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The prefixal stems may possess very similar semantics, e. This is the default anatomical term in Hdt. It seems, however, that all textual instances in [Dawkins ; Andriotis ] concern 'heart' in metaphorical sense only 'organ of feeling' etc. This is actually the inherited Greek word from the Phloita subdialect; the proper Aravan term for 'horn' is unknown.

Direct stem. Oblique stem. This is the default expression for 'to kill' in Hdt. This is the most neutral and common verb for 'to kill' in Plato. Apparently this is the most common and neutral equivalent for 'to kill'. The Tsakonian verb was thus adapted from the Demotic new formation or at least influenced by it. And numerous examples from other subdialects: "Then the king sent a great many soldiers, to kill the forty robbers. He had killed them" [Dawkins ], "Whoever killed this lion, to him I will give my daughter" [Dawkins ], "You have killed my mother" [Dawkins ], "the king will kill the executioner" [Dawkins ], "Let us kill the children" [Dawkins ], "He went there, to find the boy and kill him" [Dawkins ], "If he takes him to his house, he will kill him" [Dawkins ].

There are two generic verbs for 'to die' in Cappadocian as well as in Pharasa. According to the text collection in [Dawkins ], both verbs are frequently used in both Cappadocian and Pharasa. Nevertheless, we prefer to treat both verbs as synonyms for Cappadocian. Kill it" [Dawkins ], "Kill this boy; cook him And numerous examples from other subdialects: "'Kill the bird in the cage, and I will eat it'. They killed them" [Dawkins ], "If you don't sort them out, I will kill you" [Dawkins ], "They seized him, to kill him" [Dawkins ], "If your husband brings the bird, kill it" [Dawkins ], "And the king sent two soldiers to take the boy's head, to kill him" [Dawkins ].

It seems impossible to make a reasonable choice, so we prefer to treat both verbs as synonyms. I only say what the Egyptians themselves say. This is the default and most frequently used verb for 'to know that a fact or a situation ' or 'to know an object ' in Plato. I cannot see as before'. His mother said, 'Why? This is actually the inherited Greek word from the Axo and Phloita subdialects; the proper Aravan term for 'leaf' is not documented.

A prefixal verb, used for the meanings 'to lie down' and simply 'to lie'. Apparently this is the only case where some lexical difference between Athenian and Thessaloniki Demotic could be traced within our item wordlist. This is actually the verb from the Axo subdialect; expressions for 'to lie' are not properly documented for other subdialects, although cf. This is actually the inherited Greek word from the Fertek subdialect; the proper Aravan term for 'liver' is not documented.

No textual instances. It is unclear, however, which one is the default word for 'louse' in Axo. Back formation from Medieval Greek pl. This is the basic term for at least 'man' and 'person' in Pharasa. And the little boy mounted on the horse's crupper" [Dawkins ], "In a time of old there was a man. He had a wife" [Dawkins ]. She saw that a man is sleeping at the root of the poplar" [Dawkins ], "Sir, when a man dies and is made whole again, is his oath annulled?

He had also a wife" [Dawkins ], "Afterwards men in the village there heard of it" [Dawkins ], "On Sunday a man questioned him" [Dawkins ], "In a time of old there were four men" [Dawkins ]. He took one from them. He became a donkey. He took one from the next tree. He became a man" [Dawkins ]. There are several competing terms for 'man', 'person' and husband' in Cappadocian.

Unfortunately, textual analysis does not always permit to establish their status. It is a frequent word, cf. He licked it. A man appeared before him, and said" [Dawkins ], Phloita "Where is the thing you have which kills men? This word is also frequently used in Cappadocian, cf. And he had a little boy; and his wife was dead" [Dawkins ], Delmeso "And the man took the children and says" [Dawkins ], Aravan "The snake said to the camel; 'I was here inside the box; this man uncovered me.

Am I to eat him? And these men went to the king, and were telling him" [Dawkins ]. It is the default expression for this meaning, an adjective used with countable [pl. Several hundred attestations. This is the default expression for this meaning, an adjective used with countable [pl. An adjectival stem.

Deffner's and Kostakis' examples: "many men", "many fishes", "He knows many things", "a lot of money", "There were many tomatoes". Deffner's and Kostakis' examples: "many men", "many ships", "many times", "a lot of effort", "Last year we had a lot of pears", "many children", "a lot of beans". We follow suit. When Xerxes saw and took note of that, he was concerned and asked the Magi what the vision might signify.

The man's name was Mitradates, and his wife was a slave like him; her name was in the Greek language Cyno, in the Median Spako: for 'spax' is the Median word for dog. Of unclear origin, cf. Glossed as 'throat' by Dawkins, but actually means 'neck'. We treat both terms as synonyms. This is actually the word from the Delmeso subdialect; the inherited Aravan term for 'new' is not documented. And she put the new ones into the chest" [Dawkins ], "They had a few old houses and a few new ones" [Dawkins ].

This is the basic and most common word for 'night' in Hdt. The word is attested exclusively in the three last books of the The Histories. Applicable to humans only. Analytical verbal forms such as pres. The vocalic element o was later generalized as a generic exponent of negation of assertion. A particle, denoting negation of assertion. In some subdialects, the variant den is used. Cognate to the basic Ancient Greek numeral hey-s [masc. Cognate to Ancient Greek hey-s, hen- [masc. See notes on 'man'. This is apparently the default word for 'rain' in Hdt. A difficult case from the formal viewpoint, because there are several designations of red-like colors attested in Hdt.

No expressions for 'red' in [Dawkins ]. This is actually the inherited Greek word from the Axo subdialect. This is the most frequent and basic word for 'road, path' in Hdt. It was decided that they should guard the pass of Thermopylae, for they saw that it was narrower than the pass into Thessaly and nearer home. Many attestations. And he came to a forked road. In that road there was a block of marble" [Dawkins ]. It seems that Hdt. They make these in Armenia, higher up the stream than Assyria. We treat them as synonyms.

Other expressions for 'round' are rare. Borrowed from Turkish yuvarlak 'round 3D'. Applied both to sea sand and desert sand. Out of many verba dicendi attested in Hdt. Attestations of both stems are numerous. Etymologically glossed by Deffner as 'to talk', but as basic 'to say' by Pernot; the latter is confirmed by numerous textual examples in [Deffner ; Kostakis ]. In present and imperfective, tran- is the most frequently used root for the meaning 'to see' as well as for 'to look'. He turns a stone over; sees a pot of gold coins" [Dawkins ], Delmeso "Behind him comes the scale-maker as well, and sees through the chimney that they are measuring gold coins" [Dawkins ], Ghurzono "Then there remained one only, and he came out to see what had become of the rest of them, his companions" [Dawkins ], Ulaghatsh "From over there we shall see; if [the sign be given with] a gun, we would not come" [Dawkins ], Ulaghatsh "He had seen a girl sleeping" [Dawkins ], Ulaghatsh "He went on; he had seen near him a plane tree" [Dawkins ], Axo "He rose up; he sees there is no one" [Dawkins ], Axo "The sister, who is inside the chest, cried out, 'I see you.

Do not open the chest'" [Dawkins ], Axo "As soon as they see the wolf yonder" [Dawkins ], Malakopi "Their neighbour goes, sees a gold piece had stuck there" [Dawkins ], Malakopi "The Scaldhead rises up; he sees that his door is marked" [Dawkins ], Phloita "And the king sees a great many more negroes. He is afraid to fight" [Dawkins ], Phloita "he says to the butcher, 'Where is the thing you have which kills men? Shew it to me; let me just see it'. And he says, 'That is for enemies to see.

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You are not to see it'" [Dawkins ], Phloita "They open the gates of the castle, and see the three policemen" [Dawkins ], Phloita "They see the ring is missing" [Dawkins ], Phloita "behold, the lady opens the window; she sees that the moneychanger has come" [Dawkins ]. I cannot see" [Dawkins ], Ulaghatsh "He had seen behind him the girl" [Dawkins ], Phloita "He does not go into it, and waits at the edge of the village. Afterwards he sees a dervish" [Dawkins ], Phloita "He who sees her eyes, must give three loads of money" [Dawkins ], Phloita "No one sees him" [Dawkins ], Silata "She goes there to the cave, and sees that girl at the windows" [Dawkins ], Ulaghatsh "And he asked, 'Have you seen here a Fair One of the World?

Examples for intransitive usage present tense only. This frequent verb is the default expression for 'to sit, be sitting' in Plato. This is a generic term for 'skin, hide', applied both to humans and various animals; the skin can be part of the body or taken off the body. Said of humans. Borrowed from Turkish kabuk 'shell, bark, peel, skin, hide'. He sleeps in the king's bed. He becomes king" [Dawkins ], Phloita "Those children did not go away. They slept at the school" [Dawkins ], Phloita "The boy sleeps there" [Dawkins ], Phloita "Let me sleep and rise up with you" [Dawkins ], Phloita "Afterwards he went into the garden with the lady, to sleep under the trees" [Dawkins ], Phloita "They ate, drank, sang, went to sleep" [Dawkins ], Silata "And she ate from the smallest, and drank wine from the smallest cup, and went to sleep on the smallest one's bed" [Dawkins ], Silata "He fell asleep under a plane-tree" [Dawkins ].

Its attestations are much less frequent, whereas its meaning usually differs from the neutral 'to sleep'. Dawkins' examples: Ulaghatsh "The eldest brother remained. He rose up" [Dawkins ], Phloita "They had all fallen asleep" [Dawkins ]. This is the most generic term for 'small, little' in Hdt. Attested ca. Application: territory land, island, city , animals horse, bird, fish, snake , humans 'short' , weapons shield, arrow, spear , abstracta in a litotic construction: great authority, great honor, etc.

No specific adjectives for 'small' are documented in [Dawkins ; Andriotis ]. They were poor. The following instance is especially interesting: "'Woman, how well you did to stuff this goose with rice and bring it to me'. Some examples from other subdialects: Delmeso "little children" [Dawkins ], Delmeso "little village" [Dawkins ], Ghurzono "little tent" [Dawkins ], Silata "The king gave an order that all should pass in front of him, little and big" [Dawkins ]. Polysemy: 'to set, put, stand trans. The Tsakonian verb looks adapted from Demotic or at least influenced by it.

Do not stand close to me'. And they did not stand close to him" [Dawkins ]. From these he demanded the victor's prize for the sea-fight of Salamis. This is the default and most frequent word for 'stone' in Hdt. Most worthy of mention among the many offerings which he dedicated in all the noteworthy temples for his deliverance from blindness are the two marvellous stone obelisks which he set up in the temple of the Sun.

She prayed.

God gave her a baby" [Dawkins ]. Only examples for the meaning 'rock, cliff' are available, such as: "She went to a great rock. And the little boy went to the back of the rock" [Dawkins ], "They went up to a rock" [Dawkins ]. According to the available sources, all the three forms coexist in Aravan. She would have thrown down a stone to kill him" [Dawkins ], Malakopi "The hoopoe flies off the tree. He takes a stone; throws it at his nest" [Dawkins ], Potamia "And they went down, and the fox closed it with a stone on top of it, and they remained there" [Dawkins ], Ulaghatsh "He came up to a rock and there fell asleep" [Dawkins ].

He turns a stone over; sees a pot of gold coins" [Dawkins ], Phloita "He saw, his brother is building houses, and they are carrying stones" [Dawkins ]. Borrowed from Turkish kaya 'rock, cliff; hard stone'. The basic term with a number of examples. Initial a- is not entirely clear. Applied to humans, animals. They have besides two marvellous kinds of sheep, found nowhere else. This word is also attested with initial n- in some other Greek varieties. This is actually the inherited Greek word from the Sinasos subdialect recorded by Arkhelaos ; the proper Aravan term for 'tail' is not documented.

Initial t- is the result of reanalysis of a construction with the definite article e. Basic expression of the distal deixis, although its attestations in the attributive function are modest: ca. Basic expression of the distal deixis with numerous attestations, although attestations in the attributive function are not so frequent.

According to [Pernot ], the Southern Tsakonian system is ternary. We treat the first two forms as synonyms for 'this'. This is the default expression of the proximal deixis in Hdt. This is the default expression for proximal deixis in Plato with numerous attestations. Glossed as 'this here'. Glossed as 'this there'. Numerous attestations, e. The carpenter watched. He saw a big tree. He rose up; he cut the tree", "They said, 'Go to that tree'.

They went to the tree. The girl leaned up against that tree. The tree split. The girl went into it. The tree closed up again" [Dawkins ]. This is actually the inherited Greek word from the Malakopi, Phloita and Silata subdialects; the proper Aravan term for 'tree' is not documented.

This is the default and most frequently used verb for 'to go' in Plato. Widely applicable. Attested in numerous passages in [Dawkins ]. Numerous attestations with inclusive semantics. No clusivity. In [Vyatkina ], transcribed as ce. The same lexeme as 'who' q. Ultimately borrowed from Latin asper 'disagreeable to touch, rough, harsh; embossed, encrusted; in mint condition of coins '.

Mary Hann showed me one of her arms quite black and blue; and I recklect Mrs. Bonner, who's as jealous of me as a old cat, boxed her ears for showing me. And then you should see Miss at luncheon, when there's nobody but the family! She makes b'leave she never heats, and my! She has Mary Hann to bring her up plum-cakes and creams into her bedroom; and the cook's the only man in the house she's civil to. Bonner says, how, the second season in London, Mr. Soppington was a-goin' to propose for her, and actially came one day, and sor her fling a book into the fire, and scold her mother so, that he went down softly by the back droring-room door, which he came in by; and next thing we heard of him was, he was married to Miss Rider.

Oh, she's a devil, that little Blanche, and that's my candig apinium, Mr. Morgan said, with parental kindness, and then asked of his own bosom with a sigh, why the deuce does my Governor want Master Arthur to marry such a girl as this? The Gentleman's Club was held in the parlour of the Wheel of Fortune public-house, in a snug little by-lane, leading out of one of the great streets of Mayfair, and frequented by some of the most select gentlemen about town.

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Their masters' affairs, debts, intrigues, adventures; their ladies' good and bad qualities and quarrels with their husbands; all the family secrets were here discussed with perfect freedom and confidence, and here, when about to enter into a new situation, a gentleman was enabled to get every requisite information regarding the family of which he proposed to become a member. Liveries it may be imagined were excluded from this select precinct; and the powdered heads of the largest metropolitan footmen might bow down in vain entreating admission into the Gentleman's Club.

These outcast giants in plush took their beer in an outer apartment of the Wheel of Fortune, and could no more get an entry into the Clubroom than a Pall Mall tradesman or a Lincoln's Inn attorney could get admission into Bays's or Spratt's. And it is because the conversation which we have permitted to overhear here, in some measure explains the characters and bearings of our story, that we have ventured to introduce the reader into a society so exclusive. The Way of the World A short time after the piece of good fortune which befell Colonel Altamont at Epsom, that gentleman put into execution his projected foreign tour, and the chronicler of the polite world who goes down to London Bridge for the purpose of taking leave of the people of fashion who quit this country, announced that among the company on board the Soho to Antwerp last Saturday, were "Sir Robert, Lady, and the Misses Hodge; Mr.

Serjeant Kewsy, and Mrs. The Chevalier partook of a copious dinner at Blackwall with his departing friend the Colonel, and one or two others, who drank many healths to Altamont at that liberal gentleman's expense. I'm your man. You're a good feller, and have been a good feller to me, and a twenty-pound note, more or less, will make no odds to me," But Strong said, No, he didn't want any money; he was flush, quite flush—"that is, not flush enough to pay you back your last loan, Altamont, but quite able to carry on for some time to come," and so, with a not uncordial greeting between them, the two parted.

Had the possession of money really made Altamont more honest and amiable than he had hitherto been, or only caused him to seem more amiable in Strong's eyes? Perhaps he really was better, and money improved him. Perhaps it was the beauty of wealth Strong saw and respected. But he argued within himself, "This poor devil, this unlucky outcast of a returned convict, is ten times as good a fellow as my friend Sir Francis Clavering, Bart.

He has pluck and honesty in his way. He will stick to a friend, and face an enemy. The other never had courage to do either. And what is it that has put the poor devil under a cloud? He was only a little wild, and signed his father-in-law's name. Many a man has done worse, and come to no wrong, and holds his head up. Clavering does. No, he don't hold his head up: he never did in his best days. Besides, he could get on. Clavering had promised him some: not that Clavering's promises were much to be believed, but the Chevalier was of a hopeful turn, and trusted in many chances of catching his patron, and waylaying some of those stray remittances and supplies, in the procuring of which for his principal lay Mr.

Strong's chief business. He had grumbled about Altamont's companionship in the Shepherd's Inn chambers; but he found those lodgings more glum now without his partner than with him. The solitary life was not agreeable to his social soul; and he had got into extravagant and luxurious habits, too, having a servant at his command to run his errands, to arrange his toilets, and to cook his meal.

It was rather a grand and touching sight now to see the portly and handsome gentleman painting his own boots, and broiling his own mutton chop. It has been before stated that the Chevalier had a wife, a Spanish lady of Vittoria, who had gone back to her friends, after a few months' union with the Captain, whose head she broke with a dish.

He began to think whether he should not go back and see his Juanita. The Chevalier was growing melancholy after the departure of his friend the Colonel; or, to use his own picturesque expression, was "down on his luck. What great man has not been called upon to face evil fortune? From Clavering no supplies were to be had for some time, the five-and-twenty pounds or the "pony," which the exemplary Baronet had received from Mr. Altamont, had fled out of Clavering's keeping as swiftly as many previous ponies. He had been down the river with a choice party of sporting gents, who dodged the police and landed in Essex, where they put up Billy Bluck to fight Dick the cabman whom the Baronet backed, and who had it all his own way for thirteen rounds, when, by an unlucky blow in the windpipe, Billy killed him.

And dammy, I owe my man Lightfoot fourteen pound now which he's lent and paid for me: and he duns me—the confounded impudent blackguard: and I wish to Heaven I knew any way of getting a bill done, or of screwing a little out of my lady! I'll give you half, Ned, upon my soul and honour, I'll give you half if you can get anybody to do us a little fifty.

And what is more, he vowed he would advise Lady Clavering that Sir Francis was about to break his faith towards her upon the very first hint which he could get that such was Clavering's intention. Upon this information Sir Francis Clavering, according to his custom, cried and cursed very volubly.

He spoke of death as his only resource. He besought and implored his dear Strong, his best friend, his dear old Ned, not to throw him over: and when he quitted his dearest Ned, as he went down the stairs of Shepherd's Inn, swore and blasphemed at Ned as the most infernal villain, and traitor, and blackguard, and coward under the sun, and wished Ned was in his grave, and in a worse place, only he would like the confounded ruffian to live, until Frank Clavering had had his revenge out of him.

In Strong's chambers the Baronet met a gentleman whose visits were now, as it has been shown, very frequent in Shepherd's Inn, Mr. Samuel Huxter, of Clavering. That young fellow, who had poached the walnuts in Clavering Park in his youth, and had seen the Baronet drive through the street at home with four horses, and prance up to church with powdered footmen, had an immense respect for his Member, and a prodigious delight in making his acquaintance. He introduced himself with much blushing and trepidation, as a Clavering man—son of Mr.

Huxter, of the market-place—father attended Sir Francis's keeper, Coxwood, when his gun burst and took off three fingers—proud to make Sir Francis's acquaintance. All of which introduction Sir Francis received affably. And honest Huxter talked about Sir Francis to the chaps at Bartholomew's: and told Fanny, in the lodge, that, after all, there was nothing like a thoroughbred un, a regular good old English gentleman, one of the olden time!

To which Fanny replied, that she thought Sir Francis was an ojous creature—she didn't know why—but she couldn't abear him—she was sure he was wicked, and low, and mean—she knew he was; and when Sam to this replied that Sir Francis was very affable, and had borrowed half a sov' of him quite kindly, Fanny burst into a laugh, pulled Sam's long hair which was not yet of irreproachable cleanliness , patted his chin, and called him a stoopid, stoopid, old foolish stoopid, and said that Sir Francis was always borrering money of everybody, and that Mar had actially refused him twice, and had had to wait three months to get seven shillings which he had borrowed of 'er.

Huxter replied—not to a fault in her argument, but to grammatical errors in her statement. Of course Mrs. Bolton was by, and I suppose that Fanny and Dr. Sam were on exceedingly familiar and confidential terms by this time, and that time had brought to the former certain consolations, and soothed certain regrets, which are deucedly bitter when they occur, but which are, no more than tooth-pulling, or any other pang, eternal.

As you sit, surrounded by respect and affection; happy, honoured, and flattered in your old age; your foibles gently indulged; your least words kindly cherished; your garrulous old stories received for the hundredth time with dutiful forbearance, and never-failing hypocritical smiles; the women of your house constant in their flatteries; the young men hushed and attentive when you begin to speak; the servants awestricken; the tenants cap in hand, and ready to act in the place of your worship's horses when your honour takes a drive—it has often struck you, O thoughtful Dives!

Men come and bask in the halo of consols and acres that beams round about him: the reverence is transferred with the estate; of which, with all its advantages, pleasures, respect, and good-will, he in turn becomes the life-tenant. How long do you wish or expect that your people will regret you? How much time does a man devote to grief before he begins to enjoy? A great man must keep his heir at his feast like a living memento mori.

If he holds very much by life, the presence of the other must be a constant sting and warning. Do we wish to apologise for Pen because he has got a white hat, and because his mourning for his mother is fainter? All the lapse of years, all the career of fortune, all the events of life, however strongly they may move or eagerly excite him, never can remove that sainted image from his heart, or banish that blessed love from its sanctuary.

If he yields to wrong, the dear eyes will look sadly upon him when he dares to meet them; if he does well, endures pain, or conquers temptation, the ever present love will greet him, he knows, with approval and pity; if he falls, plead for him; if he suffers, cheer him;—be with him and accompany him always until death is past; and sorrow and sin are no more.

Is this mere dreaming, or, on the part of an idle story-teller, useless moralising? May not the man of the world take his moment, too, to be grave and thoughtful? Ask of your own hearts and memories, brother and sister, if we do not live in the dead; and to speak reverently prove God by love? Of these matters Pen and Warrington often spoke in many a solemn and friendly converse in after days; and Pendennis's mother was worshipped in his memory, and canonised there, as such a saint ought to be.

Lucky he in life who knows a few such women! A kind provision of Heaven it was, that sent us such; and gave us to admire that touching and wonderful spectacle of innocence, and love, and beauty. But as it is certain that if, in the course of these sentimental conversations, any outer stranger, Major Pendennis for instance, had walked into Pen's chambers, Arthur and Warrington would have stopped their talk, and chosen another subject, and discoursed about the Opera, or the last debate in Parliament, or Miss Jones's marriage with Captain Smith, or what not,—so, let us imagine that the public steps in at this juncture, and stops the confidential talk between author and reader, and begs us to resume our remarks about this world, with which both are certainly better acquainted than with that other one into which we have just been peeping.

On coming into his property, Arthur Pendennis at first comported himself with a modesty and equanimity which obtained his friend Warrington's praises, though Arthur's uncle was a little inclined to quarrel with his nephew's meanness of spirit, for not assuming greater state and pretensions now that he had entered on the enjoyment of his kingdom. He would have had Arthur installed in handsome quarters, and riding on showy park hacks, or in well-built cabriolets, every day.

And when Arthur, pursuing his banter, said, "And yet, I dare say, sir, my father was proud enough when he first set up his gig," the old Major hemmed and ha'd, and his wrinkled face reddened with a blush as he answered, "You know what Buonaparte said, sir, 'Il faut laver son linge sale en famille. He came of a most ancient but fallen house, and was obliged to reconstruct the family fortunes as many a man of good family has done before him. You are like the fellow in Sterne, sir—the Marquis who came to demand his sword again.

Your father got back yours for you. You are a man of landed estate, by Gad, sir, and a gentleman—never forget you are a gentleman. Cultivate kindly, reader, those friendships of your youth: it is only in that generous time that they are formed. How different the intimacies of after days are, and how much weaker the grasp of your own hand after it has been shaken about in twenty years' commerce with the world, and has squeezed and dropped a thousand equally careless palms! As you can seldom fashion your tongue to speak a new language after twenty, the heart refuses to receive friendship pretty soon: it gets too hard to yield to the impression.

So Pen had many acquaintances, and being of a jovial and easy turn, got more daily: but no friend like Warrington; and the two men continued to live almost as much in common as the Knights of the Temple, riding upon one horse for Pen's was at Warrington's service , and having their chambers and their servitor in common. Warrington had made the acquaintance of Pen's friends of Grosvenor Place during their last unlucky season in London, and had expressed himself no better satisfied with Sir Francis and Lady Clavering and her ladyship's daughter than was the public in general.

The young men laugh and talk freely before those ladies, and about them. The girl sees people whom she has no right to know, and talks to men with whom no girl should have an intimacy. Did you see those two reprobates leaning over Lady Clavering's carriage in the Park the other day, and leering under Miss Blanche's bonnet? No good mother would let her daughter know those men, or admit them within her doors. Do you suppose that honest ladies read and remember the Chronique Scandaleuse as well as you, you old grumbler? I have no doubt that the poor Begum is ignorant of their histories.

It seems to me she is ignorant of a great number of better things. It seems to me that your honest Begum is not a lady, Pen. It is not her fault, doubtless, that she has not had the education, or learned the refinements of a lady. Bull, who breaks the King's English, and has half a dozen dukes at her table," Pen answered, rather sulkily. Why are we to visit the sins of her father on this harmless kind creature? She never did anything but kindness to you or any mortal soul.

As far as she knows she does her best. She does not set up to be more than she is. She gives you the best dinners she can buy, and the best company she can get. She pays the debts of that scamp of a husband of hers. She spoils her boy like the most virtuous mother in England.

Her opinion about literary matters, to be sure, is not much; and I daresay she never read a line of Wordsworth, or heard of Tennyson in her life. Flanagan the laundress," growled out Pen's Mentor; "no more has Betty the housemaid; and I have no word of blame against them. But a high-souled man doesn't make friends of these. A gentleman doesn't choose these for his companions, or bitterly rues it afterwards if he do. Are you, who are setting up to be a man of the world and a philosopher, to tell me that the aim of life is to guttle three courses and dine off silver?

Do you dare to own to yourself that your ambition in life is good claret, and that you'll dine with any, provided you get a stalled ox to feed on? You call me a Cynic—why, what a monstrous Cynicism it is, which you and the rest of you men of the world admit! I'd rather live upon raw turnips and sleep in a hollow tree, or turn backwoodsman or savage, than degrade myself to this civilisation, and own that a French cook was the thing in life best worth living for. Who goes about professing particular admiration, or esteem, or friendship, or gratitude even, for the people one meets every day?

I do not profess to pay him back in friendship, but in the conventional money of society. When we part, we part without any grief. When we meet, we are tolerably glad to see one another. If I were only to live with my friends, your black muzzle, old George, is the only face I should see. I am older than you, George, in spite of your grizzled whiskers, and have seen much more of the world than you have in your garret here, shut up with your books and your reveries and your ideas of one-and-twenty.

I say, I take the world as it is, and being of it, will not be ashamed of it. If the time is out of joint, have I any calling or strength to set it right? I see men who begin with ideas of universal reform, and who, before their beards are grown, propound their loud plans for the regeneration of mankind, give up their schemes after a few years of bootless talking and vainglorious attempts to lead their fellows; and after they have found that men will no longer bear them, as indeed they never were in the least worthy to be heard, sink quietly into the ranks-and-file,—acknowledging their aims impracticable, or thankful that they were never put into practice.

The fiercest reformers grow calm, and are faire to put up with things as they are: the loudest Radical orators become dumb, quiescent placemen: the most fervent Liberals when out of power, become humdrum Conservatives or downright tyrants or despots in office. Look at the Thiers, look at Guizot, in opposition and in place! Look at the Whigs appealing to the country, and the Whigs in power! Would you say that the conduct of these men is an act of treason, as the Radicals bawl,—who would give way in their turn, were their turn ever to come?

No, only that they submit to circumstances which are stronger than they,—march as the world marches towards reform, but at the world's pace and the movements of the vast body of mankind must needs be slow , forgo this scheme as impracticable, on account of opposition,—that as immature, because against the sense of the majority,—are forced to calculate drawbacks and difficulties, as well as to think of reforms and advances,—and compelled finally to submit, and to wait, and to compromise.

Why self-satisfied? Many a patriot of eighteen, many a Spouting-Club orator, would turn the Bishops out of the House of Lords to-morrow, and throw the Lords out after the Bishops, and throw the Throne into the Thames after the Peers and the Bench. Is that man more modest than I, who takes these institutions as I find them, and waits for time and truth to develop, or fortify, or if you like destroy them? A college tutor, or a nobleman's toady, who appears one fine day as my right reverend lord, in a silk apron and a shovel-hat, and assumes benedictory airs over me, is still the same man we remember at Oxbridge, when he was truckling to the tufts, and bullying the poor undergraduates in the lecture-room.

An hereditary legislator, who passes his time with jockeys and black-legs and ballet-girls, and who is called to rule over me and his other betters because his grandfather made a lucky speculation in the funds, or found a coal or tin mine on his property, or because his stupid ancestor happened to be in command of ten thousand men as brave as himself, who overcame twelve thousand Frenchmen, or fifty thousand Indians—such a man, I say, inspires me with no more respect than the bitterest democrat can feel towards him.

But, such as he is, he is a part of the old society to which we belong and I submit to his lordship with acquiescence; and he takes his place above the best of us at all dinner-parties, and there bides his time. I don't want to chop his head off with a guillotine, or to fling mud at him in the streets.

When they call such a man a disgrace to his order; and such another, who is good and gentle, refined and generous, who employs his great means in promoting every kindness and charity, and art and grace of life, in the kindest and most gracious manner, an ornament to his rank—the question as to the use and propriety of the order is not in the least affected one way or other. There it is, extant among us, a part of our habits, the creed of many of us, the growth of centuries, the symbol of a most complicated tradition—there stand my lord the bishop and my lord the hereditary legislator—what the French call transactions both of them,—representing in their present shape mail-clad barons and double-sworded chiefs from whom their lordships the hereditaries, for the most part, don't descend , and priests, professing to hold an absolute truth and a divinely inherited power, the which truth absolute our ancestors burned at the stake, and denied there; the which divine transmissible power still exists in print—to be believed, or not, pretty much at choice; and of these, I say, I acquiesce that they exist, and no more.

If you say that these schemes, devised before printing was known, or steam was born; when thought was an infant, scared and whipped; and truth under its guardians was gagged, and swathed, and blindfolded, and not allowed to lift its voice, or to look out or to walk under the sun; before men were permitted to meet, or to trade, or to speak with each other—if any one says as some faithful souls do that these schemes are for ever, and having been changed and modified constantly are to be subject to no further development or decay, I laugh, and let the man speak.

But I would have toleration for these, as I would ask it for my own opinions; and if they are to die, I would rather they had a decent and natural than an abrupt and violent death. What I argue here is that I will not persecute. Make a faith or a dogma absolute, and persecution becomes a logical consequence; and Dominic burns a Jew, or Calvin an Arian, or Nero a Christian, or Elizabeth or Mary a Papist or Protestant; or their father both or either, according to his humour; and acting without any pangs of remorse,—but, on the contrary, notions of duty fulfilled.

Make dogma absolute, and to inflict or to suffer death becomes easy and necessary; and Mahomet's soldiers shouting, 'Paradise! Why, what a mere dilettante you own yourself to be, in this confession of general scepticism, and what a listless spectator yourself! You are six-and-twenty years old; and as blase as a rake of sixty. You neither hope much nor care much, nor believe much. You doubt about other men as much as about yourself.

Were it made of such pococuranti as you, the world would be intolerable; and I had rather live in a wilderness of monkeys, and listen to their chatter, than in a company of men who denied everything. Would you have every man with his head shaved, and every woman in a cloister,—carrying out to the full the ascetic principle? Would you have conventicle hymns twanging from every lane in every city in the world? Would you have all the birds of the forest sing one note and fly with one feather? You call me a sceptic because I acknowledge what is; and in acknowledging that, be it linnet or lark, or priest or parson, be it, I mean, any single one of the infinite varieties of the creatures of God whose very name I would be understood to pronounce with reverence, and never to approach but with distant awe , I say that the study and acknowledgment of that variety amongst men especially increases our respect and wonder for the Creator, Commander, and Ordainer of all these minds, so different and yet so united,—meeting in a common adoration, and offering up, each according to his degree and means of approaching the Divine centre, his acknowledgment of praise and worship, each singing to recur to the bird simile his natural song.

Hymns of saints! We are as insolent and unthinking in judging of men's morals as of their intellects. We admire this man as being a great philosopher, and set down the other as a dullard, not knowing either, or the amount of truth in either, or being certain of the truth anywhere. We sing Te Deum for this hero who has won a battle, and De Profundis for that other one who has broken out of prison, and has been caught afterwards by the policeman. Our measure of rewards and punishments is most partial and incomplete, absurdly inadequate, utterly worldly, and we wish to continue it into the next world.

Into that next and awful world we strive to pursue men, and send after them our impotent party verdicts of condemnation or acquittal. We set up our paltry little rods to measure Heaven immeasurable, as if, in comparison to that, Newton's mind or Pascal's or Shakspeare's was any loftier than mine; as if the ray which travels from the sun would reach me sooner than the man who blacks my boots.

Measured by that altitude, the tallest and the smallest among us are so alike diminutive and pitifully base, that I say we should take no count of the calculation, and it is a meanness to reckon the difference. I do not condemn the men who murdered Socrates and damned Galileo. I say that they damned Galileo and murdered Socrates. Fabius fought Hannibal sceptically. Who was his Roman coadjutor, whom we read of in Plutarch when we were boys, who scoffed at the other's procrastination and doubted his courage, and engaged the enemy and was beaten for his pains?

We are not pledging ourselves for the correctness of his opinions, which readers will please to consider are delivered dramatically, the writer being no more answerable for them, than for the sentiments uttered by any other character of the story: our endeavour is merely to follow out, in its progress, the development of the mind of a worldly and selfish, but not ungenerous or unkind or truth-avoiding man. And it will be seen that the lamentable stage to which his logic at present has brought him, is one of general scepticism and sneering acquiescence in the world as it is; or if you like so to call it, a belief qualified with scorn in all things extant.

The tastes and habits of such a man prevent him from being a boisterous demagogue, and his love of truth and dislike of cant keep him from advancing crude propositions, such as many loud reformers are constantly ready with; much more of uttering downright falsehoods in arguing questions or abusing opponents, which he would die or starve rather than use. It was not in our friend's nature to be able to utter certain lies; nor was he strong enough to protest against others, except with a polite sneer; his maxim being, that he owed obedience to all Acts of Parliament, as long as they were not repealed.

And to what does this easy and sceptical life lead a man? Friend Arthur was a Sadducee, and the Baptist might be in the Wilderness shouting to the poor, who were listening with all their might and faith to the preacher's awful accents and denunciations of wrath or woe or salvation; and our friend the Sadducee would turn his sleek mule with a shrug and a smile from the crowd, and go home to the shade of his terrace, and muse over preacher and audience, and turn to his roll of Plato, or his pleasant Greek songbook babbling of honey and Hybla, and nymphs and fountains and love.

To what, we say, does this scepticism lead? It leads a man to a shameful loneliness and selfishness, so to speak—the more shameful, because it is so good-humoured and conscienceless and serene. What is conscience? Why accept remorse? What is public or private faith? Mythuses alike enveloped in enormous tradition. If seeing and acknowledging the lies of the world, Arthur, as see them you can with only too fatal a clearness, you submit to them without any protest further than a laugh: if, plunged yourself in easy sensuality, you allow the whole wretched world to pass groaning by you unmoved: if the fight for the truth is taking place, and all men of honour are on the ground armed on the one side or the other, and you alone are to lie on your balcony and smoke your pipe out of the noise and the danger, you had better have died, or never have been at all, than such a sensual coward.

Show it me. That is the question between us. I see it on both sides. I see it on the Conservative side of the house, and amongst the Radicals, and even on the ministerial benches. I see it in this man, who worships by Act of Parliament, and is rewarded with a silk apron and five thousand a year; in that man, who, driven fatally by the remorseless logic of his creed, gives up everything, friends, fame, dearest ties, closest vanities, the respect of an army of churchmen, the recognised position of a leader, and passes over, truth-impelled, to the enemy, in whose ranks he will serve henceforth as a nameless private soldier:—I see the truth in that man, as I do in his brother, whose logic drives him to quite a different conclusion, and who, after having passed a life in vain endeavours to reconcile an irreconcilable book, flings it at last down in despair, and declares, with tearful eyes, and hands up to heaven, his revolt and recantation.

If the truth is with all these, why should I take side with any one of them? Some are called upon to preach: let them preach. Of these preachers there are somewhat too many, methinks, who fancy they have the gift. But we cannot all be parsons in church, that is clear. Some must sit silent and listen, or go to sleep mayhap.

Have we not all our duties? The head charity-boy blows the bellows; the master canes the other boys in the organ-loft; the clerk sings out Amen from the desk; and the beadle with the staff opens the door for his Reverence, who rustles in silk up to the cushion. I won't cane the boys, nay, or say Amen always, or act as the church's champion and warrior, in the shape of the beadle with the staff; but I will take off my hat in the place, and say my prayers there too, and shake hands with the clergyman as he steps on the grass outside.

Don't I know that his being there is a compromise, and that he stands before me an Act of Parliament? That the church he occupies was built for other worship? That the Methodist chapel is next door; and that Bunyan the tinker is bawling out the tidings of damnation on the common hard by? Yes, I am a Sadducee; and I take things as I find them, and the world, and the Acts of Parliament of the world, as they are; and as I intend to take a wife, if I find one—not to be madly in love and prostrate at her feet like a fool—not to worship her as an angel, or to expect to find her as such—but to be good-natured to her, and courteous, expecting good-nature and pleasant society from her in turn.

And so, George, if ever you hear of my marrying, depend on it, it won't be a romantic attachment on my side: and if you hear of any good place under Government, I have no particular scruples that I know of, which would prevent me from accepting your offer.

I know what you mean," here Warrington broke out. You're going to sell yourself, and Heaven help you! You are going to make a bargain which will degrade you and make you miserable for life, and there's no use talking of it. If you are once bent on it, the devil won't prevent you. Come down and have a little dinner at the Club; the chef's in town, and he'll cook a good one for me. No, you won't? Don't be sulky, old boy, I'm going down to—to the country to-morrow.

Which accounts perhaps for Chapter LXI. The information regarding the affairs of the Clavering family, which Major Pendennis had acquired through Strong, and by his own personal interference as the friend of the house, was such as almost made the old gentleman pause in any plans which he might have once entertained for his nephew's benefit.

To bestow upon Arthur a wife with two such fathers-in-law, as the two worthies whom the guileless and unfortunate Lady Clavering had drawn in her marriage ventures, was to benefit no man. And though the one, in a manner, neutralised the other, and the appearance of Amory or Altamont in public would be the signal for his instantaneous withdrawal and condign punishment,—for the fugitive convict had cut down the officer in charge of him,—and a rope would be inevitably his end; if he came again under British authorities; yet, no guardian would like to secure for his ward a wife, whose parent was to be got rid of in such a way; and the old gentleman's notion always had been that Altamont, with the gallows before his eyes, would assuredly avoid recognition; while, at the same time, by holding the threat of his discovery over Clavering, the latter, who would lose everything by Amory's appearance, would be a slave in the hands of the person who knew so fatal a secret.

But if the Begum paid Clavering's debts many times more, her wealth would be expended altogether upon this irreclaimable reprobate; and her heirs, whoever they might be, would succeed but to an emptied treasury; and Miss Amory, instead of bringing her husband a good income and a seat in Parliament, would bring to that individual her person only, and her pedigree with that lamentable note of sus. There was, however, to the old schemer revolving these things in his mind, another course yet open; the which will appear to the reader who may take the trouble to peruse a conversation, which presently ensued, between Major Pendennis and the honourable Baronet, the Member for Clavering.

When a man, under pecuniary difficulties, disappears from among his usual friends and equals,—dives out of sight, as it were, from the flock of birds in which he is accustomed to sail, it is wonderful at what strange and distant nooks he comes up again for breath. I have known a Pall Mall lounger and Rotten Row buck, of no inconsiderable fashion, vanish from amongst his comrades of the Clubs and the Park, and be discovered, very happy and affable, at an eighteenpenny ordinary in Billingsgate: another gentleman, of great learning and wit, when outrunning the constable were I to say he was a literary man, some critics would vow that I intended to insult the literary profession , once sent me his address at a little public-house called the "Fox under the Hill," down a most darksome and cavernous archway in the Strand.

Such a man, under such misfortunes, may have a house, but he is never in his house; and has an address where letters may be left; but only simpletons go with the hopes of seeing him.

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So, after the disputes with his wife, and the misfortunes consequent thereon, to find Sir Francis Clavering at home was impossible. Lightfoot remarked to his friend Morgan; and announced that he should go down to my Lady, and be butler there, and marry his old woman. In like manner, after his altercations with Strong, the Baronet did not come near him, and fled to other haunts, out of the reach of the Chevalier's reproaches;—out of the reach of conscience, if possible, which many of us try to dodge and leave behind us by changes of scene and other fugitive stratagems.

So, though the elder Pendennis, having his own ulterior object, was bent upon seeing Pen's country neighbour and representative in Parliament, it took the Major no inconsiderable trouble and time before he could get him into such a confidential state and conversation, as were necessary for the ends which the Major had in view.

For since the Major had been called in as family friend, and had cognisance of Clavering's affairs, conjugal and pecuniary, the Baronet avoided him: as he always avoided all his lawyers and agents when there was an account to be rendered, or an affair of business to be discussed between them; and never kept any appointment but when its object was the raising of money.

Thus, previous to catching this most shy and timorous bird, the Major made more than one futile attempt to hold him;—on one day it was a most innocent-looking invitation to dinner at Greenwich, to meet a few friends; the Baronet accepted, suspected something, and did not come; leaving the Major who indeed proposed to represent in himself the body of friends to eat his whitebait alone:—on another occasion the Major wrote and asked for ten minutes' talk, and the Baronet instantly acknowledged the note, and made the appointment at four o'clock the next day at Bays's precisely he carefully underlined the "precisely" ; but though four o'clock came, as in the course of time and destiny it could not do otherwise, no Clavering made his appearance.

Indeed, if he had borrowed twenty pounds of Pendennis, he could not have been more timid, or desirous of avoiding the Major; and the latter found that it was one thing to seek a man, and another to find him. Before the close of that day in which Strong's patron had given the Chevalier the benefit of so many blessings before his face and curses behind his back, Sir Francis Clavering, who had pledged his word and his oath to his wife's advisers to draw or accept no more bills of exchange, and to be content with the allowance which his victimised wife still awarded him, had managed to sign his respectable name to a piece of stamped paper, which the Baronet's friend, Mr.

Moss Abrams, had carried off, promising to have the bill "done" by a party with whose intimacy Mr. Abrams was favoured. And it chanced that Strong heard of this transaction at the place where the writings had been drawn,—in the back-parlour, namely, of Mr. Santiago's cigar-shop, where the Chevalier was constantly in the habit of spending an hour in the evening. Santiago told his customer. Moss sent out my boy for a stamp.

It must have been a bill for fifty pound. I heard the Baronet tell Moss to date it two months back. He will pretend that it is an old bill, and that he forgot it when he came to a settlement with his wife the other day. I dare say they will give him some more money now he is clear. Santiago's shop was close by St. James's Street and Bury Street, where we have had the honour of visiting our friend Major Pendennis in his lodgings.

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The Major was walking daintily towards his apartment, as Strong, burning with wrath and redolent of Havanna, strode along the same pavement opposite to him. Every fellow who smokes and wears mustachios is a low fellow. We have said that, at the long and weary disputes and conferences regarding the payment of Sir Francis Clavering's last debts, Strong and Pendennis had both been present as friends and advisers of the Baronet's unlucky family.

Strong stopped and held out his hand to his brother negotiator, and old Pendennis put out towards him a couple of ungracious fingers. I hope I see you well. Clavering is at his old tricks again, Major Pendennis. Pray do me the favour to come into my lodging," cried the Major with awakened interest; and the pair entered and took possession of his drawing-room. Here seated, Strong unburthened himself of his indignation to the Major, and spoke at large of Clavering's recklessness and treachery. He has been signing one this very day, sir: and will sign as many more as you please for ready money: and will deceive anybody, his wife or his child, or his old friend, who has backed him a hundred times.

Why, there's a bill of his and mine will be due next week. But I don't care for it; I'm used to it. It's Lady Clavering that riles me. It's a shame that that good-natured woman, who has paid him out of gaol a score of times, should be ruined by his heartlessness. A parcel of bill-stealers boxers, any rascals, get his money; and he don't scruple to throw an honest fellow over. Would you believe it, sir, he took money of Altamont—you know whom I mean. And very likely this fellow, who calls himself Altamont, knows some story against Clavering, and has some hold on him, and gets money out of him on the strength of his information.

I know some of the best men of the best families in England who are paying through the nose in that way. But their private affairs are no business of mine, Mr. Strong; and it is not to be supposed that because I go and dine with a man, I pry into his secrets, or am answerable for all his past life. And so with our friend Clavering, I am most interested for his wife's sake, and her daughter's, who is a most charming creature: and when her ladyship asked me, I looked into her affairs, and tried to set them straight; and shall do so again, you understand, to the best of my humble power and ability, if I can make myself useful.

And if I am called upon—you understand, if I am called upon—and—by the way, this Mr. Altamont, Mr. How is this Mr. I believe you are acquainted with him. Is he in town? Pendennis's manner altered at once from a tone of hauteur to one of knowing good-humour. We don't know what ears walls may have, sir, or to whom we may be talking; and as a man of the world, and an old soldier,—an old and distinguished soldier, I have been told, Captain Strong,—you know very well that there is no use in throwing away your fire; you may have your ideas, and I may put two and two together and have mine.

But there are things which don't concern him that many a man had better not know, eh, Captain? With regard to our friend the Baronet, I think with you, it would be most advisable that he should be checked in his imprudent courses; and most strongly reprehend any man's departure from his word, or any conduct of his which can give any pain to his family, or cause them annoyance in any way. That is my full and frank opinion, and I am sure it is yours. Strong, drily. And I am exceedingly glad of the lucky meeting which has procured me the good fortune of your visit.

Good evening. Thank you. Morgan, show the door to Captain Strong. For Mr. Morgan, in his capacity of accomplished valet, moved here and there in a house as silent as a shadow; and, as it so happened, during the latter part of his master's conversation with his visitor, had been standing very close to the door, and had overheard not a little of the talk between the two gentlemen, and a great deal more than he could understand. Morgan asked of Mr.

Lightfoot, on the next convenient occasion when they met at the Club. Lightfoot replied. Altamont put the pot on at the Derby, and won a good bit of money. I wish the Governor could get some somewhere, and I could get my book paid up. When Mr. Arthur came into his property, but not until then, Morgan had surprised the young gentleman, by saying that he had a little sum of money, some fifty or a hundred pound, which he wanted to lay out to advantage; perhaps the gentlemen in the Temple, knowing about affairs and business and that, could help a poor fellow to a good investment?

Morgan would be very much obliged to Mr. Arthur, most grateful and obliged indeed, if Arthur could tell him of one. When Arthur laughingly replied, that he knew nothing about money matters, and knew no earthly way of helping Morgan, the latter, with the utmost simplicity, was very grateful, very grateful indeed, to Mr. Arthur, and if Mr. Arthur should want a little money before his rents was paid, perhaps he would kindly remember that his uncle's old and faithful servant had some as he would like to put out: and be most proud if he could be useful anyways to any of the family.

The Prince of Fairoaks, who was tolerably prudent and had no need of ready money, would as soon have thought of borrowing from his uncle's servant as of stealing the valet's pocket-handkerchief, and was on the point of making some haughty reply to Morgan's offer, but was checked by the humour of the transaction. Morgan a capitalist! Morgan offering to lend to him—The joke was excellent. On the other hand, the man might be quite innocent, and the proposal of money a simple offer of good-will.

So Arthur withheld the sarcasm that was rising to his lips, and contented himself by declining Mr. Morgan's kind proposal. He mentioned the matter to his uncle, however, and congratulated the latter on having such a treasure in his service. It was then that the Major said that he believed Morgan had been getting devilish rich for a devilish long time; in fact, he had bought the house in Bury Street, in which his master was a lodger and had actually made a considerable sum of money, from his acquaintance with the Clavering family and his knowledge obtained through his master that the Begum would pay all her husband's debts, by buying up as many of the Baronet's acceptances as he could raise money to purchase.

Of these transactions the Major, however, knew no more than most gentlemen do of their servants, who live with us all our days and are strangers to us, so strong custom is, and so pitiless the distinction between class and class. And he ain't a bit changed, Monsieur Morgan. He does his work just as well as ever—he's always ready to my bell—steals about the room like a cat—he's so dev'lishly attached to me, Morgan! Arthur has been telling, hang him," thought the valet.

And I hope you'll be prudent, and not be taking a public-house or that kind of thing. I don't think of the public line, sir. And I've got my little savings pretty well put out, sir. Do you think he's any longer any good, sir? Will my Lady pay on 'em, any more, sir? Having some information, and made acquaintance with the fam'ly through your kindness, I put on the pot, sir. And if I could give you any information that could serve you, I would speedily help you.

But frankly, if Lady Clavering asks me whether she shall pay any more of Sir Francis's debts, I shall advise and I hope she won't, though I fear she will—and that is all I know. And so you are aware that Sir Francis is beginning again in his—eh—reckless and imprudent course?

He will do it. Strong was saying that a Mr. Moss Abrams was the holder of one of Sir Francis Clavering's notes. Do you know anything of this Mr. Abrams; or the amount of the bill? The next morning the valet informed Major Pendennis that he had seen Mr. Abrams; what was the amount of the bill that gentleman was desirous to negotiate; and that the Baronet would be sure to be in the back-parlour of the Wheel of Fortune Tavern that day at one o'clock.

To this appointment Sir Francis Clavering was punctual, and as at one o'clock he sate in the parlour of the tavern in question, surrounded by spittoons, Windsor chairs, cheerful prints of boxers, trotting horses, and pedestrians, and the lingering of last night's tobacco fumes—as the descendant of an ancient line sate in this delectable place accommodated with an old copy of Bell's Life in London, much blotted with beer, the polite Major Pendennis walked into the apartment.

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Moss Abrams had arrived with the money. I wanted to see you, and followed you here," said the Major, at sight of whom the other's countenance fell. Now that he had his opponent before him, the Major was determined to make a brisk and sudden attack upon him, and went into action at once.

I've never done you any harm, have I?

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I've never had your money. And I don't choose to be dodged about in this way, and domineered over. I don't choose it, and I won't have it. If Lady Clavering has any proposal to make to me, let it be done in the regular way, and through the lawyers. I'd rather not have you.

It is but a month ago that you swore on your honour, and wanted to get a Bible to strengthen the oath, that you would accept no more bills, but content yourself with the allowance which Lady Clavering gives you. All your debts were paid with that proviso, and you have broken it; this Mr. Abrams has a bill of yours for sixty pounds. I take my solemn oath it's an old bill," shrieked out the Baronet. By Gad, Clavering, you sicken me with lies, I can't help telling you so. I've no patience with you, by Gad. You cheat everybody, yourself included. I've seen a deal of the world, but I never met your equal at humbugging.

It's my belief you had rather lie than not.

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I didn't mean to be angry, or say anything unkind, only you're so damned harsh to me, Major Pendennis. What is it you want of me? Why have you been hunting me so? Do you want money out of me too? By Jove, you know I've not got a shilling,"—and so Clavering, according to his custom, passed from a curse into a whimper. Major Pendennis saw, from the other's tone, that Clavering knew his secret was in the Major's hands. I knew your secret——" "I didn't know it when I married her; upon my oath I didn't know it till the d——d scoundrel came back and told me himself; and it's the misery about that which makes me so reckless, Pendennis; indeed it is," the Baronet cried, clasping his hands.

I never forget faces. I remember that fellow in Sydney a convict, and he remembers me. I know his trial, the date of his marriage, and of his reported death in the bush. I could swear to him. And I know that you are no more married to Lady Clavering than I am. I've kept your secret well enough, for I've not told a single soul that I know it,—not your wife, not yourself till now.

By play, debt, and extravagance of all kind, you've got through half your wife's fortune, and that of her legitimate heirs, mind—her legitimate heirs. Here it must stop. You can't live together. You're not fit to live in a great house like Clavering; and before three years' more were over would not leave a shilling to carry on.

I've settled what must be done. You shall have six hundred a year; you shall go abroad and live on that. You must give up Parliament, and get on as well as you can. If you refuse, I give you my word I'll make the real state of things known to-morrow; I'll swear to Amory, who, when identified, will go back to the country from whence he came, and will rid the widow of you and himself together. And so that boy of yours loses at once all title to old Spell's property, and it goes to your wife's daughter.

Ain't I making myself pretty clearly understood? He's a nice boy: though he's dev'lish wild, I own he's dev'lish wild. And if you were to split on me, it would cut up my wife so; you know it would, most infernally. It's dev'lish convenient being in Parliament. There's very few seats like mine left; and if I gave it to 'em, I should not wonder the ministry would give me an island to govern, or some dev'lish good thing; for you know I'm a gentleman of dev'lish good family, and have a handle to my name, and—and that sort of thing, Major Pendennis.

Eh, don't you see? Don't you think they'd give me something dev'lish good if I was to play my cards well? And then, you know, I'd save money, and be kept out of the way of the confounded hells and rouge et noir—and—and so I'd rather not give up Parliament, please. You can do anything with Lady Clavering; and, upon my oath, I'll take up that bill of Abrams'. The little dam scoundrel, I know he'll do me in the business—he always does; and if you could do this for me, we'd see, Major. Yes, that will be the best time. And we will try and manage about the advance.

Confound him, a seat in Parliament is worth a hundred and fifty pounds. You have a mind to retire: he is a Clavering man and a good representative for the borough; you introduce him, and your people vote for him—you see.