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THE NEWCOMES. 



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Vol. I. 



EDITED V 



7 



A.PEM0EMMIS ESQ:^ 

Illustrated ij Richard Doyle. 

L-OXTDOW 

B RADB U R.Y Sc EVAN-S WH if EfmS®^^^ 




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THE NEWCOMES. 



MEMOIRS OF A MOST RESPECTABLE FAMILY. 



EDITED BY 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS, ESQ. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS ON STEEL AND WOOD BY RICHARD DOYLE. 



VOL. I. 



LONDON: 
BEADBUET AND EVAl^S, 11, BOIJVEEIE STEEET. 

1854. 



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LONDON : 
BIUDBUBY AND EVANS, PRINTBBS, WHITBFRIAES. 



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CONTENTS. 

CHAP, PXQS 
1. — THB OVXBTUBE — ATTIB WHIOH THB CURTAIN BIBIS UFON A DBIKKIKO 

OHOBUB 1 

2.— COLONEL NEWOOMS'S WILD OATS 12 

8. — COLONEL NBWCOME*S LETTEB-BOX 25 

4.— IN WHICH THE AUTHOB ^2^) THB HEBO BESUME THEIB ACQUAINTANCE 88 

5.— cliye'b uncles 42 

6. — ^newcome bbothebs 56 

7:— in which mb. clivers school-dats abe oyeb 65 

8.— MBS. NEWCOME AT HOME (a SMALL EABLT FABTT) 72 

9. — MISS honeyman's 85 

10. — ETHEL AND HEB BELATIONS 97 

11. — AT MBS. BIDLET's 109 

12. — ^IN WHICH EYEBTBODY IB ASKED TO DINNEB 122 

18. — IN WHICH THOMAS NEWCOME SINQS HIS LAST SONQ .... 129 

14. — FABK LANE 186 

15. — THE OLD LADIES 146 

16. — ^IN WHICH MB. SBEBBICK LETS HIS HOUSE IN FITZB07 SQUABE ., . 156 

17. — A SCHOOL OV ABT . . .161 

18. — NEW COMPANIONS 171 

19.— THE COLONEL AT HOME 176 

h 



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vi CONTENTS. 

CHAP. PAGK 

20.~<K>NTAINB MOBB FABTICULABS OF THE COLONEL AND HIS BBETHBEN . . 184 

21. — ^IB SENTIMENTAL BUT BHOBT 193 

22.— DBS0BIBB8 A VISIT TO PABIS ; WITH ACCIDENTS AND INCIDENTS IN LONDON 201 

23. — ^IN WHICH WE HEAB A SOFBANO AND A OONTBALTO . . . . 214 

24. — ^IN WHICH THE NEWCOME BBOTHEBS ONCE MOBE MEET TOGETHEB IN 

UNITT 225 

25.— IS PASSED IN A FUBLIC HOUSE 237 

26. — ^IN WHICH COLONEL NEWCOME's HOBSES ABE SOLD . . . .247 

27. — YOUTH AND SUNSHINE 257 

28. — IN WHICH OLIVE BEGINS TO SEE THE WOBLD 265 

29. — ^IN WHICH BABNES COMES A WOOING . . ... . . . 281 

SO.^A BETBEAT 289 

31. — MADAME LA DUCHE8SE 302 

32. — BABNBS'S COUBTSHIP 313 

83.— LADT KEW AT THE C0NGBES8 821 

34. — THE END OF THE OONGBESS OF BADEN 829 

35. — ^AOBOSS THE ALPS 345 

86. — ^IN WHICH M. DE FLOBAC IS FBOMOTED 353 

37. — BETUBNS TO LOBD KEW 364 

88.— IN WHICH LADY KEW LEAVES HIS L0BD6HIF QUITE CONVALESCENT . . 370 



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LIST OF PLATES. 

PAGE 

J. J. IN Dreamland Frontispiece. 

Thb Effect of the General's Song 11 

A Serious Paradise 16 

A Letter from Cliye 55 

Mr. Barnes Newcome at his Club 64 

*' His Highness" U 

London sufer Mare 86 

Ethel 98 

Ak astounding Piecie of Intelligence 141 

An Evening at Astlbts * 156 

Gandish's 168 

"Have YOU killed many Men with this Sword, Uncle]" . . . 190 

A Student of the Old Masters 199 

Mr. Honeyman at Home 223 

A Family Party 232 

"Farewell" 266 



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vui LIST OF PLATES. 

FAUB 

A Meeting in Bhineland 260 

Ah Inoisbnt in the Life of Jack Belsize 280 

Fabewell 800 

•* To Rome" 301 

Laying a Tbain , . 341 

The Explosion 343 

Fbench Condolence 366 



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THE NEWCOMES. 



CHAPTER I. 



THE OVEBTUKE AFTER WHICH THE CURTAIN RISES UPON A DRINKING 

CHORUS. 

CROW, who had flown 
away with a cheese 
from a dairy window, 
sate perched on a 
tree looking down at 
a great big frog in a 
pool underneath him. 
The frog*s hideous 
large eyes were gog- 
gling out of his head 
in a manner which 
appeared quite ridi- 
culous to the old 
black-a-moor, who 
watched the splay- 
footed slimy wretch 
with that peculiar 
grim humour belong- 
ing to crows. Not 
fir from the frog a fet ox was browsing; whilst a few lambs frisked 
about the meadow, or nibbled the grass and buttercups there. 

Who should come in to the farther end of the field but a wolf? He 
wiElfl so cunningly dressed up in sheep's clothing, that the very lambs 
did not know master wt)lf ; nay, one of them, whose dam the wolf had 
jtist eaten, after which he had thrown her skin over his shoulders, 
ran up innocently towards the devouring monster, mistaking him for her 
liiamma. 




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2 THE NEWCOMES. 

" He he ! " says a fox sneaking round the hedge-paling, over which the 
tree grew, whereupon the crow was perched looking down on the frog 
who was staring with his goggle eyes fit to burst with envy, and croaking 
abuse at the ox. " How absurd those lambs are ! Yonder silly little 
knock-kneed baah-ling does not know the old wolf dressed in the sheep's 
fleece. He is the same old rogue who gobbled up little Red Riding 
Hood's grandmother for lunch, and swallowed little Red Riding Hood for 
supper. Tirez la bohinette et la cheviUette cherra . He he ! " 

An owl that was hidden in the hollow of the tree, woke up. " O ho, 
master fox," says she, " I cannot see you, but I smell you I If some 
folks like lambs, other folks like geese," says the owl. 

" And your ladyship is fond of mice," says the fox. 

" The Chinese eat them," says the owl, *'' and I have read that they 
are very fond of dogs," continued the old lady. 

** I wish they would exterminate every cur of them oflf the face of 
the earth," said ^he fox. 

** And I have also read in works of travel, that the French eat frogs," 
continued the owl. " Aha, my friend Crapaud ! are you there ? That 
was a very pretty concert we sang together last night ! " 

" If the French devour my brethren ; the English eat beef," croaked 
out the frog, — "great, big, brutal, bellowing oxen." 

" Ho, whoo ! " says the owl, " I have heard that the English are toad- 
eaters too ! " 

" But who ever heard of them eating an owl or a fox, madam ? " says 
Reynard, " or their sitting down and taking a crow to pick," adds the 
polite rogue with a bow to the old crow who was perched above them 
with the cheese in his mouth. " We are privileged animals, all of us ; 
at least we never furnish dishes for the odious orgies of man." 

** I am the bird of wisdom," says the owl; *M was the companion 
of Pallas Minerva: I am frequently represented in the Egyptian 
monuments." 

" I have seen you over the British barn-doors," said the fox, with a 
grin. " You have a deal of scholarship, Mrs. Owl. I know a thing or 
two myself; but am, I confess it, no scholar — a mere man of the world 
— a fellow that lives by his wits — a mere country gentleman." 

" You sneer at scholarship," continues the owl, with a sneer on her 
venerable face. " I read a good deal of a night." 

" When I am engaged deciphering the cocks and hens at roost," says 
the fox. 

'• It's a pity for all that you can't read ; that bofird nailed over my 
head would give you some information." 

** What does it say ? " says the fox. 

" I can't spell in the daylight," answered the owl ; and giving a yawn, 
went back to sleep till evening in the hollow of her tree. 

*• A fig for her hieroglyphics ! " said the fox, looking up at the crow 
in the tree. "What airs our slow neighbour gives herself! She 
pretends to all the wisdom ; whereas, your reverences, the, crows, are 



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THE NBWCOMES. 8 

endowed with gifts fax superior to those benighted old big-wigs of owls, 
who blink in the darkness, and call their hooting singing. How noble 
it is to hear a chorus of crows I There are twenty-four brethren of the 
Order of St. Oonrinus, who have builded themselves a convent near a 
wood which I frequent ; what a droning and a chanting they keep up ! 
I protest their reverences* singing is nothing to yours ! You sing so 
deliciously in parts, do for the love of harmony favour me with a solo ! " 

While this conversation was going on, the ox was chumping the grass ; 
the frog was eyeing him in such a rage at his superior proportions, that 
he would have spurted venom at him if he could, and that he would 
have burst, only that is impossible, from sheer envy ; the little lambkin 
was lying unsuspiciously at the side of the wolf in fleecy hosiery, who 
did not as yet molest her, being replenished with the mutton her 
mamma. But now the wolf's eyes began to glare, and his sharp white 
teeth to show, and he rose' up with a growl, and began to think he 
should like lamb for supper. 

" What large eyes you have got ! " bleated out the lamb, with rather 
a timid look. 

** The better to see you with, my dear." 

" What large teeth you have got ! " 

" The better to " 

At this moment such a ternflc yell flUed the field, that all its 
inhabitants started with terror. It was from a donkey, who had some- 
how got a lion's skin, and now came in at the hedge, pursued by some 
men and boys with sticks and guns. 

When the wolf in sheep's clothing heard the bellow of the ass in the 
lion's skin, fancying that the monarch of the forest was near, he ran 
away as fast as his disguise would let him. When the ox heard the 
noise he dashed round the meadow-ditch, and with one trample of his 
hoof squashed the frog who had been abusing him. When the crow 
saw the people with guns coming, he instantly dropped the cheese out 
of his mouth, and took to wing. When the fox saw the cheese drop, he 
immediately made a jump at it (for he knew the donkey's voice, and 
that his asinine bray was not a bit like his royal master's roar), and 
making for the cheese, fell into a steel-trap, which snapped off bis tail ; 
without which he was obliged to go into the world, pretending, forsooth, 
that it was the fashion not to wear ^s any more ; and that the fox- 
party were better without 'em. 

Meanwhile, a boy with a stick came up, and belaboured master 
donkey, until he roared louder than ever. The wolf, with the sheep's 
clothing draggling about his legs, could not run fast, and was detected 
and shot by one of the men. The blind old owl, whirring out of the 
hollow tree, quite amazed at the disturbance, flounced into the face of a 
plough boy, who knocked her down with a pitchfork. The butcher came 
and quietly led off the ox and the lamb ; and the farmer, finding the 
fox's brush in the trap, hung it up over his mantel-piece, and always 
bragged that he had been in at his death. 



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4 « [PSTE KBWCOMSS. 

*' What a famgo of old fablea- is this ! What a dressing up in old 
tilotbeET y says^the cri^v (I thin'k I see such a one'— a Solomon that 
sits m jfudtgmeiit o^er us* aatbors and chops np our chil<b*en.) '* As sure 
as I aim jnBt and wise^ modest, learned, and religious, so surely I ha^e 
read something rery like this stuff and nonsense abont jackasses^ and 
foxes before. That well in sfaeep*s clothing ?-^de I net know him ? That 
fox discourfflttg with the croir? — hare I not previously heard of him ? 
Yes, in Lafontaa»e's ^bles : let us^ get the Dictionary aad the Fable 
dfid the Biographie Universelle, article Lafontaine, and confound the 
impostor." 

** Then in what a contemptuous way," may Solomon go on to remark, 
" does thae author speak of human natuiie ! There is scarce one of these 
eharacters^he represents but is a villain. The fox is a flatterer ; the frog 
is an emblem of impotence and envy ; the wolf in sheep's clothing, a blood- 
thirsty hypocrite, wearing the garb of iianocence ; the ass in the lion's 
skin, a quack trying to terrify, by assuming the appearance of a forest 
laionarch (doe& the writer, writhing under merited castigation, mean to 
sneer at critics in this character? We laugh at the impertinent 
comparison) ; the ox, a stupid common-place— the only innocent being 
in the writer's (stolen) apologue is a fool, — the idiotic lamb, who does 
not know his own mother ! " And then the critic, if in a virtuous mood, 
may indulge in some fine writing regarding the holy beauteousness of 
maternal affection. 

Why not ? If authors sneer, it is the critics's business to sneer at 
them for sneering. He must pretend to be their superior, or who 
would care about his opinion? And his livelihood is to find fault. 
Besides he is right sometimes ; and the stories he reads, and the 
characters drawn in them, are old sure enough. What stories are new ? 
All types of all characters march through all fables : tremblers and 
boasters ; victims and bullies ; dupes and knaves ; long-eared Neddies, 
giving themsellves ieonine airs ; Tartuffes wearing virtuous clothing ; 
lovers and their trials, their blindness, their folly and constancy. With 
the very first page of the human story do not love and lies too begin ? 
So the tales were told ages before ^sop : and asses under lion's manes 
roared in Hebrew ; and sly foxes flattered in Etrusctui ; and wolves in 
sheep's clothing gnashed their teeth in Sanscrit, no doubt. The sun 
shines to-day as he did when he first began shining ; and the birds in 
the tree overhead, while I am writing, sing very much the same note they 
have sung ever since there were finches. Nay, since last he besought 
good-natured friends to listen once a month to his talking, a friend of the 
writer has seen the New World, and found the (featherless) birds there 
exceedingly like their brethren of Europe. There may be nothing new 
under and including the sun ; but it looks fresh every morning, and we 
rise with it to toil, hope, scheme, laugh, struggle, love, suffer, until the 
night comes and quiet. And then will wake Morrow and the eyes 
that look on it ; and so da capo. 

This, then, is to be a story, may it please you, in which jackdaws will 



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THE isr&wcovm. i 

wear peacock's feathers, and awaken the juBt ndicole of the peacocks; in 
which, while erery justice is done to the peaeocks themselFes, the 
^lendour of their plama^e, the gorgeousness of thetr dazzling necks, 
and the magvaifioence of their tails, excepdon will yet he taken to the 
absurdity of thek* ricketty strut, and the foolish discord <of their pert 
squeaking ; in which lions in love will have their daws pared by sly 
Tirgios ; in which rogues will sometimes triumph, and honest folks, let 
08 hope, come by their own ; in which there will be black crape and 
white fayours; in which there will be tears under orange^flower 
wreath and jokes in mouFoing-coaches ; in which there will he dinners 
of herbs with contentment and without, and banquets of stalled oxen 
where there is care and hatred — ay, and kindness and friendship too, 
along with the feast. It does not follow that all men are honest 
because they are poor ; and I have known some who were friendly and 
generous, although they had plenty of money. There are some great 
landlords who do not grind down their tenants ; there are actually 
bishops who are not hypocrites ; there are libeml men even among the 
Whigs, and the Radicals themselves are not all Aristocrats at heart. 
But who. ever heard of giving the Moral before the Fable ? Children 
are only led to accept the one after their delectation over the other : let 
us take care lest our readers skip both ; and so let us bring them on 
quickly— our wolves and lambs, our foxes and lions, our roaring donkies, 
our billing ringdoves, our motherly partlets, and crowing chanticleers. 



There was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter than it 
appears to do in this latter half of the nineteenth century; when the 
zest of life was certainly keener; when tavern wines seemed to hb 
delicious, and tavern dinners the perfection of cookery; when the 
perusal of novels was productive of immense delight, and the monthly 
advent of me^azine-day was hailed as an exciting holiday ; ^en to 
know Thompson, who had written a magazine-article, was an honour and 
a privilege ; and to see Brown, the author of the last romance in the flesh, 
and actually walking in the Park with his umbrella and Mrs. Brown, 
was an event remarkable, and to the end of life to be perfectly well 
remembered ; when the women of this world were a thousand times 
more beautiful than those of the present time ; and the houris of the 
theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, that to see them was to set 
the heart in motion, and to see thiem again was to struggle for half an 
hour previously at the door of the pit; when tailors called at a man's 
lodgings to dazzle him with cards of fancy-waistcoats ; when it seemed 
necessary to purchase a grand silver dressing-case, so as to be ready for 
the beard which was not yet bom (as yearling brides provide lace caps, 
and work rich clothes, for the expected darling) ; when to ride in the 
Paris on a ten-shilling back seemed to be the height of fashionable 
enjoyment, and to splash your college tutor as you were driving 
down Begent Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire;, when 



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6 THE NEWCOMES. 

the acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of Trinity at the 
Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with King of 
Corpus (who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin of Trinity 
Hall (who was with his family in Bloomsbury Square) to dine at the 
Piazza, go to the play and see Braham in " Fra Diavolo," and end the 
frolic evening by partaking of supper and a song at the Cave of 
Harmony. — It was in the days of my own youth then that I met one 
or two of the characters who are to figure in this history, and whom I 
-must ask leave to accompany for a short while, and until, familiarised 
with the public, they can make their own way. As I recal them the 
roses bloom again, and the nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer. 

Going to the play then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in those 
honest days, with some young fellows of my own age, having listened 
delighted to the most cheerful and briUiant of operas, and laughed 
enthusiastically at the farce, we became naturally hungry at twelve 
o'clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rabbits and good old glee-singing 
led us to the Cave of Harmony, then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, 
among whose friends we were proud to count. 

We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never failed to 
greet us vdth a kind nod ; and John the waiter made room for us near 
the President of the convivial meeting. We knew the three admirable 
glee-singers, and many a time they partook of brandy-and-water at our 
expense. One of us gave his call dinner at Hoskins's, and a merry 
time we had of it. Where are you. Hoskins, bird of the night? Do 
you warble your songs by Acheron, or troll your chorusses by the banks 
of black Avernus ? 

The goes of stout, the Chough and Crow, the welsh-rabbit, the Red- 
Cross Knight, the hot brandy-and-water (the brown the strong !) the 
Bloom is on the Rye (the bloom isn't on the Rye any more !) the song 
and the cup in a word passed round merrily, and I daresay the songs 
and bumpers were encored. It happened that there was a very small 
attendance at the Cave that night, and we were all more sociable and 
friendly because the company was select. The songs were chiefly of 
the sentimental class ; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of 
which I speak. 

There came into the Cave a gentleman with a lean brown face and 
long black mustachios, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a 
stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. 
He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company ; and 
calling for sherry-and- water, he listened to the music, and twirled his 
mustachios with great enthusiasm. 

At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, 
bounded across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and blushing, 
said, " Don't you know me ? " 

It waa little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had not seen for 
six years, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright 
blue eyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy. 



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THE NBWCOMES. 7 

" What the deuce brings you here ? " said I. 

He laughed and looked roguish. ** My father — that's my father — 
would come. He's just come back from India. He says all the wits 
used to come here, — ^Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris, Colonel Hanger, 
Professor Person. I told him your name, and that you used to be 
veiy kind to me when I first went to Smithfield. I Ve left now ; I'm 
to have a private tutor. I say, IVe got such a jolly poney ! It's better 
fun than old Smiffle." 

Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, pointing to a 
waiter to follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode across 
the room twirling his mustachios, and came up to the table where we 
sate, making a salutation with his hat in a very stately and polite 
manner, so that Hoskins hiiuself was, as it were^ obliged to bow ; the 
glee-singers murmured among themselves (their eyes rolling over their 
glasses towards one another as they sucked brandy-and-water), and that 
mischievous little wag, little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just 
come in), began to mimick him, feeling his imaginary whiskers, sdfter 
the manner of the stranger, and flapping about his pocket-handkerchief 
in the most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by 
sternly looking towards Nadab, and at the same time called upon 
the gents to give their orders, the waiter being in the room, and 
Mr. Bellew about to sing a song. 

Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me. I dare 
say I blushed, for I had been comparing him to the admirable Harley 
in the Critic, and had christened him Don Ferolo Whiskerandos. 

He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant, and with 
a cordiality so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away 
ashamed; and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and 
friendly. In youth, you see, one is touched by kindness. A man of the 
world may, of course, be grateful or not as he chooses. 

" I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, ** to my boy. And 
whoever is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me to sit down 
by you ? and may I beg you to try my cheroots ? " We were friends 
in a minute — ^young Newcome snuggling by my side, his father opposite, 
to whom, after a minute or two of conversation, I presented my three 
college friends. 

"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says the Colonel. 
" Are there any celebrated persons in the room ? I have been five-and- 
thirty years from home, and want to see all that is to be seen." 

King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was on the point of 
pulling some dreadful long bow, and pointing out a half dozen of 
people in the room, as R. and H. and L., &c., the most celebrated 
wits of that day: but I cut King's shins under the table, and got the 
fellow to hold his tongue. 

" Maxima debetur pueria" says Jones, (a fellow of very kind feeling, 
who has gone into the Church since,) and writing on his card to Hoskins 
hinted to him that a boy was in the room, and a gentleman, who 



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8 THE NBV€JOM»fif. 

was quite a greenhorn : hence that tbe songs ji&i better be oareMly 
selected. 

Aud so tUey were, A lady's school might have come in, and but fc? 
the smell of tl^e cigars 9^d brandy-and-water haye taken no W^ 
hj what happened. Why should it not always be so ? If there j^x§ 
any Caves of Harmony now, I warrant Messieurs the landlords* their 
interests would be better consulted by keeping tiaeir singei]s withMi 
bounds. The very greatest scamps like pretty songs, and are meltej 
by them : so are honest people. It w«8 worth a guinea to ^ee the 
simple Colonel, and his delight at the music. He forgot all abo^t the 
distinguished wits wj^Qi he had expected to see in his ravishm^t oy$r 
the glees. 

••* I ^ay, Clive : this is delightful. This is better than your aunt's 
concert with all the Squallinis, hey ? I shall come here often. Land- 
lord; may I venture to ask those gentlemen if they will take any 
irefreshment ? What are their names-? (to one of his neighbours) I 
was scarcely allowed to hear any singing before I went out ; except an 
oratorio, where I fell asleep : but this, by George, is as fine as Incleden 1 " 
He became quite e^ted over his sherry-and-water — (" I'm s^rry tp 
see you, gentlemen, drinking braixdy-pawnee," says he. " It plays tb# 
deuce with our young men in India.") He joined in all the chorui^e? 
with an exceedingly sweet voice. He laughed at the Derby Earn sp 
that it did you good to hear him : and when Hoskios sang (as he did 
admirably) the Old English Gentleman, and described, in measured 
cadence, the death of that venerable aristocrat, tears trickled down the 
honest warrior's cheek, while he held out his hand to Hoskins and ^oid, 
" Thank you, sir, for that song ; it is a^ houour to human nature." On 
which Hoskins hegau to cry too. 

And now young Nadab having been cautioned, oommepced one <rf 
those surprising feats of improvisation with which be used to cbann 
audiences. He took us all ofiP, and had rhymes pat about all the 
principal persons in the room; King's pins (which he wore VjOry 
splendid), Martin's red waistcoat, &c. The Colonel was charmed with 
each feat, and joined delightod with the chorus — RitolderolritolderiJ.l 
ritolderolderay, {bis), And when coming to the Colonel himself, h^ 
burst out — 

** A military gent I Bee^-and while Mb face I scan, 
I think you'll all agree with me — He came from Hindogtan. 
And by his side sits laughing free — ^A youth with curly head, 
I think you'll all aggrise with me — ^that he was best in bed. B^tolderol/' (kc. 

The Colonel laughed imn^ensely at this sally, and clapped hi^ sou, 
young Clive, on the shoulder, " Hear what he says of you, sir ? Clivie, 
best be off to bed, my boy — ho, ho ! No, no. We know a trick wortii t^ 
of that. '^ We won't go home till morning, till daylight does appear.' 
Why should we ? Why shouldn't my boy have innocent pleasure ? I was 
allowed" noue when I was a young chap, and the severity was nearly 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 9 

the ruin of me. I must go and speak with that young man — the 
most astonishing thing I ever heard in my life. What!s his name ? 
Mr. Nadab ? Mr. Nadab ; sir, you have delighted me. May I make 
so free as to ask you to oome and dine with me to-morrow at six. 
polonel Newcome, if you please, Norot's Hotel, Clifibrd Street. I am 
always proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, and you are 
onfit pr my name is not Newcome ! " 

" Sir, you do me Hhonour," says Mr. Nadab, pulling up his shirt- 
.collars, ** and perhaps the day will come when the world will do me 
justice, — may I put down your hhonoured name for my book of 
poems?" 

'* Of course, my dear sir," says the enthusiastic Colonel, " 111 send 
them all over India. Put me down for six copies, and do me the 
favour to bring them to-morrow when you come to dinner." 

And now Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volunteer a 
song, what was our amazement when the simple Colonel o£fered to sing 
himself, at which the room applauded vociferously ; whilst methought 
poor Clive Newcome hung down his head, and blushed as red as a 
peony. I felt for the young lad, and thought what my own sensations 
would have been, if, in that place, my own uncle, Major Pendennis, had 
suddenly proposed to exert his lyrical powers. 

The Colonel selected the ditty of " Wapping Old Stairs " (a ballad 
so sweet and touching that surely any English poet might be proud to 
be the father of it), and he sang this quaint and charming old song in 
an exceedingly pleasant voice, \^ith flourishes and roulades in the old 
Incledon manner, which has pretty nearly passed away. The singer 
gave his heart and soul to the simple ballad, and delivered Molly's 
gentle appeal so pathetioally that even the professional gentlemen 
hummed and buzzed a sincere applause; and some wags who were 
inclined to jeer at the beginning of the performance, clinked their 
glasses apd rapped their sticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. 
When the song was over, Clive held up his head too ; after the shock of 
the flrst verse, looked routid with surprise and pleasure in his eyes ; 
and we, I need not say, backed our friend, delighted to see him come 
out of his queer scrape so triumphantly. The Colonel bowed and 
smiled with very pleasant good nature at our plaudits. It was like 
Dr. Primrose preaching his sermon in the prison. There was some- 
thing touching in the naivete and kindness of the placid and simple 
g^tleman. 

Great Hoskins, placed on high, amidst the tuneful choir, was pleased 
to signify his approbation, and gave his guest's health in his usual 
dignified manner. ** I am much obliged to you, sir," says Mr. Hoskins; 
** the room ought to be much obliged to you : I drink your ealth and 
aong, sir;" and he bowed to the Colonel politely over his glass of 
braudy-and-water, of which be absorbed a little in his customer's honour. 
*' I have not beard that song," he was kind enough to say, '* better 
performed since Mr. Incledon sung it. He was a great singer, sir, and 



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10 THE NEWCOMES. 

I may say, in the words of our immortal Shakspere, that, take him for 
all in all, we shall not look upon his like again." 

The Colonel blushed in his turn, and turning round to his boy with 
an arch smile, said, " I learnt it from Incledon. I used to slip out 
from Grey friars to hear him. Heaven bless me, forty years ago ; and I 
used to be flogged afterwards, and serve me right too. Lord ! Lord ! 
how the time passes ! " He drank off his sherry-and- water, and fell 
back in his chair ; we could see he was thinking about his youth — the 
golden time — the happy, the bright, the unforgotten. I was myself 
nearly two-and-twenty years of age at that period, and felt as old, as 
ay, older than the Colonel. 

Whilst he was singing his ballad, there had walked, or rather reeled, 
into the room, a gentleman in a military frock coat and duck trowsers 
of dubious hue, with whose name and person some of my readers are 
perhaps already acquainted. In fact it was my friend Captain Costigan, 
in his usual condition at this hour of the night. 

Holding on by various tables, the Captain had sidled up without 
accident to himself or any of the jugs and glasses round about him, to 
the table where we sat, and had taken his place near the writer, his old 
acquaintance. He warbled the refrain of the Colonel's song, not 
inharmoniously ; and saluted its pathetic conclusion with a subdued 
hiccup, and a plentiful effusion of tears. " Bedad it is a beautiful 
song," says he, " and many a time I heard poor Harry Incledon 
sing it." 

" He's a great character," whispered that unlucky King of Corpus to 
his neighbour the Colonel ; " was a Captain in the array. We call him 
the General. Captain Costigan, will you take something to drink ? " 

" Bedad I will," says the Captain, ** and 111 sing ye a song tu." 

And having procured a glass of whiskey-and-water from the passing 
waiter, the poor old man, settling his face into a horrid grin, and 
leering, as he was wont, when he gave what he called one of his prime 
songs, began his music. 

The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or saying, 
selected one of the most outrageous performances of his repertoire, fired 
off a tipsey howl by way of overture, and away he went. At the end of 
the second verse the Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, seizing his 
stick, and looking as ferocious as though he had been going to do battle 
with a Pindaree, " Silence ! " he roared out. 

" Hear, hear I " cried certain wags at a farther table. " Go on, 
Costigan ! " said others. 

** Go on ! " cries the Colonel, in his high voice, trembling with anger 
"Does any gentleman say * Go on?' Does any man who has a wife 
and sisters, or children at home, say * Go on' to such disgusting ribaldry 
as this ? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a gentleman, and to say that 
you hold the king's commission, and to sit down amongst Christians and 
men of honour, and defile the ears of young boys with this wicked 
baJderdaBh?" 



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"Why do you bring young boys here, old boy?" cries a voice of the 
malcontents. 

" Why ? Because I thought I was coming to a society of gentle- 
men," cried out the indignant Colonel. " Because I never could have 
believed that Englishmen could meet together and allow a man, and an 
old man, so to disgrace himself. For shame, you old wretch ! Go 
home to your bed, you hoary old sinner ! And for my part, I'm not 
sorry that my son should see, for once in his life, to what shame and 
degradation and dishonour, drunkenness and whiskey may bring a man. 
Never mind the change, sir ! — Curse the change I " says the Colonel, 
facing the amazed waiter. " Keep it till you see me in this place 
again; which will be never — by George, never!" And shouldering 
his stick, and scowling round at the company of scared bacchanalians, 
the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him. 

Clive seemed rather shame-faced ; but I fear the rest of the company 
looked still more foolish. 

•* Aussi que diable venait-il faire dans cette galore?" says King of 
Corpus to Jones of Trinity ; and Jones gave a shrug of his shoulders, 
which were smarting, perhaps ; for that uplifted cane of the Colonel's 
had somehow fallen on the back of every man in the room. 




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CHAPTER II. 




COLONEL NEWC0ME8 WILD OATS. 

S the yooDg gentleman who has just gone 
to bed is to be the hero of the following 
pages, we had best begin our account 
of him with his family history, which 
luckily is not very long. 

When pig-tails still grew on the 
backs of the British gentry, and their 
wives wore cu^ons on their heads, over 
which they tiod their own hair, and disguised it 
with powder and pomatum : when ministers went 
in their stars and orders to the House of Com- 
mons, and the orators of the Opposition attacked 
nightly the noble lord in the blue ribbon: when 
Mr. Washington was heading the American rebels 
with a courage, it must be confessed, worthy of a better cause : 
there came up to London out of a Northern county, Mr. Thomas 
Newcome, afterwards Thomas Newcome, Esq., and sheriff of London, 
afterwards Mr. Alderman Newcome, the founder of the family 
whose name has given the title to this history. It was but in the 
reign of George III. that Mr. Newcome first made his appearance in 
Cheapside ; having made his entry into London on a waggon, which 
landed him and some bales of cloth, all his fortune, in Bishopsgate 
Street: though if it could be proved that the Normans wore 
pig-tails under William the Conqueror, and Mr. Washington fought 
against the English under King Richard in Palestine, I am sure 
some of the present Newcomes would pay the Heralds' Ofl&ce hand- 
somely, living, as they do, amongst the noblest of the land, and 
giving entertainments to none but the very highest nobility and 
elite of the fashionable and diplomatic world, as you may read any 
day in the newspapers. For though these Newcomes have got a 
pedigree from the College, which is printed in Budge's "Landed 
Aristocracy of Great Britain," and which proves that the Newcome of 
Cromwell's army, the Newcome who was among the last six who were 
hanged by Queen Mary for protestantism, were ancestors of this house ; 
of which a member distinguished himself at Bosworth Field ; and the 
founder slain by King Harold's side at Hastings had been surgeon- 



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THE NEWCOMES. 13 

barber to King Edwurd the Confessor ; yet, between oinfselv^s, I think 
that Ssr Bdan Ne<weoiae, of Newcome, doee not believe a Word of the 
story, ancy moar e than the rest of the world does, although a number of 
his (MlAfen bear names oui: of the Saxon Calendar. 

Wad Thomas- Newcome a foundling — ^a workhouse child out of that 
tillage, which ha& now become a great manufacturing town, and which 
beftrs his name 7 Such was the report set about at the last election, 
when Sir Brian, in the ConsetvatiYe interest, contested the boroij^b ; 
and Mr. Tapp, the oc^androut Liberal candidate, had a picture of the 
old workhouse placarded over the town as the birth-pla0e of the New- 
domes ; with pkioards ironicalliy exciting freemen to vote for Newcome 
a»4 um<?n-r-NewGOBie and the parish interests, &c. Who cares for 
these local scandals ? It matters very little to those who have tbe 
good fortune to be invited to Lady Ann Newcome's parties whether her 
beautiful dat^ters can trace their pedigrees' no higher than to the 
atderman' their giamd&ther ; or wbetllker, throfigh the mythic anc€as;tral 
bairber-ffurg^n, they hang on to the chin of .Edward Confessor and 



Thomas Newcome, who had been a weaver in his native village, 
brought the very best character for honesty, tiirift, and ingenuity 
whh him to London, where he was taken into the house of Hobson 
Brothers, cloth-factors ;: afterwards Hobson and Newcome. This feet 
may suffice to indicate Thomas Newcome's story. Like Whittington 
and many other London apprentices^ he began poor and ended by 
marrying his master's daughter, and becoming sheriff and alderman of 
ti!id City of London; 

But it was only en seeondesr twees that he espoused the wealthy, and 
religious, and eminent (such was the word applied to certain professing 
Christians in those days) Sophia Alethea Hobson — ^a woman who, 
cjonsiderably old>dr than Mr. Newcome, had tho advantage of surviving 
him many years. Her mansion at Clapbam was long, the resort of the 
the most favoured amongst the xeligious world. The most eloquent 
63tpounders, the mo^ gifted missionaries, the most interesting converts' 
^om foreign island^i, were to be found at her sumptuous table, spread 
with the produce of her magni^fiicent gardens. Heaven indeed blessed 
those gardens with; plenty, as many reverend gentlemen remarked ; 
.there were no £ner grapes, peaches, or pine-apples, in all England. 
Mr. Whitfield himself christened her; and it was said generally in 
l^e City, and by her friends, thnt Miss Hobson's two christian names, 
Sophia and Alethea, were two Greek words, which, being interpreted, 
meant wisdom and truth. She, her villa and gardens, are now no 
more; but Sophia Terrace, Upper and Lower Alethea Eoad, and 
Hobson 's Buildings, Square, &c., show, every quarter-day, that the 
^und sacred to her (and freehold) still bears plenteous fruit for tho 
descendants of this emisitent woman. 

We are, however, advancing matters. When Thomas Newcome had 
been somo tikio. in- London^ he quitted the house of Hobson, finding an 



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14 THE NEWCOMBS. 

opening, though in a much smaller way, for himself. And no sootief 
did his business prosper, than he went down into the north, like Vman, 
to a pretty girl whom he had left there, and whom ho had promised to 
marry. What seemed an imprudent match (for his wife had nothing but 
a pale face, that had grown older and paler with long waiting), turned 
out a very lucky one for Newcome. The whole country side wasr 
pleased to think of the prosperous London tradesman returning to keep 
his promise to the penniless girl whom he had loved in the days of his 
own poverty ; the great country clothiers, who knew his prudence and 
honesty, gave him much of their business when he went back to 
London. Susan Newcome would have lived to be a rich woman had 
not fate ended her career, within a year after her marriage, when she 
died giving birth to a son. 

Newcome had a nurse for the child, and a cottage at Clapham, hard 
by Mr. Hobson's house, where he had often walked in the garden of a 
Sunday, and been invited to sit down to take a glass of wine. Since 
he had left their service, the house had added a banking business, 
which was greatly helped by the Quakers and their religious connection, 
and Newcome keeping his account there, and gradually increasing 
his business, was held in very good esteem by his former employers, 
and invited sometimes to tea at the Hermitage ; for which entertain- 
ments he did not in truth much care at first, being a City man, a good 
deal tired with his business during the day, and apt to go to sleep over 
the sermons, expoundings, and hymns, with which the gifted preachers, 
missionaries, &c, who were always at the Hermitage, used to wind up 
the evening before supper. Nor was he a supping man (in which case 
he would have found the parties pleasanter, for in Egypt itself there 
were not more savoury fleshpots than at Clapham); he was very 
moderate in his meals, of a bilious temperament, and, besides, obliged 
to be in town early in the morning, always setting off to walk an hour 
before the first coach. 

But when his poor Susan died, MisB Hobson, by her father's demise, 
having now become a partner in the house, as well as heiress to the 
pious and childless Zachariah Hobson, her uncle ; Mr. Newcome, with 
his little boy in his hand, met Miss Hobson as she was coming out of 
meeting one Sunday ; and the child looked so pretty (Mr. N. was a 
very personable, fresh-coloured man, himself ; he wore powder to the 
end, and top-boots and brass buttons, in his later days, after he had 
been sheriff — indeed, one of the finest specimens of the old London 
merchant). Miss Hobson, I say, invited him and little Tommy into the 
grounds of the Hermitage ; did not quarrel with the innocent child for 
frisking about in the hay on the lawn, which lay basking in the Sabbath 
sunshine, and at the end of the visit gave him a large piece of pound- 
cake, a quantity of the finest hot-house grapes, and a tract in one 
syllable. Tommy was -ill the next day ; but on the next Sunday his 
father was at meeting. 

He became very soon after this an awakened man ; and the tittling 



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THE NEWCOMES, 15 

and tattling, and the sneering and gossiping, all over Clapbam, and 
the talk on 'Change, and the pokes in the waistcoat administered by 
the wags to Newcome, ** Newcome, give you joy, my boy;" **Newcome, 
new partner in Hobson*s;" "Newcome, just take in this paper to 
Hobson*s, they'll do it, I warrant." &c. &c. ; and the groans of the 
Rev. Gideon Bawls, of the Kev. Athanasius 'Grady, that eminent 
convert from Popery, who, quarrelling with each other, yea, striving 
one against another, had yet two sentiments in common, their love for 
Miss Hobson, their dread, their hatred of the worldly Newcome ; all 
these squabbles and jokes, and pribbles and prabbles, look you, may 
be omitted. As gallantly as he had married a woman without a 
penny, as gallantly as he had conquered his poverty and achieved his 
own independence, so bravely he went in and won the great City prize 
with a fortune of a quarter of a million. And every one of his old 
friends, and every honest-hearted fellow who likes to see shrewdness, 
and honesty, and courage, succeed, was glad of his good fortune, and 
said, " Newcome, my boy (or " Newcome, my buck," if they were old 
City cronies, and very famihar), I give you joy." 

Of course Mr. Newcome might have gone into parliament: of 
course before the close of his life he might have been made a Baronet : 
but he eschewed honours senatorial or blood red hands. " It wouldn't 
do," with his good sense he said ; " the Quaker connexion wouldn't like 
it." His wife never cared about being called Lady Newcome. To 
manage the great house of Hobson Brothers and Newcome ; to attend 
to the interests of the enslaved negro; to awaken the benighted 
Hottentot to a sense of the truth ; to convert Jews, Turks, Infidels, and 
Papists ; to arouse the indifferent and often blasphemous mariner ; to 
guide the washerwoman in the rightway; to head all the public 
charities of her sect, and do a thousand of secret kindnesses that none 
knew of; to answer myriads of letters, pension endless ministers, 
and supply their teeming wives with continuous baby-linen ; to hear 
preachers daily bawling for hours, and listen un tired Qjfx her knees 
after a long day's labour, while florid rhapsodists belaboured cushions 
above her with wearisome benedictions; all these things had this 
woman to do, and for near fourscore years she fought her fight 
womanfuUy : imperious but deserving to rule, hard but doing her duty, 
severe' but charitable, and untiring in generosity as in labour : unfor- 
giving in one instance — ^in that of her husband's eldest son, Thomas 
Newcome ; the little boy who had played on the hay, and whom at 
first she had loved very sternly and fondly. 

Mr. Thomas Newcome, the father of his wife's twin boys, the 
junior partner of the house of Hobson Brothers, & Co., lived several 
years after winning the great prize about which all his friends so 
oongratulated him. But he was after all only the junior partner of 
the house. His wife was manager in Threadneedle Street and at 
home — when the clerical gentlemen prayed they importuned Heaven 
for that sainted woman a long time before they thought of asking any 



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16 THE NEWCOMEa 

ftivour for ker husbacid. Tbe gardeners touched their hats, the clerkd 
at the bank brought him the books, but tbey took their orders fronit 
her, not from him. I thmk he grew weary of the prayer-meetings^, 
he yawned over the sufferings of the negroes, and wished tikd 
converted Jews at Jericho. About the time the French Emperor was 
meeting with his Russian reverses Mr. Newcome died ; his mausoleum 
is in Clapham Church Yard, near the modest grave where his first 
wife reposes. 

When his father married, Mr* Thomas Newcome, jun., and Satafe 
his nurse were transported from the cottage where fhey had lived in 
great comfort to the palace heurd by, surrounded by lawns and gardens, 
pineries, graperies, aviaries, luxuries of all kinds. This paradise, Ere 
miles from the standard at Comhill, was separated from the outer 
world by a thick hedgte 6f tall trees, and an ivy-covered porter's-gate, 
through which they who travelled to London on the top of the Clapham 
coach could otly get a glimpse of the bliss within. It was a serious 
paradise. As you entered at the gate,- gravity fell on you ; and decorunf 
wrapped you in a garment of starch. The butcher-boy who galloped 
his horse and cart madly about the adjoining lanes and common, 
whistled wild melodies (caught up in abominable play-house galleries), 
and joked wkh a hundred cook-maids, on passing that lodge fell into 
an undertaker's pace, and delivered his joints and sweet-breads silently 
at the servant's entran(ie. The rooks in the^ elms cawed sermons at 
morning and evening ; the peacocks walked demurely on the terracies ; 
the guinea-fowls looked more quaker-Hke tbfiaia those savoury-birds 
usually do. The lodge-keeper was serious, and a clerk at a neigh* 
bouring chapel. The J>astorsi who entered at that gate, and greeted 
his comely wife and' children^ fed the little lambkins with tracts,. 
The head-gardener was a Scotch Calvinist, after the strictest order, 
only occupying himself with the melons and pines provisionally, 
and until the end of the world, which event he could prove by 
infallible calculations, was- to come off in two or three years at 
forthest. Wherefore he asked should the butler brew strong ale 
to be drunken three years hence ; or the housekeeper (a follower of 
Joanna Southcote), make provisions; of fine linen and lay up stores 
of jams ? On a Sunday (which good old Saxon word was scarcely 
known at the Hermitage), the household marched away in separate 
couples or groups to [at least half a dozen of religious edifices, each 
to sit under his or her favourite minister, the only man who went to 
Church being Thomas Newcome, accompanied by Tommy his little 
son, and Sarah his nurse, who was I believe also his aunt, or at least 
his mother's first cousin. Tommy was taught hymns very soon aftei? 
he could speak, appropriate to his tender age, pointing out to him tbe 
inevitable fate of wicked children, and giving him the earliest possible 
warning and description of the punishment of little sinners. Hial 
repeated these poems to his step-mother after dinner, before a great, 
shining mahogany table^ covered with gpntpes, pine-apples, plum-cake. 



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THE NEWCOMBS. 



17 



port-wine, and Madeira, and surrounded by stout men in black, with 
baggy white neckcloths, who took the little man between their knees, 
and questioned him as to his right understanding of the place whither 
naughty boys were bound. They patted his head with their fat hands 
if he said well, or rebuked him if he was bold as he often was. 



ii!i™S'tt'^'r^^?-; 







Nurse Sarah or Aunt Sarah would have died had she remained many 
years in that stifling garden of Eden. She could not bear to part 
from the child whom her mistress and kinswoman had confided to 
her (the women had worked in the same room at Newcomers, and 
loved each other always, when Susan became a merchant's ladjTand 
Sarah her servant). She was nobody in the pompous new household 
but Master Tommy's nurse. Th^ honest soul never mentioned her 
relationship to the boy's mother, nor indeed did Mr. Newcome 
acquaint his new family with that circumstance. The housekeeper 
called her. an Erastian : Mrs. Newcome's own serious maid informed 
against her for telling Tommy stories of Lancashire witches and 
believing in the same. The black footman (Madam's maid and the 
butler were of course privately united) persecuted her with his addresses, 
and was even encouraged by his mistress, who thought of sending 
him as a missionary to the Niger. No little love, and fidelity, and 
constancy did honest Sarah show and use during the years she passed 
at the Hermitage, and until Tommy went to school. Her master, 
with many private prayers and entreaties, in which he passionately 
recalled his former wife*s memory and affection, implored his friend 
to stay with him, and Tommy's fondness for her and artless caresses, 
and the scrapes he got into, and the howls he uttered over the 
hymns and catechisms which he was bidden to learn (by Rev. T. Clack, 
of Highbury College, his daily tutor, who was commissioned to spare 



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1« THB NEWCOMES. 

not the rod neither to spoil the child), all these causes induced Sarah to 
riBmain with her young master until such time as he was sent to school. 

Meanwhile an event of prodigious importance, a wonderment, a hless- 
ing and a delight, had happened at the Hermitage, About two years 
after Mrs. Newcome's marriage, the lady being then forty- three years 
of age, no less than two little cherubs appeared in the Clapham Paradise 
— the twins, Hobson Newcome and Brian Newcome, called after their 
uncle and late grandfather, whose name and rank they were destined to 
perpetuate. And now there was no reason why young Newcome 
should not go to school. Old Mr. Hobson and his brother had been 
educated at that school of Grey Friars, of which mention has been 
made in former works : and to Grey Friars Thomas Newcome was 
accordingly sent, exchanging — ye Gods ! with what delight — the 
splendour of Clapham for the rough, plentiful fare of the place, blacking 
his master's shoes with perfect readiness, till he rose in the school, and 
the time came when he should have a fag of his own : tibbing out and 
receiving the penalty therefor: hartering a black eye, per bearer, 
against a bloody nose drawn at sight, with a schoolfellow, and shaking 
hands the next day; playing at cricket, hockey, prisoners' base, and 
football, according to the season, and gorging himself and friends with 
tarts when he had money (and of this he had plenty) to spend. I have 
seen his name carved upon the Gown Boys* arch : but he was at school 
long before my time ; his son showed me the name when we were 
boys together, in some year when George the Fourth was king. 

The pleasures of this school-life were such to Tommy Newcome, that 
he did not care to go home for a holiday : and indeed, by insubor- 
dination and boisterousness ; by playing tricks and breaking windows ; 
by marauding upon the gardener's peaches and the housekeeper's jam ; 
by upsetting bis two little brothers in a go-cart (of which wanton and 
careless injury the present Baronet's nose bears marks to this very day) ; 
— by going to sleep during the sermons, and treating reverend gentlemen 
with levity, he drew, down on himself the merited wrath of his stepmother ; 
and many punishments in this present life, besides those of a future 
and much more durable kind, which the good lady did not fail to point 
out that he must undoubtedly inherit. His father, at Mrs. Newcome's 
instigation, certainly whipped Tommy for upsetting his little brothers 
in the go-cart ; but upon being pressed to repeat the whipping for some 
other peccadillo performed soon after, Mr. Newcome refused at once, 
using a wicked, worldly expression, which well might shock any serious 
lady ; saying, in fact, that he would be deed if he beat the boy any 
more, and that he got flogging enough at school, in which opinion 
Master Tommy fully coincided. 

The undaunted woman, his step-mother, was not to be made to 
forego her plans for the boy's reform by any such vulgar ribaldries; and 
Mr. Newcome being absent in the city on his business, and Tommy 
refractory as- usual, she summoned the serious butler and the black foot- 
man (for the lashings of whose brethren she felt an unaffected pity). 



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THE NBWCOMES. 



19 



to operate together in the chastisement of this young criminal. But he 
dashed so furiously against the butler's shins as to draw blood from his 
comely limbs, and to cause that serious and overfed menial to limp and 




-^5^^ 



suffer for many days after ; and seizing the decanter, he swore he would 
demolish blackey's ugly face with it ; nay, he threatened to discharge it 
at Mrs. Newcome's own head before he would submit to the coercion 
which she desired her agents to administer. 

High words took place between Mr. and Mrs. Newcome that night 
on the gentleman's return home from the city, and on his learning the 
events of the morning. It is to be feared he made use of further 
oaths, which hasty ejaculations need not be set down in this place ; at 
any rate he behaved with spirit and manliness as master of the house, 
vowed that if any servant laid a hand on the child, he would thrash 
him first and then discharge him ; and I daresay expressed himself with 
bitterness and regret, that he had married a wife who would not be 
obedient to her husband ; and had entered a house of which he was not 
suffered to be the master. Friends were called in— the interference, 
the supplications, of the Clapham Clergy, some of whom dined 
constantly at the Hermitage, prevailed to allay this domestic quarrel, 
and no doubt the good sense of Mrs. Newcome, who though imperious, 
was yet not unkind ; and, who excellent as she was, yet could be brought 
to own that she was sometimes in fault, induced her to make at least a 
temporary submission to the man whom she had placed at the head of 
her house, and whom it must be confessed she had vowed to love 
and honour. When Tommy fell ill of the scarlet fever, which afflicting 
event occurred presently after the above dispute, his own nurse, Sarah, 
could not have been more tender, watchfid and affectionate, than his 
stepmother showed herself to be. She nursed hiin through his illness : 

2 



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20 THE NBWCOMES. 

allowed his food and mediciue to be administered by no other hand ; 
sat up with the boy through a night of his fever, and uttered not 
one single reproach to her husband (who watched with her) when the 
twins took the disease (from which we need not say they happily 
recovered), and though young Tommy, in his temporary delirium, 
mistaking her for nurse Sarah, addressed her as his dear Fat Sally — 
whereas no whipping-post to which she ever would have tied him could 
have been leaner than Mrs. Newcome — and under this feverish 
delusion actually abused her to her face ; calling her an old cat, an old 
Methodist, and jumping up in his little bed forgetful of his previous 
fancy, vowing that he would put on his clothes and run away to Sally. 
Sally was at her northern home by this time, with a liberal pension 
which Mr. Newcome gave her, and which his son and his son's son 
after him, through all their difficulties and distresses, always found 
means to pay. 

What the boy threatened in his delirium he had thought of no doubt 
more than once in his solitary and unhappy holidays. A year after he 
actually ran away, not from school, but from home ; and appeared one 
morning gaunt and hungry at Sarah's cottage two hundred miles away 
from Clapham, who housed the poor prodigal, and killed her calf for 
him — washed him, with many tears and kisses, and put him to bed and 
to sleep ; from which slumber he was aroused by the appearance of his 
father, whose sure instinct, backed by Mrs. Newcome's own quick 
intelligence, had made him at once aware whither the young runaway 
had fled. The poor father came horsewhip in hand — he knew of no 
other law or means to maintain his authority — ^many and many a time 
had his own father, the old weaver, whose memory he loved and 
honoured, strapped and beaten him — seeing this instrument in the 
parent's hand, as Mr. Newcome thrust out the weeping trembling 
Sarah and closed the door upon her. Tommy, scared out of a sweet sleep 
and a delightful dream of cricket, knew his fate ; and getting up out of 
bed received his punishment without a word. Very likely the father 
suffered more than the child, for when the punishment was over, the 
little man, yet trembling and quivering with the pain^ held out his little 
bleeding hand and said, " I can — I can take it from you, sir ; " saying 
which his face flushed, and his eyes filled, for the first time — ^whereupon 
the father burst into a passion of tej^rs, and embraced the boy and 
kissed him, besought and prayed him to be rebellious no more — flung 
the whip away from him and swore, come what would, he would never 
strike him again. The quarrel was the means of a great and happy 
reconciliation. The three dined together in Sarah's cottage. Perhaps 
the father would have liked to walk that evening in the lanes and fields 
where he had wandered as a young fellow : where he had first courted 
and first kissed the young girl he loved — poor child — who had waited 
for him so faithfully and fondly, who had passed so many a day of patient 
want and meek expectance to be repaid by such a scant holiday and brief 
fruition. 



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THE NEWCOMES. 21 

Mrs. Newcome never made tbe sligbtest allusion to Tom's absence 
after his return, but was quite gentle and affectionate with him, 
and that night read the parable of the Prodigal in a very low and ' 
quiet voice. 

This however was only a temporary truce. War very soon broke out 
again between the impetuous lad and his rigid domineering mother-in- 
law. It was not that he was very bad, or she perhaps more stem 
than other ladies, but the two could n'ot agree. The. boy sulked and 
was miserable at home. He fell to drinking with the grooms in the 
stables. I think he went to Epsom races, and was discovered after that 
act of rebellion. Driving from a most interesting breakfast at Roehampton 
(where a delightful Hebrew convert had, spoken oh ! so graciously !) 
Mrs. Newcome — in her state carriage, with her bay horses — met Tom, 
her son-in-law, in a tax-cart, excited by drink, and accompanied by all 
sorts of friends, male and female. John the black man was bidden to 
descend from the carriage and bring him to Mrs Newcome. He came ; 
his voice was thick with drink. * He laughed wildly : he described a 
fight at which he had been present : it was not possible that such a 
castaway as this should continue in a house where her two little 
cherubs were grovdng up in innocence and grace. 

The' boy had a great fancy for India ; and Orme's History, containing 
the exploits of Clive and Lawrence, was his favourite book of all in his 
father's library. Being offered a writership, he scouted the idea of a 
civil appointment, and would be contented with nothing but a uniform. 
A cavalry cadetship was procured for Thomas Newcome ; and the young 
man's future career being thus determined, and his step-mother's 
unwilling consent procured, Mr. Newcome thought fit to send his son to 
a tutor for military instruction, and removed him from the London 
school, where in truth he had made but very little progress in the 
humaner letters. The lad was placed with a professor who prepared 
young men for the army, and received rather a better professional 
education than fell to the lot of most young soldiers of his day. He 
cultivated the mathematics and fortification with more assiduity than 
he had ever bestowed on Greek and Latin, and especially made such a 
progress in the Frenct tongue as was very uncommon among the 
British youth his contemporaries. 

In the study of this agreeable language, over which young Newcome 
spent a great deal of his time, he unluckily had some instructors who 
were destined to bring the poor lad into yet farther trouble at home. 
His tutor, an easy gentleman, lived at Blackheath, and, not far from 
thence, on the road to Woolwich, dwelt the little Chevalier de Blois, 
at whose house the young man much preferred to take his French 
lessons rather than to receive them under his tutor's own roof. 

For the fact was that the little Chevalier de Blois had two pretty 
young daughters, with whom he had fled from his country along with 
thousands of French gentlemen at the period of revolution and 
emigration. He was a cadet of a very ancient family, and his brother, 



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22 THE NEWCOMES. 

the Marquis de Blois, was a fugitive like himself, hut with the army of 
the princes on the Khine, or with his exiled sovereign at Mittau. The 
chevalier had seen the wars of the great Frederic : what man could be 
found better to teach young Kewcome the French language, and the 
art military ? Tt was surprising with what assiduity he pursued his 
studies* Mademoiselle Leonore, the chevalier's daughter, would carry 
on her little industry very undisturbedly in the same parlour with her 
father and his pupil. She painted card-racks ; laboured at embroidery ; 
was ready to employ her quick little brain or fingers in any way by 
which she could find means to add a few shillings to the scanty store 
on which this exiled family supported themselves in their day of 
misfortune. I suppose the chevalier was not in the least unquiet 
about her, because she was promised in marriage to the Comte de 
Florae, also of the emigration — a distinguished ofiBcer like -the chevalier, 
— than whom he was a year older, and, at the time of which we speak, 
engaged in London in giving private lessons on the fiddle. Some- 
times on a Sunday he would walk to Blackheath with that instrument 
in his hand, and pay his court to his young fiancee, and talk over 
happier days with his old companion in arms. Tom Newcome took no 
French lessons on a Sunday. He passed that day at Olapham 
generally, where, strange to say, he never said a word about Mademoiselle 
de Blois. 

What happens when two young folks of eighteen, handsome and 
ardent, generous and impetuous, alone in the world, or without strong 
afiectbns to bind them elsewhere, — what happens when they meet 
daily over French dictionaries, embroidery frames, or indeed upon any 
business whatever? No doubt Mademoiselle Leonore was a young 
lady perfectly Men elevee, and ready as every well elevated young 
Frenchwoman should be, to accept a husband of her parents' choosing ; 
but while the elderly M. de Florae was fiddling in London, there was 
that handsome young Tom Newcome ever present at Blackheath. To 
make a long matter short, Tom declared his passion, and was for 
marrying Leonore ofiF-hand, if she would but come with him to the 
little Catholic chapel at Woolwich. Why should they not go out to 
India together and be happy ever after ? 

The innocent little amour may have been several months in trans- 
action, and was discovered by Mrs. Newcome, whose keen spectacles 
nothing could escape. It chanced that she drove to Blackheath to 
Tom*s tutor's. Tom was absent taking his French and drawing lesson 
of M. de Blois. Thither Tom's step-mother followed him, and found 
the young man sure enough with his instructor over his books and plans 
of fortification. Mademoiselle and her card-screens were in the room, 
but behind those screens she could not hide her blushes and confusion 
from Mrs. Newcome's sharp glances. In one moment the banker's wife 
saw the whole affair ; — the whole mystery which had been passing for 
months under poor M. de Blois' nose, without his having the least 
notion of the truth. 



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TOE NEWCOMBS. 83 

Mrs. Newcome said she wanted her son to return home with her upon 
private affiiirs ; and hefore they had reached the Hermitage a fine battle 
had ensued between them. His mother had charged him with being a 
wretch and a monster, and he- had replied fiercely, denying the accusa- 
tion with scorn, and announcing bis wish instantly to marry the most 
Tirtuous, the most beautiful of her sex. To marry a papist ! This was 
all that was wanted to make poor Tom*s cup of bitterness run over. 
Mr. Newcome was called in, and the two elders passed a great part of 
the night in an assault upon the lad. He was grown too tall for the 
cane ; but Mrs. Newcome thonged him with the lash of her indignation 
for many an hour that eve&ing. 

He was forbidden to enter M. de Blois* house, a prohibition at which 
the spirited young fellow snapped his fingers, and laughed in scorn. 
Nothing he swore but death should part him from the young lady. On 
the next day his father came to him alone and plied him with entreaties, 
but he was as obdurate as before. He would have her; nothing 
should prevent him. He cocked his hat and walked out of the lodge 
gate, as his father, quite beaten by the young man*s obstinacy, with 
haggard face and tearful eyes, went his own way into town. He was 
not very angry himself : in the course of their talk overnight the boy 
had spoken bravely and honestly, and Newcome could remember how 
in bis own early life, he too had courted and loved a young lass. It was 
Mrs. Newcome the father was afraid of. Who shall depict her wrath 
at the idea that a child of her house was about to marry a popish girl ? 

So young Newcome went his way to Blackheath, bent upon falling 
straightway down upon his knees before Leonore, and having the 
chevalier's blessing. That old fiddler in London scarcely seemed to 
him to be an obstacle: it seemed monstrous that a young creature 
should be given away to a man older than her own father. He did not 
know the law of honour, as it obtained amongst French gentlemen of 
those days, or how religiously their daughters were bound by it. 

But Mrs. Newcome had been beforehand with him, and had visited 
the Chevalier de Blois almost at cock-crow. She charged him insolently 
with being privy to the attachment between the young people ; pursued 
him with vulgar rebukes about beggary, popery, and French adventurers, 
Her husband had to make a very contrite apology afterwards for the 
language which his wife had thought fit to employ. " You forbid me," 
said the Chevalier, ** you forbid Mademoiselle de Blois to marry your 
son, Mr. Thomas! No, Madam, she comes of a race which is not 
accustomed to ally itself with persons of your class ; and is promised to 
a gentleman whose ancestors were dukes and peers when Mr. Newcome's 
were blacking shoes 1 " Instead of finding his pretty blushing girl on 
arriving at Woolwich, poor Tom only found his French master, livid 
with rage and quivering under his ailea de pigeon. We pass over the 
scenes that followed ; the young man^ passionate entreaties, and fury 
and despair. In his own defence, aad to prove his honour to the world, 
M. de Blois determined that his daughter should instantly marry the 



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24 



THE NEWCOMES. 



Count. The poor girl yielded without a word, as became her ; and, it 
was with this marriage effected almost before his eyes, and frantic with 
wrath and despair, that young Newcome embarked for India, and quitted 
the parents whom he was never more to see. 

Tom's name was no more mentioned at Clapham. His letters to his 
father were written to the City ; very pleasant they were, and comforting 
to the father's heart. He sent Tom liberal private remittances to 
India, until the boy wrote to say that he wanted no more. Mr. New- 
come would have liked to leave Tom all his private fortune, for the 
twins were only too well cared for ; but he dared not on account of his 
terror of Sophia Alethea, his wife ; and he died, and poor Tom was only 
secretly forgiven. 



<^^^^ ^^ -^ ._ 




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CHAPTER III. 

COLONEL NEWCOME's LETTER-BOX. 




ITH the most heartfelt joj, mj dear 
Major, I take up my pen to announce 
to you the happy arrival of the Ram 
Chunder, and the dearest and hand- 
somest little boy who, I am sure, ever 
came from India. Little Clive is in 
perfect health. He speaks English 
wonderfully well. He cried when he 
parted from Mr. Sneid, the super- 
cargo, who most kindly brought him 
from Southampton in a postchaise, 
but these tears in childhood are of 
very brief duration I The voyage, Mr. Sneid states, was most favourable, 
occupying only four months and eleven days. How different from 
that more lengthened and dangerous passage of eight months, and 
almost perpetual seasickness, in which my poor dear sister Emma went 
to Bengal, to become the wife of the best of husbands and the mother of 
the dearest of little boys, and to enjoy these inestimable blessings for so 
brief an interval ! She has quitted this wicked and wretched world for 
one where all is peace. The misery and ill-treatment which she endured 
from Captain Casey, her first odious husband, were, I am sure, amply 
repaid, my dear Colonel, by your subsequent affection. If the most 
sumptuous dresses which London, even Paris, could supply, jewellery 
the most costly, and elegant lace, and everything lovely and fashionable 
could content a woman, these, I am sure, during the last four years of 
her life, the poor girl had. Of what avail are they when this scene of 
vanity is closed ? 

** Mr. Sneid announces that the passage was most favourable. They 
stayed a week at the Cape, and three days at St. Helena, where they 
Tisited Bonaparte's tomb, (another instance of the vanity of all 
things !) and their voyage was enlivened off Ascension by the taking of 
8ome delicious turtle ! 

** You may be sure that the most liberal sum which you have placed 
to my credit with the Messra. Hobson & Co., shall be faithfully 



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26 THE NEWCOMES. 

expended on my dear little charge. Mrs. Newcome can scarcely be 
called his grandmamma, I suppose ; and I dare say her methodistical 
ladyship will not care to see the daughters and grandson of a clergyman 
of the Church of England ! My brother Charles took leave to wait 
upon her when he presented your last most generous bill at the bank. 
She received him most rudely, and said a fool and his money are soon 
parted ; and when Charles said, * Madam, T am the brother of the late 
Mrs. Major Newcome.' * Sir,* says she, * I judge nobody ; but from 
all accounts, you are the brother of a very vain, idle, thoughtless, 
extravagant woman ; and Thomas Newcome was as foolish about his 
wife as about his money.* Of course, unless Mrs. N. writes to invite 
dear Clive, I shall not think of sending him to Clapham. 

" It is such hot weather that I cannot wear the beautiful shawl you 
have sent me, and shall keep it in lavender till next winter ! My 
brother, who thanks you for your continuous bounty, will write next 
month, and report progress as to his dear pupil. Clive will add a 
postscript of his own, and I am, my dear Major, with a thousand thanlcs 
for your kindness to me, 

" Your grateful and affectionate, 

"Martha Honeyman.** 

In a round hand and on lines ruled with pencil : — 
" Dearest Papa i am very well i hope you are Very Well. Mr. 
Sneed brought me in a postchaise i like Mr. Sneed very much, i 
like Aunt Martha i like Hannah. There are no ships here i am 
your affectionate son Clive Newcome.** 

II. 

"Rub St. Dominique St. Germain, Paris, iVov. 15, 1820. 

" Long separated from the country which was the home of my youth, 
I carried from her tender recollections, and bear her always a lively 
gratitude. The Heaven has placed me in a position very different from 
that in which I knew you. I have been the mother of many children. 
My husband has recovered a portion of the property which the 
Revolution tore from us; and France, in returning to its legitimate 
sovereign, received once more the nobility which accompanied his 
august house into exile. We, however, preceded his Majesty, more 
happy than many of ^our companions. Believing farther resistance to 
be useless ; dazzled, perhaps, by the brilliancy of that genius which 
restored order, submitted Europe, and governed France ; M. de Florae, 
in the first days, was reconciled to the Conqueror of Marengo and 
Austerlitz, and held a position in his Imperial Court. This submission; 
at first attributed to infidelity, has subsequently been pardoned to my 
husband. His sufferings during the Hundred Days made to pardon his 
adhesion to him who was Emperor. My husband is now an old man. 
He was of the disastrous campaign of Moscow, as one of the chapaber* 



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,THE KEWCOMES. 27 

lains of Napoleon. Withdrawn from the world he gives his time to his 
feeble health — to his family — to Heayen. 

** I have not forgotten a time before those days, when, according to 
promises givtfn by my father, I became the wife of M. de Florae. 
Sometimes I have heard of your career. One of my parents, M. de F., 
who took service in the English India, has entertained me of you ; he 
informed me how yet a young man you won laurels at Argom and 
Bhartpour; how you escaped to death at Laswari. I have followed 
them, sir, on the map. I have taken part in your victories and youK 
glory. Ah ! I am not so fold, but my heart has trembled for your 
dangers ; — not so aged, but I remember the young man who learned 
from the pupil of Frederic the first rudiments of war. Your great heart, 
your love of truth, your courage were your own. None had to teach 
you those qualities, of which a good God had endowed you. My good, 
father is dead since many years. He, too, was permitted to see France 
before to die. 

" I have read in the English journals not only that you are married, 
but that you have a son. Permit me to send to your wife, to your 
child, these accompanying tokens of an old friendship. I have seen 
that Mistress Newcome was widow, and am not sorry of it. My friend, 
I hope there was not that difference of age between your wife and you 
that I have known in other unions. I pray the good God to bless 
yours. I hold you always in my memory. As I write the past comes 
back to me. I see a noble young man, who has a soft voice, and brown 
eyes. I see the Thames, and the smiling plains of Blackheath. I 
listen and pray at my chamber-door as my father talks to you in our 
little cabinet of studies. I look from my window, and see you depart. 

" My sons are men : one follows the profession of arms, one has 
embraced the ecclesiastical state ; my daughter is herself a mother. 
I remember this was your birthday ; I have made myself a little fete in 
celebrating it, after how many years of absence, of silonce ! 

" COMTESSE DE FlORAC. 

" (iV^e L. de Blmy 



iir. 

" My dear Thomas, — Mr Sneid, supercargo of the * Eamchunder,' 
East Indiaman, handed over to us yesterday your letter, and, to-day, I 
have purchased three thousand three hundred and twenty-three pounds 
6 and 8d. three per cent. Consols, in our joint names (H. and B. New- 
come), held for your little boy. Mr. S. gives a very favourable account 
of the little man, and left him in. perfect health two days since, at the 
house of his aunt. Miss Honeyman. We have placed £200 to that 
lady*s credit, at your desire. 

"Lady Anne is charmed with the present which she received 
yesterday, and says the white shawl is a great deal too handsome. My 
mother \& also greatly pleased with hers, and has forwarded, by the 



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28 THE ]li£WC03fES. 

eoacb to Brighton* to-daj, a packet of books, tracts, &c^ suited for his 
tender age, for joor little boj. She heard of joa lately from the Bey. 
T. Sweatenham, on his retam from India. He spoke of jour kindness, 
and of the hospitable manner in which yon had received him at your 
house, and alluded to you in a rery handsome way in the course of 
the thanksgiving that evening. I dare say my mother will ask your 
little boy to the Hermitage; and when we have a house of our 
own, I am sure Anne and I will be very happy to see him. Yours 
Affectionately, 

"B. Newcome. 
"Kajob Newcwmb." 

IV. 

" My deab Colonel, — ^Did I not know the generosity of your 
heart, and the bountiful means which Heaven has put at your disposal 
in order to gratify that noble disposition ; were I not certain that the 
small sum I required will permanently place me beyond the reach of 
the difficulties of life, and will infiEdlibly be. repaid before six months 
are over, believe me I never would have ventured upon that bold step 
which our friendship (carried on epistolarily as it has been), our 
relationship, and your admirable disposition, have induced me to 
venture to take. 

** That elegant and commodious chapel, known as Lady Whittlesea's, 
Denmark Street, May Fair, being for sale, I have determined on 
venturing my all in its acquisition, and in laying, as I hope, the 
foundation of a competence for myself and excellent sbter. What is 
a lodging-house at Brighton but an uncertain maintenance? The 
mariner on the sea before those ciiSs is no more sure of wind and 
wave, or of fish to his laborious net, than the Brighton houseowner 
(bred in affluence, she may have been, and used to unremitting plenty) 
to the support of the casual travellers who visit the city. On one day 
they come in shoals, it is true, but where are they on the next ? For 
many months my poor sister's first floor was a desert, until occupied 
by your noble little boy, my nephew and pupil. Olive is everything 
that a father's, an uncle's (who loves him as a father), a pastor's, a 
teacher's, affections could desire. He is not one of those premature 
geniuses whose much vaunted infantine talents disappear along with 
adolescence ; he is not, I frankly own, more advanced in his classical 
and mathematical studies than some children even younger than himself, 
but he has acquired the rudiments of health ; he has laid in a store of 
honesty and good-humour, which are not less likely to advance him in 
life than mere science and language, than the as in prmsentiy or 
the pons asinorum, 

"But I forget, in thinking of my dear little friend and pupil, that the 
subject of this letter — namely, the acquisition of the proprietary chapel 
to which I have alluded, and the hopes, nay, certainty of a fortune, if 
aught below is certain, which that acquisition hold out. "What is a 



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THE NEWCOMES. 29 

curacy, but a synonym for starvation ? If we accuse the Eremites of 
old of wasting their lives in unprofitable wildernesses, what shall we say 
to many a hermit of protestant, and so-called civilised times, who hides 
his head in a solitude in Yorkshire, and buries his probably fine talents 
in a Lincolnshire fen ? Have I genius ? Am I blessed with gifts of 
eloquence to thrill and soothe, to arouse the sluggish, to terrify the 
sinful, to cheer and convince the timid, to lead the blind groping in 
darkness, and to trample the audacious sceptic in the dust ? My own 
conscience, besides a hundred testimonials from places of popular, most 
popular worship, from revered prelates, from distinguished clergy, tell 
me I have these gifts. A voice within me cries * Go forth, Charles 
Honeyman, fight the good fight; wipe the tears of the repentant sinner; 
sing of hope to the agonised criminal ; whisper courage, brother, 
courage, at the ghastly death-bed, and strike down the infidel with the 
lance of evidence and the shield of reason ! * In a pecuniary point of 
view I am confident, nay, the calculations may be established as irre- 
sistibly as an algebraic equation, that I can realise, as incumbent of 
Lady Whittlesea's chapel, the sum of not less than one thousand 
pounds per annum. Such a sum, with economy (and without it what 
sum were sufficient ?) will enable me to provide amply for my wants, to 
discharge my obligations to you, to my sister, and iome other creditors, 
very, very unlike you, and to place Miss Honeyman in a home more 
worthy of her than that which she now occupies, only to vacate it at 
the beck of every passing stranger ! 

" My sister does not disapprove of my plan, into which enter some 
modifications which I have not, as yet, submitted to her, being anxious 
at first that they should be sanctioned by you. From the income of 
the Whittlesea chapel I propose to allow Miss Honeyman the sum 
of two hundred pounds per annum, paid quarterly. This, with her 
private property, which she has kept more thriftily than her unfortu- 
nate and confiding brother guarded his (for whenever I had a guinea a 
tale of distress would melt it into half a sovereign), will enable Miss 
Honeyman to live in a way becoming my father's daughter. 

" Comforted with this provision as my sister will be, I would suggest 
that our dearest young Clive should be transferred from her petticoat 
government, and given up to the care of his afiectionate uncle and 
tntor. His present allowance will most liberally suffice for his expenses, 
board, lodging, and education while under my roof, and I shall be 
able to exert a paternal, a pastoral influence over his studies, his 
conduct, and his highest welfare, which I cannot so conveniently 
exercise at Brighton, where I am but Miss Honeyman's stipendiary, 
and where I often have to submit in cases where I know, for dearest 
Olive's own welfare, it is I, and not my sister, should be paramount. 

** I have given then to a friend, the Rev. Marcus Flather, a draft 
for two hundred and fifty pounds sterling, drawn upon you at your 
agent's in Calcutta,.which sum will go in liquidation of dear Clive's 
first year's board with me, or, upon my word of honour as a gentleman ■■ 



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30 



THE NEWCOMES. 



and clergyman, shall be paid back at three months after sight, if you^ 
will draw upon me. As I never, no, were it my last penny in the 
world, — would dishonour your draft, — I implore you, my dear Colonel, 
not to refuse mine. My credit in this city where credit is everything^ 
and the awful future so little thought of, my engagements to Mr. Flather, 
my own prospects in life, and the comfort of my dear sister's declining 
years, all — all depend upon this bold, this eventful measure. My riiin 
or my earthly happiness lie entirely in your hands. Can I doubt 

which way your kind heart 
will lead you, and that you 
will come to the aid of your 
affectionate brother-in-law, 
** Charles Honeyman. 

"Our little Clive has been 
to London on a visit to his 
uncle's and to the Hermitage, 
Clapham, to pay his duty to 
his step -grand mother, the 
wealthy Mrs. Newcorae. I 
pass over words disparaging of 
myself which the child in his 
artless prattle subsequently 
narrated. She was very gra- 
cious to him, and presented 
him with a five pound note, a 
copy of Kirk White's Poems, 
and a work called Little Henry 
and his Bearer, relating to 
India, and the excellent Cate- 
chism of our Chufch. Clive 
is full of humour, and I enclose 
you a rude scrap representing 
the bishopess of Clapham, as 

she is called, — the other figure is a rude though entertaining sketch 

of some other droll personage.", 

** Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, &c." 




V. 

'• Ml DEAR CoLOKEL, — The Rev. Marcus Flather has just written me 
a letter at which I am greatly shocked and perplexed, informing me 
that my brother Charles has given him a draft upon you for two 
hundred and fifty pounds, when goodness knows it is not you but we 
who are many, many hundred pounds debtors to you. Charles has 
explained that he drew the bill at your desire, that you wrote to say 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 31 

you would be glad to serve him in any way, and that the money is 
■wanted to make his fortune. Yet I don't know, poor Charles is always 
going to make his fortune and has never done it. That school which 
he bought, and for which you and me between us paid the purchase- 
money, turned out no good, and the only pupils left at the end of 
the first half-year were two woolly-headed poor little mulattos, whose 
father was in gaol at St Kitts, and whom I kept actually in my own 
second ,floor back-room whilst the lawyers were settling things, and 
Charles was away in France, and until my dearest little Clive came 
to live with me. 

" Then as he was too small for a great school, I thought Clive <50uld 
not do better than stay with his old aunt and have his uncle Charles 
for a tutor, who is one of the finest scholars in the world. I wish you 
could hear him in the pulpit. His delivery is grander and more 
impressive than any divine now in England. His sermons you have 
subscribed for, and likewise his book of elegant poems, which are 
pronounced to be very fine, 

" When he returned from Calais, and those horrid lawyers had left 
off worritting him, I thought as his frame was much shattered and he 
was too weak to take a curacy, that he could not do better than become 
Clive 's tutor, and agreed to pay him out of your handsome donation 
of 25 OZ. for Clive, a sum of one hundred pounds per year, so that 
when the board of the two and Clive's clothing are taken into consider- 
ation, I think you will see that no great profit is left to Miss 
Martha Honeyman. 

'* Charles talks to me of his new, church in. London, and of making 
me some grand allowance. The poor boy is very affectionate, and always 
building castles in the air, and of having Clive to live with him in 
London, now this muan't he and I won't hear of it. Charles is too kind 
to be a schoolmaster, and Master Clive laughs at him. It was only the 
other day, after his return from his grandmamma's, regarding which I 
wrote you, per Burrampooter, the 23rd ult., that I found a picture of 
Mrs. Newcome and Charles too, and of both their spectacles, quite like. 
I put it away, but some rogue, I suppose, has stolen it. He has done 
me and Hannah too. Mr. Speck, the artist, laughed and took it home, 
and says he is a wonder at drawing. 

" Instead then of allowing CUve to go with Charles to London next 
month where my brother is bent on going, I shall send Clivey to 
Dr. Timpany's school, Marine-parade, of which I hear the best 
account, but I hope you will think of soon sending him to a great 
Bchool. My father always said it was the best place for boys, and 
I h^ve a brother to whom my poor mother spared the rod, and who, I 
fear, has turned out but a spoilt child. 

" I am, dear Colonel, your most faithful servant, 

" Mabtha Honeyman." 

" LniUTBHANT-COLONlCL NeWCOME, C.B." 



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32 THE NEWCOMES. 

VI. .. 

"My dear BROTnER, — I hasten to inform you of a calamity 
which, though it might be looked for in the course of nature, has 
occasioned deep grief not only in our family but in this city. This 
morning, at half-past four o'clock, our beloved and respected mother, 
Sophia Alethea Newcome expired, at the advanced age of eighty-three 
years. On the night of Tuesday-Wednesday, the 12- 13th, having 
been engaged reading and writing in her library until a late hour, and 
having dismissed the servants, who she never would allow to sit up 
for her, as well as my brother and his wife, who always are in the habit 
of retiring early, Mrs. Newcome extinguished the lamps, took a bed- 
chamber candle to return to her room, and must have fallen on the 
landing, where she was discovered by the maids, sitting with her 
head reclining against the balustrades, and endeavouring to staunch 
a wound in her forehead, which was bleeding profusely, having struck 
in a fall against the stone step of the stair. 

" When Mrs. Newcome was found she was speechless, but still 
sensible, and medical aid being sent for, she was carried to bed. 
Mr. Newcome and Lady Anne both hurried to her apartment, and 
she knew them, and took the hands of each, but paralysis had 
probably ensued in consequence of the shock of the fall ; nor was her 
voice ever heard, except in inarticulate meanings, since the hour on 
the previous evening, when she gave them her blessing, and bade 
them good night. Thus perished this good and excellent woman, 
the truest Christian, the most charitable friend to the poor and needful, 
the head, of this great house of business, the best and most afTectionate 
of mothers. 

" The contents of her will have long been known to us, and that 
document was dated one month after our lamented father's death. 
Mr. Thomas Newcome's property being divided equally amongst his 
three sons, the property of his second wife naturally devolves upon 
her own issue, my brother Brian and myself. There are very heavy 
legacies to servants and to charitable and religious institutions, of 
which, in life, she was the munificent patroness ; and I regret, my 
dear brother, that no memorial to you should have been left by my 
mother, because she often spoke of you latterly in terms of affection, 
and on the very day on which she died, commenced a letter to your 
little boy, which was left unfinished on the library-table.. My brother 
said that on that same day, at breaktSeist, she pointed to a volume of 
Orme's Hindostan, the book, she said, which set poor dear Tom wild to 
go to India. I know you will be pleased to hear of these proofs of 
returning good-will and aflfection in one who often spoke latterly of her 
early regard for you. I have no more time, under the weight 
of business which this present affliction entails, than to say that I am 
yours, dear brother, very smcerely, „ ^ Newcome." 

"Lieutenant- Colonel Newcome, Ac" 



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CHAPTER IV. 




IN WHICH THE AUTHOR AND THE HERO RESUME THEIR ACQUAINTANCE. 

F we are to narrate the youthful history 
not only of the hero of this tale, but of 
the hero's father, we shall never have 
done with nursery biography. A gentle- 
man's grandmother may delight in fond 
recapitulation of her darling's boyish 
frolics and early genius ; but shall we 
weary our kind readers by this infantile 
prattle, and set down the revered 
British public for an old woman ? Only 
to two or three persons in all the world 
are the reminiscences of a man's early 
3'outh interesting — to the parent who 
nursed him, to the fond wife or child 
mayhap afterwards who loves him, — to himself always and supremely 
whatever may be his actual prosperity or ill fortune, his present age, 
illness, difficulties, renown, or disappointments, the dawn of his life still 
shines brightly for him ; the early griefs and delights and attachments 
remain with him ever faithful and dear. I shall ask leave to say, 
regarding the juvenile biography of Mr. Olive Newcome, of whose* 
history I am the Chronicler, only so much as is sufl&cient to account 
for some peculiarities of his character, and for his subsequent career- 
in the world. 

Although we were schoolfellows, my acquaintance with young Newcome 
at the seat of learning where we first met was very brief and casuaL. 
He had the advantage of being six years the junior of his present, 
biographer, and such a difference of age between lads at a public 
school puts intimacy out of the question — a junior ensign being no 
more familiar with the commander-in-chief at the Horse-Guards ; or a 
barrister on his first circuit with my Lord Ohief Justice on the bench, 
than the newly-breeched infant in the Potties with a senior boy in a 
tailed coat. As we " knew each other at home," as our school phrase 
was, and our families being somewhat acquainted, Newcome's maternal 
uncle, the Rev. Oharles Honeyman (the highly-gifted preacher, and 
incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's Ohapel, Denmark street, May Fair , 



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84 



THE NEWCOMES. 



when he brought the child after the Christmas vacation of 182-^ to 
the Grey Friars' school, recommended him in a neat complimentary 
speech to my superintendence and protection. My uncle, Major 
Pendennis, had for a while a seat in the chapel of this sweet and 
popular preacher, and professed, as a great number of persons of fashion 
did, a great admiration for him — an admiration which I shared in my 
early youth, but which has been modified by maturer judgment. 

Mr. Honeyman told me, with an air of deep respect, that his young 
nephew's father, Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., was a most gallant 
and distinguished officer in the Bengal establishment of the Honourable 
East India Company; and that his uncles, the Colonels half-brothers, 
were the eminent bankers, heads of the firm of Hobson Brothers & 
Newcome, Hobson Newcome, Esquire, Bryanston Sq^uare, and Marble 
Head, Sussex, and Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome, and Park Lane, 
** ^om to name," says Mr. Honeyman, with the fluent eloquence with 
which he decorated the commonest circumstances of life, *'is to designate 
two of the merchant princes of the wealthiest city the world has ever 
known ; and one, if not two, of the leaders of that aristocracy which 
rallies round the throne of the most elegant and refined of European 

sovereigns.*' I promised Mr. 
Honeyman to do what I 
could for the boy ; and he 
proceeded to take leave of his 
Bttle nephew in my presence 
in terms eq«wily eloquent, 
pulling out a long and very 
slender green purse from 
which he extracted the sum 
of two and sixpence, which 
he presented to the diild, 
who received the money with 
rather a queer twinkle in his 
blue eyes. 

After that day's school, 1 
met my little protege in the 
neighbourhood of the pasti-y- 
cook s, regaling himself with 
raspberry tarts. "You most 
not spend all that money, sir, 
which your uncle gave you," 
said I (having perhaps eveft 
at that early age a slightly 
satirical turn), ** in taits and 
gingerbeer." 

The urchin rubbed the raspberry jam off his mouth, and said, " It 
don't matter, sir, for I've got lots more." 

"How much?" sa^s the Grand Inquisitor: for the formula of 




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THE NBWCOMBS. 



35 



interrogatiwi used to be, when a new boy came to the school, ** What's 
yocir name? Who's your father? and how much money have you 
got?" 

The little fellow polled such a handful of sovereigns out of his 
pocket as might have made the tallest scholar feel a pang of envy. 
"Uncle Hobson," says he, ** gave me two; Aunt Hobson gave me one 
— no, Aunt Hobson gave me thirty shillings ; Uncle Newcome gave me 
three pound; and Aunt Anne gave me one pound five; and Aunt 
Honey man sent me ten shillings in a letter. And Ethel wanted to 
give me a pound, only I wouldn't have it, you know ; because Ethels 
younger than me, and I have plenty." 

"And who is Ethel?" asks the senior boy, smiling at the artless 
youth's confessions. 

"Ethel is my cousin," replies little Newcome; "Aunt Anne*s 
daughter. There's Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Anne wanted the 
baby to be called Boadicea, only uncle wouldn't ; and there's Barnes 
and Egbert and little Alfred ; only he don't count, he's quite a baby 
you know. Egbert and me was at school at Timpany's ; he's going to 
Eton next half. He's older than me, but I can lick him.'* 

** And how old is Egbert ? " asks the smiling senior. 

" Egbert's ten, and I'm nine, and Ethel's seven," replies the little 
chubby-faced hero, digging his hands deep into his trowser's pockets, 
and jingling all the sovereigns there. I advised him to let me be his 
banker ; and, keeping one out of his many gold pieces, he handed over 
the others, on which he drew with great liberality till his whole stock 
was expended. The school-hours of the upper and under boys were 
different at that time ; the little fellows coming out of their hall half 






M W 




an hour before the Fifth and Sixth Forms ; and many a time I used 
to find my little bluejacket in waiting, with bis honest square face, and 

D 2 



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86 ' THE KEWOOMES. 

y^bite hair, and bright blue eyes, and I knew that he was come to draw 
on his bank. Ere long one of the pretty blue eyes was shut up, and a 
fine black one substituted in its place. He had been engaged, it 
appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with a giant of his own Form, whom 
he had worsted in the combat. " Didu*t I pitch into him, that's all ? " 
says he in the elation of victory; and when I asked whence the 
quarrel arose, he stoutly informed me that " Wolf Minor, his opponent, 
had been bullying a little boy, and that he (the gigantic Newcome) 
wouldn't stand it." 

So, being Qalled away from the school, I said farewell and God bless 
you to the brave little man, who remained awhile at the Grey Friars, 
where his career and troubles had only just begun. Nor did we meet 
again until I was myself a young man occupying chambers in the 
Temple, where our rencontre took place in the manner already 
described. 

Poor Costigan's outrageous behaviour had caused my meeting with 
my schoolfellow of early days to terminate so abruptly and unpleasantly, 
that I scarce expected to see Clive again, or at any rate to renew my 
acquaintance with the indignant East Indian warrior who had quitted 
our company in such a huff. Breakfast however was scarcely over 
in my chambers the next morning, wlien there came a knock at 
the outer door, and my clerk introduced, " Colonel Newcome and 
Mr. Newcome." 

Perhaps the (joint) occupant of the chambers in Lamb Court, 
Temple, felt a little pang of shame at hearing the name of the 
visitors; for, if the truth must be told, I was engaged pretty much as 
I had been occupied on the night previous, and was smoking a cigar 
over the ** Times " newspaper. How many young men in the temple 
smoke a cigar after breakfast as they read the ** Times? " My friend 
and companion of those days, and all days, Mr. George Warrington, 
was employed with his short pipe, and was not in the least disconcerted 
at the appearance of the visitors, as he would not have been had the 
Archbishop of Canterbury stepped in. 

Little Clive looked curiously about our queer premises, while the 
Colonel shook me cordially by the hand. No traces of yesterday's wrath 
were visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted hb honest bronzed 
countenance, as he too looked round the old room with its dingy curtains 
and prints and book-cases, its litter of proof-sheets, blotted manuscripts, 
and books for review, empty sodawater bottles, cigar boxes, and 
what not. 

"•I went off in a flame of fire last night," says the Colonel, "and 
being cooled this morning, thought it but my duty to call on 
Mr. Pendennis and apologise for my abrupt behaviour. The conduct 
of that tipsy old Captain. — What is his name ? — was so abominable, 
that I could not bear that Clive should be any longer in the same room 
with him, and I went off without saying a word of thanks or good night 
to my son's old friend. I owe you a shake of the hand for last night, 



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THE NBWCOMBS. S7 

Mr. Pendennis.*' And, so saying, be was kind enough to give me his 
hand a second time. 

" And this is the abode of the Muses, js it, sir ? " our guest went on. 
" I know your writings very well. Clive here used to send me the 
* Pall Mall Gazette * " every month. 

"We took it at Smiffle, regular," says Clive. "Always patronise 
Grey Friars men." ** Smiffle," it must be explained, is a fond abbrevia- 
tion for Smithfield, near to which great mart of mutton and oxen, our 
school is situated, and old Cistercians, often playfully designate their 
place of education by the name of the neighbouring market. : 

" Clive sent me the * Gazette ' every month ; and I read your 
romance of Walter Lorraine in my boat as I was coming down the river 
to Calcutta." 

" Have Pen's immortal productions made their appearance on board 
Bengalee Budgerows ; and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks 
of Jumna ? " asks Warrington, that sceptic, who respects no work of 
modem genius. 

" I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta," says the Colonel, 
simply. " I daresay you have heard of her. She is one of the most 
dashing women in all India. She was delighted with your work ; and 
I can tell you it is not with every man's writing that Mrs. Timmins is 
pleased," he added, with a knowing air. 

** It's capital ! " broke in Clive. " I say, that part you know where 
Walter runs away with Nesera, and the Genewd can't pursue them, 
tbougb he has got the postchaise at the door, because Tim O 'Toole has 
hidden his wooden-leg ! By Jove, it's capital ! — All the funny part. — I 
don't like the sentimental stuff, and suicide and that : and as for poetry, 
I hate poetry." 

" Pen's is not first chop," says Warrington. " I am obliged to take 
the young man down from time to time. Colonel Newcome. Otherwise 
he would grow so conceited there would be no bearing him." 

" I say ? " says Clive. 

" What were you about to remark? " asks Mr. Warrington, with an 
air of great interest. 

" I say, Pendennis," continued the artless youth, " I thought you 
were a great swell. When we used to read about the grand parties in 
the * Pall Mall Gazette,' the fellows used to say you were at every 
one of them, and you see, I thought you must have chambers in the 
Albany and lots of horses to ride, and a valet and a groom, an(i a ca9 
at the very least." 

" Sir," says .the Colonel, " I hope it is not your practice to measure 
and estimate gentlemen by such paltry standards as those. A man of 
letters follows the noblest calling which any man can pursue. I would 
rather be the author of a work of genius, than be Governor- General of 
India. I admire genius. I salute it wherever I meet it. I like my 
own profession better than any in the world, but then it is because I am 
suited to it. I couldn't write four lines in verse, no, not to save me 



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38 THE mSWCOMBS. 

from being shot. A mail can]su>t l^ve all ite advantages of life. Who 
would not be poor if be could be sure of possessing genius, and winning 
fame and immortalitj, sir ? Think of Dr. Johnson, what a genius he 
had, and where did he liye ? In apartments that I dare saj were no 
better than these, which I am sure, gentlemen, are most cheerful and 
pleasant," sajs the Colonel, thinking he had offended us. '' One of 
the great pleasures and delights which I had proposed to myself oa 
coming home was to be allowed to have the honour of meeting with men 
of learning and geeius, with wits, poets, and historians, if I may be so 
fortunate; and of benefitting by their coarerBation. I left England 
too young to have that privilege. In my father's honse money was 
thought of I fear rather than intellect: neither he nor I had the 
opportunities which I wish you to have ; and I am surprised you should 
think of reflecting upon Mr. Pendennis's poverty, oar of feeling any 
sentiment but respect and admiration when you enter the apartments of 
the poet and the literary man. I have never been in the rooms of a 
literary man before," the Colonel said, turning away from his son to ua, 
** ex6use me, is that — that paper really a proof-sheet ? " We handed 
over to him that curiosity, siniling at the enthusiasm of the honest 
gentleman who could admire what to us was as unpalatable as a tart to a 
pastrycook. 

Being with men of letters he thought proper to make his conversation 
entirely literary, and in the course of my subsequent more intimate 
acquaintance with him, though I knew he had distinguished himself in 
twenty actions, he never could be brought to talk of his military feats or 
experience, but passed them by, as if they were subjectei utterly unworthy 
of notice. 

I found he believed Dr. Johnson to be the greatest of men : the 
doctor'is words were constantly in his mouth ; and he never travelled 
without Boswell's Life. Besides these, he read Cassar and Tacitus " with 
translations, sir, with translations — I'm thankful that I kept some of my 
Latin from Grey Friars" — and he quoted sentences from the Latin 
Gratnmar, apropos of a hundred events of common life, and with 
perfect simplicity and satisfaction to himself. Besides the above- 
named books the "Spectator," "Don Quixote," and "Sir Charles 
Grandison," formed a part of his travelling library. " I read these, 
sir," he used to say, "because I like to be in the company of gentle- 
men ; and Sir Roger de Coverley, and Sir Charles Grandison, and 
^on Quixote are the finest gentlemen in the world." And when we 
asked him his opinion of Fielding, — 

" * Tom Jones,* sir; 'Joseph Androws!' sir," he cried, twirling 
his moostachios. "I read them when I was a boy, when I kept 
other bad company, and did other low and disgraceful things, of 
' which I'm ashamed now. Sir, in my father's library I happened to 
fall in with those books; and I read them in secret, just as I 
used to go in private and drink beer, and fight cocks, and 
smoke pipes wdth Jack and Tom, the grooms in the stables. 



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THB UBWCfOMBS. 



39 



Mrs. Newoome found me, I recollect, wiUi one of those books ; and 
thinking it Htight be by Mrs. Haniiab More, or some of that .sort, 
for it was a grave-looking volume ; and though I wouldn't li«K 
about that or anything else — never did, sir; never, before heaven, 
have I told more than three lies in my life — ^I kept my own 
couDcil; — I gay, she took it herself to read one evening; and read 
on gravely — for she had no more idea of a joke than I have of 
Hebrew — until she came to the part about Lady B — and 
Joseph Andrews; and thou she shut the book, sir; and you should 
have seen the look she gave me ! I own I burst out a laughing, 
for I was a wild young rebel, sir. But she was in the right, sir, 
and I was in the wrong. A book, sir, that tells the story of a 
parcel olT servants, of a pack of footmen and ladies' maids fuddling 
in ale-houses ! Do you suppose I want to know what my kitmutr 
gars and cousomahs are doing ? I am as little proud as any man 




in the world : but there must be distinction, sir ; and as it is my lot 
and dive's lot to be a gentleman, I won't sit in the kitchen and 
boose in the servants' hall. As for that Tom Jones — that fellow 
that sells himself, sir — by l^eavens, my blood boils when I think of 
him 1 I wouldn't sit down in the same room with such a fellow, 
sir. If he came in at that door, I would say, * How dare you, you 
hireling ruffian, to sully with your presence an apartment where 
my young friend and I are conversing together? where two gentle- 
men, I say, are taking their wine after dinner ? How dare you, 
you degraded villain ! I don't mean you, sir. I — I — I beg 
your pardon." 

The Colonel was striding about the room in his white garments, 
puffing his cigar fiercely anon, and then waving his yellow ban- 
danna; and it was by the arrival of Larkins, my clerk, that his 



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40 THE NEWCOMES. 

apostrophe to Tom Jones ^as interrupted ; be, Larkins, taking care 
not to show bis amazement, baving been schooled not to show or 
feel surprise at anything he might see or hear in our chambers. 

** What is it, Larkins ? " said I. Larkins' other master had taken 
his leave some time before, having business which called him away, 
and leaving me with the honest Colonel, quite happy with his talk 
and cigar. 

" It*s Bretts' man," says Larkins. 

T confounded Bretts' man and told the boy to bid him call again. 
Young Larkins came grinning back in a moment, and said, — 

** Please, sir, he says, his orders is not to go away witlwut the 
money." 

" Confound him, again," I cried. "Tell him I have no money in 
the house. He must come to-morrow." 

^s I spoke, Clive was looking in wonder, and the Colonel's 
countenance assumed an appearance of the most dolorous sympathy. 
Nevertheless, as with a great effort, he fell to talking about Tom 
Jones again, and continued : 

** No, sir, I have no words to express my indignation against such 
a fellow as Tom Jones. But I forgot that I need not speak. The 
great and good Dr. Johnson has settled that question. You 
remember what he said to Mr. Boswell about Fielding?" 

" And yet Gibbon praises him, colonel," said the Colonel's 
interlocutor, " and that is no small praise. Ele says that Mr. Fielding 
was of the family that drew its origin from the Counts of 
Hapsburg ; but " 

" Gibbon ! Gibbon was an infidel ; and I would not give the end 
of this cigar for such a man's opinion. If Mr. Fielding was a gentle- 
man by birth, he ought to have known better; and so much the 
worse for him that he did not. But what am I talking of, wasting 
your valuable time? No more smoke, thank you. I must away into 
the city, but would not pass the Temple without calling on you, and 
thanking my boy's old protector. You will have the kindness to 
come and dine with us — to-morrow, the next day, your own day? 
Your friend is going out of town ? I hope, on his return, to have the 
pleasure of making his farther acquaintance. Come, Clive." 

Clive, who had been deep in a volume of Hogarth's engravings 
during the above discussion, or rather, oration of his father's, started 
up and took leave, beseeching me, at the same time, to come soon 
and see his poney ; and so, with renewed greetings, we parted. 

I was scarcely returned to my newspaper again, when the knocker 
of our door was again agitated, and the Colonel ran back, looking 
very much agitated and confused. 

" I beg pardon," says he ; "I think I left my — my — " Larkins 
had quitted the room by this time, and then he began more unre- 
servedly. ** My dear young friend," says^ he, " a thousand pardons 
for what I am going to say, but as Clive's friend, I know I may take 



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THE NEWCOMES. 41 

that liberty. I have left the boy in the court. I know the fate of men 
of letters and genius : when we were here just now, there came a 
single knock — a demand — that, that you did not seem to be momen- 
taiilj able to meet. Now do, do pardon the liberty, and let me be 
your banker. You said you were engaged in a new work : it will be 
a masterpiece, I am sure, if it's like the last. Put me down for 
twenty copies, and allow me to settle with you in advance. I may 
be off, you know. I'm a bird of passage — a restless old soldier." 

"My dear Colonel," said I, quite touched and pleased by this 
extreme kindness, "my dun was but the washerwoman's boy, and 
Mrs. Brett is in my debt, if T am not mistaken. Besides, I already 
have a banker in your family." 

" In my family, my dear sir?" 

"Messrs. Newcome, in Threadneedle Street, are good enough to 
keep my money for me when I have sxif, and I am happy to say 
they have some of mine in hand now. I am almost sorry that I am 
not in want in order that I might have the pleasure of receiving a 
kindness from you." And we shook hands for the fourth time that 
morning, and the kind gentleman left me to rejoin his son. 



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CHAPTEK V. 



CLIVE S tJKCLES. 



The dinner so hospitably oflfered by the Colonel was gladly accepted, 
and followed by many more entertainments at the cost of that good- 
natured friend. He and an Indian chom of his lived at this time at 
Nerot's Hotel, in Clifford Street, where Mr. Clive, too, fonnd the good 
cheer a great deal more to his taste than the homely, though plentiful, 
fere at Grey Friars, at which of oourae, when boys, we all turned up our 
nosesr though many a poor fellow, in the struggles of after-life, has 
looked back with regret very likely to that weU-'spread youthful table. 
Thus my intimacy with the father and the son grew to be considerable, 
and a great deal more to my liking than my relations with Clive's City 
uncles which have been mentioned in the last chapter, and which were, 
in truth, exceedingly distant and awful. 

If all the private accounts, kept by those worthy bankers, were like 
mine, where would have been Newcome Hall and Park Lane, Marble- 
head and Bryanston Square ? I used, by strong efforts of self-denial, 
to maintain a balance of two or three guineas untouched at the bank, so 
that my account might still remain open ; and fancied the clerks and 
cashiers grinned when I went to draw for money. Rather than face 
that awful counter, I would send Larkins, the clerk, or Mrs. Flanagan, 
the laundress. As for entering the private parlour at the back, wherein 
behind the glazed partition I could see the bald heads of Newcome 
Brothers engaged with other capitalists or peering over the newspaper, I 
would as soon have thought of walking into the Doctor's own library at 
Grey Friars, or of volunteering to take an arm-chair in a dentist's 
studio, and have a tooth out, as of entering into that awful precinct. 
My good uncle, on the other hand, the late Major Pendennis, who kept 
naturally but a very small account with Hobsons', would walk into the 
parlour and salute the two magnates who governed there with the ease 
and gravity of a Rothschild. " My good fellow," the kind old gentleman 
would say to his nephew and pupil: ''Ilfaut sefaire valoir. I tell you, 
sir, your bankers like to keep every gentleman's account. And it's a 
mistake to suppose they are only civil to their great moneyed clients. 
Look at me. I go into them, and talk to them whenever I am in the 
City. I hear the news of 'Change, and carry it to our end of the town. 
It looks well, sir, to be well with your banker ; and at our end of London, 
perhaps, I can do a good turn for the Newcomes." 



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TKZ HIBWGOHBS. iS 

It is certain ihftt in hi&- own kingdom of May Fair and St James^fli 
xny revered nnole was at least tke banker's equal. On my coming t# 
Xjondon, he was kind enough to procure me inritations to some of 
Lady Anne Newoome's -evening parties in Park Lane, as like%vise te 
Mrs. Newcomers entertainments m Brjanston Square ; though, I 
eonfifiss, of these ktter, after a while, I was a lax and negiigmit 
attendant ''Between ourselyes, mj good felk>w,'* the shrewd old 
.Mentor of those chujrs woidd say, ^'Mrs. Newoome's parties are not 
jaltogather select ; 2ior is she a lady of the yery highest breeding ; bat 
it gives a man a good air to be seen At his banker's kmse. I 
recommend you to go for a few minutes whenever you are asked." And 
go I aecordin^y did sometimes, though I alinays fancied, rightly er 
wrongly, from Mrs. Newcomers manner to me, that she knew I had bat 
thirty shillings left at the bank. Once and again, in two or three yean, 
Mr. Hobson Newcome would meet me, and ask me to £11 a vacant place 
that day or the next evening at his table ; \dbich invitation I might 
accept or otherwise. But one does not eat a man's salt, as it weee, at 
these dinners. There is nothing sacred in this kind of London hospitality. 
Your white waistcoat fills a gap in a man's table, and retires £lled for its 
service of the evening. ** Gad," the dear old Major used to say, "if we 
were not to talk freely of those we dine with, how mum London wouU 
be I Some of the pleasant evenings I have ever spent have been when 
we have sate after a great dinner, en petit comiti, and abused the people 
who are gone. You have your turn, mon cher ; but why not ? Bo you 
suppose I &ncy my friends haven't found out my little faults and 
peculiarities ? And as I can't help it, I let myself be executed and 
offer up my oddities de honne grace, Entre nous. Brother Hobs<m 
. Newcome is a good fellow, but a vulgar fellow ; and his wife — his wife 
exactly suits him." 

Once a year Lady Anne Newcome (about whom my Mentor was much 
more circumspect ; for I somehow used to remark that as the rank of 
persons grew higher, Major Pendennis spoke of them with more caution 
and respect)— onoe or twice in a year Lady Anne Newcome opened her 
saloons for a concert and a ball, at both of which the whole street was 
crowded with carriages, and all the great world, and some of the small, 
' were present. Mrs. Newcome had her ball too, and her concert of 
English music in opposation to the Italian singers of her sister-in-law. 
The music of her country, Mrs. N. said was good enough for her. 

The truth mnat be told, that there was no love lost between the two 
ladie& Bryanston Square could not forget the superiority of Park 
Lane^s rank ; and the catalogue of grandees at dear Anne's parties filled 
dear Maria's heart with envy. There are people upon whom rank and 
worldly goods make such an impression, that they naturally fall down on 
th^ knees and worship the owners ; there are o^exs to whom the sight 
Xf£ Prosperity is offensive, and who never see Dives* chariot but to 
growl and hoot at it Mrs. Newcome, as far as my humble experience 
would lead me to suppose, is not only envdous, but proud of her 



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44 THft NEWCOMES. 

envy. She mistakes it for honesty and public spirit. She will not 
bow down to kiss the hand of a haughty aristocracy. She is a 
merchant's wife and an attorney's daughter. There is no pride about 
her. Her brother-in-law, poor dear Brian — considering everybody 
knows everything in London, was there ever such a delusion as his? — 
was welcome, after banking-hours, to forsake his own fiiends for his 
wife's fine relations, and to dangle after lords and ladies in May Fair. 
She had no such absurd vanity ; not she. She imparted these opinions 
pretty liberally to all her acquaintances in almost all her qonvei-sations. 
It was clear that the two ladies were best apart. There are some folks who 
will see insolence in persons of rank, as there are others who will insist 
that all clergymen are hypocrites, all reformers villains, all placemen 
plunderers, and so forth; and Mrs. Newcome never, I am sure, 
imagined that she had a prejudice, or that she was other than an honest, 
independent, high-spirited woman. Both of the ladies had command 
over their husbands, who were of soft natures easily led by woman, as, 
in truth, are all the males of this family. Accordingly, when 
Sir Brian Newcome voted for the Tory candidate in the City, 
Mr. Hobson Newcome plumped for the Reformer. While Brian, in 
the House of Commons, sat among the mild Conservatives, Hobson 
unmasked traitors and thundered at aristocratic corruption, so as to 
make the Marylebone Vestry thrill with enthusiasm. "When Lady Anne, 
her husband, and her flock of children fasted in Lent, and declared 
for the High Church doctrines, Mrs. Hobson had paroxysms of 
alarm regarding the progress of Popery, and shuddered out of the 
chapel where she had a pew, because the clergyman there, for a very 
brief season, appeared to preach in a surplice. 

Poor bewildered Honeyman ! it was a sad day for you, when you ap- 
peared in your neat pulpit with your fragrant pocket-handkerchief (and 
your sermon likewise all millefleurs), in a trim, prim freshly mangled 
surplice, which you thought became you ! How did you look aghast, and 
pass your jewelled hand through your curls, as you saw Mrs. Newcome, 
who had been ad good as five-and-twenty pounds a-year to you, look up 
from her pew, seize hold of Mr. Newcome, fling open the pew-door, 
drive^ out with her parasol, her little flock of children, bewildered 
but not ill'pleased to get away from the sermon, and summon John 
from the back seats to bring away the bag of prayer-books! Many 
a good dinner did Charles Honeyman lose by assuming that unlucky 
ephod. Why did the high-priest of his diocese order him to put it 
on? It was delightful to view him afterwards, and the airs of 
martyrdom which he assumed. Had they been going to tear him to 
pieces with wild beasts next day, he could scarcely have looked more 
meek, or resigned himself more pathetically to the persecutors. But 
I am advancing matters. At this early time of which I write, a 
period not twenty years since, surplices were not even thought of in 
conjunction with sermons : clerical gentlemen have appeared in them, 
and under the heavy hand of persecution have •sunk down in their 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 



45 



pulpits again, as Jack pops back into his box. Charles Honey man's 
elegant discourses were at this time preached in a rich silk Master 
of Arts gown, presented to him, along with a teapot full of sovereigns, 
by his affectionate congregation at Leatherhead. 




But that I may not be accused of prejudice in describing Mrs. 
Newconie and her family, and lest the reader should suppose that 
some slight offered to the writer by this wealthy and virtuous banker's 
lady was the secret reason for this unfavourable sketch of her 
character, let me be allowed to report, as accurately as I can remember 
them, the words of a kinsman of her own, — Giles, Esquire, whom I» 
had the honour of meeting at her table, atid who, as we walked away 
from Bryan ston Square, was kind enough to discourse very freely 
about the relatives whom he had just left. 

"That was a good dinner, sir," said Mr, Giles, pufl&ng the cigar which 
I offered to him, and disposed to be very social and communicative — 
" Hobson Newcome s table is about as good a one as any I ever put 
my legs under. You didn't have twice of turtle, sir, I remarked 
that — I always do, at 4;hat house especially, for I know where Newcome 



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46 araiB i^xwcoHiSL 

gets it. We belong to the same livery in the City, Hobsea and I, 
the OystermoDgers' Oompany, sir, and vre like our turtle good, I caa 
tell you — good and a great deal of it you say,— Hay, hay, not so bad. 

*' I suppose youVe a young barrister, sueking lawyer, or that sort of 
thing. Because you was put at the end of the table and nobody 
took notice of you. That's my place too, I'm a relative : and 
Newcome asks me if he has got a place to spare. He met me in 
the City to-day, and says, ' Tom,' says he, * there's some dinner in the 
square at half-past seven; I wish you would go and fetch ' Louisa, 
whom we haven't seen this ever so long.' Louisa is my wife, sir — 
Maria's sister — Newcome married that gal from my house. * No, no,' 
says I, * Hobson ; Louisa's engaged nursing number eight' — that's our 
number, sir — the truth is between you and me, sir, my missis won't 
come any more at no price. She can't stand it ; Mrs. Newcome 's 
dam patronising airs is enough to efaoke off any body. ' Well, Hobson, 
my boy,' says I, * a good dinner's a good dinner : and I'll come though 
Louisa won't, that is, can't' " 

While Mr. Giles, who wias considentbly enlivened by claret, was 
discoursing thus candidlj, his compaaion was tlmtking how he, 
Mr. Arthur Pendemus, had been met that very afternoon on the 
steps of the Megatherium Clufo by Mr. Nenoome, and had accepted 
that dinner, which Mrs. Giles, witk more spicit, had declined. Giles 
continued talking — *^ Tin an old stager, I wbbu. I don't mind the rows 
between the women. I believe Mrs^ Nawoome and Lady Newcome's 
just as bad too ; I know Maria is always driving at her one way or 
the other, and calling her proud and aristoceatic, and that ; and yet my 
wife says Maria, who pcetends to be such a radical, never asks us to 
meet the Baronet and his lady. * And why should she, Loo, my dear ? ' 
says I. * I don't want t« meet Lady Newcome, nor Lord Kew, 
nor any of 'em.* Lord Kew^ ain't it an odd name? Tearing young 
swell, that Lord Kew : tremendous wild Mkaw* 

"I was a clerk in that house, sir, as a young man ; I was there in 
the old woman's time, and Mr. Newcome's — the father of these young 
men — as good a man as ever stood on 'Change." And then 
Mr. Giles, warming with his subject, enters at large into the history 
of the house. "You see, sir," says he, "the banking-house of 
Hobson Brothers, or Newcome Brothers, as the partners of the firm 
really are, is not one of the leading banking firms of the City of 
London, but a most respectable hoCise of many years standing, and 
doing a most respectable business, especially in the Dissenting con> 
nection." After the business came into the hands of the Newcome 
Brothers, Hobson Newcome, Esq., and Sir Brian Newcome, Bart, M.P., 
Mr. Giles shows how a considerable West-end connection was likewise 
established, chiefly through the aristocratic friends and connections 
of the above-named Bart. 

But the best man of business, according to Mr. Giles, whom 
the firm of Hobson Brothers ever knew, better than her father and 



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imcla, better ihiiii hesr husband Sir T. Newcome, batter than her 
SOBS and sttoeessors abone^mentioned, was the famous Sophia Alethea 
Hobson, afterwards Newcome — of whom might be said what Frederick 
the Great said of his sister, that she was s«xu fimnina, vir ingenio — in 
sex a woman, and in mind a man. Nor was she, my informant told 
me, without even manly personal characteristics ; she had a very deep 
and gruff voice, and in her old age a beard which many a young man 
might envy ; and as she came in to the bank out of her carriage from 
Clapham, in her dark green pelisse with fur trimmings, in her gray 
beaver hat, beaver gloves, and great gold spectacles, not a clerk in that 
house did not tremble before her,, and it was said she only wanted 
a pipe in her mouth, considerably to resemble the late Field Marshal 
Prince Blucher. 

Her funeral was one of the most imposing sights ever witnessed in 
Clapham. There was such a crowd you might have thought it was a 
Derby-day. The carriages of some of the greaU^st City firms, and the 
wealthiest Dissenting houses ; several coaches full of ministers of all 
denominations, including the Established Church; the carriage of the 
Right Honourable the Earl of Kew, and that of his daughter. Lady 
Anne Newcome, attended that revered lady's remains to their final resting- 
place. No less than nine sermons were preached at various places of 
public worship regarding her end. She fell up-stairs at a very advanced 
age, going from the library to the bed- room, after all the household was 
gone to rest, and was found "by the maids in the morning, inarticulate, 
but still alive, her head being cut frightfully with the bed-room candle 
with which she was retiring to her apartment. " And," said Mr. Giles 
with great energy, " besides the empty carriages at that funeral, and 
the parson in black, and the mutes and feathers and that, there were 
hundreds and hundreds of people who wore no black, and who weren't 
present ; and who wept for their benefactress, I can tell you. She had 
her &ults, and many of 'em ; but the amount of that woman's charities 
are unheard of, sir — ^unheard of — ^and they are put to the credit side of 
her account up yonder. ' 

" The old lady had a will of her own," my companion continued. 
" She would try and know about eveiybody's business out of business 
hours: got to know from the young clerks what chapels they 
"Went to, and from the clergyman whether they attended regular; 
kept her sons, years after they were grown men, as if they were 
boys at school, — and what was the consequence? They had a 
quarrel with Sir Thomas Newcome 's own son, a harum-scarum lad, 
who ran away, and then was sent to India ! and between our- 
selves, Mr. Hobson and Mr. Brian both, the present baronet, though 
at home they were as mum as Quakers at a meeting, used to go out 
on the sly, sir, and be off to the play, sir, and sowed their wild oats 
like any other young men, sir, like any other young men. Law bless 
me, once, as I was going away from the Haymarket, if I didn't see 
Mr. Hobson eommg out of the Opera, in tights and an Opera-hat, 



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48 



THE NEWGOMES. 



sir, like * Froggy would a "wooing go,' of a Saturday night, too, wlien his; 
ma thought him safe in bed in the City ! I warrant he hadn't his Opera- 
hat on when he went to chapel with her ladyship the next morning — 
that very morning, as sure as my name's John Giles. 




" When the old lady was gone, Mr. Hobson had no need of any more 
humbugging, but took his pleasure freely. Fighting, tandems, four-in- 
hand, anything. He and his brother — his elder brother by a quarter of 
an hour — were always very good friends ; but after Mr. Brian married, 
and there was only court cards at his table, Mr. Hobson couldn't stand 
it. They weren't of his suit, he said ; and for some time he said he 
wasn't a marrying man — quite the contrary ; but we all come to our 
fate, you know, and his time came as mine did. You know we married 
sisters ? It was thought a fine match for Polly Smith, when she 
married the great Mr. Newcome ; but I doubt whether my old woman 
at home hasn't had the best of it, after all ; and if ever you come 
Bernard Street way on a Sunday, about six o'clock, and would like a 
slice of beef and a glass of port, I hope you'll come and see." 

Do not let us be too angry with Colonel Newcome's two most 
respectable brothers, if for some years they neglected their Indian 
relative, or held him in slight esteem. Their mother never pardoned 
him, or at least by any actual words admitted his restoration to favour. 
For many years, as far as they knew, poor Tom was an unrepentant 
prodigal, wallowing in bad company, and cut off from all respectable 
sympathy. Their father had never had the courage to acquaint them 
with his more true, and kind, and charitable version of Tbm's story. 
So he passed at home for no better than a black sheep ; his marriage 
with a penniless young lady did not tend . to raise him in the 
esteem of his relatives at Clapham ; it was not until lie was a widower, 



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THB KEWCOHES. 40 

until he had been mentioned several times in the Gazette for distin- 
guished military service, until they began to speak very inrell of him in 
Leadenhall Street, where the representatives of Hobson Brothers were 
of coarse East India proprietors, and until he remitted considerable 
sams of money to England that the bankers his brethren began to be 
reconciled to him. 

I say, do not let us be hard upon them. No people are so ready to 
give a man a bad name as his own kinsfolk ; and having made him that 
present, they are ever most unwilling to take it back again. If they 
give him nothing else in the days of his difficulty, he may be sure of 
their pity, and that he is held up as an example to his young cousins to 
avoid. If he loses his money they call him poor fellow, and point 
morals out of him. If he falls among thieves, the respectable Pharisees 
of his race turn their heads aside and leave him penniless and bleeding. 
They clap him on the back kindly enough when he returns, after ship- 
wreck, with money in his pocket. How naturally Joseph's brothers 
made salaams to him, and admired him, and did him honour, when they 
found the poor outcast a prime minister, and worth ever so much 
money ! Surely human nature is not much altered since the days of 
those primeval Jews. We would not thrust brother Joseph down a 
well and sell him bodily, but — but if he has scrambled out of a well of 
his own digging, and got out of his early bondi^e into renown and 
credit, at least we applaud him and respect him, and are proud of Joseph 
as a member of the family. 

Little Olive was the innocent and lucky object upon whom the 
increasing affection of the Newcomes for their Indian brother was 
exhibited. When he was first brought home a sickly child, consigned 
to his maternal aunt, the kind old maiden lady at Brighton, Hobson 
Brothers scarce took any notice of the little man, but left him to the 
entire superintendence of his own family. Then there came a large 
remittance from his father^ and the child was asked by Uncle 
Newcome at Christmas. Then his father's name was mentioned in 
general orders, and Uncle Hobson asked little Olive at midsummer. 
Then Lord H., a late governor-general, coming home, and meeting the 
brothers at a grand dinner at the Albion, given by the Court of 
Directors to his late Excellency, spoke to the bankers about that most 
distinguished officer their relative ; and Mrs. Hobson drove over to see 
his aunt, where the boy was ; gave him a sovereign out of her purse, 
and advised strongly that ho should be sent to Timpany's along with 
her own boy. Then Olive went from one uncle's house to another ; and 
was hked at both; and much preferred poneys to ride, going out after 
rabbits with the keeper, money in his pocket (charged to the debit of 
Lieut.-CoL J. Newcome), and clothes from the Loudon tailor, to the 
homely quarters and conversation of poor kind old Aunt Honeyman at 
Brighton. Olive's uncles were not unkind, they liked each other; 
their wives who hated each other united in liking Olive when they 
knew him and petting the wayward handsome boy; they were only 
pursaing the way of the world, which huzzays all prosperity, and turns 

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50 THE ISTEWCOmS. 

aiviay froi^ misfortune, as from some coctagioiis cHsease. Indeed, faonir 
Q&n.we see a man's brilliant qualities if he is what we call in the shade? 




The gentlemen, dive's uncles, who had their affairs to mind during 
the day, society, and the family to occupy them of evenings and holidays, 
treated their young kin&man, the Indian Colonels son^ as other wealthy 
British uncles treat other young kinsmen.. They received him in his 
Tacations kindly enough. They tipped him when he went to school ; when 
he had the hooping cough, a confidential young clerk went round by way. 
of Grey Friars Squai-e to ask after him : the sea being recommended to 
him Mrs.N^wcome gave him change of air in Sussex, and transferred him 
to his maternal aunt at Brighton. Then it was honjovsr. As the lodge 
gates closed upon him, Mrs. Newcome's heart shut up too and coi^ned 
itself within the firs, laurels, and palings which bound the home precincts. 
Had not she her own children and affairs? her brood of fowls, her 
Sunday school, her melon-beds, her rose-garden, her quaiTel with the 
parson, &c. to attend to ? Mr» Newcome, arriving on a Saturday night, 
hears he is gone ; says "Oh ! " and begins to ask about the new gravel- 
walk along the eliff, and whether it is completed, and if the China pig 
fattens kindly upon the new feed. 

Clive, in the avuncular gig, is driven over the downs to Brighton^ to 
bis maternal aunt there ; and there he is a king. He has the best bed- 
room, Uncle Honey man turning out for him ; sweetbreads for dinner — 
no end of jam for breakfast ; excuses froij^ church on the plea of delicate 
health ; his aunt's maid to see him to bed — his aunt to come smiling in 
when he rings his bell of a morning. He is made much of, and coaxed, 
and dandled: and fondled, as if he were a young duke. So he is to 
Miss Honeyman. He is the son of Colonel Newcome, C.B^, who sends 
her shawls, ivory chessmen, scented sandal-wood work-boxes and kincob 
Qcarfs ; who, as she tells. Martha the maid, has fifty servants in India ; 
at which Martha constantly exclaims, " Lor, mum, what can he do with 
'em, mum?" who, when in consequence of her misfortunes, she 
xesolved on taking a house at Bdghton, and letting part of the same 

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TH» isnsweoHBs: 61 

fiumisbed, sent her an ordec for a hundred pounds towards the expenses 
thereof ;. who gave Mr. Honejman, har brother, a muoh larger sum of 
maaej. at the period of his calamitj. Is it gratitude for past 
&vouf8 ? is it desire for more ? is it winitj of relationship *> is it love 
for the dead sister-^or tender regard for her of^pring which makes 
Mrs. Martha HoneyjBan- so load of her nephew ? I never could count 
bow many eauses. went to produce any given e^ct ■■ or action in a 
person's life, and have been for my own part many a time quite 
misled in my own ease, fancymg some grand, some magnanimous, some 
virtuoas reason, for an act of which I was proud, when, lo, some pert 
little satirical mtinitor springs up inwardly, upsetting the fond humbug 
wliich I was eherirfung~*the peacock's tail wherein my absurd vanity 
bad clad itself— rand says, " Away with this boasting J 7 am the cause 
of your virtue, my lad. You are pleased that yesterday at dinner you 
refrained from the dry ehampagne ; my name is Worldly Prudence, not 
Self-denial, and I caused you to refrain. You are pleased, because you 
gave a guinea to Diddler; I am Laziness, not Generosity, which 
in^ired you* You hug yourself because you resisted other temptation ?" 
Coward ! it waa because you dared not run the risk of the wrong ! Out 
with your peacock's plumage 1 walk off in the feathers which Nature 
gave you, and thank Heaven they are not altogether black." In a word 
Aant Honeyman was a kind soul, and such was the splendour of Olive 'S 
father, of hia gifts, his generosity, his military services, and companion- 
ship of the battles that the lad did really appear a young duke to her. 
And Mrs. Newcome was not unkind : and if OliVe had been really a 
young duke, I am sure he would have had the best bed>room at Marble 
Hill, and not one of the far-off little rooms in the boys' wing ; I am 
sure he would have had jellies and Oharlottes Busses, instead of mere 
troth, chieken and batter pudding as fell to his lot ; and when he was 
gona(ia the carnage, mind yotu, not in the gig driven by a groom), I 
am sure Mrs> Newcome would have written a letter that night to Her- 
Graee the Duchess Dowager, his mamma, full of praise of the dear 
ohild, hie graciousness, hia beaudy, and his wit, and declaring that she 
must love him henceforth and for ever after as a son of her own. You 
toss • down the page with scorn, and say, ** It is not true. Human 
nature is not so bad as this cynic would have it to be. You would make 
no dil^rence between the rich and the poor.** Be it so. Yoic woul(i 
not. But ewn that your next door neighbour would. Nor is this, dear 
Biadam> addressed t&you ; no, no, we are not so rude as to talk about 
you to your face ; but, if we may not speak of the lady who has just left 
the roam, whiEtt is io become of conversation and sooiety ? 

We forbear to describe the meeting between the Oolonel and his 
son — the pretty hoy from whom he had parted more than seven years 
before with such pangs of heart; and of whom he had thought ever 
since with sueh a constant longing affection. Half an hour after the 
father left the boy » and in his grief and loneliness was rowing back to 
ahore, Clive w^ at play with a dozen. of other children on the sunny 

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52 THE NBWCOMES. 

deck of the ship. When two bells rang for their dinner, they 
were all hurrying to the cuddy table, and busy over their meal. What 
a sad repast their parents had that day ! How their hearts followed 
the careless young ones home across the great ocean ! Mothers* prayers 
go with them. Strong men, alone on their knees, with streaming 
eyes and broken accents, implore Heaven for those little ones, who 
were prattling at their sides but a few hours since. Long after they 
are gone, careless and happy, recollections of the sweet past rise up and 
smite those who remain:, the flowers they had planted in their little 
gardens, the toys they played with, the little vacant cribs they slejjt in 
as fathers' eyes looked blessings down on them. Most of us who 
have passed a couple of score of years in the world, have had such sights 
as these to move us. And those who have, will think none the worse 
of my worthy Colonel for his tiender and faithful heart. 

With that fidelity which was an instinct of his nature, this brave man 
thought ever of his absent child, and longed after him. He never 
forsook the native servants and nurses who had had charge of the child, 
but endowed them with money sufficient (and indeed little was -wanted 
hj people of that frugal race) to make all their future lives comfortable, 
No friends went to Europe, nor ship departed, but Newcome sent presents 
and remembrances to the boy, and costly tokens of his love and thanks 
to all who- were kind to his son. What a strange pathos seems to me 
to accompany all our Indian story ! Besides that official history which 
fills Gazettes, and embroiders banners with names of victory ; which 
gives moralists and enemies cause to cry out at English rapine ; and 
enables patriots to boast of invincible British valour — ^besides the 
splendour and conquest, the wealth and glory, the crowned ambition, the 
conquered danger, the vast prize, and the blood freely shed in winning 
it — should not one remember the tears, too? Besides the lives of 
myriads of British men, conquering on a hundred fields, from Plassy to 
Meanee, and bathing them cruore nostro : think of the women, and the 
tribute which they perforce must pay to those victorious achieveijaents. 
.Scarce a soldier goes to yonder shores but leaves a home and grief in it 
behind him. The lords of the subject province find wives there : but 
their children cannot live on the soil. The parents bring their children 
to the shore, and part from them. The family must be broken up — ^keep 
the flowers of your home beyond a certain time, and the sickening 
buds wither and die. In America it is from the breast of a poor 
slave that a child is taken : in India it is from the. wife, and from under 
the palace, of a splendid proconsul. 

The experience of this grief made Newcome's naturally kind heart 
only the more tender, and hence he had a weakness for children which 
made him the laughing-stock of old maids, old bachelors, and sensible 
persons ; but the darling of all nurseries, to whose little inhabitants he 
was uniformly kind; were they the Collectors' progeny in their 
palanquins, or the Serjeants' children tumbling about the cantonment, 
or the dusky little heathens in the huts of his servants round his gate. 
It is known that there is no part of the world where ladies are more 



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THE NBWCOMES 5S 

fascinating than in British India. Perhaps the warmth of the sun 
kiodles flames in the hearts of hoth sexes, which would prohahlj heat 
quite coolly in their natire air; else why should Miss Brown he 
engaged ten days after her landing at Calcutta? or why should 
Miss Smith have half a dozen proposals before she has been a week 
at the Station ? And it is not only bachelors on whom the young 
ladies confer their affections ; they will take widowers without any 
difficulty : and a man so generally liked as Major Newcome, with such 
a good character, with a private fortune of his own, so chivalrous, 
generous, good-looking, eligible in a word — ^you may be sure would 
have found a wife easily enough, had he any mind for replacing the late 
Mrs. Casey. 

The Colonel) as has been stated, had an Indian chum or companion, 
with whom he shared his lodgings ; and from many jocular remarks of 
this latter gentleman (who loved good jokes and uttered not a few) I 
could gather that the honest widower Colonel Neweome had been often 
tempted to alter his condition, and that the- Indian ladies had tried 
numberless attacks upon his bereaved heart, and devised endless 
Bchemes of carrying it by assault, treason, or other mode of capture^ 
Mrs. Casey (his defunct wife) had overcome it by sheer pity and help- 
lessness. He had found her so friendless, that he took her in to the 
vacant place, and installed her there as he would have received a 
traveller into his bungalow. He divided his meal with her, and made 
her welcome to his best. ** I believe Tom Neweome married her," sly 
Mr. Binnie used to say, ''in order that he might have permission to 
pay her milliner's bills ; " and in this way he was amply gratified until 
the day of her death. A feeble miniature of the lady, vnth yellow 
ringlets and a guitar, hung over the mantelpiece of the Colonel's bed- 
chamber, where I have often seen that work of art ; and subsequently, 
vhen he and Mr. Binnie took a house, there was hung up in the spare- 
bedroom a companion portrait to the miniature — that of the Coloners- 
predecessor. Jack Casey, who in life used to fling plates at his Emma's 
head, and who perished from a fatal attachment to the bottle. I am. 
inclined to think that Colonel Neweome was not much cast down by 
the loss of his wife, and that they lived but indifferently together. Clive 
used to say in his artless way that his father scarcely ever mentioned 
his mother's name; and no doubt the union was not happy, although 
Neweome continued piously to acknowledge it, long after death had 
brought it to a termination, by constant benefiactions and remembrances 
to the departed lady's kindred. 

Those widows or virgins who endeavoured to fill Emma's place found 
the door of Neweome 's heart fast and barred, and assailed it in vain. 
Miss Billing sat down before it with her piano, and, as the Colonel was 
a practitioner on the flute, hoped to make all life one harmonious duet 
with him ; but she played her most brilliant sonatas and variations in 
vain ; and, as everybody knows, subsequently carried her grand piano to 
Lieutenant and Adjutant Hodgkin's house, whose name she now bears. 
The lovely widow Wilkins, with two darling little children, stopped at 

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Newcome*B Hospitable house, on her way to Galcutta ; and it was 
thought she might nerer leave it : "bat her kind host, as was his wont, 
crammed her children with presents and good things, consoled and 
entertained tliA fair widow, &nd one morning, after she had remained 
three months at the station, the Ookners palanquins and bearers made 
their appearance, and Elvira Wilkins went away weeping as a widow 
should. Why did she sJbuse Newcome ever after at Calcutta, Bath, 
Gh^tenham, and wherever she Mvent, calling him selfish, pompous. 
Quixotic, and a.Bahawder? i eo«ild mention half-a-dozen other names 
of kdies of most Tespectable families connected with Leadenhall Street, 
who, according to Colonel Newcomers chum — that wicked Mr. Binnle 
— had all conspired more or less to give Clive Newcome a stepmother. 

But he had had an unLacky experience in his own case ; and thought 
within himself, " No, I won't give Clive a stepmother. As Heaven had 
taken his own mother fi-om him ; why, I mustt try to be father and 
jaiother too to the lad." * He kept the child as long as ever the climate 
would allow of his remaining, and then sent him home. Then his 
aim was to save money for the youngster. He was of a natui^ so 
imooatrollably generous, that to be sure he spent five rupees where 
another would save them, aud make a ine show besides ; but it is not a 
man's gifts or hospitalities that generally injui^e hk fortune. It is nn 
themselves that prodigals spend most. And as Newcome had no 
personal extravagances, and the smallest selfish wants ; could live almost 
as frugally as a Hindoo ; kept his horses ndt to raoe Imt to ride ; wore 
his old clothes and uniforms until they were the laughter of his reghnent ; 
did not care for show, and had no longer an extravagant wife ; he managed 
to lay by considerably out of his liberal allowances, and to find himself 
«nd Clive growing rk^her every year. 

" When Clive iias had five or six years at school" — that was his scheme 
— " he will be a fine scholar, and have at least as much classical learning 
as a gentleman in. the world need possess. Then I will go to England, 
and we will pass three or four years together, in which he will learn to 
be intimate widi me, and, I hope, to lilce me. I shall be his pupil for 
'Latin and Greek, and try and make up for lost time. I know there is 
nothing like a knowledge of the classics to give a man good breeding — 
* Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes emollunt mores, nee sinuisse feros.' I 
fihall be able to help him with my knowledge of the world, and to keep 
him out- of the way of sharpers and a pack of rogues who commonly 
infest young men, I will make myself his companion, and pretend to 
no superiority ; for, indeed, isn't he my superior? Of course he is, 
with his advantages. He hasn't been an idle young scamp as I was. 
And we will travel together, firat through England,. Scotland, and 
Ireland, for every man should know his own country, and then we will 
make the grand tour. Then, by the time he is eighteen, he will be 
jdble to choose his profession. He can go into the army, and emulate 
the glorious man after whom I named him ; or if lie pref^ the church, 
or the law, they are open to him ; and when he goes to the university, 
bf wfaioh time J[ shall he in all probability a major-general, X can come 

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THE NEWCOMES. 55 

back to India for a few years, and return by the time he has a wife and 
a home for his old father ; or if I die, I shall have done the best for 
him, and my boy will be left with the best education, a tolerable small 
fortune, and the blessing of his old father." 

Such were the plans of our kind schemer. How fondly he dwelt on 
them, how aflFectionately he wrote of them to his boy ! How he read 
books of travels and looked over the maps of Europe ! and said '' Home, 
sir, glorious Rome ; it won*t be very long, major, before my boy and I 
see the Colosseum, and kiss the Pope's toe. We shall go up the 
Rhine to Switzerland, and over the Simplon, the work of the great 
Napoleon. By Jove, sir, think of the Turks before Vienna, and 
Sobieski clearing eighty thousand of 'em off the face of the earth ! 
How my boy will rejoice in the picture-galleries there, and in Prince 
Eugene's prints ! You know, I suppose, that Prince Eugene, one of the 
greatest generate in the world, was also one of the greatest lovers d 
the .'fine arts. * Ingenuas didicisse,* bey, Doctor ? you know the rest, — 
*emo}lunt mores nee' " 

" * EmoUunt mores ! ' Colonel," says Doctor McTaggart, who perhaps 
was too canny to correct the commanding oflScer's Latin. "Don't ye 
HOC that Prence Eugene was about as savage a Turrk as iver was ? Have 
ye niver rad the mimores of the Prants de Leen ? " 

"Well, he was a great-cavalry oflScer," answers the Colonel, "and he 
left a great collection of prints — that you know. How Clive will delight 
in them ! ^he bey's talent for drawing is wonderful, sir, wonderful. 
He awnt me a picture of our old school— the very actual thing, sir; 
the <doister3, the school, the head-gown boy going in with the rods, and 
the doctor himself. It would make you die of laughing ! " 

He regaled the ladies of the regiment with Clive's letters, and those 
of Miss Honeyman, which contained an account of the boy. He even 
bored some of his bearers with this prattle ; and sporting young men 
would give or take odds that the Colonel would mention Clive's name, 
once before five minutes, three times in ten minutes, twenty-five times 
in the coarse of dinner and so on. But they who laughed at the 
Colonel laughed very kindly; and everybody who knew him, loved him ; 
everybody that is, who loved modesty, and generosity, and honour.- 

At last the happy time came for which the "kind father had been 
longing more passionately than any prisoner for liberty, or school-boy 
for holiday. Colonel Newcome has taken leave of his regiment, leaving 
Major Tomkinson, nothing loth, in command. He has travelled to 
.Calcutta ; and the Commander-in-Chief, in general orders, has announced 
that in giving to Lieutenan^Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., of the 
Bengal Cavalry, leave for the first time, after no less than thirty-four 
years' abs^ice from home, *' he (Sir George Husler) cannot refrain from 
expressing his sense of the great and meritorious services of this most 
^tinguished officer, who has left his regiment in a state of the highest 
discij^ine and efficiency." And now the ship has sailed, the voyage is 
over, and once more, after so many long years, the honest soldier's foo^ 
is on his native shore. 



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CHAPTEE VI. 



KEWCOME BHOTHEBS. 



Besides his own boy, whom he worshipped, this kind Colonel 
had a score, at least, of adopted children, to whom he chose to 
Btand in the light of a father. He was for ever whirling away in 
post-chaises to this school and that, to see Jack Brown's boys, of 
the Cavalry ; or Mrs. Smith's girls, of the Civil Service ; or poor 
Tom Hicks 's orphan, who had nobody to look after him now that 
ihe cholera had carried off Tom, and his Wife, too. On board 
the ship . in which he returned from Calcutta were a dozen of 
little children, of both sexes, some of whom he actually escorted 
to their friends before he visited his own ; and though his heart 
was longing for his boy at Grey Friars. The children at the schools 
seen, and largely rewarded out of his bounty (his loose white trbusers 
had great pockets, always heavy with gold and silver, which he 
jingled when he was not pulling his moustachios — to see the way 
in which he tipped children made one almost long to be a boy again) : 
and when he had visited Miss Pinkerton's establishment, or Doctor 
Bamshom's adjoining academj' at Chiswick, and seen little Tom Davis 
or little Fanny Holmes, the honest fellow would come home and 
write off straightway a long letter to Tom's or Fanny's parents, far 
away in the Indian country; whose hearts he made happy by his 
accounts of their children, as he had delighted the children themselves 
by his affection and bounty. All the apple and orange- women 
^(especially such as had babies as well as lollypops at their stalls), all 
the street-sweepers on the road between Nerot's and the Oriental, 
knew him, and were his pensioners. His brothers in Threadneedle 
-Street cast up their eyes at the cheques which he drew. 

One of the little people of whom the kind Newcome had taken charge, 
luckily dwelt near Portsmouth ; and when the faithful Colonel consigned 
Miss Fipps to her grandmother, Mrs. Admiral Fipps, at Southampton. 
\Mis3 Fipps clung to her guardian, and with tears and howls was torn 
away from him. Not until her maiden aunts had consoled her with 
strawberries, which she never before had tasted, was the little Indian 
comforted for the departure of her dear Colonel. Master Cox, 
Tom Cox's boy, of the Native Infantry, had to be carried asleep from 
the George to the mail that night Master Cox woke up at the dawn 
wondering, as the coach passed through the pleasant green roads of 



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THE NBWCOMES. 57 

Bromley. The good gentleman consigned tbe little chap to his uncle, 
Dr. Cox, Bloomsbary Square, before he went to his own quarters, and 
then on the errand on which his fond heart was bent. 

He had written to his brothers from Portsmouth, announcing his 
arriyal, and three words to Olive, conveying the same intelligence. 
The letter was served to the boy along with one bowl of tea and one 
buttered roll, of eighty such which were distributed to fourscore other 
boys, boarders of the same house with our young friend. How the lad's 
face must have flushed, and his eyes brightened, when he read the 
news ! When the master of the house, the Rev. Mr. Popkinson, came 
into the long-room, with a good-natured face, and said, **Newcome, 
you're wanted," he knows who is come. He does not heed that 
•notorious bruiser, old Hodge, who roars out, " Confound you, Newcome ; 
III give it you for upsetting your tea over my new trousers." He runs 
to the room where the stranger is waiting for him. We will shut- the 
door, if you please, upon that scene. 

If Clive had not been as line and handsome a young lad as any 
in that school or country, no doubt his fond father would have been 
just as well pleased, and endowed him with a hundred fanciful graces ; 
but, in truth, in looks and manners he was everythiug which his 
parent could desire ; and I hope the artist who illustrates this work 
will take care to do justice to his portrait. Mr. Clive himself, let that 
painter be ^assured, will not be too well pleased if his countenance 
and figure do not receive proper attention. He is not yet endowed 
with those splendid moustachios and whiskers which he has himself 
subsequently depicted, but he is the picture of health, strength, 
activity, and good-humour. He has a good forehead, shaded with a 
quantity of waving light hair ; a complexion which ladies might envy ; 
a mouth which seems accustomed to laughing; and a pair of blue 
eyes, that sparkle with intelligence and frank kindness. No wonder 
the pleased father cannot refmin from looking at him. He is, in a 
word, just such a youth as has a right to be the hero of a novel. 

The bell rings for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in 
cap and gown, comes in to shake Colonel Newcome by tbe hand, 
and to say he supposes it's to be a holiday for Newcome that day. 
He does not say a word about Clive's scrape of the day before, 
and that awful row in the bedrooms, where the lad and three others 
were discovered making a supper off a pork pie and two bottles of 
prime old port from the Red Cow public-house in Grey Friars Lane. 
•When the bell has done ringing, and all these busy little bees have 
swarmed into their hive, there is a solitude in tbe place. The 
.Colonel and his son walked the playground together, that gravelly 
flat, as destitute of herbage as the Arabian desert, but, nevertheless, 
in the language of the place called the green. They walk the green, 
and they pace the cloisters, and Clive shows his faUier his own name 
of Thomas Newcome carved upon one of the arches forty years ago. 
As they talk, the boy gives sid'elong glances at his new friend, and 



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6« .3PHE mmcoam. 

ymnieu at the Ck)lon6rs loose trousers, loog moustacbios, and yellow 
face. He looks very odd^ Glhre thinks, very odd and very kind, and be 
looks like a gentleman, eveiy inch of him : — ^not like Martin's father, 
/who came to see his sou lately in higfalows, and a shocking bad hat, 
and actually flung coppers amongst the boys for a scramble. He bursts 
out $, laughing at the exquisitely ladicroHS idea of a gentleman of his 
fashion scjrambling for coppers. 

And new, enjoining the boy to be ready against his return (and you 
may be sure Mr. Olive was xm the look-out long before Mb mace 
appeared), the Colonel whirled awayia his cab to the Qitytashato 
hands with his brothers* whom he had not seen since they were demure 
little men in blue jackets, under charge of a serious tutor. 

He rushed through the cleriis and the banking-house, he broke into . 
the parlour where the loids of the establishment were seated. He 
astonished those trim quiet gentlemen by. the warmth of his greeting, 
by the vigour of his hand-shake, and the loud high tones of hk voice, 
which penetrated tbe glass walls of the parlour, and might actually be 
heard by the busy clerks in the hall without. He knew Brian from 
Hobson at once — that unlucky little accident in the go-cairt bovkig left 
its mark for ever on the Dose of Sir Brian Ifewcome, the «elder of the 
twins. 8ir Brian had a bald head and light hair, a short whisker icot 
to his cheek, a buff waistcoat, very neat boots and hands. He looked 
like the Portrait of a. Gentleman at the £}^hibition, as the worthy tb 
represented : dignified in attitude, bland, smiling, and statesmanlike, 
sitting at a table unsealing letters, with a despatch-box and a silver 
inkstand before him, a column and a scarlet curtain behind, and a park 
in the distance, with a great thunder-storm lowering in the. sky. Such a 
portimt, in fact, hfiuigs over the great side<*board at Newoome to this 
day ; and above the three great silver waiters, which the gratitude of 
-as many Companies has presented to their respected director and 
chairman. 

In face, Hobson Newcome, Esq., was like his elder brother, but was 
moife portly in person. He allowed his red whiskers to grow 
wherever nature had planted them, on his cheeks and und^ 
his chin. He wore thick shoes with nails in them, or natty 
round-toed boots, with tight trousers and a single strap. He 
affected the country'-gentleman in his appearance. His hat had a 
broad brim, and the ample pockets of his cut-away coat were never 
destitute of agricultural produce, samples of beans or corn, which he 
used to bite and chew even on 'Change, or a whip-lash, or balls for 
horses : in fine, he was a good old country-gentleman. If it was fine 
in Threadneedle Street, he would say it was good weather for the bay ; 
if it rained, the country wanted rain ; if it was frosty, ^' No himting, 
to-day, Tomkins, my boy," and so forth. As he rode from Bcyanstone 
Square to the City you would take him — ^and lie was pleased i» be so 
taken — ^for a jolly ootmtry squire. He was a better man of bosiness 
thanhis more solemn «nd stately imither, at idiom he langhed in his 



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jaonlar tvay ; amd he said Tightly, that a gentleman must get up ^ery 
early in tbe momiDg -wko wanted to take him in. ' 

. The Colonel breaks into the sanctum of these worthy ge&tlemen ; and 
each receives him in a manner consoaant with his peculiar nature^ 
^' Brian regreisted' that Lady Anne ivas away ^om London, being 
at Brixton with the children, who were all ill of the m^aBflesr. 
Hdhson said, ''Maria can't treat you to sooh good oompany as 
my Lady cottld give you, but when will yon take a day and ooiae 
and din» with ns? Let's see^ to-day*s Wednesday; to-morrow 
weWe a party. No^ we-re engaged/' He me^t that his table was' 
full, and that he did not care to crowd it ; but there was uo use in 
imparting this oii?eumstanoe to the Colonel. ^^Friday, we dine at Judge 
£adge% — queer nwecm, Judge Budge, ain't it? Saturday, I'm going 
cbwn ta Maarble Head, to look after the hay. Come on Monday; Tom, 
and III introdace yon to the misses and the young nns." 

"I will bring Oliire,*' says Colonel Noweoffie, rather disturbed aft 
this reception. ** After his illness my sister-in-law was very kind 
to him." 

" No, hang it, don't bring boys ; there's no good in boys ; they stop 
the talk downdsrtairs, and the ladies don't ^want 'em in the drawing- 
room. Send him to dine with the children on Sunday, if yon like, 
and come along down with me t^ Marble Head, and III show you 
such a crop of hay as will make your eyes open. Are you fond o€ 
^ttrming?" 

** I have not seen my boy for years," aaystli^ Colonel ; ** I had rather 
pass Saturday and Sunday with him, if you please, and some day 
3we will go to Marble Head together." 

" Well, »& offer's an offer. I don't know any pleasanter thing 
than getting out of this confounded City and smelling the hedges, 
sand looking at the crops coming up, and passing the Sunday in 
.quiet," And liis own tastes being thus agricultural, the honest 
gentleman thought that everybody else must delight in the same 
irecreation. 

" In the winter, I hope we shall see you at Newcome," says the 
jelder brother, blandly smiling. " I can't give you any tiger-shooting, 
but III promise you that you shall find plenty of pheasants in our 
jungle," and he laughed very gently at this mild sally. 

The Colonel gave him a queer look. ** I shall be at Newcome 
."before the winter* I shall be there, pkase God,, before many days 
are over." 

** Indeed f " says the Baronet, with an air of i^eat sui'prise. ** You 
are going doura to look at the cradle of o«r face. I believe the 
.Newcomes were there before the Conqueror. It was but a village in 
out grandfather's time, and it is an immense flourishing town now, for- 
-siSiiQli I hope to get — ^I expect to get — ^a charter." 

** Do yott?" says the Gokmd. "I am going do¥ni there to see a 
xnlatien." 



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60 THE NBWCOMLBS. 

** A relation! What relatives have we there?" cries the Baronet. 
" My children, with the exception of Barnes. Barnes, this is your 
uncle Colonel Thomas Newcome. I have great pleasure, brother, in 
introducing you to my eldest son." 

A fair-haired young gentleman, languid and pale, and arrayed in 
the very height of fashion, made his appearance at this juncture in 
the parlour, and returned Colonel Newcome's greeting with a smiling 
acknowledgment of his own. "Very happy to see you, I*m sure," 
8ai4 the young man. *'You find London very. much changed since 
you were here. Very good time to come — the very full of the 
season." 

Poor Thomas Newcome was quite abashed by this strange recep- 
tion. Here was a man, hungry for affection, and one relation ssked 
him to dinner next Monday, and another invited him to shoot 
pheasants at Christmas. Here was a beardless young sprig, who 
patronised him, and vouchsafed to ask him whether he found London 
was changed. 

" I don*t know whether it's changed," says the Colonel, biting his 
nails ; ** I know it*s not what I expected to find it." 

** To-day, it's really as hot as I should think it must be in India," 
says young Mr. Barnes Newcome. 

"Hot! " says the Colonel, with a grin. " It seems to me you are 
all cool enough here." 

"Just what Sir Thomas de Boots said, sir," says Barnes, turning 
round to his father. "Don't you remember when he came home 
from Bombay ? I recollect his saying, at Lady Feathers tone's, one 
dooced hot night, as it seemed to us ; I recklect his saying that he 
felt quite cold. Did you know him in India, Colonel Newcome? 
He's liked at the Horse Guards, but he's hated in his regiment." 

Colonel Newcome here growled a wish regarding the ultimate fate of 
Sir Thomas de Boots, which we trust may never be realised by that 
distinguished cavalry ofl&cer. 

" My brother says he's going to Newcome, Barnes, next week," said 
the Baronet, wishing to make the conversation more interesting to 
the newly-arrived Colonel. " He was saying so just when you came 
in, and I was asking him what took him there ? " 

" Did you ever hear of Sarah Mason ? " says the Colonel. 

" Really, I never did," the Baronet answered. 

" Sarah Mason ? No, upon my word, I don't think I ever did," said 
the young man. 

"Well, that's a pity too," the Colonel said with a sneer. "Mrs. 
Mason is a relation of your's — at least by marriage. She is my 
aunt or cousin — I used to call her aunt, and she and my father and 
mother all worked in the same mill at Newcome together." 

" I remember — God bless my soul — I remember now ! " cries the 
Baronet. " We pay her forty pound a year on your account — don't 
you know, brother ? Look to Colonel Newcome's account — I recollect 



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THB NBWCOMBS. 61 

the name quite well. But I thought she had been your nurse, and — 
and an old servant of my father's." 

" So she was my nurse, and an old servant of my father's," answered 
the Colonel. " But she was my mother's cousin too r and very lucky 
was my mother to have such a servant, or to have a servant at all. 
There is not in the whole world a more fidthful creature or a better 
woman." 

Mr. Hobson rather enjoyed his brother's perplexity, and to see, ' 
when the Baronet rode the high horse, how he came down sometimes. 
" I am sure^ it does you very great credit," gasped the courtly head of 
the firm, *Mo remember a — a humble friend and connexion of our 
father's so well." 

** I .think, brother, you might have recollected her too," the Colonel 
growled out. His face was blushing : he was quite angry and hurt 
at what seemed to him Sir Brian's hardness of heart. 

"Pardon me if I don't see the necessity," said Sir Brian. **/ 
have no relationship with Mrs. Mason, and do not remember ever 
having seen her. Can I do anything for you, brother ? Can I be 
useful to you in any way ? Pray command me and Barnes here, who 
after City hours will be delighted if he can be serviceable to you — I am 
nailed to this counter all the morning, and to the House of Commons 
all night; — I will be with you in one moment, Mr. Quilter. Good 
bye, my dear Colonel, How well India has agreed with you ! how 
young you look ! the hot winds are nothing to what we endure in 
Parliament. Hobson,"'in a low voice, " you saw about that hm, that 
power of attorney — and hm and hm will call here at 1/2 about that 
hjn. I am sorry I must say good bye-— it seems so hard after not 
meeting for so many years." 

" Very," says the Colonel. 

" Mind and send for me whenever you want me, now." 

•^ O of course," said the elder brother, and thought when will that 
ever be I 

"Lady Anne will be too delighted at hearing of your arrival. 
Give my love to Clive — a remarkable fine boy, Clive — good morning ;" 
and the Baronet was gone, and his bald head might presently be 
seen alongside of Mr. Quilter's confidential grey poll, both of their 
faces turned into an immense ledger. 

Mr. Hobson accompanied the Colonel to the door, and shook him 
cordially by the hand as he got into his cab. The man asked whither 
he should drive? and poor Newcome hardly knew where he was or 
whither he should go. " Drive ! a— oh-— ah — damme, drive me any- 
where away from this place ! " was all he could say ; and very likely 
the cabman thought he was a disappointed debtor who had asked in 
vain to renew a bill. In fact, Thomas Newcome had overdrawn his 
little account. There was no such balance of affection in that bank of 
his brothers, as the simple creature had expected to find there. 

When he was gone, Sir Brian went back to his parlour, where 



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62 THfl KBWGOHBS. 

sate young Barnes perusing the paper. '* Mj revered uncle seems to 
have brought back a quantity of cayenne pepper from India, sir/' h^ 
said i^ his father. 

** He seems a very kind-hearted simple man^" the Bamnet said : 
" eccentric* but he has been more than thirty years away from homeu 
Of course you mil call upon him to*morrow morning* Do everything^ 
you can to make him comfortable. Whom would he like to meet al^ 
dinner? I will ask some of the Direction. Aj9k him Barnes for 
next Wednesday or Saturday — ^no ; Saturday I dine with the Speaker. 
But ^e that every attention is paid him." i 

" Does he intend to have our relation up to town, sir ? I should: 
like to meet Mrs. Mason of all things. A venerable washerwoman 
I dare say» or perhaps keeps a publiorhouse/' simpered out young 
Barnes. 

** Silence, Barnes ; you jest at everything, you young men do— you 
do. Colonel Newcome's affection for his old nurse does him the 
greatest honour/' said the Baronet, who really meant what he said. 

''And I hope my mother will have her to stay a good deal at j 

Newcome. I'm sure she must have been a w;asherwoman, and mangled 
my uncle in early life. His costume struck me with respectful astcmish- 
ment. He disdains the use of straps to his trawsers, and is seemingly 
unacquainted with gloves. If he had died in India, would my late aunt 
have had to perish on a funeral pile ?" Here Mr. Quilter, entering 
with a heap of bills, put an end to these sarcastic remarks, and young 
Newcome, applying himself to his business (of which he was a perfect 
master), forgot about his uncle till after City hours, when he entertained 
some yonng gentlemen of Bays's Glob with aa acoount of his newly 
arrived relative. 

Towards the City whither he wended his way, whatever had been 
the ball or the dissipation of the night before, young Barnes Newcome 
might be seen walking every morning, resolutely and swiftly with his 
neat umbrella. As he passed Charing Cross on his way westwards, his 
little' boots trailed slowly over the pavement^ his head hung languid, 
(bending lower still, and smiling with &ded sweetness as he doffed his 
hat and saluted a passing carriage), his umbrella trailed after him. 
Not a dandy on fdl the Pall Mall pavement seemed to have less to do 
than he. 

Heavyside, a large ypung officer of the household troops — old Sir 
Thomas de Boots — and Horace Fogey, whom every one knows — are in 
the window of Bays's, yawning as widely as that window itself. Horses 
under the charge of men in red jackets are pacing up and down 
St. James's Street. Cabmen on the stand are regaling witlx beer. 
Gentlemen with grooms behind them pass towards the park. Groat 
dowager barouches roll along emblazoned with coronets, and driTea- 
by coachmen in silvery wigs* Wistful provincials gaze in at the 
clubs. Foreigners chatter and show their teeth, and look at the. 
ladies in 'the carriages,, and smok^ and spit refreshingly round ab^pt. 



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Policeman X slooclibs aloogthe pa¥ement. It is 5 o*clock, the noon in 
Pall Mall. 

" Here's little Newcome coming,*' says Mr, Horace Foger. " He am! 
the mufiBn^maa generally make their appearance in public together. " 

'^Bashed little prig," says Sir Thomas de Boots, " why the dash did 
they eiar let him in here 9 If I hadn't been in India, by dash — he 
abould hate been black-balled twenty times over, by dash." Only 
Sir Thomas ased words far more terrific tlian dash, for this distinguished 
cavalry officer swore very freely. 

" He amuses me ; he's such a misdiievous little devil,** says good' 
Batttred. Charley Heavyside* 

** It takes very little to amuse you," remarks Fogey. 

" Yott don't, Fogey," answers Charley* ** I know every one of your 
demd old stories, that are as old as my grandmother. How-dy-do, 
Barney. (Enter Barnes Newoome.) How are the Three per Cents, 
you little beggar? I wish you'd do me a bit of stiff: and just tell 
your father if I may overdraw my account, I'll vote with him— hanged 
ifldonV 

Barnes ovders absinthe^and-water, and drinks : Heavyside resuming 
his elegant raillery. " I say, Barney, your name's Barney, and you're 
a banker. You must be a little Jew, hey ? Veil, how mosh vill you 
to my little pill for?" 

"Do hee-haw in ^ the House of Commons, Heavyside," says tlie 
young man with a languid air. ** That's your place: you're returned* 
for it. (Captain the Honourable Charles Heavyside is a member of 
the legislature, and eminent in the House for 'asinine imitations which- 
delight his own, and confuse the other party.) Don't bray here. I 
hate the shop out of shop hours." 

" Dash the little puppy," growle Sir de Boots, swelling in his waist- 
band. 

"What do tiiey say about the Eussians in the City?" says Horace 
Fogey, who has been in the diplomatic service. " Has the fleet left 
Cronstadt, or has it not?" 

** How should I know ? " asks Barney. " Ain't it all in the evening 
paper?" 

"That is very uncomfortable news from India, General," resumes 
Fogey — '* there's Lady Doddington's carriage, how well she looks — 
ttmt movement of Roi^eet- Singh on Peshawur: that fleet on the 
Irra^addy. It looks doocid queer, let me tell you, and Penguin is not 
the man to be Governor-General of Ipdia in a time of difficulty." 

" And Hustler's not the man to be Commander-in-Chief : dashder 
old fool never lived : a dashed old psalm singing, blundering old 
woman," says Sir Thomas, who wanted the command himself. 

" You ain't in the psalm-singing line, Sir Thomas ?" says Mr. Barnes, 
" quite the contrary." In fact Sir de Boots in his youth used to sing 
with the Duke of York, and even against Captain Costigan, but was 
beaten by that superior Bacchanalian artist. 



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64 XHE I^EWCOMES* 

Sir Tbomas looks as if to ask \?hat the dash is that to you ? but 
vranting still to go to India again, and knowing how strong the Newcomes 
are in Leadenhall Street, he thinks it necessary to be civil to the 
young cub, and swallows his wrath once more into his waistband. 
• ** I've got an uncle come home from India — upon my word I hare," 
says Barnes Newcome. " That is why I am so exhausted. I am going 
to buy him a pair of gloves, number fourteen — and I want a tailor 
for him — not a young man's tailor. Fogey's tailor rather. I'd take 
my father's ; but he has all his things made in the country — ^all — in 
the borough, you know — ^he's a public man." 

" Is Colonel Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, your uncle ? " asks 
Sir Thomas de Boots. 

" Yes ; will you come and meet him at dinner next Wednesday 
week. Sir Thomas? and Fogey, you come; you know you like a 
good dinner.^ You don't know anything against my uncle, do you, 
Sir Thomas? Have I any Brahminical cousins? Need we be 
asbamed of him ?" 

** I tell you what, young man, if you were more like him it wouldn't 
hurt you. He's an odd man ; they call him Don Quixote in India ; I 
suppose you've read Don Quixote." 

. ** Never heard of it, upon my word ; and why do you wish I should 
be more like him ? I don't wish to be like him at all, thank you." 

** Why, because he is one of the bravest officers that ever lived," 
roared out the old soldier. '* Because he's one of the kindest fellows ; 
because he gives himself no dashed airs, although he has reason to 
be proud if he chose. That 'Sa why, Mr. Newcome." 

" A topper for you, Barney, my boy," remarks Charles Heavyside, 
as the indignant general walks away gobbling and red» Barney 
calmly drinks the remains of his absinthe. 

" I don't know what that old muff means," he says innocently, when 
he has finished his bitter draught, ** He's always flying out at me, 
the old turkey-cock. He quarrels with my play at whist, the old 
idiot, and can no more play than an old baby. He pretends to 
teach me billiards, and I'll give him fifteen in. twenty and beat his old 
head off. Why do they let such fellows into clubs ? Let's have a 
game at piquet till dinner, Heavyside ? Hallo ! That's my uncle, that 
tall man with the mustachios and the short trowsers walking with that 
boy of his. I dare say they are going to dine in Covent Garden, and 
going to the play. How-dy-do, Nunky" — and so the worthy pair went 
up to the card-room, where they sate at piquet until the hour of 
sunset and dinner arrived. 



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CHAPTER VIL 




IN WHICH MR. olive's SCHOOL-DAYS ARE OVER^ 

TJ» good Colonel had luckijy to^ 
look forward to a more pleasant' 
meeting with Ms son, than that: 
unfoarUinate interview with his 
other near relatives. 

He dismissed his cab at Lnd- 
gtfte Hill, and walked thence by 
the dismal precincts of Newgate, 
and across the muddy pavement 
. of Smithfield, on his way back to 
the old school where his son was, 
a way which he had trodden many 
a time in his own early days. 
There was Cistercian Street, and 
the Red Cow of his youth : there was the quaint old Greyfriars Square, • 
with its blsKiken^d trees and 'garden, surrounded by ancient houses. 
of tlie build of the last century, now slumbering like pensioners in the 
sunshine. 

Under ti3e great archway of the hospital he could look at the old gothic 
building; and a biack-gowned pensioner or two crawling over the quiet 
sqoare, or passing from one dark arch to another. The boarding-houses 
of the school were situated in the square, hard by the more ancient 
buildings of the hospital A great noise iof shouting, crying, clapping 
forms and cupboards, treble voices, bass voices, poured out of .the . 
schoolboys* windows : their life, bUstle, and giiiety, contrasted strangely 
with the quiet of those old men, creeping along in their black gowns 
under the ancient arches yonder, whose struggle of life was over, whose 
hope and noise and bustle had sunk into that grey calm. There was 
Tl^mas Neweome arrived at the middle of life, standing between the 
shouting boys and the tottering seniors, and in a situation to moralise 
iz^n both, had not his son Clive, who has espied him from within 
Mr. Hopkinson*s, or let us say at once Hopkey's house, come jumping 
doi»m the steps to greet his sire. Clive was dressed in his very best ; not 
one of those four hundred young gentlemen had a better figure, a better 
tailor,, or a neater boot. School-fellows, grinning through the bars, 
envied him as he- walked away: senior boys made remarks on Colonel^ 
Newcome's Toose clothes and long mustachios, his brown hands and 
unbxushed hat. The Colonel was smoking a cheroot as he walked ; 

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66 THE NBWCOMES* 

And the gigantic Smith, tbe cock of the school, who happened to be 
looking majestically out of window, was pleased to say that he thought 
Newcome's governor was a fine manly -looking fellow. 

•* Tell me about your uncles, Olive," said the Colonel, as they walked 
On arm in arm. 

** What about them, sir ? " asks the boy. " I don't think I know 
much." 

** You have been to stay with them. You wrote about them. Were 
they kind to you?" 

** O, yes, I suppose they are very kind. They always tipped me : 
only you know when I go there I scarcely ever see them« Mr. New- 
come asks me the oftenest — two or three times a quarter when he*s in 
town, and gives me a sovereign regular." 

** Well, he must see you to give you the sovereign,** says Clive'd 
father, laughing. 

The boy blushed rather. 

** Yes. When it*s time to go back to Smithfield on a Sunday night,. 
I go into the dining-room to shake hands, and he gives if me ; but be 
don't speak to me much, you know, and I don't care about going to 
. Bryanstone Square, except for the tip, of course that's important^ 
because I am made to dine with the children, and they are quite little 
ones; and a great cross French governess, who is always crying and 
shrieking after them, and finding fault with them. My uncle generally 
has his dinner-parties on Saturday, or goes out ; and aunt gives me ten 
shillings and sends me to the play; that's better fun than a dinner 
party.'* Here the lad blushed again. " I used," says he, " when I 
was younger, to stand on the stairs and prig things out of the dishes^ 
when they came out from dinner, but I'm past that now. Maria 
(that's my cousin) used to take the sweet things and give 'em to the 
governess. Fancy I she used to put lumps of sugar into her pocket and 
eat them in the school-room I Uncle Hobson don't live in such good 
society as uncle Newcome. You see, aunt Hobson, she's very kind 
you know, and all that, but I don't think she's what you call comme il 

*• Why, how are you to judge? " asks the father, amused at the lad'» 
candid prattle, " and where does the difiPerence lie ? " 

*• I can't tell you what it is, or how it is," the boy answered, " only- 
one can't help seeing the difference. It isn't rank and that ; only 
somehow there are some men gentlemen and some not, and somd 
women ladies and some not. There's Jones now, the fifth form master, 
every man sees he's a gentleman, though he wears ever so old clothes ; 
and there's Mr. Bfown, who oils his hair, and wears rings, and white 
chokers — my eyes! such white chokers! and yet we call him the 
handsome snob I And so about aunt Maria, she's very handsome and 
she's very finely dressed, only somehow she's not— she's not the ticket 
you see." 

" O, she's not the ticket,'* says the Colonel, much amused. 

•* Well, what I mean is — but never mind,'* says the boy, " I can*t 



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THE NBWCOMES, 67 

teir you what I mean. I don't like to nmke fun of her you know, for 
after all, she is very kind to me ; but aunt Anne is different, and it 
seems as if what she says is more natural ; and though she has funny 
ways of her own too, yet somehow she looks grander," — and here the 
lad laughed again. " And do you know, I often think that as good 
a lady as aunt Anne herself, is old aunt Honeyman at Brighton — 
that is, in all essentials', you know. For she is not proud, and 
she is not vain, and she never says au unkind word behind any» 
body's back, and she does a deal of kindness to the poor without 
appearing to crow over them you know ; and she is not a bit ashamed 
of letting lodgings, or being poor herself, as sometimes I think some of 
our family — " 
" I thought we were going to speak no ill of them," says the Gdonel; 



" Well, it only slipped out unawares," says Olive, laughing ; ** but at 
Newcome when they go on about the Newcomes, and that great ass, 
Barnes Newoome, gives himself his airs, it makes me die of laughing. 
That time I went down to Newcome, I went to see old aunt 8arah, and 
she told me everything, and showed me the room where my grandfather 
—you know ; and do you know I was a little hurt at first, for I thought 
we were swells till then. And when I came back to school, where 
perhaps I had been giving myself airs, and bragging about Newcome, 
why you know I thought it was right to tell the fellows." 

** That's a man," said the Colonel, with delight ; though had he said 
' thats a boy«* he had spoken more correctly. Indeed, how many men 
<lo we know in the world without caring to know who their fathers 
were ? and how many more who wisely do not care to tell us ? " That's 
a raan," cries the Colonel, •* never be ashamed of your father, Clive." 

" Ashamed of my father ! " says Clive, looking up to him, and walking 
on as proud as a peacock. " I say," the lad resumed, after a pause — 

" Say what you say," said the father. 

*' Is that all true what's in the peerage — in the baronetage, about 
oncle Newcome and Newcome ; about the Newcome who was buraed at 
Smithfield ; about the one that was at the battle of Bosworth ; and the 
old old Newcome who was bar — that is, who was surgeon to Edward 
the Confessor, and was killed at Hastings? I am afraid it isn't; and 
yet I should like it to be true." 

" I think every man would like to come of an ancient and honourable 
'ace," said the Colonel, in his honest way. " As you like your father 
to he an honourable man, why not your grandfather, and his ancestors 
before him ? . But if we can't inherit a good name ; at least we can do 
our best to leave one, my boy ; and that is an ambition which, please 
God, you and I will both hold by." 

With this simple talk the old and young gentleman beguiled ihelt 
way, until they came into the Western quarter of the town, where the 
junior member of the firm of Newcome Brothers had^ his house — a 
bandsome and roomy mansion in Bryanstone Square. Colonel Newcome 
was bent on paying a visit to his sister-in-law, and as he knocked at the 

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9% THX KBWCOJyEEg; 

door, whtfro tke piir mrere kept^waiting some little tioo^, he ocmH reCnark 
tiavoiigb the opened windows of the dixiing^rooiii, that a great table was 
Ifttd amd every prefMurati(m made ^r a feast. 

*' MjT bnol^er sa^ he was engaged to ditmer to-day," said tlie Colonel. 
•* Does Mrs. Newcome give parties wben he is away?** 

" She invites all the company/' ansivered Ciive. ^* My nncle never 
asks anyone -without annt's leave." 

. The Coloners oountenance fell. He has a great dnrner, and does not 
ask his own brother J Neupcome tliought. Why, if he had come tome in 
Tndia with all bis family, he might have staid for a year, and I should 
have been offended if he had gone elsewhere. 

A hot menial, in a red waistcoat, came and opened the door; and 
Hvithout waiting for pre^ratoiy queries, said, ** Net at home." 

"It's my father, John," said Clive; "my aunt will see Cdonet 
K^wcorae," 

" Missis not at home," said the man. ** Missis is gone in carnage — 
Not at this door !-^Take them things down the area steps, young man ! " 
bawls out the domestic. This latter speech was addressed to a pastiy- 
cook's boy, with a large sugar temple and many conical papers con- 
taining delicacies for dessert. "Mind the hice is here in time; or 
there'll be a blow up with your governor,** — and Sckm straggled hack 
closing thje door on the astonished Colonel. 

" Upon my life, they actually shut the door in out &oee," said the 
foor gentletnim. 

' " The man is very busy, sir. There's a great dinner, I'm sure my 
aunt would not refuse you." Olive interposed ; " She is very kind. I 
suppose it's different here to what it is in India. There are the 
children in the square, — those are the giiis in blue, — that's the French 
governess, the ooe with the mustachios and the yellow parasol. How 
d'y^ do, Mary? How d'ye do, Fanny? This is my father, — this is 
your uncle." 

" Mesdemoiselles f Je vous defends de parler a qui que ce soit hors 
du Squar ! " screams out the lady of the moustachios ; and she strode 
forward to call back her young charges. 

The Colonel addressed her in very good French. "I hope yott 
will permit me to make acquaintance with my nieces," he said, " and 
with their instructress, of whom my son has given me such a feivourabla 
account." 

" Hem ! " said Mademoiselle Lebrun, remembering the last fight 
she and Clive had had together, and a portrait of herself (with enor* 
mous whiskers) which the young scape-grace had drawn. " Monsieur 
is very good. But one cannot too early inculcate rstenne and decorum 
to young ladies in a country where demoiselles seem for ever to forget 
that they are young liadies of condition. I am forced to keep the e}'es 
of lynx upon these young persons, otherwise heaven knows what would • 
come to them. Only yesterday, my back is turned for a moment, I 
cast my ^ye» on a book, bavhag hot little time lor Mterature, monsieur — 
for literature, which I adore— when a cry makes itself to bear. I turn 

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7H£ NdrCOHBa. 69 

mjself, and what do I see 2 MeademoiseUes, your nieces, pla^ng at 
enqueue, with the Messieurs Smees — sous of Doctor Smees — young 
galopins, monsieur ! " All tbia was shrieked with immense Tolobility 
and many actions of the hand and parasol across the square-railings te 
the amused CoJeot^el, £tt whom the little girls peered through the bars. 
. " Well, my dears, I should like te have a game at criekei with yoii» 
too," says the kind gentlemen, reaehiog them each a brown band. 

" You, monsieur, c'est dilE&rent — a man of your a^ 1 Salute mensieiir 
your uncle, mesdemoiselles. You conceive, monsieur, that I also must 
be cautious when I speak to a man so diatinguisiied in a public squar.** 
And she cast down her great eyes and hid those ladiant orbs from the 
Colonel. 

Meanwlule, Colonel Newcome, indifferent to the direction wludi 
Miss Lebrun*s eyes took, whether towards his hat or his boots, was 
surveying his little nieces with that kind expression which his hm 
always wore when it was turned towards diildren. "HaTO y<m heard 
of your uncle in India? " he asked them. 

" No," says Maria. 

" Yes," says Fanny. " You know Mademoiselle said (Mademoiselle 
at this moment was twittering her fingers, and, as it wsece, kissing them 
iB the direction of a ground barouche that was advancing along the 
square) — ^you know Mademoiselle said that if we were Jw^cAonte* we 
should be sent to our uncle ia India. I think I sluNild like tO) go 
mthyou.'* 

" you silly ehild 1 " cries Maria^ 

** Yes I abould, if Clive went too," aaya little Fanny. 

" Behold Madam, who arrives from her promenade ! " Miss LebruB 
exclaimed ; and, turning round, Colonel Newcome had the satisfaetioa 
of beholding, for the first time, his sister-iu4a(w, 

A Btout lady, with fair hair and a fine bonaiet and pelisse (who koowB 
what were the fine bonnets and pelisses of the year 183 — ?), was 
reclining in the barouche, the scarl^t-plush integuments, of hev 
domestics blazing before and behind her. A pr^ty httlftfoot was on 
the cushion opposite to her ; fefttbers waved in her bonnet ; a book was 
in her kp ; an oval portrait of a gentlenaan reposed on her volumlnoas 
1>08om. She wore another picture of two darling heads, with pink 
cheeks and golden hair, on one c^ her wrists, with many more chains, 
bracelets, bangles, and knicknacks. A pair of dirty gloves marred the 
splendour of this appearance ; a heap of books from the Hhrary strewed 
^e back seat of the carriage, and showed that her habits were literary. 
SpringiBg down from his station behind his mistress, the youth clad in the 
nether garments of red sammiit discharged thunderclaps on the doer of 
Mrs. Newcomo's house, announcing to the whole, square, that hie 
Bustreas' had retiurned to her abode. Siece the fort salu4;ed the 

govemor-g^oeral at , CokMiti^ NevcoDie hod never heard such e 

<^tauM>nadiBg. 

Clive, with a queer twinkla of his eyes, rami tewards his aunt. She 
bent oyer the earrisge langwdly towarde him. Sbe liked hauas. 

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70 THE NEWCOMES. 

" What, you, Olive 1 " she said. ** How come jou away from school of 
II Thursday, sir ? " 

*' It is a holiday," says he. '' My father is come ; and he is come to 
see you." 

. She bowed her head with an expression of affable surprise and 
majestic satisfaction. " Indeed, Clive ! " she was good enough to 
exclaim, and with an air which seemed to say, ** Let him come up and 
be presented to me." The honest gentleman stepped for\«ard and 
took off his hat and bowed, and stood bare-headed. She surveyed him 
blandly ; and with infinite grace put forward one of the pudgy little 
' hands in one of the dirty gloves. Can you fancy a twopenny-halfpenny 
baroness of King Francis's time patronising Bayard? Can you 
imagine Queen Guinever's lady's maid's lady's maid bein^ affable to 
Sir Lancelot ? I protest there is nothing like the virtue of English 
women. 

** You have only arrived to-day ; and you came to see me ? That was 
Tory kind. N'est ce pas que c'etoit bong de Mouseer le Collonel, 
Mademoiselle ? Madamaselle Lebru^ le Collonel Newcome, mong 
frere. (In a whisper, "My children's governess and my friend, a 
most superior woman.") ** Was it not kind of Colonel Newcome to 
come to see me? Have you had a pleasant voyage? Did you come 
by St. Helena ? O, how I envy you seeing the tomb of that great 
man! Nous parlong de Napolleong, Mademoiselle, dong voter *pere a 
ete le General favvory." 

"O Dieu! que ,n'ai-je pu le voir," inteijaculates Mademoiselle 
** Lui dont parle I'univers, dont mon pere m'a si sou vent parle ? " but 
this remark passes quite unnoticed by Mademoiselle's friend, who 
continues — 

" Clive, donnez-moi voter bras. These are two of my girls. My 
boys are at school. I shall be so glad to introduce them to their uncle. 
This naughty boy might never have seen you, but that we took 
him home to Marblehead, after the scarlet fever, and made him 
well, didn't we, Clive ? And we are all very fond of him ; and you 
must not be jealous of his love for his aunt. We feel that we quite 
know* you through him, and we know that you know us ; and we hope 
you will like us. Do you think your papa will like us, Clive ? Or 
perhaps you will like Lady Anne best. Yes ; you have been to her 
first, of course ? Not been ? Oh ! because she is not in town." 
Leaning fondly on the arm of Clive, Mademoiselle standing grouped 
with the children hard by, while John, with his hat off, stood at the 
opened door, Mrs. Newcome slowly uttered the above remarkable 
remarks to the Colonel, on the threshold of her house, which she never 
asked him to pass. 

** If you will come in to us at about ten this evening,'* she then 
said, *'you will find some men, not undistinguished, who honour me of 
an evening. Perhaps they will be interesting to you. Colonel New- 
eome, as you are newly arrived in Europe* Not men of worldly rank, 
necessarily, although some of them are amongst the noblest of Europe. 



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71 



Bat my maxim is, that genius is an illostration, and merit is better 
than any pedigree. You have heard of Professor Bodgers ? Count 
Poski ? Doctor McGuffog, who is called in his native country the 
Ezekiel of Clackmannan ? Mr. Shaloo, the great Irish patriot ? our 
papers have told you of him. These and some more have been good 
€Dough to promise me a visit to-night A stranger coming to London 
could scarcely have a better of opportunity of seeing some of our great 
illustrations of science and literature. And you will meet our own 
family — not Sir Brian's, who — who have other society and amuse- 
ments — but mine. I hope Mr. Newcome and myself will never forget 
them. We have a few friends at dinner, and now I must go in and 
consult with Mrs. Hubbard, my housekeeper. Good bye, for the 
present. Mind, not later than ten, as Mr. Newcome must be up 
betimes in the morning, and our parties break up early. When Clive 
is a little older, I dare say we shall see him, too. Good bye ! " And 
^gain the Colonel was favoured with a shake of the glove, and the lady 
and her suite sailed up the stair, and passed in at the door. 

She had not the faintest idea but that the hospitality which she was 
offering to her kinsman was of the most cordial and pleasant kind. 
She fancied everything she did was perfectly right and graceful. 
5he invited her husband's clerks to come through the rain at ten 
o'clock from Kentish Town ; she asked artists to bring their sketch- 
books from Kensington, or luckless pianists to trudge with their 
music from Brompton. She rewarded them with a smile and a cup 
of tea, and thought they were made happy by her condescension. If, 
after two or three of these delightful evenings, they ceased to attend 
her receptions, she shook her little flaxen head, and sadly intimated 
that Mr. A. was getting into bad courses, or feared that Mr. B. found 
merely intellectual parties too quiet for him. Else, what young man in 
*ii8 senses could refuse such entertainment and instruction ? 




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CHAPTER VIII. 

MRS. NEWCaME AT HOME (a SMALL EARLY PARTT). 

o push on in the crowd, every male 
or female stmggYer must use his 
shoulders. If a better place than 
yours presents itself just beyond your 
neighbour, elbow him and take it. 
Look how ft steadily-purposed man or 
woman at court, at a ball, or exhi- 
bition, wherever there is a competi- 
tion and a squeeze, gets the best 
place ; the nearest the sovereign, if 
bent on kissing the royal hand ; the 
closest to the grand stand, if minded 
to go to Ascot; the best view and 
hearing of the Rev. Mr. Thumpington, 
when all the town is rushing to hear that exciting divine ; the largest 
quantity of ice, champagne, and seltzer, cold pate, or other his or her 
favourite flesh-pot, if gluttonously minded, at a supper whence hundreds 
of people come empty away. A woman of the world will marry her 
i^aughter and have done with her ; get her carriage and be at home 
and asleep in bed; whilst a timid mamma has still her girl in the 
nursery, or is beseeching the servants in the cloak-room to look for her 
shawls, with which some one else has whisked away an hour ago. 
What a man has to do in society is to assert himself. Is there a good 
place at table ? Take it. At the Treasury or the Home Office ? Ask 
for it. Do you want to go to a party , to which you are not invited ? 
Ask to be asked. Ask A., ask B., ask Mrs. C, ask everybody you 
know : you will be thought a bore ; but you will have your way. What 
matters if you are considered obtrusive, provided that you obtrude? 
By pushing steadily, nine hundred and ninety-nine people in a thousand 
will yield to you. Only command persons, and you may be pretty sure 
that a good number will obey. How well your shilling will have been 
laid out, gentle reader, who purchase this ; and, taking, the maxim 
to heart, follow it through life ! You may be'^sure of success. If your 
neighbour's foot obstructs you, stamp on it ; and do you suppose he 
won't take it away ? 

The proofs of the correctness of the above remarks I show in various 
members of the Newcome DuaOy. Here was a vulgar little woman, 
not clever nor pretty, especially ; meeting Mr. Newcome casually, she 



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.TBB HEWCOOIES. 78 

-Kitted Mm t« buUtj her, and be obejed ; as be obeyed ber in erer]^ 
thiog else wbicb sbe chose to order through life. Meeting Colonel 
Kewcome on the steps of her hoiise» she orders him to oome to her 
evening partj ; and though he has not been to an evening party for 
five-and- thirty yeai^B — though he has not been to bed the night before—^ 
though he has no mufti-eoat except one sent him out by Messrs. Stult£ 
to India in the year 18^1, he never once thinks ef disobeying 
.Mrs Newcomers order, but is actually at her door ai five minutes past 
.ten, having arrayed himself, to the wonderment of CHve, and left 
.the boy to talk with his friend and fellow passenger, Mr. Binnie, who 
has juBt arrived from Portsmouth, who has dined with him, and 
/who, by pr^viotLs arrangement, has taken up his quarters at the same 
hotel. 

This Stultz coat, a blue swallow-tail, with yellow buttons, now 
wearing a tinge of their native copper, a very high velvet collar, 
on a level with the tips of the Captain's ears, with a high waist, 
indicated by two lapelles, and a pair of buttons high up in the wearerls 
•baek, a white waistcoat and scarlet under-waistooat, and a pair of the 
Bever-failing dock trousers, complete Thomas Newcomer costume, 
along with the white hat in which we have seen him in the morning, 
and which was one of two dozen purchased by him some years since 
at public outcry, Burrumtollah* We have called him Captain pur- 
posely, while speaking of his coat, for he held that rank when the 
garment came out to him ; a^ having been in the habit of considering 
it a splendid coat for twelve years pa&t,. be has not the least idea of 
changing his opinion. 

Doctor Mac Gufi^, Professor Bodger, Count Poski, and all the lions 
pr^ent at Mrs. Newcomers reimUm that evening, were completely 
eclipsed by Colonel Newcome. The worthy soul, who cared not the 
least about adorning hin&self, had a handsome diamond brooch of the 
year 1801, given him by poor Jack Cutler, who was knocked over by 
his side at Argaum, and wore this ornament in his desk for a thousand 
days and nights at a time ; in his shirt-frill, on such parade-evenings, as 
he considered Mrs. Newcomers to be. The splendour of this jewel, 
and of his flashing buttons, caused all eyes to turn to him. There were 
msnj pairs of mustaehios present ; those of Professor Schuurr, a very 
corpulent martyr, just escaped from Spandau, and of Maximilien Tran^ 
chard, French exile and apostle of liberty, were the only whiskers in 
the room capable of vying in interest with Colonel Islewcome's. Polish 
chieftains were at this time so common in London, that nobody (except 
one noble member for Marylebone, and, once a year, the Lord Mayor) 
took any interest in them. The general opinion was, that the stranger 
was the Wallaehian Boyar, Vhose arrival at Mivart's, the " Morning 
Post " had just announced. Mrs. Miles, whose delicious every other 
Wednesdays in Montague Square, are supposed by some to be rival enter- 
tainments to Mrs. Newcomers alternate Thursdays in Bryanstone Square, 
lynched herdatght^r Mira, engaged in a polyglot conversation with Herr 
8Gbau»» gigaor Ca^raboesi, the goitariat, and Monsieur Pivier, the 



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74 THE NEWCOMES, 

celebrated French cbess-player, to point out the Boyar. Mira Mil^ 
wished she knew a little Moldavian, not so much that she might speak 
it, hut that she might be heard to speak it. Mrs. Miles, who had not 
bad the educational advantages of her daughter, simpered up with 
** Madame Newcome pas ici — votre excellence nouvellement arrive — avez 
Tous fait ung bong voyage ? Je re§ois chez moi Mercredi prochaing ; 
lonnure de vous voir — Madamasel Miles ma fille ; " and Mira, now 
reinforcing her mamma, poured in a glib little oration in French, some- . 
yrhsii to the astonishment of the Colonel, who fiegan to think however, 
that perhaps French was the language of the polite world, into 
lyhich he was now making his very first entree. 

Mrs. Newcome had left her place at the door of her drawing-room, to 
walk through her rooms with Rummun Loll, the celebrated Indian 
inerchant, otherwise His Excellency Rummun Loll, otherwise His 
Highness Bummun Loll, the chief proprietor of the diamond mines in 
Golconda, with a claim of three millions and a half upon the East India 
Company ; who smoked his ho6kah after dinner when the ladies were 
gone, and in whose honour (for his servants always brought a couple or 
more of hookahs with them) many English gentlemen made themselves 
sick, while trying to emulate the same practice. Mr. Newcome had been 
obliged to go to bed himself in consequence of the uncontrollable nausea 
produced by the chillum ; and Doctor Mac Guffog, in hopes of converting 
his Highness, had puffed his till he was as black in the face as the 
interesting Indian — ^and now, having hung on his arm — always in the 
dirty gloves, flirting a fan whilst his Excellency consumed betel out of 
a silver box; and having promenaded him and his turban, and his 
shawls, and his kincab pelisse, and his lacquered moustache, and keen 
brown face, and opal eyeballs through her rooms, the hostess came back 
to her station at the drawing-room door. 

As soon as his Excellency saw the Colonel, whom he perfectly well 
knew, his Highnesses princely air was exchanged for one of the deepest 
humility. He bowed his head and put his two hands before his eyes, 
and cam^ creeping towards him submissively, to the wonderment of 
Mrs. Miles ; who was yet more astonished when the Moldavian magnate 
exclaimed in perfectly good English, ** What Rummun, you here ? " 

The Rummun, still bending and holding his hands before him, 
uttered a number of rapid sentences in the Hindustani language, which 
Colopel Newcome received twirling his mustachios with much hauteur. 
He turned on his heel rather abruptly and began to speak to Mrs. 
Newcome, who smiled and thanked him for coming — on his first night 
after his return. 

The Colonel said, " to whose bouse should he first come but to his 
brother's ? " How Mrs. Newcome wished she could have had room for 
him at dinner ! And there was room after all, for Mr. Shaloony was 
detained at the House. The most interesting conversation. The 
Indian Prince was so intelligent ! 

•'The Indian what?" asks Colonel Newcome. The heathen gentle- 
man had gone off, and was seated by one of the handsomest young 



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THE NEWCOMES. 



75 



women in the room, whose fair face was turned towards him, whose 
blond ringlets touched his shoulder, and who was listening to him as 
eagerly as Desdemona listened to Othello. 




The Coloners rage was excited as he saw the Indian's behaviour. 
He curled his mustachios up to his eyes in his wrath. " You don't 
mean that that man calls himself a Prince? That a fellow Vho 
wouldn't sit down in an officer's presence is ... " 

•* How do you do, Mr. Honeyman ? — Eh, bong soir, Monsieur — You 
are very late, Mr, Pressly. What, Barnes ! is it possible that you do 
me the honour to come all the way from May Pair to Marylebone. I 
thought you young men of fashion never crossed Oxford Street. Colonel 
Newcome, this is your nephew." 

** How do you do, sir," says Barnes, surveying the Colonel's costume 
with inward wonder, but without the least outward manifestation of 
surprise. '* I suppose you dined here to meet the black Prince. I 
came to ask him and my uncle to meet you at dinner on Wednesday. 
Where's my uncle, ma'am ? " 

*• Your uncle is gone to bed ill. He smoked one of those hookahs 
which the Prince brings, and it has made 'him very unwell indeed, 
Barnes. How is Lady Anne ? Is Lord Kew in London ? Is your 
sister better for Brighton air? I see your cousin is appointed Secretary 
of Legation. Have you good accounts of your aunt Lady Fanny ? " 

**Lady Fanny, is as well as can be expected, and the baby is going 
on perfectly well, thank you," Barnes said drily ; and his aunt, obsti- 
nately gracious with him, turned away to some other new comet. 



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,7^ W^ ineweoMBa. 

. ** It*8 ioteresting, isu't it, sir," says Barnes; turiaing to'tbe'Colonelv 
"to see such union in families? Whenever I econe here, nay aunt 
trots out all my relations ; and I send a man round in the ZDornin to 
ask how they all are. So Uncle Hobson is gone to bed sick with a 
hookah. I know there was a deuce of a row made when I smoked at 
Marblehead. You are promised to as for Wednesday, please. Is there 
anybody you would like to meet* Notour firiend the Rummun. How 
ihe girls crowd round hiok ! By Gad, a feXkm who's rich ixt London 
may have the pick of any gal — iwt herc^— «ot in tki& sort of thing ; I 
mean in society, you know," says Barnes ©onfidentially. " IVe seen 
the old dowagers crowdin round that felk»w» amd the girls snugghn up 
to his India-rubtor face.. He's known to baire two wives already in 
India ; but» bj Gail, for a eeltlemeiit, I believe sme of *6Ktt liere vo«ld 
marry — I mem of like girk in society.*' 

** But isn't this society ?"* asked; the Colonel. 

'^ Ob, of cGimft It's very good society and that sort of thin^ — ^but 
it*8 not, you know — you understand. I give you my honour there are 
not three people in the room one meets anjwliere, except tire BcanminL 
What is he at home» sir ? I know be oin*t & Prince^ you ko&w, any 
more than I am." 

^ I belioTe he is a ridk loaii now,*" said the ColoneL '' He began 
from very low beginnings, and odd stories are told about ibe oz^in (d 
his fortune." f 

" That may be,'* says the young man ; " of course, as business men, 
that's not our affair. But has he got the fortune?' He keeps a large 
account with us ; and, I think, wants to have larger dealings with us 
still: As one of the family we may iisk you to stand by us, "and tell" us 
anything you know. My father has aiiked him douvn to Nevvcome, and 
we've taken him up ; wisely or not I can't say. I think otherwise ; but 
I'm quite young in the.hpuse» and of course -the elders have the chirf 
superintendence." The young man of business had dropped his drawl 
or his languor, and was speaking quite unaffectedly, good-naturedly, and 
selfishly. Had you talked to him for a week, you could not have made 
him understand the scorn and loathing with which the Colonel regarded 
him. Here was a young fellow as keen as the oldest curmudgeon; a 
kd with scarce a beard to his chin that would pursue his bond as rigidly 
as Shyloek. *• If he is like this at twenty, what will be be at fifty?" 
groaned the Colonel. " I'd rather Clive were dead than have him sudi 
a heartless worldluig as this." And yet the young man was not un- 
generous, not untruth-telling, not unserviceable. He thought his lif« 
was good enough. It \tas as good as that of other folks be lived with. 
You don't suppose be had any misgivings, provided he was in the City 
early enough in the morning ; or slept badly, unless he indulged too 
freely over night ; er twinges of conscience that his life veas misspent . 
fie thought his life a most lucky and reputable one. He had a share 
in a good business, and felt t^t he eould inerease it Some day'he 
would marry a good match, with a good fortune; meanwhile he could 
take his. pleasuve dee(»r0«aly, and sow bis wiid oats as some of the joung 



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LoQdoaers Ww tlieiih not broadcast after t\te fasbii^n of oardess scAtter^ 
brained youth, btrt trimly aiwi neatly, in qaiet places, where the crop can 
Oome up uQobeerf«d, and be tak«n in witbont bustle ^or scandal. Barnes 
Newcome never missed going to cb«irob, or dresedng for diimer. Hii 
never kept a tradesfDaii wasting fer fais money. He nerrer drank too 
aauob, except wiieft other feliows did, and in good cempany. He neter 
was late for business, or hudcHed ov«r his toilet, howe^rer brief had been 
his sleep, or severe his headache. ' In a word, be was as Bcrupulomly 
wfaited as any sepulchre in the whole bills of mortality. 

Whilst young Barnes and his uncle were thus holding parley, u slim 
gentlenoan of bland aspect, with a roomy forehead, or. what his female' 
admirers called "a noble brow," and a neat white neckcloth tied witK 
clerical skill, was surveying Golonet Nevroome through his 'shining 
spectacles, and waiting for an opportunity to address him. The Coloiiel 
remarked the eagerness with which t^e gentleman in black regarded 
him, and asked Mr. Barnes who was the padre ? Mr. Barnes turned 
his eyeglass towards the spectacles, and sai^ ** he didn't know any more 
than the dead ; he didn't know two people in the room." The spectacles 
nevertheless made the eyeglass a bow, of which tbe latter took no sortf 
of cognisance. The spectacles advanced ; Mr. Newcome fell back with 
a peevish exclamation of " Confound the fellow, what is he coming to 
speak to me for ? " He did not choose to be addressed by all sorts of 
persons in all houses* 

But he of the spectacles, with an expression of delight in his pale 
blue eyes, and smiles dimpling his countenance, pressed onwards with 
outstretched bands, and it was towards the Colonel he turned these 
smiles and friendly dfrlutations. " Did I hear aright, sir, from Mrs. 
Miles," he said, ^wod have I the honour of speaking to Colonel* 
Newcome?" 

" The same, sir," says the Colonel ; at whkh the other, tearing off a 
glore of lavender-coloured kid, uttered the words " Charles Honey roan," 
and seized the hand of his brother-in-law. " My poor sister's husband," 
he continued ; ** my own benefactor ; Clive's father. How strange are 
these meetings in the mi^ty world ! How I rejoice to see you, and 
know yott ! " 

" Yon are' Charles, are you?" cries the ether. "I am Tery glad, 
indeed, to shake you by the band, Honeyman. Clive and I should 
have beat up your quarters to-day, but we were bnsy until dinner-time. 
You put me in mind of poor Emma, Charles," he added, sadly. Emma 
had not been a good wife to him ; a flighty silly little woman, \>ho had 
eamed him when alive many a night of pain and day of anxiety. 

" Poor, poor Emma ! " exclaimed the ecclesiastic, casting his eyes 
towards the chandelier, and passing a white cambric pocket-handkerchief 
gracefully, before them. No man in London understood the ring 
business or the pocket-handkerchief business better, or smothered his' 
emotion mora beautifully* *' In the gayest moments, in the giddiest 
thiDBg of fasluoB, the thoughts of the past will rise ; the departed wiR 
be among us stilL Bnt thia is not the iltrain wherewith to greet; th^ 



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78 THB NBW00MS8/ 

V 

friend newlj arriyed on oar shores. How it rejoices xoe to- behold you 
in old England 1 How you must have joyed to see Clive ! " . 

«« B. the humbug/' muttered Barnes, who knew him perfectly 

well. ** The fellow is always id the pulpit." 

The incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's chapel smiled and bowed to him. 
" You do not recognise me, sir; I have had the honour of seeing you 
in your public capacity in the City, when I have called at the bank, the 
bearer of my brother-in-law's generous " 

" Never mind that, Honey man ! " cried the Colonel. 

'* But I do mind, my dear Colonel," answers Mr. Honey man. '* I 
should be a very bad man, and a very ungrateful brother if I ever 
forgot your kindness." 

** For God's sake leave my kindness alone." 

" Hell never leave it alone as long as he can use it," muttered 
Mr. Barnes in his teeth, and turning to his uncle. '* May I take you 
home, sir? my cab is at the door; and I shall be glad to drive you.'^ 
But the Colonel said he must talk to his brother-in-law for a while, 
and, Mr. Barnes bowing very respectfully to him, slipped under a 
dowager's arm in the doorway, and retreated silently down stairs. 

Newcome was now thrown entirely upon the clergyman, and the 
latter described the personages present to the stranger who was curioua 
to know how the party was composed. Mrs. Newcome herself would 
have been pleased had she heard Honeyman's discourse regarding her 
guests and herself* Charles Honeyman so spoke of most persons that 
you might fancy they were listening over his shoulder. Such an 
assemblage of learning, genius, and virtue, might well delight and. 
astonish a stranger. ** That lady in the red turban, with the handsome 
daughters, is Lady Budge, wife of the eminent judge of that name — 
everybody was astonished that he was not made Chief Justice, and 
elevated to the Peerage— the only objection (as I have heard confiden- 
tially) was on the part of a late sovereign, who said he never could consept 
to have a peer of the name of Budge. Her ladyship was of humble, I 
have heard even menial station originally, but becomes her present rank, 
dispenses the most el^ant hospitality at her mansion in Connaught 
Terrace, and is a pattern as a wife and a mother. The young man 
talking to her daughter is a young barrister, already becoming celebrated 
as a contributor to some of our principal reviews." 

" Who is that cavalry officer in a white waistcoat talking to the Jew 
with the beard ?" asks the Colonel. 

** He — he ! That cavalry officer is another literary man of celebrity^ 
and by profession an attorney. But he. has quitted the law for th& 
Muses, and it would appear that the Nine are never wooed except by 
gentlemen with mustachios." 

" Never wrote a verse ia my life," says the Colonel laughing, and 
stroking his own. 

** For I remark so many literary gentlemen with that decoration.. 
The Jew with the beard, as you call him, is Herr von Lungen, the 
eminent hautboy-player» The three next gentlemen are Mr, Smee, of 



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THS NSWCOMEB. 79 

the Bojal Academy (who is shaved as you perceive), and Mr. Moyes^ 
and Mr. Cropper, who are both very hairy about the chin. At the piano» 
sbging, accompanied by Mademoiselle Lebran, is Signer Mezzocaldo, the 
great barytone from Rome. Professor Quartz and Baron Hammerstein, 
eelebiBted geologists from Germany, are talking with their illustrious 
confrere, Sir Robert Craxton, in the door. Do you see yonder that 
stout gentleman with snuff on his shirt ? the eloquent Dr. Mac Guffog» 
of Edinborgh, talking to Dr. £ttore, who lately escaped from the 
Inquisition at Rome in the disguise of a washerwoman, after undergoing 
the question several times, the rack and the thumbscrew. They say 
that he was to have been burned in the Grand Square the next 
morning; but between ourselves, my dear Colonel, I mistrust these 
stories of converts and martyrs* Did you ever see a more jolly-looking 
man than Professor Schnurr, who was locked up in Spielberg, and 
got out up a chimney, and through a window. Had he waited a few 
months there are very few windows he could have passed through. 
That splendid man in the red fez is Eurbash Pashar— another renegade 
I deeply lament to say — ^a hairdresser from Marseilles, by name 
Monsieur Ferchaud, who passed into Egypt, and laid aside the tongs 
for the turban. He is talking with Mr. Palmer, one of our most 
delightful young poets, and with Desmond O'Tara, son of the late 
revered bishop of Ballinafad, who has lately quitted ours for the errors 
of the Church of Rome. Let me whisper to you that your kinswoman 
is rather a searcher after what we call here notabUities. I heard talk of 
one I knew in better days — of one who was the comrade of my youth, and 
the delight of Oxford — poor Pidge of Brasenose, who got the 
Newdegate in my third year, and who, under his present name of 
Father Bartolo, was to have been here in his capuchin dress with a 
beard and bare feet ; but I presume he could not get permission from 
his Superior. That is Mr. Huff, the political economist, talking with 
Mr. Macduff, the member for Glenlivat That is the Coroner for 
Middlesex conversing with the great surgeon Sir Cutler Sharp, and that 
pretty little laughing girl talking with them is no other than the 
celebrated Miss Pennifer, whose novel of Ralph the Resurrectionist 
created such a sensation after it was abused in the Trimestrial Review. 
It was a little bold certainly — I just looked at it at my club — aftef 
hours devoted to parish duty a clergyman is sometimes allowed, you 
know, desipere in loco — there are descriptions in it certainly startling— ^ 
ideas about marriage not exactly orthodox — ^but the poor child wrote 
the book actually in the nursery, and all England was ringing with it 
before Dr. Pinnifer, her father, knew who was the author. That is the 
Doctor asleep in the comer by Miss Rudge, the American authoress, 
who I daresay is explaining to him the difference between the two 
Oovemments. My dear Mrs. Newcome, I am giving my brother-in-laW 
a Utile sketch of some of the celebrities who are crowding your salon 
to-night What a delightful evening you have given us ! " 

" I try to do my best, Colonel Newoome," said the lady of the house* 
*' I hope many a night we may see you here ; and, as I said this 



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morning, Olive, when he i$ of fin age to appfeofate tbi« kiiidof enter- 
tainment. Fashion X do not \vprship. You may meet that amongst^ 
other branches of oor family ; but genius and talent I do revereno^. 
And if I can be the means — ^the humble means — to bring men of geniu* 
together — mind to associate with mind — men of all nations to mingi4y 
mfrimdly unison — I shall riot hav« lived nltoffetker in vain. They call- 
us women of the y^oiAAfrwolmis, Oolon^i Newcome. So some may be ; 
I do not say there are not in onr own family persons who worship mere 
worldly rank, and think hat of faehion and gaiety ; but such, I trust, 
will never be the objects in life of me and my children, We are but mer- 
chants ; we seek to be no more. If I can look around m^ and see as T 
do" (she waves her fan round, and points to the illusrtrations scintillating 
round the room), *' and see as I do now-r— a Poski, whose name is ever 
connected with Polish history — an Ettore, who has exchanged a tonsure 
and a rack for our own free country — ^a Hammerstein, and a Quartz, a 
Miss Rudge, our Transatlantic sister (who I trust will not mention J^t9 
modest salon in her forthcoming work on Europe), and Miss Pinnifer, 
wliose genius I acknowledge, though T deplore her opinions ; if I can 
gather together travellers, poets, and painters, princes and distinguished 
soldiers from the East, and -clorgymen, remarkable for their eloquence, 
my humble aim is attained, and Maria Newcomo is not altogether 
useless in her generation. Will you take a little refreshment? Allow 
your tt»ttfr to go down, to the dining-rodra supported by yowc gaUsint 
arm." She fooked round to the admiring congregation, whereof 
Honeyman, as it were, acted as clerk, and flirting her fan, and flinging 
up her little head, Consummate Virtue walked down on the arm of 
the Colonel. 

The refreshment was rather moagre. The foreign artists generally 
dashed down stairs, and absorbed all the ices, creams, &c. To those 
coming late there were chicken bones, table-cloths puddled with 
melted ice, glasses hazy with sherry, and broken bits of bread. The 
Colonel said he never supped ; and he and Honeyman walked away 
together, the former to bed, the Ifitter, I am sorry to say, to his club ; 
for he was a dainty feeder, and loved lobster, and talk late at night, 
and ft comfortable little glass of something wherewith to conclude the 
<5ay. 

He agreed to come to breakfast with the Oolong, who named eight or 
nine for the meal. Nine Mr. Honeyman agreed to with a sigh. The 
incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's chapel seldom rose before eleven. For 
to tell the truth, no French AbbS of Louis XV. was naore lazy and 
luxurious, and effeminate, than our polite bachelor preacher. 

One of Colonel Newcome's fellow-passengers from India was Mr. James 
Binnie of the civil service, a jolly young bachelor of two or three and 
forty, who, having spent half of his past life in Bengal, was bent upon 
enjoying the remainder in Britain or in Europe, if a residence at heme* 
should prove agreeable to him. The nabob of books and tradition is ^ 
personage no longer to be fwind among us. He is neither as wealthy 
nor as wicked as the jaundiced monster^ of romances and ^medtqis, who 



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THE NBWCOMES. 81 

purchases the estates of broken down English gentlemen, with rupees 
tortured out of bleeding rajahs, who smokes a hookah in public, and in 
private carries about a guilty conscience, diamonds of untold value, and 
a diseased liver ; who has a vulgar wife, with a retinue of black servants 
whom she maltreats, and a gentle son and daughter with good impulses 
and an imperfect education, desirous to amend their own and their 
parents' lives, and thoroughly ashamed of the follies of the old people. 
If you go to the house of an Indian gentleman now, he does not say, 
"Bring more curricles,*' like the famous Nabob of Stanstead Park. 
He goes to Leadenhall-street in an omnibus,' and walks back from the 
city for exercise. I have known some who have had maid-servants to 
wait on them at dinner. I have met scores who look as florid and rosy 
as any British squire who has never left his paternal beef and acres. 
They do not wear nankeen jackets in summer. Their livers are not out 
of order any more; and as for hookahs, I dare swear there are not two now 
kept alight within the bills of mortality; and that retired Indians would 
as soon think of smoking them, as their wives would of burning them- 
selves on their husbands' bodies at the cemetery, Kensal Green, near to 
the Tyburnian quarter of the city which the Indian world at present 
inhabits. It used to be Baker-street and Harley-street ; it used to be 
Portland Place, and in more early days Bedford-square, where the 
Indian magnates flourished; districts which have fallen from their 
pristine state of splendour now, even as Agra, and Benares, and 
Lucknow, and Tippoo Sultan's city are fallen. 

After two- and- twenty years' absence from London, Mr. Binnie 
returned to it on the top of the Gosport coach with a hat-box and a 
little portmanteau, a pink fresh-shaven face, a perfect appetite, a suit 
of clothes like everybody else's, and not the shadow of a black servant. 
He called a cab at the White Horse Cellar, and drove to Nerot's Hotel, 
Clifford-street ; and he gave the cabman eightpence, making the fellow, 
who grumbled, understand that Clifford-street was not two hundred 
yards from Bond-street, and that he was paid at the rate of five shillings 
and fourpence per mile — calculating the mile at only sixteen hundred 
yards. He asked the waiter at what time Colonel Newcorae had 
ordered dinner, and finding there was an hour on his hands before the 
meal, walked out to examine the neighbourhood for a lodging where he 
could live more quietly than in a hotel. He called it a hotal. Mr. Binnie 
was a North Briton, his father having been a Writer to the Signet, in 
Edinburgh, who had procured his son a writership in return for 
electioneering services done to an East Indian Director. Binnie had 
his retiring pension, and, besides, had saved half his allowances ever 
since he had been in India. He was a man of great reading, no sniall 
ability, considerable accomplishment, excellent good sense and good 
humour. The ostentatious said he was a screw; but he gave away 
more mo^ey than far more extravagant people : he was a disciple of 
David Hume (whom he admired more than any other mortal), and the 
serious denounced him as a man of dangerous principles, though there 
were among the serious men much more dangerous than James Binnie. 

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82 THS NSWCOIOS. 

On returning to bis hotel. Colonel Newceme found this worthy 
gentleman installed in his room in the best arm-chair sleeping cosily ; 
the evening paper laid decently over his plump waistcoat, and his little 
legs placsd on an opposite chair. Mr. Binnie woke up briskly when the 
Colonel entered. *' It is you, you gad-about, is it? " cried the civilian. 
*' How has the beau moude of London treated the Indian Adonis ? 
Have you- made a sensation, Newcome ? Gad, Tom, I remember you 
a buck of bucks when that coat first came out to Calcutta — -just a 
Barrackpore Brummel — ^in Lord Minto's reign was it, or when Lord 
Hastings was Satrap over us ? " 

**A man must have one good coat," says the Colonel; " I don't 
profess to be a dandy ; but get a coat from a good tailor, and then have 
done with it." He still thought his garment was as handsome as need be. 

" Done with it — ^yeVe never done with it ! " cries the civilian. 

'^An old coat is an old friend, old Binnie. I don't want to be rid 
of one or the other. How long did you ^nd my boy sit up together — 
isn't he a fine lad, Binnie ? I expect you are going to put him down 
for something handsome in your will." 

** See what it is to have a real friend now, Colonel ! I sate up for 
ye, or let us say more correctly, I waited for you — ^because I knew'you 
would want to talk about that scapegrace of yours. And if I had gone 
to bed, I should have had you walking up to No. 26, and waking me 
out of my first rosy slumber. Well, now confess ; avoid not. Haven't 
ye fallen in love with some young beauty on the very first night of your 
arrival in your sister's salong, and selected a mother-in-law for young 
Scapegrace ? " 

'' Isn't he a fine fellow, James ? " says the Colonel, lighting a 
cheroot as he sits on the table. Was it joy, or the bed-room candle 
with which he lighted his cigar, which illuminated his honest features 
80, and made them so to shine ? 

** I have been occupied, sir, in taking the lad's moral measurement : 
and have pumped him as successfully as ever I cross-examined a rogue 
in my court. I place his qualities thus. — Love of approbation sixteen. 
Benevolence fourteen. Combativeness fourteen. Adhesiveness two. 
Amativeness is not yet of course fully developed, but I expect will be 
prodeegiously strong. The imaginative and reflective oi^gans are very 
large — those of calculation weak. He may make a poet or a painter, 
or you may make a sojor of him, though worse men than him's good 
enough for that — ^but a bad merchant, a lazy lawyer, and a miserable 
mathematician. He has wit and conscientiousness, so ye mustn't think 
of making a clergyman of him." 

** Binnie ! " says the Colonel, gravely, '* you are always sneering at 
the cloth." 

*' When I think that but for my appointment to India, I should have 
been a luminary of the faith and a pillar of the church ! grappling 
with the ghostly enemy in the pulpit, and giving out the psawm. £h, 
sir, what a loss Scottish Divinity has had in James Binnie ! " cries the 
little civilian with his most comical face. ** But that is not the question 

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THS KEWCOHEB. 88 

My opinion, Colonel, is, that young scapegrace will give you a deal of 
trouble ; or would, only you are so absurdly proud of him that you 
think everything he does is perfaction. Hell spend your money for 
jou : hell do as little work as need be. Hell get into scrapes with 
the sax. He's almost as simple as his father, and that is to say that 
any rogue will cheat him: and he seems to me to have got your 
obstinate habit of telling the truth, Colonel, which may prevent his 
getting on in the world, but on the other hand will keep him from going 
very wrong. So that though there is every fear for him, there's some 
hope and some consolation." 

" What 'do you think of his Latin and Greek? " asks the ColoneL 
Before going out to his party, Newcome had laid a deep scheme with 
Binnie, and it had been agreed that the latter should examine the 
young fellow in his humanities. 

" Wall," cries the Scot, " I find that the lad knows as much about 
Greek and Latin as I knew, myself when I was eighteen years of age." * 

" My dear Binnie, is it possible ? You, the best scholar in all India ! " 

" And which amounted to exactly nothing. He has acquired in five 
years, and by the admirable seestem purshood at your public schools, 
just about as much knowledge of the ancient languages, as he could 
get by three months' application at home. Mind ye, I don't say he 
would apply ; it is most probable he would do no such thing. But at 
the cost of — how much ? two hundred pounds annually — ^for five years 
— he has acquired about five and twenty guineas worth of classical 
leeterature — enough I daresay to enable him to quote Horace respectably 
through life, and what more do ye want from a young man of his 
expectations ? I think I should send him into the army, that's the best 
place for him — there's the least to do, and the handsomest clothes to 
wear. Acce segnum ! " says the little wag, daintily takmg up the tail 
of his friend's coat. 

" There's never any knowing whether you are in jest or in earnest, 
Binnie," the puzzled Colonel said. 

** How should you know, when I don't know myself?" answered the 
Scotchman. " In earnest now, Tom Newcome, I think your boy is as 
fine a lad as I ever set eyes on. He seems to have intelligence and 
good temper. He carries his letter of recommendation in his 
countenance : and with the honesty — and the rupees, mind ye — which 
he inherits from his father, the deuce is in it if he can't make his way. 
What time's the breakfast? Eh, but it was a comfcHt this morning 
not to hear the holy-stoning on the deck. We ought to go into lodgings, 
and not fling our money out of the window of this hotel. We must 
make the young chap take us about and show us the town in the 
morning, Tom. I had but three days of it five-and-twenty years ago, 
and I propose to reshoome my observations to-morrow after breakfast. 
Well just go on deck and see how's her head before we torn in. eh 
Colonel ? " and with this the jolly gentleman nodded over his candle to 
his friend, and trotted off to bed. 

The Colonel and his friend were light sleepers and early risers, like 

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84 THE NEWCOMES. 

most men that come from the country Yfhere they had both been so 
long sojourning, and were awake and dressed long before the London 
waiters had thought of quitting their beds. The housemaid was 
the only being stirring in the morning when little Mr. Binnio 
blundered over her pail as she was washing the deck. Early as he was. 
his fellow-traveller had preceded him. Binnie found the Colonel in 
his sitting-room arrayed in what are called in Scotland his stocking-feet, 
already puffing the cigar, which in truth was seldom out of his mouth 
at any hour of the day. 

He had a couple of bed-rooms adjacent to this sitting-room, and 
when Binnie, as brisk and rosy about the gills as Chanticleer, brolce 
out in a morning salutation, " Hush," says the Colonel, putting a long 
finger up to his mouth, and advancing towards him as noiselessly as a 
ghost. 

" What s in the wind now ? " asks the little Scot ; ^* and what for 
have ye not got your shoes on ? " 

" Clive's asleep," says the Colonel, with a countenance full of 
extreme anxiety. 

"The darling boy slumbers, does he?" said the wag; "mayn't I 
just step in and look at his beautiful countenance whilst he's asleep. 
Colonel ? " 

" You may if you take off those confounded creaking shoes,'* the 
other answered, quite gravely ; and Binnie turned atvay to hide his 
jolly round face, which was screwed up with laughter. 

" Have ye been breathing a prayer over your rosy infant's slumbers, 
Tom," asks Mr. Binnie. 

" And if I have, James Binnie," the Colonel said, gravely, and his 
sallow face blushing somewhat, " if I have I hope I've done no harm. 
The last time I saw him asleep was nine years ago, a sickly little pale- 
faced boy in his little cot, and now, sir, that I see him again, strong and 
handsome, and all that a fond father can wish to see a boy, I should be 
an ungrateful villain, James, if I didn't— if I didn't do what you said 
just now, and thank God Almighty for restoring him to me." 

Binnie did not laugh any more. "By George, Tom Newcome," 
said he, " you're just one of the saints of the earth. If all men were 
like you there'd be an end of both our trades; there would be no fighting 
and no soldiering, no rogues, and no magistrates to catch them." The 
Colonel wondered at his friend's enthusiasm, who was not used to 
be complimentary ; indeed what so usual with him as that simple act 
of gratitude and devotion about which his comrade spoke to him ? 
To ask a blessing for his boy was as natural to him as to wake with 
the sunrise, or to go to rest when the day was over. His first and his 
last thought was always the child. 

The two gentlemen were home in time enough to find Clive dressed, 
and his uncle arrived for breakfest. The Colonel said a grace over 
that meal : the life was begun which he had longed and prayed for, and 
the son smiling before his eyes who had been in his thoughts for so 
many fond years. 

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CHAPTER IX. 



MISS HONEYMANS. 




N Stejne Gardens, 
Brighton, the lodging- 
houses are among the 
most frequented in that 
city of lodging-houses. 
These mansions have 
how-windows in front, 
bulging out with gentle 
prominences, and orna- 
mented with neat veran- 
dahs, from which you 
can behold the tide of 
kman kind as it flows up and down the Steyne, and that blue 
ocean over which Britannia is said to rule, stretching brightly away 
eastward and westward. The chain-pier, as everybody knows, runs 
intrepidly into the sea, which sometimes, in fine weather, bathes its 
feet with laughing wavelets, and anon, on stormy days, dashes over 
its sides with roaring foam. Here, for the sum of two pence, you 
can go out to sea and pace this vast deck without need of a steward 
v^ith a basin. You can watch the sun setting in splendour over 
Worthing, or illuminating with its rising glories the ups and downs 
of Rottingdean. You see the citizen with his family inveigled into 
the shallops of the mercenary native mariner, and fancy that the 
motion cannot be pleasant ; and how the hirer of the boat, otium et oppidi 
landat intra sui, haply sighs for ease, and prefers Kichmond or 
Hampstead. You behold a hundred bathing-machines put to sea ; and 
your naughty fancy depicts the beauties splashing under their white 
awnings. Along the rippled sands (stay, are they rippled sands or 
shingly beach?) the prawn-boy seeks the delicious material of your 
breakfast. Breakfast — meal in London almost unknown, greedily 
devoured in Brighton ! In yon vessels now nearing the shore the 
sleepless mariner has ventured forth to seize the delicate whiting, the 
gieedy and foolish mackarel, and the homely sole. Hark to the 
twanging horn ! it is the early coach going out to London^ Your eye 
follows it, and rests on the pinnacles built by the beloved George. 
See the worn-out London roue pacing the pier, inhaling the sea air, 



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86 THE NEWCOMES. 

and casting furtive glances under the bonnets of the pretty girls who 
trot here before lessons ! Mark the bilious lawyer, escaped for a day 
from Pump Court, and sniffing the fresh breezes before he goes back 
to breakfast and a bag full of briefs at the Albion ! See that pretty 
string of prattling school girls, from the chubby-cheeked, flaxen-headed, 
little maiden just toddling by the side of the second teacher, to the 
arch damsel of fifteen, giggling and conscious of her beauty, whom 
Miss Griffin, the stern head-governess, awfully reproves ! See Tomkins 
with a telescope and marine-jacket ; young Nathan and young Abrams, 
already bedizened in jewellery, and rivalling the sun in oriental 
splendour — ^yonder poor invalid crawling along in her chair — 
yonder jolly fat lady examining the Brighton pebbles (I actually once 
gaw a lady buy one), and her children wondering at the sticking- 
plaister portraits with gold hair, and gold stocks, and prodigious 
high-heeled bqots^ miracles of art, and cheap at seven-and-sixpence ! 
It is the fashion to pun down George IV., but what mjriads of 
Londoners ought to thank him for inventing Brighton ! One of the 
best of physicians our city has ever known, is kind, cheerful, merry 
Doctor Brighton. Hail thou purveyor of shrimps and honest prescriber 
of South Down muttonj Tliere is no mutton so good as Brighton 
mutton ; no flys so pleasant as Brighton flys ; nor any clifif so pleasant 
to ride on ; no shops so beautiful to look at as the Brighton gimcrack 
shops, and the fruit shops, and the market. I fancy myself in 
Mrs. Honeyman's lodgings in Steyne Gardens, and in enjoyment of all 
these things. 

If the gracious reader has had losses in life, losses not so bad as to 
cause absolute want, or inflict upon him or her the bodily injury of 
starvation, >lQt . him confess that the evils of this poverty are by no 
means so great as his timorous fancy depicted. Say your money has been 
invested in West Diddlesex bonds, or other luckless speculations — 
the news of the smash comes ; you pay your outlying bills with the 
balance at the banker's ; you assemble your family and make them a 
fine speech ; the wife of your bosom goes round and embraces the sons 
and daughters seriatim; nestling in your own waistcoat finally, in 
possession of which, she says (with tender tears and fond quotations 
from Holy Writ, God bless her !), and of the darlings round about, lies 
all her worldly treasure : the weeping sen'ants are dismissed, their 
wages paid in full, and with a present of prayer and hymn books from 
their mistress ; your elegant house in Harley Street is to let, and you 
subside into lodgings in Pentonville, or Kensir^gton, or Brompton. 
How unlike the mansion where you paid taxes and distributed elegant 
hospitality for so many years ! 

You subside into lodgings, I say, and you find yourself very tolerably 
comfortable. I am not sure that in her heart your wife is not happier 
than in what she calls her happy days. She will be somebody here^ 
after : she was nobody in Harley Street : that is, ever}'body else in 
her visiting book, take the names all round, was as good as she. 



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c^^^^^m^^/i^ 



^J-U/i^y 



:^ 



t- c>w:/z^^. 



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THB KBWCOMES. 87 

Thej had the yerj same entires, plated ware, men to wait, &g., at all 
the honses where jou visited in the street. Tour candlesticks might 
be handsomer (and indeed they had a very fine effect upon the dinner- 
table), but then Mr. Jones's silverier electro-plated) dishes were much 
finer. You bad more carriages at your door on the evening of your 
delightful soirees than Mrs. Brown (there is no phrase more 
elegant, and to my taste, than that in which people are described as 
"seeing a great deal of carriage company"); but yet Mrs. Brown, 
from the circumstance of her being a baronet's niece, took precedence 
of your dear wife at most tables. Hence the latter charming woman's 
scorn at the British baronetcy, and her many jokes at the order. In 
a word, and in the height of your social prosperity, there was always 
a lurking dissatisfaction, and a something bitter, in the midst of the 
fountain of delights at which you were permitted to drink. 

There is no good (unless your taste is that way) in living in a society 
where you are merely the equal of everybody else. Many people give 
themselves extreme pains to frequent company where all around them 
are their superiors, and where, do what you will, you must be subject 
to continual mortification — (as, for instance, when Marchioness X. 
forgets you, and you can't help thinking that she cuts you on purpose ; 
when Duchess Z. passes by in her diamonds, Ac). The true pleasure 
of life is to live with your inferiors. Be the cock of your village ; the 
queen of your coterie ; and, besides very great persons, the people 
whom Fate has specially endowed with this kindly consolation, are 
those who have seen what are called better days — those who have had 
losses. I am like CsBsar, and of a noble mind : if I cannot be first in 
Piccadilly, let me try Hatton Garden, and see whether I cannot lead 
the ton there. If I cannot take the lead at White's or the Traveller's, 
let me be president of the Jolly Sandboys at the Bag of Nails, and 
blackball everybody who does not pay me honour. If my darling 
Bessy cannot go out of a drawing-room until a baronet's niece (ha I ha ! 
a baronet's niece, forsooth ! ) has walked before her, let us frequent 
company where we shall be the first ; and how can we be the first 
unless we select our inferiors for our associates ? This kind of 
pleasure is to be had by almost everybody, and at scarce any cost 
With a shilling's worth of tea and mufifins you can get as much adulation 
and respect as many people cannot purchase with a thousand pounds' 
worth of plate and profusion, hired footmen, turning their houses 
topsy-turvy, and suppers from Gunter's. Adulation ! — why, the 
people who come to you give as good parties as you do. Respect ! — 
the very menials, who wait behind your supper-table, waited at a duke's 
yesterday, and actually patronise you ! you silly spendthrift ! you 
can buy flattery for twopence, and you spend ever so much money in 
entertaining your equals and betters, and nobody admires you ! 

Now Aunt Honey man was a woman of a thousand virtues ; cheerful, 
frugal, honest, laborious, charitable, good-humoured, truth-telling, 
devoted to her family, capable of any sacrifice for those she loved; 



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88 ' THE KEWCOMES. 

and when she came to have losses of money, Fortane straightway 
compensated her by many kindnesses which no income can supply. 
The good old lady admired the word gentlewoman of all others in the 
English vocabulary, and made all around her feel that such was her 
rank. Her mother s father was a naval captain ; her father had taken 
pupils, got a living, sent his son to college, dined with the squire, 
published his volume of sermons, was liked in his parish, where 
Miss Honeyman kept house for him, was respected for his kindness 
and famous for his port-wine ; and. so died, leaving about two hundred 
pounds a year to his two children, nothing to Clive Newcome's mother, 
who had displeased him by her first marriage (an elopement with 
Ensign Casey), and subsequent light courses. Charles Honeyman 
spent his money elegantly in wine parties at Oxford, and afterwards in 
foreign travel ; — spent his money, and as much of Miss Honey man's as 
^that worthy soul would give him. She was a woman of spirit and 
resolution. She brought her furniture to Brighton, believing that the 
whole place still fondly remembered her grandfather. Captain Nokes, 
who had resided there, and his gallantry in Lord Eodney's action with 
the Count de Grasse, took a house and let the upper floors to lodgers.. 

The little brisk old lady brought a maid-servant out of the country 
with her, who was daughter to her father's clerk, and had learned her 
letters and worked her first sampler under Miss Honeyman's own eye, 
whom she adored all through her life. No Indian begum rolling in 
wealth, no countess mistress of castles and town-houses, ever had such 
a faithful toady as Hannah Hicks was to her mistress. Under Hannah 
was a young lady from the workhouse, who called Hannah, "Mrs. Hicks, 
mum," and who bowed in awe as much before that domestic as Hannah 
did before Miss Honeyman. At five o'clock in summer, at seven in 
winter (for Mrs. Honeyman, a good economist, was chary of candle- 
light), Hannah woke up little Sally, and these three women rose. 
I leave you to imagine what a row there was in the establishment if 
Sally appeared with flowers under her bonnet, gave signs of levity or 
insubordination, prolonged her absence when sent forth for the beer, 
or was discovered in flirtation with the baker's boy or the grocer's 
young man. Sally was frequently renewed. Miss Honeyman called 
all her young persons Sally ; and a great number of Sallies were con- 
sumed in her house. The qualities of the Sally for the time being 
formed a constant and delightful subject of conversation between 
Hannah and her mistress. The few friends who visited Miss 
Honeyman in her back-parlour, had their Sallies, in discussing whose 
peculiarities of disposition these good ladies passed the hours agreeably 
over their tea. 

Many persons who let lodgings in Brighton have been servants thena- 
selves—are retired housekeepers, tradesfolk, and the like. With these 
sun'ounding individuals Hannah treated on a footing of equality, bringing 
to her mistress accounts of their various goings on ; ** how No. 6 was let;: 
how No. 9 had not paid his rent again ; how the first-floor at 27 had 



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THE KEWCOMES. 89 

game almost every day, and made-dishes from Mutton's ; how the family 
who had taken Mrs. Bugsby *s had left as usual after the very first night, 
the poor little infant blistered all over with bites on its little dear face; 
how the Miss Learys was going on shameful with the two young men, 
actially in their setting-room, mum, where one of them offered Miss 
Laura Leary a cigar ; how Mrs. Oribb still went cuttin' pounds and 
pounds of meat off the lodgers* jints, emptying their tea-caddies, actially 
reading their letters. Sally had been told so by Polly the Cribb's maid, 
who was kep, how that poor child was kep, hearing language perfectly 
hawful ! " These tales and anecdotes, not altogether redounding to their 
neighbours* credit, Hannah copiously collected and brought to her 
mistress's tea-table, or served at her frugal little supper when Miss 
Honeyman, the labours of the day over, partook of that cheerful meal. 
I need not say that such horrors as occurred at Mrs. Bugsby's never 
befel in Mrs. Honeyman *s establishment. Every room was fiercely' 
swept and sprinkled, and watched by cunning eyes which nothing could 
escape ; curtains were taken down, mattresses explored, every bone in 
bed dislocated and washed as soon as a lodger took his departure. And 
03 for cribbing meat or sugar, Sally might occasionally abstract a lump 
or two, or pop a veal-cutlet into her mouth while bringing the dishes 

^ down stairs : — Sallies would — giddy creatures bred in workhouses— but 
Hannah might be entrusted with untold gold and uncorked brandy, and 
Miss Honeyman would as soon think of cutting a slice off Hannah's 
nose and devouring it, as of poaching on her lodgers* mutton. The 
best mutton-broth, the best veal-cutlets, the best necks of mutton and 
French beans, the best fried fish and plumpest partridges, * in all 
Brighton, were to be had at Miss Honeyman s — and for her favourites 
the best Indian currie and rice, coming from a distinguishfed.relative, at 
present an officer in Bengal. But very few were admitted to this mark 
of Miss Honeyman 's confidence. If a family did not go to church 
they were not in favour : if they went to a dissenting meeting she had 
no opinion of them at all. Once there came to her house a quiet 
Staffordshire family who ate no meat on Fridays, and whom Miss 
Honeyman pitied as belonging to the Romish superstition : but when 
iliey were visited by two corpulent gentlemen in black, one of whom 
>vore a purple under waistcoat, before whom the Staffordshire lady 
absolutely sank down on her knees as he went into the drawing-room ; 
Mrs. Honeyman sternly gave warning to these idolaters. She would 
have no Jesuits in hei- premises. She showed Hannah the picture in 
Howell's Medulla of the martyrs burning at Smithfield : who said, 
"Lord bless you, mum," and hoped it was a long time ago. She called 
on the curate : and many and many a time, for years after, pointed out 

•to her friends, and sometimes to her lodgers, the spot on the carpet 
where the poor benighted creature had knelt down. So she went on 
respected by all her friends, by all her tradesmen, by herself not a 
little, talking of her previous ** misfortunes " with amusing equanimity ; 
as if her father's parsonage house had been a palace of splendour, and 



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90 THB NBWCOMSS. 

tbe one horse chaise (with the lamps for evening) from which she had 
descended, a noble equipage. " But I know it is for the best, Clive," 
she would say to her nephew in describing those grandeurs, "and, 
thank heaven, can be resigned in that station in life to which it has 
pleased God to call me.*' 

The good ladj was called the Dudiess by her fellow tradesfolk in 
the square in which she lived. (I don't know what would h&ve come to 
her had she been told she was a tradeswoman !) Her batchers, bakers, 
and market-peogple, • paid her as much respect as though she had been 
a grandee's housekeeper out of Kemp Town. Knowing her station, 
she yet was kind to those inferior beings. She held afiable conversa- 
tions with them, she patronised Mr. Rogers, who was said to be worth a 
hundred thousand — ^two hundred thousand pound, (or lbs. was it?) and 
who said, *' Law bless tbe old Duchess, she do make as much of a pound 
of veal-cutlet as some would of a score of bullocks, but you see she's a 
lady bom and a lady bred : she*d die before she'd owe a farden, and 
she's seen better days, you know." She went to see the grocer's wife on 
an interesting occasion, and won the heart of the family by tasting their 
caudle. Her fishmonger (it w£is fine to hear her talk of "my fish- 
monger ") would sell her a whiting as respectfully as if she had called 
for a dozen turbots and lobsters. It was believed by those good folks . 
that her father had been a Bishop at the very least : and tlie better 
days which she had known were supposed to signify some almost 
unearthly prosperity. ** I have always founds Hannah," the simple soul 
would say, " that people know their place, or can be very very easily 
made to find it if they lose it ; and if a gentlewoman does not forget 
herself, her inferiors will not forget that she is a gentlewoman." ** No 
indeed, mum, and I'm sure they would do no such thing, *knum," says 
Hannah, who carries away the teapot for her own breakfast, (to be 
transmitted to Sally for her subsequent refection) whilst her mistress 
washes her cup and saucer, as her mother had washed her own China 
many scores of years ago. 

If some of the surrounding lodging-house keepers, as I have no 
doubt they did, disliked the little Duchess for the airs which she gave 
herself, as they averred ; they must have envied her too her superior 
prosperity, for there was scarcely ever a card in her window, whilst those 
ensigns in her neighbours' houses would remain exposed to the flies and 
the weather, and disregarded by passers by for months together. She 
had many regular customers, or what should be rather called constant 
friends. Deaf old Mr. Cricklade came every winter for fourteen years^ 
and stopped until the hunting was over ; an invaluable man, giving 
little trouble, passing all day on horseback, and all night over his rubber 
at the club. Tbe Misses Barkham, Barkhambury, Tunbridge Wells, 
whose father had been at college with Mr. Honey man, came regularly 
in June for sea air, letting Barkhambury for the summer season. Then, 
for many years, she had her nephew as we have seen; and kind 
recommendations from the clergymen of Brighton, and a constant friend 



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THE NBWOOMBS. 91 

in the celebrated Dr. Ooodenougb of London, who had been her 
father's private pupil, and of his college afterwards, who sent his 
pitients from time to time down to her, arid his fellow physician, Dr. 
H , who- on his part woald never take any fee from Miss Honey- 
man, except a packet of India currie- powder, a ham cured as she ouJy 
knew how to cure them, and once a year, or so, a dish of her tea. 

^' Was there ever such luck as that confounded old Duchesses," says 
Mr. Gawler, coal-merchant and lodging-house keeper, next door but 
two, whose apartments were more odious in some respects than Mrs. 
Bugsby's own. ** Was there ever such devil's own luck, Mrs. G. ? It's 
only a fortnight ago as I read in the ' Sussex Advertiser * the death of 
Miss Barkham, of Barkhambnry, Tunbridge Wells, and thinks I there's 
a spoke in your wheel, you stuck-up little old Duchess, with your cussed 
airs and impudence. And she ain't put her card up three days ; and 
look yer©i yere's two carriages, two maids, three children, one of them 
wrapped up in a Hinjar shawl — man bout a livery, — looks like a foring 
cove I think — lady in satin pelisse, and of course they go to the 
Duchess, be hanged to her. Of course it's our luck, nothing ever was 
like our luck. I'm blowed if I don't put a pistol to my 'ead, and end it, 
Mrs. G. ^ There they go in — three, four, six, seven on 'em, and the 
man. That's the precious child^s physic I suppose he's a carryin' in the 
basket. Just look at the luggage. I say I There's a bloody hand on 
the first carriage. It's a baronet, is it ? I 'ope your ladyship's very. 
well ; and I 'ope Sir John will soon be down yere to join his family." 
Mr. Gawler makes sarcastic bows over the card in his bow- window whilst 
making this speech. The little Gawlers rush on to the drawing-room 
verandah themselves to examine the new arrivals. 

*' This is Mrs. Honeyman's ? " asks the gentleman designated by Mr. 
Crawler as " the foring cove," and hands in a card on which the words 
" Mrs. Honeyman, 110, Steyne Gardens. J. Goodenough," are written in 
that celebrated physician's handwriting. " We want five bet-rooms, six 
bets, two or three sitting-rooms. Have you got dese ? " 

" Will you speak to my mistress ? " says Hannah. And if it is a 
to that Miss Honeyman does happen to be in the front parlour looking 
at the carriages, what harm is there in the circumstance, pray ? Is not 
Crawler looking, and the people next door ? Are not half a dozen little 
boys already gathered in the street (as if they started up out of the 
trap-doors for the coals), and the nursery maids in the stunted little 
garden, are not they looking through the bars of the square ? " Please 
to speak to mistress," says Hannah, opening the parlour-door, and with 
a curtsey, " a gentleman about the apartments, mum.'* 

" Five -bet-rooms," says the man, entering. " Six bets, two or dree 
sitting-rooms ? We gome from Dr. Goodenough." 

"Are the apartments for you, sir? " says the little Duchess, looking 
up at the large gentleman. 

** For my Lady," answers the man. 

" Had yoa not better take off your hat? " asks the Duchess, pointing 



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92 THE NEWCOMES. 

out of one of her little mittens to * the foring cove's ' beaver, which be 
has neglected to. remove. 

The man grins, and takes off the hat. " I beck your bardon, 
nm*am," says he. "Have you fife bet-rooms ?" &c. The Doctor has 
cured the German of an illness, as well as his employers, and especially 
recommended Miss Honeyman to Mr. Kuhn. 

*• I have such a number of apartments. My servant will show them 
to you." And. she walks back with great state to her chair by the 
window, and resumes her station and work there. 

Mr. Kuhn reports to his mistress, who descends to inspect the apart- 
ments, accompanied through them by Hannah. The rooms are 
pronounced to be exceedingly neat and pleasant, and exactly what are 
wanted for the family. The baggage is forthwith ordered to be brought 
from the carriages. The little invalid wrapped in his shawl is brought 
up-stairs by the affectionate M,r. Kuhn, who carries him as gently as if 
lie had been bred all his life to nurse babies. The smiling Sally (the 
Sally for the time being happens to be a very fresh pink-cheeked pretty 
little Sally) emerges from the kitchen and introduces the young ladies, 
the governess, the maids, to their apartments. The eldest, a sHra 
black-haired young lass of thirteen, frisks about the rooms, looks at all 
the pictures, runs in and out of the verandah, tries the piano, and 
bursts out laughing at its wheezy jingle (it had been poor Emma's 
piano, bought for her on her seventeenth birthday, three weeks before 
she ran away with the ensign ; her music is still in the stand by it : 
the Rev. Charles Honeyman has warbled sacred melodies over it, and 
Miss Honeyman considers it a delightful instrument), kisses her 
languid little brother laid on the sofa, and performs a hundred gay and 
agile motions suited to her age. 

" O what a piano ! Why it is as cracked as Miss Quigley's 
voice ! " J " 

" My dear ! " says mamma. The little languid boy bursts out into 
a jolly laugh. 

** What funny pictures, mamma! Action with Count do Grasse; 
the death of General Wolfe ; a portrait of an officer, an old officer in 
blue, like grandpapa ; Brazen Nose College, Oxford : what a funny 
name." . 

At the idea of Brazen Nose College, another laugh comes from the 
invalid. " I suppose they've all got brass noses there," he says ; and 
explodes at this joke. The poor little laugh ends in a cough, and 
mamma's travelling basket, which contains everything, produces a bottle 
of syrup, labelled " Master A. Newcome. A tea-spoonful to be taken 
when the cough is troublesome." 

** the delightful sea ! the blue, the fresh, the ever free," sings the 
young lady, with a shake. (I suppose the maritime song from which 
she quoted was just written at this time.) " How much better this is 
than going home and seeing those horrid factories and chimnies ! I 
love Doctor Goodenough for sending us here. What a sweet house it 



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THE KBWCOMES. 93 

is! Everybody is happy in it, even Miss Quigley is happy, mamma. 
What nice rooms ! What pretty chintz. What a — what a — com- 
fortable sofa ! " and she falls down on the sofa, which, truth to Say, 
was the Rev. Charles Honeyman's luxurious sofa from Oxford, presented 
to him by young Gibber Wright of Christchurch, when that gentleman 
commoner was eliminated from the University. 

" The person of the house," mamma says, " hardly comes up to 
Dr. Goodenough*s description of her. He says he remembers her a 
pretty little woman when her father was bis private tutor." 

" She has grown very much since," says the girl. And an explosion 
takes place from the sofa, where the little man is always ready to laugh 
at any joke, or anything like a joke, uttered by himself or by any of his 
family or friends. As for Doctor Goodenough, he says laughing 
has saved that boy's life. 

" She looks quite like a maid," continues the lady. " She has hard 
hands, and she called me mum always. I was quite disappointed in 
her." And she subsides into a novel, with many of which kind of 
works, and with other volumes, and with work-boxes, and with 
wonderful inkstands, portfolios, portable days of the month, scent- 
bottles, scissor-cases, gilt miniature easels displaying portraits, and 
countless gim-cracks of travel, the rapid Kuhn has covered the tables 
in tbe twinkling of an eye. 

The person supposed to be the landlady enters the room at this junc- 
ture, and the lady rises to receive her. The little wag on the sofa puts his 
arm round his sister's neck, and whispers, " I say, Eth, isn't she a pretty 
girl? I shall write to Doctor Goodenough and tell him how much she's 
grown." Convulsions follow this sally to the surprise of Hannah, who 
says, *' Pooty little dear ! — what time will he have his dinner, mum ? " 

'* Thank you, Mrs. Honeyman, at two o'clock," says the lady with a 
bow of her head. " There is a clergyman of your name in London ; is 
he a relation ? " The lady in her turn is astonished, for the tall person 
breaks out into a grin, and says, "Law, mum, you're speakin' of Master 
Charles. He's in London." 

" Indeed !— of Master Charles ? " 

** And you take me for missis, mum. I beg your pardon, mum," 
cries Hannah. The invalid hits his sister in the side with a weak little 
fist. If laughter can cure, Salva est res. Doctor Goodenough 's patient 
is safe. ** Master Charles is missis's brother, mum. I've got no 
brother, mum — never had no brother. Only one son, who's in the 
Police, mum, thank you. And law bless me, I was going to forget ! 
If you please, mum, missis says, if you are quite rested, she will pay 
her duty to you, mum." 

"0 indeed," says the lady, rather stiffly; and taldng this for an 
acceptance of her mistress's visit, Hannah retires. 

'*This Miss Honeyman seems to be a great personage," says 
the lady. " If people let lodgings, why do they give theinselves 
such airs 9 » 



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94 THE KEWGOMSS. 

*' W« never ttw Monsieiir de Biogne at Boulogne, mamma," inter- 
poses the girl. 

'* Monsieur de Boigne, my dear Etbel \ Monsieor de Boigne is very 
well. But — '* here the door opens, and in a large cap briatling with 
ribbons, with her best chesnut front, and her best black silk gown, on 
which her gold watch shines very splendidly, little ^ Miss Honeyman 
makes her appearance, and a dignified curtsey to her lodger. 

That lady youchsafes a very slight inclination of the head indeed, 
which she repeats when Miss Honeyman says, ** I am glad to hear your 
ladyship is pleased with the apartments." 

" Yes, they will do very well, thank you," answers the latter person, 
gravely. 

" And they have such a beautiful view of the sea! " cries Ethel. 

** As if all the houses hadn't a view of the sea, Ethel ! The price 
has been arranged, I think ? My servants vrill require a comfortable 
room to dine in — by themselves, ma'am, if you please. My governess 
and the younger children will dine together. My daughter dines with 
me — and my little boy's dinner will be ready at two o'clock precisely, 
if you please. It is now near one." 

" Am I to understand ?" interposed Miss Honeyman. 

** O ! I have no doubt we shall understand each other, ma'am," 
cried Lady Ann Newcome, (whose noble presence the acute reader has 
no doubt ere this divined and saluted). *' Doctor Goodenough has given 
me a most satisfactory account of you — more satisfieustory perhaps than 
— than you are aware of." Perhaps Lady Ann's sentence was not 
going to end in a very satisfactory way for Mrs. Honeyman ; but, awed 
by a peculiar look of resolution in the little lady, her lodger of an hour 
paused in whatever offensive remark she might have been about to 
make. ''It is as well that I at last have the pleasure of seeing you, 
that I may state what I want, and that we may, as you say, understand 
each other. Breakfast and tea, if you please, will be served in the same 
manner as dinner. And you will have the kindness to order fresh milk 
every morning for my little boy — ass's milk — Doctor Goodenough has 
ordered ass's milk. Anything further I want I will communicate 
through the person who spoke to you — Kuhn, Mr. Kuho, and that 
wiU do." 

A heavy shower of rain was descending at this moment, and little 
Mrs. Honeyman looking at her lodger, who had sate down and taken 
up her book, said, ''Have your ladyship's servants unpacked your 
trunks ? " 

"What on earth, madam, have you — ^has that to do with the 
question ? " 

" They vnll be put to the trouble of packing again, I fear. I cannot 
provide — three times five are fifteen — fifteen separate meals for seven 
persons — besides those of my own family. If your servants cannot eat 
with mine, or in my kitchen, they and their mistress must go elsewhere. 
And the sooner the better, madam, the sooner the better ! " says Mrs. 



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THE NSWCOMES. 95 

HoDOjman, trembling with iadignation, and sitting down in a chair 
spreading her silks. 

" Do you know who I am ? " asks Lady Ana, rising. 

"Perfectly well, madam/* says the other. " And had I known, you 
should never have come into my house, that's more." 

" Madam ! " cries the lady, on which the poor little invalid, scared 
and nervous, and hungry for his dinner, began to cry from his sofa. 

*' It will be a pity that the dear little boy should be disturbed. Dear 
little child, I have often heard of him, and of you, miss," says the little 
householder rising. " I will get you some dinner, my dear, for Olive's 
sake. And meanwhile your ladyship will have the kindness to seek for 
some other apartments — for not a bit shall my fire cook for any one 
else of your company.'* And with this the indignant little landlady sailed 
out of the room. 

" Gracious goodness ! Who is the woman ? " cries Lady Ann. " I 
never was so insulted in my life." 

" mamma, it was you begun I "> says downright Ethel. " That is — 
Hush, Alfred dear. — Hush, my darling ! " 

" it was mamma began ! I'm so hungry ! I'm so hungry ! " 
howled the little man on the sofa— 7or off it rather — for he was now 
down on the ground, kicking away the shawls which enveloped him. 

" What is it, my boy ? What is it, my blessed darling ? You shaU 
have your dinner ! Give her all, Ethel. There are the keys of my 
desk — there's my watch — there are my rings. Let her take my all. 
The monster ! the child must live ! It can't go away in such a storm 
as this. Give me a cloak, a parasol^ anything — 111 go forth and get a 
lodging. I'll beg my bread from house to house — ^if this fiend refuses 
me. Eat the biscuits, dear ! A little of the syrup, Alfred darling; it's 
very nice, love ! and come to your old mother — ^your poor old mother." 

Alfred roared out " No — it's not n — ice : it's n — a — a — ^asty ! I 
won't have syrup. I will have dinner." The mother, whose embraces 
the child repelled with infantine kicks, plunged madly at the bells, 
rang them all four vehemently, and ran down-stairs towards the parlour, 
whence Miss Honeyman was issuing. 

The good lady had not at first known the names of. her lodgers, but 
had taken them in willingly enough on Dr. Goodenough's recommenda- 
tion. And it was not until one of the nurses entrusted- with the 
care of Master Alfred's dinner informed Miss Honeyman of the name 
of her guest, that she knew she was entertaining Lady Ann Newcome : 
and that the pretty girl was the fair Miss Ethel ; the little sick boy, 
the little Alfred of whom his cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had 
made a hundred little drawings in his rude way, as he drew everybody. 
Then bidding Sally run off to St. James's Street for a chicken — she 
saw it put on the spit, and prepared a bread sauce, and composed a 
hatter-pudding as she only knew how to make batter-puddings. Then 
she went to array herself in her best clothes, as we have seen — as we 
We heard rather (Goodness forbid that we should see Miss Honeyman 



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96 THE NEWCOMES. 

arraying herself, or penetrate that chaste mystery, her toilette!): 
then she came to wait upon Lady Ann, not a little flurried as to tho 
result of that queer interview ; then she whisked out of the drawing- 
room as hefore has been shown ; and, finding the chicken roasted to a 
turn, the napkin and tray ready spread by Hannah the neat-handed, 
she was bearing them tip to the little patient when the frantic parent 
met her on the stair. 

"Is it — is it for my child?" cried Lady Ann, reeling against the 
bannister. 

" Yes, it's for the child," says Mrs. Honeyman, tossing up her head. 
" But nobody else has anything in the house." 

" God bless you — God bless you ! A mother's bl — 1 — essings go 
with you," gurgled the lady, who was not, it must be confessed, a woman 
of strong moral character. 

It was good to see the little man eating the fowl. . Ethel, who had 
never cut anything in her young existence, except her fingers now and 
then with her brother's and her governess's pen-knives, bethought her 
of asking Miss Honeyman to carve the chicken. Lady Ann, with 
clasped hands and streaming eyes, sate looking on at the ravishing 
scene. 

" Why did you not let us know you were Olive's aunt? " Ethel asked, 
putting out her hand. The old lady took hers very kindly, and said, 
** Because you didn't give me time. And do you love Olive, my dear ? " 

The reconciliation between Miss Honeyman and her lodger was 
perfect. Lady Ann wrote a quire of note-paper ofif to Sir Brian for 
that day's post — only she was too late, as she always was. Mr. Kuhn 
perfectly delighted Miss Honeyman that evening by his droll sayings, 
jokes, and pronunciation, and by his praises of Master Glife, as he 
called him. He lived out of the house, did everything for everybody, 
was never out of the way when wanted, and never in the way when 
not wanted. Ere long Mrs. Honeyman got out a bottle of the famous 
Madeira which her Colonel sent her, and treated him to a glass in her 
own room. Kuhn smacked his lips and held out the glass again. The 
honest rogue knew good wine. 



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CHAPTER X. 

ETHEL AND HER BELATIOKS. 



OR four-and-twcnty suc- 
cessive hours Lady Ann 
Newcome was perfectly 
in raptures with her new 
lodgings, and every per- 
son and thing which they 
contained. The drawing- 
rooms were fitted with 
the greatest taste: the- 
dinner was exquisite. 
Were there ever such 
delicious veal cutlets, such 
verdant French beans? 
** Why do we have those 
odious French cooks, my 
dear, with their shocking 
principles — the principles 
of all Frenchmen are 
shocking — and the dread- 
ful bills they bring us in ; 
and their consequential 
airs and graces? I am 
determined to part with 
Brignol. I have written 
to your father this even- 
ing to give Brignol warning. When did he ever give us veal cutlets ? 
What can be nicer ? " 

" Indeed they were very good," said Miss Ethel, who had mutton 
five times a week at one o^clock. "I am so glad you like the house, 
and Clive, and Mrs. Honeyman." 

'* Like her ! the dear litUe old woman. I feel as if she had been 
^J friend all my life ! I feel quite drawn towards her. What a 
wonderful coincidence that Dr. Goodenough should direct us to this 
^«rjr house ! I have written to your father about it. And to think 
^t I should have written to Olive at this very house, and quite 




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98 THE NEWCOMES. 

forgotten Mrs. Honeyman's name — and such an odd name too. I 
forget everything, everything! You know I forgot your Aunt 
Louisa's husband's name ; and when I vras god-mother to her baby, 
and the clergyman said, * What is the infant's name ?' I said, * Really 
I forget.' And so I did. He was a London clergyman, but I forget 
at what church. Suppose it should be this very Mr. Honeyman! 
It may have been, you know : and then the coincidence would be 
still more droll. That tall, old, nice-looking respectable person, with 
a mark on her nose, the housekeeper — what is her name? — seems a 
most invaluable person. I think I shall ask her to come to us. I 
am sure she would save me I don't know how much money every 
week ; and I am certain Mrs. Trotter is making a fortune by us. I shall 
write to your papa, and ask him permission to ask this person." Ethel's 
mother was constantly falling in love with her new acquaintances; 
their man-servants and their maid-servants, their horses and ponies, 
and the visitor within their gates. She would ask strangers to New- 
<»uiie, hog and. embrace them on Sunday; not speak to them on 
Monday; and on Tuesday behave so rudely to them, that they were 
gone before Wednesday. Her daughter had had so many governesses 
—all darlings, during the first week, and monsters afterwards — that 
the poor child possessed none of the accomplishments of her age. She 
<x>uld not play on the piano ; she could not speak French well; she 
could not tell you when gunpowder was invented: she bad not the 
faintest idea of the date of the Norman Conquest, or whether the Earth 
went round the sun, or vice versa. She did not know the number of 
counties in England, Scotland, and Wales, let alone Ireland ; she did 
not know the difference between latitude and longitude. She had 
had so many governesses: their accounts differed: poor Ethel was 
betwildexed by a multiplicity of teachers, and thought herself a monster 
of ignonmce. They gave her a book at a Sunday School, and little 
girls of ei^t years old answered questions, of which §ihe knew 
nothing. The place swam before her. She could not see the sun 
shilling on their fair flaxen heads and pretty faces. The rosy little 
duidren holding up their eager hands, and crying the answer to this 
^lestion and that, seemed mocking her. She seemed to read in the 
book; "O Ethel, yon dunce, dunce, dunce!" She went home silent 
in the carriage, and burst into bitter tears on her bed. Naturally a 
haughty giri of the highest spirit, resolute and imperious, this little 
visit to the parish school taught Ethel lessons more valuable than 
ever so much arithmetic and geography. Olive has told me a story 
of her in her youth, which, perhaps, may apply to some others 
of the youthful female aristocracy. She used to walk, with other select 
yoimig ladies and gi»itlemen, their nurses and governesses, in a certain 
reserved plot of ground railed off from Hyde Park, vrfaereof . some of 
the lucky dwellers in the neighbourhood of Apsley House have a key. 
In this garden, at tlie age of nine or thereabout, Bhe had contractod an 
intHiiBte frieitdship with the Lord Hercules O'Ryan — as every one 



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THE NEWCOMES. 



99 



of my gentle readers knows, one of the sons of the Masqais of 
BaUjrshaiinon. The Lord Hercules was a year youager than Miss 




Ethel Newcome, which may account for the passion which grew up 
between these young persons; it being a provision in nature that 
a boy always falls in love with a girl older than himself, or rather, 
perhaps, that a girl bestows her affections on a little boy, who submits 
to receive them. 

One day Sir Brian Newcome announced his intention to go to 
Newcome that very morning, taking his family, and of course Ethel, 
with him. She was inconsolable. "What will Lord Hercules do 
when he finds I am gone?" she asked of her nurse. The nurse 
endeavouring to soothe her, said, '* Perhaps his Lordship would know 
nothing about the circumstance.*' "He will," said Miss Ethel — 
'^he'U read it in the newspaper" My Lord Hercules, it is to be 
hoped, strangled this infant passion in the cradle ; having long since 

married Isabella, only daughter of Grains, Esq., of Drayton 

Windsor, a partner in the great brewery of Foker and Co. 

When Ethel vras thirteen years old, she had grown to be such a tall 
girl, that she overtopped her companions by a head or more, and 
morally perhaps, also, felt herself too tall for their society. " Fancy 
myself," she thought, " dressing a doll like Lily Putland, or wearing 
a pmafore like Lucy Tucker ! " She did not care for their sports. She 
could not walk with them : it seemed as if every one stared ; nor 
dance with them at the academy, nor attend the Cours de Litterature 
Universelle et de Science Comprehensive of the professor then the 
mode— the smallest girls took her up in the class. She was bewildered 

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100 THE NEWCOMES. 

bj the multitade of things they bade her learn. At the youthful 
little assemblies of her sex, when, under the guide of their respected 
governesses, the girls came to tea at six o'clock, dancing, charades, 
and so forth, Ethel herded not with the children of her own age, 
nor yet with the teachers who sit apart at these assemblies, imparting 
to each other their little wrongs ; but Ethel romped with the little 
children — the rosy little trots — ^and took them on her knees, and 
told them a thousand stories. By these she was adored, and loved 
like a mother almost, for as such the hearty kindly girl showed herself 
to the'm ; but at home she was alone farouche and intractable, and 
did battle with the governesses, and overcame them one after another. 
I break the promise of a former page, and am obliged to describe the 
youthful days of more than one person who is to take a share in this 
story. Not always doth the writer know whither the divine Muse leadeth 
him. But of this be sure ; she is as inexorable as Truth. We must tell 
our tale as she imparts it to us, and go on or turn aside at her bidding. 

Here she ordains that we should speak of other members of this 
family, whose history we chronicle, and it behoves us to say a word 
regarding the Earl of Kew, the head of the noble house into which 
Sir Brian Newcome had married. 

When we read in the fairy stories that the King and Queen, who- 
lived once upon a time, build a castle of steel, defended by moats and 
sentinels innumerable, in which they place their darling only child^ 
the Prince or Princess, whose birth has blest them after so many 
years of marriage, and whose christening feast has been interrupted 
by the cantankerous humour of that notorious old fairy who always 
persists in coming, although she has not received any invitation to the 
baptismal ceremony : when Prince Prettyman is locked up in the steel 
tower, provided only with the most wholesome food, the most edifying 
educational works, and the most venerable old tutor to instruct and to- 
bore him, we know, as a matter of course, that the steel bolts and 
brazen bars will one day be of no avail, the old tutor will go off in a. 
doze, and the moats and drawbridges will either be passed by his 
Koyal Highnesses implacable enemies, or crossed by the young scape- 
grace himself, who is determined to outwit his guardians, and see the 
wicked world. The old King and Queen always come in and find 
the chambers empty, the saucy heir-apparent flown, the porters and 
sentinels drunk, the ancient tutor asleep ; they tear their venerable 
wigs in anguish, they kick the major-domo down stairs, they turn 
the duenna out of doors, the toothless old dragon. There is no 
resisting fate. The Princess will slip out of window by the rope- 
ladder ; the Prince will be off to pursue his pleasures, and sow his wild 
oats at the appointed season. How many of our English princes have 
been coddled at home by their fond papas and mammas, walled up 
in inaccessible castles, with a tutor and a library, guarded by cordons 
of sentinels, sermoners, old aunts, old women from the world without,, 
and have nevertheless escaped from all these guardians, and astonished 



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THE NEWCOMES. 101 

the world by their extravagance and their frolics. What a wild rogue 
was that Prince Harry, son of the austere sovereign who robbed 
Eichard the Second of his crown, — the youth who took purses on 
Oadshill, frequented Eastcheap taverns with Colonel Falstafif and 
worse company, and boxed Chief Justice Gascoigne's ears. What 
must have been the venerable Queen Charlotte's state of mind when 
she heard of the courses of her beautiful young Prince ; of his punting 
at gambling-tables ; of his dealings with horse jockeys ; of his awful 
doings with Perdita? Besides instances taken from our Royal 
Family, could we not draw examples from our respected nobility ? 
There was that young Lord Warwick, Mr. Addison's step-son. We 
know that his mother was severe, and his step-father a most eloquent 
moralist, yet the young gentleman's career was shocking, positively 
shocking. He boxed the watch ; he fuddled himself at taverns ; he 
vas BO better than a Mohock. The chronicles of that day contain 
Accounts of many a mad prank which he played, as we have legends of 
A still earlier date of the lawless freaks of the wild Prince and Poyns. 
Our people has never looked very unkindly on these frolics. A 
young nobleman, full of life and spirits, generous of his money, jovial 
in his humour, ready with his sword, frank, handsome, prodigal, 
courageous, always finds favour. Young Scapegrace rides a steeple- 
chase or beats a bargeman, and the crowd applauds him. Sages and 
seniors shake their heads, and look at him not unkindly ; even stern 
old female moralists are disarmed at the sight of youth and gallantry, 
^nd beauty* I know very well that Charles Surface is a sad dog, and 
Tom Jones no better than he should be ; but, in spite of such critics as 
Dr. Johnson and Colonel Newcome, most of us have a sneaking regard 
for honest Tom, and hope Sophia will be happy, and Tom will end 
well at last. 

Five-and-twenty years ago the young Earl of Kew came upon the 
town, which speedily rang with the feats of his Lordship. He began 
life time enough to enjoy certain pleasures from which our young 
aristocracy of the present day seem, alas ! to be cut off. So much 
more peaceable and polished do we grow, so much does the spirit of 
the age appear to equalise all ranks ; so strongly has the good sense 
of society, to which in the end gentlemen of the very highest fashion 
must bow, put its veto upon practices and amusements with which 
our fathers were familiar. At that time the Sunday newspapers con- 
tained many and many exciting reports of boxing matches. Bruising 
was considered a fine manly old English custom. Boys at public 
schools fondly perused histories of the noble science, from the redoubt- 
able days of Broughton and Slack, to the heroic times of Dutch Sam 
and the Game Chicken. Young gentlemen went eagerly to Moulsey 
to see the Slasher punch the Pet's head, or the Negro beat the Jew's 
nose to a jelly. The island rang as yet with the tooting horns and 
rattling teams of mail coaches ; a gay sight was the road in merry 
England Ih those days, before steam-engines arose and flung its hostelry 



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102 THE NEWCOMEd. 

and chiralry orer. To trayel in coaches, to drive coaches, to tnow 
coachmen and gnards, to be familiar \rith inns along the road, to 
laugh mth the jolly hostess in the bar, to chuck the pretty chamber- 
maid under the chin, were the delight of men who were young not 
very long ago. Who ever thought of writing to the Times then? 
** BiflSn," I warrant, did not grudge his money, and *• A Thirsty Soul" 
paid cheerfully for his drink The road was an institution, the ring was 
an institution. Men rallied round them; and, not without a kind 
conservatism, expatiated upon the benefits with which they endowed 
the country, and the evils which would occur when they should be no 
more : — decay of English spirit, decay of manly pluck, ruin of the 
breed of horses, and so forth, and so forth. To give and take a black 
eye was not unusual nor derogatory in a gentleman ; to drive a stage 
coach the enjoyment, the emulation of generous youth. Is there any 
young fellow of the present time who aspires to take the place of a 
stoker ? You see occasionally in Hyde Park one dismal old drag vrith 
a lonely driver. Where are you, charioteers? Where are you, 
rattling Quicksilver, O swift Defiance? You are past by racers 
stronger and swifter than you. Your lamps are out, and the music of 
your horns has died away. 

Just at the ending of that old time, Lord Kew's life began. That 
kindly middle-aged gentleman whom his county knows ; that good 
landlord, and friend of all his tenantry round about ; that builder of 
churches, and indefatigable visitor of schools ; that writer of letters 
to the fiEirmers of his shire, so full of sense and benevolence ; who wins 
prizes at agricultural shows, and even lectures at county town institutes 
in his modest, pleasant way, was the wild young Lord Kew of a quarter 
of a century back ; who kept race-horses, patronised boxers, fought a 
duel, thrashed a Life Guardsman, gambled furiously at Crockford's, and 
did who knows what besides ? 

His mother, a devout lady, nursed her son and his property carefully 
during the young gentleman's minority : keeping him and his younger 
brother away firom ^all mischief, under the eyes of the most careful 
pastors and masters. She learnt Latin with the boys, she taught them 
to play on the piano : she enraged old Lady Kew, the children's grand- 
mother, who prophesied that her daughter-in-law would make milksops 
of her sons, to whom the old lady was never reconciled imtil after my 
Lord's entry at Christchurch, where be began to distinguish himself 
very soon after his first term. He drove tandems, kept hunters, gave 
dinners, scandalised the Dean, screwed up the tutor's door, and agonised 
his mother at home by his lawless proceedings. He quitted the 
University after a very brief sojourn at that seat of learning. It may 
be the Oxford authorities requested his Lordship to retire ; let byegones 
be byegones. His youthful son, the present Lord Walham, is now at 
Christchurch, reading with the greatest assiduity. Let us not be 
too particular in narrating his fatherls unedifying frolics of a quarter of 
a century ago. 



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THE NEWCOMBS: 10« 

Old Lady Kew, who, in oonjunction with Mrs. Newcome, had 
made the marriage hetween Mr. Brian Newcome and her daughter, 
always despised her son-in-law; and heing a frank, open person, uttering 
her mind always, took little pains to conceal her opinion regarding him 
or any other individual. "Sir Brian Newcome," she would say, **ifi 
one of the most stupid and respectable of men ; Ann is clever, but has 
not a grain of common sense. ^They make a very well-assorted couple. 
Her Mightiness would have driven any man erazy who had an opinkm 
of his own. She would have ruined any poor man of her own rank ; 
as it is, I have given her a husband exactly suited for her. He pays 
the bills, does not see how absurd she is, keeps order in the establish- 
ment, and checks her follies. She wanted to marry her cousin, Tom 
Poyntz, when they were both very young, and proposed to die of a 
broken heart when I arranged her match with Mr. Newcome. A 
broken fiddlestick ! she would have ruined Tom Poyntz in a year ; and 
has no more idea of the cost of a leg of mutton, than I have of 
algebra." 

The Countess of Kew loved Brighton, and preferred living ther^ 
even at the season when Londoners find such especial charms in their 
own city. " London after Easter," the old lady said, " was intolerabk. 
Pleasure becomes a business, then so oppressive, that all good company 
is destroyed by it. Half the men are sick with the feasts which they 
eat day after day. The women are thinking of the half dozen parties 
they have to go to in the course of the night. The young girls are 
thinking of their partners and their toilettes. Intimacy becomes 
impossible, and quiet enjoyment of life. On the other hand, the 
crowd of bourgeois has not invaded Brighton. The drive is not 
blocked up by flies full of stock-brokers' wives and children ; and you 
can take the air in your chair upon the chain-pier, without being stifled 
by the cigars of the odious shop-boys from London." So Lady Kew*s 
name was usually amongst the earliest which the Brighton newspapers 
recorded amongst the arrivals. 

Her only unmarried daughter, Lady Julia, lived with her Ladyship. 
Poor Lady' Julia had suffered early from a spine disease, which had 
kept her for many years to her couch. Being always at home, and 
under her mother's eyes, she was the old lady's victim, her pincushion, 
into which Lady Kew plunged a hundred little points of sarcasm daily. 
As children are sometimes brought before magistrates, and their poor 
little backs and shoulders laid bare, covered with bruises and lashes 
which brutal parents have inflicted, so I dare say, if there had been 
any tribunal or judge, before whom this poor patient lady's heart 
could have been exposed, it would have been found scarred all over 
with numberless ancient wounds, and bleeding from yesterday's casti- 
gation. Old Lady Kew's tongue was a dreadful thong which made 
numbers of people wince. She was not altogether cruel, but she 
knew the dexterity with which she wielded her lash, and liked to 
exeixjise it. Poor Lady Julia was always at hand, when her mother , 
was minded to try her powers. 



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104 THE NEWCOMHS. 

Lady Eew bad jast made herself comfortable at Brigbton, when 
ber little grandson's illness brought Lady Ann Newcome and her 
family down to the sea. Lady Kew was almost scared back to 
London again, or blown over the water to Dieppe. She had never had 
the measles. " Why did not Ann carry the child to some other place? 
Julia, you will on no account go and see that little pestiferous swarm 
of Newcomes, unless you want to send me out of the world — ^which I 
dare say you do, for I am a dreadful plague to you, I know, and my 
death would be a release to you." 

** You see Doctor H., who visits the child every day," cries poor 
Pincushion ; " you are not afraid when he comes." 

" Doctor H. ? Doctor H. comes to cure me, or to tell me the news, 
or to flatter me, or to feel my pulse and to pretend to prescribe, or to 
take his guinea; of course Dr. H. must go to see all sorts of people 
in all sorts of diseases. You would not have me be such a brute as 
to order him not to attend my own grandson ? I forbid you to go to 
Ann's house. You will send one of the men every day to inquire. 
Let the groom go — ^yes, Charles — ^he will not go into the house. He 
will ring the bell and wait outside. He had better ring the bell at 
the area — I suppose there is an area — and speak to the. servants 
through the bars, and bring us word how Alfred is." Poor Pincushion 
felt fresh compunctions ; she had met the children, and kissed the 
baby, and held kind Ethel's hand in hers, that day, as she was out 
in her chair. There was no use, however, to make this confession. 
Is she the only good woman or man of whom domestic tyranny has 
made a hypocrite ? 

Charles, the groom, brings back perfectly favourable reports of 
Master Alfred's health that day, which Doctor H., in the course of his 
visit, confirms. The child is getting well rapidly ; eating like a little 
ogre. His cousin Lord Kew has been to see him. He is the kindest 
of men. Lord Kew ; he brought the little man Tom and Jerry with 
the pictures. The boy is delighted with the pictures. 

" Why has not Kew come to see me ? When did he come ? Write 
him a note, and send for him instantly, Julia. Did you know he was 
here?" 

Julia says, that she . had but that moment read in the Brighton 
papers the arrival of the Earl of Kew and the Honourable J. Belsize 
at the Albion. 

" I am sure they are here for some mischief," cries the old lady, 
delighted. "Whenever George and John Belsize are together, I 
know there is some wickedness planning. What do you know. Doctor ? 
I see by your face you know something. Do tell it me, that I may 
write it to his odious psalm-singing mother." 

Doctor H.'s face does indeed wear a knowing look. He simpers 
and says, ** I did see Lord Kew driving this morning, first with the 
Honourable Mr. Belsize, and afterwards" — here he glances towards 
Lady Julia, as if to say, " Before an unmarried lady, I do not like to 



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THE NEWCOMES. 106 

fell your Ladyship with whom I saw Lord Kew driving, after he had 
left the Honourable Mr. Belsize> who went to play a match with 
Oaptain Huxtable at tennis." 

" Are you afraid to speak before Julia ? " cries the elder lady. 
"Why, bless my soul, she is forty years old, and has heard everything 
that can be heard. Tell me about Eew this instant. Doctor H." 

The Doctor blandly acknowledges that Lord Kew had been driving 
Madame Pozzoprofondo, the famous contralto of the Italian Opera, in 
his phaeton, for two hours, in the face of all Brighton. 

"Yes, Doctor," interposes Lady Julia, blushing; "but Signer 
Pozzoprofondo was in the carriage too — a — a — sitting behind with the 
groom. He was indeed. Mamma." 

"Julia, tons rt'etes qu'une ganache'' says Lady Kew, shrugging Ijer 
shoulders, and looking at her daughter from under her bushy black 
eyebrows. Her ladyship, a sister of the late lamented Marquis of 
Steyne, possessed no small share of the wit and intelligence, and 
a considerable resemblance to the features of that distinguished 
nobleman. 

Lady Kew bids her daughter take a pen and write. " Monsieur le 
mauvais sujet. Gentlemen who wish to take the sea air in private, or 
to avoid their relations, had best go to other places than Brighton, 
where their names are printed in the newspapers. If you are not 
drowned in a pozzo — " 

'* Mamma," interposes the secretary. 

" — in a pozzo-profondo, you will please come to dine with two old 
vomen, at half-past seven. You may bring Mr. Belsize, and must tell 
<is a hundred stories. Yours, &c., L. Kj:w." 

Julia wrote all the letter as her mother dictated it, save only one 
sentence, and the note was sealed and despatched to my Lord Kew, 
^ho came to dinner with Jack Belsize. Jack Belsize liked to dine with 
lady Kew. He said, " she was an old dear, and the wickedest old 
woman in all England ; " and he liked to dine with Lady Julia, who 
^as " a poor suflfering dear, and the best woman in all England." Jack 
Belsize liked every one, and every one liked him. 

Two evenings afterwards the young men repeated their visit to Lady 
Kew, and this time Lord Kew was loud in praises of his cousins of 
the house of Newcome. 

" Not of the eldest, Barnes, surely, my dear ? " cries Lady Kew. 

*' No, confound him ! not Barnes." 

"No, d it, not Barnes. I beg your pardon. Lady Julia," broke 

in Jack Belsize. " I can get on with most men ; but that little Barney 
is too odious a little snob." 

" A little what— Mr. Belsize ? " 

" A little snob, ma'am. I have no other word, though he is your 
grandson. I never heard him say a good word of any mortal soul, or 
•do a kind action." 

"Thank you, Mr. Belsize," says the lady. 



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106 



THE KEWCOMES. 



*' But the others are capital. There is that little chap who has jnst 
had the measles — ^he's a dear little hrick. And as for Miss Ethel—" 

*' Ethel is a tramp, ma am," sajs Lord Kew, slapping his hand on 
his knee. 

** Ethel is a hrick, and Alfred is a trump, I think you say," remarks 
Lady Kew, nodding approval ; " and Barnes is a snob. This is very 
satisfactory to know." 

" We met the children out to-day," cries the enthusiastic Kew, "as I 
was driving Jack in the drag, and I got out and talked to *em." 

** Governess an uncommonly nice woman — oldish, but — I beg your 
pardon, Lady Julia," cries the inopportune Jack Belsize — " I'm always 
putting my foot in it." 

** Putting your foot into what ? Go on, Kew." 

" Well, we met the whole posse of children ; and the little fellow 
wanted a drive, and I said I would drive him and Ethel too, if she 
would come. Upon my word she is as pretty a girl as you can see on a 



I ^^b^:^^^ J- ,^__^f^T 




summer's day. And the governess said * No,' of course. Governesses 
always do. But I said I was her uncle, and Jack paid her such a fine 



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THE NBWCOMBB. 107 

compliment, that the young woman was molMed, and the children 
took their seats beside me, and Jack went behind." 

" Where Monsieur Pozzoprofondo sits, Jon." 

" We drove on to the Downs, and we were nearly coming to ^ef. 

Mj horses are young, and when they get on the grass they are as if 
they were mad. It was very wrong ; I know it was." 

'D drash," interposes Jack. "He had nearly broken all our 



"And my brother Frank would have been Lord Kew," continued 
the young Earl, with a quiet smile. " What an escape for him ! The 
horses ran away — ever so far — and I thought the carriage must upset. 
The poor little boy, who has lost his pluck in the fever, began to cry ; 
but that young girl, though she was as white as a sheet, never gave 
up for a moment, and sate in her place like a man. We met nothing, 
luckily ; and I pulled the horses in after a mile or two, and I drove 
'em into Brighton as quiet as if I had been driving a hearse. And 
that little trump of an Ethel, what do you think she said ! She said, 
'I was not frightened, bui jw nnust not tell mamma.' My aunt, it 
appears, was in a dreadful commotion — I ought to have thought 
of that." 

"Lady Ann is a ridiciilous old dear. I beg your pardon, Lady 
Kew," here breaks in Jack, the apologiser. 

" There is a brother of Sir Brian Newoome's staying with them," 
Lord Kew proceeds; **an East India Colonel — ^a very fine-looking 
old boy." 

"Smokes awfiilly» row abont it in the hotel., Go on, Kew, beg 
your — " 

" This gentleman was on the look out for us, it appears, for when 
we came in sight he despatched a boy who was with him, running 
like a lamp-lighter hack to my aunt, to say all was well. And he 
took little Alfred out of the carriage, and then helped out Ethel, and 
said, * My dear, you are too pretty to scold ; bat ymi have given us all 
a hellepeur.' And then he made me and Jack alow bow, and stalked 
into the lodgings." 

" I think you do deserve to be whipped, both of you, " cries Lady 
Kew. 

" We went up and made our peace with my aunt, and were presented 
in form to the Colonel and his youthful cub." 

" As fine a fellow as ever I saw : and as fine a boy as ever I saw," 
cries Jack Belsize. " The young chap is a great hand at drawing — 
upon my life the best drawings I ever saw. And he was making a 
picture for little What-d'-you-call-em. And Miss Newcome was 
looking over them. And Lady Ann pointed out the group to me, 
and said how pretty it was. She is uncommonly sentimental, you know. 
Lady Ann." 

" My daughter Ann is the greatest fool in the three kingdoms," 
cried Lady Kew, looking fiercely over her spectacles. And Julia was 



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108 



THE KEWCOMES. 



instructed to write that night to her sister, and desire that Ethel 
should be sent to see her grandmother : — Ethel, who rebelled against 
her grandmother, and always fought on her aunt Julians side, when 
the weaker was oppressed by the older and stronger lady. 




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CHAPTER XI. 



AT MRS. BIDLETS. 




AINT PETER of Alcantara, as I 
have read in a life of St. Theresa, 
informed that devout lady that he 
had passed forty years of his life 
sleeping only an hour and a half each 
day ; his cell was but four feet and 
a half long, so that he never lay 
down : his pillow was a wooden log 
in the stone wall : he ate but once in 
three days : he was for three years in 
a convent of his order without know- 
ing any one of his brethren except by 
the sound of their voices, for he never 
during this period took his eyes off 
the ground : he always walked bare- 
foot, and was but skin and bone 
when he died. The eating only once 
in three days, so he told his sister 
if you began the regimen in 
was the hardest of all austerities 
the pious individual so employed, 
uay after day, night after night, on his knees, or standing up in 
devout meditation in the cupboard — his dwelling place; bareheaded 
^d barefooted, walking over rocks, briars, mud, sharp stones (picking out 
the very worst places, let us trust, with his downcast eyes), under the 
bitter snow, or the drifting rain, or the scorching sunshine — I fancy 
Saint Peter of Alcantara, and contrast him with such a personage as 
the Incumbent of Lady Whittlesea*s chapel, May Fair. 

His hermitage is situated in Walpole Street let us say, on the 
second floor of a quiet mansion, let out to hermits by a nobleman's 
hutler, whose wife takes care of the lodgings. His cells consist of a 
refectory, a dormitory, and an adjacent oratory where he keeps his 
sbower-bath and boots — the pretty boots trimly stretched on boot-trees 
and blacked to a nicety (not varnished) by the boy who waits on him. 
^e barefooted business may suit superstitious ages and gentlemen of 
Alcantara, but does not become May Fair and the nineteenth century. 



Saint, was by no means 
your youth. To conquer 
which he practised: — I fancy 



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110 THE NEWCOMBS, 

If St. Pedro walked the earth now with his eyes to the ground he 
would know fashionable divines by the way in which they were shod. 
Charles Honeyman's is a sweet foot. I have no doubt as delicate and 
plump and rosy as the white hand with its two rings, which he passes 
in impassioned moments through his slender flaxen hair. 

A sweet odour pervades his sleeping apartment — not that peculiar and 
delicious fragrance with which the Saints of the Roman Church are said 
to gratify the neighbourhood where they repose — but oils, redolent of 
the richest perfumes of Macassar, essences (from Truefitt's or Delcroix's) 
into which a thousand flowers have, expressed their sweetest breath, 
await his meek head on rising; and infuse the pocket-handkerchief 
with which he dries and draws so many tears. For he cries a good 
deal in his sermons^ to which the ladies about him contribute showera 
of sympathy. 

By his bedside are slippers lined with blue silk and worked of an 
ecclesiastical pattern, by some of the faithful who sit at his feet. They 
come to him in anonymous parcels : they come to him in silver paper : 
boys in buttons (pages who minister to female grace !) leave them at the 
door for the Bev. C. Honeyman, and slip away witliout a word. Purses 
are sent to him — pen-wipere — a portfolio with the Honeyman arms- 
yea, braces have been known to reach him by the post (in his days of 
popularity), and flowers, and grapes, and jelly when he was ill, and 
throat eom&rtefs, and lozenges for his dear brondiitis. In one of his 
drawers is the rich silk cassock presented to him by his congregation at 
Leatherhead (when the young curate quitted that parish for London 
duty), and on bis breakfast-table the silver tea-pot, once filled with 
soToneigns and presented by the same devotees. Hie devoteapot he 
has, but the sovereigns, where are they ? 

What a different Mfe this is ftom our honest friend of Alcantara, who 
eats ence in three days ! At one time if Honeym^h could have drunk 
tea three times in an evening, he might have had it. The glass on bis 
chimney-piece is crowded with invitations, not merely cards of ceremony 
(of which there are plenty) bat dear little confidential notes from sweet 
frionds of ins congxegatioa. '' O dear Mr. Honeyman,'* vmtes Blanche, 
'' what a sennon that was ! I caasot go to bed to-night without thanking 
you for it." " Do, do, dear Mr. Honeyman," writes Beatrice, " lend 
me that delighted sennon. And can you come and drink tea with me 
and.Selioa, and my aunt? Papa and mamma dine out, but you know 
I am always your faithful Chesterfield Street." And so on. He has 
all the domestic accomplishments ; he plays on the violoncello : he sings 
a delicious second, not only in sacred but in secular music. He has 
a thousand anecdotes, laughiMe riddles, d«)ll stories (of the utmost 
correctness, you understand) with whioh he entertains females of all 
ages ; suiting his conversation to stately matrons, deaf old dowagers 
(who can hear his clear voice better than the loudest roar of their 
stupid sons-in-law), mature spinsters, young beauties cueing through 
the season,, e^en zoi^ little slips out of the nursery, who eluster round 



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TH£ liTSWOOKES. Ill 

his bebved feet. Societies £gbt for faim to preach their charity saroaoa. 
Ion read in the papers. *' The Wapping Hospital for Woocba-legged 
Seamen. On Sunday the 2drd, Sermons mil he preached in behalf 
of this charity, hy the Lord Bishop of Tobago in the morning, in the 
afternoon by the Bev. 0. Hokethav, A.M., Incumbent of &c" 
'^ Clerg^^man's Graadinothers* Fund. Sermons in aid of this admir- 
able institution will be preadbed on Sunday, Ath May, by the Very 
Bev. The Dean of Pimlico, and the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M." When 
the Dean of Pimlico has his illness, many people think Honeyman will 
baye the Deanery ; that he ought to have it, a hundred fenude voices 
vow and declare : though it is said that a right reverend head at head- 
quarters shakes dubiously when his name is mentioned for preferment 
His name is spread mde, and not only women but men come to hear 
lum. Members of Parliament, even Cabinet Ministers, sit under him : 
Lord Dozeley of course is seen in a front pew: where was a public 
meeting without Lord Dozeley ? The men oome away from his sermons 
fflid say " It's very pleasant, but I don't know what the deuce makes all 
you women crowd so to hear the man." '* O Charles ! if you would but 
go oftener ! " sighs Lady Anna Maria. '' Can't you speak to the Home 
Secretary ? Can't you do something for him ?" " We can ask him to 
dinner next Wednesday if you like," says Charles. " They say he's a 
pleasant fellow out of the wood. Besides there is no use in doing 
anythbg for him," Charles goes on. " He can't make less than a 
thousand a year out of his chapel, and that is better than anything 
any one can give him. — A thousand a year, besides the rent oi the 
wine-vaults below the chapel." 

'* Don't, Charles ! " says his wife, with a solenm look. " Don't ridicule 
things in that way." 

" Confound it ! there are wine-vaults under the chapel ! " answers 
downright Charles. '' I saw the name, Sherrick & Co. ; offices, a green 
door, and a brass plate. It's better to sit over vaults with wine in them 
than cofiSns. I wonder if it's the Sherrick with, whom Kew and 
Jack Bekize had that ugly row ? " 

** What ugly row ? — don't say ugly row. It is not a nice word to 
hear the children use. Go on, my darlings. What was the dispute of 
liord Kew and Mr. Belsize, and this Mr. Sherrick ? " 

" It was all about pictures, and about horses, and about money, and 
t^nt one other subject which enters into every row that I ever 
heard of." 

** And what is that, dear ? " asks the innocent lady, han^ng on her 
husband's arm, and quite pleased to have led him to church and brought 
him thence. "And what is it that enters into every row, as you call it, 
Oharles?'* 

"A wofjum, my love," answers the gentleman, behind whom we have 
been in imagination walking out from Charles Honeyman's church on a 
Sunday in June : as the whole pavement blooms with artificial flowers 
and fcesh boimets ; as th^ere is a buzz and cackle all around regarding 



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112 THE NBWCOMES. 

the sennon ; as carriages drive off; as lady-dowagers walk home ; as 
prayer-books and footmen's sticks gleam . in the sun ; as little boys 
with baked mutton and potatoes pass from the courts ; as children 
issue from the public-houses with pots of beer; as the Keverend 
Charles Honeyman, who has been drawing tears in the sermon, and 
has seen, not without complacent throbs, a Secretary of State in the 
pew beneath him, divests himself of his rich silk cassock in the vestry^ 
before he walks away to his neighbouring hermitage — where have we 
placed it? — ^in Walpole Street. I wish St. Pedro of Alcantara could 
have some of that shoulder of mutton with the baked potatoes, and a 
drink of that frothing beer. See, yonder trots little Lord Dozeley who 
has been asleep for an hour with his head against the wood, Uko 
St. Pedro of Alcantara. 

An East Indian gentleman and his son wait until the whole chapel 
is clear, and survey Lady Whittlesea's monument at their leisure, and 
other hideous slabs erected in memory of defunct frequenters of the 
chapel. Whose was that face which Colonel Newcome thought he 
recognised — that of a stout man who came down from the organ- 
gallery? Could it be Broff the bass singer, who delivered the Eed- 
Cross Knight with such applause at the Cave of Melody, and who has 
been singing in this place ? There are some chapels in London, where, 
the function over, one almost expects to see the sextons put brown 
Hollands over the pews and galleries, as they do at the Theatre Koyal, 
Covent Garden. 

The writer of these veracious pages was once walking through a 
splendid English palace, standing amidst parks and gardens, than 
which none more magnificent has been seen since the days of Aladdin, 
in company with a melancholy friend, who viewed all things darkly 
through his gloomy eyes. The housekeeper, pattering on before us^ 
from chamber to chamber, was expatiating upon the magnificence of 
this picture ; the beauty of that statue ; tl^e marvellous richness of 
these hangings and carpets ; the admirable likeness of the late Marquis 
by Sir Thomas ; of his father, the fifth Earl, by Sir Joshua, and so on ; 
when, in the very richest room of the whole castle. Hicks — such was 
my melancholy companion's name — stopped the cicerone in her prattle, 
saying in a hollow voice, ** And now, madam, will you show us the 
closet where the skeleton is ? " The scared functionary paused in 
the midst of her harangue ; that article was not inserted in the 
catalogue which she daily utters to visitors for their half-crown. 
Hicks's question brought a diarkness down upon the hall where we 
were standing. We did not see the room : and yet I have no doubt 
there is such an one ; and ever after, when I have thought of the 
splendid castle towering in the midst of shady trees, under which the 
dappled deer are browsing ; of the terraces gleaming with statues, and 
bright with a hundred thousand flowers; of the bridges and shining 
fountains and rivers wherein the castle windows reflect their festive 
gleams, when the halls are filled with happy feasters, and over the 



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THE NBWCOMES. 113 

darkling woods comes the sound of music ;—> always, I say, when I' 
think of Castle Bluebeard : — ^it is to think of that dark little closet, 
which I know is there, and which the lordly owner opens shuddering 
—after midnight — when he is sleepless and must go unlock it, when 
the palace is hushed, when beauties are sleeping around him unconscious, 
and revellers are at rest. Mrs. Housekeeper : all the other keys 
hast thou : but that key thou hast not ! 

Have we not all such closets, my jolly friend, as well as the noble 
Marquis of Carabas ? At night, when all the house is asleep but you, 
don't you get up and peep into yours ? When you in your turn are 
slumbering, up gets Mrs. Brown from your side, steals down stairs 
lib Amina to her ghoul, clicks open the secret door, and looks into 
her dark depository. Did she tell you of that little affair with Smith 
long before she knew you ? Fsha ! who knovm any one save himself 
alone ? Who, in showing his house to the closest and dearest, doesn't 
keep back the key of a closet or two? I think of a lovely reader 
laying down the page and looking over at her unconscious husband, 
asleep, perhaps, after dinner. Yes, madam, a closet he hath: and 
you, who pry into everything, shall never have the key of it. I think 
of some honest Othello pausing over this very sentence in a railroad 
carriage, and stealthily gazing at Desdemona opposite to him, innocently 
administering sandwiches to their little boy — ^I am trying to turn off the 
sentence with a joke, you see — I feel it is growing too dreadful, too serious. 

And to what, pray, do these serious, these disagreeable, these 
almost personal observations tend? To this simply, that Charles 
Honeyman, the beloved and popular preacher, the elegant divine to 
whom Miss Blanche writes sonnets, and whom Miss Beatrice invites to 
tea; who comes with smiles on his lip, gentle sympathy in his tones, 
innocent gaiety in his accent; who melts, rouses, terrifies in the 
pulpit ; who charms over the tea-urn and the bland bread-and-butter : 
Charles Honeyman has one or two skeleton closets in his lodgings, 
Walpole Street, May Fair ; and many a wakeful night, whilst Mrs. 
lUdley, his landlady, and her tired husband, the nobleman's major- 
domo, whilst the lodger on the first-floor, whilst the cook and house- 
maid, and weary little boot-boy are at rest (mind you, they have all 
got their closets, which they open with their skeleton-keys) ; he 
wakes up, and looks at the ghastly occupant of that receptacle. One 
of the Reverend Charles Honeyman*s grizzly night-haunters is — but 
«top ; let us give a little account of the lodgings, and of some of the 
people frequenting the same. • 

First floor, Mr. Bagshot, member for a Norfolk borough. Stout 
jolly gentleman; dines at the Carlton Club; greatly addicted to 
Oreenwich and Richmond, in the season; bets in a moderate way: 
does not go into society, except now and again to the chiefs of his 
party, when they give great entertainments ; and once or twice to the 
houses of great country dons who dwell near him in the country. Is 
not of very good family ; was, in fact, an apothecary : married a 



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114 THE NBWCOMBS, 

iroman mth money, much older than himself, inrho does not like 
London, and stops at home at Hummingham, not much to the dis- 
pleasure of Bagshot; giyes every now and then nice little quiet 
dinners, vhich Mrs. Eidley oooka admirahly, to exceedingly stupid 
jolly old Parhamentary fo^es, who ahsorb, with much silence and 
cheerfulness, a vast quantity of wine. They have just begun to drink 
'24 claret now, that of '15 being scarce, and almost drunk up. Writes 
daily, and hears every morning from Mrs. Bagshot; does not read 
her letters always : does not rise till long past eleven o'clock of a 
Sunday, and has John Bull and BelVs Life^ in bed : frequents the 
Blue Posts, sometimes ; rides a stout cob out of his county, and pays 
like the Bank of England. 

The house is a Norfolk house. Mrs. Eidley was housekeeper to 
the great Squire Bayham, who had the estate before the Conqueror, 
and who came to such a dreadful crash in the year 1825, the year of 
the panic. Bayhams still belongs to the family, but in what a state, 
as those can say who recollect it in its palmy days ! Fifteen hundred 
acres of the best land in England were sold off: all the timber cut 
down as level as a billiard-boa^d. Mr. Bayham now lives up in one 
comer of the house, which used to be £lled with the finest company 
in Europe. Law bless you! the Bayhams have seen almost all the 
nobility of England come in and go out, and were gentlefolks, when 
many a fine lord's father of the present day was sweeping a count- 
ing-house. 

The house will hold genteelly no more than these two inmates ; but 
in the season it manages to accommodate Miss Cann, who too was 
from Bayhams, having been a governess there to the young lady who is 
dead, and who now makes such a livelihood as she can best raise, by 
going out as a daily teacher. Miss Cann dines with Mrs. Ridley 
in the adjoining little back parlour. Eidley but seldom can be spared 
to partake of the family dinner, his^ duties in the house and about 
the person of my Lord Todmorden, keeping him constantly near 
that nobleman. How little Miss Cann can go on and keep alive on 
the crumb she eats for breakfast, and the scrap she picks at dinner, 
du astonish Mra. Eidley, that it dul She declares that the two 
canary birds encaged in her window (whence is a cheerful prospect of 
the back of Lady Whittlesea's chapel) eat more than Miss Cann* 
The two birds set up a tremendous singing and chorussing when Miss 
Cann, spying the occasion of the first-floor lodger's absence, begins 
practising her music piecest Such trills, roulades, and flourishes go on 
from the birds and the lodger! it is a wonder how any fingers can 
move over the jingling ivory so quickly as Miss Cann's. Excellent a 
woman as she is, admirably virtuous, frugal, brisk, honest, and 
cheerful, I would not like to live in lodgings where there was a 
lady so addicted to playing variations. No more does Honeyman. On 
a Saturday, when he is composing his valuable sermons (the rogoe, 
you may be sure, leaves his work to the last day, and there are, I 



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THE K2WC0MI& 115 

m gtren ts onJarstaiid, amoDg the defgj manj bettor men than 
Eoneymax^ who are as dilatorj as he), he begs, he entreats with tears 
ifi Ms ejes» that Miss Cannes ninsk may cease. I would back little 
Csnn to write a sermon against him, for all his reputation as a popular 

proacher. 

Old and weazened as that piano is, feeble and cradled her voice, it 
i? ^ om fe i f nl what a pleasant concert she can give in that parlour of a 
Satcm&y evening, to Mrs. Ridley, who generally dozes a good deal, and 
to a lad, who listens with all his soul, with tears sometimes in his great 
eyes, wrdi crowding fancies filling his brain and throbbing at his heart, 
as the artist plies her humble instrument. She plays old music of 
Handei and Haydn, and the little chamber anon swells into a 
catltedral, and he who listens beholds altars lighted, priests ministering, 
&ir children swinging censers, great oriel windows gleaming in sunset, 
and seen through arched columns, and avenues el twilight marble. 
The youDg fellow who bears her has been often and often to the Opera 
and the theatres. As she plays Don Juan, Zerlina comes tripping 
OTer the meadows, and Masetto after her, with a crowd of peasants 
and maidens : and they sing the sweetest of all music, and the heart 
beats with happiness, and kindness, and pleasure. Piano, pianissimo ! 
tile city is hushed. The towers of the great cathedral rise in the 
&Unce, its spires lighted by the broad moon. The statues in the 
looonlit place cast long shadows athwart the pavement: but the 
i)Qatarn in the midst is dressed out like Cinderella for the night, and 
sings and wears a crest of diamonds. That great sombre street all in 
atade, can it be the famous Toledo? — or is it the Corso ? — or is it the 
great street in Madrid, the one which leads to the Escuiial where the 
Rubens and Velasquez are ? It is Fancy Street— Poetry Street — 
Ima^^tion Street — the street where lovely ladies look from balconies, ' 
vhere cavaliers strike mandolins and draw swords and engage, where 
long processions pass, and venerable hermits, with long beards, bleaa 
the kneeling people : where the rude soldiery, swaggering through the 
jlace with flags and halberts, and Me and dance, seize the slim waists 
<rf the daughters of the people, and bid the piflferari play to their 
dancing. Blow, bagpipes, a storm of harmony ! become trumpets, 
trombones, ophicleides, fiddles, and bassoons 1 Fu'e, guns ! Sound, 
tocsins ! Shout, people! Louder, shriller and sweeter than all, sing 
thou* ravishing heroine ! And see, on his cream-coloured charger 
Massaniello prances in, and Fra I>iavolo leaps down the balcony, 
carabine in hand ; and Sir Huon of Bordeaux sails up to the quay with 
the Sultan s daughter of Babylon. All these delights and sights, and 
joys and glories, these thrills of sympathy, movements of unknown 
longing^ and visions of beauty, a young sickly lad of eighteen enjoys 
in a little dark room where there is a bed disguised in the sh^>e of 
a wardrobe, and a little old woman is playing under a gas-lamp on the 
jin^liDg keys of an old piano. 



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116 THE NEWCOMES. 

For a long time Mr. Samuel Eidley, butler and conMential valet to 
the Right Honorable John James Baron Todmorden, was in a state 
of the greatest despair and gloom about his onlj son, the little John 
James, — a sickly and almost deformed child " of whom there was no 
making nothink/* as Mr. Ridley said. His figure precluded him from 
following his father's profession, and waiting upon the British nobility, 
who naturally require large and handsome men to skip up behind their 
rolling carriages, and hand their plates at dinner. When John James 
was six years old his father remarked, with tears in his eyes, he wasn't 
higher than a plate-basket. The boys jeered at him in the streets- 
some whopped him, spite of his diminutive size. At school he made 
but little progress. He was always sickly and dirty, and timid and 
crying, whimpering in the kitchen away from his mother ; who, though 
she loved him, took Mr. Ridley's view of his character, and thought 
him little better than an idiot until such time as little Miss Cann took 
him in hand, when at length there was some hope of him. 

" Half-witted, you great stupid big man," says Miss Cann, who had 
a fine spirit of her own. " That boy half-witted ! He has got more wit 
in his little finger than you have in all your great person ! You are 
a very good man, Ridley, very good-natured I'm sure, and bear with 
the teasing of a waspish old woman : but you are not the wisest of 
mankind. Tut, tut, don't tell me. You know you spell out the 
words when you read the newspaper still, and what would your bills 
look like, if I did not write them in my nice little hand ? I tell you 
that boy is a genius. I tell you that one day the world will hear of 
him. His heart is made of pure gold. You think that all the ^nt 
belongs to the big people. Look at me, you great tall man ! Am I 
not a hundred times cleverer than you are ? Yes, and John James is 
worth a thousand such insignificant little chits as I am ; and he is as 
tall as me too, sir. Do you hear that ? One day I am determined he 
shall dine at Lord Todmorden's table, and he shall get the prize at the 
Royal Academy, and be famous, sir — ^famous I " 

" Well, Miss C, I wish he may get it ; that's all I say," answers Mr. 
Ridley. ** The poor fellow does no harm, that I acknowledge ; but I 
never see the good he was up to yet. I wish he'd begin it ; I du wish 
he would now." And the honest gentleman relapses into the study of 
his paper. 

All those beautiful sounds and thoughts which Miss Cann conveys to 
him out of her charmed piano, the young artist straightway translates 
into forms; and knights in armour, vnth plume, and shield, and 
battle-axe ; and splendid young noblemen with flowing ringlets, and 
bounteous plumes of feathers, and rapiers, and russet boots ; and fierce 
banditti with crimson tights, doublets profusely illustrated with large 
brass buttons, and the dumpy basket-hilted claymores known to be the 
favourite weapon with which these whiskered ruffians do battle ; wasp- 
waisted peasant girls, and young countesses with such lai^e eyes 
and cherry lips !--fill these splendid forms of war and beauty croT^d 



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THE NBWCOMES. 117 

to the youhg draughtsman's pencil, and cover letter-backs, copy-books, 
Tvitbout end. If his hand strikes off some face peculiarly lovely, and 
to his taste, some fair vision that has shone on his imagination, some 
houri of a dancer, some bright young lady of fashion in an opera-box, 
whom he has seen, or fancied he has seen (for the youth is short-sighted, 
though he hardly as yet knows his misfortune) — if he has made some 
effort extraordinarily successful, our young Pygmalion hides away the 
masterpiece, and he paints the beauty with all his skill ; the lips a 
bright carmine, the eyes a deep, deep cobalt, the cheeks a dazzling 
vermilion, the ringlets of a golden hue ; and he worships this sweet 
creature of his in secret, fancies a history for her; a castle to storm, a 
tyrant usurper who keeps her imprisoned, and a prince in black 
ringlets and a spangled cloak, who scales the tower, who slays the tyrant, 
and then kneels gracefully at the princess's feet, and says, " Lady, wilt 
thou be mine ? " 

There is a kind lady in the neighbourhood, who takes in dressmaking 
for the neighbouring maid-servants, and has a small establishment of 
lollipops, theatrical characters, and ginger-beer for the boys in Little 
Craggs Buildings, hard by the Kunning Footman public-house, where 
father and other gentlemen's gentlemen have their club : this good soul 
also sells Sunday newspapers to the footmen of the neighbouring 
gentry ; and besides, has a stock of novels for the ladies of the upper 
servants* table. Next to Miss Cann, Miss Flinders is John James's 
greatest friend and benefactor. She has remarked him when he was 
quite a little man, and used to bring his father's beer of a Sunday. Out 
of her novels he has taught himself to read, dull boy at the day-school 
though he was, and always the last in his class there. Hours, happy 
hours, has he spent cowering behind her counter, or hugging her 
books under his pinafore when he had leave to carry them home. 
The whole library has passed through his hands, his long, lean, 
tremulous hands, and under his eager eyes. He has made illustrations 
to every one of those books, and been frightened at his own pictures 
of Manfroni or the One-handed Monk, Abellino the Terrific Bravo of 
Venice, and Rinaldo Kinaldino Captain of Robbers. How he has 
blistered Thaddeus of Warsaw with his tears, and drawn him in his 
Polish cap, and tights, and Hessians ! William Wallace, the Hero of 
Scotland, how nobly he has depicted him ! With what whiskers and 
bushy ostrich plumes ! — ^in a tight kilt, and with what magnificent 
calves to his legs, laying about him with his battle-axe, and bestriding 
the bodies of King Edward's prostrate cavaliers! At this time Mr. 
Honeyman comes to lodge in Walpole Street, and brings a set of 
Scott's novels, for which he subscribed when at Oxford ; and young 
John James, who at first waits upon him and does little odd jobs for 
the reverend gentleman, lights upon the volumes, and reads them with 
such a delight and passion of pleasure as all the delights of future 
days will scarce equal. A fool, is he ? — an idle feller, out of whom no 
good will ever come, as his father says. There was a time, when, in 



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118 THE NEWCOMES. 

despair of any better chance for him, his parents thought of appren 
ticing him to a tailor, and John James was waked np from a dream of 
Bebecca and informed of the cruelty meditated against him. I forbear 
to describe the tears and terror, and fcantic desperation in which the 
poor boy was plunged. Little Miss €ann rescued him from that awful 
board, and Honeyman likewise interceded for him, and Mr. Bagsbot 
promised that as soon as his party came in, he would ask the minister 
for a tide-waitership for him; for everybody liked the solemn, soft- 
hearted, willing, little lad, asfcd no one koew him less than his pompous 
BXkd stupid and respectable father. 

Miss Oann painted flowers and card-screens elegantly, and " finished' 
pencil-drawings most elaborately for her pupils. She could copy prints, 
«o that at a little distance you would scarcely know that the copy in 
fitumped chalk was not a bad mezzotinto engraving. She even had a 
little old paint-box, and showed you one or two ivory miniatures out of 
the drawer. She gave John James what little knowledge of drawing 
she had, and handed him over her invaluable recipes for mixing water- 
colours — " for trees in foregrounds, burnt sienna and indigo " — " for 
very dark foliage, ivory black and gambouge '* — " for flesh-colour," &c. &c. 
John James went through her poor little course, but not so brilliantly 
as she expected. She was forced to own that several of her pupils' 
** pieces " were executed much more dexterously than Johnny Ridley's. 
Honeyman looked at the boy's drawings from time to time and said, 
** Hm, ha ! — veiy clever — a great deal of fancy, really," But Honeyman 
knew no more of the subject, than a deaf and dumb man knows of 
music. He could talk the art-cant very glibly, and had a set of 
Morghens snd Madonnas as became a clergyman and a man of taste ; 
but he saw not with eyes such as those wherewith Heaven had endowed 
the humble little butler's boy, to whom splendours of Nature were 
revealed to vulgar sights invisible, and beauties manifest in forms, 
colours, shadows of common objects, where most of the world saw only 
what was dull, and gros^i, and familiar. One reads in the magic 
story-books of a charm or a flower which the wizard gives, and 
which enables the bearer to see the fairies. enchanting boon of 
Nature, which reveals to the possessor the hidden spirits of beauty 
round about him ! spirits which the strongest and most gifted mastei's 
compel into painting or song. To others it is granted but to have 
fleeting glimpses of that. fair Art-world; and tempted by ambition, or 
bsared by faint-heartedness, or driven by necessity, to turn away thence 
to the vulgar life-track, and the light of common day. 

The reader who has passed through Walpole Street scores of times, 
knows the discomfortable architecture of all, save the great houses 
built in Queen Anne's and George the First's time ; and while some 
of the neighboiffing streets, to wit. Great Graggs Street, Bolingbroke 
Street, and others, contain mansions fairly coped with stone, with little 
obelisks before the doors, and great actinguishers wherein the torches 
of the nobility's running footmen were put out a hundred and thirty or 



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THE NBWCOMSS. 119 

forty years ago :— houses which still remain abodes of the i|uaiity, and 
where you shall see a handred carriages gather of a public night ; — 
Walpole Sianeet has quite &dod aivay into lodgings, private hotels, 
doctors* houses, and the like ; nor is No. 23 (Bidley's) by any means 
the best house in the street. The parlour, furnished and tenanted by 

MissCann as has been descnbed ; the ficst floor, Bagshot, £sq.,M.P. ; 

tbe second floor, Honeyman ; what remains but the garrets, and the 
ample staircase and the kitc^ns? and the family being all put to bed, 
iiow can you imagine there is room for any more inhabitants ? 

And yet there is one lodger more, and one who, like almost all the 
other personages mentioned up to the present time (and some of whom 
jDu have no idea yet),^will play a definite part in the ensuing history. 
At night, when Honeyman comes in, he flnds on the hall table three 
wax bed-room candles — his own, Bagshot's, and another. As for 
Miss Cann, she is locked into the parlour in bed long ago, hor stout 
little walking shoes being on the mat at the door. At 12 o'clock at 
no<m, sometimes at 1, nay at 2 and 3 — ^long after Bagshot is gone to 
his committees, and little Cann to her pupils — a voice issues from 
the very topmost floor, ftom a room where there is no bell ; a voice of 
thunder calling out "Slavey J Julia I Julia, my love! Mrs, Ridley!" 
And this summons not being obeyed, it will not unfrequently ha^^n 
that a pair of trowsers inclosing a pair of boots with iron heels, and 
known by the name of the celebrated Prussian General who came up 
to help tbe other christener of boots at Waterloo, will be flung down 
fmm the topmost story, even to the marble floor of the resounding 
hall. Then the boy Thomas, otherwise called Slavey, may say, 
" There he goes agam ; " or Mrs. Eidley's own back parlour bell rings 
vehemently, and Julia the cook will exchdm, " Lor, it's Mr. Frederick." 

If the breeches and boots are not understood, the owner himself 
appears in great wrath dancing on the upper story; dancing down to the 
lower floor ; and loosely enveloped in a ragged and flowing robe de 
chtonbre. In this costume and condition he will dance into Honeyman's 
apartment, where that meek divine may be sitting with a headache or 
over a novel or a newspaper ; dance up to the fire flapping his robe-tails, 
poke it, and warm himself there ; dance up to the cupboard where his 
reverence keeps his sherry, and help himself to a glass. 

" Salve, spesfidei, lumen. ecclesuB,'^ he will say ; " here's towards you, 
my buck. I knows the tap. Sherrick's Marsala bottled three months 
after date, at two hundred and forty-six shillings the dozen." 

" Indeed, indeed it's not " (and now we are coming to an idea of the 
skeleton in poor Honeyman 's closet — not that this huge handsome jolly 
Fred Bayham is the skeleton, far from it. Mr. Prederick weighs 
foqrteen stone). *' Indeed, indeed it isn't, Fred, Vm sure; " sighs the 
other. ** You exaggerate, indeed you do. The wine is not dear, not by 
any means so expensive as jon say." 

" How much & ^ass, think you ? " says Fred, filling another bumper. 
** A half-crown, think ye ? — a half-crown, Honeyman ? By cock and 



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120 THE KEWGOMSS. 

pye, it is not worth a bender." He says this in the maimer of th» 
most celebrated tragedian of the day. He can imitate any actor 
tragic or comic ; any known parliamentary orator or clergyman, any 
saw, cock, cloop of a cork wrenched from a bottle and guggling of 
wine into the decanter afterwards, bee buzzing, little boy up a 
chimney, &c. He imitates people being ill on board a steam-packet 
60 well that he makes you die of laughing: his uncle the Bishop 
could not resist this comic exhibition, and gave Fred a cheque for a 
comfortable sum of money ; and Fred, getting cash for the cheque at 
the Cave of Harmony, imitated his uncle the Bishop and his Chaplain, 
winding up with his Lordship and Chaplain being unwell at sea — the 
Chaplain and Bishop quite natural and distinct. 

" How much does a glass of this sack cost thee, Charley ? " resumes 
Fred, after^this parenthesis. ** You say it is not dear. Charles 
Honeyman, you had, even from your youth up, a villainous habit. 
And I perfectly well remember, Sir, in boyhood's breezy hour, when 
I was the delight of his school, that you used to tell lies to your 
venerable father. You did, Charles. Excuse the frankness of an 
early friend, it's my belief you'd rather lie than not. Hm — he looks 
at the cards in the chimney-glass : — Invitations to dinner, proffers of 
mufiOins. Do lend me your sermon. O you old impostor ! you hoary 
old Ananias ! I say, Charley, why haven't you picked out some nice 
girl for yours truly? One with lands and beeves, with rents and 
consols, mark you ? I have no money, 'tis true, but then I don't owe 
as much as you. I am a handsomer man than you are. Look at this 
chest (he slaps it), these limbs ; they are manly. Sir, manly." 

" For Heavep's sake, Bayham," cries Mr. Honeyman, white with 
terror ; "if anyb&dy were to come — " 

" What did I say anon, Sir ? that I was manly, ay, manly. Let 
any ruffian, save a bailiflf, come and meet the doughty arm of 
Frederick Bayham." 

" O Lord Lord, here's somebody coming into the room ! " cries 
Charles, sinking back on the sofa, as the door opens. 

" Ha ! dost thou come with murderous intent ? " and he now ad- 
vances in an approved offensive attitude. " Caitiff, come on, come 
on ! " and he walks off with a tragic laugh, crying, " Ha, ha, ha, 'tis 
but the slavey ! " 

The slavey has Mr. Frederick's hot water, and a bottle of soda 
water on the same tray. He has been instructed to bring soda when- 
ever he hears the word slavey pronounced from above. The bottle 
explodes, and Frederick drinks, and hisses after his drink as though 
he had been all hot within. 

"What's o'clock now, slavey — ^half-past three? Let me see, I 
breakfasted exactly ten hours ago, in the rosy morning, off a modest 
cup of coffee in Covent Garden Market. Coffee, a penny ; bread, a 
simple halfpenny. What has Mrs. Ridley for dinner ? " 

*• Please, Sir, roast pork." 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 121 

"Get me some. Bring it into my room, unless, Honeyman, you 
insist upon my having it here, kind fellow ! " 

At the moment a smart knock comes to the door, and Fred says^ 
"Well, Charles, it may be a friend or a lady come to confess, and 
I'm off; I knew you'd be sorry I was going. Tom, bring up my 
things, brush *em gently, you scoundrel, and don't take the nap off. 
Bring up the roast pork, and plenty of apple sauce, tell Mrs. Ridley, 
with my love ; and one of Mr. Honeyman 's shirts, and one of his 
razors. Adieu, Charles ! Amend ! Remember me." And he vanishes 
into the upper chambers. 



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CHAPTER XII. 




IN WHICH EVERYBODY IS ASKED TO DIKNER. 

OHN JAMES had opened the door hastening to 
welcome a friend and patron, the sight of whom 
always gladdened the youth's eyes ; no other than 
Clive Newcome — in young Ridley's opinion, the 
most splendid, fortunate, beautiful, high-bom, and 
gifted youth this island contained. What generous 
boy in his time has not worshipped somebody? 
Before the female enslaver makes her appearance, 
every lad has a friend of friends, a crony of cronies, 
to whom he writes immense letters in vacation, 
whom he cherishes in his heart of hearts ; whose 
sister he proposes to marry in after life ; whose 
purse he shares ; for whom he will take a thrashing if need be : who is 
his hero. Clive was John James's youthful divinity : when he wanted to 
draw Thaddeus of Warsaw, a Prince, Ivanhoe, or some one splendid and 
egregious, it was Clive he took for a model. His heart leapt when 
he saw the young fellow. He would walk cheerfully to Grey Friars, 
with a letter or message for Clive, on the chance of seeing him, and 
getting a kind word from him, or a shake of the hand. An ex- 
butler of Lord Todmorden was a pensioner in the Grey Friai-s 
Hospital, (it has been said that, at that ancient establishment, is a 
college for old men as well as for boys,) and this old man would come 
sometimes to his successor's Sunday dinner, and grumble from the 
hour of that meal until nine o'clock, when he was forced to depart, 
so as to be within Grey Friars' gates before ten ; grumble about his 
dinner — grumble about his beer — grumble about the number of 
chapels he had to attend, about the gown he wore, about the Master's 
treatment of him, about the want of plums in the pudding, as old men 
and schoolboys grumble. It was wonderful what a liking John 
James took to this odious, querulous, graceless, stupid, and snuffy 
old man, and how he would find pretexts for visiting him at his 
lodging in the old hospital. He actually took that journey that 
he might have a chance of seeing Clive. He sent Clive notes 
and packets of drawings ; thanked him for books lent, asked advice 
about future reading — anything, so that he might have a sight of his 
pride, his patron, his paragon. 



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ns mEwoouBB. l£3 



I Am ahud Olive Nevvecome employed him to smuggle nm ehrab 
and cigars iato the premises ; giviog him appointments in the Bchool 
precincts, where young OUto would come end steakhilj receive the 
forbidden goods. The poor lad was known by the boys, and called 
Newcomes Punch. He was all bat hunchbacked; long and lean in 
the arm ; saUow* wkh a great forehead, and waving black hair, and 
ki^e melancholy eyes. 

"What, is it you, J. J.?" cries Olive gaily, when his humUe 
friend appears at the door. *' Father, this is my friend Eidley. 
This is the £eUow what omn draw." 

" I know who I will back against any young man of his size at 
that,'* says the Oolonel, looking at Olive foiMlly. He considered there 
was not such a genius in the world ; and had already thought of 
having some of Olive's drawing publi^ed by M'Lean of the 
Hajmarket. 

" This is my £ather 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. Oolonel 
Newcome, one of the humblest-minded men alive, has yet his old- 
fashioned military notions; and speaks to a butlers son as to a 
private soldier, kijodly, but not faniliarly. 

. 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. HoneynMB deep in study on his sofa, 
with ''Pearson on the Oreed" before him. The aovel has been 
whipped under the piUow. Olive found it there some short tkne after- 
wards, during his uncle's temporary absence in his dressing-room. He 
has i^eed to suspend his theological studies, and go out with his 
brother-in-law to ^aske. 

As Olive and his friends were a!t Honeyman 's door, and just as we 
vere entering to see the divine seated in state be&are his lolio, Olive 
whispers, ** J. J., eome along, old fellow, and show us some drawings. 
Wki are you doing ? " 

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

"Show us the pictures. Let's go up into your room, "cries Olive. 

" What — will you ? " says the other. " It is but a very small place." 

"Never mind, come along," says Olive; and the two lads 
disi^pear together, leaving the three grown gentlemen to discourse 
togetha:, or mther two of us to listen to Honeyman, who expatiates 
upon the beauty of the weather, the difficulties of the derical calling, 
the honour Oolonel Newoome does him by a visit, &c., with his usual 
eloquence. 

After a while Olive comes down without J. J,, from the upper 
r^ons. He is .greatly excited, " Oh, Sir," he says to his fether, 
"you talk about my drawings — ^you should see J. J.'s ! By Jove, 



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124 THE NBWCOMES. 

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 dogs; but I can only draw what I see. 
Somehow he seems to see things we don't, don't you know ? Oh, 
father, I'm determined I'd rather be a painter than anything." And be 
falls to drawing horses and dogs at his uncle's table, round which the 
elders are seated. 

" I've settled it up-stairs with J. J.," says Clive, working away with 
his pen. " We shall take a studio together ; perhaps we will ga 
abroad together. Won't that be fun, father ? " 

** My dear Clive," remarks Mr. Honeyman, with bland dignity, " there 
are degrees in society which we must respect. You surely cannot think 
of being a professional artist. Such a profession is very well for your 
young protege ; but for you — " 

" What for me ?" cries Clive. " We are no such great folks that I 
know of; and if we were, I say a painter is as good as a lawyer, or a 
doctor, or even a soldier. In Dr. Johnson's Life, which my father is always 
reading — I like to read about Sir Joshua Reynolds best : I think he is 
the best gentleman of all in the book. My ! wouldn't I like to paint 
a picture like Lord Heathfield in the National Gallery ! Wouldn't I 
just ? I think I would sooner have done that, than have fought at 
Gibraltar. And those Three Graces — oh, aren't they graceful ! And 
that Cardinal Beaufort at Dulwich! — it frightens me so, I daren't look 
at it. Wasn't Eeynolds a clipper, that's all ! and wasn't Rubens a 
brick? He was an ambassador and Knight of the Bath; so wis 
Vandyck. And Titian, and Raphael, and Velasquez? — I'll just trouble 
you to show me better gentlemen than them, Uncle Charles." 

" Far be it from me to say that the pictorial calling is not honour- 
able," says Uncle Charles ; *' but as the world goes there are other 
professions in greater repute; and I should have thought Colonel 
Newcome's son — " 

*' He shall follow his own bent," said the Colonel ; " as long as 
his calling is honest it becomes a gentleman ; and if he were to 
take a fancy to play on the fiddle— :actually on the fiddle — I shouldn't 
object." 

" Such a rum chap there was up-stairs! " Clive resumes, looking up 
from his scribbling. ** He was walking up and down on the landing in a 
dressing-gown, with scarcely any other clothes on, holding a plate in 
one hand, and a pork chop he was munching with the other. Like this 
(and Clive draws a figure). What do you think. Sir ? He was in the 
Cave of Harmony, he says, that night you flared up about Captain 
Costigan. He knew me at once ; and he says, * Sir, your father acted 
like a gentleman, a Christian, and a man of honour. Maxima debetur 



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123 



puero reverentia. Give him my compliments. I don*t know his highly 
respectable name.' His highly respectable name," says Clive, cracking 
mth laughter — " those were his very words. * And inform him that I 
am an orphan myself — ^in needy circumstances ' — he said he was in 
fieedy circumstances ; * and I heartily wish he'd adopt me.' " 




The lad puffed out his face, made his voice as loud and as deep as he 
<JOttld ; and from his imitation and the picture he had drawn, I knew at 
«uce that Fred Bayham was the man he mimicked. 

" And does the Red Rover live here," cried Mr. Pendenhis, " and 
We we earthed him at last? '* 

" He sometimes comes here," Mr. Honeyman said with a careless 
n^anner. ** My landlord and landlady were butler and housekeeper to 
^is father, Bayham of Bayham, one of the oldest families in Europe. 
And Mr. Frederick Bayham, the exceedingly eccentric person of whom 
you speak, was a private pupil of my own dear father in our happy days 
at Borehambury." 

He had scarcely spoken when a knock was heard at the door, and 
Wore the occupant of the lodgings could say " Come in ! " Mr. Frederick 
Bayham made his appearance ; arrayed in that peculiar costume which 



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126 THE NEWCOMES. 

he affected. In those days we wore yery tall stocks, only a teiy few 
poetic and eccentric persons Tentitring on the Byron collar; but 
Fred Bayham confined his neck by a simple ribbon, which allowed his 
great red whiskers to curl freely round his capacious jowl. He wore a 
black frock and a large broad-brimmed hat, and looked somewhat like 
a Dissenting preacher. At other periods you would see him in a green 
coat and a blue neckcloth, as if the turf or the driving of coaches was 
his occupation. 

" I have heard from the young man of the house who you were, 
Colonel Newcome," he said with the greatest gravity, " and happened 
to be present, Sir, the other night ; for I was aweary, having been 
toiling all the day in literary labour, and needed some refreshment. 
I happened to be present, Sir, at a scene which did you the greatest 
honour, and of which I spoke, not knowing you, with something like 
levity to your son. He is an mgenui vultus puer ingenuique puioris— 
Pendennis, how are you ? And I thought, Sir, I would come down and 
tender an apology if I had said any words that might savour of oifence, 
to a gentleman who was in the right, as I told the room when you 
quitted it, as Mr. Pendennis, I am sure, will remember." 
Mr. Pendennis looked surprise and perhaps negation. 
" You forget, Pendennis ? Those who quit that room. Sir, often forget 
on the morrow what occurred during the revelry of the night. You did 
right in refusing to return to that scene. We public men are obliged 
often to seek our refreshment at hours when luckier individuals are 
lapt in slumber." 

" And what may be your occupation, Mr. Bayham ?" asks the Colonel, 
rather gloomily, for he had an idea that Bayham was adopting a strain 
of persiflage which the Indian gentleman by no means relished. Never 
saying aught but a kind word to any one, he was on fire at the notion 
that any should take a liberty with him. 

" A barrister. Sir, but without business — a literary man, who can 
but seldom find an opportunity to sell the works of his brains— 
a gentleman. Sir, who has met with neglect, perhaps merited, perhaps 
undeserved, from his family. I get my bread as best I may. On that 
evening I had been lecturing on the genius of some of our comic writers 
at the ParthenopsBon, Hackney. My audience was scanty, perhaps 
equal to my deserts. I came home on foot to an egg and a glass 
of beer after midnight, and witnessed the scene which did you so much 
honour. What is this? I fancy a ludicrous picture of myself "—he 
had taken up the sketch which Clive had been drawing — " I like fun, 
even at my own expense, and can aflford to laugh at a joke which is 
meant in good humour.'* 

This speech quite reconciled the honest Colonel. ** I am sure the 
author of that, Mr. Bayham, means you or any man no harm. Why ! 
the rascal. Sir, has drawn me, his own father ; and I have sent the 
drawing to Major Hobbs, who is in command of mjr regiment 
Chinnery himself, Sir, couldn't hit off a likeness better; he has 



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THB inSWOOMBS. 127 

dmim ma on horseback, and he has fbmwn me on 'loot, ami he has 
drawn mj friend, Mr. Binnie, who lives with me. We have scores of 
iiis drawh^ at mj lodgings ; and if jou will favour 110 hj dining with 
OS to-daj, and theee gentlemen, you shall see that jo« are not the only 

person caricatured by Clive besre." 

" I just took some little dinner up-stairs, Sir. I am a moderate man, 
and ean live, if need be, like a Spartan ; but to join such good company 
I vill gladly use the knife and fork again. You will exoose the 
traveller's dress ? I keep a room here, which I use only occasionally, 
and am at present lodging — ^in the country." 

When Honeyman was ready, the Colonel, who had the greatest 
lespect for the Church, wenld not hear of going oat of the room 
before the clergyman, and took his arm to walk. Bayham then fell to 
Mr. Pendennis's lot, and they went together. Throi^h Hill Street 
and Berkeley Square their course was straight enongh ; but at Hay Hill, 
Mr. Bayham made an abrupt tack larboard, engaging in a labyrinth of 
stables, and walking a long way round from Clifford Street, whither we 
were bound. He hinted at a cab, but Pendennis refused to ride, being, 
in truth, anxious to see which way his eccentric companion would steer. 
" There are reasons," growled Bayham, " which need not be explained 
to one of your experience, why Bond Street must be avoided by 
some men peculiarly situated. The smell of Truefitt's pomatum 
loakes me ill. Tell me, Pendennis, is this Indian warrior a rajah 
of large wealth ? Could he, do you think, recommend me to a 
situation in the East India Company? I would gladly take any 
honest post in which fidelity might be useful, genius might be ap- 
preciated, and courage rewarded. Here we are. The hotel seems 
comfortable. I never was in it before." 

When we entered the Coloners sitting-room at Nerot's, we found the 
^ter engaged in extending the table. '' We are a larger party than I 
expected," our host said. ** I met my brother Brian on horseback 
leaving cards at that great house in Street." 

" The Russian Embassy^" says Mr. Honeyman, who knew the town 
qnite well. 

"And he said he was disengaged, and would dine with us," 
fiontinuea the Colonel. 

"Am I to understand, Colonel Newcome," says Mr. Frederick 
Bayham^ "that you are related to the eminent banker, Sir Brian 
Newcome, who gives soeh uncommonly swell parties in Park Lane?** 

"What is a swell party?" asks the Col<mel, laughing. *'I dined 
^ith my brother last Wednesday; and it was a very grand dinner 
certainly. The Governor-General himself could not give a more 
splendid entertainment. But, do you know, I scarcely had enough to 
eat? I don't eat side dishes ; and as for the roast beef of old England, 
why, the meat was put on the table, and whisked away like Sancho's 
inauguration feast at Barataria. We did not dine till nine o'clock. I 
like a few ghisses of claret and a cosy talk after dinner ; but — well, 



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128 THE NBWCOMES. 

\?ell " — (no doubt the worthy gentleman was accusing himself of telling 
tales out of school and had come to a timely repentance). *' Our dinner, 
I hope, will be different Jack Binnie will take care of that. That 
fellow is full of anecdote and fun. You will meet one or two more 
of our service; Sir Thomas de Boots, who is not a bad chap over a 
glass of wine ; Mr. Pendennis's chum, Mr. Warrington, and my nephew, 
Barnes Newcome — a dry fellow at first, but I dare say he has good 
about him when you know him ; almost every man has, " said the 
good-natured philosopher. " Olive, you rogue, mind and be moderate 
with the champagne, Sir ! " 

" Ohampagne's for women," says Olive. " I stick to claret." 

" I say, Pendennis," here Bayham remarked, "it is my deliberate 
opinion that F. B. has got into a good thing." 

Mr. Pendennis seeing there was a great party was for going home to 
his chambers to dress. " Hm ! " says Mr. Bayham, ** don't see the 
necessity. What righ^minded man looks at the exterior of his neigh- 
bour ? He looks here^ Sir, and examines there" and Bayham tapped 
his forehead, which was expansive, and then his heart, which he con- 
sidered to be in the right place. 

** What is this I hear about dressing ? " asks our host. ** Dine in 
your frock, my good friend, and welcome, if your dress-coat is in the 
country." ^i^ 

" It is at present at an uncle's," Mr. Bayham said, with great gmvity, 
" and I take your hospitality as you offer it, Oolonel Newcome, cordially 
and frankly." 

Honest Mr. Binnie made his appearance a short time before tbe 
^pointed hour for receiving the guests, arrayed in a tight little 
pair of trowsers, and white silk stockings and pumps, his bald head 
shining like a billiard-ball, his jolly gills rosy with good humour. 
He was bent on pleasure. ** Hey, lads ! " says he ; " but well make 
a night of it. We haven't had a night since the farewell dinner off 
Plymouth." 

" And a jolly night it was, James," ejaculates the Oolonel. 

" Egad, what a song that Tom Morris sings." 

** And your Jock o' Hazeldean is as good as a play. Jack." 

" And I think you beat iny one I iver hard in Tom fowling your- 
self, Tom ! " cries the Oolonel's delighted chum. Mr. Pendennis 
opened the eyes of astonishment at the idea of the possibility of 
renewing these festivities, but he kept the lips of prudence closed. 
And now the carriages began to drive up, and the guests of Colonel 
Newcome to arrive. 



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IN •WHICH THOMAS NEWCOME SINGS HIS LAST SONG. 



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HE earliest comers were the 
first mate aad the medical 
officer o£ the ship in Tvhich 
the two gentlemen had come 
to England. The mate was 
a Scotchman : the doctor was 
a Scotchman ; of the gentle- 
men from the Oriental Glub^ 
three were Scotchmen. 

The Southerons, with one 
exception, were the last to 
arrive, and for awhile we stood 
looking out of the windows 
awaiting tiieir conubg. The 
first mate puUed mxt a pen- 
knife And arranged his nails. 
The Doctor and Mr. Binnie talked of the progress of medicine. Binnie 
liad walked the hospitals of Edinburgh before getting his civil appoint- 
ment to India. The three gentlemen from Hanover Square and the 
Colonel had plenty to say about Tom Smith of the Cavalry, and Harry 
Hall of the Engineers : how Topham was going to marry poor little 
Bob Wallis's widow ; how many lakhs Barber had brought home, and 
the like. The tall grey-headed Englishman, who had been in the 
east too, in the king's service, joined for awhile in this conversation, 
but presently left it, and came and talked with Olive; "I knew 
your father in India," said the gentleman to the lad; there is 
not a more gallant or respected officer in that service. I have a 
boy too, a step-son, whb has just gone into the army ; he is older than 
you, he was bom at the end of the Waterloo year, arid so was a great 
friend of his and mine, who was at your school, Sir Rawdon <Jrawley." 

" He was in Gown Boys, I know," says the boy ; " succeeded his 
uncle Pitt, fourth Baronet. I don't know how his mother — ^her wh^ 
^m)te the Hymns, you know, and goes to Mr. Honeyman's chapei — 
comes to be Rebecca, Lady Crawley. His fether. Colonel RawdoA 
Crawley, died at Coventry Island, in August, 182 — , and his nnde, 



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Sir Pitt, not till September here. I remember, we used to talk about 
it at Grey Friars, -when I was quite a little chap ; and there, were bets 
whether Crawley, I mean the young one, was a Baronet or not." 

" When I sailed to Rigy Cornel," the first mate was speaking— 
nor can any spelling nor combination of letters of which I am master, 
reproduce tl^is gentleman's accent when he was talking his best — 
** I racklackt they used always to sairve us a drem before denner. 
And as your frinds are kipping the denner, and as I've no watch 
to-night, I'll jist do as we used to do at Rigy. James, my fine 
fellow, jist look alive and breng me a small glass of brandy, will ye ? 
Did ye iver try a brandy cock-tail. Cornel ? Whin I sailed on the 
New York line, we used jest to make bits before denner : and— thank 
ye, James :" and he tossed off a glass of brandy. 

Here a waiter announces, in a loud voice, ** Sir Thpmas de Boots," 
and the General enters, scowling round the room according to his 
fashion, very red in the face, very tight in the girth, splendidly attired 
with a choking white neckcloth, a voluminous waistcoat, and his 
-orders on. 




"Stars and garters, by jingo!" cries Mr. Frederic Bayham; "I 
say, Pendennis, have you any idea, is the Duke coming ? I wouldn't 
have come in these Bluchers if I had known it. Confound it, no — 
Hoby himself, my own bootmaker, wouldn't have allowed poor E. B. 
to appear in Bluchers, if he had known that I was going to meet 
the Duke. My linen's all right, any how ; " and F. B. breathed a 
thankful prayer for that. Indeed who, but the very curious, could tell 
that- not F. B.'s but C. H.'s — Charles Honeyman's — was the mark 
upon that decorous linen ? 

Colonel Newcome introduced Sir Thomas to every one in the 
room, as he had introduced us all to each other previously, and as Sir 
Thomas looked at one after another, his face was kind enough to 



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THE NEWCOMES. 181 

assume an expression which seemed to ask, ** And who the devil are 
joQ, Sir?*' as clearly as though the General himself had given 
utterance to the words. With the gentleman in the window talking 
to Olive he seemed to have some acquaintance and said not unkindly, 
** How d' you do, Dobbin." 

The carrii^e of Sir Brian Newcome now drove up, from which the 
Baronet descended in state, leaning upon the arm of the Apollo in 
plush and powder, who closed the shutters of the great coach, and 
mounted by the side of the coachman, laced and periwigged. The 
Bench of Bishops has given up its wigs ; cannot the box, too, be 
made to resign that insane decoration? Is it necessary for our 
comfort, that the men who do our work in stable or household should 
i)6 dressed like Merry- Andrews ? Enter Sur Brian Newcome, smiling 
blandly: he greets his brother aflfectionately. Sir Thomas gaily; he 
nods and smiles to Olive, and graciously permits Mr. Pendennis to 
take hold of two fingers of his extended right hand. That gentleman 
is charmed, of course, with the condescension. What man could be 
otherwise than happy to be allowed a momentary embrace of two such 
precious fingers ? When a gentleman so favours me, I always ask, 
mentally, yrhj he has taken the trouble at all, and regret that I have 
not had the presence of mind to poke one finger against his two. If i 
were worth ten thousand a year, I cannot help inwardly reflecting, and 
kept a large account in Threadneedle Street, I cannot help thinking he 
wuld have favoured me with the whole palm. 

The arrival .of these two grandees has somehow cast a solemnity 
over the company. The weather is talked about : brilliant in itself, it 
does not occasion very brilliant remarks among Colonel Newcome's 
guests. €ir Brian really thinks it must be as hot as it is in India. 
Sir Thomas de Boots, swelling in his white waistcoat, in the armholes 
of which his thumbs are engaged, smiles scornfully, and wishes Sir 
Brian had ever felt a good sweltering day in the hot winds in India. 
Sir Brian withdraws the untenable proposition that London is as hot 
as Calcutta. Mr. Binnie looks at his watch, and at the Colonel. " We 
have only your nephew Tom to wait for," he says; **I think we may 
make so bold as to order the dinner," — a proposal heartily seconded 
hj Mr. Frederick Bayham. 

The dinner appears steaming, borne by' steaming waiters. The 
grandees take their places, one on each side of the Colonel.. Ho begs 
Mr. Honeyman to. say grace, and stands reverentially during that brief 
ceremony, while De Boots looks queerly at him from over his napkin* 
All the young men take their placesi at the further end of the table, 
round about Mr. Binnie ; and at the end of the second course Mr. 
Barnes Newcome makes his appearance. 

Mr. Barnes does not show the slightest degree of disturbance, 
although he disturbs all the company. Soup and fish are brought for 
him, and meat, which he leisurely eats, while twelve other gentlemen 
are kept waiting. We mark Mr. Binnie's twinkling eyes, as they 



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132 THE NEW003IBS. 

^mtch the young man. " Eh,"' he seems to say, ^* bat that's just about 
aa free and easy a young chap as ever I set eyes on.'l. And so Mr. 
Barnes W0« aeool young chap. That dish is so good, he must really 
1^T6 some more. . He dbensses the second supply leisurely; and 
turning round simpering to his neighbour, says, " I really hope I'm 
not keeping everybody i?aitiBg." 

''Hemi " ^nints the neighbour, Mr. Baybam; ''it doeso't mudi 
matter, for we had all pretty well done dimier " Barnes takes a note 
of Mr. Baybam's dress*— his long frook-ooat, the ribbon roand his 
neck; and suryeys him m^ an admirable impndfflice. ''''Who axt 
these people," thinks he^ "my uncle has got tog^her?" He bows 
graciously to the honest Colonel, who asks him to take wine. . He is so 
insufibrably a&ble, that every man near him \rould like to ^we him a 
beating. 

All the time of the dinner the host was chaUenging ererybody to 
drink wine, in his honest old^fashiooad way, and Mr. Binnie seoonding 
the chief ^atertainer. . 8otch was the way in En^aod and Scotkmd 
when they were young men. And when Binnie, asking Sir Badan^ 
reociTes ior reply from ihe Baronet — " Tbajik you. No, my dear 
Sir. I have exioeeded already, positively exceeded," the f)oor dis- 
Qomfited gendeman hardly knows whither to apply; but, luckily, Tom 
Norris, the first mate, comes to hid rescue, and cries out, " Mr. Binnie, 
I've not had enough, and lUl drink a glass of anything ye like with 
ye." The fact is, that Mr. Norris has had enough. He has drank 
bumpers to the health of every member of the company ; his glass Ms 
been £lled scores of times by watchM waiters. So has Mr. B&ybuu 
absorbed great Quantities of drink; but widiout any visible effect on 
that veteran to^er. So has young Clive taken more than is good for 
him. His cheeks are flushed and burning; he is dusU^tenng and 
laughing loudly at his end of the table. Mr. Warrington eyes the lad 
wiHi some curii)sity ; and then regards Mr. Barnes with a look cf scorn, 
which does not scorck that alGEible young person. 

I am obliged to confess that the mate of the Indiaman at an eady 
period of the . dessert, and when nobody had asked him for any such 
public expression, of his ojpinion, insisted on ri&ing and proposii^ tbe 
health of Colonel Newcome, whose virtues he lauded outrageously, sad 
whom he pironounbed to be one of the beat of mortal men. Sir Brian 
looked very much alarmed at the commencement of this spdedt, wfaicb 
the mate delivered with immense shrieks and gesticulation : but the 
Baronet recovered during the course of the rambling omtion, and at its 
oonclnsiosL gracefully tapped the table with one of those patmaising 
fingers ; and lifting up a glass containing at least a thimble-foU ^ 
claret, said, " My dear brother, I drink your health with aU my heait,^ 
I*m su-ah.*' The youtibful Barnes had uttered many " Hear, heara! 
during the discourse with an irony, which, with every fresh giafl® ^ 
wine he drank, he cared less . to conceal. And though Baiaws om 
come late he had drunk largely, making up for loert time. 



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Tbose ironical cheers, and all bis coosiu's behaviour dtsriiig dinner 
had struck yoong Olive, wha was growing very angry. He growled 
out remarks uncomplimentary to Barnes. His eyes, as he looked 
towards his^^ kinsmiin, fiashed out challenges, of which we who were 
vatehing him could see the warlike purport. Warrington looked at 
Bayham saiid Pendennis with glances of apprehension. We saw that 
danger was brooding, unless the one young man oould be restrained 
from his impertinence, and the other from his wine. 

Colonel Newcome said a very few words in reply to his honest friend 
tbe chief mate : and there the matter might have ended : but I am 
fioriy to say Mr. Binnie now thought it necessary to rise and deliver 
tenseif ©f some remariks regarding the King's service, coupled with the 
Dame of Major General Sir Thomas de Boots, K.C.B., &c. — the receipt 
of which that gallant officer was obliged to acknowledge in a confusiom 
amounting almost to apoplexy. The glasses went whack whack upon 
the hos|^table board; the evening set in far public speakii^. 
Encouraged by his last eflfort, Mr. Binnie now proposed -Sir Brian 
Newcome's health ; and that Baronet rose and uttered an exceedingly 
lengthy speech, delivered with his wine glass on his bosom. 

Then that sad rogue « Bayham must get up, and call earnestly and 
re^ectfullj for silence and the^ chairman s hearty sympathy, for tbtt 
few observations which he had to propose. *' Our armies had be^i 
drank with proper enthusiasm — sneh men as he beheld around him 
deserved tbe applaude of all honest hearts, and merited the cheers 
with which their names had been received. (Hear, hear ! from Barnes 
Newcome sarcastically. Hear, ^ear. Hear! fiercely, from Olive*) 
Bat whilst we applauded our army, should' we forget a profession 
still mote exalted? Yes, still more exalted, I say in the face of the 
gaBant General opposite, and that profession, I need' not say, is ihe 
Church. (Applause.) Gentlemen, we have among us one who, while 
partaking largely of the dainties on this festive board, drinking fre^y 
of the sparkling wine-cup which our gallant hospitality administers 
^ US, sanctifies by his presence the feast of whidl he partakes, 
ioaogurates with a;ppropriate benedictions, and graces it, I may say, 
both before and after meat. Gentleman, Charles Honeyman was the 
friend of my childhood, his father the instructor of my early days. 
If Frederick Bayham's latter life has been chequered by misfortune, 
it may be that I* have forgotten the precepts which the venerable 
puent of Oharles Heneyman poured into an inattentive ear. He too, 
sa a diild, was not ocempt from hulU ; as a young man, I am told, 
not quitei free from youthful indiscretions. But in this present Annb 
Doniini, we hail Charles Honeyman as a precept and an example, as 
A dieusftdd and a hamn ecelma (as I told him m the confidence of 
the private circle this moaming, and ere I ever thought to publish mj 
opinion in this distinguished co^mpany). Colonel Newcome and 
Mr. Knnie! I dsnok to the health of the IWerend Charles Hone^^ 
^mtn, AM, May we listen to many, more of his serttMnis, as well as to 



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134 THE NEWCOMES. 

tbat admirable discourse vrith which I am sure he is about to electrify 
us now. May we profit by his eloquence ; and cherish in our memories 
the truths which come mended from his tongue ! " He ceased ; poor 
Honeyman had to rise on his legs, and gasp out a few incoherent 
remarks in reply. Without a book before him^ the Incumbent of 
Lady Whittlesea*s Chapel was no prophet, and the truth is he made 
poor work of his oration. 

At the end of it, he. Sir Brian, Colonel Dobbin, and one of the Indian 
gentlemen quitted the room, in spite of the loud outcries of our 
generous host, who insisted that the party should not break up^ 
** Close up, gentlemen," called out honest Newcome, " we are not 
going to part just yet. Let me fill your glass, General. You used 
to have no objection, to a glass of wine." And he poured out a bumpeif 
for his friend, which the old campaigner sucked in with fitting gusto. 
"Who will give us a song? Binnie,. give us the Laird of Cockpen. 
It*s capital^ my dear General. Capital," the Colonel whispered to his 
neighbour. 

Mr. Binnie struck up the Laird of Cockpen, without, I am bound to 
say, the least reluctance. He bobbed to one man, and he winked to 
another, and he tossed his glass, and gave all the points of his song in 
a manner which did credit to his simplicity and his humour. You 
haughty southerners little know how a jolly Scotch gentleman can 
desipere in loco, and how he chirrups over his honest cups. I do not 
say whether it was with the song or with Mr. Binnie that we were 
most amused. It was a good commonty, as Christopher Sly says ; nor 
were we sorry when it was done. 

Him the first mate succeeded ; after which came a song from the 
redoubted F. Bayham, which he sang with a bass voice which Lablache 
might envy, and of which the chorus was frantically sung by the whole 
company. The cry was then for the Colonel ; on which . Barnes 
Newcome, who had been drinking much, started up with something 
like an oath, crying, " O, I can't stand this." 

" Then leave it, confound you ! " said young Clive, with fury in his 
face. "If our company is not good for you, why do you come 
into it?" 

" Whas that ? " asks Barnes, who was evidently afiected by wine. 
Bayham roared, " Silence ! " and Barnes Newcome, looking round with 
a tipsy toss of the head, finally sate down. 

The Colonel sang, as we have said, with a very high voice, using 
freely the falsetto, after the manner of the tenor-singers of his day. 
He chose one of his maritime songs, and got through the first verse 
very well, Barnes wagging his head at the chorus, with a " Bravo ! " so 
offensive that Fred Bayham, his neighbour, gripped the young man's 
arm, and told him to hold his confounded tongue. 

The Colonel began his second verse : and here, as will often happen 
to amateur singers, his falsetto broke down. He was not in the least 
a^nnoyed, for I saw him smile very good-naturedly ; and he was going 



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THE NEWCOMES. 135 

to try the verse agaio, when that unlucky Barnes first gave a sort of 
crowing imitation of the song, and then burst into a yell of laughter. 




Olive dashed a glass of wine in his face at the next minute, glass and 
all ; and no one who had watched the young man's behaviour was sorry 
for the insult. 

I never- saw a kind face express more terror than Colonel New- 
come's. He started back as if he had himself received the blow from 
his son. •* Gracious God ! " he cried out. *' My boy insult a gentleman 
at my table I " 

" I'd like to do it again," says Clive, whose whole body was trembling 
^'ith anger. 

*' Are you drunk, Sir ? " shouted his father. 

"The boy served the young fellow rights Sir/' growled Fred 
Bayham in his deepest voice. ** Come along, young man. Stand up 
straight, and keep a civil tongue in your head next time, mind you, 
'when you dine with gentlemen. It's easy to see," says Fred, looking 
round with a knowing air, "that this young man hasn't got the 
usages of society — he's not been accustomed to it : " and he led the 
dandy out. 

Others had meanwhile explained the state of the case to the Colonel 
—including Sir Thomas de Boots, who was highly energetic and 
delighted with Clive's spirit ; and some were for having the song to 
continue ; but the Colonel, puiBGing his cigar, said, ** No. My pipe is 
out I will never sing again J' So this history will record no more of 
Thomas Newcomers musical performances. 



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CHAPTER XIV. 



PJkBK LANE. 




Now jump up. 



LI YE woke up the n€f:xt Burning tcr be aware 
of a racking headache, tasi % the.^oi light of 
his throblnBg ejes, to behold his &lher with 
solenm &ee at \m hed-f&Q^ — m refvming con- 
science to greet his waking. 

" You drank too much ^ine last night, and 
disgraced yourself, Sir," the old soldier ssud. 
" You must get up and eat humble pie this 
morning, my boy." 

"Humble what, father?" asked the lad, 
hardly aware of his words, or the scene before 
him. " O, IVe got such a headache ! " 

" Serve you right, Sir. Many a young fellow 
has had to go on parade in the morning, with a 
headache earned overnight. Drink this water. 
Now, dash the water well over your head. There you 
come ! Make your toilette quickly, and let us be off, and find cousin 
feames before he has left home." 

Clive obeyed the paternal orders ; dressed himself quickly; and 
descending, found his father smokiug his morning cigar in the apart- 
ment where they had dined the night before, and where the tables 
still were covered with the relics of yesterday's feast — the emptied 
bottles, the blank lamps, the scattered ashes and fruits, the wretched 
heel-taps that have been lying exposed all night to the air. Who does 
not know.the aspect of an expired feast ? 

" The field of action strewed with the dead, my boy," says Olive's 
father. " See, here's the glass on the floor yet, and a great stain of 
claret on the carpet." 

** O father! "says Clive, hanging his head down, " I know I shouldn't 
have done it. But Barnes Newcome would provoke the patience of Job; 
and I couldn't bear to have my father insulted." 

** I am big enough to fight my own battles, my boyi" the Colonel said 
good-naturedly, putting his hand on the lad's damp head. " How your 
head throbs ! If Barnes laughed at my singing, depend upon it, Sir, 



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XHB KBWCOME& 137 

thefewas something ridicalous in it, and be laaghed- because he could 

nothe]p it. If he behaved ill, we should not; and to a man wha is 

e^ODg our salt too, and is of oiur blood." 

''He is ashamed of our blopd, lather," cries Olive, still indignant. 

'' We ought to be ashamed ei doing wrong. We must go and ask 

bis pardon. Once when i was a young man in India," the father 

contiooed very gravely, ^^ some hot words passed at mess — not such an 

insult as that of last night; I don't think I could have quite borne that — 

and people found fault with me fbr forgiving the youngster who had 

uttered the offensive expressions, over his wine* Some of my acquaintance 

sneered at my courage, and that is a hard imputation lor a youug feUow 

of spirit to bear. But providentially, you see, it was WMr-time, and very 

aoon after I had the good luck to show that I was not a poule mouiUee, 

as the French eall it ; and the man who insulted me, and whom I 

forgave, became my fastest friend, and died by my side — it was poor 

Jack Cutler — at Ai^sum, We must go and ask Barnes Newcome*s 

pardon. Sir, and forgive other peoples* trespasses, my boy, if we hape 

f<»gifeness of our own." His voice sank down as he spoke, and he 

Wed his honest head reverently. I have heatd hk son tell the simple 

stoiy 3rears afterwards, with tears in his eyes. 

Piccadilly was hardly yet awake, the next morning, and the sparkling 
dews and the poor homeless vagabonds still had possession of the grass 
of Hyde Park, as the pair walked up to Sir Brian Newcome's house, 
where the shutters were just opening to let in the day. The housemaid, 
who was scrubbing the steps of the house, and washing its trim feet in 
a xoanner which became such a polite mansion's morning toilet, knew 
Master Olive, and smiled at him from under her blousy curl-papers, 
admitting the two gentlemen into Sir Brian's dining-roe^m, where they 
proposed to wait until Mr. Barnes should a^)ear. There they sate for 
an hour looking at Lawrence's picture of Lady Ann, leaning over a 
harp, attired in Vhite muslin ; at Harlbwe's portrait of Mrs. Newcome, 
with her two sons simpering at her knees, painted at a time when the 
Newcome brothers were not the bald-headed, red-whiskered British 
merchants with whom the reader has made acquaintance, but chubby 
ehildrea with hair flowing down their backs, and quaint little swallow- 
tailed jackets atnd nankeen trowsers. A splendid portrait of the late 
Karl of Eew in his peer's robes hangs opposite his daughter and her 
Inurp. We are writing of George the Fourth's reign ; I daresay there 
hong in the room a^fine framed print of that great sovereign. The 
efaaidetier is ia a canvas bag ; t^e vast dde-board, whereon are erected 
open frames fwr the support of Sir Brian Newcome's grand silver trays, 
wMck on dinner days gleam on that festive board, now groans under 
Ae weight of Sir Brian's blue-books. An immense receptacle for wine, 
shaped like a Beman sarcophagus, lurks under the side-board. Two 
people sitting at that large dining-table must talk very loud so as to 
make themselves heard across those great slabs of mahogany covered 
witk damadc. The butler and servants who attend at the table take 



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188 THE KBWCOMES. 

ft long time walking round it I picture to myself two persons of 
ordinary size sitting in that great room at that great table, far apart, in 
neat evening costume, sipping a little sherry, silent, genteel, and glam ; 
and think the great and wealthy are not always to be envied, and 
tba^ there may be more comfort and happiness in a snug parlour, where 
you are served by a brisk little maid, than in a great dark, dreary 
dining-hall, where a funereal major-domo and a couple of stealthy 
footmen minister to you your mutton chops. They come and lay the 
oloth presently, wide as the main sheet of some tall ammiral. A pile 
of newspapers and letters for the master of the house, the Newcome 
Sentinel^ old county paper, moderate conservative, in which our 
worthy townsman and member is praised, his benefactions are recorded, 
and his speeches given at full length ; the Newcome Independent, in 
which our precious member is weekly described as a ninny, and 
infoimed almost every Thursday morning that h^ is a bloated 
aristocrat, as he munches his dry toast. Heaps of letters, county 
papers. Times and Morning Herald for Sir Brian Newcome: little 
heaps of letters (dinner and soiree cards most of these), and Morning 
Post for Mr. Barnes. Punctually as eight o'clock strikes, that young 
gentleman comes to breakfast ; his father will lie yet for another hour; 
the Baronet's prodigious laboufs in the JEouse of Commons keeping him 
frequently out of bed till sunrise. 

As his cousin entered the room, Olive turned very red, and perhaps 
a faint blush might appear on Barnes's pallid countenance. He came 
in, a handkerchief in one hand, a pamphlet in the other, and both 
hands being thus engaged, he could offer neither to his kinsmen. 

** You are come to breakfast, I hope," he said^-calling it *' weakfast," 
and pronouncing the words with a most languid drawl — " or, perhaps, 
you want to see my father ? He is never out of his room till half-past 
nine. Harper, did Sir Brian come in last night before or after me?" 
Harper, the butler, thinks Sir Brian came in after Mr. Barnes. 

When that functionary had quitted the room, Barnes turned round 
lo his uncle in a candid, smiling way, and said, ** The fact is. Sir, I 
don't know when I came home myseLf very distinctly, and can't, of 
course, tell about my father. Generally, you know, there are two 
candles left in the hall, you know ; and if there are two, you know, 
I know of course that my fether is still at the House. But last night 
after that capital song you sang, hang me if I know what happened to * 
me. I beg your pardon. Sir, I'm shocked at having been so overtaken. 
Such a confounded thing doesn't happen to me once in ten years. I «^ 
trust I didn't do anything rude to anybody, for I thou^t some of 
your friends the pleasantest fellows I ever met in my life ; and as for 
the claret, 'gad, as if I hadn't had enough after dinner,^ I brought a 
quantity of it away with me on my shirt-front and waistcoat ! '* 

"I beg your pardon, Barnes," Olive said, blushing deeply, *'^^ 
I'm very sorry indeed for what passed ; I threw it." . 

The Colonel, who had been listening with a queer expression 



of 



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TH£ NEWCOME& 1S9 

vonder and doubt on his ikce, here intemipted Mr. Barnes. *' It was 
Olive that — that spilled the wine over you last night,** Thomas 
Ndwcome said ; *^ the joong rascal had dmnk a great deal too much 
mae, and bad neither the ose of his head nor his hands, and this 
morning I have given him a lectare, and he has come to ask yoor 
pardon Sot, his clumsiness ; and if you have forgotten your share in the 
night's transaction, I hope you have forgotten his, and will accept his, 
liand and his apology." 

*' Apology 1 There's no apology,** cries Barnes, holding out a 
couple of fingers of his hand, but looking towards the Colonel, " I 
don't know what happened any more than the dead. Did we have 
a row?. Were there ^ny glasses broken? The best way in such 
cases is to sweep 'em up. We can't mend them." 

The Colonel said gravely — ** that he was thankful to find that the 
disturbance of the night before had no worse result" He pulled the tail 
of Clive's coat, when that unlucky young blunderer was about to trouble 
his cousin with indiscreet questions or explanations, and checked his talk. 
*' The other night you saw an old man in drink, my boy," he said, 
"and to what shame and degradation the old wretch had brought 
himself. Wine has given you a warning too, which I hope you will 
remember all your life ; no one has seen me the worse for drink these 
forty years, and I hope both you young gentlemen will take counsel by 
an' old soldier, who fully preaches what he practises, and beseeches you 
to beware of the bottle." 

After quitting their kinsman, the kind Colonel farther improved the 
occasion with his son ; and told him out of his own experience many 
stories of quarrels, and duels, and wine ; how the wine had occasioned 
the brawls ; and the foolish speech over night the bloody meeting at 
morning ; how he had known widows and orphans made by hot words 
uttered in idle orgies: how the truest honour was the manly con- 
fession of wrong ; and the best courage the courage to avoid temptation. 
The humble-minded speaker, whose advice contained the best of all 
wisdom, that which comes from a gentle and reverent spirit, and a 
pure and generous heart, never for once thought of the effect which 
he might be producing, but uttered his simple say according to the 
truth within- him. Indeed, he spoke out his mind pretty resolutely on 
all subjects which moved or interested him ; and Clive, his son, and 
his honest chum, Mr. Binnie, who had a great deal more reading and 
much keener intelligence than the Colonel, were amused often at his 
naive opinion about men, or books, or morals. Mr. Clive had a very 
fine natural sense of humour which played perpetually round his 
&thers simple philosophy, mth kind and smiling comments. 
Between this pair of friends the superiority of wit lay, almost 
from the very first, on the younger man's side ; but, on the 
other hand, Clive felt a tender admiration for his father's goodness, a 
loving delight in contemplating his elder's character,, which he has never 
lost, and which in the trials of their future life inexpressibly cheered 



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14.0 TM% NEWCOMES. 

and consoled kith of them. Beati iUi! O man of the world, wbooe 
wearied eyes may glance over this ps^e^ may those who come: after you 
so regard yoa ! O geneioiiis hoy, who read in it, may you ha^e such a 
friend to trust and cherish in youth, and in future days fondly and 
proudly to remember I 

Some^four or £ve weeks after the quasi recooeiliAtion between CM^e 
and his kinsman, the chief pnrt ^ Sir Brian Newcome's family were 
assembled at the breakfast-table together, where the meal was taken 
in common, and at the early hour of eight (unless the senator was 
kept too late in the House of Oommoiis oveomight) : and Lady Ann 
and her nursery were now returned to London again, little Alfred being 
perfectly set up by a month of Brighton air. It was a Thursday 
morning ; on which day of the week, it has been said the Neuteome 
Independent and the Newcome Sentinel both made their appearance 
upon the baronet's table. The household from above and from below ; 
the maids and footmen from the basement; the nursei^, children, and 
governesses from the attics ; all poured into the room at the sound 
of a certain bell. » 

I do not eneer at the purpose Ibr which, at that chiming eight 
o'clock bell, the household is called together. The urns are hissiiig, 
the pkte is shining ; the leither of the house standing up, reads from 
a gilt book for three or four minvfetes in a measured cadence. The 
members of the family are around the table in an attitude of decent 
reverence, the younger children whisper responses at their mother's 
knees ; the governess W€»rships a little apart; the maids and the large 
footaaen are in a cluster before their chairs, the upper servants per- 
forming their devotion on the other side of the side-board ; the narsc 
whisks about the unconsdous last-bom and tosses it up and dawfl 
during the ceremony. I do not sneer at that — at the act at which all 
these people are assembled— it is at the rest of the day I marvel; at 
the rest of the day, and what it brings. At the very instant when the 
voice has ceased speaking and the gilded book is shut, the world begins 
again, and for the next twenty-three hours an4 fifty-seven minutes, 
all that household is given up to it. The servile squad rises up aaod 
marohes away to its basement, whence, should it happen to be a gala 
day, those tall gentlemen at present attired in Oxford mixture, ^H 
issue forth with flour plastered on their heads, yellow coats, pink 
breeches, sky-blue waistcoats, silver lace, buckles in their shoes, bl«d 
silk bags on their backs, and I don't knew what insane emblems flf 
servility and absurd bedizenments of folly. 'Their very msBset d 
speakinig to what we call their masters and mistresses will be a like 
monstrous masquerade. You know no more of that race wliich inhabits 
the basement floor, than of the men and brethren of TiEab«ctoo» 
to whom some among ua send missionarieB. If ye« met some of J<^ 
servants in the (Greets (I respectfuHy suppose for a moment that the 
reader is a person of high fashion and a great establishmest)r J^ 
would not know their faces. You might sleep under the same roof wt 



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THB KSWOOMIS. 141 

half a oeiitajrj, and know nothing aliont ihem. If they were ill, 5^011 
vonld not visit them, though you would Bend them ta apotheeary and 
of course order that they lacked for nothing. You are not unkind^ 
70a are not worae than your neighhooxs. Nay, perhaps if you did 
go ioto. the kitchen, or to take the tea in tha servants' haU, you would 
do little good, and only hore the folks assembled them. But so it 
is. With those fellow Christians who have just been saying Amen 
to your prayers, you have scarcely the community of Charity. They 
oome, you don't know whenee ; they think and talk you don't know 
what ; they dici and you ' don't care, or vice mrm. They answer the 
M for prayers as they aoswer the bell for <x)als : for exacdy three 
iiyoatiBs in the day , you all ksteel together on one carpet — and, the 
teires and petitions of the servaxnte and jnasters over, the rite called 
£iimily worshij^ is ended. 

Exeunt aervaats, save those two who warm the newspaper, adui* 
nister the muffins, and serve out the tea. Sir Brian reads his letters^ 
and chumps his dry toast. Ethel whispers to her mother, she thinks 
Eliza, is lookii^ very ill. Lady Ann asks, which is Eliza? It is 
the woman that was ill before they left town ? If dae is ill, Mrs, Trotter 
had better send her away. Mrs. Trotter is ©nly a great deal too good^ 
natured. She is always keeping people who are ill. Then her 
Ladyship begins to read the Morning Post, and glances over the names 
of the persons who were present at Baroness Bosco's ball, and Mrs. 
Toddle Toiaapkyns's soiree danmrite in Belgrave ^aare« 

" Everybody was there," says Barnes, looking over from his paper. 

" But who is Mre. Tod^e Tompkyns ? " asks Mamma. " Who ever, 
heard of a Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns ? What do people mean by going 
toBBcha person?" 

"Lady Popinjoy asked the people," Barnes says gravely; ** The 
thing was really doosed well done. The woman looked frightened'; 
but she's pretty, and I am told the daughter will haro a great iot of 
flioney." 

" la she pretty, and did you dance with her? " s^ks Ethel. 

** Me dance ! " says Mr. Barnes. We are speaking of a time before 
Casinos were, and when the British youth were by no nqeans .so active 
ill dazicing pisetice as ait this present period. Barnes resumed the 
leading of bis county paper, but presently kid. it down, with an 
fixecraticm so brisk and loud, that his. mother ga^re a little outcry, asui 
OTen his father looked up from his letters to ask the meaning of an oath 
so unexpected and ungenteel. 

"' My uncle, the Colonel of sepoys, and his amiable son have been 
paying a visit to Neweome — ^that's the news which I have the pleasure 
to announce to you," says Mr. Barnes. 

"You are always sneering about our undo," breaks in Ethel, with 
impetuous voice^ *' and saying unkind things about Clive. Our unc^ 
is a dear, goiod, kind man, and I love him. He came to Brighton to 
see us, and went out every day for hours and hours widi Alfred, 



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143 thS nbwcomes. 

and Clive too drew pictures for him. ^nd he is good, and kind, and 
generous, and honest as his father. And Barnes is always speaking ill 
of him hehind his back." 

*' And his aunt lets very nice lodgings, and is altogether a- most 
desirable acquaintance," says Mr. Barnes. *' What a shame it is that 
we have not cultivated that branch of the family." 

" My dear fellow," cries Sir Brian, ** I have no doubt Miss Honey- 
man is a most respectable person. Nothing is so ungenerous as to 
rebuke a gentleman or a lady on account of their poverty, and I 
coincide with Ethel in thinking that you speak of your uncle and his 
son in terms which, to say the least, are disrespectful." 

*' Miss Honeyman is a dear little old woman," breaks in Ethel. 
" Was not she land to Alfred, Mamma, and did not she make him nice 
jelly? And a Doctor of Divinity — ^you know Olive's grandfather was 
a Doctor of Divinity, Mamma, there's a picture of him in a wig — is 
just as good as a banker, you know he is." 

**Did you bring some of Miss Honeyman's lodging-house cards 
with you, Ethel ? " says her brother, '* and had we not better hang 
up one or two in Lombard Street ; hers and our other relation's, Mrs. 
Mason?" 

** My darling love, who is Mrs. Mason ? " asks Lady Ann. 

^* Another member of the family. Ma'am. She was cousin — " 

" She was no such thing. Sir," roars Sir Brian. 

'* She was relative and housemaid of my grandfather during his 
first marriage. She acted, I believe, as dry nurse to the distinguished 
€olonel of sepoys, my uncle. She has retired into private life in her 
native town of Newcome, and occupies her latter days by the manage- 
ment of a mangle. The Colonel and young pothouse have gone down 
to spend a few days with their elderly relative. It's all here in the 
paper, by Jove." Mr. Barnes clenched his fist, and stamped upon the 
newspaper with much energy. 

" And so they should go down and see her, and so the Colonel 
should love his nurse, and not forget his relations if they are old and 
poor," cries Ethel, with a flush on her face, and tears starting into 
her eyes. 

** Hear what the Ifewcome papers say about it," shrieks out Mr. 
Barnes, his voice quivering, his little eyes flashing out scorn. " It's 
in both the papers, I dare say. It will be in the Times to-morrow 
By — it's delightful. Our paper only mentions the gratifying circum- 
stance ; here is the paragraph. * Lieutenant Colonel Newcome, C.B., 
a distinguished' Indian officer, and younger brother of our respected 
townsman and representative Sir Brian Newcome, Bart, has been 
. staying for the last week at the King's Arms, in our city. He has 
been visited by the principal inhabitants and leading gentlemen of 
Newcome, and has come among us, ais we understand, in order to pass a 
few days with an elderly relative, who has been living for many years 
past in great retirement in this place.' " 



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tHB NEWCOMES. 148 

''Well, I see no great harm in that paragraph/* says Sir Brian. 
'' I wish my brother had gone to the Boebuck, and not to the King*s 
Arms, as the Eoebuck is our house : but he could not be expected to 
know much about the Newcome Inns, as he is a new comer himself. 
And I tbiak it was very right of the people to call on him." 

*'Now hear what the Independent says, and see if you like 
that, Sir," cries Barnes, grinning fiercely ; and he began to read as 
follows : — 

'* * Mr. Independent — I was bom and bred a Screwcomite, and am 
natorally proud of everybody and everything which bears the revered 
name of Screwcome. I am a Briton and a man, though I have not 
the honour of a vote for my native borough ; if I had, you may be 
snre I would give it to our admired and talented representative, Don 
Pomposo Lickspittle Grindpauper, Poor House, Agincourt, Screwcome, 
whose ancestors fought with Julius €®sar against William the Con* 
queror, and whose father certainly wielded a cloth yard ihc^ in London 
not fifty years ago. 

'* * Don Pomposo, as you know, seldom favours the town of Screw* 
come with a visit. Our gentry are not of ancient birth enough to be 
welcome to a Lady Screwcome. Our manufacturers voskQ their money 
by trade. O fie ! how can it be supposed that such vulgarians should 
be received among the aristocratic society of Screwcome House? 
Two balls in tlie season, and ten dozen of gooseberry, are enough 
ioxthem:'' 

" It's that scoundrel Parrot," burst out Sir Brian ; " because I 
wouldn't have any more wine of him — ^No, it's Vidler, the apothecary. 
By Heavens ! Lady Ann, I told you it would be so. Why didn't you 
ask the Miss Vidlers to your ball ? " 

" They -were on the list," cries Lady Ann, " three of them ; I did 
everything I could, I consulted Mr. Vidler for poor Alfred, and he 
actually stopped and saw the dear child take the physic. Why were 
they not asked to the ball?" cries her' Ladyship bewildered; ''I 
declare to gracious goodness I don't know." 

"Barnes scratched their names," cries Ethel, "out of the list. 
Mamma. You know you. did, Barnes; you said you had gallipots 



" I don't think it is like Vidler's writing," said Mr. Barnes, 
perhaps willing to turn the conversation. *' I think it must be that 
villain Duff, the baker, who made the song about us at the last 
election; but hear the rest of the paragraph," and he continued 
to read-— 

" ' The Screwcomites are at this moment favoured with a visit from 
a gentleman of the Screwcome family, who, having passed all his life 
abroad^ is somewhat different from hia relatives, whom we all so love 
ond honour! This distinguished gentleman, this gallant soldier, has 
come among us, not merely to see our manufactures—- in which Screw- 
come can vie with any city in the North— but an old servant and 



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144, THX KSWOOHIB. 

rektion of his falsify, ivfaom he is not above recogmsing ; who mirsed 
him in his early days ; who has been liTing in her native place for many 

yeafs, supported by the geneisous bounty of Colonel N . The 

gallant of&cer, acooxnpanied by his son, a fine youth, has ^ken repeated 
drives round our beautifnl environs in one of friend Taplov's (of the 

King's Anns) epen drags, and aoeompanied by Mrs. M , now an 

aged lady, who speaks, with teass in her eyes, of the goodness and 
gratitude of her gallant soldier ! 

" ' One day last week they drove to Screwcome Honse. Will it he 
believed that, thou^ the house is enly ibar miles distant from oar 
city — though Don Pomposo's family have inhabited it these twelTe 
years for four or five months every year — ^Mrs. M—- saw her eousin'-s 
house for the first tine ; has never set her eyes upon those grandees, 
exeept in publie places, suice the day when they honoured the oouaty, 
by purohasifig the estate vhioh they own ? 

•* ' I havp, as I repeat, no vote for the borough ; but if I had, 
wouldn't I show my respectful gratitude at the next «lecti9n, and 
plump tor Pomposoi I shall keep my eye upon him, and' am, 
Mr. Jndependeniy 

** * Your Constant Eeader, 

"*PEBPiti<> Tom/" 

'' The spirit of radkaHsm abroad in this countiy,'* said Su- Briui 
Neweome, crushing his egg-shell desperately, '^is dreadful, really 
dreadful. We are on the edge of a positive volcano." Down went 
the egg-spoon into itsjcrater. " ThiB worst sentiments ar6 everywhere 
publicly advocated; the licentiousness of tbe press has reached a 
pinndele which menaces us with ruin ; there is no law which these 
shameless newspapers respect; no rank which is aafe from thear 
atliacks ; no anciait landmark which the lava flood of demociscy does 
not threaten to overwhelm and destroy." 

" When I was at Spielbuig," Barnes Newcome remarked kindly, "I 
saw three long-bearded, putty-faced blaguards paxaifc up and down a 
little court-yard, and Count Keppeinheimor told me they were three 
damned editors of Milanese newspapers, who had had seven yeard of 
imprisonment already ; and last year when Keppenheimer came to shoot 
at Newcome, I showed him that pld thief, old Batters, the proprietor 
of the Indipendmt, and Potts, his infernal ally, driving in a dog-cart ; 
and I said to him, Kej^enheimer I wish we had a place where we 
CQuld lock up some of our infemal radicals of the press, or thst yoa 
<K)a}d take of^ those two villains to Spielburg; and as -we werepassin, 
that infemal Potts burst out laughin in my face, and cut one of mj 
jpoidters over the head with his whip. We must do Bomethii^ ^th 
that Independent, sir." 

" We must," says the feither, solemnly, *' w© must pat it doim, 
Barnes, we must pat it down." 

** I think," «ays Barnes, " we had best give the railway adwitfee* 
mento to Batters." 



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THE NEWCOMBS. 145 

*' But that makes the man of the Sentinel so angry," says the elder 
persecutor of the press. 

" Then let us give Tom Potts some shootin at any rate ; the ruffian 
is always poachin about our covers as it is. Speers should be written 
to, sir, to keep a look out upon Batters and that villain his accomplice, 
and to be civil to them, and that sort of thing ; and, damn it, to be 
down upon them whenever he sees the opportunity." 

During the above conspiracy for bribing or crushing the independence 
of a great organ of British opinion, Miss Ethel Newcome held her 
tongue; but when her papa closed the conversation, by announcing 
solemnly that he would communicate with Speers, Ethel turning to 
her mother said, "Mamma, is it true that grandpapa has a relation 
living at Newcome who is old and poor ? " 

" My darling child, how on earth should I k»ow ? " says Lady Ann. 
** I dare say Mr* Newcome had plefcty of poor delations." 

'* I am sure some on your side, Ann, have been good enough to visit 
me at the bank," says Sir Brian, who thought Ym wife's ejaculation was a 
refleetion upon his family, whereas it was the statement of a simple 
fiict in Natural History. " Thi» person was n# i*elation af my father's 
at all. She was remotely conneeted with his &st wife, I believe. She 
acted as servant to him, aaid has been most handsomely pensioned 
by the Colonel." 

*' Who went to her, like a kind, dear, good, brave uncle as he is," 
cried Ethel ; " the very day I go to Newcome I'll go to see her." She 
eaagfat a look of negation in her father's eye, ** I will go— that is if 
papa -inll give me leave," says Miss Ethel. 

" By Gad, sir," says Barnes, " I think it is the yeiy best thing she 
coidd do ; and the best vray of doing it, Ethel can go with one of the 
boys and take Mrs. Whatdoyoucallem a gown, or a tract, or that sort of 
thing, and stop that infernal Independent's mouth." 

" If we had gone sooner," said Miss Ethel, simply, " there would 
not have been all this abuse of us in the paper." To which statement 
her woridly father and brother perforce agreeing, we may congratulate 
good old Mrs. Mason upon the new and polite acquaintances she is 
about to make. 



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CHAPTER XV. 



THE OLD LADIES. 




HE above letter and 
conversation will 8h6w 
what our active 
Colonels movements 
and history, had been 
since the last chapter 
in which they were 
recorded. HeandClive 
took the LiverpoolMail, 
and travelled from 
Liverpool to Newcome 
with a post-chaise and 
a pair of horses, which landed them at the King's Arms. The Colonel 
delighted in post-chaising — the rapid transit through the country amused 
him, and cheered his spirits. Besides, had he not Dr. Johnson's word 
for it, that a swift journey in a post-chaise was one of the greatest enjoy- 
ments in life, and a sojourn in a comfortable inn one of its chief 
pleiisures ? In travelling he was as happy and noisy as a boy. He 
talked to the waiters, and made friends with the landlord ; got all the 
information which he could gather, regarding the towns into which he 
cam^ ; and drove about from one sight or curiosity to another with 
indefatigable good humour and interest. It was good for Clive to see 
men and cities ; to visit mills, manufactories, country seats, cathedrals. 
He asked a hundred questions regarding all things round about him ; 
and any one caring to know who Thomas Newcome was, and what his 
rank and business, found no difficulty in having his questions answered 
by the simple and kindly traveller. 

Mine host of the King's Arms, Mr. Taplow aforesaid, knew in five 
minutes who his guest was, and the errand on which he came. Was 
npt Colonel Newcome's name painted on all his trunks and boxes? 
Was not his- servant ready to answer all questions regarding the 
Colonel and his son ? Newcome pretty generally introduced Clive to 
my landlord, when the latter brought his guest his bottle of wine. 
With old-fashioned cordiality, the Colonel would bid the landlord diink 
a glass of his own liquor, and seldom failed to say to him, " This is vay 



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THB NBWCOMES. 14*7 

son, Sir. We are travelling together to see the country. Every 
English gentleman should see his own country first, before he goes 
abroad, as we intend to do afterwards — to make the Grand Tour. 
And I will thank you to tell me ¥^hat there is remarkable in your 
town, and what we ought to see — antiquities, manufactures, and seats 
in the neighbourhood. We wish to see everything, Sir — everything." 
Elaborate diaries of these home tours are still extant, in Olive's boyish 
manuscript and the Coloners dashing handwriting — quaint records of 
places visited, and alarming accounts of inn bills paid. 

So Mr. Taplow knew in five minutes that his guest was a brother 
of Sir Brian, their member ; and saw the note despatched by an 
ostler to " Mrs. Sarah Mason, Jubilee Row," announcing that the 
Colonel had arrived, and would be with her after his dinner. Mr. 
Taplow did not think fit to tell his guest that the house Sir Brian 
used — the Blue House — was the. Roebuck, not the King's Arms. 
Might not the gentlemen be of different politics ? Mr. Taplow's wine 
knew none. 

Some of the joUiest fellows in all Newoome use the Boscawien Room 
at the King's Arms as their club, and pass numberless merry evenings 
and crack countless jokes there. 

Duff, the baker ; old Mr. Yidler, when he can get away from his 
medical labours (and his hand shakes, it must be o\Mied, very much 
now, and his nose is very red); Parrot, the auctioneer; and that 
amusing dog, Tom Potts, the talented reporter of the Independent'-^ 
vere pretty Constant attendants at the King's. Arms; and Colonel 
Newcome's dinner was not ov«r before some of these gentlemen knew 
Vr'hat dishes he had had ; how he had called for a bottle of sherry and 
a bottle of claret, like a gentleman ; how he had paid the post-boys, 
and travelled with fL servant, like a top-sawyer ; that he was come to 
shake hands with an old nurse and relative of his family. Every one 
of those jolly Britons thought well of the Colonel for his s^ectionateness 
and liberality, and contrasted it with the behaviour of the Tory Baronet 
—their representative. 

His arrival made a sensation in the place. The Blue Club at the 
Boebuck discussed it, as well as the uncompromising Liberals at the 
King's Arms. Mr. Speers, Sir Brian's agent, did not know how to 
act, and advised Sir Brian by the next night's mail. The Reverend 
Dr. Bulders, the rector, left his card. 

Meanwhile, it was not gain or business, but only love and gratitude 
which brought Thomas Newcome to his father's native town. Their 
dinner over, away went the Colonel and Clive, guided by the ostler, 
their previous messenger, to the humble little tenement, which Thomas 
Newcomers earliest friend inhabited. The good old woman put her 
spectacles into her Bible, and flung herself into her boy's arms, her boy 
who was more than fifty years old. She embraced Clive still more 
^erly and frequently than she kissed his father. She did not know 
her Colonel with them whiskers. Clive was tlie very picture of the 



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148 THS NEWCOMES. 

dear boy as he had left her almost two score years ago. And as fondly 
as she hong on the boy, her memory had ever clung round that early 
time when they were together. The good soul told endless tiies of her 
darling's childhood, his frolics and beauty. To-day was uncertain to 
her, but the past was still bright and clear. As they sat prattling 
togedier over the bright tea-table, attended by the trim little maid, 
whose services the ColoneVs bounty secured for his old nurse, the kind 
old creature insisted on having Clive by her side. Again and again 
she would think he was actually her own boy, forgetting in that sweet 
and pious hallucination, that the bronzed face, and thinned hair, and 
melancholy eyes of the veteran before her,, were those of her nursling 
of' old days. So for near half the space of man's allotted life he had 
been absent from her, and day and night wherever he was, in sickness 
or health, in sorrow or danger, her innocent love and prayers had 
attended the absent darling. Not in vain, not in vain, does he lire 
whose course is so befriended. Let us be thankful for our race, as we 
think of the love that blesses some of us. Surely it has something of 
Heaven in it, and angels celestial may rejoice in it, and admire it. 

Having nothing whatever to do, our Coloners movements are of course 
exceedingly rapid, and he has the very shortest time to spend in any 
single place. That evening, Saturday, and the next day, Sunday, when 
he will faithfully accompany his dear old nurse to church. And what 
a festival is that day for her, when she has her Colonel and that 
beautiful brilliant boy of his by her side, and Mr. Hicks, the curate, 
looking at him, and the venerable Dr. Bulders himself eyeing him 
fi'om the pulpit, and all the neighbours fluttering and whispering to be 
sure, who can be that fine military gentleman, and that splendid young 
man sitting by old Mrs. Mason, and leading her so affectionately out 
of church? That Saturday and Sunday the Colonel will pass with 
good old Mason, but on Monday he must be off; on Tuesday he roust 
be in London, he has important business in London, — in fact, Tom 
Hamilton, of his regiment, comes up for election at the Oriental on 
that day, and on such an occasion could Thomas Newcome be absent? 
He drives away from the King's Arms through a row of smirking 
chambermaids, smiling waiters, and thankful ostlers, accompanied to 
ike post-chaise, of which the obsequious Taplow shuts the door, and 
the BoBcawen Room pronounces him that night to be a trump ; and the 
whole of the busy town, ere the next day is over, has heard of his 
. coming and* departure, praised his kindliness and generosity, and no 
doubt contrasted it with the different behaviour of the baronet, his 
brother, who has gone for some time by the ignominious^ sobriquet of 
Scrcwcome, in the neighbourhood of his ancestral hall. 

Dear old nurse Mason will have a score of visits to itoake and to 
receive, at all of which you may be sure that triumphal advent of the 
Coionel's will be discussed and admsred. Mrs. Mason will show her 
beautiful new India shawl, and her splendid Bible with the large print, 
and the affectionate inscription, from Thomas Newcome to his dearest old 



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THE NBWCOJUBS. 149 

friend ; her little maid will exhibit her new gown ; the curate will see 
the Bible, and Mrs. B alders will admire the shawl ; and the old friends 
and humble companions of the good old lady, as they take their Sunday 
walks by Uie pompous lodge-gates of Newcome Park, which stand with 
tbe baronet's new-fangled arms over them, gilded, and filagreed, and 
barred, will tell their stories too about the kind Colonel and his hard 
brother. When did Sir Brian ever visit a poor old woman's cottage, 
or his bailiff exempt from the rent? What good action, except a few 
thin blankets and beggarly coal and soup-tickets, did Newcome Park 
ever do for the poor ? And as for the Colonel's wealth, lord bless you, 
he's been in India these five and-thirty years ; tbe baronet's money is 
a drop in the sea to his. The Colonel is the kindest, the best, die 
richest of men. These facts and opinions, doubtless, inspired the 
eloquent pen of " Peeping Tom," when he indited the sarcastic epistle 
to the Newcome Independent which we perused over Sir Brian New- 
come's shoulder in the last chapter. 

And you may be sure Thomas Newcome had not been many weeks 
in England before good little Miss Honeyman, at Brighton, was 
favoured with a visit from her dear Colonel. The envious Grawler 
scowling out of his bow-window, where the fly-blown card still pro- 
claimed that his lodgings were unoccupied, had, the mortification to 
behold a yellow post-chaise drive up to Miss Honeyman's door, and 
having discharged two gentlemen from within, trot away with servant 
and baggage to some house of entertainment other than Gawler's. 
Whilst this wretch was cursing his own ill fate, and execrating yet 
Baore de^ly Miss Honeyman's better fortune, the worthy little lady 
'Was treating her Colonel to a sisterly embrace, and a solemn reception. 
Hannah, the faithful housekeeper, was presented, and had a shake of 
the hand. The Colonel knew all about Hannah : ere he had been in 
England a week, a basket containing pots of jam of her confection, 
and a tongue of Hannah's curing, had arrived for the Colonel. That 
very night when his servant had lodged Colonel Newcome's effects at 
the neighbouring hotel, Hannah was in possession of one of the 
Colonel's shirts : she and her mistress having previously conspired to 
make a dozen of those garments for the family benefactor. 

All the presents which Newcome had ever transmitted to his sister- 
in-law from India, had been taken out of the cotton and lavender in 
which the faithful creature kept them. It was a fine hot day in June, 
l>ut I promise you Miss Honeyman wore her blazing scarlet Cashmere 
shawl; her great brooch, representing the Taj of Agra, was in her 
collar ; and her bracelets (she used to say, ** I am given to understand 
they are cjdled Bangles, my dear, by the natives,") decorated the 
sleeves round her lean old hands, which trembled with pleasure as 
they received the kind grasp of the Colonel of colonels. How busy 
those hands had b^en that morning ! What custards they had whipped ! 
—what ft triumph of pie-crusts they had achieved ! Before Colonel 
Newcome had been ten minutes in the house, the celebrated veal- 



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150 THE KEWCOMES. 

cutlets made their appearance. Was not the whole house adorned in 
expectation of his coming? Had not Mr. Kuhn, the affable foreign 
gentleman of the first floor lodgers, prepared a French dish ? Was 
not Betty on the look out, and instructed to put the cutlets 
on the fire at the very moment when the Colonel's carriage drove 
up to her mistress's door? The good woman's eyes twinkled', the 
kind old hand and voice shook, as holding up a bright glass of Madeira, 
Miss Honeyman drank the Colonel's health. "I promise you, my 
dear Colonel," says she, nodding her head, adorned with a bristling 
superstructure of lace and ribands, " T promise you, that I can drink 
your health in good wine /" The wine was of his o^vn sending ; and so 
were the China fire-screens, and the sandalwood workbox, and the 
ivory card-case, and those magnificent pink and white chessmen, 
carved like little sepoys and mandarins, with the castles on elephants' 
backs, George the Third and his queen in pink ivory, against the 
Emperor of China and lady in white — the delight of Clive's childhood, 
the chief ornament of the old spinster's sitting-room. 

Miss Honeyman 's little feast was pronounced to be the perfection 
of cookery ; and when the meal was over, came a noise of little feet 
at the parlour door, which being opened, there appeared, first, a tall 
nurse with a daticing baby ; second and third, two little girls with 
little frocks, little trowsers, long ringlets, blue eyes, and blue ribbons 
to match ; fourth, Master Alfred, now quite recovered from his illness, 
and holding by the hand, fifth, Miss Ethel Newcome, blushing like 
a rose. . 

Hannah, grinning, acted as mistress of the ceremonies, calling out 
the names of " Miss Newcomes, Master Newcomes, to see the Colonel, 
if you please, Ma,'am," bobbing a curtsey, and giving a knowing nod 
to Master Clive, as she smoothed her new silk apron. Hannah, too, 
was in new attire, all crisp and rustling, in the Colonel's honour. 
Miss Ethel did not cease blushing as she advanced towards her uncle ; 
and the honest campaigner started up, blushing too. Mr. Clive rose 
also, as little Alfred, of whom he was a great friend, ran towards him. 
Clive rose, laughed, nodded at Ethel, and eat gingerbread nuts all at 
the same time. As for Colonel Thomas Newcome and his niece, they 
fell in love with eaich other instantaneously, like Prince Camaralzaraan 
and the Princess of China. 

I have turned away one artist : the poor creature was utterly 
incompetent to depict the sublime, graceful, and pathetic personages 
and events with which this history will most assuredly abound, and 
I doubt whether even the designer engaged in his place can make such 
a portrait of Miss Ethel Newcome as shall satisfy her friends and her 
own sense of justice. That blush which we have indicated, he 
cannot render. How are you to copy it with a steel point and a 
ball of printer's, ink ? That kindness which lights up the Colonels' 
eyes ; gives an expression to. the very wrinkles round about theffi ; 
shines as a halo round his face ;— what artist can paint it ? The 



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THB NBWCOMES. 



161 



painters of old, 'when they pourtrayed sainted personages, were fain to 
have recourse to compasses and gold-leaf — as if celestial splendour 
coald be represented by Dutch metal ! As our artist cannot come up 
to this task, the reader will be pleased to let his fancy paint for itself 
the look of courtesy for a woman, admiration for a young beauty, 
protection for an innocent child, all of which are expressed upon the 
€oIoiiers kind face, as his eyes are set upon Ethel Newcome. 

'* Mamma has sent us to bid you welcome to England, Uncle," says 
Miss Ethel, advancing, and never thinking for a moment of laying 
aside that fine blush which she brought into the room, and which is her 
pretty symbol of youth, and modesty, and beauty. 

He took a little slim white hand and laid it down on his brown 
palm, where it looked all the whiter:- he -cleared the grizzled mustachio 
from his ipouth, and stoojping down he kissed the little white hand 
^vith a great deal of grace and dignity. There was no point of 
resemblance, and yet a something in the girl's look, voice, and move- 
ments, which caused his heart to thrill, and an image out of the past to 
i?se up and salute him. The eyes which had brightened his youth 
(and which he saw in his dreams and thoughts for faithful years after- 
wards, as though they looked at him out of heaven), seemed to shine 
upon him after ,five-and-thirty yeare. He remembered such a fair 
bending neck and clustering hair^ such a light foot and airy figure^ 




such a slim hand lying in his own — and now parted from it with a gap 
often thousand long days between. It is an old saying, that we forget 
nothing; as people in fever begin suddenly to talk the language of 



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16^ THE 'mweoMM. 

their infancy : wo are stricken by memory someitii|»es, and old affections 
ru&h back on us as yivid as in the time wben they vei*e our daily talk, 
when tbeir presence gladdened our eyes, when their accents thrilled in 
our ears, when with passionate tears and gdef we flung oorselTes upon 
their hopeless corpses. Parting is death, at least as far as life is 
concerned. A passion comes to an end ; it is carried off in a coffin, or, 
weeping in a post-chaise, it drops out of life one way or odter, and the 
jcarth-clods close over it, and we see it no more. But it has heen part 
of Qur soub, and it is eternal. Does a moth^ not love her dead in&nt ? 
a voffa his .lost mistress ? with the fond wife nestling at his side, — ^yes, 
with twenty children smiling round her knee. No doubt, as the old 
soldier held the girl's hand in his, &e little talisman led him back to 
Hades, and he saw Leonora. ... 

** How do you do, uncle," say girls No, 2 and 3, in a pretty little 
infantile chorus. He drops the talisman, he is back in common life 
again — the dancing baby in ^e arms of the bobbing nurse bahbles a 
welcome. Alfred looks up for awhile at his uncle in the white trows^rs, 
jand then instantly proposes that Olive should make him some drawings; 
and is on his knees at the next moment. He is always climbing on some- 
body or something, or winding over chairs, curling through bannist«?s, 
standing on somebody's head, or his own head,—- ^as his convalescence 
advances, his breakages are fearful. Miss Honeyman and Hannah will 
talk about his dilapidations for years after the little chap has left them. 
When he is a jolly young officer in the Guards, and comes to see them 
at Brighton, they will show him the hhm dragon Chayny jar on which 
he would sit, and which he cried so imfy^ upon breaking. 

When this little party has gone out smiling to take its walk on the 
sea-shore, the Colonel sits down and resumes the interrupted dessert. 
Miss Honeyman talks of the children and their mother, and the merits 
of Mr. Kuhn, and the beajity of Miss Ethel, glancing significantly 
towards Olive, who has had enough of gingerbread-nuts and dessert and 
wine, and whose youthful nose is by this time at the window. What 
kind-hearted woman, young or old, does not love match-making ? 

The Oolonel, without lifting his eyps from the table, says "she 
reminds him of — of somebody he knew once." 

'* Indeed ! " cries Miss {{eneyinaB, and thinks Emma must have 
altered very much after going to India, for she had fair hair, and white 
eyelashes, and not a pretty ^ot certainly — ^but, my dear good lady, the 
Oolonel is not thinking of the late Mrs. Oasey. 
. He has taken a fitting quantity of the Madeira, the artless greeting 
of the people here, young and old, has warmed his heart, and he goes 
up^stairs to pay a visit to his sister-in-law, to whom he makes his most 
courteous bow as becomes a lady of her rank. Ethel takes her place 
quite naturally beside him during his visit. Where did he learn those 
fine joiutniiers, which all of us who knew him admirad in him 2- He 
had a natuml simplicity, an habitual practice of kind and gen^vufl 
thoughts ; a pure mind« and therefore above hypocrisy and a^ctatioih*-' 



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the: i^swcfoicBa^ 15S 

perhaps, those French people witb whom he had been intonate in 
early lif^ had impartecl to l^m soaie of the tniditkHial graces of their 
vieille cour—cextawlj his hall-hrothers had inherited none stt^. 
" What is this that Barnes has written about his ucdb, that the Cobnel 
is hdicalous ? " Lady Ann said to her daughter that night " Yea? 
uncle is adorable. I have never seen a more perfect grand Seigneur. 
He pats me in mind of my grandfather, though grandpapa's grand 
xnanoer was more artificial, and his voice spoiled hj snu£f. See the 
Colonel. He smokes round the garden, but with what perfect gnce ! 
This is the man Uncle Hobson, and your poor dear papa, have 
represented to us as a apecies of bear 1 Mr. Newoome, who has 
himself the tan of a waiter ! The Colc^tel is perfect. What can 
Barnes mean l^ ridiculing him ? I wish Barnes had such a 
distinguished air ; but he is like his poor dear papa. Que voulez vous, 
my love ? The Newcomes are honourable : the Newcomes are 
wealthy: but distinguished; no. I never deluded myself with that 
notion when I married your poor dear papa. At once I pronounce 
Colonel Newcome a person to be in every way distinguished by us. On 
our return to London I shall present him to all our family: poor 
good man ! let him see that his family have some presentable 
relations besides those whom he will meet at Mrs. Newcome's, in 
Bryanstone Square. You must go to Bryanstone Square, immediately 
we return to London. You must ask your cousins and their governess, 
and we will give them a little party. Mrs. Newcome is insupportable, 
but we must never foi^ake our relatives, Ethel. When you come out 
yoQ will have to dine tb^e, and logo to her ball. Every young lady in 
your position in the world has sacrifices to make, and duties to her 
family to perform. Look at me. Why did I marry your poor dear 
papa? From duly. Has your Aunt Fanny, who ran away with 
Captain Ganonbury been happy? They have eleven children, and are 
starving at Boulogne. Think of three 4of Fanny's boys in yellow 
stockings at the Bluecoat SehogL Your papa got them appointed. I 
am sure my papa would have gone ^ad, if he had seen that day ! She 
came with one of the poor wretehes to Park Lane : but I could not see 
them. My feehngs would not allow me. When my maid, I had a 
French maid then — Louise, you remeflaber; her conduct was 
ahominable : so was Preville's — when she caoM and said that my lady 
Fanny was below with a young gentleman, qui portait des has jaunes, I 
could not see the child. I begged her to come up in my room : and, 
absolutely that I might not offend her, I went to bed. That wretch 
Louise met her at Boulogne and told her afterwards. Good night, 
we must not stand chattering here any more. Heaven bless you, 
my darling! Those are the Colonel's windows! Look, he is smoking 
on his balcony — that must be Olive's room. Clive is a good kind 
hoy^ It was very kind of him to draw so many pictures for Alfred. 
Put the drawings away, Ethel. Mr. Smee saw some in Park Lane^ 
and said they showed remarkable genius. What a genius your aunt 



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154 



THE NBWCOMES. 



Emily had for drawing; but it was flowers! I had no genius in 
particular, so mamma used to say — and Doctor Belper said, ' My 
dear Lady Walham' (it was before my grandpapa's death), 'has 
Miss Ann a genius for sewing buttons and making puddens ? ' — 
puddens he pronounced it. Good night, my own love. Blessings, 
blessings, on my Ethel ! " 

The Colonel from his balcony saw the slim figure of the retreating 
girl, and looked fondly after her : and as the smoke of his cigar floated 
in the air, he formed a fine castle in it, whereof Clive was lord, and 
tiiat pretty Ethel, lady. ** What a frank, generous, bright young 
creature is yonder ! '* thought he. " How cheery and gay she is ; haw 
good to Miss Honeyman, to whom she behaved vnth just the respect 
that was the old lady's due — ^how affectionate with her brothers and 




sisters. What a sweet voice she has ! What a pretty little white 
handjt is ! When she gave it me, it looked like a little white bird 
lying' in mine. I must wear gloves, by Jove I must, and my coat is 



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THE NEWCOMES. 155 

oM-fashioned, as Binnie says; what a fine match might be made 
between that child and Cliv^ ! She reminds me of a pair of eyes I 
haven't seen these forty years. I would like to have Clive married to 
her; to see him out of the scrapes and dangers that young fellows 
encounter, and safe with such a ^weet girl as that. If God had so 
\nlled it, I might have been happy myself, and could have made a 
woman happy. But the Fates were against me. I should like to see 
Clive happy, and then say Nunc dimittis, I shan't want anything 
more to-night, Kean, and you can go to bed." 

"Thank you Colonel," says Kean, who enters, having prepared 
his master s bed-chamber, and is retiring when the Colonel calls 
after him. 
" I say, Kean, is that blue coat of mine very old ? " 
" Uncommon white about the seams, Colonel," says the man. 
** Is it older than other people's coats ?" — Kean is obliged gravely to 
confess that the Colonel's coat is very queer. 

".Get me another coat then — see that I don't do anything or wear 
anything unusual. I have been so long out of Europe, that I don't 
know the customs here, and am not above learning." 

Kean retires, vowing that his master is an old trump ; which opinion 
he had already expressed to Mr. Kuhn, Lady Hann s man, over a long 
potation which those two gentlemen had taken together. And, as all 
of us, in one way or another, are subject to this domestic criticism, 
from which not the most exalted can escape, I say, lucky is the man 
whose servants speak well of him. 



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CHAPTER XVI. 

IN WHICH MR. SHERRICK LETS HIS HOUSE IN MTZROY SQUARE. 

In Spite of the sneers of the Newcome Independent, and the Colonel's 
unlucky Tisit to his nurse*s native place, hd still, remained ia high 
favour in Park Lane ; where the worthy gentleman paid almost daily 
visits, and was received with welcome and almost affection, at least by 
the ladies and the children of ihe house. Who was it that took the 
children to Astley's but Uncle Newcome ? I saw him there in the 
midst of a cluster of these little people, all children together. He 
laughed delighted at Mr. Merryman's jokes in the ring, fie beheld 
the Battle of Waterloo with breathless interest, and was amazed— 
amazed, by Jove, Sir-^at the prodigious likeness of the principal actor 
to the Emperor Napoleon ; whose tomb he had visited on his return 
from India, as it pleased him to tell his little audience who sat cluster- 
ing round him : the little girls, Sir Bryan's daughters, holding each by 
a finger of his honest hands ; young Masters Alfred and Edward 
clapping and hurraing by his side; while Mr. Clive and Miss Ethel 
sat in the back of the box enjoying the scene, but with that decorum 
which belonged to their superior age and gravity. As for Clive, he 
was in these matters much older than the grizzled old warrior, his 
father. It did one good to hear the Coloners honest laughs at clown's 
jokes, and to see the tenderness and simplicity with which he 
watched over this happy brood of young ones. How lavishly did he 
supply them with sweetmeats between the acts ! There he sat in the 
midst of them, and ate an orange himself with perfect satisfaction. I 
wonder what sum of money Mr. Barnes Newcome would have taken 
to sit for five hours with his young brothers and sisters in a public 
box at the theatre and eat an orange in the face of the audience ? 
When little Alfred went to Harrow, you may be sure Colonel Newcome 
and Clive galloped over to see the little man and tipped him royally- 
What money is better bestowed than that of a schoolboy's tip ? How 
the kindness is recalled by the recipient in after days ? It blesses him 
that gives and him that takes. Remember how happy such benefactions 
made you in your own early time, and go off on the very first fine day, 
and tip your nephew at school ! 

The Colonel's organ of benevolence was so large, that he would have 
liked to administer bounties to the young folks his nephews and 



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THE NBWCOMES. 157 

nieces in Bryanstone Square, as well as to their coosiiift ia Park Lane ; 
but Mrs. NewGome was a great deal too virtuous to admit of such 
spailiDg of children. She took the poor gentleman to task fot aii 
attempt upon her boys when those lads came home for their holidays, 
and caused them ruefully to give back the shining gold sovereign, with 
which their uncle had thought to give them a treat. 

" I do not quarrel with other families," says she ; *' I do not edktde to 
other families ; "^ meaning, of course, that she did not allude to Park 
Lane. ** There may be children who ai*e allowed to receive money from 
theirfftther's grown-up friends. There may be children who hold oat their 
hands for presents, and thus become mercenary in early life. I make no 
reflections with regard to other households. I only look, and think, and 
pray for the welfare of my otm beloved ones. They want for nothing. 
Heaven has bounteously furnished us with every comfort, with every 
elegance, with every luxury. Why need we be bounden to others, who 
have been ourselves so amply provided ? I should consider it ingrati- 
tude, Colonel Newcome, want of proper spirit, to allow my boys to accept 
money. Mind, I make no alhisions. , When they go to school they 
receive a sovereign a-piece from their father, and a shilling a week» 
which is ample pocket-money. When they are at home, I desire that 
they may have rational amusements : I send them to the Polytechnic 
with Professor Hickson, who kindly explains, to them some of the 
marvels of science and the wonders of machinery. I send them' to 
the picture galleries and the British Museum. I go with them myself 
to the delightful lectures at the institution in Albemarle Street. 
I do not desire that they should ^tend theatrical exhibitions. I 
do not quarrel with those who go to plays; far from it! Who 
am I that I should venture to judge the conduct of others ? When 
you wrote from India, expressing a wish that your boy should be 
made acquainted with the works of Shakspeare, I gave up my own 
opinion at once. Should I interpose between a child and his father ? 
I encouraged the boy to gp to the play, and sent him tp the pit 
with one of our footmen." 

•* And you tipped him very handsomely, my dear Maria, too," said 
the good-natured Colonel, breaking in upon her sermon; but Virtue was 
not to be put off in that way. 

"And why. Colonel Newcome," Virtue exclaimed, laying a pudgy 
little hand on its heart; "why did 1 treat Clive so? Because I 
stood towards him in loco ^mentis ; because he was as a child to me, 
and I to him as a mother. I indulged him more than my own. I 
loved him with a true maternal tenderness. ' Then he was happy to 
come to our house : tlien perhaps Park Lane was not so often open 
to him as Bryanstone Square ; but I make no allmwns. Then he did 
not go six times to another house for once that he came to mine. He 
was a simple, confiding, generous boy. He was not dazzled by 
Worldly rank or titled of splendour. He could not find thes^ in 
Bryanstone Square. A merchant's wife, a country lawyer's daughter 



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158 THE N£WCOM£S. 

-—I could not be ezpeeted to haye mj humble board surrounded by 
titled aristocracy; I would not if I could. I love my own family 
too well ; I am too honest, too simple, — ^let me own it at once, 
Colonel N«ewcome, too proud! And now, now his father has come 
to England, and I have resigned him, and he meets with no titled 
aristocrats at my house, and he does not come here any more.*' 

Tears rolled out of her little eyes as she spoke, and she covered her 
round fieuse with her pocket-handkerchief. 

Had Colonel Newcome read the paper that morning, he might have 
seen amongst what are called the fjBishionable announcements, the 
cause, perhaps, why his sister-in-law had exhibited so much anger and 
virtue. The Morning Post stated, that yesterday Sir Brian and Lady 
Newcome entertained at dinner His Excellency the Persian Ambassador 
and Bucksheesh Bey ; the Right Honourable Cannon Howe, President 

of the Board of Control, and Lady Louisa Bowe ; the Earl of H , 

the Countess of Eew, the Earl o£ Eew, Sir Currey Baughton, 
Major General and Mrs. Hooker, Colonel Newcome, and Mr. Horace 
Fogey. Afterwarcfs her Ladyship had an assembly, which was 
attended by &c. &c. ^ 

This catalogue of illustrious names had been read by Mrs. Newcome 
to her spouse at breakfast, with such comments as she was in the 
habit of making. 

"The President of the Board of Control, the Chairman of the 
Court of Directors, and Ex-Governor General of India, and a whole 
regiment of Kews. By Jove, Maria, the Colonel is in gqod company," 
cries Mr. Newcome, with a laugh. " That's the sort of dinner you 
should have given him. Some people to talk about India. When 
he dined with us he was put between old Lady Wormely and Professor 
Boots. I don't wonder at his going to sleep after dinner. I was 
off myself once or twice during that confounded long argument 
between Professor Roots and Dr. Windus. That Windus is the deuce 
to talk." 

" Dr. Windus is a man of science, and his name is of European 
celebrity I " says Maria solemnly. " Any intellectual person would 
prefer such company to the titled nobodies into whose family youE 
brother has married." 

" There you go, Polly ; you are always having a shy at Lady Ann 
and her relations," says Mr. Newcome, good-naturedly. 

** A shy ! How can you use such vulgar words, Mr. Newcome 2 
What have I to do with Sir Brian's titled relations ? I do not value 
nobility. I prefer people of science — people of intellect — to all the 
rank in the world." 

" So you do," says Hobson her spouse. " You have your party.— 
Lady Ann has her party. You take your line — Lady Ann takes her 
line. You are a superior woman, my dear Polly; every one knows 
that. I*m a plain country farmer, I am. As long as you are happyi I 
am happy too. The people you get to dine here may talk Greek or 



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THE NBWCOMES, 150 

algebra for what I care. By Jove, my dear, I think you can hold your 
own with the best of them." 

" I have endeavoured by assiduity to make up for time lost, and an 
early imperfect education," says Mrs. Newcome. " You married a poor 
country lawyer's daughter. You did not seek a partner in the Peerage, 
Mr. Newcome." 

" No, no. Not such a confounded flat as that," cries Mr. Newcome, 
sarveying his plump partner behind her silver teapot, with eyes of 
admiration. 

" I had an imperfect education, but I knew its blessings, and hav^, I 
trust, endeavoured to cultivate the humble talents which Heaven has 
given me, Mr. Newcome." 

" Humble, by Jove ! " exclaims the husband. '* No gammon of that 
8ort, Polly. You know well enough that you are a superior woman. 
I ain't a superior man. I know that : one is enough in a family. I 
leave the reading to you, my dear. Here comes my horses. I say, I 
\nsh you'd call on Lady Ann, to-day. Do go and see her, now that's & 
good girl. I know she is flighty, and that ; and Brian's back is up 
a little. But be ain't a bad fellow ; and I wish I could see you and 
his wife better friends." 

On his way to the City, Mr. Newcome rode to look at the new house^ 
No. 120, Fitzroy Square, which his brother, the Colonel, had taken 
in conjunction with that Indian friend of his, Mr. Binnie. Shrewd 
old cock, Mr. Binnie. Has brought home a good bit of money from 
India. Is looking but for safe investments. Has been introduced to* 
Newcome Brothers. Mr. Newcome thinks veiy well of the Colonel's, 
friend. 

The house is vast, but it must be owned, melancholy. Not long 
since it was a ladies' school, in an uuprosperous condition. The scar 
left by Madame Latour s brass plate may still be seen on the tall 
black door, cheerfully ornamented in the style of the end of the last 
century, with a funereal urn in the centre of the entry, and garlands,, 
and the skulls of rams at each corner. Madame Latour, who at 
one time actually kept a large yellow coach, and drove her parlour young, 
ladies in the Eegent's Park, was an exile from her native country 
(Islington was her birth-place, and Grigson her paternal name), and 
an outlaw at the guit of Samuel Sherrick : that Mr. Sherrick, whose 
^ne vaults undermine Lady Whittlesea's Chapel where tlie eloquent 
Honeyman preaches. 

The house is Mr. Sherrick's house. Some say his name is Shadraeh, 
and pretend to have known him as an orange boy, afterwards as- 
a chorus singer in the theatres, afterward^ as secretary to a great 
Median. I know nothing of these stories. He may or he may 
not be a partner of Mr. Campion, of Shepherd's Iiin: he has a 
handsome villa, Abbey Road, St. John's Wood, entertains good 
company, rather loud, of the spirting sort, rides and drives very 
showy horses, has boxes at the Opera whenever he likes, and free 



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160 THE NEWCOMBS. 

access behind the scenes: is handsome, dark, bright-eyed, with a 
quantity of jewellery, and a tuft to his chin ; sings sweetly sentimental 
songs after dinner. Who cares a fig what was the religion of 
Mr. Sherrick's ancestry, or what the occupation of his youth? 
Mr. Honeyman, a most respectable man surely, introduced Sherrick 
to the Colonel and Binnie. 

Mr. Sherrick stocked their cellar with some of the wine ovef which 
Honeyman preached such lovely sermons. It was not dear ; it was 
not bad when you dealt with Mr. Sherrick for wine alone. Going 
into his market with ready money in your hand, as our simple friends 
did, you were pretty fairly treated by Mr. Sherrick. 

The house being taken, we may be certain there was fine amuse- 
ment for Olive, Mr. Binnie, and the Colonel, in frequenting the sales, 
in the inspection of upholsterers' shops, and the purchase of furniture 
for the new mansion. It was like nobody else*s house. There were 
three masters with four or five servants over them. Kean for the 
Colonel, and his son ; a smart boy with boots for Mr. Binnie ; Mrs. Kean 
to cook and keep house, with a couple of maids under her. The Colonel, 
himself, was great at making hash mutton, ho^pot, curry and pillau. 
What cozy pipes did we not smoke in the dining-room, in the drawing- 
room, or where we would ! What pleasant evenings did we not have 
with Mr. Binnie's books and Schiedam ! Then there were the solemn 
state dinners, at most of which the writer of this biography had a corner. 

Clive had a tutor — Grindly of Coitus — whom we recommended to 
him, and with whom the young gentleman did not fatigue his brains 
very much ; but his gresit forte decidedly lay in drawing. He sketched 
the horses, he sketched the dogs ; all the servants, from the blear- 
eyed boot-boy to the rosy-cheeked lass, Mrs. Kean's niece, whom that 
virtuous housekeeper was always calling to come down stairs. He 
drew his father in all postures^asleep, on foot, on horseback ; and 
jolly little Mr. Binnie, with his -plump legs on a chair, or jumping 
briskly on the back of the cob which he rode. He should have drawn 
the pictures for this book, but that he no longer condescends to make 
sketches. Young Ridley was his daily friend now; and Grindlj, 
his classics and mathematics over in the morning, this pair 
of youngs men would constantly attend Gandish's Drawing Academy, 
where, to be sure, Ridley passed many hours at work on his art, 
before his young friend and patron could be spared from his books 
to his pencil. 

" Oh," says Clive, if you talk to him now about those early days, 
" it was a jolly time ! I do not^ believe there was any young fellow in 
London so happy." And there hangs up in his painting-room now a 
head, painted at one sitting, of a man rather bald, with hair touched 
with grey, with a large moustache, and a sweet mouth half smiling 
beneath it, and melancholy eyes! and Clive shows that portrait of 
^e\v grandfather to his children, and tells them that the whole world 
never saw a nobler gentleman. 



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CHAPTER XVII. 

A SCHOOL OF ART. 



RITISH art' either finds her 
peculiar nourishment in melan- 
choly, and loves to fix her 
abode in desert places ; or it 
may be her purse is but slen- 
derly furnished, and she is 
forced to put up with accommo- 
dations rejected by more pros- 
perous callings. Some of the 
most dismal quarters of the 
town are colonised by her disci- 
ples and professors. In walking 
through streets which may have 
been gay and polite when ladies' 
chairmen jostled each other on 
the pavement, and link-boys 
with their torches lighted the 
beaux over the mud ; who has 
not remarked the artist's in- 
vasion of those regions once 
devoted to fashion and gaiety? 
Centre, windows of drawing 
rooms are enlarged so as to 
reach up into bed-rooms — bed-rooms where Lady Betty has had her hair 
powdered, and where the painter's north-light now takes possession of the 
place which her toilet- table occupied a hundred years ago. There are 
degrees in decadence : after the Fashion chooses to emigrate, and retreats 
from Soho or Bloomsbury, let us say, to Cavendish Square, physicians 
come and occupy the vacant houses, which stiU have a respectable look, 
the windows being cleaned, and the knockers and plates kept bright, and 
the doctor's carriage rolling round the square, almost as fine as the 




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162 THE NBWCOMBS, 

countess's, which has whisked away her ladyship to other regions. A 
hoarding-house mayhap succeeds the physician, who has followed after 
his sick folks into the new country : and then Dick Tinto comes with 
his dingy hrass-plate, and hreaks in his north window, and sets up his 
sitters* throne. I love his honest moustache, and jaunty velvet jacket; 
his queer figure, his queer vanities, and his kind heart. Why should 
he not suffer his ruddy ringlets to fall over his shirt-collar ? Why 
should he deny himself his velvet ? it is hut a kind of fustian which 
costs him eighteen-pence a yard. He is naturally what he is, and 
hreaks out into costume as spontaneously as a hird sings, or a bulb 
hears a tulip. And as Dick, under yonder terrific appearance of waving 
cloak, bristling beard, and shadowy sombrero, is a good kindly simple 
creature, got up at a very cheap rate, so his life is consistent with his 
dress ; he gives his genius a darkling swagger, and a romantic envelope, 
which, being removed, you find, not a bravo, but a kind chirping soul ; not 
a moody poet avoiding mankind for the better company of his own great 
thoughts, but a jolly little chap who has an aptitude for painting 
brocade-gowns, a bit of armour (with figures inside them), or trees and 
cattle, or gondolas and buildings, or what not; an instinct for the 
picturesque, which exhibits itself in his works, and outwardly on bis 
person ; beyond this, a gentle creature loving his friends, his cups, 
feasts, merrymakings, and all good things. The kindest folks alive 
I have found among those scowling whiskeradoes. They ©pen oysters 
with their yataghans, toast muffins on their rapiers, and fill their 
Venice glasses with half-and-half. If they have money in their lean 
purses, be sure they have a friend to share it. What innocent gaiety, 
what jovial suppers on threadbare cloths^ and wonderful songs after; 
what pathos, merriment, humour does not a man enjoy who frequents 
their company ! Mr. Clive Newcome, who has long since shaved his 
beard, who has become a family man, and has seen the world in a 
thousand different phases, avers that his life as an art-Student at home 
and abroad, was the pleasantest part of his whole existence. It may 
not be more amusing in the telling than the chronide of a feast, or 
the accurate report of tw^o lovers* conversation ; hot the biographer, 
having brought his hero to this period of hig life, is bound to relate 
it, before passing to other occurrences which are to be narrated in 
their turn. 

We may be sure the boy had many conversations with his affec- 
tionate guardian as to the profession which he should follow. As regarded 
mathematical and classical learning, the elder Newcome was forced to 
admit, that out of eveiy hundred boys, there were fifty as clever as his 
own, and at least fifty more industrious ; the army in time of peace, 
Colonel Newcome thought a bad trade for a young fellow so fond of 
ease and pleasure as his son : his delight in the pencil was manifest 
to all. Were not his school-books full of caricatures of the masters ? 
Whilst his tutor, Grindley, was lecturing him, did he not draw Grindley 



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THE NEWC0ME8. 163 

instinctively under his yery nose ? A painter Olive was determined to 
be, and nothing else ; and Olive, being then some sixteen years of 
age, began to study the art, en regie, under the eminent Mr. Gandish, 
of Soho. 

It was that well-known portrait-painter, Alfred Smee, Esq., K.,A. 
who recommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome, one day when the 
two gentlemen met at dinner at Lady Anne Newcomers table. Mr. 
Smee happened to examine some of Olive's drawings, which the young 
fellow had executed for his cousins. Olive found no better amusement 
than in making pictures for them, and would cheerfully pass evening 
after evening in that diversion. He had made a thousand sketches of 
Ethel before a year was over ; a year, every day of which seemed to 
increase the attractions of the fair young creature, develope her nymph- 
like form, and give her figure fresh graces. Also of course drew Alfred 
and the nursery in general. Aunt Ann and the Blenheim spaniels, 
and Mr. Kuhn and his earrings, the majestici John bringing in the 
coal-scuttle, and all persons or objects in that establishment with which 
he was familiar. " What a genius the lad has," the complimentary 
Mr. Smee averred ; ** what a force and individuality there is in all his 
drawings I Look at his horses ! capital, by Jove, capital ! and Alfred 
on his pony, and Miss Ethel in her Spanish hat, with her hair flowing 
in the wind ! I must take this sketch, I positively must now, and 
show it to Landseer." And the courtly artist daintily enveloped the 
drawing in a sheet of paper, put it away in his hat, and vowed subse- 
quently that the great painter had been delighted with the young man's 
performance. Smee was not only charmed with Olive's skill as an 
artist, but thought Im head would be an admirable one to paint. 
Such a rich complexion, such fine turns in Jus hair ! such eyes ! to &ee 
real blue eyes wafi so rare now-a-days i And the Oolonel too, if the 
Colonel would but give him a few sittings, the gray uniform of the 
Bengal cavalry, the silver laoe, the little bit oi red ribbon just to warm 
up the picture! it was seldom, Mr. Smee declared, that an artist 
coull get such an opportunity for colour. With our hideous 
vermilion uniforms there was no chance of doing anything ; Eubens 
himself could scarcely manage scarlet. Look at the horseman in 
Cuyp's famous picture at the Louvre : the red was a positive blot 
upon the whole picture. There was nothing like French gray and 
silver ! All which did not prevent Mr. Smee from painting Sir Brian 
in a flaring deputy-lieutenant's uniform, and entreating all military 
men whom he met to sit to him in scarlet. Olive Newcome the 
Academician succeeded in painting, of course for mere friendship's sake, 
and because he liked the subject, though he could not refuse the cheque 
which Colonel Newcome sent him for the frame and picture ; but no 
cajoleries could induce the old campaigner to sit to any artist save one. 
He said he should be ashamed to pay fifty guineas for the likeness of 
his homely face ; he jocularly proposed to James Binnie to have his 

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164 



THE NBWCOMES. 



head put on the canvas, and Mr. Smee enthusiastically caught at the 
idea ; hut honest James winked his droll eyes, saying his was a beauty 
that did not want any paint; and when Mr. Smee took his leave 
after dinner in Fitzroy Square, where this conversation was held, 
James Binnie hinted that the Academician was no better than an old 
humbug, in which surmise he was probably not altogether incorrect. 
Certain young men who frequented the kind Coloners house were also 
somewhat of this opinion ; and made endless jokes at the painter's 
expense. Smee plastered his sitters with adulation as methodically as 
he covered his canvas. He waylaid gentlemen at dinner; he in- 
veigled unsuspecting folks into his studio, and had their heads off their 
shoulders before they were aware. One day, on our way from the 
Temple, through Howland-street, to the Colonel's house, we beheld 
Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, in full uniform, rushing from 
Smee's door to his brougham. The coachman was absent refreshing 



^^•^ 



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'^Mh^i 




himself at a neighbouring tap : the little street-boys cheered and 
hurrayed Sir Thomas, as, arrayed in gold and scarlet, he sate in his 
chariot. He blushed purple when he beheld us. No artist would 
have dared to imitate those purple tones : he was one of the nuoierous 
victims of Mr. Smee. 

One day then, day to be noted with a white stone, Colonel 
Newcome, with his son and Mr. Smee, R.A., walked from the Colonel's 



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THE NEWCOMBS. 



165 



house to Gandisb's, which was not far removed thence; and young 
Clive, who was a perfect mimic, described to his friends, and illustrated, 
as was his wont, by diagrams, the interview which he had with that 
professor. " By Jove, you must see Gandish, Pa ! " cries Clive : 
" Gandish is worth the whole world. Come and be an art-student. 
Youll find such jolly fellows there ! Gandish calls it hart-student, 
and says, * Hars est celare Hartem ' — by Jove he does ! He treated us 
to a little Latin, as he brought out a cake and a bottle of wine, you know. 

" The governor was splendid, sir. He wore gloves : you know he 
only puts them on on parade days ; and turned out for the occasion 
spick and span. He ought to be a general officer. He looks like a 
field-marshal — don't he? You should have seen him bowing to 
Mrs. Gandish and the Miss Gandishes, dressed all in their best, round 
the cake-tray ! He takes his glass of wine, and sweeps them all round 
with a bow. * I. hope, young ladies,' says he, * you don't often go to 
the students' room. Vm afraid the young gentlemen would leave off 
looking at the statues if you came in.' And so they would : for you never 
saw such Guys ; but the dear old boy fancies every woman is a beauty. 

" * Mr, Smee, you are looking at my picture of Boadishia ? ' says 
Gandish. Wouldn't he have caught it for his quantities at Grey 
Friars, that's all ? 

" * Yes — ah — yes,' says Mr. Smee, putting his hand over his eyes, 
and 8tand.ing before it, looking steady, you know, as if he was going to 
see whereabouts he should hit Boadishia." 













" * It was painted when you were a young man, four years before you 



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16G THE KB^TOMBS. 

were an associate, Smee. Had some success in its time, and there's 
good pints about that pictur,' Gandish goes on. * But I never could 
get m J price for it ; and here it hangs in my own room. Igh art won't 
do in this country, Colonel — it's a melancholy fact.' 

" * High art ! I should think it is high art ! ' whispers old 
Smee; * fourteen feet high, at least!' And then out loud he says: 

* The picture has very fine points in it, Gandish, as you say. Fore- 
shortening of that arm, capital ! That red drapery carried off into the 
right of the picture very skilfully managed ! ' 

" * It's not like portrait painting, Smee — Igh art,' says Gandish. 

* The models of the hancient Britons in that pictur alone cost me 
tJiirty pound — when I was a struggling man, and had just married ray 
Betsey here. You reckonise Boadishia, Colonel, with the Roman 
elmet, cuirass, and javeling of the period — all studied from the 
hantique, sir, the glorious hantique.' 

" * All but Boadicea,' says father. * She remains always young.' 
And he began to speak the lines out of Cowper, he did — waving his 
stick like an old trump — and famous they are," cries the lad : 

' When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Koman rods * — 

"Jolly verses ! Haven't I translated them, into Alcaics ?" says Clive, 
with a merry laugh, and resumes his history. 

" * 0, I must have those verses in my album,' cries one of the young 
ladies. 'Did you compose them. Colonel Newcome?' But Gandish, 
3'ou see, is never thinking about any works but his own, and goes on, 

* Study of my eldest daughter, exhibited 1816.' 

" *No, pa, not '16,' cries Miss Gandish. She don't look like a 
chicken, I can tell you. 

" 'Admired,' Gandish go6s on, never heeding her, — * I eausbowyou 
what the papers said of it at the time — Morning Chroaicle and 
Examiner — spoke most igbly of it. My son as an infant Ercules, 
stranglin the serpent over the piano. Fust conception of my picture of 
Non Hangli said Hangeli.' 

*'*ror which I can guess who were the angels that sat,' says fSsUiher. 
Upon my word that old governor I He is a little too stiOBg. But 
Mr. Gandish listened no more to him thas to Mr. Bmm, and went on, 
buttering himself all over, as I have read ^e Hottentots do. 'Myself 
at thirty-three years of age ! ' says he, pointing to a portrait of a gaatle- 
man in leather breeches and mahogany boots ; * I could have been a 
portrait painter, Mr. Smee.' 

. " * Indeed it was lucky for some of us you devoted yourself to high 
art, Gandish,' Mr. Smee says, and sips the wine and puts it down again, 
making a face. It was not first-rate tipple, you see. 

" * Two girls,' continues that indomitable Mr. Gandish. ' Hidea for 



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THE NEWCOMBSr. 167 

Babes in the Wood. View of PsBstum, taken on tlie spot by myself, 
T?hen travelling with the late lamented Earl of Kew. Beauty, Valour, 
Commerce, and Liberty oondoliug with Britannia on the death of 
Admiral Viscount Nelson — allegorical piece drawn at a very early age 
after Trafalgar. Mr. Fuseli saw that piepe, sir, when I was a student 
of the Academy, and S£iid to me. Young man, stick to the antique. 
There's nothing like it. Those were 'is very words. If you do me the 
favour to walk into the Hatrium, you'll remark my great pictures also 
from English istry. An English historical painter, sir, should be 
employed chiefly in English istry. That's what I would have done. 
Why aint there temples for us, where the people might read their 
history at a glance, and without knowing how to read ? Why is my 
Alfred 'anging up in this 'all ? Because there is no patronage for a 
man who devotes himself to Igh art. You know the anecdote, Colonel ? 
King Alfred flying from the Danes, took refuge in a neaterd's 'ut. The 
rustic's wife told him to bake a cake, and the fugitive severing set down 
to his ignoble task, and forgetting it in the cares of state, let the cake 
burn, on which the woman struck him. The moment chose is when 
she is lifting her 'and to deliver the blow. The king receives it with 
majesty mingled with meekness. In the background the door of tlie 
'ut is open, letting in the royal officers to announce the Danes are 
defeated. The daylight breaks in at the aperture, signifying the dawn- 
ing of 'Ope. That story, sir, which I found in my researches in istry 
has since become so popular, sir, that hundreds of artists have painted 
it, hundreds ! I who ^covered tlie legend, have my picture — here !' 

" * Now, Colonel,' says the showman, *let me — let me lead you through 
the statue gallery. ApoHo, you see. The Venus Hanadyomene, the 
glorious Venus of the Louvre, which I saw in 1814, Colonel, in its 
glory— -the Laocoon — my friend Gibson's Nymth, you see, is the only 
figure I admit among the antiques. Now up this stair to the Students' 
room, where I trust my young friend, Mr. Newcome, will labour 
assidiously, Ars longa est, Mr. Newcome, Vita — ' 

"I trembled," Clive said, "lest my father should introduce a certain 
favourite quotation, beginning * ingenuas didicisse ' — but he refrained, 
and we went into the room, where a score of students were assembled, 
^vho all looked away from their drawing-boards as we entered. 

" *Here will be your place, Mr. Newcome,' says the Professor, * and 
bere that of your young friend — what did you say was his name ? ' I 
told him Eigby, for my dear old governor has promised to pay for J. J. 
too, you know. * Mr. Chivers is the senior pupil and custos of the 
Jfoom in the absence of my son. Mr. Chivers, Mr. Newcome ; gentle- 
men, Mr. Newcome, a new pupil. My son, Cbarles Gandish, 
Mr. Newcome. Assiduity, gentlemen, assiduity. Ars longa. Vita 
^evis, et linea recta hrevissima est. This way, Colonel, down these 
steps, across the court yard, to my own studio. There, gentlemen,' — 
and pulling aside a curtain, Gandish says — * There I ' " 



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And ^hat was the masterpiece behind it ? we ask of Clive, after we 
have done laughing at his imitation. 

" Hand round the hat, J. J. ! " cries Clive. " Now, ladies and 
gentlemen, pay your money. Now walk in, for the performance is 
* just a-going to begin.' " Nor would the rogue ever tell us what 
Gandish's curtained picture was. 

Not a successful painter, Mr. Gandish was an excellent master, and 
regardihg all artists save one perhaps a good critic. Clive and his 
friend J. J. came soon after and commenced their studies under him. 
The one took his humble seat at the drawing-board, a poor mean-looking 
lad, with worn clothes, downcast features, and a figure almost deformed ; 
the other adorned by good health, good looks, and the best of tailors; 
ushered into the studio with his father and Mr. Smee as his aides-de- 
camp on his entry ; and previously announced there with all the 
eloquence of honest Gandish. " I bet he*s 'ad cake and wine," says one 
youthful student, of an epicurean and satirical turn. ** I bet he 
might have it every day if he liked." In fact Gandish was always 




handing him sweetmeats of compliments and cordials of approbation. 
He had coat sleeves with silk linings — he had studs in his shirt. How 
dififerent was the texture and colour of that garment, to the sleeves Bob 
Grimes displayed when he took his coat off to put on his working-jacket! 
Horses used actually to come for him to Gan dish's door (which was 
situated in a certain lofty street in Soho). The Miss G'a. would smW^ 



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THE linSWCOMBS. 169 

at bim from the parlour mndow as he mounted and rode splendidly off, 
and those opposition beauties, the Miss Levisons, daughters of the pro- 
fessor of dancing over the way, seldom failed to greet the young 
gentleman with an admiring ogle from their great black eyes. Master 
Cii?e was pronounced an " out-and-outer," a " swell and no mistake,** 
and complimented with . scarce one dissentient voice by the simple 
academy at Gandish's. Besides, he drew very well. There could be 
no doubt about that. Caricatures of the students of course were passing 
constantly among them, and in revenge for one which a huge red- 
haired Scotch student, Mr. Bandy M'GoUop, had made of John James, 
Clive perpetrated a picture of Sandy which set the whole room in a 
roar ; and when the Caledonian giant uttered satirical remarks against 
the assembled company, aveiring that they were a parcel of sneaks, a 
set of lick-spittles, and using epithets still more vulgar, Clive slipped 
ofiF his fine silk-sleeved coat in an instant, invited Mr. M'CoUop into 
the back yard, instructed him in a science which the lad himself had 
acquired at Grey Friars, and administered two black eyes to Sandy, 
which prevented the young artist from seeing for some days after the 
head of the Laocoon which he was copying. The Scotchman's superior 
weight and age might have given the combat a different conclusion, had it 
endured long after Clive's brilliant opening attack with his right and left ; 
but Professor Gandish came out of his painting-room at the sound of 
battle, and could scarcely credit his own eyes when he saw those of 
poor M*Collop so darkened. To do the Scotchman justice, he bore 
Clive no rancour. They became friends there, and afterwards at 
Rome, whither they subsequently went to pursue their studies. The 
fame of Mr. M'Collop as an artist has long since been established. 
His pictures of Lord Lovat in Prison, and Hogarth painting him, of 
the Blowing up of the Kirk of Field (painted for M*Collop of M'Collop), 
of the Torture of the Covenanters, the Murder of the Regent, the 
Murder of Eizzio, and other historical pieces, all of course from Scotch 
history, have established his reputation in South as well as in North 
Britain. No one would suppose from the gloomy character of his works 
that Sandy M'Collop is one of the most jovial souls alive. Within six 
months after their little difference, Clive and he were the greatest of 
friends, and it was by the former's suggestion that Mr. James Binnie 
gave Sandy his first commission, who selected the cheerful subject of 
the young Duke of Rothsay starving in prison. 

During this period, Mr. Clive assumed the toga virilis, and beheld 
with inexpressible satisfaction the first growth of those mustacbios 
which have since given him such a marked appearance. Being at 
Gandish's, and so near the dancing academy, what must he do but 
take lessons in the Terpsichorean art too ? — making himself as popular 
with the dancing folks as with the drawing folks, and the jolly king of 
his company everywhere. He gave entertainments to his fellow- 
students in the Upper Chambers in Fitzroy Square, which were 



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170 THE NBWCOMBS. 

doTOted to his ase, inviting his father and Mr. Binnie to those parties 
now and then. And songs were sung, and pipes were smoked, and 
many a pleasant snpper eaten. There was no stint: hat no excess. 
No young man was ever seen to quit those apartments the worse, as it 
is called, for liquor. Fred Bajham's uncle the hishop, could not be 
more decorous than F.B. as he left the Colonel's house, for the Colonel 
made that one of the conditions of his son*s hospitality, that nothing like 
intoxication should ensue from it. The good gentleman did not 
frequent the parties of the juniors. He saw that his presence rather 
silenced the young men ; and left them to themselves, confiding in 
Chve s parole, and went away to play his honest mhber of whist at the 
Club. And many a time he heard the young fellow's steps tramping 
by his bedchamber-door, as he lay wakeful within, happy to think his 
son was happy. 



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CHAPTER XVIII. 



NEW COMPANIONS. 



LIVE used to give droll accounts of 
the young disciples at Gandish's, who 
were of various ages and conditions, 
\^€%-and in whose company the young 
^ ^ fellow took his place with that good 
temper and gaiety which have seldom 
deserted him in life, and have put him 
at ease wherever his fate has led him. 
Ho is, in truth, as much at home in 
a fine drawing-room as in a public-house 
parlour ; and can talk as pleasantly to 
the polite mistress of the mansion, as 
to the jolly landlady dispensing her 
drinks from her bar. Not one of the 
Gandishites but was after a while 
well-inclined to the young fellow; 
from Mr. Chivers, the senior pupil, 
down to the little imp Harry Hooker,, 
who knew as much mischief at twelve 
years old, and could draw as cleverly 
as many a student of five-and- twenty ; and Bob Trotter, the diminutive 
fag of the studio, who ran on all the young men's errands, and fetched 
them in apples, oranges, and walnuts. Clive opened his eyes with wonder 
when he first beheld these simple feasts, and the pleasure with which 
some of the young men partook of them. They were addicted to 
polojiies ; they did not disguise their love for Banbury cakes ; they 
made bets in ginger-beer, and gave and took the odds in that frothing 
liquor. Thei-e was a young Hebrew amongst the pupils, upon whom 
his brother students used playfully to press ham sandwiches, pork 
sausages, and the like. This young man (who has risen to great wealth 
subsequently, and was bankrupt only three months since) actually 
hought cocoa-nuts, and sold them at a profit amongst the lads. His 
pockets were never without pencil-cases, French chalk, garnet brooches, 
for which he was willing to bargain. He behaved very rudely to 
^andish, who seemed to be afraid before him. It was whispered that 
the Professor was not altogether easy in his circumstances, and that the 




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172 THE NBWCOMES. 

elder Moss had some mysterious hold over him. Honeyman and 
Bayham, who once came to see Olive at the studio, seemed each 
disturbed at beholding young Moss seated there (making a copy of the 
Marsyas). " Pa knows both those gents," he informed Olive afterwards, 
with a wicked twinkle of his Oriental eyes. " Step in, Mr. Newcome, 
any day you are passing down Wardour Street, and seo if you don't 
want anything in our way." (He pronounced the words in his own way, 
saying : '* Step id Bister Doocob, ady day idto Vordor Street," &c.) 
This young gentleman could get tickets for almost all the theatres, 
which he gave or sold, and gave splendid accounts at Gandish's of the 
brilliant masquerades. Olive was greatly diverted at beholding 
Mr. Moss at one of these entertainments, dressed in a scarlet coat and 
top boots, and calling out, " Yoicks ! Hark forward ! " fitfully to 
another Orientalist, his younger brother, attired like a midshipman. 
Once Olive bought a half-dozen of theatre tickets from Mr. Moss, 
which he distributed to the young fellows of the studio. But, when 
this nice young man tried further to tempt him on the next day, 
** Mr. Moss," Olive said to him with much dignity, " I am very much 
obliged to you for your offer, but when I go to the play, I prefer paying 
at the doors." 

Mr. Ohivers used to sit in one comer of the room, occupied over 
a lithographic stone. He was an uncouth and peevish young man ; for 
ever finding fault with the younger pupils, whose butt he was — next in 
rank and age was M*Oollop, before-named : and these two were at first 
more *than usually harsh and captious with Olive, whose prosperity 
offended them, and whose dandified manners, free-and-easy ways, and 
evident influence over the younger scholars, gave umbrage to these 
elderly apprentices. Olive at first returned Mr. Ohivers war for war, 
controlment for controlment; but when he found Ohivers was the 
son of a helpless widow ; that he maintained her by his lithographic 
vignettes for the music-sellers, and by the scanty remuneration of some 
lessons which he gave at a school at Highgate ; — when Olive saw, or 
fancied he saw, the lonely senior eyeing with hungry eyes, the lun- 
cheons of cheese and bread, and sweetstuff, which the young lads of 
the studio enjoyed, I promise you Mr. Olive's wrath against Ohivers was 
speedily turned into compassion and kindness, and he sought, and no 
doubt found, means of feeding Ohivers without offending his testy 
independence. 

Nigh to Gandish's was, and perhaps is, another establishment for 
teaching the art of design — Barker's, which had the additional dignity 
of a life academy and costume ; frequented by a class of students more 
advanced than those of Gandish's. Between these and the Barkerites 
there was a constant rivalry and emulation, in and out of doors. 
Gandish sent more pupils to the Royal Academy ; Gandish had 
brought up three medallists ; and the last RA. student sent to Rome 
was a Gandishite. Barker, on the contrary, scorned and loathed 
Trafalgar Square, and laughed at its art. Barker exhibited in P*^^ 



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THE NEWCOMES. 173 

Mall and Suffolk Street : he laughed at old Gandish and his pictures, 
made mince-naeat of his " Angli and Angeli," and tore " King Alfred" 
and his muffins to pieces. The young men of the respective schools 
used to meet at Lundj*s coffee-house and hilliard-room, and smoke 
there, and do hattle. Before Clive and his friend J. J. came to 
Gandish's, the Barkerites were having the hest of that constant match, 
which the two academies were playing. Fred Bayham, who knew every 
coffee-house in town, and whose initials were scored on a thousand 
tavern doors, was for a while a constant visitor at Lundy's, played pool 
with the young men, and did not disdain to dip his heard into their porter 
pots, when invited to partake of their drink ; treated them handsomely 
when he was in cash himself; and was an honorary member of Barker's 
academy. Nay, when the guardsman was not forthcoming, who was 
standing for one of Barker's heroic pictures, Bayham bared his 
immense arms and brawny shoulders, and stood as Prince Edward, with 
Philippa sucking the poisoned wound. He would take his friends up 
to the picture in the Exhibition, and proudly point to it. " Look at 
that biceps, sir, and now look at this — that's Barker's masterpiece, sir, 
and that's the muscle of F. B., sir." In no company was F. B. greater 
than in the society of the artists ; in whose smoky haunts and airy 
parlours he might often be found. It was from F. B. that Clive heard 
of Mr. Chivers' struggles and honest industry. A great deal of shrewd 
advice could F. B. give on occasion, and many a kind action and gentle 
office of charity was this jolly outlaw known to do and cause to be done. 
His advice to Clive was most edifying at this time of our young gentle- 
man's life, and he owns that he was kept from much mischief by this 
queer counsellor. 

A few months after Clive and J. J. had entered at Gandish's, that 
academy began to hold its own against its rival. The silent young 
disciple was pronounced to be a genius. His copies were beautiful in 
delicacy and finish. His designs were exquisite for grace and richness 
of fancy. Mr. Gandish took to himself the credit for J. J.'s genius; 
Clive ^ver and fondly acknowledged the benefit he got from his friend's 
taste and bright enthusiasm, and sure skill. As for Clive, if he was 
successful in the academy he was doubly victorious out of it. His 
person was handsome, his courage high, his gaiety and frankness 
delightful and winning. His money was plenty and he spent it like a 
young king. He could speedily beat all the club at Lundy's at billiards, 
and give points to the redoubted F. B. himself. He sang a famous 
song at their jolly supper parties : and J. J, had no greater delight than 
to Usten to his fresh voice, and watch the young conqueror at the 
billiard- table, where the balls seemed to obey him. 

Clive was not the most docile of Mr. Gandish's pupils. If he had 
not come to the studio on horseback several of the young students 
averred, Gandish would not always have been praising him and quoting 
him as that professor certainly did. It must b^ confessed, that the 
young ladies read the history of Clive's uncle in the Book of Baronets, 



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174 THE NEWCOMBS; 

and thkt Gandish janr., probably witb an eje to business, made a design 
of a picture, in which, according to that veracious volume, one of the 
Newcomeg -was represented as going cheerfully to the stake at Smith- 
field, surrounded by some very ill-favoured Dominicans, whose 
arguments did not appear to make the least impression upon the 
martyr of the Newcome family. Sandy M*Collop devised a counter 
picture, wherein the barber surgeon of King Edward the Confessor, 
was drawn, operating upon the beard of that monarch. To which piece 
of satire Clive gallantly replied by a design, representing Sawney Bean 
M*Collop, chief of the clan of that name, descending from his moan- 
tains into Edinburgh, and his astonishment at beholding a pair of 
breeches for the first time. These playful jokes passed constantlj 
amongst the young men of Gandish's studio. There was no one there 
who was not caricatured in one way or another. He whose eyes looked 
not very straight was depicted with a most awful squint. The youth 
whom nature had endowed with somewhat lengthy nose was drawn by 
the caricaturists with a prodigious proboscis. Little Bobby Moss, the 
young Hebrew artist from Wardour Street, was delineated with three 
hats and an old clothes bag. Nor were poor J. J.'s round shoulders 
spared, until Clive indignantly remonstrated at the hideous hunchback 
pictures which the boys made of his friend, and votved it was a shame 
to make jokes at such a deformity. 

Our friend, if the truth must be told regarding him, though one of 
the most frank, generous, and kind-hearted persons, is of a nature 
somewhat haughty and imperious, and very likely the course of life 
which he now led and the society which he was compelled to keep, 
served to increase some original defects in his character, and to fortify 
a certain disposition to think well of himself, with which his enemies 
not unjustly reproach him. He has been known very pathetically to 
lament that he was withdrawn from school too early, where a couple of 
years further course of thrashings from his tyrant. Old Hodge, he 
avers, would have done him good. He laments that he was not sent to 
college, where if a young man receives no other discipline, at least he 
acquires that of meeting with his equals in society and of assuredly 
finding his betters: whereas in poor Mr. Gandish's studio of art, our 
young gentleman scarcely found a comrade that was not in one way or 
other his flatterer, his inferior, his honest or dishonest admirer. The 
influence of his family's rank and wealth, acted more or less on all 
those simple folks, who would run on his errands and vied with each 
other in winning the young nabob's favour. His very goodness of heart 
rendered him a more easy prey t6 their flattery, and his kind and 
lovial disposition led him into company from which he had been much 
better away. I am afraid that artful young Moss, whose parents 
dealt in pictures, furniture, gimcracks, and jewelry, victimised Chve 
sadly with rings and chains, shirt-studs and flaming shirt-pins, 
and such vanities, which the poor young rogue locked up in his desk 
generally, only venturing to wear them when he was out of his fathers 



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THE NEWCOMES. 175 

sight or of Mr. Binnie's, whose shrewd eyes watched him very 
keenly. 

Mr. Clive used to leave home every day shortly after noon when ho 
was supposed to hetake himself to Gandish's studio. But was the 
young gentleman always at the drawing-board copying from the antique 
when his father supposed him to be so devotedly engaged ? I fear his 
place was sometimes vacant. His friend J. J. worked every day and all 
day. Many a time the steady little student remarked his patron's 
absence, and no doubt gently remonstrated with him, but when Clive 
did come to his work he executed it with remarkable skill and rapidity; 
and Ridley was too fond of him to say a word at home regarding the 
shortcomings of the youthful scapegrace. Candid readers may some- 
times have heard their friend Jones's mother lament that her darling 
was working too hard at college : or Harry's sisters express their anxiety 
lest his too rigorous attendance in chambers (after which he will persist 
in sitting up all night reading those dreary law books which cost such 
an immense sum of money) should undermine dear Henry's health ; and 
to such acute persons a word is sufficient to indicate young Mr. Clive 
Newcome's proceedings. Meanwhile his father, who knew no more of 
the world than Harry's simple sisters or Jones's fond mother, never 
doubted that all Clive's doings were right, and that his boy was the 
best of boys. 

** If that young mian goes on as charmingly as he has begun," Clive's 
cousin, Barnes Newcome, said of his kinsman, " he will be a paragon. 
I saw him last night at Vauxhall in company with young Moss, whose 
father does bills and keeps the bric-a-brac shop in Wardour Street. 
Two or three other gentlemen, probably young old clothes-men, who had 
concluded for the day the labours of the bag, joined Mr. Newcome and 
his friend, and they partook of rack-punch in an arbour. He is a 
delightful youth, cousin Clive, and I feel sure he is about to be an 
honour to our family." 



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CHAPTER XIX. 




THE COLONEL AT HOME. 

UR good Colonel's house 
had received a coat of paint, 
which, like Madame Latour's 
rouge in her latter days, onlj 
served to make her careworn 
face look more ghastly. Tiie 
) kitchens were gloomy. The 
^' stablies were gloomy. Great 
black passages ; cracked con- 
servatory ; dilapidated bath- 
room, with . melancholy 
waters moaning and fizzing 
from the cistern ; the great 
large blank stone staircase — were all so many melancholy features in 
the general countenance of the house ; but the Colonel thought it 
perfectly cheerful and pleasant, and furnished it in his rough and 
ready way. One day a cartload of chairs ; the next a waggon full of 
fenders, fire-irons, and glass, and crockery — a quantity of supplies, iu 
a word, he poured into the place. There were a yellow curtain in the 
back drawing-room, and green curtains in the front. The carpet was 
an immense bargain, bought dirt cheap, Sir, at' a sale in Euston 
Square. He was against the purchase of a carpet for the stairs. What 
was the good of it? What did men want with stair-carpets ? His own 
apartment contained a wonderful assortment of lumber. Shelves which 
he nailed himself, old Indian garments, camphor trunks. What did he 
want with gewgaws ? anything was good eno\^gh for an old soldier. But 
the spare bedroom was endowed with all sorts of splendour : a bed as 
big as a generars tent, a cheval glass — whereas the Colonel shaved in 
a little cracked mirror, which cost him no more than King Stephen's 
breeches — and a handsome new carpet; while the boards of the 
Colonel's bedchamber were as bare, as bare as old Miss Scraggs 
shoulders, which would be so much more comfortable were they 
covered up. Mr, Binnie*s bedchamber was neat, snug, and 
appropriate. And Clive had a study and bedroom at the top of the 
house, which he was allowed to furnish entirely according to his 
own taste. How he and Ridley revelled in Wardour Street ! What 



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THB NEWCOMBS. 177 

delightful coloured prints of hunting, racing, and beautifiil ladies, did 
they npt purchase, mount with their own hands, cut out for screens, 
frame and glaze, and hang up on the walls. When the rooms were 
ready they gave a party, inviting the Colonel and Mr. Binnie by note 
of hand, two' gentlemen from Lamb Court, Temple, Mr. Honeymau, 
and Fred Bayham. We must have Fred Bayham: Fred Bayham 
franldy asked, " Is Mr. Sherrick, with whom you have become rather 
intimate lately — ^and mind you I say nothing, but I recommend 
strangers in London to be cautious about their friends — is Mr. SherAck 
coming to you, young 'un, because if he is, F. B. must respectfully 
decline?" 

Mr. Sherrick was not invited, and accordingly F. B. came. But 
Sherrick was invited^ on other days, and a very queer society did our 
honest Colonel gather together in that queer house, so dreary, so 
dingy, so comfortless, so pleasant. He, who was one of the most 
hospitable men alive, loved to have his friends around him ; and it 
must be confessed that the evening parties now occasionally given 
in Fitzroy Square were of the oddest assemblage of people. The 
correct East India gentlemen from Hanover Square : the artists, 
Olive's friends, gentlemen of all ages with all sorts of beards, in 
every variety of costume. Now and again a stray schoolfellow from 
Grey Friars, who stared, as well he might, at the company in which 
he found himself. Sometimes a few ladies were brought to these 
entertainments. The immense politeness of the good host compen- 
sated some of them for the strangeness of his company. They 
had never seen' such odd-looking hairy men as those young artists,, 
nor such wonderful women as Colonel Newcome assembled together. 
He was good to all old maids and poor widows. Retired Captains with 
large families bi daughters found in him their best friend. He sent 
carriages to fetch them and bring them back from the suburbs where 
they dwelt. Gandish, Mrs. Gandish, and the four Miss Gandishes in 
scarlet robes, were constant attendants at the Coloners soirees. '* I 
delight, sir, in the 'ospitality of my distinguished military friend," Mr. 
Gandish would say. *' The harmy has always been my passion. — I 
served in the Soho Volunteers three years myself, till the conclusion of 
the war, sir, till the conclusion of the war." 

It was a great sight to see Mr. Frederic Bayham engaged in the 
waltz or the quadrille with some of the elderly houris at the Colonel's 
parties. F. B., like a good-natured F. B. as he was, always chose the 
plainest women as partners, and entertained them with profound com- 
pliments and sumptuous conversation. The Colonel likewise danced 
quadrilles with the utmost gravity. Waltzing had been invented long 
since his time: but he practised quadrilles when they first came in, 
about 1817 in Calcutta. To see him leading up a little old maid, and 
bowing to her when the dance was ended, and performing Cavalier seul 
with stately simplicity, — was a sight indeed to remember. If Clive 
Newcome had not such a fine sense of humour, he would have blushed 



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for bis fkther's simplicity. — As it was, the elder*s gnileless goodness and 
childlike trustfulness eudeared him immensely to his son. " Look at 
the old boy, Pendennis," be would say, '*look at him leading Qp that 
old Miss Tidswell to the piano. Doesn't he do it like an old duke ? I 
lay a wager she thinks she is going to be my mother in-law ; all the 
women are in lote with him, young and old. ' Sboald he upbnud ? ' 
There she goes. * 111 own.tbat hell prevail, and sing as sweetly as a 
nigb-tin^gale ! ' O, you old warbler. Look at father*& old heart boblnng 
up and down ! Would 'nt he do for Sir Roger de OoTerley ? How do 
you do, uncle Charles ? — I say, M*Collop, haw gets on the Duke o! 
Whatdyecallem starving in the castle ? — Gandish says it's very good." 
The lad retires to a group of artists. Mr. Honeynuin comes up with a 




faint smile playing on his features, like moonlight on the facade of Lady 
Whittlesea*s chapel. 

** These parties are the most singular I have ever seen," whispers 
Honeyman. " In entering one of these assemblies, one is struck with 
the immensity of London : and with the sense of one's own insigni- 
ficance. Without, I trust, departing from my clerical character, naj 
from my very avocation as Incumbent of a London Chapel,-rl b*^^ 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 179 

tseen a good d«al of the world, and here is an assemblage uo doubt of 
most respectable persons, on scarce one of whom I ever set eyes till 
(his evening. Where does my good brother find such characters ? " 

** That," says Mr. Honeyman's interlocutor, " is the celebrated, though 
neglected artist. Professor Gandish, whom nothing but jeidousy has 
kept out of the Koyal Academy. Surely you have heard of the great 
Gandish?" 

" Indeed I am ashamed to confess my ignorance, but a clergyman 
busy with his duties, knows little^ perhaps too little, of the fin« 
arts." 

'^ Gandish, sir, is one of the greatest geniuses on whom our 
ungrateful coontiy ever trampled ; he exhibited his first celebrated 
picture of Alfred in the Neatherd's Hut, (he says he is the first who 
erer touched that subject,) in 180-^: but Lord Nelson's death, and 
victory of Trafalgar, occupied the public attention at that time, and 
Gaulish's work went unnoticed. In the year 1816, he painted his 
great work of Boadicea. Yoti see her before you. That lady in yellow, 
^ith a light front and & tudban. Boadicea became Mrs. Gandish 
ill that year. So late as '37, he brought before the world his 
*Non Angli sed Angdi.' Two of the angels are yonder in sea green 
dresses — the Misses Gandish. The youth in Berlin gloves was the 
little male angelus of t^at piece." 

''How came you to know all this, you strange man ? " says Mr. 
Honeyman. 

" Simply because Gandish has told me twehty times. He tells the 
story to everybody, every time he sees them. He told it to-day at 
dinner. Boadicea and ihe angels came afterwards." 

" Satire ! satire ! Mr. Pendennis," says the divine, holding up a 
reproving finger of lavender kid, " beware of a wicked wit ! — But when 
a man has that tendency, I know how difficult it is to restrain. My 
dear Colonel, good evening! You have a great ^reception to-night. 
That gentleman's bass voice is very fine, Mr. Pendennis and I were 
admiring it. The Wolf is a song admirably adapted to show its 
capabilities." 

Mr. Gandish's autobiography had occupied the whole time after the 
retirement of the ladies from Colonel Neweome's dinner-table. Mr. 
Hobson Newcome had been asleep during the performance ; Sir Curry 
Baughton and one or two of the Colonel's professional and military 
guests, silent and puzzled. Honest Mr. Binnie, with his shrewd good- 
humoured face, sipping his claret as usual, and delivering a sly joke 
now and again to the gentlemen at his end of the table. Mrs. Newcome 
had sat by him in sulky dignity ; was it that Lady Baughton 's diamonds 
offended her ? — her ladyship and her daughters being attired in great 
splendour for a court ball which they were to attend that evening. 
Was she hurt because she was not invited to that Royal Entertainment ? 
As these festivities were to take place atan early hour, the ladies bidden 
were obliged to quit the Colonel's house before the evening party com- 

N 2 



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180 ' THE NEWCOIHES. 

meuced, from which Lady Ann declared she was quite vexed to. be 
obliged to run away. ^ 

. Lady Ann Newcome had been as gracious on this occasion as her 
sister-in-law had been out of humour. Everything pleased her in the 
house. She had no idea that there were such fine houses in that 
quarter of the town. She thought the dinner so very nice, — that 
Mr. Binnie such a good-humoured looking gentleman. That stout 
gentleman with his collars turned down like Lord Byron, so exceedingly 
clever and full of information. A celebrated artist was he ? (courtly 
Mr. Smee had his own opinion upop that point, but did not utter it.) 
^11 those artists are so eccentric and amusing and clever. Before 
dinner she insisted upon seeing Clivers den with its pictures and casts 
and pipes. ** You horrid young wicked creature, have you begun to 
smoke already ? " she asks, as she admires his room. She admired 
everything. Nothing could exoeed her satisfaction. 

The sisters-in-law kissed on meeting, with that cordiality so delightful 
to witness in sisters who dwell together in unity. It was, " My dear 
Maria, what an age since I have seen you." ** My dear Ann, our 
occupations are so engrossing, our circles are so different," in a languid 
response from the other. "Sir Brian is not coming, I suppose?" 
** Now Colonel." She turns in a frisky manner towards him, and taps 
her fan. " Did I not tell you Sir Brian would not come ? " 

" He is kept at the House of Commons, my dear. Those dreadful 
committees. He was quite vexed at not being able to come." 

" I know, I know, dear Ann, there are' always excuses to gentlenlea 
in Parliament, I have received many such. Mr. Shaloo, and Mr. 
M*Sheny, the leaders of our party, often and often disappoint me. I 
knew Brian would not come. My husband came down from Marble 
Head on purpose this morning. Nothing would have induced us to 
give up our brother's party." 

'* I believe you. 1 did come down from Marble Head this morning, 
and I was four hours in the hay-field before I oame away, and in the 
city till five, and I've been to look at a horse afterwards at Tattersall's, 
and I'm as hungry as a hunter, and as tired as a hodman," says Mr. 
Newcome, with his hands in his pockets. "How do you do, Mr. 
Pendennis ? Maria, you remember Mr. Pendennis — don't you ? " 

** Perfectly," replies the languid Maria. Mrig. Gandish, Colonel 
Topham, Major M*Cracken are announced, and then, in diamonds, 
feathers and splendour. Lady Baughton and Miss Baughton, who 
are going to the Queen's ball, and Sir Ciirry Baughton, not quite in 
his deputy-lieutenant's uniform as yet, looking very shy in a pair of 
blue trousers, with a glittering stripe of silver down the seams. Clive 
looks with wonder and delight at these ravishing ladies, rustling in 
fresh brocades, with feathers, diamonds, and every magnificence. 
Aunt Ann has not her court-dress on as yet ; and' Aunt Maria blushes 
as she beholds the new comers, liaving thought fit to attire herself in a 
high dress, with a Quaker-like simplicity, and a pair of gloves more 



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THE NEWCOMES. ,181 

than ordinarily dingy. The pretty little foot she has, it is trae, and 
sticks it out from habit ; but what is Mrs. Newcome's foot compared 
with that sweet little chaussure which Miss Baughton exhibits and 
vdthdraws ? The shiny white satin slipper, the pink stocking which 
6Ter and anon peeps from -the rastling folds of her robe, and timidly 
retires into its covert — that foot, light as it is, crushes Mrs. Newcome. 

No wonder she winces, and is angry ; 'there are some mischievous 
persons who rather like to witness that discomfiA;ure. All Mr. Smee*s 
flatteries that day failed to soothe her. She was in the state in which 
his canvasses sometimes are, when he cannot paint on them. 

What happened to her alone in the drawing-room, when the ladies 
invited to the dinner had departed, and those convoked to the soiree 
began to arrive, — what happened to her or to them I do not like to 
think. The Gandishes arrived first. Boadicea and the angels. We 
judged from the fact that young Mr. Gandish came blushing into the 
dessert. Name after name was announced of persons of whom 
Mrs. Newcome knew nothing. The young and the old, the pretty and 
homely, they were all in their best dresses, and no doubt stared at 
Mrs. Newcome, so obstinately plain in her attire. When we came up- 
stairs from dinner, we found her seated entirely by herself, tapping her 
fan at the fire-place. Timid groups of persons were round about, 
waiting for the irruption of the gentlemen, until the pleasure should 
begin. Mr. Newcome, who came upstairs yawning, was heard to say 
to bis wife : " O dam, let's 'cut ! " And they went downstairs, and 
waited until their carriage had arrived, when they quitted Fitzroy 
Square. 

Mr. Barnes Newcome presently arrived, looking particularly smart 
and lively, with a large flower in his button-hole, and leaning on the 
arm of a frieiid. "How do you do, Pendennis?" he says, with a 
peculiarly dandified air. " Did you dine here ? You look as if you 
dined here (and Barnes, certainly, as if he had dined elsewhere). I 
was only asked to the cold soiree. Who did you have for dinner ? You 
had my mammc^ and the Baughtons, and tny uncle and aunt, I know, 
for they are down below in the library, waiting for the .carriage : he is 
asleep, and she is as sulky as a bear." 

"Why did Mrs. Newcome say I should find nobody I knew up 
here?" asks Barnes's companion. " On the contrary, there are lots of 
fellows I know. There's Fred Bayham, dancing like a harlequin. 
There's old Gandish, who used to be my drawing-master ; and my 
Brighton friends, your uncle and cousin, Barnes. What relationp are 
they to me ? must be some relations. Fine fellow your cousin." 

" Him," growls Barnes. " Very fine boy, — not spirited at all, — not 
fond of flattery, — not surrounded by toadies, — not fond of drink,— 
delightful boy ! See yonder, the young fellow is in conversation with 
his most intimate friend, a little crooked fellow, with long hair. Do 
you know who he is ? he is the son of old Todmoreton's butler. Upon 
my life it's true." 



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ISa THE NBWCOMES. 

''And sappose it is; what the deuce do I care !" cries Lord Kew» 
** Who can be more respectable than a butler ? A roan must be some- 
body% son. When I am a middle-aged man, I hope humbly I shall 
look like a butler myself. Suppose you were to put ten of Gunter's 
men into the House of Lords, do you mean to say that they would not 
look as iroll as any average ten peers iu the house ? Look at Lord 
Westcot; he is exactly like a butler: thats why &e country bas 
such confidence in him. I ncTor dine with him but I fancy he ou^^t 
to be at the sideboard. Here comes that insufferable little old Smee^ 
How do you do, Mr, Smee ?" 

Mr. Smee smiles his sweetest smile. With his rings, diamond shirt- 
studs, and red velvet waistcoat, there are few more elaborate middle-aged 
bucks than Alfred Smee. " How do you do, my dear lord ?" cries the 
bland one. " Who would aver have thought of seeing your lordship 
here?" 

•* Why the deuce not, Mr. Smee ?'* asks Lord Kew, abruptly. " Is 
it wrong to come here ? - I have been in the house only five minutes, 
and three people have said the same thi^ to me — Mrs. Newcome, vrho 
is sitting downstairs in a rage waiting for her carriage, the conde- 
scending Barnes, and yourself. Why do you come here, Smee ? How 
are you, Mr. Gandish ? How do the fine arts go ?" 

*' Your lordship's kindness in asking £or them will cheer them if any- 
thing will,*' says Mr. Gandish. *' Your noble family has always 
patronised them. I am proud to be reckonised by your lordship in 
this house, where the distinguished father of one of my pupils enter- 
tains us this evening. A most promising young man is yousg 
Mr. CUve — talents for a hamateur really most remarkable." 

"Excellent, upon my word — excellent," cries Mr. Smee. "I'm not 
an animal painter myself, and perhaps don't think much of that branch 
of the profession ; but it seems to me the young fellow draws horses 
with the most wonderful spirit. I hope Lady Walham is very veil, 
and that she was satisfied with her son's portrait. Stockholm, I think, 
your brother is appointed to ? I wish I might be allowed to paint the 
elder as well as the younger brother, my lord." 

** I am an historical painter ; but whenever Lord Kew is painted 
I hope his lordship will think of the old servant of his lordship's 
family, Charles Gandish," cries the professor. 

- **I am like Susannah between the two Elders," says Lord Kew. 
"Let my innocence alone, Smee. Mr. Gandish, don't persecute my 
modesty with your addresses. I won't be painted. I am not a fit 
subject for a historical painter, Mr. Gandish." 

" Halcibiades sat to Praxiteles, and Pericles to Pbridjas," remarks 
Gandish. 

" The cases are not quite similar," says Lord Kew, languidly. 
" You are no doubt fully equal to Praxiteles ; but I don't see my 
resemblance to the other party. I should not look well as a hero, and 
Sniee could not paint me handsome enough." 



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THE NEWCOMES. 183 

"I would try, my dear lord," cries Mr. Smee, 

"I know you would, my dear fellow," Lord Kew answered, looking 
at the painter with a lazy scorn in his eyes. " Where is Colonel 
Newcome, Mr. Gandish?" Mr. Gandish replied that our gallant host 
was dancing a quadrille in the next room ; and the young gentleman 
walked on towards that apartment to pay his respects to the giver of 
the evening's entertainment. 

Newcomers behaviour to the young peer was ceremonious, but not in 
the least servile. He sainted the other's superior rank, not his person, 
as he turned the guard out for a general officer.' He never could be 
brought to be otherwise than cold and grave in his behaviour to John 
James ; nor was it without difficulty, when young Eidley and his son 
became pupils at Gandish's, he could be induced to invite the forma- 
te his parties- " An artist is any man's equal," he add. " I have no 
prejttdice of that sort ; and think that Bir Joshua Eeynolds and Doctor 
Johnson were fit .company for any person, of wbatev«r rank. But a 
young man whose father may have had to wait behind me at dinner, 
should not be brought into my company." Clive compromises the 
dispute with a laugh. " First," says he, ** I will wait till I am asked ; 
and then I promise I will not go to dine f?ith Lord Todmoreton," 



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CHAPTER XX. 

CONTAINS MOKE PARTICULARS OF THE COLONEL AND HIS BRETHREN. 




and 
he 



Olive's amusements, studies, or 
occupations, such as they were, 
filled his day pretty completely, 
and caused the young gentleman's 
time to pass rapidly and plea- 
santly, his father, it must be 
owned, had no such resources, and 
the Good ^Colonel's idleness hung 
i| 1^ \^JHr \4 1^^911^'^ l/IKIji'// ^^Av% upon him. He suhmitted 
1 i'/ MBmi^3HHEl,it Hie ^^^7 kindly to this infliction, how- 
J f ^^B^S^^UK^wi wi^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^® would have done to 
^~^ ^vWSKKKBBSS^i^^^ any other for Olive's sake : and 

though he may have wished him- 
self hack with his regiment again, 
engaged in the pursuits in which his life had heen spent, 
chose to consider these desires as very selfish and blameable 
on his part, and sacrificed them resolutely for his son's welfare. 
The young fellow, I dare say, gave his parent no more credit for 
his long self-denial, than many other children award to theirs. We 
take such life-offerings as our due commonly. The old French satirist 
avers that in a love affair, there is usually one person who loves, and 
the other, qui se laisse aimer ; it is only in later days, perhaps, when 
the treasures of love are spent, and the kind hand cold which ministered 
them, that we remember how tender it was ; how soft to soothe ; how 
eager to shield ; how ready to support and caress. The ears may no 
longer hear, which would have received our words of thanks so 
delightedly. Let us hope those fruits of love, though tardy, are yet 
not all too late ; and though we bring our tribute of reverence and gra- 
titude, it may be to a gravestone, there is an acceptance even there for the 
stricken heart's oblation of fond remorse, contrite memories, and pious 
tears. I am thinking of the love of Olive Newcome's father for him ; (and, 
perhaps, young reader, that of yours and mine for ourselves ;) how the old 
man lay awake, and devised kindnesses, and gave his all for the love 
of his son ; and the young man took, and spent, and slept, and made 
merry. Did we not say, at our tale's commencement that all stories were 



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THE NEWCOMES. 185 

old? Careless prodigals and anxious elders have been from the begin- 
ning : — and so may love, and repentance, and forgiveness endure even 
till the end. 

The stifling fogs, the slippery mud, the dun dreary November morn- 
ings, when the Kegent*s Park, where the Colonel took his early walk, 
was wrapped in yellow mist ; must have been a melancholy exchange 
for the splendour of Eastern sunrise, and the invigorating gallop at 
dawn, to which, for so many years of his life, Thomas Newcome had 
accustomed himself. His obstinate habit of early waking accompanied 
him to England, and occasioned the despair of his London domestics, 
who, if master wasn't 39 awful early, would have found no fault with 
him, for a gentleman as gives less trouble to his servants ; as scarcely 
ever rings the bell for his self ; as will brush his own clothes ; as will 
even boil his own shaving water in the little hetna which he keeps np 
in his dressing-room ; as pays so regular, and never looks twice at the 
accounts ; such a man deserved to be loved by his household, and I dare 
say comparisons were made between him and his son, who do ring the 
bells, and scold if his boots ain't nice, and border about like a young 
lord. But Clive, though imperious, was very liberal and good-humoured, 
and not the worse served because he insisted upon exerting his youthful 
authority. As for friend Birinie, he had a hundred pursiiits of his own, 
which made his time pass very comfortably. He had all the Lectures 
at the British Institution ; he had the Geographical Society, the Asiatia 
Society, and the Political Economy Club ; and though he talked year 
nfter year of going t'o visit his relations in Scotland, the months aud 
seasons passed away, and his feet still beat the London pavement. 

In spite of the cold reception his brothers gave him, duty was duty, 
and Colonel Newcome still proposed, or hoped to be well with the 
female members of the Newcome family ; and having, as we have said, 
plenty of time on his hands ; and living at no very great distance from 
either of his brothers' town houses; when their wives were in London, 
the elder Newcome was for paying them pretty constant visits. But 
after the good gentleman had called twice or thrice upon his sister-in- 
law in Bryanstone Square ; bringing, as was his wont, a present for 
this little niece, or a book for that : Mrs. Newcome, with her usual 
virtue, gave him to understand that the occupation of an English matron, 
who, besides her multifarious family duties, had her own intellectual 
culture to mind, would not allow her to pass the mornings in idle 
gossips : and of course took great credit to herself for having so rebuked 
him. *» I am. not above instruction of any age," says she, thanking 
heaven, (or complimenting it rather for having created a being so virtuous 
and humble^minded). " When Professor Schroff comes, I sit with my 
children, and take lessons in German, — and I say my verbs with Maria 
and Tommy in the same class !" Yes, with curtsies and fine speeches 
she actually bowed her brother out of doors ; and the honest gentleman 
meekly left her, though with bewilderment as he thought of the diflFerent 
hospitality to which he had been accustomed in the East, where no 



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186 TH£ HEWCOMES. 

friend's bonse vraB ever closed to him, where no Deighboor was so hmsj 
bat he had time to make Thomas Newcome welcome. 
, When Hobson Newcome's boys came home for the holidays, their 
kind ancle was for treating themi to the sights of the town,' but here 
Tirtae again intoposed and laid its interdict iipon pleasure. '* Thank 
yon, Tery mnch, my dear colonel,'* says Virtue, ''there newr was 
surely such' a kind, affectionate, unselfish creature, as 70a are, and so 
indulgent for children, but my boys and jours are brought up ou a very 
different plan. Excuse me for saying that I do not think it is advisable 
that they shoold even see too much of each other. Olive's company is 
not good for them." 

^ Great heavens, Maria ! " cries the Colonel starting up, *' do you 
mean that my boy's society is not good enough for any boy alive ? "^ 

Maria turned very red : she had said not more than she meant, but 
more than she meant to say. " My dear Colonel how hot Mfe arei how 
angry you Indian gentlemen become with us poor women ! Your boy 
is much older than mine. He lives with artists, with all sorts of 
eccentric people.. Oar children are bred on quite a difierent plan. 
Hobson will succeed his father in ' the bank, and dear Samuel I trust 
will go into tiie church. I told you, before, the views I had regarding 
the boys : but it was most kind of you to think of them — most generous 
and kind." 

** That nabob of ours is a queer fish," Hobson Neweome remarked to 
his nephew Barnes. ^'He is as proud as Lucifer, he is always taking 
huff about one thing or the other. He went off in a fume the other 
night because your aunt objected to his taking the boys to the play. 
She don't like their going to the play. My^mother didn't either. Your 
aunt is a woman who is uncommon wide*awake I can tdl you." 

"I always knew, sir, that my aunt was perfectly aware of the time of 
the day," says Barnes with a bow. 

" And then the Colonel flies out about his boy, and says that my 
wife insulted him ! I used to like that boy. Before his fkther came 
he WES a good lad enough — a jolly brave little fellow." 

" I confess I did not know Mr. Olive at that interesting period of his 
existence," remarics Barnes. 

" But since he has taken this mad-cap freak of taming painter," the 
uncle continues, ** there is no understanding the chap. Did you ever 
see such a set of fellows as the Colonel had got together at his party 
the other night? Dirty chaps in velvet coats and beards? They 
looked like a set of mountebanks. And this young Olive is going to 
turn painter ! " 

" Very advantageous thing for the family. He'll do our pictures for 
nothing. I always said he was a dariing boy," simpered Barnes. 

** Darling jackass 1 " growled out the senior. " Confound it, why 
doesn't my brother set him up in some respectable business ? I ain't 
proud. I have not married an earl's daughter^ No offence to you, 
Barnes." . 



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TH& ISnSWCOWBB. 187 

*' Not at all, Sir. I oan't help it if my grandfieither is a gentleman,'^ 
says Barnes, with a. &sciiiating smile. 

The unde laughs. " I mean I don't care what a fallow is if he is a 
good fellow. But a painter! hang it— a painter's no trade at all — ^I 
don't iaxicj seeing one of oar family sticking up pictures for sale. I 
im\ like it, Barnes." 

"Hush] here oomes his distingnished friend,- Mr. Pendennis,*^ 
i^i^pers Barnes ; and the uncle growling out, ^* Damn alUiterary fellows 
— all artiste — tthe whole lot of them! " turns away,^ Barnes wares three 
langoid fingers of recognition towaids Pandennjs : and when the uncle 
and nephew have moved out of the dub new^per room, little Tom 
Eaves comes up and tells the present reporter every word of their 
conversation. 

Very soon Mrs. Newcome announced that their Indian brotlier found 
the society of Bryanston Square very little to hh( taste, as indeed how 
should he ? being a man of a good harmless disposition certainly, but of 
small intellectual culture. It could not be helped. She had done her 
utmost to make him welcome, and grieved that their pursuits were not 
more congenial. She heard that he%was much more intimate in Park 
Lane. Possibly the superior rank of Lady Ann's family mi^t 
present charms to Colonel Newcome, who fell asleep at her assemblies* 
His boy, she was afraid, was leading the most irregular life. He was 
growing a pair of mustachios, and going about with all sorts of wild 
associates. She found no fault, who was she, to find fault with any 
one ? But she had been compelled to hint that her children must not 
be too intimate with him. And so, between one brother who meant no 
iinki]idne»9, and another who was all affection and goodwill, this 
imdoubting woman created differenoe, distrust, dislike, which might one 
day possibly lead to open rupture. The wicked are wicked no doubt,, 
and they go astray and they fall, and they come by their deserts : but 
who can tell the mischi^ which the veiy virtuous do ? 

To her sister-in-law. Lady Ann, the Colonel's society was more 
welcome. The affectionate gentleman never tired, of doing kindnesses 
to his brother's masny children, and as Mr. Clive's pursuits now 
separated him a good deal from his father, the Colonel, not perhaps 
without a sigh that fate should so separate him from the society which 
he loved best in the world, consoled himself as best he might with his 
n^iews and nieces, especially with Ethel, for whom his heUe pmswn 
conceived at first sight never diminished. If uncle Newcome had a 
hundred children, Ethel said, who was rather jealous of disposition, he 
^nld spoil them all. He found a fine occupation in breaking a pretty 
httle horse for her, of which he made her a present, and there was no 
horse in the Park that was so handsome, and surely no girl who looked 
nw)re beautiful, than Ethel Newcome with her broad hat and red ribbon, 
^th her thick black locks waving round her bright face, galloping along 
tne ride on Bhurtpore. Occasionally Olive was at their riding parties^ 



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188 THE NEWCOMES. 

^ben the colonel would fall bade mnd fondly survey tbe young people 
cantering side by side over tbe grass : bat by a tacil convention it was 
arranged that the cousins should be but seldom together; the Colonel 
might be his niece's companion and no one could receive him with a 
more joyous welcome, but when Mr. Olive made his appearance with 
his father at the Park Lane door, a certain gene was visible in Miss 
Ethel, who would never mount except with Colonel Newcome's assist- 
ance, and who, especially after Mr. Olive's famous mustachios made 
their appearance, rallied him, and remonstrated with him regarding 
those ornaments, and treated him with much distance and dignity. 
She asked him if he was going into the army ? she could not under- 
stand how any but military men could wear mustachios ; and then she 
looked fondly and archly at her uncle, and said she liked none that 
were not gray. 

Olive set her down as a very haughty, spoiled, aristocratic young 
creature. If he had been in love with her, no doubt he would have 
sacrificed even those beloved new-bom whiskers for the charmer. Had 
he not already bought on credit the necessary implements in a fine 
dressing-case, from young Moss? But he was not in love with her; 
otherwise he would have found a thousafnd opportunities of riding with 
her, walking with her, meeting her, in spite of all prohibitions tacit or 
expressed, all governesses, guardians, mamma,'s punctilios, and kind 
hints from friends. For a while, Mr. Olive thought himself in love 
with his cousin ; than whom no more beautiful young girl could be seen 
in any park, ball, or drawing-room ; and he drew a hundred pictures of 
her, and discoursed about her beauties to J. J., who fell in* love with 
her on liearsay. But at this time. Mademoiselle Saltai'elli was dancing 
at Drury Lane Theatre, and it certainly may be said that Olive's first 
love was bestowed upon that beauty : . whose picture of course he drew 
in most of her favourite characters ; and for whom his passion lasted 
until the end of the season, when her night was announced, tickets to 
be had at the theatre, or of Mademoiselle Saltarelli, Buckingham 
Street, Strand, Then it was that with a throbbing heart and a five 
pound note, to engage places for the houri's benefit, Olive beheld 
Madame Eogomme, M ademoiselle Saltarelli's mother, who entertained him 
in the French language in a dark parlour smelling of onions. Ani oh ! 
issuing from the adjoining dining-room — (where was a dingy vision of a 
feast and pewter pots upon a darkling table-cloth) coiid that lean, 
scraggy, old, beetle-browed, yellow face, who cried " Ou est tu done, 
maman?" with such a shrill nasal voice— could that elderly vixen be 
that blooming and divine Saltarelli ? Olive drew her picture as she was, 
and a likeness of Madame Rogomme, her mamma ; a Mosaic youth, pro- 
fusely jewelled, and scented at once with tobacco and Eau de Cologne, 
occupied Olive's stall on Mademoiselle Saltarelli's night. It was young 
Mr. Moss, of Gandish's, to whom Newcome ceded his place, and who 
laughed (as he always did at Olive's jokes) when the latter told the 
story of his interview with the dancer. "Paid five pound to seejthat 



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e^ y^/y/C^//^^ ??24^^Wy 



"Pn^^ /^, 



'^yM/j x^^r^taC- /^^<^ . 



Digitized by VjOOQ IC 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 189 

woman. I could have took you behind the scenes (or beide the seeds, 
Mr. Moss said) and showed her to you for dothing." Did he take 




j^' 



Clive behind the scenes ? Over this part of the young gentleman's 
life, without implying the least harm to him — for have not others been 
behind the scenes; and can there be any more dreary object than those 
whitened and raddled old women who shudder at the slips? Over 
this stage of Clive Newcome's life we may surely drop the curtain. 

It is pleasanter to contemplate that kind old face of Olive's father, 
that sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two ride homewards 
at sunset. The grooms behind in quiet conversation about horses, 
as men never tire of talking about horses. Ethel wants to know about 
battle ; about lovers' lamps, which she has read of in Lallah Eookh. 
"Have you ever seen them, uncle, floating down the Ganges of a 
night? " About Indian widows. " Did you actually see one burning, 
and hear her scream as you rode up ? " She wonders whether h« will 
tell her anything about Olive's mother: how she must have loved 
Uncle Newcome! Ethel can't bear, somehow, to think that her 
name was Mrs. Oasey, — perhaps he was very fond of her ; though he 
scarcely eyer mentions her name. She was nothing like that good old 
funny Miss Honeyman at Brighton. Who could the person be ? — a 
person that her uncle knew ever so long ago — a French lady, whoni 
her uncle says Ethel often resembles ? That is why he speaks French 
80 well. He can recite whole pages out of Racine. Perhaps it was the 
French lady who taught him. And he was not very happy at the 
Hermitage (though grandpapa was a very kind good man), and he upset 
papa in a little carriage, and was wild," and got into disgrace, and was 
sent to India ? He could hot have been very bad, Ethel thinks, looking 
at him with her honest eyes. Last week he went to the Drawing-room, 
and papa presented him. His uniform of gray and silver was quite old, 



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190 THE KBWCOMES. 

yet be looked much grander than Sir Brian in his new depotj- 
kentenant's dress. Next year^ when I am presented, you most come 
too, sir, says Ethel. I insist upon it, you must come too ! 

" I will order a new uniform, Ethel," aaya her uncle. 

The girl laughs. "When little Egbert took hold of your sword, uncle, 
and asked you how many people you had killed, do you know I had the 
same question in my mind; and I thoi^t when you went to the 
Drawing-room, perhaps the King Yfill knight him. But instead he 
knighted mamma's apothecary, Sir Danby Jilks: that horrid little 
man, and I won't have you knighted any more." 

*• I hope Egbert won't ask Sir Danby Jilks how many people "he has 
killed," says the GolondL, laughing; but thinking the joke too severe 
upon Sir Danby and the profession, he forthwith apologises by narrating 
many anecdotes he knows to the credit of surgeons. How, when the 
fever broke out on board the ship going to India, their surgeon devoted 
himself to the safety of the crew, and died himself, leaving directions 
for the treatment of the patients when he was gone I What heroism 
the doctors showed during the cholera in India ; and what courage he 
had seen some of them exhibit ia action : attending the wounded men 
under the hohest fire, and exposing themselves as readily as the 
bravest troops. Ethel declares that her unde always will talk of ether 
people's courage, and never say a word abbot his own ; and the only 
reason, she says, which made me like that odious Sir Thomas de Boots, 
who laughs so, and looks so red, and pays such horrid compliments to 
all ladies, was, that he praised you, uncle, at Newcome, last year, when 
Barnes and he came to us at Christmas. Why did you not come? 
Mamma and I went to see your old nurse ; and we found her such 
a nice old lady. So the pair talk kindly on, riding homewards through 
the pleasant summer twilight. Mamma had gone out to dinner ; and 
therer were cards for three parties afterwards. ** O how I wish it was 
next year," says Miss Ethel. 

Many a splendid assembly, and many a bnlliant next year, will the 
ardent and hopeful young creature enjoy ; but in the midst of her 
splendour and triumphs, buzzing flatterers, conquered rivals, prostrate 
admirers, no doubt she will think sometimes of that quiet season 
before the world began for her, and that dear old friend, on whose arm 
she leaned while she was yet a young girl. 

The Colonel comes to Park Street early in the forenoon, when the 
mistress of the house, surrounded by her little ones, is administering 
dinner to them. He behaves with splendid courtesy to Miss Quigley, 
the governess; and makes a point of taking wine with her, and of making 
a most profound bow during that ceremony. Miss Quigley cannot help 
thinking Colonel Newcome's bow very fine.— She has an idea that his 
late Majesty must have bowed in that way : she flutteringly impartfiT 
this opinion to Lady Ann's maid; who tells her mistress, who tells 
Miss Ethel, who watches the Colonel the next time he takes wine with 
Miss Quigley, and they l^ugh, and then Ethel tells him ; so that the 



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THE HTIWCOMBS. 191 

gentleman and the governess have to blush ever after when they drink 
wine together. When she is walking with her little charges in the 
Park, or in that before-mentioned paradise nigh to Apsley Hoase, faint 
signals of welcome appear on her wan cheeks. She knows the dear 
Oolonel amongst a thousand horsemen. If Ethel makes for her uncle 
parses, guard-chains^ anti-macassars, and the like beautiful and useful 
articles, I Believe it is in reality Miss Quigley who does four-fifths of 
the work — as she sits alone in the school-room, Mgh, high up in that 
lone house, when the little ones are long since asleep, before her dismal 
little tea-tray, and her little desk, containing her mother's letters and 
her mementos of home. 

TherQ aro, of course, numberless fine parties in Park Lane, where 
the Colonel knows he would be very welcome. But if there be g)*and 
assemblies, be does not care to come. ^ I like to go to the club best," 
he says to Lady Ann. " We talk there as you do here about persons, 
and about Jack marrying, and Tom dying, and so forth. But we hav« 
known Jack and Tom all our lives, and so are interested in talking about 
them. Just as yea are in speaking of your own friends and habitual 
society. They are people whose names I have sometimes read in the 
newspaper, but whom I never tho^ht of meeting until I came to your 
house. What has an old fellow like me to say to your young dandies 
or old dowagers ? " 

" Mamma is very-odd and sometimes very captious, my dear Colonel,** 
said Lady Ann, with a blush, — " siie suffers so frightfully from tic 
that we are all bound to pardon her." ^ 

Truth to tell, old Lady Kew had been particularly rude to Colonel 
Kewcome and Olive. Ediel's birth day befel in the Spring, on which 
occasion she was wont to have a juvenile assembly, chiefly of girls of 
her own age and condition ; who came, accompanied by a few gover- 
nesses, and they played and sang their little duetts and chorusses 
together, and enjoyed a gentle refection of sponge cakes, jellies, tea, and 
the like. — The Colonel, who was invited to this little party, sent a fine 
present to his favorite Ethel ; and Clive and his friend J. J. made a 
funny series of drawings, representing the life of a young lady as they 
imagined it, — and drawing her progress from her cradle upwards, now 
engaged with her doll, then with her dancing-master ; now marching 
in her back-board, now crying over her German lessons : and dressed 
for her first ball finally, and bestowing her hand upon a dandy, of pre- 
ternatural ugliness, who was kneeling at her feet as the happy man. 
This picture was the delight of the laughing happy girls ; except, per- 
haps, the little cousins from Bryanstone Square, who were invited to 
Ethel's party, but were so overpowered by the prodigious new dresses 
in which their mamma had attired them, that they could admire nothing 
but their rustling pink frocks, their enormous sashes, their lovely new 
silk stockings. 

Lady Kew coming to London attended on the party : and presented 
lier grand-daughter with a.sixpenny pincushion. The Colonel had sent 



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193 THE NEWCOMES. , 

Ethel a beautiful little gold watch and chain. Her aunt had compli- 
mented her with that refreshing work, " Alison's History of Europe," 
richly bound.-r— Lady Kew's pincushion mcule rather- a poor figure 
among the gifts, whence probably arose her ladyship's ill-humour. 

Ethel's grandmother became exceedingly testy, when the Colonel 
arriving, Ethel ran up to him and thanked him for the beautiful watcb, 
in return for which she gave him a kiss ; which I daresay, amply repaid 
Colonel Newcome : and shortly after him Mr Clive arrived, looking 
uncommonly handsome, with that smart little beard and mustachio 
with which nature had recently gifted him. As he entered, all the 
girls who had been admiring his pictures, began to clap their hands. 
Mr. Clive Newcome blushed, and looked none the worse for that indi- 
cation of modesty. - . 

Lady Kew had met Colonel Newcome a half-dozen times at her 
daughter's house : but on this occasion she had quite forgotten him, for 
when the Colonel made her a bow, her ladyship regarded him steadily, 
and beckoning her daughter to her, asked who the gentleman was who 
has just kissed Ethel? Trembling as she always did before her 
mother, Lady Ann explained. Lady Kew said '''O ! " and left Colonel 
Newcome blushing and rather embarrasse de sa personne before her. 

With the clapping of hands that greeted Clive 's arrival, the Countess 
was by no means more good-humoured. — Not aware of her \vrath, the 
young fellow, who had also previously been presented to her, came 
forward presently to make her his compliments. — ** Pray who are you?" 
she said, looking at him very earnestly in the face. — He told her bis 
name. 

**H'm," said Lady Kew, ** I have heard of you, and I have heard 
very little good of you." 

" Will your ladyship please to give me your informant ? " cried out 
Colonel Newcome. 

Bi^mes Newcome, who had condescended to attend his sister's little 
fete, and had been languidly watching the frolics of the young people, 
looked very much alarmed. 



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CHAPTER XXI. 



IS SENTIMENTAL BDT SHORT. 




ITHOUT wishing to disparage 
the youth of other nations, I 
think a well'-bred English lad 
has this advantage over them, 
that his bearing is commonly 
more modest than theirs. He 
does not assume the tailcoat 
and the manners of manhood 
too early : he holds his tongue, 
and listens to his elders : his 
mind blushes as well as his 
cheeks: he does not know 
how to make bows and pay compliments like the young French- 
man: nor to contradict his seniors as I am informed American 
striplings do. Boys, who learn nothing else at our public schools, 
learn at least good manners, or what we consider to be such — ^and, 
^th ^regard to the person at present under consideration, it is certain 
that all his acquaintances, excepting perhaps his dear cousin Barnes 
Newcome, agreed in considering him as a very frank, manly, modest, 
and agreeable young fellow. My friend Warrington found a grim 
pleasure in his company ; and his bright face, droll humour, and kindly 
laughter, were always welcome in our chambers. Honest Fred Bayham 
was charmed to be in his society ; and used pathetically to aver that he 
himself might have been such a youth, had he been blest with a kind 
father to watch, and good friends to guide, his early career. In fact, 
I'red was by fax the most didactic of Olive's bachelor acquaintances, 
pursued the young man with endless advice and sermons, and held 
himself up as a warning to Olive, and a touching example of the evil 
consequences of early idleness and dissipation. Gentlemen of much 
higher rank in the world took a fancy to the lad. Oaptain Jack 
Belsize, introduced him to his own mess, as also to the Guard 
dinner at St. James's ; and my Lord Kew invited him to Kewbury, his 
Lordship's house in Oxfordshire, where Olive enjoyed hunting, 
shooting, and plenty of good company. Mrs. Newcome groaned in 
spirit when she heard of these proceedings ; . and feared, feared very 



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194 THE NEWCOMES. 

much that that unfortunate young man was going to ruin ; and Barnes 
Newcome amiably disseminated reports amongst his family that the 
lad was plunged in all sorts of debaucheries : that he was tipsy every 
night : that he was engaged, in his sober moments, with dice, the 
turf, or worse amusements: and that his head was so turned by 
living with Kew and Belsize, that the little rascal's pride and arrogance 
were perfectly insufferable. Ethel would indignantly deny these 
charges ; then perhaps credit a few of them ; and she looked at Clive 
with melancholy eyes when he came to visit his aunt ; and I hope prayed 
that Heaven might mend his wicked ways. The truth is, the young 
fellow enjoyed life, as one of his age and spirit might be expected 
to do ; but he did very little harm, and meant less ; and was quite 
unconsciooB of the reputation which his kind friends were making 
lor him. 

There had been a long-standing promise that Clive and his father 
were to go to Newcome at Christmas : and I dare say Ethel proposed 
to reform the young prodigal, if prodigal he was, for she busied herself 
delightedly in preparing the apartments which they were to inhabit 
during their stay — speculated upon it in a hundred pleasant ways, 
putting off her visit to this pleasant neighbour, or that pretty scene 
in the vicinage, until her uncle should come and they should be 
enabled to enjoy the excursion together. And before the arrival 
of her relatives, Ethel, with one of her young brothers, went to 
see Mrs. Mason ; and introduced herself as Colonel Newcome 's niece ; 
and came back charmed with the old lady, and eager once more 
in defence of Clive (when that young gentleman's character happened 
to be called in question by her brother Barnes), for had she not 
seen the kindest letter, which Clive had written to old Mrs. Mason, 
and the beautiful drawing of his father on horseback and in regi- 
mentals, waving his sword in front of the gallant — th Bengal Cavalry, 
which the lad had sent do\vn to the good old woman ? — ^He could 
not be very bad, Ethel thought, who was so kind and thoughtful 
for the poor. His father's son could not be alt<^ether a reprobate. 
When Mrs. Mason seeing how good and beautiful Ethel was, and 
thinking in her heart, nothing could be too good or beautiful for Clive, 
nodded her kind old head at Miss Ethel, atid said she should Hke 
to find a husband for her — Miss Ethel blushed, and looked handsomer 
than ever; and at home, when she was describing the interview^ 
never mentioned this part of her talk with Mrs. Mason. . 

But the enfant terrible, young Alfred, did : announcing to aU the 
company at dessert, that Ethel was in love with Clive — that Clive 
was coming to marry her — that Mrs. Mason, the old woman at 
Newcome, had told him so. 

" I daresay she has told the tale all over Newcome I " shrieked out 
Mr. Barnes. " I daresay it will be in the Lidependent next week. 
By Jove, it's a pretty connexion — ^and nice acquaintances this uncle 
of ours brings us P' A fine battle ensued upon the receipt and 



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THB KEWCOMES. 195 

discussion of this intelligence : Barnes was more than nsuallj bitter 
and sarcastic : Ethel haughtily recriminated, losing her temper^ and 
then her firmness, until, fairly bursting into tears, she taxed Barnes 
^th meanness and miEtlignitj in for ever uttering stories to his 
cousin's disadvantage ; and pursuing with constant slander and cruelty 
one of the very best of men. She rose and left the table in great 
tribulation — she wenfe to her room and wrote a letter to her uncle, 
blistered with tears, in which she besought him not to come to 
Newcome. — Perhaps she if ent and looked at the apartments which she 
had adorned and prepared for his reception. It was for him and 
for his company that she was eager. She had met no one so generous 
and gentle, so honest and unselfish, until she had seen him. 

Lady Ann knew the ways of women very well ; and when Ethel that 

night, still in great indignation and scorn against Barnes, announced 

that she had written a letter to her uncle, begging the Colonel not 

to come at Christmas, EtheFs mother soothed the wounded girl, 

and treated her with peculiar gentleness and affection; and she 

wisely gave Mr. Barnes to understand, that if he wished to bring 

about that very attachment, the idea of which made him so angry, 

he could use no better means than those which he chose to employ 

at present, of constantly abusing and insulting poor Clive, . and 

awakening Ethel's tfympathies by mere opposition. And Ethel's 

sad little letter was extracted from the post-bag: and her mother 

brought it to her, sealed, in her own room, where the young lady 

burned it : being easily brought by Lady Ann's quiet remonstrances to 

perceive that it was best no allusi6n should teke place to the silly 

dispute which had occurred that evening; and that Clive and his 

father should come for the Christmas holidays, if they were so minded. 

But when they came, there was no Ethel at Newcome. She was 

gone on a visit to her sick aunt, Lady Julia. Colonel Newcome 

passed the holidays sadly without his young favourite, and Clive 

consoled himself by knocking down pheasants with Sir Brian's keepers : 

and increased his cousin's attachment for him by breaking the knees 

of Barnes's favourite mare out hunting. It was a dreary entertainment; 

fether and son were glad enough to get away from it, and to return to 

their own humbler quarters in London. 

Thomas Newcome had now been for three years in the possession 
of that felicity which his soul longed after ; and had any friend of his 
asked him if he was happy, he would have answered in the affirmative 
no doubt, and protested that he was in the enjoyment of everything a 
reasonable man could desire. And yet, in spite of his happiness, 
his honest face grew more melancholy : his loose clothes bung only 
the looser on his lean limbs : he ate his meals without appetite : his 
nights were restless : and he would sit for hours silent in the midst 
of his family, so that Mr. Binnie first began jocularly to surmise that 
Tom was crossed in love; then seriously to think that his health 
was suffering and that a doctor should be called to see him ; and 

o2 



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196 THE NBWCOMES. 

at last to agree that idleness was not good for the Colonel, and 
that he missed the military occupation to which he had been for so 
many years accustomed. 

The Cobnel insisted that he was perfectly happy and contented. 
What could he want more than he had — ^the socie^ of his son, for 
the present ; and a prospect of quiet for his declining days ? fiinnie 
vowed that his friend's days had no business to decline as yet ; that 
a sober man of fifty ought to be at his best; and that Newcome 
had grown older in three years in Europe^ than in a quarter of a 
century in the East — aU which statements were true, though the 
Colonel persisted in denying them. 

He was very restless. He was always finding business in distant 
quarters of England. He must go visit Tom Barker who was settled 
in Devonshire, or Harry Johnson who had retired and was hving 
in Wales. He surprised Mrs. Honeyman by the frequency of 
his visits to Brighton, and always came away much improved in 
health by the sea air, and by constant riding with the harriers 
there. He appeared at Bath and at Cheltenham, where, as we 
know, there are many old Indians. Mr. Binnie was not indisposed 
to accompany him on some of these jaunts — ' provided/ the Civilian 
said, 'you don't take young Hopeful, who is much better without 
us; and let us two old fogies enjoy ourselves together.' 

Clive was not sorry to be left alone. The father knew that only 
too well. The young man had occupations, ideas, associates, in 
whom the elder could take no interest. Sitting belo^ in his blank, 
cheerless bed-room, Newcome could hear the lad and his friends 
talking, singing, and making merry, overhead. Something would be 
said in Clive's well-known tones, and a roar of laughter would proceed 
from the youthful company. They had all sorts of tricks, bye-words, 
waggeries, of which the father could not understand the jest nor 
the secret: He longed to share in it, but the party would be 
hushed if he went in to join it — and he would come away sad 
at heart, to think that his presence should be a signal for silence 
among them ; and that his son could not be merry in his company. 

We must not quarrel with Clive and Clive's friends, because they 
could not joke and be free in the presence of the worthy gentleman. 
If they hushed when he came in, Thomas Newcome's sad face 
would seem to look round — ^appealing to one after another of them, 
and asking, ** why don't you go on laughing ? " A company of old 
comrades shall be merry and laughing together, and the entrance 
of a single youngster will stop the conversation — and if men of 
middle age feel this restraint v^ith our juniors, the young ones surely 
have a right to be silent before their elders. The boys are always 
mum under the eyes of the usher. There is scarce any parent, 
however friendly or tender with his children, but must feel sometimes 
that they have thoughts which are not his or hers ; and wishes and 
secrets quite beyond the parental control : and, as people are vain, 



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THB NEWCOMES. 197 

long after thej are fathers, aye, or grandfathers, and not seldom 
fancy that mere personal desire of domination is overweening anxiety 
and love for their family; no douht that common outcry against 
thankless children might often he shown to prove, not that the 
son is disohedient, bat the &ther too exacting. When a mother 
(as fond mothers, often will) vows that she knows every thought in 
her daughter's . heart, I think she pretends to know a great deal too 
much ; — nor can there be a wholesomer task for the elders, as our 
young subjects grow up, naturally demanding liberty and citizen's 
rights, than for us gracefully to abdicate our sovereign pretensions 
and claims of absolute, control. There.'s many a family chief who 
governs wisely and gently, who is loth to give the power up when 
he should. Ah, be sure, it is not youth alone that has need to 
learn humility ! By their very virtues, and the purity of their lives, many 
good parents create flatterers for themselves, and so live in the midst of 
a filial court of parasites — and seldom without a pang of unwillingness, 
and often not at all, will they consent to forego their autocracy, and 
exchange the tribute they have been wont to exact of love and obedience 
for the willing offering of love and. freedom. 

Our good Colonel was not of the tyrannous, but of the loving order 
of fathers : and having fixed his whole heart upon this darling youth, 
his son, was punished, as I suppose such worldly and selfish love 
ought to be punished (so Mr. Honeyman says, at least, in his pulpit), by a 
hundred littie mortifications, disappointments, and secret wounds, which 
stung not the less severely; though never mentioned by their victim. 

Sometimes he would have a company of such gentlemen as Messrs. 
Warrington, Honeyman, and Pendennis, when haply a literary 
conversation would ensue after dinner ; and the merits of our present 
poets and writers would be discussed with the claret. Honeyman 
was well enough read in profane literature, especially of the lighter 
sort; and, I daresay, could have passed a satisfactory examination 
in Balzac, Dumas, and Paul de Kock himself, of all whose works our 
good host was entirely ignorant, — ^as indeed he was of graver books^ and 
of earlier books, and of books in general — except those few which we 
have said formed his travelling library. He heard opinions that amazed 
»nd bewildered him. He heard that Byron was no great poet, though 
a very clever man. He heard that there had been a wicked persecution 
against Mr. Pope's memory and fame, and that it was time to 
reinstate him : that his favourite, Dr. Johnson, talked admirably, 
but did not write English: that young Keats was a genius to be 
estimated in future days with young Raphael : and that a young 
gentleman of Cambridge who had lately published two volumes of 
verses, might . take rank with the greatest poets of all. Doctor 
Johnson not write English ! Lord Byron not one of the greatest 
poets of the world ! Sir Walter a poet of the second order ! Mr. Pope 
attacked for inferiority and want of imagination ; Mr. Keats and 
this young Mr. Tennyson of Cambridge, the chief of modem poetic 



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198 THE NEWC0M2S. 

literature! What were these new dicta, which Mr. Warrington 
delivered with a puff of tobacco-smoke: to which Mr. Honeymen 
blandly assented and OUve listened with pleasure? Such opinions 
were not of the Ooloners time. He tried in rain to construe CBnone ; 
and to make sense of Lamia. Ulysses he could understand ; but 
what were these prodigious laudations bestowed on it ? And that 
reverence for Mr. Wordsworth, what did it mean? Had he not 
written Peter Bell, and been turned into deserved ridicule by all 
the reviews ? Was that dreary Excursion to be compared to Goldsmith's 
Traveller, or Doctor Johnson's Imitation of the Tenth Satire of 
Juvenal? If the young men told the truth, where had been the 
truth in his own young days ; and in what ignorance had our fore- , 
£Eithers been brought up ? — Mr. Addison was only an elegant essayist, 
and shallow trifleri All these opinions were openly uttered over 
the Colonel's claret: as he and Mr. Binnie sate wondering at the 
speakers, who were knocking the Grods of their youth about their 
ears. To Binnie the shock was not so great; flie hard-headed 
Scotchman had read Hume in his college days, and sneered at some 
of the Gods even at that early time. But with -Newcome the admira- 
tion for the literature of the last century was an article of belief: 
and the incredulity of the young men seemed rank blasphemy. " You 
will be sneering at Shakspeare next," he said: and was silenced, 
though not better pleased, when his youthful guests told him, timt 
Doctor Goldsmith sneered at him too; that Dr. Johnson did not 
understand him, and that Congreve, in has own cky and afterwards, 
was considered to be, in some points^ Shakspeare's superior. ** What 
do you think a man's criticism is worth, sir," cries Mr. Warrington, 
** who says those lines of Mr. Gongrere, about a church ? — 

* How reverend is the face of yon tall pile, 
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble head% 
To bear aloft its vast and ponderous roof. 
By its own weight made stedfast and immovable ; 
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe 
And terror on my aching sight ' — et csst^ra— 

what do you think of a critic who says those lines are finer than 
anything Shakspeare ever wrote ? " A dim consciousness of danger 
for Clive, a terror that his son had got into the society of heretics 
and unbelievers, came over the Colonel — ^and then presently, »s vaa 
the wont with his modest soul, a gentle sense of humility. He was in 
the wrong, perhaps, and these younger men were right. Who was 
he, to set up his judgment against men of letters, educated. at Collie? 
It was better that Clive should follow them than him, who had had 
but a brief schooling, and that neglected, and who had not the original 
genius of his son's brilliant companions. We particularise these talks, 
and the little incidental mortifications which one of the best of men 
endured, not because the conversations are worth the remembeiing 



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f 



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l!'',':*;!liy 



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VM 



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THB NBWOOMBS. 199. 

or recording, but because thej presently vary materially influenced 
his own and his son's future history. 

In the midst of the artists and their talk the poor Colonel m^a 
equally in the dark. They assaulted this academician and that; 
laughed at Mr. Haydon, or sneered at Mr. Eastlake, or the contiary 
—deified Mr.. Turner on one side of the table, and on the other 
scorned him as a madman — nor could Newcome comprehend a word 
of their jargon. Some sense there must be in their conversation : 
Clive joined eagerly in it and took one side or another. But what 
was all this rapture about a snuffy brown picture called Titian, this 
delight in three flabby nymphs by Bubens, and so forth? As for 
the vaunted Antique, and the Elgin marbles — it might be that 
that battered torso was a miracle, and that broken-nosed bust a 
perfect beauty. He tried and tried to see that they were. He 
went away privily and worked at the National Gallery with a catalogue : 
and passed hours in the Museum before the ancient statues desperately 
praying to comprehend them, and puzzled before them as he remem- 
bered he was puzzled before the Greek rudiments as a child when 
he cried over 6 kou. t} akrj6rjs Kai to akrjO€s* Whereas when Clive 
came to look at these same things his eyes would lighten up with 
pleasure, and his cheeks flush with enthusiasm. He seemed to drink 
in colour as he would a feast of wine. Before the statues he would 
wave his finger, following the line of grace, and burst into ejaculations 
of dehgbt and admiration. ** Why can't I love the things which 
he loves? " thought Newcome; "why am T blind to the beauties which 
he admires so much — and am I imable to comprehend what he evidently 
understands at his young age ? " 

So, as he thought what vain egotistical hopes he used to form 
about the boy when he was away in India—^how in his plans for 
the happy future, Clive was to be always at his side ; how they were 
to read, work, play, think, be merry together — a sickening and 
humiliating sense of the reality came over him : and he sadly 
contrasted it with the former fond anticipations. Together they were, 
yet he was alone still. His thoughts were not the boy's : and his 
affections rewarded but with a part of the young man's heart. Very 
likely other lovers have suffered equally. Many a man and woman 
bas been incensed and worshipped, and has shown no more feeling 
than is to be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in St. Peter's, 
of which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits, and will 
sit eternally, prim and cold. As the young man grew, it seemed to 
the father, as if each day separated them more and more. He himself 
became more melancholy and silent. His friend the Civilian marked 
the ennui, and commented on it in his laughing way. Sometimes 
be announced to the club, that Tom Newcome was in love : then he 
bought it was not Tom's heart but his liver that was affected, 
^^d recommended blue-pill. thou fond fool! who art thou, to 
know any man's heart save thine alone ? Wherefore were wings made, 



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200 . THE laHWCOMES. 

and do feathers grow, but that birds should fly ? The instinct that 
bids you love your nest, leads the young ones to seels, a tree and 
a mate of their own. As if Thomas Newcome by poring over poems or 
pictures ever so much could read them with Clive*s eyes ! — as if by 
sitting mum over his wine, but watching till the lad came home with 
his latch-key (when the Colonel crept back to his own room in 
his stockings), by prodigal bounties, by stealthy affection, by any 
schemes or prayers, he could hope to remain first in his son's heart ! 

One day going into Olive's study, where the lad was so deeply 
engaged that he did not hear the father's steps advancing, Thomas 
Newcome found his son, pencil in hand, poring over a paper, which 
blushing he thrust hastily into his breast-pocket, as soon as he 
saw his visitor. The father was deeply smitten and mortified. " I 
—I am sorry you have any secrets from me, Olive," he gasped 
out at length. 

The boy's face lighted up with humour. "Here it is, father, 
if you would like to see : " — and he pulled out a paper which contained 
neither more nor less than a copy of very flowery verses, about a certain 
young lady, who had succeeded (after I know not how many pre- 
decessors), to the place of prima-donna assohUa in Olive's heart. And 
be pleased, Madam, not to be too eager with your censure — and fancy 
that Mr. Olive or his Ohronicler would insinuate any thing wrong. 
I daresay you felt a flame or two before you were married yourself: 
and that the Oaptain or the Ourate, and the interesting ybung foreigner 
with whom you danced, caused your heart to beat, before you bestowed 
that treasure on Mr. Oandour. Olive was doing no more than year 
own son will do when he is eighteen or nineteen years old himself 
— ^if he is a lad of any spirit and a worthy son of so charming a lady 
as yourself. 






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CHAPTER XXII. 

DESCRIBES A VISIT TO PABIS ; WITH ACCIDENTS AND INCIDENTS 
IN LONDON. 



K. CLIVE, as we have said, had now hegun to 
make acquaintances of his own ; and the chim- 
ney-glass in his study was decorated with such 
a number of cards of invitation, as made his ex- 
fellow student of Gandish's, young Moss, when 
admitted into that sanctum, stare with respectful 
astonishment. ** Lady Bary Eowe at obe," the 
young Hebrew read out ; " Lady Baughton at 
obe, dadsig ! By eyes ! what a tip-top swell^ 
you're a gettid to be, Newcome ! I guess this 
is a diflFerent sort of business to the hops at old 
Levison's, where you first learned the polka ; 
and where we had to pay a shilling a glass for 
negus ! " 

** We had to pay ! Fownever paid anything, 
Mobs," cries Clive, laughing; and indeed the 
negus imbibed by Mr. Moss did not cost that 
prudent young fellow a penny. 

*• Well, well ; I suppose at these swell parties 
you ave as buch champade as ever you like," 
continues Moss. "Lady Kicklebury at obe 
—small early party. Why I declare you know the whole peerage ! 
I say, if any of these swells want a little tip-top lace, a real bargain, 
or diamonds, you know, you might put in a word for us, and do us a 
good turn." 

" Give me some of your cards," says Clive ; " I can distribute them 
about at the balls I go to. But you must treat my friends better than 
you serve me. Those cigars which you sent me were abominable, 
the groom in the stable won't smoke them." 
" What a regular swell that Newcome has become ! " says Mr. Moss 
an old companion, another of Olive's fellow-students : " I saw him 
ri^ng in the Park with the Earl of Kew, and Captain Belsize, and a 
whole lot of 'em — 1 know 'em all — and he'd hardly nod to me. Ill 
liave a horse next Sunday, and then I'll see whether he'll cut me or not. 




to 



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202 



THE NEWCOMES. 



Confound his airs ! For all he's such a count, I know he's got an aunt 
who lets lodgings at Brighton, and an uncle who'll he preaching in the 
Bench if he don't keep a precious good look-out." 

" Newcome is not a hit of a count," answers Moss's companion, 



i:.. ! 




indignantly. He don't care a straw whether a fellow's poor or rich ; 
and he comes up to my room just as willingly as be would go to 
a duke's. He is always trying to do a fnend a good turn. 
He draws the figure capitally ; he looks proud, but he isa't, «nd is the 
best-natured fellow I ever saw." 

" He ain't been in our place this ^hte^ months," says Mr. Moss : 
" I know that." * 

'' Because when he came, you were always screwing him with some 
bargain or other," cried the intrepid Hicks, Mr. Moss's companion for 
the moment " He said he couldn't afford to know you : you never let 
him out of your house without a pin, or a box of Eau de Cologne, or a 
bundle of cigars. And when you cut the arts for the ,shop, how were 
you and Newcome to go on together, I should like to know ?" 

" I know a relative of his who comes to our 'ouse every three months, 
to renew a little bill," says Mr. Moss, with a grin ; " and I know this, 
if I go to the Earl of Kew in the Albany, or the Honourable CafiBJn 
Belsize, Knightsbridge Barracks, they let me in soon enough. I'm told 
his father ain't got much money." 



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THS NSWCOMB& 203 

" How the deuce should I know? or what do I care?" cries the 
young artist, stamping tiie heel of his blucher on the pavement. ** When 
I was sick in that confounded Clipstone-street, I know the Colonel came 
to see me, and Newcome too, day after day, and night after night. And 
when I was getting well, they sent me wine and jelly, and all sorts of 
jolly things. I should like to know how often you came to see me, 
Moss, and what you did for a fellow ? " 

" Well, I kep away, because I thought yoa wouldn't like to be 
reminded of that two pound three you owe me. Hicks : that s why I 
kep away," says Mr. Moss, who, I daresay, was good-natured too. And 
when young Moss appeared at the billiard-ioom that night, it was 
evident that Hicks had told the story ; for the Wardour-street youth 
was saluted with a roar of queries, *' How about that two pound three 
that Hicks owes you?" 

The artless conversation of tha two youths will enaUe as to under- 
stand how our hero's life was speeding. Connected in one way or 
another with persons in all ranis, it never entered Ida head to be 
ashamed of the profession which he had chosen. People in the great 
world did not in the least tionble themselves regarding him, or care 
to know whether Mr. Clive Newcome followed painting or any other 
pursuit : and though Clive saw many of his school&Dows in the world, 
these entering into the army, others talking with delight of ad!ege, and 
its pleasures or studies ; yet, having made up his mind that art was his 
calling, he refused to quit her for any other mistress, and plied his 
easel very stoutly. He passed through the course of study prescribed 
by Mr. Gandish, and dr^w every cast and statue in that gentleman's 
studio. Grindly, his tutor, getting a curacy, Clive did not replace 
him ; but he took a course of modem languages, which he learned 
with considerable aptitude and rapidity. And now, being strong 
enough to paint without a master, it was found that thero was no 
good light in the house in Fitzroy Square ; and Mr. Clive must needs 
have an atelier hard by, where he conld pursue his own devices 
independently, 

If his kind fiather fell any pang even at this temporary parting, he 
was greatly soothed and pleased by a little mark of attention on the 
young man's part, of which his present biographer happened to be a 
witness; fpr having walked over with Colonel Newcome to see the 
new studio, with its tali centre window, and its curtains, and carved 
wardrobes, china jars, pieces of armour, and other artistical properties, 
the ladj with a very sweet smile of kindness and affection lighting 
up his honest fiace, took one of two Bramah's house-keys with which 
lie was provide^* and gave it to his father: "That's your key, sir," 
he said to the Colonel ; " and you must be my first sitter, please, 
&ther; for though I*m a historical painter, I shall condescend to do 
* few porteaits, you know." The Colonel took his son's hand, and 
SP^ped it ; as Clive fondly put the other hand on his father's shoulder. 
Then Colonel Newcome walked away into the next room for a 



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204 



THE KBWCOMBS. 



minute or two, and came back wiping his moustache with his handker- 
chief, and still holding the key in the other hand. He spoke about 




some trivial subject when he returned ; but his voice quite trembled ; 
and I thought his face seemed to glow with love and pleasure. Clive 
has never painted anything better than that head, which he executed 
in a couple of sittings ; and wisely left without subjecting it to the 
chances of &rther labour. 

It is certain the young man worked much better after he had been 
inducted into this apartment of his own. And the meals at home 
were gayer ; and the rides with his father more frequent and agreeable. 
The Colonel used his key once or twice, and found Clive and his friend 
Eidley engaged in depicting a life-guardsman, — or a muscular negro, — 
or a Malay from a neighbouring crossing, who would appear as Othello, 
conversing with a Clipstone-street nymph, who was ready to represent 
Desdemona, Diana, Queen Ellinor (sucking poison from the arm of the 
Plantagenet of the Blues), or any other model of virgin or maiden 
excellence. 

Of course our young man commenced as a historical painter, 
deeming that the highest branch of art ; and declining (except for 
preparatory studies) to operate on any but the largest canvasses. He 
painted a prodigious battle-piece of Assaye, with General Wellesley at 
the head of the 19th Dragoons charging the Mahratta Artillery, and 
sabring them at their guns. A piece of ordnance was dragged into 
the back-yard, and the Colonel's stud put into requisition to supply 
studies for this enormous picture. Fred Bayham (a stunning likeness) 



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THB mSWCOMES. 205 

appeared as the principal figure in the foregroand, terrifically wounded, 
but still of undaunted courage, slashing about amidst a group of 
wntbing Malays, and bestriding the body of a dead cab-horse, which 
Clire painted, until the landlady and reat of the lodgers cried out, and 
for sanitary reasons the knackers remoyed the slaughtered charger. So 
large was this picture that it could only be got out of the great 
\dndow by means of artifice and coaxing ; and its transport caused a 
shoot of triumph among the little boys in Charlotte Street Will it 
be believed that the Boyal Academicians rejected the Battle of Assaye ? 
The master-piece was so big that Fitzroy Square could not hold it ; 
and the Colonel had thoughts of presenting it to the Oriental Club ; 
but Olive (who had taken a trip to Paris with his father, as a 
deUusenient after the fatigues incident on his great work), when he 
saw it, after a month's interval, declared the thing was rubbish, and 
massacred Britons, Malays, Dragoons, Artillery and all. 

** HOTJCL DE LA TeRBASSE, RuE DB RiVOLI. 

*'Apra 27— 3f ay 1, 188- 

" My deab Fenbeknis, —You said I might write you a line from 
Paris ; and if you find in my correspondence any valuable hints for the 
PaU'MaU Gazette you are welcome to use them gratis. Now I am 
here, I wonder I have never been here beforo ; and that I have seen 
the Dieppe packet a thousand times at Brighton pier without thinking 
of going on^board her. We had a rough little passage to Boulogne. 
We went into action as we cleared Dover pier ; when the first gun was 
fired, and a stout old lady was carried ofif by a steward to the cabin ; 
half a dozen more dropped immediately, and the crew bustled about, 
bringing basins for the wounded. The Colonel smiled as he saw them 
fall. ' I*m an old sailor,* says he to a gentleman on board. * As I 
was coming home, sir, and we had plenty of rough weather on the 
voyage, I never thought of being unwell. My boy here, who made 
the voyage twelve years ago last May« may have lost his sea-legs ; 
but for me, sir—' Here a great wave dashed over the throe of us ; 
and would you believe it ? in five minutes after, the dear old Governor 
was as ill as all the rest of the passengers. When we arrived, we went 
through a line of ropes to the custom-house, with a crowd of snobs 
jeering at us on each side ; and then were carried off by a bawling 
commissioner to an hotel, where the Colonel, who speaks French 
beautifully, you know, told the waiter to get us & petit dejeuner soigne; 
on which the fellow, grinning, said, a *nice fried sole, sir, — ^nice 
mutton chop, sir,' in regular Temple-bar English; and brought us 
Harvey sauce with the chops, and the last Bell's Life to amuse us 
after our luncheon. I wondered if all the Frenchmen road BeWs 
Life, and if all the inns smell so of brandy-and-water. 

** We walked out to see the town, which I daresay you know, and 
therefore shan't describe. We saw some good studies of fishwomen 



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206 TH£ NJfiWCOMES. 

mth bare legs ; and remarked that tiie soldiers were very dumpy and 
small. We were glad when the time came to set off by the diligence ; 
and haying the cowpe to ourselres, made a very comfortable journey to 
Paris. It was jolly to hear the postillions crying to their horses, and 
the bells of the team, and to feel ourselves really in France. We took 
in provender at Abbeville and Amiens, and were comfortably landed 
here after about six-and-twenty hours of coaching. Didn't I get up the 
next morning and have a good walk in the Tuileries ? The chestnuts were 
out, and the statues all shining ; and all the windows of the palace 
in a blaze. It looks big enough for the king of the giants to live in. 
How grand it is 1 I like the barbarous splendour of the architecture, 
and the ornaments profuse and enormous with which it is overladen. 
Think of Louis XVI. with a thoijsand gentlemen at his back, and a 
mob of yelling ruffians in front of him, giving up his crown without 
a fight for it ; leaving his friends to be butchered, and himself sneaking 
into prison ! No end of little children were skipping and playing in 
the sunshiny walks, with dresses as bright and cheeks as red as the 
flowers and roses in the parterres. I couldn't help thinking of 
Barbaroux and his bloody pikemen swarming in the gardens, and 
fancied the Swiss in the windows yonder; where they were to he 
slaughtered when the King had turned his back. What a great man 
that Carlyle is ! I have read the battle in his * History * so often, 
that I knew it before I had seen it. Our windows look out on the 
obelisk where the guillotine stood. The Colonel doesn't admire 
Carlyle. He says Mrs. Graham's 'Letters from Paris* ar« excellent, 
and we bought * Scott's Visit to Paris,' and * Paris Re-visited,' and 
read them in the diligence. They are famous good reading ; but the 
Palais Royal is very much altered since Scott's time : no end of hand- 
some shops ; I went there directly, — the same night we arrived, when 
the Colonel went to bed. But there is none of the fun going on which 
Scott describes. The laquais de place says Charles X. put an end 
to it all. 

" Next morning the governor had letters to deliver after breakfast; and 
left me at the Louvre door. 1 shall come and live here I think. I 
feel as if I never want to go away. I had not been ten minutes in the 
place before I fell in love with the most beautiful creature the world 
has ever seen. She was standing silent and majestic in the centre of 
one of the rooms of the statue gallery ; and the very fit^t glimpse of 
her struck one breathless with the sense of her beauty. I could not see 
the colour of her eyes and hair exactly, but the latter is light, and the 
eyes I should think are grey. Her complexion is of a beautiful warm 
marble tinge. She is not a clever woman, evidently; I do not think 
she laughs or talks much — she seems too lazy to do more than smile- 
She is only beautiful. This divine creature has lost an arm which has 
been cut off at the shoulder, but she looks none the less lovely for the 
accident. She may be some two-and-thirty years old ; and she vf9S 
born about two thousand years ago. Her name is the Venus of Milo. 



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THB KEirCOMSS* t07 

0»yictrix! O, lackjPariB! (I don't mean tbiB present Lntetia, but 
Fmm'B son.) How oould be give the apple to any else but tbis 
enslaver, — ^this joy of gods and men ? at wboee benign presence tbe 
flowers spnngup, and the smiling ocean sparkles, and the soft skies beam 
with serene light ! I wish we might sacrifice. I wonld bring a spotless 
kid, snowy-coated, and a pair of doves, and a jar of honey — ^yea, honey 
from Morel's in Piccadilly, thyme-flavoored, narbonian, and we would 
acknowledge the Sovereign Loveliness, and adjure the Divine Aphrodite. 
Did you ever see my pretty young cousin, Miss Newcome, Sir Brian's 
daughter? She has a great look of the huntress Diana. It is 
sometimes too proud and too cold for me. The blare of those horns 
is too shrill, and the rapid pursuit through bush and bramble too 
daring. 0, thou generous Venus ! 0, thou beautiful bountiful calm ! 
At thy soft feet let me kneel— H)n cushions of Tyrian purple. Don't 
show this to Warrington, please : I never thought when I begui that 
Pegasus was going to run away with me. 

*' I wish I had read Greek a little more at school : it's too late at my 
age ; I shall be nineteen soon, and have got my own business ; but 
when we return I think I shall try and read it with Cribs. What have 
I been doing, spending six months over a picture of Sepoys and 
Dragoons cutting each other's throats ? Art ought not to be a fever. 
It ought to be a calm ; not a screaming bull-fight or a battle of 
gladiators, but a temple for placid contemplation, wrapt worship, 
stately rhythmic ceremony, and music solemn and tender. I shcdl 
take down my Snyders' and Eubens' when I get home; and turn 
quietist. To thmk I have spent weeks in depicting bony Life Guards- 
men delivering cut one, or Saint George, and painting black beggaiB off 
a crossing I 

" What a grand thing it is to think of half a mile of pictures at tbe 
Louvre ! Not but that there are a score under the old pepper-boxes in 
Traiia,1gar Square as fine as the best here. I don't care for any Raphael 
here, as much as our own St. Catharine. There is nothing more grand. 
Could the pyramids of Egypt or the Colossus of Rhodes be greater 
than our Sebastian ; and for our Bacchus and Ariadne, you cannot beat 
the best you know. But if we have fine jewels, here there are 
whole sets of them: there are kings and all their splendid courts 
round about them, J. J. and I must come and live here. O, such 
portraits of Titian ! such swells by Vandyke ! I'm sure he must 
have been as fine a gentleman as any he painted ! It's a shame 
they haven't got a Sir Joshua or two. At a feast of painters he has a 
right to a place, and at the high table too. Do you remember 
Tom Rogers, of Gandish's? He used to come to my rooms — ^my 
other rooms in the Square. Tom is here with a fine carotty beard, 
and a velvet jacket, cut open at the sleeves, to show that Tom has a 
slyrt. I dare say it was clean last Sunday. He has not learned 
French yet, but pretends to have forgotten English ; and promises to 
introduce me to a set of tbe French artists his camarades. There 



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208. ^ THE NBWCOMBS. 

seems to be a scarcity of soap among these joang fellows ; and I think 
I shall cut off my mustacbios ; only Warrington will have nothing to 
lau^h at when I come home. 

" The Colonel and I went to dine at the Cafe de Paris, and afterwards 
to the opera. Ask for huitres de Marenne when you dine here. We 
dined with a tremendous French swell, the Vicomte de Florae, offider 
d'ordonnance to one of the princes, and son of some old friends of my 
father's. They are of very high birth, but very poor. He will be a 
duke when his cousin, the Due d'lvry, dies. His father is quite 
old. The vicomte was bom in England. He pointed out to us no end 
of famous people at the opera — a few of the Fauxbourg St. Germain, 
and ever so many of the present people : — ^M. Thiers, and Count Mole, 
and Georges Sand, and Victor Hugo, and, Jules Janin — ^I forget half 
their names. And yesterday we went to see his mother, Madame de 
Florae. I suppose she was an old flame of the Colonel's, fcjf their 
meeting was uncommonly ceremonious and tender. It vras like an 
elderly Sir Charles Grandison saluting a middle-aged Miss Byron. And 
only fancy ! the Colonel has been here once before since his return to 
England ! It must have been last year^ when he was aw^y for ten daj8, 
whilst I was painting that rubbishing picture of the Black Prince 
waiting on King John. Madame de F. is a very grand lady, and must 
have been a great beauty in her time. There are two pictures by 
Gerard in her salon — of her and M, de Florae. M. de Florae, old 
swell, powder, thick eyebrows, hooked nose ; no end of stars, ribbons, 
and embroidery. Madame also in the dress of the Empire — pensive, 
beautiful, black velvet, and a look something like my cousin's. She 
wore a little old-fashioned brooch yesterday, and said, * VoiUit U 
reconnoisseZ'Vous ? Last year when you were here, it was in the 
country ; * and she smiled at him : and the dear old boy gave a sort gf 
groan and dropped his head in his hand. I know what it is. I've gone 
through it myself. I kept for six months an absurd ribbon of that 
infernal little flirt Fanny Freeman. Don't you remember how angry 
I was when you abused her ? 

** * Your father and I knew each other when we were children, my 
friend,' the Countess said to me (in the sweetest French accent). He 
was looking into the garden of the house where they live, in the Bue 
Saint Dominique. * You must come and see me. often, always. You 
remind me of him,' and, she added, with a very sweet kind smile, * Po 
you like best to think that he was better-looking than you, or that you 
excel him ? ' I said I should like to be like him. But who is ? There 
are cleverer fellows, I daresay ; but where is there such a good one ? 1 
wonder whether he was very fond of Madame de Florae? The old 
Count doesn't show. He is quite old, and wears a pigtail. We saw it 
bobbing over his garden chair. He lets the upper part of his house' 
Major-General the Honorable Zeno F. Pokey, of Cincinnati, U.S.,li^f 
in it. We saw Mrs. Pokey's carric^e in the court, and her footmen 
smoking cigars there ; a tottering old man with feeble legs, as M a* 



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THE NBWCOMflS. 209 

old Count de Florae, seemed to be tb6 otly domestic \7ho waited on the 
fiimilj below. 

"Madame de Florae and my father talked about my profession. 
The Countess said it was a belle earriere. The Colonel said it waa 
better than the army. * Ak oui. Monsieur,' says she very sadly« 
And then he said, * that presently I should very likely come to study 
at Paris, when he knew there would be a kind friend to watch over son 
gargon.* 

" * But you will he here to watch over him yourself, mon amiV saya 
the French lady. 

** Father shook his head. ' I shall very probably have to go back to, 
India/ he said. ' My furlough is expired. I am now taking my extra 
leave. If I can get my promotion, I need not return. Without that I 
cannot afiPord to live in Europe. But my absence in all probability 
will b% but very short,' he said. ' And Olive is old enough now to go 
on without me.' 

" Is this the reason why father has been so gloomy for some months 
past ? I thought it might have been some of my follies which made 
him uncomfortable; and you know I have been trying my best to 
amend — I have not half such a tailor's bill this year as last. I owe 
scarcely anything. I have paid off Moss every halfpenny for his con- 
foanded rings and gimcracks. I asked father about this melancholy 
news as we walked away from Madame de Florae. 

" He is not near so rich as we thought. Since he has been at home 
he says be has spent greatly more than his income, and is quite angry 
at his own extravagance. At first he thought he might have retired 
ffom the army altogether ; but after three years at home, he finds he 
cannot live upon his income. When he gets his promotion as full 
Colonel, he will be entitled to a thousand a year ; that, and what he has 
invested in India, and a little in this country, will be plenty for both of 
us. He never seems to think of my making money by my profession. 
Why, suppose I sell the Battle of Assaye for £500 ? that will be enough 
to carry me on ever so long, without dipping into the purse of the dear 
old father. 

*' The Viscount de Florae c^led to dine with us. The Colonel said he 
did not care about going out : and so the Viscount and I went together. 
Trou Freres Provenqaiix — he ordered the dinner and of course I. paid. 
Then we went to a little theatre, and he took me behind the scenes — 
such a queer place ! We went to the loge of Mademoiselle Finette, who 
acted the part of ' Le petit Tambour,' in which she sings a famous song 
^ith a drum. He asked her and several literary fellows to supper at 
the Cafe Anglais. And I came home ever so late, and lost twenty 
Napoleons at a game called Bouilotte. It was all the change out of a 
twenty pound note which dear old Binnie gave me before we set out with 
a qjiotation out of Horace you know, about Neque tu choreas speme puer. 
Oh me ! how guilty I felt as I walked home at ever so much o'clock to 
the Hotel de la Terrasse, and sneaked into our apartment ! But the 



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210 THE N£WCOM£S. 

Colonel ^vas sotmd asleep. Hk dear old boots stood sentries at his bed- 
room door, and I slunk into mine as silently as I could. 

" PS. Wednesday. There's just oile scrap of paper left I have got 
J. J.'s letter. He has been to the private view of the Academy (so that 
his own picture is in), and the ' Battle of Assays' is refused. 8mee 
told him it was too big. I dare say it's veiy bad. I'm glad I'm away, 
and the fellows are not condoling with me. 

** Please go and see Mr. Binnie. He has come to grief. He rode the 
Colonel's horse ; came down on the pavement and wrendied his leg, 
and I'm afraid the grey's. Please look at his legs ; we can't understand 
John's report of them. He, I mean Mr. B., was going to Scotland to 
see his relations when the accident happened. You know he has always 
been going to Scotland to see his relations. He makes light of the 
business, and says the Colonel is not to think of coming to him : and I 
don't want to go back just yet, to see all the fellows from Gandish's, 
and the Life Academy, and have them grinning at my misfortune. 

*' The governor would send his regards I dare say, but he is out, and I 
am always yours affectionately, 

•* Clive Newoome. 

^' PS. He tipped me himself this morning; isn't he a kind dear old 
fellow?" 

ARTHUR PENDENNIS, ESQ., TO CLIVE NEWCOME, ESQ. 

*' Pall Mall Gazette, Joubkal of Politics, Litebatpbb, and Fashios. 

''225, Cathebinb Street, Steand. 

" Dear CiIive, — I regret very much for Fred Bayham's sake (who has 
lately taken the responsible office of Fine Arts Critic for the P. 0.) 
that your extensive picture of the • Battle of Assaye' has not found a 
place in the Boyal Academy Exhibition. F. B. is at least fifteen 
shillings out of pocket by its rejection, as he had prepared a flaming 
eulogium of your work, which of course is so much waste paper in conse- 
quence of this calamity. Never mind. Courage, my son. The Duke 
of Wellington you know was beat back at Seringapatam before he suc- 
ceeded at Assays. I hope you will fight other battles, and that fortune 
in future years will be more fayourable to you. The town does not talk 
very much of your discomfiture. You see the parliamentaiy debates are 
very interesting just now, and somehow the * Battle of Assaye' does not 
seem to excite the public mind. 

"I have been to Fitzroy Square; both to the stables and the house. 
The Houyhnhm's legs are very well ; the horse slipped on his side and 
not on his knees, and has received no sort of injury. Not so Mr. Binnie, 
his ancle is much wrenched and inflamed. He must keep his sofa for 
many days, perhaps weeks. But you know he is a very cheerful philo- 
sopher, and endures the evils of life with much equanimity. His sister 
has come to him. I don't know whether that may be considered as a 
consolation of his evil or an aggravation of it. You know he uses tfce 



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THE NEWCOMES/ 211 

sarcastic method in his talk, and it was difficult to understand from him 
whether he was pleased or bored by the embraces of his relative. She 
tras an infant when he last beheld her, on his departure to India. She 
is DOW (to speak with respect) a very brisk, plump, pretty little widow ; 
having, seemingly, recovered from her grief at the death of her husband, 
Captain Mackenzie, in the West Indies. Mr. Binnie was just on the 
point of visiting his relatives who reside at Musselburgh, near Edin- 
bargh, when he met with the fatal accident which prevented his visit to 
his native shores. His account of his misfortune and his lonely condi* 
tion was so pathetic that Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter put them-^ 
selres into the Edinburgh steamer, and rushed to console his sofa. They 
occupy your bed-room and sitting-room, which, latter Mrs. Mackenzie 
says no longer smells of- tobacco smoke, as it did when she took posses- 
sion of your den. If you have left any papers about, any bills, any 
billets*doux, I make no doubt the ladies have read every single one of 
them, according to the amiable habits of their sex. The daughter is a 
bright httle blue-eyed fadi^haired lass, with a very sweet voice, in which 
she sings (unaided by instrumental music, and seated on a chair in the 
middle of the room) the artless ballads of her native country. I had the 
pleasure of hearing the * Bonnets of Bonny Dundee,' and * Jack of 
Hazeldean,' from her ruby lips two evenings since ; not indeed for the 
first time in my life, but never from such a pretty little singer. Though 
both ladies speak our language with something of the tone usually em* 
ployed by the inhabitants of the northern part of Britain, their accent 
is exceedingly pleasant, and indeed by no means so strong as Mr. Binnie's 
own; for Captain Mackenzie was an Englishman for whose sake his 
lady modified her native Musselburgh pronunciation. She tells many 
interesting anecdotes of him, of the West Indies, and of the distin- 
gui^d regiment of Infantry to which the captain belonged. Miss Kosa 
is a great favourite with her uncle, and I have had tbe good fortune to 
make their stay in the metropolis more pleasant, by sending them orders, 
from the Pall Mall Gazette, for the theatres, panoramas, and tbe prin- 
cipal sights in town. For pictures they do not seem to care much ; they 
thought the National Gallery a dreary exhibition, and in the Royal Aca- 
demy could be got to admire nothing but the picture of McCollop of 
McGollop, by our friend of the like name, but they think Madame 
Tuasaud's interesting exhibition of Waxwork the most delightful in Lon- 
don ; and there I had the happiness of introducing them to our friend Mr. 
Frederick Bayham ; who, subsequently, on coming to this office with his 
valuable contributions on the Fine Arts, made particular enquiries as to 
their pecuniary means, and expressed himself instantly ready to bestow 
his hand upon the mother or daughter, provided old Mr. Binnie would 
make a satisfectory settlement. I got the ladies a box at tbe opera, 
whither they were attended by Captain Goby of their regiment, god- 
father to Miss, end where I had the honour of paying them a visit. 
I saw your fiiir young cousin Miss Newcome in the lobby with her grand- 
mamma Lady Kew. Mr. Bayham with great eloquence pointed out to 

f2 



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212 THE KEWCOMEfiL 

the Scotch ladies the Tarioas distinguished chanucters in the house. 
The opera delighted them, hut they were astounded at the hallet, fr(»n 
which mother and daughter retreated in the midst of a fire of pleasan- 
tries of Captain Gohj. I can fiancy that officer at mess, and how bril* 
liant his anecdotes must he when the company of ladies does not 
restrain his genial flow of humour. 

. ** Here comes Mr. Baker with the proofs. In case you don't see the 
P.G. at Galignani's, I send you an extract from Bayham's article on 
the Eoyal Academy, where you will have the henefit of his opinion on 
the works of some of your friends : — 

'**617. *' Moses Bringing Home the Gross of Green Spectacles." 
Smith, E.A. — ^Perhaps poor Goldsmith's exquisite little work has never 
l)een so great a favourite as in the present age. We have here, in a 
work hy one of our most eminent artists, an homage to the genius of 
him '* who touched nothing which he did not adorn : " and the charming 
subject is handled in the most delicious manner by Mr. Smith. The 
chiaroscuro is admirable : the impasto is perfect. Perhaps a very 
captious critic might object to the foreshortening of Moses's left leg; 
but where there is so much to praise justly, the PaUrMaU Gazette 
does not care to condemn. 

" * 420. Our (and the public's) favourite, Brown, B. A., treats us to a 
subject from the best of all stories, the tale ** which laughed Spain's 
chivalry away," the ever new Don Quixote. The incident which Brown 
has selected is the "Don's Attack on the Flock of Sheep ;" the sheep 
are in his best manner, painted with all his well-known facility and &n(?. 
Mr. Brown's friendly rival, Hopkins, has selected Gil Bias for an 
illustration this year; and the " Robber's Cavern" is one of the most 
masterly of Hopkins's productions. 

" * Great Rooms. 33. *' Portrait of Cardinal Cospetto." O'Gogstay, 
A,KA. ; and " Neighbourhood of Corpodibacco — Evening — a Contadina 
and a Trasteverino dancing at the door of a Locanda to the music of a 
Pifferaro." — Since his visit to Italy Mr. O'Gogstay seems to have given 
up the scenes of Irish humour with which he used to delight us ; and 
the romance, the poetry, the religion of "Italia la bella" form the 
subjects of his pencil. The scene near Corpodibacco (we know the 
spot well, and have spent many a happy month in its romantic moun- 
tains) is most characteristic. Cardinal Cospetto, we must say, is a most 
truculent prelate, and not certainly an ornament to his church. 

" ' 49, 210, 311. Smee, R.A.— Portraits which- a Reynolds might 
be proud of; a Vandyke or Claude might not disown. "Sir Brian 
Newcome, in the costume of a Deputy-Lieutenant," " Major-General Sir 
Thomas de Boots, K.C.B.," painted for the 50th Dragoons, are triumphs, 
indeed, of this noble painter. Why have we no picture of the sovereign 
and her august consort from Smee's brush ? When Charles 11. picked 
up Titian's mahl-stick, he observed to a courtier, " A king you can 
always have ; a genius comes but rarely." While we have a Smee 
among us, and a monarch whom we admire, — may the one be emp' 



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THE NEWCOMES. 213 

to transmit to posterity the beloved features of the other ! We know 
our lucubrations are read in high places, and respectfully insinuate 
verbum sapienti, 

" * 1906. " The M'Collop of M*Collop,"— A. M'CoUop,— is a noble 
work of a young artist, who, in depicting the gallant chief of a hardy 
Scottish clan, has also represented a romantic Highland landscape, in 
the midst of which, " his foot upon his native heath," stands a man of 
splendid symmetrical figure and great facial advantages. We shall 
keep our eye on Mr. M*Collop. 

"*1367. " Oberon and Titania." Kidley.— This sweet and fanciful 
little picture draws crowds round about it, and is one of the most 
charming and delightful works of the present exhibition. We echo the 
universal opinion in declaring that it shows not only the greatest 
promise, but the most delicate and beautiful performance. The Earl 
of Kew, we understand, bought the picture at the private view ; and we 
congratulate the young painter heartily upon his successful debut. He is, 
we understand, a pupil of Mr. Gandisb. Where is that admirable 
painter ? We miss his bold canvasses and grand historic outline.' 

** I shall alter a few inaccuracies in the composition of our friend F. B., 
who has, as he says, ' drawn it uncommonly mild in the above criticism.' 
In fact, two days since, he brought in an article of quite a different 
tendency, of which he retains only the two last paragraphs ; but he has, 
with great magnanimity, recalled his previous observations; and, 
indeed, he knows as much about pictures as some critics I could name. 

" Good-bye, my dear Clive ! I send my kindest regards to your 
father ; and think you had best see as little as possible of your bouillotte- 
playing French friend and his friends. This advice 1 know you will 
follow, as young men always follow the advice of their seniors and well- 
wishers. I dine in Fitzroy Square to-day with the pretty widow and 
her daughter, and am, yours always, dear Clive, A. P." ^ 



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CHAPTER XXIII. 



IN WHICH WE HEAR A SOPRAKO AND A CONTRALTO. 




HE most hospitable and 
of Colonels would not hear of 
Mrs. Mackenzie and her daugh- 
ter quitting his house when he 
returned to it, after six weeks' 
pleasant sojourn in Paris ; nor, 
indeed, did his fair guest show 
the least anxiety or intention to 
go away. Mrs. Mackenzie had a 
fine merry humour of her own 
She was an old soldiers wife, 
she said, and knew when her 
quarters were good ; and I sup- 
pose, since her honeymoon, when the captain took her to Harrogate and 
Cheltenham, stopping at the first hotels, and travelling in a chaise and 
pair the whole way, she had never been so well oflf as in that roomy 
mansion near Tottenham Court Road. Of her mother's house at Mussel- 
burgh she gave a ludicrous but dismal account. ** Eh. James," she said, 
** I think if you had come to mamma, as you threatened, you would not 
have staid very long. It's a wearisome place. Dr. M*Craw boards 
with her ; and it's sermons and psalm-singing from morning till night 
My little Josey takes kindly to the life there, and I left her behind, 
poor little darling! It was not fair to bring three of us to take 
possession of your house, dear James ; but my poor little Eosey was just 
withering away there. It's good for the dear child to see the world a 
little, and a kind uncle, who is not afraid of us now he sees us, is he ? " 
Kind Uncle James was not at all afraid of little Rosey ; whose pretty 
face and modest manners, and sweet songs, and blue eyes, cheered and 
soothed the old bachelor. Nor was Eosey's mother less agreeable and 
pleasant. She had married the captain (it was a love-match, against 
the will of her parents, who had destined her to be the third wife of old 
Dr. M'Mull) when very young. Many sorrows she had had, including 
poverty, the captain's imprisonment for debt, and his demise ; but she 
was of a gay and lightsome spirit. She was but three-and-thirty years 
old, and looked five-and-twenty. She was active, brisk, jovial, and 



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THE KSWCOMISS. 215 

alert ; and so good-looking, that it was a wonder she had not taken a 
successor to Captain Mackenzie. James Binnie cautioned his friend 
the Colonel against the attractions of the buxom syren ; and laughingly 
vould ask Glive how he would like Mrs. Mackenzie for a mamaw ? 

Colonel Neweome felt himself very much at ease regarding his future 
prospects. He was veiy glad that his friend James was reconciled to 
his family, and hinted to Clive that the late Captain Mackenzie's 
extravagance had been the cause of the rupture between him and his 
hrother-in-law, who had helped that prodigal captain repeatedly during 
his life; and in spite of family quarrels, had never ceased to act 
generously to his widowed sister and her family. " But I think, 
Mr. Clive," said he, ** that as Miss Hosa is very pretty, and you have a 
spare room at your studio, you had best take up your quarters in 
Charlotte Street as long as the ladies are living with us." Clive was 
Bothing loth to be independent ; but be showed himself to be a very 
good home-loving youth. He walked home to breakfiast every morning* 
dined often, and spent the evenings with the family. Indeed, the 
house was a great deal more cheerful for the presence, of the two 
pleasant ladles. Nothing could be prettier than to see the two ladies 
tripping downstairs together* mamma's pretty arm round Eosey's pretty 
waist Mamma's talk was perpetually of Bosey. That child was 
always gay, always good, always happy ! That darling girl woke with 
a smile. on her face, it was sweet to see her ! Uncle James, in his dry 
way, said, be dared to say it was very pretty. ** Go away, you droU, 
dear old kind Uncle James 1 " Kosey's mamma would cry out. *• You 
old bachelois are wicked old things 1 " Uncle James used to kiss Bosey 
veiy kiod\y and pleasantly. She was as modest, as gentle, as eager to 
please Colonel Neweome as any little girl could be. It was pretty to 
see her tripping across the room with his cofifee-cup ; or peeling walnuts 
for him after dinner with her white plump little fingers. 

Mrs. Irons, the housekeeper, naturally detested Mrs. Mackenzie, 
and was jealous of her : though the latter did everything to soothe 
ttid coax the governess of the two gentlemen's establishment. 
She praisod her dinners, delighted in her puddings, must beg 
Mrs. Irons to allow her to see one of those delicious puddings 
made, and to write the receipt for her, that Mrs. Mackenzie 
might use it when she was away. It was Mrs. Irons' belief 
that Mrs. Mackenzie never intended to go away. She had no 
ideer of ladies, as were ladies, coming into her kitchen. The maids 
vowed that they heard Miss Rosa crying, and mamma scolding in 
her bed-room, for all she was so soft-spoken. How was that jug broke, 
and that chair smashed in the bed-room, that day there was such a 
awful row up there ? 

Mrs. Mackenzie played admirably, in the old-fashioned way, dances, 
reels, and Scotch and Irish tunes, the former of which filled 
James Binnie's soul with delectation. The good mother naturally 
desired that her darling should have a few good lessons of the piano 



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£16 THE NEWOOMES. 

while she wae in London. Boeey vms eternallj strumming npon an 
instrument which had been taken upstairs for her special practice ; and 
the Cdonel, who was always seeking to do harmless jobs of kindness 
for his friends, bethought hitn of little Miss Gftnn, the gOTeme&s at 
Ridley-s, whom he recommended as an instructress. ^* Anybody whom 
you recommend I'm «ure, dear Colcmel, we shall like," said 
Mrs. Mackenzie, who looked as black as thunder, and had probably 
intended to hare Monsieur Quatremains or Signor Twankeydillo ; aod 
the little governess came to her pupil. Mrs. Mackenzie treated her 
very gruffly and haughtily at first ; but as soon as she heard Miss Cann 
play, the widow was paciiSed, nay charmed. Monsieur Quatremains 
charged a guinea for three quarters of an houf; while Miss Cann 
UiankfuUy took five shillings for an hcur and a half; and the difference 
of twenty lessons, for which dear Uncle James paid, went into 
Mrs. Mackenzie's pocket, and thence probably on to her pretty 
shoulders and head in the shape of a fine silk dress and a beautifdt 
French bonnetj in which Captain Goby said, upon his life, she didn't 
look twenty. 

The little governess trotting home after her lesson would often look 
in to Olive's studio in Charlotte Street, where her two boys, as she 
called Clive and J. J., were at work each at his easel. Clive used to 
laugh, and tell us who joked him about the widow and her daughter, 
what Miss Cann said about them. Mrs. Mack was not all honey it 
appeared. If Eosey played incorrectly, mamma flew at her mih. 
prodigious vehemence of language ; and sometimes with a slap on poor 
Eosey's back. She must make Eosey wear tight boots, and stamp on 
her little feet if they refused to enter into the slipper. I blush for the 
indiscretion of Miss Cann ; but she actually told J. J., that mamma 
insisted npon lacing her so tight, as nearly to choke the poor little 
lass. Eosey did not fight : Eosey always yielded ; and the scolding over 
and the tears dried, would come simpering downstairs with mamma's 
arm round her waist, and her pretty artless happy smile for the 
gentlemen below. Besides the Scottish songs without music, she sang 
ballads at the piano very sweetly. Mamma used to cry ut these ditties. 
" That child's voice brings tears into my eyes, Mr. Newcome," she would 
say. " She has never known a moment's sorrow yet ! Heaven grant, 
Heaven grant, she may be happy ! But what shall I be when I 
lose her?" 

** Why, my dear, when ye lose Eosey, yell console yourself with 
Josey," says droll Mr. Binnie from the sofa, who perhaps saw the 
manoeuvre of the widow. 

The widow laughs heartily and really. She places a handkerchief 
over her mouth. She glances at her brother with a pair of eyes fall of 
knowing mischief. " Ah, dear James," she says, *• you don't know what 
it is to have a mother's feelings." 

" I can partly understand them," says James. ** Eosey, sing me 
that pretty littie French song." Mrs. Mackenzie's attention to Clive 



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THE KBWOOMES. «17 

was reallj qnite afbctmg. If any of his friends came to the house, tilA 
took them aside and praised Olive to them. The Colonel she adored. 
She had never met mth such a man or seen snch a manner. The 
manners oi the Bishop of Tobago were beautifnl, and he oertamly had 
one of the softest and finest hands in the woiid ; but not finer thaik 
Colonel Newcome*s. **Look at hie foot ! ** (and she put oat her own, which 
was nncommonly prettj and suddenly withdrew it, with an arch glance 
meant to represent a blush) " my shoe would fit it 1 When we were at 
Coventry Island, Sir Peregrine Blandy, who succeeded poor dear 
Sir Bawdon Crawley — I saw his dear boy was gazetted to a lieutenant* 
colonelcy in the Guards last week — Sir Peregrine, who was one of the 
Prince of Wales's most intimate friends, was always said to have the 
finest manner and presence of any man of his day; and very grand and 
noble he was, but I don't think he was equal to Colonel Newcome ; I 
really don't think so. Do you think so, Mr. Honeyman? What a 
charming discourse that was last Sunday I I know there w«re two pair 
of eyes not dry in the church. I could not see the other people just 
for crying myself. O, but I wish we could have you at Musselburgh ! 
I was bred a Presbyterian of course ; but in much travelling through 
the world with my dear husband, I came to love his church. At home 
we sit under Dr. Mc Craw, of course ; but he is so awfully long ! Four 
hours every Sunday at least, morning and afternoon ! It nearly kills 
poor Bosey. Did you hear her voice at your church? The dear girl is 
delighted with the chants. Kosey, were you not delighted witii the 
chants?" 

If she is delighted with the chants, Honeyman is delighted with the 
chantress and her mamma. He dashes the fair hair from his brow : he 
sits down to the piano, and plays one or two of them, warbling a faint 
^ocal accompaniment, and looking as if he would be lifted ofiP the screw 
mosic'Stool, and flutter up to the ceiling. 

" 0, it's just seraphic ! " says the widow. " It's just the breath of 
incense, and the pealing of the organ at the Cathedral at Montreal. 
Rosey doesn't remember Montreal. She was a wee wee child. She was 
bom on the voyage out, and christened at sea. You remember. Goby." 

"'Gad, I promised and vowed to teach her her catechism; but 
*gad, I haven't," says Captain Goby. ** We were between Montreal 
and Quebec for three years with the Hundredth, the Hundred and 
Twentieth Highlanders ; and the Thirty-third Dragoon Guards a part of 
the time ; Fipley commanded them, and a very joUy time we had. 
Much better than the West Indies, where a fellow's liver goes to the 
dence with hot pickles and sangaree. Mackenzie was a devlish wild 
fellow," whispers Captain Goby to his neighbour (the present biographer 
indeed), ♦• and Mrs Mack was — was as pretty a little woman as ever 
you set eyes on." (Captain Goby winks, and looks peculiarly sly as 
he makes this statement.) " Our regiment wasn't on your side of India, 
Colonel." 

And in the interchange of such delightful remarks, and with music 



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218 THE NBWCOMES. 

aad song the evening passes away. '' Since, the house had been adorned 
by the fjEur presence of Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter," Honeyman 
said, always gallant in behaviour and flowezy in expression, " it seemed 
as if spring had visited it. Its hospitality was invested with a new 
grace ; its ever welconae little reunions were doubly charming. But 
why did these ladies come, if they were to go away again ? How — ^how 
would Mr. Binnie console himself (not to mention others), if they left 
him in solitude ? " . 

** We have no wish .to leave my brother James in solitude," cries 
Mrs. Mackenzie^ frankly laughing. '* We like London a great deal 
better than Musselburgh." 

" 0, that we do 1 " ejaculates the blushing Eosey. 

"And we will stay as long as ever my brother will keep us," 
continues the widow. 

'* Uncle James is so kind and dear," says Bosey. " I hope he won't 
eend me and mamma away." 

" He were a brute — a savage, if he did ! " cries Binnie, with glances 
of rapture towards the two pretty fieuies. Everybody liked them. 
Binnie received their caresses very good-humouredly. The Colonel 
liked every woman under the sun. Olive laughed and joked and waltzed 
alternately with Eosey and her mamma. The latter was the briskest 
partner of the two. The unsuspicious widow, poor dear innocent, would 
jleave her girl at the painting-room, and go shopping herself; but little 
J. J. also worked there, being occupied with his second , picture : and he 
was abnost the only one of Olive's friends whom the widow did not like. 
She pronounced the quiet little painter a pert, little, obtrosive, under- 
bred creature. 

In a word, Mrs. Mackenzie was, as the phrase is, ' setting. her cap' 
so openly at Olive, .that none of us could avoid seeing her play: 
and Olive laughed at her simple manoeuvres as merrily as the rest 
She was a merry little woman. We gave her, and her pretty daughter 
a luncheon in Lamb Oourt, Temple; in Sibwright's chambers — 
luncheon from Dick's Ooffee House — ^ices and dessert from Partington's 
in the Strand. Miss Bosey, Mr. Sibwright, our neighbour in Lamb 
Oourt, and the Beverend Oharles Honeyman sang very delightfully after 
lunch; there was quite a cvowd of porters, iaundressea, and boys 
to listen in the Oourt; Mr. Paley was disgusted with the noise 
-we made — ^in fact, the party was perfectly successful. We all liked 
the widow, and if she did set her pretty ribbons at Olive, why should 
not she ? We all hked the pretty, fresh, modest Bosey. Why, even 
the grave old benchers in the Temple church, when the ladies visited 
it on Sunday, winked their reverend ^'es with pleasure, as they 
looked at those two uncommonly smart, pretty, well-dressed, fashionable 
women. Ladies, go to the Temple church. You will see more young 
men, and receive more respectful attention there than in any pla<^> 
except perhaps at Oxford or Oambridge. Go to the Temple church- 
not, of course, for the admiration which you will excite and which you 



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THE NBWCOHESL 219 

cannot belp ; bat because the sermon is excellent, the choral services 
beautifully performed, and the church so interesting as a monument 
of the thirteenth century, and as it contains the tombs of those dear 
Knights Templars ! ^ 

Mrs. Mackenzie could be grave or gay, according to her company: 
nor could any woman be of more edifying behaviour vrhen an occasional 
Scottish friend bringing a letter from darling Josey, or a recommenda* 
tory letter from Josey's grandmother, paid a visit in Pitzroy Square. 
Little Miss Cann used to laugh and wink knowingly, saying, '* You will 
never get back your bed-room, Mr. Clive. You may be sure that 
Miss Josey will come in a few months ; and perhaps old Mrs. Binnie» 
only no doubt she and her daughter do not agree. But the widow has 
taken possession of Uncle James ; and she will carry off somebody else 
if I am not mistaken. Should you like a stepmother, Mr. Clive, or 
should you prefer a wife ?" 

Whether the fair lady tried her wiles upon Colonel Newcome the 
present writer has no certain means of ascertaining: but I think 
another image occupied his heart: and this Ciree tempted him no 
more than a score of other enchantresses who had tried their spells 
upon him; If she tried she failed. She was a very shrewd woman» 
quite frank in her talk when such frankness suited her. She said to me, 
" Colonel Newcome has had some great passion, once upon a time, I 
am sure of that, and has no more heart to give away. The woman who 
had his nmst have been a very lueky woman : thoi^h I daresay she 
did not value what she had ; or did not live to enjoy it — or — or some- 
thing or other; You see tragedies in some people's faces. I recollect 
when we were in Coventry Island — ^there was a chaplain there — a very 
good man — a Mr. Bell, and married to a pretty little woman who died. 
The first day I saw him I said, * I know that man has had a great grief 
in life. I am sure that he left his heart in England.* You gentlemen who 
write books, Mr. Pendennis, and stop at the third volume, know very 
well that the real story often begins afterwards. My third volume 
ended when I was sixteen, and was married to my poor husband. Do 
you think all our adventures ended then, and that we lived happy ever 
after ? I live for my darling girls now. All I want is to see them 
comfortable in life. Nothing can be more generous than my dear brother 
James has been. I am only his half-sister, you know, and was an infant 
in arms when he went away. He had differences with Captain Mackenzie 
who was headstrong and imprudent, and I own my poor dear husband was 
in the wrong. James could not live with my poor mother. Neither could 
by possibility suit the other, I have often, I own, longed to come and 
keep house for him. His home, the society he sees, of men of talents like 
Mr. Warrington and — and I won't mention names, or pay comliments to a 
man who knows human nature so well as the author of * Walter Lorraine :' 
this house is pleasanter a thousand times than Musselburgh — ^pleasanter 
for me and my dearest Rosey, whose delicate nature shrunk and withered 
up in poor mamma's society. She was never happy except in my room, 
the dear child! She's all gentleness and affection. She doesn't seem 

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220 THE NBWCOMES. 

to show it ; but she bas the most 'wonderfal ftppreciation of wit, of 
genius, and talent of all kinds. She always hides her feelings, except 
from her fond old mother. I went np into our room yesterday, and 
found her in tears. I can't bear to see her eyes red or to think of her 
suffering. I asked her what ailed her, and kissed her. She is a tender 
plant, Mr. Pendennis ! Heaven knows with what care I have nurtured 
her ! She looked np smiling on my shoulder. She looked so pretty ! 0, 
mamma, the darling child said, ' I couldn't help it. I have been 
crying over ' Walter Lorraine ! ' " (Enter Rosey.) ** Rosey, darling ! I 
have been telling Mr. Pendennis what a naughty, naughty child you 
were yestwday, and how yon read a book which I told you you shouldn't 
read ; for it is a very mcked book ; and though it contains some sad sad 
truths, it is a great deal too misanthropic (is that the right word ? I'm a 
poor soldier's wife, and no scholar, you know,) and a great deal too hitter; 
and though the reviews praise it, and the clever people — we are poor 
simple country people — we won't praise it. Sing, dearest, that little song" 
(profuse kisses to Rosey) " that pretty thing that Mr. Pendennis likes." 

" I am sure that I will sing any thing that Mr. Pendennis likes," 
says Rosey, with her candid bright eyes — and she goes to the piano 
and warbles Batti, Batti, with her sweet fresh artless voice. 

More caresses follow. Mamma is in a rapture. How pretty they 
look — the mother and daughter — ^two lilies twining together. The 
necessity of an entertainment at the Temple — ^lunch from Dick's 
(as before mentioned), dessert from Partington's, Sibwright's spoons, 
his boy to aid ours, nay. Sib himself, and his rooms, which are 
so much more elegant than ours, and where there is a piano and 
guitar: all these thoughts pass in rapid and brilliant combination 
in the pleasant Mr. Pendennis's mind. How delighted the ladies are 
with the proposal! Mrs. Mackenzie claps her pretty hands, and 
kisses Rosey again. If osculation is a mark of love, surely Mrs. Mack 
is the best of mothers. I may say, without false modesty, that our 
little entertainment was most successful. The champagne was iced 
to a nicety. The ladies did not perceive that our laundress, Mrs. 
Flanagan, was intoxicated very early in the afternoon. Percy Sibwright 
sang admirably, and with the greatest spirit, ditties in many languages. 
I am sure Miss Rosey thought him (as indeed he is) one of the most 
fascinating young fellows about town. To her mother's excellent 
accompaniment Rosey sang her favourite songs (by the way her stock 
was very Maall — five, I think, was the number). Then the table was 
moved into a <5omer, where the quivering moulds of jelly seemed 
to keep time to the music ; and whilst Percy played, two couple of 
waltzers actually whirled round the little room. No wonder that 
the court below was thronged with admirers, that Paley the reading 
man was in a rage, and Mrs. Flwiagan in a state of excitement. Ah ! 
pleasant days, happy old dingy chambers illuminated by youthful 
sunshine ! merry songs and kind faces — ^it is pleasant to recall you. 
Some of those bright eyes shine no more : some of those smiling lips 
do not speak. Some are not less kind, but sadder than in those 

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THB iNEWGOKES. 221 

days : of which the memoriea revisit us for a moment, and sink back 
into the grey past. The dear old Colonel beat time with great delight 
to the songs; the widow lit his cigar with hier own faac fingers. 
That was the only smoke permitted during the entertainment--* 
George Warrington himseK not being allowed to use his entty-pipe 
— though the gay little widow said that she had been used to smoking 
in the West Indies, and I daresay spoke the tmth. Our entertainment 
lasted actually until after dark: and a partieuladj neat cab \moig 
called from St. Clement*8 by Mr. BinnieV boy, you may be sure 
we all conducted the ladies to their vehicle: and many a fellow 
returning from his lonely club that evening into chambers must 
have envied us the pleasure of having received two such beantiea. 

The clerical bachelor was not to be outdone by the gentlemen of thef 
bar; and the entertainment at the Temple was followed by one at 
Honeyman's lodgings, which» I must own, greatly exceeded ours is 
splendoiib, for Honeyman had his luncheon from Gunter's ; and if he 
had been Miss Eosey's mother, giving a breakfiBist to the dear giri on 
her marriage, the a£Eair could not have been more elegant and hanct- 
some. We had but two bouquets at our entertainment ; at HoneymanV 
there were four upon the breakfast*table, besides a great pineapple, 
which must have cost the rogue three or hvac guineas, and which Percy 
Sibwright delicately cut up. Bosey thought the pine-apple d^icious. 
" The dear thing does not remember the pine-apples in the West 
Indies ! " cries Mrs. Mackenzie ; and ahe gave us many exciting 
narratives of entertainments at which she had been present at rarious 
colonial governors' tables. After luncheon, our host hoped we should 
have a little music. Dancing, of course, could not be allowed. ** That," 
said Honeyman, with his ** soft-bleating sigh," '* were scarcely clerical. 
You know, besides, you are in a hermitage ; and (with a glance round 
tho table) must put up with Cenobite*s fare." The fare was, as I 
haye said, excellent. The wine was bad, as George, and I, and Sib 
agreed ; and in so fiair we flattered ourselves that our feast altogether 
excelled the parson's. The champagne especially was such stuff, that 
Warrington remarked on it to his neighbour, a dark gentleman, with a 
tuft to his chin, and splendid rings and chains. 

The dark gentleman's wife and daughter were the other two ladies 
invited by our host. The elder was splendidly dressed. Poor Mrs. 
Mackenzie's simple gimcracks, though she displayed them to the most 
advantage, and could make an ormolu bracelet go as feur as another 
woman's emerald clasps, were as nothing compared to the other lady's 
gorgeous jewellery. Her Angers glittered with rings innumerable. The 
head of her smelling-bottle was as big as her husband's gold snuff-box, 
and of the same splendid material. Our ladies, it must be confessed, 
came in a modest cab from Fitzroy Square ; these arrived in a splendid 
little open carriage with white ponies, and harness all over brass, which 
the lady of the rings drove with a whip that was a parasol. Mrs. 
Mackenzie, standing at Honeyman's window, with her arm round 
Bosey's waist, viewed this arrival perhaps with envy. **My dear 



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222 THE NEWCOMES. 

Mr. Honejman, whose are those beautifol horses ? " cries Bosey, with 
enthusiasm. 

The divine says \nth a faint hlush — " It is — ah — it is Mrs. Sherrick 
and Miss Sherrick, who have done me the favour to come to luncheon." 

*' Wine merchant. Ohl " thinks Mrs. Mackenzie, who has seen 
Sherrick*s hrass-plate on the cellar-door of Lady Whittlesea's chapel ; 
and hence, perhaps, she was a trifle more magniloquent than usual, and 
entertained us with stories of colonial governors and their ladies, 
mentioning no persons, hut those who *' had handles to their names," as 
the phrase is. 

Although Sherrick had actually supplied the champagne which 
Warrington ahused to him in confidence, the wine-merchant was not 
wounded ; on the contrary, he roared with laughter at the remark, and 
some of us smiled who understood the humour of the joke. As for 
George Warrington, he scarce knew more about the town than the 
ladies opposite to him ; who, yet more innocent than George? thought 
the champagne very good. Mrs. Sherrick was silent during the meal, 
looking constantly up at her husband, as if alarmed and always in the 
habit of appealing to that gentleman, who gave her, as I thought, 
knowing glances and savage winks, which made me augur that he 
bullied her at home. Miss Sherrick was exceedingly handsome : she 
kept the fringed curtains of her eyes constantly down ; but when she 
lifted them up towards Olive, who was very attentive to her (the rogae 
never sees a handsome woman, but to this day he continues the same 
practice) — when she looked up and smiled, she was indeed a beautiful 
young creature to behold,^ — with her pale forehead, her thick arched 
eyebrows, her rounded cheeks, and her full lips slightly shaded,— how 
shall I mention the word? — ^slightly pencilled, after the manner of the 
lips of the French governess, Mademoiselle Lenoir. 

Percy Sibwright engaged Miss Mackenzie with his usual grace and 
afiBeibility. Mrs. Mackenzie did her very utmost to be gracious ; but it 
was evident the party was not altogether to her liking. Poor Percy, 
about whose means and expectations she had in the most natural way 
in the world asked information from me, was not perhaps a very 
eligible admirer for darling Rosey. She knew not that Percy can no 
more help gallantry than the sun can help shining. As soon as 
Rosey had done eating up her pine-apple, artlessly confessing (to Percy 
Sibwright's inquiries) that she preferred it to the rasps and hinnyblobs 
in her grandmamma's garden, " Now, dearest Rosey," cries Mrs. Mack, 
"now, a little song. You promised Mr. Pendennis a little song." 
Honeyman whisks open the piano in a moment. The widow takes off 
her cleaned gloves (Mrs. Sherrick's were new, and of the best Paris 
ipaake), and little Rosey sings. No. 1 followed by No. 2, with very great 
applause. Mother and daughter entwine as they quit the piano. 
"Braval brava! *' says Percy Sibwright. Does Mr. Clive Newconie 
say nothing ? His back is turned to the piano, and he is looking with 
all his might into the eyes of Miss Sherrick. 

Percy sings. a Spanish seguidella, or a German lied, or a French 



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G^^ml j7%^ry//^//y//^^//^ ^^/'^^ . 



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THB NBWCOMES. 223 

romance, or a Neapolitan canzonet, which, I am bound to say, excites 
Toiy little attention. Mrs. Ridley is sending in cofifee at this juncture, 
of which Mrs. Sherrick partakes, with lots of sugar, as she has partaken 
of numberless things before. Chickens, plover's eggs, prawns, aspics, 
jellies, creams, grapes, and what-not. Mr. Honeyman advances, and 
with deep respect asks if Mrs. Sherrick and Miss Sherrick will not be- 
persuaded to sing? She rises and bows, and again takes off the 
French gloves, and shows the large white hands glittering with rings, 
and, summoning Emily her daughter, they go to the piano. 

** Can she sing ? " whispers Mrs. Mackenzie, " can she sing after 
eating so much?" Can she sing, indeed 1 0, you poor ignorant 
Mrs. Mackenzie ! Why, when you were in the West Indies, if you 
ever read the English newspapers, you must have read of the fame of 
Miss Folthorpe. Mrs. Sherrick is no other than the famous artist, 
who, after three years of brilliant triumphs at the Scala, the Pergola, 
the San Carlo, the opera in England, forsook her profession, rejected 
a hundred suitors, and married Sherrick, who was Mr. Cox*s lawyer, 
who failed, as every body knows, as manager of Druiy Lane. Sherrick, 
like a man of spirit, would not allow his wife to sing in public after his 
marriage ; but in private society, of course, she is welcome to perform: 
and now with her daughter, who possesses a noble contralto voice, she 
takes her place royally at the piano, and the two sing so magnificently 
that everybody in the room, with one single exception, is charmed and 
delighted ; and that little Miss Cann herself creeps up the stairs, and 
stands with Mrs. Kidley at the door to listen to the music. 

Miss Sherrick looks doubly handsome as she sings. Clive Newcome 
is in a rapture ; so is good-natured Miss Eosey, whose little heart beats 
with pleasure, and who says quite unaffectedly to Miss Sherrick, with 
delight and gratitude beaming from her blue eyes, " Why did you ask 
me to sing, when you sing so wonderfully, so beautifully yourself? Do 
not leave the piano, please, do sing again." And she puts out a kind 
little hand towards the superior artist, and, blushing, leads her back to 
the instrument. ** I*m sure me and Emily will sing for you as much as 
you like, dear," says Mrs. Sherrick, nodding to Eosey good-naturedly. 
Mrs. Mackenzie, who has been biting her lips and drumming the time 
on a side-table, forgets at last the pain of being vanquished in admiration 
of the conquenJrs. " It was cruel of you not to tell us, Mr. Honeyman,'* 
she says, " of the — of the treat you had in store for us. I had no idea 
we were going to meet professional people ; Mrs. Sherrick's singing is 
indeed beautiful." 

** If you come up to our place in the Regent's Park, Mr. Newcome," 
Mr. Sherrick says, "Mrs. S. and Emily will give you as many songs as 
you like. How do you like the house in Fitzroy Square. Anything 
wanting doing there ? I'm a good landlord to a good tenant Don't 
care what I spend on my houses. Lose by 'em sometimes. Name a 
day when you'll come to us ; and I'll ask some good fellows to meet 
you. Your father and Mr. Binnie came once. That was when you 
were a young chap. They didn't have a bad evening, I believe. You 

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224 THE NEirCX)M£S. 

just come and try ua — I can give yoti as good a glass of wiae as most, 
I think," and bte smiles, perhaps thinking of the champagne which Mr. 
Warringtoa had slighted. " IVe ad the ckse carnage for my wife this 
evening," he continues, looking out of \vwdow at a Tery handsome 
hrougham which has just drawn up there. ** That little pair of horses 
steps prettily together, don't they ? Fond of horses? I know you are. 
See you in the park; and going hy our hoiuse sometimes. The Colonel 
sits a horse uncommonly well : so do you, Mr. Newcomo. IVe often 
said, * Why don't they get off their horses and say> Sherrickr we're come 
for a hit of lunch and a glass of sherry?' Name a day, Sir. Mr. P., 
will you he in it?" 

Olive NewGome named a day, and told his father of the circumstance 
in the evening* The Colonel looked grave. " There was something 
which I did not quite like ahout Mr. Sherrick," said that acute observe: 
of human nature. *' It was easy to see that the man is not quite a gen- 
tleman. I don't care what a man's trade is, Clive. Indeed, who are 
we, to give ourselves airs upon that subject ? But when I am gone, my 
bdy, and there is nobody near you who knows the world as I do, you 
may fall into designing hands, and rogues may lead you into mischief: 
keep a sharp look out, Clive. Mr. Pendennis, here, knows that there 
are designing fellows abroad " (and the dear old gentleman gives a very 
knowing nod as he speaks). '' When I am gone, keep the lad from 
harm's way, Pendennis. Meanwhile Mr. Sherrick. has been a very 
good and obliging landlord ; and a man who seUs wine may certainly give 
a friend a bottle. I am glad you had a pleasant evening, boys. Ladies ! 
I hope you have had a pleasant afternoon. Miss Eoaey, you are come 
back to make tea for the old gentlemen ? James begins to get about 
briskly now. He walked to Hanover Square, Mrs. Mackenzie, without 
hurting his ancle in the least" 

'' I am almost sorry that he is getting well," says Mrs. Mackenzie, 
sincerely. "He won't want us when he is. quite cured." 

" Indeed, my dear creature ! " cries the Colonel, taking her pretty hand 
and kissing it. " He will want you, and he shall want you. James no 
more knows the world than Miss Eosey here ; and if I had not been with 
him, would have been perfectly unable to take care of himself. When 
I am gone to India, somebody must stay with him; and — and my boy 
must have a home to go to," says the kind soldier, his voice dropping. 
** I had been in hopes that his own relatives would have received him 
more, but never mind about that," he cried more cheerfully. " Why» I 
may not be absent a year ! perhaps need not go at all — I am second for 
promotion. A couple of our old generals may drop any day ; and when 
I get my regiment I come back to stay, to live at home. Meantime, 
whilst I am gone, my dear lady, you will tak<e care of James ; and you 
will be kind to my boy," 

" That I will ! " said the widow radiant with ^easure^ and she took 
one of Clive's hands and pressed it for an instant; and from Olives 
father's kind face there beamed out that benediction, which always made 
his countenance appear to me among the most beautiful of human faces. 



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CHAPTEE XXIV. 



IN WHICH THE NEWCOME BROTHERS OXCE MORE MEET TOGETHER IN 

UNITY. 



HIS narrative, as the judi- 
cious reader no doubt is 
aware, is written maturely 
and at ease, long after the 
voyage is over, whereof it 
recounts the adventures 
and perils ; the winds 
adverse and favourable ; 
the storms, shoals, ship- 
wrecks, islands, and so 
forth, which Clive New- 
come met in his early^- 
journey in life. In sucli* 
a history events follow- 
each other without neces- 
sarily having a connection- 
with one another. One 
ship crosses another ship, 
and after a visit from one 
captain to his comrade, they sail away each on his course. The Clive 
Newcome meets a vessel which makes signals that she is short of hread 
and water ; and after supplying her, our captain leaves her to see her no 
more. One or two of the vessels with which we commenced the voyage 
together, part company in a gale, and founder miserably; others, after 
l>eiiig wofully battered in the tempest, make port; or are cast upon 
surprising islands where all sorts of unlooked-for prosperity awaits the 
lucky crew. Also, no doubt, the writer of the hook, into whose hands 
Clive Newcome s logs have been put, and who is charged with the 
duty of making two octavo volumes out of his friend's story ; dresses, 
^p the narrative in his own way ; utters his own remarks in place of 
Newcome s ; makes fanciful descriptions of individuals and incidents 
^ith which he never could have been personally acquainted ; and* 
commits blunders, which the critics will discover. A great number of 
the descriptions in " Cook's Voyages," for instance, were notoriously 
invented by Dr. Hawkesworth, who ** did " the book : so in the present- 




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226 THE NBWCOMES. 

volumes, where dialogues are written down, which the reporter could 
hy no possibility have heard, and where motives are detected which the 
persons actuated by them certainly never confided to the writer, the public 
must once for all be warned that the author's individual fancy very likely 
supplies much of the narrative ; and that he forms it as best he may, 
out of stray papers, conversations reported to him, and his knowledge, 
right or wrong, of the characters of the persons engaged. And, as is 
the case with the most orthodox histories, the writer's own guesses or 
conjectures are printed in exactly the same type as the most ascer- 
tained patent facts. I fancy, for my part, that the speeches attributed 
to Olive, the Colonel, and the rest, are as authentic as the orations in 
Sallust or Livy, and only implore the truth-loving public to believe 
that incidents here told, and which passed very prohably without 
witnesses, were either confided to me subsequently as compiler of this 
biography, or are of such a nature that they must have happened from 
what we know happened after. For example, when you read such 
words as QVE ROMANVS on a battered Roman stone, your profound 
antiquarian knowledge enables you to assert that SENATVS POPVLVS 
was also inscribed there at some time or other. You take a mutilated 
statue of Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, or Virorum, and you jop him on a 
wanting baad^ an absent foot, or a nose, which time or barbarians 
have defaced. You tell your tales as you can, and state tbe &cts as you 
think they must have been. In this manner, Mr. James (historiographer 
to her Majesty) Titus Livius, Professor Alison, Robinson Cwsoe, and 
all historians proceeded* Blunders there must be in tlie best of these 
narratives, and more asserted than they can possibly know or vouch for. 
To recur to our own affairs, and the subjeet at present in hand. I 
am obliged here to supply from conjecture a few points of the history, 
which I could not know from actual experience or hearsay. Clive, let us 
say is Romanus, and we must add Senatus Populusque to his inscrip- 
tion. After Mrs. Mackenzie and her pretty daughter had been for a 
few months in London, which they did not think of quitting, although 
Mr. Binnie's wounded little leg was now as well and as brisk as erer it 
had been ; ' a redintegration of love began to take place between the 
Colonel and his relatives in Park Lane. How should we know that 
there had ever been a quarrel, or at any rate a coolness ? Thomas 
Newcome was not a man to talk at length of any such matter; 
though a word or two occasionally dropped in conversation by the 
simple gentleman might lead persons who chose to interest themsekes 
about his family aflfairs to form their own opinions concerning them. 
After that visit of the Colonel and his son to Newcome, Ethel ms 
constantly away with her grandmother. The Colonel went to see his 
pretty little favourite at Brighton, and once, twice, thrice, Lady Kew's 
door was denied to him. The knocker of that door could not be more 
fierce thaij the old lady's countenance, when Newcome met her in her 
chariot driving on the cliff. Once, forming the lovdiest of a charming 
Amazonian squadron, led by Mr. Whiskin, the riding-master, Tvhea 



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THB NBWCOMBS. 



227 



the Colonel encountered bis pretty Ethels she greeted him affectionately 
it is true ; there was still the sweet look of candour and love in her 




eyes ; but when be rode up to her she looked so constrained, when he 
talked about Clive so reserred, when he left her, so sad, that he could 
not but feel pain and commiseration. Back he went to London, having 
in a week only caught this single glance of his darling. 

This event occurred while Clive was painting his picture of the 
Battle of Assaye, before mentioned, during the struggles .incident on 
which composition he was not thinking much about Miss Ethel, or his 
papa, or any other subject but his great work. Whilst Assaye was still 
in progress Thomas Newcome must have had an explanation with his 
sister-in-law. Lady Anne, to whom h© frankly owned the hopes which 
he had entertained for Clive, and who must as frankly have told the 
Colonel that Ethel's family had very different views for that young 
lady to those which the simple Colonel had formed. A generous 
early attachment, the Colonel thought, is the safeguard of a young man. 
To love a noble girl ; to wait awhile and struggle, and haply do some 
little achievement in order to win her; the best task to which his boy 
could set himself. If two young people so loving each other were to 
marry on rather narrow means, what then ? A happy home was better 
than the finest house in May Fair ; a generous young fellow, such as, 
please God, his son was, — loyal, upright, and a gentleman, might 
pretend surely to his kinswoman's hand without derogation; and the 
affection he bore Ethel himself was so great, and the sweet regard 
with which she returned it, that the simple father thought his 
kindly project was favoured by Heaven, and prayed for its fulfilment, 
and pleased himself to think, when his campaigns were over, and his 

Q 2 



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2£8 THE NEWCOMBS; 

8Word hung on the \rall, what a beloved daughter be might have to 
soothe and cheer his old age. With such a wife for his son, and child 
for himself, he thought the happiness of his last years might repay him 
for friendless boyhood, lonely manhood, and cheerless exile ; and he 
imparted his simple scheme to EtheVs mother, who no doubt was 
touched as he told his story; for she always professed regard and 
respect for him, and in the differences which afterwards occurred in the 
family, and the quarrels which diyided the brothers, still remained 
faithful to the good Colonel. 

But Barnes Newcome, Esquire, was the head of the house, and the 
governor of his father and all Sir Brian's affairs, and Barnes 
Newcome, Esquire, hated his cousin Clive, and spoke of him as a 
beggarly painter, an impudent snob, an infernal young puppy, and 
so forth ; and Barnes with his usual freedom of language imparted 
his opinions to his Uncle Hodson at the bank, and Uncle Hodson 
carried them home to Mrs. Newcome in Bryanstone Square ; and 
Mrs. Newcome took an early opportunity of telling the Colonel her 
opinion on the subject, and of bewailing that love for aristocracy which 
she saw actuated some folks ; and the Colonel was -brought to see that 
Barnes was his boy's enemy, and words very likely passed between 
them, for Thomas Newcome took a new banker at this time, and, as 
Clive informed me, was in very groat dudgeon, . because Hodson 
Brothers wrote to him to say that he had overdrawn his account. " I 
am sure there is some screw loose," the sagacious youth remarked to 
rae; " and the Colonel and the people in Park Lane are at .variance, 
because he goes there very little now ; and he promised to go to Court 
when Ethel was presented, and he didn't go." 

Some months after the arrival of Mr. Binnie s niece and sister in 
Fitzroy Square, the fraternal quarrel between the Newcomes must have 
come to an end — for that time at least — and was followed by a rather 
ostentatious reconciliation. And pretty little Rosy Mackenzie was the 
innocent and unconscious cause of this amiable change in the minds of 
the three brethren, as I gathered from a little conversation with Mrs. 
Newcome, who did me the honour to invite me to her table. As she 
had not vouchsafed this hospitality to me for. a couple of years 
previously, and perfectly stifled me with affability when we met,— 
as her invitation came quite at the end of the season, when almost 
everybody was out of town, and a dinner to a man is no compliment— 
I was at first for declining this invitation, and spoke of it with great 
scorn when Mr. Newcome orally delivered it to me at Bays's Club. 

" What," said I, turning round to an old man of the world, who 
happened to be in the room at the time, ** what do these people mean 
by asking a fellow to dinner in August, and taking me up after 
dropping me for two years ? " 

"My good fellow," says my friendr— it was my kind old Uncle 
Major Pendennis indeed — " I have lived long enough about town never 
to ask myself questions of that sort. In the world people drop you and 



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THE NEWCOilES. 229 

take you up every day. You know Lady Cheddar by sight ? I have 
known her husband for forty years. I have stayed with them in the 
country for weeks at a time. She knows me as well as she knows 
KiDg Charles at Charing Cross^ and a doosid deal better, and yet for a 
whole season she will drop me — ^pass me by, as if there was no such 
person in the world. Well, sir, what do I do ? I never see her. I 
give you my word I am never conscious of her existence ; and if I meet 
her at dinner, I'm no more aware of her than the fellows in the play are 
of Banquo. What's the end of it? She comes round — only last 
Toosday she came round-r-ani said Lord Cheddar wanted me to go 
down to Wiltshire. I asked after the family (you know Henry 
Churningham is engaged to Miss Rennet ? — a doosid good match for the 
Cheddars). We shook hands and are as good friends as ever. I don't 
suppose she'll cry when I die, you know (said the worthy old gentleman 
with a grin). Nor shall I go into very deep mourning if anything 
happens to her. You were quite right to say to Newcome that you 
did not know whether you were free or not, and would look at your 
engagements when you got home, and give him an answer. A fellow 
of that rank has no right to give himself airs. But they will, sir. 
Some of those bankers are as high and mighty as the oldest families. 
They marry noblemen's daughters, by Jove, and think nothing is too 
good for 'em. But I should go, if I were you, Arthur. I dined there 
a couple of months ago ; and the bankeress said something about you : 
that you and her nephew were much together, that you were sad wild 
dogs, I think— ^something of that sort. * 'Gad, ma'am,' says I, * boys will 
be boys.' • And they grow to be men ! ' says she, nodding her head. 
Queer little woman, devilish pompous. Dinner confoundedly long, 
stoopid, scientific." 

The old gentleman was on this day inclined to be talkative and 
confidential, and I set down some more remarks which he made 
concerning my friends. "Your Indian Colonel," says he, "seems a 
worthy man." The Major quite forgot having been in India himself, 
unless he was in company with some very great personage. " He don't 
seem to know much of the world, and we are not very intimate. 
Fitzroy Square is a dev'lish long way ofif for a fellow to go for a dinner, 
and, entre nous, the dinner is rather queer and the company still more 
SO- It's right for you who are a literary man to see all sorts of people ; 
but I'm different you know, so Newcome and I are not very thick 
together. They say he wanted to marry your friend to Lady Ann's 
daughter, an exceedingly fine girl ; one of the prettiest girls come out 
t'his season. I hear the young men say . so. And that shows how 
monstrous ignorant of the world Colonel Newcome is. His son could 
»o more get that girl than he could marry one of the royal princesses. 
Mark my words, they intend Miss Newcome for Lord Kew. Those 
banker-fellows are wild after grand marriages. Kew will sow his wild 
oats, and they'll marry her to him ; or if not to him to some man of 
^'gh rank. His father Walham was a weak young man; but his 



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280 THE NEWCOMES. 

grandmotber, <dd Lady Kefw, is a moiistrous clever old woman, too 
severe with her children, one of wIkhh ran away and married a poor 
devil without a shilling. Nothing could show a more deplorable 
ignorance of the world than poor Newcome supposing his son could 
make such a match as that with his cousin. Is it true that he is 
going to make his son an artist? I don't know what the dooce the 
world B coming to. An artist ! By gad, in *ray time a fellow would 
as soon have thought of making his son a hairdresser, or a pastry-cook, 
by gad." And the worthy Major gives his nephew two fingers, and trots 
off to the next club in St. James's Street, of which he is a member. 

The virtuous hostess of Bryanstone Square was quite civil and 
good-humoured when Mr. Pendennis appeared at her house ; and m/ 
surprise was not inconsiderable when I found the whole party from 
Saint Pancras there assembled ; — Mr. Binnie ; the Colonel and his 
son; Mrs. Mackenzie, looking uncommonly handsome and perfectly 
well-dressed; and Miss Rosey, in pink crape, with pearly shoulders' and 
blushing cheeks, and beautiful fair ringlets — as fresh and comely a 
sight as it was possible to witness. Scarcely had we made our bows, 
and shaken our hands, and imparted our observations about the 
fineness of the weather, when behold! as we look from the drawing- 
room windows into the cheerful square of Bryanstone, a great family 
coach arrives, driven by a family coachman in a family wig, and we 
recognise Lady Ann Newcome's carriage, and see her ladyship, her 
mother, her daughter, and her husband. Sir Brian, descend from the 
vehicle. ** It is quite a family party," whispers the happy Mrs. 
Newcome to the happy writer conversing with her in the niche of 
the window. "Knowing your intimacy with our brother, Colonel 
Newcome, we thought it would please him to meet you here. "Will 
you be so kind as to take Miss Newcome to dinner? " 

Everybody was bent upon being happy and gracious. It was " My 
dear brother, how do you do ? " from Sir Brian. ** My dear Colonel, 
how glad we are to see you ! how well you look ! " from Lady Ann. 
Miss Newcome ran up to him with both hands out, and put her 
beautiful face so close to his that I thought, upon my conscience, she 
was going to kiss him. And Lady Kew, advancing in the frankest 
manner, with a smile, I must own, rather awful playing round her many 
wrinkles, round her ladyship's hooked-nose, and displaying her ladyship's 
teeth (a new and exceedingly handsome set), held out her hand to 
Colonel Newcome, and said briskly, " Colonel, it is an age since we 
met." She turns to Clive with equal graciousness and good humour, 
and says, " Mr. Clive, let me shake hands with you ; I have heard all 
sorts of good of you, that you have been painting the most beautiful 
things, that you are going to be quite famous." Nothing can exceed 
the grace and kindness of Lady Ann Newcome towards Mrs. Mackenzie: 
the pretty widow blushes with pleasure at this greeting; and now 
Lady Ann must be introduced to Mrs. Mackenzie's charming daughter, 
and whispers in the delighted mother's ear, ** She is lovely I " I^osey 



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THE KBWOOMES. S31 

comes up looking rosy indeed, and executes a pretty cfLrtsey widi a great 
deal of blushing grace. 

Ethel has been so happy to see her dear uncle, that as yet she has 
had no eyes for any one else, until Clive advancing, those bright eyes 
become brighter still with surprise and pleasure as she beholds him. 
For being absent with his family in Italy now, and not likely to see 
this biography for many many months, I may say that he is a much 
handsomer fellow than our designer has represented ; and if that 
wayward artist should take this very scene for the purpose of 
illustration, he is requested to bear in mind that the hero of this 
story will wish to have justice done to his person. There exists in 
Mr. Newcome's possession a charming little pencil drawing of Clive at 
this age, and which Colonel Newcome took with him when he went— • 
whither he is about to go in a very few pages — and brought back 
with him to this country. A florid apparel becomes some men, as 
simple raiment suits others; and Clive in his youth was of the 
ornamental class of mankind — a customer to tailors, a wearer of hand- 
some rings, shirt-studs, mustachios, long hair, and the like ; nor could he 
help, in his costume or his nature, being picturesque and generous 
and splendid. He was always greatly delighted with that Scotch 
man-at-arms in " Quentin Durward," who twists off an inch or two of his^ 
gold dbain to treat a friend and pay for a bottle. He would give a 
comrade a ring or a fine-jewelled pin, if he had no money. Silver 
dressing-cases, and brocade morning-gowns were in him a sort of 
propriety at this season of his youth. It was a pleasure to persons of 
colder temperament to sun themselves in the warmth of his bright 
looks and generous humour. His laughter cheered one like wine. I 
do not know that he was very witty ; but he was pleasant. He was 
prone to blush : the history of a generous trait moistened his eyes 
instantly. He was instinctively fond of children, and of the other sex 
from one year old to eighty. Coming from the Derby once — a merry 
party — and stopped on the road from Epsom in a lock of carriages, 
during which the people in the carriage a- head saluted us with many • 
vituperative epithets, and seized the heads of our leaders, — Clive in a 
twinkling jumped off the box, and the next minute we saw him engaged 
^ith a half-dozen of tho enemy : his hat gone, his feiir hair flying off his 
face, his blue eyes flashing fire, his lips and nostrils quivering with 
wrath, his right and left hand hitting out, que c'Moit un plaisir a voir. 
His father sat back in the carriage, looking with delight and wonder — 
indeed it was a great sight. Policeman X separated the warriors. 
Clive ascended the box again with a dreadful wound in the coat, which 
was gashed from the waist to the shoulder. I hardly ever saw the 
elder Newcome in such a state of triumph. The post-boys quite stared 
at the gratuity he gave them, and wished they might drive his lordship 
to the Oaks. 

All the time we have been making this sketch Ethel is standing, 
looking at Clive ; and the blushing youth casts down his eyes before 



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232 THE NEWCOMBS. 

iier*6. Her face assumes a look of arcb .humour. She passes a slim 
hand over the prettiest lips, and a chin with the most lovely of dimples, 
thereby indicating her admiration of Mr. Olive's mustachios and 
imperial. They are of a warm yellowish chestnut colour, and have 
not yet known the razor. He wears a low cravat ; a shirt fi*ont of the 
finest lawn, with ruby buttons. His hair of a lighter colour, waves 
almost to "his manly shoulders broad." "Upon mj word, my dear 
Colonel," says Lady Kew, after looking at him, and nodding her head 
shrewdly, •* I think we were right." 

**No doubt -right in everything your ladyship does, but in what 
particularly?" asks the Colonel. 

" Right to keep him out of the way. Ethel has been disposed of 
these ten years. Did not Anne tell you ? How foolish of her ! But 
all mothers like to have young men dying for their daughters. Your 
son is really the handsomest boy in London. Who is that conceited- 
looking young man in the window ? Mr. Pen — what ? Has your son 
really been veiy wicked ? I was told he was a sad scapegrace." 
. *' I never knew him do, and I don't believe he ever thought any- 
thing that was untrue, or unkind, or ungenerous," says the Colonel. 
*' If any one has belied my boy to you, and I think I know who his 
«nemy has been — " 

'* The young lady is very pretty," remarks Lady Kew, stopping the 
Colonel's further outbreak. **How very young her mother looks! 
Ethel, my dear ! Colonel Newcome must present us to Mrs. Mackenzie 
and Miss Mackenzie ; and Ethel, giving a nod to Clive, with whom 
she has talked for a minute or two, again puts her hand in her uncle's, 
and walks towards Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter. 

And no\v let the artist, if he has succeeded in drawing Clive to his 
liking, cut a fresh pencil, and give us a likeness of Ethel. She is 
seventeen years old ; rather taller than the majority of woto^n ; of a 
countenance somewhat grave and haughty, . but on occasion brightening 
with humour or beaming with kindliness and affection. Too quick to 
detect affectation or insincerity in others, too impatient of dulness or 
pomposity, she is more sarcastic now than she became when after years 
of suffering had softened her nature. Truth looks out of her bright 
eyes, and rises up armed, and flashes scorn or denial perhaps too 
readily, when she encounters flattery, or meanness, or imposture. 
After her first appearance in the world, if the truth must be told, this 
young lady was popular neither with many men, nor with most women. 
The innocent dancing youth who pressed round her, attracted by her 
beauty, were rather afraid, after a while, of engaging her. This one 
felt dimly that she despised him ; another, that his simpering common- 
places (delights of how many well-bred maidens !j only occasioned 
Miss Newcome's laughter. Young Lord Croesus, whom all maidens and 
matrons were eager to secure, was astounded to find that he was utterly 
indifferent to her, and that she would refuse him twice or thrice in an 
evening, and dance as many times with poor Tom Spring, who was his 



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Z?y/ ^JYz^/??^/y ^ ^^^ . 



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THE NEWCOMES. 233 

fathers ointli son, and only at home till be could get a ship and go to 
sea again. The young women were frightened at her sarcasm. She 
seemed to know what fadaiaes they whispered to their partners as 
they paused in the waltzes ; and Fanny, who was luring Lord Groesus 
towards her with her blue eyes, dropped them guiltily to the floor when 
Ethel's turned towards her ; and Cecilia sang more out of time than 
usual; and Clara, who was holding Freddy^ and Charley, and Tommy 
round her enchanted by her bright conversation and witty mischief, 
became dumb and disturbed when Ethel passed her with her cold face ; 
and old Lady Hookliam, who was playing ofif her little Minnie now at 
young Jack Gorget of the Guards, now at tlie eager and simple 
Bob Bateson, of the Coldstreams, would slink off when Ethel made her 
. appearance on the ground ; whose presence seemed to frighten away 
the iish and the angler. No wonder that the other Mayfair nymphs 
were afraid of this severe Diana, whose- looks were so cold and whose 
arrows were so keen. 

But those who had no cause to heed Diana's shot or coldness might 
admire her beauty ; nor could the famous Parisian marble which Clive 
said she resembled, be more perfect in form than this young lady. Her 
hair and eyebrows were jet black (these latter may have been too thick 
according to some physiognomists, giving mther a stem expression to 
the eyes, and hence causing those guilty ones to tremble who came 
under her lash), but her complexion was as dazzlingly fair and her 
cheeks as red as Miss Rosey*s own, who had a right to those beauties, 
heing a blonde by nature. In Miss Ethel's black hair there was a 
slight natural ripple, as when a fresh breeze blows over the melan 
hudor — a ripple such as Roman ladies nineteen hundred years ago, 
and our own beauties a short time since, endeavoured to imitate by art, 
paper, and I believe crumpling irons. Her eyes were gray; her 
mouth rather large ; her teeth as regular and bright as Lady Kew's 
own ; her voice low and sweet ; and her smile, when it lighted up her 
face and eyes, as beautiful as spring sunshine ; also they could lighten 
and flash often, and sometimes, though rarely, rain. As for her figure 
— but as this tall slender form is concealed in a simple white muslin 
robe, (of the sort which I believe is called demie-toilette,) in which 
her fair arms are enveloped ; and which is confined at her slim waist 
by an azure ribbon, and descends to her feet — let us make a respectful 
bow to that fair image of Youth, Health, and Modesty, and fancy it as 
pretty as we will. Miss Ethel made a very stately curtsey to 
Mrs. Mackenzie, surveying that widow calmly ; so that the elder lady 
looked up and fluttered ; but towards Rosey she held out her hand, 
»nd smiled with the utmost kindness, and the smile was returned by 
the other; and the blushes with which Miss Mackenzie was always 
ready at this time, became her very much. As for Mrs. Mackenzie — 
the very largest curve that shall not be a caricature, and actuaHy 
disfigure the widow s countenance — ^a smile so wide and steady — so 
exceedingly rident, indeed, as almost to be ridiculous, may be drawn 



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234 TH» NBWGOMBS; 

upon her buxom faee, if the artist cbooses to attempt it as it appeared 
daring the wliole of this summer evening — before dinner came (when 
people ordinarily look very grave), when she. was introduced to the 
company : when she was made known to our friends Julia and Maria, 
the darling child, lovely little dears ! how like their papa and mamma ! 
when Sir Brian Neweome gave her his arm downstairs to the dining- 
room : when apy body spoke to her : when John offered her meat, or 
the gentleman in the white waistcoat, wine : when she accepted or 
when she refused these refreshments ; when Mr. Neweome told her a 
dreadfully stupid story: when the Colonel called cheerily from his 
end of the table, ** My dear Mrs. Mackenzie, you donH; take any wine 
to-day : may I not have the honour of drinking a glass of champagne 
with you ?" when the new boy from the country upset seme sauce upon 
her shoulder : when Mrs. Neweome made the signal for departare ; 
and I have no doubt in the drawing-room, when the ladies retired 
thither. " Mrs. Mack is perfectly awfiil," Clive told me i^terwards, 
"since that dinner in Bryanstone Square. Lady Kew and Lady 
Anne are never out of her mouth ; she has hetd white muslin dresses 
made just like EtheFs for herself and her daughter. She has bought 
a peerage, and knows the pedigree of the whole Kew family. She 
won't go out in a cab now without the boy on the box ; and in the plate 
for the cards which she has established in the drawing-room, you know, 
Lady Kew's pasteboard always will come up to the top, though I poke 
it down whenever I go into the room. As for poor Lady Trotter, the 
Governess of St. Kitt's, you know, and the Bishop of Tobago, they are 
quite bowled out : Mrs. Mack has not mentioned them for a week." 

During the dinner it seemed to me that the lovely young lady by 
whom I sate cast many glances towards Mrs. Mackenzie, which did not 
betoken particular pleasure. Miss Kthel asked me several questi<»)S 
regarding Clive, and also respecting Miss Mackenzie: perhaps her 
questions were rather downright and imperious, and she patronised me 
in a manner that would not have given all gentlemen pleasure. I was 
Clive 's friend, his schoolfellow ? had seen him a great deal ? know him 
very well — very well, indeed? Was it true that he had been very 
thoughtless ? very wild ? Who told her so ? That was not her question 
(with a blush). It was not true, and I ought to know ? He was not 
spoiled ? He was very good-natured, generous, told the truth ? He 
loved his profession very much, and had great talent ? Indeed she was 
very glad. Why do they sneer at his profession ? It seemed to her 
quite as good as her father's and brother's. Were artists not very 
dissipated ? Not more so, nor often so much as other young men. Was 
Mr. Binnie rich, and was he going to leave all his money to his nieoe ? 
How long have you known them ? Is Miss Mackenzie as good-natured 
as she looks? Not very clever, I suppose. Mrs. Mackenzie looks 
ve^y — No thank you, no more. Grandmamma (she is very deaf, and 
cannot hear) scolded me for reading the book you wrote ; and took the 
book away. I got it afterwards, and read it all. I don't think there 



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THE JTEWCOMES, 236 

was any harm in it Why do you giye such bad characters of women ? 
Don't you know any good ones ? Yes, two as good as any in the world. 
They are uns^sh : they are pious ; they are always doing good ; they 
live in the eountry ? Why don't you put them into a book ? Why 
don't you put my uncle into a book ? He is so good, that nobody could 
make him good enough. Before I came out, I heard a young lady 
(Lady Clavering's daughter Miss Amory), sing a song of yours. I have 
never spoken to an author before. I saw Mr, Lyon at Lady Popiajoy's, 
and heard him speak. He said it was very hot, and he looked so I am 
store. Who is the greatest author now alive? You will tell me when 
you oome up stairs after dinner : — and the young lady sails away following 
the matrons, vrho rise and ascend to the drawii^ room. Miss Newcome 
has been watcMng the behaviour of the author, by whom she sate ; 
curious to know what such a person's habits are ; whether he speaks 
and acts like other people ; and in what respect authors are different 
from persons " in society." 

When we had sufficiently enjoyed claret and politics below stairs, 
the gentlemen ivent to the drawing-room to partake of coffee and the 
ladies' delightful conversation. We had heard previously the tinkling 
of the piano above, and the well-known sound of a couple of Miss 
Kosey's five songs, The two young ladies were engaged over an album 
at a side table, when the males of the party arrived. The book con- 
tained a number of Olive's drawings made in the time of his very early 
youth for the amusement of his little cousins. Miss Elhel seemed to 
be very much pleased with these performances, which Miss Mackenzie 
likewise examined with great good nature and satisfaction. So she did 
the views of Rome, Naples, Marble Hill, in the county of Sussex, &o., 
in the same collection: so she did the Berlin cockatoo and spaniel 
which Mrs. Newcome was working in idle moments : so she did the- 
Books of Beauty, Flowers of Loveliness, and so forth. She thought the 
prints very sweet and pretty : she thought the poetry very pretty and 
Bweet. Which did she like best, Mr. Niminy's " Lines to a bunch of 
violets," or Miss Piminy's "Stanzas to a wreath of roses?" Miss 
Mackenzie was quite puzzled to say which of these masterpieces she 
preferred ; she found them alike so pretty. She appealed, as in most 
cases, to Mamma. " How, my darling love, can I pretend to know?" 
Mamma says. " I have been a soldier's wife, battling about the world. 
I have not had your advantages. I had no drawing masters : nor 
music masters as you have. You, dearest child, must instruct me in 
these things." This' poses Rosey : who prefers to have her opinions 
dealt out to her like her frocks, bonnets, handkerchiefs, her shoes and 
gloves, and the order thereof ; the lumps of sugar for her tea, the proper 
quantity of raspberry jam for breakfast ; who trusts for all supplies 
corporeal and spiritual to her mother. For her own part, Rosey is 
pleased with everything in nature. Does she love music ? O, yes*. 
Bellini and Donizetti ? O, yes. Dancing? They had no dancing at 
Grandmamma's, but she adores dancing, and Mr. Clive dances very 



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236 THE NEWCOMES. 

veil, indeed. (A smile from Miss Ethel at this admission). Does she 
like the country ? O, she is so happy in the country ! London ? 
Londoii is delightful, and so is the sea-side. She does not know really 
which she likes best, London or the country, for mamma is not near her 
to decide, being engaged listening to Sir Brian, who is laying down the 
law to her, and smiling, smiling with all her might. In fact, Mr. 
Newcome. says to Mr. Pendennis in his droll, humourous way, " That 
woman grins like a Cheshire cat." Who was the naturalist who first 
discovered that peculiarity of the cats in Cheshire ? 

In regard to Miss Mackenzie's opinions, then, it is not easy to discover 
that they are decided, or profound, or original; but it seems pretty 
clear that she has a good temper, and a happy contented disposition. 
And the smile which her pretty countenance wears shows off to great 
advantage the two dimples on her pink cheeks. Her teeth are even 
and white, her hair of a beautiful colour, and no snow can be whiter 
than her fair round neck and polished shoulders. She talks very kindly 
and good-naturedly with Julia and Maria (Mrs. Hodson's precious ones) 
until she is bewildered by the statements which those young ladies 
make regarding astronomy, botany, and chemistry, all of which they are 
studying. " My dears, I don't know a single word about any of these 
abstruse subjects, I wish I did," she says. And .Ethel Newcome 
laughs. She too is ignorant upon all these subjects. " I am gladthere 
is some one else," says Rosey, with naivete, " who is as ignorant as 
I am;" And the younger children with a solemn air say they wll ask 
Mamma leave to teach her. So everybody, somehow, great or small, 
seems to protect her ; and the humble, simple, gentle little thing ^ns 
a certain degree of good will from the world, which is tbuched by her 
humility and her pretty sweet looks. The servants in Fitzroy Square 
waited upon her much more kindly than upon her smiling bustling 
mother. Uncle James is especially fond of his little Eosey. Her 
presence in his study never discomposes him ; whereas his sister fatigues 
him with the exceeding activity of her gratitude, and her energy in 
pleasing. As I was going away, I thought I heard Sir Brian Newcome 
say " It (but what *it' was of course I cannot conjecture) . . it will 
do veiy well. The mother seems a superior woman." 



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CHAPTER XXV. 



IS PASaED IN A PUBLIC-HOUSE. 




HAD no more conversation 
with Miss Newcome that 
night, who had forgotten her 
curiosity about the habits of 
authors. When she had 
ended her talk with Miss 
Mackenzie, she devoted the 
rest of the evening to her 
uncle Colonel Newcome : 
and concluded by saying, 
** And now you will come 
and ride with me to-morrow, 
Uncle, won't you ? " which 
the Colonel faithfully pro- 
mised to do. And she shook 
hands with Clive very 
kindly: and with Rosey very 
frankly, but as I thought 
vdth rather a patronizing air: and she made a very stately bow 
to Mrs. Mackenzie, and so departed with her father and mother. 
Lady Kew had gone away earlier. Mrs. Mackenzie informed us after- 
wards that the Countess had gone to sleep after her dinner. If it was 
at Mrs. Mack's story about the Governor's ball at Tobago, and the 
quarrel for precedence between the Lord Bishop's lady, Mrs. Rotcbet, 
and the Chief Justice s wife. Lady Barwise, I should not be at all 
surprised. 

A handsome fly carried off the ladies to Fitzroy Square, and the two 
worthy Indian gentlemen in their company ; Clive and I walking with 
the usual Havannah to light us home. And Clive remarked that he 
supposed there had been some difference between his father and the 
bankers : for they had not met for ever so many months before, and 
the Colonel always had looked very gloomy when his brothers were 
mentioned. "And I can't help thinking," says the astute youth, 
" that they fancied I was in love with Ethel (I know the Colonel would 
We liked me to make up to her) and that may have occasioned the 



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238 THE NBWCOMES. 

row. Now, I suppose, they think I am engaged to Eosey. What the 
deuce are they in such a hurry to marry me for ? " 

Olive's companion remarked, " that marriage was a laudahle insti- 
tution : and an honest attachment an excellent conservator of youthful 
morals." On which Olive replied, ** Why don't you marry yourself? " 

This it was justly suggested was no- argument, but a merely per- 
sonal allusion foreign to the question, which, was, that marriage was 
laudable, &c, 

Mr. Olive laughed. " Kosey is as good a little creature as can be," 
he said. ** She is never out of temper, though I fancy Mrs. Mackenzie 
tries her. I don't think she is very wise : but she is uncommonly 
pretty, and her beauty grows on you. As for Ethel, anything so high 
and mighty I have never seen, since I saw the French giantess. Going 
to court : and about to parties every night where a parcel of young 
fools flatter her, has perfectly spoiled her. By Jove, how handsome 
she is ! How she turns with her long neck, and looks at you from 
under those black eye-brows ! If I painted her hair, I think I should 
paint it almost blue, and then glaze over with laike. It is blue. And 
how finely her head is joined on to her shoulders I " — And he waves in 
the air an imaginary line with his cigar. ** She would do for Judith, 
wouldn't she? Or how grand she would look as Hafodias's daughter 
sweeping down a stair — in a great dresa d cloth of^ gold like Paul 
Veronese — ^holding a charger before her with white arma you know — 
with the muscles accented like that glorious DtaoML at Plaiis — a savage 
smile on her face and a ghastly solemn gory head on the diah — I see 
the picture, sir, I see the picture ! '* and he MX to csurliog Ids nuista- 
chios — just like his brave old father. 

I could not help laughing at the resemblanoe* and mewtiRiiiitg it to 
my friend. He broke, as was his wbnt, into a fond eulogium of his 
sire, wished he could be like him — worked himself up into another 
state of excitement, in which he averred, 'Hhat if his father waated him 
to marry, he would marry that instant And why not Eosey ? She is 
a dear little thing. Or why not that splendid Miss Shetrrick? What 
a head ! — a regular Titian ! I was looking at the differ^ice of ihek 
colour at Uncle Honeyman's that di^' of the deQeuner. The shadows 
in Rosey's face, sir, are all pearly tinted. You ought to paints her in 
milk, sir ! " cries the enthusiast. " Have you ever remarked the gray 
round her eyes, and the sort of purple bloom of her cheek ? Rubens 
could have done the colour : but I don't somehow like to think of a 
young lady and that sensuous old Peter Paul in company. I look 
at her like a little wild flower in a field — ^like a little child at play, 
sir. Pretty little tender nursling. If I see her passing in the street, 
I feel.^s if I would like some fellow to be rude to her, that I ought 
have the pleasure of knocking him down. She is like a little song 
bird, sir, — a tremulous, fluttering little linnet that yoa would 
take into your hand, pavidam qiusrentem matrem, and smoothe its 
little plumes, and let it perch on your finger and sing. The Shenrick 



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creates qaite a different sentiment — the Shecrick ia splendid, stately, 



"Stu{»d," hints Olive's companion. 
. " Stupid I Why not ? Some women ought to be stupid. What 
you call dulness I call repose. Give me a calm woman, a slow woman, 
— a lazy, majesiie woman, Show me a gracious virgin hearing a lily : 
not a leering giggler frisking a rattle. A lively woman would be the 
death of me. Look at Mrs. Mack, perpetually nodding, winking, 
grinning, throwing out signals which you are to be at the trouble to 
answer ! I thought her delightful for three^days, I declare I was in 
love with her — that is, as much as I can be after — ^but never mind that, 
I feel I shall never be really in love again. Why shouldn't the 
Sherrick be stupid^ I say ? About great beauty there should always 
reign a silence. As you look at the great stars, the great ocean, any 
great scene of nature : you hush, sir. Y(«i laugh at a pantomime, 
but you are still in a temple. When I saw the great Venus of the 
Louvre^ I thought wert thou alive, O goddess, thou should'st never 
open those lovely lips but to speak lowly, slowly : thou should'st never 
descend from that pedestal but to walk stately to some near couch, and 
assume anot^r attitude of beautiful calm. To be beautiful is enough. 
If a woman can do that well : who shall demand more from her ? You 
don't want a rose to sing. And I think wit is out of place where there's 
great beauty ; as I wouldn't have a Queen to cut jokes on her throne. 
I say, Pendennis," — ^bere broke off the enthusiastic youth, — "have you 
got another cigar ? Shall we go in to Finch's, and have a game at 
billiards? Just one — ^it's quite early yet Or shall we go in to the 
Haunt? It's Wednesday night you know, when all the boys go." 
We tap at a door in an old, old street in Soho : an old maid with a kind, 
eomical face opens the door, and nods friendly, and says, " How do, 
sir, aint seen you this ever so long. How do, Mr. Noocom." " Who's 
here ? " •* Most everybody's here." We pass by a little snug bar, in 
whidi a trim elderly lady is seated by a great fire, on which boils an 
enormous kettle ; while two gentlemen are attacking a cold saddle of 
mutton and West India pickles : hard by Mrs. Nokes, the landlady's 
elbow — with mutual bows — we recognize Hickson^ the sculptor, and 
Morgan, intrepid Irish chieftain, chief of the reporters of the Morning 
Press newspaper. We pass through a pa^ge into a back room, and 
are received with a roar of welcome from a crowd of men, almost invi- 
sible in the smoke. 

" I am right glad to see thee, boy I " cries a cheery voice (that will 
never troll a chorus more). ** We spake anon of thy misfortune, gentle 
youth ! and timt thy warriors of Assaye have charged the Academy in 
vain. — Mayhap thou frightenedst the courtly school with barbarous 
▼isages of grisly war. Pendennis, thou dost wear a thirsty look I 
Resplendent swell ! untwine thy choker white, and I will either stand 
a glass of grog : or thou shalt pay the like for me, my lad, and tell us 
ef the fashiotiable world." Thus spake the brave old Tom Sarjent, — 



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240 THE NEWCOMES. 

also one of the Press, one of the old boys : a good old scholar with a 
good old library of books, who had taken his seat anytime those forty 
years by the chimney fire in this old Haunt : where painters, sculptors, 
men of letters, actors, used to congregate, passing pleasant hours in 
rough kindly communion, and many a day seeing the sunrise lighting 
the rosy street ere they parted, and Betsy put the useless lamp out, 
and closed the hospitable gates of the Haunt. 

The time is not very long since: though to-day is so changed. As 
we think of it : the kind familiar faces rise up, and we hear the pleasant 
voices and singing. There are they met, the honest hearty companions. 
In the days when the Haunt was a haunt, stage coaches were rot yet 
quite over. Casinos were not inyented : clubs were rather rare luxuries: 
there were sanded floors, triangular sawdust-boxes, pipes, and tavern 
parlours. Young Smith and Brown, from the Temple, did not go 
from chambers to dine at the Polyanthus, or the Megatherium, off 
potage a la Bisque, turbot au gratin, cotelettes a la Whatdyoucallem, 
and a pint of St. Emilion : but ordered their beef-steak and pint of port 
from the "plump head- waiter at the Cock : " did not disdain the pit of 
the theatre; and. for a supper a homely refection at the tavern. How 
delightful are the suppers in Charles Lamb to read of even now ! — the 
cards — the punch — the candles to be snuffed — the social oysters — the 
modest cheer I Whoever snuflfs a candle now ? What man has a 
domestic supper whose dinner-hour is eight o'clock ? . Those little 
meetings, in the mernory of many of us yet, are gone quite away into the 
past. Five and twenty years ago is a hundred years off — so much has 
our social life changed in those five lustres. James Boswell himself, were 
he to revisit London, would scarce venture to enter a tavern. He would 
find scarce a respectable companion to enter its doors with him. It 
is an institution as .extinct as -a hackney-coach. Many a grown inaii 
who peruses this historic page, has never seen such a vehicle, and 
only heard of rum-punch as a drink which his ancestors used to tipple. 

Cheery old Tom Sarjent is surrounded at the Haunt by a dozen of 
kind boon companions. They toil all day at their avocations of art, 
or letters, or law, and here meet for a harmless night's recreation and 
converse. They talk of literature, or politics, or pictures, or plays, 
socially banter one another over their cheap cups : sing brave old songs 
sometimes when they are especially jolly ; Idndly ballads in praise of 
love and wine ; famous maritime ditties in honour of old England. I 
fancy I hear Jack Brent's noble voice rolling out the sad generous 
refrain of ** The Deserter," ** Then for that reason and for a season we 
will be merry before we go," or Michael Percy's clear tenor carolling 
the Irish chorus of ** What's that to any one, whether or no," or Mark 
Wilder shouting his bottle song of " Garryowen na gloria." These 
songs were regarded with affection by the brave old frequenters of the 
Haunt. A gentleman's property in a song was considered sacred. It 
was respectfully asked for : it was heard with the more pleasure for 
being did. Honest Tom Sarjent ! how the times have changed since 



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THE ITEWCOMKS. 241 

we saw thee] I believe the. present chief of the reporters of the ■ ■■ 
newspap«r. (which. responsible office Tom filled) goes to parliament in 
liis brougham, and dines with the ministers of the crown. 

Around Tom . aye . seated grave Royal Academicians, rising gay 
Associates ; writers of 9ther Journals besides the Pall Mall Gazette ; a 
barrister maybe, whose name will be famous some day : a hewer of 
marble perhaps ; a surgeon whose patients have not come yet, and one 
or two men about towii who like this queer assembly better than haunts 
much more splendid. Captain Shandon has been here and his jokes 
are preserved in the tradition of the. place. . Owlet, the philosopher, 
came. once and tried, as his wont is,, to lecture, but his metaphysics 
were beaten down by a storm of banter. . Slatter, who gave himself 
such aii*$ .hec&use he wrote in the — ^ — Review, tried to air himself at 
the Haunt but was choked by the smoke, and silenced by the unanimous 
poohpophing of the assembly. . Dick Walker, who rebelled secretly at 
Sarjent's authority, once thought to give himself .consequence by bring* 
ijig a young lord. from the Blue Posts, but he was so unmercifully 
"chaffed" by Tom, that even the. young, lord laughed at him. .His 
lordship ha$ been heard to say he had been taken to a monsus queeah 
place, quee.ah set of folks, in a tap somewhere, though be went away 
quite delighted 'with. Tom's affability, but he never came again. He 
could not find the place probably. You might pass the Haunt in the 
daytime and not know it in the least. .'*I believe," said Charley 
Ormond, (A. R. A. he was then) *^ I believe in the day there's no such 
place at all : and when Betsy turns the gias off at the. door lamp as we 
go away the whole thing vanishes, the door, the house, the bar, the . 
Haunt, Betsy, the beer-boy, Mrs. Nokesr and all." It has vanished : it 
is to be found no more: neither. by night nor by day— unless the 
ghosts of good fellows still haunt it. 

As the genial talk and glass go round, and after Clive and his friend 
have modestly ansjyered the various queries put to them by good old 
Tom .Saqent, the acknowledged Praeses of the assembly and Sachem of 
this venerable wigwam ; the door opens and another well known figure 
is recognised with, shouts as it .emerges through the smoke. ** Bayham 
all hail ! " says Tom. ** Frederick I am right glad to see thee ! " 

Bayham saye he is disturbed in spirit, add calls for a pint of beer to- 
console him. 

" Hast thou flown far thou restless bird of night ? " asks Father Tom, 
who loves speaking in blank vei'ses. 

*• I have come from Cursitor Street," says Bayham in a low groan.- 
" I have just been to see a poor devil in quod there. Is that you 
Pendennis? You know the mm — Charles Honeyman." 

*' What ! " cries Clive starting up. 

*' my prophetic soul, my uncle ! ." growls Bayham. f'l did not see 
tlie young one :. but 'tis true." 

The reader ig aware that more than the three years hare elapsed, of 
which time: the preceding pages . contain the harmless chronicle; and 



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242 THE NEWCOMES. 

while Thomas Newcomers leare has been ronning out and GiiT6*8 
mustachios growing, the fate of other persons connected with our stoiy 
has also had its development, and their fortune has experienced its 
natural progress, its increase or decay. Our tale, such as it has 
hitherto been arranged, has passed in leisurely scenes wherein the 
present tense is perforce adopted ; the] writer acting as chorus to the 
drama, and' occasionally explaining by hints or more open statements, 
what has occurred during the intervals of the acts ;- and how it happens 
that the performers are in such or such a posture. In the modem 
theatre^ as the play-going critic knows, the explanatory personage is 
usually of quite a third-rate order. He is the two walking g^tlemen 
i&iends of Sir Harry Courtly, who welcome the young baronet to 
London, and discourse about the niggardliness of Harry's old uncle, 
the !Nabob; and the depth of Courtly 's passion for Lady Annabel the 
premiere amoureuse. He is the confidant in white linen to the heroine 
in white satin. He is, " Tom^ you rascal," the valet or tiger, more or 
less-impudent and acute — that well-known menial in top-boots and a 
livery frock with red cuflfe and collar, whom Sir Harry always retains in 
his service, addresses with scurrilous familiarity and pays so irregularly: 
or he is Lucetta, Lady AnnabeVs waiting maid, who carries the billets- 
doux and peeps into them ; knows all about the family affairs ; pops the 
lover under the sofa; and sings a comic song between the scenes. Our 
business now is to enter into Charles Honeymah*s privacy, to peer into 
the secrets of that reverend gentleman, and to tell what has happened 
to him during the past months, in which he has made fitful though 
graceful appearances on our scene. 

While his nephew's whiskers have been budding, and his brother-in- 
law has been impending his money and leave, Mr. Honeyman's hopes 
have been withering, his sermons growing stale, his once blooming 
popularity drooping and running to seed. Many causes have contributed 
to bring him to his present melancholy strait. When you go to Lady 
Whittlesea's chapel now, it is by no means crowded. Gaps are in the 
pews : there is not the least difficulty in getting a snug place near the 
pulpit, whence the preacher can look over his pocket handkerchief and 
see Lord Dosely no more : his lordship has long gone to sleep elsewhere; 
and a host of the fashionable faithful have migrated too. The incumbent 
can no more cast his fine eyes upon the French bonnets of the female 
aristocracy and see some of the loveliest faces in Mayfair regarding his 
with expressions of admiration. Actual dowdy tradesmen of the neigh- 
bourhood are seated with their families in the aisles : Ridley and his 
wife and son have one of the very best seats. To be sure Ridley looks 
like A nobleman with his large waistcoat, bald head, and gilt book: J.J. 
has a fine head, but Mrs. Ridley ! cook and housekeeper is written on 
her round face. The music is by no means of its former good quality. 
That rebellious and ill-conditioned basso Bellew has seceded, and seduced 
the four best singing boys, who now perform glees at the Cave of 
Harmony. Honeyman has a right to speak of pei^ecution and to 



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THE NEWCOMBS. 248 

compare himself to a hermit in so far that he preaches in a desert. 
Once, like another hermit, St. Hierome, he used to be visited by lions. 
None such come to him now. Such lions as frequent the, clergy are 
gone off to lick the feet of other ecclesiastics. They are yreary of poor 
Honeyman*s old sermons. 

Rivals have sprung up in the course of these three years — hav6 
sprung up round about Honeyman and carried his flock into their foldtf. 
We know how such simple animals will leap one after another and that 
it is the sheepish way. Perhaps a new pastor has come to the church 
of St. Jacob's hard by — bold, resolute, bright, clear, a scholar and n» 
pedant : his manly voice is thrilling in their ears, he speaks of life and 
conduct, of practice as well as faith ; and crowds of the most polite and 
most intelligent, and best informed, and best dressed, and most selfish 
people in the world come and hear him twice at least. There are so many 
well informed and well dressed &c. &c. people in the world that the suc- 
cession of them keeps St. Jacob's full for a year or more. Then, it may be, 
a bawling quack, who has neither knowledge, nor scholarship, nor charity, 
but who frightens the public with denunciations and rouses them with 
the energy of his wrath, succeeds in bringing them together for a 
while till they tire of his din and curses. Meanwhile the good quiet 
old churches round about ring their accustomed bell : open their sabbath 
gates : receive their tranquil congregations and sober priest, who has 
been busy all the week, at schools and sick beds with watchful teaching, 
gentle counsel and silent alms. 

Thoogh we saw Honeyman but seldom, for his company was not 
altogether amusing, and his affectation when one became acquainted 
with it very tiresome to witness, Fred Bayham, from his garret at 
Mrs. Ridley's, kept constant watch over the curate, and toM us of his 
proceedings from time to time. When we heard the melancholy news 
first announced, of course the intelligence damped the gaiety of Clive 
and his companion ; and F. B., who conducted all the affairs of life 
with great gravity, telling Tom Sarjent that he had news of import- 
ance for our private ear, Tom with still more gravity than F. B.'s 
said, " Go my children, you had best discuss this topic in a separate 
room apart from the din and fun of a convivial assembly ; " and ringing 
the bell he bade Betsy bring him another glass of rum and water, and 
one for Mr. Desborough to be charged to him. 

We adjourned to another parlour then, where gas was lighted up : 
and F. B. over a pint of beer narrated poor Honeyman 's mishap. 
" Saving your presence, Clive," said Bayham, " and with every regard 
for the youthful bloom of your voung heart's affections, your uncle 
Charles Honeyman, Sir, is a bad lot. I have known him these twenty 
years, when I was at his father's as a private tutor. Old Miss Honey- 
man is one of those cards which we call trumps — so was old Honeyman 

a trump ; but Charles and his sister " 

I stamped on F. B.'s foot under the table. He seemed to have 
forgotten that he was about to speak of Cliye's mother. 



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.24i .THE NfiWCOMES. 

*' Hem ! of your poor mother, I — ^hem— -I may say t'tiii tantunu I 
.scfti'cely knew her. She married very yomig : as I was when she left 
Borhambury. But Charles exhibited his pharacter at a very early age — 
^x^d it was not a charming one — no, by no means a model of virtue^ 
He always had a genius for running into debt. He borrowed from every 
pne of the pupils^-I don't know how he spent it except in hardbake 
.and alycompaine — and even from old Nosey's groom, pardon me, we 
used to call your grandfather by that playful epithet (boys will be boys, 
you know), even from the doctor's groom he took pioney, and I recollect 
thrasliing Charles Honeyman for that disgraceful action. 

** At college, without any particular show, he wa3 always in debt a^d 
.difficulties. Take warning by him, dear youth ! By him and by me, 
if you like* See me — me, F. Bayharo, descended from the ancient 
kings that long the .Tuscan sceptre swayed, dodge down . a street to get 
out of sight of a boot shop, and my colossal frame tremble if a chap puts 
his hand on my shoulder, as you did, Pendennis, the other day in the 
Strand, when I thought a straw might have knocked me down ! I have 
bad my errors, Clive. I know 'em. I'll take another pint of beer, if 
you please. Betsy, has Mrs. Nokes any cold meat in the bar? and an 
accustomed pickl^ ? Ha ! Give her my compliments, and say F. B* 
is hungry. I resume my tale. Faults F. . B. has, and knows it. 
JIumbug he may have been sometimes; but I'm not such a complete 
humbug as.Honejrman." 

Clive did not know how to look at this character of hi^ relative, but 
Olive's companion burst into a fit of laughter, at which F. B. nodded 
gravely, and resumed his narrative. '* I don't know how much money 
he has had from your governor, but this I can say, the half of it would 
make F, B. a happy man. I don't know out of how much the 
reverend party has nobbled his poor old sister at Brighton. He has 
mortgaged his chapel to Sherrick, I suppose you know, who is master 
of it, and could turn him out any day. I don't think Sherrick is a bad 
fellow. I thiuk he's a good fellow ; I have known him do many a good 
turn to a chap in misfortune. He wants to get into society: what 
more natural? That was why you were asked to meet him the oUier 
day — and why he asked you to dinner. I hope you had a good oue, 
I wish he'd ask me. 

** Then Moss has got his bills, and Moss's brother-in-law in Cursitor* 
street has taken possession of his revered person. He's very welcome. 
One Jew has the chapel, another Hebrew has the clergyman. It's 
singular, ain't it 2 Sherrick might turn Lady Whittlesea into a syna* 
gogue and have the Chief Eabbi into the pulpit, where my uncle the 
Bishop has given out the text. 

*. ''The shares of that concern ain't at a premium. I have had 
immense fun with Sherrick about it. I like the Hebrew, Su*. He 
maddens with rage when F. B, goes and asks him whether any more 
pews are let over-head. Honeyman begged and borrowed in order to 
buy out the last man. I remember when the speculation was ftmious. 



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THE NEWCOMES. 845 

m^ben all the boxes (I niean the pews) were taken for. the seasoo, and 
you couldn't get a place, come ever so early. Then Honeynjan was 
spoilt, and gave his sermons over and over again. People got sick of 
seeing the old humbug cry, the old crocodile ! ' Then we tried the 
musical dodge. F. B. came fohvard, Sir, there. That was a coup : I 
did it. Sir. Bellew would ut have sung for any man but me*— and for 
two-and-twenty months I kept him as sober as Father Matthew. Then 
Honeyman dldn*t pay him : there was a row in the siacred building, and 
Bellew retired. Then Sherrick must meddle in it. And having heard 
a chap out Hampstead way who Sherrick thought would do, Honeyman 
was forced to engage him, regardless of expense. You recollect the 
fellow, Sir. The Reverend Simeon Hawkins, the lowest of the low 
church, Sir, a red-haired dumpy nian, who gasped at his h*s and spoke 
with a Lancashire twang — he'd no more do for Mayfair than Gritnaldi 
for Macbetli. He and Honeyman used to fight like cat and dog in the 
vestry : and he drove away a third part of the congregation. He was 
an honest man and an able man too, though not a sound churchman 
(F, B. said this with a very edifying gravity) : I told Sherrick this the 
very day I heard him. And if he had spoken to me on the subject I 
might have saved him a pretty penny — a precious deal more than the 
paltry sum which he and I had a quarrel about at that time-i-a matter 
of business, Sir — a pecuniary difference about a small three-months' 
thing which caused a temporary estrangement between us. As for 
Honeyman, he used to cry about it. Your uncle is great in the lacliry-» 
matory line, Clive Newcome. He used to go with tears in his eyes to 
Sherrick, and implore him not to have* Rawkins, but he would. And I 
must say for poor Charles that the failure of Lady Whittlesea's has not 
been altogether Charles's fault ; and that Sherrick has kicked down 
that property. 

*' Well then Sir, poor Charles thought to make it all right by marrying 
Mrs. Brumby ; — ^and she was very fond of him and the thing was all 
"but done, in spite of her sons who were in a rage as you may fancy. 
But Charley, Sir, has such a propensity for humbug that he will tell 
lies when there is no earthly good in lying. He represented his chapel 
at twelve hundred a year, his private means as so and so ; and when he 
came to book up with Briggs, the lawyer, Mrs. Brumby's brother, it 
was found that he lied and prevaricated so that the widow in actual 
disgust would have nothing more to do with him. She was a good 
woman of business and managed the hat shop for nine years whilst poor 
Brumby was at Doctor Tokely's. A first-rate shop it was too. I 
introduced Charles to it. My uncle, the bishop, had his shovels there : 
and they used for a considerable period to cover this humble roof with 
tiles," said F. B., tapping his capacious forehead ; " I am sure he might 
have had Brumby," he added in his melancholy tones, "but for those 
unluckly lies. She didn't want money. She had plenty. She longed 
to get into society and was bent on marrying a gentleman. 

** But what I can't pardon in Honeyman is the way in which he has 



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246 THE >'£WCOM£S. 

done poor old Ridley and his wife. I took him there you know, thinking 
they would send their hills in once a month : that he was doing a good 
business : in fact that I had put *em into a good thing. And the fellow 
has told me a score of times, that he and the Eidleys were all right. 
But he has not only not paid his lodgings, but he has had money of 
them : he has given dinners : he has made Ridley pay for wine. He 
has kept paying lodgers out of the house and he tells me all this with 
a burst of tears, when he sent for me to Lazarus *s to-night, and I went 
to him Sir because he was in distress — went into the lion's den, Sir ! " 
says F. B., looking round nobly. " I don't know how much he owes 
them : because of course you know the sum he mentions aint the right 
«ne. He never doa tell the truth — does Charles. But think of the 
pluck of those good Ridleys never saying a single word to F. B. about the 
debt ! * We are poor, but -we have saved some money and can lie out of 
it. And we think Mr. Honeyman will pay us,' says Mrs. Ridley to me 
this very evening. And she thrilled my heart-strings. Sir; and I took 
her in my arms, and kissed the old woman," says Bayham, " and I 
rather astonished little Miss Gann and young J. J. who came in with a 
picture under his arm. But she said she had kissed Master Frederick 
long before J. J. was bom — and so she had : that good and faithful 
servant — and my emotion in embracing her, was manly, Sir, manly." 

Here old Betsy came in to say that the supper was a waitin' for Mr. 
Bayham and it was a gettin' very late : and we left F. B. to his meal and 
bidding adieu to Mrs. Nokes, Olive and I went each to our Imbitation. 



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CHAPTER XXVI. 



IN WHICH COLONEL NEWCOME S HOUSES ABE SOLD. 



T an hour early the next 
morning I was not surprised 
to see Colonel Newcome at 
my chambers, to whom Cliye 
had communicated Bayham's 
important news of the night 
before. The Colonel's object, 
as any one who knew him need 
scarcely be told, was to rescue 
his brother-in-law; and being 
ignorant of lawyers, sheriffs* 
officers, and their proceedings, 
he bethought him that he would 
apply to Lamb Court for infor- 
mation, and in so far showed 
some prudence, for at least I 
knew more of the world and its 
ways than my simple client, 
and was enabled to make better 
terms for the unfortunate pri 
soner, or rather for Colonel 
Newcome who was the real sufferer, than Honeyman's creditors might 
otherwise have been disposed to give. 

I thought it would be more prudent that our good Samaritan should 
not see the victim of rogues whom he was about to succour ; and left 
him to entertain himself with Mr. Warrington in Lamb Court, while 
I sped to the lock-up-house, where the May Fair pet was confined. 
A sickly smile played over his countenance as he beheld me when 
I was ushered to his private room. The reverend gentleman was not 
shaved ; he had partaken of breakfast. I saw a glass which had once 
contained brandy on the dirty tray whereon his meal was placed : a 
greasy novel from a Chancery Lane library lay on the table : but he 
was at present occupied in writing one or more of those great long 
letters, those laborious, ornate, eloquent statements, those documents 
80 profusely underlined, in which the machinations of villains are laid 
bare with itdic fervour ; the coldness, to use no harsher phrase, of 




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248 THE NEWCOMES. 

friends on whom reliance might have heen placed; the outrageous 
conduct of Solomons ; the astonishing failure of Smith to pay a sum 
of money on which he had counted as on the Bank of England ; finallj, 
the vifallible certainty of repaying (with what heartfelt thanks need 
not be said) the loan of so many pounds next Saturday week at farthest. 
All this, which some readers in the coarse of their experience have 
read no doubt in many handwritings, was duly set forth by poor 
Honeyman. There was a wafer in a wine-glass on the table, and the 
bearer no doubt below to carry the missive. They always send these 
letters by a messenger, who i? introduced in the postscript ; he is 
always sitting in the hall when you get the letter, and is *• a young 
man waiting for an answer, please.** 

No one can suppose that Honeyman laid a complete statement of his 
affairs before the negociator, who was charged to look into them. No 
creditor does confess all his debts, but breaks them gradually to his 
man of business, factor or benefactor, leading him on from surprise to 
surprise ; and when he is in possession of the tailor s little account, 
introducing him to the bootmaker. Honeyman's schedule I felt 
perfectly certain was not correct. The detainers against him were trifling. 
** Moss of Wardour Street, one hundred and twenty — I believe I have 
paid him thousands in this .very transaction," ejaculates Honeyman. 
" A heartless West End tradesman hearing of my misfortune — these 
people are all linked together, my dear Pendennis, and rush like 
vultures upon their prey ! Waddilove, the tailor, has another writ out 
for ninety-eight pounds — a man whom I have made by my recommenda- 
tions ! Tobbins, the bootmaker, his neighbour in Jermyn Street, forty-one 
pounds more, and that is all — I give you my word, all. In a few months, 
when my pew-rents will be coming in, I should have settled with those 
cormorants ; otherwise, my total and irretrievable ruin, and the disgrace 
and humiliation of a prison attends me. I know it ; I can bear it ; I have 
been wretchedly weak, Pendennis : T can say mea culpa, mea maxima 
cidpa, and I can — bear — my — penalty." In his finest moments ho 
was never more pathetic. He tunied his head away, and concealed it 
in a handkerchief not so white as those which veiled his emotions at 
Lady Whittlesea*8. 

How by degrees this slippery penitent was induced to make other 
confessions ; how we got an idea of Mrs, Eidley's account from him, of 
his dealings with Mr. Sherrick, need not be mentioned here. The 
conclusion to which Colonel Newcome's ambassador came was, that to 
help such a man wcmld be quite useless ; and that the Fleet Prison 
would be a most wholesome retreat for this most reckless divine. Er^ 
the day was out Messrs. Waddilove and Tobbins had conferred with 
their neighbour in St. James's, Mr. Brace ; and there came a detainer 
from that haberdasher for gloves, cravats, and pocket-handkerchiefs> 
that might have done credit to the most dandified young Guardsman. 
Mr. Warrington was on Mr. Pendennis's side, and urged that t3ae law 
should take its course. " Why help a man," said he, " who will nat help 



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THE NEWCOMES. 



249 



himself? Let the law sponge out the fellow s debts; set him goiug 
again with twenty pounds when he qjaits the prison, and get him a 
chaplaincy in the Isle of Man." 




I saw by the Colonel's grave kind face that these hard opinions 
did not suit him. At all events, Sir, promise us, we said, that you will 
pay nothing yourself — that you won't see Honeyman's creditors, and 
let people, who know the world better, deal with him. ** Know the 
world, young man ! " cries Newcome ; " I should think if I don't know 
the world at my ^e, I never shall." And if he had lived to be as old 
as Jahaleel a boy could still have cheated him. 

" I do not scruple to tell you," he said, after a pause, during which 
a plenty of smoke was delivered from the council of three, " that 
I have — a fund — which I had set aside for mere purposes of pleasure, 
I give you my word, and a part of which I shall think it my duty to 
devote to poor Honeyman's distresses. The fund is not large. The 
mouey was intended in fact: — however, there it is. If Pendennis will 
go rouud to these tradesmen, and make soma composition with them, 
as their prices have been no doubt enormously exaggerated, I see no 
harm. Besides the tradesfolk there is good Mrs. Ridley and 
Mr. Sherrick — we must see them ; and, if we can, set this luckless 
Charles again on his legs. We have read of other prodigals who were 
kindly treated ; and we may have debts of our own to forgive, boys." 

Into Mr. Sherrick 's account we had no need to enter. That 



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250 THE NEWOOME& 



eman had acted ^ith perfect fBuniess by Honeyman. He laugli- 
ingly said to us, *' You don't imagine I would lend that chap a shilling 
without security ? I will give him fifty or a hundred. Here's one of 
his notes, with what-do-you-call-'em's — that rum fellow Bayhara's— 
name as drawer. A nice pair, aint they ? Pooh 1 I shall never touch 
'em. I lent some money on the shop overhead," says Sherrick, 
pointing to the ceiling (we were in his counting-house in the cellar of 
Lady Whittlesea*s chapel), " because I thought it was a good speculation. 
And so it was at first. The people liked Honeyman. All the nobs 
came to hear him. Now the speculation aint so good. He's used up. 
A chap can't be expected to last for ever. When I first engaged 
Mademoiselle Bravura at my theatre, you couldn't get a place for three 
weeks together. The next year she didn't draw twenty pounds a week. 
So it was with Pottle, and the regular drama humbug. At first it was 
all very well. Good business, good houses, our immortal bard, and 
that sort of game. They engaged the tigers and the French riding 
people over the way ; and there was Pottle bellowing away in my place • 
to the orchestra and the orders. It's all a speculation. I've speculated 
in about pretty much everything that's going : in theatres, in joint- 
stock jobs, in building ground, in bills, in gas and insurance companies, 
and in this chapel. Poor old Honeyman ! I won't hurt him. About 
that other chap I put in to do the first business — that red-haired chap, 
Rawkins — I think I was wrong. I think he injure(y;he property. But 
I don't know everything, you know. I wasn't bred to know about 
parsons — quite the reverse. I thought, when I heard Rawkins at 
Hampstead, he was just the thing. I used to go about, sir, just as I did 
to the provinces, when I had the theatre — Camberwell, Ishngton, 
Kennington, Clapton, all about, and hear the youog chaps. Have a 
glass of sherry; and here's better luck to Honeyman. As for that 
Colonel, he's a trump. Sir ! I never see such a man. I have to deal with 
such a precious lot of rogues : in the city and out of it, among the swells 
and all you know, that to see such a fellow refreshes me ; and I'd do 
anything for him. You've made a good thing of that Fall MM Gazette! 
I tried papers too ; but mine didn't do. I don't know why. I tried a 
Tory one, moderate Liberal, and out-and-out uncompromising Radical. 
I say, what d*ye think of a religious paper, the Gatechism, or some such 
name ? Would Honeyman do as editor ? I'm afraid it's all up with 
the poor cove at the chapel." And I parted with Mr. Sherrick, not a 
little edified by his talk, and greatly relieved as to Honeyman's fate. 
The tradesmen of Honeyman's body were appeased; and as for 
Mr. Moss, when he found that the curate had no effects, and must 
go before the Insolvent Court, unless Moss chose to take the compo- 
sition, which we were empowered to offer him ; he too was brought to 
hear reason, and parted with the stamped paper on which was poor 
Honeyman's signature. Our negotiation had like to have come to an 
end by Clive's untimely indignation, who offered at one stage of the 
proceedings to pitch young Moss out of window; but nothing came 



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THE XEWCOMES. 251 

of this most tingentlebadUke beayviaur on Noocob's part, further 
than remonstrance and delay in the proceedings ; and Honeyman 
preached a lovely sermon at Lady Whittlesea's the very next Sunday. 
He had made himself much liked in the sponging-house, and Mr. 
Lazarus said, " If he hadn't a got out time enough, I'd a let him out 
for Sunday, and sent one of my men with him to show him the way 
ome, you know ; for when a gentleman behaves as a gentleman to me, 
I behave as a gentleman to him." 

Mrs. Bidley's account, and it was a long one, was paid without a single 
question, or the deduction of a farthing ; but the Colonel rather 
sickened of Honeyman 's expressions of rapturous gratitude, and received 
his professions of mingled contrition and delight very coolly. ** My 
boy," says the father to Clive, ** you see to what straits debt brings a 
man, to tamper with truth, to have to cheat the poor. Think of flying 
before a washerwoman, or humbling yourself to a tailor, or eating a poor 
man's children's bread ! " Clive blushed, I thought, and looked rather 
confused. 

"0, father," says he, *'I — I'm afraid I owe some money too — not 
much; but about forty pound, five-and-twenty for cigars, and fifteen 
I borrowed of Pendennis, and — ^and — I've been devilish annoyed about 
it all this time." 

f* You stupid boy," says the father, " I knew about the cigars bill, 
and paid it last week. Anything I have is yours you know. As long 
as there is a guinea, there is half for you. See that every shilling we 
owe is paid before — before a week is over. And go down and ask 
Binnie if I can see him in his study. I want to have some conversation 
with him." When Clive was gone away, he said to me in a very sweet 
voice, " In God's name, keep my boy out of debt when I am gone, 
Arthur, I shall return to India very soon." 

*' Very soon. Sir ! You have another year's leave," said I. 

" Yes, but no allowances you know ; and this affair of Honey- 
man's has pretty nearly emptied the little purse I had set aside 
for European expenses. They have been very much heavier than I 
expected. As it is, I overdrew my account at my brother's, and have 
been obliged to draw money from my agents in Calcutta. A year 
sooner or later (unless two of our' senior officers had died, when I 
should have got my promotion and full colonel's pay with it, and 
proposed to remain in this country) — a year sooner or later, what 
does it matter ? Clive will go away and work at his art, and see the 
great schools of painting while I am absent. I thought at one time 
how pleasant it would be to accompany him. But Vhomme propose^ 
Pendennis. I fancy now a lad is not the better for being always tied 
to his parent's -apron-string. You young fellows are too clever for me. 
I haven't learned your ideas or read your books. I feel myself very 
often an old damper in your company. I will go back. Sir, where I 
have some friends, and where I am somebody still. I know an honest 
face or two, white and brown, that vrill lighten up in the old regiment 



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252 THE NEWCO^IES. 

•wben they see Tom Newcome again. God bless you, Arthur.' You 
young fellows in this country have such cold ways that we old ones 
liardly know how to like you at first. James Binnie and I, when wo 
first came home, used to talk you over, and think you laughed at us. 
But you didn't, I know. God Almighty bless you, and send you a good 
wife, and make a good man of you. I have bought a watch, which I 
would like you to wear in remembrance of me and my boy, to whom 
you were so kind when you were boys together in the old Grey Friars." 
I took his hand, and uttered some incoherent words of affection and 
respect. Did not Thomas Newcome merit both from all who knew 
him? 

His resolution being taken, our good Colonel began to make silent 
but effectual preparations for his coming departure. He was pleased 
during these last days of his stay to give me even more of his confi- 
dence than I had previously enjoyed, and was kind enough to say that 
he regarded me almost as a son of his own, and hoped I would act as 
elder brother and guardian to Clive. Ah! who is to guard the guardian? 
The younger brother had many nobler qualities than belonged to the 
elder. The world had not hardened Clive, nor even succeeded in 
spoiling him. I perceive I am diverging frpm his history into that of 
another person, and will return to the subject proper of the book. 
. Colonel Newcome expressed himself as being particularly touched 
and pleased with his friend Binnie's conduct, now that the Colonel's 
departure was determined. ** James is one of the most generous of 
men, Pendenhis, and I am proud to be put under an obligation to him, 
and to tell it too. I hired this house, as j-ou ieire aware, of our specu- 
lative friend Mr. Sherrick, and am answerable for the payment of the 
rent till the expiry of the lease. James has taken the matter off my 
hands entirely. The place is greatly too large for him, but be says 
that he likes it, and intends to stay, and that his sister and niece shall 
he his housekeepers. Clive (here, perhaps, the speaker's voice drops a 
little) Clive will be the son of the house still, honest James says, and 
God bless him. James is richer than I thought by near a lakh of 
rupees, — and here is a hint for you, Master Arthur. Mr. Binnie has 
declared to me in confidence that if his niece, Miss Rosey, shall marry 
a person of whom he approves, he will leave her a considerable part of 
his fortune." 

The Colonel's confidant here said that his own arrangements were 
made in another quarter, to which statement the Colonel replied know- 
ingly, *' I thought so. A little bird has whispetcd to me the name of 
a certain Miss A. I knew her grandfather, an accommodating old 
gentleman, arid I borrowed some money from him when I was a 
subaltern at Calcutta, I tell you in strict confidence, my dear young 
friend, that I hope and trust a certain young gentleman of your 
acquaintance may be induced to think how good and pretty and 
sweet-tempered a girl Miss Mackenzie is, and that she may be 
brought to like him. If you young men would marry in good time 



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THE NEWCOMES* 25-3 

good and virtuous women— as I am sure — ahem! — Miss Amorj is--» 
half the temptations of your youth would be avoided. You would neither 
be dissolute, as many of you seem to me, or cold and selfish, which are 
worse vices stilL And my prayer is, that my Clive may cast anchor 
eaily out of the reach of temptation, and mate with some such kind 
girl as Binnie*s niece. When I first came home I formed other plans 
for him which could . not be bi*6ught to a successful issue ; and knowing 
his ardent disposition, and having kept an eye on the young rogue's 
conduct, I tremble lest some mischance with a woman should befal him, 
and long to have him out of danger." 

So the kind scheme of the two ciders was, that their young onea 
should marry and be happy ever after, like the Prince and Princess of 
the Fairy-Tale : and dear Mrs. Mackenzie, (have I said that at the 
commencement of her visit to her brother she made almost open love to 
the Colonel ?) dear Mrs. Mack was content to forego her own chances 
80 that her darling Ex)sey might be happy. We used to laugh and say, 
that as soon as Olive's father was gone, Josey would be sent for to join 
Rosey. But little Josey being under her grandmother's sole influence 
took a most gratifying and serious turn ; wrote letters, in which, she 
questioned the morality of operas, Towers of London, and wax-works ; 
and, before a year was out, married Elder Bogie, of Mr. M'Craw's 
church. 

Presently was to be read in the "Morning Post" an advertisement of 
the sale of three horses (the description and pedigree following), " the 
property of an officer returning to India. Apply to the groom, at the 
stables, 150, Fitzroy Square.'* 

The Court of Directors invited Lieutenant- Colonel Newcome to an 
entertainment given to Major-General Sir Ealph Spurrier, K.C.B,, 
appointed Commander-in-Chief at Madras. Clive was asked to this 
dinner too, *' and the governor's health was drunk, Sir," Clive said, 
*' after dinner, and the dear old fellow made such a good speech, iu 
retuiTiing thanks 1 " 

He, Clive and I made a pilgrimage to Grey Friars, and had the 
Green to ourselves, it being the Bartlemytide vacation, and the boys 
all away. One of the good old Poor Brothers whom we both recollected 
accompanied us round the place ; and we sate for a while in Captain 
Scarsdale's little room (he had been a peninsular officer, who had sold 
out, and was fain in his old age to retire into this calm retreat). And 
we talked, as old schoolmates and lovers talk, about subjects interesting 
to schoolmates and lovers only. 

One.by ouethe Colonel took leave of his friends, young and old; 
ran down to Newcome, and gave Mrs. Mason a parting benediction ; 
slept a night at Tom Smith's, and passed a day with Jack Brown ; went 
to all the boys' and girls' schools where his little proteges were, so as to 
he able to take the very last and most authentic account of the young 
folks to their parents, in India ; spent a week at Marble Hill, and 
shot partridges thiere, but for which entertainment, Clive said, the place 



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254 THB KEWCOMES. 

would hare been intolerable ; and thence proceeded to Brighton to pass » 
little time with good Miss Honeyman. As for Sir Brian's family, when 
parliament broke up of course tbej did not stay in town. Barnes, of 
course, had part of a moor in Scotland, whither his uncle and cousin did 
not follow him. The rest went abroad. Sir Brian wanted the wate» 
of Aix-la-Chapelle ; the brothers parted very good friends ; Lady Anne, 
and all the young people, heartily wished him farewell. I believe Sir 
Brian even accompanied the Colonel down stairs from the drawing- 
room, in Park Lane, and actually came out and saw his brother into his 
cab (just as he would accompany old Lady Bagges when she came to 
look at her account at the bank, from the parlour to her carriage). But 
as for Ethel she.yfas not going to be put off with this sort of parting: 
and the next morning a cab dashed up to Fitzroy Square, and a veiled 
lady came out thence, and was closeted vrith Colonel Newcome for fife 
minutes, and when he led her back to the carriage there were tears in 
his eyes. 

Mrs. Mackenzie joked about the transaction (having watched it from 
the dining-room windows), and asked the Colonel who his sweetheart 
. was ? Newcome replied very stenily, that he hoped no one would ever 
speak lightly of that young lady, whom he loved as his own daughter; 
and I thought Eosey looked vexed at the praises thus bestowed. This 
was the day before we all went down to Brighton. Miss Honeyman'9 
lodgings were taken for Mr. Binnie and his ladies. Olive and her 
dearest Colonel had apartments next door. Charles Honeyman came 
down and preached one of his very best sermons. Fred Bayham was 
there, and looked particularly grand and noble on the pier and thecli£ 
I am inclined to think he had had some explanation with Thomas 
Newcome, which had 'placed F. B. in a state of at least temporary 
prosperity. Whom did he not benefit whom he knew, and what eye 
that saw him did not bless him ? F. B. was greatly a£fected at 
Charles's sermon, of which our party of course could see the allusions. 
Tears actually rolled down his brown cheeks ; for Fred was a man very 
easily moved, and as it were a softened sinner. Little Rosey and her 
mother sobbed audibly, greatly to the surprise of stout old Miss 
Honeyman, who had no idea of such vmtery exhibitions, and to the 
discomfiture of poor Newcome, who was annoyed to have his praises even 
hinted in that sacred edifice. Good Mr. James Binnie came for once to 
church ; and, however variously their feelings might be exhibited or 
repressed, I think there was not one of the little circle there assembled 
who did not bring to the place a humble prayer and a gentle heart 
It was the last sabbath-bell our dear friend was to hear for many a 
day on his native shore. The great sea washed the beach as we c&me 
out, blue with the reflection of the skies, and its innumerable waves 
crested with sunshine. I see the good man and his boy yet clinging to 
him, as they pace together by the shore. 

The Colonel was very much pleased by a visit from Mr. Eidley, and 
the communication which he made (My Lord Todmorden has a mansion 



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THE NEWCOHBS. ^55 

imd park ia Sussex, whence Mr. Eidley came to pay his duty to 
Colonel Newcome). He said he " never could forget the kindness with 
which the Colonel have a treated him. His lordship have taken a 
young man, which Mr. Ridley had brought him up under his own eye, 
and caa answer for him, Mr. R. says, with impunity ; and which he is 
to be his lordship's own man for the future. A^d his lordship have 
appointed me his steward, and having, as he always hev been, been 
most liberal in point of sellary. And me and Mrs. Ridley was thinking, 
sir, most respectfully, with regard to our son, Mr. John James Ridley — 
as good and honest a young man, which I am proud to say it, that if 
Mr. Olive goes abroad we should be mostproudandhappy if John Jamea 
went with him. And the money which you have paid vis so handsome^ ■ 
Colonel, he shall have it ; which it was the excellent ideer of Miss Oann ; 
and my lord have ordered a pictur of John James in the most libral 
manner, and have asked my son to dinner,, sir, at his lordship s own 
table, which I have faithfully served him five and thirty years." Ridley's 
voice fairly broke down at this part of his speech, which evidently was 
a studied composition, and he uttered no more of it, for the Colonel 
cordially shook him by the hand, and Clive jumped up clapping his, . 
and saying that it was the greatest wish of his heart that J. J. and he 
should be companions in France and Italy. " But I did not like to 
ask my dear old father,*' he said, ** who has had so many calls on his 
purse, and besides, I knew that J. J. was too independent to come as 
my follower." 

The Colonel's berth has been duly secured ere now. This time he 
makes the overland journey ; and his passage is to Alexandria, taken 
in one of the noble ships of the Peninsular and Oriental Company. 
His kit is as simple as a subaltern's ; I believe, but for Clive 's friendly 
compulsion, he would have carried back no other than the old uniform 
which has served him for so many years. Clive and his father travelled 
to Southampton together by themselves. F. B. and I took the 
Southampton coach : we had asked leave to see the last of him, and 
say a " God bless you" to our dear old friend. So the day came when 
the vessel was to sail. We saw his cabin, and witnessed all the bustle 
and stir on board the good ship on a day of departure. Our thoughts, 
however, were fixed but on one person — the case, no doubt, with 
hundreds more on such a day. There was many a group of friends 
closing wistfully together on the sunny deck, and saying the last words 
of blessing and farewell. The bustle of the ship passes dimly round 
about them ; the hurrying noise of crew and officers running on their 
<luty ; the tramp and song of the men at the capstan bars ; the bells 
ringing, as the hour for departure comes nearer and nearer, as mother 
and son, father and daughter, husband and wife, hold hands yet for a 
little while. We saw Clive and his father talking together by the 
^heel. Then they went below ; and a passenger, her husband, a&ked 
me to give my arm to an almost fainting lady, and to lead her off the 
ship. Bayham followed us, carrying their two children in his arms, 



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25G THE NEWCOMES. 

as the husband turned away, and walked aft. The last bell was 
ringing, and they were crying, " Now for the shore." The whole ship 
had begun to throb ere this, and its great wheels to beat the water, 
and the chimnies had flung out their black signals for sailing. We 
were as yet close on the dock, and we saw Olive coming up from 
below, looking very pale ; the plank was drawn after him as he 
stepped on land. 

Then, with three great cheers from the dock, and from the crew 
in the bows, and from the passengers on the quarter deck, the noble 
ship strikes the first stroke of her destined race, .'and swims away 
towards the ocean. '* There he is, there he is," shoutis Fred Bajham, 
leaving his hat. ** God bless him, God bless him ! " . I scarce perceived at 
the ship's side, beckoning an adieu, our dear old friend, when the lady, 
whose husband had bidden me to lead her away from, the ship, fainted 
in my arms. Poor soul ! Her, too, has fate stricken. Ah, pangs of 
hearts torn asunder, passionate regrets, cruel, crueLpartings ! Shall you 
not end one day, ere many years ; when the tears sliall be wiped from 
all eyes, and there shall be neither sorrow nor pain ? 



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CHAPTER XXVII. 



YOUTH AND SUHSHIHE. 




LTHOUGHThomasNewcom^ 
wa9 gone bax^k to India ia 
fiearch of more money, finding 
that he could not live upon h]g 
income at home» he was never» 
theless rather a, wealthy man » 
and at the moment of his depar- 
ture from Europe had two lakhg 
of rupees invested in various 
Indian securities. "A thousand a 
year/'hethought» ''more, added 
to the interest accruing from 
my two lakhs, will enable us tf 
live very comfortably at home. 
I can give Clive ten thousand 
pounds when he marries, and 
£ve hundred a-year out of my 
allowances. If he gets a wife 
with some money, they m^j 
We every exyoym^t of life ; and as for his pictures he can paint 
just as few or as many of those as he pleases." Newcome did 
not seem, seriously t9 believe that his son would live by painting 
pictures^ but centered Olive as a young prince who chose to amusoi 
lumself with painting. Th^ Muse of Paintiqg is a lady whose jsocial 
station is not altogether recognised with us as yet. The polite worlds 
permits a geatleman to amuse himself with her, but to take her for 
l)6tteror for worse! forsake all other chances and/^leave unto herl 
to assmvie her name ! Many a respectable person would be as much 
shocked at the notion, as if his son had noarried an opera dancer. 

Newcome left a hundred a^year in England, of which the prindpal 
sum \7as to be transferred to his boy as soon as he came of age. 
He endowed Clive farther with a considerable annual sum, which his 
XiOndon banl^ers would pay : ** And if these are not enough," says he 
kindly, " you must draw upon my agents, Messrs. Franks and Merry- 
^ther, at Calcutta, who; will receive your signature just as if it was 
niine." Before going a^ay, be introduced Olive to F. and M.*8 
<x)rresponding London house^ Jolly aod Baines, Fog Court — ^leading 



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258 THE NEWCOMBS. 

out of Leadenhall — ^Mr. Jolly, a myth as regarded the firm, now 
married to Lady Julia Jolly — a park in Kent— evangelical interest- 
great at Exeter Hall meetings— knew Clivers grandmother — ^that is, 
Mrs. Newcome, a most adndrahle woman. Baines represents a house 
in the Regent's Park, with an emigratlTe tendency towards Belgravia— 
musical daughters — Herr Moscheles, Benedick, Ella, Oshome, con- 
stantly at dinner — sonatas in P flat (op. 936), composed and dedicated 
to Miss Euphemia Baines, hy her most obliged, most obedient servant, 
Ferdinando Blitz. Baines. hop^ that his. young fnend will come 
constantly to York Terrace, where the girls will be most happy to see 
him ; and mentions at home a singular whim of Colonel Newcomers, 
who can give his son twelve or fifteen hundred a-year, and makes an 
artist of him. Euphemia and Flora adore artists ; they feel quite 
interested about this young man. " He was scribbling caricatures all 
the time I ^vas talking with his father in my parlour," says Mr. Baines, 
and produces a sketch of an orange-woman near the Bank, who had 
struck Olive's eyes, and been transferred to the blotting-paper in Fog 
Court. ^*He needn't do anything," said good-natured Mr. Baines. 
•• I guess all the pictures he'll paint won't sell for much." 

" Is he fond of music, papa? " asks Miss. ** What a pity he had 
not come to our last evening ; and now the season is over ! " 

" And Mr. Kewcome is going out of town. He came to me to-day for 
circular notes — says he s going through Switzerland and into ItaJy— 
lives in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square. Queer place, ain't it? Put 
his name down in your book, and ask him to dinner next season." 

Before Clive went away, he had an apparatus of easels, sketching- 
stools, umbrellas, and painting-boxes, the most elaborate and beautifal 
that Messrs. Soap and Isaac could supply. It made J. J.'s eyes glisten 
to see those lovely gimcracks of art ; those smooth mill-boards, those 
slab-tinted sketching-blocks, and glistening rows of colour-tubes lying 
in their boxes, which seemed to cry, "Come, squeeze me." K 
painting-boxes made painters ; if sketching-stools would but enable 
one to sketch, surely I would hasten this very instant to Messrs. Soap 
and Isaac ! but, alas ! these pretty toys no more make artists than 
cowls make monks. 

As a proof that Clive did intend to practise his profession, and to 
live by it too, at this time he took four sporting sketches to a print- 
seller in the Haymarket, and disposed of them at the rate of seven 
shillings and sixpence per sketch. His exultation at receiving & 
sovereign and half a sovereign from Mr. Jones was boundless. " 1 
can do half a dozen of these things easily in a morning,*' sajs he. 
*' Two guineas a day is twelve guineas-^-say ten guineas a week, for I 
won't work on Sundays, and may take a holiday in the week besides. 
Ten guineas a week is five hundred a-year. That is pretty nearly as 
much money as I shall want, and I need not draw the .dear old 
governor's allowance at all." He wrote an ardent letter, full of 
happiness and affection, to the kind father, which he shall find a month 



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THB NEWCOHES. 259 

aflier he has arrived in India, and read to his friends m Calcntta and 
fiarrackpore. Gliye invited many of his artist friends to a grand feast 
in honour of the thirty shillings. The King*s Arms, Kensington, was 
the hotel selected (tayem beloved of artists for many score years!). 
Gandish was there, and the Gandishites and some chosen spirits from 
the Life Academy, Clipstone Street, and J. J. was vice-president, with' 
Fred Bayhs^m by his side, to make the speeches and carve the mutton ; 
and I promise yon many a merry song was sung, and many a health 
dnmk in flowing bumpers ; and as jolly a party was assembled as any 
London contained that day. The beau monde had quitted it; the 
Park was empty as we crossed it; and the leaves of Kensington 
Gardens had begun to fall, dying after the fatigues of a London 
MMon. We sang all the way home through Knightsbridge and by 
the Park ndlinga, and the Oovent Garden carters halting at the 
Halfway House were astonished at our choruses. There is no half- 
^j boose now ; no merry chorus at midnight. 

Then Glive and J. J. took the steam-boat to Antwerp ; and those 
who love pictures may imagine how the two young men rejoiced in one 
of the most picturesque cities of the world ; where they went back 
straightway into the sixteenth century ; where the inn at which they 
staid (delightful old Grand Laboureur, thine ancient walls are levelled ! 
thy comfortable hospitalities exist no more !) seemed such a hostelry 
^ that where Quentin Durward first saw bis sweetheart; where 
bights of Velasquez or burgomasters of Rubens seemed to look from 
the windqws of the tall-gabled houses and the quaint porches ; where 
the Bourse still stood, the Bourse of three hundred years ago, and 
J^ had but to supply figures with beards and ruffs, and rapiers and 
tnmk-hose, to make the picture complete ; where to be awakened by 
the carillon of the bells was to waken to the most delightful sense of 
"^ and happiness ; where nuns, actual nuns, walked the streets, and 
eveiy figure in the Place de Meir, and every devotee at church kneeling 
*Q<i draped in black, or entering the confessional (actually the con- 
fe»ional!), \vas a delightful subject for the new sketch-book. Had 
Clive drawn as much everywhere as at Antwerp, Messrs. Soap and 
Isaac might have made a little income by supplying him with 
niaterials. 

After Antwerp, Olive's correspondent gets a letter dated from the 
Hotel de Suede at Brussels, which contains an elaborate eulogy of the 
cookery and comfort of that hotel, where the wines, according to the 
J^fnter s opinion, are unmatched almost in Europe. And this is followed 
oy a description of Waterloo, and a sketch of Hougoumont, in which 

• J- is represented running away in the character of a Freuch 
gfenadier, Olive pursuing him in the life-guard's habit, and mounted on 
^thundering charger. 

Next follows a letter from Bonn. Verses about Drachenfels of a not 
^ superior style of versification : account of Crichton, an old Grey 

'"^^^ man, who has become a student at the university ; of a commerz, 



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260 THB KBWCOMBS. 

a drunken bout ; and a students' duel at Bonn. /' And whom sluiuld I 
find here," says Mr. Olive, " but Aunt Ann, Ethel, Miss Quigley, and 
the little ones, the whole detachment under the eommand of Kuhu? 
Uncle Brian is staying at Aix. He is recovered from his attack* 
And, upon my conscience, I think my pretty cousin looks ^ettidr 
every day, 

. '* When they are not in London/' Olive goes on to write, ** or I some* 
times think when Barnes or old Lady Kew are not looking ovqt them^ 
they are quite different. You know how o(^d they huve latterty mwsi 
to us, and how their conduct annoyed my dear old father. Nothing «an 
be kinder than their behaviour since we have met. ; It was on the little 
hill at Godesberg, J. J. and I were mounting to the ruin, followed by 
the beggars who waylay you, and have (taken, the place of the oth«r 
robbers who used to live there, when there came a prQcession of donk^ 
down the stepp, and I heard a little voice arj * Hullo I it*s Olive i hoanij» 
Olive ! ' and an ass came pattering down the deelivitj, with, a Ut^e 
pair of white trowsers at an immensely wide angle over the donk^'s 
back, and behold there was little Alfred grinning with all his might. . 

** He turned his beast and was far galloping up the hill again, I 
suppose to inform his relations; but the donkey refiised with maay 
kicks, one of which sent Alfred plunging amongst the atones, and we 
were rubbing him down just as the rest of the party came upon u0. 
Miss Quigley looked very grim on an old white poney ; my aUnt was OQ 
1^ black horse that might have turned grey, he is 90 old. Then oM 
two dpnkeysful of children, with Kuhn as superoargo ; then 'BthA on 
donkey baqk, top, with a bunch of wild fiowa:^. in her hand, a great 
straw hat with a crimson ribbon, a white muslin jacket you knpw, hM^ 
at the waist. with a ribbon of the first, and a dark skirt, with a sjsawl 
round her feet which Kuhn had arranged* As she stopped, the donkey 
fell to cropping greens in the hedge; the trees there chequered b^ 
white dress and face with shadow. Her eyes, hair, and forehead 
were in shadow too: — ^but the light was all upon her right cheek: 
upon her shoulder down to her ;arm, which was of a warmer white, 
and on the bunch of flowers which she held, blue, yellow and red 
poppies, and so forth. 

** J. J. says * I think the birds began to sing louder when she came.' 
We have i)oth agreed that she is the handsomest woman in EagliA^' 
It's not her form merely, which is certainly as yet too thin and a little 
angular — it is her colour* I do not care far woman or picture withoot 
colour. ye carnations ! ye lUia mista rom! O such black hair and 
solemn eyebrows ! It seems to me the roses and carnations have 
bbomed again since we saw them last in London ; when they ^^ 
drooping from the exposure to night air« qandle light, and heated ball 
rooms. 

" Here I was in the midst of a regiment of donkeys, l^earing a ewwd 
of relations ; J. J. standing modestly in the -baek ground— beggaA 
completing the group, and Kuhn ruling Qver them with voice 8b4 8^' 



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^:r>^ 




C2>^ ^ym^/^. 



i^>a^ /^ (i^^/u^r/Y/^/./^ 



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THE NBWOOMESJ £61 

tore, oatlis and whip. Throw in the Bhine in the distance flashing hy 
the Seven Monntains — ^bnt mind and make £thel the principal figure t 
if yon make! her like — she certainly wUl he— and other lights will he 
only minor fires* You may paint her form, hut you can't paint het 
colour ; that is what heats us in nature. A line must come right ; you 
can force that into its place, hut you can't compel the circumambient 
air. There is no yellow I know of will make sunshine ; and no blue 
that is a bit like sky. And so with pictures : I think you only get signs 
of colour, and formulas to stand for it. That brickdust which we agree 
to reeeiTO as representing a blush, look at it — can you say it is in the 
least hke the Uusb which flickere and varies as it sweeps over the down 
of the cheek — ^as you see sunshine playing over a meadow ? Look into 
it and see what a variety of delicate blooms there are f a multitude of 
flowerets twining into one tint! We may break our colour pots 
tod flftrive after the line alone : that is palpable and we can grasp it — » 
the oliier is impossible and beyond us." Which sentiment I here set 
down, not on account of its worth (and I think it is contradicted — as 
well as asserted — in more than one of the letters I subsequently had 
from Mr. Olive), but it may serve to show the ardent and impulsive 
disposition of this youth, by whom all beauties of art and nature; 
animate or inanimate, (the former especially,) were welcomed with a 
gosto and delight whereof colder temperaments are incapable. Th6 
^w of a] fine landscape, a fine picture, a handsome woman, would 
make this harmless young sensualist tipsy with pleasure. He seemed 
to derive an actual hilarity and intoxication as his eye drank in these 
sights ; and, though it was his maxim that all dinners were good, and 
he could eat bread and cheese and drink small beer with perfect good 
humour, I believe that he found a certain pleasure in a bottle of claret; 
which most men^s systems were incapable of feeling. 

This spring-time of youth is the season of letter- writing. A lad in 
high health and spirits, the blood running briskly in his young veins, 
tod the world, and life, and nature bright and welcome to him, looks 
Wit, perforce, for some companion to whom he may impart his sense oif 
^© pleasure which he enjoys, and which were not complete unless a 
friend were by to share it. I was the person most convenient for the 
y^ng fellow's purpose ; he was pleased to confer upon me the title of 
friend en titre, and confidant in particular; to endow the confidant in 
qitestion with a number of virtues and excellences which existed very 
^ely only in the lad's imagination ; to lament that the confidant h&i 
^ sister whom he, Clive, might marry out of hand ; and to make me li 
wotisand simple protestd of aflfection and admiration, which are noted 
"®« as ttgns of the young man's character, by no means as proofs of the 
goodness of mine. The books given to the present biographer by "hit 
sffectionate friend, Clive Newcome," still bear on the title-pages the marter 
of that boyish hand and youthful fervour. He had a copy of ** Walter 
Jj^^e," bound and gilt with such splendour as made the author blusb 
wfins pcaformance, which has since been seen at the book-stalls at a price 



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2G3 THE NBWCOMBS. 

suited to the very humblest purses. He fired up and fought a neivs- 
paper critic (whom Clive met at the Haunt one night) Yfho had dared 
to write an article in which that work was slighted ; and if , in the 
x^ourse of nature, his friendship has outlived that rapturous period ; the 
kindness of the two old friends, I hope, is not the less because it is no 
longer romantic, and the days of white vellum and gilt edges have 
passed away. From the abundance of the letters which the affectionate 
young fellow now wrote, the ensuing portion of his youthful history is 
compiled. It may serve to recal passages of their early days to such of 
his seniors as occasionally turn over the leaves of a novel ; and in the 
story of his £ault6,indiscretions, passions, and actions, young readers loay 
be reminded of their own. 

Now that the old Countess, and perhaps Barnes, irere away, the 
barrier between Olive and this family seemed to be withdrawn. This 
young folks who loved him were free to see him as often as he would 
' come. They were going to Baden : would he come too? Baden was 
on the road to Switzerland, he might journey to Strasbourg, Basle* ftad 
80 on. Clive was glad enough to go with his cousins — and travel in 
the orbit of such a lovely girl as Ethel Newcome. J. J. performed the 
second part always when Clive was present : and so they all travelled 
to Coblentz, Mayence, and Frankfort together, making the journey 
which everybody knows, and sketching the mountains and castles we 
all of us have sketched. EtheFs beauty made all the passengers on all 
the steamers look round and admire. Clive was proud of being in the 
suite of such a lovely person. The family travelled with a pair of those 
carriages, which used to thunder along the continental roads a dozen 
years since, and from interior, box, and rumble discharge a dozen 
!E^nglish people at hotel gates. 

The journey is all sunshine and pleasure and novelty : the circular 
notfes with which Mr. Baines of Fog Court has supplied Clive 
Newcome, Esquire, enabled that young gentleman to travel with 
great ease and comfort. He has not yet ventured upon engaging a valet 
de chambre, it being agreed between him and J. J. that two travelling 
artiS^ have no right to such.an aristocratic appendage, but he has bought 
a snug little britzska at Frankfort, (the youth has very polite tastes, is 
already a connoisseur in wine, and has no scruple in ordering the best 
at the hotels,) and the britzska travels in company with Lady Ann'g 
caravan, either in its wake so as to be out of reach of the dust, or more 
frequently a-head of that enormous vehicle, and its tender, in which 
come the children and the governess of Lady Ann Newcome, guarded 
by a huge and melancholy London footman, who beholds Ehine and 
Neckar, valley and mountain, village and ruin, with a like disnaal com- 
posure. Little Alfred and little Egbert are by no means sorry to escape 
from Miss Quigley and the tender, and ride for a stage or two in Olive's 
britzska. The little girls cry sometimes to be admitted to that privi- 
lege. I dare say Ethel would like very well to quit her place in th6 
caravan, where she sits circumvented by Mamma's dogs, and books* 



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THS KBW(X)MXS. 268 

bags, dressing bozds, and gimcrack cases, vrithout which apparatus some 
English ladies of condition cannot travel ; but Miss Ethel is grown 
up, she is out, and has been presented at Court, and is a person of too 
great dignity now to sit anywhere but in the place of state in the chariot 
comer. I like to think for my part of the gallant young fellow 
taking his pleasure and enjoying his holiday, and few sights are 
more pleasant than to watch a happy manly English youth, free- 
handed and generous-hearted, content and good-humour shining 
in his honest face, pleased and pleasing, eager, active, and thankful 
for services, and exercising bravely his noble youthful privilege 
to be happy and to enjoy. Sing, cheery spirit, .whilst the spring 
lasts; bloom whilst the sun shines, kindly flowers of youth! You 
shall be none the worse to-morrow for having been happy to-day, 
if the day brings no action to shame it As for J. J., he too had 
his share of enjoyment; the charming scenes around him did not 
escape his bright eye, he absorbed pleasure in his silent way, he 
was up ^th the sunrise always, and at work with his eyes and his 
heart if not with his hands. A beautiful object too is such a one to 
contemplate, a pure virgin soul, a creature gentle, pious, and full of love, 
endowed with sweet gifts, humble and timid, but for truth's and justice's 
sake inflexible, thankful to God and -man, fond, patient, and faithful. 
Olive was still his hero as ever, his patron, his splendid young prince 
and chieftain. Who was so brave, who was so handsome, generous, witty 
as Clive ? To hear Olive sing as the lad would whilst they were seated 
at their work, or driving along on this happy journey, through fair land- 
scapes in the sunshine, gave J. J. the keenest pleasure : his wit was .a 
little slow, but he would laugh with his eyes at Olive's sallies, or pondei- 
over them and explode with laughter presently, giving a now source of 
amusement to these merry travellers, and little Alfred would laugh at 
JJ.'s laughing: and so, with a hundred harmless jokes to enliven, 'and 
the ever changing, ever charming smiles of nature to cheer and accom- 
pany it, the happy day's journey would come to an end. 

So they travelled by the accustomed route to the prettiest town of all 
places where Pleasure has set up her tents; and where' the gaj'^the 
melancholy, the idle or occupied, grave or naughty, come for amuse- 
ment, or business, or relaxation ; where London beauties, having danced 
and flirted all the season, may dance and flirt a little more; where 
^ell-dressed rogues from all quarters of the world assemble ; where I 
have seen severe London lawyers, forgetting their wigs and the Temple, 
trying their luck against fortune and M. Benazet; where wistful 
schemers conspire and prick cards down, and deeply meditate the 
infallible coup ; and try it, and lose it, and borrow a hundred francs to 
go home ; where even virtuous British ladies venture their little stakes, 
and draw up their winnings with trembling rakes, by the side of ladies 
^ho are not virtuous at all, no not even by name ; where young prodigals 
l^reak the bank sometimes, and carry plunder out of a place which 
Hercules himself could scarcely compel; where you meet wonderful 



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264: TBI HirWCOUES. 

countesses and princesses, whose husbands are almost always absent oi> 
their yast estates-— in Italy, Spain, Piedmont — who knows where their 
lordship's possessions are? — while trains of sniton surround those- 
wandering Penelopes their noble wires; Russian Boyars, Spanish 
Qrnmdees of the Order of the Fleece, Counts of France, and Princes- 
Pohsh and Italian innumerable, who peifume the gilded halls ^mth 
their tobacco-smoke, and swear in all languages against the Black and 
tiie Red. The famous Fnglish monosyllable by which things, persons, 
liidc, eyen eyes, are devoted to the infernal gods, we may be sure is not 
wanting in that Babel. Where does one not hear it? **D — the 
hick," says Lord Eew, as the croupier sweeps off his lordship's rouleanx. 
c( X> — the luck," says Brown, the bagman, who has been backing his^ 
lordship with five franc pieces. '^ Ah, body of Bacchus ! " says Gonnt 
Felice, whom we all remember a courier. "Ah, sacre coup," cries 
M. le Vicomte de Florae, as his last louis parts company from him — 
eMh cursing in his native tongue. sweet chorus ! 

That Lord Eew should be at Baden is no wonder. If you heard of 
him at the Finish, or at Buckingham Palace ball, or in a watch-hoose, 
or at the Third Cataract, or at a Newmarket meeting, you would not 
he surprised. He goes everywhere; does everything with all his 
might; knows everybody. Last week he won who knows how many 
tkonsand louis from the bank (it appears Brown has chosen one of the^ 
imhicky days to back his lordship). He will eat his supper as gaOy 
alter a great victory as after a signal defeat ; and we know that to win 
with magnanimity requires much more constancy than to lose. His 
sleep will not be disturbed by one event or the other. He will play 
skittles all the morning with perfect contentment, romp with children 
in the forenoon (he is the friend of half the children in the place), <»:- 
hft will cheerfully leave the green-table and all the risk and excitement 
there, to take a hand at sixpenny whist with General Fogey, or to giver 
the six Miss Fogeys a turn each in tibe ball-room. From H. R. H. the 
Prince Royal of — -, who is the greatest guest ^t Baden, dowft to- 
Brown the bagman, who does not consider himself the smallest, Lord 
Eew is hail fellow with everybody, and has a kind word from and for all. 



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CHAPTER XXVin. 

IH WHICH GUTK BE0IKB TO SEE THE WOBLD. 

In the company aaeembled a^t Buden, Gliye found ono or two old 
ftcquaintancea; among tJiem his friend of Pane, M. de Florae, not in 
quite 80 hrilliant a condition as when Neweome had last met him on tha 
Boulevard. Florae owned that Fortune had been very unkind to him 
at Baden ; and, indeed, she had not only emptied his purser but his 
portmanteaus, jewel boZ| and linen closet — ^the contents of all of which 
bad ranged themselves on the red and black against Monsieur Benazet^s 
eiown pieces : whatever side they took was, however, the tmlucky one. 
*' This campaign ha? been my Moscow, man cher" Florae owned to 
Clive. " I am conquered by Benazet ; I have lost in almost every combat. 
I have lost my treasure, my baggage, my ammunition of war, every* 
thing but my honour, which, au rests. Mens. Benazet will not accept 
as a stake : if he would, there are plenty here, believe me, who would 
aet it on the Trente et Quarante. Sometimes I have had a mind to go 
hame ; my mother, who is an angel all forgiveness, would receive her 
prodigal, and kill the fatted veal for me. But what wiU you? He 
annoys me — the domestic veal. Besides, my brother the Abbe, though 
the best of Christians, is a Jew upon certain matters ; a Benazet who 
^1 not troquer absolution except against repentance ; and I have not 
for a sou of repentanoe in my pocket ! I have been sorry, yes — ^but it was 
beeause odd came up in place of oven, or the reverse. The accursed 
ofpres has chased me like a remorse, and when black has come up I have 
^dshed myself converted to red. Otherwise I have no repentance — 
I am joueur — nature has made me so, as she made my brother devot. 
The Archbishop of Strasbourg is of our parents ; I saw his grandeur 
lihen I went lately to Strasbourg, on my last pilgrimage to the Mont 
de Piete. I owned to him that I would pawn his cross and ring to 
go play : the good prelate laughed, and said his chaplain should keq[> 
an eye on them. Will you dine with me ? The landlord of my hotel 
was the intendant of our cousin, the Duo d'lviy, and will give 
me credit to the day of judgment. I do not abuse his noble confidence. 
My dear ! there are covers of sUver put upon my table every day with 
which I could retrieve my fortune, did I listen to the suggestions of 
Satanas ; but I say to him, Vade retro. Come and dine with me — • 
Bttliic^s kitchen is very good.'* 

These easy confessions were uttered by ft gentleman who was nearly 



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266 THE NEWCOMES. 

forty years of age, and who had indeed played the part of a young man 
in Paris and the great European world so long, that he knew or chose 
to perform no other. He did not want for ahilities ; had the b«st 
temper in the world ; was well bred and gentlemanlike always ; and 
was gay even after Moscow. His courage was known, and his 
character for bravery and another kind of gallantry probably exaggerated 
by his bad reputation. Had his mother not been alive, perhaps he 
would have believed in the virtue of no woman. But this one he 
worshipped, and spoke with tenderness and enthusiasm of her constant 
love and patience and goodness. ** See . her miniature ! " he said, 
** I never separate myself from it — 0, never ! It saved my life in an 
affair about — about a woman who was not worth the powder which poor 
Jules and I burned for her. His ball struck me here, upon the 
waistcoat, bruising my rib and sending me to my bed, which I never 
should have left alive biit for this picture. O, she is an angel, my 
mother. I am sure that Heaven has nothing to deny that saint, and 
that her tears wash out my sins." 

Clive smiled. " I think Madame de Florae must weep a good deal," 
he said. 

" Enorm&merU, my friend ! My faith ! I do not deny it ! I give 
her cause, night and evening. I am pos&essed by demons! This 
little Affenthaler wine of this country has a little smack which is most 
agreeable. The passions tear me, my young friend ! Play is fatal, bat 
play is not so fatal as -woman. Pass me the ecrevisses, they are most 
succulent. Take warning by me, and avoid both. I saw you rodier 
round the green-tables, and marked your eyes as they glistened over 
the heaps of gold, and looked at some of our beauties of Baden. 
Beware of such syrens, young man 1 and take me for your Mentor ; 
avoiding what I have done — that understands itself. You have not 
played as yet ? Do not do so ; above all avoid a martingale, if you do; 
Play ought not to be an affair of calculation, but of inspiration. I 
have calculated infallibly; and what has been the effect? Gousset 
empty, tiroirs empty, necessaire parted for Strasbourg ! Where is my 
far pelisse, Frederic ?" 

" Parbleu vous le savez bien, Monsieur le Vicomte," says Frederic, 
the doinestic, who was waiting on Clive and his friend. 

" A pelisse lined with true sable, and worth three thousand francs, 
that I won of a little Russian at billiards. That pelisse is at 
Strasbourg (where the infamous worms of the Mount of Piety are actually 
gnawing her). Two hundred francs and this reconnaissance^ which 
Frederic receive, are all that now represents the pelisse. How many 
chemises have I, Frederic?" 

"Eh, parbleu, Monsieur le Vicomte sait bien que nous avons toujoors 
vingt-quatre chemises," says Frederic, grumbling. 

Monsieur le Vicomte springs up shrieking from the dinner-tabw. 
" Twenty-four shirts," says he, " and I have been a week without a 
louis in my pocket ! Belitre ! Nigaud ! " He flings open one drawer 
aftet anotiier, but there arfe no signs of that superfluity of Uneii of 1 

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THE NBWCOMBS. 267 

which the dom^tic spoke, whose countenance now changes from a grim 
frown to a grim smile. 

"Ah, my faithful Frederic, I pardon thee! Mr. Newcome will 
understand my harmless supercherie. Frederic was in my eompmy 
of the Guard, and remains with me since. He is Caleb jBaldefBtone 
and I am Eavenswood. Yes, I am Edgard. Let us bav« coffee and a 
cigar, Balderstoun." 

" Plait-il Monsieur le Vicomte ? " says the French Caleb. 

" Tkoa comprehendest not English. Thou readest not Valtare Scott, 
thoui " ^es the master. ** I was recounting to Monsieur Newcome thy 
loBtoiy and my misfortunes. Go seek coffee for us, Nigaud" And as 
the two gentlemen partake of that exhilarating liquor, the elder confid(e[s 
gaily to his guest the reason why he prefers taking coffee at the Hotel 
to the coffee at the great Cafe of the Eedoute, with a duris v/rgem m 
rebus egestdss! pronounced in the true French manner. 

Clive was greatly amused by the gaiety of the Viscount after his 
misfortunes and his Moscow ; and thought that one of Mr. Baines's 
circular notes might not be ill laid out in euccouring this hero. It inay 
have been to this end that Florae's confessions tended ; though to d!> 
him justice the incorrigible young fellow would confide his adventures 
to any one who would listen ; and the exact state of his wardrobe, and 
the story. of his pawned pelisse, dressing-case, rings and watches, were 
known to all Baden. 

"You tell me to marry and range myself," said Clive, (to whom the. 
Viscount was expatiating upon the charms of the superhe young Angla^m 
^ith whom he had seen CUve walking on the promenade). " Why do. 
you not marry and range yourself too? " 

** Eh, my dear ! I am married already. You do not know it ? I am 
married since the Revolution of July. Yes. We were poor in those 
days, as poor we remain. My cousins the Due d'lvry's sons and 
bis grandson were still alive. Seeing no other resource and pursued 
by the Arabs, I espoused the Vicomtesse de Florae. . I gave her my 
name, you comprehend, in exchange for her own odious one. She was. 
Miss Higg. Do you know the family Higg of Mancbesterre in the 
comte of Lancastre? She was then a person of a ripe age. .The. 
Vicomtesse is now — ah ! it is fifteen years since, and she dies not. 
Our union was not happy, my friends—Madame Paul de Florae is of the 
reformed religion — not of the Anglican church, you understand — but -a 
dissident I know not of what sort. We inhabited the Hotel de Florae 
for a while after our union, which was all of convenience, you under-, 
stand. She filled her salon with ministers to make you die. She 
assaulted my poor father in his garden-chair, whence he could not 
escape her. She told my sainted mother that she was an idolatress- 
she ^bo only idolatrises her children! She called us other poor 
^tholics who follow the rites of our fathers, des Romiskes ; and Rome, 
^abylon ; and the Holy Father — a scarlet — eh ! a scarlet abomination. 
«06 outraged my mother, that angel; essayed to convert the antechamber 
^d the office ; put little books in the Abbe's bed-room. Eh, my friend ! 



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S68 TSi KBWCOl£BS. 

what a good king was Chaties IX. and his mother what a wise 
sovereign ! I lament that Madame de Florae shoald hwe es<!aped the 
St. Barth^lemi, when no doubt she Was spared on acconnt of her tender 
age. We have been separated for many jea^; her income was greatlj 
€n^gerated. Bejond the payment of my debts I owe ber nothing. I 
wish I could say as much of all the Test of the world. Shall we take 
a turn of promenade ? Mauvais mjet I I see you are longing to be at 
the green-table." 

• Olive was not longing to be at the green-table : but bis companion 
was never easy at it or away from it. Next to winning, losing M. de 
Moiac said was the best sport — ^nezt to losing, looking on. So he and 
Clive went down to the Bedoute where Lord Eew was playing with a 
erawd of awoHBtmck amateurs and breathless punters admiring his 
valoiur and fortune; and Clive saying that he knew notMng about the 
game took out five Napoleons from his puiBe, and besought Florae ta 
invest them in the most profitable maimer at roulette. The other 
made some faint attempts at a scrapie : but the nteney was speedily 
laid on the table, where it increased and multiplied amazingly too ; so 
that in a quarter of an hour Florae brought quite a handful of gold 
I»eces to his principal. Then Olive, I daresay blushing as he made 
the proposal, offered half the handful of napoleons to M. de Florae 
to be repaid when he thought fit. And fortune must have been veiy 
fjAvourable to the husband of Miss Higg that night : for in the oeurse 
ef an hour he insisted on paying back 01ive*s loan ; wad two days after- 
wards appeared with his shirt-studs (of course} wil^ his uMriA also), 
released from captivity, his watch, rings, and chains, on the parade; 
and was observed to wear his celebrated fur peHsse as he drove badk in 
a britzska from Strasbourg. '' As for myself," wrote C^te, *' I put back 
into my ptirse the five Napoleons with which I had begun ; and laid 
down the whole mass of winnings on the table, where it was doubled 
and then quadrupled, and then swept up by the croupiers, greatly to 
n^y ease of mind. And then Iiord Eew asked me to supper and we 
had a merry n^ht." 

This was Mr. Olive's first and last appearance as a gambler. 
J* J. looked very grave when he heard of these transactions. 
Olive's French friend did not please his English «ompftDio& 
at all, nor the friends of Olive's Frendh fii^d, the Rnsna^, the 
Spaniards, the Italians, of sounding titles and glittering decorations, 
and the ladies who bdonged to their society. He saw by chance Btfael 
escorted by her cousin Lord Kew passing through a crowd of tbls com- 
pany one day. There was not one woman there who was not the heroine 
d some discreditable story. It was the Oomtesse Oalypso who bad 
hem jilted by the Due Ulysse. It was the Marquise Ariane to whom 
tiie Prince Thes^e had behaved so shamefully, and who had taken to 
Baechus as a consolation. It was Madame M^dee, who had absdutdy 
killed her old father by her conduct regarding Jason: e^ bad done 
0v«iything for Jason*: she had got him the tot«iO» d'ar from the Qaeen 
Member, and •now* had to meet him eveiyday with his little blonde bride 



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oa Jiis aim ! J» J. compared Ethel, XAOvihg in the mldfit 6{ these folks; 
to the Lady amidst the rout of Comus. There thejr were, the Fauns 
and Sal^rB : there they weire^ JJbte merry Pagans : drinking and dancing, 
dicing and sporting ; laij^hingout jests tbat neyer should he spoken; 
vhispenng rendezvous to he written in midnight calendars; jeering 
at honest people who passed under their palace windows— jolly rebels and 
irq)ealer&( of the law.' . Ah, if Mrs. Brown, whose children are gone to 
bed at the HoteU knew but the history of that calm d^ified-looking 
gentleman who sits under her, and over whose patient back she 
fnntically ndvanees and withdraws her two-franc piece, whilst his own 
columns of louis d'or are offering battle to fortune — how she would 
sb^ink away from the shoulder which, she pushes ! That man so calm 
and well-bred, with a string of orders on his breast, so weil-dressed, 
vith such white hands, has stabbed ttustLng hearts; severed family ties; 
written lying yows; irif^d fidse oaths ; torn up pitilessly tender appeato 
for redress, and tossed away into the fire supplications blistered with 
tears; packed cards and cogged dice; or used pistol or sword as calml^r 
^d dexterously as henqw nmges his battalions of gold pieeeft. 

Ridley shrank away from such lawless people with the delioac^r 
beloDgiug to his timid and retiring nature, but it must be owned that 
Mr. Olive was by no t^eans so squeamish. He did not know in the 
first place thi^ mystery of dieir iniquities ;, and his sunny kindly spirit^ 
uodimmed hy^any of the cares^ whic^ clouded it subsequently, was dis* 
posed to ahino. upon all people alike; The world was welcome to him ; 
tbe day a pleasure : all nature a gay feast t scarce any disposttiona 
discordant with his own (for pretension only made him laugh, and 
hjpocrisy be will never be able to understand if he lives to be a hundred 
years old): the night brought him a long sle^, and iht mxmiing a gkd 
making* To those privileges of youth what enjoyments of age are conw 
potable? what achievements of amlntion ? what rewards of money and> 
&me? .dive's happy friendly nature shone out of his ^e; and ahnos€ 
all who beheld it felt kindly towards him. As those guHeleas virgins of 
romance and ballad, who walk snuling thmugh dark forests charming 
off dragons and confronting lions ; the young man a$ yet went through> 
the world harmless; no giant waylaiid iW as yet ; no robbing ogre fed 
on him : and (greatest danger of all for one of his ardent nature) noi 
^tnuning en^bimtreas 4>r artful syren co^ed him to her cave, or lured 
bim into her watetrs-^hanuts into which we know so many young; 
simpletona are drawn, wh^e their eilly bones are picked and theic 
tender flesh devoured. 

The time was abort whidh Clive spent at Baden^ for it has been said the 
winter, was approaching, and the destination of our young artists was* 
Boniie ; but he may have passed some score of days here, to which he and 
another person in. that .pretty wete^ng place possibly looked back afteiw 
^NUrds, as.not the unhi^iest peripdB <» their lives. Among Colond- 
Kewcon^'s papers to which the family biographer hae had subsequent 
access, there are a pouple <of letters from Olive dated Baden at this 
^e, and full of bapninesa 0iiety» and affectien, I«ettev No. I says^ 



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270 THK mswcoujsa. 

*' Ethel is the prettiest girl here. At the assemblies all the princes, 
coants, dukes, Parthians, Medes and Elamites, are dying to dance trith 
her. She sends her dearest lote to her nncle." By the side of the 
words '* prettiest gir],*' was written in a frank female hand the mono- 
syllable " Stuff f* and as a note to the expression " dearest love/* mth 
a star to mark the text and the note, are squeezed in the same feminine 
characters at the bottom of dive's page, the words " That I do, E. N" 

In letter No. 2, the first two pages are closely written in Clive's 
hand-writing, describing his pursuits and studies, and giving amusiflg 
details of the life at Baden, and the company whom he met there— 
narmting his rencontre with their Paris friend, M. de Florae, and the 
arrival of the Dnchesse dlviy. Florae's cousin, whose titles the 
Yicomte will probably inherit. Not a word about Florae's gam- 
bling propensities are mentioned in the letter; but Clive honestly 
confesses that he has staked five napoleons, doubled them, quadrupled / 
them, won ever so much, lost it all back again, and come away ftt)m 
the table with his original five pounds in his pocket — ^proposing never 
to play any more. ** Ethel," he concludes, " is looking over mj 
shoulder. She thinks me such a delightful creature that she is never 
easy without me. She bids me to say that I am the best of sons and 
cousins, and am, in a word, a darling dn . . . " The rest of this 
important word is not given, but goose is added in the female hand. 
In the faded ink, on the yellow paper that may have crossed and 
recrossed oceans, that has lain locked in chests for years, and buried 
under piles of family archives, while your friends have been dying and 
your head has grown white — who has not disinterred mementoes like 
these — from which the past smiles at you so sadly, shimmering out of 
Hades an instant but to sink back again into the cold shades, perhaps 
with a fiiint, faint sound as of a remembered ton^— a ghostly echo 
of a once familiar laughter ? I was looking of late at a wall in the 
Naples' museum, whereon a boy of Hcrculaneum eighteen hundred 
years ago had scratched with a nail the figure of a soldier. I could 
fancy the child turning round and smiling on me after having done his 
etching. Which of us that is thirty years old has not had his Pompeii? 
Beep under ashes lies the Life of Youth, — the careless Sport, the 
Pleasure and Passion, the darling Joy. You open an old letter-box and 
look at your own childish scrawls, or your mother s letters to you when 
you were at school ; and excavate your heart. O me for the day when 
the whole city shall be bare and the chambers unroofed — and every 
cranny visible to the Light above, from the Forum to the Lupanar! 

Ethel takes up the pen. " My dear uncle," she says, " while Clive 
is. sketching out of window, let me write you a line or two on 
his paper, though I know you like to hear no one speak but hitn. 1 J 
wish I could draw him for you as he stands yonder, looking the | 
picture of good health, good spirits, and good-humour. Every body 
likes him. He is quite unafiected ; always gay ; always pleased. 
He draws more and more beautifully eveiy day; and his affection 
for young Mr. Ridley, who is really a most excellent and astonisbuig 

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THE NBWCOMBS. 271 

young man, and actually a better artist than Glive himself, is most 
romantic, and does your son the greatest credit. You will order Clive 
not to sell his pictures, won't you ? I know it is not wrong, but your 
son might look higher than to be an artist. It is a rise for Mr. 
Bidley, but a fall for him. An artist, an organist, a pianist, all 
these -are yecy good people, but you know not de notre monde, and 
Clire ought to belong to it. 

"We met him at Bonn on our way to a ip«at family gathering 
here; where, I must tell you, we are assembled f^^hat I call the 
Congress of Baden ! The chief of the house of Kew is here, apd what 
time > he does not devote to skittles, to smoking cigars, to the jeu in 
the oTenings, to Madame d'lyry, to Madame de Cruchecassee, and the 
foreign people (of whom there are a host here of the worst kind, as 
Qsnal), he graciously bestows on me. Lord and Lady Dorking are 
bere, with their meek little daughter, Clara PuUeyn ; and Barnes is 
coming. Uncle Hobson has returned to Lombard-street to relieve 
guard. I think you will hear before very long of Lady Clara 
Newcome. Grandmamma, who was to have presided at the Congress 
of Baden, and still you know reigns over the house of Kew, has been 
stopped at Kissingen with an attack of rheumatism ; I pity poor aunt 
Juha who can never leave her. Here are all our news. I declare I have 
filled the whole page ; men write closer than wo do. I wear the dear 
brooch you gave me, often and often ; I think of you always, dear, kind 
uncle as your affectionate Ethel." 

Besides roulette and trente et quarante, a number of amusing games 
are played at Baden, which are not performed, so to speak, mr table. 
These little diversions and jeux de societS can go on anywhere ; in an 
alley in the park ; in a picnic to this old schloss, or that pretty hunting 
lodge ; at a teartable in a lodging house or hotel ; in a bsdl at the 
^Moute ; in the play rooms, behind the backs of the gamblers whose 
eyes are only cast upon rakes and rouleaux, and red and black ; or on 
the broad walk in front of the Conversation Rooms, where thousands of 
people are drinking and chattering, lounging and smoking, whilst the 
Austrian brass band, in the little music pavilion, plays the most 
delightful mazurkas and waltzes. Here the widow plays her black suit, 
ftnd sets her bright eyes against the rich bachelor, elderly or young as 
^y be. Here the artful practitioner, who has dealt in a thousand 
such games, engages the young simpleton with more money than 
^t ; and knowing his weakness and her skill, we may safely take the 
odds, and back rouge et couleur to win. Here mamma, not having 
money perhaps, but metal more attractive, stakes her virgin daughter 
against Count Fettacker's forests and meadows; or Lord Lackland 
plays his coronet, of which the jewels have long since been in pawn, 
against Miss Bags' three per cents. And so two or three funny little 
games were going on at Baden amongst our immediate acquaintance ; 
besides that vulgar sport round the green-table, at which the mob, 
^ith whom . we have little to do, was elbowing each other. A hint of 



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278 JHB NBWCOJIBSL 

these domestic prolnsioos has been given to the reader in the 
foregoing extract from Miss Ethel Newcome's letter: likewise some 
passions have been in play, of which a modest young English maiden 
could not be aware. Do not, howe^rer, let us be too prematurely proad 
of our virtue* That tariff of British yii:tae is wonderfully orguiised. 
Heavei^ h#lp the. society ^hioh made its. laws i Gnats ace shut out 
of its ports, or not admitted without scrutiny and repugnance, whikt 
herds of oamels are let in. The law professes to 6;p:cludd ^ome 
goods, (or bad9 shall we call them ?)r— well, some articles of baggi^e, 
which are yet smuggled openly under the eyes of winking officer, 
and worn every day without shame. Shame I What is shame? 
Virtue is very often shameful according to the EngHsh- social eomti- 
tutipn, and shame honorable. TniU), if youret happens to differ hm 
your neighbour's, provokes yonr friend's eoldness, your motheit's tean, 
the worid'fli persecution. Love is not to be dealt in, save uader 
restrictions whidi kiU its sweet healthy free commerce. Sin la man 
is so light, that scarce the fine of a penny is imposed ; while for "maui 
it is so heavy, that no repentance can wash, it out» Ah ! yes ; all stones 
are old. You proud matrons in your May-£ur markets, have you m^i 
seen a virgin sold, or sold one, ? Have yon never heard of a poor way* 
farar fallen among robbers, and not a Pharisee :tQ help him?, of t 
poor woman &Uen more sadly yet, abject in repeptanne and.tea&B, and 
a crowd to stone her 2 I pace, this hroad Baden walk as the saniset is 
gilding the hills round about, as the Qichestra blows its jmxij ttmea, 
^as the happy children laugh and sport in the alleys, as the lamps of the 
gambling palace are lighted up, as the throngs of pteasure^Kui^is 
stroll, and smoke, and flirt, and hum : and voodeir sometinies, is it the 
ilinners who are the most sinful ? Is it poor Prodigal yonder amongst die 
bad cpm^wiyi caUing black and red and tossing tl^ eh^mpAgne ;. or brother 
St^ghtlaoe ijiaii grudges his repentance ? Is it downcast Hagar that 
alinks away with poor little Ishmael in her hand ; or bitter old virtuous 
Sarah, who scowls at h^x from my demure Lord AbrahamW arm? 

One day of the previous May, wl^n. of course eveiTbody W6]^ to 
visit the .Water-colour Exhibitioifs,, Ethel Newoome waiy taksn to see 
the pictore«» by her ginndmother> thair ri|^r^s.t)ld Lady K^1^» who 
«till proposed to reijgn over aU her faqnly* The girl bod high q»nt^ 
and very likely bot^words had passed between tho elder and the yoon^ 
lady ; such a^ I am giv^n tOf understand will bo uttered in the niost 
polite families. They came to a piece by Mr, Hunt, representing one 
of those figurea which he knows how to paint with, such eonsosm^^ 
truth andt pathos — a > friefudloss. young girl, cowering.in .adee^vay* 
ovidently without home or sheUer. The ox^piisite fidelity of the details, 
and the plaintive beauty of the eiipresaioili of the child, attiactad old 
Lady Kowyadnnration, ^ho^rasan excellent judge.of works ({fart; 
and she stood for some time looking M the drawing, with Sthel by her 
side. Nothing, in truth, could be m^^ simfde or pathetic ; Ethel 
laughed, and her grandmother lookipg up from her 3tick.'0n t^ich she 
hobbled about, saw a very sarcastic .^pr^issipn in Itho girl's eyes. 



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THE NEWCOMBS. 278 

" You haye no taste for pictures, only for painters, I suppose," said 
Lady Kew. 

**Iwas not looking at the picture," said Ethel, still \(dth -a smile, 
" but at the little green ticket in the comer." 

" Sold," said Lady Kew. " Of course it is sold ; aU Mr. Hunt's 
pictures are sold. There is not one of them here on which you won't 
see the green ticket. He is a most admirable artist. I don't know 
whether his comedy or tragedy are the most excellent" 

"I think, grandmamma," Ethel said, '*we young ladies in the 
world, when we are exhibiting, ought to haye little green tickets pinned 
on our backs, with * Sold ' written on them ; it would preyent trouble and 
any future haggling, you know. Tben at the end of the season the 
owner would come to carry us home." 

Grandmamma only said, *' Ethel, you are a fool," and hobbled on 
to Mr. Cattermole's picture hard by. " What splendid colour ; what 
a romantic gloom ; what a flowing pencil and dexterous hand ! " Lady 
Kew could delight in pictures, applaud good poetry, and squeeze out a 
tear oyer a good noyel too. That afternoon, young Dawkins, the rising 
water-colour artist, who used to come daily to the gallery and stand 
delighted before his own piece, was aghast to perceiye that there was 
no green ticket in the comer of his frame, and he pointed out the 
deficiency to the keeper of the pictures. His landscape, howeyer, was 
sold and paid for, so no great mischief occurred. On that same 
eyening, when the Newcome family assembled at dinner in Park Lane, 
Ethel appeared with a bright green ticket pinned in the front of her 
white muslin frock, and when asked what this queer ianof meant, she 
made Lady Kew a curtsey, looking her full in the face, and turning 
lound to her father, said, " I am a tableavrvivant^ papa. I am mumber 
46 in the Exhibition of the Gallery of Painters in Water-colours." 

"My loye, what do you mean?" says mamma; and Lady Kew, 
jumping up on her crooked stick with immense agility, tore the card 
out of Ethel's bosom, and very likely would haye boxed her ears, but 
that her parents were present and Lord Kew was announced. 

Ethel talked about pictures the whole eyening, and would talk of 
nothing else. Grandmamma went away furious. " She told Barnes, 
and when eyerybody was gone there was a pretty row in the building," 
said Madam Ethel, with an arch look, when she narrated the story. 
" Barnes was ready to kill me and eat me ; but I neyer was afraid of 
Barnes." And the biographer gathers from this little anecdote narrated 
to him, neyer mind by whom, at a long subsequent period, that there 
had been great disputes in Sir Brian Newcome's establishment, fleroe 
drawing-room battles, whereof certain pictures of a certain painter 
might haye furnished the cause, and in which Miss Newcome had Ite 
whole of the family forces against her. That such battles take plae«ft 
in other domestic establishments, who shall say or shall not say? 
Who, when he goes out to dinner, and is receiyed by a bland host 
with a gay shake of the hand, and a pretty hostess with a gracious 

T 



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274 THE NBWCOMES. 

smile of welcome, dares to think that Mr. Johnson up-staiis, half-an- 
boor before, was swearing out of his dressing-room at Mrs. Johnson, for 
having ordered a turbot instead of a salmon, or that Mrs. Johnson, now 
talking to Lady Jones so nicely about their mutual darling children, vas 
crying her eyes out as her maid was fastening her gown, as the 
carriages were actually driving up ? The servants know these things, 
but not we in the dining-room. Hark with what a respectful tone 
Johnson begs the clergyman present to say grace ! 

, Whatever these family quarrels may have been, let bygones be 
bygones, and let us be perfectly sure, th&t to whatever purpose Miss 
Ethel Newcome, for good or for evil, might make her mind up, she 
had quite spirit enough to hold her own. She chose to be Countess 
of Kew because she chose to be Countess of Eew ; had she set her 
heart on marrying Mr. Kuhn, she would have had her way, and 
made the fiEunily adopt it, and called him dear Fritz, as by his god- 
ethers and godmothers, in his baptism, Mr. Kuhn was called. Olive 
was but a fioncy, if he had even been so much as that, not a passion, 
and she fancied a pretty four-pronged coronet still more. 

So that the diatribe wherein we lately indulged, about the selling 
of virgins, by no mean applies to Lady Ann Newcome, who signed 
the address to Mrs. Stowe, the other day, along with thousands 
more virtuous British matrons; but should the reader haply say, "Is 
thy fable, O Poet, narrated concerning Tancred Pulleyn, Earl of 
Dorking, and Sigismunda, his wife," the reluctant moralist is obliged 
to own that the cap does fit those noble personages of whose lofty 
society you will however see but little. 

For though I would like to go into an Indian Brahmin's house and 
see the punkahs and the purdahs and tattys, and the pretty brovti 
maidens with great eyes, and great nose-rings, and painted foreheads, 
and slim waists cased in Cashmir shawls, Kincob scarfs, curly slippers, 
gilt trowsers, precious anklets and bangles; and have the mystery o{ 
Eastern existence revealed to me, (as who would not who has read the 
Arabian Nights in his youth?) yet I would not choose the ^moment when 
the Brahmin of the house wag dead, his women howling, his priests 
doctoring his child of a widow, now frightening her with sermons, now 
drugging her with bang, so as to push her on his funeral pile at last, 
and into the arms of that carcase, stupefied, but obedient and decorous. 
And though I like to walk, even in fancy, in an earVs house, splendid, 
well-ordered, where there are feasts and fine pictures and fiur ladies 
and endless books and good company ; yet there are times when the 
visit i9 not pleasant; and when the parents in that'fine house are getting 
ready their daughter for sale, and frightening away her tears with threats, 
and stupefying her grief with narcotics, praying her and imploring her, 
and dramming her and coaxing her, and blessing her, and cursing her 
perhaps, till they have brought her into such a state as shall fit the 
poor young thing for that deadly couch upon which they are about to 
thrust her. Whea.my lord and lady are so engaged I prefer not to call 



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THE KEWCOMBS. 275 

at their mansion, number 1000 in Grosrenor Square, but to partake 
of a.dinnor of herbs rather than of that stalled ox which their cook is 
roasting whole. There are some people who are not so squeamish. The 
family comes of course ; the most reverend the Lord Arch-Brahmin of 
Benares will attend the ceremony; there will be flowers and lights and 
white favours; and quite a string of carriages up to the pagoda; and such 
a breakfast afterwards ; and music in the street and little parish boys 
hurrahing ; and no end of speeches within and tears shed (no doubt), 
and his grace the Arch-Brahmin will make a highly appropriate speech, 
just with a faint scent of incense about it as such a speech ought to 
have, and the young person will slip away unperceived, and take off her 
v^ils, wreaths, orange flowers, bangles and flnery, and will put on a plain 
dress more suited for the occasion, and the house-door will open— land 
there comes the suttee in company of the body : yonder the pile is 
waiting on four wheels with four horses, the crowd hurrahs and the deed 
is done. * 

This ceremony amongst us is so stale and common that to be sure 
there is no need to describe its rites, and as women sell themselves for 
what you call an establishment every day to the applause of thetaselves, 
their parents, and the world, why on earth should a man ape at 
originality and pretend to pity them ? Never inind about the lies at 
the altar, the blasphemy against the godlike name of love, the sordid 
surrender, the smiling dishonour. What the deuce does a manage de . 
convenanee mean but all this, and are not such sober Hymeneal torches 
more satisfactory oftisn than the most brilliant love matches that 
ever flamed and burnt out? Of course. Let us not weep when 
everybody else is laughing: let us pity t^e agonised duchess when her 
daughter. Lady Atalanta, runs away with the doctor — of course, that's 
respectable; let us pity Lady Iphigenia's t father when that vener- 
able chief is obliged to offer up his darling child; but it is over Aer 
part of the business that a decorous painter would throw tbo veil 
now. Her ladyship's sacrifice is performed, and the less said about it. 
thebettier. 

Such was the case regarding an affair which appeared in due 
subsequence in the newspapers not long afterwards under the fascinating 
title of " Marriage in High Life," and which was in truth the occasion 
of the little family Congress of Baden which we are now chronicling. , 
We all know, everybody at least who has the slightest acquaintance with 
the army list; that, at the commencement of their life, my Lord Kew, 
niy Lord Viscount Bx^oster, the Earl of Dorking's eldest :son, and the 
Honourable Charles Belsize, familiarly called Jack Belsize, were 
subaltern officers in one of his Majesty's regiments of cuirassier guards. 
They l»eard the chimes at midnight like other young men, they ei^oyed 
their fun and frolics as gentlemen of spirit will do ; sowing their wild 
oats plentifully, and scattering them with boyish profusion. Lord 
Kew's luck had blessed him with more sacks of oats than fell to the lot 
of his noble young companions. ' Lord Dorking's house is kiidwn to 

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276 THB mSWCOMES. 

have been long impoTeiished; an excellent infonnant. Major Pendennis, 
]ms entertained me with many edifying accounts of the exploits of Lord 
Booster's grandfather ^* mth the ^d Frinee and Poyns»" of his feats in 
the hunting field, over the bottle, over the dice-box. He played two 
nights and two days at a sitting with Charles Fox, when they both lost 
sums awful to reckon. He played often with Lord Steyne, and came 
away, as all men did, dreadful sufiferers from those midnight encounters. 
His descendants incurred the penalties of the progenitor's imprudence, 
and Chanticlere, though one of the finest castles in England, is splendid 
hut for a month in the year. The estate is mortgaged up to the very 
castle windows. '* Dorking cannot out a stick or kill a buck in his own 
park : " the good old Mtgor used to tell with tragic accents : ^ he lives 
by his cabbages, grapes, and pine-apples, and the fees which people 
^ve for seeing the place and gardens, which are still the show of tiie 
county, and among the most splendid in the island. Wh&i Dorking 
is at Chanticlere, Ballard, who married his sister, lends him the plate 
and sends three men with it. Four eooks inside, and four maids and 
six footmen on the roof, with a butler driving, come down fimn 
London in a trap, and wait the month. And as the last carriage of the 
company drives away, the servants' coach is packed, and they all bowl 
back to town again. It's pitiable, sir, pitiable." 

In Lord Kew's youth, the names of himself and his two noble friends 
appeared on innumerable slips of stamped paper, conveying pecuniuy 
assurances of a promissory nature ; all of which promises, my Lord £ew 
singly and most honorably dischai^ed. Neither of his two companions 
in arms had the means of meeting these engagements. Ballard, 
Booster's uncle, was said to make his lordship some allowance. As for 
.Jack Belsize ; how he lived ; how he lai^hed ; how he dressed himself 
so well, and looked so fat and handsome ; how he got a shilling to pay 
for a cab or a cigar ; what ravens fed him ; was a wonder to all. The 
young men claimed kinsmanship with one another, which those ^o are 
learned in the peerage may unravel. 

When Lord Dorking's eldest daughter married the Honorable and 
Venerable Dennis Gallowglass, Archdeacon of Bullintubber, (and at 
present Viscount Gallowglass and Killbrogue, and Lord Bishop of 
Ballyshannon), great festivities took place at Chanticlere, whither 
the relatives of the high contracting parties were invited. Among 
them came poor Jack Belsize, and hence the tears which are 
dropping at Baden at this present period of our history. Clara 
PuUeyn was then a pretty little maiden of sixteen, and Jack a 
handsome guardsman of six or seven and twenty. As she had beeo 
especially warned against Jack as a wicked yoimg rogue, whose ante- 
cedents were wofdly against him ; as she was never allowed to sit near 
him at diimer, or to walk with him, or to play at billiards with him, ot 
to waltz with him ; as she was scolded if he spoke a word to her, or 
if he picked up her glove, or touched her hand in a round game, or 
caught him when they were playing at blindman's-bufif ; as they neither 



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THB K&m?OMra. 277 

<^ them bad a penny in the woiid, and yfere both vevy good-looking, 
of course Clara was always oatdiing Jack at blindmaa*B-buif ; con- 
stantly lighting upon him in the shrubberies or corridors, &c., &c, &c. 
She fell in love (she was not the first) with Jack's broad chest and thin 
wtdst ; she thought his whiskers, as indeed they were, the handsomest 
pair infill his majesty's Brigade of Cuirassiers. 

We know not what tears were shed in the vast and silent halls of 
Chanticlere, when the company were gone, and the four cooks, and four 
maids, six footmen, and temporary butler had driven back in their 
private trap to the metropolis, whkh is not forty miles distant from 
that splendid castle. How can we tell ? The guests departed, the 
lodge gates shut ; all is mystery : — darkness with one pair of wax csn.\ 
dies blinking dismally in a solitary chamber ; all the rest dreary vistais 
of brown hollands, rolled Turkey carpets, gaunt ancestors on the walls, 
scowling out of the twilight blank. The imagination is at liberty to 
depict his lordship, with one candle, over his dreadful endless tapes and 
papers ; her ladyship with the other, and an old, old novel, wherein, 
perhaps, Mrs. Eadcliffe describes a castle as dreary as her own ; and 
poor little Clara sighing and crying in the midst of these funereal 
splendours, as lonely and heart-sick as Oriana in her moated grange : — 
poor little Clara! 

Lord Kdw*s drag took the young men to London; his lordship 
^ving, and the servants sitting inside. Jack sat behind with the two 
grooms, and tooted on a comet-^-piston in the most melancholy manner. 
He partook of no refreshment on the road. His silence at his clubs 
was remarked : smoking, billiards, military duties, and this and that, 
roused him a litde, and presently Jack was alive again. But then calfie 
the season. Lady Clara Pulleyn's first season in London, and Jack 
was more alive than ever. There was no ball he did not go to ; no opera 
(that is to say, no opera of certain operas) which he did not frequent. 
It was easy to see by his face, two minutes after entering a room, 
whether the person he sought was there or absent ; not difficult for 
those who were in the secret, to watch in another pair of eyes the bright 
kindling signals which answered Jack's fiery glances. Ah 1 how beau- 
tiful he looked on his charger on the birthday, all in a blaze of scarlet, 
and bullion, and steel. Jack ! tear her out of yon carriage, from the 
side of yonder livid, feathered, painted, honey dowager ! place her 
behind you on the black charger ; cut down the policeman, and away 
with you ! The carriage rolls in through St. James's Park ; Jack sits 
alone vnth his sword dropped to the ground, or only atra cura on the 
crupper behind him ; and Snip, the tailor, in the crowd thinks it is 
for fear of him Jack's head droops. Lady Clara Pulleyn is presented 
by her mother, the Countess of Dorking ; and Jack is arrested that 
*^ight as he is going out of White's to meet her at the Opera. 

Jack's little exploits are known in the Insolvent Court, where he 
^^de his appearances as Charles Belsize, commonly called the 
Honorable Charles Belsize, whose dealings were smartly chronicled 



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27.8 THE KEWCQME^. 

by the indigDant moralists of the press of those days. The '* Scourge" 
flogged him heartily. The " Whip," (of which the accomplished editor 
. was himself in Whitecross-street prison,) was especially virtuous regarding 
him ; and the *' Penny Voice of Freedom " gave him an awful dressing. 
I am not here, to scourge sinners ; I am true to my party ; it is the 
other side this humble, pen attacks; let us keep to the .virtuous and 
respectable, for as for poor sinners they get the whipping-post every 
day. One person was faithful to poor Jack through all his blunders 
and follies and extravagance and misfortunes, and that was the pretty 
ypung girl of Chanticlere, round whose young affections his luxuriant 
whiskers had curled. And the world may cry put at Lord Kew for 
sending his brougham to the Queen's Bench prison, and giving a great 
feast at Grignon's to Jack on the day of his liberation, but I for one 
. will not quarrel with his lordship. He and many other sinners had a 
]olly night. They said Kew made. a fine speech, in hearing and acknow- 
ledgiug which Jack Belsize wept copiously. Barnes Newcome was in 
a rage at Jack's manumission, and sincerely hoped Mr. Commissioner 
would give him a couple of years longer ; and cursed and swore with a 
great liberality on hearing of his liberty. 

That this poor prodigal should marry Clara PuUeyn, and by way 
of a dowry lay his schedule at her feet, was out of the question. His 
noble father, Lord Highgate, was furious against him; his eldest 
hrother would not see him ; he had given up all hopes of winning 
his darling prize long ago, and one day there came to him. a great 
packet bearipg the seal of Chanticlere, containing, a wretched Uttle 
letter signed C. P., and a. dozen sheets of Jack's own clumsy 
writing delivered who knows how, in what crush rooms, quadrilles, 
bouquets, balls, and in which were scrawled Jack's love and, passion and 
ardour. How many a time had he looked into the dictionary at White's, 
to see whether eternal was spelt with an e, and adore with oiie a or 
two ! There they were, the incoherent utterances of his brave loiiging 
heart ; and those two wretched, wretched lines signed C, begging that 
C.'s little letters might too be returned or destroyed. To do him 
justice he burnt them loyally every one along with his own waste paper. 
He kept not one single little token which she had givjen him, or let 
him take. The rose, the glove, the little . handkerchief which she had 
dropped to him, how he cried over them ! The ringlet of golden hair- 
he burnt them all, all in his own £re in the prison, save a little, little bit 
of the hair, which might be any one's, which was the colour of his sisters. 
Kew saw the deed done ; perhaps he hurried away when Jacls came tjo 
the very last part of the sacrifice, and. flung the hjair into the fire, where 
he would have liked to fling his heart and his life too. 

So Clara was free, and the year when Jack canae out of priscm 
and went abroad, she passed the season in London dancing about night 
after night, and everybody said she was well out of that silly affair 
with Jack Belsize. It was then that Barnes Newcome, Esq.,, a partner 
of the wealthy ba.nldng firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcomes, son 



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THE IfEWCOMES. 279 

and heir of Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome, Bart., and M. P., 
descended in right line from- Bryan de Newcomyn, slain at Hastings, 
and harber-sorgeon to Edward the Confessor, Ac, &c., cast the eyes of 
regard on the Lady Clara Polleyn, who was a little pale and languid 
certainly, bat had blue eyes, a delicate skin, and a pretty person, and 
knowing her previous history as well as you who have just perused it, 
deigned to entertain matrimonial intentions towards her ladyship. 

Not one of the members of these most respectable families, excepting 
poor little Clara perhaps, poor little fish (as if she had any call but to do 
her duty, or to ask a quelle sauce eUe serait mangee)^ protested against 
this little afifair of traffic ; Lady Dorking had a brood of little chickens 
to succeed Clara. There was little Hennie, who was sixteen, and 
Biddy, who. was fourteen, and Adelaide, and who knows how many 
more. How could she refuse a young man, not very agreeable it is 
true, nor particularly amiable, nor of good birth, at least on his father's 
9ide, but otherwise eligible, and heir to so many thousands a-year ? The 
Kewcomes, on their side, think it a desirable match. Barnes, it must 
be confessed, is growing rather selfish, and has some bachelor ways 
which a wife will reform. Lady Kew is strongly for the match. With 
her own family interest. Lord Steyne and Lord Kew, her nephews, and 
Barnes's own father-in-law. Lord Dorking, in the Peers ; why shall not 
the Newcomes sit there too, and resume the old seat which all the 
world knows they had in the time of Eichard III. ? Barnes and his 
father had got up quite a belief about a Newcome killed at Bosworth, 
along with King Richard, and hated Henry VII. as an enemy of their 
noble race. So all the parties were /pretty well agreed. Lady Ann 
wrote rather a pretty little poem about welcoming the white Fawn to the 
Newcome bowers, and " Clara" was made to rhyme with "fairer," and 
'* timid does and antlered deer to dot the glades of Chanticlere," quite' in 
a picturesque way. Lady Kew pronounced that the poem was very pretty 
indeed. 

The year after Jack Belsize made his foreign tour he returned to 
London for the season. Lady Clara did not happen to be there ; her 
health was a little delicate, and her kind parents took her abroad ; so 
all things went on very smoothly and comfortably indeed. 

Yes, but when things were so quiet and comfortable, when the ladies 
of the two families had met at the Congress of Baden, and liked each 
other so much, when Barnes and his papa the Baronet, recovered from 
his illness, were actually on their journey from Aix-la-Chapelle, and 
Lady Kew in motion from Kissingen to the Congress of Baden, why on 
earth should Jack Belsize, hs^gard, wild, having been winning great 
sums, it was said, at Hombourg — ^forsake his luck there, and run over 
frantically to Baden ? He wore a great thick beard, a great slouched 
hat — he looked like nothing more or less than a painter or an Italian 
brigand. Unsuspecting Clive, remembering the jolly dinner which Jack 
had procured for him at the Guards' mess in St. James's, whither Jack 
himself came from the Horse Guards — simple Clive, seeing Jack enter the 



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280 THE NBWCOMBS. 

town, hailed him oordially, and invited him to dinner, and Jack accepted, 
and Olive told him all the news he had of the place, how Kew was there, 
and Lady Ann Newcome, and Ethel ; and Barnes was coming* " I am 
not very fond of him either," says Olive, smiling, whenBelsize mentioned 
hifl name. So Barnes was coming to marry that pretty little Lady 
Olara Pulleyn. The knowing yonth ! I dare say he was rather pleased 
with his knowledge of the fashionahle world, and the idea that Jack 
Belsize would think he, too, was somebody. 

Jack drank an immense quantity of chcunpagne, and the dinner over, 
as they could hear the band playing from Olive's open windows in the 
saug clean little Hotel de France, Jack proposed they should go on the 
piomenade. M. de Florae was of the party ; he had been exceedingly 
jocular when Lord Kew's name was mentioned, and said, " Oe petit 
Kiou! M. le Due d*Ivry, mon oncle, Thonore dune amitie toute 
particuliere." These three gentlemen walked out ; the promenade was 
crowded, the band was playing ** Home, sweet Home," very sweetly, 
and the very first persons they met on the walk were the Lords of Kew 
and Dorking, on the arm of which latter venerable peer his daughter 
Lady Olara was hanging. 

Jack Belsize, in a velvet coat, with a sombrero slouched over his 
fEUse, with a beard reaching to his waist, was, no doubt, not recognised 
at first by the noble Lord of Dorkings for he was greeting the other two 
gentlemen witli his usual politeness and afBsibility ; when, of a sudden, 
Lady Olara looking up, gave a little shriek and fell down lifeless on the 
gravel- walk. Then the old earlrec(^nised Mr. Belsize, and Olive heard 
him say, " You villain, how dare you come here ? " 

Belsize had flung himself down to lift up Olara, calling^her frantically 
by her name, when old Dorking sprang to seize him. 

" Hands off, my lord," said the other, shaking the old man from his 
back. " Confound you. Jack, hold your tongue," roars out Kew. CUve 
runs for a chair, and a dozen were forthcoming. Florae skips back with 
a glass of water. Belsize runs towards the awakening girl : and the 
father, for an instant, losing ail patience and self-command, trembling 
in every limb, lifts his stick, and says again, ** Leave her, you 
ruffian." ** Lady Olara has fednted again, sir," says Oaptain Belsize. 
" I am staying at the Hotel de France. If you touch me, old man," 
(this in a very low voice), ** by Heaven I shall kill you, I wish you good 
morning ; " and taking a last long look at the lifeless girl, he lifts his 
hat and walks away. Lord Dorking mechanically takes his hat off, and 
stands stupidly gazing after him. He beckoned Olive to follow him, 
and a crowd of the frequenters of the place are by this time closed 
round the fainting young lady. 

Here was a pretty incident in the Congress of Baden ! 



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CHAPTER XXIX. 




IN WHICH BABNE8 COMES A WOOING. 

THEL had all along 
known that her holiday 
was to be a short one, 
and that, her papa and 
Barnes arrived, there was 
to be no more laughing 
and fun and sketching 
and walking with Cliye; 
so she took the sunshine 
while it lasted, deter- 
mined to bear with a stout 
heart the bad weather. 
Sir Brian Newcome and his eldest bom arrived at Baden on the 
very night of Jack Belsize's performance upon the promenade; of 
course it was necessary to inform the young bridegroom of the facts. 
His acquaintances of the public, who by ^is time know his temper, 
and are acquainted with his language, can imagine the explosions of the 
one and the vehemence pf . the other ; it was a perfect feu d'artifice of 
oaths which he sent up. Mr. Newcome only fired off these volleys of 
curses when he was in a passion, but then he was in a passion very 
frequently. 

As for Lady Clara's little accident, he was disposed to treat that very 
lightly. " Poor dear Clara of course, of course," he said, " she's been 
accustomed to fainting fits ; no wonder she was agitated on the sight 
of that villain, after his infernal treatment of her. If I had been there" 
(a volley of oaths comes here along the ^ole line) " I should have 
strangled the scoundrel ; I should have murdered him." 
" Mercy, Barnes," cries Lady Ann. 

** It Was a mercy Barnes was not there," says Ethel gravely ; '* a 
%ht between him and Captain Belsize would have been awful indeed." 
'* I am afraid of no man, Ethel," says Barnes fiercely with another 
oath. 

**Hit one of your own size, Barnes," says Miss Ethel, (who had a 
number of school-phrases from her little brothers, and used them on 
<><5<»8ions skilfully), " Hit Captain Belsize, he has got no friends." 

As Jack Belsize from his height and strength was fitted to be not 
only an officer but actually a private in his former gallant regiment, and 



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282 THE NEWCOMES. 

brother Barnes was but a puny young gentleman, the idea of a personal 
conflict between them was rather ridiculous. Some notion of this sort 
may have passed through Sir Brian's mind, for the baronet said with 
his usual solemnity, " It is the cause, Ethel, it is the cause, my dear, 
which gives strength ; in such a cause as Barnes's, with a beautifal 
young creature to protect from a vDlain, any man would be strong, 9Sij 
man would be strong." '* Since his last attack," B«&«s used to say, 
** my poor old governor is exceedingly shaky, very gioggy about the 
head ; " which was the fact Bonies was already master at Newcome 
and the bank, and awaiting inth perfect composure the event which 
wias to place the Uaod-rad hand of the Newcome baronetcy on his 
0im brougham. 

Casting his eyes about the room, a heap of drawings, the work 
of a well-known hand which he hated, met his eye. There were a 
half-dozen sketches of Baden. Ethel on horseback again. The 
children and the dogs just in the old way. '* D — him, is he here?" 
screams out Barnes. " Is that young pot-house villain here ? and 
hasn't Kew knocked his head off? Olive Newcome is here, sir," he 
cries out to his father. ** The Colonel's son. I have fid doubt they 
met by " 

" By what, Barnes ?" says Ethel. 

" Clive is here, is he?" says the Baronet; ** making caricatures, hey? 
You did not mention him in your letters. Lady Ann." 

Sir Brian was evidendy very much touched by his last attack. 

Ethel blushed ; it was a curious fact, but there had been no mention 
of Clive in the ladies' letters to Sir Brian. ' 

** My dear, we met him by the merest chance, at Bonn, travelling 
with a friend of his ; and he speaks a little German, and was very 
useful to us, and took one of the boys in his britzska the whole way." 

" Boys always crowd in a carriage," says Sir Brian. ** Kick your 
shins ; always in the way. I remember, when we used to come in the 
carriage from Clapham, when we were boys, I used to kick my biether 
Tom's shins. Poor Tom, he was. a devilish wild fellow in those days. 
You don't recollect Tom, my Lady Ann?" ; . 

Farther anecdotes from Sir Brian are interrupted by Lord Kew's 
arrival, "How dydo, Kew," cries Barnes. "How's Clara?" and 
Lord Kew walking up with great respect to shake hands with 
Sir Brian, says, ** I am glad to see you looking so well, sir," and 
scarcely takes any notice of Barnes. That Mr. Barnes Newcome \vas 
an individual not universally beloved, is a point of history of which 
there can be no doubt. 

"You have not told me how Clara is, my good fellow," continues 
Btmies. " I have heard all about her meeting with that villain. Jack 
Belsize." 

" Don't call names, my good fellow," says Lord Kew. " It strikes 
me you don't know Belsize well enough to call him by nicknames or hy 
other names. Lady Clara PuUeyn, I believe, is very unwell indeed." 



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. THE KBWCOMBS. 283 

*• Confound the fellow I How dared he to come here? "cries Barnes, 
backing from this little rebuff, 

** Dare is another, ugly word. I would advise you not to use it to 
the fellow himself." 

"What do you mean? "says Barnes, looking very serious in an 
instant. 

" Easy, my good friend. Not so very loud. It appears, Ethel, that 
poor Jack — I know him pretty well, you see, Barnes, and may call him 
by what names I like — had been dining to-day with cousin Olive ; he and 
M. de Florae ; and that they went with Jack to the promenade, not 
in the least aware of Mr. Jack Belsize's private a£^rs, or of the 
shindy that was going to happen.'* 

" By Jove, he shall ai»wer dbr it,'* cries out Barnes in aloud viuce. 

"I daresay he will, if you ask him," says the other drily; "but 
not before ladies. He'd be afraid of frightening them. Poor Jack 
was always as gentle as a lamb before women. I had some talk with 
^he Frenchman just now," continued Lord Kew gaily, as if wishing to 
pass over this side of the subject. " *Mi Lord Kiou,' says be, * we 
have made ji^i^r friend Jac to hear reason. He is a little /ow, your 
friend Jack. He drank champagne at dinner like an ogre. How is 
the eharmante Miss Clara?' Florae, you see, calls her Miss Clara, 
Barnes ; the world calls her Lady Clara. You call her Clara. You 
happy dog, you." ' 

"I don't see why that infernal young cub of a Clive is always 
ineddling in our affidrs," cries out Barnes, whose rage was perpetually 
being whipped into new outcries. •* Why has he been about this house? 
Why is he here ? 

" It is very well for you that he was, Barnes," Lord Kew said. ** The 
young fellow showed great temper and spirit. There has been a famous 
row, but don't be alarmed, it is all over. It is all over, everybody may 
go to bed and sleep comfortably. Barnes need not get up in the 
m(H:sdng to punch Jack Belsize's head. I'm sorry for your disappoint- 
ment, you Fenchurch-street fire-eater. Come away. It will be but 
proper, you know, for a bridegroom elect to go and ask news of la 
ckartnante Miss Clara; 

" As we went out of the house," Lord Kew told Clive, " I said to 
Barnes, that every word I had uttered upstairs with regard to the 
reconciliation was a lie. That Jack Belsize was determined to have 
^19 blood, and was walking under the lime-trees by which we had to 
pass with a thundering big stick. You should have seen the state the 
lellow was in, sir. The sweet youth started back, and turned as yellow 
^ a cream cheese. Then he made a pretext to go into his room, and 
said it was for has pocket handkerchief, but I know it was for a pistol : 
*or he dropped his hand from my arm into his pocket; every time I 
said * Here's Jack,' as we walked down the avenue to Lord Dorldng's 
apartment." 

A. great deal of animated business had been transacted during the 



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284 THB KEWCOMSS. 

two hours subsecjuent to poor Lady Clara's mishap. Olive and Belsize 
had returned to the former's quarters, while gentle J. J. was utilising 
the last rays of the sun to tint a sketch which he had made during the 
morning. He fled to his own apartment on the arrival of the fierce- 
looking stranger, whose glaring eyes, pallid looks, shaggy beard, clutched 
hands and incessant gasps and mutterings as he strode up and down) 
might well scare a peaceable person. Very terrible must Jack have 
looked as he trampled those boards in the growing twilight, anon 
stopping to drink another tumbler of champs^e, then groaning 
expressions of inarticulate wrath, and i^in sinking down on Olive's 
bed with a drooping head and breaking voice, crying, " Poor little thing, 
poor little devil." 

** If the old man sends me a message, you will stand by me, won't 
you; Newcome ? He was a fierce old fellow in his time, and I have 
seen him shoot straight enough at Ohanticlere. I suppose you know 
what the affidr is about ? " 

*' I never heard of it before, but I think I understand," says Olive, 
gravely. 

** I can't ask Kew, he is one of the family ; he is going to many 
Miss Newcome. It is no use asking him." 

All Olive's blood tingled at the idea that any man was going to 
marry Miss Newcome. He knew it before — a fortnight since, and it 
was nothing to him to hear it. He was glad that the growing darkness 
prevented his face from being seen. ** 1 am of the family, too," said 
Olive, "and Barnes Newcome and I had the same grandfather." 

'' Oh, yes, old boy — old banker, the weaver, what was he ? I 
forgot," says poor Jack, kicking on Olive's bed, " in that family the 
Newcomes don't count I beg your pardon," groans poor Jack. 

They lapse into silence, during which Jack's cigar glimmers from the 
twilight comer where Olive's bed is ; whilst Olive wafts his fragrance 
out of the window where he sits, and whence he has a view of Lady 
Ann Newcome's windows to the right, over the bridge across the little 
rushing river, at the Hotel de Hollande hard by. The lights twinkle 
in the booths under the pretty lime avenues. The hum of distant 
voices is heard ; the gambling palace is all in a blaze ; it is an assembly 
night, and from the doors of the conversation-rooms, as they open and 
close, escape gusts of hamMmy. Behind on the little hill the darkling 
woods lie calm, the edges of the fir-trees cut sharp against the sky, 
which is clear with a crescent moon and the lambent lights of the starry 
hosts of heaven. Olive does not see pine-robed hills and shining stars, 
nor think of pleasure in its palace yonder, nor of pain writhing on his 
own bed within a few feet of him, where poor Belsize was groaning. 
His eyes are fixed upon a window whence comes the red light of a 
lamp, across which shadows float now and again. So every light in 
every booth yonder has a scheme of its own : every star above shines 
by itself; and each individual heart of ours goes on brightening with its 
own hopes, burning with its ovm desires, and quivering with its own pain. 



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7HB 2«nSWC0MES. 283 

The reverie is interrupted by the waiter, i»ho aimoiinces M. le 
Vicomte de Florae^ and a third oigar is added to the other two smokj 
lights. Belsize is glad to see Florae, whom he has known in a thousand 
haunts. He will do mj business for me. He has been out hal^- 
dozen times, thinks Jack. It would relieve the poor fellow's boiling 
blood that some one would let a little out. He lays his afibir before 
Florae, he expects a message from Lord Dorking. 

"Comment done?" cries Florae; "ily avait done quelque chose! 
Cette pauvre petite Mies ! Vous voulez tuer le p^re, apres avoir delakse 
la fille? Cherchez d'autres temoins. Monsieur. Le Vicomte de Florae ne 
se fait pas complice de telles laehetes." 

** By Heaven," says Jack, sitting up on the bed, with his eyes glaring, 
" I have a great mind, Florae, to wring your infernal little neck, and to 
fling you out of the window. Is all the world going to turn against me ? 
I am half mad as it is. If any man dares to think anything wrong 
regarding that little angel, or to fancy that she is not as pure, and as 
good, and as gentle, and as innocent, by Heayen, as any angel there, — 
if any man thinks I'd be the villain to hurt her, I should just like to 
see him," says Jack. " By the Lord, sir, just bring him to me. Just 
tell the waiter to send him up-stairs. Hurt her ! I hurt h«r ! O! I'm 
a fool ! a fool ! a d d fool ! Who's that ? " 

" It's Kew," says a voice out of the dai^ness from behind cigar No. 4, 
and Clive now, having a party assembled, scrapes a match and lights 
his candles. 

" I heard your last words, Jack,*' Lord Kew says bluntly, *' and you 
never spoke more truth in your life. Why did you come here ? What 
light had you to stab that poor little heart over again, and frighten Lady 
Clara with your confounded haity face ? You promised me you would 
never see her. You gave your word of honour you wouldn't, when I 
gave you the money to go abroad. Hang the money, I don't mind that ; 
it was on your promise that you would prowl about her no more. The 
Borkings left London before you came there ; they gave . you your 
innings. They have behaved kindly and fairly enough to that poor girl. 
How was she to marry such a bankrupt beggar as you are ? What you 
have done is a shame, Charley Belsizev I tell you it is unmanly, and 
cowardly." 

" Pst," says Florae, ** numero deux, voila le mot laohe.'* 

" Don't bite your thumb at me," Kew went cm. "I know you could 
thrash me, if that's what you mean 1^ shaking your fists ; so could most 
nien. I tell you again — ^you have done a bad deed; you have broken 
your woi^ of honour, and you knocked down Clara Pulleyn to-day as 
cruelly as if you had done it with your hand." 

With this rush upon him, and fiery assault of Kew, Belsize was quite 

bemldered. The huge man flung up his great arms, and let them drop 

^t his side as a gladiator that surrenders, and asks for pity. He sank 

down once more on the iron bed. 

" I don't know," says he, roUing and roUing rounds in one of bis great 



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286 THE NEWCOMES. 

hands, one of the hmss knobs of the bed by which he was seated, " I 
don't know, Frank," says he, *' what the world is coming to, or me 
either ; here is twice in one night I have been called a coward by you, 
and by that little what-d'-you-call'm. I beg your pardon,. Florae. I 
don't know whether it is very brave in you to hit a chap when he i^ 
down : hit again, I have no friends. I have acted like a blackguard, I 
own that ; I did break my promise ; you had that safe enough, Frank, 
my boy ; but I did not think it would hurt her to see me," says he, 
with a dreadful sob in his voice. ** By — I would have given ten years 
of my life to look at her. I was going mad without her. I tried every 
plaGe» every thing ; went to Ems, to Wiesbaden, to Hombourg, and 
played like hell. It used to excite ii>e once, and now I don't care iotit 
I won no end of money, — ^no end for a poor beggar like me, that is ; but 
I couldn't keep away. I couldn't, and if she had been at the North Pole, 
by Heavens I would have followed her." 

*' And so just to look at her, just to give your confounded stupid eyes 
two minutes' pleasure, you must bring about all this pain, you great 
baby," cries Kew, who was very soft-hearted, and in truth quite torn 
himself by the sight of poor Jack's agony. 

" Get me to see her for five minutes, Kew," cries the other, griping 
his comrade's hand in his ; '* but for five minutes." 

** For shame," cries Lord Kew, shaking away his hand, " be a man 
Jack, and have no more of this puling. It's not a baby, that must have 
its toy, and cries because it can't get it. Spare the poor girl this pain, 
for her own sake, and balk yourself of the pleasure of bullying and 
making her unhappy." 

Belsize started up with looks that were by no means pleasant. 
" There's enough of this chaff. I have been called names, and black- 
guarded quite sufficiently for one sitting. I shall act as I please. I 
choose to take my own way, and if any gentleman stops me he bas full 
warning." And he fell to tugging his mustachios, which were of a dark 
tawny hue, and looked as warlike as he had ever done on any field-day. 

" I take the warning! "said Lord Kew, " And if I know the way you 
are going, as I tiiink I do, I will do my best to stop you, madman as 
you are I You can hardly propose to follow her to her own doorway and 
pose yourself before your mistress as the murderer of her father, like 
Eodrigue in the French play. If Rooster were here it would be bis 
business to defend his sister; in his absence I will take the dutyt)n 
myself, and I say to you, Charles Belsize, in the presence of -these 
gentlemen, that any man who insults this young lady, who persecutes 
her with his presence, knowing it can but pain her, who persists in* 
following her when he has given his word of honour to avoid her, that 
such a man is——" 

" What, my Lord Kew ? " cries Belsize, whose chest began to hea^e. 

** You know what," answers the other. " You know what a man is 
who insults a poor woman, and breaks his word of honour. Consider 
the word said, and act upon it as you think fit." 



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THE KBWCOMBS. 287 

^ " I owe you four thousand pounds, Kew," says Belsize, " and I have 
got four thousand on the hills, hesides four hundred when I came out 
of that place." 

"You insult me the more," cries Kew flashing out, hy alluding to 
the money. '* If you will leave this place to-morrow, well and good ; if 
not, you will please to give me a meeting. Mr. Newcome, will you he 
80 kind as to act as my friend ? We are connexions you know, and this 
gentleman chooses to insult a lady who is about to become one of our 
family." 

" C*est bien, milord. Ma foi! c'est d'agir en vrai gentilhomme," says 
Florae delighted. "Touchez-la, mon petit Kiou. Tu as du coeur. 
Grodam! you are a brave! A brave fellow!" and the Viscount 
reached out his hand cordially to Lord Kew. 

His purpose was evidently pacific. From Kew he turned to the great 
guardsman, and taking him by the coat began to apostrophise him. 
"And you, mon gros," says he, "is there no way of calming this hot 
blood without a saignee ? Have you a penny to the world ? Can you 
bope to carry ofif your Chimene, Kodrigue, and live by robbing after- 
wards on the great way? Suppose you kill ze Fazer, you kill Kiou, 
you kill Roostere, your Chimene will have a pretty moon of honey." 

" What the devil do you mean about your Chimene and your. 
Ro(lrigue? Do you mean, Viscount?" says Belsize, Jack Belsize 
once more, and he dashed his hand across his eyes. "Kew has riled. 
Bae and he droTe me half wild. I ain't much of a Frenchman, but I 
know enough of what you said, to say it's true, by Jove, and that Frank 
Kew 8 a trump. That's what you mean. Give us your hand, Frank. God 

bless you, old boy ; don't be too hard upon me, you know I'm d d 

miserable, that I am. Hullo. What's this? "Jack's pathetic speech 
^vas interrupted at this instant, for the Vicomte de Florae in his. 
enthusiasm rushed into his arms, and jumped up towards his face and 
proceeded to kiss Jack. A roar of immense laughter, as he shook the 
httle Viscount off, cleared the air and ended his quarrel. 

Everybody joined in this chorus, the Frenchmen with the rest who 
said, " he loved to laugh meme when he did not know why." And now 
came the moment of the evening, when Clive, according to Lord Kew's 
saying, behaved so well and prevented Barnes from incurring a great 
"anger. In truth, what Mr. Clive did or said amounted exactly to 
nothing. What moments can we not all remember in our lives when 
^t would have been so much wittier and wiser to say and do nothing? 

florae, a very sober drinker like most of his nation, was blessed with 
a very fine appetite, which, as he said, renewed itself thrice. a day at 
east. He now proposed supper, and poor Jack was for supper too, 
^^ especially more drink, champagne and seltzer water; "bring 
champagne and seltzer water, there is nothing like it" Clive could 
^ot object to this entertainment, which was ordered forthwith, and 
ne four young men sat down to share it 

Whilst Florae was partaking of his favourite ecrevisses, giving not 



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288 THE KEWCOMES. 

cmlj his palate bat his hands, his beard, his mustachios and cheeks a 
full enjoyment of the sauce i?hich he found so delicious, he chose to 
revert now and again to the occurrences which had just past, and which 
had better perhaps have been forgotten, and gaily rallied Belsize upon 
his warlike humour. '* If ze petit pretendu was here, what would you 
hare done wiz him, Jac? You would croquer im, like zis ecrevisse, hein? 
You would mache his bones, hein? " 

Jack, who had forgotten to put the seltzer water into his champi^e, 
writhed at the idea of having Barnes Newcome before him, and swore, 
eould he but see Barnes, he would take the little yillain's life. 

And but for Glive, Jack might actually have beheld his enemy. 
Young Olive after the meal went to the window with his eternal 
cigar, and of course began to look at That Other window. Here, 
as he looked, a carriage had at the moment driven up. Ke saw 
two servants descend, then two gentlemen, and then he heurd a 
well-known voice swearing at the couriers. To his credit be it said, 
he checked the exclamation which was on his lips, and when he came 
back to the table, did not announce to Kew or his right-hand neighbonr 
Belsize, that his uncle and Barnes had arrived. Belsize, by this time, 
had had quite too much wine^ when the Viscount went away, poor 
Jack's head was nodding; he had been awake all the night before; 
sleepless for how many nights previous. He scarce took any notice 
of the Frenchman's departure. 

Lord Kew remained. He was for taking Jack to walk, and for reason- 
ing with him farther, andfoif 'entering more at lai^e than perhaps he 
chose to do before the two others upon this family dispute. CUtb 
took a moment to whisper to Lord Kew, " My uncle *and Barnes are 
arrived, don't let Belsize go out; for goodness' sake let us get him 
to bed." 

And lest the poor fellow should take a fancy to visit his mistress by 
moonlight, when he was safe in his room, Lord Kew softly turned the 
key in Mr. Jack's door. 



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CHAPTER XXX. 



A RETREAT. 

S Clive lay awake re- 
volving the strange in 
cidents of the day, and 
speculating upon the tra- 
gedy in which he had 
heen suddenly called to 
take a certain part, a 
sure presentiment told 
him that his own happy 
holiday was come to an 
end, and that the clouds 
and storm which he had 
always somehow fore- 
boded, were about to 
break and obscure this 
brief pleasant period of 
sunshine. He rose at 
a very early hour, flung 
his windows open, looked 
out no doubt towards 
those other windows in 
the neighbouring hotel, 
where he may have fancied he saw a curtain stirring, drawn by a hand 
that every hour now he longed more to press. He turned back into his 
chamber with a sort of groan, and surveyed some of the relics of the 
last night's little feast, which still remained on the table. There were 
the champagne flasks which poor Jack Belsize had emptied, the tall 
Seltzer- water bottle ; from which the gases had issued and mingled 
with the hot air of the previous night's talk; glasses with dregs of 
li<luor, ashes of cigars, or their black stumps, strewing the cloth ; the 
dead men, the burst guns of yesterday s battle. Early as it was, 
his neighbour J. J. had been up before him. Clive could hear him 
singing as was his wont when the pencil went well, and the 
colours arranged themselves to his satisfaction over his peaceful and 
Wpy work. 
He pulled his own drawing-table to the window, set out his board 




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290 THS NEWCOHES. 

and colour-box, filled a great glass from the Seltzer-water bottle, drank 
some of the vapid liquor, and plunged his brushes in the rest, mth 
which he began to paint. The work all went wrong. There was no 
song for him over his labour ; he dashed brush' and board aside after 
a while, opened his drawers, pulled out his portmanteaus from under 
the bed, and fell to packing mechanicallj. J. J. heard the noise from 
the next room, and came in smiling, with a great painting-brush in 
his mouth. 

"Have the bills in, J. J.," says Clive. "Leave your cards on your 
friends, old boy ; say good bye to that pretty little strawberry girl 
whose picture you have been doing ; polish it off to-day, and dry the 
little thing's tears. I read PFC. in the stars last night, and my familiar 
spirit came to me in a vision, and said, * Clive, son of Thomas, put thy 
travelling boots on.* " 

Lest any premature moralist should prepare to cry fie against the 
good, pure-minded little J. J., I hereby state that his strawbeny 
girl was a little village maiden of seven years old, whose sweet little 
picture a bishop purchased at the next year's Exhibition. 

" Are you going already ? " cries J. J., removing the bit out of his 
mouth. " I thought you had arranged parties for a week to come, 
and that the princesses and the duchesses had positively forbidden the 
departure of your lordship ! " 

** We have dallied at Capua long enough," says Clive ; ** and the 
legions have the route for Rome. So wills Hannibal, the son of 
Hasdrubal." 

"The son of Hasdrubal is quite right," his companion answered ; 
" the sooner we march the better. I have always said it ; I will get all 
the accounts in. Hannibal has been living like a voluptuous 
Carthaginian prince. One, two, three champagne bottles ! There will 
be a deuce of a bill to pay." 

** Ah ! there will be a deuce of a bill to pay," says Clive with a groan 
whereof J. J. knew the portent ; for the young men had the confidence 
of youth one in another. Clive was accustomed to pour out liis full 
heart to any crony who was near him ; and indeed had he spoken never 
a word, his growing attachment to his cousin was not hard to see. A 
hundred times, and with the glowing language and feelings of youth, 
with the fire of his twenty years, with the ardour of a painter, he had 
spoken of her and described her. Her magnanimous simplicity, her 
courage and lofty scorn, her kindness towards her little family, her 
form, her glorious colour of rich carnation and dazzling white, her 
queenly grace when quiescent and in motion, had constantly formed 
the subjects of this young gentleman's ardent eulogies. As he 
looked at a great picture or statue, as the Venus of Milo, calm and 
deep, unfathomably beautiful as the sea from which she sprung ; as he 
looked at the nishing Aurora of the Rospigliosi, or the Assumption 
of Titian, more bright and glorious than sunshine, or that divine 
Madonna and divine Infant, of Dresden, whose sweet faces must have 
shone upon Raphael out of heaven ; his heart sang hymns, as it were, 



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THE NEWCOMBS. 29 1 

before these gracious altars ; and, somewhat as he worshipped these 
masterpieces of his art he admired the heauty of Ethel. 

J.J. felt these things exquisitely after his manner, and enjoyed 
honest CliTe's mode of celebration and rapturous fioriture of song ; 
but Eidley's natural note was much gentler, and he sang his hymns 
in plaintive minors. Ethel was all that was bright and beautiful, but — 
but she was engaged to Lord Kew. The shrewd kind confidant used 
gently to hint the sad fact to the impetuous hero of this piece. The 
impetuous hero knew this quite well. As he was sitting over his 
painting-board, he would break forth frequently, after his manner, 
in which laughter and sentiment were mingled, and roar out with all 
the force of his healthy young lungs — 

'* Bat her heart it is another's, she never— can — ^be — ^mine ;" 

and then hero and confidant would laugh each at his drawing table. 
Miss Ethel went between the two gentlemen by the name of Alice Grey. 

Very likely Night, the Grey Mentor, had given Clive Newcome 
the benefit of his sad counsel. Poor Belsize's agony, and the 
wretchedness of the young lady who shared in the desperate passion, 
may have set our young man a thinking ; and Lord Kew*s frankness 
and courage, and honour, whereof Clive had been a witness during the 
night, touched his heart with a generous admiration, and manned him 
for a trial which he felt was indeed severe. He thought of the dear 
old father ploughing the seas on the way to his duty, and was 
determined, by Heaven's help, to do his own. Only three weeks since, 
when strolling careless about Bonn he had lighted upon Ethel and the 
laughing group of little cousins, he was a boy as they were, thinking 
but of the enjoyment of the day and the sunshine, as careless as 
those children. And now the thoughts and passions which had sprung 
up in a week or two, had given him an experience such as years do 
not always furnish ; and our friend was to show, not only that he 
could feel love in his heart, but that he could give proof of courage 
and self-denial and honour. 

"Do you remember, J. J.," says he, as boots and breeches went 
plunging into the portmanteau, and with immense energy he pummels 
down one upon the other, ** do you remember (a dig into the snowy 
bosom of a dress cambric shirt), my dear old father's only campaign 
story of his running away (a frightful blow into the ribs of a waistcoat), 
running away at Asseer-Ghur ? " 

" Asseer-What? " says J. J., wondering. 

"The siege of Asseer-Ghur !" says Clive, "fought in the eventful 
year 1803; Lieutenant Newcome, who has very neat legs, let me tell you, 
which also he has imparted to his descendants, had put on a new pair 
of leather breeches, for he likes to go handsomely dressed into action. 
His horse was shot, the enemy were upon him, and the governor had 
to choose between death and retreat I have heard his brother officers 

u2 



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292 



THE NEWCOMBS. 



Bay that my dear old father was the hravest man they ever knew, the 
coolest hand, sir. What do you think it was Lieutenant Newcome s 




duty to do under these circumstances ? To remain alone as he was, 
his troop having turned ahout, and to be cut down by the Mahratta 
horsemen — to perish or to run, sir ? " 

** I know which I should have done," says Kidley. 

** Exactly. Lieutenant Newcome adopted that course. His bran 
new leather breeches were exceedingly tight, and greatly incommoded 
the rapidity of his retreating movement, but he ran away, sir, and after- 
wards begot your obedient servant. That is the history of the battle 
of Asseer-Ghur." 

** And now for the moral," says J. J., not a little amused. 

** J. J., old boy, this is my battle of Asseer-Ghur. I am off. Dip 
into the money-bag : pay the people : be generous, J. J., but not too 
prodigal. The chamber-maid is ugly, yet let her not want for a crown 
to console her at our departure. The waiters have been brisk and 
6er\^ile, reward the slaves for their labours. Forget not the bumble 
boots, so shall he bless us when we depart. For artists are gentlerneD, 
though Ethel does not think so. De — No — God bless her, God bless 
her," groans out Olive, cramming his two fists into his eyes. If Ridley 
admired him before, he thought none the worse of him now. And if 
any generous young fellow in life reads the Fable, which may possibljr 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 298 

concern him» let him take a senior s counsel and remember that there 
are perils in our battle, God help us, from which the bravest had best 
run away. 

Early as the morning yet was, Clive had a visitor, and the door 
opened to let in Lord Kew's honest face. Kidley retreated before it 
into his own den, the appearance of earls scared the modest painter, 
though he was proud and pleased that his Clive should have their 
company. Lord Kew indeed lived in more splendid apartments on the 
first floor of the hotel, Clive and his friend occupying a couple of 
spacious chambers on the second story. " You are an early bird," says 
Kew. "I got up myself in a panic before daylight almost. Jack was 
making a deuce of a row in his room, and fit to blow the door out. I 
have been coaxing him for this hour ; I wish we had thought of giving 
him a dose of laudanum last night ; if it finished him, poor old boy, it 
would do him no harm." And then, laughing, he gave Clive an account 
of his interview with Barnes on the previous night. ** You seem to be 
packing up to go, too," says Lord Kew, with a momentary glance of 
humour darting from his keen eyes. "The weather is breaking up 
here, and if you are going to cross the St. Gothard, as the Newcomes 
told me, the sooner the better. It*s bitter cold over the mountains in 
October " 

"Very cold," says Clive, biting his nails. 
" Post or Vett. ? " asks my Lord. 

" I bought a can-iage at Frankfort," says Clive, in an off-hand manner. 
" HuUoh ! " cries the other, who was perfectly kind, and entirely 
frank and pleasant, and showed no difference in his conversation with 
men of any degree, except perhaps that to his inferiors in station he 
was a little more polite than to his equals, but who would as soon have 
thought of a young artist leaving Baden in a carriage of his own as of 
his riding away on a dragon 

** I only gave twenty pounds for the carriage, it's a little light thing, 
we are two, a couple of horses carry us and our traps, you know, and 
we can stop where we like. I don't depend upon my profession," Clive 
added, with a blush. " I made three guineas once, and that is the only 
money I ever gained in my life." 

" Of course, my dear fellow, have not I been to your^ father's 

house ? At that pretty ball, and seen no end of fine people there ? We 

are young swells. I know that very well. We only paint for pleasure." 

" We are artists, and we intend to paint for money, my lord," says 

Clive. " Will your lordship give me an order? " 

" My lordship serves me right," the other said. ** I think, Newcome, 
as you are going, T think you might do some folks here a good turn, 
though the service is rather a disagreeable one. Jack Belsize is not fit 
to be left alone. I can't go away from here just now for reasons of 
state. Do be a good fellow and take him with you. Put the Alps 
between him and this confounded business, and if I can serve you in 
any way I shall be delighted, if you will furnish me with the occasion. 
Jack does not know yet that our amiable Barnes is here. I know how 



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294 THE NEWCOHES. 

fond 70a are of him. I have heard the storj — glass of claret and all. 
We all love Barnes. How that poor Ladj Clara can have accepted him 
the Lord knows. We are fearfully and wonderfully made, especially 
women.*' 

" Good heavens," Olive hroke out, ** can it he possible that a young 
creature can have been brought to like such a selfish, insolent, coxcomb 
as that, such a cocktail as Barnes Newcome ? You know very well^ 
Lord Kew, what his life is. There was a poor girl whom he brought out 
of a Newcome fEustory when he was a boy himself, and might have had 
a heart one would have thought, whom he ill-treated, whom he deserted^ 
and flung out of doors without a penny, upon some pretence of her 
infidelity towards him ; who came and actually sat down on the steps of 
Park Lane with a child on each side of her, and not their cries and 
their hunger, but the fear of his own shame and a dread of a police 
court forced him to give her a maintenance. I never see the fellow 
but I loathe him, and long to kick him out of window : and this man is 
to marry a noble young lady because forsooth he is a partner in a bank, 
and heir to seven or eight thousand a year. O, it is a shame, it is a 
shame ! It makes me sick when I think of the lot which the poor 
thing is to endure." 

** It is not a nice story," said Lord Kew, rolling a cigarette ; 
'* Barnes is not a nice man. I give you that in. You have not heard 
it talked about in the family, have you ? " 

•* Good heavens 1 you don't suppose that I would speak to Ethel, to 
Miss Newcome, about such a foul subject as that ? " cries Olive. " I 
never mentioned it to my own father. He would have turned Barnes 
out of his doors if he had known it." 

•* It was the talk about town, I know," Kew said dryly. " Every 
thing is told in those confounded clubs. I told you I give up Barnes 
I like him no more than you do. He may have treated the woman ill, 
I suspect he has not an angelical temper : but in this matter he has not 
been so bad, so very bad as it would seem. The first step is wrong of 
course — those factory towns^— that sort of thing you know — well, well, 
the commencement of the business is a bad one. But he is not the 
only sinner in London. He has declared on his honour to me when 
the matter was talked about, and he was coming on for election at 
Bay's, and was as nearly pilled as any man I ever knew in my life, — he 
declared on his word that he only parted from Mrs. Delacy (Mrs. Delacy 
the poor devil used to call herself) because he found that she had served 
him — as such women will serve men. He offered to send his children to 
school in Yorkshire — rather a cheap school — but she would not part 
with them. She made a scandal in order to get good terms and she 
succeeded. He was anxious to break the connexion : he owned it had 
hung like a millstone round his neck and caused him a great deal of 
remorse — annoyance you may call it He was immensely cut up about 
it. I remember, when that fellow was hanged for murdering a woman, 
Barnes said he did not wonder at his having done it Young men 
make those connexions in their early lives and rue them all their days 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 296 

after. He was heartily sorry, that we may take for granted. He wished 
to lead a proper life. My grandmother managed this husiness with the 
Dorkings. Lady Kew still pulls stroke oar in our boat, you know, and 
the old woman will not give up her place. They know everything, the 
elders do. He is a clever fellow. He is witty in his way. When he 
likes he can make himself quite agreeable to some people. There has 
been no sort of force. You don't suppose young ladies are confined in 
•dungeons and subject to tortures, do you ? But there is a brood of 
Pulleyns at Chanticlere, and old Dorking has nothing to give them. 
His daughter accepted Barnes of her own free-will, he knowing 
perfectly well of that previous affair with Jack. The poor devil bursts 
into the place yesterday and the girl drops down in a faint. She will 
see Belsize this very day if he likes. I took a note from Lady Dorking to 
him at five o'clock this morning. If he fancies that there is any constraint 
put upon Liady Clara's actions she will tell him with her own lips that 
she has acted of her own free will. She will marry the husband she 
has chosen and do her duty by him. You are quite a young un who 
boil and froth up with indignation at the idea that a girl hardly oflf with 
an old love should take on with a new — " 

**I am not indignant with her," says Clive, "for breaking with 
Belsize, but for marrying Barnes." 

" You hate him, and you know he is your enemy ; and, indeed, 
young fellow, he does not compliment you in talking about you. A 
pretty young scapegrace he has made you out to be, and very likely 
thinks you to be. It depends on the colours in which a fellow is 
painted. Our friends and our enemies draw us, — and I often think 
both pictures are like," continued the easy world-philosopher. " You 
hate Barnes, and cannot see any good in him. He sees none in you. 
There have been tremendous shindies in Park Lane apropos of your 
worship, and of a subject which I don't care to mention," said Lord 
Kew, with some dignity ; ** and what is the upshot of all this malevo- 
lence ? I like you ; I like your father, I think he is a noble old boy ; 
there are those who represented him as a sordid schemer. Give Mr. 
Barnes the benefit of common charity at any rate ; and let others like 
him, if you do not. 

" And as for this romance of love," the young nobleman went on, 
kindling as he spoke, and forgetting the slang and colloquialisms 
with which we garnish all our conversation — " this fine picture of 
Jenny and Jessamy falling in love at first sight, billing and cooing in 
an arbour, and retiring to a cottage afterwards to go on cooing and 
billing — Pshaw I what folly is this ! It is good for romances, and for 
Misses to sigh about ; but any man who walks through the world with 
liis eyes open, knows how senseless is all this rubbish. I don't say 
that a young man and woman are not to meet, and to fall in love that 
instant, and to marry that day year, and love each other till they are a 
hundred ; that is the supreme lot — but that is the lot which the gods 
oJily grant to Baucis and Philemon, and a very, very few besides. As 
for the rest, they must compromise ; make themselves as comfortable 



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^%96 THE NEWCOMES. 

as they can, and take the good and the bad together. And as for 
Jenny and Jessamy, by Jove ! look round among your friends, count 
up the love matches, and see vhat has been the end of most of them t 
Love in a cottage ! Who is to pay the landlord for the cottage ? Who 
is to pay for Jenny's tea and cream, and Jessamy's mutton chops ? If 
he has cold mutton, he will quarrel with her. If there is nothing in 
the cupboard, a pretty meal they make. No, you cry out against 
people in our world making money marriages. Why, kings and queens 
marry on the same understanding. My butcher has saved a stocking 
full of money, and marries his daughter to a young salesman. Mr. 
and Mrs. Salesman prosper in life, and get an alderman's daughter for 
their son. My attorney looks out amongst his clients for an eligible 
husband for Miss Deeds ; sends his son to the bar, into Parliament, 
where he cuts a figure and becomes attomey-general, makes a fortune, 
has a house in Belgrave Square, and marries Miss Deeds of the second 
generation to a peer. Do not accuse us of being more sordid than our 
neighbours. We do but as the world does ; and a girl in our society 
accepts the best party which offers itself, just as Miss Chummey, when 
entreated by two young gentlemen of the order of costermongers, 
inclines to the one who rides from market on a moke, rather than to 
the gentleman who sells his greens from a handbasket.'' 

This tirade, which his lordship delivered with considerable spirit, was 
intended no doubt to carry a moral for Olive's private hearing; and 
which, to do him justice, the youth was not slow to comprehend. The 
point was, " Young man, if certain persons of rank choose to receive you 
very kindly, who have but a comely face, good mannera, and three or 
four hundred pounds a-year, do not presun?.e upon their good nature, 
or indulge in certain ambitious hopes which your vanity may induce 
you to form. Sail down the stream with the brass-pots, Master 
Earthen-pot, but beware of coming too near ! You are a nice young 
man, but there are some prizes which are too good, for you, and are 
meant for your betters. And you might as well ask the prime minister 
for the next vacant garter, as expect to wear on your breast such a star 
as Ethel Newcome." 

Before Clive made his accustomed visit to his friends at the hotel 
opposite, the last great potentiary had arrived who was to take part in 
the family congress of Baden. In place of Ethel's flushing cheeks 
and bright eyes, Clive, found on entering Lady Ann Newcome's sitting- 
room, the parchment-covered features, and the well-known hooked beak 
of the old Countess of Kew. To support the glances from beneath the 
bushy black eyebrows on each side of that promontory was no pleasant 
matter. The whole family cowered under Lady Kew's eyes and nose, 
and she ruled by force of them. It was only Ethel whom these awful 
features did not utterly subdue and dismay. 

Besides Lady Kew, Clive had the pleasure of finding his lordship, 
her grandson, Lady Ann and children of various sizes, and Mr. Barnes; 
not one of whom was the person whom Clive desired to behold. 

The queer glance in Kew's eye directed towards Clive, who vas 



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THE KEWGOMKS. 297 

himself not bj any means deficient in perception, informed him that 
there had jost been a conTersation in which his own name had figured. 
Having been abusing Olive extravagantly, as he did whenever he 
mentioned his cousin's name, Barnes must needs hang his head when 
the young fellow came in. His hand was jet on the chamber-door, 
and Barnes was calling him miscreant and scoundrel within ; so no 
wonder BameiB had a hangdog look. But as for Lady Eew, that veteran 
diplomatist allowed no signs of discomfiture, or any other emotion, 
to display themselves on her ancient countenance. Her bushy eyebrows 
were groves of mystery, her unfathomable eyes were wells of gloom. 

She gratified Olive by a momentary loan of two knuckly old fingers, 
which he was at liberty to hold or to drop ; and then he went on to 
enjoy the felicity of shaking hands with Mr. Barnes, who, observing and 
enjoying his confusion over Lady*s Kew*s reception, determined to try 
Olive in the same way, and he gave Olive at the same time a super- 
cilious **How de dah,** which, the other would have liked to drive down 
his throat. A constant desire to throttle Mr. Barnes — to beat him on 
the nose — to send him flying out of window, was a sentiment with which 
this singular young man inspired many persons whom he accosted. A 
biographer ought to be impartial, yet I own, in a modified degree, to 
have partaken of this sentiment. He looked very much younger than 
his actual time of life, and was not of commanding stature ; but patronised 
his equals, nay, let us say, his betters, so insufferably, that a common 
wish for his suppression existed amongst many persons in society. 

Olive told me of this little circumstance, and I am sorry to say of 
his own subsequent ill-behaviour. *' We were standing apart from the 
ladies," so Olive narrated, *' when Barnes and I had our little passage 
of arms. He had tried the finger business upon me before, and T had 
before told him, either to shake hands or to leave it alone. You know 
the way in which the impudent little beggar stands astride, and sticks 
his little feet out. I brought my heel well down on his confounded 
little varnished toe, and gave it a scrunch which made Mr. Barnes 
shriek out one of his loudest oaths." 

•' D — clumsy ," screamed out Barnes. 

Clive said, in a low voice, " I thonght you only swore at women, Barnes." 

" It is you that say things before women, Olive," cries his cousin, 
looking very furious. 

Mr. Olive lost all patience. " In what company, Barnes, would you 
like me to say, that I think you are a snob ? Will you have it on the 
Parade ? Oome out and I will speak to you." 

•* Barnes can't go out on the parade," cries Lord Kew, bursting out 
laughing, " there's another gentleman there wanting him." And two 
of the three young men enjoyed this joke exceedingly. I doubt 
whether Barnes Newcome Newcome, Esq., of Newcome, was one of the 
persons amused. 

•* What wickedness are you three boys laughing at ? " cries Lady 
Ann, perfectly innocent and good-natured; " no good I will be bound. 
Oome here, Olive." Our young friend, it must be premised, had no 

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298 THE NEWCOMBS. 

sooner received the thrust of Lady Kew*s two fingers on entering, than 
it had been intimated to him that his interview with that gracious lady 
was at an end. For she had instantly called her daughter to her, with 
whom her ladyship fell a- whispering ; and then it was that Clive 
retreated from Lady Kew's hand, to fall into Barnes's. 

•* Olive trod on Barnes's toe," cries out cheery Lord Kew, •* and has 
hurt Barnes's favourite corn so that he cannot go out, and is actually 
obliged to keep the room. That's what we were laughing at." 

** Hem ! " growled Lady Kew. She knew to what her grandson 
alluded. Lord Kew had represented Jack Belsize, and his thundering 
big stick, in the most terrific colours to the family council. The joke 
was too good a one not to serve twice. 

Lady Ann, in her whispered conversation with the old Countess, 
had possibly deprecated her mother's anger towards poor Olive, for 
when he came up to the two ladies, the younger took his hand with 
great kindness, and said, " My dear Olive, we are very sorry you are 
going. You were of the greatest use to us in the journey. I am sure 
you have been uncommonly good-natured and obliging, and we shall all 
ibiss you very much." Her gentleness smote the generous young fellow, 
and an emotion of gratitude' towards her for being so compassionate 
to him in his misery, caused his cheeks to blush and his eyes perhaps 
to moisten. " Thank you, dear aunt," says he, ** you have been very 
good and kind to me. It is I that shall feel lonely ; but — but it is 
^uite time that I should go to my work." 

*' Quite time ! " said the severe possessor of the eagle beak. ** Baden 
is a bad place for young men. They make acquaintances 'here of which 
very little good can come. They frequent the gambling tables, and 
live with the most disreputable French Viscounts. We have heard of 
your goings on, sir. It is a great pity that Oolonel Newcome did not 
take you with him to India." 

** My dear mamma," cries Lady Ann, " I am sure Olive has been 
a very good boy indeed." The old lady's morality put a stop to Olive's 
pathetic mood, and he replied with a great deal of spirit, " Dear Lady 
Ann^ you have been always very good, and kindness is nothing 
surprising from you ; but Lady Kew's advice, which I should not have 
ventured to ask, is an unexpected favour ; my father knows the extent 
of the gambling transactions to which your ladyship was pleased to 
allude, and introduced me to the gentleman whose acquaintance you 
don't seem to think eligible." 

" My good young man, I think it is time you were off," Lady Kew 
said this time with great good-humour ; she liked Olive's spirit, and as 
long as he interfered with none of her plans, was quite disposed to be 
friendly with him. *' Go to Rome, go to Florence, go wherever you 
like, and study very hard, and make very good pictures, and come l»ck 
again, and we shall all be very glad to see you. You have very great 
talents — these sketches are really capital." 

" Is not he very clever, mamma? " said kind Lady Ann, eagerly. 
Olive felt the pathetic mood coming on again, and an immense desire 

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THE NBWCOMKS. 299 

to hag Lady Aim in his arms, and to kiss her. How grateful are we 
— how touched a frank and generous heart is for a kind word extended 
to us in our pain I The pressure of a tender hand nerves a man for 
an operation, and cheers him for the dreadful interview with the 
surgeon. 

That cool old operator, who had taken Mr Olive's case in hand, now 
produced her shining knife, and executed the first cut with perfect 
neatness and precision. " We are come here, as I suppose you know, 
Mr. Newcome, upon family matters, and I frankly tell you that I think, 
for your own sake, you would be much better away. I wrote my 
daughter a great scolding when I heard that you were in this place." 

" But it was by the merest chance, mamma, indeed it was," cries 
Lady Ann. 

" Of course, by the merest chance, and by the merest chance I 
heard of it too. A little bird came and told me at Kissingen. You 
have no more sense, Ann, than a goose. I have told you so a hundred 
times. Lady Ann requested you to stay, and I, my good young friend, 
request you to go away." 

" I needed no request," said Olive. " My going. Lady Kew, is my 
own act. I was going without requiring any guide to show me to the 
door." 

" No doubt you were, and my arrival is the signal for Mr. Newcome's 
bonjour, I am Bogey, and I frighten everybody away. By the scene 
which you witnessed yesterday, my good young friend, and all that 
painful esclandre on the promenade, you must see how absurd, and 
dangerous, and wicked — yes, wicked it is for parents to allow intimacies 
to spring up between young people, which can only lead to disgrace 
and unhappiness. Lady Dorking was another good-natured goose. I 
had not arrived yesterday ten minutes, when my maid came running 
in to tell me of what had occurred on the promenade ; and, tired as I 
was, I went that instant to Jane Dorking and passed the evening with 
her, and that poor little creature to whom Oaptain Belsize behaved so 
cruelly. She does not care a fig for him — not one fig. Her childish 
inclination isr passed away these two years, whilst Mr. Jack was per 
forming his feats in prison ; and if the wretch flatters himself that it 
was on his account she was agitated yesterday, he is perfectly mistaken, 
and you may tell him Lady Kew said so. She is subject to fainting 
fits. Dr. Finck has been attending her ever since she has been 
^ere. She fainted only last Tuesday at the sight of a rat walking 
about their lodgings (they have dreadful lodgings, the Dorkings), and 
no wonder she was frightened at the sight of that great coarse tipsy 
Wretch 1 She is engaged, as you know, to your connexion, my grandson 
Barnes : — in all respects a most eligible union. The rank of life of the 
parties suits them to one another. She is a good young woman, and 
Barnes has experienced from persons of another sort such horrors, that 
he will know the blessing of domestic virtue. It was high time he 
should. I say all this in perfect frankness to you. 

" Go back again and play in the garden, little brats" (this to the 



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300 THE NEWCOMES. 

innocents who came frisking in from the lawn in front of the windows) 
" Ton have been ? And Barnes sent you in here ? Go up to Miss 
Quiglej. No, stop. Go and tell Ethel to come down ; bring her 
down with you. Do you understand ? " 

The unconscious infants toddle up-stairs to their sister ; and Lady 
Eew blandly says, " Ethel's engagement to my grandson. Lord Kew, 
has long been settled in our family, though these things are best not 
talked about until they are quite determined, you know, my dear Mr. 
Newcome. When we saw you and your father in London, we heard 
that you too — that you too were engaged to a young lady in your own 
rank of life, a Miss — what was her name ? — ^Miss Mac Pherson, Miss 
Mackenzie. Tour aunt, Mrs. Hodson Newcome, who I must say is a 
most blundering silly person, had set about this story. It appears 
there is no truth in it. Do not look surprised that I know about your 
affairs. I am an old witch, and know numbers of things.*' 

And, indeed, how Lady Eew came to know this fact, whether her 
maid corresponded with Lady Ann's maid, what her ladyship's means 
of information were, avowed or occult, this biographer has never been 
able to ascertain. Very likely, Ethel, who in these last three weeks 
had been made aware of that interesting circumstance, had announced 
it to Lady Eew in the course of a cross-examination, and there may 
have been a battle between the grand-daughter and the grandmother, 
of which the family chronicler of the Newcomes has had no precise 
knowledge. That there were many such I know — skirmishes, sieges, 
and general engagements. When we hear the guns, and see the 
wounded, we know there has been a fight. Who knows had there 
been a battle royal, and was Miss Newcome having her wounds dressed 
up-stairs? 

" You will like to say good-bye to your cousin, I know," Lady Kew 
continued, with imperturbable placidity. "Ethel, my dear, here is 
Mr. Clive Newcome, who has come to bid us all good-bye." The little 
girls came trotting down at this moment^ each holding a skirt of their 
elder sister. She looked rather pale, but her expression was haughty 
— almost fierce. 

Clive rose up as she entered, from the sofa by the old Countess's side, 
which place she had pointed him to take during the amputation. He 
rose up and put bis hair back off his face, and said very calmly, ** Yes, 
I am come to say good-bye. My holidays are over, and Kidley and I 
are off for Rome; good-bye, and God bless you, Ethel." 

She gave him her hand and said, •• Good-bye, Clive," but her hand 
did not return his pressure, and dropped to her side, when he let it go. 

Hearing the words good-bye little Alice burst into a howl, and little 
Maude, who was an impetuous little thing, stamped her little red shoes 
and said, ** It san't be good-bye. Tlive san't go." Alice roBiiog, 
clung hold of Clive's trowsers. He took them up gaily, each on an 
arm, as he bad done a hundred times, and tossed the children on to his 
shoulders, where they used to like to pull his yellow mustachios. He 
kissed the little hands and faces, and a moment after was gone. 




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"^ri^yy^^:/^^ " • 



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oy^ .yr^^m^y. 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 301 

" Qu'as tu," says M. de Florae, meeting him going over the bridge 
to his own hotel. " Qa*as tu, mon petit Claive. Est-ce qu*on vient de 
t'arracher une dent ? " 

"C'est 9a," says Clive, and walked into the Hotel de France. 
" Hulloh ! J. J. ! Ridley ! " he sang out. " Order the trap out and let's 
be off." ** I thought we were not to march till to-morrow," says J. J., 
divining perhaps that some catastrophe had occurred. Indeed, Mr. 
Clive was going a day sooner than he had intended. He woke at 
Fribourg the next morning. It was the grand old cathedral he looked 
at, not Badeu of the pine-clad hills, of the pretty walks and the lime- 
tree avenaes. Not Baden, the prettiest booth of all Vanity Fair. The 
crowds and the music, the gambling tables and the cadaverous 
croupiers and chinking gold, were far out of sight and hearing. There 
Avas one window in the Hotel de HoUande that he thought of, how a 
fair arm used to open it in the early morning, how the muslin curtain 
in the morning air swayed to and fro. He would have given how 
much to see it once more ! Walking about at Fribourg in the night, 
away from his companions, he had thought of ordering horses, galloping 
back to Baden, and once again under that window, calling Ethel, Ethel. 
But he came back to his room and the quiet J. J., and to poor Jack 
Belsize, who had had his tooth taken out, too. 

We had almost forgotten Jack, who took a back seat in Olivers 
carriage, as befits a secondary personage in this history, and Clive in 
truth had almost forgotten him too. But Jack having his own cares 
and business, and having rammed his own carpet-bag, brought it down 
without a word, and Clive found him environed in smoke when he came 
down to take his place in the little britzska. I wonder whether the 
window at the H6tel de Hollande saw him go? There are some 
curtains behind which no historian, however prying, is allowed to 
peep. 

** Tiens, le petit part," says Florae of the cigar, who was always 
sauntering. "Yes, we go," says Clive. "There is a fourth place, 
Viscount ; will you come too ? " 

" I would love it well," replies Florae, ** but I am here in faction. 
My cousin and Seigneur M. le Due d'lvry is coming all the way from 
Bagneres de Bigorre. He says he counts on me : — affiiires d etat, mon 
Cher, affaires d'etat." 

*• How pleased the duchess will be. Easy with that bag ! " shouts 
Clive. «* How pleased the princess will be." In truth he hardly knew 
^'hat he was saying. 

** Vous croyez ; vous croyez," says M. de Florae. "As you have a 
fourth place I know who bad best take it." 
" And who is that ? " asked the young traveller. 
Lord Kew and Barnes, Esq., of Neweome, came out of the Hotel de 
HoUande at this moment. Barnes slunk 'back, seeing Jack Belsize's 
hairy face. Kew ran over the bridge. "Good-bye, Clive. Good-bye, Jack." 
" Good-bye, Kew." It was a great handshaking. Away goes the postillion 
blowing his horn, and young Hannibal has left Capua behind him. 



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CHAPTER XXXI. 



MADAMS LA DUCHESSE. 




ONE of Olive Newcome's 
letters from Baden, the young 
man described to me, with con- 
siderable humour and numer* 
ous illustrations as his wont 
was, a great lady to whom he 
was presented at that watering 
place by his friend Lord Kew. 
Lord Kew had travelled in the 
^ East with Monsieur le Due and 

^ Madame la Duchesse dlvry— 

the prince being an old friend of his lordship's family. He is the *,Q ' 
of Madame d'lvry's book of travels, ** Footprints of the Gazelles, hy 
a daughter of the Orusaders," in which she prays so fervently for 
Lord Kew's conversion. He is the Q who rescued the princess from 
the Arabs, and performed many a feat which lives in her glowing pages. 
He persists in saying that he never rescued Madame la Princesse from 
any Arabs at all, except from one beggar who was bawling out for 
bucksheesh, and whom Kew drove away with a stick. They made 
pilgrimages to all the holy places, and a piteous sight it was, said Lord 
Kew, to see the old prince in the Jerusalem processions at Easter 
pacing with bare feet and a candle. Here Lord Kew separated from 
the prince's party. His name does not occur in the last part of the 
** Footprints ; " which, in truth, are filled full of strange rhapsodies, 
adventures which nobody ever saw but the princess, and mystic dis- 
quisitions. She hesitates at nT)thing, like other poets of her nation : 
not profoundly learned, she invents where she has not acquired: 
mingles together religion and the opera ; and performs Parisian pas-de- 
ballet before the gates of monasteries and the cells of anchorites. She 
describes as if she had herself witnessed the catastrophe — the passage 
of the Red Sea : and, as if there were no doubt of the transaction, an 
unhappy love affair between Pharaoh's eldest son and Moses's daughter. 
At Oairo, apropos of Joseph's granaries, she enters into a furious tirade 
against Putiphar, whom she paints as an old savage, suspicious and a 
tyrant. They generally have a copy of the " Footprints of the Gazelles" 



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THE NEWCOMES. 803 

at the Circulathig Libraiy at Baden, as Madame d'lvry constantly 
visits that watering-place. M. le Due was not pleased with the book, 
which was published entirely without his concurrence, and which he 
described as one of the ten thousand follies of Madame la Duchesse. 

This nobleman was five and forty years older than his duchess. 
France is the country where that sweet Christian institution of 
manages de conveiiance (which so many folks of the family about 
which this story treats are engaged in arranging), is most in vogue. 
There the newspapers daily announce that M. de Foy has a bureau de 
confiance, where families may arrange marriages for their sons and 
daughters in perfect comfort and security. It is but a question of 
money on one side i^id the other. Mademoiselle has so many francs 
of dot ; Monsieur has such and such rentes or lands in possession or 
reversion, an etude d*avoue, a shop with a certain clientele bringing him 
such and such an income, which may be doubled by the judicious 
addition of so much capital, and the pretty little matrimonial arrange- 
ment is concluded (the agent touching his per centage), or broken off, 
and nobody unhappy, and the world none the wiser. The consequences 
of the system I do not pretend personally to know ; but if the light 
literature of a country is a reflex of its manners, and French novels 
are a picture of French life, a pretty society must that be into the 
midst of which the London reader may walk in twelve hours from this 
time of perusal, and from which only twetity miles of sea separate us. 

When the old Duke d'lvry, of the ancient ancient nobility of France, 
an emigrant with Artois, a warrior with Conde, an exile during the reign 
of the Corsican usurper, a grand prince, a great nobleman afterwards, 
though shorn of nineteen-twentieths of his wealth by the revolution, — 
when the Duke d'lvry lost his two sons, and his son's son likewise 
died, as if fate had determined to end the direct line of that noble 
house, which had furnished queens to Europe, and renowned chiefs 
to the Crusaders — being of an intrepid spirit, the Duke was ill-disposed 
to yield to his redoubtable enemy, in spite of the cruel blows which 
the latter had inflicted upon him, and when he was more than sixty 
years of age, three months before the July Ke volution broke out, a 
young lady of a sufficient nobility, a virgin of sixteen, was brought out 
of the convent of the Sacre Cceur at Paris, and married with immense 
splendour and ceremony to this princely widower. The most august 
names signed the book of the civil marriage. Madame la Dauphine 
and Madame la Duchesse de Berri complimented the young bride with 
royal favours. Her portrait by Dubufe was in the Exhibition next year, 
a charming young duchess indeed, with black eyes, and black ringlets, 
pearls on her neck, and diamonds in her hair, as beautiful as a princess 
of a fairy tale. M. d'lvry, whose early life may have been rather 
oragious, was yet a gentleman perfectly well conserved. Resolute 
against fate his enemy, (one would fancy fate was of an aristocratic 
turn, and took especial delight in combats with princely houses ; the 
-^trid©, the Borbonidce, the Ivrys, — the Browns and Jones's being of no 



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S04 THE N£WCOM£S. 

accoont), the prince seemed to be determined not only to secure a 
progeny, but to defy age. At sixty he was still young, or seemed to 
be so. His hair was as black as the princesses own, his teeth as 
white. If you saw him on the Boulevard de Gand, sunning among the 
youthful exquisites there, or riding au Bois, with a grace worthy of old 
Franconi himself, you would take him for one of the young men, of 
whom indeed up to his marriage, he retained a number of the graceful 
. follies and amusements, though his manners had a dignity acquired in 
the old days of Versailles and the Trianon, which the modems cannot 
hope to imitate. He was assiduous behind the scenes of tlie Opera as 
any journalist, or any young dandy of twenty years. He " ranged 
himself,*' as the French phrase is, shortly before his marriage, just like 
any other young bachelor : took leave of Phryne and Aspasie in the 
coulisses, and proposed to devote himself henceforth to his charming 
young wife. 

The afifreux catastrophe of July arrived. The ancient Bourbons 
were once more on the road to exile, (save one wily old remnant of the 
race, who rode grinning over the Barricades, and distributing poignees 
de main to the stout fists that had pummelled his family out of France). 
M. le Due d'lvry, who lost his place at court, his appointments which 
helped his income very much, and his peerage, would no more 
acknowledge the usurper of Neuilly, than him of Elba. The ex-peer 
retired to his terres He barricaded his house in Paris against all 
supporters of the citizen King ; his nearest kinsman, M. de Florae, 
among the rest, who for his part cheerfully took his oath of fidelity, 
and his seat in Louis Philippe *s house of peers, having indeed been 
accustomed to swear to all dynasties for some years past. 

In due time Madame la Duchesse d'lvry gave birth to a child, a 
daughter, whom her noble father received with but small pleasure 
What the Duke desired, was an heir to his name, a Prince de 
Montcontour, to fill the place of the sons and grandsons gone before 
him, to join their ancestors in the tomb. No more children however 
blessed the old duke*s union. Madame dlvry went the round of all 
the watering places : pilgrimages were tried : vows and gifts to all 
saints supposed to be favourable to the dlvry family, or to families in 
general: — but the saints turned a deaf ear; they were inexorable 
since the ti'ue religion and the elder Bourbons were banished from 
France. 

Living by themselves in their ancient castles, or their dreary mansion 
of the Faubourg St. Germain, I suppose the Duke and Duchess grew 
tired of one another, as persons who enter into a inariage ds convenance 
sometimes, nay, as those who light a flaming love match, and run away 
with one another, will be found to do. A lady of one-and- twenty, and a 
gentleman of sixty-six, alone in a great castle, have not unfrequentlj a 
third guest at their table, who comes without a card, and whom they 
cannot shut out, though they keep their doors closed ever so. His 
name is Ennui, and many a long hour and weary weary night must 



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THE KEWCOMES. 805 

such folks pass in the unbidden society of this Old Man of the Sea ; 
this daily guest at the board ; this watchful attendant at the fireside ; 
this assiduous companion who will walk out with you ; this sleepless 
restless bedfellow. 

At first, M. d'lvry, that well conserved nobleman who never would 
allow that he was not young, exhibited no sign of doubt regarding his 
own youth except an extreme jealousy and avoidance of all other young 
fellows. Very likely Madame la Duchesse may have thought men in 
general dyed their hair, wore stays, and had the rheumatism. Coming out 
of the convent of the Sacre Cceur, how was the innocent young lady to 
know better ? You see, in these manages de couvenance, though a 
coronet may be convenient to a beautiful young creature, and a beautiful 
young creature may be convenient to an old gentleman, there are articles 
which the marriage- monger cannot make to convene at all : tempers 
over which M. de Foy and bis like have no control ; and tastes which 
cannot be put into the marriage settlements. So this couple were 
unhappy, and the Duke and Duchess quarrelled with one another like 
the most vulgar pair who ever fought across a table. 

In this unhappy state of home affaii*s, Madame took to literature, 
Monsieur to politics. She discovered that she was a great unappreci- 
ated soul, and when a woman finds that treasure in her bosom, of course 
she sets her own price on the article. Did you ever see the first poems 
of Madame la Duchesse d'lvry, ** Les Cris de I'Ame?" She used to read 
them to her very intimate friends, in white, with her hair a good deal 
down her back. They had some success. Dubufe having painted her as 
a Duchess ; Schefifer depicted her as a Muse. That was in the third 
year of her marriage, when she rebelled against the Duke her husband, 
insisted on opening her saloons to art and literature, and, a fervent 
devotee still, proposed to unite genius and religion. Poets had inter- 
views with her. Musicians came and twanged guitars to her. Her 
husband, entering her room, would fall over the sabre and spurs of Count 
Almaviva from t^e boulevard, or Don Basilio with his great sombrero 
and shoe buckles. The old gentleman was breathless and bewildered 
in following her through all her vagaries. He was of old France, she 
of new. What did he know of the Ecole Komantique, and these jeunes 
gens with their Marie Tudors and Tours de Nesle, and sanguineous 
histories of queens who sewed their lovers into sacks, emperors who had 
interviews with robber captains in Charlemagne's tomb, Buridans and 
Hemanis, and stuff ? Monsieur le Vicomte de Chateaubriand was a 
man of genius as a writer, certainly immortal ; and M. de Lamartine 
was a young man extremely hien pensant^ but, ma foi, give him Crebillon 
Jilst or a bonne farce of M. Yade to make laugh ; for the great sentiments, 
for the beautiful style give him M. de Lormian (although Bonapartist) 
or the Abbe de Lille. And for the new school ! bah ! these little 
Dumass, and Hugos, and Mussets, what is all that? " M. de Lormian 
shall be immortal, Monsieur," he would say, *' when alltheaefreltiquets 
are forgotten." After his marriage he frequented the coulisses of the 



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306 THE NBWCOMES. 

Opera no more ; but he was a pretty constant attendant at the Theatre 
Fran9ais, where you might hear him snoring over the chefs-d'oeuyres of 
French tragedy. 

For some little time after 1830, the Duchesse was as great a Oarlist 
as her husband could wish ; and they conspired together very comfort- 
ably at first. Of an adventurous turn, eager for eiccitement of all kinds, 
nothing would have better pleased the Duchesse than to follow Madams 
in her adventurous courses in La Vendee, disguised as a boy above aU. 
She was persuaded to stay at home, however, and aid the good cause at 
Paris ; while Monsieur le Due went off to Brittany to offer his old 
sword to the mother of his king. But Maoaue was discovered up the 
chimney at Rennes, and all sorts of things were discovered afterwards. 
The world said that our silly little Duchess of Paris was partly the cause 
of the discovery. Spies were put upon her, and to some people she 
would tell anything. M. le Due, on paying his annual visit to august 
exiles at Goritz, was very badly received : Madame la Dauphine gave 
him a sermon. He had an awful quarrel with Madame la Duchesse on 
returning to Paris. He provoked Monsieur le Comte Tiercelin, le 
beau Tiercelin, an officer of ordonnance of the Duke of Orleans into a 
duel, apropos of a cup of coffee in a salon ; he actually wounded the 
beau Tiercelin — he sixty-five years of age I his nephew, M. de Florae, 
was loud in praise of his kinsman's bravery. 

That pretty figure and complexion which still appear so captivating 
in M. Dubufe*s portrait of Madame la Duchesse dTvry, have long 
existed — ^it must be owned only in paint. ''Jela prefere a VhuUe" the 
Yicomte de Florae said of his cousin, *' She should get her blushes from 
Monsieur Dubufe — those of her present furnishers are not near so 
natural." Sometimes the Duchess appeared with these postiches roses, 
sometimes of a mortal paleness. Sometimes she looked plump, on 
other occasions wofuUy thin. ** When she goes into the world," said 
the same chronicler, *'ma cousine surrounds herself mihjupons — c'est 
pour defendre sa vertu : when she is in a devotional mood, she gives 
up rouge, roast meat, and crinoline, and fait maigre absolumeiit" To 
spite the Duke her husband, she took up with the Yicomte de Florae, 
and to please herself she cast him away. She took his brother, the 
Abbe de Florae, for a director, and presently parted from him. *' Mon 
frere, ce saint homme ne parle jamads de Madame la Duchesse, 
maintenant," said the Yicomte. " She must have confessed to him des 
choses affreuses — oh oui ! — affreuses ma parole d'honneur ! " 

The Duke dTvry being archiroyaliste, Madame la Duchesse must 
make herself ultra-Philippiste. " oui ! tout ce qu'il-y*a de plus 
Madame Adelaide au monde ! " cried Florae. *' She raffoles of M. le 
Regent. She used to keep a fast of the day of the supplice of Philippe 
Egalite, Saint and Martyr. I say used, for to make to enrage her 
husband, and to recal the Abbe my brother^ did she not advise herself 
to consult M. le Pasteur Grigou, and to attend the preach at his Temple? 
When this sheep had brought her shepherd back, she dismissed the 



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THE NEWCOMES, 307 

Pasteur Grigou. Then she tired of M. TAbbe again, and my brother 
is come out from her, shaking his good head. Ah ! she must have put 
things into it which astonished the good Abbe ! You know he has 
since taken the Dominican robe ? My word of honour 1 I believe it 
was terror of her that drove him into a convent. You shall see him at 
Home, Olive. Give him news of his elder, and tell him this gross 
prodigal is repenting amongst the swine. My word of honour ! I desire 
but the death of Madame la Vicomtesse de Florae, to marry and range 
myself! 

*' After being Royalist, Philippist, Catholic, Huguenot, Madame dTvry 
must take to Pantheism, to bearded philosophers who believe in nothing, 
not even in clean linen, eclecticism, republicanism, what know I ? All 
her changes have been chronicled by books of her composition. Les 
Demons, poem Catholic ; Charles IX. is' the hero, and the demons are 
shot for the most part at the catastrophe of St. Bartholomew. My 
good mother, all good Catholic as she is, was startled by the boldness 
of this doctrine. Then there came Une Dragonnade, par Mme. La 
Duchesse dTvry, which is all on your side. That was of the time, 
of the Pastor Grigou, that one. The last was Les Dieux dSckiis, 

poeme en 20 chants, par Mme. la D dT. Guard yourself well 

from this Muse ! If she takes a fancy to you, she will never leave you 
alone. If you see her often, she will fancy you are in love with her, 
and tell her husband. She always tells my uncle — ^afterwards — after she 
has quarrelled with you and grown tired of you ! Eh ! being in London 
once, she had the idea to make herself a Qudkre; wore the costume, 
consulted a minister of that culte, and quarrelled with him as of rule. 
It appears the Quakers do not beat themselves, otherwise my poor 
uncle must have payed of his person. 

*' The turn of the philosophers then came, the chemists, the natural 
historians, what know I ? She made a laboratory in her hotel, and 
rehearsed poisons like Madame de Brinvilliers-^she spent hours in the 
Jardin des Plantes. Since she has grown affreusement maigre and wears 
mounting robes, she has taken more than ever to the idea that she 
resembles Mary Queen of Scots. She wears a little frill and a little 
cap. Every man she loves, she says, has come to misfortune. She calls 
her lodgings Lochleven. Eh ! I pity the landlord of Lochleven ! She 
calls ce gros BUtckball vous savez, that pillar of estaminets, that 
prince of mauvais-ton, her Bothwell ; little Mijaud, the poor little 
pianist, she named her Rizzio ; young Lord Greenhorn who was here 
with his Governor, a Monsieur of Oxfort, she christened her Darnley, 
and the Minister Anglican, her John Knox ! The poor man was quite 
enchanted ! Beware of this haggard Syren, my little Clive ! — mistrust 
her dangerous song ! Her cave is joncJiee with the bones of her victims. 
Be you not one ! " 

Far from causing Clive to avoid Madame la Duchesse, these 
cautions very likely would have made him only the more eager to 
make her acquaintance, but that a much nobler attraction drew him 

X 2 



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808 THE NEWCOMES. 

elsewhere. At first, being introduced to Madame dTyry^s salon, be 
was pleased and flattered, and behaved himself there merrily aud 
agreeably enough. He had not studied Horace Verne t for notbiDg ; 
lie drew a fine picture of Kew rescuing her from the Arabs, with a 
plenty of sabres, pistols, bournouses, and dromedaries. He made a 
pretty sketch of her little girl Antoinette, and a wonderful likeness of 
Miss O'Grady, the little girl's governess, the mother's dame de 
compagnie ; — Miss 0*Grady, with the richest Milesian brogue, who had 
been engaged to give Antoinette the pure English accent. But the 
French lady's great eyes and painted smiles would not bear comparison 
with Ethers natural brightness and beauty. Olive, who had been 
appointed painter in ordinary to the Queen of Scots, neglected his 
business, and went over to the English faction ; so did one or two more 
of the Princess's followers, leaving her Majesty by no means well 
pleased at their desertion. 

There had been many quarrels between M d'lvry and his next of 
kin. Political dijfferences, private differences— a long story. The 
Duke, who had been wild himself, could not pardon the Vicomte de Florae 
for being wild. Efforts at reconciliation had been made which ended 
unsuccessfully. The Vicomte de Florae had been allowed for a brief 
space to be intimate with the chief of his family, and then had been 
dismissed for being too intimate. Right or wrong, the Duke was 
jealous of all young men who approached the Duchesse. "He is 
suspicious," Madame de Florae indignantly said, " because he remem- 
bers : and he thinks other men are like himself." The Viscomte discreetly 
said, " My cousin has paid me the compliment to be jealous of me," and 
acquiesced in his banishment with a shrug. 

During the emigration the old Lord Kew had been very kind to 
exiles; M. d'lvry amongst the number; and that nobleman was 
anxious to return to all Lord Kew's family when they came to France 
the hospitality which he had received himself in England. He still 
remembered or professed to remember Lady Kew's beauty. How 
many women are there, awful of aspect, at present, of whom the same 
pleasing legend is not narrated? It must be true, for do not they 
themselves confess it? I know of few things more remarkable or 
suggestive of philosophic contemplation than those physical changes. 

When the old Duke and the old Countess met together and talked 
confidentially, their conversation bloomed into a jargon wonderful to 
hear. Old scandals woke up, old naughtinesses rose out of their 
graves, and danced, and smirked, and gibbered again, like those wicked 
nuns whom Bertram and Robert de Diablo evoke from their sepulchres 
whilst the bassoon performs a diabolical incantation. The Brighton 
Pavilion was tenanted; Ranelagh and the Pantheon swarmed with 
dancers and masks; Perdita was found again, and walked a minuet 
with the Prince of Wales. Mrs. Clarke and the Duke of York danced 
together — a pretty dance. The old Duke wore a jahot and ailes-de-jng^on, 



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the old Countess a hoop, and a cushion on her head. If haply the young 
folks came in, the elders modified their recollections, and Lady Kew 




brought honest old King George, and good old ugly Queen Charlotte to 
the rescue. Her ladyship was sister of the Marquis of Steyne : and in 
some respects resembled that lamented nobleman. Their family had 
relations in France (Lady Kew had always a pied-a-terre at Paris, a 
bitter little scandal-shop, where les bien-pensants assembled and retailed 
the most awful stories against the reigning dynasty). It was she who 
handed over le petit Kiou, when quite a boy, to Monsieur and Madame 
d'lvry, to be lance into Parisian society. He was treated as a 
son of the family by the duke, one of whose many Christian names, 
his lordship, Francis George Xavier, Earl of Kew and Viscount Walham 
bears. If Lady Kew hated any one (and she could hate very con- 
siderably) she hated her daughter-in-law, Walham 's widow, and the 
methodists who surrounded her. Kew remain among a pack of psalm- 
singing old women and parsons with his mother ! Fi done ! Frank 
was Lady Kew's boy, she would form him, marry him, leave him her 
money if he married to her liking, and show him life. And so she 
showed it to him. 

Have you taken your children to the National Gallery in London, 
and shown them the Marriage a la Mode ? Was the artist exceeding 
the privilege of his calling in painting the catastrophe in which those 
guilty people all suffer? If this fable were not true, if many and many 
of your young men of pleasure had not acted it, and rued the moral, I 
would tear the page. You know that in our Nursery Tales there is 
commonly a good fairy to counsel, and a bad <5ne to mislead the young 
prince. You perhaps feel that in your own life there is a Good Principle 
imploring you to come into its kind bosom, and a Bad Passion which 



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310 THE NEWCOMES. 

tempts Tou into its ftrms. Be of easy minds, good natured people t 
Let us disdain surprises and coups-de-theatre for once ; and tell those 
good souls who are interested about him, that there is a Good Spirit 
coming to the rescue of our young Lord Kew. 

Surrounded by her court and royal attendants, La Heine Marie used 
graciously to attend the play-table, -where luck occasionally declared 
itself for and against her majesty. Her appearance used to create not 
a little excitement in the Saloon of Roulette, the game which she 
patronised, it being more " fertile of emotions " than the slower Trente et 
Quarante. She dreamed of numbers, had favourite incantations by 
which to conjure them : noted the figures made by peels of peaches and 
so forth, the numbers of houses, on hackney-coaches — was superstitious 
comme toutes les dmes poetiques. She commonly brought a beautiful 
agate bonbonniere full of gold pieces, when she played. It waa 
wonderful to see her grimaces : to watch her behaviour : her appeals to 
heaven, her delight and despair. Madame la Baronne de la Cruche- 
cassee played on one side of her, Madame la Comtesse de Schlangenbad 
on the other. When she had lost all her money her majesty would 
condescend to borrow — not from those ladies: — knowing the royal 
peculiarity, they never had any money ; they always lost ; they swiftly 
pocketed their winnings and never left a mass on the table, or quitted 
it, as courtiers will, when they saw luck was going against their 
sovereign. The officers of her household were Count Punter, a 
Hanoverian, the Cavaliere Spada, Captain Blackball of a mysterious^ 
English regiment, which might be any one of the hundred and twenty 
in the army list, and other noblemen and gentlemen, Greeks, Bussians, 
and Spaniards. Mr. and Mrs. Jones (of England) who had made the 
princess's acquaintance at Bagneres (where her lord still remained in the 
gout) and perseveringly followed her all the way to Baden ; were 
dazzled by the splendour of the company in which they found themselves. 
Miss Jones wrote such letters to her dearest friend Miss Thompson, 
Cambridge Square, London, as caused that young person to creverwith 
envy. Bob Jones, who had grown a pair of inustachois since he left 
home, began to think slightingly of poor little Fanny Thompson, now he 
had got into " the best continental society." Might not he quarter a 
countess's coat on his brougham along with the Jones' arms, or more 
slap-up still, have the two shields painted on the panels with the 
coronet over? "Do you know the princess calls herself the Queen of 
Scots and she calls me Julian Avon el," says Jones delighted, to Clive, 
who wrote rate about the transmogrification of our schoolfellow, an 
attorney's son whom I recollected a snivelling little boy at Grey Friars. 
" I say, Newcome, the princess is going to establish an order," cried 
Bob in ecstacy. Every one of her aides-de-camp had a bunch of 
orders at his button, excepting, of course, poor Jones. 

Like all persons who beheld her, when Miss Newcome and her party 
made their appearance at Baden, Monsieur de Florae was enraptured 
with her beauty. " I speak of it constantly before the Duchesse. I 



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THE KEWCOMES. 8il 

know it pleases her/* so the Vicomte said. ** You should have seen her 
looks when your friend M. Jones praised Miss Newcome ! She ground 
her teeth with fury. Tiens, ce petit soumois de Kiou ! He always spoke 
of her as a mere sac d'argent that he was about to marry — ^an ingot of 
the cite — une fille de Lord Maire. Have all English bankers such 
pearls of daughters? If the Vicomtesse de Florae had but quitted 
the earth, dont elle fait Tornement — I would present myself to the 
charmante Meess and ride a steeple chase with Kiou ! " That he should 
win it the Viscount never doubted. 

When Liady Ann Newcome first appeared in the ball-room at 
Baden, Madame la Duchesse d'lvry begged the Earl of Kew (notre 
fiUeul she called him) to present her to his aunt Miladi and her 
charming daughter. "My fiUeul had not prepared me for so much 
grace," she said, turning a look towards Lord Kew, which caused his 
lordship some embarrassment. Her kindness and graciousness were 
extreme. Her caresses and compliments never ceased all the evening. 
She told the mother and the daughter too that she had never seen any 
one so lovely as Ethel. Whenever she saw Lady Ann's children in 
the walks she ran to them (so that Captain Blackball and Count Punter, 
A.D.C., were amazed at her tenderness) she etouffed them with kisses. 
What lilies and roses ! What lovely little creatures ! What companions 
for her own Antoinette. "This is your governess, Miss Quigli, 
Mademoiselle you must let me present you to Miss O'Gredi, your 
compatriot, and I hope your children will be always together.'* The 
Irish Protestant governess scowled at the Irish Catholic — there was a 
Boyne Water between them. 

Little Antoinette, a lonely little girl, was glad to find any companions, 
'* Mamma kisses me on the promenade," she told them in her artless 
way, ** She never kisses me at home." One day when Lord Kew 
with Florae and Clive were playing with the children, Antoinette said, 
"Pourquoi ne venez vous plus chez nous, M. de Kew? And why 
does Mamma say you are a lache? She said so yesterday to ces 
Messieurs. And why does Mamma say thou art only a vaurien, mon 
cousin ? Thou art always very good for me. I love thee better than 
all those Messieurs. Ma tante Florae a ete bonne pour moi a Paris 
aussi — Ah ! qu'elle a ete bonne ! " 

" C est queles anges aiment bien les petits cherubins, and my mother 
is an angel, seest thou," cries Florae, kissing her, 

** Thy mother is not dead," said little Antoinette, " then why dost 
thou cry, my cousin ? " And the three spectators were touched by this 
little scene and speech. 

Lady Ann Newcome received the caresses and compliments of 
Madame la Duchesse, with marked coldness on the part of one 
commonly so very good natured. Ethel's instinct told her that 
there was something wrong in this woman, and she shrank from her 
with haughty reserve. The girl's conduct was not likely to please the 
French lady, but she never relaxed in her smiles and her compliments, 



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312 THE NEWCOMES. 

her caresses, and her professions of admiration. She was present 
when Clara Pullejn fell ; and, prodigal of calineries and consolation, 
and shawls and scent bottles, to the unhappy young lady, she would 
accompany her home. She inquired perpetually after the health of 
cette pauvre petite Miss Clara. 0, how she railed against ces Anglaises 
and their prudery ! . Can you fancy her and her circle, the tea-table 
set in the twilight that evening, the court assembled, Madame de la 
Cruchecassee and Madame de Schlangenbad ; and their whiskered 
humble servants, Baron Punter, and Count Spada, and Marquis lago, 
and Prince lachimo, and worthy Captain Blackball ? Can you &ncy a 
moonlight conclave, and ghouls feasting on the fresh corpse of a repu- 
tation : — the jibes and sarcasms, the laughing and the gnashing of 
teeth ? How they tear the dainty limbs, and relish the tender morsels ! 
** The air of this place is not good for you, believe me, my little Kew ; 
it is dangerous. Have pressing afiFairs in England ; let your chateau 
burn down ; or your intendant run away, and pursue him. Partez, mon 
petit Kiou ; partez, or evil will come of it." Such was the advice which 
a friend 'of Lord Kew gave the young nobleman 



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CHAPTER XXXII. 



BARNES S COURTSHIP. 




THEL had made various attempts 
to become intimate mth her future 
sister-in-law ; had walked, and rid- 
den, and talked with Lady Clara 
r before Barnes's arrival. She had 
come away not very much impressed 
with respect for Lady Clara's mental 
powers ; indeed we have said that 
Miss Ethel was rather more prone 
to attack women than to admire 
them, and was a little hard upon 
the fashionable young persons of 
her acquaintance and sex. In after 
^ife, care and thought subdued her 
pride, and she learned to look at society more good naturedly ; but at 
this time, and for some years after, she was impatient of common-place 
people, and did not choose to conceal her scorn. Lady Clara was very 
much afraid of her. Those timid little thoughts, which would come 
out, and frisk and gambol with pretty graceful antics, and advance 
confidingly at the sound of Jack Belsize's jolly voice, and nibble crumbs 
out of his hand, shrank away before Ethel, severe nymph with the 
bright eyes, and hid themselves under the thickets and in^the shade 
Who has not overheard a simple couple of girls, or of lovers possibly, 
pouring out their little hearts, laughing at their own little jokes, 
prattling and prattling away unceasingly, until mamma appears with 
her awful didactic countenance, or the governess with her dry moralities, 
and the 'colloquy straightway ceases, the laughter stops, the chirp of 
the harmless little birds is hushed. Lady Clara being of a timid 
nature, stood in as much awe of Ethel as of her father and mother ; 
whereas her next sister, a brisk young creature of seventeen, who was 
of the order of romps or tomboys, was by no means afraid of Miss 
Newcome, and indeed a much greater favourite with her than her placid 
elder sister. 

Young ladies may have been crossed in love, and have had their 
sufferings, their frantic moments of grief and teai-s, their wakeful 



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314 THE NEWCOMBS. 

nights, and bo forth ; bat it is only in very sentimental novels that 
people occupy themselves perpetually with that passion : and, I belie^re, 
vhat are called broken hearts, are very rare articles indeed. Tom' is 
jilted — is for a while in a dreadful state — ^bores all his male acquaintatocc 
with his groans and his frenzy — rallies from the complaint — eats his 
dinner very kindly — stakes an interest in the next turf event, and is 
found at Newmarket, as usual, bawling out the odds which he will give 
or take. Miss has her paroxysm and recovery — Madame Crinoline's 
new importations from Paris interest the young creature — she deigns 
to consider whether pink or blue will become her most — she conspires 
with her maid to make the spring morning dresses answer for the 
autumn — she resumes her books, piano, and music (giving up certain 
songs perhaps that she used to sing) — she waltzes with the Captain- 
gets a colour — waltzes longer, better, and ten times quicker tiian Locy, 
who is dancing with the Major — ^replies in an animated manner to the 
paptain's delightful remarks — takes a little supper — ^and looks quite 
kindly at him before she pulls up the carriage windows. 

Clive may not like his cousin Barnes Newcome, and many other men 
share in that antipathy, but all ladies do not It is a fact, that Barnes, 
when he likes, can make himself a very pleasant fellow. He is dread- 
fully satirical, that is certain ; but many persons are amused by those 
dreadful satirical young men : and to hear fun made of our neighbours, 
even of some of our friends, does not make us very angry. Banies is 
one of the very best waltzers in all society, that is the truth ; whereas 
it must be confessed Some One Else was very heavy and slow, his great 
foot always crushing you, and he a^&js begging your pardon. Barnes 
whirls a partner round a room ages after she is ready to faint. What 
wicked fun he makes of other people when he stops ! He is not hand- 
some, but in his face there is something odd-looking and distinguished. 
It is certain he has beautiful small feet and hands. . 

He comes every day from the city, drops in, in his quiet unobtrusive 
way, and drinks tea at five o*clock ; always brings a budget of the 
funniest stories with him, makes mamma laugh, Clara laugh, Henrietta, 
who is in the school-room still, die of laughing. Papa has the highest 
opinion of Mr. Newcome as a man of business : if he had had such a 
friend in early life his affairs would not be where they now are, poor 
dear kind papa 1 Do they want to go anywhere, is not Mr. Newcome 
always ready ? Did he not procure that delightful room for them to 
witness the Lord Mayor's show ; and make Clara die of laughing at 
those odd city people at the Mansion House ball? He is at everj 
party, and never tired though he gets up so early : he waltzes with nobody 
else : he is always there to put Lady Clara in the carriage : at the 
drawing-room he looked quite handsome in his uniform of the Newcome 
Hussars, bottle-green and silver lace : he speaks politics so exceedingly 
well with papa and gentlemen after dinner : he is a sound conservative, 
full of practical good sense and information, with no dangerous new- 
fangled ideas, such as young men have. When poor dear Sir Bryan 



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THE NEWCOAIES. 315 

'Newcome's health gives way quite, Mr. Newcome will go into pavlia- 
ment, and then he will resume the old haronj which has been in 
abeyance in the family since the reign of Richard the Third. They 
had fallen quite, quite low. Mr. Newcomers grandfather came to 
London with a satchel on his back, like Whittington. Isn*t it romantic ? 

This process has been going on for months. It is not in one day 
that poor Lady Clara has been made to forget the past, and to lay aside 
her mourning. Day after day, very likely, the undeniable faults and 
many piccadilloes of — of that other person, have been exposed to her. 
People around the young lady may desire to spare her feelings, but 
can have no interest in screening poor Jack from condign reprobation. 
A wild prodigal — a disgrace to his order — a son of old Highgates 
leading such a life, and making such a scandal ! Lord Dorking 
believes Mr. Belsize to be an abandoned monster and fiend in human 
shape ; gathers and relates all the stories that ever have been told to 
the young man's disadvantage, and of these be sure there are enough, 
and speaks of him with transports of indignation. At the end of 
months of unwearied courtship, Mr. Barnes Newcome is honestly 
accepted, and Lady Clara is waiting for him at Baden, not unhappy to 
receive him ; when walking on the promenade with her father, the 
ghost of her dead love suddenly rises before her, and the young lady 
faints to the ground. 

"When Barnes Newcome thinks fit he can be perfectly placable in 
his demeanour and delicate in his conduct. What ha said upon this 
painful subject was delivered with the greatest propriety. He did not 
for one moment consider that L^ Clara's agitation arose from any 
present feeling in Mr. Belsize 's favour, but that she was naturally 
moved by the remembrance* of the past, and the sudden appearance 
which recalled it. " And but that a lady's name should never be made 
the subject of dispute between men," Newcome said to Lord Dorking, 
with great dignity, " and that Captain Belsize has opportunely quitted 
the place, I should certainly have chastised him. He and another 
adventurer, against whom I have had to warn my own family, have 
quitted Baden this afternoon. I am glad that both are gone. Captain 
Belsize especially ; for my temper, my lord, is hot, and I do not think 
I should have commanded it." 

Lord Kew, when the elder lord informed him of this admirable 
speech of Barnes Newcome's, upon whose charatJter, prudence, and 
dignity the Earl of Dorking pronounced a fervent eulogium, shook 
his head gravely, and said, "Yes, Barnes was a dead shot, and a most 
determined- fellow : " and did not burst out laughing until he and 
Lord Dorking had parted. Then to be sure he took his fill of laughter, 
he told the story to Ethel, he complimented Barnes on his heroic 
self-denial ; the joke of the thundering big stick was nothing to it. 
Barnes Newcome laughed too ; he had plenty of humour, Barnes. ** I 
think you might have whopped Jack when he came out from his 
interview with the Dorkings," Kew said : ** the poor devil was 



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316 THE NEWCOMES. 

so bewildered and weak, that Alfred might have thrashed him. At 
other times you would find it more difficult, Barnes my man." Mr. 
B. Newcome resumed his dignity ; said a joke was a joke, and there 
was quite enough of this one ; which assertion we may be sare he 
conscientiously made. 

That meeting and parting between the old lovers passed with a 
great deal of calm and propriety on both sides. Miss's parents of 
course were present when Jack at their summons waited upon them 
and their daughter, and made his hang-dog bow. My Lord Dorking 
said (poor Jack in the anguish of his heart, had, poured out the story to 
Clive Newcome afterwards), "Mr. Belsize, I have to apologise for 
words which I used in my heat yesterday, and which I recall and 
regret, as I am sure you do that there should have been any occasion 
for them." 

Mr. Belsize looking at the carpet said he was very sorry. 

Lady Dorking here remarked, that as Captain Belsize was now at 
Baden, he might wish to hear from Lady Clara Pulley-n's own lips that 
the engagement into which she had entered was formed by herself, 
certainly with the consent and advice of her family. Is it not so, 
my dear ? " 

Lady Clara said ** Yes mamma," with a low curtsy. 

*' We have now to wish you good bye, Charles Belsize," said my 
lord, with some feeling. "As your relative, and your father's old 
friend, I wish you well. I hope your future course in life may not be 
so unfortunate as the past year. I request that we may part friends. 
Good bye, Charles. Clara, shakeg^ands with Captain Belsize. My 
Lady Dorking, you will please to give Charles your hand. You haw 
known him since he was a child ; and — and^— we are sorry to be obliged 
to part in this way." In this wise Mr. Jack Belsize's tooth was finally 
extracted ; and for the moment we wish him and his brother patient a 
good journey. 

Little lynx-eyed Dr. Von Finck, who attends most of the polite 
company at Baden, drove ceaselessly about the place that day, with 
the real version of the fainting-fit story, about which we may be sare 
the wicked and malicious, and the uninitiated, had a hundred absurd 
details. Lady Clara ever engaged to Captain Belsize? Fiddle-dee-dee! 
Fiverybody knew the Captain's affairs, and that he could no more think 
of marrying than flying. Lady Clara faint at seeing him ! she 
fainted before he came up ; she was always fainting, and had done 
so thrice in the last week to his knowledge. Lord Dorking had a 
nervous affection of his right arm, and was always shaking his stick. 
He did not say Villain, he said William ; Captain Belsize 's name is 
William. It is not so in the peerage ? Is he called Jack in the 
peerage? Those peerages are always wrong. These candid expla- 
nations of course had their effect. Wicked tongues were of course 
instantaneously silent. People were entirely satisfied ; they always 
are. The next night being Assembly night, Lady Clara appeared at 



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THE NBWCOMES. 



817 



the rooms, and danced with Lord Kew and Mr. Barnes Newcome. All 
the society \ias as gracious and good-burooured as possible, and there 




M^s no more question of fainting, than of burning down the Conver- 
sation house. But Madame de Cruchecassee, and Madame de 
Schlangenbad, and those horrid people whom the men speak to, but 
^yhom the women salute with silent curtseys, persisted in declaring 
that there was no prude like an English prude ; and to Dr. Fiuck's 
oaths, assertions, explanations, only replied, with a shrug of their bold 
shoulders, **Taisez vous, Docteur, vous n'ete qu une vieille bete." 

Lady Kew was at the iX)oms, uncommonly gracious. Miss Ethel 
took a few turns of the waltz with Lord Kew, but this nymph looked 
^orefarouche than upon ordinary days. Bob Jones, who admired her 
bugely, asked leave to waltz with her, and entertained her with 
recollections of Clive Newcome at school. He remembered a fight in 
^hich Clive had been engaged, and recounted that action to Miss 
Newcome, who seemed to be interested. He was pleased to deplore 
CUve 8 fancy for turning artist, and that Miss Newcome recommended 
"ina to have his likeness taken, for she said his appearance was 
exceedingly picturesque. He was going on with farther prattle, but 
she suddenly cut Mr. Jones short, making him a bow, and going to 
sit down by Lady Kew. ** And the next day, sir," said Bob, with whom 
the present writer had the happiness of dining at a mess dinner at 
the Upper Temple, *' when I met her on the walk, sir, she cut me as 



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818 THE KEWCOMES. 

dead as a stone. The airs those swells give themselves is enough to 
make any man tarn repahlican.'* 

Miss Ethel indeed was haoghty, very haughty, and of a difficult 
temper. She spared none of her party except her kind mother, to 
whom Ethel always was kind, and herflEither, whom, since his illnesses, 
she tended with much heuevolence and care. But she did battle with 
Lady Kew repeatedly, coming to her aunt Julia's rescue, on whom 
her mother as usual exercised her powers of torturing. She made 
Barnes quail before her by the shafts of contempt which she flashed 
at him ; and she did not spare Lord Kew, whose good-nature was no 
shield against her scorn. The old queen mother was fairly afraid of 
her ; she even left off beating Lady Julia when Ethel came in, of 
course taking her revenge in the young girl's absence, but trying iu 
her presence to sooth and please her. Against Lord Kew the young 
girl's anger was most unjust, and the more cruel, because the kindly 
youDg nobleman never spoke a hard word of any one mortal soul, and 
carrying no arms, should have been assaulted by none. But his very 
good-nature seemed to make his young opponent only the more 
wrathful ; she shot because his honest breast was bare ; it bled at the 
wounds which she inflicted. Her relatives looked at her surprised at 
her cruelty, and the young man himself was shocited in his dignity 
and best feelings by his cousin's wanton ill humour. 

Lady Kew fancied she understood the cause of this peevishness, and 
remonstrated with Miss Ethel. ** Shall we write a letter to Lucerne, and 
order Dick Tinto back again?" said her ladyship. " Are you such a fool, 
Ethel, as to be hankering after that young scapegrace, and his yellow 
beard ? His drawings are very pretty. Why, I think he might earn a couple 
of hundred a year as a teacher, and nothing would be easier than to break 
your engagement with Kew, and whistle the drawing-master back again." 

Ethel took up the whole heap of Olive's drawings, lighted a taper, 
carried the drawings to the flre-place, and set them in a blaze. 
** A very pretty piece of work," says Lady Kew, ** and which proves 
satisfactorily that you don't care for the young Olive at all. Have we 
arranged a correspondence? We are cousins you know; we may 
write pretty cousinly letters to one another." A month before the 
old lady would have attacked her with other arms than sarcasm, bat 
she was scared now, and dared to use no coarser weapons. '* ! " 
cried Ethel in a transport, " what a life ours is, and how you buy and 
sell, and haggle over your children ! It is not Olive I care about, poor 
boy. Our ways of life are separate. I cannot break from my own 
family, and I know very well how you would receive him in it. Had 
he money, it would be different. You would receive him, and welcome 
him, and hold out your hands to him ; but he is only a poor painter, 
and we forsooth are bankers in the city ; and he comes among us on 
sufferance, like those concert-singers whom mamma treats with so much 
politeness, and who go down and have supper by themselves. Why 
should they not be as good as we are ? " 



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THE NEWCOMES. SI 9 

"M. de C , my dear, is of a noble family," interposed Lady 

Kew ; '* when he has given up singing and made his fortune, no doubt 
be can go back into the world again." 

" Made his fortune, yes," Ethel continued, '* that is the cry. There 
never were, since the world began, people so unblushingly sordid ! We 
own it, and are proud of it. We barter rank against money, and 
money against rank, day after day. Why did you marry my father to 
my mother ? Was it for his wit ? You know he might have been an 
angel and you would have scorned him. Your daughter was bought 
with papa's money as surely as ever Newcome was. Will there be no 
day when this mammon worship will cease among us ? " 

" Not in my time or yours, Ethel," the elder said, not unkindly ; 
perhaps she thought of a day long ago before she was old herself. 

" We are sold," the young girl went on, " we are as much sold as 
Turidsh women ; the only difference being that our masters may have 
but one Circassian at a time. No, there is no freedom for us. I wear 
my green ticket, and wait till my master comes. But every day as I 
think of our slavery, I revolt against it more. That poor wretch, that 
poor girl whom my brother is to marry, why did she not revolt and fly ? 
I would, if I loved a man sufficiently, loved him better than the world, 
than WQalth, than rank, than fine houses and titles, — and I feel 1 love 
these best, — I would give up all to follow him. But what can I be 
with my name and my parents ? I belong to the world like all the 
rest of my family, It is you who have bred us up ; you who are 
answerable for us. Why are there no convents to which we can fly ? 
You make a fine marriage for me ; you provide me with a good husband, 
a kind soul, not very wise, but very kind ; you make me what you call 
happy, and I would rather be at the plough like the women here." 

*• No, you wouldn't, Ethel," replies the grandmother, drily. ** These 
are the fine speecTies of school girls. The showers of rain would spoil 
your complexion — ^you would be perfectly tired in an hour, and come 
back to luncheon — ^you belong to your belongings, my dear, and are not 
better than the rest of the world : — very good looking, as you know 
perfectly well, and not very good tempered. It is lucky that Kew is. 
Calm your temper, at least before marriage ; such a prize does not fall 
to a pretty girl's lot every day. Why, you sent him away quite scared 
by your cruelty ; and if he is not playing at roulette, or at billiards, I 
dsuresay he is thinking what a little termagant you are, and that he had 
best pause while it is yet time. Before I was married, your poor 
grandfather never knew I had a temper ; of after-days I say nothing ; 
but trials are good for all of us, and he bore his like an angel." 

Lady Kew, too, on this occasion, at least, was admirably good- 
humoured. She also when it was necessary could put a restraint on her 
temper, and having this match very much at heart, chose to coax and 
to soothe her grand-daughter rather than to endeavour to scold and 
frighten her. 

** Why do you desire this marriage so much, grandmamma," the girl 



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320 THE NBWCOMES. 

asked. " My cousin is not very much in love, — at least I should fancy 
not," she added, blushing. ** I am bound to own Lord Kew is not in 
the least eager, and I think if you were to tell him to wait for five 
years, he would be quite willing. Why should you be so very anxious?" 
" Why, my dear? Because I think young ladies who want to go and 
work in the fields, should make hay while the sun shines ; because I 
think it is high time that Kew should ranger himself; because I am 
sure he will make tbe best husband, and Ethel the prettiest Countess 
in England." And the old lady, seldom exhibiting any signs of affec- 
tion, looked at her grand-daughter very fondly. From her Ethel 
looked up into the glass, which very likely repeated on its shining face 
the truth her elder had just uttered. Shall we quarrel with the girl 
for that dazzling reflection; for owning that charming truth, and 
submitting to the conscious triumph ? Give her her part of vanity, 
of youth, of desire to rule and be admired. Meanwhile Mr. Olives 
drawings have been crackling in the fire-place at her feet, and the last 
spark of that combustion is twinkling out unheeded. 



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CHAPTER XXXIII. 



LADY KEW AT THE CONGRESS. 




HEN Lady 
Kew heard 
that Madame 
d'lvry was at 
Baden, and 
was informed 
at once of the 
French lady's 
graciousness 
towards the 
Newcome fa- 
mily, and of 
her fury 
against Lord 
Kew, the old 
Countess gave 

a loose to that energetic temper with which nature had gifted her ; a 
temper which she tied up sometimes and kept from barking and biting ; 
but which when unmuzzled was an animal of whom all her ladyship's 
family had a just apprehension; Not one of them but in his or her 
time had been wounded, lacerated, tumbled over, otherwise frightened 
or injured by this unruly brute. The cowards brought it sops and 
patted it ; the prudent gave it a clear berth, and walked round so as 
not to meet it ; but woe be to those of the family who had to bring the 
meal, and prepare the litter, and (to speak respectfully) share the 
kennel with Lady Kew*s " Black Dog ! " Surely a fine furious temper, 
if accompanied with a certain magnanimity and bravery which often go 
together with it, is one of the most precious and fortunate gifts with 
which a gentleman or lady can be endowed. A person always ready to 
fight is certain of the greatest consideration amongst his or her family 
circle. The lazy grow tired of contending with him ; the timid coax^ 
and flatter him; and as almost every one is timid or lazy, a bad- 
tempered man is sure to have his own way. It is he who commands, 
and all the others obey. If he is a gourmand, he has what he likes for 
dinner ; and the tastes of all the rest are subservient to him. She (we 



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822 THE NBWCOMES. 

playfully transfer the gender, as a bad temper is of both sexes) has the 
place which she likes best in the drawing-room ; nor do her parents, 
nor her brothers and sisters, venture to take her favourite chair. If 
she wants to go to a party, mamma will dress herself in spite of her 
head-ache; and papa, who hates those dreadful soirees, will go up- 
stairs after dinner and put on his poor old white neckcloth, though he 
has been toiling at chambers all day, and must be there early in the 
morning — he will go out with her, yve say, and stay for the cotillon. If 
the family are taking their tour in the summer, it is she who ordains 
whither they shall go, and when they shall stop. If he comes home 
late, the dinner is kept for him, and not one dares to say a word though 
ever so hungry. If he is in a good humour, how every one frisks aboat 
and is happy ! How the servants jump up at his bell and run to wait 
upon him ! How they sit up patiently, and how eagerly they rush oat 
to fetch cabs in the rain ! Whereas for you and me, who have the 
tempers of angels, and never were kno>vn to be angry or to compkin, 
nobody cares whether we are pleased or not. Our wives go to the 
milliners and send us the bill, and we pay it ; our John finishes reading 
the newspaper before he answers our bell, and brings it to us ; onr 
sons loll in the arm-chair which we should like ; fill the house with 
their young men, and smoke in the dining-room; our tailors fit us 
badly ; our butchers give us the youngest mutton ; our tradesmen dun 
us much more quickly than other people*s, because they know we are 
good-natured ; and our servants go out whenever they like, and openly 
have their fiiends to supper in the kitchen. When Lady Kew said Sic 
volo, sic jvheo, 1 promise you few persons of her ladyship's^Jbelongings 
stopped, before they did her biddings, to ask her reasons. 

If, which very seldom happens, there are two such imperious and 
domineering spirits in a family, unpleasantries of course will arise from 
their contentions ; or, if out of doors, the family Bajazet meets with 
some other violent Turk, dreadful battles ensue, all the allies on either 
side are brought in, and the surrounding neighbours perforce engaged 
in the quarrel. This was unlucldly the case in the present instance. 
Lady Kew, unaccustomed to have her will questioned at home, liked to 
impose it abroad. She judged the persons around her with great 
freedom of speech. Her opinions were quoted, as people's sayings will 
be ; and if she made bitter speeches, depend on it they lost nothing in 
the carrying. She was furious against Madame la Duchesse d'lvrj, 
and exploded in various companies whenever that lady's name was 
mentioned. ** Why was she not with her husband ? Why was the 
poor old duke left to his gout, and this woman trailing through the 
country with her vagabond court of billiard-markers at her heels ? She 
^to call herself Mary Queen of Scots, forsooth! — well, she merited the 
title in some respects, though she had not murdered her husband as 
yet. Ah ! I should like to be Queen Elizabeth if the Duchess is 
Queen of Scots I " said the old lady, shaking her old fist And these 
sentiments being uttered in public, upon the Promenade, to mutual 



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THE NBWCOMES. 3£S 

friends, of course the Duchess had the benefit of Lady Kew's remarks 
a few minutes after they were uttered ; and her Grace, and the dis- 
tinguished princes, counts, and noblemen in her court, designated as 
billiard-markers by the old Countess, returned the latter's compliments 
with pretty speeches of their own. Scandals were dug up respecting 
her ladyship, so old that one would have thought them forgotten these 
forty years, — so old that they happened before most of the Newcomes 
now extant vfere born, and surely therefore out of the province of this 
contemporary biography. Lady Kew was indignant with her daughter 
(there were some moments when any conduct of her friends did not 
meet her ladyship's approbation) even for the scant civility with which 
Lady Anne had received the Duchess's advances. ** Leave a card upon 
her 1 — yes, send a card by one of your footmen ; but go in to see her — 
because she was at the window and saw you drive up. — Are you mad, 
Anne ? That was the very reason you should not have come out of 
your carrit^e. But you are so weak and good-natured, that if a high- 
wayman stopped you, you would say, * Thank you, sir,* as you gave him 
your purse : yes, and if Mrs. Macheath called on you afterwards you 
would return the visit ! " 

Even had these speeches been made aboiU the Duchess, and some 
of them not addressed to her, things might have gone on pretty well. 
If we quarrelled with all the people who abuse us behind our backs, 
and began to tear their eyes out as soon as we set ours on them, what 
a life it would be, and when should we have any quiet ? Backbiting 
is all fair ia society. Abuse me, and I will abuse you ; but let us be 
friends when we meet. Have not we all entered a dozen rooms, and 
been sure, from the countenances of the amiable persons present, that 
they had been discussing our little peculiarities, perhaps as we were on 
the stairs? Was our visit, therefore, the less agreeable? Did we 
quarrel and say hard words to one another's faces? No — we wait 
until some of our dear friends take their leave, and then comes our 
turn. My back is at my neighbour's service ; as soon as that is turned 
let him make what feces he thinks proper : but when we meet we grin 
and shake hands like well-bred folk, to whom clean linen is not more 
necessary than a clean sweet-looking countenance, and a nicely got-up 
smile, for company. 

Here was Lady Kew's mistake. She wanted, for some reason, to 
drive Madame d'lvry out of Baden; and thought there were no 
better means of effecting this object than by using the high hand, and 
practising those frowns upon the Duchess which had scared away so 
iiaany other persons. But the Queen of Scots was resolute, too, and 
her band of courtiers fought stoutly round about her. Some of them 
could not pay their bills, and could not retreat : others had courage, 
^d did not choose to fly. Instead of coaxing and soothing Madame 
^'Iviy, Madame de Kew thought by a brisk attack to rout and 
dislodge her. She began on almost the very first occasion when the 
ladies met. " I was so sorry to hear that Monsieur le Due was ill at 

t2 



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824 THE KEWCOMSS. 

Bagneres, Madame la Dacbesse,** the old lady began on their veiy first 
meeting, after the usual salutations had taken place. 

" Madame la Comtesse is very kind to interest herself .in Monsieur 
d'lvry's health. Monsieur le Due at his age is not disposed to 
travel. You, dear miladi, are more happy in being always able to 
retain the gout des voyages ! " 

" I come to my family ! my dear Duchess." 

" How charmed they must be to possess you ! Miladi Ann, you 
must be inexpressibly consoled by the presence of a mother so tender ! 
Permit me to present Madame la Comtesse de la Oruche-Cassee to 
Madame la Comtesse de Kew. Miladi is sister to that amiable 
Marquis of Steyne, whom you have known, Ambrosine ! Madame la 
Baronne de Schlangenbad, Miladi Kew. Do you not see the resem- 
blance to milor? These ladies have enjoyed the hospitalities — ^the 
splendours of Gaunt House. They were of those famous routs of 
which the charming Mistress Crawly, la semiUante BecH, made part ! 
How sad the Hotel de Gaunt must be under the present circumstances ! 
Have you heard, miladi, of the charming Mistress Becki? Monsieur 
le Dae describes her as the most spirituelle Englishwoman he ever met" 
The Queen of Scots turns and whispers her lady of honour, and sbrags 
and taps her forehead. Lady Kew knows that Madame d'lviy speaks 
of her nephew, the present Lord Steyne, who is not in his right mind. 
The Duchess looks round, and sees a friend in the distance whom she 
beckons. *' Comtesse, you know already Monsieur the Captain Black- 
ball ? He makes the delight of our society ! " A dreadful man with a 
large cigar, a florid waistcoat, and billiards written on his countenance, 
swaggers forward at the Duchess's summons. The Countess of Kew 
has not gained much by her attack. She has been presented to Gruche- 
Cassee and Schlangenbad. She sees herself on the eve of becoming 
the acquaintance of Captain Blackball. 

" Permit me. Duchess, to choose my English friends at least for 
myself," says Lady Kew, drumming her foot. 

" But, madam, assuredly ! You do not love this good Monsieur de 
Blackball ? Eb I the English manners are droll, pardon me for saying 
so. It is wonderful how proud you are as a nation, and how ashamed 
you are of your compatriots ! " 

" There are some persons who are ashamed of nothing, Madame la 
Duchesse," crifes Lady Kew, losing her temper. 

•* Is that gradeusete for me ? How much goodness ! This good 
Monsieur de Blackball is not very well bred ; but, for an Englishman, 
he is not t>oo bad. I have met with people who are more; iU-bred than 
Englishmen in my travels." 

*' And they are ? " said Lady Ann, who had been in vain endeavouring 
to put an end to this colloquy. 

"English women, madam! I speak not for you. You are kind; 
you — you are too soft, dear Lady Ann, for a persecutor." 

The counsels of the worldly woman who governed and directed that 



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THE NEWCOMES. 325 

branch of the Newcome family of whom it is our business to speak 
now for a little while, bore other results than those which the elderly 
lady desired, and foresaw. Who can foresee everything and always ? 
Not the wisest among us. When his Majesty, Louis XIV., jockeyed 
his grandson on to the throne of Spain (founding thereby the present 
revered dynasty of that country), did he expect to peril his own, and 
bring all Europe about his royal ears ? Could a late king of France, 
eager for the advantageous establishment of one of his darling sons, 
and^ anxious to procure a beautiful Spanish princess, with a crown and 
kingdom in reversion, for the simple and obedient youth, ever suppose 
that the welfare of his whole august race and reign would be upset by 
that smart speculation ? We take only the most noble examples to 
illustrate the conduct of such a noble old personage as her ladyship of 
Kew, who brought a prodigious deal of trouble upon some of the 
innocent members of her family, whom no doubt she thought to better 
in life by her experienced guidance, and undoubted worldly wisdom 
We may be as deep as Jesuits, know the world ever so well, lay the 
best ordered plans, and the profoundest combinations, and by a certain 
not unnatural turn of fate, we, and our plans and combinations, are 
sent flying before the wind. We may be as wise as Louis Philippe, 
that many-counselled Ulysses whom the respectable world admired so ; 
and after years of patient scheming, and prodigies of skill, after 
coaxing, wheedling, doubling, bullying, wisdom, behold yet stronger 
powers interpose : and schemes, and skill and violence, are nought. 

Frank and Ethel, Lady Kew's grandchildren, were both the obedient 
subjects of this ancient despot : this imperious old Louis XIV. in a black 
firont and a cap and ribbon, this scheming old Louis Philippe in 
tabinet ; but their blood was good and their tempers high ; and for all 
her bitting and driving, and the training of her manege^ the generous 
young colts were hard to break. Ethel, at this time, was especially 
stubborn in training, rebellious to the whip, and wild under harness ; 
and the way in which Lady Kew managed her won the admiration of her 
family: for it was a maxim among these folks that no one could 
manage Ethel but Lady Kew. Barnes said no one could manage his 
sister but his grandmother. He couldn't, that was certain. Mamma 
never tried, and indeed was so good-natured, that rather than ride the 
Ally, she would put the saddle on her own back and let the Ally ride 
her ; no, there was no one but her ladyship capable of. managing that 
girl, Barnes owned, who held Lady Kew in much respect and awe. " If 
the tightest hand were not kept on her, there's no knowing what she 
mightn't do," said her brother. " Ethel Newcome, by Jove, is capable 
of running away with the writing-master." 

After poor Jack Belsize's mishap and departure, Barnes's own bride 
showed no spirit at all, save one of placid contentment. She came at 
call and instantly, and went through whatever paces her owner demanded 
of her. She laughed whenever need was, simpered and smiled when 
spoken to, danced whenever she was asked; drove out at Barnes's side in 



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326 THE KEWCOHES. 

Kew's phaeton, and received him certainly not with warmth, but \ritli 
politeness and welcome. It is difficult to describe the scorn with which 
her sister-in-law regarded her. The sight of the patient timid little 
thing chafed Ethel, who was always more haughty and flighty, and 
bold when in Clara s presence than at any other time. Her ladyship's 
brother. Captain Lord Viscount Rooster, before mentioned, joined Uie 
family party at this interesting' juncture. My lord Rooster found him- 
self surprised, delighted, subjugated by Miss Newcome, her wit and 
spirit. " By Jove, she is a plucky one," his lordship exclaimed. *' To 
^nce with her is the best fun in life. How she pulls all the other girls 
to pieces, by Jove, and how splendidly she chaffs everybody ! But," he 
added with the shrewdness and sense of humour which distinguished 
the young officer, ** I'd rather dance with her than marry her — by a 
doosid long score — I don't envy you that part of the business Kew, my 
boy." Lord Kew did not set himself up as a person to be envied. He 
thought his cousin beautiful : and with his grandmother, that she would 
make a very handsome countess, and he thought the money which Lady 
Kew would give or leave to the young couple a very welcome addition 
to his means. 

On the next night, when there was a ball at the room. Miss Ethel 
ehose to appear in a toilette the very grandest and finest which she had 
ever assumed, who was ordinarily exceedingly simple in her attire, and 
dressed below the mark of the rest of the world. Her clustering 
ringlets, her shining white shoulders, her splendid raiment (I believe 
indeed it was her court-dress which the young lady assumed) astonished 
all beholders. She Scrasid all other beauties by her appearance ; so 
much so that Madame d'lvry's court could not but look, the men in 
admiration, the women in dislike, at this dazzling young creature. 
None of the countesses, duchesses, princesses, Russ, Spanish, Italian, 
were so fine or so handsome. There were some New York ladies at 
Baden as there are everywhere else in Europe now. Not even these 
were more magnificent than Miss Ethel. General Jeremiah J. Bung's 
lady owned that Miss Newcome was fit to appear in any party in Fourth 
avenue. She was the only well-dressed English girl Mrs. Bung had 
seen in Europe. A young German Durchlaucht deigned to explain to 
his aide-de-camp how very handsome he thought Miss Newcome. All 
our jujquaintances were of one mind. Mr. Jones of England pro- 
nounced her stunning ; the admirable Captain Blackball examined her 
points with the skill of an amateur, and described them with agreeable 
frankness. Lord Rooster was charmed as he surveyed her, and com- 
plimented his late companion in arms on the possession of such a 
paragon. Only Lord Kew was not delighted — nor did Miss Ethel 
mean that he should be. She looked as splendid as Cinderella in the 
prince's palace. But what need for all this splendour? this wonderful 
toilette ? this dazzling neck and shoulders, whereof the brightoess and 
beauty blinded the eyes of lookers on ? She was dressed as gaudily as 
an actress of the Varietes going to a supper at the Trois Freres. " I* 



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THE NBWCOMES. 327 

was Mademoiselle Mabille en habit de cour'* Madame dTvry 
remarked to Madame Schlangenbad. Barnes who with his bride-elect 
for a partner made a vis-a-vis for his sister and the admiring Lord 
Booster, was puzzled likewise by EtheFs countenance and appearance* 
Little Lady Clara looked like a little s(5hool-girl dancing before her. 

One, two, three, of the attendants of her Majesty the Queen of Scots 
were carried off in the course of the evening by the victorious young 
beauty, whose triumph had the effect, which the headstrong girl perhaps 
herself anticipated, of mortifying the Duchesse d'lvry, of exasperating 
old Lady Kew, and of annoying the young nobleman to whom Miss 
Ethel was engaged. The girl seemed to take a pleasure in defying all 
three, a something embittered her, alike against her friends and her 
enemies. The old dowager chafed and vented her wrath upon Lady 
Anne and Barnes. Ethel kept the ball alive by herself almost. She 
refused to go home, declining hints and commands alike. She was 
engaged for ever so many dances more. Not dance with Count 
Punter? it would be rude to leave him after promising him. Not 
waltz with Captain Blackball ? He was not a proper partner for her. 
Why then did Kew know him? Lord Kew walked and talked. with 
Captain Blackball every day. Was she to be so proud as not to know 
Lord Kew*s friends ? She greeted the Captain with a most fascinating 
smile as he came up whilst the controversy was pending, and ended it 
by whirling round the room in his arms. 

Madame dlvry viewed with such pleasure as might be expected the 
defection of her adherents, and the triumph of her youthful rival, who 
seemed to grow more beautiful with each waltz, so that the other 
dancers paused to look at her, the men breaking out in enthusiasm, the 
reluctant women being forced to join in the applause. Angiy as she 
was, and knowing how Ethel's conduct angered her grandson, old Lady 
Kew could not help admiring the rebellious beauty, whose girlish spirit 
was more than a match for the imperious dowager's tough old resolution. 
As for Mr. Barnes's displeasure, the girl tossed her saucy head, 
shrugged her fair shoulders, and passed on with a scornful laugh. In 
a word, Miss Ethel conducted herself as a most reckless and intrepid 
young flirt, using her eyes with the most consummate effect, 
chattering with astounding gaiety, prodigal of smiles, gracious thanks 
and killing glances. What wicked spirit moved her? Perhaps had 
she known the mischief she was doing, she would have continued it still. 

The sight of this wilfulness and levity smote poor Lord Kew's honest 
heart with cruel pangs of mortification. The easy young nobleman had 
passed many a year of his life in all sorts of wild company. The 
ehaumiere knew him, and the balls of Parisian actresses, the coulisses 
of the opera at home and abroad. Those pretty heads of ladies whom 
nobody knows, used to nod their shining ringlets at Kew, from private 
boxes at theatres, or dubious Park-broughams. He had run the career 
of young men of pleasure, and laughed and feasted with jolly prodigals 
and their company. He was tired of it : perhaps he remembered an 



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828 THS KBWGOHES. 

earlier and purer life, and was sigbing to retam to it. Living as he 
bad done amongst the outcasts, his ideal of domestic virtue ^as high 
and pure. He chose to believe that good women were entirely good. 
Duplicity be could not understand ; ill temper shocked him : wilfulness 
be seemed to fcincy belonged only to the profane and vdcked, not to 
good girls, with good mothers, in honest homes. Their nature was to 
love their families ; to obey their parents ; to tend their poor ; to honour 
their husbands ; to cherish their children. Ethel's laugh woke him up 
from one of these simple reveries very likely, and then she swept round 
the ball-room rapidly, to the brazen notes of the orchestra. He nevec 
offered to dance with her more than once in the evening ; went away to 
play, and returned to find her still whirling to the music. Madame 
dlvry remarked bis tribulation and gloomy face, though she took no 
pleasure at his discomfiture, knowing that Ethel s behaviour caused it. 

In plays and novels, and I daresay in real life too sometimes, when 
the wanton heroine chooses to exert her powers of fascination, and to 
flirt with Sir Harry, or the Captain, the hero, in a pique, goes off and 
makes love to somebody else: both acknowledge their folly s^ter a while, 
shake hands and are reconciled, and the curtain* drops, or the volume 
ends. But there are some people too noble and simple for these 
amorous scenes and smirking artifices. When Eew was pleased he 
laughed, when he was grieved be was silent. He did not deign 
to hide his grief or pleasure under disguises. His error, perhaps, 
was in forgetting that Ethel was very young ; that her conduct was 
not design so much as girlish mischief and high spirits ; and that if 
young men have their frolics, sow their wild oats, and enjoy their 
pleasure, young women may be permitted sometimes their more 
harmless vagaries of gaiety, and sportive outbreaks of wilful humour. 

When she consented to go home at length. Lord Kew brought Miss 
Newcome's little white cloak for her (under the hood of which her 
glossy curls, her blushing cheeks, and bright eyes looked provokinglj 
handsome), and encased her in this pretty garment without uttering 
one single word. She made him a saucy curtsey in return for this act 
of politeness, which salutation he received with a grave bow ; and then 
he proceeded to cover up old Lady Kew, and to conduct her ladyship to 
her chariot. Miss Ethel chose to be displeased at her cousin's dis- 
pleasure. What were balls made for but that people should dance? 
She a flirt? She displease Lord Kew? If she chose to dance, she 
would dance ; she had no idea of his giving himself airs, besides it was 
such fun taking away the gentlemen of Mary Queen of Scots' court from 
her : such capital fun ! So she went to bed, singing and performing won- 
derful roulades as she lighted her. candle, and retired to her room. She 
bad had such a jolly evening ! such famous fun, and, I daresay, (but how 
shall a novelist penetrate these mysteries ?) when her chamber door was 
closed, she scolded her maid and was as cross as two sticks. You see 
there come moments of sorrow after the most brilliant victories ; and you 
conquer and rout the enemy utterly, and then you regret that you fought 



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CHAPTER XXXIV. 



THE END OF THE CONGRESS OF BADEN. 




ENTION has 
been made of an 
elderly young 
person from Ire- 
land, engaged 
by Madame la 
Duchessed'Ivry, 
as companion 
and teacher of 
English for her 
little daughter. 
When Miss 0' 
Grady, as she 
did some time 

afterwards, quitted Madame dlvry*s family, she spoke with great 
freedom regarding the behaviour of that duchess, and recounted horrors 
which she, the latter, had committed, A number of the most terrific 
anecdotes issued from the lips of the indignant Miss, whose volubility 
Lord Kew was obliged to check, not choosing that his countess, with 
whom he was paying a bridal visit to Paris, should hear such dreadful 
legends. It was there that Miss O'Grady, finding herself in misfortune, 
and reading of Lord Kew's arrival at the Hotel Bristol, waited upon 
his lordship and the Countess of Kew, begging them to take tickets in 
a raffle for an invaluable ivory writing-desk, sole relic of her former 
prosperity, which she proposed to give her friends the chance of 
acquiring : in fact. Miss O'Grady lived for some years on the produce 
of repeated raffles for this beautiful desk : many religious ladies of the 
Faubourg St. Germain, taking an interest in her misfortunes, and 
alleviating them by the simple lottery system. Protestants as well as 
Catholics were permitted to take sliares in Miss O 'Grady's raffles; 
and Lord Kew, goodnatured then as always, purchased so many tickets, 
that the contrite O'Grady informed him of a transaction which had 
nearly affected his happiness, and in which she took a not very credit- 
able share. **Had I known your lordship's real character," Miss O'G. 
was pleased to say, ^* no tortures would have induced me to do an act 



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330 THE NEWCOMBS* 

for T^hich I have nndergone penance. It was that black-hearted woman, 
my lord, who maligned your lordship to me : that woman whom I called 
friend once, but who is the most false, depraved, and dangerous of her 
sex." In this way do ladies* companions sometimes speak of ladies 
when quarrels separate them, when confidential attendants are dis- 
missed, bearing away family secrets in their minds, and revenge in 
their hearts. 

The day after Miss EtheVs feats at the assembly, old Lady Eew 
went over to advise her grand-daughter, and to give her a little timely 
warning about the impropriety of flirtations ; above all, with such men 
as are to be found at watering-places, persons who are never seen 
elsewhere in society. " Eemark the peculiarities of Kew's temper, who 
never flies into a passion like you and me, my dear," said the old lady, 
(being determined to be particularly gracious and cautious); "when 
once angry he remains so, and is so obstinate that it is almost impossible 
to coax him into good humour. It is much better, my love, to be hke 
us," continued the old lady, " to fly out in a rage and have it over, but 
que vovlez vaus? such is Frank's temper,^ and we must manage him." 
So she went on, backing her advice by a crowd of examples drawn from 
the family history ; showing how Kew was like his grandfather, her 
own poor husband; still more like his late father. Lord Walham, 
between whom and his mother there had been differences, chiefly 
brought on by my Lady Walham of course, which had ended in the 
almost total estrangement of mother and son. Lady Kew then admi- 
nistered her advice, and told her stories with Ethel alone for a listener; 
and in a most edifying manner, she besought Miss Newcome to menager 
Lord Kew's susceptibilities, as she valued her own future comfort in 
life, as well as the happiness of a most amiable man, of whom, if 
properly managed, Ethel might make what she pleased, We have said 
Lady Kew managed everybody, and that most of the members of her 
family allowed themselves to be managed by her ladyship. 

Ethel, who had permitted her gmndmother to continue her senten- 
tious advice, while she herself sat tapping her feet on the floor, and 
performing the most rapid variations of that air which is called the 
Devils Tattoo, burst out, at length, to the elder lady's surprise, with 
an outbreak of indignation, a flushing face, and a voice quivering with 
anger. 

** This most amiable man," she cried out, " that you design for me, 
I know everything about this most amiable man, and thank you and my 
family for the present you make me I For the past year, what have 
you b^en doing ? Everyone of you ! my father, my brother, and you 
yourself, have been filling my ears with cruel reports against a poor 
boy, whom you choose to depict as everything that was dissolute and 
wicked, when there was nothing against him ; nothing, but that he ms 
poor. Yes, you yourself, grandmamma, have told me many and many 
a time, that Clive Newcome was not a fit companion for uS ; warned me 
against his bad courses, and painted him as extravagant, unprincipled, 



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. THE NEWC0MS8. 831 

I don't know how bad. How bad! I know how good he is; how 
upright, generous, and truth-telling : though there was not a day until 
lately, that Barnes did not make some wicked story against him, — 
Barnes, who, I believe, is bad himself, like — ^like other young men. 
Yes, I am sure, there was something about Barnes in that newspaper 
which my father took away from me. And you come, and you lift up 
your hands, and shake your head, because I dance with one gentleman 
or another. You tell me I am wrong ; mamma has told me so this 
morning. Barnes, of course, has told me so, and you bring me Frank 
as A pattern, and tell me to love and honour and obey him ! Look here,*' 
and she drew out a paper and put it into Lady Kew*s hands. " Here is 
Kew's history, and I believe it is true ; yes, I am sure it is true." 

The old dowager lifted her eyeglass to her black eyebrow, and read 
a paper written in English, and bearing no signature, in which many 
circumstances of Lord Kew's life were narrated for poor EtheVs benefit. 
It was not a worse life than that of a thousand young men of pleasure, 
but there were Kews many misdeeds set down in order: such a 
catalogue as we laugh at when Leporello trolls it, and sings his master's 
victories in France, Italy, and Spain, Madame d'lviy's name was 
not mentioned in this list, and Lady Kew felt sure that the outrage 
came from her. 

With real ardour Lady Kew sought to defend her grandson from 
some of the attacks here made against him ; and showed Ethel that 
the person who could use such means of calumniating him, would not 
scruple to resort to falsehood in order to effect her purpose. 

** Her purpose," cries Ethel. ^ " How do you know it is a woman ? " 
Lady Kew lapsed into generalities. She thought the handwriting was 
a woman's — at least it was not likely that a man should think of 
addressing an anonymous letter to a young lady, and so wreaking his 
hatred upon Lord Kew. " Besides Frank has had no rivals — except 
— except one young gentleman who has carried his paint-boxes to Italy," 
Bays Lady Kew. " You don't think your dear Colonel's son would leave 
such a piece of mischief behind him? You must act, my dear," 
continued her ladyship, " as if this letter had never been written at all, 
the person who wrote it no doubt will watch you. Of course we are 
too proud to allow him to see that we are wounded ; and pray, pray do 
not think of letting poor Frank know a word about this horrid trans- 
action." 

"Then the letter is true ! " burst out Ethel. "You know it is true, 
grandmamma, and that is why you would have me keep it a secret from 
my cousin; besides," she added with a little hesitation, ** your caution 
comes too late, Lord Kew has seen the letter." 

** You fool," screamed the old lady, " you were not so mad as to 
Bhow it to him ? " 

" I am sure the letter is true," Ethel said, rising up very haughtily. 
" It is not by calling me bad names that your ladyship will disprove it. 
Keep them, if you please, for my aunt Julia, she is sick and weak, and 



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332 THE ITBWCOMES. 

can't defend herself. I do not choose to hear ahose from you, or 
lectures from Lord Kew. He happened to he here a short while since, 
when the letter arrived. He had been good enough to come to preach 
me a sermon on his own account. He to find £&ult with my actions ! " 
cried Miss Ethel, quivering with wrath and clenching the luckless 
paper in her hand. " He to accuse me of levity, and to warn me 
against making improper acquaintances! He began his lectures too 
soon. I am not a lawful slave yet, and prefer to remain unmolested, 
at least as long as I am free." 

" And you told Frank all this. Miss Newcome, and you showed him 
that letter," said the old lady. 

'* The letter was actually brought to me \?hilst his lordship was in 
the midst of his sermon," Ethel replied. '* I read it as he was making 
his speech," she continued, gathering anger and scorn as she recalled 
the circumstances of the interview. '* He was perfectly polite in his 
language. He did not call me a fool or use a single other bad name. 
He was good enough to advise me and to make such virtuous pretty 
speeches, that if he had been a bishop he could not have spoke better, 
and as I thought the letter was a nice commentary on his lordship's 
sermon I gave it to him. I gave it to him," cried the young woman, 
" and much good may it do him. I don't think my Lord Kew will 
preach to me again for some time." 

'*! don't think he will indeed," said Lady Kew, in a hard dry voice. 
** You don't know what you may have done. Will you be pleased to 
ring the bell and order my carriage ? I congratulate you on having 
performed a most charming morning's work." 

Ethel made her grandmother a very stately curtsey. I pity Lady 
Julia's condition when her mother reached home. 

All who know Lord Kew may be pretty sure that in that unlucky 
interview with Ethel, to which the young lady has just alluded, he said 
no single word to her that was not kind, and just, and gentle. Con- 
sidering the relation between them he thought himself justified in 
remonstrating with her as to the conduct which she chose to pursue, 
and in warning her against acquaintances of whom his own experience 
had taught him the dangerous character. He knew Madame d'lvry 
and her friends so well that he would not have his wife elect a member 
of their circle. He could not tell Ethel what he knew of those women 
and their history. She chose not to understand his hints — did not, very 
likely, comprehend them. She was quite young, and the stories of such 
lives as theirs had never been told before her. She was indignant at 
the surveillance which Lord Kew exerted over her, and the authority 
which he began to assume. At another moment and in a better frame 
of mind she would have been thankful for his care, and very soon and 
ever after she did justice to his many admirable qualities — his frankness, 
honesty, and sweet temper. Only her high spirit was in perpetual 
revolt at this time against the bondage in which her family strove to 
keep her. The very worldly advantages of the position which they 



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THE NEWCOMES. 333 

ofifered her served but to chafe her the more. Had her proposed 
husband been a young prince with a crown to lay at her feet, she had 
been yet more indignant very likely, and more rebellious. Had Kew's 
younger brother been her suitor, or Kew in his place, she had been not 
unwilling to follow her parents* wishes. Hence the revolt in Which she 
was engaged— the wayward freaks and outbreaks her haughty temper 
indulged in. No doubt she saw the justice of Lord Kew's reproofs. 
That self-consciousness was not likely to add to her good humour. No 
doubt she was sorry for having shown Lord Eew the letter the moment 
after she had done that act, of which the poor young lady could not 
calculate the consequences that were now to ensue. 

Lord Kew on glancing over the letter, at once divined the quarter 
whence it came. The portrait drawn of him was not unlike, as our 
characters described by those who hate us are not unlike. He had 
passed a reckless youth, indeed he was sad and ashamed of that past 
life, longed like the poor prodigal to return to better courses, and had 
embraced eagerly the chance afforded him of a union with a woman 
young, virtuous, and beautiful, against whom and against heaven he 
hoped to sin no more. If we have told or hinted at more of his story 
than will please the ear of modem conventionalism, I beseech the 
reader to believe that the writer's purpose at least is not dishonest, nor 
unkindly. The young gentleman hung his head with sorrow over that 
sad detail of his life and its follies. What would he have given to 
be able to say to Ethel, *• This is not true ! " 

His reproaches to Miss Newcome of course were at once stopped by 
this terrible assault on himself. Tbe letter had been put in the Baden 
post-box, and so had come to its destination. It was in a disguised 
handwriting. Lord Kew could • form no idea even of the sex of the 
scribe. He put the envelope in his pocket, when Ethel's back was 
turned. He examined the paper when he left her. He could make 
little of the superscription or of the wafer which had served to close 
the note. He did not choose to caution Ethel as to whether she should 
bum the letter or divulge it to her friends. He took his share of the 
pain, as a boy at school takes his flogging, stoutly and in silence. 

. When he saw Ethel again, which he did in an hour's time, the 
generous young gentleman held his hand out to her. ** My dear,'* he 
said, ** If you had loved me you never would have shown me that 
letter.*' It was his only reproof. After that he never agaia reproved 
or advised her. 

Ethel blushed. "You are very brave and generous, Frank," she 
said, bending her head, ** and I am captious and wicked." He felt 
the hot tear blotting on his hand from his cousin's downcast eyes. 

He kissed her little hand. Lady Ann, who was in the room with 
her children when these few words passed between the two in a very 
low tone — thought it was a reconciliation. Ethel knew it was a 
renunciation on Kew's part — she never liked him so much as at that 
moment. The young man was too modest and simple to guess himself 



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884 THE N£W001l£S. 

what the girl's feelings were. Could he have told them, his fate and 
hers niight haye heen changed. 

"You must not allow our kind letter-writing friend," Lord Kew 
continued, '* to fancy we are hurt. We must walk out this afternoon, 
and we must appear very good friends.** 

** Yes, always, Kew," said Ethel, holding out her hand again. The 
next minute her cousin was at the tahle carving roast fowls and dis- 
tributing the portions to the hungry children. 

The assembly of the previous evening had been one of those which 
the fermier des jeux at Baden beneficently provides for the frequenters 
of the place, and now was to come ofif a much more brilliant entertain- 
ment, in which poor Clive, who is far into Switzerland by this time, 
wail to have taken a share. The Bachelors had agreed to give a ball, 
one of the last entertainments of the season, a dozen or more of them 
had subscribed the funds, and we may be sure Lord Kew*s name was 
at the head of the list, as it was of any list, of any scheme, whether of 
charity or fun. The English were invited, and the Russians were 
invited ; the Spaniards and Italians, Poles, Prussians, and Hebrews ; 
all the motley frequenters of the place, and the warriors in the Duke 
of Baden's army. Unlimited supper was set in the restaurant. The 
dancing room glittered with extra lights, and a profusion of cut paper 
flowers decorated the festive scene. Everybody was present, those 
crowds with whom our story has nothing to do, and those two or three 
groups of persons who enact minor or greater parts in it. Madame 
d'lvry came in a dress of stupendous splendoiur, even more brilliant 
than that in which Miss Ethel had figured at the last assembly. If the 
duchess intended to ecraser Miss Newcome by the superior magnificence 
of her toilet, she was disappointed. Miss Newcome wore a plain white 
frock on the occasion, and resumed, Madame d*Ivry said, her role of 
ingenue for that night. 

During the brief season in which gentlemen enjoyed the favour of 
Maiy Queen of Scots, that wandering sovereign led them through all 
the paces and vagaries of a regular passion. As in a fair, where time 
is short and pleasures numerous, the master of the theatrical booth 
shows you a tragedy, a farce, and a pantomime, all in a quarter of an 
hour, having a dozen new audiences to witness his entertainments in 
the course of the forenoon ; so this lady with her platonic lovers went 
through the complete dramatic course, — tragedies of jealousy, panto- 
mimes of rapture, and farces of parting. There were billets on one 
side and the other ; hints of a fatal destiny, and a ruthless lynx-eyed 
tyrant, who held a demoniac grasp over the Duchess by means of 
certain secrets which he knew : there were regi'ets that we had not 
knowu each other sooner : why were we brought out of our convent 
and sacrificed to Monsieur le Due ? There were frolic interchanges of 
fancy and poesy : pretty bouderies ; sweet reconciliations ; yawns 
finally — and separation. Adolphe went out and Alphonse came in. It 
was the new audience; for which the bell rang, the band played, 



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THE NBWCOMBS. 835 

and the cartain rose; and the tragedy, comedy and farce were 
repeated. 

Those Greenwich performers who appear in the theatrical pieces 
above mentioned, make a great deal more noise than your stationary 
tragedians; and if they have to denounce a villain, to declare a passion, 
or to threaten an enemy, they roar, stamp, shake their fists, and 
brandish their sabres, so that every man who sees the play has surely a 
full pennyworth for his penny. Thus Madame la Duchesse d'lvry 
perhaps a little exaggerated her heroines' parts ; liking to strike her 
audiences quickly, and also to change them often. Like good per- 
formers, she flung herself heart and soul into the business of the stage, 
and was what she acted. She was Phedre, and if in the first part of 
the play she was uncommonly tender to Hippolyte, in the second she 
hated him furiously. She was Medea, and if Jason was volage^ woe .to 
Oreusa ! Perhaps our poor Lord Kew had taken the first character in 
a performance with Madame d'lvry ; for his behaviour in which part, 
it was difficult enough to forgive him ; but when he appeared at Baden 
the afi&anced husband of one of the most beautiful young creatures in 
Europe, — when his relatives scorned Madame dTvry, — ^no wonder she 
was maddened and enraged, and would have recourse to revenge, steel, 
poison. 

There was in the Duchess's Court a young fellow from the South of 
France, whose friends had sent him to faire son droit at Paris, where 
he had gone through the usual course of pleasures and studies of the 
young inhabitants of the Latin Quarter. He had at one time exalted 
republican opinions, and had fired his shot with distinction at St. Meri 
He was a poet of some little note — a book of liis lyrics — Les Rales d'un 
Asphyxie — having made a sensation at the time of their appearance. 
He drank great quantities of absinthe of a morning; smoked incessantly; 
played roulette whenever he could get a few pieces ; contributed to a 
small journal, and was especially great in his hatred of Vinfame Angle- 
teire, Delenda est Carthago was tatooed beneath his shirt-sleeve. 
Eifine and Clarisse, young milliners of the Students' district, had 
punctured this terrible motto on his manly right arm. Le leopard, 
emblem of England, was his aversion ; he shook his fist at the caged 
monster in the Garden of Plants. He desired to have " Here lies an 
enemy of England " engraved upon his early tomb. He was skilled at 
billiards and dominos ; adroit in the use of arms ; of unquestionable 
courage and fierceness. Mr. Jones of England was afraid of M. de 
Oastillonnes, and cowered before his scowls and sarcasms. Captain 
Blackball, the other English aid-de-camp of the Duchesse d'lvry, a 
warrior of undoubted courage, who had been " on the ground " more 
than once, gave him a wide berth, and wondered what the little beggar 
meant when he used to say, " Since the days of the Prince Noir, 
Monsieur ! my family has been at feud with I'Angleterre ! " His family 
were grocers at Bordeaux, and his father's name was M. Cabasse. 
He had mariied a noble in the revolutionary times ; and the son at 



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THE NBWCOMES. 

Paris called himself Victor Cabasse de Castillonnes ; then Victor G. de 
Castillonnes ; then M. de Castillonnes. One of the followers of the 
Black Prince had insulted a lady of the house of Castillonnes, when the 
English were lords of Guienne ; hence our friend*s wrath against the 
Leopard. He had written, and afterwards dramatised a terrific legend 
describing the circumstance and the punishment of the Briton by a 
knight of the Castillonnes family. A more awful coward never existed 
in a melodrama than that felon English knight. His blanche-JUle, of 
course, died of hopeless love for the conquering Frenchman, her father's 
murderer. The paper in which the feuilleton appeared died at the 
sixth number of the story. The theatre of the Boulevard refused the 
drama ; so the author*s rage against Vwfdme Albion was yet unappeased. 
On beholding Miss Newcome, Victor had fancied the resemblance between 
her and Agnes de Calverley, the blanche Miss of his novel and drama, 
and cast an eye of favour upon the young creature. He even composed 
verses in her honour (for I presume that the "MissBetti" and the Princess 
Crimhilde of the poems which he subsequently published, were no other 
than Miss Newcome, and the Duchess, her rival). He had been one of 
the lucky gentlemen who had danced with Ethel on the previous 
evening. On the occasion of the ball he came to her with a high-flown 
compliment, and a request to be once more allowed to waltz with her 
— a request to which he expected a favourable answer, thinking, no 
doubt, that his wit, his powers of conversation, and the amour qui 
flambait dans son regard had had their effect upon the charming Meess. 
Perhaps he had a copy of the very verses in his breast pocket, with 
which he intended to complete his work of fascination. For her sake 
alone, he had been heard to say, that he would enter into a truce with 
England, and forget the hereditary wrongs of his race. 

But the blanche Miss on this evening declined to waltz with him*. 
His compliments were not of the least avail. He retired with them 
and his unuttered verses in his crumpled bosom. Miss Newcome only 
danced in one quadrille with Lord Kew, and left the party quite early 
to the despair of many of the bachelors, who lost the fairest ornament 
of their ball. 

Lord Kew, however, had been seen walking with her in public, and 
particularly attentive to her during her brief appearance in the ball- 
room ; and the old Dowager, who regularly attended all places of 
amusement, and was at twenty parties and six dinners the week before 
she died, thought fit to be particularly gracious to Madame d'lviy upon 
this evening, and, far from shunning the Duchesse's presence, or being 
rude to her, as on former occasions, was entirely smiling and good- 
humoured. Lady Kew, too, thought there had been a reconciliation 
between Ethel and her cousin. Lady Ann had given her mother some 
account of the handshaking. Kew*s walk with Ethel, the quadrille 
which she had danced with him alone, induced the elder lady to believe 
that matters had been made up between the young people. 

So by way of showing the Duchesse that her little shot of the morning 



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THE NEWCOMES. 837 

had failed in its effect, as Frank left the room with his coiisin, Lady 
Kew gaily hinted, *' that the young earl was aux petite soins with Miss 
Ethel ; that she was sore her old friend, the Due d'lvry, would he glad 
to hear that his godson was ahout to range himself. He would settle 
down on his estates. He would attend to his duties as an English peer 
and a country gentleman. We shall go home," says the benevolent 
Countess, " and kill the veau gras^ and you shall see our dear prodigal 
will become a very quiet gentleman." 

The Duchesse said, '* my Lady Kew*s plan was most edifying. She 
was charmed to hear that Lord Kew loved veal ; there were some who 
thought that meat rather insipid." A waltzer came to claim her hand 
at this moment ; and as she twurled round the room upon that gentle- 
man's arm, wafting odours as she moved^ her pink silks, pink feathers, 
pink ribands, making a mighty rustling, the Countess of Kew had 
the satisfaction of thinking, that she had planted an arrow in that 
shrivelled little waist, which Count Punter's arms embraced, and had 
returned the stab which Madame dlvry had delivered in the morning. 

Mr. Barnes, and his elect bride, had also appeared, danced, and 
disappeared. Lady Kew soon followed her young ones ; and the ball 
went on very gaily, in spite of the absence of these respectable 
personages. 

Being one of the managers of the entertainment. Lord Kew returned 
to it after conductmg Lady Ann and her daughter to their carriage, 
and now danced with great vigour and with his usual kindness, selecting 
those ladies whom other waltzers rejected because they were too old, or 
too plain, or too stout, or what not. But he did not ask Madame 
d'lvry to dance. He could condescend to dissemble so far as to hide 
the pain which he felt ; but did not care to engage in that more advanced 
hypocrisy of friendship, which, for her part, his old grandmother had 
not shown the least scruple in assuming. 

Amongst other partners, my lord selected that intrepid waltzer, the 
Grafinn von Gumpelheim, who, in spite of her age, size, and large 
lamily, never lost a chance of enjoying her favourite recreation. " Look 
with what a camel ray lord waltzes," said M. Victor to Madame d'lvry, 
"whose slim waist he had the honour of embracing to the same music. 
" What man but an Englishman would ever select such a dromedary ! " 

" Avant de se manor," said Madame d'lvry, " II faut avouer que 
^y>lord se permet d'enormes distractions." 

"My lord marries himself! And when and whom," cries the 
I^uchesse's partner. 

** Miss Newcome. Do not you approve of his choice ? I thought the 
eyes of Stenio (the duchess called M. Victor, Stenio,) looked with some 
favour upon that little person. She is handsome, even very handsome. 
Is it not so often in life, Stenio ? Are not youth and innocence (I give 
Miss Ethel the compliment of her innocence, now surtout that the little 
painter is dismissed)— are we not cast into the arms of jaded roues ? 
■t^ender young flowers, are we not torn from our convent gardens, and 



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S3 8 THE HEWCOMES. 

flung into a world of which the air poisons our pure life, and withers 
the sainted buds of hope and love and faith? Faith! The mocking 
world tramples on it, n*est-ce pas ? Love ! The brutal world strangles 
the heaven-bom infant at its birth. Hope ! It smiled at me in my 
little convent chamber, played among the flowers which I cherished, 
warbled with the birds that I loved. But it quitted me at the door of 
the world, Stenio. It folded its white wings and veiled its radiant 
face ! In return for my young love, they gave me — sixty years, the 
dregs of a selfish heart, egotism cowering over its Are, and cold for all 
its mantle of ermine ! In place of the sweet flowers of my young 
years, they gave me these, Stenio ! " and she pointed to her feathers 
and her artificial roses. *' O, I should like to crush them under my 
feet ! " and she put out the neatest little slipper. The Duchesse was 
great upon her wrongs, and paraded her blighted innocence to every 
one who would feel interested by that piteous spectacle. The music 
here burst out more swiftly and melodiously than before ; the pretty 
little feet forgot their desire to trample upon the world. She shrugged 
the lean little shoulders — " Eh ! " said the Queen of Scots, ** dansons 
et oublions ;" and Stenio's arm once more surrounded her fairy wwst 
(she called herself a fairy ; other ladies called her a skeleton), and 
they whirled away in the waltz again : and presently she and Stenio 
came bumping up against the stalwart Lord Kew and the ponderous 
Madame de Gumpelheim, as a wherry dashes against the oaken ribs of 
a steamer. 

The little couple did not fall ; they were struck on to a neighbouring 
bench, luckily : but there was a laugh at the expense of Stenio and 
the Queen of Scots — and Lord Kew settling his panting partner on 
to a seat, came up to make excuses for his awkwardness to the lady, 
who had been its victim. At the laugh produced by the catastrophe, 
the Duchesse*s eyes gleamed with anger. 

" M. de Castillonnes," she said, to her partner, •* have you had any 
quarrel with that Englishman ? " 

" With ce Milor ? But no," said Stenio. 

'* He did it on purpose. There has been no day but his family has 
insulted me I " hissed out the Duchesse, and at this moment Lord Kew 
came up to make his apologies. He asked a thousand pardons of 
Madame la Duchesse for being so maladroit. 

" Maladroit ! et tres maladroit. Monsieur,** says Stenio, curling his 
moustache ; " C'est bien le mot. Monsieur.*' 

*' Also, I make my excuses to Madame la Duchesse, which I hope 
she will receive/' said Lord Kew. The Duchesse shrugged her 
shoulders and sunk her head. 

" When one does not know how to dance, one ought not to dance," 
continued the Duchesse's knight. 

** Monsieur is very good to give me lessons in dancing," said Lord Kew. 

" Any lessons which you please, Milor ! " cries Stenio ; " and every- 
where where you will them.'* 



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THE KEWCOMBS. 339 

Lord Kew looked at the little man with surprise. He could not 
understand so much anger for so trifling an accident, which happens a 
dozen times in every crowded ball. He again bowed to the Duchesse, 
and walked away. 

"This is your Englishman — your Kew, whom you vaunt every- 
where," said Stenio, to M. de Florae, who was standing by and 
witnessed the scene. " Is he simply bete, or is he poltron as well ? I 
believe him to be both." 

" Silence, Victor! " cried Florae, seizing his arm, and drawing him 
away. ** You know me, and that I am neither one nor the other. 
Believe my word, that my Lord Kew wants neither courage nor 
wit!" 

" Will you be my witness. Florae ? " continues the other. 

" To take him your excuses ? yes. It is you who have insulted — " 

" Yes, parbleu, I have insulted ! " says the Gascon, 

" A man who never willingly offended soul alive. A man full of 
heart : the most frank : the most loyal I have seen him put to the 
proof, and believe me he is all I say." 

** Eh ! so much the better for me ! " cried the Southern. " I 
shall have the honour of meeting a gallant man : and there will be two 
on the field." 

" They are making a tool of you, my poor Gascon," said M. de 
Florae, who saw Madame d'lvry's eyes watching the couple. She 
presently took the arm of the noble Count de Punter, and went for 
fresh air into the adjoining apartment, where play was going on as 
usual ; and Lord Kew and his friend Lord Booster were pacing the 
room apart from the gamblers. 

My Lord Booster, at something which Kew said, looked puzzled, 
and said, "Pooh, stuff, damned little Frenchman! Confounded 
nonsense I " 

"I was searching you, Milor!" said Madame d'lvry, in a most 
winning tone, tripping behind him vnth her noiseless little feet. 
•* Allow me a little word. Your arm ! You used to give it me once, 
mon fiUeul I I hope you think nothing of the rudeness of M. de 
Castillonens : he is a foolish Gascon : he must have been too often to 
the buffet this evening." 

Lord Kew said, No, indeed he thought nothing of M. de Castil- 
lonnes* rudeness. 

" I am so glad ! These heroes of the saUe d'armes have not the 
commonest manners. These Gascons are always flamberge au vent. 
What would the charming Miss Ethel say, if she heard of the 
dispute ? " 

** Indeed there is no reason why she should hear of it," said Lord 
Kew, " unless some obliging friend should communicate it to her." 

" Communicate it to her — the poor dear ! who would be so cruel as 

to give her pain ? " asked the innocent Duchesse. " Why do you look 

at me so, Frank ? " 

z 2 



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340 THE KEWCOMES. 

** Because I admire you," said her interlocutor, with a bow. " I 
have never seen Madame la Dnchesse to such advantage as to-day." 

" You speak in enigmas I Come back with me to the ball-room. 
Come and dance with me once more. You used to dance with me. 
Let us have one waltz more, Kew. And then, and then, in a day or 
two I shall go back to Monsieur le Due, and tell him that his filled is 
going to marry the fairest of all Englishwomen : and to turn hermit ia 
the country, and orator in the Chamber of Peers. You have wit ! ah 
si — ^you have wit ! " And she led back Lord Kew, rather amazed 
himself at what he was doing, into the ball-room ; so that the good- 
natured people who were there, and who beheld them dancing, 
could not refrain from clapping their hands at the sight of this 
couple. 

The Duchess danced as if she was bitten by that Neapolitan spider, 
which, according to the legend, is such a wonderful dance incentor. 
She would have the music quicker and quicker. She sank on Kew's 
arm, and clung on his support. She poured out all the light of her 
languishing eyes into his face. Their glances rather confused than 
channed him. But the bystanders were pleased; they thought it 
so good-hearted of the Duchesse, after the little quarrel, to make a 
public avowal of reconciliation ! 

Lord Booster looking on, at the entrance of the dancing-room, over 
Monsieur de Florae's shoulder, said, " It's all right I She's a clipper 
to dance, the little Duchess." 

"The viper ! " said Florae, " how she writhes! " 

*' I suppose that business with the Frenchman is all over," says Lord 
Rooster. ** Confounded piece of nonsense." 

" You believe it finished ? We shall see ! '* said Florae, who perhaps 
knew his fair cousin better. When the waltz was over,, Kew led his 
partner to a seat, and bowed to her ; but though she made room for 
him at her side, pointing to it, and gathering up her rustling robes, so 
that he might sit down, he moved away, his face full of gloom. He 
never wished to be near her again. There was something more odious 
to him in her friendship, than her hatred. He knew hers was the 
hand that had dealt that stab at him and Ethel in the morning. He 
went back and talked with his two friends in the doorway. " Couch 
yourself, my little Kiou,'* said Florae. " You are all pale. You were 
best in bed, mon garcon !" 

V** She has made me promise to take her in to supper," Kew said, 
with a sigh. 

** She will poison you," said the other. " Why have they abolished 
the roue chez nous ? My word of honor they should retabliche it for 
this woman." 

"There is one in the next room," said Kew, with a laugh. " Come 
Vicomte, let us try our fortune," and he walked back into the play- 
room. 

That was the last night on which Lord Kew ever played a gambling 



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THE KEWCOMBS. 341 

game. He won constantly. The double zero seemed to obey him ; so 
that the croupiers wondered at his fortune. Florae backed it ; saying 
with the superstition of a gambler, ** I am sure something goes to 
arrive to this boy." From time to time M. de Florae went back to 
the dancing-room, leaving his mise under Kew's charge. He always 
found his heaps increased ; indeed the worthy Vicomte wanted a turn 
of luck in his favour. On one occasion he returned with a grave face, 
saying to Lord Rooster, " She has the other one in hand. We are 
going to see." •* Trente-six encor I et rouge gagne," cried the croupier 
with his nasal tone. Monsieur de Florae's pockets overflowed with 
double Napoleons, and he stopped his play, luckily, for Kew putting 
down his winnings, once, twice, thrice, lost them all. 

When Lord Kew had left the dancing-room, Madame d'lvry saw 
Stenio following him with fierce looks, and called back that bearded 
bard. " You were going to pursue M. de Kew," she said, " I knew 
you were. Sit down here, sir," and she patted him down on her seat 
with her fan. 

" Do you wish that I should call him back, Madame ? " said the 
poet, with the deepest tragic accents. 

" I can bring him when I want him, Victor," said the lady. 

" Let us hope others will be equally fortunate," the Gascon said, 
with one hand in his breast, the other stroking his moustache. 

" Fi, Monsieur, que vous sentez le tabac I je vous le defends, entendez 
Yous, Monsieur ? " 

" Pourtant, I have seen the day when Madame la Duchesse did not 
disdain a cigar," said Victor. ** If the odour incommodes, permit that 
I retire." 

" And you also would quit me, Stenio. Do you think I did not 
mark your eyes towards Miss Newcome ? your anger when she refused 
you to dance? Ah ! 'we see all. A woman does not deceive herself, 
do you see ? You send me beautiful verses. Poet. You can write as 
well of a statue or a picture, of a rose or a sunset, as . of the heart of 
a woman. You were angry just now because I danced with M. de 
Kew. Do you think in a woman's eyes jealousy is unpardonable ?" 

'* You know how to provoke it, Madame," continued the tragedian. 

•* Monsieur," replied the lady, with dignity. "Am I to render 
you an account of all my actions, and ask your permission for a 
walk? " 

" In fact, I am but the slave, Madame," groaned the Gascon, " I am 
not the master." 

" You are a very rebellious slave, Monsieur," continues the lady, with 
a pretty moue, and a glance of the large eyes artfully brightened by 
her rouge. Suppose — suppose I danced with M. de Kew, not for his 
sake — ^Heaven knows to dance with him is not a pleasure — ^but for 
yours. Suppose I do not want a foolish quarrel to proceed. Suppose 
I know that he is ni sot ni poltron as you pretend. I overheard you, 
sir, talking with one of the basest of men, my good cousin, M. de 



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342 THE KEWOOMES. 

Florae : but it is not of him I speak. Suppose I know the Comte de 
Kew to be a man, cold and insolent, ill-bred, and grossier, as the 
men of his nation are — but one who lacks no courage — one who is 
terrible when roused ; might I have no occasion to fear, not for him, 
but—" 

" But for me ! Ah Marie ! Ah Madame ! Believe you that a man of 
my blood will yield a foot to any Englishman ? Do you know the 
story of my race ? do you know that since my childhood I have vowed 
hatred to that nation ? Tenez, madame, this M. Jones who frequents 
your salon, it was but respect for you that has enabled me to keep my 
patience with this stupid islander. This Captain Blackball, whom you 
distinguish, who certainly shoots well, who mounts well to horse, I 
have fldways thought his manners were those of the -marker of a billiard. 
But I respect him because he has made war with Don Carlos against 
the English. But this young M. de Kew, his laugh crisps me the 
nerves ; his insolent air makes me bound ; in beholding him I said to 
myself, I hate you; think whether I love him better after having seen 
him as I did but now, madame ! " Also, but this Victor did not say, 
he thought Kew had laughed at him at the beginning of the evening, 
when the blanche Miss had refused to dance with him. 

" Ah, Victor, it is not him, but you that I would save,'* said the 
Duchess. And the people round about, and the Duchess herself after- 
wards said, yes, certainly, she had a good heart. She entreated Lord 
Kew ; she implored M. Victor ; she did everything in her power to 
appease the quarrel between him and the Frenchman. 

After the ball came the supper, which was laid at separate little 
tables, where parties of half-a-dozen enjoyed themselves. Lord Kew 
was of the Duchess's party, where our Gascon friend had not a seat. 
But being one of the managers of the entertainment, his lordship went 
about from table to table, seeing that the guests at each lacked nothing. 
He supposed too that the dispute with the Gascon had possibly come 
to an end ; at any rate, disagreeable as the other's speech had been, he 
had resolved to put up with it, not having the least inclination to drink 
the Frenchman's blood, or to part with his own on so absurd a 
quarrel. He asked people in his good-natured way to drink wine 
with him ; and catching M. Victor's eye scowling at him from a distant 
table, he sent a waiter with a champagne bottle to his late opponent, 
and lifted his glass as a friendly challenge. The waiter carried the 
message to M. Victor, who, when he heard it, turned Up his glass, and 
folded his arms in a stately manner. " M. de Castillonne dit qu'il 
refuse, milor," said the waiter, rather scared. " He charged me to bring 
that message to milor." Florae ran across to the angry Gascon. It 
was not while at Madame d'lvry^s table that Lord Kew sent his 
challenge and received his reply; his duties as steward had carried 
him away from that pretty early. 

Meanwhile the glimmering dawn peered into the windows of the 
refreshment-room, and behold, the sun broke in and scared all the 



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THB NEWCOMES. 84S 

revellers. The ladies scurried away like so many ghosts at cock-crow, 
some of them not caring to face that detective luminary. Cigars had 
been lighted ere this ; the men remained smoking them with those 
sleepless German waiters still bringing fresh supplies of drink. 
Lord Kew gave the Duchesse dlvry his arm, and was leading her out ; 
M. de Castillonne stood scowling directly in their way, upon which, with 
rather an abrupt turn of the shoulder, and a ** Pardon, Monsieur,'* 
Lord Kew pushed by, and conducted the Duchess to her carriage. She 
did not in the least see what had happened between the two gentlemen 
in the passage ; she ogled, and nodded, and kissed her hands quite 
affectionately to Kew as the fly drove away. 

Florae in the meanwhile had seized his compatriot, who had drunk 
-champagne copiously with others, if not with Kew, and was in vain 
endeavouring to make him hear reason. The Gascon was furious ; he 
vowed that Lord Kew had struck him. " By the tomb of my mother," 
he bellowed, ** I swear I will have his blood ! " Lord Booster was 
bawling out) — " D — him ; carry him to bed, and shut him up ; " which 
remarks Victor did not understand, or two victims would doubtless have 
been sacrificed on his mammals mausoleum. 

When Kew came back (as he was only too sure to do), the little 
Oascon rushed forward with a glove in his hand, and having an 
Audience of smokers round about him, made a furious speech about 
England, leopards, cowardice, insolent islanders, and Napoleon at St. 
Helena ; and demanded reason for Kew*s conduct during the night. As 
he spoke, he advanced towards Lord Kew, glove in hand, and lifted it 
as if he was actually going to strike. 

*' There is no need for further words," said Lord Kew, taking his 
<;igar out of his mouth. " If you don't drop that glove, upon my word I 
will pitch you out of the window. Ha ! . . . Pick the man up, somebody. 
You'll bear witness, gentlemen, I couldn't help myself. If he wants 
me in the morning, he knows where to find me." 

" I declare that my Lord Kew has acted with great forbearance, 
and under the most brutal provocation — the most brutal provocation 
entendez-vous, M. Cabafise," cried out M. de Florae, rushing forward 
to the Gascon, who had now risen ; " Monsieur's conduct has been 
unworthy of a Frenchman and a galant homme." 

"D — it; he has had it on his nob, though," said Lord Viscount 
Booster, laconically. 

" Ah Boosterre ! ceci n'est pas pour rire," Florae cried sadly, as 
they both walked away with Lord Kew ; '* I wish that first blood was 
all that was to be shed in this quarrel." 

^* Gaw ! how he did go down ! " cried Booster, convulsed with 
laughter. 

"lam very sorry for it," said Kew, quite seriously; ** I couldn't 
help it. God forgive me." And he hung down his^^ head. He thought 
of the past, and its levities, and punishment coming after him pede 
<laudo. It was with all his heart the contrite young man said " God 



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S44 THE KEWCOMES. 

forgive me.** He would take what was to follow as the penalty of 
what had gone before. 

*' Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas immolat, xnon pauTre Eiou,*' said his 
French friend. And Lord Booster, whose classical education had 
been much neglected, turned round, and said, " Hullo, mate, what 
8hip*s that ? ** 

Viscount Rooster had not been two hours in bed, when the Count 
de Punter (formerly of the Black Jagers), waited upon him upon the 
part of M. de Castillonnes and the Earl of Kew, who had referred him 
to the Viscount to arrange matters for a meeting between them. As the 
meeting must take place out of the Baden territory, and they ought 
to move before the police prevented them, the Count proposed that 
they should at once make for France; where, as it was an affair of 
honneur, they would assuredly be let to enter without pas^K>rt8. 

Lady Ann and Lady Kew heard that the gentlemen i^ter the ball 
had all gone out on a hunting party, and were not alarmed for four- 
and-twenty hours at least. On the next day none of them returned ; 
and on the day after, the family heard that Lord Kew had met with 
rather a dangerous accident ; but all the town knew he had been shot 
by M. de Castillonnes on one of the islands on the Rhine, opposite 
Kehl, where he was now lying. 



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CHAPTER XXXV. 

ACROSS THE ALPS. 






UR discursive muse must 
now take her place in the 
little britzka in which 
Clive Newcome and his 
companions are travell- 
ing, and cross the Alps in 
that vehicle, beholding 
the snows on St. Gothard, 
and the beautiful region 
through which the Ticino 
rushes on its waj to the 
Lombard lakes, and the 
great corn-covered plains 
of the Milanese; and that 
royal city, with the cathe- 
dral for its glittering 
crown, only less magnifi- 
cent than the imperial 
dome of Rome. I have 
some long letters from 
Mr. Clive, written during 
this youthful tour, every 
step of which, from the 
departure at Baden, to 
the gate of Milan, he 
describes as beautiful ; 
and doubtless, the de- 
lightful scenes through which the young man went, had their effect in 
soothing any private annoyances with which his journey commenced. 
The aspect of nature, in that fortunate route which he took, is so 
noble and cheering, tliat our private afibirs and troubles shrink away 
abashed before that serene splendour. 0, sweet peaceful scene of 
azure lake, and snow-crowned mountain, so wonderfully lovely is your 
aspect, that it seems like heaven almost, and as if grief and care 
could not enter it I What young Clive's private cares were I knew 




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346 THE KBWCOMES. 

not as yet in those days ; and he kept them out of his letters ; it 
was only in the intimacy of future life that some of these pains were 
revealed to me. 

Some three months after taking leave of Miss Ethel, our young 
gentleman found himself at Eome, with his friend Ridley still for a 
companion. Many of us, young or middle-aged, have felt that delightful 
shock which the first sight of the great city inspires. There is one 
other place of which the view strikes one with an emotion even 
greater than that with which we look at Rome, where Augustus was 
reigning when He saw the day, whose birthplace is separated but 
by a hill or two from the awful gates of Jerusalem. Who that has 
beheld both can forget that first aspect of either. At the end of 
years the emotion occasioned by the sight still thrills in your 
memory, and it smites you as at the moment when you first 
viewed it. 

The business of the present novel however, lies neither with priest nor 
pagan, but with Mr. Olive Newcome, and his affairs and his companions 
at this period of his life. Nor, if the gracious reader expects to hear of 
cardinals in scarlet, and noble Roman princes and princesses, vnll 
he find such in this history. The only noble Roman into whose 
mansion our friend got admission, was the Prince Polonia, whose 
footmen wear the liveries of the English Royal family, who gives 
gentlemen and even painters cash upon good letters of credit ; and, 
once or twice in a season, opens his transtiberine palace and treats his 
customers to a ball. Our friend Olive used jocularly to say, he 
believed there were no Romans. There were priests in portentous hats ; 
there were friars with shaven crowns ; there were the sham peasantry, 
who dressed themselves out in masquerade costumes, with bagpipe and 
goat-skin, with crossed leggings and scarlet petticoats, who let them- 
selves out to artists at so many pauls per sitting ; but he never passed 
a Romanes door except to buy a cigar or to purchase a handkerchief. 
Thither, as elsewhere, we carry our insular habits with us. We have 
a little England at Paris, a little England at Munich, Dresden, 
everywhere. Our friend is an Englishman, and did at Rome as the 
English do. 

There was the polite English society, the society that flocks to 
see the Oolosseum lighted up with blue fire, that flocks to the Vatican 
to behold the statues by torchlight, that hustles into the churches on 
public festivals in black veils and deputy-lieutenant's uniforms, and 
stares, and talks, and uses opera-glasses while the pontiffs ^f the 
Roman church are performing its ancient rites, and the crowds of 
faithful are kneeling round the altars ; the society which gives its balls 
and dinners, has its scandal and bickerings, its aristocrats, parvenues, 
toadies imported from Belgravia ; has its club, its hunt, and its Hyde 
Park on the Pincio : and there is the other little English world, the 
broad-hatted, long-bearded, velvet-jaeketted, jovial colony of the artists, 
who have their own feasts, haunts, and amusements by the side of 



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THE NEWCOMBS. 847 

their aristocratic compatriots, with whom but few of them have the 
honour to mingle. 

J. J. and Olive engaged pleasant lofty apartments in the Via 
Gregoriana. Generations of painters had occupied these chambers 
and gone their way. The windows of their painting-room looked into 
a quaint old garden, where there were ancient statues of the Imperial 
time, a babbling fountain and noble orange-trees, with broad clustering 
leaves and golden balls of fruit, glorious to look upon. Their walks 
abroad were endlessly pleasant and delightful. In every street there 
were scores of pictures of the graceful characteristic Italian life, which 
our painters seem one and all to reject, preferring to depict their 
quack brigands, Contadini, PifFerari, and the like, because Thompson 
painted them before Jones, and Jones before Thompson, and so on, 
backwards into time. There were the children at play, the women 
huddled round the steps of the open doorways, in the kindly Roman 
winter ; grim portentous old hags, such as Michael Angelo painted, 
draped in majestic raggery ; mothers and swarming bambins ; slouching 
countrymen, dark of beard and noble of countenance, posed in superb 
attitudes, lazy, tattered, and majestic. There came the red troops, 
the black troops, the blue troops of the army of priests ; the snuffy 
regiments of Capuchins, grave and grotesque; the trim French 
abbes ; my lord the bishop, with his footman (those wonderful footmen); 
my lord the cardinal, in his ramshackle coach and his two, nay three, 
footmen behind him; — ^flunkeys that look as if they had been dressed by 
the costumier of a British pantomime; — coach with prodigious emblazon- 
ments of hats and coats of arms, that seems as if it came out of the 
pantomime too, and was about to turn into something else. So it is, 
that what is grand to some persons* eyes appears grotesque to others ; 
and for certain sceptical persons, that step, which we have heard of, 
between the sublime and the ridiculous, is not visible. 

•* I wish it were not so," writes Clive, in one of the letters wherein 
he used to pour his full heart out in those days. " I see these people 
at their devotions, and envy them their rapture. A friend, who 
belongs to the old religion, took me, last week, into a church where 
the Virgin lately appeared in person to a Jewish gentleman, flashed 
down upon him from heaven in light and splendour celestial, and, of 
course, straightway converted him. My friend bade me 'look at the 
picture, and, kneeling down beside me, I know prayed with all his 
honest heart that the truth might shine down upon me too ; but I saw 
no glimpse of heaven at all, I saw but a poor picture, an altar with 
blinldng candles, a church hung with tawdry strips of red and white 
calico. The good, kind W — went away, humbly saying, * that such 
might have happened again if heaven so willed it/ I could not but 
feel a kindness and admiration for the good man. I know his works 
are made to square with his faith, that he dines on a crust, lives as 
chastely as a hermit, and gives his all to the poor. 

" Our friend J. J., very different to myself in so many respects, so 



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848 THE KEWCOME& 

superior in all. is immensely touched by these ceremonies. They 
seem to answer to some spiritual want of his nature, and he comes 
away satisfied as from a feast, where I have only found vacancy. Of 
course our first pilgrimage was to St. Peter's. What a walk ! Under 
what noble shadows does one pass ; how great and liberal the houses 
are, with generous casements and courts, and great grey portals which 
giants might get through and keep their turbans on. Why, the houses 
are twice as tall as Lamb Court itself; and over them hangs a noble 
dinge, a venerable mouldy splendour. Over the solemn portals are 
ancient mystic escutcheons — vast shields of princes and cardinals, such 
as Ariosto*s knights might take down ; and every figure about them is 
a picture by himself. At every turn there is a temple : in eyery court 
a brawling fountain. Besides the people of the streets and houses, 
and the army of priests black and brown, there's a great silent popula- 
tion of marble. There are battered gods tumbled out of Olympus and 
broken in the fall, and set up under niches and over fountains ; there 
are senators namelessly, noselessly, noiselessly seated under archways, 
or lurking in courts and gardens. And then, besides these defunct 
ones, of whom these old figures may be said to be the corpses ; there 
is the reigning family, a countless carved hierarchy of angels, saints, 
confessors, of the latter dynasty which has conquered the court of Jove. 
I say. Pen, I wish Warrington would write the history of the Last of 
the Pagans. Did you never have a sympathy for them as the monks 
came rushing into their temples, kicking down their poor altars, 
smashing the fair calm faces of their gods, and sending their vestals 
a-flying ? They are always preaching here about the persecution of 
the Christians. Are not the churches full of martyrs with choppers in 
their meek heads ; virgins on gridirons ; riddled St. Sebastians, and 
the like? But have they never persecuted in their turn? Oh, me! 
You and I know better, who were bred up near to the pens of Smith- 
field, where Protestants and Catholics have taken their turn to be 
roasted. 

" You pass through an avenue of angels and saints on the bridge 
across Tiber, all in action; their great wings seem clanking, their 
marble garments clapping ; St. Michael, descending upon the Fiend, 
has been caught and bronzified just as he lighted on the Castle of 
St. Angelo,*his enemy doubtless fell crushing through the roof and so 
downwards. He is as natural as blank verse — that bronze angel — set, 
rhythmic, grandiose. Youll see, some day or other, he's a great 
sonnet, sir, I'm sure of that. Milton wrote in bronze; I am sure 
Virgil polished ofif his Georgics in marble — sweet calm shapes! 
exquisite harmonies of line ! As for the ^neid ; that, sir, I consider 
to be so many bas-reliefs, mural ornaments which a£fect me not much. 

" I think I have lost sight of St. Peter's, haven't I ? Yet it is big 
enough. How it makes your heart beat when you first see it I Ours 
did as we came in at night from Civita Yecchia, and saw a great ghostly 
darkling dome rising solemnly up into the gray night, and keeping us 



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THE NEWCOMES. ^ 349 

company ever so long as we drove, as if it had been an orb fallen out 
of heaven with its light put out. As you look at it from the Pincio, 
and the sun sets behind it, surely that aspect of earth and sky is one 
of the grandest in the world. I don't like to say that the fa9ade of the 
church is ugly and obtrusive. As long as the dome overawes, that 
fa§ade is supportable. You advance towards it — through, O, such a 
noble court! with fountains flashing up to meet the sunbeams; and 
right and left of you two sweeping half-crescents of great columns ; but 
you pass by the courtiers and up to the steps of the throne, and the 
dome seems to disappear behind it. It is as if the throne was upset, 
and the king had toppled over. 

" There must be moments, in Eome especially, when every man of 
friendly heart, who writes himself English and Protestant, must feel 
a pang at thinking that he and his countrymen are insulated from 
European Christendom. An ocean separates us. From one shore or 
the other one can see the neighbour cliffs on clear days : one must 
wish sometimes that there were no stormy gulf between us ; and from 
Canterbury to Bome a pilgrim could pass, and not drown beyond 
Dover. Of the beautiful parts of the great Mother Church I believe 
among us many people have no idea : we think of lazy friars, of pining 
cloistered virgins, of ignorant peasants worshipping wood and stones, 
bought and sold indulgences, absolutions, and the like common-places 
of Protestant satire. Lo ! yonder inscription, which blazes round the 
dome of the temple, so great and glorious it looks like heaven almost, 
and as if the words were written in stars, it proclaims to all the world, 
that this is Peter, and on this rock the Church shall be built, against 
which Hell shall not prevail. Under the bronze canopy his throne is 
lit with lights that have been burning before it for ages. Round this 
stupendous chamber are ranged the grandees of his court. Faith 
seems to be realised in their marble figures. Some of them were alive 
but yesterday : others, to be as blessed as they, walk the world even 
now doubtless ; and the commissioners of heaven, here holding their 
court a hundred years hence, shall authoritatively announce their 
beatification. The signs of their power shall not be wanting. They 
heal the sick, open the eyes of the blind, cause the lame to walk to-day 
as they did eighteen centuries ago. Are there not crowds ready to 
bear witness to their wonders? Isn't there a tribunal appointed to 
try their claims; advocates to plead for and against; prelates and 
clergy and multitudes of faithful to back and believe them ? Thus you 
shall kiss the hand of a priest to-day, who has given his to a friar whose 
bones are already beginning to work miracles, who has been the disciple 
of another whom the Church has just proclaimed a saint, — hand in 
hand they hold by one another till the line is lost up in heaven. 
Come, friend, let us acknowledge this, and go and kiss the toe of 
St. Peter. Alas 1 there's the Channel always between us ; and we 
no more believe in the miracles of St. Thomas of Canterbury, than 
that the bones of His Grace, John Bird, who sits in St. Thomas's chair 



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S50 THE N£WC0M£3, 

presently, will work wondrous cures in the year 2000 : that his statue 
will speak, or his portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence will wink. 

" So, you see, at those grand ceremonies which the Eoman church 
exhibits at Ohristm^, I looked on as a Protestant. Holy Father on 
his throne or in his palanquin, cardinals with their tails and their train- 
bearers, mitred bishops and abbots, regiments of friars and clergy, 
relics exposed for adoration, columns draped, altars illuminated, incense 
smoking, organs pealing, and boxes of piping soprani, Swiss guards 
with slashed breeches and fringed halberts ; — between us and all this 
splendour of old-world ceremony, there*s an ocean flowing : and yonder old 
statue of Peter might have been Jupiter again, surrounded by a 
procession of flamens and augurs, and Augustus as Pontifex Maximus, 
to inspect the sacrifices, — and my feelings at the spectacle had been, 
doubtless, pretty much the same. 

" Shall I utter any more heresies ? I am an unbeliever in Raphael's 
Transfiguration-^the scream of that devil-possessed boy, in the lower 
part of the figure of eight (a stolen boy too), jars the whole music of the 
composition. On Michael Angelo*B great wall, the grotesque and terrible 
are not out of place. What an awful achievement ! Fancy the state 
of mind of the man who worked it — as alone, day after day, he devised 
and drew those dreadful figures ! Suppose in the days of the Olympian 
dynasty, the subdued Titan rebels had been set to ornament a palace 
for Jove, they would have brought in some such tremendous work ; or 
suppose that Michael descended to the Shades, and brought up this 
picture out of the halls of Limbo. I like a thousand and a thousand 
times better to think of Raphael's loving spirit. As he looked at women 
and children, his beautiful face must have shone like sunshine ; his 
kind hand must have caressed the sweet figures as he formed them. 
If I protest against the Transfiguration, and refuse to worship at that 
altar before which so many generations have knelt ; there are hundreds 
of others which I salute thankfully. It is not so much in the set 
harangues (to take another metaphor), as in the daily tones and talk 
that his voice is so delicious. Sweet poetry, and music, and tender 
hymns drop from him : he lifts his pencil, and something gi-acious falls 
from it on the paper. How noble his mind must have been ! it seems 
but to receive, and his eye seems only to rest on, what is great, and 
generous, and lovely. You walk through crowded galleries, where are 
pictures ever so large and pretentious ; and come upon a grey paper, 
or a little fresco, bearing his mark — and over all the brawl and the 
throng you recognise his sweet presence. * I would like to have been 
Giulio Romano,' J. J. says (who does not care for Giulio's pictures), 
' because then I would have been Raphael's favourite pupil." We agreed 
that we would rather have seen him and William Shakspeare, than all 
the men we ever read of. Fancy poisoning a fellow out of envy — ^as 
Spagnoletto did ! There are some men whose admiration takes that 
bilious shape. There's a fellow in our mess at the Lepre, a clever 
enough fellow too — and not a bad fellow to the poor. He was a 



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THE NEWCOMBS. 851 

Gandisbite. He is a genre and portrait painter by tbe name of 
Haggard. He bates J. J. because Lord Earebam, wbo is bere» bas 
given J. J. an order ; and be bates me, because I wear a clean sbirt, 
and ride a cock-borse. 

" I wish you could come to our mess at tbe Lepre. It's sucb a 
dinner ! sucb a table-clotb : sucb a waiter : sucb a company ! Every 
man bas a beard and a sombrero : and you would fancy we were a band 
of brigands. We are regaled witb woodco*cks, snipes, wild swans, 
ducks, robins, and owls and oUavolcrL t€ Tracn for dinner : and witb tbree 
pauls wortb of wines and victuals, tbe bungriest bas enougb, even 
Claypole tbe sculptor. Did you ever know bim ? He used to come to 
tbe Haunt. He looks like tbe Saracen's bead witb bis beard now. 
Tbere is a Frencb table still more bairy tban ours, a German table, an 
American table. After dinner we go and bave coflfee and mezzo-caldo 
at tbe Cafe Greco over tbe way. Mezzo-caldo is not a bad drink^-a 
little rum — a slice of fresb citron — lots of pounded sugar, and boiling 
water for tbe rest. Here in various parts of tbe cavern (it is a vaulted 
low place), tbe various nations bave tbeir assigned quarters, and we 
drink our coffee and strong waters, and abuse Guide, or Eubens, or 
Bernini, selon les gouts, and blow sucb a cloud of smoke as would make 
Warrington's lungs dilate witb pleasure. We get very good cigars for a 
bajoccbo and balf — tbat is very good for us, cbeap tobaccanalians ; and 
capital wben you bave got no otbers. M*Collop is bere : be made a 
great figure at a cardinal's reception in tbe tartan of tbe M'Collop. 
He is splendid at tbe tomb of tbe Stuarts, and wanted to cleave Haggard 
down to tbe cbine witb bis claymore for saying tbat Cbarles Edward 
was often drunk. 

" Some of us bave our breakfasts at tbe Cafe Greco at dawn. Tbe 
birds are very early birds bere : and you'll see tbe great sculptors — tbe 
old Dons you know wbo look down on us young fellows, at tbeir coffee 
bere wben it is yet twiligbt. As I am a swell, and bave a servant, J. J. 
and I breakfast at our lodgings. I wisb you could see Terribile our 
attendant, and Ottavia our old woman! You will see botb of tbem on 
tbe canvas one day. Wben be hasn't blacked our boots and bas got 
our breakfast, Terribile tbe valet-de-cbambre becomes Terribile tbe 
model. He bas figured on a bundred canvases ere tbis, and almost 
ever since be was bom. All bis family were models. His motber 
having been a Venus, is now a Witch of Endor. His father is in tbe 
patriarchal line : he bas himself done tbe cherubs, tbe shepherd-boys, 
and now is a grown man, and ready as a warrior, a pifferaro, a capuchin, 
or what you will. 

"After tbe coffee and tbe Cafe Greco we all go to tbe Life Academy. 
After tbe Life Academy, those wbo belong to tbe world dress and go out 
to tea-parties just as if we were in London. Those who are not in 
society have plenty of fun of tbeir own — and better fun tban tbe tea- 
party fun too. Jack Screwby bas a night once a week, sardines and 
ham for supper, and a cask of Marsala in tbe corner. Your bumble 



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853 THE IffEWCOMES. 

Berrant entertains on Tharsdays : ^hich is Lady Fitch's night too ; and 
I flatter myself some of the London dandies ^ho are passing the winter 
here, prefer the cigars and humhle liquors which we dispense, to tea and 
Miss Fitch*s performance on the pianoforte. 

" What is that I read in Galignani about Lord K — and an afiair of 
honour at Baden ? Is it my dear kind jolly Kew with whom some ODe 
has quarrelled ? I know those who will be even more grieved than I 
am, should anything happen to the best of good fellows. A great 
friend of Lord Kew's, Jack Belsize commonly called, came with us 
from Baden through Switzerland, and we left him at Milan. I see by 
the paper that his elder brother is dead, and so poor Jack will be a 
great man some day. I wish the' chance had happened sooner if it was 
to befal at all. So my amiable cousin, Barnes NewcomeNewcome, Esq., 
has married my lady Clara PuUeyn ; I wish her joy of her bridegroom. All 
I have heard of that family is from the newspaper. If you meet them, 
tell me anything about them. We had a very pleasant time altogether 
at Baden. I suppose the accident to Kew will put ofif his marriage 
with Miss Newcome. They have been engaged you know ever so 
long — ^And — do, do write to me and tell me something about London. 
It 8 best I should stay here and work this winter and the next. J. J. 
has done a famous picture, and if I send a couple home, you'll give 
them a notice in the 'Pall Mall Gazette,' won't you? for the sake of 
old times, and yours affectionately, 

"Olive Newcome." 



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CHAPTER XXXVI. 



IN WHICH M. DE FLOBAC IS PROMOTED. 




OWEVER much Madame la 
Du(5hesse d'lvry was disposed to 
admire and praise her own conduct 
in the affair wbich ended so unfor- 
tunately for poor Lord Kew, between 
whom and the Gascon her grace 
vowed that she had done everytlnng 
in her power to prevent a battl^ tb^ 
old Duke, her lord, was, it appeared, 
by no means dehghted with his 
wife's beha,viour, nay, visited her 
with his very sternest displeasure. 
Miss Grady, the Duchesse s com- 
panion, and her little girl's instruc- 
tress, at this time resigned her func- 
tions in the Ivry family ; it is pos- 
sible that in the recriminations 
consequent upon the governess's dismissal, the Miss Irlandaise, in 
whom the family had put so much confidence, divulged stories 
unfavourable to her patroness, and caused the indignation of the 
Duke, her husband. Between Florae and the Duchesse there was 
also open war and rupture. He had been one of Kew's seconds in the 
latter's affair with the Vicomte's countryman. He had even cried 
out for fresh pistols and proposed to engage Castillonnes when his 
gallant principal fell; and though a second duel was luckily averted as 
murderous and needless, M. de Florae never hesitated afterwards and 
in all companies to denounce with the utmost virulence the instigator 
and the champion of the odious original quarrel. He vowed that the 
Duchesse had shot le petit Klou as effectually as if she had herself 
fired the pistol at his breast. Murderer, poisoner, Brinvilliers, a 
hmidred more such epithets he used against his kinswoman, regretting 
that the good old times were past — that there was no Chambre Ardente 
to try her, and no rack and wheel to give her her due. 

The biographer of the Newcomes has no need (although he possesses 
the fullest information) to touch upon the Duchesse's doings, farther 



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854 THE KEWCOKES. 

than as they relate to that most respectable English fiamily. When 
the Duke took his wife into the country, Florae never hesitated to say 
that to live with her was dangerous for the old man, and to cry out 
to his friends of the Bouleyards or the Jockey Club, "Ma parole 
d* honneur, cette femme le tuera I " 

Do you know, O gentle and unsuspicious readers, or have you ever 
reckoned as you have made your calculation of society, how many most 
respectable husbands help to kill their wives — ^how many respectable 
wives aid in sending their husbands to Hades? The wife of a chimney- 
sweep or a journeyman butcher comes shuddering before a police 
magistrate — ^her bead bound up — ^her body scarred and bleeding with 
wounds, which the drunken ruffian, her lord, has administered : a poor 
shopkeeper or mechanic is driven out of his home by the furious ill 
temper of the shrill virago his wife— takes to the public-house — to evil 
courses — to neglecting his business — to the gin-bottle — to delirium 
tremens — to perdition. Bow Street, and policemen, and the newspaper 
reporters, have cognisance and a certain jurisdiction over these vulgar 
matrimonial crimes; but in politer company how many murderous 
assaults are there by husband or vrife — where the woman is not felled 
by the actual fist, though she stivers and sinks under blows quite as 
cruel and effectual ; where, with old wounds yet unhealed, which she 
strives to hide under a smiling face from the world, she has to bear up 
and to be stricken down and to rise to her feet again, under fresh daily 
strokes of torture ; where the husband, fond and faithful, has to suffer 
slights, coldness, insult, desertion, his children sneered away from their 
love for him, his friends driven from his door by jealousy, his happiness 
strangled, his whole life embittered, poisoned, destroyed ! If you were 
acquainted vrith the history of every family in your street, don't you 
know that in two or three of the houses there such tragedies have been 
playing? Is not the young mistress of number SO already pining at 
her husband's desertion ? The kind master of number 30 racking his 
fevered brains and toiling through sleepless nights to pay for the jewels 
on his wife's neck, and the carriage out of which she ogles Lothario in 
the park ? The fate under which man or woman falls, blow of brutal 
tyranny, heartless desertion, weight of domestic care too heavy to bear 
— are not blows such as these constantly striking people down ? In 
this long parenthesis we are wandering ever so far away from M. le Due 
and Madame la Duchesse d'lvry, and from the vivacious Florae's state- 
ment regarding his kinsman, that that woman vrill kill him. 

There is this at least to be said, that if the Due d'lvry did die he was 
a very old gentleman, and had been a great viveur for at least three- 
score years of his life. As Prince de Moncontour in his father's time 
before the Kevolution, during the Emigration, even after the Hestoration 
M. le Due had vecu with an extraordinary /vitality. He had gone 
through good and bad fortune ; extreme poverty, display and splendour, 
af&irs of love— -affairs of honour, — and of one disease or another a 
man must die at the end. After the Baden business — and he had 



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dragged ofiP his wife to Ohimpegiie^&e D^e became greatly htokm ; 
be brought his little daughter to a oonveut at Paris^ putting the child 
under the special guardianship of Madame do Florae, with whom and 
with whose family in these latter days the old chief of the house 
effected a complete reconciliation. The Duke was nqw for ever coming 
to Madame de Florae ; he poured all his wrongs and griefs into her ear 
with garrulous senile eagerness. ** That little Duchesse is a Medee, a 
monstre, a femme d' Eugene Sue/' the Vioomte used to say ; '' the poor 
old Duke he cry~ma parole d'honneur, he cry and I ovj too whea he 
comes to recount to my poor mother, whose sainted heart» is the amk 
of all griefs, a real Hotel Dieu, my word the most saered, with beds 
for all the afflicted, with sweet words, like Sisters of Charity > to 
minister to them :•*— I cry, men bon Pendennis» when this vieiUard tells 
his stories about his wife and tears his white hairs to the foet of my 
mother." 

When the little Antoinette was sepafated by hmr futhfir from her 
mother, the Duchesse dTvry, it might hare been expected that that 
poetess would have dashed off a few more eris cU V ^0, shrieking e^^ioord^ 
ing to her wont, and baring and beating that shrivelled maternal bosom 
of hers, from which her child had been just torn. The child skipped and 
laughed to go away to the convent. It was only when she left Madame 
de Florae that she used to cry; and when urged by that good lady to 
exhibit a little decorous sentiment in writing to her mamma, Antoinette 
would ask, in her artless way, '* Pourquoi ? Mamma used nevw to 
speak to me except sometimes before the world, before ladies that 
understands itself. When her gentleman came, she put me to the 
door ; she gave me tapes, oui, she gave me tap^ 1 I cry no more ; 
she has so much made to cry M. le Due, that it is quite enough of 
one in a family." So Madame la Duchesse d'lvry did not weep, 
even in print, for the loss of her pretty little Antoinette ; besides, 
she was engaged, at that time, by other sentimental occupations. 
A young grazier of their neighbouring town, of an aspiring miud 
and remarkable poetic talents, engrossed the Duchesse's platonio affec- 
tions at this juncture. When he had sold his beasts at market, 
he would ride over and read Eousseau and Schiller with Madame la 
Duchesse, who formed him. His pretty young wife was rendered 
miserable by all these readings, but what could the poor little ignorant 
contrywoman know of Platonism ? Faugh ! there is more than one 
woman we see in society smiling about from house to house, pleasant 
and sentimental and formosa supeme enough ; but I fancy a 6ah*s tail 
is flapping under her fine flounces, and a forked fln at the end of it ! 

Finer flounces, finer bonnets, more lovely wreaths, more beautiful 
lace, smarter carriages, bigger white bows, larger footmen, were not 
seen, during all the season of 18 — , than appeared round about St. 
George's, Hanover Square, in the beautiful month of June succeeding 
that September when so many of our friends, the Newoomes, were 

A A 2 



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S56 THE KBWCOMIS, 

assembled at Baden. Those flaunting carriages, powdered and favoured 
footmen, were in attendance upon members of the Newcome famil j an5 
their connexions, who were celebrating what is called a marriage iu 
high life in the temple within. Shall we set down a catalogue of the 
dukes, marquises, earls, who were present; cousins of the lovely 
bride? Are they not already in the Morning Herald, and Court 
Journal, as well as in the Newcome Chronicle and Independent, 
and the Dorking Intelligencer and Chanticleer Weekly Gazette ? 
There they are, all printed at full length sure enough ; the name of 
the bride, Lady Clara PuUeyu, the lovely and accomplished daughter 
of the Earl and Countess of Dorking ; of the beautiful. bridesmaids, 
the Ladies Henrietta Belinda Adelaide PuUeyn, Miss Newcome, Miss 
Alice Newcome, Miss Maude Newcome, Miss Anna Maria (Hodson) 
Newcome ; and all the other persons engaged in the ceremony. It 
was performed by the Right Honourable Viscount Gallowglass, Bishop 
of Ballyshannon, brother-in-law to the bride, assisted by the Honourable 
and Reverend Hercules 0*Grady, his lordship's Chaplain, and the 
Reverend John Buldera, Rector of St. Mary's, Newcome. Then 
follow the names of all the nobility who were present, and of the 
noble and distinguished personages who signed the book. Then comes 
an account of the principal dresses, chefs-d'oeuvre of Madame Crinoline; 
of the bride's coronal of brilliants, supplied by Messrs. Morr and 
Stortimer ; of the veil of priceless Chantilly lace, the gift of the 
Dowager Countess of Kew. Then there is a description of the wedding 
breakfast at the house of the bride's noble parents, and of the cake, 
decorated by Messrs. Guntor with the most delicious taste and the 
sweetest hymeneal allusions. 

No mention was made by the fashionable chronicler, of a slight 
disturbance which occurred at St. George's, and which indeed was out 
of the province of such a genteel purveyor of news. Before the 
marriage service began, a woman of vulgar appearance, and disorderly 
aspect, accompanied by two scared children who took no part in tlie 
disorder occasioned by their mother's proceeding, except by their tears 
and outcries to augment the disquiet, made her appearance in one of 
the pews of the church, was noted thei*e by persons iu the vestry^, was 
requested to retire by a beadle, and was finally induced to quit the 
sacred precincts of the building by the very strongest persuasion of a 
couple of policemen ; X and Y laughed at one another, and nodded 
their heads knowingly as the poor wretch with her whimpering bo3's 
was led away. They understood very well who the pei'sonage was who 
had come to disturb the matrimonial ceremony ; it did not commence 
until Mrs. De Lacy (as this lady chose to be called), had quitted this 
temple of Hymen. She slunk through the throng of emblazoned 
carriages, and the press of footmen arrayed as splendidly as 
Solomon in his glory. John jeered at Thomas, William turned his 
powdered head, and signalled Jeames, who answered with a corre- 
sponding grin, as the woman with sobs, and wild imprecations, and 



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THE 'NBWCOMBS. 857 

frantic appeals, made her way through the splendid crowd, escorted hy 
iier aides-de-camp in hlue. I dare say her little history was discussed 
at many a dinner- table that day in the basement story of several 
fashionable houses. I know that at clubs in St. Jameses, the facetious 
little anecdote was narrated. A young fellow came to Bays*s after 
the marriage breakfast and mentioned the circumstance with funny 
comments ; although the Morning Post, in describing this affair in 
high life, naturally omitted all mention of such low people as Mrs. De 
Lacy and her children. 

Those people who knew the noble families whose union had been 
celebrated by such a profusion of grandees, fine equipages, and footmen, 
brass bands, brilliant toilets, and wedding favours, asked how it was 
that Lord Kew did not assist at Barnes Newcomers marriage : other 
persons in society inquired waggishly why Jack Belsize was not 
present to give Lady Clara away. 

As for Jack Belsize, his clubs had not been ornamented by his 
presence for a year past. It was said he had broken the bank at 
Plombourg last autumn ; had been heard of during the winter at Milan, 
Venice, and Vienna ; and when a few months after the marriage of 
Barnes Newcome and Lady Clara, Jack's elder brother died, and he 
himself became the next in succession to the title and estates of 
Highgate, many folks said it was a pity little Barney s marriage had 
taken place so soon. Lord Kew was not present, because Kew was 
still abroad; he had had a gambling duel with a Frenchman, and a 
narrow squeak for his life. He had turned Koman Catholic, some 
men said ; others vowed that he had joined the Methodist persuasion. 
At all events Kew had given up his wild courses, broken with the 
turf, and sold his stud off ; he was delicate yet, and his mother was 
taking care of him; between whom and the old- dowager of Kew, 
who had made up Barney's marriage, as everybody knew, there was no 
love lost. 

Then who was the Prince de Moncontour, who, with his princess, 
figured at this noble marriage ? There Avas a Moncontour, the Due 
d'lvry's son, but he died at Paris before the revolution of '30 : one or 
two of the oldsters at Bays's, Major Pendennis, General Tufto, old 
Cackleby — the old fogies in a word — remembered the Duke of Ivry 
when he was here during the Emigration, and when he was called 
Prince de Moncontour, the title of the eldest son of the family. Ivry 
was dead, having buried his son before him, and having left only a 
daughter by that young woman whom he married, and who led him 
such a life. Who was this present Moncontour? 

He was a gentleman to whom the reader has already been presented, 
though when we lately saw him at Baden, he did not enjoy so 
magnificent a title. Early in the year of Barnes Newcome's marriage, 
there camo to England, and to our modest apartment in the Temple, a 
gentleman b|;iuging a letter of recommendation from our dear young 
dive, who safd that the bearer, the Vicomte de Florae, was a great 



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S58 9fiS NBWCOHSS. 

friend of his, and of the Colonel's, who had known his family from 
boyhood. A friend of our Olive and our Colonel was sure of a 
welcome in Lamb Court ; we gaye him the hand of hospitality, lihe 
best cigar in the box, the easy chair with only one broken leg ; the 
dinner in chambers and at the club, the banquet at Greenwich (where, 
ma foi, the little whites baits elicited his profound satisfaction) ; in a 
word, did our best to hbnour that bill which our young Clive had 
drawn upon us. We considered the young one in the light of a 
nephew of our own ; we took a pride in him, and were fond of him ; 
and as for the Colonel, did we not love and honour him ; would we 
not do our utmost in behalf of any stranger who came recommended 
to us by Thomas Newcomers good word? So Florae was straightway 
admitted to our companionship. We showed him the town, and some 
of the modest pleasures thereof; we introduced him to the Haunt, and 
astonished him by the company which he met there: Between Brent's 
" Deserter," and Mark WUders ** Ganyowen," Florae sang — 

Ti«ii> void ma pipd, voikinon bri-*Hqii»ft; 
£t quand la Tulipe fait le noir tra— jet 
Que tu BoiB la fieule dans le r^gi — ^ment 
Avec labrftle-gueule, de ton cher z'a-^mant; 

to the delight of Tom Saqent, who, though he only partially compre- 
hended the words of the song, pronounced the singer to be a rare 
gentleman, full of most excellent differences. We took our Florae 
to the Derby; we presented him in Fitzroy Square^ whither we still 
occasionally went, for Clive's and our dear ColoneFs sake. 

The Vicomte pronounced himself strongly in favour of the blanche 
misse, little Kosy Mackenzie, of whom we have lost sight for some few 
chapters. Mrs. Mac he considered, my faith, to be a woman superb. 
He used to kiss the tips of his own fingers, in token of his admiration 
for the lovely widow ; he pronounced her again more pretty than her 
daughter ; and paid her a thousand compliments which she received 
with exceeding good humour. If the Vicomte gave us to understand 
presently, that Rosy and her mother were both in love with him, but 
that for all the world he would not meddle with the happiness of his 
dear little Clive, nothing unfavourable to the character or constancy 
of the before-mentioned ladies must be inferred from M. de Florae's 
speech ; his firm conviction being, that no woman could pass many 
hours in his society without danger to her subsequent peace of 
mind. 

For some little time we had no reason to suspect that our French 
friend was not particularly well furnished with the current coin of the 
realm. Without making any show of wealth, he would, at first, cheer- 
fully engage in our little parties : his lodgings in the neighbourhood 
of Leicester Square, though dingy, were such as many noble foreign 
exiles have inhabited. It was not until he refused to join some pleasure 
trip which we of Lamb Court proposed, honestly confessing his poverty. 



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tbat Tve were made aware of the Vicomte's litde temporaij calainitj ; 
and, as we became more intimate with him, he lu^quainted us, with great 
openness, with the historj of all his fortunes. He described energeti* 
cally, that splendid run of luck which had set in at Baden with Oliye's 
loan : his winnings, at that fortunate period, had earned him through 
the winter with considerable brilliancj, but Bouillotte and Mademoiselle 
AtaJa, of the Variet^s, (une ogresse^ mon cher I who devours thirty of 
our young men every year in her cavern, in the Rue de Breda), had 
declared against him, and the poor Vicomte's pockets were almost empty 
when he came to London. 

He was amiably communicatiTe regarding himself, and told us his 
virtues and his faults, (if indeed a passion for play and for women 
could be considered as faults in a gay young fellow of two or three-and- 
forty), with a like engaging frankness. He would weep in describing 
his angel mother : he would fly off again into tirades respecting the 
wickedness, the wit, the extravagance, the charms of the young lady of 
the Yarietes. He would then (in conversation) introduce us to 
Madame de Florae, nee Higg, of Manchesterre. His prattle was inces- 
sant, and to my friend Mr. Warrington especially, he was an object of 
endless delight and amusement and wonder. He would roll and 
smoke countless paper cigars, talking unrestrainedly when we were not 
busy, silent when we were engaged : he would only rarely partake of 
our meals, and altogether refused all offers of pecuniary aid. He dis- 
appeared at dinner-time into the mysterious purlieus of Leicester 
Square, and dark ordinaries only frequented by Frenchmen. As we 
walked with him in the Begent Street precincts, he would exchange 
marks of recognition with many dusky personages, smoking braves, and 
whiskered refugees of his nation. *' That gentleman," he would say, 
'*who has done me the honour to salute me, is a coiffeur of the most 
celebrated ; he forms the deUces of our table d'hote. ' Bon jour, mon 
cher monsieur ! ' We are friends, though not of the same opinion. 
Monsieur is a republican of the most distinguished; conspirator of 
profession, and at this time engaged in constructing an infernal 
machine to the address of His Majesty, Louis Phihppe, King of the 
French." " Who is my friend with the scarlet beard and the white 
paletot? " " My good Warrington I you do not move in the world: you 
make yourself a hermit, my dear ! Not know Monsieur ! — Monsieur 
is secretary to Mademoiselle Caracoline, the lovely rider at the circus 
of Astley ; I shall be charmed to introduce you to this amiable society 
some day at our table d'hote." 

Warrington vowed that the. company of Florae's friends would be 
infinitely more amusing than the noblest society ever chronicled in the 
Morning Post; but, we were neither sufficiently familiar with the 
French language to make conversation in that tongue as pleasant to 
us as talking in our -own; and so were content with Florae's description 
of his compatriots, which the Vicomte delivered in that' charming 
French-English of which he was a master. 



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aeO THE HTBWCOMBS. 

However threadbare in his garments, poor -in purse, and eceentric 
in morals our friend was, his manners were alwajs perfectly gentleman- 
like, and he draped himself in his poverty with the grace of a Spanish 
grandee. It must be confessed, that the grandee loved the estaminet 
where he could play billiards with the first corner ; that he had a 
passion for the gambling house ; that he was a loose and disorderly 
nobleman : but, in whatever company he fouijd .himself, a certain kind- 
ness, simplicity, and politeness distinguished him always. He bowed 
to the damsel who sold him a penny cigar, as graciously as to a duchess; 
he crushed a mananVs impertinence or familiarity, as haughtily as bis 
noble ancestors ever did at the Louvre, at Marli, or Versailles. He 
declined to obtemperer to. his landlady's request to pay his rent; but 
he refused with a dignity which struck the woman with awe : and King 
Alfred, over the celebrated muffin, (on which Gaudish and other 
painters have exorcised their genius,) could not have looked more noble 
than Florae in a robe-de-chambre, once gorgeous, but shady now as 
became its owner's clouded fortunes ; toasting his bit of bacon at his 
lodgings, when the fare even of his table dliote had grown too dear 
for him. . 

As we know from Gandish's work, that better times were in store 
for .the wandering monarch, and that the officers came acquainting 
him that his people demanded his presence, a grands cris, when of 
course King Alfred laid down the toast and resumed the sceptre ; so 
in tlie case of Florae, two humble gentlemen, inhabitants of Lamb 
Court, and members of the Upper Temple, had the good luck to be 
the heralds as it were, nay indeed the occasion of the rising fortunes 
of the Prince de Moncontour. Florae had informed us of the death of 
his cousin the Due d'lvry, by whose demise the Vicomte s father, the 
old Count de Florae, became the representative of the house of Ivry, 
and possessor, through his relative's bequest, of an old chateau still 
more gloomy and spacious than the count s own house in the Faubourg 
St. Germain — ^^a chateau, of which the woods, donjains, and appur- 
tenances, had been lopped off by the Revolution. " Mon^eur le 
Comte," Florae says, ''.has not wished to change his name at his age; 
he has shrugged his old shoulder, and said it was not the trouble to make 
to engrave a new card; and for me," the philosophical Vicomte 
added, ''of what good shall be a title of prince in the position where I 
find myself ? " It is wonderful for us who inhabit a country where 
rank is worshipped with so admirable a reverence, to think that there 
are many gentlemen in France who actually have authentic titles and 
do .not choose to bear them. 

Mr. George Warrington was hugely amused with this notion of 
Florae's ranks and dignities. The idea. of the Prince purchasing penny 
cigars ; of the Prince mildly expostulating with his landlady regarding 
the rent ; of his punting for half-crowns at a neighbouring hall in Air 
Street, whither the poor gentleman desperately ran when he had 
money in his pocket, tickled George*3 sense of humour. It was 



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TOB N«WCOMBS. 861 

Wttrrington who gravely saluted the Yicoxnte, and compared him to 
King Alfred, on that afternoon when we happened to call upon him 
and found him engaged in co6king his modest dinner. 

We werft bent upon an excursion to Greenwich, and on having our 
friends company on that voyage, and we induced the Vicomte to 
forego his bacon, and be our guest for once. George WariMngton 
chose to indulge in a great deal of ironical pleasantry in the coui^se of 
the afternoon's excursion. As we went down the river, he pointed out 
to Florae the very window in the Tower where the captive Duke of 
Orleans used to sit when he was an inhabitant of that fortress. At 
Greenwich, wliich palace FloUac informed us was built by Queen 
Elizabeth, George showed the very spot where Raleigh laid his cloak 
down to enable her Majesty to step over a puddle. In a word he 
mystified M. de Florae: such was Mr. Warrington's reprehensible 
spirit. 

It happened that Mr. Barnes Newcome came to dine at Greenwich 
on the same day when our little party took place. He had come down 
to meet Rooster and one or two other noble friends whose names he 
took care to give us, cursing them at the same time for having thrown 
him over. Having missed his own company, Mr. Barnes condescended 
to join ours, Warrington gravely thanking him for the great honour 
which he conferred upon us by volunteering to take a place at our table. 
Barnes drank freely and was good enough to resume his acquaintance 
with Monsieur de Florae whom he perfectly well recollected at Baden, 
but had tliought proper to forget on the one or two occasions when 
they had met in public since the Vicomte 's arrival in this country. 
There are few men who can drop and resume an acquaintance wiUi 
such admirable self-possession as Barnes Newcome. When, over our 
dessert, by which time all tongues were unloosed and each man talked 
gaily, George Warrington feelingly thanked Barnes, in a little mock 
speech, for his great kindness in noticing us, presenting him at the same 
time to Florae as the ornament of the city, the greatest banker of his 
age, the beloved kinsman of their friend Clive who was always writing 
about him ; Barnes said, with one of his accustomed curses, he did 
not know whether Mr. Warrington was "chaffing" him or not, and 
indeed could never make him out. Warrington replied that he never 
could make himself out : and if ever Mr. Barnes could, George would 
thank him for information on that subject. 

Florae, like most Frenchmen, very sober in his potations, left us for 
a while over ours, which were conducted after the more liberal English 
manner, and retired to snooke his cigar on the terrace. Barnes then 
freely uttered his sentiments regarding him, which were not more 
favourable than those which the young gentleman generally emitted 
respecting gentlemen whose backs were turned. He had known a little 
of Florae the year before, at Baden : he had been mixed up with Kew 
in that confounded row in which Kew was hit : he was an adventurer, 
a pauper, a blackleg, a regular Greek; he had heard Florae was of 



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see fpHs KswooMia 

old family, that was troe : but what of that? He was only one of those 

d French counts ; every body was a count in Fratce, confound 'em! 

The claret was beastly — ^not fit for a gentleman to drink! — He swigged 
off a great bumper as he was making the remark : for Barnes Newcome 
abuses the men and things which he uses, and perhaps is better served 
than more grateful persons. 

•* Count ! " cries Warrington, " what do you mean by talking about 
beggarly counts? Florae's family is one of the noblest and most 
ancient in Europe. It is more ancient than your illustrious fidend, 
the barber-surgeon ; it was illustrious before the house, aye, or the 
pagoda of Kew was in existence." And he went on to describe how 
Florae, by the demise of his kinsman, was now actually Prince de 
Moncontour, though he did not choose to assume that title.*' Very 
likely the noble Gascon drink in which George had been indulging, 
imparted a certain warmth and eloquence to his descriptions of Florae's 
good qualities, high birth, and considerable patrimony ; Barnes looked 
quite amazed and scared at these announcements, then laughed and 
declared once more that Warrington was chaffing him. 

** As sure as the Black Prince was lord of Acquitaine— as sure as the 
English were masters of Bordeaux — and why did we ever lose the 
country ?" cries George, filling himself a bumper, "every word I have 
said about Florae is true ; " and Florae coming in at this juncture, 
having just finished his cigar, George turned round and made him a 
fine speech in the French language, in which he lauded his constancy 
and good humour under evil fortune^ paid him two or three more 
cordial compliments, and finished by drinking another great bumper 
to his good health. 

Florae took a little wine, replied ** with effusion " to the toast which 
his excellent, his noble friend had just carried. We rapped our glasses 
at the end of the speech. The landlord himself seemed deeply touched 
by it as he stood by with a fresh bottle. " It is good wine — it is honest 
wine — it is capital wine," says George, "and honni soit qui mal y 
pense ! What business have you, you little beggar, to abuse it ? my 
ancestor drank the wine and wore the motto round his leg long before 
a Newcome ever showed his pale face in Lombard Street." George 
Warrington never bragged about his pedigree except under certain 
influences. I am inclined to think that on this occasion he really did 
find the claret very good. 

** You don't mean to say," says Barnes, addressing Florae in French, 
on which he piqued himself, ** que vous avez un tel SMinche k votre 
nom, et que vous ne 1' usez pas ? " 

Florae shrugged his shoulders ; he at first did not understand that 
familiar figure of English speech, or what was meant by * having a 
handle to your name.' " Moncontour cannot dine better than Florae," 
he said. " Florae has two louis in his pocket, and Moncontour exactly 
forty shillings. Florae's proprietor will ask Moncontour to-morrow for 
five weeks' rent ; and as for Florae's friends, my dear, they will burst 



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THE KEWCOMES. 863 

out laughing to Moncontour's nose ! " " How droll you English are ! " 
this acute French observer afterwards said, laughing, and recalling the 
incident. " Did you not see how that little Barnes, as soon as he knew 
my title of Prince, changed his manner and became all respect towards 
me? " This, indeed. Monsieur de Florae's two friends remarked with 
no little amusement. Barnes began quite well to remember their 
pleasant days at Baden, and talked of their acquaintance th^re : Barnes 
offered the Prince the vacant seat in his brougham, and was ready to set 
him down anywhere that he wished in town. 

" Bah ! " says Florae ; " we came by the steamer, and I prefer the 
peniboat" But the hospitable Barnes, nevertheless, called upon Florae 
the next day. And now having partially explained how the Prince de 
Moncontour was present at Mr. Barnes Newcomers wedding, let us 
show how it was that Barnes's first cousin, the Earl of Kew, did not 
attend that ceremony. 



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CHAPTER XXXVn. 



RETURNS TO LORD KEW. 




E do not 
propose to 
deacribe at 
length or with 
precision tho 
circumstan- 
ces of the duel 
which ended 
so unfortu- 
nately for 
young Lord 

Kew. The meeting was inevitable : after the public acts and insult 
of the morning, the maddened Frenchman went to it convinced 
that his antagonist had wilfully outraged him, eager to show his 
bravery upon the body of an Englishman, and as proud as if he had been 
going into actual war. That commandment, the sixth in our decalogue, 
which forbids the doing of murder, and the injunction which directly 
follows on the same table, have been repealed by a very great number 
of Frenchmen for many years past ; and to take the neighbour's wife, 
and his life subsequently, has not been an uncommon practice with the 
politest people in the world. Castillonnes had no idea but that he was 
going to the field of honour ; stood with an undaunted scowl before his 
enemy's pistol ; and discharged his own, and brought down his opponent 
with a grim satisfaction, and a comfortable conviction afterwards that he 
had acted en galant homme. " It was well for this Milor that he fell 
at the first shot, my dear," the exemplary young Frenchman remarked, 
"a second might have been yet more fatal. to him; ordinarily 1 am 
sure of my coup, and you conceive that in an affair so grave it was 
absolutely necessary that one or other should remain on the ground." 
Nay, should M. de Kew recover from his wound, it was M. de Castil- 
lonnes' intention to propose a second encounter between himseiyT and 
that nobleman. It had been Lord Kew's determination never to fire 
upon his opponent, a confession which he made not to his second, poor 
scared Lord Rooster, who bore the young Earl to Kehl ; but to some 
of his nearest relatives, who happened fortunately to be not far from 



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THE NEWOMBS, 865 

him when he received his woand, and who came with all the eager- 
ness of love to watch by his bed-side. 

We have said that Lord Kew's mother, Lady Walham, and her 
second son were staying at Hombourg, when the Eari*s disaster 
occurred. They had proposed to come to Baden to see Kew's new 
bride, and to welcome her ; but the presence of her mother-in-law 
deterred Lady Walham, who gave up her heart's wish in bitterness of 
spirit, knowing very well that a meeting between the old Countess and 
herself could only produce the tvrath, pain, and humiliation which their 
coming together always occasioned. It was Lord Kew who bade 
Booster send for his mother, and not for Lady Kew; and as soon as 
she received those sad tidings, you may be sure the poor lady hastened 
to the bed where her wounded boy lay. 

The fever had declared itself, and the young man had been delirious 
more than once. His wan face lighted up with joy when he saw his 
mother ; he put his little feverish hand out of the bed to her ; " I 
knew you would come, dear," he said, " and you know I never would 
have fired upon the poor Frenchman." The fond mother allowed no 
sign of terror or grief to appear upon her face, so as to disturb her 
first-born and darling ; but no doubt she prayed by his side as siich 
loving hearts know how to pray, for the forgiveness of his trespass, who 
had forgiven those who sinned against him.. ** I knew I should be hit, 
George," said Kew to his brothisr when they were alone ; " I always 
expected some such end as this. My life has been very wild and 
reckless ; and you, George, have always been faithful to our mother. 
You will make a better Lord Kew than I have been, George. God 
bless you." George flung himself down with sobs by his brother s bed- 
side, and swore Frank had always been the best fellow, the best 
brother, the kindest heart, the warmest fiiend in the world. Love — 
prayer — repentance, thus met over the young man *8 bed. Anxious 
and humble hearts, his own the least anxious and the most humble, 
awaited the dread award of life or death; and the world, and its 
ambition and vanities, were shut out from the darkened chamber where 
the awful issue was being tried. 

Our history has had little to do with characters resembling this lady. 
It is of the world, and things pertaining to it. Things beyond it; as 
the writer imagines, scarcely belong to ihe novelist's province. Who 
is he, that he should assume the divines office; or turn his desk into 
a preaclier s pulpit ? In that career of pleasure, of idleness, of crime 
we might call it (but that the chronicler of worldly matters had best be 
chary of applying hard names to acts which young men are doing in 
the world every day), the gentle widowed lady, mother of Lord Kew, 
could but keep aloof, deploring the course upon which her dear young 
prodigal had entered ; and praying with that saintly love, those 
pure supplications, with which good mothers follow their children, for 
her boy's repentance and return. Very likely her mind was narrow; 
very likely the precautions which slle had used in the lad's early days, 
the tutors and directors she had set about him, the religious studies 



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36ft THl 3ISWC0MBS. 

and practices to whidi she mmld bare subjected him* bad served onlj 
to yex and weary the young pupil, and to drive bis high spirit into 
revolt It is hard to convince a woman perfectly pure in her life and 
intentions, ready to die if need were for her own faith, having absolute 
confidence in the instruction of her teachers, that she and they (with all 
their sermons) may be doing harm. When the young eatecbist yawns 
over his reverence's disconrse, who knows but it is the doctor's ramtj 
which is enraged, and not Heaven which is offended? It may have 
been, in the differences which took place between her son and her, the 
good Lady Walbam never could comprehend the lad's side of the 
argument; or how his protestantism against her docirines should exhibit 
itself on the turf, the gaming-table, or the stage of the opera-house; 
and thus but for the misfortune under which poor Kew now lay bleeding, 
these two loving hearts might have remained through life asunder. 
But by the boy's bedside ;-*-in the paroxysms of his fever; in the wild 
talk of his delirium ; in the sweet patience and kindness with which he 
received his dear nurse's attentions; the gratefulness with which he 
thanked the servants who waited on him ; tiie fortitude with which he 
suffered the surgeon's dealings with his wound ;— -the widowed woman 
had an opportunity to admire with an exquisite thankfulness the 
generous goodness of her son ; and in those hours, those sacred hours 
passed in her own chamber, of pmyers, fears, hopes, recollections, and 
passionate maternal love, wrestling with fate for her darling's life ; — no 
doubt the humbled creature came to acknowledge that her own course 
regarding him had been wrong ; and, even more for herself than for 
him, implored forgiveness. 

For some time Georgo Barnes had to send but doubtful and melan- 
choly bulletins to Lady Kew and the Newoome family at Baden^ who 
were all greatly moved and affected by the accident which had befallen 
poor Kew. Lady Kew broke out in wrath and indignation. We may 
be sure the Duchesse dlvry offered to condole with her upon Kew's 
mishap the day after the news arrived at Baden ; and, indeed, came to 
visit her. The old lady had just received other disquieting intelligence. 
She was just going out, but she bade her servant to inform the Duchess 
that she was never more at home to the Duchesse d'lvry. The message 
was not delivered properly, or the person for whom it was intended did 
not choose to understand it, for presently as the Countess was hobbling 
across the walk on her way to her daughter's residence, she met the 
Duchesse d'lvry, who saluted her with a demure curtsey and a common- 
place expression of condolence. The Queen of Scots was surrounded 
by the chief part of her court,, saving of course M.M. Caatillonnes and 
Punter absent on service. *'We were speaking of this deplorable 
affair," said Madame d'lvry (which indeed was the truth, although she 
said it). '' How we pity you, Madame 1 '' Blackball and Loder, 
Cruchecassee and Schlangenbad, assumed sympathetic countenances. 

Trembling on her cane, the old Countess glared out upon Madame 
d'lvry, " I pray you, Madame," she said in French, " never again to 
address me the word. If I had, like you, assassins in my pay, I would 



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Gy?t^/7.r/. &^M^/^^^^^^^ 



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liftTe you killed ; do you hear xne ? " and she hobbled on her way. 
The household to which she went was in terrible agitation ; the kind 
Lady Ann frightened beyond measure, poor Ethel full of dread, and 
feeling guilty almost as if she had been the cause, as indeed she was 
the occasion, of Kew's misfortune. And the family had further cause 
of alarm from the shock which the news had given to Sir Brian. It 
has been said, that he had had illnesses of late which caused his friends 
much anxiety. He had passed two months at Aix-laChapelle, his 
physicians dreading a paralytic attack; and Madame dlviy's party 
still sauntering on the walk, the men smoking their cigars, the women 
breathing their scandal, now beheld Doctor Finck issuing from Lady 
Ann's apartments, and wearing such a face of anxiety, that ilae Duchesse 
asked, with some emotion, v'^ad there been a fresh bulletin from 
Kehl?" "^ ;) 

** No, there had been no fresh ^bulletin from Kehl ; but two hours 
since Sir Brian Newcome had had a paralytic seizure." 

"Is he very bad?" 

*• No," says Dr. Finck, " he is not very bad." 

**How inconsolable M. Barnes will be! "said the Duchesse, shrugging 
her haggard shoulders. Whereas the fact was that Mr. Barnes retained 
perfect presence of mind under both of the misfortunes which had 
befallen his family. Two days afterwards the Duchesse's husband 
arrived himself, when we may presume that exemplary woman was too 
much engaged with her own affairs, to be able to be interested about 
the doings of other people. With Uie Duke's arrival the court of Mary 
Queen of Scots was broken up. Her majesty was conducted to Loch 
Leven, where her tyrant soon dismissed her very last lady-in-waiting, 
the confidential Irish secretary, whose performance had produced 
such a fine effect amongst the Newcomes. 

Had poor Sir Brian Newcome's seizure occurred at an earlier period 
of the autumn, his illness no doubt would have kept him for some 
months confined at Baden ; but as he was pretty nearly the last of Dr. 
Von Finck's bath patients, and that eminent physician longed to be off 
to the Besidenz, he was pronounced in a fit condition for easy travelling 
in rather a brief period after his attack, and it was determined to trans- 
port him to Manheim, and thence by water to London and Newcome. 

During all this period of their father's misfortune no sister of charity 
could have been more tender, active, cheerful, and watchful, than Miss 
Ethel. She had to wear a kind face and exhibit no anxiety when 
occasionally the feeble invalid made inquiries regarding poor Eew at 
Baden; to catch the phrases as they came from him; to acquiesce, or not 
to deny, when Sir Brian talked of the marriages — ^both marriages — 
taking place at Christmas. Sir Brian was especially eager for his 
daughter's, and repeatedly, with his broken words, and smiles, and 
caresses, which were now quite senile, declared that his Ethel would 
make the prettiest countess in England. There came a letter or two 
from Olive, no doubt, to the young nurse in her sick room. Manly and 
generous, full of tenderness and affection, as those letters surely were^ 



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S6S TH£ K&WCOUES. 

they could give but litile pleasare to the young lady, mdeed, only add 
to her doubts and pain. 

She had told none of her friends as yet of those last words of Kew^8» 
which she interpreted as a farewell on the young nobleman^s part 
Had she told them they very likely would not have understood Kew's 
meaning as she did, and persisted in thinking that the two were 
reconciled. At any rate, whilst he and her father were still lying 
stricken by the blows which had prostrated them both, all questions of 
love and marriage had been put aside. Did she love him ? She felt such 
a kind pity for bis misfortune, such an admiration for his generoos 
gallantry, such a remorse for her own wayward conduct and cruel 
behaviour towards this most honest, and kindly, and affectionate 
gentleman, that the sum of regard which she could bestow upon him 
might surely be said to amount to love. For such a union as that 
contemplated between them, perhaps for any marriage, no greater 
degree of attachment was necessary as the common cement. Warm 
friendship and thorough esteem and confidence (I do not say that our 
young lady calculated in this matter-of-fact way) are safe properties 
invested in the prudent marriage stock, multiplying and bearing an 
increasing value with every year. Many a young couple of spendthrifts 
get through their capital of passion in the first twelvemonths, and have 
no love leift for the daily demands of after life. O me ! for the day 
when the bank account is closed, and the cupboard is empty, and the 
firm of Damon and Phyllis insolvent ! 

Miss Newcome, we say, without doubt, did not make her calculations 
in this debtor and creditor fashion ; it was only the gentlemen of that 
family who went to Lombard Street. But suppose she thought that 
regard, and esteem, and affection, being sufficient, she could joyfully 
and with almost all her heart bring such a portion to Lord Kew; that 
her harshness towards him as contrasted with his own generosity, and 
above all with his present pain, infinitely touched her; and suppose she 
fancied that there was another person in the world to whom, did fates 
permit, she could offer not esteem, affection, pity only, but something ten 
thousand times more precious? We are not in thfe young lady's secrets, 
but if she has some as she sits by her father's chair and bed, who day 
or night will have no other attendant ; and, as she busies herself to 
interpret his wants, silently moves on his errands, administers his 
potions, and watches his sleep, thinks of Olive absent and unhappy, of 
Kew wounded and in danger, she must have subject enough of thought 
and pain. Little wonder that her cheeks are pale and her eyes look red ; 
she has her cares to endure now in the world, and her burden to bear 
in it, and somehow she feels she is alone, since that day when ppor 
Olive's carriage drove away. 

In a mood of more than ordinary depression and weakness 
Lady Kew must have found her granddaughter upon one of 
the few occasions after the double mishap when Ethel and her elder 
were together. Sir Brian's illness, as it may be imagined, affected 
a lady very slightly, who was of an age when these calamities occasion 



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THE I7EW00MES. 869 

but small disquiet, and who having survired her own father, her 
husband, her son, and witnessed their lordships* respective demises 
with perfect composure, could not reasonably be called upon to feel 
anj particular dismay at the probable departure from this life of a 
Lombard Street banker, who happened to be her daughter's hus- 
band. In fact not Barnes Newcome himself could await that event 
more philosophically. So finding Ethel in this melancholy mood, 
Lady Kew thought a drive in the fresh air would be of service to her, 
and Sir Brian happeQiog to be a$leep, carried the young girl away 
in her barouche. 

They talked about Lord Kew, of whom the accounts were encouraging, 
and who is mending in spite of his silly mother and her medicines, and as 
fioon as he is able to move we must go and fetch him, my dear, Lady Kew 
graciously said, before that foolish woman has made a methodist of him. 
He is always led by the woman who is nearest him, and I know one who 
will make of him just the best little husband in England. Before they 
had come to this delicate point the lady and her grandchild had talked 
Kew's character over, the girl, you may be sure, having spoken 
feelingly and eloquently about his kindness and courage, and many 
admirable qualities. She kindled when she heard the report of his 
behaviour at the commencement of the fracas with M. de Castillonnes, 
his great forbearance and good-nature, and his resolution and 
magnanimity, when the moment of collision came. 

But when Lady Kew arrived at that period of her discourse, in which 
she stated that Kew would make the best little husband in England^ 
poor EtheUs eyes filled with tears ; we must remember that her high 
spirit was worn down by watching and much varied anxiety, and then 
she confessed that there had been no reconciliation, as all the family 
fancied, between Frank and herself— on the contrary, a parting, which 
she understood to be final ; and she owned that her conduct towards 
her cousin had been most captious and cruel, and that she could not 
expect they should ever again come together. Lady Kew, who hated sick 
beds and surgeons, except for herself^who hated her daughter-in-law above 
all, was greatly annoyed at the news which Ethel gave her ; made light 
of it, however, and was quite confident that a very few words from her 
would place matters on their old footing, and determined on forthwith 
setting out for Kehl. She would have, carried Ethel with her, but that 
the poor Baronet with cries and moans insisted on retaining his nurse, 
and Ethel's grandmother was left to undertake this mission by herself, 
the girl remaining behind acquiescent, not unwilling, owning openly a 
great regard and esteem for Kew, and the wrong which she had done 
him, feeling secretly a . sentiment which she had best smother. She 
had received a letter from tbat other person, and answered it with her 
mothers cognisance, but about this little affair neither Lady Ann nor 
her daughter happened to say a word to the manager of the whole 
£Eimily. 

B B 



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CHAPTER XXXVm. 



IN WHICH lADY KfiW LfiAYBS HIS LOBDSHIP QUITS COIT^ALBSOEKI. 




MMEDIATELY after Lord Kew's wound, 
and as it was necessary to apprise the Ne«- 
come family of the accident which had 
occurred, the good-natured young Kew had 
himself written a hrief note to acquaint his 
relative with his mishap, and had even taken 
the precaution to antedate a couple <^ billets 
to be dispatched on future daya ; kindly for- 
geries, which told the Newcome family and the 
Countess of Kew, that Lord Kew was pro- 
gressing very favourably, and that his hurt 
was trifling. The fever had set in, and the 
young patient was lying in great danger, as 
most of the laggards at Baden knew, when 
his friends there were set at ease by this fal- 
lacious bulletui. On the third day after the 
accident. Lady Walham arrived with her 
younger son, to And Lord Kew in the fever which ensued after the 
wound. As the terrible anxiety during the illness had been Lady 
Walham's, so was hers the delight of the recovery. The command^- 
in-chief of the family, the old lady at Baden, showed her sympathy by 
sending couriers, and repeatedly issuing orders to have news of Kew. 
Sick beds scared her away invariably. When illness befel a member 
of her family she hastily retreated from before the sufferer, showing 
her agitation of mind, however^ by excessive ill-humour to all the others 
within her reach. 

A fortnight passed, a ball had been found and extracted, the fever 
was over, tlie wound was progressing &vourably, the patient advancing 
towards convalescence, and ike mother, with her child once more under 
her wing, happier than she had been for seven years past, during which 
her young prodigal had been running the thoughtless career of which 
he himself was weary, and which had occasioned the lond lady such 
anguish. Those doubts which perplex many a thinking man, and when 
formed and uttered, give many a fond and fjEUthful woman pain so 
exquisite, had most fortunately never crossed Kew*s mind. His 



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THS K£WCOMBS. 371 

eaiiy impressions werd such as his mother had left thein, Bxtd ha oarae 
back to her as she would have him, as a litdo child, o^ming his faulte 
with a hearty humble ropentaace, and with a thousand simple coti- 
fessions lamenting the errors of his past days. We have seen him 
tired and ashamed of the pleasures whieh he was purswng, of the 
companions who surrounded Mm, of the fotawls and dissipations which 
amused him no moie ; in those hours of dafiger and doubt, when he had 
lain, with death perhaps before him, making up hk aoeount of the vaitir 
life which probably he would be called upon to surrender, no wondei^ 
this simple, kindly, modest, and courageous soul, thought seriously of 
the past, and of the future*; and prayed, and resolyed, if a futiiire were 
awarded to him, it should nieake amends fi>r the days gone by ; and 
surely as the mother and son read together the beloved assurance of 
the divine forgiveness, and of that joy which angels feel in heaven for 
a sinner repentant, we may fancy in the happy mother's breast a feeling 
somewhat akin to that angelic felicity, a gratitude and joy of all others 
the loftiest, the purest, the keenest. Lady Walham might shrink with 
terror at the Frenchman's name, but her son could forgive him, with 
all his heart, and kiss his mother's hand; and thank him as the best 
friend of his hfe. 

During all the days of his illness, Kew had never once mentioned 
Ethel's name, and once or twice as his recovery progressed, when with 
doubt and tremor his mother alluded to it, he turned from the subject 
as.one that was disagreeable and painful. Had she thought seriously 
on certain things ? Lady Walham asked. Kew thought not, but those 
who are bred up as you would have them, mother, are often none the 
better, the humble young fellow said. I believe she is . a very good 
girl. She is very clever, she is exceedingly handseine, she is very good 
to her parents and her brothers and sisters; but — he did not finish the 
sentence. Perhaps he thought, as he told Ethel afterwiurds, that she 
would have agreed with Lady Widham even worse than with her 
imperious old grandmother. 

Lady Walham then fell to deplore Sir Brian's condition, accounts 
of whose seizure of course had been despatched to the Kehl party, 
and to lament that a worldly man as he was should have such an 
affliction, so near the grave and so little prepared for it. Here 
honest Kew, however, held out. '' Eveiy man tor. himself^ mother,'* 
says he. '* Sir Brian was bred up very strictly, perhaps too strictly as 
a young man. Don't you know that tha* good Colonel, his elder 
brother,, who seems to me about the most honest and good; old 
gentleman I ever met in my life, was driven into rebellion snd all 
sorts of wild courses by <Ad Mrs. Newcome's tyranny over him ? As 
for Sir Brian, be goes to church every Sunday : has prayers in tbe 
family every day : I'm sure has led a hundred times better life than 
I have, poor old Sir Brian. I often have thought, mother, that though 
our side was wrong, yours could not be altogether right, because I 
remember how my tutor, ami Ms. Booaet and Dr^ Laud, Y^hen they 

B B 2 



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872 THE KEWCOMES. 

used to come down to us at Kewbuiy, used to make tfaemsekes so 
unhappy about other people." So the widow withdrew her unhappiness 
about Sir Brian ; she was quite glad to hope for the best regarding 
that invalid. 

With some fears yet regarding her son, — ^for many of the books with 
which the good lady trarelled could not be got to interest him ; at some 
he would laugh outright, — with fear mixed with the maternal joy 
that he was returned to her, and had quitted his old ways ; with keen 
feminine triumph, perhaps, that she had won him back, and happiness 
at his daily mending health, all Lady Walham*s hours were passed 
in thankful and delighted occupation. George Barnes kept the 
Newcomes acquainted with the state of his brother's health. The 
skilful surgeon from Strasbourg reported daily better and better of 
him, and the little family were living in great peace and contentment, 
with one subject of dread, however, hanging over the mother of the 
two young men, the arrival of Lady Kew, as she was foreboding, the 
fierce old mother-in-law who had worsted Lady Walham in many a 
previous battle. 

It was what they call the summer of St. Martin, and the weather 
was luckily very fine ; Kew could presently be wheeled into the garden 
of the hotel, whence he could see the broad turbid current of the 
swollen Ehine : the French bank fringed with alders, the vast yellow 
fields behind them, the great avenue of poplars stretching away to the 
Alsatian city, and its purple minster yonder. Good Lady Walham 
was for improving the shining hour by reading amusing extracts from 
4ier favourite volumes, gentle anecdotes of Chinese and Hottentot 
•converts, and incidents from missionary travel. George Barnes, a 
vn\y young diplomatist, insinuated " Galignani," and hinted that Kew 
might like a novel : and a profane work called " Oliver Twist " having 
appeared about this time, which George read out to his family with 
admirable emphasis, it is a fact that Lady Walham became so 
interested in the parish boy*s progress, that she took his history into 
her bedroom (where it was discovered, under Blatherwick's " Voice 
from Mesopotamia," by her ladyship's maid), and that Kew laughed 
so immensely at Mr. Bumble, the Beadle, as to endanger the reopening 
of his wound. 

While, one day, they were so harmlessly and pleasantly occupied, 
a great whacking of whips, blowing of horns, and whirring of wheels 
was heard in the street without. The wheels stopped . at their hotel 
gate ; Lady Walham started up ; ran through the garden door,, closing 
it behind her ; and divined justly who had arrived. The landlord was 
bowing ; the courier pushing about ; waiters in attendance ; . one of 
them; coming up to pale-faced Lady Walham, said, " Her Excellency 
the Frau Grafinn von Kew is even now absteiging." . 

** Will you be good enough to walk into our salon, Lady Kew ?" said 
the daughter-in-law, stepping forward and opening the door of that 
apartment. The countess, leaning on her staff, entered that darkened 



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THB KEWC0HX8. 87S 

chamber. She ran up towards an easy-chair, where she supposed 
Lord Kew was. ** My dear Frank ! " cries the old lady ; " my dear 
hoy, what a pretty fright you have given us all ! They don't keep you 
in this horrid noisy room facing the — Ho — what is this ?" cries the 
countess, closing her sentence abruptly. 

** It is not Frank. It is only a bolster, Lady Kew : and I don't 
keep him in«a noisy room towards the street," said Lady Walbam. 

** Ho ! how do you do ? This is the way to him, I suppose ;" and 
she went to another door-^it was a cupboard full of the relics of 
Frank's illness, from -which Lady Walham's mother-in-law shrunk 
back aghast **Will you pleaso to see that I have a comfortable 
room, Maria; and one for my maid, next me? I will thank you to see 
yourself," the Empress of Kew said, pointing with her stick, before 
which many a time the younger lady had trembled. 

This time Lady Walham only rang the bell. "I don't speak 
German ; and have never been on any floor of the house but this. 
Your servant had better see to your room, Lady Kew. That next is 
mine; and I keep the door, which you are trying, locked on the 
Other side." 

" And I suppose Frank is locked up there ! " cried the old lady, " with 
a basin of gruel and a book of Watts's hymns." A servant entered 
at this moment, answering Lady Walham's summons. " Peacock, the 
Countess of Kew says that she proposes to stay here this evening. 
Please to ask the landlord to show her ladyship rooms," said Lady 
Walham ; and by this time she had thought of a reply to Lady Kew's 
last kind speech. 

"If my son were locked up in my room, madam, his mother is 
surely the best nurse for him. Why did you not come to him three 
weeks sooner, when there was nt)body with him ?" 

Lady Kew said nothing, but glared and showed her teeth — those 
pearls set in gold. 

" And my company may not amuse Lord Kew — " 

" He — e— e ! " grinned the elder, savagely. 

" But at least it is better than some to which you introduced my 
son," continued Lady Kew's daughter-in-law, gathering force and wrath 
as she spoke. " Your ladyship may think lightly of me, but you can 
hardly think so ill of me as of the Duchesse d'lvxy, I should suppose, 
to whom you sent my boy, to form him, you said ; about whom, when I 
remonstrated — for though I live out of the world I hear of it some- 
times — you were pleased to tell me that I was a prude and a fool. 
It is you I thank for separating my child from me — ^yes, you — for 
so many years of my life ; and for bringing me to him when he 
was bleeding and almost a corpse, but that God preserved him 
to the widow's prayers ; — and you, you were by, and never came near 
him." 

**I — I did not come to' see you — or — or — for this kind of scene, 
Lady Walham," muttered the other. Lady Kew was accustomed to 



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874 TBM mrooMu. 

ftckioph, by MaM»g m sttMes, Uk6 Napoleon. Those who faced her 
routed her. 

'' No ; joa did not cosne &r me, I know iierj well/' the daughter went 
im* '* You leved me ne better than 3^011 loved your son, whose life, 
as long as you meddled with it, you made wretdied. You canM here 
for my boy. Haven't you dene him evil enough? And now God has 
mercifully preserred him, yon want to lead him back again into ruija 
and orime. It shall not be so, wieked woman ! bad m^her 1 crael, 
beartleas parent I^^Geofge ! '* (Here her younger son entered the 
room, and she ran towaida him mth, fluttering robes and seized his 
hands.) ''Here is your grandmother ; here is the Countess of Kew, 
come from Baden at last; and she wants^-ahe wants to. take Frank 
from us, my dear, and to--^ive?— him^-rbaok to the-^Frenchwoman 
again. No, no ! O, my God 1 Nev^ ! never ! *' And she flung 
herself into George BAraes's arms, &iating with an hystcdo burst 
of tean. 

'*You had best get a atraii-waiatcoat for yeur mother, George 
Barnes," Lady Kew said* seom and hatred in her face. (If she had 
been lago's daughter, with a strong likeness to her sire, Lord Steyne*s 
sister could not have looked more diabolieal.) '* Have jim bad advice 
for her ? Has nursing poor Kew turned her head ? I came to see 
him.. Why have I been left alone for half-an-hour with this mad- 
woman ? You ought not to trust her to give Frank medicine. It is 
positively — " 

" Excuse me,'' said George, with a bow; " I don't ihhak the com- 
plaint has as yet exhibited itself in my mother's branch of the family^ 
(She always hated me," thought Geoi^e ; '*but if she had by ehance left 
me a legacy, there it goes.) You would like, ma*am, to see the ro^ms 
up-stairs? Here is the landlord to eonduct your ladyship. Fruik 
will be quite ready to lecmve you when you come down. I am sure I 
need not beg of your kindness that nothing may be said lo agitate 
him. It is barely three weeks sisee M. de GastilkM^es' ball was 
extracted; and the doctors wish he should be kept as quiet as 
possible-'* 

Be suxe that the landlord, the courier, and the persons engaged in 
showing ibB Countess of Kew the apartments above spent an agreeable 
time with her ExceUenBy the Frau QraflAnvon Kew. She must have 
had better luck in her enosiant^ wilii these than in her previous 
passages with her grandson and hia mother ; for when she issued from 
her apartment in a new dress and frerii cap. Lady Kew's faee wore an 
expression c^ perfect seranity* Her attendamt may have shook her 
fist b^iind her, and her man!s ^es and face looked Blitis and 
Ponnwwetter; but their mistress's features wore that f^toased look 
which they assumed when she had been satisfactorily punishing some- 
body. Lord Kew had by this time got back from the garden to his own 
room, where he awaited grandmamma. If tiie motiher a^d her two 
sons ,had in the interval of X>ady Kew's toikjiate tried t^ rssnme th# 



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hkitory of Bomt^ tka Baft&, I fear Asf tcmii mit h^i^ i^wsA it very 



^'BkMBs mt, mj detet ehild! How well jqkl hckl Maaaj a girl 
would giTo the world ta have mwh a eozqplexioo. There is notbij9^ 
like a mother for a nurse ! Abu no 1 Maria, you deaerve to be the 
Mother Superior of a House of Bisters of Gharitj, jou do. The 
laBdkrd has gtvea me a delightful apartmoiELt* thajik jou. He is aa 
exteitioaate wreteh ; but I have uo doubt I Ab& be very oowlbrtable. 
The Dodsbufjs stopped hwe, I sea, by the trayellere* book— quite 
ri^t, ieisfeead of sleeping at that odious buggy Strasbourg. We have 
had a sad, sad time, my dears, at Badent Between anxiety about poor 
Sir Brian, and about you, you naughty boy, I am sure I ^iwndear how I 
have got through it all. Doetor Finck wetuld not let me eomte away 
to-day ; but I wodid came." 

•* I am sure it was uncommonly kiud, ma'ftia," says poor Kew, witk 
a rue&l face. 

^'That horrible woman against whom I alwaye warned you-'—but 
young men will not take the adfice of old gcandmammaa^-'has gone 
away theae ten days. Monsieur le Due. fetched her ; and if he locked 
her up at Montcontour, and kept her on bread ajdd water, lor the 
rest of her life^ I am sure he would serye her risght When a womaa 
once forgets religious prmciples, Kew, she is sure to go wrong. The 
Gonieersation Eoom is shut up. The Dorkings go on Tuesday. Clara is 
really a dear little artles& «!«ature ; one that you will, like, Mariarr-and 
as for Ethel, I really think she is an angdL To see her nursing her poor 
father is the most beautiful sight; night, after night she has sate up 
with him. I knew where she would like, to be, the dear child. And 
if Frank fa^ iU again, Maria, he won^t need a mother or useless old 
grandmother to nurse him. I have got some pretty messages to 
deliver from her ; but tb^ are for your private ears, my lord ; not even 
mammaa axui brothers may hear them." . 

"Do not go, mother I Pray stay, Groorge!" cried the sick man 
{ajai again Lord Steyne'a sister looked uneoBmaonly like that lamented 
marquis). "My cousan is a noble young creature," he went on. 
" She has admirable good qualities, whieh I appreciate with all my 
heart ; and her beauty, you know how I admire it. I have, thought of 
h^r a great deal ^s I was. lying on the bed yond^. (the family look was 
not so visible in Lady Kew's £aee), and — ^and-^I wrote to her this 
very morning ; i^e will have the letter by thia tia>e, prohaMy.". 

" Bien ! Frank ! " Lady Kew smiled (iat her supernatural way) 
almost as much as her portrait, by Harlowe, aa you may see it at 
Kewbury to this very day. She k rc^res^stted seated before an eaeel, 
paintiBg a miniature of. h^r son. Lord WaUiam, 

"I wrote to her on the sulfeot of ^e last converssiaon we had together," 
Frsnk resumed, in rather a timid voice, *' the day before m^ accident. 
F^^MS she did not tell you, ma*am, of what passed between us. We had 
had aquarrel ; one of mftny. Som» cowarctiy hftnd» whkk wt bolh of us 



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S76 THE NBWCOUES. 

can guess at, had written to her an account of my past life, and she showed 
me the letter. Then I told her, that if she loved me she never would 
have showed it me : without anj other words of reproof I bade her 
farewell. It was not much, the showing that letter ; but it was enough: 
In twenty differences we have had together ; she had been unjust and 
captious, cruel towards me, and too eager, as I thought, for other 
people's admiration. Had she loved me, it seemed to me Ethel would 
have shown less vanity and better temper. What was I to expect in 
life afterwards from a girl who before her marriage used me so? 
Neither she nor I could be happy. She could be gentle enough, and 
kind, and anxious to please any man whom she loves, God bless her ! 
As for me, I suppose, I*m not worthy of so much talent and beauty, so 
we both understood that that was a friendly farewell ; and as I have 
been lying on my bed yonder, thinking, perhaps, I never might leave 
it, or if I did, that I should like to lead a different sort of life to that 
which ended in sending me there, my resolve of last month was only 
confirmed. God forbid that she and I should lead the lives of some 
folks we know ; that Ethel should marry without love, perhaps to fall 
into it afterwards ; and that I, after this awful warning I have had, 
should be tempted back into that dreary life I was leading. It was 
wicked, ma'am, I knew it was ; many and many a day I used to say so 
to myself, and longed to get rid of it. I am a poor weak devil, I 
know, I am only too easily led into temptation, and I should only make 
matters worse if I married a woman who cares for the world more than 
for me, and would not make me happy at home." 

'* Ethel care for the world ! " gasped out Lady Kew ; " a most artless, 
simple, affectionate creature ; my dear Frank, she " 

He interrupted her, as a blush came rushing over his pale face. 
" Ah ! " said he, *' if I had been the painter, and young Olive had been 
Lord Kew, which of us do you think she would have chosen ? And 
she was right. He is a brave, handsome, honest young fellow, and is 
a thousand times cleverer and better than I am." 

" Not better, dear, thank God," cried his mother, coming round to 
the other side of his sofa, and seizing her son's hand. 

'* No, I don't think he is better, Frank," said the diplomatist, walking 
away to the window. And as for grandmamma at the end of this little 
speech and scene, her ladyship's likeness to her brother, the late 
revered Lord Steyne, was more frightful than ever. 

After a minute's pause, she rose up on her crooked stick, and said, 
" I really feel I am unworthy to keep company with so much exquisite 
virtue. It will be enhanced, my lord, by the thought of the pecuniary 
sacrifice which you are making, for I suppose you know that I have 
been hoarding — ^yes, and saving, and pinching, — denying myself the 
necessities of life, in order that my grandson might one day have 
enough to support his rank. Go and live and starve in your dreary 
old house, and marry a parson's daughter, and sing psalms with your 
precious mother; and I have no doubt you and she — she who has 



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THB KEWCOM^. 377 

thwarted me all through life, and whom I hated,- — yes, I hated from 
the moment she took my son from me and brought misery into my 
family, will be all the happier when she thinks that she has made a 
poor, fond, lonely old woman more lonely and miserable. If you please, 
George Barnes, be good enough to tell my people that I shall go back 
to Baden ; " and waving her children away from her, the old woman 
tottered out of the room on her cjutch. 

So the wicked Fairy drove away disappointed in her chariot with the 
very dragons which had brought her away in the morning, and just 
had time to get their feed of black bread. I wonder whether they 
were the horses Clive and J. J. and Jack Belsize had used when they 
passed on their road to Switzerland ? Black Care sits behind all 
sorts of horses, and gives a triakgelt to. postillions, all over the map. 
A thrill of triumph may be permitted to Lady Walham after her 
victory over her mother-in-law. What Christian woman does not like 
to conquer another ; and if that other were a mother-in-law, would the 
victory be less sweet ? Husbands and wives both will be pleased that 
Lady Walham has had the batter of this bout : and you, young boys 
and virgins, when your turn comes to be married, you will understand 
the hidden meaning of this passage. George Barnes got " Oliver 
Twist " out, and began to read therein. Miss Nancy and Fanny again 
were summoned before this little company to frighten and delight 
them. I daresay even Fagin and Miss Nancy failed with the widow, 
so absorbed was she with the thoughts of the victory which she had 
just won. For the evening service, in which her sons rejoiced her 
fond heart by joining, she lighted on a psalm which was as a ^^ deum 
after the battle — the battle of Kehl by Khine, where Kew's soul, as 
his mother thought, was the object of contention between the enemies. 
I have said, this book is all about the world and a respectable family 
dwelling in it. It is not a sermon, except where it cannot help itself, 
and the speaker pursuing the destiny of his narrative finds such a homily 
before him. O friend, in your life and mine, don't we light upon such 
sermons daily? — don't we see at home as well as amongst our 
neighbours that battle betwixt Evil and Good ? Here on one side is 
Self and Ambition and Advancement ; and Right and Love on the 
other. Which shall we let to triumph for ourselves — which for our 
children ? 

The young men were sitting smoking the Vesper cigar. (Frank 
would do it, and his mother actually lighted his cigar for him now, 
enjoining him straightway after to go to bed.) Kew smoked and 
looked at a star shining above in the heaven. Which is that star ? he 
asked: and the accomphshed young diplomatist answered it was 
Jupiter, 

** What a lot of things you know, George ! " cries the senior, 
delighted ; " You ought to have been the elder, you ought, by Jupiter. 
But you have lost your chance this time.'* 



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S78 THB KHrOOMBft. 

" Yw, thank God ! ^ Bays Geof)ge. 

*' AimI I am going to be all right-HUid to tdm ove^ a new leaf, old 
boy — ^and psBte down the old oneSj eh? I wrote to Martins this 
morning to have all my horses sold ; and I*U neyer bet again^'Hso help 
me— so help me, Jupiter. I made a vow^— a promke to myself, yov 
see, that I wouldn't if I recoTered. And I wrote to eousin Ethel this 
morning. — As I thought over the matter yood^, I fett quite certdn 
I was right, and that we could never, never pull together. Now the 
Countess is gone, I wonder whether I was right — to give up sixty 
thousand pounds, and the prettiest girl in London ? " 

" Shall I take horses and go after her ? My mother's gone to bed, she 
won't know," asked George. '* Sixty thousand is a lot of money to lose." 

Eew laughed. '' If you were to go and tell our grandmother that 
I could not live the night through ; and that you would be Lord Eew 
in the morning, and your son, Yiscount Walham, I think the 
Countess would make up a match between you and the sixty thousand 
pounds, and the prettiest girl in England : she would by— by Jupiter. 
I intend only to swear by the heathen gods now, Georgy. — ^No, I sun 
not sorry I wrote to Ethel. What a fine girl she is ! — I don't mean 
her beauty merely, but such a noble bred one \ And to think that 
there she is in the maiket to be knocked down to. — I say, I was going 
to call that three-year-old, Ethelinda.— We must christen her orer 
again for Tattersall's, Georgy." 

A knock is heard through an adjoining door, and a maternal voice 
cries, '* It is time to go to bed." So the brothers part, and, let us hope, 
sleep soundly. 

The Countess of Kew, meanwhile, has returned to Baden ; where, 
though it is midnight when she arrives, and the old lady has had two 
long bootless journeys, you will be grieved to hear that she does not 
sleep a single wink. In the morning she hobbles over to the Newcome 
quarters ; and Ethel comes down to her pale and calm. How is her 
father? He has had a good night : he is a little better, speaks more 
clearly, has a little more the use of his limbs. 

" I wish / had had a good night ! " groans out the Countess. 

*^ I thought you were going to Lord Kew, at Kehl," remarked her 
granddaughter. 

** I did go, and returned with wretches who would not bring me mere 
than five miles an hour ! I dismissed that brutal gnnning courier ; 
and I have given warning to that fiend of a maid." 

"And Frank is pretty well, grandmamma f* 

" Well ! He looks as pink as a girl in h«r first season ! I found 
him, and his brother George, and their mamma. I think Maria was 
hearing them their catechism," cries the old lady. 

** N. and M. together 1 Very pretty," says Ethel, grately. " George 
has always been a good boy, i^d it is quite time for my Lotd Eew to 
begin." 



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Tiis »«roouia 879 

The elder lady lodked at hex descendant, but Miss EthelVi glance 
was ifopenetfable. ^ I soj^se yob can fiancj, my dear, why I came 
back r'flttd Lady Kew. 

'' Because you quarrelled wi%h Lady Walham, grandmamma. I tbink 
I have heard that there used to be differences between you." Miss 
Newoome was amed for defence and attack ; in which cases we have 
said Lady Kew did not care to assault her. " My grandson told iue 
that he Issd written to you/* the Countess said. 

** Yes : and had you waited but half an hour yesterday, you might 
have spared me the humiliation of that journey." 

" You — the humiliation— Ethel ! " 

** Yes, me" Ethel flashed out. " Do you suppose it is none to have 
me bandied about from bidder to bidder, and offered for sale to a gentleman 
who will not buy me ? Why have you and all my family been so eager to 
get rid of me ? Why should you suppose or desire that Lord Kew should 
like me? Hasn*t he the Opera; and such friends as Madame la 
Duchesse d'lvry, to whom your ladyship introduced him in early life ? 
He told me so : and she was good enough to inform me of the rest. 
What attractions have I in comparison with such women ? And to this 
man from whom I am parted by good fortune ; to this man who writes 
to remind me that we are separated— ryour ladyship must absolutely go 
and entreat him to give me another tried I It is too much, grandmamma. 
Do please to let me stay where I am ; and worry me with no more 
schemes for my establishment in life. Be contented with the happiness 
which you have secured for Clara PuUeyn and Barnes ; and leave me to 
take care of my poor father. Here I know I am doing right. Here, 
at least, there is no such sorrow, and doubt, and shame, for me, as my 
friends have tried to make me endure. There is my father's bell. He 
likes me to be with him at breakfast and to read his paper to bim." 

" Stay a little, Ethel," cried the Countess, with a trembling voice. 
** I am older than your father, and you owe me a little obedience, that 
is, if children do owe any obedience to their parents now-a-days. I 
don't know. I am an old woman — the world perhaps has changed 
since my time ; and it is you who ought to command, I dare say, and 
we to follow. Perhaps I have been wrong all through life, and in trying 
to teach my children to do as I was made to do. God knows I have 
had very little comfort from them : whether they did or whether they 
didn't. You and Frank I had set my heart on; I loved you out of all 
my grandchildren — ^was it very unnatural that I should wish to see you 
together? For that boy I have been saving money these years past. 
He flies back to the arms of his mother, who has been pleased to hate 
me as only such virtuous people can; who took away my own son 
from me ; and now his son — ^towards whom the only fault I ever com- 
mitted was to spoil him and be too fond of him. Don't leave me too, 
my child. Let me have something that I can like at my years. And 
I like your pride, Ethei^ and your beauty^ my dear ; and I am not angry 
with your hard words; and if I wish to see you in the place in life 



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380 THB KSWCOlfK. 

which becomes you— do I do wrong? No. SOly girl ! There — give 
me the little hand. How hot it is ! Mine is as cold as a stone — ^and 
shakes, doesn't it ? — Eh ! it was a pretty hand once ! What did Ann — 
what did your mother say to Frank's letter ? " 

" I did not show it to her/* Ethel answered. 

** Let me see it, my dear," whispered Lady Kew, in a coaxing way. 

** There it is," said Ethel, pointing to the fire-place, where there lay 
some torn fragments and ashes of paper. It was the same fire-place at 
which Clive*s sketches had been burned. 



END OF VOL. I. 




BBADBUBT AKD STAMP, FAUrTXB8» WHIISFRIABS. 



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