The Newcomes

Pendennis in his droll, humorous way, "That woman grins like a Cheshire

  cat." Who was the naturalist who first discovered that peculiarity of the

  cats in Cheshire?

  In regard to Miss Mackenzie's opinions, then, it is not easy to discover

  that they are decided, or profound, or original; but it seems pretty

  clear that she has a good temper, and a happy contented disposition. And

  the smile which her pretty countenance wears shows off to great advantage

  the two dimples on her pink cheeks. Her teeth are even and white, her

  hair of a beautiful colour, and no snow can be whiter than her fair round

  neck and polished shoulders. She talks very kindly and good-naturedly

  with Julia and Maria (Mrs. Hobson's precious ones) until she is

  bewildered by the statements which those young ladies make regarding

  astronomy, botany, and chemistry, all of which they are studying. "My

  dears, I don't know a single word about any of these abstruse subjects: I

  wish I did," she says. And Ethel Newcome laughs. She too is ignorant upon

  all these subjects. "I am glad there is some one else," says Rosey, with

  naivete, "who is as ignorant as I am." And the younger children, with a

  solemn air, say they will ask mamma leave to teach her. So everybody,

  somehow, great or small, seems to protect her; and the humble, simple,

  gentle little thing wins a certain degree of goodwill from the world,

  which is touched by her humility and her pretty sweet looks. The servants

  in Fitzroy Square waited upon her much more kindly than upon her smiling

  bustling mother. Uncle James is especially fond of his little Rosey. Her

  presence in his study never discomposes him; whereas his sister fatigues

  him with the exceeding activity of her gratitude, and her energy in

  pleasing. As I was going away, I thought I heard Sir Brian Newcome say,

  "It" (but what "it" was, of course I cannot conjecture)--"it will do very

  well. The mother seems a superior woman."

  CHAPTER XXV

  Is passed in a Public-house

  I had no more conversation with Miss Newcome that night, who had

  forgotten her curiosity about the habits of authors. When she had ended

  her talk with Miss Mackenzie, she devoted the rest of the evening to her

  uncle, Colonel Newcome; and concluded by saying, "And now you will come

  and ride with me to-morrow, uncle, won't you?" which the Colonel

  faithfully promised to do. And she shook hands with Clive very kindly:

  and with Rosey very frankly, but as I thought with rather a patronising

  air: and she made a very stately bow to Mrs. Mackenzie, and so departed

  with her father and mother. Lady Kew had gone away earlier. Mrs.

  Mackenzie informed us afterwards that the Countess had gone to sleep

  after her dinner. If it was at Mrs. Mack's story about the Governor's

  ball at Tobago, and the quarrel for precedence between the Lord Bishop's

  lady, Mrs. Rotchet, and the Chief Justice's wife, Lady Barwise, I should

  not be at all surprised.

  A handsome fly carried off the ladies to Fitzroy Square, and the two

  worthy Indian gentlemen in their company; Clive and I walking, with the

  usual Havannah to light us home. And Clive remarked that he supposed

  there had been some difference between his father and the bankers: for

  they had not met for ever so many months before, and the Colonel always

  had looked very gloomy when his brothers were mentioned. "And I can't

  help thinking," says the astute youth, "that they fancied I was in love

  with Ethel (I know the Colonel would have liked me to make up to her),

  and that may have occasioned the row. Now, I suppose, they think I am

  engaged to Rosey. What the deuce are they in such a hurry to marry me

  for?"

  Clive's companion remarked, "that marriage was a laudable institution:

  and an honest attachment an excellent conservator of youthful morals." On

  which Clive replied, "Why don't you marry yourself?"

  This it was justly suggested was no argument, but a merely personal

  allusion foreign to the question, which was, that marriage was laudable,

  etc.

  Mr. Clive laughed. "Rosey is as good a little creature as can be," he

  said. "She is never out of temper, though I fancy Mrs. Mackenzie tries

  her. I don't think she is very wise: but she is uncommonly pretty, and

  her beauty grows on you. As for Ethel, anything so high and mighty I have

  never seen since I saw the French giantess. Going to Court, and about to

  parties every night where a parcel of young fools flatter her, has

  perfectly spoiled her. By Jove, how handsome she is! How she turns with

  her long neck, and looks at you from under those black eyebrows! If I

  painted her hair, I think I should paint it almost blue, and then glaze

  over with lake. It is blue. And how finely her head is joined on to her

  shoulders!"--And he waves in the air an imaginary line with his cigar.

  "She would do for Judith, wouldn't she? Or how grand she would look as

  Herodias's daughter sweeping down a stair--in a great dress of

  cloth-of-gold like Paul Veronese--holding a charger before her with white

  arms, you know--with the muscles accented like that glorious Diana at

  Paris--a savage smile on her face and a ghastly solemn gory head on the

  dish. I see the picture, sir, I see the picture!" and he fell to curling

  his mustachios just like his brave old father.

  I could not help laughing at the resemblance, and mentioning it to my

  friend. He broke, as was his wont, into a fond eulogium of his sire,

  wished he could be like him--worked himself up into another state of

  excitement, in which he averred "that if his father wanted him to marry,

  he would marry that instant. And why not Rosey? She is a dear little

  thing. Or why not that splendid Miss Sherrick? What ahead!--a regular

  Titian! I was looking at the difference of their colour at Uncle

  Honeyman's that day of the dejeuner. The shadows in Rosey's face, sir,

  are all pearly-tinted. You ought to paint her in milk, sir!" cries the

  enthusiast. "Have you ever remarked the grey round her eyes, and the sort

  of purple bloom of her cheek? Rubens could have done the colour: but I

  don't somehow like to think of a young lady and that sensuous old Peter

  Paul in company. I look at her like a little wild-flower in a field--like

  a little child at play, sir. Pretty little tender nursling! If I see her

  passing in the street, I feel as if I would like some fellow to be rude

  to her, that I might have the pleasure of knocking him down. She is like

  a little songbird, sir,--a tremulous, fluttering little linnet that you

  would take into your hand, pavidam quaerentem matrem, and smooth its

  little plumes, and let it perch on your finger and sing. The Sherrick

  creates quite a different sentiment--the Sherrick is splendid, stately,

  sleepy----"

  "Stupid," hints Clive's companion.

  "Stupid! Why not? Some women ought to be stupid. What you call dulness I

  call repose. Give me a calm woman, a slow woman,--a lazy, majestic woman.

  Show me a gracious virgin bearing a lily: not a leering giggler frisking

  a rattle. A lively woman would be the death of me. Look at Mrs. Mack,

  perpetually nodding, winking, grinning,
throwing out signals which you

  are to be at the trouble to answer! I thought her delightful for three

  days; I declare I was in love with her--that is, as much as I can be

  after--but never mind that, I feel I shall never be really in love again.

  Why shouldn't the Sherrick be stupid, I say? About great beauty there

  should always reign a silence. As you look at the great stars, the great

  ocean, any great scene of nature: you hush, sir. You laugh at a

  pantomime, but you are still in a temple. When I saw the great Venus of

  the Louvre, I thought--Wert thou alive, O goddess, thou shouldst never

  open those lovely lips but to speak lowly, slowly: thou shouldst never

  descend from that pedestal but to walk stately to some near couch, and

  assume another attitude of beautiful calm. To be beautiful is enough. If

  a woman can do that well: who shall demand more from her? You don't want

  a rose to sing. And I think wit is out of place where there's great

  beauty; as I wouldn't have a Queen to cut jokes on her throne. I say,

  Pendennis,"--here broke off the enthusiastic youth,--"have you got

  another cigar? Shall we go into Finch's, and have a game at billiards?

  Just one--it's quite early yet. Or shall we go in the Haunt? It's

  Wednesday night, you know, when all the boys go." We tap at a door in an

  old, old street in Soho: an old maid with a kind, comical face opens the

  door, and nods friendly, and says, "How do, sir? ain't seen you this ever

  so long. How do, Mr. Noocom?" "Who's here?" "Most everybody's here." We

  pass by a little snug bar, in which a trim elderly lady is seated by a

  great fire, on which boils an enormous kettle; while two gentlemen are

  attacking a cold saddle of mutton and West India pickles: hard by Mrs.

  Nokes the landlady's elbow--with mutual bows--we recognise Hickson, the

  sculptor, and Morgan, the intrepid Irish chieftain, chief of the

  reporters of the Morning Press newspaper. We pass through a passage into

  a back room, and are received with a roar of welcome from a crowd of men,

  almost invisible in the smoke.

  "I am right glad to see thee, boy!" cries a cheery voice (that will never

  troll a chorus more). "We spake anon of thy misfortune, gentle youth! and

  that thy warriors of Assaye have charged the Academy in vain. Mayhap thou

  frightenedst the courtly school with barbarous visages of grisly war.--

  Pendennis, thou dost wear a thirsty look! Resplendent swell! untwine thy

  choker white, and I will either stand a glass of grog, or thou shalt pay

  the like for me, my lad, and tell us of the fashionable world." Thus

  spake the brave old Tom Sarjent,--also one of the Press, one of the old

  boys: a good old scholar with a good old library of books, who had taken

  his seat any time these forty years by the chimney-fire in this old

  Haunt: where painters, sculptors, men of letters, actors, used to

  congregate, passing pleasant hours in rough kindly communion, and many a

  day seeing the sunrise lighting the rosy street ere they parted, and

  Betsy put the useless lamp out and closed the hospitable gates of the

  Haunt.

  The time is not very long since, though to-day is so changed. As we think

  of it, the kind familiar faces rise up, and we hear the pleasant voices

  and singing. There are they met, the honest hearty companions. In the

  days when the Haunt was a haunt, stage-coaches were not yet quite over.

  Casinos were not invented: clubs were rather rare luxuries: there were

  sanded floors, triangular sawdust-boxes, pipes, and tavern parlours.

  Young Smith and Brown, from the Temple, did not go from chambers to dine

  at the Polyanthus, or the Megatherium, off potage a la Bisque, turbot au

  gratin, cotelettes a la What-do-you-call-'em, and a pint of St. Emilion;

  but ordered their beefsteak and pint of port from the "plump head-waiter

  at the Cock;" did not disdain the pit of the theatre; and for a supper a

  homely refection at the tavern. How delightful are the suppers in Charles

  Lamb to read of even now!--the cards--the punch--the candles to be

  snuffed--the social oysters--the modest cheer! Whoever snuffs a candle

  now? What man has a domestic supper whose dinner-hour is eight o'clock?

  Those little meetings, in the memory of many of us yet, are gone quite

  away into the past. Five-and-twenty years ago is a hundred years off--so

  much has our social life changed in those five lustres. James Boswell

  himself, were he to revisit London, would scarce venture to enter a

  tavern. He would find scarce a respectable companion to enter its doors

  with him. It is an institution as extinct as a hackney-coach. Many a

  grown man who peruses this historic page has never seen such a vehicle,

  and only heard of rum-punch as a drink which his ancestors used to

  tipple.

  Cheery old Tom Sarjent is surrounded at the Haunt by a dozen of kind boon

  companions. They toil all day at their avocations of art, or letters, or

  law, and here meet for a harmless night's recreation and converse. They

  talk of literature, or politics, or pictures, or plays; socially banter

  one another over their cheap cups: sing brave old songs sometimes when

  they are especially jolly kindly ballads in praise of love and wine;

  famous maritime ditties in honour of Old England. I fancy I hear Jack

  Brent's noble voice rolling out the sad, generous refrain of "The

  Deserter," "Then for that reason and for a season we will be merry before

  we go," or Michael Percy's clear tenor carolling the Irish chorus of

  "What's that to any one, whether or no!" or Mark Wilder shouting his

  bottle-song of "Garryowen na gloria." These songs were regarded with

  affection by the brave old frequenters of the Haunt. A gentleman's

  property in a song was considered sacred. It was respectfully asked for:

  it was heard with the more pleasure for being old. Honest Tom Sarjent!

  how the times have changed since we saw thee! I believe the present chief

  of the reporters of the newspaper (which responsible office Tom filled)

  goes to Parliament in his brougham, and dines with the Ministers of the

  Crown.

  Around Tom are seated grave Royal Academicians, rising gay Associates;

  writers of other journals besides the Pall Mall Gazette; a barrister

  maybe, whose name will be famous some day: a hewer of marble perhaps: a

  surgeon whose patients have not come yet; and one or two men about town

  who like this queer assembly better than haunts much more splendid.

  Captain Shandon has been here, and his jokes are preserved in the

  tradition of the place. Owlet, the philosopher, came once and tried, as

  his wont is, to lecture; but his metaphysics were beaten down by a storm

  of banter. Slatter, who gave himself such airs because he wrote in the

  ------ Review, tried to air himself at the Haunt, but was choked by the

  smoke, and silenced by the unanimous pooh-poohing of the assembly. Dick

  Walker, who rebelled secretly at Sarjent's authority, once thought to

  give himself consequence by bringing a young lord from the Blue Posts,

  but he was so unmercifully "chaffed" by Tom, that even the young lord

  laughed at him. His lordship has been heard to say he had been taken to a

&nbs
p; monsus queeah place, queeah set of folks, in a tap somewhere, though he

  went away quite delighted with Tom's affability, but he never came again.

  He could not find the place, probably. You might pass the Haunt in the

  daytime, and not know it in the least. "I believe," said Charley Ormond

  (A.R.A. he was then)--"I believe in the day there's no such place at all:

  and when Betsy turns the gas off at the door-lamp as we go away, the

  whole thing vanishes: the door, the house, the bar, the Haunt, Betsy, the

  beer-boy, Mrs. Nokes and all." It has vanished: it is to be found no

  more: neither by night nor by day--unless the ghosts of good fellows

  still haunt it.

  As the genial talk and glass go round, and after Clive and his friend

  have modestly answered the various queries put to them by good old Tom

  Sarjent, the acknowledged Praeses of the assembly and Sachem of this

  venerable wigwam, the door opens and another well-known figure is

  recognised with shouts as it emerges through the smoke. "Bayham, all

  hail!" says Tom. "Frederick, I am right glad to see thee!"

  Bayham says he is disturbed in spirit, and calls for a pint of beer to

  console him.

  "Hast thou flown far, thou restless bird of night?" asks Father Tom, who

  loves speaking in blank verses.

  "I have come from Cursitor Street," says Bayham, in a low groan. "I have

  just been to see a poor devil in quod there. Is that you, Pendennis? You

  know the man--Charles Honeyman."

  "What!" cries Clive, starting up.

  "O my prophetic soul, my uncle!" growls Bayham. "I did not see the young

  one; but 'tis true."

  The reader is aware that more than the three years have elapsed, of which

  time the preceding pages contain the harmless chronicle; and while Thomas

  Newcome's leave has been running out and Clive's mustachios growing, the

  fate of other persons connected with our story has also had its

  development, and their fortune has experienced its natural progress, its

  increase or decay. Our tale, such as it has hitherto been arranged, has

  passed leisurely in scenes wherein the present tense is perforce adopted;

  the writer acting as chorus to the drama, and occasionally explaining, by

  hints or more open statements, what has occurred during the intervals of

  the acts; and how it happens that the performers are in such or such a

  posture. In the modern theatre, as the play-going critic knows, the

  explanatory personage is usually of quite a third-rate order. He is the

  two walking-gentlemen friends of Sir Harry Courtly, who welcome the young

  baronet to London, and discourse about the niggardliness of Harry's old

  uncle, the Nabob; and the depth of Courtly's passion for Lady Annabel the

  premiere amoureuse. He is the confidant in white linen to the heroine in

  white satin. He is "Tom, you rascal," the valet or tiger, more or less

  impudent and acute--that well-known menial in top-boots and a livery

  frock with red cuffs and collar, whom Sir Harry always retains in his

  service, addresses with scurrilous familiarity, and pays so irregularly:

  or he is Lucetta, Lady Annabel's waiting-maid, who carries the

  billets-doux and peeps into them; knows all about the family affairs;

  pops the lover under the sofa; and sings a comic song between the scenes.

  Our business now is to enter into Charles Honeyman's privacy, to peer

  into the secrets of that reverend gentleman, and to tell what has

  happened to him during the past months, in which he has made fitful

  though graceful appearances on our scene.

  While his nephew's whiskers have been budding, and his brother-in-law has

  been spending his money and leave, Mr. Honeyman's hopes have been

  withering, his sermons growing stale, his once blooming popularity

  drooping and running to seed. Many causes have contributed to bring him

  to his present melancholy strait. When you go to Lady Whittlesea's Chapel