e world; and had already thought of having some of Clive's
drawings published by M'Lean of the Haymarket.

"This is my father just come from India--and Mr. Pendennis, an old Grey
Friars' man. Is my uncle at home?" Both these gentlemen bestow rather
patronising nods of the head on the lad introduced to them as J. J.
His exterior is but mean-looking. Colonel Newcome, one of the
humblest-minded men alive, has yet his old-fashioned military notions;
and speaks to a butler's son as to a private soldier, kindly, but not
familiarly.

"Mr Honeyman is at home, gentlemen," the young lad says, humbly. "Shall
I show you up to his room?" And we walk up the stairs after our guide.
We find Mr. Honeyman deep in study on his sofa, with Pearson on the
Creed before him. The novel has been whipped under the pillow. Clive
found it there some short time afterwards, during his uncle's temporary
absence in his dressing-room. He has agreed to suspend his theological
studies, and go out with his brother-in-law to dine.

As Clive and his friends were at Honeyman's door, and just as we were
entering to see the divine seated in state before his folio, Clive
whispers, "J. J., come along, old fellow, and show us some drawings.
What are you doing?"

"I was doing some Arabian Nights," says J. J., "up in my room; and
hearing a knock which I thought was yours, I came down."

"Show us the pictures. Let's go up into your room," cries Clive.
"What--will you?" says the other. "It is but a very small place."

"Never mind, come along," says Clive; and the two lads disappear
together, leaving the three grown gentlemen to discourse together, or
rather two of us to listen to Honeyman, who expatiates upon the beauty
of the weather, the difficulties of the clerical calling, the honour
Colonel Newcome does him by a visit, etc., with his usual eloquence.

After a while Clive comes down without J. J., from the upper regions. He
is greatly excited. "Oh, sir," he says to his father, "you talk about my
drawings--you should see J. J.'s! By Jove, that fellow is a genius. They
are beautiful, sir. You seem actually to read the Arabian Nights, you
know, only in pictures. There is Scheherazade telling the stories,
and--what do you call her?--Dinarzade and the Sultan sitting in bed and
listening. Such a grim old cove! You see he has cut off ever so many of
his wives' heads. I can't think where that chap gets his ideas from. I
can beat him in drawing horses, I know, and d