whose plays she had not a part: and of these dramas she only knew the
part which concerned herself. A wag once told her that Dante was born
at Algiers: and asked her,--which Dr. Johnson wrote first, 'Irene,' or
'Every Man in his Humour.' But she had the best of the joke, for she had
never heard of Irene or Every Man in his Humour, or Dante, or perhaps
Algiers. It was all one to her. She acted what little Bows told
her--where he told her to sob, she sobbed--where he told her to laugh,
she laughed. She gave the tirade or the repartee without the slightest
notion of its meaning. She went to church and goes every Sunday, with a
reputation perfectly intact, and was (and is) as guiltless of sense as
of any other crime.

But what did our Pen know of these things? He saw a pair of bright
eyes, and he believed in them--a beautiful image, and he fell down
and worshipped it. He supplied the meaning which her words wanted; and
created the divinity which he loved. Was Titania the first who fell in
love with an ass, or Pygmalion the only artist who has gone crazy about
a stone? He had found her; he had found what his soul thirsted after.
He flung himself into the stream and drank with all his might. Let those
say who have been thirsty once how delicious that first draught is. As
he rode down the avenue towards home--Pen shrieked with laughter as he
saw the Reverend Mr. Smirke once more coming demurely away from Fairoaks
on his pony. Smirke had dawdled and stayed at the cottages on the way,
and then dawdled with Laura over her lessons--and then looked at Mrs.
Pendennis's gardens and improvements until he had perfectly bored out
that lady: and he had taken his leave at the very last minute without
that invitation to dinner which he fondly expected.

Pen was full of kindness and triumph. "What, picked up and sound?" he
cried out laughing. "Come along back, old fellow, and eat my dinner--I
have had mine: but we will have a bottle of the old wine and drink her
health, Smirke."

Poor Smirke turned the pony's head round, and jogged along with Arthur.
His mother was charmed to see him in such high spirits, and welcomed Mr.
Smirke for his sake, when Arthur said he had forced the curate back to
dine. He gave a most ludicrous account of the play of the night before,
and of the acting of Bingley the Manager, in his rickety Hessians, and
the enormous Mrs. Bingley as the Countess, in rumpled green satin and a
Polish cap; he mimicked them, and d