MR FOGGO.
They went in very sedately out of the darkness, their eyes dazzled with
the sudden light. Bell and Beau were safely disposed of for the night,
and on the side-table, beside Charlie’s two grammars and Agnes’s
blotting-book, now nearly empty, lay the newspaper of Papa; for the
usual visitor was installed in the usual place at the fireside, opposite
Mr Atheling. Good companion, it is time you should see the friend of the
family: there he was.
And there also, it must be confessed, was a certain faint yet expressive
fragrance, which delicately intimated to one sense at least, before he
made his appearance, the coming of Mr Foggo. We will not affirm that it
was lundyfoot--our own private impression, indeed, is strongly in favour
of black rappee--but the thing was indisputable, whatever might be the
species. He was a large brown man, full of folds and wrinkles; folds in
his brown waistcoat, where secret little sprinklings of snuff, scarcely
perceptible, lay undisturbed and secure; wrinkles, long and forcible,
about his mouth; folds under his eyelids, deep lines upon his brow.
There was not a morsel of smooth surface visible anywhere even in his
hands, which were traced all over with perceptible veins and sinews,
like a geographical exercise. Mr Foggo wore a wig, which could not by
any means be complimented with the same title as Mr Pendennis’s “’ead of
’air.” He was between fifty and sixty, a genuine old bachelor, perfectly
satisfied with his own dry and unlovely existence. Yet we may suppose it
was something in Mr Foggo’s favour, the frequency of his visits here. He
sat by the fireside with the home-air of one who knows that this chair
is called his, and that he belongs to the household circle, and turned
to look at the young people, as they entered, with a familiar yet
critical eye. He was friendly enough, now and then, to deliver little
rebukes and remonstrances, and was never complimentary, even to Marian;
which may be explained, perhaps, when we say that he was a Scotsman--a
north-country Scotsman--with “peculiarities” in his pronunciation, and
very distinct opinions of his own. How he came to win his way into the
very heart of this family, we are not able to explain; but there he was,
and there Mr Foggo had been, summer and winter, for nearly half-a-score
of years.
He was now an institution, recognised and respected. No one dreamt of
investigating his claims--possession was the whole law in his case, his
charter and legal standing-ground; and the young commonwealth recognised
as undoubtingly the place of Mr Foggo as they did the natural throne and
pre-eminence of Papa and Mamma.
“For my part,” said Mr Foggo, who, it seemed, was in the midst of what
Mrs Atheling called a “sensible conversation,”--and Mr Foggo spoke
slowly, and with a certain methodical dignity,--“for my part, I see
little in the art of politics, but just withholding as long as ye can,
and giving as little as ye may; for a statesman, ye perceive, be he
Radical or Tory, must ever consent to be a stout Conservative when he
gets the upper hand. It’s in the nature of things--it’s like father and
son--it’s the primitive principle of government, if ye take my opinion.
So I am never sanguine myself about a new ministry keeping its word. How
should it keep its word? Making measures and opposing them are two as
different things as can be. There’s father and son, a standing example:
the young man is the people and the old man is the government,--the lad
spurs on and presses, the greybeard holds in and restrains.”
“Ah, Foggo! all very well to talk,” said Mr Atheling; “but men should
keep their word, government or no government--that’s what I say. Do you
mean to tell me that a father would cheat his son with promises? No! no!
no! Your excuses won’t do for me.”
“And as for speaking of the father and son, as if it was natural they
should be opposed to each other, I am surprised at _you_, Mr Foggo,”
said Mrs Atheling, with emphatic disapproval. “There’s my Charlie, now,
a wilful boy; but do you think _he_ would set his face against anything
his papa or I might say?”
“Charlie,” said Mr Foggo, with a twinkle of the grey-brown eye which
shone clear and keen under folds of eyelid and thickets of eyebrow, “is
an uncommon boy. I’m speaking of the general principle, not of
exceptional cases. No! men and measures are well enough to make a noise
or an election about; but to go against the first grand rule is not in
the nature of man.”
“Yes, yes!” said Mr Atheling, impatiently; “but I tell you he’s broken
his word--that’s what I say--told a lie, neither more nor less. Do you
mean to tell me that any general principle will excuse a man for
breaking his promises? I challenge your philosophy for that.”
“When ye accept promises that it’s not in the nature of things a man can
keep, ye must even be content with the alternative,” said Mr Foggo.
“Oh! away with your nature of things!” cried Papa, who was unusually
excited and vehement,--“scarcely civil,” as Mrs Atheling assured him in
her private reproof. “It’s the nature of the man, that’s what’s wrong.
False in youth, false in age,--if I had known!”
“Crooked ways are ill to get clear of,” said Mr Foggo oracularly.
“What’s that you’re about, Charlie, my boy? Take you my advice, lad, and
never be a public man.”
“A public man! I wish public men had just as much sense,” said Mrs
Atheling in an indignant under-tone. This good couple, like a great many
other excellent people, were pleased to note how all the national
businesses were mismanaged, and what miserable ’prentice-hands of pilots
held the helm of State.
“I grant you it would not be overmuch for them,” said Mr Foggo; “and
speaking of government, Mrs Atheling, Willsie is in trouble again.”
“I am very sorry,” exclaimed Mrs Atheling, with instant interest. “Dear
me, I thought this was such a likely person. You remember what I said to
you, Agnes, whenever I saw her. She looked so neat and handy, I thought
her quite the thing for Miss Willsie. What has she done?”
“Something like the Secretary of State for the Home Department,” said Mr
Foggo,--“made promises which could not be kept while she was on trial,
and broke them when she took office. Shall I send the silly thing
away?”
“Oh, Mr Foggo! Miss Willsie was so pleased with her last week--she could
do so many things--she has so much good in her,” cried Marian; “and then
you can’t tell--you have not tried her long enough--don’t send her
away!”
“She is so pretty, Mr Foggo,” said Agnes.
Mr Foggo chuckled, thinking, not of Miss Willsie’s maid-servant, but of
the Secretary of State. Papa looked at him across the fireplace
wrathfully. What the reason was, nobody could tell; but Papa was visibly
angry, and in a most unamiable state of mind: he said “Tush!” with an
impatient gesture, in answer to the chuckle of his opponent. Mr Atheling
was really not at all polite to his friend and guest.
But we presume Mr Foggo was not sensitive--he only chuckled the more,
and took a pinch of snuff. The snuff-box was a ponderous silver one,
with an inscription on the lid, and always revealed itself most
distinctly, in shape at least, within the brown waistcoat-pocket of its
owner. As he enjoyed this refreshment, the odour diffused itself more
distinctly through the apartment, and a powdery thin shower fell from Mr
Foggo’s huge brown fingers. Susan’s cat, if she comes early to the
parlour, will undoubtedly be seized with many sneezes to-morrow.
But Marian, who was innocently unconscious of any double meaning,
continued to plead earnestly for Miss Willsie’s maid. “Yes, Mr Foggo,
she is so pretty,” said Marian, “and so neat, and smiles. I am sure Miss
Willsie herself would be grieved after, if she sent her away. Let mamma
speak to Miss Willsie, Mr Foggo. She smiles as if she could not help it.
I am sure she is good. Do not let Miss Willsie send her away.”
“Willsie is like the public--she is never content with her servants,”
said Mr Foggo. “Where’s all the poetry to-night? no ink upon Agnes’s
finger! I don’t understand that.”
“I never write poetry, Mr Foggo,” said Agnes, with superb disdain. Agnes
was extremely annoyed by Mr Foggo’s half-knowledge of her authorship.
The old gentleman took her for one of the young ladies who write verses,
she thought; and for this most amiable and numerous sisterhood, the
young genius, in her present mood, had a considerable disdain.
“And ink on her finger! You never saw ink on Agnes’s finger--you know
you never did!” cried the indignant Marian. “If she did write poetry, it
is no harm; and I know very well you only mean to tease her: but it is
wrong to say what never was true.”
Mr Foggo rose, diffusing on every side another puff of his peculiar
element. “When I have quarrelled with everybody, I reckon it is about
time to go home,” said Mr Foggo. “Charlie, step across with me, and get
some nonsense-verses Willsie has been reading, for the girls. Keep in
the same mind, Agnes, and never write poetry--it’s a mystery; no man
should meddle with it till he’s forty--that’s _my_ opinion--and then
there would be as few poets as there are Secretaries of State.”
“Secretaries of State!” exclaimed Papa, restraining his vehemence,
however, till Mr Foggo was fairly gone, and out of hearing--and then Mr
Atheling made a pause. You could not suppose that his next observation
had any reference to this indignant exclamation; it was so oddly out of
connection that even the girls smiled to each other. “I tell you what,
Mary, a man should not be led by fantastic notions--a man should never
do anything that does not come directly in his way,” said Mr Atheling,
and he pushed his grizzled hair back from his brow with heat and
excitement. It was an ordinary saying enough, not much to be marvelled
at. What did Papa mean?
“Then, papa, nothing generous would ever be done in the world,” said
Marian, who, somewhat excited by Mr Foggo, was quite ready for an
argument on any subject, or with any person.
“But things that have to be done always come in people’s way,” said
Agnes; “is not that true? I am sure, when you read people’s lives, the
thing they have to do seems to pursue them; and even if they do not want
it, they cannot help themselves. Papa, is not that true?”
“Ay, ay--hush, children,” said Mr Atheling, vaguely; “I am busy--speak
to your mother.”
They spoke to their mother, but not of this subject. They spoke of Miss
Willsie’s new maid, and conspired together to hinder her going away; and
then they marvelled somewhat over the book which Charlie was to bring
home. Mr Foggo and his maiden sister lived in Bellevue, in one of the
villas semi-detached, which Miss Willsie had named Killiecrankie Lodge,
yet Charlie was some time absent. “He is talking to Mr Foggo, instead of
bringing our book,” said Marian, pouting with her pretty lips. Papa and
Mamma had each of them settled into a brown study--a very brown study,
to judge from appearances. The fire was low--the lights looked dim.
Neither of the girls were doing anything, save waiting on Charlie. They
were half disposed to be peevish. “It is not too late; come and practise
for half an hour, Agnes,” said Marian, suddenly. Mrs Atheling was too
much occupied to suggest, as she usually did, that the music would wake
Bell and Beau: they stole away from the family apartment unchidden and
undetained, and, lighting another candle, entered the genteel and
solemn darkness of the best room. You have not been in the best room;
let us enter with due dignity this reserved and sacred apartment, which
very few people ever enter, and listen to the music which nobody ever
hears.