The Newcomes : Memoirs of a Most Respectable Family.

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THE EFFECT OF THE GENERAL'S SONG.

THE NEWCOMES.

WILT R.AY.

THE NEWCOMES.

MEMOIRS OF A MOST RESPECTABLE FAMILY.

EDITED BY

ARTHUR PENDENNIS, Esq.

BY

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

CHICAGO AXD NEW YORK:
BELFORD, CLARKE & COMPANY,

PUBUSHKB&

Tnows

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
NEW YORK.

CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAG«.

I. The Overture — After which the Curtain rises upon

a Drinking Chorus 7

II. Colonel Newcome's Wild Oats 19

III. Colonel Newcome's Letter-Box 32

IV. In which the Author and the Hero resume their

Acquaintance 37

V. Clive's Uncles 45

VI. Newcome Brothers 60

VII. In which Mr. Clive's School-days are over 71

VIII. Mrs. Newcome at Home (A small early Party) 7S

IX. Miss Honeyman's 93

X. Ethel and her Relations 107

XI. At Mrs. Ridley's 118

XII. In which Everybody is asked to Dinner 133

XIII. In which Thomas Newcome sings his last Song. . . 140

XIV. Park Lane 147

XV. The Old Ladies 157

XVI. In which Mr. Sherrick lets his House in Fitzroy

Square 167

XVII. A School of Art 173

XVIII. New Companions 181

XIX. The Colonel at Home • 186

XX. Contains more Particulars of the Colonel and his

Brethren 194

XXI. Is Sentimental but Short 204

XXII. Describes a visit to Paris; with Accidents and Inci-
dents in London 212

XXIII. In which we hear a Soprano and a Contralto 226

XXIV. In which the Newcome Brothers once more meet

together in Unity 239

XXV. Is passed in a Public House 252

vl

CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAr.a.

XXVI. In which Colonel Xewcome's Horses are sold 263

XXVI I. Youth and Sunshine 273

XXVIII. In which Clive begins to see the World 2S2

XXIX. In which Barnes comes a wooing 301

XXX. A Retreat 310

XXXI. Madame la Duchesse 325

XXXII. Barnes's Courtship 336

XXXIII. Lady Kew at the Congress 344

XXXIV. The End of the Congress of Baden 354

XXXV. Across the Alps 372

XXXVI. In which M. de Florae is promoted 380

XXXVII. Returns to Lord Kew 392

XXXVIII. In which Lady Kew leaves his Lordship quite Con-
valescent . . '. 399

XXXIX. Amongst the Painters . 411

XL. Returns from Rome to Pall Mall 424

XLI. An Old Story 432

XLII. Injured Innocence 446

XLI II. Returns to some old Friends 459

XLIV. In which Mr. Charles Honeyman appears in an

amiable Licrht 469

XLV. A Stag of Ten 4S2

XLVI. The " Hotel de Florae " 489

XLVII. Contains two or three acts of a little Comedy 500

XLVI II. In which Benedick is a Married Man.. . . 518

XLIX. Contains at least six more Courses and two Desserts 528

L. Clive in new Quarters 536

LI. An old Friend 543

LI I. Family Secrets 552

LI II. In which Kinsmen fall out 563

LIV. Has a Tragical Ending 581

LV. Barnes's Skeleton Closet '. . . . . 588

LVI. Rosa quo Locorum Sera Moratur 597

LVII. Rosebury and Newcome 604

LVI 1 1. -• One more LTnfortunate " 623

LIX. In which Achilles loses Briseis 629

LX. In which we write to the Colonel 649

LXI. In which Ave are introduced to a new Newcome. . . . 654

LX 1 1. Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome 659

LXIII. Mrs. Clive at Home 667

LXI V. Absit Omen 676

LXV. In which Mrs. Clive comes into her Fortune 682

LXVI. In which the Colonel and the Xewcome Athenaeum

are both lectured 693

LXVII. Newcome and Liberty 703

LXVI 1 1. A Letter and a Reconciliation 710

LXIX. The Election 716

LXX. Chiltern Hundreds 728

LXXI. In which Mrs. Clive Xewcome's Carriage is ordered 735

CONTENTS.

vu

CHAP.

LXXII.

LXXIII.

LXXIV.

LXXV.

LXXVI.

LXXVII.

LXXVI 1 1.

LXXIX.

LXXX.

T, ,. . PAGE.

Belisanus j,r

In which Relisarius Returns from Exile 752

In which Clive begins the World 761

Founder's Day at Grey Friars 770

Christmas at Rosebury 781

The shortest and happiest in the whole History 788

In which the Author goes on a pleasant Errand. . . 791

In which old Friends come together 799

In which the Colonel says "Adsum" when his

Name is called gI0

THE NEWCOMES.

CHAPTER I.

THE OVERTURE AFTER WHICH THE CURTAIN RISES UPON A

DRINKING CHORUS.

A 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 goggling out of his head in a manner which appeared
quite ridiculous to the old blackamoor, who watched the splay-
footed slimy wretch with that peculiar grim humor belonging to
crows. Not far from the frog a fat ox was browsing ; while a
few lambs frisked about the meadow, or nibbled the grass and
buttercups there.

Who should come in to the further end of the field but a
wolf ! He was so cunningly dressed up in sheep's clothing,
that the very lambs did not know master wolf ; nay, one of
them, whose dam the wolf had just eaten, after which he had
thrown her skin over his shoulders, ran up innocently toward
the devouring monster, mistaking him for her mamma.

" He-he ! " says a fox, sneaking round the hedge-paling,
over which the tree grew whereupon the crow was perched look-
ing down on the frog who was staring with his goggle eyes lit
to burst with envy, and croaking abuse at the ox. M How ab-
surd those lambs are ! Yonder silly little knock-kneed baah-
lingdoes not know the old wolf dressed in the sheep's fleece
He is the same old rogue who gobbled up little Red Riding

8 THE NEWCOMER

Hood's grandmother for lunch, and swallowed little Red Riding
Hood for supper. Tirez la bobifiette et la chcvillette 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 ! 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 off the
face of the earth," said the 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 ; " I was the com-
panion of Pallas Minerva; I am frequently represented in the
Egyptian monuments."

l* 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 board 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
the tree.

THE XEWCOVES. 9

" A fig for her hieroglyphics ! " said the fox, looking up at
the crow in the tree. " What airs our slow neighbor gives her-
self ! She pretends to all the wisdom ; whereas, your rever-
ences, the crows, are endowed with gifts far superior to those
benighted old bigwigs of owls, who blink in the darkness, and
call their hooting singing. How noble it is to hear a chorus of
crows ! There are twenty-four brethren of the Order of St.
Corvinus, 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 favor
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 supe-
rior 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 mo-
lest 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 terrific yell filled the field that all
its inhabitants started with terror. It was from a donkey, who
had somehow 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 im-
mediately 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 his tail ; without which he was obliged to go into
the world, pretending, forsooth, that it was the fashion not

io THE NEWCOMER

to wear tails any more, and that the fox-party were better with-
out 'em.

Meanwhile, a boy with a stick came up, and belabored 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 dis-
turbance, flounced into the face of a ploughboy, 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.

" What a farrago of old fables is this ! What a dressing
up in old clothes ! " says the critic. (I think I see such a one
— a Solomon that sits in judgment over us authors, and chops
up our children.) "As sure as I am just and wise, modest,
learned, and religious, so surely I have read something very
like this stuff and nonsense about jackasses and foxes before.
That wolf in sheep's clothing ! — do I not know him ? That fox
discoursing with the crow ! — have I not previously heard of him ?
Yes, in Lafontaine's fables : let us get the Dictionary and the
Fable and the Biographie Universelle, article Lafontaine, and
confound the impostor."

" Then in what a contemptuous way," may Solomon go on
to remark, " does this author speak of human nature ! There
is scarce one of these characters 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 bloodthirsty hypocrite,
wearing the garb of innocence ; the ass in the lion's skin, a
quack trying to terrify, by assuming the appearance of a forest
monarch (does 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 critic's business to
sneer at them for sneering. He must pretend to be their supe-
rior, 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 ;

THE NEWCOMES. H

dupes and knaves ; long-eared Neddies, giving themselves leo-
nine 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 ^Esop : and asses
under lion's manes roared in Hebrew ; and sly foxes flattered
in Etruscan ; 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 (feather-
/ess) 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 wear peacock's feathers, and awaken the just
ridicule of the peacocks ; in which, while every justice is done
to the peacocks themselves, the splendor of their plumage, the
gorgeousness of their dazzling necks, and the magnificence of
their tails, exception will yet be taken to the absurdity of their
rickety strut, and the foolish discord of their pert squeaking ; in
which lions in love will have their claws pared by sly virgins ;
in which rogues will sometimes triumph, and honest folks, let
us hope, come by their own ; in which there will be black crape
and white favors ; in which there will be tears under orange-
flower wreaths and jokes in mourning-coaches ; in which there
will be 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 liberal 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

I2 THE NEWCOMES.

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 cen-
tury ; when the zest of life was certainly keener ; when tavern
wines seemed to be delicious, and tavern dinners the perfection
of cookery ; when the perusal of novels was productive of im-
mense delight, and the monthly advent of magazine-day was
hailed as an exciting holiday ; when to know Thompson, who
had written a magazine-article, was an honor 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 them 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 born (as yearling brides
provide lace caps, and work rich clothes, for the expected
darling) ; when to ride in the Park on a ten-shilling hack
seemed to be the height of fashionable enjoyment, and to
splash your college tutor as you were driving down Regent
Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire ; when 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 owt youth
then that I met one or two of the characters who are to figure
in this history, and whom J must ask leave to accompany for a
short while, and until, familiarized with the public, they can
make their own way. As I recall 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 merry days, with some young fellows of my own age,
having listened delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of
operas, and laughed enthusiastically at the farce, we became

THE NEWCOMES.

n

naturally hungry at twelve o'clock at bight, and a desire for
welsh-rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the Cave of
Harmon v. 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 with 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, O Hoskins, bird of the night ? Do you warble
your songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses 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 dare say 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 senti-
mental 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 mustaches, 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 mustaches 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 was 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.

" 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 Porson. I told him your
name, and that vou used to be very kind to me when I first
went to SmithtieM. I've left now ; I'm to have a private tutoif.

1 4 THE NEWCOMES.

I say, I've got such a jolly pony ! It's better fun than old
Snuffle,"

Here the whiskered gentleman, Xewcome's father, pointing
to a waiter to follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water,
strode across the room, twirling his mustaches, 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 himself 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 mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers, after
the manner of the stranger, and flapping about his pocket-
handkerchief in the most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked
this ribaldry by sternly looking toward Xadab, 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.

Xewcome'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 re-
spectful 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 Xewcome 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 pueris" says Jones (a fellow of very kind
feeling, who has gone into the Church since), and writing on

THE XEWCOMES. j5

his card to Hoskins hinted to him that a boy was in the room,
and a gentleman, who was quite a greenhorn : hence that the
songs had better be carefully selected.

And so they were. A lady's school might have come in,
and but for the smell of the cigars and brandy-and-water have
taken no harm by what happened. Why should it not always
be so ! If there are any Caves of Harmony now, I warrant
Messieurs the landlords, their interests would be better con-
sulted by keeping their singers within bounds. The very
greatest scamps like pretty songs, and are melted by them : so
are honest people. It was worth a guinea to see the simple
Colonel, and his delight at the music. He forgot all about the
distinguished wits whom he had expected to see in his ravish-
ment over the glees.

" I say, Clive : this is delightful. This is better than your
aunt's concert with all the Squallinis, hey? I shall come here
often. Landlord : may I venture to ask those gentlemen if
they will take any refreshments ? What are their names ? (to
one of his neighbors) 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 Incledon ! " He became quite
excited over his sherry-and-water — (" I'm sorry to see you,
gentlemen, drinking brandy-pawnee," says he. " It plays the
deuce with our young men in India.") He joined in all the
choruses with an exceedingly sweet voice. He laughed at the
Derby Ram so that it did good to hear him : and when Hoskins
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 said, " Thank you, Sir,
for that song ; it is an honor to human nature." On which
Hoskins began to cry too.

And now young Nadab having been cautioned, commenced
one of those surprising feats of improvisation with which he
used to charm audiences. He took us all off, and had rhymes
pat about all the principal persons in the room : King's pins
(which he wore very splendid), Martin's red waistcoat, <xx.
The Colonel was charmed with each feat, and joined delighted
with the chorus — Ritolderolritolderol ritolderolderay {bis). And
when coming to the Colonel himself, he burst out —

A military gent I see — and while his face I scan,

I think you'll all agree with me — He came from Hindostan.

And by his side sits laughing free — A youth with curly head,

I think you'll all agree with me — that he was best in bed. Ritolderol," &c

l6 THE KEWCOMES.

The Colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped
his son, young Give, on the shoulder. " Hear what he says of
you, sir ? Give, best be off to bed, my boy — ho, ho ! Xo, no.
We know a trick worth two 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 none
when I was a young chap, and the severity was nearly 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. Xadab ? Mr. Xadab ; sir, you have delighted me. May
I make so free as to ask you to come and dine with me to-
morrow at six. Colonel Xewcome, if you please, Nerot's
Hotel, Clifford Street. I am always proud to make the ac-
quaintance of men of genius, and you are one, or my name is
not Xewcome.

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

ki Of course, my dear sir," says the enthusiastic Colonel,
" I'll send them all over India. Put me down for six copies,
and do me the favor 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 offered to sing himself, at which the room applauded
vociferously ; while methought poor Give Xewcome 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, with
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 pa-
thetically 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 and rapped their sticks with quite a respectful enthu-
siasm. When the song was over, Give held up his head too ;
after the shock of the first verse, looked round with surprise

THE XEWCOMES. jj

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 something
touching in the naivete and kindness of the placid and simple
gentleman.

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 song, sir ; " and he bowed to the
Colonel politely over his glass of brandy-and-water, of which he
absorbed a little in his customer's honor. "I have not heard
that song," he was kind enough to say, " better performed since
Mr. Incledon sung it. He was a great singer, sir, and I may
say, in the words of our immortal Shakspeare, 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 afterward, 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.

While he was singing his ballad, there had walked, or
rather reeled, into the room, a gentleman in a military frock
coat and duck trousers 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 con-
dition 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 neighbor the Colonel; "was a captain in the

fg THE NEWCOMES.

army. We call him the General. Captain Costigan, will you
take something to drink ?"

" Bedad I will," says the Captain, " and I'll 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 tipsy 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 ! " 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 among Christians and men of
honor, and defile the ears of young boys with this wicked
balderdash ! "

" 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
gentlemen," 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
dishonor, drunkenness and whiskey may bring a man. Never
mind the change, sir ! — Curse the change ! " 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 galere ? " says

THE NEWCOMES.

*9

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.

CHAPTER II.

COLONEL NEWCOME'S WILD OATS.

As the young 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 cushions on their heads, over which they
tied their own hair, and disguised it with powder and pomatum :
when ministers went in their stars and orders to the House
of Commons, 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 con-
fessed, 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. Alder-
man 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 wagon, 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 Newcome's would pay the Herald's
office handsomely, living, as they do, among the noblest of the
land, and giving entertainments to none but the very highest
nobility and e'lite of the fashionable and diplomatic world, as
you may read any day in the newspapers. For though these
Newcomes have 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

20 THE XEWCOMES.

founder slain by King Harold's side at Hastings had been sur-
geon-barber to King Edward the Confessor ; yet, between our-
selves, I think that Sir Brian Newcome. of Newcome, does not
believe a word of the story, any more than the rest of the world
does, although a number of his children bear names out of the
Saxon Calendar.

Was Thomas Newcome a foundling — a workhouse child out
of that village, which has now become a great manufacturing
town, and which bears his name ? Such was the report set
about at the last election, when Sir Brian, in the Conservative
interest, contested the borough ; and Mr. Yapp, the out-and-out
Liberal candidate, had a picture of the old workhouse placard-
ed over the town as the birth-place of the Xewcome's ; and
placards ironically exciting freemen to vote for Newcome and
union — Newcome and the parish interests, &c. Who cares for
these local scandals ? It matters very little to those who have
the good fortune to be invited to Lady Ann Newcome's parties
whether her beautiful daughters can trace their pedigrees no
higher than to the alderman their grandfather ; or whether,
through the mythic ancestral barber-surgeon, they hang on to
the chin of Edward Confessor and King.

Thomas Newcome, who had been a weaver in his native
village, brought the very best character for honesty, thrift and
ingenuity with him to London, where he was taken into the
house of Hobson Brothers, cloth-factors ; aftenvards Hobson
and Newcome. This fact may suffice to indicate Thomas New-
come'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 the City of
London.

But it was only en secondes twees that he espoused the wealthy,
and religious, and eminent (such was the word applied to cer-
tain professing Christians in those days) Sophia Alethea Hob-
son— a woman who, considerably older than Mr. Newcome. had
the advantage of surviving him many years. Her mansion at
Clapham was long the resort of the most favored among the
religious world. The most eloquent expounders, the most
gifted missionaries, the most interesting converts from foreign
islands, were to be found at her sumptuous table, spread with
the produce of her magnificent gardens. Heaven indeed
blessed those gardens with plenty, as many reverend gentlemen
remarked ; there were no finer grapes, peaches, or pine-apples,
in all England. Mr. Whitfiekf himself christened her ; and it
was ^aid generallv in the City, and by her friends, that

THE NEIVCOMES. 21

.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 nowr no more ; but Sophia Ter-
race, Upper and Lower Alethea Road, and Hobson's Buildings,
Square, <xx., show, every quarter-day, that the ground sacred to
her (and freehold) still bears plenteous fruit for the descendants
of this eminent woman.

We are, however, advancing matters. When Thomas New-
come had been some time in London, he quitted the house of
Hobson, finding an opening, though in a much smaller way, for
himself. And no sooner did his business prosper, than he
went down into the north, like a man, to a pretty girl whom he
had left there, and whom he 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 was
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 busi-
ness 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 Clap-
ham, 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 entertainments
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 savory
flesh-pots than at Clapham) ; he was verv moderate in his
meals, of a bilious temperament, and, besides, obliged to be in
town early in the morning, always setting oft" to walk an hoHl
before the first coach.

22 THE NEWCOMES.

But when his poor Susan died, Miss 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 a meeting one Sunday j and the child
looked so pretty (Mr. N. was a very personable, fresh-colored
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 mer-
chant), Miss Hobson, I say, invited him and little Tommy into
the grounds of the Hermitage ; did not quarrel with the inno-
cent 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 and tattling, and the sneering and gossiping, all over
Clapham, and the talk on 'Change, and the pokes in the waist-
coat 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 Rev. Athanasius O'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 New-
come ; all these squabbles and jokes, and pribbles and prabbles,
look yon, may be ommitted. 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 familiar"), 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 honors senatorial or blood-
red hands. " It wouldn't do," with his good sense he said ;
" the Quaker connection wouldn't like it." His wife never
cared about being called Lady Newcome. To manage the ^.reat

THE NEU'COMES. 23

house of Hobson Brothers and Newcome ; to attend to the
interests of the enslaved negro ; to awaken the benighted Hot-
tentot 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 right way ; 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 untired on her knees after a long day's labor,
while florid rhapsodists belabored cushions above her with
wearisome benedictions ; all these things had this woman to
do, and for near fourscore years she fought her fight woman-
fully : imperious but deserving to rule, hard but doing her duty,
severe but charitable, and untiring in generosity as in labor :
unforgiving 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 congratulated 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 gentle-
men prayed they importuned Heaven for that sainted woman
a long time before they thought of asking any favor for her hus-
band. The gardeners touched their hats, the clerks at the
bank brought him the books, but they took their orders from
her, not from him. I think he grew weary of the prayer-meet-
ings, he yawned over the sufferings of the negroes, and wished
the converted Jews at Jericho. About the time the French Em-
peror 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
Sarah his nurse were transported from the cottage where they
had lived in great comfort to the palace hard by, surrounded
by lawns and gardens, pineries, graperies, aviaries, luxuries of
all kinds. This paradise, five miles from the standard at Corn-
hill, was separated from the outer world by a thick hedge of tall
trees, and an ivy-covered porter's gate, through which they who
travelled to London on the top of the Clapham coach could only
get a glimpse of the bliss within. It was a serious paradise.
As you entered at the gate, gravity fell on you ; and decorum

«4 THE NEWCOMES.

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 with a hundred cook-maids, on
passing that lodge fell into an undertaker's pace, and delivered
his joints and sweetbreads silently at the servant's entrance.
The rooks in the elms cawed sermons at morning and evening ;
the peacocks walked demurely on the terraces ; the guinea-
fowls looked more quaker-like than those savory birds usually
do. The lodge-keeper was serious, and a clerk at a neighbor-
ing chapel. The pastors 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 pro-
visionally, 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 farthest. 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 house-
hold marched away in separate couples or groups to at least
half a dozen of religious edifices, each to sit under his or her
favorite minister, the only man who went to Church being
Thomas Xewcome, 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
after he could speak, appropriate to his tender age, pointing out
to him the inevitable fate of wicked children, and giving him
the earliest possible warning and description of the punish-
ment of little sinners. He repeated these poems to his
step-mother after dinner, before a great, shining mahogany
table, covered with grapes, pine-apples, plum-cake, 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.

Nurse Sarah or Aunt Sarah would have died had she re-
mained many years in that stifling garden of Eden. She could
not bear to part from the child whom her mistress and kins-
woman had confided to her (the women had worked in the same
room at Newcome's, and loved each other always, when Susan

THE NEWCOMES. 2K

became a merchant's lady and Sarah her servant). She was
nobody in the pompous new household but Master Tommy's
nurse. The 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 cate-
chisms which he was bidden to learn (by Rev. T. Clack, of
Highbury College, his daily tutor, who was commissioned to
spare not the rod neither to spoil the child), all these causes
induced Sarah to remain with her young master until such time
as he was sent to school.

Meanwhile an event of prodigious importance, a wonder-
ment, a blessing 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 ap-
peared in the Clapham Paradise — the twins Hobson Newcome
and Brian Newcome, called after their uncle and late grand-
father, 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 New-
come was accordingly sent, exchanging — O ! ye Gods ! with
what delight — the splendor 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 : fibbing out and receiving the
penalty therefor: bartering 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 lie had

2 6 THE NE WCOMES.

plenty) to spend. I have seen his name carved upon the Gown
JBoys' 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 New-
come, that he did not care to go home for a holiday : and
indeed, by insubordination and boisterousness ; by playing
tricks and breaking windows ; by marauding upon the gar-
dener's peaches and the housekeeper's jam \ by upsetting his
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 step-mother ; and many punishments in
this present life, besides those of a future and much more dur-
able 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 j but upon being pressed to repeat the
whipping for some other peccadillo performed soon after, Mr.
Nevvcome refused at once, using a wicked, worldly expression,
that well might shock any serious lady ; saying, in fact, that he
would be d — d 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 footman (for the lashings of whose
brethren she felt an unaffected pity) to operate together in the
chastisement of this young criminal. But he dashed so furi-
ously against the butler's shins as to draw blood from his
comely limbs, and to cause that serious and overfed menial to
limp and 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 reared
he made use of further oaths, which hasty ejaculations need not
be set down in this place ; at any rate he behaved with spirit

THE XEU'COMES.

*1

and manliness as master of the house, vowed that if any ser-
vant laid a hand on the child, he would thrash him first and
then discharge him ; and I daresay expressed himself with bit-
terness 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. Xewcome, 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
temporan- 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 honor. 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,
watchful and affectionate, than his step-mother showed herself
to be. She nursed him through his illness : allowed his food
and medicine 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. New-
come — and, under this feverish delusion, actually abused her
to her face, calling her an old cat, an old Methodist, and jump-
ing 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. Xewcome gave her, and which his son and his son's
son after him, through all their difficulties and distre> ses,
always found means to pay.

YYhat 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 pi his
father, whose sure instinct, backed by Mrs. Newcome's own

28 THE NEWCOMES.

quick intelligence, had made him at once aware whither the
young runaway had tied. 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 honored, 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 quiver-
ing 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 tears, 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 wan-
dered 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.

Mrs. Newcome never made the slightest allusion to Tom's
absence after his return, but was quite gentle and affectionate
with him, and that nighfread 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 step-mother. It was not that he was very bad,
or she perhaps more stern than other ladies, but the two could
not 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 Roe-
hampton (where a delightful Hebrew convert had spoken, oh !
so graciously !) Mrs. Newcome — in her state carriage, with her
bay horses — met Tom, her step-son, 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

THE XEWCOMES. 29

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 growing 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 favorite
boo.k of all 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. Xewcome 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 fortifi-
cations with more assiduity than he had ever bestowed on
Greek and Latin, and especially made such a progress in the
French 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 Wool-
wich, 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 count rv
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, the Marquis de Blois, was a fugitive
like himself, but with the army of the princes on the Rhine, 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 Newcome the French language, and the
art military? It was surprising with what assiduity he pursued
his studies. Mademoiselle Le'onore, the chevalier's daughter,
would carry on her little industry very undisturbedly in the
same parlor with her father and his pupil. She painted card-

3o

THE NEWCOMES.

racks ; labored 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 officer 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. Sometimes 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 com-
panion in arms. Tom Newcome took no French lessons on a
Sunday. He passed that day at Clapham generally, where,
strange to sav, 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 affections to bind them elsewhere — what hap-
pens when they meet daily over French dictionaries, embroidery
frames, or indeed upon any business whatever ? No doubt
Mademoiselle Le'onore was a young lady perfectly bien elev'ee, and
ready, as every well elevated young Frenchwoman should be,
to accept a husband of her parent's 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 off-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
transaction, and was discovered by Mrs. Newcome, whose keen
spectacles nothing could escape. It chanced that she drove to
Blackheath to Tom's tutor. Tom was absent taking his French
and drawing lesson of M. de Blois. ThitherTom's step-mother
followed him, and found the young man sure enough with his
instructor over his books and plans of fortification. Mademoi-
selle and her card-screens were in the room, but behind those
screens she could not hide her blushes and confusion from Mrs.
Nevvcome'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.

Mrs. Newcome said she wanted her son to return home with

THE NEWCOMES.

3i

her upon private affairs ; and before 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 accusation with scorn,
and announcing his wish instantly to marry the most virtuous,
the most beautiful of her sex. To marry a papist ! This was
all that was wanting 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 evening.

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 his 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. The 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 honor, as it
obtained among French gentlemen of those days, or how relig-
iously their daughters were bound by it.

But Mrs. Newcome had been beforehand with him, and had
visited the Chevalier 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 ;

32

THE NEWCOMES.

and is promised to a gentleman whose ancestors were dukes
and peers when Mr. Newcome's were blacking shoes ! "
Instead of finding his pretty blushing girl on arriving at Wool-
wich, poor Tom only found his French master, livid with rage
and quivering under his ailes de pigeoji. We pass over the
scenes that followed ; the young man's passionate entreaties,
and fury and despair. In his own defence, and to prove his
honor to the world, M. de Blois determined that his daughter
should instantly marry the count. The poor girl yielded with-
out 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. Xewcome 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.

CHAPTER III.

COLONEL NEWCOME'S LETTER-BOX.
I.

" With the most heartfelt joy, my dear Major, I take up my pen to announce to you the
happy arrival of the Ram Chunder, and the dearest and handsomest little boy who, f am
sure, ever came from India. Little Clive is in perfect health. He speaks English ivonder-
fully well. He cried when he parted from Mr. Sneid, the supercargo, who most kindly
brought him from Southampton in a post-chaise, but these tears in childhood are of very
brief duration. The voyage, Mr. Sneid states, was most favorable, occupying only four
months and eleven days. How different from that more lengthened and dangerous passage
of eight months, and almost perpetual sea-sickness, 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 quit-
ted this wicked and wretched world for one where all is peace. The mister? 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, jewelry the most costly, and elegant lace, and
everything loz'ely 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 thev when this scene of vanity is
closed ?

'• Mr. Sneid announces that the passage was most favorable. They-otayed a week at the

THE NEWCOMES. 33

Ca]«, and three days at St. Helena, where they visited Bonaparte's toir.b (another instance
of the vanity of all things!) and their voyage was enlivened off Ascension by the taking of
some delicious turtle !

" You may be sure that the most liberal sum which you have placed to my credit with
the Messrs. Hobson & Co., shall be faithfully expended on my dear little charge. Mrs.
Newcome can scarcely be called his grandmamma, I suppose ; and I dare say her methodisti-
cal 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, I 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
dearClive, 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 thanks for your kindness
to me,

"Your grateful and affect

" Marth.y 1I.jm:v.man."

In a round hand and on lines ruled with pencil :

" Dearest Papa i am very well i hope you arc Very Well. Mr. Sneed brought me in a
postcliaise i like Mr, Sneed, very much, i like Aunt Martha i Lie Hannah. There are no
ships here i am your affectionate son Clive Newcome."

IT.

" Rue St. Dominique St. Germain, Pari?,
Nov. 15, 1820.

" Long separated from the country which was the horn 2 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 nobil-
ity which accompanied his august house into exile. We, however, preceded his Majesty,
more happy than many of our companions. Believing further resistance to be useless ;
dazzled, perhaps, by the brilliancy of that genius which restored order, submitted Europe,
tnd governed France : M. di 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 suffer-
ings 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
chamberlains of Napoleon. Withdrawn from the world, he gives his time to his feeble
health— to his family— to Heaven.

'' I have not forgotten a time before those days, when, according to promises given by
my father, I became the wife of M. de Florae. Sometimes I have heard of your career.
One of my parents, M. de I'.. 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 Bbartpour ; how
you escaped to death at Laswari. I have followed them, sir, on the map. I have taken
part in your victories and your glory. Ah ! I am not so cold, but my heart has tremble '• 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 endow* 1
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 wis widow, and am not sorry I i it. My
friend, I hope there was not that difference of ape 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 t" me. 1 see a noble young man, who ha
voice, and brown eyes- I see the Thames, and the smiling plaii ith. I listen

and pray at my chamber-door as my father talks to you in our little cabinet of stuih . I
look from my window, and see you depart.

1

34 THE NEWCOMES.

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

"CoMTESSE DE FLORAC.

" {Nee L. de Blois)."

III.

" My dear Thomas — Mr. Sneid, supercargo of the ' Ramchunder,' East Indiaman,
handed over to us yesterday your letter, and, to-day, I have purchased three thousand
three hundred and twenty-three pounds 6s. and Sd. three per cent. Consols, in our joint
namer (H. and B. Newcome), held for your little boy- Mr. S. gives a very favorable ac-
count 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 Ann is charmed with the present which she received yesterday, and says the
white shawl is a great deal too handsome. My mother is also greatly pleased with hers, and
has forwarded, by the coach to Brighton, to-day, a packet of books, tracts, &c, suited for
his tender age, for your little boy. She heard of you lately from the Rev. T. Sweatenham,
on his return from India. He spoke of your kindness, and of the hospitable manner in
which you had received him at your house, and alluded to you in a very 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 Ann and I will be very
happy to see him. Yours affectionately,

" B. Newcome.
" Major Newcome."

IV.

" My dear 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 infallibly 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 sister- What is
a lodging-house at Brighton but an uncertain maintenance ? The mariner on the sea before
those cliffs is no more sure of wind and wave, or of fish to his laborious net, than the Brigh-
ton hcnse-owner (bred in affluence, she may have been, and used to unremitting plentv) to
the support of the casual travellers who visit the city. On one day they come in shoais, 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. Clive is everything
that a father's, an uncle's (who love's him as a father), a pastor's, a teacher's, affections
could desire. He is not one cf 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-humor, which
are not less likely to advance him in life than mere science and language, than the as in
prcesenti, or the pons asinorum.

" But I forget, in thinking of my dear little friend and pupil, that the subject of this let-
ter— 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 holds out. What
is a curacy, but a synonym for starvation ?. If we accuse the Eremites of old of wasting their
lives in unprofitable wilderness, what shali we say to many a hermit of protectant, and so-
called civilized times, who hides his head in a solitude in Yorkshire, and buries his probably
line 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 skeptic 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 4 Go forth, Charles Honeyman, fight the good fight ; wipe the tears
of the repentant sinner ; sing of hope to the agonized criminal ; whisper couraee, 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 calcula-
tions may be established as irresistibly as an algebraic equation, that I can realize, as incum-

THE NEIVCOMES.

35

bent 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 pro-
vide amply for nay wants. 'to discharge my obligations to you, to my sister, and some other
creditors, 'verv, verv 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 unfortunate 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.

'• i .mforted 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 affectionate uncle and tutor. 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 Honevman's sti-
pendiary, 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 Mi
fiftv 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 honor as a gen-
tleman 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 dishonor your draft, I im-
plore you, my dear Colonel, not to refuse mine. My credit in this city where credit is
fJkmg\ 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 ruin 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 Hokevmax-

" 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-grandmother, the wealthy Mrs. Newcome. I pass
over words disparaging of myself, which the child in his artless prattle subsequently narrated.
She was verv gracious to him, and presented him with a five-;.ound note, a copy of Kirk
White's Poems, and a work called Little Henry and his Bearer, relating to India, and the
excellent Catechism of our Church. Clive is full of humor, and I inclose 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."

" My dear Colonel. — 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
ore 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 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 how, 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 wo oily-headed poor little
mulattos, whose father was in jail at St. Kitts, and whom I kept actually in my own second
floor La:k room while the lawyers were settling thiols, 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 could not do better than

stay with his old aunt and have his uncle Ch.i .one of the finest scholars

in the world. I wish yon 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

his book oi el . which are pronounced to be :v

" When he returned from Calais, and those horrid lawyers had left off worritting him, I
much shattered and he was too weak to take a curacy, that he
c.'u'M not do better than become Clive's tutor, and agreed to pay him oat of yourli >
donation of .£250 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 consideration, I think you will see that M
great profit is left to Miss Martha Honeyman.

3^

THE NEWCOMES.

" Charles talks to me of his new church in London, and of making me some grand allow-
ance- The poor boy is very affectionate, and always building castles in the air, and of
having Clive to live with him in London, nozu this musi^t be, and I won't Juar 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 Bur-
rampooter, the 23d 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 lie is a wonder at drawing.

" Instead then of allowing Clive to 2:0 with Charles to London next month, where my
brother is bent on going, I shall send Givey to Dr. Timpany's school, Marine-parade, of
which I hear the best account, but 1 hope you will think of soon sending him to a great
school. My father always said it was the best place for boys, and I have a brother to whom
my poor mother spared the rod, and who, I fear, has turned out but a spoiled child.

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

Martha honeyman.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, C.B."

VI.

" My dear Brother — 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 12-1 3th, 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 endeavoring 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 sneechless, but still sensible, and medical
aid being sent for, she was carried to bed. Mr. Newcome and Lady Ann 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 moanings, 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 affectionate 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 New-come's property being divided
equally among 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 breakfast, 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 affection
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 sincerely,

M H. Newcome.

" Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, &c"

THE NEWCOMES. ^

CHAPTER IV.

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR AND THE HERO RESUME THEIR
ACQUAINTANCE.

If 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 gentleman'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 clown 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 youth interesting — to
the parent who nursed him, to the fond' wife or child mayhap
afterward 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. Clive Newcome, of whose history I am the Chronicler,
only so much as is sufficient to account for some peculiarities of
his character, and for his subsequent career in the world.

Although we were school-fellows, 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 Chief Justice on the bench, than the
newly-breeched infant in the Petties with the senior boy in a
tailed coat. As we ''knew each other at home," as our school
phrase was, and our families were somewhat acquainted, New-
come's maternal uncle, the Rev. Charles Honeyman (the highly-
gifted preacher, and incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's Chapel,
Denmark Street, May Fair), when he brought the child after
the Christmas vacation of 182 — to the Grey Friar's school,
recommended him in a neat complimentary speech to my

38 THE NEWCOMES.

superintendence and protection. My uncle, Major Pendennls,
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 Honorable East India Company ; and that
his uncles, the Colonel's half-brothers, were the eminent bankers,
heads of the firm of Hobson Brothers & Newcome, Hobson
Newcome, Esquire, Bryanstone Square, and Marblehead, Sussex,
and Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome, and Park Lane, " whom
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 little nephew in my presence in terms
equally 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 child, who received the money with
rather a queer twinkle in his blue eyes.

After that day's school, I met my little protege in the
neighborhood of a pastry-cook's, regaling himself with rasp-
berry tarts. " You must not spend all that money, sir, which
your uncle gave you," said I (having perhaps even at that early
age a slightly satirical turn), "in tarts and gingerbeer."

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

V How much ? " says the Grand Inquisitor ; for the formula
of interrogation used to be, when a new boy came to the
school, " What's your name ? Who's your father ? and how
much money have you got ?"

" The little fellow pulled 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
Ann gave me one pound five; and Aunt Honeyman sent me
Jen shillings in a letter. And Ethel wanted to give me a

THE XEWCOMES.

39

pound, only I wouldn't have it, you know ; because Ethel's
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
Ann's daughter. There's Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Ann
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
trouser'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 an
hour before the Fifth and Sixth Forms ; and many a time I
used to find my little blue jacket in waiting, with his honest
square face, and white hair, and bright blue eyes, and I knew
that he was come to draw on his bank. Ere long one of the
prettv 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. '' Didn't I pitch into him, that's all ? " says he
in the elation of victor}- ; 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 Xew-
come) wouldn't stand it."

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

Poor Costigan's outrageous behavior had caused my meet-
ing with my schoolfellow of early days to terminate so abruptly
and unpleasantly, that I scarce expected to see C'live again, or
at any rate to renew my acquaintance with the indignant East
India warrior who had quitted our company in such a huff.
Breakfast, r.owever, was scarcely over in my chambers the nexl

4o THE NEIVCOMES.

morning, when there came a knock at the outer door, and my
clerk introduced, "Colonel Newcome and Mr. Newcome."'

Perhaps the (j0mt) 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, 1 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 appear-
ance of the visitors, as he would not have been had the Arch-
bishop 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 his 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 of! 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 apologize for my abrupt behavior. 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 say-
ing a word of thanks or good night, to my son's old friend. I
owe you a shake of the hand for last night, Mr. Pendennis."
And, so saying, he was kind enough to give me his hand a
second time.

'"And this is the abode of the Muses, is 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 pat-
ronize Grey Friars men." " Smiffle," it must be explained, is
a fond abbreviation 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 neighboring 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

THE NRWCOMES. 41

on board Bengalee Budgerows ; and are their leaves floating on
the yellow banks of Jumna ? " asks Warrington, that skeptic,
who respects no work of modern genius.

M I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta," says the
Colonel, simply. " I dare say 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 where
Walter runs away with Neajra, and the General can't pursue
them, though he has got the post-chaise at the door, because
Tim OToole has hidden his wooden-leg ! By Jove, it's capital L
— 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 New-
come. 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, and a cab 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 profes
sion 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 from being shot. A man can not have all the advantages
of life. Who would not be poor if he could be sure of pos
ing genius, and winning fame and immortality, sir ? Think of
I )r. Johnson, what a genius he had, and where did he live ? In
apartments that I dare say were no better than these, which I
am sure, gentlemen, are most cheerful and pleasant," says the
Colonel, thinking he had offended us. " One of the great pleas-
ures and delights which I had proposed to myself on coming

42

THE NEWCOMES.

home was to be allowed to have the honor of meeting with men
of learning and genius, with wits, poets, and historians, if I may
be so fortunate : and of benefitting by their conversation. 1
left England too young to have that privilege. In my father's
house 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. Pen-
dennis's poverty, or 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 us,
" excuse me, is that — that paper really a proof-sheet ? " We
handed over to him that curiosity, smiling at the enthusiasm of
the honest gentleman who could admire what to us was as un-
palatable as a tart to a pastry-cook.

Being with men of letters he thought proper to make his
conversation entirely literary, and in the course of my subse-
quent 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 subjects utterly unworthy of notice.

I found he believed Dr. Johnson to be the greatest of men:
the Doctor's words were constantly in his mouth ; and he never
travelled without Boswell's Life. Besides these, he read Ccesar
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 Grammar, 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 Don Quixote are the finest gentlemen in the world." And
when we asked him his opinion of Fielding —

" ' Tom Jones,' sir ; ' Joseph Andrews ! ' sir," he cried,
twirling his moustaches. " I read them when I was a boy, when
[ 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 with Jack and Tom, the grooms in the
stables. Mrs. Newcome found me, I recollect, with one of those
books ; and thinking it might be by Mrs. Hannah More, or

THE NEWCOMES. 43

some of that sort, for it was a grave-looking volume ; and
though I wouldn't lie about that or any thing else — never did,
sir ; never, before heaven, have I told more than three lies in
my life — I kept my own council : — I say, 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 then she

shut the book, sir ; and you should have seen the look she
give 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 m the
wrong. A book, sir, that tells the story of a parcel of servants,
of a pack of footmen and ladies' maids fuddling in ale-houses !
Do you suppose I want to know what my kitmutgars and con-
somahs 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 Clive'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 heavens, my blood boib when
I think of him ! I wouldn't sit down in the same room with
such a fellow, sir. If he came in at that door, I would say,
i How dare you, you hireling ruffian, to sully with your presence
an apartment where my young friend and I are conversing
together ? where two gentlemen, 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 loose gar-
ments, puffing his cigar fiercely anon, and then waving his
yellow bandanna ; and it was by the arrival of Larkins, my
clerk, that his apostrophe to Tom Jones was interrupted ; he,
Larkins, taking care not to show his amazement, having been
schooled not to show or feel surprise at any thing 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.

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

I 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 order is not to go away without
the money."

w Confound him. a^ain," I cried. " Tell him I have no
noney in the house. He must come to-morrow.''

44 THE NEWCOMES.

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

" Xo, 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 ques-
tion. 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. He 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 gentleman 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
farther acquaintance. Come, Give."

Give, who had been deep in a volume of Hogarth's engra-
vings 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 pony ; 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
unreservedly. " My dear young friend," says he, " a thousand
pardons for what I am going to say, but as Give's friend, I
know I may take 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 momentarily 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."

THE NEWCOMES.

45

" 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 I am not mistaken. Besides, I
already have a banker in your family."

" In my family, my dear sir ? "

" Messrs. Xewcome, in Threadneedle Street, are good
enough to keep my money for me when I have any, 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.

CHAPTER V.

C L I V E ' S UNCLES.

The dinner so hospitably offered by the Colonel was gladly
accepted, and followed by many more entertainments at the
cost of that good-natured friend. He and an Indian chum of
his lived at this time at Nerot's Hotel, in Clifford Street, where
Mr. Clive, too, found the good cheer a great deal more to his
taste than the homely, though plentiful, fare at Grey Friars, at
which of course, when boys, we all turned up our noses, though
many a poor fellow, in the struggles of after-life, has looked
back with regret very likely to that well-spread youthful table.
Thus my intimacy with the father and the son grew to be con-
siderable, 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, Marblehead and Bryanstone Square ? I use.d, 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 parlor at the back, wherein, behind
the glazed partition I could see the bald heads of Newcome

46

THE NEWCOMES.

Brothers engaged ^vith 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 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 parlor 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. 1
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 monied 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."

It is certain that in his own kingdom of May Fair and St.
James's, my revered uncle was at least the banker's equal. On
my coming to London, he was kind enough to procure me invi-
tations to some of Lady Ann Newcome's evening parties in
Park Lane, as likewise to Mrs. Newcome's entertainments in
Bryanstone Square ; though, t confess, of these latter, after a
while, I was a lax and negligent attendant. " Between our-
selves, my good fellow ; " the shrewd old Mentor of those days
would say, " Mrs. Newcome's parties are not altogether select ;
nor is she a lady of the very highest breeding ; but it gives a
man a good air to be seen at his banker's house. I recommend
you to go for a few minutes whenever you are asked." And go
I accordingly did sometimes, though I always fancied, rightly
or wrongly, from Mrs. Newcome's manner to me, that she knew
I had but thirty shillings left at the bank. Once and again, in
two or three years, Mr. Hobson Newcome would meet me, and
ask me to fill a vacant place that day, or the next evening, at
his table ; which invitation I might accept or otherwise. But
one does not eat a man's salt, as it were, at these dinners.
There is nolihing sacred in this kind of London hospitality.
Your white waistcoat fills a gap in a man's table, and retires
filled 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 would be ! Some of the pleasant even-
ings I have ever spent have been when we have sate after a
great dinner, en petit comite, and abused the people who are
gone. You have your turn, mon cher ; but why not ? Do you

THE NEWCOMES.

47

suppose I fancy 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 bonne grace. E?itre nous,
Brother Hobson Xewcome is a good fellow, but a vulgar fellow;
and his wife — his wife exactly suits him."

Once a year Lady Ann 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) — once or twice in a year
Lady Ann Newcome opened her saloons for a concert and a
ball, at both of which the whole street was crowded with car-
riages, and all the great world, and some of the small, were
present. Mrs. Xewcome had her ball too, and her concert of
English music, in opposition to the Italian singers of her sister-
in-law. The music of her country, Mrs. N. said, was good
enough for her.

The truth must be told, that there was no love lost between
the two ladies. Bryanstone Square could not forget the superi-
ority of Park Lane's rank ; and the catalogue of grandees at
clear Ann'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 their knees and
worship the owners ; there are others to whom the sight of
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 envious, but
proud of her envy. She mistakes it for honesty and public
spirit. S/ie 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 friends 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
conversations. 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 hypo-
crites, 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, indepen-
dent, high-spirited woman. Both of the ladies had command
over their husbands, who were of soft natures, easily led by

48 THE NEWCOMES.

women, as, in truth, are all the males of this family. Accord-
ingly, 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 Ann, her husband, and
her flock of children fasted in Lent, and declared for the High
Church doctrine, Mrs. Hobson had paroxysms of alarm regard-
ing 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 appeared 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
as 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 seat to bring away the bag of prayer-books !
Many a good dinner did Charles Honeyman lose by assuming
that unlucky ephocl. Why did the high-priest of his diocese
order him to put it on ? It was delightful to view him after-
wards, 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, not twenty years
since, surplices were not even thought of in conjunction with
sermons : clerical gentlemen have appeared in them, and under
'he heavy hand of persecution, have sunk down in their pulpits
again, as Jack pops back into his box. Charles Honeyman'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. Newcome and her family, and lest the reader should sup-
pose that some slight offered to the writer by this wealthy and
virtuous banker's lady was the secret reason for this unfavorable
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,

THE NEWCOMES.

49

— Giles, Esquire, whom I had the honor of meeting at her

table, and who, as we walked away from Bryanstone Square,
was kind enough to discourse very freely about the relatives
whom he had just left :

M That was a good dinner, sir," said Mr. Giles, puffing the
cigar which I offered 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 that house espe-
cially, for I know where Newcome gets it. We belong to the
same livery in the City, Hobson and I, the Oystermongers'
Company, sir. and we like *>ur turtle good, I can tell you — good
and a great deal of it, you say — Hay, hay, not so bad.

" I suppose you're a young barrister, sucking 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 rela-
tive : 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 en-
gaged 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 patronizing
airs is enough to choke off anybody. ' Well, Hobson, my boy,'
says f, 'a good dinner's a good dinner; and I'll come, though
Loui.a won't, that is, can't.' "

While Mr. Giles, who was considerably enlivened by
claret, was discoursing thus candidly, his companion was
thinking how he, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, had been met that
very afternoon on the steps of the Megatherium Club by Mr.
Newcome, and had accepted that dinner, which Mrs. Giles,
with more spirit, had declined. Giles continued talking — "I'm
an old stager, I am. I don't mind the rows between the women.
I believe Mrs. Newcome 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 aristocratic, and that ; and yet my
wife says Maria, who pretends to be such a radical, never asks
us to meet the Baronet and his lady. 4 And why should she,
Loo, my dear ? ' says I. 'I don't want to meet Lady New-
come, nor Lord Kew, nor any of 'em.' Lord Kew, ain't it an
odd name ? Tearing young swell, that Lord Kew : tremendous
wild fellow. 4

50 THE NEWCOMES.

" I was a clerk in that house, sir, as a young man ; I was
there in the old woman's time, and Mr. Xewcome'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 Xewcome 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
house of many years' standing, and doing a most respectable
business, especially in the Dissenting connection." After the
business came into the hands of the Xewcome Brothers, Hob-
son Xewcome, Esq., and Sir Brian Xewcome, Bart., M.P., Mr.
Giles shows how a considerable West-end connection was like-
wise 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 uncle, better than her husband, Sir T. Xewcome. better
than her sons and successors above-mentioned, was the famous
Sophia Alethea Hobson, afterward Xewcome — of whom might
be said what Frederick the Great said of his sister, that she
was sexu femina vir ingcnio — in sex a woman, and in mind a
man. Xor 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 re-
semble the late Field Marshal Prince Blucher.

Her funeral was one of the most imposing sights ever wit-
nessed in Clapham. There was such a crowd you might have
thought it was a Derby-day. The carriages of some of the
greatest City firms, and the wealthiest Dissenting houses ;
several coaches full of ministers of all denominations, including
the Established Church ; the carriage of the Right Honorable
the Earl of Kew, and that of his daughter. Lady Ann Xew-
come, attended that revered lady's remains to their final resting-
place. Xo 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 bedroom,
after all the household was gone to rest, and was found by the
maids in the morning, inarticulate, but still alive, her head being

THE NEWCOMES. 5I

cut frightfully with the bedroom 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 faults, 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 con-
tinued. " She wculd try and know about even-body's business
out of business hours : got to know from the young clerks
what chapels they went to, and from the clergymen 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 ourselves 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 coming out of the Opera in tights and
an Opera hat, sir, like ' Froggy would a wooing go,' of a
Saturday night, too, when 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 morn-
ing, 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. Fight-
ing, tandems, four-in-hand, any thing. He and his brother —
his elder brother by a quarter of an hour — were always very
good friends ; but after Sir. 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 tor 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 me."

5 2 THE NEWCOMES.

Do not tet 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 favor. 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 Tom'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 he was a
widower, until he had been mentioned several times in the
Gazette for distinguished military service, until they began to
speak very well of him in Leadenhall Street, where the repre-
sentatives of Hobson Brothers were of course East India pro-
prietors, and until he remitted considerable sums 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 Phari-
sees 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 shipwreck, with money in his pocket. How
naturally Joseph's brothers made salaams to him, and admired
him. and did him honor, 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 bondage into renown
and credit, at least we applaud him and respect him, and are
proud of Joseph as a member of the family.

Little Clive 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 A'KTl'COMES.

53

the little man, but left him to the entire superintendence of his
own family. Then there came a large remittance from his fa-
ther, 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 Clive 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 he should
be sent to Timpany's along with her own boy. Then Clive
went from one uncle's house to another ; and was liked at both ;
and much preferred ponies 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 London tailor, to the
homely quarters and conversation of poor kind old Aunt Honey-
man at Brighton. Clive's uncles were not unkind, they liked
each other ; their wives who hated each other united in liking
Clive when they knew him and petting the wayward handsome
boy ; they were only pursuing the way of the world, which
huzzays all prosperity, and turns away from misfortunes as
from some contagious disease. Indeed, how can we see a
man's brilliant qualities if he is what we call in the shade ?

The gentlemen, Clive's uncles, who had their affairs to mind
during the day, society and the family to occupy them of even-
ings and holidays, treated their young kinsman, the Indian
Colonel's son, as other wealthy British uncles treat other young
kinsmen. They received him in his vacations kindly enough.
They tipped him when he went to school ; when he had the
whooping-cough, a confidential young clerk went round by way
of Grey Friars Square to ask after him : the sea being recom-
mended to him, Mrs. Newcome gave him change of air in Sus-
sex, and transferred him to his maternal aunt at Brighton.
Then it was bon jour. As the lodge gates closed upon him,
Mrs. Newcome's heart shut up too and confined 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 quarrel
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 cliff, and whether it is
completed, and if the China pig fattens kindly upon the new
feed.

54

THE NEWCOMES.

Clive, in the avuncular gig, is driven over the clowns to
Brighton to his maternal aunt there ; and there he is a king.
He has the best bedroom, Uncle Honeyman turning out for
him; sweetbreads for dinner — no end of jam for breakfast ; ex-
cuses from 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 Xewcome, C.B.,
who sends her shawls, ivory chessmen, scented sandal-wcod
work-boxes and kincob scarfs ; 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 resolved on taking
a house at Brighton, and letting part of the same furnished, sent
her an order for a hundred pounds toward the expenses there-
of ; who gave Mr. Honeyman, her brother, a much larger sum
of money at the period of his calamity. Is it gratitude for past
favors ? is it desire for more ? is it vanity of relationship ? is it
love for the dead sister — or tender regard for her offspring
which makes Miss Martha Honeyman so fond of her nephew ?
I never could count how many causes went to produce any given
effect or action in a person's life, and have been for my own
part many a time quite misled in my own case, fancying some
grand, some magnanimous, some virtuous reason, for an act of
which I was proud, when, lo, some pert little satirical monitor
springs up inwardly, upsetting the fond humbug which I was
cherishing — the peacock's tail wherein my absurd vanity had
clad itself — and says, " Away with this boasting ! / am the
cause of your virtue, my lad. You are pleased that yesterday
at dinner you refrained from the dry champagne ; my name is
Worldly Prudence, not Self-denial, and /caused you to refrain.
You are pleased, because you gave a guinea to Diddler ; I am
Laziness, not Generosity, which inspired you. You hug your-
self because you resisted other temptation ! Coward ! it was
because you dared not run the risk of the wrong ! Out with
your peacock's plumage ! walk off in the feathers which Nature
gave you, and thank Heaven they are not altogether black.''
In a word Aunt Honeyman was a kind soul, and such was the
splendor of dive's father, of his gifts, his generosity, his mili-
tary services,- and companionship of the battles that the lad did
really appear a young duke to her. And Mrs. Newcome was
not unkind : and if Clive had been really a young duke, I am
sure he would have had the best bedroom at Marblehead, and

THE NEWCOMES.

55

not one of the far-off little rooms in the boy's wing ; I am sure
he would have had jellies and Charlottes Russes, instead of
mere broth, chicken and batter pudding as fell to his lot ; and
when he was gone (in the carriage, mind you, not in the gig
driven by a groom), I am sure Mrs. Xewcome would have
written a letter that night to Her Grace the Duchess Dowager,
his mamma, full of praise of the dear child, his graciousness, his
beauty, and his wit, and declaring that she must love him hence-
forth 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 difference between the rich and the poor." Be it so. You
would not. But own that your next door neighbor would. Nor
is this, dear madam, addressed to 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 room, what is to become of
conversation and society !

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

-6 THE NEWCOME&

sufficient fand indeed little was wanted by 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 ot
invincible British valor — besides the splendor 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
achievements. 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 can not
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 sicken-
ing 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 Sergeants'
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 fascinating than in British India. ' Perhaps the warmth
of the sun kindles flames in the hearts of both sexes, which
would probably beat quite coolly in their native air ; else why
should Miss Brown be engaged ten days after her landing at
Calcutta ? or why should Miss Smith have half-a-dozen pro-
posals before she has been a week at the Station ! And it is
not only bachelors on whom the young ladies confer their affec-
tions ; 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,

THE NEWCOMES. 5~

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 Newcome had been often tempted to alter his condition,
and that the Indian ladies had tried numberless attacks upon
his bereaved heart, and devised endless schemes of carrying it
by assault, treason, or other mode of capture. Mrs. Casey (his
defunct wife) had overcome it by sheer pity and helplessness.
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 Newcome
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, with yellow ringlets and a guitar, hung
over the mantel-piece of the Colonel's bedchamber, where I
have often seen that work of art : and subsequently, when he
and Mr. Binnie took a house, there was hung up in the spare
bedroom a companion portrait to the miniature — that of the
the Colonel's predecessor, Jack Casey, who in life used to fling
plates at his Emma's head, and who perished from a fatal at-
tachment to the bottle. I am inclined to think that Colonel
Newcome 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 Newcome continued piously to acknowledge it, long
after death had brought it to a termination, by constant bene-
factions and remembrances to the departed lady's kindred.

Those widows or virgins who endeavored to fill Emma's
place found the door of Newcome'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 every-
body 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 Newcome's hospitable house, on her way to Calcutta ;

58

THE NEWCOMES.

and it was thought she might never leave it ; but her kind host,
as was his wont, crammed her children with presents and good
things, consoled and entertained the fair widow, and one morn-
ing, after she had remained three months at the Station, the
Colonel's palanquins and bearers made their appearance, and
Elvira Wilkins went away weeping as a widow should. Why
did she abuse Newcome ever after at Calcutta, Bath, Chelten-
ham, and wherever she went, calling him selfish, pompous,
Quixotic, and a Bahawder ? I could mention half-a-dozen
other names of ladies of most respectable families connected
with Leadenhall Street, who, according to Colonel Newcome's
chum — that wicked Mr. Binnie — had all conspired more or less
to give Clive Newcome a step-mother.

But he had had an unlucky experience in his own case ; and
thought within himself, "No, I won't give Clive a step-mother.
As Heaven has taken his own mother from him ; why, I must
try to be father and mother 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 nature so uncontrollably generous,
that to be sure he spent five rupees where another would save
them, and made a fine show besides ; but it is not a man's gifts
or hospitalities that generally injure his fortune. It is on them-
selves 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 not to race
but to ride ; wore his old clothes and uniforms until they were
the laughter of his regiment ; 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 and Clive
growing richer every year.

'• When Clive has had five or six years at school " — that was
his scheme — u he will be a fine scholar, and have at least as
much classical learning as a gentleman in the world need pos-
sess. Then I will go to England, and we will pass three or
four years together, in which he will learn to be intimate with
me, and, 1 hope, to like 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 shall be able to help him with my knowl-
edge 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,

THE NEWCOMES.

59

indeed, isn't he my superior ? Of course he is, with his advan-
tages. He hasn't been an idle young scamp as I was. And
we will travel together, first 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 able to choose his profession. He can go into the
army, and emulate the glorious man after whom I named him ;
or if he prefers the church, or the law, they are open to him ;
and when he goes to the university, by which time I shall be in
all probability a major-general, I can come 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 affectionately he wrote of them to his boy !
How he read books of travels and looked over the maps of
Europe ! and said " Rome, 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 generals in the world, was also one of the greatest
lovers of. the fine arts. ' Ingenuas didicisse,' hey, Doctor? you
know the rest — 'emollunt mores nee' "

" ' Emollunt mores ! ' Colonel," says Doctor McTaggart,
who perhaps was too canny to correct the commanding officer's
Latin. " Don't ye noo that Prence Eugene was about as savage
a Turrk as iver was ? Have ye never rad the mimores of the
Prants de Leen ? "

'' Well, he was a great cavalry officer," answers the Colonel,"
and he left a great collection of prints — that you know. How
Give will delight in them! The boy's talent for drawing is
wonderful, sir, wonderful. Pie sent me a picture of our old
school — the very actual thing, sir ; the cloisters, 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

6o THE KEWCOMES.

Colonel would mention Clive's name; once before five minutes,
three times in ten minutes, twenty-five times in the course of
dinner and so on. But they who laughed at the Colonel laughed
very kindly ? and everybody who knew him, loved him ; every-
body that is, who loved modesty, and generosity, and honor.

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
Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., of the Bengal
Cavalry, leave for the first time, after no less than thirty-four
years' absence from home, " he (Sir George Husler) cannot
refrain from expressing his sense of the great and meritorious
services of this most distinguished officer, who has left his
regiment in a state of the highest discipline and efficiency."
And now the ship has sailed, the voyage is over, and once more,
after so many long years, the honest soldier's foot is on his
native shore.

CHAPTER VI.

NEWCOME BROTHERS.

Besides his own boy, whom he worshiped, this kind Colonel
had a score, at least, of adopted children, to whom he chose to
stand 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 Hick's orphan, who had nobody to look after him
now that the 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 trousers had great pockets, always heavy with gold
and silver, which he jingled when he was not pulling his mus-
taches— to see the way in which he tipped children made one

THE NEWCOMES. 6 1

almost long to be a boy again) : and when he had visited Miss
Pinkerton's establishment, or Doctor Ramshorn's adjoining
academy at Chiswick, and seen little Tom Davis or little Fanny
Holmes, the honest fellow would come home and write oft
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 lolly-
pops 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
checks 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, Miss 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 Bromley. The good gentleman
consigned the little chap to his uncle, Dr. Cox, Bloomsbury
Square, before he went to his own quarters, and then on the
erra:ul on which his fond heart was bent.

He had written to his brothers from Portsmouth, announ-
cing his arrival, and three words to Give, conveying the same
intelligence. The letter was served to the boy along with one
bowl of tea and one buttered roll, of eighty such as were distrib-
uted to fourscore other boys, boarders of the same house with
our young friend. How the lad's face must have flushed, and
fadj 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 ;
I'll give it you for upsetting your tea over my new trou^
He runs to the room where the stranger is waiting for him.
We will shut the door, if you please, upon that scene.

If Give had not been as fine and handsome a young lad as
any in that school or country, no doubt his fond father would

62 THE NEWCOMES.

have been just as well pleased, and endowed him with ft
hundred fanciful graces ; but, in truth, in looks and manners he
was everything 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 mustaches and whiskers which he has himself
subsequently depicted, but he is the picture of health, strength,
activity, and good-humor. 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 refrain from
looking at him. He is, in a word, just such a youth as has a
right to be 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 the 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 the 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 father his own name of Thomas Newcome carved
upon one of the arches forty years ago. As they talk, the boy
gives sidelong glances at his new friend, and wonders at the
Colonel's loose trousers, long mustaches, and yellow face. He
looks very odd, Clive thinks, very odd and very kind, and he
looks like a gentleman, even,'- inch of him — not like Martin's
father, who came to see his son lately in highlows, and a
shocking bad hat, and actually flung coppers among the boys
for the scramble. He bursts out a laughing at the exquisitely
ludicrous idea of a gentleman of his fashion scrambling for
coppers.

And now, enjoining the boy to be ready against his return
(and you may be sure Mr. Clive was on the look-out long
before his sire appeared), the Colonel whirled away in his cab

HIE NEWCOMES.

<%

to the City to shake 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 clerks and the banking house, he
broke into the parlor were the lords of the establishment were
seated. He astonished those trim quiet gentlemen by the
warmth of his greeting, by the vigor of his handshake, and the
loud high tones of his voices, which penetrated the glass walls
of the parlor, 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-cart having left its mark
forever on the nose of Sir Brian Newcome, the elder of the
twins. Sir Brian had a bald head and light hair, a short
whisker cut to his cheek, a buff waistcoat, very neat boots and
hands. He looked like the Portrait of a Gentleman at the
Exhibition, as the worthy is 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
portrait, in fact, hangs over the great sideboard at Newcome
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 more portly in person. He allowed his red whiskers
to grow wherever nature had planted them, on his cheeks
and under 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, sample 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 was good weather for the hay; if it rained, the
country wanted rain ; if it was frosty, " No hunting, to-day,
Tomkins, my boy," and so forth. As he rode from IJryanstone
Square to the City, you would take him — and he was pleased
to be so taken — for a jolly country squire. He was a better
man of business than his more solemn and stately brother, at
whom he laughed in his jocular way; and he said rightly, that
a gentleman must get up very early in the morning who wanted
to take him in.

64 THE NEIVCOMES.

The Colonel breaks into the sanctum of these worthy gentle,
men ; and each receives him in a manner consonant to his
peculiar nature. Sir Brian regretted that Lady Ann was away
from London, being at Brighton with the children, who were
all ill with the measles. Hobson said, " Maria can't treat you
to such good company as my Lady could give you, but when
will you take a day and come and dine with us ? Let's see,
to-day's Wednesday; to-morrow we've a party. No, we're
engaged." He meant that his table was full, and that he did
not care to crowd it ; bnt there was no use in imparting this
circumstance to the Colonel. " Friday, we dine at Judge
Budge's — queer name, Judge Budge, ain't it ? Saturday, I'm
going down to Marblehead, to look after the hay. Come on
Monday, Tom, and I'll introduce you to the misses and the
young uns.''

" I will bring Clive," says Colonel Newcome, rather disturbed
at this reception. " After his illness my sister-in-law was very
kind to him."

" No, hang it, don't bring coys ; there's no good in boys ;
they stop the talk down stairs, and the ladies don't want 'em ip
the drawing-room. Send him to dine with the children on
Sunday, if you like, and come along down with me to Marble-
head, and I'll show you such a crop of hay as will make your
eyes open. Are you fond of farming ? "

" I have not seen my boy for years," says the Colonel ; " I
had rather pass Saturday and Sunday with him, if you please,
and some day we will go to Marblehead together."

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

" In the winter, I hope we shall see you at Newcome," says
the elder brother, blandly smiling. " I can't give you any
tiger-shooting, but I'll 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 New-
come before the winter. I shall be there, please God, before
many days are over."

" Indeed ! " said the Baronet, with an air of great surprise.
" You are going «-iown to look at the cradle of our race. I
believe the Newco^ec were there before the Conqueror. It

THE NEWCOMES. 65

was but a village in our grandfather's time, and it is an immense
flourishing town now, for which I hope to get — I expect to get
— a charter."

" Do you ? " says the Colonel. " I am going down there to
see a relation."

" 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 greai
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 parlor, and returned Colonel Newcome's
greeting with a smiling acknowledgment of his own. " Very
happy to cee you, I'm sure," said 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
reception. Here was a man, hungry for affection, and one
relation asked him to dinner next Monday, and another invited
him to shoot pheasants at Christmas. Here was a beardless
young sprig, who patronized 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."

11 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 ail cool enough here."

"Just what Sir Thomas de Boots said, sir," said Barnes,
turning round to his father. " Don't you remember when he
came home from Bombay ? I recollect his saying, at Lady
Featherstone'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 realized by that distinguished cavalry officer.

" My brother savs 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 say-
ing so just when you came in, and I was asking him what took
him there."

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

66 THE NEWCOMES.

"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 snf^,
" Mrs. Mason is a relation of yours — 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 New-
come's account — I recollect 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 :
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
faithful 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, " to remember a — a humble friend
and connection 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.
" I have no relationship with Mrs. Mason, and do not re-
member 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-by, my dear
Colonel. How well India has agreed with you ! how young
you look ! the hot winds are nothing to what we endure in Par-
liament. Hobson," in a low voice, " you saw about that hm,
that power of attorney — and hm and hm will call here at 12
about that hm. I am sorry I must say good-by — 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."

THE XE1VC0MES. 67

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

" Lady Ann 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 gray
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 anywhere 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 parlor, where
sate young Barnes perusing the paper. " My revered uncle
seems to have brought back a quantity of cayenne pepper from
India, sir," he said to his father.

" He seems a very kind-hearted simple man," the Baronet
said : " eccentric, but he has been more than thirty years away
from home. Of course you will call upon him to-morrow morn-
ing. Do everything you can to make him comfortable. Whom
would he like to meet at dinner ? I will ask some of the Direc-
tion. Ask him Barnes for next Wednesday or Saturday — no ;
Saturday I dine with the Speaker. But see that every attention
is paid him."

" 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 public-house,"
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 honor," said the Baronet, who really
meant what he said.

li And I hope my mother will have her to stay a good deal
at Newcome. I'm sure she must have been a washerwoman,
and mangled my uncle in early life. His costume struck me
with respectful astonishment. He disdains the use of straps
to his trousers, 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

68 THE NEWCOMES.

of bills, put an end to these sarcastic remarks, and young New-
come, applying himself to his business (of which he was a per-
fect master), forgot all about his uncle till after City hours,
when he entertained some young gentlemen of Bays's Club with
an account of his newly arrived relative.

Toward 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, reso-
lutely and swiftly with his neat umbrella. As he passed Char-
ing Cross on his way westward, his little boots trailed slowly
over the pavement, his head hung languid (bending lower still,
and smiling with faded sweetness as he doffed his hat and
saluted a passing carriage), his umbrella trailed after him. Not
a dandy on all the Pall Mall pavement seemed to have less to
do than he.

Heavyside, a large young 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 with beer. Gentlemen with grooms behind
them pass toward the park. Great Dowager barouches roll
along emblazoned with coronets, and driven by coachmen in
silver}- wigs. Wistful provincials gaze in at the clubs. For-
eigners chatter and show their teeth, and look at the ladies in
the carriages, and smoke and spit refreshingly round about.
Policeman X slouches along the pavement. It is 5 o'clock, the
noon in Pall Mall.

11 Here's little Newcome coming," says Mr. Horace Fogey.
" He and the muffin-man generally make their appearance in
public together."

" Dashed little prig," says Sir Thomas de Boots, " why
the dash did they ever let him in here ? If I hadn't been in
India, by dash — he should have been black-balled twenty times
over, by dash." Only Sir Thomas used words far more terrific
than dash, for this distinguished cavalry officer swore very
freely.

" He amuses me ; he's such a mischievous little devil," says
good-natured Charley Heavyside.

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

" You don't, Fogey," answers Charley. " I know every
one of your demd old stories, that are as old as my grand-
mother. How-dy-do, Barney. (Enter Barnes Newcome.)
How are the Three per Cents, you little beggar? I wish you'd

MR. BARNES NEWCOME AT HIS CLUB.

THE NEWCOMES. 69

do me a bit of stiff : and just tell your father if I may over-
draw my account, I'll vote with him — hanged if I don't."

Barnes orders 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
the young man with a languid air. " That's your place :
you're returned for it. (Captain the Honorable Charles
Heavyside is a member of the legislature, and eminent in the
House for asinine imitations which delight his own, and con-
fuse the other party.) Don't bray here. I hate the shop out
of shop hours."

" Dash the little puppy," growls Sir de Boots, swelling in
his waistband.

" What do they say about the Russians 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 r "

" That is very uncomfortable news from India, General,"
resumes Fogey — " there's Lady Doddington's carriage, how
well she looks — that mevement of Runjeet-Singh on Peshawur :
that fleet on the Irrawaddy. It looks doocid queer, let me tell
you, and Penguin is not the man to be Governor-General of
India 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 Bacchan-
alian artist.

Sir Thomas looks as if to ask what the dash is that to you ?
but wanting 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 have," says Barnes Newcome. "That's 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 vounjr man's

7o

THE NEWCOMES.

tailor. Fogey's tailor rather. I'd take my father's j 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 Wed-
nesday 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 ashamed 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 was 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's 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 inno-
cently, 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 picquet till
dinner, Heavyside ! Hallo ! That's my uncle, that tall man
with the mustaches and the short trousers 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 ai
picquet until the hour of sunset and dinner arrived.

THE NEWCOMES. ji

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH MR. CLIVE'S SCHOOL-DAYS ARE OVER.

Our good Colonel had luckily to look forward to a more
pleasant meeting with his son, than that unfortunate interview
with his other near relatives.

He dismissed his cab at Ludgate 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 Grey Friars Square,
with its blackened trees and garden, surrounded by ancient
houses of the build of the last century, now slumbering like
pensioners in the sunshine.

Under the great archway of the hospital he could look at
the old Gothic building ; and a black-gowned pensioner or two
crawling over the quiet square, 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 of shouting, crying, clapping of forms
and cupboards, treble voices, bass voices, poured out of the
schoolboys' windows : their life, bustle, and gayety, 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 gray calm. There was Thomas Newcome,
arrived at the middle of life, standing between the shouting
boys and the tottering seniors, and in a situation to moralize
upon both, had not his son Clive, who has espied him from
within Mr. Hopkinson's, or let us say at once Hopkey's house,
comes jumping down 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 New-
come's loose clothes and long mustaches, his brown hands
and unbrushed hat. The Colonel was smoking a cheroot as
he walked ; and the gigantic Smith, the cock of the school,
who happened to be looking majestically out of window, was

72

THE NEWCOMES.

pleased to say that he thought Newcome's governor was a fine
manly-looking fellow.

" Tell me about your uncles, Clive," 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. Newcome asks me the oftenest — two or three times a
quarter when he's in town, and he gives me a sovereign
regular."

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

The boy blushed rather.

" Yes. When it's time to go back to Smithfield on a Sun-
day night, I go into the dining-room to shake hands, and he
gives it me ; but he 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," said
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 ! she used
to put lumps of sugar into her pocket and eat them in the
schoolroom ! 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 faut"

* Why, how are you to judge ? " asks the father, amused at
the lad's candid prattle, " and where does the difference 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 some women ladies and some not. There's Jones now,
the fifth form master, every man sees lies a gentleman, though
he wears ever so old clothes ; and there's Mr. Brown, who oils

THE NEWCOMES. 73

his hair, and wears rings, and white chokers — my eyes ! such
white chokers ! and yet we call him the handsome snob ! 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 tell you what I mean. I don't like to make fun of her
you know, for after all, she is very kind to me j but aunt Ann
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 Ann
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 an unkind word behind anybody'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 some-
times I think some of our family — "

" I thought we were going to speak no ill of them," says
the Colonel, smiling.

•• Well, it only slipped out unawares," says Clive, laughing;
" but at Newcome, when they go on about the Newcomes, and
that great ass, Barnes Newcome, gives himself his airs, it
makes me die of laughing. That time I went down to New-
come, I went to see old aunt Sarah, 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 " that's a boy," he had spoken more correctly.
Indeed, how many men do we know in the world without
caring to know who their fathers were ? and how many more
n-ho wisely do not care to tell us ? " That's a man," 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 re-
sumed, after a pause —

" Say what you say," said the father.

" Is that alf true what's in the peerage — in the baronetage,
about uncle Newcome and Newcome ; about the Newcome who

74

THE NEWCOMES.

was burned at Smithfield ; about the one that was at the battle
of Bosworth ; and the old, old Xewcome 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 even- man would like to come of an ancient and
honorable race," said the Colonel, in his honest way. " As you
like your father to be an honorable man, why not your grand-
father, 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
their way, until they came into the Western quarter of the town,
where the junior member of the firm of Xewcome Brothers had
his house — a handsome and roomy mansion in Bryanstone
Square. Colonel Xewcome was bent on paying a visit to his
sister-in-law, and as he knocked at the door, where the pair
were kept waiting some little time, he could remark through
the opened windows of the dining-room, that a great table was
laid, and every preparation made for a feast.

■• My brother said he was engaged to dinner to-day," said
the Colonel. " Does Mrs. Xewcome give parties when he is
away ? "

" She invites all the company," answered Clive. M My
uncle never asks any one without aunt's leave."

The Colonel's countenance fell. He has a great dinner,
and does not ask his own brother ! Xewcome thought. Why,
if he had come to me in India with all his family, he might have
stayed 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 without waiting for preparatory queries, said, " Xot at
home."

"It's my father, John," said Clive; "my aunt will see
Colonel Xewcome."

" Missis not at home," said the man. " Missis is gone in
carriage — Xot at this door ! — Take them things down the area
steps, young man ! " bawls out the domestic. This latter speech
was addressed to a pastry-cook's boy. with a large sugar temple
and many conical papers containing delicacies for dessert.
" Mind the hice is here in time ; or there'll be a blow up with
your governor" — and John struggled back, closing the door
on the astonished Colonel.

THE NEVVCOMES. 75

" Upon my life, they actually shut the door in our faces,"
said the poor gentleman.

" The man is very busy, sir. There's a great dinner. I'm
sure my aunt would not refuse you," Clive 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 girls in blue
— that's the French governess, the one with the mustaches and
the yellow parasol. How d'ye do, Mary ? How d'ye do,
Fanny ? This is my father — this is your uncle."

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

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

" Hem ! " said Mademoiselle Lebrun, remembering the last
nght she and Clive had had together, and a portrait of herself
(with enormous whiskers) which the young scapegrace had
drawn. " Monsieur is very good. But one can not too early
inculcate retenne and decorum to young ladies in a country where
demoiselles seem for ever to forget that they are young ladies
of condition. I am forced to keep the eyes 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 eyes on a book, having but little time for literature, mon-
sieur— for literature, which I adore — when a cry makes itself
to hear. I turn myself, and what do I see ? Mesdemoiselles,
your nieces, playing at criquette, with the Messieurs Smees —
sons of Doctor Smees — young galopins, monsieur ! " All this
was shrieked with immense volubility and many actions of the
hand and parasol across the square railings to the amused
Colonel, at whom the little girls peered through the bars.

" Well, my dears, I should like to have a game at cricket
with you, too," says the kind gentleman, reaching them each a
brown hand.

" You, monsieur, e'est diffe'rent — a man of your age ! Salute
monsieur your uncle, mesdemoiselles. You conceive, monsieur,
that I also must be cautious when I speak to a man so dis-
tinguished in a public squar." And she cast down her great
eyes and hid those radiant orbs from the Colonel.

Meanwhile, Colonel Newcome, indifferent to the direction
which Miss Lebrun's eyes took, whether toward his hat or his
boots, was surveying his little nieces with that kind expression

76 THE NEWCOMES,

which his face always wore when it was turned towards chil-
dren. " Have you heard of your uncle in India ? " he asked
them.

" No," says Maria.

" Yes," says Fanny. " You know Mademoiselle (Mademoi*
selle at this moment was twittering her fingers, and as it were
kissing them in the direction of a grand barouche that was
advancing along the square) — you know Mademoiselle said that
if we were mechantes we should be sent to our uncle in India.
I think I should like to go with you."

" O you silly child ? " cries Maria.

"Yes I should, if Clive went too," says little Fanny.

" Behold Madam, who arrives from her promenade ! " Miss
Lebrun exclaimed ; and, turning round, Colonel Newcome had
the satisfaction of beholding, for the first time, his sister-in-law.

A stout lady, with fair hair and a fine bonnet and pelisse
(who knows what were the fine bonnets and pelisses of the year
183 — ?), was reclining in the barouche, the scarlet-plush integu-
ments of her domestics blazing before and behind her. A pretty
little foot was on the cushion opposite to her ; feathers waved
in her bonnet ; a book was in her lap ; an oval portrait of a
gentleman reposed on her voluminous bosom. She wore an-
other picture of two darling heads, with pink cheeks and golden
hair, on one of her wrists, with many more chains, bracelets,
bangles, and knick-knacks. A pair of dirty gloves marred the
splendor of this appearance ; a heap of books from the library
strewed the back seat of the carriage, and showed that her
habits were literary. Springing down from his station behind
his mistress, the youth clad in the nether garments of red
sammit discharged thunderclaps on the door of Mrs. Newcome's
house, announcing to the whole square that his mistress had
returned to her abode. Since the fort saluted the governor-
general at , Colonel Newcome had never heard such a can-
nonading.

Clive, with a queer twinkle of his eyes, ran towards his aunt.
She bent over the carriage languidly towards him. She liked
him. " What, you, Clive ! " she said. " Flow come you away
from school of a 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

THE XEWCOMES. 77

stepped forward and took off his hat and bowed, and stood
bareheaded. 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 barone
King Francis's time patronizing Bayard ! Can you imagine
Queen Guinever's lady's-maid's lady's-maid being affable to Sir
Launcelot ? I protest there is nothing like the virtue of English
women.

'; You have only arrived to-day ; and you came to see me ?
This was very kind. N'est-cepas que e'etoit bong de Mouseer
le Colonel Mademoiselle ? Madamaselle Lebrun le Colonel
Newcome, mong frere." (In a whisper, "My children's gover-
ness 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 e'te le Ge'ne'ral
favvory."

" O Dieu ! que n'ai-je pu le voir," interjaculates Mademoi-
selle. " Lui dont parle l'univers, dont monpere m'a si souvent
parle ? " but this remark passes quite unnoticed by Mademoi-
selle's friend, who continues —

M 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 Ann 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 into us at about ten this evening," she
then said, "you will find some men, not undistinguished, who
honor me of an evening. Perhaps they will be interesting to
you, Colonel Newcome, as you are newly arrived in Europe.
Not men of worldly rank, necessarily, although soma of
them are among the noblest of Europe. But my maxim is,

7 8 THE NEWCOMES.

that genius is an illustration, and merit is better than any
pedigree. You have heard of Professor Bodgers ? Count
Poski ? Dr. MacGufTog, who is called in his country the
Ezekiel of Clackmannan ? Mr. Shaloo, the great Irish patriot ?
our papers have told you of /itm. These and some more have
been good enough to promise me a visit to-night. A stranger
coming to London could scarcely have a better 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 amusements — but mine. I hope Mr.
Newcome and myself will never forget thc??i. We have a few
friends at dinner, and now I must go in and consult with Mrs.
Hubbard, my housekeeper. Good-by, for the present. Mind
not later than ten, as Mr. Xewcome 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-hy ! "
And again the Colonel was favored 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 every thing she did was perfectly
right and graceful. She 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 re-
warded 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 recep-
tions, 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 his senses could refuse such entertainment and
instruction ?

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. NEWCOME AT HOME (a SMALL EARLY PARTY).

To push on in the crowd, every male or female struggler
must use his shoulders. If a better place than yours presents
itself just beyond your neighbor, elbow him and take it. Look

THE NEWCOMES. 79

how a steadily-purposed man or woman at court, at a ball, or
exhibition, wherever there is a competition 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. Thump-
ington, 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 favorite flesh-pot, if gluttonously
minded, at a supper whence hundreds of people come empty
away. A woman of the world will marry her daughter and
have done with her; get her carriage and be at home and
asleep in bed ; while 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 him-
self. Is there a good place at table? Take it. At the
Treasury or at 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 you ob-
trude ? By pushing steadily, nine hundred and ninety-nine
people in a thousand will yield to you. Only command per-
sons, and you may be pretty sure that a good number will obey.
How well your shilling will have been laid out, O gentle
reader, who purchase this; and, taking the maxim to heart,
follow it through life ! You may be sure of success. If your
neighbor's foot obstructs you, stamp on it ; and do you sup-
pose he wont take it away ?

The proofs of the correctness of the above remarks I show
in various members of the Newcome family. Here was a vul-
gar little woman, not clever nor pretty, especially ; meeting Mr.
Newcome casually, she ordered him to marry her, and he
obeyed ; as he obeyed her in every thing else which she chose to
order through life. Meeting Colonel Newcome on the steps of
her house, she orders him to come to her evening party ; and
though he has not been to an evening party for five-and-thirty
years — though he has not been to bed the night before — though
he has no mufti-coat except one sent him out by Messrs. Stultz to
India in the year 182 1, he never once thinks of disobeying Mrs.
Newcome's order, but is actually at her door at five minutes
past ten, having arrayed himself, to the wonderment of Clive,
and left the boy to talk with his friend and fellow-passenger,
Mr. Binnie, who has just arrived from Portsmouth, who has

80 TH& XEIVCOMES.

dined with him, and who, by previous 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 lapels, and a pair of buttons high up
m the wearer's back, a white waistcoat and scarlet under-waist-
coat, and a pair of the never-failing duck trousers, complete
Thomas Xewcome's 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 outer}-,
Burrumtollah. We have called him Captain purposely, while
speaking of his coat, for he held that rank when the garment
came out to him ; and having been in the habit of considering
it a splendid coat for twelve years past, he has not the least
idea of changing his opinion.

Doctor Mac Guffog, Professor Bodger, Count Poski, and
all the lions present at Mrs. Xewcome's reunion that evening,
were completely eclipsed by Colonel Newcome. The worthy
soul, who cared not the least about adorning himself, 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. Xewcome's to be. The splendor of this
jewel, and of his flashing buttons, caused all eyes to turn to
him. There were many pairs of mustaches present ; those of
Professor Schnurr, a very corpulent martyr, just escaped from
Spandau, and of Maximilien Tranchard, French exile and apostle
of liberty-, were the only whiskers in the room capable of vying in
interest with Colonel Xewcome'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 Wallachian Boyar, whose arrival at
Mivart's, the " Morning Post " had just announced. Mrs.
Miles, whose delicious ever}- other Wednesdays in Montague
Square, are supposed by some to be rival entertainments to
Mrs. Xewcome's alternate Thursdays in Bryanstone Square,
pinched her daughter Mira, engaged in a polyglot conversation
with Herr Schnurr, Signor Carabossi, the guitarist, and Mon-
sieur Pivier, the celebrated French chess-player, to point out
the Boyar. Mira Miles wished she knew a little Moldavian,
not so much that she might speak it, but that she might be

-

HIS HIGHNESS.

THE AEWCOMES. 81

heard to speak it. Mrs. Miles, who had not had the educational
advantages of her daughter, simpered up with ,; Madame New-
come pas ici — votre excellence nouvellement arrive — avez vous
fait ung bong voyage ? Je recois chez moi Mercred? pro-
chaing; lonnure de vous voir — Madamasel Miles ma fille;"
and Mira, now re-info rcing her mamma, poured in a g)ib
little oration in French, somewhat to the astonishment of the
Colonel, who began to think however, that perhaps French
was the language of the polite world, into which 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 cele-
brated Indian merchant, otherwise His Excellency Rummun
Loll, otherwise His Highness Rummun Loll, the chief pro-
prietor of the diamond mines in Golconda, with a claim of three
millions and a half upon the East India Company; who smoked
his hookah after dinner when the ladies were gone, and in
whose honor (for his servants always brought a couple or more
of hookahs with them) many English gentlemen made them-
selves 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 while 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 lackered mus-
tache, 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 per-
fectly well knew, his Highness's princely air was exchanged for
one of the deepest humility. He bowed his head and put his
two hands before his eyes, and came creeping toward him sub-
missively, 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 Colonel Newcome received twirling his mus-
taches 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.

6

82 THE NEWCOMES.

The Colonel said, " to whose house should he first come
but to his brother's ? " How Mrs. Xewcome 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 intelli-
gent !

" The Indian what ? " asks Colonel Xewcome. The heathen
gentleman had gone off, and was seated by one of the hand-
somest young 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 Colonel's rage was excited as he saw the Indian's
behavior. He curled his mustaches up to his eyes in his wrath.
"You don't mean that that man calls himself a Prince ? That
a fellow who 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 honor to come all the way from
May Fair 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. u 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 Ann ? 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 dryly ; and
his aunt, obstinately gracious with him, turned away to some
other new comer.

" It's interesting, isn't it, sir," says Barnes, turning to the
Colonel, " to see such union in families ? Whenever I come
here, my aunt trots out all my relations ; and I send a man
round in the morning to ask how they all are. So Uncle Hob-
son 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 us for Wednesday, please. Is there anybody you

THE NEWCOMES. 83

would like to meet ? Not our friend the Rummun. How the
girls crowd round him ! By Gad, a fellow who's rich in Lon-
don may have the pick of any gal — not here — not in this sort
of thing ; I mean in society, you know," says Barnes confi-
dentially. " I've seen the old dowagers crowding round that
fellow, and the girls snugglin up to his India-rubber face. He's
known to have two wives already in India ; but, by Gad, for a
settlement, I believe some of 'em here would marry — I mean of
the girls in society."

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

" Oh, of course. It's very good society and that sort of
thing — but it's not, you know — you understand. I give you my
honor there are not three people in the room one meets any-
where, except the Rummun. What is he at home, sir ? I know
he ain't a Prince, you know, any more than I am."

" I believe he is a rich man now," said the Colonel. " He
began from very low beginnings, and odd stories are told about
the origin of his fortune."

" That may be," says the young man ; " of course, as busi-
ness 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 ask
you to stand by us, and tell us anything you know. My father
has asked him down to Newcome, and we've taken him up ;
wisely or not I can't say. I think otherwise; but I'm quite
young in the house, and of course the elders have the chief
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 lad with
scarce a beard to his chin that would pursue his bond as rigidly
as Shylock. " If he is like this at twenty, what will he be at
fifty ? " groaned the Colonel. " I'd rather Clive were dead than
have him such a heartless worldling as this." And yet the
young man was not ill-natured, not untruth-telling, not unser-
viceable. He thought his life was good enough. It was as
good as that of other folks he lived with. You don't suppose
he had any misgivings, provided he was in the City early enough
in the morning ; or slept badly, unless he indulged too freely
overnight ; or twinges of conscience that his life was misspent ?
He thought his life a most lucky and reputable one. He had
a share in a good business, and felt that he could increase it

84 THE NEWCOMES.

Some day he would marry a good match, with a good fortune ;
meanwhile he could take his pleasure decorously, and sow his
wild oats as some of the young Londoners sow them, not broad-
cast after the fashion of careless scatter-brained youth, but
trimly and neatly, in quiet places, where the crop can come up
unobserved, and be taken in without bustle or scandal. Barnes
Newcome never missed going to church, or dressing for dinner.
He never kept a tradesman waiting for his money. He never
drank too much, except when other fellows did, and in good
company. He never was late for business, or huddled over his
toilet, however brief had been his sleep, or severe his headache.
In a word, he was as scrupulously whited as any sepulchre in
the whole bills of mortality.

While young Barnes and his uncle were thus holding parley,
a slim gentleman of bland aspect, with a roomy forehead, or
what his female admirers called " a noble brow," and a neat
white neckcloth tied with clerical skill, was surveying Colonel
Newcome through his shining spectacles, and waiting for an
opportunity to address him. The Colonel remarked the eager-
ness with which the gentleman in black regarded him, and
asked Mr. Barnes who was the padre ? Mr. Barnes turned his
eyeglass toward the spectacles, and said li 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
the latter took no sort of cognizance. The spectacles ad-
vanced ; 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
onward with outstretched hands, and it was towards the Colonel
he turned these smiles and friendly salutations. " Did I heai
aright, sir, from Mrs. Miles," he said, " and have I the honor
of speaking to Colonel Newcome ? "

" The same, sir," says the Colonel ; at which the other,
tearing off a glove of lavender-colored kid, uttered the words
" Charles Honeyman," 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 mighty world ? How I rejoice to see you, and know, you ! "

" You are Charles, are you ? " cries the other. " I am very
glad, indeed, to shake you by the hand, Honeyman. Clive and
I should have beat up your quarters to-day, but we were busy

THE NEIVCOMES. 85

until dinner-time. You put me in mind of poor Fanny, Charles,"
he added, sadly. Fanny had not been a good wife to him ; a
flighty silly little woman who had caused him when alive many
a night of pain and day of anxiety.

" Poor, poor Fanny ! *' 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 busi-
ness better, or smothered his emotion more beautifully. " In
the gayest moments, in the giddiest throng of fashion, the
thoughts of the past will rise ; the departed will be among us
still. But this is not the strain wherewith to greet the friend
newly arrived on our shores. How it rejoices me to behold
you in old England ! How you must have joved to see
Clive ! "

" D the humbug," muttered Barnes, who knew him

perfectly well. "The fellow is always in the pulpit."

The incumbent of Lady Hickathrift's chapel smiled and
bowed to him. " You do not recognize me, sir ; I have had
the honor 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, Honeyman ! " 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."

" He'll never leave it alone as long as he can use it," mut-
tered 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 re-
spectfully to him, slipped under a dowager's arm in the door-
way, 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 curious to know how the party was composed. Mrs. New-
come herself would have been pleased had she heard Honey-
man'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

86 THE NEWCOMES.

name — everybody was astonished that he was not made Chief
Justice, and elevated to the peerage — the only objection (as I
have heard confidentially) was on the part of a late sovereign,
who said he never could consent 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, dis-
penses the most elegant hospitality at her mansion in Con-
naught 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 the Muses, and it would appear that the Nine are
never wooed except by gentlemen with mustaches."

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

" For I remark so many literary gentlemen with that dec-
oration. 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 the Royal Academy (who is shaved
as you perceive), and Mr. Moyes, and Mr. Cropper, who are both
very hairy about the chin. At the piano, singing, accompanied
by Mademoiselle Lebrun, is Signor Mezzocaldo, the great bar-
ytone from Rome. Professor Quartz and Baron Hammer-
stein, celebrated 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 Edinburgh, talking to Dr. Ettore,
who lately escaped from the Inquisition at Rome in the dis-
guise 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 Kurbash Pasha — 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.

THE NEWCOMES. 87

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 kins-
woman is rather a searcher after what we call here notabilities.
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 Brasen Xose, 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 Pinnifer, 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 — after hours devoted to parish duty a
clergyman is sometimes allowed, you know, desipere in loco —
there are descriptions in it certainly startling — ideas about mar-
riage not exactly orthodox — but the poor child wrote the book
actually in the nursery, and all England was ringing with it be-
fore Dr. Pinnifer, her father, knew who was the author. That
is the Doctor asleep in the corner by Miss Rudge, the Ameri-
can authoress, who I daresay is explaining to him the differ-
ence between the two Governments. My dear Mrs. Xewcome,
I am giving my brother-in-law a little sketch of some of the
celebrities who are crowding your salon to-night. What a de-
lightful evening you have given us ! "

" I try to do my best, Colonel Newcome," said the lady of
the house. " I hope many a night we may see you here ; and,
as I said this morning, Clive, when he is of an age to appreciate
this kind of entertainment. Fashion I do not worship. You
may meet that among other branches of our family ; but genius
and talent I do reverence. And if I can be the means — the
humble means — to bring men of genius together — mind to as-
sociate with mind — men of all nations to mingle in friendly uni-
son— I shall not have lived altogether in vain. They call us
women of the world frivolous, Colonel Newcome. So some
may be; I do not say there are not in our own family persons
who worship mere worldly rank, and think but of fashion and
gayety ; but such, I trust, will never be the objects in life of me
and my children. We are but merchants ; we seek to be na

88 THE NEWCOMES.

more. If I can look around me and see as I do " (she waves
her fan round, and points to the illustrations scintillating round
the room), " and see as I do now — 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 this modest salon in her forthcoming
work on Europe), and Miss Pinnifer, whose genius I acknowl-
edge, though I deplore her opinions ; if I can gather together
travellers, poets, and painters, princes and distinguished soldiers
from the East, and clergymen, remarkable for their eloquence,
my humble aim is attained, and Maria Xewcome is not alto-
gether useless in her generation. Will you take a little re-
freshment ? Allow your sister to go down to the dining-room
supported by your gd //ant arm." She looked round to the ad-
miring congregation, whereof Honeyman, as it were, acted as
clerk, and flirting her fan, and flinging up her little head, Con-
summate Virtue walked down on the arm of the Colonel.

The refreshment was rather meagre. The foreign artists
generally dashed down stairs, and absorbed all the ices, creams,
*S:c. To those coming late there were chicken bones, tablecloths
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 latter,
I am sorry to say, to his club ; for he was a dainty feeder, and
loved lobster, and talk late at night, and a comfortable little
glass of something wherewith to conclude the day.

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

One of Colonel Xewcome's fellow-passengers from India
was Mr. James Binnie of the civil service, a jolly young bache-
lor 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 home should prove agree-
able to him. The nabob of books and tradition is a personage
no longer to be found among us. He is neither as wealthy nor
as wicked as the jaundiced monster of romances and comedies,
who 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 con-

THE NEWCOMES. 89

science, 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 gentle-
man now lie does not say, " Bring more curricles," like the fa-
mous 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 themselves 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 ; dis-
tricts which have fallen from their pristine state of splendor
now, even as Agra, and Benares, and Lucknow, and Tippo
Sultan's City are fallen.

After two-and-twenty years' absence from London, Mr. Bin-
nie 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 Xerot's Hotel, Clifford Street ; and
he gave the cabman eightpence, making the fellow, who grum-
bled, understand that Clifford Street was not two hundred yards
from Bond street, and that he was paid at the rate of five shil-
lings and fourpence per mile — calculating the mile at only six-
teen hundred yards. He asked the waiter at what time Colonel
Newcome had ordered dinner, and finding there was an hour
on his hands before the meal, walked out to examine the neigh-
borhood 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 electioneer-
ing services done to an East India Director. Binnie had his
retiring-pension, and, besides, had saved half his allowances

9o THE NEWCOMES.

ever since he had been in India. He was a man of great read-
ing, no small ability, considerable accomplishment, excellent
good sense and good-humor. The ostentatious said he was a
screw ; but he gave away more money than far more extrava-
gant people : he was a disciple of David Hume (whom he ad-
mired 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.

On returning to his hotel, Colonel Newcome 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 placed 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
monde 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 Barrack-
pore 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 — ye're 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 and 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 — be-
cause I knew you would want to talk about that scapegrace of
yours. And if I had gone to bed, I should have had you walk-
ing 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 a table. Was it joy, or the bedroom
candle with which he lighted his cigar, which illuminated his
honest features so, and made them so to shine ?

" I have been occupied, sir, in taking the lad's moral meas-
urement : and have pumped him as successfully as ever I

THE NEWCOMES.

9*

cross-examined a rogue m my court. I place his qualities thus.
— Love of approbation sixteen. Benevolence fourteen. Conv
bativeness fourteen. Adhesiveness two. Amativeness is not
yet of course fully developed, but I expect will be prodeegiously
strong. The imaginative and reflective organs 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 sneer-
ing 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. Eh, 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. My opin-
ion, 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 perfection. He'll spend your
money for you : he'll do as little work as need be. He'll 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, Col-
onel, 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 ac-
quired in five years, and by the admirable seestem purshood at
your public schools, just about as much knowledge of the an-
cient languages, as he could get by three months' application
at home. Mind ye, I don't say he would apply ; it is most prob-
able he would do no such thins:. But at the cost of — hovf

92 THE NEWCOMES.

much ? two hundred pounds annually — for five years — he has
acquired about five-and-twenty guineas worth of classical leeter-
ature — enough I dare say to enable him to quote Horace re-
spectably 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. Acre scgfium /" says the
little wag, daintily taking 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 ? " an-
swered the Scotchman. " In earnest now, Tom Xewcome, 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 break-
fast ? Eh, but it was a comfort 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. We'll just go on deck and see how's
her head before we turn in, eh Colonel ? " and with this the
jolly gentleman nodded over his candle to his friend, and trotted
of! to bed.

The Colonel and his friend were light sleepers and early
risers, like most men that come from the country' where they
had both been so long sojourning, and were awake and dressed
long before the London waiters had thought of quitting theii
beds. The housemaid was the only being stirring in the morn-
ing when little Mr. Binnie 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 bedrooms adjacent to this sitting-room,
and when Binnie, as brisk and rosy about the gills as Chanti-
cleer, broke out in a morning salutation, " Hush," says the
Colonel, putting a long finger up to his mouth, and advancing
toward 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 ? "

THE NEWCOMES.

93

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

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

" You may if you take off those confounded creaking shoes,"
the other answered, quite gravely ; and Binnie turned away 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 Xew-
come," 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 breakfast. 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.

CHAPTER IX.

MISS HONEY MAN'S

In Steyne Gardens, Brighton, the lodging-houses are among
the most frequented in that City of lodging-houses. These
mansions have bow-windows in front, bulging out with gentle

94 THE NEWCOMES.

prominences, and ornamented with neat verandas, from which
you can behold the tide of human kind as it flows up and down
the Sterne, and that blue ocean over which Britannia is said
to rule, stretching brightly away eastward and westward. The
chain-pier, as even-body 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 twopence, you can go
out to sea and pace this vast deck without need of a steward
with a basin. You can watch the sun setting in splendor 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 laudat ncra sui, haply sighs
for ease, and prefers Richmond 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 greedy and foolish mackerel, 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, 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 schoolgirls, 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 tele-
scope and marine-jacket; young Nathan and young Abrams,
already bedizened in jewelry, and rivalling the sun in Oriental
splendor — yonder poor invalid crawling along in her chair —
yonder jolly fat lady examining the Brighton pebbles (I actu-
ally once saw a lady buy one), and her children wondering at
the sticking-plaster portraits with gold hair, and gold stocks,
and prodigious high-heeled boots, miracles of art, and cheap at

THE NEWCOMES.

95

seven-and-sixpence. It is the fashion to run down George IV.,
but what myriads of Londoners ought to thank him for in-
venting Brighton ! One of the best physicians our city has
ever known, is kind, cheerful, merry Doctor Brighton. Hail
thou purveyor of shrimps and honest prescriber of South Down
mutton ! There is no mutton so good as Brighton mutton ; no
ilies so pleasant as Brighton flies j nor any cliff so pleasant to
ride on \ no shops so beautiful to look at as the Brighton gim-
crack shops, and the fruit shops, and the market. I fancy my-
self in Miss 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 inrlict upon him or her the
bodily injury of starvation, let him confess that the evils of this
poverty are by no means so great as his timorous fancy (de-
picted. 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 weep-
ing servants 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 Kensington, or Brompton. How un-
like" 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 hereafter : she was nobody in Harley
Street : that is, everybody else in her visiting book, take the
names all round, was as good as she. They had the very same
entre'es, plated ware, men to wait, &c., at all the houses where
you visited in the street. Your candlesticks might be hand-
somer (and indeed they had a very line effect upon the dinner-
table), but then Mr. Jones's silver (or electro-plated) dishes
were much hner. You had more carriages at your door on the
evening of your delightful soire'es 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 cum-

96

THE XEWCOMES.

pany ") ; 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 com-
panv where all round them are their superiors, and where, do
what you will, you must be subject to continual mortification —
I 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, &c). 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 con-
solation, are those who have seen what are called — better days
those who have had losses. I am like Caesar, and of a noble
mind : it I can not be first in Piccadilly, let me try Hatton
Garden, and see whether I cannot lead the ton there. If I can-
not take the lead at White's or the Traveller's, let me be presi-
dent of the Jolly Sandboys at the Bag of Nails, and black-ball
everybody who does not pay me honor. If my darling Bessy
cannot go out of a drawing-room until a baronet's niece (ha !
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 even-body, and
at scarce anv cost. With a shilling's worth of tea and muf-
fins you can get as much adulation and respect as many people
can not purchase with a thousand pounds' worth of plate and
profusion, hired footmen, turning their houses topsy-turvy, and
suppers from Gunters. 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 patronize you ! O you silly
spendthrift ! you can buy flatten- for twopence, and you spend
ever so much money in entertaining your equals and betters,
and nobody admires you !

Now Aunt Honeyman was a woman of a thousand virtues ;
cheerful, frugal, honest, laborious, charitable, good-humored,

THE NEWCOMES.

97

truth-telling, devoted to her family, capable of any sacrifice for
those she loved ; and when she came to have losses of money,
Fortune 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 mar-
riage (an elopement with Ensign Casey), and subsequent light
courses. Charles Honeyman spent his money elegantly in wine
parties at Oxford, and afterward in foreign travel ; — spent his
money, and as much of Miss Honeyman'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 Rodney's
action with the Count cie 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 Han-
nah Hicks was to her mistress. Under Hannah was a young
lady from the workhouse, who called Hannah u Mrs. Hicks,
mum," and who bowed in awe as much before that domestic as
Hannah did before Miss Honeyman. At five o'clock in sum-
mer, at seven in winter (for Miss 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, pro-
longed 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 consumed in her house. The qualities of the Sally
for the time being formed a constant and delightful subject of

7

9S

THE NEIVCOMES.

conversation between Hannah and her mistress. The few
friends who visited Miss Honeyman in her back parlor, 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 themselves — are retired housekeepers, tradesfolk, and
the like. With these surrounding individuals Hannah treated
on a footing of equality, bringing to her mistress accounts of
their various goings on j " how No. 6 was let ; how Xo. 9 had
not paid his rent again ; how the first floor at 27 had game
almost every day, and made-dishes from Muttons ; 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 Leary's 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. Cribb still went cuttin' pounds and pounds of
meat of 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 neighbors' credit, Hannah
copiously collected and brought to her mistress's tea-table, or
served at her frugal little supper when Miss Honeyman, the
labors of the day over, partook of that cheerful meal. I need
not say that such horrors as occurred at Mrs. Bugsby's never
befell in Miss Honeyman's establishment. Ever}' room was
fiercely swept and sprinkled, and watched by cunning eyes
which nothing could escape ; curtains were taken down, mat-
tresses explored, even' bone in bed dislocated and washed as
soon as a lodger took his departure. And as 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 intrusted 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 favorites the best Indian currie
and rice, coming from a distinguished 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

THE NEVVCOMES. gg

they were not in favor : if they went to a dissen'r.ng 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 they were visited by two corpulent
gentlemen in black, one of whom wore a purple under waist-
coat, before whom the Staffordshire lady absolutely sank down
on her knees as he went into the drawing-room ; Miss Honey-
man sternly gave warning to these idolaters. She would have
no Jesuits in her premises. She showed Hannah the picture
in Howell's Medulla of the martyrs burning at Sinitnneld : 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 splendor, and the
one horse chaise (with the lamps for evenings) from which she
had descended, a noble equipage. " Bat 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 j/ieased God to call me."

The good lady was called the Duchess by her fellow trades-
folk in the square 'u\ which sive lived. (I don't know what
would have come to 'iter had she been told she was a trades-
woman !) Her butchers, bakers, and market-people paid her
as much respect as though she had been a grandee's house-
keeper out of Kemp Town. Knowing her station, she was yet
kind to those inferior beings. She held affable conversations
with them, she patronized Mr. Rogers, who was said to be
worth a hundred thousand — two hundred thousand pound (on
lbs. was it ?'), and who said, " Law bless the 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 born 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 was fine to hear her
tnlk of 4i my fishmonger ") would sell her a whiting as respect-
fully 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 the better clays which she had

IOo THE NEWCOMES

known were supposed to signify some almost unearthly pros-
perity. "I have always found Hannah."' the simple soul would
say. " that people know their place, or can be very easily
made to find it it they lose it ; and it a gentlewoman does not
forget herself, her inferiors will not forget that she is a gentle-
woman."' " No indeed, mum, and I'm sure they would do no
such thing, mum," says Hannah, who carries away the teapot
for her own breakfast (to be transmitted to Sally for her subse-
quent refection), while 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, while those ensigns in her neighbors' houses
would remain exposed to the flies and the weather, and disre-
garded 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. The Misses Barkham, Bark-
hambury, Tunbridge Weils, whose father had been at college
with Mr. Honeyman, 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 recommen-
dations from the clergymen of Brighton, and a constant friend
in the celebrated Dr. Goodenough of London, who had been
her father's private pupil, and of his college afterward, who sent
his patients from time to time down to her, and his fellow phy-
sician, Dr. H , who on his part would never take any fee

^from Miss Honeyman, except a packet of India currie powder,
a ham cured as she only knew how to cure them, ancl once a
year, or so, a dish of her tea.

" Was there ever such luck as that confounded told
Duchess's ? " 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
a I read in the ' Sussex Advertiser ' the death of Miss Bark-
ham, of Barkhambury, Tunbridge Wells, and thinks I there's a
snoke in your wheel, you stuck-up little old Duchess, with
your cussed airs and impudence. And she ain't put her card

THE NEIVCOMES. IOi

up three days ; and look yere, yere's two carriages, two maids,
three children, one of them wrapped up in a Hinjar shawl —
man hout 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 car-
ryin' in the basket. Just look at the luggage. I say ! 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 while making this speech.
The little Gawlers rush on to the drawing-room veranda them-
selves to examine the new arrivals.

" This is Miss Honeyman's ? " asks the gentleman designa-
ted by Mrs. Gawler as " the foring cove," and hands in a card
on which the words "Miss Honeyman, no, Steyne Gardens.
J. Goodenough," are written in that celebrated physician's
handwriting. " We want five betrooms, six bets, two or dree
sitting-rooms. Have you got dese ? "

"Will you speak to my mistress? " says Hannah. And if
it is a fact that Miss Honeyman does happen to be in the front
parlor looking at the carriages, what harm is there in the cir-
cumstance, pray ? Is not Gawler 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 parlordoor, and with a
curtsey, "a gentleman about the apartments, mum."

" Fife 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 you not better take off your hat ? " asks the Duchess,
pointing out of one of her little mittens to " the foring cove*.-. "
beaver, which he has neglected to remove.

The man grins, and takes off the hat. " I beck your bar-
don, ma'am," says he. " Have you fife betrooms ? " &c. The
Doctor has cured the German of an illness, as well as his em-
ployers, and especially recommended Miss Honeyman to Mr.
Kuhn.

io2 THE XE W 'COMES.

" I have such a number of apartments. My sen-ant 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 apartments, 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 forth-
with ordered to be brought from the carriages. The little
invalid wrapped in his shawl is brought up stairs by the
affectionate Mr. Kuhn, who carries him as gently as if he
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 slim black-haired young lass of
thirteen, frisks about the rooms, looks at all the pictures, runs
in and out of the veranda, 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 instru-
ment), kisses her languid little brother laid on the sofa, and
performs a hundred gay and agile motions suited to her age.

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

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

'■ What funny pictures, mamma. Action with Count de
Grasse ; the death of General Wolfe ; a portrait of an officer,
an old officer in blue, like grandpapa ; Brazen Xose 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.
Xewcome. A teaspoonful to be taken when the cough is
troublesome."

" 0 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

THE NEWCOMES 103

horrid factories and chimneys ! I love Dr. Goodenough for
sending us here. What a sweet house it is ! Everybody is
happy in it, even Miss Quigley is happy, mamma. What nice
roorn^! What pretty chintz." What a — O what a — comfortable
sofa ! " and she falls down on the sofa, which, truth to say, was
the Rev. Charles Honeyman's luxurious sofa from Oxford, pre-
sented to him by young Gibber Wright of Christ Church, 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 re-
members her a pretty little woman when her father was his
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 any thing like a joke, ut-
tered by himself or by any of his family or friends. As for Dr.
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 the twinkling of an
eye.

The person supposed to be the landlady enters the room at
this juncture, 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." Convul-
sions follow this sally to the surprise of Hannah, who says,
" Pooty little dear ! — what time will he have his dinner, mum."

" Thank you, Miss 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 misses, 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

I04 THE ITEWCOMES.

missses's brother, mum. I've got no brother, mum — never had
no brother. Only one son, who's in the Police, murn, 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."

" O indeed," says the lady, rather stiffly ; and taking this fol
an acceptance of her mistress's visit, Hannah retires.

" This Miss Honeyman seems to be a great personage,"
says the lady. u If people lets lodgings, why do they give
themselves such airs ? "

u We never saw Monsieur de Boigne at Boulogne, mamma,"
interposes the girl.

•• Monsieur de Boigne, my dear Ethel ! Monsieur de Boigne
is very well. But — " here the door opens, and in a large cap
bristling with ribbons, with her best chestnut front, and her best
black silk gown, on which her gold watch shines very splen-
didly, little Miss Honeyman makes her appearance, and a
dignified curtsey to her lodger.

That lady vouches a very slight inclination of the head in-
deed, which she repeats when Miss Honeyman says. M 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.

11 As if all the houses hadn't a view of the sea, Ethel ! The
price has been arranged, I think ? My servants will 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."

u Am I to understand ? " interrupted Miss Honeyman.

"O ! I have no doubt we shall understand each other,
ma'am," cried Lady Ann Xewcome (whose noble presence the
acute reader has no doubt ere this divined and saluted).
u Doctor Goodenoujrh has given me a most satisfactorv account
of you — more satisfactory perhaps than — than you are aware
of." Perhaps Lady Ann's sentence was not going to end in a
very satisfactory way for Miss 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,

THE XEWCOMES. io5

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. Kuhn, and
that will do."

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

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

" They will 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 Miss Honeyman, trem-
bling with indignation, and sitting down in a chair spreading
her silks.

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

f It will be a pity that the dear little boy should be disturbed.
Dear little child, I have often heard of him, and of vou,
miss," says the little householder rising. " I will get you some
dinner, my dear, for Olive's sake. And meanwhile your lady-
ship will have the kindness to seek for some other apartments
— for not a bit shall my fire cook for any one else of your com-
pany." 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."

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

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

I06 THE NEIVCOMES.

" What is it, my boy ? What is it, my blessed darling ?
You shall 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 — I'll 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 " Xo — 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 parlor, 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. Good-
enough's recommendation. And it was not until one of the
nurses intrusted with the care of Master Alfred's dinner in-
formed Miss Honeyman of the name of her guest, that she
knew she was entertaining Lady Ann Xewcome : 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 batter-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 have heard rather
(Goodness forbid that we should see Miss Honeyman arraying
herself, or penetrate that chaste mystery, her toilet !) : then she
came to wait upon Lady Ann, not a little flurried as to the
Tesult of that queer interview ; then she whisked out of the draw-
ing-room as before 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 up 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 banister.

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

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

THE NEWCOMES. IOj

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
penknives, bethought her of asking Miss Honeyman to carve
the chicken. Lady Ann, with clasped hands and streaming
eyes, sat looking on at the ravishing scene.

" Why did you not let us know you were Clive'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
you love Clive, my dear ?

The reconciliation between Miss Honeyman and her lodger
was perfect. Lady Ann wrote a quire of note-paper off 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 Miss 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 glsss
again. The honest rogue knew good wine.

CHAPTER X.

ETHEL AND HER RELATIONS.

For four-and-twenty successive hours Lady Ann Xewcome
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 princi' les — the principles of all French-
men are shocking — and the dreadful 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 evening 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

,08 THE NEWCOMES.

mutton five times a week at one o'clock. " I am so glad you
like the house and Clive, and Miss Honeyman."

"Like her ! the dear little old woman. I feel as if she had
been my friend all my life ! I feel quite drawn towards her.
What a wonderful coincidence that Dr. Goodenough should
direct us to this very house ! I have written to your father about
it. And to think that I should have written to Clive at this \ ery
house, and quite forgotten Miss Honeyman's name — and such an
odd name too. I forget even-thing, everything ! You know I
forgot your Aunt Louisa's husband's name ; and when I was
godmother 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
ever}- 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 Xewcome, hug and
embrace them on Sunday ; not speak to them on Monday ; and
on Tuesday behave so rudely to them that they were gone be-
fore 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 could not play on the piano ; she could not speak
French well ; she could not tell you when gunpowder was
invented : she had not the faintest idea of the date of the Nor-
man Conquest, or whether the Earth went round the sun or
vice versa. She did not know the number of counties in Eng-
land, 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
bewildered by a multiplicity of teachers, and thought herself
a monster of ignorance. They gave her a book at a Sunday-
school, and little girls of eight years old answered questions of
which she knew nothing. The place swam before her. She
could not see the sun shining on their fair flaxen heads and
pretty faces. The rosy little children holding up their eager

THE NEWCOMES.

109

hands, and crying the answer to this question and that, seemed
mocking her. She seemed to read in the book, " O Ethe!, you
dunce, dunce, dunce ! " She went home silent in the carriage,
and burst into bitter tears on her bed. Naturally a haughty
girl 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. Clive 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 young ladies and gentlemen, their nurses and
governesses, in a certain reserved plot of ground railed off from
Hyde Parkf whereof some of the lucky dwellers in the neighbor-
hood of Apsley House have a key. In this garden, at the age
of nine or thereabout, she had contracted an intimate friend-
ship with the Lord Hercules O'Ryan — as everyone of my gentle
readers knows, one of the sons of the Marquis of Ballyshannou.
The Lord Hercules was a year younger than Miss Ethel New-
come, 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 endeavoring to soothe her said, " Perhaps his Lord-
ship will know nothing about the circumstance." " He will,"
said Miss Ethel — " Jicll read it in the nriL'spaper." 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 was 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 pinafore like Lucy Tucker ! " She did
not care for their sports. She could nOt walk with them : it
seemed as if everyone stared ; nor dance with them at the
academy, nor attend the Cours de Litte'rature Universelle et de
Science Comprehensive of the professor then the mode — the
smallest girls took her up in the class. She was bewildered by
the multitude of things they bade her learn. At the youthful

1 1 o THE NE WCOMES.

little assemblies of her sex, when, under the guide of their re-
spected governesses, the girls came to tea at six o'clock, dan-
cing, 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 them : 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 Xewcome had married.

When we read in the fair}' stories that the King and Queen,
who lived once upon a time, built 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 humor of that
notorious old fair}- 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 educa-
tional 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 Royal Highness's implacable enemies, or crossed
by the young scapegrace 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 rlown, 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 XEIVCOMES. \\\

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 the world by their
extravagance and their frolics. What a wild rogue was that
Prince Harry, son of the austere sovereign who robbed Richard
the Second of his crown — the youth who took purses on Gads-
shill, frequented Eastcheap taverns with Colonel Falstaff 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 in-
stances 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 was no 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 have never looked very un-
kindly on these frolics. A young nobleman, full of life and
spirits, generous of his money, jovial in his humor, ready with
his sword, frank, handsome, prodigal, courageous, always finds
favor. 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, and 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 New-come,
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 Lord-
ship. 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 equalize all

! j 2 THE NE WCOMES.

ranks ; so strongly has the good sense of society, to which in
the end gentlemen of the very highest fashion must bow, puts
its veto upon practices and amusements with which our fathers
were familiar. At that time the Sunday newspapers contained
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 redoubtable days of Broughton and Slack, to the
heroic times of Dutch Sam and the Game Chicken. Young
gentlemen went eagerly to Moulley 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 the rattling
teams of mail coaches \ a gay sight was the road in merry Eng-
land in those days, before steam-engines arose and flung its
hostelry and chivalry over. To travel in coaches, to drive
coaches, to know coachmen and guards, to be familiar with inns
along the road, to laugh with 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 ? " Biffin," 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 insti-
stitution. Men rallied round them ; and, not without a kind
conservatism, expatiated upon the benefits with which they en-
dowed 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 with a lonely
driver. Where are your charioteers ? Where are you, O rattling
Quicksilver, O swift Defiance ? You are passed 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 farmers 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

&

THE NEWCOMES.

"3

back ; who kept race-horses, patronized 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 from 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 grandmother, who prophesied
that her daughter-in-law would make milksops of her sons, to
whom the old lady was never reconciled till after my Lord's
entry at Christ Church, where he began to distinguish himself
very soon after his first term. He drove tandems, kept hunters,
gave dinners, scandalized the Dean, screwed up the tutor's
door, and agonized his mother at home by his lawless proceed-
ings. He quitted the University after a very brief sojourn at
that seat of learning. It may be the Oxford authorities re-
quested his Lordship to retire ; let by-gones be by-gones. His
youthful son, the present Lord William, is now at Christ Church,
reading with the greatest assiduity. Let us not be too partic-
ular in narrating his father's unedifying frolics of a quarter of a
century ago.

Old lady Kew, who, in conjunction with Mrs. Xewcome, had
made the marriage between Mr. Brian Xewcome and her daugh-
ter, always despised her son-in-law ; and being a frank, open
person, uttering her mind always, took little pains to conceal
her opinion regarding him or any other individual. " Sir Brian
Xewcome," she would say, "is one of the most stupid and
respectable of men ; Ann is clever, but has not a grain of com-
mon sense. They make a very well-assorted couple. Her
flightiness would have driven any man crazy who had an opinion
of his owri. 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 establishment, and checks her follies. She want-
ed 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. Xewcome. 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
there even at the season when Londoners find such especial
charms in their own city. " London after Easter," the old lady
said " was intolerable. Pleasure becomes a business, then so

8

Ii4 THE XEJfTO.VES.

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 toilets. 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 shopboys from London." So
Lady Kew's name was usually among the earliest, which the
Brighton newspapers recorded among the arrivals.

Her only unmarried daughter, Lady Julia, lived with her
Ladyship. Poor Lady Julia had suffered early trom 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 castigation. 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 exercise it. Poor Lady Julia was
always at hand, when her mother was minded to try her
j:o vers.

Lady Kew just made herself comfortable at Brighton, when
her little grandson's illness brought Lady Ann Xewcome and
her family down to the sea. Lady Kew was almost scared back
to London, 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 Xewcome's, 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."

u You see Dr. 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 pre

THE NEIVCOMES.

"5

tend to prescribe, or to take his guinea; of course Dr. II.
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 ser-
vants 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
her's 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 favorable reports
of Master Alfred's health that day, which Dr. 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 Brigh-
ton papers of the arrival of the Earl of Kew and the Honorable
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 that you know some-
thing. Do tell it me, that I may write it to his odious psalm -
singing mother."

Dr. H.'s face does indeed wear a knowing look. He simpers
and says, " I did see Lord Kew driving this morning, first with
the Honorable Mr. Belsize, and afterwards " — here he glances
towards Lady Julia, as if to say, " Before an unmarried lady, I
do not like to tell your Ladyship with whom I saw Lord Kew
driving after he had left the Honorable Mr. Belsize, who went
to play a match with Captain 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 Kew this
instant, Dr. H."

I r 6 THE NE WCOMES.

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
Signor Pozzoprofondo was in the carriage too — a — a — sitting
behind with the groom. He was indeed, Mamma.*'

"Julia, tons ?ieks quhine ganache" says Lady Kew, shrug-
ging her 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. " Mon-
sieur k 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 women, at half-past seven. You may bring Mr. Belsize,
and must tell us a hundred stories.

" Yours, &c.

L. Kew."

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, who 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 was "a poor suffering dear, and the
best woman in all England." Jack Belsize liked everyone, and
everyone liked him.

Two evenings afterward 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 5
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

THE NEWCOMES.

= 7

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.

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

" Ethel is a trump, Ma'am," says Lord Kew, slapping his
hand on his knee.

" Ethel is a brick, 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 importune Jack Belsize
— "I'm always putting my foot in it."

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

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

11 Where Monsieur Pozzoprofondo sits, don."

" We drove on to the Downs, and we were nearly coming to
grief. My 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."

u. D- d rash," interposes Jack. " He had nearly broken

all our necks."

"And my brother Frank would have been Lord Kew," con-
tinued 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
sat in her place like a man. We met nothing, luckily ; and 1
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, but you must not tell mamma.' My aunt,

i 1 3 THE NE WCOMES.

it appears, was in a dreadful commotion — I ought to have
thought of that."

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

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

■ Smokes awfully ; row about 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, back 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; but you have given us alia belle peur? And then he
made me and Jack a low 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 uncom-
monly sentimental, you know, Lady Ann."

" My daughter Ann is the greatest fool in the three king-
doms," cried Lady Kew, looking fiercely over her spectacles.
And Julia was 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 Julia's side, when the weaker was oppressed by
the older and stronger lady.

CHAPTER XI.
at m rs. ridley's.

Saint 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

THE XR WCOMBS. 1 1 9

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 clays : he was for three years in a convent of
his order without knowing 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 barefoot, and was
but skin and bone when he died. The eating only once in three
days, so he told his sister Saint, was by no means impossible, if
you began the regimen in your youth. To conquer sleep was
the hardest of all austerities which he practised. I fancy the
pious individual so employed, day after day, night after night,
on his knees, or standing up in devout meditation in the cup-
board— his dwelling place ; bareheaded and barefooted, walk-
ing 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 butler, whose wife takes care of the lodgings. His
cells consist of a refectory, a dormitory, and an adjacent oratory,
where he keeps his shower-bath and boots — the pretty boots
trimly stretched on boot-trees, and blackened to a nicety (not
varnished) by the boy who waits on him. The barefooted business
may suit superstitious ages and gentlemen of Alcantara, but does
not become May Fair and the nineteenth century. If St. Peter
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 deli-
cate 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 odor pervades his sleeping apartment — not that
peculiar and delicious fragrance with which the Saints of the
Roman Church are said to gratify the neighborhood 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 showers
of sympathy.

I2Q THE NEWCOMES.

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 min-
ister to female grace !) leave them at the door for the Rev. C.
Honeyman, and slip away without a word. Purses are sent to
him — pen-wipers — 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 comforters, and lozenges for his dear bronchitis.
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 his breakfast-table
the silver teapot, once filled with sovereigns and presented by
the same devotees. The teapot he has, but the sovereigns,
where are they ?

What a different life this is from our honest friend of Alcan-
tara, who eats once in three days ! At one time, if Honeyman
could have drunk tea three times in an evening, he might have
had it. The glass on his chimney-piece is crowded with in-
vitations, not merely cards of ceremony (of which there are
plenty), out dear little confidential notes from sweet friends of
his congregation. " O dear Mr. Honeyman." writes Blanche,
" what a sermon that was ! I cannot go to bed to-night with-
out thanking you for it." " Do, do, dear Mr. Honeyman,"
writes Beatrice, " lend me that delightful sermon. And can
you come and drink tea with me and Selina, and my aunt ?
Papa and mamma dine out, but you k?ww I am always your
faithful Chesterfeld Street." And so on. He has all the do-
mestic accomplishments ; he plays on the violincello : he sings
a delicious second, not only in sacred but in secular music. He
has a thousand anecdotes, laughable riddles, droll stories (of
the utmost correctness, you understand) with which he enter-
tains 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 dancing through the season, even rosy little slips
out of the nursery, who cluster around his beloved feet. Socie-
ties fight for him to preach their charity sermon. You read
in the papers. " The YVapping Hospital for Wooden-legged
Seamen. On Sunday the 23d, Sermons will be preached in
behalf of this charity, by the Lord Bishop of Tobago in the
morning, in the afternoon by the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M.,
incumbent of," &c. " Clergyman's Grandmothers' Fund. Ser-

THE NEIVCOMES. 12 1

mons in aid of this admirable institution will be preached on
Sunday, 4th May, by the Very Rev. The Dean of Pimlico, and
the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M." When the Dean of Pimlico
has his illness, many people think Honeyman will have the
Deanery ; that he ought to have it, a hundred female 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 wide, and not only women
but men come to hear him. 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 come away from his sermons and say,
M 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 Anne Maria. " Can't you
speak to the Home Secretary ! Can't you do something for
hi;7j ! " " 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 anything 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 of the
wine-vaults below the chapel."

" Don't Charles ! " says his wife, with a solemn 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 coffins. I wonder if it's
the Sherrick with whom Kew and Jack Belsize had that ugly

row

M What ugly row ! — don't say ugly row. It is not a nice
word to hear the children use. Go on, my darling. What was
the dispute of Lord Kew and Mr. Belsize, and this Mr. Sher-
rick ? "

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

" And what is that, dear ! " asks the innocent lady, hanging
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, Charles ! "

" A woman, my love," answers the gentleman, behind whom
we have been in imagination walking out from Charles Honey-

.122 THE NEWCOMES.

man's church on a Sunday in June : as the whole pavement
blooms with artificial flowers and fresh bonnets : as there is a
buzz and cackle all around regarding the sermon ; as carriages
drive off ; as lady-dowagers walk home ; as prayer-books and
footman'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 Reverend
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 neighboring
hermitage — where have we placed it ! — in Walpole Street. I
wish St. Peter 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, like St.
Peter 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 de-
funct frequenters of the chapel. Whose was that face which
Colonel Newcome thought he recognized — that of a stout man
who came down from the organ gallery ? Could it be BrurT the
bass singer, who delivered the Red Cross Knight with such
applause at the Cave of Harmony and who has been singing in
this place ? There are some chapels in London, where, the
functions over, one almost expects to see the sextons put brown
Hollands over the pews and galleries, as they do at the Theatre
Royal, 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 house-
keeper, pattering on before us from chamber to chamber, was ex-
patiating upon the magnificence of this picture ; the beauty of
that statue ; the marvellous richness of these hangings and car-
pets ; 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 t " The sacred func-
tionary paused in the midst of her harangue j that article was

THE NEWCOMES. I23

not inserted in the catalogue which she daily utters to visitors
for their half-crown. Hick's question brought a darkness down
upon the hall where we were standing. We did not see the
room : and yet I have no doubt there is such a 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 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 ?nust go unlock it, when the palace is hushed, when beau-
ties are sleeping around him unconscious, and revellers are at
rest. O 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 like 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 ? Psha ! who knows 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 hus-
band, 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 sand-
wiches 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
Mi ss Beatrice invites to tea; who comes with smiles on his lip,
gentle sympathy in his tones, innocent gayety in his accent ;
who melts, rouses, terrifies in the pulpit; who charms over the

124

THE XEWCOMES.

tea-urn and the bland bread-and-butter j Charles Honeyman
has one or two skeleton closets in his lodgings, Walpole Street,
May Fair ; and many a wakeful night, while Mrs. Ridley, his
landlady, and her tired husband, the nobleman's major-domo,
while the lodger on the firstrloor, while 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 re-
ceptacle. One of the Reverend Charles Honeyman's grizzly
night-haunters is — but stop j 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 Greenwich 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 woman with money, much
older than himself, who does not like London, and stops at
home at Hummingham, not much to the displeasure of Bagshot;
gives every now and then nice little quiet dinners, which Mrs.
Ridley cooks admirably, to exceedingly stupid jolly old Parlia-
mentary fogies, who absorb, with much silence and cheerful-
ness, 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 BelFs Life,
in bed : frequents the Blue Posts, sometimes ; rides a stout cob
out of his country and pays like the Bank of England.

The house is a Xorfolk house. Mrs. Ridley was house-
keeper to the great 'Squire Bayhams, who had the estate before
the Conqueror, and who came to such a dreadful crash in the
year 1S25, 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-board. Mr. Bayham now lives up in one corner of the
house, which used to be rilled with the finest company in Europe.
Law bless you ! the Bayhams have seen almost all the nobility
of England come in and go our.and were gentlefolks, when many
a fine lord's father of the present day was sweeping a counting-
house.

I

■

M I

LADY WITTLESEA'S CHAPEL. — LADY KEW'S CARRIAGE ST0B6 THE WAY.

126 THE NEW COMES.

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 ! the City is
hushed. The towers of the great cathedral rise in the distance,
its spires lighted by the broad moon. The statues in the
moonlit place cast long shadows athwart the pavement : but the
fountain 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 shade, 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 Escurial where the Rubens and Velasquez are ? It is
Fancy Street — Poetry Street — Imagination Street — the street
where lovely ladies look from balconies, where cavaliers strike
mandolins and draw swords and engage, where long processions
pass, and venerable hermits, with long beards, bless the kneel-
ing people : where the rude soldiery, swaggering through the
place with flags and halberts, and fife and dance, seize the slim
waists of the daughters of the people, and bid the pifferari play
to their dancing. Blow, bagpipes, a storm of harmony ! become
trumpets, trombones, ophicleides, fiddles, and bassoons ! Fire,
guns ! Sound, tocsins ! Shout, people ! Louder, shriller and
sweeter than all, sing thou, ravishing heroine ! And see, on his
cream-colored charger Massaniello prances in, and Fra Diavolo
leaps down the balcony, carabine in hand ; and Sir Huon of
Bordeaux sails up to the quay with the Sultan's daughter of
Bagdad. 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 y
little dark room where there is a bed disguised in the shape of
a wardrobe, and a little old woman is playing under a gas-lamp
on the jingling keys of an old piano.

For a long time Mr. Samuel Ridley, butler and confidential
valet to the Right Honorable John James Baron Todmorden,
was in a state of the greatest despair and gloom about his only
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 car-
riages, 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

THE NEWCOMES. I2y

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 wit
belongs to the big people. Look at me, you great tall man !
Am I not a hundred times cleverer than you are i 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 ! •'

'•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 do 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 armor, with
plume, and shield, and battle-axe ; and splendid young noble-
men with flowing ringlets, and bounteous plumes of feathers,
and rapiers, and russet boots; and fierce banditti with crimson
tights, doublet;', profusely illustrated with large brass buttons,
and the dumpy basket-hilted claymores known to be the favorite
weapon with, which these whiskered ruffians do battle ; wasp
waisted peasant girls, and young countesses with O such lafge
eyes and cherry lips ! — all these splendid forms of war and
beauty crowd to the young draughtman's pencil, and cover
letter-backs, copy-books, without end. If his hand strikes oil'
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,

128 THE NEWCOMES.

or fancied he lias 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 neighborhood who takes in
dressmaking for the neighboring maid-servants, and has a
small establishment of lollipops, theatrical characters, and
ginger-beer for the boys in little Cragg's Buildings, hard by
the Running 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 neighboring 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 Rinaldino
Captain of Robbers. How he has blistered Thaddeus of War-
saw with his tears, and drawn him in his Polish cap, and tights,
and Hessians ! William WTallace, 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,

THE AE 1VC0MES. ! 2 9

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 despair of any better chance for him, his parents
thought of apprenticing him to a tailor, and John James was
waked up from a dream of Rebecca and informed of the cruel ty
meditated against him. I forbear to describe the tears and
terror, and frantic desperation in which the poor boy was
plunged. Little Miss Cahn rescued him from that awful board,
and Honeyman likewise interceded for him, and Mr. Bagshot
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, and no one knew him
less than his pompous and stupid and respectable father.

Miss Canti painted ilowers and card-screens elegantly, and
"finished" pencil-drawings most elaborately for her pupils.
She could copy prints, so that at a little distance you would
scarcely know that the copy in stumped 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-colors — "for trees in foregrounds, burnt sienna and
indigo " — " for veiy dark foliage, ivory black and gambouge "
— "for flesh-color," &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 that Johnny Ridley's. Honey-
man looked at the boy's drawings froir time to time and said,
"Hm, ha! — very clever — a great deal ot fancy, really." But
Honeyman knew no more of the subject, than a deaf and
dumb man knows of music. He could talk the art — cav^.i; very
glibly, and had a set of Morghens and Madonnas as became a
clergyman and a man of taste ; but he saw not with eyes such
as those wherewith 1 leaven had endowed the humble little
butler's boy, to whom splendors of Nature were revealed to
vulgar sights invisible, and beauties manifest in forms, colors.
shadows of common objects, where most o: the world saw only
what was dull, and gross, and familiar. One reads in the magic
story-books of a charm or a flower which the wiz;. . and

which enables the bearer to see the fairies. O enchanting boon
of Nature, which reveals to the possessor the hidden Spirits of
beauty round about him ! spirits which the strongest and most

0

i3o

THE XEWCOMES.

gifted masters 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 barred 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 neighboring streets, to wit, Great
Craggs Street, Bolingbroke Street, and others, contain man-
sions fairly coped with stone, with little obelisks before the
doors, and great extinguishers wherein the torches of the nobil-
ity's running footmen were put out a hundred and thirty or
forty years ago : — houses which still remain abodes of the
quality, and where you shall see a hundred carriages gather of
a public night ; — Walpole Street has quite faded away into
lodgings, private hotels, doctors' houses, and the like ; nor is
No. 23 (Ridley's 1, by any means the best house in the street.
The parlor, furnished and tenanted by Miss Cann as has been
described ; the first floor. Bagshot, Esq., M.P. ; the sec-
ond floor, Honeyman ; what remains but the garrets, and the
ample staircase and the kitchens : and the family being ali put
to bed, how 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 you have no idea yet;, will play a definite
part in the ensuing history. At night, when Honeyman comes
in, he finds on the hall table three wax bedroom candles — his
own, Bagshot's and another. As for Miss Cann, she is locked
into the parlor in bed long ago, her stout little walking shoes
being on the mat at the door. At 12 o'clock at noon, some-
times 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 ; from a room where there is no bell, a
voice of thunder calling out "Slavey! Julia! Julia, my love!
Mrs. Ridley ! " And this summons not being obeyed, it will
not unfrequently happen that a pair of trousers enclosing a
pair of boots with iron heels, and known by the name of the
celebrated Prussian General who came up to help the other
christener of boots at Waterloo, will be flung down from the
topmost story, even to the marble floor of the resounding hall.
Then the boy Thomas, otherwise called Slavey, may say,
M There he goes again ; " or Mrs, Ridley's own back parlor

THE NEWCOMES.

'31

bell rings vehemently, and Julia the cook will exclaim, " 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-chambre. 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 cup-
board where his reverence keeps his sherry, and helps himself
to a glass.

" Salve, spes fidei, lumen ecclesice" he will say ; " here's
towards vou, my buck. I knows the tap. Sherrick's Marsala
bottled three months' after date, at two hundred and forty
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. Frederick weighs fourteen stone.) a Indeed, indeed it
isn't, Fred, I'm sure ; " sighs the other. " You exaggerate,
indeed you do. The wine is not dear, not by any means so
expensive as you say."

" How much a glass, think you ? " says Fred, filling another
bumper. " A half-crown, think ye ? — a half-crown, Honeyman ?
By cock and pye, it is not worth a bender." He says this in
the manner of the 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 afterward,
bee buzzing, little boy up a chimney, &c. He imitates people
being ill on board a steam-packet so well that he makes you die
of laughing : his uncle the Bishop could not resist this comic
exhibition, and gave Fred a check for a comfortable sum of
money ; and Fred, getting cash for the check 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,

I32

THE NEWCOMES.

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 muffins.
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 Heaven's sake, Bayham," cries Mr. Honeyman, white
with terror ; " if anybody were to come —

" What did I say anon, sir ? that I was manly, ay, manly.
Let any ruffian, save a bailiff, 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 advances 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 whenever 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."

" 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. Honey-
man's shirts, and one of his razors. Adieu, Charles ! Amend !
Remember me." And he vanishes into the upper chambers.

THE NEWCOMES.

*33

CHAPTER XII.

IN WHICH EVERYONE IS ASKED TO DINNER.

John 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-born, 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 j 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 leaped 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 Friars 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 hij
pride, his patron, his paragon.

J34

THE XEWCOMES.

I am afraid Clive Newcome employed him to smuggle rum
shrub, and cigars into the premises ; giving him appointments
in the school precincts, where young Clive would come and
stealthily receive the forbidden goods. The poor lad was
known by the boys, and called Newcome's Punch. He was all
but hunchbacked ; long and lean in the arm ; sallow, with a
great forehead, and waving black hair, and large melancholy
eyes.

M What, is it you, J. J. ? " cries Clive gayly, when his humble
friend appears at the door. " Father, this is my friend Ridley.
This is the fellow that can draw."

" I know who I will back against any young man of his size
at that" says the Colonel, looking at Clive fondly. He con-
sidered there was not such a genius in the world ; and had
already thought of having some of Give's drawings published
by M'Lean of the Haymarket.

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

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

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

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

" Show us the pictures. Let's go up into vour room," cries
Clive.

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

" Never mind, come along," says Clive ; and the two lads

THE XEWCOMES.

*35

disappear together, leaving the three grown gentlemen to
discourse together, or rather two of us to listen to Honeyman,
who expatiates upon the beauty of the weather, the difficulties
of the clerical calling, the honor Colonel Newcome does him by
a visit, <xx., with his usual eloquence.

After a while Clive comes down without J. J., from the
upper regions. He is greatly excited. "Oh, sir," he says to
his father, " you talk about my drawings — you should see
J. J.'s ! By Jove, that fellow is a genius. They are beautiful,
sir. You seem actually to read the Arabian Nights, you know,
only in pictures. There is Scheherazade telling the stories,
and — what do you call her? — Dinarzade and the Sultan sitting
in bed and listening. Such a grim old cove ! You see he has
cut off ever so many of his wives' heads. I can't think where
that chap gets his ideas from. I can beat him in drawing
horses, I know, and 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 any-
thing.1' And he 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 o-o 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 well enough for your young protege' ; but for
jou — "

'•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
1 h athfield in the National Gallery ! Wouldn't I just ? I think
1 would sooner have done that, than have fought at Gib-
raltar. 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 Reynolds a clipper, that's all ! and
wasn't Rubens a brick ? He was an ambassador and Knight
of the Bath ; so was Yandvck. And Titian, and Raphael, and
Yelasquez ? — 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 no!

36

THE NEIVCOMES.

honorable," says Uncle Charles ; " but as the world goes there
are other professions in greater repute ; and I should have
thought Colonel Xewcome's son — M

"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."

(t 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 honor. Maxima debctur
puero revcrcjitia. Give him my compliments. I don't know his
highly respectable name.' His highly respectable name," says
Clive, cracking with laughter — " those were his very words.
' And inform him that I am an orphan myself — in needy cir-
cumstances ' — he said he was in needy 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 could ; and from his imitation and the picture he had
drawn, I knew at once that Fred Bayham was the man he
mimicked.

" And does the Red Rover live here," cried Mr. Pendennis,

II and have we earthed him at last ? "

" He sometimes comes here," Mr. Honeyman said with a
careless manner. " My landlord and landlady were butler and
housekeeper to his 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 before the occupant of the lodgings could say " Come
in ! " Mr. Frederick Bayham made his appearance j arrayed in
that peculiar costume which he affected. In those days we
wore very tall stocks, only a very few poetic and eccentric per-
sons venturing on the Byron collar 5 but Fred Bayham confined
his neck by a single ribbon, which allowed his great red whisk-
ers 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

THE NEIVCOMES. 137

a preen coat and a blue neckcloth, as if the turf or the driving
of coaches was his occupation.

14 I have heard from the young man of the house who you
were. Colonel New-come,"' he said with the greatest gravity,
"and happened to be present, sir, the other night ; for I was
a-weary, having been toiling all the day in literary labor, and
needed some refreshment. I happened to be present, sir, at a
scene which did you the greatest honor, and of which I spoke,
not knowing you. with something like levity to your son. He
is an ingenitivultus puer ingenuique pudoris — Pendennis, how are
you ? And I thought, sir, I would come down and tender an
apology if I had said any words that might savor of offence, 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 the 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
anyone, he was on fire at the notion that anyone 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 Parthenopceon,
Hackney. My audience was scanty, perhaps equal to my
deserts. I came home on foot to an e'^ and a glass of beer
after midnight, and witnessed the scene which did you so much
honor. What is this ? 1 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 afford to laugh
at a joke which is meant in good-humor."

This speech quite reconciled the honest Colonel. u 1 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 com-
mand of my regiment. Chinnery himself, sir, couldn't hit off a

I38 THE NEWCOMES.

likeness better j he has drawn me on horseback, and he has
drawn me on foot, and he has drawn my friend, Mr. Binnie, who
lives with me. We have scores of his drawings at my lodgings ;
and. if you will favor us by dining with us to-day, and these
gentlemen, you shall see that you are not the only person
caricatured by Clive here."

" I just took some little dinner up stairs, sir. I am a mod-
erate man, and can live, if need be, like a Spartan ; but to join
such good company I will gladly use the knife and fork again.
You will excuse 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 respect for the Church, would not hear of going out of
the room before the clergyman, and took his arm to walk.
Bayham then fell to Mr. Pendennis's lot, and they went to-
gether. Through Hill Street and Berkely Square their course
was straight enough ; 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 Bay-
ham, " which need not be explained to one of your experience,
why Bond Street must be avoided by some men peculiarly situ-
ated. The smell of Truefitt's pomatum makes 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 appreciated, and
courage rewarded. Here we are. The hotel seems comfortable.
I never was in it before."

When we entered the Colonel's sitting-room at Nerot's, vre
found the waiter 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 quite well.

"And he said he was disengaged, and would dine with us,"
continues 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 such uncommonly swell
parties in Park Lane ? "

THE XEWCOMES.

l39

u What is a swell party ? " asks the Colonel, laughing. " I
dined with 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 enougn 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 glasses of claret
and a cosy talk after dinner; but — well, well ! " — (no doubt the
worthy gentleman was accusing himself of telling tales cut 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 daresay he has good about him when you know him ■
almost every man has," said the good-natured philosopher.
" Give, you rogue, mind and be moderate with the Champagne,
sir ! "

" Champagne's for women," says Give. " I stick to claret."

" I say, Pendennis," here Bayham remarked, " it is my de-
liberate 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 right-minded man looks at the
exterior of his neighbor? He looks here, sir, and examines
there" and Bayham tapped his forehead, which was expansive,
and then his heart, which he considered 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."

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

Honest Mr. Binnie made his appearance a short time be-
fore the appointed hour for receiving the guests, arrayed in a
tight little pair of trousers, and white silk stockings and pumps,
his bald head shining like a billiard-ball, his jolly gills rosy with
good-humor. He was bent on pleasure. " Hey, lads i " says he ;
"but we'll 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 Colonel.

I4o THE NEWCOMES.

" 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 Bowling
yourself, Tom ! " cries the Colonel's delighted chum. Mr. Pen-
dennis opened the eyes of astonishment at the idea of the pos-
sibility of renewing these festivities, but he kept the lips of pru-
dence closed. And now the carriages begin to drive up, and
the guests of Colonel Xewcome to arrive.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN WHICH THOMAS NEWCOME SINGS HIS LAST SONG.

The earliest comers were the first mate and the medical
officer of the ship in which the two gentlemen had come to Eng-
land. The mate was a Scotchman : the doctor was a Scotch-
man ; of the gentlemen from the Oriental Club, three were
Scotchmen.

The Southerons, with one exception, were the last to arrive,
and for awhile we stood looking out of the windows awaiting
their coming. The first mate pulled out a penknife and ar-
ranged his nails. The Doctor and Mr. Binnie talked of the
progress of medicine. Binnie had walked the hospitals of Edin-
burgh before getting his civil appointment 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
YYallis'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 con-
versation, but presently left if, and came and talked with Clive :
"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, who has just gone into the army ;
he is older than you, he was born at the end of the Waterloo
year, and so was a great friend of his and mine, who was at
your school, Sir Rawdon Crawley."

"He was in Gown Boys, I know," says the boy ; " succeeded
his uncle Pitt, fourth Baronet. I don't know how his mother
— her who wrote the Hymns, you know; and goes to Mr. Honey-
man's chapel — comes to be Rebecca, Lady Crawley. His father,

THE NEIVCOMES.

141

Colonel Rawdon Crawley, died at Coventry Island, in August,
1S2-, and his uncle, Sir Pitt, not till September here. I re-
member, 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."

11 When I sailed to Rigy Cornel," the first mate was speak-
ing— nor can any spelling nor combination of letters of which
[ am master, reproduce this 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 (1st 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 i and — thank ye, James : " and
he tossed off a glass of brandy.

Here a waiter announces, in a loud voice, " Sir Thomas de
Boots," and the General enters, scowling round the room ac-
cording 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. Frederick Bay-
ham ; " I say, Pendennis, have you any idea, is the Duke com-
ing? 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 F. B. to appear in Bluchers, if he
had known that I was going to meet the duke. My linen's all
right, anyhow ; " 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 even-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 assume an expression which seemed to ask,
"And who the devil are you, sir?" as clearly as though the
General himself had given utterance to the words. With the
gentleman in the window talking to ('live he seemed to have
some acquaintance and said not unkindlv, M Mow d' vou do,
Dobbin."

The carriage 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 shatters of the
great coach, and mounted by the side of the coachman, laced

142

THE NEWCOMES.

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 be dressed like Merry-Andrews ?
Enter Sir Brian Xewcome, smiling blandly : he greets his brother
affectionately, Sir Thomas gayly ; he nods and smiles to Clive,
and graciously permits Mr. Pendennis to take hold of two fin-
gers of his extended right hand. That gentleman is charmed,
of course, with the condescension. What man could be other-
wise than happy to be allowed a momentary embrace of two
such precious fingers ! When a gentleman so favors me, I
always ask, mentally, why 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 would have
favored 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 Xewcome's guests. Sir 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 pro-
posal heartily seconded by Mr. Frederick Bayham.

The dinner appears steaming, borne by steaming waiters.
The grandees take their places, one on each side of the Colonel.
He 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 places
at the further end of the table, round about Mr. Binnie ; and
at the end of the second course Mr. Barnes Xewcome makes
his appearance.

Mr. Barnes does not show the slightest degree of disturb-
ance, 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. Binme's
twinkling eyes, as they watch the young man. " Eh," he seems
to say, " but that's just about as free and easy a young chap as

THE NF.WCOMES. I+3

ever I set eyes on." And so Mr. Barnes uuis a cool young
chap. That dish is so good, he must really have some more.
He discusses the second supply leisurely ; and turning round
simpering to his neighbor, says, "1 really hope I'm not keeping
everybody waiting."

" Hem ! " grunts the neighbor, Mr. Bayham ; " it doesn't
much matter, for we had all pretty well done dinner." Barnes
takes a note of Mr. Bayham's dress — his long frock-coat, the
ribbon round his neck ; and surveys him with an admirable im-
pudence. " Who are these people," thinks he, " my uncle has
got together ? " He bows graciously to the honest Colonel,
who asks him to take wine. He is so insufferably affable, that
every man near him would like to give him a beating.

All the time of the dinner the host was challenging every
body to drink wine, in his honest old-fashioned way, and Mr.
Binnie seconding the chief entertainer. Such was the way in
England and Scotland when they were young men. And when
Binnie, asking Sir Brian, receives for reply from the Baronet —
" Thank you. No, my dear sir. I have exceeded already,
positively exceeded," the poor discomfited gentleman hardly
knows whither to apply ; but, luckily, Tom Norris, the first mate,
comes to his rescue, and cries out, " Mr. Binnie, Tve not had
enough, and I'll drink a glass of anything ye like with ye."
The fact is, that Mr. Norris has had enough. He has drunk
bumpers to the health of every member of the company ; his
glass has been filled scores of times by watchful waiters. So
has Mr. Bayham absorbed great quantities of drink ; but with-
out any visible effect on that veteran toper. So has young
Clive taken more than is good for him. His cheeks are flushed
and burning; he is chattering and laughing loudly at his end
of the table. Mr. Warrington eyes the lad with some curiosity ;
and then regards Mr. Barnes with a look of scorn, which does
not scorch that affable young person.

I am obliged to confess that the mate of the Indiaman at
an early period of the dessert, and when nobody had asked him
for any such public expression of his opinion, insisted on rising
and proposing the health of Colonel Newcome, whose virtues
he lauded outrageously, and whom he pronounced to be one of
the best of mortal men. Sir Brian iooked very much alarmed
at the commencement of this speech, which the mate delivered
with immense shrieks and gesticulation: but the Baronet
recovered during the course of the rambling oration, and at
its conclusion gracefully tapped the table with one of those
patronizing fingers j and lifting up a glass containing at least

144

THE NEWCOMES.

a thimbleful of claret, said, " My dear brother, I drink yout
health with all my heart, I'm su-ah." The youthful Barnes
had uttered many " Hear, hears ! " during the discourse with
an irony, which, with every fresh glass of wine he drank, he
cared less to conceal. And though Barnes had come late he
had drunk largely, making up for lost time.

Those ironical cheers, and all his cousin's behavior during
dinner had struck young Clive, who was growing very angry.
He growled out remarks uncomplimentary to Barnes. His
eyes, as he looked towards his kinsman, flashed out challenges,
of which we who were watching him could see the warlike pur-
port. Warrington looked at Bayham and Pendennis with
glances of apprehension. We saw that danger was brooding,
unless the one young man could be restrained from his imperti-
nence, and the other from his wine.

Colonel Newcome said a very few words in reply to his hon-
est friend the chief mate : and there the matter might have ended :
but I am sorry to say Mr. Binnie now thought \i necessary to
rise and deliver himself of some remarks regarding the King's
service, coupled with the name of Major General Sir Thomas
de Boots, K. C. B., &c. — the receipt of which that gallant officer
was obliged to acknowledge in a confusion amounting almost
to apoplexy. The glasses went whack whack upon the hospit-
able board ; the evening set in for public speaking. Encour-
aged by his last effort, Mr. Binnie now proposed Sir Brian
Newcomes's health ; and that Baronet rose and uttered an
exceedingly lengthy speech, delivered with his wineglass on his
bosom.

Then that sad rogue Bayham must get up, and call earnestly
and respectfully for silence and the chairman's hearty sympathy,
for the few observations which he had to propose. " Our armies
had been drunk with proper enthusiasm — such men as he be-
held around him deserved the applause of ail honest hearts,
and merited the cheers with which their names had been re-
ceived. (Hear, hear! from Barnes Newcome sarcastically.
Hear, hear. Hear ! fiercely, from Clive.) But while we ap-
plaud our army, should we forget a profession still more ex-
alted ? Yes, still more exalted, I say in the face of the gallant
General opposite, and that profession, I need not say, is the
Church. L-Vpplause.) Gentlemen, we have among us one
who, while partaking largely of the dainties on this festive
board, drinking freely of the sparkling wine-cup which our
gallant hospitality administers to us, sanctifies by his presence
the feast of which he partakes, inaugurates with appropriate

THE NEWCOMES.

H5

benedictions, and graces it, I may say, both before and after
meat. Gentlemen, Charles Honeyman was the friend of my
childhood, his father the instructor of my early days. If
Frederick Bayham's latter life has been checkered by misfor-
tune, it may be that I have forgotten the precepts which the
venerable parent of Charles Honeyman poured into an inatten-
tive ear. He too, as a child, was not exempt from faults ; as a
young man, I am told, not quite free from youthful indiscretions.
But in this present Anno Domini, we hail Charles Honeyman
as a precept and an example, as a decus fidei and a lumen ecrfesue
(as I told him in the confidence of the private circle this morn-
ing, and ere I ever thought to publish my opinion in this dis-
tinguished company). Colonel Newcome and Mr. Binnie ! I
drink to the health of the Reverend Charles Honeyman, A. M.
May we listen to have many more of his sermons, as well as to
that admirable discourse with which I am sure he is about to
electrify us now. May we profit by his eloquence ; and cher-
ish 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 New-
come, " 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 bumper 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 capi-
tal, my dear General. Capital," the Colonel whispered to his
neighbor.

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 humor. You haughty Southerners little know
how a jolly Scotch gentleman can dcsipcrc in lo:o, 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.

.r46 THE NEWCOMES.

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 Xewcome, who had been drink-
ing 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 enough for you, why
do you come into it ? "

"Whas that?" asks Barnes, who was evidently affected by
wine. Bayham roared " Silence ! " and Barnes Xewcome, look-
ing 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 neighbor, 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 annoyed, for I saw him smile very good-naturedly ;
and he was going to try the verse again, when that unlucky
Barnes first gave a sort of crowing imitation of the song, and
then burst into a yell of laughter. Clive 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 behavior was sorry for the
insult.

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

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

" Are you drunk, sir ? " shouted his father.

" The boy served the young fellow right, 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 ac-
customed to it ; " and he led the dandy out.

Others had meanwhile explained the state of the case to

THE XEWCOMES. I47

rhe 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, puffing his cigar,
said, " No. My pipe is out. I will never sing again.*' So
this history will record no more of Thomas Newcome's musical
performances.

CHAPTER XIV.

PARK LANE.

Clive woke up the next morning to be aware of a racking
headache, and by the dim light of his throbbing eyes, to behold
his father with solemn face at his bedfoot — a reproving con-
science to greet his waking.

" You drank too much wine last night, and disgraced your-
self, sir," the old soldier said. " 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, I've got such a head-
ache ! "

" 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 jump -up. Now, dash the water well
over your head. There you come ! Make your toilet quickly,
and let us be off, and find cousin Barnes before he has left
home.

Clive obeyed the paternal orders ; dressed himself quickly ;
and descending, found his father smoking his morning cigar in
the apartment 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
Clive's father. " See, here's the glass on the floor yet, and a
great stains 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

I48 THE NEWCOMES.

the patience of Job \ and I couldn't bear to have my father
insulted."

u I am big enough to fight my own battles, my boy," 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. there was something ridiculous in
it, and he laughed because he could not help it. If he behaved
ill, we should not ; and to a man who is eating our salt too, and
is of our blood."

" He is ashamed of our blood, father," cries Clive, still
indignant. ♦

" We ought to be ashamed of doing wrong. We must go and
ask his pardon. Once when I was a young man in India," the
father continued very gravely, "some hotwords 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 for for-
giving 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 for a young fellow of spirit to
bear. But providentially, you see, it was war-time, and very
soon after I had the good luck to show that I was not a poult
mouillee, as the French call 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 Argaum. We must go and
ask Barnes Newcome's pardon sir, and forgive other peoples'
trespasses, my boy, if we hope forgiveness of our own." His
voice sank down as he spoke, and he bowed his honest head
reverently. I have heard his son tell the simple story years
afterward, with tears in his eyes,

Piccadilly was hardly yet awake, the next morning, and the
sparkling dews and the poor homeless vagabonds still had pos-
session of the grass of Hyde Park, as the pair walked up to Sir
Brian Xewcome'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 manner which
became such a polite mansion's morning toilet, knew Master
Clive, and smiled at him from under her blousy curl-papers,
admitting the two gentlemen into Sir Brian's dining-room, where
they proposed to wait until Mr. Barnes should appear. There
they sat for an hour looking at Lawrence's picture of Lady
Ann. leaning over a harp, attired in white muslin ; at Harlowe's
portrait of Mrs. Xewcome, with her two sons simpering at her
knees, painted at a time when the Newcome brothers were not
the baldheaded, red-whiskered British merchants with whom

THE NEWCOMES.

49

the reader has made acquaintance, but chubby children with
hair flowing down their backs, and quaint little swallow-tailed
jackets and nankeen trousers. A splendid portrait of the late
Earl of Kew in his peer's robes hangs opposite his daughter
and her harp. We are writing of George the Fourth's reign ;
I dare say there hung in the room a fine framed print of that
great sovereign. The chandelier is in a canvas bag ; the vast
sideboard, whereon are erected open frames for the support of
Sir Brian Newcome's grand silver trays, which on dinner days
gleam on that festive board, now groans under the weight of
Sir Brian's blue-books. An immense receptacle for wine, shaped
like a Roman sarcophagus, lurks under the sideboard. Two
people sitting at that large dining-table must talk very loud so
as to make themselves heard across those great slabs of ma-
hogany covered with damask. The butler and servants who
attend at the table take a 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 glum ; and think the great
and wealthy are not always to be envied, and that there maybe
more comfort and happiness in a snug parlor, where you are
served by a brisk little maid, than in a great dark, dreary
dining-hali, where a funereal major-domo and a couple of steal-
thy footmen minister to you your mutton-chops. They come
and lay the cloth presently, wide as the main sheet of some tall
ammiral. A pile of newspapers and letters for the master of
the house, the Neweo7ne 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 informed almost
every Thursday morning that he is a bloated aristocrat, as he
munches his dry toast. Heaps of letters, county papers, Times
and Morning Herald for Sir Brian Xewcome ; little heaps of
letters (dinner and soire'e 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 labors in the House of
Commons keeping him frequently out of bed till sunrise.

As his cousin entered the room, ('live turned very red, and
perhaps a faint blush might appear on Barnes's pallid counte-
nance. 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 kinsman.

i5o THE XEWCOMES.

" You are come to breakfast, I hope," he said — calling it
" bweakfast," and pronouncing the words with a most languid
drawl — u 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 to his uncle in a candid, smiling way, and said, " The
fact is, sir, I don't know when I came home myself very dis-
tinctly, 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 father 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
do trust I didn't do anything rude to anybody, for I thought
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," Clive said, blushing deeply,
" and I'm very sorry indeed for what passed ; I threw it."

The Colonel, who had been listening with a queer expression
of wonder and doubt on his face, here interrupted Mr. Barnes.
M It was Clive that — that spilled the wine over you last night,"
Thomas Newcome said ; u the young rascal had drunk a great
deal too much wine, and had neither the use of his head nor
his hands, and this morning I have given him a lecture, and he
has come to ask your pardon for his clumsiness ; and if you
have forgotten your share in the night's transaction, I hope you
have forgotten his, and will accept his hand and his apology."

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

The Colonel said gravely — u 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 him-

THE NEWCOMES.

*5«

self. 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 practices what he
preaches, 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 honor was the manly confession 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
humor which played perpetually round his father's simple phi-
losophy, with 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
and consoled both of them. Bcati illi ! O man of the world,
whose wearied eyes may glance over this page, may those who
come after you so regard you ! O generous boy, who read in
it. may you have such a friend to trust and cherish in youth,
and in future days fondly and proudly to remember !

Some four or five weeks after the quasi reconciliation
between Clive and his kinsman, the chief part of Sir Brian
Newcome's family were assembled at the breakfast-table to-
gether, 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 Commons overnight) : and Lady Ann and her nursery weie
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 Newcome lndc-

152

THE NEWCOMES.

pendent and the Newcome Setitinel hoth. made their appearance
upon the baronet's table. The household from above and
from below j the maids and footmen from the basement ; the
nurses, children, and governesses from the attics ; all poured
into the room at the sound of a certain bell.

I do not sneer at the purpose for which, at that chiming
eight o'clock bell, the household is called together. The urns
are hissing, the plate is shining ; the father of the house standing
up, reads from a gilt book for three or four minutes 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 wor-
ships a little apart ; the maids and the large footmen are in a
cluster before their chairs, the upper servants performing their
devotion on the other side of the sideboard ; the nurse whisks
about the unconscious last-born and tosses it up and down
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 and fifty-seven minutes, all that household
is given up to it. The servile squad rises up and marches
away to its basement, whence, should it happen to be a gala
day, those tall gentlemen at present attired in Oxford mixture,
will issue forth with flour plastered on their heads, yellow coats,
pink breeches, sky-blue waistcoats, silver lace, buckles in their
shoes, black silk bags on their backs, and I don t know what
insane emblems of servility and absurd bedizenments of folly.
Their very manner of speaking to what we call their masters
and mistresses will be a like monstrous masquerade. You
know no more of that race which inhabits the basement floor,
than of the men and brethren of Timbuctoo, to whom some
among us send missionaries. If you meet some of your servants
in the streets (I respectfully suppose for a moment that the
reader is a person of high fashion and a great establishment),
you would not know their faces. You might sleep under the
same roof for half a century, and know nothing about them. If
they were ill, you would not visit them, though you would send
them an apothecary and of course order that they lacked for
nothing. You are not unkind, you are not worse than your
neighbors. Nay, perhaps if you did go into the kitchen, or to
take the tea in the servants' hall, you would do little good, and
only bore the folks assembled there. But so it is. With those

THE NEWCOMES.

*S3

fellow Christians who have just been saying Amen to youi
prayers, you have scarcely the community of Charity. They
come, you don't know whence : they think and talk you don't
know what ; they die. and you don't care, or vice versa. They
answer the bell for prayers as they answer the bell for coals :
for exactly three minutes in the day you all kneel together on
one carpet — and, the desires and petitions of the servants and
and masters over, the rite called family worship is ended.

Exeunt servants, save those two who warm the newspaper,
administer 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 looking very ill. Lady Ann asks,
which is Eliza ! Is it the woman that was ill before they left
town ? It she is ill, Mrs. Trotter had better send her away.
Mrs. Trotter is only a great deal too good-natured. She is
always keeping people who are ill. Then her Ladyship begins
to read the Morning Posf, and glances over the names of the
persons who were present at Baroness Bosco's ball, and Mrs.
Toddle Tompkyns's soiree dansante in Belgrave Square.

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

"But who is Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns?" asks Mamma.
u Who ever heard of a Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns ? What do
people mean by going to such a person ? "

''Lady Popinjoy asked the people," Barnes says gravely;
" The thing was really doosed well clone. The woman looked
frightened ; but she's pretty, and I am told the daughter will
have a great lot of money."

" Is she pretty, and did you dance with her ? " asks Ethel.

" Me dance ! " says Mr. Barnes. We are speaking of a
time before Casinos were, and when the British youth were by
no means so active in dancing practice as at this present period.
Barnes resumed the reading of his county paper, but presently
laid it down, with an exclamation so brisk and loud, that his
mother gave a little outcry, and even 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 paving a visit to Newcome — that's the news which 1 have
the pleasure to announce to you," says Mr. Barnes.

" You are always sneering about our uncle," breaks in Ethel,
with impetuous voice, '; and saying unkind things about Glive.
Our uncle is a dear, good, kind man, and I love him. He came
to Brighton to see us, and went out every day for hours and hours

I54 THE NEIVCOMES.

with Alfred, and Clive too drew pictures for him. And he is
good, and kind, and generous, and honest as his father. And
Barnes is always speaking ill of him behind 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
Honeyman is a most respectable person. Nothing is so ungen-
erous 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 kind to Alfred, Mamma, and did not
she make him nice jelly ? And a Doctor of Divinity — you know
Clive'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." t

" 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 Colonel of sepoys, my uncle. She has retired
into private life in her native town of Newcome, and occupies
her latter days by the management 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 Newcome 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 men-
tions the gratifying circumstance ; here is the paragraph.

THE NEWCOMFS. 155

'Lieutenant Colonel Newcome, C.B., a distinguished Indian
officer, and elder 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, as 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.' "

" Well, I see no great harm in that paragraph," says Sir
Brian. 4k I wish my brother had gone to the Roebuck, and not
to the King's Arms, as the Roebuck 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 think 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. hi dependent— I was born and bred a Screwcomite, and am naturally proud of
tvcryl'ody and everything which bears the revered name of Screwcome. I am a Briton
and a man, though I have not the honor of a vote for my native borough ; if I had, you may
be sure I would give it to our admired and talented representative, Don Pomposo Lick-
spittle Grindpauper, Poor House, Agincourt, Screwcome, whose ancestors fought with
Julius Caesar against William the Conqueror, and whose father certainly wielded a cloth
yard sliaft in London not fifty years ago.

" ' Don Pomposo, as you know, seldom favors the town of Screwcome with a visit. Our
gentry are not of ancient birth enough to be welcome to a Lady Screwcome. Our manu-
facturers make 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
the season, and ten dozen of gooseberry, are enough for them.'' "

" 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 enough."

" 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 Screwcomitesare at this moment favored with a visit from a gentleman of the
Screwcome family, who, having passed ail his life abroad, is somewhat different from his
Relatives, whom we all so love and honor ! This distinguished gentleman, this gallant
soldier, has come among us, not merely to see our manufactures — in which Screwcome can
fie with any city in the North — but an old servant and relation of his family, whom ho is
•«ot above recognizing ; who nursed him in his early days ; who has been living in her

native place for many years, supported by the generous bounty of Colonel N . That

pallant officer, accompanied by his son, a' fine youth, has taken repeated drives round our
beautiful environs in one of friend Taplow's (of the Kind's Arms) open dra^s, and accom-
panied by Mrs. M . now an aged lady, who speaks, with tears in her eyes, of the good-
ness and gratitude of her gallant soldier!

" ' One day last week they drove to Screwcome House. Will it be believed that,
though the house is only four miles distant from our city — though Don Pomposo's family

have inhabited it these twelve years for four or five months every year — Mrs. M saw

her cousin's house for the first time ; has never set her eyes upon those grandees, except in
public places, since the day when they honored the county, by purchasing the estate which
they own ?

!-6 THE NEWCOMES.

" ' I nave, as I repeat, no vote for the borough ; but if I had, O wouldn't I show my
respectful gratitude at the next election, and plump for Pomposo ! I shall keep my eye
upon him ; and am, Mr. Inde/>€tide>4,

" * Your Constant Reader.

" ' Peeping Tom.' "

" The spirit of radicalism abroad in this country," said Sir
Brian Newcome, crushing his eggshell desperately, is dreadful,
really dreadful. We are on the edge of a positive volcano. H
Down went the egg-spoon into its crater. " The worst senti-
ments are even-where publicly advocated ; the licentiousness
of the press has reached a pinnacle which menaces us with
ruin ; there is no law which these shameless newspapers
respect ; no rank which is safe from their attacks : no ancient
landmark which the lava flood of democracy does not threaten
to overwhelm and destroy."

" When I was at Spielberg," Barnes Newcome remarked
kindly, " I saw three long-bearded, putty-faced blaguards pacin
up and down a little court-yard, and Count Keppenheimer told
me they were three damned editors of Milanese newspapers,
who had had seven years of imprisonment already ; and last
year, when Keppenheimer came to shoot at Newcome, I
showed him that old thief, old Batters, the proprietor of the
Independent, and Potts, his infernal ally, driving in a dog-cart ;
and I said to him, Keppenheimer, I wish we had a place where
we could lock up some of our infernal radicals of the press, or
that you could take off those two villains to Spielberg ; and as
we were passin, that infernal Potts burst outlaughin in my face,
and cut one of my pointers over the head with his whip. We
must do something with that Independent, sir."

''We must," says the father, solemnly, "we must put it
down, Barnes, we must put it down."

" I think," says Barnes, " we had best give the railway
advertisements to Batters."

" 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 Ethei
Xewcome held her tongue j but when her papa closed the
conversation, by announcing solemnly that he would communi-

AN ASTOUNDING PIECE OF INTELLIGENCE.

THE NEWCOMES.

157

cate 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 know? "says
Lady Ann. " I dare say Mr. Xewcome had plenty of poor
relations."

" I am sure some on your side, Ann, have been good
enough to visit me at the bank," says Sir Brian, who thought
his wife's ejaculation was a reflection upon his family, whereas
it was the statement of a simple fact in Natural History.
" This person was no relation of my father's at all. She was
remotely connected with his first wife, I believe. She acted as
servant to him, and 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 caught a look of negation in her father's eve.
" I will go-r-that is, if papa will give me leave," savs Miss
Ethel.

" By Gad, sir," says Barnes, " I think it is the very best
thing she could do ; and the best way of doing it, Ethel can go
with one of the boys, and take Mrs. Whatctoyoucallem a gown,
or a tract, or that sort of thing, and stop that infernal Indc-
pendenfs 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 worldly father and brother perforce
agreeing, we may congratulate old Mrs. Mason on the new and
polite acquaintance she is about to make.

CHAPTER XV.

THE OLD LADIES

The above letter and conversation will show what our
active Colonel's movements and history had been since the last
chapter in which they were recorded. He and Clive took the
Liverpool Mail, 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

!58 THE NEWCOMES.

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 is one of the greatest enjoy-
ments in life, and a sojourn in a comfortable inn one of its
chief pleasures ? In travelling lie 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 came ; and drove about
from one sight or curiosity to another with indefatigable
good-humor 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 ail
things round about him ; and any one caring to know who
Thomas Xewcome was, and what was 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 not Colonel Xewcome's name painted on all his
trunks and boxes ? Was not his sen-ant 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 drink a glass of
his own liquor, and seldom failed to say to him, " This is my
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 afterward — to make the Grand
Tour. And I will thank you to tell me what there is remark-
able in your town, and what we ought to see — antiquities,
manufactures, and seats in the neighborhood. We wish to see
everything, sir — even-thing." Elaborate diaries of these home
tours are still extant, in Clive's boyish manuscript and the
Colonel's 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 de-
spatched 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 see 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 gentleman be
of different politics ? Mr. Taplow's wine knew none.

Some of the jolliest fellows in all Newcome use the

THE NEWCOMES. x5g

Boscawen Room at the King's Arms as their club, and pass
numberless merry evenings and crack countless jokes there. ■

Duff, the baker ; old Mr. Vidler, when he can get away
from his medical labors (and his hand shakes, it must be
owned, very much now, and his nose is very red; ; Parrot, the
auctioneer ; and that amusing dog, Tom Potts, the talented
reporter of the Independent — were pretty constant attendants
at the King's Arms ; and Colonel Newcomers dinner was not
over before some of these gentlemen knew what dishes he had
had j 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 a servant, like a top-sawyer ; that he was come to
shake hands with an old nurse and relative of his family.
Ever}- one of those jolly Britons thought well of the Colonel
for his affectionateness and liberality, and contrasted it with
the behavior of the Tory Baronet — their representative.

His arrival made a sensation in the place. The Blue Club
at the Roebuck 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 Newcome's 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
eagerly and frequently than she kissed his father. She did not
know her Colonel with them whiskers. Clive was the very
picture of the dear boy as he had left her almost two-score years
ago. And as fondly as she hung on the boy, her memory had
ever clung round that early time when they were together. The
good soul told endless tales 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 together
over the bright tea-table, attended by the trim little maid, whose
services the Colonel's bounty had 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

i6o THE NEWCOMES.

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 sick-
ness or health, in sorrow or danger, her innocent love and
prayers had attended the absent darling. Not in vain, not in
vain, does he live 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 Colonel's 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. Bidders himself eyeing him from
the pulpit, and all the neighbors 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 must be in London, he has im-
portant 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, accom-
panied to the post-chaise, of which the obsequious Taplow shuts
the door, and the Boscawen 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 behavior of the baronet, his brother, who has gone for
some time by the ignominious soubriquet of Screwcome, in the
neighborhood of his ancestral hall.

Dear old nurse Mason will have a score of visits to make
and to receive, at all of which you may be sure that triumphal
advent of the Colonel's will be discussed and admired. Mrs.
Mason will show her beautiful new India shawl, and her splen-
did Bible with the large print, and the affectionate inscription,
from Thomas Newcome to his dearest old friend ; her little
maid will exhibit her new gown ; the curate will see the Bible,
and Mrs. Bulders will admire the shawl ; and the old friends

THE NE WCOMES. i 6 1

and humble companions of the good old lady, as they take their
Sunday walks by the pompous lodge-gates of Newcomc Park,
which stand with the 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 foi
the poor ? And as for the Colonel's wealth, Lord bless you,
he's been in India these five-and-thirty years ; the baronet's
money is a drop in the sea to his. The Colonel is the kindest,
the best, the richest of men. These facts and opinions, doubt-
less, inspired the eloquent pen of " Peeping Tom," when he.
indited the sarcastic epistle to the Neivcome Indepefident, which
we perused over Sir Brian Newcome's shoulder in the last
chapter.

And you maybe sure Thomas Newcome had not been many
weeks in England before good little Miss Honeyman, at
Brighton, was favored with a visit from her dear Colonel. The
envious Gawler scowling out of his bow-window, where the fly-
blown card still proclaimed 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 Gnwler's. While this wretch was
cursing his own ill fate, and execrating yet more deeply 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 neighboring 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, but I promise you Miss Honeyman were
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

f62 THE .YEIVCCMES.

called 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 been that morning ! What custards they had
whipped ! — what a triumph of pie-crusts they had achieved !
Before Colonel Newcome had been ten minutes in the house,
the celebrated veal-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 ribbons, " I promise you
that I can drink your health in good wine /" The wine was
of his own sending ; and so were the China fire-screens, and
the sandal-wood work-box, 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 parlor door, which being opened, there
appeared, first, a tall nurse with a dancing baby ; second and
third, two little girls with little frocks, little trousers, 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 honor. 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

THE NEWCOMES. 163

his niece, they fell in love with each other instantaneously, like
Prince Camaralzaman and the Princess of China.

I have turned away one artist : the poor creature was ut-
terly incompetent to depict the sublime, graceful, and pathetic
personages and events with which this history will most as-
suredly abound, and I doubt whether even the designer en-
gaged 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 Colonel's
eyes ; gives an expression to the very wrinkles round about
them ; shines as a halo round his face — what artist can paint
it ? The painters of old, when they portrayed sainted person-
ages, were fain to have recourse to compasses and gold-leaf — as
if celestial splendor could 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 Colonel's 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 mod-
esty 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 mustache from his mouth, and stooping down he
kissed the little white hand with a great deal of grace and
dignity. There was no point of resemblance, and yet a some-
thing in the girl's look, voice, and movements which caused his
heart to thrill, and an image out of the past to rise up and
salute him. The eyes which had brightened his youth (and
which he saw in his dreams and thoughts for faithful years
afterwards, as though they looked at him out of heaven), seemed
to shine upon him after five-and-thirty years. 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 of ten thousand long days between.
It is an old saying, that we forget nothing ; as people in fever
begin suddenly to talk the language of their infancy : we are
stricken by memory sometimes, and old affections rush back on
us as vivid <*s in the time when they were our daily talk, when

1 64 THE NEW COMES.

their presence gladdened our eyes, when their accents thrilled
in our ears, when with passionate tears and grief we flung our-
selves 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 other, and the earth-clods close over it, and
we see it no more. But it has been part of our souls, and it is
eternal. Does a mother not love her dead infant? a man 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, the 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 the arms of the bob-
bing nurse babbles a welcome. Alfred looks up for awhile at
his uncle in the white trousers, and then instantly proposes
that Clive 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
banisters, 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 blue dragon Chayny jar on which he
would sit, and which he cried so fearfully 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 inter-
rupted dessert. Miss Honeyman talks of the children and
their mother, and the merits of Mr. Kuhn, and the beauty of
Miss Ethel, glancing significantly towards Clive, 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 Colonel, without lifting his eyes from the table, says
"she reminds him of — of somebody he knew once."

" Indeed ! " cries Miss Honeyman, and thinks Emma must
have altered very much after going to India, for she had fair
hair, and white eyelashes, and not a pretty foot certainly — but
my dear good lady, the Colonel is not thinking of the late Mrs.
Casey.

He has taken a fitting quantity of the Madeira, the artless
greeting of the people here, young and old, has warmed his heart

THE NEWCOMES.

65

and he goer, 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 manners, which all of us
who knew him admired in him ? He had a natural simplicity,
an habitual practice of kind and generous thoughts ; a pure
mind, and therefore above hypocrisy and affectation — perhaps
those French people with whom he had been intimate in early
life had imparted to him some of the traditional graces of their
vieille cour — certainly his half-brothers had inherited none such.
u What is this that Barnes has written about his uncle, that the
Colonel is ridiculous ? " Lady Ann said to her daughter that
night. " Your uncle is adorable. I have never seen a more
perfect grand Seigneur. He puts me in mind of my grand-
father, though grandpapa's grand manner was more artificial,
and his voice spoiled by snuff. See the Colonel. He smokes
round the garden, but with what perfect grace ! This is the
man I ncle Hobson, and your poor dear papa, have represented
to us as a species of bear. Mr. Newcome, who has himself the
ton of a waiter ! The Colonel is perfect. What can Barnes
mean by ridiculing him ? I wish Barnes had such a distin-
guished air ; but he is like his poor dear papa. Que roulcz vans,
my love ? The Newcomes are honorable : the Xewcomes 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 dis-
tinguished 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 Lon-
don. You must ask your cousins and their governess, and we
will give them a little party. Mrs. Newcome is insupportable,
but we must never forsake our relatives, Ethel. When yori
come out you will have to dine there, and to go 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 mam* your poor dear papa ? From duty. Has
your Aunt Fanny, who ran away with Captain Canonbury, been
happy ? They have eleven children, and are starving at Bou-
logne. Think of three of Fanny's boys in yellow stockings at
the Bluecoat School. Your papa got them appointed. I am
sure my papa would have gone mad, if he had seen that day !
She came with one of the poor wretches to Park Lane : but I

1 66 THE NEWCOMES.

could not see them. My feelings would not allow me. When
my maid, I had a French maid then — Louise, you remember j
her conduct was abominable : so was Preville's — when she came
and said that my Lady Fanny was below with a young gentle-
man, qui portaii des bas 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 P3oulogne 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 dive's room. Clive is
a good kind boy. 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 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 pro-
nounced 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 that pretty Ethel, lady. " What a
frank, generous, bright young creature is yonder ! " thought he.
w How cheery and gay she is ; how good to Miss Honeyman,
to whom she behaved with 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 hand it 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 old-
fashioned, as Binnie says ; what a fine match might be made
between that child and Clive ! 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 dan-
gers that young fellows encounter, and safe with such a sweet
girl as that. If God had so willed 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 sha'n't want anything more to-night,
Kean, and you can go to bed."

" Thank you, Colonel," says Kean, who enters, having pre-
pared his master's bedchamber and is retiring when, the
Colonel calls after him.

THE XEWCOMES. 167

11 1 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 any thing 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.

CHAPTER XVI.

IN WHICH MR. SHERRICK LETS HIS HOUSE IN FITZROY SQUARE.

In spite of the sneers of the Newcome Independent, and the
Colonel's unlucky visit to his nurse's native place, he still re-
mained in high favor in Park Lane ; where the worthy gentle-
man paid almost daily visits, and was received with welcome
and almost affection, at least by the ladies and the children of
the 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. Merrvman*s jokes in the ring. He 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 Xapoleon ; whose tomb he had visited on his
return from India, as it pleased him to tell his little audience
who sat clustering round him ; the little girls, Sir Brian's
daughters, holding each by a linger 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 en-
joying 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 Colonel's honest laughs at clown's

1 68 THE NEWCOMES.

jokes, and to see the tenderness and simplicity with whicn ht
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 gal-
loped 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 nieces, in Bryanstone Square, as well as to
their cousins in Park Lane ; but Mrs. Newcome was a good
deal too virtuous to admit of such spoiling of children. She
took the poor gentleman to task for an 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.

u I do not quarrel with other families," says she ; " I do not
allude to other families ; " meaning, of course, that she did not
allude to Park Lane. " There may be children who are allowed
to receive money from their father's grown-up friends. There
?nay be children who hold out their hands for presents, and thus
become mercenary m early life. I make no reflections with re-
gard to other households. / only look, and think, and pray for
the welfare of my own beloved ones. They want for nothing.
Pleaven 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 ingratitude, Colonel Newcome, want of proper
spirit, to allow my boys to accept money. Mind, I make no
allusions. When they go to school they receive a sovereign
apiece 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

AN EVENING AT ASTLEY'S.

THE NEWCOMES. 169

ir\th them myself to the delightful lectures at the institution in
Albemarle street. I do not desire that they should attend
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, express-
ing 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 encour-
aged the boy to go to the play, and sent him to 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 I treat Clive so ?
Because I stood towards him in loco parentis ; 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 tender-
ness. Then he was happy to come to our house : then perhaps
Park Lane was not so often open to him as ikyanstone Square ;
but I make no allusions. 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 titles of splendor. He could not find these in Bryanstone
Square. A merchant's wife, a country lawyer's daughter — I
could not be expected to have my 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 Newcome, too pro ltd / 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 face with her pocket-handkerchief.

Had Colonel Newcome read the paper that morning, he
might have seen among what are called the fashionable
announcements, the cause, perhaps, why his sister-in-law had
exhibited so much anger and virtue. The Jfoming Tost state I
that yesterday Sir Brian and Lady Newcome entertained at
dinner His Excellency the Persian Ambassador and Bucksheesh
Bey ; the Right Honorable Cannon Rowe, President of the

Board of Control, and Lady Louisa Rowe ; the Karl of H ,

the Countess of Kew, the Earl of Kew, Sir Currey Baughton,
Major General and Mrs. Hooker, ColoneJ Newcome, and Mr.

170

THE XEWCOMES.

Horace Fogey. Afterward her Ladyship had an assembly,
which was attended by &c, &c.

This catalogue of illustrious names had been read by Mrs.
Xewcome 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
good company,'' cries Mr. Xewcome, 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 Wormley and Professor Roots. 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 YVindus is the deuce to talk."

" Dr. Windus is a man of science, and his name is of Euro-
pean celebrity ! " says Maria, solemnly. Any intellectual person
would prefer such company to the titled nobodies into whose
family your brother has married."

" There you go, Polly ; you are always having a shy at Lady
Ann and her relations," says Mr. Xewcome, good-naturedly.

'■ A shy ! How can you use such vulgar words, Mr. Xew-
come ? 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 happy, I am happy too. The people
you get to dine here may talk Greek or algebra for what I care.
By Jove, my dear, I think you can hold your own with the best
of them."

" I have endeavored by assiduity to make up for time lost,
and an early imperfect education," says Mrs. Xewcome. " You
married a poor country lawyer's daughter. You did not seek
a partner in the Peerage, Mr. Xewcome."

" Xo, no. Xot such a confounded flat as that," cries Mr.
Xewcome, surveying his plump partner behind her silver teapot,
with eyes of admiration.

" I had an imperfect education, but I knew its blessings,
and have, I trust, endeavored to cultivate the humble talents
which Heaven has given me, Mr. Xewcome."

" Humble, by Jove ! " exclaims the husband. " Xo gammon

THE NEWCOMES

171

of that sort, 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 clear. Here
comes my horses. I say, I wish you'd call on Lady Ann to-day.
Do go and see her, now that's a good girl. I know she is
Mighty, and that ; and Brian's back is up a little. But he ain't
a bad fellow ; and I wish I could see you and his wife better
friends."

On his way to the City, Mr. Xewcome 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 out for safe
investments. Has been introduced to Newcome Brothers. Mr.
Newcome thinks very well of the Colonel's friend.

The house is vast, but it must be owned, melancholy. Xot
long since it was a ladies' school, in an unprosperous condition.
The scar left by Madame Latours 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 parlor young ladies in the Regent's Park,
was an exile from her native country (Islington was her birth-
place, and Grigson her paternal name), and an outlaw at the
suit of Samuel Sherrick : that Mr. Sherrick, whose wine vaults
undermine Lady Whittlesea's Chapel where the eloquent Honey-
man preaches.

The house is Mr. Sherrick's house. Some say his name is
Shadrach, and pretend to have known him as an orange boy,
afterward as a chorus singer in the theatres, afterward a secre-
tary to a great tragedian. I know nothing of these stories.
He may or he may not be a partner of Mr. Campion, of Shep-
herd's Inn : he has a handsome villa, Abbey Road, St John's
Wood, entertains good company, rather loud, of the sporting
sort, rides and drives very showy horses, has boxes at the Opera
whenever he likes, and free access behind the scenes : is hand-
some, dark, bright-eyed, with a quantity of jewelry, and a tuft
to his chin ; sings sweetly sentimental songs after dinner. Who
cares a fig what was the religion of Mr. Sherrick's ancestr
what the occupation of his youth ! Mr. Honeyman, a most re-
spectable man surely, introduced Sherrick to the Colonel and
Binnie.

Mr. Sherrick stocked their cellar with some of the wine

172

THE NEWCOMES.

over which Honeyman preached such lovely sermons. It was
not dear j it was not bad when you dealt with Mr. Sherrick for
wine alone. Going into his market with ready money in your
hand, as your simple friends did, you were pretty fairly treated
by Mr. Sherrick.

The house being taken, we may be certain there was fine
amusement for Clive, Mr. Binnie and the Colonel, in frequent-
ing 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 ser-
vants 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, him-
self, was great at making hash mutton, hot-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 Corpus — whom we recom-
mended to him, and with whom the young gentleman did not
fatigue his brains very much ; but his great 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, or 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 Grindly,
his classics and mathematics over in the morning, and the ride
wiih his father over, this pair of young men would constantly
attend Grandishe'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 gray, with a large mustache,
and a sweet mouth half smiling beneath it, and melanckoly
eyes ! and Clive shows that portrait of their grandfather to his
children, and tells them that the whole world never saw a nobler
gentleman.

THE NEWCOMES. ^3

CHAPTER XVII.

A SCHOOL OF APT.

British 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 slenderly furnished, and she is forced to put
up with accommodations rejected by more prosperous callings.
Some of the most dismal quarters of the town are colonized by
her disciples 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 beaus over the mud ; who has not remarked the
artist's invasion of those regions once devoted to fashion and
gayety ? Centre windows of drawing-rooms are enlarged so as
to reach up into bedrooms — bedrooms 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 Blooms-
bury, let us say, to Cavendish Square, physicians come and
occupy the vacant houses, which still 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 countess's which had whisked away her
ladyship to other regions. A boarding-house mayhap succeeds
the physician, who has followed after his sick folks into the
new country : and then Dick Tinto comes with his dingy brass-
plate, and breaks in his north window, and sets up his sitters'
throne. I love his honest mustache, 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 but a
kind of fustian which cost him eighteen-pence a yard. He is
naturally what he is, and breaks out into costume as sponta-
neously as a bird sings, or a bulb bears a tulip,
under yonder terrific appearance of waxing cloak, bristling
beard, and shadowy sombrero, is a good kindly simple creature,
got up at a very cheap rate, so lus 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

I74 THE NEWCCMES

kind chirping soul ; not a moody poet avoiding mankind fol
the better company of his own great thoughts, but a jolly
little chap who has an aptitude for painting brocade-gowns, a
bit of armor (with figure inside them), or trees and cattle, or
gondolas and buildings, or what not ; an instinct for the pic-
turesque, which exhibits itself in his works, and outwardly on his
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 open 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 gayety, what jovial suppers on
threadbare cloths, and wonderful songs after; what pathos,
merriment, humor 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 chronicle of a feast, or the accurate report of two
lovers' conversation : but the biographer, having brought his
hero to this period of his 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
affectionate 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 every hundred
boys, there were fifty as clever as his own, and at least fifty
more industrious : the army in time of peace, Colonel New-
come 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 schoolbooks full of caricatures of the
masters ? While his tutor, Grindley, was lecturing him, did he
not draw Grindley instinctively under his very nose ? A painter
Clive was determined to be, and nothing else ; and Clive, 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.,
R.A., who recommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome, one
day when the two gentlemen met at dinner at Lady Ann New-
come's table. Mr. Smee happened to examine some of dive's
drawings, which the young fellow had executed for his cousins.

THE NEWCOMES.

*75

Clive 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, Clive
drew Alfred and the nursery in general, Aunt Ann and the
Blenheim spaniels, and Mr. Kuhn and his earrings, the ma-
jestic 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 ! 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 posi-
tively 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 subsequently
that the great painter had been delighted with the young man's
performance. Smee was not only charmed with Clive's skill as
an artist, but thought his head would be an admirable one to
paint. Such a rich complexion, such fine turns in his hair!
such eyes ! to see real blue eyes was so rare now-a-days ! And
the Colonel too, if the Colonel would but give him a few
sittings, the gray uniform of the Bengal cavalry, the silver lace,
the little bit of red ribbon just to warm up the picture ! it was
seldom, Mr. Smee declared, that an artist could get such an
opportunity for color. With our hideous vermilion uniforms
there was no chance of doing any thing ; Rubens himself could
scarcely manage scarlet. Look at the horseman in Cuyp's fam-
ous picture at the Louvre ; the red was a positive blot upon the
whole picture. There was nothing like Erench 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. Clive New-come
the Academician succeeded in painting, of course for mere
friendship's sake, and because he liked the subject, though he
could not refuse the check which Colonel Xewcome sent him
for the frame and picture ; but no cajoleries could induce the
old campaigner to sit to any artist save one. lie 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 head put on the canvas, and Mr. Smee enthusiastically
caught at the idea; but honest James winked his droll eyes,

176 THE XFAVCOMES.

saying his was a beauty that did not want any paint ; and when
Mr. Smee took his leave after dinner in Fi^zroy Square, where
this conversation was held, James Binnie hinted that the
Academician was no better than an old humbug, in which sur-
mise he was probably not altogether incorrect. Certain young
men who frequented the kind Colonel's house were also some-
what 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
inveigled 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 into his brougham.
The coachman was absent refreshing himself at a neighboring
tap ; the little street-boys cheered and hurraed Sir Thomas,
as, arrayed in gold and scarlet, he sat 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 numerous vic-
tims 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 house to Gandish'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. " Gan-
dish is worth the whole world. Come and be an art-student.
You'll 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
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 ail
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. I'm 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.

THE NEW COMES. 177

" ' 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 standing before it, looking steady, you know, as
if he was going to see whereabouts he should ///'/ Boadishia.

"'It was painted when you were a young man, four years
before you 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 my 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 man-
aged ! '

"'It's not like portrait-painting, Smee — Igh art,' says Gan-
dish. ' The models of the hancient Britons in that pictur alone
cost me thirty pound — when I was a struggling man, and had
just married my Betsey here. You reckonize 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 Roman rods '—

"Jolly verses! Haven't I translated them into Alcaics?"
says Clive, with a merry laugh, and resumes his history.

" ' O I must have those verses in my album,' cries one of
the young ladies. ' Did you compose them, Colonel New-
come ? ' But Gandish, you see, is never thinking about any
works but lus own, and goes on. ' Study of my eldest daughter,
exhibited in 18 16.'

" • \'o, pa, not '16,' cries Miss Gandish. She don't
like a chicken, I can tell you.

"'Admired,' Gandish goes on, never heeding her — 'lean
show you what the papers s^iid of it at the time — Morning
Chronicle and Examiner spoke most 'ighly of it. My sun as an

12

I7S THE NEWCOMES.

infant Ercules, stranglin the serpent over the piano. First
conception of my picture of Non Hangli said Hangeli.'

" ' For which I can guess who were the angels that sat,'
says father. Upon my word that old governor ! He is a little
too strong. But Mr. Gandish listened no more to him than to
Mr. Smee, and went on, buttering himself all over, as I have
read the Hottentots do. ' Myself, at thirty-three years of age ! '
says he, pointing to a portrait of a gentleman in leather breeches
and mahogany boots ; 1 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.
1 Hidea for Babes in the Wood. View of Paestum, taken on the
spot by myself, when travelling with the late lamented Earl of
Kew. Beauty, Valor, Commerce, and Liberty condoling with
Britannia on the death of Admiral Viscount Nelson — allegorical
piece, drawn at a very early age after Trafalgar. Mr. Fuseli
saw that piece, sir, when I was a student of the Academy, and
said to me, Young man, stick to the antique. There's nothing
like it. Those were 'is very words. If you do me the favor 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 ain't 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 sovering 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 re-
ceives it with majesty mingled" with meekness. In the back-
ground the door of the 'ut is open, letting in the royal officers
to announce the Danes are defeated. The daylight breaks in
at the aperture, signifying the dawning 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, hun-
dreds ! I who discovered the legend, have my picture — here ! '

" ' Now, Colonel,' says the showman, ' let me — let me lead

THE NEWCOMES. !79

you through the statue gallery. Apollo, 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
Nymph, you see, is the only figure L admit among the antiques.
Now up this stair to the Students' room, where I trust my young
friend, Mr. Newcome, will labor assiduously. Ars longa est,
Mr. Newcome, Vita — '

" I trembled," Clive said, "lest my father should introduce
a certain favorite quotation, beginning ' ingenuas didicissc ' — but
he refrained, and we went into the room, where a score of
students were assembled, who all looked away from their draw-
ing-boards as we entered.

" ' Here will be your place, Mr. Newcome,' says the Pro-
fessor, ' and here that of your young friend — what did you say
was his name ? ' I told him, Ridley, for my dear old governor
has promised to pay for J. J . too, you know. l Mr. Olivers is
the senior pupil and custos of the room in the absence of my
son. Mr. Olivers, Mr. Newcome ; gentlemen, Mr. Newcome,
a new pupil. My son, Charles Gandish, Mr. Newcome. As*
siduity, gentlemen, assiduity. Ars longa. Vita brevis, et tinea
recta brcvissimaest. This way, Colonel, down these steps, across
the court-yard, to my studio. There, gentlemen ' — and pull-
ing aside a curtain, Gandish says — ' There ! ' "

And what 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 per-
formance 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 regarding 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. M 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 sweatmeats of com-
pliments and cordials of approbation, lie had coat-sleeves
with silk linings — he had studs in his shirt. How different was

180 THE NEWCOMES.

the texture and color 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 Gandish's
door (which was situated in a certain lofty street in Soho). The
Miss G.'s would smile at him from the parlor window as he
mounted and rode splendidly oft* ; and those opposition beauties,
the Miss Levisons, daughters of the professor of dancing over
the way, seldom failed to greet the young gentleman with an
admiring ogle from their great black eyes. Master Give 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. Sandy M'CoJ-
lop, had made of John James, Clive perpetrated a picture of
Sandy which set the whole room in a roar j and when the Cale-
donian giant uttered satirical remarks against the assembled
company, averring that they were a parcel of sneaks, a set of
lick-spittles, and using epithets still more vulgar, Clive slipped
off his fine silk-sleeved coat in an instant, invited Mr. M'Collop
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 see-
ing 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 Give'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 Scotch-
man justice, he bore Clive no rancor. 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 Tor-
ture of the Covenanters, the Murder of the Regent, the Murder
of Rizzio, and other historical pieces, all of course from Scotch
history, have established his reputation in South as well as
North Britain. No one would suppose from the gloomy charac-
ter 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

THE NEWCOMES. iSi

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
mustaches which have since given him such a marked appear-
ance. 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 every-
where. He gave entertainments to his fellow-students in the
Upper Chambers in Fitzroy Square, which were devoted to his
use, inviting his father and Mr. Binnie to those parties now and
then. And songs were sung, and pipes were smoked, and many
a pleasant supper eaten. There was no stint : but no excess.
No young man was ever seen to quit those apartments the
worse, as it is called, for liquor. Fred Bayham's uncle, the
bishop, could not be more decorous than F. B. as he left the
Colonel's house, for the Colonel made that one of the condi-
tions 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 Give's parole, and went away to play his honest rubber of
whist at the Club. And many a time he heard the young fel-
low's steps tramping by his bed-chamber door, as he lay wakeful
within, happy to think his son was happy.

CHAPTER XVIII

NEW COMPANIONS.

Clive 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 gayety which have seldom deserted him in life, and
have put him at ease wherever his fate has led him. He is, in
truth, as much at home in a fine drawing-room as in a public-
house parlor ; and can talk as pleasantly to the polite mistress
of the mansion, as to the jolly landlady dispensing her drinks

1S2 THE NEWCOMES.

from her bar. Not one of the Gandishites but was after a
while well-inclined to the young fellow ; from Mr. Olivers, 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 polonies ; 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. There was a young Hebrew among the pupils, upon
whom his brother students used playfully to press ham sand-
wiches, pork sausages, and the like. This young man (who has
risen to great wealth subsequently, and was bankrupt only three
months since) actually bought cocoa-nuts, and sold them at a
profit among 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 Gandish, who seemed
to be afraid before him. It was whispered that the Professor
was not altogether easy in his circumstances, and that the elder
Moss had some mysterious hold over him. Honeyman and
Bayham, who once came to see Clive 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
Clive afterward, with a wicked twinkle of his Oriental eyes.
" Step in, Mr, Xewcome, any day you are passing down Wardour
Street, and see 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 gentle-
man could get tickets for almost all the theatres, which he gave
or sold, and gave splendid accounts at Gandish's of the bril-
liant masquerades. Clive 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 Clive 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, w Mr. Moss," Clive 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. Chivers used to sit in one corner of the room, occupied

THE XEWCOMES ^3

over a lithographic stone. He was an uncouth and peevish
young man ; forever finding fault with the younger pupils, whose
butt he was — next in rank and age was M'Collop, before named ;
and these two were at first more than usually harsh and captious
with Clive, whose prosperity offended them, and whose dandi-
fied manners, free-and-easy ways, and evident influence over
the younger scholars, gave umbrage to these elderly appren-
tices. Clive at first returned Mr. Chivers war for war, control-
ment for controlment ; but when he found Chivers was the son
of a helpless widow j 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
Clive saw, or fancied he saw, the lonely senior eyeing with
hungry eyes, the luncheons of cheese and bread, and sweetstuff,
which the young lads of the studio enjoyed, I promise you Mr.
(live's wrath against Chivers was speedily turned into compas-
sion and kindness, and he sought, and no doubt found, means
of feeding Chivers without offending his testy independence.

Nigh to Gandish's was, and perhaps is, another establish-
ment for teaching the art of design — Barker's, which had the
additional dignity of a life and costume academy; 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 medal-
lists ; and the last R. A. student sent to Rome was a Gandishite.
Barker, on the contrary, scorned and loathed Trafalgar Square,
and laughed at its art. Barker exhibited in Pall Mall and Suf-
folk Street : he laughed at old Gandish and his pictures, made
mince-meat of his "Angli sed Angeli," and tore " King Alfred"
and his muffins to pieces. The young men of the respective
schools used to meet at Lundy's coffee-house and billiard-room,
and smoke there, and do battle. Before Clive and his friend
J. J. came to Gandish's, the Barkerites were having the best 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 awhile
nstant visitor at Lundy's, played pool with the young men,
and did not disdain to dip Ins beard 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 forth-
coming, who was standing for one of Barker's heroic pictures,
Bayham bared his immense anns and brawny shoulders, and

^4 THE NEWCOMES.

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. 12., sir." In no company was F. B. greater
than in the society of the artists ; in whose smoky haunts and
airy parlors he might often be found. It was from F. B. that
Clive heard of Mr. Olivers' 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 gentleman'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 ever 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 gayety and frankness delightful and win-
ning. 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 listen 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
be confessed that the young ladies read the history of Clive's
uncle in the Book of Baronets, and that Gandish junr., probably
with an eye to business, made a design of a picture, in which,
according to that veracious volume, one of the Newcomes was
represented as going cheerfully to the stake at Smithfield, sur-
rounded by some very ill-favored Dominicans, whose arguments
did not appear to make the least impression upon the martyr of
the Newcome family. Sandy M'Collop devised a counter pic-
ture, wherein the barber surgeon of King Edward the Confes*

TIFF. NEWCOMES. 185

sor was drawn, operating upon the beard of that monarch. To
which piece of satire Clive gallantly replied by a design, repre-
senting Sawney Bean M'Collop, chief of the clan of that name,
descending from his mountains into Edinburgh, and his aston-
ishment at beholding a pair of breeches for the first time.
These playful jokes passed constantly among the young men of
Gandish's studio. There was no one there who was not carica-
tured 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 indig-
nantly remonstrated at the hideous hunchback pictures which
the boys made of his friend, and vowed 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 societv 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 dis-
cipline, 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 favor. His very
goodness of heart rendered him a more easy prey to their flat-
tery, and his kind and jovial 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, victimized ('live 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,

^6 THE NEWCOMES.

only venturing to wear them when he was out of his father's 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 he was supposed to betake 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 sometimes 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 Xewcome'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 man 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 Yauxhall in company
with young Moss, whose father does bills and keeps a bric-a-
brac shop in YVardour Street. Two or three other gentlemen,
probably young old clothes-men, who had concluded for the
day the labors of the bag, joined Mr. Newcome and his friend,
and they partook of rack-punch in an arbor. He is a delightful
youth, cousin Clive, and I feel sure he is about to be an honor
to our family."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE COLONEL AT HOME.

Our good Colonel's house had received a coat of paint,
which, like Madame Latour's rouge in her latter days, only
served to mak« her careworn face look more ghastly. The kit-

THE NEWCOMES. ^7

chens were gloomy. The stables were gloomy. Great black
passages ; cracked conservatory 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 fur-
nished it in his rough and ready way. One day came a cartload
of chairs; the next a wagon full of fenders, fire-irons, and glass,
and crockery — a quantity of supplies in a word, he poured into
the place. There were yellow curtains in the back drawing-
room, and green curtains in the front. The carpet was an im-
mense 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 gar-
ments, camphor trunks. What did he want with gewgaws ?
anything was good enough for an old soldier. But the spare
bedroom was endowed with all sorts of splendor : a bed as big
as a general's 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 Scragg's 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 delightful colored
prints of hunting, racing, and beautiful ladies, did they not pur-
chase, 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. Honeyman, and Fred Bayham. We must have Fred Bay-
ham. Fred Bayham frankly 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 cau-
tious about their friends — is Mr. Sherrick 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,

^8 THE XEWCOMES.

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 gentle*
men from Hanover Square : the artists, Clive's friends, gentle-
men 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 compensated some of them for the strangeness of his com-
pany. They had never seen such odd-looking hairy men as
those young artists, nor such wonderful women as Colonel New-
come assembled together. He was good to all old maids and
poor widows. Retired Captains with large families of 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 Colonel's soirees. '■ I
delight, sir, in the hospitality of my distinguished military
friend," Mr. Gandish would say. " The harmy has always been
my passion. — I served in the Soho Volunteers three years my-
self, till the conclusion of the war, sir, till the conclusion of the
war.'*

It was a great sight to see Mr. Frederick 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 compliments and sumptuous conversation.
The Colonel likewise danced quadrilles with the utmost gravity.
Waltzing had been invented long since his time : but he prac-
ticed 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 New-
come had not such a fine sense of humor, he would have blush*
ed for his father's simplicity. — As it was, the elder's guileless
goodness and childlike trustfulness endeared him immensely to
his son. " Look at the old boy, Pendennis," he would say,
" look at him leading up 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 love
with him, young and old. ' Should he upbraid ? ' There she
goes. ' I'll own that he'll prevail, and sing as sweetly as a

THE NEWCOMES. 189

nigh-tin-gale ! ' O, you old warbler. Look at father's old head
bobbing up and down ! Wouldn't he do for Sir Roger de
Coverley? How do you do, uncle Charles? — I say, M'Collop,
how gets on the Duke of YYhatdyecallem starving in the castle ?
— Gandish says it's very good."

The lad retires to a group of artists. Mr. Honeyman 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 insignificance. Without, I trust, departing from
my clerical character, nay from my very avocation as Incumbent
of a London Chapel — I have seen a good deal of the world,
and here is an assemblage no doubt of most respectable persons,
on scarce one of whom I ever set eyes till this evening. Where
does my good brother find such characters ? "

"That," says Mr. Honeyman's interlocutor, "is the cele-
brated, though neglected artist, Professor Gandish, whom noth-
ing but jealousy has kept out of the Royal 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 fine arts."

" Gandish, sir, is one of the greatest geniuses on whom our
ungrateful country ever trampled ; he exhibited his first cele-
brated picture of Alfred in the Neatherd's Hut (he says he is
the first who ever touched that subject), in 1804: but Lord
Nelson's death, and victory of Trafalgar, occupied the public
attention at that time, and Gandish's work went unnoticed. In
the year 1S16, he painted his great work of Boadicea. You
see her before you. That lady in yellow, with a light front and
a turban. Boadicea became Mrs. Gandish in that year. So
late as '27, he brought before the world his ' Non Angli sed
Angeli.' Two of the angels are yonder in sea-green dresses —
the Misses Gandish. The youth in Berlin gloves was the little
male angelus of that piece."

" How came you to know all this, you strange man ? " says
Mr. Honeyman.

" Simply because Gandish has told me twenty times. He
tells the story to everybody, every time he sees them. He
told it to-day at dinner. Boadicea and the angels came after-
wards."

"Satire! satire! Mr. Pendennis," says the divine, holding

L<)0

THE NEWCOMES.

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 Newcome'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-humored face, sipping
his claret as usual, and delivering a sly joke now and again to
the gentleman 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 splendor 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
at an early hour, the ladies bidden were obliged to quit the
Colonel's house before the evening party commenced, 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 humor. Everything pleased
her in that house. She had no idea that there were such fine
houses in the quarter of the town. She thought the dinner so
very nice — that Mr. Binnie such a good-humored looking-gentle-
man. That stout gentleman with his collar turned down like
Lord Byron, so exceedingly clever and full of information. A
celebrated artist was he ? (courtly Mr. Smee had his own opinion
upon that point, but did not utter it.) All those artists are so
eccentric and amusing and clever. Before dinner she insisted
upon seeing Clive's 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 admirad
everything. Nothing could exceed 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 1 "

THE NEWCOMES.

101

" He is kept at the House of Commons, my dear. Those
dreadful committees. He was quite vexed at not being able to
come."

a I know, I know, dear Ann, there are always excuses to
gentlemen 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 hus-
band came down from Marblehead on purpose this morning.
Nothing would have induced us to give up our brother's party."

" I believe you. I did come down from Marblehead this
morning, and I was four hours in the hay-field before I came
away, and in the City till five, and I've been to look at a
horse afterward 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. Mrs. Gandish,
Colonel Topham, Major M'Cracken are announced, and then,
in diamonds, feathers and splendor, Lady Baughton and Miss
Baughton, who are going to the Queen's ball, and Sir Curry
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 be-
holds the new comers, having thought fit to attire herself in a
high dress, with a Quaker-like simplicity, and a pair of gloves
more than ordinarily dingy. The pretty little foot she has, it is
true, and sticks it out from habit ; but what is Mrs. Newcome's
foot compared with that sweet little chaussure which Miss
Baughton exhibits and withdraws? The shiny white satin slip-
per, the pink stocking which ever and anon peeps from the
rustling 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 mis-
chievous persons who rather like to witness that discomfiture.
All Mr. Sinee'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 soire'e began to arrive, — what happened to her or to
diem I do not like to think. The Gandishes arrived first.

1q4 THE NEWCOMES.

" 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, Air. 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.

Newcome's behavior to the young peer was ceremonious, but
not in the least servile. He saluted 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 behavior to John James ; nor was it without difficulty,
when young Ridley and his son became pupils at Gandish's
he could be induced to invite the former to his parties. " An
artist is any man's equal," he said. " I have no prejudice of
that sort; and think that Sir Joshua Reynolds and Dr. John-
son were lit company for any person, of whatever rank. But a
young man whose father may have had to wait behind me at
dinner, should not be brought into my company." Clive com-
promises 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
with Lord Todmoreton."

CHAPTER XX.

CONTAINS MORE PARTICULARS OF THE COLONEL AND HIS

BRETHREN.

If Clive'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 pleasantly, his
father, it must be owned, had no such resources, and the good
Colonel's idleness hung heavily upon him. He submitted very
kindly to this infliction, however, as he would have done to
any other for Clive's sake : and though he might have wished
himself back with his regiment again, and engaged in the pur-
suits in which his life had been spent, he chose to consider
these desires as very selfish and blamable 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

THE NEWCOMES. i95

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 aimrr ; 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 j and though we bring our tribute of reverence and grati-
tude, 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 Clive
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 old ? Careless prodigals and anxious elders have
been from the beginning : and so may love, and repentance,
and forgiveness endure even till the end.

The stifling fogs, the slippery mud, the dun dreary Novem-
ber mornings, when the Regent's Park, where the Colonel took
his early walk, was wrapped in yellow mist ; must have been a
melancholy exchange for the splendor 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 Eng-
land, and occasioned the despair of his London domestics,
who, if master wasn't so 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 up in his dressing-room ; as
pays so regular, and never looks twice at the accounts ; such a
man deserves 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 horder about
like a young lord. But Clive, though imperious, was very liberal
and good-humored, and not the worse served because he
insisted upon exerting his youthful authority. As for friend
Binnie, he had a hundred pursuits 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

igG THE NEYVCOMES.

Asiatic Society, and the Political Economy Club ; and though
he talked year after year of going to visit his relations in Scot-
land, the months and seasons passed away, and his feet stiM
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 Xewcome family ; and
having, as we have said, plenty of time on his hands ; and liv-
ing at no very great distance from either of his brothers' town
houses ; when their wives were in London, the elder New-
come 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 presenr
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 nox
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 SchrofT 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 curtseys 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 different
hospitality to which he had been accustomed in the East, where
no friend's house was ever closed to him, where no neighbor
was so busy but he had time to make Thomas Newcome
welcome.

When Hobson Newcome's boy's came home for the holi-
days, their kind uncle was for treating them to the sights of the
town, but here virtue again interposed, and laid its interdict
upon pleasure. " Thank you, very much, my dear Colonel,"
says Virtue, " there never was surely such a kind, affectionate
unselfish creature, as you are, and so indulgent for children, but
my boys and yours are brought up on a very differe?it plan.
Excuse me for saying that I do not think it is advisable that
they should even see too much of each other. Clive'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 ? "

THE NEWCOMES. IOy

Maria turned very red : she had said not more than she
meant, but more than she meant to say. M My dear Colonel,
how hot we are! 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. Our
children are bred on quite a different plan. Hobson will suc-
ceed his father in the bank, and dear Samuel, I trust, will go
into the church. I told you, before, the views I had regard-
ing 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 Newcome
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 tell 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 father came he was a good lad enough — a jolly brave little
fellow."

" I confess I did not know Mr. Clive at that interesting
period of his existence," remarks Barnes.

" But since he has taken this madcap freak of turning
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 mounte-
banks. And this young Clive is going to turn painter ! "

" Very advantageous thing for the family. He'll do our
pictures for nothing. I always said he was a darling boy,"
simpered Barnes.

" Darling jackass ! " 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 daugh-
ter. No offence to you Barnes."

"Not at all, sir. I can't help it if my grandfather is a
gentleman," says Barnes, with a fascinating smile.

The uncle laughs. " I mean I don't care what a fellow
is if he is a good fellow. But a painter! hang it — a painter's
no trade at all — I don't fancy seeing one of our family sticking
up pictures for sale. I don't like it, Barnes."

198 THE XEVVCOMES.

" Hush ! here comes his distinguished friend, Air. Pender*
nis," whispers Barnes; and the uncle growling out. "Damn
all literary fellows — all artists — the whole lot of them ! " turns
away. Barnes waves three languid fingers of recognition
towards Pendennis : and when the uncle and nephew have
moved out of the club newspaper room, little Tom Eaves comes
up and tells the present reporter every word of their conversa*
tion.

Very soon Mrs. Newcome announced that their Indian
brother found the society of Bryanstone Square very little to
his 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 might
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 mustaches, and going
about with all sorts of wild associates. She found no fault,
who was she, to find fault with anyone ? But she had been
compelled to hint that her children must not be too inti-
mate with him. And so, between one brother who meant
no unkindness, and another who was all affection and good-
will, this undoubting woman created difference, distrust, dis-
like, 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 mischief which the very 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 many 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 nephews and nieces, espe-
cially with Ethel, for whom his belle passion conceived at first
sight never diminished. If uncle Newcome had a hundred
children, Ethel said, who was rather jealous of disposition, he
would spoil them all. He- found a fine occupation in breaking
a pretty little 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 more beautiful, than Ethel Newcome
with her broad hat and red ribbon, with her thick black locks

THE NEVVCOMES i99

waving round her bright face, galloping along the ride on Bhurt-
pore. Occasionally Clive was at their riding parties, when the
Colonel would fall back and fondly survey the young people
cantering side by side over the grass: but by a tacit convention
it was arranged that the cousins should be but seldom together \
the Colonel might be his niece's compamo and no one could
receive him with a more joyous welcome, but when Mr. Clive
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 assistance, and who, especially
after Mr. Clive's famous mustaches made their appearance,
rallied him, and remonstrated with him regarding those orna-
ments, 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 mustaches ; and
then she looked fondly and archly at her uncle, and said she
liked none that were not gray.

Clive seUher clown 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-born whiskers for
the charmer. Had he not already bought on credit the necessary
implements in a fine dressing-case, from young Moss ? PJut he
was not in love with her; otherwise he would have found a thou-
sand opportunities of riding with her, walking with her, meet-
ing her, in spite of all prohibitions tacit or expressed, all gov-
ernesses, guardians, mamma's punctillios, and kind hints from
friends. For a while, Mr. Clive 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 hun-
dred pictures of her, and discoursed about her beauties to J. J.,
who fell in love with her on hearsay. But at this time, Made-
moiselle Saltarelli was dancing at Drury Lane Theatre, and it
certainly may be said that Clive's first love was bestowed upon
that beauty: whose picture of course he drew in most of her
favorite 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, Clive
beheld Madame Rogomme, Mademoiselle Saltarelli's mother,
who entertained him in the French language in a dark parlor
smelling ot onions. And oh ! issuing from the adjoining din-
ing-room— (where was a dingy vision of a feast and pewter
pots udoii a darkling table-cloth) could that lean, scraggy, old,

200 THE NEWCOMES.

beetle-browed, yellow face, who cried " Oil est tu done, mama ? n
with such a shrill nasal voice — could that elderly vixen be that
blooming and divine Saltarelli ? Clive drew her picture as she
was, and a likeness of Madame Rogomme, her mamma ; a
Mosaic youth, profusely jewelled, and scented at once with
tobacco and Eau de Cologne, occupied Give's stall on Made-
moiselle Saltarelli's night. It was young Mr. Moss, of Gan-
dish's, to whom Newcome ceded his place, and who laughed
(as he always did at Give's jokes) when the latter told the
story of his interview with the dancer. " Paid five pound to
see that 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 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 Give's
father, that sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two
ride homeward at sunset. The grooms behind in quiet conver-
sation about horses, as men never tire of talking about horses.
Ethel wants to know about battles ; about lovers' lamps, which
she has read of in Lallah Rookh. " 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 he will tell
her anything about Give's mother : how she must have loved
Uncle Newcome ! Ethel can't bear, somehow, to think that
her name was Mrs. Casey, — perhaps he was very fond of her ;
though he scarcely ever 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, whom her uncle says Ethel often
resembles ? That is why he speaks French so 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 Her-
mitage (though grandpapa was a very kind good man), and he
upset papa in a little carriage, and was wild, and got into dis-
grace, and was sent to India ? He could not 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, yet he looked
much grander than Sir Brian in his new deputy-lieutenant's

HAVE YOU KILLED MANY MEN WITH THIS SWORD, UN'CLE?"

THE NEWCOMES. 201

dress. Next year, when I am presented, you must come too,
sir, says Ethel. I insist upon it, you must come too ! "

"I will order a new uniform, Ethel, " says 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
thought when you went to the Drawing-room, perhaps the King
will knight him. But instead he knighted mamma's apothe-
cary, 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 peo-
ple he has killed," says the Colonel, laughing; but thinking
the joke too severe upon Sir Danby and the profession, he
forthwith apologizes 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. What heroism
the doctors showed during the cholera in India; and what
courage he had seen some of them exhibit in action : attending
the wounded men under the hottest fire, and exposing them-
selves as readily as the bravest troops. Ethel declares that
her uncle always will talk of other people's courage, and never
say a word about 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 there were
cards for three parties afterwards. " Oh, how I wish it was
next year," says Miss Ethel.

Many a splendid assembly, and many a brilliant next year,
will the ardent and hopeful young creature enjoy ; but in the
midst of her splendor and triumphs, buzzing flatterers, con-
quered 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

202 THE ATEJVCOMES.

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
imparts this opinion to Lady Ann's maid, who tells her mis-
tress, who tells Miss Ethel, who watches the Colonel the next
time he takes wine with Miss Quigley, and they laugh, and
then Ethel tells him ; so that the 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 House, faint signals
of welcome appear on her wan cheeks. She knows the dear
Colonel amongst a thousand horsemen. If Ethel makes for
her uncle purses, 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 schoolroom, high, 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.

There are, of course, numberless fine parties in Park Lane,
where the Colonel knows he would be very welcome. But if
there be grand assemblies, he 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 have known Jack and Tom
all our lives, and so are interested in talking about them, just
as you 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 thought 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 ; " she 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 Newcome and Clive. Ethel's birthday befell 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 governesses, and they played and
sang their little duet's and choruses 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

THE XEWCOMES. 203

present to his favorite Ethel ; and Clive and his friend J. J
made a funny series of drawings, representing the life of n
young lady as they imagined it, and drawing her progress from
her cradle upwards : how 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 preternatural ugli-
ness, who was kneeling at her feet as the happy man. This
picture was the delight of the laughing happy girls ; except,
perhaps, the little cousins from Bryanstone Square, who were
invited to Ethel's party, but were so overpowered by the prodi-
gious 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 her granddaughter with a sixpenny pincushion.
The Colonel had sent Ethel a beautiful little gold watch and
chain. Her aunt had complimented her with that refreshing
work, "Alison's History of Europe," richly bound. — Lady
Kew's pincushion made rather a poor figure among the gifts,
whence probably arose her ladyship's ill-humor.

Ethel's grandmother became exceedingly testy when, the
Colonel arriving, Ethel ran up to him and thanked him for the
beautiful watch, in return for which she gave him a kiss, which,
I dare say, amply repaid Colonel Newcome ; and shortly after
him Mr. Clive arrived, looking uncommonly handsome, with
that smart little beard and mustache 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 indica-
tion 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 lady-
ship regarded him steadily, and beckoning her daughter to her,
asked who the gentleman was who had just kissed Ethel ?
Trembling as she always did before her mother, Lady Ann ex-
plained. Lady Kew said M Oh ! " and left Colonel Newcome
blushing and rather embarrassc de sa personne before her.

With the clapping of hands that greeted Clive's arrival, the
Countess was by no means more good-humored. Not aware
of her wrath, the young fellow, who had also previously been
presented to her, came forward presently to make her his com«

204 THE NEWCOMES.

pliments. ' Pray who are you ? " she said, looking at him very
earnestly in the face. He told her his name.

" H'm," said Lady Kevv, " 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.

Barnes 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.

CHAPTER XXI.

IS SENTIMENTAL, BUT SHORT.

Without 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 Frenchman ; nor to con-
tradict 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 with
regard to the person at present under consideration, it is cer-
tain 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 humor, and kindly laughter, were always wel-
come in our chambers. Honest Fred Bayham was charmed to
be in his society ; and used pathetically to aver that he him-
self 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, Fred was by far the most didactic of Clive's bachelor
acquaintances, pursued the young man with endless advice and
sermons, and held himself up as a warning to Clive, 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. Captain Jack Belsize introduced him

THE NEWCOMES. 20$

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 Clive enjoyed hunting, shooting,
and plenty of good company. Mrs. Newcome groaned in spirit
when she heard of these proceedings ; and feared, feared very
much that that unfortunate young man was going to ruin ; and
Barnes Xewcome 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 in-
sufferable. 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 unconscious of the reputation which
his kind friends were making for 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 apart-
ments which they were to inhabit during their stay — speculated
upon it in a hundred pleasant ways, putting off her visit to this
pleasant neighbor, 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 Xewcome's niece ; and came
back charmed with the old lady, and eager once more in de-
fence of dive (when that young gentleman's character hap-
pened 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 horse-
back and in regimentals, waving his sword in front of the gal-
lant— th Bengal Cavalry, which the lad had sent down 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 altogether a reprobate. When Mrs. Mason, see-
ing 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, and said she should like to

2o6 THE NEWCOMES.

find a husband for her, Miss Ethel blushed, and looked hand-
somer 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
all the company at dessert, that Ethel was in love with dive —
that Clive was coming to marry her — that Mrs. Mason, the old
woman at Newcome, had told him so.

" I dare say she has told the tale all over Newcome ! "
shrieked out Mr. Barnes. " I dare say it will be in the Inde-
pendent next week. By Jove, it's a pretty connection — and nice
acquaintances this uncle of ours brings us ! " A fine battle
ensued upon the receipt and discussion of this intelligence ;
Barnes was more than usually bitter and sarcastic ; Ethel
haughtily recriminated, losing her temper, and then her firm-
ness, until, fairly bursting into tears, she taxed Barnes with
meanness and malignity in forever 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 went 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 went and looked at the
apartments which she had adorned and prepared for his recep-
tion. It was for him and for his company that she was eager.
She had met no one so generous and gentle, so honest and un-
selfish, 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, Ethel's mother
soothed the wrounded girl, and treated her with peculiar gentle-
ness and affection ; and she wisely gave Mr. Barnes to under-
stand, 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 con-
stantly abusing and insulting poor Clive, and awakening Ethel's
sympathies 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 allusion should take 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

THE NEWCOMES.

207

Nevvcome. She was gone on a visit to her sick aunt, Lady
Julia. Colonel Nevvcome passed the holidays sadly without his
young favorite, 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 favorite
mare out hunting. It was a dreary entertainment ; father 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 5 his loose clothes hung only the looser on his lean
limbs ; he ate his meals without appetite ; his nights were rest-
less ; 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 seriousFy to think that his health was
suffering, and that a doctor should be called to see him ; and
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 Colonel insisted that he was perfectly happy and con-
tented. What could he want more than he had — the society of
his son, for the present ; and a prospect of quiet for his declin-
ing days ? Binnie 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 — all 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 living in Wales. He surprised Miss 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."

208 THE XEWCOMES.

Clive was not sorry to be left alone. The father knew that
only too well. The young man had occupations, ideas, associ-
ates, in whom the elder could take no interest. Sitting below
in his blank, cheerless bedroom, Newcome could hear the lad
and his friends talking, singing, and making merry, overhead.
Something would be said in dive's well-known tones, and a
roar of laughter would proceed from the youthful company.
They had all sorts of tricks, bywords, 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 New-
come's sad face would seem to look round — appealing to one
after another of them, and asking, " Why don't you go on laugh-
ing ? '' A company of old comrades shall be merry and laugh-
ing together, and the entrance of a single youngster will stop
the conversation ; and if men of middle age feel this restraint
with 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, long
after they are fathers, ay, or grandfathers, and not seldom fancy
that mere personal desire of domination is overweening anxiety
and love for their family, no doubt that common outcry against
thankless children might often be shown to prove, not that the
son is disobedient, but the father too exacting. When a moth-
er (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 unwilling-

THE NEWCOMES.

20Q

ness, and often not at all, will they consent to forego theii
RiKccracy, 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 lov-
ing 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 lo be punished, (so Mr. Honey-
man says, at least, in his pulpit,) by a hundred little mortifica-
tions, 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 litera-
ture, especially of the lighter sort ; and I dare say, 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 books in
general, — except those few which, we have said, formed his
travelling library. He heard opinions that amazed and bewil-
dered him : he heard that Byron was no great poet, though a
very clever man ; he heard that there had been a wicked per-
secution against Mr. Pope's memory and fame, and that it was
time to reinstate him ; that his favorite, Dr. Johnson, talked
admirably, but did not write English ; that young Keats was a
genius to be estimated in future days with young Raphael j and
that a young gentleman at 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 modern poetic literature ! What were
these new dicta, which Mr. Warrington delivered with a purl
of tobacco-smoke ; to which Mr. Honeyman blandly assented,
and Clive listened with pleasure ? Such opinions were not of
the Colonel's time. He tried in vain to construe "CEnone,"
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 ? Wras that dreary " Excursion " to

14.

2 f o THE NE WCOMES.

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 forefathers been brought up ? Mr.
Addison was only an elegant essayist and shallow trifler ! All
these opinions were openly uttered over the Colonel's claret, as
he and Mr. Binnie sat wondering at the speakers, who were
knocking the Gods of their youth about their ears. To Binnie
the shock was not so great ; the 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 that Doctor Goldsmith sneered at him too ; that Dr.
Johnson did not understand him ; and that Congreve, in his
own day 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, M who says those lines of
Mr. Congreve, about a church —

1 How reverend is the face of yon tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
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 castera —

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, as was 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 College? 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 particularize these talks, and
the little incidental mortifications which one of the best of men
endured, not because the conversations are worth the remem-
bering or recording, but because they presently very materially
influenced his own and his son's future history.

In the midst of the artists and their talk the poor Colonel
was equally in the dark. They assaulted this academician and
that i laughed at Mr. Haydon, or sneered at Mr. Eastlake, or

THE NEWCOMES. 2II

the contrary; deified Mr. Turner on one side of the table, and
on the other scorned him as a madman ; nor could Nevvcome
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 Rubens, 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 priv-
ily and worked at the National Gallery with a catalogue, and
passed hours in the Museum before the ancient statues, des-
perately praying to comprehend them, and puzzled before them,
as he remembered he was puzzled before the Greek rudiments,
as a child, when he cried over ri, zm rt d/.^Or^.y.ai zd di.r^zq.
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 color as he would a feast
of wine. Before the statues he would wave his ringer, follow-
ing the line of grace, and burst into ejaculations of delight and
admiration. " Why can't I love the things which he loves ? v
thought Xewcome ; " why am I blind to the beauties which he
admires so much ; and am I unable 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 have been incensed and
worshipped, and have shown no more feeling than is to be ex-
pected 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 he announced to the club that Tom
Newcome was in love ; then he thought it was not Tom's heart
but his liver that was affected, and recommended blue pill. O

2T2 THE NEWCOMES.

thou fond fool ! who art thou, to know any man's heart save
thine alone ? Wherefore were wings made and do feathers
grow, but that birds should fly ? The instinct that bids you
love your nest, leads the young ones to seek a tree and a mate
of their own. As if Thomas Xewcome, 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 Clive's study, where the lad was so
deeply engaged that he did not hear the father's steps advanc-
ing, 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 secret
from me, Clive," he gasped out at length.

The boy's face lighted up with humor. " 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 predecessors), to the place of prima do?ina
assoluta in Clive's heart. And be pleased, madam, not to be
too eager with your censure, and fancy that Mr. Clive or his
Chronicler would insinuate anything wrong. I dare say you
felt a flame or two before you were married yourself ; and that
the Captain or the Curate, and the interesting young foreigner
with whom you danced, caused your heart to beat, before you
bestowed that treasure on Mr. Candour. Clive was doing no
more than your own son will do when he is eighteen or nine-
teen years old himself — if he is a lad of any spirit, and a worthy
son of so charming a lady as yourself.

CHAPTER XXII.

DESCRIBES A VISIT TO PARIS ; WITH ACCIDENTS AND INCIDENTS
IN LONDON.

Mr. Clive, as we have said, had now begun to make ac-
quaintances of his own ; and the chimney-glass in his study
was decorated with such a number of cards of invitations, as

THE NEWCOMES. 213

made his ex-fellow student of Gandish's, young Moss, when ad-
mitted into that sanctum, stare with respectful astonishment.
"Lady Bary Rowe 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 differ-
ent 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 ! You never paid anything, Moss," 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 dis-
tribute 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, Moss ; the groom in the stable won't
smoke them."

" What a regular swell that Newcome has become ! " says
Mr. Moss to an old companion, another of Clive's fellow-stu-
dents : " I saw him riding in the Park with the Earl of Kcw,
and Captain Belsize, and a whole lot of 'em — / know 'em all — -
and he'd hardly nod to me. 1*11 have a horse next Sunday,
and then I'll see whether he'll cut me or not. 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 be preaching in
the Bench if he don*t keep a precious good look-out."

" Newcome is not a bit of a count," answers Moss's com-
panion, indignantly. " He don't care a straw whether a fel-
low's poor or rich ; and he comes up to my room just as wil-
lingly as he would go to a Duke's. He is always trying to do
a friend a good turn. He draws the figure capitally : he looks
proud, but he isn't, and is the best-natured fellow I ever saw."

" He ain't been in o ir place this eighteen months," says
Mr. Moss, " i know tl.at."

" Because when lie came you were always screwing him
with some bargain or other," cried the intrepid Hicks, Mr.
Moss's companion for the moment. k' He said he couldn't
afford to know you : you never let him out of your house with-
out a pin, or a box of eau-de-Cologne, or a bundle of cigars,

214

THE NEWCOMES.

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 Honorable Captain Belsize, Knightsbridge Bar-
racks, they let me in soon enough. I'm told his father ain't
got much money."

" How the deuce should I know ? or what do I care ? " cries
the young artist, stamping the heel of his blucher on the pave-
ment. " 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 you 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 dare say, was good-
natured too. And when young Moss appeared at the billiard-
room 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 the two youths will enable us to
understand how our hero's life was speeding. Connected in
in one way or another with persons in all ranks, it never entered
his head to be ashamed of the profession which he had chosen.
People in the great world did not in the least trouble themselves
regarding him, or care to know whether Mr. Clive Newcome
followed painting or any other pursuit ; and though Clive saw
many of his schoolfellows in the world, these entering into the
army, others talking with delight of college, 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 drew every cast and statue in
that gentleman's studio. Grindley, his tutor, getting a curacy,
Clive did not replace him ; but he took a course of modern
languages, which he learned with considerable aptitude and
rapidity. And now, being strong enough to paint without a
master, it was found that there was no good light in the house
in Fitzroy Square ; and Mr. Clive must needs have an aleliei
hard by, where he could pursue his own devices independently.

THE NEWCOMES

2*5

If his kind father felt any pang even at this temporary part-
ing, he was greatly soothed and pleased by a little mark of
attention on the young mans part, of which his present bio-
grapher happened to be a witness ; for, having walked over with
Colonel Xewcome to see the new studio, with its tall centre
window, and its curtains, and carved wardrobes, china jars,
pieces of armor, and other artistical properties, the lad, with a
very sweet smile of kindness and affection lighting up his honest
face, took one of two Bramah's house-keys with which he was
provided, and gave it to his father : "That's your key, sir," he
said to the Colonel ; " and you must be my first sitter, please,
father; for though I'm an historical painter, I shall condescend
to do a few portraits, you know." The Colonel took his son's
hand, and grasped it ; as Clive fondly put the other hand on
his father's shoulder. Then Colonel Newcome walked away
into the next room for a minute or two. and came back wiping
his mustache with his handkerchief, 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 farther labor.

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 Ridley engaged in depict-
ing a Life-guardsman, or a muscular negro, or a Malay from a
neighboring crossing, who would appear as Othello ; conversing
with a Clipstone Street nymph, who was ready to represent
Desdemona, Diana, Queen Eleanor (sucking poison from the
arm of the Planiagenet of the Blues), or any other model of
virgin or maiden excellence.

Of course our young man commenced as an historical
painter, deeming that the highest branch of art ; and declining
(except for preparatory studies) to operate on any but the
largest canvases. He painted a prodigious battle piece of
ye, with General YVellesley at the head of the 19th I>ra
goons 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) appeared as the principal figure in the foreground,

2 1 6 THE NE WCOMES.

terrifically wounded, but still of undaunted courage, slashing
about amidst a group of writhing Malays, and bestriding the
body of a dead cab-horse, which Clive painted, until the land-
lady and rest of the lodgers cried out, and, for sanitary reasons,
the knackers removed the slaughtered charger. So large was
this picture that it could only be got out of the great window by
means of artifice and coaxing, and its transport caused a shout
of triumph among the little boys in Charlotte Street. Will it
be believed that the Royal 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 Clive, (who had taken a trip to
Paris with his father, as a delassement after the fatigues incident
on this great work,) when he saw it, after a month's interval,
declared the thing was rubbish, and massacred Britons. Malays,
Dragoons. Artillery and all.

" Hotel de la Terrasse, Rue de Rivoli,
" April 27 — May 1, 183 — .

" My dear Pendennis, — You said I might write you a line
from Paris ; and if you find in my correspondence any valuable
hints for the Pall Mall Gazette, you are welcome to use them
gratis. Now I am here, I wonder I have never been here be-
fore, 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 oft 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 gentle-
man 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 clashed over the three 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 a
petit dejenetir soigune ; on which the fellow, grinning, said, 'A

THE XEWCOMES.

217

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 won-
dered if all the Frenchmen read Bill's Life, and if all the inns
smell so of brandy-and-water.

k> We walked out to see the town, which I dare say you
know, and therefore sha'n't describe. We saw some good
studies of fishwomen with bare legs, and remarked that the
soldiers were very dumpy and small. We were glad when the
time came to set off by the diligence ; and having the coupe to
ourselves, made a very comfortable journey to Paris. It was
jolly to hear the postilions 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 ? Tne chestnuts were out, and the statues all shin-
ing 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 !
I like the barbarous splendor of the architecture, and the orna-
ments, profuse and enormous, with which it is overladen.
Think of Louis XVL, with a thousand 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 on 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 be slaughtered
when the King had turned his back. What a great man that
Carl vie 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 '
are excellent, and we brought ' Scott's Visit to Paris,' and
1 Paris Re-visited,' and read them in the diligence. They are
famous good reading ; but the Palais Royal is very much al-
tered since Scott's time ; no end of handsome 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-dc place says Charles X. put an end to
it all.

"Next morning the governor had letters to deliver after

2iS THE NEWCOMES.

breakfast, and left me at the Louvre door. I 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 first glimpse of her struck
one breathless with the sense of her beauty. 1 could not see
the color of her eyes and hair exactly, but the latter is light,
and the eyes, I should think, are gray. 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 her arms, which have been cut
off at the shoulders, but she looks none the less lovely for the
accident. She may be some two-and-thirty years old, and she
was born about two thousand years ago. Her name is the
Venus cf Milo. O Victrix ! O lucky Paris! (I don't mean
this present Lutetia, but Priam's son.) How could he give
the apple to any else but this enslaver, — this joy of gods and
men ? at whose benign presence the flowers spring up, and
the smiling ocean sparkles, and the soft skies beam with serene
light ! I wish we might sacrifice. I would bring a spotlesi
kid, snowy-coated, and a pair of doves, and a jar of honey — •
yea, honey from Morel's in Piccadilly, thyme-rlavored XarbO'
nian, and we would acknowledge the Sovereign Loveliness,
and adjure the Divine Aphrodite'. Did you ever see my pretty
young cousin, Miss Xewcome. 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 ! O thou beautiful bountiful calm !
At thy soft feet let me kneel — on cushions of Tyrian purple.
Don't show this to Warrington, please ; I never thought when

1 began 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 cairn ;
not a screaming bull-fight or a battle of gladiators, but a temple
for placid contemplation, rapt worship, stately rhythmic cere-
mony, and music solemn and tender. I shall take down my
Snyders and Rubens, when I get home ; and turn quietist.

THE NEWCOMES. 2lg

To think I have spent weeks in depicting bony Life-guardsmen

delivering cut one, or Saint George, and painting black beggars
o'A a crossing !

" What a grand thing it is to think of half a mile of pictures
at the Louvre ! Not but that there are a score under the old
pepper-boxes in Trafalgar 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 Se-
bastian ? 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.
Oh, such portraits of Titian ! Oh, 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 carroty beard, and a velvet jacket, cut
open at the sleeves, to show that Tom has a shirt. 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 the French artists his camarades. There seems
to be a scarcity of soap among these young fellows ; and I
think I shall cut off my mustaches ; only Warrington will have
nothing to laugh at when I come home.

" The Colonel and I went to dine at the Cafe de Paris, and
afterwards to the opera. Ask for huitrcs de Mareniie when you
dine here. We dine with a tremendous French swell, the
Vicomte de Florae, ojficier d*ordoiunvicc to one of the princes,
an 1 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 Duke dTvry, dies. His father is quite old. The Vicomte
was born in England. He pointed out to us no end of famous
people at the opera — a few of the Faubourg St. Germain, and
ever so many of the present people : — M. Thiers, and Count
:, and George 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, for their meeting was uncommonly ceremon-
ious and tender. It was 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 J

220 THE NEWCOMES.

It must have been last year, when he was away for ten days,
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 Girard 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, ' Voila,
la recofinoissez-vous 1 Last year, when you were here, it was in
the country.' And she smiled at him, and the dear old boy
gave a sort of 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 chil-
dren, 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 Rue Saint Dominique. ' You must come
and see me often, always. You remind me of him ; ' and she
added, with a very sweet kind smile, ' Do 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 dare say ; but where is there such a good
one ? I 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., lives in it. We saw Mrs.
Pokey's carriage in the court, and her footmen smoking cigars
there ; a tottering old man with feeble legs, as old as old Count
de Florae, seemed to be the only domestic who waited on the
family below.

" Madame de Florae and my father talked about my profes-
sion. The Countess said it was a belle carricre. The Colonel
said it was better than the army. ' Ah out, 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 garqonl

" ' But you will be here to watch over him yourself, mon
amiV says the French lady.

" Father shook his head. ■ ' I shall very probably have to go

THE NEWCOMES. 221

back to India,' he said. 'My furlough is expirevl. I am now
taking my extra leave. If I can get my promotion, I need not
return. Without that I cannot afford to live in Europe. Rut
my absence, in all probability, will be but very short,' he said.
1 And Clive 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 confounded rings and gimcrack?.
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 he has spent greatly more than his income,
and is quite angry at his own extravagance. At first he thought
he might have retired from 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 called to dine with us. The
Colonel said he did not care about going out : and so the Vis-
count and I went together. Trots Frcrcs Provencaux — 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 I We went to the loge of Mademoiselle Finette, who
acted the part of ' Le petit Tambour,' in which she sings a
famous song with 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
ISouillotte. It was all the change out of a twenty-pound note
which dear old Rinnie gave me before we set out, with a quota-
tion out of Horace, you know, about Ncque tu choreas. spemc.
puer. Oh me ! how guilty 1 felt as I walked home at ever so
much o'clock to the " Hotel de la Terrasse,' and sneaked into
our apartment. But the Colonel was sound asleep. His dear
old boots stood sentries at his bedroom door, and I slunk into
mine as silently as I could.

" P.S. Wednesday. — There's just one scrap of paper left. I

222 THE NEWCOMES.

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
Assaye ' is refused. Smee told him it was too big. I dare say
it's very bad. I'm glad I'm away, and the fellows are not con-
doling with me.

" Please go and see Mr. Binnie. He has come to grief. He
rode the Colonel's horse ; came clown on the pavement and
wrenched his leg, and I'm afraid the gray'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 ac-
cident 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 }
don't want to go back just yet, to see all the fellows from Gan-
dish'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 Newcome.

" P.S. He tipped me himself this morning ; isn't he a kind,
dear old fellow ? "

ARTHUR PENDENNIS, ESQ., TO CLIVE NEWCOME, ESQ.

11 Pall Mall Gazette, Journal of Politics, Literature and
Fashion, 225 Catherine Street, Strand,

" Dear Clive, — I regret very much for Fred Bayham's sake
(who has lately taken the responsible office of Fine Arts Critic
for the P. G.) that your extensive picture of the ■ Battle of As-
saye ' has not found a place in the Royal 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 consequence of this calamity.
Never mind. Courage, my son. The Duke of Wellington,
you know, was beat back at Seringapatam before he succeeded
at Assaye. I hope you will fight other battles, and that for-
tune in future years will be more favorable to you. The town
does not talk very much of your discomfiture. You see the
parliamentary debates are very interesting just now, and some-
how the ' Battle of Assaye ' does not seem to excite the public
mind.

M I have been to Fitzroy Square ; both to the stables and
the house. The Houyhnhm's legs are very well j the horse
slipped on his side and not on his knees, and has received no

THE XEWCOMES. 223

sort of injury. Not so Mr Binnie, his ankle is much wrenched
and inflamed. He must keep his sofa for many days, perhaps
weeks. But you know he is a very cheerful philosopher, 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 the 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 was an infant when he last be-
held her, on his departure to India. She is now (to speak with
respect) a very brisk, plump, pretty little widow; having, seem-
ingly, 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 Edinburgh, when he met with the fatal accident which pre-
vented his visit to his native shores. His account of his mis-
fortunes and lonely condition was so pathetic that Mrs. Mac-
kenzie and her daughter put themselves into the Edinburgh
steamer, and rushed to console his sofa. They occupy your
bedroom and sitting-room, which latter Mrs. Mackenzie says
no longer smells of tobacco-smoke, as it did when she took pos-
session of your den. If you have left any papers about, any
bills, any billets-doux, I make no doubt the ladies have read
every smgle one of them, according to the amiable habits of
their sex. The daughter is a bright little blue-eyed fair-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 Bonnie Dundee ' and
1 Jock 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 employed by the inhabitants
of the northern part of Britain, their accent is exceedingly pleas-
ant, 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 distinguished regiment of Infantry to which the
captain belonged. Miss Rosa is a great favorite with her
uncle, and I have had the 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 the principal
sights in town. Eor pictures they do not seem to care much .

224 THE NEWCOMES.

they thought the National Gallery a dreary exhibition, and in
the Royal Academy could be got to admire nothing but the
picture of M'Collop of M'Collop, by our friend of the like
name, but they think Madame Tussaud's interesting exhibition
of Waxwork the most delightful in London ; and there I had
the happiness of introducing them to our friend Mr. Frederick
Bayham ; who, subsequently, on coming to his office with his
valuable contributions on the Fine Arts, made particular inquir-
ies 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 satisfactory settlement. I got
the ladies a box at the opera, whither they were attended by
Captain Goby of their regiment, godfather to Miss, and where
I had the honor of paying them a visit. I saw your fair young
cousin Miss Newcome in the lobby with her grandmamma Lady
Kew. Mr. Bayham with great eloquence pointed out to the
Scotch ladies the various distinguished characters in the house.
The opera delighted them, but they were astounded at the
ballet, from which mother and daughter retreated in the midst
of a fire of pleasantries of Gaptain Goby. I can fancy that
officer at mess, and how brilliant his anecdotes must have been
when the company of ladies does not restrain his genial flow of
humor.

" Here comes Mr. Baker with the proofs. In ca*se you
don't see the P. G. at Galignani's, I send you an extract from
Bayham's article on the Royal Academy, where you will have
the benefit of his opinion on the works of some of your
friends : —

" '617. " Moses Bringing Home the Gross of Green Spec-
tacles." Smith, R. A. — Perhaps poor Goldsmith's exquisite
little work has never been so great a favorite as in the present
age. We have here, in a work by 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 Paii Mail
Gazette does not care to condemn.

"'420. Our (and the public's) favorite, Brown, R. 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

THE N i:\VCO MRS. 225

on the Flock of Sheep ; " the sheep are in his best manner,
painted with all his well-known facility and brio. Mr. Brown's
friendly rival, Hopkins, has selected " Gil Bias " for an illustra-
tion this year; and the " Robber's Cavern " is one of the most
masterly of Hopkins's productions.

'"Great Rooms. $$. "Portrait of Cardinal Cospetto."
O'Gogstay, A. R. A. ; and " Neighborhood 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
humor with which he used to delight us j 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
mountains) 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 a 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 II. 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
employed 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'Gollop,"— A. M'Collop — 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-( .Hop.

"' 1367. "Oberon and Titania." Ridley. — This sweet and
fanciful little picture draws crowds round about it, and is one
of the most charming and delightful works of the present exhi-
bition. We echo the universal opinion in declaring that it shows
not only the greatest promise, but the most delicate and beau-
tiful performance. The Karl of Kew, we understand, bought
the picture at the private view ; and we congratulate the young

226 THE NEWCOMES.

painter heartily upon his successful debut. He is, we under*
stand, a pupil of Mr. Gandish. Where is that admirable
painter? We miss his bold canvases and grand historic out-
line.'

" 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-by, 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 I 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.

u A. P."

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH WE HEAR A SOPRANO AND A CONTRALTO.

The most hospitable and polite of Colonels would not hear
of Airs. Mackenzie and her daughter 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 inten-
tion to go away. Mrs. Mackenzie had a fine merry humor of
her own. She was an old soldier's wife, she said, and knew
when her quarters were good ; and I suppose, since her honey-
moon, when the captain took her to Harrogate and Cheltenham,
stopping at the first hotels, and travelling in a chaise and pall
the whole way, she had never been so well off as in that roomy
mansion near Tottenham Court Road. Of her mother's house
at Musselburgh she gave a ludicrous but dismal account. u Eh,
James," she said, " I think if you had come to mamma, as you
threatened, you would not have stayed very long. It's a weari-
some place. Dr. M'Craw boards with her; and it's sermons
and psalm-singing from morning till night. My little Josey

THE NEWCOMES.

227

tikes 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 Rosey was just
withering away there. It's good for Hie 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 Rosey'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
decease ; 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 alert ; and so good-looking, that it
was a wonder she had not taken a successor to Captain Mac-
kenzie. James Binnie cautioned his friend the Colonel against
the attractions of the buxom siren ; and laughingly would ask
dive how he would like Mrs. Mackenzie for a mamma ?

Colonel Newcome felt himself very much at ease regarding
his future prospects. He was very 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 brother-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 Rosa 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 nothing loth to be independent ; but he showed himself to
be a very good home-loving youth. He walked home to break-
fast 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 ladies. Nothing could be
prettier than to see the two ladies tripping down stairs together,
mamma's pretty arm round Rosey's pretty waist. Mamma's
talk was perpetually of Rosey. 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, he dared to say it was very pretty. " Go
away, you droll, dear old kind Uncle James ! '' Rosey's mamma
would cry out. " You old bachelors are wicked old things ! "

228 THE NEWCOMES.

Uncle James used to kiss Rosey very kindly and pleasantly.
She was as modest as gentle, as eager to please Colonel New-
come as any little girl could be. It was pretty to see her
tripping across the room with his coffee-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 every-
thing to soothe and coax the governess of the two gentlemen's
establishment. She praised 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 bedroom, for all she was so soft-
spoken. " How was that jug broke, and that chair smashed in
the bedroom, that day there was such a awful row up there ? "

Mrs. Mackenzie played admirably, in the old-fashioned way,
dances, reels, and Scottish 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 while she was in London. Rosey was
eternally strumming upon an instrument which had been taken
up stairs for her special practice ; and the Colonel, who was
always seeking to do harmless jobs of kindness for his friends,
bethought him of little Miss Cann, the governess at Ridley's,
whom he recommended as an instructress. " Anybody whom
^//recommend I'm sure, dear Colonel, we shall like," said Mrs.
Mackenzie, who looked as black as thunder, and had probably
intended to have Monsieur Quatremains or Signor Twankey-
dillo ; and the little governess came to her pupil. Mrs. Mac-
kenzie treated her very gruffly and haughtily at first ; but as
soon as she heard Miss Cann play, the widow was pacified —
nay, charmed. Monsieur Quatremains charged a guinea for
three-quarters of an hour ; while Miss Cann thankfully took
five shillings for an hour 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
beautiful French bonnet, " in which," Captain Goby said, "upon
his life, she didn't look twenty."

The little governess, trotting home after her lesson, would
often look into Clive's studio in Charlotte Street, where her two

THE XEWCOMES. 22q

boys, .1? she called dive 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 Rosev played
incorrectly, mamma flew at her with prodigious vehemence of
language, and sometimes with a slap on poor Rosey's back.
She must make Rosey 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 upon lacing her so tight, as nearly to choke
the poor little lass. Rosey did not fight — Rosey always
yielded ; and the scolding over and the tears dried, would
come simpering clown stairs, 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 at 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? "

k' 'Why, my dear, when ye lose Rosey, ye'll 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 hand-
kerchief over her mouth. She glances at her brother with a
pair of eyes full 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. "Rosey,
sing me that pretty little French song." Mrs. Mackenzie's
attention to Clive was really quite affecting. If any of his
friends came to the house, she took them aside and praised
Clive to them. The Colonel she adored. She had never met
with such a man or seen such a manner. The manners of the
Bishop of Tobago were beautiful, and he certainly had one of
the softest and finest hands in the world — but not finer than
Colonel Xewcome's. " Look at his foot ! " (and she put out
her own, which was uncommonly pretty, and suddenly withdrew
it, with an arch glance, meant to represent a blush,) " my shoe
would fit it ! When we were at Coventry Island, Sir Peregrine
Blandy, who succeeded poor dear Sir Rawdon 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

23°

THE XEWCOMES.

grand and noble he was but I don't think he was equal to
Colonel Xewcome — I really don't think so. Do you think so,
Mr. Honeyman ? What a charming discourse that was last
Sunday ! I know there were tuo pair of eyes not dry in the
church. I could not see the other people just for crying my-
self. Oh. 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 tinder Dr. M'Craw. of course ; but he
is so awfully iong ! Four hours every Sunday at least morning
and afternoon ! It nearly kills poor Rosey. Did you hear her
voice at your church ? The dear girl is delighted with the
chants. Rosey. were you not delighted with the chants ? "

If she is delighted with the chants. Honevman 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 vocal accompaniment, and looking
as if he would be lifted oft the screw music-stool, and flutter up
to the ceiling.

" Oh, 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 born 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 jolly time we had. Much better than the West
Indies, where a fellow's liver goes to the deuce with hot pickles
and sangaree. Mackenzie was a dev'lish wild fellow," whispers
Captain Goby to his neighbor (the present biographer indeed),
' and Mrs. ^fack 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 youi
side of India, Colonel."

And in the interchange of such delightful remarks, and with
music and song the evening passes away. " Since the house
had been adorned by the fair presence of Mrs. Mackenzie and
her daughter," Honeyman said, alw: at in behavior and

flowery in expression, u it seemed as if spring had visited it.
Its hospitality was invested with a new grace ; its ever wel-
come little reunions were doubly charming. But why did these

THE NFAVCQMES.

231

ladies come, if they were to go awav again ? How — bow would
Mr. l.innie 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."

" Oh, that we do ! " ejaculates the blushing Rosey.

" And we will stay as long as ever my brother will keep us,"
continues the widow.

'• Uncle James is so kind and dear," says Rosey. " I hope
he won't send me and mamma away.'

'•He were a brute — a savage, if he did ! " cries Honeyman,
with glances of rapture towards the two pretty faces. Every-
body liked them. Binnie received their caresses very good-
humored ly. The Colonel liked every woman under the sun.
Clive laughed and joked and waltzed alternately with Rosey
and her mamma. The latter was the brisker partner of the two.
The unsuspicious widow, poor dear innocent, would leave 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 almost the only one of Clive's friends whom the
widow did not like. She pronounced the quiet little painter a
pert little obtrusive, under-bred creature.

In a word, Mrs. Mackenzie was, as the phrase is, " setting
her cap " so openly at Clive, that none of us could avoid seeing
her play ; and CHve 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 Court, Temple ;
in Sibwright's chambers — luncheon from Dick's Coffee-House
— ices and dessert from Partington's in the Strand. Miss
Rosey, Mr. Sibwright, our neighbor in Lamb Court, and the
Reverend Charles Honeyman sang very delightfully after lunch ;
there was quite a crowd of porters, laundresses, and boys to
listen in the Court ; Mr. Paiey 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 Clive, why
should not she? We all liked the pretty, fresh, modest Rosey.
Why, even the grave old benchers in the Temple Church, when
the ladies visited it on Sunday, winked their reverend eyes 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 re-
spectful attention there than in any place, except perhaps at
Oxford or Cambridge. Go to the Temple Church — not, of

232

THE NEWCOMES.

course, for the admiration which you will excite and which you
cannot help ; but 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 behavior
when an occasional Scottish friend, bringing a letter from dar-
ling Josey, or a recommendatory letter from Josey's grandmother,
paid a visit in Fitzroy Square. Little Miss Cann used to laugh
and wink knowingly, saying, " You will never get back your
bedroom, 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 some-
body 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 j but I
think another image occupied his heart : and this Circe 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 must have
been a very lucky woman ; though I dare say she did not value
what she had ; or did not live to enjoy it — or — or something 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. Pen-
dennis, 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 gener-
ous 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 head
strong and imprudent, and I own my poor dear husband was in

THE XEWCOMES.

233

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 compliments 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 to show it : but
she has the most wonderful appreciation of wit, of genius, and
talent of all kinds. She always hides her feelings, except from
her fond old mother. I went up 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 up smiling on my
shoulder. She looked so pretty ! ' Oh, 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
yesterday, and how you read a book which I told you you
shouldn't read ; for it is a very wicked book ; and though it con-
tains 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 bitter ; 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 anything that Mr. Pendennis
likes," says Rosey, with her candid bright eyes ; and she goes
to the piano and warbles Batti, Eatti, with her sweet, fresh, art-
less voice.

More caresses follow. Mamma is in a rapture. How pretty
they look — the mother and daughter — two lilies twining to*
gether. The necessity of an entertainment at the Temple —
lunch from Dick's (as before mentioned), dessert from Parting-
ton'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 pleased Mr. Pendennis's
mind. How delighted the ladies are with the proposal ! Mrs.

234

THE NE irCOJfES.

Mackenzie claps her pretty hands, and kisses Rosey again. If
osculation is a mark of love, surely Mrs. Mack is the best ot
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 favorite songs (by the way her stock was very small — five,
I think, was the number). Then the table was moved into a
corner, 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. Flanagan 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 days : of which the memories revisit
us for a moment, and sink back into the gray past. The dear
old Colonel beat time with great delight to the songs ; the widow
lit his cigar with her own fair fingers. That was the only smoke
permitted during the entertainment — George Warrington him-
self not being allowed to use his cutty-pipe — though the gay
little widow said that she had been used to smoking in the West
Indies, and I dare say spoke the truth. Our entertainment
lasted actually until after dark ; and a particularly neat cab
being called from St. Clement's by Mr. Binnie's 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 cham-
bers must have envied us the pleasure of having received two
such beauties.

The clerical bachelor was not to be outdone by the gentle-
men of the bar; and the entertainment at the Temple was
followed by one at Honeyman's lodgings, which, I must own,
greatly exceeded ours in splendor, for Honeyman had his
luncheon from Gunter's ; and if he had been Miss Rosey's
mother, giving a breakfast to the dear girl on her marriage, the
affair could not have been more elegant and handsome. We
had but two bouquets at our entertainment; at Honeyman's
there were four upon the breakfast-table, besides a great pine*

THE XEWCOMES. 2Je

apple, which must have cost the rogue three or four guineas,
and which Percy Sibwright delicately cut up. Rosey thought
the pine-apple delicious. "The dear thing does not remember
the pine-apples in the West Indies ! " cries Mrs. Mackenzie ; and
she gave us many exciting narratives of entertainments at which
she had been present at various 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 cleri-
cal. You know, besides, you are in a hermitage; and " (with a
glance round the table) " must put up with Cenobite's fare."
The fare was, as I have said, excellent. The wine was bad, as
George, and I, and Sib agreed ; and, in so far, we flattered
ourselves that our feast altogether excelled the parson's. The
champagne especially was such stuff, that Warrington remarked
on it to his neighbor, 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 brace-
let go as far as another woman's emerald clasps, were as noth-
ing compared to the other lady's gorgeous jewelry. Her
fingers glittered with rings innumerable. The head of her
smelling-bottle wa^as big as her husband's gold snuff-box, and
of the same splendid material. Our ladies, it must be con-
fessed, 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 Rosey's waist, viewed this arrival
perhaps with envy. " My clear Mr. Honeyman, whose are those
beautiful horses ? " cries Rosey, with enthusiasm.

The divine says, with a faint blush, — " It is — ah — it is Mrs.
Sherrick and Miss Sherrick, who have done me the favor to
come to luncheon."

" Wine merchant. Oh!" thinks Mrs. Mackenzie, who has
seen Sherrick's brass-plate on the cellar-door of Lady Whittle-
sea's chapel ; and hence, perhaps, she was a trirle more mag-
niloquent than usual, and entertained us with stories of colonial
governors and their ladies, mentioning no persons but those
who "had handles to their names," as the phrase is.

Although Sherrick had actually supplied the champagne
Vrhich Warrington abused to him in confidence, the wine

236 THE NEWCOMES.

merchant was not wounded ; on the contrary, he roared with
laughter at the remark, and some of us smiled who understood
the humor 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 con-
stantly 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 hand-
some : she kept the fringed curtains of her eyes constantly down ;
but when she lifted them up towards Clive, who was very atten-
tive to her (the rogue 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 Mrs. Mackenzie with his usual
grace and affability. 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 atlmirer 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 Sib-
wright's inquiries) that she preferred it to the rasps and hinny-
blobs 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 make,) and little
Rosey sings No. i, followed by No. 2, with very great applause.
Mother and daughter entwine as they quit the piano. " Prava !
brava ! " says Percy Sibwright. Does Mr. Clive Newcome 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 seguidilla, or a German lied, or a
French romance, or a Neapolitan canzonet, which, I am bound
to say, excites very little attention. Mrs. Ridley is sending in
coffee at this juncture, of which Mrs. Sherrick partakes, with
lots of sugar, as she has partaken of numberless things before J

MR. HONEYMAN AT HOME.

THE NEWCOMES. 237

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 ! Oh,
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 artiste 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 everybody knows, as manager of Drury
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 little Miss Cann herself creeps up the
stairs, and stands with Mrs. Ridley 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 Rosey,
whose little heart beats with pleasure, and who says quite un-
affectedly 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 artiste, 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
Rosey 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 conquerors.
"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

238 THE XEWCOMES

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 just come and try- us — I can give you as good a glass of
wine as most, I think," and he smiles, perhaps thinking of the
champagne which Mr. Warrington had slighted. '* I've 'ad the
close carriage for my wife this evening.*' he continues, looking
out of window at a very handsome brougham which has just
drawn up there. " That little pair of horses steps prettily
together, don't they ? Fond of horses ? I know you are. bee
you in the park ; and going by our house sometimes. The
Colonel sits a horse uncommonly well 3 so do you. Mr. Hew-
come. I've often said, ' Why don't they get off their horses
and say, Sherrick, we're come for a bit of lunch and a glass of
sherry.' Name a day. sir. Mr. P., will you be in it ? "

Clive Newcome named a day, and told his father of the cir-
cumstance in the evening. The Colonel looked grave. " There
was something which I did not quite like about Mr. Sherrick,"'
said that acute observer of human nature. " It wac easy to
see that the man is not quite a gentleman. 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 boy, 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. Mean-
while Mr. Sherrick has been a very good and obliging land-
lord ; and a man who sells 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 Rosey, 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 ankle in the leas

a 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

THE NEIVCOMES.

239

you. James no more knows the world than Miss Rosey here ;
and if I had not been with him, would have been perfectly un-
able1 to take care of himself. When I am gone to India, some-
body must slay 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
ladv, vou will take care of James ; and you will be kind to my
boy."'

"That I will ! " said the widow, radiant with pleasure, and
she took one of Clive's hands and pressed it for an instant ;
and from Clive's father's kind face there beamed out that bene-
diction which always made his countenance appear to me
anions the most beautiful of human faces.

CHAPTER XXIV.

IN WHICH THE NEWCOME BROTHERS ONCE MORE MEET
TOGETHER IN UNITY.

This narrative, as the judicious 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 ad-
verse and favorable ; the storms, shoals, shipwrecks, islands,
and so forth, which Clive Newcome met in his early journey in
life. In such 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 u Clive Newcome "
meets a vessel which makes signals that she is short of bread
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 being woefully battered in the
tempest, make port, or are cast upon surprising islands where
all sorts of unlooked-for prosperity await the lucky crew. Also,
no doubt, the writer of the book, into whose hands Clive New-

243

THE XE U'COMES.

coine's logs have been put. and who is charged with the duty
of making two octavo volumes out of his friend's story, dresses
up the narrative in his own way ; utters his own remarks in
place of Xewcome's ; makes fanciful descriptions of individuals
and incidents with which he never could have been personally
acquainted ; and commits blunders, which the critics will dis-
cover. A great number of the descriptions in " Cook's Voy-
ages," for instance, were notoriously invented by Dr. Hawkes-
worth, who fl did "' the book : so in the present volumes, where
dialogues are written down, which the reporter could by 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, conversa-
tions 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
ascertained patent facts. I fancy, for my part, that the
speeches attributed to Clive, 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 probably without witnesses, were either con-
fided 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 pro-
found antiquarian knowledge enables you to assert that SEX-
ATVS POPVLVS was also inscribed there at some time or
other. You take a mutilated statue of Mars, Bacchus, Apollo,
or Virorum, and you pop on him a wanting hand, an absent
foot, or a nose, which time or barbarians have defaced. You
tell your tales as you can, and state the facts as you think they
must have been. In this manner, Mj\ James, Titus Livius,
Sheriff Alison, Robinson Crusoe, and all historians proceeded
Blunders there must be in the best of these narratives, and
more asserted than they can possibly know or vouch for.

To recur to our own affairs, and the subject 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 ex-
perience or hearsay. Clive, let us say, is Romanus, and we
must add Senatus Populusque to his inscription. After Mrs.
Mackenzie and her pretty daughter had been for a few months

THE NEWCOMES. 2 \\

in London, which they did riot think of quitting, although Mr.
Binnie's wounded little leg was now as well and as brisk as
ever 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 themselves about his family
affairs, to form their own opinions concerning them. After
that visit of the Colonel and his son to Newcome, Ethel was
constantly away with her grandmother. The Colonel went to
see his pretty little favorite at Brighton, and once, twice, thrice.
Lady Kew's door was denied to him. The knocker of that
door could not be more fierce than the old lady's countenance,
when Newcome met her in her chariot driving on the cliff.
Once, forming the loveliest of a charming Amazonian squad-
ron, led by Mr. Whiskin, the riding-master, when the Colonel
encountered his pretty Ethel, she greeted him affectionately it
is true ; there was still the sweet look of candor and love
in her eyes ; but when he rode up to her she looked so con-
strained, when he talked about Clive so reserved, 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 Ann,
to whom he 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 j 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

16

■42

THE NEWCOMEs.

affection he bore Ethel himself was so great, and the sweet re-
gard with which she returned it, that the simple father thought
his kindly project was favored by heaven, and prayed for i:s
fulfilment, and pleased himself to think, when his campaigns
were over, and his sword hung on the wall, what a beloved
daughter he 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 boy-
hood, lonely manhood, and cheerless exile ; and he imparted
his simple scheme to Ethel's 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 divided the
brothers, still remained faithful to the good Colonel.

But Barnes Xewcome. Esquire, was the head of the house,
and the governor of his father and all Sir Brian's affairs ; and
Barnes Xewcome, 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 Hobson at the
bank, and Uncle Hobson carried them home to Mrs. Xewcome
in Bryanstone Square ; and Mrs. Xewcome took an early op-
portunity 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 Xewcome took a new banker at this time,
and, as Clive informed me. was in very great dudgeon, because
Hobson Brothers wrote to him to say that he had overdrawn
his account. " I am sure there is some screw loose," the saga-
cious youth remarked to me ; " 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 pre-
sented, and he didn't go."

Some months after the arrival of Mr. Binnie's niece and
>y Square, the fraternal quarrel between the Xew-
comes must have come to an end — for that time at least — and
was followed by a rather ostentatious reconciliation. And
pretty little Rosey 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. Xewcome,
who did me the honor to invite me to her table. As she had
not vouchsafed this hospitality to me for a couple of years pre-
viously, and perfectly stifled me with affability when we met,—

THE NEYVCOMES. 243

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. Xewcome 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, u 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 friend — 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 take you up ever}'- 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 King 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 exist-
ence j 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 —
and said Lord Cheddar wanted to go down to Wiltshire. I
asked after the family (you know Henry Churningham is en-
gaged to Miss Rennet ? — a doosid good match for the Ched-
dars). 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. u 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 nobleman'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 some-
thing 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, stoopkl, scien-
tific."

244

THE XEIVCOMES.

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. k' Your Indian Colonel." says he,
u. 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*iish
long way off for a fellow to go for a dinner, and cntrc nous, the
dinner is rather queer and the company still more so. It's
nght for you, who are a literary man, to see all sorts of people ;
but I'm different you know, so Xewcome and I are not very
thick together. They say he wanted to mam' your friend to
Lady Ann's daughter, an exceedingly fine girl ; one of the
prettiest girls come out this season. I hear the young men say
so. And that shows how monstrous ignorant of the world
Colonel Xewcome is. His son could no more get that girl than
he could marry one of the royal princesses. Mark my words,
they intend Miss Xewcome for Lord Kew. Those banker fel-
lows are wild after grand marriages. Kew will sow his wild oats,
and they'll mam* her to him ; or if not to him to some man of
high rank. His father Walham was a weak young man ■ but
his grandmother, old Lady Kew. is a monstrous clever old
woman, too severe with her children, one of whom ran away
and married a poor devil without a shilling. Xothing could
show a more deplorable ignorance of the world than poor Xew-
come 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 is coming to. An artist !
By gad, in my 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-humored when Mr. Pendennis appeared at her house ;
and my 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 win-
dows into the cheerful square of Bryanstone, a great family coach

THE NEIVCOMES.

2 45

arrives, driven by a family coachman in a family wig, and we re-

cognize Lady Ann Newcome's carriage, and see her ladyship, hei
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-humor, and says, " Mr. Clive, let me shake hands
with you j 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 daugh-
ter, and whispers in the delighted mother's ear, " She is lovely ! "
Rosey comes up looking rosy indeed, and executes a pretty
curtsey with 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 pleas-
ure as she beholds him. And, as she looks, Miss Ethel sees a
very handsome fellow. For being absent with his family m
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 re-
quested to bear in mind that the hero of this story will wish to
have justice done to his person. There exists in Mr. New-
come'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

246 THE NEWCOMES.

brought back with him to this country. A florid apparel do
comes 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 handsome rings, shirt-studs, mustaches,
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
chain 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 humor. 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 instinct-
ively 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 ahead 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 with a half-dozen of the enemy : his hat gone, his
fair hair flying off his face, his blue eyes flashing fire, his lips
and nostrils quivering with wrath, his right and left hand hit-
ting out, que c'ctoit 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 as-
cended 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 stand-
ing looking at Clive ; and the blushing youth casts down his
eyes before hers. Her face assumes a look of arch humor.
She passes a slim hand over the prettiest lips and a chin with
the most lovely of dimples, thereby indicating her admiration
of Mr. Give's mustaches and imperial. They are of a warm
yellowish chestnut color, and have not yet known the razor.
He wears a low cravat ; a shirt-front of the finest lawn, with
ruby buttons. His hair, of a lighter color, waves almost to
" his manly shoulders broad." " Upon my word, my dear Col-

THE NFAVCOMES. 247

onel," says Lady Kew, after looking at him, and nodding her
head shrewdly, " I think we were right."

" Xo doubt right in everything your ladyship does, but in
what particularly?" asks the Colonel.

14 Right to keep him out of the way. Ethel has been dis-
posed of these ten years. Did not Ann 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 very
wicked ? I was told he was a sad scapegrace.'"

" I never knew him do, and I don't believe he ever thought
anything 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 enemy has been "

" The young lady is 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 now 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
women ; of a countenance somewhat grave and haughty, but
on occasion brightening with humor or beaming with kindliness
and affection. Too quick to detect affectation or insincerity in
others, too impatient of dulness or pomposity, she is more sar-
castic 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 en-
gaging her. This one felt dimly that she despised him ; an-
other, that his simpering commonplaces (delights of how many
well-bred maidens!) 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 in-
different to her, and that she would refuse him twice or thrice
in an evening, and dance as many times with poor Tom Spring,

248

THE NEWCOMES.

who was his father's ninth son, and only at home till he could
get a ship and go to sea again. The young women were fright-
ened at her sarcasm. She seemed to know whaxfadaises they
whispered to their partners as they paused in the waltzes ; and
Fanny, who was luring Lord Croesus 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 mis
cliief, became dumb and disturbed when Ethel passed her with
her cold face ; and old Lady Hookham, who was playing off
her little Minnie now at young Jack Gorget of the Guards, now
at the 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 fish and angler. Xo
wonder that the other May Fair 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 cold-
ness 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 physi-
ogomists, giving rather a stern expression to the eye, 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, being
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, endeavored
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 donie-toiletttW 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

THE NEWCOMES

249

calmly, so that the elder lady looked up and fluttered j but to-
wards Rosey she held out her hand, and smiled with the ut-
most 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 actu-
ally disfigure the widow's countenance — a smile so wide and
steady, so exceedingly rident, indeed, as almost to be ridiculous
— may be drawn upon the buxom face, if the artist chooses to
attempt it as it appeared during the whole of this summer even-
ing— before dinner came (when people ordinarily look very
grave,) when she was introduced to the company ; when she
was made known to our friends Fanny and Maria, the darling
child, lovely little dears ! how like their papa and mamma !
when Sir Brian Newcome gave her his arm down stairs to the
dining-room ; when anybody 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. Xewcome told her dreadfully stupid story ; when the
Colonel called cheerily from his end of the table, " My dear
Mrs. Mackenzie, you don't take any wine to-day ; may I not
have the honor of drinking a glass of champagne with you ? "
when the new boy from the country upset some sauce upon her
shoulder ; when Mrs. Newcome made the signal for departure ;
and I have no doubt in the drawing-room, when the ladies re-
tired thither. " Mrs. Mack is perfectly awful," Clive told me
afterwards, " since that dinner in Bryanstone Square. Lady
Kew and Lady Ann are never out of her mouth ; she has had
white muslin dresses made just like Ethel's 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 with-
out 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 To
bago, 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 sat cast many glances towards Mrs. Mackenzie,
which did not betoken particular pleasure. Miss Ethel asked
me several questions regarding Clive, and also respecting Miss
Mackenzie ; perhaps her questions were rather downright and
imperious, and she patronized me in a manner that would not

250

THE NEWCOMES.

have given all gentlemen pleasure. I was Give'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 ? " u 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 niece ? How long have you known
them ? Is Miss Mackenzie as good-natured as she looks ?
Not very clever, I suppose. Mrs. Mackenzie looks very — Xo,
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 was any harm in it. Why do you give such
bad characters of women ? Don't you know any good ones ? "
" Yes, two as good as any in the world. They are unselfish :
they are pious ; they are always doing good ; they live in the
country? " " Why don't you put them into a book ? " Why
don't you put my uncl,e 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 Popinjoy's, and heard him speak.
He said it was very hot, and he looked so, I am sure. Who is
the greatest author now alive ? You will tell me when you
come up stairs after dinner ; " — and the young lady sails away,
following the matrons, who rise and ascend to the drawing-
room. Miss Xewcome has been watching the behavior of the
author, by whom she sat, 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 went to the drawing-room to partake of
coffee and the ladies' delightful conversation. We have heard
previously the tinkling of the piano above, and the well-known
sound of a couple of Miss Rosey'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 contained a number of
Clive's drawings made in the time of his very early youth foi

THE NEWCOMES. 25 1

the amusement of his little cousins. Miss Ethel seemed to be
very much pleased with these performances, which Miss Mac-
kenzie likewise examined with great good-nature and satisfac-
tion. So she did the views of Koine, Naples, Marble Head in
the county of Sussex, &c., in the same collection ; so she
did the Berlin cockatoo and spaniel which Mrs. Xewcome
was working in idle moments ; so she did the " Books of
Beauty," " Flower of Loveliness," and so forth. She thought
the prints very sweet and pretty : she thought the poetry very
pretty and sweet. 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 master-pieces she preferred ; she found them
alike so pretty. She appealed, as in most cases, to mamma.
11 How, my darling love, can I pretend to know ? " mamma says.
u 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, handker-
chiefs, 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 every-
thing in nature. Does she love music ? Oh, yes. Bellini and
Donizetti ? Oh, yes. Dancing? They had no dancing at
grandmamma's, but she adores dancing, and Mr*. Clive dances
very well, indeed. (A smile from Miss Ethel at this admission.)
Does she like the country ? Oh, she is so happy in the country !
London ? London 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 tc 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. Xewcome
says to Mr. Pendennis in his droll, humorous way, "That woman
grins like a Cheshire cat." Who was the naturalist who first
discovered that peculiarity of the cat 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 dim-
ples on her pink cheeks. Her teeth are even and white, her
hair of a beautiful color, and no snow can be whiter than her

»52

THE NEWCOMES.

fair round neck and polished shoulders. She talks very kindly
and good-naturedly with Fanny and Maria (^Mrs. Hobson's pre-
cious 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 glad there 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 will ask mamma leave to teach her. So everybody, some
how, great or small, seems to protect her \ and the humble,
simple, gentle little thing wins a certain degree of good -will
from the world, which is touched 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 Rosey. Her pres-
ence 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 very well. The
mother seems a superior woman."

CHAPTER XXV.

IS PASSED IN A PUBLIC-HOUSE.

I 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 New-
come ; and concluded by saying, " And now you will come and
ride with me to-morrow, uncle, won't you ? " which the Colonel
faithfully promised to do. And she shook hands with Clive
kindly /and with Rosey very frankly, but as I thought with
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 afterwards that the Countess had gone to sleep after her
dinner. If it was at Mrs. Mack's story about the Governor's

THE NEWCOMES. 253

ball at Tobago, and the quarrel for precedence between the
Lord Bishop's lady, Mrs. Rotchet, and the Chief Justices's
wife, Lady Barwise, I should not be at all surprised.

A handsome fly carried off the ladies to Titxroy Square,
and the two worthy Indian gentleman in their company; Clive
and I walking with the usual Havana to light us home. And
Clive remarked that he supposed there had been some dif-
ference between his father and the bankers ; for they had not
met for ever so many months before, and the Colonel al-
ways had looked very gloomy when his brothers were men-
tioned. " And I can't help thinking," says the astute youth,
"that they fancied I was in love with Ethel (I know the Colonel
would have liked me to make up to her), and that may have
occasioned the row. Now, I suppose they think I am engaged
to Rosey. What the deuce are they in such a hurry to marry
me for? "

Clive's companion remarked, " that marriage was a lauda-
ble institution ; and an honest attachment an excellent con-
servator of youthful morals." On which Clive replied, " Why
don't you marry yourself ? "

This, it was justly suggested, was no argument, but a merely
personal allusion foreign to the question, which was, that mar-
riage was laudable, &c.

Mr. Clive laughed. "Rosey 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 lake. It is blue. And how
finely her head is joined on to her shoulders ! '' — 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
Herodias's daughter sweeping down a stair — in a great dress
of cloth of gold like Paul Veronese — holding a charger before
her with white arms you know — with the muscles accented like
the glorious Diana at Paris — a savage smile on her face and a
ghastly solemn gory head on the dish — I see the picture,
sir, I see the picture! " and he fell to curling his mustaches —
just like his brave old father.

2 54 THE NEWCOMES.

I could not help laughing at the resemblance, and mention-
ing it to my friend. He broke, as was his wont, into a fond
eulo°:ium of his sire, wished he could be like him — worked
himself up into another state of excitement, in which he averred
that if his father wanted him to marry, he would marry that
instant. w And why not Rosey ? She is a dear little thing.
Or why not that splendid Miss Sherrick ? What a head ! — a
regular Titian ! I was looking at the difference of their color
at Uncle Honeyman's that day of the dcjcitncr. The shadows
in Rosey's face, sir, are all pearly tinted. You ought to paint
her in milk, sir ! " cries the enthusiast. " Have you ever re-
marked the gray round her eyes, and the sort of purple bloom
of her cheek ? Rubens could have done the color : 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 as if
I would like some fellow to be rude to her, that I might have
the pleasure of knocking him down. She is like a little song-
bird, sir, — a tremulous, fluttering little linnet that you would
take into your hand pavidam qucerentem matrem, and smooth
its little plumes, and let it perch on your finger and sing. The
Sherrick creates quite a different sentiment — the Sherrick is
splendid, stately, sleeply, * * * "

" Stupid," hints Clive's companion.

" Stupid ! 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, majestic woman. Show me a gracious
virgin bearing 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. You 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 shouldst never open those lovely lips but to speak
lowly, slowly j thou shouldst never descend from that pedestal
but to walk stately to some near couch, and assume another
attitude of beautiful calm. To be beautiful is enough. If a

THE NEWCOMES. 25^

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," — here broke off the
enthusiastic youth, — " have you got another cigar ? Shall we
go into Finch's, and have a game at billiards ? Just one — it's
quite early yet. Or shall we go into 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
comical face opens the door, and nods friendly, and says, " How
do, sir? ain't 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 which a trim elderly lady is seated
by a great lire, 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 passage into a back room,
and are received with a roar of welcome from a crowd of men,
almost invisible in the smoke.

" I am right glad to see thee, boy ! " cries a cheery voice
(that will never troll a chorus more). " We spake anon of thy
misfortune, gentle youth ! and that thy warriors of Assaye have
charged the Academy in vain. — Mayhap thou frightenedst the
courtly school with barbarous visages of grisly war. Pendennis,
thou dost wear a thirsty look ! 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 of the fashion-
able world." Thus spake the brave old Tom Sarjent, — 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 any time
these forty years by the chimney-fire in this old " Haunt : "
where painters, sculptors, men of letters, actors, used to con*
gregate, 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 heat
the pleasant voices and singing. There are they met, the
honest hearty companions. In the days when the "Haunt"
tpas a haunt, stage coaches were not yet quite over. Casinos
were not invented, clubs were rather rare luxuries ; there were

256 THE XEWCOMES.

sanded floors, triangular sawdust-boxes, pipes, and tavern
parlors. Young Smith and Brown, from the Temple, did not
go from chambers to dine at the " Polyanthus," or the " Mega-
therium,'' off potage a la Bisque, turbot au gratin, cotelettes a
la Whatdoyoucallem. and a pint of St. Emilion ; but ordered
their beefsteak 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 ! Who ever snuffs a candle now ? What
man has a domestic supper whose dinner-hour is eight o'clock ?
Those little meetings, in the memory 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. It is an institution as
extinct as a hackney-coach. Many a grown man 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.

Cheen- 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 harm-
less 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 : kindly ballads in praise of love and
wine ; famous maritime ditties in honor 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 mem- 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 foi
being old. Honest Tom Sarjent ! how the times have changed
since we saw thee ! I believe the present chief of the reporters

of the newspaper (which responsible office Tom filled)

goes to Parliament in his brougham, and dines with the Minis-
ters of the Crown.

Around Tom are seated grave Royal Academicians, rising
gay Associates j writers of other journals besides the Pall Mali

THE XEWCOMES. 257

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 town 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 airs because he wrote in the Review, tried to

air himself at the " Haunt," but was choked by the smoke, and
silenced by the unanimous pooh-poohing of the assembly. Dick
Walker, who rebelled secretly at Sarjent's authority, once
thought to give himself consequence by bringing 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
has been heard to say he had been taken to " a monsus queeah
place, queeah set of folks," in a tap somewhere, though he went
away quite delighted with Tom's affability, but he never came
again. He could not find the place probably. You might pass
the u Haunt " in the daytime and not know it in the least. " I
believe," said Charley Ormond (R. A. R. he was then) — "I
believe in the day there's no such place at all ; and when Betsy
turns the gas 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. Xokes 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 friends have modestly answered the various queries put to
them by good old Tom Sarjent, the acknowledged Prases of
the assembly and Sachem of this venerable wigwam, the door
opens and another well-known figure is recognized with shouts
as it emerges through the smoke. " Bayham, all hail!" says
Tom. " Frederick, I am right glad to see thee! "

Bayham says he is disturbed in spirit, and calls for a pint of
beer to console him.

M Hast thou flown far, thou restless bird of night? " asks
Father Tom, who loves speaking in blank verses.

ki I have come from Cursitor Street," says Bayham in a 1<>w
groan. " I have been to see a poor devil in quod there. Is that
BOU, Pendennis? Yon know the man — Charles Honeyman."

u What ! " cries (live starting up.

" O my prophetic soul, my uncle ! " growls Bayham. ''I did
not see the young one ; but 'tis true."'

17

253

THE XEWCOMES.

The reader is aware that more than the three years have
elapsed, of which time the preceding pages contains the harm-
less chronicle ; and while Thomas Xewcome's leave has been
running out and Clive's mustaches growing, the fate of other
persons connected with our story has also had its development,
and their fortune has experienced its natural progress, its in-
crease or decay. Our tale, such as it has hitherto been arranged,
has passed in leisurely scenes wherein the present tense is
perforce adopted j the writer acting as chorus to the drama,
■aid occasionally explaining, by hints or more open statements,
>hat has occurred during the intervals of the acts ; and how it
riappens that the performers are in such or such a posture. In
the modern theatre, as the play-going critic knows, the explan-
atory personage is usually of quite a third-rate order. He is
the two walking gentlemen friends 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
avwureuse. 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 cuffs and collar, whom
Sir Harry always retains in his service, addresses with scurrilous
familiarity, and pays so irregularly ; or he is Lucetta, Lady
Annabel's 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 Honeyman'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 stage.

While his nephew's whiskers have been budding, and his
brother-in-law has been spending 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-handker-
chief and see Lord Dozeley 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 line
eyes upon the French bonnets of the female aristocracy and see

THE XFAVCOMES. 259

some of the loveliest faces in May Fair regarding him with* ex-
pressions of admiration. Actual dowdy tradesmen of the
neighborhood 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 waist-
coat, 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
persecution and to compare himself to a hermit in so far that
he preaches in a desert. Once, like another hermit, St. Hie-
rome, 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 weary of poor Honey-
man's old sermons.

Rivals have sprung up in the course of these three years —
have sprung up round about Honeyman and carried his flock
into their folds. 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 no pedant : his
manly voice is thrilling in their ears, he speaks of life and con-
duct, 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 succession 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. Mean-
while the good quiet old churches round about ring their ac-
customed bell, open their Sabbath gates, and 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.

Though we saw Honeyman but seldom, for his company
was not altogether amusing, and his affectation, when one be-
came acquainted with it, very tiresome to witness, Fred IJayham,
from his garret at Mrs. Ridley's, kept constant watch over the
curate, and told us of his proceedings from time to time. When

260 THE iVEWCOMES.

we heard the melancholy news first announced, of course the
intelligence damped the gayety 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 importance
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 as-
sembly ; " 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 parlor 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 young 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 pupil. Old Miss Honeyman 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 Give's mother.

" Hem ! of your poor mother, I — hem — I may say vidi tan-
turn. I scarcely knew her. She married very young ; as I was
when she left Borhambury. But Charles exhibited his character
at a very early age — and 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 one 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 money, and I
recollect thrashing Charles Honeyman for that disgraceful
action.

" At college, without any particular show, he was always in
debt and difficulties. Take warning by him, dear youth ! By
him and by me, if you like. See me — me, F. Bayham, de-
scended 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
had 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 pickle ? Ha ! Give her my com

THE NEWCOMES. 261

pliments, and say F. B. is hungry. I resume my tale. Faults
F.B. has, and knows it. Humbug he may have been some-
times ; but I'm not such a complete humbug as Honeyman."

Clive did not know how to look at this character of his
relative ; but Clive'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 clay. I don't think Sherrick is
a bad fellow. I think 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 other day, and why he asked you to
dinner. I hope you had a good one. I wish he'd ask me.

" Then Moss has got Honeyman's 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 ? Sherrick
might turn Lady Whittlesea into a synagogue and have the
Chief Rabbi 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,
sir. He maddens with rage when F. B. goes and asks him
whether any more pews are let overhead. Honeyman begged
and borrowed in order to buy out the last man. I remember
when the speculation was famous, when all the boxes (I mean
the pews) were taken for the season, and you couldn't get a
place, come ever so early. Then Honeyman 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 forward, sir, there. That urns
a coup : I did it, sir. Bellew wouldn't have sung for any man
but me — and for two-and-twenty months I kept him as sober as
Father Mathew. Then Honeyman didn't pay him ; there was
a row in the sacred building, and Bellew retired. Then Sher-
rick must meddle in it. And, having heard a chap out H amp-
stead way who Sherrick thought would do, Honeyman was
forced to engage him, regardless of expense. You recollect
the fellow, sir ? The Reverend Simeon Rawkins, the lowest of
the Low Church, sir — a red-haired dumpy man, who gasped at

262 THE NEWCOMES.

his //'s and spoke with a Lancashire twang — he'd no more do
for May Fair than Grimaldi for Macbeth. 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 J
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 — a matter of business, sir — a pecuniary difference about a
small three-months' thing which caused a temporary estrange-
ment between us. As for Honeyman, he used to cry about it.
Your uncle is great in the lachrymatory 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'shas 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 wrere in a
rage as you may fancy. But Charley, sir, has such a propen-
sity 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 con-
siderable 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 unlucky lies. She didn't want money. She had
plenty. She longed to get into society and was bent on marry-
ing a gentleman.

" But what I can't pardon in Honeyman is the way in
which he has done poor old Ridley and his wife. I took him
there, you know, thinking they would send their bills 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 Ridleys were all right. But he

THE NEIVCOMES.

263

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 ain't the right one. He never
does 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 Cann, 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 born — 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, Clive
and I went each to our habitation.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IN WHICH COLONEL NEWCOME's HORSES ARE SOLD.

At an early hour the next morning I was not surprised to
see Colonel Newcome at my chambers, to whom Clive 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 information, 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 prisoner, or rather for
Colonel Newcome, who was the real sufferer, than Honey-
man's creditors might otherwise have been disposed to ^ive.

264 THE NEWCOMES.

I thought it would be more prudent that our good Samaritan
should not see the victim of rogues whom he was about to
succor ; 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 con-
tained 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 so profusely underlined, in which the machi-
nations of villains are laid bare with italic fervor ; the coldness,
to use no harsher phrase, of friends on whom reliance might
have been 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 Ba?ik of England ; finally, the infal-
lible 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 course 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
is introduced in the postscript; he is always sitting in the hal?
when you get the letter, and is " a young man waiting for ar
answer, please."

No one can suppose that Honeyman laid a complete state-
ment of his affairs before the negotiator who was charged to
look into them. No debtor does confess all his debts, but
breaks them gradually to his man of business, factor or bene-
factor, leading him on from surprise to surprise ; and when he
is in possession of the tailor's little account, introducing him
to the bootmaker. Honeymairs schedule I felt perfectly cer-
tain 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 deai
Pendennis, and rush like vultures upon their prey! — Waddi-
love, the tailor, has another writ out for ninety-eight pounds : a
man whom I have made by my recommendations ! Tobbins,
the bootmaker, his neighbor in jermyn Street, forty-one pounds

THE NEWCOMES.

265

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 irre-
trievable ruin, and the disgrace and humiliation of a prison
attend me. I know it ; I can bear it ; I have been wretchedly
weak, Pendennis : I can say men culpa, mea maxima culpa, and
I can — bear — my — penalty." In his finest moments he was
never more pathetic. He turned his head away, and concealed
it in a handkerchief not so white as those which veiled his
emotions at Lady Whittlesea's.

How by degrees this slippery penitent was induced to make
other confessions ; how we got an idea of Mrs. Ridley's ac-
count 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 would be quite
useless ; and that the Fleet Prison would be a most wholesome
retreat for this most reckless divine. Ere the day was out,
Messrs. Waddilove and Tobbins had conferred with their neigh-
bor in St. James's, Mr. Brace ; and there came a detainer from
that haberdasher for gloves, cravats, and pocket-handker-
chiefs, that might have done credit to the most dandified young
Guardsman. Mr. Warrington was on Mr. Pendennis's side,
and urged that the law should take its course. " Why help
a man," said he, " who will not help himself ? Let the law
sponge out the fellow's debts ; set him going again with twenty
pounds when he quits 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 age, I never shall." And if he had lived to be as old as
Maleleel, a boy could still have cheated him.

" I do not scruple to tell you," he said, after a pause, dur-
ing which a plenty of smoke was delivered from the council of
three, u 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 money was intended
in fact : — however, there it is. If Pendennis will go round to
these tradesmen, and make some composition with them, as
their prices have been no doubt enormously exaggerated, I see

266 THE NEIVCOMES.

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
gentleman had acted with perfect fairness by Honeyman. He
laughingly 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 whatdoyoucaU'em's — ■
that rum fellow Bayham's — name as drawer. A nice pair, ain't
they ? Pooh ! J 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 ain't so good. He's
used up. A chap can't be expected to last forever. 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 ! / 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 injured the prop-
erty. 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, Islington, Kennington, Clapton, all about,
and hear the young 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 pre-
cious 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
Pall Mall Gazette! I tried papers too; but mine didn't do. I

THE NEWCOMES. 267

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 Catechism, 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.
Sherriok, 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 composition, which we
were empowered to offer him, he too was brought to hear rea-
son, 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 of this " most ungentlebadlike beayvior on
Xoocob'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 him-
self 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 Sun-
day, and sent one of my men with him to show him the way
'ome, you know ; for when a gentleman bohaves as a gentle-
man to me, I behave as a gentleman to him."

Mrs. Ridley's account, and it was a long one, was paid with-
out 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 riving 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.

" Oh, father," says he, " I — I'm afraid I owe some money
too — not much ; but about forty pounds, five-and-twenty for
cigars, and fifteen I borrowed of Pendennis, and — and — I've
been devilish annoyed about it all this time."

" 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 1 can see him in his
study. I want to have some conversation with him." When

268 THE NEWCOMES.

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
Honeyman'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 r homme propose,
Pendennis. I fancy now a lad is not the better for being always
*ied 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 some-
body still. I know an honest face or two, white and brown,
that will lighten up in the old regiment when they see Tom
Xewcome again. God bless you, Arthur. You young fellows
in this country have such cold ways that we old ones hardly
know how to like you at first. James Binnie and I, when we
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 remem-
brance 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 confidence 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 spoil-
ing him. I perceive I am diverging from his history into that

THE NEWCOMES. 269

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, Pendennis, and I am proud to be put
under an obligation to him, and to tell it too. I hired this
house, as you are aware, of our speculative friend Mr. Sher-
rick, 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 he says
that he likes it, and intends to stay, and that his sister and
niece shall be 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 lac 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 arrange-
ments were made in another quarter, to which statement the
Colonel replied knowingly, " I thought so. A little bird has
whispered to me the name of a certain Miss A. I knew her
grandfather, an accommodating old gentleman, and 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 good and
virtuous women — as I am sure — ahem ! — Miss Amory is — half
the temptations of your youth would be avoided. You would
neither be dissolute, as many of you seem to be, nor cold and
selfish, which are worse vices still. And my prayer is, that my
Clive may cast anchor early 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
brought to a successful issue ; and knowing his ardent disposi-
tion, and having kept an eye on the young rogue's conduct, I
tremble lest some mischance with a woman should befall him,
and long to have him out of danger."

So the kind scheme of the two elders was, that their young
ones should marry and be happy ever after, like the Trince and

2yo THE NEWCOMES.

Princess of the Fairy Tale 5 and dear Mrs. Mackenzie, — (have
J. 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 so that her darling Rosey
might be happy. We used to laugh and say that, as soon as
Clive'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
Dr. M'Craw's church.

Presently was to be read in the Morning Post an advertise-
ment 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 Xewcome
to an entertainment given to Major-General Sir Ralph 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, in returning thanks ! "

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
sat 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 one the Colonel took leave of his friends, young
and old ; ran down to Newcome, and gave Mrs. Mason a part-
ing 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 protege's were, so as to be able to take the very
last and most authentic account of the young folks to their
parents in India ; spent a week at Marble Head, and shot
partridges there, but for which entertainment, Clive said, the
place would have been intolerable ; and thence proceeded to
Brighton to pass a little time with good Miss Honeyman. As
for Sir Brian's family, when Parliament broke up of course they
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 waters of Aix-la-Cha-

THE NE IVCOMES. 2 7 1

pelle. The brothers parted very good friends ; Lady Ann,
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 parlor to her carriage). But as for Ethel she
was 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 with Colonel Newcome
for five 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 sternly, that he
hoped no one would ever speak lightly of that young lady,
whom he loved as his own daughter ; and I thought Rosey
looked vexed at the praises thus bestowed. This was the day
before we all went down to Brighton. Miss Honeyman's lodg-
ings were taken for Mr. Binnie and his ladies. Clive and her
dearest Colonel had apartments next door. Charles Honey-
man came down and preached one of his very best sermons.
Fred Bayham was there, and looked particularly grand and
noble on the pier and the cliff. 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 greatlv affected 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
verv 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 watery
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 came 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.

272 THE NEWCOMES.

The Colonel was very much pleased by a visit from Mr.
Ridley, and the communication which he made (my Lord Tod
morden has a mansion and park in Sussex, whence Mr. Ridley
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 undei his own eye, and can
answer for him, Mr. R. says, with impunity ; and which he is
to be his lordship's own man for the future. And 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. Clive goes abroad
we should be most proud and happy if John James went with
him. And the money which you have paid us so handsome,
Colonel, he shall have it ; which it was the excellent ideer of
Miss Cann ; 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 com-
position, 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 inde-
pendent 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 South-
ampton together by themselves. F. B. and I took the South-
ampton 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 wit-
nessed all the bustle and stir on board the good ship on a clay
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

THE XK 11 'COMES. 273

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
duty ; 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 dive and his father
talking together by the wheel. Then they went below ; and a
passenger, her husband, asked 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, 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 chimneys had flung out their black signals for sailing.
We were as yet close on the dock, and we saw Clive 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,"
shouts Fred Bayham, waving 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, cruel partings !
Shall you not end one day, ere many years ; when the tears
shall be wiped from all eyes, and there shall be neither sorrow
nor pain ?

CHAPTER XXVII.

YOUTH AND SUNSHINE.

Although Thomas Newcome was gone back to India in
search of more money, finding that he could not live upon his
income at home, he was nevertheless rather a wealthy man ;
arid at the moment of his departure from Europe had two lacs
x>i rupees invested in various Indian securities. " A thousand

18

274

THE XEWCOMES.

a year," he thought, "more, added to the interest accruing from
my two lacs, will enable us to live comfortably at home. I
can give Clive ten thousand pounds when he marries, and five
hundred a year out of my allowances. If he gets a wife with
some money, they may have every enjoyment 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 to believe
that his son would live by painting pictures, but considered
Clive as a young prince who chose to amuse himself with paint-
ing. The Muse of Painting is a lady whose social station is
not altogether recognized with us as yet. The polite world
permits a gentleman to amuse himself with her, but to take her
for better or for worse ! forsake all other chances and cleave
unto her ! to assume her name ! Many a respectable person
would be as much shocked at the notion, as if his son had
married an opera-dancer.

Newcome left a hundred a year in England, of which the
principal sum was to be transferred to his boy as soon as he
came of age. He endowed Clive farther with a considerable
annual sum, which his London bankers would pay : " And if
these are not enough," says he kindly, " you must draw upon
my agents, Messrs. Franks and Merryweather, at Calcutta, who
will receive your signature just as if it were mine." Before
going away, he introduced Clive to F. and M.'s corresponding
London house, Jolly and Baines, Fog Court — leading out of
Leadenhall — Mr. Jolly, a myth as regarded the firm, now mar-
ried Lady Julia Jolly — a park in Kent — evangelical interest-
great at Exeter Hall meetings — knew Clive's grandmother —
that is, Mrs. Newcome, a most admirable woman. Baines rep-
resents a house in the Regent's Park, with an emigrative ten-
dency towards Belgravia — musical daughters — Herr Moscheles,
Benedict, Ella, Osborne, constantly at dinner — sonatas in P Mat
(op. 936), composed and dedicated to Miss Euphemia Baines,
by her most obliged, most obedient servant, Ferdinando Blitz.
Baines hopes that his young friend 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 Newcome's, who
can give his son twelve or fifteen handled 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 was talking with his father in my par-
lor," says Mr. Baines, and produced a sketch of an orange-
woman near the Bank, who had struck Clive's eyes, and been
transferred to the blotting-paper in Fog Court. " He needn't

THE NEWCOMES. 275

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 j and now the season is over ! "

" And Mr. Newcome is going out of town. He came to me
to-day for circular notes — says he's going through Switzerland
and into Italy — 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 elabor-
ate and beautiful 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 color-tubes lying in their boxes, which
seemed to cry, ** Come, squeeze me." If 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 practice 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 a sovereign and half a sovereign from Mr. Jones
was boundless. " I can do half a dozen of these things easily in
a morning," says 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 allow-
ance at all." He wrote an ardent letter, full of happiness and
affection, to the kind father, which he shall find a month after
he has arrived in India, and read to his friends in Calcutta and
Barrackpore. Clive invited many of his artist friends to a
grand feast in honor of the thirty shillings. The "King's
Arms," Kensington, was the hotel selected (tavern 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, witli Fred J lay ham
by his side, to make the speeches and carve the mutton ; and
I promise you many a merry song was sung, and many a health
drunk in flowing bumpers ; and as jolly a party was assembled
as any London contained that day. The beau mandc had

2j6

THE NEWCOMES.

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 season. We sang all the way home
through Knightsbridge and by the Park railings, and the
Covent Garden carters halting at the " Half-way House " were
astonished at our choruses. There is no half-way house now ;
no merry chorus at midnight.

Then Clive and J. J. took the steamboat to Antwerp j 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 stayed (delightful old " Grand
Laboureur," thine ancient walls are levelled ! thy comfortable
hospitalities exist no more !) seemed such a hostelry as that
where Quentin Durward first saw his sweetheart ; where knights
of Velasquez or burgomasters of Rubens seemed to look from
the windows of the tall gabled houses and the quaint porches ;
where the Bourse still stood, the Bourse of three hundred years
ago, and you had but to supply figures with beards and ruffs,
and rapiers and trunk-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 life and happiness ; where
nuns, actual nuns, walked the streets, and every figure in the
Place de Meir, and every devotee at church kneeling and draped
in black, or entering the confessional (actually the confessional !)
was 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
materials.

After Antwerp, Clive'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 writer's opinion, are un-
matched almost in Europe. And this is followed by a de-
scription of Waterloo, and a sketch of Hougoumont, in which
J. J. is represented running away in the character of a French
Grenadier, Clive pursuing him in the Life Guards' habit, and
mounted on a thundering charger.

Next follows a letter from Bonn : verses about Drachenfels
of a not very superior style of versification ; account of Crichton,
an old Grey Friars man, who has become a student at the
university j of a commerz, a drunken bout ; and a students'
duel at Bonn. ''And whom should 1 find here,'' says Mr. Clive,
" but Aunt Ann, Ethel, Miss Quigley, and the little ones, the

'J1' .. ' ,'"■ < ■

A MEETING IN RHINKLAND.

THE XEIVCOMES. 277

whole detachment under the command of Kuhn ! Uncle Brian
is staying at Aix. He is recovered from his attack. And, upon
my conscience, I think my pretty cousin looks prettier every
day."

11 When they are not in London/' Clive goes on to write,
" or I sometimes think when Barnes or old Lady Kew are not
looking over them, they are quite different. You know how
cold they have latterly seemed to us, and how their conduct
annoyed my dear old father. Nothing can be kinder than their
behavior 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
other robbers who used to live there, when there came a pro-
cession of donkeys down the steep, and I heard a little voice
cry, * Hullo ! it's Clive ! hooray, Clive ! ' and an ass came pat-
tering down the declivity, with a little pair of white trousers at
an immensely wide angle over the donkey's back, and behold
there was little Alfred grinning with all his might.

" He turned his beast and was for galloping up the hill
again, I suppose to inform his relations; but the donkey refused
with many kicks, one of which sent Alfred plunging amongst
the stones, and we were rubbing him down just as the rest of
the party came upon us. Miss Quigley looked very grim on an
old white pony ; my aunt was on a black horse that might have
turned gray, he is so old. Then came two donkeysful of chil-
dren, with Kuhn as supercargo , then Ethel on donkey back,
too, with a bunch of wild flowers in her hand, a great straw
hat with a crimson ribbon, a white muslin jacket, you know,
bound at the waist with a ribbon of the first, and a dark skirt,
with a shawl round her feet, which Kuhn had arranged. As
she stopped, the donkey fell to cropping greens in the hedge ;
the trees there checkered her 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 flov
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 both agreed that she is the handsomest
woman in ling] and. It's not her form merely, which is cer-
tainly as yet too thin and a little angular — it is her color. I
do not care for woman or picture without color. O, ye car-
nations ! O, ye lilia mista rosis ! Oh, such black hair and
solemn eyebrows! It seems to me the roses and carnations
have bloomed again since we saw them last m London, when

27* THE NEIVCOMES.

they were drooping from the exposure to night air, candle-light,
and heated ball-rooms.

" Here I was in the midst of a regiment of donkeys, bearing
a crowd of relations ; J.J. standing modestly in the background
— beggars completing the group, and Kuhn ruling over them
with voice and gesture, oaths and whip. Throw in the Rhine
in the distance flashing by the Seven Mountains — but mind and
make Ethel the principal figure : if you make her like, she cer-
tainly will be — and other lights will be only minor fires. You
may paint her form, but you can't paint her color ; that is what
beats us in nature. A line must come right ; you can force
that into its place, but you can't compel the circumambient air.
There is no yellow I know of Mill make sunshine, and no blue
that is a bit like sky. And so with pictures : I think you only
get signs of color, and formulas to stand for it. That brickdust
which we agree to receive as representing a blush, look at it — ■
can you say it is in the least like the blush which flickers 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 ! a multitude of flowerets
twining into one tint ! We may break our color-pots and
strive after the line alone : that is palpable and we can grasp
it — the other 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. Clive,) 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 gusto and delight
whereof colder temperaments are incapable. The view 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-humor, 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, and the world, and life, and nature bright and
welcome to him, looks out, perforce, for some companion to
whom he may impart his sense of the pleasure which lie enjoys,
and which were not complete unless a friend were by to share

THE NEWCOMES.

79

it. I was the person most convenient for the young 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 question with a number of virtues and excellences which
existed very likely only in the lad's imagination ; to lament that
the confidant had no sister whom he, Clive, might marry out of
hand ; and to make me a thousand simple protests of affection
and admiration, which are noted here as signs of the young
man's character, by no means as proofs of the goodness of
mine. The books given the present biographer by " his affec-
tionate friend, Clive Newcome," still bear on the title-pages the
marks of that boyish hand and youthful fervor. He had a copy
of " Walter Lorraine " bound and gilt with such splendor as
made the author blush for his performance, which has since
been seen at the book-stalls at a price suited to the very hum-
blest purses. He fired up and fought a newspaper critic (whom
Clive met at the " Haunt " one night) who had dared to write
an article in which that work was slighted ; and if, in the course
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 por-
tion of his youthful history is compiled. It may serve to recall
passages of their early days to such of his seniors as occasion-
ally turn over the leaves of a novel ; and in the story of his
faults, indiscretions, passions, and actions, young readers may
be reminded of their own.

Now that the old Countess, and, perhaps, Barnes, were
away, the barrier between Clive and this family seemed to be
withdrawn. The 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, and so 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 jour-
ney which everybody knows, and sketching the mountains and
castles we all of us have sketched. Ethels 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

28o THE NEWCOMES.

from interior, box, and rumble discharge a dozen English people
at hotel gates.

The journey is all sunshine and pleasure and novelty ; the
circular notes 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 artists have no right to such an aristocratic
appendage ; but he has bought a snug little britzka 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 britzka travels in company with Lady Ann's caravan, either
in its wake, so as to be out of reach of the dust, or more fre-
quently ahead 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 be-
holds Rhine and Xeckar, valley and mountain, village and ruin,
with a like dismal composure. 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 Clive's britzka. The little
girls cry sometimes to be admitted to that privilege. I dare
say Ethel would like very well to quit her place in the caravan,
where she sits circumvented by mamma's dogs, and books, bags,
dressing-boxes, and gimcrack cases, without 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 corner. 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, con-
tent and good-humor 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 en-
joyment ; the charming scenes around him did not escape his
bright eye ; he absorbed pleasure in his silent way ; he was up
with 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

THE XEWCOMES. 281

for truth's and justice's sake inflexible, thankful to God and
man, fond, patient, and faithful. Clive 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 Clive sing, as the lad would whilst they were seated at
their work, or driving along on this happy journey, through fair
landscapes in the sunshine, gave J. J. the keenest pleasure ; his
wit was a little slow, but he would laugh with his eyes at Clive's
sallies, or ponder over them and explode with laughter pres-
ently, giving a new source of amusement to these merry travel-
lers, and little Alfred would laugh at J. J.'s laughing; and so,
with a hundred harmless jokes to enliven, and the ever-chang-
ing, ever-charming smiles of Nature to cheer and accompany 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 gay, the melancholy, the idle or occupied, grave or
naughty, come for amusement, or business, or relaxation ; where
London beauties, having danced and flirted all the season, may
dance and flirt a little more ; where well-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 clown, and deeply meditate
the infallible coup ; and try it, and lose it, and borrow a hun-
dred 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 who are not virtuous at
all, no, not even by name ; where young prodigals break the
bank sometimes, and carry plunder out of the place which
Hercules himself could scarcely compel ; where you meet won-
derful countesses and princesses, whose husbands are almost
always absent on their vast estates — in Italy, Spain, Piedmont
— who knows where their lordships' possessions are ? — while
trains of suitors surround those wandering Penelopes their
noble wives ; Russian Boyars, Spanish Grandees of the Order
of the Fleece, Counts of France, and Princes Polish and Italian
innumerable, who perfume the gilded halls with their tobacco-
smoke, and swear in all languages against the Black and the
Red. The famous English monosyllable by which things, per-
sons, luck, even eyes, are devoted to the infernal gods, we may
be sure is not wanting in that Babel. Where doesone not hear

it ? " I) the luck," says Lord Kew, as the croupier sweeps

off his lordship's rouleaux. " D the luck," says Brown the

232 THE NEWCOMES.

bagman, who has been backing his lordship with five-franc
pieces. " Ah, body of Bacchus ! " says Count Felice, whom we
all remember a courier. " Ah, sacre coup,*" cries M. le Vicomte
de Florae, as his last louis parts company from him — each curs-
ing in his native tongue. Oh, sweet chorus !

That Lord Kew should be at Baden is no wonder. If you
heard of him at the " Finish," or at Buckingham Palace ball,
or in a watch-house, or at the "Third Cataract,"' or at a New-
market meeting, you would not be surprised. He goes every-
where ; does everything with all his might ; knows everybody.
Last week he won who knows how many thousand louis from
the bank (it appears Brown has chosen one of the unlucky days
to back his lordship). He will eat his supper as gayly after 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), or he 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 give the six Miss
Fogeys a turn each in the ball-room. From H.R.H. the Prince

Royal of , who is the greatest guest at Baden, down to

Brown the bagman, who does not consider himself the smallest,
Lord Kew is hail fellow with everybody, and has a kind word
from and for all.

CHAPTER. XXVIII.

IN WHICH CLIVE BEGINS TO SEE THE WORLD.

In the company assembled at Baden Give found one or two
old acquaintances ; among them his friend of Paris, M. de
Florae, not in quite so brilliant a condition as when Newcome
had last met him on the Boulevard. Florae owned that For-
tune had been very unkind to him at Baden ; and, indeed, she
had not only emptied his purse, but his portmanteaus, jewel-
box, and linen-closet — the contents of all of which had ranged
themselves on the red and black against Monsieur Be'nazet's
crown pieces : whatever side they took was, however, the un-
lucky one. " This campaign has been my Moscow, mon cJier,"1

THE NEWCOMES. 283

Floi ic owned to Clive. " I am conquered by Benazet ; I have
lostm almost every combat. I have lost my treasure, my bag-
£a.r< , my ammunition of war, everything but mv honor, which,
an >rstt\ Mons. Be'nazet will not accept as a stake ; if he would,
then, are plenty here, believe me, who would set it on the
T rente et Quarante. Sometimes I have had a mind to go
home. ; my mother, who is an angel all forgiveness, would re-
ceive her prodigal, and kill the fatted veal for me. But what
will you? He annoys me — the domestic veal. Besides, my
brother, the Abbe, though the best of Christians, is a Jew upon
certain matters ; a Be'nazet who will not troquer absolution ex-
cept against repentance ; and I have not a sou of repentance in
my pocket ! I have been sorry, yes — but it was because odd
came up in place of even, or the reverse. The accursed aprcs
has chased me like a remorse, and when black has come up I
have wished myself converted to red. Otherwise I have no re-
pentance ; I -\\wjoucur — nature has made me so, as she made
my brother dh'ot. The Archbishop of Strasbourg is of our
parents ; I saw his grandeur when 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 pre-
late laughed, and said his chaplain should keep an eye on them.
Will you dine with me? The landlord of my hotel was the in-
tendant of our cousin, the Due dTvry, and will give me credit
to the day ot judgment. I do not abuse his noble confidence.
My dear I there are covers of silver put on my table even- day
with which I could retrieve my fortune, did I listen to the sug-
gestions of Sc<tanas : but I say to him, Vade retro. Come and
dine with me— Duluc's kitchen is very good."

These easy confessions were uttered by a gentleman who
was nearly 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 abilities; had the best temper in the world ; was well
bred and gentlemanlike always ; and was gay even after Mos-
cow. 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 wor-
shipped, and spoke with tenderness and enthusiasm of her con-
stant love, and patience, and goodness. " See her miniature ! M
he said, " I never separate myself from it — Oh, 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

284 THE NEWCOMES.

ball struck me here, upon the waistcoat, bruising my rib and
sending me to my bed, which I never should have left alive but
for this picture. Oh, 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.

" Ejwrmhnent, my friend ! My faith ! I do not deny it ! I
give her cause, night and evening. I am possessed 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, but play is not so fatal as woman. Pass
me the e'crevisses, they are most succulent. Take warning by
me, and avoid both. I saw you rbder 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
sirens, young man ! 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, ne'eessaire parted for
Strasbourg ! Where is my fur pelisse, Fre'de'ric ? "

" Parbleu ! vous le savez bien, Monsieur le Vicomte," says
Frederic, the domestic, 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
recotinaissance, which Fre'de'ric receive, are all that now repre-
sents the pelisse. How many chemises have I, Frederic ? "

" Eh, parbleu, Monsieur le Vicomte sait bien que nous avons
toujours vingt-quatre chemises," says Frederic, grumbling.

Monsieur le Vicomte springs up shrieking from the dinner-
table. " Twenty-four shirts," says he, " and I have been a week
without a louis in my pocket ! Belitre! Nigaud!" He flings
open one drawer after another, but there are no signs of that
superfluity of linen of which the domestic spoke, whose counter
ance now changes from a grim frown to a grim smile.

" Ah, my faithful Frederic, I pardon thee ! Mr. Xewcome
will understand my harmless supercherie. Frederic was in my
company of the Guard, and remains with me since. He is
Caleb Balderstone and I am Ravenswood. Yes, I am Edgai,
Let us have coffee and a cigar, Balderstone."

THE NEWCOMES.

285

" Plait-il Monsieur le Vicomte ? " says the French Caleb.

11 Thou comprehendest not English. Thou readest not Val-
rare Scott, thou ! " cries the master. " I was recounting to
Monsieur Newcome thy history and my misfortunes. Go seek
coffee for us, Nigaud" And as the two gentlemen partake of
that exhilarating liquor, the elder confides gayly to his guest the
reason why he prefers taking coffee at the Hotel to the coffee
at the great Cafe' of the "Redoute," with a dun's urgens in rebus
egestass ! pronounced in the true French manner.

Clive was greatly amused by the gayetyof 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 succoring this
hero. It may have been to this end that Florae's confessions
tended ; though, to do him justice, the incorrigible young fel-
low 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
supcrbe young Anglaise with whom he had seen Clive 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 clays, as poor we remain. My cousins the
Due d'lvry's sons and his grandson were still alive. Seeing no
other resource and pursued by the Arabs, I espoused the Vi-
comtesse 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 Manchesterre in the comte of Lan-
castre ? 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 friend — Madame Paul de Florae is of
the reformed religion — not of the Anglican church, you under-
stand— 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 understand. She rilled her salon with minis-
ters 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 who only idol-
atrizes her children ! She called us other poor catholics who
follow the rites of our fathers, da Romishes ; and Rome, Baby-
lon ; and the Holy Father — a scarlet — eh ! a scarlet abomina-

286 THE XE1VC0MES.

tion. She outraged my mother, that angel j essayed to convert
the antechamber and the office ; put little books in the Abbe's
bedroom. Eh, my friend ! what a good king was Charles IX.,
and his mother what a wise sovereign ! I lament that Madame
de Florae should have escaped the St. Barthe'Iemi, when no
doubt she was spared on account of her tender age. We have
been separated for many years ; her income was greatly exag-
gerated. Beyond the payment of my debts I owe her nothing.
1 wish I could say as much of all the rest of the world. Shall
we take a turn of promenade ? Maurais sujtf ! I see you are
longing to be at the green-table."

Clive was not longing to be at the green-table ■ but his com-
panion was never easy at it or away from it. Next to winning,
losing, M. de Florae said, was the best sport — next to losing,
looking on. So he and Clive went down to the li Redoute,"
where Lord Kew was playing, with a crowd of awe-struck ama-
teurs and breathless punters admiring his valor and fortune ;
and Clive, saying that he knew nothing about the game, took
out five napoleons from his purse, and besought Florae to invest
them in the most profitable manner at roulette. The other made
some faint attempts at a scruple ; but the money 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 pieces to his principal. Then Clive, I dare say
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 very favorable to the husband of
Miss Higg that night ; for in the course of an hour he insisted
on paying back Clive's loan ; and two days afterwards ap-
peared with his shirt-studs (of course with his shirts also),
released from captivity, his watch, rings, and chains, on the
parade ; and was observed to wear his celebrated fur pelisse as
he drove back in a britzka from Strasbourg. " As for myself,"
wrote Clive, " I put back into my purse 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 my ease of mind.
And then Lord Kew asked me to supper and we had a merry
night."

This was Mr. Clive's first and last appearance as a gam-
bler. J. J. looked very grave when he heard of these transac-
tions. Clive's French friend did not please his English com-
panion at all, nor the friends of Clive's French friend, the
Russians, the Spaniards, the Italians, of sounding titles and

THE NEWCOMES. 28;

glittering decorations, and the ladies who belonged to their
society. He saw by chance Ethel, escorted by her cousin Lord
Kew, passing through a crowd of this company one day. There
was not one woman there who was not the heroine of some
discreditable story. It was the Comtesse Calypso who had
been jilted by the Due Ulysse. It was the Marquise Ariane to
whom the Prince Thesee had behaved so shamefully, and who
had taken to Bacchus as a consolation. It was Madame Me-
de'e, who had absolutely killed her old father by her conduct
regarding Jason ; she had done everything for Jason ; she had
got him the ioison </' or from the Queen Mother, and now had
to meet him every day with his little blonde bride on his arm !
J. J. compared Ethel, moving in the midst of these folks, to the
Lady amidst the rout of Comus. There they were, the
Fauns and Satyrs : there they were, the merry Pagans :
drinking and dancing, dicing and sporting ; laughing out
jests that never should be spoken ; whispering rendezvous
to be written in midnight calendars ; jeering at honest peo-
ple who passed under their palace windows — jolly rebels
and repealers of the law. Ah, if Mrs. Brown, whose chil-
dren are gone to bed at the Hotel, knew but the history of
that calm dignified-looking gentleman who sits under her, and
over whose patient back she frantically advances and with-
draws her two-franc piece, whilst his own columns of louis d'or
are offering battle to fortune — how she would shrink away
from the shoulder which she pushes ! That man so calm and
well bred, with a string of orders on his breast, so well dressed,
with such white hands, has stabbed trusting hearts ; severed
family ties ; written lying vows ; signed false oaths ; torn up
pitilessly tender appeals for redress, and tossed away into
the fire supplications blistered with tears ; packed cards and
cogged dice ; or used pistol or sword as calmly and dexter-
ously as he now ranges his battalions of gold pieces.

Ridley shrank away from such lawless people with the
delicacy belonging to his timid and retiring nature, but it must
be owned that Mr. Clive was by no means so squeamish. He
did not know, in the first place, the mystery of their iniquities ;
and his sunny kindly spirit, undimmed by any of the cares which
clouded it subsequently, was disposed to shine upon all people
alike. The world was welcome to him ; the day a pleasure ;
all nature a gay feast ; scarce any dispositions discordant with
his own (for pretension only made him laugh, and hypocrisy lie
will never be able to understand if he lives to be a hundred
years old) : the night brought him a long sleep, and the morn-

288 THE NEWCOMES.

ing a glad waking. To these privileges of youth what enjoy-
ments of age are comparable ? what achievements of ambition t
what rewards of money and fame ? Clive's happy friendly
nature shone out of his face ; and almost all who beheld it
felt kindly towards him. As those guileless virgins of romance
and ballad, who walk smiling through dark forests charming
off dragons and confronting lions, the young man as yet went
through the world harmless ; no giant waylaid him as yet ; no
robbing ogre fed on him ; and (greatest danger of all for one
of his ardent nature) no winning enchantress or artful siren
coaxed him to her cave, or lured him into her waters — haunts
into which we know so many young simpletons are drawn,
where their silly bones are picked and their tender flesh de-
voured.

The time was short which Clive spent at Baden, for it has
been said, the winter was approaching, and the destination of
our young artists was Rome ; but he may have passed some
score of days here, to which he and another person in that
pretty watering-place possibly looked back afterwards, as not
the unhappiest periods of their lives. Among Colonel New-
come's papers to which the family biographer has had subse-
quent access, there are a couple of letters from Clive, dated
Baden, at this time, and full of happiness, gayety, and affection.
Letter No. i says, " Ethel is the prettiest girl here. At the
assemblies all the Princes, Counts, Dukes, Parthians, Medes
and Elamites, are dying to dance with her. She sends her
dearest love to her uncle." By the side of the words " prettiest
girl," was written in a frank female hand the monosyllable
" Stuff; " and as a note to the expression "dearest love," with
a star to mark the text and the note, are squeezed, in the
same feminine characters at the bottom of Clive's page, the
words " That 1 do. E. N?

In letter No. 2, the first two pages are closely written in
Clive's handwriting, describing his pursuits and studies, and
giving amusing details of the life at Baden, and the company
whom he met there — narrating his r meant re with their Paris
friend, M. de Florae, and the arrival of the Duchesse d'lvry,
Florae's cousin, whose titles the Vicomte will probably inherit.
Not a word about Florae's gambling 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 all again, and come away from the table with his orig-
inal five pounds in his pockets — proposing never to play any
more. "Ethel," he concludes, "is looking over my shoulder

THE NEWCOMMS. 2S9

She thinks me such a delightful creature that she is never easy
without me. She bids me to say that J am the best of sons and
cousins, and am, in a word, a darling du * * * " 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 faint, faint sound as of a remembered tone — a ghostly
echo of a once familiar laughter? I was looking, of late, at a
wall in the Naples' Museum, whereon a boy of Herculaneum
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 ? Deep 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. Oh 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 to you a
line or two on his paper, though I know you like to hear ?io one
speak but him. I wish I could draw him for you as he stands
yonder, looking the picture of good health, good spirits, and
good-humor. Everybody likes him. He is quite unaffected ;
always gay ; always pleased. He draws more and more beau-
tifully ever}' day ; and his affection for young Mr. Ridley, who
is really a most excellent and astonishing young man, and
actually a better artist than Clive 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 wrung,
but your son might look higher than to be an artist. It is a
rise for Mr. Ridley, but a fall for him. An artist, an organist,
a pianist, all these are very good people, but you know not de
xiotre mo)iJe, and Clive ought to belong to it.

u We met him at Bonn on our way to a great family gather-
ing here ; where, I must tell you, we are assembled fur what I
call the Congress of Baden ! The chief of the house of Kew is

T9

290 Z'&E NEWCOMES.

here, and what time he does not devote to skittles, to smoking
cigars, to the Jeu in the evenings, to Madame d'lvry, to Madame
de Cruchecasse'e, and the foreign people (of whom there are a
host here of the worst kind, as usual,) he graciously bestows on
me. Lord and Lady Dorking are here, with their meek little
daughter, Clara Pulleyn ; and Barnes is coming. Uncle Hob-
son has returned to Lombard Street to relieve guard. I think
you will hear before very lo ig 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 Julia, who can never leave her. Here are all
our news. I declare I have filled the whole page ; men write
closer than we 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 amus-
ing games are played at Baden, which are not performed, so to
spsak, sur table. These little diversions andyV/^r de socicte can
go on anywhere ; in an alley in the park j in a picnic to this old
schloss, or that pretty hunting lodge ; at a tea-table in a lodg-
ing house or hotel ; in a ball at the " Redoute ; " 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 thou-
sands 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, and sets her bright eyes against
the rich bachelor, elderly or young, as may be. Here the artful
practitioner, who has dealt in a thousand such games, engages
the young simpleton with more money than wit ; 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 Lack-
land 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, with whom we have little to do,
were elbowing each other. A hint of these domestic prolusions
has been given to the reader in the foregoing extract from

THE XEWCOMES. 291

Miss Ethel Xewcome's letter : likewise some passions have been
in play, of which a modest young English maiden could not be
aware. Do not, however, let us be too prematurely proud of
our virtue. That tariff of British virtue is wonderfully organ-
ized. Heaven help the society which made its laws. Gnats
are shut out of its ports, or not admitted without scrutiny and
repugnance, whilst herds of camels are let in. The law profes-
ses to exclude some goods, (or bads shall we call them ?) — well,
some articles of baggage, which are yet smuggled openly under
the eyes of winking officers, and worn every day without shame.
Shame ? What is shame ? Virtue is very often shameful ac-
cording to the English social constitution, and shame honor-
able. Truth, if yours happens to differ from your neighbor's,
provokes your friend's coldness, your mother's tears, the world's
persecution. Love is not to be dealt in, save under restrictions
which kill its sweet healthy free commerce. Sin in man is so
light, that scarce the fine of a penny is imposed j while for
woman it is so heavy, that no repentance can wash it out. Ah !
yes ; all stories are oid. Vou proud matrons in your May Fair
markets, have you never seen a virgin sold, or sold one ? Have
you never heard of a poor wayfarer fallen among robbers, and
not a Pharisee to help him ? of a poor woman fallen more
sadly yet, abject in repentance and tears, and a crowd to stone
her ? I pace this broad Baden walk as the sunset is gilding the
hills round about, as the orchestra blows its merry* tunes, as the
happy children laugh and sport in the alleys, as the lamps of the
gambling palace are lighted up. as the throngs of pleasure-
fiunters stroll, and smoke, and flirt, and hum : and wonder some-
times, is it the sinners who are the most sinful ? Is it poor
Prodigal yonder amongst the bad company, calling black and
red and tossing the champagne j or brother Straightlace, that
grudges his repentance ? Is it downcast Hagar, that slinks
away with poor little Ishmael in her hand ; or bitter old vir-
tuous Sarah, who scowls at her from my demure Lord Abra-
ham's arm ?

One day of the previous May, when of course everybody
went to visit the Water-color Exhibitions, Ethel Newcome was
taken to see the pictures by her grandmotker, that rigorous old
Lady Kew, who still proposed to reign over all her family.
The girl had high spirit, and very likely hot words had passed
between the elder and the younger lady ; such as, I am given
to understand, will be uttered in the most polite families. They
came to a piece by Mr. Hunt, representing one of those figures
which he knows how to paint with such consummate truth

2Q2

THE NEWCOMES.

and pathos — a friendless young girl cowering in a doonvav,
evidently without home or shelter. The exquisite fidelity hi
the details, and the plaintive beauty of the expression of the
child, attracted old Lady Kew's admiration, who was an excel-
lent judge of works of art ; and she stood for some time
looking at the drawing, with Ethel by her side. Nothing, in
truth, could be more simple or pathetic; Ethel laughed ; and
her grandmother, looking up from her stick on which she hob-
bled about, saw a very sarcastic expression in the girFs eyes.

" You have no taste for pictures, only for painters, T
suppose," said Lady Kew.

"I was not looking at the picture," said Ethel, still with a
smile, "but at the little green ticket in the corner."

" Sold," said Lady Kew. " Of course it is sold ; all 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 have little green tickets
pinned on our backs, with ' Sold ' written on them • it would
prevent trouble and any future haggling, you know. Then 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 color; 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 over a good novel
too. That afternoon, young Dawkins, the rising water-color
artist, who used to come daily to the gallery and stand delighted
before his own piece, was aghast to perceive that there was no
green ticket in the corner of the frame, and he pointed out the
deficiency to the keeper of the pictures. His landscape, how-
ever, was sold and paid for, so no great mischief occurred. On
that same evening, 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 fancy meant, she made Lady Kew a curtsey,
looking her full in the face, and turning round to her father,
said, " I am a tabkan-vivant, papa. I am Number 46 in the
Exhibition of the Gallery of Painters in Water-colors."

" My love, 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 have

THE XEWCOMES. 293

boxed her cars, but that her parents were present, and Lord
Kew was announced.

Ethel talked about pictures the whole evening, and would
talk of nothing else. Grandmamma went away furious. " She
told Barnes, and when everybody 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 never was afraid of Barnes." And the biographer
gathers from this little anecdote narrated to him, never mind by
whom, at a long subsequent period, that there had been great
disputes in Sir Brian Newcome's establishment, fierce drawing-
room battles, whereof certain pictures of a certain painter might
have furnished the cause, and in which Miss Newcome had the
whole of the family forces against her. That such battles take
place in other domestic establishments, who shall say or shall
not say ? Who, when he goes out to dinner, and is received by
a bland host with a gay shake of the hand, and a pretty hostess
with a gracious smile of welcome, dares to think that Mr. John-
son up stairs, half an hour before, was swearing out of his
dressing-room at Mrs. Johnson, for having ordered a turbot in-
stead of a salmon, or that Mrs. Johnson, now talking to Lady
Jones so nicely about their mutual darling children, was 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 re-
spectful tone Johnson begs the clergyman present to say grace !

Whatever these family quarrels may have been, let by-gones
be by-gones, and let us be perfectly sure, that to whatever pur-
pose Miss Ethel Newcome, for good or evil, might make up her
mind, she had quite spirit enough to hold her own. She chose
to be Countess of Kew because she chose to be Countess of
Kew ; had she set her heart on marrying Mr. Kuhn, she would
have had her way, and made the family adopt it, and cailed him
dear Fritz, as by his godfathers and godmothers, in his baptism,
Mr. Kuhn was called. Give was but a fancy, 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 means 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

294 THE iVEWCOMES.

those noble personages, of whose lofty society you will howevef
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 brown maidens with great eyes, and great nose-rings, and
painted foreheads, and slim waists cased in Cashmere shawls,
Kincob scarfs, curly slippers, gilt trousers, precious anklets and
bangles ; and have the mystery of 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 was dead, his women howling, his priests
doctoring the 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 earl's house, splendid, well ordered, where there
are feasts and fine pictures, and fair ladies, and endless books,
and good company ; yet there are times when the visit is not
pleasant j 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, — when
my lord and lady are so engaged I prefer not to call at their
mansion, number 1,000 in Grosvenor Square, but to partake of
a dinner 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 favors ; 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 veils, wreaths, orange flowers,
bangles and finery, and will put on a plain dress more suited
for the occasion, and the house door will open — and 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.

THE XEWCOMES.

295

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 themselves, their parents, and the world,
why on earth should a man ape at originality, and pretend to
pity them ? Never mind about the lies at the altar, the blas-
phemy against the godlike name of love, the sordid surrender,
the smiling dishonor. What the deuce does a marriage de
amvenance mean but all this, and are not such sober Hymeneal
torches more satisfactory often 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 the
agonized duchess when her daughter, Lady Atalanta, runs away
with the doctor — of course, that's respectable ; let us pity Lady
Iphigenia's father when that venerable chief is obliged to offer
up his darling child ; but it is over her part of the business that
a decorous painter would throw the veil now. Her ladyship's
sacrifice is performed, and the less said about it the better.

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 ail know, — everybody, at
least, who has the slightest acquaintance with the army list, —
that, at the commencement of their life, my Lord Kew, my
Lord Viscount Rooster (the Earl of Dorking's eldest son), and
the Honorable Charles Belsize, familiarly called Jack Belsize,
were subaltern officers in one of his Majesty's regiments of
cuirassier guards. They heard the chimes at midnight like
other young men, they enjoyed their fun and frolics as gentle-
men 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 known to
have been long impoverished ; an excellent informant, Major
Pendennis, has entertained me with many edifying accounts of
the exploits of Lord Rooster's grandfather " with the wild
Prince and Poins,*' 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 Vox, when they both lost Minis awful
to reckon. lie played often with Lord Steyne, and came
away, as all men did, dreadful sufferers from those midnight
encounters. His descendants incurred the penalties of the
progenitor's imprudence, and Chanticlere, though one of the

296 THE NEWCOMES.

finest castles in England, is splendid but for a month in the
year. The estate is mortgaged up to the very castle windows.
"Dorking cannot cut a stick or kill a buck in his own park," the
good old Major used to tell with tragic accents ; " he lives by
his cabbages, grapes, and pine-apples, and the fees which
people give for seeing the place and gardens, which are still
the show of the country, and amongst the most splendid in the
island. When Dorking is at Chanticlere, Ballard, who married
his sister, lends him the plate and sends three men with it.
Four cooks inside, and four maids and six footmen on the roof,
with a butler driving, come down from 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 pecuniary assurances of a promissory nature ; all of
which promises, my Lord Kew singly and most honorably
discharged. Neither of his two companions in arms had the
means of meeting these engagements. Ballard, Rooster's uncle,
was said to make his lordship some allowance. As for Jack
Belsize ; how he lived ; how he laughed ; how he dressed himself
so well, and looked so fat and handsome ; how he got a shil-
ling 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 who are learned in the peerage may
unravel.

When Lord Dorking's eldest daughter married the Honor-
able and Venerable Dennis Gallowglass, Archdeacon of Ballin-
tubber, (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 Pulleyn was then a pretty little
maiden of sixteen, and Jack a handsome guardsman of six or
seven and twenty. As she had been especially warned against
Jack as a wicked young rogue, whose antecedents were wofullv
against him ; as she was never allowed to sit near him at
dinner, or to walk with him, or to play at billiards with him,
or 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 buff; as they neither of them had a penny in the

THE NEWCOMES.

*97

world, and were both very good-looking, of course Clara was
always catching Jack at blindman's buff; constantly lighting
upon him in the shrubberies or corridors, &C, *S:c., *S:c. She
fell in love (she was not the first) with Jack's broad chest and
thin waist ; she thought his whiskers, as indeed they were, the
handsomest pair in all 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, which
is not forty miles distant from the splendid castle. How can
we tell ? The guests departed, the lodge gates shut ; all is
mystery : — darkness with one pair of wax candles blinking
dismally in a solitary chamber j all the rest dreary vistas 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 dread-
ful endless tapes and papers ; her ladyship with the other, and
an old, old novel, wherein, perhaps, Mrs. Radcliffe describes
a castle as dreary as her own ; and poor little Clara sighing
and crying in the midst of these funereal splendors, as lonely
and heart-sick as Ortana in her moated grange : — poor little
Clara !

Lord Kew's drag took the young men to London ; his
lordship driving, and the servants sitting inside. Jack sat
behind with the two grooms, and tooted on a cornet-a-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 little,
and presently Jack was alive again. But then came 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 sayr 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 ! how beautiful he looked
on his charger on the birthday, all in a blaze of scarlet, and
bullion and steel. Oh Jack ! tear her out of yon carriage, from
the side of yonder livid, feathered, painted, bony dowager !
place her behind you on the black charger ; cut down the police-
man, and away witli you ! The carriage rolls in through St.
James's Bark ; Jack sits alone with his sword dropped to the

298 THE NEWCOMES.

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 night 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 made his appearance as Charles Belsize, whose
dealings were smartly chronicled by the indignant 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 5 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 young girl of Chanticlere,
round whose young affections his luxuriant whiskers had curled.
And the world may cry out 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 jolly night. They said Kew made a fine speech, in
hearing and acknowledging 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 Pulleyn, 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 brother would not see him j he had given up all
hopes of winning his darling prize long ago ; and one day there
came to him a great packet bearing the seal of Chanticlere,
containing a wretched little letter signed C. P., and a dozen
sheets of Jack's own clumsy writing, delivered who knows how,
in v/hat crush rooms, quadrilles, bouquets, balls, and in which
were scrawled Jack's love, and passion, and ardor. 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 one a or
two ! There they were, the incoherent utterances of his brave
longing heart ; and those two wretched, wretched lines signed
C, begging that C.'s little letters might, too, be returned or

THE XEWCOMES.

299

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 given 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 fire in the prison, save a little, little bit
of the hair, which might be any one's, which was the color of
his sister's. Kew saw the deed done ; perhaps he hurried away
when Jack came to the very last part of the sacrifice, and flung
the hair 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 came out of
prison 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 banking firm
of Hobson Brothers and Xewcome, son and heir of Sir Brian
Newcome, of Newcome, Bart., and M. P., descended in right
line from Bryan de Newcomyn, slain at Hastings, and barber-
surgeon to Edward the Confessor, &rc, &c., cast the eyes of
regard on the Lady Clara Pulleyn, who was a little pale and
languid certainly, but 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, and to ask d quelle sauce elk
serait mange'e,) protested against this little affair of traffic j 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
side, but otherwise eligible, and heir to so many thousands
a year? The Newcomes, 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 nephew's 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 Richard III. ? Barnes
and his father had got up quite a belief about a Xewcome

3oo THE NEWCOMES.

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 Chanti-
clere," 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, haggard, 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 town, hailed him cordially, and invited him to dinner, and
Jack accepted, and Clive 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 Clive, smiling, when Belsize mentioned his name.
So Barnes was coming to marry that pretty little Lady Clara
Pulleyn. The knowing youth ! I dare say he was rather
pleased with his knowledge of the fashionable world, and the
idea that Jack Belsize would think he, too, was somebody.

Jack drank an immense quantity of champagne, and the
dinner over, as they could hear the band playing from Clive's
open windows in the snug clean little " Hotel de France," Jack
proposed they should go on the promenade. M. de Florae
was of the party ; he had been exceedingly jocular when Lord
Kew's name was mentioned, and said, " Ce petit Kiou ! M. le
Due d'lvry, mon oncle, l'honore d'une amitid toute particu-
here." These three gentleman walked out ; the promenade

THE NEWCOMES. 301

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 Clara was hanging.

Jack Belsize, in a velvet coat, with a sombrero slouched
over his face, with a beard reaching to his waist, was, no
doubt, not recognized at first by the noble Lord of Dorking, for
he was greeting the other two gentlemen with his usual
politeness and affability : when, of a sudden, Lady Clara
looking up, gave a little shriek and fell down lifeless on the
gravel-walk. Then the old earl recognized Mr. Belsize, and
Clive heard him say, " You villain, how dare you come here ? "

Belsize had flung himself down to lift up Clara, 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. Clive 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 all patience and self-command, trembling in
evety limb, lifts his stick, and says again, " Leave her, you
ruffian." " Lady Clara has fainted again, sir," says Captain
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 Clive 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 !

CHAPTER XXIX.

IN WHICH BARNES COMES A WOOING.

Ethel 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

302 THE NEWCOMES.

Clive ; so she took the sunshine while it lasted, determined to
bear with a stout heart the bad weather.

Sir Brian Newcome and his eldest born arrived at Baden
on the very night of Jack Belsize's performance upon the prom-
enade ; of course it was necessary to inform the young bride-
groom of the facts. His acquaintances of the public, who by
this time know his temper, and are acquainted with his lan-
guage, can imagine the explosions of the one and the vehe-
mence of 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 treat-
ment of her. If I had been there " (a volley of oaths comes
here along the whole line) " I should have strangled the scoun-
drel ; I should have murdered him."

" Mercy, Barnes," cries Lady Ann.

11 It was a mercy Barnes was not there," says Ethel, gravely ;
u a fight 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 occasions 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 gal-
lant regiment, and brother Barnes was but a puny young gen-
tleman, 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 beautiful young
creature to protect from a villain, any man would be strong,
any man would be strong." " Since his last attack," Barnes
used to say, " my poor old governor is exceedingly shaky, very
groggy about the head;" which was the fact Barnes was
already master at Newcome and the bank, and awaiting with
perfect composure the event which was to place the blood-red
hand of the Newcome baronetcy on his own brougham.

THE NEWCOMES.

303

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 halt-dozen sketches of Baden ; Ethel on horseback
again • the children and 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 ? Clive
Newcome is here, sir ? " he cries out to his father. " The Col-
onel's son. I have no doubt they met by "

* By what, Barnes? " says Ethel.

" Clive is here, is he? " says the Baronet \ " making carica-
tures, hey ? You did not mention him in your letters, Lady
Ann."

Sir Brian was evidently very much touched by his last at-
tack.

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
britzka the whole way."

" Boys always crowd in a carriage," says Sir Brian ; " kick
your shins j 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 brother 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 was 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," con-
tinues Barnes. " 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 by other names. Lady Clara Bulleyn, I believe,
is very unwell indeed."

" Confound the fellow ! 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."

3°4

THE NEWCOMES.

" What do you mean ? " says Barnes, looking very serious in
an instant.

H Easy, my good friend. Not so very loud. It appears,
Ethel, that Jack — /know him pretty well, you see, Barnes, and
may call him by what names I like — had been dining to-day
with cousin Clive ; 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 affairs, or of the shindy that was going to
happen.

"By Jove, he shall answer for it," cries out Barnes in aloud
voice.

" I dare say he will, if you ask him," says the other dryly:
" 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 the Frenchman just now," continued Lord Kew
gayly, as if wishing to pass over this side of the subject. " ' Mi
Lord Kiou,' says he, ' we have made your friend Jack to hear
reason. He is a \\tt\e/ou, your friend Jack. He drank cham-
pagne at dinner like an ogre. How is the charmante Miss
Clara?' Florae, you see, calls her Miss Clara, Barnes; the
world calls her Lady Clara. You call her Clara. You happy
dog, you."

-4 I don't see why that infernal young cub of a Clive is always
meddling in our affairs," cries out Barnes, whose rage wras per-
petually 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 com-
fortably. Barnes need not get up in the morning to punch
Jack Belsize's head. I'm sorry for your disappointment, 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
char??iante Miss Clara."

" As we went out of the house," Lord Kew told Clive, " I
said to Barnes, that every word I had uttered up stairs with re-
gard to the reconciliation was a lie. That Jack Belsize was
determined to have his blood, and was walking under the lime-
trees by which we had to pass with a thundering big stick.
Tou should have seen the state the fellow was in, sir. The
sweet youth started back, and turned as yellow as a cream
cheese. Then he made a pretext to go into his room, and said
it was for his pocket-handkerchief, but I know it was for a pis-

THE NEWCOMES.

305

to! ; for 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 Dorking's apartment."

A -real deal of animated business had been transacted dur-
ing two hours subsequent to poor Lady Clara's mishap. Clive
and Belsize had returned to the former's quarters, while gentle
J. J. was utilizing the last rays of the sun to tint a sketch which
he had made during the morning. He fled to his own apart-
ment 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 on those boards in the growing twilight, anon
stopping to drink another tumbler of champagne, then groan-
ing expressions of inarticulate wrath, and again sinking down
on Clive'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 Chanticlere. I
suppose you know what the affair is about ? "

" I never heard of it before, but I think I understand," says
Clive, gravely.

" I can't ask Kew, he is one of the family ; he is going to
marry Miss Newcome. It is no use asking him."

All Clive'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. " I
am of the family, too," said Clive, " 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 Clive'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 corner where Clive's bed is ; whilst Clive 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 Hol-
lande " 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 dcors of the conversation-rooms, as they open and

306 THE NEWCOMES.

close, escape gusts of harmony. 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. Clive 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
even' booth yonder has a scheme of its own j every star above
shines by itself ; and each individual heart of ours goes on
brightening with its own hopes, burning with its own desires,
and quivering with its own pain.

The reverie is interrupted by the waiter, who announces M.
le Vicomte de Florae, and a third cigar is added to the other
two smoky lights. Belsize is glad to see Florae, whom he has
known in a thousand haunts. He will do my business for me.
He has been out half a dozen times, thinks Jack. It would re-
lieve the poor fellow's boiling blood that some one would let a
little out. He lays his affair before Florae, he expects a mes-
sage from Lord Dorking.

" Comment done ? " cries Florae ; " il y avait done quelque
chose ! Cette pauvre petite Miss ! Vous voulez tuer le pere,
aptes avoir delaisse la fille ? Cherchez d'autres te'moins, Mon-
sieur. Le Vicomte de Florae ne se fait pas complice de telles
lachete's."

" By Heaven," says Jack, sitting up on the bed, with his
eyes glaring. "I have a great mind, Florae, to wring your in-
fernal 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 Heaven, 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 her ! Oh ! I'm a fool ! a fool ! a d d fool !

Who's that ? "

" It's Kew," says a voice out of the darkness 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 right had you to stab that poor little heart

THE NEWCOMES. 3c7

over again, and frighten Lady Clara with your confounded hairy
face ? You promised me you would never see her. You gave
your word of honor 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
Dorkings left London before you came there j 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 Belsize.
I tell you it is unmanly, and cowardly."

" Pst," says Florae, " numero deux, voila le mot lfiche."

" Don't bite your thumb at me," Kew went on. " I know
you could thrash me, if that's what you mean by shaking your
fists ; so could most men. I tell you again — you have done a
bad deed ; you have broken your word of honor, 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 bewildered. The huge man flung up his great arms,
and let them drop at his side as a gladiator that surrenders,
and asks for pity. He sank clown once more on the iron bed.

"I don't know," says he, rolling and rolling round, in one
of his great hands, one of the brass 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 is 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 place, everything ; went to Ems, to Wiesba-
den, to Hombourg, and played like hell. It used to excite me
once, and now I don't care for it. I won no end of monew —
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

308 THE NEWCOMES.

" Get me to see her for five minutes, Kew," cries the other,
griping his comrade's hand in his ; " but tcr 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 bauik 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 blackguarded 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 has full warning." And he fell to tug-
ging his mustaches, 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 think I do, I will do my best to stop
you, madman as you are ! You can hardly propose to follow
her to her own doorway and pose yourself before your mistress
as the murderer of her father, like Rodrigue in the French play.
If Rooster were here it would be his business to defend his
sister ; in his absence I will take the duty on 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 honor to avoid her,
that such a man is — "

" What, my Lord Kew? " cries Belsize, whose chest began
to heave.

"You know what," answers the other. " You know what a
man is who insults a poor woman, and breaks his word of
honor. Consider the word said, and act upon it as you think
fit."

"I owe you four thousand pounds, Kew," says Belsize,
" and I have got four thousand on the bills, besides four hun-
dred when I came out of that place."

"You insult me the more," cries Kew flashing out, "by
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 be so kind as to act as my friend ? We
are connections 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 gentil-
homme," says Florae delighted. " Touchez-la, mon petit Kiou.
Tu as du cceur. Godam ! you are a brave ! A brave fellow !''
and the Viscount reached out his hand cordially to Lo/d Kew.

THE NEWCOMES

3°9

His purpose was evidently pacific. From Kew he turned
to the great guardsman, and taking him by the coat began to
apostrophize him. " And you, mon gros," says he, "is there
no way of calming this hot blood without a saigne'e ? Have you
a penny to the world ? Can you hope to carry off your Chimene,
O Rodrigue, and live by robbing afterwards on the great way ?
Suppose you kill ze Faze'r, you kill Kiou, you kill Roostere, your
Chimene will have a pretty moon of honey."'

" What the devil do you mean about your Chime'ne and
your Rodrigue ? What do you mean, Viscount ? " says Belsize,
Jack Belsize once more, and he dashed his hand across his
eyes. " Kew has riled me and he drove 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's 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 was 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 im-
mense laughter, as he shook the little Viscount off, cleared the
air and ended this quarrel.

Everybody joined in this chorus, the Frenchman with the
rest, who said, " he loved to laugh mtme 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 pre-
vented Barnes from incurring a great danger. In truth, what
Mr. Clive did or said amounted exactly to nothing. What
moments can we not all remember in our lives when it 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 least. He now proposed supper, and
poor Jack was for supper too, and especially more drink, cham-
pagne and seltzer water ; "bring champagne and seltzer-water,
there is nothing like it." Clive could not object to this enter-
tainment, which was ordered forthwith, and the four young
men sat down to share it.

Whilst Florae was partaking of his favorite ecrevisses, giv-
ing not only his palate but his hands, his beard, his mustaches
and cheeks a full enjoyment of the sauce which he found so
delicious, he chose to revert now and again to the occurrences
which had just passed, and which had better perhaps have been
forgotten, and gayly rallied Belsize upon his warlike humor.
" If ze petit prdtendu was here, what would vnu have done wiz

3">

THE NEWCOMES.

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
champagne, writhed at the idea of having Barnes Xewcome
before him, and swore, could he but see Barnes, he would take
the little villain's life.

And but for Clive, Jack might actually have beheld his
enemy. Young Clive 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. He saw two servants descend, then two gentlemen,
and then he heard 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 an-
nounce to Kew or his right-hand neighbor 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 reasoning with him farther, and for entering more at large
than perhaps he chose to do before the two others upon this
family dispute. Clive 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.

CHAPTER XXX.

A RETREAT.

As Clive lay awake revolving the strange incidents of the
day, and speculating upon the tragedy in which he had been
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 foreboded,
were about to break and obscure this brief pleasant period of
sunshine. He rose at a very early hour, llung his windows
open, looked out no doubt towards those other windows in the

THE i VE I VCOMES. 3 1 1

neighboring 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 sun-eyed some of the relics of the last night's little
feast, which still remained on the table. There were the cham-
pagne flasks which poor Jack Belsize had emptied ; the tall
seltzer-water bottle, from which the gases had issued and min-
gled with the hot air of the previous night's talk ; glasses with
dregs of liquor, 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 neighbor J. J. had been up before him.
Clive could hear him singing as was his wont when the pencil
went well, and the colors arranged themselves to his satisfac-
tion over his peaceful and happy work.

He pulled his own drawing-table to the window, set out his
board and color-box, filled a great glass from the seltzer-water
bottle, drank some of the vapid liquor, and plunged his brushes
in the rest, with which he began to paint. The work all went
wrong. There was no song for him over his labor ; he dashed
brush and board aside after a while, opened his drawers, pulled
out his portmanteaus from under the bed, and fell to packing
mechanically. 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," says Clive. " Leave your cards on
your friends, old boy ; say good-by to that pretty little straw-
berry girl whose picture you have been doing ; polish it off to-
day, and dry the little thing's tears. I read PPC. 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 strawberry 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 brush
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 an-
swered ; " the sooner we march the better. I have always said
it ; I will get all the accounts in. Hannibal has been living

3i2 THE NEWCOMES.

like a voluptuous Carthaginian prince. One, two, three cham-
pagne 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 his full heart to any crony who was
near him j 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 ardor of a painter, he
had spoken of her and described her. Her magnanimous sim-
plicity, her courage and lofty scorn, her kindness towards her
little family, her form, her glorious color 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 beauti-
ful as the sea from which she sprung ; as he looked at the
rushing " 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 ; Clive's heart
sang hymns, as it were, before these gracious altars ; and,
somewhat as he worshipped these masterpieces of his art, he
admired the beauty of Ethel.

J. J. felt these things exquisitely after his manner, and en-
joyed honest Clive's mode of celebration and rapturous fioriture
of song ; but Ridley'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 laugh-
ter and sentiment were mingled, and roar out with all the force
of his healthy young lungs —

" But 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 New-
come the benefit of his sad counsel. Poor Belsize's agony, and
the wretchedness of the young lady who shared in the desper-

THE XEircOMES. 3^

ate passion, may have set our young man a thinking ; and Lord
Kew's frankness and courage, and honor, whereof Give had
been a witness during the night, touched his heart with a gen-
erous 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 pas-
sions 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 honor.

" 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-YVhat ? " 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 descend-
ants, 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 say that
my dear old father was the bravest man they ever knew, the
coolest hand, sir. What do you think it was Lieutenant New-
come's duty to do under these circumstances? To remain
alone as he was, his troop having turned about, and to be cut
down by the Mahratta horsemen — to perish or to run, sir? "

" I know which I should have done," says Ridley.

" Exactly. Lieutenant Xewcome 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 afterwards 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. 1 am off.
Dip into the money-bag j pay the people; be generous, J. J.,

3i4 THE NEWCOMES.

but not too prodigal. The chambermaid is ugly, yet let hei
not want for a crown to console her at our departure. The
waiters have been brisk and senile, reward the slaves for their
labors. Forget not the humble boots, so shall he bless us when
we depart. For artists are gentlemen, though Ethel does not
think so. De — No — God bless her, God bless her," groans out
Give, cramming his two fists into his eves. 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 pos-
sibly concern him, let him take a senior's counsel, and remembei
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. Ridley 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 coupie of spacious chambers on the
second storey. " 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
eld boy, it would do him no harm." And then, laughing, he
gave Clive an account of his interview with Barnes on the pre-
vious night. "You seem to be packing up to go, too," says
Lord Kew, with a momentary glance of humor 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 carriage at Frankfort," says Clive, in an off
hand manner.

" Hullo ! " cries the other, who was perfectly kind, and en-
tirely frank and pleasant, and showed no difference in his con-
versation 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

THE NEWCOMES. 3^

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 1 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, I 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 fond you are of him. I have heard the story — glass of
claret and all. We all love Barnes. How that poor Lady
Clara can have accepted him the Lord knows. We are fear-
fully and wonderfully made, especially women."

" Good heavens," Clive broke out, " can it be 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 factory 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 infi-
de'.ity towards him ; who came and actually sat down on the
sieps of Park Lane with a child on each side of her, and not
tldir 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. Oh, it is a shame, it is a shame ! It
makes me sick when I think of the lot which the poor thing is
to endur.

" It is not a nice story," said Lord Kew, rolling a cigarette;
" Barnes is not a nice man. 1 give you that in. You have not
heard it talked about in the family, have you ? "

3i6 THE NEWCOMES.

l: Good heavens ! you don't suppose that I would speak to
Ethel, to Miss Newcome, about such a foul subject as that ? "
cries Clive. " 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.
" Everything 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 angelic
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 honor to
me when the matter was talked about, and he was coming on
election at Bays', 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 con-
nection ; 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
connections in their early lives, and rue them all their days
after. He was heartily sorry, that we may take for granted.
He wished to lead a proper life. My grandmother managed
this business 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 even-thing 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

THE NF.UTOMES. 317

put upon Lady 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 fioth up with indignation at the
idea that a girl hardly off 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
10 be/ and very likely thinks you to be. It depends on the
colors 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 a propos 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 malevolence ? I like you j 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 cur conversation —
" this fine picture of Jenny and Jessamy falling in love at first
sight, billing and cooing in arbor, and retiring to a cottage
afterwards to go on cooing and billing — Pshaw ! what folly is
this ! It is good for romances, and for Misses to sigh about ;
but any man who walks through the world with his 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 only grant to Baucis and Philemon, and a
very, very few besides. As for the rest, they must compromise ;
make themselves as comfortable 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 what has been the end of most of them !
Love in a cottage ! y^"ho is to pay the landlord for the cot-
tage ? Who is to pay for Jenny's tea and cream, and Jessamy's
mutton-chops ? If he has cold mutton, he will quarrel with

3i8 THE NEWCOMES.

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 j sends his son to the bar, into
Parliament, where he cuts a figure and becomes attorney-gen-
eral, 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 neighbors. We
do but as the world does ; and a girl in our society accepts the
best parti which offers itself, just as Miss Chummey, when en-
treated by two young gentlemen of the order of costermongers,
inclines to the one who rides from market on a moke, rathel
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 Clive's pri-
vate 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 manners, and three or four hundred
pounds a year, do not presume upon their good-nature, or in-
dulge in certain ambitious hopes which your vanity may induce
you to form. Sail down the stream with the brass-pots, Mas-
ter 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 ex-
pect to wear on your breast such a star as Ethel Xewcome."

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 enter*
ing 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 mat-
ter. 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,

THE NE WCOMES. 3 r g

and Mr. Barnes ; not one of whom was the person whom Give
desired to behold.

The queer glance in Kew's eye directed towards Clive, who
was himself not by any means deficient in perception, informed
him that there had just been a conversation in which his own
name had figured. Having been abusing Clive 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 yet on the chamber door, and Barnes was calling
him miscreant and scoundrel within ; so no wonder Barnes had
a hang-dog look. But as for Lady Kew, that veteran diplomatist
allowed no signs of discomfiture, or any other emotion, to dis-
play themselves on her ancient countenance. Her bushy eye-
brows were groves of mystery, her unfathomable eyes were
wells of gloom.

She gratified Clive 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
Kew's reception, determined to try Clive in the same way, and
he gave Clive at the same time a supercilious " 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 ac-
costed. 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 patronized his equals, nay, let us say
his betters, so insufferably, that a common wish for his sup-
pression existed amongst many persons in society.

Clive told me of this little circumstance, and I am sorry to
say of his own subsequent ill-behavior. " We were standing
apart from the ladies," so Clive narrated, "when Barnes and I
had our little passage of arms. He had tried the finger business
upon me before, and I 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 clown 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 thought you only swore at
women, Barnes."

320

THE NEWCOMES.

"It is you that say things before women, dive," cries his
cousin, looking very furious.

Mr. Clive 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 ? Come 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 want-
ing 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. Come here, Clive." Our young friend, it must
be premised, had no 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 lady-
ship fell a whispering ; and then it was that Clive retreated
from Lady Kew's hand, to fall into Barnes's.

"Clive trod on Barnes's toe," cries out cheery Lord Kew,
" and has hurt Barnes's favorite 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 colors 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 Clive, for when he came up to the two ladies, the younger
took his hand with great kindness, and said, " My dear Clive,
we are very sorry you are going. You were of the greatest use
to us on the journey. I am sure you have been uncommonly
good-natured and obliging, and we shall all miss 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 quite 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 acquaint'

THE NE IVCOMES. 3 2 1

ances 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. Jt is a
great pity that Colonel Newcome did not take you with him to
India."

" My dear mamma," cries Lady Ann, " I am sure Give 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 unex-
pected favor ; 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-humor ; she liked Give'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 back again, and we shall all be
very glad to see you. You have great talents — these sketches
are really capital."

" Is not he very clever, mamma ? " said kind Lady Ann,
eagerly. Give felt the pathetic mood coming on again, and an
immense desire to hug Lady Ann 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 ! 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. Give'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."

u But it was by the merest chance, mamma, indeed it was,"
cries Lady Ann.

" Of course, by the me; est 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."

322

THE NEWCOMES.

" I needed no request," said Clive. " My going, Lady Kew,
is my own act. I was going without requiring any guide to
show me to the door."

" Xo doubt you were, and my arrival is the signal for .Mr.
Xc weenie's Ion jour. I am Bogey, and I frighten everybody
away. By the scene which you witnessed yesterday, my good
young friend, and all that painful esdandre 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 Captain
Belsize behaved so cruelly. She does not care a fig for him —
not one fig. Her childish inclination is passed away these two
years, whilst Mr. Jack was performing 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 here.
She fainted only last Tuesday at the sight of a rat walking
about their lodgings, (they have dreadful lodgings, the Dork-
ings,) and no wonder she was frightened at the sight of that
great coarse tipsy wretch ! She is engaged, as you know, to
your connection, 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 innocents who came frisking in from the lawn in front
of the windows). " You have been ? And Barnes sent you in
here ? Go up to Miss Quigley. No,. stop. Go and tell Kthel
jo come down ; bring her down with you. Do you understand ? "

The unconscious infants toddle up stairs to their sister ;
and Lady Kew blandly says, u 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. Xewcome. 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

THE NEWCOMES.

323

of life, a Miss — what was her name ? — Miss MacPherson, Miss
Mackenzie. Your aunt, Mrs. Hobson 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 Kew came to know this fact, whether
her maid corresponded with Lady Ann's maid, what her lady-
ship's means of information were, avowed or occult, this biog-
rapher has never been able to ascertain. Very likely Ethel,
who in these last three weeks had been made aware of that in-
teresting circumstance, had announced it to Lady Kew in the
course of a cross-examination, and there may have been a battle
between the granddaughter and the grandmother, of which the
family chronicler of the Newcomes has had no precise knowl-
edge. 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-by 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-by." 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 his hair back off his face,
and said very calmly, " Yes, I am come to say good-by. My
holidays are over, and Ridley and I are off for Rome ; good-by,
and God bless you, Ethel."

She gave him her hand, and said, "Good-by, Clive," but her
hand did not return his pressure, and dropped to her side when
he let it go.

Hearing the words good-by, 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-by. Tlive
san't go." Alice roaring, clung hold of Give's trousers. He
took them up gayly, each on an arm, as he had done a hundred
times, and tossed the children on to his shoulders, where they
used to like to pull his yellow mustaches. He kissed the little
bands and faces, and a moment after was gone.

" Qu'as-tu," says M. de Florae, meeting him going over the

324 THE NEIVCOMES.

bridge to his own hotel. " Qu'as-tu, mon petit Claive. Est-ce
qu'on vient de t'arracher une dent ? "

"C'est <^a," says Clive, and walked into the "Hotel de
France." " Hullo ! 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 catas-
trophe had occurred. Indeed, Mr. Clive was going a day sooner
than he had intended. He woke at Fribourg the next morn-
ing. It was the grand old cathedral he looked at, not Baden
of t'he pine-clad hills, of the pretty walks and the lime-tree ave-
nues. 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 was one window in the " Hotel de Hollande " 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
Clive's carriage, as befits a secondary personage in this his-
tory, 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 " Flotel de Hollande " saw him go ? There are some cur-
tains behind which no historian, however prying, is allowed to
peep.

" Tiens, le petit part," says Florae of the cigar, who was al-
ways 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 : — affaires 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 what he was saying.

" Vous croyez ; vous croyez," says M. de Florae. "As you
have a fourth place I know who had best take it."

THE NEWCOMES. 325

" And who is that ? " asked the young traveller.

Lord Kew and llarnes Newcome, Esq., came out of the
* Hotel de Hollande " at this moment. Barnes slunk back,
seeing Jack Belsize's hairy face. Kew ran over the bridge.
"Good-by, Clive. Good-by, Jack." "Good-by, Kew." It
was a great handshaking. Away goes the postilion blowing his
horn, and young Hannibal has left Capua behind him.

CHAPTER XXXI.

MADAME LA DUCHESSE,

In one of Clive Newcome's letters from Baden, the young
man described to me, with considerable humor and numerous
illustrations, as his wont was, a great lady to whom he was pre-
sented at that watering-place by his friend Lord Kew. Lord
Kew had travelled in the East with Monsieur le Due and
Madame la Duchesse d'lvry — 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 Gazelle, by a daughter of
the Crusaders," 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 glow-
ing 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 backsheesh, 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 " Foot-
prints;" which, in truth, are filled full of strange rhapsodies,
adventures which nobody ever saw but the princess, and mystic
disquisitions. She hesitates at nothing, like other poets of her
nation ; not profoundly learned, she invents where she has not
acquired; mingles together religion and the opera; and per-
forms 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-affaiT

326 THE XEWCOMES.

between Pharaoh's eldest son and Moses's daughter. At Cairo,
apropos of Joseph's granaries, she enters into a furious tirade
against Potiphar, whom she paints as an old savage, suspicious
and a tyrant. They generally have a copy of the " Footprints
of the Gazelles " at the Circulating Library at Baden, as
Madame d'lvry constantly visits that watering-place. M. le
Due was not pleased with' the book, which was published en-
tirely 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 in-
stitution of manages de convenance (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 deconfiance, 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 and the
other. Mademoiselle has so many francs of dot ; Monsieur has
such and such rentes or lands in possession or reversion, an
etude d'aroue, 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
arrangement is concluded (the agent touching his percentage),
or broken off, and nobody unhappy, and the world none the
wiser. The consequences of the system I do not pretend per-
sonally 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 twenty miles of sea separate us.

When the old Duke dTvry, of the 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-twen-
tieths of his wealth by the Revolution, — when the Duke dTvry
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 dis-
posed 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
Revolution broke out, a young lady of a sufficient nobility, a
virgin of sixteen, was brought out of the convent of the Sacre

THE XEWCOMES.

327

Cceur at Paris, and married with immense splendor and cere-
mony 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 favors. 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 Atridae,
the Borbonidre, the Ivrys, — the Browns and Jones's being of no
account.) 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 princess's 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 mar-
riage, he retained a number of the graceful follies and amuse-
ments, though his manners had a dignity acquired in the old
days of Versailles and the Trianon, which the moderns cannot
hope to imitate. He was as assiduous behind the scenes of the
Opera as any journalist, or any young dandy of twenty years.
He " ranged himself," as the French phrase is, shortlv 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 affreux catastrophe of July arrived. The ancient
Bourbons were once more on the road to exile. M. le Due
dTvry, who lost his place at court, his appointments which
helped his income very much, and his peerage, would no more
acknowledge the usurper of Xeuilly than him of Flba. The ex-
peer retired to his terns. He barricaded his house in Paris
against all supporters of the citizen King; his nearest kins-
man, 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 dTvry 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 grand-

3 28 THE AEWCOMES.

sons gone before him to join their ancestors in the tomb. No
more children however blessed the old Duke's union. Madame
d'lvry went the round of all the watering-places ; pilgrimages
were tried ; vows and gifts to all saints supposed to be
favorable to the d'lvry family, or to families in general j but
the saints turned a deaf ear, — they were inexorable since the
true religion and the elder Bourbons were banished from
France.

Living by themselves in their ancient castle, 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
viariage de 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 unfrequently 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 such folks pass in the unbidden society of this Old Man
of the Sea; this daily guest at the board; this watchful attend-
ant 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 avoid-
ance 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 mai'iages de co?ivcnance, 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 his like have no
control, and tastes which cannot be put into the marriage settle-
ments. 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 affairs, Madame took to
literature, Monsieur to politics. She discovers that she has a
great unappreciated 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 l'Ame ? " She used to read them to her very

THE NEW COMES.

329

intimate friends, in white, with her hair a good deal down her
back. They had some success. Dubufe having painted her as
a Duchess, Scheffer 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 salons to art and literature,
and, a fervent devotee still, proposed to unite genius and
religion. Poets had interviews 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 the bou-
levard, 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 Romantique, and these
jcuncs 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 Hernanis, and stuff ? Mon-
sieur le Vicomte de Chateaubriand was a man of genius as a
writer, certainly immortal ; and M. de Lamartine was a young
man extremely bien peasant, but, mafoi, give him Cr'ebillon fils,
or a bonne farce of M. Vade 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 Dumas, and Hugos, and Mussets,
what is all that ? " M. de Lormian shall be immortal, Monsieur,"
he would say, " when all these freluquets are forgotten." After
his marriage he frequented the coulisses of the Opera no more ;
but he was a pretty constant attendant at the Theatre Francais,
where you might hear him snoring over the chef s-d'oeuv res of
French tragedy.

For some little time after 1830, the Duchesse was as great
a Carlist as her husband could wish ; and they conspired to-
gether very comfortably at first. Of an adventurous turn, eager
for excitement of all kinds, nothing would have better pleased
the Duchesse than to follow Madame in her adventurous cour-
ses in La Vende'e, disguised as a boy above all. She was per-
suaded to stay at home, however, and aid the good cause at
Paris ; whilst Monsieur le Due went off to Brittany to offer his
old sword to the mother of his king. But Madam E was dis-
covered up the chimney at Rennes, and all sorts of things were
discoveied 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,

j3o THE NEWCOMER.

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 Tier-
celin, le beau Tiercelin, an officer of ordonnance of the Duke
of Orleans, into a duel, a propos of a cup of coffee in a salon ;
he actually wounded the beau Tiercelin — he sixty-five years of
age ! His nephew, M. de Florae, was loud in praise of his kins-
man's bravery.

That pretty figure and complexion which still appear so
captivating in M. Dubufe's portrait of Madame la Duchesse
d'lvry, have long existed — it must be owned only in paint. " ye
la preftre a Think" the Vicomte 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 woefully thin. "When she goes into the world," said
the same chronicler, " ma cousine surrounds herself with, j upon s
— e'est pour de'fendre sa vertu : when she is in a devotional
mood, she gives up rouge, roast-meat, and crinoline, and fait
maigre absohtment" To spite the Duke her husband she took
up with the Vicomte 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 jamais de Madame la Duchesse, maintenant,"
said the Vicomte. "She must have confessed to him des
choses affreuses — oh oui ! — affreuses, ma parole d'honneur ! "

The Duke d'lvry being archiroyaliste, Madame la Duchesse
must make herself ultra-Philippiste. "Oh oui ! tout ce qu'il y
a de plus Madame Adelaide au monde ! " cried Florae. " She
rafToles of M, le Re'gent. 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 recall 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
Pasteur Grigou. Then she tired of M. 1'Abbe 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 honor ! I believe it was terror of her that drove him
into a convent. You shall see him at Rome, Clive. Give him
news of his elder, and tell him this gross prodigal is repenting
amongst the swine. My word of honor ! I desire but the

7 HE XEWCOMES. 33!

death of Madame la Vicomtesse de Florae, to marry and range
myself !

"After being Royalist, Philippist, Catholic, Huguenot, Ma-
dame d'lvry must take to Pantheism, to bearded philosophers
who believe in nothing, not even in clean linen, eclecticism, re-
publicanism, what know I ? All her changes have been chroni-
cled by books of her composition. ' Les De'mons,' 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 Mine, la Duchesse d'lvry,' which is all on your side.
That was of the time of the Pasteur Grigou, that one. The
last was ' Les Dieux dechus, poeme en 20 chants, par Mme. la

D d'l.' 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 hus-
band. 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 Quakrc ;
wore the costume, consulted a minister of that culte, and quar-
relled with him as of rule. It appears the Quakers do not
beat themselves, otherwise my poor uncle must have payed of
his person.

M 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 cle 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 Man-
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 Loch*
leven ! She calls ce gros Blackball, that pillar of estaminets,
that prince of mauvais-ton, her Bothwell ; little Majaud, the
poor little pianist, she named her Rizzio ; young Lord Green-
horn, 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 siren, my little Clive ! — mistrust her dangerous
song ! Her cave is jo?ic/ice 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

332 THE NEWCOMES.

to make her acquaintance, but that a much nobler attraction
drew him elsewhere. At first, being introduced to Madame
d'lvry's salon, he was pleased and flattered, and behaved him-
self there merrily and agreeably enough. He had not studied
Horace Vernet for nothing ; he drew a fine picture of Kew
rescuing her from the Arabs, with a plenty of sabres, pistols,
burnouses, 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 com-
pagnie ; — Miss O'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 Ethel's natural brightness and beauty.
Clive, 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 deser-
tion.

There had been many quarrels between M. d'lvry and his
next of kin. Political differences, 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 remembers ;
and he thinks other men are like himself." The Vicomte
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. dTvry amongst the number ; and the nobleman
was anxious to return to all Lord Kew's family when they came
to France the hospitality which he had received himself in Eng-
land. 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

THE NEWCOMES.

333

tvonaerfui ^o hear. Old scandals woke up, old naughtinesses
rose out of tneir graves, and danced, and smirked, and gibbered
again, like those wicked nuns whom Bertram and Robert de
Diable evoke from their sepulchres whilst the bassoon performs
a diabolical incantation. The Brighton Pavilion was tenanted j
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 jabot and ailes-de-
pigcon, the old Countess a hoop, and a cushion on her head. If
haply the young folks came in, the elders modified their recol-
lections, 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 resem-
bled 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 bie?i-pensants assembled and re-
tailed 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 dTvry, 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 considerably) she
hated her daughter-in-law, Walham's widow, and the Methodists
who surrounded her. Kew remain among a pack of psalm-sing-
ing 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 one 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 tempts you into its arms. Be of easy minds,
good-natured people ! Let us disdain surprises and coups-de-
T/ieii/n'ior 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.

334 THE NEWCOMES.

Surrounded by her court and royal attendants, La Reine
Marie used graciously to attend the play-table, where luck oc-
casionally declared itself for and against her Majesty. Her
appearance used to create not a little excitement in the Salon
of Roulette, the game which she patronized, it being more " fer-
tile of emotions " than the slower Trente et Quarante. She
dreamed of numbers, had favorite 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 tontes les times poetiques. She commonly
brought a beautiful agate bonbonniere full of gold pieces when
she played. It was wonderful to see her grimaces ; to watch
her behavior ; her appeals to heaven, her delight and despair.
Madame la Baronne de la Cruchecasse'e played on one side of
her, Madame la Comtesse de Schlangenb'ad on the other.
When she had lost all her money her Majesty would conde-
scend 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, Cap-
tain 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, Russians, and Span-
iards. Mr. and Mrs. Jones (of England) — who had made the
princess' s acquaintance at Bagneres (where her lord still re-
mained in the gout) and perseveringly followed her all the way
to Baden — wrere dazzled by the splendor 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 crever with envy.
Bob Jones, who had grown a pair of mustaches 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 Avenel ?" says Jones delighted to Clive, who wrote me
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 ecstasy. Every one of her aides-de-camp had a

THE XKWCOMES. 33|

buncli of orders al 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 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 sournois 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 quit-
ted the earth, dont elle fait 1'ornement — I would present my-
self to the charmante Meess and ride a steeple-chase with
Kiou ! " That he should win it the Viscount never doubted.

When Lady Ann Newcome first appeared in the ball-room
at Baden, Madame la Duchesse dTvry begged the Earl of Kew
(?wtre filleul she called him) to present her to his aunt Miladi
and her charming daughter. " My fif/at/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 compli-
ments 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 CajDtain Blackball and Count Punter,
A. D. C, were amazed at her tenderness), she efoujffd. them
with kisses. What lilies and roses ! What lovely little crea-
tures ! What companions for her own Antoinette ! "This is
your governess. Miss Quigli ; Mademoiselle, you must let me
present you to Miss O'Gre'di, your compatriot, and I hope your
children will be always together." The Irish Protestant gover-
ness 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 clay when Lord Kew with Florae and Clive was playing
with the children, Antoinette said, " Pourquoi ne venez-vou*
plus chez nous, M. de Kew? And why does mamma say jrou
are a l&ehet 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 e*te bonne pour moi a
Paris aussi — Ah ! qu'elle a e'te bonne 1 "

i^

THE NEWCOMES.

"C'est que les 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 Xewcome 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
lhat there was something wrong in this woman, and she shrank
from her with haughty7 reserve. The girl's conduct was not likely
vo please the French lady, but she never relaxed in her smiles and
her compliments, her caresses, and her professions of admira-
tion. She was present when Clara Pulleyn fell ; and, prodigal of
i&Iinerics and consolation, and shawls and scent-bottles, to the
unhappy young lady, she would accompany her home. She in-
quired perpetually after the health of cette pauvre petite Miss
Clara. Oh, how she railed against ces Afiglaises and their pru-
dery ! 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 whis-
kered humble servants, Baron Punter, and Count Spada, and
Marquis lago, and Prince Iachimo, and worthy Captain Black-
ball ? Can you fancy a moonlight conclave, and ghouls feasting
on the fresh corpse of a reputation : the gibes and sarcasms, the
laughing and the gnashing of teeth ? How they tear the
dainty limbs, and relish the tender morsels !

" The air ot this place is not good for you, believe me, my
little Kew; it is dangerous. Have pressing affairs 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.

CHAPTER XXXIL
Barnes's courtship.

Ethel had made various attempts to become intimate with
her future sister-in-law ; had walked, and ridden, and talked
with Lady Clara before Barnes's arrival. She had come away

THE NEWCOMES. 337

not very much impressed with respect for Lady Clara's mental
powers ; indeed we have said that Miss Ethel was rather more
prune to attack women than to admire them, and was a little
hard upon the fashionable young persons of her acquaintance
and sex. In after life, 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 com
mon-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 Lelsize'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 favorite 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 tears, their
wakeful nights, and so forth ; but it is only in very sentimental
novels that people occupy themselves perpetually with that
passion ; and, I believe, what are called broken hearts, are
very rare articles indeed. Tom is jilted — is for a while in a
dreadful state — bores all his male acquaintances with his
groans and his frenzy — rallies from the complaint — eats his
dinner very kindly — takes 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 re-
sumes her books, piano, and music (giving up certain songs
perhaps that she used to sing) — she waltzes with the Captain
— gets a color — waltzes longer, better, and ten times quicker
than J.ucy, who is dancing with the Major — replies in au

338 THE NEIVCOMES.

animated manner to the Captain's delightful remarks — takes a
little supper — and looks quite kindly at him before she pulls up
the carriage windows.

Give 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 dreadfully satirical, that is certain ; but
many persons are amused by those dreadful satirical young
men ; and to hear fun made of our neighbors, even of some
of our friends, does not make us very angry. Barnes is one of
the very best waltzers in ail 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 always begging
your pardon. Barnes whirls a partner round the room ages
after she is ready to faint. What wicked fun he makes of other
people when he stops ! He is not handsome, 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 schoolroom still,
die of laughing. Papa has the highest opinion of Mr. New-
come 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 ! 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 every 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 Hus-
sars, bottle-green and silver lace ; he speaks politics so exceed-
ingly 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 Brian Newcome's health gives way quite,
Mr. Newcome will go into Parliament, and then he will resume
the old barony which has been in abeyance in the family since
the reign of Richard the Third. They had fallen quite, quite
low. Mr. Newcome's 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

THE NEWCOMES.

339

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 peccadilloes 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 reprobatron.
A wild prodigal — a disgrace to his order — a son of old High-
gate's 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 trans-
ports 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 demeanor and delicate in his conduct. What
he said upon this painful subject was delivered with the greatest
propriety. He did not for one moment consider that Lady
Clara's agitation arose from any present feeling in Mr. Belsize's
favor, 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 admir-
able speech of Barnes Newcome's, upon whose character, pru-
dence, 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 humor, Barnes. "I
think you might have whopped Jack when he came out from

54o THE NEWCOMES.

his interview '-vith the Dorkings," Kew said j " the poor devil
was so bewildered and weak, that Alfred might have thrashed
him. At other times you would find it more difficult, Barnes
my man." Mr. B. Xewcome resumed his dignity ; said a joke
was a joke and there was quite enough of this one ; which
assertion we may be sure he conscientiously made.

That meeting and parting between the old lovers passed
with a gre?t 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 Xewcome after-
wards i, i; Mr. Belsize, I have to apologize for words which I
used in my heat yesterday, and which I recall and regret, as I
am sure vou do that there should have been anv 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 Pul-
leyn'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 curtsey.

"We have now to wish you good-by, 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-by, Charles. Clara, shake
hands with Captain Belsize. My Lady Dorking, you will
please to give Charles your hand. You have 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. Yon 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 sure the wicked and malicious, and the
uninitiated, had a hundred absurd details. Lady Clara ever
engaged to Captain Belsize ? Fiddle-de-dee ! Everybody
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

THE NFAVCOMES.

341

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 Charles in the Peerage ? Those Peerages are always
wrong. These candid explanations 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 the rooms and
danced with Lord Kew and Mr. Barnes Newcome. All the
society was as gracious and good-humored as possible, and
there was no more question of fainting than of burning down
the Conversation house. But Madame de Cruchecasse'e, and
Madame de Schlangenbad, and those horrid people whom the
men speak to, but whom the women salute with silent curtseys,
persisted in declaring that there was no prude like an English
prude ; and to Dr. Finck's oaths, assertions, explanations, only
replied, with a shrug of their bold shoulders, " Taisez-vous,
Docteur, vous n'e'tes qu'une vieille bete."

Lady Kew was at the rooms, uncommonly gracious. Miss
Ethel took a few turns of the waltz with Lord Kew, but this
nymph looked more farouche than upon ordinary days. Bob
Jones, who admired her hugely, asked leave to waltz with her,
and entertained her with recollections of Give Newcome at
school. He remembered a right in which Clive had been
engaged, and recounted that action to Miss Newcome, who
seemed to be interested. He was pleased to deplore Give's
fancy for turning artist, and Miss Newcome recommended him
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 dead as a stone. The airs
those swells give themselves is enough to make any man turn
republican."

Miss Ethel indeed was haughty, very haughty, and of a dif-
ficult temper. She spared none of her party except her kind
mother, to whom Ethel always was kind, and her father, whom,
since his illnesses, she tended with much benevolence and care.
But she did battle with Lady Kew repeatedly, coming to her
Aunt Julia's rescue, on whom the Countess, as usual, exercised
her powers of torturing. She made Barnes quail before the
shafts of contempt which she flashed at him ; and she did not

342

THE NEWCOMES.

spare Lord Kew, whose good-nature was no shield against hel
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, in
her presence, to soothe and please her. Against Lord Kew
the young girl's anger was most unjust, and the more cruel,
because the kindly young 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 in-
flicted. Her relatives looked surprised at her cruelty, and the
young man himself was shocked in his dignity and best feelings
by his cousin's wanton ill-humor.

Lady Kew fancied she understood the cause of this pee-
vishness, 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 draw-
ings 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 Clive's drawings, lighted a
taper, carried the drawings to the fire-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
Clive 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, but she was scared now, and
dared to use no coarser weapons. " Oh ! " cried Ethel in a
transport, " what a life ours is, and how you buy and sell, and
haggle over your children ! It is not Clive 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 re-
ceive 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 ? "

" M. de C , my dear, is of a noble family," interposed

THE XE WCOMES.

343

Lady Kew ; "when he has given up singing and made his for-
tune, no doubt he 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 un-
blushingly sordid ! We own it. and are proud of it. We bar-
ter 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 un-
kindly ; 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 Turkish 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 re-
volt 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 wealth, than rank, than fine houses and titles. — and
I feel I love these best, — I would give up all to fo'dow him.
But what can I be with my name and parents? I belong to
the world like all the rest of my family. It to 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, dryly.
" These are the fine speeches of schoolgirls. 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
verv 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 dare say 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

544

THE XEIVCOMES.

temper : of after-days I say nothing ; but trials are gCod for all
of us, and he bore his like an angel.''

Lady Kew, too, on this occasion at least, was admirably
good-humored. She also, when it was ne^c^sary, could :
restraint on her temper, and having this match very much to
heart, chose to coax and to soothe her granddaughter rather
than to endeavor to scold and frighten her.

" Why do you desire this marriage so much, grandmamma ? ''
the girl asked. " My cousin :s 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

s ; because I think it is high time that Kew should ranger

himself : because I am sure he will make the best husband, and

/. the prettiest Countess in England." And the old lady,
seldom exhibiting any signs of affection, 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 eider 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. Clive's drawings have been crackling in the fireplace at
her feet, and the last spark of that combustion is twinkling out
unheeded.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

LADY KEW AT THE CONX-RESS.

WHEN Lady Kew heard that Madame d'lvrywas at Baden,
and was informed at once of the French lady's graciousness
towards the Xewcome family, and of her fun* 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 ail her ladyship's family had

THE NEWCOMES.

345

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 j 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 mag-
nanimity 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 cer-
tain 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 everyone 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 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 favorite 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 — lie will go out with her, we sav, 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-humor, how everyone frisks about 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 out to fetch cabs in the rain ! Whereas for you and me,
who have the tempers of angels, and never were known to be
angry or to complain, nobody cares whether we are pleased 01
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 ou: bell, and brings it to us ; our 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

346 THE XEWCOMES.

like, and openly have their friends to supper in the kitchen.
When Lady Kew said Sic zw/o, sicjubeo, I promise you few per-
sons of her ladyship's belongings 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 sur-
rounding neighbors perforce engaged in the quarrel. This was
unluckily the case in the present instance. Lady Kew, unac-
customed 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'lvry, and exploded in various com-
panies 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 ! " said the old lady, shaking
her old fist. And these sentiments being uttered in public,
upon the Promenade, to mutual 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 distinguished prin-
ces, counts, and noblemen in her court, designated as billiard-
markers by the old Countess, returned the lattefs compliments
with pretty speeches of their own. Scandals were dug up re-
specting her ladyship, so old that one would have thought them
forgotten these forty years, — so old that they happened before
most of the Xewcomes now extant were born, and surely, there-
fore, are 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 Ann had received the Duchess's advances. " Leave a
card upon her ! — 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, Ann ? That was the very reason you
should not have come out of your carriage. But you are so

THE XEWCOMES.

347

weak and good-natured, that if a highwayman 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 about 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
lis 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 in 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 clear friends take their leave,
and then comes our turn. My back is at my neighbor's ser-
vice ; as soon as that is turned let him make what faces 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 many 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, and did
not choose to fly. Instead of coaxing and soothing Madame
d'lvry, 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 Bagneres, Madame la Duchesse," the old lady
began on their very 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 gotit des voyages /"

" I come to my family, my dear Duchesse ! "

" How charmed they must be to possess you ! Miladi Ann,

348 THE NEWCOMES.

you must be inexpressibly consoled by the presence of a mother
so tender ! Permit me to present Madame la Comtesse de la
Cruchecassee 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 resemblance to Milor ?
These ladies have enjoyed the hospitalities — the splendors of
Gaunt House. They were of those famous routs of which the
charming Mistress Crawley, la semillante Becki, made part !
How sad the Hotel de Gaunt must be under the present cir-
cumstances ! Have you heard, Miladi, of the charming Mis-
tress Becki ? Monsieur le Due describes her as the most
spirituelle Englishwoman he ever met." The Queen of Scots
turns and whispers her lady of honor, and shrugs, and taps her
forehead. Lady Kew knows that Madame d'lvry 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 Blackball ? 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 Cruchecassee
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 Mon-
sieur de Blackball ? Eh ! 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," cries Lady Kew, losing her temper.

" Is that gracieusete for me ? How much goodness ! This
good Monsieur de Blackball is not very well-bred ; but, for an
Englishman, he is not too bad. I have met with people who
are more ill-bred than Englishmen in my travels."

"And they are?" said Lady Ann, who had been in vain
endeavoring 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 branch of the Newcome family of whom it is our
business to speak now for a little while, bore other results than

THE NEWCOMES. 349

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 com-
binations, 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 front 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 adm.' ation of
her family : for it was a maxim among these folk, that no cne
could manage Ethel but Lady Kew. Barnes said n^ one could
manage his sister but his grandmother. He couldn't, that was
certain. Mamma never tried, and, indeed, wa^ so good-natured,
that rather than ride the filly, she would put thu saddle on her
own back and let the filly 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

35o THE NEWCOMES.

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 content-
ment. 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 Kew's phaeton, and received him certainly not with warmth,
but with 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 the family party at this
interesting juncture. My Lord Rooster found himself surprised,
delighted, subjugated by Miss Newcome, her wit and spirit.
" By Jove, she is a plucky one," his lordship explained. " To
dance 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
humor 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, who was ordinarily exceedingly simple in her attire,
and dressed below the mark of the rest of the world, chose to
appear in a toilette the very grandest and finest which she had
ever assumed. 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 be-
holders. She ecnise'd 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

THE XEWCOMES.

351

Newcome was fit to appear in any party in Fifth 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 New-
come. All our acquaintances were of one mind. Mr. Jones
of England pronounced her stunning j 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 complimented his late com-
panion 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 splendor? this
wonderful toilette ? this dazzling neck and shoulders, whereof
the brightness and beauty blinded the eyes of lookers-on ? She
was dressed as gaudily as an actress of the Varie'te's going to a
supper at the " Trois Freres." " It was Mademoiselle Mabille
en habit de cour," Madame d'lvry 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 Rooster,
was puzzled likewise by Ethel's countenance and appearance.
Little Lady Clara looked like a little schooi-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 en-
gaged. The giil 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 Ann and Barnes. Ethel kept the ball alive by herself
almost. She refused to go home, declining hints and com-
mands 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 d'lvry viewed with such pleasure as might be

35 2 THE HEWCOMES.

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. Angry 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 her-
self as a most reckless and intrepid young flirt, using her eyes
with the most consummate effect, chattering with astounding
gayety, 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 heart with cruel pangs of mortification. The easy young
nobleman has passed many a year of his life in all sorts of
wild company. The chaumiere 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 earlier and purer life, and was
sighing to return to it. Living as he had done amongst the
outcasts, his ideal of domestic virtue was high and pure. He
chose to believe that good women were entirely good. Du-
plicity he could not understand : ill-temper shocked him : wil-
fulness he seemed to fancy belonged only to the profane and
wicked, 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 honor their husbands ; to cherish their
children. Ethel's laugh woke him up from one of those simple
reveries very likely, and then she swept round the ball-room
rapidly to the brazen notes of the orchestra. He never 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 d'lvry remarked his tribulation and gloomy face,
though she took no pleasure at his discomfiture, knowing that
Ethel's behavior caused it.

In plays and novels, and I dare say in real life too some'

THE NEWCOMES. 35^

times, when the wanton heroine chooses to exert her powers of
fascination, and to flirt with Sir Henry or the Captain, the hero,
in a pique, goes off and makes love to somebody else : both
acknowledge their foliy after a while 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 Kew was pleased he laughed, when
he was grieved he 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 gayety, and sportive outbreaks of
wilful humor.

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 provokingly 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 salu-
tation 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 him-
self 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 wonderful roulades as
she lighted her candle and retired to her room. She had had
such a jolly evening ! such famous fun, and, I dare say, (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
enemv utterly, and then regret that you fought,

354 THE NEWCOMES.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE END OF THE CONGRESS OF BADEN.

Mention has been made of an elderly young person from
Ireland, engaged by Madame la Duchesse d'lvry, as companion
and teacher of English for her little daughter. When Miss
O'Grady, as she did sometime afterwards, quitted Madame
d'lvry's family, she spoke with great freedom regarding the be-
havior 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, find-
ing 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 invalu-
able 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 re-
peated 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 shares in Miss
O'Grady's raffles; and Lord Kew, good-natured 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 creditable 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 for
which I have undergone 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 dismissed, bearing away
family secrets in their minds, and revenge in their hearts.

The day after Miss Ethel's feats at the assembly, old Lady
Kew went over to advise her granddaughter, and to give her a

THE A'EWCOMES. 35S

little timely warning about the impropriety of flirtations ; above
all, with such men as are to be found at watering-places, per-
sons who are never seen elsewhere in society. " Remark the
peculiarities of Kew's temper, who never flies into a passion
like you and me, my clear," 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-humor. It is much better, my love, to
be like us," continued the old lady, " to fly out in a rage and
have it over, but que voulez-vous ? 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 administered
her advice, and told her stories with Ethel alone for a listener ;
and in a most edifying manner, she besought Miss Newcome to
mcnager Lord Kew's susceptibilities, as she valued her own
future comfort in life, as well as the happiness of a most amia-
ble 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 grandmother to continue her
sententious advice, while she herself sat tapping her feet on the
floor, and performing the most rapid variations of that air which
is called the Devil's 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 ! For
the past year, what have you been doing ? Every one of you !
my father, my brother, and you yourself, have been filling my
ears with cruel reports against a poor boy, whom you chose to
depict as everything that was dissolute and wicked, when there
was nothing against him : nothing, but that he was poor. Yes,
you yourself, grandmamma, have told me manv and many a
time, that Clive Newcome was not a fit companion for us ;
warned me against his bad courses, and painted him as extrav-
agant, unprincipled, I don't know how bad. How bad ! I
know how good he is ; how upright, generous, and truth-telling:

35 6 THE XEWCOMES,

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 honor 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 eye-glass 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 Ethel's benefit. It was not a worse life than that of a
thousand young men of pleasure, but there were Kew's 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 dTvry's name was not
mentioned in this list, and Lady Kew felt sure that the outrage
came from her.

With real ardor 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 calumniat-
ing 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. " Be-
sides Frank has had no rivals — except — except one young gen-
tleman who has carried his paint-boxes to Italy," says Lady
Kew. " You don't think your dear Colonel's son would leave
such a piece of mischief behind him ? You must act, mv
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 transaction."

" 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 littlo

THE NEWCOMES. 357

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 show 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 lady-
ship will disprove it. Keep them, if you please, for my Aunt
Julia, she is sick and weak, and can't defend herself. I do not
choose to bear abuse from you, or lectures from Lord Kew. He
happened to be 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 fault 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."

Y 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 whilst 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 die 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 spoken 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."

"I don't think he will indeed," said Lady Kew, in a hard
dry voice. " You don't know what you may have done. AYill
you be pleased to ring the bell and order my carriage ? I con-
gratulate you on having performed a most charming morning's
work."

Kthel 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 had just
alluded, he said no single word to her that was not kind, and
just, and gentle. Considering 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

358 THE NEWCOMES.

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 per-
petual revolt at this time against the bondage in which her
family strove to keep her. The very worldly advantages of the
position which they offered 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 tem-
per indulged in. No doubt she saw the justice of Lord Kew's
reproofs. That self-consciousness was not likely to add to her
good-humor. No doubt she was sorry for having shown Lord
Kew 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 modern 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 ?+ once

1 /IE XEWCOMES.

359

stopped by this terrible assault on himself. The letter had
been put in the Baden post-box, and so had come to its desti-
nation. 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 super-
scription or of the wafer which had served to close the note.
He did not choose to caution Ethel as to whether she should
burn 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 again reproved or advised her.

Ethel blushed. " You are very brave and generous, Frank,"
she said, bending her head, " and 1 am captious and wicked."
He felt the hot tear blotting on his hand from his cousin's down-
cast 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 what the girl's feelings were.
Could he have told them, his fate and hers might have been
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 table carving roast-fowls
and distributing the portions to the hungry children.

The assembly of the previous evening had been one of those
which thefcrmier de jeux at Baden beneficiently provides for
the frequenters of the place, and now was to come off a much
more brilliant entertainment, in which poor Clive, who is far
into Switzerland by this time, was to have taken a share. The
Bachelors had agreed to give a ball, one of the last entertain-
ments 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 P^nglish were invited, and the Russians

360 THE NEWCOMES.

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 arm)'. 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 per-
sons who enact minor or greater parts in it. Madame d'lvry
came in a dress of stupendous splendor, 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'lvry said, her rble of ingenue for that
night.

During the brief season in which gentlemen enjoyed the
favor of Mary 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 regrets
that we had not known 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, and the
curtain rose ; and the tragedy, comedy and farce were re-
peated.

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 dTvry perhaps a little ex-
aggerated her heroines' parts ; liking to strike her audiences

THE NEWCOMES, 3d

quickly, and also to change them often. Like good performers,
she Hung 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 Creusa ! Perhaps our poor Lord Kew
had taken the first character in a performance with Madame
d'lvry ; for his behavior in which part it was difficult enough
to forgive him ; but when he appeared at Baden the affianced
husband of one of the most beautiful young creatures in Eu-
rope,— when his relative scorned Madame d'lvry, — 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 pleas-
ures and studies of the young inhabitants of the Latin Quarter.
Pie 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 his 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 in-
cessantly, played roulette whenever he could get a few pieces,
contributed to a small journal, and was especially great in his
hatred of Vhifame Angleterre. Delenda est Carthago was tat-
tooed beneath his shirt-sleeve. Fifine 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. Pie desired to have " Here lies an enemy
of England " engraved upon his early tomb. He was skilled
at billiards and dominoes, adroit in the use of arms, of unques-
tionable courage and fierceness. Mr. Jones of England was
afraid of M. de Castillonnes, and cowered before his scowls
and sarcasms. Captain Blackball, the other English aide-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 l'Angleterre ! " His family
were grocers at Bordeaux, and his father's name was M. Ca-
basse. Cabasse had married a noble in the revolutionary times ;
and the son at Paris called himself Victor Cabasse de Castil-
lonnes ; then Victor C. de Castillonnes ; then M. de Castil-

362 THE XEWCOMES.

lonnes. 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 dramatized, a terrific legend
describing the circumstances, 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 jille, of course, died of hopeless love for the con-
quering 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 Tvifame Albion was yet unappeased.
On beholding Miss Xewcome, Victor had fancied a resemblance
between her and Agnes de Calverley, the blanche Miss of his
novel and drama, and cast an eye of favor upon the young
creature. He even composed verses in her honor (for I pre
sume that the " Miss Betti " and the Princess Crimhilde of the
poems which he subsequently published, were no other than
Miss Xewcome, and the Duchess, her rival). He had been one
of the lucky gentlemen who had danced with Ethel on the pre-
vious evening. On the occasion of the ball he came to her with
a high-flown compliment, and a request to be once more al
lowed to waltz with her — a request to which he expected a
favorable answer, thinking, no doubt, that his wit. his powers of
conversation, and the amour qui jlambait 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 wofk 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 Xewcome 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 appear-
ance 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 dTvry upon this evening, and,
far from shunning the Duchesse's presence or being rude to

THE XE1VC0MES 363

her, as on former occasions, was entirely smiling and good-
humored. Lady Kew, too, thought there had been a reconcili-
ation 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, in-
duced 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 had failed in its effect, as Frank left the room with
his cousin, Lady Kew gayly hinted, "that the young earl was
aux petits soins wirh Miss Ethel ; that she was sure her old
friend, the Due d'lvry. would be glad to hear that his godson
was about 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 edify-
ing. 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 twirled
round the room upon that gentleman's arm, wafting odors as
she moved, her pink silks, pink feathers, pink ribbons, 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 d'lvry 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 gayly. in spite of the absence of these
respectable personages.

Being one of the managers of the entertainment. Lord Kew
returned to it after conducting Lady Ann and her daughter to
their carriage, and now danced with great vigor and with his
usual kindness, selecting those ladies whom other waltzers re-
jected 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
hvpocrisy 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 family, never lost a chance of enjoying her

364

THE XEWCOMES.

favorite recreation. " Look with what camel my lord waltzes,"
said M. Victor to Madame d'lvry. whose slim waist he had the
honor of embracing to the same music. " What man but an
Englishman would ever select such a dromedary ? "

"Avantde se marier," said Madame d'lvry, "il faut avouer
que my lord se permet de"normes distractions."

" My lord marries himself! And when and whom ? " cries
the Duchesse's partner.

'• ZMiss Xewcome. Do you not approve of his choice ? I
thought the eyes of Stenio (the Duchess called Mr. Victor,
Stenio.) looked with some favor 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 ?
Tender young flowers, are we not torn from our convent gardens,
and 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-born infant at
its birth. Hope ! It smiled at me in my little convent cham-
ber, 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 fire, 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. " Oh, 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 waist, (she called herself a fain-; 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
neighboring bench, luckily : but there was a laugh at the ex-

THE NEWCOMES. 365

pense of Stcnio and the Queen of Scots — and Lord Kew,
settling his panting partner on to a seat, came up to make ex-
cuses 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 ! " 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, curl-
ing 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 shrug-
ged 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!" cried Stenio;
" and everywhere where you will them."

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
everywhere," said Stenio to M. de Florae, who was standing
by and witnessed the scene. " Is he simply bete, or is he pol-
troon as well ? I believe him to be both.'1

" Silence, Victor ! " cried Florae, seizing his arm, and draw-
ing him away. " You know me, and that I am neither one nor
the other. Believe my word, that my Lord Kew wants neither
courage or wit ! "

" Will you be my witness, Florae ? " continues the other.

" To make him your excuses ? yes. It is you who have in-
sulted—"

" 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 Southrou

366

THE NEIVCOMES.

" I shall have the honor 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 Rooster
were pacing the room apart from the gamblers.

My Lord Rooster, at something which Kew said, looked
puzzled, and said, " Pooh, stuff, damned little Frenchman !
Confounded nonsense ! "

" I was searching you, Milor ! " said Madame d'lvry, in a
most winning tone, tripping behind him with her noiseless little
feet. " Allow me a little word. Your arm ! You used to give
it me once, mon nlleul ! I hope you think nothing of the rude-
ness of M. de Castillonnes ; 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
Castillonnes' rudeness.

" I am so glad ! These heroes of the salle d'armes have
not the commonest manners. These Gascons are always flam-
berge 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 ? "

" Because I admire you," said her interlocutor, with a bow.
" I have never seen Madame la Duchesse to such advantage as
to-day."

•'You speak in enigmas! 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 filleul is going to marry the fairest of all
Englishwomen ; and to turn hermit in the country, and orator
in the Chamber of Peers. You have wit ! ah sir — 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
pecple who were there, and who beheld them dancing, could
not refrain from clapping their hands at the sight of this
couple.

THE Kl'.WCOMliS.

367

The Duchesse danced as if she was bitten by that Neapoli-
tan 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, 'i
glances rather confused than charmed him.. But the bystanders
were pleased ; they thought it so good-hearted of the Duclv
after the little quarrel, to make a public avowal of reconcilia-
tion !

Lord Rooster looking on, at the entrance of the dancing
room, over Monsieur de Florae's shoulder, said, " It's all right 1
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,,j
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 ! "

"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
re-establish it for this woman."

" There is one in the next room," said Kew with a laugh.
" Come, Yicomte, 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 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 in-
creased ; indeed the worthy Vicomte wanted a turn of luck in
his favor. On one occasion he returned with a grave lace, say

368 THE NEWCOMES.

ing to Lord Rooster, " She has the other one in hand. We're a
going to see." "Trente-six encor! 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 mus-
tache.

" Fi, Monsieur, que vous sentez le tabac ! je vous le de'fends
entendez-vous, Monsieur ? "

" Pourtant, I have seen the day when Madame la Duchesse
did not disdain a cigar," said Victor. " If the odor incom-
modes, 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 moite, 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

LAYING A TRAIN

THE NEWCOMES. 369

one of the basest of men, my good cousin, M. de 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—"

k' 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 always
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 be-
holding 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.

M Ah, Victor, it is not him, but you that I would save," said
the Duchess. And the people round about, and the Duchess
herself afterwards 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 enter-
tainment, 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 eyes scowl-
ing at him from a distant table, he sent a waiter with a cham-
pagne bottle to his late opponent, and lifted his glass as a
friendly challenge. The waiter carried the me^sa^e to M.

24/

37o THE NEWCOMES.

: r. who, when he heard it turned up his glass, and folded
his arms in a stately manner. " M. de Castillonnes dit qu'il
refuse. Milor," said the waiter, rather scared. * He charged
j bring that message to Milor."' Florae ran across to the
iBgiy Gascon. It was not while at Madame dTvry's table that
Lord' Kew sent his challenge and received his reply ; his duties

:eward had earned him away from that pretty early.

Meanwhile the glimmering dawn peered into the windows

he refreshment-room, and behold, the sun broke in and
scared all the 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 dTvry his arm, and was leading her out ; M. de
Castillonnes 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 endeavoring to make him hear reason. The
Gascon was furious ; he vowed that Lord Kew had struck him.
u By the tomb of my mother."' he bellowed. ''I swear I will

have his blood ! " Lord Rooster was bawling out — " D

him, earn- him to bed, and shut him up ; " which remarks Vic-
tor did not understand, or two victims would doubtless have
been sacrified on his mamma's mausoleum.

When Kew came back (as he was only too sure to do>. the
Gascon rushed forward with a glove in his hand, and hav

in audience of smokers round about him. made a furious
:h 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, tak-
ing his cigar out of his mouth. M 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 :

THE NEWCOMES.

.37*

u I declare that my Lord Kew has acted with great for-
bearance, and under the most brutal provocation — the most
brutal provocation, entendez-vous, M. Cabasse," 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 Rooster, laconically.

" Ah, Roosterre ! ceci n'est pas pour rire," Florae cried
sadly, as they both walked away with Lord Kew ; "J wish that
first blood was all that was to be shed in this quarrel."

" Gaw ! how he did go down ! " cried Rooster, convulsed
with laughter.

" I am 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 peJe claudo. It was with all his heart the
contrite young man said "God forgive me." He would take
what was to follow as the penalty of what had gone before.

" Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas immolat, mon pauvre Kiou,"
said his French friend. And Lord Rooster, whose classical
education had been much neglected, turned round and said,
" Hullo, mate, what ship'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 linden 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 honor, they
would assuredly be let to enter without passports.

Lady Ann and Lady Kew heard that the gentlemen after
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 ha
was now lying.

372 THE NEIVCOMES.

CHAPTER XXXV.

ACROSS THE ALPS.

Our discursive muse must now take her place in the little
britzska in which Clive Xewcome and his companions are
travelling, and cross the Alps in that vehicle, beholding the
snows on St. Gothard, and the beautiful region through which
the Ticino rushes on its way to the Lombard lakes, and the
great corn-covered plains of the Milanese ; and that royal city,
with the cathedral for its glittering crown, only less magnificent
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 Eaden. to the gate of Milan, he
describes as beautiful ; and doubtless, the delightful scenes
through which the young man went, had their effect in sooth-
ing any private annoyances with which his journey commenced.
The aspect of nature, in that fortunate route which he took, is
so noble and cheering, that our private affairs and troubles
shrink away abashed before that serene splendor. O 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 ! What
young Clive's private cares were I knew 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 Rome, with his friend Rid-
ley 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
the day, whose birth-place 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. Clive Newcome, and his

THE XEUTOMES.

373

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, will 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 Clive 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 themselves out to artists
at so many pauls per sitting ; but he never passed a Roman's
door except to buy a cigar or to purchase a handkerchief.
Thither, as elsewhere, we earn' 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 Colosseum 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 of 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, parvenus, toadies
imported from Pelgravia ; 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-jacketed, jovial
colony of the artists, who have their own feasts, haunts, and
amusements by the side of their aristocratic compatriots, with
whom but few of them have the honor to mingle.

J. J. and Clive 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

374 THE NEWCOMES.

painters seem one and all to reject, preferring to depict theii
quack brigands. Contadini. Pifferari. and the like, because
Thompson painted them before Jones, and Jones before Thomp-
son, and so on. backwards into time. There were the children
at play, the women huddled round the steps of the open docr-

5, 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, taitered, and majestic. There came the red troops, the
black troops, the blue troops of the army of priests ; the snuffy

::ients 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 panto-
mime ; coach with prodigious emblazonments 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

: is grand to some persons' eyes appears grotesque to
others : and for certain skeptical 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 splendor celestial, and, of course, straightway converted
him. My friend bade me look at the picture, and, kneeling
down beside me. I know prayed with ail 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 blinking
candles, a church hung with tawdry strips of red and white
calico. The good, kind W — went away, humbly 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 Ins all
to the poor.

M Our friend J. J., very different to myself in so many re-
spects, so superior in ail, is immensely touched by these cere-
monies. They seem to answer to some spiritual want of his

THE XEWCOMES.

375

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 gray 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 splendor. 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 every 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
population 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, noise-
lessly 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
Smithfield, where Protestants and Catholics have taken their
turn to be roasted.

" You pass through an avenue of angels and saints on the
bridge acns> Tiber all in action ; their great wings seem clank-
ing, their marble garments clapping \ St. Michael, descending
upon the Fiend, lias been caught and bronziried just as he
lighted on the Castle of St. Angelo, his enemy doubtless fell
crushing through the roof and so downwards. 1 Ie is as natural
as blank verse — that bronze angel — set, rhythmic, grandiose.
You'll see, some day or other, he's a great sonnet, sir, I'm sure
of that. Milton wrote in bronze : 1 am sure Virgil polished
off his ' Georgics ' in marble — sweet calm shapes ! exquisite

376 THE XEIVCOMES.

harmonies of line ! As for the ' yEneid ; ' that, sir, I considei
to be so many bas-reliefs, mural ornaments which affect 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 ! Ours did as we came in at night from Civita Vecchia,
and saw a great ghostly darkling dome rising solemnly up into
the gray night, and keeping us 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 facade of
the church is ugly and obtrusive. As long as the dome over-
awes, that facade is supportable. You advance towards it —
through, oh, such a noble court ! with fountains flashing up to
meet the sunbeams j and right and left of you two sweeping
half-crescents of great columns ; but you pass by the courtiers
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 Rome especially, when every
man of friendly heart, who writes himself English and Protes-
tant, 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 neighbor
cliffs on clear days : one must wish sometimes that there were
no stormy gulf between us ; and from Canterbury' to Rome 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
commonplaces of Protestant satire. Lo ! yonder inscription,
which blazes round the dome of the temple, so great and glori-
ous it looks like heaven almost, and as if the words were
written in stars, it proclaims to all the world that this is Pc
and on this rock the Church shall be built, against which 1
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 realized 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 commis-
sioners of heaven, here holding their court a hundred years

THE NEWCOMES.

377

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 ? Is not 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 an-
other 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 ! there's the Channel always between us ;
and we no more believe in the miracles of St. Thomas of Can-
terbury, than that the bones of His Grace John Bird, who sits
in St. Thomas's chair presently, will work wondrous cures in
the year 2,000 : that his statue will speak, or his portrait by Sir
Thomas Lawrence wiU wink.

" So, you see, at those grand ceremonies which the Roman
Church exhibits at Christmas, 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
splendor of old-world ceremony, there's an ocean flowing ; and
yonder old statue of Peter might have been Jupiter again, sur-
rounded 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-pos-
sessed boy, in the lower part of the figure of eight (a stolen boy
too), jars the whole music of the composition. On Michael
Angelo's 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 clays 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

37S

THE NEWCOMES.

Limbo. I like a thousand and a thousand times better to think
of Raphael's loving spirit. As he looked at women and chil-
dren, 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

- tones and talk that his voice is so delicious. Sweet poetry
and music, and tender hymns drop from him : he lifts his pen-
cil, and something gracious 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 gray paper, or
a little fresco, bearing his mark — and over all the brawl and the
throng you recognize his sweet presence. 1 1 would like to
have been Giulio Romano/ J. T. says (who does not care for

:o's pictures), 'because then I would have been Raphael's
favorite 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
Gandishite. He is a genre and portrait painter by the name of
Haggard. He hates J. J. because Lord Fareham, who is here,
has given J. J. an order; and he hates me, because I wear a
clean shirt, and ride a cock-horse.

'• I wish you could come to our mess at the ' Lepre.' It's
such a dinner ! such a tablecloth ! such a waiter ! such a com-
pany ! Even.- man has a beard and a sombrero : and you
would fancy we were a band of brigands. We are regaled with
woodcocks, snipes, wild swans, ducks, robins, and owls and
- - - ->. for dinner ; and with three pauls' worth of wines
and victuals the hungriest has enough, even Claypole the
sculptor. Did you ever know him ? He used to come to the
1 Haunt.' He looks like the Saracen's head with his beard
now. There is a French table still more hairy than ours, a
German table, an American table. After dinner we go and
have coffee and mezzo-caldo at the ' Cafe Greco ' over the way.
Mezzo-caido is not a bad drink ; a little rum, a slice of fresh
citron, lots of pounded sugar, and boiling water for the rest.
Here in various parts of the cavern (it is a vaulted low place)

THE AEWCOMES. 379

the various nations have their assigned quarters, and \vc drink
our coffee and strong waters, and abuse Guido, or Rubens, or
Bernini, scion hs gouts, and blow such a cloud of smoke as
would make Warrington's lungs dilate with pleasure. We get
very good cigars for a bajocco and a half — that is very good
for us, cheap tobacconalians j and capital when you have got
no others. M'Collop is here : he made a great figure at a car-
dinal's reception in the tartan of the M'Collop. He is splendid
at the tomb of the Stuarts, and wanted to cleave Haggard clown
to the chine with his claymore for saying that Charles Edward
Was often drunk.

" Some of us have our breakfast at the ' Cafe' Creco ' at
dawn. The birds are very early birds here ; and you'll see
the great sculptors — the old Dons you know who look down on
us young fellows — at their coffee here when it is yet twilight.
As I am a swell, and have a servant, J. J. and I breakfast at
our lodgings. I wish you could see Terribile our attendant,
and Ottavia our old woman ! You will see both of them on
the canvas one day. When he hasn't blacked our boots and
has got our breakfast, Terribile the valet-de-cbambre becomes
Terribile the model. He has figured on a hundred canvases
ere this, and almost ever since he was born. All his family
were models. His mother having been a Venus, is now a
Witch of Endor. His father is in the patriarchal line : he has
himself done the cherubs, the shepherd-boys, and now is a
grown man and ready as a warrior, a pifferaro, a capuchin, or
what you will.

tet the coffee and the 'Cafe' Greco5 we all go to the
Life Academy. After the Life Academy, those who belong to
the 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
their own — and better fun than the tea-party fun too. Jack
Screwby has a night once a week, sardines and ham for supper,
and a cask of Marsala in the corner. Your humble servant
entertains on Thursdays : which is Lady Fitch's night too ;
and I Hatter myself some of the London dandies who are pass-
ing the winter here, prefer the cigars and humble liquors which
we dispense, to tea and Miss Fitch's performance on the piano-
forte.

•• \\ hat is that I read in Galignani about Lord K — and an
affair of honor at Baden ? Is it my dear kind jolly Kew with
whom some one has quarrelled ? I know those who will be
even more grieved than 1 am, should anything happen to the
best of good fellows. .A great friend of Lord Kew's, Jack

380 THE XEWCOMES.

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 befall at all. So my amiable cousin, Barnes Xewcome
Esq., has married my Lady Clara Pulley n ; 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 off his marriage with
Miss Xewcome. They have been engaged you know ever so
long. — And — do, do write to me and tell me something about
London. It's 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 affection-
ately

" Clive Xewcome."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

IN' WHICH If. DE FLORAC IS PROMOTED.

However much Madame la Duchesse d'lvry was disposed
to admire and praise her own conduct in the affair which ended
so unfortunately for poor Lord Kew, between whom and the
Gascon her Grace vowed that she had done everything in her
power to prevent a battle, the old Duke, her lord, was, it ap-
peared, by no means delighted with his wife's behavior, nay,
visited her with his very sternest displeasure. Miss O'Grady,
the Duchess's companion, and her little girl's instructress, at
this lime resigned her functions in the Ivry family ; it is pos-
sible that in the recriminations consequent upon thegovenv
dismissal, the Miss Irelandaise. in whom the family had put so
much confidence, divulged stories unfavorable to her patron
ess. and caused the indignation of the Duke her husband.
Between Florae and the Duchess 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 put
for fresh pistols and proposed to engage Castillonnes when

THE NEWCOMES. 381

his gallant principal fell ; and though a second duel was luckily
averted as murderous and needless, M. de Florae never hesi-
tated 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 Duchess had shot le petit
Kiou as effectually as if she had herself fired the pistol at his
breast. Murderer, poisoner, Brinvilhers, a hundred 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 Duchess's
doings, farther than as they relate to that most respectable
ish family. When the Duke took his wife into the country,
Florae never hesitated to say that to live with her was danger-
ous for the old man, and to cry out to his friends of the Boule-
vards or the Jockey Club, " Ma parole d'honneur, cette femme
le tuera ! "'

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 hus-
bands to Hades ? The wife of a chimney-sweep or a journey-
man butcher comes shuddering before a police magistrate —
her head 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 busi-
ness — to the gin-bottle — to delirium tremens — to perdition.
Low Street, and policemen, and the newspaper reporters,
have cognizance and a certain jurisdiction over these vulgar
matrimonial crimes; but in politer company how many murder-
ous assaults are there by husband or wife — where the woman
is not felled by the actual list, though she staggers 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, slie 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
jealous}-, his hap] 'angled, his whole life embittered

poisoned, destroyed ! it you were acquainted with the history

382

THE NEIVCOMES.

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 20 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 iewels 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 paren
thesis we are wandering ever so far away from M. le Due and
Madame la Duchesse dTvry, and from the vivacious Florae's
statement regarding his kinsman, that that woman will 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 vivcur
for at least three-score years of his life. As Prince de Mont-
contour in his father's time before the Revolution, during the
Emigration, even after the Restoration, M. le Due had vecu
with an extraordinary vitality. He had gone through good and
bad fortune : extreme poverty, display and splendor, affairs of
love, affairs of honor, and of one disease or another a man
must die at the end. After the Baden business — and he had
dragged off his wife to Champagne — the Duke became greatly
broken \ he brought his little daughter to a convent at Paris,
putting the child under the special guardianship of Madame
de Florae, with whom and with whose family in these latter
days the old chief of the house effected a complete reconcilia-
tion. The Duke was now forever 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 Vicomte used to say ;
•* the poor old Duke he cry — ma parole d'honneur, he cry and
I cry too when he comes to recount to my poor mother, whose
sainted heart is the asile of all griefs, a real Hotel Dieu, my
word the most sacred, with beds for all the afflicted, with sweet
words, like Sisters of Charity, to minister to them : — I cry, mon
bon Pendennis, when this vieillard tells his stories about his
wife and tears his white hairs to the feet of my mother."

When the little Antoinette was separated by her father from
her mother, the Duchesse dTvry, it might have been expected
that that poetess would have dashed off a few -more cris deT&mei
shrieking according 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 NEWCOMES. ^

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 ertless way, " Pourquoi ? Mamma
used never 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, oh out, she
gave me tapes ! 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 Ma-
dame la Duchesse d'lvry did not weep, even in print, for the
loss of her pretty little Antoinette; besides, she was engaged,
at the time, by other sentimental occupations. A young grazier
of their neighboring town, of an aspiring mind and remarkable
poetic talents, engrossed the Duchesse's platonic affections at
this juncture. When he had sold his beasts at market, he
would ride over and read Rousseau and Schiller with Madame
la Duchesse, who formed him. His pretty young wife was ren-
dered miserable by all these readings, but what could the poor
little ignorant countrywoman 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
supernc enough ; but I fancy a fish's tail is flapping under her
fine flounces, and a forked fin 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 iS — , than ap-
peared round about St. George's, Hanover Square, in the
beautiful month of June succeeding that September when so
many of our friends the Newcomes were assembled at Baden.
Those Haunting carriages, powdered and favored footmen, were
in attendance upon members of the Newcome family and their
connections, who were celebrating what is called a marriage in
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 Sentinel and
Independent^ and the Dorking Intelligencer and C/i an tie/ere Weekly
Gazette? There they are, all printed at full length sure enough ;
the name of the bride, Lady Clara Pulleyn, the lovely and
accomplished daughter of the Earl and Countess of Dorking ;
of the beautiful bridesmaids, the Ladies Henrietta Belinda
Adelaide Pulleyn, Miss Newcome, Miss Alice Newcome, Miss
Maude Newcome, Miss Anna Maria (Hobson) Newcome \ and

3S4 THE NEWCOMES.

all the other persons engaged in the ceremony. It was per-
formed by the Right Honorable and Right Reverend Viscount
Gallowglass, Bishop of Ballyshannon, brother-in-law to the
bride, assisted by the Honorable and Reverend Hercules
O'Grady, his lordship's Chaplain, and the Reverend John
Bulders, Rector of St. Mary's. Xewcome. 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 Chan-
tilly 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.
Gunter with the most delicious taste and the sweetest hymeneal
allusions.

Xo 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 sen-ice began, a woman of vulgar
appearance and disorderly aspect, accompanied by two scared
children who took no part in the disorder occasioned by their
mother's proceeding, except by their tears and outcries to aug-
ment the disquiet, made her appearance in one of the pews of
the church, was noted there by persons in the vestry, was re-
quested 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 boys was led away. They understood very well
who the personage was who had come to disturb the matrimonial
ceremony ; it did not commence until Mrs. De Lacy 1 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 corresponding grin, as
the woman with sobs, and wild imprecations, and frantic appeals,
made her way through the splendid crowd, escorted by her
aides-de-camp in blue. I dare say her little history was dis-
cussed at many a dinner-table that day in the basement story of
several fashionable houses. I know that at clubs in St. James's
the facetious little anecdote was narrated. A young fellow came
to Bays's after the marriage breakfast and mentioned the cip-

THE NEWCORfES. 385

cumstance with funny comments ; although the Morning J'osf,
in describing this affair m high life, naturally omitted all men-
tion 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 equip;-
and footmen, brass-bands, brilliant toilettes, and wedding fa-
vors, asked how it was that Lord Kew did not assist at Barnes
Newcome's marriage ; other persons in society inquired wag-
gishly 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 Hombourg 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 succes-
sion 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 i renchman, and a narrow squeak for his
life. He had turned Roman 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 Montcontour, who, with his
princess, figured at this noble marriage ? There was a Mont-
contour, the Due dTvry'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 durin:',
the Emigration, and when he was called Prince de Montcontour,
the title of the eldest son of the family. Ivry was dead, having
buried his son before him, and having left only a daughter b\
that young woman whom he married, and who led him such a
life. Who was this present Montcontour ?

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 Bar'
come's marriage, there came to England, and to our 1
apartment in the Temple, a gentleman bringing a letter of
recommendation from our dear young ('live, win. said that the

25

3S6

THE XE V/COMES.

bearer, the Vicomte de Florae, was a c^reat friend of bis, and of
the Colonel's, who had known his family from boyhood. A
friend of our Clive and our Colonel was sure of a welcome in
Lamb Court ; we gave him the hand of hospitality, the 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
ire, mafot, the little whites baitcs elicited his profound satis-
faction) ; in a word, did our best to honor 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 honor him — would we not do our utmost in behalf of any
stranger who came recommended to us by Thomas Xewcome's
good word ? So Florae was straightway admitted to our com-
panionship. We showed him the town, and some of the modest
pleasures thereof; we introduced him to the " Haunt," and as-
tonished him by the company which he met there. Between
Brent's *; Deserter " and Mark Wilder's " Garryowen," Florae
sang—

"Tiens, void ma pipe, voiia mon bri — quet ,
Et quand la Tulipe fait le noir tra — jet
Que tu sois la seule dans le regi — raent
Avec ia brule-gueuie, de ton cher z'a— mant ! "

to the delight of Tom Sarjent, who, though he only partially
comprehended 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 Colonel's sake.

The Vicomte pronounced himself strongly in favor of the
blanche Miss, little Rosey 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 ringers, 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-humor. If the Vicomte gave us to understand
presently that Rosey 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 unfavorable 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.

THE XK 1 1 'COMES. 387

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, cheerfully engage in our little parties :
his Lodgings in the neighborhood 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, that
we were made aware of the Vicomte's little temporary ca-
lamity ; and, as we became more intimate with him, he ac-
quainted us, with great openness, with the history of all his
fortunes. He described energetically that splendid run of luck
which had set in at Baden with Clive's loan • his winnings, at
that fortunate period, had carried him through the winter with
considerable brilliancy, but Bouillotte and Mademoiselle Atala,
of the Varictes, (une ogresse, man clier ! who devours thirty of
our young men every year in her cavern, in the Rue de
Bre'da !) had declared against him, and the poor Vicomte's
pockets were almost empty when he came to London.

He was amiably communicative 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 Varie'tes,
He would then (in conversation) introduce us to Madame de
Florae, nee Higg, of Manchesterre. His prattle was incessant,
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 pecuniar}' aid. He disappeared at dinner-time into
the mysterious purlieus of Leicester Square, and dark ordi-
naries only frequented by Frenchmen. As we walked with him
in the Regent Street precincts, he would exchange marks of
recognition with many dusky personages, smoking bravos, and
whiskered refugees of his nation. " That gentleman," he
would say, " who has done me the honor to salute me, is a
coiffeur of the most celebrated ; he forms the rfeliccs of our
table-d'hote. ' Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur ! ' We are
friends, though not of the same opinion. Monsieur is a re-
publican of the most distinguished ; conspirator of profession.

3«S

THE XEWCOMES.

and at this time engaged in constructing an infernal machine
to the address of his Majesty, Louis Philippe, King of the
French. Who is my friend with the scarlet beard and the
white paletot ? My good Warrington ! 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 sufficient-
ly 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.

However threadbare in his garments, poor in purse, and
eccentric in morals our friend was, his manners were always
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 bil-
liards with the first comer ; that he had a passion for the gam-
bling-house ; that he was a loose and disorderly nobleman ; but,
in whatever company he found himself, a certain kindness,
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 mananfs impertinence or familiar-
ity as haughtily as his noble ancestors ever did at -the Louvre,
at Marli, or Versailles. He declined to obtemperer to his land-
lady'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 Gandish and other painters have
exercised 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-d'hote had
grown too dear for him.

As we know from Gandislvs 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 toasting-
fork and resumed the sceptre ; so in the case of Florae, two
humble gentlemen, inhabitants of Lamb Court, and members

THE NEWCOMES. 389

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 Montcontour. Florae had informed us of the death
of his cousin the Due d'lvry, by whose demise the Yicomte'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, domains, and appurtenances, had been
lopped off by the Revolution. M Monsieur le Comte," Florae
says, " has not wished to change his name at his age j 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 in-
habit 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 rank and dignities. The idea of the Prince pur-
chasing penny cigars ; of the Prince mildly expostulating with
his landlady regarding the rent ; of his punting for half-crowns
at a neighboring hell in Air Street, whither the poor gentleman
desperately ran when he had money in his pocket, tickled
George's sense of humor. It was Warrington who gravely
saluted the Vicomte, and compared him to King Alfred, on
that afternoon when we happened to call upon him and found
him engaged in cooking his modest dinner.

We were bent upon an excursion to Greenwich, and on
having our friend's company on that voyage, and we induced
the Vicomte to forego his bacon, and be our guest for once.
George Warrington chose to indulge in a great deal of ironical
pleasantry in the course of the afternoon's excursion. As we
went clown 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,
which palace FJorac informed us was built by Queen Eliza-
beth, 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 Xewcome came to dine al
Greenwich on the same day when our little party took place.

39 o THE NEWCOMES.

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, War-
rington gravely thanking him for the great honor which he
conferred upon us by volunteering to take a place at our table.
Barnes drank freely and was good enough to resume his ac-
quaintance with Monsieur de Florae, whom he perfectly well
recollected at Baden, but had thought 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 with such admirable self-
possession as Barnes Newcome. When, over our dessert, by
which time all tongues were unloosed and each man talked
gayly, 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 smoke his cigar on
the terrace. Barnes then freely uttered his sentiments regarding
him, which were not more favorable 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 ad-
venturer, a pauper, a blackleg, a regular Greek ; he had heard
Florae was of old family, that was true : but what of that ? He

was only one of those d French counts ; everybody was a

count in France, 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

THE NEWCOMES. 39i

illustrious friend the barber-surgeon ; it was illustrious before
the house, ay, or the pagoda of Kevv was in existence." And
he went on to describe how Florae, by the demise of his kins-
man, was now actually Prince de Montcontour, 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 description of Florae's good
qualities, high birth, and considerable patrimony j Barnes
looked quite amazed and scared at these announcements, then
'aligned and declared once more that Warrington was chaffing
him.

" As sure as the Black Prince was lord of Aquitaine — as
sure as the English were masters of Bordeaux — and why did we
ever lose the country ? " cries George, filling himself a bumper,
— M 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 lan-
guage, in which he lauded his constancy and good humor 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 honi 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 Xewcome 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, adressing Florae in
French, on which he piqued himself, " que vous avez un tel
manche a votre nom, et que vous ne l'usez pas ? "

Florae shrugged his shoulders ; he at first did not under-
stand 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 out laugh-
ing to Moncontour's nose ! " " How droll you English are ! '*

39 2 THE NEWCOMES.

this acute French observer afterwards said, laughing, and re-
calling 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 there : Barnes offered the Prince
the vacant seat in the 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 Xewcome's wedding, let us show how it was that Barnes'
first cousin, the Earl of Kew, did not attend that ceremony.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

RETURNS TO LORD KEW.

We do not propose to describe at length or with precision
the circumstances of the duel which ended so unfortunately for
young Lord Kew. The meeting was inevitable : after the pub-
lic 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 English-
man, 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 neighbor'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 honor ; stood
with an undaunted scowl before his enemy's pistol ; and dis-
charged his own and brought down his opponent with grim
satisfaction, and a comfortable conviction afterwards that he
had acted en gala/it homme. (i It was well for this Milor that
he fell at the first shot, my dear.'' the exemplary' young French-
man remarked ; " a second might have been yet more fatal to
him j ordinarily I am sure of my coup, and you conceive that in

THE XRU'COMES. 393

an affair so grave it was absolutely necessary that one or other
should remain on the ground." Nay, should M. de Kew re-
cover from his wound, it was M. de Castillonnes' intention to
propose a second encounter between himself and that noble-
man. 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 for-
tunately to be not far from him when he received his wound,
and who came with all the eagerness of love to watch by his
bedside.

We have said that Lord Kew's mother, Lady YValham, and
her second son were staying at Hombourg, when the Earl'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 pro-
duce the wrath, pain, and humiliation which their coming
together always occasioned. It was Lord Kewr who bade
Rooster 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, clear," he said,
" and you know I never would have fired upon the poor French-
man." The fond mother allowed no sign of terror or grief to
appear upon her face, so as to disturb her first-born and dar-
ling ; but, no doubt, she prayed by his side as such 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 brother 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 bedside, and swore
Frank had always been the best fellow, the best brother, the
kindest heart, the warmest friend in the world. Love — pi
— repentance, thus met over the young man's bed. Anxious
and humble hearts, his own the least anxious and the most
humble, awaited the dread award of life or death ; and the

394 THE NEWCOMES.

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
the novelist's province. Who is he, that he should assume the
divine's office, or turn his desk into a preacher'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
she had used in the lad's early days, the tutors and directors
she had set about him, the religious studies and practices to
which she would have subjected him, had served only to vex
and weary the young pupil, and to drive his high spirit into re-
volt. 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 catechist yawns over his reverence's dis-
course, who knows but it is the doctor's vanity which is en-
raged, and not heaven which is offended ? It may have been,
in the differences which took place between her son and her,
the good Lady Walham never could comprehend the lad's side
of the argument; or how his protestantism against her doctrines
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 ; the fortitude with
which he suffered the surgeons dealings with his wounds ; the
widowed woman had an opportunity to admire with exquisite
thankfulness the generous goodness of her son ; and, in those
hours, those sacred hours passed in her own chamber, of prayers,
fears, hopes, recollections, and passionate maternal love, wrest-
ling with fate for her darling's life, no doubt the humbled crea-

THE NEWCOMES.

395

turc came to acknowledge that her own course regarding him
had been wrong ; and, even more for herself than for him, im-
plored forgiveness.

For some time George Barnes had to send but doubtful and
melancholy bulletins to Lady Kew and the Newcome family at
Baden, who were all greatly moved and affected by the acci-
dent which had befallen poor Kew. Lady Kew broke out in
wrath and indignation. We may be sure the Duchesse d'lvry
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
Duchesse 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 hei
way to her daughter's residence, she met the Duchesse d'lvry,
who saluted her with a demure curtsey and a commonplace ex-
pression of condolence. The Queen of Scots was surrounded
by the chief part of her court, saving, of course, MM. C as til-
lonnes 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 ! "
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 have you killed ; do you heai
me ? " and she hobbled on her way. The household to which
she went was in terrible agitation ; the kind Lady Ann fright-
ened 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-la-Chapelle, his physicians dreading a paralytic
attack ; and Madame dTvry'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 the
Duchesse asked, with some emotion, " Had there been a
fresh bulletin from Kehl ? "

396 THE NEWCOMES.

" 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 after-
wards 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 the 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 Residenz, he was
pronounced in a fit condition for easy travelling in rather a
brief period after his attack, and it was determined to transport
him to Mannheim, and thence by water to London and New-
come.

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 Kew 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 Clive, no doubt, to the young nurse in her sick-
room. Manly and generous, full of tenderness and affection,
as those letters surely were, they could give but little pleasure
to the young lady — indeed, only add to her doubts and pain.

She had told none of her friends as yet of the. e last words
of Kew's, which she interpreted as a farewell un the young
nobleman's part. Had she told them they very likely would
not have understood Kew's meaning as she did, and persisted

FRENCH CONDOLENCE.

THE NEWCOMES. 397

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 man:
had been put aside. Did she love him ? She felt such a kind
pity for his misfortune, such an admiration for his genei
gallantry, such a remorse for her own wayward conduct
cruel behavior towards this most honest, and kindiy, and affec-
tionate gentleman, that the sum of regard which she could

tow 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 left for the daily demands of after life. Oh
me ! for the day when the bank account is closed, and the cup-
board 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 the 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 Give 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
hei eves 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 poor Give's carriage drove away.

In a mood of more Chan 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

39S

THE NEWCOMES.

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 but small disquiet, and who having survived
her ier, her husband, her son, and witnessed their lord-

ship's respective demises with perfect composure, could not
reasonably be called upon to feel any particular dismay at the
probable departure from this life of a Lombard Street banker,
who happened to be her daughter's husband. In fact not

nes Newcome himself could await that event more philo-
sophically. So, finding Ethel in this melancholy mood, Lady
thought a drive in the fresh air would be of sen-ice to her,
and, Sir Brian happening to be asleep, carried the young girl
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 soon as he is able to move we
must go and fetch him, my dear," Lady Kew graciously said,
u 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 kind-
ness and courage, and many admirable qualities. She kindled
when she heard the report of his behavior at the commence-
ment of the fracas with M. de Castillones, 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 Ethel's eyes filled with tears ; we must re-
member 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 capricious 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

THE NEWCOMES.

399

poor Baronet with cries and moans insisted on retaining his
nurse, and Ethel's grandmother was left to undertake this mis-
sion 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 senti-
ment which she had best smother. She had received a letter
from that other person, and answered it with her mother's cog-
nizance, but about this little affair neither Lady Ann nor her
daughter happened to say a word to the manager of the whole
family.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

IN WHICH LADY KEW LEAVES HIS LORDSHIP QUITE CONVALESCENT.

Immediately after Lord Kew's wound, and as it was neces-
sary to apprize the Newcome family of the accident which had
occurred, the good-natured young Kew had himself written a
brief note to acquaint his relatives with his mishap, and had
even taken the precaution to antedate a couple of billets to be
despatched on future days ; kindly forgeries, which told the
Newcome family and the Countess of Kew, that Lord Kew was
progressing very favorably, and that his hurt was trifling. The
fever had set in, and the young patient was lying in great dan-
ger, as most of the laggards at Baden knew, when his friends
there were set at ease by this fallacious bulletin. On the third
day after the accident, Lady Walham arrived with her younger
son, to find 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
commander-in-chief of the family, the old lady at Baden, show-
ed her sympathy by sending couriers, and repeatedly issuing
orders to have news of Kew. Sick-beds scared her away in-
variably. When illness befell a member of her family she hastily
retreated from before the sufferer, showing her agitation of
mind, however, by excessive ill-humor to all the others within
her reach.

A fortnight passed, a ball had been found and extracted, the
fever was over, the wound was progressing favorably, the pa-
tient advancing towards convalescence, and the mother, with

400 THE NEWCOMES.

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 fond lady such anguish. Those
doubts which perplex many a thinking man, and when formed
and uttered, give many a fond and faithful woman pain so ex-
quisite, had most fortunately never crossed Kew's mind. His
early impressions were such as his mother had left them, and
he came back to her as she would have him, as a little child,
owning his faults with a hearty humble repentance, and with
a thousand simple confessions lamenting the errors of his past
days. We have seen him tired and ashamed of the pleasures
which he was pursuing, of the companions who surrounded him,
of the brawls and dissipation which amused him no more ; in
those hours of danger and doubt, when he had lain, with death
perhaps before him, making up his account of the vain life
which probably he would be called upon to surrender, no won-
der this simple, kindly, modest, and courageous soul thought seri-
ously of the past and of the future ; and prayed, and resolved,
if a future were awarded to him, it should make amends for
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 life.

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 handsome, 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 afterwards, that she would have agreed with Lady
Walham even worse than with her imperious old grandmother.

Lady Walham then fell to deplore Sir Brian's condition, ac-
counts of whose seizure, of course, had been despatched to the

THE XEWCOMES.

401

Kclsl party, and to lament that a worldly man as he was siiould
such an affliction, so near the grave and so little prepared
for it. Here honest Kew, however, held out. ;i Every man
for himself, mother," says he, "Sir Brian was bred up very
strictly, perhaps too strictly as a young man. Don't you know
that that 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 and all sorts of wild courses
by old Mrs. Newcome's tyranny over. him? As for Sir Brian,
he goes to church every Sunday : has prayers in the family
even- 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, and Mr. Bonner, and Dr.
Laud, when they used to come clown to us at Kewbury, used
to make themselves so unhappy about other people." So the
willow 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 travelled 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 mend-
ing health, all Lady YYalhanrs 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 con-
tentment, with one subject of dread, however, hanging over the
mother of the two young men, the arrival of Lady Kew, the
fierce old mother-indaw 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 Rhine: the French bank f ri
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 YYalham was for improving the
shining hour by reading amusing extracts from her favorite
volumes, gentle anecdotes of Chinese and Hottentot converts,
and incidents from missionary travel. George Barnes, a wily
young diplomatist, insinuated Gali^nani, and hinted that Kew

26

402

THE NEWCOMES.

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 oc-
cupied, a great whacking of whips, blowing of horns, and whir-
ring 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 the apartment. The countess, leaning on her staff,
entered that darkened chamber. She ran up towards an easy-
chair, where she supposed Lord Kew was. " My dear Frank ! "
cries the old lady ; " my dear boy, 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
Walham.

" 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 shrank back aghast. " Will you please 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 WTalham 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 Watt's hymns." A

THE NEWCOMES. 403

servant entered at this moment, answering Lady Walham's sum-
mons. " 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 nobody 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
Duchess d'lvry, 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 1 hear of it sometimes — you were
pleased to tell me 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."

M 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 triumph, by attacking in masses, like Napoleon.
Those who faced her routed her.

"No; you did not come for me, I know very well," the
daughter went on. " You loved me no better than you loved
your son, whose life, as long as you meddled with it, you made
wretched. You came here for my boy. Haven't you done him
evil enough ? And now God has mercifully preserved him, you
want to lead him back again into ruin and crime. It shall not
be so, wicked woman ! bad mother ! cruel, heartless parent —
George ! " (Here her younger son entered the room, and she
ran towards him with fluttering robes and seized his hands.)
" Here is your grandmother ; here is the Countess of Kew,
come from Baden at last ; and she wants — she wants to take
Frank from us, my dear, and to — give — him — back to the —
Frenchwoman again. No, no ! Oh, my God ! Never ! never ! "
And she Hung herself into George Barnes's arms, fainting with
an hysteric burst of tears.

" You had best get a strait-waistcoat for your mother, George

4<H

THE NEWCOMES.

Barnes," Lady Kew said, scorn and hatred in her face. (If sh£
had been Iago's daughter, with a strong likeness to her sire.
Lord Steyne's sister could not have looked more diabolical.)
"Have you had 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 madwoman ? You ought no!
to trust her to give Frank medicine. It is positively "

" Excuse me,"' said George, with a bow ; " I don't think the
complaint has as yet exhibited itself in my mother's branch of
the family. (She always hated me," thought George ; " but if she
had by chance left me a legacy, there it goes.) You would like,
ma'am, to see the room up stairs ? Here is the landlord to con-
duct your ladyship. Frank will be quite ready to receive you
when you come down. I am sure I need not beg of your kind-
ness that nothing may be said to agitate him. It is barely
three weeks since M. de Castillonnes' ball was extracted , and
the doctors wish he should be kept as quiet as possible."

Be sure that the landlord, the courier, and the persons en-
gaged in showing the Countess of Kew the apartments above
spent an agreeable time with her Excellency the Frau Gralinn
von Kew. She must have had better iuck in her encounter
with these than in her previous passages with her grandson and
his mother; for when she issued from her apartment in a new
dress and fresh cap, Lady Kew's face wore an expression of
perfect serenity. Her attendant may have shook her fist be-
hind her, and her man's eyes and face looked Blitz and Donner-
wetter; but her mistress's features wore that pleased look
which they assumed when she had been satisfactorily punishing
somebody. Lord Kew had by this time got back from the
garden to his own room, where he awaited grandmamma. If
the mother and her two sons had in the interval of Lady Kew's
toilette tried to resume the history of Bumble the Beadle, I fear
they could not have found it very comical.

" Bless me, my dear child ! How well you look ! Many a
girl would give the world to have such a complexion. There is
nothing like a mother for a nurse ! Ah, no ! Maria, you de-
serve to be the Mother Superior of a House of Sisters of
Charity, you do. The landlord has given me a delightful
apartment, thank you. He is an extortionate wretch ; but I
have no doubt 1 shall be very comfortable. The Dodsburys
stopped here, I see, by the travellers' book — quite right, in-
stead of sleeping at that odious buggy Strasbourg. We have
had a sad, sad time, my dears, at Baden. Between anxiety
about poor Sir Brian, and about you, you naughty boy, I an*

THE NEIVCOMES.

405

sure I wonder how I have got through it all. Doctor Finds
would not let me come away to-day ; but I would come."

" I am sure it was uncommonly kind, ma'am," says poor
Kew, with a rueful face.

"That horrible woman against whom I always warned you
— but young men will not take the advice of old grandmammas
— has gone away these ten days. Monsieur le Due fetched
her ; and if he locked her up at Montcontour, and kept her on
bread-and-water for the rest of her life, I am sure he would
serve her right. When a woman once forgets religious prin-
ciples, Kew, she is sure to go wrong. The Conversation Room
is shut up. The Dorkings go on Tuesday. Clara is really a
dear little artless creature ; one that you will like, Maria — and
as for Ethel, I really think she is an angel. To see her nursing
her poor father is the most beautiful sight ; night after night
she sat up witn him. I know where she would like to be, the
dear child. And if Frank falls ill 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 they are for
your private ears, my Lord j not even mammas and brothers
may hear them."

" Do not go, mother ! Pray stay, George ! " cried the sick
man (and again Lord Steyne's sister looked uncommonly like
that lamented marquis). " My cousin is a noble young crea-
ture," he went on. " She has admirable good qualities, which
I appreciate with all my heart ; and her beauty, you know how
I admire it. I have thought of her a great deal as I was lying
on the bed yonder " (the family look was not so visible in Lady
Kew's face), " and — and — I wrote to her this very morning ;
she will have the letter by this time, probably."

"Bien, Frank I" Lady Kew smiled (in her supernatural
way) almost as much as her portrait, by Harlowe, as you may
see it at Kewbury to this very day. She is represented se
before an easel, painting a miniature of her son, Lord Wal-
ham.

" I wrote to her on the subject of the last conversation we
had together," Frank resumed, in rather a timid voice, " the
clay before my accident. Perhaps she did not tell you, ma'am,
of what passed between us. We had had a quarrel ; one of
man_\-. Some cowardly hand, which we both of us can guess at,
had written to her an account of my past life, and she showed
me the letter. Then 1 told her, that if she loved me she never
would have showed it me : without any other word of reproof I
bade her farewell. It was not much, the showing that letter;

4o6 THE NEWCOMES.

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 after-
wards ; 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
Clive 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 diploma-
tist, walking away to the window with a choking voice. As for
grandmamma at the end of this little speech and scene, her
ladyship's likeness to her brother the late revered Lord Steyna
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 1

THE XEWCOMES. 407

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 clay 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
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 crutch.

So the wicked Fairy drove away disappointed in her chariot
with the very dragons which had brought her away in the morn-
ing, and just had time to get their feed of black bread. I
wonder whether they were the horses that Clive and J, J. and
Jack Belsize had used when they passed on their road to Swit-
zerland ? Black Care sits behind all sorts of horses, and gives
a trinkgeld to postilions 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 con-
quer 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 better of this bout :
and you, young boys and virgins, when your turn comes to be
married, you will understand the hidden meaning of this pass-
age. George Barnes got " Oliver Twist " out, and began to
read therein. Miss Nancy and Fagin again were summoned
before this little company to frighten and delight them. I dare
say even Fagin and Miss Nancy failed with the widow, so ab-
sorbed 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 Te Deum after the battle — the battle of Kehlby Rhine, where
ICew'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 ser-
mon, except where it cannot help itself, and the speaker pursu-
ing the destiny of his narrative finds such a homily before him.
( ) friend, in your life and mine, don't we light upon such ser-
mons daily — don't we see at home as well as amongst our

4o8 THE NEWCOMES.

neighbors 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 accomplished 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."

u Yes, thank God ! " says George.

" And I am going to be all right — and to turn over a new
leaf, old boy — and paste down the old ones, eh ? I wrote to
Martins this morning to have all my horses sold : and I'll never
bet again — so help me — so help me, Jupiter. I made a vow —
a promise to myself, you see, that I wouldn't if I recovered.
And I wrote to cousin Ethel this morning. — As I thought over
the matter yonder, I felt quite certain I was right, and that we
could never, never pull together. Xow the Countess is gone, I
wonder whether I was right — to give up sixty thousand pounds,
and the prettiest girl in London ? "

" Shall r 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."

Kew laughed. " If you were to go and tell our grand-
mother that I could not live the night through ; and that you
would be Lord Kew in the morning, and your son, Viscount
Walham, 1 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 hea'hen gods now, Georgy. — Xo, I am 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 Ure market to be knocked down to — I say. I was going
to call thi; three-year-old, Ethelinda. — We must christen her
over agaiu tor Tattersall's, Georgy."

A kn'-ck is heard through an adjoining door, and a maternal
voice cri is, " 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 ;

THE NEWCOMES. 4o9

where, though it is midnight when she arrives, and the old lady
has had two long bootless journeys, you wll 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.

u I wish /had had a good night ! " groans out the Countess.

" I thought you were going to Lord Kew, at Kehl," re-
marked her granddaughter.

" I did go, and returned with wretches who would not bring
me more than five miles an hour ! I dismissed that brutal
grinning courier ; and I have given warning to that fiend of a
maid."

" And Frank is pretty well, grandmamma ? "

" Well ! He looks as pink as a girl in her 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! Very pretty," says Ethel, gravely.
" George has always been a good boy, and it is quite time for
my Lord Kew to begin."

The elder lady looked at her descendant, but Miss Ethel's
glance was impenetrable. " I suppose you can fancy, my dear,
why I came back ? " said Lady Kew.

4i13ecause you quarrelled with Lady Walham, grandmamma.
I think I have heard that there used to be differences between
you.'' Miss Newcome was armed for defence and attack ; in
which cases we have said Lady Kew did not care to assault
her. " My grandson told me that he had 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 — your

410 THE NEWCOMES.

ladyship must absolutely go and entreat him to give ne
another trial ! 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 Pulleyn 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 him."

" 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 nowadays. 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'j
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, Ethel, 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 which becomes you — do I do
wrong ? No. Silly 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 fireplace, where
there lay some torn fragments and ashes of paper. It was th«
same fireplace at which Clive's sketches had been burned.

THE NEWCOMES. 4u

CHAPTER XXXIX.

AMONGST THE PAINTERS.

When Give Newcome comes to be old, no doubt he win
remember his Roman days as amongst the happiest which fata
ever awarded him. The simplicity of the student's life there,
the greatness and friendly splendor of the scenes surrounding
him, the delightful nature of the occupation in which he is
engaged, the pleasant company of comrades inspired by a like
pleasure over a similar calling, the labor, the meditation, the
holiday and the kindly feast afterwards, should make the art-
students the happiest of youth, did they but know their good
fortune. Their work is, for the most part, delightfully easy.
It does not exercise the brain too much, but gently occupies
it, and with a subject most agreeable to the scholar. The
mere poetic flame, or jet of invention, needs to be lighted up
but very seldom, namely, when the young painter is devising
his subject, or settling the composition thereof. The posing
of figures and drapery ; the dexterous copying of the line ; the
artful processes of cross-hatching, of stumping, of laying on
lights, and what not ; the arrangement of color, and the pleas-
ing operations of glazing and the like, are labors for the most
part merely manual. These, with the smoking of a proper
number of pipes, carry the student through his day's work. If
you pass his door you will very probably hear him singing at
his easel. I should like to know what young lawyer, mathe-
matician, or divinity scholar, can sing over his volumes, and
at the same time advance with his labor ? In every city where
Art is practised there are old gentlemen who never touched a
pencil in their lives, but find the occupation and company of
artists so agreeable that they are never out of the studios ;
follow one generation of painters after another ; sit by with
perfect contentment while Jack is drawing his pifferaro, or
Tom designing his cartoon, and years afterwards, when Jack-
is established in Newman Street, and Tom a Royal Acade-
mician, shall still be found in their rooms, occupied now by
fresh painters and pictures, telling the youngsters, their suc-
cessors, what glorious fellows Jack and Tom wore. A poet
must retire to privy places and meditate his rhymes in secret \
a painter can practise his trade in the company of friends.

4I2

THE NEWCOMES.

Your splendid chef d'eco/e, a Rubens or a Horace Vernet, may
sit with a secretary reading to him ; a troop of admiring
scholars watching the master's hand ; or a company of court
ladies and gentlemen (to whom he addresses a few kind
words now and again) looking on admiringly ; whilst the
humblest painter, be he ever so poor, may have a friend
watching at his easel, or a gentle wife sitting by with her work
in her lap, and with fond smiles, or talk or silence, cheering his
labor.

Amongst all ranks and degrees of painters assembled nt
Rome, Mr. Clive found companions and friends. The clever-
est man was not the best artist very often ; the ablest artist
not the best critic nor the best companion. Many a man could
%\xe no account of the faculty within him, but achieved success
because he could not help it ; and did, in an hour and without
e!iort, that which another could not effect with half a life's
labor. There were young sculptors who had never read
a line of Homer, who took on themselves, nevertheless, to
interpret and continue the heroic Greek art. There were
young painters with the strongest natural taste for low humor
comic-singing, and Cider-Cellar jollifications, who would imitate
nothing under Michael Angelo, and whose canvases teemed with
tremendous allegories of fates, furies, genii of death and battle.
There were long-haired lads who fancied the sublime lay in the
Peruginesque manner, and depicted saintly personages with
crisp draperies, crude colors, and haloes of gold-leaf. Our
friend marked all these practitioners of Art with their various
oddities and tastes, and was welcomed in the ateliers of all of
them, from the grave dons and seniors, the senators of the
French and English Academy, down to the jovial students who
railed at the elders over their cheap cups at the " Lepre."
What a gallant, starving, generous, kindly life, many of them
led ! What fun in their grotesque airs, what friendship and
gentleness in their poverty ! Howr splendidly Carlo talked of
the marquis his cousin, and the duke his intimate friend ! How
great Federigo was on the subject of his wrongs from the
Academy at home, a pack of tradesmen who could not under-
stand high art, and who had never seen a good picture ! With
what haughtiness Augusto swaggered about at Sir John s soi-
re'es, though he was known to have borrowed Fernando's coat,
and Luigi's dress-boots ! If one or the other was ill, how nobly
and generously his companions flocked to comfort him, took
turns to nurse the sick man through nights of fever, contributed
out of their slender means to help him through his difficulty.

THE NEWCOMES. 4I3

Mai, who loves fine dresses and the carnival so. gave up a cos-
tume and a carriage so as to help Paul. Paul, when he sold
his picture (through the agency of Pietro, with whom he had
•quarrelled, and who recommended him to a patron), gave a third
of the money back to Max, and took another third portion to
Lazaro, with his poor wife and children, who had notgot a single
order all that winter — and so the story went on. I have heard
Clive tell of two noble young Americans who came to Europe
to study their art ; of whom the one fell sick whilst the other
supported his penniless comrade, and out of sixpence a day
absolutely kept but a penny for himself, giving the rest to his
sick companion. " I should like to have known that good
Samaritan, sir," our Colonel said, twirling his mustache, when
we saw him again, and his son told him that story.

J. J., in his steady silent way, worked on every day, and for
many hours every day. When Clive entered their studio of a
morning, he found J. J., there, and there he left him. When
the Life Academy was over, at night, and Clive went out to his
soire'es, J. J. lighted his lamp and continued his happy labor.
He did not care for the brawling supper-parties of his comrades ,*
liked better to stay at home than to go into the world, and was
seldom abroad of a night except during the illness of Luigi be-
fore mentioned, when J. J. spent constant evenings at the
other's bedside. J. J. was fortunate as well as skilful : people
in the world took a liking to the modest young man, and he
had more than one order for pictures. The Artists' Club, at
the " Lepre," set him down as close with his money ; but a year
after he left Rome, Lazaro and his wife, who still remained
there, told a different tale. Clive Newcome, when he heard of
their distress, gave them something — as much as he could
spare ; but J. J. gave more, and Clue was as eager in acknowl-
edging and admiring his friend's generosity as he was in speak-
ing of his genius. His was a fortunate organization indeed.
Study was his chief amusement. Self-denial came easily to him.
^ure, or what is generally called so, had little charm for
him. His ordinary' companions were pure and sweet thoughts ;
ut-door enjoyment the contemplation of natural beauty ;
for recreation, the hundred pleasant dexterities and manipula-
tions of his craft were i ly interesting to him : he would
draw every knot in an oak panel, or every leaf in an ora
tree, smiling, and taking a ht over the simple feats of
skill : whenever you found him he seemed watchful and serene,
his modest virgin-lamp always lighted and trim. No gusts of
passion extinguished it ; no hopeless wandering in the darkness

4H

THE NEWCOMES.

afterwards led him astray. Wayfarers through the world, we
meet now and again with such purity, and salute it, and hush
whilst it passes on.

We have it under Clive Newcome's own signature that he
intended to pass a couple of years in Italy, devoting himself
exclusively to the study of his profession. Other besides pro-
fessional reasons were working secretly in the young man's
mind, causing him to think that absence from England was the
best cure for a malady under which he secretly labored. But
change of air may cure some sick people more speedily than
the sufferers ever hoped ; and also it is on record that young
men with the very best intentions respecting study do not fulfil
them, and are led' away from their scheme by accident, or pleas-
ure, or necessity, or some good cause. Young Clive worked
sedulously two or three months at his vocation at Rome, secretly
devouring, no doubt, the pangs of sentimental disappointment
under which he labored ; and he drew from his models, and he
sketched round about everything that suited his pencil on both
sides of Tiber ; and he labored at the Life Academy of nights — ■
a model himself to the other young students. The symptoms of
his sentimental malady began to abate. He took an interest
in the affairs of Jack, and Tom, and Harry round about him :
Art exercised its great healing influence on his wounded spirit,
which, to be sure, had never given in. The meeting of the
painters at the " Cafe Greco," and at their private houses, was
very jovial, pleasant, and lively. Clive smoked his pipe, drank
his glass of Marsala, sang his song, and took part in the general
chorus as gayly as the jolliestof the boys. He was the cock of
the whole painting school, the favorite of all ; and to be liked
by the people, you may be pretty sure that we, for our parts,
must like them.

Then, besides the painters, he had, as he has informed us,
the other society of Rome. Every winter there is a gay and
pleasant English colony in that capital, of course more or less
remarkable for rank, fashion, and agreeability with every vary-
ing year. In Clive's year some very pleasant folks set up their
winter quarters in the usual foreigners' resort round about the
Piazza di Spagna. I was amused to find, lately, on looking
over the travels of the respectable M. de Pollnitz, that, a hun-
dred and twenty years ago, the same quarter, the same streets
and palaces, scarce changed from those days, were even then
polite foreigners' resort. Of one or two of the gentlemen, Clive
had made the acquaintance in the hunting-field ; others he had
met during his brief appearance in the London world. Being

THE XEWCOMES.

415

a youth of great personal agility, fitted thereby to the graceful
performance of polkas, <Scc. j having good manners, and good
looks, and good credit with Prince Polonia, or some other
banker, Mr. Newcome was thus made very welcome to the
Anglo-Roman society j and as kindly received in genteel houses,
where they drank tea and danced the galop, as in those dusky
taverns and retired lodgings where his bearded comrades, the
painters, held their meetings.

Thrown together every day, and night after night ; flocking
to the same picture-galleries, statue-galleries, Pincian drives,
and church functions, the English colonists at Rome perforce
become intimate, and in many cases friendly. They have an
English library where the various meets for the week are pla
carded : on such a day the Vatican galleries are open ; the
next is the feast of Saint so-and-so ; on Wednesday there will
be music and Vespers at the Sistine Chapel ; on Thursday the
Pope will bless the animals — sheep, horses, and what-not : and
flocks of English accordingly rush to witness the benediction of
droves of donkeys. In a word, the ancient city of the Caesars,
the august fanes of the Popes, with their splendor and ceremony,
are all mapped out and arranged for English diversion ; and we
run in a crowd to high mass at St. Peter's, or to the illumina-
tion on Easter-day, as we run when the bell rings to the Bosjes-
men at Cremorne, or the fireworks at Vauxhall.

Running to see fireworks alone, rushing off to examine
Bosjesmen by one's self is a dreary work ! I should think very
few men would have the courage to do it unattended, and per-
sonally would not prefer a pipe in their own rooms. Hence if
Clive went to see all these sights, as he did, it is to be concluded
that he went in company, and if he went in company and sought
it, we may suppose that little affair which annoyed him at Baden
no longer tended to hurt his peace of mind very seriously. The
truth is, our countrymen are pleasanter abroad than at home ;
most hospitable, kindly, and eager to be pleased and to please.
You see a family half a dozen times in a week in the little
Roman circle, whom you shall not meet twice in a season after
wards in the enormous London round. When Easter is over
and everybody is going away at R ime, you and your neighbor
shake hands, sincerely sorry to part : in London we are obliged
to dilute our kindness so that there is hardly any smack of the
original milk. As one by one the pleasant families dropped off
with whom Clive had spent his happy winter ; as Admiral Free-
man's carriage drove away, whose pretty girls he caught at St.
Peter's kissing St. Peter's toe ; as Dick Denby's family ark ap-

416 THE NEWCOMES.

peared with all Denby's sweet young children kissing farewell?
to him out of window ; as those three charming Miss Baliols
with whom he had that glorious day in the Catacombs ; as
friend after friend quitted the great city with kind greetings,
warm pressures of the hand, and hopes of meeting in a yet
greater city on the banks of the Thames, young Clive felt a de-
pression of spirit. Rome was Rome, but it was pleasanter to
see it in company ; our painters are smoking still at the " Cafe
Greco," but a society all smoke and all painters did not suit
him. If Mr. Clive is not a Michael Angelo or a Beethoven, if
his genius is not gloomy, solitary, gigantic, shining, alone, like
a lighthouse, a storm round about him and breakers dashing
at his feet, I cannot help myself ; he is as heaven made him,
brave, honest, gay and friendly, and persons of a gloomy turn
must not look to him as a hero.

So Clive and his companion worked away with all their
hearts from November until far into April, when Easter came,
and the glorious gala with which the Roman Church celebrates
that holy season. By this time Clive's books were full of
sketches. Ruins imperial and mediaeval ; peasants and bag-
pipemen ; Passionists with shaven polls : Capuchins and the
equally hairy frequenters of the " Cafe Greco ; " painters of all
nations who resort there ; Cardinals and their queer equipages
and attendants ; the Holy Father himself (it was Gregory six-
teenth of the name) ; the dandified English on the Pincio and
the wonderful Roman members of the hunt — were not all these
designed by the young man and admired by his friends in after
days ? J. J.'s sketches were few, but he had painted two beauti-
ful little pictures, and sold them for so good a price that Prince
Polonia's people were quite civil to him. He had orders for
yet more pictures, and having worked very hard, thought him-
self authorized to accompany Mr. Clive upon a pleasure trip to
Naples, which the latter deemed necessary after has own tremen-
dous labors. He for his own part had painted no pictures,
though he had commenced a dozen and turned them to the
wall ; but he had sketched, and dined, and smoked, and danced,
as we have seen. So the little britzka was put behind horses
again, and our two friends set out on their tour, having quite a
crowd of brother artists to cheer them, who had assembled and
had a breakfast for the purpose at that comfortable osteria near
the Lateran Gate. How the fellows flung their hats up, and
shouted, " Lebe wohl," and " Adieu," and " God bless you, old
boy," in many languages ! Clive was the young swell' of the
artists of that year, and adored by the whole of the jolly com-

THE NEWCOMES. 4lj

piny. His sketches were pronounced on all hands to be
admirable ; it was agreed that if he chose he might do any-
thing.

So with promises of a speedy return they left behind them
the noble city, which all love who once have seen it, and ot
which we think afterwards ever with the kindness and the re-
gard of home. They dashed across the Campagna and ovei
the beautiful hills of Albano, and sped through the solemn
Pontine Marshes, and stopped to roost at Terracina, (which
was not at all like Fra Diavolo's Terracina at Govern Garden,
as J. J. was distressed to remark,) and so, galloping onwards
through a hundred ancient cities that crumble on the shores of
the beautiful Mediterranean, behold, on the second clay, as they
ascended a hill about noon, Vesuvius came in view, its great
shape shimmering blue in the distant haze, its banner of smoke
in the cloudless sky. And about live o'clock in the evening (as
everybody will who starts from Terracina early and pays the
post-boy well), the travellers came to an ancient city walled and
fortified, with drawbridges over the shining moats.

* Here is Capua," says J. J., and Clive burst out laughing ;
thinking of kis Capua which he had left — how many months —
years it seemed ago. From Capua to Naples is a fine straight
road, and our travellers were landed at the latter place at
supper-time ; where, if they had quarters at the " Vittoria Hotel,"
they were as comfortable as any gentlemen painters need wish
to be in this world.

The aspect of the place was so charming and delightful to
Clive : — the beautiful sea stretched before his eyes when waking,
Capri a fairy island in the distance, in the amethyst rocks of
which Sirens might be playing ; that fair line of cities skirling
the shore glittering white along the purple water ; over the
whole brilliant scene Vesuvius rising, with cloudlets playing
round its summit, and the country bursting out into that
glorious vegetation with which sumptuous nature decorates
overy spring, this city and scene of Naples were so much to
dive's liking that I have a letter from him dated a couple ot
days after the young man's arrival, in which he announces his
intention of staying there forever, and gives me an invitation
to some fine lodgings in a certain palazzo, on which he has cast
his eye. He is so enraptured with the place, that lie says to
die and be buried there even would be quite a treat, so charm-
ing is the cemetery where the Neapolitan dead repose.

The Fates did not, however, ordain that Clive Newcome
should pass all his life at Naples. His Roman banker pres-

27

4i 8

THE NEWCOMES.

ently forwarded a few letters to his address ; some which had
arrived after his departure, others which had been lying at the
poste restante, with his name written in perfectly legible
characters, but which the authorities of the post, according to
their custom, would not see when Clive sent for them.

It was one of these letters which Clive clutched the most
eagerly. It had been lying since October, actually, at the
Roman post, though Clive had asked for letters there a hun-
dred times. It was that little letter from Ethel, in reply to hit
own, whereof we have made mention in a previous chapter.
There was not much in the little letter. Nothing, of course,
that Virtue or Grandmamma might not read over the young
writer's shoulder. It was affectionate, simple, rather me Ian*
choly ; described in a few words Sir Brian's seizure and present
condition ; spoke of Lord Kew, who was mending rapidly, as
if Clive, of course, was aware of his accident j of the children ;
of Clive's father; and ended with a hearty "God bless you,"
to Clive, from his sincere Ethel.

" You boast of its being over. You see it is not over," says
Clive's monitor and companion. " Else, why should you have
dashed at that letter before all the others, Clive? " J. J. had
been watching, not without interest, Clive's blank face as he
read the young lady's note.

" How do you know who wrote the letter ? " asks Clive.

" I can read the signature in your face," says the other,
" and I could almost tell the contents of the note. Why have
you such a tell-tale face, Clive ? "

" It is over ; but when a man has once, you know, gone
through an affair like that," says Clive, looking very grave,
" he — he's anxious to hear of Alice Gray, and how she's getting
on, you see, my good friend." And he began to shout out as
of old—

" Her heart is another's, she — never — can — be — mine ; "

and to laugh at the end of the song. "Well, well," says he,
" it is a very kind note, a very proper little note ; the expres-
sions is elegant, J. ]., the sentiments is most correct. All the
little /'s is most properly crossed, and all the little /"s have dots
over their little heads. It's a sort of a prize note, don't you see ?
and one such as, in the old spelling-book story, the good boy
received a plum-cake for writing. Perhaps you weren't edu-
cated on the old spelling-book, J. J.? My good old father
taught me to read out of his — I say, I think it was a shame to
keep the old boy waiting whilst I have been giving an audience

TIIK NEWCOMES.

419

to this young lady. Dear old father!" and he apostrophized
the letter. " I beg your pardon, sir ; Miss Newcome requested
live minutes' conversation, and 1 was obliged, from politeness,
you know, to receive. There's nothing between us ; nothing
but what's most correct, upon my honor and conscience." And
he kissed his father's letter, and calling out again, " Dear old
father ! " proceeded to read as follows : —

■• • Your letters, my dearest Clive, have been the greatest com-
fort to me. I seem to hear you as I read them. I can't but
think that this, the modem and natural style, is a great progress
upon the old-fashioned manner of my day, when we used to begin
to our fathers, " Honored Father," or even " Honored Sir "
some precisians used to write still from Mr. Lord's Academy, at
Tooting, where I went before Grey Friars' — though I suspect
parents were no more honored in those days than nowadays.
I know one who had rather be trusted than honored ; and you
may call me what you please, so as you do that.

M ' It is not only to me your letters give pleasure. Last
week I took yours from Baden Baden, No. 3, September 15,
into Calcutta, and could not help showing it at the Government
House, where I dined. Your sketch of the old Russian Prin-
cess and her little boy, gambling, was capital. Colonel Buck-
master, Lord Bagwig's private secretary, knew her, and says it
is to a T. And I read out to some of my young fellows what
you said about play, and how you had given it over. I very
much fear some of the young rogues are at dice and brandy-
pawnee before tiffin. What you say of young Ridley, I take
cum grano. His sketches I thought very agreeable ; but to

compare them to a certain gentleman's Never mind, I

shall not try to make him think too well of himself. I kissed
^ear Ethel's hand in your letter. I write her a long letter by
this mail.

" ' U Paul de Florae in any way resembles his mother, be-
tween you and him there ought to be a very warm regard. I
knew her when I was a boy, long before you were born or
thought of ; and in wandering forty years through the world
since, I have seen no woman in my eyes so good or so beautiful.
Your cousin Ethel reminded me of her; as handsome, but not
so lovely. Yes, it was that pale lady you saw at Paris, with
eyes full of care, and hair streaked with gray. So it will be the
turn of you young folks, come eight more lustres, and your heads
will be bald like mine, or gray like Madame de Florae's, and
bending over the ground where we are lying in quiet. I under-

420

THE NEWCOMES.

stand from you that young Paul is not in very flourishing cir-
cumstances. If he still is in need, mind and be his banker, and
J will be yours. Any child of hers must never want when I have
a spare guinea. I do not mind telling you, sir, that I cared for
her more than millions of guineas once ; and half broke my heart
iibout her when I went to India, as a young chap. So, if any
such misfortunes happen to you, consider, my boy, you are not
the only one.

u> ' Binnie writes me word that he has been ailing. I hope
you are a good correspondent with him. What made me turn
to him just after speaking of unlucky love-affairs ? Could I be
thinking about little Rosey Mackenzie ? She is a sweet little
lass, and James will leave her a pretty piece of money. Ver-
bum sap. I should like you to marry ; but God forbid you
should marry for a million of gold mohurs.

" ' And gold mohurs bring me to another subject. Do you
know, I narrowly missed losing half a lac of rupees which I
had at an agent's here? And who do you think warned me
about him ? Our friend Rummun Loll, who has lately been in
England, and with whom I made the voyage from Southampton.
He is a man of wonderful tact and observation. I used to
think meanly of the honesty of natives, and treat them haugh-
tily, as I recollect doing this very gentleman at your uncle
Newcome's in Bryanstone Square. He heaped coals of fire on
my head by saving my money for me ; and I have placed it at
interest in his house. If I would but listen to him, my capital
might be trebled in a year, he says, and the interest immensely
increased. He enjoys the greatest esteem among the monied
men here ; keeps a splendid establishment and house here, in
Barrackpore ; is princely in his benefactions. He talks to me
about the establishment of a bank, of which the profits are so
enormous and the scheme so (seemingly) clear, that I don't
know whether I mayn't be tempted to take a few shares. Nous
vcrrons. Several of my friends are longing to have a finder in
it ; but be sure of this, I shall do nothing rashly and without
the very best advice.

" ' I have not been frightened yet by your drafts upon
me. Draw as many of these as you please. You know I don't
half like the other kind of drawing, except as a de'lassement :
but if you chose to be a weaver, like my grandfather, I should
not say you nay. Don't stint yourself of money or of honest
pleasure. Of what good is money, unless we can make those
we love happy with it ? There would be no need for me to
i,ave, if you were to save too. So, and as you know as well as

THE X FAVCOMES. 42i

J what our means arc, in ever)- honest way use them. I should
like you not to pass the whole of next year in Italy, but to
come home and pay a visit to honest James Binnie. I wonder
how the old barrack in Fitzroy Square looks without me ? Try
and go round by Paris on your way home, and pay your visit,
and carry your fathers fond remembrances, to Madame la
Comtesse de Florae. I don't say remember me to my brother,
as I write Brian by this mail. Adieu, mons fils ! je t'embrasse !
■ — and am alwavs my Give's affectionate father,

"T. N.'"

" Isn't he a noble old trump ! " That point had been set-
tled by the young men any time these three years. And now
Mr. J. J. remarked that when Give had read his father's letter
once, then he read Ethel's over again, and put it in his breast-
pocket, and was very disturbed in mind that day, pishing and
pshawing at the statue gallery which they went to see at the
Museo.

" After all," says Give, " what rubbish these second-rate
statues are ! what a great hulking abortion is this brute of a
Farnese Hercules ! There's only one bit in the whole gallery
that is worth a twopenny piece."

It was the beautiful fragment called Psyche. J. J. smiled
as his comrade spoke in admiration of this statue — in the slim
shape, in the delicate formation of the neck, in the haughty
virginal expression, the Psyche is not unlike the Diana of the
Louvre — and the Diana of the Louvre, we have said, was like
a certain young lady.

"After all," continues Give, looking up at the great knot-
ted legs of that clumsy caricatured porter which Glykon the
Athenian sculptured in bad times of art surely, — " she could
not write otherwise than she did — don't you see ? Her letter
is quite kind and affectionate. You see she says she shall
always hear of me with pleasure : hopes I'll come back soon,
and bring some good pictures with me, since pictures I will do.
She thinks small-beer of painters, J. J. — well, we don't think
small-beer of ourselves, my noble friend. I — I suppose it must
be over by this time, and I may write to her as the Countess of
Kew." The custode of the apartment had seen admiration and
wonder expressed by hundreds of visitors to his marble Giant;
but he had never known Hercules occasion emotion before, as
in the case of the young stranger who, after staring a while at
the statue, clashed his hand across his forehead with a groan,
and walked away from before the graven image of the huge

422 THE NEWCOMES.

Strongman, who had himself been made such a fool by wo
men.

" My father wants me to go and see James and Madame
de Florae,"' says Clive, as they stride down the street to the
Toledo.

J. J. puts his arm through his companion's, which is deep
in the pocket of his velvet paletot. u You must not go home
till you hear it is over, Clive," whispers J J.

" Of course not, old boy," says the other, blowing tobacco
out of his shaking head.

Xot very long after their arrival, we may be sure they went
to Pompeii, of which place, as this is not an Italian tour, but a
history of Clive Newcome, Esquire, and his most respectable
family, we shall offer to give no description. The young man
had read Sir Bulwer Lytton's delightful story, which has become
the history of Pompeii, before they came thither, and Pliny's
description, apud the "Guide-Book." Admiring the wonderful
ingenuity with which the English writer had illustrated the place
by his text, as if the houses were so many pictures to which he
had appended a story, Clive, the wag, who was always indulg-
ing his vein for caricature, w?.s proposing that they should take
the same place, names, people, and make a burlesque story :
''What would be a better figure," says he, "than Pliny's
mother, whom the historian describes as exceedingly corpulent,
and walking away from the catastrophe with slaves holding
cushions behind her, to shield her plump person from the
cinders ! Yes, old Mrs. Pliny shall be my heroine ! " says Clive.
A picture of her on a dark gray paper, and touched up with
red at the extremities, exists in Clive's album to the present
day.

As they were laughing, rattling, wondering, mimicking, the
cicerone attending them with his nasal twaddle, anon pausing
and silent, yielding to the melancholy pity and wonder which
the aspect of that strange sad smiling lonely place inspires :
behold they come upon another party of English, two young
men accompanying a lady.

" What, Clive ! " cries one.

" My dear, dear Lord Kew ! " shouts the other ; and as each
young man rushes up and grasps the two hands of the other,
they both begin to blush * * *

Lord Kew and his familv resided in a neighboring hotel on
the Chiafa at Naples, and that very evening, on returning from
the Pompeian excursion, the two painters were invited to take

THE A'EIVCOMES. 423

tea by those friendly persons. J. J. excused himself, and sat
at home drawing all night. Clive went, and passed a pleasant
evening ; in which all sorts of future tours and pleasure-parties
were projected by the young men. They were to visit Paestum,
Capri, Sicily ; why not Malta and the East ? asked Lord Kew.

Lady YValham was alarmed. Had not Kew been in the
East already? Clive was surprised and agitated too. Could
Kew think of going to the East, and making long journeys
when he had — he had other engagements that would necessitate
his return home ? No, he must not go to the East, Lord Kew's
mother avowed ; Kew had promised to stay with her during the
summer at Castellamare, and Mr. Newcome must come and
paint their portraits there — all their portraits. She would like
to have an entire picture-gallery of Kews, if her son would
remain at home during the sittings.

At an early hour Lady Walham retired to rest, exacting
Clive's promise to come to Castellamare ; and George Barnes
disappeared to array himself in an evening costume, and to pay
his round of visits as became a young diplomatist. This part
of diplomatic duty does not commence until after the opera
at Naples ; and society begins when the rest of the world has
gone to bed.

Kew and Clive sat till one o'clock in the morning, when the
latter returned to his hotel. Not one of those fine parties at
Paestum, Sicily, cScc, was carried out. Clive did not go to the
East at all, and it was J. J. who painted Lord Kew's portrait
that summer at Castellamare. The next day Clive went for
his passport to the embassy ; and a steamer departing direct
for Marseilles on that very afternoon, behold Mr. Newcome
was on board of her ; Lord Kew and his brother and J. J.
waving their hats to him as the vessel left the shore.

Away went the ship, cleaving swiftly through the azure
waters ;'but not swiftly enough for Clive. J. J. went back with
a sigh to his sketch-book and easels. I suppose the other
young disciple of Art had heard something which caused him
to forsake his sublime mistress, for one who was much more
capricious and earthly.

424 THE KEWCOMES.

CHAPTER XL.

RETURNS FROM ROME TO PALL MALL.

One morning in the month of July, when there was actually
sunshine in Lamb Court, and the two gentlemen who occupied
the third-floor chambers there in partnership were engaged, as
their custom was, over their pipes, their manuscripts, and their
Times newspaper, behold a fresh sunshine burst into their room
in the person of young Give, with a bronzed face, and a yellow
beard and mustaches, and those bright cheerful eyes, the sight
of which was always so welcome to both of us. " What, Clive !
What, the young one ! What, Benjamin ! " shout Pendennis
and Warrington. Clive had obtained a very high place indeed
in the latters affections, so much so, that if I could have found
it in my heart to be jealous of such a generous brave fellow, I
might have grudged him his share of Warrington's regard. He
blushed up with pleasure to see us again. Pidgeon, our boy,
introduced him with a jubilant countenance ; and Flanagan,
the laundress, came smirking out of the bedroom, eager to get
a nod of recognition from him, and bestow a smile of welcome
upon everybody's favorite, Clive.

In two minutes an arm-chair full of magazines, slips of
copy, and books for review, was emptied over the neighboring
coal-scuttle, and Clive was in the seat, a cigar in his mouth, as
comfortable as if he had never been away. When did he
come ? Last night. He was back in Charlotte Street, at his
old lodgings : he had been to breakfast in Fitzroy Square that
morning, James Binnie chirped for joy at seeing him. His
father had written to him desiring him to come back and see
James Binnie j pretty Miss Rosey was very well, thank you ;
and Mrs. Mack ? Wasn't Mrs. Mackenzie delighted to behold
him ? " Come, sir, on your honor and conscience, didn't the
widow give you a kiss on your return ? " Clive sends an uncut
number of the Pall Mall Gazette flying across the room at the
head of the inquirer ; but blushes so sweetly, that I have very
little doubt some such pretty meeting had taken place.

What a pity it is he had not been here a short while since
for a marriage in high life, to give away his dear Barnes, and
sign the book, along with the other dignitaries ! We described
that ceremony to him, and announced the promotion of his

777/T /V/w> u . __„

425
friend, Florae, now our friend also, Director of the Great Anglo-
Gallic Railway, the Prince de Montcontour. Then Clive told
us of his deed's during the winter ; of the good fun he had had
at Rome, and the jolly fellows he had met there. Was he going
to astonish the world by some grand pictures ? He was not.
The more he worked, the more discontented he was with his
performances somehow: but J. J. was coming out very strong,
|. 1. was going to be a stunner. We turned with pride and
satisfaction to that very number of the Fall Mall Gazette* whick
the youth had tiung at us, and showed him a fine article by F.
Bayham, Esq., in which the picture sent home by J. J. was en-
thusiastically lauded by the great critic.

So he was back amongst us, and it seemed but yesterday
he had quitted us. To Londoners everything seems to have
happened but yesterday ; nobody has time to miss his neighbor
who goes away. People go to the Cape, or on a campaign, or
on a tour round the world, or to India, and return with a wife
and two or three children, and we fancy it was only the other
day they left us, so engaged is every man in his individual
speculations, studies, struggles ; so selfish does our life make
us : — selfish, but not ill-natured. We are glad to see an old
friend, though we do not weep when he leaves us. We humbly
acknowledge, if fate calls us away likewise, that we are no more
missed than any other atom.

After talking for a while, Mr. Clive must needs go into the
City, whither I accompanied him. His interview with Messrs.
Jolly & Baines, at the house in Fog Court, must have been
very satisfactory ; Clive came out of the parlor with a radiant
countenance. k" Do you want any money, old boy? " says he ;
" the dear old governor has placed a jolly sum to my account,
and Mr. Haines has told me how delighted Mrs. Baines and the
girls will be to see me at dinner. He says my father has made
a lucky escape out of one house in India, and a famous invest-
ment in another. Nothing could be more civil ; how uncom-
monly kind and friendly everybody is in London. Everybody ! "
Then bestowing ourselves in a Hansom cab, which had proba-
bly just deposited some other capitalist in the City, we made
for the West End of the town, where Mr. Clive had some im-
portant business to transact with his tailors. He discharged
his outstanding little account with easy liberality, blushing as
he pulled out of his pocket a new check-book, page 1 of which
he bestowed on the delighted artist. From Mr. B.'s shop to
Mr. Trueiitt's is but a step. Our young friend was induced to
enter the hairdresser's, and leave behind him a great portion of

426 ^ '

...^ x.uwing locks and the yellow beard which he had brought
with him from Rome. With his mustache he could not be in-
duced to part ; painters and cavalry officers having a right to
those decorations. And why should not this young fellow wear
smart clothes, and a smart mustache, and look handsome, and
take his pleasure, and bask in his sun when it shone ? Time
enough for flannel and a fire when the winter comes ; and foi
gray hair and cork-soled boots in the natural decline of years.

Then we went to pay a visit at a hotel in Jermyn Street to
our friend Florae, who was now magnificently lodged there. A
powdered giant lolling in the hall, his buttons emblazoned with
prodigious coronets, took our cards up to the Prince. As the
door of an apartment on the first floor opened, we heard a cry as
of joy ; and that nobleman, in a magnificent Persian dressing-
gown, rushing from the room, plunged down the stairs and
began kissing Clive, to the respectful astonishment of Titan in
liven7.

" Come that I present you, my friends," our good little
Frenchman exclaimed, " to Madame la — to my wife ! " We
entered the drawing-room ; a demure little lady, of near sixty
years of age, was seated there, and we were presented in form
to Madame la Princesse de Montcontour, nee Higg, of Man-
chester. She made us a stiff little curtsey, but looked not ill-
natured ; indeed, few women could look at Clive Newcome's
gallant figure and brave smiling countenance and keep a frown
on their own very long.

" I have 'eard of you from somebodys else besides the
Prince," said the lady, with rather a blush. " Your uncle has
spoke to me hoften about you, Mr. Clive, and about your good
father."

" C'est son Directeur," whispers Florae to me. I wondered
which of the firm of Newcome had taken that office upon him.

" Xow you are come to England," the lady continued
(whose Lancashire pronunciation being once indicated, we
shall henceforth, out of respect to the Princess's rank, generally
pretermit;, — " now you are come to England, we hope to see
you often. Not here in this noisy hotel, which I can't bear, but
in the country. Our house is only three miles from Newcome
— not such a grand place as your uncle's ; but I hope we shall
see you there a great deal, and your friend, Mr. Pendennis, if
he is passing that way." The invitation to Mr. Pendennis, I
am bound to say, was given in terms by no means so warm
as those in which the Princess's hospitality to Clive were
professed.

THE A'E li'COMES. 42y

" Shall we meet you at your Huncle 'Obson's ? " the lady
continued, to Clive ; " his wife is a most charming, well-informed
woman, has been most kind and civil, and we dine there to-day.
Barnes and his wife is gone to spend the honeymoon at New-
come. Lady Clara is a sweet dear thing, and hei pa and mn
most affable, I am sure. What a pity Sir Brian couldn't attend
the marriage ! There was everybody there in London, a"most.
Sir Harvey Diggs says he is mending very slowly. In life we
are in death, Mr. Xewcome ! Isn't it sad to think of him, in
the midst of all his splendor and prosperity, and he so infirm
and unable to enjoy them ! But let us hope for the best, and
that his health will soon come round ! "

With these and similar remarks, in which poor Florae took
but a very small share (for he seemed dumb and melancholy in
the company of the Princess, his elderly spouse), the visit sped
on. Mr. Pendennis, to whom very little was said, having leisure
to make his silent observations upon the person to whom he had
been just presented.

As there lay on the table two neat little packages, addressed
" The Princess de Montcontour " — an envelope to the same
address, with " The Prescription, No. 9396 " farther inscribed
on the paper, and a sheet of note-paper bearing cabalistic char-
acters, and the signature of that most fashionable physician, Sir
Harvey Diggs, I was led to believe that the lady of Montcontour
was, or fancied herself, in a delicate state of health. By the
side of the physic for the body was medicine for the soul — a
number of pretty little books in middle-age bindings, in antique
type many of them, adorned with pictures of the German School,
representing demure ecclesiastics, with their heads on one side,
children in long starched nightgowns, virgins bearing lilies, and
so forth — from which it was to be concluded that the owner of
the volumes was not so hostile to Rome as she had been at an
earlier period of her religious life ; and that she had migrated
(in spirit) from Clapham to Knightsbridge, as so many wealthy
mercantile families have likewise done in the body. A long
strip of embroidery, of the Gothic pattern, furthermore betrayed
her present inclinations ; and the person observing these things,
whilst nobody was taking any notice of him, was amused when
the accuracy of his conjectures was confirmed by the reappear-
ance of the gigantic footman, calling out " Mr. 'Oneyman," in a
loud voice, and preceding that divine into the room.

" C'est le Directeur. Yenex fumer dans ma chambre. Pen.'
growled Florae, as Honeyman came sliding over the Carpet, his
elegant smile changing to a blush when he beheld Clive. his

428 THE NEW COMES.

nephew, seated by the Princess's side. This, then, was the
uncle who had spoken about Clive and his father to Madame
de Florae. Charles seemed in the best condition. He held out
two bran-new lavender-colored kid gloves to shake hands with
his dear Clive ; Florae and Mr. Pendennis vanished out of the
room as he appeared, so that no precise account can be given
of this affecting inrerview.

When I quitted the hotel, a brown brougham, with a pair of
beautiful horses, the harness and panels emblazoned with the
neatest little ducal coronets you ever saw, and a cypher under
each crown as easy to read as the arrow-headed inscriptions on
one of Mr. Layard's Assyrian chariots, was in waiting, and J
presumed that Madame la Princesse was about to take an airing.

Clive had passed the avuncular banking-house in the City,
without caring to face his relatives there. Mr. Newcome was
now in sole command, Mr. Barnes being absent at Newcome,
the Baronet little likely ever to enter bank parlor again. But
his bounden duty was to wait on the ladies ; and of course, only
from duty's sake, he went the very first day and called in Park
Lane.

" The family was absent ever since the marriage simminery
last week," the footman, who had accompanied the party to
Baden, informed Clive, when he opened the door and recog-
nized that gentleman. " Sir Brian pretty well, thank you, sir.
The family was at Brighting. That is, Miss Newcome is in
London staying with her grandmamma in Queen Street, May
Fear, sir."' The varnished doors closed upon Jeames within ;
the brazen knockers grinned their familiar grin at Clive, and he
went down the blank steps discomfited. Must it be owned that
he went to a club, and looked in the " Directory" for the num-
ber of Lady Kew's house in Queen Street ? Her ladyship had
a furnished house for the season. No such noble name was to
be found among the inhabitants of Queen Street.

Mrs. Hobson was from home ; that is, Thomas had orders
not to admit strangers on certain days, or before certain hours ;
so that Aunt Hobson saw Clive without being seen by the
young man. I cannot say how much he regretted that mis-
chance. His visits of propriety were thus all paid, and he went
off to dine dutifully with James Binnie, after which meal he
came to a certain rendezvous given to him by some bachelor
friends for the evening.

James Binnie's eyes lightened up with pleasure on behold-
ing his young Clive ; the youth, obedient to his father's injunc-
tion, had hastened to Fitzroy Square immediately after taking

THE NEWCOMES. 429

possession of his old lodgings — his, during the time of his
absence. The old properties and carved cabinets, the picture
of his father looking melancholy out of the canvas, greeted
C'live strangely cm the afternoon of his arrival. No wonder he
was glad to get away from a solitude peopled with a number of
dismal recollections, to the near hospitality of Fitzroy Square
and his guardian and friend there.

James had not improved in health during Clive's ten months'
absence. He had never been able to walk well, or take his
accustomed exercise, after his fall. He was no more used to
riding than the late Mr. Gibbon, whose person Jame's somewhat
resembled, and of whose philosophy our Scottish friend was an
admiring scholar. The Colonel gone, James would have argu-
ments with Mr. Honeyman over their claret, bring down the
famous XVth and XVIth chapters of the " Decline and Fall "
upon him, and quite get the better of the clergyman. James,
like many other skeptics, was very obstinate, and for his part
believed that almost all parsons had as much belief as the
Roman augurs in their ceremonies. Certainly, poor Honeyman,
in their controversies, gave up one article after another, flying
from James's assault ; but the battle over, Charles Ploneyman
would pick up these accoutrements which he had flung away in
his retreat, wipe them dry, and put them on again.

Lamed by his fall, and obliged to remain much within doors,
where certain society did not always amuse him, James Binnie
sought excitement in the pleasures of the table, partaking of
them the more freely now that his health could afford them the
less. Clive, the sly rogue, observed a great improvement in the
commissariat since his good father's time, ate his dinner with
thankfulness, and made no remarks. Nor did he confide to us
for a while his opinion that Mrs. Mack bored the good gentle-
man most severely ; that he pined away under her kindnesses ;
sneaked off to his study-chair and his nap ; was only too glad
when some of the widow's friends came, or she went out ; seem-
ing to breathe more freely when she was gone, and drink his
wine more cheerily when rid of the intolerable weight of her
presence.

I protest the great ills of life are nothing — the loss of your
fortune is a mere flea-bite ; the loss of your wife — how many
men have supported it, and married comfortably afterwards?
It is not what you lose, but what you have daily to bear, that
is hard. I can fancy nothing more cruel, after a long easy life
of bachelorhood, than to have to sit clay after day with a dull
handsome woman opposite ; to have to answer her speeches

43°

THE KEWCOMES.

about the weather, housekeeping, and what not ; to smile ap-
propriately when she is disposed to be lively (that laughing at
the jokes is the hardest part), and to model your conversation
so as to suit her intelligence, knowing that a word used out of
its downright signification will not be understood by your fair
breakfast-maker. Women go through this simpering and smil-
ing life, and bear it quite easily. Theirs is a life of hypocrisy.
What good woman does not laugh at her husband's or father's
jokes and stories time after time, and would not laugh at break-
fast, lunch, and dinner, if he told them ? Flattery is their
nature — to coax, flatter, and sweetly befool some one is every
woman's business. She is none if she declines this office. But
men are not provided with such powers of humbug or endurance
— they perish and pine away miserably when bored — or they
shrink off to the club or public-house for comfort. I want to
say as delicately as I can, and never liking to use rough terms
regarding a handsome woman, that Mrs. Mackenzie, herself
being in the highest spirits and the best humor, extinguished
her half-brother, James Binnie, Esq. ; that she was as a malaria
to him, poisoning his atmosphere, numbing his limbs, destroying
his sleep — that day after day as he sat down at breakfast, and
she levelled commonplaces at her dearest James, her clearest
James became more wretched under her. And no one could
see what his complaint was. He called in the old physicians
at the club. He dosed himself with poppy, and mandragora,
and blue pill — lower and lower went poor James's mercury. If
he wanted to move to Brighton or Cheltenham, well and good.
Whatever were her engagements, or whatever pleasures darling
Rosey might have in store, dear thing ! — at her age, my dear
Mrs. Newcome, would not one do all to make a young creature
happy ? — under no circumstances could I think of leaving my
poor brother.

Mrs. Mackenzie thought herself a most highly-principled
woman ; Mrs. Newcome had also a great opinion of her. These
two ladies had formed a considerable friendship in the past
months, the captain's widow having an unaffected reverence
for the banker's lady, and thinking her one of the best informed
and most superior of women in the world. When she had a
high opinion of a person Mrs. Mack always wisely told it.
Mrs. Newcome in her turn thought Mrs. Mackenzie a very
clever, agreeable, lady-like woman — not accomplished, but one
could not have everything. " No, no, my dear," says simple
Hobson, " never would do to have every woman as clever as
you are, Maria. Women would have it all their own way then."

THE NEIVCOMES.

431

Maria, as her custom was, thanked God for being so vir-
tuous and clever, and graciously admitted Mrs. and Miss Mac-
kenzie into the circle of adorers of that supreme virtue and
talent Mr. Newcome touk little Rosey and her mother to
some parties. When any took place in Bryanstone Square,
they were generally allowed to come to tea.

When on the second clay of his arrival the dutiful Clive
went to dine with Mr. James, the ladies, in spite of their rap-
tures at his return and delight at seeing him, were going in the
evening to his aunt. Their talk was about the Princess all
dinner-time. The Prince and Princess were to dine in Bryan-
stone Square. The Princess had ordered such and such things
at the jeweller's — the Princess would take rank over an Eng-
lish Earl's daughter — over Lady Ann Newcome for instance.
" O dear ! I wish the Prince and Princess were smothered in
the Tower," growled James Binnie ; " since you have got ac-
quainted with 'em I have never heard of anything else."

Clive, like a wise man, kept his counsel about the Prince
and Princess, with whom we have seen that he had had the honor
of an interview that very day. But after dinner Rosey came
round and whispered to her mamma, and after Rosey 's whisper
mamma flung her arms round Rosey's neck and kissed her, and
called her a thoughtful darling. " What do you think this
creature says, Clive ? " says Mrs. Mack, still holding her dar-
ling's little hand. " I wonder I had not thought of it myself."

" What is it, Mrs. Mackenzie ? " asks Clive, laughing.

" She says why should not you come to your aunt's with
us ? We are sure Mrs. Newcome would be most happy to see
you."

" Rosey, with a little hand put to mamma's mouth, said,
" Why did vou tell — you naughty mamma ! Isn't she a naughty
mamma, Uncle James ? " More kisses follow after this sally,
of which Uncle James receives one with perfect complacency :
mamma crying out as Rosey retires to dress, "That darling
child is always thinking of others — always ! "

(live says, "he will sit and smoke a cheroot with Mr.
Binnie, if they please." James's countenance falls. " We
have left off that sort of thing here, my dear Clive, a long time,"
cries Mrs. Mackenzie, departing from the dining-room.

11 Bui we have improved the claret, Clive my boy ! " whis-
pers Uncle James. M Let us have another bottle, and we will
drink to the dear Colonel's good health and speedy return —
God bless him ! I say, Clive, Tom seems to have had a most
fortunate escape out of Winter's house — thanks to our friend

43 2 THE XEIVCOMES.

Ruramun Loll, and to have got into a capital good thing with
this Bundlecund Bank. They speak famously of it at Hanover
Square, and I see the Hurkaru quotes the shares at a premium
already."

Clive did not know anything about the Bundlecund Bank,
except a few words in a letter from his father, which he had
found in the City this morning. " And an uncommonly liberal
remittance the governor has sent me home, sir." Upon which
they fill another bumper to the Colonel's health.

Mamma and Rosey come and show their pretty pink dresses
before going to Mrs. Newcome's, and Clive lights a cigar in
the hall — and isn't there a jubilation at the " Haunt " when the
young fellow's face appears above the smoke-clouds there ?

CHAPTER XLI.

AN OLD STORY.

Many of Give's Roman friends were by this time come to
London, and the young man renewed his acquaintance with
them, and had speedily a considerable circle of his own. He
thought fit to allow himself a good horse or two, and appeared
in the Park among other young dandies. He and Monsieur de
Montcontour were sworn allies. Lord Fareham, who had pur-
chased J. J.'s picture, was Clive's very good friend : Major
Pendennis himself pronounced him to be a young fellow of
agreeable manners, and very favorably vu (as the Major hap-
pened to know) in some very good quarters.

Ere many days Clive had been to Brighton to see Lady Ann
and Sir Brian, and good Aunt Honeyman, in whose house the
Baronet was lodged : and I suppose he found out, by some
means or other, where Lady Kevv lived in May Fair.

But her ladyship was not at home, nor was she at home on
the second day, nor did there come any note from Ethel to her
cousin. She did not ride in the Park as of old. Clive, bicn vu
as he was, did not belong to that great world as yet, in which
he would be pretty sure to meet her every night at one of those
parties where everybody goes. He read her name in the paper
morning after morning, as having been present at Lady This's
entertainment and Lady That's ministerial reunion. At first

THE NEWCOMES. 433

he was too shy to tell what the state of the case was, and took
nobody into his confidence regarding his little tmdrc.

There he was riding through Queen Street, May Fair,
attired in splendid raiment : never missing the Park ; actually
going to places of worship in the neighborhood; and frequent-
ing the opera — a waste of time which one would never have
expected in a youth of his nurture. At length a certain ob-
server of human nature remarking his state, rightly conjectured
that he must be in love, and taxed him with the soft impeach-
ment— on which the young man, no doubt anxious to open his
heart to some one, poured out all that story which has before
been narrated ; and told how he thought his passion cured,
nnd how it was cured ; but when he heard from Kew at Naples
that the engagement was over between him and Miss Newcome,
Clive found his own flame kindle again with new ardor. He was
wild to see her. He dashed off from Naples instantly on re-
ceiving the news that she was free. He had been ten days in
London without getting a glimpse of her. "That Mrs. Mac-
kenzie bothers me so I hardly know where to turn," said poor
Clive, " and poor little Rosey is made to write me a note about
something twice a day. She's a good dear little thing — little
Rosey — and I really had thought once of — of — oh, never mind
that ! Oh, Pen ! I'm up another tree now ! and a poor miser-
able young beggar I am ! " In fact Mr. Pendennis was installed
as confidant, vice J. J. — absent on leave.

This is a part which, especially for a few days, the present
biographer has always liked well enough. For a while at least,
I think almost every man or woman is interesting when in love.
If you know of two or three such affairs going on in any soiree
to which you may be invited — is not the party straightway
amusing? Yonder goes Augustus Tompkins, working his way
through the rooms to that far corner where demure Miss Hop-
kins is seated, to whom the stupid grinning Bumpkins thinks
he is making himself agreeable. Yonder sits Miss Fanny dis~
iraitc, and yet trying to smile as the captain is talking his folly,
the parson his glib compliments. And see, her face lights up
all of a sudden : her eyes beam with delight at the captain's
stories, and at that delightful young clergyman likewise. It is
because Augustus has appeared ; their eyes only meet for one
semi second, but that is enough for Miss Fanny. Go on, cap-
tain, with your twaddle! — Proceed, my reverend friend, with
your smirking commonplaces ! In the last two minutes the
world has changed for Miss Fanny. That moment has come
for which she has been fidgeting and longing and scheming all

28

434 THE NEWCOMES.

day ! How different an interest, I say, has a meeting of peo-
ple for a philosopher who knows of a few such little secrets, to
that which your vulgar looker-on feels, who comes but to eat
the ices, and stare at the ladies' dresses and beauty ! There
are two frames of mind under which London society is bear-
able to a man — to be an actor in one of those sentimental per-
formances above hinted at ; or to be a spectator and watch it.
But as for the mere dessus de cartes — would not an arm-chair
and the dullest of books be better than that dull game ?

So I not only became Clive's confidant in this affair, but
took a pleasure in extracting the young fellow's secrets from
him. or rather in encouraging him to pour them forth. Thus
was the great part of the previous tale revealed to me : thus
Jack Belsize's misadventures, of the first part of which we had
only heard in London (and whither he returned presently to be
reconciled to his father, after his elder brother's death). Thus
my Lord Kew's secret history came into my possession ; let us
hope for the public's future delectation, and the chronicler's pri-
vate advantage, And many a night until daylight did appear
has poor Clive stamped his chamber or my own, pouring his
story out to me, his griefs and raptures ; recalling, in his wild
young way, recollections of Ethel's sayings and doings ; utter-
ing descriptions of her beauty ; and raging against the cruelty
which she exhibited towards him.

As soon as the new confidant heard the name of the young
lover's charmer, to do Mr. Pendennis justice, he endeavored to
fling as much cold water upon Clive's flame as a small private
engine could pour on such a conflagration. " Miss Newcome !
my dear Clive," says the confidant, "do you know to what you
are aspiring? For the last three months Miss Newcome has
been the greatest lioness in London : the reigning beauty : the
winning horse : the first favorite out of the whole Belgravian
harem. No young woman of this year has come near her :
those of past seasons she has distanced, and utterly put
to shame. Miss Blackcap, Lady Blanche Blackcap's daughterv
was (as perhaps you are not aware) considered by her mamma
the great beauty of last season ; and it was considered rather
shabby of the young Marquis of Farintosh, to leave town
without offering to change Miss Blackcap's name. Heaven
bless you ! this year Farintosh will not look at Miss Blackcap !
He finds people at home when (ha ! I see you wince, my suffer-
ing innocent !) — when he calls in Queen Street ; yes, and Lady
Kew, who is one of the cleverest women in England, will
listen for hours to Lord Farintosh's conversation ; than whom

THE NEWCOMES.

435

the Rotten Row of Hyde Park cannot show a greater booby.
Miss Blackcap may retire, like Jephthah's daughter, for all
Farintosh will relieve her. Then, my dear fellow, there were,
as possibly you do not know, Lady Hermengilde and Lady
Yseult, Lady Rackstraw's lovely twins, whose appearance
created such a sensation at Lady Hautbois' first — was it her
first or was it her second ? — yes, it was her second — breakfast.
Whom weren't they going to marry ? Crackthorpe was mad,
they said, about both. — Bustington, Sir John Fobsby, the young
Baronet with the immense Northern property — the Bishop of
Windsor was actually said to be smitten with one of them, but

did not like to offer, as her present M y, like Qu — n

El-z-b-th of gracious memory, is said to object to bishops,
as bishops, marrying. Where is Bustington ? Where is Crack-
thorpe ? Where is Fobsby, the young Baronet of the North ?
My dear fellow, when those two girls come into a room now,
they make no more sensation than you or I. Miss Newcome
has carried their 'admirers away from them : Fobsby has
actually, it is said, proposed for her : and the real reason of
that affair between Lord Bustington and Captain Crackthorpe
of the Royal Horse Guards Green, was a speech of Busting-
ton's, hinting that Miss Newcome had not behaved well in
throwing Lord Kew over. Don't you know what old Lady
Kew will do with this girl, Clive ? She will marry Miss
Newcome to the best man. If a richer and better parti than
Lord Farintosh presents himself — then it will be Farintosh's
turn to find that Lady Kew is not at home. Is there any young
man in the Peerage unmarried and richer than Farintosh ? I
forget. Why does not some one publish a list of the young
male nobility and baronetage, their names, weights, and prob-
able fortunes ? I don't mean for the matrons of May Fair —
they have the list by heart and study it in secret — but for young
men in the world : so that they may know what their chances
are, and who naturally has the pull over them. Let me see —
there is young Lord Gaunt, who will have a great fortune, and
is desirable because you know his father is locked up — but he
is only ten years old — no — they can scarcely bring him forward
as Farintosh's rival.

" You look astonished, my poor boy ? You think it is wicked
in me to talk in this brutal way about bargain and sale ; and
say that your heart's darling is, at this minute, being paced up
and down the May I-air market to be taken away by the best
bidder. Can you count purses with Sultan Farintosh ? Can
you compete even with Sir John Fobsby of the North ? What J

43 © THE NEWCOMES.

say is wicked and worldly, is it ? So it is : but it is true, as true
as Tattersall's — as true as Circassia or Virginia. Don't you
know that the Circassian girls are proud of their bringing up,
and take rank according to the prices which they fetch ? And
you go and buy yourself some new clothes, and a fifty-pound
horse, and put a penny rose in your button-hole, and ride past
her window, and think to win this prize ? Oh, you idiot ! A
penny rosebud ! Put money in your purse. A fifty-pound hack
when a butcher rides as good a one ! — Put money in your purse.
A brave young heart, all courage and love and honor ! Put
money in thy purse — t'other coin don't pass in the market — at
least where old Lady Kew has the stall."

By these remonstrances, playful though serious, Clive's
adviser sought to teach him wisdom about his love-affair;
and the advice was received as advice upon those occasions
usually is.

After calling thrice, and writing to Miss Newcome, there
came a little note from that young lady, saying, " Dear Clive,
■ — We were so sorry we were out when you called. We shall
be at home to-morrow at lunch, when Lady Kew hopes you will
come and see yours ever, E. N."

Clive went — poor Clive! He had the satisfaction of shaking
Ethel's hand, and a finger of Lady Kew ; of eating a mutton-
chop in Ethel's presence ; of conversing about the state of art
at Rome with Lady Kew, and describing the last works of
Gibson and Macdonald. The visit lasted but for half an hour.
Not for one minute was Clive allowed to see Ethel alone. At
three o'clock Lady Kew's carriage was announced, and our
young gentleman rose to take his leave, and had the pleasure
of seeing the most noble Peer, Marquis of Farintosh arid Earl
of Rossmont, descend from his lordship's brougham and enter
at Lady Kew's door, followed by a domestic bearing a small
stack of flowers from Covent Garden.

It befell that the good-natured Lady Fareham had a ball in
these days ; and meeting Clive in the Park, her lord invited
him to the entertainment. Mr. Pendennis had also the honor
of a card. Accordingly Clive took me up at Bays's, and we
proceeded to the ball together.

The lady of the house, smiling upon all her guests, wel-
comed with particular kindness her young friend from Rome.
" Are you related to the Miss Newcome, Lady Ann Newcome's
daughter ? Her cousin ? She will be here to-night. '• Very
likely Lady Fareham did not see Clive wince and blush at this
announcement, her ladyship having to occupy herself with a

Till: XEWCOMES. 437

thousand other people. Clive found a dozen of his Roman
friends in the room, ladies young and middle-aged, plain and
handsome, all glad to see his kind face. The house was splen-
did j the ladies magnificently dressed ; the ball beautiful, though
it appeared a little dull until that event took place whereof we
treated a few pages back (in the allegory of Mr. Tompkins and
Miss Hopkins,) and Lady Kew and her granddaughter made
their appearance.

That old woman, who began to look more and more like
the wicked fairy of the stories, who is not invited to the Prin-
cess's Christening Feast, had this advantage over her likeness,
that she was invited everywhere ; though how she, at her age,
could fly about to so many parties, unless she was a fairy, no
one could say. Behind the fairy, up the marble stairs, came
the most noble Farintosh, with that vacuous leer which distin-
guishes his lordship. Ethel seemed to be carrying the stack of
flowers which the Marquis had sent to her. The noble Bust-
ington (Viscount Bustington, I need scarcely tell the reader, is
the heir of the house of Podbury), the Baronet of the North,
the gallant Crackthorpe, the first men in town, in a word,
gathered round the young beauty, forming her court ; and little
Dick Hitchin, who goes everywhere, you may be sure was near
her with a compliment and a smile. Ere this arrival, the twins
had been giving themselves great airs in the room — the poor
twins ! when Ethel appeared they sank into shuddering in-
significance, and. had to put up with the conversation and at-
tentions of second-rate men, belonging to second-rale clubs, in
heavy dragoon regiments. One of them actually walked with
a dancing barrister ; but he was related to a duke, and it was
expected the Lord Chancellor would give him something very
good.

Before he saw Ethel, Clive vowed he was aware of her.
Indeed, had not Lady Fareham told him Miss Xewcome was
coming ? Ethel, on the contrary, not expecting him, or not
having the prescience of love, exhibited signs of surprise when
she beheld him, her eyebrows arching, her eyes darting looks
of pleasure. When grandmamma happened to be in another
room, she beckoned Clive to her, dismissing Crackthorpe and
Fobsby, Farintosh and Bustington, the amorous youth who
around her bowed, and summoning Mr. Clive up to an audience
with the air of a young princess.

And so she was a princess ; and this the region of her
special dominion. The wittiest and handsomest, she deserved
to reign in such a place, by right of merit and by general elec

438

THE NEWCOMES.

tion. Clive felt her superiority, and his own shortcomings ; he
came up to her as to a superior person. Perhaps she was not
sorry to let him see how she ordered away grandees and splen-
did Bustingtons, informing them, with a superb manner, that
she wished to speak to her cousin — that handsome young man
with the light mustache yonder.

" Do you know many people ? This is your first appear-
ance in society? Shall I introduce you to some nice girls to
dance with? What very pretty buttons ! "

" Is that what you wanted to say ? " asked Clive, rather be-
wildered.

" What does one say at a ball ? One talks conversation
suited to the place. If I were to say to Captain Crackthorpe,
' What pretty buttons ! ' he would be delighted. But you — you
have a soul above buttons, I suppose."

" Being as you say, a stranger in this sort of society, you see
I am not accustomed to — to the exceeding brilliancy of its con-
versation," said Clive.

" What ! you want to go away, and we haven't seen each
other for near a year," cries Ethel, in quite a natural voice.
" Sir John Fobsby, I'm very sorry — but do let me off this dance.
I have just met my cousin, whom I have not seen for a whole
year, and I want to talk to him."

" It was not my fault that you did not see me sooner. I
wrote to you that I only got your letter a month ago. You
never answered the second I wrote you from Rome. Your
letter lay there at the post ever so long, and was forwarded to
me at Naples."

" Where ? " asked Ethel.

" I saw Lord Kew there." Ethel was smiling with all her
might, and kissing; her hands to the twins, who passed at this
moment with their mamma. " Oh, indeed, you saw — how do
you do ? — Lord Kew."

" And, having seen him, I came over to England," said
Clive.

Ethel looked at him gravely. " What am I to understand
by that, Clive ? — You came over because it was very hot at
Naples, and because you wanted to see your friends here,
n'est-ce pas? How glad mamma was to see you ! You know
she loves you as if you were her own son."

" What, as much as that angel, Barnes ! " cries Clive, bit
terly ; " impossible."

Ethel looked once more. Her present mood and desire
was to treat Clive as a chit, as a young fellow without conse

THE NEWCOMES. 439

qnence — a thirteenth younger brother. But in his looks and
behavior there was that which seemed to say not too many
liberties were to be taken with him.

" Why weren't you here a month sooner, and you might
have seen the marriage? It was a very pretty thing. Every-
body was there. Clara, and so did Barnes really, looked quite
handsome."

;' It must have been beautiful," continued Clive ; " quite a
touching sight, I am sure. Poor Charles Belsize could not be
present because his brother was dead ; and "

" And what else, pray, Mr. Newcome ! " cries Miss, in great
wrath, her pink nostrils beginning to quiver. " I did not
think, really, that when we met after so many months, I was
to be — insulted • yes, insulted, by the mention of that name."

" I most humbly ask pardon," said Clive, with a grave bow.
" Heaven forbid ihat I should wound your sensibility, Ethel !
It is, as you say, my first appearance in society. I talk about
things or persons that I should not mention. I should talk
about buttons, should I ? which you were good enough to tell
me was the proper subject of conversation. Mayn't I even
speak of connections cf the family ? Mr. Belsize, through this
marriage, has the honor of being connected with you ; and
even I, in a remote degree, may boast of a sort of an ever-so-
distant cousinship with him. What an honor for me ! "

" Pray what is the meaning of all this ? " cries Miss Ethel,
surprised, and perhaps alarmed. Indeed, Clive scarcely knew.
He had been chafing all the while he talked with her ;
smothering anger as he saw the young men round about her \
revolting against himself for the very humility of his obedience,
and angry at the eagerness and delight with which he had
come at her call.

"The meaning is, Ethel," — he broke out, seizing the oppor-
tunity,— "that when a man comes a thousand miles to see you
and shake your hand, you should give it him a little more cor-
dially than you choose to do to me ; that when a kinsman
knocks at your door, time after time, you should try and admit
him ; and that when you meet him you should treat him like an
old friend : not as you treated me when my Lady Kew vouch-
safed to give me admittance ; not as you treat these fools that
are fribbling round about you," cries Mr. Clive, in a great
rage, folding his arms, and glaring round on a number of the
most innocent young swells ; and he continued looking as if
he would like to knock a dozen of their heads together. " An»
I keeping Miss Newcome's admirers from her ? "

44°

THE NEWCOMES,

" That is not for me to say," she said, quite gently. H*
was ; but to see him angry did not displease Miss Newcome.

" That young man who came for you just now," Give went
on—" that Sir John "

"Are you angry with me because I sent him away?" said
Ethel, putting out a hand. " Hark ! there is the music. Take
me in and waltz with me. Don't you know it is not my door
at which you knocked ? " she said, looking up into his face as
simply and kindly as of old. She whirled round the dancings
room with him in triumph, the other beauties dwindling before
her; she looked more and more beautiful with each rapid
move of the waltz, her color heightening and her eyes seeming
to brighten. Not till the music stopped did she sink down on
a seat, panting, and smiling radiant — as many many hundred
years ago I remember to have seen Taglioni, after a conquering
pas seul. She nodded a " thank you " to Give. It seemed
that there was a perfect reconciliation. Lady Kew came in
just at the end of the dance, scowling when she beheld Ethel's
partner ; but in reply to her remonstrances Ethel shrugged her
fair shoulders, with a look which seemed to say /V/<? veux, gave
an arm to her grandmother, and walked off, saucily protecting
her.

Give's friend had been looking on observingly and curi-
ously as the scene between them had taken place, and at the
dance with which the reconciliation had been celebrated. I
must tell you that this arch young creature had formed the
object of my observation for some months past, and that I
watched her as I have watched a beautiful panther at the
Zoological Gardens, so bright of eye, so sleek of coat, so slim
in form, so swift and agile in her spring.

A more brilliant young coquette than Miss Newcome, in
her second season, these eyes never looked upon, that is the
truth. In her first year, being engaged to Lord Kew, she was
perhaps a little more reserved and quiet. Besides, her mother
went out with her that first season, to whom Miss Newcome, ex-
cept for a little occasional flightiness, was invariably obedient
and ready to come to call. But when Lady Kew appeared as
her Duenna, the girl's delight seemed to be to plague the old
lady, and she would dance with the very youngest sons merely
to put grandmamma in a passion. In this way poor young
Cubley (who has two hundred a year of allowance, besides
eighty, and an annual rise of five in the Treasury,) actually
thought that Ethel was in love with him, and consulted with
the young men in his room in Downing Street, whether twa

THE XEU'COMES. 441

hundred and eighty a year, with five pound more next year,
would be enough for them to keep house on ? Young Tandy
of the Temple, Lord Skibbereen's younger son, who sat in the
House for some time on the Irish Catholic side, was also
deeply smitten, and many a night in our walks home from the
parties at the other end of the town, would entertain me with
his admiration and passion for her.

" If you have such a passion for her, why not propose ? " it
was asked of Mr. Tandy.

" Propose ! propose to a Russian Archduchess," cries young
Tandy. " She's beautiful, she's delightful, she's witty. 1
have never seen anything lik- her eyes ; they send me wild — ■
wild," says Tandy — (slapping his waistcoat under Temple Bar)
■ — " but a more audacious little rlirt never existed since the
days of Cleopatra."

With this opinion likewise in my mind, I had been looking
on during Clive's proceedings with Miss Ethel — not, I say,
without admiration of the young lady who was leading him such
a dance. The waltz over, I congratulated him on his own
performance. Continental practice had greatly improved him.
"And as for your partner, it is delightful to see her," I went
on. " I always like to be by when Miss Newcome dances. I
had sooner see her than anybody since Taglioni. Look at her
now, with her neck up, and her little foot out, just as she is
preparing to start ! Happy Lord Bustington !"

" You are angry with her because she cut you," growls
Clive. " You know you said she cut you, or forgot you j and
your vanity's wounded, that is why you are so satirical."

" How can Miss Newcome remember all the men who are
presented to her ? " says the other. " Last year she talked to
me because she wanted to know about you. This year she
doesn't talk : because I suppose she does not want to know
about you any more."

" Hang it. Do — on't, Pen," cries Clive, as a schoolboy
cries out to another not to hit him.

" She does not pretend to observe : and is in full conversa-
tion with the amiable Bustington. Delicious interchange of
noble thoughts ! But she is observing us talking, and knows
that we are talking about her. If ever you marry her, Clive,
which is absurd, I shall lose you for a friend. You will infal-
libly tell her what I think of her: and she will order you to
give me up.'' Clive had gone off in a brown study, as his
interlocutor continued. " Yes, she is a llirt. She can't help
her nature. She tries to vanquish every one who comes near

442 THE NEWCOMES.

her. She is a little out of breath from waltzing, and so she pre-
tends to be listening to poor Bustington, who is a little out of
breath too, but purls out his best in order to make himself
agreeable. With what a pretty air she appears to listen !
Her eyes actually seem to brighten."

" What ? " says Clive, with a start.

I could not comprehend the meaning of the start : nor did I
care much to know : supposing that the young man was waking
up from some lover's reverie: and the evening sped away, Clive
not quitting the ball until Miss Newcome and the Countess of
Kew had departed. No further communication appeared to take
place between the cousins that evening. I think it was Cap-
tain Crackthorpe who gave the young lady an arm into her
carriage: Sir John Fobsby having the happiness to conduct the
old Countess, and carrying the pink bag for the shawls, wrap-
pers, &c, on which her ladyship's coronet and initials are em-
blazoned. Clive may have made a movement as if to step for-
ward, but a single finger from Miss Newcome warned him back.

Clive and his two friends in Lamb Court had made an en-
gagement for the next Saturday to dine at Greenwich ; but
on the morning of that day there came a note from him to say
that he thought of going down to see his aunt, Miss Honey-
man, and begged to recall his promise to us. Saturday is a holi-
day with gentlemen of our profession. We had invited F.
Bavham, Esquire, and promised ourselves a merry evening, and
were unwilling to baulk ourselves of the pleasure on account
of the absence of our young Roman. So we three went to
London Bridge Station at an early hour, proposing to breathe
the fresh air of Greenwich Park before dinner. And at Lon-
don Bridge, by the most singular coincidence, Lady Kew's
carriage drove up to the Brighton entrance, and Miss Ethel
and her maid stepped out of the brougham.

When Miss Newcome and her maid entered the Brighton
station, did Mr. Clive, by another singular coincidence, happen
also to be there ? What more natural and dutiful than that
he should go and see his aunt, Miss Honeyman ? What more
proper than that Miss Ethel should pass the Saturday and Sun-
day with her sick father ; and take a couple of wholesome nights'
rest after those five weary past evenings, for each of which we
may reckon a couple of soirees and a ball ? And that relations
should travel together, the young lady being protected by her
fe?nme-dc-cha?7ibre ; that surely as every one must allow, was
perfectly right and proper.

THE A' ■ EWCOMES. 443

That a biographer should profess to know everything which
passes, even in a confidential talk in a first-class carriage be-
tween two lovers, seems perfectly absurd ; not that grave histor-
ians do not pretend to the same wonderful degree of knowledge
— reporting meetings the most occult of conspirators ; private
interviews between monarchs and their ministers, even the
secret thoughts and motives of those personages, which possibly
the persons themselves did not know. All for which the pres-
ent writer will pledge his known character for veracity is, that
on a certain day certain parties had a conversation, of which
the upshot was so and so. He guesses, of course, at a great
deal of what took place , knowing the characters, and being
informed at some time of their meeting. You do not suppose
that I bribed \\\(t fem?nc-de-chambrc, or that those two City gents,
who sat in the same carriage with our young friends, and could
not hear a word they said, reported their talk to me ? If Clive
and Ethel had had a coupe' to themselves, I would yet boldly
tell what took place, but the coupe was taken by other three
young City gents who smoked the whole way.

" Well, then," the bonnet begins close up to the hat, " tell
me, sir, is it true that you were so very much epris of the Miss
Freemans at Rome ; and that afterwards you were so wonder-
fully attentive to the third Miss Balliol ? Did you draw her
portrait ? You know you drew her portrait. You painters
always pretend to admire girls with auburn hair, because Titian
and Raphael painted it. Has the Fomarina red hair? Why
we are at Croydon, I declare ! "

'" The Fornarina " — the hat replies to the bonnet, " if that
picture at the Borghese Palace be an original, or a likeness of
her — is not a handsome woman, with vulgar eyes and mouth,
and altogether a most mahogany-colored person. She is so
plain, in fact, I think that very likely it is the real woman , for
it is with their own fancies that men fall in love, — or rather
every woman is handsome to the lover. You know how old
Helen must have been."

M I don't know any such thing, or anything about her.
Who was Helen ? " asks the bonnet ; and indeed she did not
know.

" It's a long story, and such an old scandal now, that there
is no use in repeating it," says Clive.

" You only talk about Helen because you wish to turn away
the conversation from Miss Freeman,*' cries the young lady — •
"from Miss Balliol, I mean."

'• We will talk about whichever you please. Which shall we

444

THE NEWCOMES.

begin to pull to pieces ? " says Clive. You see, to be in tnia
carriage — to be actually with her — to be looking into those
wonderful lucid eyes — to see her sweet mouth dimpling, and
hear her sweet voice ringing with its delicious laughter — to have
that hour and a half his own, in spite of all the world-dragons,
grandmothers, convenances, the future — made the young fellow
so happy, filled his whole frame and spirit with a delight so
keen, that no wonder he was gay, and brisk, and lively.

" And so you knew of my goings on ? " he asked. Oh me )
they were at Reigate by this time , there was Gatton Park
flying before them on the wings of the wind.

"J know of a number of things," says the bonnet, nodding
with ambrosial curls.

" And you would not answer the second letter I wrote to
you ? "

,; We were in great perplexity. One cannot be always an
swering young gentlemen's letters. I had considerable doubt
about answering a note I got from Charlotte Street, Fitzroy
Square," says the lady's chapeau. " No, Clive, we must not
write to one another," she continued more gravely, "or only
very, very seldom. Nay, my meeting you here to-day is by the
merest chance I am sure ; for when I mentioned at Lady Free-
man's the other evening that I was going to see papa at
Brighton to-day, I never for one moment thought of seeing you
in the train. But as you are here, it can't be helped ; and I
may as well tell you that there are obstacles."

" What, other obstacles ? " Clive gasped out.

" Nonsense — you silly boy ! No other obstacles but those
which always have existed, and must. When we parted — that
is, when you left us at Baden, you knew it was for the best.
You had your profession to follow, and could not go on idling
about — about a family of six people and children. Every man
has his profession, and you yours, as you would have it. We
are so nearly allied that we may — we may like each other like
brother and sister almost. I don't know what Barnes would
say if he heard me ? Whatever you and your father are, how
can I ever think of you but — but you know how ? I always
shall, always. There are certain feelings we have which I hope
never can change ; though, if you please, about them I intend
never to speak any more. Neither you nor I can alter our con-
ditions, but must make the best of them. You shall be a fine
clever painter ; and I, — who knows what will happen to me ? I
know what is going to happen to-day ; I am going to see papa
and mamma, and be as happy as I can till Monday morning."

THE NEWCOMES. 445

"I know what I wish would happen now," said Give, — they
were going screaming through a tunnel.

kk What ? " said the bonnet in the darkness ; and the engine
was roaring so loudly, that he was obliged to put his head quite
close to say —

"I wish the tunnel would fall in and close upon us, or that
we might travel on for ever and ever "

Here there was a great jar of the carriage, and the lady's-
maid, and I think Miss Ethel, gave a shriek. The lamp above
was so dim that the carriage was almost totally dark. No won-
der the lady's-maid was frightened ! but the daylight came
streaming in, and all poor Clive's wishes of rolling and rolling
on forever were put an end to by the implacable sun in a
minute.

Ah, why was it the quick train ? Suppose it had been the
parliamentary train ? — even that too would have come to an end.
They came and said, " Tickets please," and Give held out the
three of their party — his, and Ethel's, and her maid's. I think
for such a ride as that he was right to give up Greenwich. Mr,
Kuhn was in waiting with a carriage for Miss Ethel. She
shook hands with Give, returning his pressure.

" I may come and see you ? " he said.

" You may come and see mamma — yes."

" And where are you staying ? "

" Bless my soul — they were staying at Miss Honeyman's ! "'
Give burst into a laugh. Why, he was going there too ! Of
course Aunt Honeyman had no room for him, her house being
quite full with the other Newcomes.

It was a most curious coincidence their meeting; but alto-
gether Lady Ann thought it was best to say nothing about the
circumstance to grandmamma. I myself am puzzled to say
which would have been the better course to pursue under the
circumstances ; there were so many courses open. As they had
gone so far, should they goon farther together? Suppose they
were going to the same house at Brighton, oughtn't they to
have gone in the same carriage, with Kuhn and the maid of
course? Suppose they met by chance at the station, ought
they to have travelled in separate carriages. I ask any gentle-
man and father of a family, when he was immensely smitten
with his present wife, Mrs. Brown, if he had met her travelling
with her maid, in the mail, when there was a vacant place, what
would he himself have done ?

446 THE NEWCOMES.

CHAPTER XLII.

INJURED INNOCENCE.

FROM CLIVE NEWCOME, ESO., TO LIEUT.-COL NEW
COME, C7B.

"Brighton June, 12, 18—.

" My dearest Father, — As the weather was growing very
hot at Naples, and you wished I should come to England to see
Mr. Binnie, I came accordingly, and have been here three
weeks, and write to you from Aunt Honeyman's parlor at
Brighton, where you ate your last dinner before embarking for
India. I found your splendid remittance on calling in Fog
Court, and have invested a part of the sum in a good horse to
ride, upon which I take my diversion with other young dandies
in the park. Florae is in England, but he has no need of your
kindness. Only think ! he is Prince de Montcontour now, the
second title of the Due d'lvry's family ; and M. le Comte de
Florae is Due d'lvry in consequence of the demise of t'other old
gentleman. I believe the late duke's wife shortened his life.
Oh, what a woman ! She caused a duel between Lord Kew and
a Frenchman, which has in its turn occasioned all sorts of evil
and division in families, as you shall hear.

" In the first place, in consequence of the duel and of
incompatibility of temper, the match been Kew and E. N.,
has been broken off. I met Lord Kew at Naples with his
mother and brother, nice quiet people as you would like them.
Kew's wound and subsequent illness have altered him a good
deal. He has become much more serious than he used to be ;
not ludicrously so at all, but he says he thinks his past life has
been useless and even criminal, and he wishes to change it.
He has sold his horses, and sown his wild oats. He has turned
quite a sober quiet gentleman.

" At our meeting he told me of what had happened between
him and Ethel, and of whom he spoke most kindly and generously,
but avowing his opinion that they never could have been happy
in married life. And now I think my dear old father will see
that there may be another reason besides my desire to see Mr.
Binnie, which has brought me tumbling back to England again.

THE .YEIVCOMES. 447

If need be to speak, I never shall have, I hope, any secrets from
you. I have not said much about one which has given me the
deuce's disquiet for ten months past, because there was no good
in talking about it, or vexing you needlessly with reports of my
griefs and woes.

M Well, when we were at Baden in September last, and E.
and I. wrote those letters in common to you, I dare say you can
fancy what my feelings might have been towards such a beautiful
young creature, who has a hundred faults, for which I love her
just as much as for the good that is in her. I became dreadfully
smitten indeed, and knowing that she was engaged to Lord
Kew, I did as you told me you did once when the enemy was
too strong for you — I ran away. I had a bad time of it for two
or three months. At Rome, however, I began to take matters
more easily, my naturally fine appetite returned, and at the end
of the season I found myself uncommonly happy in the society
of the Miss Balliols and the Miss Freemans ; but when Kew
told me at Naples of what had happened, there was straightway
a fresh eruption in my heart, and I was fool enough to come
almost without sleep to London in order to catch a glimpse of
the bright eyes of E. N.

" She is now in this very house up stairs with one aunt,
whilst the other lets lodging to her. I have seen her but very
seldom indeed since I came to London, where Sir Brian and
Lady Ann do not pass the season, and Ethel goes about to a
dozen parties every week with old Lady Kew, who neither loves
you nor me. Hearing E. say she was coming down to her
parents at Brighton, I made so bold as to waylay her at the
train (though I didn't tell her that I passed three hours in the
waiting-room) ; and we made the journey together, and she was
very kind and beautiful, and though I suppose I might just as
well ask the Royal Princess to have me, I can't help hoping and
longing and hankering after her. And Aunt Honeyman must
have found out that I am fond of her, for the old lady has re-
ceived me with a scolding. Uncle Charles seems to be in very
good condition again. I saw him in full clerical leather at
Madame de Monlcontour's, a good-natured body who drops her
h's, though Florae is not aware of their absence. Pendennis
and Warrington, I know, would send you their best regards.
Pen is conceited, but much kinder in reality than he has the air
of being. Fred Bayharti is doing well, and prospering in his
mysterious way.

" Mr. Binnie is not looking at all well ; and Mrs. Mack-
well, as I know you never attack a lady behind her lovely back

445 THE NEWCOMES.

I won't say a word of Mrs. Mack — but she has taken possession
of Uncle James, and seems to me to weigh upon him somehow.
Rosey is as pretty and good-natured as ever, and has learned
two new songs ; but you see, with my sentiments in another
quarter, I feel as it were guilty and awkward in company of
Rosey and her mamma. They have become the very greatest
friends with Bryanstone Square, and Mrs. Mack is always citing
Aunt Hobson as the most superior of women, in which opinion,
I dare say, Aunt Hobson concurs.

" Good -by, my dearest father • my sheet" is full ; I wish I
cculd put my arm in yours and pace up and down the pier with
you, and tell you more and more. But you know enough now,
and that I am your affectionate son always,

"C. >;."

In fact, when Mr. Clive appeared at Steyne Gardens step-
ping out of the fly, and handing Miss Ethel thence, Miss
Honeyman of course was very glad to see her nephew, and
saluted him with a little embrace to show her sense of pleasure
at his visit. But the next day, being Sunday, when Clive, with
the most engaging smile on his countenance, walked over to
breakfast from his hotel, Miss Honeyman would scarcely speak
to him during the meal, looked out at him very haughtily from
under her Sunday cap, and received his stories about Italy with
*■ Oh ! ah! indeed !" in a very unkind manner. And when
breakfast was over, and she had done washing her china, she
fluttered up to Clive with such an agitation of plumage, redness
of craw, and anger of manner, as a maternal hen shows if she
has reason to think you menace her chickens. She fluttered up
to Clive, I say, and cried out, " Not in this house, Clive, — not
in this house, I beg you to understand that /"

Clive, looking amazed, said, " Certainly not, ma'am ; I
never did do it in the house, as I know you don't like it. I was
going into the Square." The young man meaning that he was
about to smoke, and conjecturing that his aunt's anger applied
to that practice.

" You know very well what I mean, sir ! Don't try to turn
me off in that highty-tighty way. My dinner to-day is at half
past one. You can dine or not as you like," and the old lady
flounced out of the room.

Poor Clive stood rolling his cigar in sad perplexity of spirit
until Miss Honeyman's servant Hannah entered, who, for her
part, grinned and looked particularly sly. " In the name of
goodness, Hannah, what is the row about ?" crir'.s Mr. CH e

THE A'EircO.VES.

449

fi What is my aunt scolding at ? What are you grinning at,
you old Cheshire cat ? "

" Git 'long, Master Clive," says Hannah, patting the cloth.

" Get along ! why get along, and where am I to get alons:
to ? "

" Did'ee do ut really now, Master Clive ? " cries Mis.*
Honeyman's attendant, grinning with the utmost good-humor.
" Well, she be as pretty a young lady as ever I saw ; and as I
told my Missis, * Miss Martha,' says I, ' there's a pair on 'cm.'
Though Missis was mortal angry to be sure. She never could
bear it."

"Bear what! you old goose !" cries Clive, who by these
playful names had been wont to designate Hannah these twenty
years past.

" A young gentleman and a young lady a kissing of' each
other in the railway coach," says Hannah, jerking up with her
finger to the ceiling, as much as to say. " There she is ! Lar,
she be a pretty young creature, that she be ! and so I told Miss
Martha." Thus differently had the news which had come to
them on the previous night affected the old lady and her maid.

The news was, that Miss Newcome's maid (a giddy thing
from the country, who had not even learned as yet to hold her
tongue.) had announced with giggling delight to Lady Ann's
maid, who was taking tea with Mrs. Hicks, that Mr. Clive had
given Miss Ethel a kiss in the tunnel, and she supposed it was
a match. This intelligence Hannah Hicks took to her mistress,
of whose angry behavior to Clive the next morning you may
now understand the cause.

Clive did not know whether to laugh or to be in a rage.
He swore that he was as innocent of all intention of kissing
Miss Ethel as of embracing Queen Elizabeth. He was shocked
to think of his cousin, walking above, fancy-free in maiden
meditation, whilst this conversation regarding her was carried
on below. How could he face her, or her mother, or even her
maid, now he had cognizance of this naughty calumny? " Of
course Hannah had contradicted it?" "Of course I have a
done no such a thing indeed," replied Master Give's old friend ;
"of course I have set 'em down a bit ; for when little Trimmer
said it, and she supposed it was all settled between you, seeing
how it had been a going on in foreign parts last year, Mrs.
Pincott says, ' Hold your silly tongue, Trimmer,' she says ;
' Miss Ethel marry a painter, indeed, Trimmer ! ' says she,
'while she has refused to be a Countess,' she says ; 4 and t an
be a Marchioness any day, and will be a Marchioness. Marry

20

4So

THE NEWCOMES

a painter, indeed ! ' Mrs. Pincott says ; 'Trimmer, I'm surprised
at your impidence.' So my dear, I got angry at that," Olive's
champion continued, " and says I, ' If my young Master ain't
good enough for any young lady in this world,' says I, ' I'd like
you to show her to me : and if his dear father, the Colonel,'
says I, ' ain't as good as your old gentleman up stairs,' says I,
' who has gruel and dines upon doctor's stuff, then, Mrs. Pin-
cott,' says I, ' my name isn't what it is,' says I. Those were
my very words, Master Clive, my dear ; and then Mrs. Pincott
says, ' Mrs. Hicks,' she says, ' you don't understand society/
she says ; 'you don't understand society, he ! he ! '" and the
country lady, with considerable humor, gave an imitation of the
town lady's manner.

At this juncture Miss Honeyman re-entered the parlor, ar-
rayed in her Sunday bonnet, her stiff and spotless collar, her
Cashmere shawl and Agra brooch, and carrying her Bible and
Prayer-book, each stitched in its neat cover of brown silk.
" Don't stay chattering here, you idle woman," she cried to her
attendant with extreme asperity. " And you, sir, if you wish
to smoke your cigars, you had best walk clown to the cliff where
the Cockneys are ! " she added, glowering at Clive.

Now I understand it all," Clive said, trying to deprecate her
anger. " My dear good aunt, it's a most absurd mistake ; upon
my honor Miss Ethel is as innocent as you are."

" Innocent or not, this house is not intended for assigna-
tions, Clive ! As long as Sir Brian Newcome lodges here, you
will be pleased to keep away from it, sir ; and though I don't
approve of Sunday travelling, I think the very best thing you
can do is to put yourself in the train and go back to London."

And now, young people, who read my moral pages, you will
see how highly imprudent it is to sit with your cousins in rail-
way carriages ; and how, though you may not mean the slightest
harm in the world, a great deal may be attributed to you ; and
how, when you think you are managing your little absurd love-
affairs ever so- quietly, Jeames and Betsy in the servants' hall
are very likely talking about them, and you are putting yourself
in the power of those menials. If the perusal of these lines
has rendered one single young couple uncomfortable, surely my
amiable end is answered, and I have written not altogether m
vain.

Clive was going away, innocent though he was, yet quivering
under his aunt's reproof, and so put out of countenance that
he had not even thought of lighting the great cigar which he
stuck into his foolish mouth ; when a shout of " Clive ! Clive 1 !V

THE NEWCOMES. 45!

from half-a-dozen little voices roused him, and presently as
many little Newcomes came toddling down the stairs, and this
one clung round his knees, and that at the skirts of his coat,
and another took his hand and said, he must come and walk
with them on the beach.

So away went Clive to walk with his cousins, and then to see
his old friend Miss Cann, with whom and the elder children he
walked to church, and issuing thence greeted Lady Ann and
Ethel (who had also attended the service) in the most natural
way in the world.

While engaged in talking with these, Miss Honeyman came
out of the sacred edifice, crisp and stately in the famous Agra
brooch and Cashmere shawl. The good-natured Lady Ann had
a smile and a kind word for her as for everybody. Clive went
up to his maternal aunt to offer his arm. " You must give him
up to us for dinner, Miss Honeyman, if you please to be so very
kind. He was so good-natured in escorting Ethel down," Lady
Ann said.

" Hm ! my lady," says Miss Honeyman, perking her head
up in her collar. Clive did not know whether to kmgh or not,
but a fine blush illuminated his countenance. As for Ethel, she
was and looked perfectly unconscious. So, rustling in her stiff
black silk, Martha Honeyman walked with her nephew silent
by the shore of the much-sounding sea. The idea of courtship,
of osculatory processes, of marrying and giving in marriage,
made this elderly virgin chafe and fume, she never having, at
any period of her life, indulged in any such ideas or practices,
and being angry against them, as childless wives will sometimes
be angry and testy against matrons with their prattle about their
nurseries. Now, Miss Cann was a different sort of spinster,
and loved a bit of sentiment with all her heart, from which I
am led to conclude — but, pray, is this the history of Miss Cann
or of the Newcomes ?

All these Newcomes then entered into Miss Honeyman's
house, where a number of little knives and forks were laid for
them. Ethel was cold and thoughtful ; Lady Ann was per-
fectly good-natured as her wont was. Sir Brian came in on the
arm of his valet presently, wearing that look of extra neatness
which invalids have, who have just been shaved and combed,
and made ready by their attendants to receive company. He
was voluble : though there was a perceptible change in his
voice : he talked chiefly of matters which had occurred forty
years ago, and especially of Clivc*s own father, when he was a
toy, in a manner which interested the young man and EtheL

452 THE AEWCOMES.

" He threw me down in a chaise — sad chap — always reading
*Orme's History of India ' — wanted marry Frenchwoman. He
wondered Mrs. Newcome didn't leave Tom anything — 'pon my
word, quite s'prise." The events of to-day, the House of Com-
mons, the City, had little interest for him. All the children
went up and shook him by the hand, with awe in their looks,
and he patted their yellow heads vacantly and kindly. He
asked Clive (several times) where he had been? and said he
himself had had a slight 'tack — vay slight — was getting well ev'y
day — strong as a horse — go back to Parliament d'rectly. And
then he became a little peevish with Parker, his man, about his
broth. The man retired, and came back presently, with pro-
found bows and gravity, to tell Sir Brian dinner was ready, and
he went away quite briskly at this news, giving a couple of fingers
to Clive before he disappeared into the upper apartments.
Good-natured Lady Ann was as easy about this as about the
other events of this world. In later days, with what a strange
feeling we remember that last sight we have of the old friend ;
that nod of farewell, and shake of the hand, that last look of
the face and figure as the door closes on him, or the coach
drives away ! So the roast-mutton was ready, and all the chil-
dren dined very heartily.

The infantile meal had not been long concluded, when ser-
vants announced " the Marquis of Farintosh • " and that noble-
man made his appearance to pay his respects to Miss New-
come and Lady Ann. He brought the very last news of the
very last party in London, where " Really, upon my honor, now,
it was quite a stupid party, because Miss Newcome wasn't there.
It was now, really."

Miss Newcome remarked, if he said so upon his honor, of
course she was satisfied.

"As you weren't there," the young nobleman continued,
" the Miss Rackstraws came out quite strong • really they did
now, upon my honor. It was quite a quiet thing. Lady Merri
borough hadn't even got a new gown on. Lady Ann, you shirk
London society this year, and we miss you : we expected you
to give us two or three things this season ; we did now, really
I said to Tufthunt, only yesterday, why has not Lady Ann New-
come given anything ? You know Tufthunt ? They say he's a
clever fellow, and that — but he's a low little beast, and I hate
him."

Lady Ann said, " Sir Brian's bad state of health prevented
her from going out this season, or receiving at home."

11 It don't prevent your mother from going out, though," con>

THE XFAVCOMES. 453

tinued my lord. " Upon my honor, I think unless she got two
or three tilings every night, I think she'd die. Lady Kew's
like one of those horses, you know, that unless they'go they
drop."

" Thank you for my mother," said Lady Ann.

" She is, upon my honor. Last night I know she was at
ever so many places. She dined at the Bloxam's, for I was
there. Then she said she was going to sit with old Mrs. Crack-
thorpe, who has broke her collar-bone, (that Crackthorpe in
the Life Guards, her grandson, is a brute, and I hope she won't
leave him a shillin',) and then she came on to Lady Ha"'kstone's,
where I heard her say she had been at the — at the F'vwerdales',
too. People begin to go to those Flowerdales. Hanged if I
know where they won't go next. Cotton-spinner, wasn't he? "

" So were we, my lord," says Miss Newcome.

" Oh, yes, I forgot ! But you're of an old family — very old
family."

" We can't help it," said Miss Ethel, archly. Indeed, she
thought she was.

" Do you believe in the barber-surgeon ? " asked Clive.
And my lord looked at him with a noble curiosity, as much as
to say, " Who the deuce was the barber-surgeon ? and who the
devil are you ? "

" Why should we disown our family ? " Miss Ethel said,
simply. " In those early days I suppose people did — did all
sorts of things, and it was not considered at all out of the way
to be surgeon to William the Conqueror."

" Edward the Confessor," interposed Clive. "And it must
be true, because I have seen a picture of the barber surgeon : a
friend of mine, M'Collop, did the picture, and I dare say it is
for sale still."

Lady Ann said " she should be delighted to see it." Lord
Farintosh remembered that the M'Collop had the moor next
to his in Argyleshire, but did not choose to commit him-
self with the stranger, and preferred looking at his own hand-
some face and admiring it in the glass until the last speaker
had concluded his remarks.

As Clive did not offer any farther conversation, but went
back to a table, where he began to draw the barber-surgeon,
Lord Farintosh resumed the delightful talk. " What infernal
bad glasses these are in these Brighton lodging-houses ! They
make a man look quite green, really they do — and there's
nothing green in me, is there, Lady Ann ?"

" But you look very unwell, Lord Farintosh ; indeed you

454

'1HE lYEWLOMES.

do," Miss Newcome said, gravely. " I think late hours, and
smoking, and going to that horrid Piatt's, where I dare say
you go "

" Go ? don't I ? But don't call it horrid ; really, now, don't
call it horrid ! " cried the noble Marquis.

M Well — something has made you look far from well. You
know how very well Lord Farmtosh used to look, mamma —
and to see him now, in only his second season — oh, it is
melancholy ! "

" God bless my soul, Miss Newcome ? what do you mean ?
I think I look pretty well," and the noble youth passed his
hand through his hair. " It is a hard life, I know ; that tearin'
about night after night, and sittin' up till ever so much o'clock ;
and then all these races, you know, comin' one after another — >
it's enough to knock up any fellow. I'll tell you what I'll do,
Miss Newcome. I'll go down to Codlington, to my mother ; I
will, upon my honor, and lie quiet all July, and then I'll go to
Scotland — and you shall see whether I don't look better next
season."

" Do, Lord Farintosh ! " said Ethel, greatly amused, as
much, perhaps, at the young Marquis, as at her cousin Clive,
who sat whilst the other was speaking, fuming with rage, at his
table. "What are you doing, Clive ? " she asks.

u I was trying to draw, Lord knows who — Lord Newcome,
who was killed at the Battle of Bosworth," said the artist, and
the girl ran to look at the picture.

;t Why you have made him like Punch ? " cries the young
lady.

" It's a shame caricaturing one's own flesh and blood, isn't
it ? " asked Clive, gravely.

" What a droll, funny picture ! " exclaims Lady Ann. " Isn't
it capital, Lord Farintosh ? "

" I dare say — I confess I don't understand that sort of
thing,'-' says his lordship. " Don't, upon my honor. There's
Odo Carton, always making those caricatures — /don't under-
stand 'em. You'll come up to town to-morrow, won't you ?
And you're goin' to Lady Hm's, and to Hm and Hm's, ain't
you?" (The names of these aristocratic places of resort were
quite inaudible.) " You mustn't let Miss Blackcap have it all
her own way, you know, that you mustn't."

" She won't have it all her own way,' says Miss Ethel.
" Lord Farintosh, will you do me a favor ? Lady Innishowan
is your aunt ? "

" Of course she is my aunt."

THE NEWCOKES.

455

- Will you be so very good as to get a card for her party on
Tuesday, for my cousin, Mr. Clive Newcome ? Clive, please
be introduced to the Marquis of Farintosh."

The young Marquis perfectly well recollected those mus-
taches and their wearer on a former night, though he had not
thought fit to make any sign of recognition. " Anything you
wish, Miss Newcome," he said ; M delighted I'm sure ; " and
turning to Clive — " In the army, I suppose ? "

" I am an artist," says Clive, turning very red.

" Oh, really, I didn't know," cries the nobleman ; and my
lord bursting out laughing presently as he was engaged in con-
versation with M:ss Ethel on the balcony, Clive thought, very
likely with justice, " He is making fun of my mustaches. Con-
found him ; I should like to pitch him over into the street."
But this was only a kind wish on Mr. Newcome's part ; not
followed out by any immediate fulfilment.

As the Marquis of Ff-rintosh seemed inclined to prolong his
visit, and his company was exceedingly disagreeable to Clive,
the latter took his deparUire for an afternoon walk, consoled
to think that he should have Ethel to himself at the evening's
dinner, when Lady Ann would be occupied about Sir Brian,
and would be sure to be putting the children to bed, and in a
word, would give him a quarter of an hour of delightful tcte-a-
tete with* the beautiful Ethel.

Give's disgust was considerable wben he came to dinner at
length, and found Lord Farintosh likewise invited, and sprawl-
ing in the drawing-room. His hopes of :; t*(e-a tctc were over.
Ethel and Lady Ann and my lord talked, ar sdl people will,
about their mutual acquaintance : what parties were coming
off, who was going to marry whom, and so forth. And as the
persons about whom they conversed were in their own station
of life, and belonged to the fashionable world, of which Clive
had but a slight knowledge, he chose to fancy that his cousin
was giving herself airs, and to feel sulky and uneasy during
their dialogue.

Miss Newcome had faults of her own, and was worldly
enough, as perhaps the reader has begun to perceive ; but in
this instance, no harm, sure, was to be attributed to her. II
two gossips in Aunt Honeyman's parlor had talked over tho
affairs of Mr. Jones and Mr. Brown, Clive would not have been
angry ; but a young man of spirit not unfrequently mistakes his
vanity for independence : and it is certain that nothing is more
offensive to us of the middle class than to hear the names of
great folks constantly introduced into conversation.

456 THE NEWCOMER

So Clive was silent and ate no dinner, to the alarm of
Hannah, who had put him to bed many a time, and always had
a maternal eye over him. When he actually refused currant
and raspberry tart, and custard, the chcf-iTceuvre of Miss Honey-
man, for which she had seen him absolutely cry in his child-
hood, the good Hannah was alarmed.

" Law, Master Clive ! " she said, " do-ee eat some. Missis
made it, you know she did ; " and she insisted on bringing
back the tart to him.

Lady Ann and Ethel laughed at this eagerness on the
worthy old woman's part. " Do'ee eat some, Clive," says Ethel,
imitating honest Mrs. Hicks, who had left the room.

" It's doosid good," remarked Lord Farintosh.

" Then do'ee eat some more," said Miss Newcome ; on
which the young nobleman, holding out his plate, observed
with much affability, that the cook of the lodgings was really a
stunner for tarts.

"The cook, dear me, it's not the cook/" cries Miss Ethel.
" Don't you remember the princess in the Arabian Nights, who
was such a stunner for tarts, Lord Farintosh ? "

Lord Farintosh couldn't say that he did.

k( Well, I thought not ; but there was a princess in Arabia
or China or somewhere, who made such delicious tarts and
custards that nobody's could compare with them ; and there is
an old lady in Brighton who has the same wonderful talent.
She is the mistress of this house."

" And she is my aunt, at your lordship's service," said Mr.
Clive, with great dignity.

" Upon my honor ! did you make 'em, Lady Ann ? " asked
my lord.

" The Queen of Hearts made tarts ! " cried out Miss New-
come, rather eagerly, and blushing somewhat.

" My good old aunt, Miss Honeyman, made this one,"
Clive would go on to say.

" Miss Honeyman's sister, the preacher, you know, where
we go on Sunday," Miss Ethel interposed.

" The Honeyman pedigree is not a matter of very great
importance," Lady Ann remarked gently. " Kuhn, will you
have the goodness to take away these things ? " When did you
hear of Colonel Newcome, Clive ? "

An air of deep bewilderment and perplexity had spread
over Lord Farintosh's fine countenance whilst this talk about
pastry had been going on. The Arabian princess, the Queen
of Hearts making tarts, Miss Honeyman ? Who the deuce

THE NEWCOMES. 457

were all these ? Such may have been his lordship's doubts and
queries. Whatever his cogitations were, he did not give utter-
ance to them, but remained in silence for some time, as did the
rest of the little party. Clive tried to think he had asserted his
independence by showing that he was not ashamed of his old
aunt ; but the doubt may be whether there was anv necessity for
presenting her in this company, and whether Mr. Clive had not
much better have left the tart question alone.

Ethel evidently thought so j for she talked and rattled in
the most lively manner with Lord Farintosh for the rest of the
evening, and scarcely chose to say a word to her cousin. Lady
Ann was absent with Sir Brian and her children for the most
part of the time ; and thus Clive had the pleasure of listening
to Miss Xewcome uttering all sorts of odd little paradoxes, fir-
ing the while sly shots at Mr. Clive, and, indeed, making fun
of his friends, exhibiting herself in not the most agreeable light.
Her talk only served the more to bewilder Lord Farintosh, who
did not understand a tithe of her allusions, for heaven, which
had endowed the young Marquis with personal charms, a large
estate, an ancient title and the pride belonging to it, had not
supplied his lordship with a great quantity of brains, or a very
feeling heart

Lady Ann came back from the upper regions presentlv with
rather a grave face, and saying that Sir Brian was not so well
this evening, upon which the young men rose to depart. My
lord said he had had "a most delightful dinner and a most
delightful tart, 'pon his honor," and was the only one of the
little company who laughed at his own remark. Miss Ethel's
eyes flashed scorn at Mr. Clive when that unfortunate subject
was introduced again.

My Lord was going back to London to-morrow. Was Miss
Newcome going back ? Wouldn't he like to go back in the
train with her ! — another unlucky observation. Lady Ann said,
" It would depend on the state of Sir Brian's health the next
morning whether Ethel would return ; and both of you gentle-
men are too young to be her escort," added the kind lady.
Then she shook hands with Clive, as thinking she had said
something too severe for him.

Farintosh in the mean time was taking leave of Miss Xew-
come. " Pray, pray," said his lordship, " don't throw me over
at Lady Innishowan's. You know I hate balls and never go
to 'em, except when you go. I hate dancing, I do, 'pon my
honor."

"Thank you," said Miss Newcome, with a curtsey.

458 THE NEWCOMES.

" Except with one person — only one person, upon my honor.
I'll remember and get the invitation for your friend. And if
you would but try that mare, I give you my honor I bred her
at Codlington. She's a beauty to look at, and as quiet as a
lamb."

" I don't want a horse like a lamb," replied the young
lady.

'* Well — she'll go like blazes now : and over timber she's
splendid now. She is, upon my honor."

" When I come to London perhaps you may trot her out,"
said Miss Ethel, giving him her hand and a fine smile.

Give came up biting his lips. " I suppose you don't con-
descend to ride Bhurtpore any more now ? " he said.

" Poor old Bhurtpore ! The children ride him now," said
Miss Ethel — giving Clive at the same time a dangerous look of
her eyes, as though to see if her shot had hit. Then she added,
11 No — he has not been brought up to town this year : he is at
Newcome, and I like him very much." Perhaps she thought
the shot had struck too deep.

But if Clive was hurt he did not show his wound. " You
have had him these four years — yes, it's four years since my
father broke him for you. And you still continue to like him ?
What a miracle of constancy ! You use him sometimes in the
country — when you have no better horse — what a compliment
to Bhurtpore ! "

" Nonsense ! " Miss Ethel here made Clive a sign in her
most imperious manner to stay a moment when Lord Farintosh
had departed.

But he did not choose to obey this order. " Good-night,"
he said. " Before I go I must shake hands with my aunt down
stairs." And he was gone, following close upon Lord Farin-
tosh, who I dare say thought, " Why the deuce can't he shake
hands with his aunt up here ? " and when Clive entered Miss
Honeyman's back parlor, making a bow to the young nobleman,
my lord went away more perplexed than ever; and the next day
toid friends at White's what uncommonly queer people those
Newcomes were. " I give you my honor there was a fellow at
Lady Ann's whom they call Clive, who is a painter by trade — -
his uncle is a preacher — his father is a horse-dealer, and his
aunt lets lodgings and cooks the dinner."

THE NEWCOMES. 459

CHAPTER XLIIT.

RETURNS TO SOME OLD FRIENDS.

The haggard youth burst into my chambers, in the Templev
on the very next morning, and confided to me the story which
has been just here narrated. When he had concluded it, with
many ejaculations regarding the heroine of the tale, "I saw her,
sir," he added, "walking with the children and Miss Cann as I
drove round in the fly to the station — and didn't even bow to
her."

" Why did you go round by the cliff ? " asked Clive's friend.
" That is not the way from the ' Steyne Arms ' to the rail-
road."

" Hang it," says Clive, turning very red, " I wanted to pass
just under her windows, and if I saw her, not to see her : and
that's what I did."

" Why did she walk on the cliff," mused Clive's friend, "at
that early hour ? Not to meet Lord Farintosh, I should think.
He never gets up before twelve. It must have been to see
you. Didn't you tell her you were going away in the morn-
ing ? »

" I tell you what she does with me," continues Mr. Clive.
u Sometimes she seems to like me, and then she leaves me.
Sometimes she is quite kind — kind she always is — I mean, you
know, Pen — you know what I mean ; and then up comes the
old Countess, or a young Marquis, or some fellow with a handle
to his name, and she whistles me off till the next convenient
opportunity."

M Women are like that, my ingenuous youth," says Clive's
counsellor.

"/won't stand it. / won't be made a fool of!" he con-
tinues. " She seems to expect everybody to bow to her, and
moves through the world with her imperious airs. Oh, how
confoundedly handsome she is with them ! I tell you what. I
feel inclined to tumble down and feel one of her pretty "little
feet on my neck and say, There ! Trample my life out. Make
a slave of me. Let me get a silver collar and mark ' Ethel ' on
it, and go through the world with my badge."

" And a blue ribbon for a footman to hold you by ; and a

460 THE NEWCOMES.

muzzle to wear in the dog-days. Bow ! wow ! " says Mr. Pen
dennis.

(At this noise Mr. Warrington puts his head in from the
neighboring bedchamber, and shows a beard just lathered for
shaving. " We are talking sentiment ! Go back till you are
wanted ! " says Mr. Pendennis. Exit he of the soap-suds.)

" Don't make fun of a fellow," Clive continues, laughing
ruefully. " You see I must talk about it to somebody. I shall
die if I don't. Sometimes, sir, I rise up in my might and I
defy her lightning. The sarcastic dodge is the best : I bor-
rowed that from you, Pen, old boy. That puzzles her : that
would beat her i£ I could but go on with it. But there comes
a tone of her sweet voice, a look out of those killing gray eyes>
and all my frame is in a thrill and a tremble. When she was
engaged to Lord Kew I did battle with the confounded passion
— and I ran away from it like an honest man, and the gods
rewarded me with ease of mind after a while. But now the
thing rages worse than ever. Last night, I give you my honor,
I heard every one of the confounded hours toll, except the last,
when I was dreaming of my father ; and the chamber-maid
woke me with a hot-water jug."

" Did she scald you ? What a cruel chamber-maid ! I see
you have shaven the mustaches off."

" Farintosh asked me whether I was going into the army,"
said Clive, " and she laughed. I thought I had best dock them.
Oh, I would like to cut my head off as well as my hair ! "

"Have you ever asked her to marry you ? " asked Give's
friend.

" I have seen her but five times since my return from
abroad," the lad went on ; " there has been always somebody
by. Who am I ? a painter with five hundred a year for an
allowance. Isn't she used to walk upon velvet and dine upon
silver ; and hasn't she got marquises and barons, and all sorts
of swells in her train ? I daren't ask her — "

Here his friend hummed Montrose's lines — "He either
fears his fate too much, or his desert is small, who dares not
put it to the touch, and win or lose it all."

" I own I dare not ask her. If she were to refuse me, I
know I should never ask again. This isn't the moment, when
all Swelldom is at her feet, for me to come forward and say,
k Maiden, I have watched thee daily, and I think thou lovest
me well.' I read that ballad to her at Baden, sir. I drew a
picture of the Lord of Burleigh wooing the maiden, and asked
what she would have done ? "

THE NEWCOMES.

461

" Oh, you did? I thought, when we were at Baden, we were
so modest that we did not even whisper our condition ? "

'" A fellow can't help letting it be seen and hinting it," says
CHve, with another blush. "They can read it in our looks
fast enough ; and what is going on in our minds, hang them !
I recollect she said, in her grave, cool way, that after all the
Lord and Lady of Burleigh did not seem to have made a very
good marriage, and that the lady would have been much hap-
pier in marrying one of her own degree."

" That was a very prudent saying for a young lady of
eighteen," remarks Clive's friend.

" Yes ; but it was not an unkind one. Say Ethel thought —
thought what was the case ; and being engaged herself, and
knowing how friends of mine had provided a very pretty little
partner for me — she is a dear, good little girl, little Rosey \ and
twice as good, Pen, when her mother is away — knowing this
and that, I say, suppose Ethel wanted to give me a hint to keep
quiet, was she not right in the counsel she gave me ? She is
not fit to be a poor man's wife. Fancy Ethel Newcome going
into the kitchen and making pies like Aunt Honeyman ! "

" The Circassian beauties don't sell under so many thou-
sand purses," remarked Mr. Pendennis. " If there's a beauty
in a well-regulated Georgian family, they fatten her ; they feed
her with the best Racahout des Arabes. They give her silk
robes and perfumed baths ; have her taught to play on the dul-
cimer and dance and sing ; and when she is quite perfect, send
her down to Constantinople for the Sultan's inspection. The
rest of the family never think of grumbling, but eat coarse
meat, bathe in the river, wear old clothes, and praise Allah for
their sister's elevation. Bah ! Do you suppose the Turkish
system doesn't obtain all the world over ? My poor Give, this
article in the May Fair Market is beyond your worship's price.
Some things in this world are made for our betters, young man.
Let Dives say grace for his dinner, and the dogs and Lazarus
be thankful for the crumbs. Here comes Warrington, shaven
and smart as if he was going out a courting."

Thus it will be seen, that in his communication with certain
friends who approached nearer to his own time of life, Clive
was much more eloquent and rhapsodical than in the letter
which he wrote to his father, regarding his passion for Miss
Ethel. He celebrated her with pencil and pen. He was for
ever drawing the outline of her head, the solemn eyebrow, the
nose (that wondrous little nose), descending from the straight
forehead, the short upper lip, and chin sweeping in a full curve

462 THE NEWCOMES.

to the neck, Szc, &c., &c. A frequenter of his studio might see
a whole gallery of Ethels there represented : when Mrs. Mac-
kenzie visited that place, and remarked one face and figure
repeated on a hundred canvases and papers, gray, white, and
brown, I believe she was told that the original was a famous
Roman model, from which Clive had studied a great deal
during his residence in Italy; on which Mrs. Mack gave it
is her opinion that Clive was a sad wicked young fellow ;
and as for Miss Rosey, she, of course, was of mamma's way of
thinking. Rosey went through the world constantly smiling at
whatever occurred. She was good-humored through the drear-
iest long evenings at the most stupid parties ; sat good-humor-
edly for hours at Shoolbred's whilst mamma was making pur-
chases ; heard good-humoredly those old old stories of her
mother's day after day \ bore an hour's joking or an hour's
scolding with equal good-humor j and whatever had been the
occurrences of her simple day, whether there was sunshine or
cloudy weather, or flashes of lightning and bursts of fain, I
fancy Miss Mackenzie slept after them quite undisturbedly,
and was sure to greet the morrow's dawn with a smile.

Had Clive become more knowing in his travels, had Love or
Experience opened his eyes, that they looked so differently now
upon objects which before used well enough to please them ?
It is a fact that, until he went abroad, he thought widow Mac-
kenzie a dashing, lively, agreeable woman : he used to receive
her stories about Cheltenham, the colonies, the balls at Gov-
ernment House, the observations which the Bishop made, and
the peculiar attention of the Chief Justice to Mrs. Major Mac-
Shane, with the Major's uneasy behavior — all these to hear at
one time did Clive not ungraciously incline. " Our friend, Mrs,
Mack," the good old Colonel used to say, "is a clever woman
of the world, and has seen a great deal of company." That
story of Sir Thomas Sadman dropping a pocket-handkerchief in
his court at Colombo, which the Queen's Advocate O'Goggarty
picked up, and on which Laura MacS. was embroidered, whilst
the Major was absolutely in the witness-box giving evidence
against a native servant who had stolen one of his cocked-hats
■ — that story always made good Thomas Newcome laugh, and
Clive used to enjoy it too, and the widow's mischievous fun in
narrating it ; and now, behold, one day when Mrs. Mackenzie
recounted the anecdote in her best manner to Messrs. Pen-
dennis and Warrington, and Frederick Bayham, who had been
invited to meet Mr. Clive in Fitzroy Square — when Mr. Binnie
chuckled, when Rosey, as in duty bound, looked discomposed

THE NEWCOMES.

463

ftnd said, " Law, mamma ! " — not one sign of good-humor, not
one ghost of a smile, made its apparition on Clive's dreary face.
He painted imaginary portraits with a strawberry stalk ; he
looked into his water-glass as though he would plunge and
drown there ; and Layham had to remind him that the claret-
jug was anxious to have another embrace from its constant
friend, F. B. When Mrs. Mack went away distributing smiles,
Clive groaned out, " Good heavens ! how that story does bore
me ! " and lapsed into his former moodiness, not giving so much
as a glance to Rosey, whose sweet face looked at him kindly
for a moment, as she followed in the wake of her mamma.

" The mother's the woman for my money," I heard F. B.
whisper to Warrington. " Splendid figure-head, sir, magnificent
build, sir, from bows to stern — I like 'em of that sort. Thank
you, Mr. Binnie, I will take a back-hander, as Clive don't seem
to drink. The youth, sir, has grown melancholy with his travels ;
I'm inclined to think some noble Roman has stolen the young
man's heart. Why did you not send us over a picture of the
charmer, Clive ? Young Ridley, Mr. Binnie, you will be happy
to hear, is bidding fair to take a distinguished place in the world
of arts. His picture has been greatly admired ; and my good
friend Mrs. Ridley tells me that Lord Todmorden has sent him
over an order to paint him a couple of pictures at a hundred
guineas a piece."

" I should think so. J. J.'s pictures will be worth five times
a hundred guineas ere five years are over," says Clive.

" In that case it wouldn't be a bad speculation for our friend
Sherrick," remarked F. B., " to purchase a few of the young
man's works. I would, only I haven't the capital to spare.
Mine has been vested in an Odessa venture, sir, in a large
amount of wild oats, which up to the present moment make me
no return. But it will always be a consolation to me to think
that I have been the means — the humble means — of furthering
that deserving young man's prospects in life."

"*Vou, F. B. ! and how ? " we asked.

"By certain humble contributions of mine to the press,"
answered Bayham, majestically. " Mr. Warrington, the claret
happens to stand with you ; and exercise does it good, sir.
Yes, the articles, trifling as they may appear, have attracted
notice," continued F. B., sipping his wine with great gusto.
" They are noticed, Pendennis, give me leave to say, by parties
who don't value so much the literary or even the political part
of the Pall Mall Gazette, though both, I am told by those who
read them, are conducted with considerable — consummate

464

THE NEWCOMES.

ability. John Ridley sent a hundred pounds over to his father,
the other da}', who funded it in his son's name. And Ridley
told the story to Lord Todmorden, when the venerable noble-
man congratulated him on having such a child. I wish F. B.
had one of the same sort, sir/' In which sweet prayer we all of
us joined with a laugh.

One of us had told Mrs. Mackenzie (let the criminal blush
to own that quizzing his fellow-creatures used at one time to
form a part of his youthful amusement) that F. B. was the son
of a gentleman of most ancient family and vast landed posses-
sions, and as Bayham was particularly attentive to the widow,
and grandiloquent in his remarks, she was greatly pleased by his
politeness, and pronounced him a most distingue man — remind-
ing her, indeed, of General Hopkirk, who commanded in Canada.
And she bade Rosey sing for Mr. Bayham, who was in a rap-
ture at the young lady's performances, and said no wonder such
an accomplished daughter came from such a mother, though
how such a mother could have a daughter of such an age, he,
F. B., was at a loss to understand. Oh, sir ! Mrs. Mackenzie
was charmed and overcome at this novel compliment. Mean-
while the little artless Rosey warbled on her pretty ditties.

"It is a wonder," growled out Mr. Warrington, "that that
sweet girl can belong to such a woman. I don't understand
much about women, but that one appears to me to be — hum ! "

" What, George ? " asked Warrington's fnend.

"Well, an ogling, leering, scheming, artful old campaigner,"
grumbled the misogynist. " As for the little girl I should like
to have her to sing to me all night long. Depend upon it she
would make a much better wife for Clive than that fashionable
cousin of his he is hankering after. I heard him bellowing
about her the other day in chambers, as I was dressing. What
the deuce does the boy want with a wife at all ? " And Rosey's
song being by this time finished, Warrington went up with a
blushing face and absolutely paid a compliment to Miss Mac-
kenzie— an almost unheard-of effort on George's part.

" I wonder whether it is ever}' young fellow's lot," quoth
George, as we trudged home together, "to pawn his heart away
to some girl that's not worth the winning? Psha ! it's all mad
rubbish this sentiment. The women ought not to be allowed
to interfere with us : married if a man must be, a suitable wife
should be portioned out to him, and there an end of it. Why
doesn't the young man marry this girl, and get back to his busi-
ness and paint his pictures ? Because his father wishes it — and
the old Nabob yonder, who seems a kindly-disposed, easy-going

THE XF.WCOMES. 465

old Heathen philosopher. Here's a pretty little crirl ; money
I suppose in sufficiency — everything satisfactory, except, I grant
you, the campaigner. The lad might daub his canvases, christen
a child a year, and be as happy as any young donkey that
browses on this common of ours — but he must go and heehaw
after a zebra forsooth ! a /us us natures is she ! I never spoke
to a woman of fashion, thank my stars — I don't know the na-
ture of the beast ; and since I went to our race-balls, as a boy,
scarcely ever saw one ; as I don't frequent operas and parties
in London like you young flunkeys of the aristocracy. I heard
you talking about this one, I couldn't help it, as my door was
open and the young one was shouting like a madman. What!
does he choose to hang on on sufferance and hope to be taken,
provided Miss can get no better ? Do you mean to say that is
the genteel custom, and that women in your confounded society
do such things every day ? Rather than have such a creature I
would take a savage woman, who should nurse my dusky brood ;
and rather than have a daughter brought up to the trade I would
bring her down from the woods and sell her in Virginia." With
which burst of indignation our friend's anger ended for that night.

Though Mr. Clive had the felicity to meet his cousin Ethel
at a party or two in the ensuing weeks of the season, every
time he perused the features of Lady Kew's brass knocker in
Queen Street, no result came of the visit. At one of their
meetings in the world Ethel fairly told him that her grandmother
would not receive him. " You know, Clive, I can't help my-
self : nor would it be proper to make you signs out of the win-
dow. But you must call for all that : grandmamma may be-
come more good-humored ; or if you don't come she may sus-
pect I told you not to come ; and to battle with her day after
day is no pleasure, sir, I assure you. Here is Lord Farintosh
coming to take me to dance. You must not speak to me all
the evening, mind that, sir," and away goes the young lady in
a waltz with the Marquis.

On the same evening — as he was biting his nails, or cursing
his fate, or wishing to invite Lord Farintosh into the neighbor-
ing garden of Berkeley Square, whence the policeman might
carry to the station-house the corpse of the survivor, — Lady
Kew would bow to him with perfect graciousness ; on other
nights her ladyship would pass and no more recognize him than
the servant who opened the door.

If she was not to see him at her grandmother's house, and
was not particularly unhappy at his exclusion, why did Miss
Newcome encourage Mr. Clive so that he should try and se»

30

466 THE NEWCOMES.

her. If Give could not get into the little house in Queen
Street, why was Lord Farintosh's enormous cab-horse looking
daily into the first-floor windows of that street? Why weie
little quiet dinners made for him. before the opera, before go-
ing to the play, upon a half-dozen occasions, when some of the
old old Kew port was brought out of the cellar, where cob-
webs had gathered round it ere Farintosh was born ? The
dining-room was so tiny that not more than five people could
sit at the little round table : that is, not more than Lady
Kew and her granddaughter. Miss Crochet, the late vicar's
daughter, at Kewbury, one of the Miss Toadins, and Captain
Walleye, or Tommy Henchman, Fatintosh's kinsman and ad-
mirer, who were of no consequence, old Fred Tiddler, whose
wife was an invalid, and who was aiv.ays ready at a moment's
notice ? Crackthorpe once went to one of these dinners, but
that young soldier being a frank and high-spirited youth
abused the entertainment and declined more of them. " I
tell you what I was wanted for," the Captain told his mess
and Give at the Regent's Park Barracks afterwards ; " I was
expected to go as Farintosh's Groom of the Stole, don't you
know, to stand, or if I could sit, in the back seat of the box,
whilst His Royal Highness made talk with the Beauty- ; to go
out and fetch the carriage, and walk down stairs with that

d crooked old dowager, that looks as if she usually rode on

a broomstick, by Jove, or else with that bony old painted sheep-
faced companion, who's raddled like an old bell-wether. I
think, Newcome, you seem to be rather hit by the Belle Cous-
ine — so was I last season ; so were ever so many of the fellows.
By Jove, sir ! there's nothing I know more comfortable or
inspiritin' than a younger son's position, when a Marquis cuts
in with fifteen thousand a year ! We fancy we've been making
running, and suddenly we find ourselves nowhere. Miss Man-,
it Miss Lucy, or Miss Ethel, saving your presence, will no
ii:ore look at us, than my dog will look at a bit of bread, when
1 offei her this cutlet. Will you — old woman ? no, you old
slut that you won't ! " (to Mag, an Isle of Skye terrier, who,
in fact, prefers the cutlet, having snuffed disdainfully at the
bread N — " that you won't, no more than any of your sex. Why,
do you suppose, if Jack's eldest brother had been dead — Bare-
bones Belsize they used to call him (I don't believe he was a
bad fellow, though he was fond of psalm-singing) — do you sup-
pose th-i Lady Clara would have looked at that cock-tail Bar-
ney N ewcome ? Beg your pardon, if he's your cousin — but a
more odious little snob 1 never saw.''

THE NEWCOMES. 467

" I give you up Barnes," said Give, laughing ; " anybody
may shy at him and I sha'n't interfere."

" I understand, but at nobody else of the family. Well,
what I mean is, that that old woman is enough to spoil any
young girl she takes in hand. She dries 'em up, and poisons
em, sir ; and I was never more glad than when I heard that
Kew had got out of her old clutches. Frank is a fellow that
will always be led by some woman or another ; and I'm only
glad it should be a good one. They say his mother's serious,
and that ; but why shouldn't she be ? " continues honest Crack-
thorpe, puffing his cigar with great energy. " They say the old
dowager doesn't believe in God nor devil : but that she's in
such a funk to be left in the dark that she howls and raises the
doose's own delight if her candle goes out. Toppleton slept
next room to her at Groningham, and heard her \ didn't vou,
Top ? "

" Heard her howling like an old cat on the tiles," says
Toppleton, — " thought she was at first. My man told me that
she used to fling all sorts of things — boot-jacks and things,
give you my honor — at her maid, and that the woman was all
over black and blue."

" Capital head that is Newcome has done of Jack Belsize ! "
says Crackthorpe, from out of his cigar.

" And Kew's too — famous likeness ! I say, Newcome, if
you have 'em printed the whole brigade'll subscribe. Make
your fortune, see if you won't," cries Toppleton.

" He's such a heavy swell ; he don't want to make his for-
tune," ejaculates Butts.

" Butts, old boy, he'll paint you for nothing, and send you
to the Exhibition, where some widow will fall in love with you ;
and you shall be put as frontispiece for the ' Book of Beauty,'
by Jove," cries another military satirist — to whom Butts :

" You hold your tongue, you old Saracen's Head ; they're
going to have you done on the bear's-grease pots. I say, I
suppose Jack's all right now. When did he write to you last,
Cracky ? "

" He wrote from Palermo — a most jolly letter from him and
Kew. He hasn't touched a card for nine months ; is going to
give up play. So is Frank, too, grown quite a good boy. So
will you, too, Butts, you old miscreant, repent of your sins, pay
your debts, and do something handsome for that poor deluded
milliner in Albany Street. Jack says Kew's mother has written
over to Lord Highgale a beautiful letter — and the old boy's
relenting, and they'll come to^ethci again — Jack's eldest son
now, you know. Bore for Lady Susan only having girls."

^68 THE NEWCOMES.

" Not a bore for Jack, though," cries another. And what a
good fellow Jack was ; and what a trump Kew is ; anxl how
famously he stuck by him : went to see him in prison and paid
him out ! and what good fellows we all are, in general, became
the subject of the conversation, the latter part of which took
place in the smoking-room of the Regent's Park Barracks, then
occupied by that regiment of Life Guards of which Lord Kew
and Mr. Belsize had been members. Both were still fondly
remembered by their companions ; and it was because Belsize
had spoken very warmly of Clive's friendliness to him that
Jack's friend the gallant Crackthorpe had been interested in
our hero, and found an opportunity of making his acquaintance.

With these frank and pleasant young men Clive soon formed
a considerable intimacy : and if any of his older and peaceful
friends chanced to take their afternoon airing in the Park, and
survey the horsemen there, might have the pleasure of behold-
ing Mr. Newcome in Rotten Row, riding side by side with
other dandies, who had mustaches blond or jet, who wore
flowers, in their buttons (themselves being flowers of spring),
who rode magnificent thoroughbred horses, scarcely touching
their stirrups with the tips of their varnished boots, and who
kissed the most beautiful primrose-colored kid gloves to lovely
ladies passing them in the Ride. Clive drew portraits of half
the officers of the Life Guards Green ; and was appointed
painter in ordinary to that distinguished corps. His likeness
of the Colonel would make you die with laughing ; his picture
of the Surgeon was voted a masterpiece. He drew the men in
the saddle, in the stable, in their flannel dresses, sweeping their
flashing swords about, receiving lancers, repelling infantry, —
nay, cutting a sheep in two, as some of the warriors are known
to be able to do at one stroke. Detachments of Life Guards-
men made their appearance in Charlotte Street, which was not
very distant from their barracks ; the most splendid cabs were
seen prancing before his door ; and curly-whiskered youths, of
aristocratic appearance, smoking cigars out of his painting-
room window. How many times did Clive's next door neigh
bor, little Mr. Finch, the miniature painter, run to peep through
his parlor blinds, hoping that a sitter was coming, and " a car-
riage-party " driving up ! What wrath Mr. Scowler, A. R. A.,
was in, because a young hopo'mythumb dandy, who wore gold
chains and his collars turned down, should spoil the trade, and
draw portraits for nothing. Why did none of the young
men come to Scowler? Scowler was obliged to own that Mr.
Newcome had considerable talent, and a good knack at catching

HIE NEWCOMES.

469

a likeness. He could not paint a bit, to be sure, but his heads
in black and white were really tolerable ; his sketches of horses
very vigorous and life-like. Mr. Gandish said if Clive would
come for three or four years into his academy he could make
something of him. Mr. Smee shook his head, and said he was
afraid that kind of loose, desultory study, that keeping of aris-
tocratic company, was anything but favorable to a young artist
— Smee, who would walk five miles to attend an evening party
of ever so little a great man 1

CHAPTER XLIV.

IN WHICH MR. CHARLES HONEYMAN APPEARS IN AN
AMIABLE LIGHT.

Mr. Frederick Bayham waited at Fitzroy Square while
Clive was yet talking with his friends there, and favored that
gentleman with his company home to the usual smoky refresh-
ment. Clive always rejoiced in F. B.'s society, whether he
was in a sportive mood, or, as now, in a solemn and didactic
vein. F. B. had been more than ordinarily majestic all the
evening. "I daresay you find me a good deal altered, Clive,"
he remarked : " I am a good deal altered. Since that good
Samaritan, your kind father, had compassion on a poor fellow
fallen among thieves, (though I don't say, mind you, he was
much better than his company,) F. B. has mended some of his
ways. I am trying a course of industry, sir. Powers, perhaps
naturally great, have been neglected over the wine-cup and the
die. I am beginning to feel my way ; and my chiefs yonder,
who have just walked home with their cigars in their mouths,
and without as much as saying ' F. B., my boy, shall we go to
the " Haunt " and have a cool lobster and a glass of table
beer ? ' — which they certainly do not consider themselves to be,
— I say, sir, the Politician and the Literary Critic" (there was
a most sarcastic emphasis laid on these phrases characterizing
Messrs. Warrington and Pendennis) " may find that there is a
humble contributor to the Pail Mail Gazette, whose name, may-
be, the amateur shall one day reckon even higher than their
own. Mr. Warrington I do not say so much — he is an able
man sir, an able man j but there is that about your exceedingly

470 THE XEIVCOMES.

self-satisfied friend, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, which — well, well —
let time show. You did not — get the — hem — paper at Rome
and Naples, I suppose ? "

" Forbidden by the Inquisition,"' says Clive, delighted ;
" and at Naples the king furious against it."

" I don't wonder they don't like it at Rome, sir. There's
serious matter in it which may set the prelates of a certain
church rather in a tremor. You haven't read — the — ahem — the
Pulpit Pencillings in the P. M. G. ? Slight sketches, mental
and corporeal, of our chief divines now in London — and signed
Laud Latimer ? "

" I don't do much in that way," said Clive.

" So much the worse for you, my young friend. Not that I
mean to judge any other fellow harshly — I mean any other fel-
low-sinner harshly — or that I mean that those Pulpit Pencil-
lings would be likely to do you any great good. But, such as
they are, they have been productive of benefit. Thank you,
Mary, my dear, the tap is uncommonly good, and I drink to
your future husband's good health. — A glass of good sound
beer refreshes after all that claret. Well, sir, to return to
the Pencillings, pardon my vanity in saying that though Mr.
Pendennis laughs at them, they have been of essential service
to the paper. They give it a character, they rally round it the
respectable classes. They create correspondence. I have re-
ceived many interesting letters, chiefly from females, about the
Pencillings. Some complain that their favorite preachers are
slighted ; others applaud because the clergymen they sit under
are supported by F. B. / am Laud Latimer, sir, — though I
have heard the letters attributed to the Rev. Mr. Bunker, and
to a Member of Parliament eminent in the religious world."

" So you are the famous Laud Latimer ? " cries Clive, who
had, in fact, seen letters signed by those right reverend names
in our paper.

M Famous is hardly the word. One who scoffs at every-
thing— I need not say I allude to Mr. Arthur Pendennis —
would have had the letters signed — the Beadle of the Parish.
He calls me the Venerable Beadle sometimes — it being, I grieve
to say, his way to deride grave subjects. You wouldn't sup-
pose now, my young Clive, that the same hand which pens the
Art criticisms, occasionally, when his Highness Pendennis is
lazy, takes a minor Theatre, or turns the sportive epigram, or
the ephemeral paragraph, should adopt a grave theme on a
Sunday, and chronicle the sermons of British Divines? For
eighteen consecutive Sunday evenings, Clive, in Mrs. Ridley's

THE NEWCOMES

47*

front parlor, which I now occupy, vice Miss Cann promoted, I
have written the Pencillings — scarcely allowing a drop of re-
freshment, except under extreme exhaustion, to pass my lips.
Pendennis laughs at the Pencillings. He wants to stop them ;
and says they bore the public. — 1 don't want to think a man is
jealous, who was himself the cause of my engagement at the
P. M. G , — perhaps my powers were not developed then."

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

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

" Ridley is not the only man I have helped in this world,"
F. B. continued. " Perhaps I should blush to own it — I do
blush : but I feel the ties of early acquaintance, and I own
that I have puffed your uncle, Charles Honeyman, most
tremendously. It was partly for the sake of the Ridleys and
the tick he owes 'em 5 partly for old times' sake. Sir, are you
aware that things are greatly changed with Charles Honeyman,
and that the poor F. B. has very likely made his fortune ? "

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

" By common sense and enterprise, lad — by a knowledge
of the world and a benevolent disposition. You'll see Lady
Whittlesea's chapel bears a very different aspect now. That
miscreant Sherrick owns that he owes me a turn, and has sent
me a few dozen of wine — without any stamped paper on my
part in return — as an acknowledgment of my service. It
chanced, sir, soon after your departure for Italy, that going. to
his private residence respecting a little bill to which a heedless
friend had put his hand, Sherrick invited me to partake of tea
in the bosom of his family. I was thirsty — having walked in
from 'Jack Straw's Castle,' at Hampstead, where poor Kitely
and I had been taking a chop — and accepted the proffered
entertainment. The ladies of the family gave us music after

472

THE NEIVCOMKS.

the domestic muffin — and then, sir, a great idea occurred to me.
You know how magnificently Miss Sherrick and the mother
sing? They sang Mozart, sir. 'Why,' I asked of Sherrick,
'should those ladies who sing Mozart to a piano, not sing
Handel to an organ ? '

'* ' Dash it, you don't mean a hurdy-gurdy ? '

" ' Sherrick,' says I, ' you are no better than a Heathen igno-
ramus. I mean, why shouldn't they sing Handel's Church
Music, and Church Music in general, in Lady Whittlesea's
Chapel ? Behind the screen up in the organ-loft, what's to pre-
vent 'em ? by Jingo ! Your singing boys have gone to the
"Cave of Harmony;" you and your choir have split — why
should not these ladies lead it ? ' He caught at the idea. You
never heard the chants more finely given — and they would be
better still if the congregation would but hold their confounded
tongues. It was an excellent though a harmless dodge, sir :
and drew immensely, to speak profanely. They dress the part,
sir, to admiration — a sort of nun-like costume they come in :
Mrs. Sherrick has the soul of an artist still — by Jove, sir, when
they have once smelt the lamps, the love of the trade never
leaves 'em. The ladies actually practised by moonlight in the
Chapel, and came over to Honeyman.'s to an oyster afterwards.
The thing took, sir. People began to take box — seats I mean
again — and Charles Honeyman, easy in his mind through your
noble father's generosity, perhaps inspirited by returning good-
fortune, has been preaching more eloquently than ever. He
took some lessons of Husler, of the Haymarket, sir. His ser-
mons are old, I believe , but so to speak, he has got them up
with new scenery, dresses, and effects, sir. They have flowers,
sir, about the buildin' — pious ladies are supposed to provide
'em, but, entre nous, Sherrick contracts for them with Nathan,
or some one in Covent Garden. And — don't tell this now, upon
your honor ! "

"Tell what, F. B. ? " says Clive.

11 1 got up a persecution against your uncle for Popish
practices : summoned a meetin' at the ' Running Footman,' in
Bolingbroke Street. Billings, the butterman ; Sharwood, the
turner and blacking-maker ; and the Honorable Phelim O'Cur-
ragh, Lord Scullabogue's son, made speeches. Two or three
respectable families (your aunt, Mrs. What-d'you-call-'em New-
come amongst the number) quitted the Chapel in disgust — I
wrote an article of controversial biography in the P. M. G. ;
set the business going in the daily press ; and the thing was
done, sir. That property is a paying one to the Incumbent,

THE NEWCOMES.

473

and to Sherrick over him. Charles's affairs are getting all
right, sir. He never had the pluck to owe much, and if it be
a sin to have wiped his slate clean, satisfied his creditors, and
made Charles easy — upon my conscience, I must confess, that
1 '. I J. lias done it. I hope I may never do anything worse in
this life, Clive. It ain't bad to see him doing the martyr, sir:
Sebastian riddled with paper pellets ; Bartholomew on a cold
gridiron. Here comes the lobster. Upon my word, Mary, a
finer fish I've seldom seen."

Now surely this account of his uncle's affairs and prosperity
was enough to send Clive to Lady Whittlesea's Chapel, and it
was not because Miss Ethel had said that she and Lady Kew
went there, that Clive was induced to go there too ? He at-
tended punctually on the next Sunday, and in the Incumbent's
pew, whither the pew woman conducted him, sat Mr. Sherrick
in great gravity, with large gold pins, who handed him, at the
anthem, a large, new, gilt hymn-book.

An odor of millefleurs rustled by them as Charles Honey-
man, accompanied by his ecclesiastical valet, passed the pew
from the vestry, and took his place at the desk. Formerly he
used to wear a flaunting scarf over his surplice, which was very
wide and full ; and Clive remembered when as a boy he entered
the sacred robing-room, how his uncle used to pat and puff out
the scarf and the sleeves of his vestment, arrange the natty curl
on his forehead, and take his place, a fine example of florid
church decoration. Now the scarf was trimmed down to be as
narrow as your neck-cloth, and hung loose and straight over the
back ; the ephod was cut straight and as close and short as
might be, — I believe there was a little trimming of lace to the
narrow sleeves, and a slight arabesque of tape, or other sub-
stance, round the edge of the surplice. As for the curl on the
forehead, it was no more visible than the Maypole in the Strand,
or the Cross at Charing. Honeyman's hair was parted down
the middle, short in front, and curling delicately round his ears
and the back of his head. He read the service in a swift man-
ner, and with a gentle twang. When the music began, he stood
with head on one side, and two slim fingers on the book, as
composed as a statue in a mediaeval niche. It was fine to hear
Sherrick, who had an uncommonly good voice, join in the musi-
cal parts of the service. The produce of the market-gardener
decorated the church here and there , and the impresario of the
establishment having picked up a Flemish painted window from
old Moss in Wardour Street, had placed it in his chapel.
Labels of faint green and gold, with long gothic letters painted

474

THE NEWCOMES.

thereon, meandered over the organ-loft and galleries, and strove
to give as mediaeval a look to Lady Whittlesea's as the place
was capable of assuming.

In the sermon Charles dropped the twang with the surplice,
and the priest gave way to the preacher. He preached short
stirring discourses on the subjects of the day. It happened
that a noble young prince, the hope of a nation and heir of a
royal house, had just then died by a sudden accident. Absalom,
the son of David, furnished Honeyman with a parallel. He
drew a picture of the two deaths, of the grief of kings, of the
fate that is superior to them. It was, indeed, a stirring dis-
course, and caused thrills through the crowd to whom Charles
imparted it. "Famous, ain't it?" says Sherrick, giving Clive
a hand when the rite was over. " How he's come out, hasn't
he ? Didn't think he had it in him." Sherrick seemed to have
become of late impressed with the splendor of Charles's talents,
and spoke of him — was it not disrespectful ? — as a manager
would of a successful tragedian. Let us pardon Sherrick : he
had been in the theatrical way. " That Irishman was no go at
all," he whispered to Mr. Newcome, "got rid of him, — let's
see, at Michaelmas."

On account of Clive's tender years and natural levity, a
little inattention may be allowed to the youth, who certainly
looked about him very eagerly during the service. The house
was filled by the ornamental classes, the bonnets of the newest
Parisian fashion. Away in a darkling corner, under the organ,
sat a squad of footmen. Surely that powdered one in livery
wore Lady Kew's colors ? So Clive looked under all the bon-
nets, and presently spied old Lady Kew's face as grim and
yellow as her brass knocker, and by it Ethel's beauteous
countenance. He dashed out of church when the congregation
rose to depart. " Stop and see Honeyman, won't you ?" asked
Sherrick, surprised.

" Yes, yes ; come back again," said Clive, and was gone.

He kept his word, and returned presently. The young
Marquis and an elderly lady were in Lady Kew's company.
Clive had passed close under Lady Kew's venerable Roman
nose without causing that organ to bow in ever so slight a de-
gree towards the ground. Ethel had recognized him with a
smile and a nod. My lord was whispering one of his noble
pleasantries in her ear. She laughed at the speech or the
speaker. The steps of a fine belozenged carriage were let
down with a bang. The Yellow One had jumped up behind
it, by the side of his brother Giant Canary. Lady Kew'i

THE NEWCOMES.

475

equipage had disappeared, and Lady Canterton's was stop-
ping the way.

Clive returned to the chapel by the little door near to the
Vestiarium. All the congregation had poured out by this time.
Only two ladies were standing near the pulpit ; and Sherrick,
with his hands rattling his money in his pockets, was pacing
up and down the aisle.

" Capital house, Mr. Xewcome, wasn't it ? I counted no
less than fourteen nobs. The Princess of Montcontour and
her husband, I suppose, that chap with the beard, who yawns
so during the sermon. I'm blessed, if I didn't think he'd have
yawned his head off. Countess of Kew, and her daughter ;
Countess of Canterton, and the Honorable Miss Fetlock — no,
Lady Fetlock. A Countess's daughter is a lady, I'm dashed if
she ain't. Lady Glenlivat and her sons : the most noble the
Marquis of Farintosh, and Lord 'Enry Roy ; that makes seven
— no, nine — with the Prince and Princess. — Julia, my dear, you
came out like a good un to-day. Never heard you in finer
voice. Remember Mr. Clive Xewcome ? "

Mr. Clive made bows to the ladies, who acknowledged him
by graceful curtseys. Miss Sherrick was always looking to the
vestry door.

" How's the old Colonel ? The best feller — excuse my
calling him a feller — but he is, and a good one too. I went to
see Mr. Binnie, my other tenant. He looks a little yellow
about the gills, Mr. Binnie. Very proud woman this who lives
with him — uncommon haughty. When will you come down
and take your mutton in the Regent's Park, Mr. Clive ? There's
some tolerable good wine down there. Our reverend gent
drops in and takes a glass, don't he, Missis ? "

"We shall be most 'appy to see Mr. Xewcome, I'm sure,"
says the handsome and good-natured Mrs. Sherrick. " Won't
we, Julia ? "

" Oh, certainly," says Julia, who seems rather absent. And
behold at this moment the reverend gent enters from the vestry.
Both the ladies run towards him, holding forth their hands.

"Oh, Mr. Honeyman ! What a sermon! Me and Julia
cried so up in the organ-loft ; we thought you would have heard
us. Didn't we, Julia ? "

"Oh, yes/' says Julia, whose hand the pastor now held.

" When you described the young man, I thought of my poor
boy, didn't I, Julia ?" cries the mother, with tears streaming
down her face.

"We had a loss more than ten years ago," whispers Sher-

476

THE NEWCOMES.

rick to Clive gravely. "And she's always thinking of it
Women are so."

Clive was touched and pleased by this exhibition of kind
feeling.

" You know his mother was an Absalom," the good wife
continues, pointing to her husband. " Most respectable dia-
mond merchants in "

" Hold your tongue, Betsy, and leave my poor old mother
alone, do now," says Mr. Sherrick, darkly. Clive is in his
uncle's fond embrace by this time, who rebukes him for not
having called in Walpole Street.

" Now, when will you two gents come up to my shop to 'ave
a family dinner? " asks Sherrick.

" Ah, Mr. Newcome, do come," says Julia in her deep rich
voice, looking up to him with her great black eyes. And if
Clive had been a vain fellow like some folks, who knows but he
might have thought he had made an impression on the hand-
some Julia.

" Thursday, now make it Thursday, if Mr. H. is disengaged.
Come along, girls, for the flies bites the ponies when they're
standing still, and makes 'em mad this weather. Anything you
like for dinner. Cut of salmon and cucumber ? No, pickled
salmon's best this weather."

" Whatever you give me, you know I'm thankful ! " says
Honeyman, in a sweet sad voice, to the two ladies, who were
standing looking at him, the mother's hand clasped in the
daughter's.

" Should you like that Mendelssohn for the Sunday after
next ? Julia sings it splendid ! "

" No, I don't, ma."

" You do, dear ! She's a good, good dear, Mr. H., that's
what she is."

" You must not call — a — him, in that way. Don't say Mr.
H., ma," says Julia.

*' Call me what you please ! " says Charles, with the most
heartrending simplicity ; and Mrs. Sherrick straightway kisses
her daughter. Sherrick meanwhile has been pointing out the
improvement of the chapel to Clive (which now has indeed a
look of the Gothic Hall at Rosherville), and has confided to
him the sum for which he screwed the painted window out of
old Moss. "When he comes to see it up in this place, sir, the
old man was mad, I give you my word ! His son ain't no good :
says he knows you. He's such a screw, that chap, that he'll
overreach himself, mark my words. At least, he'll never die

THE NKU'COMES. 477

rich. Did you ever hear of me screwing? No, I spend my
money like a man. How those girls are agoin' on about theil
music with Honeyman. I don't let 'em sing in the evening,
or him do duty more than once a day ; and you can cal'clate
how the music draws, because in the evenin' there ain't half
the number of people here. Rev. Mr. Journyman does the
duty now — quiet Hoxford man — ill, I suppose, this morning.
H. sits in his pew, where we was, and coughs ; that's to say, I
told him to cough. The women like a consumptive parson, sir.
Come, gals ! "

Clive went to his uncle's lodgings, and was received by Mr.
and Mrs. Ridley with great glee and kindness. Both of these
good people had made it a point to pay their duty to Mr. Clive
immediately on his return to England, and thank him over and
over again for his kindness to John James. Never, never
would they forget his goodness, and the Colonel's, they were
sure. A cake, a heap of biscuits, a pyramid of jams, six friz-
zling hot mutton-chops, and four kinds of wine, came bustling
up to Mr. Honeyman's room twenty minutes after Clive had
entered it, — as a token of the Ridley's affection for him.

Clive remarked, with a smile, the Pall Mall Gazette upon a
side-table, and in the chimney-glass almost as many cards as in
the time of Honeyman's early prosperity. That he and' his
uncle should be very intimate together, was impossible, from
the nature of the two men ; Clive being frank, clear-sighted,
and imperious ; Charles, timid, vain, and double-faced, con-
scious that he was a humbug, and that most people found him
out, so that he would quiver and turn away, and be more afraid
of young Clive and his direct straightforward way, than of
many older men. Then there was the sense of the money
transactions between him and the Colonel, which made Charles
Honeyman doubly uneasy. In fine, they did not like each
other ; but as he is a connection of the most respectable New-
come family, sure he is entitled to a page or two in these their
memoirs.

Thursday came, and with it Mr. Sherrick's entertainment, to
which also Mr. Binnie and his party had been invited to meet
Colonel Newcome's son. Uncle James and Rosey brought
Clive in their carriage ; Mrs. Mackenzie sent a headache as an
apology. She chose to treat Uncle James's landlord with a
great deal of hauteur, and to be angry with her brother for vis-
iting such a person. " In fact, you see how fond I must be of
dear little Rosey, Clive, that I put up with all mamma's tan-
trums for her sake," remarks Mr. Binnie.

478 THE NEWCOMES.

" Oh, uncle ! " says little Rosey, and the old gentleman
stopped her remonstrances with a kiss.

" Yes," says he, " your mother does have tantrums, Miss ;
and though you never complain, there's no reason why 1
shouldn't. You will not tell on me " (it was " Oh, Uncle ! "
again) ; " and Clive won't, I am sure. This little thing, sir,"
James went on, holding Rosey's pretty little hand and looking
fondly in her pretty little face, " is her old uncle's only comfort
in life. I wish I had had her out to India to me, and never
come back to this great dreary town of yours. But I was
tempted home by Tom Newcome ; and I'm too old to go back,
sir. Where the stick falls let it lie. Rosey would have been
whisked out of my house, in India, in a month after I had her
there. Some young fellow would have taken her away from
me ; and now she has promised never to leave her old Uncle
James, hasn't she ? "

"No, never, uncle," said Rosey.

" We don't want to fall in love, do we, child ? We don t
want to be breaking our hearts like some young folks, and
dancing attendance at balls night after night, and capering
about in the Park to see if we can get a glimpse of the beloved
object eh, Rosey ? "

Rosey blushed. It was evident, that she and Uncle James
both knew of Clive's love affair. In fact, the front seat and
back seat of the carriage both blushed. And as for the secret,
why Mrs. Mackenzie and Mrs. Hobson had talked it a hundred
times over.

" This little Rosey, sir, has promised to take care of me on
this side of Styx," continued Uncle James ; " and if she could
but be left alone, and to do it without mamma — there, I won't
say a word more against her — we should get on none the
worse."

"Uncle James, I must make a picture of you, for Rosey,"
said Clive, good-humoredly. And Rosey said, " Oh, thank
you, Clive," and held out that pretty little hand, and looked so
sweet and kind and happy, that Clive could not but be charmed
at the sight of so much innocence and candor.

" Quasty peecoly Rosiny," says James, in a fine Scotch
Italian, " e la piu bella, la piu cara, ragazza ma la mawdry e il
diav "

" Don't, uncle ! " cried Rosey, again ; and Clive laughed
at Uncle James's wonderful outbreak in a foreign tongue.

" Eh ! I thought ye didn't know a word of the sweet lan-
guage, Rosey ! It's just the Lenguy Toscawny in Bocky

Tin: XF.U 'COMES. 47rj

Romawny that I thought to try in compliment to this young
monkey who has seen the world," And by this time Saint
John's Wood was reached ; and Mr. Sherrick's handsome villa,
at the door of which the three beheld the Rev. Charles Honey-
man stepping out of a neat brougham.

The drawing-room contained several pictures of Mrs. Sher-
rick when she was in the theatrical line, Smee's portrait of her,
" which was never half handsome enough for my Betsy," Sher-
rick said Indignantly, the print of her in Artaxerxes, with her
signature as Elizabeth Folthorpe (not in truth a fine specimen
of caligraphy), the testimonial presented to her on the conclu-
sion of the triumphal season of iS — , at Drury Lane, by her
ever grateful friend, Adolphus Smacker, Lessee, who of course
went to law with her next year, and other Thespian emblems.
But Clive remarked, with not a little amusement, that the
drawing-room tables were now covered with a number of those
books which he had seen at Madame de Montcontour's, and
many French and German ecclesiastical gimcracks, such as are
familiar to numberless readers of mine. There were the Lives
of rt St. Botibol of Islington," and " St. YYillibald of Bareacres;"
with pictures of those confessors. Then there was the " Le-
gend of Margary Dawe, Virgin and Martyr," with a sweet
double frontispiece, representing (i) the sainted woman selling
her feather-bed for the benefit of the poor ; and (2) reclining
upon straw, the leanest of invalids. There was " Old Daddy
Longlegs, and how he was brought to say his Prayers ; a Tale
for Children, by a Lady," with a preface dated St. Chad's Eve,
and signed " C. H." "The Rev. Charles Honeyman's Ser-
mons, delivered at Lady YVhittlesea's Chapel," " Poems of
Early Days, by Charles Honeyman, A. M." " The Life of
good Dame Whittlesea," by do. do. Yes, Charles had come
out in the literary line ; and there in a basket was a strip of
Berlin work, of the very same Gothic pattern which Madame de
Monlcontour was weaving, and which you afterwards saw
round the pulpit of Charles's chapel. Rosey was welcomed
most kindly by the kind ladies ; and as the gentlemen sat over
their wine after dinner in the summer evening, Clive beheld
Rosey and Julia pacing up and down the lawn, Miss Julia's
arm round her little friend's waist : he thought they would
make a pretty little picture.

"My girl ain't a bad one to look at, is she ?" said the
pleased father. " A fellow might look far enough, and see not
prettier than them two."

" Charles sighed out that there was a German print, the

48q THE NEWCOMES.

" Two Leonoras," which put him in mind of their various styles
of beauty.

" I wish I could paint them," said Clive.

" And why not, sir ? " asks his host. " Let me give you
your first commission now, Mr. Clive : I wouldn't mind paying
a good bit for a picture of my Julia. I forget how much old
Smee got for Betsy's, the old humbug ! "

Clive said it was not the will, but the power that was
deficient. He succeeded with men, but the ladies were too
much for him as yet.

" Those you've done up at Albany Street Barracks are
famous : I've seen 'em," said Mr. Sherrick ; and remarking
that his guest looked rather surprised at the idea of his being
in such company, Sherrick said, u What, you think they are too
great swells for me ? Law bless you, I often go there. I've
business with several of 'em ; had with Captain Belsize, with
the Earl of Kew, who's every inch the gentleman — one of
nature's aristocracy, and paid up like a man. The Earl and
me has had many dealings together."

Honeyman smiled faintly, and nobody complying with Mr.
Sherrick's boisterous entreaties to drink more, the gentlemen
quitted the dinner-table, which had been served in a style of
prodigious splendor, and went to the drawing-room for a little
music.

This was all of the gravest and best kind ; so grave indeed,
that James Binnie might be heard in a corner giving an accom-
paniment of little snores to the singers and the piano. But
Rosey was delighted with the performance, and Sherrick re-
marked to Clive, " That's a good gal, that is ; I like that gal ;
she ain't jealous of Julia cutting her out in the music, but
listens as pleased as any one. She's a sweet little pipe of her
own, too. Miss Mackenzie, if ever you like to go to the opera,
send a word either to my West End or my City office. I've
boxes every week, and you're welcome to anything I can give
you."

So all agreed that the evening had been a very pleasant
one ; and they of Fitzroy Square returned home talking in a
most comfortable friendly way — that is, two of them, for Uncle
James fell asleep again, taking possession of the back seat ;
and Clive and Rosey prattled together. He had offered to try
and take all the young ladies' likenesses. " You know what a
failure the last was, Rosey ? " — he had very nearly said " dear
Rosey."

"Yes, but Miss Sherrick is so handsome, that you will

THE XEWCOMES.

4S1

succeed better with her than with my round face, Mr. New*
come."

kt Mr. What 1 " cries Give.

"Well, Give, then," says Rosey, in a little voice.

He sought for a little hand which was not very far away.
" You know we are like brother and sister, dear Rosey ? " lie
said this time.

'■ Yes," said she, and gave a little pressure of the hand.
And then Uncle James woke up ; and it seemed as if the
whole drive didn't occupy a minute, and they shook hands very
very kindly at the door of Htzroy Square.

Give made a famous likeness of Miss Sherrick, with which
Mr. Sherrick was delighted, and so was Mr. Honey man, who
happened to call upon his nephew once or twice when the ladies
happened to be sitting. Then Give proposed to the Rev.
Charles Honeyman to take his head off \ and made an excellent
likeness in chalk of his uncle — that one, in fact, from which the
print was taken, which you may see any day at Hogarth's, in
the Haymarket, along with a whole regiment of British divines.
Charles became so friendly, that he was constantly coming to
Charlotte Street, once or twice a week.

Mr. and Mrs. Sherrick came to look at the drawing, and
were charmed with it ; and when Rosey was sitting, they came
to see her portrait, which again was not quite so successful.
One Monday, the Sherricks and Honeyman too happened to
call to see the picture of Rosey, who trotted over with her
uncle to Give's studio, and they all had a great laugh at a
paragraph in the rail Mall Gazette, evidently from F. B.'s
hand, to the following effect : —

" Conversion in High Life. — A foreign nobleman of
princely rank, who has married an English lady, and has resided
among us for some time, is likely, we hear and trust, to join the
English Church. The Prince de M — ntc — nt — r has been a
constant attendant at Lady Whittlesea's chapel, of which the
Rev, C. Honeyman is the eloquent incumbent ; and it is said
this sound and talented divine has been the means of awaken
big the prince to a sense of the erroneous doctrines in which
he has been bred. His ancestors were Protestant, and fought
by the side of Henry IV, at Ivry. In Louis XIY.'s time, they
adopted the religion of that persecuting monarch. We sin-
cerely trust that the present heir of the house of Ivry will see
fit to return to the creed which his forefathers so unfortunately
abjured."

3«

482 THE NEWCOMES.

The ladies received this news with perfect gravity ; and
Charles uttered a meek wish that it might prove true. As they
went away, they offered more hospitalities to Clive and Mr.
Binnie and his niece. They liked the music, would they not
come and hear it again ?

When they had departed with Mr. Honeyman, Clive could
not help saying to Uncle James, " Why are those people always
coming here ; praising me ; and asking me to dinner ? Do you
know, I can't help thinking that they rather want me as a pre*
tender for Miss Sherrick ?

Binnie burst into a loud guffaw, and cried out, " O vanitas
vanitawtum ! " Rosey laughed too.

11 1 don't think it any joke at all," said Clive.

"Why, you stupid lad, don't you see it is Charles Honey-
man the girl's in love with ? " cried Uncle James. " Rosey
saw it in the very first instant we entered their drawing-room
three weeks ago."

"Indeed, and how ? " asked Clive.

"By — by the way she looked at him," said little Rosey.

CHAPTER XLV.

A STAG OF TEN.

The London season was very nearly come to an end, and
Lord Farintosh had danced I don't know how many times with
Miss Newcome, had drunk several bottles of the old Kew port,
had been seen at numerous breakfasts, operas, races, and public
places by the young lady's side, and had not as yet made any
such proposal as Lady Kew expected for her granddaughter.
Clive %oirig to see his military friends in the Regent's Park
once, and finish Captain Butts's portrait in barracks, heard two
or three young men talking, and one say to another, " I bet you
three to two Farintosh don't marry her, and I bet you even
that he don't ask her." And as he entered Mr. Butts's room,
where these gentlemen were conversing, there was a silence
and an awkwardness. The young fellows were making an
" event " out of Ethel's marriage, and sporting their money
freely on it.

To have an old countess hunting a young marquis so reso*

THE NEWCOMES.

4»i

/utely that all the world should be able to look on and speculate
whether her game would be run down by that staunch toothless
old pursuer — that is an amusing sport, isn't it ? and afTords
plenty of fun and satisfaction to those who follow the hunt.
But for a heroine of a story, be she ever so clever, handsome,
and sarcastic, I don't think for my part, at this present stage of
the tale, Miss Ethel Newcome occupies a very dignified posi-
tion. To break her heart in silence for Tomkins, who is in love
with another ; to suffer no end of poverty, starvation, capture
by ruffians, ill-treatment by a bullying husband, loss of beauty
by the small-pox, death even at the end of the volume ; all
these mishaps a young heroine may endure (and has endured
in romances over and over again), without losing the least
dignity, or suffering any diminution of the sentimental reader's
esteem. But a girl of great beauty, high temper, and stronger
natural intellect, who submits to be dragged hither and thither
in an old grandmother's leash, and in pursuit of a husband who
will run away from the couple, such a person, I say, is in a very
awkward position as a heroine ; and I declare if I had another
ready to my hand (and unless there were extenuating circum-
stances), Ethel should be deposed at this very sentence.

But a novelist must go on with his heroine, as a man with
his wife, for better or worse, and to the end. For how many
years have the Spaniards borne with their gracious queen, not
because she was faultless, but because she was there. So
Chambers and grandees cried, " God save her," Alabarderos
turned out, drums beat, cannons fired, and people saluted Isa-
bella Segunda, who was no better than the humblest washer-
woman of her subjects. Are we much better than our neigh-
bors ? Do we never yield to our peculiar temptation, our
pride, or our avarice, or our vanity, or what not ? Ethel is very
wrong certainly. But recollect, she is very young. She is in
other people's hands. She has been bred up and governed by
a very worldly family, and taught their traditions. We would
hardly, for instance — the staunchest Protestant in England
would hardly be angry with poor Isabella Segunda for being a
Catholic. So if Ethel worships at a certain image which a
great number of good folks in England bow to, let us not be
too angry with her idolatry, and bear with our queen a little
longer before we make our pronunciamento.

No, Miss Newcome, yours is not a dignified position in life,
however you may argue that hundreds of people in the world
are doing like you. Oh, me ! what a confession it is, in the
very outset of life and blushing brightness of youth's morning,

4S4 THE NEWCOMES.

to own that the aim with which a young girl sets out, and the
object of her existence, is to marry a rich man ; that she was
endowed with beauty so that she might buy wealth, and a title
with it ; that as sure as she has a soul to be saved, her
business here on earth is to try and get a rich husband. That is
the career for which many a woman is bred and trained. A
young man begins the world with some aspirations at least ; he
will try to be good and follow the truth j he will strive to win
honors for himself, and never do a base action ; he will pass
nights over his books, and forego ease and pleasure so that he
may achieve a name. Many a poor wretch who is worn out
now and old, and bankrupt of fame and money too, has com-
menced life at any rate with noble views and generous schemes,
from which weakness, idleness, passion, or overpowering hos-
tile fortune has turned him away. But a girl of the world, bon
Dieu / the doctrine with which she begins is that she is to have
a wealthy husband : the article of Faith in her catechism is, " I
believe in elder sons, and a house in town, and a house in the
country ! " They are mercenary as they step fresh and bloom-
ing into the world out of the nursery. They have been schooled
there to keep their bright eyes to look only on the Prince and
the Duke, Croesus and Dives. By long cramping and careful
process, their little natural hearts have been squeezed up, like
the feet of their fashionable little sisters in China. As you see
a pauper's child, with an awful premature knowledge of the
pawn-shop, able to haggle at market with her wretched halfpence,
and battle bargains at hucksters' stalls, you shall find a young
beauty, who was a child in the schoolroom a year since, as wise
and knowing as the old practitioners on that exchange ; as eco-
nomical of her smiles, as dexterous in keeping back or produ-
cing her beautiful wares, as skilful in setting one bidder against
another, as keen as the smartest merchant in Vanity Fair.

If the young gentleman of the Life Guards Green who were
talking about Miss Newcome and her suitors were silent when
Clive appeared amongst them, it was because they were aware
not only of his relationship to the young lady, but his unhappy
condition regarding her. Certain men there are who never tell
their love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on
their damask cheeks ; others again must be not always think-
ing, but talking about the darling object. So it was not very
long before Captain Crackthorpe was taken into Clive's con-
fidence, and through Crackthorpe very likely the whole mess
became acquainted with his passion. These young fellows, who
had been early introduced into the world, gave Clive small

THE XEUTOMRS. 485

hopes of success, putting to him, in their downright phraseology,
the point of which he was already aware, that Miss Newcome
was intended for his superiors, and that he had best not make
his mind uneasy by sighing for those beautiful grapes which
were beyond his reach.

But the good-natured Crackthrope, who had a pity for the
young painter's condition, helped him so far (and gained Clive's
warmest thanks for his good offices), by asking admission for
Clive to certain evening parties of the beau-mondc, where he
had the gratification of meeting his charmer. Ethel was sur-
prised and pleased, and Lady Kew surprised and angry at meet-
ing Clive Newcome at these fashionable houses; the girl her-
self was touched very likely at his pertinacity in following her.
As there was no actual feud between them, she could not refuse
now and again to dance with her cousin ; and thus he picked
up such small crumbs of consolation as a youth in his state can
get ; lived upon six words vouchsafed to him in a quadrille, or
brought home a glance of the eyes which she had presented to
him in a waltz, or the remembrance of a squeeze of the hand
on parting or meeting. How eager he was to get a card to this
party or that ! how attentive to the givers of such entertain-
ments ! Some friends of his accused him of being a tuft hunter
and flatterer of the aristocracy, on account of his politeness to
certain people ; the truth was, he wanted to go wherever Miss
Ethel was ; and the ball was blank to him which she did not
attend.

This business occupied not only one season, but two. By
the time of the second season, Mr. Newcome had made so
many acquaintances, that he needed few more introductions
into society. He was very well known as a good-natured hand-
some young man, and a very good waltzer, the only son of an
Indian officer of large wealth, who chose to devote himself to
painting, and who was supposed to entertain an unhappy fond-
ness for his cousin the beautiful Miss Newcome. Kind folks
who heard of this little tendre, and were sufficiently interested
in Mr. Clive, asked him to their houses in consequence. I
dare say those people who were good to him may have been
themselves at one time unlucky in their own love affairs.

When the first season ended without a declaration from my
lord, Lady Kew carried off her young lady to Scotland, where
it also so happened that Lord Farintosh was going to shoot,
and people made what surmises they chose upon this coinci-
dence. Surmises, why not ? You who know the world, know
very well that if you see Mrs. So-and-so's name in the list of

4S6 THE XEIVCGMES.

people at an entertainment, on looking down the list you will
presently be sure to come on Mr. What d'youcaU'enrs. If Lord
and Lady Blank, of Suchandsuch Castle received a distinguished
circle i including Lady Dash), for Christmas or Easter, without
reading farther the names of the guests, you may venture on
any wager that Captain Asterisk is one of the company. These
coincidences happen every day ; and some people are sc
anxious to meet other people, and so irresistible is the magnetic
sympathy I suppose, that they will travel hundreds of miles in
the worst of weather to see their friends, and break your door
cpen almost, provided the friend is inside it.

I am obliged to own the fact, that for many months Lady
Kew hunted after Lord Farintosh. This rheumatic old woman
went to Scotland, where, as he was pursuing the deer, she
stalked his lordship : from Scotland she went to Paris, where he
was taking lessons in dancing at the Chaumiere ; from Paris to
an English country-house, for Christmas, where he was expected
but didn't come — not being, his professor said, quite complete
in the polka, and so on. If Ethel were privy to these manoeu-
vres, or anything more than an unwittingly consenting party, I
say we would depose her from her place of heroine at once.
But she was acting under her grandmother's orders, a most impe-
rious, irresistible, managing old woman who exacted even-body's
obedience, and managed everybody's business in her family.
Lady Ann Xewcome being in attendance on her sick husband,
Ethel was consigned to the Countess of Kew, her grandmother,
who hinted that she should leave Ethel her property when dead,
and whilst alive expected the girl, should go about with her.
She had and wrote as many letters as a Secretary of State
almost. She was accustomed to set off without taking any-
body's advice, or announcing her departure until within an hour
or two of the event. In her train moved Ethel, against her
own will, which would have led her to stay at home with her
father, but at the special wish and order of her parents. Was
such a sum as that of which Lady Kew had the disposal
(Hobson Brothers knew the amount of it quite well) to be left
out of the family ? Forbid it all ye powers ! Barnes — who
would have liked the money himself, and said truly that hi
would live with his grandmother anywhere she liked if he could
get it, — Barnes joined most energetically with Sir Brian and
Lady Ann in ordering Ethel's obedience to Lady Kew. You
know how difficult it is for one young woman not to acquiesce
when the family council strongly orders. In fine, I hope there
was a good excuse for the queen of this history, and that it was

THE NEWCOMES.

487

her wicked domineering old prime minister who led her wrong.
Otherwise, I say, we would have another dynasty. Oh, to think
of a generous nature, and the world, and nothing but the world
to occupy it ! — of a brave intellect, and the milliner's bandboxes
and the scandal of the coteries, and the fiddle-faddle etiquette
of the court for its sole exercise ! of the rush and hurry from
entertainment to entertainment ; of the constant smiles and
cares of representation ; of the prayerless rest at night, and the
awaking to a godless morrow ! This was the course of life to
which Fate, and not her own fault altogether, had for a while
handed over Ethel Newcome. Let those pity her who can feel
their own weakness and misgoing ; let those punish her who
are without fault themselves.

Clive did not offer to follow her to Scotland. He knew
quite well that the encouragement he had had was only of the
smallest ; that as a relation she received him frankly and kindly
enough, but checked him when he would have adopted another
character. But it chanced that they met in Paris, whither he
went in the Easter of the ensuing year, having worked to some
good purpose through the winter, and despatched, as or, a
former occasion, his three or four pictures, to take their chance
at the Exhibition.

Of these it is our pleasing duty to be able to corroborate,
to some extent, Mr. F. Bayham's favorable report. Fancy
sketches and historical pieces our young man had eschewed ;
having convinced himself either that he had not an epic genius,
or that to draw portraits of his friends was a much easier task
than that which he had set himself formerly. Whilst all the
world was crowding round a pair of J. J.'s little pictures, a
couple of chalk heads were admitted into the Exhibition, (his
great picture of Captain Crackthorpe on horseback, in full
uniform, I must own, was ignominiously rejected,) and the
friends of the parties had the pleasure of recognizing in the
miniature room, No. 1246, "Portrait of an Officer," — viz.,
Augustus Butts, Esq., of the Life Guards Green ; and " Portrait
of the Rev. Charles tlonevman," No. 1272. Miss Sherrick the
hangers refused ; Mr. Binnie, Clive had spoiled, as usual, in the
painting ; the chalk heads, however, before named, were voted
to be faithful likenesses, and executed in a very agreeable and
spirited manner. F. Bayham's criticism on these performances,
it need not be said, was tremendous. Since the days of Michael
Angelo you would have thought there never had been such
drawings. In fact, F. B., as some other critics do, clapped his
friends so boisterously on the back, and trumpeted their merits

438

THE NEWCOMES.

with such prodigious energy as to make his friends themselves
someames uneasy.

Mr. Clive, whose good father was writing home more and
more wonderful accounts of the Bundelcund Bank, in which he
had engaged, and who was always pressing his son to draw for
more money, treated himself to comfortable rooms at Paris, in
the very same hotel where the young Marquis of Farintosh oc-
cupied lodgings much more splendid, and where he lived, no
doubt, so as to be near the professor, who was still teaching
his lordship the polka. Indeed, it must be said that Lord Far-
intosh made great progress under this artist, and that he danced
very much better in his third season than in the first and sec-
ond years after he had come upon the town. From the same
instructor the Marquis learned the latest novelties in French
conversation, the choicest oaths and phrases (for which he was
famous), so that although his French Grammar was naturally
defective, he was enabled to order a dinner at Phillipe's, and
to bully a waiter, or curse a hackney coachman with extreme
volubility. A young nobleman of his rank was received with
the distinction which was his due by the French sovereign of
that period ; and at the Tuileries, and the houses of the French
nobility which he visited, Monsieur le Marquis de Farintosh
excited considerable remark by the use of some of the phrases
which his young professor had taught to him. People even
went so far as to say that the Marquis was an awkward and
dull young man, of the very worst manners.

Whereas the young Clive Xewcome — and it comforted the
poor fellow's heart somewhat, and be sure pleased Ethel, who
was looking on at his triumphs — was voted the most charming
young Englishman who had been seen for a long time in our
salons. Madame de Florae, who loved him as a son of her
own, actually went once or twice into the world in order to see
his debut. Madame de Montcontour inhabited a part of the
'k Hotel de Florae," and received society there. The French
people did not understand what bad English she talked, though
they comprehended Lord Farintoslvs French blunders. " Mon-
sieur Newcome is an artist ! What a noble career ! " cries
a great French lady, the wife of a Marshal, to the astonished
Miss Newcome. " This young man is the cousin of the charming
Mees ? You must be proud to possess such a nephew, Ma-
dame S " says another French lady to the Countess of Kew(who,
you may be sure, is delighted to have such a relative"). And
the French lady invites Clive to her receptions expressly in
order to make herself agreeable to the old Comtesse. Before

THE XRWCOMES.

4S9

the cousins have been three minutes together in Madame de
Florae's salon, she sees that Clive is in love with Ethel New*
come. She takes the boy's hand and says M y'ai votre secret,
mon ami ; " and her eyes regard him for a moment as fondly,
as tenderly, as ever they looked at his father. Oh, what tears
have they shed, gentle eyes ! Oh, what faith has it kept, ten-
der heart ! If love lives through all life • and survives through
all sorrow ; and remains steadfast with us through all changes ;
and in all darkness of spirit burns brightly ; and, if we die, de-
plores us forever, and loves still equally ; and exists with the
very last gasp and throb of the faithful bosom — whence it
passes with the pure soul, beyond death ; surely it shall be im-
mortal ! Though we who remain are separated from it, is it
not ours in Heaven ? If we love still those we lose, can we
altogether lose those we love ? Forty years have passed away.
Youth and dearest memories revisit her, and Hope almost
wakes up again out of its grave, as the constant lady holds
the young man's hand, and looks at the son of Thomas New-
come.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE " HOTEL DE FLORAC.

Since the death of the Due dTvry, the husband of Marv
Queen of Scots, the Comtede Florae, who is now the legitimate
owner of the ducal title, does not choose to bear it, but con-
tinues to be known in the world by his old name. The old
Count's worlrl is very small. His doctor, and his director, who
comes daily to play his game of picquet : his daughter's chil-
dren, who amuse him by their laughter, and play round his
chair in the garden of his hotel ; his faithful wife, and one or
friends as old as himself, form his society. His son the
Abbe' is with them but seldom. The austerity of his manners
frightens his old father, who can little comprehend the religion-
ism of the new school. After going to hear his son preach
through Lent at Notre Dame, where the Abbe' de Florae gath-
ered a great congregation, the old Count came awav quite
puzzled at his son's declamations. " I do not understand your
new priests," he says ; " 1 knew my son had become a Corded

49 o

THE NEWCOMES.

Her : I went to hear him, and found he was a Jacobin. Let
me make my salut in quiet, my good Le'onore. My director
answers for me. and plays a game of trictrac into the bargain
with me." Our history has but little to do with this venerable
nobleman. He has his chamber looking out into the garden
of his hotel ; his faithful old domestic to wait upon him ; his
House of Peers to attend when he is well enough ; his few ac^
quaintances to help him to pass the evening. The rest of the
hotel he gives up to his son, the Vicomte de Florae, and Ma-
dame la Princesse de Montcontour, his daughter-in-law.

When Fiorac has told his friends of the Club why it is he
has assumed a new title — as a means of reconciliation (a recon-
ciliation all philosophical, my friends) with his wife nee Higg
of Manchester, who adores titles like all Anglaises, and has
recently made a great succession, even-body allows that the
measure was dictated by prudence, and there is no more
laughter at his change of name. The Princess takes the first
floor of the hotel at the price paid for it by the American Gen-
eral, who has returned to his original pigs at Cincinnati. Had
not Cincinnatus himself pigs on his farm, and was he not a
general and member of Congress too ? The honest Princess
has a bedchamber, which, to her terror, she is obliged to open
of reception-evenings, when gentlemen and ladies play cards
there. It is fitted up in the style of Louis XVI. In her bed
is an immense looking-glass, surmounted by stucco cupids : it
is an alcove which some powdered Venus, before the Revolu-
tion, might have reposed in. Opposite that looking-glass, be-
tween the tall windows, at some forty feet distance, is another
huge mirror, so that when the poor Princess is in bed, in her
prim old curl-papers, she sees a vista of elderly princesses
twinkling away into the dark perspective ; and is so frightened
that she and Betsy, her Lancashire maid, pin up the jonquil
silk curtains over the bed-mirror after the first night ; though
the Princess never can get it out of her head that her image is
still there, behind the jonquil hangings, turning as she turns,
waking as she wakes, &c. The chamber is so vast and lonely
that she has a bed made for Betsy in the room. It is, of
course, whisked away into a closet on reception-evenings. A
boudoir, rose-tendre, with more cupids and nymphs, by Boucher,
sporting over the door-panels — nymphs who may well shock
old Betsy and her old mistress — is the Princess's morning-room.
" Ah, Mum, what would Mr. Humper at Manchester, Mr.
Jowls of Xewcome " (the minister whom, in early days, Miss
Higg used to sit under) " say if they was browt into this

THE NEIVCOMES. ^i

room ! " But there is no question of Mr. Jowls and Mr. Ham-
per, excellent dissenting divines, who preached to Miss Higg,
being brought into the Princesse de Montcontour's boudoir.

That paragraph, respecting a conversation in high life,
which F. B. in his enthusiasm inserted in the Pall Mall rGaz*tte%
caused no small excitement in the Florae family. The Florae
family read the Pall Mall Gazette, knowing that Clive's friends
were engaged in that periodical. When Madame de Florae,
who did not often read newspapers, happened to cast her eye
upon that poetic paragragh of F. B.'s, you may fancy with what
a panic it rilled the good and pious lady. Her son become a
Protestant ! After all the grief and trouble his wildness had
occasioned to her, Paul forsake his religion ! But that her
husband was so ill and aged as not to be able to bear her ab-
sence, she would have hastened to London to rescue her son
out of that perdition. She sent for her younger son, who un-
dertook the embassy ; and the Prince and Princesse de Mont-
contour, in their hotel at London, were one day surprised by
the visit of the Abbe de Florae.

As Paul was quite innocent of any intention of abandoning
his religion, the mother's kind heart was very speedily set at
rest by her envoy. Far from Paul's conversion to Protestant-
ism, the Abbe' wrote home the most encouraging accounts of
his sister-in-law's precious dispositions. He had communica-
tions with Madame de Montcontour's Anglican director, a man
of not powerful mind, wrote M. l'Abbe, though of considerable
repute for eloquence in his sect. The good dispositions of his
sister-in-law were improved by the French clergyman, who could
be most captivating and agreeable when a work of conversion
was in hand. The visit reconciled the family to their English
relative, in whom good-nature and many other good qualities
were to be seen now that there were hopes of reclaiming her.
It was agreed that Madame de Montcontour should come and
inhabit the " Hotel de Florae " at Paris • perhaps the Abbe*
tempted the worthy lady by pictures of the many pleasures
and advantages she would enjoy in that capital. She was pre-
sented at her own court by the French ambassadress of that
day ; and was received at the Tuileries with a cordiality which
flattered and pleased her.

Having been presented herself, Madame la Princesse in
turn presented to her august sovereign Mrs. T. Higg and Miss
Higg, of Manchester, Mrs. Samuel Higg, of Newcome ; the
husbands of those ladies (the Princess's brothers) also sporting
a court-dress for the first time. Sam Iligg's neighbor, the mem-

492 THE XEWCOMES.

ber for Newcome, Sir Brian Newcome, Bart., was too ill to act
as Higg's sponsor before Majesty J but Barnes Newcome was
uncommonly civil to the two Lancashire gentlemen ; though
their politics were different to his, and Sam had voted against
Sir Brian at his last election. Barnes took them to dine at a
club, recommended his tailor, and sent Lady Clara Pulleyn to
call on Mrs. Higg, who pronounced her to be a pretty woman
and most haffable. The Countess of Dorking would have been
delighted to present these ladies had the Princess not luckily
been in London to do that office. The Hobson Xewcomeswere
very civil to the Lancashire party, and entertained them splen-
didly at dinner. I believe Mrs. and Mr. Hobson themselves
went to court this year, the latter in a deputy-lieutenant's
uniform.

If Barnes Newcome was so very civil to the Higg family,
we may suppose he had good reason. The Higgs were very
strong in Newcome, and it was advisable to conciliate them.
They were very rich, and their account would not be very dis-
agreeable at the Bank. Madame de Montcontour's — a large
easy private account — would be more pleasant still. And,
Hobson Brothers having entered largely into the Anglo-Conti-
nental Railway, whereof mention has been made, it was a
bright thought of Barnes to place the Prince of Montcontour,
&c., &c., on the French Direction of the railway ; and to take
the princely prodigal down to Newcome with his new title, and
reconcile him to his wife and the Higg family. Barnes, we
may say, invented the principality : rescued the Vicomte de
Florae out of his dirty lodgings in Leicester Square, and sent
the Prince of Montco.ntour back to his worthy middle-aged wife
again. The disagreeable dissenting days were over. A brilliant
young curate of Doctor Bulders, who also wore long hair, straight
waistcoats, and no shirt-collars, had already reconciled the
Vicomtesse de Florae to the persuasion, whereof the ministers
are clad in that queer uniform. The landlord of their hotel in
St. James's got his wine from Sherrick, and sent his families to
Lady Whittlesea's Chapel. The Rev. Charles Honeyman's
eloquence and amiability were appreciated by his new disciple
— thus the historian has traced here step by step how all these
people became acquainted.

Sam Higg, whose name was very good on 'Change in Man-
chester and London, joined the direction of the Anglo-Conti-
nental. A brother had died lately, leaving his money amongst
them, and his wealth had added considerably to Madame de
Florae's means ; his sister invested a portion of her capital in

7 HE XEWCOMES. 493

her husband's name. The shares were at a premium, and gave
a good dividend. The Prince de Moncontour took his place
with great gravity at the Paris board, whither Barnes made
frequent flying visits. The sense of capitalism sobered and
dignified Paul de Florae : at the age of five-and-forty he was
actually giving up being a young man, and was not ill-pleased
at having to enlarge his waistcoats, and to show a little gray
in his mustache. His errors were forgotten : he was bicn vu
by the government. He might have had the Embassy Extraor-
dinary to Queen Pomare ; but the health of Madame la
Princesse was delicate. He paid his wife visits every morn-
ing, appeared at her parties and her opera-box, and was seen
constantly with her in public. He gave quiet little dinners
still, at which Clive was present sometimes ; and had a pri-
vate door and key to his apartments, which were separated by
all the dreary length of the reception-rooms from the mirrored
chamber and jonquil couch where the Princess and Betsy re-
posed. When some of his London friends visited Paris, he
showed us these rooms, and introduced us duly to Madame la
Princesse. He was as simple and as much at home in the
midst of these splendors as in the dirty little lodgings in Lei-
cester Square, where he painted his own boots, and cooked his
herring over the tongs. As for Clive, he was the infant of the
house ; Madame la Princesse could not resist his kind face,
and Paul was as fond of him in his way as Paul's mother in
hers. Would he live at the " Hotel de Florae " ? " There was
an excellent atelier in the pavillion, with a chamber for his ser-
vant. Xo ! you will be most at ease in apartments of your own.
You will have here but the society of women. I do not rise
till late ; and my affairs, my board, call me away for the greater
part of the day. Thou wilt but be ennuye' to play trictrac with
my old father. My mother waits on him. My sister au second
is given up entirely to her children, who always have the pituitc.
Madame la Princesse is not amusing for a young man. Come
and go when thou wilt, Clive, my garcon, my son ; thy cover is
laid. Wilt thou take the portraits of all the family ? Hast
thou want of money ? I had at thy age and almost ever since,
man ami; but now we swim in gold; and when there is a loins
in my purse, there are ten francs for thee." To show his
mother that he did not think of the Reformed Religion, Paul
did not miss going to mass with her on Sunday ; Sometimes
Madame Paul went too, between whom and her mother in-law
there could not be any liking, but there was now great civility.
They saw each other once a day ; Madame Paul always paid

49 4 THE NEWCOMES.

her visit to the Comte de Florae : and Betsy, her maid, made
the old gentleman laugh by her briskness and talk. She
brought back to her mistress the most wonderful stories which
the old man told her about his doings during the emigration —
before he married Madame la Comtesse — when he gave lessons
in dancing, parbleu ! There was his fiddle still, a trophy of
those old times. He chirped, and coughed, and sang, in his
cracked old voice, as he talked about them. " Lor ! bless you,
mum," says Betsy, "he must have been a terrible old man ! "
He remembered the times well enough, but the stories he
sometimes told over twice or thrice in an hour. I am afraid
he had not repented sufficiently of those wicked old times ;
else why did he laugh and giggle so when he recalled them ?
He would laugh and giggle till he was choked with his old
cough ; and old Saint Jean, his man, came and beat M. le
Comte on the back, and made M. le Comte take a spoonful of
his syrup.

Between two such women as Madame de Florae and Lady
Kew, of course, there could be little liking or sympathy. Re-
ligion, love, duty, the family were the French lady's constant
occupation, — duty and the family, perhaps, Lady Kew's aim
too, — only the notions of duty were different in either person.
Lady Kew's idea of duty to her relatives being to push them
on in the world : Madame de Florae's to soothe, to pray, to
attend them with constant watchfulness, to strive to mend
them with pious counsel. I don't know that one lady was
happier than the other. Madame de Florae's eldest son was a
kindly prodigal ; her second had given his whole heart to the
church ; her daughter had centred hers on her own children,
and was jealous if their grandmother laid a finger on them. So
Leonore de Florae was quite alone. It seemed as if Heaven
had turned away all her children's hearts from her. Her daily
business in life was to nurse a selfish old man, into whose ser-
vice she had been forced in early youth, by a paternal decree
which she never questioned ; giving him obedience, striving to
give him respect, — everything but her heart, which had gone
out of her keeping. Many a good woman's life is no more
cheerful ; a spring of beauty, a little warmth and sunshine of
love, a bitter disappointment, followed by pangs and frantic
tears, then a long monotonous story of submission. " Not here,
my daughter, is to be your happiness," says the priest : " whom
Heaven loves it affiicts." And he points out to her the agonies
of suffering saints of her sex; assures her of their present
beatitudes and glories ; exhorts her to bear her pains with a

THE NEWCOMES. 495

faith like theirs ; and is empowered to promise her a like re-
ward.

The other matron is not less alone. Her husband and son
are dead, without a tear tor either, — to weep was not in Lady
Kew's nature. Her grand son, whom she had loved perhaps
more than any human being, is rebellious and estranged from
her; her children separated from her, save one whose sickness
and bodily infirmity the mother resents as disgraces to herself.
Her darling schemes fail somehow. She moves from town to
town, and ball to ball, and hall to castle, forever uneasy and
always alone. She sees people scared at her coming ; is re
ceived by sufferance and fear rather than by welcome ; likes
perhaps the terror which she inspires, and to enter over the
breach rather than through the hospitable gate. She will try
and command wherever she goes ; and trample over depend-
ants and society, with a grim consciousness that it dislikes
her, a rage at its cowardice, and an unbending will to domi-
neer. To be old, proud, lonely, and not have a friend in the
world — that is her lot in it. As the French lady may be said to
resemble the bird which the fables say feeds her young with
her blood ; this one, if she has a little natural liking for her
brood, goes hunting hither and thither and robs meat for them.
And so, I suppose, to make the simile good, we must compare
the Marquis of Farintosh to a lamb for the nonce, and Miss
Ethel Xewcome to a young eaglet. Is it not a rare provision
of nature (or fiction of poets, who have their own natural his-
tory,) that the strong-winged bird can soar to the sun and gaze
at it, and then come down from heaven and pounce on a piece
of carrion ?

After she became acquainted with certain circumstances,
Madame de Florae was very interested about Ethel Newcome,
and strove in her modest way to become intimate with
Miss Xewcome and Lady Kew attended Madame de Montcon-
tour*s Wednesday evenings. " It is as well, my dear, for the
interests of the family that we should be particularly civil to
these people/' Lady Kew said ; and accordingly she came to
the " Hotel de Plorac,'' and was perfectly insolent to Madame
ia Princesse every Wednesday evening. Towards Madame de
Florae even Lady Kew could not be rude. She was so gentle
as to give no excuse for assault ; Lady Kew vouchsafed to
pronounce that Madame de Florae was M tres grande-dame," —
"of the sort which is almost impossible to fine nowadays,"
Lady Kew said, who thought she possessed this dignity in her
own person. When Madame de Florae, blushing, asked Ethel

49t>

THE NEWCOMES.

to come and see her, Ethel's grandmother consented with the
utmost willingness. " She is very devote I have heard, and will
try and convert you. Of course you will hold your own about
that sort of thing; and have the good sense to keep off the-
ology. There is no Roman Catholic parii in England or Scot-
land that is to be thought of for a moment. You will see they
will marry young Lord Derwentwater to an Italian princess \
but he is only seventeen, and his directors never lose sight of
him. Sir Bartholomew Fawkes will have a fine property when
Lord Campion dies, unless Lord Campion leaves the money to
the convent where his daughter is — and, of the other families,
who is there ? I made every inquiry purposely — that is, of
course, one is anxious to know about the Catholics as about
one's own people : and little Mr. Rood, who was one of my
poor brother Steyne's lawyers, told me there is not one young
man of that party at this moment who can be called a desirable
person. Be very civil to Madame de Florae ; she sees some
of the old legitimists, and you know I am brouillee with that
party of late years."

" There is the Marquis de Montluc, who has a large fortune
for France," said Ethel, gravely ; " he has a hump-back, but he
is very spiritual. Monsieur de Cadillan paid me some com-
pliments the other night, and even asked George Barnes what
my dot was. He is a widower, and has a wig and two daughters.
Which do you think would be the greatest incumbrance, grand-
mamma,— a hump-back, or a wig and two daughters ? I like
Madame de Florae , for the sake of the borough, I must try
and like poor Madame de Montcontour, and I will go and see
them whenever you please."

So Ethel went to see Madame de Florae. She was very
kind to Madame de Preville's children, Madame de Florae's
grandchildren ; she was gay and gracious with Madame de
Montcontour. She went again and again to the "Hotel de
Florae," not caring for Lady Kew's own circle of statesmen
and diplomatists, Russian, and Spanish, and French, whose
talk about the courts of Europe, — who was in favor at St.
Petersburg, and who was in disgrace at Schoenbrunn — nat-
urally did not amuse the lively young person. The goodness
of Madame de Florae's life, the tranquil grace and melancholy
kindness with which the French lady received her, soothed
and pleased Miss Ethel. She came and reposed in Madame
de Florae's quiet chamber, or sat in the shade in the sober old
garden of her hotel ; away from all the trouble and chatter of
the salons, the gossip of the embassies, the fluttering cere-

THE MARQUIS " EN MONTAGNAKI).

THE NEWCOMES. w

raonial of the Parisian ladies' visits in their fine toilettes, the
fadaises of the dancing dandies, and the pompous mysteries of
the old statesmen who frequented her grandmother's apartment
The world began for her at night ; when she went in the train
of the old Countess from hotel to hotel, and danced waltz after
waltz with Prussian and Neapolitan secretaries, with princes'
officers of ordonnance, — with personages even more lofty very
likely, — for the court of the Citizen King was then in its
splendor j and there must surely have been a number of nimble
young royal highnesses who would like to dance with such a
oeauty as Miss Newcome. The Marquis of Farintosh had a
share in these polite amusements. His English conversation
was not brilliant as yet, although hisJFrench was eccentric;
but at the court balls, whether he appeared in his uniform of
the Scotch Archers, or in his native Glenlivat tartan, there
certainly was not in his own or the public estimation a hand-
somer young nobleman in Paris that season. It has been said
that he was greatly improved in dancing ; and, for a young
man of his age, his whiskers were really extraordinarily large
and curly.

Miss Newcome, out of consideration for her grandmother's
strange antipathy to him, did not inform Lady Kew that a young
gentleman by the name of Give occasionally came to visit the
" Hotel de Florae." At first, with her French education,
Madame de Florae never would have thought of allowing the
cousins to meet in her house ; but with the English it was
different. Paul assured her that in the English chateaux, ks
77ieess walked for entire hours with the young men, made parties
of the lish, mounted to horse with them, the whole with the
permission of the mothers. " When I was at Newcome, Miss
Ethel rode with me several times," Paul said ; " a preuve that
we went to visit an old relation of the family, who adores ("live
and his father." When Madame de Florae questioned her son
about the young Marquis to whom it was said Ethel was
engaged, Florae flouted the idea. " Engaged ! This young
Marquis is engaged to the Theatre des Varietes, my mother,
lie laughs at the notion of an engagement. When one charged
him with it of late at the club ; and asked how Mademoiselle
Louqsor — she is so tall, that they call her the Louqsor — she is
an Odalisque Obelisque, ma mere ; when one asked how the
Louqsor would pardon his pursuit of Miss Newcome ? my
Ecossois permitted himself to say in full club, that it was Miss
Newcome pursued him, — that nymph, that Diane, that charm-
ing and peerless young creature ! On which, as the others

32

49S THE NEWCOMES.

laughed, and his friend Monsieur Walleye applauded, I dare
to say in my turn, ' Monsieur le Marquis, as a young man, not
familiar with our language, you have said what is not true,
Milor. and therefore luckily not mischievous, I have the honor
to count of my friends the parents of the young lady of whom
you have spoken. You never could have intended to say that
a young Miss who lives under the guardianship of her parents,
and is obedient to them, whom you meet in society all the
ts, and at whose door your carriage is to be seen even-
day, is capable of that with which you charge her so gayly.
These things say themselves, Monsieur, in the coulisses of the
theatre, of woman from whom you learn our language ; not of
young persons pure and#chaste, Monsieur de Farintosh ! Learn
to respect your compatriots ; to honor youth and innocence
even-where, Monsieur ! — and when you forget yourself, permit
one who might be your father to point where you are wrong.5 "

'• And what did he answer ? " asked the Countess.

"I attended myself to a soufflei?' replied Florae; "but his
reply was much more agreeable. The young msulary, with
many blushes, and a gros juron, as his polite way is, said he
had not wished to say a word against that person. ' Of whowt
the name/ cried I, ' ought never to be spoken in these places."
Herewith our little dispute ended."*

So occasionally, Mr. Give had the good luck to meet with
his cousin at the " Hotel de Florae," where, I dare say. all the
inhabitants wished he should have his desire regarding this
young lady. The Colonel had talked early to Madame de
Florae about this wish of his life, impossible then to gratify,
because Ethel was engaged to Lord Kew. Clive. in the fulness
of his heart, imparted his passion to Florae, and in answer to
Paul's offer to himself, had shown the Frenchman that kind
letter in which his father bade him carry aid to " Le'onore de
Florae's son,'' in case he should need it. The case was all
clear to the lively Paul. " Between my mother and your good
Colonel there must have been an affair of the heart in the early
days during the emigration/' Clive owned his father had told
him as much, at least that he himself had been attached to
emoiselle de Blois. " It is for that that her heart yearns
towards thee, that I have felt myself entrained towards thee
since I saw thee " — Clive momentarily expected to be kissed
again. - Tell thy father that I feel — am touched by his good-
ness with an eternal gratitude, and love even- one that loves
my mother.'' As far as wishes went, these two were eager pro-
moters of Give's little love affair ; and Madame la Princesse

THE NEWCOMES. 499

became equally not less willing. Give's good looks and good-
nature had had their effects upon that good-natured woman,
and he was as great a favorite with her as with her husband.
And thus it happened that when Miss Ethel came to pay her
visit, and sat with Madame de Florae and her grandchildren in
the garden, Mr. Newcome would sometimes walk up the avenue
there, and salute the ladies.

If Ethel had not wanted to see him, would she have come ?
Yes ; she used to say she was going to Madame de Pre'ville's,
not to Madame de Florae's, and would insist, I have no doubt,
that it ivas Madame de Preville whom she went to see, (whose
husband was a member of the Chamber of Deputies, a con-
seiller d'Etat, or other French big-wig,) and that she had no
idea of going to meet Give, or that he was more than a casual
acquaintance at the Hotel de Florae." There was no part of
her conduct in all her life which this lady, when it was im-
pugned, would defend more strongly than this intimacy at the
" Hotel de Florae." It is not with this I quarrel especially.
My fair young readers, who have seen a half-dozen of seasons,
can you call to mind the time when you had such a friendship
for Emma Tomkins, that you were always at the Tomkins's,
and notes were constantly passing between your house and
hers ? When her brother, Paget Tomkins, returned to India,
did not vour intimacv with Emma fall off ? If vour younger
sister is not in the room, I know you will own as much to me.
I think you are always deceiving yourselves and other people.
I think the motive you put forward is very often not the real
one; though you will confess, neither to yourself, nor to any
human being, what the real motive is. I think that what you
desire you pursue, and are as selfish in your way as your
bearded fellow creatures are. And as for the truth being in
you, of all the women in a great acquaintance, I protest there
are but — never mind. A perfectly honest woman, a woman
who never flatters, who never manages, who never cajoles, who
never conceals, who never uses her eves, who never speculates
on the effect which she produces, who never is conscious of
unspoken admiration, what a monster, I say, would such a
female be ! Miss Hopkins, you have been a coquette since
you were a year old ; you worked cm your papa's friends in the
nurse's arms by the fascination of your lace frock ami pretty
new sash and shoes; when you could just toddle, you practised
your arts upon other children in the square, poor little lamb-
kins sporting among the daisies ; and nunc in ovilia, max in
reluciantcs dracones, proceeding from the lambs to reluctant

500 THE NEWCOMES.

dragoons, you tried your arts upon Captain Paget Tomkins,
who behaved so ill, and went to India without — without making
those proposals which of course you never expected. Your
intimacy was with Emma. It has cooled. Your sets are dif-
ferent. The Tomkins's are not quite, &x., &c. You believe
Captain Tomkins married a Miss O'Grady, &c, &c. Ah, my
pretty, my sprightly Miss Hopkins, be gentle in your judgment
of your neighbors !

CHAPTER XLVII.

CONTAINS TWO OR THREE ACTS OF A LITTLE COMEDY.

All this story is told by one, who, if he was not actually
present at the circumstances here narrated, yet had informa-
tion concerning them, and could supply such a narrative of facts
and conversations as is, indeed, not less authentic than the de-
tails we have of other histories. How can I tell the feelings in
a young lady's mind ; the thoughts in a young gentleman's
bosom ? — As Professor Owen or Professor Agassiz takes a
fragment of a bone, and builds an enormous forgotten monster
out of it, wallowing in primaeval quagmires, tearing down leaves
and branches of plants that nourished thousands of years ago,
and perhaps may be coal by this time — so the novelist puts this
and that together : from the footprint finds the foot ; from the
foot, the brute who trode on it; from the brute, the plant he
browsed on, the marsh in which he swam — and thus, in his
humble way a physiologist too, depicts the habits, size, appear-
ance of the beings whereof he has to treat ; — traces this slimy
reptile through the mud, and describes his habits filthy and
rapacious ; prods down this butterfly with a pin, and depicts
his beautiful coat and embroidered waistcoat ; points out the
singular structure of yonder more important animal, the mega-
therium of his history.

Suppose then, in the quaint old garden of the " Hotel de
Florae,"' two young people are walking up and down in an
avenue of lime-trees, which are still permitted to grow in that
ancient place. In the centre of that avenue is a fountain sur-
mounted by a Triton so gray and moss-eaten, that though he
holds his conch to his swelling lips, curling his tail in the arid

n//E NEWCOMES.

SOI

basin, his instrument has had a sinecure for at least fifty years ;
and did not think fit even to play when the Bourbons, in whose
time he was erected, came back from their exile. At the end
of the lime-tree avenue is a broken-nosed damp Faun, with a
marble panpipe, who pipes to the spirit ditties which I believe
never had any tune. The perron of the hotel is at the other
end of the avenue ; a couple of Caesars on either side of the
door-window, from which the inhabitants of the hotel issue into
the garden — Caracalla frowning over his mouldy shoulder at
Nerva, on to whose clipped hair the roofs of the gray chateau
have been dribbling for ever so many long years. There are
more statues gracing this noble place. There is Cupid, who
has been at the point of kissing Psyche this half-century at
least, though the delicious event has never come off through all
those blazing summers and dreary winters ; there is Venus and
her boy under the damp little dome of a cracked old temple.
Through the alley of this old garden, in which their ancestors
have disported in hoops and powder, Monsieur de Florae's
chair is wheeled by St. Jean, his attendant ; Madame de Pre-
ville's children trot about, and skip, and play at cache-cache.
The R. P. de Florae (when at home) paces up and down and
meditates his sermons ; Madame "de Florae sadly walks some-
times to look at her roses ; and Clive and Ethel Xewcome are
marching up and down ; the children, and their bonne of course,
being there jumping to and fro ; and Madame de Florae, hay
ing just been called away to Monsieur le Comte, whose physi-
cian has come to see him.

Ethel says, " How charming and odd this solitude is ; and
how pleasant to hear the voices of the children playing in the
neighboring Convent Garden,'' of which they can see the new
Chapel rising over the trees.

Clive remarks that " the neighboring hotel has curiously
changed its destination. One of the members of the Directory
had it ; and, no doubt, in the groves of its garden, Madame
Tallien, and Madame Re'camier, and Madame Beaubarnais
have danced under the lamps. Then a Marshal of the Empire
inhabited it. Then it was restored to its legitimate owner,
Monsieur le Marquis de Bricquabracque, whose descendants,
having a law-suit about the Bricquabracque succession, sold the
hotel to the Convent."

Alter some talk about nuns, Ethel says, "There were con-
vents in England. She often thinks she would like to retire to
one ; " and she si^hs as if her heart were in that scheme.

Clive, with a laugh, says, " Yes. If you could retire after

502

THE NEWCOMES.

the season, when you were very weary of the balls, a convent
would be very nice. At Rome he had seen San Pietro in
Montorio and Sant Onofrio, that delightful old place where
Tasso died : people go and make a retreat there. In the ladies'
convents, the ladies do the same thing — and he doubts whether
they are much more or less wicked, after their retreat, than
gentlemen and ladies in England or France."

Ethel. Why do you sneer at all faith ? Why should not a
retreat do people good ? Do you suppose the world is so sat-
isfactory, that those who are in it never wish for a while to
leave it ? {She heaves a sigh and looks down towards a beau-
tiful new dress of many flounces, which Madame de Flouncivaly
the great milliner, has sent her home that very day.)

Clive. I do not know what the world is, except from afar off.
I am like the Peri who looks into Paradise and sees angels
within it. I live in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, which is
not within the gates of Paradise. I take the gate to be some-
where in Davies Street, leading out of Oxford Street into Gros-
venor Square. There's another gate in Hay Hill : and another
in Bruton Street, Bond

Ethel. Don't be a goose.

Clive. Why not ? It is as good to be a goose as to be a
lady — no, a gentleman of fashion. Suppose I were a Viscount,
an Earl, a Marquis, a Duke, would you say Goose ? No, you
would say Swan.

Ethel. Unkind and unjust! — ungenerous to make taunts
which common people make : and to repeat to me those silly
sarcasms which your low Radical literary friends are always
putting in their books ! Have I ever made any difference to
you ? Would I not sooner see you than the fine people ?
Would I talk with you, or with the young dandies most willingly?
Are we not of the same blood, Clive ; and of ail the grandees
I see about, can there be a grander gentleman than your dear
old father ? You need not squeeze my hand so. — Those little

imps are look that has nothing to do with the question.

Viens, Leonore ! Tu connais bien Monsieur, n'est-ce-pas ?
qui te fait de si jolis desseins ?

Leonore. Ah, oui ! Vous m'en ferez toujours, n'est-ce-pas,
Monsieur Clive ? des chevaux, et puis de petites filles avec
leurs gouvernantes, et puis des maisons — et puis — et puis cles
maisons encore — ou est bonne Maman ? {Exit little Leonore
down an alley.

Ethel. Do you remember when we were children, and you
used to make drawings for us ? I have some now that you did

THE XEWCOMES. 503

— in my geography book, which I used to read and read with
Miss Quigley.

Clivc. I remember all about our youth, Ethel.

Ethel. Tell me what you remember ?

Clive. I remember one of the days, when I first saw you, I
had been reading the " Arabian Nights " at school — and you
came in in a bright dress of shot silk, amber and blue — and I
thought you were like that fairy-princess who came out of the

crystal box — because

' Ethel. Because why ?

Clivc. Because I always thought that fairy somehow must
be the most beautiful creature in all the world — that is, " why
and because." Do not make me May Fair curtseys. You know
whether you are good-looking or not ; and how long I have
thought you so. I remember when I thought I would like to
be Ethel's knight, and that if there was anything she would
have me do, I would try and achieve it in order to please her.
I remember when I was so ignorant I did not know there was
any difference in rank between us.
' Ethel. Ah, Clive !

Ciive. Now it is altered. Now I know the difference between
a poor painter and a young lady of the world. Why haven't I
a title and a great fortune ? Why did I ever see you, Ethel ;
or, knowing the distance which it seems fate has placed between
us, why have I seen you again.

Ethel {innocently^). Have I ever made any difference between
us? Whenever I may see you, am I not too glad? Don't I
see you sometimes when I should not — no — I do not say when
I should not ; but when others, whom I am bound to obey, for-
bid me ? What harm is there in my remembering old days ?
Why should I be ashamed of our relationship? — no, not
ashamed — why should I forget it ? Don't do that, sir, we have
shaken hands twice already. Le'onore ! Xavier !

Clivc. At one moment you like me : and at the next you
seem to repent it. One day you seem happy when I come ; and
another day you are ashamed of me. Last Tuesday, when you
came with those fine ladies to the Louvre, you seemed to blush
when you saw me copying at my picture ; and that stupid young
lord looked quite alarmed because you spoke to me. My lot
in life is not very brilliant ; but I would not change it against
that young man's — no, not with all his chances.

Ethel. What do you mean with all his chances ?

Clive. You know very well. I mean I would not be as selfish,
or as dull, or as ill educated — I won't say worse of him — not

-04 TIIE XEWCOMES.

to be as handsome, or as wealthy, or as noble as he is. I swear
I would not now change my place against his, or give up being
Clive Newcome to be my Lord Marquis of Farintosh, with all
his acres and titles of nobility.

Ethel. Why are you forever harping about Lord Farintosh
and his titles? I thought it was only women who were jealous
— you gentlemen say so. — {Hurriedly?) — I am going to-night
with grandmamma to the Minister of the Interior, and then to
the Russian ball ; and to-morrow to the Tuileries. We dine at
the Embassy first ; and on Sunday. I suppose, we shall go to
the Rue d'Aguesseau. I can hardly come here before Mon — .
Madame de Florae ! Little Leonore is very like you — resem-
bles you very much. My cousin says he longs to make a
drawing of her.

Madame de Flora:. My husband always likes that I should
be present at his dinner. Pardon me, young people, that I
have been away from you for a moment.

[Exeunt Clive, Ethel, and Madame De F. into the house.

Conversation II. — Scene i.

Miss Newcome arrives in Lady Knc's carriage, which enters the
court of the Hotel de Florae.

Saint Jean. Mademoiselle — Madame la Comtesse is gone
out : but Madame has charged me to say, that she will be at
home to the dinner of M. le Comte, as to the ordinary.

Miss Newcome. Madame de Pre'ville is at home ?

Saint yean. Pardon mc. Madame is gone out with M. le
Baron, and M. Xavier. and Mademoiselle de Pre'ville. They
are gone. Miss. I believe, to visit the parents of Monsieur le
Baron ; of whom it is probably to-day the fete : for Mademoiselle
Le'onore carried a bouquet — no doubt for her grandpapa. Will
it please Mademoiselle to enter? I think Monsieur the Count
sounds me. (Bell rings.)

Miss Newcome. Madame la Prince — Madame la Vicom-
tesse is at home ? Monsieur St. Jean !

Saint jean. I go to call the people of Madame la V" com-
tesse.

[Exit old Saint Jean to the carriage : a Lackey comes presently
in a gorgeous livery, with buttons like little cheese plates.

The Lackey. The Princess is at home, Miss, and will be
most 'appy to see you, Miss. (Miss trips up the great stairs:

THE NEWCOMES. ^0^

a gentleman out of livery has come forth to the landing, and intro-
duces her to the apartments of Madame la Princesse.)

The Lackey to the Servant on the box. Good-morning,
Thomas. How dy' do, old Backystopper ?

B achy stopper. Plow de do, Jim. I say, you couldn't give a
feller a drink of beer, could yer, Muncontour ? It was precious
wet last night, I can tell you. 'Ad to stop for three hours at
the Napolitum Embassy, where we was a dancing. Ale and
some chaps went into Bob Parsom's and had a drain. Old Cat
came out and couldn't find her carriage, not by no means, could
she, Tommy ? Blest if I didn't nearly drive her into a wegeta-
ble cart. I was so uncommon scruey ! Who's this a hentering
at your pot-coshare ? Billy, my fine feller !

Clive Ntwcome [by the most singular coincidence). Madame
la Princesse ?

Lackey. We, Munseer. (LLc rings a bell : the gentleman in
black appears as before on the landing-place up the stair.

[Exit Clive.

Backystopper. I say, Bill : is that young chap often a com-
ing about here ! They'd run pretty in a curricle, wouldn't they ?
Miss N. and Master X. Quiet, old woman ! Just look to that
mare's 'ead, will you, Billy ? He's a fine young feller, that is.
He gave me a sovering the other night. Whenever I sor him
in the Park, he was always riding an 'ansum hanimal. What is
he ? They said in our 'all he was a hartis. I can 'ardly think
that. Why, there used to be a hartis come to our club, and
painted two or three of my 'osses, and my old woman too.

Lackey. There's hartises and hartises, Backystopper. Why
there's some on 'em comes here with more stars on their coats
than Dukes has got. Have you never 'eard of Mossyer Yerny,
or Mossyer Gudang ?

Backystopper. They say this young gent is sweet on Miss
N. ; which I guess, I wish he may get it.

Tommy. He ! he ! he !

Backystopper. Brayvo, Tommy. Tom ain't much of a man
for conversation, but he's a precious one to drink. Do you
think the young gent is sweet on her, Tommy ? I sor him often
prowling about our 'ouse in Queen Street, when we was in
London.

Tonnny. I guess he wasn't let in in Queen Street. I guess
hour little Buttons was very near turned away for saying we
was at home to him. I guess a footman's place is to keep his
mouth hopen — no, his heyes hopen — and his mouth shut. [Hi
lapses into silence.)

506

THE NEWCOMES.

Lackey. I think Thomis is in love, Thomis is. Who was
that young woman I saw you a dancing of at the Showmier,
Thomis ? How the young Marquis was a cuttin' of it about
there ! The pleace was obliged to come up and stop him
dancing. His man told old Buzfuz up stairs that the Marquis's
goings on is hawful. Up till four or five every morning ; blind
hookey, shampaign, the dooce's own delight. That party have
had I don't know how much in diamonds, and they quarrel
and swear at each other, and fling plates : it's tremendous.

Tommy. Why doesn't the Marquis's man mind his own
affairs ? He's a supersellious beast : and will no more speak to
a man, except he's out-a-livery, than he would to a chimbly
swip. He ! Cuss him, I'd fight 'im for 'alf a crown.

Lackey. And we'd back you, Tommy. Buzfuz up stairs ain't
supersellious ; nor is the Prince's walet nether. That old
Sangjang's a rum old guvnor. He was in England with the
Count, fifty years ago — in the hemigration — in Queen Hann's
time, you know. He used to support the old Count. He says
he remembers a young Musseer Newcome then, that used to
take lessons from the Shevallier, the Countess' father — there's
my bell. [Exit Lackey.

Backystopper. Not a bad chap that. Sports his money very
free — sings an uncommon good song,

Thomas. Pretty voice, but no cultiwation.

Lackey {who re-enters). Be here at two o'clock for Miss N.
Take anything ? Come round the corner. — There's a capital
shop round the corner. [Exeunt Servants.

Scene II.

Ethel. I can't think where Madame de Montcontour has
gone. How very odd it was that you should come here — that
we should both come here to-day ! How surprised I was to see
you at the Minister's ! Grandmamma was so angry ! a That
boy pursues us wherever we go," she said. I am sure I don't
know why we shouldn't meet, Clive. It seems to be wrong
even my seeing you by chance here. Do you know, sir, what
a scolding I had about — about going to Brighton with you ?
My grandmother did not hear of it till we were in Scotland,
when that foolish maid of mine talked of it to her maid • and
there was oh, such a tempest ! If there were a Bastile here,
she would like to lock you into it. She says that you are
always upon our way — I don't know how, I am sure. She says,
but for you I should have been — you know what I should have

THE NEWCOMES.

507

been : but I am thankful that I wasn't, and Kew has got a much
nicer wife in Henrietta Pulleyn, than I could ever have been to
him. She will be happier than Clara, Clive. Kew is one of
the kindest creatures in the world — not very wise ; not very
strong : but he is just such a kind, easy, generous, little man,
as will make a girl like Henrietta quite happy.

Clive. But not you, Ethel ?

Ethel. No, nor I him. My temper is difficult, Clive, and I
fear few men would bear with me. I feel, somehow, always
very lonely. How old am I ? Twenty — I feel sometimes as if
I was a hundred ; and in the midst of all these admirations and
fetes and flatteries, so tired, oh, so tired ! And yet if I don't
have them, I miss them. How I wish I was religious like
Madame de Florae : there is no day that she does not go to
church. She is forever busy with charities, clergymen, conver-
sions ; I think the Princess will be brought over ere long — that
clear old Madame de Florae ! and yet she is no happier than
the rest of us. Hortense is an empty little thing, who thinks
of her prosy fat Camille with spectacles, and of her two chil-
dren, and of nothing else in the world besides. Who is happy.
Clive ?

Clive. You say Barnes's wife is not.

Ethel. We are like brother and sister, so I may talk to you.
Barnes is very cruel to her. At Newcome, last winter, poor
Clara used to come into my room with tears in her eyes morn-
ing after morning. He calls her a fool ; and seems to take a
pride in humiliating her before company. My poor father has
luckily a great liking to her : and before him, for he has grown
very very hot-tempered since his illness, Barnes leaves poor
Clara alone. We were in hopes that the baby might make
matters better, but as it is a little girl, Barnes chooses to be
very much disappointed. He wants papa to give up his seat in
Parliament, but he clings to that more than anything. Oh,
dear me ! who is happy in the world ! What a pity Lord High-
gate's father had not died sooner ! He and Barnes have been
reconciled. I wonder my brother's spirit did not revolt against
it. The old lord used to keep a great sum of money at the
bank, I believe ; and the present one does so still ; he has paid
all his debts off ; and Barnes is actually friends with him. He
is always abusing the Dorkings, who want to borrow money
from the bank, he says. This eagerness for money is horrible.
If I had been Barnes I would never have been reconciled with
Mr. Belsize, never, never ! And yet they say lie was quite
right; and grandmamma is even pleased that Lord Highgate

5o8

THE NEWCOMES.

should be asked to dine in Park Lane. Poor papa is there :
come to attend his parliamentary duties as he thinks. He went
to a division the other night ; and was actually lifted out of his
carriage and wheeled into the lobby in a chair. The ministers
thanked him for coming. I believe he thinks he will have his
peerage yet. Oh, what a life of vanity ours is !

E?iter Madame de Monicontour. What are you young folks a
talkin' about — Balls and Operas ? When first I was took to
the Opera I did not like it — and fell asleep. But now, oh, it's
'eavenly to hear Grisi sing !

The Clock. Ting, Ting !

Ethel. Two o'clock already! I must run back to grand-
mamma. Good-by, Madame de Montcontour ; I am sorry I
have not been able to see dear Madame de Florae. I will try
and come to her on Thursday — please tell her. Shall we meet
you at the American minister's to-night, or at Madame de Erie's
to-morrow ? Friday is your own night — I hope grandmamma
will bring me. How charming your last music was ! Good-by,
mon cousin ! You shall not come down stairs with me, I insist
upon it, sir : and had much best remain here, and finish your
drawing of Madame de Montcontour.

Princess. I've put on the velvet, you see, Clive — though it's
very 'ot in May. Good-by, my dear. \_Exit Ethel.

As far as we can judge from the above conversation, which
we need not prolong — as the talk between Madame de Mont-
contour and Monsieur Clive, after a few complimentary remarks
about Ethel, had nothing to do with the history of the New-
comes — as far as we can judge, the above little colloquy t©ok
place on Monday, and about Wednesday, Madame la Comtesse
de Florae received a little note from Clive, in which he said,
that one day when she came to the Louvre, where he was copy-
ing, she had admired a picture of a Virgin and Child, by Sasso
Ferrato, since when he had been occupied in making a water-
color drawing after the picture, and hoped she would be pleased
to accept the copy from her affectionate and grateful servant,
Clive Newcome. The drawing would be done the next day,
when he would call with it in his hand. Of course Madame de
Florae received this announcement very kindly; and sent back
by Clive's servant a note of thanks to that young gentleman.

Now on Thursday morning, about one o'clock, by one of
those singular coincidences which, &c, &c, who should come to
the " Hotel de Florae " but Miss Ethel Newcome ? Madame
la Comtesse was at home, waiting to receive Clive and his
picture ; but Miss Ethel's appearance frightened the good lady,

THE ArJ- tVCi >MES. 5 09

so much that she felt quite guilty at seeing the girl, whose
parents might think — I don't know what they might not think
— that Madame de Florae was trying to make a match between
the young people. Hence arose the words uttered by the
Countess, after a while, in

Conversation III.

Mada?nc de Florae (at work). And so you like to quit the
world, and to come to our triste old hotel. After to-day you
will find it still more melancholy, my poor child.

Ethel. And why ?

Madame de F Some one who has been here to 'egayer our
little meetings will come no more.

Ethel. Is the Abbe de Florae going to quit Paris, Madame ?

Madame de F. It is not of him that I speak, thou knowest
it very well, my daughter. Thou hast seen my poor Clive twice
here. He will come once again, and then no more. My con-
science reproaches me that I have admitted him at all. But he
is like a son to me, and was so confided to me by his father.
Five years ago, when we met, after an absence — of how many
years ! — Colonel Newcome told me what hopes he had cherished
for his boy. You know well, my daughter, with whom those
hopes were connected. Then he wrote me that family arrange-
ments rendered his plans impossible — that the hand of Miss
Newcome was promised elsewhere. When I heard from my
son Paul how these negotiations were broken, my heart rejoiced,
Ethel, for my friend's sake. I am an old woman now, who
have seen the world, and all sorts of men. Men more bril-
liant, no doubt, I have known ; but such a heart as his, such a
faith as his, such a generosity and simplicity as Thomas New-
come's — never !

Ethel {smi/inq). Indeed, dear lady, I think with you.

Madame de F. I understand thy smile, my daughter. I
can say to thee, that when we were children almost, I knew
ood uncle. My poor father took the pride of his family
into exile with him. Our poverty only made his pride the
greater. Even before the emigration a contract had been passed
between our family and the Count de Florae. I could not be
wanting to the word given by my father. For how many long
years have I kept it ! But when I see a young girl who may be
made the victim — the subject of a marriage of convenience, as I
was — my heart pities her. And if I love her, as I love you, I

5">

THE NEWCOMES.

tell her my thoughts. Better poverty, Ethel — better a cell in a
convent, than a union without love. Is it written eternally that
men are to make slaves of us ? Here in France, above all, our
fathers sell us every day. And what a society ours is ! Thou
wilt know this when thou art married. There are some laws
so cruel that nature revolts against them, and breaks them — or
we die in keeping them. You smile. I have been nearly fifty
years dying — n'cst-ce-pas ? — and am here an old woman, com-
plaining to a young girl. It is because our recollections of
youth are always young ; and because I have suffered so, that
I would spare those I love a like grief. Do you know that the
children of those who do not love in marriage seems to bear
an hereditary coldness, and do not love their parents as other
children do ? They witness our differences and our indifferences,
hear our recriminations, take one side or the other in our dis-
putes, and are partisans for father or mother. We force our-
selves to be hypocrites, and hide our wrongs from them ; we
speak of a bad father with false praises ; we wear feigned
smiles over our tears, and deceive our children — deceive them,
do we ? Even from the exercise of that pious deceit there is
no woman but suffers in the estimation of her sons. They may
shield her as champions against their father's selfishness or
cruelty. In this case, what a war ! What a home, where the
son sees a tyrant in the father, and in the mother but a trem-
bling victim ! I speak not for myself — whatever may have been
the course of our long wedded life, I have not to complain of
these ignoble storms. But when the family chief neglects his
wife, or prefers another to her, the children too, courtiers as we
are, will desert her. You look incredulous about domestic love.
Tenez, my child, if I may so surmise, I think you cannot have
seen it.

Ethel (blushing, and thinking, perhaps, how she esteems her
father, how her mother, a?id how much they esteem each other).
My father and mother have been most kind to all their children,
madam ; and no one can say that their marriage has been other-
wise than happy. My mother is the kindest and most affec-
tionate mother, and — (Here a vision of Sir Brian alo?ie in his
room, and nobody really cari?igfor him so much as his valet, who
loves him to the extent of fifty pounds a year and perquisites ; or,
perhaps, Miss Cann, who reads to him, a?id plays a good deal of
evenings, much to Sir Brian's liking — here this vision, we say,
comes, and stops Miss Ethel's sentence),

Madame de F, Your father, in his infirmity — and yet he is
five years younger than Colonel Newcome — is happy to have

THE XEWCOMES.

5"

such a wife and such children. They comfort his age ; they
cheer his sickness ; they confide their griefs and pleasures to
him — is it not so ? His closing days are soothed by their
affection.

Ethel. Oh, no, no ! And yet it is not his fault or ours that
he is a stranger to us. He used to be all day at the bank, or
at night in the House of Commons, or he and mamma went to
parties, and we young ones remained with the governess.
Mamma is very kind. I have never, almost, known her angry ;
never with us ; about us, sometimes, with the servants. As
children, we used to see papa and mamma at breakfast ; and
then when she was dressing to go out. Since he has been ill,
she has given up all parties. I wanted to do so too. I feel
ashamed in the world, sometimes, when I think of my poor
father at home, alone. I wanted to stay, but my mother and
my grandmother forbade me. Grandmamma has a fortune,
which she says I am to have j since then they have insisted on
my being with her. She is very clever, you know ; she is kind
too in her way ; but she cannot live out of society. And I,
who pretend to revolt, I like it too ; and I, who rail and scorn
flatterers — oh, I like admiration ! I am pleased when the
women hate me, and the young men leave them for me. Though
I despise many of these, yet I can't help drawing them towards
me. One or two of them I have seen unhappy about me, and
I like it ; and if they are indifferent I am angry, and never tire
till they come back. I love beautiful dresses ; I love fine
jewels ; I love a great name and a fine house — oh, I despise
myself when I think of these things! When I lie in bed, and
say I have been heartless and a coquette, I cry with humiliation ;
and then rebel and say, why not ? — and to-night — yes, to-night
— after leaving you, I shall be wicked, I know I shall.

Madame de F. {sadly). One will pray for thee, my child.

Ethel. {sadly). I thought I might be good once. 1 used to
say my own prayers then. Now I speak them but by rote, and
feel ashamed — yes, ashamed to speak them. Is it not horrid
to say them, and next morning to be no better than you were
last night ? Often I revolt at these as at other things, and am
dumb. The Vicar comes to see us at Newcome, and eats so
much dinner, and pays us such court, and " Sir Brians " papa,
and " Your ladyships " mamma. With grandmamma I go to
hear a fashionable preacher — Olive's uncle, whose sister lets
lodgings at Brighton ; such a queer, bustling, pompous, honest
old lady. Do you know that Olive's aunt lets lodgings at
Brighton ?

5I2

THE NEWCOMES.

Madame de F. My father was an usher in a school. Mon
sieur de Florae gave lessons in the emigration. Do you know
in what ?

Ethel. *Oh, the old nobility ! that is different, you know,
That Air. Honeyman is so affected that I have no patience with
him !

Madame de F. (ivith a sigh.) I wish you could attend the
services of a better church. And when was it you thought you
might be good, Ethel ?

Ethel. When I was a girl. Before I came out. When 1
used to take long rides with my dear Uncle Xewcome ; and he
used to talk to me in his sweet simple way ; and he said I re-
minded him of some one he once knew.

Madame de F. Who — who was that, Ethel ?

Ethel (looking up at Gerard's picture of the Countess de Florae).
What odd dresses you wore in the time of the Empire, Madame
de Florae ! How could you ever have such high waists, and
such wonderful /raises / (Madame de Florac kisses Ethel.
Tableau.)

Enter Saint Jean preceding a gentleman with a drawing-
board wider his arm*

Saint Jean. Monsieur Claive ! [Exit Saint Jean.

Clive. How do you do, Madame la Comtesse ? Mademoi-
selle, j'ai l'honneur de vous souhaiter le bon jour.

Mada?ne de F. Do you come from the Louvre ? Have you
finished that beautiful copy, mon ami ?

Clive. I have brought it for you. It is not very good.
There are always so many pet ites demoiselles copying that Sasso
Ferrato ; and they chatter about it so, and hop from one easel
to another ; and the young artists are always coming to give
them advice — so that there is no getting a good look at the
picture. But I have brought you the sketch ; and am so
pleased that you asked for it.

Madame de F. (surveying the sketch.) It is charming — charm-
ing ! What shall we give to our painter for his cbef-d'eeuvre ?

Clive (kisses her hand). There is my pay ! And you will be
glad to hear that two of my portraits have been received at the
Exhibition. My uncle the clergyman, and Mr. Butts, of the
Life Guards.

Ethel. Mr. Butts — quel nom ! Je ne connois aucun M.
Butts !

Clive. He has a famous head to draw. They refused Crack-
thorpe, and — and one or two other heads I sent in.

Ethel (tossing up hers). Miss Mackenzie's, I suppose !

TIFF. NEWCOMES.

5* J

Clive. Yes, Miss Mackenzie's. It is a sweet little face ; too
delicate for my hand though.

Eihd. So is a wax-doll's a pretty face. Pink cheeks; china-
blue eyes ; and hair the color of old Madame 1 Iempehfeld's —
not her last hair — her last but one. {She goes to a window that
looks into the court.)

Clivc {Jo the Countess). Miss Mackenzie speaks more re-
spectfully of other people's eyes and hair. She thinks there is
nobody in the world to compare to Miss Newcome.

Madame de F. {aside.) And you, mon ami? This is the last
time, entendez-vouz ? You must never come here again. If
M. le Comte knew it he never would pardon me. Encore!
{He hisses her ladyship* s hand again.)

Clive. A good action gains to be repeated. Miss Newcome,
does the view of the court-yard please you ? The old trees and
the garden are better. That dear old Faun without a nose ! I
must have a sketch of him : the creepers round the base are
beautiful.

Miss N. I was looking to see if the carriage had come for
me. It is time that I return home.

Clive. That is my brougham. May I carry you anywhere ?
I hire him by the hour; and I will carry you to the end of the
world.

Miss N. Where are you going, Madame de Florae ! — to
show that sketch to M. le Comte ? Dear me ! I don't fancy
that M. de Florae can care for such things ! I am sure I have
seen many as pretty on the quays for twenty-five sous. I won-
der the carriage is not come for me.

Clive. You can take mine without my company, as that
seems not to please you.

Miss N. Your company is sometimes very pleasant — when
you please. Sometimes, as last night, for instance, you are not
particularly lively.

Clive. Last night, after moving heaven and earth to get an
invitation to Madame de Drie — I say, heaven and earth, that i i
a French phrase — 1 arrive there ; I find Miss Newcome en-
gaged for almost every dance, waltzing with M. de Klingen
spohr, galoping with Count de Capri, galoping and waltzing
with the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh. She will scarce
speak to me during the evening; and when [ wait till midnight,
her grandmamma whisks her home, and I am left alone for my
pains. Lady Kew is in one of her high moods, and the only
words she condescends to say to me are, " Oh, I thought you
had returned to London," with which she turns her venerable
back upon me.

r r - THE XE IVCOMES

Miss A7! A fortnight ago you said you were going to Lon-
don. You said the copies you were about here would not take
you another week, and that was three weeks since.

Clive. It were best I had gone.

Miss N. If you think so, I cannot but think so.

Clive. Why do I stay and hover about you, and follow ycrs
— you know I follow you ? Can I live on a smile vouchsafed
twice a week, and no brighter than you give to all the world ?
What do I get, but to hear your beauty praised, and to see
you, night after night, happy and smiling and triumphant, the
partner of other men ? Does it add zest to your triumph, to
think that I behold it ? I believe you would like a crowd of
us to pursue you.

Miss N. To pursue me ; ana if they find me alone, by
chance to compliment me with such speeches as you make ?
That would be pleasure indeed ! Answer me here in return,
Clive. Have I ever disguised from any of my friends the
regard I have for you? Why should I ? Have not I taken
your part when you were maligned ? In former days when —
when Lord Kew asked me, as he had a right to do then — I
said it was as a brother I held you ; and always would. If I
have been wrong, it has been for two or three times in seeing
you at all — or seeing you thus ; in letting you speak to me as
you do — injure me as you do. Do you think I have not had
hard enough words said to me about you, but that you must
attack me too in turn ? Last night only, because you were at
the ball, — it was very, very wrong of me to tell you I was

going there, — as we went home, Lady Kew Go, sir. I

never thought you would have seen in me this humiliation.

Clive. Is it possible that I should have made Ethel New-
come shed tears ? Oh, dry them, dry them. Forgive me,
Ethel, forgive me ! I have no right to jealousy, or to reproach
you — I know that. If others admire you, surely I ought to
know that they — they do but as I do : I should be proud, not
ancrry, that they admire my Ethel — my sister, if you can be
no more.

Ethel. I will be that always, whatever harsh things you
think or say of me. There, sir, I am not going to be so foolish
as to cry again. Have you been studying very hard ? Are
your pictures good at the Exhibition ? I like you with your
mustaches best, and order you not to cut them off again. The
young men here wear them. I hardly knew Charles Beard-
more when he arrived from Berlin the other day, like a sapper
and miner. His little sisters cried out, and were quite fright-

THE NEWCOMES. 51-

cnerl by his apparition. Why are you not in diplomacy ?
That day, at Brighton, when Lord Farintosh asked whether
you were in the army, I thought to myself, why is he not ?

Clivc. A man in the army may pretend to anything, n'est-ce-
pas] He wears a lovely uniform. He maybe a General, a
K.C.B., a Viscount, an Earl. He may be valiant in arms, and
wanting a leg, like the lover in the song. It is peace time, you
say ? so much the worse career for a soldier. My father would
not have me, he said, for ever dangling in barracks, or smoking
in country billiard-rooms. I have no taste for law ; and as for
diplomacy, I have no relations in the Cabinet, and no uncles
in the House of Peers. Could my uncle, who is in Parliament,
help me much, do you think ? or would he, if he could ?— or
Barnes, his noble son and heir, after him ?

Ethel (musing). Barnes would not, perhaps, but papa might
even still, and you have friends who are fond of you.

Clive. No — no one can help me ; and my art, Ethel, is not
only my choice and my love, but my honor too. I shall never
distinguish myself in it; I may take smart likenesses, but that
is all. I am not fit to grind my friend Ridley's colors for him.
Nor would my father, who loves his own profession so, make
a good general probably. He always says so. I thought bet-
ter of myself when I began as a boy \ and was a conceited
youngster, expecting to carry all before me. But as I walked
the Vatican, and looked at Raphael, and at the great Michael
— I knew I was but a poor little creature ; and in contemplating
his genius, shrunk up till I felt myself as small as a man looks
under the dome of St. Peter's. Why should I wish to have a
great genius ? — Yes, there is one reason why I should like to
have it.

Ethd. And that is ?

Clive. To give it you, if it pleased you, Ethel. But I might
wish for the roc's egg : there is no way of robbing the bird. I
must take a humble place, and you want a brilliant one. A
brilliant one ! Oh, Ethel, what a standard we folks measure
fame by ! To have your name in the Morning Post, and to go to
three balls every night. To have your dress described at the
Drawing-Room ; and your arrival, from a round of visits in
the country, at your town-house ; and the entertainment of the
Marchioness of Farin

Ethel. Sir, if you please, no calling names.

Clive. I wonder at it. For you are in the world, and you
love the world, whatever you may say. And I wonder that one
of your strength of mind should so care for it. I think my

5I6 THE XEll'COMES.

simple old father is much finer than all your grandees : his
single-mindedness more lofty than all their bowing, and haugh-
tiness, and scheming. What are you thinking of, as you stand
in that pretty attitude — like Mnemosyne — with your finger on
your chin ?

Ethel. Mnemosyne ! who was she ? I think I like you best
when you are quiet and gentle, and not when you are flaming
out and sarcastic, sir. And so you think you will never be a
famous painter ! They are quite in society here. I was so
pleased, because two of them dined at the Tuileries when grand-
mamma was there ; and she mistook one, who was covered
all over with crosses, for an ambassador, I believe, till the
Queen called him Monsieur Delaroche. She says there is no
knowing people in this country. And do you think you will
never be able to paint as well as M. Delaroche ?

Clive. Xo — never.

Ethel. And — and — you will never give up painting ?

Clive. Xo — never. That would be like leaving your friend
who was poor ; or deserting your mistress because you were
disappointed about her money. They do those things in the
great world, Ethel.

Ethel (with a sigh). Yes.

Clire. If it is so false, and base, and hollow, this great
world — if its aims are so mean, its successes so paltry, the
sacrifices it asks of you so degrading, the pleasures it gives you
so wearisome, shameful even, why does Ethel Xewcome cling
to it ? Will you be fairer, dear, with any other name than your
own ? Will you be happier, after a month, at bearing a great
title, with a man whom you can't esteem, tied forever to you, to
be the father of Ethel's children, and the lord and master of
her life and actions ? The proudest woman in the world con-
sent to bend herself to this ignominy, and own that a coronet
is a bribe sufficient for her honor ! What is the end of a
Christian life, Ethel ; a girl's pure nurture — it can't be this !
Last week, as we walked in the garden here, and heard the
nuns singing in their chapel, you said how hard it was that
poor women should be imprisoned so, and were thankful that
in England we had abolished that slaver}-. Then you cast your
eyes to the ground, and mused as you paced the walk : and
thought, I know, that perhaps their lot was better than some
others.

Ethel. Yes, I did. I was thinking that almost all women
are made slaves one way or other, and that these poor nuns
perhaps were better off than we are.

THE NEWCOMES 517

Clive. I never w;ll quarrel with nun or matron for following
her vocation. But for our women, who are free, why should
they rebel against Nature, shut their hearts up, sell their lives
for rank and money, and forego the most precious right of their
liberty ? Look, Ethel, dear. I love you so, that if I thought
another had your heart, an honest man, a loyal gentleman, like
— like him of last year even, I think I could go back with a
God bless you, and take to my pictures again, and work on in
my own humble way. You seem like a queen to me, somehow ;
and I am but a poor, humble fellow, who might be happy, I
think, if you were. In those balls, where I have seen you sur-
rounded by those brilliant young men, noble and wealthy,
admirers like me, I have often thought, " How could I aspire
to such a creature, and ask her to forego a palace to share the
crust of a poor painter? "

Ethel. You spoke quite scornfully of palaces just now, Clive.
I won't say a word about the — the regard which you express
for me. I think you have it. Indeed, I do. But it were best
not said, Clive ; best for me, perhaps, not to own that I know
it. In your speeches, my poor boy — and you will please not to
make any more, or I never can see you or speak to you again,
never — you forgot one part of a girl's duty : obedience to her
parents. They would never agree to my marrying any one
below — any one whose union would not be advantageous in a
worldly point of view. I never would give such pain to the
poor father, or to the kind soul who never said a harsh word to
me since I was born. My grandmamma is kind, too, in her
way. I came to her of my own free will. When she said she
would leave me her fortune, do you think it was for myself
alone that I was glad ? My father's passion is to make an
estate, and all my brothers and sisters will be but slenderly
portioned. Lady Kew said she would help them if I came to
her — and — it is the welfare of those little people that depends
upon me, Clive. Now, do you see, brother, why you must speak
to me so no more ? There is the carriage. God bless you,
dear Clive.

^Clive sees the carriage drive away after Miss Newcome has
entered it without once looking up to the window where he
stands. When it is gone he goes to the opposite windows of
the salon, which are open, towards the garden. The chapel
music begins to play from the convent, next door. As he hears
it he sinks down, his head in his hands.)

Enter Madame Je Elorac. (She goes to him with anxivus
Jooks.) What hast thou, my child? Hast thou spoken?

5i8

THE XEWCOMES.

Clive {very steadily). Yes.

Madame de F. And she loves thee ? I know she loves thee.

Clive. You hear the organ of the convent ?

Madame de F. Qiras tu ?

Clive. I might as well hope to marry one of the sisters of
yonder convent, dear lady. (He sinks down again and ske kisses
him. )

Clive. I never had a mother ; but you seem like one.
fame de F. Mon tils ! Oh, mon fils !

CHAPTER XLYni.

IN WHICH BENEDICK IS A MARRIED MAN.

We have all heard of the dying French Duchess, who viewed
her coming dissolution and subsequent fate so easily, because
she said she was sure that Heaven must deal politely with a
person of her quality ; — I suppose Lady Kew had some such
notions regarding people of rank : her long-suffering towards
them was extreme ; in fact, there were vices which the old lady
thought pardonable, and even natural, in a young nobleman of
high station, which she never would have excused in persons of
vulgar condition.

Her ladyship's little knot of associates and scandal-bearers
— elderly roue's and ladies of the world, whose business it was
to know all sorts of noble intrigues and exalted tittle-tattle ;
what was happening among the devotees of the exiled court at
Frohsdorf ) what among the citizen princes of the Tuileries ;
who was the reigning favorite of the Queen Mother at Aran-
juez j who was smitten with whom at Yienna or Naples ; and
the last particulars of the chroniques seandaleuses of Paris and
London j — Lady Kew, I say, must have been perfectly aware
of my Lord Farintosh's amusements, associates, and manner of
life, and yet she never, for one moment, exhibited any anger or
dislike towards that nobleman. Her amiable heart was so full
of kindness and forgiveness towards the young prodigal that,
even without any repentance on his part, she was ready to take
him to her old arms, and give him her venerable benediction.
Pathetic sweetness of nature ! Charming tenderness of dispo-
sition ! With all his faults and wickednesses, his follies and
his selfishness, there was' no moment when Lady Kew would

THK XEWCOMES.

5T9

not have received the young lord, and endowed him with the
hand of her darling Ethel.

But the hopes which this fond forgiving creature had nur-
tured for one season, and carried on so resolutely to the next,
were destined to be disappointed yet a second time, by a most
provoking event which occurred in the Newcome family. Ethel
was called away suddenly from Paris by her father's third and
last paralytic seizure. When she reached her home, Sir Brian
could not recognize her. A few hours after her arrival, all the
vanities of the world were over for him : and Sir Barnes New-
come, Baronet, reigned in his stead. The day after Sir Brian
was laid in his vault at Newcome, a letter appeared in the local
papers addressed to the Independent Electors of that Borough,
in which his orphaned son, feelingly alluding to the virtue, the
sen-ices and the political principles of the deceased, offered
himself as a candidate for the seat in Parliament now vacant.
Sir Barnes announced that he should speedily pay his respects
in person to the friends and supporters of his lamented father.
That he was a staunch friend of our admirable constitution
need not be said. That he was a firm, but conscientious up-
holder of our Protestant religion, all who knew Barnes New-
come must be aware. That he would do his utmost to advance
the interests of this great agricultural, this great manufacturing
county and borough, we may be assured he avowed ; as that
he would be (if returned to represent Newcome in Parliament)
the advocate of every rational reform, the unhesitating oppo-
nent of every reckless innovation. In fine, Barnes Newcome's
manifesto to the Electors of Newcome was as authentic a doc-
ument, and gave him credit for as many public virtues, as that
slab over poor Sir Brian's bones in the chancel of Newcome
church, which commemorated the good qualities of the defunct,
and the grief of his heir.

In spite of the virtues, personal and inherited, of Barnes,
his seat for Newcome was not got without a contest. The 1 As-
senting interest and the respectable Liberals at the Borough
wished to set up Samuel Higg, Esq., against Sir Barnes New-
come ; and now it was that Barnes's civilities of the previous
year, aided by Madame de Montcontours influence over her
brother, bore their fruit. Mr. Higg declined to stand against
Sir Barnes Newcome, although Higg's political principles were
by no means those of the honorable Baronet ; and the candi-
date from London, whom the extreme Radicals set up against
Barnes, was nowhere on the poll when the day of election came.
So Barnes had the desire of his heart ; and, within two months

5 2 o THE -YE It 'COMES.

after his father's decease, he sat in Parliament as Member fof
Newcome.

The bulk of the late Baronet's property descended, of
course, to his eldest son : who grumbled, nevertheless, at the
provision made for his brothers and sisters, and that the town-
house should have been left to Lady Ann, who was too poor to
inhabit it. But Park Lane is the best situation in London,
and Lady Ann's means were greatly improved by the annual
produce of the house in Park Lane, which, as we all know, was
occupied by a foreign minister for several subsequent seasons.
Strange mutations of fortune : old places ; new faces ; what
Londoner does not see and speculate upon them every day ?
Coelia's boudoir, who is dead with the daisies over her at Ken^
sal Green, is now the chamber where Delia is consulting Dr.
Locock, or Julia's children are romping : Florio's dining-tables
have now Pollio's wine upon them : Calista, being a widow, and
(to the surprise of everybody who knew Trimalchio, and en-
joyed his famous dinners,) left but very poorly off, lets the
house and the rich, chaste, and appropriate planned furniture,
by Dowbiggin, and the proceeds go to keep her little boys at
Eton. The next year, as Mr. Clive Xewcome rode by the once
familiar mansion (whence the hatchment had been removed,
announcing that there was in Gxio Quics for the late Sir Brian
Newcome, Bart..) alien faces looked from over the flowers in
the balconies. He got a card for an entertainment from the
occupant of the mansion, H. E. the Bulgarian minister; and
there was the same crowd in the reception-room and on the
stairs, the same grave men from Gunter's distributing the re-
freshments in the dining-room, the same old Smee, R. A.,
(always in the room where the edibles were,) cringing to and
flattering the new occupants j and the same effigy of poor Sir
Brian, in his deputy-lieutenant's uniform, looking blankly
down from over the sideboard, at the feast which his succes-
sors were giving. A dreamy old ghost of a picture. Have
you ever looked at those round George IV.'s banqueting hall
at Windsor? Their frames still hold them, but they smile
ghostly smiles, and swagger in robes and velvets which are
quite faint and faded ; their crimson coats have a twilight
tinge ; the lustre of their stars has twinkled out ; they look as
if they were about to flicker off the wall and retire to join their
originals in limbo.

Nearly three years had elapsed since the good Colonel's
departure for India, and during this time certain changes had

THE NEWCOMES.

52

occurred in the lives of the principal actors and the writer of
his history. As regards the latter, it must be stated that the
clear old firm of Lamb Court had been dissolved, the junior
member having contracted another partnership. The chroni-
cler of these Memoirs was a bachelor no longer. My wife and I
hart spent the winter at Rome (favorite resort of young married
couples) ; and had heard from the artists there Clive's name
affectionately repeated ; and many accounts of his sayings
and doings, his merry supper-parties, and the talents cf young
Ridley, his friend. When we came to London in the spring,
almost our first visit was to Clive's apartments in Charlotte
Street, whither my wife delightedly went to give her hand to the
young painter.

But Clive no longer inhabited that quiet region. On driv-
ing to the house we found a bright brass plate, with the name
of Mr. J. J. Ridley on the door, and it was J. J.'s hand which
I shook (his other being engaged with a great palette, and a
sheaf of painting brushes.) when we entered the well-known
quarters. Clive's picture hung over the mantel-piece, where his
father's head used to hang in our time — a careful and beautifully
executed portrait of the lad in a velvet coat, and a Roman hat,
with that golden beard which was sacrificed to the exigencies of
London fashion. I showed Laura the likeness until she could
become acquainted with the original. On her expressing her
delight at the picture, the painter was pleased to say, in his
modest blushing way, that he would be glad to execute my
wife's portrait too, nor, as I think, could any artist find a sub-
ject more pleasing.

After admiring others of Mr. Ridley's works, our talk
naturally reverted to his predecessor. Clive had migrated to
much more splendid quarters. Had we not heard ? he had
become a rich man, a man of fashion. " I fear he is very lazy
about the arts," J. J. said, with regret on his countenance j
" though I begged and prayed him to be faithful to his profes-
sion. He would have done very well in it, in portrait-paintinu
especially. Look here, and here, and here ! " said Ridley, pro-
ducing line vigorous sketches of Clive's. " He had the art of
seizing the likeness, and of making all his people look like
gentlemen, too. He was improving every day, when this
abominable bank came in the way, and stopped him."

What bank ? I did not know the new Indian bank of which
the Colonel was a director ? Then, of course, I was aware
that the Mercantile affair in question was the lJundlecund Dank,
about which the Colonel had written to me from India more

52, THE NEWCOMES.

than a year since, announcing that fortunes were to be made
by it, and that he had reserved shares for me in the com-
pany. Laura admired all Clive's sketches which his affection-
ate brother artist showed to her, with the exception of one rep-
resenting the reader's humble servant ; which Mrs. Pendennis
considered by no means did justice to the original.

Bidding adieu to the kind J. J., and leaving him to pursue
his art, in that silent serious way in which he daily labored at
it, we drove to Fitzroy Square hard by, where I was not dis-
pleased to show the good old hospitable James Binnie the young
lady who bore my name. But here, too, we were disappoint-
ed. Placards wafered in the windows announced that the old
house was to let. The woman who kept it brought a card in
Mrs. Mackenzie's frank handwriting, announcing Mr. James
Binnie's address was " Poste restante Pau in the Pyrenees,"
and that his London agents were Messrs. So-and-so. The wo-
man said she believed the gentlemen had been unwell. The
house, too, looked very pale, dismal, and disordered. We
drove away from the door, grieving to think that ill-health, or
any other misfortunes, had befallen good old James.

Mrs. Pendennis drove back to our lodgings, Brixham's, in
Jermyn Street, while I sped to the City, having business in that
quarter. It has been said that I kept a small • account with
Hobson Brothers, to whose bank I went, and entered the
parlor with that trepidation which most poor men feel on
presenting themselves before City magnates and capitalists.
Mr. Hobson Newcome shook hands most jovially and good-
naturedly, congratulated me on my marriage, and so forth, and
presently Sir Barnes Newcome made his appearance, still wear-
ing his mourning for his deceased father.

Nothing could be more kind, pleasant, and cordial than Sir
Barnes's manner. He seemed to know well about my affairs ;
complimented me on every kind of good fortune ; had heard
that I had canvassed the borough in which I lived; hoped
sincerely to see me in Parliament and on the right side ; was
most anxious to become acquainted with Mrs. Pendennis, of
whom Lady Rockminster said all sorts of kind things ; and
asked for our address., in order that Lady Clara Newcome might
have the pleasure of calling on my wife. This ceremony was
performed soon afterwards ; and an invitation to dinner from
Sir Barnes and Lady Clara Newcome speedily followed it.

Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart., M. P., I need not say, no longer
inhabited the small house which he had occupied immediately
after his marriage ; but dwelt in a much more spacious mansion

THE XEWCOMES. 523

in Belgravia, where he entertained his friends. Now that lie
had come into his kingdom, I must say that Barnes was by no
means so insufferable as in the days of his bachelorhood. He
had sown his wild oats, and spoke with regret and reserve of
that season of his moral culture. He was grave, sarcastic,
statesmanlike : did not try to conceal his baldness (as he used
before his father's death, by bringing lean whisps of hair over
his forehead from the back of his head) ; talked a great deal
about the House ; was assiduous in his attendance there and in
the City ; and conciliating with all the world. It seemed as if
we were all his constituents, and though his efforts to make him-
self agreeable were rather apparent, the effect succeeded pretty
well. We met Mr. and Mrs. Hobson Newcome. and Clive,
and Miss Ethel looking beautiful in her black robes. It was a
family party, Sir Barnes said, giving us to understand, widi a
decorous solemnity in face and voice, that no large parties as
yet could be received in that house of mourning.

To this party was added, rather to my surprise, my Lord
Highgate, who under the sobriquet of Jack Belsize has been
presented to the reader of this history. Lord Highgate gave
Lady Clara his arm to dinner, but went and took a place next
Miss Newcome, on the other side of her ; that immediately by
Lady Clara being reserved for a guest who had not as yet made
his appearance.

Lord Highgate's attentions to his neighbor, his laughing and
talking, were incessant ; so much so that Clive, from his end of
the table, scowled in wrath at Jack Belsize's assiduities : it was
evident that the youth, though hopeless, was still jealous and in
love with his charming cousin.

Barnes Newcome was most kind to all his guests : from
Aunt Hobson to your humble sen-ant there was not one but
the master of the house had an agreeable word for him. Even
for his cousin Samuel Newcome, a gawky youth with an erup-
tive countenance, Barnes had appropriate words of conversation,
and talked about King's college, of which the lad was an orna-
ment, with the utmost affability. He complimented that insti-
tution and young Samuel, and by that shot knocked over not
only Sam but his mamma too. He talked to Uncle Hobson
about his crops ; to Clive about his pictures ; to me about the
great effect which a certain article in the J\ill Mall Gazette had
produced in the House, where the Chancellor of the Exchequer
was perfectly livid with fury, and Lord John burst out laughing
at the attack ; in fact, nothing could be more amiable than our
host on this day. Lady Clara was very pretty — grown a little

524

THE XE1VC0MES.

stouter since her marriage ; the change only became her. She
was a little silent, but then she had Uncle Hobson on her left-
hand side, between whom and her ladyship there could not be
much in common, and the place at the right hand was still
vacant. The person with whom she talked most freely was
Clive, who had made a beautiful drawing of her and her little
girl, for which the mother and the father too, as it appeared,
were very grateful.

What has caused this change in Barnes's behavior ? Our
particular merits or his own private reform ? In the two years
over which this narrative has had to run in the course of as
many chapters, the writer had inherited a property so small
that it could not occasion a banker's civility * and I put down
Sir Barnes Xewcome's politeness to a sheer desire to be well
with me. But with Lord Highgate and Clive the case was dif-
ferent, as you must now hear.

Lord Highgate, having succeeded to his father's title and
fortune, had paid every shilling of his debts, and had sowed
his wild oats to the very last corn. His lordship's account at
Hobson Brothers was very large. Painful events of three
years' date, let us hope, were forgotten — gentlemen cannot go
on being in love and despairing, and quarrelling forever. When
he came into his funds. Highgate behaved with uncommon
kindness to Rooster, who was always straitened for money ;
and when the late Lord Dorking died and Rooster succeeded
to him, there was a meeting at Chanticlere between Highgate
and Barnes Xewcome and his wife, which went off very com-
fortably. At Chanticlere the Dowager Lady Kew and Miss
Xewcome were also staying, when Lord Highgate announced
his prodigious admiration for the young lady ; and, it was said,
corrected Farintosh, as a low-minded foul-tongued young cub
for daring to speak disrespectfully of her. Xevertheless, vous
concrcez, when a man of the Marquis's rank was supposed to
look with the eyes of admiration upon a young lady, Lord High-
gate would not think of spoiling sport, and he left Chanticlere
declaring that he was always destined to be unlucky in love.
When old Lady Kew was obliged to go to Vichy for her lum-
bago, Highgate said to Barnes, " Do ask your charming sister to
come to you in London ; she will bore herself to death with the
old woman at Vichy, or with her mother at Rugby " (whither
Lady Ann had gone to get her boys educated >, and accordingly
Miss Xewcome came on a visit to her brother and sister, at
whose house we had just had the honor of seeing her.

When Ruoste* took his seat in the House of Lords, he was

THE NEWCOMES. 525

introduced by Highgate and Kew; as Highgate had been intro-
duced by Kew previously. Thus these three gentlemen all rode
in gold coaches ; had all got coronets on their heads ; as you
will, my respected young friend, if you are the eldest son of a
peer who dies before you. And now they were rich, they were
all going to be very good boys, let us hope. Kew, we know,
married one of the Dorking family, that second Lady Henrietta
Pulleyn, whom we described as frisking about at Baden, and
not in the least afraid of him. How little the reader knew, to
whom we introduced the girl in that chatty off-hand way, that
one day the young creature would be a countess ! But we knew
it all the while — and when she was walking about with the
governess, or romping with her sisters ; and when she had din-
ner at one o'clock ; and when she wore a pinafore very likely
> — we secretly respected her as the future Countess of Kew, and
mother of the Viscount Walham.

Lord Kew was very happy with his bride, and very good to
her. He took Lady Kew to Paris, for a marriage trip \ but
they lived almost altogether at Kewbury afterwards, where his
lordship sowed tame oats now after his wild ones, and became
one of the most active farmers of his county. He and the
Newcomes were not very intimate friends ; for Lord Kew was
heard to say that he disliked Barnes more after his marriage
than before. And the two sisters, Lady Clara and Lady Kew,
had a quarrel on one occasion, when the latter visited London
just before the dinner at which we have just assisted — nay, at
which we are just assisting, took place — a quarrel about High-
gate's attentions to Ethel very likely. Kew was dragged into it,
and hot words passed between him and Jack Belsize ; and Jack
did not go down to Kewbury afterwards, though Kew's little
boy was christened after him. All these interesting details
about people of the very highest rank we are supposed to whis-
per in the reader's ear as we are sitting at a Belgravian dinner-
table. My dear Barmecide friend, isn't it pleasant to be in
such fine company?

And now we must tell how it is that Clive Newcome, Esq.,
whose eyes are flashing fire across the flowers of the table at
Lord Highgate, who is making himself so agreeable to Miss
Ethel — now we must tell how it is that Clive and his cousin
Barnes have grown to be friends again.

The Bundlecund Bank, which had been established for four
years, had now grown to be one of the most flourishing com-
mercial institutions in Bengal. Founded, as the prospectus
announced, at a time when all private credit was shaken by the

526 THE NElVCO^fES.

failure of the great Agency Houses, of which the downfall hnd
carried dismay and ruin throughout the presidency, the B< B.
had been established on the only sound principle of commercial
prosperity — that of association. The native capitalists, headed
by the great firm of Rummun Loll & Co., of Calcutta, had largely
embarked in the B. B., and the officers of the two ser/ices and
the European mercantile body of Calcutta had been invited to
take shares in an institution which to merchants, native and
English, civilians and military men, was alike advantageous and
indispensable. How many young men of the latter services had
been crippled for life by the ruinous cost of agencies, of which
the profits to the agents themselves were so enormous ! The
shareholders of the B. B. were their own agents j and the
greatest capitalist in India as well as the youngest ensign in the
service might invest at the largest and safest premium, and
borrow at the smallest interest, by becoming, according to his
means, a shareholder in the B. B. Their correspondents were
established in each presidency and in every chief city of India,
as well as at Sydney, Singapore, Canton, and, of course,
London. With China they did an immense opium-trade, of
which the profits were so great that it was only in private sit-
tings of the B. B. managing committee that the details and ac-
counts of these operations could be brought forward. Other-
wise the books of the bank were open to even- shareholder \
and the ensign or the young civil sen-ant was at liberty at any
time to inspect his own private account as well as the common
ledger. With Xew South Wales they carried on a vast trade
in wool, supplying that great colony with goods, which their
London agents enabled them to purchase in such a way as to
give them the command of the market. As if to add to their
prosperity, copper mines were discovered on lands in the occu-
pation of the B. Banking Company, which gave the most
astonishing returns. And throughout the vast territories of
British India, through the great native firm of Rummun Loll &
Co., the Bundlecund Banking Company had possession of the
native markets. The order from Birmingham for idols alone
(made with their copper, and paid in their wool) was enough to
make the Low Church party in England cry out ; and a debate
upon this subject actually took place in the House of Commons,
of which the effect was to send up the shares of the Bundle-
cund Banking Company very considerably upon the London
Exchange.

The fifth half-yearly dividend was announced at twelve and
a quarter per cent, of the paid-up capital : the accounts from

THE NEWCOMES.

527

the copper mine sent the dividend up to a still greater height,
and carried the shares to an extraordinary premium. In the
third year of the concern, the house of Hobson Brothers, of
London, became the agents of the Bundlecund Banking Com-
pany of India; and amongst our friends, James Binnie, who
had prudently held out for some time, and Clive Newcome,
Esq., became shareholders, Clive's good father having paid the
first instalments of the lad's shares up in Calcutta, and invested
every rupee he could himself command in this enterprise.
When Hobson Brothers joined it, no wonder James Binnie was
convinced ; Clive's friend, the Frenchman, and through that
connection the house of Higg, of Newcome and Manchester,
entered into the affair ; and amongst the minor contributors in
England we may mention Miss Cann, who took a little fifty-
pound-note share, and dear old Miss Honeyman ; and J. J.,
and his father, Ridley, who brought a small bag of savings —
all knowing that their Colonel, who was eager that his friends
should participate in his good fortune, would never lead them
wrong. To Clive's surprise Mrs. Mackenzie, between whom
and himself there was a considerable coolness, came to his
chambers, and with a solemn injunction that the matter between
them should be quite private, requested him to purchase 1500/.
worth of Bundlecund shares for her and her darling girls,
which he did, astonished to find the thrifty widow in possession
of so much money. Had Mr. Pendennis's mind not been bent
at this moment on quite other subjects, he might have increased
his own fortune by the Bundlecund Bank speculation ; but in
these two years I was engaged in matrimonial affairs (having
Clive Newcome, Esq., as my groomsman on a certain interest-
ing occasion). When we returned from our tour abroad the
India Bank shares were so very high that I did not care to
purchase, though I found an affectionate letter from our good
Colonel (enjoining me to make my fortune) awaiting me at the
■agent's, and my wife received a pair of beautiful Cashmere
shawls from the same kind friend.

£2S THE NEWCOMES.

CHAPTER XLIX.

CONTAINS AT LEAST SIX MORE COURSES AND TWO DESSERTS.

The banker's dinner-party over, we returned to our apart-
ments, having dropped Major Pendennis at his lodgings, and
there, as the custom is amongst most friendly married couples,
talked over the company and the dinner. I thought my wife
would naturally have liked Sir Barnes Newcome, who was very
attentive to her, took her to dinner as the bride, and talked
ceaselessly to her during the whole entertainment.

Laura said No — she did not know why — could there be any
better reason ? There was a tone about Sir Barnes Newcome
she did not like — especially in his manner to women.

I remarked that he spoke sharply and in a sneering manner
to his wife, and treated one or two remarks which she made as
if she was an idiot.

Mrs. Pendennis flung up her head as much as to say, "And
so she is."

Mr. Pendennis. What, the wife, too, my dear Laura ! I
should have thought such a pretty, simple, innocent, young
woman, with just enough good looks to make her pass muster,
who is very well bred and not brilliant at all, — I should have
thought such a one might have secured a sister's approbation.

Mrs. Pendennis. You fancy we are all jealous of one an-
other. No protests of ours can take that notion out of your
heads. My dear Pen, I do not intend to try. We are not
jealous of mediocrity ; we are not patient of it. I dare say we
are angry because we see men admire it so. You gentlemen,
who pretend to be our betters, give yourselves such airs of
protection, and profess such a lofty superiority over us, prove
it by quitting the cleverest woman in the room for the first pair
of bright eyes and dimpled cheeks that enter. It was those
charms which attracted you in Lady Clara, sir.

Pendennis. I think she is very pretty, and very innocent,
and artless.

Mrs. P. Not very pretty, and perhaps not so very artless.

Pendennis. How can you tell, you wicked woman ? Are you
such a profound deceiver yourself, that you can instantly detect
artifice in others ? Oh, Laura !

Mrs. P. We can detect all sorts of things. The inferior

THE NEWCOMES.

5^9

mimals have instincts, you know. (I must say my wife is always
very satirical upon this point of the relative rank of the sexes. )
One thing I am sure of is that she is not happy ; and oh, Pen !
that she does not care much for her little girl.

Pendennis. How do you know that, my dear ?

Mrs. P. We went up stairs to see the child after dinner.
It was at my wish. The mother did not offer to go. The child
was awake and crying. Lady Clara did not offer to take it.
Ethel — Miss Xewcome took it, rather to my surprise, for she
seems very haughty, and the nurse, who I suppose was at
supper, came running up at the noise, and then the poor little
thing was quiet.

Pendennis. I remember we heard the music as the dining-
room door was open 3 and Newcome said, " That is what you
will have to expect, Pendennis."

Mrs. P. Hush, sir ! If my baby cries, I think you must
expect me to run out of the room. I liked Miss Newcome after
seeing her with the poor little thing. She looked so handsome
as she walked with it ! I longed to have it myself.

Pendennis, Tout vicnt a Jin, a qui saif. * * *

Mrs. P. Don't be silly. What a dreadful, dreadful place
this great world of yours is, Arthur ; where husbands do not
seem to care for their wives j where mothers do not love their
children ; where children love their nurses best ; where men
talk what they call gallantry 1

Pendennis. What ?

Mrs. P. Yes, such as that dreary, languid, pale, bald,
cadaverous, leering man whispered to me. Oh, how I dislike
him ! I am sure he is unkind to his wife. I am sure he has a
bad temper ; and if there is any excuse for

Pendennis. For what ?

Mrs. P. For nothing. But you heard yourself that he had
a bad temper, and spoke sneeringly to his wife. What could
make her marry him ?

Pendennis. Money, and the desire of papa and mamma.
For the same reason Give's flame, poor Miss Xewcome, was
brought out to-day ; that vacant seat at her side was for Lord
Farintosh, who did not come. And the Marquis not being
present, the Baron took his innings. Did you not see how
tender he was to her, and how fierce poor Give looked ?

Mrs. P. Lord Highgate was very attentive to Miss Xew-
come, was he ?

Pendennis. And some years ago, Lord Highgate was break-
ing his heart about whom do you think ? about Lady Clara

53o THE NEWCOMES.

Pulleyn, our hostess of last night. He was Jack Belsize then,
a younger son, plunged over head and ears in debt ■ and of
course there could be no marriage. Clive was present at Baden
when a terrible scene took place, and carried off poor Jack to
Switzerland and Italy, where he remained till his father died,
and he came into the title in which he rejoices. And now he
is oh° with the old love, Laura, and on with the new. Why da
you look at me so ? Are you thinking that other people have
been in love two or three times too ?

Mrs. P. I am thinking thai I should not like to live in
London, Arthur.

And this was all that Mrs. Laura could be brought to say.
When this young woman chooses to be silent, there is no powei
that can extract a word from her. It is true that she is gener-
ally in the right ; but that is only the more aggravating. In-
deed, what can be more provoking, after a dispute with your
wife, than to find it is you, and not she, who has been in the
wrong ?

Sir Barnes Newcome politely caused us to understand that
the entertainment of which we had just partaken was given in
honor of the bride. Clive must needs not be outdone in hos-
pitality ; and invited us and others to a fine feast at the u Star
and Garter " at Richmond, where Mrs. Pendennis was placed
at his right hand. I smile as I think how much dining has
been already commemorated in these veracious pages ; but the
story is an everyday record ; and does not dining form a cer-
tain part of the pleasure and business of every day ? It is at
that pleasant hour that our sex has the privilege of meeting
the other. The morning man and woman alike devote to busi-
ness ; or pass mainly in the company of their own kind. John
has his office ; Jane her household, her nursery, her milliner,
her daughters and their masters. In the country he has his
hunting, his fishing, his farming, his letters ; she her schools,
her poor, her garden, or what not. Parted through the shining
hours, and improving them let us trust, we come together to-
wards sunset only, we make merry and amuse ourselves. We
chat with our pretty neighbor, or survey the young ones sport-
ing ; we make love and are jealous ; we dance, or obsequiously
turn over the leaves of Cecilia's music-book ; we play whist, or
go to sleep in the arm-chair, according to our ages and condi-
tions. Snooze gently in thy arm-chair, thou easy bald-head !
play your whist, or read your novel, or talk scandal over your
work, ye worthy dowagers and fogies ! Meanwhile the young

THE NEWCOMES. . ^x

ones frisk about, or dance, or sing, or laugh ; or whisper be-
hind curtains in moonlit-windows ; or shirk away into the gar-
den, and come back smelling of cigars ; nature having made
them so to do.

Nature at this time irresistibly impelled Clive Newcome
towards love-making. It was pairing-season with him. Mr.
Clive was now some three-and-twenty years old : enough has
been said about his good looks, which were in truth sufficient
to make him a match for the young lady on whom he had set
his heart, and from whom, during this entertainment which he
gave to my wife, he could never keep his eyes away for three
minutes. Laura's did not need to be so keen as they were in
order to see what poor Give's condition was. She did not in
the least grudge the young fellow's inattention to herself ; or
feel hurt that he did not seem to listen when she spoke ; she
conversed with J. J., her neighbor, who was very modest and
agreeable; while her husband, not so well-pleased, had Mrs.
Hobson Newcome for his partner during the chief part of the
entertainment. Mrs. Hobson and Lady Clara were the ma-
trons who gave the sanction of their presence to this bachelor-
party. Neither of their husbands could come to Give's little
fete ; had they not the City and the House of Commons to at-
tend ? My uncle, Major Pendennis, was another of the guests ;
who for his part found the party was what you young fellows
call very slow. Dreading Mrs. Hobson and her powers of con-
versation, the old gentleman nimbly skipped out of her neigh-
borhood, and fell by the side of Lord Highgate, to whom the
Major was inclined to make himself very pleasant. But Lord
Highgate's broad back was turned upon his neighbor, who was
forced to tell stories to Captain Crackthorpe, which had amused
dukes and marquises in former days, and were surely quite
good enough for any baron in this realm. " Lord Highgate
sweet upon la belle Newcome, is he ? " «^aid the testy Major
afterwards. " He seemed to me to talk to Lady Clara the
whole time. When I awoke in the garden after dinner, as Mrs.
Hobson was telling one of her confounded long stories, I found
her audience was diminished to one. Crackthorpe. Lord High-
gate, and Lady Clara, we had all been sitting there when the
bankeress cut in (in the midst of a very good story I was tell-
ing them, which entertained them very much,) and never
ceased talking till I fell off into a doze. When I roused my-
self, begad, she was still going on. Crackthorpe was off,
smoking a cigar on the terrace : my Lord and Lady Clara
were nowhere ; and your four, with the little painter, were chat-

532 . THE NEIVCOMES.

ting cozily in another arbor. Behaved himself very well, the
little painter. Doosid good dinner Ellis gave us. But as for
Highgate being aux soins with la belle Banquiere, trust me, my
boy, he is * * * upon my word, my dear, it seemed to me
his thoughts went quite another way. To be sure, Lady Clara
is a belle Banquiere too now. He ! he ! he ! How could he
say he had no carriage to go home in ? He came down in
Crackthorpe's cab, who passed us just now7, driving back young
Whatdyecall the painter."

Thus did the Major discourse, as we returned towards the
City. I could see in the open carriage which followed us
(Lady Clara Newcome's) Lord Highgate's white hat, by Clive's
on the back seat.

Laura looked at her husband. The same thought may have
crossed their minds, though neither uttered it ; but although
Sir Barnes and Lady Clara Newcome offered us other civilities
during our stay in London, no inducements could induce Laura
to accept the proffered friendship of that lady. When Lady
Clara called, my wife was not at home j when she invited us,
Laura pleaded engagements. At first she bestowed on Miss
Newcome, too, a share of this haughty dislike, and rejected the
advances which that young lady, who professed to like my wife
very much, made towards an intimacy. When I appealed to
her (for Newcome's house was after all a very pleasant one,
and you met the best people there,) my wife looked at me with
an expression of something like scorn, and said : " Why don't
I like Miss Newcome ? of course because I am jealous of her
— all women, you know, Arthur, are jealous of such beauties."
I could get for a long while no better explanation than these
sneers for my wife's antipathy towards this branch of the New-
come family ; but an event came presently which silenced my
remonstrances, and showed to me that Laura had judged
Barnes and his wife only too well.

Poor Mrs. Hobson Newcome had reason to be sulky at the
neglect which all the Richmond party showed her, for nobody,
not even Major Pendennis, as we have seen, would listen to
her intellectual conversation ; nobody, not even Lord High-
gate, would drive back to town in her carriage, though the
vehicle was large and empty, and Lady Clara's barouche, in
which his Lordship chose to take a place, had already three
occupants within it : — but in spite of these rebuffs and disap-
pointments the virtuous lady of Bryanstone Square was bent
upon being good-natured and hospitable ; and I have to record,
In the present chapter, yet one more feast of which Mr. and

THE NEWCOMES. 533

Mrs. Pendennis partook at the expense of the most respectable
Newcome family.

Although Mrs. Laura here also appeared, and had the
place of honor in her character of bride, I am bound to own my
opinion that Mrs. Hobson only made us the pretext of her
party, and that in reality it was given to persons of a much
more exalted rank. We' were the first to arrive, our good old
Major, the most punctual of men, bearing us company. Our
hostess was arrayed in unusual state and splendor ; her fat neck
was ornamented with jewels, rich bracelets decorated her arms,
and this Bryanstone Square Cornelia had likewise her family
jewels distributed round her, priceless male and female New-
come gems, from the King's College youth, with whom we
have made a brief acquaintance, and his elder sister, now
entering into the world, down to the last little ornament of the
nursery, in a prodigious new sash, with ringlets hot and crisp
from the tongs of a Marylebone hairdresser. We had seen the
cherub faces of some of these darlings pressed against the
drawing-room windows as our carriage drove up to the door ;
when, after a few minutes' conversation, another vehicle ar-
rived, away they dashed into the windows again, the innocent
little dears crying out, " Here's the Marquis;" and in sadder
tones, " No, it isn't the Marquis," by which artless expressions
they showed how eager they were to behold an expected guest
of a rank only inferior to Dukes in this great empire.

Putting two and two together, as the saying is, it was not
difficult for me to guess who the expected Marquis was — and,
indeed, the King's College youth set that question at once to
rest, by wagging his head at me, and winking his eye, and
saying, 4> We expect Farintosh."

" Why, my dearest children," Matronly Virtue exclaimed,
" this anxiety to behold the young Marquis of Farintosh, whom
we expect at our modest table, Mrs. Pendennis, to-day ? Twice
you have been at the window in your eagerness to look for him.
Louisa, you silly child, do you imagine that his lordship will ap-
pear in his robes and coronet ? Rodolf, you absurd boy, do
you think that a Marquis is other than a man ? I have never
admired aught but intellect, Mrs. Pendennis ; that, let us be
thankful, is the only true title to distinction in our country now-
a days."

" Begad, sir," whispers the old Major tome, " intellect may
be a doosid line thing, but in my opinion a Marquisate and
eighteen or twenty thousand a year — L should say the Kuril*
tosh property, with the Glenlivat estate, and the Roy property

534 THE XEWCOMES.

in England, must be worth nineteen thousand a year at the very
lowest figure ; and I remember when this young man's father
was only Tom Roy of the 42nd, with no hope of succeeding to
the title, and doosidly out at elbows too * * * I say what
does the bankeress mean by chattering about intellect ? Hang
me, a Marquis is a Marquis ; and Mrs. Xewcome knows it as
well as I do." My good Major was growing old, and was not
unnaturally a little testy at the manner in which his hostess
received him. Truth to tell, she hardly took any notice of him,
and cut down a couple of the old gentleman's stories before he
had been five minutes in the room.

To our party presently comes the host in a flurried counte-
nance, with a white waistcoat, holding in his hand an open letter,
towards which his wife looks with some alarm. " How dy' doo,
Lady Clara ; how dy' doo, Ethel ? " he says, saluting those
ladies whom the second carriage had brought to us. "Sir
Barnes is not coming, that's one place vacant ; that, Lady
Clara, you won't mind, you see him at home ; but here's a dis-
appointment for you, Miss Xewcome : Lord Farintosh can't
come."

At this, two of the children cry out "oh ! oh ! " with such a
melancholy accent that Miss Newcome and Lady Clara burst
out laughing.

"Got a dreadful toothache," said Mr. Hobson ; "here's his
letter."

" Hang it, what a bore ! " cries artless young King's
College.

" Why a bore, Samuel ? A bore, as you call it, for Lord
Farintosh, I grant \ but do you suppose that the high in station
are exempt from the ills of mortality ? I know nothing more
painful than a toothache," exclaims a virtuous matron, using
the words of philosophy, but showing the countenance of anger.

" Hang it, why didn't he have it out ? " says Samuel.

Miss Ethel laughed. " Lord Farintosh would not have
that tooth out for the world, Samuel," she cried, gayly. " He
keeps it in on purpose, and it always aches when he does not
want to go out to dinner.

" I know one humble family who will never ask him again, "'
Mrs. Hobson exclaims, rustling in all her silks, and tapping her
fan and her foot. The eclipse, however passes off her coun-
tenance and light is restored ; when at this moment, a cab
having driven up during the period of darkness, the door is
flung open and Lord Highgate is announced by a loud-voiced
butler.

THE A'E U COMES. ^

My wife being still the bride on this occasion, had the
honor of being led to the dinner-table by our banker and host.
Lord Highgate was reserved for Mrs. Hobson, who, in an en-
gaging manner, requested poor Clive to conduct his cousin
Maria to dinner, handing over Miss Ethel to another guest.
Our Major gave his arm to Lady Clara, and I perceived that
my wife looked very grave as he passed the place where she sat,
and seated Lady Clara in the next chair to that which Lord
Highgate chanced to occupy. Feeling himself en veine, and the
company being otherwise rather mum and silent, my uncle told
a number of delightful anecdotes about the beau-monde of his
time, about the Peninsular war, the Regent, Brummell, Lord
Steyne, Pea Green Payne, and so forth. He said the evening
was very pleasant, though some other of the party, as it ap-
peared to me, scarcely seemed to think so. Clive had not a
word for his cousin Maria, but looked across the table at Ethel
all dinner-time. What could Ethel have to say to her partner,
old Colonel Sir Donald M'Craw, who gobbled and drank as his
wont is, and if he had a remark to make, imparted it to Mrs.
Hobson, at whose right hand he was sitting, and to whom,
during the whole course, or courses, of the dinner, my Lord
Highgate scarcely uttered one single word.

His lordship was whispering all the while into the ringlets
of Lady Clara ; they were talking a jargon which their hostess
scarcely understood, of people only known to her by her study
of the Peerage. When we joined the ladies after dinner, Lord
Highgate again made way towards Lady Clara, and at an order
from her, as I thought, left her ladyship, and strove hard to
engage in a conversation with Mrs. Newcome. I hope he suc-
ceeded in smoothing the frowns in that round little face. Mrs.
Laura, I own, was as grave as a judge all the evening ; very
grave even and reserved with my uncle, when the hour for
parting came, and we took him home.

" He, he ! " said the old man, coughing, and nodding his
old head and laughing in his senile manner, when I saw him on
the next day; " that was a pleasant evening we had yesterday ;
doosid pleasant, and I think my two neighbors seemed to be
uncommonly pleased with each other ; not an amusing fellow,
that young painter of yours, though he is good-looking enough,
but there's no conversation in him. Do you think of giving a
little dinner, Arthur, in return for these hospitalities ? Green-
wich, hey, or something of that sort ? I'll go you halves, sir,
and we'll ask the young banker and bankeress — not yesterday's
Amphitryon nor his wife j no, no, hang it ! but Barnes New-

536 THE NEWCOMES.

come is a devilish clever, rising man, and moves in about as
good society as any in London. We'll ask him and Lady Clara
and Highgate, and one or two more, and have a pleasant
party."

But to this proposal, when the old man communicated it t<?
her, in a very quiet, simple, artless way, Laura with a flushing
face said no quite abruptly, and quitted the room, rustling in
her silks, and showing at once dignity and indignation.

Not many more feasts was Arthur Pendennis, senior, to
have in this world. Not many more great men was he to
flatter, nor schemes to wink at, nor earthly pleasures to enjoy.
His long days were wellnigh ended : on his last couch, which
Laura tended so affectionately, with his last breath almost, he
faltered out to me, " I had other views for you, my boy, and
once hoped to see you in a higher position in life ; but I begin
to think now, Arthur, that I was wrong ; and as for that girl,
sir, I am sure she is an angel."

May I not inscribe the words with a grateful heart ? Blessed
he — blessed though maybe undeserving — who has the love of a
good woman.

CHAPTER L.

CLIVE IN NEW QUARTERS.

My wife was much better pleased with Clive than with some
of his relatives to whom I had presented her. His face carried
a recommendation with it that few honest people could resist.
He was always a welcome friend in our lodgings, and even our
uncle the Major signified his approval of the lad as a young
fellow of very good manners and feelings, who, if he chose to
throw himself away and be a painter, mafoi, was rich enough
no doubt to follow his own caprices. Clive executed a capital
head of Major Pendennis, which now hangs in our drawing-
room at Fairoaks ; and reminds me of that friend of my youth.
Clive occupied ancient lofty chambers in Hanover Square now.
He had furnished them in an antique manner, with hangings,
cabinets, carved work, Venice glasses, fine prints, and water-
color sketches of good pictures by his own and other hands.

THE XEWCOMES.

537

He had horses to ride, and a liberal purse full of paternal
money. Many fine equipages drew up opposite to his cham-
bers : few artists had such luck as young Mr. Clive. And
above his own chambers were other three which the young gen-
tleman had hired, and where, says he, " I hope ere very long my
dear old father will be lodging with me. In another year he
says he thinks he will be able to come home ; when the affairs
of the Dank are quite settled. You shake your head ! why?
The shares are worth four times what we gave for them. YYe
are men of fortune, Pen, 1 give you my word. You should see
how much they make of me at Baines & Jolly's, and how civil
they are to me at Hobson Brothers ! I go into the City now
and then, and see our manager, Mr. Blackmore. He tells me
such stories about indigo, and wool, and copper, and sicca
rupees, and Company's rupees. I don't know anything about
the business, but my father likes me to go and see Mr. Black-
more. Dear Cousin Barnes is forever asking me to dinner ; I
might call Lady Clara Clara if I liked, as Sam Newcome does
in Bryanstone Square. You can't think how kind they are to me
there. My aunt reproaches me tenderly for not going there
oftener — it's not very good fun dining in Bryanstone Square, is
it ? And she praises my cousin Maria to me — you should hear
my aunt praise her ! I have to take Maria down to dinner; to
sit by the piano and listen to her songs in all languages. Do
you know Maria can sing Hungarian and Polish besides your
common German, Spanish, and Italian. Those I have at our
other agents, Baines <Sc Jolly's — Baines's that is in the Regent's
Park, where the girls are prettier and just as civil to me as at
Aunt Hobson's." And here Clive would amuse us by the
accounts which he gave us of the snares which the Misses
Baines, those young sirens of Regent's Park, set for him ; of
the songs which they sang to enchant him, the albums in which
they besought him to draw ; the thousand winning ways which
they employed to bring him into their cave in York Terra* e.
But neither Circe's smiles nor Calypso's blandishments hacj
any effect on him; his ears were stopped to their music, ami
his eyes rendered dull to their charms by those of the flighty
young enchantress with whom my wife had of late made ac-
quaintance.

Capitalist though he was, our young fellow was still very
affable. He forgot no old friends in his prosperity ; and the
lofty antique chambers would not unfrequently be lighted up
at nights to receive F. B. and some of the old cronies of the
" Haunt," and some of the Gandishites, who, if Clive had been

S38 THE XEWCOMES.

of a nature that was to be spoiled by flattery, had certainly
done mischief to the young man. Gandish himself, when Clive
paid a visit to that illustrious artist's Academy, received his
former pupil as if the young fellow had been a sovereign prince
almost, accompanied him to his horse, and would have held
his stirrup as he mounted, whilst the beautiful daughters of the
house waved adieux to him from the parlor-window. To the
young men assembled in his studio, Gandish was never tired
of talking about Clive. The Professor would take occasion to
inform them that he had been to visit his distinguished young
friend, Mr. Xewcome, son of Colonel Newcome : that last
evening he had been present at an elegant entertainment at
Mr. Newcome's new apartments. Clive's drawings were hung
up in Gandish's gallery, and pointed out to visitors by the
worthy Professor. On one or two occasions I was allowed to
become a bachelor again, and participate in these jovial
meetings. How guilty my coat was on my return home ; how
haughty the looks of the mistress of my house, as she bade
Martha cam* away the obnoxious garment ! How grand F. B.
used to be as president of Clive's smoking-party, where he laid
down the law, talked the most talk, sang the jolliest song, and
consumed the most drink of all the jolly talkers and drinkers !
Clive's popularity rose prodigiously ; not only youngsters, but
old practitioners of the fine arts, lauded his talents. What a
shame that his pictures were all refused this year at the Acad-
emy! Mr. Smee, R. A., was indignant at their rejection, but
J. J. confessed with a sigh, and Clive owned good-naturedly,
that he had been neglecting his business, and that his pictures
were not so good as those of two years before. I am afraid
Mr. Clive went to too many balls and parties, to clubs and
jovial entertainments, besides losing yet more time in that
other pursuit we wot of. Meanwhile J. J. went steadily on
with his work, no day passed without a line ; and Fame was
not very far off, though this he heeded but little ; and Art, his
sole mistress, rewarded him for his steady and fond pursuit
of her.

"Look at him,'' Clive would say with a sigh. " Isn't he
the mortal of all others the most to be envied ? He is so fond
of his art that in all the world there is no attraction like it for
him. He runs to his easel at sunrise, and sits before it caress-
ing his picture ail day till nightfall. He takes leave of it sadly
when dark comes, spends the night in a Life Academy, and
begins next morning da capo. Of all the pieces of good
fortune which can befall a man, is not this the greatest : to

THE NEWCOMES. 539

have your desire, and then never tire of it ? I have been in
such a rage with my own shortcomings that I have dashed my
through the canvases, and vowed I would smash my palette
and easel. Sometimes I succeed a little better in my work,
and then it will happen for half an hour that 1 am pleased,
but pleased at what? pleased at drawing Mr. Muggins's head
rather like Mr. Muggins. Why, a thousand fellows can do
better ; and when one day I reach my very best, thousands
will be able to do better still. Ours is a trade for which now-
adays there is no excuse unless one can be great in it : and I
feel I have not the stuff for that. No. 666. Portrait of Joseph
Muggins, Esq., Newcome, George Street. No. 979. Portrait
of Mrs. Muggins, on her gray pony, Newcome. No. 579. Por-
trait of Joseph Muggins, Esq.'s dog Toby, Newcome — this is
what I'm fit for. These are the victories I have set myself on
achieving. Oh, Mrs. Pendennis ! isn't it humiliating ? Why
isn't there a war ? Why can't I go and distinguish myself
somewhere and be a general ? Why haven't I a genius ? I
say, Pen, sir, why haven't I a genius ? There is a painter who
lives hard by, and who sends sometimes to beg me to come
and look at his work. He is in the Muggins line too. He
gets his canvases with a good light upon them : excludes the
contemplation of all other objects, stands beside his pictures
in an attitude himself, and thinks that he and they are master-
pieces. Masterpieces ! Oh, me, what drivelling wretches we
are ! Fame ! — except that of just the one or two — what's the
use of it ! I say, Pen, would you feel particularly proud now
if you had written Hayley's poems ? And as for a second place
in painting, who would care to be Caravaggio or Caracci ? I
wouldn't give a straw to be Caracci or Caravaggio. I would
just as soon be yonder artist who is painting up Foker's Entire
over the public-house at the corner. He will have his payment
afterwards, five shillings a day, and a pot of beer. Your head
a little more to the light, Mrs. Pendennis, if you please. I am
tiring you, I dare say, but then, oh, I am doing it so badly ! "

I, for my part, thought Clive was making a very pretty
drawing of my wife, and having affairs of my own to attend to,
would often leave her at his chambers as a sitter, or find him
at our lodgings visiting her. They became the very greatest
friends. I knew the young fellow could have no better friend
than Laura ; and not being ignorant of the malady under
which he was laboring, concluded naturally and justly that
Clive grew so fond of my wife, not for her sake entirely, but for
his own, because he could pour his heart out to her, and her

54o THE NEWCOMES.

sweet kindness and compassion would soothe him in his ui>
happy condition.

Miss Ethel, I have said, also professed a great fondness for
Mrs. Pendennis ; and there was that charm in the young lady's
manner which speedily could overcome even female jealousy.
Perhaps Laura determined magnanimously to conquer it ; per-
haps she hid it so as to vex me and prove the iniustice of
my suspicions ; perhaps, honestly, she was conquered by the
young beaut}', and gave her a regard and admiration which
the other knew she could inspire whenever she had the will.
My wife was fairly captivated by her at length. The un-
tameable young creature was docile and gentle in Laura's
presence ; modest, natural, amiable, full of laughter and spirits,
delightful to see and to hear ; her presence cheered our quiet
little household ; her charm fascinated my wife as it had sub-
jugated poor Clive. Even the reluctant Farintosh was com-
pelled to own her power, and confidentially told his male
friends, that, hang it, she was so handsome, and so clever, and
so confoundedly pleasant and fascinating, and that — that he
had been on the point of popping the fatal question ever so
many times, by Jove. " And hang it, you know," his lordship
would say, " I don't want to marry until I have had my fling,
you know." As for Clive, Ethel treated him like a boy, like a
big brother. She was jocular, kind, pert, pleasant with him, or-
dered him on her errands, accepted his bouquets and compli-
ments, admired his drawings, liked to hear him praised, and
took his part in all companies ; laughed at his sighs, and
frankly owned to Laura her liking for him and her pleasure
in seeing him. " Why," said she, " should not I be happy as
long as the sunshine lasts ? To-morrow, I know, will be glum
and dreary enough. When grandmamma comes back I shall
scarcely be able to come and see you. When I am settled in
life — eh ! I shall be settled in life ! Do not grudge me my
holiday, Laura. Oh, if you knew how stupid it is to be in
the world, and how much pleasanter to come and talk, and
laugh, and sing, and be happy with you, than to sit in that
dreary Eaton Place with poor Clara ! "

kk Why do you stay in Eaton Place ! " asks Laura.

" Why ? because I must go out with somebody. What an
unsophisticated little country creature you are ! Grandmamma
is away, and I cannot go about to parties by myself."

" But why should you go to parties, and why not go back to
your mother? " says Mrs. Pendennis, gently.

" To the nursery, and my little sisters and Miss Cann ? I

THE NEWCOMES.

541

like being in London best, thank you. You look grave ? You
think a girl should like to be with her mother and sisters best ?
My clear, mamma wishes me to be here, and I stay with Barnes
and Clara by grandmamma's orders. Don't you know that I
have been made over to Lady Kew, who has adopted me ? Do
you think a young lady of my pretensions can stop at home in
a damp house in Warwickshire and cut bread-and-butter for
little boys at school ? Don't look so very grave and shake
your head so, Mrs. Pendennis ! If you had been bred as I
have, you would be as I am. I know what you are thinking,
madam."

" I am thinking," said Laura, blushing and bowing her
head — " I am thinking, if it pleases God to give me children, I
should like to live at home at Fairoaks." My wife's thoughts,
though she did not utter them, and a certain modesty and
habitual awe kept her silent upon subjects so very sacred, went
deeper yet. She had been bred to measure her actions by a
standard, which the world may nominally admit, but which it
leaves for the most part unheeded. Worship, love, duty, as
taught her by the devout study of the Sacred Law which inter-
prets and defines it — if these formed the outward practice of
her life, they were also its constant and secret endeavors and
occupation. She spoke but very seldom of her religion, though
it filled her heart and influenced all her behavior. Whenever
she came to that sacred subject, her demeanor appeared to her
husband so awful that he scarcely dared to approach it in her
company, and stood without as this pure creature entered into
the Holy of Holies. What must the world appear to such a
person? Its ambitious rewards, disappointments, pleasures,
worth how much ? Compared to the possession of that price-
less treasure and happiness unspeakable, a perfect faith, what
has Life to offer ? I see before me now her sweet grave face
as she looks out from the balcony of the little Richmond villa
we occupied during the first happy year after our marriage,
following Ethel Newcome, who rides away, with a staid groom
behind her, to her brother's summer residence, not far distant.
("live had been with us in the morning, and had brought us
stirring news. The good Colonel was by this time on his way
home. "If Clive could tear himself away from London," the
good man wrote (and we thus saw he was acquainted with the
state of the young man's mind), " why should not Clive go and
meet his father at Malta ? " He was feverish and eager to go ;
and his two friends strongly counselled him to take the journey.
In the midst of our talk Miss Ethel came among us. She

542 THE NEWCOMES.

arrived flushed and in high spirits ; she rallied Clive upon his
gloomy looks ; she turned rather pale, as it seemed to us, when
she heard the news. Then she coldly told him she thought the
voyage must be a pleasant one, and would do him good : it was
pleasanter than that journey she was going to take herself with
her grandmother, to those dreary German springs which the
old Countess frequented year after year. Mr. Pendennis,
having business, retired to his study, whither presently, Mrs.
Laura followed, having to look for her scissors, or a book she
wanted, or upon some pretext or other. She sat down in the
conjugal study ; not one word did either of us say for a while
about the young people left alone in the drawing-room yonder.
Laura talked about her own home at Fairoaks, which our
tenants were about to vacate. She vowed and declared that
we must live at Fairoaks \ that Clavering, with all its tittle-tattle
and stupid inhabitants, was better than this wicked London.
Besides, there were some new and very pleasant families settled
in the neighborhood. Clavering Park was taken by some de-
lightful people — " and you know, Pen, you were always very
fond of fly-fishing, and may fish the Brawl, as you used in old

days, when " The lips of the pretty satirist who alluded to

these unpleasant by-gones were silenced as they deserved to be
by Mr. Pendennis. "Do you think, sir, I did not know," says
the sweetest voice in the world, " when you went out on your
fishing excursions with Miss Amory ? " Again the flow of
words is checked by the styptic previously applied.

" I wonder," says Mr. Pendennis, archly, bending over his
wife's fair hand — " I wonder whether this kind of thing is
taking place in the drawing-room ? "

" Nonsense, Arthur. It is time to go back to them. Why,
I declare I have been three-quarters of an hour away ! "

" I don't think they will much miss you, my dear," says the
gentleman.

" She is certainly very fond of him. She is always coming
here. I am sure it is not to hear you read Shakspeare, Arthur ;
or your new novel, though it is very pretty. I wish Lady Kew
and her sixty thousand pounds were at the bottom of the sea."

" But she says she is going to portion her younger brothers
with a part of it ; she told Clive so," remarks Mr. Pendennis.

" For shame ! Why does not Barnes Newcome portion his

younger brothers ? I have no patience with that Why !

Goodness ! There is Clive going away, actually ! Clive !
Mr. Newcome ! " But though my wife ran to the study-window
and beckoned our friend, he only shook his head, jumped od
his horse, and rode away gloomily.

THE KEWCOMES.

543

" Ethel had been crying when I went into the room," Laura
afterwards told me. " I knew she had ; but she looked up
from some flowers over which she was bending, began to laugh
and rattle, would talk about nothing but Lady Hautbois' great
breakfast the day before, and the most insufferable May Fair
jargon ; and then declared it was time to go home to dress for
Mrs. Booth's dejeuner, which was to take place that afternoon."

And so Miss Newcome rode away — back amongst the roses
and the rogues — back amongst the fiddling, flirting, flattery,
falseness — and Laura's sweet serene face looked after her de-
parting. Mrs. Booth's was a very grand dejcunc7\ We read in
the newspapers a list of the greatest names there : a Royal Duke
and Duchess, a German Highness, a Hindoo Nabob, &c. ; and
amongst the Marquises, Farintosh ; and amongst the Lords,
Highgate ; and Lady Clara Newcome, and Miss Newcome, who
looked killing, our acquaintance Captain Crackthorpe informs
us, and who was in perfectly stunning spirits. " His Imperial
Highness the Grand Duke of Farintosh is wild about her," the
Captain said, " and our poor young friend Clive may just go
and hang himself. Dine with us at the ' Gar and Starter ? '
Jolly party. Oh, I forgot ! married man now ! " So saying,
the Captain entered the hostelry near which I met him, leaving
this present chronicler to return to his own home.

CHAPTER LI.

AN OLD FRIEND.

I might open the present chapter, as a contemporary writer
of Romance is occasionally in the habit of commencing his
tales of Chivalry, by a description of a November afternoon, with
falling leaves, tawny forests, gathering storms, and other autum-
nal phenomena ; and two horsemen winding up the romantic
road which leads from — from Richmond Firidge to the " Star and
Garter." The one rider is youthful, and has a blonde mustache :
the cheek of the other has been browned by foreign suns ; it is
easy to see by the manner in which he bestrides his powerful
charger that lie has followed the profession of arms. He looks
as if he had faced his country's enemies on many a field of
Eastern battle. The cavaliers alight before the gate of a cot-
tage on Richmond Hill, where a gentleman receives them with

^14 THE NEWCOMES.

eager welcome. Their steeds are accommodated at a neigh-
boring hostelry, — I pause in the midst of the description, for
the reader has made the acquaintance of our two horsemen
long since. It is Clive returned from Malta, from Gibraltar,
from Seville, from Cadiz, and with him our dear old friend the
Colonel. His campaigns are over, his sword is hung up, he
leaves Eastern suns and battles to warm young blood. Wel-
come back to England, dear Colonel and kind friend ! How
quickly the years have passed since he has been gone ! There
is a streak or two more silver in his hair. The wrinkles about
his honest eyes are somewhat deeper, but their look is as stead-
fast and kind as in the early, almost boyish days when we first
knew them.

We talk awhile about the Colonel's voyage home, the pleas-
ures of the Spanish journey, the handsome new quarters in
which Clive has installed his father and himself, my own altered
condition in life and what not. During the conversation a little
querulous voice makes itself audible above stairs, at which
noise Mr. Clive begins to laugh, and the Colonel to smile. It-
is for the first time in his life Mr. Clive listens to the little
voice j indeed, it is only since about six weeks that that small
organ has been heard in the world at all. Laura Pendennis
believes its tones to be the sweetest, the most interesting, the
most mirth-inspiring, the most pitiful and pathetic, that ever
baby uttered ; which opinions, of course, are backed by Mrs.
Hokey, the confidential nurse. Laura's husband is not so rap-
turous ; but, let us trust, behaves in a way becoming a man and
a father. We forego the description of his feelings as not per-
taining to the history at present under consideration. A little
while before the dinner is served, the lady of the cottage comes
down to greet her husband's old friends.

And here I am sorely tempted to a third description, which
has nothing to do with the story to be sure, but which, if prop-
erly hit off, might fill half a page very prettily. For is not a
young mother one of the sweetest sights which life shows us ? If
she has been beautiful before, does not her present pure joy give
a character of refinement and sacredness almost to her beauty,
touch her sweet cheeks with fairer blushes, and impart I know not
what serene brightness to her eyes ? I give warning to the
artist who designs the pictures for this veracious story, to make
no attempt at this subject. I never would be satisfied with it
were his drawing ever so good.

When Sir Charles Grandison stepped up and made his very
beautifullest bow to Miss Byron, I am sure his gracious dignity

THE NEWCOMES.

54»k

never exceeded that of Colonel Newcome's first greeting to Mrs.
Pendennis. Of course from the moment they beheld one an-
other they became friends. Are not most of our likings thus
instantaneous ? Before she came down to see him, Laura had
put on one of the Colonel's shawls — the crimson one, with red
palm leaves and the border of many colors. A.s for the white
one, the priceless, the gossamer, the fairy web, which might
pass through a ring, that, every lady must be aware, was already
appropriated to cover the cradle, or what I believe is called the
bassinet, of Master Pendennis.

So we all became the very best of friends ; and during the
winter months, whilst we still resided at Richmond, the Colonel
was my wife's constant visitor. He often came without Clive.
He did not care for the world which the young gentleman fre-
quented, and was more pleased and at home by my wife's fire-
side than at more noisy and splendid entertainments. And,
Laura being a sentimental person interested in pathetic novels
and all unhappy attachments, of course she and the Colonel
talked a great deal about Mr. Clive's little affair, over which
they would have such deep confabulations that even when the
master of the house appeared, Paterfamilias, the man whom,
in the presence of the Rev. Dr. Portman, Mrs. Laura had
sworn to love, honor, &c, these two guilty ones would be
silent, or change the subject of conversation, not caring to ad-
mit such an unsympathizing person as myself into their con-
spiracy.

From many a talk which they have had together since the
Colonel and his son embraced at Malta, Clive's father had been
led to see how strongly the passion which our friend had once
fought and mastered, had now taken possession of the young
man. The unsatisfied longing left him indifferent to all other
objects of previous desire or ambition. The misfortune dark-
ened the sunshine of his spirit, and clouded the world before
his eyes. He passed hours in his painting-room, though he
tore up what he did there. He forsook his usual haunts, or
appeared amongst his old comrades moody and silent. From
cigar-smoking, which I own to be a reprehensible practice, ho
plunged into still deeper and darker dissipation ; for I am sorry
to say he took to pipes and the strongest tobacco, for which
there is no excuse. Our young man was changed. During the
last fifteen or twenty months the malady had been increasing
on him, of which we have not chosen to describe at length the
stages ; knowing very well that the reader (the male reader at
lea^t) does not care a fig about other people's sentimental per

35

546

TffE NEWCOMES.

plexities, and is not wrapped up heart and soul in Clive's affairs
like his father, whose rest was disturbed if the boy had a head-
ache, or who would have stripped the coat off his back to keep
his darling's feet warm.

The object of this hopeless passion had, meantime, returned
to the custody of the dark old duenna, from which she had
been liberated for awhile. Lady Kew had got her health again,
by means of the prescriptions of some doctors, or by the efrV
cacy of some baths ; and was again on foot and in the world,
tramping about in her grim pursuit of pleasure. Lady Julia,
we are led to believe, had retired upon half-pay, and into an
inglorious exile at Brussels, with her sister, the outlaw's wife,
by whose bankrupt fireside she was perfectly happy. Miss
Newcomewas now her grandmother's companion, and they had
been on a tour of visits in Scotland, and were journeying from
country-house to country-house about the time when our good
Colonel returned to his native shores.

The Colonel loved his nephew Barnes no better than be-
fore perhaps, though we must say, that since his return from
India the young Baronet's conduct had been particularly
friendly. " No doubt marriage had improved him ; Lady Clara
seemed a good-natured young woman enough ; besides," says
the Colonel, wagging his good old head knowingly, " Tom New-
come, of the Bundlecund Bank, is a personage to be conciliated ;
whereas Tom Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, was not worth
Master Barnes's attention. He has been very good and kind
on the whole ; so have his friends been uncommonly civil.
There was Clive's acquaintance, Mr. Belsize that was, Lord
Highgate who is now, entertained our whole family sumptu-
ously last week ; wants us and Barnes and his wife to go to his
country-house at Christmas ; is as hospitable, my dear Mrs.
Pendennis, as man can be. He met you at Barnes's, and as
soon as we are alone," says the Colonel, turning round to
Laura's husband, " I will tell you in what terms Lady Clara
speaks of your wife. Yes. She is a good-natured kind little
woman, that Lady Clara." Here Laura s face assumed that
gravity and severeness which it always wore when Lady Clara's
name was mentioned, and the conversation took another turn.

Returning home from London one afternoon, I met the
Colonel, who hailed me on the omnibus and rode on his way
towards the City. I knew, of course, that he had been col-
loguing with my wife ; and taxed that young woman with these
continued flirtations. " Two or three times a week, Mrs. Laura,
you dare to receive a Colonel of Dragoons. You sit for hours

THE XEWCOMES.

547

closeted with the young fellow of sixty ; you change the con-
versation when your own injured husband enters the room, and
pretend to talk about the weather, or the baby. You little arch-
hypocrite, you know you do. — Don't try to humbug mc, miss ;
what will Richmond, what will society, what will Mrs. Grundy
in general say to such atrocious behavior ? "

"Oh, Pen," says my wife, closing my mouth in a way which
I do not choose farther to particularize ; "that man is the best,
the dearest, the kindest creature. I never knew such a good
man ; you ought to put him into a book. Do you know, sir,
that I felt the very greatest desire to give him a kiss when he
went away ; and that one which you had just now, was intended
for him."

" Take back thy gift, false girl ! " says Mr. Pendennis ; and
then, finally, we come to the particular circumstance which had
occasioned so much enthusiasm on Mrs. Laura's part.

Colonel Newcome had summoned heart of grace, and in
Clive's behalf had regularly proposed him to Barnes, as a suitor
to Ethel ; taking an artful advantage of his nephew Barnes
Newcome, and inviting that Baronet to a private meeting, where
they were to talk about the affairs of the Bundlecund Banking
Company.

Now this Bundlecund Banking Company, in the Colonel's
eyes, was in reality his son Clive. But for Give there might
have been a hundred banking companies established, yielding a
hundred per cent, in as many districts of India, and Thomas
Newcome, who had plenty of money for his own wants, would
never have thought of speculation. His desire was to see his boy
endowed with all the possible gifts of fortune. Had he built a
palace for Clive, and been informed that a roc's egg was re-
quired tQ complete the decoration of the edifice, Tom Newcome
would have travelled to the world's end in search of the want-
ing article. To see Prince Clive ride in a gold coach with a
princess beside him, was the kind old Colonel's ambition ; that
done, he would be content to retire to a garret in the prince's
castle, and smoke his cheroot there in peace. So the world is
made. The strong and eager covet honor and enjoyment for
themselves ; the gentle and disappointed (once they may have
been strong and eager too) desire these gifts for their children.
I think Clive's father never liked or understood the lad's choice
of a profession. He acquiesced in it, as he would in any of his
son's wishes. But, not being a poet himself, he could not see
the nobility of that calling; and felt secretly that his son was
demeaning himself by pursuing the art of painting. " Had he

548 THE in^VCOMES.

been a soldier, now," thought Thomas Newcome, H (though I
prevented that,) had he been richer than he is, he might have
married Ethel, instead of being unhappy as he now is, God help
him ! I remember my own time of grief well enough, and what
years it took before my wound was scarred over."

So, with these things occupying his brain, Thomas Xcw-
come artfully invited Barnes, his nephew, to dinner, under pre-
tence of talking of the affairs of the great B. B. C. With the
first glass of wine at dessert, and according to the Colonel's
good old-fashioned custom of proposing toasts, they drank the
health of the B. B. C. Barnes drank the toast with all his
generous heart. The B. B. C. sent to Hobson Brothers & New-
come a great deal of business, was in a most prosperous condi-
tion, kept a great balance at the bank, — a balance that would
not be overdrawn, as Sir Barnes Xewcome very well knew.
Barnes was for having more of these bills, provided there were
remittances to meet the same. Barnes was ready to do any
amount of business with the Indian bank, or with any bank, or
with any individual, Christian or heathen, white or black, who
could do good to the firm of Hobson Brothers & Xewcome.
He spoke upon this subject with great archness and candor ;
of course as a City man he would be glad to do a profitable
business anywhere, and the B. B. C.'s business was profitable.
But the interested motive, which he admitted frankly as a man
of the world, did not prevent other sentiments more agreeable.
" My dear Colonel," says Barnes, " I am happy, most happy,
to think that our house and our name should have been useful,
as I know they have been, in the establishment of a concern in
which one of our family is interested ; one whom wre all so
sincerely respect and regard." And he touched his glass with
his lips and blushed a little, as he bowed towards his uncle.
He found himself making a little speech, indeed ; and to do so
before one single person seems rather odd. Had there been a
large company present, Barnes would not have blushed at all,
but have tossed off his glass, struck his waistcoat possibly, and
looked straight in the face of his uncle as the chairman ; well,
he did very likely believe that he respected and regarded the
Colonel.

The Colonel said — " Thank you, Barnes, with all my heart.
It is always good for men to be friends, much more for blood
relations, as we are."

"A relationship which honors me, I'm sure ! " says Barnes,
with a tone of infinite affability. You see he believed that
Heaven had made him the Colonel's superior.

THE A'ElVCOJlfES.

549

"And I am very glad,'' the elder went on, "that you and
my boy are good friends."

" Friends ! of course. It would be unnatural if such near
relatives were otherwise than good friends."

" You have been hospitable to him, and Lady Clara very
kind, and he wrote to me telling me of your kindness. Ahem !
this is tolerable claret. I wonder where Clive gets it ? "

" You were speaking of that indigo, Colonel ! " here Barnes
interposes. " Our house has done very little in that way to be
sure ; but I suppose that our credit is about as good as Baines
and Jolly's, and if " but the Colonel is in a brown study.

" Clive will have a good bit of money when I die," resumes
Clive's father.

" Why, you are a hale man — upon my word, quite a young
man, and may marry again, Colonel," replies the nephew fasci-
natingly.

" I shall never do that," replies the other. " Ere many
years are gone, I shall be seventy years old, Barnes."

" Nothing in this country, my dear sir ! positively nothing.
Why, there was Titus, my neighbor in the country — when will
you come down to Newcome ? — who married a devilish pretty
girl, of very good family, too, Miss Burgeon, one of the Devon-
shire Burgeons. He looks, I am sure, twenty years older than
you do. Why should not you do likewise ? "

" Because I like to remain single, and want to leave Clive a
rich man. Look here, Barnes, you know the value of our bank
shares now ? "

" Indeed I do ; rather speculative ; but of course I know
what some sold for last week," says Barnes

" Suppose I realize now. I think I am worth six lacs. I
had nearly two from my poor father. I saved some before and
since I invested in this affair ; and could sell out to-morrow
with sixty thousand pounds."

"A very pretty sum of money, Colonel," says Barnes.

" I have a pension of a thousand a year."

" My dear Colonel, you are a capitalist ! we know it very
well," remarks Sir Barnes.

"And two hundred a year is as much as I want for myself,'*
continues the capitalist, looking into the fire, and jingling his
money in his pockets. " A hundred a year for a horse ; a
hundred a year for pocket-money, for I calculate, you know,
that Clive will give me a bedroom and my dinner."

" He — he ! If your son won't, your nepheiu will, my dear
Colonel !" says the affable Barnes, smiling sweetly.

55o THE NEWCOMES.

"I can give the boy a handsome allowance, you see," re*
sumes Thomas Newcome.

'•You can make him a handsome allowance now, and leave
him a good fortune when you die ! " says the nephew, in a noble
and courageous manner, — and as if he said Twelve times twelve
are a hundred and forty-four, and you have Sir Barnes New-
come's authority — Sir Barnes Newcome's, mind you — to say so.

" Not when I die, Barnes," the uncle goes on. " I will give
him every shilling I am worth to-morrow morning, if he marries
as I wish him."

" Tant mieux pour lui ! " cries the nephew ; and thought to
himself, " Lady Clara must ask Clive to dinner instantly. Con-
found the fellow ! I hate him — always have; but what luck he
has."

" A man with that property may pretend to a good wife, as
the French say ; hey, Barnes ? " asks the Colonel, rather eagerly,
looking up in his nephew's face.

That countenance was lighted up with a generous enthusi-
asm. " To any woman, in any rank — to a nobleman's daughter,
my dear sir ! " exclaims Sir Barnes.

" I want your sister ; I want my dear Ethel for him, Barnes,"
cries Thomas Newcome, with a trembling voice, and a twinkle
in his eyes. " That was the hope I always had till my talk with
your poor father stopped it. Your sister was engaged to my
Lord Kew then ; and my wishes of course were impossible.
The poor boy is very much cut up, and his whole heart is bent
upon possessing her. She is not, she can't be, indifferent to
him. I am sure she would not be, if her family in the least en-
couraged him. Can either of these young folks have a better
chance of happiness again offered to them in life. There's
youth, there's mutual liking, there's wealth for them almost —
only saddled with the incumbrance of an old dragoon, who
won't be much in their way. Give us your good word, Barnes,
and let them come together ; and upon my word the rest of my
days will be made happy if I can eat my meal at their table."

Whilst the poor Colonel was making his appeal Barnes had
time to collect his answer ; which, since in our character of his-
torians we take leave to explain gentlemen's motives as well as
record their speeches and actions, we may thus interpret.
"Confound the young beggar ! " thinks Barnes then. " He will
have three or four thousand a year, will he ? Hang him, but
it's a good sum of money. What a fool his father is to give it
away ! Is he joking ? No, he was always half crazy — the Col-
onel. Highgate seemed uncommonly sweet on her, and was

■

iirts .

A PROPOSAL.

THE XEWCOMES. ^t

always hanging about our house. Farintosh has not been
brought to book yet ; and perhaps neither of them will propose
for her. My grandmother, I should think, won't hear of her
making a low marriage, as this certainly is : but it's a pity to
throw away four thousand a year, ain't it ? " All these natural
calculations passed briskly through Barnes Newcome's mind,
as his uncle, from the opposite side of the fireplace, implored
him in the above little speech.

" My dear Colonel," said Barnes, "my dear, kind Colonel !
I needn't tell you that your proposal flatters us, as much as
your extraordinary generosity surprises me. I never heard
anything like it — never. Could I consult my own wishes, I
would at once — I would, permit me to say, from sheer admira-
tion of your noble character, say yes, with all my heart, to your
proposal. But, alas, I haven't that power."

" Is — is she engaged ? " asks the Colonel, looking as blank
and sad as Clive himself when Ethel had conversed with him.

" No— I cannot say engaged — though a person of the very
highest rank has paid her the most marked attention. But my
sister has, in a way, gone from our family, and from my in-
fluence as the head of it — an influence which I, I am sure, had
most gladly exercised in your favor. My grandmother, Lady
Kew, has adopted her ; purposes, I believe, to leave Ethel the
greater part of her fortune, upon certain conditions ; and, of
course, expects the — the obedience, and so forth, which is
customary in such cases. By the way, Colonel, is our young
soupiratit aware that papa is pleading his cause for him ? "

The Colonel said no ; and Barnes lauded the caution which
his uncle had displayed. It was quite as well for the young
man's interests (which Sir Barnes had most tenderly at heart)
that Clive Newcome should not himself move in the affair, or
present himself to Lady Kew. Barnes would take the matter
in hand at the proper season ; the Colonel might be sure it
would be most eagerly, most ardently pressed. Clive came
home at this juncture, whom Barnes saluted affectionately. He
and the Colonel had talked over their money business ; their
conversation had been most satisfactory, thank you. "Has it
not, Colonel ? " The three parted the very best of friends.

As Barnes Newcome professed that extreme interest for his
cousin and uncle, it is odd he did not tell them that Lady Kew
and Miss Ethel Newcome were at that moment within a mile
of them, at her ladyship's house in Queen Street, May Fair.
In the hearing of Clive's servant, Barnes did not order his
brougham to drive to Queen Street, but waited until he was in
Bond Street before he gave the order.

552

THE XEWCOMES.

And, of course, when he entered Lady Kew's house, he
straightway asked for his sister, and communicated to her the
generous offer which the good Colonel had made !

You see Lady Kew was in town, and not in town. Her
ladyship was but passing through, on her way from a tour of
visits in the North, to another tour of visits somewhere else.
The newspapers were not even off the blinds. The proprietot
of the house cowered over a bed-candle and a furtive teapot in
the back drawing-room. Lady Kew's gens were not here. The
tall canary ones with white polls only showed their plumage
and sang in spring. The solitary wretch who takes charge of
London houses, and the two servants specially affected to Lady
Kew's person, were the only people in attendance. In fact her
ladyship was not in town. And that is why no doubt Barnes
Newcome said nothing about her being there.

CHAPTER LII.

FAMILY SECRETS

The figure cowering over the furtive teapot glowered grimly
at Barnes as he entered ; and an old voice said — " Ho, it's
you ! "

" I have brought you the notes, ma'am," says Barnes, taking
a packet of those documents from his pocket-book. " I could
not come sooner, I have been engaged upon bank business
until now."

" I dare say ! You smell of smoke like a courier."

" A foreign capitalist : he would smoke. They will, ma'am,
/didn't smoke, upon my word."

" I don't see why you shouldn't, if you like it. You will
never get anything out of me whether you do or don't. How
is Clara ? Is she gone to the country with the children ? New-
come is the best place for her."

" Doctor Bambury thinks she can move in a fortnight. The
boy has had a little "

" A little fiddlestick ! I tell you it is she who likes to stay,
and makes that fool, Bambury, advise her not going away. I
tell you to send her to Newcome, the air is good for her."

" By that confounded smoky town, my dear Lady Kew ? "

" And invite your mother and little brothers and sisters te

77/?: rr/f IVCOMKS.

553

stay Christmas there. The way in which you neglect them 13
shameful, it is, Barnes."

" L'pon my word, ma'am, I propose to manage my own
affairs without your ladyship's assistance," cries Barnes, start-
ing up ; " and did not come at this time of night to hear this
kind of "

" Of good advice. I sent for you to give it you. When I
wrote to you to bring me the money I wanted, it was but a pre-
text j Barkins might have fetched it from the City in the morn-
ing. I want you to send Clara and the children to Newcome.
They ought to go, sir, that is why I sent for you ; to tell you
that. Have you been quarrelling as much as usual ? "

" Pretty much as usual," says Barnes, drumming on his hat.

" Don't beat that devil's tattoo ; you agacez my poor old
nerves. When Clara was given to you she was as well broke a
girl as any in London."

Sir Barnes responded by a groan.

"She was as gentle and amenable to reason, as good-
natured a girl as could be ; a little vacant and silly, but you
men like dolls for your wives ; and now in three years you have
utterly spoiled her. She is restive, she is artful, she "flies into
rages, she fights you and beats you. He ! he ! and that comes
of your beating her! "

" I didn't come to hear this, ma'am," says Barnes, livid with
rage.

" You struck her, you know you did, Sir Barnes Xewcome.
She rushed over to me last year on the night you did it, you
know she did."

" Great God, ma'am ! You know the provocation," screams
Barnes.

" Provocation or not, I don't say. But from that moment
she has beat you. You fool, to write her a letter and ask her
pardon ! If I had been a man I would rather have strangled
my wife, than have humiliated myself so before her. She will
never forgive that blow."

" I was mad when I did it \ and she drove me mad," says
Barnes. " She has the temper of a fiend, and the ingenuity of
the devil. In two years an entire change has come over her.
If I had used a knife to her I should not have been surprised.
But it is not with you to reproach me about Clara. Your lady
ship found her for me."

"And you spoilt her after she was found, sir. She told me
part of her story that night she came to me. I know it is true,
Barnes. You have treated her dreadfully, sir."

554 THE NEWCOMES.

" I know that she makes my life miserable, and there is no
help for it," says Barnes, grinding a curse between his teeth.
" Well, well, no more about this. How is Ethel ? Gone to
sleep after her journey? What do you think, ma;am, I have
brought for her ? A proposal."

" Bon Dieu ! You don't mean to say Charles Beisize
was in earnest ! " cries the dowager. " I always thought it
was a "

" It is not from Lord Highgate, ma'am," Sir Barnes said,
gloomily. " It is some time since I have known that he was
not in earnest ; and he knows that I am now."

" Gracious goodness ! come to blows with him, too ? You
have not ? That would be the very thing to make the world
talk," says the dowager, with some anxiety.

" No," answers Barnes. " He knows well enough that
there can be no open rupture. We had some words the other
day at a dinner he gave at his own house ; Colonel Newcome,
and that young beggar, Clive, and that fool, Mr. Hobson, were
there. Lord Highgate was confoundedly insolent. He told
me that I did not dare to quarrel with him because of the
account he kept at our house. I should like to have massacred
him ! She has told him that I struck her, — the insolent bru*e !
— he says he will tell it at my clubs ; and threatens personal
violence to me, there, if I do it again. Lady Kew, I'm not
safe from that man and that woman," cries poor Barnes, in an
agony of terror.

" Fighting is Jack Belsize's business, Barnes Newcome ;
banking is yours, luckily," said the dowager. " As old Lord
Highgate was to die, and his eldest son too, it is a pity cer-
tainly they had not died a year or two earlier, and left poor
Clara and Charles to come together. You should have mar-
ried some woman in the serious way ; my daughter Walham
could have found you one. Frank, I am told, and his wife go
on very sweetly together ; her mother-in-law governs the whole
family. They have turned the theatre back into a chapel
again : they have six little ploughboys dressed in surplices to
sing the service ; and Frank and the Vicar of Kewbury play at
cricket with them on holidays. Stay, why should not Clara go
to Kewbury ? "

" She and her sister have quarrelled about this very affair
with Lord Highgate. Some time ago it appears they had words
about it, and when I told Kew that by-gones had best be by-
gones, that Highgate was very sweet upon Ethel now, and that
I did not choose to lose such a good account as his, Kew was

THE XFAVCOMES.

555

rerv insolent to me ; his conduct was blackguardly, ma"am,
quite blackguardly, and you may be sure but for our relation-
ship I would have called him to "

Here the talk between Barnes and his ancestress was in-
terrupted by the appearance of Miss Ethel Newcome, taper in
hand, who descended from the upper regions enveloped in a
shawl.

11 How do you do, Barnes ? How is Clara ? I long to see
my little nephew. Is he like his pretty papa?" cries the
young lady, giving her fair cheek to her brother.

" Scotland has agreed with our Newcome rose," says
Barnes, gallantly. " My dear Ethel, I never saw you in
greater beauty."

" By the light of one bedroom candle ! what should I be if
the whole room were lighted ? You Would see my face then
was covered all over with wrinkles, and quite pale and wobe-
gone, with the dreariness of the Scotch journey. Oh, what a
time we have spent ! haven't we, grandmamma ? I never wish
to go to a great castle again ; above all, I never wish to go to
a little shooting-box. Scotland may be very well for men ; but
for women — allow me to go to Paris when next there is talk of
a Scotch expedition. I had rather be in a boarding school in
the Champs Elyse'es than in the finest castle in the Highlands.
If it had not been for a blessed quarrel with Eanny Follington,
I think I should have died at Glen Shorthorn. Have you seen
my dear, dear uncle, the Colonel ? When did he arrive ? "

" Is he come ? Why is he come ? " asks Lady Kew.

" Is he come ? Look here, grandmamma ! did you ever
see such a darling shawl ! I found it in a packet in my room."

" Well, it is beautiful," cries the Dowager, bending her
ancient nose over the web. "Your Colonel is a galant homme.
That must be said of him ; and in this does not quite take after
the rest of the familv. Hum ! hum ! Is he going away again
soon ? "

" He has made a fortune, a very considerable fortune for a
man in that rank in life," says Sir Barnes. "He cannot have
less than sixty thousand pounds."

" Is that much ? " asks Ethel.

" Not in England, at our rate of interest ; but his money is
in India, where he gets a great percentage. His income must
be five or six thousand pounds, ma'am," says Barnes, turning
to Lady Kew.

" A few of the Indians were in society in my time, my dear."
says Lady Kew, musingly, tf My father has often talked to me

5 g 6 THE NE WcuMES.

about Barwell of Stanstead, and his house in St. James's Square \
the man who ordered \ more curricles ' when there were not
carriages enough for his guests. I was taken to Mr. Hastings'
trial. It was very stupid and long. The young man, the painter,
I suppose will leave his paint-pots now, and set up as a gentle-
man. I suppose they Mere very poor, or his father would not
have put him to such a profession. Barnes, why did you not
make him a clerk in the bank, and save him from the hu-
miliation ? "

" Humiliation ! why, he is proud of it. My uncle is as proud
as a Plantagenet ; though he is as humble as — as what ? Give
me a simile, Barnes. Do you know what my quarrel with
Fanny Follington was about ? She said we were not descended
from the barber-surgeon, and laughed at the Battle of Bosworth.
She says our great-grandfather was a weaver. JFas he a
weaver?"

" How should I know ? and what on earth does it matter,
my child ? Except the Gaunts, the Howards, and one or two
more, there is scarcely any good blood in England. You are
lucky in sharing some of mine. My poor Lord Kew's grand-
father was an apothecary at Hampton Court, and founded the
family by giving a dose of rhubarb to Queen Caroline. As a
rule, nobody is of a good family. Didn't that young man, that
son of the Colonel's, go about last year ! How did he get in
society ? Where did we meet him ? Oh ! at Baden, yes ; when
Barnes was courting, and my grandson — yes, my grandson —
acted so wickedly.'' Here she began to cough, and to tremble
so, that her old stick shook under her hand. " Ring the bell
for Ross. Ross, I will go to bed. Go you too, Ethel. You
have been travelling enough to-day."

" Her memory seems to fail her a little," Ethel whispered
to her brother ; "or she will only remember what she wishes.
Don't you see that she has grown very much older ? "

" I will be with her in the morning. I have business with
her," said Barnes.

" Good-night. Give my love to Clara, and kiss the little
ones for me. Have you done what you promised me, Barnes ?"

" What ? "

" To be — to be kind to Clara. Don't say cruel things to
her. She has a high spirit, and she feels them, though she says
nothing."

" Doesn't she ? " said Barnes, grimly.

" Ah, Barnes, be gentle with her. Seldom as I saw you
together, when I lived with you in the spring, I could see that

THE NRWCO&ES. 557

you were harsh, though she affected to laugh when she spoke
of your conduct to her. Be kind. I am sure it is the best,
Barnes; better than all the wit in the world. Look at grand-
mamma, how witty she was and is ; what a reputation she had,
how people were afraid of her ; and see her now — quite alone."

"1*11 see her in the morning quite alone, my dear," savs
Barnes, waving a little gloved hand. " Jiy — by!" and his
brougham drove away. While Ethel Newcome had been under
her brother's roof, where I and friend Give, and scores of
others had been smartly entertained, there had been quarrels
and recriminations, misery and heart-burning, cruel words and
shameful struggles, the wretched combatants in which appeared
before the world with smiling faces, resuming their battle when
the feast was concluded and the company gone.

On the next morning, when Barnes came to visit his grand-
mother, Miss Newcome was gone away to see her sister-in-law,
Lady Kew said, with whom she was going to pass the morning;
so Barnes and Lady Kew had an uninterrupted tete-d-tett\ in
which the former acquainted the old lady with the proposal
which Colonel Newcome had made to him on the previous
night.

Lady Kew wondered what the impudence of the world
would come to. An artist propose for Ethel ! One of her
footmen might propose next, and she supposed Barnes would
bring the message. "The father came and proposed for
this young painter, and you didn't order him out of the room ! "

Barnes laughed. " The Colonel is one of my constituents.
I can't afford to order one of the Bundlecund Banking Com-
pany out of its own room."

" You did not tell Ethel this pretty news, I suppose ? "

" Of course I didn't tell Ethel. Nor did I tell the Colonel
that Ethel was in London. He fancies her in Scotland with
your ladyship at this moment."

" I wish the Colonel were at Calcutta, and his son with him.
I wish he was in the Ganges, I wish he was under Juggernaut's
car." cried the old lady. "How much money has the wretch
really got ? If he is of importance to the bank, of course you
must keep well with him. Five thousand a year, and he says
he will settle it all on his son ? He must be crazy. There is
nothing some of these people will not do, no sacrifice they will
not make, to ally themselves with good families. Certainly
you must remain on good terms with him and his bank. And
we must say nothing of the business to Ethel, and trot out of
town as quickly as we can. Let me see. We go to Drumming-

558

THE NEWCOMES.

ton on Saturday. This is Tuesday. Barkins, you will keep
the front drawing-room shutters shut, and remember we are not
in town, unless Lady Gienlivat or Lord Farintosh should call."

" Do you think Farintosh will — will call, ma'am ? " asked
Sir Barnes demurely.

" He will be going through to Newmarket. He has been
where we have been at two or three places in Scotland," replies
the lady, with equal gravity. " His poor mother wishes him to
give up his bachelor's life — as well she may — for you young
men are terribly dissipated. Rossmont is quite a regal place.
His Norfolk house is not inferior. A young man of that station
ought to marry, and live at his places, and be an example to
his people, instead of frittering away his time at Paris and
Vienna amongst the most odious company."

" Is he going to Drummington ? " asks the grandson.

" I believe he has been invited. We shall go to Paris for
November, he probably will be there," answered the Dowager
casually ; " and tired of the dissipated life he has been leading,
let us hope he will mend his ways, and find a virtuous, well-
bred young woman to keep him right." With this her lady-
ship's apothecary is announced, and her banker and grandson
takes his leave.

Sir Barnes walked into the City with his umbrella, read his
letters, conferred with his partners and confidential clerks ; was
for a while not the exasperated husband, or the affectionate
brother, or the amiable grandson, but the shrewd, brisk banker,
engaged entirely with his business. Presently he had occasion
to go on 'Change, or elsewhere, to confer with brother capital-
ists, and in Cornhill behold he meets his uncle, Colonel New-
come, riding towards the India House, a groom behind him.

The Colonel springs off his horse, and Barnes greets him
in the blandest manner. u. Have you any news for me,
Barnes ? " cries the officer.

" The accounts from Calcutta are remarkably good. That
cotton is of admirable quality really. Mr. Briggs, of our house,
who knows cotton as well as any man in England, says "

" It's not the cotton, my dear Sir Barnes," cries the other.

" The bills are perfectly good ; there is no sort of difficulty
about them. Our house will take half a million of 'em, if "

"You are talking of bills, and I am thinking of poor Clive,"
the Colonel interposes. " I wish you could give me good news
for him, Barnes."

" I wish I could. I heartily trust that I may some day.
My good wishes you know are enlisted in your son's behalf, "

THE NEWCOMES. 559

cries Lames gallantly. " Droll place to talk sentiment in—
Cornhill, isn't it ? But Ethel, as 1 told you, is in the hands of
higher powers, and we must conciliate Lady Kew if we can.
She has always spoken very highly of Clive ; very.''

" Had I not best go to her? " asks the Colonel.

" Into the North, my good sir ? She is — ah — she is travel-
ling about. I think you had best depend upon me. Good
morning. In the City we have no hearts, you know, Colonel.
Be sure you shall hear from me as soon as Lady Kew and
Ethel come to town.1'

And the banker hurried away, shaking his finger-tips to his
uncle, and leaving the good Colonel utterly surprised at his
statements. For the fact is, the Colonel knew that Lady Kew
was in London, having been apprised of the circumstance in
the simplest manner in the world, namely, by a note from Miss
Ethel, which billet he had in his pocket, whilst he was talking
with the head of the house of Hobson Brothers.

" My dear Uncle " (the note said) — " How glad I shall be
to see you ! How shall I thank you for the beautiful shawl,
and the kind, kind remembrance of me ? I found your present
yesterday evening on our arrival from the North. We are only
here en passant, and see nobody in Queen Street but Barnes,
who has just been about business, and he does not count, you
know. I shall go and see Clara to-morrow, and make her take
me to see your pretty friend, Mrs. Pendennis. How glad I
should be if you happened to pay Mrs. P. a visit about two.
Good-night. I thank you a thousand times, and am always
your affectionate — E.

" Queen Street. Tuesday night. Twelve o'clock ■."

This note came to Colonel Newcome's breakfast-table, and
he smothered the exclamation of wonder which was rising to
his lips, not choosing to provoke the questions of Clive, who
sat opposite to him. Clive's father was in a woeful perplexity
all that forenoon. " Tuesday night, twelve o'clock," thought
he. " Why, Barnes must have gone to his grandmother from
my dinner-table ; and he told me she was out of town, and said
so again just now when we met in the City." (The Colonel was
riding towards Richmond at this time.) " What cause had the
young man to tell me these lies ? Lady Kew may not wish to
be at home for me, but need Barnes Newcome say what is un-
true to mislead me ? The fellow actually went away simpering,
and kissing his hand tome, with a falsehood on his lips ! What
a pretty villain ! A fellow would deserve, and has got, a horse-
whipping for less. And to think of a Newcome doing this to

56o THE iriz iVCOMES.

his own flesh and blood ; a young Judas ! " Very sad and be-
wildered, the Colonel rode towards Richmond, where he was
to happen to call on Mrs. Pendennis.

It was not much of a fib that Barnes had told. Lady Kew
announcing that she was out of town, her grandson, no doubt,
thought himself justified in saying so, as any other of her ser-
vants would have done. But if he had recollected how Ethel
came down with the Colonel's shawl on her shoulders, how it
was possible she might have written to thank her uncle, surely
Barnes Newcome would not have pulled that unlucky long-bow.
The banker had other things to think of than Ethel and her
shawl.

When Thomas Newcome dismounted at the door of Honey-
moon Cottage, Richmond, the temporary residence of A. Pen-
dennis, Esq., one of the handsomest young women in England
ran into the passage with outstretched arms, called him her
dear old uncle, and gave him two kisses, that I dare say brought
blushes on his lean sun-burnt cheeks. Ethel clung always to
his affection. She wanted that man, rather than any other in
the whole world, to think well of her. When she was with him,
she was the amiable and simple, the loving impetuous creature
of old times. She chose to think of no other. Worldliness,
heartlessness, eager scheming, cold flirtations, marquis-hunting
and the like, disappeared for a while — and were not, as she sat
at that honest man's side. Oh me ! that we should have to re-
cord such charges against Ethel Newcome !

" He was come home for good now ? He would never leave
that boy he spoiled so, who was a good boy, too ; she wished
she could see him oftener. At Paris, at Madame de Florae's
— I found out all ab^ut Madame de Florae, sir," says Miss
Ethel, with a laugh — " we used often to meet there ; and here,
sometimes, in London. But in London it was different. You
know what peculiar notions some people have ; and as I live
with grandmamma, who is most kind to me and my brothers,
of course I must obey her, and see her friends rather than my
own. She likes going out into the world, and I am bound in
duty to go with her," &c, &c. Thus the young lady went on
talking, defending herself whom nobody attacked, protesting
her dislike to gayety and dissipation — you would have fancied
her an artless young country lass, only longing to trip back to
her village, milk her cows at sunrise, and sit spinning of winter
evenings by the fire.

" Why do you come and spoil my tete-a-tete with my uncle,
Mr. Pendennis ? " cries the young lady to the master of the

THE XEU'COMES. 56l

house, who happens to enter. " Of all the men in the world
the one 1 like best to talk to ! Does he not look younger than
when he went to India? When Clive marries that pretty little
Miss Mackenzie, you will marry again, uncle, and I will be
jealous of your wife."

" Did Barnes tell you that we had met last night, my dear ? "
asks the Colonel.

" Not one word. Your shawl and your dear kind note told
me you were come. Why did not Barnes tell us ? Why do
you look so grave ? "

" He has not told her that I was here, and would have me
believe her absent,*' thought Newcome, as his countenance fell.
" Shall I give her my own message, and plead my poor boy's
cause with her ? " I know not whether he was about to lay his
suit before her ; he said himself subsequently that his mind
was not made up, but at this juncture, a procession of nurses
and babies made their appearance, followed by the two mothers,
who had been comparing their mutual prodigies (each lady hav-
ing her own private opinion) — Lady Clara and my wife — the
latter for once gracious to Lady Clara Newcome, in considera-
tion of the infantine company with which she came to visit
Mrs. Pendennis.

Luncheon was served presently. The carriage of the New-
comes drove away, my wife smilingly pardoning Ethel for the
assignation which the young person had made at our house.
And when those ladies were gone, our good Colonel held a
council of war with us his two friends, and told us what had
happened between him and Barnes on that morning and the
previous night. His offer to sacrifice every shilling of his for-
tune to young . Clive seemed to him to be perfectly simple
(though the recital of the circumstances brought tears into my
wife's eyes) — he mentioned it by the way, and as a matter that
was scarcely to call for comment, much less praise.

Barnes's extraordinary statements respecting Lady Kew's
absence puzzled the elder Newcome ; and he spoke of his
nephew's conduct with much indignation. In vain I urged that
her ladyship desiring to be considered absent from London,
her grandson was bound to keep her secret. " Keep her secret,
yes ! Tell me lies, no ! " cries out the Colonel. Sir Barnes's
conduct was in fact indefensible, though not altogether unusual
— the worst deduction to be drawn from it, in my opinion, was
that Clive's chance with the young lady was but a poor one,
and that Sir Barnes Newcome, inclined to keep his uncle in
good-humor, would therefore give him no disagreeable refusal.

-6

s62 THE KEWCOMES.

Now this gentleman could no more pardon a lie than hfc
could utter one. He would believe all and everything a man
told him until deceived once, after which he never forgave.
And wrath being once roused in his simple mind and distrust
firmly fixed there, his anger and prejudices gathered daily. He
could see no single good quality in his opponent ; and hated
him with a daily increasing bitterness.

As ill-luck would have it, that very same evening, at his re-
turn to town, Thomas Xewcome entered Bays's club, of which,
at our request, he had become a member during his last visit
to England, and there was Sir Barnes, as usual, on his way
homewards from the City. Barnes was writing at a table, and
sealing and closing a letter, as he saw the Colonel enter j he
thought he had been a little inattentive and curt with his uncle
in the morning ; had remarked, perhaps, the expression of dis-
approval on the Colonel's countenance. He simpered up to
his uncle as the latter entered the club room, and apologized
for his haste when they met in the City in the morning — all
City men were so busy ! " And I have been writing about this
little affair, just as you came in," he said ; " quite a moving
letter to Lady Kew, I assure yon, and I do hope and trust we
shall have a favorable answer in a day or two."

" You said her ladyship was in the North, I think ? " said
the Colonel, dryly.

" Oh, yes — in the North, at — at Lord Wallsend's — great
coal-proprietor, you know/'

" And your sister is with her ? "

" Ethel is always with her."

" I hope you will send her my very best remembrances,"
said the Colonel.

"I'll open the letter, and add 'em in a postscript," said
Barnes.

" Confounded liar ! " cried the Colonel, mentioning the cir-
cumstance to me afterwards, " why does not somebody pitch
him out of the bow-window ? "

If we were in the secret of Sir Barnes Newcome's corres-
pondence, and could but peep into that particular letter to his
grandmother, I dare say we should read that he had seen the
Colonel; who was very anxious about his darling youth's suit,
but pursuant to Lady Kew's desire, Barnes had stoutly main-
tained that her ladyship was still in the North, enjoying the
genial hospitality of Lord Wallsend. That of course he should
say nothing to Ethel, except with Lady Kew's full permission ;
that he wished her a pleasant trip to , and was, &c, &c.

THE NEVVCOMES. 563

Then if we could follow him, we might see him reach his
Belgravian mansion, and fling an angry word to his wife as she
sits alone in the darkling drawing-room, poring over the embers.

He will ask her, probably with an oath, why the she is not

dressed ? and if she always intends to keep her company wait-
ing ? An hour hence, each with a smirk, and the lady in smart
raiment, with flowers in her hair, will be greeting their guests
as they arrive. Then will come dinner and such conversation
as it brings. Then at night Sir Barnes will issue forth, cigar
in mouth ; to return to his own chamber at his own hour ; to
breakfast by himself ; to go City-wards, money-getting. He
will see his children once a fortnight, and exchange a dozen
sharp words with his wife twice in that time.

More and more sad does the Lady Clara become from day
to day ; liking more to sit lonely over the fire ; careless about
the sarcasms of her husband ; the prattle of her children. She
cries sometimes over the cradle of the young heir. She is
aweary, aweary. You understand the man to whom her parents
sold her does not make her happy, though she has been bought
with diamonds, two carriages, several large footmen, a fine
country-house with delightful gardens and conservatories, and
with all this she is miserable — is it possible ?

CHAPTER LIII.

IN WHICH KINSMEN FALL OUT.

Not the least difficult part of Thomas Newcome's present
business was to keep from his son all knowledge of the nego-
tiarion in which he was engaged on Clive's behalf. If my
gentle reader has had sentimental disappointments, he or she
is aware that the friends who have given him most sympathy
under these calamities have been persons who have had dis-
mal histories of their own at some time of their lives, and I con-
clude Colonel Newcome in his early days must have suffered
very cruelly in that affair of which we have a slight cognizance,
or he would not have felt so very much anxiety about Clive's
condition.

A few chapters back and we described the first attack, and
Clive's manful cure : then we had to indicate the young gentle-

564

THE NEWCOMES.

man's relapse, and the noisy exclamations of the youth under
this second outbreak of fever. Calling him back after she had
dismissed him, and finding pretext after pretext to see him,—
why did the girl encourage him, as she certainly did ? I allow,
with Mrs. Grundy and most moralists, that Miss Xewcome's
conduct in this matter was highly reprehensible ; that if she did
not intend to marry Give she should have broken with him
altogether ; that a virtuous young woman of high principle, &C;,
<Scc, having once determined to reject a suitor, should separate
from him utterly then and there — never give him again the least
chance of a hope, or re-illume the extinguished fire in the
wretch's bosom.

But coquetry, but kindness, but family affection, and a
strong, very strong partiality for the rejected lover — are these
not to be taken in account, and to plead as excuses for her
behavior to her cousin ? The least unworthy part of her con-
duct, some critics will say, was that desire to see Give and be
well with him : as she felt the greatest regard for him, the show-
ing it was not blamable ; and every flutter which she made to
escape out of the meshes which the world had cast about her,
was but the natural effort at liberty. It was her prudence which
was wrong ; and her submission, wherein she was most culpable.
In the early church story, do we not read how young martyrs
constantly had to disobey worldly papas and mammas, who
would have had them silent, and not utter their dangerous opin-
ions ? how their parents locked them up, kept them on bread
and water, whipped and tortured them, in order to enforce obe-
dience ? — nevertheless they would declare the truth : they would
defy the gods by law established, and deliver themselves up to
the lions or the tormentors. Are not there Heathen Idols
enshrined among us still ? Does not the world worship them,
and persecute those who refuse to kneel ? Do not many timid
souls sacrifice to them ; and other bolder spirits rebel, and,
with rage at their hearts, bend down their stubborn knees at
their altars ? See ! I began by siding with Mrs. Grundy and
the world, and at the next turn of the see-saw have lighted down
on Ethel's side, and am disposed to think that the very best
part of her conduct has been those escapades which — which
right-minded persons most justly condemn. At least that a
young beauty should torture a man with alternate liking and
indifference ; allure, dismiss, and call him back out of banish-
ment ; practise arts-to-please upon him, and ignore them when
rebuked for her coquetry — these are surely occurrences so com-
mon in young women's history as to call for no special censure i

THE XEU'COMES. 565

and. if on these charges Miss Xewcome is guilty, is she, of all
her &e*, alone in her criminality ?

So Ethel and her duenna went away upon their tour of visits
to mansions so splendid, and among hosts and guests so polite,
that the present modest historian does not dare to follow them.
Suffice it to say that Duke This and Earl That were, according
to their hospitable custom, entertaining a brilliant circle of
friends at their respective castles, all whose names the Morning
Post gave ; and among them those of the Dowager Countess of
Kew, and Miss Xewcome.

During her absence Thomas Newcome grimly awaited the
result of his application to Barnes. That baronet showed his
uncle a letter, or rather a postscript, from Lady Kew, which had
probably been dictated by Barnes himself, in which the Dowager
said she was greatly touched by Colonel Xewcome's noble offer j
that though she owned she had very different views for her
granddaughter, Miss Xewcome's choice of course lay with her-
self. Meanwhile, Lady K. and Ethel were engaged in a round
of visits to the country, and there would be plenty of time to
resume this subject when they came to London for the season.
And, lest dear Ethel's feelings should be needlessly agitated by
a discussion of the subject, and the Colonel should take a fancy
to write to her privately, Lady Kew gave orders that all letters
from London should be despatched under cover to her lady-
ship, and carefully examined the contents of the packet before
Ethel received her share of the correspondence.

To write to her personally on the subject of the marriage,
Thomas Newcome had determined was not a proper course
for him to pursue. "They consider themselves," says he,
''above us, forsooth, in their rank of life, (Oh, mercy! what
pygmies we are ! and don't angels weep at the brief authority in
which we dress ourselves up !) and of course the approaches on
our side must be made in regular form, and the parents of the
young people must act for them. Clive is too honorable a man
to wish to conduct the affair in any other way. He might try
the influence of his beaux \euxs and run off to Gretna with a
girl who had nothing j but the young lady being wealthy, and
his relation, sir, we must be on the point of honor ; and all the
Kews in Christendom sha'n't have more pride than we in this
matter."

All this time we are keeping Mr. Clive purposely in the
background. His face is so wobegone that we do not care to
bring it forward in the family picture. His case is so common
that surely its lugubrious symptoms need not be described at

50G

THE NEWCOMES.

length. He works away fiercely at his pictures, and in spite of
himself improves in his art. He sent a " Combat of Cavalry,"
and a picture of " Sir Brian the Templar carrying off Rebecca,"
to the British Institution this year ; both of which pieces were
praised in other journals besides the Pall "Mall Gazette. He
did not care for the newspaper praises. He was rather sur-
prised when a dealer purchased his " Sir Brian the Templar."
He came and went from our house a melancholy swain. He was
thankful for Laura's kindness and pity. J. J.'s studio was his
principal resort ; and I dare say, as he set up his own easel
there, and worked by his friend's side, he bemoaned his lot to
his sympathizing friend.

Sir Barnes Newcome's family was absent from London dur-
ing the winter. His mother, and his brothers and sisters, his
wife- and his two children, were gone to Newcome for Christ-
mas. Some six weeks after seeing him, Ethel wrote her uncle
a kind, merry letter. They had been performing private
theatricals at the country-house where she and Lady Kew were
staying. " Captain Crackthorpe made an admirable Jeremy
Diddler in ' Raising the Wind.' Lord Farintosh broke down
lamentably as Fusbos in ' Bombastes Furioso.'" Miss Ethel
had distinguished herself in both of these facetious little come-
dies. " I should like Clive to paint me as Miss Plainways,"
she wrote. " I wore a powdered front, painted my face all over
wrinkles, imitated old Lady Griffin as well as I could, and
looked sixty at least."

Thomas Newcome wrote an answer to his fair niece's pleas-
ant letter : " Clive," he said, " would be happy to bargain to
paint her, and nobody else but her, all the days of his life ;
and," the Colonel was sure, " would admire her at sixty as
much as he did now, when she was forty years younger." But,
determined on maintaining his appointed line of conduct re-
specting Miss Newcome, he carried his letter to Sir Barnes, and
desired him to forward it to his sister. Sir Barnes took the
note, and promised to despatch it. The communications be-
tween him and his uncle had been very brief and cold, since
the telling of those little fibs concerning old Lady Kew's visits
to London, which the Baronet dismissed from his mind as soon
as they were spoken, and which the good Colonel never could
forgive. Barnes asked his uncle to dinner once or twice, but
the Colonel was engaged. How was Barnes to know the rea-
son of the elder's refusal ? A London man, a banker and a
member of Parliament, has a thousand things to think of ; and
no time to wonder that friends refuse his invitations to dinner.

o

THE NEWCOMES. 567

Barnes continued to grin and smile most affectionately when
he met the Colonel ; to press his hand, to congratulate him on
the last accounts from India, unconscious of the scorn and dis-
trust with which his senior mentally regarded him. " Old boy
is doubtful about the young cub's love-affair," the Baronet may
have thought. " We'll ease his old mind on that point some
time hence." No doubt Barnes thought he was conducting
the business very smartly and diplomatically.

I heard myself news at this period from the gallant Crack-
thorpe, which, being interested in my young friend's happiness,
filled me with some dismay. " Our friend the painter and
glazier has been hankering about our barracks at Knights-
bridge " (the noble Life Guards Green had now pitched their
tents in that suburb), " and pumping me about la belle cousine.
I don't like to break it to him — I don't really, now. But it's
all up with his chance, I think. Those private theatricals at
Fallowfield have done Farintosh's business. He used to rave
about the Newcome to me, as we were riding home from
hunting. He gave Bob Henchman the lie, who told a story
which Bob got from his man, who had it from Miss Newcome's
lady's-maid, about — about some journey to Brighton, which the
cousins took." Here Mr. Crackthorpe grinned most facetiously.
" Farintosh swore he'd knock Henchman down ; and vows he
will be the death of — will murder our friend Clive when he
comes to town. As for Henchman, he was in a desperate way.
He lives on the Marquis, you know, and Farintosh's anger or
his marriage will be the loss of free quarters, and ever so many
good dinners a year to him." I did not deem it necessary
to impart Crackthorpe's story to Clive, or explain to him the
reason why Lord Farintosh scowled most fiercely upon the
young painter, and passed him without any other sign of recog-
nition one day as Clive and I were walking together in Pall
Mall. If my lord wanted a quarrel, young Clive wras not a man
to baulk him, and would have been a very fierce customer to
deal with, in his actual state of mind.

A pauper child in London at seven years old knows how to
go to market, to fetch the beer, to pawn father's coat, to choose
the largest fried fish or the nicest ham-bone, to nurse Mary
Jane of three, — to conduct a hundred operations of trade or
housekeeping, which a little Belgravian does not perhaps ac-
quire in all the days of her life. Poverty and necessity force
this precociousness on the poor little brat. There are children
who are accomplished shoplifters and liars almost as soon as

568 THE lYEUTOMES.

they can toddle and speak. I dare say little Princes know the
laws of etiquette as regards themselves, and the respect due
to their rank at a very early period of their royal existence.
Every one of us, according to his degree, can point to the
Princekins of private life who are flattered and worshipped, and
whose little shoes grown men kiss as soon almost as they walk
upon ground.

It is a wonder what human nature will support : and that, con-
sidering the amount of flattery some people are crammed with
from their cradles, they do not grow worse and more selflsh
than they are. Our poor little pauper just mentioned is dosed
with Daffy's Elixir, and somehow survives the drug. Prince-
kin or lordkin from his earliest days has nurses, dependants,
governesses, little friends, schoolfellows, schoolmasters, fellow-
collegians, college tutors, stewards and valets, led-captains of
his suite, and women innumerable flattering him and doing him
honor. The tradesman's manner, which to you and me is
decently respectful, becomes straightway frantically servile
before Princekin. Folks at railway stations whisper to their
families, " That's the Marquis of Farintosh,'' and look hard
at him as he passes. Landlords cry, " This way, my lord ; this
room for your lordship." They say at public schools Princekin
is taught the beauties of equality, and thrashed into some kind
of subordination. Psha ! Toad-eaters in pinafores surround
Princekin. Do not respectable people send their children so
as to be at the same school with him ; don't they follow him to
college, and eat his toads through life ?

And as for women — O my dear friends and brethren in this
vale of tears — did you ever see anything so curious, monstrous
and amazing as the way in which women court Princekin when
he is marriageable, and pursue him with their daughters? Who
was the British nobleman in old old days who brought his
three daughters to the King of Mercia, that his Majesty might
choose one after inspection ? Mercia was but a petty province,
and its king in fact a Princekin. Ever since those extremely
ancient and venerable times the custom exists not only in
Mercia, but in all the rest of the provinces inhabited by the
Angles, and before Princekins the daughters of our nobles are
trotted out.

There was no day of his life which our young acquaintance,
the Marquis of Farintosh, could remember on which he had
not been flattered ; and no society which did not pay him
court. At a private school he could recollect the master's wife
stroking his pretty curls and treating him furtively to goodies j

THE XEW COMES. 569

at college he had the tutor simpering and bowing as he swag-
gered over the grass-plot j old men at clubs would make way
for him and fawn on him — not your mere picque assiettes and
penniless parasites, but most respectable toad-eaters, fathers of
honest families, gentlemen themselves of good station, who
respected this young gentleman as one of the institutions of
their country, and admired the wisdom of the nation that set
him to legislate over us. When Lord Farintosh walked the
streets at night, he felt himself like Haroun Alraschid — (that
is, he-would have felt so had he ever heard of the Arabian
potentate) — a monarch in disguise affably observing and
promenading the City. And let us be sure there was a Mesrour
in his train to knock at the doors for him and run the errands
of ffiis young caliph. Of course he met with scores of men in
life who neither flattered him nor would suffer his airs ; but he
did not like the company of such, or for the sake of truth to
undergo the ordeal of being laughed at ; he preferred toadies,
generally speaking. "I like," says he, "you know, those
iellows who are always saying pleasant things, you know, and
who would run from here to Hammersmith if I asked 'em —
much better than those fellows who are always making fun of me,
you know." A man of his station who likes flatterers need
not shut himself up ; he can get plenty of society.

As for women, it was his lordship's opinion that every
daughter of Eve was bent on marrying him. A Scotch marquis,
an English earl, of the best blood in the empire, with a hand-
some person, and a fortune of fifteen thousand a year, how
could the poor creatures do otherwise than long for him ? He
blandly received their caresses ; took their coaxing and cajolery
as matters of course ; and surveyed the beauties of his time as
the Caliph the moonfaces of his harem. My lord intended to
marry certainly. He did not care for money, nor for rank ; he
expected consummate beauty and talent, and some day would
ung his handkerchief to the possessor of these, and place her
)iy his side upon the Farintosh throne.

At this time there were but two or three young ladies in
ciety endowed with the necessary qualifications, or who found
favor in his eyes. His lordship hesitated in his selection from
these beauties. He was not in a hurry, he was not angry at
the notion that Lady Kew (and Miss Newcome with her)
hunted him. What else should they do but pursue an object
so charming ? Everybody hunted him. The other young ladies,
whom we need not mention, languished after him still more
longingly. He had little notes from these; presents of purses

57°

THE NEWCOMES.

worked by them, and cigar-cases embroidered with his coronet
They sang to him in cosy boudoirs — mamma went out of the
room, and sister Ann forgot something in the drawing-room.
They ogled him as they sang. Trembling they gave him a little
foot to mount them, that they might ride on horseback with
him. They tripped along by his side from the Hall to the
pretty country church on Sundays. They warbled hymnSj
sweetly looking at him the while mamma whispered confides
tially to him, " What an angel Cecilia is ! " And so forth, and
so forth — with which chaff our noble bird was by no means to
be caught. When he had made up his great mind, that the
time was come and the woman, he was ready to give a Mar-
chioness of Farintosh to the English nation.

■&*

Miss Newcome has been compared ere this to the statue of
" Huntress Diana " at the Louvre, whose haughty figure and
beauty the young lady indeed somewhat resembled. I was not
present when Diana and Diana's grandmother hunted the noble
Scottish stag of whom we have just been writing ; nor care to
know how many times Lord Farintosh escaped, and how at last
he was brought to bay and taken by his resolute pursuers.
Paris, it appears, was the scene of his fall and capture. The
news was no doubt well known amongst Lord Farintosh's
brother dandies, among exasperated matrons and virgins in
May Fair, and in polite society generally, before it came to
simple Tom Xewcome and his son. Not a word on the subject
had Sir Barnes mentioned to the Colonel : perhaps not choos-
ing to speak till the intelligence was authenticated ; perhaps
not wishing to be the bearer of tidings so painful.

Though the Colonel may have read in his Pall Mall Gazette
a paragraph which announced an approaching marriage in
high life, "between a noble young marquis and an accom-
plished and beautiful young lady, daughter and sister of a
Northern baronet," he did not know who were the fashionable
persons about to be made happy, nor, until he received a letter
from an old friend who lived at Paris, was the fact conveyed to
him. Here is the letter preserved by him along with all that
he ever received from the same hand : —

■ Rue St. Dominique, St. Germain, Paris, to Fev.
" So behold you of return, my friend ! you quit forever the
sword and those arid plains where you have passed so many
years of your life, separated from those to whom, at the com-
mencement, you held very nearly. Did it not seem once as if

THE NEWCOMES.

57*

two hands never could unlock, so closely were they enlaced
together? Ah, mine are old and feeble now; forty years have
passed since the time when you used to say they were young
and fair. How well I remember me of every one of those days,
though there is a death between me and them, and it is as
across a grave I review them. Yet another parting, and tears
and regrets are finished. Tenet, I do not believe them when
they say there is no meeting for us afterwards, there above. To
what good to have seen you, friend, if we are to part here, and
in Heaven too ? I have not altogether forgotten your language,
is it not so ? I remember it because it was yours, and that of
my happy days. I radote like an old woman as I am. M. de
Florae has known my history from the commencement. May I
not say that after so many of years I have been faithful to him
and to all my promises ? When the end comes with its great
absolution, I shall not be sorry. One supports the combats of
life, but they are long, and one comes from them very wounded \
ah, when shall they be over?

" You return and I salute you with wishes for parting. How
much egotism ! I have another project which I please myself
to arrange. You know how I am arrived to love Clive as my
own child. I very quick surprised his secret, the poor boy,
when he was here it is twenty months. He looked so like you
as I repeal me of you in the old time ! He told me he had no
hope of his beautiful cousin. I have heard of the fine marriage
that one makes her. Paul, my son, has been at the English
Ambassade last night and has made his congratulations to M.
de Farintosh. Paul says him handsome, young, not too spir-
itual, rich, and haughty, like all noble Montagnards.

" But it is not of M. de Farintosh I write, whose marriage,
without doubt has been announced to you. I have a little
project, very foolish, perhaps. You know Mr. the Duke of Ivry
has left, me guardian of his little daughter Antoinette, whose
affreuse mother no one sees more. Antoinette is pretty and
good, and soft, and with an affectionate heart. I love her
already as my infant. I wish to bring her up, and that Clive
should marry her. They say you are returned very rich. What
follies are these I write ! In the long evenings of winter, the
children escaped it is a long time from the maternal nest, a
silent old man my only company. — 1 live but of the past ; and
play with its souvenirs as the detained caress little birds, little
flowers, in their prisons. I was born for the happiness ; my
God ! I have learned it in knowing you. In losing you I have
lost it. It is not against the will of Heaven I oppose myself.

572

THE NEWCOMES.

It is man, who makes himself so much of this evi] and misery,
this slavery, these tears, these crimes, perhaps.

" This marriage of the young Scotch marquis and the fait
Ethel (I love her in spite of all, and shall see her soon and
congratulate her, for, do you see, I might have stopped this fine
marriage, and did my best and more than my duty for our poor
Clive ?) shall make itself in London next spring, I hear. You
shall assist scarcely at the ceremony ; he, poor boy, shall not
care to be there ! Bring him to Paris to make the court to my
little Antoinette : bring him to Paris to his good friend, Com-

TESSE DE FLORAC.

" I read marvels of his works in an English journal, which
one sends me."

Clive was not by when this letter reached his father. Clive
was in his painting-room, and lest he should meet his son, and
in order to devise the best means of breaking the news to the
lad, Thomas Newcome retreated out of doors ; and from the
Oriental he crossed Oxford Street, and from Oxford Street he
stalked over the roomy pavements of Gloucester Place, and
there he bethought him how he had neglected Mrs. Hobson
Newcome of late, and the interesting family of Bryanstone
Square. So he went to leave his card at Maria's door : her
daughters, as we have said, are quite grown girls. If they
have been lectured, and learning, and back-boarded, and prac-
tising, and using the globes, and laying in a store of 'ologies,
ever since, what a deal they must know ! Colonel Newcome
was admitted to see his nieces, and Consummate Virtue, their
parent. Maria was charmed to see her brother-in-law; she
greeted him with reproachful tenderness : "Why, why," her fine
eyes seemed to say, "have you so long neglected us ? Do you
think because I am wise, and gifted, and good, and you are, it
must be confessed, a poor creature with no education, I am not
also affable ? Come, let the prodigal be welcomed by his vir-
tuous relatives : come and lunch with us, Colonel ! " He sat
down accordingly to the family tiffin.

When the meal was over, the mother, who had matter of
i??iportance to impart to him, besought him to go to the drawing-
room, and there poured out such a eulogy upon her children's
qualities as fond mothers know how to utter. They knew this
and they knew that. They were instructed by the most emi-
nent professors ; " that wretched Frenchwoman, whom you may
remember here, Mademoiselle Lenoir," Maria remarked par-
enthetically, " turned out Oh frightfully ! She taught the girls

THE NEWCOMER

573

the worst accent, it appears. Her father was not a colonel ; he
was — Oh ! never mind ! It is a mercy I got rid of that Jiendish
woman, and before my precious ones knew what she was ! "
And then followed details of the perfections of the two girls,
with occasional side-shots at Lady Ann's family, just as in the
old time. " Why don't you bring your boy, whom 1 have always
loved as a son, and who avoids me ? Why does not Give know
his cousins ? They are very different from others of his kins-
women, who think but of the heartless world."

" I fear, Maria, there is too much truth in what you say,"
sighs the Colonel, drumming on a book on the drawing-room
table, and looking down sees it is a great, large, square, gilt
peerage, open at Farintosh, Marquis of. — Fergus Angus
Malcolm Mungo Roy, Marquis of Farintosh, Earl of Glenlivat,
in the peerage of Scotland ; also Earl of Rossmont, in that of
the United Kingdom. Son of Angus Fergus Malcolm, Earl
of Glenlivat, and grandson and heir of Malcolm Mungo Angus,
first Marquis of Farintosh, and twenty-fifth Earl, &c, &c.

" You have heard the news regarding Ethel ?" remarks
Mrs. Hobson.

" I have just heard," says the poor Colonel.

" I have a letter from Ann this morning," Maria continues.
"They are of course delighted with the match. Lord Farin-
tosh is wealthy, handsome ; has been a little wild, I hear ; is
not such a husband as I would choose for my darlings, but
poor Brian's family have been educated to love the world ; and
Ethel no doubt is flattered by the prospects before her. I hare
heard that some one else was a little epris in that quarter.
How does Clive bear the news, my dear Colonel ? "

" He has long expected it," says the Colonel, rising : " and
I left him very cheerful at breakfast this morning."

" Send him to see us, the naughty boy ! " cries Maria. " We
don't change ; we remember old times, to us he will ever be
welcome ! " And with this confirmation of Madame de Florae's
news, Thomas Newcome walked sadly homewards.

And now Thomas Newcome had to break the news to his
son ; who received the shot in such a way as caused his friends
and confidants to admire his high spirit. He said he had long
been expecting some such announcement : it was many months
since Ethel had prepared him for it. Under her peculiar <. ir-
cumstances he did not see how she could act otherwise than
she had done. And he narrated to the Colonel the substance
of the conversation which the two young people had had
together several months before, in Madame de Florae's garden.

574

THE NEWCOMES.

Clive's father did not tell his son of his own bootless nego-
tiation with Barnes Newcome. There was no need to recall
that now ; but the Colonel's wrath against his nephew exploded
in conversation with me, who was the confidant of father and
son in this business. Ever since that luckless day when Barnes
thought proper to — to give a wrong address for Lady Kew,
Thomas Newcome's anger had been growing. He smothered
it yet for a while, sent a letter to Lady Ann Newcome briefly
congratulating her on the choice which he had heard Miss
Newcome had made ; and in acknowledgment of Madame de
Florae's more sentimental epistle he wrote a reply which has
not been preserved, but in which he bade her rebuke Miss
Newcome for not having answered him when he wrote to her,
and not having acquainted her old uncle with her projected
union.

To this message Ethel wrote back a brief hurried reply ; it
said : —

" I saw Madame de Florae last night at her daughter's recep-
tion, and she gave me my dear uncle's messages. J 'es, the news
is true which you have heard from Madame de Florae, and in
Bryanstone Square. I did not like to write it to you, because
I know one whom I regard as a brother (and a great, great deal
better), and to whom I know it will give pain. He knows that
I have done my duty, and why I have acted as I have done.
God bless him and his dear father.

" What is this about a letter which I never answered ?
Grandmamma knows nothing about a letter. Mamma has
enclosed to me that which you wrote to her, but there has been
no letter from T. N. to his sincere and affectionate — E. N.
" Rue de Rivoli. Friday."

This was too much, and the cup of Thomas Newcome's
wrath overflowed. Barnes had lied about Ethel's visit to Lon-
don ; Barnes had lied in saying that he delivered the message
with which his uncle charged him ; Barnes had lied about the
letter which he had received, and never sent. With these
accusations firmly proven in his mind against his nephew, the
Colonel went down to confront that sinner.

Wherever he should find Barnes, Thomas Newcome was
determined to tell him his mind. Should they meet on the
steps of a church, on the flags of 'Change, or in the newspaper-
room at Bays's, at evening-paper time, when men most do
congregate, Thomas the Colonel was determined upon exposing
and chastising his father's grandson. WTith Ethel's letter in his
pocket, he took his way into the City, penetrated into the

THE XEWCOMES.

575

unsuspecting back parlor of Hobson's bank, and was disap-
pointed at first at only finding his half-brother Hobson there
engaged over his newspaper. The Colonel signified his wish
to see Sir Barnes Newcome. " Sir Barnes was not come in
yet. You've heard about the marriage ? " says Hobson. " Great
news for the Barnes's, ain't it? The head of the house is as
proud as a peacock about it : — said he was going out to Samuels
the diamond merchant's ; going to make his sister some un-
common tine present. Jolly to be uncle to a marquis, ain't it,
Colonel ? I'll have nothing under a duke for my girls. I say,
I know whose nose is out of joint. But young fellows get over
these things, and Clive won't die this time, I dare say."

While Hobson Newcome made these satiric and facetious
remarks, his half-brother paced up and down the glass parlor,
scowling over the panes into the bank where the busy young
clerks sat before their ledgers. At last he gave an " Ah ! " as
of satisfaction. Indeed he had seen Sir Barnes Newcome enter
into the bank.

The Baronet stopped and spoke with a clerk, and presently
entered, followed by that young gentleman into his private
parlor. Barnes tried to grin when he saw his uncle, and held
out his hand to greet the Colonel, but the Colonel put both his
behind his back : — that which carried his faithful bamboo cane
shook nervously. Barnes was aware that the Colonel had the
news. " I was going to — to write to you this morning, with —
with some intelligence that I am — very — very sorry to give."

"This young gentleman is one of your clerks?" asked
Thomas Newcome, blandly.

" Yes ; Mr. Boltby, who has your private account. This is
Colonel Newcome, Mr. Boltby," says Sir Barnes, in some
wonder.

" Mr. Boltby, brother Hobson, you heard what Sir Barnes
Newcome said just now respecting certain intelligence which
he grieved to give me ? "

At this the three other gentlemen respectively wore looks
of amazement.

" Allow me to say in your presence, that I don't believe
one single word Sir Barnes Newcome savs, when he tells me
that he is very sorry for some intelligence he has to communi-
cate. He lies, Mr. Boltby ; he is very glad. I made up my
mind that in whatsoever company I met him, and on the very
first day I found him — hold vour tongue, sir ; you shall speak,
afterwards and tell more lies when I have dono— J made up my
mind, I say, that on the very first occasion I wo:dd tell Sir

576 THE NEWCOMES.

Barnes Newcome that he was a liar and a cheat. He takes
charge of letters and keeps them back. Did you break the
seal, sir ? There was nothing to steal in my letter to Miss
Newcome. He tells me people are out of town, whom he goes
to see in the next street, after leaving my table, and whom I see
myself half an hour after he lies to me about their absence."

" D — n you, go out, and don't stand staring there, you
booby ! " screams out Sir Barnes to the clerk. " Stop, Boltby.
Colonel Newcome, unless you leave this room I shall — I
shall "

" You shall call a policeman. Send for the gentleman, and
I will tell the Lord Mayor what I think of Sir Barnes New-
come, Baronet. Mr. Boltby, shall we have the constable in ?"

" Sir, you are an old man, and my father's brother, or you
know very well I would "

" You would what, sir ? Upon my word, Bames Newcome "
(here the Colonel's two hands and the bamboo cane came from
the rear and formed in front), " but that you are my father's
grandson, after a menace like that, I would take you out and
cane you in the presence of your clerks. I repeat, sir, that I
consider you guilty of treachery, falsehood, and knavery. And
if ever I see you at Bays's Club, I will make the same state-
ment to your acquaintance at the west end of the town. A
man of your baseness ought to be known, sir ; and it shall be
my business to make men of honor aware of your character.
Mr. Boltby, will you have the kindness to make out my account ?
Sir Barnes Newcome, for fear of consequences that I should
deplore, I recommend you to keep a wide berth of me, sir.''
And the Colonel twirled his mustache, and waved his cane in
an ominous manner, and Barnes started back spontaneously
out of its dangerous circle.

What Mr. Boltby's sentiments may have been regarding this
extraordinary scene in which his principal cut so sorry a figure ;
— whether he narrated the conversation to other gentlemen
connected with the establishment of Hobson Brothers, or pru-
dently kept it to himself, I cannot say, having no means of
pursuing Mr. B.'s subsequent career. He speedily quitted his
desk at Hobson Brothers ; and let us presume that Barnes
thought Mr. B. had told all the other clerks of the avuncular
quarrel. That conviction will make us imagine Barnes still
more comfortable. Hobson Newcome no doubt was rejoiced
at Barnes's discomfiture ; he had been insolent and domineer-
ing beyond measure of late to his vulgar good-natured uncle,
whereas after the above interview with the Colonel, he became

I

life'
m

THE COLONEL TELLS SIR BARNES A BIT OF HIS MIND.

THE ATE It TOMES. 5 7 7

very humble and quiet in his demeanor, and for a long, long
time never said a rude word. Nay, I fear Hobson must have
carried an account of the transaction to Mrs. Hobson and the
circle in Bryanstone Square ; for Sam Newcome, now entered
at Cambridge, called the Baronet "Barnes" quite familiarly;
asked after Clara and Ethel ; and requested a small loan of
Barnes.

Of course the story did not get wind at Bays?s ; of course
Tom Eaves did not know all about it, and say that Sir Barnes
had been beaten black and blue. Having been treated very ill
by the committee in a complaint which he made about the Club
cookery, Sir Barnes Newcome never came to Bays's, and at the
end of the year took off his name from the lists of the club.

Sir Barnes, though a little taken aback in the morning, and
not ready with an impromptu reply to the Colonel and his cane,
could not allow the occurrence to pass without a protest ; and
indited a letter which Thomas Newcome kept along with some
others previously quoted by the compiler of the present memoirs.
It is as follows : —

Belgrave St., Feb. 15, iS — .
" Colonel Newcome, C. B. private.

" Sir, — The incredible insolence and violence of your be-
havior to-day (inspired by whatever causes or mistakes of your
own) cannot be passed without some comment on my part. I
laid before a friend of your own profession a statement of the
words which you applied to me in the presence of my partner
and one of my clerks this morning ; and my adviser is of
opinion that, considering the relationship unhappilv subsisting
between us, I can take no notice of insults for which you knew
when you uttered them I could not call vou to account."

"There is some truth in that," said the Colonel. "He
couldn't right, you know ; but then he was such a liar I could
not help speaking mv mind."

" I gathered from the brutal language which you thought ftl
to employ towards a disarmed man the ground of one of your
monstrous accusations against me, that I deceived you in stating
that my relative, Lady Kew, was in the country, when in fact
she was at her house in London.

"To this absurd charge 1 at once plead guilty. The ven-
erable lady in question was passing through London, where she
desired to be free from intrusion. At her ladyship's wish I
stated that she was out of town ; and would, under the same
circumstances, unhesitatingly make the same statement. Your

37

578 THE NEWCOMES.

slight acquaintance with the person in question did not warrant
that you should force yourself on her privacy, as you would
doubtless know were you more familiar with the customs of the
society in which she moves.

" I declare upon my honor as a gentleman, that I gave her
the message which I promised to deliver from you, and also
that I transmitted a letter with which you entrusted me ; and
repel with scorn and indignation the charges which you were
pleased to bring against me, as I treat with contempt the lan-
guage and the threats which you thought fit to employ.

" Our books show the amount of xl. xs. xd. to your credit,
which you will be good enough to withdraw at your earliest con-
venience ; as of course all intercourse must cease henceforth
between you and

" Yours, &c,

" B. Newcome Newcome."

" I think, sir, he doesn't make out a bad case," Mr. Pen-
dennis remarked to the Colonel, who showed him this majestic
letter.

" It would be a good case if I believed a single word of it,
Arthur," replied my friend, placidly twirling the old gray
mustache. " If you were to say so and so, and say that I had
brought false charges against you, I should cry mea culpa and
apologize with all my heart. But as I have a perfect convic-
tion that every word this fellow says is a lie, what is the use of
arguing any more about the matter ? I would not believe him
if he brought twenty other liars as witnesses, and if he lied till
he was black in the face. Give me the walnuts. I wonder
who Sir Barnes's military friend was."

Barnes's military friend was our gallant acquaintance Gen-
eral Sir George Tufto, K. C. B., who a short while afterwards
talked over the quarrel with the Colonel, and manfully told him
that (in Sir George's opinion) he was wrong. " The little beg-
gar behaved very well, I thought, in the first business. You
bullied him so, and in the front of his regiment, too, that it was
almost past bearing; and when he deplored, with tears in his
eyes almost, the little humbug ! that his relationship prevented
him calling you out, ecod, I believed him ! It was in the second
affair that poor little Barney showed he was a cocktail."

'"What second affair? " asked Thomas Newcome.

" Don't you know ! He ! he ! this is famous ! " cries Sir
George. " Why, sir, two days after your business, he comes to
me with another letter and a face as long as my mare's, by

7 I IE NEWCOMES.

579

Jove. And that letter, Newcome, was from your young *un.
Stop, here it is ! " and from his padded bosom General Sir
George Tufto drew a pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a
copy of a letter, inscribed, " Clive Newcome, Esq., to Sir B. N.
Newcome." "There's no mistake about your fellow, Colonel.

No, him ! " and the man of war fired a volley of oaths as

a salute to Clive.

And the Colonel, on horseback, riding by the other cavalry
officer's side, read as follows : —

" George Street, Hanover Square, February 16.

" Sir, — Colonel Newcome this morning snowed me a letter
bearing your signature, in which you state — i. That Colonel
Newcome has uttered calumnious and insolent charges against
you. 2. That Colonel Newcome so spoke, knowing that you
could take no notice of his charges of falsehood and treachery,
on account of the relationship subsisting between you.

" Your statements would evidently imply that Colonel New-
come has been guilty of ungentlemanlike conduct, and of
cowardice towards you.

" As there can be no reason why we should not meet in any
manner that you desire, I here beg leave to state, on my own
part, that I fully coincide with Colonel Newcome in his opinion
that you have been guilty of falsehood and treachery, and that
the charge of cowardice which you dare to make against a gen-
tleman of his tried honor and courage, is another wilful and
cowardly falsehood on your part.

" And I hope you will refer the bearer of this note, my
friend, Mr. George Warrington, of the Upper Temple, to the
military gentleman whom you consulted in respect to the just
charges of Colonel Newcome. Waiting a prompt reply,
" Believe me, sir,

" Your obedient servant,

" Clive Newcome.
" Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., M. P., &c."

" What a blunderhead I am ! " cries the Colonel, with de-
light on his countenance, spite of his professed repentance.
" It never once entered my head that the youngster would take
any part in the affair. I snowed him his cousin's letter casually,
just to amuse him, I think, for he has been deuced low lately,
about — about *a young man's scrape that he has got into. And
he must have gone off and despatched his challenge straight-
way. I recollect he appeared uncommonly brisk at breakfast

58o THE KEWCOMES.

the next morning. And so you say, General, the Baronet did
not like the potdet 1 "

" By no means ; never saw a fellow show such a confounded
white feather. At first I congratulated him, thinking your
boy's offer must please him, as it would have pleased any fel-
low in our time to have a shot. Dammy! but I was mistaken
in my man. He entered into some confounded long-winded
.story about a marriage you wanted to make with that infernal
pretty sister of his, who is going to marry young Farintosh, and
how you were in a rage because the scheme fell to the ground,
and how a family duel might occasion unpleasantries to Miss
Newcome ; though I showed him how this could be most easily
avoided, and that the lady's name need never appear in the
transaction. ' Confound it, Sir Barnes,' says I, ' I recollect this
boy, when he was a youngster, throwing a glass of wine in your
face ! We'll put it upon that, and say it's an old feud between
you.' He turned quite pale, and he said your fellow had
apologized for the glass of wine."

" Yes, said the Colonel, sadly, " my boy apologized for the
glass of wine. It is curious how we have disliked that Barnes
ever since we set eyes on him."

" Well, Xewcome," Sir George resumed, as his mettled
charger suddenly jumped and curvetted, displaying the padded
warrior's cavalry-seat to perfection. '; Quiet, old lady ! — easy,
my dear ! Well, sir, when I found the little beggar turning tail
in this way, I said to him, ' Dash me, sir, if you don't want me,
why the dash do you send for me, dash me ? Yesterday you
talked as if you would bite the Colonel's head off, and to-day,
when his son offers you every accommodation, by dash, sir,
you're afraid to meet him. It's my belief you had better send
for a policeman. A 22 is your man, Sir Barnes Newcome.'
And with that I turned on my heel and left him. And the fellow
went off to Newcome that very night."

" A poor devil can't command courage, General," said the
Colonel, quite peaceably, " any more than he can make himself
six feet high."

" Then why the dash did the beggar send for me ? " called
out General Sir George Tufto, in a loud and resolute voice ;
and presently the two officers parted company.

When the Colonel reached home, Mr. Warrington and Mr.
Pendennis happened to be on a visit to Clive, and all three
were in the young fellow's painting-room. We knew our lad
was unhappy, and did our little best to amuse and console him,

THE NEU'COMES. 581

The Colonel came in. It was in the dark February days : we
had lighted gas in the studio. Clive had made a sketch from
some favorite verses of mine and George's : those charming
lines of Scott's : —

" He turned his charger as he spake,
Beside the river shore ;
He gave his bridle-rein a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
My dear!
Adieu for evermore ! "

Thomas Newcome held up a finger at Warrington, and he
came up to the picture and looked at it ; and George and I
trolled out

" Adieu for evermore,

My dear!
Adieu for evermore ! "

From the picture the brave old Colonel turned to the
painter, regarding his son with a look of beautiful inexpressible
affection. And he laid his hand on his son's shoulder, and
smiled, and stroked Clive's yellow mustache.

" And — and did Barnes send no answer to that letter you
wrote him ? " he said, slowly.

Clive broke out into a laugh that was almost a sob. He
took both his father's hands. " My dear, dear old father ! "
says he, " what a — what an — old trump you are ! " My eyes
were so dim I could hardly see the two men as they embraced.

CHAPTER LIV.

HAS A TRAGICAL ENDING.

Clive presently answered the question which his father put
to him in the last chapter, by producing from the ledge of his
easel a crumpled paper, full of Cavendish now, but on which
was written Sir Barnes Newcome's reply to his cousin's polite
invitation.

Sir Barnes Newcome wrote, " that he thought a reference
to a friend was quite unnecessary, in the most disagreeable and
painful dispute in which Mr. Clive desired to interfere as a
principal ; that the reasons which prevented Sir Barnes from
taking notice of Colonel Newcome's shameful and ungentle-

582 THE XEIVCOMES.

manlike conduct applied equally, as Mr. Give Newcome very
well knew, to himself ; that if further insult was offered, or
outrage attempted, Sir Barnes should resort to the police foi
protection ; that he was about to quit London, and certainly
should not delay his departure on account of Mr. Give New-
come's monstrous proceedings ; and that he desired to take
leave of an odious subject, as of an individual who he had
striven to treat with kindness, but from whom, from youth
upwards, Sir Barnes Newcome had received nothing but inso-
lence, enmity, and ill-will.

" He is an ill man to offend," remarked Mr. Pendennis
"I don't think he has ever forgiven that claret, Give."

" Pooh ! the feud dates from long before that," said Give ;
" Barnes wanted to lick me when I was a boy, and I declined ;
in fact, I think he had rather the worst of it : but then I
operated freely on his shins, and that wasn't fair in war, you
know."

" Heaven forgive me," cries the Colonel ; " I have always
felt the fellow was my enemy : and my mind is relieved now
war is declared. It has been a kind of hypocrisy with me to
shake his hand and eat his dinner. When I trusted him it was
against my better instinct ; and I have been struggling against
it these ten years, thinking it was a wicked prejudice and ought
to be overcome."

" Why should we overcome such instincts ? " asks Mr. War-
rington. " Why shouldn't we hate what is hateful in people,
and scorn what is mean ? From what friend Pen has described
to me, and from some other accounts which have come to my
ears, your respectable nephew is about as loathsome a little
villain as crawls on the earth. Good seems to be out of his
sphere, and away from his contemplation. He ill-treats every
one he comes near ; or, if gentle to them, it is that they may
serve some base purpose. Since my attention has been drawn
to the creature, I have been contemplating his ways with
wonder and curiosity. How much superior nature's rogues
are, Pen, to the villains you novelists put into your books !
This man goes about his life business with a natural propensity
to darkness and evil — as a bug crawls, and stings, and sticks.
I don't suppose the fellow feels any more remorse than a cat
that runs away with a mutton-chop. I recognize the Evil
Spirit, sir, and do honor to Ahrimanes, in taking off my hat to
this young man. He seduced a poor girl in his father's country
town — is it not natural ? deserted her and her children — don't
you recognize the beast ? married for rank — could you expect

THE XEIVCOMES.

583

otherwise from him ? invites my Lord Highgate to his house
in consideration of his balance at the bank. — Sir, unless some-
body's heel shall crunch him on the way, there is no height to
which this aspiring vermin mayn't crawl. 1 luck to see Sir
Barnes Newcome prosper more and more. I make no doubt
he will die an immense capitalist, and an exalted Peer of this
realm. He will have a marble monument, and a pathetic
funeral sermon. There is a divine in your family, Clive, that
shall preach it. I will weep respectful tears over the grave of
Baron Newcome, Viscount Newcome, Earl Newcome ; and the
children whom he has deserted, and who, in the course of time,
will be sent by a grateful nation to New South Wales, will
proudly say to their brother convicts, ' Yes, the Earl was our
honored father ! ' "

" I fear he is no better than he should be, Mr. Warrington,"
says the Colonel, shaking his head. " I never heard the story
about the deserted children."

u How should you, O guileless man ! " cries Warrington.
" I am not in the ways of scandal-hearing myself much \ but
this tale I had from Sir Barnes Newcome's own county. Mr.
Batters of the Newcoirie IndepoirfcJit is my esteemed client. I
write leading articles for his newspaper, and when he was in
town last spring he favored me with the anecdote ; and pro-
posed to amuse the member for Newcome by publishing it in
his journal. This kind of writing is not much in my line : and,
out of respect to you and your young one, I believe, I strove
with Mr. Batters, and entreated him and prevailed with him,
not to publish the story. This is how I came to know it."

I sat with the Colonel in the evening, when he commented
on Warrington's story and Sir Barnes's adventures in his simple
way. He said his brother Hobson had been with him the
morning after the dispute, reiterating Barnes's defence of his
conduct : and professing on his part nothing but good-will
towards his brother. " Between ourselves the young baronet
carries matters with rather a high hand sometimes, and I am
not sorry that you gave him a little dressing. But you were
too hard upon him, Colonel — really you were." "Had I
known that child-deserting story I would have given it harder
still, sir," says Thomas Newcome, twirling his mustache : " but
my brother had nothing to do with the quarrel, and very rightly
did not wish to engage in it. He has an eye to business has
Master Hobson, too," my friend continued: ''for he brought
me a check for my private aeeount, whieh of course, he said,
could not remain after my quarrel with Barnes. But the In-

584

THE NEWCOMES.

dian bank account, which is pretty large, he supposed need not
be taken away ? and indeed why should it ? So that, which is
little business of mine, remains where it was ; and brother
Hobson and I remain perfectly good friends.

" I think Clive is much better since he has been quite put
out of his suspense. He speaks with a great deal more kind-
ness and good-nature about the marriage than I am disposed
to feel regarding it: and depend on it has too high a spirit to
show that he is beaten. But I know he is a good deal cut up,
though he says nothing ; and he agreed willingly enough to
take a little journey, Arthur, and be out of the way when this
business takes place. We shall go to Paris : I don't know
where else besides. These misfortunes do good in one way,
hard as they are to bear : they unite people who love each
other. It seems to me my boy has been nearer to me, and likes
his old father better than he has done of late." And very soon
after this talk our friends departed.

The Bulgarian minister having been recalled, and Lady Ann
Newcome's house in Park Lane being vacant, her ladyship and
her family came to occupy the mansion for this eventful season,
and sat once more in the dismal dining-room under the picture
of the defunct Sir Brian. A little of the splendor and hos-
pitality of old days was revived in the house : entertainments
were given by Lady Ann ; and amongst other festivities, a fine
ball took place, when pretty Miss Alice, Miss Ethel's younger
sister, made her first appearance in the world, to which she was
afterwards to be presented by the Marchioness of Farintosh.
All the little sisters were charmed, no doubt, that the beautiful
Ethel was to become a beautiful Marchioness, who, as they
came up to womanhood one after another, would introduce
them severally to amiable young earls, dukes, and marquises,
when they would be married off and wear coronets and dia-
monds of their own right. At Lady Ann's ball I saw my
acquaintance, young Mumford. who was going to Oxford next
October, and about to leave Rugby, where he was at the head
of the school, looking very dismal as Miss Alice whirled round
the room dancing in Viscount Bustington's arms ; — Miss Alice,
with whose mamma he used to take tea at Rugby, and for
whose pretty sake Mumford did Alfred Newcome's verses for
him and let him off his thrashings. Poor Mumford ! he dis-
mally went about under the protection of young Alfred, a
fourth-form boy — not one soul did he know in that rattling
London ball-room ; his young face was as white as the large

THE NEWCOMES. 585

white tie, donned two hours since at the "Tavistock" with
such nervousness and beating of heart !

With these lads, and decorated with a tie equally splendid,
moved about young Sam Xewcome, who was shirking from his
sister and his mamma. Mrs. Hobson had actually assumed
clean gloves for this festive occasion. Sam stared at all the
" Nobs ;" and insisted upon being introduced to "Farintosh,"
and congratulated his lordship with much graceful ease ; and
then pushed about the rooms perseveringly hanging on to
Alfred's jacket. " I say, I wish you wouldn't call me Al," I
heard Master Alfred say to his cousin. Seeing my face, Mr.
Samuel ran up to claim acquaintance. He was good enough
to say he thought Farintosh seemed devilish haughty. Even
my wife could not help saying that Mr. Sam was an odious
little creature.

So it was for young Alfred, and his brothers and sisters,
who would want help and protection in the world, that Ethel was
about to give up her independence, her inclination perhaps, and
to bestow her life on yonder young nobleman. Looking at her
as a girl devoting herself to her family, her sacrifice gave her a
melancholy interest in our eyes. My wife and I watched her,
grave and beautiful. — moving through the rooms, receiving and
returning a hundred greetings, bending to compliments, talking
with this friend and that, with my lord's lordly relations, with
himself, to whom she listened deferentially ; faintly smiling as
he spoke now and again, — doing the honors of her mother's
house. Lady after lady of his lordship's clan and kinsfolk
complimented the girl and her pleased mother. Old Lady
Kew was radiant (if one can call radiance the glances of those
darkling old eyes). She sat in a little room apart, and thither
people went to pay their court to her. Unwittingly I came in
on this levee with my wife on my arm : Lady Kew scowled at
me over the crutch, but without a sign of recognition. " What
an awful countenance the old woman has ! n Laura whispered
as we retreated out of that gloomy presence.

And Doubt (as its wont is) whispered too a question in my
ear, " Is it for her brothers and sisters only that Miss Ethel is
sacrificing herself ? Is it not for the coronet, and the triumph,
and the fine houses ? " " When two motives may actuate a
friend, we surely may try and believe in the good one," says
Laura. " But, but I am glad Clive does not marry her — poor
fellow — he would not have been happy with her. She belongs
to this great world : she has spent all her life in it : Clive would
have entered into it very likely in her train ; and you know, sir,

586 THE NEWCOMES.

it is not good that we should be our husbands' superiors," adds
Mrs. Laura, with a curtsey.

She presently pronounced that the air was very hot in the
rooms, and in fact wanted to go home to see her child. As we
passed out, we saw Sir Barnes Newcome, eagerly smiling, smirk-
ing, bowing, and in the fondest conversation with his sister and
Lord Farintosh. By Sir Barnes presently brushed Lieutenant-
General Sir George Tufto, K.C.B., who, when he saw on whose
foot he had trodden, grunted out, " Hm, beg your pardon ! "
and turning his back on Barnes, forthwith began complimenting
Ethel and the Marquis. " Served with your lordship's father in
Spain ; glad to make your lordship's acquaintance," says Sir
George. Ethel bows to us as we pass out of the rooms, and we
hear no more of Sir George's conversation.

In the cloak-room sits Lady Clara Newcome, with a gentle-
man bending over her just in such an attitude as the bride is in
Hogarth's " Marriage a la Mode " as the counsellor talks to her.
Lady Clara starts up as a crowd of blushes come into her wan
face, and tries to smile, and rises to greet my wife, and says
something about its being so dreadfully hot in the upper rooms,
and so very tedious waiting for the carriages. The gentleman
advances towards me with a military stride, and says, " How do
you do, Mr. Pendennis ? How's our young friend, the painter ? "
I answer Lord Highgate civilly enough, whereas my wife will
scarce speak a word in reply to Lady Clara Newcome.

Lady Clara asked us to her ball, which my wife declined
altogether to attend. Sir Barnes published a series of quite
splendid entertainments on the happy occasion of his sister's
betrothal. We read the names of all the clan Farintosh in the
Morning Post, as attending these banquets. Mr. and Mrs.
Hobson Newcome, in Bryanstone Square, gave also signs of re-
joicing at their niece's marriage. They had a grand banquet,
followed by a tea, to which latter amusement the present biog-
rapher was invited. Lady Ann, and Lady Kew and her grand-
daughter, and the Baronet and his wife, and my Lord Highgate
and Sir George Tufto attended the dinner ; but it was rather a
damp entertainment. " Farintosh," whispers Sam Newcome,
" sent word just before dinner that he had a sore throat, and
Barnes was as sulky as possible. Sir George wouldn't speak
to him, and the Dowager wouldn't speak to Lord Highgate.
Scarcely anything was drank," concluded Mr. Sam, with a slight
hiccup. " I say, Pendennis, how sold Clive will be ! " And the
amiable youth went off to commune with others of his parents'
//vests.

THE NEWCOMES. 587

Thus the Newcomes entertained the Farlntoshes, and the
Farintoshes entertained the Newcomes. And the Dowager
Countess of Kew went from assembly to assembly every even-
ing, and to jewellers and upholsterers, and dressmakers every
morning ; and Lord Farintosh seemed to grow more and more
attentive as the happy day approached, and he gave away all his
cigars to his brother Rob ; and his sisters were delighted with
Ethel, and constantly in her company, and his mother was
pleased with her, and thought a girl of her spirit and resolution
would make a good wife for her son ; and select crowds flocked
to see the service of plate at Handyman's, and the diamonds
which were being set for the lady ; andSmee, R.A., painted hei
portrait, as a souvenir for mamma when Miss Xewcome should
be Miss Xewcome no more ; and Lady Kew made a will,
leaving all she could leave to her beloved granddaughter, Ethel,
daughter of the late Sir Brian Xewcome, Baronet ; and Lord
Kew wrote an affectionate letter to his cousin, congratulating
her, and wishing her happiness with all his heart ; and I was
glancing over The Times newspaper at breakfast one morning,
when I laid it down with an exclamation which caused my wife
to start with surprise.

'• What is it ? " cries Laura, and I read as follows : —
" ' Death of the Countess Dowager of Kew. — We
regret to have to announce the awfully sudden death of this
venerable lady. Her ladyship, who had been at several parlies
of the nobility the night before last, seemingly in perfect health,
was seized with a fit as she was waiting for her carriage, and
about to quit Lady Pallgrave's assembly. Immediate medical
assistance was procured, and her ladyship was carried to her
own house, in Queen Street, May Fair. But she never rallied,
or, we believe, spoke, after the first fatal seizure, and sank at
eleven o'clock last evening. The deceased, Louisa Joanna
Gaunt, widow of Frederick, first Earl of Kew, was daughter of
Charles, Earl of Gaunt, and sister of the late and aunt of the
present Marquis of Steyne. The present Earl of Kew is her
ladyship's grandson, his lordship's father, Lord Walham, having
died before his own father, the first earl. Many noble families
are placed in mourning by this sad event. Society has to
deplore the death of a lady who has been its ornament for more
than half a century, and who was known, we may sav, through-
out Europe for her remarkable sense, extraordinary memory,
and brilliant wit.' "

588 THE NEIVCOMES.

CHAPTER LV.

Barnes's skeleton closet.

The demise of Lady Kew of course put a stop for a while
to the matrimonial projects so interesting to the house of New-
come. Hymen blew his torch out, put it into the cupboard for
use on a future day, and exchanged his garish saffron-colored
robe for decent temporary mourning. Charles Honeyman im-
proved the occasion at Lady YVhittlesea's chapel hard by ; and
" Death at the Festival " was one of his most thrilling sermons ;
reprinted at the request of some of the congregation. There
were those of his flock, especially a pair whose quarter of the
fold was the organ-loft, who were always charmed with the
piping of that melodious pastor.

Shall we too, while the coffin yet rests on the outer earth's
surface, enter the chapel whither these void remains of our
dear sister departed are borne by the smug undertaker's gentle-
men, and pronounce an elegy over that bedizened box of cor-
ruption ? When the young are stricken down, and their roses
nipped in an hour by the destroying blight, even the stranger
can sympathize, who counts the scant years on the gravestone,
or reads the notice in the newspaper corner. The contrast
forces itself on you. A fair young creature, bright and bloom-
ing yesterday, distributing smiles, levying homage, inspiring
desire, conscious of her power to charm, and gay with the
natural enjoyment of her conquests — who in his walk through
the world has not looked on many such a one ; and, at the
notion of her sudden call away from beauty, triumph, pleasure ;
her helpless outcries during her short pain ; her vain pleas for
a little respite ; her sentence, and its execution ; has not felt a
shock of pity ? When the days of a long life come to its close,
and a white head sinks to rise no more, we bow our own with
respect as the mourning train passes, and salute the heraldry and
devices of yonder pomp, as symbols of age, wisdom, deserved
respect and merited honor ; long experience of suffering and
action. The wealth he may have achieved is the harvest which
he sowed ; the titles on his hearse, fruits of the field he bravely
and laboriously wrought in. But to live to fourscore years, and
be found dancing among the idle virgins ! to have had near a

THE iVRWCOMES. s89

century of allotted time, and then be called away from the giddy
notes of a May Fair fiddle ! To have to yield your roses too.
and then drop out of the bony clutch of your old fingers a
wreath that came from a Parisian bandbox ! One fancies
around some graves unseen troops of mourners waiting; many
and many a poor pensioner trooping to the place ; many weep-
ing charities ; many kind actions ; many dear friends beloved
and deplored, rising up at the toll of that bell to follow the
honored hearse ; dead parents waiting above, and calling,
"Come, daughter!" lost children, heaven's foundlings, hover-
ing round like cherubim, and whispering, " Welcome, mother ! "
Here is one who reposes after a long feast where no love has
been ; after girlhood without kindly maternal nurture ; marriage
without affection ; matronhood without its precious griefs and
joys ; after fourscore years of lonely vanity. Let us take off
our hats to that procession too as it passes, admiring the dif-
ferent lots awarded to the children of men, and the various
usages to which Heaven puts its creatures.

Leave we yonder velvet-palled box, spangled with fantastic
heraldry, and containing within the aged slough and envelope
of a soul gone to render its account. Look rather at the living
audience standing round the shell ; — the deep grief on Barnes
Newcome's fine countenance ; the sadness depicted in the face
of the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh ; the sympathy of
her ladyship's medical man (who came in the third mourning
carriage) ; better than these, the awe, and reverence, and emo-
tion, exhibited in the kind face of one of the witnesses of this
scene, as he listens to those words which the priest rehearses
over our dead. What magnificent words ! what a burning
faith ; what a glorious triumph ; what a heroic life, death, hope,
they record ! They are read over all of us alike ; as the sun
shines on just and unjust. We have all of us heard them ;
and I have fancied for my part, that they fell and smote like
the sods on the coffin.

The ceremony over, the undertaker's gentlemen clamber on
the roof of the vacant hearse, into which palls, tressels, trays
of feathers, are inserted, and the horses break out into a trot,
and the empty carriages, expressing the deep grief of the de-
ceased lady's friends, depart homeward. It is remarked that
Lord Kew hardly has any communication with his cousin, Sir
Barnes Newcome. His lordship jumps into a cab, and goes to
the railroad. Issuing from the cemetery, the Marquis of Far-
intosh hastily orders that thing to be taken off his hat, and
returns to town in his brougham, smoking a cigar. Sir Barnes

59°

THE NEWCOMES.

Newcome rides in the brougham beside Lord Farintosh, as fat
as Oxford Street, where he gets a cab, and goes to the City.
For business is business, and must be attended to, though grief
be ever so severe.

A very short time previous to her demise, Mr. Rood (that
was Mr. Rood — that other little gentleman in black, who shared
the third mourning coach along with her ladyship's medical
man) had executed a will by which almost all the Countess's
property was devised to her granddaughter, Ethel Newcome.
Lady Kew's decease of course delayed the marriage projects
for a while. The young heiress returned to her mother's house
in Park Lane. I dare say the deep mourning habiliments in
which the domestics of that establishment appeared were pur-
chased out of the funds left in his hands, which Ethel's banker
and brother had at her disposal.

Sir Barnes Newcome, who was one of the trustees of his
sister's property, grumbled no doubt because his grandmother
had bequeathed to him but a paltry recompense of five hun-
dred pounds for his pains and trouble of trusteeship ; but his
manner to Ethel was extremely bland and respectful : an heiress
now, and to be marchioness in a few months, Sir Barnes treated
her with a very different regard to that which he was accus-
tomed to show to other members of his family. For while this
worthy baronet would contradict his mother at every word she
uttered, and take no pains to disguise his opinion that Lady
Ann's intellect was of the very poorest order, he would listen
deferentially to Ethel's smallest observations, exert himself to
amuse her under her grief, which he chose to take for granted
was very severe, visit her constantly, and show the most charm-
ing solicitude for her general comfort and welfare.

During this time my wife received frequent notes from
Ethel Newcome, and the intimacy between the two ladies much
increased. Laura was so unlike the women of Ethel's circle,
the young lady was pleased to say, that to be with her was
Ethel's greatest comfort. Miss Newcome was now her own
mistress, had her carriage, and would drive day after day to
our cottage at Richmond. The frigid society of Lord Farin-
tosh's sisters, the conversation of his mother, did not amuse
Ethel, and she escaped from both with her usual impatience of
control. She was at home every day dutifully to receive my
lord's visits, but though she did not open her mind to Laura as
freely regarding the young gentleman as she did when the char-
acter and disposition of her future mother and sisters-in-lavr
was the subject of their talk, I could see, from the grave look

THE NEWCOMES. 5qX

of commiseration which my wife's face bore after her young
friend's visits, that Mrs. Pendennis augured rather ill of the
future happiness of this betrothed pair. Once, at Miss New-
come's special request, I took my wife to see her in Park Lane,
where the Marquis of Farintosh found us. His lordship and I
had already a half acquaintance, which was not, however, im-
proved after my regular presentation to him by Miss Newcome:
he scowled at me with a countenance indicative of anything but
welcome, and did not seem in the least more pleased when
Ethel entreated her friend Laura not to take her bonnet, not to
think of going away so soon. She came to see us the very
next day, stayed much longer with us than usual, and returned
to town quite late in the evening, in spite of the entreaties of
the inhospitable Laura, who would have had her leave us long be-
fore. " I am sure," says clear-sighted Mrs. Laura, " she is come
out of bravado, and after we went away yesterday that there
were words between her and Lord Farintosh on our account."

" Confound the young man," breaks out Mr. Pendennis in
a fume ; "what does he mean by his insolent airs ? "

" He may think we are partisans de l'autre," says Mrs. Pen-
dennis, with a smile first, and a sigh afterwards, as she said
" poor Give ! "

" Do you ever talk about Give ? " asks the husband.

" Never. Once, twice, perhaps, in the most natural manner
in the world, we mentioned where he is ; but nothing further
passes. The subject is a sealed one between us. She often
looks at his drawings in my album (Give had drawn our baby
there and its mother in a great variety of attitudes), and gazes
at his sketch of his dear old father ; but of him she never says
a word."

" So it is best," says Mr. Pendennis.

"Yes — best," echoes Laura with a sigh.

" You think, Laura," continues the husband, "you think
she "

" She what ? " What did Mr. Pendennis mean ? J.aura his
wife certainly understood him, though upon my conscience the
sentence went no further — for she answered at once, —

" Yes — I think she certainly did, poor boy. But that, of
course, is over now ; and Ethel, though she cannot help being
a worldly woman, has such firmness and resolution of charac-
ter, that if she has once determined to conquer any inclination
of that sort I am sure she will master it, and make Lord Farin-
tosh a very good wife."

"Since the Colonel's quarrel with Sir Barnes," cries Mr.

592 THE NEWCOMES.

Pendennis, adverting by a natural transition from Ethel to her
amiable brother, " our banking friend does not invite us any
more ; Lady Clara sends you no cards. I have a great mind
to withdraw my account."

Laura, who understands nothing about accounts, did not
perceive the fine irony of this remark ; but her face straightway
put on the severe expression which it chose to assume whenever
bir Barnes's family was mentioned, and she said, " My dear
Arthur, I am very glad indeed that Lady Clara sends us no
more of her invitations. You know very well why I disliked
them."

"Why?"

"I hear baby crying," says Laura. O Laura, Laura! how
could you tell your husband such a fib ? — and she quits the
room without deigning to give any answer to that " Why ? "

Let us pay a brief visit to Newcome in the North of Eng-
land, and there we may get some answer to the question of
which Mr. Pendennis had just in vain asked a reply from his
wife. My design does not include a description of that great
and flourishing town of Newcome, and of the manufactures
which caused its prosperity ; but only admits of the introduc-
tion of those Newcomites who are concerned in the affairs of
the family which has given its respectable name to these
volumes.

Thus in previous pages we have said nothing about the
Mayor and Corporation of Newcome, the magnificent bankers
and manufacturers who had their places of business in the town,
and their splendid villas outside its smoky precincts : people who
would give their thousand guineas for a picture or a statue, and
write you off a check for ten times the amount any day ; peo-
ple who, if there was a talk of a statue to the Queen or the
Duke, would come down to the Town 'All and subscribe their
one, two, three 'undred apiece (especially if in the neighboring
city of Slowcome they were putting up a statue to the Duke or
the Queen) — not of such men I ha\ e spoken, the magnates of
the place ; but of the humble Sarah Mason in Jubilee Row ; of
the Rev. Dr. Bulders the Vicar, Mr. Vidler the apothecary, Mr.
Duff the baker ; of Tom Potts the jolly reporter of the Newcome
Independent, and Batters, Esq., the proprietor of that jour-
nal— persons with whom our friends have had already, or will
be found presently to have, some connection. And it is from
these that we shall arrive at some particulars regarding the
Newcome family, which will show us that they have a skeleton
or two in their closets, as well as their neighbors.

THE NEU'COMES

593

Now, how will you have the story? Worthy mammas of
families — if you do not like to have your daughters told that
bad husbands will make bad wives ; that marriages begun in in-
difference make homes unhappy ; that men whom girls are
brought to swear to love and honor are sometimes false, selfish,
and cruel ; and that women forget the oaths which they have
been made to swear — if you will not hear of this, ladies, close
the book, and send for some other. Banish the newspaper out
of your houses, and shut your eyes to the truth, the awful truth,
of life and sin. Is the world made of Jennies and Jessamies ;
and passion the play of school-boys and school-girls, scribbling
valentines and interchanging lollipops ? Is life all over when
Jenny and Jessamy are married ; and are there no subsequent
trials, griefs, wars, bitter heart-pangs, dreadful temptations, de-
feats, remorses, sufferings to bear, and dangers to overcome ?
As you and I, friend, kneel with our children round about us,
piostrate before the Father of us all, and asking mercy for mis-
erable sinners, are the young ones to suppose the words are
mere form, and don't apply to us ? — to some outcasts in the
free seats probably, or those naughty boys playing in the church-
yard ? Are they not to know that we err too, and pray with all
our hearts to be rescued from temptation ? If such a knowl-
edge is wrong for them, send them to church apart. Go you
and worship in private ; or, if not too proud, kneel humbly in
the midst of them, owning your wrong, and praying Heaven to
be merciful to you a sinner.

When Barnes Newcome became the reigning Prince of the
Newcome family, and after the first agonies of grief for his
fatberfs death had subsided, he made strong attempts to con-
ciliate the principal persons in the neighborhood, and to render
himself popular in the borough. He gave handsome entertain-
ments to the townsfolk and to the county gentry ; he tried even
to bring those two warring classes together. He endeavored
to be civil to the Newcome Independent, the Opposition paper, as
well as the Newcome Sentinel, that true old Uncompromising
Blue. He asked the Dissenting clergymen to dinner, and the
Low Church clergymen, as well as the orthodox Doctor Bidders
and his curates. He gave a lecture at the " Newcome Ath-
enaeum," which everybody said was very amusing, and which
Sentinel and Independent both agreed in praising. Of course
he subscribed to that statue which the Newcomites were rais-
ing; to the philanthropic missions which the Reverend Low
Church gentlemen were engaged in ; to the races (for the young
Newcomite manufacturers are as sporting gents as any in the

594

THE NEWCOMES.

North), to the hospital, the " People's Library," the restoration
of the rood-screen, and the great painted window in "Kewcome
Old Church (Rev. J. Bulders), and he had to pay in fine a most
awful price for his privilege of sitting in Parliament as repre-
sentative of his native place — as he called it in his speeches,
" the cradle of his forefathers, the home of his race," &c,
though Barnes was in fact born at Clapham.

Lady Clara could not in the least help this young statesman
in his designs upon Newcome and the Xewcomites. After she
came into Barnes's hands, a dreadful weight fell upon her. She
would smile and simper, and talk kindly and gayly enough at
first, during Sir Brian's life ; and among women, when Barnes
was not present. But as soon as he joined the company, it
was remarked that his wife became silent, and looked eagerly
towards him whenever she ventured to speak. She blundered,
her eyes filled with tears ; the little wit she had left her in her
husband's presence : he grew angry, and tried to hide his
anger with a sneer, or broke out with a gibe and an oath, when
he lost patience, and Clara, whimpering, would leave the room.
Even-body at Newcome knew that Barnes bullied his wife.

People had worse charges against Barnes than wife bullying.
Do you suppose that little interruption which occurred at
Barnes' marriage was not known in Newcome ? His victim had
been a Newcome girl, the man to whom she was betrothed was
in a Newcome factory. When Barnes was a young man, and
in his occasional visits to Newcome, lived along with those dash-
ing young blades Sam Jollyman (Jollyman Brothers & Bowcher),
Bob Homer, Cross Country Bill, Al. Rucker (for whom his
father had to pay eighteen thousand pounds after the Leger
the year Toggery won it), and that wild lot, all sorts of stories
were told of them, and of Barnes especially. Most of them
were settled, and steady business men by this time. AL, it was
known, had become very serious, besides making his fortune in
cotton. Bob Homer managed the bank ; and as for S. Jollyman,
Mrs. S. J. took uncommon good care that he didn't break out
of bounds any more ; why he was not even allowed to play a
game at billiards, or to dine out without her. * * * I could
go on giving you interesting particulars of a hundred members
of the Newcome aristocracy, were not our attention especially
directed to one respectable family.

All Barnes's endeavors at popularity were vain, partly from
his own fault, and partly from the nature of mankind, and of
the Newcome folks especially, who n no single person could
possibly conciliate. Thus, suppose he gave the advertisements

THE NEWCOMES.

595

to the Independent, the old Blue paper the Sentinel was very
angry : suppose he asked Mr. Hunch, the Dissenting minister,
to bless the table-cloth after dinner, as he had begged Dr.
Bulders to utter a benediction on the first course, Hunch and
Bulders were both angry. He subscribed to the races — what
heathenism ! to the missionaries — what sanctimonious hum-
bug ! And the worst was that Barnes, being young at that time
and not able to keep his tongue in order, could not help saying,
not to, but of such and such a man, that " he was an infernal
ass, or a confounded old idiot," and so forth — peevish phrases,
which undid in a moment the work of a dozen dinners, count-
less compliments, and months of grinning good-humor.

Now he is wiser. He is very proud of being Newcome of
Newcome, and quite believes that the place is his hereditary
principality. But still, he says, his father was a fool for ever
representing the borough. " Dammy, sir," cries Sir Barnes,
" never sit for a place that lies at your park gates, and, above
all, never try to conciliate 'em. Curse 'em ! Hate 'em well,
sir. Take a line, and flog the fellows on the other side. Since
I have sat in Parliament for another place, I have saved myself
I don't know how much a year. I never go to High Church
or Low ; don't give a shillin' to the confounded races, or the in-
fernal soup-tickets, or to the miserable missionaries ; and at
last live in quiet."

So, in spite of all his subscriptions, and his coaxing of the
various orders of Newcomites, Sir Barnes Xewcome was not
popular among them ; and while he had enemies on all sides,
had sturdy friends not even on his own. Scarce a man but felt
Barnes was laughing at him ; Bulders, in his pulpit. Holder,
who seconded him in his election, the Xewcome society, and
the ladies even more than the men, were uneasy under his
ominous familiarity, and recovered their good-humor when he
left them. People felt as if it was a truce only, and not an
alliance with him, and always speculated on the possibility of
war : when he turned his back on them in the market, men felt
relieved, and as they passed his gate looked with no friendly
glances over his park wall.

What happened within was perfectly familiar to many per-
sons. Our friend was insolent to all his servants ; and of
course very well served, but very much disliked in consequence.
The butler was familiar with Taplow — the housekeeper had a
friend at Newcome : Mrs. Taplow, in fact, of the " King's
Arms" — one of the grooms at Newcome Park kept company
with Mrs. Bulders' maid : the incomings and outgoings, the

596

THE NEWCOMES.

quarrels and tears, the company from London, and all the doings
of thefo&s at Newcome Park were thus known to the neighbor-
hood round about. The apothecary brought an awful story
back from Newcome. He had been called to Lady Clara in
strong hysterical fits. He found her ladyship with a bruise on
her face. When Sir Barnes approached her (he would not
allow the medical man to see her except in his presence) she
screamed, and bade him not come near her. These things did
Mr. Vidler weakly impart to Mrs. Vidler : these, under solemn
vows of secrecy, Mrs. Vidler told to one or two friends. Sir
Barnes and Lady Clara were seen shopping together very gra-
ciously in Newcome a short time afterwards ; persons who dined
at the Park said the Baronet and his wife seemed on very good
terms ; but — but that story of the bruised cheek remained in
the minds of certain people, and lay by at compound interest as
such stories will.

Now, say people quarrel and make it up ; or don't make it
up, but wear a smirking face to society, and call each other
" my dear " and " my love," and smooth over their countenances
before John, who enters with the coals as they are barking and
biting, or who announces the dinner as they are tearing each
other's eyes out ? Suppose a woman is ever so miserable, and
yet smiles, and doesn't show her grief ? " Quite right," say
her prudent friends, and her husband's relations above all.
" My dear, you have too much propriety to exhibit your grief
before the world, or above all, before the darling children."
So to lie is your duty, to lie to your friends, to yourself if you
can, to your children.

Does this discipline of hypocrisy improve any mortal woman ?
Say she learns to smile after a blow, do you suppose in this
matter alone she will be a hypocrite ? Poor Lady Clara ! I
fancy a better lot for you than that to which fate handed you
over. I fancy there need have been no deceit in your fond
simple little heart could it but have been given into other keep-
ing. But you were consigned to a master whose scorn and
cruelty terrified you ; under whose sardonic glances your scared
eyes were afraid to look up, and before whose gloomy coldness
you dared not be happy. Suppose a little plant, very frail and
delicate from the first, but that might have bloomed sweetly
and borne fair flowers, had it received warm shelter and kindly
nurture ; suppose a young creature taken out of her home, and
given over to a hard master whose caresses are as insulting aa
his neglect ; consigned to cruel usage ; to weary loneliness ; to
bitter, bitter recollections of the past ; suppose her schooled

THE XEWCOMES.

597

into hypocrisy by tyranny — and then, quick, let us hire an ad-
vocate to roar out to a British jury the wrongs of her injured
husband, to paint the agonies of his bleeding heart, (if Mr.
Advocate gets plaintiff's brief in time, and before defendant's
attorney has retained him,) and to show Society injured through
him. Let us console that martyr, I say, with thumping dam-
ages \ and as for the woman — the guilty wretch ! — let us lead
her out and stone her.

CHAPTER LVI.

ROSA QUO LOCORUM SERA MORATUR.

Cltve Newcome bore his defeat with such a courage and
resolution as those who knew the young fellow's character were
sure he would display. It was whilst he had a little lingering
hope still that the poor lad was in the worst condition ; as a
gambler is restless and unhappy whilst his last few guineas
remain with him, and he is venturing them against the over-
powering chances of the bank. His last piece, however, gone,
our friend rises up from that unlucky table — beaten at the con-
test but not broken in spirit. He goes back into the world
again and withdraws from that dangerous excitement ; some-
times when he is alone or wakeful, tossing in his bed at nights,
he may recall the fatal game, and think how he might have
won it — think what a fool he was ever to have played it at all —
but these cogitations Clive kept for himself. He was magnani-
mous enough not even to blame Ethel much, and to take her
side against his father, who it must be confessed now exhibited
a violent hostility against that young lady and her belongings.
Slow to anger and utterly beyond deceit himself, when Thomas
Newcome was once roused, or at length believed that he was
cheated, woe to the offender ! From that day forth, Thomas
believed no good of him. Every thought or action of his
enemy's life seemed treason to the worthy Colonel. If Barnes
gave a dinner-party, his uncle was ready to fancy that the
banker wanted to poison somebody ; it he made a little speech
in the House of Commons ( Barnes did make little speeches in
the House of Commons), the Colonel was sure some infernal
conspiracy lay under the villain's words. The whole of that
branch of the Newcomes fared little better at their kinsman's

598 THE NEWCOMES.

hands — they were all deceitful, sordid, heartless, worldly j —
Ethel herself no better now than the people who had bred her
up. People hate, as they love, unreasonably. Whether is it
the more mortifying to us, to feel that we are disliked or liked
undeservedly ?

Clive was not easy until he had the sea between him and
his misfortune : and now Thomas Newcome had the chance
of making that tour with his son which in early days had been
such a favorite project with the good man. They travelled
Rhineland and Switzerland together — they crossed into Italy
— went from Milan to Venice (where Clive saluted the greatest
painting in the world — the glorious " Assumption " of Titian)
— they went to Trieste, and over the beautiful Styrian Alps to
to Vienna — they beheld the Danube, and the plain where the
Turk and Sobieski fought. They travelled at a prodigious fast
pace. They did not speak much to one another. They were
a pattern pair of English travellers. I dare say many persons
whom they met smiled to observe them ; and shrugged their
shoulders at the aspect of ces Anglais. They did not know the
care in the young traveller's mind ; and the deep tenderness
and solicitude of the elder. Clive wrote to say it was a very
pleasant tour, but I think I should not have liked to join it.
Let us dismiss it in this single sentence. Other gentlemen
have taken the same journey, and with sorrow perhaps as their
silent fellow-traveller. How you remember the places after-
wards, and the thoughts which pursued you ! If in after days,
when your grief is dead and buried, you revisit the scenes in
which it was your companion, how its ghost rises and shows
itself again ! Suppose this part of Mr. Clive's life were to be
described at length in several chapters, and not in a single
brief sentence, what drear}'' pages they would be ! In two or
three months our friends saw a number of men, cities, moun-
tains, rivers, and what not. It was yet early autumn when they
were back in France again, and September found them at
Brussels, where James Binnie, Esq,, and his family were estab-
lished in comfortable quarters, and where we may be sure
Clive and his father were very welcome.

Dragged abroad at first sorely against his will, James Bin-
nie had found the Continental life pretty much to his liking.
He had passed a winter at Pau, a summer at Vichy, where the
waters had done him good. His ladies had made several
charming foreign acquaintances. Mrs. Mackenzie had quite
a list of Counts and Marchionesses among her friends. The
excellent Captain Goby wandered about the country with them.

THE NEWCOMES.

599

Was it to Rose}', was it to her mother, the Captain was most
attached ? Rosey received him as a god-papa ; Mrs. Mac-
kenzie as a wicked, odious, good-for-nothing, dangerous, delight"
ful creature. Is it humiliating, is it consolatory, to remark,
with what small wit some of- our friends are amused ? The
jovial sallies of Goby appeared exquisite to Rosey's mother,
and to the girl probably ; though that young Bahawder of a
Clive Newcome chose to wear a grave face (confound his in-
solent airs !) at the very best of the Goby jokes.

In Goby's train was his fervent admirer and inseparable
young friend, Clarence Hoby. Captain Hoby and Captain
Goby travelled the world together, visited Hombourg and Ba-
den, Cheltenham and Leamington, Paris and Brussels, in com-
pany, belonged to the same club in London — the centre ot all
pleasure, fashion, and joy, for the young officer and the older
campaigner. The jokes at the " Flag," the dinners at the
" Flag," the committee of the " Flag," were the theme of their
constant conversation. Goby fifty years old, unattached, and
with dyed mustaches, was the affable comrade of the youngest
member of his club ; when absent a friend wrote him the last
riddle from the smoking-room ; when present, his knowledge
of horses, of cookery, wines, and cigars, and military history,
rendered him a most acceptable companion. He knew the his-
tory, and achievements of every regiment in the army \ of every
general and commanding officer. He was known to have been
" out " more than once himself, and had made up a hundred
quarrels. He was certainly not a man of an ascetic life or a
profound intellectual culture : but though poor he was known
to be most honorable ; though more than middle-aged he was
cheerful, busy, and kindly ; and though the youngsters called
him Old Goby, he bore his years very gayly and handsomely,
and I dare say numbers of ladies besides Mrs. Mackenzie
thought him delightful. Goby's talk and rattle perhaps some-
what bored James Binnie, but Thomas Newcome found the
Captain excellent company ;• and Goby did justice to the good
qualities of the Colonel.

Clive's father liked Brussels very well. He and his son oc-
cupied very handsome quarters, near the spacious apartments
in the Park which James Binnie's family inhabited. Waterloo
was not far off, to which the Indian officer paid several visits
with Captain Goby for a guide ; and many of Marlborough's
battle-fields were near, in which Goby certainly took but a mi-
nor interest ; but on the other hand Clive beheld these with
the greatest pleasure, and painted more than one dashing piece.

6oo THE NEWCOMES.

in which Churchill and Eugene, Cutts and Cadogan, were the
heroes ; whose flowing periwigs, huge boots, and thundering
Flemish chargers were, he thought, more novel and picturesque
than the Duke's surtout, and the French Grenadiers' hairy
caps, which so many English and French artists have por-
trayed.

Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis were invited by our kind Colonel
to pass a month — six months if they chose — at Brussels; and
were most splendidly entertained by our friends in that city.
A suite of handsome rooms was set apart for us. My study
communicated with Give's atelier. Many an hour did we pass,
and many a ride and walk did we take together. I observed
that Give never mentioned Miss Newcome's name, and Laura
and I agreed that it was as well not to recall it. Only once,
when we read the death of Lady Glenlivat, Lord Farintosh's
mother, in the newspaper, I remember to have said, " I sup-
pose the marriage will be put off again."

" Qu'est-ce que cela me fait ? " says Mr. Give gloomily, over
his picture — a cheerful piece representing Count Egmont going
to execution ; in which I have the honor to figure as a halber-
dier, Captain Hoby as the Count, — and Captain Goby as the
Duke of Alva, looking out of window.

Mrs. Mackenzie was in a state of great happiness and glory
during this winter. She had a carriage and worked that vehicle
most indefatigably. She knew a great deal of good company
at Brussels. She had an evening for receiving. She herself
went to countless evening-parties, and had the joy of being in-
vited to a couple of court balls, at which I am bound to say
her daughter and herself both looked very handsome. The
Colonel brushed up his old uniform and attended these enter-
tainments. M. Newcome flls, as I should judge, was not the
worst-looking man in the room ; and, as these young people
waltzed together (in which accomplishment Give was very much
more skilful than Captain Hoby), I dare say many people
thought he and Rosey made a pretty couple.

Most persons, my wife included, difficult as that lady is to
please, were pleased with the pretty little Rosey. She sang
charmingly now, and looked so while singing. If her mother
would but have omitted that chorus, which she cackled per-
severingly behind her daughter's pretty back : about Rosey's
angelic temper ; about the compliments Signor Polonini paid
her ; about Sir Horace Dash, our Minister, i?isisting upon her
singing " Batti Batti " over again, and the Archduke clapping
his hands and saying, " Oh, yes ! " about Count Vanderslaa*

THE NEWCOMES. 60 1

pen's attentions to her, &c, &C. ; but for these constant re-
marks of Mrs. Mack's, I am sure no one would have been better
pleased with Miss Rosey's singing and behavior than myself.
As for Captain Hoby, it was easy to see how he was affected
towards Miss Rosalind's music and person.

And indeed few things could be pleasanter than to watch
the behavior of this pretty little maid with her Uncle James
and his old chum the Colonel. The latter was soon as fond of
her as James Binnie himself, whose face used to lighten with
pleasure whenever it turned towards her. She seemed to divine
his wants, as she would trip across the room to fulfil them.
She skipped into the carriage and covered his feet with a shawl
— James was lazy and chilly now — when he took his drive.
She sat opposite to him and smiled on him ; and, if he dozed,
quick, another handkerchief was round his neck. I do not
know whether she understood his jokes, but she saluted them
always with a sweet kind smile. How she kissed him, and how
delighted she was if he brought her a bouquet for her ball that
night ! One day, upon occasion of one of these balls, James
and Thomas, these two old boys, absolutely came into Mrs.
Mackenzie's drawing-room with a bouquet apiece for Miss
Rosey ; and there was a fine laughing.

" O you little Susanna ! " says James, after taking his usual
payment ; " now go and pay t'other elder." Rosey did not
quite understand at first, being, you see, more ready to laugh
at jokes than to comprehend them : but when she did, I prom-
ise you she looked uncommonly pretty as she advanced to Col-
onel Newcome and put that pretty fresh cheek of hers up to his
grizzled mustache.

"I protest I don't know which of you blushes the most,"
chuckled James Binnie — and the truth is, the old man and
the young girl had both hung out those signals of amiable
distress.

On this day, and as Miss Rosey was to be overpowered by
flowers, who should come presently to dinner but Captain
Hoby, with another bouquet ! on which Uncle James said
Rosey should go to the ball like an American Indian, with her
scalps at her belt.

11 Scalps ! " cries Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Scalps ! O law, uncle ! " exclaims Miss Rosey. "What
can you mean by anything so horrid ? "

Goby recalls to Mrs. Mack, Hook-ee-ma-goosh, the Indian
chief, whom she must have seen when the Hundred and
Fiftieth were at Quebec, and who had his lodge full of them ;

602 THE NEWCOMES.

and who used to lie about the barracks so drunk, and who used
to beat his poor little European wife ; and presently Mr. Olive
Xewcome joins this company, when the chirping, tittering,
joking, laughing cease somehow.

" Has Clive brought a bouquet too ? No. He has never
thought about a bouquet. He is dressed in black, with long
hair, a long mustache, and melancholy imperial. He looks
very handsome, but as glum as an undertaker. And James
Binnie says, " Egad, Tom, they used to call you the knight of the
woeful countenance, and Clive has just inherited the paternal
mug." Then James calls out in a cheery voice, " Dinner, din-
ner ! " and trots off with Mrs. Pendennis under his arm ; Rosey
nestles up against the Colonel ; Goby and Mrs. Mack walk
away arm-in-arm very contentedly ; and I don't know with
which of her three nosegays pretty Rosey appears at the ball.

Our stay with our friends at Brussels could not be prolonged
beyond a month, for at the end of that period we were undei
an engagement to other friends in England, who were good
enough to desire the presence of Mrs. Pendennis and her suite
of baby, nurse, and husband. So we presently took leave of
Rosey and the Campaigner, of the two stout elders, and our
melancholy young Clive, who bore us company to Antwerp, and
who won Laura's heart by the neat way in which he took
her child on board ship. Poor fellow ! how sad he looked as
he bowed to us and took off his hat ! His eyes did not seem
to be looking at us, though : they and his thoughts were turned
another way. He moved off immediately, with his head down,
puffing his eternal cigar, and lost in his own meditations ; our
going or our staying was of very little importance to the lugu-
brious youth.

" I think it was a great pity they came to Brussels," says
Laura, as we sat on the deck, while her unconscious infant was
cheerful, and while the water of the lazy Scheldt as yet was
smooth.

"Who? The Colonel and Clive? They are very hand-
somely lodged. They have a good maitre-d'hotel. Their din-
ners, I am sure, are excellent ; and your child, madam, is as
healthy as it possibly can be."

" Blessed darling ! Yes ! " (Blessed darling crows, moos,
jumps in his nurse's arms, and holds out a little mottled hand
for a biscuit of Savoy, which mamma supplies.) M I can't r.<dp
thinking, Arthur, that Rosey would have been muck happia as
Mrs. Hoby than she will be as Mrs. Newcome."

THE NEWCOMES. 603

" Who thinks of her being Mrs. Newcome ? "

" Her mother, her uncle, and Clive's father. Since the Col'
onel has been so rich, I think Mrs. Mackenzie sees a great deal
of merit in Clive. Rosey will do anything her mother bids her.
If Clive can be brought to the same obedience, Uncle James
and the Colonel will be delighted. Uncle James has set his
heart on this marriage. (He and his sister agree upon this
point.) He told me, last night, that he would sing ' Nunc
dimittis,' could he but see the two children happy; and that he
should lie easier in purgatory if that could be brought about."

" And what did you say, Laura? "

" I laughed, and told Uncle James I was of the Hoby fac-
tion. He is very good-natured, frank, honest, and gentleman-
like, Mr. Hoby. But Uncie James said he thought Mr. Hoby
was so — well, so stupid — that his Rosey would be thrown
away upon the poor Captain. So I did not tell Uncle James
that, before Clive's arrival, Rosey had found Captain Hoby far
from stupid. He used to sing duets with her , he used to ride
with her before Clive came. Last winter, when they were at
Paii, I feel certain Miss Rosey thought Captain Hoby very
pleasant indeed. She thinks she was attached to Clive for-
merly, and now she admires him, and is dreadfully afraid of
him. He is taller and handsomer, and richer and cleverer than
Captain Hoby, certainly."

" I should think so, indeed," breaks out Mr. Pendennis.
" Why, my dear, Clive is as fine a fellow as one can see on a
summer's day. It does one good to look at him. What a pair
of frank bright blue eyes he has, or used to have, till this mis-
hap overclouded them ! What a pleasant laugh he has ! What
a well-built, agile figure it is — what pluck, and spirit, and honor
there is about my young chap ! I don't say he is a genius of
the highest order, but he is the stanchest, the bravest, the
cheeriest, the most truth-telling, the kindest heart. Compare
him and Hoby ! Why, Clive is an eagle, and yonder little
creature a mousing owl ! "

" I like to hear you speak so," cries Mrs. Laura, very ten-
derly. "People say that you are always sneering, Arthur/
but I know my husband better. We know papa better, don't
we, baby ? " (Here my wife kisses the infant Pendennis with
great effusion, who has come up dancing on his nurse's arms.)
" But," savs she, coming back and snuggling by her husband's
side again — " But suppose your favorite Clive is an eagle,
Arthur, don't you think he had better have an eagle for a
mate ? If he were to marry little Rosey, I dare say he would

604 THE NEWCOMES.

be very good to her ; but I think neither he nor she would be
very happy. My dear, she does not care for his pursuits : she
does not understand him when he talks. The two captains,
and Rosey and I, and the Campaigner, as you call her, laugh
and talk, and prattle, and have the merriest little jokes with
one another, and we all are as quiet as mice when you and
Clive come in."

V What, am I an eagle too ? I have no aquiline pretensions
at all, Mrs. Pendennis."

" No. Well, we are not afraid of you. We are not afraid
of papa, are we, darling? " this young woman now calls out to
the other member of her family ; who, if you will calculate, has
just had time to be walked twice up and down the deck of the
steamer, whilst Laura has been making her speech about
eagles. And soon the mother, child, and attendant descend
into the lower cabins : and then dinner is announced : and
Captain Jackson treats us to champagne from his end of the
table : and yet a short while, and we are at sea, and conver-
sation becomes impossible ; and morning sees us under the
gray London sky, and amid the million of masts in the
Thames.

CHAPTER LVII.

ROSEBURY AND NEWCOME.

The friends to whom we were engaged in England were
Florae and his wife, Madame la Princesse de Montcontour,
who were determined to spend the Christmas holidays at the
Princess's country-seat. It was for the first time since their
reconciliation that the Prince and Princess dispensed their
hospitalities at the latter's chateau. It is situated, as the
reader has already been informed, at some five miles from the
town of Newcome ; away from the chimneys and smoky atmos-
phere of that place, in a sweet country of rural woodlands ;
over which quiet villages, gray church spires, and ancient
gabled farm-houses are scattered : still wearing the peaceful
aspect which belonged to them when Newcome was as yet but
an antiquated country town, before mills were erected on its
river banks, and dyes and cinders blackened its stream.
Twenty years since Newcome Park was the only great house

THE NE 11 'COMES. 605

in that district j now scores of fine villas have sprung up in the
suburb lying between the town and park. Newcome New
Town, as everybody knows, has grown round the park-gates,
and the " New Town Hotel " (where the railway station is) is
a splendid structure in the Tudor style, more ancient in
appearance than the park itself; surrounded by little antique
villas with spiked gables, stacks of crooked chimneys, and
plate-glass windows looking upon trim lawns ; with glistening
hedges of evergreens, spotless gravel walks, and Elizabethan
gig-houses. Under the great railway viaduct of the New Town
goes the old tranquil winding London high-road, once busy
with a score of gay coaches, and ground by innumerable
wheels ; but at a few miles from the Xew Town Station the
road has become so mouldy that the grass actually grows on
it; and Rosebury, Madame de Montcontour's house, stands at
one end of a village-green, which is even more quiet now than
it was a hundred years ago.

When first Madame de Florae bought the place, it scarcely
ranked amongst the county houses ; and she, the sister of
manufacturers at Newcome and Manchester, did not of course
visit the county families. A homely little body, married to a
Frenchman from whom she was separated, may or may not
have done a great deal of good in her village, have had pretty
gardens, and won prizes at the Newcome iiower and fruit
shows ; but, of course, she was nobody in such an aristocratic

county as we all know shire is. She had her friends and

relatives from Newcome. Many of them were Quakers — many
were retail shopkeepers. She even frequented the little branch
Ebenezer, on Rosebury Green ; and it was only by her
charities and kindness at Christmas-time, that the Rev. Dr.
Potter, the rector at Rosebury, knew her. The old clergy, you
see, live with the county families. Good little Madame de
Florae was pitied and patronized by the Doctor ; treated with
no little superciliousness by Mrs. Potter, and the young ladies,
who only kept the first society. Even when her rich brother
died, and she got her share of all that money, Mrs. Potter said
poor Madame de Florae did well in not Irving to move out of
her natural sphere ( Mrs. P. was the daughter of a bankrupt hatter
in London, and had herself been governess in a noble family,
out of which she married Mr. P., who was private tutor). Ma-
dame de Florae did well, she said, not to endeavor to leave her
natural sphere, and that The County never would receive her.
Tom Potter, the rector's son, with whom I had the good
fortune to be a (ellow-student at Saint Boniface College, Ox-

606 THE NEWCOMES.

bridge, — a rattling, forward, and, it must be owned, vulgaj
youth, — asked me whether Florae was not a billiard-marker b)
profession ? and was even so kind as to caution his sisters not
to speak of billiards before the lady of Rosebury. Tom was
surprised to learn that Monsieur Paul de Florae was a gen-
tleman of lineage, incomparably better than that of any except
two or three families in England (including your own, my dear
and respected reader, of course, if you hold to your pedigree).
But the truth is, heraldically speaking, that union with the
Higgs of Manchester was the first misalliance which the Florae
family had made for long years. Not that I would wish for a
moment to insinuate that any nobleman is equal to an English
nobleman ; nay, that an English snob, with a coat-of-arms
bought yesterday, or stolen out of Edmonston, or a pedigree
purchased from a peerage-maker, has not a right to look down
upon any of your paltry foreign nobility.

One day the carriage-and-four came in state from Newcome
Park, with the well-known chaste liveries of the Newcomes,
and drove up Rosebury Green, towards the parsonage-gate,
where Mrs. and the Miss Potters happened to be standing,
cheapening fish from a donkeyman, with whom they were in
the habit of dealing. The ladies were in their pokiest old
headgear and most dingy gowns, when they perceived the
carriage approaching ; and considering, of course, that the
visit of the Park people was intended for them, dashed into
the rectory to change their clothes, leaving Rowkins, the
costermonger, in the very midst of the negotiation about the
three mackerel. Mamma got that new bonnet out of the
band-box ; Lizzy and Liddy skipped up to their bedroom, and
brought out those dresses which they wore at the dejeuner at
the " Newcome Athenaeum," when Lord Leveret came down
to lecture ; into which they no sooner had hooked their lovely
shoulders, than they reflected with terror that mamma had
been altering one of papa's flannel waistcoats, and had left it in
the drawing-room, when they were called out by the song of
Rowkins, and the appearance of his donkey's ears over the
green gate of the rectory. To think of the Park people
coming, and the drawing-room in that dreadful state !

But when they came down stairs, the Park people were not
in the room — the woollen garment was still on the table, (how
they plunged it into the chiffonier !)— and the only visitor was
Rowkins the costermonger, grinning at the open French win-
dows, with the three mackerel, and crying, " Make it sixpence,
miss — don't say fippens, ma'am, to a pore fellow that has a wife

THE XEWCOMES. 607

and family." So that the young ladies had to cry — "Impu-
dence!" "Get away, you vulgar insolent creature! — Go
round, sir, to the back door." "How dare you?" and the
like; fearing lest Lady Ann Newcome, and young Ethel, and
Barnes should enter in the midst of this ignoble controversy.

They never came at all — those Park people. How very
odd ! They passed the rectory -gate ; they drove on to Madame
de Florae's lodge. They went in. They stayed for half an
hour ; the horses driving round and round the gravel road be-
fore the house ; and Mrs. Potter and the girls, speedily going
to the upper chambers, and looking out of the room where the
maids slept, saw Lady Ann, Ethel, and Barnes walking with
Madame de Florae, going into the conservatories, issuing
thence with MacYVhirter, the gardener, bearing huge bunches
of grapes and large fasces of flowers ; they saw Barnes talking
in the most respectful manner to Madame de Florae ; and when
they went down stairs and had their work before them — Liddy
her gilt music-book, Lizzy her embroidered altar-cloth, mamma
her scarlet cloak for one of the old women — they had the agony
of seeing the barouche over the railings whisk by, with the
Park people inside, and Barnes driving the four horses.

It was on that day when Barnes had determined to take up
Madame de Florae ; when he was bent upon reconciling her to
her husband. In spite of all Mrs. Potter's predictions, the
county families did come and visit the manufacturer's daughter ;
and when Madame de Florae became Madame la Princesse de
Montcontour, when it was announced that she was coming to
stay at Rosebury for Christmas, I leave you to imagine whether
the circumstance was or was not mentioned in the Ncivcome
Sentinel and the iVcwcome Independent} and whether Rev. G.
Potter, D.D., and Mrs. Potter did or did not call on the Prince
and Princess. I leave you to imagine whether the lady did or
did not inspect all the alterations which Vineer's people from
Newcome were making at Rosebury House — the chaste yellow
satin and gold of the drawing-room — the carved oak for the
dining-room — the chintz for the bedrooms — the Princess's
apartment — the Prince's apartment — the guests' apartments —
the smoking room, gracious goodness ! — the stables (these were
under Tom Potter's superintendence), "and I'm dashed," says
he one day, " if here doesn't come a billiard-table ! "

The house was most comfortably and snugly appointed
from top to bottom ; and thus it will be seen that Mr. and lira
Pendennis were likely to be in very good quarters for their
Christmas of 1S4 — .

608 THE ATEIVCOMES.

Tom Potter was so kind as to call on me two days after oui
arrival ; and to greet me in the Princess's pew at church on
the previous day. Before desiring to be introduced to my wife,
he requested me to present him to my friend the Prince. He
called him your Highness. His Highness, who had behaved
with exemplary gravity, save once when he shrieked an " ah ! "
as Miss Liddy led off the children in the organ-loft in a hymn,
and the whole pack went wofully out of tune, complimented
Monsieur Tom on the sermon of Monsieur his father. Tom
walked back with us to Rosebury Lodge gate. '■ Will you
not come in, and make a party of billiard with me ? v says his
Highness. " Ah, pardon ! I forgot, you do not play the bil-
liard the Sunday ! " "Any other day, Prince, I shall be de-
lighted," says Tom ; and squeezed his Highness's hand ten-
derly at parting. " Your comrade of college was he ? " asks
Florae. " My dear, what men are these comrades of college !
What men are you English ! My word of honor, there are
some of them here — if I were to say to them wax my boots,
they would take them and wax them ! Didst thou see how the
Re' ve rend eyed us during the sermon ? He regarded us over
his book, my word of honor ! "

Madame de Florae said simply, she wished the Prince
would go and hear Mr. Jacob at the Ebenezer. Mr. Potter
was not a good preacher certainly.

" Savez-vous qu'elle est furieusement belle la fille du ReY-
e'rend ? " whispered his Highness to me. " I have made eyes
at her during the sermon. They will be pretty neighbors these
Meess ! " and Paul looked unutterably roguish and victorious
as he spoke. To my wife, I am bound to say, Monsieur de
Montcontour showed a courtesy, a respect and kindness, that
could not be exceeded. He admired her. He paid her com-
pliments innumerable, and gave me, I am sure, sincere con-
gratulations at possessing such a treasure. I do not think he
doubted about his power of conquering her, or any other of the
daughters of women. But I was the friend of his misfortunes
— his guest ; and he spared me.

I have seen nothing more amusing, odd, and pleasant than
Florae at this time of his prosperity. We arrived, as this
veracious chronicle has already asserted, on a Saturday even-
ing. We were conducted to our most comfortable apart-
ments ; with crackling fires blazing on the hearths, and every
warmth of welcome. Florae expanded and beamed with good-
nature. He shook me many times by the hand ; he patted
me ; he called me his good — his brave. He cried to his maitre-

THE NEVVCOMES.

609

d'hotel, u Frederic, remember Monsieur is master here ! Run
before bis orders. Prostrate thyself to him. He was good to
me in the days of my misfortune. Hearest thou, Frederic ?
See that everything be done for Monsieur Pendennis — for
Madame sa charmante lady — for her angelic infant, and the
bonne. None of thy garrison tricks with that young person,
Fre'de'ric, vieux scelerat ! Garde-toi de Ik, Fre'de'ric : si non, je
t'envoie a Botani Bay ; je te traduis devant le Lord-Maire ! "

" En Angleterre je me fais Anglais, vois-tu, mon ami," con-
tinued the Prince. " Demain c'est Sunday, et tu vas voir! I
hear the bell, dress thyself for the dinner — my friend ! " Here
there was another squeeze of both hands from the good-natured
fellow. " It do good to my 'art to 'ave you in my 'ousa !
Heuh ! " He hugged his guest ; he had tears in his eyes as he
performed this droll, this kind embrace. Not less kind in her
way, though less expansive and e7nbrarive, was Madame de
Montcontour to my wife, as I found on comparing notes with
that young woman, when the day's hospitalities were ended.
The little Princess trotted from bedchamber to nursery to see
that everything was made comfortable for her guests. She sat
and saw the child washed and put to bed. She had never be-
held such a little angel. She brought it a fine toy to play with.
She and her grim old maid frightened the little creature at first,
but it was very speedily reconciled to their countenances. She
was in the nursery as early as the child's mother. " Ah ! "
sighed the poor little woman, " how happy you must be to have
one." In fine my wife was quite overcome by her goodness and
welcome.

Sunday morning arrived in the course of time, and then
Florae appeared as a most wonderful Briton indeed ! He wore
top-boots and buckskins ; and after breakfast, when he went to
church, a white great-coat with a little cape, in which garment
he felt that his similarity to an English gentleman was perfect.
In conversation with his grooms and servants he swore freely,
— not that he was accustomed to employ oaths in his own pri-
vate talk, but he thought the employment of these expletives
necessary as an English country gentleman. He never dined
without a roast beef, and insisted that the piece of meat should
be bleeding, " as you love it, you others." He got up boxing-
matches ; and kept birds for combats of cock. He assumed
the sporting language with admirable enthusiasm — drove over
to cover with a steppare — rode across contri like a good one —
was splendid in the hunting-field in his velvet cap and Napo-
leon boots, and made the Hunt welcome at Ro^ebury, whtra

39

610 THE NEIVCOMES.

his good-natured little wife was as kind to the gentlemen m
scarlet as she used to be of old to the stout Dissenting gentle-
men in black, who sang hymns and spake sermons on her lawn.
These folks, scared at the change which had taken place in the
little Princess's habits of life, lamented her falling away ; but
in the county she and her husband got a great popularity, and
in Newcome town itself they were not less liked, for her bene-
factions were unceasing, and Paul's affability the theme of all
praise. The Newcome Independent and the Newcome Sentinel
both paid him compliments ; the former journal contrasting
his behavior with that of Sir Barnes, their Member. Florae's
pleasure was to drive his Princess with four horses into New-
come. He called his carriage his V trappe," his " drague."
The street-boys cheered and hurrahed the Prince as he passed
through the town. One haberdasher had a yellow stock called
" The Montcontour " displayed in his windows ; another had a
pink one marked " The Princely," and as such recommended
it to the young Newcome gents.

The drague conveyed us once to the neighboring house of
Newcome, whither my wife accompanied Madame de Montcon-
tour at that lady's own request, to whom Laura very properly
did not think fit to confide her antipathy for Lady Clara
Newcome. Coming away from a great house, how often she
and I, egotistical philosophers, thanked our fates that our own
home was a small one ! How long will great houses last in
this world ? Do not their owners now prefer a lodging at
Brighton, or a little entresol on the Boulevard, to the solitary
ancestral palace in a park barred round with snow ? We were
as glad to get out of Newcome as out of a prison. My wife
and our hostess skipped into the carriage, and began to talk
freely as the lodge gates closed after us. Would we be lords
of such a place under the penalty of living in it ? We agreed
that the little angle of earth called Fairoaks was clearer to us
than the clumsy Newcome pile of Tudor masonry. The house
had been fitted up in the time of George IV. and the quasi-
Gothic revival. We were made to pass through Gothic dining-
rooms, where there was no hospitality, — Gothic drawing-rooms
shrouded in brown hollands, to one little room at the end of
the dusky suite, where Lady Clara sat alone, or in the company
of the nurses and children. The blank gloom of the place had
fallen upon the poor lady. Even when my wife talked about
children (good-natured Madame de Montcontour vaunting ours
as a prodigy) Lady Clara did not brighten up ! Her pair of
young ones was exhibited and withdrawn. A something

THE NE WCOMES. 6 1 1

weighed upon the woman. We talked about Ethel's marriage.
She said it was fixed for the new year, she believed. She did
not know whether Glenlivat had been very handsomely fitted
up. She had not seen Lord Farintosh's house in London. Sir
Barnes came down once — twice — of a Saturday sometimes, for
three or four days to hunt, to amuse himself, as all men do, she
supposed. She did not know when he was coming again. She
rang languidly when we rose to take leave, and sank back on
her sofa, where lay a heap of French novels. " She has chosen
some pretty books," says Paul, as we drove through the sombre
avenues through the gray park, mists lying about the melan-
choly ornamental waters, dingy herds of huddled sheep speck-
ling the grass here and there ; no smoke rising up from the
great stacks of chimneys of the building we were leaving behind
us, save one little feeble thread of white which we knew came
from the fire by which the lonely mistress of Newcome was
seated. "Ouf ! " cries Florae, playing his whip, as the lodge
gates closed on us, and his team of horses rattled merrily along
the road, " what a blessing it is to be out of that vault of a
place ! There is something fatal in this house — in this woman.
One smells misfortune there."

The hotel which our friend Florae patronized on occasion of
his visits to Newcome was the " King's Arms," and it happened
one day, as we entered that place of entertainment in company,
that a visitor of the house was issuing through the hall, to whom
Florae seemed as if he would administer one of his customary
embraces, and to whom the Prince called out " Jack," with
great warmth and kindness as he ran towards the stranger.

Jack did not appear to be particularly well pleased on be-
holding us ; he rather retreated from before the Frenchman's
advances.

" My dear Jack, my good, my brave Tghgate ! I am de-
lighted to see you ! " Florae continues, regardless of the stran-
ger's reception, or of the landlord's looks towards us, who was
bowing the Prince into his very best room.

" How do you do, Monsieur de Florae ? " growls the new
comer, surlily ; and was for moving on after this brief salutation ;
but having a second thought seemingly, turned back and fol-
lowed Florae into the apartment whither our host conducted
us. A la bonne heurc ! Florae renewed his cordial greetings
to Lord Highgate. " I knew not, mon bon, what iy had stung
you," says he tc> my lord. The landlord, rubbing his hands,
smirking and bowing, was anxious to know whether the Prince
would take anything after his drive. As the Prince's attendant

612 THE NEWCOMES.

and friend, the lustre of his reception partially illuminated
me. When the chief was not by, I was treated with great at-
tention (mingled with a certain degree of familiarity) by my
landlord.

Lord Highgate waited until Mr. Taplow was out of the
room ; and then said to Florae, " Don't call me by my name
here, please, Florae, I am here incog."

" Plait-il," asks Florae, " where is incog. ? " He laughed
when the word was interpreted to him. Lord Highgate had
turned to me. " There was no rudeness, you understand, in-
tended, Mr. Pendennis, but I am down here on some business,
and don't care to wear the handle to my name. Fellows work
it so, don't you understand ? never leave you at rest in a
country town — that sort of thing. Heard of our friend Clive
lately ? "

" Whether you 'ave 'andle or no 'andle, Jack, you are al-
ways the bien-venu to me. What is thy affair ? Old monster !
I wager * * * "

" No, no, no such nonsense," says Jack, rather eagerly.
" I give you my honor, I — I want to — to raise a sum of money
— that is, to invest some in a speculation down here — deuced
good the speculations down here ; and, by the way, if the land-
lord asks you, I'm Mr. Harris — I'm a civil engineer — I'm wait-
ing for the arrival of the ' Canada ' at Liverpool from America,
and very uneasy about my brother who is on board."

" What does he recount to us there? Keep these stories
for the landlord, Jack ; to us 'tis not the pain to lie. My good
Mr. Harris, why have we not seen you at Rosebury? The
Princess will scold me if you do not come ; and you must bring
your dear brother when he arrive too. Do you hear ? " The
last part of this sentence was uttered for Mr. Taplow's benefit,
who had re-entered the " George " bearing a tray of wine and
biscuit.

The Master of Rosebury and Mr. Harris went out presently
to look at a horse which was waiting the former's inspection in
the stable-yard of the hotel. The landlord took advantage of
his business to hear a bell which never was rung, and to ask
me questions about the guest who had been staying at his
house for a week past. Did I know that party? Mr. Pen-
dennis said, " yes, he knew that party."

''Most respectable party, I have no doubt?" continues
Boniface.

" Do you suppose the Prince of Montcontour knows any
but respectable parties ? " asked Mr. Pendennis—* query of

THE NEWCOMES. 613

which the force was so great as to discomfit and silence our
landlord, who retreated to ask questions concerning Mr. Harris
of Florae's grooms.

What was Highgate's business here ? Was it mine to know ?
I might have suspicions, but should I entertain them, or com-
municate them, and had I not best keep them to myself ? I ex-
changed not a word on the subject of Highgate with Florae,
as we drove home ; though from the way in which we looked at
one another, each saw that the other was acquainted with that
unhappy gentleman's secret. We fell to talking about Madame
la Uuchesse d'lvry as we trotted on; and then of English man-
ners by way of contrast, of intrigues, elopements, Gretna Grin,
&c, &c. H You are a droll nation ! " says Florae. " To make
love well, you must absolutely have a chaise-de-poste, and a
scandal afterwards. If our affairs of this kind made them-
selves on the grand route, what armies of postilions we should
need ! "

I held my peace. In that vision of Jack Belsize I saw mis-
ery, guilt, children dishonored, homes deserted, — ruin for all
the actors and victims of the wretched conspiracy. Laura
marked my disturbance when we reached home. She even
divined the cause of it, and charged me with it at night, when
we sat alone by our dressing-room fire, and had taken leave of
our kind entertainers. Then, under her cross-examination, I
own that I told what I had seen — Lord Highgate, under a
feigned name, staying at Newcome. It might be nothing.
" Nothing ? Gracious heavens ! Could not this crime and
misery be stopped \ V "It might be too late," Laura's husband
said sadly, bending down his head into the fire.

She was silent too for a while. I could see she was en-
gaged where pious women ever will betake themselves in mo-
ments of doubt, of grief, of pain, of separation, of joy even,
or whatsoever other trial. They have but to will, and as it
were an invisible temple rises round them ; their hearts can
kneel down there ; and they have an audience of the great, the
merciful, untiring Counsellor and Consoler. She would not
have been frightened at Death near at hand. I have known
her to tend the poor round about us, or to bear pain — not her
own merely, but even her children's and mine, with a surprising
outward constancy and calm. But the idea of this crime being
enacted close at hand, and no help for it — quite overcame her.
I believe she lay awake all that night ; and rose quite haggard
and pale after the bitter thoughts which had deprived her o*
est.

6 14 THE NEWCOMES.

She embraced her own child with extraordinary tenderness
that morning, and even wept over it, calling it by a thousand
fond names of maternal endearment. " Would I leave you,
my darling — could I ever, ever, ever quit you, my blessing and
treasure ! " The unconscious little thing, hugged to his mother's
bosom, and scared at her tones and tragic face, clung frightened
and weeping round Laura's neck. Would you ask what the
husband's feelings were as he looked at that sweet love, that sub-
lime tenderness, that pure Saint blessing his life. Of all the
gifts of Heaven to us below that felicity is the sum and the
chief. I tremble as I hold it lest I should lose it, and be left
alone in the blank world without it.

Breakfast was scarcely over when Laura asked for a pony-
carriage, and said she was bent on a private visit. She took
her baby and nurse with her. She refused our company, and
would not even say whither she was bound until she had passed
the lodge-gate. I may have suspected what the object was of
her journey. Florae and I did not talk of it. We rode out to
meet the hounds of a cheery winter morning : on another day I
might have been amused with my host — the splendor of his
raiment, the neatness of his velvet cap, the gloss of his hunting-
boots ; the cheers, shouts, salutations, to dog and man*; the
oaths and outcries of this Nimrod, who shouted louder than
the whole field and the whole pack too — but on this morning I
was thinking of the tragedy yonder enacting, and came away
early from the hunting-field, and found my wife already returned
to Rosebury.

Laura had been, as I suspected, to Lady Clara. She did
not know why, indeed. She scarce knew what she should say
when she arrived — how she could say what she had in her mind.
" I hoped, Arthur, that I should have something — something
told me to say," whispered Laura, with her head on my shoulder;
" and as I lay awake last night thinking of her, prayed — that is,
hoped, I might find a word of consolation for that poor lady.
Do you know I think she has hardly ever heard a kind word ?
She said so ; she was very much affected after we had talked
together a little.

" At first she was very indifferent ; cold and haughty in her
manner; asked what had caused the pleasure of this visit, for
I would go in, though at the lodge they told me her ladyship
was unwell, and they thought received no company. I said I
wanted to show our boy to her — that the children ought to be
acquainted — I don't know what I said. She seemed more and
more surprised — then all of a sudden — I don't know how — I

THE IW IVCOMES. 6 1 5

said, 'Lady Clara, I have had a dream about you and your
children, and I was so frightened that I came over to you to
speak about it.' And I had the dream, Pen ; it came to me
absolutely as I was speaking to her.

" She looked a little scared, and I went on telling her the
dream. ' My dear,' I said, ' I dreamed that I saw you happy
with those children.'

" ' Happy ! ' says she — the three were playing in the con-
servatory, into which her sitting-room opens.

" ' And that a bad spirit came and tore them from you ; and
drove you out into the darkness ; and I saw you wandering
about quite lonely and wretched, and looking back into the
garden where the children were playing. And you asked and
implored to see them ; and the Keeper at the gate said, " No,
never." And then — then I thought they passed by you, and
they did not know you.'

" ' Ah,' said Lady Clara.

" ' And then I thought, as we do in dreams, you know, that it
was my child who was separated from me, and who would not
know me : and oh, what a pang that was ! Fancy that. Let
us pray God it was only a dream. And worse than that, when
you, 'when I implored to come to the child, and the man said,
" No, never,'' I thought there came a spirit — an angel that
fetched the child to heaven, and you said, " Let me come too ;
oh, let me come too, I am so miserable." And the angel said,
" No, never, never."

" By this time Lady Clara was looking very pale. ' What do
you mean? " she asked of me," Laura continued.

" ' Oh, dear lady, for the sake of the little ones, and Him
who calls them to Him, go you with them. Never, never part
from them ! Cling to His knees and take shelter there.' I
took her hands, and I said more to her in this way, Arthur, that
I need not, that I ought not to speak again. But she was
touched at length when I kissed her ; and she said I was very
kind to her, and no one had ever been so, and that she was
quite alone in the world and had no friend to fly to ; and would
I go and stay with her? and I said, 'Yes;' and we must go,
my dear. And I think you should see that person at Newcome
— see him, and warn him," cried Laura, warming as she spoke,
" and pray God to enlighten and strengthen him, and to keep
him from this temptation, and implore him to leave this poor,
weak, frightened, trembling creature ; if he has the heart of a
gentleman and the courage of a man, he will."

*' I think he would, my dearest," I said, " if he but heard

616 THE NEWCOMES.

the petitioner." Laura's cheeks were blushing, her eyes bright-
ened, her voice rang with a sweet pathos of love that vibrates
through my whole being sometimes. It seems to me as if
evil must give way, and bad thoughts retire before that purest
creature.

" Why has she not some of her family with her, poor thing ? "
my wife continued. " She perishes in that solitude. Her hus-
band prevents her, I think — and — oh — I know enough of him
to know what his life is. I shudder, Arthur, to see you take
the hand of that wicked, selfish man. You must break with
him, do you hear, sir ? "

" Before or after going to stay at his house, my love ? " asks
Mr. Pendennis.

" Poor thing ! she lighted up at the idea of any one coming.
She ran and showed me the rooms we were to have. It will
be very stupid ; and you don't like that. But you can write
your book, and still hunt and shoot with our friends here.
And Lady Ann Newcome must be made to come back again.
Sir Barnes quarrelled with his mother and drove her out of the
house on her last visit — think of that ! The servants here
know it. Martha brought me the whole story from the house-
keeper's room. This Sir Barnes Newcome is a dreadful crea-
ture, Arthur. I am so glad I loathed him from the very first
moment I saw him."

" And into this ogre's den you propose to put me and my
family, madam ! " says the husband. " Indeed, where won't
I go if you order me ? Oh, who will pack my portmanteau ? "

Florae and the Princess were both in desolation when, at
dinner, we announced our resolution to go away — and to our
neighbors at Newcome ? that was most extraordinary. " Que
diable goest thou to do in this galley ? " asks our host as we
sat alone over our wine.

But Laura's intended visit to Lady Clara was never to have
a fulfilment, for on this same evening, as we sat at our dessert,
comes a messenger from Newcome with a note for my wife
from the lady there.

" Dearest, kindest, Mrs. Pendennis," Lady Clara wrote, with
many italics, and evidently in much distress of mind. — " Your
visit is not to be. I spoke about it to Sir B., who arrived this
afternoon, and who has already begun to treat me in his usual
way. Oh, I am so unhappy ! Pray, pray do not be angry at
this rudeness — though indeed it is only a kindness to keep you
from this wretched place ! I feel as if J cannot bear this much
longer. But, whatever happens, I shall always remember your

THE NEWCOMES. 617

goodness, your beautiful goodness and kindness ; and shall wor-
ship you as an angel deserves to be worshipped. Oh, why had
I not such a friend earlier 1 Hut alas ! I have none — only his
odious family thrust upon me for companions to the wretched,
lonely C. N.

P.S. — He does not know of my writing. Do not be sur-
prised if you get another note from me in the morning, written
in a ceremonious style, and regretting that we cannot have the
pleasure of receiving Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis for the present
at Newcome.

H P.S.— The hypocrite ! "

This letter was handed to my wife at dinner-time, and she
gave it to me as she passed out of the room with the other
ladies.

I told Florae that the Newcomes would not receive us, and
that we would remain, if he willed it, his guests for a little
longer. The kind fellow was only too glad to keep us. u My
wife would die without Bebi" he said. " She becomes quite
dangerous about Be'bi." It was gratifying that the good old
lady was not to be parted as yet from the innocent object of her
love.

My host knew as well as I the terms upon which Sir Barries
and his wife were living. Their quarrels were the talk of the whole
county ; one side brought forward his treatment of her, and his
conduct elsewhere, and said that he was so bad that honest
people should not know him. The other party laid the blame
upon her, and declared that Lady Clara was a languid, silly,
weak, frivolous creature ; always crying out of season ; who had
notoriously taken Sir Barnes for his money, and who as cer-
tainly had had an attachment elsewhere. Yes, the accusations
were true on both sides. A bad, selfish husband had married
a woman for her rank : a weak, thoughtless girl had been sold
to a man for his money ; and the union, which might have ended
in a comfortable indifference, had taken an ill turn and resulted
in misery, cruelty, fierce mutual recriminations, bitter tears shed
in private, husband's curses and maledictions, and open scenes
of wrath and violence for servants to witness and the world to
sneer at. We arrange such matches every day ; we sell or buy
beauty, or rank or wealth ; we inaugurate the bargain in churches
with sacramental services, in which the parties engaged call
upon heaven to witness their vows — we know them to be lies,
and we seal them with God's name, f I, Barnes, promise to take
you, Clara, to love and honor till death do us part." " I, Clara,

618 THE NEWCOMES.

promise to take you, Barnes," &c, &c. Who has not heard the
ancient words ; and how many of us have uttered them, know-
ing them be untrue : and is there a bishop on the bench that has
not amen'd the humbug in his lawn sleeves and called a bless-
ing over the kneeling pair of perjurers ?

"Does Mr. Harris know of Newcome's return?" Florae
asked, when I acquainted him with this intelligence. " Ce scel-
erat de Highgate — Ya ! "

" Does Xewcome know that Lord Highgate is here ? " I
thought within myself, admiring my wife's faithfulness and sim-
plicity, and trying to believe with that pure and guileless crea-
ture that it was not yet too late to save the unhappy Lady
Clara.

" Mr. Harris had best be warned," I said to Florae ; " will
you write him a word, and let us send a messenger to New-
come ? "

At first Florae said, " Parbleu, no ! " the affair was none of
his, he attended himself always to this result of Lady Clara's
marriage. He had even complimented Jack upon it years be-
fore at Baden, when scenes enough tragic, enough comical, ma
foi, had taken place a propos of this affair. Why should he
meddle with it now ?

" Children dishonored," said I, " honest families made
miserable ; for heaven's sake, Florae, let us stay this catastrophe
if we can." I spoke with much warmth, eagerly desirous to
avert this calamity if possible, and very strongly moved by the
tale which I had heard only just before dinner from that inno-
cent creature, whose pure heart had already prompted her to
plead the cause of right and truth, and to try and rescue an
unhappy desperate sister trembling on the verge of ruin.

"If you will not write to him," said I, in some heat; "if
your grooms don't like to go out of a night " (this was one of
the objections which Florae had raised), " I will walk." We
were talking over the affair rather late in the evening, the ladies
having retreated to their sleeping apartments, and some guests
having taken leave, whom our hospitable host and hostess had
entertained that night, and before whom I naturally did not
care to speak upon a subject so dangerous.

"Parbleu, what virtue, my friend! what a Joseph ! " cries
Florae, puffing his cigar. " One sees well that your wife had
made you the sermon. My poor Pendennis ! You are hen-
pecked, my pauvre bon ! You become the husband model. It
is true my mother writes that thy wife is an angel ! "

" I do not object to obey such a woman when she bids me

THE NEWCOMES. 61$

do right," I said ; and would indeed at that woman's request
have gone out upon the errand, but that we here found another
messenger. On days when dinner-parties were held at Rose-
bury, certain auxiliary waiters used to attend from Newcome,
whom the landlord of the " King's Arms " was accustomed to
supply ; indeed, it was to secure these, and make other neces-
sary arrangements, respecting fish, game, &c, that the Prince
de Montcontour had ridden over to Newcome on the day when
we met Lord Highgate, alias Mr. Harris, before the bar of the
hotel. Whilst we were engaged in the above conversation a
sen-ant enters, and says, " My lord, Jenkins and the other man
is going back to Newcome in their cart, and is there anything
wanted ? "

" It is the heaven which sends him," says Florae, turning
round to me with a laugh. " Make Jenkins to wait five min-
utes, Robert ; I have to write to a gentleman at the ' King's
Arms.* " And so saying, Florae wrote a line which he showed
me, and having sealed the note, directed it to Mr. Harris at the
'; King's Arms." The cart, the note, and the assistant waiters
departed on their way to Newcome. Florae bade me go to rest
with a clear conscience. In truth, the warning was better given
in that way than any other, and a word from Florae was more
likely to be effectual than an expostulation from me. I had
never thought of making it, perhaps ; except at the expressed
desire of a lady whose counsel in all the difficult circumstances
of life I own I am disposed to take.

Mr. Jenkins's horse no doubt trotted at a very brisk pace,
as gentlemen's horses will of a frosty night, after their masters
have been regaled with plentiful supplies of wine and ale. I
remember in my bachelor days that my horses always trotted
quicker after I had had a good dinner ; the champagne used to
communicate itself to them somehow, and the claret get into
their heels. Before midnight the letter for Mr. Harris was in
Mr. Harris's hands in the "King's Arms."

It has been said that in the Boscawen Room at the Arms,
some of the jolly fellows of Newcome had a club, of which
Parrot the auctioneer, Tom Potts the talented reporter, now
editor of the Independent, Vidler the apothecary, and other gen-
tlemen, were members.

When we first had occasion to mention that society, it was
at an early stage of this history, long before (.'live Newcome's
fine mustache had grown. If Vidler the apothecary was old
and infirm then, he is near ten years older now ; he has had
various assistants, of course, and one of them of late years had

62 o THE NEWCOMES.

become his partner, though the firm continues to be known by
Vidler's ancient and respectable name. A jovial fellow was
this partner — a capital convivial member of the Jolly Britons,
where he used to sit very late, so as to be in readiness for any
night-work that might come in.

So the Britons were all sitting smoking, drinking, and mak-
ing merry, in the Boscawen Room, when Jenkins enters with a
note, which he straightway delivers to Mr. Vidler's partner.
" From Rosebury ? The Princess ill again, I suppose," says
the surgeon, not sorry to let the company know that he attends
her. " I wish the old girl would be ill in the day-time. Con-
found it," says he, "what's this?" — and he reads out, 'Sir
Newcome est de retour. Bon voyage, mon ami. F.' What
does this mean ? "

" I thought you knew French, Jack Harris," says Tom Potts ;
"you're always bothering us with your French songs."

" Of course I know French," says the other ; " but what's
the meaning of this ? "

" Screwcome came back by the five o'clock train. I was in
it, and his royal highness would scarcely speak to me. Took
Brown's fly from the station. Brown won't enrich his family
much by the operation," says Mr. Potts.

"But what do /care?" cries Jack Harris; "we don't
attend him, and we don't lose much by that. Howell attends
him, ever since Vidler and he had that row."

" Hulloh ! I say it's a mistake," cries Mr. Taplow, smoking
in his chair. "This letter is for the party in the Benbow. The
gent which the Prince spoke to him, and called him Jack the
other day when he was here. Here's a nice business, and the
seal broke, and all. Is the Benbow party gone to bed ? John,
you must carry him in this here note." John, quite innocent of
the note and its contents, for he that moment had entered the
club-room with Mr. Pott's supper, took the note to the Benbow,
from which he presently returned to his master with a very
scared countenance. He said the gent in the Benbow was a
harbitrary gent. He had almost choked John after reading the
letter, and John wouldn't stand it ; and when John said he sup-
posed that Mr. Harris in the Boscawen — that Mr. Jack Harris
had opened the letter, the other gent cursed and swore awful.

"Potts," said Taplow, who was only too communicative on
some occasions after he had imbibed too much of his own
brandy-and-water, " it's my belief that that party's name is no
more Harris than mine is. I have sent his linen to the wash,
and there was two white pocket-handkerchiefs with H. and a
coronet."

THE LETTER.

THE NEWCOMES. g*|

On the next day we drove over to Newcome, hoping perhaps
to find that Lord Highgate had taken the warning sent to him
and quitted the place. But we were disappointed. He was
walking in front of the hotel, where a thousand persons might
see him as well as ourselves.

We entered into his private apartment with him, and there
expostulated upon his appearance in the public street, where
Barnes Newcome or any passer-by might recognize him. He
then told us of the mishap which had befallen Florae's letter on
the previous night.

'• I can't go away now, whatever might have happened pre-
viously ; by this time that villain knows that I am here. If I
go, he will say I was afraid of him, and ran away. Oh, how I
wish he would come and find me." He broke out with a savage
laugh.

M It is best to run away," one of us interposed sadly.

"Pendennis," he said with a tone of great softness, "your
wife is a good woman. God bless her. God bless her for all
she has said and done — would have done, if that villain had let
her. Do you know the poor thing hasn't a single friend in the
world, not one, — except me, and that girl they are selling to
Farintosh, and who does not count for much ? He has driven
away all her friends from her : one and all turn upon her. Her
relations of course j when did t/ieyever fail to hit a poor fellow
or a poor girl when she was down ? The poor angel ! The
mother who sold her comes and preaches at her ; Kew's wife
turns up her little cursed nose and scorns her ; Rooster, forsooth,
must ride the high horse, now he is married and lives at Chan-
ticlere, and give her warning to avoid my company or his !
Do you know the only friend she ever had was that old woman
with the stick — old Kew ; the old witch whom they buried four
months ago after nobbling her money for the beauty of the
family? She used to protect her — that old woman; heaven
bless her for it, wherever she is now, the old hag — a good word
won't do her any harm. Ha ! ha ! " His laughter was cruel to
hear.

" Why did I come down ? " he continued in reply to our sad
queries. " Why did I come clown, do you ask ? Because she
was wretched, and sent for me. Because if I was at the end
of the world, and she was to say, ' Jack, come ! ' I'd come."

" And if she bade you go ? " asked his friends.

" I would go ; and I have gone. If she told me to jump
into the sea, do you think I would not do it ? But I go ; and
when she is alone with him, do you know what he does ? He

622 THE NE IVCOMES.

strikes her. Strikes that poor little thing ! He has owned to it.
She fled from him and sheltered with the old woman who's
dead. He may be doing it now. Why did I ever shake hands
with him ? that's humiliation sufficient, isn't it ? But she wished
it • and I'd black his boots, curse him, if she told me. And
because he wanted to keep my money in his confounded bank \
and because he knew he might rely upon my honor and hers,
poor dear child, he chooses to shake hands with me — me, whom
he hates worse than a thousand devils — and quite right too.
Why isn't there a place where we can go and meet, like man to
man, and have it over ! If I had a ball through my brains I
shouldn't mind, I tell you. I've a mind to do it for myself,
Pendennis. You don't understand me, Viscount."

" II est vrai," said Florae, with a shrug, " I comprehend
neither the suicide nor the chaise-de-poste. What will you ?
I am not yet enough English, my friend. WTe make mar-
riages of convenance in our country, que diable, and what
follows ; but no scandal afterwards. Do not adopt our in-
stitutions a demi, my friend. Vous ne me comprenez pas non
plus, raon pauvre Jack ! "

" There is one way still, I think," said the third of the
speakers in this scene. " Let Lord Highgate come to Rose-
bun* in his own name, leaving that of Mr. Harris behind him.
If Sir Barnes Newcome wants you, he can seek you there. If
you will go, as go you should, and God speed you, you can go,
and in your own name, too."

'* Parbleu, e'est 9a," cries Florae, " he speaks like a book —
the Romancier ! " I confess, for my part, I thought that a good
woman might plead with him, and touch that manly not disloyal
heart now trembling on the awful balance between evil and
good.

" Allons ! let us make to come the drague ! " cries Florae
" Jack, thou returnest with us, my friend ! Madame Pendennis,
an angel, my friend, a quakre the most charming, shall roucoule
to thee the sweetest sermons. My wife shall tend thee like a
mother — a grandmother. Go make thy packet ! "

Lord Highgate was very much pleased and relieved seem-
ingly. He shook our hands, he said he should never forget
our kindness, never ! In truth the didatic part of our conver-
sation was carried on at much greater length than as here
noted down : and he would come that evening, but not with us,
thank you ; he had a particular engagement — some letters he
must write. Those done, he would not fail us, and would be
at Rosebury by dinner-time.

THE NEWCOAIES. 623

CHAPTER LVIII.
"one more unfortunate."

The Fa^es did not ordain that die plan should succede
which Lord Highgate's friends had devised for Lady Clara's
rescue or respite. He was bent 0,. one more interview with
the unfortunate lady ; and in that meeting the future destiny of
their luckless lives was decided. On the morning of his return
home, Barnes Newcome had information that Lord Highgate,
under a feigned name, had been staying in the neighborhood
of his house, and had repeatedly been seen in the company of
Lady Clara. She may have gone out to meet him but for one
hour more. She had taken no leave of herchildren on the day
when she left her home, and, far from making preparations for
her own departure, had been engaged in getting the house
ready for the reception of members of the family, whose arrival
her husband announced as speedily to follow his own. Ethel
and Lady Ann, and some of the children, were coming. Lord
Farintosh's mother and sisters were to follow. It was to be a
reunion previous to the marriage which was closer to unite the
two families. Lady Clara said " yes " to her husband's orders ;
rose mechanically to obey his wishes and arrange for the recep-
tion of the guests ; and spoke tremblingly to the housekeeper
as her husband gibed at her. The little ones had been con-
signed to bed early, and before Sir Barnes's arrival. He did
not think fit to see them in their sleep ; nor did their mother.
She did not know, as the poor little creatures left her room in
charge of their nurses, that she looked on them for the last
time. Perhaps, had she gone to their bedsides that evening,
had the wretched panic-stricken soul been allowed leisure to
pause, and to think, and to pray, the fate of the morrow might
have been otherwise, and the trembling balance of the scale
have inclined to right's side. But the pause was not allowed
her. Her husband came and saluted her with his accustomed
greetings of scorn, and sarcasm, and brutal insult. On a future
day he never dared to call a servant of his household to testify
to his treatment of her, though many were ready to attend to
prove his cruelty and her terror. On that very last night,
Lady Clara's maid, a country-girl from her father's house at

624 TBE NEWCOMES.

Chanticlere. told Sir Barnes, in the midst of a conjugal dispute,
that her lady might bear his conduct, but she could not, and
thar she would no longer live under the roof of such a brute.
The girl's interference was not likely to benefit her mistress
much : the wretched Lady Clara passed the last night under
the roof of her husband and children, unattended save by this
poor domestic who was about to leave her, in tears and hyster-
ical outcries, and then in moaning stupor. Lady Clara put to
sleep with laudanum, her maid carried down the story of her
wrongs to the servants' quarters ; and half a dozen of them took
in their resignation to Sir Barnes as he sat over his breakfast
the next morning — in his ancestral hall — surrounded by the
portraits of his august forefathers — in his happy home.

Their mutiny, of course, did not add to their master's good-
humor; and his letters brought him news which increased
Barnes's fun.'. A messenger arrived with a letter from his man
of business at Newcome, upon the receipt of which he started
up with such an execration as frightened the sen-ant waiting on
him, and letter in hand he ran to Lady Clara's sitting-room.
Her ladyship was up. Sir Barnes breakfasted rather late on
the first morning after an arrival at Newcome. He had to look
over the bailiff's books, and to look about him round the park
and grounds ; to curse the gardeners ; to damn the stable and
kennel grooms ; to yell at the woodman for clearing not enough
or too much ; to rail at the poor old work-people brooming
away the fallen leaves, <Scc. So Lady Clara was up and dressed
when her husband went to her room, which lay at the end uf
the house, as we have said, the last of a suite of ancestral halU*.

The mutinous servant heard high voice and curses within ;
then Lady Clara's screams ; then Sir Barnes Newcome burst
out of the room, locking the door, and taking the key with him,
and saluting with more curses James, the mutineer, over whom
his master ran.

" Curse your wife, and don't curse mc. Sir Barnes Newcome ! "
said James, the mutineer ; and knocked down a hand which the
infuriated Baronet raised against him, with an arm that was
thrice as strong as Barnes's own. This man and maid followed
their mistress in the sad journey upon which she was bent. They
treated her with unalterable respect. They never could be got
to see that her conduct was wrong. When Barnes's counsel
subsequently tried to impugn their testimony, they dared him,
and hurt the plaintiff's case very much. For the balance had
weighed over ; and it was Barnes himself who caused what now
ensued, and what we learned in a very few hours afterwards

H'v

SIR BARNES NEWCOME IN TROUBLE.

THE NFAVCOMES. C25

from Newcome, where it was the talk of the whole neighbor-
hood.

1-lorac and I, as yet ignorant of all that was occurring, met
Barnes near his own lodge-gate riding in the direction of New-
come, as we were ourselves returning to Rosebury. The Prince
de Montcontour, who was driving, affably saluted the Baronet,
who gave us a scowling recognition, and rode on, his groom
behind him. "The figure of this garcon," says Florae, as our
acquaintance passed, " is not agreeable. Of pale, he has become
livid. I hope these two men will not meet, or evil will come ! "
Evil to Barnes there might be, Florae's companion thought,
who knew the previous little affairs between Barnes and his
uncle and cousin ; and that Lord Highgate was quite able to
take care of himself.

In half an hour after Florae spoke, that meeting between
Barnes and Highgate actually had taken place — in the open
square of Newcome, within four doors of the " King's Arms "
inn, close to which lives Sir Barnes Newcome's man of business ;
and before which Mr. Harris, as he was called, was walking,
and waiting till a carriage which he had ordered came round
from the inn yard. As Sir Barnes Newcome rode into the place
many people touched their hats to him, however little they loved
him. He was bowing and smirking to one of these, when he
suddenly saw Belsize.

He started back, causing his horse to back with him on to
the pavement, and it may have been rage and fury, or accident
and nervousness merely, but at this instant Barnes Newcome,
looking towards Lord Highgate, shook his whip.

" You cowardly villain ! " said the other, springing forward,
" 1 was going to your house."

" How dare you, sir," cries Sir Barnes, still holding up that
unlucky cane, " how dare you to — to "

" Dare, you scoundrel ! " said Belsize. " Is that the cane
you strike your wife with, you ruffian ? " Belsize seized and tore
him out of the saddle, flinging him screaming down on the pave-
ment. The horse, rearing and making way for himself, galloped
down the clattering street ; a hundred people were round Sir
Barnes in a moment.

The carriage which Belsize had ordered came round at this
very juncture. Amidst the crowd, shrinking, bustling, expos-
tulating, threatening, who pressed about him, he shouldered his
way. Mr. Taplow, aghast, was one of the hundred spectators
of the scene.

" I am Lord Highgate," said Barnes's adversary. If Sir

4°

626 THE NEWCOMES.

Barnes Xewcome wants me, tell him I will send him word where
he may hear of me." And getting into the carriage, he told
the driver to go " to the usual place."

Imagine the hubbub in the town, the conclaves at the inns,
the talks in the counting-houses, the commotion amongst the
factor}- people, the paragraphs in the Xewcome papers, the
bustle of surgeons and lawyers, after this event. Crowds gath-
ered at the '" King's Arms," and waited round Mr. Speers the
lawyer's house, into which Sir Barnes was carried. In vain
policemen told them to move on ; fresh groups gathered after
the seceders. On the next day, when Barnes Xewcome. who
was not much hurt, had a fly to go home, a factory man shook
his fist in at the carriage window, and with a curse, said " serve
you right, you villain." It was the man whose sweetheart this
Don Juan had seduced and deserted years before — whose
wrongs were well known amongst his mates — a leader in the
chorus of hatred which growled round Barnes Xewcome.

Barnes's mother and sister Ethel had reached Xewcome
shortly before the return of the master of the house. The
people there were in disturbance. Lady Ann and Miss Xew-
come came out with pallid looks to greet him. He laughed
and reassured them about his accident : indeed his hurt had
been trifling ; he had been bled by the surgeon, a little jarred
by the fall from his horse ; but there was no sort of danger.
Still their pale and doubtful looks continued. What caused
them ? In the open day, with a servant attending her, Lady
Clara Xewcome had left her husband's house ; and a letter was
forwarded to him that same evening from my Lord Highgate,
informing Sir Barnes Xewcome that Lady Clara Pulleyn could
bear his tyranny no longer, and had left his roof ; that Lord
Highgate proposed to leave England almost immediately, but
would remain long enough to afford Sir Barnes Xewcome the
opportunity for an interview, in case he should be disposed to
demand one ; and a friend (of Lord Highgate's late regiment)
was named who would receive letters and act in any way neces-
sary for his lordship.

The debates of the House of Lords must tell what followed
afterwards in the dreary history of Lady Clara Pulleyn. The
proceedings in the Xewcome Divorce Bill filled the usual num-
ber of columns in the papers, — especially the Sunday papers.
The witnesses were examined by learned peers whose business
— nay, pleasure — it seems to be to enter into such matters ; and,
for the ends of justice and morality, doubtless, the whole story
of Barnes Xewcome's household was told to the British public.

THK NEWCOMBS. 627

In the previous trial in the Court of Queen's Bench, ho\»
grandly Serjeant Rowland stood up for the rights of British
husbands ! with what pathos he depicted the conjugal para-
dise, the innocent children prattling round their happy pa-
rents, the serpent, the destroyer, entering into that Belgrav-
ian Eden ; the wretched and deserted husband alone by his
desecrated hearth, and calling for redress on his country !
Rowland wept freely during his noble harangue. At not a
shilling under twenty thousand pounds would he estimate the
cost of his client's injuries. The jury was very much affected :
the evening papers gave Rowland's address in extenso, with
some pretty sharp raps at the aristocracy in general. The Day,
the principal morning journal of that period, came out with a
leading article the next morning, in which every party con-
cerned and every institution was knocked about. The disgrace
of the peerage, the ruin of the monarchy (with a retrospective
view of the well-known case of " Gyges and Candaules "), the
monstrosity of the crime, and the absurdity of the punishment,
were all set forth in the terrible leading article of the Day.

But when, on the next day, Serjeant Rowland was requested
to call witnesses to prove that connubial happiness which he
had depicted so pathetically, he had none at hand.

Oliver, Q. C, now had his innings. A man, a husband, and
a father, Mr. Oliver could not attempt to defend the conduct of
his unfortunate client ; but if there could be any excuse for
such conduct, that excuse he was free to confess the plaintiff
had afforded, whose cruelty and neglect twenty witnesses in court
were ready to prove — neglect so outrageous, cruelty so system-
atic, that he wondered the plaintiff had not been better advised
than to bring this trial, with all its degrading particulars, to a
public issue. On the very day when the ill-omened marriage
took place, another victim of cruelty had interposed as vainly
— as vainly as Serjeant Rowland himself interposed in Court
to prevent this case being made known — and with piteous out-
cries, in the name of outraged neglected women, of castaway
children pleading in vain for bread, had besought the bride to
pause, and the bridegroom to look upon the wretched beings
who owed him life. Why had not Lady Clara Pulleyn's friends
listened to that appeal ? And so on, and so on, between Row-
land and Oliver the battle waged fiercely that day. Many wit*
nesses were mauled and slain. Out of that combat scarce any-
body came well, except the two principal champions, Rowland,
Serjeant, and Oliver, Q. C. The whole country looked on and
heard the wretched story, not only of Barnes's fault and 1 :

628 THE NEWCOMES.

gate's fault, but of the private peccadilloes of their suborned foot-
men and conspiring housemaids. Mr. Justice C. Sawyer charged
the jury at great length — those men were respectable men and
fathers of families themselves — of course they dealt full meas-
ure to Lord Highgate for his delinquencies ! consoled the in-
jured husband with immense damages, and left him free to
pursue the farther steps for releasing himself altogether from
the tie, which had been bound with affecting Episcopal benedic-
tion at St. George's, Hanover Square.

So Lady Clara flies from the custody of her tyrant, but to
what a rescue ? The very man who loves her, and gives her
asylum, pities and deplores her. She scarce dares to look out
of the windows of her new home upon the world, lest it should
know and reproach her. All her sisterhood of friendship is cut
off from her. If she dares to go abroad she feels the sneer of
the world as she goes through it ; and knows that malice and
scorn whisper behind her. People, as criminal but undiscov-
ered, make room for her, as if her touch were pollution. She
knows she has darkened the lot and made wretched the home
of the man whom she loves best \ that his friends who see her,
treat her with but a doubtful respect ; and the domestics who
attend her, with a suspicious obedience. In the country lanes,
or the streets of the county town, neighbors look aside as the
carriage passes in which she sits splendid and lonely. Rough
hunting companions of her husband's come to her table : he is
driven perforce to the company of flatterers and men of inferior
sort ; his equals, at least in his own home, will not live with
him. She would be kind, perhaps, and charitable to the cot-
tagers round about her, but she fears to visit them lest they too
should scorn her. The clergyman who distributes her chari-
ties, blushes and looks awkward on passing her in the village,
if he should be walking with his wife or one of his children.
Shall they go to the Continent, and set up a grand house at
Paris or Florence ? There they can get society, but of what a
sort ! Our acquaintances of Baden, — Madame Schlangenbad,
and Madame de Cruchecasse'e, and Madame tTIwp, and Messrs.
Loder and Punter, and Blackball, and Deuceace will come and
dance, and flirt, and quarrel, and gamble, and feast round
about her ; but what .in common with such wild people has this
poor, timid, shrinking soul ? Even these scorn her. The
leers and laughter on those painted faces are quite unlike her
own sad countenance. She has no reply to their wit. Theif
infernal gayety scares her more than the solitude at home. No
wonder that her husband does not like home, except for a short

THE XEIVCOMES. 629

while in the homing season. No wonder that he is away all
day j how can he like a home which she has made so wretched ?
Jn the midst of her sorrow, and doubt and misery, a child
comes to her : how she clings to it ! how her whole being, and
hope, and passion centres itself on this feeble infant ! * * *
but she no more belongs to our story : with the new name she
has taken, the poor lady passes out of the history of the New-
comes.

If Barnes Newcome's children meet yonder solitary lady, do
thev know her ? If her once-husband thinks upon the unhappy
young creature whom his cruelty drove from him, does his
conscience affect his sleep at night ? Why should Sir Barnes
Newcome's conscience be more squeamish than his country's,
which has put money in his pocket for having trampled on the
poor weak young thing, and scorned her, and driven her to
ruin ? When the whole of the accounts of that wretched bank-
ruptcy are brought up for final Audit, which of the unhappy
partners shall be shown to be most guilty ? Does the Right
Reverend Prelate who did the benedictory business for Barnes
and Clara his wife repent in secret ? Do the parents who
pressed the marriage, and the fine folks who signed the book,
and ate the breakfast, and applauded the bridegroom's speech,
feel a little ashamed ? O Hymen Hymenree ! The bishops,
beadles, clergy, pew-openers, and other officers of the temple
dedicated to Heaven under the invocation of St. George, will
officiate in the same place at scores and scores more of such
marriages : and St. George of England may behold virgin after
virgin offered up to the devouring monster, Mammon (with
many most respectable female dragons looking on) — may see
virgin after virgin given away, just as in the Soldan of Baby*
Ion's time, but with never a champion to come to the rescue !

CHAPTER LIX.

IN WHICH ACHILLES LOSES ERISETS.

Although the years of the Marquis of Farintosh were few,
he had spent most of them in the habit of command ; and from
his childhood upwards, had been obeyed by all persons round
about him. As an infant he had but to roar, and his mother
and nurses were as much frightened as though he had been a

630

THE NEWCOMES.

Libvan lion. What he willed and ordered was law amon^
his clan and family. During the period of his London and Pa-
risian dissipations his poor mother did not venture to remon-
strate with her young prodigal, but shut her eyes, not daring
to open them on his wild courses. As for the friends of his
person and house, many of whom were portly elderly gentle-
men, their affection for the young Marquis was so extreme that
there was no company into which their fidelity would not lead
them to follow him ; and you might see him dancing at Mabille
with veteran aides-de-camp looking on, or disporting with opera-
dancers at a Trois-Freres banquet, which some old gentleman of
his father's age had taken the pains to order. If his lordship
Count Almaviva wants a friend to cam' the lanthorn or to hold
the ladder, do you suppose there are not many most respectable
men in society who will act Figaro ? When Farintosh thought
fit. in the fulness of time and the blooming pride of manhood, to
select a spouse, and to elevate a marchioness to his throne, no
one dared gainsay him. When he called upon his mother,
and sisters, and their ladyships' hangers-on and attendants ;
upon his own particular kinsmen, led captains, and toadies;
to bow the knee and do homage to the woman whom he de-
lighted to honor, those duteous subjects trembled and obeyed ;
in fact, he thought that the position of a Marchioness of Far-
intosh was under heaven, and before men. so splendid, that,
had he elevated a beggarmaid to that sublime rank, the in-
ferior world was bound to worship her.

So my lord's lady-mother, and my lord's sisters, and his
captains, and his players of billiards, and the toadies of his
august person, all performed obeisance to his bride-elect, and
never questioned the will of the young chieftain. What were
the private comments of the ladies of the family we had no
means of knowing ; but it may naturally be supposed that his
lordship's gentlemen-in-waiting, Captain Henchman, Jack
Todhunter, and the rest, had many misgivings of their own
respecting their patron's change in life, and could not view
without anxiety the advent of a mistress who might reign over
him and them, who might possibly not like their company, and
might exert her influence over her husband to oust these honest
fellows from places in which they were very comfortable. The
jovial rogues had the run of my lord's kitchen, stables, cellars,
and cigar-boxes. A new marchioness might hate hunting, smok-
ing, jolly parties, and toad-eaters in general, or might bring
into the house favorites of her own. I am sure any kind-hearted
man of the world must feel for the position of these faithful,

THE NEWCOMES. 631

doubtful, disconsolate vassals, and have a sympathy for their
rueful looks and demeanor as they eve the splendid prepara-
tions for the ensuing marriage, the grand furniture sent to my
lord's castles and houses, the magnificent plate provided for his
tables — tables at which they may never have a knife and fork ;
castles and houses of which the poor rogues may never be
allowed to pass the doors.

When, then, " The Elopement in High Life," which has
been described in the previous pages, burst upon the town in
the morning papers. I can fancy the agitation which the news
occasioned in the faithful bosoms of the generous Todhunter
and the attached Henchman. My lord was not in his own
house as yet. He and his friends still lingered on in the little
house in May Fair, the dear little bachelor's quarters, where
they had enjoyed such good dinners, such good suppers, such
rare doings, such a jolly time. I fancy Hench coming down to
breakfast and reading the Morning Post. I imagine Tod drop-
ping in from his bedroom over the way, and Hench handing the
paper over to Tod, and the conversation which ensued between
those worthy men. " Elopement in high life — excitement in N
— come, and flight of Lady CI — N — come, daughter of the late
and sister of the present Earl of D-rking. with Lord H — gate ;
personal rencontre between Lord H — gate and Sir B-nes X —
come. Extraordinary disclosures." I say, I can fancy Hench
and Tod over this awful piece of news.

"Pretty news, ain't it, Toddy?" says Henchman, looking
up from a Perigord pie, which the faithful creature is dis-
cussing.

" Always expected it," remarks the other. " Anybody who
saw them together last season must have known it. The Chief
himself spoke of it to me."

M It'll cut him up awfully when he reads it. Is it in the
Morning Post f He has the Post in his bedroom. I know he
has rung his bell : I heard it. Bowman, has his lordship read
his paper yet ? "

Bowman, the valet, said, "I believe you, he hare read his
paper. When he read it, he jumped out of bed and swore most
awful. I cut as soon as I could," continued Mr. Bowman, who
was on familiar — nay, contemptuous, terms with the other two
gentlemen.

" Enough to make any man swear," says Toddy to Hench-
man ; and both were alarmed in their noble souls, reflecting
that their chieftain was now actually getting up and dressing
himself ; that he would speedily, and in the course of nature,

632 THE NEWCOMES.

come down stairs ; and then, most probably, would begin swear-
ing at them.

The most noble Mungo Malcolm Angus was in an awful
state of mind, when at length he appeared in the breakfast-
room. '' Why the dash do you make a tap-room of this ? " he
cries. The trembling Henchman, who has begun to smoke — as
he has done a hundred times before in this bachelor's hall— -
flings his- cigar into the fire.

" There you go — nothing like it ! Why don't you fling some
more in ? You can get 'em at Hudson's for five guineas a
pound," bursts out the youthful peer.

" I understand why you are out of sorts, old boy," says
Henchman, stretching out his manly hand. A tear of compas-
sion twinkled in his eyelid, and coursed down his mottled
cheek. " Cut away at old Frank, Farintosh, — a fellow who has
been attached to you since before you could speak. It's not
when a fellow's down and cut up, and riled — naturally riled —
as you are, — I know you are, Marquis ; it's not then that I'm
going to be angry with you. Pitch into old Frank Henchman
— hit away, my young one." And Frank put himself into an
attitude as of one prepared to receive a pugilistic assault. He
bared his breast, as it were, and showed his scars, and said,
" Strike ! " Frank Henchman was a florid toady. My uncle,
Major Pendennis, has often laughed with me about the fellow's
pompous flatteries and ebullient fidelity.

"You have read this confounded paragraph?" says the
Marquis.

" We have read it : and were deucedly cut up, too," says
Henchman, " for your sake, my dear boy."

" I remembered what you said last year, Marquis," cries
Todhunter (not unadroitly). "You yourself pointed out, in
this very room, I recollect, at this very table — that night Coralie
and the little Spanish dancer and her mother supped here, and
there was a talk about Highgate — you yourself pointed out
what was likely to happen. I doubted it ; for I have dined at
the Xewcomes', and seen Highgate and her together in society
often. But though you are a younger bird, you have better
eyes than I have — and you saw the thing at once — at once,
don't you remember ? and Coralie said how glad she was, be-
cause Sir Barnes ill-treated her friend. What was the name of
Coralie's friend, Hench ? "

" How should /know her confounded name ? " Henchman
briskly answers. " What do I care for Sir Barnes Newcome
and his private affairs ? He is no friend of mine. I never said

THE NEWCOMES. 633

he was a friend of mine. I never said I liked him. Out of
respect for the Chief here, I held my tongue about him, and
shall hold my tongue. Have some of this pate', Chief! No?
Poor old boy. I know you haven't got an appetite. I know
this news cuts you up. I say nothing, and make no pretence
of condolence ; though I feel for you — and you know you can
count on old Frank Henchman — don't you, Malcolm? " And
again he turns away to conceal his gallant sensibility and gen-
erous emotion.

" What does it matter to me ? " bursts out the Marquis,
garnishing his conversation with the usual expletives which
adorned his eloquence when he was strongly moved. " What
do I care for Barnes Newcome and his confounded affairs and
family ? I never want to see him again, but in the light of a
banker, when I go to the City, where he keeps my account. I
say, I have nothing to do with him, or all the Newcomes under
the sun. Why, one of them is a painter, and will paint my dog
Ratcatcher, by Jove ! or my horse, or my groom, if I give him
the order. Do you think I care for any one of the pack ? It's
not the fault of the Marchioness of Farintosh that her family is
not equal to mine. Besides two others in England and Scot-
land, I should like to know what family is ? I tell you what,
Hench. I bet you five to two, that before an hour is over my
mother will be here, and down on her knees to me, begging me
to break off this engagement."

" And what will you do, Farintosh ? " asks Henchman,
slowly. " Will you break it off ? "

" Xo ! " shouts the marquis. "Why should I break it off
with the finest girl in England — and the best-plucked one, and
the cleverest and wittiest, and the most beautiful creature, by
Jove, that ever stepped, for no fault of hers, and because her
sister-in-law leaves her brother, who I know treated her infer-
nally ? We have talked this matter over at home before. I
wouldn't dine with the fellow, though he was always asking me ;
nor meet, except just out of civility, any of his confounded family.
Lady Ann is different. She is a lady, she is. She is a good
woman : and Kew is a most respectable man, though he is only
a peer of George III.'s creation, and you should hear how he
speaks of Miss Newcome, though she refused him. I should
like to know who is to prevent me marrying Lady Ann Xew-
come's daughter ? "

" By Jove, you are a good-plucked fellow, Farintosh — jive
me your hand, old boy,'" says Henchman.

" Heh ! am I ? You would have said, Give me your hand,

634 THE NEWCOVES.

old boy. whichever way I determined, Hench ? I tell vou. ]
ain't intellectual, and that sort of thing. But I know my rank,
and I know my place ; and when a man of my station gives his
word, he sticks to it, sir ; and my lady and my sisters may go
on their knees all around ; and, by Jove. I won't flinch."

The justice of Lord Farintosh's views were speedily proved
by the appearance of his lordship's mother. Lady Glenlivat,
whose arrival put a stop to a conversation which Captain
Francis Henchman has often subsequently narrated. She be-
sought to see her son in terms so urgent, that the young noble-
man could not be denied to his parent : and, no doubt, a long
and interesting interview took place, in which Lord Farintosh's
mother passionately implored him to break off a match upon
which he was as resolutely bent.

Was it a sense of honor, a longing desire to possess this
young beaun\ and call her his own. or a fierce and profound
dislike to being baulked in any object of his wishes, which ac-
tuated the young lord ? Certainly he had borne very philosoph-
ically, delay after delay which had taken place in the devised
union ; and being quite sure of his mistress, had not cared to
press on the marriage, but lingered over the dregs of his
bachelor cup complacently still. We all know in what an af-
fecting farewell he took leave of his associates of his nie de
garden: the speeches made (in both languages), the presents
distributed, the tears and hysterics of some of the guests as-
sembled : the cigar-boxes given over to this friend, the icrin of
diamonds to that, et castera, et caetera, et caetera. Don't we
know? If we don't it is not Henchman's fault, who has told
the story of Farintosh's betrothals a thousand and one times
at his clubs, at the houses where he is asked to dine, on ac-
count of his intimacy with the nobility, among the young men
of fashion, or no fashion, whom this two-bottle Mentor and
burly admirer of youth has since taken upon himself to form.
The farewell at Greenwich was so affecting that all "traversed
the cart."'' and took another farewell at Richmond, where there
was crying too. but it was Eucharis cried because fair Calypso
wanted to tear her eyes out : and where not only Telemachus
(as was natural to his age), but Mentor likewise, quaffed the
wine-cup too freely. You are virtuous. O reader, but there are
still cakes and ale. Ask Henchman if there be not. You will
find him in the park any afternoon ; he will dine with you if no
better man ask him in the interval. He will tell you story
upon story regarding young Lord Farintosh. and his marriage,
and what happened before his marriage, and afterwards; and

THE NEWCOMES. 635

he will sigh, weep almost at some moments, as he narrates their
subsequent quarrel, and Farintosh's unworthy conduct, and
tells you how he formed that young man. My uncle and Cap-
tain Henchman disliked each other very much, I am sorry to
say — sorry to add that it was very amusing to hear either one
of them speak of the other.

Lady Glenlivat, according to the Captain, then, had no suc-
cess in the interview with her son ; who, unmoved by the mat-
ernal tears, commands, and entreaties, swore he would marry
Miss Newcome, and that no power on earth should prevent
him. " As if trying to thwart that man — could ever prevent his
having his way ! " ejaculated his quondam friend.

But on the next day, after ten thousand men in clubs and
coteries had talked the news over ; after the evening had re-
peated and improved the delightful theme of our ¥ morning con-
temporaries ; V after Calypso and Eucharis driving together in
the Park, and reconciled now, had kissed their hand to Lord
Farintosh, and made him their compliments — after a night of
natural doubt, disturbance, defiance, fury — as men whispered to
each other at the club where his lordship dined, at the theatre
where he took his recreation — after an awful time at breakfast,
in which Messrs. Bowman, valet, and Todhunter and Hench-
man, captains of the Farintosh body-guard, all got their share
of kicks and growling — behold Lady Glenlivat came back to
the charge again ; and this time with such force that poor Lord
Farintosh was shaken indeed.

Her ladyship's ally was no other than Miss Newcome her-
self ; from whom Lord Farintosh's mother received, by that
day's post, a letter, which she was commissioned to read to
her son : —

" Dear Madam " (wrote the young lady in her firmest hand-
writing)— M Mamma is at this moment in a state of such griej
and dis?nay at the cruel misfortune and humiliation which has
just befallen our family, that she is really not able to write to
you as she ought, and this task, painful as it is, must be mine.
Dear Lady Glenlivat, the kindness and confidence which I have
ever received from you and yours, merit truth, and most grate-
ful respect and regard from me. And I feel after the late fatal
occurrence, what I have often and often owned to myself though
I did not dare to acknowledge it, that I ought to release Lord
F., at once and forerer, from an engagement which he could
nei'er think of maintaining with a family so unfortunate as ours.
I thank him with all my heart for his goodness in bearing with

636 THE NEWCOMES

my humors so long ; if I have given him pain, as I k?icnu I have
sometimes, I beg his pardon, and would do so on my knees. I
hope and pray he may be happy, as I feared he never could be
with me. He has many good and noble qualities ; and, in bid-
ding him farewell, I trust I may retain his friendship, and that
he will believe in the esteem and gratitude of your most sincere

" Ethel Newcome."

A copy of this farewell letter was seen by a lady who hap-
pened to be a neighbor of Miss Newcome's when the family mis-
fortune occurred, and to whom, in her natural dismay and
grief, the young lady fled for comfort and consolation. '• Dear-
est Mrs. Pendennis,''' wrote Miss Ethel to my wife — " I hear
you are at Rosebury ; do, do come to your affectionate E. X."
The next day, it was — '; Dearest Laura — If you can, pray, pray
come to Newcome this morning. I want very much to speak
to you about the poor children, to consult you about something
most important." Madame de Montcontour's pony-carriage was
trotting constantly between Rosebury and Newcome in these
days of calamity.

And my wife, as in duty bound, gave me full reports of all
that happened in that house of mourning. On the very day of
the flight, Lady Ann. her daughter, and some others of her
family arrived at Newcome. The deserted little girl, Barnes's
eldest child, ran, with tears and cries of joy, to her aunt Ethel,
whom she had always loved better than her mother ; and clung
to her and embraced her; and, in her artless little words, told
her that mamma had gone away, and that Ethel should be
her mamma now. Very strongly moved by the misfortune,
as by the caresses and affection of the poor orphaned creature,
Ethel took the little girl to her heart, and promised to be a
mother to her, and that she would not leave her ; in which
pious resolve I scarcely need say Laura strengthened her, when,
at her young friend's urgent summons, my wife came to her.

The household at Newcome was in a state of disorganiza-
tion after the catastrophe. Two of Lady Clara's servants, it
has been stated already, went away with her. The luckless
master of the house was lying wounded in the neighboring
town. Lady Ann Newcome, his mother, was terribly agitated
by the news, which was abruptly broken to her, of the flight of
her daughter-in-law and her son's danger. Now she thought
of flying to Newcome to nurse him ; and then feared lest she
should be ill received by the invalid — indeed, ordered by Sir
Barnes to go home, and not to bother him. So at home Lady

THE NEWCOMES. 637

Ann remained, the thoughts of the sufferings she had already
undergone in that house, of Sir Barnes's cruel behavior to her
at her last visit, which he had abruptly requested her to shorten,
of the happy days which she bad passed as mistress of that
house and wife of the defunct Sir Brian : the sight of that de-
parted angel's picture in the dining-room and wheel-chair in
the gallery ; the recollection of little Barnes as a cherub of a
child in that very gallery, and pulled out of the fire by a nurse
in the second year of his age, when he was all that a fond
mother would wish — these incidents and reminiscences so
agitated Lady Ann Newcome, that she, for her part, went off
in a series of hysterical fits, and acted as one distraught ; her
second daughter screamed in sympathy with her; and Miss New-
come had to take the command of the whole of this demented
household, hysterical mamma and sister, mutineering servants
and shrieking abandoned nursery, and bring young people and
old to peace and quiet.

On the morrow after his little concussion Sir Barnes Xew-
come came home, not much hurt in body, but wofully afflicted
in temper, and venting his wrath upon everybody round about
him in that strong language which he employed when dis-
pleased ; and under which his valet, his housekeeper, his butler,
his farm-bailiff, his lawyer, his doctor, his dishevelled mother
herself — who rose from her couch and her sal-volatile to fling
herself round her dear boy's knees — all had to suffer. Ethel
Newcome, the Baronet's sister, was the only person in his house
to whom Sir Barnes did not utter oaths or proffer rude speeches.
He was afraid of offending her or encountering that resolute
spirit, and lapsed into a surly silence in her presence. Indis-
tinct maledictions growled about Sir Barnes's chair when he be-
held my wife's pony-carriage drive up ; and he asked what
brought her here ? But Ethel sternly told her brother that Mrs.
Pendennis came at her particular request, and asked him
whether he supposed anybody could come into that house for
pleasure now, or for any other motive but kindness ? Upon
which Sir Barnes fairly burst out into tears, intermingled with
execrations against his enemies and his own fate, and asser-
tions that he was the most miserable beggar alive. He would
not see his children : but with more tears he would implore
Ethel never to leave them, and, anon, would ask what he should
do when she married, and he was left alone in that infernal
house ?

T. Potts, Esq., of the Newcome Independent, used to say
afterwards that the Baronet was in the direst terror of another

638 THE AEJrcOJ/ES.

meeting with Lord Highgate. and kept a policeman at the lodge
gate, and a second in the kitchen, to interpose in event of a
collision. But Mr. Potts made this statement in after days,
when the quarrel between his party and paper and Sir Barnes
Newcome was flagrant. Five or six days after the meeting of
the two rivals in Newcome market-place, Sir Barnes received a
letter from the friend of Lord Highgate. informing him that his
lordship, having waited for him according to promise, had now-
left England, and presumed that the differences between them
were to be settled by their respective lawyers — " infamous be-
havior on a par with the rest of Lord Highgate's villainy," the
Baronet said. '; When the scoundrel knew I could lift my
pistol arm," Barnes said, '" Lord Highgate fled the country ; "
— thus hinting that death, and not damages, were what he
intended to seek from his enemy.

After that interview in which Ethel communicated to Laura
her farewell letter to Lord Farintosh, my wife returned to Rose-
bury with an extraordinary brightness and gayety in her face
and her demeanor. She pressed Madame de Montcontour's
hands with such warmth, she blushed and looked so handsome,
she sang and talked so gayly, that our host was struck by her
behavior, and paid her husband more compliments regarding
her beauty, amiability, and other good qualities, than need be
set clown here. It may be that I like Paul de Florae so much,
in spite of certain undeniable faults of character, because of his
admiration for my wife. She was in such a hurry to talk to me
that night, that Paul's game and Nicotian amusements were cut
short by her visit to the billiard-room ; and when we were alone
by the cozy dressing-room fire, she told me what had happened
during the day. Why should Ethel's refusal of Lord Farintosh
have so much elated rav wife ?

" Ah ! " cries Mrs. Pendennis, "she has a generous nature,
and the world has not had time to spoil it. Do you know there
are many points that she has never thought of — I would say
problems that she has to work out for herself, only you, Pen,
do not like us poor ignorant women to use such a learned word
as problems ? Life and experience force things upon her mind
which others learn from their parents or those who educate
them, but for which she has never had any teachers. Nobody
has ever told her, Arthur, that it was wrong to marry without
love, or pronounce lightly those awful vows which we utter
before God at the altar. I believe, if she knew that her life
was futile, it is but of late she has thought it could be other-

THE NEWCOMES. 639

wise, and that she might mend it. I have read (besides that
poem of Goethe of which you are so fond) in books of Indian
travels of Bayaderes, dancing girls brought up by troops round
about the temples, whose calling is to dance, and wear jewels,
and look beautiful ; I believe they are quite respected in — in
Pagoda-land. They perform before the priests in the pagodas ;
and the Brahmins and the Indian princes marry them. Can
we cry out against these poor creatures, or against the custom of
their country ? It seems to me that young women in our world
are bred up in a way not very different. What they do they
scarcely know to be wrong. They are educated for the world,
and taught to display: their mothers will give them to the
richest suitor, as they themselves were given before. How can
these think seriously, Arthur, of souls to be saved, weak hearts
to be kept out of temptation, prayers to be uttered, and a better
world to be held always in view, when the vanities of this one
are all their thought and scheme ? Ethel's simple talk made
me smile sometimes, do you know, and her strenuous way of
imparting her discoveries ? I thought of the shepherd boy who
made a watch, and found on taking it into the town how very
many watches there were, and how much better than his. But
the poor child has had to make hers for herself, such as it is ;
and, indeed, is employed now in working on it. She told me
very artlessly her little history, Arthur ; it affected me to hear
her simple talk, and — and I blessed God for our mother, my
dear, and that my early days had had a better guide.

" You know that for a long time it was settled that she was
to marry her cousin, Lord Kew. She was bred to that notion
from her earliest youth ; about which she spoke as we all can
about our early days. They were spent, she said, in the nur-
sery and schoolroom for the most part. She was allowed to
come to her mother's dressing-room, and sometimes to see more
of her during the winter at Newcome. She describes her
mother as always the kindest of the kind : but from very early
times the daughter must have felt her own superiority, I think,
though she does not speak of it. You should see her at home
now in their dreadful calamity. She seems the only person of
the house who keeps her head.

" She told very nicely and modestly how it was Lord Kew
who parted from her, not she who had dismissed him, as you
know the Newcomes used to saw I have heard that — oh ! —
that man Sir Barnes say so myself. She says humbly that her
cousin Kew was a great deal too good for her ; and so is every
one almost, she adds, poor thing ! "

640

THE XEWCOMES.

" Poor even* one ! Did you ask about him. Laura ? n said
Mr. Pendennis.

'• Xo ; I did not venture. She looked at me out of hei
downright eves, and went on with her little tale. ' I was
scarcely more than a child then,' she continued, ' and though
I liked Kew very much — who would not like such a generous
honest creature ? — I felt somehow that I was taller than my
cousin, and as if I ought not to marry him. or should make him
unhappv if I did. When poor papa used to talk, we children
remarked that mamma hardly listened to him ; and so we did
not respect him as we should, and Barnes was especially scoff-
ing and odious with him. Why, when he was a boy, he used
to sneer at papa openly before us younger ones. Now Henrietta
admires everything that Kew says, and that makes her a great
deal happier at being with him.' And then,'' added Mrs. Pen-
dennis, " Ethel said, * I hope you respect your husband, Laura :
depend on it you will be happier if you do.' Was not that a
fine discover}' of Ethel's. Mr. Pen ?

*• • Clara's terror of Barnes frightened me when I stayed in
the house,' Ethel went on. 'I am sure /would not tremble
before any man in the world as she did. I saw early that she
used to deceive him, and tell him lies. Laura. I do not mean
lies of words alone, but lies of looks and actions. Oh ! I do
not wonder at her flying from him. He was dreadful to be with :
cruel, and selfish, and cold. He was made worse by marry-
ing a woman he did not love ; as she was, by that unfortunate
union with him. Suppose he had found a clever woman who
could have controlled him, and amused him, and whom he and
his friends could have admired, instead of poor Clara, who
made his home wearisome, and trembled when he entered it ?
Suppose she could have married that unhappy man to whom
she was attached early ? I was frightened, Laura, to think how
ill this worldly marriage had prospered.

•• * My poor grandmother, whenever I spoke upon such a
subject, would break out into a thousand gibes and sarcasms,
and point to manv of our friends who had made love-matches,
and were quarrelling now as fiercely as though they had never
loved each other. You remember that dreadful case in France

of the Due de , who murdered his duchess ? That was a

love-match, and I can remember the sort of screech with which
Lady Kew used to speak about it ; and of the journal which
the poor duchess kept, and in which she noted down all her
husband's ill-behavior.' "

'' Hush, Laura ! Do you remember where we are ? If the

THE NEWCOMES.

641

Princess were to put down all Florae's culpabilities in an album,
what a ledger it would be — as big as Dr. Portman's ' Chrysos-
tom ! ' " But this was parenthetical ; and after a smile, and a
little respite, the young woman proceeded in her narration of
her friend's history.

" ' I was willing enough to listen,' Ethel said, ' to grand-
mamma then : for we are glad of an excuse to do what we like ;
and I liked admiration, and rank, and great wealth, Laura ;
and Lord Farintosh offered me these. I liked to surpass my
companions, and I saw them so eager in pursuing him ! You
cannot think, Laura, what meannesses women in the world will
commit — mothers and daughters too — in the pursuit of a person
of his great rank. Those Miss Burrs, you should have seen
them at the country-houses where we visited together, and how
they followed him ; how they would meet him in the parks and
shrubberies ; how they liked smoking, though I knew it made
them ill ; how they were always finding pretexts forgetting near
him ! Oh, it was odious ! ' "

I would not willingly interrupt the narrative, but let the
reporter be allowed here to state that at this point of Miss New-
come's story (which my wife gave with a very pretty imitation
of the girl's manner), we both burst out laughing so loud that-
little Madame de Montcontour put her head into the drawing-
room and asked what we was a laughing at ? We did not tell
our hostess that poor Ethel and her grandmother had been
accused of doing the very same thing for which she found fault
with the Misses Burr. Miss Newcome thought herself quite
innocent, or how should she have cried out at the naughty be-
havior of other people ?

" ' Wherever we went, however,' resumed my wife's young
penitent, ' it was easy to see, I think I may say so without
vanity, who was the object of Lord Farintosh's attention. He
followed us everywhere ; and we could not go upon any visit
in England or Scotland but he was in the same house. Grand-
mamma's whole heart was bent upon that marriage, and when
he proposed for me I do not disown that I was very pleased
and vain.

II * It is in these last months that I have heard about him
more, and learned to know him better — him and myself too,
Laura. Some one — some one you know, and whom I shall
always love as a brother — reproached me in former days for a
worldliness about which you talk too sometimes. But it is not
worldly to give yourself up for your family, is it ? One cannot
help the rank in which one is born, and surely it is but natural

4T

642 THE NEWCOMES.

and proper to marry in it. Not that Lord Farintosh thinks me
or any one of his rank'. (Here Miss Ethel laughed.) ' He is
the Sultan, and we. every unmarried girl in society, is his
humblest slave. His Majesty's opinions upon this subject
did not suit me, I can assure you : I have no notion of such
pride !

" - But I do not disguise from you, dear Laura, that aftei
accepting him, as I came to know him better, and heard him,
and heard of him, and talked with him daily, and understood
Lord Farintosh 's character, I looked forward with more and
more doubt to the day when I was to become his wife. I have
not learned to respect him in these months that I have known
him, and during which there has been mourning in our families.
I will not talk to you about him j I have no right, have I ? — to
hear him speak out his heart, and tell it to any friend. He said
he liked me because I did not flatter him. Poor Malcolm !
they all do. What was my acceptance of him, Laura, but
flatten- ? Yes, flatten*, and senility to rank, and a desire to
possess it. Would I have accepted plain Malcolm Roy ? I
sent away a better than him, Laura.

" ' These things have been brooding in my mind for some
months past. I must have been but an ill companion for him,
and indeed he bore with my waywardness much more kindly
than I ever thought possible ; and when four days since we
came to this sad house, where he was to have joined us, and I
found only dismay and wretchedness, and these poor children
deprived of a mother, whom I pity, God help her, for she has
been made so miserable — and is now and must be to the end
of her days ; — as I lay awake, thinking of my own future life,
and that I was going to mam-, as poor Clara had married, but
for an establishment and a position in life ; I, my own mistress,
and not obedient by nature, or a slave to others as that poor
creature was — I thought to myself, why should I do this ? Now
Clara has left us, and is, as it were, dead to us who made her
so unhappy, let me be the mother to her orphans. I love the
little girl, and she has always loved me, and came crying to me
that day when we arrived, and put her dear little arms round
my neck, and said, " You won't go away, will you, Aunt Ethel ? "
in her sweet voice. And I will stay with her ; and will try and
learn myself that I may teach her ; and learn to be good too —
better than I have been. Will praying help me, Laura? I
did. I am sure I was right, and that it is my duty to stay
here.' "

Laura was greatly moved as she told her friend's confession;

73KB NEWCOMES. 643

and when the next day at church the clergyman read the open-
ing words of the service I thought a peculiar radiance and
happiness beamed from her bright face.

Some subsequent occurrence in the history of this branch
of the Newcome family I am enabled to report from the testi-
mony of the same informant, who has just given us an account
of her own feelings and life. Miss Ethel and my wife were now
in daily communication, and " my-dearesting " each other with
that female fervor which, cold men of the world as we are — not
only chary of warm expressions of friendship, but averse to
entertaining warm feelings at all — we surely must admire in
persons of the inferior sex, whose loves grow up and reach the
skies in a night j who kiss, embrace, console, call each other by
Christian names, in that sweet, kindly sisterhood of Misfortune
and Compassion who are always entering into partnership here
in life. I say the world is full of Miss Nightingales ; and we,
sick and wounded in our private Scutaris, have countless nurse-
tenders. I did not see my wife ministering to the afflicted
family at Newcome Park ; but I can fancy her there amongst
the women and children, her prudent counsel, her thousand
gentle offices, her apt pity and cheerfulness, the love and truth
glowing in her face, and inspiring her words, movements, de-
meanor.

Mrs. Pendennis's husband for his part did not attempt to
console Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Baronet. I never pro-
fessed to have a halfpennyworth of pity at that gentleman's
command. Florae, who owed Barnes his principality and his
present comforts in life, did make some futile efforts at. condo-
lence, but was received by the Baronet with such fierceness
and evident ill-humor, that he did not care to repeat his visits,
and allowed him to vent his curses and peevishness on his own
immediate dependents. We used to ask Laura on her return
to Rosebury from her charity visits to Newcome about the
poor suffering master of the house. She faltered and stam-
mered in describing him and what she heard of him ; she smiled,
I grieve to say, for this unfortunate lady cannot help having a
sense of humor ; and we could not help laughing outright some-
times at the idea of that discomfited wretch, that overbearing
creature overborne in his turn — which laughter Mrs. Laura
used to chide as very naughty and unfeeling. When we went
into Newcome the landlord of the "King's Arms" looked
knowing and quizzical ; Tom Potts grinned at me and rubbed
his hands. " This business serves the paper better than Mr.

644 THE XEWCOMES.

Warrington's articles," says Mr. Potts. " We have sold no
end of Independents ; and if you polled the whole borough, I
bet that five to one would say Sir Screwcome Screwcome was
served right. By the way, what's up about the Marquis of
Farintosh. Mr. Pendennis ? He arrived at the 'Arms' last
night ; went over to the Park this morning, and is gone back to
town by the afternoon train."

What had happened between the Marquis of Farintosh and
Miss Xewcome I am enabled to know from the report of Miss
Neweome's confidante. On the receipt of that letter of conge
before mentioned, his lordship must have been very much
excited, for he left town straightway by that evening's mail, and
on the next morning, after a few hours of rest at his inn, was at
Xewcome lodge gate demanding to see the Baronet.

On that morning it chanced that Sir Barnes had left home
with Mr. Speers, his legal adviser ; and hereupon the Marquis
asked to see Miss Xewcome ; nor could the lodge-keeper ven-
ture to exclude so distinguished a person from the Park. His
lordship drove up to the house, and his name was taken to
Miss Ethel. She turned very pale when she heard it j and my
wife divined at once who was her visitor. Lady Ann had not
left her room as yet. Laura Pendennis remained in command
of the little conclave of children, with whom the two ladies
were sitting when Lord Farintosh arrived. Little Clara wanted
to go with her aunt as she rose to leave the room — the child
could scarcely be got to part from her now.

At the end of an hour the carriage was seen driving away,
and Ethel returned, looking as pale as before, and red about
the eyes. Miss Clara's mutton-chop for dinner coming in at
the same time, the child was not so presently eager for her
aunt's company. Aunt Ethel cut up the mutton-chop very
neatly, and then having seen the child comfortably seated at
her meal, went with her friend into a neighboring apartment,
(of course with some pretext of showing Laura a picture, or a
piece of china, or a child's new frock, or with some other hy-
pocritical pretence by which the ingenuous female attendants
pretended to be utterly blinded,) and there, I have no doubt,
before beginning her story, dearest Laura embraced dearest
Ethel, and vice versa.

" He is gone ! " at length gasps dearest Ethel.

'• Pour toujours ? poor young man ! " sighs dearest Laura.
" Was he very unhappy, Ethel ? "

" He was more angry," Ethel answers. " He had a right to
be hurt, but not to speak as he did. He lost his temper quite

THE NEU'COMES.

645

at last, and broke out in the most frantic reproaches. He for-
got all respect and even gentlemanlike behavior. Do you
know he used words — words such as Barnes uses sometimes
when he is angry ! and dared this language to me ! I was
sorry till then, very sorry, and very much moved ; but I know
more than ever now, that I was right in refusing Lord Farin-
tosh."

Dearest Laura now pressed for an account of all that had
happened, which may be briefly told as follows. Feeling verv
deeply upon the subject which brought him to Miss Newcome,
it was no wonder that Lord Farintosh spoke at first in a way
which moved her. He said he thought her letter to his mother
was very rightly written under the circumstances, and thanked
her for her generosity in offering to release him from his en-
gagement. But the affair — the painful circumstance of High-
gate, and that — which had happened in the Newcome family,
was no fault of Miss Newcome's, and Lord Farintosh could not
think of holding her accountable. His friends had long urged
him to marry, and it was by his mother's own wish that the
engagement was formed, which he was determined to maintain.
In his course through the world (of which he was getting very
tired), he had never seen a woman, a lady who was so — you
understand, Ethel — whom he admired so much, who was likely
to make so good a wife for him as you are. " You allude," he
continued, " to differences we have had — and we hare had them
— but many of them, I own, have been from my fault. I have
been bred up in a way different to most young men. I cannot
help it if I have had temptations to which other men are not
exposed ; and have been placed by — by Providence — in a high
rank of life ; I am sure if you share it with me you will adorn it,
and be in every way worthy of it, and make me much better
than I have been. If you knew what a night of agony I passed
after my mother read that letter to me — I know you'd pity me,
Ethel, — I know you would. The idea of losing you makes me
wild. My mother was dreadfully alarmed when she saw the
state I was in ; so was the Doctor — I assure you he was. And
I had no rest at all, and no peace of mind, until I determined
to come down to you ; and say that I adored you, and you only ;
and that I would hold to my engagement in spite of everything
— and prove to you that — that no man in the world could love
you more sincerely than I do." Here the young gentleman
was so overcome that he paused in his speech, and gave way
to an emotion, for which surely no man who has been in the
same condition with Lord Farintosh will blame him.

^6 THE NEWCOMES.

Miss Xewcome was also much touched by this exhibition of
natural feeling ; and, I dare say, it was at this time that her
eyes showed the first symptoms of that malady of which the
traces were visible an hour after.

,% You are very generous and kind to me, Lord Farintosh,"
she said. " Your constancy honors me very much, and proves
how good and loyal you are ; but — but do not think hardly of
me for saying that the more I have thought of what has hap-
pened here, — of the wretched consequences of interested mar-
riages ; the long union growing each day so miserable, that at
last it becomes intolerable, and is burst asunder, as in poor
Clara's case ; the more I am resolved not to commit that first
fatal step of entering into a marriage without — without the
degree of affection which people who take that vow ought to
feel for one another."

■"Affection! Can you doubt it? Gracious heavens, I
adore you ! Isn't my being here a proof that I do ? " cries the
young lady's lover.

" But I ? '' answered the girl. H I have asked my own heart
that question before now. I have thought to myself, — if he
comes after all, — if his affection for me survives this disgrace
of our family, as it has, and even- one of us should be thankful
to you — ought I not to show at least gratitude for so much
kindness and honor, and devote myself to one who makes such
sacrifices for me ? But before all things I owe you the truth,
Lord Farintosh. I never could make you happy ; I know I
could not : nor obey you as you are accustomed to be obeyed ;
nor give you such a devotion as you have a right to expect
from your wife. I thought I might once. I can't now ! I
know that I took you because you were rich, and had a great
name : not because you were honest, and attached to me as
you show yourself to be. I ask your pardon for the deceit I
practised on you. — Look at Clara, poor child, and her miser)- !
My pride, I know, would never have let me fall as far as she
has done ; but oh ! I am humiliated to think that I could have
been made to say I would take the first step in that awful
career."

•• What career, in God's name ?" cries the astonished suitor.
(i Humiliated, Ethel ? Who's going to humiliate you ? I sup-
pose there is no woman in England who need be humiliated by
becoming my wife. I should like to see the one that I can't
pretend to — or to royal blood if I like : it's not better than mine.
Humiliated, indeed ! That is news. Ha ! ha ! You don't sup-
pose that your pedigree, which I know all about, that the New-

THE XEU'COMES. 647

come family, with your barber-surgeon to Edward the Confessor,
are equal to "

u To yours ? No. It is not very long that I have learned
to disbelieve in that story altogether. I fancy it was an odd
whim of my poor father's, and that our family were quite poor
people."

" I knew it," said Lord Farintosh. " Do you suppose there
was not plenty of women to tell it me ? "

M It was not because we were poor that I am ashamed,"
Ethel went on. " That cannot be our fault, though some of us
seem to think it is, as they hide the truth so. One of my uncles
used to tell me that my grandfather's father was a laborer in
Newcome : but I was a child then, and liked to believe the
prettiest story best."

" As if it matters ! " cries Lord Farintosh.

" As if it matters in your wife ? ti'est-ce pas 1 I never thought
that it would. I should have told you, as it was my duty to tell
you all. It was not my ancestors you cared for ; and it is you
yourself that your wife must swear before heaven to love."

"Of course it's me," answers the young man, not quite
understanding the train of ideas in his companion's mind.
" And I've given up even-thing — everything — and have broken
off with my old habits and — and things you know — and intend
to lead a regular life — and will never go to Tattersall's again ;
nor bet a shilling j nor touch another cigar if you like — that is,
if vou don't like ; for I love you so, Ethel — I do, with all my
heart I do ! "

" Vou are very generous and kind, Lord Farintosh," Ethel
said. " It is myself, not you, I doubt. Oh ! I am humiliated
to make such a confession ! "

"How humiliated?" Ethel withdrew the hand which the
young nobleman endeavored to seize.

" If," she continued, " if I found it was your birth, and your
name, and your wealth, that I .coveted, and had nearly taken,
ought I not to feel humiliated, and ask pardon of you and of
God ? Oh, what perjuries poor Clara was made to speak — and
see what has befallen her ! We stood by and heard her without
being shocked. We applauded even. And to what shame and
misery we brought her ! Why did her parents and mine con-
sign her to such ruin ? She might have lived pure and happy
but for us. With her example before me — not her flight, poor
child — I am not afraid of that happening to me — but her lung
solitude, the misery of her wasted years, — my brother's own
wretchedness and faults aggravated a hundred fold by his ui>

648 THE NEWCOMES.

happy union with her — I must pause while it is yet time, and
recall a promise which I know I should make you unhappy if 1
fulfilled. I ask your pardon that I deceived you, Lord Farintosh,
and feel ashamed for myself that I could have consented to
do so."

"Do you mean," cried the young Marquis, " that after my
conduct to you — after my loving you, so that even this — this
disgrace in your family don't prevent my going on — after my
mother has been down on her knees to me to break off, and I
wouldn't — no, I wouldn't — after all White's sneering at me and
laughing at me, and all my friends, friends of my family, who
would go to — go anywhere for me, advising me, and saying,
1 Farintosh, what a fool you are ; break off this match,' — and I
wouldn't back out, because I loved you so, by heaven, and be-
cause, as a man and a gentleman, when I give my word I keep
it — do you mean that you throw me over ? It's a shame — it's a
shame ! " And again there were tears of rage and anguish in
Farintosh's eyes.

" What I did was a shame, my lord." Ethel said, humbly ;
"and again I ask your pardon for it. What I do now is only
to tell you the truth, and to grieve with all my soul for the false-
hood— yes, the falsehood — which I told you, and which has
given your kind heart such cruel pain."

"Yes, it was a falsehood ! " the poor lad cried out. "You
follow a fellow, and you make a fool of him, and you make him
frantic in love with you. and then you fling him over ! I wonder
you can look me in the face after such an infernal treason.
You've done it to twenty fellows before, I know you have.
Everybody said so, and warned me. You draw them on, and
get them to be in love, and then you fling them away. Am I to
go back to London, and be made the laughing-stock of the
whole town — I, who might marry any woman in Europe, and
who am at the head of the nobility of England ? "

" Upon my word, if you will believe me after deceiving you
once," Ethel interposed, still very humbly, "I will never say
that it was I who withdrew from you, and that it was not you
who refused me. What has happened here fully authorizes
you. Let the rupture of the engagement come from you, my
lord. Indeed, indeed, I would spare you all the pain I can. I
have done you wrong enough already, Lord Farintosh."

And now the Marquis burst forth with tears and impreca-
tions, wild cries of anger, love and disappointment, so fierce
and incoherent that the lady to whom they were addressed did
not repeat them to her confidante. Only she generously

THE XF.U'COMES. 649

charged Laura to remember, if ever she heard the matter talked
of in the world, that it was Lord Farintosh's family which broke
off the marriage ; but that his lordship had acted most kindly
and generously throughout the whole affair.

He went back to London in such a state of fury, and raved
so wildly amongst his friends against the whole Newcome
family, that many men knew what the case really was. But all
women averred that that intriguing worldly Ethel Newcome. the
apt pupil of her wicked old grandmother, had met with a de-
served rebuff; that, after doing everything in her power to
catch the great parti, Lord Farintosh, who had long been tired
of her, flung her over, not liking the connection ; and that she
was living out of the world now at Newcome, under the pre-
tence of taking care of that unfortunate Lady Clara's children,
but really because she was pining away for Lord Farintosh,
who, as we all know, married six months afterwards.

CHAPTER LX.

IN WHICH WE WRITE TO THE COLONEL.

Deeming that her brother Barnes had cares enough of his
own presently on hand, Ethel did not think fit to confide to him
the particulars of her interview with Lord Farintosh ; nor even
was poor Lady Ann informed that she had lost a noble son-in-
law. The news would come to both of them soon enough,
Ethel thought ; and indeed, before many hours were over, it
reached Sir Barnes Newcome in a very abrupt and unpleasant
way. He had dismal occasion now to see his lawyers even-
day ; and on the day after Lord Farintosh's abrupt visit and
departure, Sir Barnes, going into Newcome upon his own un-
fortunate affairs, was told by his attorney, Mr. Speers, how the
Marquis of Farintosh had slept for a few hours at the " King's
Arms," and returned to town the same evening by the train.
We may add, that his lordship had occupied the very room in
which Lord Highgate had previously slept ; and Mr. Taplow
recommends the bed accordingly, and shows it with pride to
this very day.

65o

THE XEWCOMES.

Much disturbed by this intelligence, Sir Barnes was making
his way to his cheerless home in the evening, when near his
own gate he overtook another messenger. This was the rail-
way porter, who daily brought telegraphic messages from his
uncle and the bank in London. The message of that day was,
— " Consols, so-and-so. French Rentes, so much. Highgate's
and Farintosli s accounts withdrawn." The wretched keeper of
the lodge owned, with trembling, in reply to the curses and
queries of his employer, that a gentleman, calling himself the
Marquis of Farintosh, had gone up to the house the day before,
and come away an hour afterwards, — did not like to speak to
Sir Barnes when he came home, Sir Barnes looked so bad like.

Now, of course, there could be no concealment from her
brother, and Ethel and Barnes had a conversation, in which the
latter expressed himself with that freedom of language which
characterized the head of the house of Newcome. Madame de
Montcontour's pony-chaise was in waiting at the hall-door when
the owner of the house entered it ; and my wife was just taking
leave of Ethel and her little people when Sir Barnes Newcome
entered the lady's sitting-room.

The livid scowl with which Barnes greeted my wife surprised
that lady, though it did not induce her to prolong her visic to
her friend. As Laura took leave, she heard Sir Barnes scream-
ing to the nurses to " take those little beggars away," and she
rightly conjectured that some more unpleasantries had occurred
to disturb this luckless gentleman's temper.

On the morrow, dearest Ethel's usual courier, one of the boys
from the lodge, trotted over on his donkey to dearest Laura at
Rosebury, with one of those missives which were daily passing
between the ladies. This letter said : —

" Barnes m'a fait une scene terrible hier. I was obliged to
tell him everything about Lord F., and to use the plainest lan-
guage. At first, he forbade you the house. He thinks that you
have been the cause of F.'s dismissal, and charged me, most
unjustly, with a desire to bring back poor C. N. I replied as
became me, and told him fairly I would leave the house if odious
insulting charges were made against me \ if my friends were not
received. He stormed, he cried, he employed his usual lan-
guage,— he was in a dreadful state. He relented and asked
pardon. He goes to town to-night by the mail-train. Of
course you come as usual, dear, dear Laura. I am miserable
without you ; and you know I cannot leave poor mamma.
Clarykin sends a thousand kisses to little Arty ; and I am his
mother's always affectionate — E. N."

THE NEWCOMES. 651

•'Will the gentlemen like to shoot our pheasants? Please
ask the Prince to let Warren know when. I sent a brace to
poor dear old Mrs. Mason, and had such a nice letter from
her ! "

" And who is poor dear Mrs. Mason ? " asks Mr. Pendennis,
as yet but imperfectly acquainted with the history of the New-
comes.

And Laura told me — perhaps I had heard before, and for-
gotten— that Mrs. Mason was an old nuise and pensioner of
the Colonel's, and how he had been to see her for the sake of
old times ; and how she was a great favorite with Ethel ; and
Laura kissed her little son, and was exceedingly bright, cheer-
ful, and hilarious that evening, in spite of the affliction under
which her dear friends at Newcome were laboring.

People in country-houses should be exceedingly careful
about their blotting-paper. They should bring their own port-
folios with them. If any kind readers will bear this simple little
hint in mind, how much mischief may they save themselves, —
nay, enjoy possibly, by looking at the pages of the next port-
folio in the next friend's bedroom in which they sleep. From
such a book I once cut out, in Charles Slyboots' well-known
and perfectly clear handwriting, the words, '"Miss Emily Har-
rington, James Street, Buckingham Gate, London," and pro-
duced as legibly on the blotting-paper as on the envelope which
the postman delivered. After showing the paper round to the
company, I enclosed it in a note and sent it to Mr. Slyboots,
who married Miss Harrington three months afterwards. In
such a book at the club I read, as plainly as you may read this
page, a holograph page of the Right Honorable the Earl of
Bareacres, which informed the whole club of a painful and
private circumstance, and said, " My dear Green, — I am truly
sorry that I shall not be able to take up the bill for eight hun-
dred and fifty-six pounds, which becomes due next Tu * * ;"
and upon such a book, going to write a note in Madame de
Montcontour's drawing-room at Rosebury, what should I find
but proofs that my own wife was engaged in a clandestine
correspondence with a gentleman residing abroad !

" Colonel Newcome, C. B., Montague de la Cour, Brussels,"
I read, in this young woman's handwriting; and asked, turn-
ing round upon Laura, who entered the room just as I
discovered her guilt : " What have you been writing to Colonel
Newcome about, Miss ? "

" I wanted him to get me some lace," she said.

652 THE NEWCOMES.

" To lace some nightcaps for me, didn't you, my dear ? He
is such a fine judge of lace ! If 1 had known you had been
writing, I would have asked you to send him a message. I
want something from Brussels. Is the letter — ahem — gone ? "
(In this artful way, you see, I just hinted that I should like to
see the letter.)

"The letter is — ahem — gone," says Laura. " What do you
want from Brussels, Pen ? "

" I want some Brussels sprouts, my love — they are so fine in
their native country."

" Shall I write to him to send the letter back ? " palpitates
poor little Laura ; for she thought her husband was offended,
by using the ironic method.

"No, you dear little woman ! You need not send for the
letter back : and you need not tell me what was in it : and I
will bet you a hundred yards of lace to a cotton nightcap) — and
you know whether /, Madam, am a man a bo?inet-de-coton — I
will bet you that I know what you have been writing about,
under pretence of a message about lace, to our Colonel."

" He promised to send it to me. He really did. Lady
Rockminster gave me twenty pounds " gasps Laura.

" Under pretence of lace, you have been sending over a
love-message. You want to see whether Clive is still of his old
mind. You think the coast is now clear, and that dearest Ethel
may like him. You think Mrs. Mason is growing very old and
infirm, and the sight of her dear boy would "

" Pen ! Pen ! did you open my letter f " cries Laura ; and a
laugh which could afford to be good-humored (followed by yet
another expression of the lips^ ended this colloquy. No ; Mr.
Pendennis did not see the letter — but he knew the writer ; —
flattered himself that he knew women in general.

"Where did you get your experience of them, sir?" asks
Mrs. Laura. Question answered in the same manner as the
previous demand.

" Well, my dear ; and why should not the poor boy be made
happy ? " Laura continues, standing very close up to her hus-
band. " It is evident to me that Ethel is fond of him. I would
rather see her married to a good young man whom she loves,
than the mistress of a thousand palaces and coronets. Sup-
pose— suppose you had married Miss Amory, sir, what a
wretched worldly creature you would have been by this time ;
whereas now "

" Now that I am the humble slave of a good woman there is
some chance for me," cries this model of husbands. " And all

THE NKWCOMES. 653

good women are match-makers, as we know very well ; and
you have had this match in your heart ever since you saw the
two young people together. Now, Madam, since I did not see
your letter to the Colonel — though I have guessed part of it — •
tell me what have you said in it ? Have you by any chance told
the Colonel that the Farintosh alliance was broken off?"

Laura owned that she had hinted as much.

" You have not ventured to say that Ethel is well inclined
to Clive ? "

" Oh, no — oh, dear, no ! " But after much cross-examining
and a little blushing on Laura's part, she is brought to confess
that she has asked the Colonel whether he will not come and
see Mrs. Mason, who is pining to see him, and is growing very
old. And I find out that she has been to see this Mrs. Mason ,
that she and Miss Newcome visited the old lady the day be-
fore yesterday ; and Laura thought, from the manner in which
Ethel looked at Clive's picture, hanging up in the parlor of his
"ather's old friend, that she really was very much, cscc, <xx. So,
ihe letter being gone, Mrs. Pendennis is most eager about the
answer to it, and day after day examines the bag, and is pro-
voked that it brings no letter bearing the Brussels post-mark.

Madame de Montcontour seems perfectly well to know what
Mrs. Laura has been doing and is hoping. "What, no letters
again to-day? Ain't it provoking?" she cries. She is in the
conspiracy, too ; and presently Florae is one of the initiated.
u These women wish to baclcr a marriage between the belle
Miss and le petit Claive," Florae announces to me. He pays
*he highest compliments to Miss Newcome's person, as he
*peaks regarding the marriage. " I continue to adore your
Anglaises," he is pleased to say. "What of freshness, what of
6eauty, what roses ! And then they are so adorably good !
Go, Pendennis, thou art a happy coquin!" Mr. Pendennis
does not say " No." He has won the twenty-thousand-pound
prize ; and we know there are worse than blanks in that lot-
tery.

654

THE NEWCOMES,
CHAPTER LXI.

IN WHICH WE ARE INTRODUCED TO A NEW NEWCOME.

No answer came to Mrs. Pendennis's letter to Colonel New
come at Brussels, for the Colonel was absent from that city,
and at the time when Laura wrote was actually in London,
whither affairs of his own had called him. A note from George
Warrington acquainted me with this circumstance ; he men-
tioned that he and the Colonel had dined together at Bays's on
the day previous, and that the Colonel seemed to be in the
highest spirits. High spirits about what ? This news put Laura
in a sad perplexity. Should she write and tell him to get his
letters from Brussels ? She would in five minutes have found
some other pretext for writing to Colonel Newcome, had not
her husband sternly cautioned the young woman to leave the
matter alone.

The more readily perhaps because he had quarrelled with
his nephew Sir Barnes, Thomas Newcome went to visit his
brother Hobson and his sister-in-law ; bent on showing that
there was no division between him and this branch of his family.
And you may suppose that the admirable woman just named
had a fine occasion for her virtuous conversational powers in
discoursing upon the painful event which had just happened to
Sir Barnes. When we fall, how our friends cry out for us ! Mrs.
Hobson 's homilies must have been awful. How that outraged
virtue must have groaned and lamented, gathered its children
about its knees, wept over them and washed them ; gone into
sackcloth and ashes, and tied up the knocker ; confabulated
with its spiritual adviser ; uttered commonplaces to its hus-
band ; and bored the whole house ! The punishment of worldli-
ness and vanity, the evil of marrying out of one's station, how
these points must have been explained and enlarged on ! Surely
the " Peerage " was taken off the drawing-room table and re-
moved to papa's study, where it could not open, as it used
naturally once, to " Highgate, Baron," or " Farintosh, Marquis
of," being shut behind wires and closely jammed in on an upper
shelf between " Blackstone's Commentaries " and the li Farmer's
Magazine ! " The breaking of the engagement with the Mar-
quis of Farintosh was known in Bryanstone Square ; and you
may be sure interpreted by Mrs. Hobson in the light the most

THE NEWCOMES. 655

disadvantageous to Ethel Newcome. " A young nobleman—
with grief and pain Ethel's aunt must own the fact — a young
man of notoriously dissipated habits, but of great wealth and
rank, had been pursued by the unhappy Lady Kew — Mrs. Hob-
son would not say by her niece, that were too dreadful — had been
pursued, and followed, and hunted down in the most notorious
manner, and finally made to propose ! Let Ethel's conduct and
punishment be a warning to my dearest girls, and let them bless
Heaven they have parents who are not worldly ! After all the
trouble and pains, Mrs. Hobson did not say disgrace, the Mar-
quis takes the very first pretext to break off the match, and leaves
the unfortunate girl forever ! "

And now we have to tell of the hardest blow which fell upon
poor Ethel, and this was that her good uncle Thomas Newcome
believed the charges against her. He was willing enough to
listen now to anything which was said against that branch of
the family. With such a traitor, double-dealer, dastard as
Barnes at its head, what could the rest of the race be ? When
the Colonel offered to endow Ethel and Give with every shilling
he had in the world, had not Barnes, the arch-traitor, tempor-
ized and told him falsehoods, and hesitated about throwing him
off until the Marquis had declared himself ? Yes. The girl
he and poor Clive loved so was ruined by her artful relatives,
was unworthy of his affection and his boy's, was to be banished,
like her worthless brother, out of his regard forever. And the
man she had chosen in preference to his Clive ! — a roue, a
libertine, whose extravagances and dissipations were the talk of
every club, who had no wit, nor talents, not even constancy (for
had he not taken the first opportunity to throw her off?) to
recommend him — only a great title and a fortune wherewith to
bribe her ! For shame, for shame ! Her engagement to this
man was a blot upon her — the rupture only a just punishment
and humiliation. Poor unhappy girl ! let her take care of her
wretched brother's abandoned children, give up the world, and
amend her life.

This was the sentence Thomas Newcome delivered : a
righteous and tender-hearted man, as we know, but judging in
this case wrongly, and bearing much too hardly, as we who
know her better must think, upon one who had her faults cer-
tainly, but whose errors were not all of her own making. Who
set her on the path she walked in ? It was her parents' hands
which led her, and her parents' voices which commanded her
to accept the temptation set before her. What did she know
of the character of the man selected to be her husband ? Those

656 THE KEWCOMES.

who should have known better brought him to her, and vouched
for him. Noble, unhappy young creature ! are you the first of
your sisterhood who has been bidden to traffic your beauty,
to crush and slay your honest natural affections, to sell your
truth and your life for rank and title ? But the Judge who sees
not the outward acts merely, but their causes, and views not the

ng alone, but the temptations, struggles, ignorance of erring

creatures, we know has a different code to ours — to ours, who

fall upon the fallen, who fawn upon the prosperous so, who

administer our praises and punishments so prematurely, who

strike so hard, and, anon, spare so shamelessly.

Our stay with our hospitable friends at Rosebury was per-
force coming to a close, for indeed weeks after weeks had passed
since we had been under their pleasant roof ; and in spite of
dearest Ethel's remonstrances it was clear that dearest Laura
must take her farewell. In these last days, besides the visits
which daily took place between one and other, the young mes-
senger was put in ceaseless requisition, and his donkey must
have been worn off his little legs with trotting to and fro be-
tween the two houses. Laura was quite anxious and hurt at
not hearing from the Colonel : it was a shame that he did not
have over his letters from Belgium and answer that one which
she had honored him by writing. By some information, re-
ceived who knows how ? our host was aware of the intrigue
which Mrs. Pendennis was carrying on ; and his little wife al-
most as much interested in it as my own. She whispered to
me in her kind way that she would give a guinea, that she would,
to see a certain couple made happy together ; that they were
born for one another, that they were ; she was for having me
go off to fetch Clive : but who was I to act as Hymen's mes-
senger ; or to interpose in such delicate family affairs ?

:his while Sir Barnes Xewcome, Bart., remained absent
in London, attending to his banking duties there, and pursuing
the dismal inquiries which ended, in the ensuing Michaelmas
term, in the famous suit of Newcome v. Lord Highgate. Ethel,
pursuing the plan which she had laid down for herself from the
took entire charge of his children and house ; Lady Ann
returned to her own family : never indeed having been of much
use in her son's dismal household. My wife talked to me of
course about her pursuits and amusements at Xewcome, in the
ancestral hall which we have mentioned. The children played
and ate their dinner ('mine often partook of his infantine mutton,
in company with little Clara and the poor young heir of New-
come,) in the room which had been called my Lady's own, and

THE NEWCOMES. 657

in which her husband had locked her, forgetting that the con-
servatories were open, through which the hapless woman had
iled. Next to this was the baronial library, a side of which
was fitted with the gloomy books from Clapham, which old Mrs.
Newcome had amassed ; rows of tracts, and missionary maga-
zines, and dingy quarto volumes of worldly travel and history
which that lady had admitted into her collection.

Almost on the last day of our stay at Rosebury, the two
young ladies bethought them of paying a visit to the neighbor-
ing town of Newcome, to that old Mrs. Mason who has been
mentioned in a foregoing page in some yet earlier chapter of
our history. She was very old now, very faithful to the recol-
lections of her own early time, and oblivious of yesterday.
Thanks to Colonel Newcome's bounty, she had lived in com-
fort for many a long year past ; and he was as much her boy
now as in those early days of which we have given but an out-
line. There were Clive's pictures of himself and his father
over her little mantel-piece, near which she sat in comfort and
warmth by the winter fire which his bounty supplied.

Mrs, Mason remembered Miss Newcome, prompted thereto
by the hints of her little maid, who was much younger, and had
a more faithful memory than her mistress. Why, Sarah Mason
would have forgotten the pheasants whose very tails decorated
the chimney-glass, had not Keziah, the maid, reminded her that
the young lady was the donor. Then she recollected her bene-
factor, and asked after her father, the Baronet ; and wondered,
for her part, why her boy, the Colonel, was not made baronet,
and why his brother had the property ? Her father was a very
good man \ though Mrs. Mason had heard he was not much
liked in those parts. " Dead and gone, was he, poor man ? "
(This came in reply to a hint from Keziah, the attendant,
bawled in the old lady's ears, who was very deaf.) " Well, well,
we must all go ; and if we were all good, like the Colonel, what
was the use of staying ? I hope his wife will be good. I am
sure such a good man deserves one," added Mrs. Mason.

The ladies thought the old woman doting, led thereto by
the remark of Keziah, the maid, that Mrs. Mason have a lost
her memory. And she asked who the other bonny lady was,
and Ethel told her that Mrs. Pendennis was a friend of the
Colonel's and Clive's.

'"Oh, Clive's friend ! Well, she was a pretty lady, and he
was a dear pretty boy. He drew those pictures j and he took
off me in my cap, with my old cat and all — my poor old cat
that's buried this ever so long ago."

42

THE A'EIVCQMES.

" She has had a letter from the Colonel. Miss," cries out
Keziah. M Haven't you had a letter from the Colonel, mum ?
It came only yesterday." And Keziah takes out the letter and
shows it to the ladies. They read as follows : —

London, Feb. 12, 184 —

- My dear old Mason, — I have just heard from a friend
of mine who has been staying in your neighborhood, that you
are well and happy, and that you have been making inquiries
after your young scapegrace. Tom Xewcome, who is well and
happy too, and who purposes to be happier still before any very
long time is over.

H The letter which was written to me about you was sent to
me in Belgium, at Brussels, where I have been living — a town
near the place where the famous Battle of Waterloo was fought ;
and as I had run away from Waterloo it followed me to England.

*• I cannot come to Xewcome just now to shake my dear
old friend and nurse by the hand. I have business in London ;
and there are those of my name living in Newtomc who would
not be very happy to see me and mine.

'; But I promise you a visit before very long, and Clive will
come with me ; and when we come I shall introduce a new
friend to you, a very pretty little daughtcr-in-laiu. whom you
must promise to love very much. She is a Scotch lassie, niece
of my oldest friend, James Binnie, Esquire, of the Bengal Civil
.Service, who will give her a pretty bit of siller, and her present
name is "Miss Rosey Mackenzie.

** We shall send you a wedding-cake soon, and a new gown
for Keziah (to whom remember me), and when I am gone, my
grandchildren after me will hear what a dear friend you were
to your affectionate

u Thomas Xewcome."'

Keziah must have thought that there was something between
Clive and mv wife, for when Laura had read the letter she laid
it down on the table, and sitting down by it, and, hiding her
face in her hands, burst into tears.

Ethel looked steadily at the two pictures of Clive and his
father. Then she put her hand on her friend's shoulder.
u Come, my dear/' she said, *;it is growing late, and I must go
back to my children." And she saluted Mrs. Mason and her
maid in a very stately manner, and left them, leading my wife
. who was still exceedingly overcome.

We could not stay long at Rosebury after that. When

THE NEWCOMES. 659

Madame de Montcontour heard the news, the good lady cried
too. Mrs. Pendennis's emotion was renewed as we passed the
gates of Newcome Park on our way to the railroad.

CHAPTER LXII.

MR. AND MRS. CLIVE NEWCOME.

The friendship between Ethel and Laura, which the last
narrated sentimental occurrences had so much increased, sub-
sists very little impaired up to the present day. A lady with
many domestic interests and increasing family, 6cc, (Sec, cannot
be supposed to cultivate female intimacies out of doors with
that ardor and eagerness which young spinsters exhibit in their
intercourse : but Laura, whose kind heart first led her to sym-
pathize with her young friend in the latter's days of distress
and misfortune, has professed ever since a growing esteem for
Ethel Newcome, and says, that the trials and perhaps grief
which the young lady now had to undergo have brought out the
noblest qualities of her disposition. She is a very different
person from the giddy and worldly girl who compelled our ad-
miration of late in the days of her triumphant youthful beauty,
of her wayward generous humor, of her frivolities and her
flirtations.

Did Ethel shed tears in secret over the marriage which had
caused Laura's gentle eyes to overflow? We might divine the
girl's grief, but we respected it. The subject was never men-
tioned by the ladies between themselves, and even in her most
intimate communications with her husband that gentleman is
bound to say his wife maintained a tender reserve upon the
point, nor cared to speculate upon a subject which her friend
held sacred. I could not for my part but acquiesce in this reti-
cence ; and, if Ethel felt regret and remorse, admire the dignity
of her silence, and the sweet composure of her now changed
and saddened demeanor.

The interchange of letters between the two friends was con-
stant, and in these the younger lady described at length the
duties, occupations, and pleasures, of her new life. She had
quite broken with the world, and devoted herself entirely to the
nurture and education of her brother's orphan children. She

660 THE NEWCOMES.

educated herself in order to teach them. Her letters contain
droll yet touching confessions of her own ignorance and her
determination to overcome it. There was no lack of masters
of all kinds in Newcome. She set herself to work like a
school-girl. The piano in the little room near the conservatory-
was thumped by Aunt Ethel until it became quite obedient to
her, and yielded the sweetest music under her fingers. When
she came to pay us a visit at Fairoaks some two years after-
wards she played for our dancing children (our third is named
Ethel, our second Helen, after one still more dear), and we were
in admiration of her skill. There must have been the labor of
many lonely nights when her little charges were at rest, and she
and her sad thoughts sat up together, before she overcame the
difficulties of the instrument so as to be able to soothe herself
and to charm and delight her children.

When the divorce was pronounced, which came in due form,
though we know that Lady Highgate was not much happier than
the luckless Lady Clara Newcome had been, Ethel's dread was
lest Sir Barnes should marry again, and by introducing a new
mistress into his house should deprive her of the care of her
children.

Miss Newcome judged her brother rightly in that he would
try to marry, but a noble young lady to whom he offered him-
self rejected him, to his surprise and indignation, for a beggarly
clergyman with a small living, on which she elected to starve ;
and the wealthy daughter of a neighboring manufacturer whom
he next proposed to honor with his gracious hand, fled from him
with horror to the arms of her father, wondering how such a
man as that should ever dare to propose marriage to an honest
girl. Sir Barnes X ewcome was much surprised at this outbreak
of anger ; he thought himself a very ill-used and unfortunate
man, a victim of most cruel persecutions, which we may be
sure did not improve his temper or tend to the happiness of his
circle at home. Peevishness, and selfish rage, quarrels with
sen-ants and governesses, and other domestic disquiet, Ethel
had of course to bear from her brother, but not actual personal
ill-usage. The fiery temper of former days was subdued in
her, but the haughty resolution remained, which was more than
a match for her brother's cowardly tyranny ; besides, she was
the mistress of sixty thousand pounds, and by many wily hints
and piteous appeals to his sister, Sir Barnes sought to secure
this desirable sum of money for his poor dear unfortunate
children.

He professed to think that she was ruining herself for her

THE XEUXOMES. 66 1

younger brothers, whose expenses the young lady was defray-
ing, this one at college, that in the army, and whose maimer. -
ance he thought might be amply defrayed out of their own little
fortunes and his mother's jointure : and by ingeniously prov-
ing that a vast number of his household expenses wrere personal
to Miss Newcome,and would never have been incurred but for
her residence in his house, he subtracted for his own benefit
no inconsiderable portion of her income. Thus the carriage-
horses were hers, for what need had he, a miserable bachelor,
of anything more than a riding-horse and a brougham ? A cer-
tain number of the domestics were hers, and as he could get
no scoundrel of his own to stay with him, he took Miss New-
come's servants. He would have had her pay the coals which
burned in his grate, and the taxes due to our Sovereign Lady
the Queen ; but in truth at the end of the \la:\ with her domes-
tic bounties and her charities round about Xewcome, which
daily increased as she became acquainted with her indigent
neighbors, Miss Ethel, the heiress, was as poor as many poorer
persons.

Her charities increased daily with her means of knowing
the people round about her. She gave much time to them and
thought ; visited from house to house, without ostentation •
was awe-stricken by that spectacle of the poverty which we
have with us always, of which the sight rebukes our selfish
griefs into silence, the thought compels us to charity, humility,
and devotion. The priests of our various creeds, who else-
where are doing battle together continually.lay down their armies
in its presence and kneel before it ; subjugated by that overpow-
ering master. Death, never dying out ; hunger always crying ;
and children born to it day after day, — our young London lady,
riving from the splendors and follies in which her life had been
passed, found herself in the presence of these ; threading dark-
ling alleys which swarmed with wretched life ; sitting by naked
beds, whither by God's blessing she was sometimes enabled to
carry a little comfort and consolation ; or whence she came
heart-stricken by the overpowering misery, or touched by the
patient resignation of the new friends to whom fate had di-
rected her. And here she met the priest upon his shrift, the
homely missionary bearing his words of consolation, the quiet
curate pacing his round, and was known to all these, and
enabled now and again to help their people in trouble. " ( >h !
what good there is in this woman,'' my wife would say to me
as she laid one of Miss Ethel's letters aside ; "who would have
thought this was the girl of your glaring London ball-room I

662 THE NEWCOMES.

If she has had grief to bear, how it has chastened and improved
her."

And now I have to confess that all this time, whilst Ethel
Newcome has been growing in grace with my wife, poor Clive
has been lapsing sadly out of favor. She has no patience with
Clive. She drubs her little foot when his name is mentioned
and turns the subject. Whither are all the tears and pities fled
now ! Mrs. Laura has transferred all her regard to Ethel, and
when that lady's ex-suitor writes to his old friends, or other
news is had of him, Laura flies out in her usual tirades against
the world, the horrid wicked selfish world, which spoils every-
body who comes near it. What has Clive done, in vain his
apologist asks, that an old friend should be so angry with him ?

She is not angry with him — not she. She only does not
care about him. She wishes him no manner of harm — not the
least, only she has lost all interest in him. And the Colonel
too, the poor good old Colonel, was actually in Mrs. Penden-
nis's black books, and when he sent her the Brussels veil which
we have heard of, she did not think it was a bargain at all —
not particularly pretty ; in fact rather dear at the money. When
we met Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome in London, whither they
came a few months after their marriage, and where Rosey ap-
peared as pretty, happy, good-humored a little blushing bride
as eyes need behold, Mrs. Pendennis's reception of her was
quite a curiosity of decorum. " I not receive her weli ! " cried
Laura; "how on earth would you have me receive her? I
talked to her about everything, and she only answered yes or
no. I showed her the children, and she did not seem to care.
Her only conversation was about millinery and Brussels balls,
and about her dress at the drawing-room. The drawing-room !
What business has she with such follies."

The fact is, that the drawing-room was Tom Newcome 's
affair, not his son's, who was heartily ashamed of the figure he
cut in that astounding costume, which English private gentle-
men are made to sport when they bend the knee before their
Gracious Sovereign.

Warrington roasted poor Clive upon the occasion, and com-
plimented him with his usual gravity, until the young fellow
blushed, and his father somewhat testily signified to our friend
that his irony was not agreeable. " I suppose,'' says the
Colonel, with great hauteur, " that there is nothing ridiculous
in an English gentleman entertaining feelings of loyalty and
testifying his respect to his Queen : and I presume that her
Majesty knows best, and has a right to order in what dress her

THE XF.IVCOMES.

663

subjects shall appear before her ; and I don't think it's kind of
you, George, I say, I don't think it's kind of you to quiz my
boy for doing his duty to his Queen and to his father too, sir,
for it was at my request that Clive went — and we went together,
sir, to the levee and then to the drawing-room afterwards with
Rosey, who was presented by the lady of my old friend, Sir
George Tufto, a lady of rank herself, and the wife of as brave
an officer as ever drew a sword."

Warrington stammered an apology for his levity, but no
explanations were satisfactory, and it was clear George had
wounded the feelings of our dear simple old friend.

After Clive's marriage, which was performed at Brussels,
Uncle James and the lady, his sister, whom we have sometimes
flippantly ventured to call the Campaigner, went off to perform
that journey to Scotland which James had meditated for ten
years past ; and, now little Rosey was made happy for life, to
renew acquaintance with little Josey. The Colonel and his son
and daughter-in-law came to London, not to the bachelor quar-
ters, where we have seen them, but to an hotel, which they
occupied until their new house could be provided for them, a
sumptuous mansion in the Tyburnian district, and one which
became people of their station.

We have been informed already what the Colonel's income
was, and have the gratification of knowing that it was very con-
siderable. The simple gentleman who would dine off a crust,
and wear a coat for ten years, desired that his children should
have the best of everything : ordered about uphols erers,
painters, carriage-makers, in his splendid Indian way ; pre-
sented pretty Rosey with brilliant jewels for her introduction at
Court, and was made happy by the sight of the blooming young
creature decked in these magnificences, and admired by all his
little circle. The old boys, the old generals, the old colonels,
the old qui-his from the club, came and paid her their homage ;
the directors' ladies and the generals' ladies called upon her,
and feasted her at vast banquets served on sumptuous plate.
N'ewcome purchased plate and gave banquets in return for these
hospitalities. Mrs. Clive had a neat close carriage for even-
ings, and a splendid barouche to drive in the park. It was
pleasant to see this equipage at four o'clock of an afternoon,
driving up to Bays's, with Rosey most gorgeously attired re-
clining within ; and t<» behold the stately grace of the old gen-
tleman as he stepped out to welcome his daughter in-law, and
the bow he made before he entered her carriage. Then they
would drive round the Park ; round and round and round ; and

664 THE NEWCOMES.

the old generals, and the old colonels, and old fogeys, and their
ladies and daughters, would nod and smile out of their car-
riages as they crossed each other upon this charming career of
pleasure.

I confess that a dinner at the Colonel's, now he appeared
in all his magnificence, was awfully slow. No peaches could
look fresher than Rosey's cheeks, — no damask was fairer than
her pretty little shoulders. No one, 1 am sure, could be hap-
pier than she, but she did not impart her happiness to her
friends ; and replied chiefly by smiles to the conversation of the
gentlemen at her side. It is true that these were for the most
part elderly dignitaries, distinguished military officers with
blue-black whiskers, retired old Indian judges, and the
like, occupied with their victuals, and generally careless to
please. But that solemn happiness of the Colonel, who shall
depict it ? — that look of affection with which he greeted his
daughter as she entered, flounced to the waist, twinkling with
innumerable jewels, holding a dainty pocket-handkerchief, with
smiling eyes, dimpled cheeks, and golden ringlets ! He would
take her hand, or follow her about from group to group, ex-
changing precious observations about the weather, the Park,
the Exhibition, nay, the Opera, for the old man actually went
to the Opera with his little girl, and solemnly snoozed by her
side in a white waistcoat.

Very likely this was the happiest period of Thomas New-
come's life. No woman (save one perhaps fifty years ago) had ever
seemed so fond of him as that little girl. What pride he had
in her, and what care he took of her ! If she was a little ailing,
what anxiety and hurrying for doctors ! What droll letters
came from James Binnie, and how they laughed over them ;
with what respectful attention he acquainted Mrs. Mack with
everything that took place ; with what enthusiasm that Cam-
paigner replied ! Josey's husband called a special blessing
upon his head in the church at Musselburgh ; and little Jo
herself sent a tinful of Scotch bun to her darling sister, with a
request from her husband that he might have a few shares in
the famous Indian Company.

The Company was in a highly flourishing condition, as you
may suppose, when one of its directors, who at the same time was
one of the honestest men alive, thought it was his duty to live
in the splendor in which we now behold him. Many wealthy
City men did homage to him. His brother Hobson, though the
Colonel had quarrelled with the chief of the firm, yet remained
on amicable terms with Thomas Newcome, and shared and

THE NEWCOHfES. 665

returned his banquets for a while. Charles Honeyman we may
be sure was present at many of them, and smirked a blessing
over the plenteous meal. The Colonel's influence was such
with Mr. Sherrick that he pleaded Charles's cause with that gen-
tleman, and actually brought to a successful termination that
little love-affair in which we have seen Miss Sherrick and
Charles engaged. Mr. Sherrick was not disposed to part with
much money during his lifetime — indeed he proved to Colonel
Newcome that he was not so rich as the world supposed him.
But by the Colonel's interest, the chaplaincy of Bogglywallah
was procured for the Rev. C. Honeyman, who now forms the
delight of that flourishing station.

All this while we have said little about Give, who in truth
was somehow in the background in this flourishing Newcome
group. To please the best father in the world ; the kindest old
friend who endowed his niece with the best part of his savings ;
to settle that question about marriage and have an end of it ;
Give Newcome had taken a pretty and fond young girl, who
respected and admired him beyond all men, and who heartily
desired to make him happy. To do as much would not his
father have stripped his coat from his back. — have put his head
under Juggernaut's chariot-wheel, — have sacrificed any ease,
comfort, or pleasure for the youngster's benefit ? One great
passion he had had and closed the account of it : a wordly am-
bitious girl — how foolishly worshipped and passionately beloved
no matter — had played with him for years ; had flung him
away when a dissolute suitor with a great fortune and title had
offered himself. Was he to whine and despair because a jilt
had fooled him ! He had too much pride and courage for any
such submission : he would accept the lot in life which was
offered to him, no undesirable one surely ; he would fulfil the
wish of his father's heart, and cheer his kind declining years.
In this way the marriage was brought about. It was but a
whisper to Rosey in the drawing-room, a start and a blush from
the little girl as he took the little willing hand, a kiss for her
from her delighted old father-in-law, a twinkle in good old
James's eyes, and double embrace from the Campaigner as she
stood over them in a benedictory attitude ; — expressing her sur-
prise at an event for which she had been jockeying ever since she
set eyes on young Newcome ; and calling upon heaven to bless
her children. So, as a good thing when it is to be done had
best be done quickly, these worthy folks went off almost
straightway to a clergyman, and were married out of han i — 1< 0 the
astonishment of Captains Hoby and Goby when they came to

666 THE NEWCOMES.

hear of the event. Well, my gallant young painter and friend
of my boyhood ! if my wife chooses to be angry at your mar-
riage, shall her husband not wish you happy ? Suppose we
had married our first loves, others of us, were we the happier
now ? Ask Mr. Pendennis, who sulked in his tents when his
Costigan, his Briseis, was ravished from him. Ask poor George
Warrington, who had his own way, heaven help him ! There
was no need why Clive should turn monk because number one
refused him ; and, that charmer removed, why he should not
take to his heart number two. I am bound to say, that when
I expressed these opinions to Mrs. Laura, she was more angry
and provoked than ever.

It is in the nature of such a simple soul as Thomas New-
come to see but one side of a question, and having once fixed
Ethel's worldliness in his mind, and her brother's treason, to
allow no argument of advocates of the other side to shake his
displeasure. Hence the one or two appeals which Laura ven-
tured to make on behalf of her friend were checked by the good
Colonel with a stern negation. If Ethel was not guiltless, she
could not make him see at least that she was not guilty. He
dashed away all excuses and palliations. Exasperated as he
was, he persisted in regarding the poor girl's conduct in its
most unfavorable light. " She was rejected, and deservedly
rejected, by the Marquis of Farintosh," he broke out to me
once, who was not indeed authorized to tell all I knew regard-
ing the story; "the whole town knows it; all the clubs ring
with it. I blush, sir, to think that my brother's child should
have brought such a stain upon our name." In vain I told him
that my wife, who knew all the circumstances much better,
judged Miss Newcome far more favorably, and indeed greatly
esteemed and loved her. " Pshaw ! sir," breaks out the indig-
nant Colonel, " your wife is an innocent creature, who does
not know the world as we men of experience do, — as I do, sir ;"
and would have no more of the discussion. There is no doubt
about it, there was a coolness between my old friend's father
and us.

As for Barnes Newcome we gave up that worthy, and the
Colonel showed him no mercy. He recalled words used by
Warrington which I have recorded in a former page, and vowed
that he only watched for an opportunity to crush the miserable
reptile. He hated Barnes as a loathsome traitor, coward, and
criminal ; he made no secret of his opinion : and Clive, with
the remembrance of former injuries, of dreadful heartpangs ; the
inheritor of his father's blood, his honesty of nature, and his

THE XEWCOMES. 667

impetuous enmity against wrong ; shared to the full his sire's
antipathy against his cousin, and publicly expressed his scorn
and contempt for him. About Ethel he would not speak.
" Perhaps what you say. Pen. is true," he said. " I hope it is.
Pray God it is.'' But his quivering lips and tierce countenance,
when her name was mentioned or her defence attempted,
showed that he too had come to think ill of her. " As for her
brother, as for that scoundrel," he would say, clenching his fist,
M if ever I can punish him I will. I shouldn't have the soul of
a dog, if ever I forgot the wrongs that have been done me by
that vagabond. Forgiveness ? Pshaw ! Are you dangling to
sermons, Pen, at your wife's leading-strings ? Are you preach-
ing that cant? There are some injuries that no honest man
should forgive, and I shall be a rogue on the clay I shake hands
with that villain."

" Clive has adopted the Iroquois ethics," says George War-
rington, smoking his pipe sententiously, M rather than those
which are at present received among us. I am not sure that
something is not to be said, as against the Eastern upon the
Western, or Tomahawk, or Ojibbeway side of the question. I
should not like." he added, "to be in a vendetta or feud, and
to have you, Clive, and the old Colonel engaged against me."

"I would rather," I said, "for my part, have half a dozen
such enemies as Clive and the Colonel, than one like Barnes.
You never know where or when that villain may hit you." And
before a very short period was over, Sir PJames Newcome,
Bart., hit his two hostile kinsmen such a blow, as one might
expect from such a quarter.

CHAPTER LXIII.

MRS. CLIVE AT HOME

As Clive and his father did not think fit to conceal their
opinions regarding their kinsman, Barnes Newcome, and ut-
tered them in many public places when Sir Barnes's conduct
was brought into question, we may be sure their talk came to
the Baronet's ears, and did not improve his already angry feel-
ing towards those gentlemen. For a while they had the best of
the attack. The Colonel routed Barnes out of his accustomed

668 THE NEWCOMES.

club at Bays's ; where also the gallant Sir George Tufto ex*
pressed himself pretty openly with respect to the poor Baronet's
want of courage : the Colonel had bullied and brow-beaten
Barnes in the parlor of his own bank, and the story was natu-
rally well-known in the City ; where it certainly was not pleasant
for Sir Barnes, as he walked to 'Change, to meet sometimes the
scowls of the angry man of war, his uncle, striding down to the
offices of the Bundlecund Bank, and armed with that terrible
bamboo cane.

But though his wife had undeniably run away after noto-
rious ill-treatment from her husband ; though he had shown
two white feathers in those unpleasant little affairs with hia
uncle and cousin; though Sir Barnes Newcome was certainly
neither amiable nor popular in the City of London, his reputa-
tion as a most intelligent man of business still stood ; the credil
of his house was deservedly high, and people banked with him,
and traded with him, in spite of faithless wives and hostile
colonels.

When the outbreak between Colonel Newcome and hia
nephew took place, it may be remembered that Mr. Hobson
Newcome, the other partner of the firm of Hobson Brothers,
waited upon Colonel Newcome, as one of the principal English
directors of B. B. C, and hoped that although private differ-
ences would, of course, oblige Thomas Newcome to cease all
personal dealings with the bank of Hobson, the affairs of the
Company in which he was interested ought not to suffer on this
account ; and that the Indian firm should continue dealing with
Hobsons on the same footing as before. Mr. Hobson New-
come represented to the Colonel, in his jolly frank way, that
whatever happened between the latter and his nephew Barnes,
Thomas Newcome had still one friend in the house ; that the
transactions between it and the Indian Company were mutually
advantageous ; finally, that the manager of the Indian bank
might continue to do business with Hobsons as before. So the
B. B. C. sent its consignments to Hobson Brothers, and drew its
bills, which were duly honored by that firm.

More than one of Colonel Newcome's City acquaintances,
among them his agent, Mr. Jolly, and his ingenuous friend, Mr.
Sherrick, especially, hinted to Thomas Newcome to be very
cautious in his dealings with the Hobson Brothers, and keep a
special care lest his house should play him an evil turn. They
both told him that Barnes Newcome had said more than once,
in answer to reports of the Colonel's own speeches against
Barnes, " I know that hot-headed, blundering Indian uncle of

THE NEIVCOMES. 669

mine is furious against me, on account of an absurd private
affair and misunderstanding, which he is too obstinate to see in
the proper light. What is my return for the abuse and rant
which he lavishes against me ? I cannot forget that he is my
grandfather's son, an old man, utterly ignorant both of society
and business here ; and as he is interested in this Indian Bank-
ing Company, which must be preciously conducted when it ap-
pointed him as the guardian and overseer of its affairs in Eng-
land. I do my very best to serve the Company, and I can tell
you, its blundering, muddle-headed managers, black and white,
owe no little to the assistance which they have had from our
house. If they don't like us, why do they go on dealing with
us ? We don't want them and their bills. We wrere a leading
house fifty years before they were born, and shall continue to
be so long after they come to an end." Such was Barnes's
case, as stated by himself. It was not a very bad one, or very
unfairly stated, considering the advocate. I believe he has
always persisted in thinking that he never did his uncle any
wrong.

Mr. Jolly and Mr. Sherrick, then, both entreated Thomas
Newcome to use his best endeavors, and bring the connection
of the B. B. C. and Hobson Brothers to a speedy end. But
Jolly was an interested party ; he and his friends would have
had the agency of the B. B. C, and the profits thereof, which
Hobsons had taken from them. Mr. Sherrick was an outside
practitioner, a guerilla amongst regular merchants. The opin-
ions of one and the other, though submitted by Thomas New-
come duly to his co-partners, the managers and London board
of directors of the Bundlecund Banking Company, were over-
ruled by that assembly.

They had their establishment and apartments in the City ;
they had their clerks and messengers, their managers' room and
board-room, their meetings, where no doubt great quantities of
letters were read, vast ledgers produced ; where Tom Newcome
was voted into the chair, and voted out with thanks ; where
speeches were made, and the affairs of the B. B. C. properly
discussed. These subjects are mysterious, terrifying, unknown
to me. I cannot intend to describe them. Fred 1 '.ay ham, I
remember, used to be great id his knowledge of the affairs of
the Bundlecund Hanking Company. He talked of cotton, wool,
copper, opium, indigo, Singapore, Manilla, China, Calcutta,
Australia, with prodigious eloquence and fluency. His con-
versation was about millions. The most astounding paragraphs
used to appear in the Pall Mall Gazette regarding the annual

670 THE NEWCOMES.

dinner at Blackwall, which the directors gave, and to which hev
and George, and I, as friends of the court, were invited. What
orations were uttered, what flowing bumpers emptied in the praise
of this great Company ; what quantities of turtle and punch did
Fred devour at its expense ! Colonel Newcome was the kind
old chairman at these banquets ; the Prince, his son, taking but
a modest part in the ceremonies, and sitting with us, his old
cronies.

All the gentlemen connected with the board, all those with
whom the B. B. C. traded in London, paid Thomas Newcome
extraordinary respect. His character for wealth was deservedly
great, and of course multiplied by the tongue of Rumor. F. B.
knew to a few millions of rupees, more or less, what the Colonel
possessed, and what Clive would inherit. Thomas Newcome's
distinguished military services, his high bearing, lofty courtesy,
simple but touching garrulity ; — for the honest man talked much
more now than he had been accustomed to do in former days,
and was not insensible to the flattery which his wealth brought
him j — his reputation as a keen man of business, who had made
his own fortune by operations equally prudent and spirited, and
who might make the fortunes of hundreds of other people,
brought the worthy Colonel a number of friends, and I promise
you that that the loudest huzzahs greeted his health when it
was proposed at the Blackwall dinners. At the second annual
dinner after Clive's marriage some friends presented Mrs. Clive
Newcome with a fine testimonial. There was a superb silver
cocoa-nut tree, whereof the leaves were dexterously arranged
for holding candles and pickles ; under the cocoa-nut was an
Indian prince on a camel giving his hand to a cavalry officer on
horseback — a howitzer, a plough, a loom, a bale of cotton, on
which were the East Indian Company's arms, a Brahmin, Britan-
nia, and Commerce with a cornucopia, were grouped round the
principal figures : and if you would see a noble account of this
chaste and elegant specimen of British art, you are referred to
the pages of the Pall Mall Gazette of that year, as well as to
Fred Bayham's noble speech in the course of the evening, when
it was exhibited. The East and its wars, and its heroes, Assaye
and Seringapatam (" and Lord Lake and Laswaree too," calls
out the Colonel, greatly elated), tiger-hunting palanquins,
Juggernaut, elephants, the burning of widows— all passed be-
fore us in F. B.'s splendid oration. He spoke of the products
of the Indian forest, the palm-tree, the cocoa-nut tree, the
banyan-tree. Palms the Colonel had already brought back
with him, — the palms of valor, won in the field of war (cheers)

THE NE iVCOMES. 6 7 \

Cocoa nut trees he had never seen, though he had heard won-
ders related regarding the milky contents of their fruit. Here
at any rate was one tree of the kind, under the branches of
which he humbly trusted often to repose — and, if he might be
ro bold as to carry on the Eastern metaphor, he would say,
knowing the excellence of the Colonel's claret and the splendor
of his hospitality, that he would prefer a cocoa-nut day at the
Colonel's to a banyan day anywhere else. Whilst F. B.'s
speech went on, I remember J. J. eyeing the trophy, and the
c*ueer expression of his shrewd face. The health of British
Artists was drunk apropos of this splendid specimen of their
skill, and poor J. J. Ridley, Esq., A. R. A., had scarce a word to
say in return. He and Clive sat by one another, the latter
very silent and gloomy. When J. J. and I met in the world,
we talked about our friend, and it was easy for both of us to
rte that neither was satisfied with Clive's condition.

The fine house in Tyburnia was completed by this time, as
gorgeous as money could make it. How different it was from
the old Fitzroy Square mansion with its ramshackle furniture,
and spoils of brokers' shops, and Tottenham-court Road odds
and ends ! An Oxford Street upholsterer had been let loose
in the yet virgin chambers ! and that inventive genius had
decorated them with all the wonders his fancy could devise.
Roses and Cupids quivered on the ceilings, up to which golden
arabesques crawled from the walls ; your face (handsome or
otherwise) was reflected by countless looking-glasses, so multi-
plied and arranged as, as it were, to carry you into the next
street. You trod on velvet, pausing with respect in the centre
cf the carpet, where Rosey's cypher was worked in the sweet
flowers which bear her name. What delightful crooked legs the
chair* had ! What corner-cupboards there were filled with
Dresden gi.mcracks, which it was a part of this little woman's
business \i life to purchase ! What e'tageres, and bonbonnieres,
and chiffonnieres ! What awfully bad pastels there were on
the walls ! What frightful Boucher and Lancret shepherds and
shepherdesses leered over the portieres ! What velvet-bound
volumes, mother-of-oearl albums, inkstands representing beasts
of the field, priedieu chairs, and wonderful knickknacks I can
recollect ! There was the most magnificent piano, though
Rosey seldom sang any of her six songs now ; and when she
kept her couch at a certain most interesting period, the good
Colonel, ever anxious to pmcure amusement for his darling,
asked whether she would not like a barrel-organ grhriing f*f ty
or sixty favorite pieces, which a bea-er conic* turn ? And he

672 THE NEWCOMES.

mentioned how Windus, of their regiment, who loved music
exceedingly, had a very fine instrument of this kind out to Bar-
rackpore in the year 1810, and relays of barrels by each ship
with all the new tunes from Europe. The Testimonial took its
place in the centre of Mrs. Clive's table, surrounded by satel-
ites of plate. The delectable parties were constantly gathered
together, the grand barouche rolling in the Park, or stopping at
the principal shops. Little Rosey bloomed in millinery, and
was still the smiling little pet of her father-in-law, and poor
Clive, in the midst of all these splendors, was gaunt, and sad,
and silent ; listless at most times, bitter and savage at others,
pleased only when he was out of the society which bored him,
and in the company of George and J. J., the simple friends of
his youth.

His careworn look and altered appearance mollified my wife
towards him — who had almost taken him again into favor.
But she did not care for Mrs. Clive, and the Colonel, somehow,
grew cool toward us, and began to look askance upon the
little band of Clive's friends. It seemed as if there were two
parties in the house. There was Clive's set — J. J., the shrewd
silent little painter ; Warrington, the cynic ; and the author of
the present biography, who was, I believe, supposed to give him-
self contemptuous airs, and to have become very high and
mighty since his marriage. Then there was the great, numer-
ous, and eminently respectable set, whose names were all regis-
tered in little Rosey?s little visiting-book, and to whose houses
she drove round, duly delivering the cards of Mr. and Mrs.
Clive Newcome, and Colonel Newcome ; — the Generals and
Colonels, the Judges and the Fogeys. The only man who kept
well with both sides of the house was F. Bayham, Esq., who,
having got into clover, remained in the enjoyment of that wel-
come pasture ; who really loved Clive and the Colonel too, and
had a hundred pleasant things and funny stories (the droll odd
creature !) to tell to the little lady for whom we others could
scarcely find a word. The old friends of the student-days were
not forgotten, but they did not seem to get on in the new house.
The Miss Gandishes came to one of Mrs. Clive's balls, still in
blue crape, still with ringlets on their wizened old foreheads,
accompanying Papa, with his shirt-collars turned down — who
gazed in mute wonder on the splendid scene. Warrington
actually asked Miss Gandish to dance, making woeful blunders,
however, in the quadrille, while Clive, with something like one
of his old smiles on his face, took out Miss Zoe Gandish, hei
sister. We made Gandish overeat and overdrink himself in thf

THE NEWCOMES.

t>7Z

supper-room, and Clive cheered him by ordering a full length
of .Mrs. (.'live Newcome, from his distinguished pencil. Never
was seen a grander exhibition of white satin and jewels. Smcc,
R. A., was furious at the preference shown to his rival.

We had Sandy M'Collop, too, at the party, who had returned
from Rome, with his red beard, and his picture of the murder
of the Red Corny n, which made but a dim effect in the Octagon
Room of the Royal Academy, where the bleeding agonies of the
dying warrior were veiled in an unkind twilight. On Sandy and
his brethren little Rosey looked rather coldly. She tossed up
her little head in conversation with me, and gave me to under-
stand that this party was only an omnium gatherum, not one of
the select parties, from which heaven defend us. " We are
Poins, and Nym, and Pistol," growled out George Warrington,
as he strode away to finish the evening in Clive's painting and
smoking room. " Now Prince Hal is married, and shares the
paternal throne, his Princess is ashamed of his brigand asso-
ciates of former days." She came and looked at us with a feeble
little smile, as we sat smoking, and let the daylight in on us
from the open door, and hinted to Mr. Clive that it was time to
go to bed.

So Clive Newcome lay in a bed of down and tossed and
tumbled there. He went to fine dinners, and sat silent over
them ; rode fine horses, and black Care jumped up behind the
moody horseman. He was cut off in a great measure from the
friends of his youth, or saw them by a kind of stealth and
sufferance ; was a very lonely, poor fellow, I am afraid, now
that people were testimonializing his wife, and many an old
comrade growling at his haughtiness and prosperity.

In former days, when his good father recognized the differ-
ence which fate, and time, and temper, had set between him
and his son, we have seen with what a gentle acquiescence the
old man submitted to his inevitable fortune, and how humbly
he bore that stroke of separation which afflicted the boy lightly
enough, but caused the loving sire so much pain. Then there-
was no bitterness between them, in spite of the fatal division ;
but now. it seemed as if there was anger on Thomas Newcome's
part, because, though come together again, they were not
united, though with every outward appliance of happiness Clive
was not happv. What youtig man on earth could lo<>k fqtf
more? a sweet young wife, a handsome home, of which the
only encumbrance was an old father, who would give his last
drop of blood in his son's behalf. And it was to bring about
this end that Thomas Newcome had toiled and had amassed a

43

674 THE NEWCOMES.

fortune ! Could not Give, with his talents and education, go
down once or twice a week to the City and take a decent part
in the business by which his wealth was secured ? He appeared
at the various board-rooms and City conclaves, yawned at the
meetings, and drew figures on the blotting-paper of the Com-
pany ; had no interest in its transactions, no heart in its affairs ;
went away and galloped his horse alone ; or returned to his
paincing-room, put on his old velvet jacket, and worked with
his palettes and brushes. Palettes and brushes ! Could he
not give up these toys when he was called to a much higher
station in the world ? Could he not go talk with Rosey ; —
drive with Rosey, kind little soul, whose whole desire was to
make him happy ? Such thoughts as these, no doubt, dark-
ened the Colonel's mind, and deepened the furrows round his
old eyes. So it is, we judge men by our own standards ; judge
our nearest and dearest often wrong.

Many and many a time did Clive try and talk with the little
Rosey, who chirped and prattled so gayly to his father. Many
a time would she come and sit by his easel, and try her little
powers to charm him, bring him little tales about their acquaint-
ances, stories about this ball and that concert, practise artless
smiles upon him, gentle little bouderies, tears, perhaps, fol-
lowed by caresses and reconciliation. At the end of which he
would return to his cigar ; and she, with a sigh and a heavy
heart, to the good old man who had bidden her to go and talk
with him. He used to feel that his father had sent her ; the
thought came across him in their conversations, and straight-
way his heart would shut up and his face grow gloomy. They
were not made to mate with one another. That was the truth.

Just before the testimonial, Mr. Clive was in constant
attendance at home, and very careful and kind and happy with
his wife, and the whole family party went very agreeably.
Doctors were in constant attendance at Mrs. Clive Newcome's
door ; prodigious care was taken by the good Colonel in wrap-
ping her and in putting her little feet on sofas, and in leading
her to her carriage. The Campaigner came over in immense
flurry from Edinburgh, (where Uncle James was now very com-
fortably lodged in Picardy Place, with the most agreeable
society round about him), and all this circle was in a word very
close and happy and intimate; but woe is me, Thomas New-
come's fondest hopes were disappointed this time ; his little
grandson lived but to see the light and leave it i and sadly,
sadly, those preparations were put away, those poor little robes
and caps, those delicate muslins and cambrics over which many

THE NEWCOMES. 675

a care had been forgotten, many a fond prayer thought, if not
uttered. Poor little Rosey ! she felt the grief very keenly ; but
she rallied from it very soon. In a very few months her cheeks
were blooming and dimpling with smiles again, and she was
telling us how her party was an omnium gatherum.

The Campaigner had ere this returned to the scene of her
northern exploits ; not, I believe, entirely of the worthy woman's
own free will. Assuming the command of the household,
whilst her daughter kept her sofa, Mrs. Mackenzie had set that
establishment into uproar and mutiny. She had offended the
butler, outraged the housekeeper, wounded the sensibilities of
the footmen, insulted the doctor, and trampled on the inmost
corns of the nurse. It was surprising what a change appeared
in the Campaigner's conduct, and how little, in former days,
Colonel Xewcome had known her. What the Emperor Napo-
leon the First said respecting our Russian enemies, might be
applied to this lady, Grattez la, and she appeared a Tartar.
Clive and his father had a little comfort and conversation in
conspiring against her. The old man never dared to try, but
was pleased with the younger's spirit and gallantry in the
series of final actions which, commencing over poor little
Rosey's prostrate body in the dressing-room, were continued in
the drawing-room, resumed with terrible vigor on the enemy's
part in the dining-room, and ended, to the triumph of the whole
establishment, at the outside of the hall-door.

When the routed Tartar force had fled back to its native
north, Rosey made a confession, which Clive told me afterwards,
bursting with bitter laughter. "You and papa seem to be very
much agitated," she said. (Rosey called the Colonel papa in the
absence of the Campaigner.) " I do not mind it a bit, except
just at first, when it made me a little nervous. Mamma used
always to be so ; she used to scold and scold all day, both me
and Josey, in Scotland, till grandmamma sent her away ; and
then, in Fitzroy Square, and then in Brussels, she used to box
my ears, and go into such tantrums ; and I think," adds Rosey,
with one of her sweetest smiles, <: she had quarreled with Uncle
James before she came to us."

" She used to box Rosey's ears," roars out poor Clive, " and
go into such tantrums, in Fitzroy Square and Brussels after-
wards, and the pair would come down with their arms round
each other's waists, smirking and smiling as if they had done
nothing but kiss each other all their mortal lives ! This is what
we know about women — this is what we get, and find years
afterwards, when we think we have married a smiling, artless,

676 THE NEVVCOMES.

vourur creature ! Are you all such hypocrites, Mrs. Pender*
nis? " and he pulled his mustaches in his wrath.

" Poor Clive," says Laura, very kindly. " You would not
have had her tell tales of her mother, would you ? "

" Oh, of course not,"' breaks out Clive ; "that is what you
all say, and so you are hypocrites out of sheer virtue."

It was the first time Laura had called him Clive for many a
day. She was becoming reconciled to him. We had our own
opinion about the young fellow's marriage.

And, to sum up all, upon a casual rencontre with the
young gentleman in question, whom we saw descending from a
Hansom at the steps of the " Flag," Pall Mall, I opined that
dark thoughts of Hoby had entered into Newcome's mind.
Othello-like, he scowled after that unconscious Cassio as the
other passed into the club in his lackered boots.

CHAPTER LXIV.

ABSIT OMEN.

At the first of the Blackwall festivals, Hobson Newcome
was present, in spite of the quarrel which had taken place be-
tween his elder brother and the chief of the firm of Hobson
Brothers & Newcome. But it was the individual Barnes and the
individual Thomas who had had a difference together ; the Bun-
dlecund Bank was not at variance with its chief house of com-
mission in London ; no" man drank prosperity to the B. B. C,
upon occasion of this festival, with greater fervor than Hobson
Newcome, and the manner in which he just slightly alluded, in
his own little speech of thanks, to the notorious differences be-
tween Colonel Newcome and his nephew, praying that these
might cease some day, and meanwhile, that the confidence be-
tween the great Indian establishment and its London agents
might never diminish, was appreciated and admired by six-and-
t.hirty gentlemen, all brimful of claret and enthusiasm, and in that
happy state of mind in which men appreciate and admire every-
thing.

At the second dinner, when the testimonial was presented,
Hobson was not present. Nor did his name figure amongst
those engraven on the trunk of Mr. Newcome's allegorical silver

MR. FREDERICK BAYHAM.

THE XEIVCOMES. 677

cocoa-nut tree. As we travelled homewards in the omnibus,
Fred Bayharri noticed the circumstance to me. " I have looked
over the list of names," says he, " not merely that on the trunk,
sir, but the printed list ; it was rolled up and placed in one of
the nests on the top of the tree. Why is Hobson's name not
there ? — Ha ! it mislikes me, Pendennis."

F. B., who was now very great about City affairs, discoursed
about stocks and companies with immense learning, and
gave me to understand that he had transacted one or two
little operations in Capel Court on his own account, with
great present, and still larger prospective advantages to
himself. It is a fact that Mr. Ridley was paid, and that
F. B.'s costume, though still eccentric, was comfortable,
cleanlv, and variegated. He occupied the apartments once
tenanted by the amiable Honeyman. He lived in ease and com-
fort there. "You don't suppose," says he, " that the wretched
stipend I draw from the Pall Mall Gazette enables me to main-
tain this kind of thing? F. B., sir, has a station in the world ;
F. B. moves among moneyers and City nobs, and eats kibobs
with wealthy nabobs. He may marry, sir, and settle in life."
We cordially wished every worldly prosperity to the brave F. B.

Happening to descry him one day in the Park, I remarked
that his countenance wore an ominous and tragic appearance,
which seemed to deepen as he neared me. I thought he had
been toying affably with a nursery-maid the moment before, who
stood with some of her little charges watching the yachts upon
the Serpentine. Howbeit, espying my approach, F. B. strode
away from the maiden and her innocent companions, and ad-
vanced to greet his old acquaintance, enveloping his face with
shades of funereal gloom.

" Yon were the children of my good friend Colonel Hucka-
back, of the Bombay Marines ! Alas ! unconscious of their
doom, the little infants play. I was watching them at their
sports. There is a pleasing young woman in attendance upon
the poor children. They were sailing their little boats upon
the Serpentine ; racing and laughing, and making merry ; and
as I looked on, Master Hastings Huckaback's boat went clown I
Absit omen, Pendennis ! I was moved by the circumstance.
F. B. hopes that the child's father's argosy may not meet with
shipwreck ! "

" You mean the little yellow-faced man whom we met at
Colonel Newcome's ? " says Mr. Pendennis.

" I do, sir," growled F. B. " You know that he is a brother
director with our Colonel in the Bundlecund Bank ? "

678 THE NEWCOMES.

"Gracious heavens ! " I cried, in sincere anxiety, " nothing
has happened, I hope, to the Bundlecund Bank ? "

" No," answers the other, " nothing has happened ; the
good ship is safe, sir, as yet. But she has narrowly escaped a
great danger. Pendennis." cries F. B., gripping my arm with
great energy, "' there was a traitor in her crew — she has
weathered the storm nobly — who would have sent her on the
rocks, sir, who would have scuttled her at midnight."

11 Pray drop your nautical metaphors, and tell me what you
mean," cries F. B.«'s companion, and Bayham continued his
narration.

" Were you in the least conversant with City affairs," he
said, "or did you deign to visit the spot where merchants
mostly congregate, you would have heard the story, which was
over the whole City yesterday, and spread dismay from Thread-
needle Street to Leadenhall. The story is, that the firm of
Hobson Brothers & Newcome yesterday refused acceptance of
thirty thousand pounds' worth of bills of the Bundlecund Bank-
ing Company of India.

" The news came like a thunderclap upon the London
Board of Directors, who had received no notice of the inten-
tions of Hobson Brothers, and caused a dreadful panic amongst
the shareholders of the concern. The board-room was besieged
by colonels and captains, widows and orphans ; within an hour
after protest the bills were taken up, and you will see, in the
City article of the Globe this very evening, an announcement
that henceforward the house of Baines & Jolly, of Fog Court,
will meet engagements of the Bundlecund Banking Company
of India, being provided with ample funds to do honor to every
possible liability of that Company. But the shares fell, sir, in
consequence of the panic. I hope they will rally. I trust and
believe they will rally. For our good Colonel's sake, and that
of his friends, for the sake of the innocent children sporting by
the Serpentine yonder.

"I had my suspicions when they gave that testimonial,"
said F. B. " In my experience of life, sir, I always feel rather
shy about testimonials, and when a party gets one, somehow
look out to hear of his smashing the next month. Absit omen i
I will say again. I like not the going down of yonder little
yacht."

The Globe sure enough contained a paragraph that evening
announcing the occurrence which Mr. Bayham had described,
and the temporary panic which it had occasioned, and con-
taining an advertisement stating that Messrs. Baines & Jolty

THE NEWCOMES.

679

would henceforth act as agents of the Indian Company. Legal
proceedings were presently threatened by the solicitors of the
Company against the banking firm which had caused so much
mischief. Mr. Hobson Xewcome was absent abroad when the
circumstance took place, and it was known that the protest of
the bills was solely attributable to his nephew and partner.
But after the break between the two firms, there was a rupture
between Hobson's family and Colonel Newcome. The exas-
perated Colonel vowed that his brother and his nephew were
traitors alike, and would have no further dealings with one or
the other. Even poor innocent Sam Newcome, coming up to
London from Oxford, where he had been plucked, and offering
a hand to Clive, was frowned away by our Colonel, who spoke
in terms of great displeasure to his son for taking the least
notice of the young traitor.

Our Colonel was changed, changed in his heart, changed in
his whole demeanor towards the world, and above all towards
his son, for whom he had made so many kind sacrifices in his old
days. We have said how, ever since Clive's marriage, a tacit
strife had been growing up between father and son. The bi ys
evident unhappiness was like a reproach to his father. His
very silence angered the old man. His want of confidence
daily chafed and annoyed him. At the head of a large fortune,
which he rightly persisted in spending, he felt angry with him-
self because he could not enjoy it, angry with his son, who
should have helped him in the administration of his new- estate,
and who was but a listless, useless member of the little confed-
eracy, a living protest against all the schemes of the good man's
past life. The catastrophe in the City again brought father
and son together somewhat, and the vindictiveness of both was
roused by Barnes's treason. Time was when the Colonel him-
self would have viewed his kinsman more charitable, but fate
and circumstance had angered that originally friendly and gen
tie disposition ; hate and suspicion had mastered him, and if it
cannot be said that his new life had changed him, at least it
had brought out faults for which there had hitherto been no
occasion, and qualities latent before. Do we know ourselves,
or what good or evil circumstance may bring from us ? Did
Cain know, as he and his younger brother played round their
mother's knee, that the little hand which caressed Abel should
one day grow larger, and seize a brand to slav him ? Thrice
fortunate he, to whom circumstance is made easv , whom fate
visits with gentle trial, and kindly Heaven keeps out of temp-
tation.

68o THE NEWCOMES.

In the stage which the family feud now reached, and which
the biographer of the Newcomes is bound to describe, there is
one gentle moralist who gives her sentence decidedly against
Clive's father ; whilst, on the other hand, a rough philosopher
and friend of mine, whose opinions used to have some weight
with me, stoutly declares that they were right. " War and
Justice are good things,5' says George Warrington, rattling his
clenched fist on the table. " I maintain them, and the common
sense of the world maintains them, against the preaching of all
the Honeymans that ever puled from the pulpit. I have not
the least objection in life to a rogue being hung. When a
scoundrel is whipped I am pleased, and say, serve him right.
If any gentleman will horsewhip Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet,
I shall not be shocked, but, on the contrary, go home and order
an extra mutton-chop for dinner."

• "Ah ! Revenge is wrong, Pen," pleads the other counsellor.
" Let alone that the wisest and best of all Judges has condemned
it. It blackens the hearts of men. It distorts their views o\
right. It sets them to devise evil. It causes them to think
unjustly of others. It is not the noblest return for injury, not
even the bravest way of meeting it. The greatest courage is
to bear persecution, not to answer when you are reviled, and
when a wrong has been done you to forgive. I am sorry for
what you call the Colonel's triumph and his enemy's humiliation.
Let Barnes be as odious as you will, he ought never to have
humiliated Ethel's brother ; but he is weak. Other gentlemen
as well are weak, Mr. Pen, although you are so much cleverei
than women. I have no patience with the Colonel, and I beg
you to tell him, whether he asks you or not, that he has lost my
good graces, and that I for one wirl not huzzah at what his
friends and flatterers call his triumphs, and that I don't think
in this instance he has acted like the deai Colonel, and the good
,Colonel, and the good Christian, that I once thought him."

We must now tell what the Colonel and Clive had been
doing, and what caused two such different opinions respecting
their conduct from the two critics just named. The refusal of
the London Banking House to accept the bills of the Great
Indian Company of course affected very much the credit of that
Company in this country. Sedative announcements were issued
by the Directors in London ; brilliant accounts of the Company's
affairs abroad were published j proof incontrovertible was given
that the B. B. C. was never in so flourishing a state as at that
time when Hobson Brothers had refused its drafts ; but there
could be no question that the Company had received a severe

THE NEWCOMES. 68 1

wound and was deeply if not vitally injured by the conduct of
the London firm.

The propensity to sell out became quite epidemic amongst
the shareholders. Everybody was anxious to realize. Why,
out of the thirty names inscribed on poor Mrs. Clive?s cocoa-
nut tree no less than twenty deserters might be mentioned, or
at least who would desert could they find an opportunity of
doing so with arms and baggage. YVrathfully the good Colonel
scratched the names of those faithless ones out of his daughter's
visiting-book ; haughtily he met them in the street ; to desert
the B. B. C. at the hour of peril was, in his idea, like applying
for leave of absence on the eve of an action. He would not
see that the question was not one of sentiment at all, but of
chances and arithmetic ; he would not hear with patience of men
quitting the ship, as he called it. "They may go, sir," says he,
"but let them never more be officers of mine." With scorn
and indignation he paid off one or two timid friends, who were
anxious to fly, and purchased their shares out of his own pocket.
But his purse was not long enough for this kind of amusement.
What money he had was invested in the Company already, and
his name further pledged for meeting the engagements from
which their late London Bankers had withdrawn.

Those gentlemen, in the meanwhile, spoke of their differ-
ences with the Indian Bank as quite natural, and laughed at
the absurd charges of personal hostility which poor Thomas
Xewcome publicly preferred. " Here is a hot-headed old Indian
Dragoon," says Sir Barnes, "who knows no more about busi-
ness than I do about cavalry tactics or Hindostanee ; who gets
into a partnership along with other dragoons and Indian wise-
acres, with some uncommonly wild old native practitioners ; and
they pay great dividends, and they set up a bank. Of course
we will do these people's business as long as we are covered,
but I have already told their manager that we would run no
risks whatever, and close the account the very moment it did
not suit us to keep it : and so we parted company six weeks ago,
since when there has been a panic in the Company, a panic
which has been increased by Colonel Newcome's absurd swag-
ger and folly. He says I am his enemy ; enemy indeed ! So I
am in private life, but what has that to do with business? In
business, begad, there are no friends and no enemies at all. I
leave all my sentiment on the other side of Temple Bar."

So Thomas Newcome, and Clive the son of Thomas, had
wrath in their hearts against Barnes, their kinsman, and de-
sired to be revenged upon him, and were eager after his un-

682 THE XEIVCOMES.

doing, and longed for an opportunity when they might meet
him and overcome him, and put him to shame.

When men are in this frame of mind, a certain personage
is said always to be at hand to help them and give them occa-
sion for indulging in their pretty little passion. What is sheer
hate seems to the individual entertaining the sentiment so like
indignant virtue, that he often indulges in the propensity to. the
full, nay, lauds himself for the exercise of it. I am sure if
Thomas Newcome, in his present desire for retaliation against
Barnes, had known the real nature of his sentiments towards
that worthy, his conduct would have been different, and we
should have heard of no such active hostilities as ensued.

CHAPTER LXV.

IN WHICH MRS. CLIVE COMES INTO HER FORTUNE.

In speaking of the affairs of the B. B. C, Sir Barnes New-
come always took care to maintain his candid surprise relating
to the proceedings of that Company. He set about evil reports
against it ! He endeavor to do it a wrong — absurd ! If a
friend were to ask him (and it was quite curious what a number
did manage to ask him) whether he thought the Company was
an advantageous investment, of course he would give an
answer. He could not say conscientiously he thought so —
never once had said so — in the time of their connection, which
had been formed solely with a view of obliging his amiable
uncle. It was a quarrelsome Company ; a dragoon Company •
a Company of gentlemen accustomed to gunpowder, and fed
on mulligatawny. He, forsooth, be hostile to it ! There were
some Companies that required no enemies at all, and would be
pretty sure to go to the deuce their own way.

Thus, and with this amiable candor, spake Barnes, about a
commercial speculation, the merits of which he had a right to
canvass as well as any other citizen. As for Uncle Hobson,
his conduct was characterized by a timidity which one would
scarcely have expected from a gentleman of his florid, jolly
countenance, active habits, and generally manly demeanor.
He kept away from the cocoa-nut feast, as we have seen ; he
protested privily to the Colonel that his orivate good-will con-

THE NEWCOMES. 6S3

linued undiminished; but he was deeply grieved at the B. 11
C. affair, which took place while he was on the Continent-
confound the Continent, my wife wouid go — and which was
entirely without his cognizance. The Colonel received his
brother's excuses, first with awful bows and ceremony, and
finally with laughter. " My good Hobson," said he, with the
m 1st insufferable kindness, " of course you intend to be friendly ;
of course the affair was clone without your knowledge. We
understand that sort of thing. London bankers have no hearts
— for these last fifty years past that I have known you and your
brother, and my amiable nephew, the present commanding
officer, has there been anything in your conduct that has led
me to suppose you had ? " and herewith Colonel Newcome
burst out into a laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear.
Worthy Hobson took his hat, and walked away, brushing it
round and round, and looking very confused. The Colonel
strode after him down stairs, and made him an awful bow at the
hall door. Never again did Hobson Newcome set foot in that
Tyburnian mansion.

During the whole of that season of the testimonial the cocoa-
nut figured in an extraordinary number of banquets. The
Colonel's hospitalities were more profuse than ever, and Mrs.
Clive's toilettes more brilliant. Clive, in his confidential con-
versations with his friends, was very dismal and gloomy. When
I asked City news of our well-informed friend F. B., I am sorry
to say, his countenance became funereal. The B. B. C. shares,
which had been at an immense premium twelve months since,
were now slowly falling, falling.

" I wish," said Mr. Sherrick to me, " the Colonel would real-
ize even now, like that Mr. Ratray who has just come out of
the ship, and brought a hundred thousand pounds with him."

" Come out of the ship ! You little know the Colonel, Mr.
Sherrick, if you think he will ever do that."

Mr. Ratray, though he returned to Europe, gave the most
cheering accounts of the B. B. C. It was in the most flourish-
ing state. Shares sure to get up again. He had sold out em
tirely on account of his liver. Must come home — the doctor
said so.

Some months afterwards, another director, Mr. Hedges,
came home. Both of these gentlemen, as we know, entertained
the fashionable world, got seats in Parliament, purchased
places in the country, and were greatly respected. Mr. Hedges
came out, but his wealthy partner, Mr. McGaspey, entered in-
to the B. B. C. The entry of Mr. McGaspey into the affairs

684 THE NEWCOMES.

of the Company did not seem to produce very great excitement
in England. The shares slowly fell. However, there was a
prodigious indigo crop. The London manager was in perfect
good-humor. In spite of this and that, of defections, of un-
pleasantries, of unfavorable whispers, and doubtful friends —
Thomas Newcome kept his head high, and his face was always
kind and smiling, except when certain family enemies were
mentioned, and he frowned like Jove in anger.

We have seen how very fond little Rosey was of her mam-
ma, of her uncle, James Binnie, and now of her papa, as she
affectionately styled Thomas Newcome. This affection, I am
sure, the two gentlemen returned with all their hearts, and but
that they were much too generous and simple-minded to enter-
tain such a feeling, it may be wondered that the two good old
boys were not a little jealous of one another. Howbeit it does
not appear that they entertained such a feeling; at least it never
interrupted the kindly friendship between them, and Clive was
regarded in the light of a son by both of them, and each con-
tented himself with his moiety of the smiling little girl's affec-
tion.

As long as they were with her, the truth is little Mrs. Clive
was very fond of people, very docile, obedient, easily pleased,
brisk, kind, and good-humored. She charmed her two old
friends with little songs little smiles, little kind offices, little
caresses; and having administered Thomas Newcome's cigar
to him in the daintiest, prettiest way she would trip off to drive
with James Binnie, or sit at his dinner, if he was indisposed,
and be as gay, neat-handed, watchful, and attentive a child as
any old gentleman could desire.

She did not seem to be very sorry to part with mamma, a
want of feeling which that lady bitterly deplored in her subse-
quent conversation with her friends about Mrs. Clive Newcome.
Possibly there were reasons why Rosey should not be very
much vexed at quitting mamma ; but surely she might have
dropped a little tear, as she took leave of kind, good old James
Binnie. Not she. The gentleman's voice faltered, but hers
did not in the least. She kissed him on the face, all smiles,
and blushes, and happiness, tripped into the railway-carriage
with her husband and father-in-law at Brussels, leaving the
poor old uncle very sad. Our women said, I know not why,
that little Rosey had no heart at all. Women are accustomed
to give such opinions respecting the wives of their newly mar-
ried friends. I am bound to add, (and I do so during Mr.
Clive Newcome's absence from England, otherwise I should

THE NEWCOMES.

C85

not like to venture upon the statement,) that some men con-
cur with the ladies' opinion of Mrs. Clive. For instance, Cap-
tains Goby and Hoby declare that her treatment of the latter,
her encouragement and desertion of him when Clive made his
proposals, were shameful.

At this time Rosey was in a pupillary state. A good,
obedient little girl, her duty was to obey the wishes of her dear
mamma. How show her sense of virtue and obedience better
than by promptly and cheerfully obeying mamma, and at the
orders of that experienced Campaigner, giving up Bobby Hoby,
and going to England to a fine house, to be presented at Court,
to have all sorts of pleasure with a handsome young husband
and a kind father-in-law by her side ? No wonder Rosey was
not in a very active state of grief at parting from Uncle James.
He strove to console himself with these considerations when he
had returned to the empty house, where she had danced, and
smiled, and warbled ; and he looked at the chair she sat in •
and at the great mirror which had so often reflected her fresh
pretty face j — the great callous mirror, which now only framed
upon its shining sheet the turban, and the ringlets, and the
plump person, and the resolute smile of the old Campaigner.

After that parting with her uncle at the Brussels railway,
Rosey never again beheld him. He passed into the Cam-
paigner's keeping, from which alone he was rescued by the
summons of pallid death. He met that summons like a phil-
osopher ; rejected rather testily all the mortuary consolations
which his nephew-in-law, Josey's husband, thought proper to
bring to his bedside ; and uttered opinions which scandalized
that divine. But as he left Mrs. M'Craw only 500/., thrice that
sum to his sister, and the remainder of his property to his
beloved niece, Rosa Mackenzie, now Rosa Newcome, let us
trust that Dr. M'Craw, hurt and angry at the ill-favor shown to
his wife, his third young wife, his best beloved Josey, at the
impatience with which the deceased had always received his,
Dr. M'Craw's, own sermons 5 — let us hope, I say, that the
reverend gentleman was mistaken in his views respecting the
present position of Mr. James Binnie's soul ; and that Heaven
may have some regions yet accessible to James, which Dr.
M'Craw's intellect has not yet explored. Look, gentlemen !
Does a week pass without the announcement of the discovery
of a new comet in the sky, a new star in the heaven, twinkling
dimly out of a yet farther distance, and only now becoming
visible to human ken though existent forever and ever ? So
let us hope divine truths may be shining, and regions of light

686 THE NEWCOMES.

and love extant, which Geneva glasses cannot yet perceive,
and are beyond the focus of Roman telescopes.

I think Glive and the Colonel were more affected by the
news of James's death than Rosey, concerning whose won-
derful strength of mind good Thomas Newcome discoursed to
<ny Laura and me, when, fancying that my friend's wife needed
Comfort and consolation, Mrs. Pendennis went to visit her.
* Of course we shall have no more parties this year," sighed
Rosey. She looked very pretty in her black dress. Clive, in
his hearty way, said a hundred kind feeling things about the
departed friend. Thomas Xewcome's recollections of him, and
regret, were no less tender and sincere. " See," says he, "how
that dear child's sense of duty makes her hide her feelings !
Her grief is most deep, but she wears a calm countenance. I
see her looking sad in private, but I no sooner speak than she
smiles." " I think," said Laura, as we came away, " that Col-
onel Newcome performs all the courtship part of the marriage,
and Clive, poor Clive, though he spoke very nobly and gener-
ously about Mr. Binnie, I am sure it is not his old friend's
death merely, which makes him so unhappy."

Poor Clive, by right of his wife, was now rich Clive ; the
little lady having inherited from her kind relative no incon-
siderable sum of money. In a very early part of this story,
mention has been made of a small sum producing one hundred
pounds a year, which Clive's father had made over to the lad
when he sent him from India. This little sum Mr. Clive had
settled upon his wife before marriage, being indeed all he had
of his own ; for the famous bank shares which his father pre-
sented to him, were only made over formally when the young
man came to London after his marriage, and at the paternal
request and order appeared as a most inefficient director of the
B. B. C. Now Mrs. Newcome, of her own inheritance, pos-
sessed not onlyB. B. C. shares, but moneys in bank and shares
in East India Stock, so that Clive in the right of his wife had
a seat in the assembly of East India shareholders, and a voice
in the election of directors of that famous company. I promise
you Mrs. Clive was a personage of no little importance. She
carried her little head with an aplomb and gravity which amused
some of us. F. B. bent his most respectfully down before her;
she sent him on messages, and deigned to ask him to dinner.
He once more wore a cheerful countenance j the clouds which
gathered o'er the sun of Newcome were in the bosom of the
ocean buried, Bayham said, by James Binnie's brilliant be*
havior to his niece.

THE NEWCOMRS. 687

Give was a proprietor of East India Stock, and had a vote
in electing the directors of that Company ; and who so fit to be
a director of its affairs as Thomas Newcome, Esq., Companion
of the Bath, and so long a distinguished officer in its army?
To hold this position of director, used, up to very late days,
to be the natural ambition of many East Indian gentlemen-
Colonel Newcome had often thought of offering himself as a
candidate, and now openly placed himself on the lists, and pub-
licly announced his intention. His interest was rather power-
ful through the Indian bank, of which he was a director, and
many of the shareholders of which were proprietors of the East
India Company. To have a director of the B. B. C. also a
member of the parliament in Leadenhall Street, would natu-
rally be beneficial to the former institution. Thomas Newcome's
prospectuses were issued accordingly, and his canvass received
with tolerable favor.

Within a very short time another candidate appeared in the
field, — a retired Bombay lawyer, of considerable repute and
large means, — and at the head of this gentleman's committee
appeared the names of Hobson Brothers & Newcome, very for-
midable personages at the East India House, with which the
bank of Hobson Brothers have had dealings for half a century
past, and where the old lady, who founded or consolidated that
family, had had three stars before her own venerable name,
which had descended upon her son Sir Brian, and her grandson
Sir Barnes.

War was thus openly declared between Thomas Newcome
and his nephew. The canvass on both sides was very hot and
eager. The number of promises were pretty equal. The elec-
tion was not to come off yet for a while ; for aspirants to the
honorable office of director used to announce their wishes years
before they could be fulfilled, and returned again and again to
the contest before they finally won it. Howbeit, the Colonel's
prospects were very fair, and a prodigious indigo crop came in
to favor the B. B. C. with the most brilliant report from the
board at Calcutta. The shares, still somewhat sluggish, rose
a^ain, the Colonels' hopes with them, and the courage of gentle-
men at home who had invested their money in the transaction.

We were sitting one day round the Colonel's dinner-table ;
it was not one of the cocoa-nut tree days, that emblem was
locked up in the butler's pantry, and only beheld the lamps on
occasions of state. It was a snug family party in the early part
of the year, when scarcely anybody was in town ; only George
Warrington, and F. B., and Mr. and Mrs. Pendenni-s ; and, the

688 THE NEWCOMES.

ladies having retired, we were having such a talk as we used to
enjoy in quite old days, before marriages and cares and divis-
ions had separated us.

F. B. led the conversation. The Colonel received his re-
marks with great gravity, and thought him an instructive per-
sonage. Others considered him rather as amusing than
instructive, and so his eloquence was generally welcome. The
canvass for the directorship was talked over. The improved
affairs of a certain great Banking Company, which shall be
nameless, but one which F. B. would take the liberty to state,
would, in his opinion, unite for ever the mother country to our
great Indian possessions • — the prosperity of this great Com-
pany was enthusiastically drunk by Mr. Bayham in some of the
very best claret. The conduct of the enemies of that Company
was characterized in terms of bitter, but not undeserved, satire.
F. B. rather liked to air his orator}', and neglected few oppor-
tunities for making speeches after dinner.

The Colonel admired his voice and sentiments not the less,
perhaps, because the latter were highly laudatory of the good
man. And not from interest, at least, as far as he himself knew
— not from any mean or selfish motives, did F. B. speak. He
called Colonel Newcome his friend, his benefactor ; kissed the
hem of his garment; he wished fervently that he could have
been the Colonel's son ; he expressed, repeatedly, a desire that
some one would speak ill of the Colonel, so that he, F. B.,
might have the opportunity of polishing that individual off in
about two seconds. He revered the Colonel with all his heart ;
nor is any gentleman proof altogether against this constant re-
gard and devotion from another.

The Colonel used to wag his head wisely, and say Mr. Bay
ham's suggestions were often exceedingly valuable, as indeed
the fact was though his conduct was no more of a piece with
his opinions than those of some other folks occasionally are.

"What the Colonel ought to do, sir, to help him in the
direction," says F. B., "is to get into Parliament. The House
of Commons would aid him into the Court of Directors, and the
Court of Directors would help him in the House of Commons."

"Most wisely said," says Warrington.

The Colonel declined. " I have long had the House of
Commons in my eye," he said ; " but not for me. I wanted my
boy to go there. It would be a proud day for me if I could see
him there."

" I can't .speak," says Clive, from his end of the table. " I
don't understand about parties, like F. B. here."

THE XEWCOMES. 689

" I believe I do know a thing or two," Mr. Bayham here
politely interposes.

" And politics do not interest me in the least," Clive sighs
out, drawing pictures with his fork on his napkin, and not
heeding the other's interruption.

" I wish 1 knew what would interest him," his father whis-
pers to me, who happened to be at his side. " He never cares
to be out of his painting-room ; and he doesn't seem to be very
happy even in there. I wish to God, Pen, I knew what had
come over the boy.'' I thought I knew; but what was the use
of telling, now there was no remedy.

- A dissolution is expected every day," continued F. B.
"The papers are full of it. Ministers cannot go on with this
majority — cannot possibly go on, sir. I have it on the best
authority ; and men who are anxious about their seats are writ-
ing to their constituents, or are subscribing at missionary
meetings, or are gone down to lecturing at Athenseums, and
that sort of thing."

Here Warrington burst out into a laughter much louder than
the occasion of the speech of F. B. seemed to warrant ; and the
Colonel, turning round with some dignity, asked the cause of
George's amusement.

" What do you think your darling, Sir Barnes Newcome
Xewcome, has been doing during the recess ? '' cries Warring-
ton. " I had a letter from my liberal and punctual employer,
Thomas Potts, Esquire, of the Newcome Independent, who states,
in language scarcely respectful, that Sir Barnes Newcome
Xewcome is trying to come the religious dodge, as Mr. Potts
calls it. He professes to be stricken down by grief on account
of late family circumstances ; wears black, and puts on the
most piteous aspect, and asks ministers of various denomina-
tions to tea with him ; and the last announcement is the most
stupendous of all. Stop, I have it in my great-coat." And,
ringing the bell, George orders a servant to bring him a news-
paper from his great-coat pocket. '; Here it is, actually in
print," Warrington continues, and reads to us : — " * Xewcome
Atheiueum. i, for the benefit of the Xewcome Orphan Chil-
dren's Home, and 2, for the benefit of the Newcome Soup
Association, without distinction of denomination. Sir Barnes
X\ vcome X'ewcome, Bart., proposes to give two lectures, on
Friday the 23rd, and Friday the 30th, instant. No. 1, The
Poetry of Childhood : Doctor Watts, Mrs. Barbauld, Jane Tay-
lor. Xo. 2, The Poetry of Womanhood, and the Affections :
Mrs. Hemans, L. E. L. Threepence will be charged at the

44

690

THE NEWCOMES.

doors, which will go to the use of the above two admirable
societies.' Potts wants me to go down and hear him. He has
an eye to business. He has had a quarrel with Sir Barnes, and
wants me to go down and hear him, and smash him, he kindly
says. Let us go down, Clive. You shall draw your cousin as
you have drawn his villainous little mug a hundred times before ;
and I will do the smashing part, and we will have some fun out
of the transaction."

" Besides, Florae will be in the country ; going to Rosebury
is a journey worth the taking, I can tell you ; and we have old
Mrs. Mason to go and see, who sighs after you, Colonel.

My wife went to see her," remarks Mr. Pendennis, " and "

.' " And Miss Newcome, I know," says the Colonel.

" She is away at Brighton, with her little charges, for sea
air. My wife heard from her to-day."

" Oh, indeed. Mrs. Pendennis corresponds with her ? "
says our host, darkling under his eyebrows ; and, at this mo-
ment, my neighbor, F. B., is kind enough to scrunch my foot
under the table with the weight of his heel, as much as to warn
me, by an appeal to my own corns, to avoid treading on so deli-
cate a subject in that house. " Yes," said I, in spite, perhaps
in consequence, of this interruption. " My wife does corre-
spond with Miss Ethel, who is a noble creature, and whom those
who know her know how to love and admire. She is very
much changed since you knew her, Colonel Newcome ; since
the misfortunes in Sir Barnes's family, and the differences be-
tween you and him. Very much changed and very much im-
proved. Ask my wife about her, who knows her most intimately,
and hears from her constantly."

"Very likelv, very likely," cried the Colonel, hurriedly.
" I hope she is improved, with all my heart. I am sure there
was room for it. Gentlemen, shall we go up to the ladies and
have some coffee?" And herewith the colloquy ended, and
the party ascended to the drawing-room.

The party ascended to the drawing-room, where no doubt
both the ladies were pleased by the invasion which ended their
talk. My wife and the Colonel talked apart, and I saw the
latter looking gloomy, and the former pleading very eagerly,
and using a great deal of action, as the little hands are wont to
do, when the mistress's heart is very much moved. I was sure
she was pleading Ethel's cause with her uncle.

So indeed she was. And Mr. George, too, knew what her
thoughts were. u Look at her ! " he said to me. " Don't you
see what she is doing ? She believes in that girl whom you all

THE NEWCOMES. 691

said Clive took a fancy to before he married his present little
placid wife j a nice little simple creature, who is worth a dozen
Ethels."

" Simple certainly," says Mr. P., with a shrug of the shoulder*

u A simpleton of twenty is better than a roue of twenty.
It is better not to have thought at all, than to have thought
such things as must go through a girl's mind whose life is
passed in jilting and being jilted ; whose eyes, as soon as they
are opened, are turned to the main chance, and are taught to
leer at an earl, to languish at a marquis, and to grew blind
before a commoner. I don't know much about fashionable life.
Heaven help us ! (you young Erummell ! I see the reproach
in your face !) Why, sir, it absolutely appears to me as if this
little hop-o'-my-thumb of a creature has begun to give herself
airs since her marriage and her carriage. Do you know, I
rather thought she patronized me ? Are all women spoiled by
their contact with the world, and their bloom rubbed off in the
market ? I know one who seems to me to remain pure ! to be
sure I only know her, and this little person, and Mrs. Flanagan
our laundress, and my sisters at home, who don't count. But
that Miss Newcome to whom once you introduced me ? Oh,
the cockatrice ! only that poison don't affect your wife, the
other would kill her. I hope the Colonel will not believe a
word which Laura says." And my wife's tCte-a-tctc with our
host coming to an end about this time, Mr. Warrington in high
spirits goes up to the ladies, recapitulates the news of Barnes's
lecture, recites " How doth the little busy bee," and gives a
quasi-satirical comment upon that well-known poem, which be-
wilders Mrs. Clive, until, set on by the laughter of the rest of
the audience, she laughs very freely at that odd man, and calls
him " you droll satirical creature you ! " and says '* she never
was so much amused in her life. Were you, Mrs. Pendennis ?"

Meanwhile Clive, who has been sitting apart moodily biting
his nails, not listening to F. B.'s remarks, has broken into a
laugh once or twice, and goi>e to a writing-book, on which,
whilst George is still disserting, Clive is drawing.

At the end of the other's speech, F. B. goes up to the
draughtsman, looks over his shoulder, makes one or two violent
efforts as of inward convulsion, and finally explodes in an
enormous guffaw. " It's capital ! By Jove, it's capital ! Sir
Barnes would never dare to face his constituents with that
picture of him hung up in Newcome !"

And F. B. holds up the drawing, at which we all laugh ex-
cept Laura. As for the Colonel, he paces Up and down the

692

THE NEWCOMES.

room, holding the sketch close to his eyes, holding it away
from him, patting it, clapping his son delightedly on his shoul-
der. " Capital ! capital ! We'll have the picture printed by
Jove, sir ; show vice its own image ; and shame the viper in
his own nest, sir. That's what we will."

Mrs. Pendennis came away with rather a heavy heart from
this party. She chose to interest herself about the right or
wrong of her friends ; and her mind was disturbed by the
Colonel's vindictive spirit. On the subsequent day we had
occasion to visit our friend J. J-, (who was completing the
sweetest little picture, No. 263 in the Exhibition, " Portrait of
a Lady and Child,") and we found that Clive had been with
the painter that morning likewise ; and that J. J. was acquainted
with his scheme. That he did not approve of it we could read
in the artist's grave countenance. " Nor does Clive approve
of it either ! " cried Ridley, with greater eagerness than he
usually displayed, and more openness than he was accustomed
to exhibit in judging unfavorably of his friends.

" Among them they have taken him away from his art,"
Ridley said. " They don't understand him when he talks about
it ; they despise him for pursuing it. Why should I wonder at
that ? my parents despised it too, and my father was not a
grand gentleman like the Colonel, Mrs. Pendennis. Ah! why
did the Colonel ever grow rich ? Why had not Clive to work
for his bread as I have ? He would have done something that
was worthy of him then ; now his time must be spent in dan-
cing attendance at balls and operas, and yawning at City board-
rooms. They call that business ; they think he is idling when
he comes here, poor fellow ! As if life was long enough for our
art * and the best labor we can give, good enough for it ! He
went away groaning this morning, and quite saddened in spir-
its. The Colonel wants to set up himself for Parliament, or to
set Clive up ; but he says he won't. I hope he won't : do not
you, Mrs. Pendennis ? "

The painter turned as he spoke ; and the bright northern
light which fell upon the sitter's head was intercepted, and
lighted up his own as he addressed us. Out of that bright light
looked his pale thoughtful face, and long locks and eager
brown eyes. The palette on his arm was a great shield painted
of many colors : he carried his maul-stick and a sheaf of
brushes along with it, the weapons of his glorious but harmless
war. With these he achieves conquests, wherein none are
wounded save the envious : with that he shelters him against

THE NEWCOMES. 693

how much idleness, ambition, temptation ! Occupied over that
consoling work, idle thoughts cannot gain the mastery over
him ; selfish wishes or desires are kept at bay. Art is truth :
and truth is religion ; and its study and practice a daily work of
pious duty. What are the world's struggles, brawls, successes,
to that calm recluse pursuing his calling ? See, twinkling
in the darkness round his chamber, numberless beautiful tro-
phies of the graceful victories which he has won — sweet flowers
of fancy reared by him — kind shapes of beauty which he has
devised and moulded. The world enters into the artist's
studio, and scornfully bids him a price for his genius, or makes
dull pretence to admire it. What know you of his art ? You
cannot read the alphabet of that sacred book, good old Thomas
Newcome ! What can you tell of its glories, joys, secrets, con-
solations ? Between his two best beloved mistresses, poor
Clive's luckless father somehow interposes ; and with sorrow-
ful, even angry protests. In place of Art the Colonel brings
him a ledger ; and in lieu of first love, shows him Rosey.

No wonder that Clive hangs his head ; rebels sometimes,
desponds always ; he has positively determined to refuse to
stand for Newcome, Ridley says. Laura is glad of his refusal,
and begins to think of him once more as of the Clive of old
days.

CHAPTER LXVI.

IN WHICH THE COLONEL AND THE NEWCOME ATHEN.EUM ARK
BOTH LECTURED.

At breakfast with his family, on the morning after the little
entertainment to which we were bidden, in the last chapter,
Colonel Newcome was full of the projected invasion of Bar;
territories, and delighted to think that there was an opportunity
of at last humiliating that rascal.

" Clive does not think he is a rascal at all, papa/' cries
Rosey, from behind her tea-urn ; l* that is, you said you thought
papa judged him too harshly ; you know you did, this morn-
ing ! " And from her husband's angry glances, she flies to his
father's for protection. Those were even fiercer than Clive'*
Revenge flashed from beneath Thomas Newcome's grizzled
eyebrows, and glanced in the direction where Clive sat. Then

694 THE NEWCOMES.

the Colonel's face flushed up, and he cast his eyes down to-
wards his tea-cup, which he lifted with a trembling hand. The
father and son loved each other so, that each was afraid of the
other. A war between two such men is dreadful ; pretty little
pink-faced Rosey, in a sweet little morning cap and ribbons,
her pretty little fingers twinkling with a score of rings, sat
simpering before her silver tea-urn, which reflected her pretty
little pink baby face. Little artless creature ! what did she
know of the dreadful wounds which her little words inflicted in
the one generous breast and the other ?

" My boy's heart is gone from me," thinks poor Thomas
Newcome ; " our family is insulted, our enterprises ruined, by
that traitor, and my son is not even angry ! he does not care
for the success of our plans — for the honor of our name even ;
I make him a position of which any young man in England
might be proud, and Clive scarcely deigns to accept it."

" My wife appeals to my father," thinks poor Clive ; " it is
from him she asks counsel, and not from me. Be it about the
ribbon in her cap, or any other transaction in our lives, she
takes her color from his opinion, and goes to him for advice,
and I have to wait till it is given, and conform myself to it. If
I differ from the dear old father, I wound him ; if I yield up
my opinion, as I do always, it is with a bad grace, and I wound
him still. With the best intentions in the world, what a slave's
life it is that he has made for me ! "

" How interested you are in your papers," resumes the
sprightly Rosey. " What can you find in those horrid pol-
itics ? " Both gentlemen are looking at their papers with all
their might, and no doubt cannot see one single word which
those brilliant and witty leading articles contain.

" Clive is like you, Rosey," says the Colonel, laying his
paper down, " and does not care for politics."

" He only cares for pictures, papa." says Mrs. Clive. *' He
would not drive with me yesterday in the Park, but spent
hours in his room, while you were toiling in the City, poor
papa ! — spent hours painting a horrid beggar-man dressed up
as a monk. And this morning, he got up quite early, quite
early, and has been out ever so long, and only came in for
breakfast just now ! just before the bell rung."

" I like a ride before breakfast," says Clive.

" A ride ! I know where you have been, sir ! He goes
away, morning after morning, to that little Mr. Ridley's — his
chum, papa, and he comes back with his hands all over horrid
paint. He did this morning : you know you did, Clive."

THE NEWCOMES. 695

" I did not keep any one waiting, Rosey," says Clive. " I
like to have two or three hours at my painting when I can
spare them." Indeed, the poor fellow used so to run away of
summer mornings for Ridley's instructions, and gallop home
again, so as to be in time for the family meal.

"Yes," cries Rosey, tossing up the cap and ribbons, "he
gets up so early in the morning, that at night he falls asleep
after dinner ; very pleasant and polite, isn't he, papa ? "

" I am up betimes too, my dear," says the Colonel (many
and many a time he must have heard Clive as he left the
house) ; " I have a great many letters to write, affairs of the
greatest importance to examine and conduct. Mr. Betts from
the City is often with me for hours before I come down to your
breakfast-table. A man who has the affairs of such a great
bank as ours to look to, must be up with the lark. We are
all early risers in India."

" You dear kind papa ! " says little Rosey, with unfeigned
admiration ; and she puts out one of the plump white little
jewelled hands, and pats the lean brown paw of the Colonel
which is nearest to her.

" Is Ridley's picture getting on well, Clive ? " asks the
Colonel, trying to interest himself about Ridley and his pic-
ture.

" Very well ; it is beautiful ; he has sold it for a great
price ; they must make him an academician next year," replies
Clive.

" A most industrious and meritorious young man ; he de-
serves every honor that may happen to him," says the old
soldier. " Rosey my dear, it is time that you should ask Mr.
Ridley to dinner, and Mr. Smee, and some of those gentlemen.
We will drive this afternoon and see your portrait."

" Clive does not go to sleep after dinner when Mr. Ridley
comes here," cries Rosey.

" No ; I think it is my turn then." says the Colonel, with a
glance of kindness. The anger has disappeared from under
his brows ; at that moment the menaced battle is postponed.

'• And yet I know that it must come,'' says poor Clive, tell-
ing me the story as he hangs on my arm, and we pace through
the Park. '• The Colonel and I are walking on a mine, and
that poor little wife of mine is perpetually Hinging little shells
to fire it. I sometimes wish it were blown up, and I were done
for, Pen. I don't think my widow would break her heart about
me. No ; I have no right to say that ; its's a shame to say
that ; she tries her very best to please me, voor ult^e dear;

696 THE NEWCOMES.

It's the fault of my temper, perhaps, that she can't. But they
neither understand me, don't you see? the Colonel can't help
thinking I am a degraded being, because I am fond of painting.
Still, dear old boy, he patronizes Ridley ; a man of genius,
whom those sentries ought to salute by Jove, sir, when he
passes. Ridley patronized by an old officer of Indian dra-
goons, a little bit of a Rosey, and a fellow who is not fit to lay
his palette for him ! I want sometimes to ask J. J.'s pardon,
after the Colonel has been talking to him in his confounded
condescending way, uttering some awful bosh about the line
arts. Rosey follows him, and trips round J. J.'s studio, and
pretends to admire, and says, ' How soft; how sweet!' recall-
ing some of mamma-in-laws's dreadful expressions, which make
me shudder when I hear them. If my poor old father had a
confidant into whose arm he could hook his own, and whom he
could pester with his family griefs as I do you, the dear old
boy would have his dreary story to tell too. I hate banks,
bankers, Bundlecund, indigo, cotton, and the whole business. I
go to that confounded board, and never hear one syllable that
the fellows are talking about. I sit there because he wishes
me to sit there ; don't you think he sees that my heart is out
of the business \ that I would rather be at home in my painting-
room ? We don't understand each other, but we feel each
other as it were by instinct. Each thinks in his own way, but
knows what the other is thinking. We fight mute battles, don't
you see ? and our thoughts, though we don't express them, are
perceptible to one another, and come out from our eyes, or pass
out from us somehow, and meet, and fight, and strike, and
wound."

Of course Clive's confidant saw how sore and unhappy the
poor fellow was, and commiserated his fatal but natural condi-
tion. The little ills of life are the hardest to bear, as we all
very well know. What would the possession of a hundred
thousand a year, or fame, and the applause of one's country-
men, or. the loveliest and best-beloved woman, — of any glory,
and happiness, or good-fortune, avail to a gentleman, for in-
stance, who was allowed to enjoy them only with the condition
of wearing a shoe with a couple of nails or sharp pebbles in-
side it ? All fame and happiness would disappear, and plunge
down that shoe. All life would rankle round those little nails.
I strove, by such philosophic sedatives as confidants are wont
to apply on these occasions, to soothe my poor friend's anger
and pain ; and I dare say the little nails hurt the patient just
as much as before.

73KB NBWCOXtES, 697

Clive pursued his lugubrious talk through the Park, and
continued it as far as the modest furnished house which we
then occupied in the Pimlico region. It so happened that the
Colonel and Mrs. Clive also called upon us that day, and found
this culprit in Laura's drawing-room, when they entered it,
descending out of that splendid barouche in which we have
already shown Mrs. Clive to the public.

" He has not been here for months before j nor have you
Rosey ; nor have you, Colonel ; though we have smothered our
indignation, and been to dine with you, and to call, ever so
many times ! " cries Laura.

The Colonel pleaded his business engagements ; Rosa, that
little woman of the world, had a thousand calls to make, and
who knows how much to do, since she came out ? She had
been to fetch papa at Bays's, and the porter had told the
Colonel that Mr. Clive and Mr. Pendennis had just left the
club together.

"Clive scarcely ever drives with me," says Rosa, "papa
almost always does."

" Rosev's is such a swell carriage, that I feel ashamed," says
Clive.

" I don't understand you young men. I don't see why you
need be ashamed to go on the course with your wife in her car-
riage, Clive," remarks the Colonel.

" The Course ! the Course is at Calcutta, papa ! " cries
Rosey. " We drive in the Park."

''We have a park at Barrackpore too, my dear," says papa.

" And he calls his grooms saices ! He said he was going to
send away a saice for being tipsy, and I did not know in the
least what he could mean, Laura ! "

" Mr. Newcome ! you must go and drive on the course with
Rosa, now ; and the Colonel must sit and talk with me, whom
he has not been to see for such a long time." Clive presently
went off in state by Rosev's side, and then Laura showed
Colonel Newcome his beautiful white Cashmere shawl round a
successor of that little person who had first been wrapped in
that web, now a stout young gentleman whose noise could be
clearly heard in the upper regions.

M I wish you could come down with us, Arthur, upon onr.
electioneering visit."

"That of which you were talking last night? Are you bent
upon it ? "

" Yes, I am determined on it."

Laura heard a child's cry at this moment, and left the roora

698 THE NEWCOMES.

with a parting glance at her husband, who in fact had talked
over the matter with Mrs. Pendennis, and agreed with her in
opinion.

As the Colonel had opened the question, I ventured to
make a respectful remonstrance against the scheme. Vindictive-
ness on the part of a man so simple and generous, so fair and
noble in all his dealings as Thomas Newcorre, appeared in my
mind unworthy of him. Surely his kinsman had sorrow and
humiliation enough already at home. Barnes's further punish-
ment, we thought, might be left to time, to remorse, to the
Judge of right and wrong ; Who better understands than we can
do, our causes and temptations towards evil actions, Who
reserves the sentence for His own tribunal. But when angered
the best of us mistake our own motives, as we do those of the
enemy who inflames us. What may be private revenge, we take
to be indignant virtue, and just revolt against wrong. The
Colonel would not hear of counsels of moderation, such as I
bore him from a sweet Christian pleader. " Remorse ! " he
cried out with a laugh, " that villain will never feel it until he is
tied up and whipped at the cart's tail ! Time change that rogue !
Unless he is wholesomely punished, he will grow a greater
scoundrel every year. I am inclined to think, sir," says he, his
honest brows darkling as he looked towards me, " that you too
are spoiled by this wicked world and these heartless, fashionable,
fine people. You wish to live well with the enemy, and with
us too, Pendennis. It can't be. He who is not with us is
against us. I very much fear, sir, that the women, the women,
you understand, have been talking you over. Do not let us
speak any more about this subject, for I don't wish that my
son and my son's old friend, should have a quarrel." His face
became red, his voice quivered with agitation, and he looked
with glances which I was pained to behold in those kind old
eyes ; not because his wrath and suspicion visited myself, but
because an impartial witness, nay, a friend to Thomas Newcome
in that family quarrel, I grieved to think that a generous heart
was led astray, and to see a good man do wrong. So with no
more thanks for his interference than a man usually gets who
meddles in domestic strifes, the present luckless advocate ceased
pleading.

To be sure the Colonel and Clive had other advisers, who
did not take the peaceful side. George Warrington was one
of these ; he was for war a Voutrance with Barnes Newcome ;
for keeping no terms with such a villain. He found a pleasure
in hunting him and whipping him. " Barnes ought to be punish-

tffJS NEWCOMES. 699

ed," George said, "for his poor wife's misfortune; it was
Barnes's infernal cruelty, wickedness, selfishness, which had
driven her into misery and wrong." Mr. Warrington went down
to Newcome, and was present at the lecture whereof mention
has been made in a preceding chapter. I am afraid his behavior
was very indecorous : he laughed at the pathetic allusions of
the respected member for Newcome ; he sneered at the sublime
passages ; he wrote an awful critique in the Ntu'come Independ-
ent two days after, whereof the irony was so subtle, that half
the readers of the paper mistook his grave scorn for respect,
and his gibes for praise.

Clive, his father, and Frederick Bayham, their faithful aide-
de-camp, were at Newcome likewise when Sir Barnes's oration
was delivered. At first it was given out at Newcome that the
Colonel visited the place for the purpose of seeing his clear old
friend and pensioner, Mrs. Mason, who was now not long to
enjoy his bounty, and so old, as scarcely to know her bene-
factor. Only after her sleep, or when the sun warmed her and
the old wine with which he supplied her, was the good old
woman able to recognize her Colonel. She mingled father and
son together in her mind. A lady who now often came in to
her, thought she was wandering in her talk, when the poor old
woman spoke of a visit she had had from her boy ; and then
the attendant told Miss Newcome that such a visit had actually
taken place, and that but yesterday Clive and his father had
been in that room, and occupied the chair where she sat.
" The young lady was taken quite ill, and seemed ready to
faint almost," Mrs. Mason's servant and spokeswoman told
Colonel Newcome when that gentleman arrived shortly after
Ethel's departure, to see his old nurse. Indeed ! he was very
sorry." The maid told many stories about Miss Newcome's
goodness and charity; how she was constantly visiting the poor
now ; how she was forever engaged in good works for the
young, the sick, and the aged. She had had a dreadful mis-
fortune in love ; she was going to be married to a young
marquis ; richer even than Prince de Montcontour down at
Rosebury ; but it was all broke off on account of that dreadful
atfair at the Hall.

" Was she very good to the poor ? did she come often to
see her grandfather's old friend ? it was no more than she ought
to do," Colonel Newcome said ; without however, thinking tit
to tell his informant that he had himself met his niece Ethel,
five minutes before he had entered Mrs. Mason's door.

The poor thing was in discourse with Mr. Harris, the

7oo THE NEWCOMES.

surgeon, and talking (as best she might, for no doubt the news
which she had just heard had agitated her,) about blankets and
arrowroot, wine, and medicaments for her poor, when she saw
her uncle coming towards her. She tottered a step or two
forwards to meet him ; held both her hands out, and called his
name ; but he looked her sternly in the face, took off his hat
and bowed, and passed on. He did not think fit to mention
the meeting even to his son, Clive ; but we may be sure Mr.
Harris, the surgeon, spoke of the circumstance that night after
the lecture at the club, where a crowd of gentlemen were
gathered together, smoking their cigars, and enjoying them-
selves according to their custom, and discussing Sir Barnes
Newcome's performance.

According to established usage in such cases, our esteemed
representative was received by the committee of the Newcome
Athenaeum, assembled in their committee-room, and thence
marshalled by the chairman and vice-chairman to his rostrum
in the lecture hall, round about which the magnates of the
institution and the notabilities of the town were rallied on this
public occasion. The Baronet came in some state from his
own house, arriving at Newcome in his carriage with four
horses, accompanied by my lady his mother, and Miss Ethel
his beautiful sister, who was now mistress at the Hall. His
little girl was brought — five years old now; she sat on her
aunt's knee, and slept during a greater part of the performance.
A fine bustle, we may be sure, was made on the introduction
of these personages to their reserved seats on the platform,
where they sat encompassed by others of the great ladies of
Newcome to whom they and the lecturer were especially gra-
cious at this season. Was not Parliament about to be dis-
solved, and were not the folks at Newcome Park particularly
civil at that interesting period ? So Barnes Newcome mounts
his pulpit, bows round to the crowded assembly in acknowledg-
ment of their buzz of applause or recognition, passes his lily-
white pocket-handkerchief across his thin lips, and dashes off
into his lecture about Mrs. Hemans and the poetry of the
affections. A public man, a commercial man as we well know,
yet his heart is in his home, and his joy in his affections : the
presence of this immense assembly here this evening ; of the
industrious capitalists ; of the intelligent middle class ; of the
pride and mainstay of England, the operatives of Newcome ;
these surrounded by their wives and their children (a graceful
bow to the bonnets to the right of the platform) show that they
too have hearts to feel, and homes to cherish j that they, too,.

THE NEWCOMES.

7or

feci the love of women, the innocence of children, the love of
song ! Our lecturer then makes a distinction between man's
poetry and woman's poetry, charging considerably in favor of
the latter. We show that to appeal to the affections is after
all the true office of the bard ; to decorate the homely thresh-
old, to wreathe flowers round the domestic hearth, the delight-
ful duty of the Christian singer. We glance at Mrs. Hemans's
biography, and state where she was born, and under what cir-
cumstances she must have at first, &c, &c. Is this a correct
account of Sir Barnes Newcome's lecture ? I was not present,
and did not read the report. Very likely the above may be a
reminiscence of that mock lecture which Warrington delivered
in anticipation of the Baronet's oration.

After he had read for about five minutes, it was remarked
the Baronet suddenly stopped and became exceedingly confused
over his manuscript ; betaking himself to his auxiliary glass of
water before he resumed his discourse, which for a long time
was languid, low, and disturbed in tone. This period of dis-
turbance, no doubt, must have occurred when Sir Barnes saw
before him F. Bayham and Warrington seated in the amphi-
theatre ; and, by the side of those fierce scornful countenances,
Clive Newcome's pale face.

Clive Newcome was not looking at Barnes. His eyes were
fixed upon the lady seated not far from the lecturer — upon
Ethel, with her arm round her little niece's shoulder, and her
thick black ringlets drooping down over a face paler than Clive's
own.

Of course she knew that Clive was present. She was aware
of him as she entered the hall j saw him at the very first moment ;
saw nothing but him, I dare say, though her eyes were shut
and her head was turned now towards her mother, and now
bent down on her little niece's golden curls. And the past
and its dear histories, and youth and its hopes and passions,
and tones and looks forever echoing in the heart, and present
in the memory — these, no doubt, poor Clive saw and heard as
he looked across the great gulf of time, and parting and grief,
and beheld the woman he had loved for many years. There
she sits ; the same, but changed : as gone from him as if she
were dead, departed indeed into another sphere, and entered
into a kind of death. If there is no love more in yonder heart,
it is but a corpse unburied. Strew round it the flowers of youth.
Wash it with tears of passion. Wrap it and envelope it with
fond devotion. Break heart, and fling yourself on the bier, and
kiss her cold lips and press her hand ! It falls back dead on

702

THE NEWCOMES.

the cold breast again. The beautiful lips have never a blush
or a smile. Cover them and lay them in the ground, and so
take thy hat-band off, good friend, and go to thy business. Do
you suppose you are the only man who has had to attend such
a funeral? You will find some men smiling and at work the
day after. Some come to the grave 'now and again out of the
world, and say a brief prayer, and a " God bless her ! " With
some men, she gone, and her viduous mansion your heart to
let, her successor the new occupant poking in all the drawers,
and corners, and cupboards of the tenement, finds her miniature
and some of her dusty old letters hidden away somewhere, and
says — Was this the face he admired so ? Why, allowing even
for the painter's flattery, it is quite ordinary, and the eyes
certainly do not look straight. Are these the letters you thought
so charming ? Well, upon my word, I never read anything
more commonplace in my life. See, here's a line half blotted
out. Oh, I suppose she was crying then — some of her tears,
idle tears * * * Hark, there is Barnes Newcome's eloquence
still plapping on like water from a cistern — and qur thoughts,
where have they wandered ? far away from the lecture — as far
away as Clive's almost. And now the fountain ceases to
trickle ; the mouth from which issued that cool and limpid flux
ceases to smile ; the figure is seen to bow and retire ; a buzz, a
hum, a whisper, a scuffle, a meeting of bonnets and wagging of
feathers and rustling of silks ensue. " Thank you ! delightful,
I am sure ! " "I really was quite overcome." " Excellent."
" So much obliged," are rapid phrases heard amongst the polite
on the platform. While down below, " Yaw ! quite enough of
that," " Mary Jane, cover your throat up, and don't kitch cold,
and don't push me, please, sir." " ' 'Arry ! coom along and
*av a pint a' ale," &c, are the remarks heard, or perhaps not
heard, by Clive Newcome as he watches at the private entrance
of the Athenaeum, where Sir Barnes's carriage is waiting with
its flaming lamps, and domestics in state liveries. One of them
comes out of the buildinsr bearing the little cnrl jn his arms and
lays her in the carriage. Then Sir Barnes, and Lady Ann, and
the Mayor. Then Ethel issues forth, and as she passes under
the lamps, beholds Clive's face as pale and sad as her own.

Shall we go visit the lodge gates of Newcome Park with
the moon shining on their carving ? Is there any pleasure in
walking by miles of gray paling and endless palisades of firs ?
O you fool, what do you hope to see behind that curtain ?
Absurd fugitive, whither would you run ? Can you burst the
tether of fate : and is not poor dear little Rosey Mackenzie

THE NEWCOMES.

7°3

sitting yonder waiting for you by the stake ? Go home, sir ;
and don't catch cold. So Mr. Clive returns to the " King's
Arms," and up to his bedroom, and he hears Mr. F. Bayham's
deep voice as he passes by the Boscawen Room, where the
jolly Britons are as usual assembled.

CHAPTER LXVII.

NEW CO ME AND LIBERTY.

We have said that the Baronet's lecture was discussed in
the midnight senate assembled at the "King's Arms," where
Mr. Tom Potts showed the orator no mercy. The senate of
the n King's Arms " was hostile to Sir Barnes Newcome. Many
other Newcomites besides were savage and inclined to revolt
against the representative of their borough. As these patriots
met over their cups, and over the bumper of friendship uttered
the sentiments of freedom, they had often asked of one another,
where should a man be found to rid Newcome of its dictator ?
Generous hearts writhed under the oppression : patriotic eyes
scowled when Barnes Newcome went by : with fine satire, Tom
Potts at Brown the hatter's shop, who made the hats for Sir
Barnes Newcome's domestics, proposed to take one of the
beavers — a gold-laced one with a cockade and a cord — and set
it up in the market-place and bid all Newcome come bow to it,
as to the hat of Gessler. " Don't you think, Potts," says F.
Bayham, who of course was admitted into the " King's Arms "
club, and ornamented that assembly by his presence and dis-
course, " Don't you think the Colonel would make a good
William Tell to combat against that Gessler ? " Ha ! Proposal
received with acclamation — eagerly adopted by Charles Tucker,
Esq., attorney-at-law, who would not have the slightest objec-
tion to conduct Colonel Newcome's, or any other gentleman's,
electioneering business in Newcome or elsewhere.

Like those three gentlemen in the plays and pictures of
William Tell who conspire under the moon, calling upon liberty
and resolving to elect Tell as their especial champion — like
Arnold, Melchthal. and Werner — Tom Potts, Fred Bayham. and
Charles Tucker, Ksqs., conspired round a punch-bowl, and de-
termined that Thomas Newcome should be requested to free
his country. A deputation from the electors of Newcome, that

7°4

THE NEWCOMES.

is to say, these very gentlemen, waited on the Colonel in his
apartment the very next morning, and set before him the state
of the borough ; Barnes Newcome's tyranny under which it
groaned ; and the yearning of all honest men to be free from
that usurpation. Thomas Newcome received the deputation
with great solemnity and politeness, crossed his legs, folded
his arms, smoked his cheroot, and listened most decorously, as
now Potts, now Tucker expounded to him ; Bay ham giving the
benefit of his emphatic "hear hear," to their statements, and
explaining dubious phrases to the Colonel in the most affable
manner.

Whatever the conspirators had to say against poor Barnes,
Colonel Newcome was only too ready to believe. He had
made up his mind that that criminal ought to be punished and
exposed. The lawyer's covert inuendoes, who was ready to
insinuate any amount of evil against Barnes which could safely
be uttered, were by no means strong enough for Thomas New-
come. " f Sharp practice ! exceedingly alive to his own inter-
ests— reported violence of temper and tenacity of money ' — say
swindling at once, sir — say falsehood and rapacity — say cruelty
and avarice," cries the Colonel — " I believe, upon my honor
and conscience, that unfortunate young man to be guilty of
every one of those crimes."

Mr. Bayham remarks to Mr. Potts that our friend the
Colonel, when he does utter an opinion, takes care there shall
be no mistake about it.

"And I took care there should be no mistake before I
uttered it at all, Bayham ! " cries F. B.'s patron. " As long as
I was in any doubt about this young man, I gave the criminal
the benefit of it, as a man who admires our glorious constitu-
tion should do, and kept my own counsel, sir."

"At least," remarks Mr. Tucker, " enough is proven to
show that Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Baronet, is scarce a
person fit to represent this great borough in Parliament."

" Represent Newcome in Parliament ! It is a disgrace to
that noble institution the English House of Commons, that
Barnes Newcome should sit in it. A man whose word you
cannot trust ; a man stained with every private crime. What
right has he to sit in the assembly of the legislators of the land,
sir ? " cries the Colonel, waving his hand as if addressing a
chamber of deputies.

" You are for upholding the House of Commons ? " inquires
the lawyer.

" Of course, sir, of course."

A DEPUTATION.

THE AEIVCOMES. 7o5

" And for increasing the franchise, Colonel Newromc, I
should hope? " continues Mr. Tucker.

" Every man who can read and write ought to have a vote,
sir ; that is my opinion ! " cries the Colonel.

" He's a Liberal to the backbone," says Potts to Tucker.

" To the backbone ! " responds Tucker to Potts. " The
Colonel will do for us, Potts."

" We want such a man, Tucker ; the Independent has been
crying out for such a man for years past. We ought to have
a Liberal as second representative of this great town — not a
sneaking half-and-half Ministerialist like Sir Barnes, a fellow
with one leg in the Carlton and the other in Brookes's. Old
Mr. Bunce we can't touch. His place is safe j he is a good
man of business : we can't meddle with Mr. Bunce — I know
that, who know the feeling of the country pretty well."

" Pretty wrell ! Better than any man in Newcome, Potts ! "
cries Mr. Tucker.

" But a good man like the Colonel, — a good Liberal like
the Colonel, — a man who goes in for household suffrage "

"Certainly, gentlemen."

" And the general great Liberal principles — we know, of
course — such a man would assuredly have a chance against Sir
Barnes Newcome at the coming election, could we find such a
man — a real friend of the people ! "

" I know a friend of the people if ever there was one," F.
Bayham interposes.

" A man of wealth, station, experience ; a man who has
fought for his country ; a man who is beloved in this place as
you are, Colonel Newcome : for your goodness is known, sir —
You are not ashamed of your origin, and there is not a Ne»v-
comite old or young but knows how admirably good you have
been to your old friend, Mrs. — Mrs. Whatd'youcall'em ? "

"Mrs. Mason," from F. B.

" Mrs. Mason. If such a man as you, sir, would consent
to put himself in nomination at the next election, every true
Liberal in this place would rush to support you ; and crush the
oligarch who rides over the liberties of this borough ! "

" Something of this sort, gentlemen, I own to you had
crossed my mind," Thomas Newcome remarked. " When I
saw that disgrace, to my name, and the name of my father's
birthplace, representing the borough in Parliament, I thought
for the credit of the town and the family, the Member for New-
come at least might be an honest man. I am an old sil-'irr,
have passed all my life in India ; and am little conversant wilk

45

7o6 THE NEWCOMES.

affairs at home (cries of ' You are, you are'). I hoped that my
son, Mr. Clive Newcome, might have been found qualified to
contest this borough against his unworthy cousin, and possibly
to sit as your representative in Parliament. The wealth I have
had the good fortune to amass will descend to him naturally,
and at no very distant period of time, for I am nearly seventy
years of age, gentlemen."

The gentlemen are astonished at this statement.

" But," resumed the Colonel, " my son Clive, as friend
Bayham knows, and to my own regret and mortification, as I
don't care to confess to you, declares he has no interest in
politics, nor desire for public distinction — prefers his own
pursuits — and even these I fear do not absorb him — declines
the offer which I made him, to present himself in opposition to
Sir Barnes Newcome. It becomes men in a certain station,
.s I think, to assert that station ; and though a few years back
'never should have thought of public life at all, and proposed
to end my days in quiet as a retired dragoon officer, since —
since it has pleased heaven to increase very greatly my pecu-
niary means, to place me as a director and manager of an
important banking company, in a station of great public re-
sponsibility, I and my brother directors have thought it but right
that one of us should sit in Parliament, if possible, and I am
not a man to shirk .from that or from any other duty."

"Colonel, will you attend a meeting of electors which we
will call, and say as much to them and as well ? " cries Mr.
Potts. " Shall I put an announcement in my paper to the
effect that you are ready to come forward ? "

" I am prepared to do so, my good sir."

And presently this solemn palaver ended.

Besides the critical article upon the Baronet's lecture, of
which Mr. Warrington was the author, there appeared in the
reading columns of the ensuing number of Mr. Potts's Independ-
ent some remarks of a very smashing or hostile nature against
the Member for Newcome. "This gentleman has shown such
talent in the lecturing business," the Independent said, " that it
is a great pity he should not withdraw himself from politics,
and cultivate what all Newcome knows are the arts which he
understands best ; namely, poetry and the domestic affections.
The performance of our talented representative last night was
so pathetic as to bring tears into the eyes of several of our
fair friends. We have heard, but never believed until now,
that Sir Barnes Newcome possessed such a genius for ?naking
women cry. Last week we had the talented Miss Noakes from

THE NEWCOMES.

707

Slowcome, reading Milton to us ; how far superior was the
eloquence of Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., even to
that of the celebrated actress ! Bets were freely offered in the
room last night that Sir Barnes would beat any woman. — bets
which were not taken, as we scarcely need say, so well do our
citizens appreciate the character of our excellent, our admir-
able representative. Let the Baronet stick to his lectures, and
let Newcome relieve him of his political occupations. He is
not fit for them, he is too sentimental a man for us ; the men
of Newcome want a sound practical person ; the Liberals of
Newcome have a desire to be represented. When we elected
Sir Barnes, he talked liberally enough, and we thought he would
do, but you see the honorable Baronet is so poetical ! we ought
to have known that, and not to have believed him. Let us
have a straightforward gentleman. If not a man of words, at
least let us have a practical man. If not a man of eloquence,
one at any rate whose word we can trust, and we can't trust
Sir Barnes Newcome's ; we have tried him, and we can't really.
Last night, when the ladies were crying, we could not for the
souls of us help laughing. We hope we know how to conduct
ourselves as gentlemen. We trust we did not interrupt the
harmony of the evening ; but Sir Barnes Newcome, prating
about children and virtue, and affection and poetry, this is
really too strong.

" The Independent, faithful to its name, and ever actuated by
principles of honor, has been, as our thousands of readers
know, disposed to give Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart.,
a fair trial. When he came forward after his father s death,
we believed in his pledges and promises, as a retrencher and
reformer, and we stuck by him. Is there any man in Newcome.
except, perhaps, our twaddling old contemporary the Sentinel,
who believes in Sir B. N. any more ? We say no, and we now
give the readers of the Independent, and the electors of this
borough, fair notice, that when the dissolution of Parliament
takes place, a good man, a true man, a man of experience, no
dangerous radical, or brawling tap orator — Mr. Hicks's friends
well understand whom we mean — but a gentleman of Liberal
principles, well-won wealth, and deserved station and honor,
will ask the electors of Newcome whether they are or are not-
discontented with their present unworthy Member. The Inde-
pendent, for one, says, we know good men of your family, we
know in it men who would do honor to any name ; but you, Si!
Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., we trust no more "

/oS THE NEIVCOMES.

In the electioneering matter, which had occasioned my un-
lucky interference, and that subsequent little coolness upon the
good Colonel's part, Clive Newcome had himself shown that
the scheme was not to his liking ; had then submitted as his
custom was : and doing so with a bad grace, as also was to be
expected, had got little thanks for his obedience. Thomas
Newcome was hurt at his son's faint-heartedness, and of course
little Rosey was displeased at his hanging back. He set off in
his father's train, a silent, unwilling partisan. Thomas New-
come had the leisure to survey dive's glum face opposite to
him during the whole of their journey, and to chew his mus-
taches, and brood upon his wrath and wrongs. His life had
been a sacrifice for that boy ! What darling schemes hat.: he
not formed in his behalf, and how superciliously did Clive meei
his projects ! The Colonel could not see the harm of which
he had himself been the author. Had he not done every thirg
in mortal's power for his son's happiness, and how many voung
men in England were there with such advantages as this moody,
discontented, spoiled boy ? As Clive backed out of the contest,
of course his father urged it only the more vehemently. Clive
slunk away from committees and canvassing, and lounged about
the Newcome manufactories, whilst his father, with anger and
bitterness in his heart, remained at the post of honor, as he
called it, bent upon overcoming his enemy and earning his
paint against Barnes Newcome. "If Paris\vill not fight, sir,"
the Colonel said, with a sad look following his son, " Priam
must." Good old Priam believed his cause to be a perfectly
just one, and that duty and his honor called upon him to draw
the sword. So there was difference between Thomas Newcome
and Clive his son. I protest it is with pain and reluctance I
have to write, that the good old man was in error — that there
was a wrongdoer, and that Atticus was he.

Atticus. be it remembered, thought himself compelled by
the very best motives. Thomas Newcome, the Indian banker,
was at war with Barnes, the English banker. The latter had
commenced the hostilities, by a sudden and cowardly act of
treason. There were private wrongs to envenom the contest,
but it was the mercantile quarrel on which the Colonel chose to
set his declaration of war. Barnes's first dastardly blow had
occasioned it, and his uncle was determined to cany it through.
This I have said was also George Warrington's judgment, who
in the ensuing struggle between Sir Barnes and his uncle, acted
as a very warm and efficient partisan of the latter. *i Kinsman-
ship ! " says George. " What has old Tom Newcome ever had

THE XRWCOMES. yog

from his kinsman but cowardice and treachery ? If Barnes had
held up his finger the young one might have been happy ; if he
could have effected it, the Colonel and his bank would have
been ruined. I am for war, and for seeing the old boy in Par-
liament. He knows no more about politics than I do about
dancing the polka ; but there are five hundred wiseacres in that
assembly who know no more than he does, and an honest man
taking his seat there, in place of a confounded little rogue, at
least makes a change for the better."

I dare say Thomas Newcome, Esq., would by no means
have concurred in the above estimate of his political knowledge,
and thought himself as well informed as another. He used tc
speak with the greatest gravity about our constitution as the
pride and envy of the world, though he surprised you as much
by the latitudinarian reforms, which he was eager to press for-
ward, as by the most singular old Tory opinions which he advo-
cated on other occasions. He was for having even' man to
vote ; every poor man to labor short time and get high wages ;
every poor curate to be paid double or treble ; every bishop to
be docked of his salary, and dismissed from the House of
Lords. But he was a staunch admirer of that assembly, and a
supporter of the rights of the Crown. He was for sweeping off
taxes from the poor, and as money must be raised to carry on
government, he opined that the rich should pay. He uttered
all these opinions with the greatest gravity and emphasis, be-
fore a large assembly of electors and others convened in the
Newcome Town Hall, amid the roars of applause of the non-
electors, and the bewilderment and consternation of Mr. Potts,
of the Independent, who had represented the Colonel in his
paper, as a safe and steady reformer. Of course the Sentinel
showed him up as a most dangerous radical, a sepoy republi-
can, and so forth, to the wrath and indignation of Colonel New-
come. He a republican, he scorned the name ! He would die
as he had bled many a time for his sovereign. He an enemy
of our beloved church ! He esteemed and honored it, as he
hated and abhorred the superstitions of Rome. (Yells from
the Irish in the crowd.) He an enemy of the House of Lords!
He held it to be the safeguard of the constitution and the legiti
mate prize of our most illustrious, naval, military, and — and —
legal heroes (ironical cheers). He repelled with scorn the
dastard attacks of the journal which had assailed him ; he
asked, laying his hand on his heart, if as a gentleman, an officer
bearing her Majesty's commission, he could be guilty of a
desire to subvert her empire and to insult the dignity of her

IV

THE NEWCOMES.

After this second speech at the Town Hall, it was asserted
by a considerable party in Newcome, that Old Tom (as the
mob familiarly called him) was a Tory, while an equal number
averred that he was a Radical. Mr. Potts tried to reconcile
his statements, a work in which I should think the talented
editor of the Indepe?ident had no little difficult}-. " He knows
nothing about it/' poor Give said with a sigh ; " his politics
are all sentiment and kindness, he will have the poor man paid
double wages, and does not remember that the employer would
be ruined : you have heard him, Pen, talking in this way at his
own table, but when he comes out armed eap-d-pied, and careers
against windmills in public, don't you see that as Don Quixote's
son I had rather the dear brave old gentleman was at home ? "

So this faineant took but little part in the electioneering
doings, holding moodily aloof from the meetings, and councils,
and public-houses where his father's partisans were assembled.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

A LETTER AND A RECONCILIATION.
Miss Ethel Newcome to Airs. Pendennis.

Dearest Laura. — I have not written to you for many
weeks past. There have been some things too trivial, and
some too sad, to write about ; some things I know I shall write
of if I begin, and yet that I know I had best leave ; for of what
good is looking to the past now ? Why vex you or myself by
reverting to it? Does not every day bring its own duty and
task, and are these not enough to occupy one? What a fright
you must have had with my little god-daughter ! Thank heav-
en she is well now, and restored to you. You and your hus-
band I know do not think it essential, but I do, most essential,
and am very grateful that she was taken to church before her
illness.

" Is Mr. Pendennis proceeding with his canvass ? I try and
avoid a certain subject, but it will come. You know who is
canvassing against us here. My poor uncle has met with very
considerable success amongst the lower classes. He makes
them rambling speeches at which my brother and his friends
laugh, but which the people applaud. I saw him only yester-

THE NE WCOMES. y i i

day. on the balcony of the ' King's Arms,' speaking to a great
mob, who were cheering vociferously below. I had met him
before. He would not even stop and give his Ertiel of old
days his hand. I would have given him I don't know what,
for one kiss, for one kind word ; but he passed on and would
not answer me. He thinks me — what the world thinks me,
worldly and heartless \ what I was. But at least, dear Laura,
you know that I always truly loved him, and do now, although
he is our enemy, though he believes and utters the most cruel
things against Barnes, though he says that Barnes Newcome,
my father's son, my brother, Laura, is not an honest man.
Hard, selfish, worldly, I own my poor brother to be, and pray
heaven to amend him ; but dishonest ! and to be so maligned
by the person one loves best in the world ! This is a hard
trial. I pray a proud heart may be bettered by it.

" And I have seen my cousin : once at a lecture which poor
Barnes gave, and who seemed very much disturbed on perceiv-
ing Give ; once afterwards at good old Mrs. Mason's, whom I
have always continued to visit for uncle's sake. The poor old
woman, whose wits are very nearly gone, held both our hands,
and asked when we were going to be married ? and laughed,
poor old thing ! I cried out to her that Mr. Clive had a wife
at home, a dear young wife, I said. He gave a dreadful sort
of laugh, and turned away into the window. He looks terribly
ill. pale, and oldened.

" I asked him a great deal about his wife, whom I remem-
ber a very pretty, sweet-looking girl indeed, at my Aunt Hob-
son's, but with a not agreeable mother as I thought then. He
answered me by monosyllables, appeared as though he would
speak, and then became silent. I am pained, and yet glad
that I saw him. I said, not very distinctly, I dare say, that I
hoped the difference between Barnes and uncle would not ex-
tinguish his regard for mamma and me, who have always loved
him ; when I said loved him, he gave one of his bitter laughs
again ; and so he did when I said I hoped his wife was well.
You never would tell me much about Mrs. Xewcome ; and I
fear she does not make my cousin happy. And yet this mar-
riage was of my uncle's making : another of the unfortunate
marriages in our family. I am glad that I paused in time, be-
fore the commission of that sin ; I strive my best, and to amend
my temper, my inexperience, my shortcomings, and try to be
the mother of my poor brother's children. But Barnes has
never forgiven me my refusal of Lord Farintosh. Ke is of the
world still, Laura. Nor must we deal too harshly with people

*I2 THE NEWCOMES.

of his nature, who cannot perhaps comprehend a world beyond.
I remember in old days, when we were travelling on the Rhine,
in the happiest days of my whole life, I used to hear Clive, and
his friend Mr. Ridley, talk of art and of nature in a way that I
could not understand at first, but came to comprehend better
as my cousin taught me ; and since then, I see pictures, and
landscapes, and flowers, with quite different eyes, and beautiful
secrets as it were, of which I had no idea before. The secret
of all secrets, the secret of the other life, and the better world
beyond ours, may not this be unrevealed to some ? I pray for
them all, dearest Laura, for those nearest and dearest to me,
that the truth may lighten their darkness, and heaven's great
mercy defend them in the perils and dangers of their night.

* My boy at Sandhurst has done very well indeed ; and
Egbert,! am happy to say, thinks of taking orders ; he has been
very moderate at College. Not so Alfred ; but the Guards are
a sadly dangerous school for a young man ; I have promised to
pay his debts, and he is to exchange into the line. Mamma
is coming to us at Christmas with Alice ; my sister is very
pretty indeed, I think, and I am rejoiced she is to mam- young
Mr. Mumford, who has a tolerable living, and who has been
attached to her ever since he was a boy at Rugby school.

" Little Barnes comes on bravely with his Latin ; and Mr.
Whitestock, a most excellent and valuable person in this place,
where there is so much Romanism and Dissent, speaks highly
of him. Little Clara is so like her unhappy mother in a thou-
sand ways and actions, that I am shocked often ; and see my
brother starting back and turning his head away, as if suddenly
wounded. I have heard the most deplorable accounts of Lord
and Lady Highgate. Oh, dearest friend and sister ! — save you,
I think I scarce know any one that is happy in the world : I
trust you may continue so — you who impart your goodness and
kindness to all who come near you — you in whose sweet serene
happiness I am thankful to be allowed to repose sometimes.
You are the island in the desert, Laura ! and the birds sing
there, and the fountain flows j and we come and repose by you
for a little while, and to-morrow the march begins again, and
the toil, and the struggle, and the desert. Good by, fountain 1
Whisper kisses to my dearest little ones for their affectionate

"Aunt Ethel.

11 A friend of his, a Mr. Warrington, has spoken against us
several times with extraordinary ability as Barnes owns. Do
you know Mr. W. ? He wrote a dreadful article in the

THE NE WCOMES. 7 1 3

Independent, about the last poor lecture, which was indeed sad
sentimental commonplace : and the critique is terribly comical.
I could not help laughing, remembering some passages in it,
when Barnes mentioned it : and my brother became so angry !
They have put up a dreadful caricature of B. in Newcome : and
my brother says he did it, but I hope not. It is very droll,
though : he used to make them very funnily. I am glad he has
spirits for it. Good-by, again. — E. N."

" He says he did it ! " cries Mr. Pendennis, laying the letter
down. '• Barnes Newcome would scarcely caricature himself,
my clear ! "

" ' He ' often means — means Clive — I think," says Mrs.
Pendennis, in an off-hand manner.

" Oh ! he means Clive, does he, Laura? "

" Yes — and you mean goose, Mr. Pendennis ! " that saucy
lady replies.

It must have been about the very time that this letter was
written, that a critical conversation occurred between Clive and
his father, of which the lad did not inform me until much later
days ; as was the case — the reader has been more than once
begged to believe — with many other portions of this biography.

One night the Colonel, having come home from a round of
electioneering visits, not half satisfied with himself ; exceedingly
annoyed (much more than he cared to own) with the impudence
of some rude fellows at the public-houses, who had interrupted
his fine speeches with odious hiccoughs and familiar jeers, was
seated brooding over his cheroot by his chimney-fire ; friend
F. B. (of whose companionship his patron was occasionally tired)
finding much better amusement with the " Jolly Britons " in the
Boscawen Room below. The Colonel, as an electioneering
business, had made his appearance in the club. But that an-
cient Roman warrior had frightened those simple Britons. His
manners were two awful for them : so were Clive's, who visited
them also under Mr. Pott's introduction ; but the two gentlemen
—each being full of care and personal annoyance at the time,
acted like wet blankets upon the Britons — whereas F. B.
warmed them and cheered them, affably partook of their meals
with them, and graciously shared their cups. So the Colonel
was alone, listening to the far-off roar of the Britons' choruses
by an expiring fire, as he sat by a glass of cold negus and the
ashes of his cigar.

I da^e say he may have been thinking that his fire was welt

7*4

THE NEWCOMES.

nigh out, his cup at the dregs, his pipe little more now than dust
and ashes — when Clive, candle in hand, came into their sitting-
room.

As each saw the other's face, it was so very sad and worn
and pale, that the young man started back ; and the elder, with
quite the tenderness of old days, cried, "God bless me, my
boy, how ill you look ! Come and warm yourself — look, the
fire's out. Have something, Clivy ! "

For months past they had not had a really kind word. The
tender old voice smote upon Clive, and he burst into sudden
tears. They rained upon his father's trembling old brown
hand as he stooped down and kissed it.

" You look very ill too, father,'' says Clive.

" 111 ? not I ! " cries the father, still keeping the boy's hand
under both his own on the mantel-piece. " ^uch a battered old
fellow as I am has a right to look the worse for wear ; but you,
boy, why do you look so pale ? "

" I have seen a ghost, father," Clive answered. Thomas,
however, looked alarmed and inquisitive as though the boy was
wandering in his mind.

"The ghost of my youth, father, the ghost of my happiness,
and the best clays of my life," groaned out the young man. " I
saw Ethel to-day. I went to see Sarah Mason, and she was
there."

" I had seen her, but I did not speak of her," said the father.
" I thought it was best not to mention her to you, my poor
boy. And are — are you fond of her still, Clive ? "

" Still ! once means always in these things, father, doesn't
it ? Once means to-day and yesterday, and forever and ever."

" Nay, my boy, you mustn't talk to me so, or even to your-
self so. You have the clearest little wife at home, a dear little
wife and child."

" You had a son, and have been kind enough to him, God
knows. You had a wife ; but that doesn't prevent other — other
thoughts. Do you know you never spoke twice in your life
about my mother ? You didn't care for her."

" I — I did my duty by her ; I denied her nothing. I
scarcely ever had a word with her, and I did my best to make
her happy," interposed the Colonel.

" I know, but your heart was with the other. So is mine.
It's fatal ; it runs in the family, father."

The boy looked so ineffably wretched that the father's heart
melted still more. " I did my best, Clive," the Colonel gasped
out. " I went to that villain Barnes and offered him to settle

THE NEWCOMKS.

715

every shilling I was worth on you — I did — you didn't know that
— I'd kill myself for your sake, Clivy. What's an old fellow
worth living for ? I can live upon a crust and a cigar. I don't
care about a carriage, and only go in it to please Rosey. I
wanted to give up all for you, but he played me false, that
scoundrel cheated us both ; he did, and so did Ethel."

11 No, sir; I may have thought so in my rage once, but 1
know better now. She was the victim and not the agent. Did
Madame de Florae play you false when she married her hus-
band ? It was her fate, and she underwent it. We all bow to
it, we are in the track and the car passes over us. You know
it does, father." The Colonel was a fatalist : he had often
advanced this oriental creed in his simple discourses with his
son and Clive's friends.

" Besides," Clive went on, " Ethel does not care for me.
She received me to-day quite coldly, and held her hand out as
if we had only parted last year. I suppose she likes that mar-
quis who jilted her — God bless her. How shall we know what
wins the hearts of women ? She has mine. There was my
Fate. Praise be to Allah ! It is over."

" But there's that villain who injured you. His isn't over
yet," cried the Colonel, clenching his trembling hand.

" Ah, father ! Let us leave him to Allah too ! Suppose
Madame de Florae had a brother who insulted you. You know
you wouldn't have revenged yourself. You would have wounded
her in striking him."

" You called out Barnes yourself, boy," cried the father.

" That was for another cause, and not for my quarrel. And
how do you know I intended to fire ? By Jove, I was so mis-
erable that an ounce of lead would have done me little harm ! "

The father saw the son's mind more clearly than he had
ever done hitherto. They had scarcely ever talked upon that
subject, which the Colonel found was so deeply fixed in Clive's
heart. He thought of his own early days, and how he had
suffered, and beheld his son before him racked with the same
cruel pangs of enduring grief. And he began to own that he
had pressed him too hastily in his marriage ; and to make an al-
lowance for an unhappiness of which he had in part been the
cause.

" Mashallah ! Clive, my boy," said the old man, "what is
done is done."

" Let us break up our camp before this place, and not go ta
war with Barnes, father," said Clive. " Let us have peace—
and forgive him if we can."

7 1 6 THE NE WCOMES.

" And retreat before this scoundrel, Clive ?"

" What is a victory over such a fellow ? One gives a chimney-
sweep the wall, father."

" I say again — What is done is done. I have promised to
meet him at the hustings, and I will. I think it is best : and
you are right': and you act like a high-minded gentleman — and
my dear, dear old boy — not to meddle in the quarrel — though
I didn't think so — and the difference gave me a great deal of
pain — and so did what Pendennis said — and I'm wrong — and
thank God I am wrong — and God bless you, my own boy," the
Colonel cried out in a burst of emotion ; and the two went tc
their bedrooms together, and were happier as they shook handr
at the doors of their adjoining chambers than they had been
for many a long day and year.

CHAPTER LXIX.

THE ELECTION.

Having thus given his challenge, reconnoitred the enemy,
and pledged himself to do battle at the ensuing election, our
Colonel took leave of the town of Newcome, and returned to
his banking affairs in London. His departure was as that of a
great public personage ; the gentlemen of the Committee fol-
lowed him obsequiously down to the train. " Quick," bawls
out Mr. Potts to Mr. Brown, the station-master, " Quick," Mr.
Brown, a carriage for Colonel Newcome ! " Half a dozen hats
are taken off as he enters into the carriage, F. Bayham and his
servant after him, with portfolios, umbrellas, shawls, despatch-
boxes. Clive was not there to act as his father's aide-de-camp.
After their conversation together the young man had returned
to Mrs. Clive and his other duties in life.

Il has been said that Mr. Pendennis was in the country,
engaged in a pursuit exactly similar to that which occupied
Colonel Newcome. The menaced dissolution of Parliament
did not take place so soon as we expected. The Ministry still
hung together, and by consequence, Sir Barnes Newcome kept
his seat in the House of Commons, from which his elder kins-
man was eager to oust him. Away from London, and having
but a few correspondents, save on affairs of business, I heard

THE JSTEWCOMES.

7*7

little of Clive and the Colonel, save an occasional puff of one
of Colonel Newcome's entertainments in the Pall Mall Gazette,
to which journal F. Bayham still condescended to contribute ;
and a satisfactory announcement in a certain part of that
paper, that on such a day, in Hyde Park Gardens, Mrs. Clive
Xewcome had presented her husband with a son. Clive wrote
to me presently, to inform me of the circumstance, stating at
the same time, with but moderate gratification on his own part,
that the Campaigner, Mrs. Newcome's mamma, had upon this
second occasion made a second lodgment in her daughter's
house and bedchamber, and showed herself affably disposed
to forget the little unpleasantries which had clouded over the
sunshine of her former visit.

Laura, with a smile of some humor, said she thought now
would be the time when, if Clive could be spared from his
bank, he might pay us that visit at Fairoaks which had been
due so long, and hinted that change of air and a temporary
absence from Mrs. Mackenzie might be agreeable to my old
friend.

It was on the contrary Mr. Pendennis's opinion that his
wife artfully chose that period of time when little Rosey was,
per force, kept at home and occupied with her delightful ma-
ternal duties, to invite Clive to see us. Mrs. Laura frankly
owned that she liked our Clive better without his wife than
with her, and never ceased to regret that pretty Rosey had not
bestowed her little hand upon Captain Hoby, as she had been
verv well disposed at one time to do. Against all marriages of
interest this sentimental Laura never failed to utter indignant
protests ; and Clive's had been a marriage of interest, a mar-
riage made up by the old people, a marriage to which the
young man had only yielded out of good-nature and obedi-
ence. She would apostrophize her unconscious young ones,
and inform those innocent babies that they should never be
made to marry except for love, never — an announcement
which was received with perfect indifference by little Arthur
on his rocking-horse, and little Helen smiling and crowing in
her mother's lap.

So Clive came down to us careworn in appearance, but very
pleased and happy, he said, to stay for a while with the friends
of his youth. YVe showed him our modest rural lions ; we got
him such sport and company as our quiet neighborhood
afforded, we gave him fish in the Brawl, and Laura in her
pony-chaise drove him to Baymouth, and to Clavering Park
and town, and to visit the famous cathedral at Chatteris, where

7I8 THE KEWCOMES.

she was pleased to recount certain incidents of her husband's
youth.

Clive laughed at my wife's stories ; he pleased himself in
our home ; he played with our children, with whom he became
a great favorite ; he was happier, he told me with a sigh, than
he had been for many a day. His gentle hostess echoed the
sigh of the poor young fellow. She was sure that his pleasure
was only transitory, and was convinced that many deep cares
weighed upon his mind.

Ere long my old schoolfellow made me sundry confessions,
which showed that Laura's surmises were correct. About his
domestic affairs he did not treat much ; the little boy was said
to be a very fine little boy ; the ladies had taken entire posses-
sion of him. " I can't stand Mrs. Mackenzie any longer, I
own," says Clive ; " but how resist a wife at such a moment ?
Rosa was sure she would die, unless her mother came to her,
and of course we invited Mrs. Mack. This time she is all
smiles and politeness with the Colonel : the last quarrel is laid
upon me, and in so far I am easy, as the old folks get on pretty
well together." To me, considering these things, it was clear
that Mr. Clive Newcome was but a very secondary personage
indeed in his father's new fine house which he inhabited, and
in which the poor Colonel had hoped they were to live such a
happy family.

But it was about Clive Newcome's pecuniary affairs that I
felt the most disquiet when he came to explain these to me.
The Colonel's capital and that considerable sum which Mrs.
Clive had inherited from her good old uncle, were all involved
in a common stock, of which Colonel Newcome took the man-
agement. "The governor understands business so well, you
see," says Clive; "is a most remarkable head for accounts, he
must have inherited that from my grandfather, you know, who
made his own fortune : all the Newcomes are good at accounts
except me, a poor useless devil who knows nothing but to paint
a picture, and who can't even do that." He cuts off the head
of a thistle as he speaks, bites his tawny mustaches, plunges
his hands into his pockets and his soul into reverie.

" You don't mean to say," asks Mr. Pendennis, " that your
wife's fortune has not been settled upon herself ? "

" Of course it has been settled upon herself ; that is, it is
entirely her own — you know the Colonel has managed all the
business, he understands it better than we do."

"Do you say that your wife's money is not vested in the
hands of trustees, and for her benefit ? "

THE NEWCOMES.

7*9

" My father is one of the trustees. I tell you he manages
the whole thing. What is his property is mine and ever lias
been : and I might draw upon him as much as I liked : and you
know it's five times as great as my wife's. What is his is
ours, and what is ours is his, of course ; for instance, the
India Stock, which poor Uncle James left, that now stan.ls
in the Colonel's name. He wants to be a Director : he will be
at the next election — he must have a certain quantity of India
Stock, don't you see ? "

" My dear fellow, is there then no settlement made upon
your wife at all ? "

"You needn't look so frightened,'' says Clive. " I made a
settlement on her : with all my worldly goods I did her endow
— three thousand three hundred and thirty-three pounds six
and eightpence, which my father sent over from India to my
uncle, years ago, when I came home.''

I might well indeed be aghast at this news, and had yet
further intelligence from Clive, which by no means contributed
to lessen my anxiety. This worthy old Colonel, who fancied
himself to be so clever a man of business, chose to conduct it
in utter ignorance and defiance of law. If anything happened
to the Bundlecund Bank, it was clear that not only every shil-
ling of his own property but every farthing bequeathed to Rosey
Mackenzie would be lost ; only his retiring pension, which was
luckily considerable, and the hundred pounds a year which
Clive had settled on his wife, would be saved out of the ruin.

And now Clive confided to me his own serious doubts and
misgivings regarding the prosperity of the Bank itself. He did
not know why, but he could not help fancying that things were
going wrong. Those partners who had come home, having
sold out of the Bank, and were living in England so splen-
didly, why had they quitted it ? The Colonel said it was a
proof of the prosperity of the company, that so many gentle-
men were enriched who had taken shares in it. " But when
I asked my father," Clive continued, "why he did not himself
withdraw, the dear old boy's countenance fell : he told me such
things were not to be done every day ; and ended, as usual, by
saying that I do not understand anything about business. \o
more I do : that is the truth. I hate the whole concern, Pen !
I hate that great tawdry house in which we live ; and those
fearfully stupid parties : — Oh, how I wish we were back in Fitz-
roy Square ! But who can recall by-gones, Arthur ; or wrong
steps in life ? We must make the best of to-day, and to-morrow
must take care of itself. Poor little child ! ' I could not help

720

THE NEWCOMES.

thinking, as I took it crying in my arms the other day, ! what
has life in store for you, my poor weeping baby ? ' My mother-
in-law cried out that I should drop the baby, and that only the
Colonel knew how to hold it. My wife called from her bed ;
the nurse dashed up and scolded me ; and they drove me out
of the room amongst them. By Jove, Pen, I laugh when some
of my friends congratulate me on my good fortune ! I am not
quite the father of my own child, nor the husband of my own
wife, nor even the master of my own easel. I am managed for,
don't you see ! boarded, lodged, and done for. And here is
the man they call happy. Happy ! Oh ! ! ! why had I not your
strength of mind ; and why did I ever leave my art, my mis-
tress ? "

And herewith the poor lad fell to chopping thistles again ;
and quitted Fairoaks shortly, leaving his friends there very
much disquieted about his prospects, actual and future.

The expected dissolution of Parliament came at length.
All the country papers in England teemed with electioneering
addresses ; and the country was in a flutter with parti-colored
ribbons. Colonel Thomas Newcome, pursuant to his promise,
offered himself to the independent electors of Newcome in the
Liberal journal of the family town, whilst Sir Barnes Newcome,
Bart., addressed himself to his old and tried friends, and called
upon the friends of the constitution to rally round him, in the
Conservative print. The addresses of our friend were sent to
us at Fairoaks by the Colonel's indefatigable aide-de-camp, Mr.
Frederick Bayham. During the period which had elapsed since
the Colonel's last canvassing visit and the issuing of the writs
now daily expected for the new Parliament, many things of
great importance had occurred in Thomas Newcome's family — ■
events which were kept secret from his biographer, who was,
at this period also, pretty entirely occupied with his own affairs.
These, however, are not the present subject of this history,
which has Newcome for its business, and the parties engaged in
the family quarrel there.

There were four candidates in the field for the representa-
tion of that borough. That old and tried Member of Parlia-
ment, Mr. Bunce, was considered to be secure ; and the Bar-
onet's seat was thought to be pretty safe on account of his
influence in the place. Nevertheless, Thomas Newcome's sup-
porters were confident for their champion, and that when the
parties came to the poll, the extreme Liberals of the borough
would divide their votes between him and the fourth candidate,
the uncompromising Radical, Mr. Barker.

THE NE WCOMES. y 2 i

In clue time the Colonel and his staff arrived at Newcome,
and resumed the active canvass which they had commenced
some months previously. Clive was not in his father's suite
this time, nor Mr. Warrington, whose engagements took him
elsewhere. The lawyer, the editor of the Independent, and F. B.,
svere the Colonel's chief men. His head-quarters (which F. B.
liked very well) were at the hotel where we last saw him, and
whence issuing with his aide-de-camp at his heels, the Colonel
went round to canvass personally, according to his own promise,
every free and independent elector of the borough. Barnes too
was canvassing eagerly on his side, and was most affable and
active ; the two parties would often meet nose to nose in the
same street, and their retainers exchange looks of defiance.
With Mr. Potts of the Independent, a big man, on his left ; with
Mr. Frederick, a still bigger man, on his right ; his own trusty
bamboo cane in his hand, before which poor Barnes had shrunk
abashed ere now, Colonel Newcome had commonly the best of
these street encounters, and frowned his nephew Barnes, and
Barnes's staff, off the pavement. With the non-electors the
Colonel was a decided favorite ; the boys invariably hurrahed
him ; whereas they jeered and uttered ironical cries after poor
Barnes, asking, "Who beat his wife? Who drove his children
to the workhouse? " and other unkind personal questions. The
man upon whom the libertine Barnes had inflicted so cruel an
injury in his early days, was now the Baronet's bitterest enemy.
He assailed him with curses and threats when they met, and
leagued his brother workmen against him. The wretched Sir
Barnes owned with contrition that the sins of his youth pursued
him ; his enemy scoffed at the idea of Barnes's repentance ; he
was not moved at the grief, the punishment in his own family,
the humiliation and remorse which the repentant prodigal
piteously pleaded. No man was louder in his cries of men culpa
than Barnes : no man professed a more edifying repentance.
He was hat in hand to every black coat, established or dissent-
ing. Repentance was to his interest, to be sure, but yet let us
hope it was sincere. There is some hypocrisy of which one
does not like even to entertain the thought j especially that
awful falsehood which trades with divine truth, and takes the
name of Heaven in vain.

"The " Roebuck Inn," at Newcome, stands in the market-
place, directly facing the " King's Arms," where, as we know,
Colonel Newcome and uncompromising toleration held their
head-quarters. Immense banners of blue and yellow floated
from every window of the " King's Arms," and decorated the

46

72 2 THE NEWCOMES.

balcony from which the Colonel and his assistants were in thft
habit of addressing the multitude. Fiddlers and trumpeters,
arrayed in his colors, paraded the town and enlivened it with
their melodious strains. Other trumpeters and fiddlers, bear-
ing the true blue cockades and colors of Sir Barnes Newcome,
Bart., would encounter the Colonel's musicians, on which occa-
sions of meeting, it is to be feared, small harmony was pro-
duced. They banged each other with their brazen instruments.
The warlike drummers thumped each other's heads in lieu of
the professional sheepskin. The town-boys and street-black-
guards rejoiced in these combats, and exhibited their valor on
one side or the other. The Colonel had to pay a long bill for
broken brass, when he settled the little accounts of the election.

In after-times F. B. was pleased to describe the circum-
stances of a contest in which he bore a most distinguished part.
It was F. B.'s opinion that his private eloquence brought over
many waverers to the Colonel's side, and converted numbers of
the benighted followers of Sir Barnes Newcome. Bayham's
voice was indeed magnificent, and could be heard from the
d King's Arms' " balcony above the shout and roar of the mul-
titude, the gongs and bugles of the opposition bands. He was
untiring in his oratory — undaunted in the presence of the crowds
below. He was immensely popular, F. B. Whether he laid
his hand upon his broad chest, took off his hat and waved it,
or pressed his blue and yellow ribbons to his bosom, the crowd
shouted, " Hurrah ! silence ! bravo ! Bayham forever ! "
"They would have carried me in triumph," said F. B. ; "if I
had but the necessary qualification, I might be Member for
Newcome this day or any other I choose."

I am afraid, in his conduct of the Colonel's election, Mr.
Bayham resorted to ac-« J>f which his principal certainly would
disapprove, and engageQ auxiliaries whose alliance was scarcely
creditable. Whose was the hand which flung the potato which
struck Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart., on the nose as he was har-
anguing the people from the " Roebuck ? " How came it that
whenever Sir Barnes and his friends essayed to speak, such an
awful yelling and groaning took place in the crowd below, that
the words of those feeble orators were inaudible ? Who smashed
all the front windows of the " Roebuck ? " Colonel Newcome
had not words to express his indignation at proceedings so un-
fair. When Sir Barnes and his staff were hustled in the market-
place and most outrageously shoved, jeered, and jolted, the
Colonel from the " King's Arms" organized a rapid sally, which
he himself headed with his bamboo cane \ cut out Sir Barnes

THE NBW*m+*&S. 723

art 1 his followers from the hands of the mob and addressed
those ruffians in a noble speech, of which the bamboo cane — ■
Englishman — shame — fair play, were the most emphatic expres-
sions. The mob cheered Old Tom as they called him — they
made way for Sir Barnes, who shrunk pale and shuddering back
into his hotel again — who always persisted in saying that that
old villain of a dragoon had planned both the assault and the
rescue.

•• When the dregs of the people — the scum of the rabble,
sir, banded together by the myrmidons of Sir Barnes Newcome,
attacked us at the ' King's Arms,' and smashed ninety-six
pounds' worth of glass at one volley, besides knocking off the
gold unicorn's head and the tail of the British lion ; it was fine,
sir," F. B. said, " to see how the Colonel came forward, and the
coolness of the old boy in the midst of the action. He stood
there in front, sir, with his old hat off, never so much as once
bobbing his old head, and I think he spoke rather better under
fire than he did when there was no danger. Between ourselves,
he ain't much of a speaker, the old Colonel ; he hems and hahs,
and repeats himself a good deal. He hasn't the gift of natural
eloquence which some men have, Pendennis. You should have
heard my speech, sir, on the Thursday in the Town Hall — that
fras something like a speech. Potts was jealous of it, and
always reported me most shamefully."

In spite of his respectful behavior to the gentlemen in black
coats, his soup tickets and his flannel tickets, his own pathetic
lectures and his sedulous attendance at other folks' sermons,
poor Barnes could not keep up his credit with the serious inter-
est at Newcome, and the meeting-houses and their respective
pastors and frequenters turned their backs upon him. The
case against him was too flagrant : his enemy, the factory-man,
worked it with an extraordinary skill, malice, and pertinacity.
Not a single man, woman, or child in Newcome, but was made
acquainted with Sir Barnes's early peccadillo. Ribald ballads
were howled through the streets describing his sin, and his
deserved punishment. • For very shame, the reverend dissent-
ing gentlemen were obliged to refrain from voting for him ; such
as ventured, believing in the sincerity of his repentance, to give
him their voices, were yelled away from the polling places. A
very great number who would have been his friends, were com-
pelled to bow to decency and public opinion, and supported the
Colonel.

Hooted away from the hustings and the public places
whence the rival candidates addressed the free and independent

/24

THR NEWCOMES.

electors, this wretched and persecuted Sir Barnes invited his
friends and supporters to meet him at the " Athenaeum Room "
— scene of his previous eloquent performances. But though
this apartment was defended by tickets, the people burst into
it ; and Nemesis, in the shape of the persevering factory-man,
appeared before the sacred Sir Barnes and his puzzled com-
mittee. The man stood up and bearded the pale Baronet. He
had a good cause, and was in truth a far better master of
debate than our banking friend, being a great speaker amongst
his brother operatives, by whom political questions are dis-
cussed, and the conduct of political men examined, with a
ceaseless interest and with an ardor and eloquence which are
often unknown in what is called superior society. This man
and his friends round about him fiercely silenced the clamor of
"Turn him out," with which his first appearance was assailed
by Sir Barnes's hangers-on. He said, in the name of justice he
would speak up; if they were fathers of families, and loved
their wives and daughters, he dared them to refuse him a hear-
ing. Did they love their wives and their children ? it was a
shame that they should take such a man as that yonder for their
representative in Parliament. But the greatest sensation he
made was when in the middle of his speech, after inveighing
against Barnes's cruelty and parental ingratitude, he asked,
"Where were Barnes's children?" and actually thrust forward
two, to the amazement of the committee and the ghastly aston-
ishment of the guilty Baronet himself.

"Look at them," says the man : "they are almost in rags,
they have to put up with scanty and hard food ; contrast them
with his other children, whom you see lording it in gilt carriages,
robed in purple and fine linen, and scattering mud from their
wheels over us humble people as we walk the streets ; ignorance
and starvation is good enough for these, for those others
nothing can be too fine or too dear. What can a factory -girl ex-
pect from such a fine high-bred, white-handed, aristocratic gen-
tleman as Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet, but to be cajoled, and
seduced, and deserted, and left to starve \ When she has served
my lord's pleasure, her natural fate is to be turned into the
street ; let her go and rot there, and her children beg in the
gutter."

" This is the most shameful imposture," gasps out Sir
Barnes ; " these children are not — are not "

The man interrupted him with a bitter laugh. " No," says
he, " they are not his ; that's true enough, friends. It's Tom
Martin's girl and boy, a precious pair of lazy little scamps,

THE NEWCOMES.

725

But, at first, he thought they were his children. See how much
he knows about them ! He hasn't seen his children for years ;
he would have left them and their mother to starve, and did,
but for shame and fear. The old man, his father, pensioned
them, and he hasn't the heart to stop their wages now. Men
of Xewcome, will you have this man to represent you in Parlia-
ment ? " And the crowd roared out " No ; " and Barnes and
his shame-faced committee slunk out of the place, and no
wonder the dissenting clerical gentlemen were shy of voting
for him.

A brilliant and picturesque diversion in Colonel Newcome's
favor was due to the inventive genius of his faithful aide-de-
camp, F. B. On the polling-day, as the carriages full of voters
came up to the market-place, there appeared nigh to the booths
an open barouche, covered all over with ribbon, and containing
Frederick Bayham, Esq., profusely decorated with the Colonel's
colors, and a very old woman and her female attendant, who
were similarly ornamented. It was good old Mrs. Mason, who
was pleased with the drive and the sunshine, though she
scarcely understood the meaning of the turmoil, with her maid
by her side, delighted to wear such ribbons, and sit in such a
post of honor. Rising up in the carriage, F. B. took off his
hat, bade his men of brass be silent, who were accustomed to
bray H See the Conquering Hero comes," whenever the Colonel,
or Mr. Bayham, his brilliant aide-de-camp, made their appear-
ance j — bidding, we say, the musicians and the universe to be
silent, F. B. rose, and made the citizens of Newcome a splendid
speech. Good old unconscious Mrs. Mason was the theme of
it, and the Colonel's virtues and faithful gratitude in tending
her. " She was his father's old friend. She was Sir Barnes
Newcome's grandfather's old friend. She had lived for more
than forty years at Sir Barnes Newcome's door, and how often
had he been to see her? Did he go every week? No. Every
month ? No. Every year? No. Never in the whole course of
his life had he set his foot into her doors ! " (Loud yells, and
cries of " Shame ! ") " Never had he done her one single act
of kindness. Whereas for years and years past, when he was
away in India, heroically fighting the battles of his country,
when he was distinguishing himself at Assaye, and — and — •
Mulligatawny and Seringapatam, in the hottest of the fight and
the fiercest of the danger, in the most terrible moment of the
conflict and the crowning glory of the victory, the good, the
brave, the kind old Colonel, — why should he say Colonel ? why
should he not say Old Tom at once ? " (immense roars of

7 26 THE NEWCOMES.

applause) " always remembered his dear old nurse and friend.
Look at that shawl, boys, which she has got on ! My belief is
that Colonel Newcome took that shawl in single combat, and
on horseback, from the prime minister of Tippoo Saib."
(Immense cheers and cries of " Bravo, Bayham ! ") " Look at
that brooch the dear old thing wears ! " (he kissed her hand
whilst so apostrophizing her.) " Tom Newcome never brags
about his military achievements, he is the most modest as well
as the bravest man in the world. What if I were to tell you
that he cut that brooch from the throat of an Indian rajah ?
He's man enough to do it."' (" He is ! he is ! " from all parts
of the crowd.) " What, you want to take the horses out, do
you ? " (to the crowd, who were removing those quadrupeds.)
" I ain't going to prevent you ; I expected as much of you.
Men of Newcome, I expected as much of you, for I know you !
Sit still, old lady ; don't be frightened, ma'am, they are only
going to pull vou to the ' King's Arms,' and show you to the
Colonel."

This, indeed, was the direction in which the mob (whether
inflamed by spontaneous enthusiasm, or excited by cunning
agents placed among the populace by F. B., I cannot say,) now
took the barouche and its three occupants. With a myriad
roar and shout the carriage was dragged up in front of the
" King's Arms," from the balconies of which a most satisfac-
tory account of the polling was already placarded. The extra
noise and shouting brought out the Colonel, who looked at
first with curiosity at the advancing procession, and then, as
he caught sight of Sarah Mason, with a blush and a bow of
his kind old head.

" Look at him, boys ! " cried the enraptured F. B., pointing
up to the old man. " Look at him ; the dear old boy ! Isn't
he an old trump ? which will you have for your Member, Barnes
Newcome or Old Tom ? "

And as might be supposed, an immense shout of " Old
Tom ! " arose from the multitude ; in the midst of which, blush-
ing and bowing still, the Colonel went back to his committee-
room : and the bands played " See the Conquering Hero "
louder than ever ; and poor Barnes in the course of his duty
having to come out upon his balcony at the " Roebuck " oppo-
site, was saluted with a yell as vociferous as the cheer for the
Colonel had been ; and old Mrs. Mason asked what the noise
was about ; and after making several vain efforts, in dumb
show, to the crowd, Barnes slunk back into his hole again as
pale as the turnip which was Hung at his head ; and the horses

TI/R 1VFAVC0MES. j2j

were brought, and Mrs. Mason driven home ; and the day of
election came to an end.

Reasons of personal gratitude, as we have stated already,
prevented his Highness the Prince de Montcontour from taking
a part in this family contest. His brethren of the House of
Higg, however, very much to Florae's gratification, gave their
second votes to Colonel Newcome, carrying with them a very
great number of electors : we know that in the present Parlia-
ment, Mr. Higg and Mr. Bunce sit for the Borough of New-
come. Having had monetary transactions with Sir Barnes
Newcome, and entered largely into railway speculations with
him, the Messrs. Higg had found reason to quarrel with the
Baronet ; accuse him of sharp practices to the present day, and
have long stories to tell which do not concern us about Sir
Barnes's stratagems, grasping, and extortion. They and their
following, deserting Sir Barnes, whom they had supported in
previous elections, voted for the Colonel, although some of the
opinions of that gentleman were rather too extreme for such
sober persons.

Not exactly knowing what his politics were when he com-
menced the canvass, I can't say to what opinions the poor Col-
onel did not find himself committed by the time when the elec-
tion was over. The worthy gentleman felt himself not a little
humiliated by what he had to say and unsay, by having to
answer questions, to submit to familiarities, to shake hands,
which, to say truth, he did not care for grasping at all. His
habits were aristocratic ; his education had been military ; the
kindest and simplest soul alive, he yet disliked all familiarity,
and expected from common people the sort of deference which
he had received from his men in the regiment. The contest
saddened and mortified him j he felt that he was using wrong
means to obtain an end that perhaps was not right (for so his
secret conscience must have told him) ; he was derogating from
his own honor in tampering with political opinions, submitting
to familiarities, condescending to stand by whilst his agents
solicited vulgar suffrages or uttered clap-traps about retrench-
ment and reform. " I felt I was wrong," he said to me in after
days, " though /was too proud to own my error in those times,
and you and your good wife and my boy were right in protest-
ing against that mad election." Indeed, though we little knew
what events were speedily to happen, Laura and 1 felt very
little satisfaction when the result of the Newcome election was
made known to us, and we found Sir Barnes Newcome thirci
and Col. Thomas Newcome second upon the poll.

728

THE NEWCO.VES.

Ethel was absent with her children at Brighton. She was
glad, she wrote, not to have been at home during the election.
Mr. and Mrs. C. were at Brighton, too. Ethel had seen Mrs.
C. and her child once or twice. It was a very fine child. " My
brother came down to us," she wrote, " after all was over. He
is furious against M. de Montcontour, who, he says, persuaded
the Whigs to vote against him, and turned the election."

CHAPTER LXX.

CHILTERN HUNDREDS.

We shall say no more regarding Thomas Newcome's political
doings ; his speeches against Barnes, and the Baronet's replies.
The nephew was beaten by his stout old uncle.

In due time the Gazette announced that Thomas Xewcome,
Esq., was returned as one of the Members of Parliament for
the borough of Xewcome ; and after triumphant dinners,
speeches, and rejoicings, the Member came back to his family
in London, and to his affairs in that City.

The good Colonel appeared to be by no means elated by his
victory. He would not allow that he was wrong in engaging in
that family war, of which we have just seen the issue ; though
it may be that his secret remorse on this account in part occa-
sioned his disquiet. But there were other reasons, which his
family not long afterwards came to understand, for the gloom
and low spirits which now oppressed the head of their home.

It was observed (that is, if simple little Rosey took the
trouble to observe,) that the entertainments at the Colonel's
mansion were more frequent and splendid even than before ;
the silver cocoa-nut tree was constantly in requisition, and
around it were assembled many new guests, who had not for-
merly been used to sit under those branches. Mr. Sherrick
and his wife appeared at those parties, at which the proprietor
of Lady Whittlesea's chapel made himself perfectly familiar.
Sherrick cut jokes with the master of the house, which the
latter received with a very grave acquiescence ; he ordered the
servants about, addressing the butler as "Old Corkscrew," and
bidding the footman, whom he loved to call by his Christian

THE XEU'COMES. y2<)

name, to "look alive." He called the Colonel " Newcome ''
sometimes, and facetiously speculated upon the degree of rela-
tionship subsisting between them now that his daughter was
married to Clive's uncle, the Colonel's brother-in-law. Though
I dare say Clive did not much relish receiving news of his aunt,
Sherrick was sure to bring such intelligence when it reached
him ; and announced, in due time, the birth of a little cousin
at Bogglywallah, whom the fond parents designed to name
"Thomas Newcome Honeyman."

A dreadful panic and ghastly terror seized poor Clive on an
occasion which he described to me afterwards. Going out from
home one day with his father, he beheld a wine merchant's cart,
from which hampers were carried down the area gate into the
lower regions of Colonel Newcome's house. u Sherrick & Co.,
^A'ine Merchants, Walpole Street," was painted upon the
vehicle.

u Good heavens ! sir, do you get your wine from him 9 "
Clive cried out to his father, remembering Honeyman \s provis-
ions in early times. The Colonel, looking very gloomy and
turning red, said, "Yes, he bought wine from Sherrick, who
had been very good-natured and serviceable ; and who — and
who, you know, is our connection now." When informed of the
circumstance by Clive, I too, as I confess, thought the incident
alarming.

Then Clive. with a laugh, told me of a grand battle which
had taken place in consequence of Mrs. Mackenzie's behavior
to the wine merchant's wife. The Campaigner had treated this
very kind and harmless, but vulgar woman, with extreme hau-
teur— had talked loud during her singing — the beauty of which,
to say truth, time had considerably impaired — had made con-
temptuous observations regarding her upon more than one oc-
casion. At length the Colonel broke out in great wrath against
Mrs. Mackenzie — bade her to respect that lady as one of his
guests — and, if she did not like the company which assembled
at his house, hinted to her that there were many thousand other
houses in London where she could find a lodging. For the
sake of her child, and her adored grandchild, the Campaigner
took no notice of this hint ; and declined to remove from the
quarters which she had occupied ever since she had become a
grandmamma.

I myself dined once or twice with my old friends, under the
shadow of the pickle-bearing cocoa-nut tree ; and could not
but remark a change of personages in the society assembled.
The manager of the City branch of the B. R C. was always

73o THE NEWCOMES.

present — an ominous-looking man, whose whispers and com-
pliments seemed to make poor Clive, at his end of the table,
very melancholy. With the City manager came the City
manager's friends, whose jokes passed gayly round, and who
kept the conversation to themselves. Once I had the happiness
to meet Mr. Ratray, who had returned, filled with rupees from
the Indian Bank ; who told us many anecdotes of the splendor
of Rummun Loll at Calcutta, who complimented the Colonel
on his fine house and grand dinners with sinister good-humor.
Those compliments did not seem to please our poor friend ;
that familiarity choked him. A brisk little chattering attorney,
very intimate with Sherrick, with a wife of dubious gentility,
was another constant guest. He enlivened the table by his
jokes, and recounted choice stories about the aristocracy, with
certain members of whom the little man seemed very familiar.
He knew to a shilling how much this lord owed— and how much
the creditors allowed that marquis. He had been concerned
with such and such a nobleman, who was now in the Queen's
Bench. He spoke of their lordships affably and without their
titles — calling upon " Louisa my dear," his wife, to testify to
the day when Viscount Tagrag dined with them, and Earl Bare-
acres sent them the pheasants. F. B., as sombre and down-
cast as his hosts now seemed to be, informed me demurely
that the attorney was a member of one of the most eminent
firms in the City — that he had been engaged in procuring the
Colonel's parliamentary title for him — and in various important
matters appertaining to the B. B. C. ; but my knowledge of the
world and the law was sufficient to make me aware that this
gentleman belonged to a well-known firm of money-lending
solicitors, and I trembled to see such a person in the home of
our good Colonel. Where were the generals and the judges ?
Where were the fogeys and their respectable ladies? Stupid
they were, and dull their company, but better a stalled ox in
their society, than Mr. Campion's jokes over Mr. Sherrick's
wines.

After the little rebuke administered by Colonel Newcome,
Mrs. Mackenzie abstained from overt hostilities against any
guests of her daughter's father-in-law ; and contented herself
by assuming grand and princess-like airs in the company of the
new ladies. They flattered her and poor little Rosey intensely.
The latter liked their company no doubt. To a man of the
world looking on, who has seen the men and morals of many-
cities, it was curious, almost pathetic, to watch that poor little
innocent creature fresh and smiling, attired in bright colors

THE NEWCOMES.

73*

and a thousand gewgaws, simpering in the midst of these
darkling people — practising her little arts and coquetries, with
such a court round about her. An unconscious little maid,
with rich and rare gems sparkling on all her fingers, and bright
gold rings as many as belonged to the late Old Woman of
Banbury Cross — still she smiled and prattled innocently before
these banditti — I thought of Zerlina and the Brigands, in " Fra
Diavolo."

Walking away with F. B. from one of these parties of the
Colonel's, and seriously alarmed at what I had observed there,
I demanded of Bayham whether my conjectures were not
correct, that some misfortune overhung our old friend's house ?
At first Bayham denied stoutly or pretended ignorance ; but at
length, having reached the " Haunt " together, which I had
not visited since I was a married man, we entered that place
of entertainment, and were greeted by its old landlady and
waitress, and accommodated with a quiet parlor. And here
F. B., after groaning — after sighing — after solacing himself
with a prodigious quantity of bitter beer — fairly burst out, and,
with tears in his eyes, made a full and sad confession re-
specting this unlucky Bundlecund Banking Company. The
shares had been going lower and lower, so that there was no
sale now for them at all. To meet the liabilities the directors
must have undergone the greatest sacrifices. He did not know
— he did not like to think what the Colonel's personal losses
were. The respectable solicitors of the Company had retired
long since, after having secured payment of a most respectable
bill, and had given place to the firm of dubious law-agents of
whom I had that evening seen a partner. How the retiring
partners from India had been allowed to withdraw, and to
bring fortunes along with them, was a mystery to Mr. Fred-
erick Bayham. The great Indian millionnaire was in his. K.
B.'s eyes, " a confounded old mahogany-colored heathen hum-
bug.'' These fine parties which the Colonel was giving, and
that fine carriage which was always flaunting about the Park
with poor Mrs. Clive and the Campaigner, and the nurse and
the baby, were, in F. B.'s opinion, all decoys and shams. He
did not mean to say that the meals were not paid, and that the
Colonel had to plunder for his horses' corn ; but he knew that
Sherrick, and the attorney, and the manager, insisted upon the
necessity of giving these parties, and keeping up this state and
grandeur, and opined that it was at the special instance of
these advisers that the Colonel had contested the borough for
which he was now returned. " Do you know how much that

732

THE NEWCOMES.

contest cost ? " asks F. B. " The sum, sir, was awful ! and we
have ever so much of it to pay. I came up twice from New-
come myself to Campion and Sherrick about it. I betray no
secrets — F. B., sir, would die a thousand deaths before he
would tell the secrets of his benefactor ! — But, Pendennis, you
understand a thing or two. You know what o'clock it is, and
so does yours truly, F. B., who drinks your health, /knew
the taste of Sherrick's wine well enough. F. B., sir, fears the
Greeks and all the gifts they bring. Confound his Amon-
tillado ! I had rather drink this honest malt and hops all my
life than ever see a drop of his abominable golden sherry.
Golden ? F. B. believes it is golden — and a precious deal
dearer than gold too " — and herewith, ringing the bell, my
friend asked for a second pint of the just-named and cheaper
fluid.

I have of late had to recount portions of my dear old
friend's history which must needs be told, and over which the
writer does not like to dwell. If Thomas Newcome's opulence
was unpleasant to describe, and to contrast with the bright
goodness and simplicity I remembered in former days, how
much more painful is that part of his story to which we are now
come perforce, and which the acute reader of novels has, no
doubt, long foreseen. Yes, sir or madam, you are quite right
in the opinion which you have held all along regarding that
Bundlecund Banking Company, in which our Colonel has
invested every rupee he possesses, Solvuntur rupees, &c. I dis-
dain, for the most part, the tricks and surprises of the novelist's
art. Knowing, from the very beginning of our story, what was
the issue of this Bundlecund Banking concern, I have scarce
had patience to keep my counsel about it ; and whenever I had
occasion to mention the company, have scarcely been able to
refrain from breaking out into fierce diatribes against that com-
plicated, enormous, outrageous swindle. It was one of many
similar cheats which have been successfully practised upon the
simple folks, civilian and military, who toil and struggle — who
fight with sun and enemy — who pass years of long exile and
gallant endurance in the service of our empire in India. Agency-
houses after agency-houses have been established, and have
flourished in splendor and magnificence, and have paid fabulous
dividends — and have enormously enriched two or three wary
speculators — and then have burst in bankruptcy, involving
widows, orphans, and countless simple people who trusted their
all to the keeping of these unworthy treasurers.

The failure of the Bundlecund Bank which we now have to

THE iYEWCOMES. 733

record, was only one of many similar schemes ending in ruin.
About the time when Thomas Newcome was chaired as Member
of Parliament for the borough of which lie bore the name, the
great Indian merchant who was at the head of the Bundlecund
Banking Company's affairs at Calcutta, suddenly died of cholera
at his palace at Barrackpore. He had been giving of late a
series of the most splendid banquets with which Indian prince
ever entertained a Calcutta society. The greatest and proudest
personages of that aristocratic city had attended his feasts.
The fairest Calcutta beauties had danced in his halls. Did not
poor F. B. transfer from the columns of the Bengal Ifurkaru
to the Pall Mall Gazette the most astounding descriptions of
those Asiatic Nights' Entertainments, of which the very grandest
was to con.e off on the night when cholera seized Rummun
Loll in its grip ? There was to have been a masquerade out-
vying all European masquerades in splendor. The two rival
queens of Calcutta society were to have appeared each with her
court around her. Young civilians at the college, and young
ensigns fresh landed, had gone into awful expenses and bor-
rowed money at fearful interest from the B. B. C. and other
banking companies, in order to appear with befitting splendor
as knights and noblemen of Henrietta Maria's Court (Henrietta
Maria, wife of Hastings Hicks, Esq., Sudder Dewanee Adaw-
lut), or as princes and warriors surrounding the palanquin of
Lallah Rookh (the lovely wife of Hon. Cornwallis Bobus,
Member of Council) : all these splendors were there. As
carriage after carriage drove up from Calcutta, they were met
at Rummun Loli's gate by ghastly weeping servants, who an-
nounced their master's decease.

On the next day the Bank at Calcutta was closed, and the
day after, when heavy bills were presented which must be paid,
although by this time Rummun Loll was not only dead but
buried, and his widows howling over his grave, it was announced
throughout Calcutta that but 800 rupees were left in the treasury
of the B. B. C. to meet engagements to the amount of four
lacs then immediately due, and sixty days afterwards the
shutters were closed at No. 175, Lothbury, the London offices
of the B. B. C. of India, and 35,000/. worth of their bills refused
by their agents, Messrs. Baines, Jolly & Co., of Fog Court.

When the accounts of that ghastly bankruptcy arrived from
Calcutta, it was found, of course, that the merchant prince
Rummun Loll owed the B. B. C. twenty-five lacs of rupees,
the value of which was scarcely even represented by his re-
spectable signature. It was found that one of the auditors of

734

THE XEIVCOMES.

the bank, the generally esteemed Charley Condor (a capital
fellow, famous for his good dinners and for playing low-comedy
characters at the Chowringhee Theatre,) was indebted to the
bank in 90,000/. ; and also it was discovered that the revered
Baptist Bellman, Chief Registrar of the Calcutta Tape and
Sealing-YVax Office (a most valuable and powerful amateur
preacher who had converted two natives, and whose serious
soirees were thronged at Calcutta,) had helped himself to
73, 000/. more, for which he settled in the Bankruptcy Court
before he resumed his duties in his own. In justice to Mr.
Bellman, it must be said that he could have had no idea of the
catastrophe impending over the B. B. C. For only three weeks
before that great bank closed its doors, Mr. Bellman, as guard-
ian of the children of his widowed sister, Mrs. Colonel Green,
had sold the whole of the late Colonel's property out of Com-
pany's paper and invested it in the bank, which gave a high
interest, and with bills of which, drawn upon their London
correspondents, he had accommodated Mrs. Colonel Green
when she took her departure for Europe with her numerous
little family on board the " Burrumpooter."

And now you have the explanation of the title of this chap-
ter, and know wherefore Thomas Xewcome never sat in Par-
liament. Where are our dear old friends now ? Where are
Rosey's chariots and horses ? Where her jewels and gewgaws ?
Bills are up in the fine new house. Swarms of Hebrew gentle-
men with their hats on are walking about the drawing-rooms,
peering into the bedrooms, weighing and poising the poor old
silver cocoa-nut tree, eyeing the plate and crystal, thumbing
the damask of the curtains, and inspecting ottomans, minors,
and a hundred articles of splendid trumpery. There is Rosey's
boudoir which her father-in-law loved to ornament — there is
Clive's studio with a hundred sketches — there is the Colonel's
bare room at the top of the house, with his little iron bedstead
and ship's drawers, and a camel trunk or two which have
accompanied him on many an Indian march, and his old regu-
lation sword, and that one which the native officers of his regi-
ment gave him when he bade them farewell. I can fancy the
brokers' faces as they look over this camp wardrobe, and that
the uniforms will not fetch much in Holywell Street. There is
the old one still, and that new one which he ordered and wore
when poor little Rosey was presented at court. I had not the
heart to examine their plunder, and go amongst those wreckers.
F. B. used to attend the sale regularly, and report its proceed*
ings to us with eyes full of tears. " A fellow laughed at me,"

77//; XEIVCOMES.

7.o

Fa\s F. B., "because when I came into the dear old drawing-room
I took my hat off. I told him that if he dared say another word
I would knock him down." I think F. B. may be pardoned in
this instance for emulating the office of auctioneer. Where are
you, pretty Rosey, and poor little helpless Baby ? Where are
you, dear Give — gallant young friend of my youth ? Ah ! it is
a sad story — a melancholy page to pen ! Let us pass it over
quickly — I love not to think of my friend in pain.

CHAPTER LXXI.

fN WHICH MRS. CLIVE NEWCOME's CARRIAGE IS ORDERED.

All the friends of the Xewcome family, of course, knew
the disaster which had befallen the good Colonel, and I was
aware, for my own part, that not only his own, but almost the
whole of Rosey Xewcome's property was involved in the com-
mon ruin. Some proposals of temporary relief were made
to our friends from more quarters than one, but were thankfully
rejected ; and we were led to hope that the Colonel, having
still his pension secured to him, which the law could not touch,
might live comfortably enough in the retirement to which, of
course, he would betake himself, when the melancholy proceed-
ings consequent on the bankruptcy were brought to an end.
It was shown that he had been egregiouslv duped in the trans-
action ; that his credulity had cost him and his family a large
fortune ; that he had given up every penny which belonged to
him ; that there could not be any sort of stain upon his honest
reputation. The judge before whom he appeared, spoke with
feeling and regard of the unhappy gentleman ; the lawyer who
examined him respected the grief and fall of that simple old
man. Thomas Newcome took a little room near the court
where his affairs and the affairs of the company were adjudged ;
lived with a frugality which never was difficult to him ; and
once when perchance I met him in the City, avoided me, with a
bow and courtesy that was quite humble, though proud and
somehow inexpressibly touching to me. Fred. Bavham was the
only person whom he admitted. Fred, always faithfully insisted
upon attending him in and out of court. J. J. came to me im-
mediately after he heard of the disaster, eager to place all his
savings at the service of his friends. Laura and I came to
London, and were urgent with similar offers. Our good friend

j 36 THE NEWCOMES.

declined to see any of us. F. B., again, with tears trickling on
his rough cheeks, and a break in his voice, told me he feared
that affairs must be very bad indeed, for the Colonel absolutely
denied himself a cheroot to smoke. Laura drove to his lodg-
ings and took him a box, which was held up to him as he came
to open the door to my wife's knock by our smiling little boy.
He patted the child on his golden head and kissed him. My
wife wished he would have done as much for her j but he would
not — though she owned she kissed his hand. He drew it across
his eyes and thanked her in a very calm and stately manner —
but he did not invite her within the threshold of his door, say-
ing simply, that such a room was not a fit place to receive a
lady, "as you ought to know very well, Mrs. Smith," he said to
the landlady, who had accompanied my wife up the stairs.
" He will eat scarcely anything,'' the woman told us ; " his
meals come down untouched ; his candles are burning all night,
almost, as he sits poring over his papers."' ''He was bent — he
who used to walk so uprightly," Laura said. He seemed to
have grown many years older, and was, indeed, quite a decrepit
old man.

" I am glad they have left Clive out of the bankruptcy," the
Colonel said to Bayham ; it was almost the only time when his
voice exhibited any emotion. *f It was very kind of them to
leave out Clive, poor boy, and I have thanked the lawyers in
Court." Those gentlemen, and the judge himself, were very
much moved at this act of gratitude. The judge made a very
feeling speech to the Colonel when he came up for his certifi-
cate. He passed very different comments on the conduct of
the Manager of the Bank, when that person appeared for ex-
amination. He wished that the law had power to deal with
those gentlemen who had come home with large fortunes from
India, realized but a few years before the bankruptcy. Those
gentlemen had known how to take care of themselves very
well, and as for the Manager, is not his wife giving elegant
balls at her elegant house at Cheltenham at this very day ?

What weighed most upon the Colonel's mind, F. B. im-
agined, was the thought that he had been the means of indu-
cing many poor friends to embark their money in this luckless
speculation. Take J. J.'s money after he had persuaded old
Ridley to place 200/. in Indian shares ! Good God, he and his
family should rather perish than he would touch a farthing of
it ! Many fierce words were uttered to him by Mrs. Mackenzie,
for instance ; by her angry son-in-law at Musselburgh — Josey's
husband ; by Air. Smee, R.A.. and two or three Indian officers,
friends of his own, who had entered into the speculation on his

THE NEWCOMES.

757

r^prmmendation. These rebukes Thomas Newcome bore with
an affecting meekness, as his faithful F. B. described to me,
striving with many oaths and much loudness to carry off iiis
own emotion. But what moved the Colonel most of all, was a
(etter which came at this time from Honeyman in India, saying
that he was doing well — that of course he knew of his bene-
factor's misfortune, and that he sent a remittance which, D. /'.,
should be annual, in payment of his debt to the Colonel, and
his good sister at Brighton. " On receipt of this letter," said
!•'. EL, *' the old man was fairly beat — the letter, with the bill in
it, dropped out of his hands. He clasped them both together,
Shaking in every limb, and his head dropped down on his
breast as he said, ' I thank my God Almighty for this ! ' and
he sent the check off to Miss. Honeyman by the post that
night, sir, every shilling of it ; and he passed his old arm undei
mine j and we went out to Tom's Coffee-House, and he ate
some dinner for the first time for ever so long, and drank a
couple of glasses of port-wine, and F. B. stood it, sir, and would
stand his heart's blood for that dear old boy."

It was on Monday morning that those melancholy shutters
were seen over the offices of the Bundlecund Bank in Lothbury,
which were not to come down until the rooms were handed
over to some other, and, let us trust, more fortunate speculators.
The Indian bills had arrived, and been protested in the City on
the previous Saturday. The Campaigner and Mrs. Rosey had
arranged a little party to the theatre that evening, and the gal-
lant Captain Goby had agreed to quit the delights of the " Flag
Club," in order to accompany the ladies. Neither of them
knew what was happening in the City, or could account, other-
wise than by the common domestic causes, for Clive's gloomy
despondency and his father's sad reserve, Clive had not been
in the City on this day. lie had spent it, as usual, in his
Studio, boudc fey his wife, and not disturbed by the mess room
raillery of the Campaigner. They dined early, in order to be
in time for the theatre. Goby entertained them with the la
jokes from the smoking-room at the '• Flag," and was in his
turn amused by the brilliant plans for the season which Rosey
and her mamma sketched out. The entertainments which Mrs.
Clive proposed to give, the ball — she was dying for a masked ball
— just such a one as that described in the PaN Mall Gazette of
last week, out of that paper with the droll title, the Bengal
Hurkaru, which the merchant prince, the head of the bank,
you know, in India, had given at Calcutta. " We must have a
ball, too," says Mrs. Mackenzie, "society demands it of you."

73S

THE NEWCOMES.

" Of course it does," echoes Captain Goby ; and he bethought
him of a brilliant circle of young fellows from the " Flag,*' whom
he would bring in splendid uniform to dance with the pretty
Mrs. Clive Newcome.

After the dinner, they little knew it was to be their last in
that fine house, the ladies retired to give a parting kiss to baby
— a parting look to the toilettes, with which they proposed to
fascinate the inhabitants of the pit and public boxes at the
Olympic. Goby made vigorous play with the claret-bottle
during the brief interval of potation allowed to him ; he, too,
little deeming that he should never drink bumper there again ;
Clive looked on with the melancholy and silent acquiescence
which had, of late, been his part in the household. The car-
riage was announced — the ladies came down — pretty capotes
on — the lovely Campaigner, Goby vowed, looked as young and
as handsome as her daughter, — by Jove, — and the hall-door
was opened to admit the two gentlemen and ladies to their
carriage, when, as they were about to step in, a Hansom cab
drove up rapidly, in which was perceived Thomas Newcome's
anxious face. He got out of the vehicle — his own carriage
making way for him — the ladies still on the steps. " Oh, the
play ! I forgot," said the Colonel.

" Of course we are going to the play, papa," cries little
Rosey, with a gay little tap of her hand.

" I think you had best not," Colonel Newcome said gravely.

" Indeed my darling child has set her heart upon it, and
I would not have her disappointed for the world in her situation,"
cries the Campaigner, tossing up her head.

The Colonel for reply bade his coachman drive to the
stables, and come for further orders ; and, turning to his
daughter's guest, expressed to Captain Goby his regret that
the proposed party could not take place on that evening, as he
had matter of very great importance to communicate to his
family. On hearing these news, and understanding that his
further company was not desirable, the Captain, a man of great
presence of mind, arrested the Hansom cabman, who was about
to take his departure, and who blithely, knowing the Club and
its inmates full well, carried off the jolly Captain to finish his
evening at the " Flag."

" Has it come, father ? " said Clive with a sure prescience,
looking in his father's face.

The father took and grasped the hand which his son held
out. '" Let us go back into the dining-room," he said. They
entered it, and he filled himself a glass of wine out of the
bottle still standing amidst the dessert. He bade the butler

THE X KM COMES 739

retire, who was lingering about the room and sideboard, and
onlv wanted to know whether his master would have dinner,
that was all. And, this gentleman having withdrawn, Colonel
Newcome finished his glass of sherry and broke a biscuit ; the
Campaigner assuming an attitude of surprise and indignation,
whilst Rosey had leisure to remark that papa looked very ill,
and that something must have happened.

The Colonel took both her hands and drew her towards him
and kissed her, whilst Rosey's mamma, flouncing down on a
chair, beat a tattoo upon the table-cloth with her fan. " Some-
thing has happened, my love,'' the Colonel said very sadly ;
" you must show all your strength of mind, for a great misfor-
tune has befallen us."

"Good heavens, Colonel, what is it? don't frighten my
beloved child," cries the Campaigner, rushing towards her
darling, and enveloping her in her robust arms. " What can
have happened ? don't agitate this darling child, sir," and she
looked indignantly towards the poor Colonel.

" We have received the very worst news from Calcutta — a
confirmation of the news by the last mail, Clivy my boy."

" It is no news to me. I have always been expecting it,
father," says Clive, holding down his head.

" Expecting what ? What have you been keeping back from
us ? In what have you been deceiving us, Colonel Newcome ?"
shrieks the Campaigner ; and Rosey, crying out, " Oh, mam-
ma ! " begins to whimper.

" The chief of the bank in India is dead," the Colonel went
on. " He has left its affairs in worse than disorder. We are,
I fear, ruined, Mrs. Mackenzie." And the Colonel went on to
tell how the bank could not open on Monday morning, and its
bills to a great amount had already been protested in the City
that day.

Rosey did not understand half these news, or comprehend
the calamity which was to follow ; but Mrs. Mackenzie, rustling
in great wrath, made a speech, of which the anger gathered as
she proceeded : in which she vowed and protested that her
money which the Colonel, she did not know from what motives,
had induced her to subscribe, should not be sacrifice^ and that
have it she would, the bank shut or not, the next Monday
morning — that her daughter had a fortune of her own which
her poor dear brother James should have divided, and would
have divided much more fairly, had he not been wrongly
influenced — she would not say by wJiom, and she commanded
Colonel Newcome upon that instant, if he was as he always
pretended to be, an honorable man, to give an account of her

74o THE NEWCOME8.

blessed darling's property, and to pay back her own, every
sixpence of it : she would not lend it for an hour longer. And
to see that that dear blessed child now sleeping unconsciously
up stairs, and his dear brothers and sisters who might follow —
for Rosey was a young woman, a poor innocent creature, too
young to be married, and never would have been married had
she listened to her mamma's advice — she demanded that baby,
and all succeeding babies, should have their rights, and should
be looked to by their grandmother, if their father's father was
so unkind, and so wicked, and so unnatural, as to give their
money to rogues and deprive them of their just bread.

Rosey began to cry more loudly than ever during the utter-
ance of mamma's sermon, so loudly that Give peevishly cried
out, " Hold your tongue ; " on which the Campaigner, clutching
her daughter to her breast again, turned on her son-in-law, and
abused him as she had abused his father before him, calling
out that they were both in a conspiracy to defraud her child,
and the little darling up stairs, of its bread, and she would
speak, yes, she would, and no power should prevent her, and
her money she would have on Monday as sure as her poor
dear husband, Captain Mackenzie, was dead, and she never
would have been cheated so, yes, cheated, if he had been alive.

At the word " cheated " Clive broke out with an execration
— the poor Colonel with a groan of despair — the widow's storm
continued, and above that howling tempest of words rose Mrs.
Give's piping scream, who went off into downright hysterics
at last, in which she was encouraged by her mother, and in
which she gasped out frantic ejaculations regarding baby /
dear, darling, ruined baby, and so forth.

The sorrow-stricken Colonel had to quell the women's
tongues and shrill anger, and his son's wrathful replies, who
could not bear the weight of Mrs. Mackenzie upon him ; and
it was not until these three were allayed, that Thomas New-
come was able to continue his sad story, to explain what had
happened, and what the actual state of the case was, and to
oblige the terror-stricken women at length to hear something
like reason.

He then had to tell them, to their dismay, that he would
inevitably be declared a bankrupt in the ensuing week ; that
the whole of his property in that house, as elsewhere, would be
seized and sold for the creditor's benefit ; and that his daughter
had best immediately leave a home where she would be cer-
tainly subject to humiliation and annoyance. " I would have
Clive, my boy, take you out of the country, and — and return to

77 J E NEWCOMES.

74

me when I have need of him, and shall send for him,'' the
father said fondly in reply to a rebellious look in his son's face.
* 1 would have you quit this house as soon as possible. Why
not to-night ? The law bloodhounds may be upon us ere an
hour is over — at this moment for what I know."

At that moment the door-bell was heard to ring, and the
women gave a scream apiece, as if the bailiffs were actually
coming to take possession. Rosey went off in quite a series of
screams, peevishly repressed by her husband, and always en-
couraged by mamma, who called her son-in-law an unfeeling
wretch. It must be confessed that Mrs. Clive Newcome did
not exhibit much strength of mind, or comfort her husband
much at a moment when he needed consolation.

From angry rebellion and fierce remonstrance, this pair of
women now passed to an extreme terror and desire for instan-
taneous flight. They would go at that moment — they would
wrap that blessed child up in its shawls — and nurse should
take it anywhere — anywhere, poor neglected thing. " My
trunks,'' cries Mrs. Mackenzie, "you know are ready packed —
I am sure it is not the treatment which I have received — it is
nothing but my duty and my religion — and the protection which
I owe to this blessed unprotected — yes, unprotected, and robbed,
and cheated, darling child — which have made me stay a single
day in this house. I never thought I should have been robbed
in it, or my darlings with their fine fortunes flung naked on the
world. If my Mac was here, you never had dared to have
done this, Colonel Xewcome — no never. He had his faults —
Mackenzie had — but he would never have robbed his own
children ! Come away, Rosey my blessed love, come let us
pack your things, and let us go and hide our heads in sorrow
somewhere. Ah ! didn't I tell you to beware of all painters,
and that Clarence was a true gentleman, and loved you with
all his heart, and would never have cheated you out of your
money, for which I will have justice as sure as there is justice
in England."

During this outburst the Colonel sat utterly scared and
silent, supporting his poor head between his hands. When the
harem had departed he turned sadly to his son. Clive did not
believe that his father was a cheat and a rogue. No, thank
God ! The two men embraced with tender cordiality and
almost happy emotion on the one side and the other.
Never for one moment could Clive think his dear old father
meant wrong, though the speculations were unfortunate in
which he had engaged — though Clive had not liked them ; it

7_P THE XEIVCOMES.

was a relief to his mind that they were now come to an end ,
they should all be happier now, thank God ! those clouds of
distrust being removed. Clive felt not one moment's doubt
but that they should be able to meet fortune with a brave face ;
and that happier, much happier days were in store for him than
ever they had known since the period of this confounded pros-
perity.

" Here's a good end to it," says Clive with flashing eyes
and a flushed face, ': and here's a good health till to-morrow,
father ! " and he filled into two glasses the wine still remaining
in the flask. " Good-by to our fortune, and bad luck go with
her — I puff the prostitute away — Si celcres quatit pefmas, you
re.nember what we used to say at Grey Friars — resigno quiz dedit,
it mca rirtute me i?noho, probamque pauperiem sine dote quczro."
And he pledged his father, who drank his wine, his hand
shaking as he raised the glass to his lips, and his kind voice
trembling as he uttered the well-known old school words, with
an emotion that was as sacred as a prayer. Once more, and
with hearts full of love, the two men embraced. Clive's voice
would tremble now if he told the story as it did when he spoke
to me in happier times, one calm summer evening when we sat
together and talked of dear old days.

Thomas Xewcome explained to his son the plan which, to
his mind, as he came away from the City after the day's mis-
fortunes, he thought it was best to pursue. The women and
the child were clearly best out of the way. " And you too, my
boy, must be on duty with them until I send for you, which I
will do if your presence can be of the least service to me, or
is called for by — by — our honor," said the old man with a drop
in his voice. '"You must obey me in this, dear Clive, as you
have done in everything, and been a good and dear, and
obedient son to me. God pardon me for having trusted to my
own simple old brains too much, and not to you who know so
much better. You will obey me this once more, my boy — you
will promise me this ? " and the old man as he spoke took
Clive's hand in both his, and fondly caressed it.

Then with a shaking hand he took out of his pocket his old
purse with the steel rings, which he had worn for many and
many a long year. Clive remembered it, and his father's face
how 'it would beam with delight, when he used to take that very
purse out in Clive's boyish days and tip him just after he left
school. " Here are some notes and some gold," he said. " It
is Rosey's, honestly, Clive dear, her half-year's dividend for
which you will give an order, please, to Sherrick. He has beei>

THE NEWCOMES, /43

very kind and good, Sherrick. All the servants were providen-
tially paid last week — there are only the outstanding week's
bills out — we shall manage to meet those I dare say. And you
will see that Rosey only takes away such clothes for herself and
her baby as are actually necessary, won't you, dear ? the plain
things you know — none of the fineries — they may be packed in
a petara or two, and you will take them with you — but the
pomps and vanities, you know, we will leave behind — the pearls
and bracelets, and the plate, and all that rubbish — and I will
make an inventory of them to-morrow when you are gone and
give them up, every rupee's worth, sir, every anna, by Jove, to
the creditors."

The darkness had fallen by this time, and the obsequious
butler entered to light the dining-room lamps. " You have been
a very good and kind servant to us, Martin," says the Colonel,
making him a low bow. " I should like to shake you by the
hand. We must part company now, and I have no doubt you
and your fellow-servants will find good places, all of you, as
you merit, Martin — as you merit. Great losses have fallen upon
our family — we are ruined, sir — we are ruined ! The great
Bundlecund Banking Company has stopped payment in India,
and our branch here must stop on Monday. Thank my friends
down stairs for their kindness to me and my family." Martin
bowed in silence with great respect. He and his comrades in
the servants' hall had been expecting this catastrophe, quite as
long as the Colonel himself, who thought he had kept his affairs
so profoundly secret.

Clive went up into his women's apartments, looking with
but little regret, I dare say, round those cheerless nuptial cham-
bers with all their gaudy fittings; the tine looking-glasses, in
which poor Rosey's little person had been reflected ; the silken
curtains under wnich he had lain by the poor child's side, wake-
ful and lonely. Here he found his child's nurse, and his wife,
and his wife's mother, busily engaged with a multiplicity of
boxes ; with flounces, feathers, fal-lals, and finery which they
were stowing away in this trunk and that ; while the baby lay
on its little pink pillow breathing softly, a little pearly fist placed
close to its mouth. The aspect of the tawdry vanities scattered
here and there chafed and annoyed the young man. He kicked
the robes over with his foot. When Mrs. Mackenzie interposed
with loud ejaculations, he sternly bade her to be silent, and not
wake the child. His words were not to be questioned when he
spoke in that manner. '' Vou will take nothing with you, Rosey,
but what is strictly necessary — only two or three of your plainest

744

THE NEWCOMES.

dresses, and what is required for the boy. What is in this
trunk ? " Mrs. Mackenzie stepped forward and declared, ana
the nurse vowed upon her honor, and the lady's-maid asserted
really now upon her honor too, that there was nothing but what
was most strictly necessary in that trunk, to which affidavits,
when Clive applied to his wife, she gave a rather timid assent.

" Where are the keys of that trunk ? " Upon Mrs. Mac-
kenzie's exclamation of " What nonsense ! " Clive, putting his
foot upon the flimsy oil-covered box, vowed he would kick the
lid off unless it was instantly opened. Obeying this grim sum-
mons, the fluttering women produced the keys, and the black
box was opened before him.

The box was found to contain a number of objects which
Clive pronounced to be by no means necessary to his wife's and
child's existence. Trinket-boxes and favorite little gimcracks,
chains, rings, and pearl necklaces, the tiara poor Rosey had
worn at Court — the feathers and the gorgeous train which had
decorated the little person — all these were found packed away
in this one receptacle ; and in another box, I am sorry to say,
were silver forks and spoons, (the butler wisely judging that
the rich and splendid electrotype ware might as well be left
behind) — all the silver forks, spoons, and ladles, and our poor
old friend the cocoa-nut tree, which these female robbers would
have carried out of the premises.

Mr. Clive Newcome burst out into fierce laughter when he
saw the cocoa-nut tree ; he laughed so loud that baby awoke,
and his mother-in-law called him a brute, and the nurse ran to
give its accustomed quietus to the little screaming infant.
Rosey's eyes poured forth a torrent of little protests, and she
would have cried yet more loudly than the other baby, bad not
her husband, again fiercely checking her, sworn with a dreadful
oath, that unless she told him the whole truth, ''By heavens she
should leave the house with nothing but what covered her."
Even the Campaigner could not make head against Clive's stern
resolution ; and the incipient insurrection of the maids and the
mistresses was quelled by his spirit. The lady's-maid, a flighty
creature, received her wages and took her leave : but the nurse
could not find it in her heart to quit her little nursling so sud-
denly, and accompanied Clive's household in the journey upon
which those poor folks were bound. What stolen goods were
finally discovered when the family reached foreign parts were
found in Mrs. Mackenzie's trunks, not in her daughter's : a
silver filigree basket, a few teaspoons, baby's gold coral, and a
costly crimson velvet-bound copy of the Hon. Miss Grimstone's

ir>

P i BE SOLD.

THE NEIVCOMES.

745

Church Service, to which articles, having thus appropriated
them, Mrs. Mackenzie henceforward laid claim as her own.

So when the packing was done a cab was called to receive
the modest trunks of this fugitive family — the coachman was
hidden to put his horses to again, and for the last time poor
Rosey Newcome sat in her own carriage, to which the Colonel
conducted her with his courtly old bow, kissing the baby as it
slept once more unconscious in its nurse's embrace, and be-
stowing a very grave and polite parting salute upon the Cam-
paigner.

Then Clive and his father entered a cab on which the trunks
were borne, and they drove to the Tower Stairs, where the ship
lay which was to convey them out of England ; and during that
journey, no doubt, they talked over their altered prospects, and I
am sure Clive's father blessed his son fondly, and committed
him and his family to a good God's gracious keeping, and
thought of him with sacred love when they had parted, and
Thomas Newcome had returned to his lonely house to watch
and to think of his ruined fortunes, and to pray that he might
have courage under them ; that he might bear his own fate
honorably ; and that a gentle one might be dealt to those be-
loved beings for whom his life had been sacrificed in vain.

CHAPTER LXXII.

BELISARIUS.

When the sale of Colonel Newcome's effects took place, a
friend of the family bought in for a few shillings those two
swords which had hung, as we have said, in the good man's
chamber, and for which no single broker present had the heart
to bid. The head of Clive's father, painted by himself, which
had always kept its place in the young man's studio, together
with a lot of his oil-sketchings, easels, and painting-apparatus,
were purchased by the faithful J. J., who kept them until his
friend should return to London and reclaim them, and who
showed the most generous solicitude in Clive's behalf. J. J.
was elected of the Royal Academy this year, and Clive, it was
evident, was working hard at the profession which he had always
loved ; for he sent over three pictures to the Academy, and I

746 THE NEWCOMES.

never knew man more mortified than the affectionate J. JM
when two of these unlucky pieces were rejected by the com'
mittee for the year. One pretty little piece, called " The
Stranded Boat," got a fair place on the Exhibition walls, and,
you may be sure, was loudly praised by a certain critic in the
Pall Mall Gazette. The picture was sold on the first day of the
exhibition at the price of twenty-rive pounds, which the artist
demanded ; and when the kind J. J. wrote to inform his friend
of this satisfactory circumstance, and to say that he held the
money at Clive"s disposal, the latter replied, with many ex-
pressions of sincere gratitude, at the same time begging him
directly to forward the money, with our old friend Thomas
Xewcome's love, to Mrs. Sarah Mason, at Xewcome. But J. J.
never informed his friend that he himself was the purchaser of
the picture ; nor was Clive made acquainted with the fact until
some time afterwards, when he found it hanging in Ridley's
studio.

I have said that we none of us were aware at this time what
was the real state of Colonel Xewcome's finances, and hoped
that, after giving up every shilling of his property which was con-
fiscated to the creditors of the Bank, he had still, from his
retiring pension and military allowances, at least enough rep-
utably to maintain him. On one occasion, having business in
the City, I there met Mr. Sherrick. Affairs had been going ill
with that gentleman ; he had been let in terribly, he informed
me, by Lord Levant's insolvency, having had large money trans-
actions with his lordship. " There's none of them so good as
old Xewcome," Mr. Sherrick said with a sigh. u That was a
good one — that was an honest man if ever I saw one — with no
more guile, and no more idea of business than a baby. Why
didn't he take my advice, poor old cove ? — he might be com-
fortable now. Why did he sell away that annuity. Mr. Pen-
dennis ? I got it done for him when nobody else perhaps could
have got it done for him — for the security ain't worth twopence
if Xewcome wasn't an honest man ; — but I know he is, and
would rather starve and eat the nails off his fingers than not
keep to his word, the old trump. And when he came to me. a
good two months before the smash of the Bank, which I knew it.
sir, and saw that it must come — when he came and raised three
thousand pounds to meet them d — d electioneering bills, having
to pay lawyers, commission, premium, life-insurance — you know
the whole game, Mr. P. — I as good as went down on my knees
to him — I did — at the North and South American Coffee-house,
where he was to meet the party about the money, and said,

THE NEWCOMES.

747

'Colonel, don't raise it — I tell you, let it stand over — let it go
in along with the bankruptcy that's a-coming — but he wouldn't,
sir — he went on like an old Bengal tiger, roaring about his
honor; he paid the bills every shilling — infernal long bills they
were — and it's my belief that, at this minute, he ain't got fifty
pounds a year of his own to spend. I would send him back
my commission — I would by Jove — only times is so bad, and
that rascal Levant has let me in. It went to my heart to take
the old cock's money — but it's gone — that and ever so much
more — and Lady YVhittlesea's chapel too, Mr. P. Hang that
young Levant."

Squeezing my hand after this speech, Sherrick ran across
the street after some other capitalist who was entering the
Diddlesex Insurance Office, and left me very much grieved and
dismayed at finding that my worst fears in regard to Thomas
Xcwcome were confirmed. Should we confer with his wealthy
family respecting the Colonel's impoverished condition ? Was
his brother Hobson Xewcome aware of it ? As for Sir Barnes,
the quarrel between him and his uncle had been too fierce to
admit of hopes of relief from that quarter. Barnes had been
put to very heavy expenses in the first contested election ; had
come forward again immediately on his uncle's resignation, but
again had been beaten by a more liberal candidate, his quon-
dam former friend, Mr. Higg — who formerly declared against
Sir Barnes — and who drove him finally out of the representation
of Xewcome. From this gentleman it was vain of course for
Colonel Xewcome's friends to expect relief.

How to aid him? He was proud — past work — nearly
seventy years old. " Oh, why did those cruel academicians
refuse Clive's pictures?" cries Laura. "I have no patience
with them — had the pictures been exhibited I know who might
have bought them — but that is vain now. He would suspect at
once, and send her Money away. Oh, Pen ! why, why didn't
he come when I wrote that letter to Brussels ? "

From persons so poorly endowed with money as ourselves,
any help, but of the merest temporary nature, was out of the
question. We knew our friends too well not to know that they
would disdain to receive it. It was agreed between me and
Laura that at any rate I should go and see Clive. Our friends
indeed were at a very short distance from us, and, having exiled
themselves from England, could yet see its coast from their
windows upon any clear day. Boulogne was their present
abiding place — refuge of how many thousands of other unfor-
tunate Britons — and to this friendly port J betook myself

748 THE NEWCOMES.

speedily, having the address of Colonel Newcome. His quar-
ters were in a quiet grass-grown old street of the Old Town.
None of the family were at home when I called. There was
indeed no servant to answer the bell, but the good-natured
French domestic of a neighboring lodger told me that the young
Monsieur went out every day to make his designs, and that I
should probably find the elder gentleman upon the rampart,
where he was in the custom of going every day. I strolled
along by those pretty old walks and bastions, under the
pleasant trees which shadow them, and the gray old gabled
houses from which you look down upon the gay new city, and
the busy port, and the piers stretching into the shining sea,
dotted with a hundred white sails or black smoking steamers,
and bounded by the friendly lines of the bright English shore.
There are few prospects more charming than the familiar view
from those old French walls — few places where young children
may play, and ruminating old age repose more pleasantly than
on those peaceful rampart gardens.

I found our dear old friend seated on one of the benches, a
newspaper on his knees, and by his side a red-cheeked little
French lass, upon whose lap Thomas Newcome the younger lay
sleeping. The Colonel's face flushed up when he saw me.
As he advanced a step or two towards me I could see that he
trembled in his walk. His hair bad grown almost quite white.
He looked now to be more than his age — he whose carriage
last year had been so erect, whose figure had been so straight
and manly. I was very much moved at meeting him, and at
seeing the sad traces which pain and grief had left in the
countenance of the dear old man.

" So you are come to see me, my good young friend," cried
the Colonel with a trembling voice. " It is very, very kind of
you. Is not this a pretty drawing-room to receive our friends
in ? We have so many of them now ; Boy and I come and sit
here for hours every day. Hasn't he grown a fine boy? He
can say several words now, sir, and can walk surprisingly well.
Soon he will be able to waffc with his grandfather, and then
Marie will not have the trouble to wait upon either of us."
He repeated this sentiment in his pretty old French, and
turning with a bow to Marie. The girl said Monsieur knew
very well that she did not desire better than to come out with
baby ; that it was better than staying at home, pardieu ; and,
the clock striking at this moment, she rose up with her child,
crying out that it was time to return, or Madame would scold.

" Mrs. Mackenzie has rather a short temper," the Colonel

THE NEWCOMES. ^ V)

said with a gentle smile. " Poor thing, she has had a great
deal to bear in consequence, Pen, of my imprudence. 1 am
glad you never took shares in our bank. I should not be so
glad to see you as I am now, if I had brought losses upon you
as I have upon so many of my friends." I, for my part,
trembled to hear that the good old man was under the domina-
tion of the Campaigner.

" Bayham sends me the paper regularly; he is a very kind
faithful creature. How glad I am that he has got a snug berth
in the City ! His company really prospers, I am happy to
think, unlike some companies you know of, Pen. I have read
your two speeches, sir, and Clive and I liked them very much.
The poor boy works all day at his pictures. You know he has
sold one at the exhibition, which has given us a great deal of
heart — and he has completed two or three more — and I am
sitting to him now for — what do you think, sir ? for Belisarius.
Will you give Belisarius and the Obolus a kind word ? "

" My dear, dear old friend," I said in great emotion, " if
you will do me the kindness to take my Obolus or to use my
services in any way, you will give me more pleasure than ever
I had from your generous bounties in old days. Look, sir, I
wear the watch which you gave me when you went to India.
Did you not tell me then to look after Clive and serve him if I
could ? Can't I serve him now ? " and I went on further in
this strain, asseverating with great warmth and truth that my
wife's affection and my own were most sincere for both of them,
and that our pride would be to be able to help such dear
friends.

The Colonel said I had a» good heart, and my wife had,

though — though he did not finish this sentence, but I could

interpret it without need of its completion. My wile and the
two ladies of Colonel Newcome's family never could befriends,
however much my poor Laura tried to be intimate with these
women. Her very efforts at intimacy caused a frigidity and
hauteur which Laura could not overcome. Little Rosey and
her mother set us down as two aristocratic personages ; nor for
our parts were we very much disturbed at this opinion of the
Campaigner and little Rosey.

I talked with the Colonel for half an hour or more about
his affairs, which indeed were very gloomy, and Clive's prospects,
of which he strove to present as cheering a view as possible.
He was obliged to confirm the news which Sherrick had given
me, and to own, in fact, that all his pension was swallowed up
by a payment of interest and life-insurance for sums which he

75<

THE XEWCOMES.

had been compelled to borrow. How could he do otherwise
than meet his engagements ? Thank God. he had Give's full
approval for what he had done — had communicated the cir-
cumstance to his son almost immediately after it took place,
and that was a comfort to him — an immense comfort. M For
the women are very angry," said the poor Colonel ; "you see
they do not understand the laws of honor, at least as we
understand them : and perhaps I was wrong in hiding the truth
as I certainly did from Mrs. Mackenzie, but I acted for the
best — I hoped against hope that some chance might turn in our
favor. God knows, I had a hard task enough in wearing a
cheerful face for months, and in following my little Rosey about
to her parties and balls ; but poor Mrs. Mackenzie has a right
to be angry, onlv I wish mv little gdrl did not side with her
mother so entirely, for the loss of her affection gives me pain.''
So it was I suspected. The Campaigner ruled over this
family, and added to all their distresses by her intolerable
presence and tyranny. " Why. sir." I ventured to ask, " if, as

I gather from you — and I remember." I added with a laugh,

II certain battles royal which Give described to me in old days
— if you and the Campai — Mrs. Mackenzie do not agree, why
should she continue to live with you, when you would ail be so
much happier apart ? "

" She has the right to live in the house," says the Colonel,
'• it is I who have no right in it. I am a poor old pensioner,
don't you see, subsisting on Rosey's bounty. We live on the
hundred a year secured to her at her marriage, and Mrs.
Mackenzie has her forty- pounds of pension which she adds to
the common stock. It is I who have made away with even'
shilling of Rosey's 17,000/., God help me, and with 1.500/. of
her mother's. They put their little means together, and they
keep us — me and Give. What can we do for a living ? Great
God ! What can we do ? Why, I am so useless that even
when my poor boy earned 25/. for his picture, I felt we were
bound to send it to Sarah Mason, and you may fancy when this
came to Mrs. Mackenzie s ears, what a life my boy and I led.
I have never spoken of these things to any mortal soul — I even
don't speak of them with Give — but seeing your kind honest
face has made me talk — you must pardon my garrulity — I am
growing old, Arthur. This poverty and these quarrels have

beaten my spirit down there, I shall talk on this subject no

more. I wish, sir, I could ask you to dine with us, but — and
here he smiled — " we must get the leave of the higher powers."

I was determined, in spite of prohibitions and Campaigners*

THE NEWCOMES.

75*

to see my old friend Clive, and insisted on walking back with
the Colonel to his lodgings, at the door of which we met Mrs.
Mackenzie and her daughter. Rosey blushed up a little —
looked at her mamma — and then greeted me with a hand and
a curtsey. The Campaigner also saluted me in a majestic but
amicable manner, made no objection even to my entering her
apartments and seeing the condition to which they were reduced :
this phrase was uttered with particular emphasis and a signifi-
cant look towards the Colonel, who bowed his meek head, and
preceded me into the lodgings, which were in truth very
homely, pretty and comfortable. The Campaigner was an
excellent manager — restless, bothering, brushing perpetually.
Such fugitive gimcracks as they had brought away with them
decorated the little salon. Mrs. Mackenzie, who took the
entire command, even pressed me to dine and partake, if so
fashionable a gentleman would condescend to partake of a humble
exile's fare. No fare was perhaps very pleasant to me in com-
pany with that woman, but I wanted to see my dear old Clive,
and gladly accepted his valuable mother-in-law's not disinter-
ested hospitality. She beckoned the Colonel aside ; whispered
to him, putting something into his hand j on which he took his
hat and went away. Then Rosey was dismissed upon some
other pretext, and I had the felicity to be left alone with Mrs.
Captain Mackenzie.

She instantly improved the occasion ; and with great eager-
ness and volubility entered into her statement of the present
affairs and position of this unfortunate family. She described
darling Rosey's delicate state, poor thing — nursed with tender-
ness and in the lap of luxury — brought up with every delicacy
end the fondest mother — never knowing in the least how to
take care of herself, and likely to fall down and perish unless
the kind Campaigner were by to prop and protect her. She
was in delicate health — very delicate — ordered cod-liver oil by
Khe doctor. Heaven knows how he could be paid for those
expensive medicines out of the pittance to which the impru-
dence— the most culpable and designing imprudence, and ex*
trarragafue, and folly of Colonel Newcome had reduced them !
Looking out from the window as she spoke I saw — we both
saw — the dear old gentleman sadly advancing towards the
house, a parcel in his hand. Seeing his near approach, and
that our interview was likely to come to an end, Mrs. Mac-
kenzie rapidly whispered to me that she knew I had a good
heart — that I had been blessed by Providence with a line
fortune, which I knew how to keep better than some folks — and

7S2

THE Ar£JVCOJfES.

that if, as no doubt was my intention — for with What other but
a charitable view could I have come to see them ? " — " and
most generous and noble was it of you to come, and I always
thought it of you, Mr. Pendennis, whatever other people said
to the contrary " — if I proposed to give them relief, which was
most needful — and for which a mother s blessings would follow
me — let it be to her, the Campaigner, that my loan should be
confided — for as for the Colonel, he is not fit to be trusted with
a shilling, and has already flung away immense sums upon some
old woman he keeps in the country, leaving his darling Rosey
without the actual necessaries of life.

The woman's greed and rapacity — the flattery with which
she chose to belabor me at dinner, so choked and disgusted me,
that I could hardly swallow the meal, though my poor old friend
had been sent to purchase a pate from the pastry-cook's for my
especial refection. Clive was not at the dinner. He seldom
returned till late at night on sketching days. Neither his wife
nor his mother-in-law seemed much to miss him ; and seeing
that the Campaigner engrossed the entire share of the con-
versation, and proposed not to leave me for five minutes alone
with the Colonel, I took leave rather speedily of my enter-
tainers, leaving a message for Clive, and a prayer that he would
*.ome and see me at my hotel.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

IN WHICH EELISARIUS RETURNS FROM EXILE.

I was sitting in the dusk in my room at the Hotel des Bains,
when the visitor for whom I hoped, made his appearance in the
person of Clive, with his broad shoulders, and broad hat, and a
shaggy beard, which he had thought fit in his quality of painter
to assume. Our greeting it need not be said was warm; and
our talk, which extended far into the night, very friendly and
confidential. If I make my readers confidants in Mr. Clive's
private affairs, I ask my friend's pardon for narrating his history
in their behoof. The world had gone very ill with my poor
Clive, and I do not think that the pecuniary losses which had
visited him and his father afflicted him near so sorely as the
state of his home. In a pique with the woman he loved, and
from that generous weakness which formed part of his character.

THE ATBWVOAfjES. }$j

and which led him to acquiesce in most wishes of his good
father, the young man had gratified the darting desire of the
Colonel's heart, and taken the wife whom his two old friends
brought to him. Rosey, who was also, as we have shown, of a
very obedient and ductile nature, had acquiesced gladly enough
in her mamma's opinion, that she was in love with the rich and
handsome young (live, and accepted him for better or worse.
So undoubtedly would this good child have accepted Captain
Hoby, her previous adorer, have smilingly promised fidelity to
the Captain at church, and have made a very good, happy, and
sufficient little wife for that officer, — had not mamma com-
manded her to jilt him. What wonder that these elders should
wish to see their two dear young ones united ? They began
with suitable age, money, good temper, and parents' blessings.
It is not the first time that with all these excellent helps to
prosperity and happiness, a marriage has turned out unfortu-
nately— a pretty, tight ship gone to wreck that set forth on its
voyage with cheers from the shore, and every prospect of fair
wind and fine weather.

If Clive was gloomy and discontented even when the honey-
moon had scarce waned, and he and his family sat at home in
state and splendor under the boughs of the famous silver cocoa-
nut tree, what was the young man's condition now in poverty,
when they had no love along with a scant dinner of herbs ,
when his mother-in-law grudged each morsel which his poor old
father ate — when a vulgar, coarse-minded woman pursued with
brutal sarcasm and deadly rancor one of the tenderest and
noblest gentlemen in the world — when an ailing wife, always
under some one's domination, received him with helpless hys-
terical cries and reproaches — when a coarse female tyrant,
stupid, obstinate, utterly unable to comprehend the son's kindly
genius, or the father's gentle spirit, bullied over both, using the
intolerable undeniable advantage which her actual wrongs gave
her to tyrannize over these two wretched men ! He had never
heard the last of that money which they had sent to Mrs.
Mason, ( live said. When the knowledge of the fact came to
the ( ampaigner's ears, she raised such a storm as almost killed
the ; >nel, and drove his son half mad. She seized the

howling infant, vowing that its unnatural father and grandfather
were bent upon starving it — she consoled and sent Rosey into
hysterics — she took the outlawed parson to whose church they
went, and the choice society of bankrupt Captains, captains'
ladies, fugitive stock -brokers' wives, and dingy frequenters of
Hlliard rooms, and refugees from the Bench) into her counsels;

^54 THE KEWCOMES.

and in her daily visits amongst these personages, and her walks
on the pier, whither she trudged with poor Rosey in her train,
Mrs. Mackenzie made known her own wrongs and her daughter's
— showed how the Colonel, having robbed and cheated them
previously, was now living upon them, insomuch that Mrs.
Bolter, the levanting auctioneer's wife, wculd not make the
poor old man a bow when she met him — that Mrs. Captain
Kitely, whose husband had lain for seven years past in Boulogne
jail, ordered her son to cut Give ; and when, the child being
sick, the poor old Colonel went for arrowroot to the chemist's,
young Snooks, the apothecary's assistant, refused to allow him
to take the powder away without previously depositing the
money.

He had no money, Thomas Newcome. He gave up every
farthing. After having impoverished all around him, "he had
no right, he said, to touch a sixpence of the wretched pittance
remaining to them — he had even given up his cigar, the poor
old man, the companion and comforter of forty years. He
was " not fit to be trusted with money," Mrs. Mackenzie said,
and the good man owned, as he ate his scanty crust, and
bowed his noble old head in silence under that cowardly
persecution.

And this, at the end of threescore and seven or eight years,
was to be the close of a life which had been spent in freedom
and splendor, and kindness and honor ; this the reward of a
noble heart — the tomb and prison of a gallant warrior who had
ridden in twenty battles — whose course through life had been a
bounty wherever it had passed — whose name had been followed
by blessings, and whose career was to end here — here — in a
mean room, in a mean alley of a foreign town — a low furious
woman standing over him and stabbing the kind defenceless
breast with killing insult and daily outrage !

As we sat together in the dark, Clive told me this wretched
story, which was wrung from him with a passionate emotion
that I could not but keenly share. He wondered the old man
lived, Clive said. Some of the woman's taunts and gibes, as
he could see, struck his father so that he gasped and started
back as if some one had lashed him with a whip. "He would
make away with himself," said poor Clive, " but he deems this
is his punishment, and that he must bear it as long as it pleases
God. He does not care for his own losses, as far as they con-
cern himself ; but these reproaches of Mrs. Mackenzie, and
some things which were said to him in the Bankruptcy Court,
by one or two widows of old friends, who were induced through

THE NEWCOMES. 755

his representations to take shares in that infernal bank, have
affected him dreadfully. I hear him lying awake and groaning
at night, God bless him. Great God ! what can I do — what
can I do ? " burst out the young man in a dreadful paroxysm
of grief. I have tried to get lessons — I went to London on the
deck of a steamer, and took a lot of drawings with me — tried
the picture-dealers — pawnbrokers — Jews — Moss, whom you
may remember at Gandish's, and who gave me for forty-two
drawings, 18/. I brought the money back to Boulogne. It was
enough to pay the doctor, and bury our last poor little dead
baby. Tcncz, Pen, you must give me some supper, I have had
nothing all day but a pain de deux sous, I can't stand it at home.
— My heart's almost broken — you must give me some money,
Pen, old boy. I know you will. I thought of writing to you,
but I wanted to support myself, you see. When I went to
London with the drawings I tried George's chambers, but he
was in the country. I saw Crackthorpe in the street, in Oxford
Street, but I could not face him, and bolted clown Hanway
Yard. I tried, and I could not ask him, and I got the 18/.
from Moss that day, and came home with it."

Give him money ? of course I will give him money — my
dear old friend ! And, as an alternative and a wholesome
shock to check that burst of passion and grief in which the
poor fellow indulged, I thought fit to break into a very fierce
and angry invective on my own part, which served to disguise
the extreme feeling of pain and pity that I did not somehow
choose to exhibit. I rated Clive soundly, and taxed him with
unfriendliness and ingratitude for not having sooner applied to
friends who would think shame of themselves whilst he was in
need. Whatever he wanted was his as much as mine. I could
not understand how the necessity of the family should, in truth,
be so extreme as he described it, for after all many a poor
family lived upon very much less; but I uttered none of these
objections, checking them with the thought that Clive, on his first
arrival at Boulogne, entirely ignorant of the practice of economy,
might have imprudently engaged in expenses which had reduced
him to this present destitution.*

I took the liberty of asking about debts, and of these Clive
gave me to understand there was none — at least none of his,
or his father's, contracting. "If we were too proud to bor-
row, and I think we were wrong, Pen, my dear old boy —

• I did not know at the time that Mrs. Mackenzie has taken entire superintendence ol
the family treasury — and that this exemplary woman was putting away, as she had dona
previously, sundry little sums to meet rainy days.

756

THE NEIVCOMES.

I think we were wrong now — at least, we were too proud
to owe. My colorman takes his bill out in drawings, and I
think owes me a trifle. He got me some lessons at fifty sous a
ticket — a pound the ten — from an economical swell who has
taken a chateau here, and has two flunkeys in livery. He has
four daughters, who take advantage of the lessons, and screws
ten per cent, upon the poor colorman's pencils and drawing-
paper. It's pleasant work to give the lessons to the children ;
and to be patronized by the swell ; and not expensive to him,
is it, Pen ? But I don't mind that, if I could but get lessons
enough : for, you see, besides our expenses here, we must have
some more money, and the dear old governor would die out-
right if poor old Sarah Mason did not get her 50/. a year.

And now there arrived a plentiful supper, and a bottle of
good wine, of which the giver was not sorry to partake after
the meagre dinner at three o'clock, to which I had been invited
by the Campaigner; and it was midnight when I walked back
with my friend to his house in the upper town ; and all the stars
of heaven were shining cheerily j and my dear Clive's face wore
an expression of happiness, such as I remembered in old days,
as we shook hands and parted with a " God bless you."

To Clive's friend, revolving these things in his mind, as he
lay in one of those most snug and comfortable beds at the ex-
cellent "Hotel des Bains," it appeared that this town of Bou-
logne was a very bad market for the artist's talents ; and that
he had best bring them to London, where a score of old friends
would assuredly be ready to help him. And if the Colonel, too,
could be got away from the domination of the Campaigner, I
felt certain that the dear old gentleman could but profit by his
leave of absence. My wife and I at this time inhabited a spa-
cious old house in Queen's Square, Westminster, where there
was plenty of room for father and son. I knew that Laura
would be delighted to welcome these guests — may the wife of
every worthy gentleman who reads these pages be as ready to
receive her husband's friends. It was the state of Rosey's
health, and the Campaigner's authority and permission, about
which I was in doubt, and whether this lady's two slaves would
be allowed to go away.

These cogitations kept the present biographer long awake,
and he did not breakfast next day until an hour before noon.
I had the coffee-room to myself by chance, and my meal was
not ended when the waiter announced a lady to visit Mr. Pen-
dennis, and Mrs. Mackenzie made her appearance. No signs
of care or poverty were visible in the attire or countenance of

THE NEWCOMFS.

757

the buxom widow. A handsome bonnet decorated within with
a profusion of poppies, blue-bells, and ears of corn ; a jewel on
her forehead, not costly, but splendid in appearance, and glitter-
ing artfully over that central spot from which her wavy chest-
nut nair parted to cluster in ringlets round her ample cheeks ;
a handsome India shawl, smart gloves, a rich silk dress, a neat
parasol of blue with pale yellow lining, a multiplicity of glitter-
ing rings, and a very splendid gold watch and chain, which I
remembered in former days as hanging round poor Roseys
white neck ; — all these adornments set off the widow's person, so
that you might have thought her a wealthy capitalist's lady, and
never could have supposed that she was a poor, cheated, ruined,
robbed, unfortunate Campaigner.

Nothing could be more gracious than the accucil of this lady.
She paid me many handsome compliments about my literary
works — asked most affectionately for dear Mrs. Pendennis and
the dear children — and then, as I expected, coming to business,
contrasted the happiness and genteel position of my wife and
family with the misery and wrongs of her own blessed child and
grandson. She never could call that child by the odious name
which he received at his baptism. J knew what bitter reasons
she had to dislike the name of Thomas Xewcome.

She again rapidly enumerated the wrongs she had received
at the hands of that gentleman ; mentioned the vast sums of
money out of which she and her soul's darling had been tricked
by that poor muddle-headed creature, to say no worse of him ;
and described finally their present pressing need. The doctors,
the burial, Rosey's delicate condition, the cost of sweetbreads,
calf s-foot jelly, and cod-liver oil, were again passed in a rapid
calculation before me; and she ended her speech by expressing
her gratification that I had attended to her advice of the pre-
vious day, and not given Clive Newcome a direct loan ; that
the family wanted it, the Campaigner called upon heaven to
witness ; that Clive and his absurd poor father would fling
guineas out of the window was a fact equally certain ; the rest
of the argument was obvious, namely, that Mr. Pendennis should
administer a donation to herself.

I had brought but a small sum of money in my pocket-book,
though Mrs. Mackenzie, intimate with bankers, ami having, thank
heaven, in spite of all her misfortunes, the utmost confidence of
all her tradesmen, hinted a perfect willingness on her part to
accept an order upon her friends, Hobson Brothers of London.

This direct thrust I gently and smilingly parried by asking
Mrs. Mackenzie whether she supposed a gentleman who had

75»

THE XEWCOMES.

just paid an electioneering bill, and had, at the best of times,
but a very small income, might sometimes not be in a condition
to draw satisfactorily upon Messrs. Hobson or any other
banker ? Her countenance fell at this remark, nor was her
cheerfulness much improved by the tender of one of the two
bank notes which then happened to be in my possession. I
said that I had a use for the remaining note, and that it would
not be more than sufficient to pay my hotel bill, and the expenses
of my party back to London.

My party? I had here to divulge, with some little trepida-
tion, the plan which I had been making over night ; to explain
how I thought that Clive's great talents were wasted at Bou-
logne, and could only find a proper market in London : how
I was pretty certain, through my connection with booksellers,
to find some advantageous employment for him, and would have
clone so months ago had I known the state of the case ; but I
had believed, until within a very few days since, that the
Colonel, in spite of his bankruptcy, was still in the enjoyment
of considerable military pensions.

This statement, of course, elicited from the widow a number
of remarks not complimentary to my dear old Colonel. He
might have kept his pensions had he not been a fool — he was
a baby about money matters — misled himself and everybody —
was a log in the house. «x:c. &e., .Sec.

I suggested that his annuities might possibly be put into
some more satisfactory shape — that I had trustworthy lawyers
with whom I would put him in communication — that he had
best come to London to see to these matters — and that my wife
had a large house where she would most gladly entertain the
two gentlemen.

This I said with some reasonable dread — fearing, in the first
place, her refusal ; in the second, her acceptance of the invita-
tion, with a proposal, as our house was large, to come herself
and inhabit it for a while. Had I not seen that Campaigner
arrive for a month at poor James Binnie's house in Fitzroy
Square, and stay there for many years? Was I not aware that
when she once set her foot in a gentleman's establishment,
terrific battles must ensue before she could be dislodged ? Had
she not once been routed by Clive ? and was she not now in
command and possession ? Do I not, finally, know something
of the world ; and have I not a weak, easy temper ? I protest
it was with terror that I awaited the widow's possible answer to
my proposal.

To my great relief, she expressed the utmost approval of

"IN .. I

:

.*,..**

A FRIEND IN NEED.

THE XEUTOMES. y~<y

both my plans. I was uncommonly kind, she was sure, to in-
terest myself about the two gentlemen, and for her blessed
Rosey's sake, a fond mother thanked me. It was most advis-
able that (live should earn some money by that horrid profes-
sion which he had chosen to adopt — trade, she called it. She
was clearly anxious to get rid both of father and son, and
agreed that the sooner they went the better.

We walked back arm-in-arm to the Colonel's quarters in the
Old Town, Mrs. Mackenzie, in the course of our walk, doing
me the honor to introduce me by name to several dingy ac-
quaintances whom we met sauntering up the street, and impart-
ing to me, as each moved away, the pecuniary cause of his
temporary residence in Boulogne. Spite of Rosey's delicate
state of health, Mrs. Mackenzie did not hesitate to break the
news to her of the gentlemen's probable departure, abruptly
and eagerly, as if the intelligence was likely to please her ■ —
and it did, rather than otherwise. The young woman, being in
the habit of letting mamma judge for her, continued it in this
instance ; and whether her husband stayed or went, seemed to
be equally content or apathetic. " And is it not most kind and
generous of dear Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis to propose to receive
Mr. Newcome and the Colonel ? " This opportunity for grati-
tude being pointed out to Rosey, she acquiesced in it straight-
way— it was very kind of me, Rosey was sure. " And don't you
ask after dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children — you poor
dear suffering darling child ? " Rosey. who had neglected this
inquiry, immediately hoped Mrs. Pendennis and the children
were well. The overpowering mother had taken utter pos-
session of this poor little thing. Rosey's eyes followed the
Campaigner about, and appealed to her at all moments. She
sat under Mrs. Mackenzie as a bird before a boa-constrictor,
doomed — fluttering — fascinated ; scared and fawning as a whipt
spaniel before a keeper.

The Colonel was on his accustomed bench on the rampart
at this sunny hour. I repaired thither, and found the old gentle-
man seated by his grandson, who lay, as yesterday, on the little
bonne's lap, one of his little purple hands closed round the
grandfather's finger. " Hush ! " says the good man, lifting up
his other finger to his mustache, as I approached, " Boy's
asleep. II est bien joli quand il dort — le Boy, n'est-ce pas,
Marie ? " The maid believed Monsieur well — the boy was a
little angel. "This maid is a most trustworthy, valuable per-
son, Pendennis," the Colonel said, with much gravity.

760 THE NEWCOMES.

The boa-constrictor had fascinated him too — the lash of that
woman at home had cowed that helpless, gentle, noble spirit.
As I looked at the head so upright and manly, now so beautiful
and resigned — the year of his past life seemed to pass before
me somehow in a flash of thought. I could fancy the accursed
tyranny — the dumb acquiescence — the brutal jeer — the helpless
remorse — the sleepless nights of pain and 'recollection — the
gentle heart lacerated with deadly stabs — and the impotent
hope. I own I burst into a sob at the sight, and thought of
the noble suffering creature, and hid my face and turned away.

He sprang up, releasing his hand from the child's, and plac-
ing it, the kind shaking hand, on my shoulder. u What is it,
Arthur — my dear boy ? " he said, looking wistfully in my face.
" No bad news from home, mv dear ? Laura and the children
well ? "

The emotion was mastered in a moment, I put his arm under
mine, and as we slowly sauntered up and down the sunny walk
of the old rampart, I told him how I had come with special com-
mands from Laura to bring him for awhile to stay with us, and
to settle his business, which I was sure had been wofully mis-
managed, and to see whether we could not find the means of
getting some little out of the wreck of the property for the boy
yonder.

At first Colonel Newcome would not hear of quitting Bou-
logne, where Rosey would miss him — he was sure she would
want him — but before the ladies of his family, to whom we pres-
ently returned, Thomas Xewcome's resolution was quickly re-
called. He agreed to go, and Clive coming in at this .imewas
put in possession of our plan and gladly acquiesced in it. On
that very evening I came with a carriage to conduct my two
friends to the steamboat. Their little packets were made and
ready. There was no pretence of grief at parting on the
women's side, but Marie, the little maid, with Boy in her arms,
cried sadly ; and Clive heartily embraced the child ; and the
Colonel, going back to give it one more kiss, drew out of his
neckcloth a little gold brooch which he wore, and which, trem-
bling, he put into Marie's hand, bidding her take good care of
Boy till his return.

" She is a good girl — a most faithful, attached girl, Arthur,
do you see ? " the kind old gentleman said ; " and I had no
money to give her — no, not one single rupee."

THE iXEWCOMES. 761

CHAPTER LXXIV.

IN WHICH CLIVE BEGINS THE WORLD.

We are ending our history, and yet poor Clive is but begin
ning the world. He has to earn the bread which he eats hence-
forth \ and, as I saw his labors, his trials, and his disappoint-
ments, I could not but compare his calling with my own.

The drawbacks and penalties attendant upon our profession
are taken into full account, as we well know, by literary men,
and their friends. Our poverty, hardships, and disappoint-
ments are set forth with great emphasis, and often with too
great truth by those who speak of us ; but there are advantages
belonging to our trade which are passed over, I think, by some
of those who exercise it and describe it, and for which, in
striking the balance of our accounts, we are not always duly
thankful. We have no patron, so to speak — we sit in ante-
chambers no more, waiting the present of a few guineas from
my lord, in return for a fulsome dedication. We sell our wares
to' the book-purveyor, between whom and us there is no greater
obligation than between him and his paper-maker or printer.
In the great towns in our country immense stores of books are
provided for us, with librarians to class them, kind attendants
to wait upon us, and comfortable appliances for study. We
require scarce any capital wherewith to exercise our trade.
What other so-called learned profession is equally fortunate ?
A doctor, for example, after carefully and expensively educating
himself, must invest in house and furniture, nor i ■. carriage,
and men-servants, before the public patient will think of calling
him in. I am told that such gentlemen have to coax and
wheedle dowagers, to humor hypochondriacs, to practice a
score of little subsidiary arts in order to make that of healing
profitable. How many many hundreds of pounds has a barris-
ter to sink upon his stock-in-trade before his returns are avail-
able ? There are the costly charges of university education —
the costly chambers in the Inn of Court — the clerk and his
maintenance — the inevitable travels on circuit — certain expen-
all to be defrayed before the possible client makes his ap-
pearance, and the chance of fame or competency arrives. The
prizes are great, to be sure, in the law, but what a prodigious

76.

THE NEWCOMER.

sum the lottery-ticket costs ! If a man of letters cannot win,
neither does he risk so much. Let us speak of our trade as we
find it, and not be too eager in calling out for public compas-
sion.

The artists, for the most part, do not cry out their woes as
loudly as some gentlemen of the literary fraternity, and yet I
think the life of many of them is harder ; their chances even
more precarious, and of the conditions of their profession less

independent and agreeable than ours. I have watched

Smee. Esq.. R. A., flattering and fawning, and at the same time
boasting and swaggering, poor fellow, in order to secure a sitter.
I have listened to a Manchester magnate talking about fine
arts before one of J. J.'s pictures, assuming the airs of a painter,
and laying down the most absurd laws respecting art. I have
seen poor Tomkins bowing a rich amateur through a private
view, and noted the eager smiles on Tomkins' face at the
amateur's slightest joke, the sickly twinkle of hope in his eyes
as the amateur stopped before his own picture. I have been
ushered by Chipstone's black sen-ant through hall after hall
peopled with plaster gods and heroes, into Chipstone's own
magnificent studio, where he sat longing vainly for an order,
and justly dreading his landlord's call for the rent. And, see-
ing how severely these gentlemen were taxed in their profession,
I have been grateful for my own more fortunate one, which
necessitates cringing to no patron ; which calls for no keeping
up of appearances ; and which requires no stock-in-trade save
the workman's industry, his best ability, and a dozen sheets of
paper.

Having to turn with all his might to his new profession,
Clive Xewcome, one of the proudest men alive, chose to revolt
and to be restive at almost even stage of his training. He
had a natural genius for his art, and had acquired in his desul-
tory way a very considerable skill. His drawing was better
than his painting (an opinion which, were my friend present,
he of course would utterly contradict) ; his designs and sketches
were far superior to his finished compositions. His friends,
presuming to judge of this artist's qualifications, ventured to
counsel him accordingly, and were thanked for their pains in
the usual manner. We had in the first place to bully and brow-
beat Clive most fiercely, before he would take fitting lodgings
for the execution of those designs which we had in view for him.
y should I take expensive lodgings ? " says Clive, slapping
his fist on the table, 'i am a pauper, and can scarcely afford
to live in a garret. Why should you pay me for drawing your

THE XEWCOMES.

763

portrait and Laura's and the children ? What the deuce does
Warrington want with the effigy of his grim old mug ? You
don't want them a bit — you only want to give me money. It
would be much more honest of me to take the money at once
and own that I am -? beggar ; and I tell you what, Pen, the
only money which I feel i come honestly by, is that which is
paid me by a little print-seller in Long Acre who buys my draw-
ings, one with another, at fourteen shillings apiece, and out of
whom I can earn pretty nearly two hundred a year. I am
doing Mail Coaches for him, sir, and Charges of Cavalry ; the
public like the Mail Coaches best — on a dark paper — the horses
and milestones picked out white — yellow dust — cobalt distance,
and the guard and coachman of course in vermilion. That's
what a gentleman can get his bread by — Portraits, pooh ! it's
disguised beggary. Crackthorpe, and a half-dozen men of his
regiment, came, like good fellows as they are, and sent me five
pounds apiece for their heads, but I tell you I am ashamed to
take their money." Such used to be the tenor of Clive New-
come's conversation as he strode up and down our room after
dinner, pulling his mustache, and dashing his long yellow hair
olt his gaunt face.

When Clive was inducted into the new lodgings at which
his friends counselled him to hang up his ensign, the dear old
Colonel accompanied his son, parting with a sincere regret from
our little ones at home, to whom he became greatly endeared
during his visit to us, and who always hailed him when he came
to see us with smiles and caresses and sweet infantile welcome.
On that day when he went away, Laura went up and kissed him
with tears in her eyes. " You know how long I have been
wanting to do it," this lady said to her husband. Indeed I
cannot describe the behavior of the old man during his stay
with us, his gentle gratitude, his sweet simplicity and kindness,
his thoughtful courtesy. There was not a. servant in our little
household but was eager to wait upon him. Laura's maid was
as tender-hearted at his departure as her mistress. He was
ailing for a short time, when our cook performed prodigies of
puddings and jellies to suit his palate. The youth who held
the offices of butler and valet in our establishment — a lazy and
greedy youth whom Martha scolded in vain — would jump up
and leave his supper to carry a message to our Colonel. My
heart is full as I remember the kind words which he said to
me at parting, and as I think that we were the means of giving
a little comfort to that stricken and gentle soul.

Whilst the Colonel and his son stayed with us, letters of

7 64 THE XEIVCOMES.

course passed between Clive and his family at Boulogne, but
my wife remarked that the receipt of those letters appeared to
give our friend but little pleasure. They were read in a minute,
and he would toss them over to his father, or thrust them into
his pocket with a gloomy face. " Don't you see," groans out
Clive to me one evening, " that Rosey scarcely writes the let-
ters, or if she does, that her mother is standing over her ?
That woman is the Nemesis of our life, Pen. How can I pay
her off ? Great God ! how can I pay her off ? " And so hav
mg spoken, his head fell between his hands, and as I watched
him I saw a ghastly domestic picture before me of helpless pain,
humiliating discord, stupid tyranny.

What, I say again, are the so-called great ills of life compared
to these small ones ?

The Colonel accompanied Clive to the lodgings which we
had found for the young artist, in a quarter not far removed
from the old house in Fitzroy Square, where some happy years
of his youth had been spent. When sitters came to Clive — as
at first they did in some numbers, many of his early friends
being anxious to do him a service — the old gentleman was ex-
traordinarily cheered and comforted. We could see by his
face that affairs were going on well at the studio. He showed
us the rooms which Rosey and the boy were to occupy. He
prattled to our children and their mother, who was never tired
of hearing him, about his grandson. He filled up the future
nursery with a hundred little knickknacks of his own contriv-
ing ; and with wonderful cheap bargains, which he bought in
his walks about Tottenham-court Road. He pasted a most
elaborate book of prints and sketches for Boy. It was aston-
ishing what notice Boy already took of pictures. He would
have all the genius of his father. Would he had had a better
grandfather than the foolish old man who had ruined all belong-
ing to him.

However much they like each other, men in the London
world see their friends but seldom. The place is so vast that
even next door is distant ; the calls of business, society, pleas-
ure, so multifarious that mere friendship can get or give but
an occasional shake of the hand in the hurried moments of
passage. Men must live their lives ; and are perforce selfish,
but not unfriendly. At a great need you know where to look
for your friend, and he that he is secure of you. So I went
very little to Howland Street, where Clive now lived : very sel-
dom to Lamb Court, where my dear old friend Warrington still
sat in his old chambers, though our meetings were none the

T//E NEWCOMES.

7C5

less cordial when they occurred, and our trust in one another
always the same. Some folks say the world is heartless : he
who says so either prates commonplaces (the most likely and
charitable suggestion), or is heartless himself, or is most sin-
gular and unfortunate in having made no friends. Many such a
reasonable mortal cannot have : our nature, I think, not suffi-
cing for that sort of polygamy. How many persons would you
have to deplore your death ; or whose death would you wish to
deplore ? Could our hearts let in such a harem of dear friend-
ships, the mere changes and recurrences of grief and mourning
would be intolerable, and tax our lives beyond their value. In
a word, we carry our own burden in the world ; push and
struggle along on our own affairs ; are pinched by our own
shoes — though heaven forbid we should not stop and forget
ourselves sometimes when a friend cries out in his distress, or we
can help a poor stricken wanderer in his way. As for good
women — these, my worthy reader, are different from us — the
nature of these is to love, and to do kind offices and devise
untiring charities : — so, I would have you to know, that though
Mr. Pendennis was parens suorum cultor ct inj 'requens, Mrs. Laura
found plenty of time to go from Westminster to Bloomsbury j
and to pay visits to her Colonel and her Clive, both of whom
she had got to love with all her heart again, now misfortune
was on them ; and both of whom returned her kindness with an
affection blessing the bestower and the receiver ; and making
the husband proud and thankful whose wife had earned such a
noble regard. What is the dearest praise of all to a man ? his
own — or that you should love those whom he loves ? I see
Laura Pendennis ever constant and tender and pure ; ever
ministering in her sacred office of kindness — bestowing love
and followed by blessings. Which would I have, think you :
that priceless crown hymeneal, or the glory of a Tenth Edi-
tion ?

Clive and his father had found not only a model friend in
the lady above mentioned, but a perfect prize landlady in their
happy lodgings. In her house, besides those apartments which
Mr. Xewcome had originally engaged, were rooms just sufficient
to accommodate his wife, child, and servant, when they should
come to him, with a very snug little upper chamber for the Col-
onel, close by Boy's nursery, where he liked best to be. ** Vnd
if there is not room for the Campaigner, as you call her," says
Mrs. Laura, with a shrug of her shoulders, "why, I am very
sorry, but Clive must try and bear her absence as well as pos-
sible. After all, my dear Pen, you know he is married to

7 66 THE XEWCOMES-

Rosey and not to her mamma ; and so I think it will be quite
best that they shall have their menage as before."

The cheapness of the lodgings which the prize landlady
let the quantity of neat new furniture which she put in, the
consultations which she had with my wife regarding these sup-
plies, were quite singular to me. " Have you pawned your
diamonds, you reckless little person, in order to supply all this
upholstery?"' "No, sir, I have not pawned my diamonds,"
Mrs. Laura answers ; and I was left to think (if I thought on
the matter at all) that the landlady's own benevolence had
provided these good things for Clive. For the wife of Laura's
husband was perforce poor ; and she asked me for no more
money at this time than at any other.

At first, in spite of his grumbling, Clive's affairs looked so
prosperous, and so many sitters came to him from amongst
his old friends, that I was half inclined to believe, with the
Colonel and my wife, that he was a prodigious genius, and
that his good fortune would go on increasing. Laura was for
having Rosev return to her husband. Even- wife ought to be
with her husband. J. J. shook his head about the prosperity.
'• Let us see whether the Academy will have his pictures this
year, and what a place they will give him," said Ridley. To
do him justice. Clive thought far more humbly of his com-
positions than Ridley did. Not a little touching was it to us,
who had known the young men in former days, to see them
in their changed positions. It was Ridley, whose genius and
industry' had put him in the rank of a patron — Ridley, the
good industrious apprentice, who had won the prize of his art
— and not one of his many admirers saluted his talent and
success with such a hearty recognition as Clive, whose gen-
erous soul knew no envy, and who always fired and kindled
at the success of his friends.

When Mr. Clive used to go over to Boulogne from time to
time to pay his dutiful visits to his wife, the Colonel did not
accompany his son, but, during the latter's absence, would dine
with Mrs. Pendennis.

Though the preparations were complete in Howland Street,
and Clive dutifully went over to Boulogne. Mrs. Pendennis re-
marked that he seemed still to hesitate about bringing his wife
to London.

Upon this Mr. Pendennis observed that some gentlemen
were not particularly anxious about the society- of their wives,
and that this pair were perhaps better apart. Upon which Mrs,
Pendennis, drubbing on the ground with a little foot, said

THE XEWCOMES 767

11 Xonsense, for shame, Arthur ! How can you speak so flip-
pantly? Did he not swear before Heaven to love and cherish
her, never to leave her, sir? Is not his duty his duty, sir?" (a
most emphatic stamp of the foot.) M Is she not his for better
or for worse ? "

" Including the Campaigner, my dear ? " says Mr. P.

" Don't laugh, sir ! She must come to him. There is no
room in Howland Street for Mrs. Mackenzie."

"You artful scheming creature! We have some spare
rooms. Suppose we ask Mrs. Mackenzie to come and live with
us, my clear ; and we could then have the benefit of the garrison
anecdotes and mess jocularities of your favorite, Captain
Goby?"

'• I could never bear the horrid man ! " csied Mrs. Pendennis.
/ \ 1 how can I tell why she disliked him ?

ry thing being now ready for the reception of Clive's
little family, we counselled our friend to go over to Boulogne,
and bring back his wife and child, and then to make some final
stipulation with the Campaigner. He saw, as well as we, that
the presence and tyranny of that fatal woman destroyed his
father's health and spirits — that the old man knew no peace or
comfort in her neighborhood, and was actually hastening to his
grave under that dreadful and unremitting persecution. Mrs.
Mackenzie made Clive scarcely less wretched than his father —
she governed his household — took away his weak wife's allegi-
ance and affection from him — and caused the wretchedness of
every single person round about her. They ought to live apart.
If she was too poor to subsist upon her widow's pension, which,
in truth, was but a very small pittance, let Clive give up to her,
say, the half of his wife's income of 100/. a year. His prospects
and present means of earning money were such that he might
afford to do without that portion of his income : at any rate, he
and his father would be cheaply ransomed at that price, from
their imprisonment to this intolerable person. "Go, Clive,"
said his counsellors, " and bring back your wife and child, and
let us all be happy together." For, you see, those advisers
opined that if we had written over to Mrs. Clive Newcome —
" Come " — she would have come with the Campaigner in her
suite.

Vowing that he would behave like a man of courage — and
we know that Clive had shown himself to be such in two ot
three previous battles — Clive crossed the water to bring back
his little Rosey. Our good Colonel agreed to dine at our house
during the days of his son's absence. I have said how beloved

j 68 THE NEWCOMES.

he was by young and old there — and he was kind enough to
say afterwards, that no woman had made him so happy as Laura.
We did not tell him — I know not from what reticence — that we
had advised Clive to offer a bribe of 50/. a year to Mrs. Mac-
kenzie \ until about a fortnight after Clive's absence, and a week
after his return, when news came that poor old Mrs. Mason was
dead at Newcome, whereupon we informed the Colonel that he
had another pensioner now in the Campaigner.

Colonel Newcome was thankful that his dear old friend had
gone out of the world in comfort and without pain. She had
made a will long since, leaving all her goods and chattels to
Thomas Newcome — but having no money to give, the Colonel
handed over these to the old lady's faithful attendant, Keziah.

Although many«of the Colonel's old friends had parted from
him or quarrelled with him in consequence of the ill success of
the B. B. C, there were two old ladies who yet remained faith-
ful to him — Miss Cann, namely, and honest little Miss Honey-
man of Brighton, who, when she heard of the return to London
of her nephew and brother-in-law, made a railway journey to
the metropolis (being the first time she ever engaged in that
kind of travelling), rustled into Clive's apartments in Howland
Street in her neatest silks, and looking not a day older than on
that when we last beheld her ; and after briskly scolding the
young man for permitting his father to enter into money affairs
— of which the poor dear Colonel was as ignorant as a baby —
she gave them both to understand that she had a little sum at
her bankers at their disposal — and besought the Colonel to re-
member that her house was his, and that she should be proud
and happy to receive him as soon and as often and for as long
a time as he would honor her with his company. " Is not my
house full of your presents " — cried the stout little old lady —
" have I not reason to be grateful to all the Newcomes — yes,
to all the Newcomes ; — for Miss Ethel and her family have come
to me every year for months, and 1 don't quarrel with them,
and I won't, although you do, sir? Is not this shawl — are not
these jewels that I wear," she continued, pointing to those well-
known ornaments, " my dear Colonel's gift ? Did you not
relieve my brother Charles in this country and procure for him
his place in India ? Yes, my dear friend — and though you have
been imprudent in money matters, my obligations towards you,
and my gratitude, and my affection are always the same."
Thus Miss Honeyman spoke, with somewhat of a quivering
voice at the end of her little oration, but with exceeding state
and dignity — for she believed that her investment of two tun-

THE NEWCOMES.

7r>9

dred pounds in that unlucky B. B. C, which failed for half a
million, was a sum of considerable importance, and gave her a
right to express her opinion to the Managers.

Clive came back from Boulogne in a week, as we have said
— but he came back without his wife, much to our alarm, and
looked so exceedingly fierce and glum when we demanded the
reason of his return without his family, that we saw wars and
battles had taken place, and thought that in this last continen-
tal campaign, the Campaigner had been too much for her
friend.

The Colonel, to whom Clive communicated, though with us
the poor lad held his tongue, told my wife what had happened :
— not all the battles which no doubt raged at breakfast, dinner,
supper, during the week of Clive's visit to Boulogne, — but the
upshot of these engagements. Rosey, not unwilling in her first
private talk with her husband to come to England with him and
the boy, showed herself irresolute on the second day at break-
fast when the fire was opened on both sides ; cried at dinner
when fierce assaults took place, in which Clive had the advan-
tage ; slept soundly, but besought him to be very firm, and met
the enemy at breakfast with a quaking heart ; cried all that
day, during which, pretty well without cease, the engagement
lasted; and when Clive might have conquered and brought her
off, the weather was windy and the sea was rough, and he was
pronounced a brute to venture on it with a wife in Rosey's
situation.

Behind that " situation " the widow shielded herself. She
clung to her adored child, and from that bulwark discharged
abuse and satire at Clive and his father. He could not rout
her out of her position. Having had the advantage on the
first two or three days, on the four last he was beaten, and lost
ground in each action. Rosey found that in her situation she
could not part from her darling mamma. The Campaigner for
her part averred that she might be reduced to beggary ; that
she might be robbed of her last farthing and swindled and
cheated ; that she might see her daughter's fortune flung away
by unprincipled adventurers, and her blessed child left without
even the comforts of life ; but desert her in such a situation,
she never would — no, never ! Was not dear Rosey's health
already impaired by the various shocks which she had under-
gone ? Did she not require every comfort, every attendance ?
Monster! ask the doctor! She would stay with her darling
child in spite of insult and rudeness and vulgarity. (Rosey's
father was a King's officer, not a Company's officer, thank God !)

4Q

77o

THE NEWCOMES.

She would stay as long at least as Rosey's situation continued,
at Boulogne, if not in London, but with her child. They might
refuse to send her money, having robbed her of all her own,
but she would pawn her gown off her back for her child.
Whimpers from Rosey — cries of " Mamma, mamma, compose
yourself," — convulsive sobs — clenched knuckles — flashing eyes
— embraces rapidly clutched — laughs — stamps — snorts — from
the dishevelled Campaigner; grinding teeth — livid fury and re-
peated breakages of the third commandment by Clive — I can
fancy the whole scene. He returned to London without his
wife, and when she came she brought Mrs. Mackenzie with
her.

CHAPTER LXXV.
founder's day at grey friars. ,

Rosey came, bringing discord and wretchedness with her,
to her husband, and the sentence of death or exile to his dear
old father, all of which we foresaw — all of which Clive's friends
would have longed to prevent — all of which were inevitable
under the circumstances. Clive's domestic affairs were often
talked over by our little set. Warrington and F. B. knew of
his unhappiness. WTe three had strongly opined that the wo-
men being together at Boulogne, should stay there and live
there, Clive sending them over pecuniary aid as his means per-
mitted. " They must hate each other pretty well by this time,"
growls George Warrington. " Why on earth should they not
part? " " What a woman that Mrs. Mackenzie is," cries F. B.
" What an infernal tartar and catamaran ! She who was so
uncommonly smiling and soft-spoken, and such a fine woman
by jingo ! What puzzles all women are." F. B. sighed and
drowned further reflection in beer.

On the other side, and most strongly advocating Rosey's
return to Clive, was Mrs. Laura Pendennis ; with certain argu-
ments for which she had chapter and verse, and against which
we of the separatist party had no appeal. " Did he marry her
only for the days of her prosperity ? " asked Laura. " Is it
right, is it manly, that he should leave her now she is unhappy
— poor little creature — no woman had ever more need of pro-
tection ; and who should be her natural guardian save her hus-

THE XF.U'roVES. yjX

band ? Surely. Arthur, you forget — have you forgotten them
yourself, sir ? — the solemn vows which Clive made at the altar.
Is he not bound to his wife to keep only unto her so long as
they both shall live, to love her, honor her, and keep her in
sickness and health ? "

M To keep her, yes — but not to keep the Campaigner," cries
Mr. Pendennis. " It is a moral bigamy, Laura, which you ad-
vocate, you wicked, immoral young woman ! "

But Laura, though she smiled at this notion, would not be
put off from her first proposition. Turning to Clive, who was
with us, talking over his doleful family circumstances, she took
his hand and pleaded the cause of right and religion with sweet
artless fervor. She agreed with us that it was a hard lot for
Clive to bear. So much the nobler the task, and the fulfil-
ment of duty in enduring it. A few months too would put an
end to his trials. When his child was born Mrs. Mackenzie
would take her departure. It would even be Clive's duty to
separate from her, then, as it now was to humor his wife in her
delicate condition, and to soothe the poor soul who had had a
great deal of ill-health, of misfortune, and of domestic calamity
to wear and shatter her. Clive acquiesced with a groan, but
with a touching and generous resignation as we both thought.
" She is right, Pen," he said. u I think your wife is always
right. I will try, Laura, and bear my part, God help me ! I
will do my duty and strive my best to soothe and gratify my
poor dear little woman. They will be making caps and things,
and will not interrupt me in my studio. Of nights I can go to
Clipstone Street and work at the Life. There's nothing like
the Life, Pen. So you see I sha'n't be much at home except at
meal-times, when by nature I shall have my mouth full, and no
opportunity of quarrelling with poor Mrs. Slack." So he went
home, followed and cheered by the love and pity of my dear
wife, and determined stoutly to bear this heavy yoke which fate
had put on him.

To do Mrs. Mackenzie justice, that lady backed up with all
her might the statement which my wife had put forward, with a
view of soothing poor Clive, viz., that the residence of his
mother-in-law in his house was only to be temporary. " Tem-
porary ! " cries Mrs. Mack (who was kind enough to make a
call on Mrs. Pendennis, and treat that lady to a piece of her
mind,). " Do you suppose, madam, that it could be otherwise ?
Do you suppose worlds would induce me to «tay in a house where
I have received such ireatment — where, after I and my daughte:
had been robbed of every shilling of our fortune, we are dailj

772

THE NEWCOMES.

insulted by Colonel Newcome and his son ? Do you suppose,
ma'am, that I do not know that Clive's friends hate me and
give themselves airs and look down upon my darling child, and
try and make differences between my sweet Rosey and me —
Rosey who might have been dead, or might have been starving,
but that her dear mother came to her rescue ? No, I would
never stay. I loathe every day that I remain in the house — I
would rather beg my bread — I would rather sweep the streets
and starve — though, thank God, I have my pension as the
widow of an officer in her Majesty's Service, and I can live
upon that — and of that Colonel Newcome cannot rob me ; and
when my darling love needs a mother's care no longer, I will
leave her. I will shake the dust off my feet and leave that
house, I will — And Mr. Newcome's friends may then sneer at
me and abuse me, and blacken my darling child's heart towards
me if they choose. And I thank you, Mrs. Pendennis, for all
your kindness towards my daughter's family, and for the furniture
which you have sent into the house, and for the trouble you have
taken about our family arrangements. It was for this I took the
liberty of calling on you, and I wish you a very good-morning."
So speaking, the Campaigner left my wife ; and Mrs. Pendennis
enacted the pleasing scene with great spirit to her husband after-
wards, concluding the whole with a splendid curtsey and toss of
the head, such as Mrs. Mackenzie performed as her parting
salute.

Our dear Colonel had fled before her. He had acquiesced
humbly with the decree of fate ; and, lonely, old and beaten,
marched honestly on the path of duty. It was a great blessing,
he wrote to us, to him to think that in happier days and during
many years he had been enabled to benefit his kind and excel-
lent relative, Miss Honeyman. He could thankfully receive
her hospitality now, and claim the kindness and shelter which
this old friend gave him. No one could be more anxious to
make him comfortable. The air of Brighton did him the great-
est good ; he had found some old friends, some old Bengalees
there, with whom he enjoyed himself greatly, &c. How much
did we, who knew his noble spirit, believe of this story ? To
us heaven had awarded health, happiness, competence, loving
children, united hearts, and modest prosperity. To yonder
good man, whose long life shone with benefactions, and whose
career was but kindness and honor, fate decreed poverty, dis-
appointment, separation, a lonely old age. We bowed our
heads, humiliated at the contrast of his lot and ours ; and
prayed heaven to enable us to bear our present good fortune

THE KEWCOVRS.

773

meekly, and our evil clays, if they should come, with such res-
ignation as this good Christian showed.

I forgot to say that our attempts to better Thomas Xew-
come's money affairs were quite in vain, the Colonel insisting
upon paying over every shilling of his military allowances and
retiring pension to the parties from whom he had borrowed
money previous to his bankruptcy. " Ah ! what a good man
that is," says Mr. Sherrick with tears in his eyes, " what a
noble fellow, sir. He would die rather than not pay every far-
thing over. He'd starve, sir, that he would. The money ain't
mine, sir, or, if it was, do you think I'd take it from the poor
old boy ? No, sir j by Jove I honor and reverence him more
now he ain't got a shilling in his pocket, than ever I did when
we thought he was a rolling in money."

My wife made one or two efforts at Samaritan visits in
Howland Street, but was received by Mrs. Clive with such a
faint welcome, and by the Campaigner with so grim a counte-
nance, so many sneers, inuendoes, insults almost, that Laura's
charity was beaten back, and she ceased to press good offices
thus thanklessly received. If Clive came to visit us, as he
very rarely did, after an official question or two regarding the
health of his wife and child, no farther mention was made of
his family affairs. His painting, he said, was getting on toler
ably well ; he had work, scantily paid it is true, but work suf-
ficient. He was reserved, uncommunicative, unlike the frank
Clive of former times, and oppressed by his circumstances, as
it was easy to see. I did not press the confidence which he*
was unwilling to offer, and thought best to respect his silence.
I had a thousand affairs of my own ; who has not in London ?
If you die to-morrow, your dearest friend will feel for you a
hearty pang of sorrow, and go to his business as usual. I
could divine, but would not care to describe, the life which my
poor Clive was now leading ; the vulgar misery, the sordid
home, the cheerless toil, and lack of friendly companionship
which darkened his kind soul. I was glad Clive's father was
away. The Colonel wrote to us twice or thrice ; could it be
three months ago ? bless me, how time flies ! He' was happy,
he wrote, with Miss Honeyman, who took the best care of
him.

Mention has been made once or twice in the course of this
history of the Grey Friars school, — where the Colonel and
Clive and I had been brought up, — an ancient foundation of
the time of James I., still subsisting in the heart of London

774

THE NEWCOMES.

City. The death-day of the founder of the place is still kept
solemnly by Cistercians. In their chapel, where assemble the
boys of the school, and the fourscore old men of the Hospital,
the founder's tomb stands, a huge edifice, emblazoned with
heraldic decorations and clumsy, carved allegories. There is
an old Hall, a beautiful specimen of the architecture of James's
time ; an old Hall ? many old halls ; old staircases, old pas-
sages, old chambers decorated with old portraits, walking in
the midst of which, we walk as it were in the early seventeenth
century. To others than Cistercians, Grey Friars is a dreary
place possibly. Nevertheless, the pupils educated there love
to revisit it ; and the oldest of us grow young again for an
hour or two as we come back into those scenes of childhood.

The custom of the school is, that on the 12 th of December,
the Founder's Day, the head gown-boy shall recite a Latin
oration, in praise Fundatoris JVostri, and upon other subjects ;
and a goodly company of old Cistercians is generally brought
together to attend this oration : after which we go to chapel
and hear a sermon ; after which we adjourn to a great dinner,
where old condisciples meet, old toasts are given, and speeches
are made. Before marching from the oration hall to chapel,
the stewards of the day's dinner, according to old-fashioned
rite, have wands put into their hands, walk to church at the
head of the procession, and sit there in places of honor. The
boys are already in their seats, with smug fresh faces, and shin-
ing white collars ; the old black-gowned pensioners are on
their benches ; the chapel is lighted, and Founder's Tomb,
with its grotesque carvings, monsters, heraldries, darkles and
shines with the most wonderful shadows and lights. There he
lies, Fundator Noster, in his ruff and gown, awaiting the great
Examination Day. We oldsters, be we ever so old, become
boys again as we look at that familiar old tomb, and think how
the seats are altered since we were here, and how the doctor —
not the present doctor, the doctor of our time — used to sit
yonder, and his awful eye used to frighten us shuddering boys,
on whom it lighted : and how the boy next us would kick our
shins during service time, and how the monitor would cane us
afterwards because our shins were kicked. Yonder sit forty
cherry-cheeked boys, thinking about home and holidays to-
morrow. Yonder sit some threescore old gentlemen pensioners
of the hospital, listening to the prayers and the psalms. You
hear them coughing feebly in the twilight, — the old reverend
black-gowns. Is Codd Ajax alive, you wonder ? — the Cistercian
lads called these old gentlemen Codds, 1 know not wherefore

THE XEWCOMES.

775

— I know not wherefore — but is old Codd Ajax alive 1 wonder f
or Codd Soldier ? or kind old Codd Gentleman, or has the
grave closed over them ? A plenty of candles lights up this
chapel, and this scene of age and youth, and early memories,
and pompous death. How solemn the well-remembered prayers
are, here uttered again in the place where in childhood we
used to hear them ! How beautiful and decorous the rite ; how
noble the ancient words of the supplications which the priest
utters, and to which generations of fresh children and troops
of by-gone seniors have cried Amen ! under those arches ! The
service for Founder's Day is a special one ; one of the psalms
selected being the thirty-seventh, and we hear —

23. The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and he delighteth in his way.

24. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down, for the Lord upholdeth him with
his hand.

25. I have been young, and now am old, yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor
his seed begging their bread.

As we came to this verse, I chanced to look up from my
book towards the swarm of black-coated pensioners : and
amongst them — amongst them — sat Thomas Newcome.

His dear old head was bent down over his prayer-book ;
there was no mistaking him. He wore the black gown of the
pensioners of the Hospital of Grey Friars. His order of the
Bath was on his breast. He stood there amongst the poor
brethren, uttering the responses to the psalm. The steps of
this good man had been ordered hither by Heaven's decree :
to this alms-house ! Here it was ordained that a lite all love,
and kindness, and honor, should end ! I heard no more of
prayers, and psalms, and sermon, after that. How dared I to
be in a place of mark, and he, he yonder among the poor ? Oh,
pardon, you noble soul ! I ask forgiveness of you tor being of
a world that has so treated you — you my better, you the honest,
and gentle, and good ! I thought the service would never end,
or the organist's voluntaries, or the preacher's homily.

The organ played us out of chapel at length, and I waited
in the ante-chapel until the pensioners took their turn to quit
it. My clear, dear old friend ! I ran to him with a warmth
and eagerness of recognition which no doubt showed them-
selves in my face and accents as my heart was moved at the
sight of him. His own wan face flushed up when he saw me,
and his hand shook in mine. " I have found a home, Arthur."
said he. "Don't you remember, before I went to India, when
we came to see the old Grey Friars, and visited Captain Scars-
dale in his room ? — a poor brother like me — an old Peninsular
man. Scarsdale is ^one now, sir, and is where ' the wicked

•j j 6 THE NEWCOMES.

cease from troubling and the weary are at rest ; ' and I thought
then, when we saw him, — here would be a place for an old fel-
low when his career was over, to hang his sword up ; to humble
his soul, and to wait thankfully for the end, Arthur. My good
friend, Lord H., who is a Cistercian like ourselves, and has
just been appointed a governor, gave me his first nomination.
Don't be agitated, Arthur my boy, I am very happy. I have
good quarters, good food, good light and fire, and good friends ;
blessed be God ! my dear kind young friend — my boy's friend j
you have been always so, sir ; and I take it uncommonly kind
of you, and I thank God for you, sir. Why, sir, I am as happy
as the day is long." He uttered words to this effect as we
walked through the courts of the building towards his room,
which in truth I found neat and comfortable, with a brisk fire
crackling on the hearth ; a little tea-table laid out, a Bible and
spectacles by the side of it, and over the mantel-piece a draw-
ing of his grandson by Clive.

" You may come and see me here, sir, whenever you like,
end so may your dear wife and little ones, tell Laura, with my
love ; — but you must not stay now. You must go back to your
dinner." In vain I pleaded that I had no stomach for it. He
gave me a look, which seemed to say he desired to be alone,
and I had to respect that order and leave him.

Of course I came to him on the very next day ; though not
with my wife and children, who were in truth absent in the
country at Rosebury, where they were to pass the Christmas
holidays ; and where, this school-dinner over, I was to join them.
On my second visit to Grey Friars my good friend entered more
at length into the reasons why he had assumed the Poor
Brother's gown ; and I cannot say but that I acquiesced in his
reasons, and admired that noble humility and contentedness of
which he gave me an example.

"That which had caused him most grief and pain," he said,
f in the issue of that unfortunate bank, was the thought that
poor friends of his had been induced by his representations to
invest their little capital in that speculation. Good Miss
Honeyman, for instance, meaning no harm, and in all respects
a most honest and kindly-disposed old lady, had nevertheless
alluded more than once to the fact that her money had been
thrown away ; and these allusions, sir, made her hospitality
somewhat hard to bear," said the Colonel. "At home — at
poor Clivy's, I mean — it was even worse," he continued.
" Mrs. Mackenzie for months past, by her complaints, and—
and her conduct, has made my son and me so miserable — that

THE XEWCOMES.

777

flight before her, and into any refuge, was the best course. She
too does not mean ill, Pen. Do not waste any of your oaths
upon that poor woman," he added, holding up his finger, and
smiling sadly. " She thinks I deceived her, though heavrm
knows it was myself I deceived. She has great influence over
Rosey. Very few persons can resist that violent and head-
strong woman, sir. I could not bear her reproaches, or my
poor sick daughter, whom her mother leads almost entirely
now, and it was with all this grief on my mind, that, as I was
walking one day upon Brighton cliff, I met my schoolfellow,
my Lord H. — who has ever been a good friend of mine — and
who told me how he had just been appointed a governor of
Grey Friars. He asked me to dine with him on the next day,
and would take no refusal. He knew of my pecuniary mis-
fortunes, of course — and showed himself most noble and liberal
in his offers of help. I was very much touched by his good-
ness, Pen, — and made a clean breast of it to his lordship ; who
at first would not hear of my coming to this place — and offered
me out of the purse of an old brother schoolfellow and an old
brother soldier as much — as much as should last me my time.
Wasn't it noble of him, Arthur ? God bless him ! There are
good men in the world, sir, there are true friends, as I have
found in these later days. Do you know, sir," — here the old
man's eyes twinkled, — '• that Fred Bayham fixed up that book-
case yonder — and brought me my little boy's picture to hang
up ? Boy and Clive will come and see me soon."

" Do you mean they do not come ? " I cried.

" They don't know I am here, sir," said the Colonel, with a
sweet, kind smile. " They think I am visiting his lordship in
Scotland. Ah ! they are good people ! When we had had our
talk down stairs over our bottle of claret — where my old com-
mander-in-chief would not hear of my plan — we went up stairs
to her ladyship, who saw that her husband was disturbed, and
asked the reason. I dare say it was the good claret that made
me speak, sir ; for I told her that I and her husband had had
a dispute, and that I would take her ladyship for umpire. And
then I told her the story over, that I had paid away every rupee
to the creditors, and mortgaged my pensions and retiring al-
lowances for the same end, that I was a burden upon CI ivy,
who had work enough, poor boy, to keep his own family and
his wife's mother, whom my imprudence had impoverished, —
that here was an honorable asylum which my friend could pro-
cure for me, and was not that better than to drain his purse ?
She was very much moved, sir — she is a very kind lady, though

773

THE NEWCOMES.

she passed for being very proud and haughty in India — sa
wrongly are people judged. And Lord H. said, in his rough
way, 'that, by Jove, if Tom Newcome took a thing into his
obstinate old head no one could drive it out.' And so," said
the Colonel, with his sad smile, " I had my own way. Lady
H. was good enough to come and see me the very next day — ■
and do you know, Pen, she invited me to go and live with them
for the rest of my life — made me the most generous, the most
delicate offers ? But I knew I was right, and held my own. 1
am too old to work, Arthur : and better here, whilst I am to
stay, than elsewhere. Look ! all this furniture came from H.
House — and that wardrobe is full of linen, which she sent me.
She has been twice to see me, and every officer in this hospital
is as courteous to me as if I had my fine house."

I thought of the psalm we had heard on the previous even-
ing, and turned to it in the opened Bible, and pointed to the
verse " Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down, for
the Lord upholdeth him." Thomas Newcome seeing my occu-
pation, laid a kind, trembling hand on my shoulder ; and then,
putting on his glasses, with a smile bent over the volume. And
who that saw him then, and knew him and loved him as I did
— who would not have humbled his own heart, and breathed his
inward prayer, confessing and adoring the Divine Will, which
ordains these trials, these triumphs, these humiliations, these
blessed griefs, this crowning Love ?

I had the happiness of bringing Clive and his little boy to
Thomas Newcome that evening ; and heard the child's cry of
recognition and surprise, and the old man calling the boy's
name, as I closed the door upon that meeting ; and by the
night's mail I went down to Newcome, to the friends with whom
my own family was already staying.

Of course, my conscience-keeper at Rosebury was anxiouD
to know about the school-dinner, and all the speeches made,
and the guests assembled there ; but she soon ceased to inquire
about these when I came to give her the news of the discovery
of our dear old friend in the habit of a Poor Brother of Grey
Friars. She was very glad to hear that Clive and his little son
had been reunited to the Colonel ; and appeared to imagine at
first, that there was some wonderful merit upon my part in
bringing the three together.

" Well — no great merit, Pen, as you will put it," says the
Confessor; "but it was kindly thought, sir — and I like my
husband when he is kind best \ and don't wonder at your

THE NEWCOMES.

779

having made a stupid speech at the dinner, as you say you did,
when you had this other subject to think of. That is a beauti-
ful psalm, Pen, and those verses which you were reading when
you saw him, especially beautiful."

u But in the presence of eighty old gentlemen, who have all
come to decay, and have all had to beg their bread in a manner,
don't you think the clergyman might choose some other psalm ? "
asks Mr. Pendennis.

" They were not forsaken utterly, Arthur," says Mrs. Laura,
gravely : but rather declines to argue the point raised by me ;
namely, that the selection of that especial thirty-seventh psalm
was not complimentary to those decayed old gentlemen.

" All the psalms are good, sir," she says, u and this one, of
course, is included," and thus the discussion closed.

I then fell to a description of Howland Street, and pooi
Clive, whom \ had found there over his work. A dubious maid
scanned my appearance rather eagerly v/hen I asked to see him.
I found a picture-dealer chaffering with him over a bundle of
sketches, and his little boy, already pencil in hand, lying in one
corner of the room, the sun playing about his yellow hair. The
child looked languid and pale, the father worn and ill. When
the dealer at length took his bargains away, I gradually broke
my errand to Clive, and told him from whence I had just
come.

He had thought his father in Scotland with Lord H. ; and
was immensely moved with the news which I brought.

" I haven't written to him for a month. It's not pleasant
letters I have to write. Pen, and I can't make them pleasant.
Up, Tommykin, and put on your cap." Tommykin jumps up.
" Put on your cap, and tell them to take off your pinafore, and
tell grandmamma "

At that name Tommykin begins to cry.

" Look at that ! " says Clive, commencing to speak in the
French language, which the child interrupts by calling out in
that tongue, M I speak also French, papa."

" Well, my child! You will like to come out with papa,
and Betsy can dress you." He flings off his own paint-stained
shooting jacket as he talks, takes a frock-coat out of a carved
wardrobe, and a hat from the helmet on the shelf. He is no
longer the handsome splendid boy of old times. Can that be
Clive, with that haggard face and slouched handkerchief? "I
am not the dandy I was, Pen," he says bitterly.

A little voice is heard crying overhead — and giving a kind
of gasp, the wretched father stops in some indifferent speech

?3o THE NEWCOMES.

he was trying to make. " I can't help myself," he groans out j
" my poor wife is so ill, she can't attend to the child. Mrs.
Mackenzie manages the house for me — and — here ! Tommy,
Tommy ! papa's coming ! " Tommy has been crying again, and
flinging open the studio door, Clive cans out, and dashes up
stairs.

I hear scuffling, stamping, loud voices, poor Tommy's scared
little pipe — Clive's fierce objurgations, and the Campaigner's
voice barking out — " Do, sir. do ! with my child suffering in the
next room. Behave like a brute to me, do. He shall not go
out. He shall not have the hat "— " He shall "— " Ah— ah ! "
A scream is heard. It is Clive tearing a child's hat out of the
Campaigner's hands, with which, and a flushed face, he pres-
ently rushes down stairs, bearing little Tommy on his shoulder.

"You see what I am come to, Pen," he says with a heart-
broken voice, trying, with hands all of a tremble, to tie the hat
on the boy's head. He laughs bitterly at the ill success of his
endeavors. " Oh, you silly papa ! " laughs Tommy, too.

The door is flung open, and the red-faced Campaigner ap-
pears. Her face is mottled with wrath, her bandeaux of hair
are disarranged upon her forehead, the ornaments of her cap,
cheap, and dirty, and numerous, only give her a wilder appear-
ance. She is in a large and dingy wrapper, very different from
the lady who had presented herself a few months back to my
wife — how different from the smiling Mrs. Mackenzie of old
days !

" He shall not go out of a winter day, sir," she breaks out.
!' I have his mother's orders, whom you are killing. Mr. Pen-
lennis ! "' She starts, perceiving me for the first time, and her
oreast heaves, and she prepares for combat, and looks at me
over her shoulder.

" You and his father are the best judges upon this point,
ma'am," says Mr. Pendennis, with a bow.

" The child is delicate, sir," cries Mrs. Mackenzie ; " and
this winter "

" Enough of this," says Clive with a stamp, and passes
through her guard with Tommy, and we descend the stairs, and
at length are in the free street. Was it not best not to describe
at full length this portion of poor Clive's history ?

THE NEWCOMER. 781

CHAPTER LXXVI.

CHRISTMAS AT ROSEBURY.

We have known our friend Florae under two aristocratic
names, and might now salute him by a third, to which he was
entitled, although neither he nor his wife ever chose to assume
it. His father was lately dead, and M. Paul de Florae might
sign himself Due d'lvry if he chose, but he was indifferent as
to the matter, and his wife's friends indignant at the idea that
their kinswoman, after having been a Princess, should descend
to the rank of a mere Duchess. So Prince and Princess these
good folks remained, being exceptions to that order, inasmuch
as their friends could certainly put their trust in them.

On his father's death Florae went to Paris, to settle the
affairs of the paternal succession ; and, having been for some
time absent in his native country, returned to Rosebury for the
winter, to resume that sport of which he was a distinguished
amateur. He hunted in black during the ensuing season j and,
indeed, henceforth laid aside his splendid attire and his allures
as a young man. His waist expanded, or was no longer con-
fined by the cestus which had given it a shape. When he laid
aside his black, his whiskers, too, went into a sort of half-
mourning, and appeared in gray. " I make myself old, my
friend," he said, pathetically ; " I have no more neither twenty
years nor forty." He went to Rosebury Church no more ; but,
with great order and sobriety, drove every Sunday to the neigh-
boring Catholic chapel at C Castle. We had an ecclesi-
astic or two to dine with us at Rosebury, one of whom I am
inclined to think was Florae's director.

A reason, perhaps, for Paul's altered demeanor was the
presence of his mother at Rosebury. No politeness or respect
could be greater than Paul's towards the Countess. Had she
been a sovereign princess, Madame de Florae could not have
been treated with more profound courtesy than she now re-
ceived from her son. I think the humble-minded lady could
have dispensed with some of his attentions; but Paul was a
personage who demonstrated all his sentiments, and performed
his various parts in life with the greatest vigor. As a man of

7g2 THE XEWCOMES.

pleasure, for instance, what more active roue than he ? As a
jeune homme, who could be younger, and for a longer time ?
As a country gentleman, or an^w;;^ (T affaires, he insisted upon
dressing each character with the most rigid accuracy, and an
exactitude that reminded one somewhat of Boufte, or Ferville,
at the play. I wonder whether, when he is quite old," he will
think proper to wear a pigtail, like his old father ? At any rate,
that was a good part which the kind fellow was now acting, of
reverence towards his widowed mother, and affectionate respect
for her declining days. He not only felt these amiable senti-
ments, but he imparted them to his friends freely, as his wont
was. He used to weep freely, — quite unrestrained by the pres-
ence of the domestics, as English sentiment would be ; — and
when Madame de Florae quitted the room after dinner, would
squeeze my hand and tell me, with streaming eyes, that his
mother was an angel. " Her life has been but a long trial, my
friend," he would say. " Shall not I, who have caused her to
shed so many tears, endeavor to dry some ? " Of course, all
the friends who liked him best encouraged him in an intention
so pious.

The reader has already been made acquainted with this
lady by letters of hers, which came into my possession some
time after the events which I am at present narrating : my wife,
through our kind friend, Colonel Newcome, had also had the
honor of an introduction to Madame de Florae at Paris j and,
on coming to Rosebury for the Christmas holidays, I found
Laura and the children greatly in favor with the good Countess.
She treated her son's wife with a perfect though distant cour-
tesy. She was thankful to Madame de Montcontour for the
latters great goodness to her son. Familiar with but very few
persons, she could scarcely be intimate with her homely daugh-
ter-in-law. Madame de Montcontour stood in the greatest awe
of her ; and, to do that good lady justice, admired and rever-
enced Paul's mother with all her simple heart. In truth, I
think almost every one had a certain awe of Madame de Florae,
except children, who came to her trustingly, and, as it were, by
instinct. The habitual melancholy of her eyes vanished as they
lighted upon young faces and infantile smiles. A sweet love
beamed out of her countenance ; an angelic smile shone over
her face, as she bent towards them and caressed them. Her
demeanor then, nay, her looks and ways at other times ; — a cer-
tain gracious sadness, a sympathy with all grief, and pity for all
pain ; a gentle heart, yearning towards all children ; and, for
her own especially, feeling a love that was almost an anguish;

THE NEWCOMES.

7S3

in the affairs of the common world only a dignified acquies-
cence, as if her place was not in it, and her thoughts were in
her Home elsewhere ; — these qualities, which we had seen ex-
emplified in another life, Laura and her husband watched in
Madame de Florae, and we loved her because she was like our
mother. I see in such women — the good and pure, the patient
and faithful, the tried and meek — the followers of Him whose
earthly life was divinely sad and tender.

But, good as she was to us and to all, Ethel Newcome was
the French lady's greatest favorite. A bond of extreme tender-
ness and affection united these two. The elder friend made
constant visits to the younger at Newcome; and when Miss
Newcome, as she frequently did, came to Rosebury, we used to
see that they preferred to be alone, divining and respecting the
sympathy which brought those two faithful hearts together. I
can imagine now the two tall forms slowly pacing the garden
walks, or turning, as they lighted on the young ones in their
play. What was their talk ? I never asked it. Perhaps Ethel
never said what was in her heart, though, be sure, the other
knew it. Though the grief of those they love is untold, women
hear it ; as they soothe it with unspoken consolations. To see
the elder lady embrace her friend as they parted was something
holy — a sort of saint-like salutation.

Consulting the person from whom I had no secrets, we had
thought best at first not to mention to our friends the place
and position in which we had found our dear Colonel ; at least
to wait for a fitting opportunity on which we might break the
news to those who held him in such affection. I told howClive
was hard at work, and hoped the best for him. Good-natured
Madame de Montcontour was easily satisfied with my replies
to her questions concerning our friend. Ethel only asked if he
and her uncle were well, and once or twice made inquiries
respecting Rosey and her child. And now it was that my wife
told me, what I need no longer keep secret, of Ethel's extreme
anxiety to serve her distressed relatives, and how she, Laura,
had already acted as Miss Newcome's almoner in furnishing
and hiring those apartments which Ethel believed were occupied
by Clive and his father, and wife and child. And my wife far-
ther informed me with what deep grief Ethel had heard of her
uncle's misfortune and how, but that she feared to offend his
pride, she longed to give him assistance. She had even ventured
to offer to send him pecuniary help ; but the Colonel (who
never mentioned the circumstance to me or any other of his

7S4

THE NEIVCOMES.

friends), in a kind but very cold letter, had declined to be bo
holden to his niece for help.

So I may have remained some days at Rosebury, and the
real position of the two Xewcomes was unknown to our friends
there. Christmas Eve was come, and, according to a long-
standing promise, Ethel Xewcome and her two children had
arrived from the Park, which dreary mansion, since his double
defeat, Sir Barnes scarcely ever visited. Christmas was come,
and Rosebury Hall was decorated with holly. Florae did his
best to welcome his friends, and strove to make the meeting
gay, though in truth it was rather melancholy. The children,
however, were happy : they had pleasure enough, in the school
festival, in the distribution of cloaks and blankets to the poor,
and in Madame de Montcontour s gardens, delightful and beau-
tiful though winter was there.

It was only a family meeting, Madame de Florae's widow-
hood not permitting her presence in large companies. Paul
sat at his table between his mother and Mrs. Pendennis ; Mr.
Pendennis opposite to him with Ethel and Madame de Mont-
contour on each side. The four children were placed between
these personages, on whom Madame de Florae looked with her
tender glances, and to whose little wants the kindest of hosts
ministered with uncommon good-nature and affection. He was
very soft-hearted about children. " Pourquoi n'en avons-nous
pas, Jeanne ? He ! pourquoi n"en avons-nous pas ? " he said,
addressing his wife by her Christian name. The poor little lady
looked kindly at her husband, and then gave a sigh, and turned
and heaped cake upon the plate of the child next to her. Xo
mamma or aunt Ethel could interpose. It was a very light
wholesome cake. Brown made it on purpose for the children,
"the little darlings !'* cries the Princess.

The children were very happy at being allowed to sit up so
late to dinner, at all the kindly amusements of the day, at the
holly and mistletoe clustering round the lamps — the mistletoe,
under which the gallant Florae, skilled in all British usages,
vowed he would have his privilege. But the mistletoe was
clustered round the lamp, the lamp was over the centre of the
great round table — the innocent gratification which he proposed
to himself was denied to M. Paul.

In the greatest excitement and good-humor, our host at the
dessert made us des speech. He carried a toast to the charming
Ethel, another to the charming Mistriss Laura, another to his
good fren,' his brave frren', his !appy fren', Pendennis — 'appy
as possessor of such a wife, Jappy as writer of works destined

THE NEWCOMES. 735

to the immortality, &c, &c. The little children round about
clapped their happy little hands, and laughed and crowed in
chorus. And now the nursery and its guardians were about tc
retreat, when Florae said he had yet a speech, yet a toast — ana
he bade the butler pour wine into every one's glass — yet a
toast — and he carried it to the health of our dear friends, of
Clive and his father, — the good, the brave Colonel ! " We
who are happy," says he, "shall we not think of those who are
good ? We who love each other, shall we not remember those
whom we all love ? " He spoke with very great tenderness and
feeling. " Ma bonne mere, thou too shalt drink this toast ! "
he said, taking his mother's hand, and kissing it. She returned
his caress gently, and tasted the wine with her pale lips. Ethel's
head bent in silence over her glass ; and, as for Laura, need I
say what happened to her ? When the ladies went away my
heart was opened to my friend Florae, and I told him where
and how I had left my dear Clive's father.

The Frenchman's emotion on hearing this tale was such
that I have loved him ever since. Clive in want ! Why had
he not sent to his friend ? Grands Dieux ! Clive who had
helped him in his greatest distress. Clive's father, ce preux
chevalier, ce parfait gcntllhomme ! In a hundred rapid exclama-
tions Florae exhibited his sympathy, asking of Fate, why such
men as he and I were sitting surrounded by splendors — before
golden vases — crowned with flowers — with valets to kiss our
feet — (these were merely figures of speech in which Paul ex-
pressed his prosperity; — whilst our friend the Colonel, so much
better than we, spent his last days in poverty, and alone.

I liked my host none the less, I own, because that one of
the conditions of the Colonel's present life, which appeared
the hardest to most people, affected Florae but little. To be a
Pensioner of an Ancient Institution? Why not ? Might not
any officer retire without shame to the Invalides at the close of
his campaigns, and had not Fortune conquered our old friend,
and age and disaster overcome him ? It never once entered
Thomas Newcome's head, nor Clive's, nor Florae's, nor his
mother's, that the Colonel demeaned himself at all by accept-
ing that bounty; and I recollect Warrington sharing our senti-
ment and trolling out those noble lines of the old poet : —

" His golden locks Time hath to silrer turned ;

O Time too swift. O swiftness never ceasing
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,

But spurned in vain ; youth waneth by increasing.
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen.
Duty, faith, love, are routs, and ever green.

5°

736 THE XEIV COMES.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bee?.
And lovers' songs be turned to holy psalms ;

A man at arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are old age's alms."
* * • • •

These, I say. respected our friend, whatever was the coat
he wore : whereas, among the Colonel's own kinsfolk, dire was
the dismay, and indignation even, which they expressed when
they came to hear of this what they were pleased to call degra
dation to their family. Mrs. Hobson Xewcome, in subsequent
confidential communication with the writer of these memoirs,
improved the occasion religiously as her wont was ; referred
the matter to heaven too, and thought fit to assume that the
celestial powers had decreed this humiliation, this dreadful trial
for the Xewcome family, as a warning to them all that they
should not be too much puffed up with prosperity, nor set their
affections too much upon things of this earth. Had they not
already received one chastisement in Barnes's punishment, and
Lady Clara's awful falling away ? They had taught her a lesson,
which the Colonel's lamentable errors had confirmed, — the vanity
of trusting in all earthly grandeurs ! Thus it was this Worthy
woman plumed herself, as it were, on her relatives' misfor-
tunes ; and was pleased to think the latter were designed for
the special warning and advantage of her private family. But
M rs. Hobson's philosophy is only mentioned by the way. Our
story, which is drawing to its close, has to busy itself with other
members of the house of The Xewcomes.

My talk with Florae lasted for some time ; at its close,
when we went to join the ladies in the drawing-room, we found
Ethel cloaked and shawled, and prepared for her departure
with her young ones, who were already asleep. The little fes-
tival was over, and had ended in melancholy — even in weep-
ing. Our hostess sat in her accustomed seat by her lamp and
her work-table ; but neglecting her needle, she was having per-
petual recourse to her pocket-handkerchief, and uttering ejacu-
lations of pity between the intervals of her gushes of tears.
Madame de Florae was in her usual place, her head cast down-
wards, and her hands folded. My wife was at her side, a grave
commiseration showing itself in Laura's countenance, whilst I
read a yet deeper sadness in Ethel's pale face. Miss Xew-
come's carriage had been announced j the attendants had al-
ready carried the young ones asleep to the vehicle ; and she
was in the act of taking leave. We looked round at this dis-
turbed party, guessing very likely what the subject of their talk
had been, to which, however, Miss Ethel did not allude ; but,

THE XEWCOMES. 787

announcing that she had intended to depart without disturbing
the two gentlemen, she bade us farewell and good-night. " I
wish I could say merry Christmas," she added gravely, " but
none of us, I fear, can hope for that." It was evident that
Laura had told the last chapter of the Colonel's story.

Madame de Florae rose up and embraced Miss Newcome :
and, that farewell over, she sank back on the sofa exhausted,
and with such an expression of affliction in her countenance
that my wife ran eagerly towards her. "It is nothing, my
dear," she said, giving a cold hand to the younger lady, and
sat silent for a few moments, during which we heard Florae's
voice without, crying " Adieu ! " and the wheels of Miss New-
come's carriage as it drove away.

Our host entered a moment afterwards ; and remarking, as
Laura had done, his mother's pallor and look of anguish, went
up and spoke to her with the utmost tenderness and anxiety.

She gave her hand to her son, and a faint blush rose up
out of the past as it were, and trembled upon her wan cheek.
" He was the first friend I ever had in the world, Paul," she
said ; " the first and the best. He shall not want, shall he, my
son ? "

Xo signs of that emotion in which her daughter-in-law had
been indulging were as yet visible in Madame de Florae's eyes ;
but, as she spoke, holding her son's hand in hers, the tears at
length overflowed ; and, with a sob, her head fell forwards.
The impetuous Frenchman flung himself on his knees before
his mother, uttered a hundred words of love and respect for
he*, and with tears and sobs of his own called God to witness
that their friend should never want. And so this mother and
son embraced each other, and clung together in a sacred union
of love ; before which we who had been admitted as spectators
of that scene, stood hushed and respectful.

That night Laura told me how, when the ladies left us, their
talk had been entirely about the Colonel and Clive. Madame
de Florae had spoken especially, and much more freely than
was her wont. She had told many reminiscences of Thomas
Newcome and his early days ; how her father taught him math-
ematics when they were quite poor, and living in their dear
little cottage at Blackheath ; how handsome he was then, with
bright eyes, and long black hair flowing over his shoulders;
how military glory was his boyish passion, and he was forever
talking of India, and the famous deeds of Clive and Lawrence.
His favorite book was a history of India — the " History " of
Orme. "He read it, and I read it also, my daughter," the

7 88 THE AEWCOMES.

French lady said, turning to Ethel ; " ah ! I may say so after
so many years."

Ethel remembered the book as belonging to her grand-
mother, and now in the library at Newcome. Doubtless the
same sympathy which caused me to speak about Thomas New-
come that evening, impelled my wife likewise. She told her
friends, as I had told Florae, all the Colonel's story ; and it
was while these good women were under the impression of the
melancholy history, that Florae and his guest found them.

Retired to our rooms, Laura and I talked on the same sub-
ject until the clock tolled Christmas, and the neighboring
church bells rang out a jubilation. And, looking out into the
quiet night, where the stars were keenly shining, we committed
ourselves to rest with humbled hearts » praying, for ail those
we loved, a blessing of peace and good-will.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

THE SHORTEST AND HAPPIEST IN THE WHOLE HISTORY.

On the ensuing Christmas morning I chanced to rise be-
times, and entering my dressing-room, opened the windows, and
looked out on the soft landscape, over which mists were still
lying ; whilst the serene sky above, and the lawns and leafless
woods in the foreground near, were still pink with sunrise. The
gray had not even left the west yet. and I could see a star or
two twinkling there, to vanish with that twilight.

As I looked out, I saw the not very distant lodge gate open
after a brief parley, and a lady on horseback, followed by a ser-
vant, rode rapidly up to the house.

This early visitor was no other than Miss Ethel Newcome.
The young lady espied me immediately. " Come down ; come
down to me this moment, Mr. Pendennis," she cried out I
hastened down to her, supposing rightly that news of import-
ance had brought her to Rosebury so early.

The news was of importance indeed. " Look here ! " she
said, " read this ;" and she took a paper from the pocket of her
habit. " When I went home last night, after Madame de
Florae had been talking to us about Orme's ' India,' I took the
volumes from the book-case, and found this paper. It is in my
grandmother's — Mrs. Newcome's — handwriting ; I know it quite

THE NFAVCOMES. 789

well ; it is dated on the very clay of her death. She had been
writing and reading in her study on that very night ; I have
often heard papa speak of the circumstance. Look and read.
You are a lawyer, Mr. Pendennis ; tell me about this paper."

I seized it eagerly, and cast my eyes over it ; but having
read it, my countenance fell.

" My clear Miss Newcome, it is not worth a penny," I was
obliged to own.

" Yes, it is, sir, to honest people ! " she cried out. " My
brother and uncle will respect it as Mrs. Newcome's dying wish.
They must respect it."

The paper in question was a letter in ink that had grown
yellow from time, and was addressed by the late Mrs. Newcome
to " my dear Mr. Luce."

"That was her solicitor, my solicitor still," interposes Miss
Ethel.

" The Hermitage, March 14, 1S2 — .

" My dear Mr. Luce " (the defunct lady wrote) — " My late
husband's grandson has been staying with me lately, and is a
most pleasing, handsome, and engaging little boy. He bears a
strong likeness to his grandfather, I think ; and though he has
no claims upon me, and I know is sufficiently provided for by
his father, Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, C. B., of the East
India Company's Service, I am sure my late dear husband will
be pleased that I should leave his grandson, Clive Newcome, a
token of peace and good-will ; and I can do so with the more
readiness, as it has pleased heaven greatly to increase my means
since my husband was called away hence.

" I desire to bequeath a sum equal to that which Mr. New-
come willed to my eldest son, Brian Newcome, Esq., to Mr.
Newcome's grandson, Clive Newcome ; and furthermore, that a
token of my esteem and affection, a ring, or a piece of plate, of
the value of ^100, be given to Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas
Newcome, my stepson, whose excellent conduct for many rears,
and whose repeated acts of gallantry in the service yf'hU so?rr-
eign, have long obliterated the just feelings of displeasure with
which I could not but view his early disobedience and misbehavior,
before he quitted England against my will, and entered the
military service.

" I beg you to prepare immediately a codicil to my will, pro-
viding for the above bequests ; and desire that the amount of
these legacies should be taken from the property bequeathed
to my eldest son. You will be so good as to prepare the ne-

7o0 THE NEWCOMES.

cessary document, and bring it with you when you come, on
Saturday, to Yours very truly,

" Tuesday night. " Sophia Alethea Newcome."

I gave back the paper with a sigh to the finder. " It is but
a wish of Mrs. Newcome, my dear Miss Ethel," I said. " Par-
don me, if I say, I think I know your elder brother too well to
suppose that he will fulfil it."

" He will fulfil it, sir, I am sure he will," Miss Newcome
said, in a haughty manner. " He would do as much without
being asked, I am certain he would, did he know the depth
of my dear uncle's misfortune. Barnes is in London now,
and "

" And you will write him ? I know what the answer will
be."

M I will go to him this very day, Mr. Pendennis ! I will go
to my dear, dear uncle. I cannot bear to think of him in that
place," cried the young lady, the tears starting into her eyes.
" It was the will of heaven. Oh, God be thanked for it ! Had
we found my grandmamma's letter earlier, Barnes would have
paid the legacy immediately, and the money would have gone
in that dreadful bankruptcy. I will go to Barnes to-day. Will
you come with me ? Won't you come to your old friends ? We
may be at his, — at Clive's house this evening ; and oh, praise
be to God ! there need be no more want in his family."

" My dear friend, I will go with you round the world on such
an errand," I said, kissing her hand. How beautiful she looked !
the generous color rosein her face, her voice thrilled with happi-
ness. The music of Christmas church bells leaped up at this
moment with joyful gratulations ; the face of the old house, be-
fore which we stood talking, shone out in the morning sun.

"You will come ? thank you !. I must run and tell Madame
de Florae," cried the happy young lady, and we entered the
house together. " How came you to be kissing Ethel's hand,
sir ; and what is the meaning of this early visit ? " asks Mrs.
Laura, as soon as I had returned to my own apartments.

" Martha, get me a carpet-bag ! I am going to London in
an hour," cries Mr. Pendennis. If I. had kissed Ethel's hand
just now, delighted at the news which she brought to me, was
not one a thousand times dearer to me, as happy as her friend ?
I know who prayed with a thankful heart that day as we sped,
in the almost solitary train, towards London.

THE NEWCOMES. 79 1

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR GOES ON A PLEASANT ERRAND.

Before I parted with Miss Newcome at the station, she
made me promise to see her on the morrow at an early hour at
her brother's house ; and having bidden her farewell and re-
paired to my own solitary residence, which presented but a
dreary aspect on that festive day, I thought I would pay How-
land Street a visit ; and, if invited, eat my Christmas dinner
with Clive.

I found my friend at home, and at work still, in spite of the
day. He had promised a pair of pictures to a dealer for the
morrow. " He pays me pretty well, and I want all the money
he will give me, Pen," the painter said, rubbing on at his
canvas. "I am pretty easy in my mind since I have become
acquainted with a virtuous dealer. I sell myself to him, body
and soul, for some half-dozen pounds a week. I know I can
get my money, and he is regularly supplied with his pictures.
But for Rosey's illness we might carry on well enough.''

Rosey's illness? I was sorry to hear of that : and poor
Clive, entering into particulars, told me how he had spent upon
doctors rather more than a fourth of his year's earnings.
"There is a solemn fellow,* to whom the women have taken a
fancy, who lives but a few doors off in Gower Street ; and who,
for his last sixteen visits, has taken sixteen pounds sixteen
shillings out of my pocket with the most admirable gravity, and
as if the guineas grew there. He talks the fashions to my
mother-in-law. My poor wife hangs on every word he says —
Look ! There is the carriage coming up now ! and there is his
fee, confound him ! " says Clive, casting a rueful look towards
a little packet lying upon the mantel-piece, by the side of that
skinned figure in plaster of Paris which we have seen in most
studios.

I looked out of window and saw a certain Fashionable Doc-
tor tripping out of his chariot ; that Ladies' Delight, who has
subsequently migrated from Bloomsburyto Belgravia ; and who
has his polite foot now in a thousand nurseries and boudoirs.
What Confessors were in old times, Quackenboss and his like
are in our Protestant country. What secrets they know ! into
what mystic chambers do they not enter ! 1 suppose the Cam

792 THE XEIVCOMES.

paigner made a special toilette to receive her fashionable friena,
for that lady, attired in considerable splendor, and with the
precious jewel on her head, which I remembered at Boulogne,
came into the studio two minutes after the Doctor's visit was
announced ; and made him a low curtsey. I cannot describe
the overpowering civilities of that woman.

Clive was very gracious and humble to her. He adopted a
lively air in addressing her. H Must work, you know, Christmas
Day and all — for the owner of the pictures will call for them in
the morning. Bring me a good report about Rosey, Mrs. Mac-
kenzie, please — and if you will have the kindness to look by the
ecorche there, you will see that little packet which I have left for
you." Mrs. Mack, advancing, took the money. I thought that
plaster of Paris figure was not the only ecorche in the room.

" I want you to stay to dinner. You must stay, Pen, please,"
cried Clive : f1 and be civil to her, will you ? My dear old
father is coming to dine here. They fancy that he has lodgings
at the other end of the town, and that his brothers do some-
thing for him. Xot a word about Grey Friars. It might agitate
Rosey, you know. Ah ! isn't he noble, the dear old boy ! and
isn't it fine to see him in that place ? " Clive worked on as he
talked, using up the last remnant of the light of Christmas Day,
and was cleaning his palette and brushes, when Mrs. Mackenzie
returned to us.

Darling Rosey was very delicate, but Dr. Quackenboss was
going to give her the very same medicine which had done the
charming young Duchess of Clackmannanshire so much good,
and he was not in the least disquiet.

On this I cut into the conversation with anecdotes concern-
ing the family of the Duchess of Clackmannanshire, remember-
ing early days, when it used to be my sport to entertain the
Campaigner with anecdotes of the aristocracy, about whose
proceedings she still maintained a laudable curiosity. Indeed,
one of the few books escaped out of the wreck of Tyburn
Gardens was a " Peerage," now a well-worn volume, much read
by Rosey and her mother.

The anecdotes were very politely received — perhaps it was
•fhe season which made Mrs. Mack and son-in-law on more than
ordinarily good terms. When, turning to the Campaigner,
Clive said he wished that she could persuade me to stay to
dinner, she acquiesced graciously and at once in that proposal,
tnd vowed that her daughter would be delighted if I could con-
descend to eat their humble fare. " It is not such a dinner as
you have seen at her house, with six side dishes, two flanks.

THE XEWCOMES. 793

that splendid e'pergne, and the silver dishes top and bottom ;
but such as my Ro-sey has she offers with a willing //<?rt/Y," cries
\m Campaigner.

"And Tom may sit to dinner, mayn't he, grandmamma?"
asks Clive, in a humble voice.

"Oh, if you wish it, sir."

" His grandfather will like to sit by him," said Clive. " I
will go out and meet him; he comes through Guildford Street
and Russell Square/' says Clive. " Will you walk, Pen ? "

" On, prav don't let us detain you," says Mrs. Mackenzie,
with a toss ot her head : and when she retreated Clive whispered
that she would not want me ; for she looked to the roasting of
the beet and the making of the pudding and the mince-pie.

" I thought she might have a finger in it," I said ; and we
set forth to meet the dear old father, who presently came, walk-
ing very slowly, along the line by which we expected him. His
stick trembled as it fell on the pavement; so did his voice, as
he called out Clive's name : so did his hand, as he stretched
it to me. His body was bent, and feeble. Twenty years had
not weakened him so much as the last score of months. I
walked by the side of my two friends as they went onwards,
linked lovingly together. How I longed for the morrow, and
hoped they might be united once more ! Thomas Newcome's
voice, once so grave, went up to a treble, and became almost
childish, as he asked after Boy. His white hair hung over his
collar. I could see it by the gas under which we walked — and
Clive's great back and arm, as his father leaned on it, and his
brave face turned towards the old man. O Barnes Newcome,
Barnes Newcome ! Be an honest man for once, and help your
kinsfolk ! thought I.

The Christmas meal went off in a friendly manner enough.
The Campaigner's eyes were everywhere : it was evident that
the little maid who served the dinner, and had cooked a por-
tion of it under their keen supervision, cowered under them, as
well as other folks. Mrs. Mack did not make more than ten
allusions to former splendors during the entertainment, or half
as many apologies to me for sitting down to a table very differ-
ent from that to which I was accustomed. Good, faithful F.
Bayham was the only other guest. He complimented the mince-
pies, so that Mrs. Mackenzie owned she had made them. The
Colonel was very silent, but he tried to feed Boy, and was only
once or twice sternly corrected by the Campaigned. Boy, in
the best little words he could muster, asked why grandpapa
wore a black cloak ? CKve nudjred mv foot under the table.

794 THE NEWCOMES.

The secret of the Poor Brothership was very nearly out. The
Colonel blushed, and with great presence of mind said he wore
a cloak to keep him warm in winter.

Rosey did not say much. She had grown lean and languid :
the light of her eyes had gone out : all her pretty freshness
had faded. She ate scarce anything, though her mother pressed
her eagerly, and whispered loudly that a woman in her situa-
tion ought to strengthen herself. Poor Rosey was always in a
situation.

When the cloth was withdrawn, the Colonel bending his
head said, " Thank God for what we have received," so rever-
ently, and with an accent so touching, that Fred. Bayham's big
eyes as he turned towards the old man filled up with tears.
When his mother and grandmother rose to go away, poor little
Boy cried to stay longer, and the Colonel would have meekly
interposed, but the domineering Campaigner cried, " Nonsense,
let him go to bed ! " and flounced him out of the room : and
nobody appealed against that sentence. Then we four re-
mained, and strove to talk as cheerfully as we might, speaking
now of old times, and presently of new. Without the slightest
affectation, Thomas Newcome told us that his life was com-
fortable, and that he was happy in it. He wished that many
others of the old gentlemen, he said, were as contented as him-
self, but some of them grumbled sadly, he owned, and quar-
relled with their bread-and-butter. He, for his part, had every-
thing he could desire : all the officers of the establishment
were most kind to him ; an excellent physician came to him
when wanted ; a most attentive woman waited on him. "And
if I wear a black gown," said he, " is not that uniform as good
as another ? and if we have to go to church everyday, at which
some of the Poor Brothers grumble, I think an old fellow can't
do better ; and I can say my prayers with a thankful heart,
Clivy my boy, and should be quite happy but for my — for my —
for my past imprudence, God forgive me. Think of Bayham
here coming to our chapel to-day ! — he often comes — that was
very right, sir — very right."

Clive, filling a glass of wine, looked at F. B. with eyes that
said God bless you. F. B. gulped down another bumper.
" It is almost a merry Christmas," said I ; "and oh, I hope it
will be a happy New Year ! "

Shortly after nine o'clock the Colonel rose to depart, say-
ing he must be " in barracks " by ten ; and Clive and F. B.
went a part of the way with him. I would have followed them,
but Clive whispered me to stay, and talk to Mrs. Mack, for

THE NEWCOMES.

795

heaven's sake, and that he would be back ere long. So I went
and took tea with the two ladies ; and as we drank it, Mrs.
Mackenzie took occasion to tell me she did not know what
amount of income the Colonel had from his wealthy brother.
but that they never received any benefit from it ; and again she
computed to me all the sums, principal and interest, which
ought at that moment to belong to her darling Rosey. Rosey
now and again made a feeble remark. She did not seem
pleased or sorry when her husband came in ; and presently,
dropping me a little curtsey, went to bed under charge of the
Campaigner. So Bayham and I and Give retired to the studio,
where smoking was allowed, and where we brought that Christ-
mas day to an end.

At the appointed time on the next forenoon I called upon
Miss Newcome at her brother's house. Sir Barnes Newcome
was quitting his own door as I entered it, and he eyed me with
such a severe countenance, as made me augur but ill of the
business upon which I came. The expression of Ethel's face
was scarcely more cheering : she was standing at the window,
sternly looking at Sir Barnes, who yet lingered at his own
threshold, having some altercation with his cab-boy ere he
mounted his vehicle to drive into the City.

Miss Newcome was very pale when she advanced and gave
me her hand. I looked with some alarm into her face, and in-
quired what news ?

" It is as you expected, Mr. Pendennis," she said — " not as
I did. My brother is averse to making restitution. He just
now parted from me in some anger. But it does not matter ;
the restitution must be made, if not by Barnes, by one of our
family — must it not ? "

" God bless you for a noble creature, my dear, dear Miss
Newcome ! " was all I could say.

" For doing what is right ? Ought I not to do it ? I am
the eldest of our family after Barnes : I am the richest after
him. Our father left all his younger children the very sum of
money which Mrs. Newcome here devises to Clive ; and you
know, besides, I have all my grandmother's, Lady Kew's, prop-
erty. Why, I don't think I could sleep if this act of justice
were not done. Will you come with me to my lawyer's ? He
and my brother Barnes are trustees of my property ; and I
have been thinking, dear Mr. Pendennis — and you are very
good to be so kind, and to express so kind an opinion of me,
and you and Laura have always, always been the best friends
to me " — (she says this, taking one of my hands and placing

796 THE NEWCOMES.

her other hand over it) — " I have been thinking, you know,
that this transfer had better be made through Mr. Luce, you
understand, and as coming from the family, and then I need
not appear in it at all, you see ; and — and my dear good uncle's
pride need not be wounded." She fairly gave way to tears as
she spoke — and for me, I longed to kiss the hem of her robe,
or anything else she would let me embrace, I was so happy, and
«o touched by the simple demeanor and affection of the noble
young lady.

" Dear Ethel," I said, "did I not say I would go to the end
of the world with you — and won't I go to Lincoln's Inn ? "

A cab was straightway sent for, and in another half-hour we
were in the presence of the courtly little old Mr. Luce, in his
chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

He knew the late Mrs. Newcome's handwriting at once. He
remembered having seen the little boy at the Hermitage, had
talked with Mr. Xewcome regarding his son in India, and had
even encouraged Mrs. Xewcome in her idea of leaving some
token of good-will to the latter. " I was to have dined with
your grandmamma on the Saturday, with my poor wife. Why,
bless my soul ! I remember the circumstance perfectly well,
my dear young lady. There can't be a doubt about the letter,
but of course the bequest is no bequest at all, and Colonel
Xewcome has behaved so ill to your brother that I suppose Sir
Barnes will not go out of his way to benefit the Colonel."

•• What would you do. Mr. Luce ? " asks the young lady.

" Hm ! And pray why should I tell you what I should do
under the circumstances ? " replied the little lawyer. H Upon
my word, Miss X'ewcome. I think I should leave matters as
they stand. Sir Barnes and I, you are aware, are not the very
best of friends — as your father's, your grandmother's old friend
and adviser, and your own too, my dear young lady, I and Sir
Barnes Xewcome remain on civil terms. But neither is over-
much pleased with the other, to say the truth ; and, at any rate,
I cannot be accused — nor can any one else that I know of — of
being a very warm partisan of your brother's. But candidly, were
his case mine — had I a relation who called me unpleasant
names, and threatened me I don't know with what, with sword
and pistol — who had put me to five or six thousand pounds'
expense in contesting an election which I had lost, — I should
give him, I think, no more than the law obliged me to give him ,*
and that my dear Miss X'ewcome, is not one farthing."

" I am very glad you say so," said Miss X'ewcome, rather to
\ny astonishment.

THE NEWCOMES.

797

41 Of course, my dear young lady ; and so you need not be
alarmed at showing your brother this document. Is not that
the point about which you came to consult me ? You wished
that I should prepare him for the awful disclosure, did you not ?
You know, perhaps, that he does not like to part with his
money, and thought the appearance of this note might agitate
him ? It has been a long time coming to his address, but
nothing can be done, don't you see ? and be sure Sir Barnes
Newcome will not be the least agitated when I tell him its con-
tents."

" I mean I am very glad you think my brother is not called
upon to obey Mrs. Newcome's wishes, because I need not think
so hardly of him as I was disposed to do," Miss Newcome said.
" I showed him the paper this morning, and he repelled it with
scorn ; and not kind words passed between us, Mr. Luce, and
unkind thoughts remained in my mind. But if he, you think,
is justified, it is I who have been in the wrong for saving that
he was self — for upbraiding him as I own I did."

" You called him selfish ! — You had words with him ! Such
things have happened before, my dear Miss Newcome, in the
best-regulated families."

u But if he is not wrong, sir, holding his opinions, surely I
should be wrong, sir, with mine, not to do as my conscience
tells me ; and having found this paper only yesterday at New-
come, in the library there, in one of my grandmother's books, I
consulted with this gentleman, the husband of my dearest
friend, Mrs. Pendennis — the most intimate friend of my uncle
and cousin Clive ; and I wish, and I desire and insist, that my
share of what my poor father left us girls should be given to
my cousin, Mr. Clive Newcome, in. accordance with my grand-
mother's dying wishes."

" My dear, you gave away your portion to your brothers
and sisters ever so long ago ! " cried the lawyer.

" I desire, sir, that six thousand pounds maybe given to my
cousin," Miss Newcome said, blushing deeply. " My dear uncle,
the best man in the world, whom I love with all my heart, sir,
is in the most dreadful poverty. Do you know where he is,
sir? My dear, kind, generous uncle!" — and, kindling as she
spoke, and with eyes beaming a bright kindness, and Hushing
cheeks, and a voice that thrilled to the heart of those two who
heard her, Miss Newcome went on to tell of her uncle's and
cousin's misfortunes, and of her wish, under God, to relieve
them. I see before me now the figure of the noble girl as she
speaks ; the pleased little old lawyer, bobbing his white head

79S THE XEWCOMES.

looking up at her with his twinkling eyes — patting his knees,
patting his snuff-box — as he sits before his tapes and his deeds,
surrounded by a great background of tin boxes.

" And I understand you want this money paid as coming
from the family, and not from Miss Newcome ? " says Mr
Luce.

" Coming from the family — exactly " — answers Miss New-
come.

Mr. Luce rose up from his old chair — his worn-out old
horse-hair chair — where he had sat for half a century and lis-
tened to many a speaker very different from this one. " Mr.
Pendennis," he said, " I envy you your journey along with this
young lady. I envy you the good news you are going to carry
to your friends — and Miss Newcome, as I am an old — old gen-
tleman who have known your family these sixty years, and saw
your father in his long-clothes, may I tell you how heartily and
sincerely I — I love and respect you, my dear ? When should
you wish Mr. Clive Newcome to have his legacy ? u

" I think I should like Mr. Pendennis to have it this instant,
Mr. Luce, please,'' said the young lady — and her veil dropped
over her face as she bent her head down, and clasped her
hands together for a moment, as if she were praying.

Mr. Luce laughed at her impetuosity ; but said that if she
was bent upon having the money, it was at her instant service :
and, before we left the room, Mr. Luce prepared a letter, ad-
dressed to Clive Newcome, Esquire, in which he stated, that
amongst the books of the late Mrs. Newcome a paper had
only just been found, of which a copy was enclosed, and that
the family of the late Sir Brian Newcome, desirous to do hon-
or to the wishes of the late Mrs. Newcome, had placed the
sum of 6,000/. at the bank of Messrs. H. W . at the dis-
posal of Mr. Clive Newcome, of whom Mr. Luce had the honor
to sign himself the most obedient servant, &c. And, the letter
approved and copied. Mr. Luce said Mr. Pendennis might be
the postman thereof, if Miss Newcome so willed it ; and, with
this document in my pocket, I quitted the lawyer's chambers,
with my good and beautiful young companion.

Our cab had been waiting several hours in Lincoln's Inn
Fields, and I asked Miss Ethel whither I now should conduct
her?

" Where is Grey Friars ? " she said. " Mayn't I go to see
my uncle ? "

THE NEWCOMES. 799

CHAPTER LXXIX.

IN WHICH OLD FRIENDS COME TOGETHER.

We made the ascent of Snowhill, we passed by the miry
pens of Smithfield ; we travel through the street of St. John,
and presently reach the ancient gateway, in Cistercian Square,
where lies the old Hospital of Grey Friars. I passed through
the gate, my fair young companion on my arm, and made my
way to the rooms occupied by Brother Xewcome.

As we traversed the court the Poor Brothers were coming
from dinner. A couple of score, or more, of old gentlemen in
black gowns, issued from the door of their refectory, and sep-
arated over the court, betaking themselves to their chambers.
Ethel's arm trembled under mine as she looked at one and an-
other, expecting to behold her dear uncle's familiar features.
But he was not among the brethren. We went to his chamber,
of which the door was open : a female attendant was arranging
the room ; she told us Colonel Newcome was out for the day,
and thus our journey had been made in vain.

Ethel went round the apartment and surveyed its simple
decorations ; she looked at the pictures of Clive and his boy :
the two sabres crossed over the mantel-piece, the Bible laid
on the table, by the old latticed window. She walked slowly
up to the humble bed, and sat down on a chair near it. No
doubt her heart prayed for him who slept there j she turned
round where his black Pensioner's cloak was hanging on the
wall, and lifted up the homely garment, and kissed it. The
servant looked on, admiring, I should think, her melancholy
and her gracious beauty. I whispered to the woman that the
young lady was the Colonel's niece. " He has a son who
comes here, and is very handsome, too," said the attendant.

The two women spoke together for a while. " Oh, miss ! .
cried the elder and humbler, evidently astonished at some
gratuity which Miss Xewcome bestowed upon her, " I didn't
want this to be good to him. Everybody here loves him for
himself; and I would sit up for him for weeks — that I would.''

My companion took a pencil from her bag and wrote
" Ethel " on a piece of paper, and laid the paper on the Bible.
Darkness had again fallen by this time ; feeble lights were
twinkling in the chamber windows of the Poor Brethren, as we

800 THE NEWCOMES.

issued into the courts j — feeble lights illumining a dim, gra)
melancholy old scene. Many a career, once bright, was flick-
ering out here in the darkness ; many a night was closing in.
We went away silently from that quiet place; and in another
minute were in the flare and din and tumult of London.

" The Colonel is most likely gone to Clive's," I said. Would
not Miss Newcome follow him thither ? We consulted whether
she should go. She took heart and said " yes." " Drive, cab-
man, to Howland Street ! " The horse was, no doubt, tired,
for the journey seemed extraordinary long : I think neither of
us spoke a word on the way.

I ran up stairs to prepare our friends for the visit. Clive,
his wife, his father, and his mother-in-law were seated by a dim
light in Mrs. Clive's sitting-room. Rosey on the sofa, as usual;
the little boy on his grandfather's knees.

I hardly made a bow to the ladies, so eager was I to com-
municate with Colonel Xewcome. " I have just been to your
quarters at Grey Friars, sir," said I. " That is "

" You have been to the Hospital, sir ! You need not be
ashamed to mention it, as Colonel Newcome is not ashamed
to go there" cried out the Campaigner. "Pray speak in your
own language, Clive, unless there is something not Jit for ladies
to hear." Clive was growling out to me in German that there
had just been a terrible scene, his father having, a quarter of
an hour previously, let slip the secret about Grey Friars.

" Say at once, Clive ! the Campaigner cried, rising in her
might, and extending a great strong arm over her helpless
child, "that Colonel Newcome owns that he has gone to live
as a pauper in a hospital ! He who has squandered his own
money — he who has squandered my money — he who has
squandered the money of that darling helpless child — compose
yourself, Rosey my love ! — has completed the disgrace of the
family, by his present mean and unworthy — yes, I say mean
and unworthy and degraded conduct. Oh, my child, my blessed
child ! to think that your husband's father should have come
to a workhouse .'" Whilst this maternal agony bursts over her,
Rosey, on the sofa, bleats and whimpers amongst the faded
chintz cushions.

I took Clive's hand, which was cast up to his head striking
his forehead, with mad impotent rage, whilst this fiend of a
woman lashed his good father. The veins of his great fist were
swollen, his whole body was throbbing and trembling with the
helpless pain under which he writhed. " Colonel Newcome's
friends, ma'am,'' Isaid, "think very differently from you ; and

THE NEWCOMES. 80 1

that he is a better judge than you, or any one else, of bis own
honor. We all, who loved him in his prosperity, love and re-
spect him more than ever for the manner in which he beais his
misfortune. Do you suppose that his noble friend, the Earl ol

H , would have counselled him to a step unworthy of a

gentleman ; that the Prince de Montcontour would applaud his
conduct as he does if he did not think it admirable ? " I can
hardly say with what scorn I used this argument, or what depth
of contempt I felt for the woman whom I knew it would influ-
ence. " And at this minute," I added, " I have come from
visiting the Grey Friars with one of the Colonel's relatives,
whose love and respect for him is boundless ; who longs to be
reconciled to him, and who is waiting below, eager to shake his
hand, and embrace Clive's wife."

" Who is that ? " says the Colonel, looking gently up, as he
pats Boy's head.

" Who is it, Pen ? " says Clive. I said in a low voice
" Ethel ; " and starting up and crying " Ethel ! Ethel ! " he ran
from the room.

Little Mrs. Rosey started up too on her sofa, clutching hold
of the table-cover with her lean hand, and the two red spots on
her cheeks burning more fiercely than ever. I could see what
passion was beating in that poor little heart. Heaven help us !
what a resting-place had friends and parents prepared for it!

" Miss Newcome, is it ? My darling Rosey, get on your
shawl ! " cried the Campaigner, a grim smile lighting her face.

" It is Ethel \ Ethel is my niece. I used to love her when
she was quite a little girl," says the Colonel, patting Boy on the
head ; " and she is a very good, beautiful little child — a very
goo:l child." The torture had been too much for that kind old
heart: there were times when Thomas Newcome passed be
yond it. What still maddened Clive, excited his father no
more ; the pain yonder woman inflicted, only felled and stupe
ned him.

\ the door opened, the little white-headed child trotted
forward towards the visitor, and Ethel entered on Clive's arm,
who was as haggard and pale as death. Little Boy, looking up
at the stately lady, still followed beside her, as she approached
her uncle, who remained sitting, his head bent to the ground.
His thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed, he was following the
child, and about to caress it again.

" Here is a friend, father!" says Clive. laying a hand on
the old man's shoulder. "It is i, Ethel, uncle!" the young
lady said, taking his hand ; and kneeling down between his

C T

8o2 THE NEWCOMES.

knees, she flung her arms round him, and kissed him, and wept
on his shoulder. His consciousness had quite returned ere an
instant was over. He embraced her with the warmth of his
old affection, uttering many brief words of love, kindness, and
tenderness, such as men speak when strongly moved.

The little boy had come wondering up to the chair whilst
this embrace took place, and Clive's tall figure bent over the
three. Rosey's eyes were not good to look at, as she stared at
the group with a ghastly smile. Mrs. Mackenzie surveyed the
scene in haughty state, from behind the sofa cushions. She
tried to take one of Rosey's lean hot hands. The poor child
tore it away, leaving her ring behind her ; lifted her hands to
her face : and cried — cried as if her little heart would break.
Ah, me ! what a story was there ; what an outburst of pent-up
feeling ! what a passion of pain ! The ring had fallen to the
ground ; the little boy crept towards it, and picked it up, and
came towards his mother, fixing on her his large wondering
eyes. " Mamma crying. Mamma's ring ! " he said, holding
up the circle of gold. With more feeling than I had ever seen
her exhibit, she clasped the boy in her wasted arms. Great
heaven ! what passion, jealousy, grief, despair, were tearing and
trying all these hearts, that but for fate might have been happy.

Clive went round, and with the utmost sweetness and ten-
derness hanging round his child and wife, soothed her with
words of consolation, that in truth I scarce heard, being
ashamed almost of being present at this sudden scene. No
one, however, took notice of the witnesses ; and even Mrs.
Mackenzie's voice was silent for the moment. I dare say
Clive's words were incoherent ; but women have more presence
of mind ; and now Ethel, with a noble grace which I cannot
attempt to describe, going up to Rosey, seated herself by her,
spoke of her long grief at the differences between her dearest
uncle and herself ; of her early days, when he had been as a
father to her • of her wish, her hope that Rosey should love
her as a sister; and of her belief that better days and happi-
ness were in store for them all. And she spoke to the mother
about her boy so beautiful and intelligent, and told her how she
had brought up her brother's children, and hoped that this one
too would call her Aunt Ethel. She would not stay now, might
she come again ? Would Rosey come to her with her little
boy ? Would he kiss her ? He did so with a very good
grace ; but when Ethel at parting embraced the child's mother,
Rosey's face wore a smile ghastly to look at and the lips that
touched Ethel's cheeks were quite white.

THE XEWCOMES. 803

"I shall come and see you again to-morrow, uncle, may I
not ? I saw your room to-day, sir, and your housekeeper ; such
a nice old lady, and your black gown. And you shall put it on
to-morrow, and walk with me, and show me the beautiful old
buildings of the old hospital. And I shall come and make tea
for you, the housekeeper says I may. Will you come down
with me to my carriage ? No, Mr. Pendennis must come;"
and she quitted the room, beckoning me after her. " You
will speak to Give now, won't you ? " she said, "and come to
me this evening, and tell me all before you go to bed ? " I
went back, anxious in truth to be the messenger of good tidings
to my dear old friends.

Brief as my absence had been, Mrs. Mackenzie had taken
advantage of that moment again to outrage Clive and his father,
and to announce that Rosey might go to see this Miss New-
come, whom people respected because she was rich, but whom
she would never visit , no, never ! ~ An insolent, proud, imper-
tinent thing ! Does she take me for a housemaid ? " Mrs.
Mackenzie had inquired. " Am I dust to be trampled beneath
her feet ? Am I a clog that she can't throw me a word ? " Her
arms were stretched out, and she was making this inquiry as to
her own canine qualities as I re-entered the room, and remem-
bered that Ethel had never once addressed a single word to
Mrs. Mackenzie in the course of her visit.

I affected not to perceive the incident, and presently said
that I wanted to speak to Clive in his studio. Knowing that I
had brought my friend one or two commissions for drawings,
Mrs. Mackenzie was civil to me, and did not object to our
colloquies.

" Will you come too, and smoke a pipe, father ? " says
Clive.

" Of course your father intends to stay to dinner] " says the
Campaigner, with a scornful toss of her head. Clive groaned
out as we were on the stair, " that he could not bear this much
longer, by heavens he could not."

•(iive the Colonel his pipe, Clive," said I. " Now, sir,
down with you in the sitters' chair, and smoke the sweetest
cheroot you ever smoked in your life ! My dear, dear old Clive !
you need not bear with the Campaigner any longer ; you may
go to bed without this nightmare to-night if you like ; you may
have your father back under your roof again."

" My dear Arthur ! I must be back at ten, sir, back at ten,
military time ; drum beats ; no — bell tolls at ten, and gates
close ; " and he laughed and shook his old head. " Besides, I

804 THE NEWCOMES.

am to see a young lady, sir ; and she is coming to make tea
for me, and I must speak to Mrs. Jones to have all things read)*
— all things ready ; " and again the old man laughed as he
spoke.

His son looked at him and then at me with eyes full of sad
meaning. "How do you mean, Arthur," Clive said, "that he
can come and stay with me, and that that woman can go ? "

Then feeling in my pocket for Mr. Luce's letter, I grasped my
dear Clive by the hand and bade him prepare for good news.
I told him how providentially, twro days. since, Ethel, in the
library at Newcome, looking into Orme's " History of India," a
book which old Mrs. Newcome had been reading on the night
of her death, had discovered a paper, of which the accompany-
ing letter enclosed a copy, and I gave my friend the letter.

He opened it, and read it through. I cannot say that I saw
any particular expression of wonder in his countenance, for
somehow, all the while Clive perused this document, I was look-
ing at the Colonel's sweet kind face. " It — it is Ethel's doing,"
said Clive, in a hurried voice. " There was no such letter."

" Upon my honor," I answered, "there was. We came up
to London with it last night, a few hours after she had found
it. We showed it to Sir Barnes Newcome, who — who could not
disown it. We took it to Mr. Luce, who recognized it at once,
who was old Mrs. Newcome's man of business, and continues
to be the family lawyer i and the family recognizes the legacy
and has paid it, and you may draw for it to-morrow, as you see.
What a piece of good luck it is that it did not come before the
B. B. C. time. That confounded Bundlecund Bank would have
swallowed up this, like all the rest."

" Father ! father ! do you remember Orme's ' History of
India ? ' " cries Clive.

" Orme's ' History ! ' of course I do ; I could repeat whole
pages of it when I was a boy," says the old man, and began
forthwith. " ' The two battalions advanced against each other
cannonading, until the French, coming to a hollow way, imagined
that the English would not venture to pass it. But Major Law-
rence ordered the sepoys and artillery — the sepoys and artillery
to halt and defend the convoy against the Morattoes ' — Morat-
toes Orme calls 'em. Ho ! ho ! I could repeat whole pages,
sir."

" It is the best book that ever was written," calls out Clive.
The Colonel said he had not read it, but he was informed Mr.
Mill's was a very learned history ; he intended to read it. " Eh 1
there is plenty of time now," said the good Colonel. " I have

THE KEWCOMES. 805

all day long at Grey Friars, — after chapel, you know. Do you
know, sir, when I was a boy I used what they call to tib out
and run down to a public-house in Cistercian Lane — the ' Red
Cow,' sir, — and buy rum there ? I was a terrible wild boy,
Clivy. You weren't so, sir, thank heaven! A terrible wild
boy, and my poor father flogged me, though I think it was very
hard on me. It wasn't the pain, you know : it wasn't the pain,
but * * * " Here tears came into his eyes and he dropped
his head on his hand, and the cigar fell from it on to the floor,
burnt almost out, and scattering white ashes.

Clive looked sadly at me. " He was often so at Boulogne,
Arthur," he whispered ; " after a scene with that — that woman
yonder, his head would go : he never replied to her taunts : he
bore her infernal cruelty without an unkind word — Oh ! 1 can
pay her back, thank God, I can pay her ! But who shall pay
her," he said, trembling in every limb, "for what she has made
that good man suffer ? "

He turned to his father, who still sat lost in his meditations.
" You need never go back to Grey Friars, father ! " he cried
out.

" Not go back, Clivy ? Must go back, boy, to say Adsum
when my name is called. ' Newcome ! ' 'Adsum !' Hey ! that
is what we used to say — we used to say ! "

" You need not go back, except to pack your things, and
return and live with me and Boy," Clive continued, and he told
Colonel Newcome rapidly the story of the legacy. The old
man seemed hardly to comprehend it. When he did, the news
scarcely elated him 5 wrier. Clive said " they could now pay
Mrs. Mackenzie," the Colonel replied, " Quite right, quite
right," and added up the sum, principal and interest, in which
they were indebted to her — he knew it well enough, the good
old man. " Of course we shall pay her, Clivy, when we can ! "
But in spite of what Clive had said he did not appear to under-
stand the fact, that the debt to Mrs. Mackenzie was now
actually to be paid.

As we were talking, a knock came to the studio door, and
that summons was followed by the entrance of the maid, who
said to Clive, " If you please, sir, Mrs. Mackenzie says, how
long are you a going to keep the dinner waiting ? "

" Come, father, come to dinner ! " cries Clive ; " and, Pen,
you will come too, won't you ? " he added ; " it may be the last
time you dine in such pleasant company. Come along," he
whispered hurriedly. " I should like you to be there, it will
keep her tongue quiet." As we proceeded to the dining-room,

806 THE NEWCOMES.

I gave the Colonel my arm ; and the good man prattled to me
something about Mrs. Mackenzie having taken shares in the
Bundlecund Banking Company, and about her not being a
woman of business, and fancying we had spent her money.
"And I have always felt a wish that Clivy should pay her, and
he will pay her, I know he will," says the Colonel ; " and then
we shall lead a quiet life, Arthur ; for, between ourselves, some
women are the deuce when they are angry, sir." And again
he laughed, as he told me this sly news, and he bowed meekly
his gentle old head as we entered the dining-room.

That apartment was occupied by little Boy already seated
in his high chair, and by the Campaigner only, who stood at
the mantel-piece in a majestic attitude. On parting with her,
before we adjourned to Clive's studio, I had made my bow and
taken my leave in form, not supposing that I was about to
enjoy her hospitality yet once again. My return did not seem
to please her. " Does Mr. Pendennis favor us with his com-
pany to dinner again, Clive ? " she said, turning to her son-in-law.
Clive curtly said, " Yes ; he had asked Mr. Pendennis to stay."

" You might at least have been so kind as to give me notice,"
says the Campaigner, still majestic, but ironical. "You will
have but a poor meal, Mr. Pendennis ; and one such as I am
not accustomed to give my guests."

" Cold beef ! what the deuce does it matter ? " says Clive,
beginning to carve the joint, which, hot, had served our
yesterday's Christmas table.

" It does matter, sir ! I am not accustomed to treat my
guests in this way. Maria ! who has been cutting that beef ?
Three pounds of that beef have been cut away since one
o'clock to-day ; " and with flashing eyes, and a finger twinkling
all over with rings, she pointed towards the guilty joint.

Whether Maria had been dispensing secret charities, or
kept company with an occult policeman partial to roast beef, I
do not know ; but she looked very much alarmed, and said,
" Indeed, and indeed, Mum, she had not touched a morsel of
it !— not she."

" Confound the beef ! " says Clive, carving on.

" She has been cutting it ! " cries the Campaigner, bringing
her first down with a thump upon the table. " Mr. Pendennis !
you saw the beef yesterday ; eighteen pounds it weighed, and
this is what comes up of it ! As if there was not already ruin
•nough in the house ! "

" D n the beef ! " cries out Clive.

" No ! no ! Thank God for our good dinner ! BenedictI

THE NEWCOMES. 807

benedicamus, Clivy my boy," says the Colonel, in a tremulous
voice.

" Swear on, sir ! let the child hear your oaths ! Let my
blessed child, who is too ill to sit at table and picks her bit of
sweetbread on her sofa, — which her poor mother prepares for
her, Mr. Pendennis, — which I cooked it, and gave it to her with
these hands, — let her hear your curses and blasphemies, Clive
Newcome ! They are loud enough."

" Do let us have a quiet life," groans out Clive ; and for me,
I confess, I kept my eyes steadily down upon my plate, nor
dared to lift them, until my portion of' cold beef had vanished.

No farther outbreak took place, until the appearance of
the second course ; which consisted, as the ingenious reader
may suppose, of the plum-pudding, now in a grilled state, and
the remanent mince-pies from yesterday's meal. Maria, I
thought, looked particularly guilty, as these delicacies were
placed on the table : she set them down hastily, and was for
operating an instant retreat.

But the Campaigner shrieked after her, " Who has eaten
that pudding ? I insist upon knowing who has eaten it. I saw
it at two o'clock when I went down to the kitchen and fried a
bit for my darling child, and there's pounds of it gone since
then ! There were five mince-pies ! Mr. Pendennis ! you saw
yourself there were five went away from table yesterday — where's
the other two, Maria ? You leave the house this night, you
thieving, wicked wretch — and I'll thank you to come back to
me afterwards for a character. Thirteen servants have we had
in nine months, Mr. Pendennis, and this girl is the worst of
them all, and the greatest liar and the greatest thief."

At this charge the outraged Maria stood up in arms, and as
the phrase is, gave the Campaigner as good as she got. Go !
wouldn't she go ? Pay her her wages, and let her go out of
that 'ell upon hearth, was Maria's prayer. "It isn't you, sir,"
she said, turning to Clive. " You are good enough, and works
hard enough to git the guineas which you give out to pay that
Doctor ; and she don't pay him — and I see five of them in her
purse wrapped up in paper, myself I did, and she abuses you
to him — and I heard her, and Jane Black, who was here before,
told me she heard her. Go ! won't I just go, I despises your
puddens and pies ! " and with a laugh of scorn this rude Maria
snapped her black fingers in the immediate vicinity of the
Campaigner's nose.

" I will pay her her wages, and she shall go this instant 1 "
says Mrs. Mackenzie, taking her purse out.

80S THE NEWCOMES.

M Pay me with them suwerings that you have got in it,
wrapped up in paper. See if she haven't, Mr. Newcome," the
refractory waiting-woman cried out, and again she laughed a
strident laugh.

Mrs. Mackenzie briskly shut her portemonnaie, and rose
up from table, quivering with indignant virtue. " Go ! " she
exclaimed, " go and pack your trunks this instant ! you quit
the house this night, and a policeman shall see to your boxes
before you leave it ! "

Whilst uttering this sentence against the guilty Maria, the
Campaigner had intended, no doubt, to replace her purse in
her pocket, — a handsome filigree gimcrack of poor Rosey's,
one of the relics of former splendors, — but, agitated by Maria's
insolence, the trembling hand missed the mark, and the purse
fell to the ground.

Maria dashed at the purse in a moment, with a scream of
laughter shook its contents upon the table, and sure enough,
five little packets wrapped in paper rolled out upon the cloth,
besides bank-notes and silver and gold coin. " I'm to go, am
I ? I'm a thief, am I ? " screamed the girl, clapping her hands.
/ sor 'em yesterday when I was a-lacing of her ; and thought
of that pore young man working night and day to get the
money ; — me a thief, indeed ! — I despise you, and 1 give you
warning."

" Do you wish to see me any longer insulted by this woman,
Clive ? Mr. Pendennis, I am shocked that you should witness
such horrible vulgarity," cries the Campaigner, turning to her
guest. " Does the wretched creature suppose that I — I who
have given thousands, I who have denied myself everything, I
-who have spent my all in support of this house ; and Colonel
Newcome knows whether I have given thousands or not, and
li'ho has spent them, and wlio has been robbed, I say, and "

" Here ! you ! Maria ! go about your business," shouted
out Clive Newcome, starting up ; "go and pack your trunks if
you like, and pack this woman's trunks too. Mrs. Mackenzie,
i can bear you no more ; go in peace, and if you wish to see
your daughter she shall come to you ; but I will never, so help
me God ! sleep under the same roof with you ; or break the
same crust with you; or bear your infernal cruelty; or sit to
hear my father insulted ; or listen to your wicked pride and
folly more. There has not been a day since you thrust your
cursed foot into our wretched house, but you have tortured one
and all of us. Look here, at the best gentleman, and the kind-
est heart in all the world, you fiend ! and see to what a condi-

THE NEWCOMES. %or)

tion you have brought him ! Dearest father ! she is going, do
you hear ? She leaves us, and you will come back to me, won't
you ? Great God, woman, " he gasped out, " do you know whai
you have made me suffer — what you have done to this good
man ? Pardon, father, pardon ! " — and he sank down by his
father's side, sobbing with passionate emotion. The old man
even now did not seem to comprehend the scene. When he
heard that woman's voice in anger, a sort of stupor came over
him.

" I am a fiend, am I ? " cries the lady. " You hear, Mr.
Pendennis, this is the language to which I am accustomed ; I
am a widow, and I trusted my child and my all to that old
man J he robbed me and my darling of almost every farthing
we had ; and what has been my return for such baseness ? I
have lived in this house and toiled like a slave ; I have acted
as servant to my blessed child ; night after night I have sat
with her ; and month after month, when her husband has been
away, I have nursed that poor innocent ; and the father having
robbed me, the son turns me out of doors ! "

A sad thing it was to witness, and a painful proof how fre-
quent were these battles, that, as this one raged, the poor little
boy sat almost careless, whilst his bewildered grandfather
stroked his golden head ! " It is quite clear to me, madam," I
said, turning to Mrs. Mackenzie, "that you and your son-in-law
are better apart ; and I came to tell him to-day of a most for-
tunate legacy, which has just been left to him, and which will
enable him to pay you to-morrow morning every shilling, every
shilling which he does not owe you."

" I will not leave this house until I am paid ever}' shilling
of which I have been robbed," hissed out Mrs. Mackenzie ; and
she sat down folding her arms across her chest.

" I am sorry," groaned out Clive, wiping the sweat off his
brow, " I used a harsh word ; I will never sleep under the same
roof with you. To-morrow I will pay you what you claim ; and
the best chance I have of forgiving you the evil which you have
done me, is that we should never meet again. Will you give me
a bed at your house, Arthur? Father, will you come out and
walk ? Good-night, Mrs. Mackenzie ; Pendennis will settle
with you in the morning. You will not be here, if you pK
when I return ; and so God forgive you, and farewell."

Mrs. Mackenzie in a tragic manner dashed aside the hand
which poor Clive held out to her, and disappeared from the
scene of this dismal dinner, ftoy presently fell a crying ; in
spite of all the battle and fury, there was sleep in his eyes.

gIO THE NEWCOMES.

" Maria is too busy, I suppose, to put him to bed," said
Clive, with a sad smile ; " shall we do it, father ? Come, Tommy
my son ! " and he folded his arms round the child, and walked
with him to the upper regions. The old man's eyes lighted
up ; his scared thoughts returned to him ; he followed his two
children up the stairs, and saw his grandson in his little bed ;
and, as we walked home with him, he told me how sweetly Boy
said "Our Father," and prayed God bless all those who loved
him, as they laid him to rest.

So these three generations had joined in that supplication :
the strong man, humbled by trial and grief, whose loyal heart
was yet full of love ; — the child, of the sweet age of those little
ones whom the Blessed Speaker of the prayer first bade to
come unto Him j — and the old man, whose heart was wellnigh
as tender and as innocent \ and whose day was approaching,
when he should be drawn to the bosom of the Eternal Pity.

CHAPTER LXXX.

IN WHICH THE COLONEL SAYS " ADSUM WHEN HIS NAME IS

CALLED.

The vow which Clive had uttered, never to share bread
with his mother-in-law, or sleep under the same roof with her,
was broken on the very next day. A stronger will than the
young man's intervened, and he had to confess the impotence
of his wrath before that superior power. In the forenoon of
the day following that unlucky dinner, I went with my friend
to the' banking-house whither Mr. Luce's letter directed us,
and carried away with me the principal sum, in which the Cam-
paigner said Colonel Newcome was indebted to her, with the
interest accurately computed and reimbursed. Clive went off
with a pocketful of money to the dear old Poor Brother of
Grey Friars ; and he promised to return with his father, and
dine with my wife in Queen Square. I had received a letter
from Laura by the morning's post, announcing her return by
the express train from Newcome, and desiring that a spare
bedroom should be got ready for a friend who accompanied
her.

On reaching Howland Street, Clive's door was opened,

THE NE IVCOMES. 8 1 1

rather to my surprise, by the rebellious maid-servant who had
received her dismissal on the previous night ; and the Doctor's
carriage drove up as she was still speaking to me. The polite
practitioner sped up stairs to Mrs. Xewcome's apartments.
Mrs. Mackenzie, in a robe-de-chambre and cap very different
from yesterday's, came out eagerly to meet the physician on
t'le landing. Ere they had been a quarter of an hour together,
arrived a cab, which discharged an elderly person with her
bandbox and bundles ; I had no difficulty in recognizing a
professional nurse in the new-comer. She too disappeared into
the sick-room, and left me sitting in the neighboring chamber,
the scene of the last night's quarrel.

Hither presently came to me Maria, the maid. She said
she had not the heart to go away now she was wanted ; that
they had passed a sad night, and that no one had been to bed.
Master Tommy was below, and the landlady taking care of
him : the landlord had gone out for the nurse. Mrs. Clive
had been taken bad after Mr. Clive went away the night before.
Mrs. Mackenzie had gone to the poor young thing, and there
she went on, crying, and screaming, and stamping, as she used
to do in her tantrums, which was most cruel of her, and made
Mrs. Clive so ill. And presently the young lady began : my
informant told me. She came screaming into the sitting-room,
her hair over her shoulders, calling out she was deserted, de-
serted, and would like to die. She was like a mad-woman for
some time. She had fit after fit of hysterics : and there was
her mother, kneeling, and crying, and calling out to her darling
child to calm herself ; — which it was all her own doing, and she
had much better have held her own tongue, remarked the reso-
lute Maria. I understood only too well from the girl's account
what had happened, and that Clive, if resolved to part with his
mother-in-law, should not have left her, even for twelve hours,
in possession of his house. The wretched woman, whose Self
was always predominant, and who, though she loved her daugh-
ter after her own fashion, never forgot her own vanity or pas-
sion, had improved the occasion of Clive's absence : worked
upon her child's weakness, jealousy, ill-health, and driven her,
no doubt, into the fever which yonder physician was called to
quell.

The Doctor presently enters to write a prescription, followed
by Clive's mother-in-law, who had cast Rosev's line Cashmere
shawl over her shoulders, to hide her disarray. " You here
still, Mr. Pendennis ! " she exclaims. She knew I was there.
Had not she changed her dress in order to receive me ?

8i3 THE NEWCOMES.

" I have to speak to you for two minutes on important busi-
ness, and then I shall go," I replied gravely.

" Oh, sir ! to what a scene you have come ! To what a state
has Clive's conduct last night driven my darling child ! "

As the odious woman spoke so, the Doctor's keen eyes,
looking up from the prescription, caught mine. " I declare
before heaven, madam," I said hotly, " I believe you yourself
are the cause of your daughter's present illness, as you have
been of the misery of my friends."

"Is this, sir," she was breaking out, "is this language to
be used to ? "

" Madam, will you be silent ? " I said. " I am come to bid
you farewell on the part of those whom your temper has driven
into infernal torture. I am come to pay you every halfpenny
of the sum which my friends do not owe you, but which they
restore. Here is the account, and here is the money to settle
it. And I take this gentleman to witness, to whom, no doubt,
you have imparted what you call your wrongs " (the Doctor
smiled, and shrugged his shoulders) " that now you are paid."

" A widow — a poor, lonely, insulted widow ! " cries the Cam-
paigner, with trembling hands, taking possession of the notes.

"And I wish to know," I continued, "when my friend's
house will be free to him, and he can return in peace ? "

Here Rosey's voice was heard from the inner apartment,
screaming, " Mamma, mamma ! "

" I go to my child, sir," she said. " If Captain Mackenzie
had been alive, you would not have dared to insult me so."
And carrying off her money, she left us.

" Cannot she be got out of the house ? " I said to the Doc-
tor. " My friend will never return until she leaves it. It is my
belief she is the cause of her daughter's present illness."

" Not altogether, my dear sir. Mrs. Newcome was in a very,
very delicate state of health. Her mother is a lady of impetuous
temper, who expresses herself very strongly — too strongly, I
own. In consequence of unpleasant family discussions, which
no physician can prevent, Mrs. Newcome has been wrought up
to a state of — of agitation. Her fever is, in fact, at present,
very high. You know her condition. I am apprehensive of
ulterior consequences. I have recommended an excellent and
experienced nurse to her. Mr. Smith, the medical man at the
corner, is a most able practitioner. I shall myself call again in
a few hours, and I trust that, after the event which I apprehend^
everything will go well."

" Cannot Mrs. Mackenzie leave the house, sir ? " I asked.

THE NEWCOMES. 8i3

" Her daughter cries out for her at every moment. Mrs.
Mackenzie is certainly not a judicious nurse, but in Mrs. New-
come's present state I cannot take upon myself to separate them.
Mr. Newcome may return, and I do think and believe that his
presence may tend to impose silence and restore tranquillitv."

I had to go back to Clive with these gloomy tidings. The
poor fellow must put up a bed in his studio, and there await
the issue of his wife's illness. I saw Thomas Newcome could
not sleep under his son's roof that night. That dear meeting,
which both so desired, was delayed, who could say, for how
long ?

" The Colonel may come to us," I thought ; " our old house
is big enough." I guessed who was the friend coming in my
wife's company ; and pleased myself by thinking that two friends
so dear should meet in our home. Bent upon these plans, I
repaired to Grey Friars, and to Thomas Newcome's chamber
there.

Bayham opened the door when I knocked, and came towards
me with a finger on his lip, and a sad, sad countenance. He
closed the door gently behind him, and led me into the court.
u Clive is with him, and Miss Newcome. He is very ill. He
does not know them," said Bayham with a sob. " He calls out
for both of them : they are sitting there, and he does not know
them."

" In a brief narrative, broken by more honest tears, Fred.
Bayham, as we paced up and down the court, told me what had
happened. The old man must have passed a sleepless night,
for on going to his chamber in the morning, his attendant found
him dressed in his chair, and his bed undisturbed. He must
have sat all through the bitter night without a fire ; but his
hands were burning hot, and he rambled in his talk. Ik-
spoke of some one coming to drink tea with him, pointed
to the fire, and asked why it was not made ; he would not go to
bed. though the nurse pressed him. The bell began t<> ring
for morning chapel; he got up and went towards his gown,
groping towards it as though he could hardly see, and put it
over his shoulders, and would go out, but he would have fallen
in the court if the good nurse had not given him her arm ; and
the physician of the hospital, passing fortunately at this moment,
who had always been a great friend of Colonel Newcome's,
insisted upon leading him back to his room again, and got him
to bed. " When the bell stopped, he wanted to rise once more ;
he fancied he was a boy at school again," said the nurse, "and
that he was going in to Dr. Raine, who was schoolmaster here

Si 4 THE XEWCOMES.

ever so many years ago." So it was, that when happier days
seemed to be dawning for the good man, that reprieve came too
late. Grief, and years, and humiliation, and care, and cruelty
had been too strong for him, and Thomas Newcome was
stricken down.

Bayham's story told, I entered the room, over which the
twilight was falling, and saw the figures of Give and Ethel
seated at each end of the bed. The poor old man within it
fas calling incoherent sentences. I had to call Clive from the
present grief before him, with intelligence of further sickness
awaiting him at home. Our poor patient did not heed what I
said to his son. " You must go home to Rosey," Ethel said.
" She will be sure to ask for her husband, and forgiveness is
best, dear Clive. I will stay with uncle. I will never leave
him. Please God, he will be better in the morning when you
come back," So Give's duty called him to his own sad home ;
and, the bearer of dismal tidings, I returned to mine.' The
fires were lit there, and the table spread : and kind hearts were
waiting to welcome the friend who never more was to enter my
door.

It may be imagined that the intelligence which I brought
alarmed and afflicted my wife, and Madame de Florae, our
guest. Laura immediately went away to Rosey's house to offer
her sendees if needed. The accounts which she brought thence
were very bad : Clive came to her for a minute or two, but
Mrs. Mackenzie could not see her. Should she not bring the
little boy home to her children ? Laura asked ; and Clive
thankfully accepted that offer. The little man slept in our
nursery that night, and was at play with our young ones on the
morrow — happy and unconscious of the fate impending over
his home.

Yet two more days passed, and I had to take two adver-
tisements to The l^imes newspaper on the part of poor Give.
Among the announcements of Births was printed, " On the
28th, in Ho\vland Street, Mrs. Give Newcome of a son still-
born." And a little lower, in the third division of the same
column, appeared the words, "On the 29th, in Howland Street,
aged 26, Rosalind, wife of Clive Newcome, Esq." So, one day,
shall the names of all of us be written there ; to be deplored
by how many ? — to be remembered how long ? — to occasion
what tears, praises, sympathy, censure? — yet for a day or two,
while the busy world has time to recollect us who have passed
beyond it. So this poor little flower had bloomed for its little

THE NEWCOMES. 815

day, and .pined, and withered, and perished. There was only
one friend by Olive's side following the humble procession
which laid poor Rosey and her child out of sight of a world
that had been but unkind to her. Not many tears were there
to water her lonely little grave. A grief that was akin to shame
and remorse humbled him as he knelt over her. Poor little
harmless lady ! no more childish triumphs and vanities, no
more hidden griefs are you to enjoy or suffer ; and earth closes
over your simple pleasures and tears ! The snow was falling
and whitening the coffin as they lowered it into the ground. It
was at the same cemetery in which Lady Kew was buried. I
dare say the same clergyman read the same service over the
two graves, as he will read it for you or any of us to-morrow,
and until his own turn comes. Come away from the place,
poor Clive ! Come sit with your orphan little boy, and bear
him on your knee, and hug him to your heart. He seems yours
now, and all a father's love may pour out upon him. Until
this hour, Fate uncontrollable and homely tyranny had sepa-
rated him from you.

It was touching to see the eagerness and tenderness with
which the great strong man now assumed the guardianship of
the child, and endowed him with his entire wealth of affection.
The little boy now ran to Clive whenever he came in, and sat
for hours prattling to him. He would take the boy out to walk,
and from our windows we could see Clive's black figure striding
over the snow in St. James's Park, the little man trotting beside
him, or perched on his father's shoulder. My wife and I
looked at them one morning as they were making their way
towards the City. " He has inherited that loving heart from
his father," Laura said; " and he is paying over the whole prop-
erty to his son."

Clive, and the boy sometimes with him, used to go daily to
Grey Friars, where the Colonel still lay ill. After some days
the fever which had attacked him left him ; but left him so weak
and enfeebled that he could only go from his bed to the chair by
his fireside. The season was exceedingly bitter, the chambci
which he inhabited was warm and spacious ; it was considcivJ
unadvisable to move him until he had attained greater strength,
and till warmer weather. The medical men of the House hoped
he might rally in spring. My friend, Dr. Goodenough, cams
to him ; he hoped too : but not with a hopeful face. A chamber,
luckily vacant, hard by the Colonel's, was assigned to his
friends, where we sat when we were too many for him. Besides

8i6 THE NEWCOMES.

his customary attendant, he had two dear and watchful nurses,
who were almost always with him — Ethel and Madame de
Florae, who had passed many a faithful year by an old man's
bedside ; who would have come, as to a work of religion, to
any sick couch, much more to this one, where he lay for whose
life she would once gladly have given her own.

But our Colonel, we all were obliged to acknowledge, was
no more our friend of old days. He knew us again, and was
good to every one round him, as his wont was ; especially when
Boy came, his old eyes lighted up with simple happiness, and,
with eager trembling hands, he would seek under his bed-
clothes, or the pockets of his dressing-gown, for toys or cakes,
which he had caused to be purchased for his grandson. There
was a little laughing, red-cheeked, white-headed gown-boy of
the school, to whom the old man had taken a great fancy. One
of the symptoms of his returning consciousness and recovery,
as we hoped, was his calling for this child, who pleased our
friend by his archness and merry ways ; and who, to the old
gentleman's unfailing delight, used to call him, " Codd Col-
onel." "Tell little F , that Codd Colonel wants to see

him ; and the little gown-boy was brought to him ; and the
Colonel would listen to him for hours ; and hear all about his
lessons and his play ; and prattle, almost as childishly, about
Dr. Raine, and his own early school-days. The boys of the
school, it must be said, had heard the noble old gentleman's
touching history, and had all got to know and love him. They
came every day to hear news of him ; sent him in books and
papers to amuse him ; and some benevolent young souls, —
God's blessing on all honest boys, say I, — painted theatrical
characters, and sent them in to Codd Colonel's grandson. The
little fellow was made free of gown-boys, and once came thence
to his grandfather in a little gown, which delighted the old
man hugely. Boy said he would like to be a little gown-boy ;
and I make no doubt, when he is old enough, his father will
get him that post, and put him under the tuition of my friend
Dr. Senior.

So, weeks passed away, during which our dear old friend
still remained with us. His mind was gone at intervals, but
would rally feebly ; and with his consciousness returned his
love, his simplicity, his sweetness. He would talk French with
Madame de Florae, at which time, his memory appeared to
Awaken with surprising vividness, his cheek flushed, and he
was a youth again, — a youth all love and hope, — a stricken old
man, with a beard as white as snow covering the noble care-

THE NE WCOMES. 3 , y

worn face. At such times he called her by her Christian name
of Leonore ; he addressed courtly old words of regard and
kindness to the aged lady ; anon he wandered in his talk, and
spoke to her as it they still were young. Now, as in those
early days, his heart was pure; no anger remained in it* no
guile tainted it : only peace and good-will dwelt in it.

Rosey's death had seemed to shock him for a while when
the unconscious little boy spoke of it. Before that circum-
stance, Clive had even forbore to wear mourning, lest the news
should agitate his father. The Colonel remained silent and
was very much disturbed all that day, but he never appeared
to comprehend the fact quite ; and, once or twice afterwards,
asked, Why she did not come to see him ? She was prevented,
he supposed — she was prevented, he said, with a look of ter-
ror : he never once otherwise alluded to that unlucky tyrant of
his household, who had made his last years so unhappy.

The circumstance of Clive's legacy he never understood .
but more than once spoke of Barnes to Ethel, and sent his
compliments to him, and said he should like to shake him by
the hand. Barnes Newcome never once offered to touch that
honored hand, though his sister bore her uncle's message to
him. They came often from Bryanstone Square ; Mrs. Hobson
even offered to sit with the Colonel, and read to him, and
brought him books for his improvement. But her presence
disturbed him ; he cared not for her books ; the two nurses
whom he loved faithfully watched him ; and my wife and I
were admitted to him sometimes, both of whom he honored
with regard and recognition. As for F. B., in order to be near
his Colonel, did not that good fellow take up his lodging in
Cistercian Lane, at the " Red Cow ? " He is one whose er-
rors, let us hope, shall be pardoned, quia multum amavit. I
am sure he felt ten times more joy at hearing of Clive's legacy,
than if thousands had been bequeathed to himself. May good
health and good fortune speed him !

The days went on, and our hopes, raised sometimes, began
to flicker and fail. One evening the Colonel left his chair for
his bed in pretty good spirits, but passed a disturbed night, and
the next morning was too weak to rise. Then he remained in
his bed, and his friends visited him there. One afternoon he
asked for his little gown-boy, and the child was brought to him,
and sat by the bed with a very awe-stricken face ; and then
gathered courage, and tried to amuse him by telling him how it
was a half-holiday, and they were having a cricket-match with
the St. Peter's boys in the green, and Grey Friars was 111 and

52

8 1 3 THE AE WCOMES.

winning. The Colonel quite understood about it ; he would
like to see the game ; he had played many a game on that
green when he was a boy. He grew excited ; Clive dismissed
his father's little friend, and put a sovereign into his hand ; and
away he ran to say that Codd Colonel had come into a fortune,
and to buy tarts, and to see the match out. /, curre, little
white-haired gown-boy ! Heaven speed you, little friend.

After the child had gone, Thomas Xewcome began to wan-
der more and more. He talked louder ; he gave the word of
command, spoke Hindustanee as if to his men. Then he spoke
words in French rapidly, seizing a hand that was near him, and
crying, "Toujours, toujours ! " But it was Ethel's hand which
he took. Ethel and Clive and the nurse were in the room with
him ; the nurse came to us, who were sitting in the adjoining
apartment ; Madame de Florae was there, with my wife and
Bayham.

At the look in the woman's countenance Madame de Florae
started up. " He is very bad, he wanders a great deal," the
nurse whispered. The French lady fell instantly on her knees,
and remained rigid in prayer.

Some time afterwards Ethel came in with a scared face to
our pale group. " He is calling for you again, dear lady," she
said, going up to Madame de Florae, who was still kneeling ;
" and just now he said he wanted Pendennis to take care of his
boy. He will not know you." She hid her tears as she spoke.

She went into the room where Clive was at the bed's foot ;
the old man within it talked on rapidly for a while : then again
he would sigh and be still : once more I heard him say
hurriedly, "Take care of him when I'm in India;" and then
with a heart-rending voice he called out, " Le'onore, Le'onore ! "
She was kneeling by his side now. The patient's voice sank
into faint murmurs ; only a moan now and then announced that
he was not asleep.

At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and
Thomas Xewcome's hands outside the bed feebly beat time.
And just as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone
over his face, and he lifted up his head a little, and quickly
said, " Adsum ! " and fell back. It was the word we used at
school, when names were called j and lo, he, whose heart was
as that of a little child, had answered to his name, and stood in
the presence of The Master.

Two years ago, walking with my children in some pleasant
fields, near to Berne, in Switzerland, I strayed from them into a

THE A'EWCOAfES 819

little wood ; and, coming out of it presently, told them how the
story had been revealed to me somehow, which for three-and-
twenty months the reader has been pleased to follow. As I
write the last line with a rather sad he?vt, } endennis and Laura,
and Ethel and Clive, fade away into Fable-land. I hardly
know whether they are not true ; whether they do not live near
us somewhere. They were alive, and I heard their voices ; but
five minutes since was touched by their grief. And have we
parted with them here on a sudden, and without so much as a

shake of the hand ? Is yonder line ( ) which I drew with

my own pen, a barrier between me and Hades as it were, across
which I can see those figures retreating and only dimly glim-
mering? Before taking leave of Mr. Arthur Pendennis, might
he not have told us whether Miss Ethel married anybody
finally ? It was provoking that he should retire to the shades
without answering that sentimental question.

But though he has disappeared as irrevocably as Eurvdice,
these minor questions may settle the major one above mentioned.
How could Pendennis have got all that information about
Ethel's goings on at Baden, and with Lord Kew, unless she had
told somebody — her husband, for instance, who, having made
Pendennis an early confidant in his amour, gave him the whole
story ? " Clive," Pendennis writes expressly, " is travelling
abroad with his wife."' Who is that wife ? By a most mon-
strous blunder, Mr. Pendennis killed Lord Farintosh's mother
at one page and brought her to life again at another ; but
Rosey, who is so lately consigned to Kensal Green, it is not
surely with her that Clive is travelling, for then Mrs. Mackenzie
would probably be with them to a live certainty, and the tour
would be by no means pleasant. How could Pendennis have
got all those private letters, &c, but that the Colonel kept them
in a teak box, which Clive inherited and made over to his
friend ? My belief then is, that in Fable-land somewhere Ethel
and Clive are living most comfortably together: that she is
immensely fond of his little boy, and a great deal happier now
than they would have been had they married at first, when they
took a liking to each other as young people. That picture
of J. J.'s of Mrs. Clive Newcome (in the Crystal Palace
Exhibition in Fable-land,) is certainly not in the least like
Rosey, who we read was fair ; but it represents a tall, hand-
some, dark lady, who must be Mrs. Ethel.

"Again, why did Pendennis introduce J. J. with such a
flourish, giving us, as it were, an overture, and no piece to fol-
low it ? J. J.'s history, let me confidentially state, has been

32o THE NEWCOMES.

revealed to me too, and may be told some of these fine summet
months, or Christmas evenings, when the kind reader has leisure
to hear.

What about Sir Barnes Newcome ultimately? My impres-
sion is that he is married again, and it is my fervent hope that
his present wife bullies him. Mrs. Mackenzie cannot have the
face to keep that money which Clive paid over to her, beyond
her lifetime ; and will certainly leave it and her savings to little
Tommy. I should not be surprised if Madame de Montcontour
left a smart legacy to the Pendennis children ; and Lord Kew
stood godfather in case — in case Mr. and Mrs. Clive wanted
such an article. But have they any children ? I, for my part,
should like her best without, and entirely devoted to little
Tommy. But for you, dear friend, it is as you like. You may
settle your Fable-land in your own fashion. Anything you like
happens in Fable-land. Wicked folks die apropos (for instance,
that death of Lady Kew was most artful, for if she had not
died, don't you see that Ethel would have married Lord Farin-
tosh the next week ?) — annoying folks are got out of the way j
the poor are rewarded — the upstarts are set down in Fable-
land, — the frog bursts with wicked rage, the fox is caught in his
trap, the lamb is rescued from the wolf, and so forth, just in the
nick of time. And the poet of Fable-land rewards and punishes
absolutely. He splendidly deals out bags of sovereigns, which
won't buy anything * belabors wicked backs with awful blows,
which do not hurt ; endows heroines with preternatural beauty,
and creates heroes, who, if ugly sometimes, yet possess a thou-
sand good qualities, and usually end by being immensely rich ;
Ah, happy, harmless Fable-land, where these things are !
Friendly reader ! may you and the author meet there on some
future day ! He hopes so ; as he yet keeps a lingering hold of
your hand, and bids you farewell with a kind heart.

Paris, 28th June, 1855.

THE END.