that will always be led by some woman or another; and I'm only glad it
should be a good one. They say his mother's serious, and that; but why
shouldn't she bet?" continues honest Crackthorpe, puffing his cigar with
great energy. "They say the old dowager doesn't believe in God nor devil:
but that she's in such a funk to be left in the dark that she howls, and
raises the doose's own delight if her candle goes out. Toppleton slept
next room to her at Groningham, and heard her; didn't you, Top?"
"Heard her howling like an old cat on the tiles," says Toppleton,--
"thought she was at first. My man told me that she used to fling all
sorts of things--boot-jacks and things, give you my honour--at her maid,
and that the woman was all over black and blue."
"Capital head that is Newcome has done of Jack Belsize!" says
Crackthorpe, from out of his cigar.
"And Kew's too--famous likeness! I say, Newcome, if you have 'em printed
the whole brigade'll subscribe. Make your fortune, see if you won't,"
cries Toppleton.
"He's such a heavy swell, he don't want to make his fortune," ejaculates
Butts.
"Butts, old boy, he'll paint you for nothing, and send you to the
Exhibition, where some widow will fall in love with you, and you shall be
put as frontispiece for the 'Book of Beauty,' by Jove," cries another
military satirist--to whom Butts:
"You hold your tongue, you old Saracen's Head; they're going to have you
done on the bear's-grease pots. I say, I suppose Jack's all right now.
When did he write to you last, Cracky?"
"He wrote from Palermo--a most jolly letter from him and Kew. He hasn't
touched a card for nine months; is going to give up play. So is Frank,
too, grown quite a good boy. So will you, too, Butts, you old miscreant,
repent of your sins, pay your debts, and do something handsome for that
poor deluded milliner in Albany Street. Jack says Kew's mother has
written over to Lord Highgate a beautiful letter--and the old boy's
relenting, and they'll come together again--Jack's eldest son now, you
know. Bore for Lady Susan only having girls."
"Not a bore for Jack, though," cries another. And what a good fellow Jack
was; and what a trump Kew is; how famously he stuck by him: went to see
him in prison and paid him out! and what good fellows we all are, in
general, became the subject of the conversation, the latter part of which
took place in the smoking-room of the Regent's Park Barracks, then
occupied by that regiment of Life Guards of which Lord Kew and Mr.
Belsize had been members. Both were still fondly remembered by their
companions; and it was because Belsize had spoken very warmly of Clive's
friendliness to him that Jack's friend the gallant Crackthorpe had been
interested in our hero, and found an opportunity of making his
acquaintance.
With these frank and pleasant young men Clive soon formed a considerable
intimacy: and if any of his older and peaceful friends chanced to take
their afternoon airing in the Park, and survey the horsemen there, we
might have the pleasure of beholding Mr. Newcome in Rotten Row, riding
side by side with other dandies who had mustachios blonde or jet, who
wore flowers in their buttons (themselves being flowers of spring), who
rode magnificent thoroughbred horses, scarcely touching their stirrups
with the tips of their varnished boots, and who kissed the most beautiful
primrose-coloured kid gloves to lovely ladies passing them in the Ride.
Clive drew portraits of half the officers of the Life Guards Green; and
was appointed painter in ordinary to that distinguished corps. His
likeness of the Colonel would make you die with laughing: his picture of
the Surgeon was voted a masterpiece. He drew the men in the saddle, in
the stable, in their flannel dresses, sweeping their flashing swords
about, receiving lancers, repelling infantry,--nay, cutting--a sheep in
two, as some of the warriors are known to be able to do at one stroke.
Detachments of Life Guardsmen made their appearance in Charlotte Street,
which was not very distant from their barracks; the most splendid cabs
were seen prancing before his door; and curly-whiskered youths, of
aristocratic appearance, smoking cigars out of his painting-room window.
How many times did Clive's next-door neighbour, little Mr Finch, the
miniature-painter, run to peep through his parlour blinds, hoping that a
sitter was coming, and "a carriage-party" driving up! What wrath Mr.
Scowler, A.R.A., was in, because a young hop-o'-my-thumb dandy, who wore
gold chains and his collars turned down, should spoil the trade and draw
portraits for nothing! Why did none of the young men come to Scowler?
Scowler was obliged to own that Mr. Newcome had considerable talent, and
a good knack at catching a likeness. He could not paint a bit, to be
sure, but his heads in black-and-white were really tolerable; his
sketches of horses very vigorous and lifelike. Mr. Gandish said if Clive
would come for three or four years into his academy he could make
something of him. Mr. Smee shook his head, and said he was afraid, that
kind of loose, desultory study, that keeping of aristocratic company, was
anything but favourable to a young artist--Smee, who would walk five
miles to attend an evening party of ever so little a great man!
CHAPTER XLIV
In which Mr. Charles Honeyman appears in an Amiable Light
Mr. Frederick Bayham waited at Fitzroy Square while Clive was yet talking
with his friends there, and favoured that gentleman with his company home
to the usual smoky refreshment. Clive always rejoiced in F. B.'s society,
whether he was in a sportive mood, or, as now, in a solemn and didactic
vein. F. B. had been more than ordinarily majestic all the evening. "I
dare say you find me a good deal altered, Clive," he remarked; "I am a
good deal altered. Since that good Samaritan, your kind father, had
compassion on a poor fellow fallen among thieves (though I don't say,
mind you, he was much better than his company), F. B. has mended some of
his ways. I am trying a course of industry, sir. Powers, perhaps
naturally great, have been neglected over the wine-cup and the die. I am
beginning to feel my way; and my chiefs yonder, who have just walked home
with their cigars in their mouths, and without as much as saying, F. B.,
my boy, shall we go to the Haunt and have a cool lobster and a glass of
table-beer,--which they certainly do not consider themselves to be,--I
say, sir, the Politician and the Literary Critic" (there was a most
sarcastic emphasis laid on these phrases, characterising Messrs.
Warrington and Pendennis) "may find that there is a humble contributor to
the Pall Mall Gazette, whose name, may be, the amateur shall one day
reckon even higher than their own. Mr. Warrington I do not say so much--
he is an able man, sir, an able man;--but there is that about your
exceedin self-satisfied friend, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, which--well, well--
let time show. You did not--get the--hem--paper at Rome and Naples, I
suppose?"
"Forbidden by the Inquisition," says
Clive, delighted; "and at Naples the
king furious against it."
"I don't wonder they don't like it at Rome, sir. There's serious matter
in it which may set the prelates of a certain Church rather in a tremor.
You haven't read--the--ahem--the Pulpit Pencillings in the P. M. G.?
Slight sketches, mental and corporeal, of our chief divines now in
London--and signed Latimer?"
"I don't do much in that way," said Clive.
"So much the worse for you, my young friend. Not that I mean to judge any
other fellow harshly--I mean any other fellow sinner harshly--or that I
mean that those Pulpit Pencillings would be likely to do you any great
good. But, such as they are, they have been productive of benefit.--Thank
you, Mary, and my dear, the tap is uncommonly good, and I drink to your
future husband's good health.--A glass of good sound beer refreshes after
all that claret. Well, sir, to return to the Pencillings, pardon my
vanity in saying, that though Mr. Pendennis laughs at them, they have
been of essential service to the paper. They give it a character, they
rally round it the respectable classes. They create correspondence. I
have received many interesting letters, chiefly from females, about the
Pencillings. Some complain that their favourite preachers are slighted;
others applaud because the clergymen they sit under are supported by
F. B. I am Laud Latimer, sir,--though I have heard the letters attributed
to the Rev. Mr. Bunker, and to a Member of Parliament eminent in the
religious world."
"So you are the famous Laud Latimer?" cries Clive, who had, in fact, seen
letters signed by those right reverend names in our paper.
"Famous is hardly the word. One who scoffs at everything--I need not say
I allude to Mr. Arthur Pendennis--would have had the letters signed--the
Beadle, of the Parish. He calls me the Venerable Beadle sometimes--it
being, I grieve to say, his way to deride grave subjects. You wouldn't
suppose now, my young Clive, that the same hand which pens the Art
criticisms, occasionally, when His Highness Pendennis is lazy, takes a
minor theatre, or turns the sportive epigram, or the ephemeral paragraph,
should adopt a grave theme on a Sunday, and chronicle the sermons of
British divines? For eighteen consecutive Sunday evenings, Clive, in Mrs.
Ridley's front parlour, which I now occupy, vice Miss Cann promoted, I
have written the Pencillings--scarcely allowing a drop of refreshment,
except under extreme exhaustion, to pass my lips. Pendennis laughs at the
Pencillings. He wants to stop them; and says they bore the public.--I
don't want to think a man is jealous, who was himself the cause of my
engagement at the P. M. G.,--perhaps my powers were not developed then."
"Pen thinks he writes better now than when he began," remarked Clive; "I
have heard him say so."
"His opinion of his own writings is high, whatever their date. Mine, sir,
are only just coming into notice. They begin to know F. B., sir, in the
sacred edifices of his metropolitan city. I saw the Bishop of London
looking at me last Sunday week, and am sure his chaplain whispered him,
'It's Mr. Bayham, my lord, nephew of your lordship's right reverend
brother, the Lord Bishop of Bullocksmithy.' And last Sunday being at
church--at Saint Mungo the Martyr's, Rev. Sawders--by Wednesday I got in
a female hand--Mrs. Sawders's, no doubt--the biography of the Incumbent
of St. Mungo; an account of his early virtues; a copy of his poems; and a
hint that he was the gentleman destined for the vacant Deanery.
"Ridley is not the only man I have helped in this world," F. B.
continued. "Perhaps I should blush to own it--I do blush: but I feel the
ties of early acquaintance, and I own that I have puffed your uncle,
Charles Honeyman, most tremendously. It was partly for the sake of the
Ridleys and the tick he owes 'em: partly for old times' sake. Sir, are
you aware that things are greatly changed with Charles Honeyman, and that
the poor F. B. has very likely made his fortune?"
"I am delighted to hear it," cried Clive; "and how, F. B., have you
wrought this miracle?"
"By common sense and enterprise, lad--by a knowledge of the world and a
benevolent disposition. You'll see Lady Whittlesea's Chapel bears a very
different aspect now. That miscreant Sherrick owns that he owes me a
turn, and has sent me a few dozen of wine--without any stamped paper on
my part in return--as an acknowledgment of my service. It chanced, sir,
soon after your departure for Italy, that going to his private residence
respecting a little bill to which a heedless friend had put his hand,
Sherrick invited me to partake of tea in the bosom of his family. I was
thirsty--having walked in from Jack Straw's Castle at Hampstead, where
poor Kitely and I had been taking a chop--and accepted the proffered
entertainment. The ladies of the family gave us music after the domestic
muffin--and then, sir, a great idea occurred to me. You know how
magnificently Miss Sherrick and the mother sing? Thy sang Mozart, sir.
Why, I asked of Sherrick, should those ladies who sing Mozart to a piano,
not sing Handel to an organ?
"'Dash it, you don't mean a hurdy-gurdy?'"
"'Sherrick,' says I, 'you are no better than a heathen ignoramus. I mean
why shouldn't they sing Handes Church Music, and Church Music in general
in Lady Whittlesea's Chapel? Behind the screen up in the organ-loft
what's to prevent 'em? By Jingo! Your singing-boys have gone to the Cave
of Harmody; you and your choir have split--why should not these ladies
lead it?' He caught at the idea. You never heard the chants more finely
given--and they would be better still if the congregation would but hold
their confounded tongues. It was an excellent though a harmless dodge,
sir: and drew immensely, to speak profanely. They dress the part, sir, to
admiration--a sort of nunlike costume they come in: Mrs. Sherrick has the
soul of an artist still--by Jove, sir, when they have once smelt the
lamps, the love of the trade never leaves 'em. The ladies actually
practised by moonlight in the Chapel, and came over to Honeyman's to an
oyster afterwards. The thing took, sir. People began to take box-seats, I
mean, again:--and Charles Honeyman, easy in his mind through your noble
father's generosity, perhaps inspirited by returning good fortune, has
been preaching more eloquently than ever. He took some lessons of Husler,
of the Haymarket, sir. His sermons are old, I believe; but so to speak,
he has got them up with new scenery, dresses, and effects, sir. They have
flowers, sir, about the buildin'--pious ladies are supposed to provide
'em, but, entre nous, Sherrick contracts for them with Nathan, or some
one in Covent Garden. And--don't tell this now, upon your honour!"
"Tell what, F. B.?" asks Clive.
"I got up a persecution against your uncle for Popish practices summoned
a meetin' at the Running Footman, in Bolingbroke Street. Billings the
butterman; Sharwood, the turner and blacking-maker; and the Honourable
Phelin O'Curragh, Lord Scullabogue's son, made speeches.
Two or three
respectable families (your aunt, Mrs. What-d'-you-call-'em Newcome,
amongst the number) quitted the Chapel in disgust--I wrote an article of
controversial biography in the P. M. G.; set the business going in the
daily press; and the thing was done, sir. That property is a paying one
to the Incumbent, and to Sherrick over him. Charles's affairs are getting
all right, sir. He never had the pluck to owe much, and if it be a sin to
have wiped his slate clean, satisfied his creditors, and made Charles
easy--upon my conscience, I must confess that F. B. has done it. I hope I
may never do anything worse in this life, Clive. It ain't bad to see him
doing the martyr, sir: Sebastian riddled with paper pellets; Bartholomew
on a cold gridiron. Here comes the lobster. Upon my word, Mary, a finer
fish I've seldom seen."
Now surely this account of his uncle's affairs and prosperity was enough
to send Clive to Lady Whittlesea's Chapel, and it was not because Miss
Ethel had said that she and Lady Kew went there that Clive was induced to
go there too? He attended punctually on the next Sunday, and in the
incumbent's pew, whither the pew-woman conducted him, sate Mr. Sherrick
in great gravity, with large gold pins, who handed him, at the anthem, a
large, new, gilt hymn-book.
An odour of millefleurs rustled by them as Charles Honeyman accompanied
by his ecclesiastical valet, passed the pew from the vestry, and took his
place at the desk. Formerly he used to wear a flaunting scarf over his
surplice, which was very wide and full; and Clive remembered when as a
boy he entered the sacred robing-room, how his uncle used to pat and puff
out the scarf and the sleeves of his vestment, and to arrange the natty
curl on his forehead and take his place, a fine example of florid church
decoration. Now the scarf was trimmed down to be as narrow as your
neckcloth, and hung loose and straight over the back; the ephod was cut
straight and as close and short as might be,--I believe there was a
little trimming of lace to the narrow sleeves, and a slight arabesque of
tape, or other substance, round the edge of the surplice. As for the curl
on the forehead, it was no more visible than the Maypole in the Strand,
or the Cross at Charing. Honeyman's hair was parted down the middle,
short in front, and curling delicately round his ears and the back of his
head. He read the service in a swift manner, and with a gentle twang.
When the music began, he stood with head on one side, and two slim
fingers on the book, as composed as a statue in a mediaeval niche. It was
fine to hear Sherrick, who had an uncommonly good voice, join in the
musical parts of the service. The produce of the market-gardener
decorated the church here and there; and the impresario of the
establishment, having picked up a Flemish painted window from old Moss in
Wardour Street, had placed it in his chapel. Labels of faint green and
gold, with long Gothic letters painted thereon, meandered over the
organ-loft and galleries, and strove to give as mediaeval a look to Lady
Whittlesea's as the place was capable of assuming.
In the sermon Charles dropped the twang with the surplice, and the priest
gave way to the preacher. He preached short stirring discourses on the
subjects of the day. It happened that a noble young prince, the hope of a
nation, and heir of a royal house, had just then died by a sudden
accident. Absalom, the son of David, furnished Honeyman with a parallel.
He drew a picture of the two deaths, of the grief of kings, of the fate
that is superior to them. It was, indeed, a stirring discourse, and
caused thrills through the crowd to whom Charles imparted it. "Famous,
ain't it?" says Sherrick, giving Clive a hand when the rite was over.
"How he's come out, hasn't he? Didn't think he had it in him." Sherrick
seemed to have become of late impressed with the splendour of Charles's