OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
[Illustration]
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-parlors; honest citizens disporting in the suburbs or on the river;
and he would have liked to hob and nob with celebrated pick-pockets, 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 neighborhood, and with the frequenters of their
various parlors, was prodigious. He was the personal friend of the
landlord and landlady, and welcome to the bar as to the club-room. 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, "ever body 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 gin-and-water better 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-humor, 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.
Among 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
onward by good spirits and the delightful capability to enjoy. If ever
we feel young afterward, 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! Gray 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 toward 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 on 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 Chatteries Theater, who was now employed
as piano-forte 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 neighboring 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 barytone 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 neighbor drinking by his side), about "me daughter."
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 honor 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 check," 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 honor 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 toward
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 were 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, any how; 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
out-stretched hand, very kindly and warmly to greet the old man; still
retaining a strong remembrance, of the time when Costigan's daughter had
been every thing 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 honors should be paid to the lady toward 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 surely
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 Chatteries."
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, that
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 honor 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 piano-forte 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 woefully
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' playing: it was scarcely heard amid 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 acquaintances afterward,
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 labors, 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. A 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 humor.
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' 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.
While 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 recognized 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, Morgan, for Georgy's got the measles,"
said the friendly Mick, 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," &c.
"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
honor 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 honor 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
every body."
"Dined with him the day before yesterday at Gaunt House," Archer said.
"We were four--the French embassador, 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
ante-room, 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 any thing 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 St. 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 humor 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 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 any body harm
by his talk, or said evil of any body. 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 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 embassadors 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, and the dawn was
beginning to peep.