“I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta,” says the Colonel simply. “I daresay you have heard of _her_. She is one of the most dashing women in all India. She was delighted with your work; and I can tell you it is not with every man’s writing that Mrs. Timmins is pleased,” he added, with a knowing air. “It’s capital,” broke in Clive. “I say, that part, you know, where Walter runs away with Neæra, and the General can’t pursue them, though he has got the postchaise at the door, because Tim O’Toole has hidden his wooden leg! By Jove, it’s capital!—All the funny part—I don’t like the sentimental stuff, and suicide, and that; and as for poetry, I hate poetry.” “Pen’s is not first chop,” says Warrington. “I am obliged to take the young man down from time to time, Colonel Newcome. Otherwise he would grow so conceited there would be no bearing him.” “I say,” says Clive. “What were you about to remark?” asks Mr. Warrington, with an air of great interest. “I say, Pendennis,” continued the artless youth, “I thought you were a great swell. When we used to read about the grand parties in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, the fellows used to say you were at every one of them, and you see, I thought you must have chambers in the Albany, and lots of horses to ride, and a valet and a groom, and a cab at the very least.” “Sir,” says the Colonel, “I hope it is not your practice to measure and estimate gentlemen by such paltry standards as those. A man of letters follows the noblest calling which any man can pursue. I would rather be the author of a work of genius, than be Governor-General of India. I admire genius. I salute it wherever I meet it. I like my own profession better than any in the world, but then it is because I am suited to it. I couldn’t write four lines in verse, no, not to save me from being shot. A man cannot have all the advantages of life. Who would not be poor if he could be sure of possessing genius, and winning fame and immortality, sir? Think of Dr. Johnson, what a genius he had, and where did he live? In apartments that, I daresay, were no better than these, which, I am sure, gentlemen, are most cheerful and pleasant,” says the Colonel, thinking he had offended us. “One of the great pleasures and delights which I had proposed to myself on coming home was to be allowed to have the honour of meeting with men of learning and genius, with wits, poets, and historians, if I may be so fortunate; and of benefiting by their conversation. I left England too young to have that privilege. In my father’s house money was thought of, I fear, rather than intellect; neither he nor I had the opportunities which I wish you to have; and I am surprised you should think of reflecting upon Mr. Pendennis’s poverty, or of feeling any sentiment but respect and admiration when you enter the apartments of the poet and the literary man. I have never been in the rooms of a literary man before,” the