idea yet), will play a definite part in the ensuing history. At night,
when Honeyman comes in, he finds on the hall-table three wax bedroom
candles--his own, Bagshot's, and another. As for Miss Cann, she is locked
into the parlour in bed long ago, her stout little walking-shoes being on
the mat at the door. At 12 o'clock at noon, sometimes at 1, nay at 2 and
3--long after Bagshot is gone to his committees, and little Cann to her
pupils--a voice issues from the very topmost floor, from a room where
there is no bell; a voice of thunder calling out "Slavey! Julia! Julia,
my love! Mrs. Ridley!" And this summons not being obeyed, it will not
unfrequently happen that a pair of trousers enclosing a pair of boots
with iron heels, and known by the name of the celebrated Prussian General
who came up to help the other christener of boots at Waterloo, will be
flung down from the topmost story, even to the marble floor of the
resounding hall. Then the boy Thomas, otherwise called Slavey, may say,
"There he goes again;" or Mrs. Ridley's own back-parlour bell rings
vehemently, and Julia the cook will exclaim, "Lor, it's Mr. Frederick."
If the breeches and boots are not understood, the owner himself appears
in great wrath dancing on the upper story; dancing down to the lower
floor; and loosely enveloped in a ragged and flowing robe de chambre. In
this costume and condition he will dance into Honeyman's apartment, where
that meek divine may be sitting with a headache or over a novel or a
newspaper; dance up to the fire flapping his robe-tails, poke it, and
warm himself there; dance up to the cupboard where his reverence keeps
his sherry, and help himself to a glass.
"Salve, spes fidei, lumen ecclesiae," he will say; "here's towards you,
my buck. I knows the tap. Sherrick's Marsala bottled three months after
date, at two hundred and forty-six shillings the dozen."
"Indeed, indeed it's not" (and now we are coming to an idea of the
skeleton in poor Honeyman's closet--not that this huge handsome jolly
Fred Bayham is the skeleton, far from it. Mr. Frederick weighs fourteen
stone). "Indeed, indeed it isn't, Fred, I'm sure," sighs the other. "You
exaggerate, indeed you do. The wine is not dear, not by any means so
expensive as you say."
"How much a glass, think you?" says Fred, filling another bumper. "A
half-crown, think ye?--a half-crown, Honeyman? By cock and pye, it is not
worth a bender." He says this in the manner of the most celebrated
tragedian of the day. He can imitate any actor, tragic or comic; any
known Parliamentary orator or clergyman; any saw, cock, cloop of a cork
wrenched from a bottle and guggling of wine into the decanter afterwards,
bee buzzing, little boy up a chimney, etc. He imitates people being ill
on board a steam-packet so well that he makes you die of laughing: his
uncle the Bishop could not resist this comic exhibition, and gave Fred a
cheque for a comfortable sum of money; and Fred, getting cash for the
cheque at the Cave of Harmony, imitated his uncle the Bishop and his
Chaplain, winding up with his Lordship and Chaplain being unwell at sea--
the Chaplain and Bishop quite natural and distinct.
"How much does a glass of this sack cost thee, Charley?" resumes Fred,
after this parenthesis. "You say it is not dear. Charles Honeyman, you
had, even from your youth up, a villainous habit. And I perfectly well
remember, sir, in boyhood's breezy hour, when I was the delight of his
school, that you used to tell lies to your venerable father. You did,
Charles. Excuse the frankness of an early friend, it's my belief you'd
rather lie than not. Hm"--he looks at the cards in the chimney-glass
"Invitations to dinner, proffers of muffins. Do lend me your sermon. Oh,
you old impostor! you hoary old Ananias! I say, Charley, why haven't you
picked out some nice girl for yours truly? One with lauds and beeves,
with rents and consols, mark you? I have no money, 'tis true, but then I
don't owe as much as you. I am a handsomer man than you are. Look at this
chest" (he slaps it), "these limbs; they are manly, sir, manly."
"For Heaven's sake, Bayham," cries Mr. Honeyman, white with terror; "if
anybody were to come----"
"What did I say anon, sir? that I was manly, ay, manly. Let any ruffian,
save a bailiff, come and meet the doughty arm of Frederick Bayham."
"Oh, Lord, Lord, here's somebody coming into the room!" cries Charles,
sinking back on the sofa, as the door opens.
"Ha! dost thou come with murderous intent?" and he now advances in an
approved offensive attitude. "Caitiff, come on, come on!" and he walks
off with a tragic laugh, crying, "Ha, ha, ha, 'tis but the slavey!"
The slavey has Mr. Frederick's hot water, and a bottle of sodawater on
the same tray. He has been instructed to bring soda whenever he hears the
word slavey pronounced from above. The bottle explodes, and Frederick
drinks, and hisses after his drink as though he had been all hot within.
"What's o'clock now, slavey--half-past three? Let me see, I breakfasted
exactly ten hours ago, in the rosy morning, off a modest cup of coffee in
Covent Garden Market. Coffee, a penny; bread, a simple halfpenny. What
has Mrs. Ridley for dinner?"
"Please, sir, roast pork."
"Get me some. Bring it into my room, unless, Honeyman, you insist upon my
having it here, kind fellow!"
At the moment a smart knock comes to the door, and Fred says, "Well,
Charles, it may be a friend or a lady come to confess, and I'm off; I
knew you'd be sorry I was going. Tom, bring up my things; brush 'em
gently, you scoundrel, and don't take the nap off. Bring up the roast
pork, and plenty of apple-sauce, tell Mrs. Ridley, with my love; and one
of Mr. Honeyman's shirts, and one of his razors. Adieu, Charles! Amend!
Remember me." And he vanishes into the upper chambers.
CHAPTER XII
In which everybody is asked to Dinner
John James had opened the door hastening to welcome a friend and patron,
the sight of whom always gladdened the youth's eyes; no other than Clive
Newcome--in young Ridley's opinion, the most splendid, fortunate,
beautiful, high-born, and gifted youth this island contained. What
generous boy in his time has not worshipped somebody? Before the female
enslaver makes her appearance, every lad has a friend of friends, a crony
of cronies, to whom he writes immense letters in vacation, whom he
cherishes in his heart of hearts; whose sister he proposes to marry in
after life; whose purse he shares; for whom he will take a thrashing if
need be: who is his hero. Clive was John James's youthful divinity: when
he wanted to draw Thaddeus of Warsaw, a Prince, Ivanhoe, or some one
splendid and egregious, it was Clive he took for a model. His heart leapt
when he saw the young fellow. He would walk cheerfully to Grey Friars,
with a letter or message for Clive, on the chance of seeing him, and
getting a kind word from him, or a shake of the hand. An ex-butler of
Lord Todmorden was a pensioner in the Grey Friars Hospital (it has been
said that at that ancient establishment is a college f
or old men as well
as for boys), and this old man would come sometimes to his successor's
Sunday dinner, and grumble from the hour of that meal until nine o'clock,
when he was forced to depart, so as to be within Grey Friars' gates
before ten; grumble about his dinner--grumble about his beer--grumble
about the number of chapels he had to attend, about the gown he wore,
about the master's treatment of him, about the want of plums in the
pudding, as old men and schoolboys grumble. It was wonderful what a
liking John James took to this odious, querulous, graceless, stupid, and
snuffy old man, and how he would find pretexts for visiting him at his
lodging in the old hospital. He actually took that journey that he might
have a chance of seeing Clive. He sent Clive notes and packets of
drawings; thanked him for books lent, asked advice about future reading--
anything, so that he might have a sight of his pride, his patron, his
paragon.
I am afraid Clive Newcome employed him to smuggle rum-shrub and cigars
into the premises; giving him appointments in the school precincts, where
young Clive would come and stealthily receive the forbidden goods. The
poor lad was known by the boys, and called Newcome's Punch. He was all
but hunchbacked; long and lean in the arm; sallow, with a great forehead,
and waving black hair, and large melancholy eyes.
"What, is it you, J. J.?" cries Clive gaily, when his humble friend
appears at the door. "Father, this is my friend Ridley. This is the
fellow what can draw."
"I know who I will back against any young man of his size at that," says
the Colonel, looking at Clive fondly. He considered there was not such a
genius in the world; and had already thought of having some of Clive's
drawings published by M'Lean of the Haymarket.
"This is my father just come from India--and Mr. Pendennis, an old Grey
Friars' man. Is my uncle at home?" Both these gentlemen bestow rather
patronising nods of the head on the lad introduced to them as J. J. His
exterior is but mean-looking. Colonel Newcome, one of the humblest-minded
men alive, has yet his old-fashioned military notions; and speaks to a
butler's son as to a private soldier, kindly, but not familiarly.
"Mr Honeyman is at home, gentlemen," the young lad says, humbly. "Shall I
show you up to his room?" And we walk up the stairs after our guide. We
find Mr. Honeyman deep in study on his sofa, with Pearson on the Creed
before him. The novel has been whipped under the pillow. Clive found it
there some short time afterwards, during his uncle's temporary absence in
his dressing-room. He has agreed to suspend his theological studies, and
go out with his brother-in-law to dine.
As Clive and his friends were at Honeyman's door, and just as we were
entering to see the divine seated in state before his folio, Clive
whispers, "J. J., come along, old fellow, and show us some drawings. What
are you doing?"
"I was doing some Arabian Nights," says J. J., "up in my room; and
hearing a knock which I thought was yours, I came down."
"Show us the pictures. Let's go up into your room," cries Clive. "What--
will you?" says the other. "It is but a very small place."
"Never mind, come along," says Clive; and the two lads disappear
together, leaving the three grown gentlemen to discourse together, or
rather two of us to listen to Honeyman, who expatiates upon the beauty of
the weather, the difficulties of the clerical calling, the honour Colonel
Newcome does him by a visit, etc., with his usual eloquence.
After a while Clive comes down without J. J., from the upper regions. He
is greatly excited. "Oh, sir," he says to his father, "you talk about my
drawings--you should see J. J.'s! By Jove, that fellow is a genius. They
are beautiful, sir. You seem actually to read the Arabian Nights, you
know, only in pictures. There is Scheherazade telling the stories, and--
what do you call her?--Dinarzade and the Sultan sitting in bed and
listening. Such a grim old cove! You see he has cut off ever so many of
his wives' heads. I can't think where that chap gets his ideas from. I
can beat him in drawing horses, I know, and dogs; but I can only draw
what I see. Somehow he seems to see things we don't, don't you know? Oh,
father, I'm determined I'd rather be a painter than anything." And he
falls to drawing horses and dogs at his uncle's table, round which the
elders are seated.
"I've settled it upstairs with J. J.," says Clive, working away with his
pen. "We shall take a studio together; perhaps we will go abroad
together. Won't that be fun, father?"
"My dear Clive," remarks Mr. Honeyman, with bland dignity, "there are
degrees in society which we must respect. You surely cannot think of
being a professional artist. Such a profession is very well for your
young protege; but for you----"
"What for me?" cries Clive. "We are no such great folks that I know of;
and if we were, I say a painter is as good as a lawyer, or a doctor, or
even a soldier. In Dr. Johnston's Life--which my father is always
reading--I like to read about Sir Joshua Reynolds best: I think he is the
best gentleman of all in the book. My! wouldn't I like to paint a picture
like Lord Heathfield in the National Gallery! Wouldn't I just! I think I
would sooner have done that, than have fought at Gibraltar. And those
Three Graces--oh, aren't they graceful! And that Cardinal Beaufort at
Dulwich!--it frightens me so, I daren't look at it. Wasn't Reynolds a
clipper, that's all! and wasn't Rubens a brick! He was an ambassador, and
Knight of the Bath; so was Vandyck. And Titian, and Raphael, and
Velasquez?--I'll just trouble you to show me better gentlemen than them,
Uncle Charles."
"Far be it from me to say that the pictorial calling is not honourable,"
says Uncle Charles; "but as the world goes there are other professions in
greater repute; and I should have thought Colonel Newcome's son----"
"He shall follow his own bent," said the Colonel; "as long as his calling
is honest it becomes a gentleman; and if he were to take a fancy to play
on the fiddle--actually on the fiddle--I shouldn't object."
"Such a rum chap there was upstairs!" Clive resumes, looking up
from his scribbling. "He was walking up and down on the landing in a
dressing-gown, with scarcely any other clothes on, holding a plate in one
hand, and a pork-chop he was munching with the other. Like this" (and
Clive draws a figure). "What do you think, sir? He was in the Cave of
Harmony, he says, that night you flared up about Captain Costigan. He
knew me at once; and he says, 'Sir, your father acted like a gentleman, a
Christian, and a man of honour. Maxima debetur puero reverentia. Give him
my compliments. I don't know his highly respectable name.' His highly
respectable name," says Clive, cracking with laughter--"those were his
very words. 'And inform him that I am an orphan myself--in needy
circumstances'--he said he was in needy circumstances; 'and I heartily
wish he'd adopt me.'"
The lad puffed out his face, made
his voice as loud and as deep as he
could; and from his imitation and the picture he had drawn, I knew at
once that Fred Bayham was the man he mimicked.
"And does the Red Rover live here," cried Mr. Pendennis, "and have we
earthed him at last?"
"He sometimes comes here," Mr. Honeyman said with a careless manner. "My
landlord and landlady were butler and housekeeper to his father, Bayham
of Bayham, one of the oldest families in Europe. And Mr. Frederick
Bayham, the exceedingly eccentric person of whom you speak, was a private
pupil of my own dear father in our happy days at Borehambury."
He had scarcely spoken when a knock was heard at the door, and before the
occupant of the lodgings could say "Come in!" Mr. Frederick Bayham made
his appearance, arrayed in that peculiar costume which he affected. In
those days we wore very tall stocks, only a very few poetic and eccentric
persons venturing on the Byron collar; but Fred Bayham confined his neck
by a simple ribbon, which allowed his great red whiskers to curl freely
round his capacious jowl. He wore a black frock and a large broad-brimmed
hat, and looked somewhat like a Dissenting preacher. At other periods you
would see him in a green coat and a blue neckcloth, as if the turf or the
driving of coaches was his occupation.
"I have heard from the young man of the house who you were, Colonel
Newcome," he said with the greatest gravity, "and happened to be present,
sir, the other night; for I was aweary, having been toiling all the day
in literary labour, and needed some refreshment. I happened to be
present, sir, at a scene which did you the greatest honour, and of which
I spoke, not knowing you, with something like levity to your son. He is
an ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris--Pendennis, how are you? And I
thought, sir, I would come down and tender an apology if I had said any
words that might savour of offence to a gentleman who was in the right,
as I told the room when you quitted it, as Mr. Pendennis, I am sure, will
remember."
Mr. Pendennis looked surprise and perhaps negation.
"You forget, Pendennis? Those who quit that room, sir, often forget on
the morrow what occurred during the revelry of the night. You did right in
refusing to return to that scene. We public men are obliged often to seek
our refreshment at hours when luckier individuals are lapt in slumber."
"And what may be your occupation, Mr. Bayham?" asks the Colonel, rather
gloomily, for he had an idea that Bayham was adopting a strain of
persiflage which the Indian gentleman by no means relished. Never saying
aught but a kind word to any one, he was on fire at the notion that any
should take a liberty with him.
"A barrister, sir, but without business--a literary man, who can but
seldom find an opportunity to sell the works of his brains--a gentleman,
sir, who has met with neglect, perhaps merited, perhaps undeserved, from
his family. I get my bread as best I may. On that evening I had been
lecturing on the genius of some of our comic writers, at the
Parthenopoeon, Hackney. My audience was scanty, perhaps equal to my
deserts. I came home on foot to an egg and a glass of beer after
midnight, and witnessed the scene which did you so much honour. What is
this? I fancy a ludicrous picture of myself"--he had taken up the sketch
which Clive had been drawing--"I like fun, even at my own expense; and
can afford to laugh at a joke which is meant in good-humour." This speech
quite reconciled the honest Colonel. "I am sure the author of that, Mr.
Bayham, means you or any man no harm. Why! the rascal, sir, has drawn me,
his own father; and I have sent the drawing to Major Hobbs, who is in
command of my regiment. Chinnery himself, sir, couldn't hit off a
likeness better; he has drawn me on horseback, and he has drawn me on
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