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page; and if the verses are liked, why, you'll get an entrée into Bacon's magazines, and may turn a decent penny.”
Pen examined his portfolio and found another ballad which he thought might figure with advantage in the “Spring Annual," and consigning these two precious documents to Warrington, the pair walked from the Temple to the famous haunt of the Muses and their masters, Paternoster Row. Bacon's shop was an ancient low-browed building with a few of the books published by the firm displayed in the windows, under a bust of my Lord of Verulam, and the name of Mr. Bacon in brass on the private door. Exactly opposite to Bacon's house was that of Mr. Bungay, which was newly painted and elaborately decorated in the style of the seventeenth century, so that you might have fancied stately Mr. Evelyn passing over the threshold, or curious Mr. Pepys examining the books in the window. Warrington went into the shop of Mr. Bacon, but Pen stayed without. It was agreed that his ambassador should act for him entirely; and the young fellow paced up and down the street in a very nervous condition until he should learn the result of the negotiation. Many a poor devil before him has trodden those flags, with similar cares and anxieties at his heels, his bread and his fame dependent upon the sentence of his magnanimous patrons of the Row. Pen looked at all the windows of all the shops; and the strange variety of literature which they exhibit. In this were displayed black-letter volumes and books in the clear pale types of Aldus and Elzevir: in the next, you might see the “Penny Horrific Register ; ” the “Halfpenny Annals of Crime,” and “History of the most celebrated Murderers of all Countries,” “The Raff's Magazine,” “The Larky Swell,” and other publications of the penny press; whilst at the next window, portraits of illfavoured individuals, with facsimiles of the venerated signatures of the Reverend Grimes Wapshot, the Reverend Elias Howle, and the works written and the sermons preached by them, showed the British Dissenter where he could find mental pabulum. Hard by would be a little casement hung with emblems, with medals and rosaries, with little paltry prints of saints gilt and painted, and books of controversial theology, by which the faithful of the Roman opinion might learn a short way to deal with Protestants, at a penny a piece, or ninepence the dozen for distribution; whilst in the very next window you might see “ Come out of Rome," a sermon preached at the opening of the Shepherd's Bush College, by John Thomas Lord Bishop of Ealing. Scarce an opinion but has its expositor and its place of exhibition in this peaceful old Paternoster Row, under the toll of the bells of Saint Paul.
Pen looked in at all the windows and shops, as a gentleman, who is going to have an interview with the dentist, examines the books on the waiting-room table. He remembered them afterwards. It seemed to him that Warrington would never come out; and indeed the latter was engaged for some time in pleading his friend's cause.
Pen's natural conceit would have swollen immensely if he could but have heard the report which Warrington gave of him. It happened that Mr. Bacon himself had occasion to descend to Mr. Hack's room whilst Warrington was talking there, and Warrington knowing Bacon's weaknesses, acted upon them with great adroitness in his friend's behalf. In the first place, he put on his hat to speak to Bacon, and addressed him from the table on which he seated himself. Bacon liked to be treated with rudeness by a gentleman, and used to pass it on to his inferiors as boys pass the mark. “What! not know Mr. Pendennis, Mr. Bacon?” Warrington said. “You can't live much in the world, or you would know him. A man of property in the West, of one of the most ancient families in England, related to half the nobility in the empire-he's cousin to Lord Pontypool-he was one of the most distinguished men at Oxbridge; he dines at Gaunt House every week.”
“Law bless me, you don't say so, sir. Well-really-Law bless me now," said Mr. Bacon.
“I have just been showing Mr. Hack some of his verses, which he sat up last night, at my request, to write; and Hack talks about giving him a copy of the book—the whatd'you-call-'em.”
“Law bless me now, does he? The what-d'you-call-'em. Indeed!"
“ The 'Spring Annual' is its name, -as payment for these verses. You don't suppose that such a man as Mr. Arthur Pendennis gives up a dinner at Gaunt House for nothing ? You know, as well as anybody, that the men of fashion want to be paid.”
“That they do, Mr. Warrington, sir," said the publisher.
“I tell you he's a star; he'll make a name, sir. He's a new man sir.”
“ They've said that of so many of those young swells, Mr. Warrington,” the publisher interposed with a sigh. “There was Lord Viscount Dodo, now; I gave his Lordship a good bit of money for his poems, and only sold eighty copies. Mr. Popjoy's 'Hadgincourt, sir, fell dead."
“Well, then, I'll take my man over to Bungay,” Warrington said, and rose from the table. This threat was too much for Mr. Bacon, who was instantly ready to accede to any reasonable proposal of Mr. Warrington's, and finally asked his manager what those proposals were. When he heard that the negotiation only related as yet to a couple of ballads, which Mr. Warrington offered for the “ Spring Annual,” Mr. Bacon said, “Law bless you, give him a cheque directly;” and with this paper Warrington went out to his friend, and placed it, grinning, in Pen's hands. Pen was as elated as if somebody had left him a fortune. He offered Warrington a dinner at Richmond instantly. “What should he go and buy for Laura and his mother ? He must buy something for them.”
"They'll like the book better than anything else,” said Warrington, “with the young one's name to the verses, printed among the swells.”
“Thank God; thank God!” cried Arthur, "I needn't be a charge upon the old mother. I can pay off Laura now. I can get my own living. I can make my own way."
“I can marry the grand vizier's daughter: I can purchase a house in Belgrave Square; I can build a fine castle in the air;” said Warrington, pleased with the other's exultation. “Well, you may get bread and cheese, Pen: and I own it tastes well, the bread which you earn yourself.”
They had a magnum of claret at dinner at the club that
day, at Pen's charges. It was long since he had indulged in such a luxury, but Warrington would not balk him: and they drank together to the health of the “Spring Annual."
It never rains but it pours, according to the proverb; so very speedily another chance occurred, by which Mr. Pen was to be helped in his scheme of making a livelihood. Warrington one day threw him a letter across the table, which was brought by a printer's boy, “ from Captain Shandon, sir ”— the little emissary said : and then went and fell asleep on his accustomed bench in the passage. He paid many a subsequent visit there, and brought many a message to Pen.
“F. P. Tuesday Morning. “ MY DEAR SIR,
“Bungay will be here to-day about the Pall Mall Gazette. You would be the very man to help us with a genuine West End article,—you understand-dashing, trenchant, and d—- aristocratic. Lady Hipshaw will write : but she's not much, you know, and we've two lords; but the less they do the better. We must have you. We'll give you your own terms, and we'll make a hit with the Gazette. “ Shall B. come and see you, or can you look in upon me here?
“Some more opposition,” Warrington said, when Pen had read the note. “Bungay and Bacon are at daggers drawn; each married the sister of the other, and they were for some time the closest friends and partners. Hack says it was Mrs. Bungay who caused all the mischief between the two; whereas Shandon, who reads for Bungay a good deal, says Mrs. Bacon did the business; but I don't know which is right, Peachum or Lockit. Since they have separated, it is a furious war between the two publishers; and no sooner does one bring out a book of travels, or poems, a magazine or periodical, quarterly, or monthly, or weekly, or annual, but the rival is in the field with something similar. I have heard poor Shandon tell with great glee how he made Bungay give a grand dinner at Blackwall to all his writers, by saying that Bacon had invited his corps to an entertainment at Greenwich. When Bungay engaged your celebrated friend Mr. Wagg to
edit the Londoner, Bacon straightway rushed off and secured Mr. Grindle to give his name to the Westminster Magazine. When Bacon brought out his comic Irish novel of ‘Barney Brallagan,' off went Bungay to Dublin, and produced his rollicking Hibernian story of Looney Mac Twolter. When Doctor Hicks brought out his 'Wanderings in Mesopotamia' under Bacon's auspices, Bungay produced Professor Sadiman's * Researches in Zahara ;' and Bungay is publishing his Pall Mall Gazette as a counterpoise to Bacon's Whitehall Review. Let us go and hear about the Gazette. There may be a place for you in it, Pen, my boy. We will go and see Shandon. We are sure to find him at home."
“Where does he live ?” asked Pen.
“In the Fleet Prison," Warrington said. “And very much at home he is there, too. He is the king of the place."
Pen had never seen this scene of London life, and walked with no small interest in at the grim gate of that dismal edifice. They went through the anteroom, where the officers and janitors of the place were seated, and passing in at the wicket, entered the prison. The noise and the crowd, the life and the shouting, the shabby bustle of the place, struck and excited Pen. People moved about ceaselessly and restless, like caged animals in a menagerie. Men were playing at fives. Others pacing and tramping : this one in colloquy with his lawyer in dingy black—that one walking sadly, with his wife by his side, and a child on his arm. Some were arrayed in tattered dressing-gowns, and had a look of rakish fashion. Everybody seemed to be busy, humming, and on the move. Pen felt as if he choked in the place, and as if the door being locked upon him they never would let him out.
They went through a court up a stone staircase, and through passages full of people, and noise, and cross lights, and black doors clapping and banging ;-Pen feeling as one does in a feverish morning dream. At last the same little runner who had brought Shandon's note, and had followed them down Fleet Street munching apples, and who showed the way to the two gentlemen through the prison, said, “ This is the Captain's door,” and Mr. Shandon's voice from within bade them enter.