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