mil 
 
 M 

 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 / 
 
 UNIVERSITY of CAUFOJmU
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray
 
 -^ 
 
 ;• > 
 
 
 ARTHUR MEETS WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 Froniis, Thackeray — Pendtnnit, I
 
 COMPLETE WORKS OF 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 
 THACKERAY 
 
 IN TWENTY VOLUMES 
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 PENDENNIS 
 
 VOLUME ONE 
 
 WITH DRAWINGS BY RICHARD DOYLE, FREDERICK 
 
 WALKER, CHARLES GREEN, GEORGE DU 
 
 MAURIER, R. A. WALLACE, AND 
 
 W. M. THACKERAY 
 
 mm 
 
 NEW YORK 
 P. F. COLLIER & SON 
 
 M C M I I 
 
 D b i^ J .<i
 
 
 • • • • « 
 
 > • • • • • 4
 
 
 TO DR. JOHN ELLIOTSON. 
 
 Mr DEAR Doctor, 
 
 Thirteen months ago, when it seemed likely that this stoj^ 
 had come to a close, a kind friend brought you to my bedside, 
 whence, in all probability, I never should have risen but for 
 30ur constant watchfulness and skill. I like to recall your 
 great goodness and kindness (as well as many acts of others, 
 showing quite a surprising friendship and sympathy) at that 
 time, when kindness and friendship were most needed and 
 welcome. 
 
 And as you would take no other fee but thanks, let me 
 record them here in behalf of me and mine, and subscribe 
 myself, 
 
 Yours most sincerely and gratefully, 
 
 W. M. THACKERAl
 
 kJ 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 Chapter Pagb 
 
 I. SL'Jws how First Love may interrupt Breakfast ... 1 
 
 n. A Pedigree and other Family Matters ...... 5 
 
 ill. In which Pendennis appears as a very young Man 
 
 indeed 21 
 
 IV. Mrs. Haller 34 
 
 V. Mrs. Haller at Home 42 
 
 VI. Contains both Love and War 55 
 
 VII. In which the Major makes his Appearance .... 67 
 
 VIII. In which Pen is kept waiting at the Door, while the 
 
 Reader is informed who Little Laura was .... 75 
 
 IX. In which the ^Nlajor opens the Campaign 87 
 
 X. Facing the Enemy 94 
 
 XL Negotiation 100 
 
 XII. In which a Shooting Match is proposed ..... 109 
 
 XIII. A Crisis 117 
 
 XIV. In which Miss Fotheringay makes a New Engagement 125 
 XV. The Happy Village 133 
 
 XVI. "WTiich concludes the First Part of this History . . . 143 
 
 XVII. Alma Mater 160 
 
 XVIII. Pendennis of Boniface 169 
 
 XIX. Rake's Progr(^ss 183 
 
 XX. Flight after Defeat 191 
 
 XXI. Prodigal's Return 198 
 
 XXII. New Faces 207 
 
 XXIII. A Little Innocent 224 
 
 XXIV. Contains both Love and Jealousy 234
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter Paob 
 
 XXV. A House full of Visitors 243 
 
 XXVI. Contains some Ball-practising 257 
 
 XXVn. Which is both Quarrelsome and Sentimental . . 266 
 
 XXVIII. Babylon 280 
 
 XXIX. The Knights of the Temple 292 
 
 XXX. Old and New Acquaintances 301 
 
 XXXI. In which the Printer's Devil comes to the Door , 313 
 
 XXXII. Which is passed in the Neighborhood of Ludgate 
 
 Hill 326 
 
 XXXni. In which the History still hovers about Fleet Street 336 
 
 XXXIV. A Dinner in the Row 342 
 
 XXXV. The "Pall Mall Gazette" 353 
 
 XXXVI. Where Pen appears in Town and Country . . . 359 
 
 XXXVII. In which the Sylph reappears 374 
 
 XXXVHI. In which Colonel Altamont appears and disappears 382
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 If this kind of composition, of which the two years' product 
 is now laid before the public, fail in art, as it constantly- does 
 and must, it at least has the advantage of a certain truth and 
 honesty, which a work more elaborate might lose. In his con- 
 stant communication with the reader, the writer is forced into 
 frankness of expression, and to speak out his own mind and 
 feeUngs as they urge him. Many a slip of the pen and the 
 printer, many a word spoken in haste, he sees and would recall 
 as he looks over his volume. It is a sort of confidential talk 
 between writer and reader, which must often be dull, must often 
 flag. In the course of his volubility, the perpetual speaker 
 must of necessit}- lay bare his own weaknesses, vanities, pe- 
 culiarities. And as we judge of a man's character, after long 
 frequenting his society, not b}'^ one speech, or by one mood or 
 opinion, or by one day's talk, but by the tenor of his general 
 bearing and conversation ; so of a writer, who delivers himself 
 up to you perforce unreservedly, you say. Is he honest? Does 
 he tell the truth in the main? Does he seem actuated bj' a 
 desire to find out and speak it? Is he a quack, who shams 
 sentiment, or mouths for eflfect ? Does he seek popularity by 
 claptraps or other arts? I can no more ignore good fortune 
 than an}- other chance which has befallen me. I have found 
 man}' thousands more readers than I ever looked for. I have 
 no right to say to these. You shall not find fault with my art, 
 or fall asleep over my pages ; but I ask 3'ou to believe that this 
 person writing strives to tell the truth. If there is not that, 
 there is nothing.
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 Perhaps the lovers of " excitement" maj^ care to know, that 
 this book began with a very precise plan, which was entirely 
 put aside. Ladies and gentlemen, you were to have been 
 treated, and the writer's and the publisher's pocket benefited, 
 by the recital of the most active horrors. What more exciting 
 than a ruffian (with many admirable virtues) in St. Giles's, 
 visited constantly by a young lady from Belgravia? What 
 more stirring than the contrasts of societ}'? the mixture of 
 slang and fashionable language? the escapes, the battles, the 
 murders? Nay, up to nine o'clock this very morning, my 
 poor friend. Colonel Altamont, was doomed to execution, and 
 the author only relented when his victim was actually' at the 
 window. 
 
 The " exciting" plan was laid aside (with a \evy honorable 
 forbearance on the part of the publishers), because, on attempt- 
 ing it, I found that I failed from want of experience of my 
 subject ; and never having been intimate with an}' convict in 
 m}^ life, and the manners of ruffians and gaol-birds being quite 
 unfamiliar to me, the idea of entering into competition with 
 M. Eugene Sue was abandoned. To describe a real rascal, 
 you must make him so horrible that he would be too hideous to 
 show ; and unless the painter paints him fairly, I hold he has 
 no right to show him at all. 
 
 Even the gentlemen of our age — this is an attempt to 
 describe one of them, no better nor worse than most educated 
 men — even these we cannot show as the}' are, with the no-, 
 torious foibles and selfishness of their lives and their education. 
 Since the author of Tom Jones was buried, no writer of fiction 
 among us has been permitted to depict to his utmost power a 
 Man. We must drape him, and give him a certain conven- 
 tional simper. Society will not tolerate the Natural in our 
 Art. Many ladies have remonstrated and subscribers left me, 
 because in the course of the story, I described a young man 
 resisting and affected by temptation. My object was to say,
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 that he had the passions to feel, and the manliness and gen- 
 erosit}' to overcome them. You will not hear — it is best to 
 know it — what moves in the real world, what passes in society, 
 in the clubs, colleges, mess-rooms, — what is the life and talk 
 of your sons. A little more frankness than is customary has 
 been attempted in this story ; with no bad desire on the writer's 
 part, it is hoped, and with no iU consequence to any reader. 
 If truth is not always pleasant ; at any rate truth is best, from 
 whatever chair — from those whence graver writers or thinkers 
 argue, as from that at which the stor3--telIer sits as he concludee 
 his labor, and bids his kind reader farewell. 
 
 Kensington, Not. 26, 1860.
 
 PENDENNIS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SHOWS HOW FIRST LOVE MAY INTERRUPT BREAKFAST. 
 
 One fine morning in the full London season, Major Arthur 
 Pendennis came over from his lodgings, according to his cus- 
 tom, to breakfast at a certain Club in Pall Mall, of which he 
 was a chief ornament. At a quarter past ten the Major inva- 
 riably made his appearance in the best blacked Ijoots in all 
 London, with a checked morning cravat that never was rumpled 
 until dinner time, a buff waistcoat which bore the crown of his 
 sovereign on the buttons, and linen so spotless that Mr. Brum- 
 mel himself asked the name of his laundress, and would proba- 
 bly have employed her had not misfortunes compelled that 
 great man to tly the countr3\ Pendennis's coat, his white 
 gloves, his whiskers, his very cane, were perfect of their kind 
 as specimens of the costume of a military man en retraite. At 
 a distance, or seeing his back merel}', you would have taken 
 liim to be not more than thirt}^ 3'ears old : it was only by a 
 nearer inspection that you saw the factitious nature of his rich 
 'brown hair, and that there were a few crows-feet round about 
 the somewhat faded e3'es of his handsome mottled face. His 
 nose was of the Wellington pattern. His hands and wristbands 
 were beautifullj^ long and white. On the latter he wore hand- 
 some gold buttons given to him by his Royal Highness the 
 Duke of York, and on the others more than one elegant ring, 
 the chief and largest of them being emblazoned with the famous 
 arms of Pendennis. 
 
 He always took possession of the same table in the same 
 corner of the room, from which nobody ever now thought of 
 ousting him. One or two mad wags and wild fellows had. in 
 
 1
 
 2 PENDENNTS. 
 
 former days, endeavored to deprive him of this place ; but there 
 was a quiet dignity in the Major's manner as he took his seat 
 at the next table, and surveyed the interlopers, which rendered 
 it impossible for any man to sit and breakfast under his e^-e ; 
 and that table — by the fire, and yet near the window — became 
 his own. His letters were laid out there in expectation of his 
 arrival, and man}' was the young fellow about town who looked 
 with wonder at the number of those notes, and at the seals and 
 franks which they bore. If there was any question about eti- 
 quette, societj', who was married to whom, of what age such 
 and such a duke was, Pendennis was the man to whom ever}' 
 one appealed. Marchionesses used to drive up to the Club, and 
 leave notes for him, or fetch him out. He was perfectly affable. 
 The young men liked to walk with him in the Park or down 
 Pall Mall ; for he touched his hat to everybody, and every other 
 man he met was a lord. 
 
 The Major sat down at his accustomed table then, and while 
 the waiters went to bring him his toast and his hot newspaper, 
 he surveyed his letters through his gold double eye-glass, and 
 examined one pretty note after another, and laid them by in 
 order. There were large solemn dinner cards, suggestive of 
 three courses and heavy conversation ; there were neat little 
 confidential notes, conveying female entreaties ; there was a 
 note on thick official paper from the Marquis of Steyne, telling 
 him to come to Richmond to a little party at the Star and 
 Garter ; and another from the Bishop of Ealing and Mrs. Trail, 
 requesting the honor of Major Pendennis's company at Ealing 
 House, all of which letters Pendennis read gracefully, and with 
 the more satisfaction, because Glowry, the Scotch surgeon, 
 breakfasting opposite to him, was looking on, and hating him 
 for having so many invitations, which nobody ever sent to 
 Glowry. 
 
 These perused, the Major took out his pocket-book to see 
 on what days he was disengaged, and which of these many 
 hospitable calls he could aflTord to accept or decline. 
 
 He threw over Cutler, the East India Director, in Baker 
 Street, in order to dine with Lord Steyne and the little French 
 party at the Star and Garter — the Bishop he accepted, because, 
 though the dinner was slow, he liked to dine with bishops — 
 and so went through his list and disposed of them according to 
 his fancy or interest. Then he took his breakfast and looked 
 over the paper, the gazette, the births and deaths, and the 
 fashionable intelhgence, to see that his name was down among 
 the guests at my Lord So-aud-so's fete, and in the intervals of
 
 PENDENNIS. 3 
 
 these ©ceupations carried on cheerful conversation -with his 
 acquaintances about the room. 
 
 Among the letters which formed Major Pendennis's budget 
 for that morning there was only one unread, and which lay 
 solitary' and apart from all the fashionable London lettei's, with 
 a country postmark and a homel}- seal. The superscription 
 was in a pretty delicate female hand, marked "immediate" by 
 the fair writer ; yet the Major had, for reasons of his own, 
 neglected up to the present moment his humble rural petitioner, 
 who to be sure could hardl}' hope to get a hearing among so 
 manj' grand folks who attended his levee. The fact was, this 
 was a letter from a female relative of Pendennis, and while the 
 grandees of her brother's acquaintance were received and got 
 their interview, and drove off, as it were, the patient countrj' 
 letter remained for a long time waiting for an audience in the 
 ante-chamber, under the slop-basin. 
 
 At last it came to be this letter's turn, and the Major broke 
 a seal with ' ' Fairoaks " engraved upon it, and ' ' Clavering St. 
 Mary's" for a post-mark. It was a double letter, and the 
 Major commenced perusing the envelope before he attacked the 
 inner epistle. 
 
 "Is it a letter from another Jook" growled Mr. Glowry, 
 inwardly. " Pendennis would not be leaving that to the last, 
 I'm thinking." 
 
 "My dear Major Pendennis," the letter ran, "I beg and 
 implore you to come to me immediately " — very likely, thought 
 Pendennis, and Steyne's dinner to-day — "I am in the great- 
 est grief and perplexity. My dearest boy, who has been 
 hitherto everything the fondest mother could wish, is grieving 
 me dreadfully. He has formed — I can hardly write it — a pas- 
 sion, an infatuation," — the Major grinned — "for an actress 
 who has been performing here. She is at least twelve 3'ears 
 older than Arthur — who will not be eighteen till next February 
 — and the wretched boy insists upon marrying her." ^ 
 
 "Hay! What's making Pendennis swear now?" — Mr. 
 Glowry asked of himself, for rage and wonder were concen- 
 trated in the Major's open mouth, as he read this astounding 
 announcement. 
 
 "Do, my dear friend," the grief-stricken lady went on, 
 " come to me instantl}- on the receipt of this ; and, as Arthur's 
 guardian, entreat, command, the wretched child to give up this 
 most deplorable resolution." And, after more entreaties to the 
 above effect, the writer concluded b}' signing herself the Major's 
 ' ' unhappy affectionate sister, Helen Pendennis."
 
 4 PENDENNIS 
 
 " Fairoaks, Tuesday" — the Major concluded, reading the 
 last words of the letter — "Ad — d pretty business at Fair- 
 oaks, Tuesda}' ; now let us see what the boy has to say ; " and 
 he took the other letter, which was written in a great flounder- 
 ing boy's hand, and sealed with the large signet of the Penden- 
 nises, even larger than the Major's own, and with supplementary 
 wax sputtered all round the seal, in token of the writer's tremu- 
 lousness and agitation. 
 
 The epistle ran thus — 
 
 " Fairoaks, Monday, Midnight. 
 
 "My dear Uncle, — In informing you of my engagement with Miss 
 Costigan, daughter of J. Cliesterfield Costigan, Esq., of Costiganstown, but, 
 perhaps, better known to you under her professional name of Miss Fother- 
 ingay, of the Theatres Royal Drury Lane and Crow Street, and of the Nor- 
 wich and Welsli Circuit, I am aware that I make an announcement which 
 cannot, according to the present prejudices of society at least, be welcome 
 to my family. My dearest mother, on whom, God knows, I would wish to 
 inflict no needless pain, is deeply moved and grieved, I am sorry to say, by 
 the intelligence wliich I have this night conveyed to her. I beseech you, 
 my dear Sir, to come down and reason with her and console her. Although 
 obliged by poverty to earn an honorable maintenance by the exercise of 
 her splendid talents, Miss Costigan's family is as ancient and noble as our 
 own. When our ancestor, Ralph Pendennis, landed with Richard II. in 
 Ireland, my Emily's forefathers were kings of that country. I have the 
 information from Mr. Costigan, who, like yourself, is a military man. 
 
 " It is in vain I have attempted to argue with my dear mother, and 
 prove to her that a young lady of irreproachable character and lineage, 
 endowed with the most splendid gifts of beauty and genius, who devotes 
 herself to the exercise of one of the noblest professions, for the sacred pur- 
 pose of maintaining her family, is a being whom we should all love and 
 reverence, rather than avoid; — my poor mother has prejudices which it is 
 impossible for my logic to overcome, and refuses to welcome to her arms 
 one who is disposed to be her most affectionate daughter through life. 
 
 " Although Miss Costigan is some years older than myself, that circum- 
 stance does not operate as a barrier to my affection, and I am sure will not 
 influence its duration. A love like mine. Sir, I feel, is contracted once and 
 forever. As I never had dreamed of love until I saw her — I feel now 
 that I shall die without ever knowing another passion. It is the fate of my 
 life ; and having loved once, I should despise myself, and be unworthy of 
 my name as a gentleman, if I hesitated to abide by my passion : if I did 
 not give all where I felt all, and endow the woman who loves me fondly 
 with my whole heart and my whole fortune. 
 
 " I press for a speedy marriage with my Emily — for why, in truth, 
 should it be delayed ? A delay implies a doubt, which I cast from me as 
 unworthy. It is impossible that my sentiments can change towards Emily 
 — that at any age she can be anything but the sole object of my lov«. 
 Why, then, wait ? I entreat you, my dear Uncle, to come down and recon- 
 cile my dear mother to our union, and I address you as a man of the 
 world, qui mores hominum multwum vidil el urbes, who wiU not feel an^ of 
 the weak scruples and fears which agitate a lady who has scarcely •»« 
 Jeft her Tillage.
 
 PENDENNIS. 6 
 
 " Pray, come down to us immediately. I am quite confident that — 
 apart from considerations of fortune — you will admire and approve of mj 
 Emily. 
 
 " Your affectionate Nephew, 
 
 "Arthur Pendennis, Jr." 
 
 When the Major had concluded the perusal of this letter, 
 his countenance assumed an expression of such rage and horroi 
 that Glowr}', the surgeon, felt in his pocket for his lancet, which 
 he always carried in his card-case, and thought his respected 
 friend was going into a fit. The intelligence was indeed suffi- 
 cient to agitate Pendennis. The head of the Pendennises going 
 to marry an actress ten years his senior, — the head-strong 
 bo3' about to plunge into matrimony. " The motlier has spoiled 
 the 3'oung rascal," groaned the Major inwardly, " with her 
 cursed sentimentality and romantic rubbish. My nephew marry 
 a tragedy queen ! Gracious mercy, people will laugh at me so 
 that I shall not dare show m}' head ! " And he thought with 
 an inexpressible pang that he must give up Lord Steyne's dinner 
 at Richmond, and must lose his rest and pass the night in an 
 abominable tight mail-coacli, instead of taking pleasure, as he 
 had promised himself, in some of the most agreeable and select 
 societ}' in England. 
 
 He quitted his breakfast-table for the adjoining writing- 
 room, and there ruefully wrote off refusals to the Marquis, the 
 Earl, the Bishop, and all his entertainers ; and he ordered his 
 servant to take places in the mail-coach for that evening, of 
 course charging the sum which he disbursed for the seats to the 
 account of the widow and the j'oung scapegrace of wkom he 
 was guardian. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A PEDIGREE AND OTHER FAMILY MATTERS. 
 
 Early in the Regency of George the Magnificent, there lived 
 in a small town in the west of England, called Clavering, a 
 gentleman whose name was Pendennis. There were those alive 
 who remembered having seen his name painted on a board, 
 which was surmounted by a gilt pestle and mortar over the 
 door of a very humble little shop in the city of Bath, where Mr, 
 Pendennis exercised the profession of apothecary and surgeon ; 
 and where he not onl^ attended gentlemen in their sick-rooms,
 
 6 PENDENNIS. • 
 
 and ladies at the most interesting periods of their lives, but 
 would condescend to sell a brown-paper plaster to a farmer's 
 wife across the counter, — or to vend tooth-brushes, hair-pow- 
 der, and London perfumer}'. 
 
 And yet that little apothecary who sold a straj^ customer a 
 pennyworth of salts, or a more fragrant cake of Windsor soap, 
 was a gentleman of good education, and of as old a famil}- ag 
 any in the whole county of Somerset. He had a Cornish pedi- 
 gree which carried the Pendennises up to the time of the Druids, 
 — and who knows how much farther back? Thej^ had inter- 
 married with the Normans at a very late period of their famity 
 existence, and they were related to all the great families of 
 Wales and Brittany. Pendennis had had a piece of Universit}'' 
 education too, and might have pursued that career with honor, 
 but in his second year at Oxbridge his father died insolvent, 
 and poor Pen was obliged to betake himself to the pestle and 
 apron. He always detested the trade, and it was only neces- 
 sity, and the offer of his mother's brother, a London apothecary 
 of low family, into which Pendennis's father had demeaned him- 
 self by marr^ang, that forced John Pendennis into so odious a 
 calling. 
 
 He quickl}' after his apprenticeship parted from the coarse- 
 minded practitioner his relative, and set up for himself at Bath 
 with his modest medical ensign. He had for some time a hard 
 struggle with poverty' : and it was all he could do to keep the 
 shop in decent repair, and his bed-ridden mother in comfort : 
 but Lady Ribstone happening to be passing to the Rooms with 
 an intoxicated Irish chairman who bumped her lad^-ship up 
 against Pen's ver^^ doorpost, and drove his chair-pole through 
 the handsomest pink bottle in the surgeon's window, alighted 
 screaming frojn her vehicle, and was accommodated with a chair 
 in Mr. Pendennis's shop, where she was brought round with 
 cinnamon and sal- volatile. 
 
 Mr. Pendennis's manners were so uncommonlv gentleman- 
 like and soothing, that her ladyship, the wife of Sir Pepin 
 Ribstone, of Codlingbury, in the county of Somerset, Bart., 
 appointed her preserver, as she called him, apothecary to her 
 person and family, which was very large. Master Ribstone 
 coming home for the Christmas holiday's from Eton, over-ate 
 himself and had a fever, in which Mr. Pendennis treated him 
 with the greatest skill and tenderness. In a word, he got the 
 good graces of the Codlingbury family, and from that day 
 began to prosper. The good company of Bath patronized him, 
 and amongst the ladies espedally he was beloved and admired.
 
 iPENDEXNIS. 7 
 
 First his humble little shop became a smart one : then he dis- 
 carded the selling of tooth-brushes and perfumer}^ : then he 
 shut up the shop altogether, and only had a little surgery at- 
 tended by a genteel young man : then he had a gig with a mai\ 
 to drive him ; and, before her exit from this world, his pooi 
 old mother had the happiness of seeing from her bedroom win« 
 dow, to which her chair was rolled, her beloved John step into 
 a close carriage of his own, a one-horse carriage it is true, but 
 with the arms of the family of Pendennis handsomelj^ emblazoned 
 on the panels. "What would Arthur say now?" she asked, 
 speaking of a younger son of hers — ' ' who never so much as 
 once came to see my dearest Johnny through all the time of 
 his poverty and struggles ! " 
 
 " Captain Pendennis is with his regiment in India, mother," 
 Mr. Pendennis remarked, " and, if you please, I wish you would 
 not call me Johnny before the young man — before Mr. Par- 
 kins." 
 
 Presently the day came when she ceased to call her son by 
 an}'^ title of endearment or affection ; and his house was very 
 lonel}' without that kind though querulous voice. He had his 
 night-bell altered and placed in the room in which the good 
 old lady had grumbled for man}^ a long 3'ear, and he slept in 
 the great large bed there. He was upwards of forty 3'ears old 
 when these events befell ; before the war was over ; before 
 George the Magnificent came to the throne ; before this history 
 indeed : but what is a gentleman without his pedigree ? Pen- 
 dennis, b}^ this time, had his handsomely framed and glazed, 
 and hanging up in his drawing-room between the pictures of 
 Codlingbury House in Somersetshire, and St. Boniface's Col- 
 lege, Oxbridge, where he had passed the brief and happy da3's 
 of his early manhood. As for the pedigree he had taken it out 
 of a trunk, as Sterne's officer called for his sword, now that he 
 was a gentleman and could show it. 
 
 About the time of Mrs. Pendennis's demise, another of her 
 son's patients likewise died at Bath ; that virtuous old woman, 
 old Lady Pontj-pool, daughter of Reginald twelfth Earl of Bare- 
 acres, and by consequence great-grand-aunt to the present Earl, 
 and widow of John second Lord Pont3T^)ool, and Ukewise of the 
 Reverend Jonas Wales, of the Armageddon Chapel, Clifton. 
 For the last five 3'ears of her life her ladyshij) had been attended 
 b}' Miss Helen Thistlewood, a very distant relative of the noble 
 house of Bareacres, before mentioned, and daughter of Lieu- 
 tenaut R. Thistlewood, R. N., killed at the battle of Copen- 
 hagen. Under Lady Poutypool's roof Miss Thistlewood found
 
 8 PENDENNIS. 
 
 a shelter : the Doctor, who paid his visits to my Lady Ponty« 
 pool at least twice a da}- , could not but remark the angelical 
 sweetness and kindness with which the young lady bore her 
 elderly relative's ill-temper ; and it was as they were going in 
 the fourth mourning coach to attend her ladyship's venerated 
 remains to Bath Abbey, where the}^ now repose, that he looked 
 at her sweet pale face and resolved upon putting a certain 
 question to her, the very nature of which made his pulse beat 
 ninet}^ at least. 
 
 He was older than she by more than twenty years, and at 
 no time the most ardent of men. Perhaps he had had a love 
 affair in early life which he had to strangle — perhaps all early 
 love affairs ought to be strangled or drowned, like so many 
 blind kittens : well, at three-and-forty he was a collected quiet 
 little gentleman in black stockings with a bald head, and a few 
 da3'S after the ceremony he called to see her, and, as he felt 
 her pulse, he kept hold of her hand in his, and asked her where 
 she was going to live now that the Pontj^pool family had come 
 down upon the property, which was being nailed into boxes, 
 and packed into hampers, and swaddled up with haybands, and 
 buried in straw, and locked under three keys in green-baize 
 plate-chests, and carted away under the eyes of poor Miss 
 Helen, — he asked her where she was going to live finally. 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears, and she said she did not know 
 She had a little money. The old lady had left her a thousand 
 pounds, indeed ; and she would go into a boarding-house or 
 into a school : in fine, she did not know where. 
 
 Then Pendennis, looking into her pale face, and keeping 
 hold of her cold little hand, asked her if she would come and 
 live with him ? He was old compared to — to so blooming a 
 young lad}' as Miss Thistle wood (Pendennis was of the grave 
 old complimentar}' school of gentlemen and apothecaries), but 
 he was of good birth, and, he flattered himself, of good princi- 
 ples and temper. His prospects were good, and daily mending. 
 He was alone in the world, and had need of a kind and constant 
 companion, whom it would be the study of his life to make 
 happy ; in a word, he recited to her a little speech, which he 
 had composed that morning in bed, and rehearsed and per- 
 fected in his carriage, as he was coming to wait upon the young 
 lady. 
 
 Perhaps if he had had an early love-passage, she too had 
 one day hoped for a different lot than to be wedded to a little 
 gentleman who rapped his teeth and smiled artificially, who 
 was laboriously polite to the butler as he slid up stairs into the
 
 PENDENNJS. 9 
 
 drawing-room, and profusely civil to the lady's-maid, who 
 \vaited at the bedroom door ; for whom her old patroness used 
 to ring as for a servant, and who came with even more eager- 
 ness ; perhaps she would have chosen a diflerent man — but 
 she knew, on the other hand, how worth}' Pendennis was, how 
 prudent, how honorable ; how good he had been to his mother, 
 and constant in his care of her ; and the upshot of this inter- 
 ,view was, that she, blushing very much, made Pendennis an 
 extremel}' low curtsj' , and asked leave to — to consider liis 
 very kind proposal. 
 
 The}' were married in the dull Bath season, which was the 
 height of the season in London. And Pendennis having pre- 
 viously, through a professional friend, M.R.C.S., secured lodg- 
 ings in Holies Street, Cavendish Square, took his wife thither 
 in a chaise and pair ; conducted her to the theatres, the Parks, 
 and the Chapel Royal ; showed her the follis going to a Draw- 
 ing-room, and, in a word, gave her all the pleasures of the 
 town. He likewise left cards upon Lord Pontypool, upon the 
 Right Honorable the Earl of Bareacres, and upon Sir Pepin 
 and Lad}' Ribstone, his earliest and kindest patrons. Bare- 
 acres took no notice of the cards. Pont3^pool called, admired 
 Mrs. Pendennis, and said Lady Pontypool would come and see 
 her, which her ladyship did, per proxy of John her footman, 
 who brought her card, and an invitation to a concert five weeks 
 off. Pendennis was back in his little one-horse carriage, dis- 
 pensing draughts and pills at that time : but the Ribstones 
 asked him and Mrs. Pendennis to an entertainment, of which 
 Mr. Pendennis talked to the last day of his life. 
 
 "^^ The secret ambition of Mr. Pendennis had always been to 
 be a gentleman. It takes much time and careful saving for a 
 provincial doctor, whose gains are not very large, to la}' by 
 enough money wherewith to purchase a house and land : but 
 besides our friend's own frugality and prudence, fortune aided 
 him considerably in his endeavor, and brought him to the point 
 which he so panted to attain. He laid out some money very 
 advantageously in the purchase of a house and small estate 
 close upon the village of Clavering before mentioned. A lucky 
 purchase which he had made of shares in a coj^per-mine added 
 very considerably to his wealth, and he realized with great 
 prudence while this mine was still at its full vogue. Finally, 
 he sold his business, at Bath, to Mr. Parkins, for a handsome 
 sum of ready money, and for an annuity to be paid to him 
 during a certain number of years after he had for ever retired 
 from the handling of the mortar and pestle.
 
 10 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Arthur Pendennis, his son, was eight years old at the tim« 
 of this event, so that it is no wonder that the lad, who left Bath 
 and the surgery so young, should forget the existence of such 
 a place almost entirel}^ and that his father's hands had ever 
 been dirtied by the compounding of odious pills, or the prepara- 
 tion of filthy plasters. The old man never spoke about the 
 shop himself, never alluded to it ; called in the medical practi- 
 tioner of Clavering to attend his family ; sunk the black breeches 
 and stockings altogether ; attended market and sessions, and 
 wore a bottle-green coat and brass buttons with drab gaiters, 
 just as if he had been an English gentleman all his life. He 
 used to stand at his lodge-gate, and see the coaches come in, 
 and bow gravely to the guards and coachmen as they touched 
 theu' hats and drove b3^ It was he who founded the Clavering 
 Book Club : and set up the Samaritan Soup and Blanket 
 Society. It was he who brought the mail, which used to run 
 through Cacklefield before, away from that village and through 
 Clavering. At church he was equally active as a vestryman 
 and a worshipper. At market every Thursday, he went from 
 pen to stall ; looked at samples of oats, and munched corn ; 
 felt beasts, punched geese in the breast, and weighed them with 
 a knowing air ; and did business with the farmers at the 
 Clavering Arms, as well as the oldest frequenter of that house 
 of call. It was now his shame, as it formerly' was his pride, to 
 be called Doctor, and those who wished to please him always 
 gave him the title of Squire. 
 
 Heaven knows where they came from, but a whole range of 
 Pendennis portraits presently hung round the Doctor's oak 
 dining-room ; Lelys and Vandycks he vowed all the portraits 
 to be, and when questioned as to the history' of the originals, 
 would vaguely saj^ they were " ancestors of his." His little 
 boy believed in them to their fullest extent, and Roger Penden- 
 nis of Agincourt, Arthur Pendennis of Cre9y, General Pen- 
 dennis of Blenheim and Oudenarde, were as real and actual 
 beings for this 3'oung gentleman as — whom shall we say ? — as 
 Robinson Crusoe, or Peter Wilkins, or the Seven Champions 
 of Christendom, whose histories were in his library. 
 
 Pendennis's fortune, which was not above eight hundred 
 pounds a year, did not, with the best economy and management, 
 permit of his Uving with the gi'eat folks of the count}' ; but he 
 had a decent comfortable society of the second sort. If they 
 were not the roses, they lived near the roses, as it were, and 
 had a good deal of the odor of genteel life. The>' had out their 
 plate, and dined each other round in the moonlight nights twice
 
 PENDENNIS. 11 
 
 a year, coming a dozen miles to these festivals ; and besides 
 the county, the Pendenaises had the societ}' of the town of 
 Clavering, as much as, nay, more than they liked : for Mi-s. 
 Pybus was alwaj's poking about Helen's conservatories, and 
 intercepting the operation of her soup-tickets and coal-clubs 
 Captain Glanders (H. P., 50th Dragoon Guards), was for evei 
 swaggering about the Squire's stables and gardens, and endeav- 
 oring to enlist him in his quarrels with the Vicar, with the Post- 
 master, with the Reverend F. Wapshot of Clavering Grammar 
 School, for over-flogging his son, Anglesea Glanders, — with 
 all the village in fine. And Pendennis and his wife often blessed 
 themselves, that their house of Fairoaks was nearl}' a mile out 
 of Clavering, or their pi'emises would never have been free from 
 the prying eyes and prattle of one or other of the male and 
 female inhabitants there. 
 
 Fairoaks lawn comes down to the little river Brawl, and on 
 the other side were the plantations and woods (as much as were 
 left of them) of Clavering Park, Sir Francis Clavering, Bart. 
 The park was let out in pasture and fed down by sheep and 
 cattle when the Pendennises came first to live at Fairoaks. 
 Shutters were up in the house ; a splendid freestone palace, 
 with great stall's, statues, and porticos, whereof 3'ou may see a 
 picture in the " Beauties of England and Wales." Sir Richard 
 Clavering, Sir Francis's grandfather, had commenced the ruin 
 of the family by the building of this palace : his successor had 
 achieved the ruin by living in it. The present Sir Francis was 
 abroad somewhere ; nor could anybody be found rich enough 
 to rent that enormous mansion, through the deserted rooms, 
 mouldy clanking halls, and dismal galleries of which, Arthur 
 Pendennis man}' a time Avalked trembling when he was a boy. 
 At sunset, from the lawn of Fairoaks, there was a pretty sight : 
 it and the opposite park of Clavering were in the habit of put- 
 ting on a rich golden tinge, which became them both wonder- 
 fully. The upper windows of the great house flamed so as to 
 make your e3'es wink ; the little river ran ofl:' noisil}' westward, 
 and was lost in a sombre wood, behind which the towers of the 
 old abbey churcdi of Clavering (whereby that town is called 
 Clavering St. Mary's to the present day) rose up in purple 
 splendor. Little Arthur's figure and his mother's cast long 
 "blue shadows over the grass : and he would rei^eat in a low 
 voice (for a scene of great natural beauty always moved the 
 boy, who inherited this sensibility' from his mother) certain 
 lines beginning, " Tliese are thy glorious works, Parent of 
 Good ; Almighty ! thine this universjil frame," greatly to Mrs.
 
 12 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Peodeiinis's delight. Such walks and conversation generally 
 ended in a profusion of filial and maternal embraces ; for to 
 love and to pray were the main occupations of this dear woman's 
 life ; and I have often heard Pendennis say in his wUd way, 
 that he felt that he was sure of going to heaven, for his mother 
 never could be happy there without him. 
 
 As for John Pendennis, as the father of the family, and that 
 sort of thing, ever}' bod}' had the greatest respect for him : and 
 his orders were obeyed lUve those of the Medes and Persians. 
 His hat was as well brushed, perhaps, as that of an}' man in 
 this empire. His meals were served at the same minute every 
 day, and woe to those who came late, as little Pen, a disorderly 
 httle rascal, sometimes did. Prayers were recited, his letters 
 were read, his business despatched, his stables and garden 
 inspected, his hen-houses and kennel, his barn and pigsty 
 visited, always at regular hours. After dinner he always had 
 a nap with the Globe newspaper on his knee, and his yellow 
 bandanna handkerchief on his face (Major Pendennis sent the 
 yellow handlverchiefs from India, and his brother had helped in 
 the purchase of his majority, so that they were good friends 
 now). And so, as his dinner took place at six o'clock to a 
 minute, and the sunset business alluded to may be supposed to 
 have occurred at about half-past seven, it is probable that he 
 did not much care for the view in front of his lawn windows, 
 or take any share in the poetry and caresses which were taking 
 place there. 
 
 They seldom occurred in his presence. However frisky they 
 were before, mother and child were hushed and quiet when Mr. 
 Pendennis walked into the- drawing-room, his newspaper under 
 his arm. . . . And here, while little Pen, buried in a great chair, 
 read all the books of which he could lay hold, the Squire perused 
 his own articles in the " Gardener's Gazette," or took a solemn 
 hand at piquet with Mrs. Pendennis, or an occasional friend 
 from the village. 
 
 Pendennis usually took care that at least one of his grand 
 dinners should take place when his brother, the Major, who, on 
 the return of his regiment from India and New South Wales, 
 had sold out and gone upon half-pay, came to pay his biennial 
 visit to Fairoaks. " My brother, Major Pendennis," was a 
 constant theme of the retired Doctor's conversation. All the 
 family delighted in my brother the Major. He was the link 
 which bound them to the great world of London, and the fashion. 
 He always brought down the last news of the nobility, and
 
 PENDENNIS. IS 
 
 spoke of such with soldier-like respect and decorum. He would 
 saj, " M}' Lord Bareacres has been good enough to invite nie 
 to Bareacres for the pheasant shooting," or, '' My Lord JSteyne 
 is so kind as to wish for my presence at Stillbrook for the 
 Easter holidays ; " and you ma^- be sure the whereabouts of ni}- 
 brother the Major was carefully made known by worthy Mr. 
 Pendennis to his friends at the Clavering Reading-room, at 
 Justice-meetings, or at the County-town. Their carriages 
 would come from ten miles round to call upon Major Pendennis 
 in his\'isits to Fairoaks ; the fame of his fashion as a man about 
 town was established throughout the count}'. There was a 
 talk of his marrying Miss Hunkle, of Lilybank, old Hunkle the 
 Attorney's daughter, with at least fifteen hundred a j-ear to her 
 fortune ; but my brother the Major declined. ' ■ As a bachelor." 
 he said, " nobody cares how poor I am. I have the happiness 
 to live with people who are so highh' placed in the world, that 
 a few hundreds or thousands a year more or less can make no 
 difference in the estimation in which the}' are pleased to hold 
 me. Miss Hunkle, though a most respectable lad\-, is not in 
 possession of either the birth or the manners which would entitle 
 her to be received into the sphere in which I have the honor to 
 move. I shall live and die an old bachelor, John : and your 
 worthy friend, Miss Hunkle, I have no doubt, will find some 
 more worth}- object of her affection, than a worn-out old soldier 
 on half-pay." Time showed the correctness of the surmise ; 
 Miss Hunkle married a young French nobleman, and is now at 
 this moment living at Lilybank, under the title of Baroness de 
 Carambole, having been separated from her wild young scape- 
 grace of a Baron very shortly after their union. 
 
 The Major had a sincere liking and regard for his sister-in- 
 law, whom he j^ronounced, and with perfect truth, to be as fine 
 a lady as any in England. Indeed, Mrs. Pendennis's tranquil 
 beauty, her natural sweetness and kindness, and that simplicity 
 and dignity which a perfect purity and innocence are sure to 
 bestow upon a handsome woman, rendered her quite worthy of 
 her brother's praises. I think it is not national prejudice which y 
 makes me believe that a high-bred English lady is the most ^ 
 complete of all Heaven's subjects in this world. In whom else 
 do you see so much grace, and so much virtue ; so much faith, 
 and so much tenderness ; with such a perfect refinement and 
 chastitv? And bv high-bred ladies I don't mean duchesses 
 and countesses. Be they ever so high in station, they can be 
 but ladies, and no more. But almost every man who lives in 
 the world has the happiness, let us hope, of counting a few such
 
 14 PENDENNIS. 
 
 persons amongst his circle of acquaintance — women in whose 
 singeUcal natures there is something awful, as well as beau- 
 tiful, to contemplate ; at whose feet the wildest and fiercest 
 of us must fall down and humble ourselves, in admiration 
 of that adorable purity which never seems to do or to think 
 wrong. 
 
 Arthur Pendennis had the good fortune to have such a 
 mother. During his childhood and youth, the boy thought of 
 her as little less than an angel — a supernatural being, all 
 wisdom, love, and beauty. When her husband drove her into 
 the count^'-town, to the assize balls or concerts, he would step 
 into the assembly with his wife on his arm, and look the great 
 folks in the face, as much as to say, "■ Look at that, my lord ; 
 can any of you show me a woman like that f " She enraged 
 some countr}' ladies with three times her money, by a sort of 
 desperate perfection which the}- found in her. Miss Pybus said 
 she was cold and haughty ; Miss Pierce, that she was too proud for 
 her station ; Mrs. Wapshot, as a doctor of divinitj^'s lady, would 
 have the pas of her, who was onl}^ the wife of a medical prac- 
 titioner. In the meanwhile, this lady moved through the world 
 quite regardless of all the comments that were made in her 
 praise or disfavor. She did not seem to know that she was 
 admired or hated for being so perfect ; but carried on calmly 
 through life, sa3dng her prayers, loving her famil}', helping her 
 neighbors, and doing her duty. 
 
 That even a woman should be faultless, however, is an 
 arrangement not permitted by nature, which assigns to us 
 mental defects, as it awards to us headaches, illnesses, or death : 
 without which the scheme of the world could not be carried on, — 
 nay, some of the best qualities of mankind could not be brought 
 into exercise. As pain produces or elicits fortitude and en- 
 durance ; difficult}', perseverance ; poverty, industry and inge- 
 nuity ; danger, courage and what not; so the very virtues, on 
 the other hand, will generate some vices; and, in fine, Mrs. 
 Pendennis had that vice which Miss Pybus and Miss Pierce 
 discovered in her, namely-, that of pride ; which did not vest 
 itself so much in her own person, as in that of her famil}-. She 
 spoke about Mr. Pendennis (a worthy little gentleman enough, 
 but there are others as good as he) with an awful reverence, as 
 if he had been the Pope of Rome on his throne, and she a car- 
 dinal kneeling at iiis feet, and giving him incense. The Major 
 she held to be a sort of Bayard among Majors : and as for her 
 son Arthur she worshipped that 3'outh with an ardor which the 
 young scapegrace accepted almost as coolly as the statue of
 
 PENDENNIS. 15 
 
 the Saint in Saint Peter's receives the rapturous osculations 
 which the faithful deliver on his toe. 
 
 This unfortunate superstition and idol -worship of this good 
 woman was the cause of a great deal of the misfortune which 
 befell the young gentleman who is the hero of this history, and 
 deserves therefore to be mentioned at the outset of his story. 
 
 Arthur Pendennis's schoolfellows at the Gre\' Friars School 
 state that, as a boj', he was in no ways remarkable either as a 
 dunce or as a scholar. He never read to improve himself out 
 of school-hours, but, on the contrary, devoured all the novels, 
 plays, and poetry, on which he could lay his hands. He never 
 was flogged, but it was a wonder how he escaped the whipping- 
 post. When he had money he spent it royally in tarts for him- 
 self and his friends ; he has been known to disburse nine and 
 sixpence out of ten shillings awarded to him in a single day. 
 When he had no funds he went on tick. When he conld get 
 no credit he went without, and was almost as happy. He has 
 been known to take a thrashing for a crony without saying a 
 word ; but a blow, ever so slight from a friend, would make 
 him roar. To fighting he was averse from his earliest youth, 
 as indeed to physic, the Greek Grammar, or any other exei-tion, 
 and would engage in none of them, except at the last extremity. 
 He seldom if ever told lies, and never bullied little boys. 
 Those masters or seniors who were kind to him, he loved with 
 boyish ardor. And though the Doctor, when he did not know 
 his Horace, or could not construe his Greek play, said that that 
 boy Pendennis was a disgrace to the school, a candidate for 
 ruin in this world, and perdition in the next; a profligate who 
 would most likely bring his venerable father to ruin and his 
 mother to a dishonored grave, and the like — yet as the Doctor 
 made use of these compliments to most of the boys in the place 
 (which has not turned out an unusual number of felons and 
 pickpockets), little Pen, at first uneasy and terrified l)y these 
 charges, became graduallj' accustomed to hear them ; and he 
 has not, in fact, either murdered his parents, or committed any 
 act worthy of transportation or hanging up to the present day. 
 
 There were many of the upper boys, among the Cistercians 
 with whom Pendennis was educated, who assumed all the privi- 
 leges of men long before they quitted that seminary. Many of 
 them, for example, smoked cigars — and some had already be- 
 gun the practice of inebriation. One had fought a duel with 
 an Ensign in a marching regiment in consequence of a row at 
 tlie theatre — another actually kept a buggy and horse at a 
 livery stable in Covent Gardeii, and might be seen driving any
 
 16 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Sunday in Hyde Park with a groom with squared arms and 
 armorial buttons bj^ his side. Many of the seniors were in 
 love, and showed each other in confidence poems addressed 
 to, or letters and locks of hair received from, 3'oang ladies — 
 but Pen, a modest and timid youth, rather envied these than 
 imitated them as yet. He had not got beyond the theory as 
 yet — the practice of life was all to come. And by the way, 
 ye tender mothers and sober fathers of Christian families, a 
 prodigious thing that theor}' of life is as orall}^ learned at a 
 great public school. Why, if you could hear those boys of 
 fourteen who blush before mothers and sneak off in silence in 
 the presence of their daughters, tallying among each other — 
 it would be the woman's turn to blush then. Before he was 
 twelve 3'ears old little Pen had heard talk enough to make him 
 quite awfullj' wise upon certain points — and so. Madam, has 
 your prett}^ little rosj'-cheeked son, who is coming home from 
 school for the ensuing holidays. I don't say that the boy is 
 lost, or that the innocence has left him which he had from 
 " Heaven, which is our home," but that the shades of the 
 prison-house are closing verj' fast over him, and that we are 
 helping as much as possible to corrupt him. 
 
 Well — Pen had just made his public appearance in a coat 
 with a tail, or cauda-A'irilis, and was looking most anxiousl}' in 
 his httle stud3'-glass to see if his whiskers were growing, like 
 those of more fortunate vouths his companions ; and, instead 
 of the treble voice with which he used to speak and sing (for 
 his singing voice was a very sweet one, and he used when little 
 to be made to perform " Home, sweet Home," " M3' pretty 
 Page," and a French song or two which his mother had taught 
 him, and other ballads for the delectation of the senior boys), 
 had suddenly' plunged into a deep bass diversified by a squeak, 
 which set master and scholars laughing — he was about sixteen 
 3'ears old in a word, when he was suddenl3' called away from 
 his academic studies. 
 
 It was at the close of the forenoon school, and Pen had 
 been unnoticed all the previous part of the morning till now, 
 when the Doctor put him on to construe in a Greek play. He 
 did not know a word of it, though little Timmins, his form 
 fellow, was prompting him with all his might. Pen had made 
 a sad blunder or two — when the awful chief broke out upon 
 him. 
 
 " Pendennis, sir," he said, "your idleness is incorrigible 
 and 3'our stupidit3' beyond example. You are a disgr-ace to 
 your school, and to 30ur famil3-, and I have no doubt will
 
 PENDENNIS. 17 
 
 prove so in after-life to your country. If that vice, sir, which 
 is described to us as the root of all evil, be really what moral- 
 ists have represented (and I have no doubt of the correctness 
 of their opinion), for what a prodigious quantity of future 
 crime and wickedness are 30U, unhappy boy, laying the seed ! 
 Miserable trifler ! A boj' who construes 8 e and, instead of 8 € 
 but, at sixteen years of age, is guilt}- not merely of foil}', and 
 ignorance, and dulness inconceivable, but of crime, of deadly 
 crime, of filial ingratitude, which I tremble to contemplate. 
 A boj% sir, who does not learn his Greek play cheats the par- 
 ent who spends mone}' for his education. A boy who cheajts 
 his parent is not \exy far from robbing or forging upon his 
 neighbor. A man who forges on his neighbor pays the pen- 
 alty of his crime at the gallows. And it is not such a one 
 that I pit}' (for he will be deservedly cut off) ; but his mad- 
 dened and heart-broken parents, who are driven to a prema- 
 ture grave by his crimes, or, if thej' live, drag on a wretched 
 and dishonored old age. Go on, sir, and I warn you that the 
 ver}' next mistake that 3-ou make shall subject you to the pun- 
 ishment of the rod. Who's that laughing? What ill-condi- 
 tioned bo}- is there that dares to laugh ? " shouted the Doctor. 
 
 Indeed, while the master was making this oration, there was 
 a general titter behind him in the school-room. The orator 
 had his back to the door of this ancient apartment, which was 
 open, and a gentleman who was quite familiar with the place, 
 for both Major Arthur and Mr. John Pendennis had been at 
 the school, was asking the fifth-form boy who sat by the door 
 for Pendennis. The lad grinning pointed to the culprit against 
 whom the Doctor was pouring out the thunders of his just 
 wrath — Major Pendennis could not help laughing. He re- 
 membered having stood under that very pillar where Pen the 
 3-ounger now stood, and having been assaulted by the Doctor's 
 predecessor years and years ago. The intelligence was '' passed 
 round " that" it was Peiidennis's uncle in an instant, and a hun- 
 dred young faces wondering and gigghng, between terror and 
 laughter, turned now to the new comer and then to the awful 
 Doctor. 
 
 The Major asked the fifth-form boy to carry his card up to 
 the Doctor, which the lad did with an arch look. Major Pen- 
 dennis had written on the card, "I must take A. P. home ; his 
 father is very ill." 
 
 As the Doctor received the card, and stopped his harangue 
 with rather a scared look, the laughter of the boys, half con- 
 strained until then, burst out ni a general shout. " Silence ! "
 
 18 PENDENNIS. 
 
 roared out the Doctor stamping with his foot. Pen looked up 
 and saw who was his deliverer ; the Major beckoned to him 
 gravely, and tumbling down his books, Pen went across. 
 
 The Doctor took out his watch. It was two minutes to one. 
 " We will take the Juvenal at afternoon school," he said, nod- 
 ding to the Captain, and all the boys understanding the signal 
 gathered up their books and poured out of the hall. 
 
 Young Pen saw by his uncle's face that something had hap- 
 pened at home. "Is there anything the matter with — my 
 mother?" he said. He could hardl}- speak, though, for emo- 
 tion, and the tears which were ready to start. 
 
 "No," said the Major, "but your father's very ill. Go 
 and pack your trunk directly ; I have got a post-chaise at the 
 gate." 
 
 Pen went off quickly to his boarding-house to do as his uncle 
 bade him ; and the Doctor, now left alone in the school-room, 
 came out to shake hands with his eld schoolfellow. You would 
 not have thought it was the same man. As Cinderella, at a par- 
 ticular hour became, from a blazing and magnificent princess, 
 quite an ordinary little maid in a gray petticoat, so, as the 
 clock struck one, all the thundering majesty and awful wrath 
 of the schoolmaster disappeared. 
 
 " There is nothing serious, I hope," said the Doctor. " It 
 is a pity to take the boy otherwise. He is a good boy, rather 
 idle and unenergetic, but an honest gentlemanlike little fellow, 
 though I can't get him to construe as I wish. Won't j^ou come 
 in and have some luncheon ? M}^ wife will be very happy to 
 see you." 
 
 But Major Pendennis declined the luncheon. He said his 
 brother was very ill, had had a fit the day before, and it was a 
 great question if the}' should see him alive. 
 
 "There's no other son, is there?" said the Doctor. The 
 Major answered " No." 
 
 " And there's a good eh — a good eh — propert}' I believe ? " 
 asked the other in an off-hand way. 
 
 " H'm — so so," said the Major. Whereupon this colloquy 
 came to an end. And Arthur Pendennis got into a post-chaise 
 with his uncle, never to come back to school any more. 
 
 As the chaise drove through Clavering, the ostler standing 
 whistling under the archwa}' of the Clavering Arras, winked to 
 the postilion ominousl}', as much as to say all was over. The 
 gardener's wife came and opened the lodge-gates, and let the 
 travellers through with a silent shake of the head. All the 
 blinds were down at Fairoaks — the face of the old footmae
 
 PENDENNIS. 19 
 
 was as blank when he let them in. Arthur's face was white 
 too, with terror more than with grief. Whatever of warmth 
 and love the deceased man might have had, and he adored his 
 wife and lovt-d and admired liis son with all his heart, he had 
 shut them up within himself; nor had the boy been ever able 
 to penetrate that frigid outward barrier. But Arthur had been 
 his father's pride and glory through life, and his name the last 
 which John Pendennis had tried to articulate whilst he lay with 
 his wife's hand clasping his own cold and clamin}' palm, as the 
 flickering spirit went out into the darkness of death, and life 
 and the world passed away from him. 
 
 The little girl, whose face had peered for a moment under 
 the blinds as the chaise came up, opened the door from the 
 stairs into the hall, and taking Arthur's hand silentl}- as he 
 stooped down to kiss her, led him up stairs to his mother. Old 
 John opened the dining-room for the Major. The room was 
 darkened with the blinds down, and surrounded b}^ all the 
 gloomy i)ictures of the Pendennises. He drank a glass of wine. 
 The l)()ttle had been opened for the Squire four days before. 
 His hat was brushed, and laid on the hall table : his news- 
 papers, and his letter bag, with John Pendennis, Esquire, Fair- 
 oaks, engraved upon the brass plate, were there in waiting. 
 The doctor and the lawyer from Clavering, who had seen the 
 chaise pass through, came up in a gig half an hour after the 
 Major's arrival, and entered by the back door. The former 
 gave a detailed account of the seizure and demise of Mr. Pen- 
 dennis, enlarged on his virtues and the estimation in which 
 the neighborhood held him ; on what a loss he would be to 
 the magistrates' bench, the County Hospital, &c. Mrs. Pen- 
 dennis bore up wonderfully, he said, especially since Master 
 Arthur's arrival. The lawyer staged and dined with IVIajor 
 Pendennis, and they talked business all the evening. The 
 Major was his brothei-'s executor, and joint guardian to the 
 boy with Mr?, Pendennis. Everything was left unreservedly to 
 her, except in case of a second marriage, — an occasion which 
 might offer itself in the case of so ^'oung and handsome a 
 woman, Mr. Tatliam gallantly said, when different provisions 
 were enacted by the deceased. I'he Major would of course 
 take entire superintendence of everytliing upon this most im- 
 pressive and melancholy' occasion. Aware of this autliorit}', 
 old John the footman, when he brought JNIajor Pendennis the 
 candle to go to bed. followed afterwards with tlie plate-basket; 
 and the next morning brought him the kc}' of the hall clock — 
 the Squire always used to wind it up of a Thursda}^ John said.
 
 20 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Mrs. Pendennis's maid brought him messages from her mis- 
 tress. She confirmed the doctor's report, of the comfort which 
 Master Arthur's arrival had caused to his mother. 
 
 What passed between that lad}^ and the boy is not of im- 
 port. A veil should be thrown over those sacred emotions of 
 love and grief. The maternal passion is a sacred m3^ster3' to 
 me. What one sees s^^mbolized in the Roman churches in the 
 image of the Virgin Mother with a bosom bleeding with love, I 
 think one ma}^ witness (and admire the Almighty bount}' for) 
 ever}' daj*. I saw a Jewish lady, onl}- yesterda}-, with a child 
 at her knee, and from whose face towards the child there shone 
 a sweetness so angelical, that it seemed to form a sort of glory 
 round both. I protest I could have knelt before her too, and 
 adored in her the Divine beneficence in endowing us with the 
 maternal storge^ which began with our race and sanctifies the 
 history of mankind. 
 
 As for Arthur Pendennis, after that awful shock which the 
 sight of his dead father must have produced on him, and the 
 pity and feeling which such an event no doubt occasioned, I am 
 not sure that in the very moment of the grief, and as he em- 
 braced his mother, and tenderly consoled her, and promised to 
 love her for ever, there was not springing up in his breast a 
 sort of secret triumph and exultation. He was the chief now 
 and lord. He was Pendennis ; and all round about him were 
 his servants and handmaids. "You'll never send me awa3s" 
 little Laura said, tripping by him, and holding his hand. " You 
 won't send me to school, will ^-ou, Arthur?" 
 
 Arthur kissed her and patted her head. No, she shouldn't 
 go to school. As for going himself, that was quite out of the 
 question. He had determined that that part of his life should 
 not be renewed. In the midst of the general grief, and the 
 corpse still lying above, he had leisure to conclude that he 
 would have it all holidays for the future, that he wouldn't get 
 up till he liked, or stand the bullying of the Doctor an 3^ more, 
 and had made a hundred of such da}^ dreams and resolves for 
 the future. How one's thoughts will travel ! and how quickly 
 our wishes beget them ! When he with Laura in his hand went 
 into the kitchen on his way to the dog-kennel, the fowl-houses, 
 and other his favorite haunts, all the servants there assembled 
 In great silence with their friends, and the laboring men and 
 their wives, and Sally Potter who went with the post-bag to 
 Clavering, and the baker's man from Clavering — all there as- 
 sembled and drinking beer on the melancholj^ occasion — rose 
 up on his entrance and bowed or curtsied to him. They never
 
 PENDENNIS. 21 
 
 ased to do so last holida^-s, he felt at once and with indescribable 
 pleasure. The cook cried out, '' O Lord," and whispered " How 
 Master Arthur do grow ! " Thomas, the groom, in the act of 
 drinking, put down the jug alarmed before his master. Thomas's 
 master felt the honor keenly. He went through and looked at 
 the pointers. As Flora put her nose up to his waistcoat, and 
 Ponto, 3'elling with pleasm-e, hurtled at his chain, Pen patron- 
 ized the dogs, and said "Poo Ponto, poo Flora," in his most 
 condescending manner. And then he went and looked at 
 Laura's hens, and at the pigs, and at the orchard, and at the 
 dairy ; perhaps he blushed to think that it was only last holidays 
 he had in a manner robbed the great apple-tree, and been scolded 
 b}- the dair^-maid for taking cream. 
 
 The}' buried John Pendennis, Esquire, " formerly an eminent 
 medical practitioner at Bath, and subsequenth' an able magis- 
 ti'ate, a benevolent landlord, and a benefactor to many charities 
 and public institutions in this neighborhood and countr}'," with 
 one of the most handsome funerals that had been seen since Sir' 
 Roger Clavering was buried here, the clerk said, in the abbey 
 church of Clavering St. Mary's. A fair marble slab, from which 
 the above inscription is copied, was erected over the Fairoaks' 
 pew in the church. On it 3'ou may see the Pendennis coat of 
 arms and crest, an eagle looking towards the sun, with the 
 motto " nee tenui pennd" to the present day. Doctor Portman 
 alluded to the deceased most handsomel}' and affectingly, as 
 '• our dear departed friend," in his sermon next Sunday; and 
 Arthur Pendennis reigned in his stead. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 4 
 
 IN WHICH PENDENNIS APPEARS AS A VERT YOUNG MAN INDEED' 
 
 Arthur was about sixteen years old, we have said, when 
 he began to reign ; in person, he had what his friends woukl 
 call a dumpy, but his mamma st3ded a neat little figure. His 
 hair was of a healthy brown color, which looks like gold in the 
 sunshine, his face was round, rosy, fi'eckled, and good-humored, 
 his whiskers were decidedly of a reddish hue ; in fact, without 
 being a beaut}', he had such a frank, good-natured kind face, 
 and laughed so merrily at 3'ou out of liis honest blue eyes, that 
 no wonder Mrs. Pendennis thought him the pride of the whole
 
 22 PENDENNIS. 
 
 country. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen he rose 
 from five feet six to five feet eight inches in height, at which 
 altitude he paused. But his mother wondered at it. He was 
 three inches taller than his father. AVas it possible that any 
 man could grow to be three inches taller than Mr. Pendennis ? 
 
 You may be certain he never went back to school ; the dis- 
 cipline of the establishment did not suit him, and he liked being 
 at home much better. The question of his return was debated, 
 and his uncle was for his going back. The Doctor wrote his 
 opinion that it was most important for Arthur's success in 
 after-life that he should know a Greek play thoroughl}-, but 
 Pen adroitly managed to hint to his mother what a dangerous 
 place Grey Friars was, and what sad wild fellows some of th» 
 chaps there were, and the timid soul, taking alarm at once, 
 acceded to his desire to stay at home. 
 
 Then Pen's uncle offered to use his influence with His Royal 
 Highness the Commander-in-Chief, who was pleased to be very 
 kind to him, and proposed to get Pen a commission in the Foot 
 Guards. Pen's heart leaped at this : he had been to hear the 
 band at St. James's play on a Sunda}' , when he went out to his 
 uncle. He had seen Tom Ricketts, of the fourth form, who 
 used to wear a jacket and trowsers so ludicrously tight, that 
 the elder bo^^s could not forbear using him in the qualit}' of a 
 butt or ' ' cocksh}' " — he had seen this very Ricketts arrayed 
 in crimson and gold, with an immense bearskin cap on his 
 head, staggering under the colors of the regiment. Tom had 
 recognized him and gave him a patronizing nod. Tom, a little 
 wretch whom he had cut over the back with a hocke^'-stick last 
 quarter — and there he was in the centre of the square, racing 
 round the flag of his country, surrounded by bayonets, cross- 
 belts, and scarlet, the band blowing trumpets and banging 
 cymbals — talking familiarly to immense warriors with tufts to 
 their chins and Waterloo medals. What would not Pen have 
 given to enter such a service ? 
 
 But Helen Pendennis, when this point was proposed to her 
 by her son, put on a face full of terror and alarm. She said 
 " she did not quarrel with others who thought differently, but 
 that in her opinion a Christian had no right to make the army 
 a profession. Mr. Pendennis never, never would have per- 
 mitted his son to be a soldier. Finally, she should be very 
 unhapp}- if he thought of it." Now Pen would have as soon cut 
 off his nose and ears as deliberately, and of aforethought maUce, 
 made his mother unhapp}^ ; and, as he was of such a generous 
 disposition that he would give away anything to any one, be ia-
 
 PENDENNIS. 23 
 
 stanth' made a present of his visionary red coat and epaulettes 
 to his mother. 
 
 She thought hira the noblest creature in the world. But 
 Major Pendennis, when the offer of the commission was ac- 
 knowledged and refused, wrote back a curt and somewhat 
 angry letter to the widow, and thought his nephew was rather 
 a spooney. 
 
 He was contented, however, when he saw the boy's per- 
 formances out hunting at Christmas, when the Major came 
 down as usual to Fairoaks. Pen had a verj' good mare, and 
 rode her with uncommon pluck and grace. He took his fences 
 with gi-eat coolness and judgment. He wrote to the chaps 
 at school about his top-boots, and his feats across country. 
 He began to think seriously of a scarlet coat : and his mother 
 must own that she thought it would become him remarkably 
 well ; though, of course, she passed hours of anguish during 
 his absence, and dail}' expected to see him brought home on a 
 shutter. 
 
 With these amusements, in rather too great plenty, it must 
 not be assumed that Pen neglected his studies altogether. He 
 had a natural taste for reading every possible kind of book 
 which did not fall into his school-course. It was only when 
 they forced his head into the waters of knowledge that he re- 
 fused to drink. He devoured all the books at home, from 
 Inchbald's Theatre to White's Farriery ; he ransacked the 
 neighboring book-cases. He found at Clavering an old cargo 
 of French novels, which he read with all his might ; and he 
 would sit for hours perched up on the topmost bar of Doctor 
 Portman's librarj^ steps with a folio on his knees, whether it 
 were Hakluyt's Travels, Hobbes's Leviathan, Augustini Opera, 
 or Chaucer's Poems. He and the Vicar were very good friends, 
 and from his Reverence, Pen learned that honest taste for port 
 wine which distinguished him through life. And as for Mrs. 
 Portman, who was not in the least jealous, though her Doctor 
 avowed himself in love with Mrs. Pendennis, whom he pro- 
 nounced to be by far the finest lady in the countr}' — all her 
 grief was, as she looked up fondl}' at Pen perched on the book- 
 ladder, that her daughter, Minny, was too old for him — as 
 indeed she was — Miss Maria Portman being at that period 
 only two years younger than Pen's mother, and weighing as 
 much as Pen and Mrs. Pendennis together. 
 
 Are these details insipid ? Look back, good friend, at your 
 own youth, and ask how was that? I like to think of a well- 
 nurtured boy, brave and gentle, warm-heartod and loving, aud
 
 24 PENDENNIS. 
 
 looking the world in the face with kind honest eyes. What 
 bright colors it wore then, and how you enjo^^ed it ! A man 
 has not many years of such time. He does not know them 
 whUst they are with him. It is onl}^ when they are passed long 
 away that he remembers how dear and happy they were. 
 
 Mr. Smirke, Dr. Portman's curate, was engaged, at a liberai 
 salar}', to walk or ride over from Clavering and pass several 
 hours daily with the young gentleman. Smirke was a man 
 perfectly faultless at a tea-table, wore a curl on his fair fore- 
 nead, and tied his neck-cloth with a melancholj^ grace. He 
 was a decent scholar and mathematician, and taught Pen as 
 much as the lad was ever disposed to learn, which was not 
 much. For Pen had soon taken the measure of his tutor, who, 
 when he came riding into the court-3'ard at Fairoaks on his 
 pony, turned out his toes so absurdly, and left such a gap 
 between his knees and the saddle, that it was impossible for 
 an}'^ lad endowed with a sense of humor to respect such an 
 equesti'ian. He nearly killed Smirke with terror by putting 
 him on his mare, and taking him a ride over a common, where 
 the county fox-hounds (then hunted by that staunch old sports- 
 man, Mr. Hardhead, of Dumplingbeare) happened to meet. 
 Mr. Smirke, on Pen's mare, Rebecca (she was named after 
 Pen's favorite heroine, the daughter of Isaac of York), as- 
 tounded the hounds as much as he disgusted the huntsman, 
 laming one of the former by persisting in riding amongst the 
 pack, and receiving a speech from the latter, more remarkable 
 for energ3' of language, than any oration he had ever heard 
 since he left the bargemen on the banks of Isis. 
 
 Smirke and his pupil read the ancient poets together, and 
 rattled through them at a pleasant rate, very different from 
 that steady grubbing pace with which the Cistercians used to 
 go over the classic ground, scenting out each word as the}' 
 went, and digging up ever}^ root in the way. Pen never liked 
 to halt, but made his tutor construe when he was at fault, and 
 thus galloped through the Iliad and the Od^-sse}^ the tragic 
 plaj' -writers, and the charming wicked Aristophanes (whom he 
 vowed to be the greatest poet of all). But he went so fast 
 that, though he certainly' galloped through a considerable ex- 
 tent of the ancient country, he clean forgot it in after-life, and 
 had only such a vague remembrance of his earl}^ classic course 
 as a man has in the House of Commons, let us say, who still 
 keeps up two or three quotations ; or a reviewer who, just for 
 decency's sake, hints at a little Greek. 
 
 Besides the ancient poets, you may be sure Pen read the
 
 PENDENNIS. 25 
 
 English with great gusto. Smirke sighed and shook his head 
 sadl}' both about Byron and Moore. But Pen was a sworn 
 fire-worshipper and a Corsair ; he had them by heart, and used 
 to take little Laura into the window and say, " Zuleika, I am 
 not thy brother," in tones so tragic, that the}' caused the solemn 
 Httle maid to open her great eyes still wider. She sat, until 
 the proper hour for retirement, sewing at Mrs. Pendennis's 
 knee, and listening to Pen reading out to her of nights without 
 comprehending one word of what he said. 
 
 He read Shakspeare to his mother (which sb.e said she 
 liked, but didn't) , and Bjtou, and Pope, and his favorite Lalla 
 Rookh, which pleased her indifferently. But as for Bishop 
 Heber, and Mrs. Hemans above all, this lady used to melt 
 right away, and be absorbed into her pocket-handkerchief, 
 when Pen read those authors to her in his kind boyish voice. 
 The ' ' Chi'istian Year " was a book which appeared about that 
 time. The son and the mother whispered it to each other with 
 awe — Faint, very faint, and seldom in after-life Pendennis 
 heard that solemn church-music : but he alwaj's loved the re- 
 membrance of it, and of the times when it struck on his heart, 
 and he walked over the fields full of hope and void of doubt, as 
 the church-bells rang on Sunday morning. 
 
 It was at this period of his existence, that Pen broke out in 
 the Poet's Corner of the County Chronicle, with some verses 
 with which he was perfectly well satisfied. His are the verses 
 signed " NEP.," addi-essed " To a Tear ; " "On the Anniver- 
 sar}- of the Battle of Waterloo ; " " To Madame Caradori sing- 
 ing at the Assize Meetings ; " " On Saint Bartholomew's Day" 
 (a tremendous denunciation of Popery, and a solemn warning 
 to the people of England to ralh' against emancipating the 
 Roman Catholics), &c., &c. — all which masterpieces, poor 
 Mrs. Pendennis kept along with his first socks, the first cutting 
 of his hair, his bottle, and other interesting relics of his infanc}-. 
 He used to gallop Rebecca over the neighboring Dumpling 
 Downs, or into the county town, which, if you please, we shall 
 call Chatteris, spouting his own poems, and filled with quite a 
 B3Tonic afflatus as he thought. 
 
 His genius at this time was of a decided!}^ gloomy cast. He 
 brought his mother a tragedy, at which, though he killed six- 
 teen people before the second act, Helen laughed so, that he 
 thrust the masterpiece into tlie fire in a pet. He projected an 
 epic poem in blank verse, " Cortez, or the Conqueror of Mex- 
 ico, and the Inca's Daughter." He wrote part of " Seneca, or 
 the Fatal Bath," and "•Ariadne in Naxos ;" classical pieces. 
 
 9
 
 26 PENDENNIS. 
 
 with choruses and strophes and antistrophes, which sadly puz- 
 zled Mrs. Pendennis ; and began a " Histor}- of the Jesuits," 
 in which he lashed that Order with tremendous severit}-. His 
 loyalty did his mother's heart good to witness. He was a 
 staunch, unflinching Church-and-King man in those da3-s ; and 
 at the election, when Sir Giles Beanfield stood on the Blue 
 interest, against Lord Trehawk, Lord E^Tie's son, a Whig and 
 a friend of Popery, Arthur Pendennis, with an immense bow 
 for himself, which his mother made, and with a blue ribbon for 
 Rebecca, rode alongside of the Reverend Doctor Portman, on 
 his gray mare Dowd^', and at the head of the Clavering voters, 
 whom the Doctor brought up to plump for the Protestant 
 Champion. 
 
 On that da}' Pen made his first speech at the Blue Hotel : 
 and also, it appeax's, for the first time in his life — took a little 
 more wine than was good for him. Mercj' ! what a scene it 
 was at Fairoaks, when he rode back at ever so much o'clock at 
 night. What moving about of lanterns in the court-yard and 
 stables, though the moon was shining out ; what a gathering of 
 servants, as Pen came home, clattering over the bridge and up 
 the stable-yard, with half a score of the Clavering voters 3'elling 
 after him the Blue song of the election. 
 
 He wanted them all to come in and have some wine — some 
 ver}' good Madeira — some capital Madeira — John, go and get 
 some Madeira — and there is no knowing what the farmers 
 would have done, had not Madam Pendennis made her appear- 
 ance in a white wrapper, with a candle — and scared those 
 zealous Blues so by the sight of her pale handsome face, that 
 they touched their hats and rode off. 
 
 Besides these amusements and occupations in which Mr. 
 Pen indulged, there was one which forms the main business and 
 pleasure of youth, if the poets tell us aright, whom Pen was 
 always studj'ing ; and which, ladies, you have rightly guessed 
 to be that of Love. Pen sighed for it first in secret, and, like 
 the love-sick swain in Ovid, opened his breast and said, " Aura, 
 veni." What generous 3'outh is there that has not courted some 
 such windy mistress in his time ? 
 
 Yes, Pen began to feel the necessity- of a first love — of a con- 
 suming passion — of an object on which he could concentrate 
 all those vague floating fancies under which he sweetl}' suffered 
 — of a j^oung lady to whom he could really make verses, and 
 whom he could set up and adore, in place of those unsubstan- 
 tial lanthes and Zuleikas to whom he addressed the outpour- 
 ings of his gushing muse. He read his favorite poems over
 
 PENDENNIS. 27 
 
 and over again, he called upon Alma Venus the delight of gods 
 and men, he translated Anacreon's odes, and picked out pas- 
 sages suitable to his complaint from Waller, Dry den. Prior, and 
 the lilie. Smirke and he were never weary, in their interviews, 
 of discoursing about love. The faithless tutor entertained him 
 with sentimental conversations in place of lectures on algebra 
 and Greek ; for Smirke was in love too. Who could help it, 
 being in dail}- intercourse with such a woman? Smirke was 
 madly in love (as far as such a mild flame as Mr. Smirke's may 
 be called madness) with Mrs. Pendennis. That honest lady, 
 sitting down below stairs teaching little Laura to play the 
 piano, or devising flannel petticoats for the poor round about 
 her, or otherwise busied with the calm routine of her modest 
 and spotless Christian life, was little aware what storms were 
 brewing in two bosoms up stairs in the studj^ — in Pen's as he 
 sat in his shooting-jacket, with his elbows on the green study- 
 table, and his hands clutching his curly brown hair. Homer 
 under his nose, — and in worthy Mr. Smirke's, with whom he 
 was reading. Here they would talk about Helen and Andro- 
 mache. " Andromache's like my mother," Pen used to avouch ; 
 '' but I sa}-, Smirke, by Jove I'd cut off m}- nose to see Helen ; " 
 and he would spout certain favorite lines which the reader will 
 find in their proper place in the third book. He drew portraits 
 of her — they are extant still — with straight noses and enor- 
 mous eyes, and '• Arthur Pendennis delineavit et pinxit " gal- 
 lantly written underneath. 
 
 As for Mr. Smirke he naturall}" preferred Andromache. 
 And in consequence he w^as uncommonly kind to Pen. He 
 gave him his Elzevir Horace, of which the boy was fond, and 
 his little Gi'eek Testament which his ow^n mamma at Clapham 
 had purchased and presented to him. He bouglit him a silver 
 pencil case ; and in the matter of learning let him do just as 
 much or as little as ever he pleased. He ahvays seemed to be 
 on the point of unbosoming himself to Pen : nay, he confessed 
 to the latter that he had a — an attachment, an ardently cher- 
 ished attachment, about which Pendennis longed to hear, and 
 said, "Tell us, old chap, is she handsome? has she got blue 
 eyes or black ? " But Doctor Portman's curate, heaving a gentle 
 sigh, cast up his eyes to the ceiling, and begged Pen faintly to 
 change the conversation. Poor Smirke ! He invited Pen to 
 dine at his lodgings over Madame Frisby's, the milliner's, in 
 Clavering, and once when it was raining, and Mrs. Pendennis, 
 who had driven in her pon3-chaise into Clavering with respect 
 to some arrangements, about leaving off mourning probabl}',
 
 28 PENDENNIS. 
 
 was prevailed upon to enter the curate's apartments, he sen* 
 for pound-cakes instantly. The sofa on which she sat became 
 sacred to him from that day : and he kept flowers in the glass 
 which she drank from exQv after. 
 
 As Mrs. Pendennis was never tired of hearing the praises 
 of her son, we may be certain that this rogue of a tutor neg- 
 lected no opportunity of conversing with her upon the subject. 
 It might be a little tedious to him to hear the stories about 
 Pen's generosity, about his bravery in fighting the big naught}' 
 bo3', about his fun and jokes, about his prodigious skill in Latin, 
 music, riding, &c. — but what price would he not pa}^ to be in 
 her compan}^? and the widow, after these conversations, thought 
 Mr. Smirke a ver}- pleasing and well-informed man. As for 
 her son, she had not settled in her mind, whether he was to 
 be Senior Wrangler and Archbishop of Canterbur}', or Double 
 First Class at Oxford, and Lord Chancellor. That all England 
 did not possess his peer, was a fact about which there was, in 
 her mind, no manner of question. 
 
 A simple person, of inexpensive habits, she began forthwith 
 to save, and, perhaps, to be a little parsimonious, in favor of 
 her boy. There were no entertainments, of course, at Fairoaks, 
 during the year of her weeds. Nor, indeed, did the Doctor's 
 silver dish-covers, of which he was so proud, and which were 
 flourished all over with the arms of the Pendennises, and sur- 
 mounted with theii' crest, come out of the plate-chest again for 
 long, long years. The household was diminished, and its ex- 
 penses curtailed. There was a very blank anchorite repast 
 when Pen dined from home : and he himself headed the remon- 
 strance from the kitchen regarding the deteriorated qualit}' of 
 the Fairoaks beer. She was becoming miserl}' for Pen. In- 
 deed, who ever accused women of being just? The}- are always 
 sacrificing themselves or somebod}- for somebody else's sake. 
 
 There happened to be no young woman in the small circle 
 of friends who were in the widow's intimacy whom Pendennis 
 could by any possibility gratif}' b}- endowing her with the inesti- 
 mable treasure of a heart which he was longing to give awa}'. 
 Some 3'oung fellows in this predicament bestow their young 
 affections upon Dolly, the dair3'maid, or cast the eyes of ten- 
 derness upon Molly, the l)lacksmith's daughter. Pen thought 
 a Pendennis much too grand a personage to stoop so low. He 
 was too high-minded for a vulgar intrigue, and at the idea of a 
 seduction, had he ever entertained it, his heart would have re- 
 volted as from the notion of any act of baseness or dislionor. 
 Miss Mira Portman was too old, too large, and too fond of
 
 PENDENNIS. 29 
 
 reading '' Rollin's Ancient History." The Miss Boardbacks, 
 Admiral Boardback's daughters of St. Vincent's, or Fourth 
 of June House, as it was called), disgusted Pen with the 
 London airs which they brought into the country. Captain 
 Glanders's (H". P., oOth Dragoon Guards) three girls were in 
 brown-hoUand pinafores as yet, with the ends of their hair- 
 plaits tied up in diity pink ribbon. Not having acquired the 
 art of dancing, the youth avoided such chances as he might 
 have had o^ meeting with the fair sex at the Chatteris Assem- 
 l)lies ; in fine, he was not in love, because there was nobody at 
 hand to fall in love with. And the young monkej' used to ride 
 out, day after day, in quest of Dulcinea ; and peep into the 
 pony-chaises and gentlefolks' carriages, as they drove along 
 the broad turnpike roads, with a heart beating within him, and 
 a secret tremor and hope that she might be in that 3'ellow post- 
 chaise coming swinging up the hill, or one of those three girls 
 in beaver bonnets in the back seat of the double gig, which the 
 fat old gentleman in black was driving, at four miles an hour. 
 The post-chaise contained a snuffj' old dowager of seventy-, with 
 a maid, her coutemporar}". The three girls in the beaver bon- 
 nets were no handsomer than the turnips that skirted the road- 
 side. Do as he might, and ride where he would, the fairy 
 princess whom he was to rescue and win, had not yet appeared 
 to honest Pen. 
 
 Upon these points he did not discourse to his mother. He 
 had a world of his own. What ardent, imaginative soul has 
 not a secret pleasure-place in which it disports ? Let no clumsy 
 l)rying or dull meddling of ours tiy to disturb it in our children. 
 Actaeon was a brute for wanting to push in whore Diana was 
 bathing. Leave him occasionally alone, m}' good madam, if 
 you have a poet for a child. Even your admirable advice may 
 be a bore sometimes. Yonder little child may have thoughts 
 too deep even for your great mind, and fancies so coy and 
 timid that they will not bare themselves when your ladyship 
 sits b}'. 
 
 Helen Pendennis by the force of sheer love divined a great 
 number of her son's secrets. But she kept these things in her 
 heart (if we may so speak), and did not speak of them. Be- 
 sides, she had made up her mind that he was to marr^^ little 
 Laura : she would be eighteen when Pen was six-and-twenty ; 
 and had finished his college career ; and had made his grand 
 tour ; and was settled either in London, astonishing all the 
 metropolis by his learning and eloquence at the bar, or better 
 still in a sweet country parsonage surrounded with hollyhocks
 
 30 PENDENNIS. 
 
 and roses, close to a delightful romantic ivj'-covered church, 
 from the pulpit of which Pen would utter the most beautiful 
 sermons ever preached. 
 
 While these natural sentiments were waging war and trouble 
 in honest Pen's bosom, it chanced one day that he rode into 
 Chatteris for the purpose of carrying to the County Chronicle a 
 tremendous and thrilling poem for the next week's paper ; and 
 putting up his horse according to custom, at the stables of the 
 George Hotel there, he fell in with an old acquaintance. A 
 grand black tandem, with scarlet wheels, came rattling into the 
 inn 3'ard, as Pen stood there in converse with the ostler about 
 Rebecca; and the voice of the driver called out, ''Halloo, 
 Pendennis, is that you?" in a loud patronizing manner. Pen 
 had some difficulty in recognizing, under the broad-brimmed 
 hat and the vast great-coats and neck-cloths, with which the 
 new comer was habited, the person and figure of his quondam 
 schoolfellow, Mr. Foker. 
 
 A 3'ear's absence had made no small difference in that gen- 
 tleman. A youth who had been deservedl}- whipped a few 
 months previousl}-, and who spent his pocket-money on tarts 
 and hardbake, now appeared before Pen in one of those cos- 
 tumes to which the public consent, which I take to be quite 
 as influential in this respect as "Johnson's Dictionary'," has 
 awarded the title of " Swell." He had a bull-dog between his 
 legs, and in his scarlet shawl neck-cloth, was a pin representing 
 another bull-dog in gold : he wore a fur waistcoat laced over 
 with gold chains ; a green cut-away coat with basket buttons, 
 and a white upper-coat ornamented with cheese-plate buttons, 
 on each of which was engraved some stirring incident of the 
 road or the chase ; all of which ornaments set off this young 
 fellow's figure to such advantage, that 3'ou would hesitate to 
 say which character in life he most resembled, and whether he 
 was a boxer en gogiiette, or a coachman in his gala suit. 
 
 "Left that place for good, Pendennis?" Mr. Foker said, 
 descending from his landau and giving Pendennis a finger. 
 
 " Yes, this year or more," Pen said. 
 
 " Beastly old hole," Mr. Foker remarked. " Hate it. Hate 
 the Doctor : hate. Towzer, the second master ; hate everybody 
 there. Not a fit place for a gentleman." 
 
 "Not at all," said Pen, with an air of the utmost conse* 
 quence. 
 
 "By gad, sir, I sometimes dream, now, that the Doctor's 
 walking into me," Foker continued (and Pen smiled as he
 
 PENDENNIS. 31 
 
 thought that he himself had likewise fearful dreams of this 
 nature). "When I think of the diet there, by gad, sir, I 
 wonder how I stood it. Mangy mutton, brutal beefs pudding 
 on Thursdays and Sundays, and that fit to poison you. Just 
 look at m^- leader — did you ever see a prettier animal? 
 Drove over from Baymouth. Came the nine mile in two-and- 
 *!orty minutes. Not bad going, sir." 
 
 " Are you stoping at Baymouth, Foker?" Pendennis asked. 
 
 " I'm coaching there," said the other with a nod. 
 
 " Wlmt?" asked Pen, and in a tone of such wonder, that 
 Foker burst out laughing, and said, "He was blowed if he 
 didn't think Pen was such a flat as not to know what coaching 
 meant." 
 
 "I'm come down with a coach from Oxbridge. A tutor, 
 don't you see, old boy? He's coaching me, and some other 
 men, for the little go. Me and Spavin have the drag between 
 us. And I thought I'd just tool over, and go to the play. 
 Did you ever see Rowkins do the hornpipe ? " and Mr. Foker 
 began to perform some steps of that popular dance in the inn 
 yard, looking round for the sympathy of his groom, and the 
 stable men. 
 
 Pen thought he would like to go to the play too : and could 
 ride home afterwards, as there was a moonlight. So he ac- 
 cepted Foker's invitation to dinner, and the young men en- 
 tered the inn together, where Mr. Foker stopped at the bar, 
 and called upon Miss Rummer, the landlady's fair daughter, 
 who presided there, to give him a glass of "• his mixture." 
 
 Pen and his family had been known at the George ever 
 since they came into the county ; and Mr. Pendennis's carriage 
 and horses always put up there when he paid a visit to the 
 county town. The landlady dropped the heir of Fairoaks a 
 ver}' respectful curtsv, and complimented him upon his growth 
 and manly appearance, and asked news of the family at Fair- 
 oaks, and of Dr. Portman and the Clavering people, to all of 
 which questions the ^oung gentleman answered with much 
 affability. But he spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Rummer with that 
 sort of good nature with which a 3'oung Prince addresses his 
 father's subjects; never dreaming that those "bonnes gens" 
 were his equals in life. 
 
 Mr. Foker's behavior was quite different. He inquired for 
 Rummer and the cold in his nose, told Mrs. Rummer a riddle, 
 asked Miss Rummer when she would be ready to marry him, 
 and paid his compliments to Miss Brett, the other 3'Oung lady 
 in the bar, all in a minute of time, and with a liveliness and
 
 32 PENDENNIS. 
 
 facetiousness which set all these ladies in a giggle ; and he 
 gave a cluck, expressive of great satisfaction as he tossed oflC 
 his mixture which Miss Rummer prepared and handed to him. 
 
 " Have a drop," said he to Pen. " Give the young one a 
 glass, R., and score it up to yours trul}'." 
 
 Poor Pen took a glass, and everybody laughed at the face 
 which he made as he put it down — Gin, bitters, and some 
 other cordial, was the compound with which Mr. Foker was so 
 'delighted as to call it by the name of Foker's own. As Pen 
 choked, sputtered, and made faces, the other took occasion to 
 remark to Mr. Rummer that the 3'oung fellow was green, very 
 green, but that he would soon form him ; and then they pro- 
 ceeded to order dinner — which Mr. Foker determined should 
 consist of turtle and venison ; cautioning the landlady to be 
 very particular about icing the wine. 
 
 Then Messrs. Foker and Pen strolled down the High Street 
 together — the former having a cigar in his mouth, which he 
 had drawn out of a case almost as big as a portmanteau. He 
 went in to replenish it at Mr. Lewis's, and talked to that 
 gentleman for a while, sitting down on the counter : he then 
 looked in at the fruiterer's, to see the prett}- girl there : then 
 they passed the County Chronicle office, for which Pen had his 
 packet read3% in the shape of "Lines to Thyrza,-" but poor 
 Pen did not like to put the letter into the editor's box while 
 walking in compan}- with such a fine gentleman as Mr. Foker. 
 The}' met heavy dragoons of the regiment always quartered at 
 Chatteris ; and stopped and talked about the Baymouth balls, 
 and what a pretty girl was Miss Brown, and what a dem fine 
 woman Mrs. Jones was. It was in vain that Pen recalled to 
 his own mind how stupid Foker used to be at school — how he 
 could scarcely read, how he was not cleanl}' in his person, and 
 notorious for his blunders and dulness. Mr. Foker was not 
 much more refined now than in his school days : and yet Pen 
 felt a secret pride in strutting down High Street with a young 
 fellow who owned tandems, talked to officers, and ordered 
 turtle and champagne for dinner. He listened, and with re- 
 spect too, to Mr. Foker's accounts of what the men did at the 
 Universit}' of which Mr. F. was an ornament, and encountered 
 a long series of stories about boat-racing, bumping, College 
 grass-plats, and milk-punch — and began to wish to go up 
 himself to College to a \Asxce where there were such manly 
 pleasures and enjoyments. Farmer Gurnett, who lives close 
 by Fairoaks, riding by at tliis minute and touching his hat to 
 Pen, the latter stopped him, and sent a message to his mother
 
 PENDENNIS. 33 
 
 to say that h«5 had met with an old schoolfellow, and should 
 dine in Chatteris. 
 
 The two young gentlemen continued their walk, and were 
 passing round the Cathedral Yard, where they could hear the 
 music of the afternoon service (a music which always exceed- 
 ingly affected Pen), but whither Mr. Foker came for the pur- 
 pose of inspecting the nursery- maids who frequent the Elms 
 Walk there, and here they strolled until with a final burst of 
 music the small congTegation was played out. 
 
 Old Doctor Portman was one of the few who came from the 
 venerable gate. Spring Pen, he came and shook him by the 
 hand, and eyed with wonder Pen's friend, from whose mouth 
 and cigar clouds of fragrance issued, which curled round the 
 Doctor's honest face and shovel hat. 
 
 " An old schoolfellow of mine, Mr. Foker," said Pen. The 
 Doctor said "H'm": and scowled at the cigar. He did not 
 mind a pipe in his study, but the cigar was an abomination to 
 the worthy gentleman. 
 
 '• I came up on Bishop's business," the Doctor said. " We'll 
 ride home, Arthur, if 3-ou like?" 
 
 •* I — I'm engaged to ni}- friend here," Pen answered, 
 
 " You had better come home with me," said the Doctor. 
 
 "His mother knows he's out, sir," Mr. Foker remarked: 
 "don't she, Pendennis?" 
 
 "But that does not prove that he had not better come 
 home with me," the Doctor growled, and he walked off with 
 gi-eat dignit}'. 
 
 " Old bo}' don't like the weed, I suppose," Foker said. 
 "Ha! who's here? — here's the General, and Bingley, the 
 manager. How do, Cos ? How do, Bingley ? " 
 
 " How does my worth}' and gallant young Foker?" said the 
 gentleman addressed as the General ; and who wore a shabb}' 
 military cape with a mangy collar, and a hat cocked very much 
 over one eye. 
 
 " Trust j'ou are very well, m}' ver}' dear sir," said the other 
 gentleman, "and that the Theatre Roj-al will have the honor 
 of your patronage to-night. We perforai ' The Stranger,' in 
 which your humble servant will — " 
 
 " Can't stand 3-ou in tights and Hessians, Bingley," young 
 Mr. Foker said. On which the General, with the Irish accent, 
 said, " But I think ye'll like Miss Fotheringay, in Mrs. Haller, 
 or me name's not Jack Costigan." 
 
 Pen looked at these individuals with the greatest interest. 
 He had never seen an actor before ; and he saw Dr. Portman's 
 
 3
 
 34 PEN DENNIS. 
 
 red face looking over the Doctor's shoulder, as he retreated 
 from the Cathedral Yard, evidently quite dissatisfied with the 
 acquaintances into whose hands Pen had fallen. 
 
 Perhaps it would have been much better for him had he 
 taken the parson's advice and company home. But which of 
 us knows his fate? 
 
 CHAPTER rV. 
 
 MRS. HALLER. 
 
 Having returned to the George, Mr. Foker and his guest 
 sat down to a handsome repast in the coffee-room ; where Mr. 
 Rummer brought in the first dish, and bowed as gravel}- as if 
 he was waiting upon the Lord-Lieutenant of the count}'. Pen 
 could not but respect Foker's connoisseurship as he pronounced 
 the champagne to be condemned gooseberr}', and winked at the 
 port with one e^-e. The latter he declared to be of the right 
 sort ; and told the waiters, there was no way of humbuggiiig 
 him. All these attendants he knew by therr Christian names, 
 and showed a great interest in their families ; and as the Lon- 
 don coaches drove up, which in those eai'ly da3'S used to set otf 
 from the George, Mr. Foker flung the coflfee-room window open, 
 and called the guards and coachmen by their Christian names, 
 too, asking about their respective families, and imitating with 
 great liveliness and accuracy the tooting of the horns as Jem 
 the ostler whipped the horses' cloths off, and the carriages drove 
 ga3ly away. 
 
 " A bottle of sherry, a bottle of sham, a bottle of port and 
 a shass caflT}', it ain't so bad, ha}'. Pen? " Foker said, and pro- 
 nounced, after all these delicacies and a quantity of nuts and 
 fruit had been despatched, that it was time to "• toddle." Pen 
 sprang up with very bright e3'es, and a flushed face ; and they 
 moved off towards the theatre, where they paid their money 
 to the wheez}' old lady slumbering in the mone3'-taker's box. 
 " Mrs. Dropsicum, Bingley's mother-in-law, great in Lady 
 Macbeth," Foker said to his companion, Foker knew her, 
 too. 
 
 They had almost their choice of places in the boxes of the thea- 
 tre, which was no better filled than country theatres usuall}' are 
 in spite of the " universal burst of attraction and galvanic thrills
 
 PENDENNIS. 35 
 
 of delight " advertised by Bingley in the pla3--bills. A score or 
 so of people dotted the pit-benches, a few more kept a kicking 
 and whistUng in the galleries, and a dozen others, who came in 
 with free admissions, were in the boxes where our youno' gentle- 
 men sat. Lieutenant Rodgers and Podgers, and 3'oung Cornet 
 Tidmus, of the Dragoons, occupied a private box. The per- 
 formers acted to them, and these gentlemen seemed to hold 
 conversations with the players w'hen not engaged in the dialogue, 
 and applauded them b}- name loudl3'. 
 
 Bingley the manager, who assumed all the chief tragic and 
 comic parts except when he modestly retreated to make wa}- for 
 the London stars, who came down occasionally to Chatteris ; 
 was great in the character of the "■ Stranger." He was attired 
 in the tight pantaloons and Hessian boots which the stage 
 legend has given to that injured man, with a large cloak and 
 beaver and a hearse-feather in it drooping over his raddled old 
 face, and only partially concealing his great buckled brown wig. 
 He had the stage-jewellery on too, of which he selected the 
 largest and most shiny rings for himself, and allowed his little 
 finger to quiver out of his cloak with a sham diamond ring coa'- 
 ering the first joint of the finger and twiddling in the faces of 
 the pit. Bingley made it a favor to the 3'oung men of his com- 
 pany to go on in light comedy parts with that ring. They 
 flattered him by asking its history. The stage has its tradi- 
 tional jewels, as the Crown and all great families have. This 
 had belonged to George Frederick Cooke, who had had it from 
 Mr. Quin, who may have bought it for a shilling. Bingley 
 fancied the world was fascinated with its glitter. 
 
 He was reading out of the stage-book — that wonderful 
 stage-book — which is not bound like any other book in the 
 world, but is rouged and tawdry like the hero or heroine who 
 holds it ; and who holds it as people never do hold books : and 
 points with his finger to a passage, and wags his head ominously 
 at the audience, and then lifts up eyes and finger to the ceiling,, 
 professing to derive some intense consolation from the work 
 between which and heaven there is a strong affinit}'. 
 
 As soon as the Stranger saw the .young men, he acted at 
 them ; eying them solemnly over his gilt volume as he lay on 
 the stage-bank showing his hand, his ring, and his Hessians. 
 He calculated the eflTect that every one of these ornaments 
 would produce upon his victims : he was detei-mined to fasci- 
 nate them, for he knew they had paid their money ; and he snw 
 their families coming in from the country and filling the cane 
 chairs in his boxes.
 
 36 PENDENNIS. 
 
 As he lay on the bank reading, his servant, Francis, made 
 remarks upon his master. 
 
 "Again reading," said Francis, "thus it is, from morn to 
 night. To him nature has no beaut}^ — life no charm. For 
 three years I have never seen him smile " (the gloom of Bing- 
 ley's face was fearful to witness during these comments of the 
 faithful domestic). "Nothing diverts him. Oh, if he would 
 but attach himself to any living thing, were it an animal — for 
 something man must love." 
 
 [Enter Tobias {Goll) from the hut']. He cries, " Oh, how 
 refreshing, after seven long weeks, to feel these warm sunbeams 
 once again. Thanks, bounteous heaven, for the jo}' I taste ! " 
 He presses his cap between his hands, looks up and prays. 
 The Stranger ej-es liim attentively. 
 
 Francis to the Stranger. ' ' This old man's share of earthlj' 
 happiness can be but little. Yet mark how grateful he is for 
 his portion of it." 
 
 Bingley. " Because though old, he is but a child in the 
 leading-string of hope." (He looks steadily at Foker, who, 
 however, continues to suck the top of his stick in an uncon- 
 cerned manner.) 
 
 Francis. " Hope is the nurse of life." 
 
 Bingley. " And her cradle — is the grave." 
 
 The Stranger uttered this with the moan of a bassoon in 
 agony, and fixed his glance on Fendennis so steadily, that the 
 poor lad was quite put out of countenance. He thought the 
 whole house must be looking at him ; and cast his eyes down. 
 As soon as ever he raised them Binglej's were at him again. 
 All through the scene the manager played at him. How 
 relieved the lad was when the scene ended, and Foker, tapping 
 with his cane, cried out "Bravo, Bingley ! " 
 
 " Give him a hand, Fendennis ; 3'ou know ever}^ chap likes 
 a hand," Mr. Foker said ; and the good-natured 3'oung gentle- 
 man, and Fendennis laughing, and the dragoons in the opposite 
 box, began clapping hands to the best of their power. 
 
 A chamber in Wintersen Castle closed over Tobii.''' hut 
 and the Stranger and his boots ; and servants appeared bus- 
 tling about with chairs and tables — " That's Hicks and Miss 
 Thackthwaite," whispered Foker. " Protty girl, ain't she, 
 Fendennis? But stop — hurraj' — bravo! here's the P^otherin- 
 
 gay." 
 
 The pit thrilled and thumped its umlirellas ; a volley of 
 applause was fired from the gallery : the Dragoon ofl^cers and 
 Foker clapped their hands furiously : you would have thought
 
 PENDENNIS. 3T 
 
 the house was full, so loud were their plaudits. The red face 
 and ragged whiskers of Mr. Costigan were seen peering from 
 the side-scene. Pen's eyes opened wide and bright, as Mrs. 
 Haller entered with a downcast look, then rallying at the sound 
 of the applause, swept the house with a grateful glance, and, 
 folding her hands across her breast, sank down in a magnifi- 
 cent curtsy. More applause, more umbrellas ; Pen this time, 
 flaming with wine and enthusiasm, clapped hands and sang 
 '•Bravo" louder than all. Mrs. Haller saw him, and every- 
 body else, and old Mr. Bows, the little first fiddler of the 
 orchesti-a (which was this night increased by a detachment of 
 the baud of the Dragoons, b}- the kind permission of Colonel 
 Swallowtail), looked up from the desk where he was perched, 
 with his crutch beside him, and smiled at the enthusiasm of the 
 lad. 
 
 Those who have only seen Miss Fotheringay in later da3-s, 
 since her marriage and introduction into London life, have little 
 idea how beautiful a creature she was at the time when our 
 friend Pen fij'st set e3-es ou her.- She was of the tallest of 
 women, and at her then age of six-and-twenty — for six-and- 
 twenty she was, though she vows she was only nineteen — in 
 the prime and fulness of her beauty. Her forehead was vast, 
 and her black hair waved over it with a natural ripple, and was 
 confined in shining and voluminous braids at the back of a 
 neck such as you see on the shoulders of the Louvre Venus — 
 that delight of gods and men. Her eyes, when she lifted 
 them up to gaze on j'ou, and ere she dropped their purple deep- 
 fringed lids, shone with tenderness and m3'stery unfathomable. 
 Love and Genius seemed to look out from them and then retire 
 coyly, as if ashamed to have lieen seen at the lattice. Who 
 could have had such a commanding brow but a woman of high 
 intellect? She never laughed (indeed her teeth were not good), 
 but a smile of endless tenderness and sweetness played round 
 her beautiful lips, and in the dimples of her cheeks and her 
 loveh' chin. Her nose defied description in those days. Her 
 ears were like two little pearl sheUs, which the earrings she wore 
 (though the handsomest properties in the theatre) only insulted. 
 She was dressed in long flowing robes of black, which she man- 
 aged and swept to and fro with wonderful grace, and out of the 
 folds of which you onl}' saw her sandals occasionally ; they were 
 of rather a large size ; but Pen thought them as ravishing as the 
 .slippers of Cinderella. But it was her band and arm that this 
 magnificent creature most excelled in and somehow you could 
 never see her but through then: . They surrounded her. 
 
 5805 

 
 38 PEN DENNIS. 
 
 When she folded them over her bosom in resignation , when 
 she dropped thera in mute agon^-, or raised them in superb 
 command ; when in sportive gayety her hands fluttered and 
 waved before her, like, — what shall we sa}-? — like the snowy 
 doves before the chariot of Venus — it was with these arms 
 and hands that she beckoned, repelled, entreated, embraced 
 her admirers — no single one, for she was armed with her own 
 virtue, and with her father's valor, whose sword would have 
 leapt from its scabbard at an}' insult offered to his child — but 
 the whole house ; which rose to her, as the phrase was, as she 
 curtsied and bowed, and charmed it. 
 
 Thus she stood for a minute — complete and beautiful — as 
 Pen stared at her. " I say, Pen, isn't she a stunner?" asked 
 Mr. Foker. 
 
 " Hush ! " Pen said. " She's speaking." 
 
 She began her business in a deep sweet voice. Those who 
 know the play of the " Stranger," are aware that the remark? 
 aiade b}^ the various characters are not valuable in themselves, 
 either for their sound sense, their novelty of observation, or their 
 poetic fancy. 
 
 Nobody ever talked so. If we meet idiots in life, as will 
 happen, it is a great mercy that they do not use such absurdly 
 fine words. The Stranger's talk is sham, like the book he reads r 
 and the hair he wears, and the bank he sits on, and the diamond 
 ring he makes pla}' with — but, in the midst of the balderdash, 
 there runs that reality of love, children, and forgiveness of wrong, 
 which will be listened to wherever it is preached, and sets al! 
 the world s^'mpathizing. 
 
 With what smothered sorrow, with what gushing nathosy 
 Mrs. Haller delivered her part ! At first, w^hen as Count Win- 
 tersen's housekeeper, and preparing for his Excellency's arrival, 
 she has to give orders about the beds and furniture, and the 
 dinner, &c., to be got ready, she did so with the calm agonv of 
 despair. But when she could get rid of the stupid servants, and 
 give vent to her feelings to the pit and the house, she overflowed 
 to each indivielual as if he were her particular confidant, and she 
 was crying out her griefs on his shoulder : the little fiddler in 
 the orchestra (whom she did not seem to watch, though he fol- 
 lowed her ceaselessly) twitched, twisted, nodded, pointed about, 
 and when she came to the favorite passage " I have a William, 
 too. if he be still alive — Ah, yes, if he be still alive. His little 
 sisters, too! Why, Fancy, does thou rack me so? "Why dost 
 thou image ray poor children fainting in sickness, and crj'ing 
 to — to — their rnum-um-o</<er" — when she came to this pa«-
 
 PENDENNIS. 39 
 
 sage little Bows buried his face in his blue cotton handkerchief, 
 alter crying out " Bravo." 
 
 All the house was affected. Foker, for his part, taking out 
 a large yellow bandanna, wept piteoush". As for Pen, he was 
 gone too far for that. He followed the woman about and about 
 — when she was off the stage, it and the house were blank ; the 
 lights and the red officers reeled wildly before his sight. He 
 watched her at the side-scene — where she stood waiting to come 
 on the stage, and where her father took off her shawl : when the 
 reconciliation arrived, and she flung herself down on Mr. Bing- 
 ley's shoulders, whilst the children clung to their knees, and the 
 Countess (Mrs. Bingley) and Baron Steinforth (performed with 
 great liveliness and spirit by Garbetts) — while the rest of the 
 characters formed a group round them. Pen's hot eyes only saw 
 Fotheringay, Fotheringay. The curtain fell upon him like a 
 pall. He did not hear a word of what Bingley said, who came 
 forward to announce the pla}^ for the next evening, and who 
 took the tumultuous applause, as usual, for himself. Pen was 
 not even distinctly aware that the house was calling for Miss 
 Fotheringay, nor did the manager seem to comprehend that 
 an^'body else but himself had caused the success of the play. 
 At last he understood it — stepped back with a grin, and pres- 
 ently appeared with Mrs. Haller on his arm. How beautiful 
 she looked ! Her hair had fallen down, the officers threw her 
 flowers. She clutched them to her heart. She put back her 
 hair, and smiled all round. Her eyes met Pen's. Down went 
 the curtain again : and she was gone. Not one note could he 
 hear of the overture which the brass band of the Dragoons blew 
 by kind permission of Colonel Swallowtail. 
 
 "She is a crusher, ain't she now?" Mr. Foker asked of his 
 companion. ^ %, 
 
 Pen did not know exactly what Foker said, and answered 
 vaguely. He could not tell the other what he felt ; he could 
 not have spoken, just then, to any mortal. Besides, Pendennis 
 did not quite know what he felt yet ; it was something over- 
 whelming, maddening, delicious ; a fever of wild joy and 
 undefined longing. 
 
 And now Rowkins and Miss Thackthwaite came on to dance 
 the favorite double hornpipe, and Foker abandoned himself to 
 the delights of this ballet, just as he had to the tears of the 
 traged}', a few minutes before. Pen did not care for it, or 
 indeed think about the dance, except to remember that 
 that woman was acting with her in the scene where she 
 first came in. It was a mist before his eyes. At the end
 
 40 PENDENNIS. 
 
 of Aie dance he looked at his watch and said it was tiin»i5 fc9 
 him to go. 
 
 "Hang it, stay to see The Bravo of the Battle-Axe," Foker 
 said. " Bingley's splendid in it ; he wears red tights, and has 
 to carry Mrs. B. over the Pine-bridge of the Cataract, only 
 she's too heav}'. It's great fun, do stop." 
 
 Pen looked at the bill with one lingering fond hope thf^t 
 Miss Fotheringay's name might be hidden, somewhere, in the 
 list of the actors of the after-piece, but there was no such name. 
 Go he must. He had a long ride home. He squeezed Foker's 
 hand. He was choking to speak, but he couldn't. He quitted 
 the theatre and walked franticall}' about the town, he knew not 
 how long ; then he mounted at the George and rode homewards, 
 and Clavering clock sang out one as he came into the yard at 
 Fairoaks. The lady of the house might have been awake, but 
 she onl}^ heard him from the passage outside his room as he 
 dashed into bed and pulled the clothes over his head. 
 
 Pen had not been in the habit of passing wakeful nights, so 
 he at once fell off into a sound sleep. Even in later da3's, and 
 with a great deal of care and other thoughtful matter to keep 
 him awake, a man from long practice or fatigue or resolution 
 begins b}^ going to sleep as usual : and gets a nap in advance 
 of Anxiety. But she soon comes up with him and jogs his 
 shoulder, and says, " Come, my man, no more of this laziness, 
 you must wake up and have a talk with me." Then they fall 
 to together in the midnight. Well, whatever might afterwards 
 happen to him, poor little Pen was not come to this state yet ; 
 he tumbled into a sound sleep — did not wake until an early 
 hour in the morning, when the rooks began to caw from the 
 Httle wood beyond his bedroom windows ; and — at that very 
 instant and as his eyes started open, the beloved image was in 
 his mind. " M}^ dear bo}^" he heard her say, " 3'ou were in a 
 sound sleep, and I would not disturb you : but I have been 
 close by your pillow all this while : and I don't intend that you 
 shall leave me. I am Love ! I bring with me fever and pas- 
 sion : wild longing, maddening desire ; restless craving and 
 seeking. Many a long day ere this I heard you calling out for 
 'jie ; and behold now I am come." 
 
 Was Pen frightened at the summons? Not he. He did 
 not know what was coming : it was all wild pleasure and de- 
 light as yet. And as, when three 3'ears previousl}^ and on 
 entering the fifth form at the Cistercians, his father had madt; 
 him a present of a gold watch which tho boy took from under
 
 PENDENNIS. 41 
 
 his pillow and examined on the instant of waking : for ever 
 rubbing and polishing it up in private and retiring into corners 
 to listen to its ticking : so the young man exulted over his new 
 delight ; felt in his waistcoat pocket to see that it was safe ; 
 wound it up at nights, and at the very tirst moment of wakino- 
 hugged it and looked at it. — By the wa}', that first watch of 
 Pen's was a show}' ill- manufactured piece ; it never went well 
 from the beginning, and was always getting out of order. 
 And after putting it aside into a drawer and forgetting it for 
 some time, he swopped it finally away for a more useful time- 
 keeper. 
 
 Pen felt himself to be ever so man}- years older since 3-68- 
 terday. There was no mistake about it now. He was" as 
 much in love as the best hero in the best romance he ever read. 
 He told John to bring his shaving water with the utmost con- 
 fidence. He dressed himself in some of his finest clothes that 
 morning : and came splendidly down to breakfast, patronizing 
 his mother and little Laura, who had been strumming her nnjsic 
 lesson for hours before ; and who after he had read the prayers 
 (of which he did not heed one single syllable) , wondered at his 
 grand appearance, and asked him to tell her what the play was 
 about ? 
 
 Pen laughed and declined to tell Laura what the play was 
 about. In fact it was quite as well ths.f she should not know. 
 Then she asked him wh}' he had got on his fine pin and beauti- 
 ful new waistcoat. 
 
 Pen blushed, and told his mother that the old schoolfellow 
 with whom he had dined at Chatteris was reading with a tutor 
 a', Bapnouth, a very learned man ; and as he was himself to 
 go to College, and as there were several 30ung men pursuing 
 their ' studies at Bay mouth — he was anxious to ride over — 
 and — and just see what the course of their reading was. 
 
 Laura made a long face. Helen Pendennis looked hard at 
 her son, troubled more than ever with the vague doubt and 
 terror which had been haunting her ever since the last night, 
 when Farmer Gurnett brought back the news that Pen would 
 !iot return home to dinner. Arthur's e3-es defied her. She 
 tried to console herself, and drive off her fears. The bo}' had 
 never told her an untruth. Pen conducted himself during 
 breakfast in a ver}' haughty and supercilious manner : aad, 
 taking leave of the elder and younger lady, waij presently 
 heard riding out of the stable-court. He 'vent genti}' at first, 
 but galloped like a madman as soon as he thought that he was 
 out of hearing.
 
 42 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Smirke, thinking of his own affairs, and softly riding with 
 his toes out, to give Pen his three hours' reading at Fairoaks, 
 met his pupil, who shot by him hke the wind. Srairke's pon}' 
 shied, as the other thundered past him ; the gentle curate went 
 over his head among the stinging-nettles in the hedge. Pen 
 laughed as the}' met, pointed toward the Baymouth road, and 
 was gone half a mile in that du-ection before poor Smirke had 
 picked himself up. 
 
 Pen had resolved in his mind that he must see Foker that 
 morning ; he must hear about her ; know about her ; be witl- 
 somebody who knew her; and honest Smirke, for his part, 
 sitting up among the stinging-nettles, as his pony cropped 
 quietl}' in the hedge, thought dismally to himself, ought he go 
 to Fairoaks now that his pupil was evidentl}^ gone away for 
 the day. Yes, he thought he might go, too. He might go 
 and ask Mrs. Pendennis when Arthur would be back ; and hear 
 Miss Laura her Watts's catechism. He got up on the little 
 pon}' — both were used to his slipping off — and advanced upon 
 the house from which his scholar had just rushed awa}' in a 
 whirlwind. 
 
 Thus love makes fools of all of us, big and little ; and the 
 curate had tumbled over head and heels in pursuit of it, and 
 Pen had started in the first heat of the mad race. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MRS. HALLER AT HOME. 
 
 Without slackening his pace Pen galloped on to Baymouth, 
 put the mare up at the inn stables, and ran straightwa}' to Mr. 
 Foker's lodgings, of whom he had taken the direction on the 
 previous da}-. On reaching these apartments, which were over 
 a chemist's shop whose stock of cigars and soda-water went off 
 rapidly by the kind patronage of his young inmates. Pen only 
 found Mr. Spa^^n, Foker's friend, and part owner of the tandem 
 which the latter had driven into Chatteris, who was smoking, 
 and teaching a little dog, a friend of his, tricks with a bit of 
 biscuit. 
 
 Pen's healthy red face fresh from the gallop, compared oddly 
 with the waxy debauched little features of Foker's chum ; Mr. 
 Spavin remarked the circumstance. "Who's that man?" he
 
 PENDENXIS. 43 
 
 thought, "he looks as fresh as a bean. His hand don't shake 
 of a morning, I'd bet five to one." 
 
 Foker had not come home at all. Here was a disappoint- 
 ment ! — Mr. Spavin could not say when his friend would return. 
 Sometimes he stopped a day, sometimes a week. Of what col- 
 lege was Pen ? Would he have anjthing ? There was a very 
 fair tap of ale. Mr. Spavin was enabled to know Pendennis's 
 name, on the card which the latter took out and laid down (per- 
 haps Pen in these days was rather proud of having a card) — 
 and so the 3'oung men took leave. 
 
 Then Pen went down the rock, and walked about on the 
 sand, biting his nails by the shore of the much-sounding sea. 
 It stretched before him bright and immeasurable. The blue 
 waters came rolling into the ba}', foaming and roaring hoarsely : 
 Pen looked them in the face with blank ej^es, hardh' regarding 
 them. What a tide there was pouring into the lad's own mind 
 at the time, and what a little power had he to check it ! Pen 
 flung stones into the sea, but it still kept coming on. He was 
 in a rage at not seeing Foker. He wanted to see Foker. He 
 must see Foker. " Suppose I go on — on the Chatteris road, 
 just to see if I can meet him," Pen thought. Rebecca was 
 saddled in another half-hour, and galloping on the grass by the 
 Chatteris road. About four miles from Ba3nnouth, the Claver- 
 ing road branches off, as everj'body knows, and the mare nat- 
 urally was for taking that turn, but, cutting her over the 
 shoulder, Pen passed the turning, and rode on to the turnpike 
 without seeing any sign of the black tandem and red wheels. 
 
 As he was at the turnpike he might as well go on : that was 
 quite clear. So Pen rode to the George, and the ostler told 
 him that Mr. Foker was there sure enough, and that "he'd 
 been a making a tremendous row the night afore, a drinkin 
 and a singin. and wanting to fight Tom the post-boy ; which I'm 
 thinking he'd have had the worst of it," the man added, with a 
 grin. " Have you carried up your master's ot water to shave 
 with?" he added, in a very satirical manner, to Mr. Foker's 
 domestic, who here came down the yard bearing his master's 
 clothes, most beautifully brushed and arranged. " Show Mr. 
 Pendennis up to 'un." And Pen followed the man at last to 
 the apartment, where, in the midst of an immense bed, Mr. 
 Harry Foker lay reposing. 
 
 The feather bed and bolsters swelled up all round Mr. 
 Foker, so that you could hardl3' see his little sallow face and 
 red silk nightcap. 
 
 "Hullo! "said Pen.
 
 44 PENDENNIS. 
 
 u 
 
 Who goes there ? brother, quickly tell ! " sang out the 
 voice from the bed. "What! Pendennis again? Is you;' 
 Mamma acquainted with your absence ? Did you sup with nu 
 last night? No — stop — who supped with us last night, 
 Stoopid ? " 
 
 "There was the three officers, sir, and Mr. Bingley, sir, 
 and Mr. Costigan, sir," the man answered, who received all Mr, 
 Foker's remarks with perfect gravity. 
 
 "Ah yes: the cup and merry jest went round. We 
 chanted : and I remember I wanted to fight a post-boy. Did 
 I thrash him, Stoopid? " 
 
 " No, sir. Fight didn't come off, sir," said Stoopid, still 
 with perfect gravity. He was arranging Mr. Foker's dressing- 
 case — a trunk, the gift of a fond mother, without which tht 
 young fellow never travelled. It contained a prodigious appara- 
 • tus in plate ; a silver dish, a silver mug, silver boxes and bot- 
 \ ties for all sorts of essences, and a choice of razors ready 
 1 against the time when Mr. Foker's beard should come. 
 
 " Do it some other daj'," said the young fellow, yawning 
 and throwing up his little lean arms over his head. " No, there 
 was no fight ; but there was chanting. Bingle}- chanted, I 
 chanted, the General chanted — Costigan I mean. — • Did you 
 ever hear him sing ' The Little Pig under the Bed,' Pen? " 
 
 " The man we met yesterday," said Pen, all in a tremor, 
 "the father of—" 
 
 " Of the Fotheringa}', — the very man. Ain't she a Venus, 
 Pen?" 
 
 " Please sir, Mr. Costigan's in the sittin-room, sir, and says, 
 sir, 3-ou asked him to breakfast, sir. Called five times, sir ; 
 but wouldn't wake you on no account ; and has been year since 
 eleven o'clock, sir — " 
 
 " How much is it now? " 
 
 "One, sir." 
 
 " What would the best of mothers say," cried the little slug- 
 gard, " if she saw me in bed at this hour? She sent me down 
 here with a grinder. She wants me to cultivate m}' neglected 
 genius — He, he! I say. Pen, this isn't quite like seven 
 o'clock school, — is it, old bo}-?" — and the young fellow burst 
 out into a boyish laugh of enjoyment. Then he added — ' ' Go 
 in and talk to the General whilst I dress. And I say, Penden- 
 nis, ask him to sing 3'ou ' The Little Pig under the Bed ; ' it's 
 capital." Pen went off in great perturbation, to meet Mr. 
 Costigan, and Mr. Foker commenced his toilet. 
 
 Of Mr. Foker's two gi'andfathers, the one from whom he in-
 
 PEXDENNIS. 45 
 
 herited a fortune, was a brewer ; the other was an earl, who 
 endowed him with the most doting mother in the world. The 
 Fokers had been at the Cistercian school from father to son ; 
 at which place, our friend, whose name could be seen over the 
 playground wall, on a public-house sign, under which " Foker's 
 Entire " was painted, had been dreadfully bullied on account of 
 his trade, his uncomely countenance, his inaptitude for learning 
 and cleanliness, his gluttony and other weak points. But those 
 who know how a susceptible 3'outh, under the tyrann3- of his 
 schoolfellows becomes silent and a sneak, may understand how 
 in a very few months after his liberation from bondage, he 
 developed himself as he had done ; and became the humorous, 
 the sarcastic, the brilliant Foker, with whom we have made ac- 
 quaintance. A dunce he alwa3s was, it is true ; for learning 
 cannot be acquired by leaving school and entering at college 
 as a fellow-commoner ; but he was now (in his own peculiar 
 manner) as great a dandy as he before had been a slattern, and 
 when he entered his sitting-room to join his two guests, arrived 
 scented and arrayed in fine linen, and perfectly splendid in 
 appearance. 
 
 General or Captain Costigan — for the latter was the rank 
 which he preferred to assume — was seated in the window with 
 the newspaper held before him at arm's length. The Captain's 
 eyes were somewhat dim ; and he was spelling the paper, with 
 the help of his lips, as well as of those bloodshot eyes of his, as 
 you see gentlemen do to whom reading is a rare and difficult 
 occupation. His hat was cocked very much on one ear; and 
 as one of his feet lay up in the window-seat, the observer of 
 such matters might remark, b}' the size and shabbiness of the 
 boots which the Captain wore, that times did not go ver}' well 
 with him. Povert}' seems as if it were disposed, before it takes 
 possession of a man entirely-, to attack his extremities first : the 
 coverings of his head, feet, and hands, are its first pre}'. All 
 these parts of the Captain's person were particularly rakish and 
 shabby. As soon as he saw Pen he descended from the window- 
 seat and saluted the new comer, first in a military manner, by 
 conveying a couple of his fingers (covered with a broken black 
 glove ) to his hat, and then removing that ornament altogether. 
 The Captain was inclined to be bald, l)ut he brought a quantity 
 of lank iron-gray hair over his pate, and had a couple of wisps of 
 the same falling down on each side of his face. Much whiskey 
 had spoiled what complexion Mr. Costigan may have possessed 
 in his youth. His once handsome face had now a copper tinge. 
 He wore a very high stock, scarred and stained in many places j
 
 46 PENDENNIS. 
 
 and a dreas-coat tightly buttoned up in those parts where th« 
 buttons had not parted compan}^ from the garment. 
 
 " The young gentleman to whom I had the honor to be in- 
 trojuiced yesterda}' in the C'athedral Yard," said the Captain, 
 with a splendid bow and wave of his hat. " I hope I see you 
 well, sir. I marked 3'e in the thayater last night during me 
 daughter's perfawrumance ; and missed ye on my return. I 
 did but conduct her home, sir, for Jack Costigan, though poor, 
 is a gentleman ; and when I reintered the house to pay me 
 respects to me joyous 3'oung friend, Mr. Foker — ye were gone. 
 We had a jolly night of ut, sir — Mr. Foker, the three gallant 
 young dragoons, and your 'umble servant. Gad, sir, it put me 
 in mind of one of our old nights when I bore her Majest/c 
 commission in the Foighting Hundtherd and Third." And he 
 pulled out an old snuff-box, which he presented with a stately 
 air to his new acquaintance. 
 
 Arthur was a great deal too much flurried to speak. This 
 shabbj'-looking buck was — was her father. ' ' I hope, Miss 
 
 F , Miss Costigan is well, sir," Pen said, flushing up. " She 
 
 — she gave me greater pleasure, than — than I — I — I ever 
 enjo3'ed at a play. I think, sir — I think she's the finest actress 
 in the world," he gasped out. 
 
 " Your hand, 3'oung man! for 3'e speak from 3'our heart," 
 cried the Captain. " Thank 3'e, sir, an old soldier and a fond 
 father thanks 3'e. She is the finest actress in the world. I've 
 seen the Siddons, sir, and the O'Nale — The3' were great, but 
 what were they compared to Miss Fotheringa3' ? I do not wish 
 she should ashume her own name while on the stage. Me 
 famil3% sir, are proud people ; and the Costigans of Costigans- 
 town think that an honest man. who has borne her Majesty's 
 colors in the Hundtherd and Third, would demean himself, b3' 
 permitting his daughter to earn her old father's bread." 
 
 " There cannot be a more honorable duty, sureh'," Pen said. 
 
 " Honorable ! Bedad, sir, I'd like to see the man who said 
 Jack Costigan would consent to an3'thing dishonorable. I have 
 a heart, sir, though I am poor ; I like a man who has a heart. 
 Y'ou have : I read it in your honest face and steady e3'e. And 
 would you believe it?" he added, after a pause, and with a pa- 
 thetic whisper, " that that Bingle3', who has made his fortun** 
 by me child, gives her but two guineas a week : out of which 
 she finds herself in dresses, and which, added to me own small 
 means, makes our all?" 
 
 Now the Captain's means were so small as to be, it may be 
 said, quite invisible. But nobod3' knows how the wind is tern-
 
 PENDENNIS. 47 
 
 pcred to shorn Irish lambs, and in what marvellous places they 
 find pasture. If Captain Costigan, whom I have the honor to 
 know, would but have told his history, it would have been a 
 great moral story. But he neither would have told it if he 
 could, nor could if he would ; for the Captain was not only un- 
 accustomed to tell the truth, — he was unable even to think it — 
 and fact and fiction reeled together in his muzzy, whiskey fied 
 brain. 
 
 He began life rather brillianth- with a pair of colors, a fine 
 person and legs, and one of the most beautiful voices in the 
 world. To his latest day he sang with admirable pathos and 
 humor, those wonderful Irish ballads which are so mirthful and 
 so melancholy : and was alwa3'S the first himself to cry at their 
 pathos. Poor Cos ! he was at once brave and maudlin, humor- 
 ous and an idiot ; always good-natured, and sometimes almost 
 trustworth}'. Up to the last da}' of his life he would drink with 
 any man, and back any man's bill : and his end was in a spong- 
 ing-house, where the sheriff's officer, who took him, was fond 
 of him. 
 
 In his brief morning of life, Cos formed the delight of regi- 
 mental messes, and had the honor of singing his songs, baccha- 
 nalian and sentimental, at the tables of the most illustrious 
 generals and commanders-in-chief, in the course of which period 
 he drank three times as much claret as was good for him, and 
 spent his doubtful patrimony. What became of him subse- 
 quently to his retirement from the army, is no affair of ours. I 
 take it, no foreigner understands the life of an Irish gentleman 
 without money, the way in which he manages to keep afloat — 
 the wind-raising conspiracies in which he engages with heroes 
 as unfortunate as himself — the means by which he contrives, 
 during most days of the week, to get his portion of whiskey-and- 
 water : all these are m^'steries to us inconceivable : but suffice 
 it to say, that through all the storms of life Jack had floated 
 somehow, and the lamp of his nose had never gone out. 
 
 Before he and Pen had had a half-hour's conversation, the 
 Captain managed to extract a couple of sovereigns from the 
 young gentleman for tickets for his daughter's benefit, which 
 was to take place speedily ; and was not a bond fide transaction 
 such as that of the last year, when poor Miss Fotheringay had 
 lost fifteen shillings by her venture ; but was an arrangement 
 with the manager, by which the lad}' was to have the sale of a 
 eertain number of tickets, keeping for herself a large portion of 
 the sura for which they were sold. 
 
 Pen had but two pounds in his purse, and he banded theui
 
 48 PENDENNIS. 
 
 oyer to the Captain for the tickets ; he would have been afraid 
 to offer more lest he should offend the latter's delicacy. Costi- 
 gan scrawled him an order for a box, lightly slipped the sover- 
 eigns into his waistcoat, and slapped liis liand over the place 
 where they lay. They seemed to warm his old sides. 
 
 "Faith, sir," said he, "the bullion's scarcer with me than 
 it used to be, as is the case with many a good fellow. I won 
 six hundtherd of 'em in a single night, sir, when me kind friend. 
 His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent, was in Gibralther." 
 
 Then it was good to see the Captain's behavior at breakfast, 
 before the devilled turkey and the mutton chops ! His stories 
 poured forth unceasingly, and his spirits rose as he chatted to 
 the young men. When he got a bit of sunshine, the old lazza- 
 rone basked in it ; he prated about his own affairs and past 
 splendor, and all the lords, generals, and Lord-Lieutenants he 
 had ever known. He described the death of his darling Bessie, 
 the late Mrs. Costigan, and the challenge he had sent to Cap- 
 tain Shanty Clancy, of the Slashers, for looking rude at Miss 
 Fotheringay as she was on her kyar in the Phaynix ; and then 
 he described how the Captain apologized, gave a dinner at the 
 Kildare Street, where six of them drank twenty-one bottles of 
 claret, &c. He announced that to sit with two such noble and 
 generous young fellows was the happiness and pride of an old 
 soldier's existence ; and having had a second glass of Curagoa, 
 was so happy that he began to cry. Altogether we should say 
 that the Captain was not a man of much strength of mind, or a 
 very eligible companion for youth ; but there are worse men, 
 holding much better places in life, and more dishonest, who 
 have never committed half so many rogueries as he. The}'^ 
 walked out, the Captain holding an arm of each of his dear 
 young friends, and in a maudlin state of contentment. Pie 
 winked at one or two tradesmen's shops where, possibly, he 
 owed a bill, as much as to say " See the company I'm in — sure 
 I'll pay you, my boy," — and they parted finally with Mr. Foker 
 at a billiard-room, where the latter had a particular engagement 
 with some gentlemen of Colonel Swallowtail's regiment. 
 
 Pen and the shabby Captain still walked the street together ; 
 the Captain, in his sly way, making inquiries about Mr. Foker's 
 fortune and station in life. Pen told him how Foker's father 
 was a celebrated brewer, and his mother was Lady Agnes Mil- 
 ton, Lord Rosherville's daughter. The Captain broke out into 
 a strain of exaggerated compliment and panegyric about Mr. 
 Foker, whose ''native aristocracie," he said, "could be seen 
 with the twinkling of an oi — and only served to adawruu other
 
 PENDENNIS. 49 
 
 qualities which he possessed, a foin intellect and a generon* 
 
 heart." 
 
 Pen walked on, listening to his companion's prate, wonder- 
 ing, amused, and puzzled. It had not as yet entered into the 
 boN-'s head to disbelieve any statement that was made to him ; 
 and being of a candid nature himself, he took naturally for truth 
 what other people told him. Costigan had never had a better 
 listener, and was highly flattered by the attentiveness and mod- 
 est bearing of the young man. 
 
 So much pleased was he with the young gentleman, so art- 
 less, honest, and cheerful did Feu seem to be, that the Captain 
 tiually made him an invitation, which he very seldom accorded 
 to young men, and asked Pen if he would do him the fevor to 
 enter his humble abode, which was near at hand, where the 
 Captain would have the honor of inthrojuieing his young friend 
 to his daughther. Miss Fotheringay ? 
 
 Pen was so delightfully shocked at this invitation, that he 
 thought he should have dropped from the Captain's arm at 
 first,"and trembled lest the other should discover his emotion. 
 He gasped out a few incoherent words, indicative of the high 
 gTatification he should have in being presented to the lady for 
 ^rjiose — for whose talents he had conceived such an admiration 
 — such an extreme admiration ; and followed the Captain, 
 scarcely knowing whither that gentleman led him. He was 
 going to see her ! He was going to see her ! In her was the 
 centre of the universe. She was the kernel of the world for 
 Pen. Yesterday, before he knew her, seemed a period ever so 
 long ago — a revolution was between him and that time, and a 
 new world about to begin. 
 
 The Captain conducted his young friend to that quiet little 
 street in Chatteris, called Prior's Lane, which lies close by 
 Dean's Green and the canons' houses, and is overlooked by the 
 enormous towers of the cathedral ; there the Captain dwelt 
 modestly in the first floor of a low gabled house, on the door 
 of which was the brass plate of '^ Creed, Tailor and Robe- 
 maker." Creed was dead, however. His widow was a pew- 
 opener in the cathedral hard by ; his eldest son was a little scamp 
 of a choir-boy, who i)layed toss-halfpenny, led his little brothers 
 i:,to mischief, and had a voice as sweet as an angel. A couple 
 of the latter were sitting on the doorstep, and they jumped up 
 with great alacrioy to meet their lodger, and plunged wildly, 
 and rather to Pew s surprise, at the swallow-tails of the Cap- 
 tain's dress-coat , for the truth is, that the good-natured gen- 
 tleman, when he was in cash, generally brought home an apple,
 
 50 PENDENNIS. 
 
 or a piece of gingerbread for these children. " Whereby' the 
 widd}' never pressed me for rint when not convanient," as he 
 remarked afterwards to Pen, winking knowingl}', and lajing a 
 finger on his nose. 
 
 As Pen followed his companion up the creaking old stair 
 his knees trembled under him. He could hardl3' see when he 
 entered, following the Captain, and stood in the room — in her 
 room. He saw something black before him, and waving as if 
 making a curts}-, and heard, but quite indistinctly, Costigan 
 making a speech over him, in which the Captain- with his usual 
 magniloquence, expressed to "me child" his wish to make her 
 known to "his dear and admirable 3'oung friend, Mr. Awther 
 Pindinnis, a young gentleman of property in the neighborhood, 
 a person of refoined moind, and emiable manners, a sinsare 
 lover of poethry, and a man possest of a feeling and affection- 
 ate heart." 
 
 "It is very fine weather," Miss Fotheringay said, in an 
 Irish accent, and with a deep rich melancholy voice. 
 
 "Very," said Mr. Pendennis. In this romantic way their 
 conversation began ; and he found himself seated on a chair, 
 and having leisure to look at the young lad3\ 
 
 She looked still handsomer off the stage than before the 
 lamps. All her attitudes were naturall3' grand and majestical. 
 If she went and stood up against the mantel-piece her robe 
 draped itself classically round her : her chin supported itself on 
 her hand, the other lines of her form arranged themselves in 
 full harmonious undulations — she looked like a muse in con- 
 templation. If she sat down on a cane-bottomed chair, her 
 arm rounded itself over the back of the seat, her hand seemed 
 as if it ought to have a sceptre put into it, the folds of her dress 
 fell naturally round her in order : all her movements were 
 graceful and imperial. In the morning you could see her hair 
 was blue-black, her complexion of dazzling fairness, with the 
 faintest possible blush flickering, as it were, in her cheek. Her 
 ej'es were gra}^ with prodigious long lashes ; and as for her 
 mouth, Mr. Pendennis has given me subsequently to under- 
 stand, that it was of a staring red color, with which the most 
 brilliant geranium, sealing-wax, or Guards-man's coat, could 
 not vie. 
 
 "And very warm," continued this empress and Queen ot 
 Sheba. 
 
 Mr. Pen again assented, and the conversation rolled on in 
 this manner. She asked Costigan whether he had had a pleas- 
 ant evening at the George, and he recounted the supper and
 
 PENDENNIS. 51 
 
 the tumblors of punch. Then the father asked her how she had 
 been emplo3ing the morning. 
 
 "■ Bows came," said she, " at ten, and we studied Ophaha. 
 It's for the twenty-fourth, when I hope, sir, we shall have the 
 honor of seeing ye." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, you will," Mr. Pendennis cried : wondering 
 that she could say '• Ophalia," and speak with an Irish inflec- 
 tion of voice naturally, who had not the least Hibernian accent 
 on the stage. 
 
 '' I've secured 'um for your benefit, dear," said the Captain, 
 tapping his waistcoat pocket, wherein lay Pen's sovereigns, and 
 winking at Pen, with one eye, at which the boy blushed. 
 
 '^Mr. the gentleman's very obleeging," said Mrs. 
 
 Haller. 
 
 " My name is Pendennis," said Pen, blushing. "I — I — 
 hope you'll — 3'ou'll remember it." His heart thumped so as 
 he made this audacious declaration, that he almost choked in 
 uttering it. 
 
 "Pendennis" — she answered slowly, and looking him full 
 in the eyes, with a glance so straight, so clear, so bright, so 
 killing, with a voice so sweet, so round, so low, that the word 
 and the glance shot Pen through and through, and perfectly 
 transfixed him with pleasure. 
 
 " I never knew the name was so prett}- before," Pen said. 
 
 " 'Tis a very pretty name," Opheha said. " Pentweazle's 
 not a prett}^ name. Remember, papa, when we were on the 
 Norwich Circuit, young Pentweazle, who used to play second 
 old men, and married Miss Rancy, the Columbine ; they're both 
 engaged in London now, at the Queen's, and get five pounds a 
 week. Pentweazle wasn't his real name. 'Twas Judkin gave 
 it him, I don't know why. His name was Harrington ; that is, 
 his real name was Potts ; fawther a clergyman, very respectable. 
 Harrington was in London, and got in debt. Ye remember, he 
 came out in Falkland, to Mrs. Bunce's Juha." 
 
 '• And a pretty Julia she was," the Captain interposed ; " a 
 woman of fifty, and a mother of ten children. 'Tis you who 
 ought to have been Julia, or my name's not Jack Costigan." 
 
 " I didn't take the leading business then," Miss Fotheringay 
 said modestly ; " I wasn't fit for't till Bows taught me." 
 
 " True for you, my dear," said tho Captain : and bending to 
 Pendennis, he added, " Rejuiced in circumstances, sir, I was 
 for some time a fencing-master in DubUn ; (there's only tliree 
 men in the emi)ire could touch me with the foil once, but Jack 
 Costigan's getting old and stiff" now, sir,) and my daughter had
 
 52 PENDENNIS. 
 
 an engagement at the thaj'ater there ; and 'twas there that my 
 friend, Mr. Bows, gave her lessons, and made her what ye see. 
 What have ye done since Bows went, Emily? " 
 
 " Sure, I've made a pie," Emily said, with perfect simplicity. 
 She pronounced it " Poy." 
 
 "If ye'll try it at four o'clock, sir, say the word," said 
 Costigan gallantly. "That girl, sir, makes the best veal and 
 ham pie in England, and I thinli I can promise ye a glass of 
 punch of the right flavor." 
 
 Pen had promised to be home to dinner at six o'clock, but 
 the rascal thought he could accommodate pleasure and duty in 
 ihis point, and was only too eager to accept this invitation. He 
 looked on with delight and wonder whilst Ophelia busied herself 
 about the room, and prepared for the dinner. She arranged 
 the glasses, and laid and smoothed the little cloth, all which 
 duties she performed with a quiet grace and good-humor, which 
 enchanted her guest more and more. The " poy " arrived from 
 the baker's in the hands of one of the little choir-boy's brothers 
 at the proper hour : and at four o'clock. Pen found himself at 
 dinner — actuall}' at dinner with the handsomest woman in all 
 creation — with his first and only love, whom he had adored 
 ever since when ? — ever since yesterday, ever since for ever. 
 He ate a crust of her making, he poured her out a glass of beer, 
 he saw her drink a glass of punch — just one wine-glass full — 
 out of the tumbler which she mixed for her papa. She was 
 perfectly good-natured, and offered to mix one for Pendennis 
 too. It was prodigioush^ strong ; Pen had never in his hfe 
 drunk so much spirits-and-water. Was it the punch or the 
 punch-maker who intoxicated him ? 
 
 Pen tried to engage her in conversation about poetry and 
 about her profession. He asked her what she thought of 
 Ophelia's madness, and whether she was in love with Hamlet 
 or not? " In love with such a little ojus wretch as that stunted 
 manager of a Bingley ? " She bristled with indig/iation at the 
 thought. Pen explained it was not of her he spoke, but of 
 Ophelia of the pla}'. " Oh, indeed, if no offence was meant, 
 none was taken : but as for Bingle^', indeed, she did not value 
 him — not that glass of punch." Pen next tried her on Kotze- 
 bue. " Kotzebue ? who was he ? " — "The author of the play 
 in which she had been performing so admirabl3^" " She did 
 not know that — the man's name at the beginning of the book 
 was Thompson," she said. Pen laughed at her adorable sim- 
 plicit3\ He told her of the melancholy fate of the author of the 
 play, and how Sand had killed him. It was the first time iu
 
 PENDENNIS. 53 
 
 her life that Miss Costigan had ever heard of Mr. Kotzebue's 
 existence, but she looked as if she was ver}' much interested, 
 and her sympathy sutiiced for honest Pen. 
 
 And in the midst of this simple conversation, the hour and 
 a quarter which poor Pen could afford to allow himself, passed 
 awa}' onl}' too quickly ; and he had taken leave, he was gone, 
 and away on his rapid road homewards on the back of Re- 
 becca. She was called upon to show her mettle in the three 
 'journeys which she made that da}-. 
 
 "What was that he w^as talking about, the madness of 
 Hamlet, and the theory of the great German critic on the 
 subject?" Emily asked of her father. 
 
 '' 'Deed then, 1 don't know, Milly dear," answered the Cap- 
 tain. " We'll ask Bows when he comes." 
 
 " An3-how, he's a nice, fair-spoken, pretty young man," the 
 lady said : " how many tickets did he take of j'ou? " 
 
 " 'Faith, then, he took six, and gev me two guineas, Milly," 
 the Captain said. " I suppose them young chaps is not too 
 flush of coin." 
 
 " He's full of book-learning," Miss Fotheringay continued. 
 " Kotzebue ! He, he, what a droll name indeed, now; and 
 the poor fellow killed by Sand, too ! Did ye ever hear such a 
 thing? I'll ask Bows about it, papa dear." 
 
 '* A queer death, sure enough," ejaculated the Captain, and 
 changed the painful theme. " 'Tis an elegant mare the 3'oung 
 gentleman rides," Costigan went on to sa}', " and a grand 
 breakfast, intireh*, that 3'Oung Mister Foker gave us." 
 
 "He's good for two private boxes, and at leest twenty tick- 
 ets, I should say," cried the daughter, a prudent lass, who 
 always kept her fine e3-es on the main chance. 
 
 " I'll go bail of that," answered the Papa ; and so their con- 
 versation continued awhile, until the tumbler of punch was fin- 
 ished ; and their hour of departure soon came, too ; for at half- 
 past six Miss Fotheringa}- was to appear at the theatre again, 
 whither her father alwaj's accompanied her : and stood, as we 
 have seen, in the side-scene watching her, and drank spirits- 
 and-water in the green-room with the company there. 
 
 " How Ijcautiful she is," thought Pen, cantering homewards. 
 " How simple and how tender ! How charming it is to see a 
 woman of her genius busying herself with the humble offices of 
 domestic life, cooking dishes to make her old father comfortable, 
 and brewing him drink ! How rude it was of me to begin to 
 talk about professional matters, and how well she turned the 
 conversation ! By-the-way, she talked about professional mat-
 
 54 PENDENNIS. 
 
 ters herself ; but then with what fun and humor she told the 
 story of her comrade, Pentweazle, as he was called ! There 
 is no humor like Irish humor. Her father is rather tedious, 
 but thoroughl}^ amiable ; and how tine of him, giving lessons 
 in fencing after he quitted the army, where he was the pet of 
 the Duke of Kent ! Fencing ! I should like to continue m}' 
 fencing, or I shall forget what Angelo taught me. Uncle Arthur 
 alwaj's liked me to fence — he says it is the exercise of a gentle- 
 man. Hang it. I'll talve some lessons of Captain Costigan. 
 Go along, Rebecca — up the hill, old lady. Pendennis, Pen 
 dennis — how she spoke the word ! Emily, Emily ! how good, 
 how noble, how beautiful, how perfect, she is ! " 
 
 Now the reader, who has had the benefit of overhearing the 
 entire conversation which Pen had with Miss Fotheringa}', can 
 judge for himself about the powers of her mind, and may 
 perhaps be disposed to think that she has not said anything 
 astonishingl}- humorous or intellectual in the course of the above 
 interview. 
 
 But what did our Pen care ? He saw a pair of bright eyes, 
 and he believed in them — a beautiful image, and he fell down 
 and worshipped it. He supplied the meaning which her words 
 wanted ; and created the divinity which he loved. Was Titania 
 the first who fell in love with an ass, or P3^gmalion the onl}' 
 artist who has gone crazy about a stone ? He had found her : 
 he had found what his soul thirsted after. He flung himself 
 into the stream and drank with all his might. Let those who 
 have been thirsty own how delicious that first draus:ht is. As 
 he rode down the avenue towards home — Pen shrieked with 
 laughter as he saw the Reverend Mr. Smirke once more coming 
 demurely awa}^ from Fairoaks on his pon}'. Smirke had dawd- 
 led and stayed at the cottages on the way, and then dawdled 
 with Laura over her lessons — and then looked at Mrs. Penden- 
 nis's gardens and improvements until he had perfectlj^ bored 
 out that lady • and he liad taken his leave at the very last 
 minute without that invitation to dinner which he fondly ex- 
 pected. 
 
 Pen was full of kindness and ti'iumph. " What, picked up 
 and sound?" he cried out laughing. "■ Come along back, old 
 fellow, and eat my dinner — I have had mine : but we will have 
 a bottle of the old wine and drink her health, Smirke." 
 
 Poor Smirke turned the pon3''s head round, and jogged along 
 with Arthur. His mother was charmed to see him in such high 
 spirits, and welcomed Mr. Smirke for his sake, when Arthur 
 said he had forced the curate back to dine. He gave a most
 
 PENDENNl^. 55 
 
 ludicrous account of the play of the night before, s.nd of the 
 acting of Bingle}' the Manager, in his ricket}' Hessians, and 
 the enornaous Mrs. Bingley as the Countess, in rumpled green 
 satin and a Polish cap : he mimicked them, and delighted his 
 mother and little Laura, who clapped her hands with pleasure. 
 
 "And Mrs. Haller?" said Mrs. Pendennis. 
 
 "She's a stunner, ma'am," Pen said, laughing, and using 
 the words of his revered friend, Mr. Foker. 
 
 ' ' A what. Ai'thur ? " asked the lady. 
 
 " "\\Tiat is a stunner, Arthur?" cried Laura, in the same 
 voice. 
 
 So he gave them a queer account of Mr. Foker, and how he 
 used to be called Vats and Grains, and b}' other contumelious 
 names at school : and how he was now exceedingly rich, and a 
 Fellow Commoner at St. Boniface. But gay and communica- 
 tive as he was, Mr. Pen did not say one syllable about his ride 
 to Chatteris that day, or about the new friends whom he had 
 made there. 
 
 When the two ladies retired, Pen, with flashing eyes, filled 
 up two great bumpers of Madeira, and looking Smirke full in 
 the face said, " Here's to her ! " 
 
 " Here's to her," said the curate with a sigh, lifting the 
 glass : and emptying it, so that his face was a little pink when 
 he put it down. 
 
 Pen had even less sleep that night than on the night before. 
 In the morning, and almost before dawn, he went out and sad- 
 dled that unfortunate Rebecca himself, and rode her on the 
 Downs like mad. Again Love had roused him — and said, 
 " Awake, Pendennis, I am here." That charming fever — that 
 delicious longing — and fire, and uncertaint}' : he hugged them 
 to him — he would not have lost them for all the world. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CONTAINS BOTH LOVE AND WAR. 
 
 Cicero and Euripides did not occupy Mr. Pen much for 
 some time after this, and honest Mr. Smirke had a very easy 
 time with kis pupil. Rebecca was the animal who suffered 
 most in the present state of Pen's mind, for, besides those days
 
 56 PENDENNIS. 
 
 when he could publicly announce his intention of going to 
 Chatteris to take a fencing-lesson, and went thither with the 
 knowledge of his mother, whenever lie saw three hours clear 
 before him, the young rascal made a rush for the city, and 
 found his way to Prior's Lane. He was as frantic with vexa- 
 tion when Rebecca went lame, as Richard at Bosworth, when 
 his horse was killed under him ; and got deeply into the books 
 of the man who kept the hunting stables at Chatteris for the 
 doctoring of his own, and the hire of another animal. 
 
 Then, and perhaps once in a week, under pretence of going 
 to read a Greek pla}- with Smirke, this young reprobate set off 
 so .as to be in time for the Competitor down coach, stayed a 
 couple of hours in Chatteris, and returned on the Rival, which 
 left for London at ten at night. Once his secret was nearly 
 lost by Smirke's simplicity, of whom Mrs. Pendennis asked 
 whether they had read a great deal the night before, or a ques- 
 tion to that effect. Smirke was about to tell the truth, that he 
 had never seen Mr. Pen at all, when the latter's boot-heel came 
 grinding down on Mr. Smirke's toe under the table, and warned 
 the curate not to betray Mm. 
 
 They had had conversations on the tender subject, of course. 
 There must be a confidant and depositary somewhere. When 
 informed, under the most solemn vows of secrecy, of Pen's 
 condition of mind, the curate said, with no small tremor, " that 
 he hoped it was no unworthy object — no unlawful attachment, 
 which Pen had formed " — for if so the poor fellow felt it would 
 be his duty to break his vow and inform Pen's mother, and 
 then there would be a quarrel, he felt, with sickening apprehen- 
 sion, and he would never again have a chance of seeing what he 
 most liked in the world. 
 
 "Unlawful, unworthy!" Pen bounced out at the curate's 
 question. " She is as pure as she is beautiful; I would give 
 my heart to no other woman. I keep the matter a secret in 
 m}^ family, because — because — there are reasons of a weighty 
 nature which I am not at liberty to disclose. But an}' man 
 who breathes a word against her purity insults both her honor 
 and mine, and — and damni}-, I won't stand it." 
 
 Smirke, with a faint laugh, only said, "Well, well, don't 
 call me out, Arthur, for you know I can't fighi : " but by this 
 compromise the wretched curate was put more than ever into 
 the power of his pupil, and the Greek and mathematics suffered 
 correspondingl}' . 
 
 Tf the reverend gentleman had had much discernment, and 
 looked into the Poets' Corner of the County Chronicle, as it
 
 PENDENNIS. 57 
 
 surivetl iu the Wednesday's bag, he might have seen " Mrs. 
 Haller," "• Passion and Genius," ''Lines to Miss Fotlieringay, 
 of the Theatre Ro3'al," appearing every week ; and other verses 
 of the most gloomy, thrilling, and passionate cast. But as 
 these poems were no longer signed NEP b3' their artful com- 
 poser, but subscribed EROS ; neither the tutor nor Helen, the 
 good soul, who cut all her son's verses out of the paper, knew 
 that Nep was no other than that flaming Eros, who sang so 
 vehementi}' the charms of the new actress. 
 
 '• Who is the lady," at last asked Mrs. Pendennis, " whom 
 your rival is always singing in the County Chronicle? He 
 writes something like you, dear Pen, but 3'ours is much the 
 best. Have j-ou seen Miss Fotheringay ? " 
 
 Pen said yes, he had ; that night he went to see the 
 "Stranger," she acted Mrs. Haller. By the wa}- she was 
 going to have a benefit, and was to appear in Ophelia — sup- 
 pose we were to go — Shakspeare 3'ou know, mother — we can 
 get horses from the Clavering Arms. Little Laura sprang up 
 with delight, she longed for a plaj-. 
 
 Pen introduced "Shakspeare you know," because the de- 
 ceased Pendennis, as became a man of his character, professed 
 an uncommon respect for the bard of Avon, in whose works he 
 safelj' said there was more poetrj' than in all ' ' Johnson's Poets " 
 put together. And though Mr. Pendennis did not much read 
 the works in question, yet he enjoined Pen to peruse them, and 
 often said what pleasure he should have, when the bo}' was of a 
 proper age, in taking him and mother to see some good plays of 
 the immortal poet. 
 
 The ready tears welled up in the kind mother's eyes as she 
 remembered these speeches of the man who was gone. She 
 kissed her sou fondly and said she would go. Laura jumped 
 for joy. Was Pen happy? — Avas he ashamed? As he held his 
 mother to him, he longed to tell her all, but he kept his counsel. 
 He would see how his mother liked her ; the play should be the 
 thing, and he would tr}- his mother like Hamlef s. 
 
 Helen, in her good humor, asked Mr. Smirke to be of the 
 partv. That ecclesiastic had been bred up by a fond parent at 
 Clapham, who had an objection to dramatic entertainments, 
 and he had never yet seen a play. But, Shakspeare ! — but to 
 go with Mrs. Pendennis in her carriage, and sit a whole night 
 by her side ! — he could not resist the idea of so much pleasure, 
 and made a feeble speech, in which he spoke of temptation and 
 gratitude, and finally accepted Mrs. Pendennis's most kind offer. 
 As he spoke he gave her a look, which made her exceedingly uu-
 
 58 PENDENNIS. 
 
 comfortable. She had seeu that look more than once, of late, 
 pursuing her. He became more positiveh' odious every day in 
 the widow's eyes. 
 
 • We are not going to say a great deal about Pen's courtship 
 of Miss Fotheringay, for the reader has already had a specimen 
 of her conversation, much of wliich need surely not be reported. 
 Pen sat with her hour after hour, and poured forth all his honest 
 boyish soul to her. Eveiything he knew, or hoped, or felt, or had 
 read, or fancied, he told to her. He never tired of talking and 
 longing. One after another, as his thoughts rose in his hot eager 
 brain, he clothed them in words, and told them to her. Her 
 part of the tete-a-tete was not to talk, but to appear as if she 
 understood what Pen talked, and to look exceedingly handsome 
 and sympathizing. The fact is, whilst he was making one of 
 his tirades, the lovely Emily, who could not comprehend a 
 tenth part of his talk, had leisure to think about her own 
 affairs, and would arrange in her own mind how they should 
 dress the cold mutton, or how she would turn the black satin, 
 or make lierself out of her scarf a bonnet like Miss Thack- 
 thwaite's new one, and so forth. Pen spouted B^ron and 
 Moore ; passion and poetry : her business was to throw up her 
 ej'es, or fixing them for a moment on his face, to cry, " Oh, 'tis 
 beautiful ! Ah, how exquisite 1 Repeat those lines again." 
 And otf the boy went, and she returned to her own simple 
 thoughts about the turned gown or the hashed mutton. 
 
 In fact Pen's passion was not long a secret from the lovel}' 
 Emily or her father. Upon his second visit, his admiration 
 was quite evident to both of them, and on his departure the 
 old gentleman said to his daughter, as he winked at her over 
 his glass of grog, '^ Faith, Milly darling, I think ye've hooked 
 that chap." 
 
 " Pooh, 'tis onl}- a bo}', papa dear," Mill}- remarked. " Sure 
 he's but a child." 
 
 "Ye've hooked 'um any how," said the Captain, "and let 
 me tell ye he's not a bad fish. I asked Tom at the George, 
 and Flint, the grocer, where his mother dales — fine fortune — 
 drives in her chariot — splendid park and grounds — Fairoaks 
 Park — only son — propert}- all his own at twenty-one — ye 
 might go further and not fare so well. Miss Fotheringay." 
 
 " Them boys are mostly talk," said Mill}-, seriously. "Ye 
 know at Dublin liow 3'e went on about young Poldoody, and 
 I've a whole desk full of verses he wrote me when he was in 
 Trinity College ; but he went abroad, and his mother married 
 him to an English woman."
 
 PEXDENXIS. 69 
 
 *' Lord Poldoody was a young nobkmau ; and in them it's 
 natural : aud ye weren't in the position in which ye are now, 
 Milly dear. But ye mustn't encourage this young chap too 
 much, for, bedad, Jack Costigan won't have any thrifliug with 
 his daughter." 
 
 " No more will his daughter, papa, you ma^' be sure of that" 
 Milly said. " A little sip more of the [nuich, — sure, 'tis beau- 
 tiful. Ye needn't be afraid about the young chap — I think I'm 
 old enough to take care of myself, Captain Costigan." 
 
 So Pen used to come day after day, rushing in and galloping 
 away, and gi-owing more wild about the girl with every visit. 
 Sometimes the Captain was present at their meetings ; but hav- 
 ing a perfect contidence in his daughter, he was more often in- 
 clined to leave the young couple to themselves, and cocked his 
 hat over his eye, and strutted off on some errand when Pen en- 
 tered. How delightful those interviews were ! The Ca[)tain's 
 drawing-room was a low wainscoted room, with a large window 
 looking into the Dean's garden. There Pen sat and talked — 
 and talked to Emily, looking beautiful as she sat at her work 
 — looking beautiful and calm, and the sunshine came streaming 
 in at the great windows, and lighted up her superb face and 
 form. In the midst of the conversation, the great bell would 
 begin to boom, and he would pause smiling, and be silent until 
 the sound of the vast music died away — or the rooks in the 
 cathedral elms w^ould make a great noise towards sunset — -.or 
 the sound of the organ and the choristers would come over the 
 quiet air, and gently hush Pen's talking. 
 
 By the way, it must be said, that Miss Fotheringay, in a 
 plain shawl and a close bonnet and veil, went to church every 
 Sunday of her life, accompanied by her indefatigable father, 
 who gave the responses in a very rich and tint! brogue, joined 
 in the psalms and chanting, and behaved in the most exemplary 
 manner. 
 
 Little Bow-s. the house-friend of the family, was exceedingly 
 wroth at the notion of Miss Fotheringay's marriage with a strip- 
 ling seven or eight years her junior. Bows, who was a cripple, 
 and owned that he was a little more deformed even than Bingley 
 the manager, so that he could not appear on the stage, was a 
 singular wild man of no small talents and humor. Attracted 
 first by Miss Fotheringay's beauty, he began to teach her how 
 to act. He shrieked out in his cracked voice the parts, and his 
 pupil learned them froii^i his lips by rote, and repeated them in 
 her full rich tones. He indicated the attitudes, and set and 
 moved those beautiful arms of hers. Those who renKnul)er this
 
 60 PENDENXIS. 
 
 graucl actress on the stage can recall how she useC always pre- 
 cisel3' the same gestures, looks, and tones ; how she stood on 
 the same plank of the stage in the same position, rolled her 
 eyes at the same instant and to the same degree, and wept with 
 precisely the same heart-rending pathos and over the same pa- 
 thetic syllable. And after she had come out trembling with 
 emotion before the audience, and looking so exhausted and 
 tearful that you fancied she would faint with sensibility, she 
 would gather up her hair the instant she was behind the curtain, 
 and go home to a mutton chop and a glass of brown stout ; and 
 the haiTowing labors of the day over, she went to bed and snored 
 as resolutely and as regularly as a porter. 
 
 Bows then was indignant at the notion that his pupil should 
 throw her chances awa}' in life b}' bestowing her hand upon a 
 little country squire. As soon as a London manager saw her 
 he prophesied that she would get a London engagement, and a 
 great success. The misfortune was that the London managers 
 had seen her. She had played in London three years before, 
 and had failed from utter stupidit}'. Since then it was that 
 Bows had taken her in hand and taught her part after part. 
 How he worked and screamed, and twisted, and repeated lines 
 over and over again, and with what indomitable patience and 
 dulness she followed him ! She knew that he made her : and 
 let herself be made. She was not gi-ateful, or ungrateful, or 
 unkind, or ill-humored. She was onl}' stupid ; and Pen was 
 madl}- in love with her. 
 
 The post-horses from the Claveri ng Arms arrived in due 
 time, and carried the party to the theatre at Chatteris, where 
 Pen was gratified in perceiving that a tolerably large audience 
 was assembled. The young gentlemen from iBaymouth had a 
 box, in the front of which sat Mr. Foker and his friend Mr. 
 Spavin splendidly attired in the most full-blown evening cos- 
 tume . They saluted Pen in a cordial manner, and examined 
 'his party, of which they approved, for little Laura was a pretty 
 httle red-cheeked girl with a quantity of shining brown ringlets, 
 and Mrs. Pendennis, dressed in black velvet with the diamond 
 cross which she sported on great occasions, looked uncommonly 
 handsome and majestic. Behind these sat Mr. Arthur, and 
 the gentle Smirke with the curl reposing on his fair forehead, 
 and his white tie in perfect order. He blushed to find himself 
 in such a place — but how happy was he to be there. He and 
 Mrs. Pendennis brought books of " Hamlet" with them to fol- 
 low the tragedy, as is the custom of honest country-folks who 
 go to a play in state. Samuel, coachman, groom, and gardener
 
 PENDENNIS. 61 
 
 to ;Mrs. Pcndennis, took his place in the pit, where Mr. Foker's 
 man was also visible. It was dotted with non-commissioned 
 officers of the Dragoons, whose band, b}' kind permission of 
 Colonel Swallowtail, were, as nsual, in the orchestra ; and that 
 corpulent and distinguished warrior himself, with his Waterloo 
 medal and a number of his 3'oung men, made a handsome show 
 in the boxes. 
 
 "• Who is that odd-looking person bowing to you, Arthur? "' 
 Mrs. Pendennis asked of her son. 
 
 Pen blushed a great deal. '■ His name is Captain Costigan, 
 ma'am," he said — '' a Peninsular officer." In fact it was the 
 Captain in a new shoot of clothes, as he called them, and with 
 a large pair of white kid gloves, one of which he waved to Pen- 
 dennis, whilst he laid the other sprawling over his heart and 
 coat-buttons. Pen did not say an}^ more. And how was Mrs. 
 Pendennis to know that Mr. Costigan was tlie father of Miss 
 Fotheringa^- ? 
 
 Mr. Hornbull, from London, was the Hamlet of the night, 
 Mr. Bingiey modestly contenting himself with the part of Ho- 
 ratio, and reserving liis chief strength for WiUiam in " Black- 
 Eyed Susan," which was the second piece. 
 
 We have nothing to do with the plaj* : except to sa}', that 
 Ophelia looked lovely, and performed with admirable w^ild pa- 
 thos : laughing, weeping, gazing wildly, waving her beautiful 
 white arms, and flinging about her snatches of flowers and songs 
 with the most charming madness. What an opportunity her 
 splendid black hair had of tossing over her shoulders ! She 
 made the most charming corpse ever seen ; and while Hamlet 
 and Laertes were battling in her grave, she was looking out 
 from the back scenes with some curiosity towards Pen's box, 
 and the family party assembled in it. 
 
 There was but one voice in her praise there. Mrs. Pen- 
 dennis was in ecstasies with her beauty. Little Laura was be- 
 wildei'ed b}- the piece, and the Ghost, and the play within the 
 pla}- (tluring which, as Hamlet lay at Ophelia's knee. Pen felt 
 that he would have liked to strangle Mr. Hornbull), but cried 
 out great praises of that beautiful young creature. Pen was 
 charmed with the effect which slie produced on his mother — 
 and the clergyman, for his part, was exceedingly enthusiastic. 
 
 When the curtain fell upon that group of slaughtered per- 
 sonages, who are despatched so suddenly at the end of " Ham- 
 let." and whose demise astonished poor little Laura not a little, 
 there was an immense shouting and applause from all quarters 
 of the house ; the intrepid Smirke, violently excited, clapped
 
 62 PENDENNIS. 
 
 his hands, and cried out ''Bravo, Bravo," as loud as the Dra- 
 goon otiicers themselves. These were greatl_y moved, — ih 
 s'agitaient sur leurs bancs, — to borrow a phrase from our neigh- 
 bors. The}" were led cheering into action b}- the portly Swallow- 
 tail, who waved his cap — the non-commissioned officers in the 
 pit, of course, gallantly following their chiefs. There was a 
 roar of bravoes rang through the house ; Pen bellowing with the 
 loudest. '' Fotheringay ! Fothermga}' ! " Messrs. Spavin and 
 Foker giving the view halloo from their box. Even Mrs. Pen- 
 dennis began to wave about her pocket-handkerchief, and little 
 Laura danced, laughed, clapped, and looked up at Pen with 
 wonder. 
 
 Hornbull led the henejiciaire forward, amidst bursts of enthu- 
 siasm — and she looked so handsome and radiant, with lier hair 
 still over her shoulders, that Pen hardly could contain himself 
 for rapture : and he leaned over his mother's chair, and shouted, 
 and hurrayed, and waved his hat. It was all he could do to 
 keep his secret from Helen, and not sa}', "■ Look ! That's the 
 woman ! Isn't she peerless ? I tell you I love her." But he 
 disguised these feelings under an enormous bellowing and hur- 
 raying. 
 
 As for Miss Fotheringay and her behaA'ior, the reader is 
 referred to a former page for an account of that. She went 
 through precisely the same business. She surveyed the house 
 all round with glances of gratitude ; and trembled, and almost 
 sank with emotion, over her favorite trap-door. She seized 
 the flowers (Foker discharged a prodigious bouquet at her, and 
 even Smirke made a feeble sh}' with a rose, and blushed dread- 
 full}" when it fell into the pit) — she seized the flowers and 
 pressed them to her swelling heart — &c. &c. — in a word — 
 we refer the reader to page 37. Twinkling in her breast poor 
 old Pen saw a locket which he had bougiit of Mr. Nathan in 
 High Street, with the last shilling he was worth, and a sover 
 eign borrowed from Smirke. 
 
 "Black-Eyed Susan" 'followed, at which sweet storj^ our 
 gentle-hearted friends were exceedingh' charmed and affected : 
 and in which Susan, with a russet gown and a pink ribbon in 
 her cap, looked to the full as lovely as Ophelia. Bingley was 
 great in William. Goil, as the Admiral, looked like the figure- 
 head of a seventy-four ; and Garbetts, as Captain Boldweather, 
 a miscreant who forms a plan for carrying off Black-Eyed 
 Susan, and waving an immense cocked hat, sa3's, '' Come what 
 may, he will be the ruin of her" — all these performed their 
 ^arts with their accustomed talent ; and it was with a sincere
 
 TEXDENXIS. 63 
 
 regret that all our friends saw the curtain drop down and end 
 that prcttv and tender story. 
 
 If Pen had been alone with his mother in the carriage as 
 the}- went home, he would have told her all that night ; but he 
 saton the box in the moonshine smoking a cigar by the side of 
 Smirke, who warmed himself with a comforter. Mr. Foker's 
 tandem and lamps whirled by the sober old Clavering posters, 
 as they were a couple of miles on their road home, and Mr. 
 .Spavin saluted Mrs. Pendennis's carriage with some considera- 
 ble variations of Rule Britannia on the key-bugle. 
 
 It happened two days after the above gayeties that the Dean 
 of Chatteris entertained a few select clerical friends at dinner 
 at his Deanery House. That they drank uncommonly good 
 port wine, and abused the Bishop over their dessert, are very 
 likely matters : but with such we have nothing at present to 
 do. ^ Our friend Doctor Portman, of Clavering, was one of the 
 Dean's guests, and being a gallant man, and seeing from his 
 place atthe mahogany, the Dean's lady walking up and down 
 the gi-ass, with her children sporting around her, and her pink 
 parasol over her lovely head — the Doctor stepped out of the 
 French windows of the dining-room into the lawn, which skirts 
 that apartment, and left the other white neck-cloths to gird at 
 my Lord Bishop. Then the Doctor went up and offered Mrs. 
 Dean his arm, and the}' sauntered over the ancient velvet lawn, 
 which had been mowed and rolled for immemorial Deans, in 
 that easy, quiet, comfortable manner, in which people of mid- 
 dle age and good temper walk after a good dinner, in a calm 
 golden summer evening, when the sun had but just suiik behind 
 the enormous cathedral towers, and the sickle-shaped moon is 
 growing every instant brighter in the heavens. 
 
 Now at the end of the Dean's garden, there is, as we have 
 stated, Mrs. Creed's house, and the windows of the first-floor 
 room were open to admit the pleasant summer air. A young 
 lady of six-and-twenty, whose eyes were perfectly wide open, 
 and a luckless boy of eighteen, blind with love and infatuation, 
 were in that chamber together ; in which persons, as we have 
 before seen them in the same place, the reader will have no 
 difficulty in recognizing Mr. Arthur Pendennis and Miss Cos- 
 tigan. 
 
 The poor boy had taken the plunge. Trembling with pas- 
 sionate emotion, his heart beating and throbbing fiercely, tears 
 rushing forth in spite of him, his voice almost choking with 
 feeling, laoor Pen had said those words which he could with-
 
 64 PENDEKNIS. 
 
 hold no more, and flung himself and his whole store of love, 
 and admiration, and ardor, at the feet of this mature beaut3^ 
 Is he the first who has done so? Have none before or after 
 him staked all their treasure of life, as a savage does his land 
 and possessions against a draught of the fair-skins' fire-water, 
 or a couple of bauble e3'es ? 
 
 "Does 3'our mother know of this, Arthur'^" said Miss 
 Fotheringa}', slowly. lie seized her hand madly and kissed 
 it a thousand times. She did not withdraw it. " Does the 
 old lad}' know it?" Miss Costigan thought to herself, "'well, 
 perhaps she may," and then she remembered what a handsome 
 diamond cross Mrs. Pendennis had on the night of the play, 
 and thought, " sure 'twill go in the family." 
 
 " Calm yourself, dear Arthur," she said, in her low rich 
 voice, and smiled sweetly' and gravel}' upon him. Then with 
 her disengaged hand, she put the hair lightl}' off his throbbing 
 forehead. He was in such a rapture and whirl of happiness 
 that he could hardl}' speak. At last he gasped out, " M}' 
 mother has seen you and admires 3'ou beyond measure. She 
 will learn to love you soon: who can do otherwise? She will 
 love you because I do." 
 
 " 'Deed then, I think 3'Ou do," says Miss Costigan, perhaps 
 with a sort of pit}' for Pen. 
 
 Think she did ! Of course here Mr. Pen went off into a 
 rhapsody which, as we have perfect command over our own 
 feelings, we have no right to overhear. Let the poor boy 
 fling out his simple heart at the woman's feet, and deal gently 
 with him. It is best to love wisely, no doubt: but to love 
 foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all. Some of 
 us can't : and are proud of our impotence too. 
 
 At the end of his speech, Pen again kissed the imperial 
 hand with rapture — and I believe it was at this very moment, 
 and while Mrs. Dean and Doctor Portman were engaged in 
 conversation, that young Master Ridley Koset, her son, pulled 
 his mother b}' the back of her capacious dress and said — 
 
 " I say, ma ! look up there " — and he waggled his innocent 
 head. 
 
 That was, indeed, a view from the Dean's garden such as 
 seldom is seen by Deans — or is written in Chapters. There 
 was poor Pen performing a salute upon the rosy fingers of his 
 charmer, who received the embrace with perfect calmness and 
 good-humor. Master Ridley looked up and grinned, little Miss 
 Rosa looked at her brother, and opened the mouth of astonish- 
 ment. Mrs. Deun's countenance defied expression, and as for
 
 PENDENNIS. 65 
 
 Dr. Portman, when he beheld the scene, and saw his prime 
 favorite and dear pupil Pen, he stood mute with rage and 
 wonder. 
 
 Mrs. Haller spied the party below at the same moment, and 
 gave a start and a laugh. "Sure there's somebody in the 
 Dean's garden," she cried out ; and withdrew with perfect 
 calmness, whilst Pen darted away with his face glowing like 
 coals. The garden party had re-entered the house when he 
 ventured to look out again. The sickle moon was blazing 
 bright in the heavens then, the stars were glittering, the bell 
 of the cathedral tolling nine, the Dean's guests (all save one, 
 who had called for his horse Dumpling, and ridden off early) 
 were partaking of tea and buttered cakes in jNIrs. Dean's draw- 
 ing-room — when Pen took leave of Miss Costigan. 
 
 Pen arrived at home in due time afterwards, and was going 
 to slip off to bed, for the poor lad was greatly worn and agi- 
 tated, and his high-strung nerves had been at almost a mad- 
 dening pitch — when a summons came to him by John the old 
 footman, whose countenance bore a ver^' ominous look, that 
 his mother must see him below. 
 
 On this he tied on his neck-cloth again, and went down 
 stairs to the drawing-room. There sat not only his mother, 
 but her friend, the Reverend Doctor Portman. Helen's face 
 looked very pale by the light of the lamp — the Doctor's 
 was flushed, on the contrary-, and quivering with anger and 
 emotion. 
 
 Pen saw at once that there was a crisis, and that there had 
 been a discover}-. " Now for it," he thought. 
 
 " Where have you been, Arthur? " Helen said in a trembling 
 voice. 
 
 " How can you look that — that dear lady, and a Christian 
 clergyman in the face, sir?" bounced out the Doctor, in spite 
 of Helen's pale, appealing looks. "Where has he been? 
 Where his mother's son should have been ashamed to go. 
 For your mother's an angel, sir, an angel. How dare you 
 bring pollution into her house, and make that spotless crea- 
 ture wretched with the thoughts of your crime ? " 
 
 "Sir!" said Pen. 
 
 " Don't deny it, sir," roared the Doctor. " Don't add lies, 
 sir, to 3'our other infam}-. I saw you myself, sir. I saw you 
 from the Dean's garden. I saw ^'ou kissing the hand of that 
 infernal painted " — 
 
 "Stop," Pen said, clapping his fist on the table, till the 
 lamp flickered up and shook, "I am a very young man, but
 
 66 PENDENNIS. 
 
 you will please to remember that I am a gentleman — I will 
 hear no abuse of that lad3\" 
 
 " Lad}', sir," cried the Doctor, '•'■ that a lady — 3'ou — you 
 — 3'ou stand in your mother's presence and call that — that 
 woman a lad}^ ! " — 
 
 " In anybody's presence," shouted out Pen. " She is worth}- 
 of any place. She is as pure as any woman. She is as good 
 as she is beautiful. If any man but you insulted her, I would 
 tell him what I thought ; but as you are my oldest friend, I 
 suppose 3'ou have the privilege to doubt of my honor." 
 
 "No, no, Pen, dearest Pen," cried out Helen in an excess 
 of joy. "I told, I told you. Doctor, he was not — not what 
 you thought : " and the tender creature coming trembling for- 
 ward flung herself on Pen's shoulder. 
 
 Pen felt himself a man, and a match for all the Doctors in 
 Doctordom. He was glad this explanation had come. " You 
 saw how beautiful she was," he said to his mother, with a 
 soothing, protecting air, like Hamlet with Gertrude in the 
 play. " I tell you, dear mother, she is as good. When you 
 know her you will sa}' so. She is of all, except you, the sim- 
 plest, the kindest, the most affectionate of women. Why 
 should she not be on the stage ? — She maintains her father 
 by her labor." 
 
 " Drunken old reprobate," growled the Doctor, but Pen did 
 not hear or heed. 
 
 " If 3^ou could see, as I have, how orderly her life is, how 
 pure and pious her whole conduct, you would — as I do — ^'es, 
 as I do" — (with a savage look at the Doctor) — "■ spurn the 
 slanderer who dared to do her wrong. Her father was an 
 orticer, and distinguished himself in Spain. He was a friend of 
 His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent, and is intimately known 
 to the Duke of Wellington, and some of the first officers of our 
 army. He has met my uncle Arthur at Lord Hill's, he thinks. 
 His own famil}' is one of the most ancient and respectable in 
 Ireland, and indeed is as good as our own. The — the Costi- 
 gans were kings of Ireland." 
 
 " Why, God bless ray soul," shrieked out the Doctor, hardh' 
 knowing whether to burst with rage or laughter, "you don't 
 mean to say you want to marry her ? " 
 
 Pen put on his most princely air. " What else. Dr. Port- 
 man," he said, " do j'ou suppose would be m}" desire? " 
 
 Utterly foiled in his attack, and knocked down b}- this sud- 
 den lunge of Pen's, the Doctor could only gasp out, " Mrs. 
 Feudennis, ma'am, send for the Major."
 
 TENDENNIS. 67 
 
 " Send for the Major? with all my heart," said Arthur, 
 Prince of Pendennis and Grand Duke of Fairoaks, with a raosit 
 superb wave of the hand. And tiie colloquy terminated by the 
 writing of those two letters which were laid on Major Pen- 
 dennis's breakfast- table, in London, at the commencement of 
 Prince Arthur's most veracious history. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 m WHICH THE MAJOR MAKES HIS APPEARANCIB. 
 
 Our acquaintance, Major Arthur Pendennis, arrived in due 
 time at Fairoaks, after a drear}' night passed in the mail-coach, 
 where a stout fellow-passenger, swelling preternaturally with 
 gi-eat-coats, had crowded him into a corner, and kept him 
 awake by snoring indecently : where a widow lady, opposite, 
 had not only shut out tlie fresh air by closing all the windows 
 of the vehicle, but had filled the interior with fumes of Jamaica 
 rum and water, which she sucked perpetually from a bottle in 
 her reticule ; where, whenever he caught a brief moment of 
 sleep, the twanging of the horn at the turnpike gates, or the 
 scuffling of his huge neighbor wedging him closer and closer, or 
 the play of the widow's feet on his own tender toes, speedil}' 
 woke up the poor gentleman to the horrors and reaUties of life 
 — a life which has passed aAvay now, and become impossible, 
 and onlv lives in fond memories. Eight miles an hour, for 
 twenty or five-and-twenty hours, a tight maU-coach, a hard 
 seat, a gouty tendency, a perpetual change of coaclmien grum- 
 bling because you did not fee them enough, a fellow-passenger 
 partial to spirits-and- water, — who has not borne these evils in 
 the jolly old times? and how could people ti'avel under such 
 difficulties? And yet they did. Night and morning passed, 
 and the Major, with a yellow face, a bristh* beard, a wig out 
 of curl, and strong rheumatic griefs shooting through various 
 limbs of his uneas}- body, descended at the little lodge-gato 
 at Fairoaks, where the porteress and gardener's wife rever- 
 entiall}' greeted him ; and, still more respectfully', Mr. Morgan, 
 his man. 
 
 Helen was on the look-out for this expected guest, and saiv 
 him from her window. But she did not come fonvard imraedi- 
 ntely to greet him. She knew the Major did not like to be seen
 
 68 I'ENDENNIS. 
 
 at a surprise, and required a little preparation before he cared 
 to be visible. Pen, when a boy, bad incurred sad disgrace, by 
 carrying off from the Major's dressing-table a Utile morocco box, 
 which it must be confessed contained the Major's back teeth, 
 which he naturally would leave out of his jaws in a jolting mail- 
 coach, and without which he would not choose to appear. Mor- 
 gan, his man, made a mystery of mystery of his wigs : curling 
 them in private places : introducing them })rivily to his master's 
 room ; — nor without his head of hair would the Major care to 
 show himself to any member of his family, or any acquaintance. 
 He went to his apartment then and supjilied these deficiencies ; 
 he groaned, and moaned, and wheezed, and cursed Morgan 
 through his toilet, as an old buck will, who has been up all 
 night with a rheumatism, and has a long duty to perform. And 
 finally being belted, curled, and set straight, he descended upon 
 the drawing-room, with a grave majestic air, such as befitted 
 one who was at once a man of business and a man of fashion. 
 
 Pen was not there, however ; only Helen, and little Laura 
 sewing at her knees ; and to whom he never presented more 
 than a forefinger, as he did on this occasion after saluting his 
 sister-in-law. Laura took the finger trembling and dropped it 
 ■ — and then fled out of the room. Major Pendennis did not 
 want to keep her, or indeed to have her in the house at all, and 
 had his private reason for disapproving of her ; which we ma}- 
 mention on some future occasion. Meanwhile Laura disap- 
 peared, and wandered about the premises seeking for Pen : 
 whom she presently found in the orchard, pacing up and down 
 a walk there in earnest conversation with Mr. Smirke. He was 
 so occupied that he did not hear Laura's clear voice singing out, 
 until Smirke pulled him b}' the coat, and j^ointed towards her 
 as she came running. 
 
 She ran up and put her hand into his. "Come in. Pen," 
 she said, " there's somebod}' come ; uncle Arthur's come." 
 
 " He is, is he?" said Pen, and she felt him grasp her little 
 hand. He looked round at Smirko with uncommon fierceness, 
 as much as to say, 1 am ready for him or any man — Mr. Smirke 
 cast up his eyes as usual, and heaved a gentle sigh. 
 
 " Lead on, Laura," Pen said, with a half fierce, haif comic 
 air — " lead on, and say I wait upon m^' uncle." But he was 
 laughing in order to hide a great anxiety ; and was screwing his 
 courage inwardly to face the ordeal which he knew was now 
 before him. 
 
 Pen had taken Smirke into his confidence in the last two 
 days, and after the outbreak attendant on the discovery of Doc-
 
 PENDENNIS. 69 
 
 \ tor Poi'tuiau, and duiiiig every one of those forty-eight hours 
 
 which he had passed in Mr. Smirke's societ}', had done noth- 
 ing but talk to his tutor about Miss Fotheringay — Miss Emily 
 Fotheringay — Emily, &e., to all which taUc Smirke listened 
 without difficulty, for he was in love himself, most anxious in 
 all things to propitiate Pen. and indeed very much himself 
 enraptured by the personal charms of this goddess, whose like, 
 never having been before at a theatrical representation, he had 
 not beheld until now. Pen's hre and volubility, his hot elo- 
 quence ami rich poetical tropes and figures, his manly heart, 
 kind, ardent, and hopeful, refusing to see any defects in the per- 
 son he loved, any difficulties in their position that he might not 
 overcome, had half convinced Mr. Smirke that the arrangement 
 proposed by Mr. Pen was a very feasible and prudent one, and 
 that it would be a great comfort to have Emily settled at Fair- 
 oaks, Captain Costigan in the 3-elIow room, established for life 
 there, and Pen married at eighteen. 
 
 And it is a fact that in these two days, the boy had almost 
 talked over his mother, too ; had parried all her objections one 
 after another with that indignant good sense which is often the 
 perfection of absurdit\' ; and had brought her almost to acqui- 
 esce in the belief that if the marriage was doomed in heaven, 
 why doomed it was — that if the young woman was a good per- 
 son, it was all that she for her part had to ask ; and rather to 
 dread the arrival of the guardian uncle who she foresaw would 
 regard Mr. Pen's marriage in a manner very different to that 
 simple, romantic, honest, and utterly absurd way, in which the 
 widow was alread}^ disposed to look at questions of this sort. 
 Helen Pendennis was a country-bred woman, and the book of 
 life, as she interpreted it, told her a different story to that page 
 which is read in cities. It pleased her (with that dismal pleas- 
 ure which the idea of sacrificing themselves gives to certain 
 women), to think of the day when she would give up all to Pen, 
 and he should bring his wife home, and she would surrender 
 the ke3's and the best bedroom, and go and sit at the side of 
 the table, and see him happy. What did she want in life, but 
 to see the lad jirosper? As an empress was certainly not too 
 good for him, and would be honored by becoming Mrs. Pen ; 
 so if he selected humble Esther instead of Queen Vashti, she 
 would be content with his lordship's choice. Never mind how 
 lowl}- or poor the person might be who was to enjoy that pro- 
 digious honor, Mrs. Pendennis was willing to bow before her 
 and welcome her, and yield her up the first place. But an 
 actress — a mature woman, who had long ceased blushing ex-
 
 70 PENDENNIS. 
 
 cept with rouge, as she stood under the eager glances of thou- 
 sands of eyes — an illiterate and ill-bred person, very likel}', 
 who must have lived with light associates, and have heard 
 doubtful conversation — Oh ! it was hard that such a one should 
 be chosen, and that the matron should be deposed to give place 
 to such a Sultana. 
 
 All these doubts the widow laid before Pen during the two 
 days which had of necessity to elapse ere the uncle came down ; 
 but he met them with that happy frankness and ease whicli 
 a young gentleman exhibits at his time of life, and routed his 
 mother's objections with intinite satisfaction to himself. Miss 
 Costigan was a paragon of virtue and delicacj' ! she was as 
 sensitive as the most timid maiden ; she was as pure as thft 
 unsullied snow; she had the tinest manners, the most gracefil 
 wit and genius, the most charming refinement, and justness c f 
 appreciation in all matters of taste ; she had the most admirable 
 temper and devotion to her father, a good old gentleman c{ 
 high family and fallen fortunes, who had lived, however, witu 
 the best society in Europe : he was in no hurry, and could 
 afford to wait any time — till he was one-and-twenty. But 
 he felt (and here his face assumed an awful and harrowiu;!,; 
 solemnity) that he was engaged in the one onl}' passion of his 
 life, and that DEATH alone could close it. 
 
 Helen told him, with a sad smile and a shake of the head, 
 that people sur\'ived these passions, and as for long engage- 
 ments contracted between very young men and old women — 
 she knew an instance in her own family — Laura's poor father 
 was an instance — how fatal they were. 
 
 Mr. Pen, however, was resolved that death must be his 
 doom in case of disappointment, and rather than this — rather 
 than baulk him in fact — this lady would have submitted to any 
 sacrifice or personal pain, and would have gone down on hei 
 knees and have kissed the feet of a Hottentot daughter-in-law. 
 
 Arthur knew his power over the widow, and the young 
 tyrant was touched whilst he exercised it. In those two da^'s 
 he brought her almost into submission, and patronized her 
 very kindly ; and he passed one evening with the lovely pic- 
 maker at Chatteris, in which he bragged of his influence over 
 his mother ; and he spent the other night in composing a most 
 flaming and conceited copy of verses to his divinity, in which 
 he vowed, like Montrose, that he would make her famous with 
 his sword and glorious by his pen, and that he would Ioac her 
 as no mortal woman had been adored since the creation of 
 womankind.
 
 PENDENNIS. 71 
 
 It ^as on that night, long after midnight, that wakeful 
 Helen, passing stealthilj^ by her son's door, saw a light stream- 
 ing through tlie chinlc of the door into the daric passage, and 
 heard Pen tossing and tumbling and mumbUng verses in his 
 bed. She waited outside for a while, anxiousl}' listening to 
 him. In infantile fevers and early boyish illnesses, man}- a 
 night before, the kind soul had so kept watcii. She turned the 
 lock very softly now, and went in so gently, that Pen for a 
 moment did not see her. His face was turned from her. His 
 papers on his desk were scattered about, and more were l3ing 
 on the bed round him. He was biting a pencil and thinking of 
 rhymes and all sorts of follies and passions. He was Hamlet 
 jum[iing into Ophelia's grave : he was the Stranger taking Mrs. 
 Haller to his arms, beautiful Mrs. Haller, Avith tlie raven ringlets 
 falling over her shoulders. Despair and Byron, Thomas Moore 
 and all the Loves of the Angels, Waller and Herrick, Beranger 
 and all the love-songs he had ever read, were working and 
 seething in this young gentleman's mind, and he was at the 
 very height and parox3sm of the imaginative plu'ensy, when 
 his mother found him. 
 
 " Arthur," said the mother's soft silver voice : and he started 
 u[) and turned round. He clutched some of the papers and 
 pushed them under the pillow. 
 
 " Wh}' don't you go to sleep, my dear?" she said, with a 
 sweet tender smile, and sat down on the bed and took one of 
 his hot hands. 
 
 Pen looked at her wildly for an instant — " I couldn't sleep," 
 he said — "I — I w^as — I was writing." — And liereupon he 
 flung his arms round her neck and said, " mother ! 1 love 
 her, I love her ! " — How could such a kind soul as that help 
 soothing and pitying him ? The gentle creature did her best : 
 and thought with a strange wonderment and tenderness, that it 
 was only 3'esterda3' tliat he was a child in that bed : and how 
 she used to come and say her prayers over it before he woke 
 upon holiday mornings. 
 
 The}' were very grand verses, no doubt, although Miss 
 Fotheringay did not understand them ; but old Cos, with a 
 wink and a knowing finger on his nose, said, " Put them up 
 witli th' bother letthers, Milh' darling. Poldoody's pomes was 
 nothing to this." So Milly locked up tlie manuscripts. 
 
 When then, the Major being dressed and presentable, pre- 
 sented himself to Mrs. Pendennis, he found in the course of 
 ten minutes' collu(|uy that tlie poor widow was not merely dis- 
 tressed at the idea of the marriage contemplated by Pen, but
 
 72 PENDENNIS. 
 
 actually more distressed at thinking that the boy himself was 
 unhappy about it, and that his uncle and he should have 
 an}' violent altercation on the subject. She besought Major 
 Pendennis to be ver}^ gentle with Arthur: "He has a very 
 high spirit, and will not brook unkind words," she hinted. 
 ' ' Doctor Portman spoke to him rather roughly — and I must 
 own unjustl}^ the other night — for my dearest boy's honor is 
 as high as any mother can desire — but Pen's answer quite 
 frightened me, it was so indignant. Recollect he is a man now ; 
 and be very — ver}- cautious," said the widow, laying a fair 
 long hand on the Major's sleeve. 
 
 He took it i\\), kissed it gallantly, and looked in her alarmed 
 face with wonder, and a scorn which he was too polite to 
 show. '•'•lion Dleu!" thought the old negotiator, "the boy 
 has actually talked the woman round, and she'd get him a wife 
 as she would a toy if Master cried for it. Why are there no 
 such things as lettres-de-cachet — and a Bastille for young fellows 
 of family ? " The Major lived in such good company that he 
 might be excused fo-r feeling like an Earl. — He kissed the 
 widow's timid hand, pressed it in both his, and laid it down on 
 the table with one of his own over it, as he smiled and looked 
 her in the face. 
 
 "Confess," said he, "now, that you are thinking how you 
 possibly can make it up to your conscience to let the boy have 
 his own way." 
 
 She blushed, and was moved in the usual manner of females. 
 "I am thinking that he is verj' unhappy — and I am too" — 
 
 "To contradict him or to let him have his own wish?" 
 asked the other ; and added, with great comfort to his inward 
 self, "I'md— d if he shall." 
 
 "To think that he should have formed so foolish and cruel 
 and fatal an attachment," the widow said, " which can but end 
 in pain whatever be the issue." 
 
 "The issue shan't be marriage, my dear sister," the Major 
 said resolutely. "We're not going to have a Pendennis, the 
 head of the house, marry a strolling mountebank from a booth. 
 No, no, we won't marry into Greenwich Fair, ma'am." 
 
 "If the match is broken suddenly off," the widow inter- 
 posed, " I don't know what may be the consequence. I know 
 Arthur's ardent temper, the intensity of his affections, the 
 agony of his pleasures and disappointments, and I tremble at 
 this one if it must be. Indeed, indeed, it must not come on 
 him too suddenly." 
 
 " My dear madam," the Major said, with an air of the
 
 z' -- 
 
 J 
 
 
 YOUTH BETWEEN PLEASURE AND DUTY 
 
 Thackeray, Vol. Three
 
 \ 
 
 1
 
 PENDENNIS. 73 
 
 deepest commiseration, "I've no doubt Arthur will have to 
 suftor confoundedh- before be gets over the little disappoint- 
 ment. But is he, think 3'ou, the onl}- person who has been so 
 rendered miserable ? " 
 
 *-No, indeed," said Helen, holding down her eyes. She 
 was thinking of her own case, and M-as at that moment seven- 
 teen again, and most miserable. 
 
 "I, mj-self," whispered her brother-in-law, "have under- 
 gone a disappointment in early life. A young woman with 
 fifteen thousand pounds, niece to an Earl — most accomplished 
 creature — a third of her money would have run up my promo- 
 tion in no time, and I should have been a lieutenant-colonel at 
 thirty : but it might not be. I was but a penniless Heutenant : 
 her parents interfered : and I embarked for India, where I had 
 the honor of being secretary- to Lord Buckley, when Com- 
 mander-in-Chief — without her. What happened ? We returned 
 our letters, sent back our locks of hair (the Major here passed his 
 fingers through his wig), we suffered — but we recovered. She 
 is now a baronet's wife with thirteen grown-up children ; altered, 
 it is true, in person ; but her daughters remind me of what she 
 was, and the third is to be presented earh- next week." 
 
 Helen did not answer. She was still thinking of old times. 
 I suppose if one lives to be a hundred, there are certain pas- 
 sages of one's early life whereof the recollection will always 
 carry us back to youth again, and that Helen was thinking of 
 one of these. 
 
 "Look at my own brother, my dear creature," the Major 
 continued gallantly: " he himself, you know, had a little dis- 
 appointment when he started in the — the medical profession — 
 an eligible opportunity' presented itself. Miss Balls, I remem- 
 ber the name, was daughter- of an apoth — a practitioner in 
 very large practice ; my brother had very nearly succeeded 
 in his suit. — But difficulties arose : disappointments super- 
 vened, and — and I am sure he had no reason to regret the 
 disappointment which gave him this hand," said the Major, 
 and he once more politel}- pressed Helen's fingers. 
 
 " Those marriages between people of such different rank 
 and age," said Helen, " are sad things. 1 have known them 
 produce a great deal of unhappiness. — Laura's father, my 
 cousin, wiio — who was brought up with me" — she added, in 
 a. low voice, " was an instance of that." 
 
 " Most injudicious," cut in the Major. " I don't know an}-- 
 thing more painful than for a man to marry his superior in age 
 or his inferior in station. Fanc}' marrying a woman of a low 
 rank of life, and havinij your house filled with her confounded
 
 74 PEXDENNIS. 
 
 tag-rag-and-bobtail relations ! Fanc}' your wife attached to a 
 mother who dropped her Ii's, or called Maria Marii-e ! How 
 are you to introduce her into society? My dear Mrs. Pen- 
 dennis, I will name no names, but in the very best circles of 
 London society I have seen men suffering the most excruciating 
 agon}', I have known them to be cut, to be lost utterly, from 
 the vulgarity of their wives' connections. What did Lad} 
 8napperton do last year at her dejeuner dansant after the Bo- 
 hemian Ball? She told Lord Brouncker that he mioht brine 
 his daughters or send them with a proper chaperon, but that 
 she would not receive Ladv Brouncker : who was a druffsfist's 
 daughter, or some such thing, and as Tom Wagg remarked of 
 her, never wanted medicine certainly, for she never had an h 
 in her life. Good Ged, what would have been the trifling pang 
 of a separation in the fii-st instance to the enduring infliction of 
 a constant misalliance and intercourse with low people? " 
 
 "What, indeed!" said Helen, dimly disposed towards 
 laughter, but yet checking the inclination, because she remem- 
 bered in what prodigious respect her deceased husband held 
 Major Pendennis and his stories of the great world. 
 
 "Then this fatal woman is ten years older than that sill}^ 
 3'oung scapegrace of an Arthur. What ha[)pens in such cases, 
 rn}' dear creature ? I don't mind telling you now we are alone : 
 that in the highest state of society, miser}', undeviating misery, 
 is the result. Look at Lord Clodworthy come into a room with 
 his wife — why, good Ged, she looks like Clodworthy's mother. 
 What's the case between Lord and Lady AVillowbank, whose 
 love match was notorious ? He has alread}' cut her down twice 
 when she has hanged herself out of jealousy for Mademoiselle 
 de Sainte Cunegonde, the dancer ; and mark my words, good 
 Ged, one day he'll not cut the old woman down. No, my dear 
 madam, you are not in the world, but I am : 3'ou are a little 
 romantic and sentimental (you know you are — women with 
 those large beautiful e3'es always are) ; 30U must leave this 
 matter to my experience. Marry this woman ! Marry at 
 eighteen an actress of thirty — bah bah ! — I would as soon he 
 sent into the kitchen and married the cook." 
 
 " I know the evils of premature engagements," sighed out 
 Helen : and as she has made this allusion no less than thrice in 
 tne course of the above conversation, and seems to be so op- 
 pressed with the notion of long engagements and unequal mar- 
 riages, and as the circumstance we have to relate will explain 
 what perhaps some persons are anxious to know, namely who 
 little Laura is, who has a[)peared more than once before us, it 
 will be as well to clear up these points in another chapter.
 
 PENDENNIS. 73 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN WHICH PEN IS KEPT WAITING AT THE DOOR, WHILE THH 
 READER IS INFORMED WHO LITTLE LAURA WAS. 
 
 Once upon a time, then, there was a young gentleman of 
 t^Jambridge University who came to pass the long vacatioh at 
 the village where young Helen Thistlewood was living with her 
 mother, the widow of the lieutenant slain at Copenhagen. This 
 gentleman, whose name was the Reverend Francis Bell, was 
 nephew to Mrs. Thistlewood, and b}' consequence, own cousin 
 to Miss Helen, so that it was veiy right that he should take 
 lod2;ings in his aunt's house, who lived in a verv small svav t 
 and there he passed the long vacation, reading with three or 
 four pupils who accompanied him to the village. Mr. Bell was 
 fellow of a college, and famous in the University for his learn' 
 ing and skill as a tutor. 
 
 His two kinswomen understood pretty earlv that the rever- 
 end gentleman was engaged to be married, and was only wait- 
 ing for a college living to enable him to fulfil his engagement. 
 His intended bride was the daughter of another parson, who 
 had acted as Mr. Bell's own private tutor in Bell's early life, 
 and it was whilst under Mr. Coacher's roof, indeed, and when 
 only a bo}' of seventeen or eighteen years of age, that the im- 
 petuous young Bell had flung himself at the feet of Miss Martha 
 Coacher, whom he was helping to pick peas in the garden. On 
 his knees, before those peas and her, he pledged himself to an 
 endless atfection. 
 
 Miss Coacher was by many years the young fellow's senior : 
 and her own heart had been lacerated by many previous disap- 
 {)ointments in the matrimonial line. No less than three pupils 
 of her father had trifled with those young affections. The 
 apothecar}- of the village had despicably jilted her. The dra- 
 goon officer, with wliom she had danced so many many times 
 during that happy season which she passed at Bath with her 
 gouty grandmamma, one day gayly shook his bridle-rein and 
 galloped away, never to return. Wounded by tlie shafts of 
 repeated ingratitude, can it be wondered at that the heart of 
 Martha Coacher should pant to find rest somewhere? She 
 listened to the proposals of the gawk.y gallant honest boy, with 
 great kindness and good-humor : at the end of his speech she
 
 76 PEXDENNIS. 
 
 said, " Law Bell, I'ui sure you are too young to think of such 
 things ; " but intimated that she too would revolve them in her 
 own virgin bosom. She could not refer Mr. Bell to her mamma, 
 for Mr. Coacher was a widower, and being immersed in his 
 books, was of course unable to take the direction of so frail 
 and wondrous an article as a lady's hearty which Miss Martha 
 had to manage for herself. 
 
 A lock of lier hair tied up in a piece of blue ribbon, con- 
 veyed to the iiappy Bell the result of the Vestal's conference 
 with herself. Tin-ice before had she snipt off one of her aulnirn 
 ringlets, and given them away. The possessors were faithless, 
 but the hair had grown again : and Martha had indeed occasion 
 to say that men were deceivers, when she handed over this 
 token of \o\e to the simple boy. 
 
 Number G, liowever, Avas an exception to former passions — 
 Francis Bell was the most faithful of lovers. When his time 
 arrived to go to college, and it l)ecame necessary to acquaint 
 Mr. Coacher of the arrangements tiiat had been made, the lat- 
 ter cried, " God bless mj- soul, 1 hadn't the least idea what 
 was going on ; " as was indeed verv likely, for he had been 
 taken in tlu-ee times before in precisely a similar manner ; and 
 Francis went to the University resolved to conquer honors, so 
 as to be able to la}- them at the feet of his beloved Martha. 
 
 This prize in view made him labor prodigiously. News 
 came, term alter term, of the honors he won. He sent the 
 prize-books for his college essays to old Coacher, and his silver 
 declamation cup to Miss Martha. In due season he was high 
 among the AVranglers, and a Fellow of his College ; and during 
 all the time of these transactions a constant tender correspond- 
 ence was kept up with Miss Coacher, to whose influence, and 
 perhaps with justice, he attributed the successes which he had 
 won. 
 
 B}' the time, however, when the Rev. Francis Bell, M.A., 
 and Fellow and Tutor of his College, was twenty-six years of 
 age, it happiMied tliat Miss Coacher was thirtj'-four, nor had 
 her charms, her manners, or her temper improved since that 
 sunny day in the springtime of life when he found her picking 
 peas in the garden. Having achieved his honors, he relaxed 
 in the ardor of his studies, and his judgment and tastes also 
 perhaps became cooler. The sunshine of the pea-garden faded 
 away from Miss Martha, and poor Bell found himself engaged 
 — and his hand pledged to that bond in a thousand letters — 
 to a coarse, ill-tempered, ill-favored, ill-mannered, middle-aged 
 woman.
 
 PENDENNIS. 77 
 
 It was in consequence of one of many altercations (in which 
 Martlia's eloquence shone, and in which therefore she was fre- 
 quently pleased to indulge), that Francis refused to take his 
 pupils to Bearleader's Green, where Mr. Coacher's living was, 
 and where Bell was in the habit of spending the summer : and 
 he bethought him that he would pass the vacation at his aunt's 
 village, which he had not seen for man}' years — not since little 
 jHelen was a girl, and used to sit on his knee. Down then he 
 came and lived Avith them. Helen was grown a beautiful 30uug 
 woman now. The cousins were nearly four months together, 
 from June to October. They walked in the summer evenings : 
 they met in the early morn. They read out of the same book 
 when the old lad}' dozed at night over the candles. ^Vhat little 
 Helen knew, Frank taught her. She sang to him : she gave 
 her artless heart to him. She was aware of all his story. Had 
 he made an}' secret? — had he not shown the picture of the 
 woman to whom he was engaged, and with a blush, — her 
 letters, hard, eager, and cruel? — The days went on and on, 
 happier and closoi', w'ith more kindness, more confidence, and 
 more pity. At last one morning in October came when Francis 
 went back to college, and the poor girl lelt that her tender heart 
 was gone with him. 
 
 Frank too wakened up from the delightful midsummer- 
 dream to the horrible reality of his own pain. He gnashed and 
 tore at the chain which bound him. He was frantic to break 
 it and be free. Should he confess? — give his savings to the 
 woman to whom he was bound, and beg his release?^- there 
 was time yet — he temporized. No living might fall in for 
 years to come. The cousins went on corresponding sadly and 
 fondly : the betrothed woman, hard, jealous, and dissatisfied, 
 complaining l)itterly, and with reason, of her Francis's altered 
 tone. 
 
 At last things came to a crisis, and the new attachment was 
 discovered. Francis owned it, cared not to disguise it, rebuked 
 Martha with her Aiolent temper and angry imperiousness, and, 
 worst of all, with her inferiority and her age. 
 
 Her reply was. that if he did not keep his promise she would 
 carry his letters into every court in the kingdom — letters in 
 which his love was pledged to her ten thousand times ; and, 
 after exposing him to the world as the perjurer and traitor he 
 was, she would kill herself. 
 
 Frank had one more interview with Helen, whose mother 
 was dead then, and who was living companion with old Lady 
 Pontypool, — one more interview, where it was resolved that
 
 78 rEXiiKXXIS. 
 
 he was to do his duty ; thnt is, to redeem his vow ; that is, to 
 pay a debt cozened from him by a sharper ; that is, to make 
 two honest i)eople miserable. So the two judged their duty to 
 be, and tliey parted. 
 
 The hvi'ng fell in only too soon ; but yet Frank Bell was 
 quite a gr.ay and worn-out man when he was inducted into it. 
 Helen wrote him a letter on his marriage, beginning, " My 
 dear Cousin," and ending " always truly yours." She sent him 
 back the other letters, and the lock of his hair — all but a small 
 piece. She had it in her desk when she was talking to the 
 Major. 
 
 Bell lived for three or four years in his living, at the end of 
 whicli time, the Chaplainship of Coventry Island falling vacant, 
 Frank applied for it privately, and having procured it, an- 
 nounced the appointment to his wife. She objected, as she 
 did to everytliing. lie told her bitterly that he did not want 
 her to come : so she went. Bell went out in Governor Crawley's 
 time, and was very intimate with that gentleman in his later 
 years. And it was' in Coventiy Island, years after his own 
 marriage, and five years after he had heard of the birth of 
 Helen's boy, that his own daughter was born. 
 
 She was not the daughter of the first Mrs. Bell, who died of 
 island fever very soon after Helen Pendennis and her husband, 
 to whom Helen had told everj'thing, wrote to iiiform Bell of the 
 birth of their child. " I was old. was I?" said Mrs. Bell the 
 first; " I was old, and her inferior, was I? but I married you, 
 Mr. Bell, and kept you from marrying her? " and hereupon she 
 died. Bell married a colonial lad}', whom he loved fondl}'. 
 But he was not doomed to prosper in love ; and, this lady 
 dying in child-birth, Bell gave up too : sending his little girl 
 home to Helen Pendennis and her husband, with a parting 
 prayer that they would befriend her. 
 
 The little thing came to Fairoaks from Bristol, which is not 
 very far oif, dressed in black, and in compan}' of a soldier's 
 wife, her nurse, at parting from whom she wept bitterlj-. But 
 she soon dried up her grief under Helen's motherly care. 
 
 Round her neck she had a locket with hair, which Helen had 
 given, ah, how man}' years ago ! to poor Francis, dead and 
 buried. This child was all that was left of him, and she cher- 
 ished, as so tender a creature would, the legacy which he had 
 bequeathed to her. The girl's name, as his dj'ing letter stated, 
 was Helen Laura. But John Pendennis, though he accepted 
 the trust, was alwa3's rather jealous of the orphan ; and 
 gloomily ordered that she should be called by her own mother's
 
 PEXDENNIS. 79 
 
 name ; and not by that first one which her father had given 
 her. She was afraid of Mr. Pendennis, to the last moment of 
 his life. And it was only when her husband was o-oue that 
 Helen dared openl}- to indulge in the tenderness which she felt 
 for the little girl. 
 
 Thus it was that Laura Bell became Mrs. Pendennis's 
 daughter. Neither her husband nor that gentleman's brother, 
 the Major, yiewed her with yer}- fayorable eyes. IShe reminded 
 the first of circumstances in his wife's life which he was forced 
 to accept, but would haye forgotten much more willingly : and 
 as for the second, how could he regard her? She was neither 
 related to his own family of Pendennis, nor to an}- nobleman in 
 this empire, and she had but a couple of thousand pounds for 
 her fortune. 
 
 And now let Mr. Pen come in, who has been waititig all this 
 while. 
 
 Haying strung up his neryes, and prepared himself, without 
 at the door, for the meeting, he came to it, determined to face 
 the awful uncle. He had settled in his mind that the encounter 
 was to be a fierce one, and was resolyed on bearing it through 
 with all the courage and dignity of the famous famil}' which he 
 represented. And he flung open the door and entered with the 
 most severe and warlike expression, armed cap-a-pie as it were, 
 with lance couched and plumes displayed, and glancing at his 
 adyersarj', as if to say, '^ Come on, I'm ready." 
 
 The old man of the world, as he surveyed the boy's de- 
 meanor, could hardl}' help a grin at his admirable pompous 
 simplicit}'. Major Pendennis too had examined his gi'ound ; 
 and finding that the widow was already half won over to the 
 enem}-, and having a shrewd notion that threats and tragic ex- 
 hortations would have no effect upon the boy, who was inclined 
 to be perfect]}- stubborn and awfull}^ serious, the INIajor laid 
 aside the authoritative manner at once, and with the most good- , 
 humored natural smile in the world, held out his hands to Pen, 
 shook the lad's passive fingers gayl}-, and said, " Well, Pen, my 
 bo}-, tell us all about it." 
 
 Helen was delighted with the generosit}- of the Major's good- 
 humor. On the contrary, it quite took aback and disappointed 
 poor Pen, whose nerves were strung up for a tragedy, and who 
 felt that his grand entree was altogether baulked and ludicrous. 
 He blushed and winced with mortified vanity and bewilderment. 
 He felt immensely inclined to begin to cry. "I — I — I didn't 
 know that you were come till just now," he said: "is — is — - 
 town vcr}- full I suppose?"
 
 80 I'ENUENNIS. 
 
 If Pen could hardly gulp his tears down, it was all the Majoi 
 could do to keep from laughter. He turned round and shot a 
 comical glance at Mrs. Pendennis, who too felt that the scene 
 was at once ridiculous and sentimental. And so, having noth- 
 ing to say, she went up and kissed Mr. Pen : as he thought of 
 her tenderness and soft obedience to his wishes, it is very possi- 
 ble too the boy was melted. 
 
 " What a couple of fools they are," thought the old guardian. 
 " If I hadn't come down, she would have driven over in state to 
 pay a visit and give her blessing to the young lady's family." 
 
 "Come, come," said he, still grinning at the couple, "let 
 as have as little sentiment as possible, and Pen, my good fel- 
 low, tell us the whole story." 
 
 Pen got back at once to his tragic and heroical air. " The 
 story is, sir," said he, " as I have written it to you before. I 
 have made the acquaintance of a most beautiful and most vir- 
 tuous lady ; of a high family, although in reduced circum- 
 stances ; I have found the woman in whom I know that the 
 luippiness of my life is centred ; I feel that I never, never can 
 think about any woman but her. I am aware of the difference 
 of our ages and other difficulties in m}' way. But my affection 
 was so great that 1 felt I could surmount all these ; — that we 
 both could : and she has consented to unite her lot with mine, 
 and to accept my heart and my fortune." 
 
 " How much is that, my boy ? " said the Major. " Has any- 
 body left you some money? I don't know that you are worth 
 a shiUing in the world." 
 
 " You know what I have is his," cried out Mrs. Pendennis. 
 
 " Good heavens, madam, hold Aour tongue ! " was what 
 the guardian was disposed to say ; but he kept his temper, not 
 without a struggle. " No doubt, no doubt," he said. "You 
 would sacrifice anything for him. Everybody knows that. But 
 it is, after all, then, your fortune which Pen is otfering to the 
 young lad}' ; and of which he wishes to take possession at 
 eighteen." 
 
 "I know my mother will give nie an3'thing," Pen said, 
 looking rather disturbed. 
 
 " Yes, my good fellow, but there is reason in all things. If 
 your mother keeps the house, it is but fair that she should select 
 her company. When you give her house over her head, and 
 transfer her banker's account to yoiu'self for the benefit of Miss 
 Wliat-d'-}'ou-call-'em — Miss Costigan — don't you think 3'ou 
 should at least have consulted my sister as one of the principal 
 parties in the transaction? I am speaking to 3'ou, j'ou see.
 
 PEN DENNIS. 81 
 
 without the least anger or assumption of authority", such as the 
 law and j-our father's will give me over you for three years to 
 come — but as one man of the world to another, — and I ask 
 you, if 3'ou think that, because 30U can do what you like with 
 30UI* mother, therefore j'ou have a right to do so ? As 3'OU are 
 her dependant, would it not have been more generous to wait 
 befox'e 3'ou took this step, and at least to have paid her the 
 comtesy to ask her leave?" 
 
 Pen held down his head, and began diml}' to perceive that 
 the action on which he had prided himself as a most romantic, 
 generous instance of disinterested atfection, was perhaps a very 
 selfish and headstrong piece of folh*. 
 
 " I did it in a moment of passion," said Pen, floundering ; 
 "• I was not aware what I was going to say or to do" (and in 
 this he spoke with perfect sincerity-). •* But now it is said, 
 and I stand to it. No ; I neither can nor will recall it. I'll 
 die rather than do so. And I — I don't want to burden my 
 mother," he continued. " I'll work for myself. I'll go on the 
 stage, and act with her. She — she says I should do well 
 there." 
 
 "But will she take ^-ou on those terms?" tlie Major inter- 
 posed. " Mind, I do not sa3' that Miss Costigan is not the 
 most disinterested of women ; but, don't 3 on suppose now, 
 fairly, that 3'our position as a young gentleman of ancient birth 
 and decent expectations, forms a part of the cause why she 
 ^nds your addresses welcome ? " 
 
 " I'll die, I sa3-, rather than forfeit my pledge to her," said 
 Pen, doubling his fists and turning red. 
 
 '•Who asks 3-ou, m3' dear friend?" answ^ered the im- 
 perturbable guardian. "No gentleman breaks his word, 
 of course, when it has been given freeh". But after all, 
 you can wait. You owe something to your mother, some- 
 thing to 3'our famil3' — something to me as 3'Our father's rep- 
 resentative." 
 
 " Oh, of course," Pen said, feeling rather relieved. 
 
 "Well, as you have pledged your word to her, give us 
 another, will 30U, Arthur?" 
 
 " What is'it? " Arthur asked. 
 
 " That 3'ou will make no private marriage — that 3'ou won't 
 be taking a trip to Scotland, you understand." 
 
 " That would be a falsehood. Pen never told his mother a 
 falsehood." Helen said. 
 
 Pen hung down his head again, and his e3'es filled with tears 
 of shame. Had not this whole intrigue been a falsehood to 
 
 6
 
 S2 PENDENNlb. 
 
 tliat tend(n- and confiding creature who was ready to give up all 
 lor his sake? lie gave his uncle his hand. 
 
 " No, sir — on my word of honor as a gentleman," he said, 
 " I will never marry without my mother's consent ! " and giving 
 Helen a bright parting look of confidence and affection unchange- 
 able, the boy went out of the drawing-room into his own study. 
 
 "He's an angel — he's an angel," the mother cried out in 
 one of her usual raptures. 
 
 " He comes of a good stock, ma'am," said her brother- 
 in-law "of a good stock on both sides." The Major was 
 
 greatly pleased with the result of his diplomacy — so much so, 
 that he once more saluted the tips of Mrs. Pendennis's glove, 
 and dropping the curt, manh', and straightforward tone in 
 which he had conducted the conversation with the lad, assumed 
 a certain drawl, which he always adopted when he was most 
 conceited and fine. 
 
 "My dear creature," said he, in that his politest tone, "I 
 think it certainly as well that I came down, and I flatter myself 
 that last botte was a successful one. I tell you how I came to 
 think of it. Three years ago my kind friend Lady Ferrybridge 
 sent for me in the greatest state of alarm about her son Gretna, 
 whose aflairyou remember, and implored me to use my influence 
 with the young gentleman, who was engaged in an affaire de 
 cmir with a Scotch clergyman's daughter, Miss ]Mac Toddy. 
 I implored, I entreated gentle measures. But Lord Ferr3^- 
 bridge was furious, and tried thehigli hand. Gretna was sulky 
 and silent, and his parents thought they had conquered. But 
 what was the fact, my dear creature ? The young people had 
 been married for three months before Lord Ferrybridge knew 
 anything about it. And that was why I extracted the promise 
 from Master Pen." 
 
 " Arthur would never have done so," Mrs. Pendennis said. 
 
 "He hasn't, — that is one comfort," answered the brother^ 
 in-law. 
 
 Like a wary and patient man of the world, Major Pendennis 
 did not press poor Pen an}- farther for the moment, but hoped 
 the best from time, and that the young fellow's eyes would be 
 opened before long to see the absurdity of which he was guilt}'. 
 And ha^'ing found out how keen the boy's point of honor was, 
 he worked kindly upon that kindly feeling with great skill, dis- 
 coursing him over their wine after dinner, and pointing out to 
 Pen the necessity of a perfect uprightness and openness in all 
 his dealings, n:id entreating that his communications with his 
 interesting young friend (as the Major politely called Miss
 
 PE^ DENNIS. 83 
 
 Fotheringay) should be carried on with the knovrledge, if not 
 approbation, of Mrs. Pendennis. " After all, Pen," the Major 
 said, with a convenient frankness that did not displease the bo}-, 
 whilst it advanced the interests of the negotiator, ''you must 
 bear in mind that ^-ou are throwing yourself away. Your 
 mother may submit to your marriage as she would to anything 
 else you desired, if you did but cry long enough for it : but be 
 sure of this, that it can never please her. You take a young 
 woman off the boards of a country theatre and prefer her, for 
 such is the case, to one of the finest ladies in England. And 
 your mother will submit to your choice, but you can't suppose 
 that she will be happy under it. I have often fancied, entre 
 nous, that my sister had it in her eye to make a marriage 
 between 30U and that little ward of hers — Flora, Laura — 
 what's her name? And I always determined to do m}' small 
 endeavor to {)revent any such match. The child has but two 
 thousand pounds, I am given to understand. It is only with 
 the utmost economy and care that my sister can provide for the 
 decent maintenance of her house, and for your appearance and 
 education as a gentleman ; and I don't care to own to 30U that 
 1 had other and much higher views for you. AVith your name 
 and birth, sir — with ^our talents, which 1 suppose are respecta- 
 ble, with the friends whom I have the honor to possess, I could 
 have placed 3-ou in an excellent position — a remarkable position 
 for a 30ung man of such exceeding small means, and had hoped 
 ti;) see 3'ou, at least, try to restore the honors of our name. 
 I'our mother's softness stopped one prospect, or you might 
 have been a general, like our gallant ancestor who fought at 
 l:amillies and Malplaquct. I had another plan in view : my 
 excellent and kind friend, Lord Bagwig, who is very well dis- 
 posed towards me, would, I have little doubt, have attached 
 you to his mission at Pumpernickel, and you might have ad- 
 vanced in the diplomatic service. But, pardon me for recurring 
 to the subject ; how is a man to serve a young gentleman of 
 eighteen, who proposes to marry a lady of thirty, whom he has 
 selected from a booth in a fair? — well, not a fair, — barn. 
 That profession at once is closed to you. The public service is 
 closed to you. Society is closed to you. You see, my good 
 friend, to what you bring yourself. You may get on at the bar 
 to be sure, where I am given to understand that gentlemen of 
 merit occasionally marry out of their kitchens ; but in no other 
 profession. Or you may come and live down here — down here, 
 mon Dieu! for ever" (said the Major, with a dreary shrug, as 
 be thought with inexpressible fondness of Pall Mall), " where
 
 84 PENbENNIS. 
 
 your mother will receive the Mrs. Arthur that is to be, with 
 perfect kindness ; where the good people of the county won't 
 visit you ; and where, by Gad, sir, I shall be shy of visiting 
 you nnself, for I'm a plain spoken man, and I own to you 
 that I like to live with gentlemen for my companions ; where 
 you will have to live, with rum-and-water drinking gentlemen- 
 farmers, and drag through your life the young husband of an 
 old woman, who, if she doesn't quarrel with your mother, will 
 at least cost that lady her position in society, and drag her 
 down into that dubious caste into which you must inevitably fall. 
 It is no affair of mine, my good sir. I am not angry. Your 
 downfall will not hurt me farther than that it will extinguish 
 the hopes I had of seeing my family once more taking its 
 place in the world. It is only your mother and yourself that 
 will be ruined. And I pity you both from my soul. Pass 
 the clarei : it is some I sent to your poor father ; I remember 
 [ bougiit it at poor Lord Levant's sale. But of course," added 
 the Mlijor, smacking the wine, " having engaged yourself, you 
 will do what becomes you as a man of honor, however fatal 
 your promise may be. However, promise us on our side, my 
 boy, what I set out by entreating you to grant, — that there 
 shall be nothing clandestine, that you will pursue your studies, 
 that 3 ou will only visit your interesting friend at proper inter- 
 vals. Do you write to her much?" 
 
 Pen blushed and said, " Why, yes, he had written." 
 "I suppose verses, eh! as well as prose? I was a dab at 
 verses m3'self. I recollect when I first joined, I used to write 
 verses for the fellows in the regiment ; and did some pretty 
 things in that wav. I was talking to mv old friend General 
 Hobbler about some lines I dashed off for him in the year 1806, 
 when we were at the Cape, and. Gad, he remembered every line 
 of them still ; for he'd used 'em so often, the old rogue, and 
 had actually tried 'em on Mrs. Hobbler, sir — who brought him 
 sixty thousand pounds. I suppose you've tried verses, eh, Pen ? " 
 
 Pen blushed again, and said, "Why, yes, he had written 
 verses." 
 
 "And does the fair one respond in poetr}- or prose?" asked 
 the Major, eying his nephew with the queerest expression, as 
 much as to say, " O Moses and Green Spectacles ! what a fool 
 the bo}- is." 
 
 Pen blushed again. She had written, but not in verse, the 
 young lover owned, and he gave his breast-pocket the benefit of 
 a squeeze with his left arm, which the Major remarked, accord- 
 ing to his wont.
 
 PENDENNIS. 85 
 
 •' You have got the letters there, 1 see," said the old cam* 
 paigner. nodding at Pen and pointing to his own chest (which 
 was maurull^' wadded with cotton b^- Mr. Stultz). '' You know 
 3'ou have. I would give twopence to see 'em." 
 
 "Why," said Pen, twiddling the stalks of the strawberries, 
 " I — I," but this sentence was never finished ; for Pen's face 
 was so comical and embarrassed, as the Major watched it, that 
 the elder could contain his gravity no longer, and burst into a 
 fit of laughter, in which chorus Pen himself was obliged to join 
 after a minute : when he broke out fairly into a gutfaw. 
 
 It sent them with great good-humor into Mrs. Pendennis's 
 drawing-room. She was pleased to hear them laughing in the 
 hall as they crossed it. 
 
 " You sly rascal ! " said the Major, putting his arm gayly on 
 Pen's shoulder, and giving a playful push at the boy's breast- 
 pocket. He felt the papers crackling there sure enough. The 
 young fellow was delighted — conceited — triumphant — and in 
 one word, a spooney. 
 
 The pair came to the tea-table in the highest spirits. The 
 Major's politeness was beyond expression. He had never 
 tasted such good tea, and such bread was only to be had in the 
 countr}-. He asked Mrs. Pendennis for one of her charming 
 songs. He then made Pen sing, and was delighted and aston- 
 ished at the beauty of the boy's voice : he made his nephew 
 fetch his maps and drawings, and praised them as really remark- 
 able works of talent in a young fellow : he complimented him 
 on his French pronunciation : he flattered the simple boy as 
 adroith' as ever lover flattered a mistress : and when I)ed time 
 came, mother and son went to their several rooms perfectly en- 
 chanted with the kind ISIajor. 
 
 When they had reached those apartments, I suppose Helen 
 took to her knees as usual : and Pen read over his letters 
 before going to bed : just as if he didn't know every word of 
 them b}' heart already. In truth there were but three of those 
 documents : and to learn their contents required no great eflTort 
 of memor}'. 
 
 In No. 1, Miss Fotheringay presents grateful compliments 
 to Mr. Pendennis, and in her papa's name and her own begs to 
 thank him for his >?iost heaatlful presents. They will always be 
 kept carefully ; and Miss F. and Captain C. will never forget 
 the delightful evening which they passed on Tuesday last. 
 
 No. 2, said — Dear Sir, we shall have a small quiet party of 
 social friends at our humble boards next Tuesday evening, at an
 
 S6 PENDENNlb. 
 
 i;ar/y tea, when I shall wear the heaufiful scarf which, with its 
 accompanying ddightfid verses^ I shall ever, ever cherish : and 
 papa bids me say how happy he will be if you will join ''the 
 feast of reason and the JiuiV of soul" in our festive liUle party ^ as 
 i am sure will be your truly grateful 
 
 Ebhly Fotheringay. 
 
 No. 3 was somewhat more confidential, and showed that 
 matters had proceeded rather far. You were odious yesterday 
 iiij^ht, the letter said. Why did you not come to the stage- 
 door? Papa could not escort me on account of his eje; he 
 had an accident, and fell down over a loose carpet on the stair 
 on Sunday night. I saw you looking at Miss Diggle all night ; 
 and 3"ou were so enchanted with Lydia Languish you scarcely 
 once looked at Julia. I could have crushed Bingle^y, I was so 
 angry. I ))lay Ella Rosenberg on Friday: will you come then? 
 . Miss Diggle performs — ever jour 
 
 E. F. 
 
 These three letters Mr. Pen used to read at intervals, dur- 
 i ng the day and night, and embrace with that delight and fervor 
 n^hich such beautiful compositions surely warranted. A thou- 
 jand times at least he had kissed fondly the musky satin paper, 
 made sacred to him by the hand of Emily Fotheringay. This 
 )vas all he had in return for his passion and flames, his vows 
 »aid protests, his rhymes and similes, his wakeful nights and 
 endless thoughts, his fondness, fears and folly. The young 
 uiseacre had pledged away his all for this: signed his name 
 1o endless promissory notes, conferring his heart upon the 
 liearer: bound himself for life, and got back twopence as an 
 equivalent. For Miss Costigan was a young lad_y of such per- 
 fect good conduct and self-command, that she never would have 
 thought of giving more, and reserved the treasures of her affec- 
 tion until she could transfer them lawfully at church. 
 
 Howbeit, Mr. Pen was content with what tokens of regard 
 he had got, and mumbled over his three letters in a rapture of 
 I igh spirits, and went to sleep delighted with his kind old uncle 
 from Loudon, who must evidently yield to his wishes in time ; 
 and, in a word, in a preposterous state of contentment with 
 i imself and all the world.
 
 PEN DENNIS. 8'| 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN WHICH THE MAJOR OPENS THE CAjrPAIGN. 
 
 Let those who have the blessed privilege of an entree intlj/ 
 th .most select circles, admit that Major Pendennis was a mail 
 of no ordinary' generosit}' and affection, in the sacrifice whic'l 
 he now made. He gave up London in Maj', — his newspaper » 
 and his mornings — his afternoons from club to club, his littll 
 confidential visits to mv Ladies, his rides in Rotten Row, hi* 
 dinners, and his stall at the Opera, his rapid escapades to Ful* 
 ham or Richmond on Saturdays and Sundays, his bow from m;; 
 Lord Duke or my Lord Marquis at the great London entertain ' 
 ments, and his name in the " Morning Post" of the succeeding 5 
 day, — his quieter little festivals, more select, secret, au' I 
 delightful — all these he resigned to lock himself into a Ion I 
 little country house, with a simple widow and a greenhorn c f 
 a son, a mawkish curate, and a little girl of twelve years cf 
 age. 
 
 He made the sacrifice, and it was the gi-eater that few knei r 
 the extent of it. His letters came down franked from towr , 
 and he showed the invitations to Helen with a sigh. It wa» 
 beautiful and tragical to see him refuse one party after another 
 — at least to those who could understand, as Llelen didn't, the 
 melancholv gi'andeur of his self-denial. Helen did not, or onl}- 
 smiled at the awful pathos with which the Major spoke of the 
 Court Guide in general : but young Pen looked with great re- 
 spect at the great names upon the superscriptions of his uncle's 
 letters, and listened to the Major's stories about the fashionable 
 world with constant interest and sympath}'. 
 
 The elder Pendennis's rich memory' was stored with thoi- 
 sands of these delightful tales, and he poured them into Pen s 
 willing ear. He knew the name and pedigree of everybody' iw 
 the Peerage, and everybody's relations. "My dear boy," he 
 would say, witli a mournful earnestness and veracity, "3'on 
 cannot begin your genealogical studies too early; I wish Ifc 
 Heavens you would read in Debrett every day. Not so muck 
 the historical part (for the pedigrees, between ourselves, aic 
 many of them very fabulous, and there are few families ths t 
 can show such a clear descent as our own) as the account c f 
 family alliances, and who is related to whom. I have knowu t
 
 88 PENDENNIS. 
 
 man's career in life blasted, by ignorance on this all-important 
 subject. Why, only last month, at dinner at my Lord Hoba- 
 nob's, a young man, wlio has lately been received amongst 
 us, young Mr. Suckling (author ol'a work 1 believe), began to 
 speak lightly of Admiral Bowser's conduct for ratting to Minis- 
 ters, in what 1 must own is the most audacious manner. But 
 who do 3'ou tliink sat next and opposite to this Mr. Suckling? 
 Whv — wh}-, next to him was Lady Grampound Bowser's 
 daughter, and opposite to him was Lord Grampound Bowser's 
 son-in-law. The infatuated young man went on cutting his 
 jokes at the Admiral's expense, fanc3'ing that all the world was 
 laughing with him, and I leave you to imagine Lady Hobanob's 
 feelings — Hobanob's ! — those of ever}- well-bred man, as the 
 wretched intrus was so exposing himself. He will never dine 
 again in South Street. I promise you that." 
 
 With such discourses the Major entertainer ^is nephew, as 
 he paced the terrace in front of the house for his two hours' 
 constitutional walk, or as the}- sat together after dinner over 
 their wine. He grieved that Sir Francis Clavezing had not come 
 down to the Park, to live in it since his marriage, and to make 
 a societ}' for the neighborhood. He mourned that Lord Eyrie 
 was not in the country, tliat ne might take Pen and present 
 him to his lordship. "He has daughters," the Major said. 
 '• Who knows? you might have married Lady Emih' or Lady 
 Barbara Trehawk ; but all those dreams are over ; xny poor 
 fellow, vou must lie on the bed which you have made for your- 
 self." 
 
 These things to hear did young Pendennis seriousl}' incline. 
 They are not so interesting in print as when delivered orally ; 
 but the Major's anecdotes of the great George, of the Royal 
 Dukes, of the statesmen, beauties, and fashionable ladies of the 
 day, filled 3'oung Pen's soul with longing and wonder ; and he 
 found the conversations with his guardian, which sadly bored 
 and perplexed poor Mrs. Pendennis, for his own part never 
 tedious. 
 
 It can't be said that Mr. Pen's new guide, philosopher and 
 friend, discoursed him on the most elevated subjects, or treated 
 the subjects which he chose in the most elevated manner. But 
 his morality, such as it was, was consistent. It might not, 
 perhaps, tend to a man's progress in another world, but it was 
 pretty well calculated to advance his interests in this ; and then 
 it must be remembered, that the Major never for one instant 
 doubted that his views were the onl}' views practicable, and 
 that his conduct was perfectly virtuous and respectable. He
 
 PENDENXIS. 89 
 
 was a man of honor, in a word : and had his ej'^es, what he 
 called, open. He took pity on this young greenhorn of a 
 nephew, and wanted to open his eyes too. 
 
 jS'o man, for instance, went more regularly to church when ih 
 the country than the old bachelor. "• It don't matter so much 
 in town, Pen," he said, " for there the women go and the men 
 are not missed. But when a gentleman is sur ses te7-res, he 
 must give an example to the countr}- people : and if 1 could 
 turn a tune, I even think I should sing. The Duke of St. 
 Da^•id's, whom I have the honor of knowing, always sings in 
 the country, and li't me tell you, it has a doosed fine etiect from 
 the family pew. And you are somebody down here. As long 
 as the Claverings are away you are the first man in the parish : 
 or as good as any. You might represent the town if yon played 
 3'our cards well. Your poor dear father woukl have done so 
 had he lived ; so might 3-ou. — Not if you marry a lady, how 
 ever amiable, whom the countiy people won't meet. — Well, 
 well : it's a painful subject. Let us change it, my boy." But 
 if Major Pendennis changed the subject once he recurred to it 
 a score of times in the day : and the moral of his discourse 
 alwa^'s was, that Pen was throwing himself away. Now it does 
 not i-equire much coaxing or wheedling to make a simple bo3 
 believe that he is a veiy fine fellow. 
 
 Pen was alad enoii2:h. Ave have said, to listen to his elder's 
 talk. Tlie couAcrsation of Captain Costigan became by no 
 means pleasant to him, and the idea of that tipsy old father- 
 in-law haunted him with terror. He couldn't bring that man, 
 unshaven and reeking of punch, to associate with his mother. 
 Even about Emily — he faltered when the pitiless guardian 
 began to question him. "Was she accomplished?" He was 
 oblicred to own, no. "Was she clevei?" Well, she had a 
 very good average intellect: but he could not absolutely say 
 she was clever. " Come, let us see some of her letters." So 
 Pen confessed that he had but those three of which we have 
 made mention — and that they were but trivial invitations or 
 answers. 
 
 " She is cautious enough." the Major said, dryly. " She is 
 older than 3'ou, my poor boy ; " and then he apologized with 
 the utmost frankness and humility-, and fiung himself upon 
 Pen's good feelings, begging the lad to excuse a fond old uncle, 
 who had only his family's honor in view — for Arthur was ready 
 to flame up in indignation whenever Miss Costigan's honesty 
 was doubted, and swore that he would never have her name 
 mentioned lightly-, and never, never would part from her. 
 
 4
 
 90 PENDENXIS. 
 
 lie repeated this to his uncle and his friends at home, and 
 also, it must be confessed, to Miss Fotheringay and the amiable 
 family at Chatteris, with whom he still continued to spend some 
 portion of his time. Miss Emil}- was alarmed when she heard 
 of the arrival of Pen's guardian, and rightly conceived that the 
 Major came down with hostile intentions to herself. " I sup- 
 pose ye intend to leave me, now your grand relation has come 
 down from town. He'll carry ye off, and you'll forget your 
 poor Emily, Mr. Arthur ! " 
 
 Forget her ! In her presence, in that of Miss Rouncy, the 
 Columbine and Milly's confidential friend of the Company, in 
 the presence of the Captain himself. Pen swore he never could 
 think of any other woman but his beloved Miss Fotheringay ; 
 and tlie Captain, looking up at his foils, which were hung as a 
 trophy on the wall of the room where Pen and he used to fence, 
 grimly said, he would not advoise any man to meddle rashly 
 with tlie affections of Ms dai'ling child ; and would never believe 
 his gallant 3"oung Arthur, whom he treated as his son, whom he 
 called his son, would ever be guilty of conduct so revolting to 
 every ida3'a of honor and humanitee. 
 
 Pie went up and embraced Pen after speaking. He cried, 
 and wiped his eye with one large dirty hand as he clasped Pen 
 with the other. Arthur shuddered in that grasp, and thought of 
 his uncle at home. His father-in-law looked unusually dirt}' 
 and shabby ; the odor of whiskey-and-water was even more de- 
 cided than in common. How was he to bring that man and his 
 mother together? He trembled when he thought that he had 
 absolutel}' written to Costigan (enclosing to him a sovereign, 
 the loan of which the worth}' gentleman needed), and saying, 
 that one da}' he hoped to sign himself his affectionate son, 
 Arthur Pendennis. He was glad to get away from Chatteris 
 that day ; from Miss Rouncy the confidante ; from the old toping 
 fatker-in-law ; from the divine Emily herself. "O Emily, 
 Emily," he cried inwardly, as he rattled homewards on Re- 
 becca, " you little know what sacrifices I am making for you ! — 
 for you who are always so cold, so cautious, so mistrustful ! " 
 
 Pen never rode over to Chatteris, but the Major found out 
 on what errand the boy had been. Faithful to his plan. Major 
 Pendennis gave his nephew no let or hindrance ; but somehow 
 the constant feeling that the senior's eye was upon him, an 
 uneasy shame attendant upon that inevitable confession which 
 the evening's conversation would be sure to elicit in the most 
 natural simple manner, made Pen go less frequently to sigh 
 away his soul at the feet of his cbarnjer than he had beep \voi)t
 
 PENDENNIS. 91 
 
 to do previous to his uncle's arrival. There was no use trying 
 to deceive hiyn ; there was no pretext of dining with Smirke, or 
 reading Greek plays with Foker ; Pen felt, when he returned 
 from one of his flying visits, that everybody knew whence he 
 came, and appeared quite guilt}' before his mother and guardian, 
 over their books or their game at piquet. 
 
 Once having walked out half a mile, to the Fairoaks' Inn, 
 be3"ond the Lodge gates, to be in readiness for the Competitor 
 coach, which changed horses there, to take a run for Chatteris, 
 a man on the roof touched his hat to the 3"Oung gentleman : it 
 was his uncle's man, Mr. Morgan, who was going on a mes- 
 sage for his master, and had been took up at the Lodge, as he 
 said. And Mr. Morgan came back hy the Rival, too ; so that 
 Pen had the pleasure of that domestic's company both wajs. 
 Nothing w^as said at home. The lad seemed to have every 
 decent liberty ; and 3"et he felt himself dimly watched and 
 guarded, and that there were e3es upon him even in the pres- 
 ence of his Dulcinea. 
 
 In fact. Pen's suspicions were not unfounded, and his guar- 
 dian had sent forth to gather all possible information regarding 
 the lad and his interesting young friend. The discreet and in- 
 genious Mr. Morgan, a London confidential valet whose fidelity 
 could be trusted, had been to Chatteris more than once, and 
 made every inquiry regarding the past history and present 
 habits of the Captain and his daughter. He delicately cross- 
 examined the waiters, the ostlers, and all the inmates of the 
 bar at the George, and got from them what little they knew 
 respecting the worth}- Captain. He was not held in very great 
 regard there, as it appeared. The waiters never saw the color 
 of his mone}', and were warned not to furnish the poor gentle- 
 man with an}' liquor for which some other party was not re- 
 sponsible. He swaggered sadly about the coffee-room there, 
 consumed a tooth-pick, and looked over the paper, and if any 
 friend asked him to dinner he stayed. 
 
 From the servants of the officers at the barracks Mr. Morgan 
 found that the Captain had so frequently and outrageously in- 
 ebriated himself there, that Colonel Swallowtail had forbidden 
 him the mess-room. The indefatigable Morgan then put him- 
 self in communication with some of the inferior actors at the 
 theatre, and pumped them over their cigars and punch, and all 
 agreed that Costigan was i)oor, sliflbby, and given to debt and 
 to drink. But there was not a breath upon the reputation of 
 Miss Fotheringay : her father's courage was reported to have 
 displayed itself on more than one occasion towards persons 
 
 o
 
 92 PENDENNIS. 
 
 disposed to treat his daughter with freedom. She never came 
 to the theatre but with her father : in his most inebriated 
 moments, that gentleman kept a watch over her ; finally Mr. 
 Morgan, from his own experience, added that he had been to 
 see her hact, and was uncommon delighted with the perform- 
 ance, besides thinking her a most splendid woman. 
 
 Mrs. Creed, the pew-opener, confirmed these statements to 
 Doctor Portman, who examined her personally. Mrs. Creed 
 had nothing unfavorable to her lodger to divulge. She saw 
 nobody ; only one or two ladies of the theatre. The Captain 
 did intoxicate himself sometimes, and did not alwa3-s pay his 
 rent regularly-, but he did when he had money, or rather Miss 
 Fotheringay did. Since the 3'oung gentleman from Clavering 
 had been and took lessons in fencing, one or two more had 
 come from the barracks ; Sir Derb}- Oaks, and his j'oung 
 friend, Mr. Foker, w^hich was often together ; and which was 
 alwa3'S driving over from Barmouth in the tandem. But 
 on the occasions of the lessons, Miss F. was ver}' seldom 
 present, and geuerall}' came down stairs to Mrs. Creed's own 
 room. 
 
 The Doctor and the Major consulting together as they often 
 did, groaned in spirit over that information. Major Pendennis 
 openly expressed his disappointment ; and, I believe, the Divine 
 himself was ill-pleased at not being able to pick a hole in poor 
 Miss Fotheringay's reputation. 
 
 Even about Pen himself, Mrs. Creed's reports were desper- 
 atel}' favorable. "Whenever he come," Mrs. Creed said, 
 "she always have me or one of the children with her. And 
 Mrs. Creed, marm, sa^'s she, if you please marm, 3'ou'll on no 
 account leave the room when that young gentleman's here. 
 And man3's the time I've seen him a lookin' as if he wished I 
 was away, poor 3'oung man : and he took to coming in service 
 time, when I wasn't at home, of course : but she always had 
 one of the boys up if her Pa wasn't at home, or old Mr. Bows 
 with her a teaching of her her lesson, or one of the young ladies 
 of the thea3'ter." 
 
 It was all true : whatever encouragements might have been 
 given him befoi'e he avowed his passion, the prudence of Miss 
 Emily was prodigious after Pen had declared himself: and the 
 poor fellow chafed against her hopeless reserve. 
 
 The Major surveyed the state of things with a sigh. " If it 
 were but a temporary liaison," the excellent man said, "one 
 could bear it. A 3'Oung fellow must sow his wild oats, and 
 that sort of thing. But a virtuous attachment is the deuce
 
 PENDENNIS. 93 
 
 It comes of the d — d romantic notions boj's get from being 
 brought up b}- women." 
 
 ' ' Allow me to sa}-, Major, that you speak a little too like a 
 man of the world," rephed the Doctor. '' Nothing can be more 
 desirable for Pen than a virtuous attachment for a vouns: lady 
 of his own rank and with a corresponding fortune — this 
 present infatuation, of course, I must deplore as sincerely' as 
 you do. If I were his guardian I should command him to 
 give it up," 
 
 " The very means, I tell you, to make him marry to-morrow. 
 We have got time from him, that is all, and we must do our 
 best with that." 
 
 " I say, Major," said the Doctor, at the end of the conver- 
 sation in which the above subject was discussed — "I am not, 
 of course, a play-going man — but suppose, I sa}', we go and 
 see her." 
 
 The Major laughed — he had been a fortnight at Fairoaks, 
 and, strange to say, had not thought of that. "Well," he 
 said, " wh}' not? After all, it is not m}^ niece, but Miss Foth- 
 eringay the actress, and we have as good a right as any other 
 of the public to see her if we pay our money." So upon a day 
 when it was aiTanged that Pen was to dine at home, and pass 
 the evening with his mother, the two elderly gentlemen drove 
 ov<Jr to Chatteris in the Doctor's chaise, and there, like a 
 couple of joll}' bachelors, dined at the George Inn, before pro- 
 ceeding to the play. 
 
 Onh- two other guests were in the room, — an officer of the 
 regiment quartered at Chatteris, and a young gentleman whom 
 the Doctor thought he had somewhere seen. They left them 
 at their meal, however, and hastened to the theatre. It was 
 " Ilamlet" over again. Shakspeare was Article XL. of stont 
 old Doctor Portman's creed, to which he always made a point 
 of testifying publiclj' at least once in a year. 
 
 We have described the play before, and how those who saw 
 Miss Fotheringa}' perform in Ophelia saw precisely the same 
 thing on one night as on another. Both the elderly gentlemen 
 looked at her with extraordinary interest, thinking how very 
 much 3'oung Pen was charmed with her. 
 
 "Gad," said the Major, between his teeth, as he surve^'ed 
 her when she was called foi'ward as usual, and swept her curt- 
 sies to the scant}' audience, " the 3'Oung rascal has not made a 
 bad choice." 
 
 The Doctor applauded her loudly and loyally. " Upon my 
 word," said he, " she is a verj- clever actress ; and I must sa}',
 
 94 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Major, she is endowed with very considerable personal attrae- 
 tions." 
 
 '' So that 3'oung officer thinks in the stage-box," Major Pen- 
 dennis answered, and he pointed out to Doctor Portinan's atten- 
 tion the young dragoon of the George Coffee-room, who sat in 
 the box in question, and applauded with immense enthusiasm. 
 She looked extremely sweet ui)on him too, thought the Major : 
 .but that's their way — and he shut up his natt}' opera-glass and 
 pocketed it as if he wished to see no more that night. Nor 
 did the Doctor, of course, propose to sta^' for the after-piece, 
 so the}' rose and left the theatre ; the Doctor returning to Mrs. 
 Portman, who was on a visit at the Deaner}', and the Major 
 walking home full of thought towards the George, where he had 
 bespoken a bed. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FACING THE ENEMY. 
 
 Sauntering homewards. Major Pendennis reached the hotel 
 presently, and found Mr. Morgan, his faithful valet, awaiting 
 him at the door, who stopped his master as he was about to 
 take a candle to go to bed, and said, with his usual air of know- 
 ing deference, "I think, sir, if you would go into the coffee- 
 room, there's a young gentleman there as you would like to see." 
 
 "What, is Mr. Arthur here?" the Major said, in great 
 anger. 
 
 "No, sir — but his great friend, Mr. Foker, sir. Lady 
 Hagnes Foke^'s son is here, sir. He's been asleep in the coffee- 
 room since he took his dinner, and has just rung for his coffee, 
 sir. And I think, p'raps, you might like to git into conversa- 
 tion with him," the valet said, opening the coffee-room door. 
 
 The Major entered ; and there indeed was Mr. Foker, the 
 onl\' occupant of the place. He had intended to go to the pla}' 
 too, but sleep had overtaken him after a copious meal, and he 
 had flung up his legs on the bench, and indulged in a nap 
 instead of the dramatic amusement. The Major was medi- 
 tating how to address the 3'oung man, but the latter prevented 
 him that trouble. 
 
 " Like to look at the evening paper, sir?" said Mr. Foker, 
 who was always communicative and affable ; and he took up 
 the " Globe " from his table, and offered it to the new comer.
 
 TENDENMS. 95 
 
 "I am very much obliged to you," said the Major, with a 
 grateful bow and smile. " If I doii't mistake the family like- 
 ness, I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Henr}" Foker, 
 Lady Agnes Foker's son. I have the happiness to name her 
 ladyship among my acquaintances — and 30U bear, sir, a Rosh- 
 erville face." 
 
 '' Hullo ! I beg your pardon," Mr. Foker said, " I took you " 
 — he was going to say — *■* 1 took you for a commercial gent." 
 But he stopped that phrase. " To whom have I the pleasure of 
 speaking?" he added. 
 
 ''To a relative of a friend and schoolfellow of 3'ours — 
 Arthur Pendennis, my nephew, who has often spoken to me 
 about j'ou in terms of great regard. I am Major Pendennis, of 
 whom vou may have heard him speak. Maj- I take my soda- 
 water at your table ? I have had the pleasure of sitting at your 
 gi-andfather's." 
 
 " Sir, you do me proud," said Mr. Foker, with much cour- 
 tes)\ " And so you are Arthur Pendennis's uncle, are 3-ou?" 
 
 "And guardian," added the Major. 
 
 " He's as good a fellow as ever stepped, sir," said Mr. 
 Foker. 
 
 *' I am glad you think so." 
 
 "And clever, too — I was always a stupid chap, 1 was — 
 but you see, sir, I know 'em when the}' are clever, and like 'em 
 of that sort." 
 
 " You show your taste and 3'our modest}-, too," said the 
 Major. " I have heard Arthur repeatedly speak of you, and he 
 said your talents were very good." 
 
 " Pm not good at the books," Mr. Foker said, wagging his 
 head — " never could manage that — Pendennis could — he 
 used to do half the chaps' verses — and yet you are his guar- 
 dian ; and I hope you will pardon me for saying that I think 
 he's what we call a flat," the candid young gentleman said. 
 
 The Major found himself on. the instant in the midst of a 
 most interesting and confidential conversation. " And how is 
 Arthur a flat?" he asked, with a smile. 
 
 " You know," Foker answered, winking at him — he would 
 have winked at the Duke of Wellington with just as little scru- 
 ple. " You know Arthur's a flat, — about women I mean." 
 
 "He is not the first of us, my dear Mr. Harry," answered 
 the Major. " I have heard something of this — but pray tell 
 me more." 
 
 " Why, sir, you see — it's partly my fault. We went to the 
 play one night, and Pen was struck all of a heap with Misa
 
 96 PENDENNIS. 
 
 F«theringay — Costigan her real name is — an uncommon fine 
 gal she is too ; and the next morning I introduced him to the 
 General, as we call her father — a regular old scamp — and 
 such a bo}- for tlie whiskey-and-water ! — and he's gone on 
 being intimate there. And he's fallen in love with her — and 
 I'm blessed if he hasn't proposed to her," Foker said, slapping 
 his hand on the table, until all the dessert began to jingle. 
 
 " What ! you know it too? " asked the Major. 
 
 "Know it! don't I? and many more too. We were talk- 
 ing about it at mess, yesterday, and chaffing Derby Oaks — 
 until he was as mad as a hatter. Know Sir Derby Oaks ? We 
 dined together, and he went to the play : we were standing at 
 the door smoking, I remember, when 3-ou passed in to dinner." 
 
 " I remember Sir Thomas Oaks, his father, before he was a 
 Baronet or a Knight ; he lived in Cavendish Square, and was 
 Physician to Queen Charlotte." 
 
 " The young one is making the money spin, I can tell j'ou," 
 Mr. Foker said. 
 
 " And is Sir Derby Oaks," the Major said, with great delight 
 and anxiety, " another soupiranf?" 
 
 " Another ivhatV inquired Mr. Foker. 
 
 " Another admirer of Miss Fotheringay ? " 
 
 "Lord bless you ! we call him Monda3s, Wednesdays, and 
 Fridays, and Pen Tuesdajs, Thursdays, and Saturdays. But 
 mind you, nothing wrong! No, no! Miss F. is a deal too 
 wide awake for that, Major Pendennis. She pla^s one off 
 against the other. What you call two strings to her bow." 
 
 " I think you seem tolerably wide awake, too, Mr. Foker," 
 Pendennis said, laughing. 
 
 " Pretty well, thank you, sir — how are you ? " Foker replied, 
 imperturbabl}'. " I'm not clever, p'raps : but I am rather 
 downy ; and partial friends say I know what's o'clock tolerabl}' 
 well. Can I tell you the time of da}' in any way ? " 
 
 " Upon ni}' word," the Major answered, quite delighted, " I 
 think j-ou may be of very great sei-vice to me. You are a 
 young man of the world, and with such one likes to deal. And 
 as such I need not inform you that our famil}'^ is b}' no means 
 delighted at this absurd intrigue in which Arthur is engaged." 
 
 " I should rather think not." said Mr. Foker. " Connection 
 not eligible. Too much beer drunk on the premises. No Irish 
 peed appl}'. That I take to be 3'our meaning." 
 
 The Major said it was, exactly : and he proceeded to examine 
 his new acquaintance regarding the amiable famil}' into which 
 his nephew proposed to enter, and soon got from the candid
 
 PENDENNIS. 97 
 
 witness a number of particulars regarding the House of Cos- 
 tigan. 
 
 We must do Mr. Foker the justice to say that he spoke most 
 favorabl}- of Mr. and Miss Costigan's moral character, "•You 
 see," said he, " I think the General is fond of the jovial bowl, 
 and if I wanted to be very ceitain of my money, it isn't in his 
 pocket I'd invest it — but he has always kept a watchful e3'e on 
 his daughter, and neither he nor she will stand anything but 
 what's honorable. Pen's attentions to her are talked about in 
 the whole Corapan}', and I hear all about them from a young- 
 lady who used to be very intimate with her, and with whose 
 family I sometimes take tea in a friendly way. Miss Rouncy 
 sa3-s. Sir Derby Oaks has been hanging about Miss Fotheringay 
 ever since his regiment has been down hei'e ; but Pen has come 
 in and cut him out latel}', which has made the Baronet so mad, 
 that he has been very near on the point of proposing too. 
 AYish he would ; and j'ou'd see which of the two Miss Fotherin- 
 gay would jump at." 
 
 "I thought as much," the Major said. " You give me a 
 great deal of pleasure, Mr. Foker, I wish I could have seen 
 you before." 
 
 " Didn't like to put in my oar," replied the other. " Don't 
 speak till I'm asked, when, if there's no objections, I speak 
 pretty freelv. Heard 3'our man had been hankering about my 
 servant — didn't know myself what was going on until Miss 
 Fotheringa}' and Miss Rouncy had the row about the ostrich 
 feathers, when Miss R. told me everything." 
 
 "Miss Rouncy, I gather, was the confidante of the 
 other," 
 
 "Confidant? I believe you. Why, she's twice as clever a 
 girl as Fotheringay, and literar}' and that, while Miss Foth 
 can't do much more than read," 
 
 " She can write," said the Major, remembering Pen's breast- 
 pocket. 
 
 Foker broke out into a sardonic " He, he! Rouncy writes 
 her letters," he said: "every one of 'em ; and since the3-'ve 
 quarrelled, she don't know how the deuce to get on. Miss 
 RouncT is an uncommon pretty hand, whereas the other one 
 makes dreadful work of the writing and spelling when Bows 
 ain't by. Rouncy's been settin' her copies lately — she writes 
 a beautiful hand, Rounc3' does." 
 
 " I suppose 30U know it prett3- well," said the Major, archl3'^ : 
 upon which Mr. Foker winked at him again. 
 
 " I would give a great deal to have a specimen of her hand-
 
 1)8 PENDENNIS. 
 
 ^rriting," continued Major Pcndennis, "1 dare say you could 
 §;ive nic one." 
 
 "That would be too bad," Foker replied. "Miss F.'s 
 ■prritin' ain't so very bad, I dare say ; only she got Miss R. to 
 v.-rite the first letter, and has gone on ever since. But you 
 mark my word, that till they are friends again the letters will 
 stop." 
 
 " 1 hope the}^ will never be reconciled," the Major said with 
 great sincerity. " You must feel, my dear sir, as a man of the 
 ■w^orld, how fatal to my nephew's prospects in life is this step 
 which he contemplates, and how eager we all must be to free 
 him from this absurd engagement." 
 
 ' " He has come out uncommon strong," said Mr. Foker ; "I 
 have seen his verses ; Rounc}^ copied 'em. And 1 said to my- 
 self when I saw 'em, 'Catch me writin' verses to a woman, — 
 that's all.' " 
 
 " He has made a fool of himself, as many a good fellow has 
 liefore him. How can we make him see his folly, and cure it? 
 J am sure you will give us what aid you can in extricating a 
 g enerous young man from such a pair of schemers as this father 
 and daughter seem to be. Love on the lady's side is out of 
 tie question." 
 
 " Love, indeed ! " Foker said. " If Pen hadn't two thou- 
 s ind a-year when he came of age — " 
 
 "If Pen hadn't whatV cried out the Major in astonish- 
 % lent. 
 
 " Two thousand a-3'ear : hasn't he got two thousand a-year? 
 file General saj's he has." 
 
 " M3' dear friend," shrieked out the Major, with an eagerness 
 \< hich this gentleman rarely showed, "thank 3'ou ! — thank 
 you ! — I begin to see now. — Two thousand a year ! Why, 
 his mother has but five luindrcd a-year in the world. — She is 
 likel}' to live to eight}', and Arthur has not a shilling but what 
 she can allow him." 
 
 " What ! he ain't rich then?" Foker asked. 
 
 " Upon my honor he has no more than what I say." 
 
 " And 3'ou ain't going to leave him anything?" 
 
 The Major had sunk every shilling he could scrape together 
 on annuity, and of course was going to leave Pen nothing ; but 
 he did not tell Foker this. " How much do you think a Major 
 on half-pay can save?" he asked. "If these people have 
 been looking at him as a fortune, they are utterly mistaken 
 --and — and you have made me the happiest man in the 
 Morld."
 
 FENDEXNIS. 99 
 
 " Sir to YOU," said Mr. Foker, politely, and when they 
 parted for the night they shook hands with the greatest cor- 
 dialit}' ; the younger gentleman promising the elder not to leave 
 Chatteris without a further conversation in the morning. And 
 as the Major went up to his room, and Mr. Foker smoked his 
 cigar against the door pillars of the George, Pen, very likely, 
 ten miles off, was lying in bed kissing the letter from his 
 Emily. 
 
 The next morning, before Mr. Foker drove off in his drag, 
 the insinuating Major had actually got a letter of Miss Rouncy's 
 in his own pocket-book. Let it be a lesson to women how 
 the}' write. And in very high spirits Major Pendennis went to 
 call upon Doctor Portman at the Deanery-, and told him what 
 happy discoveries he had made on the previous night. A.s 
 they sat in confidential conversation in the Dean's oak break- 
 fast parlor they could look across the lawn and see Captain 
 Costigan's window, at which poor Pen had been only too visible 
 some three weeks since. The Doctor was most indignant against 
 Mrs. Creed, the landlady, for her duplicit}-, in concealing Sir 
 Derby Oaks's constant visits to her lodgers, and threatened to 
 excommunicate her out of the Cathedral. But the wary Major 
 thought tliat all things were for the best ; and, having taken 
 counsel with himself over night, felt himself quite strong enough 
 to go and face Captain Costigan. 
 
 " I'm going to fight the dragon," he said, with a laugh, to 
 Dr. Portman. 
 
 " And I shrive 3^ou. jir, and bid good fortune go with you," 
 answered the Doctor. Perhaps he and Mrs. Portman and 
 Miss Mira, as they sat with their friend, the Dean's lady, 
 in her drawing-room, looked up more than once at the ene- 
 my's window to see if they could perceive anj' signs of the 
 combat. 
 
 The Major walked round, according to the directions given 
 him, and soon found Mrs. Creed's little door. He passed it, 
 and as he ascended to Captain Costigan's apartment, he could 
 hear a stamping of feet, and a great shouting of "Ha, ha!" 
 within. 
 
 " It's Sir Derb}' Oaks taking his fencing lesson," said the 
 child, who piloted Major Pendennis. " He takes it Mondajs, 
 Wednesdays, and Fridays." - 
 
 The Major knocked, and at length a tall gentleman came 
 forth, with a foil and mask in one hand, and a fencing glove on 
 the other. 
 
 Pendennis made him a deferential bow. " I believe I ha^'*^
 
 100 PENDEJJNIS. 
 
 the honor of speaking to Captain Costigan — M}' name is Major 
 Pendennis." 
 
 The Captain brought his weapon up to the salute, and said, 
 *' Major, the honor is moine ; I'm deloighted to see ye." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 NEGOTIATION. 
 
 The Major and Captain Costigan were old soldiers and 
 accustomed to face the enemy, so we ma}' presume that they 
 retained their presence of mind perfectl}' : but the rest of the 
 party assembled in Cos's sitting-room were, perhaps, a little 
 flurried at Pendennis's apparition. Miss Fotheringay's slow 
 heart began to beat no doubt, for her cheek flushed up witli a 
 great healthy blush, as Lieutenant Sir Derb^^ Oaks looked at 
 her with a scowl. The little crooked old man in the window- 
 seat, who had been witnessing the fencing-match between the 
 two gentlemen (whose stamping and jumping had been such as 
 to cause him to give up all attempts to continue writing the 
 theatre music, in the copjing of which he had been engaged) 
 looked up eagerly towards the new comer as the Major of the 
 well-blacked boots entered the apartment, distributing the most 
 graceful bows to ever3-bod3- present. 
 
 "Me daughter — me friend, Mr. Bows — me gallant young 
 pupil and friend, I may call 'um. Sir Derby Oaks," said Costi- 
 gan, splendidly waving his hand, and pointing each of these 
 individuals to the Major's attention. " In one moment, Meejor, 
 I'm your humble servant," and to dash into the little adjoining 
 chamber where he slept, to give a twist to his lank hair with his 
 hair-brush (a wonderful and ancient piece), to tear off" his old 
 stock and put on a new one which Emily had constructed for 
 him, and to assume a handsome clean collar, and the new coat 
 which had been ordered upon the occasion of Miss Fotheringay's 
 benefit, was with the still active Costigan the work of a minute. 
 
 After him Sir Derby entered, and presently emerged from 
 the same apartment, where he also cased himself in his little 
 shell-jacket, which fitted tightl}' upon the young officer's big 
 person ; and which he, and Miss Fotheringa}', and poor Pen 
 too, perhaps, admired prodigiously. 
 
 Meanwhile conversation was engaged in between the actress
 
 PENDENXIS. 101 
 
 and the new coiner; and the usual remarks about the weather 
 had been interchanged before Costigan re-entered in his new 
 '' shoot," as he called it. 
 
 '• I needn't apologoise to ye, Meejor," he said, in his richest 
 and most courteous manner, ' ' for receiving ye in me shirt- 
 sleeves." 
 
 " An old soldier can't be better emplo^-ed than in teaching a 
 young one the use of his sword," answered the Major, gallantly. 
 "I remember in old times hearing that you could use 3'ours 
 prett}' well. Captain Costigan." 
 
 "■What, 3'e've heard of Jack Costigan. Major," said the 
 other, greatly. 
 
 The Major had, indeed ; he had pumped his nephew concern- 
 ing his new friend, the Irish officer ; and said that ho perfectly 
 well recollected meeting Mr. Costigan, and hearing him sing at 
 Sir Richard Strachan's table at Walcheren. 
 
 At this information, and the bland and cordial manner in 
 which it was conveyed, Bows looked up, entirely puzzled. 
 "But we will talk of these matters another time," the Major 
 continued, perhaps not wishing to commit himself; "'it is to 
 Miss Fotheringay that I came to pay m}' respects to-day : " 
 and he performed another bow for her, so courth" and gracious, 
 that if she had been a duchess he could not have made it more 
 handsome. 
 
 '•I had heard of 3'our performances from my nephew, 
 madam," the Major said, "who raves about you, as I believe 
 you know pretty well. But Arthur is but a boy, and a wild 
 enthusiastic young fellow, whose opinions one must not take au 
 pied de la lettre ; and I confess I was anxious to judge for m}'- 
 self. Permit me to sa}' your performance delighted and aston- 
 ished me. I have seen our best actresses, and, on my word, I 
 tliink ^'ou surpass them all. You are as majestic as Mrs. 
 Siddons." 
 
 "Faith, I alwaj's said so," Costigan said, winking at his 
 daughter: "Major, take a chair." Mill^' rose at this hint, 
 took an unripped satin garment off the onl^' vacant seat, and 
 brought the latter to Major Pendennis with one of her finest 
 curtsies. 
 
 " You are as pathetic as Miss O'Neill," he continued, bow- 
 ing and seating himself; "your snatches of song remind me of 
 Mrs. .Jordan in her liest time, when we were young men. Cap- 
 tain Costigan ; and your manner reminded me of Mars. Did 
 you ever see the Mars. Miss Fotheringay ? " 
 
 "There was two Mahers in Crow Street," remarked Miss
 
 102 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Emily : " Fanny was well enough, but Bidth' was no great 
 things." 
 
 " Sure, the Major means the god of war, Milly, my dear," 
 interposed the parent. 
 
 '* It is not that Mars I meant, though Venus, I suppose, 
 may be pardoned for thinking about him ; " the Major replied 
 with a smile directed in full to Sir Derby Oaks, who now re- 
 entered in his shell-jacket, but the lady did not understand the 
 words of which he made use, nor did the compliment at all 
 pacify Sir Derb}', who, probabh', did not understand it either, 
 and at an}' rate received it with great sulkiness and stiffness ; 
 scowling uneasil}' at Miss Fotheringay, with an expression 
 which seemed to ask what the deuce does this man here? 
 
 JMajor Pcndennis was not in the least annoyed by the gentla- 
 man's ill-humor. On the contrary, it delighted him. ''So," 
 thought he, " a rival is in the field ; " and he offered up vo\\f5 
 that Sir Derby might be, not onl}- a rival, but a wirmer too, in 
 this love-matcli in which he and Pen were engaged. 
 
 " I fear I interrupted your fencing lesson ; but my stay in 
 Chatteris is ver}' short, and I was anxious to make myself 
 known to my old fellow-campaigner Captain Costigan, and to 
 see a lad}* nearer who had charmed me so much from the stage. 
 I was not the only man epris last night, Miss Fotheringaj' (if 1 
 must call you so, though your own family name is a very ancient 
 and noble one). There was a reverend friend of mine, who 
 went home in raptures with Ophelia ; and I saw Sir Derby Oaks 
 fling a bouquet which no actress ever merited better. I should 
 have brought one myself, had I known what I was going to 
 see. Are not those the very flow^ers in a glass of water on the 
 mantel-piece yonder?" 
 
 " r am very fond of flowers," said Miss Fotheringay, with a 
 languishing ogle at Sir Derby Oaks — but the Baronet still 
 scowled sulkily. 
 
 "Sweets to the sweet — isn't that the expression of ths 
 jjla}-? " Major Pendennis asked, bent upon being good-humored. 
 
 "Ton my life, I don't know. Very likely it is. I ain't 
 much of a literary man," answered Sir Derby. 
 
 "Is it possible?" the Major continued, with an air of sur- 
 prise. " You don't inherit your father's love of letters, then, 
 Sir Derby ? He was a remarkably fine scholar, and I had tb t 
 honor of knowing him very well." 
 
 " Indeed," said the other, and gave a sulky wag of his head. 
 
 " He saved my life," continued Pendennis. 
 
 "Did be now?" cried Miss Fotheringay, rolling her e3'ee
 
 PENDENNIS. 103 
 
 first upon the Major with surprise, tlien towards Sir Derby with 
 gratitude — but the hitter was proof against those glances ; and 
 far from appearing to be pleased that the Apothecar}-, his 
 father, should have saved Major Pendennis's life, the young 
 man actually looked as if he wished the event had turned the 
 other way. 
 
 ''■ My father, I believe, was a very good doctor," the young 
 gentleman said by wa}- of reply. '' I'm not in that line myself 
 I wish you good morning, sir. I've got an appointment — Cos, 
 bye-b3-e — Miss Fotheringay, good morning." And, in spite 
 of the young lady's imploring looks and appealing smiles, the 
 Di-agoon bowed stiffly out of the room, and the clatter of his 
 sabre was heard as he strode down the creaking stair ; and the 
 angrv tones of his voice as he cursed little Tom Creed, who was 
 disporting in the passage, and whose peg-top Sir Derb}' kicked 
 awa\' with an oath into the street. 
 
 The Major did not smile in the least, though he had every 
 reason to be amused. '' Monstrous handsome young man that 
 — as fine a looking soldier as ever I saw," he said to Costigan. 
 
 " A credit to the army and to human nature in general," 
 answered Costigan. " A 3'oung man of refoined manners, po- 
 ute aftabilitee, and princely' fortune. His table is sumptuous : 
 he's adawr'd in the regiment: and he rides sixteen stone." 
 
 " A perfect champion," said the Major, laughing. '' I have 
 no doubt all the ladies admire him." 
 
 •■He's very well, in spite of his weight, now he's 3'oung," 
 said Milly ; " but he's no conversation." 
 
 *•' He's best on hoi'seback," Mr. Bows said ; on which Milly 
 replied, that the Baronet had ridden third in the sieeple-chase 
 on his horse Tareaways, and the Major began to comprehend 
 that the 3'Oung lad3^ herself was not of a particular genius, and 
 to wonder how she should be so stupid and act so well. 
 
 Costigan, with Irish hospitality, of course pressed refresh- 
 ment upon his guest : and the Major, who was no more hungr3^ 
 than you are after a Lord Ma3'or's dinner, declared that he 
 should like a biscuit and a glass of wine above all things, as he 
 felt quite faint fi'om long fasting — but he knew that to receive 
 small kindnesses flatters the donors very much, and that people 
 must needs grow well disposed towards you as the3' give you 
 their hospitalit3'. 
 
 "Some of the old Madara, Milly, love," Costigan said, 
 winking to his child — and that lad3', turning to her father a 
 glance of intelligence, went out of the room, and down the stair, 
 where she softl3' summoned her little emissar3' Master Tommj
 
 104 PENDENNIS. ' 
 
 Creed : and giving him a piece of money, ordered him to go 
 buy a pint of Madara wine at the Grapes, and sixpenn3worth 
 of sorted biscuits at the baker's, and to return in a hurry, when 
 he might have two biscuits for himself. 
 
 Whilst Tommy Creed was gone on this errand, Miss Costi- 
 gon sat below with Mrs. Creed, telling her landlad}- how Mr. 
 Arthur Pendennis's uncle, the Major, was above stairs ; a nice, 
 soft-spoken old gentleman ; that butter wouldn't melt in his 
 mouth : and how Sir Derbv had gone out of the room in a rage 
 of jealousy, and thinking what must be done to pacify both of 
 them. 
 
 '• She keeps the keys of the cellar, Major," said Mr. Costi- 
 gan, as the girl left the room. 
 
 " Upon my word you ha\e a very beautiful butler," answered 
 Pendennis, gallantl}', '' and 1 don't wonder at the young follows 
 raving about her. When we were of their age. Captain Costi- 
 gau, I think plainer women would have done our business." 
 
 "Faith, and ye may say that, sir — and lucky is the man 
 who gets her. Ask me friend Bob Bows here whether Mies 
 Fotheringay's raoind is not even shuparior to her person, and 
 whether she does not possess a cultiveated intellect, a refoined 
 understanding, and an emiable disposition?" 
 
 "Oh, of course," said Mr. Bows, rather dr^l}'. "Here 
 comes Hebe blushing from the cellar. Don't you think it is 
 time to go to rehearsal. Miss Hebe? You will be fined if you 
 are late " — and he gave the 30ung lady a look, which intimated 
 that they had much better leave the room and the two elders 
 together. 
 
 At this order Miss Hebe took up her bonnet and shawl, 
 looking uncommonly pretty, good-humored, and smiling : and 
 Bows gathered up his roll of papers, and hobbled across the 
 room for his hat and cane. 
 
 "Must you go?" said the Major. "Can't you give us a 
 few minutes more, Miss Fotheringa}' ? Before j'ou leave us, 
 permit an old fellow to shake you by the hand, and believe that 
 J am proud to have had the honor of making j^our acquaintance, 
 and am most sincerely anxious to be your friend." 
 
 Miss Fotheringay made a low curtsy at the conclusion of this 
 gallant speech, and the Major followed her retreating steps to 
 the door, where he squeezed her hand with the kindest and most 
 paternal pressure. Bows was puzzled with this exhibition of 
 cordiality: "The lad's relatives can't be reall}' wanting to 
 marry him to her," he thought — and so they departed. 
 
 " Now for it," thought Major Pendennis ; and as for Mr,
 
 PENDENNIS. 105 
 
 Costigan he profited instantaneously by his daughter's absence 
 to drink up the rest of the wine ; and tossed off one bumper 
 after another of the Madeira from the Grapes, with an eager 
 shaking hand. The Major came up to the table, and took up 
 his glass and drained it with a jovial smack. If it had been 
 Lord Steyne's particular, and not public-house Cape, he could 
 not have appeared to relish it more. 
 
 "Capital Madeira, Captain Costigan," he said. " AYhere 
 do you get it? I drink the health of that charming creature in 
 a bumper. Faith, Captain, I don't wonder that the men are 
 wild about her. I never saw such eyes in my life, or such a 
 grand manner. I am sure she is as intellectual as she is beau- 
 tiful ; and I have no doubt she's as good as she is clever." 
 
 "A good girl, sir, — a good girl, sir," said the delighted 
 father ; • • and I pledge a toast to her with all ni}' heart. Shall 
 I send to the — to the cellar for another pint? It's handy by. 
 No? Well, indeed sir, ye ma}' say she is a good girl, and the 
 pride and glor}- of her father — honest old Jack Costigan. The 
 man who gets her will have a jew'l to a wife, sir ; and I drink 
 his health, sir, and 3'e know who I mean, Major." 
 
 "lam not surprised at 3'oung or old falling in love with 
 her," said the Major, " and frankh' must tell 3-ou, that though 
 I was very angry with m}' poor nephew Arthur, when I heard 
 of the bo3''s passion — now I have seen the lady I can pardon 
 him an}' extent of it. By George, I should like to enter for the 
 race myself, if I weren't an old fellow and a poor one." 
 
 "And no better man, Major, I'm sure," cried Jack enrap- 
 tured. "Your friendship, sir, delights me. Your admiration 
 for my girl brings tears to me eyes — tears, sir — manlee tears 
 — and when she leaves me humble home for your own more 
 splendid mansion, I hope she'll keep a place for her poor old 
 father, poor old Jack Costigan." — The Captain suited the ac- 
 tion to the word, and his blood-shot eyes were suffused with 
 water, as he addressed the Major. 
 
 "Your sentiments do }ou honor," the other said. "But. 
 Captain Costigan, T can't help smiling at one thing you have 
 just said." 
 
 " And what's that, sir? " asked Jack, who was at a too heroic 
 and sentimental pitch to descend from it. 
 
 "You were speaking about our splendid mansion — my sis- 
 ter's house, I mean." 
 
 " I mane the park and mansion of Arthur Pendennis, Es- 
 quire, of Fairoaks Park, whom I hope to see a Mimber of Par- 
 liament for his native town of Clavering. when he is of ege to
 
 l06 PENDENNIS. 
 
 take that responsible stetiou," cried the Captain with much 
 dignity. 
 
 The Major smiled. " Fairoaks Park, m}^ dear sir ! " he said. 
 " Do you know our history? We are of excessively ancient 
 family certainly, but I began life with scarce enough mone}' to 
 purchase my commission, and my eldest brother was a countr}^ 
 apothecary : who made every shilling he died possessed of out 
 of his i^cstle and mortar." 
 
 '' I have consented to waive that objection, sir," said Costi- 
 gan majesticalh', "' in consideration of the known respectability 
 of 3-our family." 
 
 ''Curse your impudence," thought the Major; but he only 
 smiled and bowed. 
 
 "The Costigans, too, have met with misfortunes; and our 
 house of Castle Costigan is by no manes what it was. I have 
 known ver^' honest men apothecaries, sir, and there's some in 
 Dublin that has had the honor of dining at the Lord Leftenant's 
 teeble." 
 
 " You are very kind to give us the benefit of 3'our charity," 
 the Major continued: " but penult me to say that is not the 
 question. You spoke just now of my little nephew as heir of 
 Fairoaks Park, and I don't know what besides." 
 
 "Funded property', I've no doubt, Meejor, and something 
 handsome eventually from 3'ourself." 
 
 "My good sir, I tell you the boy is the son of a country 
 apothecarv," cried out Major Pendennis ; "and that when he 
 comes of age he won't have a shilling." 
 
 "Pooh, Major, 3-ou're laughing at me," said Mr. Costigan, 
 " me young friend, I make no doubt, is heir to two thousand 
 pounds a-year.'' 
 
 " Two thousand fiddlesticks ! I beg j'our pardon, my dear 
 sir ; but has the bo}' been humbugging 3'ou ? — it is not his 
 nabit. Upon mv word and honor, as a gentleman and an 
 executor to my brother's will too, he left little more than five 
 hundred a-year behind him." 
 
 " And with aconomy, a handsome sum of money too, sir," 
 the Captain answered. "Faith, I've known a man drink his 
 clar't, and drive his coach-and-four on five hundred a-year and 
 sti-ict aconom}', in Ireland, sir. We'll manage on it, sir — trust 
 Jack Costigan for that." 
 
 " My dear Captain Costigan — I give 3- on m3^ word that my 
 brother did not leave a shilling to his son Arthur." 
 
 " Are ye joking with me, Meejor Pendennis?" cried Jack 
 Costigan. " Are ye thrifling with the feelings of a father and 
 a gentleman ? "
 
 PENDENNIS. 107 
 
 u 
 
 I am telling yon the honest truth," said INIajor Pcndennis. 
 *' Every shilling mv brother had, he left to his widow : with a 
 partial reversion, it is true, to the bov. But she is a young 
 woman, and may many if he offends her — or she ma}' outlive 
 him, for she comes of an uncommonly long-lived family. And 
 I ask you as a gentleman and a man of the world, what allow- 
 ance can ray sister. Mrs. Pendennis, make to her son out of five 
 hundred a-year, which is all her fortune — that shall enable him 
 to maintain himself and your daughter in the rank befitting such 
 au accomplished young lady ? " 
 
 "Am I to understand, sir, that the young gentleman, 3'our 
 nephew, and whom I haA'e fosthered and cherished as the son 
 of me bosom, is an imposther who has been thrifling with the 
 affections of me beloved child ? " exclaimed the General, with 
 an outbreak of wrath. " Have a care, sir, how 30U thrifle with 
 the honor of John Costigan. If I thought any mortal man 
 meant to do so, be heavens, I'd have his blood, sir — were he 
 old or young." 
 
 " Mr. Costigan ! " cried out the Major. 
 
 " Mr. Costigan can protect his own and his daughter's 
 honor, and will, sir," said the other. "Look at that chest of 
 dthrawers, it contains heaps of letthers that that viper has 
 addressed to that innocent child. There's promises there, sir, 
 enough to fill a l)and-box with ; and when 1 have dragged the 
 scoundthrel before the Courts of Law, and shown up his perjury 
 and his dishonor, I have another remedy in yondther mahogany 
 case, sir, which shall set me right, sir, with any individual — ye 
 mark me words. Major Pendennis — with an}- individual who 
 has counselled your nephew to insult a soldier and a gentleman. 
 What? Me daughter to be jilted, and me gray hairs dishonored 
 by an apothecary's son ! By the laws of Heaven, sir, I should 
 like to see the man that shall do it." 
 
 " I am to understand then that you threaten in the first 
 place to publish the letters of a bov of eighteen to a woman of 
 eight-and-twenty : and afterwards to do me the honor of calling 
 me out," the Major said, still with perfect coolness. 
 
 " You have described my intentions with jDerfcct accuracj'^, 
 Meejor Pendennis," answered the Captain, as he pulled his 
 ragged whiskers over his chin. 
 
 " Well, well ; these shall be the subjects of future arrange- 
 ments, but before we come to powder and ball, m}' good sir, — 
 do have the kindness to think with yoursetf in what earthl}' 
 way I have injured you? I ha^e told you that my nephew is 
 dependent upon his mother, who has scarcely more than five 
 hundred a-year."
 
 108 PENDENXIS. 
 
 " I have my own opinion of tlie correctness of that asser. 
 tion," said tlie Captain. 
 
 " Will you go to my sister's lawyers, Messrs. Tatliam here, 
 and satisfy yourself ? " 
 
 " I decline to meet those gentlemen," said the Captain, 
 with rather a disturbed air. " If it be as you say, I have been 
 athrociously deceived by some one, and on that person I'll be 
 revenged." 
 
 " Is it my nephew? " cried the Major, starting up and putting 
 on his hat. '' Did he ever tell you that his property was two 
 thousand a-year? If he did, I'm mistaken in the boy. To tell 
 lies has not been a habit in our family, Mr. Costigan, and I 
 don't think my brother's son has learned it as yet. Try and 
 consider whetiier \ou have not deceived yourself; or adopted 
 extravagant reports from hearsay. As for me, sir, you are at 
 liberty to understand that I am not afraid of all the Costigan* 
 in Ireland, and know quite well how to defend myself against 
 any throats from any quarter. I come here as the boy's guar- 
 dian to i)rotest against a marriage, most absurd and unequal, 
 that cannot but bring poverty and misery with it: and in pre 
 venting it I conceive I am quite as much your daughter's 
 friend (who I have no doubt is an honorable young lady), 
 as the Iriend of my own famil}' : and prevent the marriage I 
 will, sir, b^' every means in m}' power. There, I have said m}' 
 say, sir." 
 
 " But I have not said mine, Major Pendennis — and 3'e shall 
 hear more from me," Mr. Costigan said, with a look of tremen- 
 dous severity. 
 
 " 'Sdeath, sir, what do j^ou mean?" the Major asked, turn- 
 ing round on the threshold of the door, and looking the intrepid 
 Costigan in the face. 
 
 " Ye said, in the course of conversation, that ye were at 
 the George Hotel, I think," Mr. Costigan said in a statel}' 
 manner. " A friend shall wait upon ye there before ye leave 
 town, sir." 
 
 " Let him make haste, Mr. Costigan," cried out the Major, 
 almost beside himself with rage. " I wish you a good morning, 
 sir." And Captain Costigan bowed a magnificent bow of de- 
 fiance to Major Pendennis over the landing-place as the latter 
 retreated down the stairs.
 
 PENDENNIS. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IN WHICH A SHOOTING MATCH IS PROPOSED. 
 
 Eaklt mention has been made in this history of Mr. Gar- 
 betts, Principal Tragedian, a promising and athletic young 
 actor, of jovial habits and irregular inclinations, between 
 whom and Mr. Costigan there was a considerable intimacy. 
 The}' were the chief ornaments of the convivial club held at 
 the Magpie Hotel ; the}' helped each other in various bill 
 transactions in which they had been engaged, with the mu- 
 tual loan of each other's valuable signatures. They were 
 friends, in tine ; and Mr. Garbetts was called in by Captain 
 Costigan immediately after INIajor Pendennis had quitted the 
 house, as a friend proper to be consulted at the actual junc- 
 ture. He was a large man, with a loud voice and fierce aspect, 
 who had the finest legs of the whole company, and could break 
 a iDoker in mere sport across his stalwart arm. 
 
 •• Run, Tommy," said Mr. Costigan to the little messenger, 
 " and fetch Mr. Gai'betts from his lodgings over the tripe shop, 
 ye know, and tell 'em to send two glasses of whiskey-and-water, 
 hot, from the Grapes." So Tommy went away ; and presently 
 Mr. Garbetts and the whiskey came. 
 
 Captain Costigan did not disclose to him the whole of the 
 previous events, of which the reader is in possession ; but, 
 with the aid of the spirits-and-water, he composed a letter of 
 a threatening nature to Major Pendennis's address, in which 
 he called upon that gentleman to offer no hindrance to the 
 marriage projected between Mr. Arthur Pendennis and his 
 daughter. Miss Fotheringay, and to fix an early day for its 
 celebration : or, in any other case, to give him the satisfaction 
 which was usual between gentlemen of honor. And should 
 Major Pendennis be disinclined to this alternative, the Captain 
 hinted, that he would force him to accept it by the use of a 
 horse-whip, which he should employ upon the Major's person. 
 The precise terms of this letter we cannot give, for reasons 
 which shall be specified presently ; but it was, no doubt, 
 couched in the Captain's finest style, and sealed elaborately 
 with the great silver seal of the Costigans — the only bit of 
 the family plate which tlie Captain possessed. 
 
 Garbetts was despatched, then, with this message and letter •
 
 110 PENDENNIS. 
 
 and bidding Heaven bless 'um, the General squeezed his am» 
 bassador's hand, and saw him depart. Then he took down his 
 venerable and murderous duelling-pistols, with flint locks, that 
 had done the business of many a pretty fellow in Dublin : and 
 having examined these, and seen that the}' were in a satisfac- 
 tory condition, he brought from the drawer all Pen's letters 
 and poems which he kept there, and which he alwaj'S read be- 
 fore he permitted his Emily to enjo}' their perusal. 
 
 In a score of minutes Garbetts came back with an anxious 
 and crest-fallen countenance. 
 
 " Ye've seen 'um? " the Captain said. 
 
 " Why, 3'es," said Garbetts. 
 
 "And when is it for?" asked Costigan, tr^'ing the lock of 
 one of the ancient pistols, and bringing it to a level with his oi 
 — as he called that blood-shot orb. 
 
 " When is what for? " asked Mr. Garbetts. 
 
 " The meeting, my dear fellow?" 
 
 "You don't mean to say you mean mortal combat. Cap- 
 tain?" Garbetts said, aghast. 
 
 "What the devil else do I mean, Garbetts? — I want to 
 shoot that man that has trajuiced me honor, or meself dthrop 
 a victim on the sod." 
 
 " D — if I carr}^ challenges," Mr. Garbetts replied. " I'm 
 a family man. Captain, and will have nothing to do with pis- 
 tols — take back j-our letter ; " and, to the surprise and indig- 
 nation of Captain Costigan, his emissar}' flung the letter down, 
 with its gi"eat sprawling superscription and blotched seal. 
 
 " Ye don't mean to sa}' ^e saw 'um and didn't give 'um the 
 letter?" cried out the Captain, in a fur}'. 
 
 "I saw him, but I could not have speech with him, Cap- 
 tain," said Mr. Garbetts. 
 
 " And why the devil not? " asked the other. 
 
 " There was one there I cared not to meet, nor would you," 
 the tragedian answered in a sepulchral voice. " The minion 
 Tatham was there. Captain." 
 
 "The cowardly scoundthrel ! " roared Costigan. "He's 
 frightened, and already going to swear the peace against me." 
 
 " I'll have nothing to do with the fighting, mark that," the 
 tragedian doggedly said, " and I wish I'd not seen Tatham 
 neither, nor that bit of — " 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! Bol> Acres. It's my belief 3'e're no 
 better than a coward," said Captain Costigan, quoting Sir 
 Lucius O'Trigger, which character he had performed with 
 credit, both otf and on the stage, and after some more
 
 PKNDENNIS. Ill 
 
 parle}' between the couple the}- separated in not very good 
 humor. 
 
 Their colloquj' has been here condensed, as the reader 
 knows the main point upon which it turned. But tlae latter 
 will now see how it is impossible to give a correct account of 
 the letter which the Captain wrote to Major Pendennis, as it 
 was never opened at all bj' that gentleman. 
 
 A\''hen Miss Costigan came home from rehearsal, which she 
 did in the compan\' of the faithful Mr. Bows, she found her 
 father pacing up and down their apartment in a great state of 
 agitation, and in the midst of a powerful odor of spirits-and- 
 water, which, as it appeared, had not succeeded in pacifying 
 his disordered mind. The Pendennis papers were on the table 
 surrounding the empty goblets and now useless teasjjoon, which 
 had serA'cd to hold and mix the Captain's liquor and liis friend's. 
 As Emily entered he seized her in his arms, and cried out, 
 "Prepare yourself, me child, me blessed child," in a voice of 
 agon}', and with eyes brimful of tears. 
 
 "- Ye're tipsy again, Papa," Miss Fotheringay said, pushing 
 back her sire. "Ye promised me ye wouldn't take spirits 
 before dinner." 
 
 "It's to forget me sorrows, me poor girl, that I've taken 
 just a drop," cried the bereaved father — "it's to drown me 
 care that I drain the bowl." 
 
 "Your care takes a deal of drowning, Captain dear," 
 said Bows, mimicking his friend's accent; "what has hap- 
 pened? Has that soft-spoken gentleman in the wig been vex- 
 ing 3'ou?" 
 
 "The oil}' miscreant! I'll have his blood!" roared Cos. 
 Miss Mill}', it must be premised, had tied to her room out of 
 his embrace, and was taking off her bonnet and shawl there, 
 
 "I thought he meant mischief. He was so uncommon 
 civil," the other said. "What has he come to say?" 
 
 "O Bows! He has overwhellum'd me," the Captain said. 
 " There's a hellish conspiracy on foot against me poor girl; 
 and it's me opinion that both them Pendennises, nephew and 
 uncle, is two infernal thrators and scoundthrels, who should be 
 conshumed from off the face of the earth." 
 
 "What is it? What has happened?" said Mr. Bows, 
 growing rather excited. 
 
 Costigan then told him the Major's statement that the young 
 Pendennis had not two thousand, nor two hundred pounds 
 a-ycar ; and expressed his fury that he should liave permitted 
 such rn impostor to coax and wheedle his innocent girl, and
 
 112 PENDENNIS. 
 
 that he should have nourished such a viper in his own personal 
 bosom. " 1 have shaken the reptile from me, however," said 
 Costigan ; " and as for his uncle, I'll have such a revenge on 
 that old man, as shall make 'um rue the day he ever insulted 
 a Costigan." 
 
 " What do you mean, General?" said Bows. 
 
 "I mean to have his life, Bows — his vdllanous, skulking 
 iife, my boy ; " and he rapped upon the battered old pistol-case 
 in an ominous and savage manner. Bows had often heard him 
 appeal to that box of death, with which he proposed to sacri- 
 fice his enemies ; but the Captain did not tell him that he had 
 actually written and sent a challenge to Major Pendennis, and 
 Mr. Bows therefore rather disregarded the pistols in the pres- 
 ent instance. 
 
 At this juncture Miss Fotheringay returned to the common 
 sitting-room from her private apartment, looking perfectly- 
 healthy, happ3', and unconcerned, a striking and wholesome 
 contrast to her father, who was in a delirious tremor of grief, 
 auger, and other agitation. She brought in a pair of ex-white 
 satin shoes with her, which she proposed to rub as clean as 
 might be with bread-crumb ; intending to go mad with them 
 upon next Tuesday evening in Ophelia, in which character she 
 was to reappear on that night. 
 
 She looked at the papers on the table ; stopped as if she was 
 going to ask a question, but thought better of it, and going to 
 the cupboard, selected an eligible piece of bread wherewith she 
 might operate on the satin slippers : and afterwards coming 
 back to the table, seated herself there commodiously with the 
 shoes, and then asked her father, in her honest Irish brogue, 
 "What have ye got them letthers, and pothr}', and stuff, of 
 Master Arthur's out for. Pa? Sure ye don't want to be reading 
 over that nonsense." 
 
 " O Emilee ! " cried the Captain, " that bo}' whom I loved 
 as the boy of mee bosom is onl^' a scoundthrel, and a deceiver, 
 mee poor girl : " and he looked in the most tragical wa}' at Mr. 
 Bows, opposite, who, in his turn, gazed somewhat anxiousl}' at 
 Miss Costigan. 
 
 " He ! pooh ! Sure the poor lad's as simple as a schoolboy," 
 she said. " All them children write verses and nonsense." 
 
 " He's been acting the part of a viper to this fireside, and a 
 traitor in this familee," cried the Captain. " I tell ye he's no 
 better than an impostor." 
 
 " What has the poor fellow done, Papa?" asked Emily. 
 
 "Done? He has deceived us in the most athrocious man-
 
 PENDENNIS. 113 
 
 ner," Miss Emil3''s papa said. " He has thrifled with Aour 
 affections, and outraged m}' own fine feelings. He has repre- 
 sented liimself as a man of property, and it turi-uns out that 
 he is no betther than a beggar. Haven't I often told ye he had 
 two thousand a-^-ear? He's a pauper, I tell 3-e, Miss Costigan ; 
 a depindent upon the bountee of his mother ; a good woman, 
 who may many again, who's likely to live for ever, and who 
 has but five hundred a-3'ear. How dar he ask ye to marry 
 into a family which has not the means of providing for ye? 
 Ye've been grossh' deceived and put upon, Milly, and it's 
 m}' belief his old ruffian of an uncle in a wig is in the plot 
 against us." 
 
 ' • That soft old gentleman ? AVhat has he been doing, Papa ? " 
 continued Emil}', still imperturbable. 
 
 Costigan informed Mill}- that when she was gone, Major 
 Pendennis told him in his double-faced Pall Mall polite manner, 
 that young Arthur had no fortune at all, that the Major had 
 asked him (Costigan) to go to the lawyers ("• wherein he knew 
 the scoundthrels have a bill of mine, and I can't meet them," 
 the Captain parenthetically remarked), and see the lad's father's 
 will : and finall}', that an infernal swindle had been practised 
 upon him hy the pair, and that he was resolved either on a 
 marriage, or on the blood of both of them. 
 
 Milly looked very grave and thoughtful, rubbing the white 
 satin shoe. " Sure if he's no money, there's no use marrying 
 him. Papa," she said, sententiousl}'. 
 
 " Why did the villain say he was a man of prawpertee?" 
 asked Costigan. 
 
 "The poor fellow alwaj'S said he was poor," answered the 
 girl. " 'Twas you who would have it he was rich, Papa — and 
 made me agree to take him." 
 
 " He should have been explicit and told us his income, 
 Milly," answered the father. "A young fellow who rides a 
 blood mare, and makes presents of shawls and bracelets, is an 
 impostor if he has no mone}' ; — and as for his uncle, bedad 
 I'll pull off his wig whenever I see 'um. Bows, here, shall take 
 a message to him and tell him so. Either it's a marriage, or 
 he meets me in the field like a man, or I tweak 'um on the nose 
 in front of his hotel or in the gravel walks of Fairoaks Park 
 before all the county, bedad." 
 
 " Bedad, you may send somebody else with the message," 
 said Bows, laughing. "I'm a fiddler, not a fighting man, 
 Captain." 
 
 *' Pooh, you've no spirit, sir," roared the General. " I'll be 
 
 8
 
 114 PENDENNIS. 
 
 ra^' own second, if no one will stand by and see me injured 
 And I'll take my case of pistols and slioot 'um in the Coffee 
 Room of the George." 
 
 "And so poor Arthur has no mone}-?" sighed out Miss 
 Costigan, rather plaintively. " Poor lad, he was a good lad 
 too : wild and talking nonsense, with his verses and pothr^' and 
 that, but a brave, generous bo}', and indeed I liked him — and 
 he liked me too," she added, rather softl^', and rubbing away 
 at the shoe. 
 
 '• Why don't you marry him if you like him so? " Mr. Bows 
 said, rather savagel}'. "■ He is not more tha.^ ten years younger 
 than you are. His mother may relent, and you might go and live 
 and have enough at Fairoaks Park. Wh}' not go and be a lady ? 
 I could go on with the fiddle, and the General live on his half- 
 pay. Why don't you marr3- him? You know he likes you." 
 
 "There's others that likes me as well, Bows, that has na 
 mone}' and that's old enough," Miss Milly said, sententiousl}'. 
 
 "Yes, d — it," said Bows, with a bitter curse — "that 
 are old enough and poor enough and fools enough for any- 
 thing." 
 
 " There's old fools, and young fools too. You've often said 
 so, you silly man," the imperious beauty said, with a conscious 
 glance at the old gentleman. " If Pendennis has not enough 
 money to live upon, it's folly to talk about marrying him : and 
 that's the long and short of it." 
 
 "And the boy?" said Mr. Bows. "By Jove! you thro\\ 
 a man away like an old glove, Miss Costigan." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Bows,''' said Miss Fotherin- 
 gay, placidly, rubbing the second shoe. " If he had had halt 
 of the two thousand a-year that Papa gave him. or the half oi 
 that, I would marry him. But what is the good of taking on 
 with a beggar? W^e're poor enough already. There's no use 
 in my going to live with an old lady that's testy and cross, 
 maybe, and would grudge me every' morsel of meat. (Sure, 
 it's near dinner time, and Suky not laid the cloth yet), and 
 then," added Miss Costigan, quite simply, " suppose there was 
 a family? — why. Papa, we shouldn't be as well off as we are 
 now." 
 
 "'Deed then, you would not, Milly dear," answered the 
 father. 
 
 " And there's an end to all the fine talk about Mrs. Arthur 
 Pendennis of Fairoaks Park — the member of Parliament's 
 lady," said Milly, with a laugh. " Pretty carriages and horses 
 we should have to ride ! — that you were always talking about?
 
 PENDENNIS. 115 
 
 Papa. Bui it's alwaj's the same. If a inau looked at me, you 
 faucied he was going to many me ; and if he had a good coat, 
 you fancied he was as rich as Crazes." 
 
 " As Crossus," said Mr. Bows. 
 
 "Well, call 'um what ye like. But it's a fact now that Papa 
 has married me these eight years a score of times. Wasn't I 
 to be my Lady Poldood}' of Oystherstown Castle ? Then there 
 was the Xav}' Captain at Portsmouth, and the old surgeon at 
 Norwich, and the Methodist preacher here last year, and who 
 knows how many more ? Well, I bet a penn}-, with all 3'our 
 scheming, I shall die Milly Costigan at last. So poor little 
 Arthur has no money ? Stop and take dinner, Bows : we've a 
 beautiful beef-steak pudding." 
 
 " I wonder whether she is on with Sir Derby Oaks," thought 
 Bows, whose eyes and thoughts were always watching her. 
 "The dodges of women beat all comprehension; and I am 
 sure she wouldn't let the lad off so easil}', if she had not some 
 other scheme on hand." 
 
 It will have been perceived that Miss Fotheringay, though 
 silent in general, and b}' no means brilliant as a conversationist 
 where poetr^', literature, or the fine arts were concerned, could 
 talk freely and with good sense, too, in her own famil}' circle. 
 She cannot justlj' be called a romantic person : nor were her 
 literary acquirements great : she never opened a Shakspeare 
 from the day she left the stage, nor, indeed, imderstood it dur- 
 ing all the time she adorned the boards : but about a pudding, 
 a piece of needle-work, or her own domestic affairs, she was as 
 good a judge as could be found ; and not being misled by a 
 strong imagination or a passionate temper, was better enabled 
 tiD keep her judgment cool. When, over their dinner, Costigan 
 tried to convince himself and the company, that the Major's 
 statement regarding Pen's finances was unworthy of credit, and 
 a mere ruse upon the old hypocrite's part so as to induce them, 
 on their side, to break off the match. Miss Milh' would not, 
 for a moment, admit the possibility of deceit on the side of the 
 adversary : and pointed out clearly that it was her father who 
 had deceived himself, and not poor little Pen, who had tried to 
 take them in. As for that poor lad, she said she pitied him 
 with all her heart. And she ate an exceedingly- good dinner ; 
 to the admiration of Mr. Bows, who had a remarkable regard 
 and contempt for this woman, during and after which repast, 
 the party devised upon the ])est means of bringing this love- 
 matter to a close. As for Costigan, his idea of tweaking the 
 Major's nose vanished with his supply of after-dinner whiskey-
 
 116 TENDENNIS. 
 
 and-water ; and he was submissive to his daughter, and roadv 
 for any plan on which she might decide, in order to meet the 
 crisis which she saw was at hand. 
 
 The Captain, who, as long as he had a notion that he was 
 wronged, was eager to face and demolish both Pen and his 
 uncle, perhaps shrank from the idea of meeting the former, 
 and asked " what the juice they were to say to the lad if he 
 remained steady to his engagement, and they broke from 
 theirs ! " " AVhat? don't you know how to throw a man over ? " 
 said Bows ; " ask a woman to tell you ; " and Miss Fotherin- 
 
 gay showed how this feat was to be done simply enough 
 
 notliing was more easy. "Papa writes to Arthur to know 
 what settlements he proposes to make in event of a marriao-e ; 
 and asks what his means are. Arthur writes back and says 
 what he's got, and you'll find it's as the Major savs, I'll go bail. 
 Then Papa writes, and says it's not enough, and'^the match had 
 best be at an end." 
 
 " And, of course, you enclose a parting line, in which you 
 say you will always regard him as a brother ; " said Mr. Bows, 
 eying her in his scornful way. 
 
 "Of course, and so I shall," answered Miss Fotheringay. 
 " He's a most worthy young man, I'm sure. I'll thank ye hand 
 me the salt. Them filberts is beautiful." 
 
 "And there will be no noses pulled, Cos, my boy? I'm 
 sorry you're balked," said Mr. Bows. 
 
 " 'Dad, I suppose not," said Cos, rubbing his own. — 
 "What'U ye do about them letters, and verses, and pomes. 
 Milly, darling? — Ye must send 'em back." 
 
 " Wigsby would give a hundred pound for 'era," Bows said, 
 with a sneer. 
 
 "'Deed, then, he would," said Captain Costigan, who was 
 easil}' led. 
 
 " Papa ! " said Miss Milly. — " Ye wouldn't be for not send- 
 ing the poor boy his letters back ? Them letters and pomes is 
 mine. They were very long, and full of all sorts of nonsense, 
 and Latin, and things "l couldn't understand the half of ; indeed 
 I've not read 'em all ; but we'll send 'em back to him when the 
 proper time comes." And going to a drawer, Miss Fotheringay 
 took out from it a number of the County Chronicle and Chat- 
 teris Champion, in which Pen had written a copy of flaming 
 verses celebrating her appearance in the character"^of Imogen, 
 and putting by the leaf upon which the poem appeared (for, 
 like ladies of her profession, she kept the favorable printed 
 notices of her performances), she wrapped up Pen's letters,
 
 PENDENNIS. 117 
 
 poems, passions, and fancies, and tied them with a piece ol' 
 string neatl}-, as she would a parcel of sugar. 
 
 Nor was she in the least moved while performing this act. 
 What hours the bo}' had passed over those papers ! What love 
 and longing : what generous faith and manly devotion — what 
 watchful nights and lonely fevers might they tell of ! She tied 
 them up like so much grocery, and sat down and made tea 
 afterwards with a perfectly placid and contented heart : while 
 Pen was yearning after her ten miles off: and hugging her 
 image to his soul. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 A CRISIS. 
 
 Major Pendexxis came awaj- from his interview with Captain 
 Costigan in a state of such concentrated fury as rendered him 
 terrible to approach. " The impudent bog- trotting scamp," he 
 thought, " dare to threaten me ! Dare to talk of permitting his 
 damned Costigans to marry with the Pendennises ! Send me 
 a challenge ! If the fellow can get an3'thing in the shape of a 
 gentleman to carry it, I have the greatest mind in life not to 
 balk him. — Psha ! what would people say if I were to go out 
 with a tipsy mountebank, about a row with an actress in a 
 barn ! " So when the Major saw Dr. Portman, who asked 
 anxiously regarding the issue of his battle with the dragon, Mr. 
 Pendennis did not care to inform the divine of the General's 
 insolent behavior, but stated that the affair was a very ugly and 
 disagreeable one, and that it was b}^ no means over 3'et. 
 
 He enjoined Doctor and Mrs. Portman to say nothing about 
 the business at Fairoaks ; and then he returned to his hotel, 
 where he vented his wrath upon Mr. Morgan his valet, " dam- 
 min and cussin up stairs and down stairs," as that gentleman 
 observed to Mr. Foker's man, in whose company he partook of 
 dinner in the servants' room of the George. 
 
 The sei-vant carried the news to his master ; and Mr. Foker 
 having finished his breakfast about this time, it being two 
 o'clock in the afternoon, remembered that he was anxious to 
 know the result of the interview between his two friends, and 
 having inquired the number of the Major's sitting-room, went 
 over in his brocade dressing-gown, and knocked for admission. 
 
 The Major had some business, as he had stated, respecting
 
 118 PENDENNIS. 
 
 a lease of the widovr's, about which he was desirous of consult- 
 ing old Mr. Talham, the lawj'cr, who had been his brother's 
 man of business, and who had a branch-office at Claveriug, 
 where he and his son attended market and other daj's three or 
 four in the week. This gentleman and his client were now in 
 consultation when Mr. Foker showed his grand dressing-gown 
 and embroidered skull-cap at Major Pendennis's door. 
 
 Seeing the Major engaged with papers and red-tape, and an 
 old man with a white head, the modest youth was for drawing 
 back — and said, " Oh, you're busy — call again another time." 
 But Mr. Pendennis wanted to see him, and begged him, with a 
 smile, to enter : whereupon Mr. Foker took oft" the embroidered 
 tarboosh or fez (it had been worked by the fondest of mothers) 
 and advanced, bowing to the gentlemen and smiling on them 
 graciousl}-. Mr. Tathara had never seen so splendid an appari- 
 tion before as this brocaded youth, who seated himself in an 
 arm-chair, spreading out his crimson skirts, and looking with 
 exceeding kindness and frankness on the other two tenants of 
 the room. "You seem to like m^- dressing-gown, sir," he said 
 to Mr. Tatham. "A pretty thing, isn't it? Neat, but not in 
 the least gaudy. And how do you do ? Major Pendennis, sir, 
 and how does the world treat you ? " 
 
 There was that in Foker's manner and appearance which 
 would have put an Inquisitor into good-humor, and it smoothed 
 the wrinkles under Pendennis's head of hair. 
 
 " I have had an interview with that Irishman, (3'ou ma}^ 
 speak before my friend, Mr. Tatham here, who knows all the 
 aftairs of the family,) and it has not, I own, been very satisfac- 
 tory. He won't believe that m}- nephew is poor : he saj's we 
 are both liars : he did me the honor to hint that I was a cow- 
 ard, as I took leave. And I thought when 3'ou knocked at the 
 door, that you might be the gentleman whom I expect with a 
 challenge from Mr. Costigan — that is how the world treats 
 me. Mr. Foker." 
 
 " You don't mean that Irishman, the actress's father? " cried 
 Mr. Tatham, who was a dissenter himself, and did not patronize 
 the drama. 
 
 " That Irishman, the actress's father — the very man. Have 
 not you heard what a fool my nephew has made of himself about 
 the girl ? " — and Major Pendennis had to recount the story of 
 his nephew's loves to the lawj'er, Mr. Foker coming in with 
 appropriate comments in his usual familiar language. 
 
 Tatham was lost in wonder at the narrative. Wh}' had not 
 Mrs. Pendennis married a serious man, he thought — Mr.
 
 PENDENXIS. 119 
 
 Tathnm was a -n-idoAVcr — and kept this unfortunnte boy from 
 perdition? As for 31iss Costigan, he would say nothing: 
 her profession was sufficient to characterize her. ]\Ir. Foker 
 here interposed to sa}' he had known some uncommon good 
 people in the booths, as he called the Temple of the Muses. 
 AVell it might be so, Mr. Tatham hoped so — but the father, 
 Tatham knew personall}' — a man of the worst character, a 
 wine-bibber and an idler in taverns and billiard-rooms, and a 
 notorious insolvent. "I can understand the reason. Major," 
 he said, •• why the fellow would not come to my office to ascer- 
 tain the truth of the statements which 3'ou made him. We have 
 a writ out against him and another disrei)utable fellow, one of 
 the play-actors, for a bill given to Mr. Skinner of this city, a 
 most respectable Grocer and Wine and Spirit Merchant, and a 
 Member of the Society of Friends. This Costigan came cr^'ing 
 to Mr. Skinner, — crying in the shop, sir, — and we have not 
 proceeded against him or the other, as neither were worth pow- 
 der and shot." 
 
 It was whilst Mr. Tatham was engaged in telling his story 
 that a third knock came to the door, and there entered an 
 athletic gentleman in a shabby braided frock, bearing in his 
 hand a letter with a large blotched red seal. 
 
 "Can I have the honor of speaking with Major Pendennis 
 in private? "he began — "I have a few words for your ear, 
 sir. I am the bearer of a mission from m}' friend Captain 
 Costigan." — but here the man with the bass voice paused, 
 faltered, and turned pale — he caught sight of the red and well- 
 remembei-ed fsice of Mr. Tatham. 
 
 " Hullo, Garbetts, speak up ! " cried ]\Ir. Foker, delighted. 
 
 " Why, bless my soul, it is the other party to the bill ! " said 
 Mr. Tatham. "I say, sir; stop I say." But Garbetts, with 
 a face as blank as Macbeth's when lianquo's ghost appears 
 upon him, gasped some inarticulate words, and fled out of the 
 room. 
 
 The Major's graWty was entirely upset, and he burst out 
 laughing. So did Mr. Foker, who said, "By Jove, it was a 
 good 'un." So did the attorney, although by profession a seri- 
 ous man. 
 
 "I don't think there'll be any fight, Major," young Foker 
 said; and began mimicking the tragedian. " If there is, the 
 old gentleman — your name Tatham? — very happy to make 
 your acquaintance, IMr. Tatham — may send the bailiffs to 
 separate the men ; " ajid Mr. Tatham promised to do so. The 
 Major wa9 by no means sorry at the ludicrous issue of the
 
 120 PENDENNIS. 
 
 quarrel. " It seems to me, sir," he said to Mr. Foker, " that 
 you alwa3-s arrive to put me into good-humor." 
 
 Nor was this the onl}" occasion on wliich Mr. Foker this day 
 was destined to be of service to the Pendennis family. We 
 have said that he had the entree of Captain Costigan's lodgings, 
 and in the course of the afternoon he thought he would pa}- the 
 General a visit, and hear from his own lips what had occurred 
 in the conversation, in the morning, with Mr. Pendennis. Cap- 
 tain Costigan was not at home. He had received permission, 
 nay, encouragement from his daughter, to go to the convivial 
 club at the Magpie Hotel, where no doubt he was bragging at 
 that moment of his desire to murder a certain ruffian ; for he 
 was not only brave, but he kn^w it too, antl liked to take out 
 his courage, and, as it were, give it an airing in company. 
 
 Costigan then was absent, but INIiss Fotheringa}- was at 
 home washing the tea-cups whilst Mr. Bows sat opposite to 
 her. 
 
 ' ' Just done breakfast I see — how do ? " said Mr. Foker, 
 popping in his little funnj' head. 
 
 "• Get out, you funn}' little man," cried Miss Fotheringay. 
 
 ''You mean come in," answered the other. — " Here we 
 are ! " and entering the room he folded his arms and began 
 twirling his head round and round with immense rapidit}', like 
 Harlequin in the Pantomime when he first issues from his 
 cocoon or envelope. Miss Fotheringay laughed with all her 
 heart : a wink of Foker's would set her off laughing, when the 
 bitterest joke Bows ever made could not get a smile from her, 
 or the finest of poor Pen's speeches would only puzzle her. At 
 the end of the harlequinade he sank down on one knee and 
 kissed her hand. 
 
 "You're the drollest little man," she said, and gave him a 
 great good-humored slap. Pen used to tremble as he kissed 
 her hand. Pen would have died of a slap. 
 
 These preliminaries OAer, the three began to talk ; Mr. 
 Foker amused his companions b^' recounting to them the scene 
 which he had just witnessed of the discomfiture of Mr. Gar- 
 betts, b}- which they learned, for the first time, how far the 
 General had carried his wrath against Major Pendennis. Foker 
 spoke strongl}- in favor of the Major's character for veracity- 
 and honor, and described him as a tip-top swell, moving in the 
 upper circle of society, who would never submit to any deceit 
 — much more to deceive such a charming 3'oung woman as 
 Miss Foth. 
 
 He touched delicatel}' upon the delicate marriage question,
 
 fENDENNlS. 121 
 
 though he couldn't help showing that he held Pen rather cheap. 
 In fact, he had a perhaps just contempt for Mr. Pen's high-flown 
 sentimentality ; his own weakness, as he thought, not lying 
 that way. '' I knew it wouldn't do. Miss Foth," said he, nod- 
 ding his little liead. " Couldn't do. Didn't like to put my 
 luind into the bag, but knew it couldn't do. He's too .young 
 for you : too green : a deal too green : and he turns out to 
 be poor as Job. Can't have him at no price, can she, Mr. 
 Bo?" 
 
 " Indeed he's a nice poor boy," said the Fotheringay rather 
 sadlj-. 
 
 "Poor little beggar," said Bows, with his hands in his 
 pockets, and stealing up a queer look at Miss Fotheringa}'. 
 Perhaps he thought and wondered at the w^a}- in which women 
 play with men, and coax them and win them and drop them. 
 
 But Mr. Bows had not the least objection to acknowledge 
 that he thought ]\Iiss Fotheringa}' was perfectly' right in giving 
 up Mr. Arthur Pendennis, and that in his idea the match was 
 always an absurd one : and Miss Costigan owned that she 
 thought so herself, onlj' she couldn't send awa}' two thousand 
 a-year. " It all comes of believing Papa's silly stories," she 
 said ; " faith, I'll choose for meself another time " — and very 
 likeh' the large image of Lieutenant Sir Derb}' Oaks entered 
 into her mind at that instant. 
 
 After praising Major Pendennis, whom Miss Costigan de- 
 clared to be a proper gentleman entirely, smelling of lavender, 
 and as neat as a pin, — and who was pronounced b}" Mr. Bows 
 to be the right sort of fellow, though rather too much of an 
 old buck, Mr. Foker suddenly bethought him to ask the pair 
 to come and meet the Major that ver^' evening at dinner at 
 his apartment at the George. " He agreed to dine with me, 
 and I think after the — after the little shind}' this morning, in 
 which I must say the General was wrong, it would look kind, 
 you know. — I know the Major fell in love with you. Miss 
 Foth : he said so." 
 
 " So she xn&y be Mrs. Pendennis still," Bows said with a 
 sneer — " No thank you, Mr. F. — I've dined." 
 
 " Sure, that was at three o'clock," said Miss Costigan, who 
 had an honest appetite, " and I can't go without you." 
 
 "We'll have lobster-salad and Champagne," said the little 
 monster, who could not construe a line of Latin, or do a sum 
 be^'ond the Rule of Three. Now, for lobster-salad and Cham- 
 pagne in an honorable manner. Miss Costigan would have gone 
 anywhere — and Major Pendennis actually found himself at 
 
 5
 
 122 PJrIsDENNIS. 
 
 seven o'clock, seatecJ at a dinncr-tab'ie in coiiipaTi}' with Mr. 
 Bows, a proiessional fiddler, and Miss £osiigan, whose father 
 had wanted tr> blow iiis brains out a few hours before. 
 
 To make tue happy meeting complete, Mr. Foker, who knew 
 Costigan's haunts, despatched Stoopid to the club at the Magpie, 
 where the Geufcral was hi the act of singing a pathetic song, 
 and brought him jff to supper. To find his daughter and Bows 
 seated at the board was a surprise indeed — Major Pendennis 
 laughed, and coraially held out his hand, which the General 
 Officer grasped arec effusion as the French sa^'. in iact he was 
 considerably inebriated, and had already been crv^hg; over his 
 own song before he joined the little party at the George. He 
 burst into tears more tnan once, dunng; tne entertainment, and 
 called the Major his dearest friend. Sxoopid and Mr. Foker 
 walked home with him : the blajor gallantl}- giving his arm to 
 Miss Costigan. He was lecetved with great friendliness when 
 he called the next day, when Aiany civilities passed Detween the 
 gentlemen. On taking leave ie expressed his anxious desire to 
 serve Miss Costigan on any occasion in which he could be use- 
 ful to her, and he i?iiook hands with Mr. Foker most cordially 
 and gratefully, and said that gent.sman had done nim the very 
 greatest service. 
 
 " All right," esaid Mr. Foker: and the}- parted with mutual 
 esteem. 
 
 On his return to Fairoaks the next day. Major Pendennis 
 did not say what had happened to him on the previous night, 
 or allude to the company' in which he hac. passed it. But he 
 engaged Mr. Smirke to stop to dinner ; and an}' person accus- 
 tomed to watch his manner might have remained that there was 
 something constrained in his hilarity and talkativeness, and 
 that he was unusuall}- gracious and watchful in his communica- 
 tions with his nephew. He gave Pen an emphatic God-bless- 
 you when the lad went to bed ; and as they were about to 
 part for the night, he seemed as if he were going to sa}- some- 
 thing to Mrs. Pendennis, but he bethought him that if he 
 spoke he might spoil her night's rest, and allowed her to sleep 
 in peace. 
 
 The next morning he was down in the breakfast-room earlier 
 than was his custom, and saluted every bod}' there with great 
 cordiality. The post used to arrive commonly about the end of 
 this meal. When John, the old servant, entered, and dis- 
 charged the bag of its letters and papers, the Major looked 
 hard at Pen as the lad got his — Arthur blushed, and put hifi 
 letter down. He knew the hand, it w-as that of old Costigan,
 
 PENDENNIS. 123 
 
 and he did not care to read it in public. Major ?c?ndennis 
 knew the letter, too. He had put it into the post himself in 
 Chatteris the day before. 
 
 He told little Laura to go away, which the child did, having 
 a thorough dishke to him ; and as the door closed on her, hf 
 took Mrs. Peudennis's hand, and giving her a look full of mean- 
 ing, pointed to the letter under the newspaper wh?.ch Pen wa? 
 pretending to read. " Will 3'ou come into the drawing-room?' 
 he said. " I want to speak to 3'OU." 
 
 And she followed him, wondering, into the hall. 
 "What is it?" she said nervously. 
 
 " The affair is at an end," Major Pendennis said. " He has 
 a letter there giving him his dismissal. 1 dictated it mvself 
 .yesterday. There are a few lines from the lady, too, bidding 
 him farewell. It is all over." 
 
 Helen ran back into the dining-room, her brother following. 
 Pen had jumped at his letter the instant they were gone. He 
 was reading it with a stupefied face. It stated what the Major 
 had said, that Mr. Costigan was most gratified for the kindnesfi 
 with which Arthur had treated his daughter, but that he wa^ 
 only now made aware of Mr. Pendennis's pecuniary circum- 
 stances. They were such that marriage was at present out o^ 
 the question, and considering the great disparity in the age Oi* 
 the two, a future union was impossible. Under these circum- 
 stances, and with the deepest regret and esteem for him, Mr. 
 Costigan bade Arthur farewell, and suggested that he should 
 Cftase visiting, for some time at least, at his house. 
 
 A few lines from Miss Costigan were enclosed. She ac- 
 quiesced in the decision of her Papa. She pointed out that 
 she was many years older than Arthur, and that an engage- 
 ment was not to be thought of. She would always be grateful 
 for his kindness to her, and hoped to keep his friendship. But 
 at present, and until the pain of the separation should be over, 
 she entreated they should not meet. 
 
 Pen read Costigan's letter and its enclosure mechanically-, 
 hardly knowing what was before his ej-es. He looked up 
 wildly, and saw his mother and uncle regarding him with sad 
 faces. Helen's, indeed, was full of tender maternal anxiet.y . 
 
 " What — what is this?" Pen said. '' It's some joke. This 
 is not her writing. This is some servant's writing. Who's 
 playing these tricks upon me?" 
 
 " It comes under her father's envelope," the Major said. 
 "Those letters you had before were not in her hand : that is 
 hers."
 
 124 PENDENNIS. 
 
 " How do you know? " said Pen very fiercely. 
 
 " I saw her write it," the uncle answered, as the boy started 
 up ; and his mother, coming forward, took his hand. He put 
 her awa}'. 
 
 " How came you to see her? How came you between me 
 and her? What have I ever done to you that you should — 
 Oh, it's not true ; it's not true ! " — Pen broke out with a wild 
 execration. " She can't have done it of her own accord. She 
 can't mean it. She's pledged to me. Who has told her lies 
 to break her from me ? " 
 
 " Lies are not told in the famil}-, Arthur," Major Pendennis 
 replied. " I told her the truth, which was, that you had no 
 money to maintain her, for her foolish father had represented 
 3'ou to be rich. And when she knew how poor you were, she 
 withdrew at once, and without any persuasion of mine. She 
 was quite right. She is ten 3'ears older than 3'OU are. She is 
 perfectly unfitted to be your wife, and knows it. Look at that 
 handwriting, and ask yourself, is such a woman fitted to be 
 the companion of your mother ? " 
 
 " I will know from herself if it is true," Arthur said, crump- 
 ling up the paper. 
 
 "Won't you take my word of honor? Her letters were 
 written by a confidante of hers, who writes better than she can 
 — look here. Here's one from the lady to 3'our friend, Mr. 
 Foker. You have seen her with Miss Costigan, as whose 
 amanuensis she acted" — the Major said, with ever so little of 
 a sneer, and laid down a certain billet which Mr. Foker had 
 given to him. 
 
 "It's not that," said Pen, burning with shame and rage. 
 " I suppose what you sa}' is true, sir, but I'll hear it from 
 herself." 
 
 " Arthur ! " appealed his mother. 
 
 " I will see her," said Arthur. " I'll ask her to marry me, 
 once more. I will. No one shall prevent me." 
 
 "What, a woman who spells affection with one f ? Non- 
 sense, sir. Be a man, and remember that 3'our mother is a 
 lady. She was never made to associate with that tips3'' old 
 swindler or his daughter. Be a man and forget her, as she 
 does you." 
 
 " Be a man and comfort your mother, my Arthur," Helen 
 said, going and embracing him : and seeing that the pair were 
 greatly moved. Major Pendennis went out of the room and 
 shut the door upon them, wisel3' judging that th.ey were best 
 alone.
 
 PENDENNIS. 125 
 
 He had won a complete victoiy. He actually had brought 
 away Pen's letters in his portmanteau from Chatteris : having 
 complimented Mr. Costigan, when he returned them, b}' giving 
 him the little promissory note which had disquieted himself 
 and Mr. Garbetts : and for which the Major settled with Mr. 
 Tatham. 
 
 Pen rushed wildly off to Chatteris that day, but in vain 
 attempted to see Miss Fotheringay, for whom he left a letter, 
 enclosed to her father. The enclosure was returned by Mr. 
 Costigan, who begged that all correspondence might end ; and 
 after one or two further attempts of the lad's, the indignant 
 General desired that their acquaintance might cease. He cut 
 Pen in the street. As Arthur and Foker were pacing the 
 Castle walk, one da}^ the}' came upon Emily on her father's 
 arm. She passed without any nod of recognition. Foker felt 
 poor Pen trembUng on his arm. 
 
 His uncle wanted him to travel, to quit the countrj' for a 
 while, and his mother urged him too : for he was growing very 
 ill, and suffered severely. But he refused, and said point- 
 blank he would not go. He would not obey in this instance : 
 and his mother was too fond, and his uncle too wise to force 
 him. Whenever Miss Fotheiingay acted, he rode over to the 
 Chatteris Theatre and saw her. One night there were so few 
 people in the house that the Manager returned the money. 
 Pen came home and went to bed at eight o'clock and had a 
 fever. If this continues, his mother will be going over and fetch- 
 ing the girl, the Major thought in despair. As for Pen, he thought 
 he should die. We are not going to describe his feelings, or 
 give a drear}' journal of his despair and passion. Have not 
 other gentlemen been balked in love besides Mr. Pen? Yes, 
 indeed : but few die of the malady. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IN WHICH MISS FOTHERINGAT MAKES A NEAV ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 Within a short period of the events above narrated, Mr. 
 Manager Bingley was performing liis fjimous clmracter of Rolla, 
 in " Pizarro," to a house so exceedingly thin, that it would 
 appear as if the part of Rolla was by no means such a favorite 
 with the people of Chatteris as it was with the accompUshed
 
 126 PENDENNIS. 
 
 actor himself. Scarce anybod^^ was in the theatre. Poor Pen 
 had the boxes ahnost all to himself, and sat there lonely, with 
 blood-shot e^'es, leaning over the ledge, and gazing haggardl}- 
 towards tlie scene, when Cora came in. When she was not on 
 the stage he saw nothing. Spaniards and Peruvians, proces- 
 sions and buttles, priests and vii'gins of the sun, went in and 
 out, and had their talk, but Arthur took no note of any one of 
 them ; and onl}' saw Cora whom his soul longed after. He 
 said afterwards that he wondered he had not taken a pistol to 
 shoot her, so mad was he with love, and rage, and despair; 
 and had it not been for his mother at home, to whom he did 
 not speak about his luckless condition, but whose silent sj'm- 
 pathy and watchfulness greatl}^ comforted the simple half heart- 
 broken fellow, who knows but he might have done something 
 desperate, and have ended his days prematurely in front of 
 Chatteris gaol? There he sat then, miserable, and gazing at 
 her. And she took no more notice of him than he did of the 
 rest of the house. 
 
 The Fotheringay was uncommonl}' handsome, in a white rai- 
 ment and leopard skin, with a sun upon her breast, and fine 
 tawdry bracelets on her beautiful glancing arms. She spouted 
 to admiration the few words of her part, and looked it stii! 
 better. The eyes, which had overthrown Pen's soul, rolled and 
 gleamed as lustrous as ever ; but it was not to him that they 
 were directed that night. He did not know to whom, or remark 
 a couple of gentlemen, in the box next to him, upon whom Miss 
 Fotheringay's glances were perpetually shining. 
 
 Nor had Pen noticed the extraordinary change which had 
 taken place on the stage a short time after the entry of these 
 two gentlemen into the theatre. There were so few people in 
 the house, that the first act of the play languished entirel}', and 
 there had been some question of returning the money, as upon 
 that other unfortunate night when poor Pen had been driven 
 away. The actors were perfectly careless about their part.s, 
 and yawned through the dialogue, and talked loud to each other 
 in tlie intervals. Even Bingley was listless, and Mrs. B. in 
 Elvira spoke under her breath. 
 
 How came it that all of a sudden Mrs. Bingley began to raise 
 her voice and bellow like a bull of Bashan ? Whence was it that 
 Bingley, flinging off his apathy, darted about the stage and 
 yelled like Kean ? Why did Garbetts and Rowkins and Miss 
 Rouney tr^', each of them, the force of their charms or graces, 
 and act and swagger and scowl and spout their very loudest at 
 the two gentlemen in box No. 3.''
 
 PENDENXIS. 127 
 
 One was a quiet little man in black, with a gray head and a 
 jolly shrewd lace — the other was in all respects a splendid and 
 remarkable individual. He was a tall and portly gentleman 
 with a hooked nose and a profusion of curling brown hair and 
 whiskers ; his coat was covered with the richest frogs, braiding, 
 and velvet. He had under-waistcoats, many splendid rings, 
 jewelled pins and neck-chains. When he took out his yello\» 
 pocket-handkerchief with his hand that was cased in white kids, 
 a delightful odor of musk and bergamot was shaken through 
 the house. He was evidently a personage of rank, and it was 
 at him that the little Chatteris company was acting. 
 
 He was, in a word, no other than Mr. Dolphin, the great 
 manager from London, accompanied bv his faithful friend and 
 secretarj' Mr. William Minns : without whom he never trav- 
 elled. He had not been ten minutes in the theatre before his 
 august presence there was perceived b}' Bingle}' and the rest : 
 and they all began to act their best and tr}^ to engage his atten- 
 tion. Even Miss Fotheringay's dull heart, which was distui'bed 
 at nothing, felt perhaps a flutter, when she came in presence of 
 the famous London Impresario. She had not much to do in her 
 part, but to look handsome, and stand in picturesque attitudes 
 encircling her child : and she did this work to admiration. In 
 vain the various actors tried to win the favor of the great stage 
 Sultan. Pizarro never got a hand from him. Binglej' celled, 
 and Mrs. Bingley bellowed, and the Manager only took snuff 
 out of his great gold box. It was only in the last scene, when 
 Rolla comes in staggering with the infant (Bingley is not so 
 strong as he was, and his fourth son Master Talma Bingley is a 
 monstrous large child for his age) — when Rolla comes stag- 
 gering with the child to Cora, who rushes forward with a shriek 
 and says — " O God, there's blood upon him ! " — that the Lon- 
 don manager clapped his hands, and broke out with an enthu- 
 siastic bravo. 
 
 Then having concluded his applause, Mr. Dolphin gave his 
 secretary a slap on the shoulder, and said "B}- Jove, Billv, 
 she'll do ! " 
 
 ' ' Who taught her that dodge ? " said old Bill}', who was a 
 sardonic old gentleman — "I remember her at the Olvmpic, 
 and hang me if she could sa}' Bo to a goose." 
 
 It was little Mr. Bows in the orchestra who had taught her 
 the " dodge " in question. All the compau}' heard the applause, 
 and, as the curtain went down, came round her and congratu- 
 lated and hated Miss Fotheringa}-. 
 
 Now Mr. Dolphin's appearance in the remote little Chatteris
 
 128 PENDENNIS. 
 
 theatre ma}* be accounted for in this manner. In spite of all 
 his exertions, and the perpetual blazes of triumph, coruscations 
 of talent, A'ictories of good old English comedy, which his pla}-- 
 bills advertised, his theatre (which, if you please, and to injure 
 no present susceptibilities and vested interests, we shall call the 
 Museum Theatre) by no means prospered, and the famous Im- 
 presario found himself on the verge of ruin. The gi-eat Hub- 
 bard had acted legitimate drama for twenty' nights, and failed 
 to remunerate anybody but himself: the celebrated Mr. and 
 Mrs. Cawdor had come out in Mr. Rawhead's tragedy, and in 
 their favorite round of pieces, and had not attracted the public. 
 Herr Garbage's lions and tigers had drawn for a little time, 
 until one of the animals had bitten a piece out of the Herr's 
 shoulder ; when the Lord Chamberlain interfered, and put a 
 stop to this species of performance ; and the grand Lj-rical 
 Drama, though brought out with unexampled splendor and 
 success, with Monsieur Poumons as first tenor, and an enor- 
 mous orchestra, had almost crushed poor Dolphin in its tri- 
 umphant progi-ess : so that great as his genius and resources 
 were, they seemed to be at an end. He was dragging on his 
 season wretchedl}' with half salaries, small operas, feeble old 
 comedies, and his ballet compau}- ; and ever3-bod3' was looking 
 out for the day when he should appear in the Gazette. 
 
 One of the illustrious patrons of the Museiun Theatre, and 
 occupant of the great proscenium-box, was a gentleman whose 
 name has been mentioned in a previous history ; that refined 
 patron of the arts, and enlightened lover of music and the 
 drama, the Most Noble the Marquis of Ste3'ne. His lordship's 
 avocations as a statesman prevented him from attending the 
 pla}- house very often, or coming ver^' early. But he occasion- 
 all}' appeai'ed at the theatre in time for the ballet, and was 
 always received with the greatest respect by the Manager, from 
 whom he sometimes condescended to receive a visit in his box. 
 It communicated with the stage, and when anything occurred 
 there which parti cularlj' pleased him, when a new face made its 
 appearance among the coryphees, or a fair dancer executed a 
 pas with especial grace or agility, Mr. Wenham, Mr. Wagg, or 
 some other aide-de-camp of the noble Marquis, would be com- 
 missioned to go behind the scenes, and express the great man's 
 approbation, or make the inquiries which were prompted by his 
 lordship's curiosit}', or his interest in the dramatic art. He 
 could not be seen by the audience, for Lord Ste3me sat mod- 
 estly behind a curtain, and looked onl}' towards the stage — 
 but you could know he was in the house, by the glances which
 
 PENDENNIS. 129 
 
 all the corps-de-ballet, and all the principal dancers, cast 
 towards his box. I have seen many scores of pairs of eyes (as 
 in the Palm Dance in the ballet of Cook at Otaheite, where no 
 less than a hundred and twenty lovely female savages in palm 
 leaves and feather aprons were made to dance round Floridar 
 as Captain Cook), ogling that box as the}' performed before it, 
 and haA'e often wondered to remark the presence of mind of 
 Mademoiselle Sauterelle, or Mademoiselle de Bondi (known as 
 la petite Caoutchouc), who, when actually up in the air quiver- 
 ing like so many shuttlecocks, always kept their lovely eyes 
 winking at that box in which the great Steyne sat. Now and 
 then you would hear a harsh voice from behind the curtain, cry, 
 ^'Brava, Brava," or a pair of white gloves wave from it, and 
 begin to applaud. Bondi, or Sauterelle, when they came down 
 to earth, curtsied and smiled, especially to those hands, before 
 they walked up the stage again, panting and happy. 
 
 One night this great Prince surrounded bj' a few choice 
 friends was in his box at the Museum, and they were making 
 such a noise and laughter that the pit was scandalized, and 
 many indignant voices were bawling out silence so loudly, that 
 Wagg wondered the police did not interfere to take the rascals 
 out. Wenham was amusing the party in the box with extracts 
 from a private letter which he had received from Major Pen- 
 dennis, whose absence in the country at the full London season 
 had been remarked, and of course deplored by his friends. 
 
 "The secret is out," said Mr. Wenham, " there's a woman 
 in the case." 
 
 "Why, d — it, Wenham, he's j^our age," said the gentle- 
 man behind the curtain. 
 
 " Pour les ames bien nees, I'amour ne compte pas le nombre 
 des annees," said Mr. Wenham, with a gallant air. " For my 
 part, I hope to be a victim till I die, and to break my heart 
 ever}' year of m}' hfe." The meaning of which sentence was, 
 " My lord, you need not talk ; I'm three years younger than 
 30U, and twice as well conserve." 
 
 " Wenham, you affect me," said the great man, with one of 
 his usual oaths. " By you do. I like to see a fellow pre- 
 serving all the illusions of youth up to our time of life — and 
 keeping his heart warm as 3'ours is. Hang it, sir, — it's a com- 
 fort to meet with such a generous, candid creature. — Who's 
 that gal in the second row, with blue ribbons, third from the 
 stage — fine gal. Yes, you and I are sentimentalists. Wagg 
 1 don't think so much cares — it's the stomach rather more 
 
 than the heart with you, eh, Wagg, my boy?" 
 

 
 130 PENDENNIS. 
 
 "I like everything that's good," said Mr. Wagg, gener- 
 ously. " Beaut}^ and Burgundy, Venus and Venison. 1 don't 
 say that Venus's turtles are to be despised, because they don't 
 cook them at the London Tavern : but — but tell us about old 
 Pendennis, Mr. Wenham," he abruptly concluded — for his joke 
 flagged just then, as he saw that his patron was not listening. 
 In fact, Steyne's glasses were up, and he was examining some 
 object on the stage. 
 
 "Yes, I've heard that joke about Venus's turtle and the 
 London Tavern before — you begin to fail, my poor Wagg. If 
 you don't mind I shall be obUged to have a new Jester," Lord 
 Steyne said, laying down his glass. " Go on, Wenham, about 
 old Pendennis." 
 
 " Dear Wenham, — he begins," Mr. Wenham read, — "as 
 3'ou have had my character in your hands for the last three 
 weeks, and no doubt have torn me to shreds, according to your 
 custom, I think 3'ou can afford to be good-humored by way of 
 variety, and to do me a service. It is a delicate matter, entre 
 nous^ une affaire de cceur. There is a young friend of mine who 
 is gone wild about a certain Miss Fotheriuga}-, an actress at 
 the theatre here, and I must own to you, as handsome a woman, 
 and, as it appears to me, as good an actress as ever put on 
 rouge. She does Ophelia, Lady Teazle, Mrs. Haller — that 
 sort of thing. Upon my word, she is as splendid as Georges 
 in her best days, and, as far as I know, utterly superior to an}-- 
 thing we have on our scene. / want a London engagement for 
 her. Can't 3"0u get 3'om' friend Dolphin to come and see her — 
 to engage her — to take her out of this place ? A word from a 
 noble friend of ours (j'ou understand) would be invaluable, and 
 if j-ou could get the Gaunt House interest for me — I will 
 promise anything I can in return for your ser^ace — which I 
 shall consider one of the greatest that can he done to me. Do, 
 do this now as a good fellow, which / always said you were; 
 and in return, command yours truly, 
 
 A. Pendennis." 
 
 " It's a clear case," said Mr. Wenham, having read this 
 letter ; " old Pendennis is in love." 
 
 " And wants to get the woman up to London — evidently," 
 continued Mr. Wagg. 
 
 " I should like to see Pendennis on his knees, with the 
 rheumatism," said Mr. Wenham. 
 
 " Or accommodating the beloved object with a lock of his 
 hair," said Wagg.
 
 PENDENNIS. 131 
 
 "Stuff," said the great man. "He has relations in the 
 county, hasn't he ? He said something about a nephew, whose 
 interest could return a member. It is the nephew's affair, 
 depend on it. The young one is in a scrape. I was myself — 
 when I was in the fifth form at Eton — a market-gardener's 
 daughter — and swore I'd marry her. I was mad about her — 
 poor Poll}' ! " — Here he made a pause, and perhaps the past 
 rose up to Lord Steyne, and George Gaunt was a bo}- again not 
 altogether lost. — " But I sa^', she must be a fine woman from 
 Pendennis's account. Have in Dolphin, and let us hear if he 
 knows an^lhiug of her." 
 
 At this Wenham sprang out of the box, passed the servitor 
 who waited at the door communicating with the stage, and who 
 saluted Mr. Wenham with profound respect ; and the latter 
 emissary, pushing on and familiar with the place, had no diffi- 
 culty in finding out the manager, who was employed, as he not 
 unfrequentl}^ was, in swearing and cursing the ladies of the 
 corps-de-ballet for not doing their duty. 
 
 The oaths died away on Mr. Dolphin's lips, as soon as he 
 saw Mr. Wenham ; and he drew off the hand which was 
 clenched in the face of one of the offending coryphees, to 
 grasp that of the new comer. "How do, Mr. Wenham? 
 How's his lordship to-night? Looks uncommonly well," said 
 the manager smiling, as if he had never been out of temper in 
 his life ; and he was only too delighted to follow Lord Ste3'ne's 
 ambassador, and pa}' his personal respects to that great 
 man. 
 
 The visit to Chatteris was the result of their conversation : 
 and Mr. Dolphin wrote to his lordship from that place, and 
 did himself the honor to inform the Marquis of Steyne, that he 
 had seen the lady about whom his lordship had spoken, that 
 he was as much struck by her talents as he was by her j^er- 
 sonal appearance, and that he had made an engagement with 
 Miss Fotheringay, who would soon have the honor of appear- 
 ing before a London audience, and his noble and enlightened 
 patron the Marquis of Steyne. 
 
 Pen read the announcement of Miss Fotheringay's engage- 
 ment in the Chatteris paper, where he had so often praised her 
 charms. The Editor made very handsome mention of her tal- 
 ent and beauty, and prophesied her success in the metropolis. 
 Bingley, the manager, began to advei'tise "The last night of 
 Miss Fotheringay's engagement." Poor Pen and Sir Derby 
 Oaks were very constant at the play : Sir Derby in the stage- 
 box throwing bouquets and getting glances, -^ Pen in the almost
 
 132 PENDENNIS. 
 
 deserted boxes, haggard, wretched, and lonely. Nobody careA 
 whether Miss Fotheriuga}' was going or staying except those 
 two — and perhaps one more, which was Mr. Bows of the 
 orchestra. 
 
 He came out of his place one night, and went into the 
 house to the box where Pen was ; and lie held out his hand to 
 him, and asked him to come and walk. They walked down 
 the street together ; and went and sat upon Chatteris bi'idge in 
 the moonlight, and talked about Her. "We may sit on the 
 same bridg-e," said he : "we have been in the same boat for a 
 long time. You are not the only man who has made a fool of 
 himself about that woman. And I have less excuse than you, 
 because I'm older and know her better. She has no more 
 heart than the stone you are leaning on ; and it or you or I 
 might fall into the water, and never come up again, and she 
 wouldn't care. Yes — she would care for me, because she 
 wants me to teach her : and she won't be able to get on with- 
 out me., and will be forced to send for me from London. But 
 she wouldn't if she didn't want me. She has no heart and 
 no head, and no sense, and no feelings, and no griefs or cares, 
 whatever. I was going to say no pleasures — but the fact is, 
 she does like her dinner, and she is pleased when people ad- 
 mire her." 
 
 " And you do?" said Pen, interested out of himself, and 
 wondering at the crabbed homely little old man. 
 
 " It's a habit, like taking snuff, or drinking drams," said 
 the other. " I've been taking her these five years, and can't do 
 without her. It was I made her. If she doesn't send for me, 
 I shall follow her: but I know she'll send for me. She wants 
 me. Some day she'll marry, and fling me over, as I do the end 
 of this cigar." 
 
 The little flaming spark dro^^ped into the water below, and 
 disappeared ; and Pen, as he rode home that night, actually 
 thought about somebodj^ but himself.
 
 PENDENNIS. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE HAPPY VILLAGE. 
 
 Until the enemy had retired altogether from before the 
 place, Major Peiidennis was resolved to keep his garrison in 
 Fairoaks. He did not appear to watch Pen's behavior, or to 
 put any restraint on his nephew's actions, but he managed, 
 nevertheless, to keep the lad constantly under his eye or those 
 of his agents, and young Arthur's comings and goings were 
 quite well known to his vigilant guardian. 
 
 I suppose there is scarcely' any man who reads this or any 
 other novel but has been balked in love sometime or the other, 
 b}- fate and circumstance, bj' falsehood of women, or his own 
 fault. Let that worth}' friend recall his own sensations under 
 the circimastances, and apply them as illustrative of Mr. Pen's 
 anguish. Ah ! what weary nights and sickening fevers ! Ah ! 
 what mad desires dashing up against some rock of obstruction 
 or indifference, and flung back again from the unimpression- 
 able granite ! If a list could be made this very night in London 
 of the groans, thoughts, imprecations of tossing lovers, what a 
 catalogue it would be ! I wonder what a percentage of the 
 male population of the metropolis will be lying awake at two or 
 three o'clock to-morrow morning, counting the hours as they go 
 by, knelling drearily-, and rolling from left to right, restless, 
 yearning, and heart-sick ? What a pang it is ! I never knew 
 a man die of love, certainl}-, but I have known a twelve stone 
 man go down to nine stone five under a disappointed passion. 
 so that prett}' nearl}' a quarter of him maj^ be said to have 
 perished : and that is no small portion. Pie has come back 
 to his old size subsequently — perhaps is bigger than ever: 
 very likely some new aflfection has closed round his heart 
 and ribs and made them comfortable, and 3'oung Pen is a 
 man who will console himself like the rest of us. We saj^ this 
 lest the ladies should be disposed to deploi-e him prematurely, 
 or be seriousl}' uneasj' with regard to his complaint. His 
 mother was, but what will not a maternal fondness fear or in- 
 vent? "Depend on it, my dear creature," Major Pendennis 
 would sa}'^ gallantly to her, " the boy will recover. As soon as 
 we get her out of the country, we will take him somewhere, and 
 show him a little life. Meantime make yourself easy about
 
 134 PENDENNIS. 
 
 him. Half a fellow's pangs at losing a woman result from 
 vanity more than alTection. To be left by a woman is the 
 deuce and all, to be sure ; but look how easily we leave 
 'em." 
 
 Mrs. Pendennis did not know. This sort of knowledge had 
 by no means come within the simple ladj's scope. Indeed, she 
 did not like the subject or to talk of it : her heart had had its 
 own little pi'ivate misadventure, and she had borne up against 
 it, and cui^ed it : and perhaps she had not much patience with 
 other folks' passions, except, of course, Arthur's, whose suffer- 
 ings she made her own, feeling indeed yer^^ likely, in man}^ of 
 the bo3-'s illnesses and pains, a great deal more than Pen him- 
 self endured. And she watched hirn through this present grief 
 with a jealous silent sj'mpathy ; although, as we have said, he 
 did not talk to her of his unfortunate condition. 
 
 The Major must be allowed to have had not a little merit 
 and forbearance, and to have exhibited a highly creditable 
 degree of family affection. The life at Fairoaks was uncom- 
 monl}' dull to a man who had the entree of half the houses in 
 London, and was in the habit of making his bow in three or 
 four drawing-rooms of a night. A dinner with Doctor Portman 
 or a neighboring Squire now and then ; a dreary rubber at 
 backgammon with the widow, who did her utmost to amuse 
 him ; these were the chief of his pleasures. Pie used to long for 
 the arrival of the bag with the letters, and he read every word 
 of the evening paper. He doctored himself too, assiduousl3', — 
 a course of quiet living would suit him well, he thought, after 
 the London banquets. He dressed himself laboriousl}' ever3^ 
 morning and afternoon : he took regular exercise up and down 
 the terrace walk. Thus, with his cane, his toilet, his medicine- 
 chest, his backgammon-box, and his newspaper, this worthy 
 and worldly philosopher fenced himself against ennui ; and if 
 he did not improve each shining hour, like the bees by the 
 widow's garden wall. Major Pendennis made one hour after 
 another pass as he could ; and rendered his captivity just 
 tolerable. 
 
 Pen sometimes took the box at backgammon of a night, or 
 would listen to his mother's simple music of summer evenings 
 — but he was very restless and wretched in spite of all : and 
 has been known to be up before the early daylight even : and 
 down at a carp-pond in Clavering Park, a dreary pool with 
 innumerable whispering rushes and green alders, where a milk- 
 maid drowned herself in the Baronet's grandfather's time, and 
 her ghost was said to walk still. But Pen did not drown him-
 
 PENDENNIS. 135 
 
 self, as perhaps his mother fancied might be his intention. He 
 liked to go and tish there, and think and think at leisure, as 
 the float quivered in the little eddies of the pond, and the fish 
 flapped about him. If he got a bite he was excited enough : 
 and in this wa}- occasionally brought home carps, tenches, and 
 eels, which the Major cooked in the Continental fashion. 
 
 By this pond, and under a tree, which was his favorite 
 resort. Pen composed a number of poems suitable to his cir- 
 cumstances — over which verses he blushed in after days, 
 wondering how he could ever have invented such rubbish. 
 And as for the tree, why it is in a hollow of this ver}' tree, 
 where he used to put his tin-box of ground-bait, and other 
 fishing commodities, that he afterwards — but we are advancing 
 matters. Suffice it to say, he wrote poems and relieved him- 
 self very much. When a man's grief or passion is at this point, 
 it may be loud, but it is not very severe. When a gentleman 
 is cudgelling his brain to find any rhj-me for sorrow, besides 
 borrow and to-morrow, his woes are nearer at an end than he 
 thinks for. So were Pen's. He had his hot and cold fits, his 
 days of sullenness and peevishness, and of blank resignation 
 and despondency, and occasional mad paroxysms of rage and 
 longing, in which fits Rebecca would be saddled and galloped 
 fiercely' about the countr}^ or into Chatteris, her rider gesticu- 
 lating wildly on her back, and astonishing carters and turn- 
 pikemen as he passed, crying out the name of the false one. 
 
 Mr. Foker became a very frequent and welcome visitor at 
 Fairoaks during this period, where his good spirits and oddities 
 always amused the Major and Pendennis, while they astonished 
 the widow and little Laura not a little. His tandem made a 
 great sensation in Clavering market-place ; where he upset 
 a market stall, and cut Mrs. Pybus's poodle over the shaven 
 quarters, and drank a glass of raspberry bitters at the Clavering 
 Arms. All the society in the little place heard who he was, 
 and looked out his name in their Peerages. He was so young, 
 and their books so old, that his name did not appear in many 
 of their volumes ; and his mamma, now quite an antiquated 
 lady, figured amongst the progeny of the Earl of Rosherville, 
 as Lady Agnes Milton still. But his name, wealth, and honor- 
 able lineage were speedily known about Clavering, where you 
 ma}' be sure that poor Pen's little transaction with the Chatteris 
 actress was also pretty freeh' discussed. 
 
 Looking at the little old town of Clavering St. Mary from 
 the London road as it runs b}- the lodge at Fairoaks, and seeing
 
 136 PENDENNIS. 
 
 the rapid and shining Brawl winding down from the town and 
 skirting the woods of Clavering Park, and the ancient church 
 tower and peaked roofs of the houses rising up amongst trees 
 and old walls, behind which swells a fair background of sun- 
 sliiny hills that sti-etch from Clavering westwards towards the 
 sea — the place appears to be so cheery and comfortable that 
 many a traveller's heart must have yearned towards it from the 
 coach-top, and he must have thought that it was in such a calm 
 friendl3' nook he would like to shelter at the end of life's struggle. 
 Tom Smith, who used to drive the Alacrit}' coach, would often 
 point to a tree near the river, from which a fine view of the 
 church and town was commanded, and inform his companion 
 on the box that ' ' Artises come and take hoff the Church from 
 that there tree. — It was a Habby once, sir : " — and indeed a 
 prettj- view it is, which I recommend to Mr. Stanfield or Mr. 
 Roberts, for their next tour. 
 
 Like Constantinople seen from the Bosphorus ; like Mrs. 
 Rougemont viewed in her box from the opposite side of the 
 house ; like many an object which we pursue in Ufe, and admire 
 before we have attained it ; Clavering is rather prettier at a 
 distance than it is on a closer acquaintance. The town so 
 cheerful of aspect a few furlongs off, looks verj^ blank and 
 drear}-. Except on market da^'s there is nobody in the streets. 
 The clack of a pair of pattens echoes through half the place, 
 and you may hear the creaking of the rusty old ensign at the 
 Clavering Arms, without being disturbed by any other noise. 
 There has not been a ball in the Assembly Rooms since the 
 Clavering volunteers gave one to their Colonel, the old Sir 
 Francis Clavering ; and the stables which once held a great 
 part of that brilliant, but defunct regiment, are now cheerless 
 and empt}', except on Thursdays, when the farmers put up 
 there, and their tilted carts and gigs make a feeble show of 
 liveliness in the place, or on Petty Sessions, when the magis- 
 trates attend in what used to be the old card-room. 
 
 On the south side of the market rises up the church, with 
 its great gray towers, of which the sun illuminates the deUcate 
 carving; deepening the shadows of the huge buttresses, and 
 gilding the glittering windows, and flaming vanes. The image 
 of the Patroness of the church was wrenched out of the porch 
 centuries ago : such of the statues of saints as were within reach 
 of stones and hammer at that period of pious demolition, are 
 maimed and headless, and of those who were out of fire, only 
 Doctor Portman knows the names and history, for his curate, 
 Smirke, is not much of an antiquarian, and Mr. Simcoe (hus-
 
 PENDENNIS. 137 
 
 band of the Honorable Mrs. Simcoe), incumbent and architect 
 of the Chapel of Ease in the lower town, thinks them the 
 abomination of desolation. 
 
 The Rectory is a stout, broad-shouldered brick house, of 
 the reign of Anne. It communicates with the church and 
 market by different gates, and stands at the opening of Yew- 
 tree Lane, where the Grammar School (Rev. Wapshot) 
 
 IP. ; Yew-tree Cottage (Miss Flather) ; the butcher's slaughter- 
 ing-house, an old barn or brew-house of the Abbey times, and 
 the Misses Finucane's establishment for 3'oung ladies. The 
 two schools had their pews in the loft on each side of the 
 organ, until the Abbey Church getting rather empty, through 
 the falling off of the congregation, who were inveigled to the 
 Heres3--shop in the lower town, the Doctor induced the Misses 
 Finucane to bring their pretty little flock down stairs ; and 
 the young ladies' bonnets make a tolerable show in the rather 
 vacant aisles. Nobod}' is in the great pew of the Clavering 
 family, except the statues of defunct baronets and their ladies : 
 there is Sir Poyntz Clavering, Knight and Baronet, kneeling in 
 a square beard opposite his wife in a ruff: a ver}- fat lad}-, the 
 Dame Rebecca Clavering, in alto-relievo, is borne up to Heaven 
 b}- two little blue-veined angels, who seem to have a severe 
 task — and so forth. How well in after life Pen remembered 
 those effigies, and how often in youth he scanned them as the 
 Doctor was grumbling the sermon from the pulpit, and Smirke's 
 mild head and forehead curl peered over the great prayer-book 
 in the desk ! 
 
 The Fairoaks folks were constant at the old church ; their 
 servants had a pew, so had the Doctor's, so had Wapshot's, 
 and those of the Misses Finucane's establishment, three maids 
 and a verj' nice-looking young man in a livery. The Wapshot 
 family were numerous and fiiithful. Glanders and his children 
 regularly came to church : so did one of the apothecaries. 
 Mrs. Pybus went, turn and turn about, to the Low Town 
 church, and to the Abbey : the Charity School and their families 
 of course came ; Wapshot's boys made a good cheerful noise, 
 scuffling with their feet as they marched into church and up 
 the organ-loft stau", and blowing their noses a good deal during 
 the service. To be brief, the congregation looked as decent as 
 might be in these bad times. The Abbey Church was furnished 
 with a magnificent screen, and many hatchments and heraldic 
 tombstones. The Doctor spent a great part of his income in 
 beautifying his darUng place ; he had endowed it with a superb 
 painted mndow. bought in the Netherlands, and an organ grand 
 enough for a cathedral.
 
 138 PENDENNIS. 
 
 But in spite of organ and window, in consequence of the 
 latter very likely, which had eome out of a Papistical place of 
 worship and was blazoned all over with idolatry, Clavering 
 New Church prospered scandalously in the teeth of Orthodox}' 
 and many of the Doctor's congregation deserted to Mr. Simcoe 
 and the honorable woman his wife. Their efforts had thinned 
 the very Ebenezer hard by them, which building before Simcoe's 
 advent used to be so full, that you could see the backs of the 
 congregation squeezing out of the arched windows tnereof. 
 Mr. Simcoe's tracts fluttered into the doors of all the Doctor's 
 cottages, and were taken as greedily as honest Mrs. Portman's 
 soup, with the quaUty of which the graceless people found 
 fault. With the folks at the Ribbon Factory situated by the 
 weir on the Brawl side, and round which the Low Town had 
 grown. Orthodoxy could make no wa}' at all. Quiet Miss Mira 
 was put out of court by impetuous Mrs. Simcoe and her female 
 aides-de-camp. Ah, it was a hard burthen for the Doctor's 
 lady to bear, to behold her husband's congregation dwindling 
 away ; to give the precedence on the few occasions when they 
 met to a notorious low-churchman's wife who was the daughter 
 of an Irish Peer ; to know that there was a part}- in Clavering, 
 their own town of Clavering, on which her Doctor spent a great 
 deal more than his professional income, who held him up to 
 odium because he played a rubber at whist ; and pronounced 
 him to be a Heathen because he went to the pla3\ In her grief 
 she besought him to give up the play and the rubber, — indeed 
 they could scarcely get a table now, so dreadful was the outer}- 
 against the sport, — but the Doctor declared that he would do 
 what he thought right, and what the great and good George 
 the Third did (whose Chaplain he had been) : and as for giving 
 up whist because those silly folks cried out against it, he would 
 play dummy to the end of his days with his wife and Mira, 
 rather than yield to their despicable persecutions. 
 
 Of the two famiUes, owners of the Factory (which had 
 spoiled the Brawl as a trout-stream and brought all the mischief 
 into the town) , the senior partner, Mr. Rolt, went to Ebenezer : 
 the junior, Mr. Barker, to the New Church. In a word, people 
 quarrelled in this httle place a great deal more than neighbors 
 do in London ; and in the Book Club, which the prudent and 
 conciliating Pendennis had set up, and which ought to have 
 been a neutral territory, they bickered so much that nobody 
 scarcely was ever seen in the reading-room, except Smirke, 
 who, though he kept up a faint amity with the Simcoe faction, 
 had still a taste for magazines and light worldly literature ; and
 
 PENDENNIS. 139 
 
 old Glanders, whose white head and grizzly moustache migbi 
 be seen at the window ; and of course, little Mrs. Pybus, who 
 looked at everybody's letters as the Post brought them (for the 
 Clavering Reading Room, as every one knows, used to be held 
 at Baker's Librar}', London Street, formerly Hog Lane), and 
 read every advertisement in the paper. 
 
 It may be imagined how great a sensation was created in 
 this amiable little conununity when the news reached it of Mr. 
 Fen's love passages at Chatteris. It was carried from house 
 to house, and formed the subject of talk at high-church, low- 
 church, and no-church tables ; it was canvassed by the Misses 
 Finucane and their teachers, and very likely debated by the 
 3-oung ladies in the dormitories, for what we know ; Wapshot's 
 big bo3's had their version of the story and e^-ed Pen curiously 
 as he sat in his pew at church, or raised the finger of scorn at 
 him as he passed through Chatteris. The}' alwaj-s hated him 
 and called him Lord Pendennis, because he did not wear cordu- 
 roy's as they did, and rode a horse, and gave himself the airs of 
 a bu-ck. 
 
 And, if the truth must be told, it was Mrs. Portman herself 
 who was the chief narrator of the story of Pen's loves. What- 
 ever tales this candid woman heard, she was sure to impart 
 them to her neighbors ; and after she had been put into posses- 
 sion of Pen's secret by the little scandal at Chatteris, poor Doc- 
 tor Portman knew that it would next day be about the parish of 
 which he was the Rector. And so indeed it was ; the whole 
 society there had the legend — at the news-room, at the milli- 
 ner's, at the shoe-shop, and the general warehouse at the corner 
 of the market ; at Mrs. P3'bus's, at the Glanders's, at the Hon- 
 orable Mrs. Simcoe's soiree., at the Factory ; nay, through the 
 mill itself the tale was current in a few hours, and 3'oung Arthur 
 Pendennis's madness was in every mouth. 
 
 All Doctor Portman's acquaintances barked out upon him 
 vviien he walked the street the next day. The poor divine knew 
 that his Betsy was the author of the rumor, and groaned in 
 spirit. Well, well, — it must have come in a da}"^ or two, and 
 it was as well that the town should have the real story. What 
 tne Clavering folks thought of Mrs. Pendennis for spoiling her 
 son, and of that precocious 3'oung rascal of an Arthur, for dar- 
 ing to propose to a play-actress, need not be told here. If 
 pride exists amongst any folks in our country', and assuredly 
 we have enough of it, there is no pride more deep-seated than 
 that of twopenny old gentlewomen in small towns. "Gracious 
 goodness," the cry was, "how infatuated the mother is about
 
 140 PENDENNIS. 
 
 that pert and headstrong boy who gives himself the airs of a 
 lord on his blood-horse^ and for whom our society is not good 
 enough, and who would marry an odious painted actress off a 
 booth, where very likely he wants to rant himself. If dear 
 good Mr. Pendennis had been alive this scandal would never 
 have happened." 
 
 No more it would, \QYy likely, nor should we have been oc- 
 cupied in narrating Pen's histor3\ It was true that he gave 
 himself airs to the Clavering folks. Naturally haughty and 
 frank, their cackle and small talk and small dignities bored him, 
 and he showed a contempt which he could not conceal. The 
 Doctor and the Curate were the onl^^ people Pen cared for in 
 the place — even Mrs. Portman shared in the general distrust 
 of him, and of his mother, the widow, who kept herself aloof 
 from the village society, and was sneered at accordingly^ be- 
 cause she tried, forsooth, to keep her head up with the great 
 County families. She, indeed ! Mrs. Barker at the Factory 
 has four times the butcher's meat that goes up to Fairoaks, 
 with all their fine airs. 
 
 «&c. &c. &c. : let the reader fill up these details according to 
 his hking and experience of village scandal. They will suffice 
 to show how it was that a good woman, occupied solely in doing 
 her dut}' to her neighbor and her children, and an honest, 
 brave lad, impetuous, and full of good, and wishing well to 
 every mortal alive, found enemies and detractors amongst peo- 
 ple to whom the^' were superior, and to whom they had never 
 done an3'thiug like haim. The Clavering curs were yelping all 
 round the house of Fairoaks, and dehghted to pull Pen down. 
 
 Doctor Portman and Smirke were both cautious of informing 
 the widow of the constant outbreak of calumny which was pur- 
 suing poor Pen, though Glanders, who was a friend of the 
 house, kept him au courant. It may be imagined what his indig- 
 nation was : was there any man in the village whom he could 
 call to account? Presently' some wags began to chalk up 
 " Fotheringay for ever ! " and other sarcastic allusions to late 
 transactions at Fairoaks gate. Another brought a large play- 
 bill from Chatteris, and wafered it there one night. On one 
 occasion Pen, riding through the Low Town, fancied he heard 
 the Factory boj's jeer him ; and finally, going through the 
 Doctor's gate into the churchyard, where some of Wapshot's 
 boys were lounging, the biggest of them, a 3'oung gentleman 
 about twenty 3'ears of age, son of a neighboring small Squire, 
 who lived in the doubtful capacity of parlor-boarder with Mr. 
 Wapshot, tluug himself into a theatrical attitude near a newly-
 
 PENDENNIS. 141 
 
 made grave, and began repeating Hamlet's verses over Ophelia, 
 v\'ith a hideous leer at Pen. 
 
 The 3'oung fellow was so enraged that he rushed at Hobnell 
 Major with a shriek very much resembling an oath, cut him 
 furioush' across the face with the riding-whip which he carried, 
 flung it awa}', calling npon the cowardly villain to defend him- 
 self, and in another minute knocked the bewildered young 
 ruffian into the grave which was just waiting for a different 
 lodger. 
 
 Then, with his fists clenched, and his face quivering with 
 passion and indignation, he roared out to Mr. Hobnell's gaping 
 companions, to know if an}' of the blackguards would come on? 
 But they held back with a growl, and retreated, as Doctor Port- 
 man came up to his wicket, and Mr. Hobnell, with his nose and 
 lip bleeding piteously, emerged from the grave. 
 
 Pen, looking death and defiance at the lads, who retreated 
 towards their side of the churchyard, walked back again through 
 the Doctor's wicket, and was interrogated by that gentleman. 
 The young fellow was so agitated he could scarcelj' speak. His 
 
 voice broke into a sob as he answered. "The coward 
 
 insulted me, su*," he said ; and the Doctor passed over the oath, 
 and respected the emotion of the honest suffering young heart. 
 
 Pendennis, the elder, who, like a real man of the world, had 
 a proper and constant dread of the opinion of his neighbor, was 
 prodigiously annoyed by the absurd little tempest which was 
 blowing in Chatteris, and tossing about Master Pen's reputa- 
 tion. Doctor Portman and Captain Glanders had to support 
 the charges of the whole Chatteris society against the 3'oung 
 reprobate, who was looked upon as a monster of crime. Pen 
 did not sa}' anything about the churchyard scuffle at home ; but 
 went over to Bay mouth, and took counsel with his friend Hany 
 Foker, Esq., who drove over his drag presently to the Claver- 
 ing Arms, whence he sent Stoopid with a note to Thomas Hob- 
 nell, Esq., at the Rev. J. Wapshot's, and a civil message to 
 ask when he should wait upon that gentleman. 
 
 Stoopid brought back word that the note had been opened 
 by Mr. Hobnell, and read to half a dozen of the big boys, on 
 whom it seemed to make a great impression ; and that after 
 consulting together and laughing, Mr. Hobnell said he would 
 send an answer " arter arternoon school, which the bell was 
 a ringing : and Mr. Wapsliot, he came out in his Master's 
 gownd." Stoopid was learned in academical costume, having 
 attended Mr. Foker at St. Boniface.
 
 142 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Mr. FoK'cr went out to see the curiosities of Clavering meHii« 
 while ; but not having a taste for architecture, Doctor Portman's 
 fine cliurch did not engage his attention much, and he pro- 
 nounced the tower to be as mouldy as an old Stilton cheese. 
 He walked down the street and looked at the few shops there ; 
 he saw Captain Glanders at the window of the Reading-room, 
 and having taken a good stare at that gentleman, he wagged 
 his head at him in token of satisfaction ; he inquired the price 
 of meat at the butcher's with an air of the greatest interest, 
 and asked "when was next kilUng day?" he flattened his 
 little nose against Madame Fribsby's window to see if haply 
 there was a pretty workwoman in her premises ; but there was 
 no face more comely than the doll's or dummy's wearing the 
 French cap in the window, onh' that of Madame Fribsb}^ herself, 
 dimly visible in the parlor, reading a novel. That object was 
 not of sufficient interest to keep Mr. Foker very long in con- 
 templation, and so having exhausted the town and the inn sta- 
 bles, in which there were no cattle, save the single old pair of 
 posters that earned a scant}^ livelihood by transporting the gen- 
 trj- round about to the county dinners, Mr. Foker was giving 
 himself up to ennui entirely, when a messenger from Mr. Hob- 
 nell was at length announced. 
 
 It was no other than Mr. Wapshot himself, who came with 
 an air of great indignation, and holding Pen's missive in his 
 hand, asked Mr. Foker " how dared he bring such an unchris- 
 tian message as a challenge to a bo}^ of his school ? " 
 
 In fact Pen had written a note to his adversary of the day 
 before, telling him that if after the chastisement which his inso- 
 lence richl}' deserved, he felt inclined to ask the reparation which 
 was usually given amongst gentlemen, Mr. Arthur Pendennis's 
 friend, Mr. Henry Foker, was empowered to make any arrange- 
 ments for the satisfaction of Mr. Hobnell. 
 
 "And so he B&nt you with the answer — did he, sir?" Mr. 
 Foker said, surveying the Schoolmaster in his black coat and 
 •clerical costume. 
 
 "If he had accepted this wicked challenge, I should have 
 flogged him," Mr. Wapshot said, and gave Mr. Foker a glance 
 which seemed to say, " and I should like \evy much to flog you 
 too." 
 
 "Uncommon kind of you, sir, I'm sure," said Pen's emis- 
 sary. " I told my principal that I didn't think the other man 
 would fight," he continued with a great air of dignit}'. " He 
 prefers being flogged to fighting, sir, I dare say. Ma}' I offer 
 
 you any refreshment, Mr. ? I haven't the advantage of 
 
 your name."
 
 PENDENNIS. 143 
 
 " My name is Wapshot, sir, and I am Master of the Gram- 
 mar School of this town, sir," cried the other : " and I want no 
 refreshment, sir, I thank j'ou, and have no desire to make ^-our 
 acquaintance, sir." 
 
 "•I didn't seek 3'ours, sir, I'm sure," repUed Mr. Foker. 
 *'In affairs of this sort, you see, I think it is a pit^^ that the 
 clerg}' should be called in, but there's no accounting for tastes, 
 sir." 
 
 " I think it's a pity that boys should talk about committing 
 murder, sir, as lightly as you do," roared the Schoolmaster ; 
 " and if I had 3'ou in my school — " 
 
 "I dare say you would teach me better, sir," Mr. Foker 
 said, with a bow. "Thank you, sir. I've finished my educa- 
 tion, sir, and ain't a-going back to school, sir — when I do, I'll 
 remember your kind offer, sir. John, show this gentleman 
 down stairs — and, of course, as Mr. Hobnell likes being 
 thrashed, we can have no objection, sir, and we shall be very 
 happy to accommodate him, whenever he comes our wa}'." 
 
 And with this, the 30ung fellow bowed the elder gentleman 
 out of the room, and sat down and wrote a note off to Pen, in 
 which he informed the latter, that Mr. Hobnell was not disposed 
 to fight, and proposed to put up with the caning which Pen had 
 administered to him. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 WHICH CONCLUDES THE FIRST PART OF THIS HISTORY. 
 
 Pen's conduct in this business of course was soon made 
 public, and angered his friend Doctor Portman not a little ; 
 while it only amused Major Pendennis. As for the good Mrs. 
 Pendennis, she was almost distracted when she heard of the 
 squabble, and of Pen's unchristian behavior. All sorts of 
 wretchedness, discomfort, crime, annoyance, seemed to come 
 out of this transaction in which the luckless boy had engaged : 
 and she longed more than ever to see him out of Chatteris for 
 a while, — anywhere removed from the woman who had brought 
 him into so much trouble. 
 
 Pen when remonstrated with by this fond parent, and angril)' 
 rebuked by the Doctor for his violence and ferocious intentions, 
 took the matter au grand serieux, with the happy conceit and 
 gravity of 3'outh : said that he would permit no man to insult
 
 144 PENDENNIS. 
 
 him upon this head without vindicating his own honor, and 
 appeahng, asked whether he could have acted otherwise as a 
 gentleman, than as he did in resenting the outrage offered to 
 him, and in offering satisfaction to the person chastised? 
 
 " Vous allez trop vite^ my good sir," said the uncle, rather 
 puzzled, for he had been indoctrinating his nephew with some 
 of his own notions upon the point of honor — old-world notions 
 savoring of the camp and pistol a great deal more than our 
 soberer opinions of the present day — ' ' between men of the 
 world, I don't say ; but between two schoolboys, this sort of 
 thing is ridiculous, my dear boy — perfectly ridiculous." 
 
 "It is extremely wicked, and unlike my son," said Mrs. 
 Pendennis, with tears in her eyes ; and bewildered with the 
 obstinacy of the boy. 
 
 Pen kissed her, and said with great pomposity, "Women, 
 dear mother, don't understand these matters — I put myself 
 into Foker's hands — I had no other course to pursue." 
 
 Major Pendennis grinned and shrugged his shoulders. The 
 young ones were certainly making great progress, he thought. 
 Mrs. Pendennis declared that that Foker was a wicked horrid 
 little wretch, and was sure that he would lead her dear boy into 
 mischief, if Pen went to the same college with him. " I have a 
 great mind not to let him go at all," she said : and only that 
 she remembered that the lad's father had always destined him 
 for the College in which he had had his own "brief education, 
 very likely the fond mother would have put a veto upon his 
 going to the University. 
 
 That he was to go, and at the next October term, had been 
 arranged between all the authorities who presided over the lad's 
 welfare. Foker had promised to introduce him to the right 
 set ; and Major Pendennis laid great store upon Pen's intro- 
 duction into College life and society by this admirable young 
 gentleman. " Mr. Foker knows the very best young men now 
 at the University," the Major said, " and Pen will form acquaint- 
 ances there who will be of the gi-eatest advantage through life 
 to him. The young Marquis of Pliulimmon is there, eldest son 
 of the Duke of St. David's — Lord Magnus Charters is there, 
 Lord Runnymede's son ; and a first cousin of Mr. Foker, (Lady 
 Runnymede, my dear, was Lady Agatha Milton, you of course 
 remember,) Lady Agnes will certainly invite him to Logwood ; 
 and far from being alarmed at his intimacy with her son, vvho 
 is a singular and humorous, but most prudent and amiable 
 young man, to whom, I am sure, we are under every obligation 
 for his admirable conduct in the affair of the Fotheringay mar-
 
 PENDENNIS. 145 
 
 riage, I look upon it as one of the very luckiest things which 
 could have happened to Pen, that he should have formed an 
 intimacy with this most amusing young gentleman." 
 
 Helen sighed, she supposed the Major knew best. Mr. 
 Foker had been ver}- kind in the wretched business with Miss 
 Costigan, certainly, and she was gi'ateful to him. But she 
 could not feel otherwise than a dim presentiment of evil ; and 
 all these quarrels, and riots, and worldliness, scared her about 
 the fate of her bo}' . 
 
 Doctor Portman was decidedlj' of opinion that Pen should 
 go to College. He hoped the lad would read, and have a mod- 
 erato indulgence of the best society too. He was of opinion 
 that Pen would distinguish himself: Smirke spoke ver}^ highl}^ 
 of his proficienc}' : the Doctor himself had heard him construe, 
 and thought he acquitted himself remarkabh' well. That he 
 should go out of Chatteris was a great point at an}' rate ; and 
 Pen, who was distracted from his private grief bj- the various 
 rows and troubles which had risen round about him, gloomil}- 
 said he would obey. 
 
 There were assizes, races, and the entertainments and the 
 flux of company consequent upon them, at Chatteris, during a 
 part of the months of August and September, and Miss Foth- 
 eriugay still continued to act, and take farewell of the audiences 
 at the Chatteris Theatre during that time. Nobodj' seemed to 
 be particularly' affected by her presence, or her announced de- 
 parture, except those persons whom we have named ; nor could 
 the polite county folks, who had houses in London, and very 
 likel}' admired the Fotheringa}' prodigiously in the capital, when 
 the}' had been taught to do so b}- the Fashion which set in in 
 her favor, find anything remarkable in the actress performing 
 on the little Chatteris boards. Man}' a genius and many a 
 quack, for that matter, has met with a similar fate before and 
 since Miss Costigan's time. This honest woman meanwhile 
 bore up against the public neglect, and any other crosses oi'' 
 vexations which she might have in life, with her usual equa- 
 nimity ; and ate, drank, acted, slept, with that regularity and 
 comfort which belongs to people of her temperament. What a 
 deal of grief, care, and other harmful excitement, does a healthy 
 dulness and cheerful insensibility avoid ! Nor do I mean to 
 say that Virtue is not Virtue because it is never tempted to go 
 astray ; only that dulness is a much finer gift than we give it 
 credit for being, and that some people are very lucky whom 
 Nature has endowed with a good store of that great anodyne. 
 
 Pen used to go dreai'ily ia and out from the play at Chatteris 
 
 10
 
 146 PENDENS IS. 
 
 during this season, and pretty much according to his fancy. 
 His proceedings tortured his mother not a little, and her anxiety 
 would have led her often to interfere, had not the Major con- 
 stantly checked, and at the same time encouraged her ; for the 
 wily man of the world fancied he saw that a favorable turn had 
 occurred in Pen's malady. It was the violent efflux of versi- 
 fication, among other s3'mptoms, which gave Pen's guardian 
 and ph^-sician satisfaction. He might be heard spouting verses 
 in the shrubbery walks, or muttering them between his teeth 
 as he sat with the home party of evenings. One da}^ prowling 
 about the house in Pen's absence, the Major found a great book 
 full of verses in the lad's study. They were in English, and in 
 Latin ; quotations from the classic authors were given in the 
 scholastic manner in the foot-notes. He can't be very bad, 
 wisely thought the Pail-Mall Philosopher : and he made Pen's 
 mother remark (not, perhaps, without a secret feehng of disap- 
 pointment, for she loved romance hke other soft women), that 
 the young gentleman during the last fortnight came home quite 
 hungry to dinner at night, and also showed a very decent ap- 
 petite at the breakfast table in the morning. '*Gad, I wish 1 
 could," said the Major, thinking ruefully of his dinner pills. 
 "The boy begins to sleep well, depend upon that." It was 
 cruel, but it was true. 
 
 Having no other soul to confide in, the lad's friendship for 
 the Curate redoubled, or rather, he was never tired of having 
 Smirke for a listener on that one subject. What is a lover 
 without a confidant? Pen emploj-ed Mr. Smirke, as Corydon 
 does the elm-tree, to cut out his mistress's name upon. He 
 made him echo with the name of the beautiful Amaryllis. 
 When men have left off playing the tune, they do not care 
 much for the pipe : but Pen thought he had a great friendship 
 for Smirke, because he could sigh out his loves and griefs into 
 iiis tutor's ears ; and Smirke had his own reasons for always 
 being ready at the lad's call. 
 
 The poor Curate was naturall}^ very much dismayed at the 
 contemplated departure of his pupil. When Arthur should go, 
 Smirke's occupation and delight would go too. What pretext 
 could he find for a daily visit to Fairoaks, and that kind word 
 or glance from the lady there, which v/as as necessary to the 
 Curate as the frugal dinner Avhich Madame Fribsby served him ? 
 Arthur gone, he would only be allowed to make visits hke any 
 other acquaintance : little Laura could not accommodate him 
 by learning the Catechism more than once a week : he had 
 curled himself like ivy round Fairoaks : he pined at the thought
 
 PENDENNIS. 147 
 
 that he must lose his hold of the place. Should he speak his 
 mind and go down on liis knees to the widow? He thought 
 over any indications in her behavior which flattered his hopes. 
 She had praised his sermon three weeks before : she had thanked 
 him exceedingly for his present of a melon, for a small dinner 
 party which Mis. Pendcnnis gave : she said she should always 
 be grateful to him for his kindness to Arthur: and when lie 
 declared that there were no bounds to his love and affection for 
 that dear bo}', she had certainly replied in a romantic manner, 
 indicating her own strong gratitude and regard to all her son's 
 friends. Should he speak out? — or should he delay? If he 
 spoke and she refused him, it was awful to think that the gate 
 of Fairoaks might be shut upon him for ever — and within that 
 door lay all the world for Mr. Smirke. 
 
 Thus, O friendly readers, we see how every man in the 
 world has his own private griefs and business, by which he is 
 more cast down or occupied than b}' the affairs or sorrows of 
 any other person. While Mrs. Pendenuis is disquieting herself 
 about losing her son, and that anxious hold she has had of him, 
 as long as he has remained in the mother's nest, whence he is 
 about to take fliglit into the great world bej-ond — while the 
 Major's great soul chafes and frets, inwardly vexed as he thinlcs 
 what great parties are going on in London, and that he might 
 be sunning himself in the glances of Dukes and Duchesses, but 
 for those cursed affairs which keep him in a wretched little 
 country hole — while Pen is tossing between his passion and a 
 more agreeable sensation, unacknowledged yet, but swaying 
 him considerably, namely, his longing to see the world — Mr. 
 Smirke has a private care watching at his bedside, and sitting 
 behind him on his pon}' ; and is no more satisfied than the rest 
 of us. How lonel}^ we are in the world ! how selfish and secret, 
 everybody ! You and your wife have pressed the same pillow 
 for forty 3'ears and fancy yourselves united. — Psha, does she 
 cry out when you have the gout, or do you lie awake when she 
 has the tooth-ache ? Your artless daughter, seemingly all inno- 
 cence and devoted to her mamma and her piano-lesson, is think- 
 ing of neither, but of the young Lieutenant with whom she 
 danced at the last ball — the honest frank bo}' just returned 
 from school is secretly speculating upon the money you will 
 give him, and the debts he owes the tart-man. The old grand- 
 mother crooning in the corner and bound to another world 
 within a few months, has some business or cares which are 
 quite private and her own — very likely she is thinking of fifty 
 years back, and that night when she made such an impressiou.
 
 148 PENDENNIS. 
 
 and danced a cotillon with the Captain before your father pro- 
 posed for her : or, what a silh' little over- rated creature youi 
 wife is, and how absurdl}' 3^ou are infatuated about her — and, 
 as for your wife — O philosophic reader, answer and say, — 
 Do you tell her all? Ah, sir, — a distinct universe walks about 
 under j^our hat and under mine — all things in nature are dif- 
 ferent to each — the woman we look at has not the same fea- 
 tures, the dish we eat from has not the same taste to the one 
 and the other — you and I are but a pair of infinite isolations, 
 with some fellow-islands a little more or less near to us. Let 
 us return, however, to the solitary Smirke. 
 
 Smirke had one confidant for his passion — that most injudi- 
 cious woman, Madame Fribsby. How she became Madame 
 Fribsb}-, nobody knows : she had left Clavering to go to a 
 milliner's in London as Miss Fribsby — she pretended that she 
 had got the rank in Paris during her residence in that city. 
 But how could the French king, were he ever so much dis- 
 posed, give her an}- such title? We shall not inquire into this 
 myster}', however. Suffice to say, she went away from home 
 a bouncing young lass ; she returned a rather elderlj' character, 
 with a Madonna front and a melancholy countenance — bought 
 the late Mrs. Harbottle's business for a song — took her elderl}' 
 mother to live with her ; was very good to the poor, was con- 
 stant at church, and had the best of characters. But there 
 was no one in all Clavering, not Mrs. Portman herself, who 
 read so many novels as Madame Fribsb}". She had plentj' of 
 time for this amusement, for, in truth, very few people besides 
 the folks at the Rectory and Fairoaks emploj-ed her ; and by a 
 perpetual perusal of such works (which were by no means so 
 moral or edifying in the daj^s of which we write, as the}' are at 
 present), she had got to be so absurdly sentimental, that in 
 her eyes life was nothing but an immense love-match ; and she 
 never could see two people together, but she fancied they were 
 dying for one another. 
 
 On the day after Mrs. Pendennis's visit to the Curate, 
 which we have recorded many pages back, Madame Fribsby 
 settled in her mind that Mr. Smirke must be in love with the 
 widow, and did everything in her power to encourage this 
 passion on both sides. Mrs. Pendennis she very seldom saw, 
 indeed, except in public, and in her pew at church. That 
 lady had very little need of millinery, or made most of her own 
 dresses and caps ; but on the rare occasions when Madame 
 Fribsby received visits from Mrs. Pendennis, or paid her 
 respects at Fairoaks, she never failed to entertain the widow
 
 PENDENNIS. 149 
 
 with praises of the Curate, pointing out what an angelical man 
 he was, how gentle, how studious, how loneh' ; and she would 
 wonder that no ladj' would take pit}' upon him. 
 
 Helen laughed at these sentimental remarks, and wondered 
 that Madame herself did not compassionate her lodger, and 
 console him. Madame Fribsb}' shook her Madonna front. 
 " Mong cure a boco souffare" she said, laying her hand on the 
 part she designated as her cure. " 11 est more en Espang^ 
 Madame" she said with a sigh. She was proud of her intimacy 
 with the French language, and spoke it with more volubility 
 than correctness. Mrs. Pendennis did not care to penetrate 
 the secrets of this wounded heart : except to her few intimates 
 she was a reserved, and it may be a very proud woman ; she 
 looked upon her son's tutor merel}- as an attendant on that 
 3'oung Prince, to be treated with respect as a clergyman cer- 
 tainly', but with proper dignity as a dependant on the house of 
 Pendennis. Nor were Madame's constant allusions to the 
 Curate particularly agreeable to her. It required a very in- 
 genious sentimental turn indeed to find out that the widow had 
 a secret regard for Mr. Smirke, to which pernicious error how- 
 ever Madame Fribsby persisted in holding. 
 
 Her lodger was ver}' much more willing to talk on this 
 subject with his soft-hearted landlady. Ever}' time after that 
 she praised the Curate to Mrs. Pendennis, she came away from 
 the latter with the notion that the widow herself had been 
 praising him. '•'■ £tre soul au monde est bien ouneeyong" she 
 would say, glancing up at a print of a French carbineer in a 
 green coat and brass cuirass which decorated her apartment — 
 " Depend upon it when Master Pendennis goes to college, his 
 Ma will find herself very lonely. She is quite young yet. — You 
 wouldn't suppose her to be five-and-twenty. Monsieur le Oury^ 
 song cure est touchy — fong suis sure — Je conny cela biang — Ally 
 Monsieur Smirke." 
 
 He softly blushed ; he sighed ; he hoped ; he feared ; he 
 doubted ; he sometimes yielded to the delightful idea — his 
 pleasure was to sit in Madame Fribsby's apartment, and talk 
 upon the subject, where, as the greater part of the conversation 
 was carried on in French by the Milliner, and her old mother 
 was deaf, that retired old individual (who had once been a 
 housekeeper, wife and widow of a butler in the Clavering 
 family), could understand scarce one syllable of their talk. 
 
 When Major Pendennis announced to his nephew's tutor 
 that the young fellow would go to College in October, and that 
 Mr. Smirke's valuable services would no longer be needful to
 
 150 PENDENNIS. 
 
 his pupil, for which services the Major, who spoke as grandly 
 as a lord, professed himself exceedingly gi-ateful, and besouglit 
 Mr. Smirke to command his interest in any way — the Curate 
 felt that the critical moment was come for him, and was racked 
 and tortured by those severe pangs which the occasion war- 
 ranted. 
 
 And now that Arthur was going awa}', Helen's heart was 
 rather softened towards the Curate, from whom, perhaps divin- 
 ing his intentions, she had shrunk liitherto : she bethought her 
 how very polite Mr. Smirke had been ; how he had gone on 
 messages for her ; how he had brought books and copied music ; 
 how he had taught Laura so many things, and given her so 
 many kind presents. Her heart smote her on account of her 
 ingratitude towards the Curate : — so much so that one after- 
 noon when he came down from stud}' with Pen, and was hanker- 
 ing about the hall previous to his departure, she went out and 
 shook hands with him with rather a blushing face, and begged 
 him to come into her drawing-room, where she said they now 
 never saw him. And as there was to be rather a good dinner 
 that da}^, she invited Mr. Smirke to partake of it ; and we may 
 be sure that he was too happy to accept such a delightful 
 summons. 
 
 Helen was exceedingly kind and gracious to Mr. Smirke 
 during dinner, redoubhng her attentions, perhaps because Major 
 Pendennis was veiy high and reserved with his nephew's tutor. 
 When Pendennis asked Smirke to drink wine, he addressed him 
 as if he was a Sovereign speaking to a petty retainer, in a man- 
 ner so condescending, that even Pen laughed at it, although 
 quite ready, for his part, to be as conceited as most young 
 men are. 
 
 But Smirke did not care for the impertinences of the Major 
 so long as he had his hostess's kind behavior ; and he passed a 
 delightful time by her side at table, exerting all his powers of 
 conversation to please her, talking in a manner both clericjil 
 and worldly, about the fancy Bazaar, and the Great Missionary 
 Meeting, about the last new novel, and the Bishop's excellent 
 sermon — about the fashionable parties in London, an account 
 of which he read in the newspapers — in fine, he neglected 
 no art, by which a College divine who has both sprightly and 
 serious talents, a taste for the genteel, an irreproachable con- 
 duct, and a susceptible heart, will try and make himself agreea- 
 ble to the person on whom he has fixed his afl^ections. 
 
 Major Pendennis came yawning out of the dining-room very 
 soon after his sister and little Laura had left the apartment.
 
 PENDENNIS. 151 
 
 Now Arthur, flushed with a good deal of pride at the privi- 
 lege of having the ke3-s of the cellar, and remembering that a 
 very few more dinners would probably take place which he and 
 his dear friend Smirke could share, had brought up a liberal 
 supply' of claret for the company's drinking, and when the elders 
 with little Laura left him, he and the Curate began to pass the 
 wine very freely. 
 
 One bottle speedily yielded up the ghost, another shed more 
 than half its blood, before the two topers had been much more 
 than half an hour together — Pen, with a hollow laugh and 
 voice, had drunk otf one bumper to the falsehood of women, 
 and had said sardonicall}', that wine at an^- rate was a mistress 
 who never deceived, and was sure to give a man a welcome. 
 
 Smirke gently said that he knew for his part some women 
 who were all truth and tenderness ; and casting up his ej-es 
 towards the ceiling, and heaving a sigh as if evoking some 
 being dear and unmentionable, he took up his glass and drained 
 it, and the ros}' hquor began to suffuse his face. 
 
 Pen trolled over some verses he had been making that morn- 
 ing, in which he informed himself that the woman who had 
 slighted his passion couJd not be worth}' to win it : that he was 
 awaking from love's mad fever, and, of course, under these 
 circumstances, proceeded to leave her, and to quit a heartless 
 deceiver : that a name which had one da}' been famous in the 
 land, might again be heard in it : and, that though he never 
 should be the happy and careless boy he was but a few months 
 since, or his heart be what it had been ere passion had filled it 
 and gi-ief had wellnigh killed it ; that though to him personally 
 death was as welcome as life, and that he would not hesitate to 
 part with the latter, but for the love of one kind being whose 
 happiness depended on his own, — yet he hoped to show he 
 was a man worthy of his race, and that one day the false one 
 should be brought to know how great was the treasure and noble 
 the heart which she had flung away. 
 
 Pen, we sa}', who was a ver}^ excitable person, rolled out 
 these verses in his rich sweet voice, which trembled with 
 emotion whilst our 3'oung poet spoke. He had a trick of blush- 
 ing when in this excited state, and his large and honest gra}' 
 »^yes also exhibited proofs of a sensibilit}' so genuine, heart}'^, 
 und manl}-, that Miss Costigan, if she had a heart, must needs 
 ^ave softened toward him ; and ver}^ likely she was, as he said, 
 altogether unworthy of the affection which he lavished upon her. 
 
 The sentimental Smirke was caught b}' the emotion which 
 agitated his 3'oung friend. He grasped Pen's hand over the
 
 152 PENDENNiS. 
 
 dessert dishes and wine-glasses. He said the verses were 
 beautiful : that Pen was a poet, a gi-eat poet, and likely by 
 Heaven's permission to run a great career in the world. ' ' Go 
 on and prosper, dear Arthur," he cried: " the wounds under 
 which at present you suffer are only temporarj^ and the very 
 grief you endure will cleanse and strengthen your heart. I 
 have always prophesied the greatest and brightest things of 
 you, as soon as you have corrected some failings and weak- 
 nesses of character, which at present belong to you. But 3'ou 
 will get over these, my bo}', you will get over these ; and when 
 3'Ou are famous and celebrated, as I know j'ou will be, will 3-ou 
 remember your old tutor and the happ}' early days of your 
 youth?" 
 
 Pen swore he would : with another shake of the hand across 
 the glasses and apricots. " I shall never forget how kind you 
 have been to me, Smirke," he said. " I don't know what 1 
 should have done without 3'Ou. You are my best friend." 
 
 "Ami really, Arthur?" said Smirke, looking through his 
 spectacles ; and his heart began to beat so that he thought Pen 
 must almost hear it throbbing. 
 
 " M3' best friend, m}- friend /or ever" Pen said. "God 
 bless 3'ou, old bo}'," and he drank up the last glass of the 
 second bottle of the famous wine which his father had laid in, 
 which his uncle had bought, which Lord Levant had imported, 
 and which now, like a slave indifferent, was ministering pleasure 
 to its present owner, and giving its 30ung master delectation. 
 
 " We'll have another bottle, old boy," Pen said, " b3- Jove 
 we will. Hurra3" ! — claret goes for nothing. M3' uncle was 
 telling me that he saw Sheridan drink five bottles at Brookes's, 
 besides a bottle of Maraschino. This is some of the finest wine 
 in England, he sa3^s. So it is by Jove. There's nothing like 
 it. Nunc vino pellite curas — eras ingens iterabimus ceg — fill 3'our 
 glass. Old Smirke, a hogshead of it won't do 3'ou an3' harm." 
 And Mr. Pen began to sing the drinking song out of " Der 
 Freischiitz." The dining-room windows were open, and his 
 mother was softl3' pacing on the lawn outside, while little Laura 
 was looking at the sunset. The sweet fresh notes of the boy's 
 voice come to the widow. It cheered her kind heart to hear 
 him sing. 
 
 " You — 3'ou are taking too much wine, Arthur," Mr. Smirke 
 said softly — " 3'Ou are exciting 3'ourself." 
 
 "No," said Pen, " women give headaches, but this don't. 
 Fill 3'-our glass, old fellow, and let's drink — I say, Smirke, my 
 boj" — let's drink to her — your her, I mean, not mine, for
 
 (( 
 (( 
 
 PENDENNIS. 153 
 
 whom I swear I'll care no more — no, not a penny — no, not a 
 fig — no. not a glass of wine. Tell us about the lady, Smirke ; 
 I've often seen vou sighino- about her." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Smirke — and his beautiful cambric shirt-front 
 and glistening studs heaved with the emotion which agitated 
 his gentle and suffering bosom. 
 
 "Oh — what a sigh!" Pen cried, growing very hilarious: 
 " fill, my bo}', and drink the toast, you can't refuse a toast, no 
 gentleman refuses a toast. Here's her health, and good luck 
 to yon, and may she soon be Mrs. Smirke." 
 
 ^'' Do you say so?" Smirke said, all of a tremble. " Do 
 you really sa}^ so, Arthur ? " 
 
 " Saj' so; of course, I say so. Down with it. Here's 
 Mrs. Smirke's good health : Hip, hip, hurra}- ! " 
 
 Smirke convulsivel}' gulped down his glass of wine, and 
 Pen waved his over his head, cheering so as to make his 
 mother and Laura wonder on the lawn, and his uncle, who was 
 dozing over the paper in the drawing-room, start, and say to 
 himself, "that boy's drinking too much." Smirke put down 
 the glass. 
 
 I accept the omen," gasped out the blushing Curate. 
 Oh, my dear Arthur, you — you know her — " 
 
 "What — Mira Portman? I wish you joy: she's got a 
 dev'lish large waist ; but I wish 3-0U joy, old fellow." 
 
 " O Arthur ! " groaned the Curate again, and nodded his 
 head, speechless. 
 
 "Beg your pardon — sorry I offended you — but she has 
 got a large waist, you know — devilish large waist," Pen con- 
 tinued — the third bottle evidently beginning to act upon the 
 3'oung gentleman. 
 
 "It's not Miss Portman," the other said, in a voice of 
 agon}'. 
 
 "Is it anybody at Chatteris or at Clapham? Somebody 
 here ? No — it ain't old Pybus ? it can't be Miss Rolt at the 
 Factory — she's onl}^ fourteen." 
 
 "It's somebody rather older than I am, Pen," the Curate 
 cried, looking up at his friend, and then guiltily casting his 
 eyes down into his plate. 
 
 Pen burst out laughing. " It's Madame Fribsby, by Jove, 
 it's Madame Fribsby. Madame Frib. by the immortal Gods ! " 
 
 The Curate could contain no more. "O Pen," he cried, 
 "how can 3'ou suppose that any of those — of those more 
 than ordinary beings you have named — could have an influ- 
 ence upon this heart, when I have been daily in the habit ot 
 
 6
 
 154 PENDENNIS. 
 
 contemplating perfection ! I may be insane, I may be madly 
 ambitious, I may be presumptuous — but for two years my heart 
 has been tilled by one image, and has known no other idol. 
 Haven't I loved 3'ou as a son, Arthur? — say, hasn't Charles 
 Smirke loved 3'ou as a son ? " 
 
 '' Yes. old bo}', you've been ver}' good to me," Pen said, 
 whose liking, however, for his tutor was not by any means of 
 the filial kind. 
 
 " M}- means," rushed on Smirke, " are at present limited, I 
 own, and my mother is not so liberal as might be desii'ed ; but 
 what she has will be mine at her death. Were she to hear of 
 my marrying a lady of rank and good fortune, my mother 
 would be liberal, I am sure she would be liberal. Whatever I 
 have or subsequenth^ inherit — and it's five hundred a-^'ear at 
 the very least — would be settled upon her, and — and — and 
 j-ou at m}' death — that is — " 
 
 ' ' What the deuce do 3'Ou mean ? — and what have I to do 
 with your money? " cried out Pen, in a puzzle. 
 
 '* Arthur, Arthur ! " exclaimed the other wildly ; "You say 
 I am 3-our dearest friend — Let me be more. Oh, can't 3'ou 
 see that the angelic being I love — the i^urest, the best of women 
 — is no other than 3'our dear, dear angel of a — mother." 
 
 " My mother ! " cried out Arthur, jumping up and sober in 
 a minute. "Pooh! damn it, Smirke, 3'Ou must be mad — ■ 
 she's seven or eight 3'ears older than you are." 
 
 " Did you find that any objection?" cried Smirke, piteousl3-, 
 and alluding, of course, to the elderl3' subject of Pen's own 
 passion. 
 
 The lad felt the hint, and blushed quite red. " The cases 
 are not similar, Smirke," he said, " and the allusion might have 
 been spared. A man ma3' forget his own rank and elevate 
 any woman to it ; but allow me to sa3' our positions are ver3' 
 different." 
 
 " How do 3^ou mean, dear Arthur?" the Curate interposed 
 sadl3', cowering as he felt that his sentence was about to be 
 read. 
 
 " Mean?" said Arthur. " I mean what I sa3\ M3- tutor, 
 I say my tutor ^ has no right to ask a lady of my mother's rank 
 of life to marr3^ him. It's a breach of confidence. I say it's 
 a libert3' 3'OU take, Smirke — it's a libert3\ Mean, indeed ! " 
 
 " O Arthur ! " the Curate began to cr3' with clasped hands, 
 and a scared face, but Arthur gave another stamp with his foot, 
 and began to pull at the bell. " Don't let's have an3' more of 
 this. We'll have come coftee, if 30U please," he said with a
 
 PENDENNIS. 155 
 
 majestic air : and the old butler entering at the summons, 
 Arthur bade him to serve that refreshment. 
 
 John said he had just carried coftee into the drawing-room, 
 where his uncle was asking for Master Arthur, and the old 
 man gave a glance of wonder at the three empty claret-bottles. 
 Smirke said he thought he'd — he'd rather not go into the 
 drawing-room, on which Arthur haughtil}- said, "As ^-ou 
 please," and called for Mr. Smirke's horse to be brought round. 
 The poor fellow said he knew the wa^' to the stable and would 
 get his pony himself, and he went into the hall and sadly put 
 on his coat and hat. 
 
 Pen followed him out uncovered. Helen Avas still walking 
 up and down the soft lawn as the sun was setting, and the 
 Curate took off his hat and bowed by way of farewell, and 
 passed on to the door leading to the stable court by which the 
 pair disappeared. Smirke knew the wa}- to the stable as he 
 said, well enough. He fumbled at the girths of the saddle, 
 which Pen fastened for him, and put on the bridle and led the 
 pony into the yard. The boy was touched b}' the grief which 
 appeared in the other's face as he mounted. Pen held out his 
 hand, and Smirke wrung it silent!}'. 
 
 " I say, Smirke," he said in an agitated voice, " forgive me 
 if I have said anything harsh — for you have always been very, 
 very kind to me. But it can't be, old fellow, it can't be. Be a 
 man. God bless 3'ou. 
 
 Smirke nodded his head silently, and rode out of the lodge 
 gate : and Pen looked after him for a couple of minutes, until 
 he disappeared down the road, and the clatter of the pony's 
 hoofs died away. Helen was still lingering on the lawn wait- 
 ing until the l30_y came back — she put his hair off his fore- 
 head and kissed it fondly. She was afraid he had been 
 drinking too much wine. Why had Mr. Smirke gone awa^' 
 without any tea? 
 
 He looked at her with a kind humor beaming in his e^-es ; 
 "Smirke is unwell," he said with a laugh. For a long while 
 Helen had not seen the boy looking so cheerful. He put his 
 arm round her waist, and walked her up and down the walk 
 in front of the house. Laura began to drub on the drawing- 
 room window and nod and laugh from it. ' ' Come along j'ou 
 two people," cried out Major Pendennis, " your coffee is get- 
 ting quite cold. 
 
 When Laura was gone to bed. Pen, who was big with his 
 secret, burst out with it, and described the dismal but ludicrous 
 scene which had occurred- Helen heard of it with man}' blushes.
 
 156 PENDENNIS. 
 
 which became her pale face very well, and a perplexity which 
 Arthur roguishly enjoyed. 
 
 '• Confound the fellow's impudence," Major Pendennis said, 
 as he took his candle, "where will the assurance of these people 
 stop ? " Pen and his mother had a long talk that night, full of 
 love, confidence, and laughter, and the bo}' somehow slept more 
 soundly and woke up more easily than he had done for many 
 months before. I 
 
 Before the great Mr. Dolphin quitted Chatteris, he not only 
 made an advantageous engagement with Miss Fotheringay, but 
 he liberalh' left with her a sum of money to pay off any debts 
 which the little famil}' might have contracted during their sta}' 
 in the place, and which, mainly through the lady's own economy 
 and management, were not considerable. The small account 
 with the spirit merchant, which Major Pendennis had settled, 
 was the chief of Captain Costigan's debts, and though the Cap- 
 tain at one time talked about repaying every farthing of the 
 money, it never appears that he executed his menace, nor did 
 the laws of honor in the least call upon him to accomplish that 
 threat. 
 
 When Miss Costigan had seen all the outstanding bills paid 
 to the uttermost shilling, she handed over the balance to her 
 father, who broke out into hospitalities to all his friends, gave 
 tlie little Creeds more apples and gingerbread than he had ever 
 bestowed upon them, so that the widow Creed ever after held 
 the memory of her lodger in veneration, and the 3'oung ones 
 wept bitterly when he went awa}' ; and in a word managed the 
 money so cleverly that it was entirely expended before man}' 
 days, and he was compelled to draw upon Mr. Dolphin for 
 a sum to pay for travelling expenses when the time of their 
 departure arrived. 
 
 There was held at an inn in that county town a weekl}' 
 meeting of a festive, almost a riotous character, of a society of 
 gentlemen who called themselves the Buccaneers. Some of 
 the choice spirits of Chatteris belonged to this cheerful Club. 
 Graves, the apothecary (than whom a better fellow never put a 
 pipe in his mouth and smoked it). Smart, the talented and 
 humorous portrait-painter of High Street, Croker, an excellent 
 auctioneer, and the uncompromising Hicks, the able Editor for 
 twenty-three yesivs of the County Chronicle and Chatteris Cham- 
 pion, were amongst the crew of the Buccaneers, whom also 
 Bingley, the manager, liked to join of a Saturday evening, 
 whenever he received permission from his lady.
 
 PENDENNIS. 157 
 
 Costigan had been also an occasional Buccaneer. But a 
 want of punctuality of payments had of late somewhat excluded 
 him from the Societ}-, where he was subject to disagreeable re- 
 marks from the landlord, who said that a Buccaneer who didn't 
 pay his shot was utterly unworthy to be a Marine Bandit. But 
 when it became known to the 'Ears, as the Clubbists called 
 themselves familiarly, that Miss Fotheringay had made a splen- 
 did eno-agement, a great revolution of feeling took place in the 
 Club regarding Captain Costigan. Solly, mine host of the 
 Grapes, told the gents in the Buccaneers' room one night how 
 noble the Captain had beayved ; having been round and paid 
 off all his ticks in Chatteris, including his score of three pound 
 fourteen here — and pronounced that Cos was a good fellar, a 
 gentleman at bottom, and he, Solly, had always said so, and 
 finally worked upon the feelings of the Buccaneers to give the 
 Captain a dinner. 
 
 The banquet took place on the last night of Costigan's stay 
 at Chatteris, and was served in Solly's accustomed manner. 
 As good a plain dinner of old English fare as ever smoked on 
 a table was prepared by Mrs. S0II3' ; and about eighteen gentle- 
 men sat down to the festive board. Mr. Jubber (the eminent 
 draper of High Street) was in the Chair, having the distin- 
 guished guest of the Club on his right. The able and con- 
 sistent Hicks officiated as croupier on the occasion ; most of 
 the gentlemen of the Club were present, and H. Foker, Esq., 
 
 and Spavin, Esq., friends of Captain Costigan, were also 
 
 participators in the entertainment. The cloth having been 
 drawn, the Chairman said, "Costigan, there is wine, if you 
 like," but the Captain preferring punch, that liquor was voted 
 by acclamation : and " Non Nobis" having been sung in ad- 
 mirable style by Messrs. Bingley, Hicks, and BuUby (of the 
 Cathedral choir, than whom a more jovial spirit ' ' ne'er tossed 
 off a bumper or emptied a bowl"), the Chairman gave the 
 health of the " King !" which was drunk with the loyalty of 
 Chatteris men, and then, without further circumlocution, pro- 
 posed their friend " Captain Costigan." 
 
 After the enthusiastic cheering, which rang through old 
 Chatteris, had subsided, Captain Costigan rose in reply, and 
 made a speech of twenty minutes, in which he was repeatedly 
 overcome by his emotions. 
 
 The gallant Captain said he must be pardoned for incoher- 
 ence, if his heart was too full to speak. He was quitting a 
 city celebrated for its antiquitee, its hospltalitee, the beautee 
 of its women, the manly fidelitee, generositee, and jovialitee of
 
 15S PENDEKNIS. 
 
 its mon. T Cheers.) He was going from that ancient and 
 venerable city, of which, while Mimoree held her sayt. he 
 should never think without the fondest emotion, to a methraw- 
 poUs where the talents of Ms daughter were about to have full 
 play, and where he would watch over her like a guardian angel. 
 He should never forget that it was at Chatteris she had ac- 
 quired the skill which she was about to exercise in another 
 sphere, and in her name and his own. Jack Costigan thanked 
 and blessed them. The gallant officer's speech was received 
 with tremendous cheers. 
 
 Mr. Hicks, Croupier, in a brilliant and energetic manner, 
 proposed Miss Fotheringay's health. 
 
 Captain Costigan returned thanks in a speech full of feeling 
 and eloquence. 
 
 Mr. Jubber proposed the Drama and the Chatteris Theatre, 
 and Mr. Bingley was about to rise, but was prevented b}- Cap- 
 tain Costigan, who, as long connected with the Chatteris Thea- 
 tre, and on behalf of his daughter, thanked the company. He 
 informed them that he had been in ganison, at Gibraltar, and 
 at Malta, and had been at the taking of Flushing. The Duke 
 of York was a patron of the Drama : he had the honor of dining 
 with His Royal Highness and the Duke of Kent many times ; 
 and the former had justh' been named the friend of the soldier. 
 (Cheers.) 
 
 The Army was then proposed, and Captain Costigan re- 
 turned thanks. In the course of the night, he sang his well- 
 known songs, '-The Deserter," '-The Shan Van Voght,*' 
 '• The Little Pig imder the Bed." and •• The Vale of Avuca." 
 The evening was a great triumph for him — it ended. All 
 triumphs and all evenings end. And the next day. Miss Costi- 
 gan having taken leave of all her friends, having been recon- 
 ciled to Miss Rounc\', to whom she left a necklace and a white 
 satin gown — the next day. he and Miss Costigan had places 
 in the Competitor coach rolling by the gates of Fairoaks Lodge 
 — and Pendennis never saw them. 
 
 Tom Smith, the coachman, pointed out Fairoaks to Mr. 
 Costigan, who sat on the box smelling of rum-and-water — 
 and the Captain said it was a poor place — and added, "Ye 
 should see Castle Costigan. County Ma}'©, me boy," — which 
 Tom said he should like very much to see. 
 
 They were gone, and Pen had never seen them I He onh' 
 knew of their departure bv its announcement in the county 
 paper the next day : and straight galloped over to Chatteris to 
 hear the truth of this news. They were gone indeed. A card
 
 PENDENNIS. 159 
 
 of "• Lodgings to let," was placed in the dear little familiar 
 window. He rushed up into the room and viewed it over. He 
 sat ever so long in the old window-seat looking into the Dean's 
 Garden : whence he and Emily had so often looked out together. 
 He walked, with a sort of teiTor, into her little empt}- bed- 
 room. It was swept out and prepared for new comers. The 
 glass which had reflected her fair face was shining read}' for 
 her successor. The curtains lay square folded on the little 
 bed : he flung himself down and buried his head on the vacant 
 pillow. 
 
 Laura had netted a purse into which his mother had put 
 some sovereigns, and Pen had found it on his dressing-table 
 that very morning. He gave one to the little servant who had 
 been used to wait upon the Costigans, and another to the chil- 
 dren, because they said they were very fond of her. It was 
 but a few months back, yet what years ago it seemed since he 
 had first entered that room ! He felt that it was all done. The 
 very missing her at the coach had something fatal in it. Blank, 
 weary, utterly wretched and lonely the poor lad felt. 
 
 His mother saw She was gone by his look when he came 
 home. He was eager to fly too now, as were other folks round 
 about Chatteris. Poor Smirke wanted to go away from the 
 sight of the siren widow, Foker began to think he had had 
 enough of Bay mouth, and that a few supper parties at Saint 
 Bonifoce would not be unpleasant. And Major Pendennis 
 longed to be off, and have a little pheasant-shooting at Still- 
 brook, and get rid of all the annoyances and tracasseries of the 
 village. The widow and Laura nervously set about the i)repa- 
 rations for Pen's kit, and filled trunks with his books and linen. 
 Helen wrote cards with the name of Arthur Pendennis, Esq., 
 which were duly nailed on the boxes ; and at which both slic 
 and Laura looked with tearful, wistful eyes. It was not until 
 long, long after he was gone, that Pen remembered how constant 
 and tender the aflTection of these women had been, and how 
 selfish his own conduct was. 
 
 A night soon comes, when the mail, with echoing horn and 
 blazing lamps, stops at the lodge-gate of Fairoaks, and Pen's 
 trunks and his Uncle's are placed on the roof of the carriage, 
 into which the pair presentl}' afterwards enter. Helen and 
 Laura are standing by the evergreens of the shrubbery, their 
 figures lighted up by the coach lamps; the guard cries "all 
 right : " in another instant the carriage whirls onward ; the 
 lights disappear, and Helen's heart and prayers go with them.
 
 160 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Her sainted benedictions follow the departing boy. He has 
 left the home-nest in which he has been chafing, and whither, 
 after his very first flight, he returned bleeding and wounded ; 
 he is eager to go forth again and tr}' his restless wings. 
 
 How lonely the house looks without him! The corded 
 trunks and book-boxes are there in his empty study. Laura 
 asks leave to come and sleep in Plelen's room : and when she 
 ftias cried herself to sleep there, the mother goes softly into 
 Pen's vacant chamber, and kneels down b}^ the bed on which 
 the moon is shining, and there prays for her boy, as mothers 
 only know how to plead. He knows that her pure blessings 
 are following him, as he is carried miles away. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ALMA MATER. 
 
 Every man, however brief or inglorious may have been his 
 academical career, must remember with kindness and tenderness 
 the old university comrades and days. The ^oung man's life is 
 just beginning : the bo3''s leading strings are cut, and he has 
 all the novel delights and dignities of freedom. He has no idea 
 of cares yet, or of bad health, or of roguery, or poverty, or 
 to-morrow's disappointment. The play has not been acted so 
 often as to make him tired. Though the after-drink, as we 
 mechanieall}- go on repeating it, is stale and bitter, how pure 
 and brilliant was that first sparkling draught of pleasure ! — 
 How the boy rushes at the cup, and with what a wild eagerness 
 he drains it ! But old epicures who are cut off from the delights 
 of the table, and are restricted to a poached egg and a glass of 
 water, like to see people with good ai)petites ; and, as the next 
 best thing to being amused at a pantomime one's self is to see 
 one's children enjoy it, I hope there may be no degree of age 
 or experience to which mortal ma}' attain, when he shall become 
 such a glum philosopher, as not to be pleased by the sight of 
 happ3' 30uth. Coming back a few weeks since from a brief visit 
 to the old University of Oxbridge, where m}^ friend Mr. Arthur 
 Pendennis passed some period of his life, I made the journey in 
 the railroad by the side of a }oung fellow at present a student 
 of Saint Boniface. He had got an exeat somehow, and was bent 
 on a day's lark in London : he never stopped rattling and talk-
 
 PEN DENNIS. 161 
 
 ing from the commencement of the journc}^ until its close (which 
 was a great deal too soon for me, for I never was tired of listen- 
 ing to the honest 3'oung fellow's jokes and cheery' laughter) ; 
 and when we arrived at the terminus nothing would satisf}' him 
 but a Hansom cab, so that he might get into town the quicker, 
 and plunge into the pleasures awaiting him there. Away the 
 young lad went whirling, with jo}- lighting up his honest face ; 
 and as for the reader's hiunble servant, having but a small car- 
 pet-bag, I got up on the outside of the omnibus, and sat there 
 ver}' contentedly between a Jew-pedlar smoking bad cigars, and 
 a gentleman's servant taking care of a poodle-dog, until we got 
 our fated coiBplement of passengers and boxes, when the coach- 
 man drove leisurely awa}'. We weren't in a hurry to get to 
 town. Neither one of us was particular!}' eager about rushing 
 into that near smoking Bab} Ion, or thought of dining at the 
 Club that night, or dancing at the Casino. Yet a few years 
 more, and my young friend of the railroad will be not a whit 
 more eager. 
 
 There were no railroads made when Arthur Pendennis went 
 to the famous University of Oxbridge ; but he drove thither in 
 a well-appointed coach, filled inside and out with dons, gowns- 
 men, young freshmen about to enter, and their guardians, who 
 were conducting them to the university. A fat old gentleman, 
 in gray stockings, from tlie City, who sat by Major Pendennis 
 inside the coach, having his pale-faced son opposite, was fright- 
 ened beyond measure, when he heard that the coach had been 
 driven for a couple of stages by young Mr. Foker, of Saint Boni- 
 face College, who was the friend of all men, including coachmen, 
 and could drive as well as Tom Hicks himself. Pen sat on 
 the roof, examining coach, passengers, and country, with great 
 delight and curiosity. His heart jumped with pleasure as the 
 famous university came in view, and the magnificent prospect 
 of venerable towers and pinnacles, tall elms and shining river, 
 spread before him. I 
 
 Pen had passed a few days with his uncle at the Major's 
 lodgings, in Bury Street, before they set out for Oxbridge. 
 ]\Iajor Pendennis thought that the lad's wardrobe wanted re- 
 newal ; and Arthur was by no means averse to any plan which 
 was to bring him new coats and waistcoats. Tliere was no end 
 to the sacrifices which the self-denying uncle made in the youtli's 
 behalf. London was awfully lonely. " The Pall Mall pavement 
 was deserted ; the very red-jackets had gone out of town. There 
 was scarce a face to be seen in the bow- windows of the clubs. 
 The Major conducted his nephew into one or two of those desert 
 
 11
 
 162 PENDENNIS. 
 
 mansions, and wrote down the lad's name on the candidate-list 
 of one of them ; and Arthur's pleasure at this compliment on 
 his guardian's part was excessive. He read in the parchment 
 volume his name and titles, as " Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, of 
 Fairoaks Lodge, shire, and Saint Boniface College, Ox- 
 bridge ; proposed b}' Major Pendennis, and seconded by Vis- 
 count Colchicum," with a thrill of intense gratification. " You 
 will come in for ballot in about three years, by which time you 
 will have taken your degree," the guardian said. Pen longed 
 for the three j'cars to be over, and surveyed the stucco-halls, 
 and vast libraries, and drawing-rooms, as already his own prop- 
 erty. The Major laughed slyly to see the pompous airs of the 
 simple 3'ouug fellow, as he strutted out of the building. He 
 and Folcer drove down in the latter's cab one day to the Grey 
 Friars, and renewed acquaintance with some of their old com- 
 rades there. The boys came crowding up to the cab as it stood 
 by the Grey Friars gates, where the}' were entering, and ad- 
 mired the chestnut horse, and the tights and livery and gravity 
 of Stoopid, the tiger. The bell for afternoon-school rang as 
 the}' were swaggering about the play-ground talking to their old 
 cronies. The awful Doctor passed into school with his gi'ammar 
 in his hand. Foker slunk away uneasily at his presence, but 
 Pen went up blushing, and shook the dignitary by the hand. 
 He laughed as he thought that well-remembered Latin Grammar 
 had boxed his ears man}' a time. He was generous, good- 
 natured, and, in a word, perfectl}'^ conceited and satisfied with 
 himself. 
 
 Then they drove to the parental brew-house. Foker's En- 
 tire is composed in an enormous pile of buildings, not far from 
 the Grey Friars, and the name of that well-known firm is gilded 
 upon innumerable public-house signs, tenanted b}' its vassals in 
 the neighborhood : the venerable junior partner and manager 
 did honor to the young lord of the vats and his friend, and 
 served them with silver flagons of brown-stout, so strong, that 
 you would have thought, not onl}' the young men, but the very 
 horse Mr. Hany Foker drove, was affected b}' the potency of 
 the drink, for he rushed home to the west-end of the town at a 
 rapid pace, which endangered the pie-stalls and the women on 
 the crossings, and brought the cab-steps into collision with the 
 posts at the street corners, and caused Stoopid to swing fear- 
 fully on his board behind. 
 
 The Major was quite pleased when Pen was with his young 
 acquaintance ; listened to Mr. Foker's artless stories with the 
 greatest interest : gave the two hoys a fine dinner at a Covent
 
 PENDENNIS. 163 
 
 Garden Coffee-house, whence they proceeded to the play ; but 
 was above all happy wheu Mr. aud Lady Agnes Foker, who 
 happened to be in London, requested the pleasure of Major 
 Pendennis and Mr. Arthur Pendennis's company at dinner in 
 Grosvenor Street. "Having obtained the entree into Lady 
 Agnes Foker's house," he said to Pen with an affectionate sol- 
 emnity which befitted the importance of the occasion, "it be- 
 hoves 3-ou, my dear boy, to keep it. You must mind and nevei- 
 neglect to call in Grosvenor Street Avheu you come to London. 
 I recommend 3'ou to read up careful!}', in Debrett, the aUiances 
 and genealogy of the Earls of Rosherville, and if you can, to 
 make some trifling allusions to the family, something historical, 
 neat, and complimentar}-, and that sort of thing, which you, 
 who have a poetic fancy, can do prettj' well. Mr. Foker him- 
 self is a worth}' man, though not of high extraction or indeed 
 much education. He al\va3's makes a point of having some of 
 the family porter served round after dinner, which you will on 
 no account refuse, and which I shall drink myself, though all 
 beer disagrees with me confoundedl}'." And the heroic martyr 
 did actually sacrifice himself, as he said he would, on the day 
 when the dinner took place, and old Mr. Foker, at the head of 
 his table, made his usual joke about Foker's Entire. We 
 should all of us, I am sure, have liked to see the Major's grin, 
 when the worthy old gentleman made his time-honored joke. 
 
 Lady Agnes, who, wrapped up in Harry, was the fondest 
 of mothers, and one of the most good-naturfed though not the 
 wisest of women, received her son's friend with great cordiality ; 
 and astonished Pen by accounts of the severe course of studies 
 which her darling bo}^ was pursuing, and which she feared 
 might injure his dear health. Foker the elder burst into a 
 horse-laugh at some of these speeches, and the heir of the 
 house winked his eye ver}' knowingly at his friend. And Lady 
 Agnes then going through her son's history from the earliest 
 time, and recounting his miraculous sufierings in the measles 
 and whooping-cough, his escape from drowning, the shocking 
 tyraimies practised upon him at that horrid school, whither Mr. 
 Foker would send him because he had Ijeen brought up there him- 
 self, aud she never would forgive that disagreeable Doctor, no 
 never — Lady Agnes, we sa}', having prattled away for an hour 
 incessantly about her son, voted the two Messieurs Pendennis 
 most agreeable men ; and when the pheasants came with the 
 second course, which the Major praised as the very finest birds 
 he ever saw, her ladyship said tlipy came from Logwood (as 
 the Major knew perfect^ well) and hoped that they would both
 
 164 PENDENNIS. 
 
 paj' her a visit there — at Christmas, or when dear Harry was 
 at home for the vacations. 
 
 " God bless you, my dear bo}-," Pendennis said to Arthur, 
 as the}' were lighting their candles in Bury Street afterwards 
 to go to bed. "You made that little allusion to Agincoui't, 
 where one of the Roshervilles distinguished himself, very neatly 
 and well, although Lady Agnes did not quite understand it : 
 but it was exceedingly well for a beginner — though you 
 oughtn't to blush so, by the way — and I beseech j-ou, m}' dear 
 Arthur, to remember through life, that with an entree — with a 
 good entree^ mind — it is just as eas}' for you to have good 
 societ}' as bad, and that it costs a man, when properly intro- 
 duced, no more trouble or soins to keep a good footing in the 
 best houses in London than to dine with a lawyer in Bedford 
 Square. Mind this when 3'ou are at Oxbridge pursuing your 
 studies, and for Heaven's sake be very particular in the acquaint- 
 ances which you make. Tlie •premier pas in life is the most 
 important of all — did you write to 3^our mother to-day ? — No ? 
 — well, do, before 3'ou go, and call and ask Mr. Foker for a 
 frank — They like it — Good night. God bless j'ou." 
 
 Pen wrote a droll account of his doings in London, and the 
 plaj', and the visit to the old Friars, and the brewery, and the 
 party at Mr. Foker's, to his dearest mother, who was saying 
 her prayers at home in the lonelj- house at Fairoaks, her lieart 
 full of love and tenderness unutteral)le for the boy : and she 
 and Laura read tliat letter and those which followed, many, 
 many times, and brooded over them as women do. It was the 
 first step in life that Pen was making — Ah ! what a dangerous 
 journey it is, and how the bravest ma}' stumble and the strong- 
 est fail. Brother wayfarer ! may you have a kind arm to sup- 
 port yours on the path, and a fricndl}' hand to succor those 
 who fall beside you. May truth guide, mercy forgive at the 
 end, and love accompany always. Without that lamp how 
 blind the traveller would be, and how black and cheerless the 
 journey ! 
 
 So the coach drove up to that ancient and comfortable inn 
 the Trencher, which stands in Main Street, Oxbridge, and Pen 
 with delight and eagerness remarked, for the first time, gowns- 
 men going about, chapel bells clinlving (bells in Oxbridge are 
 ringing from morning-tide till even-song,) — towers and j^inna- 
 cles rising calm and stately over the gables and antique house- 
 roofs of the city. Previous communications had taken place 
 between Doctor Portman on Pen's part, and Mr. Buck, Tutor 
 of Boniface, on whose side Pen was entered ; and as soon a-s
 
 PENDENNIS. 165 
 
 Major Pendennis had aiTanged his personal appearance, so that 
 it should make a satisfactor}' impression upon Pen's tutor, the 
 pair walked down Main Street, and passed the great gate and 
 belfry-tower of Saint George's College, and so came, as they 
 were directed, to Saint Boniface, where again Pen's heart be- 
 gan to beat as they entered at the wicket of the venerable ivy- 
 mantled gate of the College. It is surmounted with an ancient 
 dome almost covered with creepers, and adorned witli the effigy 
 of the Saint from whom the House takes its name, and many 
 coats-of-arms of its royal and noble benefactors. 
 
 The porter pointed out a queer old tower at the corner of 
 the quadrangle, b}' which Mr. Buck's rooms were approached, 
 and the two gentlemen walked across the square, the main fea- 
 tures of wliich were at once and for ever stamped in Pen's mivid 
 — the prett}' fountain playing in the centre of the fair grass 
 plats ; the tall chapel windows and buttresses rising to the 
 right ; the hall, with its tapering lantern and oriel window ; the 
 lodge, from the doors of which the Master issued awfully in 
 rustling silks : the lines of the surrounding rooms pleasantly 
 broken b}' carved chimnej-s, gray turrets, and quaint gables — 
 all these Mr. Pen's e^^es drank in with an eagerness which 
 belongs to first impressions ; and Major Pendennis surve^-ed 
 with that calmness which belongs to a gentleman who does not 
 care for the picturesque, and whose eyes have been somewhat 
 dimmed by the constant glare of the pavement of Pall Mall. 
 
 Saint George's is the great College of the Universit}- of 
 Oxbridge, with its four vast quadrangles, and its beautiful hall 
 and gardens, and the Georgians, as the men are called, wear 
 gowns of a peculiar cut, and give themselves no small airs of 
 superiorit}' over all other young men. Little Saint Boniface 
 is but a petty hermitage in comparison of the huge consecrated 
 pile alongside of which it lies. But considering its size it has 
 always kept an excellent name in the university. Its ton is 
 veiy good : the best families of certain counties have time out 
 of mind sent up their young men to Saint Boniface : the college 
 livings are remarkably good, the fellowships eas\" ; the Boniface 
 men had had more than their fair share of university honors ; 
 their boat was third upon the river ; their chapel-choir is not 
 inferior to Saint George's itself; and the Boniface ale the best 
 in Oxbridge. In the comfortable old wainscoted College-Hall, 
 and round about Roubilliac's statue of Saint Boniface (who 
 stands in an attitude of seraphic benediction over the uncom- 
 monl}' good cheer of the fellows' table) there are portraits of 
 many most eminent Bonifacians. There is the learned Doctor
 
 166 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Griddle, who suffered in Henry VIII. 's time, and Archbishop 
 Bush who roasted him — there is Lord Chief Justice Hicks — 
 the Dulve of St. David's, K.G., Chancellor of the University 
 and Member of this College — Sprott the Poet, of whose fame 
 the college is justly proud — Doctor Blogg, the late master, and 
 friend of Doctor Johnson, who visited him at Saint Boniface — 
 and other lawyers, scholars, and divines, whose portraitures 
 look from the walls, or whose coats-of-arms shine in emerald 
 and ruby, gold and azure, in the tall windows of the refectory. 
 The venerable cook of the college is one of the best artists in 
 Oxbridge, and the wine in the fellows' room has long been 
 famed for its excellence and abundance. 
 
 Into this certainly not the least snugly sheltered arbor 
 amongst the groves of Academe, Pen now found his way, lean- 
 ing on his uncle's arm, and they speedilj^ reached Mr. Buck's 
 rooms, and were conducted into the apartment of that courteous 
 gentleman. 
 
 He had received previous information from Doctor Portman 
 regarding Pen, with respect to whose family, fortune, and per- 
 sonal merits the honest doctor had spoken with no small en- 
 thusiasm. Indeed Portman had described Arthur to the tutor 
 as ''a young gentleman of some fortune and landed estate, oi 
 one of the most ancient families in the kingdom, and possess- 
 ing such a character and genius as were sure, under proper 
 guidance, to make him a credit to the college and the univer- 
 sity-. " Under such recommendations, the tutor was, of course, 
 most cordial to the young freshman and his guardian, invited 
 the latter to dine in hall, where he would have the satisfaction 
 of seeing his nephew wear his gown and eat his dinner for the 
 first time, and requested the pair to take wine at his rooms 
 after hall, and in consequence of the highly' favorable report 
 he had received of Mr. Arthur Pendennis, said, he should be 
 happy to give him the best set of rooms to be had in college — 
 a gentleman-pensioner's set, indeed, which were just luckilj- 
 vacant. AVhen a College Magnate takes the trouble to be 
 polite, there is no man more splendidly- courteous. Immersed 
 in their books, and excluded from the world by the gravity of 
 their occupations, these reverend men assume a solemn mag- 
 nificence of compliment in which they rustle and swell as in their 
 grand robes of state. Those silks and brocades are not put on 
 for all comers or every day. 
 
 When the two gentlemen had taken leave of the tutor in his 
 study, and had returned to Mr. Buck's ante-room, or lecture- 
 room, a very handsome apartment, turkey carpeted, and hung
 
 PENDENNIS. 167 
 
 with excellent prints and richly framed pictiu'es, they found the 
 tutor's servant already in waiting there, accompanied by a man 
 with a bag lull of caps and a number of gowns, from which 
 Pen might select a cap and gown for himself, and the servant, 
 no doubt, would get a commission proportionable to the service 
 done b\' him. Mr. Pen was all in a tremor of pleasure as the 
 bustling tailor tried on a gown, and pronounced that it was an 
 excellent fit ; and then he put the pretty college cap on, in rather 
 a dandified manner, and somewhat on one side, as he had seen 
 Fiddicombe, the 3-oungest master at Gre^' Friars, wear it. 
 And he inspected the entire costume with a great deal of satis- 
 faction in one of the great gilt mirrors which ornamented JMr. 
 Buck's lecture-room : for some of these college divines are no 
 more above looking-glasses than a lady is, and look to the set 
 of their gowns and caps quite as anxiously as folks do of the 
 lovelier sex. 
 
 Then Davis, the skip or attendant, led the way, keys in 
 hand, across the quadrangle, the Major and Pen following him, 
 the latter blushing, and pleased with his new academical habili- 
 ments, across the quadrangle to the rooms which were destined 
 for the freshman ; and which were vacated by the retreat of the 
 gentleman-pensioner, Mr. Spicer. The rooms were very com- 
 fortable, with large cross beams, high wainscots, and small 
 windows in deep embrasures. Mr. Spicer's furniture was there, 
 and to be sold at a valuation, and Major Pendennis agreed on 
 his nephew's behalf to take the available part of it, laughingly 
 however declining (as, indeed. Pen did for his own part) six 
 sporting prints, and four groups of opera-dancers with gauze 
 draperies, which formed the late occupant's pictorial collection. 
 
 Then they went to hall, where Pen sat down and ate his 
 commons with his brother freshmen, and the Major took his 
 place at the high-table along with the college dignitaries and 
 other fathers or guardians of youth, who had come up with their 
 sons to Oxbridge ; and after all the}- went to Mr. Buck's to 
 take wine ; and after wine to chapel, where the Major sat with 
 great gravity in the upper place, having a fine view of the Mas- 
 ter in his carved throne or stall under the organ-loft, where 
 that gentleman, the learned Doctor Donne, sat magnificent, 
 with his great pra3'er-book before him, an image of statuesque 
 piety and rigid devotion. All the 3'oung freshmen behaved 
 with gravit}' and decorum, but Pen Avas shocked to see that 
 atrocious little Foker, who came in very late, and half a dozen 
 of his comrades in the gentlemen-pensioners' seats, giggling 
 and talking as if they had been in so many stalls at the Opera.
 
 168 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Pen could hardly sleep at night in his bedroom at the 
 Trencher : so anxious was he to begin his college life, and to 
 get into his own apartments. What did he think about, as he 
 ia}- tossing and awake ? Was it about his mother at home ; 
 the pious soul whose life was bound up in his? Yes, let us 
 hope he thought of her a little. Was it about Miss Fotherin- 
 gay, and his eternal passion, which had kept him awake so 
 many nights, and created such wretchedness and such longing? 
 He had a trick of blushing, and if you had been in the room, 
 and the candle had not been out, ^-ou might have seen the youth's 
 countenance redden more than once, as he broke out into pas- 
 sionate incoherent exclamations regarding that luckless event of 
 his life. His uncle's lessons had not been thrown awa}' Upon 
 him ; the mist of passion had passed from his eyes now, and he 
 saw her as she was. To think that he, Pendennis, had been en- 
 slaved by such a woman, and then jilted by her ! that he should 
 have stooped so low, to be trampled on in the mire ! that there 
 was a time in his life, and that but a few months back, when he 
 was willing to take Costigan for his father-in-law ! — 
 
 "Poor old Smirke ! " Pen presently laughed out — "well, 
 I'll write and tr^' and console the poor old boy. He won't die 
 of his passion, ha, ha ! " The Major, had he been awake, 
 might have heard a score of such ejaculations uttered by Pen 
 as he lay awake and restless through the first night of his resi- 
 dence at Oxbridge. 
 
 It would, perhaps, have been better for a youth, the battle 
 of whose life was going to begin on the morrow, to have passed 
 the eve in a ditferent sort of vigil : but the world had got hold 
 of Pen in the shape of his selfish old Mentor : and those who 
 have any interest in his character, mitst have perceived ere now, 
 that this lad was very weak as well as very impetuous, very 
 vain as well as very frank, and if of a generous disposition, 
 not a little selfish, in the midst of his profuseness, and also 
 rather fickle, as all eager pursuers of self-gratification are. 
 
 The six-months' passion had aged him very considerably. 
 There was an immense gulf between Pen the victim of love, 
 and Pen the innocent boy of eighteen, sighing after it : and so 
 Arthur Pendennis had all the experience and superiority, besides 
 that command which afterwards conceit and imperiousness of 
 disposition gave him over the young men with whom he now 
 began to live. 
 
 He and his uncle passed the morning with great satisfaction 
 in making purchases for the better comfort of the apartments 
 which the lad was about to occupy. Mr. Spicer's china and
 
 PENDENNIS. 169 
 
 glass were in a dreadfully dismantled condition, his lamps 
 smashed, and his book-cases by no means so spacious as those 
 shelves which would be requisite to receive the contents of the 
 boxes which were lying in the hall at Fairoaks, and which 
 were addressed to Arthur in the hand of poor Helen. 
 
 The boxes arrived in a few days, that his mother had packed 
 with so much care. Pen was touched as he read the superscrip- 
 tions in the dear well-known hand, and he arranged in their 
 proper places all the books, his old friends, and all the linen 
 and table-cloths which Helen had selected from the family stock, 
 and all the jam-pots which little Laura had bound in straw, and 
 the hundred simple gifts of home. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PENDENNIS OF BONIFACE. 
 
 Our friend Pen was not sorry when his Mentor took leave 
 of the 30ung gentleman on the second day after the arrival of 
 the pair in Oxbridge, and we ma}' be sure that the Major on 
 his part was very glad to have discharged his dut}', and to have 
 the dut}' over. More than three months of precious time had 
 that martyr of a Major given up to his nephew — Was ever 
 selfish man called upon to make a greater sacrifice ? Do you 
 know man}' men or Majors who would do as much? A man 
 will lay down his head, or peril his life for his honor, but let us 
 be shy how we ask him to give up his ease or his heart's desire. 
 Very few of us can bear that trial. Let us give the Major due 
 credit for his conduct during the past quarter, and own that he 
 has quite a right to be pleased at getting a holiday. Foker 
 and Pen saw him off in the coach, and the former youth gave 
 particular orders to the coachman to take care of that gentleman 
 inside. It pleased the elder Pendennis to have his nephew in 
 the company of a young fellow who would introduce him to the 
 best set of the university. The Major rushed ofl* to London 
 and thence to Cheltenham, from which watering-place he de- 
 scended upon some neighboring great houses, whereof the 
 families were not gone abroad, and where good shooting and 
 company were to be had. 
 
 We are not about to go throi>gh young Pen's academicaJ 
 career very minutely. Alas, tlic life of such boys doco not bear
 
 170 PENDENNIS. 
 
 tolling altogether. I wish it did. I ask yon, does 3'oiirs? As 
 long as what we call our honor is clear, 1 suppose your mind is 
 prett}' easy. Women are pure, but not men. Women are un- 
 selfish, but not men. And I would not wish to sa}- of poor 
 Arthur Pendennis that he was worse than his neighbors, only 
 that his neighbors are bad for the most part. Let us have the 
 candor to own as much at least. Can you point out ten spot- 
 less men of 3'our acquaintance? Mine is pretty large, but I 
 can't find ten saints in the list. 
 
 During the first term of Mr. Pen's university life, he attended 
 classical and mathematical lectures with tolerable assiduity ; 
 but discovering before ver^- long time that he had little taste or 
 genius for the pursuing of the exact sciences, and being perhaps 
 rather anno^^ed that one or two ver}' vulgar j'oung men, who 
 did not even use straps to their trousers so as to cover the 
 abominabl}" thick and coarse shoes and stockings which they 
 wore, beat him completel}' in the lecture-room, he gave up his 
 attendance at that course, and announced to his fond parent 
 that he proposed to devote himself exclusivel}' to the cultivation 
 of Greek and Roman Literature. 
 
 Mrs. Pendennis was, for her part, quite satisfied that her 
 darling boy should pursue that branch of learning for which he 
 had the greatest inclination ; and onlj- besought him not to ruin 
 his health by too much stud}-, for she had heard the most mel- 
 ancholv stories of young students who, by over fatigue, had 
 brought on brain-fevers and perished untimely in the midst of 
 their university career. And Pen's health, which was alwa3-s 
 delicate, was to be regarded, as she justl}' said, beyond all con- 
 siderations or vain honors. Pen, although not aware of any 
 lurking disease which was likely to endanger his life, 3'et kindh' 
 promised his mamma not to sit up reading too late of nights, 
 and stuck to his word in this respect with a great deal more 
 tenacit}^ of resolution than he exhibited upon some other occa- 
 sions, when perhaps he was a little I'emiss. 
 
 Presently he began too to find that he learned little good in 
 the classical lecture. His fellow-students there were too dull, 
 as in mathematics the3^ were too learned for him. Mr. Buck, 
 the tutor, was no better a scholar than many a fifth-form bo3' at 
 Gre3' Friars ; might have some stupid humdrum notions about 
 the metre and grammatical construction of a passage of ^sch3'- 
 lus or Aristophanes, but had no more notion of the poetr}* than 
 Mrs. Binge, his bed-maker ; and Pen grew wear3' of hearing 
 the dull students and tutor blunder through a few lines of a 
 play, which he could read in a tenth pai't of the time which they
 
 PENDENNIS. 171 
 
 gave to it. After all, private reading, as he began to perceive, 
 was the only study which was really profitable to a man ; and 
 he announced to his mamma that he should read by himself a 
 great deal more, and in pubhc a great deal less. That excel- 
 lent woman knew no more about Homer than she did about 
 Algebra, but she was quite contented with Pen's arrangements 
 regarding his course of studies, and felt perfectly confident that 
 her dear bo}' would get the place which he merited. 
 
 Pen did not come home until after Christmas, a little to the 
 fond mother's disappointment, and Laura's, who was longing 
 for him to make a fine snow fortification, such as he had made 
 three winters before. But he was iuAited to Logwood, Lady 
 Agnes Foker's, where there were private theatricals, and a gay 
 Christmas party of very fine folks, some of them whom Major 
 Pendennis would on no account have his nephew neglect. How- 
 ever, he sta3'ed at home for the last three weeks of the va- 
 cation, and Laura had the opportunity of remarking what a 
 quantilA' of fine new clothes he brought with him, and his 
 mother admhed his improved appearance and manly and de- 
 cided tone. 
 
 He did not come home at Easter ; but when he amved for 
 the long vacation, he brought more smart clothes ; appearing 
 in the morning in wonderful shooting-jackets, with remarkable 
 buttons ; and in the evening in gorgeous velvet waistcoats, 
 with richly embroidered cravats, and curious linen. And as 
 she pried about his room, she saw, oh, such a beautiful dressing- 
 case, with silver mountings, and a quantity' of lovely rings and 
 jewellery. And he had a new French watch and gold chain, in 
 place of the big old chronometer, with its bunch of jingling 
 seals, which had hung from the fob of John Pendennis, and by 
 the second-hand of which the defunct doctor had felt many a 
 patient's pulse in his time. It was but a few months back Pen 
 had longed for this watch, which he thought the most splendid 
 and august time-piece in the world ; and just before he went to 
 college, Helen had taken it out of her trinket-box (where it had 
 remained unwound since the death of her husband) and given 
 it to Pen with a solemn and appropriate little speech respecting 
 his father's virtues and the proper use of time. This portl}- 
 and valuable chronometer Pen now pronounced to be out of 
 date, and indeed, made some comparisons between it and a 
 warming-pan, which Laura thought disrespectful, and he left 
 the watch in a drawer, in the couipany of soiled prinu'ose gloves, 
 cravats which had gone out of favor, and of that other school 
 watch which has once before been mentioned in this history.
 
 172 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Our old friend, Rebecca, Pen pronounced to l)e no longer up to 
 his weiglit, and swapped her away for anotlicr and more power- 
 ful horse, for which he had to pay rather a heavy figure. Mrs. 
 Pendennis gave the boy the money for the new horse ; and Laura 
 cried when Rebecca was fetched away. 
 
 Also Pen brought a large box of cigars branded Color ados ^ 
 Afrancesados, Telescopies, Fudson Oxford Street, or by some 
 such strange titles, and began to consume these not only about 
 the stables and green-houses, where they were very good for 
 Helen's plants, but in his own study, — which practice his 
 mother did not at first approve. But he was at work upon a, 
 prize-poem, he said, and could not compose without his cigar, 
 and quoted the late lamented Lord Byron's lines in favor of the 
 custom of smoking. As he was smoking to such good purpose, 
 his mother could not of course refuse permission : in fact, the 
 good soul coming into the room one day in the midst of Pen's 
 labors (he was consulting a novel which had recently appeared, 
 for the cultivation of the light literature of his own country as 
 well as of foreign nations became every student) — Helen, we 
 say, coming into the room and finding Pen on the sofa at this 
 work, rather than disturb him went for a light-box and his 
 cigar-case to his bedroom which was adjacent, and actually 
 put the cigar into his mouth and lighted the match at which he 
 kindled it. Pen laughed, and kissed his mother's hand as it 
 hung fondly over the back of the sofa. " Dear old mother," he 
 said, " if I were to tell you to burn the house down, I think you 
 would do it." And it is very likely that Mr. Pen was right, 
 and that the foolish woman would have done almost as much 
 for him as he said. 
 
 Besides the works of English " light literature" which this 
 diligent student devoured, he brought down boxes of the light 
 literature of the neighboring country of France : into the leaves 
 of which when Helen dipped, she read such things as caused 
 her to open her eyes with wonder. But Pen showed her that 
 it was not he who made the books, though it was absolutely 
 necessary that he should keep up his French by an acquaint- 
 ance with the most celebrated writers of the day, and that it was 
 as clearly his duty to read the eminent Paul de Kock, as to 
 study Swift or MoUere. And Mrs. Pendennis yielded with a 
 sigh of perplexity. But Miss Laura was warned oiT the books, 
 both by his anxious mother, and that rigid moralist Mr. Arthur 
 Pendennis himself, who, however he might be called upon to 
 study ever}' branch of literature in order to form his mind and 
 to perfect his style, would by no means prescribe such a course
 
 PENDENNIS. 173 
 
 of reading to a young lady whose business in life was very 
 different. 
 
 In the course of this long A-acation Mr. Pen drank up the 
 bin of claret which his father had laid in, and of which we 
 have heard the son remark that there was not a headache in a 
 hogshead ; and this wine being exhausted, he wrote for a fur- 
 ther suppl}' to "his wine merchants," Messrs. Binne}' and 
 Latham of Mark Lane, London : from whom, indeed, old 
 Doctor Portman had recommended Pen to get a supply of 
 port and sherry on going to college. "You will have, no 
 doubt, to entertain your young friends at Boniface with wine 
 parties," the honest rector had remarked to the lad. " Thc\y 
 used to be customary' at college in my time, and I would ad- 
 vise you to emplo}- an honest and resi)ectable house in London 
 for 3'our small stock of wine, rather than to have recourse to 
 the Oxbridge tradesmen, whose liquor, if I remember rightly, 
 was both deleterious in quality and exorbitant in price." And 
 the obedient young gentleman took the Doctor's advice, and 
 patronized Messrs. Binney and Latham at the rector's sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 So when he wrote orders for a stock of wine to be sent down 
 to the cellars at Fairoaks, he hinted that Messrs. B. and L. 
 might send in his university account for wine at the same time 
 with the Fairoaks bill. The poor widow was frightened at the 
 amount. But Pen laughed at her old-fashioned views, said 
 that the bill was moderate, that ever^'body drank claret and 
 champagne now, and, finally, the widow paid, feeling dimly 
 that the expenses of her household were increasing considera- 
 bly, and that her narrow income would scarce suffice to meet 
 them. But they were onl}' occasional. Pen merely came home 
 for a few weeks at the vacation. Laura and she might pinch 
 when he was gone. In the brief time he was with them ought 
 they not to make him happy ? 
 
 Arthur's own allowances were liberal all this time ; indeed, 
 much more so than those of the sons of far more wealthy men. 
 Years before, the thrifty and affectionate Jolin Pendennis, 
 whose darling project it had ever been to give his son a uni- 
 versitv education, and those advantages of which his own 
 father's extravagance had deprived him, had begun laying by 
 a store of mone}- which he called Arthur's Education Fund. 
 Year after year in his book his executors found entries of 
 sums vested as A.E.F., and during the period subsequent to 
 her husband's decease, and before Pen's entr}' at college, the 
 widow had added sundry sums to this fund, so that when
 
 174 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Arthur went up to Oxbridge it reached no inconsiderable 
 amount. Let him be liberally allowanced, was Major Pen- 
 dennis's maxim. Let him make his first entree into the world 
 as a gentleman, and take his place with men of good rank and 
 station ; after giving it to him, it will be his own duty to hold 
 it. There is no such bad policy as stinting a boy — or putting 
 him on a lower allowance than his fellows. Arthur will have 
 to face the world and fight for himself presently-. Meanwhile 
 we shall have procured for him good friends, gentlemanly hab- 
 its, and have him well backed and well trained against the time 
 when the real struggle comes. And these liberal opinions the 
 Major probably advanced both because they were just, and be- 
 cause he was not dealing with his own mone}'. 
 
 Thus young Pen, the only son of an estated country gen- 
 tleman, with a good allowance, and a gentlemanlike bearing 
 and person, looked to be a lad of much more consequence thai\ 
 he was really ; and was held by the Oxbridge authorities, 
 tradesmen, and under-graduates, as quite a 3'oung buck and 
 member of the aristocracy'. His manner was frank, brave, 
 and perhaps a little impertinent, as becomes a high-spirited 
 3'outh. He was perfectly generous and free-handed with his 
 money, which seemed pretty plentiful. He loved jovialitj-, 
 and had a good voice for a song. Boat-racing had not risen 
 in Pen's time to the fureur which, as we are given to under- 
 stand, it has since attained in the university ; and riding and 
 tandem-driving were the fashions of the ingenuous youth. Pen 
 rode well to hounds, appeared in pink, as became a young 
 buck, and not particularly extravagant in equestrian or an^- 
 other amusement, 3'et managed to run up a fine bill at Nile's, 
 the livery stable-keeper, and in a number of other quarters. 
 In fact, this lucky young gentleman had almost CA-ery taste to 
 a considerable degree. He w\as very fond of books of all 
 sorts: Doctor Portman had taught h'im to like rare editions, 
 and his own taste led him to like beautiful bindings. It was 
 marvellous what tall copies, and gilding, and marbling, and 
 blind-tooling, the booksellers and binders put upon Pen's 
 book-shelves. He had a very fair taste in matters of art, and 
 a keen relish for prints of a high school — none of your 
 French Opera Dancers, or tawdry Racing Prints, such as had 
 delighted the simple eyes of Mr. Spicer, his predecessor — but 
 your Stranges, and Rembrandt-etchings, and Wilkies before 
 the letter, with which his apartments were furnished presently 
 in the most perfect good taste, as was allowed in the univer- 
 sity, where this young fellow^ got no small reputation. We
 
 PENDENNIS. 175 
 
 have mentioned that he cxhibilcd a certain pnrtialit}' for rings, 
 jewellery, and fine raiment of all sorts ; and it nnist be owned 
 that Mr. Pen, during his time at the university', was rather a 
 dress}- man, and loved to array himself in splendor. He and 
 his polite friends would dress themselves out with as much 
 care in order to go and dine at each other's rooms, as other 
 folks would who were going to enslave a mistress. The}' said 
 he used to wear rings over his kid gloves, which he always 
 denies ; but what follies will not youth perpetrate with its own 
 admirable gravity and simplicity? That he took perfumed 
 baths is a truth ; and he used to say that he took them after 
 meeting certain men of a ver}' low set in hall. 
 
 In Pen's second year, when Miss Fotheringay made her 
 chief hit in London, and scores of prints were published of her, 
 Pen had one of these hung in his bedroom, and confided to the 
 men of his set how awfnll}', how wildl}', how madl}', how pas- 
 sionatel}', he had loved that woman. He showed them in con- 
 fidence the verses that he had written to her, and his brow 
 would darken, his e^es roll, his chest heave with emotion as 
 he recalled that fatal period of his life, and described the woes 
 and agonies which he had suffered. The verses were copied 
 out, handed about, sneered at, admired, passed from coterie to 
 coterie. There are few things which elevate a lad in the esti- 
 mation of his brother boys, more than to have a character for 
 a gi-eat and romantic passion. Perhaps there is something 
 noble in it at all times — among very young men, it is con- 
 sidered heroic — Pen was pronounced a tremendous fellow. 
 The}' said he had almost committed suicide : that he had 
 fought a duel with a baronet about her. Freshmen pointed 
 him out to each other. As at the promenade time at two 
 o'clock he swaggered out of college, surrounded by his cronies, 
 he was famous to behold. He was elaborately attired. He 
 would ogle the ladies who came to lionize the University, and 
 passed before him on the arms of happy gownsmen, and give 
 his opinion upon their personal charms, or their toilettes, with 
 the gravity of a critic whose experience entitled him to speak 
 with authorit}'. Men used to say that they had been walking 
 with Pendennis, and were as pleased to be seen in his company 
 as some of us would be if we walked with a duke down Pall 
 Mall. He and the Proctor capped each other as they met, as 
 if they were rival powers, and the men hardly knew which was 
 the greater. 
 
 In fact, in the course of his second year, Arthur Pendennis 
 had become one of the men of fasliion in tlie universit}-. It is
 
 176 PENDENNIS. 
 
 curious to watch that facile admiration, and simple fidelity of 
 youth. They hang round a leader : and wonder at him, and 
 love him, and imitate him. No generous bo}' ever lived, I 
 suppose, that has not had some wonderment of admiration for 
 another boy ; and Monsieur Pen at Oxbridge had his school, 
 his faithful band of friends, and his rivals. When the 3'oung 
 men heard at the haberdashers' shops that Mr. Pendennis, of 
 Boniface, had just ordered a crimson satin cravat, 30U would 
 see a couple of dozen crimson satin cravats in Main Street in 
 the course of the week — and Simon, the Jeweller, was known 
 to sell no less than two gross of Pendennis pins, from a pat- 
 tern which the 3^oung gentleman had selected in his shop. 
 
 Now if any person with an arithmetical turn of mind will 
 take the trouble to calculate what a sum of money it would cost 
 a 3'Oung man to indulge freelj- in all the above propensities 
 which we have said Mr. Pen possessed, it will be seen that a 
 3'oung fellow, with such liberal tastes and amusements, must 
 needs in the course of two or three jears spend or owe a very 
 handsome sum of mone3\ We have said our friend Pen had 
 not a calculating turn. No one propensity of his was outra- 
 geously extravagant : and it is certain that Paddington's tailor's 
 account ; Guttlebury's cook's bill for dinners ; Dille}' Tandy's 
 bill with Finn, the print-seller, for Raphael-Morghens, and 
 Landseer proofs, and Wormall's dealings with Parkton, the 
 great bookseller, for Aldine editions, black-letter folios, and 
 richl}' illuminated Missals of the XVI. Centur}' ; and Snaffle's 
 or Foker's score with Nile the horse-dealer, were, each and all 
 of them, incomparably' greater than an}' little bills which Mr. 
 Pen might run up with the above-mentioned tradesmen. But 
 Pendennis of Boniface had the advantage over all these 3'oung 
 gentlemen, his friends and associates, of a universality of taste : 
 and whereas young Lord Paddington did not care two-pence for 
 tlie most beautiful print, or to look into any gilt frame that had 
 not a mirror within it ; and Guttlebury did not mind in the 
 least how he was dressed, and had an aversion for horse exer- 
 cise, nay a terror of it ; and Snaffle never read an}' printed 
 works but the " Racing Calendar," or "Bell's Life," or cared 
 for any manuscript except his greasy little scrawl of a betting- 
 book : — our catholic-minded young friend occupied himself in 
 every one of the branches of science or pleasure above-men- 
 tioned, and distinguished liimself tolerably in each. 
 
 Hence young Pen got a prodigious reputation in the univer- 
 sity, and was hailed as a sort of Crichton ; and as for the 
 English veBse prize, in competition for which we have Been him
 
 PENDENNIS. 177 
 
 busih' engaged at Fairoaks, Jones of Jesus carried it that year 
 certain!}', but tlie undergraduates thought Pen's a much finer 
 poem, and he had his verses printed at his own expense, and 
 distributed in gilt morocco covers amongst his acquaintance, 
 I found a copy of it lately in a dusty corner of Mr. Pen's book- 
 cases, and have it before me tliis minute, bound up in a collec- 
 tion of old Oxbridge tracts, university statutes, prize-poems by 
 successful and unsuccessful candidates, declamations recited in 
 the college chapel, speeches delivered at tlie Union Debating 
 Societ}-, and inscribed by Arthur with his name and college, 
 Pendennis — Boniface ; or presented to him by his affectionate 
 friend Thompson or Jackson, the author. How strange the 
 epigraphs look in those half-boyish hands, and what a thrill the 
 sight of the documents gives one after the lapse of a few lus- 
 tres ! How fate, since that time, has removed some, estranged 
 others, dealt awfully with all. Many a hand is cold that wrote 
 those kindly memorials, and that we pressed in the confident 
 and generous grasp of youthful friendship. What passions our 
 friendships were in those old days, how artless and void of 
 doubt ! How the arm you were never tired of having linked in 
 3'ours under the fair college avenues or by the river side, where 
 it washes Magdalen Gardens, or Christ Church Meadows, or 
 winds by Trinity and King's, was withdrawn of necessity, when 
 you entered presently the world, and each parted to push and 
 struggle for himself through the great mob on the way through 
 life ! Are we the same men now that wrote those inscriptions 
 — that read those poems ? that delivered or heard those essays 
 and speeches so simple, so pompous, so ludicrously solemn ; 
 parodied so artlessly from books, and spoken with smug chubb}^ 
 faces, and such an admirable aping of wisdom and gravity? 
 Here is the book before me : it is scarcely fifteen years old. 
 Here is Jack moaning with despair and Byronic misanthropy, 
 whose career at the university was one of unmixed milk-punch. 
 Here is Tom's daring Essa}' in defence of suicide and of repub- 
 licanism in general, apropos of the death of Eoland and the 
 Girondins — Tom's, who wears the starchest tie in all the 
 diocese, and would go to Smithfield rather that eat a beefsteak 
 
 on a Friday in Lent. Here is Bob, of the Circuit, who 
 
 has made a fortune in Railroad Committees, — bellowing out 
 with Tancred and Godfrey, "On to the breach, ye soldiers of 
 the cross. Scale the red wall and swim the choking foss. Ye 
 dauntless archers, twang your cross-bows well ; On, bill and- 
 battle-axe and mangonel ! Ply battering-ram and Imrtling 
 catapult, Jerusalem is ours — id Deus vult." After which comes 
 
 12
 
 178 PENDENNIS. 
 
 a mellifluous description of the gardens of Sharon and the maids 
 of Salem, and a prophecy that roses shall deck the entire coun- 
 try of Syria, and a speedy reign of peace be established — all 
 in undeniably decasyllabic lines, and the queerest aping of 
 sense and sentiment and poetr}-. And there are Essa3's and 
 Poems along with these grave parodies, and boyish exercises 
 (which are at once frank and false, and so mirthful, yet, some- 
 how, so mournful), by youthful hands, that shall never write 
 more. Fate has interposed darkly, and the young voices are 
 silent, and the eager brains have ceased to work. This one 
 had genius and a great descent, and seemed to be destined for 
 honors which now are of little worth io him : that had virtue, 
 learning, genius — every facult3' and endowment which might 
 secure love, admiration, and worldly fame : an obscure and 
 solitary churchyard contains the grave of many fond hopes, and 
 the pathetic stone which bids them farewell. I saw the sun 
 shining on it in the fall of last year, and heard the sweet village 
 choir raisina; anthems round about. What boots whether it be 
 Westminster or a little country spire which covers your ashes, 
 or if, a few days sooner or later, the world forgets you ? 
 
 Amidst these friends then, and a host more. Pen passed more 
 than two brilliant and happy years of his life. He had his fill 
 of pleasure and popularity. No dinner or supper party was 
 complete without him ; and Pen's jovial wit, and Pen's songs, 
 and dashing courage, and frank and manly bearing, charmed all 
 the undergraduates. Though he became the favorite and leader 
 of young men who were much his superiors in wealth and 
 station, he was much too generous to endeavor to propitiate 
 them by an}^ meanness or cringing on his own part, and would 
 not neglect the humblest man of his acquaintance in order to 
 curry favor with the richest young grandee in the university. 
 His name is still remembered at the Union Debating Club, as 
 one of the brilliant orators of his da}'. By the way, from having 
 been an ardent Tory in his Freshman's year, his j^rinciples took 
 a sudden turn afterwards, and he became a liberal of the most 
 violent order. He avowed himself a Dantonist, and asserted 
 that Louis the Sixteenth was served right. And as for Charles 
 the First, he vowed that he would chop off that monarch's head 
 with his own right hand were he then in the room at the Union 
 Debating Club, and had Cromwell no other executioner for the 
 traitor. He and Lord Magnus Charters, the Marquis of Run- 
 nymede's son, before mentioned, were the most truculent repub- 
 licans of their day. 
 
 There are reputations of this sort made quite independent of
 
 PENDEXXIS. 179 
 
 the collegiate hicrarchj-, in the republic of fjownsmen. A man 
 may be famous in the Honor-lists and entirely unknown to the 
 undergraduates : who elect kings and chieftains of their own, 
 whom the}' admire and obey, as negro-gangs have private black 
 sovereigns in their own body, to whom the}' pay an occult 
 obedience, besides that which they publich' profess for their 
 owners and drivers. Among the young ones Pen became fa- 
 mous and popular : uot that he did much, but there was a 
 general determination that he could do a great deal if he chose. 
 " Ah, if Pendennis of Boniface would but tr}'," the men said, 
 " he might do anything." He was backed for the Greek Ode 
 won by Smith of Trinity ; everybod}' was sure he would have 
 the Latin hexameter prize which Brown of St. John's, however, 
 carried off, and in this way one uuiversit}* honor after another 
 was lost by him, until, after two or three failures, Mr. Pen ceased 
 to compete. But he got a declamation prize in his own college, 
 and brought home to his mother and Laura at Fairoaks a set 
 of prize-books begilt with the college arms, and so big, well- 
 bound, and magnificent, that these ladies thought there had 
 been no such prize ever given in a college before as this of 
 Pen's, and that he had won the verj' largest honor which Ox- 
 bridge was capable of awarding. 
 
 As vacation after vacation and term after term passed away 
 without the desired news that Pen had sat for any scholarship 
 or won an}' honor. Doctor Portraan grew mightily gloomy ir 
 his behavior towards Arthur, and adopted a sulky grandeur o« 
 deportment towards him, which the lad returned by a similar 
 haughtiness. One vacation he did not call upon the Doctor at 
 all, much to his mother's annoyance, who thought that it was a 
 privilege to enter the Rectory-house at Clavering, and listened 
 to Dr. Portman's antique jokes and stories, though ever so 
 often repeated, with unfailing veneration. " I cannot stand the 
 Doctor's pati'onizing air," Pen said. '' He's too kind to me, a 
 great deal too fatherly. I have seen in the world better men 
 than him, and I am not going to bore myself by listening to 
 his dull old stories." The tacit feud between Pen and the 
 Doctor made the widow nervous, so that she too avoided 
 Portman, and was afraid to go to the Rectory when Arthur was 
 nt home. 
 
 One Sunday in the last long vacation, the wretched boy 
 pushed his rebellious spirit so far as not to go to church, and 
 he was seen at the gate of the Clavering Arms smoking a 
 cigar, in the face of the congregation as it issued from St. 
 Mary's. There was an awful sensation in the village society,
 
 180 PENDENNTS. 
 
 Portmun prophesied Pen's ruin after that, and groaned in spirit 
 over the n-belhous young prodigal. 
 
 So did Helen tremble in her heart, and little Laura — Laura 
 had grown to be a fine young stripling b}' this time, graceful 
 and fair, clinging round Helen and worshipping her, with a pas- 
 sionate affection. Both of these women felt that their boy was 
 changed. He was no longer the artless Pen of old days, so 
 brave, so artless, so impetuous, and tender. His face looked 
 cai-eworn and haggard, his voice had a deeper sound, and tones 
 more sarcastic. Care seemed to be pursuing him ; but he only 
 laughed when his mother questioned him, and parried her 
 anxious queries with some scornful jest. Nor did he spend 
 much of his vacations at home ; he went on visits to one 
 great friend or another, and scared the quiet pair at Fairoaks 
 by stories of great houses whither he had been invited, and by 
 talking of lords without their titles. 
 
 Honest Harry Foker, who had been the means of introducing 
 Arthur Pendennis to that set of young men at the university, 
 from whose society and connections Arthur's uncle expected 
 that the lad would get so much benefit ; who had called for 
 Arthur's first song at his first supper-party ; and who had pre- 
 sented him at the Barmecide Club, where none but the very 
 best men of Oxbridge were admitted (it consisted in Pen's time 
 of six noblemen, eight gentlemen-pensioners, and twelve of the 
 most select commoners of the universit}'), soon found himself 
 left far behind by the 3'oung freshman in the fashionable world 
 of Oxbridge, and being a generous and worthy fellow, without 
 a spark of envy in his composition, was exceedingl}' pleased at 
 the success of his 3'oung protege, and admired Pen quite as much 
 as any of the other youth did. It was he who followed Pen now, 
 and (]uoted his sayings ; learned his songs, and retailed them 
 at minor supper-parties, and was never wear}^ of hearing them 
 from the gifted young poet's own mouth — for a good deal of 
 the time which Mr. Pen might have emplo3'ed much more ad- 
 vantageousl}' in the pursuit of the regular scholastic studies, 
 was given up to the composition of secular ballads, which he 
 sang about at parties according to university wont. 
 
 It had been as well for Arthur if the honest Foker had re- 
 mained for some time at college, for, with all his vivacity, he 
 was a prudent 3'oung man, and often curbed Pen's propensity 
 to extravagance : but Foker's collegiate career did not last very 
 long after Arthur's entrance at Boniface. Repeated differences 
 "srith the universit}' authorities caused Mr. Foker to quit Ox- 
 bridge in an untimel}' manner. He would persist in attending
 
 PENDENNIS. 181 
 
 races on the neighboring Hnngerford Heath, in spite of the 
 injunctions of his academic superiors. He never could be got 
 to frequent the cliapel of the college with that regularit}- of 
 piety which Alma Mater demands from her children ; tandems, 
 which are abominations in the e^es of the heads and tutors, 
 were. Foker's greatest delight, and so reckless was his driving 
 and frequent the accidents and upsets out of his drag, that 
 Pen called taking a drive with him taking the '' Diversions of 
 Purley ; " finally, having a dinner-party at his rooms to entertain 
 some friends froju London, nothing would satisfy' Mr. Foker 
 but painting Mr. Buck's door vermilion, in which freak he was 
 cauglit by the proctor ; and although young Black Strap, the 
 celebrated negro-fighter, who was one of Mr. Foker's distin- 
 guished guests, and was holding the can of paint while the 
 young artist operated on the door, knocked down two of the 
 proctor's attendants and performed prodigies of valor, 3'et these 
 feats rather injured than served Foker, whom the proctor knew 
 ver3' well and who was taken with the brush in his hand, sum- 
 mawly convened and sent down from the universit}'. 
 
 The tutor wrote a ver}' kind and leeling letter to Lady Agnes 
 on the subject, stating that everybody was fond of the youth ; 
 that he never meant harm to any mortal creature ; that he for 
 his own part would have been delighted to pardon the harmless 
 little boyish frolic, had not its unhappy publicity rendered it 
 impossible to look the freak over, and breathing the most fervent 
 wishes for the 3'oung fellow's welfare — wishes no doubt sincere, 
 for Foker, as we know, came of a noble famil}' on his mother's 
 side, and on the other was heir to a great number of thousand 
 pounds a 3'ear. 
 
 " It don't matter," said Foker, talking over the matter with 
 Pen, — "a little sooner or a little later, what is the odds? I 
 should have been plucked for m^' little go again, I know I 
 should — that Latin I cannot screw into my head, and my 
 mamma's anguish would have broken out next term. The Gov- 
 ernor will blow like an old grampus, I know he will, — well, 
 we must stop till he gets his wind again. I shall probably go 
 abroad and improve my mind with foreign travel. Yes, parly 
 voo's the ticket. It'ly, and that sort of thing. I'll go to Paris, 
 and learn to dance and complete m}' education. But it's not 
 me I'm anxious about. Pen. As long as people drink beer I 
 don't care, — it's about 30U I'm doubtful, my bo}'. You're 
 going too fast, and can't keep up the pace, I tell 3'ou. It's not 
 the fifty you owe me, — pa3' it or not when you like, — but it's 
 the every-da3' pace, and I tell you it will kill 3'ou. Y«u're
 
 182 PENDENNTS. 
 
 livin' as if there was no end to the money in the stockin' at 
 iiorae. You ouohtn't to give dinners, you ought to eat 'em. 
 Fellows are glad to have 3'ou. You oughtn't to owe horse 
 \.;Ms, you ought to ride other chaps' nags. You know no more 
 about'betting than 1 do about algebra : the chaps will win your 
 money as sure as you sport it. Hang me if you are not try- 
 iug at everything. 1 saw you sit down to ecarte. last week at 
 Trumpington's, and taking your turn with the laones after Ring- 
 wood's supper. They'll beat you at it, Pen, my boy, even if 
 they play on the square, which I don't say they don't, noi- 
 which I don't say they do, mind. But / won't play with 'em. 
 You're no match for 'em. You ain't up to their weight. It's 
 like little Black Strap standing up to Tom Spring, — the Black's 
 a pretty fighter, but, Law bless you, his arm ain't long enough 
 to touch Tom, — and I tell you, you're going it with fellers 
 beyond your weight. Look here — If you'll promise me never 
 to bet nor touch a box nor a card, I'll let 3'ou oflT the two 
 ponies." 
 
 But Pen, laughingly, said, "that though it wasn't conven- 
 ient to him to pay the two ponies at that moment, he by no 
 means wished to be let off any just debts he owed ; " and he and 
 Foker parted, not without many dark forebodings on the lattei-'s 
 part with regard to his friend, who Harry thought was travelling 
 speedil}' on the road to ruin. 
 
 *'One must do at Rome as Rome does," Pen said, in a 
 dandified manner, jingling some sovereigns in his waistcoat 
 pocket. "A little quiet play at icarU can't hurt a man who 
 plaj's prett}' well — I came away fourteen sovereigns richer from 
 Ringwood's supper, and, gad! I wanted the money." — And 
 he walked off, after having taken leave of poor Foker, who went 
 away without any beat of drum, or ofl'er to drive the coach out 
 of Oxbridge, to superintend a little dinner which he was going 
 to give at his own rooms in Boniface, about which dinners, the 
 cook of the college, who had a great respect for Mr. Pendennis, 
 always took especial pains for his 3'oung favorite.
 
 PENDENNIS. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 rake's progress. 
 
 So in Pen's second year Major Pendennis paid a brief visit 
 bo his nephew^ and was introduced to several of Pen's universit}' 
 friends — tlie gentle and polite Lord Plinlimmon, the gallant 
 and open-hearted Magnus Charters, the sly and witt^' Harland ; 
 the intrepid Ivingwood, who was called Rupert in the Union 
 Debating Club, from his opinions and the braver^' of his blun- 
 ders ; Broadbent, styled Barebones Broadbent from the repub- 
 lican nature of his opinions (he was of a dissenting family from 
 Bristol, and a perfect Boanerges of debate) ; and Bloundell- 
 Bloundell, whom Mr. Pen entertained at a dinner whereof his 
 uncle was the chief guest. 
 
 The Major said, " Pen, m}' boy, your dinner went off a 
 merveille ; you did the honors very nicel}'^ — you carved well — 
 I am glad you learned to carve — it is done on the side-board 
 now in most good houses, but is still an important point, and 
 ma}^ aid 3'ou in middle-life — young Lord Plinlimmon is a verv 
 amiable young man, quite the image of his dear mother (whom 
 I knew as Lady Aquila Brownbill) ; and Lord Magnus's repub- 
 licanism will wear off — it sits prettily enough on a 3'oung 
 patrician in earl}^ life, though nothing is so loathsome among 
 persons of our rank — Mr. Broadbent seems to have much elo- 
 quence and considerable reading , your friend Foker is always 
 delightful ; but your acquaintance, Mr. Bloundell, struck me as 
 in all respects a most ineligible young man." 
 
 " Bless my soul, sir, Bloundell-Bloundell ! " cried Pen, laugh- 
 ing: " why, sir, he's the most popular man of the university. 
 
 He was in the Dragoons before he came up. We elected 
 
 him of the Barmecides the first week he came up — had a 
 special meeting on purpose — he's of an excellent family — 
 .Suffolk Bloundells, descended from Richard's Blondel, bear a 
 harp in chief — and motto O Mong Roy." 
 
 " A man may have a very good coat-of-arms, and be a tiger, 
 my boy," the Major said, chipping his egg; ''that man is a 
 tiger, mark m}- word — a low man. I will la}- a wager that ho 
 left his regiment, which was a good one (for a more respectable 
 man than my friend, Lord Martingale, never sat in a saddle) , 
 in bad odor. There is the unmistakable look of slang and bad
 
 184 PENDENNIS. 
 
 habits about this Mr. Bloundell. He frequents low gambhng- 
 houses and billiard hells, sir — he haunts third-rate clubs — I 
 know he does. I know by his style. I never was mistaken in 
 my man yet. Did 3'ou remark the quantit}^ of rings and jew- 
 ellery he wore ? That person has Scamp written on his counte- 
 nance, if an}- man ever had. Mark my words and avoid him. 
 Let us turn the conversation. Tlie dinner was a leetle too fine, 
 but I don't object to your making a few extra /rms when you 
 receive friends. Of course you don't do it often, and only those 
 whom it is your interest to fker. The cutlets were excellent, 
 and the souffie uncommonly light and good. The third bottle 
 of champagne w^as not necessary ; but you have a good income, 
 and as long as 30U keep within it, I shall not quarrel with you, 
 my dear bo}." 
 
 Poor Pen ! the worth}- uncle little knew how often those 
 dinners took place, while the reckless young Amphitryon de- 
 lighted to show his hospitality and skill in gourmandise . There 
 is no art about which boys are more anxious to have an air of 
 knowingness. A taste and knowledge of wines and cookery 
 appears to them to be the sign of an accomplished roue and 
 manly gentleman. Pen, in his character of Admirable Crichton , 
 thought it necessary to be a great judge and practitioner of 
 dinners ; we have just said how the college cook respected him, 
 and shall soon have to deplore that that worthy man so blindly 
 trusted our Pen. In the third year of the lad's residence at 
 Oxbridge, his staircase was by no means encumbered with 
 dish-covers and desserts, and waiters carrying in dishes, and 
 skips opening iced champagne ; crowds of different sorts of 
 attendants, with faces sulky or piteous, hung about the outer 
 oak, and assailed the unfortunate lad as he issued out of his 
 den. 
 
 Nor did his guardian's advice take any effect, or induce Mr. 
 Pen to avoid the society of the disreputable Mr. Bloundell. 
 
 The 3'oung magnates of the neighboring great College of 
 St. George's, who regarded Pen, and in whose societ}' he lived, 
 were not taken in by Bloundell's flashy graces, and rakish airs 
 of fashion. Broadbent called him Captain Macheath, and said 
 he would live to be hanged. Foker, during his brief stay at 
 the university with Macheatli, with characteristic caution, de- 
 clined to say anything in the Captain's disfavor, but hinted to 
 Pen that he had better have him for a partner at whist than 
 play against him, and better back him at ecarte than bet on the 
 other side. " You see, he plays better than 3-ou do. Pen," was 
 the astute young gentleman's remark: "he plays uncommon
 
 raXDENOTS. 185 
 
 well, the Captain docs ; — and Pen, I wouldn't take the odds 
 too freely from him, if I was you. I don't think he's too flush 
 of money, the Captain ain't." But beyond these dark sug- 
 gestions and generalities, the cautious Foker could not be got 
 to speak. 
 
 Not that his advice would have had more weight with a 
 headstrong joung man, than advice commonly has with a lad 
 who is determined on pursuing his own way. Pen's appetite 
 for pleasure was insatiable, and he rushed at it wherever it pre- 
 sented itself, with an eagerness which bespoke his fiery consti- 
 tution and 3'outhful health. He called taking pleasure " seeing 
 life," and quoted well-known maxims from Terence, from Hor- 
 ace, from Shakspeare, to show that one should do all that 
 might become a man. He bade fair to be utterly used up and 
 a roue^ in a few years, if he were to continue at the pace at 
 which he was going. 
 
 One night after a supper-party in college, at which Pen and 
 Macheath had been present, and at which a little quiet vingt-et- 
 un had been played, as the men had taken their caps and were 
 going away, after no great losses or winnings on any side, Mr. 
 Bloundell playfully took up a green wine-glass from the supper- 
 table, which had been destined to contain iced cup, but into 
 which he inserted something still more pernicious, namely a 
 pair of dice, which the gentleman took out of his waistcoat 
 pocket, and put into the glass. Then giving the glass a grace- 
 ful wave which showed that his hand was quite experienced in 
 the throwing of dice, he called seven's the main, and whisking 
 the ivory cubes gently on the table, swept them up lightly again 
 from the cloth, and repeated this process two or three times. 
 The other men looked on, Pen, of course, among the number, 
 who had never used the dice as yet, except to play a humdrum 
 game of backgammon at home. 
 
 Mr. Bloundell, who had a good voice, began to troll out the 
 chorus from " Robert the Devil," an Opera then in great vogue, 
 in which chorus many of the men joined, especially Pen, who 
 was in very high spirits, having won a good number of shillings 
 a»d half-crowns at the vingt-et-un — and presenth', instead of 
 going home, most of the party were seated round the table 
 playing at dice, the green glass going round from hand to hand 
 until Pen finally shivered it, after throwing six mains. 
 
 From that night Pen plunged into the delights of the game 
 of hazard, as eagerh' as it was his custom to pursue any new 
 pleasure. Dice can be played of mornings as well as after 
 dinner or supper. Bloundell would come into Pen's rooms 
 
 "^ ~ 7
 
 186 PENDENNIS. 
 
 after breakfast, and it was astonishing how quick the time 
 passed as the bones were rattling. They had little quiet parties 
 with closed doors, and Bloundell devised a box lined with felt, 
 so that the dice should make no noise, and their tell-tale rattle 
 not bring the sharp-eared tutors up to the rooms. Bloundell, 
 Ringwood, and Pen were once very nearly caught by Mr. Buck, 
 who° passing in the Quadrangle, thought he heard the words 
 " Two to one on the caster," through Pen's open window ; but 
 when the tutor got into Arthur's rooms he found the lads with 
 three Homers before them, and Pen said, he was trying to 
 coach the two other men, and asked Mr. Buck with great 
 gi-avity what was the present condition of the River Scamander, 
 and whether it was navigable or no ? 
 
 Mr. Arthur Pendennis did not win much money in these 
 transactions with Mr. Bloundell, or indeed gain good of any 
 kind except a knowledge of the odds at hazard, which he 
 might have learned out of books. 
 
 One Easter vacation, when Pen had announced to his 
 mother and uncle his intention not to go down, but stay at 
 Oxbridge and read, Mr. Pen was nevertheless induced to take 
 a brief visit to London in company with his friend Mr. Bloun- 
 dell. They put up at a hotel in Covent Garden, where Bloun- 
 dell had a"tick, as he called it, and took the pleasures of the 
 town very freely after the wont of young university men. 
 Bloundell still belonged to a military club, whither he took 
 Pen to dine once or twice (the young men would drive thither 
 in a cab, trembling lest they should meet Major Pendennis on 
 his beat in Pall Mall), and here Pen was introduced to a num- 
 ber of gallant young fellows with spurs and mustachios, with 
 whom he drank pale-ale of mornings and beat the town of a 
 aight. Here he saw a deal of life, indeed : nor in his career 
 about the theatres and singing-houses which these roaring 
 young blades frequented, was he very likely to meet his guar- 
 dian. One night, nevertheless, they were ver}' near to each 
 other : a plank only separating Pen, who was in the boxes of 
 the Museum Theatre, from the Major, who was in Lord Steyne's 
 box, along with that venerated nobleman. The Fotheringay 
 was in the pride of her glory. She had made a hit : that is, 
 she had drawn very good houses for nearly a year, had starred 
 the provinces with great eclat, had come back to shine in Lon- 
 don with somewhat diminished lustre, and now was acting with 
 "ever increasing attraction, &c.," "triumph of the good old 
 British drama," as tlie play-bills avowed, to houses in which 
 there was plenty of room for anybody' who wanted to see her.
 
 PENDENNIS. 187 
 
 It was not the first time Pen had seen her, since that memo>- 
 rable day when the two had parted in Chatteris. In the pre- 
 vious year, when the town was making much of her, and the 
 press lauded her beauty, Pen had found a pretext for coming 
 to London in term-time, and had rushed off to the theatre to 
 see his old flame. He i-ecollected it rather than renewed it. 
 He remembered how ardently he used to be on the look-out at 
 Chatteris, when the speech before Ophelia's or Mrs. Haller's 
 entrance on the stage was made by the proper actor. Now, as 
 the actor spoke, he had a sort of feeble thrill : as the house 
 began to thunder with applause, and Ophelia entered with her 
 old bow and sweeping curtsy, Pen felt a slight shock and 
 blushed ver^- much as he looked at her, and could not help 
 thinking that all the house was regarding him. He hardly 
 heard her for the first part of the play : and he thought with such 
 rage of the humiUation to which she had subjected him, that 
 he began to fancy he was jealous and in love with her still. 
 But that illusion did not last very long. He ran round to the 
 stage door of the theatre to see her if possible, but he did 
 not succeed. She passed indeed under his nose with a female 
 companion, but he did not know her, — nor did she recognize 
 him. The next night he came in late, and stayed very quietly 
 for the after-piece, and on the third and last night of his stay in 
 London — whj' Taglioni was going to dance at the Opera, — 
 Taglioni ! and there was to be Don Giovanni, which he admired 
 of all things in the world : so Mr. Pen went to Don Giovanni 
 and Taglioni. 
 
 This time the illusion about her was quite gone. She was 
 not less handsome, but she was not the same, somehow. The 
 light was gone out of her eyes which used to flash there, or 
 Pen's no longer were dazzled by it. The rich voice spoke as of 
 old, yet it did not make Pen's bosom thrill as formerly. He 
 thought he could recognize the brogue underneath : the accents 
 seemed to him coarse and false. It annoyed him to hear the 
 same emphasis on the same words, onlj- uttered a little louder : 
 worse than this, it annoyed him to think that he should ever 
 have mistaken that loud imitation for genius, or melted at those 
 mechanical sobs and sighs. He felt that it was in another life 
 almost, that it Avas another man who had so madly loved her. 
 He was ashamed and bitterly humiliated, and very lonely. Ah, 
 poor Pen ! the delusion is better than the truth sometimes, and 
 fine dreams than dismal M^aking. 
 
 They went and liad an uproarious sijpper that night, 
 *nd Mr. Pea had a fine headache *J[ie next morning, with
 
 188 PENDENNIS. 
 
 which he went back to Oxbridge, having spent all his readj 
 money. 
 
 As all this narrative is taken from Pen's own confessions, so 
 that the reader may be assured of the truth of every word of 
 it, and as Pen himself never had any accurate notion of the 
 manner in which he spent his money, and plunged himself in 
 much deeper pecuniary difficulties, during his luckless residence 
 at Oxbridge Universit}^ it is, of course, impossible for me to 
 give any accurate account of his involvements, beyond that 
 general notion of his way of life, which we have sketched a 
 few pages back. He does not speak too hardly of the roguery 
 of the university tradesmen, or of those in London whom he 
 honored with his patronage at the outset of his career. Even 
 Finch, the money-lender, to whom Bloundell introduced him, 
 and with whom he had various transactions, in which the 3'oung 
 7ascars signature appeared upon stamped paper, treated him, 
 according to Pen's own account, with forbearance, and never 
 mulcted him of more than a hundred per cent. The old college- 
 cook, his fervent admirer, made him a private bill, offered to 
 send him in dinners up to the very last, and never would have 
 pressed his account to his dying day. There was that kindness 
 and frankness about Arthur Pendennis, which won most people 
 who came in contact with him, and which, if it rendered him 
 an easj'^ prey to rogues, got him, perhaps, more good will than 
 he merited from manj- honest men. It was impossible to resist 
 his good-nature, or, in his worst moments, not to hope for his 
 rescue from utter ruin. 
 
 At the time of his full career of university pleasure, he 
 would leave the ga^-est party to go and sit with a sick friend. 
 He never knew the difference between small and great in the 
 treatment of his acquaintances, however much the unlucky 
 lad's tastes, which were of the sumptuous order, led him to 
 prefer good society ; he was onl}^ too ready to share his guinea 
 iwith a poor friend, and when he got money had an irresistible 
 propensit}^ for paj'ing, which he never could conquer through 
 life. 
 
 In his third year at college, the duns began to gather awfully 
 round about him, and there was a levee at his oak which scan- 
 dalized the tutors, and would have scared many a stouter heart. 
 With some of these he used to battle, some he would bully 
 (under Mr. Bloundell's directions, who was a master in this 
 art, though he took a degree in no other) , and some depre- 
 cate. And it is reported of him that little Mary Frodsham, the 
 daughter of a certain poor gilder and frame-maker, whom Mr.
 
 PENDENNIS. 189 
 
 Pen had thought fit to emplo}', and who had made a number of 
 beautiful frames for his fine prints, coming to Pendennis with a 
 piteous tale that her father was ill with ague, and that there 
 was an execution in their house, Pen in an anguish of remorse 
 rushed away, pawned his grand watch and ever}' single article 
 of jeweller}- except two old gold sleeve-buttons, which had 
 belonged to his father, and rushed with the proceeds to Frod- 
 sham's shop, where, with tears in his e3-es, and the deepest re- 
 pentance and humiUty, he asked the poor tradesman's pardon. 
 
 This, young gentlemen, is not told as an instance of Pen's 
 virtue, but rather of his weakness. It would have been much 
 more virtuous to have had no prints at all. He still owed for 
 the baubles which he sold in order to pay Frodsham's bill, and 
 his mother had cruellj- to pinch herself in order to discharge 
 the jewellers' account, so that she was in the end the sufferer 
 b}' the lad's impertinent fancies and follies. We are not 
 presenting Pen to 3'ou as a hero or a model, only as a 
 lad, who, in the midst of a thousand vanities and weaknesses, 
 has as yet some generous impulses, and is not altogether dis- 
 honest. 
 
 We have said it was to the scandal of Mr. Buck the tutor 
 that Pen's extravagances became known : from the manner in 
 which he entered college, the associates he kept, and the intro- 
 ductions of Doctor Portman and the Major, Buck for a long time 
 thought that his pupil was a man of large property, and won- 
 dered rather that he only wore a plain gown. Once on going 
 up to London to the levee with an address from His Majesty's 
 Loyal University of Oxbridge, Buck had seen Major Penden- 
 nis at St. James's in conversation with two knights of the gar- 
 ter, in the carriage of one of whom the dazzled tutor saw the 
 Major whisked away after the levee. He asked Pen to wine 
 the instant he came back, let him off from chapels and lectures 
 more than ever, and felt perfectl}' sure that he was a young 
 gentleman of large estate. 
 
 Thus, he was thunderstruck when he heard the truth, and 
 received a dismal confession from Pen. His university debts 
 were large, and the tutor had nothing to do, and of course Pen 
 did not acquaint him, -wath his London debts. \\Tiat man ever 
 does tell all when pressed bj' his friends about his liabilities? 
 The tutor learned enough to know that Pen was poor, that he 
 had spent a handsome, almost a magnificent allowance, and 
 bad raised around him such a fine crop of debts, as it would be 
 very hard work for any man to mow down ; for there is no 
 lAixnt that grows so rapidly when once it has taken root.
 
 190 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Perhaps it was because she was so tender and good that 
 Pen was terrified lest his mother should know of his sins. "I 
 can't bear to break it to her," he said to the tutor in an agony 
 of gnef, " Oh ! sir, I've been a villain to her " — and he repented, 
 and he wished he had the time to come over again, and he 
 asked himself, " Wh}', why did his uncle insist upon the necessity 
 of living with great people, and in how much did all his grand 
 acquaintance profit him? " 
 
 They were not shy, but Pen thought the\' were, and slunk 
 from them during his last terms at college. He was as gloomy 
 as a death's-head at parties, which he avoided of his own part, 
 or to which his young friends soon ceased to invite him. EA'ery- 
 body knew that Pendennis was "hard up." That man Bloun- 
 dell, who could pay nobod}', and who was ob'iged to go down 
 after three terms, was his ruin, the men said. His melancholy 
 figure might be seen shirking about the lonely quadrangles in 
 his battered old cap and torn gown, and he who had been the 
 pride of the university but a year before, the man whom all the 
 young ones loved to look at, was now the object of conversa- 
 tion at freshmen's wine parties, and they spoke of him with 
 wonder and awe. 
 
 At last came the Degree Examinations. Man}' a 3'oung 
 man of his year whose hob-nailed shoes Pen had derided, and 
 whose face or coat he had caricatured — many a man whom he 
 had treated with scorn in the lecture-room or crushed with his 
 eloquence in the debating club — many of his own set who had 
 not half his brains, but a little regularity and constancy of 
 occupation, took high places in the honors or passed with de- 
 cent credit. And where in the list was Pen the superb. Pen 
 the wit and dand}', Pen the poet and orator? Ah, where was 
 Pen the widow's darling and sole pride? Let us hide our 
 heads, and shut up the page. The lists came out ; and a dread- 
 ful rumor rushed through the university, that Pendennis of 
 Boniface was plucked.
 
 PENDENNIS. 191 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 FLIGHT AFTER DEFEAT. 
 
 DTmiNG the latter part of Pen's residence at the University 
 of Oxbridge, his uncle's partiality had great^v increased for the 
 lad. The Major was proud of Arthur, who had high spirits, 
 frank manners, a good person, and high genllemanlilve bearing. 
 It pleased the old London bachelor to see Pen walking with 
 the young patricians of his university, and he (who was never 
 known to entertain his friends, and whose stinginess had passed 
 into a sort of byword among some wags at the club, who envied 
 his many engagements, and did not choose to consider his pov- 
 erty) was charmed to give his nephew and the young lords 
 snug little dinners at his lodgings, and to regale them with 
 good claret and his very best bons mots and stories : some of 
 which would be injured by the repetition, for the Major's manner 
 of telling them was incomparably neat and careful ; and others, 
 whereof the repetition would do good to nobody. He paid his 
 court to their parents through the young men, and to himself as 
 it were by their company. He made more than one visit to 
 Oxbridge,"^ where the young fellows were amused by entertain- 
 ing the old gentleman, and gave parties and breakfasts and 
 fetes, partly to joke him and partly to do him honor. He plied 
 them with his stories. He made himself juvenile and hilarious 
 in the company of the young lords. He went to hear Pen at a 
 grand debate at the Union, crowed and cheered, and rapped his 
 stick in chorus with the cheers of the men, and was astounded 
 at the boy's eloquence and fire. He thought he had got a young 
 Pitt for a nephew. He had an almost paternal fondness for 
 Pen. He wrote to the lad letters with playful advice and the 
 news of the town. He bragged about Arthur at his Clubs, and 
 introduced him with pleasure into his cojiversation ; saying, tliat. 
 Egad, the young fellows were putting the old ones to the wall ; 
 that the lads who were coming up, young Lord Plinlimmon, a 
 friend of my boy, young Lord Magnus Charters, a elunn of my 
 scapegrace, &c., would make a greater figure in the world than 
 ever their fathers had done before them. He asked permission 
 to bring Arthur to a grand fete at Gaunt House ; saw him witli 
 ineffable satisfaction dancing with the sisters of the young 
 noblemen before mentioned ; and gave himself as much trouble
 
 192 PENDENNrS. 
 
 to procni'p cards of invitation for the lad to some good houses, 
 ns if he had been a manmia with a daughter to marr}', and not 
 an old half-pay officer in a wig. And he boasted everywhere of 
 the boy's great talents, and remarkable oratorical powers ; and 
 of the brilliant degree he was going to take. Lord Runny raede 
 would take him on his embassy, or the Duke would bring him in 
 for one of his boroughs, he wrote over and over again to Helen ; 
 who, for her part, was too ready to believe anjthing that any- 
 bod}' chose to say in favor of her son. 
 
 And all this pride and affection of uncle and mother had 
 been trampled down b}' Pen's wicked extravagance and idle- 
 ness ! I don't envy Pen's feelings (as the phrase is), as he 
 thought of what he had done. He had slept, and the tortoise 
 had won the race. He had marred at its outset what might 
 have been a brilliant career. He had dipped ungenerously into 
 a generous mother's purse ; basely and recklessly spilt her little 
 cruse. Oh ! it was a coward hand that could strike and rob 
 a creature so tender. And if Pen felt the wrong which he had 
 done to others, are we to suppose that a young gentleman of his 
 vanity did not feel still more keenl}' the shame he had brought 
 upon himself? Let us be assured that there is no more cruel 
 remorse than that ; and no groans more piteous than those 
 of wounded self-love. Like Joe Miller's friend, the Senior 
 Wrangler, who bowed to the audience from his box at the play, 
 because he and the king happened to enter the theatre at the same 
 time, only with a fatuity by no means so agreeable to himself, 
 poor Arthur Pendennis felt perfectly convinced that all England 
 would remark the absence of his name from the examination- 
 lists, and talk about his misfortune. His wounded tutor, his 
 many duns, the skip and bed-maker who waited upon him, 
 the undergraduates of his own time and the j'ears below him, 
 whom he had patronized or scorned — how could he bear to 
 look any of them in the face now? He rushed to his rooms, 
 into which he shut himself, and there he penned a letter to his 
 tutor, full of thanks, regards, remorse, and despair, requesting 
 that his name might be taken off the college books, and inti- 
 mating a wish and expectation that death would speedily end the 
 woes of the disgraced Arthur Pendennis. 
 
 Then he slunk out, scarcel}' knowing whither he went, but 
 mechanically taking the unfrequented little lanes by the backs 
 of the colleges, until he cleared the university precincts, and 
 got down to the banks of the Camisis River, now deserted, but 
 so often alive with the boat-races, and the crowds of cheering 
 gownsmen, he wandered on and on, until he found himself at
 
 PENDENNIS. 195 
 
 some miles' distance from Oxbridge, or rather was found by 
 some acquaintance, leaving that cit}'. 
 
 As Pen went up a hill, a drizzling January rain beating in 
 his face, and his ragged gown flying behind him — for he had 
 not divested himself of his academical garments since the 
 morning — a post-chaise came rattling up the road, on the box 
 of which a servant was seated, whilst within, or rather half 
 out of the carriage window, sat a young gentleman smoking a 
 cigar, and loudly encouraging the post-boy. It was our young 
 acquaintance of Baymouth, Mr. Spavin, who had got his degree, 
 and was driving homewards in triumph in his 3'ellow post-chaise. 
 He caught sight of the figure, madly gesticulating as he worked 
 up the hill, and of poor Pen's pale and ghastly face as the 
 chaise whirled by him. 
 
 " Wo ! " roared Mr. Spavin to the post-bo}', and the horses 
 stopped in their mad career, and the carriage pulled up some 
 fifty yards before Pen. He presentl}- heard his own name 
 shouted, find beheld the upper half of the body of Mr. Spavin 
 thrust out of the side-window of the vehicle, and beckoning 
 Pen vehemently towards it. 
 
 Pen stopped, hesitated — nodded his head fiercely, and 
 pointed onwards, as if desirous that the postilion should pro- 
 ceed. He did not speak : but his countenance must have 
 looked very desperate, for j'oung Spavin, having stared at him 
 with an expression of blank alarm, jumped out of the carriage 
 presently, ran towards Pen holding out his hand, and grasping 
 Pen's said, " I say — hullo, old boy, where are you going, and 
 what's the row now ? " 
 
 "I'm going where I deserve to go," said Pen with an 
 imprecation. 
 
 " This ain't the wa}'," said Mr. Spavin, smiling. " This is 
 the Fenbur}- road. I sa}', Pen, don't take on because 3'ou are 
 plucked. It's nothing when 30U are used to it. I've been 
 plucked three times, old bo}' — and after the first time I didn't care. 
 Glad it's over, though. You'll have better luck next time." 
 
 Pen looked at his early acquaintance, — who had been 
 plucked, who had been rusticated, who had onh*, after repeated 
 failures, learned to read and write correctly-, and who, in spite 
 of all these drawbacks, had attained the honor of a degree. 
 "This man has passed," he thought, "and I have failed!" 
 It was almost too much for him to bear. 
 
 " Good-by, Spavin," said he; "I'm ver^- glad you are 
 through. Don't let me keep you ; I'm in a huiTy — I'm going 
 «u town to-night." 
 
 13
 
 194 PENDENNTS. 
 
 "Gammon," said Mr. Spavin. "This &.ii't the wa}- to 
 town ; this is the Fenbury road, I tell you." 
 " I was just going to turn back," Pen said. 
 " All the coaches are full with the men going down," 
 Spavin said. Pen winced. "You'd not get a place for a 
 ten-pound note. Get into my yellow ; I'll drop 3-ou at Mud- 
 ford, where 3'ou have a chance of the Fenbury mail. I'll lend 
 you a hat and a coat ; I've got lots. Come along ; jump in, 
 old boy — go it, leathers ! " — and in this wtiy Pen found him- 
 self in Mr. Spavin's post-chaise, and rode with that gentleman 
 as far as the Ram Inn at Mudford, fifteen luiles from Oxbridge ; 
 where the Fenbury mail changed horses, ■>i,nd where Pen got a 
 place on to London. 
 
 The next day there was an immense excitement in Boniface 
 College, Oxbridge, where, for some time, a rumor prevailed, to 
 the terror of Pen's tutor and tradesmen, that Pendennis, mad- 
 dened at losing his degree, had made away with himself — a 
 battered cap, in which his name was almost discernible, to- 
 gether with a seal bearing his crest of an eagle looking at a 
 now extinct sun, had been found three miles on the Fenbury 
 road, near a mill stream ; and, for four-and-twenty hours, it 
 was supposed that poor Pen had flung himself into the 
 stream, until letters arrived from him, bearing the London 
 post-mark. 
 
 The mail reached London at the dreary- hour of five ; and he 
 fastened to the inn at Co vent Garden, at which he was accus- 
 tomed to put up, where the ever- wakeful porter admitted him, 
 and showed him to a bed. Pen looked hard at the man, and 
 wondered whether Boots knew he was plucked ? When in bed 
 he could not sleep there. He tossed about until the appear- 
 ance of the dismal London daylight, when he sprang up desper- 
 ately, and walked off to his uncle's lodgings in Bury Street ; 
 where the maid, who was scouring the steps, looked up sus- 
 piciously at him, as he came with an unshaven face, and j-ester- 
 day's linen. He thought she knew of his mishap, too. 
 
 '" Good evens! Mr. Harthur, what as appened, sir?" Mr. 
 Morgan, the valet, asked, who had just arranged the well-brushed 
 clothes and shiny boots at the door of his master's bedroom, 
 and was carrying in his wig to the Major. 
 
 " I want to see ray uncle," he cried, in a ghastty voice, and 
 fluns himself down on a chair 
 
 Morgan backed before the pale and desperate-looking young 
 man, with terrified and wondering glances, and disappeared 
 into his master's auartment.
 
 PENDENNIS. 195 
 
 The Major put his head out of the bedroom door, as soon as 
 he had his wig ou. 
 
 "What? examination over? Senior Wrangler, double 
 First Class, hay?" said the old gentleman — "I'll come di- 
 rectly ; " and the head disappeared. 
 
 "They don't know what has happened," groaned Pen; 
 " what will the}' say when the}' know all? " 
 
 Pen had been standing with his back to the window, and to 
 such a dubious light as Bury Street enjo3's of a fogg}^ January 
 morning, so that his uncle could not see the expression of the 
 young man's countenance, or the looks of gloom and despair 
 which even Mr. Morgan had remarked. 
 
 But when the Major came out of his dressing-room neat and 
 radiant, and preceded by faint odors from Delcroix's shop, 
 from which emporium Major Pendennis's wig and his pocket- 
 handkerchief got their perfume, he held out one of his hands to 
 Pen, and was about addressing him in his cheery high-toned 
 voice, when he caught sight of the boy's face at length, and 
 dropping his hand, said, "Good God! Pen, what's the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 " You'll see it in the papers at breakfast, sir," Pen said. 
 
 "See what?" 
 
 " M}' name isn't there, sir." 
 
 " Hang it, why should it be? " asked the Major, more per- 
 plexed. 
 
 "I have lost everything, sir," Pen groaned out; "my 
 honor's gone ; I'm ruined irretrievabl}' ; I can't go back to 
 Oxbridge." 
 
 "Lost your honor?" screamed out the Majoi'. "Heaven 
 alive ! you don't mean to say you have shown the white feather ? " 
 
 Pen laughed bitterly at the word feather, and repeated it. 
 " No, it isn't that, sir. I'm not afraid of being shot; I wish 
 to God anybod}' would shoot me. I have not got my degree. 
 I — I'm plucked, sir." 
 
 The Major had heard of plucking, but in a very vague and 
 cursory way, and concluded that it was some ceremony per- 
 formed corporalU' upon rebellious university youth, " I won- 
 der you can look me in the face after such a disgrace, sir," he 
 said ; '" I wonder you submitted to it as a gentleman." 
 
 "I couldn't help it, sir. I did my classical papers well 
 enough • it was those infernal mathematics, which I have 
 always neglected." 
 
 " Was it — was it done in public, sir?" the Major said 
 
 "What?"
 
 196 PENDENNFS. 
 
 "The — the plucking?" asked the guardian, looking Pen 
 anxiousl}^ in the face. 
 
 Pen perceived the error under which his guardian was 
 laboring, and in the midst of his misery the bkinder caused the 
 poor wretch a faint smile, and served to bring down the con- 
 versation from the traged3'-ke3% in which Pen had been disposed 
 to carr}^ it on. He explained to his uncle that he had gone in 
 to pass his examination, and failed. On which the Major said, 
 that though he had expected far better things of his nephew, 
 there was no great misfortune in this, and no dishonor as far 
 as he saw, and that Pen must try again. 
 
 " J/e again at Oxbridge," Pen thought, "after such a 
 humiliation as that ! " He felt that, except he went down to 
 burn the place, he could not enter it. 
 
 But it was when he came to tell his uncle of his debts that 
 the other felt suiprise and anger most keenly, and broke out 
 into speeches most severe upon Pen, which the lad bore, as 
 best he might, without flinching. He had determined to make 
 a clean breast, and had formed a full, true, and complete list 
 of all his bills and liabilities at the university, and in London. 
 They consisted of various items, such as 
 
 London Tailor. Oxbridge do. 
 
 Oxbridge do. Bill for horses. 
 
 Haberdasher, for shirts and gloves. Printseller. 
 
 Jeweller. Books. 
 
 College Cook. Binding. 
 
 Crump, for desserts. Hairdresser and Perfumery. 
 
 Bootmaker. Hotel Bill in London. 
 
 Wine Merchant in London. Sundries. 
 
 All which items the reader may fill in at his pleasure — such 
 accounts have been inspected by the parents of many uni- 
 versity 3-outh, — and it appeared that Mr. Pen's bills in all 
 amounted to about seven hundred pounds ; and, furthermore, 
 it was calculated that he had had more than twice that sum of 
 ready money during his staj' at Oxbridge. This sum he had 
 spent, and for it had to show — what? 
 
 " You need not press a man who is down, sir," Pen said to 
 his uncle, gloomil}'. " I know very well how wicked and idle 
 I have been. M}- mother won't like to see me dishonored, sir," 
 he continued, with his voice failing ; " and I know she will pay 
 these accounts. But I shall ask her for no more mone}'." 
 
 " As 3'ou like, sir," the Major said. " You are of age, and
 
 PENDENNIS. 197 
 
 m}' bands are washed of 3"our affairs. But you can't live with- 
 out moner, and have no means of making it that I see, though 
 you have a fine talent in spending it, and it is m}^ belief that 
 j-ou will proceed as 3'ou have begun, and ruin 3'our mother 
 before you are five j-ears older. — Good morning ; it is time for 
 me to go to breakfast. My engagements won't permit me to 
 see 3'ou much during the time that you stay in London. I pre- 
 sume that you will acquaint 3'our mother with the news which 
 you have just conveyed to me." 
 
 And pulling on his hat, and trembhng in his limbs some- 
 what, Major Pendennis walked out of his lodgings before his 
 nephew, and went ruefully off to take his accustomed corner at 
 the Club. He saw the Oxbridge examination-lists in the morn- 
 ing papers, and read over the names, not understanding the 
 business, with mournful accurac}'. He consulted various old 
 fogies of his acquaintance, in the course of the day, at his 
 Clubs ; Wenham, a Dean, various Civilians ; and, as it is 
 called, "took their opinion," showing to some of them the 
 amount of his nephew's debts, which he had dotted down on the 
 back of a card, and asking what was to be done, and whether 
 such debts were not monstrous, preposterous? "What was to 
 be done ? — There was nothing for it but to pay. Wenham and 
 the others told the Major of young men who owed twice as 
 much — five times as much — as Arthur, and with no means at 
 all to pay. The consultations, and calculations, and opinions, 
 comforted the Major somewhat. After all, he was not to pay. 
 
 But he thought bitterly of the many plans he had formed to 
 make a man of his nephew, of the sacrifices which he had made, 
 and of the manner in which he was disappointed. And he 
 wrote off a letter to Doctor Portman, informing him of the dire- 
 ful events which had taken place, and begging the Doctor to 
 break them to Helen. For the orthodox old gentleman pre- 
 served the regular routine in all things, and was of opinion that 
 it was more coiTect to " break " a piece of bad news to a person 
 by means of a (possibly maladroit and unfeeUng) messenger, 
 than to convey it simply to its destination by a note. So the 
 Major wrote to Doctor Portman, and then went out to din- 
 ner, one of the saddest men in any London dining-room that 
 day. 
 
 Pen, too, wrote his letter, and skulked about London 
 streets for the rest of the day, fancj-ing that everybody was 
 looking at him and whispering to his neighbor, " That is Pen- 
 dennis of Boniface, who was plucked yesterday." His letter 
 to his mother was full of tenderness and remorse : he wept the
 
 198 PENDENNIS. 
 
 bitterest tears over it — and the repentance and passion soothed 
 him to some degree. 
 
 He saw a party of roaring young blades from Oxbridge in 
 the coffee-room of his hotel, and slunk away from them, and 
 paced the streets. He remembers, he sa3-s, the prints which he 
 saw hanging up at Ackermann's window in the rain, and a book 
 which he read at a stall near the Temple : at night he went to 
 the pit of the play, and saw Miss Fotheringay, but he doesn't 
 in the least recollect in what piece. 
 
 On the second day there came a kind letter from his tutor, 
 containing many grave and appropriate remarks upon the event 
 whicih had befallen him, but strongly urging Pen not to take his 
 name off the universit}' books, and to retrieve a disaster which, 
 everybody knew, was owing to his own carelessness alone, and 
 which he might repair by a month's application. He said he had 
 ordered Fen's skip to pack up some trunks of the 3'oung gen- 
 tleman's wardrobe, which duly arrived with fresh copies of all 
 Pen's bills laid on the top. 
 
 On the third da^^ there arrived a letter from Home ; which 
 Pen read in his bedroom, and the result of which was that he 
 fell down on his knees, with his head in the bed-clothes, and 
 there prayed out his heart, and humbled himself; and having 
 gone down stairs and eaten an immense breakfast, he sallied 
 forth and took his place at the Bull and Mouth, Piccadilly, by 
 the Chatteris coach for that evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 prodigal's return. 
 
 Such a letter as the Major wrote, of course sent Doctor 
 Portman to Fairoaks, and he went off with that alacrity which 
 a good man shows when he has disagreeable news to communi- 
 cate. He wishes the deed were done, and done quickly. He 
 is sorr}', but que voulez-vous9 the tooth must be taken out, and 
 he has 30U into the chair, and it is surprising with what cour- 
 age and vigor of wrist he applies the forceps. Perhaps he 
 would not be quite so active or eager if it were his tooth ; 
 but, in fine, it is your duty to have it out. So the Doctor, 
 ha^dng read the epistle out to Mira and Mrs. Portman, with
 
 PENDENNIS. 199 
 
 inan}' damnatorj comments upon the young scapegrace who 
 was going deeper and deeper into perdition, left those ladies to 
 spread the news through the Clavering society, which they did 
 with their accustomed accuracy and despatch, and strode oyer 
 to Fairoaks to break the intelligence to the widow. 
 
 She had the news already. She had read Pen's letter, and it 
 had relieved her somehow. A gloomy presentiment of evil had 
 been hanging over her for many, man}^ months past. She knew 
 the worst now, and her darling boy was come back to her re- 
 pentant and tender-hearted. Did she want more? All that the 
 Rector could say ( and his remarks were both dictated by com- 
 mon sense, and made respectable b}' antiquity) could not bring 
 Helen to feel an}* indignation or particular unhappiness, except 
 that the boy should be unhappy. What was this degree that 
 they made such an outer}' about, and what good would it do 
 Pen? Wh}- did Doctor Portman and his uncle insist upon 
 sending the bo}' to a place where there was so much tempta- 
 tion to be risked, and so little good to be won ? Why didn't 
 the}' leave him at home with his mother? As for his debts, of 
 course they must be paid ; — his debts ! — wasn't his father's 
 mone}' all his, and hadn't he a right to spend it? In this way 
 the widow met the virtuous Doctor, and all the arrows of his 
 indignation somehow took no effect upon her gentle bosom. 
 
 For some time past an agreeable practice, known since times 
 ever so ancient, by which brothers and sisters are wont to ex- 
 hibit their affection towards one another, and in which Pen and 
 his little sister Laura had been accustomed to indulge pretty 
 frequently in their childish days, had been given up by the 
 mutual consent of those two individuals. Coming back from 
 college after an absence from home of some months, in place 
 of the simple girl whom he had left behind him, Mr. Arthur 
 found a tall, slim, handsome young lady, to whom he could not 
 somehow proffer the kiss which he had been in the habit of 
 administering prcviousl}', and who received him with a gracious 
 curtsy and a proffered hand, and with a great blush which rose 
 up to the cheek, just upon the very spot which 3'oung Pen had 
 been used to salute. 
 
 I am not good at descriptions of female beaut}' ; and, indeed, 
 do not care for it in the least (thinking that goodness and vir- 
 tue are, of course, far more advantageous to a young lady than 
 any mere fleeting charms of person and face), and so shall not 
 attempt any particular delineation of Miss Laura Bell at the 
 age of sixteen years. At that age she had attained her present 
 altitude of five feet four inches, so that she was called tall and
 
 200 TENDENNIS. 
 
 oawk}' by ssome, aud a Maypole by others, of her own sex, who 
 prefer littler women. But if she was a Maypole, she had beau- 
 tiful roses about her head, and it is a fact that many swains 
 were disposed to dance round her. She was ordinarily pale, 
 with a faint rose tinge in her cheeks ; but they flushed up in a 
 minute when occasion called, and continued so blushing ever so 
 long, the roses remaining after the emotion had passed awaj- 
 which had summoned those pretty flowers into existence. Her 
 eyes have been described as very large from her earliest child- 
 hood, and retained that characteristic in later life. Good- 
 natured critics (always females) said that she was in the habit 
 of making play with those e^'es, and ogling the gentlemen and 
 ladies in her company ; but the fact is, that Nature had made 
 them so to shine and to look, and the^^ could no more help so 
 looking and shining than one star can help being brighter than 
 another. It was doubtless to mitigate their brightness that 
 Miss Laura's eyes were provided with two pairs of veils in the 
 shape of the longest and finest black eyelashes, so that, when 
 she closed her eyes, the same people who found fault with those 
 orbs, said that she wanted to show her eyelashes oflT; and, 
 indeed, I dare sa}' that to see her asleep would have been a 
 pretty sight. 
 
 As for her complexion, that was nearly as biilliant as Lady 
 Mantrap's, and without the powder which her ladyship uses. 
 Her nose must be left to the reader's imagination : if her mouth 
 was rather large (as Miss Piminy avers, who, but for her known 
 appetite one would think could not swallow anything larger than 
 a button) everybody allowed that her smile was charming, and 
 showed off a set of pearly teeth, whilst her voice was so low and 
 sweet, that to hear it was like listening to sweet music. Because 
 she is in the habit of wearing very long dresses, people of course 
 say that her feet are not small : but it may be, that they are of 
 the size becoming her figure, and it does not follow, because 
 Mrs. Pincher is always putting her foot out, that all other ladies 
 sliould be perpetually^ bringing theirs on the tapis. In fine, 
 Miss Laura Bell, at the age of sixteen, was a sweet 3'oung lady. 
 Many thousands of such are to be found, let us hope, in this 
 country, where there is no lack of goodness, and modesty, and 
 purit}-, and beauty. 
 
 Now, Miss Laura, since she had learned to think for herself 
 (and in the past two years her mind and her person had both 
 developed themselves considerably), had onl}' been half pleased 
 with Pen's general conduct and bearing. His letters to his 
 mother at home had become of late ver}' rare and sho:l. It
 
 PENDENNIS. 201 
 
 was in vain that the fond widow urged how constant Arthur's 
 occupations and studies were, and how many his engagements. 
 '• It is better that he should lose a prize," Laura said, '• than 
 forget his mother: and indeed, mamma, I don't see that he 
 gets many prizes. Why doesn't lie come home and sta}' with 
 you, instead of passing his vacations at his great friends' fine 
 houses? There is nobod}' there will love him half as much 
 as — as 30U do." "As /do onh-, Laura," sighed out Mrs, 
 Pendennis. Laura declared stoutly that she did not love Pen 
 a bit, when he did not do his duty to his mother : nor would 
 she be convinced b}' any of Helen's fond arguments, that the 
 bo3" must make his way in the world ; that his uncle was most 
 desirous that Pen should cultivate the acquaintance of persons 
 who were likely to befriend him in life ; that men had a thou- 
 sand ties and calls which women could not understand, and so 
 forth. Perhaps Helen no more believed in these excuses than 
 her adopted daughter did ; but she tried to believe that she 
 believed them, and comforted herself with the maternal infatu- 
 ation. And that is a point whereon I suppose many a gentle- 
 man has reflected, that, do what we will, we are pretty sure of 
 the woman's love that once has been ours ; and that that untir- 
 ing tenderness and forgiveness never fail us. 
 
 Also, there had been that freedom, not to say audacit}^ in 
 Arthur's latter talk and ways, which had shocked and dis- 
 pleased Laura. Not that he ever offended her by rudeness, or 
 addressed to her a word which she ought not to hear, for Mr. 
 Pen was a gentleman, and by nature and education polite to 
 every woman high and low ; but he spoke lightly and laxl}'^ 
 of women in general ; was less courteous in his actions than in 
 his words — neglectful in sundry waj's, and in many of the 
 little offices of life. It offended Miss Laura that he should 
 smoke his hoi'rid pipes in the house ; that he should refuse to 
 go to church with his mother, or on walks or visits with her, 
 and be found yawning over his novel in his dressing-gown, 
 when the gentle widow returned from those duties. The hero 
 of Laura's early infancj^ about whom she had passed so many, 
 manj- nights talking with Helen (who recited endless stories of 
 the boy's virtues, and love, and bravery, when he was away 
 at school), was a very different person from the young man 
 whom now she knew ; bold and brilliant, sarcastic and defiant, 
 seeming to scorn the simple occupations or pleasures, or even 
 devotions, of the women with whom he lived, and whom he 
 quitted on such light pretexts. 
 
 The Fotheiingay affair, too. when Laura came to hear of i**
 
 202 PENDENNIS. 
 
 (which she did first by some sarcastic allusions of Major Pen- 
 dermis, when on a visit to Fairoaks, and then from their neigh- 
 bors at Clavering, who had plenty of information to give her on 
 this head), vastly shocked and outraged Miss Laura. A Pen- 
 dcnnis fling himself awa}^ on such a woman as that ! Helen's 
 boy galloping away fi'om home, day after da}^ to fall on his 
 knees to an actress, and drink with her horrid father ! A good 
 son want to bring such a man and such a woman into his house, 
 and set her over his mother ! "I would have run awa}', 
 mamma ; I would, if I had had to walk barefoot through the 
 snow," Laura said. 
 
 " And 1/ou would have left me too, then? " Helen answered ; 
 on which, of course, Laura withdrew her previous observation, 
 and the two women rushed into each other's embraces with that 
 warmth which belonged to both their natures, and which charac- 
 terizes not a few of their sex. Whence came all this indigna- 
 tion of Miss Laura about Arthur's passion? Perhaps she did 
 not know, that, if men throw themselves awa}- upon women, 
 women throw themselves away upon men, too ; and that there 
 is no more accounting for love, than for an^' other physical 
 liking or antipathy : perhaps she had been misinformed bj- the 
 Clavering people and old Mrs. Portman. who was vastly bitter 
 against Pen, especially since his impertinent behavior to the 
 Doctor, and since the wretch had smoked cigars in church-time : 
 perhaps, finall}', she was jealous ; but this is a vice in which it 
 is said the ladies very seldom indulge. 
 
 Albeit she was angry with Pen, against his mother she had 
 no such feeling ; but devoted herself to Helen with the utmost 
 force of her girlish affection — such affection as women, whose 
 hearts are disengaged, are apt to bestow upon the near female 
 friend. It was devotion — it was passion — it was all sorts of 
 fondness and folly ; it was a profusion of caresses, tender epi- 
 thets and endearments, such as it does not become sober his- 
 torians with beards to narrate. Do not let us men despise 
 these instincts because we cannot feel them. These women 
 were made for our comfort and delectation, gentlemen, — with 
 aU the rest of the minor animals. 
 
 But as soon as Miss Laura heard that Pen was unfortunate 
 and unhappy, all her wrath against him straightway vanished, 
 and gave place to the most tender and unreasonable compas- 
 sion. He was the Pen of old da3's once more restored to her, 
 the frank and affectionate, the generous and tender-hearted. 
 She at once took side with Helen against Doctor Portman, when 
 he outcried at the enormity' of Pen's transgressions. Debts ?
 
 PENDENNIS. 203 
 
 what were his debts ? they were a trifle ; he had licen thrown 
 into expensive societ}' b^^ his uncle's order, and of course was 
 obliged to live in the same manner as the 3'oung gentlemen 
 whose compan}- he frequented. Disgraced by not getting his 
 degree ? the poor boy was ill when he went in for the examina- 
 tions : he couldn't think of his mathematics and stutf on account 
 of those very debts which oppressed him ; verj' likel}' some of 
 the odious tutors and masters were jealous of him, and had 
 favorites of their own whom they wanted to put over his head. 
 Other people disliked him and were cruel to him, and were 
 unfair to him, she was very sure. And so, with flushing cheeks 
 and ej-es bright with anger, this young creature reasoned ; and 
 she went up and seized Helen's hand, and kissed her in the 
 Doctor's presence, and her looks braved the Doctor, and seemed 
 to ask how he dared to sav a word against her darling mother's 
 Pen ? 
 
 When that divine took his leave, not a little discomfited 
 and amazed at the pertinacious obstinacy of the women, Laura 
 repeated her embraces and arguments with tenfold fervor to 
 Helen, who felt that there was a gi-eat deal of cogency in most 
 of the latter. There must be some jealous3' against Pen. She 
 felt quite sure that he had offended some of the examiners, who 
 had taken a mean revenge of him — nothing more likely. Al- 
 together, the announcement of the misfortune vexed these two 
 ladies very little indeed. Pen, who was plunged in his shame 
 and grief in London, and torn with great remorse for thinking 
 of his mother's sorrow, would have wondered, had he seen how 
 easily she bore the calamity. Indeed, calamit3^ is welcome to 
 women if they think it will bring truant affection home again : 
 and if you have reduced jour mistress to a crust, depend upon 
 it that she won't repine, and onl}' take a very little bit of it for 
 herself, provided j-ou will eat the remainder in her company. 
 
 And directlj' the Doctor was gone, Laura ordered fires to 
 be lighted in Mr. Arthur's rooms, and his bedding to be aired ; 
 and had these preparations completed by the time Helen had 
 finished a most tender and affectionate letter to Pen : when the 
 girl, smiling fondly, took her mamma bj' the hand, and led her 
 into those apartments whei'e the fires were blazing so cheer- 
 fully, and there the two kind creatures sat down on the bed, 
 and talked about Pen ever so long. Laura added a postscript 
 to Helen's letter, in which she called him her dearest Pen, and 
 bade him come home instantly^ with two of the handsomest 
 dashes under the word, and be happy with his mother and hia 
 atlectionate sister Laura.
 
 204 PENDENNIS. 
 
 In the middle of the night — as these two ladies, after read- 
 ing their Bibles a great deal during the evening, and after 
 taking just a look into Pen's room as they passed to their own 
 — in the middle of the night, I say, Laura, whose head not 
 unfrequently chose to occupy that pillow which the nightcap of 
 the late Pendennis had been accustomed to press, cried out 
 suddenly, "Mamma, are 3'ou awake?" 
 
 Helen stirred and said, "Yes, I'm awake." The truth is, 
 though she had been lying quite still and silent, she had not 
 been" asleep one instant, but had been looking at the night- 
 lamp in the chimney, and had been thinking of Pen for houi's 
 and hours. 
 
 Then Miss Laura (who had been acting with similar hypoc- 
 risy, and lying, occupied with her own thoughts, as motionless 
 as Helen's brooch, with Pen's and Laura's hair in it, on the 
 frilled white pincushion on the dressing-table) began to tell 
 Mrs. Pendennis of a notable plan which she had been forming 
 in her busy little brains ; and by which all Pen's embarrass- 
 ments would be made to vanish in a moment, and without the 
 least trouble to an3-body. 
 
 " You know, mamma," this young lady said, " that I have 
 been living with 3'ou for ten 3'ears, during which time 3'ou have 
 never taken any of m}" mone}^ and have been treating me just 
 as if I was a charity' girl. Now, this obligation has offended 
 me very much, because I am proud and do not like to be be- 
 holden to people. And as, if I had gone to school — onl}- I 
 wouldn't — it must have cost me at least fift}^ pounds a year, it 
 is clear that I owe j-ou fifty times ten pounds, which I know 3'OU 
 have put into the bank at Chatteris for me, and which doesn't 
 belong to me a bit. Now, to-morrow we will go to Chatteris, 
 and see that nice old Mr. Rowdy, with the bald head, and ask 
 him for it, — not for his head, but for the five hundred pounds : 
 and I dare say he will lend you two more, which we will save 
 and pay back ; and we will send the money to Pen, who can 
 pa}' all his debts without hurting an3bod3', and then we will 
 live happy ever after." 
 
 What Helen replied to this speech need not be repeated, as 
 the widow's answer was made up of a gi'eat number of in- 
 coherent ejaculations, embraces, and other irrelative matter. 
 But the two women slept well after that talk ; and when the 
 night-lamp went out with a splutter, and the sun rose gloriousty 
 over the purple hills, and the birds began to sing and pipe 
 cheerfully amidst the leafless trees and glistening evergreens on 
 Fairoaks lawn, Helen woke too, and as she looked at the sweet
 
 PENDENNIS. ^ 205 
 
 face of the girl sleeping beside her, her lips parted with a smile, 
 lilushes on her cheeks, her spotless bosom heaving and falling 
 with gentle undulations, as if happy dreams were sweeping 
 over it — Pen's mother felt happy and grateful beyond all 
 power of words, save such as pious women offer up to the 
 Beneficent Dispenser of love and mercy — in Whose honor a 
 chorus of such praises is constautl}' rising up all round the 
 world. 
 
 Although it was January" and rather cold weather, so sincere 
 was Mr. Pen's remorse, and so determined his plans of economy, 
 that he would not take an inside place in the coach, but sat 
 up behind with his friend the Guard, who remembered his 
 former liberalit}-, and lent him plenty of great-coats. Perhaps 
 it was the cold that made his knees tremble as he got down at 
 the lodge gate, or it may be that he was agitated at the notion 
 of seeing the kind creature for whose love he had made so self- 
 ish a return. Old John was in waiting to receive his master's 
 baggage, but he appeared in a fustian jacket, and no longer 
 wore his liverj^ of drab and blue. " I'se garner and stable 
 man, and lives in the ladge now," this worthy man remarked, 
 with a grin of welcome to Pen, and something of a blush ; but 
 instantly as Pen turned the corner of the shrubbery, and was 
 out of eye-shot of the coach, Helen made her appearance, her 
 face beaming with love and forgiveness — for forgiving is what 
 some women love best of all. 
 
 We may be sure that the widow, having a certain other 
 object in view, had lost no time in writing off to Pen an account 
 of the noble, the magnanimous, the magnificent offer of Laiu'a, 
 filling up her letter with a profnsion of benedictions upon both 
 her children. It was probabl}' the knowledge of this mone}'- 
 obligation wliich caused Pen to blush very much when he saw 
 Laura, who was in waiting in the hall, and who this time, and 
 for this time onlj-, broke through the little an^angement of which 
 we have spoken, as having subsisted between her and Arthur 
 for the last few years ; but the truth is, there has been a great 
 deal too much said about kissing in the present chapter. 
 
 So the Prodigal came home, and the fatted calf was killed 
 for him, and he was made as happ}^ as two simple women could 
 make him. No allusions were made to the Oxbridge mishap, 
 or questions asked as to his farther proceedings, for some time. 
 But Pen debated these anxiously in his own mind, and up in 
 his own room, where he passed much time in cogitation. 
 
 A few days after he came home, he rode to Chatteris on his
 
 206 PENDENNIS. 
 
 horse, and came back on the top of the coach. He then in- 
 formed his mother that he had left the horse to be sold : and 
 when that operation was effected, he handed her over the 
 cheque, which she, and possibly Pen himself, thought was an 
 act of uncommon virtue and self-denial, but which Laura pro- 
 nounced to be only strict justice. 
 
 lie rarely mentioned the loan which she had made, and 
 which, indeed, had been accepted by the widow with certain 
 modifications ; but once or twice, and with great hesitation and 
 stammering, he alluded to it, and thanked her. It evidently 
 pained his vanity to be beholden to the orphan for succor. He 
 was wild to find some means of repajing her. 
 
 He left off drinking wine, and betook himself, but with great 
 moderation, to the refreshment of whiskey-and-water. He gave 
 up cigar smoking ; but it must be confessed that of late years 
 he had liked pipes and tobacco as well or even better, so that 
 this sacrifice was not a very severe one. 
 
 He fell asleep a great deal after dinner when he joined the 
 ladies in the drawing-room, and was certainly very moody and 
 melancholy. He watched the coaches with great interest, 
 walked in to read the papers at Clavering assiduously, dined 
 with anybody who would ask him (and the widow was glad that 
 he should have any entertainment in their solitary place), and 
 played a good deal at cribbage with Captain Glanders. 
 
 He avoided Doctor Portman, who, in his turn, whenever 
 Pen passed, gave him very severe looks from under his shovel- 
 hat. He went to church with his mother, however, very re<yu- 
 larly, and read pra3^ers for her at home to the little household. 
 Always humble, it was greatly diminished now: a couple of 
 maids did the work of the house of Fairoaks : the silver dish- 
 covers never saw the light at all. John put on his livery to go 
 to church, and assert his dignity on Sundays, but it was onlv 
 for form's sake. He was gardener and out-door man, vice 
 Upton, re&igned. There was but little fire in Fairoaks kitchen, 
 and John and the maids drank their evening beer there by the 
 light of a single candle. All this was Mr. Pen's doing, and the 
 state of things did not increase his cheerfulness. 
 
 For some time Pen said no power on earth could induce him 
 to go back to Oxbridge again, after his failure there ; but one 
 day, Laura said to him, with many blushes, that she thought, 
 as some sort of reparation, of punishment on himself for his — 
 for his idleness, he ought to go back and get his degree, if he 
 could fetch it by doing so ; and so back Mr. Pen went. 
 
 A plucked man is a dismal being in a university ; belonging
 
 PENDENNIS. 207 
 
 to no set of men there, and owned by no one. Pen felt himself 
 pkicked indeed of all the fine feathers which he had won during 
 his brilliant years, and rarel}' appeared out of his college ; regu- 
 larly going to morning chapel, and shutting himself up in his 
 rooms of nights, away from the noise and suppers of the under- 
 graduates. There were no duns about his door, they were ali 
 paid — scarcel}' any cards were left there. The men of bis 
 year had taken their degi'ees, and were gone. He went into a 
 second examination, and passed with perfect ease. He was 
 somewhat more easy in his mind when he appeared in his 
 bachelor's gown. 
 
 On his wa}' back from Oxbridge he paid a visit to his uncle 
 in London ; but the old gentleman received him with verj- cold 
 looks, and would scarcel}' give him his forefinger to shake. He 
 called a second time, but Morgan, the valet, said his master 
 was from home. 
 
 Pen came back to Fairoaks, and to his books and to his 
 idleness, and loneliness and despair. He commenced several 
 tragedies, and wrote man}- copies of verses of a gloomy cast. 
 He formed plans of reading and broke them. He thought about 
 enlisting — about the Spanish legion — about a profession. He 
 chafed against his captivity, and cursed the idleness which had 
 caused it. Helen said he was breaking his heart, and was sad 
 to see his prostration. As soon as they could afford it, he 
 should go abroad — he should go to London — he should be 
 freed from the dull societj' of two poor women. It was dull 
 — ver}-, certainly. The tender widow's habitual melancholy 
 seemed to deepen into a sadder gloom ; and Laura saw with 
 alarm that the dear friend became every year more languid and 
 wear}-, and that her pale cheek gi'ew more wan. 
 
 CHAPTER XXTI. 
 
 NEW FACES. 
 
 The inmates of Fanoaks were drowsil}- pursuing this hum- 
 drum existence, while the great house upon the hill, on the 
 other side of the River Brawl, was shaking off the slumber in 
 which it had lain during the lives of two generations of masters, 
 and giving extraordinary signs of renewed liveliness. 
 
 Just about the time of Pen's little mishap, and when he vvas
 
 208 PENDENNIS. 
 
 so absorbed in the grief occasioned by that calamity as to take 
 no notice of events which befell persons less interesting to him- 
 self than Arthur Pendennis, an announcement appeared in the 
 provincial journals which caused no small sensation in the 
 county at least, and in all the towns, villages, halls and man- 
 sions, and parsonages for many miles round Clavering Park. 
 At Claveriug Market ; at Cackleby Fair; at Chatteris Sessions ; 
 on Gooseberry Green, as the squire's carriage met the vicar's 
 one-horse contrivance, and the inmates of both vehicles stopped 
 on the road to talk ; at Tinkleton Church gate, as the bell was 
 tolling in the sunshine, and the white smocks and scarlet cloaks 
 came trooping over the green common, to Sunday worship ; in 
 a hundred societies round about — the word was, that Claver- 
 ing Park was to be inhabited again. 
 
 Some five years before, the count}^ papers had advertised 
 the marriage at Florence, at the British Legation, of Francis 
 Clavering, Esq., only son of Sir Francis Clavering, Bart., of 
 Clavering Park, with Jemima Augusta, daughter of Samuel 
 Snell, of Calcutta, Esq., and widow of the late J. Amory, Esq. 
 At that time the legend in the county was that Clavering, who 
 had been ruined for many a year, had married a widow from 
 India with some money. Some of the count}^ folks caught a 
 sight of the newly married pair. The Kickleburys, travelling 
 in Italy, had seen them, Clavering occupied the Poggi Palace 
 at Florence, gave parties, and lived comfortabl}' — but could 
 never come to England. Another year — joung Peregrine, of 
 Cackleb^', making a long Vacation Tour, had fallen in with the 
 Claverings occupying Schloss Schinkenstein, on the Mummul 
 See. At Rome, at Lucca, at Nice, at the baths and gambling 
 places of the Rhine and Belgium, this worthy couple might oc- 
 casionally be heard of by the curious, and rumors of them came, 
 as it were by gusts, to Clavering's ancestral place. 
 
 Their last place of abode was Paris, where they appear to 
 have lived in great fashion and splendor after the news of the 
 death of Samuel Snell, Esq., of Calcutta, reached his orphan 
 daughter in Europe. 
 
 Of Sir Francis Clavering's antecedents little can be said 
 that would be advantageous to that respected baronet. The 
 son of an outlaw, living in a dismal old chateau near Bruges, 
 this gentleman had made a feeble attempt to start in life with 
 a commission in a dragoon regiment, and had broken down 
 almost at the outset. Transactions at the gambling-table had 
 speedil}' effected his ruin ; after a couple of years in the army 
 he had been forced to sell out, had passed some time in Hei
 
 PENDENNIS. 200 
 
 Majesty's prison of the Fleet, and had then shipped over to 
 Ostend to join the gouty exile, his father. And in Belgium, 
 France, and Germany, for some j'ears, this decayed and abor- 
 tive prodigal might be seen lurldng about billiard-rooms and 
 watering-places, punting at gambling-houses, dancing at board- 
 ing-house balls, and riding steeple-chases on other folks' 
 horses. 
 
 It was at a boarding-house at Lausanne, that Francis 
 Clavering made what he called the lucky coup of marrying the 
 widow Amor}', verj- lately returned from Calcutta. His father 
 died soon after, by consequence of whose demise his wife be- 
 came Lady Clavering. The title so delighted Mr. Snell of 
 Calcutta, that he doubled his daughter's allowance ; and, dying 
 himself soon after, left a fortune to her and her children, the 
 amount of which was, if not magnified by rumor, something 
 very splendid indeed. 
 
 Before this time there had been, not rumors unfavorable to 
 Lady Clavering's reputation, but unpleasant impressions regard- 
 ing her ladyship. The best English people abroad were shy 
 of making her acquaintance ; her manners were not the most 
 refined ; her origin was lamentably low and doubtful. The 
 retired East Indians, who are to be found in considerable force 
 in most of the continental towns frequented by English, spoke 
 with much scorn of the disreputable old law3'er and indigo- 
 smuggler her father, and of Amory, her first husband, who had 
 been ^ate of the Indiaraan in which Miss Snell came out to 
 join her father at Calcutta. Neither father nor daughter was 
 in society at Calcutta, or had ever been heard of at Government 
 House. Old Sir Jasper Rogers, who had been Chief Justice of 
 Calcutta, had once said to his wife, that he could tell a queer 
 story about Lady ClaA^ering's first husband ; but gTeatly to 
 Lady Rogers's disappointment, and that of the young ladies 
 his daughters, the old Judge could never be got to reveal that 
 mystery. 
 
 They were all, however, glad enough to go to Lady Clavering's 
 parties,^ when her ladyship took the Hotel Bouilli in the Rue 
 Grenelle at Paris, and blazed out in the polite world there \\\ 
 the winter of 183 — . The Faubourg St. Germain took her up. 
 Viscount Bagwig, our excellent ambassador, paid her marked 
 attention. The princes of the family frequented her salons. 
 The most rigid and noted of the English ladies resident in the 
 French capital acknowledged and countenanced her ; the vir- 
 tuous Lady Elderbury, the severe Lady Rockminster. the vener- 
 able Countess of Southdown — people, in a word, renowned for 
 
 14
 
 210 PENDENNIS. 
 
 austerity, and of quite a dazzling moral purity' : — so great and 
 beneficent an influence had the possession of ten (some said 
 twenty) thousand a-year exercised upon Lad}' Clavering's char- 
 acter and reputation. And her munificence and good-will were 
 unbounded. Anybody (in society) who had a scheme of charity 
 was sure to find her purse o^jen. The French ladies of pietj- 
 got money from her to support their schools and convents ; she 
 subscribed indifferentl}' for the Armenian patriarch ; for Father 
 Barbarossa, who came to Europe to collect funds for his monas- 
 tery on Mount Athos ; for the Baptist Mission to Quash3'boo, 
 and the Orthodox Settlement in Feefawfoo, the largest and 
 most savage of the Cannibal Islands. And it is on record of 
 her, that, on the same day on which Madame de Cricri got five 
 Napoleons from her in support of the poor persecuted Jesuits, 
 who were at that time in very bad odor in France, Lady 
 Budelight put her down in her subscription-list for the Rev. J. 
 Kamshorn, who had had a vision which ordered him to convert 
 the Pope of Rome. And more than this, and for the benefit 
 of the worldly, her ladyship gave the best dinners, and the 
 grandest balls and suppers, which were known at Paris during 
 that season. 
 
 And it was during this time, that the good-natured lady 
 must have arranged matters with her husband's creditors in 
 England, for Sir Francis re-appeared in his native country, 
 without fear of arrest ; was announced in the Morning Post, 
 and the county paper, as having taken up his residence at 
 Mivart's Hotel ; and one day the anxious old housekeeper 
 at Clavering House beheld a carriage and four horses drive up 
 the long avenue, and stop before the moss-grown steps in front 
 of the vast melancholy portico. 
 
 Three gentlemen were in the carriage — an open one. On 
 the back seat was our old acquaintance, Mr. Tatham of Chatteris, 
 whilst in the places of honor sat a handsome and portly gentle- 
 man enveloped in mustachios, whiskers, fur collars, and braiding, 
 and by him a pale languid man, who descended feebly from the 
 carriage, when the little lawyer, and the gentleman in fur, had 
 nimbly jumped out of it. 
 
 They walked up the great moss-grown steps to the hall- 
 door, and a foreign attendant, with ear-rings and a gold-laced 
 cap, pulled strenuously at the great bell-handle at the cracked 
 and sculptured gate. The bell was heard clanging loudly 
 through the vast gloomy mansion. Steps resounded presently 
 upon the marble pavement of the hall within ; and the doors 
 opened, and finally, Mi-s. Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, Polly,
 
 PENDENNIS. 211 
 
 her aide-de-camp, aud Smart, the keeper, appeared bowing 
 humbly. 
 
 Smart, the keeper, pulled the wisp of ha3--colored hair which 
 adorned his sunburnt forehead, kicked out his left heel, as 
 if there were a dog biting at his calves, and brought down 
 his head to a bow. Old Mrs. Blenkinsop dropped a curtsy. 
 Little Polly, her aide-de-camp, made a curtsy, and several 
 rapid bows likewise : and Mrs. Blenkinsop, wnth a great deal 
 of emotion, quavered out, " Welcome to Claveriug, Sir Francis. 
 It du my poor e^-es good to see one of the family once more." 
 
 The speech and the greetings were all addressed to the 
 grand gentleman in fur and braiding, who wore his hat so 
 magnificently on one side, and twii'led his mustachios so royalh-. 
 But he burst out laughing, and said, "You've saddled the 
 wrong horse, old lady — I'm not Sir Francis Claveriug what's 
 come to revisit the halls of my ancestors. Friends and vassals ! 
 behold your rightful lord ! " 
 
 And he pointed his hand towards the pale, languid gentle- 
 man, who said, " Don't be an ass, Ned." 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Blenkinsop, I'm Sir Francis Claveriug ; I recol- 
 lect you quite well. Forgot me, I suppose? — How d}- do?" 
 and he took the old lady's trembling hand ; and nodded in her 
 astonished face, in a not unkind manner . 
 
 Mrs. Blenkinsop declared upon her conscience that she would 
 have known Sir Francis au3'where ; that he was the ver}' image 
 of Sir Francis his father, and of Sir John who had gone before. 
 
 "O 3?es — thanlvy — of course — very much obliged — and 
 that sort of thing," Sir Francis said, looking vacantly about 
 the hall. " Dismal old place, ain't it, Ned? Never saw it but 
 once, when my governor quarrelled vnth my gwandfather, in 
 the year twenty-thwee." 
 
 ' ' Dismal ? — beautiful ! — the Castle of Otranto ! — the 
 Mysteries of Udolpho, by Jove ! " said the individual addressed 
 as Ned. "What a fireplace! You might roast an elephant 
 in it. Splendid carved gallery ! Inigo Jones, b}' Jove ! I'd 
 lay five to two it's Inigo Jones." 
 
 " The upper part by Inigo Jones ; the lower was altered by 
 the eminent Dutch architect. Vanderputt}', in George the First 
 his time, by Sir Richard, fourth baronet," said the housekeeper. 
 
 "Oh, indeed," said the Baronet. "Gad, Ned, you know 
 everything." 
 
 "I know a few things, Frank," Ned answered. "I know 
 that's not a Snyders over the mantel-piece — bet you three to 
 one it's a copy. We'll restore it, my boy. A lick of varnish.
 
 212 PENDENNIS. 
 
 and it will come out wonderfull}', sir. That old fellow iii the 
 red gown, I suppose, is Sir Richard." 
 
 '" Sheriff of the county, and sat in parliament in the reign 
 of Queen Anne," said the housekeeper, wondering at the stran- 
 ger's knowledge; "that on the right is Theodosia, wife of 
 Harbottle, second baronet, by Lely, represented in the charac- 
 ter of Veniis, the Goddess of Beaut}", — her son Gregor}-, the 
 third baronet, by her side, as Cupid, God of Love, with a bow 
 and arrows ; that on the next panel is Sir Rupert, made a 
 knight banneret by Charles the First, and whose property was 
 confuscated by Oliver Cromwell." 
 
 "Thank you — needn't go on, Mrs. Blenkinsop," said the 
 Baronet. "We'll walk about the place ourselves. Frosch, 
 give me a cigar. Have a cigar, Mr. Tatham ? " 
 
 Little Mr. Tatham tried a cigar which Sir Francis's courier 
 handed to him, and over which the lawj'er spluttered fearfull}-. 
 " Needn't come with us, Mrs. Blenkinsop. What's-his-uame 
 — you — Smart — feed the horses and wash their mouths. 
 Shan't stay long. Come along. Strong, — I know the way : 
 I was here in twenty-thwee, at the end of m}' gwandfather's 
 time." And Sir Francis and Captain Strong, for such was the 
 st3-le and title of Sir Francis's friend, passed out of the hall 
 into the reception-rooms, leaving the discomfited Mrs. Blen- 
 kinsop to disappear b}' a side-door which led to her apartments, 
 now the onl}^ habitable rooms in the long-uninhabited mansion. 
 
 It was a place so big that no tenant could afford to live in 
 it ; and Sir Francis and his friend walked through room after 
 room, admiring their vastness and dreary and deserted grandeur. 
 On the right of the hall door were the saloons and drawing- 
 rooms, and on the other side the oak room, the parlor, the 
 grand dining-room, the library, where Pen had found books in 
 old days. Round three sides of the hall ran a gallery, by 
 which, and corresponding passages, the chief bedrooms were 
 approached, and of which many were of stately proportions 
 and exhibited marks of splendor. On the second story was 
 a labyrinth of little discomfortable garrets, destined for the 
 attendants of the great folks who inhabited the mansion in the 
 days when it was first built: and I do not know any more 
 cheering mark of the increased philanthrop}^ of our own times, 
 than to contrast our domestic architecture with that of our 
 ancestors, and to see how much better servants and poor are 
 cared for at present, than in times when my lord and my ladj- 
 slept under gold canopies, and their sei'\'ants lay above them 
 in quarters not so airy or so clean as stables are now.
 
 PENDENNIS. 213 
 
 Up and down the house the two gentlemen wandered, the 
 owner of the mansion being very silent and resigned about the 
 pleasui-e of possessing it ; whereas the Captain, his friend, 
 examined the premises with so much interest and eagerness 
 that }'ou would have thought he was the master, and the other 
 the indifferent spectator of the place. "I see capabilities in 
 it — capabilities in it, sir," cried the Captain. "Gad, sir, 
 leave it to me, and I'll make it the pride of the country, at 
 a small expense. What a theatre we can have in the libi'ary 
 here, the curtains between the columns which divide the room ! 
 What a famous room for a galop ! — it will hold the whole 
 shire. We'll hang the morning parlor with the tapestry in 
 your second salon in the Rue de Grenelle, and furnish the oak 
 room with the Moyen-age cabinets and the armor. Armor 
 looks splendid against black oak, and there's a Venice glass in 
 the Quai Voltaire, which will suit that high mantel-piece to an 
 inch, sir. The long saloon, white and crimson, of course ; the 
 di-awing-room yellow satin ; and the httle drawing-room light 
 blue, with lace over — hey?" 
 
 " I recollect m}^ old governor caning me in that little room," 
 Sir Francis said sententiousl}' ; " he always hated me, my old 
 governor." 
 
 "Chintz is the dodge, I suppose, for my lady's rooms — > 
 the suite in the landing, to the south, the bedroom, the 
 sitting-room, and the dressing-room. We'll throw a con- 
 servatory out, over the balcony. Where will you have your 
 rooms ? " 
 
 "Put mine in the north wing," said the Baronet, with a 
 yawn, ' ' and out of the reach of Miss Amory's confounded 
 piano. I can't bear it. She's scweeching from morning till 
 night." 
 
 The Captain burst out laughing. He settled the whole 
 further arrangements of the house in the course of their walk 
 through it ; and, the promenade ended, they went into the 
 steward's room, now inhabited by Mrs. Blenkinsop, and where 
 Mr. Tatham was sitting poring over a plan of the estate, and 
 the old housekeeper had prepared a collation in honor of her 
 lord and master. 
 
 Then they inspected the kitchen and stables, about both of 
 which Sir Francis was rather interested, and Captain Strong 
 was for examining the gardens: but the Baronet said, "D — 
 the gardens, and that sort of thing ! " and linall}' he drove 
 away from the house as unconcernedly as he had entered it ; 
 and that night the people of Clavering learned that Sir Francis
 
 214 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Clavering had paid a visit to the Park, and was coming to live 
 in the county. 
 
 When this fact came to be known at Chatteris, all the folks 
 in the place were set in commotion : High Church and Low 
 Church, half-pay captains and old maids and dowagers, sport- 
 ing squireens of the vicinage, farmers, tradesmen, and factory 
 people — all the population in and round about the little place. 
 The news was brought to Fairoaks, and received by the ladies 
 there, and by Mr. Pen, with some excitement. "Mrs. Pybus 
 sa3's there is a very pretty girl in the family, Arthur," Laura 
 said, who was as kind and thoughtful upon this point as women 
 generallj' are : "a Miss Amor}', Lad}' Clavering's daughter by 
 her first marriage. Of course, you will fall in love with her as 
 soon as she arrives." 
 
 Helen cried out, "• Don't talk nonsense, Laura." Pen 
 laughed, and said, "Well, there is the 3'oung Sir Francis for 
 you." 
 
 "He is but four years old," Miss Laura replied. "But I 
 shall console m3'self with that handsome officer, Sir Francis's 
 friend. He was at church last Sunday, in the Clavering pew, 
 and his mustachios were beautiful." 
 
 Indeed the number of Sir Francis's family (whereof the 
 members have all been mentioned in the above paragraphs) was 
 pretty soon known in the town, and everything else, as nearly 
 as human industry and ingenuity could calculate, regarding his 
 household. The Park avenue and grounds were dotted now 
 with town folks of the summer evenings, who made their wa}'' 
 up to the great house, peered about the premises, and criticised 
 the improvements which were taking place there. Loads upon 
 loads of furniture arrived in numberless vans from Chatteris 
 and London ; and numerous as the vans were, there was not 
 one but Captain Glanders knew what it contained, and escorted 
 the baggage up to the Park House. 
 
 He and Captain Edward Strong had formed an intimate 
 acquaintance by this time. The 3'ounger Captain occupied 
 those very lodgings at Clavering, which the peaceful Smirke 
 had previousl}' tenanted, and was deep in the good graces of 
 Madame Fribsb}', his landlad}' ; and of the whole town, indeed. 
 The Captain was splendid in person and raiment ; fresh-colored, 
 blue-eyed, black- whiskered, broad-chested, athletic — a slight 
 tendency to fulness did not take away from the comeliness of his 
 jolly figure — a braver soldier never presented a broader chest 
 to the enemy. As he strode down CkiA-ering High Street, his 
 hat on one side, his cane clanking on the pavement, or wav-
 
 PENDENNIS. 215 
 
 iug rouud him in the execution of militaiy cuts and soldatesque 
 manoeu^'l•es — his joll}' laughter ringing through the otherwise 
 silent street — he was as Avelcome as sunshine to the place, and 
 a comfort to every inhabitant in it. 
 
 On the first market-day he knew ever}^ pretty girl in the 
 market : he joked with all the women ; had a word with the 
 farmers about their stock, and dined at the Agricultural Ordi- 
 nary at the Clavering Arms, where he set them all dying with 
 laughter b}' his fun and jokes. '• Tu be sure he be a vine fel- 
 ler, tu be sure that he be," was the universal opinion of the 
 gentlemen in top-boots. He shook hands with a score of them, 
 us the}' rode out of the inn-3'ard on their old nags, waving his 
 hat to them splendidly as he smoked his cigar in the inn-gate. 
 In the course of the evening he was free of the landlady's bar, 
 knew what rent the landlord paid, how many acres he farmed, 
 how much malt he put in his strong beer ; and whether he ever 
 run in a little brandy unexcised by kings from Ba3-mouth, or 
 the fishing villages along the coast. 
 
 He had tried to live at the great house first ; but it was so 
 dull he couldn't stand it. "I am a creature born for society," 
 he told Captain Glanders. '• I'm down here to see Clavering's 
 house set in order ; for between ourselves, Frank has no energy, 
 sir, no energy ; he's not the chest for it, sir (and he threw out 
 his own trunk as he spoke) ; but I must have social intercourse. 
 Old Mrs. Blenkinsop goes to bed at seven, and takes Polly with 
 her. There was nobod}' but me and the Ghost for the first two 
 nights at the great house, and I own it, sir, I like company. 
 Most old soldiers do." 
 
 Glanders asked Strong where he had served? Captain 
 Strong curled his moustache, and said with a laugh, that the 
 other might almost ask where he had not served. '' I began, 
 sir, as cadet of Hungarian Uhlans, and when the war of Greek 
 independence broke out, quitted that service in consequence of 
 a quarrel with my governor, and was one of seven who escaped 
 from Missolonghi, and was blown up in one of Botzaris's fire- 
 ships, at the age of seventeen. I'll show you mj' Cross of the 
 Redeemer, if you'll come over to my lodgings and take a glass 
 of gi'og with me. Captain, this evening. I've a few of those 
 baubles in ray desk. I've the White Eagle of Poland ; Skrzy- 
 necki gave it me" (he pronounced Skrz3necki's name with 
 wonderful accurac}^ and gusto) " upon the field of Ostrolenko. 
 I was a lieutenant of the fourth regiment, sir, and we marched 
 through Diebitsch's lines — bang thro' 'em into Prussia, sir, 
 without firing a shot. Ah, Captain, that was a mismanaged
 
 216 PENDENNIfS. 
 
 business. I received this wound by the side of the King before 
 Oporto — where he would have pounded the stock-jobbing 
 Pedroites, had Bourmont followed ni}' advice ; and I served in 
 Spain with the King's troops, until the death of m}' dear friend, 
 Zuinalacarreguj', when I saw the game was over, and hung up 
 my toasting-iron, Captain. Alava offered me a regiment ; but I 
 couldn't — damme I couldn't — and now, sir, you know Ned 
 Strong — the Chevalier Strong the}^ call me abroad — as well 
 as he knows himself." 
 
 In this wa}- almost ever3-bod3' in Clavering came to know 
 Ned Strong. He told Madame Fribsb}-, he told the landlord 
 of the George, he told Baker at the reading-rooms, he told 
 Mrs. Glanders, and the 3-oung ones, at dinner: and finally, 
 he told Mr. Arthur Pendennis, who, yawning into Clavering 
 one day, found the Chevalier Strong in company' with Cap- 
 tain Glanders ; and who was delighted with his new acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Before man}- days were over, Captain Strong was as much 
 at home in Helen's drawing-room as he was in Madame Fribs- 
 by's first floor ; and made the lonely house very gay with his 
 good-humor and ceaseless flow of talk. The two women had 
 never before seen such a man. He had a thousand stories 
 about battles and dangers to interest them — about Greek cap- 
 tives, Polish beauties, and Spanish nuns. He could sing scores 
 of songs, in half a dozen languages, and would sit down to the 
 piauo and troll them off in a rich manly voice. Both the ladies 
 pronounced him to be delightful — and so he was : though, in- 
 deed, the}- had not had much choice of man's societ}^ as yet, 
 having seen in the course of their lives but few persons, except 
 old Portman and the Major, and Mr. Pen, who was a genius, to 
 be sure ; but then your geniuses are somewhat flat and moody 
 at home. 
 
 And Captain Strong acquainted his new friends at Fairoaks, 
 not only with his own biography, but with the whole history 
 of the family now coming to Clavering. It was he who had 
 made the marriage between his friend Frank and the widow 
 Amory. She wanted rank, and he wanted money. What 
 match could be more suitable ? He organized it ; he made 
 those two people happy. There was no particular romantic 
 attachment between them ; the widow was not of an age or a 
 person for romance, and Sir Francis, if he had his game at Hl- 
 liards, and his dinner, cared for little besides. But they were 
 as happy as people could be. Clavering would return to his 
 native place and countr}', his wife's fortune would pay his en-
 
 PENDENNIS. 217 
 
 cumhrances off, and his son and heir would be one of the first 
 men in the county. 
 
 "And Miss Amor}-?" Laura asked. Laura was uncom- 
 monly curious about Miss Amor}'. 
 
 Strong laughed. "Oh, Miss Amory is a muse — Miss 
 Amory is a mystery — Miss Amory is a feinme iyicomprise." 
 "What is that?" asked simple Mrs. Pendennis — but the 
 Chevalier gave her no answer ; perhaps could not give her one. 
 " Miss Amory paints, Miss Amory writes poems, Miss Amory 
 composes music, Miss Amory rides like Diana Vernon. Miss 
 Amory is a paragon, in a word." 
 
 " I hate clever women," said Pen. 
 
 " Thank you," said Laura. For her part she was sure she 
 should be charmed with Miss Amory, and quite longed to have 
 such a friend. And with this she looked Pen full in the face, 
 as if every word the Uttle hypocrite said was Gospel truth. 
 
 Thus an intimacy was arranged and prepared beforehand 
 between the Fairoaks family and their wealthy neighbors at the 
 Park ; and Pen and Laura were to tlie full as eager for their 
 arrival, as even the most curious of the Clavering folks. A 
 Londoner, who sees fresh faces and yawns at them every day, 
 may smile at the eagerness with which country people expect a 
 visitor. A cockney comes amongst them, and is remembered 
 by his rural entertainers for years after he has left them, and 
 forgotten them very likely — floated far away from them on the 
 vast London sea. But the islanders remember long after the 
 mariner has sailed away, and can tell you what he said and 
 what he wore, and how he looked and how he laughed. In 
 fine, a new arrival is an event in the country not to be under- 
 stood by us, who don't, and had rather not, know who lives 
 next door. 
 
 "When the painters and upholsterers had done their work in 
 the house, and so beautified it, under Captain Strong's superin- 
 tendence, that he might well be proud of his taste, that gentle- 
 man announced that he should go to London, where the whole 
 family had arrived by this time, and should speedily return to 
 establish them in their renovated mansion. 
 
 Detachments of domestics preceded them. Carriages came 
 down by sea, and were brought over from Baymouth by horses 
 which had previously arrived under the care of grooms and 
 coachmen. One day the "Alacrity" coach brought down on 
 its roof two large and melancholy men, who were dropped at 
 the Park lodge with their trunks, and who were Messieurs 
 Frederic and James, metropolitan footmen, who had no objee' 
 
 8
 
 218 PENDENNIS. 
 
 tion to the countrj', and brought with them state and other suits 
 of the Clavering uuiform. 
 
 On another day, the mail deposited at the gate a foreign 
 gentleman, adorned with many ringlets and chains. He made 
 a great riot at the lodge gate to the keeper's wife (who, being a 
 West countr}- woman, did not understand his Enghsh or his 
 Gascon French), because there was no carriage in waiting to 
 drive him to the house, a mile off, and because he could not 
 walk entire leagues in his fatigued state and varnished boots. 
 This was Monsieur Alcide Mirobolant, formerly Chef of his 
 Highness the Due de Borodino, of H. Eminence Cardinal Bee- 
 calico, and at present Chef of the bouche of Sir Clavering, 
 Baronet: — Monsieur Mirobolant's library, pictures, and piano, 
 had arrived previously in charge of the intelligent young Eng- 
 lishman, his aide-de-camp. He was, moreover, aided by a. 
 professed female cook, likewise from London, who had inferior 
 females under her orders. 
 
 He did not dine in the steward's room, but took his nutri- 
 ment in solitude in his own apartments, where a female servant 
 was affected to his private use. It was a grand sight to behold 
 him in his dressing-gown composing a menu. He alwaj's sat 
 down and played the piano for some time before. If inter- 
 rupted, he remonstrated patheticall}'. Ever}- great artist, he 
 said, had need of solitude to perfectionate his works. 
 
 But we are advancing matters in the fulness of our love and 
 respect for Monsieur Mirobolant, and bringing him prematurely 
 on the stage. 
 
 The Chevalier Strong had a hand in the engagement of all 
 the London domestics, and, indeed, seemed to be the master of 
 the house. There were those among them who said he was the 
 house-steward, only he dined with the family. Howbeit, he 
 knew how to make himself respected, and two of by no means 
 the least comfortable rooms of the house were assigned to his 
 particular use. 
 
 He was walking upon the terrace finally upon the eventful 
 day, when, amidst an immense jangling of bells from Clavering 
 Church, where the flag was flying, an open carriage and one of 
 those travelling chariots or family arks, which only English 
 philo-progenitiveness could invent, drove rapidl}' with foaming 
 horses through the Park gates, and up to the steps of the Hall. 
 The two battans of the sculptured door flew open. Two superior 
 officers in black, the large and melancholy gentlemen, now in 
 liver}- with their hair in powder, the country menials engaged 
 t/O aid them, were in waiting- in the ball, and bowed like lad
 
 PENDENNIS. 219 
 
 elms when autumn winds wail in the park. Through this avenue 
 passed Sir Francis Clavering with a most unmoved face : Lady 
 Clavering, with a pair of bright black eyes, and a good-humored 
 countenance, which waggled and nodded veiy graciousl}' : Mas- 
 ter Francis Clavering, who was holding his mamma's skirt (and 
 who stopped the procession to look at the largest footman, 
 wliose appearance seamed to sti-ike the young gentleman), and 
 Miss Blandy, governess to Master Francis, and Miss Amory, 
 her ladyship's daughter, giving her arm to Captain Strong. It 
 was summer, but fires of welcome were crackling in the great 
 hall chimney, and in the rooms which the family were to oc- 
 cupy. 
 
 Monsieur Mirobolant had looked at the procession from one 
 of the lime-trees in the avenue. " Elle est la," he said, la3-ing 
 his jewelled hand on his richly embroidered velvet waistcoat 
 with glass buttons, " Je t'ai vue ; je te benis, O ma S3dphide, 
 O mon ange ! " and he dived into the thicket, and made his 
 waj' back to his furnaces and saucepans. 
 
 The next Sunday the same party which had just made its 
 appearance at Clavering Park, came and publicly took pos- 
 session of the ancient pew in the church, where so many of the 
 Baronet's ancestors had prayed, and were now kneeling in 
 effigy. There was such a run to see the new folks, that the 
 Low Church was deserted, to the disgust of its pastor ; and as 
 the state barouche, with the grays and coachman in silver wig, 
 and solemn footmen, drew up at the old churchj^ard gate, there 
 was such a crowd assembled there as had not been seen for 
 mau}^ a long da}'. Captain Strong knew everybody, and saluted 
 for all the company. The countr}' people vowed my lady was 
 not handsome, to be sure, but pronounced her to be uncommon 
 fine dressed, as indeed she was — with the finest of shawls, the 
 finest of pelisses, the brilliantest of bonnets and wreaths, and 
 a power of rings, cameos, brooches, chains, bangles, and other 
 nameless gimcracks { and ribbons of every breadth and color 
 of the rainbow flaming on her person. Miss Amory appeared 
 meek in dove-color, like a vestal virgin — while Master Francis 
 was in the costume then prevalent of Rob Roy Macgregor, a 
 celebrated Highland outlaw. The Baronet was not more ani- 
 mated than ordinarily — there was a happy vacuity about him 
 which enabled him to face a dinner, a death, a church, a mar- 
 riage, with the same indifferent ease. 
 
 A pew for the Clavering servants was filled by these domes- 
 tics, and the enraptured congregation saw the gentlemen from 
 London with " vlower on tlieir heeds-" and the miraculous
 
 220 PENDENMS. 
 
 coachman with his silver wig, take their places in that pew sa 
 soon as his horses were put up at the Clavering Arms. 
 
 In the course of the sei-vice, Master Francis began to make 
 such a yelling in the pew, that Frederic, the tallest of the foot- 
 men, was beckoned by his master, and rose and went and 
 carried out Master Francis, who roared and beat him on the 
 head, so that the powder flew round about, like clouds of in- 
 cense. Nor was he pacified until placed on the box of the 
 carriage, where he plaj-ed at horses with John's whip. 
 
 " You see the little beggar's never been to church before,. 
 Miss Bell," the Baronet drawled out to a 30ung lad^' who was 
 visiting him ; "no wonder he should make a row : I don't go 
 in town neither, but I think it's right in the country to give a 
 good example — and that sort of thing." 
 
 Miss Bell laughed and said, " The little boy had not given 
 a particularly^ good example." 
 
 " Gad, I don't know," said the Baronet. " It ain't so bad 
 neither. Whenever he wants a thing, Frank alwaj's cwies, and 
 whenever he cwies he gets it." 
 
 Here the child in question began to howl for a dish of sweet- 
 meats on the luncheon table, and making a lunge across the 
 table-cloth, upset a glass of wine over the best waistcoat of one 
 of the guests present, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, who was greatly 
 annoyed at being made to look foolish ; and at having his spot- 
 less cambric shirt-front blotched with wine. 
 
 "We do spoil him so," said Lady Clavering to Mrs. Pen- 
 dennis, fondl3^ gazing at the cherub, whose hands and face 
 were now frothed over with the species of lather which is in- 
 serted in the confection called meringues a la creme. 
 
 " Gad, I was quite wight," said the Baronet. " He has 
 cwied, and he has got it, you see. Go it, Fwank, old boj'." 
 
 " Sir Francis is a ver}^ judicious parent," Miss Amor}^ whis- 
 pered. "Don't you think so, Miss Bell? I shan't call yon 
 Miss Bell — I shall call you Laura. I admired 3'ou so at 
 church. Your robe was not well made, nor 3'our bonnet ver3' 
 fresh. But 3^ou have such beautiful gray e3'es, and such a 
 lovely tint." 
 
 " Thank 3^ou," said Miss Bell, laughing. 
 
 " Your cousin is handsome, and thinks so. He is uneasy 
 de sa personne. He has not seen the world 3'et. Has he genius ? 
 Has he suffered? A lad3^ a little woman in rumpled satin and 
 velvet shoes — a Miss P3'bus — came here, and said he has suf- 
 fered. I, too, have suffered, — and you, Laura, has your heart 
 ever been touched?"
 
 PENDENNIS. 221 
 
 Laura said " No ! " but perhaps blushed a little at the idea 
 or the question, so that the other said, — 
 
 '• Ah, Laura ! I see it all. It is the beau cousin. Tell me 
 everything. I already love j'ou as a sister." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Miss Bell, smihng, " and — and 
 it must be owned that it is a very sudden attachment." 
 
 "All attachments are so. It is electricity — spontaneity. 
 It is instantaneous. I knew I should love yoii from the moment 
 I saw you. Do 3'ou not feel it yourself ? " 
 
 " Not yet," said Laura ; " but I dare say I shall if I try." 
 
 " Call me by m^'^ name, then." 
 
 " But I don't know it," Laura cried out. 
 
 "My name is Blanche — isn't it a pretty name? Call me 
 by it." 
 
 " Blanche — it is very prett}', indeed." 
 
 " And while mamma talks with that kind-looking lady^ 
 what relation is she to you? She must have been pretty once, 
 but is rather passee ; she is not well gantee^ but she has a prettj"^ 
 hand — and while mamma tallvs to her, come with me to my 
 own room, — my own, own room. It's a darling room, though 
 that hoiTid creature, Captain Strong, did arrange it. Are yon 
 epns of him? He says you are, but I know better; it is the 
 beau cousin. Yes — il a de beaux yeux. Je n' aime pas les blonds, 
 ordinairement. Car je suis blond moi — je suis Blanche et blonde,"" 
 — and she looked at her face and made a mone in the glass ; 
 and never stopped for Laura's answer to the questions which 
 she had put. 
 
 Blanche was fair, and like a sylph. She had fair hair, with 
 green reflections in it. But she had dark eyebrows. She had 
 long black e3'elashes, which veiled beautiful brown ej^es. She 
 had such a slim waist, that it was a wonder to behold ; and 
 such slim little feet, that you would have thought the grass 
 would hardU' bend under them. Her lips were of the color of 
 faint rosebuds, and her voice warbled limpidl}' over a set of the 
 sweetest little pearlj- teeth ever seen. She showed them very 
 often, for they were ver}- prett3\ She was always smiling, and 
 a smile not only showed her teeth wonderfull}', but likewise 
 exhibited two lovely little pink dimples, that nestled in either 
 cheek. 
 
 She showed Laura her drawings, which the other thought 
 charming. She played her some of her waltzes, with a rapid 
 and brilliant finger, and Laura was still more charmed. And 
 she then read her some poems, in French and English, likewise 
 of her own composition, and which she kept locked in her own
 
 222 PENDENNIS. 
 
 book — lier own clear little book ; it was bound in blue velvet, 
 with a gilt lock, and on it was printed in gold the title of " Mes 
 Larmes." 
 
 ' ' Mes Larmes ! — isn't it a pretty name ? " the 3'oung lady 
 continued, who was pleased with everything that she did, and 
 did everything ver^' well. Laura owned that it was. She had 
 never seen an^'thing like it befoi-e ; an^'thing so lovely, so ac- 
 complished, so fragile and prett}' ; warbling so prettily, and 
 tripping about such a pretty room, with such a number of prett}- 
 books, pictures, flowers, round about her. The honest and 
 generous country girl forgot even jealousy in her admiration. 
 " Indeed, Blanche," she said, " everything in the room is pretty ; 
 and you are the prettiest of all." The other smiled, looked in 
 the glass, went up and took both of Laura's hands, and kissed 
 them, and sat down to the piano, and shook out a little 
 song. 
 
 The intimacy between the j'oung ladies sprang up like Jack's 
 Bean-stalk to the skies in a single night. The large footmen 
 were perpetuall}' walking with little pink notes to Fairoaks ; 
 where there was a pretty housemaid in the kitchen, who might 
 possibly tempt those gentlemen to so humble a place. Miss 
 Amory sent music, or Miss Amory sent a new novel, or a pic- 
 ture from the "Journal des Modes," to Laura; or my lady's 
 compliments arrived witli flowers and fruit ; or Miss Amory 
 begged and prayed Miss Bell to come to dinner ; and dear 
 Mrs. Pendennis, if she was strong enough ; and Mr. Arthur, 
 if a humdrum party were not too stupid for him ; and would 
 send a pony-carriage for Mrs. Pendennis ; and would take no 
 denial. 
 
 Neither Arthur nor Laura wished to refuse. And Helen, 
 who was, indeed, somewhat ailing, was glad that the two should 
 have their pleasure ; and would look at them fondly as they set 
 forth, and ask in her heart that she might not be called awav 
 until those two beings whom she loved best in the world should 
 be joined together. As they went out and crossed over the 
 bridge, she remembered summer evenings flve-and-twenty years 
 ago, when she, too, had bloomed in her brief prime of love and 
 happiness. It w^as all over now. The moon was looking from 
 the purpling sk}^ and the stars glittering there, just as they 
 used in the early well-remembered evenings. He was lying 
 dead far awa}^ with the billows rolling between them. Good 
 God ! how well she remembered the last look of his face as the}' 
 parted. It looked out at her through the vista of long years, 
 as sad and as clear as then.
 
 PENDENNIS. 223 
 
 So Mr. Pen and Miss Laura found the society at Clavering 
 Park an uncommonly agi'eeable resort of summer evenings, 
 Blanche vowed that she raffoled of Laura ; and, very likel}', 
 Mr. Pen was pleased with Blanche. His spirits came back : he 
 laughed and rattled till Laura wondered to hear him. It was 
 not the same Pen, yawning in a shooting-jacket, in the Fair- 
 oaks parlor, who appeared alert and brisk, and smiling, and 
 well dressed, in Lady Clavering's drawing-room. Sometimov 
 they had musiq. Laura had a sweet contralto voice, and sang 
 with Blanche, who had had the best continental instruction, and 
 was charmed to be her friend's mistress. Sometimes Mr. Pen 
 joined in these concerts, or oftener looked sweet upon Miss 
 Blanche as she sang. Sometimes they had glees, when Captain 
 Strong's chest was of vast service, and he boomed out in a pro- 
 digious bass, of which he was not a little proud. 
 
 "Good fellows Strong — ain't he. Miss Bell?" Sir Francis 
 would sa}' to her. ' ' Plaj's at ecarte with Lady Clavering — 
 plays an3'thing, pitch and toss, pianofort}', cwibbage if you like. 
 How long do you think he's been staying with me ? He came 
 for a week with a carpet-bag, and gad. he's been staying thwee 
 years. Good fellow, ain't he? Don't know how he gets a 
 shillin', though, by Jove I don't. Miss Lauwa." 
 
 And yet the Chevalier, if he lost his money to Lady Claver- 
 ing, always paid it ; and if he lived with his friend for three 
 years, paid for that too — in good-humor, in kindness and jovi- 
 ality, in a thousand little services bj' which he made himself 
 agreeable. What gentleman could want a better friend than a 
 man who was always in spirits, never in the wa}' or out of it, 
 and was ready to execute an}' commission for his patron, Avhether 
 it was to sing a scng or meet a law^-er, to fight a duel, or to 
 carve a capon? 
 
 Although Laura and Pen commonl}' went to Clavering Park 
 together, 3'et sometimes Mr. Pen took walks there unattended 
 by her, and about which he did not tell her. He took to fish- 
 ing the Brawl, w^hich runs through the Park, and passes not 
 ver}' far from the garden-wall ; and by the oddest coincidence, 
 Miss Amory would walk out (having been to look at her 
 flowers), and would be quite surprised to see Mr. Pendennis 
 fishing. 
 
 I wonder what trout Pen caught while the j'oung lady was 
 looking on? or whether Miss Blanche was the pretty little fish 
 which played round his fly, and which Mr. Pen was endeavoring 
 to hook ? 
 
 As for Miss Blanche, she had a kind heart ; and having, as
 
 224 PENDENNIS. 
 
 she owned, herself " suffered" a good deal in the course of her 
 brief life and experience — why, she could compassionate other 
 susceptible beings like Pen, who had suffered too. Her love 
 for Laura and that dear Mrs. Pendennis redoubled : if they were 
 not at the Park, she was not easy unless she herself was at 
 Fairoaks. She played with Laura ; she read French and Ger- 
 man with Laura ; and Mr. Pen read French and German along 
 with them. He turned sentimental ballads of Schiller and 
 Goethe into English verse for the ladies, and Blanche unlocked 
 " Mes Larmes" for him, and imparted to him some of the 
 plaintive outpourings of her own tender Muse. 
 
 It appeared from these poems that the young creature had 
 indeed suffered prodigiously. She was familiar with the idea 
 of suicide. Death she repeatedly longed for. A faded rose 
 inspired her with such grief that you would have thought she 
 must die in pain of it. It was a wonder how a 3'oung creature 
 should have suffered so much — should have found the means 
 of getting at such an ocean of despair and passion (as a run- 
 away boy who will get to sea) , and having embarked on it, 
 should survive it. What a talent she must have had for weep- 
 ing to be able to pour out so manj' of ' ' Mes Larmes ! " 
 
 They were not particularly briu}'. Miss Blanche's tears, 
 that is the truth: but Pen, who read her verses, thought 
 them very well for a lad}' — and wrote some verses himself 
 for her. His were very violent and passionate, very hot, 
 sweet, and strong: and he not onl}^ wrote verses; but — Oh, 
 the villain ! Oh, the deceiver ! he altered and adapted former 
 poems in his possession, and which had been composed for a 
 certain Miss Emily Fotheringay, for the use and to the Chris- 
 tian name of Miss Blanche Amory. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A LITTLE INNOCENT. 
 
 "Egad, Strong," one day the Baronet said, as the pair 
 were conversing after dinner over the billiard-table, and that 
 great unbosomer of secrets, a cigar; "Egad, Strong, I wish 
 to the doose your wife was dead." 
 
 "So do I. That's a cannon, by Jove! But she won't; 
 she'll live for ever — j'ou see if she don't. Why do you
 
 PENDENNIS. 223 
 
 wish her off" the hooks, Frank, uiy boy?" asked Captain 
 Strong. 
 
 "Because then you might marry Missy. She ain't bad- 
 looking. She'll have ten thousand, and that's a good bit of 
 mone}- for such a poor old devil as you," drawled out the other 
 gentleman. "And egad, Strong, I hate her worse and worse 
 every day. I can't stand her, Strong ; by gad, I can't." 
 
 " I wouldn't take her at twice the figure," Captain Strong 
 said, laughing. " I never saw such a little devil in m}^ life." 
 
 " I should like to poison her," said the sententious Baronet ; 
 " by Jove I should." 
 
 " Why, what has she been at now? " asked his friend. 
 
 " Nothing particular," answered Sir Francis ; " only her 
 old tricks. That girl has such a knack of making everybody 
 miserable that, hang me, it's quite surprising. Last night she 
 sent the governess crying away from the dinner-table. After- 
 wards, as I was passing Frank's room, I heard the poor little 
 beggar howling in the dark, and found his sister had been 
 frightening his soul out of his body, by telling him stories 
 about the ghost that's in the house. At lunch she gave my 
 lady a turn ; and though my wife's a fool, she's a good soul — 
 I'm hanged if she ain't." 
 
 " What did Miss}" do to her?" Strong asked. 
 
 " Why, hang me, if she didn't begin talking about the late 
 Amor}-, m}- predecessor," the Baronet said, with a grin. " She 
 got some picture out of ' the Keepsake,' and said, she was sure 
 it was like her dear father. She wanted to know where her 
 father's grave was. Hang her father ! AVhenever Miss Amory 
 talks about him. Lady Clavering alwa^^s bursts out crying : and 
 the little devil will talk about him in order to spite her mother. 
 To-da}' when she began, I got in a confounded rage, said I was 
 her father, and — and that sort of thing, and then, sir, she took 
 a shy at me." 
 
 ' ' And what did she say about you, Frank ? " Mr. Strong, 
 still laughing, inquired of his friend and patron. 
 
 "Gad, she said I wasn't her father; that I wasn't fit to 
 comprehend her ; that her father must have been a man of 
 genius, and fine feelings, and that sort of thing ; whereas I 
 had married her mother for money." 
 
 " Well, didn't you?" asked Strong. 
 
 "It don't make it any the pleasanter to hear because it's 
 true, don't you know," Sir Francis Clavering answered. "I 
 ain't a literary man and that ; but I ain't such a fool as she 
 uiakes me out. I don't know how it is, but she always man- 
 
 15
 
 226 PENDENNIS. 
 
 ages to — to put me in the hole, don't j'ou understand. She 
 turns all the house round her in her quiet way, and with her 
 confounded sentimental airs. I wish she was dead, Ned." 
 
 " It was mj' wife whom you wanted dead just now," Strong 
 said, always in perfect good-humor ; upon which the Baronet, 
 with his accustomed candor, said, " Well, when people bore 
 m}' life out, I do wish the}^ were dead, and I wish Missy were 
 down a well with all my heart." 
 
 Thus it will be seen from the above report of this candid 
 conversation that our accomplished little friend had some 
 peculiarities or defects of character which rendered her not 
 ver^' popular. She was a j'oung lad}- of some genius, exqui- 
 site S3'mpathies and considerable literary attainments, living, 
 like many another genius, with relatives who could not com- 
 prehend her. Neither her mother nor her step-father were 
 persons of a Uterary turn. "Bell's Life" and the "Racing 
 Calendar " were the extent of the Baronet's reading, and Lady 
 Clavering still wrote hke a school-gui of thirteen, and with 
 an extraordinary disregard to grammar and spelling. And as 
 Miss Amor}^ felt very keenly that she was not appreciated, 
 and that she lived with persons who were not her equals in 
 intellect or conversational power, she lost no opportunity to 
 acquaint her family circle with their inferiority to herself, and 
 not onl}^ was a martyr, but took care to let ever3'bod3' know 
 that she was so. If she suffered, as she said and thought she 
 did, severeh', are we to wonder that a young creature of such 
 delicate sensibilities should shriek and cry out a good deal? 
 If a poetess may not bemoan her lot, of what earthly use is 
 her l3Te ? Blanche struck hers only to the saddest of tunes ; 
 and sang elegies over her dead hopes, dirges over her earl}- 
 frost-nipt buds of affection, as became such a melancholy fate 
 and Muse. 
 
 Her actual distresses, as we have said, had not been up to 
 the present time very considerable : but her griefs lay, like 
 those of most of us, in her own soul — that being sad and 
 habitually dissatisfied, what wonder that she should weep? 
 So " Mes Larmes " dribbled out of her e3^es an3' day at com- 
 mand : she could furnish an unlimited supply of tears, and 
 her faculty of shedding them increased b3- practice. For sen- 
 timent is like another complaint mentioned by Horace, as in- 
 creasing by self-indulgence (I am sorr3' to sa3', ladies, that 
 the complaint in question is called the drops3-) , and the more 
 you cry, the more 30U will be able and desirous to do so. 
 
 Miss3' had begun to gush at a ver3' early age. Lamartine
 
 PENDENNIS. 227 
 
 was her favorite bard from the period when she first could 
 feel ; and she had subsequently improved her mind b}- a sedu- 
 lous study of novels of the great modern authors of the French 
 language. There was not a romance of Balzac and George 
 Sand which the indefatigable little creature had not devoured 
 by the time she was sixteen : and, however little she s^onpa- 
 thized with her relatives at home, she had friends, as she said, 
 in the spirit-world, meaning the tender Indiana, the passionate 
 and poetic Lelia, the amiable Trenmor, that high-souled con- 
 vict, that angel of the galleys, — the fiery Stenio, — and the 
 other numberless heroes of the French romances. She had 
 been in love with Prince Rodolph and Prince Djalma while 
 she was 3-et at school, and had settled the divorce question, 
 and the rights of woman, with Indiana, before she had left off 
 pinafores. The impetuous little lad}' played at love with these 
 imaginary worthies, as a little while before she had played at 
 maternity with her doll. Pretty little poetical spirits ! it is 
 curious to watch them with those playthings. To-da}^ the 
 blue-eyed one is the favorite, and the black-eyed one is 
 pushed behind the drawers. To-morrow blue-eyes may take 
 its turn of neglect : and it ma}" be an odious little wretch with 
 a burnt nose, or torn head of hair, and no eyes at all, that 
 takes the first place in Miss's aifection, and is dandled and 
 caressed in her arms. 
 
 As novelists are supposed to know ever3'thing, even the 
 scerets of female hearts, which the owners themselves do not 
 perhaps know, we ma}^ state that at eleven years of age Made- 
 moiselle Betsi, as Miss Amory was then called, had felt tender 
 emotions towards a 30uug Savoyard organ-grinder at Paris, 
 whom she persisted in believing to be a prince carried off from 
 his parents ; that at twelve an old and hideous drawing-master 
 — (but, ah, what age or personal defects are proof against 
 woman's love ?) had agitated her 3'oung heart ; and that, at 
 thirteen, being at Madame de Carmel's boarding-school, in the 
 Champs El^sees, which, as everybody knows, is next door to 
 Monsieur Rogron's (Chevalier of the Legion of Honor) pension 
 for young gentlemen, a correspondence b}' letter took place 
 between the seduisante Miss Betsi and two young gentlemen of 
 the College of Charlemagne, who were pensioners of the Cheva- 
 lier Rogron. 
 
 In the above paragraph our young friend has been called b}- 
 a Christian name, different to that under which we were lately 
 presented to her. The fact is, that Miss Amorjs called Miss}' 
 at home, had really at the first been christened Betsy — but
 
 228 PE:N DENNIS. 
 
 assumed the name of Blanche of her own will and fantasy, and 
 crowned . herself with it ; and the weapon which the Baronet, 
 her step-father, held in terror over her, was the threat to call 
 her publicly by her name of Betsj', by which menace he some- 
 times managed to keep the ^oung rebel in order. 
 
 Blanche had had hosts of dear, dear, darling friends ere 
 now, and had quite a little museum of locks of hair in her treas- 
 ure-chest, which she had gathered in the course of her senti- 
 mental progress. Some dear friends had married : some had 
 gone to other schools : one beloved sister she had lost from the 
 pension, and found again, Oh, horror ! her darling, her Leocadie, 
 keeping the books in her father's shop, a grocer in the Rue du 
 Bac : in fact, she had met with a number of disappointments, 
 estrangements, disillusionments, as she called them in her 
 prett}' French jargon, and had seen and suffered a great deal 
 for so young a woman. But it is the lot of sensibility to suffer, 
 and of confiding tenderness to be deceived, and she felt that 
 she was only undergoing the penalties of genius in these pangs 
 and disappointments of her 3'oung career. 
 
 Meanwhile, she managed to make the honest lady, her mother, 
 as uncomfortable as circumstances would permit ; and caused 
 her worthy step-father to wish she was dead. With the excep- 
 tion of Captain Strong, whose invincible good-humor was proof 
 against her sarcasms, the little lady ruled the whole house with 
 her tongue. If Lady Clavering talked about Sparrowgrass 
 instead of Asparagus, or called an object a hobject, as this un- 
 fortunate lady would sometimes do, Missy calmly corrected 
 her, and frightened the good soul, her mother, into errors only 
 the more frequent as she grew more nervous under her daugh- 
 ter's eye. 
 
 It is not to be supposed, considering the vast interest which 
 the arrival of the family at Clavering Park inspired in the in- 
 habitants of the httle town, that Madame Fribsby alone, of all 
 the folks in Clavering, should have remained unmoved and in- 
 curious. At the first appearance of the Park family- in church, 
 Madame noted ever}- article of toilette which the ladies wore, 
 from their bonnets to their brodequins, and took a survey of 
 the attire of the ladies'-maids in the pew allotted to them. We 
 fear that Doctor Portman's sermon, though it was one of his 
 oldest and most valued compositions, had little effect upon 
 Madame Fribsby on that da}-. In a very few daj's afterwards, 
 she had managed for herself an interview with Lady Clavering's 
 oonfideatial attendant, in the housekeeper's! room at the Park ;
 
 PENDENNIS. 229 
 
 and her cards in French and English, stating that she received 
 the newest fashions from Paris from her correspondent Madame 
 Victorine, and that she was in the custom of making court and 
 ball dresses for the nobilit}^ and gentry of the shu'e, were in the 
 possession of Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, and favorably 
 received, as she was happy to hear, by those ladies. 
 
 Mrs. Bonner, Lady Clavering's lady, became soon a great 
 frequenter of Madame Fribsby's drawing-room, and partook 
 of many entertainments at the milliner's expense. A meal of 
 green tea, scandal, hot Sallj-Lunn cakes, and a little novel 
 reading, were alwaj's at the service of Mrs. Bonner, whenever 
 she was free to pass au evening in the town. And she found 
 much more time for these pleasures than her junior officer. Miss 
 .^nory's maid, who seldom could be spared for a hoUday, and 
 was worked as hard as any factory girl by that inexorable Uttle 
 Muse, her mistress. 
 
 And there was another person connected with the Clavering 
 establishment, who became a constant guest of our friend, the 
 milliner. This was the chief of the kitchen. Monsieur Mirobo- 
 lant, with whom Madame Fribsby soon formed an intimacy. 
 
 Not having been accustomed to the appearance or society of 
 persons of the French nation, the rustic inhabitants of Clavering 
 were not so favorably impressed by Monsieur Alcide's manners 
 and appearance, as that gentleman might have desired that 
 they should be. He walked among them quite unsuspiciously 
 upon the afternoon of a summer day, when his services were 
 not required at the House, in his usual favorite costume, namel}^ 
 his light green frock or paletot, his crimson velvet waistcoat, 
 with blue glass buttons, his pantalon Ecossais, of a very large 
 and decided check pattern, his orange satin neck-cloth, and his 
 jean-boots, with tips of shiny leather, — these, with a gold em- 
 broidered cap, and richl}^ gilt cane, or other varieties of orna- 
 ment of a similar tendency', fonned his usual holiday costume, 
 in which he flattered himself there was nothing remarkable 
 (unless, indeed, the beauty of his person should attract obser- 
 vation) , and in which he considered that he exhibited the ap- 
 pearance of a gentleman of good Parisian ton. 
 
 He walked then down the street, grinning and ogling every 
 woman he met with glances, which he meant should kiU them 
 outright, and peered over the railings, and in at the windows, 
 where females were, in the tranquil summer evening. But 
 Betsy, Mrs. Pybus's maid, shrank back with a " Lor bless us ! " 
 as Alcide ogled her over the laurel bush ; the Misses Baker, 
 and their mamma, stared with wonder ; and presently a crowd
 
 230 PENDEXNIS. 
 
 began to follow the interesting foreigner, of ragged urchins 
 and children, who left their dirt-pies in the street to pursue 
 him. 
 
 For some time he thought that admiration was the cause 
 which led these persons in his wake, and walked on, pleased 
 himself that he could so easily confer on others so much harm- 
 less pleasure. But the little children and dirt-pie manufac- 
 turers were presently succeeded by followers of a larger growth, 
 and a number of lads and girls from the factory being let loose 
 at this hour, joined the mob, and began laughing, jeering, hoot- 
 ing, and calling opprobrious names at the Frenchman. Some 
 cried out, " Frenchy ! Frenchy ! " some exclaimed "Frogs!" 
 one asked for a lock of his hair, which was long and in richly 
 flowing ringlets ; and at length the poor artist began to per- 
 ceive that he was an object of derision rather than of respect 
 to the rude gi-inuing mob. 
 
 It was at this juncture that Madame Fribsb}- spied the un- 
 luck}' gentleman with the train at his heels, and heard the scorn- 
 ful shouts with which they assailed him. She ran out of her 
 room, and across the street to the persecuted foreigner ; she 
 held out her hand, and, addressing him in his own language, 
 invited him into her abode ; and when she had housed him 
 fairly within her door, she stood bravel}' at the threshold before 
 the gibing factor}' girls and boys, and said the}' were a pack of 
 cowards to insult a poor man who could not speak their lan- 
 guage, and was alone and without protection. The little crowd, 
 with some ironical cheers and hootings, nevertheless felt the 
 force of Madame Fribsby's vigorous allocution, and retreated 
 before her ; for the old lady was rather respected in the place, 
 and her oddity and her kindness had made her many friends 
 there. 
 
 Poor Mirobolant was grateful indeed to hear the language of 
 his country ever so ill spoken. Frenchmen pardon our faults 
 in their language much more readily than we excuse their bad 
 English ; and will face our blunders throughout a long conver- 
 sation, without the least propensity to grin. The rescued artist 
 vowed that Madam Fribsby was his guardian angel, and that 
 he had not as yet met with such suavity and politeness among 
 les Anglaises. He was as courteous and comphmentary to her as 
 if it was the fairest and noblest of ladies whom he was address- 
 ing : for Alcide Mirobolant paid homage after his fashion to 
 all womankind, and never dreamed of a distinction of ranks in 
 the realms of beaut}', as his phrase was. 
 
 A cream, flavored with pine-apple — a mayonnaise of lob-
 
 PENDENNIS. 231 
 
 ster, which he flattered himself was not unworthy' ot his hand, 
 or of her to whom he had the honor to offer it as an homage, 
 and a box of preserved fruits of Provence, were brought by- 
 one of the chefs aides-de-camp, in a basket, the next day to 
 the milliner's, and were accompanied with a gallant note to the 
 amiable Madame Fribsb}'. '' Her kindness," Alcide said, " had 
 made a green place in the desert of his existence, — her suavity 
 would ever contrast in memory with the grossierete of the rus- 
 tic population, who were not worthy to possess such a jewel." 
 An intimacy of the most confidential nature thus sprang up 
 between the milliner and the chief of the kitchen ; but I do 
 not know whether it was with pleasure or mortification that 
 Madame received the declarations of friendship which the young 
 Alcides proffered to her, for he persisted in calling her, " Za 
 respectable Fribsbi" " La vertueuse Fribsbi," — and in stating 
 that he should consider her as his mother, while he hoped she 
 would regard him as her son. Ah ! it was not very long ago, 
 Fribsby thought, that words had been addressed to her in that 
 dear French language, indicating a different sort of attachment. 
 And she sighed as she looked up at the picture of her Carabi- 
 neer. For it is sm-prising how young some people's hearts 
 remain when their heads have need of a front or a little hair- 
 dye — and, at this moment, Madame Fribsby, as she told young 
 Alcide, felt as romantic as a girl of eighteen. 
 
 When the conversation took this turn — and at their first 
 intimacy Madame Fribsby was rather inclined so to lead it — 
 Alcide alwa^'s politely diverged to another subject : it was as 
 his mother that he persisted in considering the good milliner. 
 He would recognize her in no other capacity, and with that 
 relationship the gentle lady was forced to content herself, 
 when she found how deeply the artist's heart was engaged else- 
 where. 
 
 He was not long before he described to her the subject and 
 origin of his passion. 
 
 " I declared myself to her," said Alcide, la^'ing his hand on 
 his heart, " in a manner which was as novel as I am charmed 
 to think it was agreeable. Where cannot love penetrate, re- 
 spectable Madame Fribsbi ? Cupid is the father of invention ! 
 — I inquired of the domestics what were the plats of which 
 Mademoiselle partook with most pleasure ; and built up my 
 little battery accordingly. On a day when her parents had 
 gone to dine in the world (and 1 am grieved to say that a gros- 
 sier dinner at a restaurant, on the Boulevard, or in the Palais 
 Royal, seemed to form the delights of these unrefined persons),
 
 232 ' ¥^ENDENNIS. 
 
 the charming Miss entertained some comrades of the pension ; 
 and I advised myself to send up a little repast suitable to so 
 delicate 3'oung palates. Her lovely name is Blanche. The 
 veil of the maiden is white ; the wreath of roses which she 
 wears is white. I determined that my dinner should be as 
 spotless as the snow. At her accustomed hour, and instead of 
 the rude gigot a I'eau which was ordinarily served at her too 
 simple table, I sent her up a little potage a la Reine — a la 
 Reine Blanche I called it, — as white as her own tint — and 
 confectioned with the most fragrant cream and almonds. I 
 then offered up at her shrine a filet de merlan a V Agnes, and a 
 ([elicnte plat, which I have designated as Eperlan a la Saints 
 Therese, and of which my charming Miss partook with pleasure. 
 I followed this by two little entrees of sweet-bread and chicken ; 
 and the only brown thing which I i>ermitted myself in the en- 
 tertainment was a little roast of lamb, which I laid in a meadow 
 of spinaches, surrounded with croustillons, representing sheep, 
 and ornamented with daisies and other savage flowers. After 
 this came my second service : a pudding a la Heine Elizabeth 
 (who, Madame Fribsbi knows, was a maiden princess) ; a dish 
 of opal-colored plovers' eggs, which I called Nid de tourtereaux 
 a la Roucoule ; placing in the midst of them two of those tender 
 volatiles, billing each other, and confectioned with butter ; a 
 basket containing little gateaux of apricots, which, I know, all 
 young ladies adore ; and a jeily of mai'asquin, bland, insinuat- 
 ing, intoxicating as the glance of beauty. This I designated 
 Amhroisie de Calypso a la Souveraine de mon cceur. And when 
 the ice was brought in — an ice of plombiere and cherries — how 
 do 3^ou think I had shaped them, Madame Fribsbi? In the 
 form of two hearts united with an arrow, on which I had laid, 
 before it entered, a bridal veil in cut-paper, surmounted by a 
 wreath of virginal orange-flowers. I stood at the door to watch 
 the efi'ect of this entry. It was but one cry of admiration. 
 The three 3'oung ladies filled their glasses with the sparkling 
 Ay, and carried me in a toast. I heard it — I heard Miss speak 
 of me — I heard her say, ' Tell Monsieur Mirobolant that we 
 thank him — we admire him — we love him ! ' My feet almost 
 failed me as I spoke. 
 
 " Since that, can I have any reason to doubt that the young 
 artist has made some progress in the heart of the English Miss ? 
 I am modest, but m}^ glass informs me that I am not ill-looking. 
 Other victories have convinced me of the fact." 
 
 ''■ Dangerous man ! " cried the milliner. 
 
 *' The blond misses of Albion see nothing in the dull inhabi-
 
 /: 
 
 1-! 
 
 /.- N 
 
 
 'DOES ANYBODY WANT MORE?" 
 
 Thackeray, Vol. Three
 
 PENDENNIS. 233 
 
 tants of their brumous isle, which can con^pare with the ardor 
 and vivacit}- of the children of the South. We bring our sun- 
 shine with us ; we are Frenchmen, and accustomed to conquer. 
 Were it not for this affair of the heart, and m\' determination 
 to marry an Anglaise, do 30U think I would stop in this island 
 (which is not altogether ungrateful, since I have found here 
 a tender mother in the respectable Madame Fribsbi) , in this 
 island, in this family ? My genius would use itself in the com- 
 pan}' of these rustics — the poesy of my art cannot be under- 
 stood b}' these carnivorous insularies. No — the men are 
 odious, but the women — the women! I own, dear Fribsbi, are 
 seducing ! I have vowed to marr}' one ; and as I cannot go 
 into your markets and purchase, according to the custom of 
 the country, I am resolved to adopt another custom, and fly 
 with one to Gretna Grin. The blond Miss will go. She is 
 fascinated. Her eyes have told me so. The white dove wants 
 but the signal to fl}'." 
 
 ' ' Have 3'ou an}- correspondence with her ? " asked Fribsb}-, 
 in amazement, and not knowing whether the young lad}' or the 
 lover might be laboring under a romantic delusion. 
 
 " I correspond with her b}' means of m}- art. She partakes 
 of dishes which I make expresslj- for her. I insinuate to her 
 thus a thousand hints, which, as she is perfectly- spiritual, she 
 receives. But I want other intelligences near her." 
 
 " There is Pincott, her maid," said Madame Fribsb}', who, 
 by aptitude or education, seemed to have some knowledge of 
 affairs of the heart, but the great artist's brow darkened at this 
 suggestion. 
 
 " Madame," he said, "there are points upon which a gal- 
 lant man ought to silence himself; though, if he break the se- 
 cret, he ma}' do so with the least impropriety to his best friend 
 — his adopted mother. Know then, that there is a cause why 
 Miss Pincott should be hostile to me — a cause not uncommon 
 with your sex — jealous}^" 
 
 " Perfidious monster ! " said the confidante. 
 
 " Ah, no," said the artist, with a deep bass voice, and a 
 tragic accent worthy of the Porte St. Martin and his favorite 
 melo-drames, "not perfidious, but fatal. Yes, I am a fatal 
 man, Madame Fribsbi. To inspire hopeless passion is my 
 destiny. I cannot help it that women love me. Is it my fault 
 that that young woman deperishes and languishes to the view 
 of the eye, consumed by a flame which I cannot return? 
 Listen ! There are others in this family who are similarly un- 
 happy. The governess of the voung Milor has encountered me
 
 234 PENDENNIS. 
 
 in mj walks, and looked at me in a way which can bear but 
 one interpretation. And Milady herself, who is of mature age, 
 but who has oriental blood, has once or twice addressed com- 
 pliments to the lonel}- artist which can admit of no mistake. 
 1 avoid the household. I seek solitude, I undergo my destiny. 
 I can marry but one, and am resolved it shall be to a lady of 
 your nation. And, if her fortune is sufficient, I think Miss would 
 be the person who would be most suitable. I wish to ascertain 
 what her means are before I lead her to Gretna Grin." 
 
 AVhether Alcide was as irresistible a conqueror as his name- 
 sake, or whether he was simply crazy, is a point which must 
 be left to the reader's judgment. But the latter, if he has 
 had the benefit of much French acquaintance, has perhaps met 
 with men amongst them who fancied themselves almost as 
 invincible ; and who, if you credit them, have made equal 
 havoc in the hearts of les Anglaises. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 CONTAINS BOTH LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 
 
 Our readers have already heard Sir Francis Clavering's can- 
 did opinion of the lady who had given him her fortune and 
 restored him to his native countrj' and home, and it must be 
 owned that the Baronet was not far wrong in his estimate of 
 his wife, and that Lady Clave ring was not the wisest or the best 
 educated of women. She had had a couple of ^-ears' education 
 in Europe, in a suburb of London, which she persisted in call- 
 ing Ackney to her d}ing da}', whence she had been summoned to 
 join her father at Calcutta at the age of fifteen. And it was on 
 her voyage thither, on board the Ramchunder East Indiaman, 
 Captain Bragg, in which ship she had two years previously- 
 made her journey to Europe, that she formed the acquaintance 
 of her first husband, Mr. Amory, who was third mate of the 
 vessel in question. 
 
 We are not going to enter into the early part of Lady 
 Clavering's history, but Captain Bragg, under whose charge 
 Miss Snell went out to her father, who was one of the Captain's 
 consignees, and part owner of the Ramchunder and many 
 other vessels, found reason to put the rebellious rascal of a 
 mate in irons, until the}^ reached the Cape, where the Captain
 
 PEN DENNIS. 235 
 
 left his officer behind : and finally delivered his ward to her 
 father at Calcutta, after a stormy and perilous voyage in which 
 the Ramchunder and the cargo and passengers incurred no small 
 danger and damage. 
 
 Some months afterwards Amor^- made his appearance at 
 Calcutta, having worked his way out before the mast from the 
 Cape — married the rich attorney's dnugliter in spite of that 
 old speculator — set up as indigo planter and failed — set up as 
 agent and failed again — set up as editor of the " Sunderbund 
 Pilot " and failed again — quarrelling ceaselessh" with his father- 
 in-law and his wife during the progress of all these mercantile 
 transactions and disasters, and ending his career finally with a 
 crash which compelled him to leave Calcutta and go to New 
 South Wales. It was in the course of these luckless proceed- 
 ings, that Mr. Amor}- probabl}- made the acquaintance of Sir 
 Jasper Rogers, the respected Judge of the Supreme Court of 
 Calcutta, who has been mentioned before, and, as the truth 
 must out, it was b}' making an improper use of his father- 
 in-law's name, who could write perfectly well, and had no need 
 of an amanuensis, that fortune finally forsook Mr. Amory and 
 caused him to abandon all further struggles with her. 
 
 Not being in the habit of reading the Calcutta law-reports 
 ver}' assiduoush', the European public did not know of these 
 facts as well as people did in Bengal, and Mrs. Amory and 
 her father, finding her residence in India not a comfortable one, 
 it was agreed that the lady should return to Europe, whither 
 she came with her little daughter, Betsy or Blanche, then four 
 years old. They were accompanied by Betsy's nurse, who has 
 been presented to the reader in the last chapter as the confiden- 
 tial maid of Lady Clavering, Mrs. Bonner : and Captain Bragg 
 took a house for them in the near neighborhood of his residence 
 in Pocklington Street. 
 
 It was a very hard bitter summer, and the rain it rained 
 ever}' da}' for some time after Mrs. Amory 's arrival. Bragg 
 was very pompous and disagreeable, perhaps ashamed, perhaps 
 anxious, to get rid of the Indian lady. She believed that all 
 the world in London was talking about her husband's disaster, 
 and that the King and Queen and the Court of Directors were 
 aware of her unlucky history. She had a good allowance from 
 ner father ; she had no call to live in England ; and she deter- 
 mined to go abroad. Away she went, then, glad to escape 
 the gloomy surveillance of the odious bully, Captain Bragg. 
 People had no objection to receive her at the continental towns 
 where she stopped, and at the various boarding-houses, where
 
 236 PENDENNIS. 
 
 she royally paid her way. She called Hackne}' Ackney, to be 
 sure (though otherwise she spoke English with a little foreign 
 twang, very curious and not unpleasant) ; she dressed amaz- 
 ingly ; she was conspicuous for her love of eating and drinking, 
 and prepared curries and pillaus at every boarding-house which 
 she frequented ; but her singularities of language and behavior 
 only gave a zest to her society, and Mrs. Amor^- was deservedly 
 popular. She was the most good-natured, jovial, and generous 
 of women. She was up to any party of pleasure by whomso- 
 ever proposed. She brought three times more champagne and 
 fowls and ham to the picnics than any one else. She took 
 endless boxes for the play, and tickets for the masked balls, 
 and gave them away to ever3'bod3'. She paid the boarding- 
 house people months beforehand ; she helped poor shabby 
 mustachioed bucks and dowagers, whose remittances had not 
 arrived, with constant supplies from her purse ; and in this way 
 she tramped through Europe, and appeai'ed at Brussels, at Paris, 
 at Milan, at Naples, at Rome, as her fancy led her. News oi 
 Amor}^s death reached her at the latter place, where Captain 
 Clavering was then staying, unal)le to pa}' his hotel bill, as, 
 indeed, was his friend the Chevaher Strong, and the good- 
 natured widow married the descendant of the ancient house 
 of Clavering — professing, indeed, no particular grief for the 
 scapegrace of a husband whom she had lost : and thus we have 
 brought her up to the present time when she was mistress of 
 Clavering Park. 
 
 Miss}' followed her mamma in most of her peregrinations, 
 and so learned a deal of life. She had a governess for some 
 time ; and after her mother's second marriage, the benefit of 
 Madame de Caramel's select pension in the Champs Ely^ees. 
 When the Claverings came to England, she of course came with 
 them. It was only within a few years, after the death of her 
 grandfather, and the birth of her little brother, that she began 
 to understand that her position in life was altered, and that 
 Miss Amory, nobody's daughter, was a verj^ small personage 
 in a house compared with Master Francis Clavering, heir to an 
 ancient baronetcy, and a noble estate. But for little Frank, 
 she would have been an heiress, in spite of her father : and 
 though she knew and cared not much about money, of which 
 she never had any stint, and though she was a romantic little 
 Muse, as we have seen, yet she could not reasonabl}- be grate- 
 ful to the persons who had so contributed to change her con- 
 dition : nor, indeed, did she understand what the matter really 
 was, until she had made some further progress, and acquired 
 more accurate knowledge of the world.
 
 PENDENXIS. 237 
 
 But this was clear, that her step-father was dull and weak : 
 that mamma dropped her H's, and was not refined in man- 
 ners or appearance ; and that little F'rank was a spoiled quar- 
 relsome urchin, always having his way, always treading upon 
 her feet, always upsetting his dinner on her dresses, and keep- 
 ing her out of her inheritance. None of these, as she felt, 
 could comprehend her : and her solitary heart naturally pined 
 for other attachments, and she sought around her where to 
 bestow the precious boon of her unoccupied affection. 
 
 This dear girl, then, from want of sympathy, or other cause, 
 made herself so disagreeable at home, and frightened her 
 mother, and bored her step-father so much, that they were quite 
 as anxious as she could be that she should settle for herself 
 in life ; and hence Sir Francis Clavering's desire expressed to 
 his friend, in the last chapter, that Mrs. Strong should die, 
 and that he would take Blanche to himself as a second Mrs. 
 Strong. 
 
 But as this could not be, any other person was welcome to 
 win her : and a smart 3'oung fellow, well-looking and well- 
 educated, like our friend Arthur Pendennis, was quite free to 
 propose for her if he had a mind, and would have been received 
 with open arms by Lady Clavering as a son-in-law, had he had 
 the courage to come forward as a competitor for Miss Amor3''s 
 hand. 
 
 Mr. Pen, however, besides other drawbacks, chose to enter- 
 tain an extreme diffidence about himself. He was ashamed 
 of his late failures, of his idle and nameless condition, of the 
 poverty which he had brought on his mother by his folly, and 
 there was as much of vanity as remorse in his present state of 
 doubt and distrust. How could he ever hope for such a prize 
 as this brilliant Blanche Amory, who lived in a fine park and 
 mansion, and was waited on by a score of grand domestics, 
 whilst a maid-servant brought in their meagre meal at Fairoaks, 
 and his mother was obliged to pinch and manage to make both 
 ends meet? Obstacles seemed to him insurmountable, whicli 
 would have vanished had he marched manful]}' upon them : 
 and he preferred despairing, or dallying with his wishes, — or 
 perhaps he had not positively shaped them as 3'et, — to attempt- 
 ing to win gallantly the object of his desire. Many a young 
 man fails by that species of vanit}' called shj^ness, who might, 
 for the asking, have his will. 
 
 But we do not pretend to say that Pen had, as yet, ascer- 
 tained his : or tlmt he was doing much more than thinking 
 about falling in love. Miss Amory was charming and livelj.
 
 238 PENDENNIS. 
 
 She fascinated and cajoled him by a thousand arts or natura\ 
 graces or flatteries. But there were kirking reasons and doubts, 
 besides sh3'ness and vanity, withholding him. In spite of her 
 cleverness, and her protestations, and her fascinations. Pen's 
 mother had divined the girl, and did not trust her. Mrs. Pen- 
 dennis saw Blanche light-minded and frivolous, detected many 
 wants in her which oilended the pure and pious-minded ladj' ; 
 a want of reverence for her parents, and for things more sacred, 
 Helen thought : workUiness and selfishness couched under pretty 
 words and tender expressions. Laura and Pen battled these 
 points strongl}' at first with the widow — Laura being as yet 
 enthusiastic about her new friend, and Pen not far-gone enough 
 in love to attempt any concealment of his feelings. He would 
 laugh at these objections of Helen's, and say, " Psha, mother ! 
 you are jealous about Laura — all women are jealous." 
 
 But when, in the course of a month or two, and by watching 
 the pair with that anxiet}' with which brooding women watch 
 over their sons' affections — and in acknowledging which, I 
 have no doubt there is a sexual jealous}' on the mother's part, 
 and a secret pang — when Helen saw that the intimac}' appeared 
 to make progress, that the two young people were perpetually 
 finding pretexts to meet, and that Miss Blanche was at Fair- 
 oaks or Mr. Pen at the Park every day, the poor widow's heart 
 began to fail her — her darling project seemed to vanish before 
 her ; and, giving wa}' to her weakness, she fairl}' told Pen one 
 day what her views and longings were ; that she felt herself 
 breaking, and not long for this world, and that she hoped and 
 praj'ed before she went, that she might see her two childi-en 
 one. The late events. Pen's life and career and former passion 
 for the actress, had broken the spirit of this tender lady. She 
 felt that he had escaped her, and was in the maternal nest no 
 more ; and she clung with a sickening fondness to Laura, 
 Laura who had been left to her b}^ Francis in Heaven. 
 
 Pen kissed and soothed her in his grand patronizing way. 
 He had seen something of this, he had long thought his mother 
 wanted to make this marriage — did Laura know anything of 
 it? (Not she, — Mrs. Pendennis said — not for worlds would 
 she have breathed a word of it to Laura) — " Well, well, there 
 was time enough, his mother wouldn't die," Pen said, laugh- 
 ingly : "he wouldn't hear of anj'^ such thing, and as for the 
 Muse, she is too grand a lady to think about poor little me — 
 and as for Laura, who knows that she would have me? She 
 would do anything you told her, to be sure. But am I worthy 
 of her?"
 
 PENDENNIS. 239 
 
 " O Pen, 3-011 might be," was the widow's repl^- ; not that 
 Mr. Pen ever doubted that he was ; and a feeling of indefinable 
 pleasure and self-complacency came over him as he thought 
 over this proposal, and imaged Laura to himself, as his mem- 
 ory remembered her for 3-ears past, always fair and open, 
 kindly and pious, cheerful, tender, and true. He looked at 
 her with brightening e^'es as she came in from the garden at 
 the end of this talk, her cheeks rather flushed, her looks frank 
 and smiling — a basket of roses in her hand. 
 
 She took the finest of them and brought it to Mrs. Penden- 
 nis, who was refreshed by the odor and color of these flowers ; 
 and hung over her fondly and gave it to her. 
 
 " And I might have this prize for the asking ! " Pen thought, 
 with a thrill of triumph, as he looked at the kindh' girl. " Why, 
 she is as beautiful and as generous as her roses." The image 
 of the two women remained for ever after in his mind, and he 
 never recalled it but the tears came into his eyes. 
 
 Before ver}' many weeks' intimacy' with her new acquaint- 
 ance, however. Miss Laura was obhged to give in to Helen's 
 opinion, and own that the Muse was selfish, unkind, and incon- 
 stant. 
 
 Little Frank, for instance, might be very provoking, and 
 might have deprived Blanche of her mamma's affection, but this 
 was no reason why Blanche should box the child's ears because 
 he upset a glass of water over her drawing, and wh}- she should 
 call him many opprobrious names in the English and French 
 language ; and the preference accorded to little Frank was cer- 
 tainly no reason why Blanche should give herself imperial airs 
 of command towards the bo3''s governess, and send that 3'oung 
 lady upon messages through the house to bring her book or to 
 fetch her pocket-handkerchief. When a domestic performed 
 an errand for honest Laura, she was always thankful and 
 pleased ; whereas, she could not but perceive that the little 
 Muse had not the slightest scruple in giving her commands to 
 all the world round about her, and in disturbing an^'body's ease 
 or comfort, in order to administer to her own. It was Laura's 
 first experience in friendship ; and it pained the kind creature's 
 heart to be ol)ligcd to give up as delusions, one b}' one, those 
 charms and brilliant qualities in which her fancy had dressed 
 her new friend, and to find that the fascinating little fairy was 
 but a mortal, and not a ver^' amiable mortal after all. What 
 generous person is there that has not been so deceived in his 
 time? — what person, perhaps, that has not so disapjxjiuted 
 others in his turn ?
 
 240 PENDENNIS. 
 
 After the scene with httlc Frank, in which that refractory 
 son and heir of the house of Clavering had received the comph>^ 
 ments in Frencli and English, and the accompanying box on the 
 ear from his sister, Miss Laura, who had plenty of humor, 
 could not lielp calUng to mind some very touching and tender 
 verses which tlie Muse had read to her out of Mes Larmes, and 
 which began, " My prett}' baby brother, ma}' angels guard thy 
 rest," in which the Muse, after complimenting the bab}' upon 
 the station in life which it was about to occup}-, and contrasting 
 it with her own lonel}' condition, vowed nevertheless that the 
 angel bo^' would never enjoy such affection as hers was, or find 
 in the false world before him an3'thing so constant and tender 
 as a sister's heart. " It may be," the forlorn one said, " it may 
 be, you will slight it, my pretty baby sweet. You will spurn me 
 from your bosom, I'll cling around your feet ! Oh, let me, let 
 me love you ! the world will prove to you As false as 'tis to 
 others, but /am ever true." And behold the Muse was boxing 
 the darling brother's ears instead of kneeling at his feet, and 
 giving Miss Laura her first lesson in the Cynical philosophy — 
 not quite her first, however, — something like this selfishness 
 and waywardness, something like this contrast between prac- 
 tice and poetry, between grand versified aspirations and every- 
 day life, she had witnessed at home in the person of our 3'oung 
 friend Mr. Pen. 
 
 But then Fen was different. Pen was a man. It seemed 
 natural, somehow, that he should be self-willed and should 
 have his own way. And under his waywardness and selfish- 
 ness, indeed, there was a kind and generous heart. Oh, it was 
 hard that such a diamond should be changed away against 
 such a false stone as this. In a word, Laura began to be tired 
 of her admired Blanche. She had assayed her and found her 
 not true ; and her former admiration and delight, which she 
 had expressed with her accustomed generous artlessness, gave 
 way to a feeling, which we shall not call contempt, but which 
 was very near it ; and which caused Laura to adopt towards 
 Miss Amory a grave and tranquil tone of superiority, which 
 was at first by no means to the Muse's liking. Nobody likes 
 to be found out, or, having held a high place, to submit to step 
 down. 
 
 The consciousness that this event was impending did not 
 serve to increase Miss Blanche's good-humor, and as it made 
 her peevish and dissatisfied with herself, it probablj^ rendered 
 her even less agreeable to the persons round about her. So 
 there arose, one fatal day, a battle-royal between dearest Blanche
 
 PENDENNIS. 241 
 
 and dearest Laura, in which the friendship between them was all 
 but slain outright. Dearest Blanche had been unusuall3' capri- 
 cious and wicked on this day. She had been insolent to her 
 mother ; savage with httle Frank ; odiously impertinent in her 
 behavior to the bo^-'s governess ; and intolerably cruel to Pin- 
 cott, her attendant. Not venturing to attack her friend (for 
 the little t3Tant was of a timid feline nature, and onl}' used 
 her claws upon those who were weaker than herself) , she mal- 
 treated all these, and especiaU}- poor Pincott, who was menial, 
 confidante, companion (slave alwa3's), according to the caprice 
 of her young mistress. 
 
 This girl, who had been sitting in the room with the 3'oung 
 ladies, being driven thence in tears, occasioned by the cruelty 
 of her mistress, and raked with a parting sarcasm as she went 
 sobbing from the door, Laura fau'ly broke out into a loud and 
 indignant invective — wondered how one so 3'oung could forget 
 the deference owing to her elders as well as to her inferiors in 
 station ; and professing so much sensibilit3' of her own, could 
 torture the feelings of others so wantonh. Laura told her 
 friend that her conduct was absolutely wicked, and that she 
 ought to ask pardon of Heaven on her knees for it. And hav- 
 ing delivered herself of a hot and voluble speech whereof the 
 delivery astonished the speaker as much almost as her auditor, 
 she ran to her bonnet and shawl, and went home across the 
 park in a great flurr3' and perturbation, and to the surprise of 
 Mrs. Pendennis, who had not expected her until night. 
 
 Alone with Helen, Laura gave an account of the scene, and 
 gave up her friend henceforth. '• O Mamma," she said, " you 
 were right ; Blanche, who seems so soft and so kind, is, as 
 you have said, selfish and cniel. She who is alwa3's speak- 
 ing of her affections can have no heart. No honest gu'l would 
 afflict a mother so, or torture a dependant ; and — and, I 
 give her up from this da3', and I will have no other friend but 
 you." 
 
 On this the two ladies went through the osculator3' cere- 
 mon3- which the3' were in the habit of performing, and Mrs. 
 Pendennis got a great secret comfort from the little quarrel — 
 for Laura's confession seemed to say, " That girl can never be 
 a wife for Pen, for she is light-minded and heartless, and quite 
 unworthy of our noble hero. He will be sure to find out her 
 unworthiness for his own part, and then he will be saved from 
 this flight3' creature, and awake out of his delusion." 
 
 But Miss Laura did not tell Mrs. Pendennis, perhaps did 
 not acknowledge to herself, what had been the real cause oi' 
 
 16
 
 242 PENDENNIS. 
 
 the day's quarrel. Being in a very wicked mood, and bent 
 upon mischief everywhere, tlie little wicked Muse of a Blanche 
 liad very soon begun her tricks. Her darling Laura had come 
 to pass a long day ; and as they were sitting in her own room 
 together, had chosen to bring the conversation round to the 
 subject of Mr. Pen. 
 
 " I am afraid he is sadly fickle," Miss Blanche observed. 
 "Mrs. Pybus, and many more Clavering people, have told us 
 all about the actress." 
 
 " I was quite a child when it happened, and I don't know 
 anything about it," Laura answered, blushing very much. 
 
 "He used her very ill," Blanche said, wagging her little 
 head. " He was false to her." 
 
 " I am sure he was not," Laura cried out ; " he acted most 
 generously by her : he wanted to give up everything to marry 
 her. It was she that was false to him. He nearly broke his 
 heart about it : he — " 
 
 "I thought you didn't know anything about the story, 
 dearest," interposed Miss Blanche. 
 
 " Mamma has said so," said Laura. 
 
 " Well, he is very clever," continued the other little dear. 
 " What a sweet poet he is ! Have 3'ou ever read his poems ? " 
 
 " Only the ' Fisherman and the Diver,' which he translated 
 for us, and his Prize Poem, which didn't get the prize ; and, 
 indeed, I thought it very pompous and prosy," Laura said, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Has he never written you any poems, then, love?" asked 
 Miss Amory. 
 
 " No, my dear," said Miss Bell. 
 
 Blanche ran up to her friend, kissed her fondly, called her 
 my dearest Laura at least three times, looked her archly in the 
 face, nodded her head, and said, " Promise to tell no-o-body, 
 and I will show you something." 
 
 And tripping across the room daintily to a little mother-of- 
 pearl inlaid desk, she opened it with a silver key, and took out 
 two or three papers crumpled and rather stained with green, 
 which she submitted to her friend. Laura took them and read 
 them. They were love-verses sure enough — something about 
 Undine — about a Naiad — about a river. She looked at them 
 for a long time ; but in truth the lines were not very distinct 
 before her eyes. 
 
 "And you have answered them, Blanche?" she asked, put- 
 ting them back. 
 
 " Oh no ! not for worlds, dearest," the other said : and when
 
 PKNDENNIS. 243 
 
 her dearest Laura had quite done with the verses, she tripped 
 back, and popped them again into the pretty desk. 
 
 Then she went to her piano, and sang two or three songs 
 of Rossini, whose flourishes of music her flexible little voice 
 could execute to perfection, and Laura sat b}-, vaguely listen- 
 ing, as she performed these pieces. What was Miss Bell think- 
 ing about the while? She hardh* knew; but sat there silent 
 as the songs rolled by. After this concert the 3'oung ladies 
 were summoned to the room w^here luncheon was served ; and 
 whither they of course went with their arms round each other's 
 waists. 
 
 And it could not have been jealousy or anger on Laura's 
 part which had made her silent : for, after they had tripped 
 along the corridor and descended the steps, and were about to 
 open the door which leads into the hall, Laura paused, and look- 
 ing her friend kindly and frankly in the face, kissed her with a 
 sisterly w^armth. 
 
 Something occurred after this — Master Frank's manner 
 of eating, probably, or mamma's blunders, or Sir Francis smell- 
 ing of cigars — which vexed Miss Blanche, and she gave way to 
 that series of naughtinesses whereof we have spoken, and which 
 ended in the above little quarrel. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A HOUSE FULL OF VISITORS. 
 
 The difference between the girls did not last long. Laura 
 was alwa^-s too eager to forgive and be forgiven, and as for 
 Miss Blanche, her hostilities, never very long or durable, had 
 not been provoked by the above scene. Nobody cares about 
 being accused of wickedness. No vanity is hurt by that sort 
 of charge : Blanche was rather pleased than provoked by her 
 friend's indignation, which never would have been raised but 
 for a cause which both knew, though neither spoke of. 
 
 And so Laura, with a sigh, was obliged to confess that the 
 romantic part of her first friendship was at an end, and that 
 the object of it was only worthy of a very ordinary sort of regard. 
 
 As for Blanche, she instantly composed a copy of touching 
 verses setting forth her desertion and disenchantment. It was 
 only the old story she wrote, of love meeting with coldness,
 
 244 PENDENNIS. 
 
 and fidelity returned hy neglect ; and some new neighbors arriv- 
 ing from London about this time, in whose family there were 
 daughters, Miss Amor}' had the advantage of selecting an eter- 
 nal friend from one of these young ladies, and imparting her 
 soiTows and disappointments to this new sister. The tall foot- 
 men came but seldom now with notes to the sweet Laura ; the 
 pony carriage was but rarely despatched to Fairoaks to be at 
 the orders of the ladies there. Blanche adopted a sweet look 
 of suffering martpxlom when Laura came to see her. The other 
 laughed at her friend's sentimental mood, and treated it with a 
 good-humor that was by no means respectful. 
 
 But if Miss Blanche found new female friends to console 
 her, the faithful historian is also bound to say, that she discov- 
 ered some acquaintances of the other sex who seemed to give 
 her consolation too. If ever this artless young creature met 
 a young man, and had ten minutes' conversation with him in a 
 garden walk, in a drawing-room window, or in the intervals of 
 a waltz, she confided in him, so to speak — made pla}^ with 
 her beautiful eyes — spoke in a tone of tender interest, and 
 simple and touching appeal, and left him, to perform the same 
 pretty little drama in behalf of his successor. 
 
 When the Clavenngs first came down to the Park, there 
 were very few audiences before whom Miss Blanche could per- 
 form : hence Pen had all the benefits of her glances, and confi- 
 dences, and the drawing-room window, or the garden walk all 
 to himself. In the town of Clavering, it has been said, there 
 were actually no J'oung men : in the near surrounding country, 
 only a curate or two, or a rustic young squire, with large feet 
 and ill-made clothes. To the dragoons quartered at Chatteris 
 the Baronet made no overtures : it was unluckil}' his own regi- 
 ment : he had left it on bad terms with some officers of the 
 corps — an ugly business about a horse bargain — a disputed 
 play account at blind-Hooke}' — a white feather — who need 
 ask ? — it is not our business to inquire too closely into the by- 
 gones of our characters, except in so far as their previous his- 
 tory appertains to the development of this present story. 
 
 The autumn, and the end of the Parliamentar}' Session, and 
 the London season, brought one or two county families down 
 to their houses, and filled tolerably the neighboring little water- 
 ing-place of Baymouth, and opened om- friend Mr. Bingley's 
 Theatre Royal at Chatteris, and collected the usual company 
 at the Assizes and Race-balls there. Up to this time, the old 
 county families had been rather sh}' of our friends of Clavering 
 Park. The Fogeys of Drummington ; the Squares of Dozley
 
 PENDENNIS. 245 
 
 Park ; the Welborcs of The Barrow, &c. All sorts of stories 
 were current among these folks regarding the famil}' at Claver- 
 ing; — indeed, nobod}' ought to say that people in tlie country 
 have no imagination, who hear them talk about new neighbors. 
 About Sir Francis and his Lad}', and her birth and parentage, 
 about Miss Amor\', about Captain Strong, there had been end- 
 less histories which need not be recapitulated ; and the famil}' 
 of the Park had been three months in the county before the 
 great people around began to call. 
 
 But at the end of the season, the Earl of Trehawk, Lord 
 Lieutenunt of the County, coming to E^-rie Castle, and the 
 Countesfcj Dowager of Rockminster, whose son was also a mag- 
 nate of the land, to occup}' a mansion on the JNIarine Parade at 
 Ba3moulh — these great folks came publicly, immediatel}', and 
 in state, to call upon the famih' of Clavering Park ; and the 
 carriages of the county families speedily followed in the track, 
 which had been left in the avenue b^' their lordl}' wheels. 
 
 It was then that Mirobolant began to have an opportunit}' of 
 exercising that skill which he possessed, and of forgetting, in 
 the occupations of his art, the pangs of love. It was then that 
 the large footmen were too much employed at Clavering Park to 
 be able to bring messages, or dally over the cup of small beer 
 with thv.' poor little maids at Fairoaks. It was then that Blanche 
 found other dear friends than Laura, and other places to walk 
 in besides the river side, where Pen was fishing. He came 
 da}' after day, and whipped the stream, but the '•' fish, fish!" 
 wouldn't do their dut}-, nor the Peri appear. And here, though 
 in strict confidence, and with a request that the matter go no 
 further, we ma}- as well allude to a delicate business, of which 
 previous hint has been given. Mention has been made, in a 
 former page, of a certain hollow tree, at which Pen used to take 
 his station when engaged in his passion for Miss Fotheringay, 
 and the cavity of which he afterwards used for otiier purposes 
 than to insert his baits and fishing-cans in. The truth is, he 
 converted this tree into a post-office. Under a piece of moss 
 and a stone, he used to put little poems, or letters equally 
 poetical, which were addressed to a certain Undine, or Naiad 
 who frequented the stream, and which, once or twice, were 
 replaced by a receipt in the shape of a flower, or by a modest 
 little word or two of acknowledgment, written in a dc^licate 
 hand, in French or English, and on pink scented paper. Cer- 
 tainly, Miss Amory used to walk b}' this stream, as we have 
 seen'; and it is a fact that she used pink scented paper for her 
 correspondence. But after the great folks had invaded Claver-
 
 246 PENDENNIS. 
 
 ing Park, and the famil}' coach passed out of the lodge-gates, 
 evening after evening, on their way to the other great country 
 houses, nobody came to fetch Pen's letters at the post-office ; 
 the white paper was not exchanged for the pink, but lay undis- 
 turbed under its stone and its moss, whilst the tree was reflected 
 into the stream, and the Brawl went rolling by. There was 
 not much in the letters certainly : in the pink notes scarcely 
 anything — merely a little word or two, half jocular, half sym- 
 pathetic, such as might be written by any young lady. But, 
 oh, you silly Pendennis, if you wanted this one, why did you 
 not speak ? Perhaps neither party was in earnest. You were 
 only playing at being in love, and the sportive little Undine was 
 humoring you at the same play. 
 
 Nevertheless if a man is balked at this game, he not un- 
 frequently loses his temper ; and when nobody came any more 
 for Pen's poems, he began to look upon those compositions in 
 a very serious light. He felt almost tragical and romantic 
 again, as in his first affair of the heart : — at any rate he was 
 bent upon having an explanation. One day he went to the 
 Hall, and there was a room-full of visitors : on another, Miss 
 Amory was not to be seen ; she was going to a ball that night, 
 and was lying down to take a little sleep. Pen cursed balls, 
 and the narrowness of his means, and the humility of his posi- 
 tion in the county that caused him to be passed over by the 
 givers of these entertainments. On a third occasion, Miss 
 Amory was in the garden, and he ran thither ; she was walking 
 there in state with no less personages than the Bishop and 
 Bishopess of Chatteris and the episcopal family, who scowled 
 at him, and drew up in great dignity when he was presented to 
 them, and the}^ heard his name. The Right Reverend Prelate 
 had heard it before, and also of the little transaction in the 
 Dean's garden. 
 
 " The Bishop says you're a sad young man," good-natured 
 Lady Clavering whispered to him. "What have 30U been a 
 doing of? Nothink, I hope, to vex such a dear Mar as yours? 
 How is j'our dear Mar? Wh}' don't she come and see me? 
 We an't seen her this ever such a time. We're a goin about a 
 gaddin, so that we don't see no neighbors now. Give ni}' love 
 to her and Laurar, and come all to dinner to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Pendennis was too unwell to come out, but Laura and 
 Pen came, and there was a gi-eat party, and Pen onlj^ got an 
 opportunity of a hurried word with Miss Amory. " You 
 never come to the river now," he said. 
 
 " I can't," said Blanche, " the house is full of people."
 
 PEXDEXNIS. 247 
 
 "Undine has left the stream," Mr. Pen went on, choosing 
 to be poetical. 
 
 "She never ought to have gone there," Miss Amor}' an- 
 swered. " She won't go again. It was very foolish, very 
 wrong : it was only play. Besides, you have other consolations 
 at home," she added, looking him full in the face an instant, 
 and dropping her e3'es. 
 
 If he wanted her, wh}^ did he not speak then ? She might 
 have said "Yes" even then. But as she spoke of other con- 
 solations at home, he thought of Laura, so affectionate and so 
 pure, and of his mother at home, who had bent her fond heart 
 upon uniting him with her adopted daughter. " Blanche ! " he 
 began, in a vexed tone, — " Miss Amory ! " 
 
 " Laura is looking at us, Mr. Pendennis," the young lady 
 said. " I must go back to the companj-," and she ran off, leav- 
 ing Mr. Pendennis to bite his nails in perplexity, and to look 
 out into the moonlight in the garden. 
 
 Laura indeed was looking at Pen. She was talking w^ith, 
 or appearing to listen to the talk of, Mr. Pynsent, Lord Rock- 
 minster's son, and gi-andson of the Dowager Lady, who was 
 seated in state in the place of honor, graveh' receiving Lady 
 Clavering's bad grammar, and pati'onizing the vacuous Sir Fran- 
 cis, whose interest in the county she was desirous to secm'e. 
 Pynsent and Pen had been at Oxbridge together, where the 
 latter, during his hej'da}' of good fortune and fashion, had been 
 the superior of the young patrician, and perhaps rather super- 
 cilious towards him. Thc}^ had met for the first time, since 
 they had parted at the Universit}' at the table to-day, and given 
 each other that exceedingly impertinent and amusing demi-nod 
 of recognition which is practised in England only, and onl}- to 
 perfection b\- University men, — and which seems to say, " Con- 
 found 3'ou — what do you do here ? " 
 
 "I knew that man at Oxbridge," Mr. Pynsent said to Miss 
 Bell— " a Mr. Pendennis, I think." 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Bell — 
 
 " He seems rather sweet upon Miss Amor}'," the gentleman 
 went on. Laura looked at them, and perhaps thought so too, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 ' ' A man of large property in the county, ain't he ? He used 
 to talk about representing it. He used to speak at the Union. 
 Whereabouts do his estates lie?" 
 
 Laura smiled. "His estates lie on the other side of the 
 river, near the lodge-gate. He is my cousin, and I live there." 
 
 " Where?" asked Mr. Pynsent, with a laugh.
 
 248 PENDENNIS. 
 
 " Why, on the other side of the river, at Fairoaks," answered 
 Miss Bell. 
 
 "Many pheasants there? Cover looks rather good," said 
 the simple gentleman. 
 
 Laura smiled again. " Wc have nine hens and a cock, a 
 pig, and an old pointer." 
 
 " Pendennis don't preserve, then?" continued Mr. Pynsent. 
 
 " You should come and see him," the girl said, laughing, 
 and greatly amused at the notion that her Pen was a great 
 county gentleman, and perhaps had given himself out to be 
 such. 
 
 " Indeed, I quite long to renew our acquaintance," Mr. 
 Pynsent said, gallantly, and with a look which fairly said, " It 
 is you that I would like to come and see " — to which look and 
 speech Miss Laura vouchsafed a smile, and made a little bow. 
 
 Here Blanche came stepping up with her most fascinating 
 smile and ogle, and begged dear Laura to come and take the 
 second in a song. Laura was ready to do anything good- 
 natured, and went to the piano ; b}' which Mr. Pynsent listened 
 as long as the duet lasted, and until Miss Amory began for 
 herself, when he strode away. 
 
 " What a nice, frank, amiable, well-bred girl that is, Wagg," 
 said Mr. P3-nsent to a gentleman who had come over with him 
 from Baj'mouth — " the tall one I mean, with the ringlets and 
 the red lips — monstrous red, ain't they?" 
 
 ' ' What do you think of the girl of the house ? " asked Mr. 
 Wagg. 
 
 " 1 think she's a lean, scraggy humbug ; " said Mr. Pynsent, 
 with great candor. ' ' She drags her shoulders out of her dress : 
 she never lets her eyes alone : and she goes simpering and 
 oghng about like a French waiting-maid." 
 
 " Pynsent, be civil," cried the other, " somebody can hear." 
 
 " Oh, it's Pendennis of Boniface," Mr. P^^nsent said. " Fine 
 evening, Mr. Pendennis ; we were just talking of 3-our charming 
 cousin." 
 
 " Any relation to my old friend. Major Pendennis?" asked 
 Mr. Wagg. 
 
 " His nephew. Had the pleasure of meeting you at Gaunt 
 House," Mr. Pen said with his ver}- best air — the acquaintance 
 between the sentlemen was made in an instant. 
 
 &^ 
 
 In the afternoon of the next day, the two gentlemen who 
 were staying at Clavering Park were ibund by Mr. Pen on his 
 return from a fishing excursion, in which he had no sport,
 
 PENDENNIS. 249 
 
 seated in his mother's drawing-room in comfoi'table conversa- 
 tion with the widow and her ward. Mr. Pynsent, tall and 
 gaunt, with large red whiskers and an imposing tuft to his chin, 
 was striding over a chair in the intimate neighborhood of Miss 
 Laura. She was amused by his talk, which was simple, straight- 
 forward, rather humorous, and keen, and interspersed with 
 homely expressions of a style which is sometimes called slang. 
 It was the first specimen of a young London dandy that Laura 
 had seen or heard ; for she had been but a chit at the time of 
 Mr. Foker's introduction at Fairoaks, nor indeed was that in- 
 genuous gentleman much more than a boy, and his refinement 
 was only that of a school and college. 
 
 Mr. Wagg, as he entered the Fairoaks premises with his 
 companion, e3ed and noted everything. "Old gardener," he 
 said, seeing Mr. John at the lodge — •• old red livery waistcoat 
 — clothes hanging out to dry on the gooseberry buslies — blue 
 aprons, white ducks — gad, they must be young Pendennis's 
 white ducks — nobody else wears 'em in the famil}'. Rather a 
 shy place for a sucking count}' member, ay, Pynsent?" 
 
 " vSnug little crib," said Mr. Pynsent, -'• pretty cozy little lawn." 
 
 "Mr. Pendennis at home, old gentleman?" Mr. Wagg said 
 to the old domestic. John answered, " No, Master Pendennis 
 was agone out." 
 
 " Are the ladies at home?" asked the younger visitor. Mr. 
 John answered, "■ Yes, they be ;" and as the pair vralked over 
 the trim gravel, and by the neat shrubbei'ies, up the steps to 
 the hall-door, which old John opened, Mr. Wagg noted every- 
 thing that he saw ; the barometer and the letter-bag, the um- 
 brellas and the ladies' clogs, Pen's hats and tartan wrapper, and 
 old John opening the drawing-room door, to introduce the new 
 comers. Such minutiae attracted Wagg instinctively ; he seized 
 them in spite of himself. 
 
 "Old fellow does all the work," he whispered to Pynsent. 
 " Caleb Balderstone. Shouldn't wonder if he's the housemaid." 
 The next minute the pair were in the presence of the Fairoaks 
 ladies ; in whom Pynsent could not help recognizing two per- 
 fectly well-bred ladies, and to whom Mr. Wagg made his obei- 
 sance, with florid bows, and extra courtesy, accompanied with 
 an occasional knowing leer at his companion. Mr. Pynsent 
 did not choose to acknowledge these signals, except b}' extreme 
 haughtiness towards INIr. AVagg, and particuhir deference to the 
 ladies. If there was one thing laughable in Mr. Wagg's eyes, 
 it was poverty. He had the' soul of a butler who had been 
 brought from his pantry to make fun in the drawing-room. 
 
 9
 
 250 TENDENNIS. 
 
 His jokes were plenty, and his good-nature thoroughh' genuine, 
 but he did not seem to understand that a gentleman could wear 
 an old coat, or that a lady could be respectable unless she had 
 her carriage, or emploj'ed a Fi-ench milliner. 
 
 " Charming place, ma'am," said he, bowing to the widow ; 
 "noble prospect — delightful to us Cockneys, who seldom see 
 anything but Pall Mall." The widow said, simpl}-, she had 
 never been in London but once in her life — before her son 
 was born. 
 
 " P'ine village, ma'am, fine village," said Mr. Wagg, "and 
 increasing every da}'. It'll be quite a large town soon. It's 
 not a bad place to live in for those who can't get the country, 
 and will repay a visit when you honor it." 
 
 "My brother. Major Pendenuis, has often mentioned your 
 name to us," the widow said, " and we have been — amused by 
 some of your droll books, sir," Helen continued, who never 
 could be brought to like Mr. Wagg's books, and detested their 
 tone most thoroughly'. 
 
 " He is my very good friend," Mr. Wagg said, with a low 
 bow, " and one of the best known men about town, and where 
 known, ma'am, appreciated — I assure you appreciated. He 
 is with our friend .Ste3'ne, at Aix-la-Chapelle. Steyne has a 
 touch of the gout, and so, between ourselves, has ^'our brother. 
 I am going to IStillbrook for the pheasant-shooting, and after- 
 w^ards to Bareacres, where Pendenuis and I shall probably 
 meet ; " and he poured out a flood of fashionable talk, introdu- 
 cing the names of a score of peers, and rattling on with breath- 
 less spirits, whilst the simple widow listened in silent wonder. 
 What a man, she thought ; are all the men of fashion in Lon- 
 don like this? I am sure Pen will never be like him. 
 
 Mr. Pynsent was in the meanwhile engaged with Miss Laura. 
 He named some of the houses in the neighborhood whither he 
 was going, and hoped verj' much that he should see Miss Bell 
 ,at some of them. He hoped that her aunt would give her a 
 season in London. He said, that in the next parliament it was 
 probable he should canvass the county, and he hoped to get 
 Pendennis's interest here. He spoke of Pen's triumph as an 
 orator at Oxbridge, and asked was he coming into parliament 
 too? He talked on very pleasantly, and greatly to Laura's 
 satisfaction, until Pen himself appeared, and as has been said, 
 found these gentlemen. 
 
 Pen behaved very courteously to the pair, now that they 
 had found their way into his quarters ; and though he recollected 
 with some twinges a conversation at Oxbridge, when Pynseni
 
 PENDEXNIS. 251 
 
 was present, and in which, after a great debate at the Union, 
 and in the ruidst of considerable excitement, produced hy a 
 supper and champagne-cup, — he had announced his intention 
 of coming in for liis native county, and liad absolute!}' returned 
 thanks in a fine speech as the future member ; yet Mr. Pynsent's 
 manner was so frank and cordial, that Pen hoped Pynsent 
 might have forgotten his little fanlaronnade, and any other 
 braggadocio speeches or actions which he might have made. 
 He suited himself to the tone of the visitors then, and talked 
 about Plinlimmon and Magnus Charters, and the old set at 
 Oxbridge, with careless familiarity and high-bred ease, as if he 
 lived with marquises every day, and a duke was no more to 
 him than a village curate. 
 
 But at this juncture, and it being then six o'clock in the 
 evening, Betsy, the maid, who did not know of the advent of 
 strangers, walked into the room without an}' preliminary but 
 that of flinging the door wide oi)en before her, and bearing in 
 her arms a tra}', containing three tea-cups, a tea-pot, and a 
 plate of thick bread-and-butter. All Pen's splendor and mag- 
 nificence vanished away at this — and he faltered and became 
 quite abashed. "-"What will the}' think of us?" he thought: 
 and, indeed, Wagg thrust his tongue in his cheek, thought the 
 tea utterly contemptible, and leered and winked at Pynsent to 
 that efiect. 
 
 But to Mr. Pynsent the transaction appeared perfectly simple 
 — there was no reason present to his mind why people should 
 not drink tea at six if they were minded, as well as at any other 
 hour ; and he asked of Mr. Wagg, when they went away, 
 "What the devil he was grinning and winking at, and what 
 amused him ? " 
 
 " Didn't you see how the cub was ashamed of the thick 
 bread-and-butter? I dare say they're going to have treacle 
 if they are good. I'll take an opportunity of telling old 
 Pendennis when we get back to town," Mr. Wagg chuckled 
 out. 
 
 " Don't see the fun," said Mr. Pynsent. 
 
 " Never thought you did," growled Wagg between his teeth ; 
 and they walked home rather sulkily. 
 
 Wagg told the story at dinner very smartly, with wonderful 
 accuracy of observation. He described old John, the clothes 
 that were drying, the clogs in the hall, the drawing-room, and 
 its furniture and pictures: "Old man with a beak and bald 
 head — feu Pendennis I bet two to one; sticking-plaster full- 
 length of a youth in a cap and gown — the present Marquis of
 
 252 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Fairoaks, of course ; the widow when young in a miniature, 
 Mrs. Mee ; she had the gown on when we came, or a dress 
 made the year after, and the tips cut off the fingers of her 
 gloves which she stitches her son's collars with ; and then the 
 sarving maid came in with their teas ; so we left the Earl and 
 the Countess to their bread-and-butter." 
 
 Blanche, near whom he sat as he told this storj', and who 
 adored les hommes d'esprit, burst out laughing, and called him 
 such an odd, droll creature. But Pynsent, who began to be 
 utterh' disgusted with him, broke out in a loud voice, and said, 
 ^' I don't know, Mr. Wagg, what sort of ladies j-ou are accus- 
 tomed to meet in 3'our own famil}^ but by gad, as far as a first 
 acquaintance can show, I never met two better-bred women in 
 m^^ life, and I hope, ma'am, you'll call upon 'em," he added, 
 addressing Lady Rockminster, who was seated at Sir Francis 
 Clavering's right hand. 
 
 Sir Francis turned to the guest on his left, and whispei'ed, 
 " That's what I call a sticker for Wagg." And Lady Claver- 
 ing, giving the 3'oung gentleman a delighted tap with her fan, 
 winked her black eyes at him, and said, " Mr. Pynsent, you're 
 a good feller." 
 
 After the affair with Blanche, a difference ever so slight, a 
 tone of melancholy', perhaps a little bitter, might be perceived 
 in Laura's converse with her cousin. She seemed to weigh 
 him, and find him wanting too ; the widow saw the girl's clear 
 and honest eyes watching the 3'oung man at times, and a look 
 of almost scorn pass over her face, as he lounged in the room 
 with the women, or lazil}' sauntered smoking upon the lawn, 
 or lolled under a tree there over a book, which he was too list- 
 less to read. 
 
 "What has happened between vou?" eager-sighted Helen 
 asked of the girl. " Something has happened. PLas that 
 wicked little Blanche been making mischief? Tell me, Laura." 
 
 " Nothing has happened at all," Laura said. 
 
 "Then why do you look at Pen so?" asked his mother 
 quickly. 
 
 "Look at him, dear mother!" said the girl. "We two 
 women are no society for him : we don't interest him ; we are 
 not clever enough for such a genius as Pen. He wastes his life 
 and energies away among us, tied to our apron-strings. He 
 interests himself in nothing : he scarcely cares to go beyond 
 the garden-gate. Even Captain Glanders and Captain Strong 
 pall upon him," she added with a bitter laugh ; " and they are 
 men j-ou know, and our superiors. He will never be happy
 
 PENDENNIS. 253 
 
 while he is here. Wh}' is he not facing the world, and without 
 a profession ? " 
 
 '' We haA-e got enough, with great econom}-," said the widow, 
 her heart beginning to beat violentl}-. '• Pea has spent nothing 
 for months. I'm sure he is very good. I am sure he might be 
 very happ}' with us." 
 
 " Don't agitate yourself so, dear mother," the girl answered. 
 " I don't like to see you so. You should not be sad because 
 Pen is unhapp}' here. All men are so. They must work. 
 They must make themselves names and a place in the world. 
 Look, the two captains have fought and seen battles : that Mr. 
 Pynsent, who came here, and who will be ver}' rich, is in a 
 public office ; he works ver}' hard, he aspires to a name and 
 a reputation. He says Pen was one of the best speakers at 
 Oxbridoe, and had as great a character for talent as anv of the 
 young gentlemen there. Pen himself laughs at Mr. Wagg's 
 celebrity (and indeed he is a horrid person), and says he is a 
 dunce, and that anybodj' could write his books." 
 
 " I am sure they are odious," interposed the widow. 
 
 " Yet he has a reputation. — You see the Count}- Chronicle 
 says, ' The celebrated Mr. AYagg has been sojourning at Bay- 
 mouth — let our fashionables and eccentrics look out for some- 
 thing from his caustic pen.' If Pen can write better than this 
 gentleman, and speak better than Mr. P^-nsent, why doesn't 
 he ? Mamma, he can't make speeches to us ; or distinguish 
 himself here. He ought to go away, indeed he ought." 
 
 " Dear Laura," said Helen, taking the girl's hand. " Is it 
 kind of 3-ou to hurry him so ? I have been waiting. I have 
 been saving up money these many months — to — to pay back 
 your advance to us." 
 
 " Hush, mother ! " Laura cried, embracing her friend hastih'. 
 *' It was your money, not mine. Never speak about that again. 
 How much money have 3'ou saved ? " 
 
 Helen said there were more than two hundred pounds at the 
 bank, and that she would be enabled to pa}' off all Laura's 
 money by the end of the next year. 
 
 "Give it him — let him have the two hundred pounds. 
 Let him go to London and be a lawyer : be something, be 
 worthy of his mother — and of mine, dearest mamma," said the 
 good girl ; upon which, and with her usual tenderness and emo- 
 tion, tlie fond widow declared that Laura was a blessing to her, 
 and the best of girls — and I hope no one in this instance will 
 be disposed to contradict her. 
 
 The widow and her daughter had more than one conversa-
 
 254 PENDENNIS. 
 
 tion on this subject : the elder gave way to the superior reason 
 of tlie honest and stronger minded girl ; and, indeed, v\'henever 
 there was a sacrifice to be made on her part, this kind l&dy was 
 only too eager to make it. But she took her own way, and did 
 not lose sight of the end she had in view, in imparting these 
 new plans to Pen. One day she told him of these projects, 
 and who it was that had formed them ; how it was Laura who 
 insisted upon his going to London and studying ; how it was 
 Laura who would not hear of the — the mone}- arrangements 
 when he came back from Oxbridge — being settled just then : 
 how it was Laura whom he had to thank, if indeed he thous-ht 
 he ought to go. 
 
 At that news Pen's countenance blazed up with pleasure, 
 and he hugged his mother to his heart with an ardor that I fear 
 disappointed the fond lad}^ ; but she rallied when he said, " By 
 Heaven ! she is a noble girl, and may God Almighty bless her ! 
 O mother ! I have been wear3'ing myself away for months here, 
 longing to work, and not knowing how. I've been fretting 
 over the thouglits of my shame, and my debts, and my past 
 cursed extravagance and follies. I've suffered infernally. My 
 heart has been half-broken — never mind about that. If I can 
 get a chance to redeem the past, and to do m_y duty to myself 
 and the best mother in the world, indeed, indeed, I will. I'll 
 be worthy of you yet. Heaven bless you ! God bless Laura ! 
 Wh}' isn't she here, that I may go and thank her? " Pen went 
 on with more incoherent phrases ; paced up and down the room, 
 drank glasses of water, jumped about his mother with a thou- 
 sand embraces — began to laugh — began to sing — was happier 
 than she had seen him since he was a bo}^ — since he had tasted 
 of the fruit of that awful Tree of Life which, from the begin- 
 ning, has tempted all mankind. 
 
 Laura was not at home. Laura was on a visit to the stately 
 Lad}^ Rockminster, daughter to m}- Lord Bareacres, sister to 
 the late Lady Pont.ypool, and by consequence a distant kins- 
 woman of Helen's, as lier ladysliip, who was deeply versed in 
 genealogy, was the first graciously to point out to the modest 
 country lad}'. Mr. Pen was greatly delighted at the relation- 
 ship being acknowledged, though perhaps not over well pleased 
 that Lady Rockminster took Miss Bell home with her for a 
 couple of days to Baymouth, and did not make the slightest 
 invitation to Mr. Arthur Pendennis. There was to be a ball 
 at Baymouth, and it was to be Miss Laura's fii'st appearance. 
 The dowager came to fetch her in her carriage, and she went
 
 PENDEXNIS. 255 
 
 off with a white dress iu her box, happy and bhisliing, like the 
 rose to which Pen compared her. 
 
 This was the night of the ball — a pnblic entertainment at 
 the Ba3mouth Hotel. '• By Jove ! " said Pen, " I'll ride over 
 ■ — No, I won't ride, but I'll go too." His mother was charmed 
 that he should do so ; and, as he was debating about the con- 
 veyance in which he should start for Baymouth, Captain Strong 
 called opportunely, said he was going himself, and that he 
 would put his horse. The Butcher Bo}', into the gig, and drive 
 Pen over. 
 
 When the grand company- began to fill the house at Clavcr- 
 ing Park, the Chevalier Strong seldom intruded himself upon 
 its societ}', but went elsewhere to seek his relaxation. " I've 
 seen plent}^ of grand dinners in mj- time," he said, " and dined, 
 by Jove, in a compan}^ where there was a king and royal duke 
 at top and bottom, and every man along the table had six 
 stars on his coat : but damm^'. Glanders, this finery don't suit 
 me ; and the English ladies with their confounded buckram 
 airs, and the squires with their politics after dinner, send me 
 to sleep — sink me dead if they don't. I like a place where I 
 can blow my cigar when the cloth is removed, and when I'm 
 thirsty, have my beer in its native pewter." So on a gala day 
 at Clavering Park, the Chevalier would content himself with 
 superintending the arrangements of the table, and drilling the 
 major-domo and servants ; and having looked over the bill of 
 fare with Monsieur Mirobolant, would not care to take the 
 least part in the banquet. " Send me up a cutlet and a bottle 
 of claret to mj' room," this philosopher would say, and from 
 the windows of that apartment, which commanded the terrace 
 and avenue, he would survey the company as the}' arrived in 
 their carriages, or take a peep at the ladies in the hall through 
 an oeil-de-boeuf which commanded it from his corridor. And 
 the guests being seated, Strong would cross the park to Cap- 
 tain Glanders's cottage at Clavering, or to pay the landlady a 
 visit at the Clavering Arms, or to drop in upon Madame Fribsby 
 over her novel and tea. Wherever the Chevalier went he was 
 welcome, and whenever he came away a smell of hot brandy 
 and water lingered behind him. 
 
 The Butcher Boy — not the worst horse in Sir Francis's 
 stable — was appropriated to Captain Strong's express use; 
 and the old Campaigner saddled him and brought him home at 
 all hours of the day or night, and drove or rode him up and 
 down the country. Where there was a public-house with a 
 good tap of beer — where there was a tenant with a pretty
 
 256 PENDENNIS. 
 
 daughter who played on the piano — to Chatteris, to the play, 
 or the barracks — to Baymouth, if any fun was on foot there ; 
 to the rural fairs or races, the Chevalier and his brown horse 
 made their way continually ; and this worthy gentleman lived 
 at free quarters in a friendly country. The Butcher Boy soon 
 took Pen and the Chevalier to Baymouth. The latter was as 
 familiar with the hotel and landlord there as with every other 
 inn round about ; and having been accommodated with a bed- 
 room to dress, they entered the ball-room. The Chevalier was 
 splendid. He wore three little gold crosses in a brochette on 
 the portly breast of his blue coat, and looked like a foreign 
 field-marshal. 
 
 The ball was public and all sorts of persons were admitted 
 and encouraged to come, young Pynsent having views upon the 
 county, and Lady Rockminster being patroness of the ball. 
 There was a quadrille for the aristocracy at one end, and select 
 benches for the people of fashion. Towards this end the Chev- 
 alier did not care to penetrate far (as he said he did not care 
 for the nobs) ; but in the other part of the room he knew every- 
 body — the wine-inerchants', innkeepers', tradesmen's, solicit- 
 ors', squire-farmers' daughters, their sires and brothers, and 
 plunged about shaking hands. 
 
 "Who is that man with the blue ribbon and the three- 
 pointed star ? " asked Pen. A gentleman in black with ringlets 
 and a tuft stood gazing fiercely about him, with one hand in 
 the arm-hole of his waistcoat and the other holding his claque. 
 
 "By Jupiter, it's Mirobolant ! " cried Strong, bursting out 
 laughing. '•'' Bon jour ^ Chef! — Bon jour ^ Chevalier!" 
 
 "Z>e la croix de Juillet^ Chevalier!" said the Chef, laying 
 his hand on his decoration. 
 
 " By Jove, here's some more ribbon ! " said Pen, amused. 
 
 A man with very black hair and whiskers, dyed evidently 
 with the purple of Tyre, with twinkling eyes and white eye- 
 lashes, and a thousand wrinkles in his face, which was of a 
 strange red color, with two under- vests, and large gloves and 
 hands, and a profusion of diamonds and jewels in his waistcoat 
 and stock, with coarse feet crumpled into immense shiny boots, 
 and a piece of particolored ribbon in his button-hole, here came 
 up and nodded famiharly to the Chevalier. 
 
 The Chevalier shook hands. " My friend Mr. Pendennis," 
 Strong said. "Colonel Altamont, of the bod,y-guard of his 
 Highness the Nawaub of Lucknow." That officer bowed to 
 the salute of Pen ; who was now looking out eagerly to see if 
 the person he wanted had entered the room.
 
 PEXDEXXIS. 257 
 
 Not yoi. But the band l)ogan presently performing •' See 
 the Conquering Hero comes." and a host of fashionables — 
 Dowager Countess of Roekminster. Mr. P^nsent and Miss Bell, 
 Sir Francis Clavering, Bart., of Clavering Park, Lady Claver- 
 ing and Miss Amory, Sir Horace Fogey, Bart., Lady Fogey, 
 
 Colonel and Mrs. Higgs, ^A'agg, Esq. (as the county paper 
 
 afterwards described them), entered the room. 
 
 Pen rushed by Blanche, ran up to Laura, and seized her 
 hand. " God bless you ! " he said, " I want to speak to you 
 — I must speak to 3'ou — Let me dance with you." " Not for 
 three dances, dear Pen," she said, smiling : and he fell back, 
 biting his nails with vexation, and forgetting to salute Pynsent. 
 
 After Lady Rockminster's party, Lady ClaA'ering's followed 
 in the procession. 
 
 Colonel Altamont e3-ed it hard, holding a most musky 
 pocket-handkerchief up to his face, and bursting with laughter 
 behind it. 
 
 " Who's the gal in green along with 'em, Cap'n?" he asked 
 of Strong. 
 
 "That's Miss Amory, Lady Clavering's daughter," replied 
 the Chevalier. 
 
 The Colonel could hardh' contain himself for laughing. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 CONTAINS SOME BALL-PRACTISING. 
 
 Under some calico draperies in the shady embrasure of a 
 window, Arthur Pendennis chose to assume a very gloom}' and 
 frowning countenance, and to watch Miss Bell dance her first 
 quadrille Avith Mr. Pynsent for a partner. Miss Laura's face 
 was beaming with pleasure and good-nature. The lights and 
 the crowd and music excited her. As she spread out her white 
 robes, and performed her part of the dance, smiling and happy, 
 her brown ringlets flowino; back over her fair shoulders from 
 her honest rosy face, more than one gentleman in the room ad- 
 mired and looked after her ; and Lady Fogey, who had a house 
 in London, and gave herself no small airs of fashion when in 
 the country, asked of Lady Roekminster who the young person 
 was, mentioned a reigning beaut}' in London whom, in her 
 ladyship's opinion, Laura was rather like, and pronounced that 
 she would " do." 
 
 17
 
 258 PBNDENNIS. 
 
 Lady Rockminster would have been very much surprised if 
 any protegee of hers would not "do," and wondered, at Lady 
 Foge3''s impudence in judging upon the point at all. Slie sur- 
 veyed Laura with majestic glances through her eye-glass. She 
 was pleased with the girl's artless looks, and gay innocent man- 
 ner. Her manner is ver^^ good, her ladyship thought. Her 
 arms are rather red, but that is a defect of her 3'outh. Her ton 
 is far better than that of the little pert Miss Amory, who is 
 dancing opposite to her. 
 
 Miss Blanche was, indeed, the vis-a-vis of Miss Laura, and 
 smiled most killingly upon her dearest friend, and nodded to her, 
 and talked to her, when they met during the quadrille evolutions, 
 and patronized her a great deal. Her shoulders were the 
 whitest in the whole room : and they were never eas}' in her 
 frock for one single instant : nor were her eyes, which rolled 
 about incessantlj' : nor was her little figure : — it seemed to 
 say to all the people, "Come and look at me — -not at that 
 pink, health^-, bouncing country lass. Miss Bell, who scarceh' 
 knew how to dance till I taught her. This is the true Pari- 
 sian manner — this is the prettiest little foot in the room, 
 and the prettiest little chaussure, too. Look at it, Mr. Pyn- 
 sent. Look at it, Mr. Pendennis, you who are scowling behind 
 the curtain — I know you are longing to dance with me." 
 
 Laura went on dancing, and keeping an attentive eye upon 
 Mr. Pen in the embrasure of the window. He did not quit that 
 retirement during the first quadrille, nor until the second, when 
 the good-natured Lady Clavering beckoned to him to come up 
 to her to the dais or place of honor where the dowagers were, 
 and whither Pen went blushing and exceedingly awkward, as 
 most conceited 3'oung fellows are. He performed a haughty 
 salutation to Lady Rockminster, who hardly acknowledged his 
 bow and then went and paid his respects to the widow of the late 
 Amory, who was splendid in diamonds, velvet, lace, feathers, 
 and all sorts of millinery and goldsmith's ware. 
 
 Young Mr. Foge}-, then in the fifth form at Eton, and ar- 
 dently expecting his beard and his commission in a dragoon 
 regiment, was the second partner who was honored with Miss 
 Bell's hand. He was rapt in admiration of that young lad}'. 
 He thought he had never seen so charming a creature. " I like 
 you much better than the French girl" (for this 3'oung gentle- 
 man had been dancing with Miss Amory before) , he candidl}- 
 said to her. Laura laughed, and looked more good-humored 
 than ever ; and in the midst of her laughter caught a sight of 
 Pen, and continued to laugh us he, on his side, continued to
 
 PENDENNIS. 259 
 
 look absurdly pompous and sulky. The next dance was a 
 waltz, and young Fogey thought, with a sigh, that ho did not 
 know how to waltz, and voAved he would have a master the next 
 holidays. 
 
 Mr. PA-nsent again claimed Miss Bell's hand for this dance ; 
 and Pen beheld her, in a lury, twirling round the room, her 
 waist encircled by the arm of that gentleman. Pie never used 
 to be angry before when, on summer evenings, the chairs and 
 tables being removed, and the governess called down stairs to 
 pla}' the piano, he and the Chevalier Strong (who was a splen- 
 did performer, and could dance a British hornpipe, a German 
 waltz, or a Spanish fandango, if need were) , and the two young 
 ladies, Blanche and Laura, improvised little balls at Clavering 
 Park. Laura enjoyed this dancing so much, and was so ani- 
 mated, that she even animated Mr. Pynsent. Blanche, who 
 could dance beautifulh', had an unluck}- partner. Captain Broad- 
 foot, of the Dragoons, then stationed at Chatteris. For Cap- 
 tain Broadfoot, though devoting himself with great energy to 
 the object in view, could not get round in time : and, not having 
 the least ear for music, was unaware that his movements were 
 too slow. 
 
 So, in the waltz as in the quadrille. Miss Blanche saw that 
 her dear friend Laura had the honors of the dance, and was b^' 
 no means pleased with the latter's success. After a couple of 
 turns with the heavy dragoon, she pleaded fatigue, and re- 
 quested to be led back to her place, near her mamma, to whom 
 Pen was talking : and she asked him why he had not asked her 
 to waltz, and had left her to the mercies of that great odious 
 man in spurs and a red coat? 
 
 " I thought spurs and scarlet were the most fascinating ob- 
 jects in the world to }oung ladies," Pen answered. " I never 
 should have dared to put my black coat in competition with that 
 splendid red jacket." 
 
 " You are very unkind and cruel and sulky and naughty," 
 said Miss Am.ory, with another shrug of the shoulders. " You 
 had better go awa}-. Your cousin is looking at us over Mr. 
 Pynsent's shoulder." 
 
 " Will you waltz with me?" said Pen. 
 
 " Not this waltz. I can't, having just sent away that great 
 hot Captain Broadfoot. Look at Mr. P3-nsent, did you ever 
 see such a creature ? But I will dance the next waltz with you, 
 and the quadrille too. I am promised, but I will tell Mr. Poole 
 that I had forgotten my engagement to you." 
 
 " Women forget very readily," Pendennis said.
 
 260 PENDENNIS. 
 
 "But they always come back, and are very repentant and 
 sorry for what they've done," Blanche said. ''See, here comes 
 the Poker, and dear Laura leaning on him. How prettv she 
 looks!" 
 
 Lam-a came up, and put out her hand to Pen, to whom 
 Pj-nsent made a sort of bow, appearing to be not much more 
 graceful than that domestic instrument to which Miss Amory 
 compared him. 
 
 But Laura's face was full of kindness. " I am so glad you 
 have come, dear Pen," she said. "I can speak to you now. 
 How is mamma ? The three dances are over, and I am engaged 
 to you for the next. Pen." 
 
 " I have just engaged myself to Miss Amory," said Pen ; 
 and Miss Amory nodded her head, and made her usual little 
 curtsy. " T don't intend to give him up, dearest Laura," she 
 said. 
 
 "Well, then, he'll waltz with me, dear Blanche," said the 
 other. " Won't you, Pen?" 
 
 " I promised to waltz with Miss Amory." 
 
 " Provoking ! " said Laura, and making a curtsy in hertm-n, 
 she went and placed herself under the ample wing of Lady 
 Rockminster. 
 
 Pen was delighted with his mischief. The two prettiest girls 
 in the room were quarrelling about him. He flattered himself 
 he had punished Miss Laura, He leaned in a dandified air, 
 with his elbow over the wall, and talked to Blanche : he quizzed 
 unmercifull}' all the men in the room — the heavy dragoons in 
 their tight jackets — the country dandies in their queer attu-e — . 
 the strange toilettes of the ladies. One seemed to have a bird's 
 nest in her head ; another had six pounds of grapes in her hair, 
 beside her false pearls. " It's a coiffure of almonds and rai- 
 sins," said Pen, '• and might be served up for dessert." In a 
 word, he was exceedingly satirical and amusing. 
 
 During the quadrille he carried on this kind of conversation 
 (with unflinching bittei-ness and vivacity, and kept Blanche con- 
 tinually laughing, both at his wickedness and jokes, which were 
 good, and also because Laura was again their vis-a-vis, and 
 could see and hear how merry and confidential they were. 
 
 "Arthur is charming to-night," she whispered to Laura, 
 across Cornet Perch's shell-jacket, as Pen was performing cava- 
 lier seul before them, drawling through that figure with a thumb 
 in the pocket of each waistcoat. 
 
 " Who?" said Laura. 
 
 " Aithur," answered Blanche, in French. " Oh, it's such a
 
 PENDENNIS. 261 
 
 pretty name ! " And now the young ladies went over to Pen's 
 side, and Cornet Perch performed a pas seul in his turn. He 
 had no waistcoat pocket to put his hands into, and they looked 
 large and swollen as they hung before him depending from the 
 tight arms in the jacket. 
 
 During the interval between the quadrille and the succeed- 
 ing waltz, Pen did not take any notice of Laura, except to ask 
 her whether her partner, Cornet Perch, was an amusing youth, 
 and whether she liked him so well as her other partner, Mr. 
 Pynsent. Having planted which two daggers in Laura's bosom, 
 Mr. Pendennis proceeded to rattle on with Blanche Amoi-y, 
 and to make jokes good or bad, but which were always loud. 
 Laura was at a loss to account for her cousin's sulky behav- 
 ior, and ignorant in what she had offended him ; however, she 
 was not angry in her turn at Pen's splenetic mood, for she was 
 the most good-natured and forgiving of women, and besides, an 
 exhibition of jealousy on a man's part is not always disagreea- 
 ble to a lad}'. 
 
 As Pen could not dance with her, she was glad to take up 
 with the active Chevalier Strong, who was a still better per- 
 former than Pen ; and being very fond of dancing, as ever}' 
 brisk and innocent young girl should be, when the waltz music 
 began she set oft", and chose to enjoy herself with all her heart. 
 Captain Broadfoot on this occasion occupied the floor in con- 
 junction with a lady of proportions scarcely inferior to his own ; 
 Miss Roundle, a large young woman in a strawberry-ice colored 
 crape dress, the daughter of the lady with the grapes in her 
 head, whose bunches Pen had admired. 
 
 And now taking his time, and with his fair partner Blanche 
 hanging lovingly on the arm which encircled her, Mr. Arthur 
 Pendennis set out upon his waltzing career, and felt, as he 
 whirled round to the music, that he and Blanche were perform- 
 ing ver}' brilliantly indeed. Very likely he looked to see if Miss 
 Bell thought so too ; but she did not or would not see him, and 
 was always engaged with her partner Captain Strong. But 
 Pen's triumph was not destined to last long : and it was doomed 
 that poor Blanche was to have yet another discomfiture on that 
 unfortunate night. While she and Pen were whirling round as 
 light and brisk as a couple of opera-dancers, honest Captain 
 Broadfoot and the lady round whose large waist he was cling- 
 ing, were twisting round very leisurely according to their na- 
 tures, and indeed were in everybody's way. But they were 
 more in Pendennis's way than in anybody's else, for he and 
 Blanche, whilst executing their rapid gyrations, came bolt up
 
 262 PENDENNIS. 
 
 against the heavy dragoon and his lady, and with such force 
 that the centre of gravity was lost by all four of the circum- 
 volving bodies ; Captain Broadfoot and Miss Roundle were 
 fairly upset, as was Pen himself, who was less luckj^ than his 
 partner Miss Amory, who was onl}- thrown upon a bench against 
 a wall. 
 
 But Pendennis came fairly down upon the floor, sprawling 
 in the general ruin with Broadfoot and Miss Roundle. The 
 Captain, though heavy, was good-natured, and was the first to 
 burst out into a loud laugh at his own misfortune, which nobody 
 therefore heeded. But Miss Amory was savage at her mishap ; 
 Miss Roundle placed on her seant, and looking pitifully round, 
 presented an object which verj- few people could see without 
 laughing ; and Pen was furious when he heard the people 
 giggling about him. He w^as one of those sarcastic young 
 fellows that did not bear a laugh at his own expense, and of all 
 things in the world feared ridicule most. 
 
 As he got up Laura and Strong were laughing at him ; every- 
 body was laughing ; Pynsent and his partner were laughing ; 
 and Pen boiled with wrath against the pair, and could have 
 stabbed them both on the spot. He turned away in a fury 
 from them, and began blundering out apologies to Miss Amory. 
 It was the other couple's fault — the woman in pink had done 
 it — Pen hoped Miss Amory was not hurt — would she not 
 have the courage to take another turn ? 
 
 Miss Amory in a pet said she was very much hurt indeed, 
 and she would not take another turn ; and she accepted with 
 great thanks a glass of water which a cavalier, who wore a blue 
 ribbon and a three-pointed star, rushed to fetch for her when 
 he had seen the deplorable accident. She drank the water, 
 smiled upon the bringer gracefully, and turning her white 
 shoulder at Mr. Pen in the most marked and haught}- manner, 
 besought the gentleman with the star to conduct her to hei 
 mamma ; and she held out her hand in order to take his arm. 
 
 The man with the star trembled with delight at this mark 
 of her favor ; he bowed over her liand, pressed it to his coat 
 fervidly, and looked round him with triumph. 
 
 It was no other than the happ}- Mirobolant whom Blanche 
 had selected as an escort. But the truth is, that the young 
 lady had never fairly looked in the artist's face since he had 
 been emplo3-ed in her mother's famil}', and had no idea but it 
 was a foreign nobleman on whose arm she was leaning. As 
 she went off, Pen forgot his humiliation in his surprise, and 
 cried out, " By Jove, it's the cook J "
 
 PENDENNIS. 263 
 
 The instant he had uttered the words, he was sorry for hav- 
 ing spoken them — for it was Blanche who had herself invited 
 Miro\)olant to escort her, nor could the artist do otherwise than 
 compiy with a lady's command. Blanche in her flutter did not 
 hear what Arthur said ; but Mirobolant heard him. and cast a 
 furious glance at him over his shoulder, which rather amused 
 Mr. Pen. He was in a mischievous and sulky humor ; wanting 
 perhaps to pick a quarrel with somebody ; but the idea of hav- 
 ing uisuited a cook, or that such an individual should have any 
 feeling of honor at all, did not much enter into the mind of this 
 lofty 3'oung aristocrat, the apothecar3-'s son. 
 
 It had never entered that poor artist's head, that he as a 
 man was not equal to any other mortal, or that there was any- 
 thing in his position so degrading as to prevent him from giving 
 hia arm to a lady who asked for it. He had seen in the fetes 
 in his own country fine ladies, not certainl}' demoiselles (but 
 the demoiselle Anglaise he knew was a gi'eat deal more free 
 than the spinster in France) join in the dance with Blaise or 
 Pierre ; and he would have taken Blanche up to Lady Claver- 
 ing, and possibly have asked her to dance too, but he heard 
 Pen's exclamation, which struck him as if it had shot him, and 
 cruelly humiliated and angered him. She did not know what 
 caused him to start, and to grind a Gascon oath between his 
 teeth. 
 
 But Strong, who was acquainted with the poor fellow's state 
 of mind, having had the interesting information from our friend 
 Madame Fribsb}', was luckily in the Avay when wanted, and 
 saying something rapidly in Spanish, which the other under- 
 stood, the Chevalier begged Miss AmoiT to come and take an 
 ice before she went back to Lady Clavering. Upon which the 
 unhappv Mirobolant relinquished the arm which he had held 
 for a minute, and with a most profound and piteous bow, fell 
 back. " Don't you know who it is?" Strong asked of Miss 
 Amory, as he led her away, "• It is the chef Mirobolant." 
 
 " How should I know?" asked Blanche. " He has a croix ; 
 he is ver}'^ distingiu- ; he has beautiful e3^es." 
 
 "The poor fellow is mad for your beaux yeux^ I believe," 
 Strong said. *' He is a very good cook, but he is not quite 
 right in the head." 
 
 " What did you say to him in the unknown tongue? " asked 
 Miss Blanche. 
 
 " He is a Gascon, and comes from the borders of Spain," 
 Strong answered. " I told him he would lose his place if he 
 walked with 3'ou."
 
 264 PENDENNIS. 
 
 " Poor Monsieur Mirobolant ! " said Blanche. 
 
 " Did you see the look he gave Pendennis ? " — Strong asked, 
 enjoying the idea of the mischief — " I think he would like to 
 run little Pen through with one of his spits." 
 
 " He is an odious, conceited, clumsy creature, that Mr. 
 Pen," said Blanche. 
 
 " Broadfoot looked as if he would like to kill him too, so did 
 Pynsent," Strong said. " What ice will you have — ^ater ice 
 or cream ice ? " 
 
 " Water ice. Who is that odd man staring at me — he is 
 decore too." 
 
 " That is my friend Colonel Altamont, a very queer charac- 
 ter, in the service of the Nawaub of Lucknow. Hallo ! what's 
 that noise. I'll be back in an instant," said the Chevalier, and 
 sprang out of the room to the ball-room, where a scuffle and a 
 noise of high voices was heard. 
 
 The refreshment-room, in which Miss Armor}^ now found 
 herself, was a room set apart for the purposes of supper, which 
 Mr. Rincer the landlord had provided for those who chose to 
 partake, at the rate of five shillings per head. Also, refresh- 
 ments of a superior class were here ready for the ladies and 
 gentlemen of the county families who came to the ball ; but the 
 commoner sort of persons were kept out of the room by a waiter 
 who stood at the portal, and who said that was a select room 
 for Lady Clavering and Lady Rockminster's parties, and not 
 to be opened to the public till supper-time, which was not to 
 be until past midnight. Pynsent, who danced with his con- 
 stituents' daughters, took them and their mammas in for their 
 refreshment there. Strong, who was manager and master of 
 the revels wherever he went, had of course the entree — and the 
 onl}' person who was now occupying the room, was the gentle- 
 man with the black wig and the orders in his button-hole ; 
 the officer in the service of his Highness the Nawaub of 
 Lucknow. 
 
 This gentleman had established himself very early in the 
 evening in this apartment, where, saying he was confoundedly 
 thirsty, he called for a bottle of champagne. At this order, 
 the waiter instanth- supposed tliat he had to do with a grandee, 
 and the Colonel sat down and began to eat his supper and 
 absorb his drink, and enter affabl}' into conversation with any- 
 body who entered the room. 
 
 Sir Francis Clavering and Mr. Wagg found him there ; when 
 they left tlie ball-room, which the}' did prett}' early — Sir Francis 
 to go and smoke a cigar, and look at the people gathered out-
 
 PENDENNIS. 265 
 
 side the ball-room on the shore, which he declared was much 
 better fun than to remain within : Mr. Wagg to hang on to a 
 Baronet's arm, as he was always pleased to do on the arm of 
 the greatest man in the compan}'. Colonel Altamont had stared 
 at these gentlemen in so odd a manner, as the}' passed through 
 the '• Select" room, that Clavering made inquiries of the land- 
 lord who he was, and hinted a strong opinion that the officer of 
 •the Nawaub's service was drunk. 
 
 Mr. Pynscnt, too, had had the honor of a conversation with 
 the servant of the Indian potentate. It was Pynsent's cue to 
 speak to everybody ; (which he did, to do him justice, in the 
 most ungracious manner;) and he took the gentleman in the 
 black wig for some constituent, some merchant captain, or 
 other outlandish man of the place. Mr. P^nsent, then, coming 
 into the refreshment-room with a lady, the wife of a constituent, 
 on his arm, the Colonel asked him if he would tr}' a glass of 
 Sham? Pynsent took it with great gravity, bowed, tasted the 
 wine, and pronounced it excellent, and with the utmost polite- 
 ness retreated before Colonel Altamont. This gravity and 
 decorum routed and surprised the Colonel more than any other 
 kind of behavior probably would : he stared after Pynsent 
 stupidh', and pronounced to the landlord over the counter that 
 he wasa rum one. Mr. Rincer blushed, and hardly knew what 
 to say. Mr. Pynsent was a county Earl's grandson, going to 
 set up as a Parliament man. Colonel Altamont, on the other 
 hand, wore orders and diamonds, jingled sovereigns constantly 
 in his pocket, and paid his way like a man ; so not knowing what 
 to say, Mr. Rincer said, " Yes, Colonel — yes, ma'am, did you 
 say tea? Cup a tea for Mr. Jones, Mrs. R.," and so got off 
 that discussion regarding Mr. Pynsent's qualities, into which 
 the Nizam's officer appeared inclined to enter. 
 
 In fact, if the truth must be told, Mr. Altamont, having 
 remained at the buffet almost all night, and employed himself 
 very actively whilst there, had considerably flushed his brain 
 by drinking, and he was still going on drinking, w^hen Mr. 
 Strong and Miss Amory entered the room. 
 
 When the Chevalier ran out of the apartment, attracted by 
 the noise in the dancing- room, the Colonel rose from his chair 
 with his little red eyes glowing like coals, and, with rather an 
 unsteady- gait, advanced towaixls Blanche, who was sipping her 
 ice. She was absorbed in absorljing it, for it was very fresh 
 and good ; or she was not curious to know what was going on 
 in the adjoining room, altliough the waiters were, who ran after 
 Chevalier Strong. So that when she looked up from her glass.
 
 266 PENDENNIS. 
 
 she beheld this strange man staring at her out of his Uttle red 
 eyes. " Who was he? It was quite exciting." 
 
 " And so you're Betsy Amory," said he, after gazing at her. 
 " Betsy Amor}^ by Jove ! " 
 
 " Who — wlio speaks to me? " said Betsy, alias Blanche. 
 
 But the noise in the ball-room is really becoming so loud, 
 that we must rush back thither, and see what is the cause of 
 the disturbance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 WHICH IS BOTH QUARRELSOME AND SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 Civil war was raging, high words passing, people pushing 
 and squeezing together in an unseemly manner, round a window 
 in the corner of the ball-room, close b}- the door through which 
 the Chevalier Strong shouldered his way. Through the opened 
 window the crowd in the street below Avas sending up sarcastic 
 remarks, such as ''Pitch into him!" "Where's the police?" 
 and the like ; and a ring of individuals, among whom Madame 
 Fribsby was conspicuous, was gathered round Monsieur Alcide 
 Mirobolant on the one side ; whilst several gentlemen and ladies 
 surrounded our friend Arthur Pendennis on the other. Strong 
 penetrated into this assembl}', elbowing by Madam Fribsby, 
 who was charmed at the Chevalier's appearance, and cried, 
 " Save him, save him ! " in frantic and pathelir; accents. 
 
 The cause of the disturbance, it appeared, was the angry 
 little chef of Sir Francis Clavering's culinar}^ establishment. 
 Shortly after Strong had quitted the room, and whilst Mr. Pen, 
 greatly irate at his downfall in the waltz, which had made him 
 look ridiculous in the e^'es of the nation, and by Miss Amoiy's 
 behavior to him, which had still further insulted his dignit}^, 
 was endeavoring to get some coolness of bod}* and temper, by 
 looking out of window towards the sea, which was sparkling in 
 the distance, and murmuring in a wonderful calm — whilst he 
 was really tr3'ing to compose himself, and owning to himself, 
 perhaps, that he had acted in a veiy absurd and peevish manner 
 during the night — he felt a hand upon his shoulder; and, on 
 looking round, beheld, to his utter surprise and horror, that 
 the hand in question belonged to Monsieur Mirobolant, whose 
 eyes were glaring out of his pale face and ringlets at Mr. Pen. 
 To be tapped on the shoulder b3' a French cook was a piece of
 
 PEXDEXNIS. 267 
 
 familiarity which made the blood of the Pendennises to boil up 
 in the veins of their descendant, and he was astounded, almost 
 more than enraged, at such an indignity. 
 
 "You speak French ? " Mirobolant said in his own language, 
 to Pen. 
 
 " What is that to you, pray?" said Pen, in English. 
 
 "At any rate, you understand it?" continued the other, 
 with a bow. 
 
 '• Yes sir," said Pen, with a stamp of his foot ; "I under- 
 stand it pretty well." 
 
 " Vous me comprendrez alors, Monsieur Pendennis," replied 
 the other, rolling out his r with Gascon force, " quand je vous 
 dis que vous etes un lache. Monsieur Pendennis — un lache, 
 entendez-vous ? " 
 
 " What?" said Pen, starting round on him. 
 
 " You understand the meaning of the word and its conse- 
 quences among men of honor?" the artist said, putting his 
 hand on his hip, and staring at Pen. 
 
 " The consequences are, that I will fling you out of window, 
 you — impudent scoundrel," bawled out Mr. Pen ; and darting 
 upon the Frenchman, he would very likely have put his threat 
 into execution, for the window was at hand, and the artist by 
 no moans a match for the 3'ouug gentleman — had not Captain 
 Broad foot and another heav}' officer flung themselves between 
 the combatants, — had not the ladies begun to scream, — had 
 not the fiddles stopped, — had not the crowd of people come 
 running in that direction, — had not Laura, with a face of great 
 alarm, looked over their heads and asked for Heaven's sake 
 what was wrong — had not the opportune Strong made his 
 appearance from the refreshment-room, and found Alcide 
 grinding his teeth and jabbering oaths in his Gascon French, 
 and Pen looking uncommonly wicked, although trying to appear 
 as calm as possible, when the ladies and the crowd came up. 
 
 " What has happened ! " Strong asked of the chef, m Span- 
 ish. 
 
 " I am Chevalier de Juillet," said the other, slapping his 
 breast, '• and he has insulted me." 
 
 '' What has he said to you? " asked Strong. 
 
 "II m'a appele — Cuisinier" hissed out the little French- 
 man. 
 
 Strong could hardly help laughing. " Come away with me, 
 my poor Chevalier," he said. "We must not quarrel before 
 jadies. Come away ; I will carr}' your message to Mr. Pen- 
 dennis. — The Door fellow is not right in his head," he whiS'
 
 268 PENDENNIS. 
 
 pered to one or two people about liim ; — and others, and 
 anxious Laura's face visible amongst these, gathered round 
 Pen and asked the cause of the disturbance. 
 
 Pen did not know. '' The man was going to give his arm 
 to a young lad}', on which I said that he was a cook, and the 
 man called me a coward and challenged me ta fight. I own 
 I was so surprised and indignant, that if you gentlemen had not 
 stopped me, I should have thrown him out of window," Pen 
 said. 
 
 "D — him, serve him right, too, — the d — impudent for- 
 eign scoundrel," the gentlemen said. 
 
 "■I — I'm very sorry if I hurt his feelings, though," Pen 
 added : and Laura was glad to hear him say that ; although 
 some of the joung bucks said, " No, hang the fellow, — hang 
 those impudent foreigners — little thrashing would do them 
 good." 
 
 "You will go. and shake hands with him before 3'ou go to 
 sleep — won't you. Pen?" said Laura, coming up to him. 
 "Foreigners maybe more susceptible than we are, and have 
 different manners. If you hurt a poor man's feelings, I am 
 sure you would be the first to ask his pardon. Wouldn't j'ou. 
 dear Pen?" 
 
 She looked all forgiveness and gentleness, like an angel, as 
 she spoke, and Pen took both her hands, and looked into her 
 kind face, and said indeed he would. 
 
 " How fond that girl is of me ! " he thought, as she stood 
 gazing at him. " Shall I speak to her now? No — not now. 
 I must have this absurd business with the Frenchman over." 
 
 Laura asked — Wouldn't he stop and dance with her? She 
 was as anxious to keep him in the room, as he to quit it. 
 " Won't you stop and waltz with me. Pen? I'm not afraid to 
 waltz witli you." 
 
 This was an aflfectionate, but an iuiluck\' speech. Pen saw 
 himself prostrate on the ground, having tumbled over Miss 
 Roundle and the dragoon, and flung Blanclie up against the 
 wall — saw himself on the gi'ound, and all the people laughing 
 at him, Laura and Pynsent amongst them. 
 
 "I shall never clance again," he replied, with a dark and 
 determined face. "Never. I'm surprised j'ou should ask 
 me." 
 
 " Is it because you can't get Blanche for a partner ? " asked 
 Laura, with a wicked, unlucky captiousness. 
 
 "Because I don't wish to make a fool of myself, for other 
 people to laugh at me," Pen answered — " for you to laugh at
 
 PENDENNIS. 269 
 
 me, Laura. I saw you and Pyuseut. B}' Jove ! uo man shall 
 laugh at me." 
 
 " Pen, Pen, don't be so wicked ! " cried out the poor girl, 
 hurt at the morbid perverseness and savage vanity of Pen. 
 He was glaring round in the direction of Mr. Pynsent as if he 
 would have liked to engage that gentleman as he had done 
 the cook. ' • Who thinks the worse of you for stumbling in a 
 waltz?" If Laura does, we don't. '* Why are you so sensi- 
 tive, and read}' to think evil? " 
 
 Here again, by ill luck, Mr. Pynsent came up to Laura, and 
 .said, "I have it in command from Lad}- Rockminster to ask 
 whether I may take you in to supper ? " 
 
 "I — I was going in with'my cousin," Laura said. 
 
 "Oh — pray, no!" said Pen. "You are in such good 
 hands, that I can't do better than leave you : and I'm going 
 home." 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Pendennis," Pynsent said, dryly — to 
 which speech (which in fact, meant, ' ' Go to the deuce for an 
 insolent, jealous, impertinent jackanapes, whose ears I should 
 like to box") Mr. Pendennis did not vouchsafe an}- reply, 
 except a bow : and, in spite of Laura's imploring looks, he 
 left the room. 
 
 "How beautifully calm and bright the night outside is!" 
 said Mr. Pynsent; "and what a murmur the seals making! 
 It would be pleasanter to be walking on the beach than in this 
 hot room." 
 
 " Very," said Laura. 
 
 "What a strange congi'egation of people," continued Pyn- 
 sent. " I have had to go up and perform the agreeable to 
 most of them — the attorney's daughters — the apothecary's 
 wife — I scarcely know whom. There was a man in the re- 
 freshment-room, who insisted upon treating me to champagne 
 
 — a seafaring looking man — extraordinarily dressed, and 
 seeming half tipsy. As a public man. one is bound to con- 
 ciliate all these people, but it is a hard task — especially 
 when one would so very much like to be elsewhere " ^— and he 
 blushed rather as he spoke. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Laura — "I — I was not listen- 
 ing. Indeed — I was frightened about that quarrel between 
 my cousin and that — that — French person." 
 
 " Your cousin has been rather unlucky to-night," Pynsent 
 said. "There are three or four persons whom he has not 
 Bucceeded in pleasing — Captain Broadwood ; what is his name 
 
 — the officer — and the young lady in red with whom he
 
 270 PENDENNIS. 
 
 danced — and Miss Blanche — and the poor chef — and I 
 don't think he seemed to be particularly pleased with me." 
 
 "Didn't he leave me in charge to 3'ou?" Lam-a said, look- 
 ing up into Mr. P3nsent's face, and dropping her eyes instantly, 
 like a guilty little story-telling coquette. 
 
 " Indeed, I can forgive him a good deal for that," Pynsent 
 eagerl}' cried out, and she took his arm, and he led off his little 
 prize in the direction of the supper-room. 
 
 She had no great desire for that repast, though it was served 
 in Rincer's well-known style, as the county paper said, giv- 
 ing an account of the entertainment afterwards ; indeed, she 
 was very distraite ; and exceedingly pained and unhappy about 
 Pen. Captious and quarrelsome ; jealous and selfish ; fickle 
 and violent and unjust when his anger led him astray ; how 
 could her mother (as indeed Helen had by a thousand words 
 and hints) ask her to give her heart to such a man? and sup- 
 pose she were to do so, would it make him happ}'? 
 
 But she got some relief at length, when, at the end of half 
 an hour — -a long half-hour it had seemed to her — a waiter 
 brought her a little note in pencil from Pen, who said, " I met 
 Cooky below ready to fight me ; and I asked his pardon. I'm 
 glad I did it. I wanted to speak to you to-night, but will keep 
 what I had to say till you come home. God bless 3'ou. Dance 
 awa}' all night with Pynsent, and be very happy. Pen." — 
 Laura was ver^' thankful for this letter, and to think that there 
 was goodness and forgiveness still in her mother's bo3\ 
 
 Pen went down stairs, his heart reproaching him for his 
 absurd behavior to Laura, whose gentle and imploring looks 
 followed and rebuked him : and he was scared}- out of the 
 ball-room door before he longed to turn back and ask her 
 pardon. But he remembered that he had left her with that 
 confounded Pynsent. He could not apologize before him. 
 He would compromise and forget his wrath, and make his 
 peace with the Frenchman. 
 
 The Chevalier was pacing down below in the hall of the inn 
 when Pen descended from the ball-room ; and he came up to 
 Pen, with all sorts of fun and mischief lighting up his J0II3' 
 face. 
 
 "I have got him in the coffee-room," he said, "with a 
 brace of pistols and a candle. Or would 30U like swords on 
 the beach? Mirobolant is a dead hand with the foils, and 
 killed four gardes-du-corps with his own point in the barricades 
 of July."
 
 PENDENNIS. 271 
 
 ♦' Confound it," said Pen, in a Iiuy, " I can't Cght a cook ! " 
 
 "He is a Clievalier of July," replied the other. " They 
 present arms to him in his own country." 
 
 "And do A'ou ask me. Captain Strong, to go out with a 
 seryant? " Pen asked fiercely ; "I'll call a policeman for him; 
 but — but — " 
 
 "You'll invite me to hair triggers?'' cried Strons:. with a 
 laugh. " Thank you for nothing; 1 was but joking. I came 
 to settle quarrels, not to fight them. I have been soothing 
 down INIirobolant ; I have told him that you did not apply the 
 word ' Cook ' to him in an offensive sense : that it was contrary 
 to all the customs of the country that a hired officer of a house- 
 hold, as I called it, should give his arm to the daughter of the 
 house." And then he told Pen the grand secret which he had 
 had from Madame Fribsb}-, of the violent passion under which 
 the poor artist was laboring. 
 
 When Arthur heard this tale, he broke out into a hearty 
 laugh, in which Strong joined, and his rage against the poor 
 cook vanished at once. He had been absurdly jealous himself 
 all the evening, and had longed for a pretext to insult Pynsent. 
 He remembered how jealous he had been of Oaks in his first 
 affair ; he was ready to pardon anything to a man under a pas- 
 sion like that : and he went into the coffee-room where Miro- 
 bolant was waiting, with an outstretched hand, and made him 
 a speech in French, in which he declared that he was " Sin- 
 cerement fache d'avoir use une expression qui avoit pu blesser 
 Monsieur Mirobolant, et qu'il donnoit sa parole comme un gen- 
 tilhorame qu'il ne I'avoit jamais, jamais — intcnde," said Pen, 
 who made a shot at a Fiench word for " intended," and was 
 secretly much pleased with his own fluency and correctness in 
 speaking that language. 
 
 " Bravo, bi-avo ! " cried Strong, as much amused with Pen's 
 speech as pleased b}' his kind manner. "And the Chevalier 
 Mirobolant of course withdraws, and sincerely regrets the ex- 
 pression of which ho made use." 
 
 , " Monsieur Pendcnnis has disproved ray words himself," 
 said Alcide with great politeness ; "he has shown that he is a 
 galant homme." 
 
 And so the}' shook hands and parted, Arthur in the first 
 place despatching his note to Lain-a before he and Strong com- 
 mitted themselves to the Butcher Boy. 
 
 As they drove along. Strong complimented Pen upon his 
 behavior, as well as upon his skill in French. " You're a good 
 fellow, Pendcnnis, and you speak French like Chateaubriand, 
 by Jove."
 
 272 PENDENXIS. 
 
 " I've beeR accustomed to it from my youth upwards," said 
 Pen : and Strong had the grace not to laugh for five minutes, 
 when he exploded into fits of hilarity which Pendennis has 
 never, perhaps, understood up to this da}'. 
 
 It was da3'break when they got to the Brawl, where they 
 separated. By that time the ball at Ba3'mouth was over too. 
 Madame Fribsby and Mirobolant were on their wa^^ home in 
 the Clavering Qy ; Laura was in bed with an easy heart and 
 asleep at Lady Rockminster's ; and the Claverings at rest at 
 the inn at Baymouth, where they had quarters for the night. 
 A short time after the disturbance between Pen and the chef, 
 Blanche had come out of the refreshment- room, looking as pale 
 as a lemon-ice. She told her maid, having no other confidante 
 at hand, that she had met with the most romantic adventure — 
 the most singular man — one who had known the author of her 
 being — her persecuted — her unhappy — her heroic — her mur- 
 dered father ; and she began a sonnet to his manes before she 
 went to sleep. 
 
 So Pen returned to Fairoaks, in company' with his friend the 
 Chevalier, without having uttered a word of the message which 
 he had been so anxious to deliver to Laura at Baymouth. He 
 could wait, however, until her return home, which was to take 
 place on the succeeding da}'. He was not seriously jealous of 
 the progress made by Mr. Pynsent in her favor ; and he felt 
 prett}' certain that in this, as in any other famil}' arrangement, 
 he had but to ask and have, and Laura, like his mother, could 
 refuse him nothing. 
 
 When Helen's anxious looks inquired of him what had 
 happened at Baymouth, and whether her darling i)roject was 
 fulfilled. Pen, in a gay tone, told of the calamity which had 
 befallen ; laughingly said, that no man could think about dec- 
 larations under such a mishap, and made light of the matter. 
 " There will be plenty of time for sentiment, dear mother, 
 when Laura comes back," be said, and he looked in the glass 
 with a killing air, and his mother put his hair off" his fore- 
 head and kissed him, and of course thought, for her part, that 
 no woman could resist him ; and was exceedingl}' happy that 
 day. 
 
 When he was not with her, Mr. Pen occupied himself in 
 packing books and portmanteaus, burning and arranging papers, 
 cleaning his gun and putting it into its case : in fact, in making 
 dispositions for departure. For though he was read}' to marry, 
 this geiitlomau w.\s eager to go to London too. rightly consider- 
 
 1
 
 PENDENNIS. 273 
 
 ing that at three-and-twenty it was quite time for him to begin 
 upon the serious business of life, and to set about making a 
 fortune as quickl}' as possible. 
 
 The means to this end he had already shaped out for him- 
 self. " I shall take chambers," he said, " and enter myself at 
 an Inn of Court. With a couple of hundred pounds I shall be 
 able to carr}' through the first 3ear very well ; after that I have 
 little doubt m}- pen will support me, as it is doing with several 
 Oxbridge men now in town. I have a tragedy-, a comedy, and 
 a novel, all nearl}' finished, and for which I can't fail to get a 
 price. And so I shall be able to live pretty well, without draw- 
 ing upon m\' poor mother, until I have made my way at the bar. 
 Then, some da}' I will come back and make her dear soul happ}' 
 by marrjing Laura. She is as good and as sweet-tempered a 
 girl as ever lived, besides being reall}' ver}' good-looking, and 
 the engagement will serve to steady me,- — won't it, Ponto?" 
 Thus, smoking his pipe, and talking to his dog as he sauntered 
 through the gardens and orchards of the little domain of Fair- 
 oaks, this 30ung day-dreamer built castles in the air for himself: 
 " Yes, she'll steady me, won't she? And 3'ou'll miss me wheu 
 I've gone, won't you, old boy?" he asked of Ponto, who quiv- 
 ered his tail and thrust his brown nose into his master's fist. 
 Ponto licked his hand and shoe, as they all did in that house, 
 and Mr. Pen received their homage as other folks do the flattery 
 which they get. 
 
 Laura came home rather late in the evening of the second 
 day ; and Mr. Pynsent, as ill luck would have it, drove her 
 from Clavering. The poor girl could not refuse his offer, but 
 his appearance brought a dark cloud upon the brow of Arthur 
 Pendennis. Laura saw this, and was pained by it : the eager 
 widow, however, was aware of nothing, and being anxious, 
 doubtless, that the delicate question should be asked at once, 
 was for going to bed very soon after Laura's arrival, and rose 
 for that purpose to leave the sofa where she now generall}' lay, 
 and where Laura would come and sit and work or read by her. 
 But when Helen rose, Laura said, with a blush and rather an 
 alarmed voice, that she was also ver}" tired and wanted to go to 
 bed : so that the widow was disappointed in her scheme for that 
 night at least, and Mr. Pen was left another day in suspense 
 regarding his fate. 
 
 His dignity was offended at being thus obliged to remain in 
 the ante-chamber when he wanted an audience. Such a sultan 
 as he. could not afford to be kept waiting. However, he went 
 to be(.l and slept upon his disappointment pretty comfortably, 
 
 18
 
 274 PENDENNIS. 
 
 and did not wake until the cai'ly morning, when he looked up 
 and saw his mother standing in his room. 
 
 " Dear Pen, rouse up," said this lady. "Do not be laz}*. 
 It is the most beautiful morning in the world. I have not been 
 able to sleep since daybreak ; and Laura has been out for an 
 hour. She is in the garden. Every bodj- ought to be in the 
 garden and out on such a morning as this." 
 
 Pen laughed. He saw what thoughts were uppermost in the 
 simple woman's heart. His good-natured laughter cheered the 
 widow. ''Oh, you profound dissembler," he said, kissing his 
 mother. " Oh, you artful creature ! Can nobod}- escape from 
 your wicked tricks ? and will you make your only son your vic- 
 tim?" Helen too laughed, she blushed, she fluttered, and was 
 agitated. She was as happy as she could be^ — a good tender, 
 match-making woman, the dearest project of whose heart was 
 about to be accomplished. 
 
 So, after exchanging some knowing looks and hasty words, 
 Helen left Arthur ; and this 3'oung hero, rising from his bed, 
 proceeded to decorate his beautiful person, and shave his am- 
 brosial chin ; and in half an hour he issued out from his apart- 
 ment into the garden in quest of Laura. His reflections as he 
 made his toilette were rather dismal. •■' I am going to tie m}'- 
 self for life," he thought, " to please my mother. Laura is the 
 best of women, and — and she has given me her money. I 
 wish to Heaven I had not received it ; I wish I had not this 
 dut}' to perform just 3'et. But as both the women have set 
 their hearts on the match, wh}^ I suppose I must satisfy them 
 — and now for it. A man may do worse than make happy two 
 of the best creatures in the world." So Pen, now he was actu- 
 all3' come to the point, felt ver}^ grave, and by no means elated, 
 and, indeed, thought it was a great sacrifice he was going to 
 perform. 
 
 I It was Miss Laura's custom, upon her garden excursions, to 
 wear a sort of uniform, which, though homely, was thought by 
 man}' people to be not unbecoming. She had a large straw 
 hat, with a streamer of broad ribbon, which was useless proba- 
 bly', but the hat sufficientl}' protected the owner's pretty face 
 from the sun. Over her accustomed gown she wore a blouse 
 or pinafore, which, being fastened round her little waist b}' a 
 smart belt, looked extremel}' well, and her hands were guaran- 
 teed from the thorns of her favorite rose-bushes by a pau' of 
 gauntlets, which gave this young lady a military and resolute
 
 pexdpa':j^is. 275 
 
 Somehow she had the very same smile Tvith which she had 
 laughed at him on the night previous, and the recollection of his 
 disaster again offended Pen. But Laura, though she saw him 
 coming down the walk looking so gloomy and lull of care, ac- 
 corded to him a smile of the most perfect and provoking good- 
 humor, and went to meet him, holding one of the gauntlets to 
 him, so that he might shake it if he liked — and Mr. Pen con-; 
 descended to do so. His face, however, did not lose its tragic 
 expression in consequence of this favor, and he continued to 
 regard her with a dismal and solemn air. 
 
 '•Excuse my glove," said Laura, with a laugh, pressing 
 Pen's hand kindly with it, " We are not angry again, are we, 
 Pen?" 
 
 " "VVh}- do you laugh at me?" said Pen. "You did the 
 other night, and made a fool of me to the people at Bay- 
 mouth." 
 
 " My dear Arthur, I meant you no wrong," the girl answered. 
 '• You and Miss Roundle looked so droll as you — as you met 
 with your little accident, that I could not make a tragedy of it. 
 Dear Pen, it wasn't a serious fall. And, besides, it was Miss 
 Roundle who was the most unfortunate." 
 
 " Confound Miss Roundle ! " bellowed out Pen. 
 
 " I'm sure she looked so," said Laura, archlj'. " You were 
 up in an instant ; but that poor lady sitting on the ground in 
 her red crape dress, and looking about her with that piteous 
 face — can I ever forget her?" — and Laura began to make a 
 face in imitation of Miss Roundle's under the disaster, but she 
 checked herself repentantl}', saying, "Well, we must not laugh 
 at her, but I am sure we ought to laugh at you. Pen, if 3'ou were 
 angry about such a trifle." 
 
 " Tou should not laugh at me, Laura," said Pen, with some 
 l)itterness ; " not you, of all people." 
 
 " And whj' not? Are 3'ou such a great man?" asked Laura. 
 
 "Ah no, Laura, I'm such a poor one," Pen answered. 
 " Haven't you baited me enough already?" 
 
 " M}' dear Pen, and how? " cried Laura. " Indeed, indeed, 
 I didn't think to vex you b}' such a trifle. I thought such a 
 clover man as you could bear a harmless little joke from his 
 sister," she said, holding her hand out again. " Dear Arthur, 
 if I have hurt you, I beg your pardon." 
 
 "It is your kindness that humiliates me more even than 
 your laughter, Laura," Pen said. "You are always my 
 superior." 
 
 "What! superior to the great Arthur Pendenuis? How
 
 276 PENDENNIS. 
 
 can it be possible?" said Miss Laura, who may have had a 
 little wickedness as well as a great deal of kindness in her 
 composition. "You can't mean that any woman is your 
 equal?" 
 
 "Those who confer benefits should not sneer," said Pen. 
 " I don't like my benefactor to laugh at me, Laura ; it makes 
 the obligation very hard to bear. You scorn me because I 
 have taken j'our money, and I am worthy to be scorned ; but 
 the blow is hard coming from you." 
 
 "Money! Obligation! P'or shame, Pen ; this is ungener- 
 ous," Laura said, flushing red. " Mj^y not our mother claim 
 everything that belongs to us ? Don't I owe her all my happi- 
 ness in this world, Arthur? What matters about a few paltry 
 guineas, if we can set her tender heart at rest, and ease her 
 mind regarding j-ou ? I would dig in the fields, I would go 
 out and be a servant — I would die for her. You know I 
 would," said Miss Laura, kindling up; "and 3'ou call this 
 paltry money an obligation ? Oh, Pen, it's cruel — it's unworthy 
 of you to take it so ! If my brother ma_y not share with me 
 my superfluit}^ who may ? — Mine ? — I tell you it was not 
 mine ; it was all mamma's to do with as she chose, and so is 
 everjiihing I have," said Laura ; "My life is hers." And the 
 enthusiastic girl looked towards the windows of the widow's 
 room, and blessed in her heart the kind creature within. 
 
 Helen was looking, unseen, out of that window towards 
 which Laura's ej'es and heart were turned as she spoke, and 
 was watching her two children with the deepest interest and 
 emotion, longing and hoping that the prayer of her life might 
 be fulfilled ; and if Laura had spoken as Helen hoped, who 
 knows what temptations Arthur Pendennis might have been 
 spared, or what different trials he would have had to undergo? 
 He might have remained at Fairoaks all his days, and died 
 a country gentleman. But would he have escaped then? 
 Temptation is an obsequious servant that has no objection to 
 the country, and we know that it takes up its lodging in hermit- 
 ages as well as in cities ; and that in the most remote and 
 inaccessible desert it keeps company with the fugitive solitary. 
 
 " Is your life my mother's," said Pen, beginning to tremble, 
 and speak in a very agitated manner. "You know, Laura, 
 what the great object of hers is?" And he took her hand 
 once more. 
 
 "What, Arthur?" she said, dropping it, and looking at 
 him, at the window again, and then dropping her eyes to the 
 ground, so that they avoided Pen's saze. She, too, trembled,
 
 PENDENXIS. 277 
 
 for she felt that the crisis for wliich she had been secretly pre- 
 paring was come. 
 
 '•Our mother has one wish above all others in the world, 
 Laura," Pen said, "'and I think you know it. I own to you 
 that she has spoken to me of it ; and if you will fulfil it, dear 
 sister, I am ready. I am but very young as yet ; but I have 
 had so man}' pains and disappointments, that I am old and 
 weary. I think I have hai'dly got a heart to offer. Before I 
 have almost begun the race in life, 1 am a tired man. My 
 career has been a failure ; I have been protected by those whom 
 I by right should have protected. I own that Aour nobleness 
 and generositv, dear Laura, shame me, whilst the}' render me 
 grateful. Wlien I heard from our mother what 30U had done 
 for me : that it was you who armed me and bade me go out for 
 one struggle more ; I longed to go and throw myself at your 
 feet, and say, ' Laura, will 30U come and share the contest 
 with me? Your sj'mpath}' will cheer me while it lasts. I shall 
 have one of the tenderest and most generous creatures under 
 heaven to aid and bear me company.' Will you take me, dear 
 Laura, and make our mother happ}'?" 
 
 " Do 3-ou think mamma would be happy if you were other- 
 wise, Arthur?" Laura said in a low sad voice. 
 
 '' And why should I not be," asked Pen eagerly, " with so 
 dear a creature as you by my side ? I have not my first love 
 to give you. I am a broken man. But indeed I would love 
 you fondly and traly. I have lost man}' an illusion and ambi- 
 tion, but I am not without hope still. Talents I know I have, 
 wretchedly as I have misapplied them : they may serve me yet : 
 they would, had I a motive for action. Let me go away and 
 think that I am pledged to return to you. Let me go and work, 
 and hope that you will share my success if I gain it. You have 
 given me so much, dear Laura, will vou take from me noth- 
 ing?" 
 
 " AVhat have you got to give, Arthur?" Laura said, with 
 a grave sadness of tone, which made Pen start, and see that 
 his words had committed him. Indeed, his declaration had 
 not been such as he would have made it two days earlier, when, 
 full of hope and gratitude, he had run over to Laura, his libera- 
 tress, to thank her for his recovered freedom. Had he been 
 permitted to speak then, he had spoken, and she, perhaps, had 
 listened difierently. It would have liecn a grateful heart asking 
 for hers ; not a weary one offered to her, to take or to leave. 
 Laura was offended with the terms in which Pen offered him- 
 self to her. He had. in fact, said that he had no love, and yet
 
 278 PENDENNIS. 
 
 would take no denial. "I give myself to yon to please my 
 mother," he had said : " take me, as she wishes that I should 
 make this sacrifice." The girl's spirit would brook a husband 
 under no such conditions : she was not minded to run forward 
 because Pen chose to hold out the handkerchief, and her 
 tone, in reply to Arthur, showed her determination to be 
 independent. 
 
 "No, Arthur," she said, "our marriage would not make 
 mamma happy, as she fancies ; for it would not content you 
 ver}' long. I, too, have known what her wishes were ; for she 
 is too open to conceal anything she has at heart : and once, 
 perhaps, I thought — but that is over now — that I could have 
 made 3^ou — that it might have been as she wished." 
 
 "You have seen somebody else," said Pen, angry at her 
 tone, and recalling the incidents of the past daj's. 
 
 "That allusion might have been spared," Laura replied, 
 flinging up her head. "A heart which has worn out love at 
 three-and-twenty, as j'ours has, you sa^', should have survived 
 jealousy too. I do not condescend to say whether I have seen 
 or encouraged an}^ other person. I shall neither admit the 
 charge, nor deny it : and beg you also to allude to it no more." 
 
 " I ask your pardon, Laura, if I have offended you : but if 
 I am jealous, does it not prove that I have a heart?" 
 
 "Not for me, Arthur. Perhaps you think you love me 
 now : but it is only for an instant, and because you are foiled. 
 "Were there no obstacle, you would feel no ardor to overcome 
 it. No, Arthur, you don't love me. You would wear}' of me 
 in three months, as — as 3'ou do of most things ; and mamma, 
 seeing you tired of me, would be more unhappy than at my 
 refusal to be j'ours. Let us be brother and sister, Arthur, 
 as heretofore — but no more. You will get over this little 
 disappointment. " 
 
 " I will try," said Arthur, in a great indignation. 
 
 "Have you not tried before?" Laura said, with some 
 anger, for she had Ijeen angr}' with Arthur for a very long time, 
 and was now determined, I suppose, to speak her mind. " And 
 the next time, Arthur, when 3'ou offer yourself to a woman, do 
 not saj' as 3'ou have done to me, ' I have no heart — I do not 
 love 3-0U ; but I am ready to many vou because my mother 
 wishes for the match.' We require more than this in return 
 for our love — that is, I think so. I have had no experience 
 hitherto, and have not had the — the practice which 3'OU sup- 
 posed me to have, when 3-ou spoke but now of m3' having seen 
 somebody else. Did you tell your first love that 3'ou had no
 
 PEXDENNIS. 279 
 
 heart, Arthur ? or your second that you did not love her, but 
 that she might have you if she hked ? " 
 
 "What — what do you mean?" asked Arthur, blushing, 
 and still in srreat wrath. 
 
 *" I mean Blanche Amory, Arthur Pendennis," Laura said, 
 proudl}'. "• It is but two months since you were sighing at her 
 feet — making poems to her — placing them in hollow trees b}' 
 the river side. I knew all. I watched you — that is, she 
 showed them to me. Neither one nor the other were in earnest 
 perhaps ; but it is too soon now, Arthur, to begin a new attach- 
 ment. Go through the time of your — your widowhood at 
 least, and do not think of marrying until you are out of mourn- 
 ing." — (Here the girl's eyes filled with tears, and she passed 
 her hand across them.) "I am angr^' and hurt, and I have 
 no right to be so, and I ask your pardon in m^- turn now, dear 
 Arthur. You had a right to love Blanche. She was a thousand 
 times prettier and more accomplished than — than any girl near 
 us here ; and you could not know that she had no heart ; and 
 so you were right to leave her too. I ought not to rebuke you 
 about Blanche Amory, and because she deceived you. Pardon 
 me, Pen," — and she held the kind hand out to Pen once more. 
 
 " We were both jealous," said Pen. " Dear Laura, let us 
 both forgive " — and he seized her hand and would have drawn 
 her towards him. He thought that she was relenting, and 
 alread}' assumed the airs of a victor. 
 
 But she shrank back, and her tears passed away ; and she 
 fixed on him a look so melancholy and severe, that the young 
 man in his turn shrunk before it. "Do not mistake me, 
 Arthur," she said, " it cannot be. You do not know what j-ou 
 ask, and do not be too angr}- with me for saying that I think 
 vou do not deserve it. What do vou offer in exchange to a 
 woman for her love, honor, and obedience? If ever I sa}' these 
 words, dear Pen, I hope to say them in earnest, and by the 
 blessing of God to keep my vow. But you — what tie binds 
 you? You do not care about many things which we poor 
 women hold sacred. I do not like to think or ask how far 
 your incredulity leads you. You oflTer to marry to please our 
 mother, and own that you have no heart to give away. Oh, 
 Arthur, what is it you offer me? What a rash compact would 
 you enter into so liglitly? A month ago, and you would have 
 given ^-ourself to another. I pray you do not trifle with your 
 own or others' hearts so recklessly. Go and work ; go and 
 menu, dear Arthur, for I see your faults, and dare speak of 
 them now ; go and get fame, as you say that you can, and I
 
 280 PENDENNIS. 
 
 will pray for my brother, and watch our dearest mother at 
 home." 
 
 " Is that your final decision, Laura? " Arthur cried. 
 
 " Yes," said Laura, bowing her head ; and once more giving 
 him her hand, she went away. He saw her pass under the 
 creepers of the little porch, and disappear into the house. The 
 curtains of his mother's window fell at the same minute, but he 
 did not mark that, or suspect that Helen had been witnessing 
 the scene. 
 
 Was he pleased, or was he angry at its termination? He 
 had asked her, and a secret triumph filled his heart to think 
 that he was still free. She had refused him, but did she not 
 love him ? That avowal of jealous^' made him still think that 
 her heart was his own, whatever her lips might utter. 
 
 And now we ought, perhaps, to describe another scene 
 which took place at Fairoaks, between the widow and Laura, 
 ■when the latter had to tell Helen that she had refused Arthur 
 Pendennis. Perhaps it was the hardest task of all which 
 Laura had to go through in this matter : and the one which 
 gave her the most pain. But as we do not like to see a good 
 woman unjust, we shall not say a word more of the quarrel 
 which now befell between Helen and her adopted daughter, or of 
 the bitter tears which the poor girl was made to shed. It was 
 the onl}' difference which she and the widow had ever had as 
 yet, and the more cruel from this cause. Pen left home whilst 
 it was as A'et pending — and Helen, who could pardon almost 
 everything, could not pardon an act of justice in Laura. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 BABYLON. 
 
 Our reader must now please to quit the woods and seashore 
 of the west, and the gossip of Clavering, and the humdrum life 
 of poor little Fairoaks, and transport himself with Arthur 
 Pendennis, on the "Alacrity" coach, to London, whither he 
 goes once for all to face the world and to make his fortune. 
 As the coach whirls through the night away from the friendly 
 gates of home, man}' a plan does the young man cast in his 
 mind of future life and conduct, prudence, and peradventure
 
 PEXDENNIS. 281 
 
 success and fame. He knows he is a better man than man}- who 
 have hitherto been ahead of him in the race : his first failure has 
 caused him remorse, and brought with it reflection ; it has not 
 taken away his courage, or, let us add, his good opinion of him- 
 self. A hundred eager fancies and bus}- hopes keep him awake. 
 How much older his mishaps and a 3-ear's thought and self- 
 communion have made him, than when, twelve months since, 
 he passed on this road on his way to and from Oxbridge ! His 
 thoughts turn in the night with inexpressible fondness and ten- 
 derness towards the fond mother, who blessed him when part- 
 ing, and who, in spite of all his past faults and follies, trusts 
 him and loves him still. Blessings be on her ! he pra3^s, as he 
 looks up to the stars overhead. O Heaven, give him strength 
 to work, to endure, to be honest, to avoid temptation, to be 
 worth}' of the loving soul who loves him so entirely ! Ver}' 
 likel}- she is awake too, at that momenc, and sending up to the 
 same Father purer prayers than his for the welfare of her boy. 
 That woman's love is a talisman by which he holds and hopes 
 to get his safety. And Laura's — he would have "ain carried 
 her affection with him too, but she has denied it, as he is not 
 worthy of it. He owns as much with shame and remorse, con- 
 fesses how much better and loftier her nature is than his own 
 — confesses it, and j-et is glad to be free. " I am not good 
 enough for such a creature," he owns to himself. He draws 
 back before her spotless beauty and innocence, as from some- 
 thing that scares him. He feels he is not fit for such a mate as 
 that ; as many a wild prodigal who has been pious and guiltless 
 in early days, keeps away from a church which he used to fre- 
 quent once — shunning it, but not hostile to it — only feeling 
 that he has no right in that pure place. 
 
 With these thoughts to occup}' him, Pen did not fall asleep 
 until the nipping dawn of an October morning, and woke con- 
 siderably refreshed when the coach stopped at the old break- 
 fasting place at B , where he had had a score of merry 
 
 meals on his way to and from school and college many times 
 since he was a bo}'. As they left that place, the sun broke out 
 brightly, the pace was rapid, the horn blew, the milestones 
 flew b\'. Pen smoked and joked with guard and fellow-passen- 
 gers and people along the familiar road ; it grew more busy 
 and animated at every instant ; the last team of grays came 
 
 out at H , and the coach drove into London. What 3'oung 
 
 fellow has not felt a thrill as he entered the vast place ? Hun- 
 dreds of other carriages, crowded with their thousands of men, 
 were hastening to the great city. " Here is my place," thought 
 
 10
 
 282 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Pen ; " here is in}' battle beginning, in whicli I must fight and 
 conquer, or fall. I have been a boy and a dawdler as yet. 
 Oh, I long, I long to show that 1 can be a man." And from 
 his place on the coach-roof the eager young fellow looked down 
 upon the cit}', with the sort of longing desire which young 
 soldiers feel on the eve of a campaign. 
 
 As the}^ came along the road, Pen had formed acquaintance 
 with a cheery fellow-passenger in a shabby' cloak, who talked a 
 great deal about men of letters with whom he was very famil- 
 iar, and who was, in fact, tiie reporter of a London news- 
 paper, as whose representative he had been to attend a great 
 wrestling-match in the west. This gentleman knew intimately, 
 as it appeared, all the leadhig men of letters of his da}^, and 
 talked about Tom Campbell, and Tom Hood, and Sydney 
 Smith, and this and the other, as if he had been their most 
 intimate friend. As they passed by Brompton, this gentleman 
 pointed out to Pen Mr. Hurtle, the reviewer, walking with his 
 umbrella. Pen craned over the coach to have a long look at 
 the great Hurtle. He was a Boniface man, said Pen. And 
 Mr. Doolan, of the "Tom and Jerry" newspaper (for such 
 was the gentleman's name and address upon the card which he 
 handed to Pen), said " Faith he was, and he knew him very 
 well." Pen thought it was quite an honor to have seen the 
 great Mr. Hurtle, w^hose Avorks he admired. He beheved 
 fondly, as yet, in authors, reviewers, and editors of news- 
 papers. Even Wagg, whose books did not appear to him to 
 be masterpieces of human intellect, he yet seeretlj^ revered as 
 a successful writer. He mentioned that he had met Wagg in 
 the country, and Doolan told him how that famous novelist 
 received three hundther pounds a volume for every one of Ms 
 novels. Pen began to calculate instantly whether he might 
 not make five thousand a year. 
 
 The very first acquaintance of his own whom Arthur met, 
 as the coach pulled up at the Gloster Coffee House, was his old 
 friend Harry Foker, who came prancing down Arlington 
 Street behind an enormous cab-horse. He had white kid 
 gloves and white reins, and nature had by this time decorated 
 him with a considerable tuft on the chin. A very small cab- 
 boy, vice Stoopid retu-ed, swung on behind Foker's vehicle; 
 knock-kneed and in the tightest leather breeches. Foker 
 looked at the dusty coach, and the smoking horses of the 
 " Alacrity" by which he had made journeys in former times. 
 — "What, Foker!" cried out Pendennis — " Hullo ! Pen, 
 my boy ! " said the other, and he waA^ed his whip by way of
 
 PENDENNIS. 283 
 
 amity and salute to Arthur, who was veiy glad to see his 
 queer friend's kind old face. Mr. Doolan had a great respect 
 for Pen who had an acquaintance in such a grand cab ; and Pen 
 was greatly excited and pleased to be at libert}' and in Lon- 
 don. He asked Doolan to come and dine with him at the 
 Covent Garden Coffee House, where he put up : he called a 
 cab and rattled awaA' thither in the highest spirits. He was 
 glad to see the bustling waiter and polite bowing landlord 
 again ; and asked for the landlady, and missed the old Boots, 
 and would have liked to shake hands with everybod}-. He had 
 a hundred pounds in his pocket. He th-essed himself in his 
 very best ; dined in the coffee-room with a modest pint of 
 sherry (for he was determined to be very economical), and 
 went to the theatre adjoining. 
 
 The lights and the music, the crowd and the ga^^ety, charmed 
 and exhilarated Pen, as those sights will do young fellows from 
 college and the country', to whom they are tolerabh- new. He 
 laughed at the jokes ; he applauded the songs, to the delight 
 of some of the di'eary old habitues of the boxes, who had 
 ceased long ago to find the least excitement in their place of 
 nightly resort, and were pleased to see any one so fresh, and 
 so much amused. At the end of the first piece, he went and 
 strutted about the lobbies of the theatre, as if he was in a 
 resort of the highest fashion. What tired frequenter of the 
 London pave is there that cannot remember having had similar 
 earl}- delusions, and would not call them back again? Here 
 was young Foker again, like an ardent votaiy of pleasure as 
 he was. He was walking with Granby Tiptolf, of the House- 
 hold Brigade, Lord Tiptoff's brother, and Lord Colchicum, 
 Captain Tiptoff's uncle, a venerable peer, who had been a man 
 of pleasure since the first French Revolution. Foker rushed 
 upon Pen with eagerness, and insisted that the latter should 
 come into his private box, where a lady with the longest ring- 
 lets, and the fairest shoulders, was seated. This was Miss 
 Blenkinsop, the eminent actress of high comedy ; and in the 
 back of the box snoozing in a wig, sat old Blenkinsop, her papa. 
 He was described in the theatrical prints as the ' ' veteran Blen- 
 kinsop" — "the useful Blenkinsop" — "that old favorite of 
 the public, Blenkinsop : " those parts in the drama, which are 
 c.Jled the heavj' fathers, were usually assigned to this veteran, 
 wlio, indeed, acted the heavy father in public, as in private life. 
 
 At this time, it being about eleven o'clock, Mrs. Pendennis 
 was gone to bed at Fairoaks, and wondering whether her dear- 
 est Arthur was at rest after his journey. At this time Laura-
 
 284 PENDENNIS. 
 
 too, was awake. And at this time yesterday uight, as the 
 coach rolled over silent commons, where cottage windows 
 twinkled, and b}^ darkling woods under calm starlit skies, Pen 
 was vowing to reform and to resist temptation, and his heart 
 
 was at home Meanwhile the farce was going on verj' 
 
 successfully, and Mrs. LearN^ in a hussar jacket and braided 
 pantaloons, was enchanting the audience with her archness, her 
 lovely figure, and her dehghtful ballads. 
 
 Pen, being new to the town, would have liked to listen to 
 Mrs. Leary ; but the other people in the box did not care about 
 her song or her pantaloons, and kept up an incessant chatter- 
 ing. TiptofT knew where her maillots came from. Colchicum 
 saw her when she came out in '14. Miss Blenkinsop said she 
 sang out of all tune, to the pain and astonishment of Pen, who 
 thought that she was as beautiful as an angel, and that she 
 sang like a nightingale ; and when Hoppus came on as Sir Har- 
 court Featherb}^ the young man of the piece, the gentlemen in 
 the box declared that Hoppus was getting too stale, and Tiptoff 
 was for flinging Miss Blenkinsop's bouquet to him. 
 
 " Not for the world," cried the daughter of the veteran Blen- 
 kinsop ; " Lord Colchicum gave it to me." 
 
 Pen remembered that nobleman's name, and with a bow and 
 a blush said he believed he had to thank Lord Colchicum for 
 having proposed him at the Polyanthus Club, at the request of 
 his uncle Major Pendennis. 
 
 "What, you're Wigsby's nephew, are you?" said the peer 
 "I beg your pardon, we always call him Wigsby." Pen 
 blushed to hear his venerable uncle called by such a familiar 
 name. " We balloted 3"ou in last week, didn't we? Yes, last 
 Wednesday night. Your uncle wasn't there." 
 
 Here was delightful news for Pen ! He professed himself 
 ver}- much obliged indeed to Lord Colchicum, and made him a 
 handsome speech of thanks, to which the other listened, with 
 his double opera-glass up to his eyes. Pen was full of excite- 
 ment at the idea of being a member of this polite Club. 
 
 "Don't be always looking at that box, you naughty crea- 
 ture," cried Miss Blenkinsop. 
 
 " She's a dev'lish fine woman, that Mirabel," said Tiptofl"; 
 " though Mii'abel was a d — d fool to marry her." 
 
 " A stupid old spoone}'," said the peer. 
 
 " Mirabel ! " cried out Pendennis. 
 
 "Ha! ha! "laughed out Harry Foker. "We've heard o/ 
 her before, haven't we. Pen?" 
 
 It was Pen's first love. It was Miss Fotheringay. The
 
 PENDENNIS. 285 
 
 yeas before she had been led to the altar by Sir Chai-les Mira- 
 bel, G.C.B., and formerh' envoy to the Court of Pumpernickel, 
 who had taken so active a part in the negotiations befoi-e the 
 Congress of Swammerdan, and signed, on behalf of H. B. M., 
 the Peace of Pultusk. 
 
 '' Emily was always as stupid as an owl," said Miss Blen- 
 kinsop. 
 
 " Eh ! Eh ! pas si bete," the old peer said. 
 
 " Oh, for shame ! " cried the actress, who did not in the least 
 know what he meant. 
 
 And Pen looked out and beheld his first love once again — 
 and wondered how he ever cou'ld have loved her. 
 
 Thus, on the very first night of his arrival in London, Mr. 
 Arthur Pendennis found himself introduced to a Club, to an 
 actress of genteel comedv and a lieavv father of the Stas-e, and 
 to a dashing society of jovial blades, old and 3'oung ; for my 
 Lord ColchicuiD, though stricken in ^-ears, bald of head, and 
 enfeebled in person, was still indefatigable in the pursuit of 
 enjoyment, and it was the venerable Viscount's boast that he 
 could drink as much claret as the youngest member of the soci- 
 ety- which he frequented. He lived with the youth about town ; 
 he gave them countless dinners at Richmond and Greenwich : 
 an enlightened patron of the drama in all languages and of the 
 Terpsichorean art, he received dramatic professors of all na- 
 tions at his banquets — English fi'om the Covent Garden and 
 Strand houses, Italians from the Haymarket, French from their 
 own pretty little theatre, or the boards of the Opera where the}' 
 danced. And at his villa on the Thames, this pillar of the 
 State gave sumptuous entertainments to scores of 3'Oung men of 
 fashion, who very affably consorted with the ladies and gentle- 
 men of the green-room — with the former chiefly, for Viscount 
 Coichicum preferred their society- as more polished and gay 
 tlian that of their male brethren. 
 
 Pen went the next da}' and paid his entrance money at the 
 Club, which operation caiTied off exactly one-third of his hun- 
 dred pounds : and took possession of the edifice, and ate his 
 luncheon there with immense satisfaction. He plunged into an 
 easy chair in the library, and tried to read all the magazines. 
 He wondered whether the members were looking at him, and 
 that they could dare to keep on their hats in such fine rooms. 
 He sat down a)Hl wrote a 'etter to Fairoaks on the Club paper, 
 and said, what a comfort this place would be to him after his 
 day's work was over. He went over to his uncle's lodgings in
 
 286 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Burj- Street with some considerable tremor, and in compliance 
 with his mother's earnest deske, that he should instantly call 
 on Major Pendennis ; and was not a little relieved to find that 
 the Major had not yet returned to town. His apartments 
 were blank. Brown Hollands covered his librar3'-table, and 
 bills and letters lay on the mantel-piece, grimly awaiting the 
 return of their owner. The Major was on the continent, the 
 landlady- of the house said, at Badn-Badn, with the Marcus of 
 Stcyne. Pen left his card upon the shelf with the rest. Fair- 
 oaks was written on it still. When the Major returned to 
 London, which he did in time for the fogs of November, after 
 enjoying which he proposed to spend Christmas with some 
 friends in the country, he found another card of Arthur's, on 
 which Lamb Court, Temple, was engraved, and a note from 
 that 3"oung gentleman and from his mother, stating that he was 
 come to town, was entered a member of the Upper Temple, 
 and was reading hard for the bar. 
 
 Lamb Court, Temple: — where was it? Major Pendennis 
 remembered that some ladies of fashion used to talk of dining 
 with Mr. Ayliffe, the barrister, who was in "society," and 
 who lived there in the King's Bench, of which prison there was 
 probabl}^ a branch in the Temple, and Ayliffe was ver}' likely 
 an officer. Mr. Deuceace, Lord Crabs's son, had also lived 
 there, he recollected. He despatched Morgan to find out where 
 Lamb Court was, and to report upon the lodging selected by 
 Mr. Arthur. That alert messenger had little difficulty in dis- 
 covering Mr. Pen's abode. Discreet Morgan had in his time 
 traced people far more difficult to find than Arthur. 
 
 "What sort of a place is it, Morgan?" asked the Major 
 out of the bed-curtains in Bur}" Street the next morning, as the 
 valet was arranging his toilette in the deep j^ellow London fog. 
 
 "I should say rayther a shy place," said Mr. Morgan. 
 "The lawj^ers lives there, and has their names on the doors. 
 jMr. Harthur fives three pair high, sir. Mr. Warrington lives 
 there too, sir." 
 
 " Suffolk Warringtons ! I shouldn't wonder : a good fam- 
 ily," thought the Major. "The cadets of many of our good 
 families follow the robe as a profession. Comfortable rooms, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Honly saw the outside of the door, sir, with Mr. Warring- 
 ton's name and Mr. Arthur's painted up, and a piece of paper 
 with * Back at 6 ; ' but I couldn't see no servant, su*." 
 
 " Economical at any rate," said the Major. 
 
 " Very, sir. Three pair, sir. Nast3" black staircase as
 
 PENDENNIS. 287 
 
 ever I see. Wonder how a gentleman can live in such a 
 place." 
 
 " Pi'ayi, who taught 30U where gentlemen should or should 
 not live, Morgan? Mr. Arthur, sir, is going to study for the 
 bar, sir ; " the Major said with dignity ; and closed the conver- 
 sation and began to array himself in the yellow fog. 
 
 '' Boys will be bo>'s," the molhlied uncle thought to himself. 
 " He has written to me a devilish good letter. Colchicum says 
 he has had him to dine, and thinks hun a gentlemanlike lad. 
 His mother is one of the best creatures in the world. If he has 
 sown his wild oats and will stick to his business, he may do 
 well yet. Think of Charley Mirabel, the old fool, marrying 
 that flame of his ; that Fotheringay ! He doesn't like to come 
 here till I give him leave, and puts it in a very manly nice way. 
 I was deuced angry with him, after his Oxbridge escapades — 
 and showed it, too, when he w'as here before — Gad, I'll go and 
 see him, hang me, if 1 don't." 
 
 And having ascertained from Morgan that he could reach 
 the Temple without much difficulty, and that a city omnibus 
 would put him down at the gate, the Major one day after break- 
 fast at his Club — not the Polyanthus, whereof Mr. Pen was 
 just elected a member, but another Club : for the Major was too 
 wise to have a nephew as a constant inmate of any house where 
 he was in the habit of passing his time — the Major one day 
 entered one of those public vehicles, and bade the conductor to 
 put him down at the gate of the Upper Temple. 
 
 When Major Pendennis reached that dingy portal it was 
 about twehc o'clock in the day ; and he was directed b}' a civil 
 personage with a badge and a white apron, through some dark 
 alleys, and under various melancholy arcliwa3-s into courts each 
 more dismal than the other, until finally he reached Lamb Court. 
 If it was dark in Pall Mall, what was it in Lamb Court? Can- 
 dles were burning in man}' of the rooms there — in the pupil- 
 room of Mr. Hodgeman, the special pleader, whose six pupils 
 were scribbling declarations under the tallow ; in Sir Hokey 
 Walker's clerk's room, where the clerk, a person far more 
 gentlemanlike and cheerful in appearance than the celebrated 
 counsel, his master, was conversing in a patronizing manner 
 with the managing clerk of an attorney' at the door ; and in 
 Curling, the wigmaker's melancholy shop, where, from behind 
 the feeble glimmer of a couple of lights, large Serjeants' and 
 judges' wigs were looming drearil}-, with the blank blocks look- 
 ing at the lamp-post in the court. Two little clerks were 
 pla\ing at toss-halfpenny under that lamp. A laundress in
 
 288 PENDENNIS. 
 
 pattens passed in at one door, a newspaper boj' issued from 
 another. A porter, whose white apron was faintly visible^ 
 paced up and down. It would be impossible to conceive a 
 place more dismal, and the Major shuddered to think that any 
 one should select such a residence. "Good Ged ! " he said, 
 " the poor boy mustn't live on here." 
 
 The feeble and filthy oil-lamps, with which the staircases of 
 the Upper Temple are lighted of nights, were of course not 
 illuminating the stairs by da}', and Major Pendennis, having 
 read with difficulty his nephew's name under Mr. Warrington's 
 on the wall of No. 6, found still greater difficulty in climbing 
 the abominable black stairs, up the banisters of which, which 
 contributed their damp exudations to his gloves, he groped 
 painfully until he came to the third stor}'. A candle was in 
 the passage of one of the two sets of rooms ; the doors were 
 open, and the names of Mr. Warrington and Mr. A. Penden- 
 nis were very clearl}"^ visible to the Major as he went in. An 
 Irish charwoman, with a pail and broom, opened the door for 
 the Major. 
 
 " Is that the beer ? " cried out a great voice : " give us hold 
 of it." 
 
 The gentleman who was speaking was seated on a table, 
 unshorn and smoking a short pipe ; in a farther chair sat Pen, 
 with a cigar, and his legs near the fire. A little bo}', who 
 acted as the clerk of these gentlemen, was grinning in the 
 Major's face, at the idea of his being mistaken for beer. Here, 
 upon the third floor, the rooms were somewhat lighter, and the 
 Major could see the place. 
 
 " Pen. my bo}', it's I — it's 3'our uncle," he said, choking with 
 the smoke. But as most young men of fashion used the weed, 
 he pardoned the practice easilj' enough. 
 
 Mr. Warrington got up from the table, and Pen, in a very 
 perturbed manner, from his chair. ' ' Beg your pardon for mis- 
 taking you," said Warrington, in a frank, loud voice. " Will you 
 take a cigar, sir? Clear those things off the chair, Pidgeon, 
 and pull it round to the fire." 
 
 Pen flung his cigar into the grate ; and was pleased with 
 the cordialit}^ with which his uncle shook him by the hand. 
 As soon as he could speak for the stairs and the smoke, the 
 Major began to ask Pen ver}' kindl}' about himself and about 
 his mother ; for blood is blood, and he was pleased once more 
 to see the boy. 
 
 Pen gave his news, and then introduced Mr. Warrington — ^ 
 au old Boniface man — whose chambers he shared.
 
 PENDENNIS. 289 
 
 The Major was quite satisfied wlien he heard that Mr. War- 
 rington was a younger son of Sir jMiles Warrington of Suffolk. 
 He had served with an uncle of his in India and in New South 
 Wales, years ago. 
 
 "Took a sheep-farm there, sir, made a fortune — better 
 thing than law or soldiering," Warrington said. "Think I 
 shall go there, too." And here, the expected beer coming in, 
 in a tankard with a glass bottom, Mr. Warrington, with a 
 laugh, said he supposed the Major would not have any, and 
 took a long, deep draught himself, after which he wiped his 
 wrist across his beard with great satisfaction. The 3'oung man 
 was perfectly easy and unembarrassed. He was dressed in a 
 ragged old shooting-jacket, and had a bristly blue beard. He 
 was drinking beer like a coal-heaver, and 3'et 3'ou couldn't but 
 perceive that he was a gentleman. 
 
 When he had sat for a minute or two after his draught, he 
 went out of the room, leaving it to Pen and his uncle, that they 
 might talk over famil}' affairs were the}' so inclined. 
 
 "Rough and read}' your chum seems," the Major said. 
 " Somewhat different from jour dandy friends at Oxbridge." 
 
 " Times are altered," Arthur replied, with a blush. " War- 
 rington is onl}' just called, and has no business, but he knows 
 law pretty well ; and until I can afford to read with a pleader, I 
 use his books and get his help." 
 
 " Is that one of the books?" the Major asked, with a smile. 
 A French novel was lying at the foot of Pen's chau". 
 
 " This is not a working day, sir," the lad said. " We were 
 out very late at a part}' last night — at Lady Whiston's," Pen 
 added, knowing his uncle's weakness. "Everybody in town 
 was there except you, sir ; Counts, Ambassadors, Turks, Stars 
 and Garters — I don't know who — it's all in the paper, and my 
 name, too," said Pen, with great glee. " I met an old flame of 
 mine there, sir," he added, with a laugh. " You know whom 
 I mean, sir, — Lady Mirabel, to whom I was introduced over 
 again. She shook hands, and was gracious enough. I may 
 thank you for being out of that scrape, sir. She presented me 
 to the husband, too, an old beau in a star and a blond wig. He 
 does not seem very wise. She has asked me to call on her, sir : 
 and I may go now without any fear of losing my heart." 
 
 " What, we have had some new loves, have we?" the Major 
 asked, in high good-humor. 
 
 "Some two or three," Mr. Pen said, laughing. " But I 
 don't put on my grand serieux any more, sir. That goes off 
 after the first flame." 
 
 19
 
 290 PENDENNIS. 
 
 " Very right, my dear boy. Flames and darts and passion, 
 and that sort of thing, do very well for a lad : and you were 
 but a lad when that affair with the Fotheringill — Fotheringay — 
 (what's her name ?) came ofl". But a man of the world gives 
 up those follies. You still may do very well. You have been 
 hit, but you may recover. You are heir to a little independence, 
 which everybody fancies is a doosid deal more. You have a 
 good name, good wits, good manners, and a good person — ' 
 and, begad ! I don't see why you shouldn't marry a woman 
 with money — get into Parliament — distinguish yourself, and 
 — and, in fact, that sort of thing. Remember, it's as easy to 
 marry a rich woman as a poor woman : and a devilish deal 
 pleasanter to sit down to a good dinner than to a scrag of mut- 
 ton in lodgings. Make up your mind to that. A woman with 
 a good jointure is a doosid deal easier a profession than the 
 law, let me tell you. Look out ; I shall be on the watch for 
 you : and I shall die content, my boy, if I can see 3'ou with a 
 good lady-like wife, and a good carriage, and a good pair of 
 horses, living in society, and seeing your friends, like a gentle- 
 man." It was thus this affectionate uncle spoke, and ex- 
 pounded to Pen his simple philosophy. 
 
 " What would my mother and Laura say to this, I wonder? " 
 thought the lad. Indeed, old Pendennis's morals were not their 
 morals, nor was his wisdom theirs. 
 
 This affecting conversation between uncle and nephew had 
 scarcel}' concluded, when Warrington came out of his bedroom, 
 no longer in rags, but dressed like a gentleman, straight and 
 tall, and perfectly frank and good-humored. He did the hon- 
 ors of his ragged sitting-room with as much ease as if it had 
 been the finest apartment in London. And queer rooms the}^ 
 were in which the Major found his nephew. The carpet was 
 full of holes — the table stained with many circles of Warring- 
 ton's previous ale-pots. There was a small library of law- 
 books, books of poetry, and of mathematics, of which he was 
 very fond. (He had been one of the hardest livers and hardest 
 readers of his time at Oxbridge, where the name of Stunning 
 Warrington was 5'et famous for beating bargemen, pulling 
 matches, winning prizes, and drinking milk-punch.) A print 
 of the old college hung up over the mantel-piece, and some bat- 
 tered volumes of Plato, bearing its well-known arms, were on 
 the book-shelves. There were two easy chairs ; a standing 
 readiiig-desk piled with bills ; a couple of very meagre briefs 
 on a broken-legged study-table. Indeed, there was scarceh* 
 au}' article of furniture that had not been in the wars, and was
 
 PEXDENNIS. 291 
 
 noi wouiided. " Look here, sir, here is Pen's room. He is a 
 dand}-, and has got curtains to his bed. and wears shiny boots, 
 and has a silver dressing-case." Indeed, Pen's room was rather 
 coquettishly arranged, and a couple of neat prints of opera- 
 dancers, besides a drawing of Fairoaks. hung on the walls. In 
 Warrington's room there was scarcely any article of furniture, 
 save a great shower-bath, and a heap of books by the bedside ; 
 where he lay upon straw like Marger}- Daw, and smoked his 
 pipe, and read half through the night his favorite poetr}- or 
 mathematics. 
 
 When he had completed his simple toilette, Mr, Warrington 
 came out of this room, and proceeded to the cupboard to search 
 for his breakfast. 
 
 "Might I offer 3'ou a mutton-chop, su*? We cook 'em our- 
 selves, hot and hot ; and I am teaching Pen the first principles 
 of law, cooking, and morality at the same time. He's a lazy 
 beggar, sir, and too much of a dandy." 
 
 And so saying, Mr. Warrington wiped a gridiron with a piece 
 of paper, put it on the fire, and on it two mutton-chops, and 
 took from the cupboard a couple of plates, and some knives 
 and silver forks, and castors. 
 
 •' Sa}' but a word, Major Pendennis," he said; "there's 
 another chop in the cupboard, or Pidgeon shall go out and get 
 3'Ou anything you like." 
 
 Major Pendennis sat in wonder and amusement, but he said 
 he had just breakfasted, and wouldn't have an}' lunch. So 
 Warrington cooked the chops, and popped them hissing hot 
 upon the plates. 
 
 Pen fell to at his chop with a good appetite, after looking up 
 at his uncle, and seeing that gentleman was still in good-humor. 
 
 "You see, sir," Warrington said, "Mrs. Flanaghan isn't 
 here to do 'em, and we can't emplo}' the bo}', for the little beg- 
 gar is all da}' occupied cleaning Pen's boots. And now for 
 another swig at the beer. Pen drinks tea ; it's only fit for old 
 women." I 
 
 " And so you were at Lady Whiston's last night," the Major 
 said, not in truth knowing what observation to make to this 
 rough diamond. 
 
 " I at Lady Whiston's ! not such a flat, sir. I don't care 
 for female society. In fact it bores me. I spent ray evening 
 philosophically at the Back Kitchen." 
 
 "The Back Kitchen? indeed I " said the Major. 
 
 " I see you don't know what it means," Warrington said. 
 " Ask Pen. He was there after Lady Whiston's. Tell Major
 
 292 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Pendennis about the Back Kitchen, Pen — don't be ashamed 
 CI yourself." 
 
 So Pen said it was a little eccentric society of men of letters 
 and men about town, to which he had been presented ; and the 
 Major began to think that the 3'oung fellow had seen a good 
 deal of the world since his arrival in London. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE KNIGHTS OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 Colleges, schools, and inns of court, still have some respect 
 ixjT antiquit}' , and maintain a great number of the customs and 
 institutions of our ancestors, with which those persons who 
 do not particularly regard their forefathers, or perhaps are not 
 very well acquainted with them, have long since done away. 
 .4. well-ordained workhouse or prison is much better provided 
 with the appliances of health, comfort, and cleanliness, than 
 a respectable Foundation School, a venerable College, or a 
 learned Inn. In the latter place of residence men are con- 
 tented to sleep in dingy closets, and to paj^ for the sitting-room 
 and the cupboard, which is their dormitor}', the price of a good 
 villa and garden in the suburbs, or of a roomy house in the neg- 
 lected squares of the town. The poorest mechanic in Spitalfields 
 has a cistern and an unbounded supply of water at his command ; 
 but the gentlemen of the inns of court, and the gentlemen of the 
 universities, have their supply of this cosmetic fetched in jugs 
 by laundresses and bedmakers, and live in abodes which were 
 erected long before the custom of cleanliness and decency ob- 
 tained among us. There are individuals still alive who sneer at 
 the people, and speak of them with epithets of scorn. Gentle- 
 men, there can be but little doubt that your ancestors were the 
 Great Unwashed : and in the Temple especiall}-, it is pretty 
 certain, that only under the greatest difficulties and restrictions, 
 the virtue which has been pronounced to be next to godliness 
 could have been practised at all. 
 
 Old Grump, of the Norfolk Circuit, who had lived for more 
 than thirty years in the chambers under those occupied b}'^ 
 Warrington and Pendennis, and who used to be awakened 
 b}' the roaring of the shower-baths which those gentlemen had 
 erected in their apartments, — part of the ox)ntents of which
 
 PENDENNIS. 293 
 
 occasionaUy trickled through the roof into Mr. Grump's room, 
 — declared that the practice was an absurd, newfangled, dandi- 
 fied folly, and dail}' cui'sed the laundress who slopped the stair- 
 case by which he had to pass. Grump, now much more than 
 half a century old, had indeed never used the luxur}^ in ques- 
 tion. He had done without water very well, and so had our 
 fathers before him. Of all those knights and baronets, lords 
 and gentlemen, bearing arms, whose escutcheons are painted 
 upon the walls of the famous hall of the Upper Temple, was 
 there no philanthropist good-natured enough to devise a set of 
 Hummums for the benefit of the lawyers, his fellows and suc- 
 cessors? The Temple historian makes no mention of such a 
 scheme. There is Pump Court and fountain Court, with their 
 hydrauhc apparatus, but one never heard of a bencher disport- 
 ing in the fountain ; and can't but think how many a coun- 
 sel learned in the law of old da3s might have benefited by the 
 pump. 
 
 Nevertheless, those venerable Inns which have the Lamb 
 and Flag and the Winged Horse for their ensigns, have attrac- 
 tions for persons who inhabit them, and a share of rough com- 
 forts and freedom, which men always remember with pleasure. 
 1 don't know whether the student of law permits himself the 
 refreshment of enthusiasm, or indulges in poetical reminiscences 
 as he passes by histoi'ical chambers, and says, " Yonder Eldon 
 lived — upon this site Coke mused upon Lyttleton — here 
 Chitty toiled — here Barnwell and Alderson joined in their 
 famous labors — here Byles composed his great work upon bills, 
 and Smith compiled his immortal leading cases — here Gusta- 
 vus still toils, with Solomon to aid him : " but the man of letters 
 can't but love the place which has been inhabited b}' so man}' 
 of his brethren, or peopled by their creations as real to us at 
 this day as the authors whose children they were — and Sir 
 Roger de Coverley walking in the Temple Garden, and dis- 
 coursing with Mr. Spectator about the beauties in hoops and 
 patches who are sauntering over the gi'ass, is just as lively a 
 figure to me as old Samuel Johnson rolling tlu'ough the fog with 
 the Scotch gentleman at his heels on their wa}' to Dr. Gold- 
 smith's chambers in Brick Court ; or Harry Fielding, with 
 inked rufl[les and a wet towel round his head, dashing off 
 articles at midnight for the Covent Garden Journal, while the 
 printer's boy is asleep in the passage. 
 
 If we could but get the history of a single day as it passed 
 in any one of those four-storied houses in the dingy court where 
 our friends Pen and Warrington dwelt, some Temple Asmo-
 
 294 PENDENNIS. 
 
 deus might furnish us with a queer vokime. There may be a 
 gi'eat parliamentary counsel on the ground-iloor, v/ho drives off 
 to Belgravia at dinner-time, when his clerk, too, becomes a 
 gentleman, and goes away to entertain his friends, and to take 
 his pleasure. But a short time since he was hungiy and brief- 
 less in some garret of the Inn ; lived by stealthy literature ; 
 , hoped, and waited, and sickened, and no clients came; ex- 
 ' hausted his own means and his friends' kindness ; had to remon- 
 strate humbly with duns, and to implore the patience of poor 
 creditors. Ruin seemed to be staring him in the face, when, 
 behold, a turn of the wheel of fortune, and the lucky wretch 
 in possession of one of those prodigious prizes which are some- 
 times drawn in the great lottery of the Bar. Many a better 
 lawyer than himself does not make a fifth part of the income of 
 his clerk, who, a few months since, could scarcely get credit for 
 blacking for his master's unpaid boots. On the first floor, per- 
 haps, you will have a venerable man whose name is famous, 
 who has lived for half a century in the Inn, whose brains are 
 full of books, and whose shelves are stored with classical and 
 legal lore. He has lived alone all these fifty years, alone and 
 for himself, amassing learning, and compiling a fortune. He 
 comes home now at night only from the club, where he has been 
 dining frcel}', to the lonely chambers where he lives a godless 
 old recluse. When he dies, his Inn will erect a tablet to his 
 honor, and his heirs burn a part of his library. Would 3'ou 
 like to have such a prospect foi' 3'our old age, to store up learn- 
 ing and mone}', and end so? But we must not linger too long 
 Dy Dr. Doomsday's door. Worthy Mr. Grump lives over him, 
 who is also an ancient inhabitant of the Inn, and who, when 
 Doomsda}' comes home to read Catullus, is sitting down with 
 thi'ee steady seniors of his standing, to a steady rubber at 
 whist, after a dinner at which they have consumed their three 
 steady bottles of port. You maj' see the old boj's asleep at the 
 'Temple church of a Sunday. Attorneys seldom trouble them, 
 and the}' have small fortunes of their own. On the other side 
 of the third landing, where Pen and Warrington live, till long 
 after midnight, sits Mr. Paley, who took the highest honors, 
 and who is a fellow of his college, who will sit and read and 
 note cases until two o'clock in the morning ; who will rise at 
 seven and be at the pleader's chambers as soon as they are open, 
 where he will work until an hour before dinner-time ; who will 
 come home from Hall and read and note cases again till dawn 
 next day, when perhaps Mr. Arthur Pendennis and his friend 
 Mr. Warrington are returning from some of their wild expedi-
 
 PENDENNIS. 295 
 
 tions. How differently emploj-ed Mr. Paley has been ! He has 
 not been throwing himself awav : he has onlv been brinmns; a 
 great intellect laboriously down to the comprehension of a mean 
 subject, and in his fierce grasp of that, resolutely excluding 
 from his mind all higher thoughts, all better things, all the wis- 
 dom of philosophers and historians, all the thoughts of poets ; 
 all wit, fancy, reflection, art, love, truth altogether — so that 
 he may master that enormous legend of the law, which he pro- 
 poses to gain his livelihood by expounding. Warrington and 
 Pale}' had been competitors for university- honors in former 
 days, and had run each other hard ; and ever^-body said now that 
 the former was wasting his time and energies, whilst all people 
 praised Paley for his industr}-. There may be doubts, however, 
 as to which was using his time best. The one could afford 
 time to think, and the other never could. The one could have 
 s^^mpathies and do kindnesses ; and the other must needs be al- 
 ways selfish. He could not cultivate a friendship or do a charit}^ 
 or admire a work of genius, or kindle at the sight of beaut}- or 
 the sound of a sweet song — he had no time, and no eyes for 
 anvthing but his law-books. All was dark outside his reading- 
 lamp. Love, and Nature, and Art (which is the expression 
 of our praise and sense of the beautiful world of God) were 
 shut out from him. And as he turned off his lonely lamp at 
 night, he never thought but that he had spent the'da}- profitabl}-, 
 and went to sleep alike thankless and remorseless. But he 
 shuddered when he met his old companion Warrington on the 
 stairs, and shunned him as one that was doomed to perdi- 
 tion. 
 
 It may have been the sight of that cadaverous ambition and 
 self-complacent meanness, which showed itself in Paley's yellow 
 face, and twinkled in his narrow eyes, or it may have been a 
 natural appetite for pleasure and jovialit}', of which it must be 
 confessed Mr. Pen was exceedingly fond, which deteiTed that 
 luckless 3'outh from pursuing his designs npon the Bench or 
 the Woolsack with the ardor, or rather steadiness, which is 
 requisite in gentlemen who would climb to tuose seats of honor. 
 He enjoyed the Temple life with a great deal of relish : his 
 worthy relatives thought he was reivding as became a regular 
 student : and his uncle wrote home congratulatory letters to 
 the kind widow at Fairoa'its, announcing that the lad had sown 
 his wild oats, and was becoming quite stead}-. The truth is, 
 that it was a new sort of excitement to Pen the Hfe in which he 
 was now engaged, and haA'ing given up some of the dandified 
 pretensions, and line-gentleman airs which he had contracted
 
 296 PENDENNIS. 
 
 among his aristocratic college acquaintances, of whom he now 
 saw but little, the rough pleasures and amusements of a London 
 bachelor were very novel and agreeable to him, and he enjoyed 
 them all. Time was he would have envied the dandies their 
 fine horses in Rotten Row, but he was contented now to walk 
 in the Park and look at them. He was too young to succeed 
 in London society without a better name and a larger fortune 
 than he had, and too lazy to get on without these adjuncts. 
 Old Pendennis fondly thought he was busied with law because 
 he neglected the social advantages presented to him, and, hav- 
 ing been at half a dozen balls and evening parties, retreated 
 before their dulness and sameness ; and whenever anybody 
 made inquiries of the worth}- Major about his nephew, the old 
 gentleman said the ^oung rascal was reformed, and could not 
 be got away from his books. But the Major would have been 
 almost as much horrified as Mr. Paley was, had he known what 
 was Mr. Pen's real course of life, and how much pleasure en- 
 tered into his law studies. 
 
 A long morning's reading, a walk in the Park, a pull on the 
 river, a stretch up the hill to Hampstead, and a modest tavern 
 dinner ; a bachelor night passed here or there, in jovialit}-, not 
 vice (for Arthur Pendennis admired women so heartily that he 
 could never bear the society of any of them that were not, in 
 his fancj' at least, good and pure) ; a quiet evening at home, 
 alone with a friend and a pipe or two, and a humble potation 
 of British spirits, whereof Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, in- 
 variably tested the quality ; — these were our }■ oung gentleman's 
 pursuits, and it must be owned that his life was not unpleasant. 
 In term-time, Mr. Pen showed a most praiseworthy regularit}^ 
 in performing one part of the law-student's course of dut^-, and 
 eating his dinners in Hall. Indeed, that Hall of the Upper 
 Temple is a sight not uninteresting, and with the exception of 
 some trifling improvements and anachronisms which have been 
 introduced into the practice there, a man may sit down and 
 fanc}' that he joins in a meal of the seventeenth centur}'. The 
 bar have their messes, the students their tables apart ; the 
 benchers sit at the high table on the raised platform, surrounded 
 by pictures of judges of the law and portraits of royal person- 
 ages who have honored its festivities with their presence and 
 patronage. Pen looked about, on his first introduction, not a 
 little amused with the scene which he witnessed. Among his 
 comrades of the student class there were gentlemen of all ages, 
 from sixty to seventeen ; stout gray-headed attoi'neys who were 
 proceeding to take the superior dignity, — dandies and men-
 
 PENDENNIS. 297 
 
 about-town who wished for some reason to be barristers of 
 seven years' standing — swartli}', black-eyed natives of the 
 Colonies, who came to be called here before they practised in 
 their own islands, — and man^' gentlemen of the Irish nation, 
 who make a sojom'n in Middle Temple Lane before they return 
 to the green countr}- of their birth. There were little squads 
 of reading students who talked law all dinner-time ; there were 
 rowing men, whose discourse was of sculling matches, the Red 
 House, Vauxhall, and the Opera ; there were others great in 
 politics, and orators of the students' debating clubs ; with all 
 of which sets, except the first, whose talk was an almost unknown 
 and a quite uninteresting language to him, Mr. Pen made a 
 gradual acquaintance, and had many points of sympathy. 
 
 The ancient and liberal Inn of the Upper Temple provides 
 in its Hall, and for a most moderate price, an excellent whole- 
 some dinner of soup, meat, tarts, and port wine or sherry, for 
 the barristers and students who attend that place of refection. 
 The parties are arranged in messes of four, each of which quar- 
 tets has its piece of beef or leg of mutton, its sufficient apple- 
 pie and its bottle of wine. But the honest habitues of the Hall, 
 amongst the lower rank of students, who have a taste for good 
 living, have many harmless arts by which they improve their 
 banquet, and innocent "dodges" (if we may be permitted to 
 use an excellent phrase that has become vernacular since the 
 appearance of the last dictionaries) by which they strive to 
 attain for themselves more delicate food than the common 
 every-day roast meat of the students' tables. 
 
 " Wait a bit," said Mr. Lowton, one of these Temple gour- 
 mands. " Wait a bit," said Mr. Lowton, tugging at Pen's 
 gown — "the tables are ver}- full, and there's only three 
 benchers to eat ten side dishes — if we wait, perhaps we shall 
 get something from their table." And Pen looked with some 
 amusement, as did Mr. Lowton with ej-es of fond desire, 
 towards the benchers' high table, where three old gentlemen 
 were standing up before a dozen silver dish-covers, while the 
 clerk was quavering out a grace. 
 
 Lowton was great in the conduct of the dinner. His aim 
 was to manage so as to be the first, or captain of the mess, 
 and to secure for himself the thirteenth glass of the bottle of 
 port wine. Thus he would have the command of the joint on 
 which he operated his favorite cuts, and made rapid dexterous 
 appropriations of gravy, which amused Pen infinitely. Poor 
 Jack Lowton ! thy pleasures in life were very harmless ; an 
 eager epicure, th}' desires did not go beyond eighteen-pence.
 
 298 PENDENS IS. 
 
 Pen was somewhat older than man}- of his fellow-students, 
 and there was that about his style and appearance which, as w< 
 have said, was rather haughty and impertinent, that stamped 
 him as a man of ton — very unlike those pale students who 
 were talking law to one another, and those ferocious dandies, 
 in rowing shirts and astonishing pins and waistcoats, who rep- 
 resented the idle part of the little communit}-. The humble 
 and good-natured Lowton had felt attracted by Pen's superior 
 looks and presence — and had made acquaintance with him at 
 the mess b}' opening the conversation. 
 
 "This is boiled-beef day, I believe, sir," said Lowton to 
 Pen. 
 
 " Upon my word, sir, I'm not aware," said Pen, hardly able 
 to contain his laughter, but added, "I'm a stranger; this is 
 my first term ; " on which Lowton began to point out to him 
 the notabilities in the Hall. 
 
 " That's Boose}' the bencher, the bald one sitting under the 
 picture and aving soup; I wonder whether it's turtle? They 
 often ave turtle. Next is Balls, the King's Counsel, and Swet- 
 tenham — Hodge and Swettenham, you know. That's old 
 ^rump, the senior of the bar ; they say he's dined here fort}' 
 rears. Thev often send 'em down their fish from the benchers 
 to the senior table. Do you see those four fellows seated 
 opposite us? They are regular swells — tip-top fellows, I can 
 tell 3'ou — Mr. Trail, the Bishop of Ealing's son. Honorable 
 Fred. Ringwood, Lord Cinqbar's brother, you know. He'll 
 have a good place, I bet an}- money : and Bob Suckling, who's 
 always with him — a high fellow too. Ha ! ha ! " Here 
 Lowton burst into a laugh. 
 
 " What is it?" said Pen, still amused. 
 
 " I say, I like to mess with those chaps," Lowton said, 
 winking his 63^6 knowingl}', and pouring out his glass of 
 wine. 
 
 " And why ? " asked Pen. 
 
 " Wh}' ! they don't come down here to dine you know, they 
 only make believe to dine. They dine here, Law bless you ! 
 They go to some of the swell clubs, or else to some grand din- 
 ner party. You see their names in the ' Morning Post ' at all 
 the fine parties in London. Why, I bet anything that Ring- 
 wood has his cab, or Trail his brougham (he's a devil of a fel- 
 low, and makes the bishop's mone}' spin, I can tell you) at the 
 corner of Essex Street at this minute. They dine ! They won't 
 dine these two hours, I dare say." 
 
 " But why should you like to mess with them, if they don't
 
 PENDENXIS. 299 
 
 eat any dinner?" Pen asked, still puzzled. "There's plenty, 
 isn't there?" 
 
 "How green you are," said Lowton. "Excuse me, but 
 j-ou are green. They don't drink any wine, don't 3'ou see, and 
 a fellow gets the bottle to himself if he likes it when he messes 
 with those three chaps. That's wh}' Corkoran got in with 
 em. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Lowton, I see you arc a si}' fellow," Pen said, 
 delighted with his acquaintance : on which the other modestly 
 replied, that he had lived in London the better part of his life, 
 and of course had his eyes about him ; and went on with his 
 catalogue to Pen. 
 
 *' There's a lot of Irish here," he said: "that Corkoran's 
 one, and I can't sa}- I like him. You see that handsome chap 
 with the blue neck-cloth, and pink shirt, and yellow waistcoat, 
 that's another : that's Molloy Maloney, of Ball^maloney, and 
 nephew to Major-Gencral Sir Hector O'Dowd, he, he," Lowton 
 said, trying to imitate the Hibernian accent. "He's alwaj's 
 bragging about his uncle ; and came into Hall in silver-striped 
 trousers the da}' he had been presented. That other near him, 
 with the long black hair, is a tremendous rebel. B}' Jove, sir, 
 to hear him at the Forum it makes your blood freeze ; and the 
 next is an Irishman, too. Jack Finucane, reporter of a news- 
 paper. They all stick together, those Irish. It's your turn to 
 fill 5'our glass. What? 30U won't have any port? Don't like 
 port with 30ur dinner? Here's your health." And this worthy 
 man found himself not the less attached to Pendennis because 
 the latter disliked port wine at dinner. 
 
 It was while Pen was taking his share of one of these din- 
 ners with his acquaintance Lowton as the captain of his mess, 
 that there came to join them a gentleman in a barrister's gown, 
 who could not find a seat, as it appeared, amongst the persons 
 of his own degree, and who strode over the table and took 
 his place on the bench where Pen sat. He was dressed in old 
 clothes and a faded gown, which hung behind him. and he wore 
 a shirt which, though clean, was extremely ragged, and very 
 different to the magnificent pink raiment of Mr. Molloy Maloney, 
 who occupied a commanding position in the next mess. In 
 order to notify their appearance at dinner, it is the custom of 
 the gentlemen who eat in the Upper Temple Hall to write down 
 their names upon slips of paper, which are provided for that 
 pur^Ktse, with a pencil for each mess. Lowton wi'otc his name 
 first, then came Arthur Pendennis, and the next was that of 
 the gentleman in the old clothes. He smiled when he saw
 
 o 
 
 00 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Pen's name, and looked at him. "We ought to know each 
 other," he said. " We're both Boniface men ; my name's War- 
 rington." 
 
 " Are you St Warrington?" Pen said, delighted to see 
 
 this hero. 
 
 Warrington laughed — "Stunning Warrington — yes," he 
 said. "I recollect 3'ou in your freshman's term. But j'ou 
 appear to have quite cut me out." 
 
 "The college talks about you still," said Pen, who had a 
 generous admiration for talent and pluck. "The bargeman 
 3'ou thrashed, Bill Simes, don't you remember, wants you up 
 again at Oxbridge. The Miss Notleys, the haberdashers — " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Warrington — " glad to make your acquaint- 
 ance, Pendennis. Heard a good deal about you." 
 
 The 3'oung men were friends immediately, and at once deep 
 in college-talk. And Pen, who had been acting rather the fine 
 gentleman on a previous daj', when he pretended to Lowton 
 that he could not drink port wine at dinner, seeing Warrington 
 take his share with a great deal of gusto, did not scruple about 
 helping himself any more, rather to the disappointment of hon- 
 est Lowton. When the dinner was over, Warrington asked 
 Arthur where he was going. 
 
 "I thought of going home to dress, and hear Grisi in 
 Norma," Pen said. 
 
 " Are you going to meet an3'bod3' there?" he asked. 
 
 Pen said, "No — onl}' to hear the music, of which he was 
 very fond." 
 
 "You had much better come home and smoke a pipe with 
 me," said Warrington, — "a verj' short one. Come, I live 
 close by in Lamb Court, and we'll talk over Boniface and old 
 times." 
 
 They went awa^' ; Lowton sighed after them. He knew that 
 Warrington was a baronet's son, and he looked up with simple 
 reverence to all the aristocracy. Pen and Warrington became 
 sworn friends from that night. Warrington's cheerfulness and 
 jovial temper, his good sense, his rough welcome, and his 
 never- failing pipe of tobacco, charmed Pen, who found it more 
 pleasant to dive into shilling taverns with him, than to dine in 
 solitary state amongst the silent and polite frequenters of the 
 Polyanthus. 
 
 Ere long Pen gave up his lodgings in St. James's, to which 
 he had migrated on quitting his hotel, and found it was much 
 more economical to take up his abode with Warrington in Lamb 
 Court, and furnish and occupj- his friend's vacant room there.
 
 ^ENl)EN^^s. 30\ 
 
 For it must be said of Pen, that no man was more easily- led 
 than he to do a thing, when it was a novelty, or when he had a 
 mind to it. And Pidgeon, the 3-oath, and Flanagan the laun- 
 dress, divided their allegiance now between Warrington and 
 Pen. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 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 coal-heavers 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 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 so- 
 ciety. 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 coal-heaving company assembled at the Fox-under-the-Hill. 
 His acquaintance with the public-houses of the metropoUs and 
 its neighborhood, and with the frequenters of their various par- 
 lors, was prodigious. He was the personal friend of the land- 
 lord 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 anno3ed him, and whose conversation bored 
 him. "In society," he used to sa^^ " everybody is the same, 
 wears the same dress, eats and drinks, and sa^'s 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 Eng- 
 land, or the man who can drink the most beer in England, or 
 with that tremendous republican of a hatter, who thinks Thistle- 
 wood 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, per- 
 haps, the deference which thev oaid him might secretly please 
 him.
 
 302 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Pen followed liim 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 Warring- 
 ton ; 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 majest}-, 
 although he was only heir apparent to twopence-halfpenny, and 
 but one in descent from a gallipot. If these positions are made 
 for us, we acquiesce in them ver}^ easil}' ; and are always prett}^ 
 read}' to assume a superiorit}- 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 3'outh : but it is curi- 
 ous to watch the conceit of a generous and clever lad — there 
 is something almost touching in that early exhibition of sim- 
 plicity and foil}-. 
 
 So, after reading prett}- hard of a morning, and, I fear, not 
 law merel}-, 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 assi- 
 duit}' to letters, to reviews, to elemental books of law, and, above 
 all, to the newspaper, until the hour of dinner was di'awing 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 ever}- 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 delight- 
 ful 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 fes- 
 tivity 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 compan}-, 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
 
 TENDENNIS. 303 
 
 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 AVarrington was a woman-hater ; 
 and Pen, as we have said, too loft}- to stoop to a vulgar intrigue. 
 Our young Prince of Fairoaks never could speak to one of the 
 sex but with respectful courtesv, and shrank from a coarse word 
 or gesture with instinctive delicacv — 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 the}- get on their feet, the}- 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 Chat- 
 teris Theatre, who was now employed as piano-forte player, to 
 accompany the eminent lyrical talent which nightly delighted the 
 public at the Fielding's Ilead in Covent Garden : and where was 
 held the little club called the Back Kitchen. 
 
 Numbers of Pen's friends frequented this very merry meet- 
 ing. 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 occu- 
 pied 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 falter- 
 mg accents he told " how autumn's lalling 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
 
 304 PENDENNIS. 
 
 making with our fists on his table, in compliment to his heai't 
 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 Costi- 
 gan ; 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 ad- 
 oration for her and for him ; of the hunther 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 Sathurdaj-, I give 3'e me secred word 
 and honor next Sathurday, the fourteenth, when 3^e'll see the 
 money will be handed over to me at Coutts's, the very instant 
 I present the cheque," the Captain would not unfrequentlj' 
 propose to borrow half a crown of his friend until the arrival of 
 that day of Greek Calends, when, on the honor of an officer 
 and a 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 liis 
 bosom, and the stinginess of the wealthy old man who had 
 married her) ; but the pair hsid acted not unkindly towards 
 Costigan ; had settled a small pension on him, which was paid 
 regularly, and forestalled with even more regularity bj' poor 
 Cos ; and the periods of the payments were always well known 
 by his friends at the Fielding's Head, whither the honest Cap- 
 tain 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
 
 PENDENNIS. 305 
 
 glass of punch will make ye pla}' con spirko." For he was lav- 
 ishl}' 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 m 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 brand}"- 
 and- water for any of his acquaintances who made their appear- 
 ance 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 Lad}' Whiston's part}', 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, ver}' kindly 
 and warmly to gTeet the old man ; still retaining a strong re- 
 membrance of the time when Costigan's daughter had been 
 everything in the world to him. For though this young gentle- 
 man ma}' 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 towards whom he had once thrown 
 the royal pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 The tipsy Captain returned 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, Cap- 
 tain?" 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 bo}', his gallant young friend, his noble 
 
 20
 
 306 PENDENNIS. 
 
 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 j'our 
 appearance, that you've come into your prawpertee ; and, 
 bedad, 3'ee'll spend it like a man of spirit — I'll go bail for that. 
 No! not 3'et come into your estete? If ye want any thritie, 
 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 3'e 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 3'e, su', and re- 
 questing 3-e'll take a glass of punch." 
 
 " I don't env3' Sir Charles Mirabel his father-in-law," thought 
 Pendennis. '' And how is my old friend, Mr. Bows, Captain? 
 Have 3'ou an3" news of him, and do 3'ou see him still? " 
 
 "No doubt he's very well," said the Captain, jingling his 
 mone3', and whistling the air of a song — "The Little Doo- 
 deen," — for the singing of which he was celebrated at the 
 Fielding's Head. "Me dear boy — I've forgot 3'our name 
 again — but me name's Costigan, Jack Costigan, and I'd loike 
 ye to take as man3' tumblers of punch in me name as ever 3'e 
 loike. Ye know me name ; I'm not ashamed of it." And so 
 the Captain went maundering on. 
 
 "It's pa3'-da3' 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 
 alread3- tried that ' Little Doodeen ' of his, and broke it, too, 
 just before I sang ' King Death.' Have 3-ou heard my new 
 song, 'The Body Snatcher,' Mr. Warrington? — angcored at 
 St. Bartholomew's the other night — composed expressl3'' for 
 me. Per'aps you or 3-our friend would like a copy of the song, 
 sir ? John,' just 'ave the kindness to 'and over a ' Bod3^ Snatcher' 
 'ere, will 3^er? — 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 b3^ 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 lie had been 
 asking but now, and whose existence Costigan had momentarily 
 forgotten. The little old man sat before the battered piano 
 (which had injured its constitution wofull3^ by sitting up so 
 many nights, and spoke with a voice, as it were, at once hoarse
 
 PENDENNIS. 307 
 
 and faint), and accompanied the singers, or plaj-ed 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 
 30ung man's recognition of Costigan. lie now began to play 
 an au", 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 
 pla^'ed, 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 gTeeted 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 3'ou ever heard 
 pla^-ed — 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 
 paj'-day ; and I shall have the deuce's own trouble in getting 
 him home. "We live together. We still hang on, sir, in part- 
 nership, though Miss Em — though my lady Mirabel has left 
 the firm. — And so 3'ou remember old times, do 3'ou? Wasn't 
 she a beauty, sir? — Your health and m}- 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 earl}- acquaintances 
 afterwards, and of renewing his relations with Costigan and the 
 old musician. 
 
 As they sat thus in friendly colloquy, men of all sorts r.nd 
 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. 
 Health}" 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 ;
 
 a08 PENDENNIS 
 
 — young universit}' 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 Eng- 
 lish 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 coflfln, 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 com- 
 monly 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 charm- 
 ingly on the piano, was sung but to a few admirers, who might 
 choose to remain after the ':remendous resurrectionist chant. 
 The room was commonly emptied after that, or only left in pos- 
 session 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 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 fight- 
 ing 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
 
 PENDENNIS. 309 
 
 accustomed to it," said Doolan. " How's the lad}' that owug 
 ye ? Maybe I'll step down Sunday, and have a glass of punch, 
 Kilbum wa}-." 
 
 " Don't bring Patscy with you, Morgan, for our Georg^-'s got 
 the measles," said the friendly Mick, and the}- straightway fell 
 to talk about matters connected with their trade — about the 
 foreign mails — about w^io 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 " Even- 
 ing 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 da3-s who had some wicked 
 work to perform, — an enemy to put out of the wa}-, 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 auxiliar}- cut-throats to qitirder 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 contemporar3''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 Bangbanaglier, 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 w-rote the article in two 
 hours — in — whew — you know where, while the bo}^ was 
 waiting." 
 
 " Our governor thinks the public don't mind a straw about 
 these newspaper roW'S, and has told the Docther to stop answer- 
 ing," said the other. " Them two talked it out together in my 
 room. The Docther 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 Mor- 
 
 gan. 
 
 'Deed then it is, Morgan," said Mick. " That was fine
 
 310 PENDENNIS. 
 
 writing when the Docther wrote in the ' Phaynix,' and he and 
 Condy Rooney blazed awa}- at each other da}- after day." 
 
 "And with powder and shot, too, as well as paper," said 
 Morgan. "Faith, the Docther was out twice, and Condy 
 Rooney winged his man." 
 
 "They are talking about Doctor Boyne and Captain 
 Shandon," Warrington said, " who are the two Irish con- 
 troversialists of the ' Dawn ' and the ' Day,' Dr. Boyne being 
 the Protestant champion, and Captain Shandon the liberal 
 orator. They are the best friends iu the world, I believe, in 
 spite of their newspaper controversies ; and though they cry 
 out against the English for abusing their countrj', by Jove the}^ 
 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 3'our 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 hostehy, and a right good one it is. Mr. Pendennis, 
 when I saw you I was on the ' Tom and Jerry ' Weeklj- 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 ver}^ 
 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. 
 
 ' ' Wh}' 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 js 
 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 m3'stery, " where I was wanted. Get me some supper, 
 John — something substantial. I hate your gi-andees 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
 
 PEN DENNIS. 311 
 
 is coming here this evening.' The Duke doesn't eat supper 
 himsell\ 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 m^- friend, Mr. Pendennis," 
 NYarrington said, with great gravity. '' Pen, this is Mr. 
 Ai'cher, wliom you have heard me talk about. You must 
 know Pen's uncle, the Major, Archer, 30U who know every- 
 body?" 
 
 " Dined with him the da}- before yesterday at Gaunt House,'* 
 Ai-cher said. • ' We were four — the French Ambassador, 
 Steyne, and we two commoners." 
 
 " AVliy, 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 yes- 
 terday's ' Times,' which I knew ])y heart, as 1 wrote three ol 
 the leading articles myself; and thougli the Lord Chamberlain 
 came in four tiines. and once liolding the royal teacup and 
 saucer in his hand, he did not so much as sa}' 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, tliat 
 when there is anything wrong at court the}' 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 Chautilly 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 IMarie Cunegonde ; the peace of 
 Europe depends upon it — for Russia will declare war if che 
 marriage does not take place, and the young fool is so inad 
 about Madame Massena, iMarshal Massena's wife, that he 
 actualh' refuses to be a party to the marriage.' Well, sir, I 
 spoke to Saint Cloud, and having got him into prett}' good 
 humor b}' 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 wero
 
 312 " PENUENNIS. 
 
 boys, and I saved his life at Twickenliam, 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 Jau nay's hotel." 
 
 " Has there been a private marriage. Archer?" asked War- 
 rington. 
 
 " Whether there has or not I don't know," Mr. Archer re- 
 plied ; "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 
 gi-eater force, and keeping a whole room in a state of wonder. 
 Put aside his archery practice, that man is both able and hon- 
 est — 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 au 
 act against his party, as man}' of us do." 
 
 " Of MS .' 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 —
 
 FEXDENNIS. 313 
 
 the great engine — she never sleeps. She has her ambassadors 
 in every quarter of the world — her couriers upon ever}' road. 
 Her officers march along -n-ith armies, and her envoys walk 
 into statesmen's cabinets. They are ubiquitous. Yonder jour- 
 nal 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 mar- 
 quis in his place, will make a great speech; and — and Mr. 
 Doolan will be called away trom his supper at the Back Kitch- 
 en ; for he is foreign sub-editor, and sees the mail on the news- 
 paper sheet before he goes to his own." 
 
 And so talking, the friends turned into their chambers, as 
 the dawn was beginning to peep. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXi. 
 
 IN WHICH THE PRINTER'S DEVIL COMES TO THE DOOR. 
 
 Pen, in the midst of his revels and enjo^'ments, humble as 
 the}^ were, and moderate in cost if not in kind, saw an awful 
 sword hanging over him which must drop down before long and 
 put an end to his frolics and feasting. His mone\- was very 
 nearh' spent. His club subscription had caiTied away a third 
 part of it. He had paid for the chief articles of furniture with 
 which he had supplied his httle bedroom : in fine, he was com(^ 
 to the last five-pound note in his pocket-book, and could think 
 of no method of providing a successor : for our friend had been 
 bred up like a young prince as yet, or as a child in arms whom 
 his mother feeds when it cries out. 
 
 Warrington did not know what his comrade's means were. 
 An onlv child, with a mother at her country house, and an old 
 dand}' of an uncle who dined with a great man every day, Pen 
 might have a large bank at his (X)minand for anything that the 
 other knew. He had gold chains and a dressing-case fit for a 
 lord. His habits were those of an aristocrat, — not that he 
 was expensive upon any particular j)oint, for he dined and 
 laughed over the pint of porter and the plate of beef from tlui 
 cook's shop with perfect conient and good appetite, — but he 
 
 11
 
 314 PENDENNia. 
 
 could not adopt the pennj-wise precaittions of life. He could 
 not give twopence to a waiter ; he could not refrain from taking 
 a cab if he had a mind to do so, or if it rained, and as surel}' 
 as he took the cab he overpaid the driver. He had a scorn for 
 cleaned gloves and minor economies. Had he been bred to 
 ten thousand a year he could scarcely' have been more free- 
 handed ; and for a beggar^ with a sad stor}', or a couple of 
 pretty piteous-faced children, he never could resist putting his 
 hand into his pocket. It was a sumptuous nature, perhaps, 
 that could not be brought to regard monc}' ; a natural generosity 
 and kindness ; and possibly a petty vanity that was pleased 
 with praise, even with the praise of waiters and cabmen. 
 I doubt whether the wisest of us know what our own motives 
 are, and whether some of the actions of which we are the very 
 proudest will not surprise us when we trace them, as we shall 
 one day, to their source. 
 
 Warrington then did not know, and Pen had not thought 
 proper to confide to his friend, his pecuniary history. That 
 Pen had been wild and wickedly extravagant at college, the 
 other was aware ; everj-body at college was extravagant and 
 wild ; but how great the son's expenses had been, and how 
 small the mother's means, were points which had not been as 
 yet submitted to Mr. Warrington's examination. 
 
 At last the story came out, while Pen was gi'iml}^ surve\dng 
 the change for the last five-pound note, as it lay upon the tray 
 from the public-house by Mr. Warrington's pot of ale. 
 
 " It is the last rose of summer," said Pen ; "'its blooming 
 companions have gone long ago ; and behold the last one of 
 the garland has shed its leaves ; " and he told Warrington the 
 whole story which we know of his mother's means, of his own 
 follies, of Laura's generosity : during which time Warrington 
 smoked his pipe and listened intent. 
 
 " Impecuniosity will do you good," Pen's friend said, knock-, 
 ing out the ashes at the end of the narration; " I don't know, 
 an^'thing more wholesome for a man — for an honest man,« 
 mind you — for another the mechcine loses its effect — than a 
 state of tick. It is an alterative and a tonic ; it keeps your 
 moral man in a perpetual state of excitement : as a man who is 
 riding at a fence, or has his opponent's single stick before him, 
 is forced to look his obstacle steadily in the face, and brace 
 himself to repulse or overcome it ; a little necessity brings out 
 your pluck if you have any, and nerves you to grapple with for- 
 tune. You will discover what a number of things you can do 
 without when you have no rponey to buy them. You won't
 
 PENDENNIS. 315 
 
 want new gloves and varnished boots, cau de Cologne, and 
 cabs to ride in. You have been bred np as a molly-coddle, 
 Pen, and spoilt by the women. A single man who has health 
 and brains, and can't find a livelihood in tlie world doesn't 
 deserve to stay there. Let him pay bis last halfpenn.y and 
 jump over AVaterloo Bridge. Let hi^n steal a leg of mutton 
 and be transported and get out of the country — he is not fit to 
 live in it. Dixi ; I have spoken. Give us another pull at the 
 pale ale." 
 
 • ' You have certainly spoken ; but how is one to live ? " said 
 Pen. •• There is beef and bread in plenty in England, but you 
 must pu}' for it with work or money. And who will take my 
 work ? and what woi'k can I do ? " 
 
 Warrington burst out laughing. " Suppose we advertise 
 in the • Tunes,' " he said, '' for an usher's place at a classical 
 and commercial academj^ — A gentleman, B.A. of St. Boniface 
 College, Oxbridge, and who was plucked for his d<^gree — " 
 
 "Confound you," cried Pen. 
 
 " — Wishes to give lessons in classics and mathematics, 
 and the rudiments of the French language ; he can cut hair, 
 attend to the younger pupils, and play a second on the piano 
 with the daughters of the principal. Address A. P.. Lamb 
 Court, Temple." 
 
 " Go on," said Pen, growling. 
 
 " Men take to all sorts of professions. Why, there is your 
 friend Bloundell — BJoundell is a professional blackleg, and 
 travels the continent, where he picks up young gentlemen of 
 fashion and fleeces them. There is Bob O'Toole, with whona. 
 I was at school, who drives the Ballynafad mail now, and 
 carries honest Jack Fiuucane's own correspondence to that city. 
 I know a man, su-, a doctor's son, like — well, don't be angr}-, 
 I meant nothing offensive — a doctor's son, 1 say, who wa? 
 walking the hospitals here, and quarrelled with his governor on 
 questions of finance, and what did he do when he came to his 
 last five-pound note? he let his mustachios grow, went into a 
 provincial town, where he announced himself as Professor 
 Spineto, chiropodist to the Emperor of All the Russias, and 
 by a happ}- operation on the editor of the county newspaper, 
 established himself in practice, and liAxd reputably' for three 
 }ears. He has been reconciled to his famil}', and has now suc- 
 ceeded to his father's gallipots." 
 
 " Hang gallipots," cried Pen. " T can't drive a coach, cut 
 corns, or cheat at cards. There's nothing else you propose." 
 Yes ; there's our own correspondent," Warrington said. 
 
 II
 
 315 PENDENNIS. 
 
 "Every man has his secrets, look you. Before 3'ou told me 
 the story of j'our money-matters, I had no idea but that you 
 were a gentleman of fortune, for, with your confounded airs 
 and appearance, anybody would suppose j'ou to be so. Fi*om 
 what 3'ou tell me about your mother's income, it is clear that 
 you must not lay any more hands on it. You can't go on 
 sponging upon the women. You must pay off that trump of a 
 girl. Laura is her name ? — here's 3'our health, Laura ! — and 
 carry a hod rather than ask for a shilling from home." 
 
 " But how earn one? " asked Pen. 
 
 "How do I live, think j^ou?" said the other. "On my 
 younger brother's allowance, Pendennis? I have secrets of my 
 own, my boy;" and here Warrington's countenance fell. "I 
 made away with that allowance five years ago : If I had made 
 awa3'with m3^self a little time before, it would have been better. 
 I have pla3'ed oif m3' own bat, ever since. I don't want much 
 money. When my purse is out, I go to work and fill it, and 
 then lie idle like a serpent or an Indian, until I have digested 
 the mass. Look, I begin to feel empt3'," Warrington said, and 
 showed Pen a long lean purse, with but a few sovereigns at one 
 end of it. 
 
 " But how do you fill it? " said Pen. 
 
 " I write," said Warrington. " I don't tell the world that I 
 do so," he added, with a blush. "I do not choose that ques- 
 tion should be asked : or, perhaps, I am an ass, and don't wish 
 it to be said that George Warrington writes for bread. But I 
 write in the Law Reviews : look here, these articles are mine," 
 And he turned over some sheets. "I write in a newspaper 
 now and then, of which a friend of mine is editor." And War- 
 rington, going with Pendennis to the club one da3', called for a 
 file of the " Dawn," and pointed with his finger silentl3' to 
 one or two articles, which Pen read with delight. He had 
 no difflcult3' in recognizing the style afterwards — the strong 
 thoughts and curt periods, the sense, the satire, and the 
 scholarship. 
 
 " I am not up to this," said Pen, with a genuine admiration 
 of his friend's powers. "I know ver3' little about politics or 
 histor3', Warrington ; and have but a smattering of letters. I 
 can't fl3^ upon such a wing as yours." 
 
 " But you can on 3'our own, m3' bo3', which is lighter, and 
 soars higher, perhaps," the other said, good-naturedly. " Those 
 little scraps and verses which I have seen of 3'ours show me, 
 what is rare in these days, a natural gift, sir. You needn't 
 blush, you conceited young jackanapes. You have thought so
 
 PENDENNIS. 317 
 
 yonrself any time these ten years. You have got the sacred 
 flame — a Uttle of the real poetical lire, sir, I think ; and all our 
 oil-lamps are nothing, compared to that, though ever so well 
 trimmed. You are a poet, Pen, my boy," and so speaking, 
 Warrington stretched out his broad hand, and clapped Pen on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 Arthur was so delighted that the tears came into his eyes. 
 " How kind 30U are to me, Warrington ! " he said. 
 
 "I like you, old boy," said the other. "I was dev'lish 
 lonely in chambers and wanted somebod}^ and the sight of your 
 honest face somehow pleased me. I liked the wa3' you laughed 
 at Lowton — that poor good little snob. And, in fine, the 
 reason whj- 1 cannot tell — but so it is, young 'un. I'm alone 
 in the world, sir ; and I wanted some one to keep me company ; " 
 and a glance of extreme kindness and melanchol}' passed out of 
 Warrington's dark eyes. 
 
 Pen was too much pleased with his own thoughts to perceive 
 the sadness of the friend who was complimenting him. "Thank 
 3'ou, Warrington," he said, "thank you for your friendship to 
 me, and — and what you say about me. I have often thought 
 I was a poet. I will be one — I think I am one, as 3'ou say 
 so, though the world maj'n't. Is it — is it the Ariadne in Naxos 
 which 3'ou liked (I was only eighteen M'hen I wrote it) , or the 
 Prize Poem ? " 
 
 Warrington burst into a roar of laughter. " Why, you 
 young goose," he yelled out — "of all the miserable weak rub- 
 bish 1 ever tried, Ariadne in Naxos is the most mawkish and 
 disgusting. The Prize Poem is so pompous and feeble, that 
 I'm positively surprised, sir, it didn't get the medal. You don't 
 suppose that you are a serious poet, do you, and are going to cut 
 out Milton and ^schylus ? Are you setting up to be a Pindar, 
 you absurd little tom-tit, and fanc}' you have the strength and 
 pinion which the Theban eagles bear, sailing with supreme 
 dominion through the azure fields of air ? No, my bo3', I think 
 you can write a magazine article, and turn out a pretty copy of 
 verses ; that's what I think of you." 
 
 " B3' Jove ! " said Pen, bouncing up and stamping his foot, 
 " I'll show you that I am a better man than you think for." 
 
 Warrington only laughed the more, and Wew twenty- four 
 puffs rapidly out of his pipe by wa}- of reply to Pen. 
 
 An opportunity for showing his skill presented itself before 
 vor\' long. That eminent publisher, Mr. Bacon (formerly Bacon 
 and Buuga}) of Paternoster Row, besides being the proprietor
 
 318 PENDENNIS. 
 
 of the "Legal Review," m which Mr- Warrington wrote, and 
 of other periodicals of note and gravity, used to present to the 
 world every year a beautiful gilt volume called the "Spring 
 Annual," edited by the Lad}' Violet Lebas, and numbering 
 amongst its contributors not only the most eminent, but the 
 most fashionable, poets of our time. Young Lord Dodo's poems 
 first appeared in this miscellany — the Honorable Percy Popjoy, 
 whose chivalrous ballads have obtained him such a reputation — 
 Bedwin Sands's J2astern Ghazuls, and many more of the works 
 of our young nobles were first given to the world in the " Spring 
 Annual," which has since shared the fate of other vernal blos- 
 soms, and perished out of the world. The book was daintily 
 illustrated with pictures of reigning beauties, or other prints of 
 a tender and voluptuous character ; and, as these plates were 
 prepared long beforehand, requiring much time in engraving, it 
 was the eminent poets who had to write to the plates, and not 
 the painters who illustrated the poems. 
 
 One day, just when this volume was on the eve of publica- 
 tion, it chanced that Mr. Warrington called in Paternoster Row 
 to talk with Mr. Hack, Mr. Bacon's reader and general manager 
 of publications — for Mr. Bacon, not having the least taste in 
 poetry or in literature of any kind, wisely emplo3'ed the services 
 of a professional gentleman. AVarrington, then, going into Mr. 
 Hack's room on business of his own, found that gentleman with 
 a bundle of proof plates and sheets of the ' ' Spring Annual " 
 before him, and glanced at some of them. 
 
 Percy Popjo}^ had written some verses to illustrate one of 
 the pictures, which was called the Church Porch. A Spanish 
 damsel was hastening to church with a large prayer-book ; a 
 youth in a cloak was hidden in a niche watching this young 
 woman. The picture was prett}' : but the great genius of 
 Percy Popjoy had deserted him, for he had made the most 
 execrable verses which ever were perpetrated b}' a young noble- 
 man. 
 
 Warrington burst out laughing as he read the poem : and 
 Mr. Hack laughed too, but with rather a rueful face. — "It 
 won't do," he said, "the public won't stand it. Bunga3's 
 people are going to bring out a very good book, and have set 
 up Miss Bunion against Lad}- Violet. We have most titles to 
 be sure — but the verses are too bad. Lad}' Violet herself owns 
 it ; she's busy with her own poem ; what's to be done ? We 
 can't lose the plate. The governor gave sixty pounds for it ! " 
 
 "I know a fellow who will do some verses, I think," said 
 Warrington. " Let me take the plate home in my pocket : and
 
 PENDENNIS. 319 
 
 send to my chambers in the morning for the verses. You'll 
 pay well, of course?" 
 
 '^" Of course," said Mr. Hack; and "Warrington, having 
 despatched his own business, went home to Mr. Pen, plate in 
 hand. 
 
 " Now, boy, here's a chance for you. Turn me off a copy 
 of verses to this." 
 
 " What's this? A Church Porch — A lady entering it, and 
 a youth out of a wine-shop window ogling her. — AVhat the 
 deuce am I to do with it ? " 
 
 '• Try," said Warrington, " Earn your livelihood for once, 
 you who long so to do it." 
 
 " Well, I will try," said Pen. 
 
 " And I'll go out to dinner," said Warrington, and left Mr. 
 Pen in a brown study. 
 
 When Warrington came home that night, at a very late 
 hour, the verses were done. "There they are," said Pen. 
 " I've screwed 'em out at last. I think they'll do." 
 
 "I think they will," said W^arrington, after reading them; 
 they ran as follows : — 
 
 THE CHURCH PORCH. 
 
 Although I enter not, 
 Yet round about the spot 
 
 Sometimes I hover, 
 And at the sacred gate. 
 With longing eyes I wait. 
 
 Expectant of lier. 
 
 The Minster bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout 
 
 And noise and humming: 
 They've stopp'd the chiming bell, 
 I hear the organ's swell — 
 
 She's coming, she's coming' 
 
 My lady comes at last. 
 Timid and stepping fast. 
 
 And hastening hither. 
 With modest eyes downcast. 
 She comes — she's here — she's past 
 
 May Heaven go with her ! 
 
 Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint, 
 Pour out yoiu" praise or plaint 
 
 Meekly and duly. 
 I will not enter there. 
 To sullj^ your pure i)rayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly.
 
 320 PENDENNIS. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidden places 
 
 Lingering a minute, 
 Like outcast spirits, who wait 
 And see through Heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 "Have you got any more, young fellow?" asked War- 
 rington. "We must make them give you a couple of 
 guineas a page ; and if the verses are liked, why, j^ou'U get 
 an entree 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 An- 
 nual," and consigning these two precious documents to War- 
 rington, 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 bj' 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 j'ou 
 might have fancied stately Mr. Evel3n passing over the thresh- 
 old, or curious Mr. Pepj-s 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 entirel}' ; and the 3'oung fellow paced up and down the 
 street in a very nervous condition, until he should learn the 
 result of the negotiation. Man}' 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 
 wonders of all the shops ; and the strange variety of literature 
 which they exhibit. In this were displayed black-letter vol- 
 umes and books in the clear pale types of Aldus and Elzevir : 
 in the next, 3-ou might see the ' ' Penn}' 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 ill-favored individuals, 
 with fac-similes of the venerated signatures of the Reverend 
 Grimes Wapshot, the Reverend Elias Howie, and the works 
 written and the sermons preached by them, showed the British 
 Dissenter where he could find mental pabulum. Hard by would
 
 TENDENNIS. 321 
 
 i)e a little casement hung with cuiblcms, with medals and rosa- 
 ries, with little paltry prints of saints gilt and painted, and 
 books of controversial theolog}', by which the faithful of the 
 Roman opinion might learn a short wa}' to deal with Protes- 
 tants, at a penn}' apiece, or ninepence the dozen for distribu- 
 tion ; whilst in the ver}' next window you might see " Come 
 out of Rome," a sermon preached at the opening of the Shep- 
 herd's Bush College, by John Thomas Lord Bishop of Ealing. 
 Scarce an opinion but has its expositor and its place of exhibi- 
 tion 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. Pen- 
 dennis, Mr. Bacon?" Warrington said. •' You can't live much 
 in the world, or you would know him. A man of propert}- in 
 the West, of one of the most ancient families in England, re- 
 lated to half the nobility in the empire — he's cousin to Lord 
 Pontypool — he was one of the most distinguished men at Ox- 
 bridge ; he dines at Gaunt House ever^'^ week." 
 
 "Law bless me, 3'ou don't sa^' so, sir. Well — reall}' — 
 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 m}' request, to write ; and Hack 
 talks about giving him a copy of the book — the wliat-d'-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? 
 
 21
 
 322 PENDENNIS. 
 
 You know, as weli as anybodj^, that the men of fashion want 
 to be paid." 
 
 " That they do, Mr. Warrington, sir," said the pubhsher. 
 
 " 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 3'oung 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 m}- man over to Bungay," Warring- 
 ton said, and rose from the table. This threat was too much 
 for Mr. Bacon, who was instantly read}' to accede to an}' rea- 
 sonable 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 instantl}'. " What should he go and buy 
 for Laura and his mother? He must bu}- something for them." 
 
 " They'll like the book better than anything else," said War- 
 rington, " 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 pa}- off Laura now. I 
 can get my own living. I can make m}' 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: ana I own it 
 tastes well, the bread which 3'ou earn yourself." 
 
 The}' had a magnum of claret at dinner at the club that da}^, 
 at Pen's charges. It was long since he had in<lulged in such a 
 luxur}', but Warrington would not balk him 5 and they drank 
 together to the health of the " Spring Annual." 
 
 It never rains but it pours, according txD the proverb ; so 
 very speedily another chance occurred. b\- which Mr. Pen was 
 to be helped in his scheme of making a liveliliood. Wamngton 
 one day threw him a letter across the table, which was brought 
 by a printer's bo}', "from Captain Shandon, sir" — the little 
 emissary said : and then went and fell asleep on his accustomed
 
 PENDENNIS. 323 
 
 bench in the passage. He paid man}' a subsequent visit therCj 
 and brought many a message to Pen. 
 
 " F. P. Tuesday Morning. 
 "My bear Sir, — Bungay will be here to-day, about the ' Pall Mall 
 Gazette.' You would be the very man to help us willi a (jenuine West-end 
 
 article, — you luiderstand — 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 ? 
 
 " Ever yours, 
 
 " C. S." 
 
 "Some more opposition," Warrington said, when Pen had 
 read the note. " Bunga}' 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 Bungaj- a good deal, saj's Mrs. Bacon 
 did the business ; but I don't know which is right, Peachum or 
 Lockit. Since they haA'e 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 weekl}', 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 
 straightwa}- rushed off and secured INIr. Grindle to give his 
 name to the *■ Westminster Magazine.' When Bacon brouoht 
 out his comic Irish novel of ' Barney Brallaghan,' off went 
 Bungay to Dublin, and produced his rollicking Hibernian story 
 of ' Loonc}- Mac Twolter.' When Doctor Hicks brought out 
 his ' Wanderings in Mesopotamia ' under Bacon's auspices, 
 Bunga}" produced Professor Sadiman's ' Researches in Zahara ; ' 
 and Bungay is i)ublishing his ' Pall Mall Gazette ' as a counter- 
 poise to Bacon's ' Whitehall Review.' Let us go and hear 
 about the ' Gazette.' There may be a place for you in it, I*en, 
 ni}' bo3'. 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 
 .it home he is there, too. He is the king of the place."
 
 324 PENDENNIS. 
 
 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 ante-room, where the officers and jan- 
 itors 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 
 ding}- black — that one walking sadl}', with his wife by his side, 
 and a child on his arm. Some were arraj'cd in tattered dress- 
 ing-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 wa}^ to 
 the two gentlemen through the prison, said, "This is the 
 Captain's door," and Mr. Shandon's voice from within bade 
 them enter. 
 
 The room, though bare, was not uncheerful. The sun was 
 shining in at the window — near which sat a lad}' at work, who 
 had been gay and beautiful once, but in whose faded face kind- 
 ness and tenderness still beamed. Through all his errors and 
 reckless mishaps and misfortunes, this faithful creature adored 
 her husband, and thought him the best and cleverest, as indeed 
 he was one of the kindest of men. Nothing ever seemed to 
 disturb the sweetness of his temper ; not debts ; not duns : not 
 misery : not the bottle : not his wife's unhappy position, or his 
 children's ruined chances. He was perfectly' fond of wife and 
 children after his fashion : he always had the kindest words 
 and smiles for them, and ruined them with the utmost sweet- 
 ness of temper. He never could refuse himself or anj' man any 
 enjoj'ment which his money could purchase ; he would share 
 his last guinea with Jack and Tom, and we ma}' be sure he had 
 a score of such retainers. He would sign his name at the back 
 of any man's bill, and never pay any debt of his own. He 
 would write on any side, and attack himself or another man 
 with equal indifference. He was one of the wittiest, the most 
 amiable, and the most incorrigible of Irishmen. Nobod}' could
 
 PENDENNIS. 325 
 
 help liking Charley Shandon who saw him once, and those 
 whom he ruined could scarcel3' be angry with him. 
 
 When Pen and Wamngton arrived, the Captain (he had 
 been in an Irish militia regiment once, and the title remained 
 with him) was sitting on his bed in a torn di'essing-gown, with 
 a desk on his knees, at which he was scribbling as fast as his 
 rapid pen could write. Slip after shp of paper fell off the desk 
 wet on to the ground. A picture of his children was hung up 
 over his bed, and the youngest of them was pattering about the 
 room. 
 
 Opposite the Captain sat Mr. Bungay, a portly man of 
 stolid countenance, with whom the little child had been trying 
 a conversation, 
 
 " Papa's a very clever man," said she ; " mamma says so." 
 
 " Oh, very," said Mr. Bungay. 
 
 " And j'ou're a very rich man, Mr. Bundy," cried the child, 
 who could hardly speak plain. 
 
 '• Mar}' ! " said Mamma, from her work. 
 
 " Oh, never mind," Bunga}- roared out with a gi*eat laugh ; 
 " no hann in saving I'm rich — he, he — I am pretty well off, 
 my little dear." 
 
 "If 30u're rich, why don't you take papa out of piz'n?" 
 asked the child. 
 
 Mamma at this began to wipe her eyes with the work 
 on which she was emplo^-ed. (The poor lady had hung 
 curtains up in the room, had brought the children's picture 
 and placed it there, and had made one or two attempts to 
 ornament it.) Mamma began to cry; Mr. Bungay turned 
 red. and looked tiercel}' out of his bloodshot little eyes ; Shan- 
 don's pen went on, and Pen and WaiTington arrived with their 
 knock. 
 
 Captain Shandon looked up from his work, "• How do you 
 do, Mr. Wamngton? " he said, " I'll speak to you in a minute. 
 Please sit down, gentlemen, if you can find places," and away 
 went the pen again, 
 
 Warrington pulled forward an old portmanteau — the only 
 available seat — and sat down on it with a bow to Mrs. Shan^ 
 don, and a nod to Bunga}- ; the child came and looked at Pen 
 solemnly ; and in a couple of minutes the swift scribbling 
 ceased ; and Shandon, turning the desk over on the bed, 
 stooped and picked up the papers. 
 
 " I think this will do," said he. " It's the prospectus for the 
 ' Pall Mall Gazette.' " 
 
 "And here's the money for it," Mr. Bungay said, laying
 
 326 PENDENNIS. 
 
 down a five-pound note. " I'm as good as my word, I am. 
 When I sa}' I'll pa}-, I pa^-." 
 
 " Faith that's more than some of us can say," said Shannon, 
 and he eagerly clapped the note into his pocket. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 WHICH IS PASSED IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF LUDGATE HILL. 
 
 OuK imprisoned Captain announced, in smart and emphatic 
 ianguage in his prospectus, that the time had come at last when 
 it was necessary for the gentlemen of England to band together 
 in defence of their common rights, and their glorious order, 
 menaced on all sides by foreign revolutions, by intestine radi- 
 calism, by the artful calumnies of mill-owners and cotton-lords, 
 and the stupid hostility of the masses whom they gulled and 
 led. " The ancient monarchy was insulted," the Captain said, 
 "by a ferocious republican rabble. The Church was deserted 
 by envious dissent, and undermined by stealthy infidehty. 
 The good institutions, which had made our country glorious, 
 and the name of English Gentlemen the proudest in' the world, 
 were left without defence, and exposed to assault and contumely 
 from men to whom no sanctuary was sacred, for they believecl 
 iu nothing holy ; no history venerable, for they were too igno- 
 rant to have heard of the past ; and no law was binding which 
 they were strong enough to break, when their leaders gave the 
 signal for plunder. It was because the kings of France mis- 
 trusted their gentlemen," Mr. Shandon remarked, "that the 
 monarch}' of Saint Louis went down : it was because the people 
 of England still beheved in their gentlemen, that this country 
 encountered and overcame the greatest enemy a nation ever 
 met : it was because »ve were headed by gentlemen that the 
 Eagles retreated before us from the Douro to the Garonne : it 
 was a gentleman who broke the line at Trafalgar, and swept 
 the plain of Waterloo." 
 
 Bungay nodded his head in a knowing manner, and winked 
 his eyes when the Captain came to the Waterloo passage : and 
 Warrington burst out laughing. 
 
 "You see how our venerable friend Bungay is affected," 
 Shandon said, slih' looking up from his papers — " that's your 
 true sort of test. I have used the Duke of Wellington and the
 
 PENDENXIS. 327 
 
 battle of Waterloo a hundred times*, and I never knew th< 
 Duke to fail." 
 
 The Captain then went on to confess, with much candor, 
 that up to the present time the gentlemen of England, confident 
 of their right, and careless of those who questioned it, had left 
 the political interest of their order as they did the management 
 of their estates, or the settlement of their legal affairs, to per- 
 sons affected to each peculiar service, and had permitted their 
 interests to be represented in the press by professional proctors 
 and advocates. That time Shandon professed to consider was 
 now o;one bv : the ffentlemen of England must be their own 
 champions : the declared enemies of their order were brave, 
 strong, numerous, and uncompromising. The}' must meet their 
 foes in the field : they must not be belied and misrepresented 
 b}' hireling advocates : they must not have Grub Street pub- 
 lishing Gazettes from Whitehall; "that's a dig at Bacon's 
 people, Mr. Bunga}'," said Shandon, turning round to the 
 publisher. 
 
 Bungay clapped his stick on the floor. " Hang him, pitch 
 into him, Capting," he said with exultation : and tmuiing ta 
 Warrington, wagged his dull head more vehementlj' than ever, 
 and said, '"For a slashing article, sir, there's nobody like the 
 Capting — no-obod}' like him." 
 
 The prospectus-writer went on to sa}' that some gentlemen, 
 whose names were, for obvious reasons, not brought before the 
 public (at which Mr. Warrington began to laugh again), had 
 determined to bring forward a journal, of which the principles 
 were so and so. "These men are proud of their order, and 
 anxious to uphold it," cried out Captain Shandon, flourishing 
 his paper with a grin. " Thej^ are loyal to their sovereign, by 
 faithful conviction and ancestral allegiance ; they love their 
 Church, where they would have their children worship, and for 
 which their forefathers bled ; they love their country, and would 
 keep it what the gentlemen of England — yes, the gentlemen oj 
 England (we'll have that in large caps., Bungay, my boy) have 
 made it — the greatest and freest in the world : and as the 
 names of some of them are appended to the deed which secured 
 our liberties at Runnymede — " 
 
 " What's that?" asked Mr. Bungay. 
 
 "An ancestor of mine sealed it with his sword hilt," Pen 
 said, with great gravity. 
 
 " It's the Habeas Corpus, Mr. Bunga}'," Warrington said, 
 on which the publisher answered, " All right, I dare say," and 
 vawned, thouaati he said, "Go on, Capting."
 
 H28 PENDENNIS. 
 
 — "at Ruiinymede ; the}' are ready to defend that freedoia 
 to-day with sword and pen, and now, as then, to rally round 
 the old laws and liberties of England." 
 
 '' Bra3'vo ! " cried Warrington. The little child stood won« 
 dering ; the lady was working silently, and looking with fond 
 admiration. " Come here, little Mary," said Warrington, and 
 patted the child's fair curls with his large hand. But she 
 shrank back from his rough caress, and preferred to go and 
 take refuge at Pen's knee, and play with his fine watch-chain : 
 and Pen was very much pleased that she came to him ; for he 
 was verj' soft-hearted and simple, though he concealed his gen- 
 tleness under a shy and pompous demeanor. So she clambered 
 up on his lap, whilst her father continued to read his pro- 
 gramme, 
 
 "You were laughing," the Captain said to Wamngton, 
 "about 'the obvious reasons' which I mentioned. Now, I'll 
 show ye what the}' are, ye unbelieving heathen. ' We have 
 said,'" he went on, " ' that we cannot give the names of the 
 parties engaged in this undertaking, and that there were obvi- 
 ous reasons for that concealment. We number influential 
 friends in both Houses of the Senate, and have secured allies in 
 every diplomatic circle in Europe. Our sources of intelligence 
 are such as cannot, b}' any possibility, be made public — and, 
 indeed, such as no other London or European journal could, b}' 
 any chance, acquire. But this we are free to sa}', that the 
 very earliest information connected with the movement of 
 English and Continental politics, will be found only in the col- 
 umns of the " Pall Mall Gazette." The Statesman and the 
 Capitalist, the Country Gentleman, and the Divine, will be 
 amongst our readers, because our writers are amongst them. 
 We address ourselves to the higher circles of society : we care 
 not to disown it — the " Pall Mall Gazette" is written by gen- 
 tlemen for gentlemen ; its conductors speak to the classes in 
 which they live and were born. The field-preacher has his 
 journal, the radical free-thinker has his journal : why should the 
 Gentlemen of England be unrepresented in the Press ? ' " 
 
 Mr. Shandon then went on with much modesty to descant 
 upon the literary and fashionable departments of the " Pall 
 Mall Gazette," which were to be conducted by gentlemen of 
 acknowledged reputation ; men famous at the Universities (at 
 which Mr. Pendennis could scarcely help laughing and blush- 
 ing) , known at the Clubs and of the Societ}' which the}' de- 
 scribed. He pointed out delicately to advertisers that theai 
 would be no such medium as the " Pall Mall Gazette " for giv--
 
 PENDENNIS. 329 
 
 ing publicity to their sales ; and he eloquently called upon Uie 
 nobility of England, the baronetage of England, the revered 
 clerg}' Oi" England, the bar of England, the matrons, the daugh- 
 ters, the homes and hearths of England, to rally round the good 
 old cause ; and Bungay at the conclusion of the reading woke 
 up from a second snooze in which he had indulged himself, and 
 again said it was all right. 
 
 The reading of the prospectus concluded, the gentlemen 
 present entered into some details regarding the political and 
 literary- management of the paper, and Mr. Bungay sat b}' 
 listening and nodding his head, as if he understood what was 
 the subject of their conversation, and approved of their opin- 
 ions. Bungay's opinions, in truth, were pretty simple. He 
 thought the Captain could write the best smashing article in 
 England. He wanted the opposition house of Bacon smashed, 
 and it was his opinion that the Captain could do that business. 
 If the Captain had written a letter of Junius on a sheet of 
 paper, or copied a part of the Church Catechism, Mr. Bungay 
 would have been perfectl}' contented, and have considered that 
 the article was a smashing article. And he pocketed the papers 
 with the greatest satisfaction : and he not only paid for the 
 MS., as we have seen, but he called little Mary to him, and 
 gave her a penny as he went away. 
 
 The reading of the manuscript over, the party engaged in 
 general conversation, Shandon leading with a jaunt}'' fashionable 
 air in compliment to the two guests who sat with him, and who, 
 by their appearance and manner, he presumed to be persons of 
 the beau monde. He knew very little indeed of the great world, 
 but he had seen it, and made the most of what he had seen. 
 He spoke of the characters of the da}^, and great personages of 
 the fashion, with easy familiaritj' and jocular allusions, as if it 
 was his habit to live amongst them. He told anecdotes of their 
 private life, and of conversations he had had, and entertain- 
 ments at which he had been present, and at which such and| 
 such a thing occurred. Pen was amused to hear the shabby' 
 prisoner in a tattered dressing-gown talking glibly about the 
 great of the land. Mrs. Shandon was always delighted when 
 her husband told these tales, and believed in them fondly every 
 one. She did not want to mingle in the fashionable world her- 
 self, she was not clever enough ; but the great Society' was the 
 very place for her Charles : he shone in it : he was respected in 
 it. Indeed, Shandon had once been asked to dinner b}' the 
 Earl of X ; his wife treasured the invitation- card in her work- 
 box at that verj- d^j".
 
 330 i PENDENNIS. 
 
 Mr. Bungay present!}^ had enough of this talk and got up to 
 take leave, whereupon Warrington and Pen rose to depart with 
 the publisher, though the latter would have liked to stay to 
 make a further acquaintance with this family, who interested 
 him and touched him. He said something about hoping for 
 permission to repeat his visit, upon which Shandon, with a rue- 
 ful grin, said he was always to be found at home, and should 
 be delighted to see Mr. Pennington. 
 
 "I'll see you to my park-gate, gentlemen," said Captain 
 Shandon, seizing his hat, in spite of a deprecatory look, and a 
 faint cry of " Charles " from Mrs. Shandon. And the Captain, 
 in shabby slippers, shuffled out before his guests, leading the 
 way through the dismal passages of the prison. His hand was 
 already fiddling with his waistcoat pocket, where Bungay's five- 
 pound note was, as he took leave of the three gentlemen at the 
 wicket ; one of them, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, being greatly re- 
 lieved when he was out of the horrid place, and again freely 
 treading the flags of Farringdon Street. 
 
 Mrs. Shandon sadly w^ent on with her work at the window 
 looking into the court. She saw Shandon with a couple of men 
 at his heels run rapidly in the direction of the prison tavern. 
 She had hoped to have had him to dinner herself that day : 
 there was a piece of meat, and some salad in a basin, on the 
 ledge outside of the window of their room, which she had ex- 
 pected that she and little Mary were to share with the child's 
 father. But there was no chance of that now. He would be 
 in that tavern until the hours for closing it ; then he would go 
 and play at cards or drink in some other man's room, and come 
 back silent, with glazed eyes, reeling a Uttle in his walk, that 
 his wife might nurse him. Oh, what varieties of pain do we 
 not make our women suflTer ! 
 
 So Mrs. Shandon went to the cupboard, and, in lieu of a 
 dinner, made herself some tea. And in those varieties of pain 
 of which we spoke anon, what a part of confidante has that 
 poor teapot played ever since the kindly plant was introduced 
 among us ! What myriads of women have cried over it, to be 
 sure ! What sick-beds it has smoked by ! What fevered lips 
 have received refreshment from out of it ! Nature meant very 
 gently by women when she made that tea-plant. With a little 
 thought what a series of pictures and groups the fancy may 
 conjure up and assemble round the teapot and cup. MeUssa 
 and Saccharissa are taUiing love secrets over it. Poor Polly 
 has it and her lover's letters upon the table ; his letters who was 
 her lover yesterday, and whenjt_w-as with pleasure, not despair,
 
 PENDENNIS. 331 
 
 she wept over them. Maiy comes tripping noiselessly into her 
 mother's bedroom, bearing a cup of the consoler to the widow 
 who will take no other food. Ruth is busy concocting it for 
 her husband, who is coming home from the harvest field — one 
 could fill a page with hints for such pictures; — finall}', Mrs. 
 Shandon and little Mar}- sit down and drink their tea together, 
 while the Captain goes out and takes his pleasure. She cares 
 for nothing else but that, when her husband is away. 
 
 A gentleman with whom we are alread}' slightly acquainted, 
 Mr. Jack Finucane, a townsman of Captain Shandon's, found 
 the Captain's wife and little Mary (for whom Jack alwa3-s 
 brought a sweetmeat in his pocket) over this meal. Jack 
 thought Shandon the greatest of .created geniuses, had had one 
 or two helps from the good-natured prodigal, who had always 
 a kind word, and sometimes a guinea for any friend in need ; 
 and never missed a day in seeing his patron. He was ready 
 to run Shandon's errands and transact his mone3-busiuess with 
 publishers and newspaper editors, duns, creditors, holders of 
 Shandon's acceptances, gentlemen disposed to speculate in 
 those securities, and to transact the thousand little aflfairs of an 
 emljarrassed Irish gentleman. I never knew an embarrassed 
 Irish gentleman 3et, but he had an aide-de-camp of his owu 
 nation, likewise in cu'cumstances of pecuniary discomfort. 
 That aide-de-camp has subordinates of his own, who again may 
 have other insolvent dependants — all through his life our Cap- 
 tain marched at the head of a ragged staflf, who shared in the 
 rough fortunes of their chieftain. 
 
 "He wcm't have that five-pound note very long, I bet a 
 guinea," Mr. Bungay said of the Captain, as he and his two 
 companions walked away from the prison ; and the publisher 
 judged rightlv, for when Mrs. Shandon came to empty her 
 husband's pockets, she found but a couple of shillings, and a 
 few halfpence out of the morning's remittance. Shandon had 
 given a pound to one follower ; had sent a leg of mutton and 
 potatoes and beer to an acquaintance in the poor side of the 
 prison ; had paid an outstanding bill at the tavern where he 
 had changed his five-pound note ; had had a dinner with two 
 friends tliere, to whom he lost sundry half-crowns at cards 
 afterwards ; so that the night left him as poor as the morning 
 had found him. 
 
 The publisher and the two gentlemen had had some talk 
 together after quitting Shandon, and Warrington reiterated to 
 Bungay wluit he had said to his rival, Bacon, viz., that Pen 
 was a high fellow, of great genius, and what was more, weU
 
 332 PENDENNIS. 
 
 with the great world, and related to " no end" of the peerage. 
 Bungay replied that he should be happy to have dealings witli 
 Mr. Peudennis, and hoped to have the pleasure of seeing both 
 gents to cut mutton with him before long, and so, with mutual 
 politeness and protestations, they parted. 
 
 " It is hard to see such a man as Shandon," Pen said, musing, 
 and talking that night over the sight which he had witnessed, 
 " of accomplishments so multifarious, and of such an undoubted 
 talent and humor, an inmate of a gaol for half his time, and a 
 bookseller's hanger-on when out of prison." 
 
 " I am a bookseller's hanger-on — j'ou are going to tr}' youi 
 paces as a hack," Warrington said with a laugh. " We are 
 all hacks upon some road or other. I would rather be myself, 
 than Pale}^ our neighbor in chambers : who has as much en- 
 jo3'ment of his life as a mole. A deuced deal of undeserved 
 compassion has been thrown away upon what 3'ou call j'our 
 bookseller's drudge." 
 
 " Much solitary pipes and ale make a cynic of you," Pen 
 said. " You are a Diogenes by a beer-barrel, Warrington. 
 No man shall tell me that a man of genius, as Shandon is, 
 ought to be driven b}- such a vulgar slave driver as yonder Mr. 
 Bungay, whom we have just left, who fattens on the profits of 
 the other's brains, and enriches himself out of his journe3man's 
 labor. It makes me indignant to see a gentleman the serf of 
 such a creature as that, of a man who can't speak the language 
 that he lives by, who is not fit to black Shandon's boots." 
 
 " So you have begun already to gird at the publishers, and 
 to take your side amongst our order. Bravo, Pen, my boy ! " 
 Wan-ington answered, laughing still. " What have you got to 
 say against Bungaj-'s relations with Shandon? Was it the 
 publisher, think you, who sent the author to prison? Is it 
 Bungay who is tippling away the five-pound note which we saw 
 lust now, or Shandon ? " 
 
 "Misfortune drives a man into bad company," Pen said. 
 "It is easy to cr}' ' Fie ! ' against a poor fellow who has no 
 Bociety but such as he finds in a prison ; and no resource 
 except forgetfulness and the bottle. We must deal kindly with 
 the eccentricities of genius, and remember that the very ardor 
 and enthusiasm of temperament which makes the author de- 
 lightful often leads the man astray." 
 
 "A fiddlestick about men of genius!" Warrington cried 
 out, who was a very severe moralist upon »ome points, though 
 possibly a vor}' bad practitioner. " I den}' that there are so
 
 PENDENNIS. 333 
 
 many geniuses as people who whimper about the fate of men of 
 letters assert there are. There are thousands of clever fellows in 
 the world who could, if they would, turn verses, write articles. 
 read books, and deliver a judgment upon them ; the talk of 
 professional critics and writers is not a whit more brilhant, or 
 profound, or amusing, than that of an^^ other society of edu- 
 cated people. If a lawyer, or a soldier, or a parson, outruns 
 his income, and does not pay his bills, he must go to gaol ; 
 and an author must go, too. If an author fuddles himself, I 
 don't know wh^- he should be let off a headache the next morn- 
 ing, — if he orders a coat from the tailor's, whj- he shouldn't 
 pa}' for it." 
 
 " I would give him more money to bu}- coats," said Pen, 
 smiling. " I suppose I should like to belong to a well-dressed 
 profession. I protest against that wretch of a middle-man 
 whom I see between Genius and his gi-eat landlord, the Public, 
 and who stops more than half of the laborer's earnings and 
 fame." 
 
 " I am a prose laborer," Warrington said : " 3'ou, my boy, 
 are a poet in a small way, and so, I suppose, consider you 
 are authorized to be flight3% What is it you want? Do you 
 want a body of capitalists that shall be forced to purchase the 
 works of all authors, who ma}- present themselves, manuscript 
 in hand? Everj'body who writes his epic, every driveller who 
 can or can't spell, and produces his novel or his traged}', — 
 are they aU to come and find a bag of sovereigns in exchange 
 for their worthless reams of paper? Who is to settle what is 
 good or bad, salable or otherwise? Will you give the bu3-er 
 leave, in fine, to purchase or not? Wh}', sir, when Johnson sat 
 behind the screen at Saint John's Gate, and took his dinner apart, 
 because he was too shabby and poor to join the literary bigwigs 
 who were regaling themselves round Mr. Cave's best table-cloth, 
 the tradesman was doing him no wrong. You couldn't force 
 the publisher to recognize the man of genius in the young man 
 who presented himself before him, ragged, gaunt, and hungry. 
 Rags arc not a proof of genius ; whereas capital is absolute, 
 as times go, and is perforce the bargain-master. It has a right 
 to deal with the literary inventor as with an}- other ; — if 1 
 produce a novelty in the book trade, T must do the best I can 
 with it ; but I can no more force Mr. jMurruy to purchase my 
 book of travels or sermons, than I can compel Mr. Tattersall 
 to give me a hundred guineas for ni}- horse. I may have my 
 own ideas of the value of my Pegasus, and think him the most 
 wonderful (jf animals ; but the »lealer has a right to his opinion,
 
 334 PENDENNIS. 
 
 too, and may want a lad3''s horse, or a cob for a heavy timid 
 rider, or a sound hack for the road, and my beast won't suit 
 him." 
 
 "You deal in metaphors, Warrington," Pen said; "but 
 you rightly say that you are very prosaic. Poor Shandon ! 
 There is something about the kindness of that man, and the 
 gentleness of that sweet creature of a wife, which touches me 
 profoundly. I like him, I am afraid, better than a better 
 man." 
 
 " And so do I," Warrington said. " Let us give him the 
 benefit of our sjanpathy, and the pit}' that is due to his weak- 
 ness : though I fear that sort of kindness would be resented as 
 contempt bj' a more high-minded man. You see he takes hia 
 consolation along with his misfortune, and one generates the 
 other or balances it, as is the way of the world. He is a pris- 
 oner, but he is not unhappy." 
 
 " His genius sings within his prison bais," Pen said. 
 
 " Yes," Warrington said, bitterh^ ; " Shandon accommodates 
 himself to a cage pretty well. He ought to be wretched, but 
 he has Jack and Tom to drink with, and that consoles him : 
 he might have a high place, but as he can't, why he can drink 
 with Tom and Jack ; — he might be providing for his wife and 
 children, but Thomas and John have got a bottle of brandy 
 which they want him to taste ; — he might pay poor Snip, the 
 tailor, the twent}' pounds which the poor devil wants for his 
 landlord, but John and Thomas lay then- hands upon his purse ; 
 — and so he drinks whilst his tradesman sroes to gaol and his 
 family to ruin. Let us pity the misfortunes of genius, and con- 
 spire against the publishing tyrants who oppress men of letters." 
 
 "What! are vou s-oins; to have another glass of brandv- 
 and-water?" Pen said, with a humorous look. It was at the 
 Back Kitchen that the above philosophical conversation took 
 place between the two young men. 
 
 Warrington began to laugh as usual. " Video meliora probo- 
 qiie — I mean, bring it me hot, with sugar, John," he said to 
 the waiter. 
 
 *•* I v;ould have some more, too, only 1 don't want it," saiO 
 Pen. " It does not seem to me, Warrington, that we are much 
 vtetter than our neighbors.' And Warrington's last glass lii'v- 
 ing been despatched, the pair returned to their chambers. 
 
 They found a couple of notes in the letter-box, on tueir 
 return, which had been sent by their acquaintance of the morn- 
 ing, Mr. Bungay. That hospitable gentleman presented his 
 complimcntg to eacli of the gentiemec, and j'^fAjuested the pleas*
 
 PENDENNIS. 335 
 
 nre of their company at dinner on an early day, to meet a few 
 literary friends. 
 
 " We shall have a grand spread," said Warrington. "We 
 shall meet all Bunga^-'s corps." 
 
 "All except poor Shandon," said Pen, nodding a good night 
 to his friend, and he went into his own little room. The events 
 and acquaintances of the day had excited him a good deal, and 
 he lay for some time awake thinking over them, as Warring- 
 ton's vigorous and regular snore from the neighboring apart- 
 ment pronounced that that gentleman was engaged in deep 
 slumber. 
 
 Is it true, thought Pendennis, lying on his bed and gazing 
 at a bright moon without, that lighted up a corner of his dress- 
 ing-table, and the frame of a little sketch of Fairoaks drawn by 
 Laiu-a, that hung over his drawers — is it true that I am going 
 to earn my bread at last, and with my pen ? that I shall im- 
 poverish the dear mother no longer ; and that I may gain a 
 name and reputation in the world, perhaps? These are wel- 
 come if they come, thought the young visionary, laughing and 
 blushing to himself, though alone and in the night, as he thought 
 how dearly he would relish honor and fame if they could be 
 his. If fortune favors me, I laud her ; if she frowns, I resign 
 her. I pray Heaven I may be honest if I fail, or if I succeed. 
 I pray Heaven I may tell the truth as far as I know it : that I 
 mayn't swerve from it through flattery, or interest, or personal 
 enmity, or party prejudice. Dearest old mother, what a pride 
 will you have, if I can do anything worthy of our name ! and 
 3"0u, Laura, you won't scor:^, me as the wortliless idler and 
 spendthrift, when you see that I — when I have achieved a — 
 psha ! what an Alnaschar I am because I have made five pounds 
 by my poems, and am engaged to write half a dozen articles 
 for a newspaper. He went on with these musings, more happy 
 and hopeful, and in a humbler frame of mind, than he had felt 
 to be for many a day. He thought over the errors and idleness 
 the passions, extravagances, disappointments, of his wayward 
 youth : he got up from the bed : threw open the window, and 
 looked out into the night : and tlien, by some impulse, which 
 we hope was a good one, he went up and kissed the picture of 
 Fairoaks, and flinging himself down on his knees by the bed, 
 remained for some time in that posture of hope and submission. 
 When he rose, it was with streaming eyes. He had found him- 
 self repeating, mechanicall}', some little words which he had 
 been accustoraed to repeat_as_a child at his mother's side, after
 
 336 PENDENNIS. 
 
 the sajdng of which she would softly take hiiu to his bed 
 and close the curtains round liim, hushing hira with a bene- 
 diction. 
 
 The next day, Mr. Pidgeon, their attendant, brought in a 
 large brown paper parcel, directed to G. V/'arrington, Esq., 
 with Mr. Trotter's compliments, and a note which Warringtoi 
 read. 
 
 " Pen, you beggar ! " roared Warrington to Pen, who was in 
 his own room. 
 
 " Hullo ! " sung out Pen. 
 
 " Come here, you're wanted," cried the other, and Pen came 
 out. *' What is it? " said he. 
 
 " Catch!" cried Warrington, and flung the parcel at Pen's 
 head, who would have been knocked down had he not caught it. 
 
 "It's books for review for the 'Pall Mall Gazette;' pitch 
 into 'em," Warrington said. As for Pen, he never had been so 
 delighted in his life : his hand trembled as he cut the string of 
 the packet, and beheld within a smart set of new neat calico- 
 bound books, travels, and novels, and poems. 
 
 " Sport the oak, Pidgeon," said he. " Pm not at home to 
 an3'body to-day." And he flung into his eas^'-chair, and kardly 
 gave himself time to drink his tea, so eager was he to begin to 
 read and to review. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 IN WHICH THE HISTORY STILL HOVERS ABOUT FLEET STREET. 
 
 Captain Shandon, urged on by his wife, who seldom med- 
 dled in business matters, had stipulated that John Finucane, 
 Esquire, of the Upper Temple, should be appointed sub-editor 
 of the forthcoming " Pall Mall Gazette," and this post was 
 accordingl}" conferred upon Mr. Finucane by the spirited pro- 
 prietor of the Journal. Indeed he deserved any kindness at 
 the hands of Shandon, so fondly' attached was he, as we have 
 aaid, to the Captain and his family', and so eager to do him a 
 service. It was in Finucane's chambers that Shandon used in 
 former da3's to hide when danger was near and bailifl^s abroad : 
 until at length his hiding-place was known, and the sherifl["s 
 officers came as regularly to wait for the Captain on Finucane's 
 staircase as at his own door. It was to Finucane's chambers that
 
 PENDENNIS. 337 
 
 poor Mrs. Shandon came often and often to explain her troubles 
 and gi'iefs, and devise means of rescue for her adored Captain. 
 Many a meal did Finucane fui-nish for her and the child there. 
 It was an honor to his httle rooms to be visited by such a lady ; 
 and as she went down the staircase with her veil over her face, 
 Fin would lean over the balustrade looking after her, to see that 
 no Temple Lovelace assailed her upon the road, perhaps hop- 
 ing that some rogue might be induced to wa3-lay her, so that 
 he, Fin, might have the pleasure of rushing to her rescue, and 
 breaking the rascal's bones. It was a sincere pleasure to Mrs. 
 Shandon when the arrangements were made b}' which her kind 
 honest champion was appointed her husband's aide-de-camp in 
 the newspaper. 
 
 He would have sat with IMi-s. Shandon as late as the prison 
 hours permitted, and had indeed man}' a time witnessed the 
 putting to bed of little Mary, who occupied a crib in the room ; 
 and to whose evening prayers that God might bless papa, Fin- 
 ucane, although of the Romish faith himself, had said Amen 
 with a great deal of sympathy — but he had an appointment 
 with Mr. Bungay regarding the affaii's of the paper which the}- 
 were to discuss over a quiet dinner. So he went awa}' at six 
 o'clock from Mrs. Shandon, but made his accustomed appear- 
 ance at the Fleet Prison next morning, having arrayed him- 
 self in his best clothes and ornaments, which, though cheap 
 as to cost, were ver}' brilliant as to color and appearance, and 
 having in his pocket four pounds two shillings, being the amount 
 of his week's salary at the " Daih' Joui-nal," minus two shil- 
 lings expended b}' him in the purchase of a pair of gloves on 
 his way to the prison. 
 
 He had cut his mutton with Mr. Bungay, as the latter gen- 
 tleman phrased it, and Mr. Trotter, Bungay's reader and liter- 
 ary man of business, at Dick's Coffee-House on the previous 
 day, and entered at large into his views respecting the conduct 
 of the " Pall Mall Gazette." In a masterly manner he had 
 pointed out what should be the sub-editorial arrangements of 
 the paper : what should be the type for the various articles : 
 who should report the markets ; who the turf and ring ; who 
 the Church intelligence ; and who the fashionable chit-chat. He 
 was acquainted with gentlemen engaged in cultivating these 
 various departments of knowledge, and in communicating them 
 afterwards to the public — in fine. Jack Finucane was, as 
 Shandon had said of him, and, as he proudly owned himself to 
 be, one of the best sub-editors of a paper in London. He 
 knew the weekly earnings t>f every man connected with the 
 
 22
 
 3S8 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Press, and was up to a thousand dodges, or ingenious economic 
 contrivances, by which money could be saved to spirited cap- 
 itaUsts, who were going to set up a paper. He at once dazzled 
 and mystified Mr. Bungay, who was slow of comprehension, 
 by the rapidity of the calculations which he exhibited on paper, 
 as they sat in the box. And Bungay afterwards owned to 
 his subordinate Mr. Trotter, that that Irishman seemed a clever 
 fellow. 
 
 And now ha^dng succeeded in making this impression upon 
 Mr. Bungay, the faithful fellow worked round to the point which 
 he had very near at heart, viz., the liberation from prison of his 
 admired friend and chief, Captain JShandon. He knew to a 
 shilling the amount of the detainers which were against the 
 Captain at the porter's lodge of the Fleet ; and, indeed, pro- 
 fessed to know all his debts, though this was impossible, for no 
 man in England, certainly not the Captain himself, was ac- 
 quainted with them. He pointed out what Shandon's engage- 
 ments already were ; and how much better he would work if 
 removed from confinement (though this Mr. Bungay denied, 
 for, '' when the Captain's locked up," he said, " we are sure to 
 find him at home ; whereas, when he's free, 3^ou can never catch 
 hold of him ") ; finally, he so worked on Mr. Bungay's feehngs, 
 by describing Mrs. Shandon pining away in the prison, and the 
 child sickening there, that the publisher was induced to promise 
 that, if Mrs. Shandon would come to him in the morning, he 
 would see what could be done. And the colloquy ending at this 
 time with the second round of brandy-and-water, although Fin- 
 ucane, who had four guineas in his pocket, would have dis- 
 charged the tavern reckoning with delight, Bungay said, " No, 
 sir, — this is my affair, sir, if you please. James, take the 
 bill, and eighteenpence for 3'ourself," and he handed over the 
 necessary funds to the waiter. Thus it was that Finucane, who 
 went to bed at the Temple after the dinner at Dick's, found 
 himself actually vrith his week's salary intact upon Saturda}- 
 morning. 
 
 He gave Mrs. Shandon a wink so knowing and joyful, that 
 that kind creature knew some good news was in store for her, 
 and hastened to get her bonnet and shawl, when Fin asked if 
 he might have the honor of taking her a walk, and giving her 
 a little fresh air. And little Mary jumped for J03' at the idea 
 of this holiday, for Finucane never neglected to give her a toy, 
 or to take her to a show, and brought newspaper orders in his 
 ix)cket for all sorts of London diversions to amuse the child. 
 Indeed, he loved them with all his heart, and would cheerfully
 
 » 
 
 PENDENNIS. 339 
 
 have dashed out his rambling brains to do them, or his adored 
 Captain, a service. 
 
 " Ma}' I go, Charlej'? or shall I sta}- with 3'ou, for you're 
 poorly, dear, this morning? He's got a headache, Mr. P'inu- 
 cane. He suffers from headaches, and I persuaded him to stay- 
 in bed," Mrs. Shandon said. 
 
 "Go alono- with vou, and Polly. Jack, take care of 'em. 
 Hand me over the Burton's Anatom}-, and leave me to my 
 abominable devices," Shandon said, with perfect good humor. 
 He was writinsr, and not uncommonly took his Greek and Latin 
 quotations (of which he knew the use as a pubUc writer) from 
 that wonderful repertory- of learning. 
 
 So Fin gave his arm to Mrs. Shandon, and Mary went 
 skipping down the passages of the prison, and through the 
 gate into the free air. From Fleet Street to Paternoster Row 
 is not very far. As the three reached Mr. Bungay's shop, 
 Mrs. Bungay- was also entering at the private door, holding in 
 her hand a paper parcel and a manuscript volume bound in red, 
 and, indeed, containing an account of her transactions with the 
 butcher in the neighboring market. Mrs. Bungay was in a 
 gorgeous shot silk dress, which flamed with red and purple ; 
 she wore a yellow shawl, and had red flowers inside her bonnet, 
 and a brilliant light blue parasol. Mrs. Shandon was in an 
 old black watered silk ; her bonnet had never seen very brilliant 
 da3"s of prosperit}' any more than its owner, but she could not 
 help looking like a lady whatever her attire was. The two 
 women curtsied to each other, each according to her fashion, 
 
 " I hope j-ou're pretty well. Mum?" said Mrs. Bungay. 
 
 " It's a ver}' fine da^'," said Mrs. Shandon. 
 
 " Won't 30U step in, Mum?" said Mrs. Bungay, looking so 
 hard at the child as almost to frio;hten her. 
 
 "I — I came about business with Mi'. Bungay — I — I hope 
 he's prett}' well?" said timid Mrs. Shandon. 
 
 " If 3'ou go to see him in the counting-house, couldn't 3'ou 
 — couldn't you leave your little gurl with me?" said Mrs. 
 Bunga}', in a deep voice, and with a tragic look, as she held 
 out one finger towards the child. 
 
 "I want to sta}' with mamma," cried little Blary, burying 
 her face in her mother's dress. 
 
 " Go with this lad}-, Mar}', vay dear," said the mother. 
 
 " I'll show 3'ou some pretty pictures," said Mrs. Bungay, 
 with the voice of an ogress, "and some nice things besides; 
 look here " — and opening her brown paper parcel, Mrs. Bungay 
 displayed some choice sweet biscuits, such as her Bungay loved
 
 340 PENDENNIS. 
 
 after his wine. Little Mary followed after this attraction, the 
 whole party entering at the private entrance, from which a side 
 door led into Mr. Bungay's commercial apartments. Here, 
 however, as the child was about to part from her mother, her 
 courage again failed her, and again she ran to the maternal 
 petticoat; upon which the kind and gentle Mrs. Shandon, 
 seeing the look of disappointment in Mrs. Bungay's face, good- 
 naturedly said, " If you will let me, I will come up too, and 
 sit for a few minutes," and so the three females ascended the 
 stairs together. A second biscuit charmed little Mary into 
 perfect confidence, and in a minute or two she prattled' away 
 without the least restraint. 
 
 Faithful Finucane meanwhile found Mr. Bungay in a severer 
 mood than he had been on the night previous, when two-thirds 
 of a bottle of port, and two large glasses of brandj'-and-water, 
 had warmed his soul into enthusiasm, and made him generous 
 in his promises towards Captain Shandon. His impetuous 
 wife had rebuked him on his return home. She had ordered 
 that he should give no relief to the Captain ; he was a good- 
 for-nothing fellow, whom no money would help ; she disapproved 
 of the plan of the "Pall Mall Gazette," and expected that 
 Bungay would only lose his money in it as they were losing 
 over the way (she always called her brother's establishment 
 " over the way,") by the " Whitehall Journal." Let Shandon 
 stop in prison and do his work ; it was the best place for him. 
 In vain Finucane pleaded and promised and implored, for his 
 friend Bungay had had an hour's lecture in the morning and 
 was inexorable. 
 
 But what honest Jack failed to do below stairs in the count- 
 ing-house, the pretty faces and manners of the mother and 
 child were effecting in the drawing-room, where they were 
 melting the fierce but really soft Mrs. Bungay. There was 
 an artless sweetness in Mrs. Shandon's voice, and a winning 
 frankness of manner, which made most people fond of her, and 
 pity her : and taking courage by the rugged kindness with which 
 her hostess received her, the Captain's lady told her story, and 
 described her husband's goodness and virtues, and her child's 
 failing health (she was obliged to part with two of them, she 
 said, and send them to school, for she could not have them in 
 that horrid place) — that Mrs. Bungay, though as grim as 
 Lady Macbeth, melted under the influence of the simple tale, 
 and said she would go down and speak to Bungay. Now in 
 this household to speak was to command, with Mrs. Bungaj' ; 
 and with Buugay. to hear was to obe3%
 
 PENDENNIS. 341 
 
 It was just when poor Finucane was in despair about his 
 negotiation, that the majestic Mrs. Bungay descended upon 
 her spouse, poUtel^^ requested Mr. Finucane to step up to his 
 friends in her draTNing-room, Avhile she held a few minutes' 
 conversation with Mr. B., and when the pair were alone the 
 publisher's better half informed him of her intentions towards 
 the Captain's lady. 
 
 " What's in the wind now, my dear?" Maecenas aSked, sur- 
 prised at his wife's altered tone. "You wouldn't hear of my 
 doing anything for the Captain this morning : I wonder what 
 has been a changing of .you." 
 
 " The Capting is an Irishman," Mrs. Bungay rephed ; " and 
 those Irish I have always said I couldn't abide. But his wife 
 is a lady, as an}' one can see ; and a good woman, and a clergy- 
 man's daughter, and a West of England woman, B., which I 
 am m^'self, by m}- mother's side — and, O Marmaduke, didn't 
 you remark her little gurl ? " 
 
 •• Yes, Mrs. B., I saw the little girl." 
 
 " And didn't you see how like she was to our angel, Bessy, 
 Mr. B.?" — and Mrs. Bungay's thoughts flew back to a period 
 eighteen 3'ears back, when Bacon and Bungay had just set up 
 in business as small booksellers in a countr}' town, and when 
 she had had a child, named Bessy, something like the little 
 Mar\- who had just moved her compassion. 
 
 '•Well, well, my dear," Mr. Bungay said, seeing the little 
 eyes of his wife begin to twinkle and grow red ; " the Captain 
 ain't in for much. There's only a hundred and thirty pound 
 against him. Half the monev will take him out of the Fleet, 
 Finucane says, and we'll pa}- him half salaries till he has made 
 the account square. When the little 'un said, ' Why don't you 
 take Par out of pizn?' I did feel it, Elizabeth, upon my honor 
 I did, now." And the upshot of this conversation was, that 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bunga}- both ascended to the drawing-room, and 
 Mr. Bungay made a heav^' and clums}' speech, in which he 
 announced to Mrs. Shandon, that, hearing sixt3'-five pounds 
 would set her husband free, he was read}' to advance that sum 
 of money, deducting it from the Captain's salary, and that he 
 would give it to her on condition that she would personally 
 settle with the creditors regarding her husband's liberation. 
 
 I think this was the happiest day that Mrs. Shandon and 
 Mr. Finucane had had for a long time. "Bedad, Bungay, 
 you're a trump ! " roared out Fin, in an overpowering brogue 
 and emotion. " Give us your fist, old boy ; and won't we send 
 the ' Pall Ma'l Gazette ' up tx3 ten thousand a week, that's ail ! "
 
 342 PENDENmS. 
 
 and he jumped around the room, and tossed up Uttle Mary, 
 with a hundred frantic antics. 
 
 " If I could drive 30U anjwhere in m}' carriage, Mrs. Shan- 
 don — I'm sure it's quite at 3'our service," Mrs. Bungay said, 
 looking out at a one-horsed vehicle which had just driven up, and 
 in which this lady took the air considerabl}' — and the two ladies, 
 with little Mar}' between them (whose tiny hand Maecenas's wife 
 kept fixed in her great grasp), with the delighted Mr. Finucane 
 on the back seat, drove away from Paternoster Row, as the 
 owner of the vehicle threw triumphant glances at the opposite 
 windows at Bacon's. 
 
 " It won't do the Captain any good," thought Bungay, going 
 back to his desk and accounts, " but Mrs. B. becomes reglar 
 upset when she thinks about her misfortune. The child would 
 have been of age yesterday, if she'd lived. Bessy told me 
 so ; " and he wondered how women did remember things. 
 
 We are happj- to say that Mrs. Shandon sped with very 
 good success upon her errand. She who had had to mollify 
 creditors when she had no mone}'^ at all, and only tears and en- 
 treaties wherewith to soothe them, found no difficulty in making 
 them relent by means of a bribe of ten shillings in the pound ; 
 and the next Sunda^'^ was the last, for some time at least, which 
 the Captain spent in prison. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A DINNER IN THE ROW. 
 
 Upon the appointed day our two friends made their appear- 
 ance at Mr. Bungay's door in Paternoster Row ; not the pub- 
 lic entrance through which booksellers' bo3's issued with their 
 sacks full of Bungay's volumes, and around which timid aspi- 
 rants lingered with their virgin manuscripts ready for sale to 
 Sultan Bungay, but at the private door of the house, whence the 
 splendid Mrs. Bungay would come forth to step into her chaise 
 and take her drive, settling herself on the cushions, and cast- 
 mg looks of defiance at Mrs. Bacon's opposite windows — at 
 Mrs. Bacon, who was as yet a chaiseless woman. 
 
 On such occasions, when verj' much wroth at her sister-in- 
 law's splendor, Mrs. Bacon would fling up the sash of her draw- 
 »Ji»g-room window, and look out with her fom- children at the
 
 PENDENXIS. 343 
 
 chaise, as much as to say, " Look at these four darlings, Flora 
 Bungay ! This is why I can't drive in my carriage ; j'ou would 
 give a coach and four to have the same reason." And it was 
 with these arrows out of her quiver that Emma Bacon shot 
 Flora Bungay as she sat in her chariot envious and childless. 
 
 As Pen and Wai'rington came to Bungay's door, a carriage 
 and a cab drove up to Bacon's. Old Dr. Slocum descended 
 heavily from the first ; the Doctor's equipage was as ponderous 
 as his style, but both had a fine sonorous effect upon the pub- 
 hshers in the Row. A couple of dazzling white waistcoats 
 stepped out of the cab. 
 
 Warrington laughed. " You see Bacon has his dinner-party 
 too. That is Dr. Slocum, author of ' Memoirs of the Poison- 
 ers.' You would hardly have recognized our friend Hoolan in 
 that gallant white waistcoat. Doolan is one of Bungay's men, 
 and, faith, here he comes." Indeed Messrs. Hoolan and Doolan 
 had come from the Strand in the same cab, tossing up by the 
 wa}- which should pa}* the shilling ; and Mr. D. stepped from 
 the otlier side of the way, arraj'ed in black, with a large pair of 
 white gloves which were spread out on his hands, and which 
 the owner could not help regarding with pleasure. 
 
 The house porter in an evening coat, and gentlemen with 
 gloves as large as Doolan's, but of the famous Berlin web, 
 were on the passage of Mr. Bungay's house to receive the 
 guests' hats and coats, and bawl their names up the stair. 
 Some of the latter had arrived when the three new %'isitors 
 made their appearance ; but there was onh' Mrs. Bunga}', in 
 red satin and a turban, to represent her own charming sex. 
 She made curtsies to each new-comer as he entered the drawing- 
 room, but her mind was evidently preoccupied bj* extraneous 
 thoughts. The fact is, Mrs. Bacon's dinner-party was disturb- 
 ing her, and as soon as she had received each individual of her 
 own company. Flora Bungay flew back to the embrasure of the 
 window, whence she could rake the carriages of Emma Bacon's 
 friends as the}' came ratthng up the Row. The sight of Dr. 
 Slocum's large carriage, with the gaunt job-horses, crashed 
 Flora : none but hack cabs had driven up to her own door on 
 that da}'. 
 
 The}- were all literary gentlemen, though unknown as yet to 
 Pen. There was Mr. Bole, tlie real editor of the magazine, of 
 which ]Mr. Wagg was the nominal chief; Mr. Trotter, who, 
 from having broke out on the world as a poet of a tragic and 
 suicidal cast, had now subsided into one of Mr. Bungay's back 
 shops as reader for that gentleman ; and C'aptain Sumph, an
 
 344 PENDENNIS. 
 
 ex-beau still about town, and related in some indistinct manner 
 to Literature and the Peerage. He was said to have written a 
 book once, to haA'e been a friend of Lord Byron, to be related 
 to Lord Sumphington ; in fact, anecdotes of Byron formed his 
 staple, and he seldom spoke but with the name of that poet or 
 some of his contemporaries in his mouth, as thus : "I remem- 
 ber poor Shelley at school being sent up for good for a copy of 
 verses, ever^^ hne of which I wrote, by Jove ; " or, "I recollect, 
 when I was at Missolonghi with Byron, offering to bet Gamba," 
 and so forth. This gentleman. Pen remarked, was listened to 
 with great attention by Mrs. Bungay ; his anecdotes of the 
 aristocracy, of which he was a middle-aged member, delighted 
 the publisher's lady ; and he was almost a greater man than the 
 great Mr. Wagg himself in her eyes. Had he but come in his 
 own carnage, Mrs. Bungay would have made her Bungaj' pur- 
 chase an}^ given volume from his pen. 
 
 Mr. Bungay went about to his guests as they arrived, and 
 did the honors of liis house with much cordiality. "How are 
 you, sir? Fine day, sir. Glad to see 30U year, sir. Flora, 
 my love, let me ave the honor of introducing Mr. Warrington 
 to you. Mr. Warrington, Mrs. Bungay ; Mr. Pendennis, Mrs. 
 Bungay. Hope j-ou've brought good appetites with you, gen- 
 tlemen. Tou, Doolan, I know ave, for j-ou've alwa3's ad a 
 deuce of a twist." 
 
 " Lor, Bungay ! " said Mrs. Bungay. 
 
 "Faith, a man must be hard to please, Bunga}-, who can't 
 eat a good dinner in this house," Doolan said, and he winked 
 and stroked his lean chops with his large gloves ; and made ap- 
 peals of friendship to Mrs. Bunga}-, which that honest woman 
 refused with scorn from the timid man. "She couldn't abide 
 that Doolan," she said in confidence to her friends. Indeed, all 
 his flatteries failed to win her. 
 
 As they talked, Mrs. Bunga}- surveying mankind from her 
 window, a magnificent vision of an enormous gray cab-horse 
 appeared, and neared rapidly. A pair of white reins, held by 
 small white gloves, were visible behind it ; a face pale, but richly 
 decorated with a chin-tuft, the head of an exiguous groom bob- 
 bing over the cab-head — these bright things were revealed to 
 the delighted Mrs. Bungay. "The Honorable Percy Popjoy 's 
 quite punctual, I declare," she said, and sailed to the door to 
 be in waiting at the nobleman's arrival. 
 
 " It's Percy Popjoy," said Pen, looking out of window, and 
 seeing an individual, in extremely lacquered boots, descend 
 from the swinging call : and, in fact, it was that 3'oung noble-
 
 PENDENNIS. 345 
 
 man — Lord Falconet's eldest son, as we all verj' well know, 
 who was come to dine with the publisher — his publisher of the 
 Row. 
 
 '' He was my fag at Eton," Warrington said. " I ought to 
 have licked him a little more." He and Pen had had some 
 bouts at the Oxbridge Union debates, in which Pen had had 
 very much the better of Percy : who presently appeared, with 
 his hat under his arm, and a look of indescribable good humor 
 and fatuity in his round dimpled face, upon which Nature had 
 burst out with a chin-tuft, but, exhausted with the effort, had 
 left the rest of the countenance bare of hair. 
 
 The temporar}' groom of the chambers bawled out, "The 
 Honorable Percy Popjo}'," much to that gentleman's discom- 
 posure at hearing his titles announced. 
 
 " "What did the man want to take away m}- hat for, Bun- 
 gaj'?" he asked of the publisher. " Can't do without my hat 
 — want it to make my bow to Mrs. Bungay. How well you 
 look, Mrs. Bunga3^, to-day. Haven't seen your carriage in the 
 Park : why haven't you been there ? I missed 3'ou ; indeed, I 
 did." 
 
 " I'm afraid j'ou're a sad quiz," said Mrs. Bunga}'. 
 
 "Quiz! Never made a joke in m^- — hullo! who's here? 
 How d'3'e do, Pendennis ? How d'3'e do, Wan-ington ? These 
 are old friends of mine, Mrs. Bunga3'. I sa3', how the doose 
 did you come here?" he asked of the two 3'oung men, turning 
 his lacquered heels upon Mrs. Bdnga3', who respected her hus- 
 band's two young guests, now that she found the3'were intimate 
 with a lord's son. 
 
 " What ! do they know him ? " she asked rapidl3' of Mr. B. 
 
 " High fellers, I tell 3'ou — the young one related to all the 
 nobilit3-," said the pulilisher ; and both ran forward, smiling 
 and bowing, to greet almost as great personages as the young 
 lord — no less characters, indeed, than the great Mr. Wenham 
 and the great Mr. Wagg, who were now announced. 
 
 Mr. Wenham entered, wearing the usual demure look and 
 stealtliy smile with which he commonly surveved the tips of his 
 neat little shining boots, and which he but seldom brought to 
 bear upon the person who addressed him. Wagg's white waist- 
 coat, spread out, on the contrary, with profuse brillianc^y ; his 
 burl3-, red face shone resplendent over it, lighted up with the 
 thoughts of good jokes and a good dinner. He liked to make 
 his entree into a drawing-room with a laugh, and, when he went 
 away at night, to leave a joke ex{)l(>dii)g behind liim. No per- 
 sonal calamities or distresses (of which that humorist had his 
 
 12
 
 346 PENDENNIS. 
 
 share in common with the unjociilar part of mankind) could al- 
 together keep his humor down. Whatever his griefs might be, 
 the thought of a dinner rallied his great soul ; and when he saw 
 a lord, he saluted him with a pun. 
 
 Wenham went up, then, with a smug smile and whisper, to 
 Mrs. Bunga}', and looked at her from under his e3-es, and showed 
 her the tips of his shoes. Waggsaid she looked charming, and 
 pushed on straight at the young nobleman, whom he called Pop ; 
 and to whom he instantl}- related a funny stor}-, seasoned with 
 what the French call yros sel. He was delighted to see Pen, 
 too, and shook hands with him, and slapped him on the back 
 cordially ; for he was full of spirits and good humor. And he 
 talked in a loud voice about their last place and occasion of 
 meeting at Bayraouth ; and asked how their friends of Clavering 
 Park were, and whether Sir Francis was not coming to London 
 for the season ; and whether Pen had been to see Lady Rock- 
 minster, who had arrived — fine old lady, Lady Rockminster ! 
 These remarks Wagg made not for Pen's ear so much as for the 
 edification of the company, whom he was glad to inform that he 
 paid Aisits to gentlemen's country-seats, and was on intimate 
 terms with the nobility. 
 
 Wenham also shook hands with our young friend — all of 
 which scenes Mrs. Bungay remarked with respectful pleasure, 
 and communicated her ideas to Bunga}', afterwards, regarding 
 the importance of Mr. Pendennis — ideas b}' which Pen profited 
 much more than he was aware. 
 
 Pen, who had read, and rather admired some of her works 
 (and expected to find in Miss Bunion a person somewhat resem- 
 bling her own description of herself in the ' ' Passion- Flowers," 
 in which she stated that her 3'outh resembled — 
 
 " A violet, shrinking meanly 
 When blows the March wind keenly ; 
 A timid fawn, on wild-wood lawn, 
 Where oak-boughs rustle greenly, — " 
 
 and that her maturer beaut}^ was something ver}' diflferent, cer- 
 tainly, to the artless loveliness of her prime, but still exceedingly 
 captivating and striking), beheld, rather to his surprise and 
 amusement, a large and bony woman in a crumpled satin dress, 
 who came creaking into the room with a step as heav}' as a 
 grenadier's. Wagg instantly noted the straw which she brought 
 in at the rumpled skirt of her dress, and would have stooped to 
 pick it up, but Miss Bunion disarmed all criticism b}' observing 
 this ornament herself, and, patting down her own large foot upoa
 
 PEXDEX]S1S. 347 
 
 it. so as to separate it from her robe, she stopped and picked 
 up the straw, saying to Mrs. Bungay, that she was very sorry 
 to be a little late, but that the omnibus was ver^' slow and what 
 a comfort it was to get a ride all the way from Brom[)ton for 
 sixpence. Nobody laughed at the poetess's speech, it was 
 uttered so simply. Indeed, the worthy woman had not the 
 least notion of being ashamed of an action incidental upon her 
 poverty. 
 
 ••Is that 'Passion-Flowers?'" Pen said to Wenham, by 
 whom he was standing. ' ' Why, her picture in the volume 
 represents her as a very well-looking young woman." 
 
 ••You know passion-flowers, like all others, will run to 
 seed," Wenham said; •"Miss Bunion's portrait was probably 
 painted some years ago." 
 
 •■' Well, I like her for not being ashamed of her poverty." 
 
 " So do I,'' said Mr. Wenham, who would have starved 
 rather than have come to dinner in an omnibus ; " but I don't 
 think that she need flourish the straw about, do you, Mr. Pen- 
 dennis? My dear Miss Bunion, how do 30U do? I was in a 
 great lady's drawing-room this morning, and ever^'bod}- was 
 charmed with your new volume. Those hues on the christening 
 of Lady Fanny Fantail brought tears into the Duchess's e^'es. 
 I said that I thought I should have the pleasure of meeting you 
 to-day, and she begged me to thank you, and say how greatly 
 she was pleased." 
 
 This history, told in a bland, smiling manner, of a Duchess 
 whom Wenham had met that very morning, too, quite put poor 
 Wagg's dowager and baronet out of court, and placed Wen- 
 ham be^'ond Wagg as a man of fashion. Wenham kept this 
 inestimable advantage, and having the conversation to himself, 
 ran on with a number of anecdotes regarding the aristocracy. 
 He ti-ied to bring Mv. Popjoy into the conversation by making 
 appeals to him, and saying, •• I was telling your father this 
 morning," or, *' I think you were present at W. house the 
 other night when the Duke said so and so," but Mr. Popjoy 
 would not gratify him by joining in the talk, preferring to fall 
 back into the window recess with ]Mrs. Bungay, and watch 
 the cabs that drove up to the opposite door. At least, if 
 he would not talk, the hostess hoped that those odious Ba- 
 cons would see how she had secured the noble Percy Popjoy 
 for her part}'. 
 
 And now the bell of Saint Paul's tolled half an hour later 
 than that for whicli Mr. Bungay had invited his party, and it 
 was complete with the exception of two guests, who at lust;
 
 348 PENDENNIS. 
 
 made their appearance, and in whom Pen was pleased to recog 
 nize Captain and Mrs. Shandon. 
 
 When these two had made their greetings to the master and 
 mistress of the liouse, and exchanged nods of more or less 
 recognition with most of the people present, Pen and Warring- 
 ton went up and shoolv hands very warmly with Mrs. Shandon, 
 who, perhaps, was affected to meet them, and think where it 
 was she had seen them but a few days before. Shandon was 
 brushed up, and looked pretty smart, in a red velvet waistcoat, 
 and a frill, into which his wife had stuck her best brooch. In 
 spite of Mrs, Bungay's kindness, perhaps in consequence of it, 
 Mrs. Shandon felt great terror and timidity in approaching her : 
 indeed, she was more awful than ever in iier red satin and l/ird 
 of paradise, and it was not until she had asked in her great 
 voice about the dear little gurl, that the latter was somewhat 
 encouraged, and ventured to speak. 
 
 " Nice-looking woman," Popjoy whispered to Warrington. 
 " Do introduce me to Captain Shandon, Warrington. I'm told 
 he's a tremendous clever fellow ; and, dammy, I adore intellect, 
 by Jove I do I " This was the truth : Heaven had not endowed 
 young Mr. Popjoy with much intellect of his own, but had 
 given him a generous faculty for admiring, if not for appre- 
 ciating, the intellect of others. "And introduce me to Miss 
 Bunion. I'm told she's ver}' clever too. She's rum to look at, 
 certainly, but that don't matter. Damm}', I consider myself a 
 literarj- man, and I wish to know all the clever fellows." So 
 Mr. Popjoy and Mr. Shandon had the pleasure of becoming 
 acquainted with one another ; and now the doors of the adjoin- 
 ing dining-room being flung open, the party entered and took 
 their seats at table. Pen found himself next to Miss Bunion 
 on one side, and to Mr. Wagg — the truth is, Wagg fled 
 alarmed from the vacant place by the poetess, and Pen was 
 compelled to take it. 
 
 The gifted being did not talk much during dinner, but Pen 
 remarked that she ate, with a vast appetite, and never refused 
 any of the supplies of wine which were oflTered to her b}- the 
 butler. Indeed, Miss Bunion having considered Mr. Pen- 
 dennis for a minute, who gave himself rather grand airs, and 
 who was attired in an extremely fashionalile style, with his 
 verj- best chains, shirt-studs, and cambric fronts, he was set 
 down and not without reason, as a prig by the poetess ; who 
 thought it was much better to attend to her dinner than to 
 take an3' notice of him. She told him as much in after days 
 with her usual candor. " I took you for one of the little May-
 
 PENDENNIS. 349 
 
 fair dandies," she said to Pen. "You looked as solemn as a 
 little undertaker ; and as I disliked, beyond measure, the odious 
 creature who was on the other side of me, I thought it was best 
 to eat mv dinner and hold my tongue." 
 
 '• And you did both very well, my dear Miss Bunion," Pen 
 said with a laugh, 
 
 '• Well, so I do, but I intend to talk to you the next time a 
 great deal : for you are neither so solemn, nor so stupid, nor 
 so pert as you look." 
 
 *' Ah, Miss Bunion, how I pine for that 'next time' to 
 come," Pen said, with an air of comical gallantry : — But we 
 must return to the day, and the dinner at Paternoster Row. 
 
 The repast was of the richest description — ' ' What I call of 
 the florid Gothic st\le," Wagg whispered to Pen, who sat be- 
 side the humorist, in his side-wing Aoice. The men in creaking 
 shoes and Berlin gloves were numerous and solemn, carrying 
 on rapid conversations' behind the guests, as they moved to 
 and fro with the dishes. Doolan called out, "Waither,"to one 
 of them, and blushed when he thought of his blunder. Mrs. 
 Bungay's own footboy was lost amidst those large and black- 
 coated attendants. 
 
 ' ■ Look at that very bow-windowed man," Wagg said. ' ' He's 
 an undertaker in Amen Corner, and attends funerals and din- 
 ners. Cold meat and hot, don't you perceive? He's the sham 
 butler here, and I observe, my dear JMr, Pendennis, as 3'ou will 
 through life, that wherever there is a sham butler at a London 
 dinner there is sham wine — this sheny is filthy. Bungay, my 
 boy, where did 3'ou get this delicious brown sherrj- ? " 
 
 '• I'm glad you like it, Mr. Wagg ; glass with you," said the 
 publisher. "It's some I got from Alderman Benning's store, 
 and gave a good figure for it, I can tell 3'ou. Mr. Pendennis, 
 will you join us? Your 'ealth, gentlemen." 
 
 '' The old rogue, where does he expect to go to? It came 
 from the public-house," Wagg said. " It requires two men to 
 cany off that sheny, 'tis so uncommonly strong. I wish I had 
 a bottle of old Steyne's wine here, Pendennis : your uncle and 
 I have had many a one. He sends it about to people where 
 he is in the habit of dining. I remember at poor Rawdon 
 Crawley's, Sir Pitt Crawley's brother — he was Governor of 
 Coventry Island — Steyne's chef always came in the morning, 
 and the butler arrived with the champagne from Gaunt House, 
 in the ice-pails ready." 
 
 '• How good this is ! " said Popjoy, good-naturedl}'. " You 
 must have a cordon bleu in your kitchen."
 
 350 FENDENNIS. 
 
 (( 
 
 O yes," Mrs. Bungay said, thinking he spoke of a jack- 
 cliain very likely. 
 
 " I mean a French chef," said the polite guest. 
 
 " O 3-es, 3'our lordship," again said the lad}'. 
 
 "Does your artist sa}- he's a Frenchman, Mrs. B?" called 
 out Wagg. 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I don't know," answered the publisher's 
 (lady. 
 
 " Because, if he does, he's a quizz'm yei-" ci'ied Mr. Wagg ; 
 but nobody saw the pun, which disconcerted somewhat the 
 bashful punster. "The dinner is from Griggs' in St. Paul's 
 Churchyard; so is Bacon's," he whispered Pen. "Bungay 
 writes to give half a crown a head more than Bacon, — so does 
 Bacon. They would poison each other's ices if they could get 
 near them ; and as for the made-dishes — they are poison. 
 This — hum — ha — this Brimbor ion a la Sem'gne is delicious, 
 Mrs. B." he said, helping himself to a dish which the under- 
 taker handed to him. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad you like it," Mrs. Bungay answered, 
 blushing, and not knowing whether the name of the dish was 
 actually that which Wagg gave to it, but dimly conscious that 
 that individual was quizzing her. Accordingly she hated Mr. 
 Wagg with female ardor ; and would have deposed him from 
 his command over Mr. Bungay's periodical, but that his name 
 was great in the trade, and his reputation in the land consid- 
 erable. 
 
 By the displacement of persons, Warrington had found him- 
 self on the right hand of Mrs. Shandon, who sat in plain black 
 silk and faded ornaments by the side of the florid publisher. 
 The sad smile of the lady moved his rough heart to pity. No- 
 body seemed to interest himself about her : she sat looking at 
 her husband, who himself seemed rather abashed in the pres- 
 ,ence of some of the company. Wenham and Wngg both knew 
 Mm and His circumstances. He had worlced with the latter, 
 and was immeasurably his superior in wit, genius, and acquire- 
 ments ; but Wagg's star was brilliant in the world, and poor 
 Shandon was unknown there. He could not speak before the 
 noisy talk of the coarser and more successful man ; but drank 
 his wine in silence, and as much of it as the people would give 
 him. He was under surveillance. Bungay had warned the un- 
 dertaker not to fill the Captain's glass too often or too full. It 
 was a melancholy precaution that, and the more melancholy 
 that it was necessary. Mrs. Shandon, too, cast alarmed glances 
 across the table to see thfit her husband did |iot exceed,
 
 PENDENNIS. 351 
 
 Abashed by the failure of his first pun, for he was impudent 
 and easil\' disconcerted, Wagg kept his conversation pretty 
 much to Pen during the rest of dinner, and of coui'se chiefly 
 spoke about their neighbors. " This is one of Bungay's grand 
 field-days," he said. ''We are all Bungavians here. — Did 
 vou read Popjoy's novel? It was an old magazine story written 
 bv poor Buzzard 3'ears ago, and forgotten here until Mr. Trot- 
 ter (that is Trotter with the large shirt-collar) fished it out and 
 bethought him that it was applicable to the late elopement ; so 
 Bob Avrote a few chapters apropos — Popjoy- permitted the use 
 of his name, and I dare so.y supplied a page here and there — 
 and ' Desperation, or the Fugitive Duchess ' made its appear- 
 ance. The great fun is to examine Popjo}- about his own work, 
 of which he doesn't know a word. — I say. Popjoy, what a 
 capital passage that is in Volume Three, — where the Cardinal 
 in disguise, after being converted by the Bishop of London, 
 proposes marriage to the Duchess's daughter." 
 
 " Glad you Uke it," Popjoy answered ; " it's a favorite bit 
 of my own." 
 
 "•There's no such thing in the whole book," whispered Wagg 
 to Pen. "Invented it myself. Gad! it wouldn't be a bad 
 plot for a high-Ciiurch novel." 
 
 "I remember poor Byron, Hobhouse, Trelawney, and ray- 
 self, dining with Cardinal Mezzocaldo, at Rome," Captain 
 Sumph began, " and we had some Orvieto wine for dinner, 
 which Byron liked ver}' much. And I remember how the Car- 
 dinal regretted that he was a single man. We went to Civita 
 Vecchia two da3's afterwards, where B3'ron's yacht was — and, 
 b}- Jove, the Cardinal died within three weeks ; and Bj-ron was 
 ver}' sorry, for he rather liked him." 
 
 "A devilish interesting story, Sumph, indeed," Wagg said. 
 
 "You should publish some of those stories, Captain Sumph, 
 you really should. Such a volume would make our friend 
 Bungaj's fortune," Shandon said. 
 
 " Whv don't you ask Sumph to publish 'em in your new 
 paper — the what-d'-ye-call-'em — haj', Shandon," bawled out 
 Wagg. 
 
 " Wh}' don't 30U ask him to publish 'em in j'our old maga- 
 zine, the Tliiugumbob?" Shandon replied. 
 
 " Is there going to be a new paper?" asked Wenhain, who 
 knew perfectl}' well ; but was ashamed of his connection with 
 the press. 
 
 " Bunga}' going to bring out a paper?" cried I'opjo}', who, 
 on the contrary, was proud of his literar3' reputation and ac
 
 352 PENDENNIS. 
 
 quaintances. "You must employ me. Mrs. Bungay, use 
 your influence with him, and make him employ me. Prose or 
 verse — what shall it be? Novels, poems, travels, or leading 
 articles, begad. Anything or everything — only let Bungay 
 pay me, and I'm ready — I am now, my dear Mrs. Bungay, 
 begad now." 
 
 "It's to be called the 'Small Beer Chronicle,'" growled 
 Wagg, " and little Popjoy- is to be engaged for the intiu|tine 
 department." 
 
 " It is to be called the ' Pall Mall Gazette,' sir, and we shall 
 be ver}' happy to have 3'ou with us," Shandon said. 
 
 " 'Pall Mall Gazette ' — why ' Pall Mall Gazette '? " asked 
 Wagg. 
 
 " Because the editor was born at Dublin, the sub-editor at 
 Cork, because the proprietor lives in Paternoster Row, and the 
 paper is published in Catherine Street, Strand. Won't that 
 reason suffice 3'ou, Wagg?" Shandon said; he was getting 
 rather angry. " Everything must have a name. M3' dog 
 Ponto has got a name. You've got a name, and a name which 
 you deserve, more or less, bedad. Wh}' d'3'e grudge the name 
 to our paper ? " 
 
 " By any other name it would smell as sweet," said Wagg. 
 
 " I'll have ye remember its name's not what-d'-ye-call-'em, 
 Mr. Wagg," said Shandon. "You know its name well 
 enough, and — and you know mine." 
 
 "And I know 3'our address, too," said Wagg, but this was 
 spoken in an undertone, and the good-natured Irishman was 
 appeased almost in an instant after his ebullition of spleen, and 
 asked Wagg to drink wine with him in a friendl}^ voice. 
 
 When the ladies retired from the table, the taEi grew louder 
 still ; and presently Wenham, in a courtly speech, proposed 
 that everj'body should drink to the health of the new Journal, 
 eulogizing highly the talents, wit, and learning, of its editor. 
 Captain Shandon. It was his maxim never to lose the support 
 of a newspaper man, and in the course of that evening, he went 
 round and sainted ever}' literar}- gentleman present with a priv}' 
 compliment specially addressed to him ; informing this one 
 how great an impression had been made in Downing Street b}' 
 his last article, and telling that one how profoundh' his good 
 friend, the Duke of So and So, had been struck by the ability 
 of the late numbers. 
 
 The evening came to a close, and in spite of all the precau- 
 tions to the contrary, poor Shandon reeled in his walk, and 
 went home to his new lodgings, with his faithful wife by his
 
 PENDENNIS. 353 
 
 side, and the cabman on his box jeering at him. Wenham had 
 a chariot of his own, wliich he put at Popjoy's service ; and the 
 timid Miss Bunion seeing Mr. Wagg, who was her neighbor, 
 about to depart, insisted upon a seat in his carriage, much to 
 that gentleman's discomfiture. 
 
 Fen and Warrington walked home together in the moon- 
 light. '' And now," Warrington said, " that you have seen 
 the men of letters, tell me, was I far wrong in saying that there 
 are thousands of people in this tow^n, who don't waite books, 
 who are, to the full, as clever and intellectual as people who 
 do?" 
 
 Pen was forced to confess that the literary personages with 
 whom he had become acquainted had not said much, in the 
 course of the night's conversation, that was worthy to be re- 
 membered or quoted. In fact, not one word about literature 
 had been said during the whole course of the night : — and it 
 may be whispered to those uninitiated people who ai-e anxious 
 to know the habits and make the acquaintance of men of letters, 
 that there are no race of people who talk about books, or per 
 haps, who read books, so little as literaiy men. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE "pall mall GAZETTE." 
 
 CoNSiDEKABLE succcss at first attended the new journal. It 
 WSLS generall}- stated that an influential political party supported 
 the paper ; and great names were cited amongst the contrib- 
 utors to its columns. Was there any foundation for these 
 rumors ? We are not at liberty to say whether they were well 
 or ill founded ; but this much we ma}' divulge, that an article 
 upon foreign policy, which was generally attributed to a noble 
 Lord, whose connection with the Foreign Office is very well 
 known, was in reality composed b}' Captain Shandon, in the 
 parlor of the Bear and Staff jjublic-house near Whitehall Stairs, 
 wliither the printer's boy had tracked him, and wdiere a literary 
 ally of his, Mr. Bludyer, had a temporary residence ; and that 
 a series of papers on finance questions, which were universally 
 supposed to be written by a great Statesman of the House of 
 Commons, w-ere in reality composed by Mr, George Warring- 
 ton of the Upper Temple. 
 
 23
 
 o 
 
 54 PENDENNIS. 
 
 That there may have been some deaUngs between the " Pall 
 Mall Gazette" and this influential party, is very possible. 
 Perc}' Popjoj^ (whose father, Lord Falconet, was a member of 
 the party) might be seen not unfrequently ascending the stairs 
 to Warrington's chambers ; and some information appeared in 
 the paper which gave it a character, and could onl^' be got 
 from very peculiar sources. Several poems, feeble in thought, 
 but loud and vigorous in expression, appeared in the "Pall 
 Mall Gazette," with the signature of " P. P." ; and it must be 
 owned that his novel was praised in the new journal in a very 
 outrageous manner. 
 
 In the political department of the paper Mr. Pen did not 
 take an}' share ; but he was a most active literary contributor. 
 The " Pall Mall Gazette " had its offices, as we have heard, in 
 Catherine Street, in the Strand, and hither Pen often came 
 with his manuscripts in his pocket, and with a great deal of 
 bustle and pleasure ; such as a man feels at the outset of his 
 literary' career, when to see himself in print is still a novel sen- 
 sation, and he 3'et pleases himself to think that his writings are 
 creating some noise in the world. 
 
 Here it was that Mr. Jack Finucane, the sub-editor, com- 
 piled with paste and scissors the journal of which he was super- 
 visor. With an eagle e3'e he scanned all the paragraphs of ah 
 the newspapers which had anything to do with the world of 
 fashion over which he presided. He didn't let a death or a 
 dinner-part}' of the aristocracy pass without having the event 
 recorded in the columns of his journal ; and from the most 
 recondite provincial prints, and distant Scotch and Irish news- 
 papers, he fished out astonishing paragraphs and intelligence 
 regarding the upper classes of society. It was a grand, nay, a 
 touching sight, for a philosopher, to see Jack Finucane, Esquire, 
 with a plate of meat from the cookshop, and a glass of porter 
 from the public-house, for his meal, recounting the feasts of 
 the great, as if he had been present at them ; and in tattered 
 trousers and dingy shirt-sleeves, cheerfully describing and ar- 
 ranging the most brilliant fetes of the world of fashion. The 
 incongruity of Finucane's avocation, and his manners and ap- 
 pearance, amused his new friend Pen. Since he left his own 
 native village, where his rank probably was not very lofty, 
 Jack had seldom seen any society but such as used the parlor 
 of the taverns which he frequented, whei'cas from his writing 
 you would have supposed that he dined with ambassadors, and 
 that his common lounge was the bow-window of White's. Er- 
 rors of description, it is true, occasionally slipped from his pen \
 
 PENDENNIS. 355 
 
 but the ''Ballinafad Sentinel," of which he was own corre- 
 suonvlent, sutTored by these, not tlie " Pall Mall Gazette," in 
 winch Jack was not permitted to write much, his London chiefs 
 thinking that the scissors and the paste were better wielded by 
 him than the pen. 
 
 Pen took a great deal of pains with the writing of his re-> 
 views, and having a prett}' fair share of desultory reading, 
 acquired in the early years of his life, an eager fancy and a 
 keen sense of fun, his articles pleased his chief and the public, 
 and he was proud to think that he deserved the money which 
 he earned. We may be sure that the "Pall Mall Gazette" 
 was taken in regularly- at Fairoaks, and read with delight by 
 the two ladies there. It was received at Clavering Park, too, 
 where we know there was a young lady of great literary tastes ; 
 and old Doctor Portman himself, to whom the widow sent her 
 paper after she had got her son's articles by heart, signified his 
 approval of Pen's productions, saving that the lad had spirit, 
 taste, and fancy, and wrote, if not like a scholar, at any rate 
 like a gentleman. 
 
 And what was the astonishment and delight of our friend 
 Maior Pendennis, on walking into one of his clubs, the Regent, 
 where Wenham, Lord Falconet, and some other gentlemen of 
 good reputation and fashion were assembled, to hear them one 
 day talking over a number of the " Pall Mall Gazette," and of 
 an article which appeared in its columns, making some bitter 
 fun of a book recently' published b}- the wife of a celebrated 
 member of the opposition party. The book in question was a 
 Book of Travels in Spain and Italy, by the Countess of Muff- 
 borough, in which it was difficult to say which was the most 
 wonderful, the French or the English, in which languages her 
 ladyship wrote indifferently, and upon the blunders of which 
 the ci'itic pounced with delighted mischief. The critic was no 
 other than Pen : he jumped and danced round about his subject 
 with the greatest jocularity and high spirits : he showed up the 
 noble lady's faults with admirable mock gravit}' and decorum. 
 There was not a word in the article which was not polite and 
 gentleman-like ; and the unfortunate subject of the criticism 
 was scarified and laughed at during the operation. Wenham's 
 bilious countenance was puckered up with malign pleasure 
 as he read tlie critique. Lady Muffborough had not asked 
 him to her parties during the last j-ear. Lord Falconet gig- 
 gled and laughed with all his Iieart ; Lord Muffborough and 
 he had been rivals ever since they began life ; and these com- 
 plimented Major Pendennis, who until now had scarcely paid
 
 356 PENDENNIS. 
 
 any attention to some hints which his Fairoaks correspondence 
 threw out of " dear Arthur's constant and severe hterary occu- 
 pations, which I fear ma}^ undermine the poor boy's health," 
 and had thouglit any notice of Mr. Pen and his newspaper con- 
 nections quite below his dignit}' as a Major and a gentleman. 
 
 But when the oracular Wenham praised the bo3''s produc- 
 tion ; when Lord Falconet, who had had the news from Percy 
 Popjoy, approved of tlie genius of young Pen ; when the great 
 Lord Ste^'ne himself, to whom the Major referred the article, 
 laughed and sniggered over it, swore it was capital, and that 
 the MutTborough would writhe under it, like a whale under a 
 harpoon, the Major, as in duty Ijound, began to admire his 
 nephew ver^^ much, said, " B}- gad, the young rascal had some 
 stufl' in him, and would do something ; he had always said he 
 would do something ; " and with a hand quite tremulous with 
 pleasure, the old gentleman sat down to write to the widow at 
 Fairoaks all that the great folks had said in praise of Pen ; and 
 he wrote to the 3'oung rascal, too, asking when he would come 
 and eat a chop with his old uncle, and saving that he was com- 
 missioned to take him to dinner at Gaunt House, for Lord 
 Steyne liked anybod}' who could entertain him, whether by his 
 foil}-, wit, or hy his dulness, by his oddity, affectation, good 
 spirits, or any other quality. Pen flung his letter across the 
 table to Warrington ; perhaps he was disappointed that the 
 other did not seem to be much affected b}' it. 
 
 The courage of 3'oung critics is prodigious : they clamber up 
 to the judgment seat, and, with scarce a hesitation, give their 
 opinion upon works the most intricate or profound. Had 
 Macaulay's History or Herschel's Astronomy been put before 
 Pen at this period, he would have looked through the volumes, 
 meditated his opinion over a cigar, and signified his august 
 approval of either author, as if tlie critic had been their born 
 superior and indulgent master and patron. By the help of the 
 Biographic Universelle or tlie Bi-itish Museum, he would be 
 able to take a rapid resume of a historical period, and allude to 
 names, dates, and facts, in such a masterly', easy way, as to 
 astonish his mamma at home, who wondered where her boy 
 could have acquired such a prodigious store of reading, and 
 himself, too, when he came to read over his articles two or 
 three months after the}' had been composed, and when he had 
 forgotten the subject and the books which he had consulted. 
 At that period of his life Mr. Pen owns, that he would not have 
 hesitated, at twenty-four hours' notice, to pass an opinion upon 
 the greatest scholars, or to give a judgment upon the Encyclo-
 
 PENDENNIS ^ 357 
 
 pasdia. LuekUy he had Warrington to hiugh at him and to 
 keep down his impertinence by a constant ami wholesome ridi- 
 cule, or he might have become conceited beyond all sufferance , 
 for Shandon liked the dash and fli[)pancy of his young aide-de- 
 camp, and was, indeed, better pleased with Pen's light and 
 brilliant flashes, than with the heavier metal which his elder 
 coadjutor brought to bear. 
 
 But though he might justly be blamed on the score of im- 
 pertinence and a certain prematurity of judgment, Mr. Pen 
 was a perfectly honest critic ; a great deal loo candid for Mr. 
 Bungay's purposes, indeed, who grumbled sadly at his impar- 
 tiality." Pen and his chief, the Captain, had a dispute upon 
 this subject one day. ''In the name of common sense, Mr. 
 Pendennis," Shandon asked, '-what have you been doing — 
 praising one of Mr. Bacon's books? Bungay has been with 
 me in a fury this morning, at seeing a Laudator}' article upon 
 one of the works of the odious linn over the way." 
 
 Pen's eyes opened with wide astonishment. '' Do you mean 
 to saj'," he asked, ' ■ that we are to praise no books that Bacon 
 publishes : or that, if the books are good, we are to say they 
 are bad ? " 
 
 " M3' good young friend — for what do 3'ou suppose a 
 benevolent publisher undertakes a critical journal, to benefit 
 his rival? " Shandon inquired. 
 
 " To benefit himself certainly, but to tell the truth, too," 
 Pen said — " rant ccdum^ to tell the truth." 
 
 ''And my prospectus," said Shandon, with a laugh and a 
 sneer; "do you consider that was a work of mathematical 
 accuracy of statement ? " 
 
 *' Pardon me, that is not the question," Pen said ; " and I 
 don't think you very much care to argue it. I had some qualms 
 of conscience about that same prospectus, and debated the 
 matter with m}' friend Warrington. We agreed, however," 
 Pen said, laughing, " that because the prospectus was rather 
 declamatory and poetical, and the giant was painted upon the 
 show-board rather larger than the original, who was inside the 
 caravan, we need not be too scrupulous about this trifling inac- 
 curacy-, but might do our part of the show, without loss of 
 character or remorse of conscience. We are the fiddlers, and 
 play our tunes oul}' ; you are the showman." 
 
 "And leader of the van," said Shandon. "Well, I am 
 glad that your conscience gave you leave to play for us." 
 
 " Yes, but," said Pen, with a fine sense of the dignity of his 
 position, " we are all party men in England, and I will stick to
 
 '358 PENDENNIS. 
 
 in}^ party like a Briton. 1 will be as good-natured as you like 
 to our own side, be is a fool wlio quarrels with bis own nest ; 
 and I will bit the enemy as bard as you like — but with fair 
 play, Captain, if you please. One can't teil all tbe truth, I 
 suppose ; but one can tell nothing but the truth : and 1 would 
 rather starve, by Jove, and never earn another penny by niv 
 pen " (this redoubted instrument had now been in use ibr som't: 
 six weeks, and Pen spoke of it with vast enthusiasm and respect) 
 " than strike an opponent an unfair blow, or, if called upon to 
 place him, rank him below bis honest desert." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Pendennis, when we want Bacon smashed, we 
 must get some other hammer to do it," Shandon said, with 
 fatal good-nature ; and ver^- liliely tbougJit within himself, " A 
 few years hence perhaps the joiuig gentleman won't be so 
 squeamish." The veteran Condottiere himself was no lon<j-er 
 so scrupulous. He had fought and kiUed on so many a side 
 for many a year past, that remorse bad long left him. " Gad," 
 said he, " you've a tender conscience, Mr. Pendennis. It's the 
 luxury of all novices, and I may have had one once myself; 
 but that sort of bloom wears off with the rubbing of the world, 
 and I'm not going to the trouble myself of putting on an artificial 
 complexion, like our pious friend Wenham, or our model of 
 virtue, Wagg." 
 
 "I don't know whether some people's hypocris}' is not 
 better, Captain, than others' cynicism." 
 
 " It's more profitable, at any rate," said the Captain, biting 
 his nails. '■'■ That Wenham is as dull a quack as ever quacked : 
 and you see the carriage in which he drove to dinner. 'Faith, 
 it'll be a long time before Mrs. Shandon will take a drive in her 
 own chariot. God help her, poor thing ! " And Pen went 
 away from his chief, after their little (lispute and colloquy, 
 pointing his own moral to tbe Captain's tale, and thinking "to 
 himself, "Behold this man, stored with genius, wit, learning, 
 and a hundred good natural gifts : see how he has wrecked 
 them, by paltering with his honesty, and forgetting to respect 
 himself. Wilt thou remember thyself, O Pen? thou art con- 
 ceited enough ! Wilt thou sell thy honor for a bottle ? No, 
 by heaven's grace, we will be honest, whatever befalls, and our 
 mouths shall only speak tbe truth when they open." 
 
 A punishment, or, at least, a trial, was in store for Mr, Pen. 
 In the very next Number of the " Pall Mall Gazette," Warring- 
 ton read out, with roars of laughter, an article which by no 
 means amused Arthur Pendennis, who was himself at work 
 with a criticism for the next week's Number of tbe same journal ;
 
 PEXDEXNIS. b'59 
 
 and in which the '• Spring Annual " was ferociously maltreated 
 by some unknown writer. The person of all jnost cruell}- mauled 
 was Pen himself. His verses had not appeared with his own 
 name in the " Spring Annual," but under aii assumed signature. 
 As he had refused to review the book, Shandon had handed it 
 over to Mr. Bludyer, with directions to that nuthor to dispose 
 of it. Aud he had done so eli'ectually. Mr. Bludyer, who was 
 a man of very considerable talent, and of a race which, I be- 
 lieve, is quite extinct in the press of our time, had a certain 
 notoriety in his profession, and reputation for savage humor. 
 He smashed and trampled down the poor spring flowers with no 
 more mere}' than a bull would have on a parterre ; and having 
 cut up the volume to his heart's content, went and sold it at a 
 bookstall, and purchased a pint of brandy with the proceeds of 
 the volume. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 WHERE PEN APPEARS IN TOWN AND C0T7NTRT. 
 
 Let us be allowed to pass over a few months of the history of 
 Mr. Arthur Pendennis's lifetime, dui-ing the which man}- events 
 may have occui'red which were more interesting and exciting 
 to himself, than they would be likely to prove to the reader of 
 his present memoirs. We left him, in the last chapter, regularly 
 entered upon his business as a professional writer, or literary 
 hack, as Mr. Wanington chooses to style himself and his friend ; 
 and we know how the life of any hack, legal or literary, in a 
 curacy, or in a marching regiment, or at a merchant's desk, is 
 full of routine, and tedious of description. One day's labor 
 resembles another much too closely. A literary man has often 
 **> work for his bread against time, or against his will, or in 
 .^pite of his health, or of his indolence, or of his repugnance 
 to the subject on which he is called to exert himself, just like 
 any other daily toiler. When you want to make money by 
 Pegasus (as he must, perhaps, who has no other salable prop- 
 erty) , farewell poetry and aerial flights : Pegasus onl}- rises 
 now like Mr. Green's balloon, at periods advertised beforehand, 
 and when the spectators' money has been paid. Pegasus trots 
 in harness, over the stony pavement, and pulls a cart or a cab 
 behind him. Often Pegasus does his work with panting sidee
 
 360 PENDENNIS. 
 
 and trembling knees, and not seldom gets a cut of the whip 
 from his driver. 
 
 Do not let us, however, be too prodigal of our pit}- upon 
 Pegasus. There is no reason why this animal should be ex- 
 empt from labor, or illness, or decay, an}- more than any of the 
 other creatures of God's world. If he gets the wiiip, Pegasus 
 very often deserves it, and I for one am quite ready to protest 
 with my friend, George Warrington, against the doctrine which 
 some poetical sympathizers are inclined to put forward, viz., 
 that men of letters, and what is called genius, are to be ex- 
 empt from the prose duties of this daily, bread-wanting, tax- 
 paying life, and are not to be made to work and pay like their 
 neighbors. 
 
 Well then, the " Pall Mall Gazette" being duly established, 
 and Arthur Pendennis's merits recognized as a flippant, witty, 
 and amusing critic, he worked away hard every week, preparing 
 reviews of such works as came into his department, and writing 
 his reviews with flippancy certainly, but with honesty, and to 
 the best of his power. It might l)e that a liistorian of three- 
 score, who had spent a quarter of a century in composing a 
 work of which our young gentleman disposed in the course of 
 a couple of days' reading at the British Museum, was not alto- 
 gether fairly treated by such a facile critic ; or that a poet, who 
 had been elaborating sublime sonnets and odes until he thought 
 them fit for the public and for fame, was annoyed by two or three 
 dozen pert lines in Mr. Pen's review, in which the poet's claims 
 were settled by the critic, as if the latter were my lord on the 
 bench, and the author a miserable little suitor trembling before 
 him. The actors at the theatres complained of him wofully, 
 too, and very likely he was too hard upon them. But there 
 was not much harm done after all. It is diff'erent now, as 
 we know ; but there were so few great historians, or great 
 poets, or great actors, in Pen's time, that scarce an}- at all came 
 up for judgment before his critical desk. Those who got a 
 little whipping, got what in the main was good for them ; not 
 that the judge was any better or wiser than the persons whom 
 he sentenced, or indeed ever fancied himself so. Pen had a 
 strong sense of humor and justice, and had not therefore an 
 overweening respect for liis own works ; besides, he had his 
 friend Warrington at his elbow — a terrible critic if the young 
 man was disposed to be conceited and more savage over Pen 
 than ever he was to those whom he tried at his literary assize. 
 
 By these critical labors, and by occasional contributions to 
 leading articles of the journal, when, without wounding his
 
 TENDENNIS. 361 
 
 paper, this eminent publicist could conscientiously speak his 
 mind, Mr. Arthur Peudeuiiis gained the sum of four pounds 
 four shillings weekly, and \\ith no small pains and labor. Like- 
 wise he furnished Magazines and Reviews with articles of his 
 composition, and is believed to have been (though on this score 
 he never chooses to speak ) London correspondent of the " Chat- 
 teris Champion," which at that time contained some very bril- 
 liant and eloquent letters from the metropolis. By these labors 
 the fortunate youth was enabled to earn a sum ver}- nearly equal 
 to four hundred pounds a year ; and on the second Christmas 
 after his arrival in London, he actually brought a hundred 
 pounds to his mother, as a dividend upon the debt which 
 he owed to Laura. That Mrs. Pendennis read ever}- word of 
 her son's works, and considered him to be the profoundest 
 thinker and most elegant writer of the day ; that she thought 
 his retribution of the lunidred pounds an act of angelic virtue ; 
 that she feared he was ruining his health by his labors, and was 
 delighted when he told her of the society which he met, and of 
 the great men of letters and fashion whom he saw, will be imag- 
 ined by all readers who have seen son-worship amongst mothers, 
 and that charming simplicit}' of love with which women in the 
 country watch the career of their darlings in London. If John 
 has held such and such a brief ; if Tom has been invited to such 
 and such a ball ; or George has met this or that great and 
 famous man at dinner ; what a delight there is in the hearts of 
 mothers and sisters at home in Somersetshire ! How young 
 Hopeful's letters are read and remembered ! Wliat a theme 
 for village talk they give, and friendly congratulation ! In the 
 second winter. Pen came for a verj' brief space, and cheered 
 the widow's heart, and lightened up the lonely house at Fair- 
 oaks. Helen had her son all to herself; Laura was awa^' on a 
 visit to old Lady Rockminster ; the folks of Clavering Park 
 were absent ; the verj' few old friends of the house, Doctor 
 Portman at their head, called upon Mr. Pen, and treated him 
 with marked respect ; between mother and son, it was all fond- 
 ness, confidence, and affection. It was the happiest fortnight 
 of the widow's whole life ; perhaps in the lives of both of them. 
 The holiday was gone only too quickly ; and Pen was back in 
 the busy world, and the gentle widow alone again. She sent 
 Arthur's money to Laura : I don't know why this 3'oung lady 
 took the opportunity of leaving home when Pen was coming 
 thither, or wliether he was the more piqued or relieved by her 
 absence. 
 
 He was b^- this time, by his own merits and his uncle's intro-
 
 362 PENDENNIS. 
 
 diictions, pretty well introduced into London, and known both 
 in literaiT and i)olite circles. Amongst the former his fashion- 
 able reputation stood him in no little stead ; he was considered 
 to be a gentleman of good present means and better expecta- 
 tions, who wrote for his pleasure, than which there cannot be a 
 greater recommendation to a young literary- aspirant. Bacon, 
 Bungay, and Co. were proud to accept his articles ; IMr. Wen- 
 ham asked him to dinner ; Mr. Wagg looked upon him with a 
 favorable eye ; and they reported how they met him at the 
 houses of persons of fashion, amongst whom he was pretty 
 welcome, as they did not trouble themselves about his means, 
 present or future ; as his appearance and address were good ; 
 and as he had got a character for being a clever fellow. Finally, 
 he was asked to one house, because he was seen at another 
 house : and thus no small varieties of London life were pre- 
 sented to the young man : he was made familiar with all sorts 
 of people from Paternoster Row to Pimlico, and was as much 
 at home at Mayfair dining-tables as at those tavern boards 
 where some of his companions of the pen were accustomed to 
 assemble. 
 
 Full of high spirits and curiosity, easily adapting himself to 
 all whom he met, the young fellow pleased himself in this 
 strange variety and jumble of men, and made himself welcome, 
 or at ease at least, wherever he went. He would breakfast, for 
 instance, at Mr. Plover's of a morning, in companj' with a Peer, 
 a Bishop, a parliamentary orator, two blue ladies of fashion, a 
 popular preacher, the author of the last new novel, and the 
 very latest lion imported from Egypt or from America ; and 
 would quit this distinguished society for tlie back room at the 
 newspaper office, wht/e pens and ink and the wet proof sheets 
 were awaiting him. Here would be Finucane, the sub-editor, 
 with the last news from the Row : and Shandon would come In 
 presently, and giving a nod to Pen, would l)egin scribbling his 
 leading article at the other end of the table, flanked by the 
 pint of sherr}-, which, when the attendant boy beheld him, was 
 always silently brought for the Captain : or Mr. Bludyer's roar- 
 ing voice would be heard in the front room, where the truculent 
 critic would impound the books on the counter in spite of the 
 timid remonstrances of Mr. Midge, the publisher, and after 
 looking through the volumes would sell them at his accustomed 
 book-stall, and having drunken and dinecV upon the produce of 
 the sale in a tavern box, would call for ink and paper, and 
 proceed to "smash" the author of his dinner and the novel. 
 Towards evening Mr. Pen would stroll in the direction of his
 
 PENDENNIS. 363 
 
 ciub, and take up "Wamngton there for a constitntionfil walk. 
 This exercise freed the lungs, and gave an appetite Ibr dinner, 
 after which Pen had the privilege to make his bow at some very 
 pleasant houses which were open to him ; or the town before 
 him for amusement. There was the Opera ; or the Eagle Tav- 
 ern : or a ball to go to in Mny Fair ; or a quiet night with a 
 cigar and a book and a long talk with Wui-rington ; or a won- 
 derful new song at the Back Kitchen ; — at this time of his life 
 Mr. Pen beheld all sorts of places and men ; and very likely did 
 not know how much he enjoyed himself until long after, whea 
 balls gave him no pleasure, neither did farces make him laugh ; 
 nor did the tavern joke produce the least excitement in him ; 
 nor did the loveliest dancer that ever showed her ankles cause 
 him to stir from his chair after dinner. At his present mature 
 age all these pleasures are over : and the times have passed 
 away too. It is but a very very few years since - — buti the time 
 is gone, and most of the men. Bhid3-er will no more bully 
 authors or cheat landlords of their score. Shandon, the learned 
 and thriftless, the witty and unwise, sleeps his last sleep. They 
 buried honest Doolan the other day : never will he cringe or 
 flatter, never pull long-bow or empty whiskey-noggin any 
 more. 
 
 The London season was now blooming in its full vigor, and 
 the fiishionable newspapers abounded with information regard- 
 ing the grand banquets, routs, and balls which were enlivening 
 the polite world. Our gracious Sovereign was holding levees 
 and drawing-rooms at St. James's : the liow- windows of the 
 clubs were crowded with the heads of resj^ectable red-faced 
 newspaper-reading gentlemen : along the Serpentine trailed 
 thousands of carriages : squadrons of dandy horsemen tram- 
 pled over Rotten Row : everybod}' was in town in a word ; and 
 of course Major Arthur Pendennis, who was somebod}-, was not 
 absent. 
 
 With his head tied ui) in a smart bandana handkerchief, and 
 his meagre carcass enveloped in a brilliant Turkish dressing- 
 gown, the worth}' gentlemar, sat on a certain morning b}^ his 
 fireside, letting his feet gentl}- simmer in a bath, whilst he took 
 his early cup of tea, and perused his "• Morning Post." He 
 could not have faced the day without his two hours' toilet, 
 without his early cup of tea, without his "Morning Post." 
 I suppose nobod}' in the world except Morgan, not even Mor- 
 gan's master himself, knew how feeble and ancient the Major 
 was growing, and what numberless little comforts he required.
 
 364 PENDENNIS. 
 
 If men sneer, as our babit is, at the artifices of an old 
 beauty, at her paint, perfumes, ringlets ; at those innumerable^ 
 and to us unknown stratagems with which she is said to remedy 
 the ravages of time and reconstruct the charms whereof years 
 have bereft her; the ladies, it is to be presumed, are not on 
 their side altogether ignorant that men are vain as well as they, 
 and that the toilets of old bucks are to the full as elaborate as their 
 own. How is it that old Blushington keeps that constant little 
 rose-tint on his cheeks ; and where does old Blondel get the prepa- 
 ration which makes his silver hair pass for golden ? Have you 
 ever seen Lord Hotspur get ofl" his horse when he thinks nobody 
 is looking? Taken out of his stin-ups, his shiny boots can 
 hardly totter up the steps of Hotspur House. He is a dasliing 
 young nobleman still as you see the back of him in Rotten 
 Row ; when 3'ou behold him on foot, what an old, old fellow ! 
 Did you ever form to yourself any idea of Dick Lacy (Dick has 
 been Dick these sixty Vears) in a natural state, and without his 
 stays ? All these men are objects whom the observer of human 
 life and manners may contemplate with as much profit as the 
 most elderly Belgravian Venus, or inveterate Mayfair Jezebel. 
 An old reprobate daddy-long-legs, who has never said his prayers 
 (except perhaps in public) these fifty years : an old buck who 
 still clings to as many of the habits of youth as his feeble grasp 
 of health can hold by : who has given up the bottle, but sits 
 with young fellows over it, and tells naughty stories upon toast 
 and water — who has given up beauty, but still talks about it as 
 wickedly as the youngest roue in company — such an old fellow, 
 I say, if any parson in Pimlico or St. James's were to order the 
 beadles to bring him into the middle aisle, and there set him in 
 an arm-chair, and make a text of him, and preach about him 
 to the congregation, could be turned to a wholesome use for 
 once in his life, and might be surprised to find that some good 
 thoughts came out of him. But we are wandering from our 
 text, the honest Major, who sits all this while with his feet 
 cooling in the bath : Morgan takes them out of that place of 
 purification, and dries them daintily, and proceeds to set the 
 old gentleman on his legs, with waistband and wig, starched 
 cravat, and spotless boots and gloves. 
 
 It was during these hours of the toilet that Morgan and his 
 employer had their confidential conversations, for they did not 
 meet much at other times of the day — the Major abhorring 
 the society of his own chairs and tables in his lodgings ; and 
 Morgan, his master's toilet over and letters delivered, had his 
 time very much on his own hands.
 
 PEXDENNIS. 365 
 
 This spare time the active and well-mannered gentleman 
 bestowed among the valets and butlers of the nobility, his 
 acquaintance ; and Morgan Pendennis, as he was styled, for b}' 
 such compound names gentlemen's gentlemen are called in their 
 private circles, was a frequent and welcome guest at some of 
 the verv highest tables in this town. He was a member of two 
 influential clul)s in May Fair and Pimlico ; and he was thus 
 enabled to know the whole gossip of the town, and entertain 
 his master very agreeably during the two hours' toilet conver- 
 sation. He knew a hundred tales and legends regarding persons 
 of the very highest ton, whose valets canvass their august 
 secrets, just, my dear madam, as our own parlor-maids and 
 dependants in the kitchen discuss our characters, our stinginess 
 and generosity, our pecuniary means or embarrassments, and 
 our little domestic or connubial tiflJs and quarrels. If I leave 
 this manuscript open on my table, I have not the slightest 
 doubt Betty will read it, and they will talk it over in the lower 
 regions to-night ; and to-morrow she will bring in my breakfast 
 with a face of such entire imperturbable innocence, that no 
 mortal could suppose her guilt}' of playing the spy. If you and 
 the Captain have high words upon any subject, which is just 
 possible, the circumstances of the quarrel, and the characters of 
 both of you. will be discussed with impartial eloquence over 
 the kitchen tea-table ; and if Mrs. Smith's maid should bj' 
 chance be taking a dish of tea with yours, her presence will 
 not undoubtedly act as a restraint upon the discussion in ques- 
 tion ; her opinion will be given with candor ; and the next da}" 
 her mistress will in'obably know that Captain and Mrs. Jones 
 have been a quarrelling as usual. Nothing is secret. Take it 
 as a rule that John knows everything : and as in our humble 
 world so in the greatest : a duke is no more a hero to his valet- 
 de-chamhre than you or I ; and his Grace's Man at his club, 
 in company doubtless with other Men of equal social rank, 
 talks over his master's character and attairs with the ingenuous 
 truthfulness which befits gentlemen who are met together in 
 confidence. Who is a niggard and screws up his money-boxes : 
 who is in the hands of the money-lenders, and is putting his 
 noble name on the back of bills of exchange : who is intimate 
 with whose wife : who wants whom to marry her daughter, and 
 which he won't, no not at any price : — all these facts gentle- 
 men's confidential gentlemen discuss confidentially, and are 
 known and examined by every person who has any claim to 
 rank in genteel society. In a word, if old Pendennis himself 
 was said to know everything, and was at once admirably scan-
 
 366 PEN DENNIS. 
 
 dalons and deliglitfully discreet, it is but justice to Morgan to 
 saj', that a great deal of his master's ini'orination was supplied 
 to that worthy man b}' his valet, who went out and foraged 
 knowledge for him. Indeed, what more effectual plan is there 
 to get a knowledge of London society, than to begin at the 
 foundation — that is, at the kitchen floor? 
 
 So Mr. Morgan and his employer conversed as the latter's 
 toilet proceeded. There had been a Drawing-room on the day 
 previous, and the Major read among the presentations that of 
 Ladj' Clavering by Lady Rockminster, and of Miss Amory by 
 her mother Lady Clavering, — and in a further part of the 
 paper their dresses were described, with a precision and in a 
 jargon which will puzzle and amuse the antiquary of future 
 generations. The sight of these names carried Pendennis back 
 to the countr}'. " How long have the Claverings been in Lon- 
 don?" he asked ; " praj', Morgan, have 3'ou seen any of their 
 people ? " 
 
 " Sir Francis have sent away his foring man, sir," Mr. 
 Morgan replied ; " and have took a friend of mine as own man, 
 sir. Indeed he applied on my reckmendation. You may reck- 
 lect Towler, sir, — tall red-aired man — but d>-es his air. Was 
 groom of the chambers in Lord Levant's famly till his Lord- 
 ship broke hup. It's a fall for Towler, sir ; but pore men can't 
 be particklar," said the valet, with a pathetic voice. 
 
 "Devilish hard on Towler, by gad!" said the Major, 
 amused, " and not pleasant for Lord Levant — he, he ! " 
 
 " Alwa\'s knew it was coming, sir. I spoke to you of it 
 Michaelmas was four 3-ears : when her Ladyship put the dia- 
 monds in pawn. It was Towler, sir, took 'em in two cabs to 
 Dobree's — and a good deal of the plate went the same way. 
 Don't you remember seeing of it at Blackwall, -nath the Levant 
 arms and coronick, and Lord Levant settn oppsit to it at the 
 Marquis of Steyne's dinner? Beg your pardon ; did I cut you, 
 sir?" 
 
 Morgan was now operating upon the Major's chin — he con- 
 tinued the theme while strapping the skilful razor. " They've 
 took a house in Grosvenor Place, and are coming out strong, 
 sir. Her ladyship's going to give three parties, besides a 
 dinner a week, sir. Her fortune won't stand it — can't stand 
 it." 
 
 "• Gad, she had a devilish good cook when I was at Fair- 
 oaks," the jNIajor said, with very little compassion for the widow 
 Amory's fortune. 
 
 " Marobblan was his name, sir; — Marobblan's gone away,
 
 PENDENNIS. 367 
 
 sir," Morgan said, — and the Major, this time, with hearty 
 sympathy, said, '^ he was devilish soitv to lose him." 
 
 '• There's been a tremenjuous row about that Mosseer Ma- 
 robblun," Morgan continued. " At a ball at Baymouth, sir, 
 bless his impadence, he challenged Mr. Harthur to light a jewel, 
 sir, which Mr. Harthur was very near knocking him down, and 
 pitchin' him outawinder, and serve him right ; but Chevalier 
 Strong, sir, came up and stopped the shindy- — I beg pardon, 
 the holtercation, sir — them French cooks has as much pride 
 and hinsolence as if they was real gentlemen." 
 
 '' I heard something of that quarrel," said the Major ; " but 
 Mu'obolant was not turned oft" for that?" 
 
 ''No, sir — that arfair, sir, which Mr. Harthur forgave it 
 him and beaved most handsome, was huslied hup : it was 
 about Miss Hamory, sir, that he ad is dismissial. Those French 
 fellers, they fauc}' ever^'body is in love with 'em ; and he 
 climbed up the large grape-vine to her winder, sir, and was a 
 trying to get in, when he was caught, sir ; and Mr. Strong 
 came out, and the}' got the garden-engine and played on him, 
 and there was no end of a row, sir." 
 
 "■Confound his impudence! You don't mean to say Miss 
 Amory encouraged him," cried the Major, amazed at a peculiar 
 expression in Mr. Morgan's countenance. 
 
 Morgan resumed his imperturbable demeanor. " Know 
 nothing about it, sir. Servants don't know them kind of things 
 the least. Most probbly there was nothing in it — so many 
 lies is told about families — Marobblan went aM^ay, bag and 
 baggage, saucepans, and pianna, and all — the feller ad a 
 pianna, and wrote potr}' in French, and he took a lodging at 
 Clavering, and he hankered about the primises. and it was said 
 that Madame Fribsb}', the milliner, brought letters to Miss 
 Hamory, though I don't believe a word about it ; nor that he 
 tried to pison hisself with charcoal, which it was all a humbug 
 betwigst him and Madame Fribsby ; and he was nearl}^ shot by 
 the keeper in the park." 
 
 In the course of that very day, it chanced that the Major 
 had stationed himself in the great window of Bays's Club in 
 St. James's Street, at the liouj* in the afternoon when you seo 
 a half-score of respectable old bucks similarly recreating them- 
 selves (Bays's is rather an old-fashioned place of resort now, 
 and many of its members more than middle-aged ; but in the 
 time of the T*rince Kegent, these old fellows occupied the same 
 window, and were some of the very greatest dandies in this
 
 368 PENDENNIS. 
 
 empire) — Major Pendennis was looking from the gi-eat window, 
 and spied liis nepliew Arthur waUiing down the street in com- 
 pany with his friend Mr. Popjoy. 
 
 ''Look!" said Popjoy to Pen, as tJiey passed, "did you 
 ever pass Bays's at four o'clock, without seeing that collection 
 of old fogies? It's a regular museum. They ought to be cast 
 in wax, and set up at Madame Tussaud's — " 
 
 " — In a chamber of old horrors by themselves," Pen said, 
 laughing. 
 
 ''—In the chamber of horrors! Gad, dooced good!" 
 Pop cried. "They are old rogues, most of 'em, and no mis- 
 take. There's old Blondel ; there's my uncle Colchicum, the 
 most confounded old sinner in Europe ; there's — hullo ! there's 
 somebody rapping the window and nodding at us." 
 
 "It's my uncle, the Major," said Pen. "Is he an old 
 sinner too ? " 
 
 " Notorious old rogue," Pop said, wagging his head. 
 ("Notowious old wogue," he pronounced the words, thereby 
 rendering them much more emphatic.) " He's beckoning you 
 in ; he wants to speak to you." 
 
 " Come in too," Pen said. 
 
 " —Can't," repUed the other. " Cut uncle Col. two years 
 ago, about Mademoiselle Frangipane — Ta, ta," and the young 
 sinner took leave of Pen, and the club of the elder criminals, 
 and sauntered into Blacquiere's, an adjacent establishment, 
 frequented b}- reprobates of his own age. 
 
 Colchicum, Blondel, and the senior bucks had just been con- 
 versing about the Clavering family, whose appearance in Lon- 
 don had formed the subject of Major Pendennis's morning 
 conversation with his valet. Mr. Blondel's house was next to 
 that of Sir Francis Clavering, in Grosvenor Place : giving very 
 good dinners himself, he had remarked some activity in his 
 neighbor's kitchen. Sir Francis, indeed, had a new chef, who 
 had come in more than once and dressed Mr. Blondel's dinner 
 for him ; that gentleman having only a remarkably expert female 
 artist permanently engaged in his establishment, and employ- 
 ing such chefs of note as happened to be free on the occasion 
 of his grand banquets. " They go to a devilish expense and 
 see devilish bad company as yet, I hear," Mr. Blondel said, — 
 " they scour the streets, by gad. to get people to dine with 'em. 
 Champignon says it breaks his heart to serve up a dinner to 
 their societ}-. What a shame it is that those low people should 
 have money at all," cried ]Mr. Blondel, whose grandfather had 
 been a reputable leather-breeches maker, and whose father had 
 lent money to the Princea '
 
 PENDEXNIS. 369 
 
 " I wish I had fallen in with the widow myself," sighed Lord 
 Colchieuui, '"and not been laid up with that confounded gout 
 at Leghorn. — I would have married tiie woman myself. — I'm 
 told she has six hundred thousand pounds in the Threes." 
 
 " Not quite so much as that, — I knew her family in India," 
 Major Pendennis said. "I knew her family in India: her 
 father was an enormousl}- rich old indigo-planter, — know all 
 about her, — Clavering has the next estate to ours in the country-. 
 — Ha! there's m}' nephew walking with" — ''With mine, — 
 the infernal .young scamp," said Lord Colchicum, glowering at 
 Popjo}- out of his heavy eyebrows ; and he turned away from 
 the window as Major Pendennis tapped upon it. 
 
 The Major was in high good-humor. The sun was bright, 
 the air brisk and invigorating. He had determined upon a visit 
 to Lady Clavering on that da}", and bethought him that Arthur 
 would be a good companion for the walk across the Green Park 
 to her ladyship's door. Master Pen was not displeased to 
 accompan}' his iUastrious relative, who pointed out a dozen 
 great men in their brief transit through St. James's Street, and 
 got bows from a Duke, at a crossing, a Bishop (on a cob), and 
 a Cabinet Minister with an umbrella. The Duke gave the elder 
 Pendennis a finger of a pipe-clayed glove to shake, which the 
 Major embraced with great veneration ; and all Pen's blood 
 tingled, as he found himself in actual communication, as it 
 were, with this famous man (for Pen had possession of the 
 Major's left arm, whilst that gentleman's other wing was engaged 
 witli his Grace's right), and he wished all Grey Friars' School, 
 all Oxbridge LTniversitj-, all Paternoster Row and the Temple, 
 and Laura and his mother at Fairoaks, could be standing on 
 each side of the street, to see the meeting between him and his 
 uncle, and the most famous duke in Christendom. 
 
 " How do, Pendennis ? — fine day," were his Grace's remark- 
 able words, and with a nod of his august head he passed on — 
 in a blue frock-coat and spotless white duck trousers, in a 
 white stock, with a shining l)uckle behind. 
 
 Old Pendennis, whose likeness to his Grace has been re- 
 marked, began to imitate him unconsciously', after they had 
 parted, speaking with curt sentences, after the manner of the 
 great man. We have all of us, no doubt, met with more than 
 one military officer who has so imitated the manner of a certain 
 Great Captain of the Age ; and has, perhaps, changed his own 
 natural character and disposition, because Fate had endowed 
 him with an aquiline nose. In like manner have we not seen 
 many another man j^ride himself on having a tall forehead and 
 
 24
 
 370 PENDENNIS. 
 
 a supposed likeness to Mr. Canning ? many another go through 
 life swelling with self-gratification on account of an imagined 
 resemblance (we say " imagined," because that anybodj' should 
 be really like that most beautiful and perfect of men is impossi- 
 ble) to the great and revered George IV. : many tnird parties, 
 who wore low necks to their dresses because they fancied that 
 Lord B3ron and themselves were similar in appearance : and 
 has not the g:-ave closed but lately upon poor Tom Bickerstaff, 
 who, having no more imagination than Mr. Jostrph Hume, looked 
 in the glass and fancied himself like Shakspeare? shaved his 
 forehead so as farther to resemble the immortal bard, wrote 
 tragedies incessantlj', and died perfectl3' cra^}- — actually per- 
 ished of his forehead? These or similar freaks of vanit}' most 
 people who have frequented the world must have seen in their 
 experience. Pen laughed in his roguish sleeve at the manner 
 in which his uncle began to imitate the great man from whom 
 they had just parted : but Mr. Pen was as vain in ids own way, 
 perhaps, as the elder gentleman, and strutted, with a very con- 
 sequential air of his own, b}^ the Major's side. 
 
 "Yes, my dear boy," said the old bachelor, as the}- saun- 
 tered through the Green Park, where many poor children were 
 disporting happih^, and errand boys were plaj'ing at toss half- 
 pennjs and black sheep were grazing in the sunshine, and an 
 actor was learning his part on a bench, and nursery maids and 
 their charges sauntered here and there, and several couples were 
 walking in a leisurely manner; "• 3'es, depend on it, my bo}' ; 
 for a poor man, there is nothing like having good acquaintances. 
 Who were those men, with whom 3'ou saw me in the bow-win- 
 dow at Bays's? Two were Peers of the realm. Hobananob 
 will be a Peer, as soon as his grand-uncle dies, and he has had 
 his third seizure ; and of the other four, not one has less than 
 his seven thousand a 3-ear. Did 3'ou see that dark blue brough- 
 am, with that tremendous stepping horse, waiting at the door 
 of the club? You'll know it again. It is Sir Hugh Trumping- 
 ton's ; he was never known to walk in his life ; never appears 
 in the streets on foot — never : and if he is going two doors off, 
 to see his mother, the old dowager (to whom 1 shall certainl}'' 
 introduce vou, for she receives some of the best compan3^ in 
 London), gad, sir, he mounts his horse at No. 23, and dis 
 mounts again at No. 25 a. He is now up stairs, at Ba3's's, 
 playing piquet wdth Count Punter : he is the second-best pla3'er 
 in England — as well he ma3' be ; for he pla3-s ever3- da3- of his 
 life, except Sunda3's (for Sir Hugh is an uncommonly rehgious 
 man), from half past three till half past seven, when he dresses 
 for dinner."
 
 PENDEXNIS. 371 
 
 *' A ver}' pious manner of spending his time," Pen said, 
 laughing, and thinliing that his uncle was falling into the twad- 
 dling state. 
 
 " Gad, sir, that is not the question. A man of his estate 
 ma^' employ- his time as he chooses. When you are a baronet, 
 a count}- member, with ten thousand acres of the best land in 
 Cheshire, and such a place as Trum[)ington (though he never 
 goes there), you may do as ^^ou like." 
 
 '■ And so that was his brougham, sir, was it?" the nephew 
 said, with almost a sneer. 
 
 ''His brougham — O ay, yes I — and that brings me back 
 to my point — revenons a nos moutons. Yes, begad! reve- , 
 nons a nos moutons. Well, that brougham is mine if I choose, 
 between four and seven. Just as much mine as if I jobbed it 
 from Tilbur^^s, begad, for thirty pound a month. Sir Hugh is 
 the best-natured fellow in the world ; and if it hadn't been so 
 fine an afternoon as it is, you and I would have been in that 
 brougham at this very minute, on our way to Grosvenor Place. 
 That is the benefit of knowing rich men ; — I dine for nothing, 
 sir; — I go into the country-, and I'm mounted for nothing. 
 Other fellows keep hounds and gamekeepers for me. Sic vos 
 Hon vobis, as we used to say at Grey Friars, hey? I'm of the 
 opinion of my old friend Leech, of the Forty-fourth ; and a 
 devilish good shrewd fellow he was, as most Scotchmen ai-e. 
 Gad, sir. Leech used to say, ' He was so poor that he couldn't 
 afl!brd to know a poor man.' " 
 
 "You don't act up to your principles, uncle," Pen said, 
 good-naturedly. 
 
 "Up to my principles; how, sir?" the Major asked, rather 
 testily. 
 
 " You would have cut me in Saint James's Street, sir," Pen 
 said, "were your practice not more benevolent than your theory ; 
 you who live with dukes and magnates of the land, and would 
 take no notice of a poor devil like me." B3' which speech we 
 may see that Mr. Pen was getting on in the world, and could 
 flatter as well as laugh in his sleeve. 
 
 Major Pendennis was appeased instantly, and verj' much 
 pleased. He tapped affectionately^ his nephew's arm on which 
 he was leaning, and said, — "You, sir, you are my flesh and 
 blood ! Hang it, sir, I've been very proud of 30U and verj- fond 
 of you, but for your confounded follies and extravagances — 
 and wild oats, sir, wiiich I hope 3-ou've sown. Yes, begad! I 
 hope you've sown 'em ; I hope you've sown 'em, ])egad ! My 
 object, Arthur, is io make a man of you — to see you well placed
 
 372 PENDENNIS. 
 
 in the world, as becomes one of your name and my own, sir. 
 You have got yourself a little reputation by 3'our literary talents, 
 which I am ver}" far from undervaluing, though in ni}' time, 
 begad, poetr}' and genius and that sort of thing were devilish 
 disreputable. There was poor Byron, for instance, who ruined 
 himself, and contracted the worst habits b}- living with poets 
 and newspaper-writers, and people of that kind. But the times 
 are changed now — there's a run upon literature — clever fellows 
 get into the best houses in town, begad ! Tempora mutanhir, 
 sir, and, b}' Jove, I suppose whatever is is right, as Shakspeare 
 says." 
 
 Pen did not think fit to tell his uncle who was the author 
 who had made use of that remarkable phrase, and here descend- 
 ing from the Green Park, the pair made their way into Gros- 
 venor Place, and to the door of the mansion occupied there by 
 Sir Francis and Lady Clavering. 
 
 The dining-room shutters of this handsome mansion were 
 freshly gilded ; the knockers shone gorgeous upon the newly 
 painted door ; the balcon^^ before the drawing-room bloomed 
 with a portable garden of the most beautiful plants, and with 
 flowers, white, and pink, and scarlet ; the windows of the upper 
 room (the sacred chamber and dressing-room of ray lady, doubt- 
 less), and even a prettj' little casement of the third story, which 
 keen-sighted Mr. Pen presumed to belong to the virgin bedroom 
 of Miss Blanche Amory, were similariy adorned with floral 
 ornaments, and the whole exterior face of the house presented 
 the most brilliant aspect which fresh new paint, shining plate 
 glass, newly cleaned bricks, and spotless mortar, could offer to 
 the beholder. 
 
 "How Strong must have rejoiced in organizing all this 
 splendor," thought Pen. He recognized the Chevalier's genius 
 in the magnificence before him. 
 
 " Lady Clavering is going out for her drive," the Major said. 
 "We shall only have to leave our pasteboards, Arthur." He 
 used the word "pasteboards," having heard it from some of 
 the ingenious youth of the nobilit}' about town, and as a modern 
 phrase suited to Pen's tender years. Indeed, as the two gentle- 
 men reached the door, a landau drove up, a magnificent yellow 
 carriage, lined with brocade or satin of a faint cream color, 
 drawn by wonderful grey horses, with flaming ribbons, and 
 harness blazins; all over with crests : no less than three of these 
 heraldic emblems surmounted the coats of arms on the panels, 
 and these shields contained a prodigious number of quarterings, 
 betokening the antiquity and splendor of the houses of Clav<?r-
 
 \ 
 
 PEXDENNIS. \ 373 
 
 ing and Snell. A coachman in a tight silver wig surmounted 
 the magnificent hammercloth (whereon the same arms were 
 worked in bullion), and controlled the prancing greys — a young 
 man still, but of a solemn countenance, with a laced waistcoat 
 and buckles in his shoes — little buckles, unhke those which 
 John and Jeames, the footmen, wear, and which we know are 
 large, and spread elegantly over the foot. 
 
 One of the leaves of the hall door was opened, and John — 
 one of the largest of his race — was leanin<; aafainst the door 
 pillar, with his ambrosial hair powdered, his legs crossed ; 
 beautiful, silk-stockinged ; in his hand his cane, gold-headed, 
 dolichoskion. Jeames was invisible, but near at hand, waiting 
 in the hall, with the gentleman who does not wear livery, and 
 read}- to fling down the roll of hair-cloth over which her lady- 
 ship was to step to her carriage. These things and men, the 
 which to tell of demands time, are seen in the glance of a prac- 
 tised eye : and, in fact, the Major and Pen had scarcely crossed 
 the street, when the second battant of the door flew open ; the 
 horse-hair carpet tumbled down the door-steps to those of the 
 carriage ; John was opening it on one side of the emblazoned 
 door, and Jeames on the other, and two ladies, attired in the 
 highest style of fashion, and accompanied by a third, who car- 
 ried a Blenheim spaniel, j-elping in a light blue ribbon, came 
 forth to ascend the carriage. 
 
 Miss Amor}- was the first to enter, which she did with aerial 
 lightness, and took the place which she liked best. Lady Clav- 
 ering next followed, but her ladyship was more mature of age 
 and heavy of foot, and one of those feet, attired in a green 
 satin boot, with some part of a stocking, which was very fine, 
 whatever the ankle might be which it encircled, might be seen 
 swa3ing on the carriage-step, as her lad^'ship leaned for support 
 on the arm of the unbending Jeames, b}- the enraptured ob- 
 server of female beauty who happened to be passing at the time 
 of this imposing ceremonial. 
 
 The Pendennises senior and junior beheld those charms as 
 they came up to the door — the Major looking grave and 
 courtl}-, and Pen somewhat abashed at the carriage and its 
 owners ; for he thought of sundry little passages at Clavering, 
 which made his heart beat rather quick. 
 
 At that moment Lady Clavering, looking round, saw the 
 pair — she was on the first carriage-step, and would have been 
 in the vehicle in another second, but she gave a start backwards 
 (which caused some of the powder to fly from the hair of am- 
 brosial Jeames), and crying out, " Lor, if it isn't Arthur Pen-
 
 374 / 
 
 PENDENNIS. 
 
 dennis and the old Major ! " jumped back to terra firma directly, 
 and holding; out two fat hands, encased in tight orange-colored 
 gloves, tlie good-natured woman warmh- greeted the Major and 
 his nephew. 
 
 " Come in both of you. — Why haven't j'ou been before? — 
 Get out, Blanche, and come and see your old friends. — O, I'm 
 so glad to see you. We've been waitin' and waitin' for you ever 
 so long. Come in, luncheon ain't gone down," cried out this 
 hospitable lady, squeezing Pen's hand in both hers (she had 
 dropped the Major's after a brief wrench of recognition), and 
 Blanche, casting np her eyes towards the chimneys, descended 
 from the carriage presently, with a timid, blushing, appealing 
 look, and gave a little hand to Major Pendennis. 
 
 The companion with the spaniel looked about irresolute, and 
 doubting whether she should not take Fido his airing ; but she 
 too turned right about face and entered the house after Lady 
 Clavering, her daughter, and the two gentlemen. And the 
 carriage, with the prancing greys, was left unoccupied, save by 
 the coachman in the silver wig. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 IN WHICH THE SYLPH REAPPEARS. 
 
 Better folks than Morgan, the valet, were not so well in- 
 structed as that gentleman, regarding the amount of Lady Clav- 
 ering's riches ; and the legend in London, upon her ladjship's 
 arrival in the polite metropolis, was, that her fortune was enor- 
 mous. Indigo factories, opium clippers, banks overflowing with 
 rupees, diamonds and jewels of native princes, and vast sums of 
 interest paid by them for loans contracted by themselves or their 
 predecessors to Lady Clavering's father, were mentioned as 
 sources of her wealth. Her account at her London banker's 
 was positively known, and the sum embraced so man}' cyphers 
 as to create as man}' O's of admiration in the wondering hearer. 
 It was a known fact that an envoy from an Indian Prince, a 
 Colonel Altamont, the Nawaub of Lucknow's prime favorite, an 
 extraordinary man, who had, it was said, embraced Mahomet- 
 anism, and undergone a thousand wild and perilous adventures, 
 was at present in this country, trAing to negotiate with the
 
 PENDENNIS. 375 
 
 Begum Clavering, the sale of the Nawaub's celebrated nose- 
 ring diamond, '' the light of the Dewau." 
 
 Under the title of the Begum, Ladv Claverin^'s fame began 
 to spread in London before she herself descended upon the 
 Capital, and as it has been the boast of Delolme, and Blaek- 
 stone, and all panegyrists of tlie Britisli Constitution, that we 
 admit into our aristocracy merit of every kind, and that tlie 
 jlowhest-born man, if he but deserve it, may wear the robes of 
 a peer, and sit alongside of a Cavendish or a Stanley : so it 
 ought to be the boast of our good society, that haughty though 
 it be, naturally jealous of its privileges, and careful who shall 
 be admitted into its circle, yet, if an individual be but rich 
 enough, all barriers are instantly removed, and he or she is 
 welcomed, as from his wealth he merits to be. This ftict 
 shows our British independence and honest feeling — our higher 
 orders are not such mere haughty aristocrats as the ignorant 
 represent them : on the contrary, if a man have monej' they 
 will hold out then" hands to him, eat his dinners, dance at his 
 balls, many his daughters, or give their own lovely girls to his 
 sons, as atfabh' as your commonest roturier would do. 
 
 As he had superintended the arrangements of the countr}' 
 mansion, our friend, the Chevalier Strong, gave the benefit of 
 his taste and advice to the fashionable London upholsterers, 
 who prepared the town house for the reception of the Clavering 
 family. In the decoration of this elegant abode, honest Strong's 
 soul rejoiced as much as if he had been himself its proprietor. 
 He hung and I'c-hung the pictures, he studied tiie positions of 
 sofas, he had interviews with wine merchants and purveyors 
 who were to supply the new establishment ; and at the same 
 time the Baronef s factotum and confidential friend took the 
 opportimity of furnishing his own chambers, and stocking his 
 snug little cellar: his friends complimented him upon the neat- 
 ness of the former ; and the select guests who came in to share 
 Strong's cutlet now found a bottle of excellent claret to accom- 
 pany the meal. The Chevalier was now, as he said, " in 
 clover : " he had a very comfortable set of rooms in Shepherd's 
 Inn. He was waited on by a former Spanish Legionary and 
 comrade of his whom he had left at a breach of a Spanish fort, 
 and found at a crossing in Tottenham Court Road, and whom 
 he had elevated to the rank of body-serv;int to himself and to 
 the chum who, at present, shared his lodgings. This was no 
 other than the favorite of the Nawaub of Lucknow, the valiant 
 Colonel Altamont. 
 
 No man was less curious, or, at anv rate, more discreet, than
 
 376 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Ned Strong, and he did not care to inquire into the mysterious 
 connection which, very soon after their first meeting at Bay- 
 mouth, was estabhshed between Sir Francis Clavering and the 
 envoy of the Nawaub. The latter knew some secret regarding 
 the former, which put Clavering into his power, somehow ; and 
 Strong, who knew that his patron's early life had been rather 
 irregular, and that his career with his regiment in India had 
 not been brilliant, supposed that the Colonel, who swore he 
 knew Clavering well at Calcutta, had some hold upon Sir 
 Francis, to which the latter was forced to yield. In truth, 
 Strong had long understood Sir Francis Clavei'ing's character, 
 as that of a man utterl}' weak in purpose, in principle, and in- 
 tellect, a moral and physical trifler and poltroon. 
 
 With poor Clavering, his P^xcellencj' had had one or two 
 interviews after their Baymouth meeting, the nature of which 
 conversations the Baronet did not confide to Strong : although 
 he sent letters to Altamont by that gentleman, who was his 
 ambassador in all sorts of affairs. On one of these occasions 
 the Nawaub's envoy must have been in an exceeding ill-humor ; 
 for he crushed Clavering's letter in his hand, and said with his 
 own particular manner and empliasis : — 
 
 "A hundred be hanged. I'U have no more letters nor no 
 more shilly-shally. Tell Clavering I'll have a thousand, or by 
 Jove I'll split, and burst him all to atoms. Let him give me 
 a thousand and I'll go abroad, and I give you m^^ honor as a 
 irentleman, I'll not ask him for no more for a year. Give him 
 that message from me. Strong, my boy ; and tell him if the 
 monej" ain't here next Friday at 12 o'clock, as sure as my 
 name's what it is, I'll have a paragraph in the newspaper on 
 Saturday, and next week I'll blow up the whole concern." 
 
 Strong carried back these words to his principal, on whom 
 their effect was such that actually on the day and hour ap- 
 pointed, the Chevalier made his appearance once more at Alta- 
 mont's hotel at Baymouth, with the sum of mone}' required. 
 Altamont was a gentleman, he said, and behaved as such ; he 
 paid his bill at the Inn, and the Baj'mouth paper announced 
 his departure on a foreign tour. Strong saw him embark at 
 Dover. " It must be forgery at the very least," he thought, 
 ' ' that has put Clavering into this fellow's power, and the Colo- 
 nel has got the bill." 
 
 Before the 3^ear was out, however, this happy countr}' saw 
 the Colonel once more upon its shores. A confounded run on 
 the red had finished him, he said, at Baden Baden : no gentle- 
 man could stand against a color coming up fourteen times. He
 
 PENDENJ^IS. 377 
 
 had been obliged to draw u[)()ii Sir Fianeis Clavering for means 
 of retaining home: and ClaAering, though pressed for money 
 (for he had election expenses, had set up his establishment in 
 the country, and was engageil in furnishing his London house), 
 yet found means to accept Colonel Altamont's bill, though 
 evidently very much against his will : for in Strong's hearing, 
 Sir Francis wished to heaven, with many curses, that the Colo- 
 nel could have been locked up in a debtors gaol in Cernianv 
 for life, so that he might never be troubled again. 
 
 These sums for the Colonel Sir Francis was obliged to raise 
 without the knowledge of his wife ; for though perfectly liberal. 
 nay, sumptuous in her expenditure, the good lad}' had inher- 
 ited a tolerable aptitude for business along with the lai'ge for- 
 tune of her father, Suell, and gave to her husband onl}' such a 
 handsome allowance as she thought befitted a gentleman of his 
 rank. Now and again she would give him a present, or pay 
 an outstanding gambling debt ; but she always exacted a i)rctty 
 accurate account of the moneys so required : and respecting the 
 subsidies to the Colonel. Clavering fairly told Strong that he 
 couldn't speak to his wife. 
 
 Part of Mr. Strong's business in life was to procure this 
 money and other sums, for his patron. And in the Chevalier's 
 apartments, in Shepherd's Inn, many negotiations took place 
 between gentlemen of the moneyed world and Sir Francis Cla\- 
 ering ; and many valuable bank-notes and pieces of stamped 
 paper were passed between them. AVhen a man has been in 
 the habit of getting in debt from his earl}- youth, and of ex- 
 changing his promises to pay at twelve months against present 
 sums of money, it would seem as if no piece of good fortune 
 ever permanently benefited him : a little while after the advent 
 of prosperity, the money-lender is prttty certain to be in the 
 house again, and the bills with the old signature in the market. 
 Clavering found it more convenient to see these gentry aJ 
 Strong's lodgings than at his own ; and such was the Cheva- 
 lier's friendship for the Baronet, that although he did not pos- 
 sess a shilling of his own, his name might be seen as the drawer 
 of almost all the ])ills of exchange which Sir Francis Clavering 
 accepted. Having drawn Clavering's bills, he got them dis- 
 counted '' in the City." When they became due he parleyed' 
 with the bill-holders, and gave them instalments of their debt, 
 or got time in exchange for fVesh acceptances. Regularly or 
 irregularly, gentlemen must live somehow : and as we read 
 how. the other day, at Comorn, the troops formnig that garri- 
 son were gay and lively, acted plays, danced at balls, and cou 
 
 IcI
 
 378 PENDENNIS. 
 
 sumed their rations ; though meuaced with an assault from the 
 enemy without the walls, and with a gallows if the Austrians 
 were successful, — so there are hundreds of gallant spirits in 
 this town, walking about in good spirits, dining every day in 
 tolerable ga3'et3' and plenty, and going to sleep comfortably ■, 
 with a bailiff always more or less near, and a rope of debt round 
 their necks — the which trifling inconveniences Ned Strong, the 
 old soldier, bore ver^- easily. 
 
 But we shall have another opportunity of making acquaint- 
 ance with these and some other interesting inhabitants of Shep- 
 herd's Inn, and in the meanwhile are keeping Lady Clavering 
 and her friends too long waiting on the door-steps of Grosvenor 
 Place. 
 
 First they went into the gorgeous dining-room, fitted up. 
 Lady Clavering couldn't for goodness gracious tell why, in the 
 middle-aged style, " unless," said her good-natured ladyship, 
 laughing, " because me and Clavering are middle-aged people ;" 
 
 — and here they were offered the copious remains of the lun- 
 cheon of which Lady Clavering and Blanche had just partaken. 
 When nobody was near, our little Sylphide, who scarcely ate at 
 dinner more than the six grains of I'ice of Amina, the friend 
 of the Ghouls in the Arabian Nights, was most active with her 
 knife and fork, and consumed a very substantial portion of mut- 
 ton cutlets : in which piece of hypocrisy it is believed she resem- 
 bled other 3'oung ladies of fashion. Pen and his uncle declined 
 the refection, but they admired the dining-room with fitting 
 compUments, and pronounced it " very chaste," that being the 
 proper phrase. There were, indeed, high-backed Dutch chairs 
 of the seventeenth century ; there was a sculptured carved buflfet 
 of the sixteenth ; there was a sideboard robbed out of the carved 
 work of a church in the Low Countries, and a large brass cathe 
 dral lamp over the round oak table ; there were old famil^y por- 
 traits from Wardour Street, and tapestry from France, bits ol 
 armor, double-handed swords and battle-axes made of carton- 
 pierre, looking-glasses, statuettes of saints, and Dresden chini 
 
 — nothing, in a word, could be chaster. Behind the dining- 
 room was the library, fitted with busts and books all of a size, 
 and wonderful easy-chairs, and solemn bronzes in the severe 
 classic style. Here it was that, guarded b}^ double doors, Sir 
 Francis smoked cigars, and read " Bell's Life in London," and 
 went to sleep after dinner, when he was not smoking over the 
 billiard-table at his clubs, or punting at the gambling-houses in 
 Saint James's. 
 
 But what could equal the chaste splendor of the drawing-
 
 PENDEXNTS. 1579 
 
 rooms? — the carpets were so magnificenth- fluffy that 3'our 
 loot made no more noise on them than 3'our shadow : on their 
 white ground bloomed roses and tulips as big as warming-pans : 
 about the room were high chairs and low chairs, bandy-legged 
 chairs, chairs so attenuated that it was a wonder any but a sylph 
 could sit upon them, marqueterie-tables covered with marvel- 
 lous gimeracks, china oi-naments of all ages and countries, 
 bronzes, gilt daggers, Books of Beauty, yataghans, Turkish 
 papooshes and boxes of Parisian bonbons. Wherever 3'ou sat 
 down there were Dresden shepherds and shepherdesses con- 
 venient at your elbow ; there were, moreover, light blue poodles 
 and ducks and cocks and hens in porcelain ; there were nymphs 
 by Boucher, and shepherdesses by Greuze, very chaste indeed ; 
 there were muslin curtains and brocade curtains, gilt cages 
 with paroquets and love birds, two squealing cockatoos, each 
 out-squealing and out-chattering the other ; a clock singing 
 tunes on a console-table, and another booming the hours like 
 Great Tom, on the mantel-piece — there was, in a word, ever}'- 
 thing that comfort could desire, and the most elegant taste de- 
 vise. A London drawing-room, fitted up without regard to 
 expense, is surel}' one of the noblest and most curious sights 
 of the present da}-. The Romans of the Lower Empire, the 
 dear Marchionesses and Countesses of Louis XV. , could scarce- 
 ly have had a finer taste than our modern folks exhibit ; and 
 everybody who saw Lad\' Clavering's reception-rooms was 
 forced to confess that the}' were most elegant ; and that the 
 prettiest rooms in London — Lady Harley Quin's, Lady Han- 
 way Wardour's, or Mrs. Hodge-Podgson's own, the great Rail- 
 road Cra3sus' wife, were not fitted up with a more consummate 
 '•' chastity." 
 
 Poor Lady Clavering, meanwhile, knew little rogai-ding these 
 things, and had a sad want of respect for the splendors aroun(^ 
 her. ' ' I onl}- know they cost a precious deal of money. 
 Major," she said to her guest, " and that I don't advise j'ou to 
 try one of them gossamer gilt chairs : /came down on one the 
 night we gave om- second dinner-party. Why didn't 3*ou cx)me 
 and see us before ? We'd have asked 3'OU to it." 
 
 " You would have liked to see Mamma break a chair, 
 wouldn't \'ou, Mr. Pendennis?" dear Blanche said with a sneer. 
 She was angry because Pen was talking and laughing with 
 Mamma, because Mamma had made a number of blunders in 
 describing the house — for a hundred other good reasons. 
 
 '• 1 should like to have been l)y to give Lady Clavering my 
 arm if she had need of it," Pen answered, with a bow and « 
 blush.
 
 380 PENDENNIS. 
 
 " Q>irJ j^rrtix (Vicmlier!" cried the Sylpliidc, tossing up litr 
 little head. 
 
 '' 1 have a t'ellow-feeling with those who fall, remember," 
 Pen said. '' I suffered mjself very much from doing so once." 
 
 "•And you went home to Laura to console 3'ou,"' said Miss 
 Amory. Pen winced. lie did not like the remembrance of 
 the consolation which Laura had gi^x■n to him, nor was he very 
 well pleased to fnid that his rebuff in tluit (quarter was known 
 to the world : so as he had nothing to say in repl}-, he began to 
 be immensely interested in the furniture round about him, nud 
 to praise Lady Clavering's taste with all his might. 
 
 "Me, don't praise me," said honest Lady Clavering, "it's 
 all the upholsterer's doings and Captain Strong's ; they did it 
 all while we was at the Park — and — and — Lady Hockminster 
 has been here and says the salongs are very well," said Lady 
 Clavering, with an air and tone of great deference. 
 
 " M3' cousin Laura has been staying with her," Pen said. 
 
 " It's not the dowager : it is t/te Lady Rockminster." 
 
 "Indeed!" cried Major Pendennis, when he heard this 
 gi-eat name of fashion. " If you have hei' ladyship's approval, 
 Lady Clavering, you cannot be far Avrong. No, no, you cannot 
 be far wrong. Lady Rockminster, I should say, Arthur, is the 
 ver}' centre of the circle of fashion and taste. The rooms are 
 beautiful indeed I " and the Major's voice hushed as he spoke 
 of this great lady, and he looked round and surve3'ed the apart- 
 ments awfully and respectfully, as if he had lieen at church. 
 
 "Yes, Lady Rockminster has took us up," said Lady 
 Clavering. 
 
 " Taken us up, Mamma," cried Blanche, in a shrill voice. 
 
 "Well, taken us up, then," said my lady, " it's very kind 
 of her. anil I dare say we shall like it when we git used to it, 
 only at first one don't fancy being took — well, taken up, at all. 
 She is going to give our balls for us ; and wants to invite all 
 our diners. But I won't stand that. I will have my old friends 
 and 1 won't let her send all the cards out, and sit mum at the 
 head of my own table. You must come to me, Arthur and Major 
 — come, let me see, on the 14th. — It ain't one of our grjind 
 dinners, Blanche," she said, looking round at her daughter, 
 who bit her lips and frowned very savagely for a sylphide. 
 
 The Major, with a smile and a bow, said he would much 
 rather come to a quiet meeting than to a grand dinner. He 
 had had enough of those large entertainments, and pi'eferred 
 the simplicity of the home cifcle. 
 
 " I always think a diinier's the best the second da.y," said
 
 FEXDEXXIS. 381 
 
 Lady C'lavering, tliinking to mend her first speech. " On the 
 1 4th we'll be quite a snug little part}* ; " at which second blun- 
 der, Miss Blanche clasped her hands in despair, and said, '* O, 
 Mamma, rous kes incorrigible." Major Pendennis vowed that 
 he liked snug dinners of all things in the world, and confounded 
 her ladyship's impudence for daring to ask such a man as him 
 to a second day's dinner. But he was a man of an economical 
 I urn of mind, and bethinking himself that he could throw ovc-r 
 these people if anything better should offer, he accepted with 
 the blandest air. As for Pen. he was not a diner-out of thirty 
 years' standing as yet, and the itlca of a line feast in a line 
 house was still perfectl3' welcome to him. 
 
 " "What was that pretty little quarrel which engaged itself 
 between your worship and Miss Amory?" the Major asked of 
 Pen, as the}' walked away together. '* I thought you used to 
 be au mieux in that quarter." 
 
 "•Used to be," answered Pen, with a daVidified air, "is a 
 vague phrase regarding a woman, ^^^as and is are two very 
 different terms, sir, as regards women's hearts esi)ecially." 
 
 '• p]gad, the}' change as we do," cried the elder. "When 
 we took the Cape of Good Hope, I recollect there was a lady 
 who talked of poisoning herself for your humble servant; an(l, 
 begad, in three months, she ran away from her husljand with 
 somebody else. Don't get yourself entangled with that ]Miss 
 Amory. 8he is forward, affected, and underbred ; and her 
 character is somewhat — never mind what. But don't think of 
 her ; ten thousand pound won't do for yon. AVhat, my good 
 fellow, is ten thousand pound? I would scarcely pay that girl's 
 milliner's bill with the interest of the money." 
 
 " You seem to be a connoisseur in millinery, Uncle," Pen 
 sa'd. 
 
 " 1 was, sir, I was," replied the senior ; " and the old war- 
 horse, you know, never hears the sound of a trumpet. Ixit he 
 begins to he, he! — you understand," — and he gave a killing 
 though somewhat superaiuiuated leei" and bow to a carriage 
 that passed them and entered the Park. 
 
 ' Lady Catherine Martingale's carriage," he said, " mons'ous 
 fine girls the daughters, though, gad, I remember their mother 
 a tlK^iisand times handsomer. Xo, Arthur, my dear fellow, 
 with your person and expectations, you ought to make a good 
 coup in marriage some (lay or other ; and though T wouldn't 
 have this rcqjeatcd at Fairoaks, 30U rogue, ha! ha! a reputa- 
 tion for a little wiskeduess, and for being an homme dangereax, 
 don't liiiit a young fellow with the women. The}' like it, sir —
 
 .^82 FEXDENXIS. 
 
 they hate a milksop . . . young men must be young men, you 
 know. But for marriage," continued the veteran moralist, 
 " that is a very different matter. Marry a woman with money. 
 I've told you before it is as easy to get a rich wife as a poor 
 one ; and a doosed deal more comfortable to sit down to a well- 
 cooked dinner, with your little entrees nicely served, than to 
 have nothing but a damned cold leg of mutton between you 
 and your wife. We shall have a good dinner on the 14th, 
 ,when we dine with Sir Francis Clavering : stick to that, my 
 bo}', in your relations with the family. Cultivate 'em, but keep 
 'em for dining. No more of your youthful follies and nonsense 
 about love in a cottage." 
 
 " It must be a cottage with a double coach-house, a cottage 
 of gentility, sir," said Pen, quoting the hackneyed ballad of 
 the Devil's Walk : but his uncle did not know that poem 
 (though, perhaps, he might be leading Pen upon the ver}' 
 promenade in question), and went on with his philosophical 
 remarks, veiT much pleased with the aptness of the pupil to 
 whom he addressed them. Indeed Arthur Pendennis was a 
 clever fellow, who took his color very readily from his neighbor 
 and found the adaptation only too easy. 
 
 Warrington, the grumbler, growled out that Pen was becom- 
 ing such a pupp3' that soon there would be no bearing him. 
 But the truth is, the young man's success and dashing manners 
 pleased his elder companion. He liked to see Pen gay and 
 spirited, and brimful of health, and life, and hope ; as a man 
 who has long since left off being amused with clown and harle- 
 quin, still gets a pleasure in watching a child at a pantomime. 
 Mr. Pen's former sulkiness disappeared with his better fortune : 
 and he bloomed as the sun began to shine upon him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 IN WHICH COLONEL ALTAMONT APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS. 
 
 On the day appointed. Major Pendennis. who had formed 
 no better engagement, and Ai'thur, who desired none, arrived 
 together to dine with Sir Francis Clavering. The only tenants 
 of the drawing-room when Pen and his uncle reached it, were 
 Sir Francis and his wife, and our friend Captain Strong, whom 
 Arthur was very glad to see, though the Major looked very
 
 PENDENNIS. 383 
 
 sulkih' »l Strong, being by no means well pleased to sit down to 
 
 dinner with Clavering's d house-steward, as he irreverently 
 
 called Strong. But Mr. Welbore Welbore, Clavering's country 
 neighbor and brother member of Parliament, speedil}- arriving, 
 Pendennis the elder was somewhat appeased, lor Welbore, 
 though perfectly dull, and taking no more part in the conver- 
 sation at dinner than the footman behind his chair, was a 
 respectable country gentleman of ancient family and seven 
 thousand a year ; and the Major felt always at ease in such 
 society. To these were added other persons of note : the 
 Dowager Lad3' Rockminster, who had her reasons for being 
 well w'ith the Clavering famil}'. and the Lady Agnes Foker, 
 with her son Mr. Harry, our old acquaintance. Mr. Pynsent 
 could not come, his parliamentary duties keeping him at the 
 House, duties which sat upon the two other senators vcrj' 
 lightly. Miss Blanche Amory was the last of the company 
 who made her appearance. She was dressed in a killing white 
 silk dress, which displayed her pearl}^ shoulders to the utmost 
 advantage. Foker whispered to Pen, who regarded her with 
 e3'es of evident admiration, that he considered her " a stuimer." 
 She chose to be very gracious to Arthur upon this day, and 
 held out her hand most cordialh', and talked about dear Fair- 
 oaks, and asked for dear Laura and his mother, and said she 
 was longing to go back to the countr}', and in fact was entirely 
 simple, affectionate, and artless. 
 
 Harry Foker thought he had never seen an3bod3' so amiable 
 and delightful. Not accustomed much to thr; society of ladies, 
 and ordinaril}- being dumb in their presence, he found that 
 he could speak before Miss Amory, and became uncommonl}- 
 livel}- and talkative, even before the dinner was announced 
 and the party descended to the lower rooms. He would have 
 longed to give his arm to the fair Blanche, and conduct her 
 down the broad carpeted stair ; but she fell to the lot of Pen 
 upon this occasion, Mr. Foker being appointed to escort Mrs. 
 Welbore Welbore, in consequence of his superior rank as an 
 earl's grandson. 
 
 But though he was separated from the object of his desire 
 during the passage down stairs, the delighted Fokci- Ibund him- 
 self by Miss Amory's side at the dinner-table, and flattered 
 himself that he had manoeuvred very well in securing that 
 happy place. It may be that the move was not his, but that it 
 was made by another person. Blanche had thus the two young 
 men, one on each side of her, xnd eacli tried to render himself 
 gallant and sigreeable.
 
 384 PENDENNIS. 
 
 Foker's mamma, from her place, surveying her darling boy. 
 was surprised at his vivacity. Harry talked constantly to his 
 fair neighbor about the topics of the day. 
 
 "Seen Taglioni in tlie Sylphide, Miss Amor}'? Bring me 
 that soupramc of Volile again, if you please (this was addressed 
 to the attendant near him), very good: can't think where the 
 souprames come from ; what becomes of the legs of the fowls. 
 I wonder? She's clipping in the Sylphide, ain't she?" and 
 he began very kindly to hum the pretty air which pervades that 
 prettiest of all ballets, now laded into the past with that most 
 beautiful and gracious of all dancers. Will the 3'oung folks 
 ever see anything so charming, an^'thing so classic, anything . 
 
 like Taglioni? i 
 
 " Miss Amory is a sylph herself," said Mr. Peai. S 
 
 " What a delightful tenor voice you have, Mr. Foker," said 
 the young lad}'. " I am sure you have been well taught. I 
 sing a little myself. I should like to sing with you." 
 
 Pen remembered that words very similar had been addressed 
 to himself by the young lady, and that she had liked to sing 
 with him in former days. And sneering within himself, he 
 wondered, with how many other gentlemen she had sung duets 
 since his time ? But he did not think fit to put this awkward 
 question aloud : and onh' said, with the very tenderest air 
 which he could assume, " I should like to hear 3'ou sing again, 
 Miss Blanche. I never heard a voice I liked so well as 3'ours, 
 I think." 
 
 " I thought you liked Laura's," said Miss Blanche. 
 
 "Laura's is a contralto: and that voice is very often out, 
 you know," Pen said, bitterly. " I have heard a great deal of 
 music, in London," he continued. " I'm tired of those profes- 
 sional people — the}' sing too loud — or I have grown too old 
 or too blase. One grows old very soon, in London, Miss 
 Amory. And like all old fellows, I only care for the songs I 
 heard in my youth." 
 
 " I like English music best. I don't care for foreign songs 
 much. Get me some saddle of mutton," said Mr. Foker. 
 
 " I adore English ballads of all things," said jNIiss Amory. 
 
 " Sing me one of the old songs after dinner, will you?" said 
 Pen, with an imploring voice. 
 
 "Shall I sing 3'ou an English song, after dinner?" asked 
 the S^iphide, turning to Mr. Foker. " 1 will, if you will prom- 
 ise to come up soon ; " and she gave him a perfect broadside of 
 her e3es. 
 
 Pll come up aftfr diiiner, fast cnoiigii," he said simph'. 
 
 (i
 
 PENDENNIS. 385 
 
 •I don't call' about much wine afterwards — I take my whack 
 ,it dinner — I mean m\' share, you know; and when I have 
 had as much as I want, I toddle up to tea. I'm a domestic 
 character, Miss Amory — m\- liabits are simple — and when I'm 
 pleased I'm generally in a good humor, ain't I, Pen? — that 
 jell}-, if you please — not that one, the other with the cherries 
 inside. How the doose do the}' get those cherries inside the 
 jellies?" In this way the artless youth prattled on: and Miss 
 Amory listened to him with inexhaustitile good-lumior. When 
 the ladies took their departure for the u[)|)er regions, Blanche 
 made the two young men promise faithfully to quit the table 
 soon, and departed with kind glances to each. She dropped 
 her gloves on Foker's side of the table, and her handkerchief 
 on Pen's. Each had some little attention paid to him ; her 
 politeness to Mr. Foker was perhaps a little more encouraging 
 than her kindness to Arthur : but the benevolent little crea- 
 ture did her best to make both the gentlemen happy. Foker 
 caught her last glance as she rushed out of the door ; that 
 bright look passed over Mr. Strong's broad white waistcoat, 
 and shot straight at Harr}- Foker's. The door closed on the 
 charmer : he sat down with a sigh, and swallowed a bumper 
 of claret. 
 
 As the dinner at which Pen and his uncle took their place'i, 
 was not one of our grand parties, it had been served at a con- 
 siderably- earlier hour than those ceremonial banquets of th-». 
 London season, which custom has ordained shall scarcely take 
 place before nine o'clock ; and the company being small, and 
 Miss Blanche, anxious to betake herself to her piano in the 
 drawing-room, giving constant hints to her mother to retreat, 
 — Lady Clavering made that signal very speedily, so that it 
 was quite daylight yet when the ladies reached the upper apart- 
 ments, from tlie flower-embroidered balconies of wliich they 
 could command a view of the two Parks, of the i)Oor couples 
 and children still sauntering in the one, and of the equi[)ages of 
 ladies and the horses of dandies passing through the arch of 
 the other. The sun, in a word, had not set behind the elms 
 of Kensington Gardens, and was still gilding the statue erected 
 by the ladies of England in honor of his (J race the Duke of 
 Wellington, when Lady Clavering and her female friends left 
 the fjentlemen drinking wine. 
 
 The windows of the dining-room were opened to let m the 
 fresh air, and afforded to the passers-by in the street a pleasant 
 or, perhaps, tantalizing view of six gentlemen in white waisi- 
 
 25
 
 386 PENDENNIS. 
 
 coats, with a quantity of decanters and a variety of fruits before 
 Lliem — little boys, as they passed and jumped up at the area 
 railings, and took a peep, said to one another, "Mi hi, Jim, 
 shouldn't you Uke to be there, and have a cut of that there 
 pine-apple?" — the horses and carriages of the nobilitj- and 
 gentr}' passed by, conveying them to Belgravian toilets : the 
 policeman, with clamping feet, patrolled up and down before 
 the mansion : the shades of evening began to fall : the gasman 
 came and lighted the lamps before Sir Francis's door : the but- 
 ler entered the dining-room, and illuminated the antique gothic 
 chandelier over the antique carved oak dining-table : so that 
 from outside the house 30U looked inwards upon a night scene 
 of feasting and wax candles ; and from within you beheld a vis- 
 ion of a calm summer evening, and the wall of Saint James's 
 Park, and the sky above, in which a star or two was just begin- 
 ning to twinkle. 
 
 Jeames, with folded legs, leaning against the door-pillar of 
 his master's abode, looked forth musingh' upon the latter tran- 
 quil sight ; whilst a spectator, chnging to the raiUngs, examined 
 the former scene. Policeman X, passing, gave his attention 
 to neither, but fixed it upon the individual holding by the rail- 
 ings, and gazing into Sir Francis Clavering's dining-room, where 
 Strong was laughing and talking away, making the conversation 
 for the part}-. 
 
 The man at the railings was very gorgeously attired with 
 chains, jewellery, and waistcoats, which the illumination from 
 the house lighted up to great advantage ; his boots were shiny ; 
 he had brass buttons to his coat, and large white wristbands 
 over his knuckles ; and indeed looked so grand, that X imag- 
 ined he beheld a member of Parliament, or a person of consid- 
 eration before him. Whatever his rank, however, the M.P., or 
 person of consideration, was considerably excited by wine ; for 
 he lurched and reeled somewhat in his gait, and his hat was 
 cocked over his wild and bloodshot eyes in a manner which no 
 sober hat ever could assume. His copious black hair was evi- 
 dently surreptitious, and his whiskers of the Tvrian purple. 
 
 As Strong's laughter, following after one of his own gro$ 
 mots, came ringing out of window, this gentleman without 
 laughed and sniggered in the queerest wa}- likewise, and he 
 slapped his thigh and winked at Jeames pensive in the portico, 
 as much as to say, " Plush, my boy, isn't that a good story?" 
 
 Jeames's attention had been gradually drawn from the 
 moon in the heavens to this sublunary scene ; and he was puz- 
 zled and alarmed by the appearance of the man in shiny boots.
 
 PENDENNIS. 38"/ 
 
 •* A holtercation," he rcmarKed. afterwards, in the servants' 
 hall — a "holtercation with a feller in the streets is never no 
 good ; and indeed, he was not hired for any such purpose." 
 So, naving surveyed the man for some time, w'ho went on 
 laughing, reeling, nodding his head with tips}" knowingness, 
 Jcanies looked out of the portico, and softl}- called " Pleace- 
 nian." and beckoned to that oHiccr. 
 
 X marched up resolute, with one Berlin glove stuck in his. 
 belt-side, and Jeames simply [)ointcd with his index finger to 
 the individual who was laughing against the railings. Not one 
 single word more than '* rieaceman," did he sa}-, but stood 
 there in the calm summer evening, pointing calmly : a grand 
 sight. 
 
 X advanced to the individual and said, "Now, sir, will you 
 have the kindness to move hon ? " 
 
 The individual, who was in perfect good-humor, did not 
 appear to hear one word which Policeman X uttered, but nod- 
 ded, and waggled his grinning head at Strong, until his hat 
 almost fell from his head over the area railings. 
 
 " Now, sir, move on, do you hear?" cries X, in a much 
 more peremptory tone, and he touched the stranger gently 
 with one of the fingers inclosed in the gauntlets of the Berlin 
 woof. 
 
 He of the man}- rings instantl}- started, or rather staggered 
 back, into what is called an attitude of self-defence, and in that 
 position began the operation which is entitled " squaring," at 
 Policeman X, and showed himself brave and warlike, if un- 
 stead}-. "- IIuUo ! keep your hands off a gentleman," he said, 
 with an oath which need not be repeated. 
 
 " Move on out of this," said X, •' and don't be a blocking 
 up the pavement, staring into gentlemen's dining-rooms." 
 
 "•Not stare — ho, ho, — not stare — that is a good one," 
 replied the other, with a satiric laugh and sneer, — " Who's to 
 prevent me from staring, looking at my friends, if I like? not 
 30U, old highlows." ' 
 
 " Friends ! 1 dessa}-. Move on," answered X. 
 
 " If you touch me, Pll pitch into you, I will," roared the 
 other. " I tell you I know 'em all — That's Sir Francis Clav- 
 ering, Baronet, M.P. — I know him, and he knows me — and 
 that's Strong, and that's the j'oung chap that made the row at 
 the ball. I say. Strong, Strong I " 
 
 " It's that d Altarnont," cried Sir Francis within, with 
 
 a start and a giiilt}^ look ; and Strong also, with a look of an- 
 no}ance, got up from the table and ran out to the intruder.
 
 •588 PEXDEXNTS 
 
 A gentleman in a white waistcoat, running out from a din 
 ing-room bare-headed, a poHceman, and an individual decently 
 attired, engaged in almost fisticuffs on the pavement, were 
 enough to make a crowd, even in that quiet neighborhood, at 
 half past eight o'clock in the evening, and a small mob began 
 to assemble before Sir Francis Clavering's door. " For God's 
 sake, come in," Strong said, seizing his acquaintance's arm. 
 '' Send for a cab, James, if you please," he added in an under 
 voice to that domestic; and carrying the excited gentleman 
 out of the street, the outer door was closed upon him, and the 
 small crowd began to move away. 
 
 Mr. Strong had intended to convey the stranger into Sir 
 Francis's private sitting-room, where the hats of the male guests 
 were awaiting them, and having there soothed his friend by 
 bland conversation, to ha\e carried him off as soon as the cab 
 arrived — but the new-comer was in a great state of wrath at 
 the indignity which had been put upon him ; and when Strong 
 would have led him into the second door, said in a tipsy voice, 
 " That ain't the door — that's the dining-room door — where 
 the drink's going on — and I'll go and have some, by Jove ; 
 I'll go and have some." At this audacity the butler stood 
 aghast in the hall, and placed himself before the dooi- : but it 
 opened behind him, and the master of the house made his ap- 
 pearance, with anxious looks. 
 
 "I tvill have some,— by I will," the intruder was 
 
 roaring out, as Sir Francis came forward. "Hullo! Claver- 
 ing, I say I'm come to have some wine with 30U ; hay I old 
 boy — hay, old corkscrew? Get us a bottle of the yellow seal. 
 you old thief — the very best — a hundred rupees a' dozen, and 
 no mistake." 
 
 The host reflected a moment over his company. There is 
 only Welbore, Pendennis, and those two lads, he thought ~ 
 and with a forced laugh and piteous look, he said, — ''"^Vell, 
 Altamont, come in. I am very glad to see you, I'm sure." 
 ) Colonel Altamont, for the intelligent reader has doubtless 
 long ere this discovered in the stranger His Excellency the 
 Ambassador of the Nawaub of Lncknow, reeled into the dining- 
 room, with a triumphant look towards Jeames, the footman, 
 which seemed to say, " There, sir, what do you think of that? 
 J^oiv, am I a gentleman or no?" and sanlc down into the first 
 \aeant chair. Sir Fi-ancis Clavering timidly stammered out 
 the Colonel's name to his guest Mr. NVelbore* Welbore. and his 
 Fxcellency began drinking wine fortliwith and gazing round 
 upon the compan}-, now with tlie most wonderful frowns, and
 
 TEN DENNIS. 389 
 
 anon wilh the blandest sniik's, ainl liki.ii|ip<'(l rciiiarkss encomi- 
 astic of the drink which lie was imbibing. 
 
 •• Very singular man. Has resided long in a native court 
 in India," Strong said, wilh great gravity, the Chevalier's 
 presence of mind never deserting him — "in those Indian 
 courts they get very singular habits." 
 
 '•"Very," said Major Pendennis, dryly, and wondering what 
 in goodness' name was the company into whith he h.id got. 
 
 Mr. Foker was pleased with the new-comer. "It's the 
 man who would sing the Malay song at the Back Kitchen." 
 he whispered to Pen. ''Try this pine, sir," he then said to 
 Colonel Altamont, " it's uncommonly fine." 
 
 "Pines — I've seen 'em feed pigs on pines," said the Colo- 
 nel. 
 
 "'AH the Nawaub of Lucknow's pigs are fed on pines," 
 Strong whispered to Major Pendennis. 
 
 "Oh, of course," the Major answered. Sir Francis Clav- 
 ering was, in the meanwhile, endeavoring to make an excuse 
 to his brother guest, for the new-comer's condition, and mut- 
 tered something regaixling Altamont, that he was an extraor- 
 dinary character, very eccentric, very — had Indian habits — 
 didn't understand the rules of English society : to which old 
 Welbore, a shrewd old gentleman, who drank his wine with 
 gi-eat regularity, said, "that seemed pretty clear." 
 
 Then, the Colonel seeing Pen's honest face, regarded it for 
 a while with as much steadiness as became his condition ; and 
 said, "I know 3'ou, too, young fellow. I remember j'ou. 
 Bay mouth ball, by jingo. Wanted to fight the Frenchman, 
 /remember 3'ou ; " and he laughed, and he squared with his 
 fists, and seemed hugely amused in the drunken depths of his 
 mind, as these recollections passed, or, rather, reelecl across it. 
 
 " Mr. Pendennis. you remember Colonel Altamont, at Bay- 
 mouth?" Strong said : upon which Pen, bowing rather stiffly, 
 said, '"he had the pleasure of remembering that circumstance 
 perfectly." 
 
 '• W'/uii's Iiis name?" cried the Colonel. Strong named Mr. 
 Pendennis again. 
 
 " Pendennis I — Pendennis be hanged!" Altamont roared 
 out to the surprise of ever}- one, and thumping with his fisl 
 on the table. 
 
 '• My name is also Pendennis, sir," said the Major, whose 
 dignity was exceedingly mortified by the evening's events — 
 that he, Major Pendennis, should have been asked to such a 
 party, and that a drunken man should have been introduced tc
 
 390 PENDENXIS. 
 
 It. •' M}- name is Pendennis, and T will bo obliged to you not 
 to curse it too loudly." 
 
 The tipsy man turned round to look at him, and as he 
 looked, it appeared as if Colonel Altamont suddenh' grew 
 sober. He put his hand across his forehead, and in doing so, 
 displaced somewhat the black wig which he wore ; and his eyea 
 stared fiercely at the Major, who. in his turn, like a resolute old 
 warrior us he was, looked at his opponent verj' keenly and 
 steadily. At the end of the mutual inspection, Altamont 
 began to button up his brass-buttoned coat, and rising up from 
 his chair suddenl}-, and to the company's astonishment, reeled 
 towards the door, and issued from it, followed by Strong : all 
 that the latter heard him utter was — ' ' Captain Beak ! Cap- 
 tain Beak, by jingo ! " 
 
 There had not passed above a quarter of an hour from his 
 strange appearance to his equally' sudden departure. The two 
 young men and the Baronet's other guest wondered at the 
 scene, and could find no explanation for it. Clavering seemed 
 exceedingi}' pale and agitated, and turned with looks of almost 
 terror towards Major Pendennis The latter had been eying 
 his host keeuh' for a minute or two. '' Do you know him?" 
 asked Sir Francis of the Major. 
 
 "I am sure I have seen the fellow," the Major replied, 
 looking as if he, too, was puzzled. " Yes, I have it. He was 
 a deserter from the Horse Artillery, who got into the Nawaub's 
 service. I remember his face quite well." 
 
 "Oh!" said Clavering, with a sigh which indicated im- 
 mense relief of mind, and the Major looked at him with a 
 twinkle of his sharp old e^'es. The cab which Strong had de- 
 sired to be called, drove away with the Chevalier and Colonel 
 Altamont ; coffee was brought to the remaining gentlemen, and 
 they went up stairs to the ladies in the drawing-room, Foker 
 declaring confidentially to Pen that "this was the rummest 
 go he ever saw," which decision Pen said, laughing, " showed 
 great discrimination on Mr. Foker's part." 
 
 Then, according to her promise. Miss Amory made music 
 for the 3'oung men. Foker was enraptured with her perform- 
 ance, and kindly joined in the airs which she sang, when he 
 happened to be acquainted with them. Pen affected to talk 
 aside with others of the part}-, but Blanche brought hira 
 quickly to the piano, b}' singing some of his own words, those 
 which we have given in a previous number, indeed, and which 
 the Sylphide had herself, she said, set to music. I don't know 
 whether the air was hers, or how much of it was arranged for
 
 PENDENNIS. 391 
 
 her by Signor Twankidillo, from whom she took lessons -. "but 
 good or bad, original or otherwise, it dehghted Mr. Pen, who 
 remained by her side, and turned the leaves now for her most 
 assiduously — " Gad I how I wish I could write verses like you. 
 Pen," Foker sighed afterwards to iiis companion. "-If I could 
 do 'em, wouldn't I, that's all? But I never was a dab at writ- 
 ing you see, and Pm son-y I was so idle when I was at school." 
 
 No mention was made before the ladies of the curious little 
 scene which had been transacted below^ stairs ; although Pen 
 was just on the point of describing it to Miss Amor3', when 
 that young lad}- inquired for Captain Strong, who she wished 
 should join her in a duet. But chancing to look up towards 
 Sir Francis Clavering, Arthur saw a peculiar expression of 
 alarm in the baronet's ordinaril}- vacuous face, and discreetly 
 held his tongue. It was rather a dull evening. Welbore went 
 to sleep, as he alwa3's did at music and aftc dinner : nor did 
 Major Pendennis entertain the ladies with copious anecdotes 
 and endless little scandalous stories, as his wont was, but sat 
 silent for the most part, and appeared to be listening to the 
 music, and watching the fair young performer. 
 
 The hour of departure having arrived, the Major rose, re- 
 gretting that so delightful an evening should have passed awaj' 
 so quickl}^ and addressed a particular!}' fine compliment to 
 Miss Amory, upon her splendid talents as a singer. '"Your 
 daughter. Lady Clavering," he said to that lady, " is a perfect 
 nightingale — a perfect nightingale, begad ! I have scarcely 
 ever heard anything equal to her, and her pronunciation of 
 every language — begad, of every language — seems to me to 
 be perfect ; and the best houses in London must open before a 
 young lady who has such talents, and, allow an old fellow to 
 say. Miss Amory, such a face." 
 
 Blanche was as much astonished by these compliments as 
 Pen was, to whom his uncle, a little time since, had beer, 
 speaking in very disparaging terms of the Sylph. The Majcr 
 and the two young men walked home together, after INIr. Foker 
 had placed his mother in her carriage, and procured a light for 
 an enormous cigar. 
 
 The young gentleman's company or his tobacco did not 
 appear to be agreeable to Major Pendennis, who eyed him 
 askance several times, and with a look which plainly indicated 
 that he wished Mi-. Foker would take his leave ; but Foker 
 hung on resolutely to the uncle and nephew, even until they 
 came to the former's door in Bury Street, where the Major 
 wislied the lads good night.
 
 392 
 
 PENDENWiS. 
 
 "And I say, Pen," he said in a confidential wliisper, call- 
 ing his nephew back, *•• inind .yoii make a point of calling in 
 Grosvenov Place to-morrow. They've been uncommonly civil ; 
 mons'ously civil and kind." 
 
 Pen promised and wondered, and the Major's door having 
 been closed upon him by Morgan, Foker took Pen's arm, and 
 walked with him ibr some time silently puffing his cigar. At 
 last, when they had reached Charing Cross on Arthur's way 
 home to the Temple, Harry Foker relieved himself, and broke 
 out with that eulogium upon poetry, and those regrets regard- 
 ing a misspent youth which have just been mentioned. And 
 all the way along the Strand, and up to the door of Pen's very 
 staircase, m Lamb Court, Temple, young Harry Foker did not 
 :ease to speak about singing and P>Wnehe Ainor\-.
 
 — , 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 ^ISfiGGI 
 
 SEP 1963 t^\ 
 
 FormL9-50»i-9,'60(B3610&4)444 
 
 I'i 
 
 
 f'H
 
 UC SOUTHERf\i REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 380 256 
 
 5CoOO 
 
 vol 
 
 UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNnr 
 
 AT 
 
 LOS ANGELIiJa 
 
 LIBRARY