CHAPTER XXIX.
BABYLON.
Our reader must now please to quit the woods and sea-shore of thewest, and the gossip of Clavering, and the humdrum life of poor littleFairoaks, and transport himself with Arthur Pendennis, on the "Alacrity"coach, to London, whither he goes once for all to face the world and tomake his fortune. As the coach whirls through the night away from thefriendly gates of home, many a plan does the young man cast in his mindof future life and conduct, prudence, and peradventure success and fame.He knows he is a better man than many who have hitherto been ahead ofhim in the race: his first failure has caused him remorse, and broughtwith it reflection; it has not taken away his courage, or, let us add,his good opinion of himself. A hundred eager fancies and busy hopeskeep him awake. How much older his mishaps and a year's thought andself-communion have made him, than when, twelve months since, he passedon this road on his way to and from Oxbridge! His thoughts turn in thenight with inexpressible fondness and tenderness toward the fond mother,who blessed him when parting, and who, in spite of all his past faultsand follies, trusts him and loves him still. Blessings be on her! heprays, as he looks up to the stars overhead. O heaven, give him strengthto work, to endure, to be honest, to avoid temptation, to be worthy ofthe loving soul who loves him so entirely! Very likely she is awake,too, at that moment, and sending up to the same Father purer prayersthan his for the welfare of her boy. That woman's love is a talisman bywhich he holds and hopes to get his safety. And Laura's--he would havefain carried her affection with him too, but she has denied it, as he isnot worthy of it. He owns as much with shame and remorse; confesses howmuch better and loftier her nature is than his own--confesses it, andyet is glad to be free. "I am not good enough for such a creature," heowns to himself. He draws back before her spotless beauty and innocence,as from something that scares him. He feels he is not fit for such amate as that; as many a wild prodigal who has been pious and guiltlessin early days, keeps away from a church which he used to frequentonce--shunning it, but not hostile to it--only feeling that he has noright in that pure place.
With these thoughts to occupy him, Pen did not fall asleep until thenipping dawn of an October morning, and woke considerably refreshed whenthe coach stopped at the old breakfasting place at B----, where he hadhad a score of merry meals on his way to and from school and collegemany times since he was a boy. As they left that place, the sun brokeout brightly, the pace was rapid, the horn blew, the milestones flew by,Pen smoked and joked with guard and fellow-passengers and people alongthe familiar road; it grew more busy and animated at every instant; thelast team of grays came out at H----, and the coach drove into London.What young fellow has not felt a thrill as he entered the vast place?Hundreds of other carriages, crowded with their thousands of men, werehastening to the great city. "Here is my place," thought Pen; "here ismy battle beginning, in which I must fight and conquer, or fall. I havebeen a boy and a dawdler as yet. Oh, I long, I long to show that I canbe a man." And from his place on the coach-roof the eager young fellowlooked down upon the city, with the sort of longing desire which youngsoldiers feel on the eve of a campaign.
As they came along the road, Pen had formed an acquaintance with acheery fellow-passenger in a shabby cloak, who talked a great deal aboutmen of letters with whom he was very familiar, and who was, in fact,the reporter of a London newspaper, as whose representative he hadbeen to attend a great wrestling-match in the west. This gentleman knewintimately, as it appeared, all the leading men of letters of his day,and talked about Tom Campbell, and Tom Hood, and Sydney Smith, and thisand the other, as if he had been their most intimate friend. As theypassed by Brompton, this gentleman pointed out to Pen, Mr. Hurtle, thereviewer, walking with his umbrella. Pen craned over the coach to havea long look at the great Hurtle. He was a Boniface man, said Pen. AndMr. Doolan of the Star newspaper (for such was the gentleman's name andaddress upon the card which he handed to Pen), said "Faith he was, andhe knew him very well." Pen thought it was quite an honor to have seenthe great Mr. Hurtle, whose works he admired. He believed fondly, asyet, in authors, reviewers, and editors of newspapers. Even Wagg, whosebooks did not appear to him to be masterpieces of human intellect, heyet secretly revered as a successful writer. He mentioned that he hadmet Wagg in the country, and Doolan told him how that famous novelistreceived three hundred pounds a volume for every one of his novels. Penbegan to calculate instantly whether he might not make five thousand ayear.
The very first acquaintance of his own whom Arthur met, as the coachpulled 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 timedecorated him with a considerable tuft on the chin. A very small cab-boy,vice Stoopid retired, swung on behind Foker's vehicle; knock-kneed andin the tightest leather breeches. Foker looked at the dusty coach, andthe smoking horses of the "Alacrity" by which he had made journeys informer times.--"What, Foker!" cried out Pendennis--"Hullo! Pen, my boy!"said the other, and he waved his whip by way of amity and salute toArthur, who was very glad to see his queer friend's kind old face. Mr.Doolan had a great respect for Pen who had an acquaintance in such agrand cab; and Pen was greatly excited and pleased to be at libertyand in London. He asked Doolan to come and dine with him at the CoventGarden Coffee House, where he put up: he called a cab and rattled awaythither in the highest spirits. He was glad to see the bustling waiterand polite bowing landlord again; and asked for the landlady, and missedthe old Boots, and would have liked to shake hands with every body.He had a hundred pounds in his pocket. He dressed himself in his verybest; dined in the coffee-room with a modest pint of sherry (for he wasdetermined to be very economical), and went to the theater adjoining.
The lights and the music, the crowd and the gayety, charmed andexhilarated Pen, as those sights will do young fellows from college andthe country, to whom they are tolerably new. He laughed at the jokes; heapplauded the songs, to the delight of some of the dreary old _habitues_of the boxes, who had ceased long ago to find the least excitement intheir 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 struttedabout the lobbies of the theater, as if he was in a resort of thehighest fashion. What tired frequenter of the London pave is there thatcan not remember having had similar early delusions, and would not callthem back again? Here was young Foker again, like an ardent votary ofpleasure as he was. He was walking with Granby Tiptoff, of the HouseholdBrigade, Lord Tiptoff's brother, and Lord Colchicum, Captain Tiptoff'suncle, a venerable peer, who had been a man of pleasure since the firstFrench Revolution. Foker rushed upon Pen with eagerness, and insistedthat the latter should come into his private box, where a lady with thelongest ringlets, and the fairest shoulders, was seated. This was MissBlenkinsop, the eminent actress of high comedy; and in the back of thebox snoozing in a wig, sate old Blenkinsop, her papa. He was describedin the theatrical prints as the 'veteran Blenkinsop'--'the usefulBlenkinsop'--'that old favorite of the public, Blenkinsop'--those partsin the drama, which are called the heavy fathers, were usually assignedto this veteran, who, indeed, acted the heavy father in public, as inprivate life.
At this time, it being about eleven o'clock, Mrs. Pendennis was gone tobed at Fairoaks, and wondering whether her dearest Arthur was at restafter his journey. At this time Laura, too, was awake. And at this timeyesterday night, as the coach rolled over silent commons, where cottagewindows twinkled, and by darkling woods under calm starlit skies, Penwas vowing to reform and to resist temptation, and his heart was athome.... Meanwhile the farce was going on very successfully, and Mrs.Leary, in a hussar jacket and braided pantaloons, was enchanting theaudience with her archness, her lovely figure, and her delightfulballads.
Pen, being new to the town, would have liked to listen to Mrs. Learybut the other people in the box did not care about her song or herpantaloons, and kept up an incessant chattering. Tiptoff knew where her_maillots_ c
ame from. Colchicum saw her when she came out in '14. MissBlenkinsop said she sang out of all tune, to the pain and astonishmentof Pen, who thought that she was as beautiful as an angel, and thatshe sang like a nightingale; and when Hoppus came on as Sir HarcourtFeatherby, the young man of the piece, the gentlemen in the box declaredthat Hoppus was getting too stale, and Tiptoff was for flinging MissBlenkinsop's bouquet to him.
"Not for the world," cried the daughter of the veteran Blenkinsop; "LordColchicum gave it to me."
Pen remembered that nobleman's name, and with a bow and a blush said hebelieved he had to thank Lord Colchicum for having proposed him at theMegatherium Club, at the request of his uncle, Major Pendennis.
"What, you're Wigsby's nephew, are you?" said the peer. "I beg yourpardon, we always call him Wigsby." Pen blushed to hear his venerableuncle called by such a familiar name. "We balloted you in last week,didn't we? Yes, last Wednesday night. Your uncle wasn't there."
Here was delightful news for Pen! He professed himself very much obligedindeed to Lord Colchicum, and made him a handsome speech of thanks, towhich the other listened, with his double opera-glass up to his eyes.Pen was full of excitement at the idea of being a member of this politeclub.
"Don't be always looking at that box, you naughty creature," cried MissBlenkinsop.
"She's a dev'lish fine woman, that Mirabel," said Tiptoff; "thoughMirabel was a d--d fool to marry her."
"A stupid old spooney," said the peer.
"Mirabel!" cried out Pendennis.
"Ha! ha!" laughed out Harry Foker. "We've heard of her before, haven'twe, Pen?"
It was Pen's first love. It was Miss Fotheringay. The year before shehad been led to the altar by Sir Charles Mirabel, G.C.B., and formerlyenvoy to the Court of Pumpernickel, who had taken so active a part inthe negotiations before the Congress of Swammerdam, and signed, onbehalf of H.B.M. the peace of Pultusk.
"Emily was always as stupid as an owl," said Miss Blenkinsop.
"Eh! Eh! pas si bete," the old peer said.
"Oh, for shame!" cried the actress, who did not in the least know whathe meant.
And Pen looked out, and beheld his first love once again--and wonderedhow he ever could have loved her.
* * * * *
Thus, on the very first night of his arrival in London, Mr. ArthurPendennis found himself introduced to a club, to an actress of genteelcomedy, and a heavy father of the stage, and to a dashing society ofjovial blades, old and young; for my Lord Colchicum, though stricken inyears, bald of head, and enfeebled in person, was still indefatigable inthe pursuit of enjoyment, and it was the venerable viscount's boast thathe could drink as much claret as the youngest member of the societywhich he frequented. He lived with the youth about town: he gave themcountless dinners at Richmond and Greenwich: an enlightened patron ofthe drama in all languages, and of the Terpsichorean art, he receiveddramatic professors of all nations at his banquets--English from theCovent Garden and Strand houses, Italians from the Haymarket, Frenchfrom their own pretty little theater, or the boards of the Opera wherethey danced. And at his villa on the Thames, this pillar of the stategave sumptuous entertainments to scores of young men of fashion, whovery affably consorted with the ladies and gentlemen of thegreen-room--with the former chiefly, for Viscount Colchicum preferredtheir society, as more polished and gay than that of their malebrethren.
Pen went the next day and paid his entrance-money at the club, whichoperation carried off exactly one-third of his hundred pounds; and tookpossession of the edifice, and ate his luncheon there with immensesatisfaction. He plunged into an easy chair in the library, and tried toread all the magazines. He wondered whether the members were looking athim, and that they could dare to keep on their hats in such fine rooms.He sate down and wrote a letter to Fairoaks on the club paper, and said,what a comfort this place would be to him after his day's work wasover. He went over to his uncle's lodgings in Bury-street with someconsiderable tremor, and in compliance with his mother's earnest desire,that he should instantly call on Major Pendennis; and was not a littlerelieved to find that the major had not yet returned to town. Hisapartments were blank. Brown hollands covered his library-table, andbills and letters lay on the mantle-piece, grimly awaiting the return oftheir owner. The major was on the continent, the landlady of the housesaid, at Badnbadn, with the Marcus of Steyne. Pen left his card upon theshelf with the rest. Fairoaks was written on it still.
When the major returned to London, which he did in time for the fogs ofNovember, after enjoying which he proposed to spend Christmas with somefriends in the country, he found another card of Arthur's, on which LambCourt, Temple, was engraved, and a note from that young gentleman andfrom his mother, stating that he was come to town, was entered a memberof the Upper Temple, and was reading hard for the bar.
Lamb Court, Temple:--where was it? Major Pendennis remembered thatsome ladies of fashion used to talk of dining with Mr. Ayliffe, thebarrister, who was "in society," and who lived there in the King'sBench, of which prison there was probably a branch in the Temple, andAyliffe was very likely an officer. Mr. Deuceace, Lord Crab's son, hadalso lived there, he recollected. He dispatched Morgan to find out whereLamb Court was, and to report upon the lodging selected by Mr. Arthur.That alert messenger had little difficulty in discovering Mr. Pen'sabode. Discreet Morgan had in his time traced people far more difficultto find than Arthur.
"What sort of a place is it, Morgan?" asked the major, out of thebed-curtains in Bury-street the next morning, as the valet was arranginghis toilet in the deep yellow London fog.
"I should say rayther a shy place," said Mr. Morgan. "The lawyers livesthere, and has their names on the doors. Mr. Harthur lives three pairhigh, sir. Mr. Warrington live there too, sir."
"Suffolk Warringtons! I shouldn't wonder: a good family," thought themajor. "The cadets of many of our good families follow the robe as aprofession. Comfortable rooms, eh?"
"Honly saw the outside of the door, sir, with Mr. Warrington's name andMr. Arthur's painted up, and a piece of paper with 'Back at 6;' but Icouldn't see no servant, sir."
"Economical at any rate," said the major.
"Very, sir. Three pair, sir. Nasty black staircase as ever I see. Wonderhow a gentleman can live in such a place."
"Pray, who taught you where gentlemen should or should not live, Morgan.Mr. Arthur, sir, is going to study for the bar, sir;" the major saidwith much dignity; and closed the conversation and began to arrayhimself, in the yellow fog.
"Boys will be boys," the mollified uncle thought to himself. "He haswritten to me a dev'lish good letter. Colchicum says he has had him todine, and thinks him agentleman like lad. His mother is one of the bestcreatures in the world. If he has sown his wild oats, and will stick tohis business, he may do well yet. Think of Charley Mirabel, the old foolmarrying that flame of his! that Fotheringay! He doesn't like to comehere until I give him leave, and puts it in a very manly, nice way. Iwas deuced angry with him, after his Oxbridge escapades--and showed it,too, when he was here before--Gad, I'll go and see him, hang me if Idon't."
And having ascertained from Morgan that he could reach the Templewithout much difficulty, and that a city omnibus would put him downat the gate, the major one day after breakfast at his club--not thePolyanthus, 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 anyhouse where he was in the habit of passing his time--the major one dayentered one of those public vehicles, and bade the conductor to put himdown at the gate of the Upper Temple.
When Major Pendennis reached that dingy portal it was about twelveo'clock in the day; and he was directed by a civil personage with abadge and a white apron, through some dark alleys, and under variousmelancholy archways into courts each more dismal than the other, untilfinally he reached Lamb Court. If it was dark in Pall Mall, what was itin Lamb Court? Candles were burning in many of the rooms there--in thepupil-room of Mr. Hodgeman, the special pleader, wher
e six pupils werescribbling declarations under the tallow; in Sir Hokey Walker's clerk'sroom, where the clerk, a person far more gentlemanlike and cheerful inappearance than the celebrated counsel, his master, was conversing in apatronizing manner with the managing clerk of an attorney at the door;and in Curling, the wig-maker's melancholy shop, where, from behind thefeeble glimmer of a couple of lights, large sergeants' and judges' wigswere looming drearily, with the blank blocks looking at the lamp-post inthe court. Two little clerks were playing at toss-halfpenny under thatlamp. A laundress in pattens passed in at one door, a newspaper boyissued from another. A porter, whose white apron was faintly visible,paced up and down. It would be impossible to conceive a place moredismal, and the major shuddered to think that any one should select sucha residence. "Good Ged!" he said, "the poor boy mustn't live on here."
The feeble and filthy oil-lamps, with which the stair-cases of the UpperTemple are lighted of night, were of course not illuminating the stairsby day, and Major Pendennis, having read with difficulty his nephew'sname under Mr. Warrington's on the wall of No. 6, found still greaterdifficulty in climbing the abominable black stairs, up the banisters ofwhich, which contributed their damp exudations to his gloves, he gropedpainfully until he came to the third story. A candle was in the passageof one of the two sets of rooms; the doors were open, and the names ofMr. Warrington and Mr. A. Pendennis were very clearly visible to themajor as he went in. An Irish charwoman, with a pail and broom, openedthe 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 andsmoking a short pipe; in a farther chair sate Pen, with a cigar, andhis legs near the fire. A little boy, who acted as the clerk of thesegentlemen, was grinning in the major's face, at the idea of his beingmistaken for beer. Here, upon the third floor, the rooms were somewhatlighter, and the major could see the place.
"Pen, my boy, it's I--it's your uncle," he said, choking with the smoke.But as most young men of fashion used the weed, he pardoned the practiceeasily enough.
Mr. Warrington got up from the table, and Pen, in a very perturbedmanner, from his chair. "Beg your pardon, for mistaking you," saidWarrington, in a frank, loud voice. "Will you take a cigar, sir? Clearthose things off the chair, Pidgeon, and pull it round to the fire."
Pen flung his cigar into the grate; and was pleased with the cordialitywith which his uncle shook him by the hand. As soon as he could speakfor the stairs and the smoke, the major began to ask Pen very kindlyabout himself and about his mother; for blood is blood, and he waspleased once more to see the boy.
Pen gave his news, and then introduced Mr. Warrington--an old Bonifaceman--whose chambers he shared.
The major was quite satisfied when he heard that Mr. Warrington was ayounger son of Sir Miles Warrington of Suffolk. He had served with anuncle of his in India and in New South Wales, years ago.
"Took a sheep-farm there, sir, made a fortune--better thing than lawor soldiering," Warrington said. "Think I shall go there too." And herethe 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 wristacross his beard with great satisfaction. The young man was perfectlyeasy 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 yet you couldn't but perceive that he was a gentleman.
When he had sate for a minute or two after his draught he went out ofthe room, leaving it to Pen and his uncle, that they might talk overfamily affairs were they so inclined.
"Rough and ready, your chum seems," the major said. "Somewhat differentfrom your dandy friends at Oxbridge."
"Times are altered," Arthur replied, with a blush. "Warrington is onlyjust called, and has no business, but he knows law pretty well: anduntil I can afford to read with a pleader, I use his books, and get hishelp."
"Is that one of the books?" the major asked, with a smile. A Frenchnovel was lying at the foot of Pen's chair.
"This is not a working day, sir," the lad said. "We were out very lateat a party last night--at Lady Whiston's," Pen added, knowing hisuncle's weakness. "Every body in town was there except you, sir; Counts,Embassadors, Turks, Stars and Garters--I don't know who--it's all in thepaper--and my name, too," said Pen, with great glee. "I met an old flameof 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 ablonde 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 highgood-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."
"Very right, my dear boy. Flames and darts and passion, and that sortof thing, do very well for a lad: and you were but a lad when thataffair with the Fotheringill--Fotheringay--(what's her name?) came off.But a man of the world gives up those follies. You still may do verywell. You have been hit, but you may recover. You are heir to a littleindependence, which every body fancies is a doosid deal more. You havea good name, good wits, good manners, and a good person--and, begad!I don't see why you shouldn't many a woman with money--get intoParliament--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 adevilish deal pleasanter to sit down to a good dinner, than to a scragof mutton in lodgings. Make up your mind to that. A woman with a goodjointure is a doosid deal easier a profession than the law, let me tellyou. Look out; I shall be on the watch for you: and I shall die content,my boy, if I can see you with a good lady-like wife, and a goodcarriage, and a good pair of horses, living in society, and seeing yourfriends, like a gentleman. Would you like to vegetate like your deargood mother at Fairoaks? Dammy, sir! life, without money and the bestsociety, isn't worth having." It was thus this affectionate uncle spoke,and expounded 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 wisdomtheirs.
This affecting conversation between uncle and nephew had scarcelyconcluded, when Warrington came out of his bed-room, no longer in rags,but dressed like a gentleman, straight and tall, and perfectly frank andgood-humored. He did the honors of his ragged sitting-room with as muchease as if it had been the finest apartment in London. And queer roomsthey were in which the major found his nephew. The carpet was full ofholes--the table stained with many circles of Warrington's previousale-pots. There was a small library of law-books, books of poetry, andof mathematics, of which he was very fond. (He had been one of thehardest livers and hardest readers of his time at Oxbridge, where thename of Stunning Warrington was yet famous for beating bargemen, pullingmatches, winning prizes, and drinking milk-punch.) A print of the oldcollege hung up over the mantle-piece, and some battered volumes ofPlato, bearing its well-known arms, were on the book-shelves. There weretwo easy chairs; a standing reading-desk piled with bills; a couple ofvery meager briefs on a broken-legged study-table. Indeed, there wasscarcely any article of furniture that had not been in the wars, andwas not wounded. "Look here, sir, here is Pen's room. He is a dandy,and has got curtains to his bed, and wears shiny boots, and a silverdressing-case." Indeed, Pen's room was rather coquettishly arranged, anda couple of neat prints of opera-dancers, besides a drawing of Fairoaks,hung on the walls. In Warrington's room there was scarcely any articleof furniture, save a great shower-bath, and a heap of books by thebed-side: where he lay upon straw like Margery Daw, and smoked his pipe,and read half through the night his favorite poetry or mathematics.
When he had completed his simple toilet,
Mr. Warrington came out of thisroom, and proceeded to the cupboard to search for his breakfast.
"Might I offer you a mutton-chop, sir? We cook 'em ourselves hot andhot; and I am teaching Pen the first principles of law, cooking, andmorality at the same time. He's a lazy beggar, sir, and too much ofa 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 thecupboard a couple of plates and some knives and silver forks, andcastors.
"Say but a word, Major Pendennis," he said; "there's another chop in thecupboard, or Pidgeon shall go out and get you any thing you like."
Major Pendennis sate in wonder and amusement, but he said he had justbreakfasted, and wouldn't have any lunch. So Warrington cooked thechops, and popped them hissing hot upon the plates.
Pen fell to at his chop with a good appetite, after looking up at hisuncle, and seeing that gentleman was still in good-humor.
"You see, sir," Warrington said, "Mrs. Flanagan isn't here to do 'em,and we can't employ the boy, for the little beggar is all day occupiedcleaning Pen's boots. And now for another swig at the beer. Pen drinkstea; it's only fit for old women."
"And so you were at Lady Whiston's last night," the major said, not intruth knowing what observation to make to this rough diamond.
"I at Lady Whiston's! not such a flat, sir. I don't care for femalesociety. In fact it bores me. I spent my evening philosophically at theBack Kitchen."
"The Back Kitchen? indeed!" said the major.
"I see you don't know what it means," Warrington said. "Ask Pen. He wasthere after Lady Whiston's. Tell Major Pendennis about the Back Kitchen,Pen--don't be ashamed of yourself."
So Pen said it was a little eccentric society of men of letters andmen about town, to which he had been presented; and the major began tothink that the young fellow had seen a good deal of the world since hisarrival in London.