your night is
come, and the light of your life is gone down, as sure as the morning
rises after you and without you, the sun of prosperity and flattery
shines on your heir. 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. "Make ready
to go," says the successor to your honour; "I am waiting: and I could
hold it as well as you."

What has this reference to the possible reader, to do with any of the
characters of this history? 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