Old and new Acquaintances
Elated with the idea of seeing life, Pen went into a hundred queer
London haunts. He liked to think he was consorting with all sorts of
men—so he beheld coalheavers in their tap-rooms; boxers in their
inn-parlours; honest citizens disporting in the suburbs or on the
river; and he would have liked to hob and nob with celebrated
pickpockets, or drink a pot of ale with a company of burglars and
cracksmen, had chance afforded him an opportunity of making the
acquaintance of this class of society. It was good to see the gravity
with which Warrington listened to the Tutbury Pet or the Brighton
Stunner at the Champion’s Arms, and behold the interest which he took
in the coalheaving company assembled at the Fox-under-the-Hill. His
acquaintance with the public-houses of the metropolis and its
neighbourhood, and with the frequenters of their various parlours, was
prodigious. He was the personal friend of the landlord and landlady,
and welcome to the bar as to the clubroom. He liked their society, he
said, better than that of his own class, whose manners annoyed him, and
whose conversation bored him. “In society,” he used to say, “everybody
is the same, wears the same dress, eats and drinks, and says the same
things; one young dandy at the club talks and looks just like another,
one Miss at a ball exactly resembles another, whereas there’s character
here. I like to talk with the strongest man in England, or the man who
can drink the most beer in England, or with that tremendous republican
of a hatter, who thinks Thistlewood was the greatest character in
history. I like better gin-and-water than claret. I like a sanded floor
in Carnaby Market better than a chalked one in Mayfair. I prefer Snobs,
I own it.” Indeed, this gentleman was a social republican; and it never
entered his head while conversing with Jack and Tom that he was in any
respect their better; although, perhaps, the deference which they paid
him might secretly please him.
Pen followed him then to these various resorts of men with great glee
and assiduity. But he was considerably younger, and therefore much more
pompous and stately than Warrington, in fact a young prince in
disguise, visiting the poor of his father’s kingdom. They respected him
as a high chap, a fine fellow, a regular young swell. He had somehow
about him an air of imperious good-humour, and a royal frankness and
majesty, although he was only heir-apparent to twopence-halfpenny, and
but one in descent from a gallypot. If these positions are made for us,
we acquiesce in them very easily; and are always pretty ready to assume
a superiority over those who are as good as ourselves. Pen’s
condescension at this time of his life was a fine thing to witness.
Amongst men of ability this assumption and impertinence passes off with
extreme youth: but it is curious to watch the conceit of a generous and
clever lad—there is something almost touching in that early exhibition
of simplicity and folly.
So, after reading pretty hard of a morning, and, I fear, not law
merely, but politics and general history and literature, which were as
necessary for the advancement and instruction of a young man as mere
dry law, after applying with tolerable assiduity to letters, to
reviews, to elemental books of law, and, above all, to the newspaper,
until the hour of dinner was drawing nigh, these young gentlemen would
sally out upon the town with great spirits and appetite, and bent upon
enjoying a merry night as they had passed a pleasant forenoon. It was a
jovial time, that of four-and-twenty, when every muscle of mind and
body was in healthy action, when the world was new as yet, and one
moved over it spurred onwards by good spirits and the delightful
capability to enjoy. If ever we feel young afterwards, it is with the
comrades of that time: the tunes we hum in our old age, are those we
learned then. Sometimes, perhaps, the festivity of that period revives
in our memory; but how dingy the pleasure-garden has grown, how
tattered the garlands look, how scant and old the company, and what a
number of the lights have gone out since that day! Grey hairs have come
on like daylight streaming in—daylight and a headache with it. Pleasure
has gone to bed with the rouge on her cheeks. Well, friend, let us walk
through the day, sober and sad, but friendly.
I wonder what Laura and Helen would have said, could they have seen, as
they might not unfrequently have done had they been up and in London,
in the very early morning when the bridges began to blush in the
sunrise, and the tranquil streets of the city to shine in the dawn, Mr.
Pen and Mr. Warrington rattling over the echoing flags towards the
Temple, after one of their wild nights of carouse—nights wild, but not
so wicked as such nights sometimes are, for Warrington was a
woman-hater; and Pen, as we have said, too lofty to stoop to a vulgar
intrigue. Our young Prince of Fairoaks never could speak to one of the
sex but with respectful courtesy, and shrank from a coarse word or
gesture with instinctive delicacy—for though we have seen him fall in
love with a fool, as his betters and inferiors have done, and as it is
probable that he did more than once in his life, yet for the time of
the delusion it was always as a Goddess that he considered her, and
chose to wait upon her. Men serve women kneeling—when they get on their
feet, they go away.
That was what an acquaintance of Pen’s said to him in his hard homely
way;—an old friend with whom he had fallen in again in London—no other
than honest Mr. Bows of the Chatteris Theatre, who was now employed as
pianoforte player, to accompany the eminent lyrical talent which
nightly delighted the public at the Fielding’s Head in Covent Garden:
and where was held the little club called the Back Kitchen.
Numbers of Pen’s friends frequented this very merry meeting. The
Fielding’s Head had been a house of entertainment, almost since the
time when the famous author of ‘Tom Jones’ presided as magistrate in
the neighbouring Bow Street; his place was pointed out, and the chair
said to have been his, still occupied by the president of the night’s
entertainment. The worthy Cutts, the landlord of the Fielding’s Head,
generally occupied this post when not disabled by gout or other
illness. His jolly appearance and fine voice may be remembered by some
of my male readers: he used to sing profusely in the course of the
harmonic meeting, and his songs were of what may be called the British
Brandy-and-Water School of Song—such as ‘The Good Old English
Gentleman,’ ‘Dear Tom, this Brown Jug,’ and so forth—songs in which
pathos and hospitality are blended, and the praises of good liquor and
the social affections are chanted in a baritone voice. The charms of
our women, the heroic deeds of our naval and military commanders, are
often sung in the ballads of this school; and many a time in my youth
have I admired how Cutts the singer, after he had worked us all up to
patriotic enthusiasm, by describing the way in which the brave
Abercrombie received his death-wound, or made us join him in tears,
which he shed liberally himself, as in faltering accents he told how
autumn’s falling leaf “proclaimed the old man he must die”—how Cutts
the singer became at once Cutts the landlord, and, before the applause
which we were making with our fists on his table, in compliment to his
heart-stirring melody, had died away,—was calling, “Now, gentlemen,
give your orders, the waiter’s in the room—John, a champagne cup for
Mr. Green. I think, sir, you said sausages and mashed potatoes? John,
attend on the gentleman.”
“And I’ll thank ye give me a glass of punch too, John, and take care
the wather boils,” a voice would cry not unfrequently, a well-known
voice to Pen, which made the lad blush and start when he heard it
first—that of the venerable Captain Costigan; who was now established
in London, and one of the great pillars of the harmonic meetings at the
Fielding’s Head.
The Captain’s manners and conversation brought very many young men to
the place. He was a character, and his fame had begun to spread soon
after his arrival in the metropolis, and especially after his
daughter’s marriage. He was great in his conversation to the friend for
the time being (who was the neighbour drinking by his side), about “me
daughther.” He told of her marriage, and of the events previous and
subsequent to that ceremony; of the carriages she kept; of Mirabel’s
adoration for her and for him; of the hundther pounds which he was at
perfect liberty to draw from his son-in-law, whenever necessity urged
him. And having stated that it was his firm intention to “dthraw next
Sathurday, I give ye me secred word and honour next Sathurday, the
fourteenth, when ye’ll see the money will be handed over to me at
Coutts’s, the very instant I present the cheque,” the Captain would not
unfrequently propose to borrow a half-crown of his friend until the
arrival of that day of Greek Calends, when, on the honour of an officer
and gentleman, he would repee the thrifling obligetion.
Sir Charles Mirabel had not that enthusiastic attachment to his
father-in-law, of which the latter sometimes boasted (although in other
stages of emotion Cos would inveigh, with tears in his eyes, against
the ingratitude of the child of his bosom, and the stinginess of the
wealthy old man who had married her); but the pair had acted not
unkindly towards Costigan; had settled a small pension on him, which
was paid regularly, and forestalled with even more regularity by poor
Cos; and the period of the payments was always well known by his friend
at the Fielding’s Head, whither the honest Captain took care to repair,
bank-notes in hand, calling loudly for change in the midst of the full
harmonic meeting. “I think ye’ll find that note won’t be refused at the
Bank of England, Cutts, my boy,” Captain Costigan would say. “Bows,
have a glass? Ye needn’t stint yourself to-night, anyhow; and a glass
of punch will make ye play con spirito.” For he was lavishly free with
his money when it came to him, and was scarcely known to button his
breeches pocket, except when the coin was gone, or sometimes, indeed,
when a creditor came by.
It was in one of these moments of exultation that Pen found his old
friend swaggering at the singers’ table at the Back Kitchen of the
Fielding’s Head, and ordering glasses of brandy-and-water for any of
his acquaintances who made their appearance in the apartment.
Warrington, who was on confidential terms with the bass singer, made
his way up to this quarter of the room, and Pen walked at his friend’s
heels.
Pen started and blushed to see Costigan. He had just come from Lady
Whiston’s party, where he had met and spoken with the Captain’s
daughter again for the first time after very old old days. He came up
with outstretched hand, very kindly and warmly to greet the old man;
still retaining a strong remembrance of the time when Costigan’s
daughter had been everything in the world to him. For though this young
gentleman may have been somewhat capricious in his attachments, and
occasionally have transferred his affections from one woman to another,
yet he always respected the place where Love had dwelt, and, like the
Sultan of Turkey, desired that honours should be paid to the lady
towards whom he had once thrown the royal pocket-handkerchief. The
tipsy Captain returning the clasp of Pen’s hand with all the strength
of a palm which had become very shaky by the constant lifting up of
weights of brandy-and-water, looked hard in Pen’s face, and said,
“Grecious Heavens, is it possible? Me dear boy, me dear fellow, me dear
friend;” and then with a look of muddled curiosity, fairly broke down
with, “I know your face, me dear dear friend, but, bedad, I’ve forgot
your name.” Five years of constant punch had passed since Pen and
Costigan met. Arthur was a good deal changed, and the Captain may surly
be excused for forgetting him; when a man at the actual moment sees
things double, we may expect that his view of the past will be rather
muzzy.
Pen saw his condition and laughed, although, perhaps, he was somewhat
mortified. “Don’t you remember me, Captain?” he said. “I am
Pendennis—Arthur Pendennis, of Chatteris.”
The sound of the young man’s friendly voice recalled and steadied Cos’s
tipsy remembrance, and he saluted Arthur, as soon as he knew him, with
a loud volley of friendly greetings. Pen was his dearest boy, his
gallant young friend, his noble collagian, whom he had held in his
inmost heart ever since they had parted—how was his fawther, no, his
mother, and his guardian, the General, the Major? “I preshoom, from
your apparance, you’ve come into your prawpertee; and, bedad, yee’ll
spend it like a man of spirit—I’ll go bail for that. No? not yet come
into your estete? If ye want any thrifle, heark ye, there’s poor old
Jack Costigan has got a guinea or two in his pocket—and, be heavens!
you shall never want, Awthur, me dear boy. What’ll ye have? John, come
hither, and look aloive; give this gentleman a glass of punch, and I’ll
pay for’t.—Your friend? I’ve seen him before. Permit me to have the
honour of making meself known to ye, sir, and requesting ye’ll take a
glass of punch.”
“I don’t envy Sir Charles Mirabel his father-in-law,” thought
Pendennis. “And how is my old friend, Mr. Bows, Captain? Have you any
news of him, and do you see him still?”
“No doubt he’s very well,” said the Captain, jingling his money, and
whistling the air of a song—‘The Little Doodeen’—for the singing of
which he was celebrated at the Fielding’s Head. “Me dear boy—I’ve
forgot your name again—but my name’s Costigan, Jack Costigan, and I’d
loike ye to take as many tumblers of punch in my name as ever ye loike.
Ye know my name; I’m not ashamed of it.” And so the captain went
maundering on.
“It’s pay-day with the General,” said Mr. Hodgen, the bass singer, with
whom Warrington was in deep conversation: “and he’s a precious deal
more than half seas over. He has already tried that ‘Little Doodeen’ of
his, and broke it, too, just before I sang ‘King Death.’ Have you heard
my new song, ‘The Body Snatcher,’ Mr. Warrington?—angcored at Saint
Bartholomew’s the other night—composed expressly for me. Per’aps you or
your friend would like a copy of the song, sir? John, just ’ave the
kyndness to ’and over a ‘Body Snatcher’ ’ere, will yer?—There’s a
portrait of me, sir, as I sing it—as the Snatcher—considered rather
like.”
“Thank you,” said Warrington; “heard it nine times—know it by heart,
Hodgen.”
Here the gentleman who presided at the pianoforte began to play upon
his instrument, and Pen, looking in the direction of the music, beheld
that very Mr. Bows, for whom he had been asking but now, and whose
existence Costigan had momentarily forgotten. The little old man sate
before the battered piano (which had injured its constitution wofully
by sitting up so many nights, and spoke with a voice, as it were, at
once hoarse and faint), and accompanied the singers, or played with
taste and grace in the intervals of the songs.
Bows had seen and recollected Pen at once when the latter came into the
room, and had remarked the eager warmth of the young man’s recognition
of Costigan. He now began to play an air, which Pen instantly
remembered as one which used to be sung by the chorus of villagers in
‘The Stranger,’ just before Mrs. Haller came in. It shook Pen as he
heard it. He remembered how his heart used to beat as that air was
played, and before the divine Emily made her entry. Nobody, save
Arthur, took any notice of old Bows’s playing: it was scarcely heard
amidst the clatter of knives and forks, the calls for poached eggs and
kidneys, and the tramp of guests and waiters.
Pen went up and kindly shook the player by the hand at the end of his
performance; and Bows greeted Arthur with great respect and cordiality.
“What, you haven’t forgot the old tune, Mr. Pendennis?” he said; “I
thought you’d remember it. I take it, it was the first tune of that
sort you ever heard played—wasn’t it, sir? You were quite a young chap
then. I fear the Captain’s very bad to-night. He breaks out on a
pay-day; and I shall have the deuce’s own trouble in getting home. We
live together. We still hang on, sir, in partnership, though Miss
Em—though my lady Mirabel has left the firm.—And so you remember old
times, do you? Wasn’t she a beauty, sir?—Your health and my service to
you,”—and he took a sip at the pewter measure of porter which stood by
his side as he played.
Pen had many opportunities of seeing his early acquaintance afterwards,
and of renewing his relations with Costigan and the old musician.
As they sate thus in friendly colloquy, men of all sorts and conditions
entered and quitted the house of entertainment; and Pen had the
pleasure of seeing as many different persons of his race, as the most
eager observer need desire to inspect. Healthy country tradesmen and
farmers, in London for their business, came and recreated themselves
with the jolly singing and suppers of the Back Kitchen,—squads of young
apprentices and assistants, the shutters being closed over the scene of
their labours, came hither for fresh air doubtless,—rakish young
medical students, gallant, dashing, what is called “loudly” dressed,
and (must it be owned?) somewhat dirty,—were here smoking and drinking,
and vociferously applauding the songs; young university bucks were to
be found here, too, with that indescribable genteel simper which is
only learned at the knees of Alma Mater;—and handsome young guardsmen,
and florid bucks from the St. James’s Street Clubs—nay, senators
English and Irish; and even members of the House of Peers.
The bass singer had made an immense hit with his song of ‘The Body
Snatcher,’ and the town rushed to listen to it. The curtain drew aside,
and Mr. Hodgen appeared in the character of the Snatcher, sitting on a
coffin, with a flask of gin before him, with a spade, and a candle
stuck in a skull. The song was sung with a really admirable terrific
humour. The singer’s voice went down so low, that its grumbles rumbled
into the hearer’s awe-stricken soul; and in the chorus he clamped with
his spade, and gave a demoniac “Ha! ha!” which caused the very glasses
to quiver on the table, as with terror. None of the other singers, not
even Cutts himself, as that high-minded man owned, could stand up
before the Snatcher, and he commonly used to retire to Mrs. Cutts’s
private apartments, or into the bar, before that fatal song
extinguished him. Poor Cos’s ditty, ‘The Little Doodeen,’ which Bows
accompanied charmingly on the piano, was sung but to a few admirers,
who might choose to remain after the tremendous resurrectionist chant.
The room was commonly emptied after that, or only left in possession of
a very few and persevering votaries of pleasure.
Whilst Pen and his friend were sitting here together one night, or
rather morning, two habitues of the house entered almost together. “Mr.
Hoolan and Mr. Doolan,” whispered Warrington to Pen, saluting these
gentlemen, and in the latter Pen recognised his friend of the Alacrity
coach, who could not dine with Pen on the day on which the latter had
invited him, being compelled by his professional duties to decline
dinner-engagements on Fridays, he had stated, with his compliments to
Mr. Pendennis.
Doolan’s paper, the Dawn, was lying on the table much bestained by
porter, and cheek-by-jowl with Hoolan’s paper, which we shall call the
Day; the Dawn was Liberal—the Day was ultra-Conservative. Many of our
journals are officered by Irish gentlemen, and their gallant brigade
does the penning among us, as their ancestors used to transact the
fighting in Europe; and engage under many a flag, to be good friends
when the battle is over.
“Kidneys, John, and a glass of stout,” says Hoolan. “How are you,
Morgan? how’s Mrs. Doolan?”
“Doing pretty well, thank ye, Mick, my boy—faith she’s accustomed to
it,” said Doolan. “How’s the lady that owns ye? Maybe I’ll step down
Sunday, and have a glass of punch, Kilburn way.”
“Don’t bring Patsey with you, Mick, for our Georgy’s got the measles,”
said the friendly Morgan, and they straightway fell to talk about
matters connected with their trade—about the foreign mails—about who
was correspondent at Paris, and who wrote from Madrid—about the expense
the Morning Journal was at in sending couriers, about the circulation
of the Evening Star, and so forth.
Warrington, laughing, took the Dawn which was lying before him, and
pointed to one of the leading articles in that journal, which commenced
thus—
“As rogues of note in former days who had some wicked work to
perform,—an enemy to be put out of the way, a quantity of false coin to
be passed, a lie to be told or a murder to be done—employed a
professional perjurer or assassin to do the work, which they were
themselves too notorious or too cowardly to execute: our notorious
contemporary, the Day, engages smashers out of doors to utter forgeries
against individuals, and calls in auxiliary cut-throats to murder the
reputation of those who offend him. A black-vizarded ruffian (whom we
will unmask), who signs the forged name of Trefoil, is at present one
of the chief bravoes and bullies in our contemporary’s establishment.
He is the eunuch who brings the bowstring, and strangles at the order
of the Day. We can convict this cowardly slave, and propose to do so.
The charge which he has brought against Lord Bangbanagher, because he
is a Liberal Irish peer, and against the Board of Poor Law Guardians of
the Bangbanagher Union, is,” etc.
“How did they like the article at your place, Mick?” asked Morgan;
“when the Captain puts his hand to it he’s a tremendous hand at a
smasher. He wrote the article in two hours—in—whew—you know where,
while the boy was waiting.”
“Our governor thinks the public don’t mind a straw about these
newspaper rows, and has told the Docthor to stop answering,” said the
other. “Them two talked it out together in my room. The Docthor would
have liked a turn, for he says it’s such easy writing, and requires no
reading up of a subject: but the governor put a stopper on him.”
“The taste for eloquence is going out, Mick,” said Morgan.
“’Deed then it is, Morgan,” said Mick. “That was fine writing when the
Docthor wrote in the Phaynix, and he and Condy Roony blazed away at
each other day after day.”
“And with powder and shot, too, as well as paper,” says Morgan, “Faith,
the Docthor was out twice, and Condy Roony winged his man.”
“They are talking about Doctor Boyne and Captain Shandon,” Warrington
said, “who are the two Irish controversialists of the Dawn and the Day,
Dr. Boyne being the Protestant champion and Captain Shandon the Liberal
orator. They are the best friends in the world, I believe, in spite of
their newspaper controversies; and though they cry out against the
English for abusing their country, by Jove they abuse it themselves
more in a single article than we should take the pains to do in a dozen
volumes. How are you, Doolan?”
“Your servant, Mr. Warrington—Mr. Pendennis, I am delighted to have the
honour of seeing ye again. The night’s journey on the top of the
Alacrity was one of the most agreeable I ever enjoyed in my life, and
it was your liveliness and urbanity that made the trip so charming. I
have often thought over that happy night, sir, and talked over it to
Mrs. Doolan. I have seen your elegant young friend, Mr. Foker, too,
here, sir, not unfrequently. He is an occasional frequenter of this
hostelry, and a right good one it is. Mr. Pendennis, when I saw you I
was on the Tom and Jerry Weekly Paper; I have now the honour to be
sub-editor of the Dawn, one of the best-written papers of the
empire”—and he bowed very slightly to Mr. Warrington. His speech was
unctuous and measured, his courtesy oriental, his tone, when talking
with the two Englishmen, quite different to that with which he spoke to
his comrade.
“Why the devil will the fellow compliment so?” growled Warrington, with
a sneer which he hardly took the pains to suppress. “Psha—who comes
here?—all Parnassus is abroad to-night: here’s Archer. We shall have
some fun. Well, Archer, House up?”
“Haven’t been there. I have been,” said Archer, with an air of mystery,
“where I was wanted. Get me some supper, John—something substantial. I
hate your grandees who give you nothing to eat. If it had been at
Apsley House, it would have been quite different. The Duke knows what I
like, and says to the Groom of the Chambers, ‘Martin, you will have
some cold beef, not too much done, and a pint bottle of pale ale, and
some brown sherry, ready in my study as usual;—Archer is coming here
this evening.’ The Duke doesn’t eat supper himself, but he likes to see
a man enjoy a hearty meal, and he knows that I dine early. A man can’t
live upon air, be hanged to him.”
“Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Pendennis,” Warrington said,
with great gravity. “Pen, this is Mr Archer, whom you have heard me
talk about. You must know Pen’s uncle, the Major, Archer, you who know
everybody?”
“Dined with him the day before yesterday at Gaunt House,” Archer said.
“We were four—the French Ambassador, Steyne, and we two commoners.”
“Why, my uncle is in Scot——” Pen was going to break out, but Warrington
pressed his foot under the table as a signal for him to be quiet.
“It was about the same business that I have been to the palace
to-night,” Archer went on simply, “and where I’ve been kept four hours,
in an anteroom, with nothing but yesterday’s Times, which I knew by
heart, as I wrote three of the leading articles myself; and though the
Lord Chamberlain came in four times, and once holding the royal teacup
and saucer in his hand, he did not so much as say to me, ‘Archer, will
you have a cup of tea?’”
“Indeed! what is in the wind now?” asked Warrington—and turning to Pen,
added, “You know, I suppose, that when there is anything wrong at Court
they always send for Archer.”
“There is something wrong,” said Mr. Archer, “and as the story will be
all over the town in a day or two I don’t mind telling it. At the last
Chantilly races, where I rode Brian Boru for my old friend the Duke de
Saint Cloud—the old King said to me, Archer, I’m uneasy about Saint
Cloud. I have arranged his marriage with the Princess Marie Cunegonde;
the peace of Europe depends upon it—for Russia will declare war if the
marriage does not take place, and the young fool is so mad about Madame
Massena, Marshal Massena’s wife, that he actually refuses to be a party
to the marriage. Well, Sir, I spoke to Saint Cloud, and having got him
into pretty good humour by winning the race, and a good bit of money
into the bargain, he said to me, ‘Archer, tell the Governor I’ll think
of it.’”
“How do you say Governor in French?” asked Pen, who piqued himself on
knowing that language.
“Oh, we speak in English—I taught him when we were boys, and I saved
his life at Twickenham, when he fell out of a punt,” Archer said. “I
shall never forget the Queen’s looks as I brought him out of the water.
She gave me this diamond ring, and always calls me Charles to this
day.”
“Madame Massena must be rather an old woman, Archer,” Warrington said.
“Dev’lish old—old enough to be his grandmother; I told him so,” Archer
answered at once. “But those attachments for old women are the deuce
and all. That’s what the King feels: that’s what shocks the poor Queen
so much. They went away from Paris last Tuesday night, and are living
at this present moment at Jaunay’s Hotel.”
“Has there been a private marriage, Archer?” asked Warrington.
“Whether there has or not I don’t know,” Mr. Archer replied, “all I
know is that I was kept waiting for four hours at the palace; that I
never saw a man in such a state of agitation as the King of Belgium
when he came out to speak to me, and that I’m devilish hungry—and here
comes some supper.”
“He has been pretty well to-night,” said Warrington, as the pair went
home together: “but I have known him in much greater force, and keeping
a whole room in a state of wonder. Put aside his archery practice, that
man is both able and honest—a good man of business, an excellent
friend, admirable to his family as husband, father, and son.”
“What is it makes him pull the long bow in that wonderful manner?”
“An amiable insanity,” answered Warrington. “He never did anybody harm
by his talk, or said evil of anybody. He is a stout politician too, and
would never write a word or do an act against his party, as many of us
do.”
“Of us! Who are we?” asked Pen. “Of what profession is Mr. Archer?”
“Of the Corporation of the Goosequill—of the Press, my boy,” said
Warrington; “of the fourth estate.”
“Are you, too, of the craft, then?” Pendennis said.
“We will talk about that another time,” answered the other. They were
passing through the Strand as they talked, and by a newspaper office,
which was all lighted up and bright. Reporters were coming out of the
place, or rushing up to it in cabs; there were lamps burning in the
editors’ rooms, and above where the compositors were at work: the
windows of the building were in a blaze of gas.
“Look at that, Pen,” Warrington said. “There she is—the great
engine—she never sleeps. She has her ambassadors in every quarter of
the world—her couriers upon every road. Her officers march along with
armies, and her envoys walk into statesmen’s cabinets. They are
ubiquitous. Yonder journal has an agent, at this minute, giving bribes
at Madrid; and another inspecting the price of potatoes in Covent
Garden. Look! here comes the Foreign Express galloping in. They will be
able to give news to Downing Street to-morrow: funds will rise or fall,
fortunes be made or lost; Lord B. will get up, and, holding the paper
in his hand, and seeing the noble marquis in his place, will make a
great speech; and—and Mr. Doolan will be called away from his supper at
the Back Kitchen; for he is foreign sub-editor, and sees the mail on
the newspaper sheet before he goes to his own.”
And so talking, the friends turned into their chambers, as the dawn was
beginning to peep.