e's no use for 'em; they're replaced by a parcel of damned
cotton--spinners and utilitarians, and young sprigs of parsons with
their hair combed down their barks. I'm getting old: they're getting
past me: they laugh at us old boys," thought old Pendennis. And he was
not far wrong; the times and manners which he admired were pretty nearly
gone--the gay young men "larked" him irreverently, whilst the serious
youth had a grave pity and wonder at him; which would have been even
more painful to bear, had the old gentleman been aware of its extent.
But he was rather simple: his examination of moral questions had never
been very deep; it had never struck him perhaps, until very lately, that
he was otherwise than a most respectable and rather fortunate man. Is
there no old age but his without reverence? Did youthful folly never
jeer at other bald pates? For the past two or three years, he had begun
to perceive that his day was well-nigh over, and that the men of the new
time had begun to reign.

After a rather unsuccessful autumn season, then, during which he was
faithfully followed by Mr. Morgan, his nephew Arthur being engaged, as
we have seen, at Clavering, it happened that Major Pendennis came back
for a while to London, at the dismal end of October, when the fogs and
the lawyers come to town. Who has not looked with interest at those
loaded cabs, piled boxes, and crowded children, rattling through the
streets on the dun October evenings; stopping at the dark houses,
where they discharge nurse and infant, girls, matron and father, whose
holidays are over? Yesterday it was France and sunshine, or Broadstairs
and liberty; to-day comes work and a yellow fog; and, ye gods! what a
heap of bills there lies in Master's study! And the clerk has brought
the lawyer's papers from Chambers; and in half an hour the literary man
knows that the printer's boy will be in the passage; and Mr. Smith
with that little account (that particular little account) has called
presentient of your arrival, and has left word that he will call
to-morrow morning at ten. Who amongst us has not said Good-bye to his
holiday; returned to dun London, and his fate; surveyed his labours
and liabilities laid out before him, and been aware of that inevitable
little account to settle? Smith and his little account in the morning,
symbolise duty, difficulty, struggle, which you will meet, let us hope,
friend, with a manly and honest heart.--And you think of him, as the