projected an epic poem in blank verse, 'Cortez,
or the Conqueror of Mexico, and the Inca's Daughter.' He wrote part of
'Seneca, or the Fatal Bath,' and 'Ariadne in Naxos;' classical pieces,
with choruses and strophes and antistrophes, which sadly puzzled poor
Mrs. Pendennis; and began a 'History of the Jesuits,' in which he
lashed that Order with tremendous severity, and warned his Protestant
fellow-countrymen of their machinations. His loyalty did his mother's
heart good to witness. He was a staunch, unflinching Church-and-King man
in those days; and at the election, when Sir Giles Beanfield stood on
the Blue interest, against Lord Trehawk, Lord Eyrie's son, a Whig and
a friend of Popery, Arthur Pendennis, with an immense bow for himself,
which his mother made, and with a blue ribbon for Rebecca, rode
alongside of the Reverend Doctor Portman, on his grey mare Dowdy, and
at the head of the Clavering voters, whom the Doctor brought up to plump
for the Protestant Champion.

On that day Pen made his first speech at the Blue Hotel: and also, it
appears, for the first time in his life--took a little more wine than
was good for him. Mercy! what a scene it was at Fairoaks, when he rode
back at ever so much o'clock at night. What moving about of lanterns
in the court-yard and stables, though the moon was shining out; what a
gathering of servants, as Pen came home, clattering over the bridge and
up the stableyard, with half a score of the Clavering voters yelling
after him the Blue song of the election.

He wanted them all to come in and have some wine--some very good
Madeira--some capital Madeira--John, go and get some Madeira,--and there
is no knowing what the farmers would have done, had not Madam Pendennis
made her appearance in a white wrapper, with a candle--and scared those
zealous Blues so by the sight of her pale handsome face, that they
touched their hats and rode off.

Besides these amusements and occupations in which Mr. Pen indulged,
there was one which forms the main business and pleasure of youth, if
the poets tell us aright, whom Pen was always studying; and this young
fellow's heart was so ardent, and his imagination so eager, that it is
not to be expected he should long escape the passion to which we allude,
and which, ladies, you have rightly guessed to be that of Love. Pen
sighed for it first in secret, and, like the love-sick swain in Ovid,
opened his breast and said, "Aura, veni." What generous youth is t