WHERE PEN APPEARS IN TOWN AND COUNTRY.
[Illustration]
Let us be allowed to pass over a few months of the history of Mr. Arthur
Pendennis's lifetime, during the which, many events may have occurred
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
his last chapter, regularly entered upon his business as a professional
writer, or literary hack, as Mr. Warrington 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 dull of
routine, and tedious of description. One day's labor resembles another
much too closely. A literary man has often to work for his bread
against time, or against his will, or in spite 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
property), farewell poetry and aerial flights: Pegasus only rises now
like Mr. Green's balloon, at periods advertised beforehand, and when
the spectator's 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 sides 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 pity upon Pegasus. There
is no reason why this animal should be exempt from labor, or illness,
or decay, any more than any of the other creatures of God's world. If he
gets the whip, 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 exempt 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 be that a
historian 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 altogether
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 theaters
complained of him woefully, too, and very likely he was too hard upon
them. But there was not much harm done after all. It is different now,
as we know; but there were so few great historians, or great poets, or
great actors, in Pen's time, that scarce any 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 his 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 paper, this eminent
publicist could conscientiously speak his mind, Mr. Arthur Pendennis
gained the sum of four pounds four shillings weekly, and with no small
pains and labor. Likewise 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
Chatteris Champion, which at that time contained some very brilliant
and eloquent letters from the metropolis. By these labors the fortunate
youth was enabled to earn a sum very 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 every 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
hundred 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 imagined by all readers who have seen son-worship among
mothers, and that charming simplicity 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! What
a theme for village talk they give, and friendly congratulation! In the
second winter, Pen came for a very brief space, and cheered the widow's
heart, and lightened up the lonely house at Fairoaks. Helen had her son
all to herself; Laura was away on a visit to old Lady Rockminster; the
folks of Clavering Park were absent; the very few old friends of the
house, Dr. Portman at their head, called upon Mr. Pen, and treated him
with marked respect; between mother and son, it was all fondness,
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 young lady took the opportunity of leaving home when Pen was coming
thither, or whether he was the more piqued or relieved by her absence.
He was by this time, by his own merits and his uncle's introductions,
pretty well introduced into London, and known both in literary and
polite circles. Among the former his fashionable reputation stood him
in no little stead; he was considered to be a gentleman of good present
means and better expectations, who wrote for his pleasure, than which
there can not be a greater recommendation to a young literary aspirant.
Bacon, Bungay, and Co., were proud to accept his articles; Mr. Wenham
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,
among 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 presented 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.
[Illustration][**moved up from 364]
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, where-ever
he went. He would breakfast, for instance, at Mr. Plover's of a morning,
in company 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 the back room at the newspaper
office, where 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
begin scribbling his leading article at the other end of the table,
flanked by the pint of sherry, which, when the attendant boy beheld
him, was always silently brought for the captain: or Mr. Bludyer's
roaring voice would be heard in the front room, where that 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 dined 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. Toward evening Mr. Pen would stroll in the direction of
his club, and take up Warrington there for a constitutional walk. This
exercise freed the lungs, and gave an appetite for dinner, after which
Pen had the privilege to make his bow at some very pleasant houses which
were opened to him; or the town, before him for amusement. There was the
Opera; or the Eagle Tavern; or a ball to go to in May Fair; or a quiet
night with a cigar and a book and a long talk with Warrington; or a
wonderful 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, when 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 few years since--but the time is
gone, and most of the men. Bludyer 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
whisky-noggin any more.
* * * * *
The London season was now blooming in its full vigor, and the
fashionable newspapers abounded with information regarding 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 bay-windows of the clubs were crowded with the heads of respectable,
red-faced, newspaper-reading gentlemen: along the Serpentine trailed
thousands of carriages: squadrons of dandy horsemen trampled over Rotten
Row: every body was in town in a word; and, of course, Major Arthur
Pendennis, who was somebody, was not absent.
With his head tied up in a smart bandana handkerchief, and his meager
carcass enveloped in a brilliant Turkish dressing-gown, the worthy
gentleman sate on a certain morning by his fire-side, letting his feet
gently simmer in a bath, while 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 nobody in the world except Morgan, not even Morgan's master
himself, knew how feeble and ancient the major was growing, and what
numberless little comforts he required.
If men sneer, as our habit 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 preparation which makes his silver hair pass for golden? Have
you ever seen Lord Hotspur get off his horse when he thinks nobody is
looking? Taken out of his stirrups, his shiny boots can hardly totter up
the steps of Hotspur House. He is a dashing young nobleman still as you
see the back of him in Rotten Row; when you 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 years) 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.
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, by such compound names, gentlemen's
gentlemen are called in their private circles, was a frequent and
welcome guest at some of the very highest tables in this town. He was a
member of two influential clubs in Mayfair 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 conversation. 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 dependents in the kitchen discuss our characters,
our stinginess and generosity, our pecuniary means or embarrassments,
and our little domestic or connubial tiffs 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 guilty 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
by chance be taking a dish of tea with yours, her presence will not
undoubtedly act as a restraint upon the discussion in question; her
opinion will be given with candor; and the next day her mistress will
probably know that Captain and Mrs. Jones have been a-quarreling as
usual. Nothing is secret. Take it as a rule that John knows every thing:
and as in our humble world so in the greatest: a duke is no more a hero
to his _valet-de-chambre_ 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 affairs 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
gentlemen'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 every
thing, and was at once admirably scandalous and delightfully discreet,
it is but justice to Morgan to say, that a great deal of his master's
information was supplied to that worthy man by 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 Lady 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
country.
"How long have the Claverings been in London?" he asked: "pray, Morgan,
have you 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 recklect Towler, sir--tall, red-aired man--but
dyes his air. Was groom of the chambers in Lord Levant's famly, till his
lordship 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!"
"Always knew it was coming, sir. I spoke to you of it Michaelmas was
four years: when her ladyship put the diamonds 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, with 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 continued the
theme while stropping the skillful 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 Fairoaks," the major
said, with very little compassion for the widow Amory's fortune.
"Mirobblan was his name, sir; Mirobblan's gone away, sir," Morgan said;
and the major, this time, with hearty sympathy said, "he was devilish
sorry to lose him."
"There's been a tremenjuous row about that Mosseer Mirobblan," Morgan
continued. "At a ball at Baymouth, sir, bless his impadence, he
challenged Mr. Harthur to fight a jewel, sir, which Mr. Harthur was very
near knocking him down, and pitchin' him out awinder, 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 Mirobolant was
not turned off for that?"
"No, sir; that affair, sir, Mr. Harthur forgave it him, and beaved most
handsome, was hushed hup: it was about Miss Hamory, sir, that he ad his
dismissal. Those French fellers, they fancy every 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 they 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
away, bag and baggage, saucepans, and piano, and all--the feller ad a
pianna, and wrote potry in French, and he took a lodging at Clavering,
and he hankered about the primises, and it was said that Madam Fribsby,
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 Madam Fribsby; and he was nearly
shot by the keeper in the park."
[Illustration]
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 hour in the afternoon when you see a half score of respectable old
bucks similarly recreating themselves (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 prince regent, these old fellows occupied the same
window, and were some of the very greatest dandies in this empire);
Major Pendennis was looking from the great window, and spied his nephew
Arthur walking down the street in company with his friend Mr. Popjoy.
"Look!" said Popjoy to Pen, as they 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, doosid good!" Pop cried. "They
_are_ old rogues, most of 'em, and no mistake. 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," replied 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 by reprobates of
his own age.
Colchicum, Blondel, and the senior bucks had just been conversing about
the Clavering family, whose appearance in London 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 employing such chiefs 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 society. 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 princes.
"I wish I had fallen in with the widow myself," sighed Lord Colchicum,
"and not been laid up with that confounded gout at Leghorn. I would have
married the 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
enormously rich old indigo-planter; know all about her: Clavering has
the next estate to ours in the country. Ha! there's my nephew walking
with--"
"With mine: the infernal young scamp!" said Lord Colchicum, glowering at
Popjoy 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
day, 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 accompany his illustrious 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 the 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, while that gentleman's other wing was engaged
with his grace's right), and he wished all Gray Friar's School, all
Oxbridge University, 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 remarkable words, and
with a nod of his august head he passed on--in a blue frock coat and
spotless white duck trowsers, in a white stock, with a shining buckle
behind.
Old Pendennis, whose likeness to his grace has been remarked, 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
pride himself on having a tall forehead and 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
any body should be _really_ like that most beautiful and perfect of men
is impossible) to the great and revered George IV.: many third parties,
who wore low necks to their dresses because they fancied that Lord Byron
and themselves were similar in appearance: and has not the grave closed
lately upon poor Tom Bickerstaff, who having no more imagination
than Mr. Joseph Hume, looked in the glass and fancied himself like
Shakspeare? shaved his forehead so as farther to resemble the immortal
bard, wrote tragedies incessantly, and died perfectly crazy--actually
perished of his forehead! These or similar freaks of vanity 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 his own way, perhaps, as the elder gentleman, and strutted, with
a very consequential air of his own, by the major's side.
"Yes, my dear boy," said the old bachelor, as they sauntered through
the Green Park, where many poor children were disporting happily, and
errand boys were playing at toss-halfpenny, 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; "yes, depend on it,
my boy, for a poor man, there is nothing like having good acquaintances.
Who were those men, with whom you saw me in the bay-window 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 year. Did you see that
dark blue brougham, with that tremendous stepping horse, waiting at the
door of the club? You'll know it again. It is Sir Hugh Trumpington'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 I shall certainly introduce you, for she receives
some of the best company in London), gad, sir, he mounts his horse at
No. 23, and dismounts again at No. 25 A. He is now up-stairs, at Bays's,
playing piquet with Count Punter: he is the second-best player in
England: as well he may be; for he plays every day of his life, except
Sundays (for Sir Hugh is an uncommonly religious man), from half-past
three to half-past seven, when he dresses for dinner."
"A very pious manner of spending his time," Pen said, laughing, and
thinking that his uncle was falling into the twaddling state.
"Gad, sir, that is not the question. A man of his estate may employ
his time as he chooses. When you are a baronet, a county member, with
ten thousand acres of the best land in Cheshire, and such a place as
Trumpington (though he never goes there), you may do as you like."
"And so that was his brougham, sir, was it?" the nephew said, with
almost a sneer.
"His brougham--O ay, yes!--and that brings me back to my point--revenons
a nos moutons. Yes, begad! revenons 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 Tilbury'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 non vobis_, as we used to say at Gray 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 are. Gad, sir, Leech used
to say, 'He was so poor that he couldn't afford 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." By 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 very 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 you and very fond of you, but for your confounded follies
and extravagancies, and wild oats, sir, which I hope you've sown. Yes,
begad! I hope you've sown 'em; I hope you've sown 'em, begad! My object,
Arthur, is to make a man of you, to see you well placed in the world,
as becomes one of your name and my own, sir. You have got yourself a
little reputation by your literary talents, which I am very far from
undervaluing, though in my time, begad, poetry and genius and that sort
of thing were devilish disreputable. There was poor Byron, for instance,
who ruined himself, and contracted the worst habits by 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 mutantur_, sir; and by 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 descending from the Green Park,
the pair made their way into Grosvenor-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 balcony
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 my
lady, doubtless), and even a pretty little casement of the third story,
which keen-sighted Mr. Pen presumed to belong to the virgin bed-room of
Miss Blanche Amory, were similarly 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 ingenuous youth of
the nobility about town, and as a modern phrase suited to Pen's tender
years. Indeed, as the two gentlemen reached the door, a landau drove up,
a magnificent yellow carriage, lined with brocade or satin of a faint
cream color, drawn by wonderful gray horses, with flaming ribbons, and
harness blazing 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 house of Clavering and Snell. A coachman
in a tight silver wig surmounted the magnificent hammer-cloth (whereon
the same arms were worked in bullion), and controlled the prancing
grays--a young man still, but of a solemn countenance, with a laced
waistcoat and buckles in his shoes--little buckles, unlike 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 leaning against 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 ready to fling down the roll of hair-cloth over which
her ladyship was to step to her carriage. These things and men, the
which to tell of demands time, are seen in the glance of a practiced
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 carried a Blenheim spaniel, yelping in a light blue ribbon,
came forth to ascend the carriage.
Miss Amory was the first to enter, which she did with aerial lightness,
and took the place which she liked best. Lady Clavering 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 swaying on the carriage-step, as her ladyship leaned for
support on the arm of the unbending Jeames, by the enraptured observer
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 courtly, 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 backward (which caused some of the powder
to fly from the hair of ambrosial Jeames), and crying out, "Lor, if it
isn't Arthur Pendennis and the old major!" jumped back to terra firma
directly, and holding out two fat hands, encased in tight orange-colored
gloves, the good-natured woman warmly greeted the major and his nephew.
"Come in both of you. Why haven't you 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 up her eyes toward 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 grays, was
left unoccupied, save by the coachman in the silver wig.