my engagement at the P. M. G.,--perhaps my powers
were not developed then."

"Pen thinks he writes better now than when he began," remarked Clive; "I
have heard him say so."

"His opinion of his own writings is high, whatever their date. Mine,
sir, are only just coming into notice. They begin to know F. B., sir, in
the sacred edifices of his metropolitan city. I saw the Bishop of London
looking at me last Sunday week, and am sure his chaplain whispered him,
'It's Mr. Bayham, my lord, nephew of your lordship's right reverend
brother, the Lord Bishop of Bullocksmithy.' And last Sunday being at
church--at Saint Mungo the Martyr's, Rev. Sawders--by Wednesday I got in
a female hand--Mrs. Sawders's, no doubt--the biography of the Incumbent
of St. Mungo; an account of his early virtues; a copy of his poems; and
a hint that he was the gentleman destined for the vacant Deanery.

"Ridley is not the only man I have helped in this world," F. B.
continued. "Perhaps I should blush to own it--I do blush: but I feel
the ties of early acquaintance, and I own that I have puffed your uncle,
Charles Honeyman, most tremendously. It was partly for the sake of the
Ridleys and the tick he owes 'em: partly for old times' sake. Sir, are
you aware that things are greatly changed with Charles Honeyman, and
that the poor F. B. has very likely made his fortune?"

"I am delighted to hear it," cried Clive; "and how, F. B., have you
wrought this miracle?"

"By common sense and enterprise, lad--by a knowledge of the world and a
benevolent disposition. You'll see Lady Whittlesea's Chapel bears a very
different aspect now. That miscreant Sherrick owns that he owes me a
turn, and has sent me a few dozen of wine--without any stamped paper on
my part in return--as an acknowledgment of my service. It chanced, sir,
soon after your departure for Italy, that going to his private residence
respecting a little bill to which a heedless friend had put his hand,
Sherrick invited me to partake of tea in the bosom of his family. I was
thirsty--having walked in from Jack Straw's Castle at Hampstead, where
poor Kitely and I had been taking a chop--and accepted the proffered
entertainment. The ladies of the family gave us music after the domestic
muffin--and then, sir, a great idea occurred to me. You know how
magnificently Miss Sherrick and the mother sing? Thy sang Mozart, sir.
Why, I asked of Sherrick, should those ladies who sing Mozart to a
piano, not sing Hande