be sure!" says Mrs. Charlotte, looking very pleased, and knowing. And
the fact is, as this little housekeeper was obliged demurely to admit, their
household bills increased prodigiously after they left Thornhaugh Street. "And I
can't understand, my dear, how the grocer's book should mount up so; and the
butterman's, and the beer," We have often seen the pretty little head bent over
the dingy volumes, puzzling, puzzling: and the eldest child would hold up a
warning finger to ours, and tell them to be very quiet, as mamma was at her
"atounts."
And now, I grieve to say, money became scarce for the payment of these accounts;
and though Philip fancied he hid his anxieties from his wife, be sure she loved
him too much to be deceived by one of the clumsiest hypocrites in the world.
Only, being a much cleverer hypocrite than her husband, she pretended to be
deceived, and acted her part so well that poor Philip was mortified with her
gaiety, and chose to fancy his wife was indifferent to their misfortunes. She
ought not to be so smiling and happy, he thought; and, as usual, bemoaned his
lot to his friends. "I come home, racked with care, and thinking of those
inevitable bills: I shudder, sir, at every note that lies on the hall table, and
would tremble as I dashed them open as they do on the stage. But I laugh and put
on a jaunty air, and humbug Char. And I hear her singing about the house and
laughing and cooing with the children, by Jove. She's not aware of anything. She
does not know how dreadfully the res domi is squeezing me. But before marriage
she did, I tell you. Then, if anything annoyed me, she divined it. If I felt
ever so little unwell, you should have seen the alarm in her face! It was
'Philip, dear, how pale you are;' or, 'Philip, how flushed you are;' or, 'I am
sure you have had a letter from your father. Why do you conceal anything from
me, sir? You never should??never!' And now when the fox is gnawing at my side
under my cloak, I laugh and grin so naturally that she believes I am all right,
and she comes to meet me flouncing the children about in my face, and wearing an
air of consummate happiness! I would not deceive her for the world, you know.
But it's mortifying. Don't tell me. It is mortifying to be tossing awake all
night, and racked with care all day, and have the wife of your bosom chattering
and singing and laughing, as if there were no cares, or doubts, or duns in the
world. If I had the gout and she were to laugh and sing, I should not call that
sympathy. If I were arrested for debt, and she were to come grinning and
laughing to the sponging-house, I should not call that consolation. Why doesn't
she feel? She ought to feel. There's Betsy, our parlour-maid. There's the old
fellow who comes to clean the boots and knives. They know how hard up I am. And
my wife sings and dances whilst I am on the verge of ruin, by Jove; and giggles
and laughs as if life was a pantomime!"
Then the man and woman into whose ears poor Philip roared out his confessions
and griefs, hung down their blushing heads in humbled silence. They are
tolerably prosperous in life, and, I fear, are pretty well satisfied with
themselves and each other. A woman who scarcely ever does any wrong, and rules
and governs her own house and family, as my??, as the wife of the reader's
humble servant most notoriously does, often becomes??must it be said???to
certain of her own virtue, and is too sure of the correctness of her own
opinion. We virtuous people give advice a good deal, and set a considerable
value upon that advice. We meet a certain man who has fallen among thieves, let
us say. We succour him readily enough. We take him kindly to the inn, and pay
his score there: but we say to the landlord, "You must give this poor man his
bed; his medicine at such a time, and his broth at such another. But, mind you,
he must have that physic, and no other; that broth when we order it. We take his
case in hand, you understand. Don't listen to him or anybody else. We know all
about everything. Good-by. Take care of him. Mind the medicine and the broth!"
and Mr. Benefactor or Lady Bountiful goes away, perfectly self-satisfied.
Do you take this allegory? When Philip complained to us of his wife's friskiness
and gaiety; when he bitterly contrasted her levity and carelessness with his own
despondency and doubt, Charlotte's two principal friends were smitten by shame.
"Oh, Philip! dear Philip!" his female adviser said (having looked at her husband
once or twice as Firmin spoke, and in vain endeavoured to keep her gilty eyes
down on her work), "Charlotte has done this, because she is humble, and because
she takes the advice of friends who are not. She knows everything, and more than
everything; for her dear tender heart is filled with apprehension. But we told
her to show no sign of care, lest her husband should be disturbed. And she
trusted in us; and she puts her trust elsewhere, Philip; and she has hidden her
own anxieties, lest yours should be increased; and has met you gaily when her
heart was full of dread. We think she has done wrong now; but she did so because
she was so simple, and trusted in us who advised her wrongly. Now we see that
there ought to have been perfect confidence always between you; and that it is
her simplicity and faith in us which have misled her."
Philip hung down his head for a moment, and hid his eyes; and we knew, during
that minute when his face was concealed from us, how his grateful heart was
employed.
"And you know, dear Philip??" says Laura, looking at her husband, and nodding to
that person, who certainly understood the hint.
"And I say, Firmin," breaks in the lady's husband, "You understand, if you are
at all??that is, if you??that is, if we can??"
"Hold your tongue!" shouts Firmin, with a face beaming over with happiness. "I
know what you mean. You beggar, you are going to offer me money! I see it in
your face; bless you both! But we'll try and do without, please heaven. And??and
it's worth feeling a pinch of poverty to find such friends as I have had, and to
share it with such a??such a??dash??dear little thing as I have at home. And I
won't try and humbug Char any more. I'm bad at that sort of business. And
good-night, and I'll never forget your kindness, never!" And he is off a moment
afterwards, and jumping down the steps of our door, and so into the park. And
though there were not five pounds in the poor little house in Milman Street,
there were not two happier people in London that night than Charlotte and Philip
Firmin. If he had his troubles, our friend had his immense consolations.
Fortunate he, however poor, who has friends to help, and love to console him in
his trials.
CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH THE LUCK GOES VERY MUCH AGAINST US.
Every man and woman amongst us has made his voyage to Lilliput, and
his tour in
the kingdom of Brobdingnag. When I go to my native country town, the local paper
announces our arrival; the labourers touch their hats as the pony-chaise passes,
the girls and old women drop curtsies; Mr. Hicks, the grocer and hatter, comes
to his door, and makes a bow, and smirks and smiles. When our neighbour Sir John
arrives at the hall, he is a still greater personage; the bell-ringers greet the
hall family with a peal; the rector walks over on an early day, and pays his
visit; and the farmers at market press round for a nod of recognition. Sir John
at home is in Lilliput: in Belgrave Square he is in Brobdingnag, where almost
everybody we meet is ever so much taller than ourselves. "Which do you like
best, to be a giant amongst the pigmies, or a pigmy among the giants?" I know
what sort of company I prefer myself: but that is not the point. What I would
hint is, that we possibly give ourselves patronizing airs before small people,
as folks higher placed than ourselves give themselves airs before us.
Patronizing airs? Old Miss Mumbles, the half-pay lieutenant's daughter, who
lives over the plumber's, with her maid, gives herself in her degree more airs
than any duchess in Belgravia, and would leave the room if a tradesman's wife
sat down in it.
Now it has been said that few men in this city of London are so simple in their
manners as Philip Firmin, and that he treated the patron whose bread he ate, and
the wealthy relative who condescended to visit him, with a like freedom. He is
blunt but not familiar, and is not a whit more polite to my lord than to Jack or
Tom at the coffee-house. He resents familiarity from vulgar persons, and those
who venture on it retire maimed and mortified after coming into collision with
him. As for the people he loves, he grovels before them, worships their
boot-tips, and their gown-hems. But he submits to them, not for their wealth or
rank, but for love's sake. He submitted very magnanimously at first to the
kindnesses and caresses of Lady Ringwood and her daughters, being softened and
won by the regard which they showed for his wife and children.
Although Sir John was for the Rights of Man everywhere, all over the world, and
had pictures of Franklin, Lafayette, and Washington in his library, he likewise
had portraits of his own ancestors in that apartment, and entertained a very
high opinion of the present representative of the Ringwood family. The character
of the late chief of the house was notorious. Lord Ringwood's life had been
irregular and his morals loose. His talents were considerable, no doubt, but
they had not been devoted to serious study or directed to useful ends. A wild
man in early life, he had only changed his practices in later life in
consequence of ill health, and became a hermit as a Certain Person became a
monk. He was a frivolous person to the end, and was not to be considered as a
public man and statesman; and this light-minded man of pleasure had been
advanced to the third rank of the peerage, whilst his successor, his superior in
intellect and morality, remained a Baronet still. How blind the Ministry was
which refused to recognize so much talent and worth! Had there been public
virtue or common sense in the governors of the nation, merits like Sir John's
never could have been overlooked. But Ministers were notoriously a family
clique, and only helped each other. Promotion and patronage were disgracefully
monopolized by the members of a very few families who were not better men of
business, men of better character, men of more ancient lineage (though birth, of
course, was a mere accident) than Sir John himself. In a word, until they gave
him a peerage, he saw very little hope for the cabinet or the country.
In a very early page of this history mention was made of a certain Philip