THE WORKS
OF
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.








THE WORKS
OF
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
IN TWELVE VOLUMES.
VOLUME III.
THE NEWCOMES.
BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY.
I874.












) \, ~      ~        ~        4~
i...  i:11III:!!  ~., ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~.....
N ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~         ~~~        ~~~       ~~~        ~~~        ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~!: i::i ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~............i.ii.......
~'"~"~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.........':....'.'i.'...
~/ ~i~;~i..~;i..~:;..~:~ ~.. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.......
N,~::~.~i~.~.~~  ~  ~-.~.
N~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~......
N~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.....
N~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~......   
<N                                                             N\~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.........
Z                                                                      ______                              ____________________~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Y




THE N E W C OM E S.
MEMOIRS OF A MOST RESPECTABLE FAMILY.
EDITED BY
ARTHUR PENDENNIS, ESQ.
BY
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
WITT A FRONTISPIECE
BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY.
i 874.








CONTEN'1.
CIAPTER                                                                             PAGE
I. THE OVERTURE — AFTER WHICH THE CURTAIN RISES
UPON  A  DRINKING  CHORUS..................................................  I
II.   COLONEL NEWCOME'S WILD  OATS............................................    12
III.   COLONEL NEWCOME'S  LETTER-BOX.....................:..................   25
IV. IN WHICH THE AUTHOR AND THE HERO RESUME THEIR
ACQUAINTANCE.................................................................................   32
V.   CLIVE'S  UNCLES.....................................................................................  40
VI.   NEWCOME  BROTHERS...........................................   54
VII.   IN  WHICH  MR  CLIVE'S  SCHOOL-DAYS ARE OVER...............   64
VIII. MRSe-NEWCOME AT HOME (A SMALL EARLY PARTY).....  71
IX..  MISS  HONEYMAN'S........................................                 85
X.  ETHEL  AND  HER  RELATIONS.......................................................    98
XI.   AT  MRS. RIDLEY'S........................................    09
XII.  IN  WHICH  EVERYBODY  IS ASKED  TO  DINNER..................  122
XIII. IN WHICH THOMAS NEWCOME SINGS HIS LAST SONG. I30
XIV.  PARK  LANE....................................................................................................  I37
XV.  THE  OLD  LADIES...............................................................................   148
XVI. IN WHICH MR. SHERRICK LETS HIS HOUSE IN FITZROY
SQUARE..                                                             157
XVII.   A  SCHOOL OF ART..........................................................  I63
XVIII.   NEW   COMPANIONS...............................................................................   I7I
XIX.   THE  COLONEL AT  HOME...........................................   I76
XX. CONTAINS MORE PARTICULARS OF THE COLONEL AND
HIS BRETHREN........................................   I84
XXI.   IS SENTIMENTAL, BUT  SHORT................................................  I93
XXII. DESCRIBES A VISIT TO PARIS; WITH ACCIDENTS AND
INCIDENTS IN  LONDON...........................................  201
XXIII. IN WHICH WE HEAR A SOPRANO AND A CONTRALTO. 212
XXIV. IN WHICH THE NEWCOME BROTHERS ONCE MORE MEET
TOGETHER  IN   UNITY............................................  224
XXV.  Is PASSED  IN  A  PUBLIC  HOUSE.................................  236
XXVI. IN WHICH COLONEL NEWCOME'S HORSES ARE SOLD..... 246
XXVII.  YOUTH  AND  SUNSHINE............................................  256
XXVIII.   IN  WHICH  CLIVE  BEGINS TO  SEE THE  WORLD...............  265
XXIX.   IN  WHICH  BARNES COMES A  WOOING...................................  283
XXX.  A  RETREAT...............................................................................................   292
XXXI.  MADAME  LA  DUCHESSE............................................        306
XXXII.   BARNES'S  COURTSHIP...........................................................................   37
XXXIII.  LADY  KEW  AT THE  CONGRESS...........................................25
XXXIV.   THE  END  OF THE  CONGRESS OF BADEN..............................  334
XXXV.   ACROSS THE  ALPS............................................                 351
XXXVI.  IN  WHICH  M. DE FLORAC  IS PROMOTED..............................             359'XXXV1I.   RETURNS TO  LORD  KEW.......................................................   370




viii                                     CONTENTS.
CHAPTER                                                                                  PAGE
XXXVIII. IN WHICH LADY KEW LEAVES HIS LORDSHIP QUITE
CONVALESCENT...........................................................377
XXXIX.   AMONGST  THE  PAINTERS........................................                 388
XL.   RETURNS  FROM  ROME  TO  PALL  MALI...................................  400
XLI.   AN  OLD  STORY..........................................................................................  408
XLII. INJURED INNOCENCE.421
XLIII. RETURNS TO SOME OLD FRIENDS.433
XLIV. IN WHICH MR. CHARLES HONEYMAN APPEARS IN AN
AMIABLE     LIGHT............................................................................... 443
XLV. A STAG OF TEN.455
XLVI.  THE  H6TEL  DE  FLORAC........................................          462
XLVII. CONTAINS TWO OR THREE ACTS OF A LITTLE COMEDY 472
XLVIII. IN WHICH BENEDICK IS A MARRIED MAN                                                 489
XLIX. CONTAINS AT LEAST SIX MORE COURSES AND TWO
DESSERTS...............................................................................................  498
L.   CLIVE  IN  NEW   QUARTERS........................................................   506
LI.   AN  OLD  FRIEND.......................................                      513
LII.   FAMILY  SECRETS...............................................................................  522
LIII. IN WHICH KINSMEN FALL OUT                                                       533
LIV. HAS A TRAGICAL ENDING.549
LV.   BARNES'S  SKELETON  CLOSET............................................................  555
LVI.   ROSA  QUO  LOCORUM  SERA  MORATUR...................................  564
LVII.   ROSEBURY  AND  NEWCOME.................................   571
LVIII.   "ONE  MORE  UNFORTUNATE"...................................................... 588
LIX. IN WHICH ACHILLES LOSES BRISEIS.595
LIX. IN WHICH ACHILLES LOSES BRISEIS..............................,..........        595
LX.   IN  WHICH  WE WRITE  TO  THE  COLONEL.........................                6I3
LXI. IN WHICH WE ARE INTRODUCED TO A NEW NEWCOME 617
LXII.    MR. AND  MRS. CLIVE  NEWCOME........................................       622
1,XIII.   MRS. CLIVE  AT  HOME.................................................................  630
LXIV.   ABSIT  OMEN........................................                  638
LXV. IN WHICH MRS. CLIVE COMES INTO HER FORTUNE..... 644
LXVI. IN WHICH THE COLONEL AND THE NEWCOME ATHENAEUM  ARE  BOTH  LECTURED.........................655
LXVII.   NEWCOME  AND  LIBERTY.........................  664
LXVIII. A LETTER AND A RECONCILIATION                                                      671
I,XIX.   THE  ELECTION........................................                         677
LXX.   CHILTERN  HUNDREDS.........................................................  688
LXXI. IN  WHICH MRS..CLIVE NEWCOME'S CARRIAGE IS
ORDERED                                                               695
LXXII.   BELISARIUS................................................................................    705
LXXIII. IN WHICH BELISARIUS RETURNS FROM EXILE............  712
LXXIV.  IN WHICH CLIVE BEGINS THE WORLD........................                           720
LXXV.   FOUNDER'S  DAY  AT GREY  FRIARS.................................                729
LXXVI.   CHRISTMAS AT  ROSEBURY.............................................................   739
LXXVII. THE SHORTEST AND HAPPIEST IN THE WHOLE HISTORY  746
LXXVIII. IN WHICH THE-AUTHOR GOES ON A PLEASANT ERRAND  749
LXX1X. IN WHICH OLD FRIENDS COME TOGETHER..   756
LXXX. IN WHICH THE COLONEL SAYS "ADSUM" WHEN HIS
NAIME  IS CALLED...........................................................................   767




THE NEWCOMES.
CHAPTER I.
THE OVERPTURE —AFTER WHICH THE CURTAI1N 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 blacka-moor, who watched the splay-footed slimy wretch with that peculiar
grim humour belonging to crows. Not far from the frog a fat ox was
browsing; whilst a few lambs frisked about the meadow, or nibbled
the grass and buttercups there.
Who should come in to the farther end of the field but a wolf?
He 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 towards 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 looking down on the
frog, who was staring with his goggle eyes fit to burst with envy, and
croaking abuse at the ox. " How absurd those lambs are! Yonder
silly little knock-knee'd baah-ling does not know the old wolf dressed'
in the sheep's fleece. He is the same old rogue who gobbled up little
Red Riding Hood's grandmother for lunch, and swallowed little Red
Riding Hood for supper. Tirez la bobinette et la chevilleie cizerra.
He he!"
An owl that was hidden in the hollow of the tree, woke up. " Oho,
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




2                   THE NEWCOMES.
" 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 companion
of Pallas Minerva; I am frequently represented in the Egyptian
monuments."
" I have seen you over the British barn-doors," said the fox, with
a grin. "You have a deal of scholarship, Mrs. Owl. I know a thing
or two myself; but am, I confess it, no scholar-a mere man of the
world —a fellow that lives by his wits —a mere country gentleman."
" You sneer at scholarship," continues the owl, with a sneer on her
venerable face. " I read a good deal of a night."
"When I am engaged deciphering the cocks and hens at roost,'"
says the fox.
" It's a pity for all that you can't read; that 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 her tree.
"A fig for her hieroglyphics!" said the fox, looking up at the crow
in the tree. " What airs our slow neighbour gives herself! She pretends to all the wisdom; whereas your reverences the crows are
endowed with gifts far superior to those benighted old big-wigs of owls,
who blink in the darkness, and call their hooting singing. How noble
it is to hear a chorus of crows! 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 favour me
with a solo!"
While this conversation was going on, the ox was chumping the
grass; the frog was eyeing him in such a rage at his superior propor



THE NE WCO M1ES.                        3.tions, that he would have spurted venom at him if he could, and that
he would have burst, only that is impossible, from sheer envy; the
little lambkin was lying unsuspiciously at the side of the wolf in fleecy
hosiery, who did not as yet molest her, being replenished with the
mutton her mamma. But now the wolf's eyes began to glare, and his
sharp white teeth to show, and he rose up with a growl, and began to
think he should like lamb for supper.
"What large eyes you have got! " bleated out the lamb, with rather.a timid look.
"The better to see you with, my dear."
"What large teeth you have got!"
"The better to    "
At this moment such a terrific yell filled the field, that all its
inhabitants started with terror. It was from a donkey, who had someJicow got a lion's skin, and now came in at the hedge, pursued by some
mnen an'd 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::an away as fast as his disguise would let him. When the ox heard,the noise he dashed round the meadow-ditch, and with one trample of
his hoof squashed the frog who had been abusing him. When the
crow saw the people with guns coming, he instantly dropped. the
cheese out of his mouth, and took to wing. When' the fox saw the
cheese drop, he immediately made a jump at it (for he knew the
donkey's voice, and that his asinine bray was not a bit like his royal
m:laster'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 to wear tails.any more; and that the fox-party were better without'em.
Meanwhile, a boy with a stick came up, and belaboured Master
Donkey until he roared louder than ever. The wolf, with the sheep's
clothing draggling about his legs, could not run fast, and was detected.-and shot by one of the men. The blind old owl, whirring out of the
lollow tree, quite amazed at the disturbance, 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 mantelpiece, and always
ibragged 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
Iread something very like this stuff and nonsense about jackasses and,foxes before. That wolf in sheep's clothing?-do I not know him? i




4                    THE NE UVCOMES.
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 lie represents but is a villain. The fox is a;
flatterer; the frog is an emblem of impotence and envy; the wolf in,
sheep's clothing a blood-thirsty hypocrite, wearing the garb of 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 commonplace;
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 superior, or who,
would care about.his opinion?  And his livelihood is to find fault..
Besides he is right sometimes; and the stories he reads, and the
characters drawn in them, are old, sure enough. What stories are.
new? All types of all characters march through all fables: tremblers.
and boasters; victims and bullies; dupes and knaves; long-eared
Neddies, giving themselves leonine airs; Tartuffes wearing virtuous
clothing; lovers and their trials, their blindness, their folly and con-.
stancy. With the very first page of the human story do not love, 4and
lies too, begin? So the tales were told ages before AEsop; and asses
under lions' 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 they were
finches. Nay, since last he besought good-natured friends to listen
once a month to his talking, a friend of the writer has seen the New
World, and found the (featherless) birds there exceedingly like their
brethren of Europe. There may be nothing new under and including
the sun; but it looks fresh every morning, and we rise with it to toil,
hope, scheme, laugh, struggle, love, suffer, until the night comes and
quiet. And then will wake Morrow and the eyes that look on it; and
so da ca5 o.
This, then, is to be a story, may it please you, in which jackdaws
will wear peacocks' feathers, and awaken the just ridicule of the peacocks; in which, while every justice is done to the peacocks themselves,




TilE NEWCOMES.                           5
Ithe splendour of their plumage, the gorgeousness of their dazzling
mecks, 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
land white favours; 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
ibecause 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 and lambs, our foxes and lions, our roaring:donkeys, our billing ring-doves, our motherly partlets, and crowing.chanticleers.
There was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter than
-it appears to do in this latter half of the nineteenth century; when.the zest of life was certainly keener; when tavern wines seemed to be,delicious, and tavern dinners the perfection of cookery; when the
perusal of novels was productive of immense delight, and the monthly.advent of magazine-day was hailed as an exciting holiday; when to
iknow Thompson, who had written a magazine-article, was an honour.and a privilege; and to see Brown, the author of the last romance, in.the flesh, and actually walking in the Park with his umbrella and
Mrs. Brown, was an event remarkable, and to the end of life to be
perfectly well remembered; when the women of this world were a,thousand times more beautiful than those of the present time; and
the houris of the theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, that to
-see them was to set the heart in motion, and to see them again was
zto 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 fancywaistcoats; 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




6                     rTHE NIVE IVCOVES.
college tutor as you were driving down Regent Street in a hired cahb
the triumph of satire; when the acme of pleasure seemed to be to;
meet Jones of Trinity at the Bedford, and to make an arrangementwith him, and with King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colon —
nade), and Martin of Trinity Hall (who was with his family in Blooms —
bury Square), to dine at the Piazza, go to the play and see Braham in,
"Fra Diavolo," and end the frolic evening by partaking of supper and..
a song at the" Cave of Harmony." —It was in the days of my own
youth, then, that I met one or two of the characters who are to figure
in this history, and whom I must ask leave to accompany for a short
while, and until, familiarised with the public, they can make their own,
way. As I 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 thosemerry 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 naturally hungry at twelve
o'clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rabbits and good old gleesinging led us to the " Cave of Harmony," then kept by the celebrated
Hoskins, among whose friends we were proud to count.
We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never failed.
to greet us 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-andwater at our expense. One of us gave his call dinner at Hoskins's,.
and a merry time we had of'it. Where are you, 0 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, thestrong!) " The Bloom is on the Rye" (the bloom isn't on the rye any
more!)-the song and the cup, in a word, passed round merrily; and,.
I daresay, the songs and bumpers were encored. It happened that
there was a very small attendance at the " Cave" that night, and wewere all more sociable and friendly because the company was select.
The songs were chiefly of the sentimental class; such ditties weremuch in vogue at the time of which I speak.
There came into the "Cave" a gentleman with a lean brown.
face and long black mustachios, dressed in very' loose clothes, and.
evidently a stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for a
long time. He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in his.
company; and, calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the music,.
and twirled his mustachios with great enthusiasm.
At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table,




THE NE WCOMES.                         7
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 fatherwould 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 you used to be
very kind to me when I first went to Smithfield. I've left now: I'm
to have a private tutor. I say, I've got such a jolly pony. It's better
fun than old Smiffle."
Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, pointing to a
waiter to follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode across
the room twirling his mustachios, and came up to the table where we
sate, making a salutation with his hat in a very stately and polite
manner, so that Hoskins 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 towards Nadab, and at the same time calling upon
the gents to give their orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr.
Bellew about to sing a song.
Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me.  I
daresay I blushed, for I had been comparing him to the admirable
Harley in the " Critic," and had christened him Don Ferolo Whiskerandos.
He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant, and with a
cordiality so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away
ashamed; and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and
friendly. In youth, you see, one is touched by kindness. A man of
the world may, of course, be grateful or not as he chooses.
"I have heard of your kindness, sir,", says he, " to my boy. And
whoever is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me to sit down
by you? and may I beg you to try my cheroots?" We were friends in
a minute-young Newcome snuggling by my side, his father opposite,
to whom, after a minute or two of conversation, I presented my three
college friends.
"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says the
Colonel.  "Are there any celebrated persons in the room? I have




8                   THE NIE WCOMES.
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 Rogers, and Hook, and Luttrel, &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 izueris," says Jones (a fellow of very kind feeling, who has gone into the Church since,) and, writing on his card to
Hoskins, hinted to him that a boy was in the room, and a gentleman
who was quite a greenhorn: hence that the songs had better be carefully selected.
And so they were. A ladies' 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 consulted 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 ravishment
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
refreshment? What are their names?" (to one of his neighbours.)
" I was scarcely allowed to hear any singing before I went out, except
an oratorio, where I fell asleep; but this, by George, is as fine as
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 you 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 honour 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, &c. The Colonel was charmed with each feat,




THE NE WCO.MES.                       9
and joined delighted with the chorus-" Ritolderol-ritolderol ritoldeTolderay'" (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 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.
The Colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped his son,
young Clive, on the shoulder, " Hear what he says of you, sir? Clive,
best be off to bed, my boy —ho, ho! No, 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. Nadab? Mr. Nadab, 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 Newcome, if you please, Nerot's Hotel, Clifford Street. I am
always proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, and you are
one, or my name is not Newcome!"
" Sir, you do me Hhonour," says Mr. Nadab, pulling up his shirtcollar, "and per'aps the day will come when the world will do me
justice, —may I put down your hhonoured name for my book of
poems?"
" Of course, my dear sir," says the enthusiastic Colonel; " I'll send
them all over India. Put me down for six copies, and do me the
favour to bring them to-morrow when you come to dinner."
And now Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volunteer a
song, what was our amazement when the simple Colonel offered to sing
himself, at which the room applauded vociferously; whilst methought
poor Clive Newcome hung down his head, and blushed as red as a
peony. I felt for the young lad, and thought what my own sensations
would have been if, in that place, my own uncle, Major Pendennis,
had suddenly proposed to exert his lyrical powers.
The Colonel selected the ditty of " Wapping Old Stairs " (a ballad
so sweet and touching that surely any English poet might be proud to
be the father of it), and he sang this quaint and charming old song in
an exceedingly pleasant voice, 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 pathetically 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




l o                  THE NE WCOMES.
and rapped their sticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the
song was over, Clive held up his head too; after the shock of the first
verse, looked round with surprise and pleasure in his eyes; and we,?
need not say, backed our friend, delighted to see him come put 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 honour.  "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 afterwards, and served me right too.  Lord!
Lord! how the time passes.!"  He drank off his sherry-and-watery
and fell back in his chair: we could see he was thinking about his
youth-the golden time-the happy, the bright, the unforgotten. I
was myself nearly two-and-twenty years of age at that period, and felt
as old as, ay, older than the Colonel.
Whilst he was singing his ballad, there had walked, or rather reeled,.
into the room, a gentleman in a military frock-coat and duck trowsers
of dubious hue, with whose, name and person some of my readers are
perhaps already acquainted. In fact it was my friend Captain Costigan,.
in his usual condition at this hour of the night.
Holding on by various tables, the Captain had sidled up, without
accident to himself or any of the jugs and glasses round about him, to
the table where we sat, and had taken his place near the writer, his
old acquaintance. He warbled the refrain of the Colonel's song, not
inharmoniously; and saluted its. pathetic conclusion with a subdued
hiccup and a plentiful effusion of tears. " Bedad, it is a beautiful song,"
says he, " and many a time I heard poor Harry Incledon sing it."
" He's a great character," whispered that unlucky King of Corpus
to his neighbour the Colonel; "was a Captain in the army. We call
him  the General.  Captain Costigan, will you take something to
drink? "




THE NE VWCOIM eO.                      I:z
" Bedad, I will," says the Captain, " and I;ll sing ye a song tu."
And, having procured a glass of whisky-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 primesongs, began his music.
The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or
saying, selected one of the most outrageous performances of his rd6er-.
loire, 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 amongst
Christians and men of honour, 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 end
degradation and dishonour, drunkenness and whisky 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 bacchaY
nalians, the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him.
Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the company
looked still more foolish.
" Aussi que diable venait-il faire dans cette galere?" says King of
Corpus to Jones of Trinity; and Jones gave a shrug of his shoulders;
which were smarting, perhaps; for that uplifted cane of the Colonel's
had somehow fallen on the back of every man in the room.




12                  Tlop1IE NEWCOA IS.a
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 pigtails 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 confessed, worthy of a better cause: there came:up to London, out of a Northern county, Mr. Thomas Newcome,
afterwards Thomas Newcome, Esq., and Sheriff of London, afterwards
Mr. Alderman Newcome, the founder of the family whose name has
given the title to this history. It was but in the reign of George III.
that Mr. Newcome first made his appearance in Cheapside; having
made his entry into London on a waggon, which landed him and:some bales of cloth, all his fortune, in Bishopsgate Street: though, if
it could be proved that the Normans wore pigtails under William the
Conqueror, and Mr. Washington fought against the English under
King Richard in Palestine, I am sure some of the present Newcomes
would pay the Heralds' Office handsomely, living, as they do, amongst
the noblest of the land, and giving entertainments to none but the
very highest nobility and hlite of the fashionable and diplomatic world,
as you may read any day in the newspapers. For though these Newcomes have got a pedigree from the College, which is printed in Budge's
"' Landed Aristocracy of Great Britain," and which proves that the
Newcome of Cromwell's army, the Newcome who was among the last
-six who were hanged by Queen Mary for Protestantism, were ances-tors of this house; of which a member distinguished himself at Bos-.worth Field; and the founder, slain by King Harold's side at Hastings,
had been surgeon-barber to King Edward the Confessor; yet, between
ourselves, I think that Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome, could 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.




THE iNE WCOlVES.                     I)
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 placarded over the town as the birthplace of the Newcomes; and placards ironically exciting freemen to,
vote for Newcome and union-Newcome and the jarish 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; afterwards Hobson and Newcome. This fact may suffice
to indicate Thomas Newcome's story. Like Whittington, and many other
London apprentices, he began poor and ended by marrying his master's
daughter, and becoming sheriff and alderman of the City of London.
But it was only en secondes noses that he espoused the wealthy,
and religious, and eminent (such was the word applied to certain professing Christians in those days) Sophia Alethea Hobson-a woman
who, considerably older than Mr. Newcome, had the advantage of
surviving him many years. Her mansion at Clapham was long the
resort of the most favoured amongst the religious world. T6he 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. Whitfield himself christened her; and it was said
generally in the City, and by her friends, that Miss Hobson's two
-Christian names, Sophia and Alethea, were two Greek words, which,
being interpreted, meant wisdom and truth.  She, her villa and
gardens, are now no more; but Sophia Terrace, Upper and Lower
Alethea Road, and Hobson's Buildings, Square, &c., show every
quarter-day that the ground sacred to her (and freehold) still bears
plenteous fruit for the descendants of this eminent woman.
Te are, however, advancing matters. When Thomas Newcome
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,




,14                 THE 1VE WCOMES.
like a man, to a pretty'girl whom he had left there, and whom he had
promised to marry. What seemed an imprudent match (for his wife'had nothing but a pale face, that had grown older and paler with long
waiting,) turned out a very lucky one for Newcome. The whole
country side 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 business
when he went back to London. Susan Newcome would have lived to
be a rich woman, had not fate ended her career, within a year after
her marriage, when she died giving birth to a son.
Newcome had a nurse for the child, and a cottage at Clapham,
hard by Mr. Hobson's house, where he had often walked in the garden
of a Sunday, and been invited to sit down to take a glass of wine..Since he had left their service, the house had added a banking business, which was greatly helped by the Quakers and their religious,onnexion; 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 savoury fleshpots than at Clapham);
ihe was very moderate in his meals, of a bilious temperament, and,
besides, obliged to be in town early in the morning, always setting off,to walk an hour before the first coach.
But when his poor Susan died, Miss Hobson, by her father's
demise, having now become a partner in the house, as well as heiress
to the pious and childless Zechariah Hobson, her uncle: Mr. New-,come, with his little boy in his hand, met Miss Hobson as she was
coming out of meeting one Sunday; and the child looked so pretty,,
(Mr. N. was a very personable, fresh-coloured man himself; he wore
powder to the end, and top-boots and brass buttons: in his later days,
after he had been sheriff-indeed, one of the finest specimens of the,old London merchant;) Miss Hobson, I say, invited him and little
Tommy into the grounds of the Hermitage; did not quarrel with the
innocent child for frisking about in the hay on the lawn, which lay
basking in the Sabbath sunshine, and at the end of the visit gave him
a large piece of pound-cake, a quantity of the finest hot-house grapes,
and a tract in one syllable. Tommy was ill the next day; but on the
next Sunday his father was at meeting.




THE iE VCOMES.                        I
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 waistcoat administered by
the wags to Newcome,-" Newcome, give you joy, my boy;" " New-,come, 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 Newcome; all
these squabbles and jokes, and pribbles and prabbles, look you, may be
emitted. 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 honours senatorial or blood-red hands. " It wouldn't
do," with his good sense he said; "the Ouaker connexion wouldn't
like it." His wife never cared about being called Lady Newcome. To
manage the great house of Hobson Brothers and Newcome; to attend
to the interests of the enslaved negro; to awaken the benighted Hottentot to a sense of the truth; to convert Jews, Turks, Infidels, and
Papists; to arouse the indifferent and often blasphemous mariner; to
guide the washerwoman in the right way; to head all the public
-charities of her sect, and do a thousand 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 labour, while florid rhapsodists belaboured cushions
above her with wearisome benedictions; all these things had this
woman to do, and for near fourscore years she fought her fight
womanfully: imperious but deserving to rule, hard but doing her duty,
severe but charitable, and untiring in generosity as in labour; 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 con



1X6                THE NE- WCOMIE-S.
gratulated him. But he was, after all, only the junior partner of the:
house. His wife was manager in Threadneedle Street and at homewhen the clerical gentlemen prayed they importuned Heaven for that
sainted woman a long time before they thought of asking any favour
for her husband. 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-meetings, he yawned
over the sufferings of the negroes, and wished the converted Jews at
Jericho. About the time the French Emperor was meeting with his
Russian reverses Mr. Newcome died: his mausoleum is in Clapham
Churchyard, 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, fivew
miles from the Standard at Cornhill, 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 Claphamn
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
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 playhouse 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 servants' entrance. The rooks in the elms cawed sermons at
nmorning and evening; the peacocks walked demurely on the terraces;
the guinea-fowls looked more quaker-like than those savoury birds
usually do. The lodge-keeper was serious, and a clerk at a neighbouring 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 provisionally, and until
the end of the world, which event, he could prove by infallible calculations, was to come off in two or three years at farthest. WVherefore,
he asked, should the butler brew strong ale to be drunken three years
hence; or the housekeeper (a follower of Joanna Southcote) make
provisions of fine linen and lay up stores of jams? On a Sunday
(which good old Saxon word was scarcely known at the Hermitage)
the household marched away in separate couples or groups to at least
half-a-dozen of religious edifices, each to sit under his or her favourite
minister, the only man who went to church being Thomas Newcome,
accompanied by Tommy his little son, and Sarah his nurse, who was,
I believe, also his aunt, or, at least, his mother's first-cousin. Tommy




THE NE WVCO) IES.                      7
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
nunishment of little sinners. He repeated these poems to his step-7other 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 remained
many years in that stifling garden of Eden. She could not bear to
part from the child whom her mistress and kinswoman had confided
to her (the women had worked in the same room at Newcome, and
loved each other always, when Susan 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
catechisms 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 wonderment, 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 appeared in the Clapham
Paradise-the twins, Hobson Newcome and Brian Newcome, called
after their uncle and late grandfather, whose name and rank they were
destined to perpetuate. And now there was no reason why young
2



1                    ETHE NE IVCOMIES.
Newcome should not go to school. Old Mr. Hobson and his brother
had been educated at that school of Grey Friars, of which mention
has been made in former works: and to Grey Friars Thomas Newcome was accordingly sent, exchanging-O  ye Gods! with what:
delight-the splendour of Clapham for. the rough, plentiful fare of the
place, blacking his master's shoes with perfect readiness, till he rose
in the school, and the time came when he should have a fag of his
own; tibbing out and receiving the penalty therefor; 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 he had
plenty) to spend. I have seen his name carved upon the Gown Boys'
arch; but he was at school long before my time; his son showed me
the name when we were boys together, in some year when George the
Fourth was king.
The pleasures of this school-life were such to Tommy Newcome,
that he did not care to go home for a holiday: and indeed, by insubordination and boisterousness; by playing tricks and breaking
windows; by marauding upon the gardener's peaches and the housekeeper's jam; by upsetting his two little brothers in a go-cart (of
which wanton and careless injury the Baronet's nose bore marks to
his dying day); by going to sleep during the sermons, and treating
reverend gentlemen with levity, he drew down on himself the rierited
wrath of his'stepmother; and many punishments in this present life,
besides those of a future and much more durable kind, which the good
lady did not fail to point out that he must undoubtedly inherit. His
father, at Mrs. Newcome's instigation, certainly whipped Tommy for
upsetting his little brothers in the go-cart; but upon being pressed to
repeat the whipping for some other peccadillo performed soon after,
Mr. Newcome refused at once, using a wicked, worldly expression,
which might well 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 stepmother, 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 furiously against the butler's shins as to
draw blood from his comely limbs, and to cause that serious and
overfed menial to limp and suffer for many days after; and, seizing
the decanter, he swore he would demolish blacky's ugly face with it;




THE  NE WCOMES.                       19
nay, he threatened to discharge it at Mrs. Newcome's own head!before he would submit to the coercion which she desired her agents
to administer.
High words took place between Mr. and Mrs. Newcome that
night on the gentleman's return home from the City, and on his
learning the events of the morning. It is to be feared he made use
of further oaths, which hasty ejaculations need not be set down in
this place; at any rate, he behaved with spirit and manliness as
master of the house, vowed that, if any servant laid a hand on the.child, he would thrash him first and then discharge him; and, I daresay, expressed himself with bitterness and regret that he had married
a wife who would not be obedient to her husband, and had entered a
house of which he was not suffered to be the master. Friends were
called' in-the interference, the supplications, of the Clapham clergy,
some of whom dined constantly at the Hermitage, prevailed to allay
this domestic quarrel; and, no doubt, the good sense of Mrs. Newcome-who, though imperious, was yet not unkind; and who, excellent
as she was, yet could be brought to own that she was sometimes in
fault,-induced her to make at least a temporary submission to the
man whom she had placed at the head of her house, and whom, it
must be confessed, she had vowed to love and honour. When Tommy
fell ill of the scarlet fever, which afflicting event occurred presently
after the above dispute, his own nurse, Sarah, could not have been
more tender, watchful, and affectionate, than his stepmother 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. Newcome-and, under this feverish delusion, actually
abused her to her face, calling her an old cat, an old Methodist; and,
jumping up in his little bed, forgetful of his previous fancy, vowed 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. New,.come gave her, and which his son and his' son's son after him, through
all their difficulties and distresses, always found means to pay.
What the boy threatened in his delirium he had thought of, no
doubt, more than once in his solitary and unhappy holidays. A year
after he actually ran away, not from school, but from home; and
appeared one morniing, gaunt and hungry, at Sarah's cottage, two
hundred miles away from Clapham, who housed the poor prodigalS




20                  TIlE NE WCOMES.
and killed her calf for him-washed him, with many tears and kisses,
and put him to bed and to sleep; from which slumber he was aroused
by the appearance of his father, whose sure instinct, backed by Mrs.
Newcome's own quick intelligence, had made him at once aware
whither the young runaway had fled. The poor father came horsewhip in hand-he knew of no other law or means to maintain his
authority; many and many a time had his own father, the old weaver,.
whose memory he loved and honoured, strapped and beaten him.
Seeing this instrument in the parent's hand, as Mr. Newcome thrust.
out the weeping trembling Sarah and closed the door upon her,,
Tommy, scared out of a sweet sleep and a delightful dream of cricket,,
knew his fate; and, getting up out of bed, received his punishment
without a word.. Very likely the father suffered more than the child;.
for, when the punishment was over,-the little man, yet trembling and.
quivering with the pain, held out his little bleeding hand and said,.
"I can-I can take it from you, sir;" saying which his face flushed,.
and his eyes filled, for the first time; whereupon the father burst into
a passion of 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.
wandered as a young fellow: where he had first courted and first
kissed the young girl he loved-poor child-who had waited for
him so faithfully and fondly, who had passed so many a day of patient
want and meek expectance, to be repaid by such a scant holiday and
brief fruition.
Mrs. Newcome never made the slightest allusion to Tom's absence
after his return, but was quite gentle and.affectionate with him, and
that night read the parable of the Prodigal in a very low and quiet
voice.
This, however, was only a temporary truce. War very soon broke
out again between the impetuous lad and his rigid domineering stepmother. 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
Roehampton (where a delightful Hebrew convert had spoken, oh! so
graciously!) Mrs. Newcome-in her state-carriage, with her bayhorses-met Tom, her stepson, in a tax-cart, excited by drink, and
accompanied by' all sorts of friends, male and female. John, the
black man, was bidden to descend from the carriage and bring him




THIE NE WCOMES.                        21
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 favourite book
of all in his father's library. Being offered a writership, he scouted,the idea of a civil appointment, and would be contented with nothing
but a uniform. A cavalry cadetship was procured for Thomas New-come; and the young man's future career being thus determined, and'his stepmother's unwilling consent procured, Mr. Newcome thought. fit to send his son to a tutor for military instruction, and removed him,from the London school, where, in truth, he had made but very little
-progress in the humaner letters. The lad was placed with a professor
who prepared young men for.the army, and received rather a better
professional education than fell to the lot of most young soldiers of
his day. He cultivated the mathematics and fortification with more
assiduity.than he had ever' bestowed on Greek and Latin, and especially made such a progress in the French tongue as was very uncommon among the British youth his contemporaries.
In the study of this agreeable language, over which young' New-.
come spent a great deal of his time, he unluckily had'some instructors
-who were destined to bring the poor lad into yet further trouble at
home. His tutor, an easy gentleman, lived at Blackheath, and, not
far from thence, on the road to Woolwich, dwelt the little Chevalier
de Blois, at whose house the young man much preferred to take his,French lessons rather than to receive them under his tutor's own roof.
For the fact was that the little Chevalier de Blois had two pretty
young daughters, with whom he had fled from his country along:with
thousands of French gentlemen at the period of revolution and emigration. He was a cadet of a very ancient family, and his brother,.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 Frederick: 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 Leonore, the Chevalier's daughter, would
carry on her little industry very undisturbedly in the same parlour
with her father and his pupil. She painted card-racks.- laboured at,embroidery; was ready to employ her quick little brain or fingers in
any way by which she' could find means to add a few shillings to the
scanty store on which this exiled family supported themselves in their
day of misfo/rtune.  I suppose the Chevalier was not in the least




1.32               CTHE NE WCO10E S.
unquiet about her, because she was promised in marriage to the Comte
de Florac, 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 companion in arms. Tom New —
come took no French lessons on a Sunday. He passed that day at
Clapham generally, where, strange to say, he never said a word about'Mademoiselle de Blois.
What happens when two young folks of eighteen, handsome and
ardent, generous and impetuous, alone in the world, or without strong
affections to bind them elsewhere,-what happens when they meet:
daily over French dictionaries, embroidery-frames, or, indeed, upon
any business whatever? No doubt Mademoiselle LUonore was a
young lady perfectly bien dievee, and ready, as every well-elevated
young Frenchwoman should be, to accept a husband of her parents'
choosing; but, while the elderly M. de Florac 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 Lemonore 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. Thither Tom's stepmother followed him, and found
the young man sure enough with his instructor over his books and
plans of fortification. Mademoiselle and her card-screens were in the
room, but behind those screens she could not hide.her blushes and
confusion from Mrs. Newcome's sharp glances. In one moment the
banker's wife saw the whole affair-the whole mystery which had been
passing for months under poor M. de Blois' nose, without his having
the least notion of the truth.
Mrs. Newcome said she wanted her son to return home with her
upon private affairs; and, before they had reached the Hermitage, a
fineI 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 wanted to make poor Tom's cup of
bitterness run over. Mr. Newcome was called in, and the two elders
passed a great part of the night in an assault upon the lad. He was




THE NE WCOMES.                       23
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 LUonore, and having the
Chevalier's blessing. That old fiddler in London scarcely seemed to
him to be an obstacle: it seemed monstrous that a young creature
should be given away to a man older than her own father. He did
not know the law of honour, as it obtained amongst French gentlemen of those days, or how religiously their daughters were bound by it.
But Mrs. Newcome had been beforehand with him, and had visited
the Chevalier de Blois almost at cock-crow. She charged him insolently with being privy to the attachment between the young people;
pursued him with vulgar rebukes about beggary, Popery, and French
adventurers. Her husband had to make a very contrite apology afterwards for the language which his wife had thought fit to employ.
" You forbid me," said the Chevalier, "you forbid Mademoiselle de
Blois to marry your son, Mr. Thomas! No, Madam, she comes of a
race which is not accustomed to ally itself with persons of your class;
and is promised to a gentleman whose ancestors were dukes and
peers when Mr. Newcome's were blacking shoes! " Instead of finding
his pretty blushing girl on arriving at Woolwich, poor Tom only found
his French master, livid with rage and quivering under his ailes de
pigeon. 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 honour to the world, M. de Blois determined that his
daughter should instantly marry the Count. The poor girl yielded
without a word, as became her; and it was with this marriage effected
almost before his eyes, and frantic with wrath and despair, that young
Newcome embarked for India, and quitted the parents whom he was
never more to see.




24                  THE NE WCOME:S.
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. Newcome would have liked to leave Tom all his private fortune,
for the twins were only too well cared for; but he dared not o,
account of his terror of Sophia Alethea, his wife; and he died, an&t
poor Tom was only secret.y forgiven.




IHE NE WCOMES.                              25
CHAPTER  III.
COLONEL NEWCOME'S LETTER-BOX.
I.
*'   TITH the most heartfelt joy, my dear Major, I take up my pen to
VV  announce to you the happy arrival of the'Ramchunder,' and the
dearest and handsomest little boy who, I am sure, ever came from  India.
Little Clive is in perfect health. He speaks English wondeifully well. He
cried when he parted from Mr. Sneid, the supercargo, who most kindly
brought him from Southampton in a postchaise, but these tears in childhood
are of very brief duration! The voyage, Mr. Sneid states, was most favourable,.
occupying only four months and eleven days.; How different from that more
lengthened and dangerous passage of eight months, and almost perpetual seasickness, in which my poor dear sister Emma went to Bengal, to become the
wife of the best of husbands and the mother of the dearest of little boys, and
to enjoy these inestimable blessings for so brief an interval! She has quitted
this wicked and wretched world for ofie where all is peace. The misery and
ill-treatment which she endured from Captain Casey, her first odious husband,
were, I am.sure, amply repaid, my dear Colonel, by your subsequent affection.
If the most sumptuous dresses which London, even Paris, could supply,
jewellery the most costly, and elegant lace, amnd everything lovely and fashionable,
could content a woman, these, I am sure, during the last four years of her
life, the poor girl had. Of what avail are they when this scene of vanity is
closed?
"Mr. Sneid announces that the passage was most favourable.  They
stayed a week at the Cape, and three days at St. Helena, where they visited
Bonaparte's. tomb (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. Id6bson & Co. shall be faithfully, expended on my dear
little charge.- Mrs. Newcome: can scarcely:be called his grandmamma, I
suppose; and I daresay her Methodistical ladyship will not care to see the
daughter 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




26                     THE NE WCOM.ES.
money.' Of course, unless Mrs. N. writes to invite dear Clive, I shall not
think of sending him to Clapham.
" It is such hot weather that I cannot wear the beautiful shawl you have
sent me, and shall keep it in lavender till next winter! My brother, who
thanks you for your continuous bounty, will write next month, and report
progress as to his dear pupil. Clive will add a postscript of his own, and I
am, my dear Major, with a thousand thanks for your kindness to me,
"Your grateful and affectionate
" MARTHA HONEYMAN."
In a round hand and on lines ruled with pencil:" Dearest Papa i am very well i hope you are Very Well. Mr. Sneed
brought me in a postchaise i like Mr. Sneed very much. i like Aunt Martha
i like Hannah. There are no ships here i am your affectionate son Clive
Newcome."
II.
" Rue St. Dominique, St. Germain, Paris, Nov. I5, 1820.
" Long separated from the country' which was the home of my youth, I
carried from her tender recollections, and bear her always a lively gratitude.
The Heaven has placed me in a position very different from that in which I
knew you. I have been the mother of many children. My husband has
recovered a portion of the property which the Revolution tore from us; and
France, in returning to its legitimate sovereign,' received once more the
nobility which accompanied his august house into exile. We, however, preceded his Majesty, more happy than many of our companions. Believing
further resistance to be useless; dazzled, perhaps, by the brilliancy of that
genius which restored order, submitted Europe, and governed France; M. de
Florac, in the first days, was reconciled to the Conqueror of Marengo and
Austerlitz, and held a position in his Imperial Court. This submission, at
first attributed to infidelity, has subsequently been pardoned to my husband.
His sufferings during the Hundred Days made to pardon his adhesion to him
who was Emperor. My husband is now an old man. He was of the disastrous
campaign of Moscow, as one of the 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 Florac. Sometimes I
have heard of your career. One of my parents, M. de F., who took service
in the English India, has entertained me of you; he informed me how, yet a
young man, you won laurels at Argom and Bhartpour; how you escaped to
death at Laswari. I have followed them, sir, on the map. I have taken part
in your victories and your glory. Ah! I am not so cold, but my heart has
trembled for your dangers; not so aged, but I remember the young man who
learned from the pupil of Frederic the first rudiments of war. Your great
heart, your love of truth, your courage were your own. None had to teach
you those qualities, of which a good God had endowed you. My good father
is dead since many years. He, too, was permitted to see France before to die.
I have read in the English journals not only that you are married, but that




THE NE WCOMES.                             27
you have a son. Permit me to send to your wife, to your child, these accompanying tokens of an old friendship. I have seen that Mistress Newcome was
widow, and am not sorry of it. My friend, I hope there was not that difference
of age between your wife and you that I have known in other unions. I pray
the good God to bless yours. I hold you always in my memory. As I write,
the past c6mes back to me. I. see a noble young man, who has a soft voice,
and brown eyes. I see the Thames, and the smiling plains of Blackheath,
I listen and pray at my chamber-door as my father talks to you in our little
cabinet -of studies. I look from my window, and see you depart.
" My sons are men: one follows the profession of arms, one has embraced.
the ecclesiastical state; my daughter is herself a mother. I remember this was
your birthday; I have made myself a little fete in celebrating it, after how
many years of absence, of silence!
CtCOMTESSE DE FLORAC
"(Nde 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 6 and 8d. threeper cent. Consols, in our joint names (H. and B. Newcome), held for your
little boy. Mr. S. gives a very favourable account of the little man, and left:
him in perfect health two days since, at the house of his aunt, Miss Honeyman.
We have placed  20oo 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 hadreceived him at your house, and alluded to you in a very handsome way in the
course of the thanksgiving that evening. I daresay my mother will ask your
little boy to the Hermitage; and, when we have a house of our own, I amsure Ann and I will be very happy to see him. Yours affectionately,
" B. NEWCOME.
a"fajor NVewcome."
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 meto 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



THE NE W'COMES..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 Brighton houseowner (bred in affluence she may have been, and used to unremitting plenty,)
to the support of the- casual travellers who visit the city.  On one day they
come in shoals, it is true, but where are they on the next? For many months.my poor sister's first floor was a desert, until occupied by your noble little boy,'my nephew and pupil.  Clive is everything that a father's, an uncle's (who
loves him as a father), a pastor's, a teacher's affections could desire. He is,not one of those premature geniuses whose much-vaunted infantine talents
~disappear along with adolescence; he is not, I frankly own, more advanced in
his classical and mathematical studies than some children even younger than
himself; but he has acquired the rudiments of health; he has laid in a store of
honesty and good-humour, which are not less likely to advance him in life than
mere science and language, than the as in praesenzti, or the aons asinorum.
" But I forget, in. thinking of my dear little friend and pupil, the subject of
-this letter-namely, the acquisition of the proprietary chapel to which I have
alluded, and the hopes, nay, certainty of a fortune, if aught below is certain,
which that acquisition holds out. What is a curacy, but a synonym for starva-.tion? If we accuse the Eremites of old of wasting their lives in unprofitable
wildernesses, what shall we say to many a hermit of Protestant, and so-called
civilised times, who hides his head in a solitude in Yorkshire, and buries his,probably fine talents in a Lincolnshire fen? Have I genius? Am I blessed
with gifts of eloquence to thrill and soothe; to arouse the sluggish, to terrify
the sinful, to cheer and'convince the timid, to lead the blind groping in darkness, and to trample the audacious sceptic in the dust? My own conscience,
besides a hundred testimonials from places of popular, most-popular worship,
from reverend prelates, from distinguished clergy, tells me I have these gifts.
A voice within me cries,'Go forth, Charles Honeyman, fight the good fight;
wipe the tears of the repentant sinner; sing of hope to the agonised criminal;.whisper courage, brother, courage, at the ghastly death-bed, and strike down
the infidel with the lance of evidence and the shield of reason!' In a pecuniary
point of view I am confident, nay, the calculations may be established as
irresistibly as an algebraic equation, that I can realise, as incumbent of Lady
Whittlesea's chapel, the sum of not less than one thousand pounds per annum.
Such a sum, with economy (andwithout it what sum were sufficient?) will.enable me to provide amply for my wants, to discharge my obligations to you,
to my sister, and some other creditors, very, very unlike you, and to place
Miss Honeyman in a home more worthy of her than that which she now
~occupies, only to vacate it at the beck of every passing stranger!
" My sister does not disapprove of my plan, into which enter some modiAfications 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,wore thriftily than her unfortunate and confiding brother guarded his (for




THE NE WCOMES 2S.
whenever I had a guinea a tale of distress would melt it into half a sovereign),
will enable Miss Honeyman to live in a way becoming my father's daughter.
" Comforted with this provision as my sister will be, I would suggest that
our dearest young Clive should be transferred from her petticoat government,
and given up to the care of his 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 lhigrest welfare, which
I cannot so conveniently exercise at Brighton, where I am but Miss Honeyman's stipendiary, and where I often have to submit in cases where I know,
for dearest Ciive's own welfare, it is I, and not my sister, should be paramount.
" I have given, then, to a friend, the Rev. Marcus Flather, a draft for two
hundred and fifty pounds sterling, drawn upon you at your agent's in Calcutta,
which sum will go in liquidation of dear Clive's first year's board with me, or,
upon my word of honour as a gentleman and clergyman, shall be paid back at
three months after sight, if you
will draw upon me.' As I never
-no, were it my last penny in
the world - would dishonour /
your draft, I implore you, my
dear Colonel, not to refuse mine.
My credit in this city, where
credit is everything, and the                           /
awful future so little thought of,  
my engagements to Mr. Flather,          /
my own prospects in life, and
the comfort of my dear sister's
declining years, all-all depend  
upon this, bold, this eventful
measure. My ruin or my earthly
happiness lies entirely in your      i
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-.     I        "
law?-CHARI.ES HONEYMAN.
"Our little Clive has been to
London on a visit to his uncles,
and to the Hermitage, Clapham,
to pay his duty to his stepgrandmother, the wealthy Mrs.
Newcome.  I pass over words                      ~        ~,3
disparaging of myself which the
child in his artless prattle subsequently narrated.  She was very gracious to
him, and presented him with a five-pound note, a copy of'Kirk White's
Poems,' and a work called' Little Henry and his Bearer,' relating to Indiat




30                     THE NAE WCOMES.
and thie excellent Catechism of our Church. Clive is full of humour, and
I enclose you a rude scrap representing the Bishopess of Clapham, as she
is called,-the other figure is a rude though entertaining sketch of some other
droll personage.
"Liezutenant-Colonel Newcome, &'c."
V.'"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 we who are many, many
hundred pounds debtors to you. Charles has explained that he drew the bill
at your desire, that you wrote to say you would be glad to serve him in any
way, and that the money is wanted to make his fortune. Yet I don't know,
poor Charles is always going to make his fortune and has never done it. That
school which he bought, and for which you and me between us paid the purchase-money, turned out no good, and the only pupils left at the end of the
first half-year were two woolly-headed poor little mulattos, whose father was
in gaol at St. Kitts, and whom I kept actually in my own second-floor back
room whilst the lawyers were settling things, and Charles was away in France,
and until my dearest little. Clive came to live with me.
" Then, as he was too small for a great school, I thought Clive could not
do better than stay with his old aunt, and have his uncle Charles for a tutor,
who is one of the finest scholars in the world. I wish you could hear him in
the pulpit. His delivery is grander and more impressive than any divine now
in England. His sermons you have subscribed for, and likewise his book of
elegant poems, which are pronounced to be very fine.
"When he returned from Calais, and those horrid lawyers had left off
worriting him, I thought, as his frame was much shattered and he was too
weak to take a curacy, that he could not do better than become Clive's tutor,
and agreed to pay him out of your handsome donation of 250o. 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 no great
profit is left to Miss Martha Honeyman.
"Charles talks to me of his new church in London, and of making me
some grand allowance,-the poor boy is very affectionate, and always building.
castles in the air-and of having Clive to live with him in London. Now this
mustn't be, and I won't hear of it. Charles is too kind to be a schoolmaster,
and Master Clive laughs at him. It was only the other day, after his return
from his grandmamma's, regarding which I wrote you, per'Burrampooter,'
the 23rd ult., that I found a picture of Mrs. Newcome and Charles too, and
of both their spectacles, quite like. I put it away, but some rogue, I suppose,
has stolen it. He has done me and Hannah too. Mr. Speck, the artist,
laughed and took it home, and says he is a wonder at drawing.
" Instead, then, of allowing Clive to go with Charles to London next
month, where my brother is bent on going, I shall send Clivey to Dr.
Timpany's school, Marine Parade of which I hear the best account, but I




THE NEWL CO0 HES.                           31
hope you will think of soon sending him to a great school.  My father alwa.ys
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 spoilt 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 i2-13th, having been engaged reading and writing in her library until a
late hour, and having dismissed the servants, whom 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
wuas discovered by the maids, sitting with her head reclining against the
balustrades, and endeavouring to staunch a wound in her forehead, which was
bleeding profusely, having struck in a fall against the stone step of the stair.
" When Mrs. Newcome was found she was speechless, but still sensible,
and medical aid being sent for, she was carried to bed. Mr. Newcome and
Lady Ann both hurried to her apartment, and she knew them, and took the
hands of each, butparalysis 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 Newcome's property being divided equally amongst his three sons, the property of
his second wife naturally devolves upon her own issue, my brother Brian and
myself.  There are very heavy legacies to servants and to charitable and
religious institutions, of which, in life, she was the munificent patroness; and
I regret, my dear brother, that no memorial to you should have been left by
my mother, because she often spoke of you latterly in terms of affection, and
*on the very day on which she died, commenced a letter to your little boy,
which was left unfinished on the library table. My brother said that on that
same day, at 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,
" H. NEWCOMI.
" ieutenant- Coland Newcome, &c."




I33                THE N EWCOMES.
CHAPTER  IV.
IN WHICH THE AUTHOR AND THE HERO RESUME TIEIR
ACQUAINTANCE.
I F we are to narrate the youthful history not only of the hero of this
tale, but of the hero's father, we shall never have done with
nursery biography. A 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 down
the revered British public for an old woman? Only to two or three
persons in all the world are the reminiscences of a man's early youth
interesting: to the parent who nursed him; to the fond wife or child
mayhap afterwards who loves him; to himself always and supremely
-whatever may be his actual prosperity or ill-fortune, his present age,
illness, difficulties, renown, or disappointments-the dawn of his life
still shines brightly for him, the early griefs and delights and attachments remain with him ever faithful and dear. I shall ask leave to
say, regarding the juvenile biography of Mr. 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 schoolfellows, my acquaintance with young
Newcome at the seat of learning where we first met was very brief
and casual. He had the advantage of being six years the junior of
his present biographer, and such a difference of age between lads at a
public school puts intimacy out of the question-a junior ensign being
no more familiar with the Commander-in-Chief at the Horse Guards,
or a barrister on -his first circuit with my Lord Chief Justice on the
bench, than the newly-breeched infant in the Petties with a senior boy
in a tailed-coat.  We "knew each other at home," as our school
phrase was, and our families were somewhat acquainted: Newcome'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 I82-, to the Grey Friars' school, recommended him, in a
neat complimentary speech, to my superintendence and protection.
IMy uncle, Major Pendennis, had, for a while, a seat in the chapel of




THE WE V'VCO CES.                    33
-this sweet and popular preacher, and _professed, as a great number of
persons of fashion did, a great admiration for him-an admiration'which I shared in my early youth, but which has been modified by
maturer judgment.
Mr. Honeyman told me, with an air of deep respect, that his young
nephew's father, Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., was a most gallant
and distinguished officer in the Bengal establishment of the Honourable East India Company; and that his uncles, the Colonel's half-.brothers, were the eminent bankers, heads of the firm of Hobson.Rrothers and Newcome, Hobson Newcome, Esquire, Bryanston:Square, and Marble Head, Sussex, and Sir Brian Newcome, of New-,comle and Park Lane, "whom to name," says Mr. Honeyman, with,the fluent eloquence with which he decorated the commonest circum-:stances 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. Honey-man 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 protegd in the neighbourhood of the pastrycook's regaling himself with raspberry-tarts. " You
mnust 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 ginger-beer."
The urchin rubbed the raspberry-jam off his mouth, and said, " It,don't matter, sir, for I've got lots more."
"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 ten shillings in a letter. And Ethel wanted
to give me a pound, only I wouldn't have it, you know; because
Elthel'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
t.




34                   THIE ATE IWCOMES.
daughter. There's Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Ann wanted the babyto 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 your
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 trousers' pockets,
and jingling all the sovereigns there. I advised him to let me behis banker; and, keeping one out of his many gold pieces, he handed
over the others; on which he drew with great liberality till his wholestock 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 timeI used to find my little blue-jacket in waiting, with his honest squareface, and white hair, and bright blue eyes, and I knew that he wascome to draw on his bank. Ere long one of the pretty blue eyes was
shut up, and a fine black one substituted in its place. *He had been
engaged, it appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with a giant of his own
Form, whom he had worsted in the combat. "Didn't I pitch into,,
him, that's all?" says he in the elation of victory; and, when I asked.
whence the quarrel arose, he stoutly informed me that " Wolf Minor,.
his opponent, had been bullying a little boy, and that he (the gigantic:
Newcome) wouldn't stand it."
So, being called away from the school, I said farewell and God,
bless you to the brave little man, who remained awhile at the Grey
Friars, where his career and troubles had only just begun. Nor did,
we meet again until I was myself a young man occupying chambers.
in the Temple, when our rencontre took place in the manner already
described.
Poor Costigan's outrageous behaviour had caused my meeting with,
my schoolfellow of early days to terminate so abruptly and unpleasantly that I scarce expected to see Clive again, or, at any rate, to,,
renew my acquaintance with the indignant East Indian warrior who,
had quitted our company in such a huff. Breakfast, however, was.
scarcely over in my chambers the next morning, when there came a
knock at the outer door, and my clerk introduced " Colonel Newcome.
and Mr. Newcome."
Perhaps the (joint) occupant of the chambers in Lamb Court,.
Temple, felt a little pang of shame at hearing the name of the visitors;
for, if the truth must be told, I was engaged pretty much as I had
been occupied on the night previous, and was smoking a cigar overthe Times newspaper. How many young men in the Temple smoke
a cigar after breakfast as they read the Timzes? My friend and com



THE NIE WCOMES& 3.
panion of those days, and all days, Mr. George Warrington, was employed with his short pipe, and was not in the least disconcerted at,the appearance of the visitors, as he would not have been had: the
Archbishop of Canterbury stepped in.
Little Clive looked curiously about our queer premises, while the
Colonel shook me cordially by the hand. No traces of yesterday's
wrath were visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted his 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 soda-water bottles, cigarboxes, and what not.
"I went off in a flame of fire last night," says the Colonel, " and
being cooled this morning, thought it but my duty to call on Mr. Pendennis-and apologise for my abrupt behaviour. The conduct of that
tipsy old Captain-what is his name? —was so abominable, that I
could not bear that Clive should be any longer- in the same room with
him, and I went off without saying a word of thanks or good night to
my son's old friend. I owe you a shake of the hand for last night,
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 Gazelle every month."
"We took it at Smiffle, regular," says Clive. "Always patroniso
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 neighbouring market.
"Clive sent me the Gazette every month; and I read your romance
of' Walter Lorraine' in my boat as I was coming down the river to
Calcutta."
"Have Pen's immortal productions made their appearance on
board Bengalee budgerows; and are their leaves floating on the yellow
banks of Jumna?" asks Warrington, that sceptic,' who respects no
work of modern genius.
" I gave your book t6 Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta," says the Colonel
simply. " I daresay you have heard of her. She is one of the most
dashing women in all India. She was delighted with your work; and
I can tell you it is not with every man's writing that Mrs.. Timmins is
pleased," he added, with a knowing air.
"It's capital," broke in Clive. " I say, that part, you know, where
Walter runs away with NeaLera, and the General can't pursue them,
though he has got the postchaise at the door, because Tim O'Toole
has hidden his wooden leg! By Jove, it's capital!-AU the funny




36                   THE NE WCOMES.
part-I don t like the sentimental stuff, and suicide, and that; and as
for poetry, I hate poetry."
"Pen's is not first chop," says Warrington. "I am obliged to take
the young man down from time to time, Colonel Newcome. Otherwise he would grow so conceited there would be no bearing him."
"I say," says Clive.
"What were you about to remark?" asks Mr. Warrington, with
an air of great interest.
"I say, Perdennis," continued the artless youth, " I thought you
were a great swell. When we used to read about the grand parties in
the Pall Mall Gazelle, 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 profession better than any in the world, but then it is because I
am suited to it. I couldn't write four lines in-verse, no, not to save
me from being shot. A man cannot have all the advantages of life.
Who would not be poor if he could be sure of possessing genius, and
winning fame and immortality, sir? Think of Dr. Johnson, what a
genius he had, and where did he live? In apartments that, I daresay, 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 pleasures and delights which I had proposed to
myself on coming home was to be allowed to have the honour of
meeting with men of learning and genius, with wits, poets, and historians, if I may be so fortunate; and of benefiting by their conversation. I 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. Pendennis's poverty, or
of feeling any sentiment but respect and adtiiration 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 proofsheet?" We handed over to him that curiosity, smiling at the enthusiasm of the honest gentleman who could admire what to us was as
unpalatable as a tart to a pastrycook.
Being with men of letters, he thought proper to make his conversation entirely literary; and, in the course of my subsequent more inti



THE ArEWCOME1S.                       37
mate 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 " Caesar" and
" Tacitus," "with translations, sir, with translations-I'm thankful that
I keptsoame of my Latin from Grey Friars;" and he quoted sentences
from the Latin Grammar, hpropos 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
gentlemen; 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
mustachios. " I read them when I was a boy, when I kept other bad
company, and did other low and disgraceful things, of which I'm
ashamed now. Sir, in my father's library I happened to fall in with
those books; and. I read them in secret, just as I used to go in
private and drink beer, and fight cocks, and smoke pipes 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 some of that sort, for it was a grave-looking volume:
and though I wouldn't lie about that or anything else never did, sir;
never, before heaven, have I told more than three lies in my life-I
kept. my-own counsel;- 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 gave me!   I own I burst out a-laughing, for:I was a wild
young: rebel,' sir. But she.was in the right, sirj and I was in 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 cansomahs 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 n Jones-that fellow that. sells himself, sir-by heavens, my
blood boils 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,'How dare you, you hireling ruffian, to sully with your presence an




38                  THE NE WCOMES.
apartment where my young friend and I are conversing togetheri
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 garments,
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 anything he might see or hear in our chambers.
"What is- it, Larkins? " said I. Larkins' other master had taken his
leave some time before, having business which called him away, and
leaving me with the honest Colonel, quite happy with his talk and cigar.
It's Brett's man," says Larkins.
I confounded Brett's man, and told the boy to bid him call again.
Young Larkins came grinning back in a moment, and said," Please, sir, he says his orders is not to go away without the money."
"Confound him," again I cried. " Tell him I have no money in
the house. He must come to-morrow."
As I spoke, Clive was looking in wonder, and the Colonel's countenance assumed an appearance of the most dolorous sympathy.
Nevertheless, as with a great effort, he fell to talking about Tom
Jones again, and continued:
"No, sir, I have no words to express my indignation against such
a fellow as Tom Jones. But I forgot that I need not speak. The
great and good Dr. Johnson has settled that question. You remember
what he said to Mr. Boswell about Fielding?"
"And yet Gibbon praises him, Colonel," said the Colonel's interlocutor, "and that is no small praise. 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 his further acquaintance. Come, Clive."
Clive, who had been deep in a volume of Hogarth's engravings
during the above discussion, or rather oration of his father's, started
up and took leave, beseeching me, at the same time, to come soon and
see his pony; and so, with renewed greetings, we parted.




T2HE U.E EICOMES.                    9
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 begani more unreservedly:'" My dear young friend," says he, "a thousand pardons for what I am
going to say, but, as Clive's friend, I know I may take 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."
"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. Newcome, in Threadneedle Street, are good enough to
Ikeep 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,warit 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.




40                   THE NLE WCOMVES
CHAPTER V.
CLIVE'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 grewto be considerable, and a -great deal more to my liking than my relations with Clive's City uncles, which have been mentioned in the last
chapter, and which were, in truth, exceedingly distant and awful.
If all the private accounts kept by those worthy bankers were like
mine, where would.have been Newcome Hall and Park Lane, Marble
Head and Bryanston Square? I used, by strong efforts of self-denial,.
to maintain a balance of two or three guineas untouched at the bank,
so that my account might still remain open; and fancied the clerks
and cashiers grinned when I went to draw for money. Rather than
face that awful counter, I would send Larkins, the clerk, or Mrs.
Flanagan, the laundress. As for entering the private parlour at theback, wherein, behind the glazed partition, I could see the bald heads
of Newcome Brothers engaged with other capitalists or peering over
the newspaper, I would as soon have thought of walking into the
Doctor's own library at Grey Friars, or of volunteering to take an armchair in a dentist's studio, and have a tooth out, as of entering into
that awful precinct. My good uncle, on the other hand, the late
Major Pendennis, who kept naturally but a very small account with
Hobsons', would walk into the parlour and salute the two magnateswho governed there with the ease and gravity of a Rothschild. " My
good fellow," the kind old gentleman would say to his nephew and
pupil, " il faut se faire valoir. I tell you, sir, your bankers like to
keep every gentleman's account. And it's a mistake to suppose they
are only civil to their great moneyed clients. Look at me. I go in to:
them, and talk to them whenever I am in the City. I hear the news




TI]E  NE RWCOMES.                      4S
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 bankers' equal. On my coming to.
London, he was kind enough to procure me invitations to some of
Lady Ann Newcome's evening parties in. Park Lane, as likewise to
Mrs. Newcome's entertainments in Bryanston Square; though, I confess, of these latter, after a while, I was a lax and negligent attendant.
"Between ourselves, 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 nothing sacred in this kind of London hospitality..
Your white waistcoat fills a gap ill 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 most pleasant evenings I have ever spent
have been when we have sat after a great dinner, en -5eit comiW, and
abused the people who are gone. You have your turn, moon cher; but
why not?  Do you 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 grdce. Entre nous,:Brother
Hobson Newcome is a good fellow, but a vulgar fellow; and his wife
— his wife exactly sznils 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 carriages, and all the great world, and some
of the small, were present. Mrs. Newcome had her ball too, and her
concert of English music in 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. Bryanston Square could not forget the superiority of Parlk




-42                  THE NE WCOMI'ES.:Lane's rank; and the catalogue of grandees at dear 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.
She will not bow down to kiss the hand of a haughty aristocracy.
She is a merchant's wife and an attorney's daughter. There is no
pride about her. Her brother-in-law, poor dear Brian-considering
everybody knows everything in London, was there ever such a delusion
as his?-was welcome, after banking-hours, to forsake his own 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 hypocrites, all
reformers villains, all placemen plunderers, and so forth; and Mrs.
Newcome never, I am sure, imagined that she had a prejudice, or that:she was other than an honest, independent, high-spirited woman.
Both of the ladies had command over their husbands, who were of
soft natures, easily led by woman, as, in truth, are all the males of
this family. Accordingly, when Sir Brian Newcome voted for the
Tory candidate in the City, Mr. Hobson Newcome plumped for the
Reformer. While Brian, in the House of Commons, sat among
the mild Conservatives, Hobson unmasked traitors and thundered at
aristocratic corruption, so as to make the Marylebone Vestry thrill
with enthusiasm. When Lady Ann, her husband, and her flock of
children fasted in Lent, and declared for the High Church doctrines,
Mrs. Hobson had paroxysms of alarm  regarding the progress of
Popery, and shuddered out of the chapel where she had a pew, because
the clergyman there, for a very brief season, appeared to preach in a
surplice.
Poor bewildered Honeyman! it was a sad day for you, when you
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,




THE 1VEWL/COIE S.                     43
and summon John from the back seats to bring away the bag of
prayer-books! Many a good dinner did Charles Honeyman lose by
assuming that unlucky ephod. Why did the high-priest of his diocese
order him to put iton? It was delightful to view him afterwards, and
the airs of martyrdom which he assumed. Had they been going to
tear him to pieces with wild beasts next day, he could scarcely have
looked more meek, or resigned himself more pathetically to the
persecutors. But I am  advancing matters. At this early time of
which I write, a period not twenty years since, surplices were not
even thought of in conjunction with sermons: clerical gentlemen
have appeared in them, and,'under the heavy hand of persecution,
have sunk down in their 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 suppose that
some slight offered to the writer by this wealthy and virtuous banker's
lady was the secret reason for this unfavourable sketch.of her,character, let me be allowed to report, as accurately as I can re-,member them, the words of a kinsman of her own, -.  Giles,
Esquire, whom I had the honour of meeting at her table, and who,
as we walked away from Bryanston Square, was kind enough to:discourse very freely about the relatives whom he had just left.
"That was a good dinner, sir," said Mr. Giles, puffing the cigar
iwhich I offered to him, and disposed to be very social and commumnicative. " 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 especially, 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 our
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 relative: and New-,come 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,
*6 Hobson; Louisa's engaged nursing number eight' —that's our number, sir. The truth is', between you and me, sir, my missis won't come




44                  THE NE WCOiVES.
any more at no price. She can't stand it; Mrs. Newcome's dam
patronising airs is enough to choke off anybody.'Well,. Hobson,.
my boy,' says I,'a good dinner's a good dinner; and I'll come though
Louisa won't, that is, can't. "
While Mr. Giles, who 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.'And why should she, Loo, my dear?'
says I.'I don't want to meet Lady Newcome, nor Lord Kew, nor
any of'em.' Lord Kew, ain't it an odd name? Tearing young swell,
that Lord Kew: tremendous wild fellow.
" I was a clerk in that house, sir, as a young man; I was there in
the old woman's time, and Mr. Newcome's-the father of these young
men-as good a man as ever stood on'Change." And then Mr. Giles,
warming with his' subject, enters at large into the history of the house.
"You see, sir," says he, "the banking-house of Hobson Brothers, or
Newcome Brothers, as the partners of the firm really are, is not one of
the leading banking firms of the City of London, but a most respect-.
able 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 Newcome Brothers, Hobson Newcome,
Esq., and Sir Brian Newcome, Bart., M.P., Mr. Giles showed how
a, considerable West End connection was likewise established, chiefly
through the aristocratic.- friellds and  connections of the abovenamed.Bart...L
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 Mr. T..Newcome, better than her sons and
successors above: mentioned, was: the famous Sophia Alethea HIobson,
afterwards Newcome-of whom.might be said what Frederick the
Great said of his sister, that she was sexit fam'ina, vir iinzgenio-in
sex a woman, and. in mind a man. Nor was she, my informant told
me, without even manly personal characteristics: she had a very deep
and gruff -voice, and in her old age a beard, which many a young man
might envy; and as she came into the bank out of her carriage from
Clapham, in her dark green pelisse with fur trimmings, in her grey
beaver hat, beaver gloves, and great gold spectacles, not a clerk in




THE NEW VCOMSES.                     45
that house did not tremble before her, and it was said she only wanted.a pipe in her mouth considerably to resemble the late Field-Marshal
Prince Blucher.
Her funeral was one of the most imposing sights ever witnessed in.Clapham. There was such a crowd you might have thought it was a
Derby day. The carriages of some of the 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 Honourable the Earl of Kew, and that of his daughter;
Lady Ann Newcome, attended that revered lady's remains to their:final resting-place. No less than nine sermons were preached at
various places of public worship regarding her end. She fell upstairs
at a very advanced age, going from the library to the bed-room, after
all the household was gone to rest, and was found by the maids in the
morning, inarticulate, but still alive, her head being cut frightfully
with the bed-room candle with which she was retiring to her apartment. "And," said Mr. Giles, with great energy, " besides the empty
-carriages at that funeral, and the parson in black, and the mutes
and feathers and that, there were hundreds and hundreds of people
who wore no black, and who weren't present; and who wept: for
their benefactress, I can tell you. She had her 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 continued.
"' She would try and know about everybody'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 Thomas
iNewcome'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 morning, as sure as my
name's John Giles.
"'When the old lady was gone, Mr. Hobson had no need of any
more humbugging, but took his pleasure freely. Fighting, tandems,




46                  THE NWE!/COMES.
four-i.n-hand, anything. He and his brother-his elder brother by
a quarter of an hour-were always very good friends; but after
Mr. Brian married, and there were only court-cards at his table,
Mr. Hobson couldn't stand it. They weren't of his suit, he said; and
for some timne 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 us."
Do not let us be too angry with Colonel Newcome's two most
respectable brothers, if for some years they neglected their Indian
relative, or held him in slight esteem. Their mother never pardoned
him, or at least by any actual words admitted his restoration to,
favour.: For many years, as far as they knew, poor Tom was an
unrepentant prodigal, wallowing in bad company, and cut off from all
respectable sympathy. Their father had never had the courage to
acquaint them with his more true, and kind, and charitable version of
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 representatives of Hobson
Brothers were of course East India proprietors, 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 Pharisees of his race turn their heads aside and leave him penniless and bleeding. They clap him on the back kindly enough when
he returns, after shipwreck, with money in his pocket. How naturally
Joseph's brothers made salaams to him, and admired him, and did
him honour, when they found the poor outcast a prime minister, and:
worth ever so much money! Surely human nature is not much
altered since the days of those primeval Jews. We would not thrust
brother Joseph down a well and sell him bodily, but-but if he has




TH.E ATE W'COOES.                    47
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, Hobsonr
Brothers scarce took any notice of the little man, but left him to the
entire superintendence of his own family. Then there came a large
remittance from his father, and the child was asked by Uncle Newcome at Christmas. Then his father's name was mentioned in general
orders, and Uncle Hobson asked. little 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. T. Newcome), and clothes from
the London tailor, to the homely quarters and conversation of poor
kind old Aunt Honeyman at Brighton. Clives 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.
huzzas at prosperity, and turns away from misfortune 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 evenings and holidays, treated their young kinsman, the Indian Colonel's son, as other
wTealthy 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 hooping-cough, a confidential young clerk.
went round by way of Grey Friars Square to ask after him; the sea
being recommended to him, Mrs. Newcome gave him change of air in
Sussex, and transferred him to his maternal aunt at Brighton. Then
it was ban 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.




48                   THE NE WCOMES.
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.
Clive, in the avuncular gig, is driven over the downs to Brighton
to his maternal aunt there; and there he is a king. He has the best
bed-room, Uncle Honeyman turning out for him; sweetbreads for
dinner; no end of jam for breakfast; excuses 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 Newcome, C.B., who sends her shawls, ivory chessmen, scented sandalwood work-boxes and kincob scarfs; who, as she tells Hannah the
maid, has fifty servants in India; at which Hannah 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 towards the expenses thereof; who gave Mr.
Honeyman, her brother, a much larger sum of money at the period of
his calamity. Is it gratitude for past favours? 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
pcacock's tail wherein my absurd vanity had clad itself-and says,
" Away with this boasting! I 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 I
caused you to refrain. You are pleased because you gave a guinea to
~Diddler? I am Laziness, not Generosity, which inspired you. You
Jhug yourself 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
H-Ioneyman was a kind soul, and such was the splendour of Clive's
father, of his gifts, his generosity, his military services, and Companionship of the Bath, that the lad did really appear a young duke
to her. A nd Mrs. Newcome was not unkind: and if Clive had been
really a young duke, I am sure he would have had the best bed-room




THE NE WCOMES.                        49
at Marble Head, and not one of the far-off little rooms in the boys'
wing; I am sure he would have had jellies and Charlottes Russes,
instead of mere broth, chicken, and batter-pudding, such 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. Newcome 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 henceforth and for ever after as
a son of her ownZ. 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 neighbour
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, recollections of the sweet past rise up and
smite those who remain: the flowers they had planted in their little
gardens, the toys they played with, the little vacant cribs they slept in
as fathers' eyes looked blessings down on them. Most of us, who have
passed a couple of score of years'n the world, have had such sights as
these to move us. And those wl;, 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 ab.ent child, and longed after him. He
never forsook the native servants and nurses who had had charge of
the child, but endowed them with money sufficient (and indeed little
was wanted 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




50                  THE _ArE iW CO MES.
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 Gazeltes, and embroiders
banners with names of victory; which gives moralists and enemies
cause to cry out at English rapine; and enables patriots to boast of
invincible British valour-besides the splendour and conquest, the
wealth and glory, the crowned ambition, the conquered danger, the
vast prize, and the blood freely shed in winning it-should not one
remember the tears too? Besides the lives of myriads of British
men, conquering on a hundred fields, from Plassey to Meanee, and
bathing them crzore nos/ro: 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 cannot live on the soil. The parents bring their
children to the shore, and part from them. The family must be
broken up. Keep the flowers of your home beyond a certain time,
and the sickening buds wither and die. In America it is from the
breast of a poor slave that a child is taken; in India it is from the
wife, and from under the palace, of a splendid proconsul.
The experience of this grief made Newcome's naturally kind heart
only the more tender, and hence he had a weakness for children which
made him the laughing-stock of old maids, old bachelors, and sensible
persons; but the darling of all nurseries, to whose little inhabitants he
was uniformly kind: were they the Collector's progeny in their palanquins, or the Sergeant's 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 thesun 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 proposals before she has been a week at the
Station? And it is not only bachelors on whom the young ladies
confer their affections; they will take widowers without any difficulty:
and a man so generally liked as Major Newcome, with such a
good character, with a private fortune of his own, so. chivalrous,
generous, good-looking, eligible in a word, you may be sure would
have found a wife easily enough, had he any mind for replacing the
late Mrs. Casey.
The Colonel, as has been stated, had an Indian chum or companion, with whom he shared his lodgings; and from many jocular
remarks of this latter gentleman (who loved good jokes, and uttered
not a few) I could gather that the honest widower Colonel Newcome




TEIE NIEWCOMES.                       sr
1had been often tempted to alter his condition, and that the Indian
ladies had tried numberless attacks upon his bereaved heart, and
zdevised 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 into 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 mantelpiece of the Colonel's bed-chamber, where I have often seen that work
-f art; and subsequently, when he and Mr. Binnie took a house, there
was hung up in the spare bed-room a companion portrait to the
miniature —that of the Colonel's predecessor, Jack Casey, who, in life,
used to fling plates at his Emma's head, and who perished from a
fatal attachment to the bottle. I am inclined to think that Colonel
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 benefactions and remembrances to the departed
lady's kindred.
Those widows or virgins who endeavoured to fill Emma's place
found the door of Newcome's heart fast and barred, and assailed it
ain vain. Miss Billing sat down before it with her piano, and, as the'Colonel was a practitioner on the flute, hoped to make all life one
harmonious duet with him; but she played her most brilliant sonatas:and variations in vain; and, as everybody knows, subsequently carried
1her 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; and it was thought she might never leave it; but her kind
hiost, as was his wont, crammed, her children with presents and good
things; consoled and entertained the fair widow, and one morning,
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, Cheltenham, 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 New



52                 TTHEE NEW uCOMlES.
come's chum-that wicked Mr. Binnie-had all conspired more or
less to give Clive Newcome a stepmother.
But he had had an unlucky experience in his own case; and
thought within himself, "No, I won't give Clive a stepmother. 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 make a fine show besides; but
it is not a man's gifts or hospitalities that generally injure his fortune.
It is on themselves that prodigals spend most. And as Newcome
had no personal extravagances, and the smallest selfish wants; could
live almost as frugally as a Hindoo; kept his horses 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-" he will be a fine scholar, and have at least as much classical
learning as a gentleman in the world need possess. Then I will go
to England, and we will pass three or four years together, in which
he will learn to be intimate with me, and, I 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-Inzgenuas didicisse fideliter ar/es emozllnt mores, nec
sinuisseferos. I shall be able to help him with my knowledge of the
world, and to keep -him out of the way of sharpers and a pack of
rogues who commonly infest young men.  I will make myself his
companion, and pretend to no superiority; for, indeed, isn't he my
superior?  Of course he is, with his advantages. He hasn't been an
idle young scamp as I was. And we will travel together, 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




THtE ANEWCOMES.                       53
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 nec- " —
"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 Turk as
iver was? Have ye niver 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 Clive will
delight in them! The boy's talent for drawing is wonderful, sir, wonderful. He 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 hearers with this prattle; and sporting
young men would give or take odds that the Colonel would mention
Clive's name, once before five minutes, three times in ten minutes,
twenty-five times in the course of dinner, and so on. But they who
laughed at the Colonel laughed very kindly; and everybody who
knew him, loved him; everybody, that is, who loved modesty, and
generosity, and honour.
At last the happy time came for which the kind father had been
longing more passionately than any prisoner for liberty, or schoolboy 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
Hustler) 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.




54                  THE NEWCOMES.
CHAPTER VI.
NEWCOME BROTHERS.
BESIDES his own boy, whom he worshipped, 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
postchaises to this school and that, to see Jack Brown's boys, of the
Cavalry; or Mrs. Smith's girls, of the Civil Service; or poor Tom:
Hicks's orphan, who had nobody to look after him now that 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 mustachios-to see the way in which he tipped children
made one almost long to be a boy again); and when he had visited
Miss Pinkerton's establishment, or Doctor Ramshorn's adjoining
academy at Chiswick, and seen little Tom Davis or little Fanny
Holnes, the honest fellow would come home and write off straightway a long letter to Tom's or Fanny's parents, far away in the Indianr
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 lollipops at their stalls), all the street-sweepers on,
the road between Nerot's and the Oriental, knew him, and were his
pensioners. His brothers in Threadneedle Street cast up their eyes at
the cheques which he drew.
One of the little people of whom the kind Newcome had taken
charge luckily dwelt near Portsmouth; and when the faithful Colonel
consigned Miss Fipps to her grandmother, Mrs. Admiral Fipps, at
Southampton, Miss Fipps clung to her guardian, and with tears and
bowls was torn away from him. Not until her maiden aunts had.onsoled her with strawberries, which she never before had tasted,.
was the little Indian comforted for the departure of her dear Colonel.
bMaster Cox, Tom Cox's boy, of the Native Infantry, had to be carried



THE, NE'WC0OfE..                     5 
asleep from the " Georce" 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 errand on which his fond heart
was bent.
He had written to his brothers from Portsmouth, announcing his
arrival, and three words to Clive, conveying the same intelligence.
The letter was served to the boy along with one bowl of tea and one
buttered roll, of eighty such which were distributed to fourscore other
boys, boarders of the same house with our young friend. How the
lad's face must have flushed, and his eyes brightened, when he read
the news! When the master of the house, the Rev. Mr. Popkinson,
came into the long-room, with a good-natured face, and said, " Newcome, you're wanted," he knows who is come. He does not heed that
notorious bruiser, old Hodge, who roars out, "Confound you, Newcome: I'll give it you for upsetting your tea over my new trousers."
He runs to the room where the stranger is waiting for him. We will
shut the door, if you please, upon that scene.
If Clive had not been as fine and handsome a young lad as any
in that school or country, no doubt his fond father would have been
just as well pleased, and endowed him with a hundred fanciful graces;
but, in truth, in looks and manners he was 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 mustachios and whiskers which he has himself subsequently
depicted, but he is the picture of health, strength, activity, and goodhumour. 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 the hero of a novel.
The bell rings for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in
cap and gown, comes in to shake Colonel Newcome by 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 bed-rooms, 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




56                   THE NE WCOAIES.
son walk 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 mustachios, and yellow face. He looks
very odd, Clive thinks, very odd and very kind, and he looks like a
gentleman, every 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 amongst the boys for a 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 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 parlour where the lords of the establishment were seated.
He astonished those trim quiet gentlemen by the warmth of his
greeting, by the vigour of his hand-shake, and the loud high tones of
his voice, which penetrated the glass walls of the parlour, and might
actually be heard by the busy clerks in the hall without. He knew
Brian from Hobson at once-that unlucky little accident in the gocart having left its mark for ever 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 thunderstorm
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 pro



THE NE WCOMES.                       57
duce, samples of beans or corn, which he used to bite and chew even
on'Change, or a whip-lash, or balls for horses: in fine, he was a good
old country gentleman. If it was fine in Threadneedle Street, he
would say it was good weather for the 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 Bryanston 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.
The Colonel breaks into the sanctum of these worthy gentlemen;
and each receives him in a manner consonant with his peculiar nature.
Sir Brian regretted that Lady Ann was away from London, being at
Brighton with the children, who were all ill of 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; but 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 Marble
Head, to look after the hay. Come on Monday, Tom, and I'll introduce you to the missus 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 boys; there's no good in boys; they
stop the talk downstairs, and the ladies don't want'em in the drawingroom. 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 Marble Head 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 worthy 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.




58                  THE NE WCOMES.
The Colonel gave him a queer look. " I shall be at Newcome before
the winter.'I shall be there, please God, before many days are over."
" Indeed!" says the Baronet, with an air of great surprise. " You,
are going down to look at the cradle of our race. I believe the
Newcomes were there before the Conqueror. It 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 great pleasure, brother, in
introducing.you to my eldest son."
A fair-haired young gentleman, languid and pale, and arrayed in
the very height of fashion, made his appearance at this juncture in
the parlour, and returned Colonel Newcome's greeting with a smiling
acknowledgment of his own. " Very happy to see you, I'm sure," 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."
"To-day it's really as hot as I should think it must be in India,"
says young Mr. Barnes Newcome.
" Hot!" says the Colonel, with a grin. " It seems to me you are
all cool enough here."
" Just what Sir Thomas de Boots said, sir," says Barnes, turning
round to his father. " Don't you remember when he came home from
Bombay? I recollect his saying, at Lady 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 says he's going to Newcome, Barnes, next week,"
said the Baronet, wishing to make the conversation more interesting
to the newly arrived Colonel. "t He was saying so just when you came
in, and I was asking him what took'him there?"




THE NE WCOMES.    5'                    r
" Did you ever hear of Sarah Mason?" says the Colonel.
" Really, I never did," the Baronet answered.
" Sarah Mason? No, upon my word, I don't think I ever did,"
said the young man.
"Well, that's a pity too," the Colonel said, with a sneer. "Mrs.
Mason is a relation of 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 Newcome's account-I recollect.
the name quite well. But I thought she had been your nurse, andand 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 connexion of our
fther'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 haves
no relationship with Mrs. Mason, and do not remember ever having.
seen her. Can I do anything for you, brother? Can I be useful toyou 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 yow
look! the hot winds are nothing to what we endure in Parliament..
Hobson," in a low voice, "you saw about that h'm-that power of
attorney-and h'm and h'm will call here at I2 about that h'm. 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."
" Oh, of course," said the elder brother, and thought when will thatever be!
"Lady Ann will be too delighted at hearing of your arrival. Give'




60                  THE NE WCOMES.
my love to Clive-a remarkable fine boy, Clive-good morning:" and
the Baronet was gone, and his bald head might presently be seen
alongside of Mr. Quilter's confidential grey poll, both of their faces
turned into an immense ledger.
Mr. Hobson accompanied the Colonel to the door, and shook hint
cordially by the hand as he got into his cab. The man asked whither
he should drive? and poor Newcome hardly knew where he was or
whither he should go. "Drive! a-oh-ah-damme, drive me any-where away from this place!" was all he could say; and very likely
the cabman thought he was a disappointed debtor who had asked in
vain to renew a bill. In fact, Thomas Newcome had overdrawn his
little account. There was no such balance of affection in that bank of
his brothers, as the simple creature had expected to find there.
When he was gone, Sir Brian went back to his parlour, where sat
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 morning. Do everything
you can to make him comfortable. Whom would he like to meet at
dinner? I will ask some of the Direction. 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
iiaresay, 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 honour," said the Baronet, who really meant what he said.
"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 of bills, put an end to these sarcastic remarks, and
young Newcome, applying himself to his business (of which he was a
perfect master), forgot about his uncle till after City hours, when he
entertained some young gentlemen of Bays's Club with an account of,his newly arrived relative.
Towards the City, whither he wended his way whatever had been
the ball or the dissipation of the night before, young Barnes Newcome




THE NE WVCOMES.                       6
might be seen walking every morning, resolutely and swiftly with his
neat umbrella. As he passed Charing Cross on his way westwards,
his little boots trailed slowly over the pavement, his head hung languid
(bending lower still, and smiling with 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 towards the park.
Great dowager barouches roll along, emblazoned with coronets, and
driven by coachmen in silvery wigs. Wistful provincials gaze in at the
clubs. Foreigners chatter and show their teeth, and look at the ladies
in the carriages, and smoke and spit refreshingly round about. Policeman X slouches along the pavement. It is 5 o'clock, the noon in Pall
Mall.'" 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 dashhe should have been blackballed 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 goodnatured Charley Heavyside.
" It takes very little to amuse you," remarks Fogey.
" You don't, Fogey," answers Charley. " I know every one of your
dem'd old stories, that are as old as my grandmother. How-dy-do,
Barney?" (Enter Barnes Newcome.) "How are the Three per Cents.,
you little beggar? I wish you'd do me a bit of stiff; and just tell
your father, if I may overdraw my account I'll vote with himl-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? Vell, how mosh vill you
do 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
fbr it." (Captain'the Honourable Charles Heavyside is a member of
the legislature, and eminent in the House for asinine imitations which




'62                 TIHE NE WCOMES.
delight his own, and confuse 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 waist-band.
"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?"
"That is very uncomfortable news from India, General," resumes
Fogey-" there's Lady Doddington's carriage, how well she looksthat movement 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 Bacchanalian 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.
" Ive got an uncle come home from India-upon my word I have,"
says Barnes Newcome. "That is why I am so exhausted. I am
going to buy him a pair of gloves, number fourteen-and I want a
tailor for him-not a young man's tailor. Fogey's tailor rather. I'd
take my father's; but he has all his things made in the country-allin the borough, you know-he's a public man."
"Is Colonel Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry,, your uncle?" asks
Sir Thomas de Boots.
"Yes; will you come and meet him at dinner next Wednesday
week, Sir Thomas-? and, Fogey, you come: you know you like a
good dinner. You don't know anything against my uncle, do you,
Sir Thomas?  Have I any Brahminical cousins?  Need we be
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 should
be more like him? I don't wish to be like him at all, thank you."




THE NE WCOMES.                       63
"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 innocently, when
he has finished his bitter draught. " He's always flying out at me,
the old turkey-cock. He quarrels with my play at whist, the old idiot,
and can no more play than an old baby. He pretends to teacb 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 mustachios and the short trousers, walking with that boy of his.
I daresay 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 sat at picquet until the hour of sunset and
dinner arrived.




64                  THE  NE WICOMES.
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 forms and cupboards, treble voices, bass voices, poured
out of the schoolboys'.windows: their life, bustle, and gaiety contrasted
strangely with the quiet of those old men, creeping along in their black
gowns under the ancient arches yonder, whose struggle of life was over,
whose hope and noise and bustle had sunk into that grey calm. There
was Thomas Newcome arrived at the middle of life, standing between
the shouting boys and the tottering seniors, and in a situation to
moralise 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, come
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 Newcome's loose clothes and long mustachios, 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 pleased to say that
he thought Newcome's governor was a fine manly-looking fellow.




TH1E NE W CCOM1VE.                    6 5
"Tell me about your uncles, Clive," said the Colonel, as they
walked on arm-in-arm.
" What about them, sir? K. 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?"
" Oh, 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 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 Sunday
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 Bryanston Square, except for the tip, of course that's
important, because I am made to dine with the children, and they
are quite little ones; and a great cross French governess, who is
always crying and shrieking after them, and finding fault with them,
My uncle generally has his dinner-parties on Saturday, or goes out;
and aunt gives me ten shillings and sends me to the play; that's better'
fun than a dinner-party."  Here the lad blushed again. "I used,"
says he, "when I was younger, to stand on the stairs and prig things
out of the dishes when they came out from dinner, but I'm past that
now. Maria (that's my cousin) used to take the sweet things and give'em to the governess. Fancy! she used to put lumps of sugar into
her pocket and eat'em in the school-room! 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
wvomen ladies and some not. There's Jones now, the fifth-form
master, every man sees he's a gentleman, though he wears ever so old
clothes; and there's Mr. Brown, who oils 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,ery
Ilaadsome and she's very finely dressed, only somehow she's not-me's not the ticket you see."
" Oh, she's not the ticket?" says the Colonel, much amused.




~6                   TEHE NEWCOMES.
"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's very kind to me; 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 Brightonthat is, in all essentials, you know? And she is not a bit ashamed of
letting lodgings, or being poor herself, as sometimes I think some of
our family —"
"I thought we were going to speak no ill of them," says the
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 Newcome, 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 who 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 resumed, after
a pause"Say what you say," said the father.
"Is that all true what's in the Peerage-in the Baronetage, about
Uncle Newcome and Newcome; about the Newcome who was burned
at Smithfield; about the one that was at the battle of Bosworth; and
the old old Newcome who was bar-that is, who was surgeon to
Edward the Confessor, and was killed at Hastings? I am afraid it
isn't; and yet I should like it to be true."
"I think every man would like to come of an ancient and honourable race," said the Colonel, in his honest way. " As you like your
father to be an honourable man, why not your grandfather, and his
ancestors before him? But if we can't inherit a good name, at least
we can do our best to leave one, my boy; and that is an ambition
which, please God, you and I will both hold by."




THE NE T'COMES.                       67
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 Newcome Brothers had his housea handsome and roomy mansion in Bryanston Square. Colonel
Newcome 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 open 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
IColonel. " Does Mrs. Newcome give parties when he is away?"
" She invites all the company," answered Clive. " 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! Newcome 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, " Not at home."
"It's my father, John," said Clive; "my aunt will see Colonel.Newcome."
" Missis not at home," said the man. " Missis is gone in carriage
-Not at this door!-Take them things down the area steps, young
mnan!" bawls out the domestic. This latter speech was addressed to
a pastrycook'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.
" 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 mustachios 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 i qui que ce soit
hlors du Squar!" screams out the lady of the mustachios; 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 favourable
account."
"Hem!" said Mademoiselle Lebrun, remembering the last fight:she and Clive had had together, and a portrait of herself with enor



6$                  TIZIE.NrE ICOMlFIES.
nlous whiskers) which the young scapegrace had drawn. " Monsieur
is very good. But ore cannot too early inculcate retenue 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 eyesof 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,. monsieur -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, c'est different-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 distinguished 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 towards his hat or his boots, was
surveying his little nieces with that kind expression which his face
always wore when it was turned towards children. "Have you heard
of your uncle in India?" he asked them.
"No," says Maria.
"Yes," says Fanny. " You know Mademoiselle said" (Mademoiselle at this moment was twittering her fingers, and, as it were, kissing
them in the direction of a grand barouche that was advancing along.
the square)-" you know Mademoiselle said that if we were iychalntes
we should be sent to our uncle in India. I think I should like to go,.with you."
" 0 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 I83- ),
wvas reclining in the barouche, the scarlet-plush integuments 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 boo/.
was in her lap; an oval portrait of a gentleman reposed on' her voiu



THE NE, WCOMES.                       69
minous bosom. She wore another picture of two darling heads, with
pink cheeks and golden hair, on one of her wrists, with many more
chains, bracelets, bangles, and knicknacks. A pair of dirty gloves
imarred the splendour 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, a youth clad in nether garments of red sammit discharged,
thunderclaps on the door of Mrs. Newcome's house, announcing to
ithe whole square that his mistress had returned to her abode.
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. "How 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
mlajestic satisfaction. "Indeed, Clive!" she was good enough to,exclaim, and with an air which seemed to say, "Let him come up
and be presented to me." The honest gentleman stepped 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 baroness of King Francis's time patronising Bayard?
Can you imagine Queen Guinevere's lady's-maid's lady's-maid being
affable to Sir Lancelot? I protest there is nothing like the virtue of
English women.
" You have only arrived to-day, and you came to see me? That
was very kind. N'est-ce pas que c'etoit bong de Moseer le Colonel,
Mademoiselle?  Madamaselle Lebrun, le Colonel Newcome mont>
frere." (In a whisper, " My children's governess and my friend, a
most superior woman.") "Was it not kind of Colonel Newcome to
come to see me? Have you had a pleasant voyage? Did you come
by St. Helena? Oh, how I envy you seeing the tomb of that great
-man I Nous parlong de Napolleong, Mademoiselle, dong voter' plre
a td6 le G6neral favvory."
" 0 Dieu! que n'ai-je pu le voir," interjaculates Mademoiselle. " Lui
dont parle l'univers, dont mon pere m'a si souvent parl? " but this
remark passes quite unnoticed by Mademoiselle's friend, who continues::" Clive, donnez-moi voter bras. These are two of my girls. My
boys are at school. I shall be so glad to introduce them to their
uncle. This naughty boy might never have seen you, but that we
took him home to Marble Head, after the scarlet fever, and made hinm
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




70                  THE NE WCOM'ES.
know you through him, and we know that you know us, and we hopes
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 in to us at about ten this evening," she then
said, "you will find some men, not undistinguished, who honour meof 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 some of them are amongst the noblest of Europe.
But my maxim is, that genius is an illustration, and merit is betterthan any pedigree. You have heard of Professor Bodgers? Count
Poski?  Doctor McGuffog, who is called in his native country the
Ezekiel of Clackmannan? Mr. Shaloony, the great Irish patriot? our
papers have told' you of him. 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
them. 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. Newcome must be up betimes in the.morning, and our parties break up early. When Clive is a little older,.
I daresay we shall see him, too. Good-by!" And again the Colonel
was favoured with a shake of the glove, and the lady and her suite
sailed up the stair, and passed in at the door.
She had not the faintest idea but that the hospitality which shewas offering to her kinsman was of the most cordial and pleasant
kind. She fancied everything 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 sketchbooks from Kensington, or luckless pianists to trudge with their music
from Brompton. She rewarded them with a smile and a cup of tea,.
and thought they were made happy by her condescension. If, after twos
or three of these delightful evenings, they ceased to attend her receptions, she shook her little flaxen head, and sadly intimated that Mr. A,.
was getting into bad courses, or feared that Mr. B. found merely
intellectual parties too quiet for him. Else, what young man in his
senses could refuse such entertainment and instruction?




THE NEWCOMES.                         71
CHAPTER VIII.
MRS. NEWCOME AT HOME (A SMALL EARLY PARTY).
PO0 push on in the crowd, every male or female struggler must use
1   his or her shoulders. If a better place than yours presents itself
just beyond your neighbour, elbow him and take it. Look 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. Thumpington, when all the town is
rushing to hear that exciting divine; the largest quantity of ice,
champagne, and seltzer, cold pate, or other his or her favourite fleshpot, 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; whilst a timid mamma has still her girl in the nursery, or is
beseeching the servants in the cloak-room to look for her shawls, with
which some one else has whisked away an hour ago. What a man
has to do in society is to assert himself. Is there a good place at
table? Take it. At the Treasury or the Home Office? Ask for it.
Do you want to go to a party to which you are not invited? Ask to
be asked. Ask A., ask B., ask Mrs. C., ask everybody you know:
you will be thought a bore; but you will have your way. What
matters if you are considered obtrusive, provided that you obtrude?
By pushing steadily, nine hundred and ninety-nine people in a thousand
will yield to you.'Only command persons, and you may be pretty
sure that a good number will obey. How well your money will have
been laid out, 0 gentle reader, who purchase this; and taking the
maxim to heart, follow it through life! You may be sure of success.
If your neighbour's foot obstructs you, stamp on it; and do you suppose he won't take it away?
The proofs of the correctness of the above remarks I show in
various members of the Newcome family. Here was a vulgar 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 everything else which she chose to order through life. Meeting




72                   THE, NE WCOM~ES.
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 182I-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 to his friend and fellow-passenger, Mr. Binnie,
who has just arrived from Portsmouth, who has 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 lapelles, and a pair of buttons high up in the wearer's back,
a white waistcoat and scarlet under-waistcoat, and a pair of the neverfailing duck trousers, complete Thomas Newcome'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 outcry, 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 McGuffog, Professor Bodgers, Count Poski, and all the
lions present at Mrs. Newcome's rtniotn 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 i8oi-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 paradeevenings as he considered Mrs. Newcome's to be. The splendour of
this jewel, and of his flashing buttons, caused all eyes to turn to him.
There- were many pairs of mustachios present; those of Professor
Schnurr, a very corpulent martyr, just escaped from Spandau, and of
Maximilien ZTranchard, French exile and apostle of liberty, were the
only whiskers in the room capable of vying in interest with Colonel
Newcome'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 every other Wednesdays in Montague Square are
supposed by some to be rival entertainments to Mrs. Newcome's




THE  NE N VCOMIES.                   73
alternate Thursdays in Bryanston Square, pinched her daughter
Mira, engaged in a polyglot conversation with Herr Schnurr, Signor,Carabossi, the guitarist, and Monsieur 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 heard to speak it. Mrs. Miles, who had not had the educational advantages of her daughter, simpered up with " Madame Newcome pas ici-votre excellence nouvellement arrive-avez-vous fait ung
bong voyage? Je re<ois chez moi Mercredi prochaing; lonnure de
vous voir-Madamasel Miles ma fille;" and Mira, now reinforcing
her mamma, poured in a glib little oration in French, 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 entnre.
Mrs. Newcome had left her place at the door of her drawing-room,
to walk through her rooms with Rummun Loll, the celebrated Indian
merchant, otherwise his Excellency Rummun Loll, otherwise his
Highness Rummun Loll, the chief proprietor of the diamond mines
in Golconda, with a claim of three millions and a half upon the East
India Company-who smoked his hookah after dinner when the ladies
were gone, and in whose honour (for his servants always brought a,couple or more of hookahs with them) many English gentlemen made
themselves sick, while trying to emulate the same practice. Mr. Newcome had been obliged to go to bed himself in consequence of the
uncontrollable nausea produced by the chillum; and Doctor McGuffog,
in hopes of converting his Highness, had puffed his till he was as
black in the face as the interesting Indian-and now, having hung
on his arm-always in the dirty gloves-flirting a fan whilst his
Excellency consumed betel out of a silver box; and having promenaded him and his turban, and his shawls, and his kincob pelisse,
and his lacquered moustache, and keen brown face and opal eyeballs,
through her rooms, the hostess came back to her station at the
drawing-room door.
As soon as his Excellency saw the Colonel, whom he perfectly well
knew, his 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 towards him submissively, to the wonderment
of Mrs. Miles; who was yet more astonished when the Moldavian
magnate exclaimed in perfectly good English, "What, Rummun, you
here? "
The Rummun, still bending and holding his hands before him,
uttered a number of rapid sentences in the Hindustani language,
which Colonel Newcome received twirling his mustachios with much
hauteur. He turned on his heel rather abruptly, and began to speak




74                   THE NArE WCOAMES.
to Mrs. Newcome, who smiled- and thanked him for coming —on him
first night after his return.
The Colonel said, "To whose house should he first come but to
his brother's?" How Mrs. Newcome wished she could have had room
for him at dinner! And there was room after all, for Mr. Shaloony
was detained at the House. The most interesting conversation. TheIndian Prince was so intelligent!
" The Indian what?" asks Colonel Newcome. The heathen gentleman had gone off, and was seated by one of the handsomest 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 behaviour.
He curled his mustachios up to his eyes in his wrath. " You don't
mean that that man calls himself a Prince? That a fellow 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 honour 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. " 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 ILady 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 drily; 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 mornin' to.
ask how they all are. So Uncle Hobson is gone to bed sick with a
hookah? I know there was a deuce of a row made when I smoked
at Marble Head. You are promised to us for Wednesday, please.
Is there anybody you would like to meet?  Not our friend the
Rummun? How the girls crowd round him! By Gad, a fellow
vwho's rich in London may have the pick of any gal-not here-not




THE NE WCOMES.                        75
in this sort of thing; I mean in society you know," says Barnes
confidentially. "I've seen the old dawagers crowdin' 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 honour there
are not three people in the room one meets anywhere, 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 business
men, that's not our affair. But has he got the fortune? He keeps a
large account with us; and, I think, wants to have larger dealings
with us still. As one of the family, we may 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 unaffectedlyr
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's life 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 over-night; or twinges of conscience that his life
was mis-spent? 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..
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 broadcast 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




2 6                 THE AnE WCODMES.
for his money. He seldom drank too much, and 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.
Whilst 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 eagerness with which the gentleman in
black regarded him, and asked Mr. Barnes who was the padre?
Mr. Barnes turned his eyeglass towards the spectacles, and said
"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
advanced; Mr. Newcome fell back with a peevish exclamation of
" Confound the fellow, what is he coming to speak to me for?" He
did not choose to be addressed by all sorts of persons in all houses.
But he of the spectacles, with an expression of delight in his pale
blue eyes, and smiles dimpling his countenance, pressed onwards
with outstretched hands, and it was towards the Colonel he turned
these smiles and friendly salutations. " Did I hear aright, sir, from
Mrs. Miles" he said, " and have I the honour of speaking to Colonel
Newcome?"
" The same, sir," says the Colonel; at which the other, tearing off
a glove of lavender-coloured 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 1"
" 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 until dinnertime. You put me in mind of poor Emma, Charles," he added, sadly.
Emma had not been a good wife to him; a flighty silly little woman,
who had caused him when alive many a night of pain and day of
anxiety.
"Poor, poor Emma!" exclaimed the ecclesiastic, casting his eyes
towards the chandelier, and passing a white cambric pocket-handkerchief gracefully before them. No man in London understood the ring
business or the pocket-handkerchief business better, or smothered his.emnotion 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




TIHE NE I'VCOMES.                    77
the friend newly arrived on our shores. How it rejoices me to behold
you in old England! How you must have joyed to see Clive! "
" D-. the humbug," muttered Barnes, who knew him perfectly
well. " The fellow is always in the pulpit."
The incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's chapel smiled and bowed to,
him. " You do not recognise me, sir; I have had the honour of seeing
you in your public capacity in the City, when I have called at the bank,.
the bearer of my brother-in-law's generous- "
"Never mind that, Honeyman!" cried the Colonel.
"But I do mind, my dear Colonel," answers Mr. Honeyman. "r
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," muttered'
Mr. Barnes in his teeth; and turning to his uncle, "May I take you
home, sir? My cab is at the door, and I shall be glad to drive you."'
But the Colonel said he must talk to his brother-in-law for a while:
and Mr. Barnes, bowing very respectfully to him, slipped under a
dowager's arm in the doorway, and retreated silently downstairs.
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. Newcome herself
would have been pleased had she heard Honeyman's discourse regarding her guests and herself. Charles Honeyman so spoke of most
persons that you might fancy they were listening over his shoulder.
Such an assemblage of learning, genius, and virtue, might well delight
and astonish a stranger. " That lady in the red turban, with the handsome daughters, is Lady Budge, wife of the eminent judge of that
name-everybody was astonished that he was not made Chief Justice,
and elevated to the Peerage-the only objection (as I have heard
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, dispenses the most elegant hospitality at.
her mansion in Connaught Terrace, and is a pattern as a wife and a
mother. The young man talking to her daughter is a young barrister,.
already becoming celebrated as a contributor to some of our principal
reviews."
" Who is that cavalry officer in a white waistcoat talking to the
Jew with the beard?" asks the Colonel.
"He-he! That cavalry officer is another literary man of celebrity,
and by profession an attorney. But he has quitted the law for the
Muses, and it would appear that the Nine are never wooed except by
gentlemen with mustachios."




78                 ETHE NE WCOMES.
"Never wrote a verse in my life," says the Colonel, laughing, and
stroking his own.
" For I remark so many literary gentlemen with that decoration.
The Jew with the beard, as you call him, is Herr von Lungen, the
eminent hautboy-player. The three next gentlemen are Mr. Smee, of
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 barytone from Rome. Professor'Quartz and
Baron Hammerstein, 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. McGuffog, of Edinburgh, talking to Dr. Ettore, who
lately escaped from the Inquisition at Rome, in the disguise of a
washerwoman, after undergoing the question several times, the rack
and the thumbscrew. They say that he was to have been burned in
the Grand Square the next morning; but between ourselves, my dear
Colonel, I mistrust these stories of converts and martyrs. Did you
ever see a more jolly-looking man than Professor Schnurr, who was
locked up in Spielberg, and got out up a chimney, and through a
window? Had he waited a few months, there are very few windows
he could have passed through. That splendid man in the red fez is
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. He is talking
with Mr. Palmer, one of our most delightful young poets, and with
Desmond O'Tara, son of the late revered bishop of Ballinafad, who
has lately quitted ours for the errors of the Church of Rome. Let me
whisper to you that your kinswoman is rather a searcher after what we
call here notabilities. I heard talk of one I knew in better days-of
one who was the comrade of my youth, and the delight of Oxfordpoor Pidge of Brasenose, who got the Newdegate in my third year,
and who, under his present name of Father Bartolo, was to have been
here in his capuchin dress, with a beard and bare feet; but I presume
he could not get permission from his superior. That is Mr. Huff, the
political economist, talking with Mr. Macduff, the Member for Glenlivat. That is the coroner for Middlesex, conversing with the great
surgeon Sir Cutler Sharp, and that pretty little laughing girl talking
with them is no other than the celebrated Miss 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, desizere in loco-there are
descriptions in it certainly startling —ideas about marriage not exactly




THIE NEWCOMES.                        79
orthodox; but the poor child wrote the book actually in the nursery,
and all England was ringing with it before Dr. Pinnifer, her father,
knew who was the author. That is the Doctor asleep in the corner by
Miss Rudge, the American authoress, who, I daresay, is explaining to
him the difference between the two Governments. My dear Mrs. New-:come, I am giving my brother-in-law a little sketch of some of the
celebrities who are'crowding your salon to-night. What a delightful
evening you have given us!"
"I try to do my best; Colonel 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 amongst
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 associate with mind-men of all nations to
mingle infriendly unison-I shall not have lived altogethzer 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 gaiety;
but such, I trust, will never be the objects in life of me and nmy
children. We are but merchants; we seek to be no 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
acknowledge, 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 Newcome is not altogether useless in her
generation. Will you take a little refreshment? Allow your sister to
go down to the dining-room, supported by your gallant arm." She
looked round to the admiring congregation, whereof Honeyman, as it
were, acted as clerk, and flirting her fan, and flinging up her little
head, Consummate Virtue walked down on the arm of the Colonel.
The refreshment was rather meagre. The foreign artists generally
dashed downstairs, and absorbed all the ices, creams, &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,




~so            71'TIE   E IVCOIMEI S'.
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
incumnbent of Lady Whittlesea's chapel seldom rose before eleven,
For, to tell the truth, no French abbe of Louis XV. was more lazy and
luxurious, and effeminate, than our polite bachelor preacher.
One of Colonel Newcome's fellow-passengers from India was
Mr. James Binnie, of the Civil Service, a jolly young bachelor of two
or three and forty, who, having spent half of his past life in Bengal,
was bent upon enjoying the remainder in Britain or in Europe, if
a residence at home should prove agreeable 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
conscience, diamonds of untold value, and a diseased liver; who has
a vulgar wife, with a retinue of black servants whom she maltreats,
and a gentle son and daughter with good impulses and an    C imperfect
education, desirous to amend their own and their parents' lives, and
thoroughly ashamed of the follies of the old people. If you go to
the house of an Indian gentleman now, he does not say, " Bring more
curricles," like the famous Nabob of Stanstead Park. He goes to,
Leadenhall Street in an omnibus, and walks back from the City for
exercise. I have known some who have had maid-servants to wait
on them at dinner. I have met scores who look as florid and rosy as.
any British squire who has never left his paternal beef and acres.
They do not wear nankeen jackets in summer. Their livers are not
out of order any more; and as for hookahs, I dare swear there arenot 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 theIndian world at present inhabits. It used to be Baker Street and
Harley Street: it used to be Portland Place, and, in more early days,
Bedford Square, where the Indian magnates flourished; districts,
which have fallen from their pristine state of splendour now, even as
Agra, and Benares, and Lucknow, and Tippoo Sultan's city are fallen.
After two-and-twenty years' absence from London, Mr. Binnie
returned to it on the top of the Gosport coach with a hat-box and a
little portmanteau, a pink fresh-shaven face, a perfect appetite, a suit
of clothes like everybody else's, and not the shadow of a black servant.
He called a cab at the White Horse Cellar, and drove to Nerot's Hotel,,




THE NE WCOMES.                       8x
Clifford Street; and he gave the cabman eightpence, making the
fellow, who grumbled, understand that Clifford Street was not two
hundred yards from Bond Street, and that he was paid at the rate of
five shillings and fourpence per mile-calculating the mile at only
sixteen hundred yards. He asked the waiter at what time Colonel
Newcome had ordered dinner, and finding there was an hour on his
hands before the meal, walked out to examine the neighbourhood for
a lodging where he could live more quietly than in a hotel. He called
it a hotal. Mr. Binnie was a North Briton, his father having been a
Writer to the Signet, in Edinburgh, who had procured his son a
writership in return for electioneering services done to an East Indian
Director. Binnie had his retiring pension, and, besides, had saved
half his allowances ever since he had been in India. He was a man
of great reading, no small ability, considerable accomplishment, excellent good sense and good humour. The ostentatious said he was a
screw; but he gave away more money than far more extravagant
people: he was a disciple of David Hume (whom he admired more
than any other mortal), and the serious denounced him as a man of
dangerous principles, though there were, among the serious, men much
more dangerous than James Binnie.
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 Barrackpore Brummell-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!" cried 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 togetherisn't he a fine lad, Binnie? I expect you are going to put him down
for something handsome in your will."
" See what it is to have a real friend now, Colonel! I sate up for
ye, or let us say more correctly, I waited for you-because I knew you
would want to talk about that scapegrace of yours. And if I had gone
to bed, I should have had you walking up to No. 26, and waking me
out of my first rosy slumber. Well, now confess; avoid not. Haven't
6




82                  THE NE WCOVMES.
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 your
scapegrace?"
" Isn't he a fine fellow, James?" says the Colonel, lighting a cheroot as he sits on the table. Was it joy, or the bed-room candle with
which he lighted his cigar, which illuminated his honest features so,
and made them so to shine?
"I have been occupied, sir, in taking the lad's moral measurement:
and I have pumped him as successfully as ever I cross-examined a
rogue in my court. I place his qualities thus:-Love of approbation,
sixteen. Benevolence, fourteen. Combativeness, fourteen. Adhesiveness, two. Amativeness is not yet of course fully developed, but I
expect will be prodeegiously strong. The imaginative and reflective
organs are very large; those of calculation weak. He may make a
poet or a painter, or you may make a sojer 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! 1" says the Colonel, gravely, " you are always sneering at
the cloth."
" When I think that, but for my appointment to India, I should
have been a luminary of the faith and a pillar of the church! grappling
with the ghostly enemy in the pulpit, and giving out the psawm. 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 opinion, Colonel, is, that young scapegrace will give you a deal of
trouble; or would, only you are so absurdly proud of him that you
think everything he does is perfaction. 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, Colonel, which may prevent his
getting on in the world; but on the other hand will keep him from
going very wrong. So that, though there is every fear for him, there's
some hope and some consolation."
" What do you think of his Latin and Greek?" asks the Colonel.
Before going out to his party, Newcome had laid a deep scheme with
Binnie, and it had been agreed that the latter should examine the
young fellow in his humanities.
" Wall," cries the Scot, "I find that the lad knows as much about
Greek and Latin as I knew myself when I was eighteen years of age."
"My dear Binnie, is it possible?  You, the best scholar in all
India?"
"And which amounted to exactly nothing. He has acquired in




TiE NE WCOMES.                        83
rive years, and by the admirable seestem purshood at your public
schools, just about as much knowledge of the ancient languages as
he could get by three months' application at home. Mind ye, I don't
say he would apply; it is most probable he would do no such thing.
But, at the cost of-how much? two hundred pounds annually-for
five years-he has acquired about five-and-twenty guineas' worth of
classical leeterature - enough, I daresay, to enable him to quote
Horace respectably through life, and what more do you want from a
young man of his expectations? I think I should send him into the
army, that's the best place for him-there's the least to do, and the
handsomest clothes to wear.  Acce segnrnm!"" says the little wag,
daintily taking up the tail of his friend's coat. " In earnest now, Tom
Newcome, I think your boy is as fine a lad as I ever set eyes on. He
seems to have intelligence and good temper. He carries his letter of
recommendation in his countenance; and with the honesty-and the
rupees, mind ye-which he inherits from his father, the deuce is in it
if he can't make his way. What time's the breakfast? Eh, but it
was a 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 off 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 their beds. The housemaid was the
only being stirring in the morning 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 bed-rooms adjacent to this sitting-room, and
when Binnie, as brisk and rosy about the gills as Chanticleer, broke
out in a morning salutation, " Hush," says the Colonel, putting a long
finger up to his mouth, and advancing towards him as noiselessly as a
ghost.
"What's in the wind now?" asks the little Scot; " and what for
have ye not got your shoes on?"
" Clive's asleep," says the Colonel, with a countenance full of
extreme anxiety.




84                  THE NE WC'O MES.
"The darling boy slumbers, does he?" said the wag; " mayn't i
just step in and look at his beautiful countenance whilst he's asleep,
Colonel?"
"You may if you take off those confounded creaking shoes," the
other answered, quite gravely: and Binnie turned 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 palefaced boy in his little cot, and now, sir, that I see him again, strong
and handsome, and all that a fond father can wish to see a boy, I
should be an ungrateful villain, James, if I didn't-if I didn't do what
you said just now, and thank God Almighty for restoring him to me."
Binnie did not laugh any more. " By George, Tom Newcome,"
said he, " you're just one of the saints of the earth. If all men were
like you there'd be an end of both our trades; there would be no
fighting and no soldiering, no rogues, and no magistrates to catch
them." The. Colonel wondered at his friend's enthusiasm, who was
not used to be complimentary; indeed what so usual with him as that.
simple act of gratitude and devotion about which his comrade spoke to
him? To ask a blessing for his boy was as natural to him as to wake
with the sunrise, or to go to rest when the day was over. His first and
his last thought was always the child.
The two gentlemen were home in time enough to find Clive dressed,
and his uncle'arrived for 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.




THie NE WCOMES.                       85
CHAPTER IX.
MISS HONEYMAN'S.
JN 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 prominences, and
ornamented with neat verandahs, from which you can behold the tide
of humankind as it flows up and down the Steyne, and that blue ocean
over which Britannia is said to rule, stretching brightly away eastward
and westward. The Chain-pier, as everybody knows, runs intrepidly
into the sea, which sometimes, in fine weather, bathes its feet with
laughing wavelets, and anon, on stormy days, dashes over its sides
with roaring foam. Here, for the sum of 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 splendour over Worthing, or illuminating with its rising glories the ups and downs of Rottingdean. You
see the citizen with his family inveigled into the shallops of the
mercenary native mariner, and fancy that the motion cannot be
pleasant; and how the hirer of the boat, o nlium et ojf5idi laudatns
rura sui, haply sighs for ease, and prefers Richmond or Hampstead.
*You behold a hundred bathing-ma:chines 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. Breakfastmeal 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
rou6 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,




8C                   TIlE IE~ WCOiTESI
giggling and conscious of her beauty, whom Miss Griffin, the stern
head-governess, awfully reproves! See Tomkins with a telescope and
marine-jacket; young Nathan and young Abrams, already bedizened
in jewellery, and rivalling the sun in oriental splendour; yonder poor
invalid crawling along in her chair; yonder jolly fat lady examining
the Brighton pebbles (I actually once 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 seven-and-sixpence! It is the fashion to run down
George IV., but what myriads of Londoners ought to thank him for
inventing Brighton! One of the best of physicians our city has ever
known, is kind, cheerful, merry Doctor Brighton. Hail, thou purveyor
of shrimps and honest prescriber of South Down mutton! There
is no mutton so good as Brighton mutton; no flys so pleasant as,
Brighton flys; nor any cliff so pleasant to ride on; no shops so.
beautiful to look at as the Brighton gimcrack shops, and the fruitshops, and the market. I fancy myself 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 inflict 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 depicted. Say your money has
been invested in West Diddlesex bonds, or other luckless speculations
-the news of the smash comes; you pay your outlying bills with the
balance at the banker's; you assemble your family and make them a
fine speech; the wife of your bosom goes round and embraces the
sons and daughters seriatim; nestling in your own waistcoat finally,
in possession of which, she says (with tender tears and fond quotations
from Holy Writ, God bless her!), and of the darlings round about,
lies all her worldly treasure: the weeping 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 Bromptono
How unlike the mansion where you paid taxes and distributed elegant
hospitality for so many years!
You subside into lodgings, I say, and you find yourself very tolerably comfortable. I am not sure that in her heart your wife is not
happier than in what she calls her happy days. She will be somebody
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 entrees, plated ware, men to wait, &c., at all
the houses where you visited in the street. Your candlesticks might
be handsomer (and indeed they had a fine effect upon the dinnertable), but then Mr. Jones's silver (or electro-plated) dishes were much




THE NE WCO.'ES.                       87
finer. You had more carriages at your door on the evening of your
delightful soir6es than Mrs. Brown (there is no phrase more elegant,
and to my taste, than that in which people are described as " seeing a
great deal of carriage company"); but yet Mrs. Brown, from the
circumstance of her being a Baronet's niece, took precedence of your
dear wife at most tables. Hence the latter charming woman's scorn
at the British baronetcy, and her many jokes at the order. In a word,
and in the height of your social prosperity, there was always a lurking
dissatisfaction, and a something bitter, in the midst of the fountain of
delights at which you were permitted to drink.
There is no good (unless your taste is that way) in living in a
society where you are merely the equal of everybody else. Many
people give themselves extreme pains to frequent company where all
around them are their superiors, and where, do what you will, you
must be subject to continual mortification-(as, for instance, when
Marchioness X. forgets you, and you can't help thinking that she cuts
you on purpose; when Duchess Z. passes by in her diamonds, &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
consolation, are those who have seen what are called better daysthose who have had losses. I am like Caesar, and of a noble mind:
if I cannot be first in Piccadilly, let me try Hatton Garden, and see
whether I cannot lead the ton there. If I cannot take the lead at
White's or the Travellers', let me be president of the Jolly Sandboys
at the Bag of Nails, and blackball everybody who does not pay me
honour. If my darling Bessy cannot go out of a drawing-room until
a baronet's niece (ha! ha! a baronet's niece, forsooth!) has walked
before her, let us frequent company where we shall be the first; and
how can we be the first unless we select our inferiors for our associates?
This kind of pleasure is to be had by almost everybody, and at scarce
any cost. With a shilling's-worth of tea and muffins you can get as
much adulation and respect as many people cannot purchase with a
thousand pounds' worth of plate and profusion, hired footmen, turning
their houses topsy-turvy, and suppers from Gunter's. Adulation!why, the people who come to you give as good parties as you do.
Respect!-the very menials, who wait behind your supper-table,
waited at a duke's yesterday, and actually patronise you! 0 you
silly spendthrift! you can buy flattery for twopence, and you spend
ever so much money in entertaining your equals and betters, and
nobody admires you!
Now Aunt Honeyman was a woman of a thousand virtues; cheerful, frugal, honest, laborious, charitable, good-humoured, truth-telling,
devoted to her family, capable of any sacrifice for those she loved;




'8~8                 THE h'E WCOIVMES.
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 marriage (an elopement with Ensign
Casey) and subsequent light courses. Charles Honeyman spent his
money elegantly in wine-parties at Oxford, and afterwards in foreign
travel; —spent his money, and as much of Miss 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 de Grasse,) took a house, and let the upper floors to lodgers.
The little brisk old lady brought a maid-servant out of the country
with her, who was daughter to her father's clerk, and had learned her
letters and worked her first sampler under Miss Honeyman's own eye,
whom she adored all through her life. No Indian begum rolling in
wealth, no countess mistress of castles and town-houses; ever had such
a faithful toady as Hannah Hicks was to her mistress. Under Hannah
was a young lady from the workhouse, who called Hannah "Mrs.
Hicks, mum," and who bowed as much in awe before that domestic as
Hannah did before Miss Honeyman. At five o'clock in summer, 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, prolonged her absence when sent forth for
the beer, or was discovered in flirtation with the baker's boy or the
grocer's young man. Sally was frequently renewed. Miss Honeyman
called all her young persons Sally; and a great number of-Sallies were
consumed in her house. The qualities of the Sally for the time being
formed a constant and delightful subject of conversation between
Hannah and her mistress. The few friends who visited Miss Honeyman in her back-parlour, had their Sallies, in discussing whose peculiarities of disposition these good ladies passed the hours agreeably
over their tea.
Many persons who let lodgings in Brighton have been servants
themselves-are retired housekeepers. tradesfolk, and the like. With




THE NE WICOMES.                       89
these surrounding individuals Hannah treated on a footing of equality,
bringing to her mistress accounts of their various goings on; "how
No. 6 was let; how No. 9 had not paid his rent again: how the first
floor at 27 had game almost every day, and made-dishes from Mutton's;
how the family who had taken Mrs. Bugsby's had left as usual after
the very first night, the poor little infant blistered all over with bites
on its dear little face; how the Miss Learys was going on shameful
with the two young men, actially in their setting-room, mum, where
one of them offered Miss Laura Leary a cigar; how Mrs. Cribb still
went cuttin' pounds and pounds of meat off the lodgers' jints, emptying
their tea-caddies, actially reading their letters. Sally had been told so
by Polly the Cribb's maid, who was kep', how that poor child was kep',
hearing language perfectly hawful! " These tales and anecdotes, not
altogether redounding to their neighbours' credit, Hannah copiously
collected and brought to her mistress's tea-table, or served at her
frugal little supper when Miss Honeyman, the labours of the day over,
partook of that cheerful meal. I need not say that such horrors as
occurred at Mrs. Bugsby's never befell in Miss Honeyman's establishment. Every room was fiercely swept and sprinkled, and watched by
cunning eyes which nothing could escape; curtains were taken down,
mattresses explored, every bone in a 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 vealcutlet into her mouth while bringing the dishes downstairs:-Sallies
would-giddy creatures bred in workhouses; but Hannah might be
entrusted with untold gold and uncorked brandy; and Miss Honeyman would as soon think of cutting a slice off Hannah's nose and
devouring it, as of poaching on her lodgers' mutton. The best muttonbroth, the best veal-cutlets, the best necks of mutton and French beans,
the best fried fish and plumpest partridges, in all Brighton, were to be
had at Miss Honeyman's; and for her favourites the best Indian curry
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 they were not in favour;
if they went to a Dissenting meeting she had no opinion of them at
all. Once there came to her house a quiet Staffordshire family who
ate no meat on Fridays, and whom Miss Honeyman pitied as belonging to the Romish superstition; but when they were visited by two
corpulent gentlemen in black, one of whom wore a purple under-waistcoat, and before whom the Staffordshire lady absolutely sank down on
her knees as he went into the drawing-room, Miss Honeyman 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 martys burning at Smithfield: who said, " Lord bless you, mum,'




90                   THE NE WCOMES.
and hoped it was a long time ago. She called on the curate; and
many and many a time, for years after, pointed out to her friends, and
sometimes to her lodgers, the spot on the carpet where the poor
benighted creature had knelt down. So she went on, respected by all
her friends, by all her tradesmen, by herself not a little, talking of her
previous "misfortunes" with amusing equanimity; as if her father's
parsonage-house had been a palace of splendour, and the one-horse
chaise (with the lamps for evenings) from which she had descended,
a noble equipage. " But I know it is for the best, Clive," she would
say to her nephew in describing those grandeurs, "and, thank heaven,
can be resigned in that station in life to which it has pleased God to
call me."
The good lady was called the Duchess by her fellow-tradesfolk in
the square-in which she lived. -(I don't know what would have come
to her had she been told she was a tradeswoman!) Her butchers,
bakers, and market-people, paid her as much respect as though she
had been a grandee's housekeeper out of Kemp Town. Knowing her
station, she yet was kind to those inferior beings.; She held affable
conversations with them, she patronized Mr. Rogers, who was said to
be worth a hundred thousand-two hundred thousand pounds (or 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 talk of "my fishmonger") would sell her a whiting as respectfully
as if she had called for a dozen turbots and lobsters. It was believed
by those good folks that her father had been a Bishop at the very
least; and the better days which she had known were supposed to
signify some almost unearthly prosperity.  "I have always found,
iHannah," the simple soul would say, "that people know their place,
or can be very easily made to find it if they lose it; and if a gentlewoman does not forget herself, her inferiors will not forget that she is
a gentlewoman." " No indeed, mum, and I'm sure they would do no
such thing, mum," says Hannah, who carries away the teapot for her
own breakfast (to be transmitted to Sally for her subsequent refection),
whilst her mistress washes her cup and saucer, as her mother had
washed her own china many scores of years ago.
If some of the surrounding lodging-house keepers, as I have no.
doubt they did, disliked the little Duchess for the airs which she gave
herself, as they averred, they must have envied her too her superior
prosperity, for there was scarcely ever a card in her window; whilst
those ensigns in her neighbours' houses would remain exposed to the




THE NE WCOMES.                        91
flies and the weather, and disregarded by passers-by for montls 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,,
Barkhambury, Tunbridge Wells, 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 recommendations 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 afterwards, who sent his patients from time to time
down to her, and his fellow physician, Dr. H-, who, on his part,
would never take any fee from Miss Honeyman, except a packet of'
India curry-powder, a ham cured as she only knew how to cure them,.
and once a year, or so, a dish -of her tea.
"Was there ever such luck as that confounded old 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 as I read in the Sussex Advertiser the death
of Miss Barkham, of Barkhambury, Tunbridge Wells, and, thinks I,
there's a spoke in your wheel, you stuck-up little old Duchess, with
your cussed airs and impudence. And she ain't put her card up three
days; and look 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-carryin' 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 whilst making this speech. The little Gawlers
rush on to the drawing-room verandah themselves to examine the
new arrivals.
"This is Miss Honeyman's?" asks the gentleman designated by
Mr. Gawler as " the foring cove," and hands in a card on which the
words, "Miss Honeyman, IIo, Steyne Gardens.-J. Goodenough,"-are
written in that celebrated physician's handwriting.  "Wre want fife
bet-rooms, six bets, two or dree sitting-rooms. Have you got dese?"




92                  THE NE WCOMES.
"Will you speak to my mistress? " says Hannah. And if it is a
fact that Miss Honeyman does happen to be in the front parlour
looking at'the carriages, what harm is there in the circumstance,
pray? Is not 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 they not looking through the bars of the
square? "Please to speak to mistress," says Hannah, opening the
parlour-door, and with a curtsey, "A gentleman about the apartments,
mum."
"Fife bet-rooms," says'the man, entering. " Six bets, two or dree
sitting-rooms? WVe 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's" beaver,
which he had neglected to remove.
The man grins, and takes off the hat.  "I beck your bardon,
ma'am," says he. "Have you fife bet-rooms? " &c. The Doctor has.cured the German of an illness, as well as his employers, and especially
recommended Miss Honeyman to Mr. Kuhn.
" I have that number of apartments. My servant will show them;to you." And she walks back with great state to her chair by the
window, and resumes her station and work there.
Mr. Kuhn reports to his mistress, who descends to inspect the
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 forthwith ordered to be brought
from the carriages. The little invalid, wrapped in his shawl, is brought
upstairs 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,lim, black-haired young lass of thirteen, frisks about the rooms, looks
at all the pictures, runs in and out of the verandah, tries the piano,
and bursts out laughing at its wheezy jingle (it had been poor Emma's
piano, bought for her on her seventeenth birthday, three weeks before
she ran away with the ensign; her music is still in the stand by it:.the Rev. Charles Honeyman has warbled sacred melodies over it, and
Miss Honeyman considers it a delightful instrument), kisses her languid- little brother laid on the sofa, and performs a hundred gay and
agile motions suited to her age.




THE. NE WCOMES.                       93
"Oh, 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; Brasenose College, Oxford: what a funny name."
At the idea of Brasenose College, another laugh comes from the
invalid. " I suppose they've all got brass noses, there," he says; and
he.explodes at this joke. The poor little laugh ends in a cough, and
mamma's travelling-basket, which contains everything, produces a
bottle of syrup, labelled " Master A. Newcome. A teaspoonful to be
taken when the cough is troublesome."
"Oh, the delightful sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free," sings
the young lady, with a shake. (I suppose the maritime song from
which she quoted was just written at this time.) " How much better
this is than going home and seeing those horrid factories and chimneys! I love Doctor Goodenough for sending us here. What a
sweet house it is! Everybody is happy in it, even Miss Quigley is
happy, mamma. What nice rooms! What pretty chintz! What aoh, 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, presented to him by young Downy of Christchurch, when that
gentleman commoner was eliminated from the University.
"The person of the house," mamma says, " hardly comes up to
Dr. Goodenough's description of her. He says he remembers her a
pretty little woman when her father was.his private tutor."
I" She has grown very much since," says the girl. And an explosion
takes place from the sofa, where the little man is always ready to
laugh at any joke, or anything like a joke, uttered by himself or by
any of his family or friends. As for Doctor Goodenough, he says
laughing has saved that boy's life.
" She looks quite like a maid," continues the lady. " She has hard
hands, and she called me mum always. I was quite disappointed
in her." And she subsides into a novel, with many of which kind of
works, and with other volumes, and with work-boxes, and with
wonderful inkstands, portfolios, portable days of the month, scentbottles, scissor-cases, gilt miniature easels displaying portraits, and
countless gimcracks 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




94                   THE VE WCOMES.
how much she's grown."  Convulsions follow this sally, to the surprise
of Hannah, who says, " Pooty little dear!-what time will he have
his dinner, mum?"
"Thank you, 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 missis, mum. I beg your pardon, mum,"
cries Hannah. The invalid hits his sister in the side with a weak
little fist. If laughter can cure, salva est res, Doctor Goodenough's
patient is safe. " Master Charles is missis's brother, mum. I've got
no brother, mum-never had no brother. Only one son, who's in
the Police, mum, thank you. And law bless me, I was going to
forget! If you please, mum, missis says, if you are quite rested, she
will pay her duty to you, mum."
" Oh, indeed," says the lady, rather stiffly; and, taking this for an
acceptance of her mistress's visit, Hannah retires.
"This Miss Honeyman seems to be a great personage," says
the lady. "If people let lodgings why do they give themselves
such airs?"
"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 splendidly, little Miss
Honeyman makes her appearance with a dignified curtsey to her
lodger.
That lady vouchsafes a very slight inclination of the head indeed,
which she repeats when Miss Honeyman says, "I am glad to hear
your ladyship is pleased with tlje apartments."
" Yes, they will do very well, thank you," answers the latter person,
gravely.
"And they have such a beautiful view of the sea!" cries Ethel.
"As if all the houses hadn't a view of the sea, Ethel! The price
has been arranged, I think? My servants 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."
"Am I to understand —?" interposed Miss Honeyman.
"Oh! I have no doubt we shall' understand each other, ma'am,"




THE AlE WCOiMES.                      95
cried Lady Ann Newcome (whose noble presence, the acute reader
has no doubt ere this divined and saluted). " Doctor Goodenough
has given me a most satisfactory account of you-more 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,
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 youKuhn, 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?"
"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, trembling 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.
"It will be a pity that the' dear little boy should be disturbed.
Dear little child, I have often heard of him, and of you, miss," says
the little householder, rising. " I will get you some dinner, my dear,
for Clive's sake. And meanwhile your ladyship will have the kindness
to seek-for some other apartments-for not a bit shall my fire cook for
any one else of your company." And with this the indignant little
landlady sailed out of the room.
"Gracious goodness! Who is the woman?" cries Lady Ann. "I
never was so insulted in my life."
" Oh, mamma, it was you began! " says downright Ethel. "That
is-Hush! Alfred dear.-Hush, my darling!"




9THE  ATE WCOMNE7S.
"Oh, it was mamma began!  I'm so hurgry! I'm so hunmgry!'*'
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.
"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, "No-it's not n-ice; it's n-a-a-asty!  I
won't have syrup. I wilZ have dinner." The mother, whose embracesthe child repelled with infantine kicks, plunged madly at the bells, rang
them all four vehemently, and ran downstairs towards the parlour,
whence Miss Honeyman was issuing.
The good lady had not at first known the names of her lodgers,
but had taken them in willingly enough on Dr. Goodenough's recommendation. And it was not until one of the nurses entrusted with the
care of Master Alfred's dinner informed Miss Honeyman of the name
of her guest, that she knew she was entertaining Lady Ann Newcome;
and that the pretty girl was the fair Miss Ethel; the little sick boy, the
little Alfred of whom his cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had made
a hundred little drawings in his rude way, as he drew everybody.
Then bidding Sally run off to St. James's Street for a'chicken-she
saw it put on the spit, and prepared a bread sauce, and composed a
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 toilette!)then she came to wait upon Lady Ann, not a little flurried as to the
result of that queer interview-then she whisked out of the drawingroom, 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 paren.t
met her on the stair.
"Is it-is it for my child?" cried Lady Ann, reeling against the
bannister.
"Yes, it's for the child," says Miss Honeyman, tossing up her head.
"But nobody else has anything in the house."
" God bless you-God bless you! A mother's bl-l-essings go
with you," gurgled the lady, who was not, it must be confessed, a
woman of strong moral character.




THE NE WCOMVES.                      97
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 do 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 Glive, 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 glass again. The
rogue knew good wine.




98                 YTIE NEWCOMES.
CHAPTER X.
ETHEL AND HER RELATIONS.
FOR four-and-twenty successive hours Lady Ann Newcome was
perfectly in raptures with her new lodgings, and every person
and thing which they contained. The drawing-rooms were fitted with
the greatest taste; the dinner was exquisite. Were there ever such
deicious veal-cutlets, such verdant French beans? " Why do we have
those odious French cooks, my dear, with their shocking principles —
the principles of all Frenchmen are shocking-and the 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 vealcutlets? What can be nicer?"
" Indeed they were very good," said Miss Ethel, who had mutton
five times a week at one o'clock. "I am so glad you like the house,
and Clive, and 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 very house, and quite forgotten
Miss Honeyman's name-and such an odd name too. I forget everything, everything! You know I forgot your Aunt Louisa's husband's
name; and when I 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 every week; and I am certain Mrs.
Trotter is making a fortune by us. I shall write to your papa, and
ask him permission to ask this person." Ethel's mother was constantly falling in love with her new acquaintances; their men-servants
and their maid-servants, their horses and ponies, and the visitor




TATE NE WCOIf.ES.                     99
within their gates. She would ask strangers to Newcome, hug and
<embrace them on Sunday; not speak to them on Monday; and on
Tuesday behave so rudely to them, that they were gone before Wednesday. Her daughter had had so many governesses-all darlings
during the first week, and monsters afterwards-that the poor child,possessed none of the accomplishments of her age. She 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 Norman conquest, or whether the earth went round
the sun, or vice versd. She did not know the number of counties in
England, Scotland, and Wales, let alone Ireland; she did not know.the difference between latitude and longitude. She had had so many
governesses: their accounts differed; poor Ethel was 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 hands, and crying the answer to this question and that, seemed
mocking her. She seemed to read in the book, "0  Ethel, 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 Park, whereof some of the lucky dwellers in the neighbourhood of Apsley House have a key. In this garden, at'the age of
nine or thereabout, she had contracted an intimate friendship with the
Lord Hercules O'Ryan, as every one of my gentle readers knows, one
of the sons of the Marquis of Ballyshannon. The Lord Hercules was
a year younger than Miss Ethel Newcome, which may account for the
passion which grew up between these young persons; it being a
provision in nature that a boy always falls in love with a girl older
than himself, or rather, perhaps, that a girl bestows her affections on a
little boy, who submits to receive them.
One day Sir Brian Newcome announced his intention to go to
Newconme that very morning, taking his family, and of course Ethel,
with him.  She was inconsolable.  "What will Lord Hercules do
when he finds I am gone?" she asked of her nurse.  The nurse
endeavouring to soothe her, said, " Perhaps his lordship would know
nothing about the circumstance." " He will," said Miss Ethel-"' ie't




o00                  THE N7E MWCOMES.
read it in the newspafper."  My Lord Hercules, it is to be hopedr
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 & 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 every one stared; nordance with them at the academy; nor attend the Cours de Litterature
Universelle et de Science Comprehensive of the professor then the
mode-the smallest girls took her up in the class. -She was bewildered by the multitude of'things they bade her learn. At the youthful
little assemblies of her sex, when, under the guide of their respected
governesses, the girls. came to tea at six o'clock, dancing, charades;.
and so forth, Ethel herded not with the children. of her own age, nor
yet with the teachers who sit apart at these assemblies, imparting toeach 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 thepromise 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 thisfamily, whose history we chronicle, and it behoves us to'say a word;
regarding the Earl of Kew, the head of the noble house into which Sir
Brian. Newcome had married.
When we read in the fairy stories that the King and Queen, who.
lived once upon. a time, build a castle of steel, defended- by moats and.
sentinels innumerable, in which they place their darling only child, the
Prince or Princess, whose birth has blessed them after so many years.
of marriage, and whose christening feast has been interrupted by the
cantankerous humour of that notorious old fairy who always persists in
coming, although she has not received any invitation, to the baptismal
ceremony: when Prince Prettyman is locked up in the steel tower;.
provided only with the most wholesome food, the most edifying educa —
tional works, and the most venerable old tutor to instruct and to bore'




THE'NE WC OM1ES.                    Ior
liim, 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 flown, the porters and sentinels drunk,
the ancient tutor asleep; they tear their venerable wigs in anguish,
they kick the major-domo downstairs, they turn the duenna out of
doors-the toothless old dragon! There is no resisting fate. The
Princess will slip out of window by the rope-ladder; the Prince will
be off to pursue his pleasures, and sow his wild oats at the appointed
season. How many of our English princes have been coddled at home
by their fond papas and mammas, walled up in inaccessible castles,
with a tutor and a library, guarded by cordons of sentinels, sermoners,
old aunts, old women from the world without, and have nevertheless
escaped from all these guardians, and astonished 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 Gadshill, 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 gamingtables; of his dealings with horse-jockeys; of his awful doings with
Perdita?  Besides instances taken from our Royal Family, could we
not draw examples from our respected nobility?  There was that
young Lord Warwick, Mr. Addison's stepson.  We know that his
mother was severe, and his stepfather 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 mainy
a mad prank'which he played, as we have legends of a still earlier date
of the lawless freaks of the wild'Prince and Poins. Our people have
never looked very unkindly on these frolics. A young nobleman, full
of life and spirits, generous of his money, jovial in his humour, ready
-with his sword, frank, handsome, prodigalj courageous, always finds
favour. Young Scapegrace rides a steeplechase or beats a bargeman,
and the crowd applauds hirm. 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:;arnd Colonel Newcome, most of us have a sneaking regard:for




10                 THIE ENE WCOME ES.
honest Tom, and hope Sophia will be happy, and Tom will end well
at last.
Five-and-twenty years ago the young Earl of Kew came upon the'
town, which speedily rang with-the feats of his Lordship. He began
life time enough to enjoy certain pleasures from which our young aris —
tocracy of the present day seem, alas! to be cut off. So much more.
peaceable and polished do we grow, so much does the spirit of the age,
appear to equalise all ranks; so strongly.has the good sense of society,.
to which, in the end, gentlemen of the very highest fashion must bow,
put -its veto upon practices and amusements with which our fathers.
were familiar. At that time the Sunday newspapers contained many,
and many exciting reports of boxing-matches.  Bruising was con —
sidered a fine manly old English custom. Boys at public schoolsfondly perused histories of the noble science, from the redoubtabledays of Broughton and Slack, to the heroic times of Dutch Sam and.
the Game Chicken. Young gentlemen went eagerly to Moulsey to
see the, Slasher punch the Pet's head, or the Negro beat the Jew's
nose to a jelly. The island rang as yet with the tooting horns and
rattling teams of the mail-coaches; a gay sight was the road in merry
England 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 chambermaid under the chin, were the delight of men who were young not very
long ago. The Road was an institution, the Ring was an institution.
Men rallied round them; and, not without a kind conservatism, expatiated upon the benefits with which they endowed the country,. and:
the. evils' which would occur when they should be no more:-decay of
English spirit, decay of manly pluck; ruin of the breed of horses, and,
so forth, and so forth. To give and take a black eye was not unusual
nor derogatory in a gentleman; to drive a stage-coach the enjoyment,
the emulation of generous youth.  Is there any young fellow of the.
present time who aspires to take the place of a stoker? You see occasionally in Hyde Park one dismal old drag with a lonely driver. Where
are: you, charioteers? Where are you, 0 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 insti —




THE NE WCO0ES.                       103
tutes in his modest, pleasant way, was the wild young Lord Kew of a
quarter of a century back; who kept race-horses, patronised boxers,
fought a duel, thrashed a Life Guardsman, gambled furiously at Crockford's, and did who knows what besides?
His mother, a devout lady, nursed her son and his property carefully during the young gentleman's minority: keeping him and his
younger brother away 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 until after my Lord's entry at Christchurch, where he began
to distinguish himself very soon after his first term. He drove tandems, kept hunters, gave dinners, scandalised the Dean, screwed up
the tutor's door, and agonised his mother at home by his lawless proceedings. He quitted the University, after a very brief sojourn at that
seat of learning. It may be, the Oxford authorities requested his
Lordship to retire; let bygones be bygones. His youthful son, the
present Lord Walham, is now at Christchurch, reading with the
greatest assiduity. Let us not be too particular in narrating his father's
unedifying frolics of a quarter of a century ago.
Old Lady Kew, who, in conjunction with Mrs. Newcome, had made
the marriage between Mr. Brian Newcome and her daughter, 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 Newcome," she would say, "is one
of the most stupid and respectable of men; Ann is clever, but has not
a grain of common sense. They make a very well-assorted couple.
Her flightiness would have driven any man crazy who had an opinion
of his own. She would have ruined any poor man of her own rank;
as it is, I have given her a husband exactly suited for her. He pays
the bills, does not see how absurd she is, keeps order in the establishment, and checks her follies. She wanted to marry her cousin, Tom
Poyntz, when they were both very young, and proposed to die of a
broken heart when I arranged her match with Mr. Newcome. A
broken fiddlestick!-she would have ruined Tom Poyntz in a year,
and has no more idea of the cost of a leg of mutton, than I have of
algebra."
The Countess of Kew loved Brighton, and preferred living 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 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




104                  THE NE WCOMES.
parties they have to go to in the course of the night. The young girls
are thinking of their partners and their toilettes.. Intimacy becomes
impossible, and quiet enjoyment of life. On the other hand, the crowd
of bourgeois has not invaded Brighton. The drive is not blocked up
by flys full of stock-brokers' wives and children; and.you can take the
air in your chair upon the Chain-pier, without being stifled by the
cigars of the odious shop-boys from London." So Lady Kew's name
was usually amongst the earliest which the Brighton newspapers
recorded amongst the arrivals.
Her only unmarried daughter, Lady Julia, lived with her Ladyship.
Poor Lady-Julia had suffered early from a spine disease, which had
kept her for many years to her couch. Being always at home, and
under her mother's eyes, she was the old lady's victim, her pincushion,
into which Lady Kew plunged a hundred little points of sarcasm daily.
As children are sometimes brought before magistrates, and their poor
little backs and shoulders laid bare, covered with bruises and lashes
which brutal parents have inflicted, so, I daresay, 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 powers.
Lady; Kew had just made herself comfortable at Brighton, when
her little grandson's illness brought Lady Ann Newcome and her family
down to the sea. Lady Kew was almost scared back to London again,
or blown over the water to Dieppe. She had never had the measles.
"Why did not Ann carry the child to some other place? Julia, you
will on no account go and see that little pestiferous swarm of Newcomes, unless you want to send me out of the world-which I daresay you do, for I am a dreadful plague to you, I know, and. my death
would be a release to you."
"You see Doctor H., who visits the child every day," cries poor
Pincushion; " you are not afraid when he comes."
"Doctor H.?  Doctor H. comes to cure me, or to tell me the
news, or to flatter me, or to feel my pulse and to pretend to prescribe,
or to take his guinea; of course Dr. H. must go to see all sorts of
people, in all sorts of diseases. You would not have me be such a
brute as to order him not to attend my own grandson? I forbid you
to go to Ann's house. You will send one of the men. every day to
inquire. Let the groom go-yes, Charles-he will not go into the
house. He will ring the bell and wait outside. He had better -ring




THiE' NE VCOMES.-                     Ib5
the bell at the area —I suppose there is an area-and, speak to the
servants through the bars, and bring us word how Alfred is." Poor
Pincushion felt fresh compunctions; she had met the children, and
kissed the baby, and held kind Ethel's hand in hers, that day, as she
was out in her chair. There was no use, however, to make this confession. Is she the only good woman or man of whom domestic
tyranny has'made a hypocrite?
Charles, the groom, brings back perfectly favourable reports ol'
Master Alfred's health that day, which Doctor H., in the course of
his visit, confirms. The child: is getting well rapidly; eating like a
little ogre.- His cousin Lord Kew has been to see him. He is the
kindest of men, Lord Kew; he brought the little man "Tom  and
Jerry" with the pictures. The boy is delighted with the pictures.
" Why has not Kew- come to see me? When did he -come?
Write him a note, and send for him instantly, Julia. Did you know
he was here?"
Julia says, that she had but that moment read in the Brighton
papers the arrival of the Earl of Kew and the Honourable C. Belsize
at the "Albion."
" I am sure they are here for some mischief," cries the old lady,
delighted.' " Whenever Kew and Charles Belsize are: together, I know
there is some wickedness planning, What do you know, Doctor?  I
see by your face you know something. Do tell it me, that I may
wvrite it to his odious psalm-singing mother."
Doctor H.'s face does indeed wear a knowing look. He simpers
and says, "I did see Lord Kew driving this morning, first with' the
Honourable Mr. Belsize, and afterwards"-' here he glances towards
Lady Julia, as if to say, " Before an unmarried lady, I do not like to:.
tell your Ladyship with whom I saw Lord Kew driving, after he'had
left the Honourable Mr. Belsize, who went to play a match with'Captain Huxtable at tennis."'
"Are you afraid to speak before Julia?" cries the elder lady.
4' Why, bless my soul, she is forty years old, and has heard everything
"that can be heard. Tell me about Kew this instant, Doctor H,"'
The Doctor blandly acknowledges that Lord Kew had been driving
Madame Pozzoprofondo, the famous contralto of the Italian Opera, in'his phaeton, fortwo 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, vous n'xtes qu'une bete," says Lady Kew, shrugging her
-shoulders, and looking. at her daughter from under her bushy black,eyebrows. Her ladyship, -a sister of the late lamented Marquis of
f$teyne, possessed no small share of the wit and intelligence, and




106                 THE rE E WCOM~ES.
a considerable resemblance to the features, of that distinguishedc
nobleman.
Lady Kew bids her daughter take a peni and write:-" Monsieur
le Mauvais Sujet,-Gentlemen who wish to take the sea air in private,
or to avoid their relations, had best go to other places than Brighton,.
where their names are printed in the newspapers.  If you are not
drowned in a pozzo —"
"Mamma!" interposes the secretary.
" -in a pozzo profondo, you will please come to dine with two old,
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 every one,. and every one liked him.
Two evenings afterwards, the young men repeated their visit to
Lady Kew, and this time Lord Kew was loud in praises of his cousins
of the house of Newcome.
" Not of the eldest, Barnes, surely, my dear?" cries Lady Kew.
"No, confound him! not Barnes."
"No, d — it, not Barnes. I beg your pardon, Lady Julia," broke'
in Jack Belsize. " I can get on with most men; but that little Barney
is too odious a little snob."
"A little what-Mr. Belsize?"
"A little snob, ma'am. I have no other word, though he is your
grandson. I never heard him say a good word of any mortal soul, or
do- a kind action."
" Thank you, Mr. Belsize," says the lady.
"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'amnl says Lord Kew, slapping his hand oa
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




THE NEWCOMES.                       107
pardon, Lady Julia," cries the inopportune Jack Belsize —" I'm always
putting my foot in it."
"Putting your foot into what? Go on, Kew."
"Well, we met the whole posse of children; and the little fellow
wanted a drive, and I said I would drive him and Ethel too, if she
would come. Upon my word she is as pretty a girl as you can see on
a 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."
" Where Monsieur Pozzoprofondo sits, bon."
"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."
"D  -d rash," interposes Jack. "- He had nearly broken all our
necks."
" And my brother George would have been Lord Kew," continued
the young Earl, with a quiet smile. " What an escape for him! The
horses ran away-ever so far-and I thought the carriage must upset.
The poor little boy, who has lost his pluck in the fever, began to cry:
but that young girl, though she was as white as a sheet, never gave up
for a moment, and sat in her place like a man. We met nothing
luckily; and I pulled the horses in after a mile or two, and I drove'em into Brighton as quiet as if I had been driving a hearse. And
that little trump of an Ethel, what do you think she said? She said,'I was not frightened, but you must not tell mamma.' My aunt,
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 lamplighter, 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 all a belle
jpeur.' And then he made me and Jack a low bow, an-d stalked
into the lodgings."
" I think you do deserve to be whipped, both of you," cries Lady
Kew.




lo8                 THE 2NE WCOMES.
"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. I" The young chap is a great hand at drawingupon my life the best drawings I ever saw. And he was making a
picture for little What-d'you-call-'em. And Miss Newcome was looking over them. And Lady Ann pointed out the group to -me, and
said how pretty it was. She is uncommonly sentimental, you know.
Lady Ann."
"My daughter Ann is the greatest fool in the three kingdoms,"
cried Lady Kew, looking fiercely over her spectacles. And Julia was;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.




TH2E SNE WCOMES.                     I o
CHAPTER XI.
AT MRS. RIDLEY'S.
SAIN.T PEDRO  of Alcantara, as I have read in a Life of St.J
Theresa, informed that devout lady that he had.passed forty
years of his life sleeping only an hour and a half each day; his cell
was but four feet and a. half long, so that he never lay down; his
pillow was a wooden log in the stone wall; he ate but once in three
days; he was for three years in a convent of his order without 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 cupboard-his dwelling-place; bareheaded and barefooted, walking over
rocks, briers, 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 Pedro 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 blacked 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. Pedro walked the earth now with his eyes to the ground, he
would know fashionable divines by the way in which they were shod.
Charles.-Honeyman's is a sweet foot, I have no doubt as delicate and
plump and rosy as the white hand, with its two rings, which he passes
in impassioned moments through his slender flaxen hair.:
A sweet odour pervades his sleeping apartment-not that peculiar




Ila                 THZfHE NEWCGI-ZzS.
and delicious fragrance with which the Saints of the Roman Church
are said to gratify the neighbourhood where they repose —but oils,
redolent of the richest perfumes of Macassar, essences (from Truefitt's
or Delcroix's) into which a thousand flowers have expressed their
sweetest breath, await his meek head on rising; and infuse the
pocket-handkerchief with which he dries and draws so many tears.
For he cries a good deal in his sermons, to which the ladies about him
contribute showers of sympathy.
By his bedside are slippers lined with blue silk and worked of an
ecclesiastical pattern, by some of the faithful who sit at his feet. They
come to him in anonymous parcels; they come to him in silver paper;
boys in buttons (pages who minister to female grace!) leave them at
the door for the 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
devoteapot he has, but the sovereigns, where are they?
What a different life this is from our honest friend of Alcantara,
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 invitations, not merely cards of
ceremony (of which there are plenty), but dear little confidential notes
from sweet friends of his congregation. " Oh, dear Mr. Honeyman,'"
Ewrites Blanche, " what a sermon that was! I cannot go to bed to-night
without thanking you for it." " Do, do, dear Mr. Honeymai," 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 know I am always your faithful Chesterfield Street." And
so on. He has all the domestic accomplishments: he plays on the
violoncello; he sings a delicious second, not only in sacred but in
secular music. He has a thousand anecdotes, laughable riddles, droll
stories (of the utmost correctness, you understand), with which he
entertains females of all ages; suiting his conversation to stately
matrons, deaf old dowagers (who can hear his clear voice better than
the loudest roar of their stupid sons-in-law), mature spinsters, young
beauties dancing through the season, even rosy little slips out of the
nursery, who cluster round his beloved feet. Societies fight for him to
preach their charity sermon. You read in the papers: " The Wapping
Hospital for Wooden-legged Seamen.-On Sunday the 23rd, Sermons




THIE NE WCOMES.                      S X l
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. "Clergymen's Grandmothers' Fund. — Sermons 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, " It's very
pleasant, but I don't know what the deuce makes all you women crowd
so to hear the man." " Oh, Charles! if you would but go oftener!"
sighs Lady Anna Maria. " Can't you speak to the Home Secretary?
Can't you do something for him?" " We can ask him to dinner next
Wednesday if you like," says Charles. "They say he's a pleasant
fellow out of the wood. Besides, there is no use in doing 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 whether it's the Sherrick with whom
Kew and Jack Belsize had that ugly row?"
" What ugly row?-don't say ugly row. It is not a nice word to
hear the children use. Go on, my darlings. What was the dispute of
Lord Kew: and Mr. Belsize, and this Mr. Sherrick?"
"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 Honeyman's
church on a Sunday in June: as the whole pavement blooms with




i 2                  TILE IE WC OOiES.
artifidtal flowers and fresh bonnets:; as there is a buzz and cackle ali
around regarding the sermon; as carriages drive off; as lady-dowagers
walk home; as prayer-books and footmen's sticks gleam in the sun;
as little boys with baked mutton and potatoes pass from the courts;
as children issue from the public-houses with pots of beer; as the
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 neighbouring hermitagewhere have we. placed it?-in Walpole Street. I wish St. Pedro of
Alcantara could have some of that shoulder of mutton with the baked
potatoes, and a drink of that frothing beer. See, yonder trots Lord
Dozeley, who has been asleep for an hour with his head against the,
wood, like St. Pedro of Alcantara.
An East Indian gentleman and his son wait until the whole chapel
is clear, and survey Lady Whitftesea's monument at their leisure, and
other hideous slabs erected in memory of defunct frequenters of the
chapel. Whose was that face which Colonel Newcome thought he
recognised-that of a stout man who came down from the organgallery?  Could it be Broff the bass singer, who delivered the " RedCross 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 function 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 since the days of Aladdin, in
company with a melancholy friend, who viewed all things darkly
through his gloomy eyes. The houskeeper, pattering on before us,
from chamber to chamber, was expatiating upon the magnificence of
this picture; the beauty of that statue; the marvellous richness of
these hangings and carpets; the admirable likeness of the late Marquis
by Sir Thomas; of his father the fifth Earl, by Sir Joshua, and so on;.
when, in the very richest room of the whole castle, Hicks —such was my
melancholy companion's name-stopped the cicerone in her prattle,.
saying in a hollow voice, " And now, madam, will you show us the
closet where the skeleton is?" The scared functionary paused in the
midst of her harangue; that article was not inserted in the catalogue
which she daily utters to visitors for their half-crown. Hicks's question brought a 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




-THE NiV'E WCOMiES.                   13
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 midnightwhen he is sleepless and must go unlock it, when the palace is hushed,
when beauties are sleeping around him unconscious, and revellers are
at rest. Oh 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 downstairs
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 f 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 husband,
asleep, perhaps, after dinner. Yes, madam, a closet he hath: and
you, who pry into everything, shall never have the key of it. I think
of some honest Othello pausing over this very sentence in a railroad
carriage, and stealthily gazing at Desdemona opposite to him, innocently administering sandwiches to their little boy-I am trying to
turn off the sentence with a joke, you see-I feel it is growing too
dreadful, too serious.
And to what, pray, do these serious, these disagreeable, these almost
personal observations tend? To this simply, that Charles Honeyman,
the beloved and popular preacher, the elegant divine to whom Miss
Blanche writes sonnets, and whom Miss Beatrice invites to tea; who
comes with smiles on his lip, gentle sympathy in his tones, innocent
gaiety in his accent; who melts, rouses, terrifies in the pulpit, who
charms over the tea-urn and the bland bread-and-butter: Chailes.
Honeyman has one or two skeleton closets in his lodgings, Walpole
Street, May Fair; and many a wakeful night, whilst Mrs. Ridley; his
landlady, and her tired husband, the nobleman's major-domo, whilst'
the lodger on the first floor, whilst the cook and housemaid, and weary
little boot-boy are at rest (mind you, they have all got their closets,
which they open with their skeleton-keys); he wakes up, and looks at
the ghastly occupant of that receptacle. One of the Reverend Charles
Honeyman's grizzly night haunters is —but stop; let us give a little
account of the lodgings, and some of the people frequenting the same.
8




r114                THE NE WCOMIES.
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 twiceto 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 Parliamentary fogies, who absorb, with much silence and
cheerfulness, a vast quantity of wine. They have just begun to drink:24 claret now, that of'r5 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 _'ohk Bull and Bell's Life, in bed; frequents the
"Blue Posts" sometimes; rides a stout cob out of his county, and
pays like the Bank of England.
The house is a Norfolk house. Mrs. Ridley was housekeeper to
the great Squire Bayham, who had the estate before the Conqueror,
and who came to such a dreadful crash in the year I825, 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 filled with the finest company
in Europe. Law bless you! the Bayhams have seen almost all
the nobility of England come in and go out; and were gentlefolks,
when many a fine lord's father of the present day was sweeping a
counting-house.
The house will hold genteelly no more than these two inmates; but
in the season it manages to accommodate Miss Cann, who, too, was
from Bayhams, having been a governess there to the young lady who
is dead, and who now makes such a livelihood as she can best raise,
by going out as a daily teacher. Miss Cann dines with Mrs. Ridley
in the adjoining little back parlour. Ridley but seldom can be spared
to partake of the family dinner, his duties.in the house and about
the person of my Lord Todmorden keeping him constantly near that
nobleman. How little Miss Cann can go on and keep alive on the
crumb she eats for her breakfast, and the scrap she picks at dinner,
dz astonish Mrs. Ridley, that it d.! She declares that the two
canary-birds encaged in her window (whence is a cheerful prospect of
the back of Lady Whittlesea's chapel) eat more than Miss Cann.




THE NE W COIES.                      x 15
The twc birds set up a tremendous singing and chorussing when
Miss Cann, spying the occasion of the first-floor lodger's absence,
begins practising her music-pieces. Such trills, roulades, and flourishes
go on from the birds and the lodger! it is a wonder how any fingers:can move over the jingling ivory so quickly as Miss Cann's. Excellent
a woman as she is, admirably virtuous, frugal, brisk, honest, and
cheerful, I would not like to live in lodgings where there was a lady
so addicted to playing variations. No more does Honeyman. On
a Saturday, when he is composing his valuable sermons (the rogue,
you may be sure, leaves his work to the last day, and there are,
I am given to understand, among the clergy many better men than
Honeyman, who are as dilatory as he,) he begs, he entreats with'tears in his eyes, that Miss Cann's music may cease. I would back
little Cann to write a sermon against him, for all his reputation as a
popular preacher.
Old and weazened as that piano is, feeble and cracked as is her
voice, it is wonderful what a pleasant concert she can give in that
parlour of a Saturday evening, to Mrs. Ridley, who generally dozes
a good deal, and to a lad, who listens with all his soul, with tears
sometimes in his great eyes, with crowding fancies filling his brain
and throbbing at his heart, as the artist plies her humble instrument.
She plays old music of Handel and Haydn, and the little chamber
anon swells into a cathedral, and he who listens beholds altars lighted,
priests ministering, fair children swinging censers, great oriel windows
gleaming in sunset, and seen through arched columns and avenues of
twilight marble. The young fellow who hears her has been often
and often to the opera and the theatres. As she plays " Don Juan,"
Zerlina comes tripping over the meadows, and Masetto after her, with
a crowd of peasants and maidens: and they sing the sweetest of all
music, and the heart beats with happiness, and kindness, and pleasure.
Piano, pianissimo! 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 pavenment; 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 kneeling 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




i  6                 THE iVEATVC COZE&.
pifferari play to their dancing. Blow, bagpipes; a storm of harmony!.
become trumpets, trombones; ophicleides, fiddles, and bassoons!  Firer
guns! Sound, tocsins! Shout, people! Louder, shriller, and sweeter
than all, sing thou, ravishing heroine! And see, on his cream-coloured
charger Massaniello prances in, and Fra Diavolo leaps down the balcony, carabine in hand; and Sir Huon of Bordeaux sails up to the
quay with the Sultan's daughter of Babylon. All these delights and
sights, and joys and glories, these thrills of sympathy, movements of
unknown longing, and visions of beauty, a young sickly lad of eighteen
enjoys in a little dark room where there is a bed disguised in the 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 Honourable 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 carriages, and hand their plates at dinner.
W;Vhen John James was six years old, his father remarked, with tears,
in his eyes, he wasn't higher than a plate-basket. The boys jeered at.
him in the streets-some whopped him, spite of his diminutive size.
At school he made but little progress. He was always sickly and dirty,.
and timid and crying, whimpering in the kitchen away from his mother;.
who, though she loved him, took Mr. Ridley's view of his character, and
thought him little better than an idiot, until such time as little Miss.
Cann took him in hand, when at length there was some hope of him.
"Half-witted, you great stupid big man," says Miss Cann, who(>
had a fine spirit of her own. " That boy half-witted! He has got
more wit in his little finger than you have in all your great person!
You are a very good man, Ridley, very good-natured, I'm sure, and
bear with the teasing of a waspish old woman: but you are not the
wisest of mankind. Tut, tut, don't tell me. You know you spell out
the words when you read the newspaper still, and what would your
bills look like if I did not write them in my nice little hand? I tell
you that boy is a genius. I tell you that one day the world will hear
of him. His heart is made of pure gold. You think that all the wit
belongs to the big people. Look at me, you great tall man! Am I
not a hundred times cleverer than you are? Yes, and John James is
worth a thousand such insignificant little chits as I am; and he is as.
tall as me too, sir. Do you hear that? One day I am determined he
shall dine at Lord Todmorden's table, and he shall get the prize at the
Royal Academy, and be famous, sir-famous't




THE, ArE NECOMES.                     Iz 7
"WVell, Miss C., I wish he may get it; that's all I say," answers
Mvr. 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 duz
wish he would now." And the honest gentleman relapses into the
study of his paper.
All those beautiful sounds and thoughts which Miss Cann conveys
to him out of her charmed piano, the young artist straightway translates into forms; and knights in armour, with plume, and shield, and
battle-axe; and splendid young noblemen with flowing ringlets, and
bounteous plumes of feathers, and rapiers, and russet boots; and fierce
banditti with crimson tights, doublets profusely illustrated with large
brass buttons, and the dumpy basket-hilted claymores known to be the
favourite weapon with which these whiskered ruffians do battle; waspwaisted peasant girls, and young. countesses with oh, such large eyes
and cherry lips!-all these splendid forms of war and beauty crowd
to the young draughtsman's pencil, and cover letter-backs, copy-books,'without end. If his hand strikes off some face'peculiarly lovely, and
to his taste, some fair vision that has shone on his imagination, some
houri of a dancer, some bright young lady of fashion in an opera-box,
whom he has seen, or fancied he has seen (for the youth is shortsighted, 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 cannine, the eyes a deep, deep cobalt, the
cdeeks a dazzling vermilion, the ringlets of a golden hue;' and he
worships this sweet creature of his in secret, fancies a history for her:
a castle to storm, a tyrant usurper who keeps her imprisoned, and a
prince in black ringlets and a spangled cloak, who scales the tower,
who slays the tyrant, and then kneels gracefully at the princess's feet,.and says, " Lady, wilt thou be mine?"
There is a kind lady in the neighbourhood, who takes in dressmnaking for the neighbouring maid-servants, and has a small establishment of lollipops, theatrical characters, and ginger-beer for the boys,:in Little Craggs' Buildings, hard by the " Running Footman" publichouse, where father and other gentlemen's gentlemen have their club;.
this good soul also sells Sunday- newspapers to the footmen of the
neighbouring gentry; and besides, has a stock of novels for the ladies
of the upper servants' table.'Next to Miss Cann, Miss Flinders is
John James's greatest friend and benefactor. She has remarked him
when he was quite a little man, and used to bring his father's beer of.a Sunday..Out of her novels he has taught himself to read, dull boy
Fat 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'bugging her books under his pinafore when he had leave to carry




II8                  TIHE NAEWCOME~S.
them home. The whole library has passed through his hands, his.,
long, lean, tremulous hands, and under his eager eyes. He has madeillustrations 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 Rinaldini, Captain of
Robbers." How he has blistered "Thaddeus of Warsaw" with histears, and drawn him in his Polish cap, and tights, and Hessians t
" William Wallace, the Hero of Scotland," how nobly he has depicted
him! With what whiskers and bushy ostrich plumes! —in a tight.
kilt, and with what magnificent calves to his legs, laying about hinm
with his battle-axe, and bestriding the bodies of King Edward's prostrate cavaliers! At this time Mr. Honeyman comes to lodge in.
Walpole Street, and brings a set of Scott's novels, for which he subscribed when at Oxford; and young. John James, who at first waits
upon him and does little odd jobs for the reverend gentleman, lights
upon the volumes, and reads them with such a delight and passion of
pleasure as all the delights of future days will scarce equal. A fool, is
he?-an idle feller, out of whom no good will ever come, as his father
says. There was a time when, in despair of any better chance for
him, his parents thought of apprenticing him to a tailor, and Johnl
James was waked up from a dream of Rebecca, and informed of the
cruelty meditated against him. I forbear to describe the tears and..
terror, and frantic desperation in which the poor boy was plunged.
Little Miss Cann 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 Cann painted flowers 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 recipesfor mixing water-colours-" for trees in foregrounds, burnt sienna and,
indigo" for very dark foliage, ivory black and gambouge"- for'
flesh-colour," &c. &c. John James went through her poor little course,..
but not so brilliantly as she expected. She was forced to own that.
several of her pupils' "pieces " were executed much more dexterously
than Johnny Ridley's. Honeyman looked at the boy's drawings from.
time to time, and said, " H'm, ha!-very clever-a great deal of fancy,..
really." But Honeyman knew no more of the subject than a deaf and.




THIE iVE WCOMES.                     I T9
dumb man knows of music. He could talk the Art-cant 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 Heaven had endowed the humble little butler's boy, to whom
splendours of Nature were revealed to vulgar sights invisible, and
beauties manifest in forms, colours, shadows of common objects, where
most of the world saw only what was dull, and gross, and familiar.
One reads in the magic story-books of a charm or a flower which the
wizard gives, and which enables the bearer to see the fairies. O
enchanting boon of Nature, which reveals to the possessor the hidden
spirits of beauty round about him! spirits which the strongest and
most 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 neighbouring streets, to wit, Great Craggs Street, Bolingbroke
Street, and others, contain mansions fairly coped with stone, with little
obelisks before the doors, and great extinguishers wherein the torches
of the nobility'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) by any means
the best house in the street. The parlour, furnished and tenanted
by Miss Cann as has been described; the first floor, -.  Bagshot,
Esq., M.P.; the second floor, Honeyman; what remains but the
garrets, and the ample staircase and the kitchens? and the family
being all 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 parlour in bed long ago, her stout little
walking shoes being on the mat at the door. At I2 o'clock at noon,
sometimes at I, 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!"




X 20                THE NEr WCOIES.
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,
"There he goes again;" or Mrs. Ridley's own back-parlour 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 cupboard where his reverence keeps his sherry, and help himself
to a glass.
"Salve, s/es fidel, lunen ecclesie," he will say; " here's towards
you, my'buck. I knows the tap. Sherrick's Marsala bottled three
months after date, at two hundred and forty-six shillings the dozen."
" Indeed, indeed it's not" (and now we are coming to an idea of
the skeleton in poor Honeyman's closet-not that this huge, handsome, jolly Fred Bayham is the skeleton, far from it. Mr. Frederick
weighs fourteen stone). "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 afterwards, 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 cheque for a comfortable
sum of money; and Fred, getting cash for the cheque at the " Cave of
Harmony," imitated his uncle the Bishop and his Chaplain, winding
up with his Lordship and Chaplain being unwell at sea-the Chaplain
and Bishop quite natural and distinct.
"How much does a glass of this sack cost thee, Charley?"
resumes Fred, after this parenthesis. " You say it is not dear. Charles
Honeyman, you had, even from your youth up, a villanous habit. And




TH!E. NEWCOM1ES.                    xr 2
(I perfectly well remember, sir, in boyhood's breezy hour, when I was,the delight of his school, that you used to tell lies to your venerable
father. You did, Charles. Excuse the frankness of an early friend,,it's my belief you'd rather lie than not." H'm-he looks at the cards:in the chimney-glass: —" Invitations to dinner, proffers of muffins.
Do lend me your sermon. Oh, 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."
" Oh, 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. Honeyman's shirts, and one of his razors, Adieu,
Charles! Amend! remember me." And he vanishes into the upper
chambers.




122                 THE ATE;WCOEMS'.
CHAPTER  XII.
IN WHICH EVERYBODY IS ASKED TO DINNER.
OHN JAMES had opened the door, hastening to welcome a friend
and patron, the sight of whom always gladdened the youth's
eyes; no other than Clive Newcome-in young Ridley's opinion, the
most splendid, fortunate, beautiful, high-born, and gifted youth this.
island contained. What generous boy in his time has not worshippedt
somebody? Before the female enslaver makes her appearance, every
lad has a friend of friends, a crony of cronies, to whom he writes
immense letters in vacation, whom he cherishes in his heart of hearts 
whose sister he proposes to marry in after life; whose purse he shares;.
for whom he will take a thrashing if need be: who is his hero. Clive
was John James's youthful divinity: when he wanted to draw Thaddeus
of Warsaw, a Prince, Ivanhoe, or some one splendid and egregious, it
was Clive he took for a model. His heart leapt when he saw the
young fellow. He would walk cheerfully to Grey Friars, with a letter
or message for Clive, on the chance of seeing him, and getting a kind
word from him, or a shake of the hand. An ex-butler of Lord Todmorden was a pensioner in the Grey 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 thevant of
plums in the pudding, as old men and schoolboys grumble. It was
wonderful what a liking John James took to this odious, querulous,
graceless, stupid, and snuffy old man, and how he would find pretexts
for visiting him at his lodging in the old hospital. He actually took
that journey that he might have a chance of seeing Clive. He sent
Clive notes and packets of drawings; thanked him for books lent,.
asked advice about future reading-anything, so that he might have a
sight of his pride, his patron, his paragon.
I am afraid Clive Newcome employed him to smuggle rum-shrubl
and cigars into the premises; giving him appointments in the school




THE  VE  WCOES S.                    123
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.
" What, is it you, J. J.?" cries Clive, gaily, when his humble friend
appears at the door. " Father, this is my friend Ridley. This is the
fellow what can draw."
" I know whom I will back against any young man of his size at
tihat," says the Colonel, looking at Clive fondly. He considered.
there was not such a genius in the world; and had already thought
of having some of Clive's drawings published by M'Lean of the
Haymarket.
" This is my-father just come from India-and Mr. Pendennis, an,
old Grey Friars' man. Is my uncle at home?" Both these gentlemen
bestow rather patronising nods of the head on the lad introduced to
them as J. J. His exterior is but mean-looking. Colonel Newcome,.
one of the humblest-minded men alive, has yet his old-fashioned
military notions; and speaks to a butler's son as to a private soldier,
kindly, but not familiarly.
"Mr. Honeyman is at home, gentlemen," the young lad says,.
humbly. " Shall I show you up to his room?" And we walk up the
stairs after our guide. We find Mr. Honeyman deep in study on thesofa, with " Pearson on the Creed" before him. The novel has been
whipped under the pillow. Clive found it there some short time afterwards, during his uncle's temporary absence in his dressing-room. He'
has agreed to suspend his theological studies, and go out with hisbrother-in-law to dine.
As Clive and his friends were at Honeyman's door, and just as we
were entering to see the divine seated in state before his folio, Clive'
whispers, "J. J., come along, old fellow, and show us some drawings.
What are you doing?"
" I was doing some Arabian Nights," says J. J., "up in my room;
and, hearing a knock which I thought was yours, I came down."
" Show us the pictures. Let's go up into your room," cries Clive.
"What-will you?" says the other.  "It is but a very smaltl
place."
"Never mind, come along," says Clive; and the two lads disappear together, leaving the three grown gentlemen to discourse
together, or rather two of us to listen to Honeyman, who expatiates
upon the beauty of the weather, the difficulties of the clerical calling,,
the honour Colonel Newcome does him by a visit, &c., with his usual:
eloquence.
After a while Clive comes down without J. J., from the upper




124                 THE ATE WCOAIES.,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 anything." And
he falls to drawing horses and dogs at his uncle's table, round which
the elders are seated.
" I've settled it upstairs with J. J,," says Clive, working away with
his pen. "We shall take a studio together; perhaps we will go abroad
together. Won't that be fun, father?"
"My dear Clive," remarks Mr. Honeyman, with bland dignity,
"there are degrees in society which we must respect. You surely.cannot think of being a professional artist. Such a profession is very
-well for your young prot6dg; but for you —"
"What for me?" cries Clive. "We are no such great folks that
I know of; and if we were, I say a painter is as good as a lawyer, or
a doctor, or even a soldier. In Dr. Johnson's Life-which my father
is always reading-I like to read about Sir Joshua Reynolds best: I
think he is the best gentleman of all in the book. My! wouldn't I
like to paint a picture like Lord Heathfield in the National Gallery!
Wouldn't I just! I think I would sooner have done that, than have
fought at Gibraltar. And those Three Graces-oh, aren't they grace-:ful! 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 Vandyck. And Titian, and Raphael, and Velasquez?
-I'll just trouble you to show me better gentlemen than them, Uncle'Charles."
"Far be it from me to say that the pictorial calling is not honour-.able," says Uncle Charles; "but as the world goes there are other
professions in greater repute; and I should have thought Colonel
Newcome's son —"
"He shall follow his own bent," said the Colonel; " as long as his
calling is honest, it becomes a gentleman; and if he were to take
a fancy to play on the fiddle-actually on the fiddle-I shouldn't
object."
"Such a rum chap there was upstairs!" Clive resumes, looking up,from his scribbling. " He was walking up and down on the landing




THE NE WP COME S.                    12 5
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 l
in the' Cave of Harmony,' he says, that night you flared up about
Captain Costigan. He knew me at once; and he says,'Sir, your
father acted like a gentleman, a Christian, and a man of honour,.
Maxima debetur iuero reverentia. Give him my compliments. I
don't know his highly respectable name.' His highly respectablename," says Clive, cracking with laughter-" those were his veryr'
words.'Xnd inform him that I am an orphan myself-in needy.
circumstances'-he said he was in needy circumstances;'and Ii
heartily wish he'd adopt me."'
The lad puffed out his face, made his voice as loud and as dccpi
as he could; and from his imitation and the picture he had drawn, Ar
knew at once that Fred Bayham was the man he mimicked.
"And does the Red Rover live here," cried Mr. Pendennis, "and
have we earthed him at last?"




~2 6                THE NL' WCO.17fLE''.
" He sometimes comes here," Mr. Honeyman said, with a careless
manner. " My landlord and landlady were butler and housekeeper to
his father, Bayham of Bayhams, 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, arrayed in that peculiar
costume which he affected. In those days we wore very tall stocks,
only a very few poetic and eccentric persons venturing on the Byron
collar; but Fred Bayham confined his neck by a simple ribbon, which
allowed his great red whiskers to curl freely round his capacious jowl.
He wore a black frock and a large broad-brimmed hat, and looked
somewhat like a Dissenting preacher. At other periods you would see
him in a green coat and a blue neckcloth, as if the turf or the driving
of coaches was his occupation.
" I have heard from the young man of the house who you were,
Colonel Newcome," he said with the greatest gravity, " and happened
to be present, sir, the other night; for I was aweary, having been
toiling all the day in literary labour, and needed some refreshment.
I happened to be present, sir, at a scene which did you the, greatest
honour, and of which I spoke, not knowing you, with something like
levity to your son. He is an ingeenui vultzs buier inzgenuique ibudoris
-Pendennis, how are you?-and I thought, sir, I would come down
and tender an apology if I had said any words that might savour of
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 that room, sir, often
forget on the morrow what occurred during the revelry of the night.
You did right in refusing to return to that scene. We public men are
obliged often to seek our refreshment at hours when luckier individuals
are lapt in slumber."
"And what may be your occupation, Mr. Bayham?" asks the
Colonel, rather gloomily, for he had an idea that tBayham was adopting a strain of bersiflage which the Indian gentleman by no means
relished. Never saying aught but a kind word to any one, he was on
fire at the notion that any should take a liberty with him.
"A barrister, sir, but without business-a literary man, who can
but seldom find an opportunity to sell the works of his brains-a
gentleman, sir, who has met with neglect, perhaps merited, perhaps
undeserved, from his family. I get my bread as best I may. On that
evening I had been lecturing on the genius of some of our comic




THIE NVE WCOMES.                     127
writers, at the Parthenopaeon, Hackney. My audience was scanty,
perhaps equal to my deserts. I came home on foot to an egg and a
glass of beer after midnight, and witnessed the scene which did
you so much honour. What is this? I fancy a ludicrous picture of
myself"-he had taken up the sketch which Clive had been drawing
-" I like fun, even at my own expense, and can afford to laugh at a
joke which is meant in good humour."
This speech quite reconciled the honest Colonel. "I am sure
the author of that, M[r. Bayham, means you or any man no harm.
Why! the rascal, sir, has drawn me, his own father; and I have sent
-the drawing to Major Hobbs, who is in command of my regiment.
Chinnery himself, sir, couldn't hit off a likeness better; 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 favour us by dining with us to-day, and:these gentlemen, you shall see that you are not the only person cariIcatured by Clive here."
"I just took some little dinner upstairs, sir. I am a moderate
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. Ycu 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 together. Through Hill Street and
Berkeley 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 Bayham, "which need
not be explained to one of your experience, why Bond Street must be
avoided by some men peculiarly situated. The smell of Truefitt's
pomatum 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, we 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."




128                 TIfE iVE WI COMES.
"The Russian Embassy," says Mr. Honeyman, who knew the
town quite well.
"And he said he was disengaged and would dine with us," con —
tinues 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?"
" What is a swell party?" asks the Colonel, laughing, " I dined
with my brother last Wednesday'; and it was a very grand dinnercertainly. The Governor-General himself could not give a more
splendid entertainment. But, do you know, I scarcely had enough
to eat?  I don't eat side-dishes; and as for the roast-beef of old
England, why, the meat was put on the table and whisked away like,.
Sancho's inauguration feast at Barataria. We did not dine till nine
o'clock. I like a few glasses of claret and a cosy talk after dinner;
but-well, well "-(no doubt the worthy gentleman was accusing himself of telling tales out of school and had come to a timely repentance.)
"Our dinner, I hope, will be different. James 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. "Clive, you rogue, mind and be moderate
with the champagne, sir!"
" Champagne's for women," says Clive. "I stick to claret."
" I say, Pendennis," here Bayhnam remarked, "it is my deliberateopinion 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. "H'm!" says Mr. Bayham, " don't see the
necessity. What right-minded man looks at the exterior of his neighbour? 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."
" 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 before the
appointed hour for receiving the guests, arrayed in a tight little pair of
trousers, and wlhite silk stockings and pumps, his bald head shining
like a billiard-ball, his jolly gills rosy with good humour. He was bent




THE NEWCOMES.                        I29
on pleasure. " Hey, lads!" 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.
"Egad, what a song that Tom Morris sings."
"And your'Jock o' Hazeldean' is as good as a play, James."
"And I think you beat iny one I iver hard in'Tom Bowling,'
yourself, Tom!" cries the Colonel's delighted chum. Mr. Pendennis
opened the eyes of astonishment at the idea of the possibility of
renewing these festivities, but he kept the lips of prudence closed.
And now the carriages began to drive up, and the guests of Colonel
Newcome to arrive,




130                 THE NE WCOMES.
CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH THOMAS NEWCOME SINGS HIS LAST SONG.
THE earliest comers were the first mate and the medical officer or
the ship in which the two gentlemen had come to England.
The mate was a Scotchman; the doctor was a Scotchman; of the
gentlemen from the Oriental Club, three were Scotchmen.
The Southerons, with one exception, were the last to arrive, and
for a while we stood looking out of the windows awaiting their coming.
The first mate pulled out a penknife, and arranged his nails. The
Doctor and Mr. Binnie talked of the progress of medicine. Binnie
had walked the hospitals of Edinburgh 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 Wallis's widow; how many lakhs Barber had brought home,
and the like. The tall grey-headed Englishman, who had been in the
East too, in the King's service, joined for a while in this conversation,
but presently left it, 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 stepson, 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. Honeyman's chapelcomes to be Rebecca, Lady Crawley. His father, Colonel Rawdon
Crawley, died at Coventry Island, in August, I82-, and his uncle,
Sir Pitt, not till September here. I remember, we used to talk about
it at Grey Friars, when I was quite a little chap; and there were bets
whether Crawley, I mean the young one, was a Baronet or not."
"When I sailed to Rigy, Cornel," the first mate was speakingnor can any spelling nor combination of letters of which I 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



TIE NE WCOM1ESC.                     13r
might, I'll jist do as we used to do at Rigy. James, my fine fellow, jist
look alive and breng me a small glass of brandy, will ye? Did ye iver
try a brandy cock-tail, Cornel? Whin I sailed on the New York line,
we used jest to make bits before denner: and-thank ye, James"and he tossed off a glass of brandy.
Here a waiter announces, in a loud voice, " Sir Thomas de Boots,".and the General enters, scowling round the room according to his:fashion, very red in the face, very tight in the girth, splendidly attired
with a choking white neckcloth, a voluminous waistcoat, and his,orders on.
" Stars and garters, by jingo! " cries Mr. Frederick Bayham; " I
say, Pendennis, have you any idea, is the Duke coming? I wouldn't
have come in these Bluchers if I had known it. Confound it, noHoby 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 every one in the
room, as he had introduced us all to each other previously; and as
Sir Thomas looked at one after another, his face was kind enough to
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 Clive he
seemed to have some acquaintance, and said, not unkindly, "How
d'you 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 shutters of the great coach, and
-mounted by the side of the coachman, laced and periwigged. The
Bench of Bishops has given up its wigs; cannot the box, too, be made
to resign that insane decoration? Is it necessary for our comfort, that
the men who do our work in stable or household, should be dressed
like Merry-Andrews? Enter Sir Brian Newcome, smiling blandly;
he greets his brother affectionately, Sir Thomas gaily; he nods and
smiles to Clive, and graciously permits Mr. Pendennis to take hold of
two fingers of his extended right hand. That gentleman is charmed,
of course, with the condescension. What man could be otherwise
than happy to be allowed a momentary embrace of two such precious
fingers? When a gentleman so favours me, I always ask, mentally,
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




132                 THE NE WVCOMf ES.
account in Threadneedle Street, I cannot help thinking he would have
favoured me with the whole palm.
The arrival of these two grandees has somehow cast a solemnity
over the company. The weather is talked about: brilliant in itself,.
it does not occasion very brilliant remarks among Colonel Newcome's
guests. 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 proposal 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 Newcome makes his appearance.
Mr. Barnes does not show the slightest degree of disturbance,
although he disturbs all the company. Soup and fish are brought for
him, and meat, which he leisurely eats, while twelve other gentlemen
are kept waiting. We mark Mr. Binnie's twinkling eyes as they watch
the young man. "Eh," he seems to say, "but that's just about as
free-and-easy a young chap as ever I set eyes on." And so Mr. Barnes
{was 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 neighbour, says, "I really hope I'm  not
keeping everybody waiting."'' Hem!" grunts the neighbour, 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 impudence. "Who are
these people," thinks he, "my uncle has got together?"  He bows
graciously to the 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 everybody 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;




THE NE WCOMES.                       I33
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, I've
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,illed scores of times by watchful waiters.  So has Mr. Bayham.absorbed great quantities of drink; but without 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 looked 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
patronising fingers; and lifting up a glass containing at least a thimbleful of claret, said, " My dear brother, I drink your 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 behaviour 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 challenges, of which we who were
watching him could see the warlike purport. 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 impertinence, and the other from his wine.
Colonel Newcome said a very few words in reply to his honest
friend the chief mate, and there the matter might have ended, but I
am sorry to say Mr. Binnie now thought it 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 hospitable board; the evening set in for public




134                 THE NE WCOMES.
speaking. Encouraged by his last effort, Mr. Binnie now proposed,
Sir Brian Newcome's health; and that Baronet rose and uttered an
exceedingly lengthy speech, delivered with his wine-glass on his
bosom.
Then that sad rogue Bayham must get up, and call earnestly and
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 beheld around him,
deserved the applause of all honest hearts, and merited the cheers with
which their names had been received. (' Hear, hear!' from Barnes.
Newcome sarcastically.'Hear, hear, HEAR!' fiercely from Clive.)
But whilst we applauded our army, should we forget a profession still'
more exalted? Yes, still more exalted, I say in the face of the gallant:
General opposite; and that profession, I need not say, is the Church.
(Applause.) 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 friend's hospitality administers to
us, sanctifies by his presence the feast of which he partakes, inaugurates
with appropriate 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 chequered by misfortune, it may be that
I have forgotten the precepts which the venerable parent of Charles.
Honeyman poured into an inattentive 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 ecclesice (as I told him in the confidence of the privatecircle this morning, and ere I ever thought to publish my opinion in.
this distinguished company). Colonel Newcome and Mr. Binnie! I
drink to the health of the Reverend Charles Honeyman, A.M. May
we listen to 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 cherish in our memories the truths which
come mended from his tongue!" He ceased; poor Honeyman had
to rise on his legs, and gasp out a few incoherent remarks in reply.
Without a book before him, the Incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's
Chapel was no prophet, and the truth is, he made poor work of his
oration.
At the end of it, he, Sir Brian, Colonel Dobbin, and one of the
Indian gentlemen quitted the room, in spite of the loud outcries of
our generous host, who insisted that the party should not break up.
" Close up, gentlemen," called out honest Newcome, " we are not going
to part just yet. Let me fill your glass, General. You used to have..



TIIE NE WCOMES.                      135
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 capital, my dear General. Capital," the Colonel whispered to his
neighbour.
Mr. Binnie struck up the " Laird of Cockpen," without, I am bound
to say, the least reluctance. He bobbed to one man, and he winked
to another, and he tossed his glass, and gave all the points of his song
in a manner which did credit to his simplicity and his humour. You
haughty southerners little know how a jolly Scotch gentleman can
desijere in loco, and how he chirrups over his honest cups. I do not
say whether it was with the song or with Mr. Binnie that we were
most amused. It was a good commonty, as Christopher Sly says; nor
were we sorry when it was done.
Him the first mate succeeded; after which came a song from the
redoubted F. Bayham, which he sang with a bass voice which Lablache
might envy, and of which the chorus was franticallysung by the whole
company. The cry was then for the Colonel; on which Barnes Newcome, who had been drinking much, started up with something like an
oath, crying, " Oh, 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?"
" What's that?" asks Barnes, who was evidently affected by wine.
Bayham roared, " Silence! " and Barnes Newcome, looking round with
a tipsy toss of the head, finally sate down.
The Colonel sang, as we have said, with a very high voice, using
freely the falsetto, after the manner of the tenor-singers of his day.
He chose one of his maritime songs, and got through the first verse
very well, Barnes wagging his head at the chorus, with a " Bravo!" so
offensive that Fred Bayham, his neighbour, gripped the young man's
arm, and told him to hold his confounded tongue.
The Colonel began his second verse: and here, as will often happen
to amateur singers, his falsetto broke down. He was not in the least
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 behaviour 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! X he cried out. " My boy insult a gentleman
at my table!"




36                  TIHE NEWCOIES.
"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 accustomed to it:" and he led the
dandy out.
Others had meanwhile explained the state of the case to the
Colonel-including Sir Thomas de Boots, who was highly energetic
and delighted with Clive's spirit; and some were for having the song
to continue; but the Colonel, 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.




THE N.EWCCOMES.                      137
CHAPTER XIV.
PARK LANE.
rLIVE 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 bed-foot-a reproving conscience to
greet his waking.
"You drank too much wine last night, and disgraced yourself,
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. " Oh, I've got such a headache! "
"' Serve you right, sir. Many a young fellow has had to go on
parade in the morning with a headache earned overnight. Drink this
water. Now jump up. Now, dash the water well over your head.
There you come! Make your toilette 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 black 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 stain of
claret on the carpet."
"Oh, father," says Clive, hanging his head down, "I know I
shouldn't have done it. But Barnes Newcome would provoke the
patience of Job; and I couldn't bear to have my father insulted."
" I am big enough to fight my own battles, my 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.




X38                 THE NVE WCOM1ES.
"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 hot words passed at mess-not such an
insult as that of last night; I don't think I could have quite borne
that-and people found fault with me for forgiving the youngster who
had uttered the offensive expressions over his wine. Some of my
acquaintance sneered at my courage, and that is a hard imputation
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 j5ozle 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 people's trespasses, my boy, if we hope forgiveness of our own." His voice
sank down as he spoke, and he bowed his head reverently. I have
heard his son tell the simple story years afterwards, with tears in
his eyes.
Piccadilly was hardly yet awake the next morning, and the sparkling dews and the poor homeless vagabonds still had possession of the
grass of Hyde Park, as the pair walked up to Sir Brian Newcome's
house, where the shutters were just opening to let in the day. The
housemaid, who was scrubbing the steps of the house, and washing its
trim feet in a 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. Newcome, with her two sons simpering at her knees, painted
at a time when the Newcome Brothers were not the bald-headed, redwhiskered British merchants with whom the reader has made acquaintance, but chubby children with hail 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 daresay there hung in the room a fine framed print of that great:
sovereign. The chandelier is in a canvass bag; the vast side-board,
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 side-board. Two people sitting at that large dining-table
must talk very loud so as to make themselves heard across those great
slabs of mahogany covered with damask. The butler and servants.




THE NEWCOME&                          1 39
who attend at the table take a long.time walking round it. I pictures
to myself two persons of ordinary size sitting in that great room at
that great table, far apart, in neat evening costume, sipping a littlesherry, silent, genteel and glum; and think the great and wealthy are
not always to be envied, and that there may be more comfort and,
happiness in a snug parlour, where you are served by a brisk little
maid, than in a great dark, dreary dining-hall, where a funereal majordomo and a couple of stealthy footmen minister to you your muttonchops. They come and lay the cloth presently, wide as the mainsheet of " some tall ammiral." A pile of newspapers and letters for
the master of the house; the Newconze 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  ezwcome Indejpendent, 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 Newcome; little heaps of letters (dinner and soiree cards
most of these), and Morning Post for Mr. Barnes. Punctually as
eight o'clock strikes, that young gentleman comes to breakfast; his
father will lie yet for another hour-the Baronet's prodigious labours
in the House of Commons keeping him frequently out of bed till
sunrise.
As his cousin entered the room, Clive turned very red, and perhaps a faint blush might appear on Barnes's pallid countenance.
He came in, a handkerchief in one hand, a pamphlet in the other,
and both hands being thus engaged, he could offer neither to his
kinsmen.
"You are come to breakfast, I hope," he said-calling it "bweakfast," and pronouncing the words with a most languid drawl-" orperhaps 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 distinctly, and can't, of
course, tell about my father. Generally, you know, there are two
candles left in the hall, you know; and if there are two, you know, I
know of course that my 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




~40                 THE NVE WCOMES.
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. " It was
Clive that-that spilled the wine over you last night," Thomas Newcome said; " 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 towards the Colonel. "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-" that he was thankful to find that the
disturbance of the night before had no worse result." He pulled the
tail of Clive's coat, when that unlucky young blunderer was about to
trouble his cousin with indiscreet questions or explanations, and
checked his talk. " The other night you saw an old man in drink, my
boy," he said, " and to what shame and degradation the old wretch
had brought himself. Wine has given you a warning, too, which I
hope you will remember all your life: no one has seen me the worse
for drink these forty years, and I hope both you young gentlemen will
take counsel by an old soldier, who fully practises 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 overnight the bloody
meeting at morning; how he had known widows and orphans made
by hot words uttered in idle orgies; how the truest honour was the
manly 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




THIE  NVE WIVCOMfES.                I141
reading and much keener intelligence.than the Colonel, were amused
often at his naive opinion about men, or books, or morals. Mr. Clive
had a very fine natural sense of humour, which played perpetually
round his father's simple philosophy 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. Beati ii!  0 man of the world, whose wearied
eyes may glance over this page, may those who come after you so
regard you; 0 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 together, where the meal was
taken in common, and at the early hour of eight (unless the senator
was kept too late in the House ofCommons overnight); and Lady
Ann and her nursery were now returned to London again, little Alfred
being perfectly set up by a month of Brighton air. It was a Thursday
morning —on which day of the week, it has been said, the Newcome
Indef5endezt and the Newcome Sentinel both made their appearance
upon the baronet's table. The household from above and from below:
the maids and footmen from the basement; the 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 eighto'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 worships 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




-X42                 THSE  NE WtCOES.
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 neighbours. Nay, perhaps, if you did go
into the kitchen, or take tea in the servants' hall, you would do little
good, and only bore the folks assembled there. But so it is. With
those fellow-Christians who have been just saying "Amen" to your
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 versd. 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 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? If 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 Post, 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. "Who
ever heard of a Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns? What do people mean by
going to such a person? "
"Lady Popinjay asked the people," Barnes says gravely. " The
thing was really dooced well done. The woman looked frightened;
but she's pretty, and I am told the daughter will have a great lot of
money."




THE NE WCOMES.                       143
"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 the present period. Barnes resumed the
reading of his county paper, but presently laid it down, with an exclamation so blisk 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
paying a visit to Newcome-that's the news which I 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 Clive. 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 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 Honey-.man is a most respectable person. Nothing is so ungenerous as to
rebuke a gentleman or a lady on account of their poverty, and I coincide with Ethel in thinking that you speak of your uncle and his son
in terms which, to say the least, are disrespectful."
"' Miss Honeyman is a dear little old woman," breaks in Ethel.
"Was not she 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 wigis just as good as a banker, you know he is."
"Did you bring some of Miss Honeyman's lodging-house cards
with you, Ethel?" says her brother, "and had we not better hang
up one or two in Lombard Street; hers and our other relation's,
Mrs. Mason? "
"My darling love, who is Mrs. Mason?" asks Lady Ann.
"Another member of the family, ma'am. She was cousin-"
"She was no such thing, sir," roars Sir Brian.
"She was relative and housemaid of my grandfather during his
first marriage. She acted, I believe, as dry nurse to the distinguished
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




144                 THE NE WCOMEIS.
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 inr
both the papers, I daresay. It will be in the Times to-morrow. By
-- it's delightful. Our paper only mentions the gratifying circumstance; here is the paragraph:'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.
" 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 Indej5endent says, and see if you like that,
sir," cries Barnes, grinning fiercely; and he began to read as
follows:"'Mr. Indej5endenf-I was born and bred a Screwcomite, and am
naturally proud of everybody and everyt/hing which bears the revered
name of Screwcome. I am a Briton and a man, though I have not
the honour of a vote for my native borough; if I had, you may be
sure I would give it to our adnmired and talented representative, Don
Pomposo Lickspittle Grindpauper Poor House Agincourt Screwcome,
whose ancestors fought with Julius Caesar against William the
Conqueror, and whose father certainly wielded a cloth-yard shaft in
London not fifty years ago.
"' Don Pomposo, as you know, seldom favours the town of Screwcome with a visit. Our gentry are not of ancient birth enough to be
welcome to a Lady Screwcome. Our manufacturers make their money
by trade. Oh, fie! how can it be supposed that such vidgarians
should be received among the aristocratic society of Screwcome House?
Two balls in the season, and ten dozen of gooseberry, are enough for
temt'  that scoundrel arrot," burst  t Sir Brian;  
"It's that scoundrel Parrot," burst out Sir Brian; "because I




THE NEWCOMES.                        145
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 7Ethel, "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 Screwcomites are at this moment favoured with a visit from
a gentleman of the Screwcome family, who, having passed all his life
abroad, is somewhat different from his relatives, whom we all so love
and honour/ This distinguished gentleman, this gallant soldier, has
come among us, not merely to see our manufactures-in which Screwcome can vie with any city in the North-but an old servant and
relation of his family, whom he is not 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
The gallant officer, accompanied by his son, a fine youth, has taken
repeated drives round our beautiful environs in one of friend Taplow's
(of the " King's Arms ") open drags, and accompanied by Mrs. M -
now an aged lady, who speaks, with tears in her eyes, of the goodness
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 honoured the county
by purchasing the estate which they own?
"'I have, as I repeat, no vote for the borough; but if I had, oh,
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.
Zndeipendent,
"' Your Constant Reader,
"' PEEPING TOM.'"
"The spirit of radicalism abroad in this country," said Sir Brian
IO




X46                 THE ANEWCOMES.
Newcome, crushing his eggshell desperately, "is dreadful, really
dreadful. We are on the edge of a positive volcano." Down went
the egg-spoon into its crater. " The worst sentiments are everywhere
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 blackguards pacin' up and
down a little court-yard, and Count Kettenheimer told me they were
three damned editors of Milanese newspapers, who had had seven
years of imprisonment already; and last year when Kettenheimer
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,'Kettenheimer, 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 out laughin' 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 Ethel Newcome
held her tongue; but when her papa closed the conversation, by
announcing solemnly that he would communicate with Speers, Ethel
turning to her mother said, " Mamma, is it true that grandpapa has a
relation living at Newcome who is old and poor?"
"My darling child, how on earth should I know?" says Lady Ann.
"I daresay Mr. Newcome had plenty of poor relations."
" I am sure some on your side, Ann, have been good enough to
visit me at the bank," said 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




THE NE WCOMES.                       147
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 eye, " I will go —that is if
papa will give me leave," says 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. What-d'you-call'em a gown, or tract, or that sort of
thing, and stop that infernal Inde5endent's mouth."
"If we had gone sooner," said Miss Ethel, simply, " there would
not have been all this abuse of us in the paper." To which statement
her worldly father and brother perforie agreeing, we may congratulate
good old Mrs. Mason upon the new and polite acquaintances she is
about to make.




148                 THE NE WCOMES.
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 postchaise and a pair of horses, which landed them at the'.' King's Arms.'Y
The Colonel delighted in postchaising-the rapid transit through the
country amused him and cheered his spirits. Besides, had he not
Dr. Johnson's word for it, that a swift journey in a postchaise was
one of the greatest enjoyments in life, and a sojourn in a comfortable
inn one of its chief pleasures?  In travelling, he was as happy and
noisy as a boy. He talked to the waiters, and made friends with the
landlord; got all the information which he could gather regarding
the towns into which he came; and drove about from one sight or
curiosity to another with indefatigable good humour and interest.
It was good for Clive to see men and cities: to visit mills, manufactories, country seats, cathedrals. He asked a hundred questions
regarding all things round about him; and any one caring to know
who Thomas Newcome was, and what his rank and business, found
no difficulty in having his questions answered by the simple and
kindly traveller.
Mine host of the "King's Arms," Mr. Taplow aforesaid, knew in
five minutes who his guest was, and the errand on which he came.
Was not Colonel Newcome's name painted on all. his trunks and
boxes? Was not his servant ready to answer all questions regarding
the Colonel and his son? Newcome pretty generally introduced.Clive
to my landlord, when the latter brought his guest his bottle of wine.
With old-fashioned cordiality, the Colonel would bid the landlord
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 afterwards-to make the Grand
Tour. And I will thank you to tell me w'hat there is remarkable
in your town, and what we ought to see-antiquities, manufactures,
and seats in the neighbourhood. We wish to see everything, sir —




THE INE WECOMES.                     r49'everything." 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 despatched by an ostler
to "Mrs. Sarah Mason, Jubilee Row," announcing that the Colonel
had arrived, and would be with her after his dinner. Mr. Taplow,did not think fit to tell his guest that the house Sir Brian usedthe "Blue House"-was the "Roebuck,'? not the "King's Arms."
Might not the gentlemen be of different politics? Mt. Taplow's wine
knew none.
Some of the jolliest fellows in all Newcome use the 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 labours (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 Indrne5endent-were pretty constant attendants at the " King's Arms;" and Colonel
Newcome's dinner was not over before some of these gentlemen knew'what dishes he had had; how he had called for a bottle of sherry and.a bottle of claret, like a gentleman; how he had paid the post-boys,
<and travelled with a servant, like a top-sawyer; and that he was come'to shake hands with an old nurse and relative of his family. Every
one of those jolly Britons thought well of the Colonel for his affectionateness and liberality, and contrasted it with the behaviour of the
Tory Baronet-their representative.
His arrival made a sensation in the place. The Blue Club at the'" 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 xound




15so                THE NE WCOMES.
that early time when they were together. The good soul told endless
tales of her darlings 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 secured for his old nurse,
the kind old creature insisted on having Clive by her side. Again and
again she would think he was actually her own boy, forgetting, in that
sweet and pious hallucination, that the bronzed face, and thinned hair,.
and melancholy eyes of the veteran before her, were those of her
nursling of old days. So for near half the space of man's allotted lifehe had been absent from her, and day and night wherever he was, in
sickness or health, in sorrow or danger, her innocent love and prayers
had attended the absent darling. Not in vain, not in vain, does he
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. He can spare but that evening, Saturday, and the
next day, Sunday, when he will faithfully accompany his dear old
nurse to church. And what a festival is that day for her, when she
has her Colonel and that beautiful brilliant boy of his by her side, and
Mr. Hicks, the curate, looking at him, and the venerable Dr. Bulders
himself eyeing him from the pulpit, and all the neighbours fluttering:
and whispering, to be sure, who can be that fine military gentleman,
and that splendid young man sitting by old Mrs. Mason, and leading.
her so affectionately out of church? That Saturday and Sunday the
Colonel will pass with good old Mason, but on Monday he must be
off; on Tuesday he must be in London, he has important business in
London,-in fact, Tom  Hamilton, of his regiment, comes up for
election at the "Oriental" on that day, and on such an occasion
could Thomas Newcome be absent? He drives away from the
"King's Arms" through a row of smirking chambermaids, smiling
waiters, and thankful ostlers, accompanied to the postchaise, 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 behaviour of the Baronet, his brother, who has gone for
some time by the ignominious sobriquet of Screwcome, in the neighbourhood 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



THE NEWCOMES.                        151
beautiful new India shawl, and her splendid 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 and humble companions of the good old lady, as
they take their Sunday walks by the pompous lodge-gates of Newcome Park, which stand, with the Baronet's new-fangled arms over
them, gilded, and filigree'd, and barred, will tell their stories, too,
about the kind Colonel and his hard brother. When did Sir Brian
ever visit a poor old woman's cottage, or his bailiff exempt from the
rent? What good action, except a few thin blankets and beggarly
coal and soup tickets, did Newcome Park ever do for the poor? And
as for the Colonel's wealth, Lord bless you, he's been in India these
five-and-thirty years; 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, doubtless, inspired the eloquent pen of " Peeping
Tom," when he indited the sarcastic epistle to the Newcomne Indefendent, which we perused over Sir Brian Newcome's shoulder in the
last chapter.
And you may be sure Thomas Newcome had not been many
weeks in England before good little Miss Honeyman, at Brighton,
was favoured with a visit from her dear Colonel. The envious
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 postchaise drive up to Miss Honeyman's
door, and having discharged two gentlemen from within, trot away
with servant and baggage to some house of entertainment other than
Gawler's. Whilst this wretch was cursing his own ill fate, and
execrating yet 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 neighbouring hotel, Hannah was
in possession of one of the Colonel's shirts, she and her mistress
having' previously conspired to make a dozen of those garments for
the family benefactor.
All the presents which Newcome had ever transmitted to his
sister-in-law from India had been taken out of the cotton and lavender
in which the faithful creature kept them. It was a fine hot day
in June, but, I promise you, Miss Honeyman wore her blazing scarlet
Cashmere shawl; her great brooch, representing the Taj of Agra, was




52                 THE ANE WCOMES.
in her collar; and her bracelets (she used to say, " I am given to
understand they are 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 Sally 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
workbox, and the ivory card-case, and those magnificent pink and
white chessmen, carved like little sepoys and mandarins, with the
castles on elephants' backs, George the Third and his queen in pink
ivory, against the Emperor of China and lady in white-the delight of
Clive's childhood, the chief ornament of the old spinster's sitting-room.
Miss Honeyman's little feast was pronounced to be the perfection
of cookery; and when the meal was over, came a noise of little feet
at the parlour door, which being opened, there appeared: first, a tall
nurse with a 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 silkapron. Hannah,
too, was in new attire, all crisp and rustling, in the Colonel's honour.
Miss Ethel did not cease blushing as she advanced towards her uncle;
and the honest campaigner started up, blushing too. Mr. Clive rose
also, as little Alfred, of whom he was a great friend, ran towards him.
Clive rose, laughed, nodded at Ethel, and ate gingerbread nuts all at
the same time. As for Colonel Thomas Newcome and his niece, they
fell in love with each other instantaneously, like Prince Camaralzaman
and the Princess of China.
"Mamma has sent us to bid you welcome to England, uncle,"




THE ArE WCOMES.                      153
says Mviss Ethel, advancing, and never thinking for a moment of laying aside that fine blush which she brought into the room, and which
is her pretty symbol of youth, and modesty, and beauty.
He took a little slim white hand and laid it down on his brown
palm, where it looked all the whiter; he cleared the grizzled mustachio
from his 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 something 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 as in the time when they were our daily talk,
when their presence gladdened our eyes, when their accents thrilled in
our ears, when with passionate tears and grief we flung ourselves 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 postchaise; 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 Nos. 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 bobbing nurse babbles a
welcome. Alfred looks up for a while 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 somebody 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 bluedragon Chayny jar, on which he would sit, and over which he cried so
fearfully upon breaking.




154                 THE NE WCOMES.
When this little party has gone out smiling to take its walk on the
sea-shore, the Colonel, sits down and resumes the interrupted dessert..
Miss Honeyman talks of the children and their mother, and the merits
of Mr. Kuhn, and the beauty of Miss Ethel, glancing significantly
towards Clive, who has had enough of gingerbread nuts and dessert
and wine, and *hose youthful nose is by this time at the window.
What kind-hearted woman, young or old, does not love matchmaking?
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, and he goes~
upstairs 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.
"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 grandfather, 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 Uncle Hobson, and your poor dear papa7
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 distinguished
air; but he is like his poor dear papa. Que voulez-vozes, my love?
The Newcomes are honourable, the Newcomes are wealthy; but
distinguished? no. I never deluded myself with that notion when I
married your poor dear papa. At once I pronounce Colonel Newcome
a person to be in every way distinguished by us. On our return to
London I shall present him to all our family: poor good man! let
him see that his family have some presentable relations besides those
whom he will meet at Mrs. Newcome's, in Bryanston Square. You
must go to Bryanston Square immediately we return to London.




THE NE WCOMES. o55
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 you come out you will have
to' dine there, and 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 marry your poor dear papa? From
duty. Has your Aunt Fanny, who ran away with Captain Canonburyt
been happy? They have eleven children, and are starving at Boulogne.
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 could not see them. My feelings'
would not allow me. When my maid,-I had a French maid thenLouise, you remember; her conduct was abominable: so was Pre'ville's
-when she came and said that my Lady Fanny was below with a
young gentleman, quiporfait des bas aunes, I could not see the child.
I begged her to come up in my room; and, absolutely that I might
not offend her, I went to bed. That wretch Louise met her at
Boulogne and told her afterwards. Good-night, we must not stand
chattering here any more. Heaven bless you, my darling! Those
are the Colonel's windows! Look, he is smoking on his balconythat must be Clive'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 pronounced it. Good-night, my
own love. Blessings, blessings, on my Ethel!"
The Colonel from his balcony saw the slim figure of the retreating
girl, and looked fondly after her; and as the smoke of his cigar floated
in the air, he formed a fine castle in it, whereof Clive was lord, and
that pretty Ethel, lady. " What a frank, generous, bright young crea*ture is yonder! " thought he. " 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 t
When she gave it to 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 dangers that young fellows encounter, and safe with




56                 THTE NAE WCOMES.
-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 shan't want anything more to-night, Kean, and you
can go to bed."
" Thank you, Colonel," says Kean, who enters, having prepared
his master's bed-chamber, and is retiring when the Colonel calls after
him:
" I say, Kean, is that blue coat of mine very old?"
"Uncommon white about the seams, Colonel," says the man.
"Is it older than other people's coats? "-Kean is obliged gravely
to confess that the Colonel's coat is very queer.
"Get me another coat, then-see that I don't do anything or wear
anything unusual. I have been so long out of Europe that I don't,know the customs here, and am not above learning."
Kean retires, vowing that bis 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.




TSrE' NE WCOMES.                     157
CHAPTER XVI.
IN WHICH MR. SHERRICK LETS HIS HOUSE IN FITZROY SQUARE.N spite of the sneers of the Newcome Inde5endenl, and the Colonel's$
unlucky visit to his nurse's native place, he still remained in
high favour in Park Lane; where the worthy gentleman paid almost
daily visits, and was received with welcome and almost affection, at.
least by the ladies and the children of the house. Who was it thattook 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. Merriman's jokes in the ring. He beheld,
the Battle of Waterloo with breathless interest, and was amazedamazed, by Jove, sir-at the prodigious likeness of the principal actorto the Emperor Napoleon, 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 finger of his hands; young Masters Alfred and Edward clapping
and hurraing by his side; while Mr. Clive and Miss Ethel sat in the
back of the box enjoying the scene, but with that decorum which
belonged to their superior age and gravity. As for Clive, he was in
these matters much older than the grizzled old warrior his father. It
did one good to hear the Colonel's honest laughs at Clown's jokes, and.
to see the tenderness and simplicity with which he watched over this
happy brood of young ones. How lavishly did he supply them with.
sweetmeats between the acts! There he sat in the midst of them,
and ate an orange himself with perfect satisfaction. I wonder what
sum of money Mr. Barnes Newcome would have taken to sit for five
hours with his young brothers and sisters in a public box at the
theatre and eat an orange in the face of the audience? When little.
Alfred went to Harrow, you may be sure Colonel Newcome and Clive
galloped over to see the little man and tipped him royally. What
money is better bestowed than that of a schoolboy's tip? How the
kindness is recalled by the recipient in after days! It blesses him
that gives and him that takes. Remember how happy such-benefactions made ySou 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




s58                 THE NEWCOMES.
have liked to administer bounties to the young folks his nephews and
nieces in Bryanston Square, as well as to their cousins in Park Lane;
but Mrs. Newcome was a great 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.
"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 may be children who hold
out their hands for presents, and thus become mercenary in early life.
I make no reflections with regard to other households. I only look,
and think, and pray for the welfare of my own beloved ones, They
want for nothing. Heaven has bounteously furnished us with every
comfort, with every elegance, with every luxury. Why need we be
bounden to others, who have been ourselves so amply provided? I
should consider it 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 a-piece from their father,
and a shilling a week, which is ample pocket-money. When they are
at home, I desire that they may have rational amusements: I send
them to the Polytechnic with Professor Hickson, who kindly explains
to them some of the marvels of science and the wonders of machinery.
I send them to the picture-galleries and the British Museum. I go
with them myself to the delightful lectures at the institution in Albemarle Street. I do not desire that they should 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, expressing a wish that your boy should
be made acquainted with the works of Shakspeare, I gave up my own
opinion at once. Should I interpose between a child and his father?
I encouraged the boy to 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 jarentis; because he was as a child to me, and
I to him as a mother. I indulged him more than my own. I loved
him with a true maternal tenderness. Then he was happy to come to
our house: thenz perhaps Park Lane was not so often open to him as
Bryanston Square: but I make no allusions. Then heplid not go




THE NE WCOMES.                       I59
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 splendour. He could not find these in Bryanston 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
proud/ And now, now his father has come to England, and I have
resigned him, and he meets with no titled aristocrats at my house, and
he does not come here any more   "
Tears rolled out of her 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 amongst what are called the fashionable announcements, the
cause, perhaps, why his sister-in-law had exhibited so much anger and
virtue. The Morning Post stated, that yesterday Sir Brian and Lady
Newcome entertained at dinner his Excellency the Persian Ambassador and Bucksheesh Bey; the Right Honourable Cannon Rowe,
President of the Board of Control, and Lady Louisa Rowe; the
Earl of H —-  the Countess of Kew, the Earl of Kew, Sir Curry
Baughton, Major-General and Mrs. Hooker, Colonel Newcome, and
Mr. Horace Fogey. Afterwards her Ladyship had an assembly,
which was attended by, &c. &c.
This catalogue of illustrious names had been read by Mrs. Newcome
to her spouse at breakfast, with such comments as she was in the
habit of making.
"The President of the Board of Control, the Chairman of the
Court of Directors, and ex-Governor-General of India, and a whole
regiment of Kews. By Jove, Maria, the Colonel is in good company,"
cries Mr. Newcome, with a laugh. "That's the sort of dinner you:should have given him. Some people to talk about India. When he
(dined with us he was put between old Lady Wormely and Professor
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 Windus is the deuce
to talk."
" Dr. Windus is a man of science, and his name is of European
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. Newcome, good-naturedly.
"A shy! How can you use such vulgar words, Mr. Newcome?
What have I to do with Sir Brian's titled relations? I do not value




I60                 THE NE WCOM~ES.
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 call hold your
own with the best of them."
" I have endeavoured by assiduity to make up for time lost, and
an early imperfect education," says Mrs. Newcome. " You married
a poor country lawyer's daughter. You did not seek a partner in the
Peerage, Mr. Newcome."
" No, no, not such a confounded flat as that," cries Mr. Newcome,
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, endeavoured to cultivate the humble talents which heaven has
given me, Mr. Newcome."
"Humble, by Jove!" exclaims the husband. " No gammon 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 tQ you, my dear. 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 flighty, 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. Newcome rode to look at the new
house, No. I2o, 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. Not long
since it was a ladies'-school, in an unprosperous condition. The scar
left by Madame Latour's brass-plate may still be seen on the tall
black door, cheerfully ornamented in the style of the end of the last
century, with a funereal urn in the centre of the entry, and garlands,
and the skulls of rams at each corner. Madame Latour, who at one
time actually kept a large yellow coach, and drove her parlour young
ladies in the 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




THE NE WCOMES.                       x6r
wine-vaults undermine Lady Whittlesea's Chapel where the eloquent
honeyman preaches.
The house is Mr. Sherrick's house. Some say his name is Shadrach, and pretend to have known him as an orange-boy, afterwards as
a chorus-singer in the theatres, afterwards as secretary to a great tragedian. I know nothing of these stories. He may or he may not be
a partner of Mr. Campion, of " Shepherd'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
handsome, dark, bright-eyed, with a quantity of jewellery, and a tuft
to his chin; sings sweetly sentimental songs after dinner. Who cares
a fig what was the religion of Mr. Sherrick's ancestry, or what the
occupation of his youth? Mr. Honeyman, a most respectable man
surely, introduced Sherrick to the Colonel and- Binnie.
Mr. Sherrick stocked their cellar with some of the wine over which
Honeyman preached such lovely sermons. It was not dear; it was not
bad when you dealt with Mr. Sherrick for wine alone. Going into his
market with ready-money in your hand, as our simple friends did, you
were pretty fairly treated by Mr. Sherrick.
The house being taken, we may be certain there was fine amusement for Clive, Mr. Binnie, and the Colonel, in frequenting the sales,.
in the inspection of upholsterers' shops, and the purchase of furniture
for the new mansion. It was like nobody else's house. There were
three masters with four or five servants under them. Irons for the
Colonel, and his son; a smart boy with boots for Mr. Binnie;
Mrs. Irons to cook and keep house, with a couple of maids under
her. The Colonel, himself, was great at making hash-mutton, hot-pot,
curry, and pillau. What cozy pipes did we not smoke in the diningroom, in the drawixhg-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 —Grindley of Corpus-whom we recommended
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. Irons' niece,
whom that virtuous housekeeper was always calling to come downstairs. He drew his father in all postures-asleep, on foot, on horseback; and jolly little Mr. Binnie, with his plump legs on a chair, or
jumping briskly on the back of the cob which he rode. Young Ridley
was his daily friend now; and after Grindley's classics and mathematics
in the morning, this pair of young men would constantly attend.
II




X62                 THE, NE WCOMES.
Gandish's Drawing Academy, where, to be sure, Ridley passed many
hours at work on his art, before his young friend and patron could
be spared from his books to his pencil.
"Oh," says Clive, if you talk to him now about those early days,
"C 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 sittinlg- of a man rather bald, with hair touched
with grey, with a large moustache, and a sweet mouth half smiling
beneath it, and melancholy eyes! and Clive shows that portrait of
their grandfather to his children, and tells them that the whole wko-ld
never saw a nobler gentleman.




TIHE jVE WCOMES.                     I63
CHAPTER XVII.
A SCHOOL OF ART.
BRITISH art either finds her peculiar nourishment in melancholy,
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 colonised 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 beaux over the mud, who
has not remarked the artist's invasion of those regions once devoted
to fashion and gaiety? Centre-windows of drawing-rooms are enlarged
so as to reach up into bed-rooms-bed-rooms where Lady Betty has
had her hair powdered, and where the painter's north-light now takes
possession of the place which her toilet-table occupied a hundred years
ago. There are degrees in decadence: after the Fashion chooses to
emigrate, and retreats from Soho or Bloomsbury, let us say, to Cavendish Square, physicians come and occupy the vacant houses, which
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 has 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 moustache, and jaunty velvet jacket, his queer figure, his
queer vanities, and his kind heart. Why should he not suffer his
ruddy ringlets to fall over his shirt-collar? Why should he deny
himself his velvet? it is but a kind of fustian which costs him
eighteen-pence a yard. He is naturally what he is, and breaks out
into costume as spontaneously as a bird sings, or a bulb bears a tulip.
And as Dick, under yonder terrific appearance of waving cloak,
bristling beard, and shadowy sombrero, is a good kindly simple
creature, got up at a very cheap rate, so his life is consistent with
his dress; he gives his genius a darkling swagger, and a romantic
envelope, which, being removed, you find, not a bravo, but a kind




164                 THE iLrE WCOMI'zES.
chirping soul; not a moody poet avoiding mankind far the bettercompany of his own great thoughts, but a jolly little chap who has anaptitude for painting brocade-gowns, or bits of armour (with figures
inside them), or trees and cattle, or gondolas and buildings, or what
not; an instinct for the picturesque, which exhibits itself in his works,.
and outwardly on 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 whiskerandoes.
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 gaiety, what jovial suppers on threadbare cloths, and wonderful songs after: what pathos, merriment, humour does not a man enjoywho 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 artstudent at home and abroad was the pleasantest part of his wholeexistence. It may not be more amusing in the telling than thechronicle 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 Newcome thought a bad trade for a young
fellow so fond of ease and pleasure as his son: his delight in the
pencil was manifest to all. Were not his school-books full of caricatures of the masters? Whilst his tutor, Grindley, was lecturing him,.
did he not draw Grindley 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 rsgle, under theeminent Mr. Gandish, of Soho.
It was that well-known portrait-painter, Andrew Smee, Esq., RA.,
who recommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome, one day when the
two gentlemen met at dinner at Lady Ann Newcome's table. Mr.
Smee happened to examine some of Clive's drawings, which the young
fellow had executed for his cousins. 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, develop




THE NE WVCOMES.                      16S
3her 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 ear-rings, the majestic
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 positively must now, and show it to Landseer." And the
courtly artist daintily enveloped the drawing in a sheet of paper, put
it away in his hat, and vowed subsequently that the great painter had
been delighted with the young man's performance. Smee was not
oenly 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
colour. With our hideous vermilion uniforms there was no chance of
doing anything; Rubens himself could scarcely manage scarlet. Look
at the horseman in Cuyp's famous picture at the Louvre: the red was
a positive blot upon the whole picture. There was nothing like
French gray and silver! All which did not prevent Mr. Smee from
painting Sir Brian in a flaring deputy-lieutenant's uniform, and entreating all military men whom he met to sit to him in scarlet. Clive
Newcome the Academician succeeded in painting of course for mere,friendship's sake, and because he liked the subject, though he could,not refuse the cheque which Colonel Newcome sent him for the frame
and picture; but no cajoleries could induce the old campaigner to sit
to any artist save one. He said he should be ashamed to pay fifty
guineas for the likeness of his homely face; he jocularly proposed to
James Binnie to have his head put on the canvas, and Mr. Smee
enthusiastically caught at the idea; but honest James winked his.droll eyes, saying his was a beauty that did not want any paint; and
when Mr. Smee took his leave after dinner in Fitzroy Square, where
kthis conversation was held, James Binnie hinted that the Academi-,cian was no better than an old humbug, in which surmise he was.probably not altogether incorrect. Certain young men who frequented
the kind Colonel's house were also somewhat of this opinion; and
made endless jokes at the painter's expense. Smee plastered his
sitters with adulation as methodically as he covered his canvas. He
waylaid gentlemen at dinner; he inveigled unsuspecting folks into his




166                 THE NXE WVCOM1VES.
studio, and had their heads off their shoulders before they were aware;
One day, on our way from the Temple, through Howland Street, to
the Colonel's house, we beheld Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots,
in full uniform, rushing from Smee's door to his brougham. The
coachman was absent refreshing himself at a neighbouring 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 victims of Mr. Smee.
One day then, day to be noted with a white stone, Colonel Newcome, with his son and Mr. Smee, R.A., walked from the Colonel's
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, Pen!" cries
Clive: "Gandish is worth the whole world. Come and be an art —
student. You'll find such jolly fellows there! Gandish calls it hartstudent, and says,' Hars est celare Hartem'-by Jove he does! Hetreated us to a little Latin, as he brought out a cake and a bottle of
wine, you know.
" The governor was splendid, sir. He wore gloves: you know he
only puts them on on parade days; and turned out for the occasion
spick and span. He ought to be a general officer. He looks like a
field-marshal-don't he? You should have seen him bowing to,
Mrs. Gandish and the Miss Gandishes, dressed all in their best,
round the cake-tray! He takes his glass of wine, and sweeps them
all round with a bow.'I hope, young ladies,' says he,' you don't
often go to the students' room.  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.
"' 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 hit' 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




THE NEEWCOMES.                        I67
picture has very fine points in it, Gandish, as you say. Foreshortening
of that arm, capital! That red drapery carried off into the right of
the picture very skilfully managed!t"
"' It's not like portrait-painting, Smee —'Igh art,' says Gandish.'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 Betsy here. You reckonise Boadishia, Colonel, with the Roman'elmet, cuirass, and javeling of the period-all studied from the
hantique, sir, the glorious hantique.'
"'All but Boadicea,' says father. C 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.
"'Oh, I must have those verses in my album,' cries one of the
young ladies.'Did you compose them, Colonel Newcome?' But
Gandish, you see, is never thinking about any works but his own, and
goes on,' Study of my eldest daughter, exhibited I8i6.'
"'No, Pa, not'x6,' cries Miss Gandish. She don't look like a
chicken, I can tell you.
"'Admired,' Gandish goes on, never heeding her.-' I can show
you what the papers said of it at the time-Morning Chronicle and
Examiner-spoke most'ighly of it. My son as an infant'Ercules,
stranglin' the serpent over the piano. Fust 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;' I could have been a
portrait-painter, Mr. Smee.'
"'  Indeed, it was lucky for some of us you devoted yourself to high
art, Gandish,' Mr. Smee says, and sips the wine and puts it down again,
making a face. It was not first-rate tipple, you see.
"'Two girls,' continues that indomitable Mr. Gandish. " Hidea
for "Babes in the Wood." " View-of Paestum," taken on the spot by
myself, when travelling with the late lamented Earl of Kew. " Beauty,
Valour, 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, whern




i68                 TIIE A-E WCOMJfES.
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 favour to walk into the Hatrium, you'll remark my.
great pictures also from English'ist'ry. An English'istorical painter,
sir, should be employed chiefly in English'ist'ry. That's what I would 
have done. Why ain't there temples for us, where the people might
read their'ist'ry 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 neat-'erd'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 receives it with majesty mingled with meekness. In the
background 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'ist'ry, has since become so popular, sir,
that hundreds of artists have painted it, hundreds! I, who discovered
the legend, have my picture-here!"
"'Now, Colonel,' says the showman,'let me-let me lead you
through the statue gallery. "Apollo," you see. The "Venus Hanadyomene," the glorious Venus of the Louvre, which I saw in I814,
Colonel, in its glory —the " Laocoon " —my friend Gibson's "Nymph,"
you see, is the only figure I admit among the antiques. Now up this
stair to the students' room, where I trust my young friend, Mr. Newcome, will labour assiduously. Ars longa est, Mr. Newcome. Vita-'
"I trembled," Clive said, "lest my father should introduce a
certain favourite quotation, beginning' ingenuas didicisse' —but he
refrained, and we went into the room, where a score of students were
assembled, who all looked away from their drawing-boards as we
entered.
"'Here will be your place, Mr. Newcome,' says the Professor,'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.' Mr. Chivers is the senior pupil
ahd custos of the room in the absence of my son. Mr. Chivers,
Mr. Newcome; gentlemen, Mr. Newcome, a new pupil. My son,
Charles Gandish, Mr. Newcome. Assiduity, gentlemen, assiduity.
Ars Zonga. Vita brevis, et linea recta brevissirna est. This way,
Colonel, down these steps, across the court-yard, to my own studio.
There, gentlemen,'-and pulling aside a curtain, Gandish says-'There!  "'




THE NE WVCOIES.                      I69
"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 performance is'just a-going to begin."' Nor would the rogue ever tell us what
Gandish's curtained picture was.
Not a successful painter, Mr. Gandish was an excellent master,
and 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. " I bet he's'ad cake
and wine," says one youthful student, of an epicurean and satirical
turn. "I bet he might have it every day if he liked." In fact,
Gandish was always handing him sweetmeats of compliments and
cordials of approbation. He had coat-sleeves with silk linings-he
had studs in his shirt. How different was the texture and colour of
that garment to the sleeves Bob Grimes displayed when he took his
coat off to put on his working-jacket! Horses used actually to come
for him to Gandish's door (which was situated in a certain lofty street
in Soho). The Miss G.'s would smile at him from the parlour window
as he mounted and rode splendidly off, 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 Clive 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'Collop, had made of John James, Clive perpetrated a
picture of Sandy which set the whole room in a roar; and when the
Caledonian giant uttered satirical remarks against the assembled,company, averring that they were a parcel of sneaks, a set of lickspittles, and using epithets still more vulgar, Clive slipped off his fine
silk-sleeved coat in an instant, invited Mr. M'Collop into the backyard, instructed him in a science which the lad himself had acquired
at Grey Friars, and administered two black eyes to Sandy, which
prevented the young artist from seeing for some days after the head
of the " Laocoon" which he was copying. The Scotchman's superior
weight and age might have given the combat a different conclusion,




17'0                THE iVE WCOMES.
had it endured long after Clive's brilliant opening attack with his right
and left; but Professor Gandish came out of his painting-room at the
sound of battle, and could scarcely credit his own eyes when he saw
those of poor M'Collop so darkened. To do the Scotchman justice,
he bore Clive no rancour. They became friends there, and afterwards
at Rome, whither they subsequently went to pursue their studies. The
fame of Mr. M'Collop as an artist has long since been established.
His pictures of " Lord Lovat in prison" and " Hogarth painting him,"
of the "Blowing-up of the Kirk of Field" (painted for M'Collop of
M'Collop), of the " Torture of the Covenanters," the " Murder of the
Regent," the "Murder of Rizzio,".and other historical pieces; all of
course from Scotch history, have established his reputation in South
as well as in North Britain. No one would suppose, from the gloomy
character of his works, that Sandy M'Collop is one of the most
jovial souls alive.  Within six months after their little differences
Clive and he were the greatest of friends, and it was by the former's
suggestion that Mr. James Binnie gave Sandy his first commission,
who selected the, cheerful subject of "The Young Duke of Rothsay
starving in Prison."
During this period, Mr. Clive assumed the toga virilis, and beheld
with inexpressible satisfaction the first growth of those mustachios
which have since given him such a marked appearance. Being at
Gandish's, and so near the dancing academy, what must he do but
take lessons in the Terpsichorean art too?-making himself as popular
with the dancing folks as with the drawing folks, and the jolly king of
his company everywhere. He gave entertainments to his fellowstudents 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 conditions of his son's hospitality, that
nothing like intoxication should ensue from it. The good gentleman
did not frequent the parties of the juniors. He saw that his presence
rather silenced the young men; and left them to themselves, confiding
in Clive's parole, and went away to play his rubber of whist at the
Club. And many a time he heard the young fellows' steps tramping
by his bedchamber door, as he lay wakeful within, happy to think his
son was happy.




TH~E NVE WCOMES.                      7 
CHAPTER XVIII.
NEW COMPANIONS.
C LIVE used to give droll accounts of the young disciples at
Gandish's, who were of various ages and conditions, and in
whose company the young fellow took his place with that good temper
and gaiety which have seldom deserted him in life, and have put him
at ease wherever his fate has led him. He is, in truth, as much at
home in a fine drawing-room as in a public-house parlour;. and can
talk as pleasantly to the polite mistress of the mansion as to the jolly
landlady dispensing her drinks from her bar. Not one of the Gandishites but was after a while well inclined to the young fellow: from
Mr. Chivers, the senior pupil, down to the little imp Harry Hooker,
who knew as much mischief at twelve years old, and could draw as
cleverly, as many a student of five-and-twenty; and Bob Trotter, the
diminutive fag of the studio, who ran on all the young men's errands,
and fetched them in apples, oranges, and walnuts. Clive opened his
eyes with wonder when he first beheld these simple feasts, and the
pleasure with which some of the young men partook of them. They
were addicted to 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 amongst the pupils,
upon whom his brother students used playfully to press' ham sandwiches, pork sausages, and the like. This y Dung 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 amongst
the lads. His pockets were never without pencil-cases, French chalk,
garnet brooches, for which he was willing to bargain. He behaved
very rudely to 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 afterwards, with a wicked twinkle of his Oriental eyes. " Step
in, Mr. Newcome, any day you are passing down Wardour Street, and
see if you don't want anything in our way." (He pronounced the




172                 THE NE t4z CO MES.
words in his own way, saying: " Step id, Bister Doocob, ady day idto
Vordor Street," &c.) This young gentleman could get tickets for
almost all the theatres, which he gave or sold, and gave splendid
accounts at Gandish's of the brilliant masquerades. 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 forvward!" 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, " 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 over a
lithographic stone. He was an uncouth and peevish young man; for
ever finding fault with the younger pupils, whose butt he was. Next
in rank and age was M'Collop, before named: and these two were at
first more than usually harsh and captious with Clive, whose prosperity
offended them, and whose dandified manners, free-and-easy ways, and
evident influence over the younger scholars, gave umbrage to these
elderly apprentices. Clive at first returned Mr. Chivers war for war,
controlment for controlment; but when he found Chivers was the son
of a helpless widow; that he maintained her by his lithographic
vignettes for the music-sellers, and by the scanty remuneration of
some lessons which he gave at a school at Highgate;-when 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. Clive's wrath against Chivers
was speedily turned into compassion 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 establishment 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 medallists; 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 Suffolk Street: he laughed at old Gandish and his pictures,
mnade mincemeat 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




THE'E EWCO1VES.                     173
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 a while a constant visitor at Lundy's, played
pool with the young men, and did not disdain to dip his beard into
their porter pots, when invited to partake of their drink; treated therm
handsomely when he was in cash himself; and was an honorary
member of Barker's academy. Nay, when the guardsman was not
forthcoming, who was standing for one of Barker's heroic pictures,
Bayham bared his immense arms and brawny shoulders, and stood as
Prince Edward, with Philippa sucking the poisoned wound. He would
take his friends up to the picture in the Exhibition, and proudly point
to it. " Look at that biceps, sir, and now look at this-that's Barker's
masterpiece, sir, and that's the muscle of F. B., sir." In no company
was F. B. greater than in the society of the artists, in whose smoky
haunts and airy parlours he might often be found. It was from F. B.
that Clive heard of Mr. Chivers' struggles and honest industry. A
great deal of shrewd advice could F. B. give on occasion, and many a
kind action and gentle office of charity was this jolly outlaw known to
do and cause to be done. His advice to Clive was most edifying at
this time of our young 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 gaiety and
frankness delightful and winning. His money was plenty, and he
spent it like a young king. He could speedily beat all the club at
Lundy's at billiards, and give points to the redoubted F. B. himself:..
He sang a famous song at their jolly supper-parties; and J. J. had
no greater delight than to listen to his fresh voice, and watch theyoung 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




174                 THE NLE WC COME S.
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, surrounded by some very ill-favoured
Dominicans, whose arguments did not appear to make the least impression upon the martyr of the Newcome family. Sandy M'Collop
devised a counter picture, wherein the barber-surgeon of King Edward
the Confessor was drawn, operating upon the beard of that monarch.
To which piece of satire Clive gallantly replied by a design, representing Sawney Bean M'Collop, chief of the clan of that name,
descending from his mountains into Edinburgh, and his astonishment
at beholding a pair of breeches for the first time. These playful jokes
passed constantly amongst the young men of Gandish's studio. There
was no one there who. was not caricatured in one way or another.
He whose eyes looked not very straight was depicted with a most
awful squint. The youth whom nature- had endowed with a somewhat lengthy nose was drawn.by the caricaturists with a prodigious
proboscis.  Little Bobby Moss, the young Hebrew artist from
Wardour Street, was delineated with three hats and an old-clothes
bag. Nor were poor J. J.'s round shoulders spared, until Clive indignantly'remonstrated at the hideous hunchback pictures which the
boys made of his friend, and 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 society which he was compelled to keep,
served to increase some original defects in his character, and to fortify.a certain disposition to think well of himself, with which his enemies
not unjustly reproach him. He has been known very pathetically to
lament that he was withdrawn from school too early, where a couple
of years' further course of thrashings from his tyrant, Old Hodge, he
avers, would have done him good. He laments that he was not sent
to college, where, if a young man receives no other discipline, at least
he acquires that of meeting with his equals in society, and of assuredly
finding his betters; whereas in poor Mr. Gandish's studio of art, our
young gentleman scarcely found a comrade that was not in one way
or other his flatterer, his inferior, his honest or dishonest admirer.
The influence of his family's rank and wealth acted more or less on
all those simple folks, who would run on his errands and vied with
each other in winning the young nabob's favour. His very goodness
of heart rendered him a more easy prey to their flattery, 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




THE Nl EWCOl7fES.                    I75
dealt in pictures, furniture, gimcracks, and jewellery, victimised Clive
sadly with rings and chains, shirt-studs and flaming shirt-pins, and
such vanities, which the poor young rogue locked up in his desk
generally, only venturing to wear them when he was out of his
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 d ubt, 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 Newcome's proceedings. Meanwhile his
father, who knew no more of the world than Harry's simple sisters or
Jones's fond mother, never doubted that all Clive's doings were right,
and that his boy was the best of boys.
"If that young 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 Vauxhall in company with young
Moss, whose father does bills and keeps the bric-a-brac shop in Wardour
Street. Two or three other gentlemen, probably young old-clothesmen, who had concluded for the day the labours of the bag, joined
Mr. Newcome and his friend, and they partook of rack-punch in an
arbour. He is a delightful youth, cousin Clive, and I feel sure he is
about to be an honour to our family."




176                 THE NE WCOMES.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE COLONEL AT HOME.
(-UR good Colonel's house had received a coat of paint, which, like
Madame Latour's rouge in her latter days, only served to make
her careworn face look more ghastly. The kitchens were gloomy..
The stables were gloomy. Great black passages; cracked conser.
vatory; dilapidated bath-room, with melancholy waters moaning and
fizzing from the cistern; the great large blank stone staircase-were
all so many melancholy features in the general countenance of the
house; but the Colonel thought it perfectly cheerful and pleasant, and
furnished it in his rough and ready way. One day came a cartload of
chairs; the next a waggon 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 immense bargain, bought
dirt cheap, sir, at a sale in Euston Square. He was against the purchase of a carpet for the stairs. What was the good of it. What didmen want with stair-carpets? His own apartment contained a wonderful assortment of lumber. Shelves which he nailed himself, old
Indian garments, camphor trunks. What did he want with gewgaws?
anything was good enough for an old soldier. But the spare bed-room
was endowed with all sorts of splendour: 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 bedchamberwere as bare-as bare as old Miss Scraggs' shoulders, which would be:
so much more comfortable were they covered up. Mr. Binnie's bedchamber was neat, snug, and appropriate. And Clive had a study and
bedroom at the top of the house, which he was allowed to furnish
entirely according to his own taste. How he and Ridley revelled in
Wardour Street! What delightful coloured prints of hunting, racing,
and beautiful ladies, did they not purchase, mount with their own
hands, cut out for screens, frame and glaze, and hang up on the walls.
When the rooms were ready they gave a party, inviting the Colonel
and Mr. Binnie by note of hand, two gentlemen from Lamb Court,
Temple, Mr. Honeyman, and Fred Bayham. We must have Fred.




THE NEWCO0MES.                       177
Bayham. 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 cautious 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, who was one of the most
hospitable men alive, loved to have his friends around him; and it
must be confessed that the evening-parties now occasionally given in
Fitzroy Square were of the oddest assemblage of people. The correct
East India gentlemen from Hanover Square; the artists, Clive's
friends, gentlemen of all ages with all sorts of beards, in every
variety of costume. Now and again a stray schoolfellow from Grey
Friars, who stared, as well he might, at the company in which he
found himself. Sometimes a few ladies were brought to these entertainments. The immense politeness of the good host compensated
some of them for the strangeness of his company. They had never
seen such odd-looking hairy men as those young artists, nor such
wonderful women as Colonel Newcome assembled together. He was
good to all old maids and poor widows. Retired Captains with large
families 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 soir6es. "I
delight, sir, in the'ospitality of my distinguished military friend,"
Mr. Gandish would say. "The harmy has always been my passion.
-I served in the Soho Volunteers three years myself, till the conclusion of the war, sir, till the conclusion of the war."
It was a great sight to see Mr. 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 practised quadrilles when they first came in,
about 1817, in Calcutta. To see him leading up a little old maid, and
bowing to her when the dance was ended, and performing cavalier
seul with stately simplicity, was a sight indeed to remember. If Clive
Newcome had not such a fine sense of humour, he would have blushed
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
12




7  THE ArE IVCOMES.
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 nigh-tin-gale!' Oh, 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?-mI say, M'Collop, how
gets on the Duke of What-d'ye-call'em 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 faqade 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 celebrated,
though neglected artist, Professor Gandish, whom nothing 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 clergynman 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 celebrated picture of'Alfred in the Neatherd's Hut' (he says he is the first who ever
touched that subject) in I804; 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 18i6, 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 afterwards."




THE NE IWCO.MVES.                     179
"Satire! satire! Mr. Pendennis," says the divine, holding up a,reproving finger of lavender kid, "beware of a wicked wit! —But
when a man has that tendency, I know how difficult it is to restrain.
My dear Colonel, good evening! You have a great reception to-night.
That gentleman's bass voice is very fine, Mr. Pendennis and I were
admiring it. The'Wolf' is a song admirably adapted to show its
capabilities."
Mr. Gandish's autobiography had occupied the whole time after
the retirement of the ladies from Colonel 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-humoured face, sipping his claret as usual, and delivering a sly
joke now and again to the gentlemen at his end of the table. Mrs.
Newcome had sat by him in sulky dignity; was it that Lady Baugh-.ton's diamonds offended her?-her ladyship and her daughters being
attired in great splendour for a court ball which they were to attend
that evening. Was she hurt because SHE was not invited to that
Royal Entertainment? As these festivities were to take place 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 humour. Everything pleased her in the.house. She had no idea that there were such fine houses in that
quarter of the town.  She thought the dinner so very nice; that
Mr. Binnie such a good-humoured looking gentleman; that stout
gentleman, with his collar turned down like Lord Byron's, so ex-;ceedingly 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 admired 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? "




I80                 THE NE WCOMES.
"He is kept at the House of Commons, my dear. Those dreadful
committees. He was quite vexed at not being able to come."
" I know, I know, dear Ann, there are always excuses to gentlemen in Parliament, I have received many such. Mr. Shaloony and
Mr. M'Sheny, the leaders of our party, often and often disappoint me.
I knew Brian would not come. My husband came down from Marble:
Head on purpose this morning. Nothing would have induced us to
give up our brother's party."
"I believe you. I did come down from Marble Head this moming, and I was four hours in the hay-field before I came away, and in
the City till five, and I have been to look at a horse afterwards at.
Tattersall's, and I am 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. Pendennisdon't you? 
"Perfectly," replies the languid Maria. Mrs. Gandish, Colonel
Topham, Major M'Cracken are announced; and then in diamonds,
feathers, and splendour, Lady Baughton and Miss Baughton, who are
going to the Queen's ball, and Sir 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 beholds 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 slipper, 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 mischievous
persons who rather like to witness that discomfiture. All Mr. Smee's
flatteries that day failed to soothe her.
What happened to her alone in the drawing-room, when the ladies
invited to the dinner had departed, and those convoked to the soir6e
began to arrive,-what happened to her or to them I do not like to
think. The Gandishes arrived first: Boadicea and the angels. We
judged from the fact that young Mr. Gandish came blushing in to the
dessert. Name after name was announced of persons of whom.
Mrs. Newcome knew nothing. The young and the old, the pretty and
homely, they were all in their best dresses, and no doubt stared at
Mrs. Newcome, so obstinately plain in her attire. When we came




TIitE zVE IVCOMES.                 I8r
upstairs from dinner, we found her seated entirely by herself, tapping
her fan at the fire-place. Timid groups of persons were round about,
waiting for the irruption of the gentlemen, until. the pleasure should
begin. Mr. Newcome, who came upstairs yawning, was heard to say
to his wife," Oh, dam, let's cut!" And they went downstairs, and
waited until their carriage had arrived, when they quitted Fitzroy
Square.
Mr. Barnes Newcome presently arrived, looking particularly smart
and lively, with a large flower in his button-hole, and leaning on the
arm of a friend. "How do you do, Pendennis?" he says, with a
peculiarly dandified air. " Did you dine here? You look as if you,dined here" (and Barnes, certainly, as if he had dined elsewhere). " I
was. only asked to the cold soiree. Whom did you have for dinner?'You had my mamma and the Baughtons, and my uncle and aunt, I
know, for they are down below in the library, waiting for the carriage;
Ile is asleep, and she is as sulky as a bear."
"' Why did Mrs. Newcome say I should find nobody I knew up
here?" asks Barnes's companion. " On the contrary, there are lots
of fellows I know. There's Fred Bayham, dancing like a harlequin.
There's old Gandish, who used to be my drawing-master; and my
Brighton friends, your uncle and cousin, Barnes. What relations are
they to me? must be some relations. Fine fellow your cousin."
"H'm," growls Barnes. "Very fine boy,-not spirited at all,-not
fond of flattery,-not surrounded by toadies,-not fond of drink,delightful boy! See yonder, the young fellow is in conversation with
his most intimate friend, a little crooked fellow, with long hair. Do
you know who he is? he is the son of old Todmorden's butler. Upon
my life it's true."
"And suppose it is; what the deuce do I care!" cries Lord Kew.' Who can be more respectable than a butler? A man must besomebody's son..When I am a middle-aged man, I hope humbly I shall
look like a butler myself. Suppose you were to put ten of Gunter's,men into the House of Lords, do you mean to say that they would not
look as well as any average ten peers in the House?  Look at Lord
Westcot; he is exactly like a butler: that's why the country has such
confidence in him. I never dine with him but I fancy he ought to be
-at the-side-board. Here comes that insufferable little old Smee. How
do you do, Mr. Smee?"
Mr. Smee smiles his sweetest smile. With his rings, diamond
shirt-studs, and red velvet waistcoat, there are few more elaborate
middle-aged bucks than Andrew Smee. "How do you do, my dear
lord?" cries the bland one. "Who would ever have thought of seeing
your lordship here?"
"Why the deuce not, Mr. Smee? " asks Lord Kew, abruptly. " Is




182                 THE NE WCOIMES.
it wrong to come here? I have been in the house only five minutesi
and three people have said the same thing to me-Mrs. Newcome,
who is sitting downstairs in a rage waiting for her carriage, th'e condescending Barnes, and yourself. Why do you come here, Smee?
How are you, Mr. Gandish? How do the fine arts go?"
"Your lordship's kindness in asking for them will cheer them if
anything will," says Mr. Gandish. "Your noble family has always.
patronized them. I am proud to be reckonised by your lordship in.
this house, where the distinguished father of one of my pupils entertains us this evening. A most promising young man is young Mr. Clive
-talents for a hamateur really most remarkable."
"Excellent, upon my word-excellent," cries Mr. Smee. " I'm not
an animal painter myself, and perhaps don't think much of that branch
of the profession; but it seems to me the young fellow draws horses.
with the most wonderful spirit. I hope Lady Walham is very well,.
and that she was satisfied with her son's portrait. Stockholm, I think,your brother is appointed to? I wish I might be allowed to paint the
elder as well as the younger brother, my lord."
" I am an historical painter; but whenever Lord Kew is painted I
hope his lordship will think of the old servant of his lordship's family,
Charles Gandish," cries the professor.
" I am like Susannah between the two Elders," says Lord Kew.
" Let my innocence alone, Smee. Mr. Gandish, don't persecute my
modesty with your addresses. I won't be painted. I am not a fit
subject for an historical painter, Mr. Gandish."
"Halcibiades sat to Praxiteles, and Pericles to Phidjas," remarks
Gandish.
"The cases are not quite similar," says Lord Kew, languidly..
"You are no doubt fully equal to Praxiteles; but I don't see my
resemblance to the other party. I should not look well as a hero, and
Smee could not paint me handsome enough."
" I would try, my dear lord," cries Mr. Smee.
" I know you would, my dear fellow," Lord Kew answered, looking
at the painter with a lazy scorn in his eyes. "Where is Colonel:
Newcome, Mr. Gandish?" Mr. Gandish replied that our gallant host
was dancing a quadrille in the next room; and the young gentleman
walked on towards that apartment to pay his respects to the giver of
the evening's entertainment.
Newcome's behaviour 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 behaviour
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



THE  2E WCOMES.                     i83
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 Doctor Johnson were fit 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 compromises the dispute with a laugh. " First," says he, " Iwill wait
till I am asked; and then I promise I will not go to dine with Lordt
Todmorden."




184                 THE N EWCOMES.
CHAPTER XX.
CONTAINS MORE PARTICULARS OF THE COLONEL AND HIS
BRETHREN.
LIVE'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 may have wished himself back with his regiment again, and engaged
in the pursuits in which his life had been spent, he chose to consider
these desires as very selfish and blameable on his part, and sacrificed
them resolutely for his son's welfare. The young fellow, I daresay,
gave his parent no more credit for his long self-denial than many
other children award to theirs. We take such life-offerings as our due
commonly. The old French satirist avers that, in a love affair, there
is usually one person who loves, and the other gui se laisse aimer; it
is only in later days, perhaps, when the treasures of love are spent,
and the kind hand cold which ministered them, that we remember
how tender it was; how soft to soothe; how eager to shield; how
ready to support and caress. The ears may no longer hear which
would have received our words of thanks so delightedly. Let us hope
those fruits of love, though tardy, are yet not all too late; and though
we bring our tribute of reverence and gratitude, 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 November
mornings, when the Regent's Park, where the Colonel took his early




THYE NE kVCO1Ef -.                   I85
walk, was wrapped in yellow mist, must have been a melancholy
exchange for the splendour of Eastern sunrise, and the invigorating
gallop at dawn, to which for so many years of his life, Thomas Newcome had accustomed himself. His obstinate habit of early waking
accompanied him to England, and occasioned the despair of his
London domestics, who, if master wasn't so awfully. 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 hisself; 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 deserved to be
loved by his household, and I daresay 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-humoured, 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 Asiatic Society,
and the Political Economy Club; and though he talked year after
year of going to visit his relations in Scotland, the months and seasons
passed away, and his feet still beat the London pavement.
In spite of the cold reception his brothers gave him, duty was
duty, and Colonel Newcome still proposed, or hoped to be well with
the female members of the Newcome family; and having, as we have
said, plenty of time on his hands, and living at no very great distance
from either of his brothers' town houses, when their wives were in
London, the elder Newcome was for paying them pretty constant.visits. But after the good gentleman had called twice or thrice upon
his sister-in-law in Bryanston Square-bringing, as was his wont, a
present for this little niece, or a book for that-Mrs. Newcome, with
her usual virtue, gave him to understand that the occupation of an
English matron, who, besides her multifarious family duties, had her,own intellectual culture to mind, would not allow her to pass the
mornings in idle gossip; and of course took great credit to herself,for having so rebuked him. I am not above instruction of any age,".says she, thanking heaven (or complimenting it rather for having.created a being so virtuous and humble-minded). " When Professor
Schroff comes, I sit with my children, and takelessons 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




i86                 THE -NE vCOMES.
closed to him, where no neighbour was so busy but he had time to
make Thomas Newcome welcome.
When Hobson Newcome's boys came home for the holidays, 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 dziferezt 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?"
Maria turned very red: she had said not more than she meant,
but more than she meant to say. " 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 d/erent:.fjlan. Hobson will succeed his father in the bank, and dear Samuel,
I trust, will go into the church. I told you before the views I had
regarding the boys; but it was most kind of you to think- of themmost 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 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 ofhis existence," remarks Barnes.
" But since he has taken this mad-cap 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 mountebanks. 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




THE WNEWCOMES.                         8 
doesn't my brother set him up in some respectable business? I ain't
proud. I have not married an earl's daughter. No offence to you,,
Barnes."
"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."
"Hush! Here comes his distinguished friend, Mr. Pendennis,'"
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 newspaperroom, little Tom Eaves comes up and tells the present reporter every
word of their conversation.
Very soon Mrs. Newcome announced that their Indian brotherfound the society of Bryanston Square very little to his taste, asindeed 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 felli
asleep at her assemblies. His boy, she was afraid, was leading the
most irregular life. He was growing a pair of mustachios, and going
about with all sorts of wild associates. She found no fault; who was
she, to find fault with any one? But she had been compelled to hint
that her children must not be too intimate with him. And so, between
one brother who meant no unkindness, and another who was all:
affection and goodwill, this undoubting woman created difference,
distrust, dislike, which might one day possibly lead to open rupture.
The wicked are wicked no doubt, and they go astray and they fall,
and they come by their deserts; but who can tell the mischief whichthe 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, especially with Ethel, for whom his belle passion,
conceived at first sight, never diminished. "If Uncle Newcome had,




88                 THE NE WCOMES..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 waving round her bright
face, galloping along the ride on "-Bhurtpore."  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 tacit convention it was arranged that the cousins should be but
seldom together; the Colonel might be his niece's companion, and
no one could receive him with a more joyous welcome, but when
Mr. Clive made his appearance with his father at the Park Lane
door, a certain gdeze was visible in Miss Ethel, who would never mount
except with Colonel Newcome's assistance, and who, especially after
Mr. Clive's famous mustachios made their appearance, rallied him,
and remonstrated with him regarding those ornaments, and treated
him with much distance and dignity. She asked him if he was going
into the army? she could not understand how any but military men
could wear mustachios! and then she looked fondly and archly at her
~uncle, and said she liked none that were not gray.
Clive set her down as a very haughty, spoiled, aristocratic young
creature. If he had been in love with her, no doubt he would have
sacrificed even those beloved new-born whiskers for the charmer.'Had he not already bought on credit the necessary implements in a'fine dressing-case, from young Moss? But he was not in love with'her; otherwise he would have found a thousand opportunities of
riding with her, walking with her, meeting' her, in spite of all prohibitions tacit or expressed, all governesses, guardians, mamma's
punctilios, and kind hints from friends. For a while, Mr. 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 hundred pictures of her, and discoursed about her beauties
to J. J., who fell in love with her on hearsay.  But at this time
Mademoiselle 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 favourite
"characters; and for whom his passion lasted until the end of the
season, when her night was announced, tickets to be had at the
theatre, or of Mademoiselle Saltarelli, Buckingham Street, Strand.
Then it was that with a throbbing heart and a five-pound note, to
engage places for the houri's benefit, Clive beheld Madame Rogomme,
Mademoiselle Saltarelli's mother, who entertained him in the French
language in a dark parlour smelling of onions. And oh! i issuing from




THE NE WHCOMES.                      189
the adjoining dining-room —(where was a dingy vision of a feast and
pewter-pots upon a darkling table-cloth) could that lean, scraggy, old
beetle-browed yellow face, who cried, " Ou es. tu donc, maman? " with
such a shrill nasal voice-could that elderly vixen be the 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 Clive's
stall on Mademoiselle Saltarelli's night; it was young Mr. Moss, of
Gandish's, to whom Newcome ceded his place, and who laughed (as
he always did at Clive's jokes) when the latter told the story of his
interview with the dancer. " Paid five pound to see that woman. Icould 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 thanr
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 the kind old face of Clive's father,
that sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two ride homewards
at sunset. The grooms behind in quiet conversation about horses, as
men never tire of talking about horses.  Ethel wants to know about
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 Clive'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
Hermitage (though grandpapa was a very kind good man), and he
upset papa in a little carriage, and was wild, and got into disgrace,
and was sent to India?  He could 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 grey and
silver was quite old, yet he looked much grander than Sir Brian in his
new deputy-lieutenant's dress. "Next year, when I am presented,
you must come too, sir," says Ethel. " I insist upon it, you must
come too!'




a90                 THE NE WCOMIES.
"I will order a new uniform, Ethel," says her uncle.
The girl laughs. "When little Egbert took hold of your sword,
-luncle, 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 apothecary, Sir Danby Jilks-that horrid little man
-and I won't have you knighted any more."
"I hope Egbert won't ask Sir Danby Jilks how many people HE
has killed," says the Colonel, laughing; but thinking the joke too
severe upon Sir Danby and the profession, he forthwith apologises by
narrating many anecdotes he knows to the credit of surgeons. How,
when the fever broke out on board the ship going to India, their
surgeon devoted himself to the safety of the crew, and died himself,
-leaving directions for the treatment of the patients when he was gone!
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 themselves 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
splendour and triumphs, buzzing flatterers, conquered rivals, prostrate
admirers, no doubt she will think sometimes of that quiet season before
the world began for her, and that dear old friend, on whose arm she
leaned while she was yet a young girl.
The Colonel comes to Park Lane early in the forenoon, when the,mistress of the house, surrounded by her little ones, is administering
dinner to them. He behaves with splendid courtesy to Miss. Quigley,
the governess, and makes a point of taking wine with her, and of
making a most profound bow during that ceremony. Miss Quigley
cannot help thinking Colonel Newcome's bow very fine. She has an
idea that his late Majesty must have bowed in that way: she flutteriingly imparts this opinion to Lady Ann's maid, who tells her mistress,'who tells Miss Ethel, who watches the Colonel the next time he takes




THE NE WtCQMES.'9
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 befel in the spring, on which
occasion she was wont to have a juvenile assembly, chiefly of girls of
her own age and condition; who came, accompanied by a few
governesses, and they played and sang their little duets 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 present to his favourite Ethel; and Clive and his friend J. J. made
a funny series of drawings, representing the life of a young lady as they
imagined it, and drawing her progress from her cradle upwards: now
engaged with her doll, then with her dancing-master; now marching
in her back-board; now crying over her German lessons: and dressed
for her first ball finally, and bestowing her hand upon a dandy, of
preternatural ugliness, 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 Bryanston Square, who were invited
to Ethel's party, but were so overpowered by the prodigious new dresses
in which their mamma had attired them, that they could admire




192                 THE NE, WCOMES.
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 grand-daughter 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 illhumour.
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 daresay, amply repaid
Colonel Newcome; and shortly after him Mr. Clive arrived, looking
ancommonly handsome, with that smart little beard and mustachio
with which nature had recently gifted him. As he entered, all the
girls who had been admiring his pictures, began to clap their hands.
Mr. Clive Newcome blushed, and looked none the worse for that indication of modesty.
Lady Kew had met Colonel Newcome a half-dozen times at her
daughter's house: but on this occasion she had quite forgotten him,.
for when the Colonel made her a bow, her ladyship regarded him
steadily, and beckoning her daughter to her, asked who the gentleman
was who has just kissed Ethel? Trembling as she always did before
her mother, Lady Ann explained. Lady Kew said "Oh!" and left
Colonel Newcome blushing and rather embarrassed de sa personne
before her.
With the clapping of hands that greeted Clive's arrival, the Countess
was by no means more good-humoured. Not aware of her wrath, the
young fellow, who had also previously been presented to her, came
forward presently to make her his compliments.  "Pray who are
you?" she said, looking at him very earnestly in the face. He told
her his name.
" H'm," said Lady Kew, " I have heard of you, and I have heard
very little good of you."
"Will your ladyship please to give me your informant?" cried out
Colonel Newcome.
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.




THE NE WCOMES.                        9.g3
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 contradict his seniors as, I.am
informed, American striplings do. Boys, who learn nothing else at
our public schools, learn at least good manners, or what we consider
to be such; and with regard to the person at present under consideration, it is certain that all his acquaintances, excepting perhaps his dear
cousin Barnes Newcome, agreed in considering him as. a very frank,
manly, modest, and agreeable young fellow. My friend Warrington
found a grim pleasure in his company; and his bright face, droll
hurmour, and kindly laughter, were always welcome in our chambers.
Honest Fred Bayham was charmed to be in his society; and used
pathetically to aver that he himself might have been such a youth, had
he been blest with a kind father to watch, and good friends to guide,
his early career. In fact, 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 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 gocd 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
Newcome amiably disseminated reports amongst lis 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
I3




194                 THEE AE WCOMES.
perfectly insufferable. Ethel would indignantly deny these charges;
then perhaps credit a few of them; and she looked at Clive with
melancholy eyes when he came to visit his aunt; and, I hope, prayed
that heaven might mend his wicked ways. The truth is, the young fellow
enjoyed life, as one of his age and spirit might be expected to do; but
he did very little harm, and meant less; and was quite 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 daresay Ethel proposed
to reform the young prodigal, if prodigal he was, for she busied herself
delightedly in preparing the apartments which they were to inhabit
during their stay-speculated upon it in a hundred pleasant ways,
putting off her visit to this pleasant neighbour, or that pretty scene in
the vicinage, until her uncle should come and they should be enabled
to enjoy the excursion together. And, before the arrival of her relatives, Ethel, with one of her young brothers, went to see Mrs. Mason;
and introduced herself as Colonel Newcome's niece; and came back
charmed with the old lady, and eager once more in defence of Clive
(when that young gentleman's character happened to be called in
question by her brother Barnes), for had she not seen the kindest
letter, which Clive had written to old Mrs. Mason, and the beautiful
drawing of his father on horseback and in regimentals, waving his
sword in front of the gallant -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, seeing
how good and beautiful Ethel was, and thinking in her heart nothing
could be too good or beautiful for Clive, nodded her kind old head at
Miss Ethel, and said she should like to find a husband for her, Miss'
Ethel blushed, and looked handsomer than ever; and at home, when
she was describing the interview, never mentioned this part of her talk
with Mrs. Mason.
But the enfant terrible, young Alfred, did: announcing to all the
company at dessert, that Ethel was in love with Clive-that Clive was
coming to marry her —that Mrs. Mason, the old woman at Newcome,
had told him so.
" I daresay she has told the tale all over Newcome!" shrieked out
Air. Barnes. " I daresay it will be in the Indef5endent 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
firmness, until, fairly bursting into tears, she taxed Barnes with meanness and malignity in for ever uttering stories to his cousin's dis



THE NE WCOMES.                      195
advantage, 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 reception. It was for him and for his company that
she was eager. She had met no one so generous and gentle, so honest
and unselfish, until she had seen him.
Lady Ann knew the ways of women very well; and when Ethel that
night, still in great indignation and scorn against Barnes, announced,that she had written a letter to her uncle, begging the Colonel not to
come at Christmas, Ethel's mother soothed the wounded girl, and
treated her with peculiar gentleness and affection; and she wisely
gave Mr. Barnes to understand, that if he wished to bring about that
very attachment, the idea of which made him so angry, he could use
no better means than those which he chose to employ at present, of
~constantly abusing and insulting poor Clive, and awakening Ethel's
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 Newcome. She was gone on a visit to
her sick aunt, Lady Julia. Colonel Newcome passed the' holidays
sadly without his young favourite, and Clive consoled himself by
knocking down pheasants with Sir Brian's keepers; and increased his
~cousin's attachment for him by breaking the knees of Barnes's
favourite mare out hunting. It was a dreary entertainment; 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; his loose clothes hung only the
looser on his lean limbs; he ate his meals without appetite; his nights
were restless; and he would sit for hours silent in the midst of his
family, so that Mr. Binnie first began jocularly to surmise that Tom
was crossed in love; then seriously to think that his health was
suffering, and that a doctor should be called to see him; and at last
to agree that idleness was not good for the Colonel, and that he




g96                 THE NEWCOIVMES.
missed the military occupation to which he had been for so many
years accustomed.
The Colonel insisted that he was perfectly happy and contented.
What could he want more than he had-the society of his son, for the
present; and a prospect of quiet for his declining 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."
Clive was not sorry to be left alone. The father knew that only too
well. The young man had occupations, ideas, associates, in whom the
elder could take no interest. Sitting 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 Clive'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 Newcome's sad face would,
seem to look round-appealing to one after another of them, and
asking, "Why don't you go on laughing? " A company of old comrades shall be merry and laughing together, and the entrance of a
single youngster will stop the conversation; and if men of middle age
feel this restraint 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




THE NE  J'COMES.                      197,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 mother (as fond mothers often will) vows
that she knows every thought in her daughter's heart, I think she
pretends to know a great deal too much; nor can there be a wholesomer task for the elders, as our young subjects grow up, naturally
-demanding liberty and citizen's rights, than for us gracefully to
abdicate our sovereign pretensions and claims of absolute control..
There's many a family chief who governs wisely and gently, who is
loth to give the power up when he should. Ah, be sure, it is not youth
alone that has need to learn humility! By their very virtues, and the
purity -of their lives, many good parents create flatterers for themselves, and so live in the midst of a filial court of parasites; and
seldom without a pang of unwillingness, and often not at all, will they
consent to forego their autocracy, and exchange the tribute they have
been wont to exact of love and obedience for the willing offering of
love and freedom.
Our good Colonel was not of the tyrannous,. but of the loving order
of fathers; and having fixed his whole heart upon this darling youth,
his son, was punished, as I suppose such worldly and selfish love
ought to be punished (so Mr. Honeyman says, at least, in his pulpit),
by a hundred little mortifications, disappointments, and secret wounds,
which stung not the less severely though never mentioned by their
victim.
Sometimes he would have a company of such gentlemen as Messrs.
Warrington, Honeyman, and Pendennis, when haply a literary conversation would ensue after dinner; and the merits of our present
-poets and writers would be discussed with the claret. Honeyman was
well enough read in profane literature, especially of the li'ghter sort;
and, I daresay, could have passed a satisfactory examination in
Balzac, Dumas, and Paul de Kock himself, of all whose works our
good host was entirely ignorant,-as indeed he was of graver books,
and of earlier books, and of books in general,-except those few,
which, we have said, formed his travelling library. He heard opinions
that amazed and bewildered him: he heard that Byron was no great
poet, though a very clever man: he heard that there had been a
wicked'persecution against Mr. Pope's memory and fame, and that it
was time to reinstate him; that his favourite, Dr. Johnson, talked
admirably, but did not write English; that young Keats was a genius
to be estimated in future days with young Raphael; and that a young




198                  THE NEWCOIVES.
gentleman of Cambridge who had lately published two volumes of
verses, might take rank with the greatest poets of all. Doctor Johnson not write English! Lord Byron not one of the greatest poets of
the world! Sir Walter a poet of the second order! Mr. Pope attacked
for inferiority and want of imagination; Mr. Keats and this young
Mr. Tennyson of Cambridge, the chief of modern poetic literature!
What were these new dicta, which Mr. Warrington delivered with a
puff 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 " (Enone," and to make
sense of "'Lamia." Ulysses he could understand; but what were
these prodigious laudations bestowed on it? And that reverence for
Mr. Wordsworth, what did it mean?  Had he not written "Peter
Bell," and been turned into deserved ridicule by all the reviews? Was
that dreary " Excursion" to be compared to Goldsmith's "Traveller,"
or Doctor Johnson's "Imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal?"  If
the young men told the truth, where had been the truth in his own
young days, and in what ignorance had our 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 admiration 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 Dr. 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, "who says those lines of Mr. Congreve about a church-'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 caeterawhat 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




THE'E WCOYMES.                     199
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 particularise these talks,
and the little incidental mortifications which one of the best of men
endured, not because the conversations are worth the remembering 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;
laughed at Mr. Haydon, or sneered at Mr. Eastlake, or the contrary;
deified Mr. Turner on one side of the table, and on the other scorned
him as a madman; nor could Newcome comprehend a word of their
jargon. Some sense there must be in their conversation: Clive
joined eagerly in it and took one side or another. But what was all
this rapture about a snuffy brown picture called Titian, this delight in
three flabby nymphs by 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 privily and worked
at the National Gallery with a catalogue, and passed hours in
the Museum before the ancient statues, desperately praying to comprehend them, and puzzled before them as he remembered he was
puzzled before the Greek rudiments, as a child, when he cried over
6, Kac ai dAXnOg, icai ro daXnOe. Whereas, when Clive came to look at
these same things, his eyes would lighten up with pleasure, and his
cheeks flush with enthusiasm. He seemed to drink in colour as he
would a feast of wine. Before the statues he would wave his finger,
following the line of grace, and burst into ejaculations of delight and
admiration. " Why can't I love the things which he loves?" thought
Newcome; "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 fornr
about the boy when he was away in India —how in his plans for
the haply fihture, Clive was to be always at his side; how they were
to read, work, play, think, be merry together-a sickening and humiiiating 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




200                 THE NE WCOIES.
incensed and worshipped, and have shown no more feeling than is to
be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in St. Peter's, of
which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits, and will sit
eternally, prim and cold. As the young man grew, it seemed to the
father as if each day separated them more and more. He himself
became more melancholy and silent. His friend, the Civilian marked
the ennui, and commented on it in his laughing way. Sometimes 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. 0 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 Newcome, by poring over poems or pictures
ever so much, could read them with Clive's eyes!-as if by sitting
mum over his wine, but watching till the lad came home with his
latch-key (when the Colonel crept back to his own room in his
stockings), by prodigal bounties, by stealthy affection, by any schemes
or prayers, he could hope to remain first in his son's heart!
One day going into Clive's study, where the lad was so deeply
engaged that he did not hear the father's steps advancing, Thomas
Newcome found his son, pencil in hand, poring over a paper, which,
blushing, he thrust hastily into his breast-pocket, as soon as he saw
his visitor. The father was deeply smitten and mortified. " I-I
am sorry you have any secrets from me, Clive," he gasped out
at length.
The boy's face lighted up with humour. "Here it is, father, if
you would like to see: "-and he pulled out a paper which contained
neither more nor less than a copy of very flowery verses about a certain young lady, who had succeeded (after I know not how many
predecessors) to the place of firima donna assodxtain 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 daresay 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. Candouxr. Clive was doing
no more than your own son will do when he is eighteen or nineteen
years old himself-if he is a lad of any spirit, and- a worthy son of so
charming a lady as yourselfi




THE NE WCOM~EES.                     T.:
CHAPTER XXII.'DESCRIBES A VISIT TO PARIS; WITH ACCIDENTS AND INCIDENTS
IN LONDON.
M R. CLIVE, as we have said, had now begun to make acquaintances of his own; and the chimney-glass in his study was
decorated with such a number of cards of invitation, as made his.ex-fellow student of Gandish's, young Moss, when admitted into that
sanctum, stare with respectful astonishment. " Lady Bary 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 different 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 distribute them
about at the balls I go to. But you must treat my friends better than
you serve me. Those cigars which you sent me were abominable,
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-students: " I saw
him riding in the Park with the Earl of Kew, and Captain Belsize,
and a whole lot of'em-I know'em all-and he'd hardly nod to me.
I'll 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 preachiing in the Bench if he don't keep a precious good look-out."
" Newcome is not a bit of a count," answers Moss's companion,
indignantly. " He don't care a straw wIhether a fellow's poor or rich;




23T                 TH IE IVNE WtCOMf ES.
and he comes up to my room just as willingly as he would go to aDuke's. He is always trying to do a friend a good turn. He drawsthe figure capitally: he looks proud, but he isn't, and is the bestnatured fellow I ever saw."
" He ain't been in our place this eighteen months," says Mr. Moss..
" I know that."
"Because when he came you were always screwing him with somebargain or other," cried the intrepid Hicks, Mr. Moss's companion for
the moment. "He said he couldn't afford to know you: you never
let him out of your house without a pin, or a box of eau-de-Cologne,.
or a bundle of cigars. And when you cut the arts for the shop, how
were you and Newcome to go on together, I should like to know?"
"I know a relative of his who comes to our'ouse every three
months, to renew a little bill," says Mr. Moss, with a grin: "and L
know this, if I go to the Earl of Kew in the Albany, or the Honourable Captain Belsize, Knightsbridge Barracks, 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 pavement.
"When I was sick in that confounded Clipstone Street, I know the
Colonel came to see me, and Newcome too, day after day, and night
after night. And when I was getting well, they sent me wine and;
jelly, and all sorts of jolly things. I should like to know how often
you came to see me, Moss, and what you did for a fellow?"
" Well, I kep' away because I thought 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 daresay, was good-natured too.
And when young Moss appeared at the billiard-room that night, it wasevident 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 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 artwas 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;




THLE. NHE VCOMES.                    2o03
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 atelier hard by, where he could pursue his own devices
independently.
If his kind father felt any pang even at this temporary parting, he
was greatly soothed and pleased by a little mark of attention on theyoung man's part, of Which his present biographer happened to be a
witness; for, having walked over with Colonel Newcome to see the
new studio, with its tall centre window, and its curtains, and carved.
wardrobes, china jars, pieces of armour, 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 fewportraits, 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 mustachio 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 labour.
It is certain the young man worked much better after he had been
inducted into this apartment of his own. And the meals at home
were gayer; and the rides with his father more frequent and agreeable.
The Colonel used his key once or twice, and found Clive and his
friend Ridley engaged in depicting a Life-guardsman, or a muscular
negro, or a Malay from a neighbouring crossing, who would appear as
Othello; conversing with a Clipstone Street nymph, who was ready to
represent Desdemona, Diana, Queen Eleanor (sucking poison from
the arm of the Plantagenet of the Blues), or any other model of virgin
or maiden excellence.
Of course our young man commenced as 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 Assaye, with General Wellesley at
the head of the Ig9th Dragoons. charging the Mahratta Artillery, and
sabreing them at their guns. A piece of ordnance was dragged into
the back-yard, and the Colonel's stud put into requisition to supply




204                    THE 2AE IWCOMES.
studies for this enormous picture. Fred Bayham (a stunning likeness)
appeared as the principal figure in the foreground, 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 landlady 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 dilassemnent 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.
" ogtel de la Terrasse, Rue de Rivoli,
" April 27-May I, I83-.
" 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
Gazelle, you are welcome to use them gratis. Now I am here, I wonder I
have never been here before, 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 off by a
steward to the cabin; half-a-dozen more dropped immediately, and the crew
bustled about, bringing basins for the wounded. The Colonel smiled as he
saw them fall.'I'm an old sailor,' says he to a gentleman on board.'As I
-was coming home, sir, and we had plenty of rough weather on the voyage, I
never thought of being unwell. My boy here, who made the voyage twelve
years ago last May, may have lost his sea-legs; but for me, sir —' Here a
great wave dashed over the 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 de/jeaner soigie'; on
which the fellow, grinning, said,'A nice fried sole, sir,-nice mutton-chop,
sir,' in regular Temple Bar English, and brought us Harvey sauce with the
chops, and the last Bell's Life to amuse us after our luncheon. I wondered if
all the Frenchmen read Bell's ZLfe, and if all the inns smell so of brandyand-water?
"We walked out to see the town, which I daresay you know, and therefore shan't describe. We saw some good studies of fishwomen with bare legs,
and remarked that the soldiers were very dumpy and small. We were glad




THE NE WCOMES.                            20o
when the time came to set off by the diligence; and having the cozpi 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?
The chestnuts were out, and the statues all shining, and all the windows of
the palace in a blaze. It looks big enough for the king of the giants to live
in. How grand it is! I like the barbarous splendour of the architecture,
and the ornaments, profuse and enormous, with which it is overladen.  Think
of Louis XVI., with a 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 Carlyle is! I have read the battle in his'History' so often, that I knew
it before I had seen it. Our windows look out onl 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'Paris Re-visited,' and read them in the diligence. They are
famous good reading; but the Palais Royal is very much altered since Scott's
time: no end of 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-de-place says Charles X. put an end
to it all.
"Next morning the governor had letters to deliver after breakfast, and
left me at the Louvre door. 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. I could not see the colour of her eyes and hair exactly,
but the latter is light, and the eyes, I should think, are grey. Her complexion is of a beautiful warm marble tinge. She is not a clever woman,
evidently; I do not think she laughs or talks much-she seems too lazy to do
more than smile. She is only beautiful. This divine creature has lost 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 of Milo.
O Victrix! 0 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 skides beam with serene light! I wish
we might sacrifice. I would bring a spotless kid, snowy-coated, and a pair of




2o6                   T'HE NE WCOM0VES.
doves, and a jar of honey-yea, honey from Morel's in Piccadilly, thyme,
davoured Narbonian, and we would acknowledge the Sovereign Loveliness,
and adjure the Divine Aphrodite. Did you ever see my pretty young cousin,
Miss Newcome, Sir Brian's daughter?  She has a great look of the huntress
Diana. It is sometimes too proud and too cold for me. The blare of those
thorns is too shrill, and the rapid pursuit through bush and bramble too daring.
O 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 WarTingtQn, please; I never thought when I began that Pegasus was going to run
uaway with me.
"I wish I had read Greek a little more at school: it's too late at my age;
I shall be nineteen soon, and have got my own business; but when we return
I think I shall try and read it with Cribs. What have I been doing, spending
six months over a picture of Sepoys and Dragoons cutting each other's throats?
Art ought not to be a fever. It ought to be a calm; not a screaming bull-fight
or a battle of gladiators, but a temple for placid contemplation, rapt worship.
stately rhythmic ceremony, and music solemn and tender. I shall take down
my Snyders and Rubens, when I get home; and turn quietist. To think I
have spent weeks in depicting bony Lifeguardsmen delivering cut one, or Saint
George, and painting black beggars off 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 Sebastian? and for our
Bacchus and Ariadne, you cannot beat the best you know. But if we have
fine jewels, here there are whole sets of them: there are kings and all their
splendid courts round about them. J. J. and I must come and live here. 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? Iie
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 daresay 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 mustachios;
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 hIuztres de Marenze when you dine here. We dined with
a tremendous French swell, the Vicomte de Florac, ofjicier d'ordonnance to one
of the princes, and son of some old friends of my father's. They are of very
high birth, but very poor. He will be a duke when his cousin, the Duc
d'Ivry, 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'Fauxbourg St. Germain, and ever so many of the present people:-M. Thiers,




THE VNE WCOMIE~:                         207
and Count Mole, and George Sand, and Victor Hugo, and Jules Janin-I forget half their names. And yesterday we went to see his mother, Madame de
Florac. I suppose she was an old flame of the Colonel's, for their meeting
was uncommonly ceremonious and tender. It was like an elderly Sir Charles
Grandison saluting a middle-aged Miss Byron. And only fancy! the Colonei
has been here once before since his return to England! 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 Gerard in her salon-of her and M. de Florac. M. de Florac, 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 oldfashioned brooch yesterday, and said,' Voila, la reconnoissez-vous?  Last year,
when you were here, it was in the country.' And she smiled at him; and the
dear old boy gave a sort 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 children, my friend,'
the Countess said to me (in the sweetest French accent). He was looking into
*the garden of the house where they live, in the 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 daresay; but where is
there such a good one? I wonder whether he was very fond of Madame de
Florac?  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 Honourable 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 Florac,
seemed to be the only domestic who waited on the family below.
"'Madame de Florac and my father talked about my profession. The
*Countess said it was a belle carriere. The Colonel said it was better than the
army.'Ah oui, Moonsieur,' 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 garlon.'
"' But you will be here to watch over him yourself, mon amni' says the
French lady.
"Father shook his head.'I shall very probably have to go back to
India,' he said.'My furlough is expired. I am now taking my extra leave.
If I can get my promotion, i need not return. Without that, I cannot afford
to live in Europe. But my absence, in all probability, will be but very short,'
he said.'And Clive is old enough 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 uncomiiori



o08                     THE NE EWCO0MES.
able; 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 gimcracks. I asked father
about this melancholy news as we walked away from Madame de Florac.
" 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 Florac called to dine with us. The Colonel said he did
not care about going out: and so the Viscount and I went together. T7rois
ZE-'res Provenfaux-he ordered the dinner, and of course I paid. Then we
went to a little theatre, and he took me behind the scenes-such a queer place'
We went to the loge of Mademoiselle Finette, who acted the part of'Le petit
Tambour,' in which she sings a famous song 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 Bouillote. It was
all the change out of a twenty-pound note which dear old Binnie gave me
before we set out, with a quotation out of Horace, you know, about 2Neque tit
~caoreas sperne, puer. Oh me! how guilty I felt as I walked home at ever so
much o'clock to the' Hotel de la. Terrasse,' and sneaked into our apartment t
But the Colonel was sound asleep. His dear old boots stood sentries at his
bed-room door, and I slunk into mine as silently as I could.
"P.S. Wednesday.-There's just one scrap of paper left. I have got
J. J.'s letter. He has been to the private view of the Academy (so that his
own picture is in), and the'Battle of Assaye' is refused. Smee told him it
was too big. I daresay it's very bad. I'm glad I'm away, and the fellows
are not condoling with me.
"Please go and see Mr. Binnie. He has come to grief, He rode the
Colonel's horse; came down on the pavement and wrenched his leg, and I'm
afraid the grey's. Please look at his legs; we can't understand John's:eport
of them. He, I mean Mr. B., was going to Scotland to see his relati,.ns
when the accident happened.  You know he has always been going to
Scotland to see his relations. He makes light of the business, and says the
Colonel is not to think of coming to him; and I don't want to go back:
just yet, to see all the fellows from Gandish's and the Life Academy, and
have them grinning at my misfortune.
"The Governor would send his regards, I daresay, but he is out, and I
am always yours affectionately,
" CLIVE NEWCOME.
"P. S.-He tipped me himself this morn;g; isn't he a kind, dear old
fellow I"




THE NE WCOMES.                             209
ARTHUR PENDENNIS, ESQ., TO CLIVE NEWCOME, ESQ.
"Pall Mall Gazette, ournal of Politics, Literature, and Fa rhion,
"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. M. G.) that your
extensive picture of the' Battle of Assaye' 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 fortune in future years will be more favourable to you. The
town does not talk very much of your discomfiture. You see the parliamentary
debates are very interesting just now, and somehow the'Battle of Assaye'
does not seem to excite the public mind.
" I have been to Fitzroy Square; both to the stables and the house. The
Houyhnhnm's legs are very well; the horse slipped on his side and not on his
knees, and has received no sort of injury. Not so Mr. Binnie, his 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 beheld her, on his departure to
India. She is now (to speak with respect) a very brisk, plump, pretty little
widow; having, seemingly, recovered from her grief at the death of her
husband, Captain Mackenzie, in the West Indies.  Mr. Binnie was just on
the point of visiting his relatives, who reside at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh,
when he met with the fatal accident which prevented his visit to his native
shores.  His account of his misfortune and his lonely condition was so
pathetic that Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter put themselves into the Edin.
burgh steamer, and rushed to console his sofa. They occupy your bed-room
and sitting-room, which latter Mrs. Mackenzie says no longer smells of tobaccosmoke, as it did when she took possession of your den. If you have left any
papers about, any bills, any billets-doux, I make no doubt the ladies have read
every single one of them, according to the amiable habits of their sex. The
daughter. is a bright 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'Jock o' 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 pleasant, and indeed
buy no means so strong as Mr. Binnie's own; for Captain Mackenzie was an
14




ZI.THE NE WCOMES.
Englishman for whose sake his lady modified her native Musselburgh pronun.
ciation. 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 favourite 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 Pal/l rall Gazette, for the theatres, panoramas, and the principal sights' in
town. For pictures they do not seem to care much; 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 this office with his valuable contributions on the Fine Arts, made
particular inquiries 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 honour 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 Captain 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 humour.
"Here comes Mr. Baker with the proofs.  In case you don't see the
P. OA. 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:"' 6 7. " Moses Bringing Home the Gross of Green Spectacles." Smith,
R.A. —Perhaps poor Goldsmith's exquisite little work has never been so great
a favourite 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
whizh 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 Pall Mall
Gazette does not care to condemn.
"'420.  Our (and the public's) favourite, 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 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 Blas " for an illustration this year; and the
" Robber's Cavern" is one of the most masterly of Hopkins's productions.
C'Great Rooms. 33.  "Portrait of Cardinal Cospetto."  O'Gogstay,




THE NEW COMES.                              i r
A.R.A.; and "Neighbourhood of Corpodibacco —Evening-a Contadina
and a Trasteverino dancing at the door of a Locanda to the music of a
Pifferaro."-Since his visit to Italy Mr. O'Gogstay seems to have given up
the scenes of Irish humour with which he used to delight us; and the romance,
the poetry, the religion of "Italia la bella " form the subjects of his pencil.
The scene near Corpodibacco (we know the spot well, and have spent many a
happy month in its romantic 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 5oth 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 hzig' faces, and
respectfully insinuate verbum sapienti.
"' I90o6.' The M'Collop of M'Collop,"-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'Collop.
1' I367. " 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 exhibition. We echo the universal opinion in
declaring that it shows not only the greatest promise, but the most delicate
and beautiful performance. The Earl of Kew, we understand, bought the
picture at the private view; and we congratulate the young painter heartily
upon his successful debut. He is, we understand, a pupil of Mr. Gandish.
Where is that admirable painter?'We miss his bold canvases and grand
historic outline.'
"I shall alter a few inaccuracies in the composition of our friend F. B.,
who has, as he says,'drawnm 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 yourfather;
and think you had best see as little as possible of your bouillote-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,                                          A. P."




212                 THME lNE'WCOAES.
CHAPTER XXIII.
IN WHICH WE HEAR A SOPRANO AND A CONTRALTO.
THE  most hospitable and polite of Colonels would not hear of;
Mrs. 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 intention to go away.
Mrs. Mackenzie had a fine merry humour of her own. She was an:
old soldier's wife, she said, and knew when her quarters were good;.
and I suppose, since her honeymoon, when the captain took her to,
Harrogate and Cheltenham, stopping at the first hotels, and travelling
in a chaise and pair the whole way, she had never been so well off as
in that roomy mansion near Tottenham Court Road. Of her mother's.
house at Musselburgh she gave a ludicrous but dismal account. " Eh,
James," she said, "I think if you had come to mamma, as you;
threatened, you would not have stayed very long. It's a wearisomeplace. Dr. M'Craw boards with her; and it's sermons and psalmsinging from morning till night. My little Josey takes kindly to the
life there, and I left her behind, poor little darling! It was not fair to
bring three of us to take possession of your house, dear James; but
my poor little Rosey was just withering away there. It's good for the
dear child to see the world a little, and a kind uncle, who is not afraid
of us now he sees us, is he?" Kind Uncle James was not at all afraid:
of little Rosey; whose pretty face and modest manners, and sweet
songs, and blue eyes, cheered and soothed the old bachelor. Nor was
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-andtwenty. She was active, brisk, jovial, and alert; and so good-looking,
that it was a wonder she had not taken a successor to Captain Mackenzie.
James Binnie cautioned his friend the Colonel against the attractions
of the buxom siren; and laughingly would ask Clive how he would like
Mrs. Mackenzie for a mammaw?
Colonel Newcome felt himself very much at ease regarding his




THE NE WVCOVES.                      13
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 breakfast 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 downstairs together,
cmamma'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!" Uncle James used to kiss Rosey very kindly
and pleasantly. She was as modest, as gentle, as eager to please
Colonel Newcome 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 everything 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 bed-room, for all she was so soft-spoken.'" How was that jug broke, and that chair smashed in the bed-room,:that day there was such a awful row up there?".
Mrs. Mackenzie played admirably, in the old-fashioned way, dances,
4reels, and Scotch and Irish tunes, the former of which filled James
Binnie's soul with delectation. The good mother naturally desired,that her darling should have a few good lessons of the piano while she
was in London. Rosey was eternally strumming upon an instrument
which had been taken upstairs for her special practice; and the
Colonel, who was always seeking to do harmless jobs of kindness for




214                  THE NEWCOMES:.
his friends, bethought him of little Miss Cann, the governess at Ridley's,
whom he recommended as an instructress. "Anybody whom you 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 TwaInkeydillo; and thelittle governess
came to her pupil.  Mrs. Mackenzie treated her very gruffly and,
haughtily at first; but as soon as she heard Miss Cann play, the
widow was pacified —nay, charmed. Monsieur Quatremains chargecL.
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, "irn
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 boys, as she
called Clive and J. J., were at work each at his easel. Clive used toa
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~ Rosey 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 downstairs, with mamma's
arm round her waist, and her pretty artless happy smile for the gentlemen below. Besides the Scottish songs without music, she sang.
ballads at the piano very sweetly.  Mamma used to cry 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?"
"Why, my dear, when ye lose Rosey, ye'll console yourself with
Josey," says droll Mr. Binnie from the sofa, who perhaps saw the
manceuvre of the widow.
The widow laughs heartily and really. She places a handkerchief'
over her mouth. She glances at her brother with a pair of eyes full of
knowing mischief. "Ah, dear James," she says, "you don't knowwhat 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,




THE NE WCO.'ES.                      215;
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 Newcome'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
grand and noble he was, but I don't think he was equal to Colonel
Newcome-I really don't think so. Do you think so, Mr. Honeyman?
What a charming discourse that was last Sunday! I know there were
iwo pair of eyes not dry in the church.  I could not see the other
people just for crying myself. 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 under Dr. M'Craw, of course; but he is so
awfully long! Four hours every Sunday at least, morning and afternoon! It nearly kills poor Rosey. Did you hear her voice at yout
church?  The dear girl is delighted with the chants. Rosey, were
you not delighted with the chants?"
If she is delighted with the chants, Honeyman is delighted with
the chantress and her mamma. He dashes the fair hair from his brow:
he sits down to the piano, and plays one or two of them, warbling a
faint vocal accompaniment, and looking as if he would be lifted off 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 neighbour (the present biographer
indeed), "and Mrs. Mack was-was as pretty a little woman as ever
you set eyes on."  (Captain Goby winks, and looks peculiarly sly as




216                 THE NE WCO4IES.
he makes this statement.) "Our regiment wasn't on your side of
India, Colonel."
And in the interchange of such delightful remarks, and with music
and song the evening passes away. "Since the house had been
adorned by the fair presence of Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter,"
Honeyman said, always gallant in behaviour and flowery in expression,
"it seemed as if spring had visited it. Its hospitality was invested
with a new grace; its ever welcome little re'unions were doubly charming. But why did these ladies come, if they were to go away again?
How-how would Mr. Binnie console himself (not to mention others),
if they left him in solitude?"
" We have no wish to leave my brother James in solitude," cries
Mrs. Mackenzie, frankly laughing. "We like London a great deal
better than Musselburgh."
"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. Everybody liked
them. Binnie received their caresses very good-humouredly. 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
Clive laughed at her simple manceuvres 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 neighbour in Lamb Court,
and the Reverend Charles Honeyman sang very delightfully after
lunch; there was quite a crowd of porters, laundresses, and boys tc
listen in the Court; Mr. Paley was disgusted with the noise we made
— in fact, the party was perfectly successful. We all liked the widow,
and if she did set her pretty ribbons at Clive, why should not she?
We all liked the pretty, fresh, modest Rosey. W\hy, even the grave
old benchers in the Temple Church, when the ladies visited it on Sun



THE NE NECOMVES.                     217
lay, 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 respectful attention there than in any place, except perhaps at Oxford or Cambridge. Go to the Temple Church,-not, of
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 behaviour when an occasional Scottish friend, bringing a letter from darling' 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 somebody else if I am not mistaken. Should you like a stepmother, Mr. Clive, or should you prefer a wife?"
Whether the fair lady tried her wiles upon Colonel Newcome the
present writer has no certain means of ascertaining; but I think
another image occupied his heart: and this 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
daresay she did not value what she had; or did not live to enjoy itor-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. Pendennis, and stop at the third
volume, know very well that the real story often begins afterwards. My
third volume ended when I was sixteen, and was married to my poor
husband. Do you think all our adventures ended then, and that we lived
happy ever after?  I live for my darling girls now. All I want is to see
them comfortable in life. Nothing can be more generous than my dear
brother James has been. I am only his half-sister, you know, and was
an infant in arms when he went away. He had differences with Captain




218                  THE, NE WCOMES.
Mackenzie, who was headstrong and imprudent, and I own.my. poor
dear husband was in the wrong. James could not live with my poor
mother. Neither could by possibility suit the other. I have often,
I own, longed to come and keep house for him. His home, the
society he sees, of men of talents like Mr. Warrington and-and I
won't mention names, or pay 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 beenr
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 contains
some sad sad truths, it is a great deal too misanthropic (is that the right
word? I'm a poor soldier's wife, and no scholar you know,) and a
great deal too 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, Batti, with her sweet fresh artless voice.
-More caresses follow. Mamma is in a rapture. How pretty they
look-the mother and daughter-two lilies twining together. The
necessity of an entertainment at the Temple-lunch from Dick's (as.
before mentioned), dessert from Partington's, Sibwright's spoons, his
boy to aid ours, nay Sib himself, and his rooms, which are so much
more elegant than ours, and where there is a piano and guitar: all
these thoughts pass in rapid and brilliant combination in the pleased
Mr. Pendennis's mind. How delighted the ladies are with the proposal! Mrs. Mackenzie claps her pretty hands, and kisses Rosey
again. If osculation is a mark of love, surely Mrs. Mack is the best
of mothers. I may say, without false modesty, that our little entertainment was most successful. The champagne was iced to a nicetyo




THE NEWCOMES.                        219
The ladies did not perceive that our laundress, Mrs. Flanagan, was
intoxicated very early in the afternoon.  Percy Sibwright sang
admirably, and with the greatest spirit, ditties in many languages.
I am sure Miss Rosey thought him (as indeed he is) one of the most
fascinating young fellows about town. To her mother's excellent
~accompaniment Rosey sang her favourite songs (by the way her stock
was very 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
grey 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 himself 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 daresay spoke the truth. Our entertainment lasted
actually until after dark; and a particular 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 chambers must have envied us the pleasure of having received two such beauties.
The clerical bachelor was not to be outdone by the gentlemen 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
splendour, 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-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




22o                STHE NEWCOSES.'clerical. You know, besides, you are in a iermilafge; 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 neighbour, a dark gentleman, with a tuft to his chin, and splendid rings and chains.
The dark gentleman's wife and daughter were the other two ladies:invited by our host. The elder was splendidly dressed. Poor Mrs.
Mackenzie's simple gimcracks, though she displayed them to the most,advantage, and could make an ormolu bracelet go as far as another
woman's emerald clasps, were as nothing compared to the other lady's
gorgeous jewellery. Her fingers glittered with rings innumerable. The
head of her smelling-bottle was as big as her husband's gold snuff-box,
and of the same splendid material. Our ladies, it must be confessed,,came in a modest cab from Fitzroy Square; these arrived in a splendid
little open carriage with white ponies, and harness all over brass,
which the lady of the rings drove with a whip that was a parasol.
Mrs. Mackenzie, standing at Honeyman's window, with her arm
round Rosey's waist, viewed this arrival perhaps with envy. " My
dear 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 favour to come to
luncheon."
"Wine-merchant.  Oh!" thinks Mrs. Mackenzie, who has seen:Sherrick's brass-plate on the cellar-door of Lady Whittlesea's chapel;
and hence, perhaps, she was a trifle more magniloquent than usual,
and entertained us with stories of colonial governors and their ladies,
mentioning no persons but those who "had handles to their names,".as the phrase is.
Although Sherrick had actually supplied the champagne which
Warrington abused to him in confidence, the wine-merchant was not
wounded; on the contrary, he roared with laughter at the remark,
and some of us smiled who understood the humour of the joke. As
for George Warrington, he scarce knew more about the town than the
ladies opposite to him, who, yet more innocent than George, thought
the champagne very good. Mrs. Sherrick was silent during the meal,
looking constantly up at her husband, as if alarmed and always in the
habit of appealing to that gentleman, who gave her, as I thought,
knowing glances and savage winks, which made me augur that he
bullied her at home. Miss Sherrick was exceedingly handsome: she
kept the fringed curtains of her eyes constantly down; but when she
lifted them up towards Clive, who was very attentive to her (the rogue




THE iVE W/COMES.                     22 
never sees a handsome woman but to this day he continues the same
practice) —when she looked up and smiled, she was indeed a beautiful
young creature to behold,-with her pale forehead, her thick arched.
eyebrows, her rounded cheeks, and her full lips slightly shaded,-how
shall I mention the word?-slightly pencilled after the manner of the
lips of the French governess, Mademoiselle Lenoir.
Percy Sibwright engaged Miss Mackenzie with his usual grace and'
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 admirer for darling Rosey. She knew not that Percy can no,
more help gallantry than the sun can help shining. As soon as Rosey
had done eating up her pine-apple, artlessly confessing (to Percy Sibwright's inquiries) that she preferred it to the rasps and hinnyblobs in.
her grandmamma's garden, " Now, dearest Rosey," cries Mrs. Mack,.
"now, a little song.  You promised Mr. Pendennis a little song."
Honeyman whisks open the piano in a moment. The widow takes off
her cleaned gloves, (Mrs. Sherrick's were new, and of the best Paris
make,) and little Rosey sings No. I, followed by No. 2, with very great
applause.  Mother and daughter entwine as they quit the piano.
"Brava! 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: chickens, plovers' 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 Julia 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




222                  THE AE WCOME.S.
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 unaffectedly to Miss Sherrick,
with delight and gratitude beaming from her blue eyes, " Why did you
ask me to sing, when you sing so wonderfully, so beautifully, yourself?
Do not leave the piano, please-do sing again!" And she puts out a
kind little hand towards the superior artiste, and, blushing, leads her
back to the instrument. " I'm sure me and Julia will sing for you as
much as you like, dear," says Mrs. Sherrick, nodding to Rosey goodnaturedly. 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 Julia will give you as many songs
as you like. How do you like the house in Fitzroy Square? Anything
wanting doing there? I'm a good landlord to a good tenant. Don't
care what I spend on my houses. Lose by'em sometimes. Name a
day when you'll come to us; and I'll ask some good fellows to meet
you. Your father and Mr. Binnie came once. That was when you
were a young chap. They didn't have a bad evening, I believe. You
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.
See you in the Park; and going by our house sometimes. The Colonel
sits a horse uncommonly well; so do you, Mr. Newcome. 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 circumstance 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 was easy to see that the man




TIE NEW PzCOMES,                    223
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. Meanwhile, Mr.
Sherrick has been a very good and obliging landlord; 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
least."
"I am almost sorry that he is getting well," says Mrs. Mackenzie,
sincerely. " He won't want us when he is quite cured."
" Indeed, my dear creature," cries the Colonel, taking her pretty
hand and kissing it, "he will want you, and he shall want you.
James no more knows the world than Miss Rosey here; and if I had
not been with him, would have been perfectly unable to take care of
himself. When I am gone to India, somebody must stay with him;
and-and my boy must have a home to go to,"' says the kind soldier,
his voice dropping. "I had been in hopes that his own relatives
would have received him more, but never mind about that," he cried
more cheerfully. "Why, I may not be absent a year! perhaps need
not go at all-I am second for promotion. A couple of our old
generals may drop any:day; and when I get my regiment, I come
back to stay, to live at home. Meantime, whilst I am gone, my dear
lady, you will 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 benediction which
always made his countenance appear to me among the most beautiful,ofhuman faces.




224                  THE NEWCOMES.
CHAPTER XXIV.
IN WHICH THE NEWCOME BROTHERS ONCE MORE MEET
TOGETHER IN UNITY.
THIS narrative, as the judicious reader no doubt is aware, is writtern
maturely and at ease, long after the voyage is over, whereof it
recounts the adventures and perils; the winds adverse and favourable;.
the storms, shoals, shipwrecks, islands, and so forth, which Clive
Newcome met in his early journey in life. In such a history events
follow each other without necessarily having a connection with one
another. One ship crosses another ship, and, after a visit from one
captain to his comrade, they sail away each on his course. The
"Clive Newcome" meets a vessel which makes signals that she is
short of 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 wofully battered in the tempest, make
port, or are cast upon surprising islands where all sorts of unlookedfor prosperity await the lucky crew. Also, no doubt, the writer of the
book, into whose hands Clive Newcome's logs have been put, and who
is charged with the duty of making two octavo volumes out of his
friend's story, dresses up the narrative in his own way; utters his own
remarks in place of Newcome's; makes fanciful descriptions of individuals and incidents with which he never could have been personally
acquainted; and commits blunders, which the critics will discover. A
great number of the descriptions in " Cook's Voyages," for instance,
were notoriously invented by Dr. Hawkesworth, who " did" the book:.
so in the present 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, conversations reported
to him, and his knowledge, right or wrong, of the characters of the
persons engaged. And, as is the case with the most orthodox histories,
the writer's own guesses or conjectures are printed in exactly the same
type as the most ascertained patent facts. I fancy, for my part, that




THE NE W CO MES.                    225
the speeches attributed to Clive, the Colonel, and the rest, are as
authentic as the orations in Sallust or Livy, and only implore the truthloving public to believe that incidents here told, and which passed
very probably without witnesses, were either confided to me subsequently as compiler of this biography, or are of such a nature that
they must have happened from what we know happened after. For
example, when you read such words as QVE ROMANVS on a
battered Roman stone, your profound antiquarian knowledge enables
you to assert that SENATVS POPVLVS was also inscribed there at
some time or other. You take a mutilated statue of Mars, Bacchus,
Apollo, or Virorum, and you 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, Mr. 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 friom actual experience 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 in London, which they did not think of quitting,
although Mr. Binnie's wounded litttle 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 favourite at Brighton, and once, twice, thrice, Lady
Kew's door was denied to him. The knocker of that door could not
be more fierce 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 squadron, led by Mr. Whiskin, the ridingmaster, when the Colonel encountered his pretty Ethel, she greeted him
affectionately it is true; there was still the sweet look of candour and
love in her eyes; but when he rode up to her she looked so constrained,
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.
Is




226                 T-1E NE PWCOMES.
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; to wait awhile and struggle, and haply do some
little achievement in order to win her; the best task to which his boy
could set himself. If two young people so loving each other were to
marry on rather narrow means, what then? A happy home was better
than the finest house in May Fair; a generous young fellow, such as,
please God, his son was,-loyal, upright, and a gentleman-might
pretend surely to his kinswoman's hand without derogation; and the
affection he bore Ethel himself.was so great, and the sweet regard
with which she returned it, that the simple father thoughthis kindly
project was favoured by heaven, and prayed for its 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 boyhood, 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 Newcome, Esquire, was the head of the house, and the
governor of his father and all Sir Brian's affairs; and Barnes Newcome, Esquire, hated his cousin Clive, and spoke of him as a beggarly
painter, an impudent snob, an infernal young puppy, and so forth; and
Barnes, with his usual freedom of language, imparted his opinions to
his Uncle Hobson at the bank, and Uncle Hobson carried them home
to Mrs. Newcome in Bryanston Square; and Mrs. Newcome took an
early opportunity of telling the Colonel her opinion on the subject, and
of bewailing that love for aristocracy which she saw actuated some
folks; and the Colonel was brought to see that Barnes was his boy's
enemy, and words very likely passed between them, for Thomas Newcome took a new banker at this time, and, as Clive informed me, was
in very great dudgeon, because Hobson Brothers wrote to him to say
that he had overdrawn his account, " I am sure there is some screw




THE NE WCO0AIES.                     227'loose," the sagacious 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 presented,
and he didn't go."
Some months after the arrival of Mr. Binnie's niece and sister in
Fitzroy Square, the fraternal quarrel between the Newcomes must,~have come to an end-for that time at least-and was followed by a
rather ostentatious reconciliation. And pretty little Rosey Mackenzic
was the innocent and unconscious cause of this amiable change in the
minds of the three brethren, as I gathered from a little conversation with
Mrs. Newcome. who did me the honour to invite me to her table. As
she had not vouchsafed this, hospitality to me for a couple of years
previously, and perfectly stifled me with affability when we met,-as
-her invitation came quite at the end of the season, when almost every-body was out of town, and a dinner to a man is no compliment, —I
was at first for declining this invitation, and spoke of it with great
scorn when Mr. Newcome orally delivered it to me at Bays's Club.
"What," said I, turning round to an old man of the world, who
happened to be in the room at the time, " what do these people mean
by asking a fellow to dinner in August, and taking me up after dropping
~-ne 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 u'p every day. You know Lady Cheddar by
sight? I have known her husband for forty years. I have stayed
with them in the country for weeks at a time. She knows me. as
well as she knows 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
-existence; and if I meet her at dinner, I'm no more aware of her
than the fellows in the play are of Banquo. What's the end of it?
She comes round-only last Toosday she came round-and said Lord,Cheddar wanted me to go down to Wiltshire. I asked after the family
(you know Henry Churningham is engaged to Miss Rennet?-a doosidc
good match for the Cheddars). We shook hands and are as good
friends as ever. I don't suppose she'll cry when I die, you know," said
the worthy old gentleman with a grin. " Nor shall I go into very deep
mourning if'anything happens to her. You were quite right to say to
Newcome that you did not know whether you were free -or not, and
would look at your engagements when you got home, and give him an
answer. A fellow of that rank has no right to give himself airs. But
-they will, sir. Some of those bankers are as high and mighty as the




228                 THE  N~E WCOIE S.
oldest families. They marry noblemen's daughters, by Jove, and think,
nothing is too good for'em. But I should go, if I were you, Arthur.
I dined there a couple of months ago; and the bankeress said something about you: that you and her nephew were much together; that
you were sad wild dogs, I think-something of that sort. "Gad,
ma'am,' says I,'boys will be boys?' And they grow to be men!' says
she, nodding her head. Queer little woman, devilish pompous. Dinner
confoundedly long, stoopid, scientific."
The old gentleman was on this day inclined to be talkative ancd
confidential, and I set down some more remarks which he made concerning my friends. "Your Indian Colonel," says he, " seems a worthy,
man." The Major quite forgot having been in India himself, unless
he was in company with some very great personage. " He don't seem:
to know much of the world, and we are not very intimate. Fitzroy!
Square is a dev'lish long way off for a fellow to go for a dinner, andi
entre nozus, the dinner is rather queer and the company still more so.
It's right for you, who are a literary man, to see all sorts of people;.
but I'm different you know, so Newcome and I are not very thick
together. They- say he wanted to marry your friend to Lady Ann's
daughter, an exceedingly fine girl; one of the prettiest girls come out
this season. I hear the young men say so. And that shows how
monstrous ignorant of the world Colonel Newcome is. His son couldno more get that girl than he could marry one of the royal princesses.
Mark my words, they intend Miss Newcome for Lord Kew. Those
banker fellows are wild after grand marriages. Kew will sow his wild
oats, and they'll marry her to him; or if not to him, to some man of
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.  Nothing could show a more deplorableignorance of the world, than poor Newcome supposing his son could
make such a match as that with his cousin. Is it true that he is going,
to make his son an artist? I don't know what the dooce the world 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 pastrycook 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 Bryanston Square was quite civil and good...
humoured 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




THE NE WCOI.E&S.                     229
cheeks, and beautiful fair ringlets —as fresh and comely a sight as it
was possible to witness. Scarcely had we made our bows, and shaken
our hands, and imparted our observations about the fineness of the
weather, when, behold! as we look from the drawing-room windows
into the cheerful square of Bryanston, a great family coach arrives,
driven by a family coachman in a family wig, and we recognise Lady
Ann Newcome's carriage, and see her ladyship, her mother, her
daughter, and her husband, Sir Brian, descend from the vehicle. "It
is quite a family party," whispers the happy Mrs. Newcome to the
happy writer conversing with her in the niche of the window. "Knowing your intimacy with our brother, Colonel Newcome, we thought it
would please him to meet you here. Will you be so kind as to take
Miss Newcome to dinner?"
Everybody was bent upon being happy and gracious. It was " My
-dear brother, how do you do?" from Sir Brian. "My dear Colonel,
how glad we are to see you! how well you look!!" from Lady Ann.
Miss Newcome ran up to him with both hands out, and put her
beautiful face so close to his that I thought, upon my conscience, she
was going to kiss him. And Lady Kew, advancing in the frankest:nanner, 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 goodhumour, and says, " Mr. Clive, let me shake hands with you; I have
heard all sorts of good of you, that you have been painting the most
beautiful things, that you are going to be quite famous." Nothing can..exceed the grace and kindness of Lady Ann Newcome towards
Mrs. Mackenzie: the pretty widow blushes with pleasure at this
greeting; and now Lady Ann must be introduced to Mrs. Mackenzie's
charming daughter, and whispers in the delighted mother's ear, " She
is lovely!"  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 pleasure as she beholds
him. And, as she looks, Miss Ethel sees a very handsome fellow.
There exists in Mr. Newcome's possession a charming little pencil:drawing of Clive at this age, and which Colonel Newcome took with
him when he went-whither he is about to go in a very few pages
-and brought back with him to this country.  A florid a'pparel
"becomes some men, as simple raiment suits others; and Clive in his
youth was of the ornamental class of mankind  a customer to
tailors, a wearer of handsome rings, shirt-studs, mustachios, long hair,




230                  THIE  NE/ WCOMES.
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 humour.  His laughter
cheered one like wine. I do not know that he was very witty; but he,
was pleasant. He was prone to blush; the history of a generous trait
moistened his eyes instantly. He was instinctively fond of children,
and of the other sex from one year old to eighty. Coming from the
Derby once-a merry party-and stopped on the road from Epsom in
a lock of carriages, during which the people in the carriage a-head
saluted us with many vituperative epithets, and seized the heads of our
leaders, Clive in a twinkling jumped off the box, and the next minute
we saw him engaged 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 hitting out que
c'eloit un jilaisir d voir. His father sat back in the carriage, looking:
with delight and wonder-indeed it was a great sight. Policeman X
separated the warriors. Clive ascended the box again, with a dreadful'
wound in the coat, which was gashed from the waist to the shoulder. I
hardly ever saw the elder Newcome in such a state of triumph. The
post-boys quite stared at the gratuity he gave them, and wished they
might drive his lordship to the Oaks.
All the time'we have been making this sketch Ethel is standing:
looking at Clive; and the blushing youth casts down his eyes before
hers. Her face assumes a look of arch humour. She passes a slim;
hand over the prettiest lips and a chin with the most lovely of dimples,.
thereby indicating her admiration of Mr. Clive's mustachios and,
imperial. They are of a warm yellowish chestnut colour, and have
not yet known the razor. He wears a low cravat; a shirt-front of the
finest lawn, with ruby buttons. His hair, of a lighter colour, waves
almost to " his manly shoulders broad." " Upon my word, my dear
Colonel," says Lady Kew, after looking at him, and nodding her head
shrewdly, " I think we were right."
" No doubt right in everything your ladyship' does, but'in what particularly?" asks the Colonel.
" Right to keep him out of the way. Ethel has been disposed of
these ten years. Did not 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. WVho is that conceited-looking




THE NWE ICOMES.                      231
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 very pretty," remarks Lady Kew, stopping
the Colonel's further outbreak.  "How  very young her mother
looks! Ethel, my dear! Colonel Newcome must present us to
Mrs. Mackenzie and Miss Mackenzie;" and Ethel, giving a nod
to Clive, with whom she has talked for a minute or two, again puts
her hand in her uncle's, and walks towards Mrs. Mackenzie and her
daughter.
And 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 humour or beaming with kindliness and affection. Too quick
to detect affectation or insincerity in others, too impatient of dulness
or pomposity, she is more sarcastic now than she became when after
years of suffering had softened her nature. Truth looks out of her
bright eyes, and rises up armed, and flashes scorn or denial, perhaps
too readily, when she encounters flattery, or meanness, or imposture.
After her first appearance in the world, if the truth must be told, this
young lady was popular neither with many men, nor with most women.
The innocent dancing youth who pressed round her, attracted by her
beauty, were rather afraid, after a while, of engaging her. This one
felt dimly that she despised him; another, that his simpering commonplaces (delights of how many well-bred maidens!) only occasioned
Miss Newcome's laughter. Young Lord Crcesus, whom all maidens
and matrons were eager to secure, was astounded to find that he was
utterly indifferent to her, and that she would refuse him twice or thrice
in an evening, and dance as many times with poor Tom Spring, who
was his father's ninth son, and only at home till he could get a ship
and go to sea again. The young women were frightened at her sarcasm. She seemed to know what fadaises they whispered to their
partners as they paused in the waltzes; and Fanny, who was luring
Lord Crcesus towards her with her blue eyes, dropped them guiltily to
the floor when Ethel's turned towards her; and Cecilia sang more out
of time than usual; and Clara, who was holding Freddy, and Charley,
and Tommy round her enchanted by her bright conversation and witty
mischief, became dumb and disturbed when Ethel passed her with her
cold face. and old Lady Hookham, who was playing off her little
Minnic llow at young Jack Gorget of the Guards, now at the, eager and




232                  THE NEWCOMES.
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 the angler. No 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 coldness
might admire her beauty; nor could the famous Parisian marble,
which Clive said she resembled, be more perfect in form than this
young lady. Her hair and eyebrows were jet black, (these latter may
have been too thick according to some physiognomists, giving rather
a stern expression to the eyes, and hence causing those guilty ones
to tremble who came under her lash,) but her complexion was as
dazzlingly fair and her cheeks as red as Miss Rosey's own, who had
a right to those beauties, 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,
endeavoured to imitate by art, paper, and I believe crumpling irons.
Her eyes were grey; 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 demi-toilette,) in which her fair arms are enveloped, and
which is confined at her slim waist by an azure ribbon, and descends
to her feet-let us make a respectful bow to that fair image of Youth,
Health, and Modesty, and fancy it as pretty as we will. Miss Ethel
made a very stately curtsey to Mrs. Mackenzie, surveying that widow
calmly, so that the elder lady looked up and fluttered; but towards
Rosey she held out her hand, and smiled with the utmost kindness,
and the smile was returned by the other; and the blushes with which
Miss Mackenzie was always ready at this time, became her very
much. As for Mrs. Mackenzie-the very largest curve that shall not
be a caricature, and actually 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
evening-before dinner came (when people ordinarily look very
grave,) when she was introduced to the company; when she was made
known to our friends Fanny and Maria,-the darling child, lovely little
dears! how like their papa and mamma!-when Sir Brian Newcome
gave her his arm downstairs to the dining-room; when anybody spoke
to her; when John offered her meat, or the gentleman in the white




THE iVE WICOMES                     233
waistcoat, wine; when she accepted or when she refused these refresh-ments; when Mr. Newcome told her a 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:honour 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 retired thither. "Mrs. Mack
is perfectly awful," Clive told me afterwards, " since that dinner in
Bryanston 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
without the boy on the box; and in the plate for the cards which she
has established in the drawing-room, you know, Lady Kew's pasteboard always will come up to the top, though I poke it down whenever I go into the room. As for poor Lady Trotter, the governess of
St. Kitt's, you know, and the Bishop of Tobago, they are quite bowled
out; Mrs. Mack has not mentioned them for a week."
During the dinner it seemed to me that the lovely young lady by
whom I sate cast many glances towards Mrs. Mackenzie, which did:not betoken particular pleasure. Miss 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 have given all gentlemen pleasure.
I was Clive's friend, his schoolfellow? had seen him a great deal?
know him very well-very well, indeed? "Was it true that he had.been very thoughtless? very wild?"  "Who told her so?" "That
was not her question" (with a blush). " It was not true, and I ought
to know. He was not spoiled. He was very good-natured, generous,
told the truth. He loved his profession very much, and had great,talent." " Indeed, she was very glad.. Why do they sneer at his
profession? It seemed to her quite as good as her father's and
brother's. Were artists not very dissipated?" "Not more so, nor
often so much as other young men." "Was Mr. Binnie rich, and
was he going to leave all his money to his 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-No, thank
you, no more. Grandmamma (she is very deaf, and cannot hearj)
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




1 34                THIE ANE rWCOMES.
in the country."  "Why don't you put them into a book?  Why
don't you put my uncle into a book? He is so good, that nobody
could make him good enough. Before I came out, I heard a young
lady (Lady Claverings 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 upstairs after dinner;"-and the young
lady sails away, following the matrons, who rise and ascend to the
drawing-room. Miss Newcome has been watching the behaviour of
the author, by whom she sate, curious to know what such a person's
habits are, whether he speaks and acts like other people, and in what.
respect authors are different from persons " in society."
When we had sufficiently enjoyed claret and politics belowstairs,
the gentlemen went to the drawing-room to partake of coffee and the
ladies' delightful conversation. We had heard previously the tinkling
of the piano above, and the well-known sound of a couple of
Miss 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 for the amusement of his little cousins. Miss Ethel
seemed to be very much pleased with these performances, which
Miss Mackenzie likewise examined with great good nature and
satisfaction. So she did the views of Rome, Naples, Marble Head
in the county of Sussex, in the same collection; so she did the
lBerlin cockatoo and spaniel which Mrs. Newcome was working in
idle moments; so she did the "Books of Beauty," "Flowers of
Loveliness," and so forth. She thought the prints very sweet and
pretty: she thoughtothe 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 masterpieces she preferred; she found them
alike so pretty. She appealed, as in most cases, to mamma. " How,
my darling love, can I pretend to know?" mamma says. " I have
been a soldier's wife, battling about the world. I have not had your
advantages. I had no drawing-masters, nor music-masters as you,
have. You, dearest child, must instruct mne in these things." This.
poses Rosey: who prefers to have her opinions dealt out to her like
her frocks, bonnets, handkerchiefs, her shoes and gloves, and the,order thereof; the lumps of sugar for her tea; the proper quantity of
raspberry jam for breakfast: who trusts for all supplies corporeal and
spiritual to her mother. For her own part, Rosey is pleased with
everything in nature. Does she love music? Oh, yes. Bellini and
Donizetti?  Oh, yes.  Dancing?  They had no dancing at grand.




THE NE WCOMES.                       235
mamma'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 to,
decide, being engaged listening to Sir Brian, who is laying down the law
to. her, and smiling, smiling with all her might. In fact, Mr. Newcome
says to Mr. Pendennis in his droll, humorous way, " That woman grins!
like a Cheshire cat." Who was the naturalist who first discovered
that peculiarity of the cats in Cheshire?
In regard to Miss Mackenzie's opinions, then, it is not easy to
discover that they are decided, or profound, or original; but it seems
pretty clear that she has a good temper, and a happy contented disposition. And the smile which her pretty countenance wears shows off
to great advantage the two dimples on her pink cheeks. Her teeth
are even and white, her hair of a beautiful colour, and no snow can bewhiter than her fair round neck and polished shoulders. She talks
very kindly and good-naturedly with Fanny and Maria (Mrs. Hobson's
precious ones) until she is bewildered by the statements which those
young ladies make regarding astronomy, botany, and chemistry, all of
which they are studying. "My dears, I don't know a single word
about any of these abstruse subjects: I wish I did," she says. And
Ethel Newcome laughs. She, too, is ignorant upon all these subjects.
"I am 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, somehow,
great or small, seems to protect her; and the humble, simple, gentle
little thing wins a certain degree of goodwill 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 presence in his study never discomposes him; whereas
his sister fatigues him with the exceeding activity of her gratitude,
and her energy in pleasing. As I was going away, I thought I heard
Sir Brian Newcome say, " It " (but what "It" was, of course I cannot
conjecture)-"` It will do very well. The mother seems a superior
woman."




236                  THE NE WCOOMES.
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
-he evening to her uncle, Colonel Newcome; and concluded by saying,
" And now you will come and ride with me to-morrow, uncle, won't
you?" which the Colonel faithfully promised to do. And she shook
hands with Clive very 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 after-wards that the Countess had gone to sleep after her dinner. If it was
at Mrs. Mack's story about the Governor's ball at Tobago, and the
quarrel for precedence between the Lord Bishop's lady, Mrs. Rotchet,
and the Chief Justice's wife, Lady Barwise, I should not be at all
surprised.
A handsome fly carried off the ladies to Fitzroy Square, and the
two worthy Indian gentlemen in their company; Clive and I walking
with the usual Havannah to light us home. And Clive remarked that'
he supposed there tad been some difference between his father and
the bankers; for they had not met for ever so many months before,
and the Colonel always had looked very gloomy when his brothers
were mentioned. " And I can't help thinking," says the astute youth,
" that they fancied I was in love with Ethel (I know the Colonel would
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 laudable
institution; and an honest attachment an excellent conservator 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 marriage
was laudable, &c.
Mr. Clive laughed. "Rosey is as good a little creature as can be,"




THE NE WCOMES.                        237
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 eyebrows! 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 daughtersweeping down a stair —in a great dress of cloth of gold like Paul
Veronese-holding a charger before her with white arms you knowwith 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 mustachios
— just like his brave old father.
I could not help laughing at the resemblance, and mentioning it toc
my friend. He broke, as was his wont, into a fond eulogium of his,
sire, wished he could be like him-worked himself up into another
state of excitement, in which he averred that if his father wanted him
to marry, he would marry that instant. "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
colour at Uncle Honeyman's that day of the dejezlner. 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 remarked the grey
round her eyes, and the sort of purple bloom of her cheek? Rubens.
could have done the colour: but I don't somehow like to think of a
young lady and that sensuous old Peter Paul in company. I look at.
her like a little wild-flower in a field-like a little child at play, sir.
Pretty little tender nursling. If I see her passing in the street, I feel
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,.
favidam quacerentem 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, sleepy..."
"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




= 38                 THE, NEWtCOMES.
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
tI 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; 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 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 fire, on which boils an enormous kettle; while two gentlemen
are attacking a cold saddle of mutton and West India pickles: hard
by Mrs. Nokes the landlady's elbow-with mutual bows-we recognise
Hfickson 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 fashionable 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 congregate, passing pleasant hours




THE ATE WC OMES.                     239
in rough kindly communion, and many a day seeing the sunrise lighting the rosy street ere they parted, and Betsy put the useless lamp out
and closed the hospitable gates of the " Haunt."
The time is not very long since, though to-day is so changed. As
we think of it, the kind familiar faces rise up, and we hear the pleasant
voices and singing.  There are they met, the honest hearty companions. In the days when the " Haunt" was a haunt, stage-coaches
were not yet quite over. Casinos were not invented, clubs were rather
rare luxuries; there were sanded floors, triangular sawdust-boxes,
pipes, and tavern parlours. Young Smith and Brown, from the
Temple, did not go from chambers to dine at the " Polyanthus," or
the "Megatherium," off potage a la Bisque, turbot au gratin, cotelettes
i la What-d'you-call'em, and a pint of St. Emilion; but ordered their
beef-steak and pint of port from the "plump head-waiter at the
Cock;"' did not disdain the pit of the theatre; and for a supper
a homely refection at the tavern. How delightful are the suppers in
Charles Lamb to read of even now!-the cards-the punch-the.
candles to -be snuffed-the social oysters-the modest cheer! 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.
Cheery old Tom Sarjent is surrounded at the " Haunt " by a dozen
of kind boon companions. They toil all day at their avocations of art,
or letters, or law, and here meet for a harmless night's recreation and
converse. They talk of literature, or politics, or pictures, or plays;
socially banter one another over their cheap cups; sing brave old songs
sometimes when they are especially jolly: kindly ballads in praise of
love and wine; famous maritime ditties in honour of old England. I
fancy I hear Jack Brent's noble voice rolling out the sad, generous
refrain of " The Deserter," " Then for that reason and for a season we
will be merry before we go," or Michael Percy's clear tenor carolling
the Irish chorus of " What's that to any one, whether or no! " or Mark
Wilder shouting his bottle song of " Garryowen na gloria." These
songs were regarded with affection by the brave old frequenters of the
"Haunt." A gentleman's property in a song was considered sacred.
It was respectfully asked for; it was heard with the more pleasure for
being old. Honest Tom Sarjent! how the times have changed since
we saw thee! I believe the present chief of the reporters of the -




20o                  THE NlE IWCOMES.
newspaper (which responsible office Tom filled) goes to Parliament in,,
his brougham, and dines with the Ministers of the Crown.
Around Tom are seated grave Royal Academicians, rising gay
Associates; writers of other journals besides the Pall Hall 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 byothe 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 "Haunt" in the daytime, and not know it in the
least. " I believe," said Charley Ormond, (A.R.A. he was then)-" I
believe in the day there's no such place at all; and when Betsy
turns the gas off at the door-lamp as we go away, the whole thing
vanishes: the door, the house, the bar, the Haunt, Betsy, the beerboy, Mrs. Nokes and all."  It has vanished: it is to be found no.
more: neither by night nor by day —unless the ghosts of good fellows
still haunt it.
As the genial talk and glass go round, and after Clive and his
friend have modestly answered the;various queries put to them by
good old Tom Sarjent, the acknowledged Praeses of the assembly and
Sachem of this venerable wigwam, the door opens and another wellknown figure is recognised with shouts as it emerges through the
smoke. "Bayham, all hail!" says Tom. "Frederick, I am right
glad to see thee!"
Bayham says he is disturbed in spirit, and calls for a pint of beer
to console him.
" Hast thou flown far, thou restless bird of night?" asks Father
Tom, who loves speaking in blank verses.
" I have come from Cursitor Street," says Bayham, in a low groan.
" I have just been to see a poor devil in quod there. Is that you,
Pendennis? You know the man-Charles Honeyman."
"What!" cries Clive, starting up.




THE NEW WCOMES.                      241
"O my prophetic soul, my uncle!," growls Bayham. "I did not
see the young one; but'tis true.,''The reader is aware that more than the three years have elapsed,
of which time the preceding pages contain the harmless chronicle;
and while Thomas Newcome's leave has been running out and Clive's
mustachios growing, the fate of other persons connected with our
story has also had its development, and their fortune has experienced
its natural progress, its increase or decay. Our tale, such as it has
hitherto been arranged, has passed in leisurely scenes wherein the
present tense is perforce adopted; the writer acting as chorus to the
drama, and occasionally explaining, by hints or more open statements,
what has occurred during the intervals of the acts; and how it happens
that the performers are in such or such a posture. In the modern
theatre, as the play-going critic knows, the explanatory 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
premie're amoureuse. He is the confidant in white linen to the heroine
in white satin. tHe 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 brotherin-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-handkerchief 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 fine eyes upon the French
bonnets of the female aristocracy and see some of the loveliest faces
in May Fair regarding him with expressions of admiration. Actual
dowdy tradesmen of the neighbourhood are seated with their families
16;




242                  THE NE WC OMES.
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 wraistcoat, 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 illconditioned 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. Hierome, he used to be visited by lions. None such come
to him now. Such lions as frequent the clergy are gone off to lick the
feet of other ecclesiastics. They are weary of poor Honeyman'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 conduct, of practice as well as faith; and crowds
of the most polite and most intelligent, and best informed, and best
dressed, and most selfish people in the world come and hear him
twice at least. There are so many well-informed and well-dressed &c.
&c. people in the world that the 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. Meanwhile the good quiet old churches round
about ring their accustomed 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 became acquainted
with it, very tiresome to witness, Fred Bayham, from his garret at
Mrs. Ridley's, kept constant watch over the curate, and told us of his
proceedings from time to time. When we heard the melancholy news
first announced, of course the intelligence damped the gaiety of Clive
and his companion; and F. B., who conducted all the affairs of life
with great gravity, telling Tom Sarjent that he had news of 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 assembly;" and,




THE NVEWICOMES.                     2 t3
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 pariour then, where gas was lighted up;
and F. B., over a pint of beer, narrated poor Honeyman's mishap.
4' Saving your presence, Clive," said Bayham, " and with every regard
for the youthful bloom of your young heart's affections, your uncle,,Charles tHoneyman, 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 Clive's mother.
"Hem! of your poor mother, I-hem-I may say ividi tanturnm. 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 elecampane-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, descended from the ancient
kings that long the Tuscan sceptre swayed, dodge down a street to
get out of sight of a boot-shop, and my colossal frame tremble if a
chap puts his hand on my shoulder, as you did, Pendennis, the other
day in the Strand, when I thought a straw might have knocked me
down'! I have 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 compliments,
-and say F. B. is hungry. I resume my tale. Faults F. B. has, and
knows it. Humbug he may have been sometimes; 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 day. I don't think
Sherrick is a bad fellow. I think he's a good fellow; I have known




244                 THE NE WCOMES.
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 was 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 Sherrick must meddle in it. And, having heard
a chap out Hampstead way who Sherrick thought would do, Honeyman was forced to engage him, regardless of expense. You recollect
the fellow, sir? The Reverend Simeon Rawkins, the lowest of the
Low Church, sir-a red-haired dumpy man, who gasped at his h'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 I might have saved him a pretty penny-a precious.
deal more than the paltry sum which he and I had a quarrel about at.
that time-a matter of business, sir —apecuniary difference about a
small three-months' thing which caused a temporary estrangement
between us. As for Honeyman, he used to cry about it. Your uncle
is great in the 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's has not been altogether Charles's fault; and that
Sherrick has kicked down that property.




THYE NE WCOM07ES.                  ^245
"Well, then, sir, poor Charles thought to make it all right by
marrying Mrs. Brumby!-and she was very fond of him and the
thing was all but done, in spite of her sons, who were in a rage, as
you may fancy. But Charley, sir, has such a propensity for humbug
that he will tell lies when there is no earthly good in lying. He represented his chapel at twelve hundred a year, his private means as so
and so; and when he came to book up with Briggs the lawyer, Mrs.
Brumby's brother, it was found that he lied and -prevaricated so that
the widow, in actual disgust, would have nothing more to do with him.
She was a good woman of business, and managed the hat-shop for
nine years whilst poor Brumby was at Doctor Tokely's. A first-rate
shop it was too. I introduced Charles to it. My uncle, the bishop,
had his shovels there: and they used for a considerable period to
cover this humble roof with tiles," said F. B., tapping his capacious
forehead; " I am sure he might have had Brumby," he added, in his
melancholy tones, " but for those unlucky lies. She didn't want money.
She had plenty. She longed to get into society and was bent on
marrying a gentleman.
"But what I can't pardon in Honeyman is the way in which he
has 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 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 tonight, 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 " ras 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.




T IE NE PVCOA.E~.
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 cominunicated 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 Honeyman's creditors might otherwise have been disposed to
give.
I thought it would be more prudent that our good Samaritan
should not see the victim of rogues whom he was about to succour;.
and left him to entertain himself with Mr. Warrington in Lamb Court,
while I sped to the lock-up house, where the May Fair pet was confined.
A sickly smile played over his countenance as he beheld me when I
was ushered to his private room. The reverend gentleman was not:
shaved; he had partaken of breakfast. I saw a glass which had once
contained brandy on the dirty tray whereon his meal was placed: agreasy 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 machinations of villains are laid
bare with italic fervour; the coldness, to use no harsher phrase, of
friends on whom reliance might have been Aplaced; the outrageous.
conduct of Solomons; the astonishing failure of Smith to pay a sume
of money on which he had counted as on the Bank of England;
finally, the infallible certainlty 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




THE NE WCOMES.                        47
letters by a messenger, who is introduced in the postscript; he is
always sitting in the hall when you get the letter, and is "a young
man waiting for an answer, please."
No one can suppose that Honeyman laid a complete statement of
his affairs before the 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 benefactor, leading him on from surprise to
surprise; and when he is in possession of the tailor's little account,
introducing him to the bootmaker. Honeyman's schedule I felt perfectly certain was not correct. The detainers against him were trifling.
" Mo'ss of Wardour Street, one hundred and twenty-I believe I have
paid him thousands in this very transaction," ejaculates Honeyman.
"A heartless West End tradesman hearing of my misfortune-these
people are all linked together, my dear Pendennis, and rush like
vultures upon their prey!-Waddilove, the tailor, has another writ out
for ninety-eight pounds: a man whom I have made by my recommendations! Tobbins, the bootmaker, his neighbour in Jermyn Street,
forty-one pounds more, and that is all-I give you my word, all. In a
few months, when my pew-rents will be coming in, I should have
settled with those cormorants; othenvise, my total and irretrievable
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
nzea c~ulpa, mnea maxima culja, 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 account from him,
of his dealings with Mr. Sherrick, need not be mentioned here. The
conclusion to which Colonel Newcome's ambassador came was, that
to help such a man 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 neighbour in St. James's, Mr. Brace; and there came a detainer
from that haberdasher for gloves, cravats, and pocket-handkerchiefs,
that might have done credit to the most dandified young Guardsman.
Mr. Warrington was on Mr. Pendennis's side, and urged that 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,




248                 THF NE WCOMES.
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, during which
a plenty of smoke was delivered from the council of three, " that I have
-a fund-which I had set aside for mere purposes of pleasure, I give
you my word, and a part of which I shall think it my duty to devote to
poor Honeyman's distresses. The fund is not large. The 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 no harm.
Besides the tradesfolk, there is good Mrs. Ridley and Mr. Sherrickwe 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 what-do-you-call-'em's-that rum fellow
Bayham's-name as drawer. A nice pair, ain't they? Pooh! I shall
never touch'em. I lent some money on the shop overhead," says
Sherrick, pointing to the ceiling (we were in his counting-house in the
cellar of Lady Whittlesea's chapel), " because I thought it was a good
speculation. And so it was at first. The people liked Honeyman.
All the nobs came to hear him. Now the speculation ain't so good.
He's used up. A chap can't be expected to last for ever. When
I first engaged Mademoiselle Bravura at my theatre, you couldn't get
a place for three weeks together. The next year she didn't draw
twenty pounds a week. So it was with Pottle and the regular drama
humbug. At first it was all very well. Good business, good houses,
our immortal bard, and that sort of game. They engaged the tigers
and the French riding people over the way: and there was Pottle
bellowing away in my place to the orchestra and the orders. It's all
a speculation. I've speculated in about pretty much everything that's
going: in theatres, in joint-stock jobs, in building-ground, in bills,
in gas and insurance companies, and in this chapel. Poor old Honeyman! I won't hurt him. About that other chap I put in to do the
first business-that red-haired chap, Rawkins-I think I was wrong.
I think he injured the property. But I don't know everything, you
know. I wasn't bred to know about parsons-quite the reverse. I
thought, when I heard Rawkins at Hampstead, he was just the thing.
I used to go about, sir, just as I did to the provinces, when I had the




THE NE WCO.MES.                     249
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 precious lot of rogues,
in the City and out of it, among the swells and all you know, that to:see such a fellow refreshes me; and I'd do anything for him. You've:made a good thing out of that Pall Mall Gazette! I tried papers too;
but mine didn't do. I don't know why. I tried a Tory one, moderate Liberal, and out-and-out uncompromising Radical. I say, what,d'ye think of a religious paper, the 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. Sherrick, not a little
-edified by his talk, and greatly relieved as to Honeyman's fate. The
tradesmen of Honeyman's body were appeased; and as for Mr. Moss,
when he found that the curate had no effects, and must go before the
Insolvent Court, unless Moss chose to take the composition which we'were empowered to offer him, he too was brought to hear reason, and
*parted with the stamped paper on which was poor Honeyman's sigtnature. Our negotiation had like to have come t6 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 beayviour on Noocob's part," further than remonstrance and
delay in the proceedings; and Honeyman preached a lovely sermon
at Lady Whittlesea's the very next Sunday. He had made himself
much liked in the sponging-house, and Mr. Lazarus said, " If he
hadn't got out time enough, I'd a let him out for Sunday, and sent
one of my men with him to show him the way'ome, you know; for
when a gentleman behaves as a gentleman to me, I behave as a
gentleman to him."
Mrs. Ridley's account, and it was a long one, was paid without a
single question, or the deduction of a farthing; but the Colonel rather
sickened of Honeyman's expressions of rapturous gratitude, and
received his professions of mingled contrition and delight very coolly.
"My boy," says the father to Clive, "you see to what straits debt
brings a man, to tamper with truth, to have to cheat the poor. Think
of flying before a washerwoman, or humbling yourself to a tailor, or
eating a poor man's children's bread 1" 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,
land paid it last week. Anything I have is yours, you know. As long




250                 THE NE WCOUMES.
as there is a guinea, there is half for you. See that every shilling we
owe is paid before-before a week is over. And go down and ask
Binnie if I can see him in his study. I want to have some conversation with him." When Clive was gone away, he said to me in a very
sweet voice, "In God's name, keep my boy out of debt when I am
gone, Arthur. I shall return to India very soon."
"Very soon, sir! You have another year's leave," said I.
"Yes, but no allowances, you know; and this affair of 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. [ thought at one time how pleasant it would be
to accompany him. But l'homme i5roiose, Pendennis. I fancy now
a lad is not the better for being always tied to his parent's apronstring. You young fellows are too clever for me. I haven't learned
your ideas or read your books. I feel myself very often an old damper
in your company. I will go back, sir, where I have some friends, and
where I am somebody still. I know an honest face or two white and
brown, that will lighten up in the old regiment when they see Tom
Newcome 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 remembrance of me and my boy, to whom you were
so kind when you were boys together in the old Grey Friars."
I took his hand, and uttered some) incoherent words of affection
and respect. Did not Thomas Newcome merit both from all who
knew him?
His resolution being taken, our good Colonel began to make silent
but effectual preparations for his coming departure. He was pleased,
during these last days of his stay to give me even more of his 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 spoiling him. I perceive I am diverging from his history




THE NiE WBCOMES.                    251
into that of another person, and will return to the subject proper of
the book.
Colonel Newcome expressed himself as being particularly touched
and pleased with his friend Binnie's conduct, now that the Colonel's
departure was determined. "James is one of the most generous of
men, 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. Sherrick, and am answerable for the payment
of the rent till the expiry of the lease. James has taken the matter
off my hands entirely. The place is greatly too large for him, but 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
lakh of rupees —and here is a hint for you, Master Arthur. Mr. Binnie
has declared to me in confidence that if his niece, Miss Rosey, shall
marry a person of whom he approves, he will leave her a considerable
part of his fortune."
The Colonel's confidant here said that his own arrangements were
made in another quarter, to which statement the Colonel replied
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 sweettempered 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 disposition, 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 Prince and Princess of
the Fairy Tale; and dear Mrs. Mackenzie,-(have I said that at the
commencement of her visit to her brother she made almost open love
to the Colonel?)-dear Mrs. Mack was content to forego her own
chances so that her darling Rosey might be happy. Wre used to




252                 THE NEWCOIVES.
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 advertisement of
the sale of three horses (the description and pedigree following), " the
property of an officer returning to India. Apply to the groom, at the
stables, 120, Fitzroy Square."
The Court of Directors invited Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome 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 parting benediction;
slept a night at Tom Smith's, and passed a day with Jack Brown;
went to all the boys' and girls' schools where his little protdgds 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-Chapelle. 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 downstairs from the drawing-room, in Park Lane, and
actually came out and saw his brother into his cab (ust as he would
accompany old Lady Bagges when she came to look at her account
at the bank, from the parlour to her carriage). But as for Ethel she
was not going to be put off with this sort of parting; and the next




THE NE WCOiME.                       253
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 lodgings were taken for Mr. Binnie and.
his ladies. Clive and her dearest Colonel had apartments next door,
Charles Honeyman came down and preached one of his very best
sermons. Fred Bayham was there, and looked particularly grand and
noble on the pier and 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 greatly 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 very easily moved, and, as it were, a softened
sinner. Little Rosey and her mother sobbed audibly, greatly to the
surprise of stout old Miss Honeyman, who had no idea of such 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 seethe good man and his boy yet clinging to him as they. pace together
by the shore.
The Colonel was very much pleased by a visit from Mr. Ridley,.
and the communication which he made (my Lord Todmorden 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 under 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




254                 TNHE NE WVCOirES.
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 lib'ral manner, and have asked my son to dinner, sir, at his
lordship's own table, which I have faithfully served him five-and-thirty
years." Ridley's voice fairly broke down at this part of his speech,
which evidently was a studied composition, and he uttered no more of
it, for the Colonel cordially shook him by the hand; and Clive jumped
up clapping his, and saying that it was the greatest wish of his heart
that J. J. and he should be companions in France and Italy. " But
I did not like to ask my dear old father," he said, "who has had
so many calls on his purse, and besides, I knew that J. J. was too
independent to come as my follower."
The Colonel's berth has been duly secured ere now. This time he
makes the overland journey; and his passage is to Alexandria, taken
in one of the noble ships of the Peninsular and Oriental Company.
His kit is as simple as a subaltern's; I believe, but for Clive's friendly
compulsion, he would have carried back no other than the old uniform
which has served him for so many years. Clive and his father travelled to Southampton together by themselves. F. B. and I took the
Southampton coach: we had asked leave to see the last of him, and
say a "God bless- you" to our dear old friend. So the day came
when the vessel was to sail. We saw his cabin, and witnessed all the
bustle and stir on board the good ship on a day of departure. Our
thoughts, however, were fixed but on one person-the case, no doubt,
with hundreds more on such a day. There was many a group of
friends closing wistfully together on the sunny deck, and saying the
last words of blessing and farewell. The bustle of the ship passes
dimly round about them; the hurrying noise of crew and officers
running on their 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 Clive 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




THE nE EWCOMES.                      255
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?




j 6                TE NE W'COMES.
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; and at the
moment of his departure from Europe had two lakhs of rupees.
invested in various Indian securities. "A thousand a year," he thought,
" more added to the interest accruing from my two lakhs, will enable
us to live very comfortably at home. I can give Clive ten thousand
pounds when he marries, and five hundred a year out of my alIowances. 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 painting.
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 Lis 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 married
to 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 represents a house in the
Regent's Park, with an emigrative tendency towards Belgravia —
musical daughters —Herr Moscheles, Benedict, Ella, Osborne, constantly at dinner-sonatas in P flat (op. 936), composed and dedicated




THE NE WCOMES.                       257
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 hundred a year, and makes an
artist of him. Euphemia and Flora adore artists; they feel quite
interested about this young man. - "He was scribbling caricatures
all the time I was talking with his father in my parlour," says
Mr. Baines, and produces 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 do anything," said goodnatured Mr. Baines. " I guess all the pictures he'll paint won't sell for
much."
"' Is he fond of music, papa?" asks Miss. "What a pity he had
not come to our last evening; and now the season is over!"
" And Mr. 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, sketchingstools, umbrellas, and painting-boxes, the most elaborate 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 millboards, those
slab-tinted sketching-blocks, and glistening rows of colour-tubes lying
in their boxes, which seemed to cry, " Come, squeeze me." If paintingboxes made painters; if sketching-stools would but enable one to
sketch, surely I would hasten this very instant to Messrs. Soap and
Isaac! but, alas! these pretty toys no more make artists than cowls
make monks.
As a proof that Clive did intend to practise his profession, and to
live by it too, at this time he took four sporting sketches to a printseller 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 allowance 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
I7




258                  THPE NE WCOMES.
in honour 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, with
Fred Bayham 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 mnonde had quitted it; the Park
was empty as we crossed it; and the leaves of Kensington Gardens
had begun to fall, dying after the fatigues of a London 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 steam-boat to Antwerp; and those
who love pictures may imagine how the two young men rejoiced in
one of the most picturesque cities of the world; where they went back
straightway into the sixteenth century; where the inn at which they
stayed (delightful old " Grand Labourer," 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
" Htel 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 unmatched almost in Europe. And this is
followed by a description 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 Lifeguard's 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




TM=E   E N TECOMES.                259
Grey Friars man, who has become a student at the university; of a
commerz, a drunken bout; and a students' duel at Bonn.  "And
whom should I find here," says Mr. Clive, "but Aunt Ann, Ethel,
Miss Quigley, and the little ones, the 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.
" 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 behaviour since'we have met. It
was on the little hill at Godesberg, J. J. and I were mounting to the
ruin, followed by the beggars who waylay you, -and have taken the
place of the other robbers who used to live there, when there came
a procession of donkeys down the steep, and I heard a little voice
cry,'Hullo! it's Clive! hooray, Clive!' and an ass came pattering
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 grey, he is so old. Then
came two donkeysful of children, 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 chequered 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 flowers which she held, blue,
yellow, and red poppies, and so forth.
" J J. says,' I think the birds began to sing louder when she came.'
We have both agreed that she is the handsomest woman in England.
It's not her form merely, which is certainly as yet too thin and a little
angular-it is her colour. I do not care for woman or picture without
colour. O ye carnations! 0 ye lilia ris/a'rosis! Oh, such black
hair and solemn eyebrows! It seems to me the roses and carnations
have bloomed again since we saw them last in London, when they




260                  THE NAE WtCOMES.
were drooping from the exposure to night air, candlelight, and heated
ball-rooms.
" Here I was in the midst of a regiment of donkeys, bearing acrowd of relations; J. J. standing modestly in the backgroundbeggars 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 certainly will be-and other
lights will be only minor fires. You may paint her form, but you can't
paint her colour; 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 will make sunshine,
and no blue that is a bit like sky. And so with pictures: I think you
only get signs of colour, and formulas to stand for it. That brickdust
which we agree to 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 colour-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-humour, I believe that he found a certain
pleasure in a bottle of claret, which most men's systems were incapable
of feeling.
This spring-time of youth is the season of letter-writing. A lad in
high health and spirits, the blood running briskly in his young veins,
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 he enjoys, and which were not complete unless
a friend were by to share 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 tilre, and confidant in particular; to endow the confidant.
in question with a number of virtues and excellences which existed




THE ANE WCOME S.                     26 
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 to the present
biographer by "his affectionate friend, Clive Newcome," still bear on
the title-pages the marks of that boyish hand and youthful fervour.
He had a copy of "Walter Lorraine" bound and gilt with such
splendour as made the author blush for his performance, which has
since been seen at the book-stalls at a price suited to the very humblest
-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 portion of his youthful history is compiled. It may serve to
recall passages of their early days to such of his seniors as occasionally turn over the leaves of a novel; and in the story of his 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 journey
which everybody knows, and sketching the mountains and castles we
all of us have sketched. Ethel's beauty made all the passengers on all
the steamers look round and admire. Clive was proud of being in the
suite of such a lovely person. The family travelled with a pair of
those carriages which used to thunder along the continental roads a
dozen years since, and from interior, box, and rumble discharge a dozen
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-;chamnbre, it being agreed between him and J. J. that two travelling
artists have no right to such an aristocratic appendage; but he has




262                  THE NE WCOMES.
bought a snug little britzska at Frankfort (the youth has very polite
tastes, is already a connoisseur in wine, and has no scruple in ordering
the best at the hotels,) and the britzska travels in company withLady Ann's caravan, either in its wake, so as to be out of reach of the
dust, or more frequently a-head of that enormous vehicle and its tender,
in which come the children and the governess of Lady Ann Newcome,.
guarded by a huge and melancholy London footman, who beholds
Rhine and Neckar, valley and mountain, village and ruin, with a likedismal composure. Little Alfred and little Egbert are by no meanssorry to escape from Miss Quigley and the tender, and ride for a stageor two in Clive's britzska. The little girls cry sometimes to be admittedto that privilege. I daresay 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, content and good-humour shining
in his honest face, pleased and pleasing, eager, active, and thankful
for services, and exercising bravely his noble youthful privilege to be
happy and to enjoy. Sing, cheery spirit, whilst the spring lasts;
bloom whilst the sun shines, kindly flowers of youth! You shall be
none the worse to-morrow for' having been happy to-day, if the day
brings no action to shame it. As for J. J., he, too, had his share of
enjoyment; the charming scenes around him did not escape his bright
eye; he absorbed pleasure in his silent way; he was up 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 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 lands-capes 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 presently,
giving a new source of amusement to these merry travellers, and
little Alfred would laugh at J. J.'s laughing; and so, with a hundred
harmless jokes to enliven, and the ever-changing, ever-charming smiles




THE  ~ EWCOMES.                      263
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 down, and deeply meditate
the infallible coup; and try it, and lose it, and borrow a hundred
francs to go home; where even virtuous British ladies venture their
little stakes, and draw up their winnings with trembling rakes, by the
side of ladies who are not virtuous at all, no, not even by name;
where young prodigals break the bank sometimes, and carry plunder
out of a place which Hercules himself could scarcely compel; where
you meet wonderful 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, persons, luck, even eyes, are devoted to the infernal
gods, we may be sure is not wanting in that Babel. Where does one
not hear it? "D —  the luck," says Lord Kew, as the croupier
sweeps off his lordship's rouleaux. " D-  the luck," says Brown
the 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, sacrd coup,;' cries M. le Vicomte de Florac, as his last
louis parts company from him-each cursing 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 watchhouse, or at the "Third Cataract,' or at a Newmarket meeting, you
would not be surprised. He goes everywhere; 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
gaily 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




264                 THE NE WCOMES.
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.




THE NE WCOiMES.                     265
CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN WHICH CLIVE BEGINS TO SEE THE WORLD.
IN the company assembled at Baden Clive found one or two old
acquaintances; among them his friend of Paris, M. de Florac,
not in quite so brilliant a condition as when Newcome had last met
him on the Boulevard. Florac owned that Fortune 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 Bdnazet's crown-pieces: whatever side they took was, however, the unlucky one. " This campaign has been my Moscow, mon,cher," Florac owned to Clive. " I am conquered by Bdnazet; I have
lost in almost every combat. I have lost my treasure, my baggage,
my ammunition of war, everything but my honour, which, au reste,
Mons. B6nazet will not accept as a stake; if he would, there are
plenty here, believe me, who would set it on the Trente et Quarante.
Sometimes I have had a mind to go home; my mother, who is an angel,
all forgiveness, would receive her prodigal, and kill the fatted veal for
me. But what will you? He annoys me —the domestic veal.
Besides, my brother, the Abb6, though the best of Christians, is a
Jew upon certain matters; a Benazet who will not tro'uer absolution
except against repentance; and I have not a sou of repentance in my
pocket! I have been sorry, yes-but it was because odd catne up in
place of even, or the reverse. The accursed ahreds has chased me like
a remorse, and when black has come up I have wished myself converted to red. Otherwise I have no repentance; I amjoueur-nature
has made me so, as she made my brother ddvot. 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 Pi&t. I owned
to him that I would pawn his cross and ring to go play: the good
prelate laughed, and said his chaplain should keep an eye on them.
Will you dine with me? The landlord of my hotel was the intendant
of our cousin, the Duc d'Ivry, and will give me credit to the day of
judgment. I do not abuse his noble confidence. My dear! there are
covers of silver put on my table every day with which I could retrieve
my fortune, did I listen to the suggestions of Satanas; but I say to




266                  THE NE WCOiMES.
him, Vade retro. Come and dine with mne-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 Moscow. His courage was known,
and his character for bravery, and another kind of gallantry probably
exaggerated by his bad reputation. Had his mother not been alive,
perhaps he would have believed in the virtue of no woman. But this
one he worshipped, and spoke with tenderness and enthusiasm of her
constant love, and patience, and goodness. " See her miniature! " he
said, " I never separate myself from it-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 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 Florac must weep a good
deal," he said.
"Enormeinent, 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 6crevisses, they are
most succulent. Take warning by me, and avoid both. I saw you ruder
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,
n6cessaire parted for Strasbourg! Where is my fur pelisse, Fr6deric?"
" Parbleu! vous le savez bien, Monsieur le Vicomte," says Fr6ddric,
the domestic, who was waiting on Clive and his friend.'f A pelisse lined with true sable, and worth three thousand francs,
that I won of a little Russian at billiards. That pelisse is at Strasbourg (where the infamous worms of the Mount of Piety are actually
gnawing her). Two hundred francs and this reconnaissance, whichl
Frddtric received, are all that now represents the pelisse. How many
chemises have I, Frederic?"




THE NE WCOMES.                       267
"Eh, parbleu, Monsieur le Vicomte sait bien que nous avons
coujours vingt-quatre chemises," says Fr6deric, 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! Bedltre!   igNiaud!" He flings open one
drawer after another, but there are no signs of that superfluity of linen
of which the domestic spoke, whose countenance now changes from a
grim frown to a grim smile.
"Ah, my faithful Frederic, I pardon thee! Mr. Newcome will
understand my harmless szliercherie. Fr6deric was in my company of
the Guard, and remains with me since. He is Caleb Balderstone and
I am Ravenswood. Yes, I am Edgar. Let us have coffee and a
cigar, B3alderstone."
"Plait-il Monsieur le Vicomte?" says the French Caleb.
"Thou comprehendest not English. Thou readest not Valtare
Scott, thou!" cries the master. "I was recounting to Monsieur
Newcome thy history and my misfortunes. Go seek coffee for us,
Nzigaud." And as the two gentlemen partake of that exhilarating
liquor, the elder confides gaily to his guest the reason why he prefers
taking coffee at the Hotel to the coffee at the great Caf -of the
"Redoute," with a duris turgns ist robays egestass! pronounced in the
true French manner.
Clive was greatly amused by the gaiety of the Viscount after his
misfortunes and his Moscow; and thought that one of Mr. Baines's
circular notes might not be ill laid out in succouring this hero. It
may have been to this end that Florac's confessions tended; though,
to do him justice, the incorrigible young fellow would confide his
adventures to any one who would listen; and the exact state of his
wardrobe, and the story of his pawned pelisse, dressing-case, rings
and watches, were known to all Baden.
"You, tell me to marry and range myself," said Clive, (to whom
the Viscount was expatiating upon the charms of the superbe young
Aln laise 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 days, as poor we remain. My cousins the Duc d'Ivry's sons
and his grandson were still alive. Seeing no other resource and
pursued by the Arabs, I espoused the Vicomtesse de Florac. 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 Comt6 of Lancastre? She was then a person of a ripe age.
The Vicomtesse is now-ah! it is fifteen years since, and she dies
not. Our union was not happy, my friend-Madame Paul de Florac




n68                 TIlE NE WCOMES.
is of the reformed religion —not of the Anglican church, you understand-but a dissident, I know not of what sort. We inhabited the
HOtel de Florac for a while after our union, which was all of convenience, you understand. She filled her salon with ministers to
make you die. She assaulted my poor father in his garden-chair,
whence he could not escape her. She told my sainted mother that
she was an idolatress-she who only idolatrises her children! She
called us other poor Catholics who follow the rites of our fathers, des
Romishes; and Rome, Babylon; and the Holy Father-a scarleteh! a scarlet abomination. She outraged my mother, that angel;
essayed to convert the antechamber and the office; put little books
in the Abbe's bed-room. Eh, my friend! what a good king was
Charles IX., and his mother what a wise sovereign! I lament that
Madame de Florac should have escaped the St. Barthelemi, when no
doubt she was spared on account of her tender age. We have been
separated for many years; her income was greatly exaggerated. Beyond
the payment of my debts I owe her nothing. I wish I could say as
much of all the rest of the world. Shall we take a turn of promenade?
Mlauvais sujet! I see you are longing to be at the green table."
Clive was not longing to be at the green table; but his companion
was never easy at it or away from it. Next to winning, losing, M. de
Florac said, was the best sport-next to losing, looking on. So he
and Clive went down to the "Redoute," where Lord Kew was
playing, with a crowd of awe-struck amateurs and breathless punters
admiring his valour and fortune; and Clive, saying that he knew
nothing about the game, took out five napoleons from his purse, and
besought Florac 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 Florac brought quite a
handful of gold pieces to his principal. Then Clive, I daresay blushing as he made the proposal, offered half the handful of napoleons to
M. de Florac, to be repaid when he thought fit. And fortune must
have been very favourable 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 appeared with his shirt-studs (of course with
his shirts also), reletsed 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 britzska 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."




THE NE WCOMIES.                      26g
This was Mr. Clive's first and last appearance as a gambler.
J. J. looked very grave when he heard of these transactions. Clive's
French friend did not please his English companion at all, nor thefriends of Clive's French friend, the Russians, the Spaniards, the
Italians, of sounding titles and 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 Duc Ulysse. It was the Marquise Ariane to whom the
Prince The'se had behaved so shamefully, and who had taken to,
Bacchus as a consolation. It was Madame Medee, who had absolutely killed her old father by her conduct regarding Jason; she had
done everything for Jason; she had got him the boison d'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 people who passed under their
palace windows-jolly rebels and repealers of the law.  Ah, if
Mrs. Brown, whose children 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 withdraws 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 dexterously 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 he will never be able to understand if he lives
to be a hundred years old); the night brought him a long sleep, and




270                 THE NE WCOMES.
the morning a glad waking. To those privileges of youth what enjoy.
ments of age are comparable? what achievements of ambition? 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 alr
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 sills
bones are picked and their tender flesh devoured.
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 period of their lives,
Among Colonel Newcome's papers to which the family biographer has
had subsequent access, there are a couple of letters from Clive, datedc
Baden, at this time, and full of happiness, gaiety, and affection. Letter
No. i says, "Ethel is the prettiest girl here. At the. assemblies
all the Princes, Counts, Dukes, Parthians, Medes, and Elamites, aret
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 "Stzff;" 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 I do. E. N."
In letter No. 2, the first two pages are closely written in Clive's
hand-writing, describing his pursuits and studies,.and giving amusing
details, of the life at Baden, and the company whom he met therenarrating his rencontre with their Paris friend, M. de Florac, and the
arrival of the Duchesse d'Ivry, Florac's cousin, whose titles the Vicomte
will probably inherit. Not a word about Florac'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 original
five pounds in his pocket-proposing never to play any more. " Ethel,"
he concludes, " is looking over my shoulder. - She thinks me such a
delightful:creature that she is never easy without me. She bids me
to say that I am the best of sons and cousins, and am, in- a word, a
darling 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




THE NE WCOVES.                       271
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 knove youz like to hear no 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-humour. Everybody likes him.
He is quite unaffected; always gay; always pleased. He draws more
and more beautifully every 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 wrong, 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 notre monde, and Clive ought to belong to it.
"We met him at Bonn on our way to a great family gathering
here; where, I must tell you, we are assembled for what I call the
Congress of Baden! The chief of the house of Kew is here, and what
time he does not devote to skittles, to smoking cigars, to the jeu in
the evenings, to Madame d'Ivry, to Madame de Cruchecassee, 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 Hobson has returned to Lombard Street to relieve
guard. I think you will hear before very long of Lady Clara Newcome.
Grandmamma, who was to have presided at the Congress of Baden,
and still, you know, reigns over the house of Kew, has been stopped
at Kissingen with an attack of rheumatism; I pity poor Aunt Julia,




272                 THE NArTE, WCOMES.
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 amusing
games are played at Baden, which are not performed, so to speak, surtable. These little diversions andjeux de societd can go on anywhere;.
in an alley in the park; in a picnic to this old schloss, or that pretty
hunting lodge; at a tea-table in a lodging-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
thousands of people are drinking and chattering, lounging and
smoking, whilst the Austrian brass band, in the little music pavilion,.
plays the most delightful mazurkas and waltzes. Here the widow plays
her black suit, and sets her bright eyes against the rich bachelor,
elderly or young, as may be. Here the artful practitioner, who hasdealt 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 Lackland plays his coronet, of which the jewels have long since
been in pawn, against Miss Bags' three per cents. And so two or
three funny little games were going on at Baden amongst our immediate acquaintance; besides that vulgar sport round the green table,
at which the mob, 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 Miss Ethel Newcome's letter:
likewise some passions have been in play, of which a modest young
English maiden could not be aware. Do not, however, let us be too
prematurely proud of our virtue.  That tariff of British virtue is
wonderfully organised.  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 professes
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 according to the English
social constitution, and shame honourable. Truth, if yours happens.
to differ from your neighbour's, provokes your friend's coldness, your
motherJs tears, the world's persecution. Love is not to be dealt in,
save under restrictions which kill its sweet healthy free commerce.




THE NE WCOMVES.                      273
Sin in man is so light, that scarce the fine of a penny is imposed;
while for woman it is so heavy that no repentance can wash it out.
Ah! yes; all stories are old. You 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-hunters stroll, and smoke, and flirt, and
hum: and wonder sometimes, 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; or brother Straitlace,
that grudges his repentance? Is it downcast Hagar, that slinks away
with poor little Ishmael in her hand; or bitter old virtuous Sarah, who
scowls at her from my demure Lord Abraham's arm?
One day of the previous May, when of course everybody went to
visit the Water-colour Exhibitions, Ethel Newcome was taken to see
the pictures by her grandmother, 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 and pathos-a friendless young girl cowering in a
doorway, evidently without home or shelter. The exquisite fidelity of
the details, and the plaintive beauty of the expression of the child,
attracted old Lady Kew's admiration, who was an excellent 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 hobbled about, saw a very sarcastic expression in
the girl's eyes.
" You have no taste for pictures, only for painters, I 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
I8




274                 THE NEWCO1L'S.
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 colour; what
a romantic gloom; what a flowing pencil and dexterous hand! " Lady
Kew could delight in pictures, applaud good poetry, and squeeze out a
tear over a good novel too. That afternoon, young Dawkins, the
rising water-colour artist, who used to come daily to the gallery and
stand delighted before his own piece, was aghast to 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, however, 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 0f
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 tableau-vivant, papa.  I am
Number 46 in the Exhibition of the Gallery of Painters in Watercolours."
"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, boxed her ears, 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 rojv 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. Johnson upstairs, half-anhour before, was swearing out of his dressing-room at Mrs. Johnson,
for having ordered a turbot instead of a salmon, or that Mrs. Johnson,
now talking to Lady Jones so nicely about their mutual darling children,
was crying her eyes out as her maid was fastening her gown, as the
carriages were actually driving up? The servants know these things,




THE NE WVCOIVES.                      275'but not we in the dining-room. Hark, with what a respectful tone
Johnson begs the clergyman present to say grace!
Whatever these family quarrels may have been, let bygones be
bygones, and let us be perfectly sure that, to whatever purpose 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 called him dear Fritz, as by his godfathers and godmothers, in his baptism, Mr. Kuhn was called. Clive 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 those noble personages, of whose lofty society you
will, however, see but little.
For though I would like to go into an Indian Brahmin's house,
and see the punkahs, and the purdahs, and tatties, 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, fnow
frightening her with sermons, now drugging her with bhang, 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'~ 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;
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 I,ooo in Grosvenor Square, but to partake of a dinner of herbs rather than of that stalled ox which their




276                  THE NEV WCOM'VES.
cook is roasting whole.  There are some people who are not so,
squeamish. The family comes of course; the most reverend the
Lord Arch-Brahmin of Benares will attend the ceremony; there will.
be flowers, and lights, and white favours; and quite a string of
carriages up to the pagoda; and such a breakfast afterwards; and
music in the street and little parish boys hurrahing; and no end of
speeches within and tears shed (no doubt), and his grace the ArchBrahmin 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.
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 blasphemy against the godlike name of love, the sordid
surrender, the smiling dishonour. What the deuce does a manage
de convenance 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 agonised 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,hei 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 all 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 Honourable 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 gentlemen of spirit will do;
sowing their wild oats plentifully, and scattering them with boyish
profusion. Lord Kew's luck had blessed him with more sacks of oats




THE JNE WCOMES.                     277
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 dicebox. He played two nights and two days at a sitting with Charles
Fox, when they both lost sums awful to reckon. He played often with
Lord Steyne, and came away, as all men did, dreadful sufferers from
those midnight encounters. His descendants incurred the penalties
of the progenitor's imprudence, and Chanticlere, though one of the
finest -castles in England, is splendid 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 county, and among 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 honourably 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,shilling to pay for a cab or a cigar; what ravens fed him; was a
wonder to all. The young men claimed kinsmanship with one another,
which those who are learned in the peerage may unravel.
When Lord Dorking's eldest daughter married the Honourable and
Venerable Dennis Gallowglass, Archdeacon of Ballintubber (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 aneicidezts were wofully against




278                  THE NTE WVCO1VES.
him; as she was never allowed to sit near him at dinner, or to wallc
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
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. &c. &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 fronm.
that 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; all the rest dreary
vistas of brown holland, rolled Turkey carpets, gaunt ancestors on the
walls scowling out of the twilight blank. The imagination is at liberty
to depict his lordship, with one candle, over his dreadful endless tapes
and papers; her ladyship with the other, and an old, old novel, wherein, perhaps, Mrs. Radcliffe describes a castle as dreary as her own:
and poor little Clara sighing and crying in the midst of these funereal
splendours, as lonely and heart-sick as Oriana in her moated grange:
poor little Clara!
Lord 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-h-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 say, no opera of certdin 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,
policeman, and away with you! The carriage rolls in through




THIE NE WCOMIES.                      279
St. James's Park; Jack sits alone with his sword dropped to the
ground, or only atra cura on the crupper behind him; and Snip, the
tailor, in the crowd, thinks it is for fear of him Jack's head droops.
Lady Clara Pulleyn is presented by her mother, the Countess of
Dorking; and Jack is arrested that 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 appearances as Charles Belsize, commonly called the
Honourable Charles Belsize, whose dealings were smartly chronicled
by the indignant moralists of the press of those days. The Scourge
flogged him heartily. The Wthiz (of which the accomplished editor
was himself in Whitecross Street Prison,) was especially virtuous
regarding him; and the Pennly Voice of Freedom gave him an awful
dressing. I am not here to scourge sinners; I am true to my party;
it is the other side this humble pen attacks; let us keep to the virtuous and respectable, for as for poor sinners they get the whippingpost 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; 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 what crush-rooms, quadrilles, bouquets,
balls, and in which were scrawled Jack's love, and passion, and
ardour. How many a time had he looked into the dictionary at
White's to see whether eternal was spelt with an e, and adore with
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 destroyed.
To do him justice he burnt them loyally every one along with his




280                 THE NE'47COMES.
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 colour 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 Newcome, 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, &c. &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 t quelle sauce elle serait manzgde,)
protested against this little affair of traffic; Lady Dorking had a brood
of little chickens to succeed Clara. There was little Hennie, who was
sixteen, and Biddy, who was fourteen, and Adelaide, and who knows
how many more? How could she refuse a young man, not very
agreeable it is true, nor particularly amiable, nor of good birth, at
least on his father's 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 Newcome killed at Bosworth, along with King Richard,
and hated Henry VII. as an enemy of their noble race. So all the
parties were pretty well agreed. Lady Ann wrote rather a pretty
little poem about welcoming the white Fawn to the Newcome bowers,
and "Clara" was made to rhyme with "fairer," and "timid does




THE NVE WCOllES.                     28I
-and antlered deer to dot the glades of Chanticlere," quite in a
picturesque way. Lady Kew pronounced that the poem was very
pretty indeed.
The year after Jack Belsize made his foreign tour he returned to
London for the season. Lady Clara did not happen to be there; her
health was a little delicate, and her kind parents took her abroad; so
all things went on very smoothly and comfortably indeed.
Yes, but when things were so quiet and comfortable, when the
ladies of the two families had met at the Congress of Baden, and,liked each other so much; when Barnes and his papa the Baronet,
recovered from his illness, were actually on their journey from Aix-laChapelle, 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 Guardssimple 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 New-,come, 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 daresay 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 Florac was of the party; he had been.exceedingly jocular when Lord Kew's name was mentioned, and said,.6 Ce petit Kiou! M. le Duc d'Ivry, mon oncle, l'honore d'une amiti6
toute particuliere." These three gentlemen walked out; the promenade
was crowded, the band was playing "Home, sweet Home" very
sweetly, and the very first persons they met on the walk were the
Lords of Kew and Dorking, on the arm of which latter venerable peer
his daughter Lady 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 recognised
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 life.




282                  THIE NE WCOIES.
less on the gravel-walk. Then the old earl recognised 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.
" I-ands 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. Florac 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 every 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'H8tel 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!




THE NE WCOMES&                       283
CHAPTER  YXXIX.
IN WHICH BARNES COMES A WOOING.
THEL had all along known that her holiday was to be a short
one, and that, her papa and Barnes arrived, there was to be nomore laughing and fun, and sketching and walking with 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 promenade; of
course it was necessary to inform the young bridegroom of the facts.
His acquaintances of the public, who by this time know his temper,.
and are acquainted with his language, can imagine the explosions of
the one and the vehemence of the other; it was a perfectfel d'artzfice
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, ne was disposed to treat that
very lightly. " Poor dear Clara, of course, of course," he said, " she's
been accustomed to fainting fits; no wonder she was agitated on the
sight of that villain, after his infernal treatment of her. If I had been.
there" (a volley of oaths comes here along the whole line), " I should
have strangled the scoundrel; I should have murdered him."
"Mercy, Barnes," cries Lady Ann.
"It was a mercy Barnes was not there," says Ethel, gravely; "a;
fight between him and Captain Belsize would have been awfulI
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 gallant regiment,
and brother Barnes was but a puny young gentleman, the idea of a
personal conflict between them was rather ridiculous; Some notion of
this sort may have passed through Sir Brian's mind, for the Baronet




284                  THE AE WCOMES.
said with his usual solemnity, " It is the cause, Ethel, it is the cause,
zany 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.
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 halfdozen sketches of Baden; Ethel on horseback again; the children
and the dogs just in the old way. " D- him, is he here?" screams
out Barnes. " Is that young pot-house villain here? and hasn't Kew
knocked his head off? Clive Newcome is here, sir," he cries out to
his father. " The Colonel's son. I have no doubt they met by   "
" By what, Barnes?" says Ethel.
"Clive is here, is he?" says the Baronet; "making caricatures,
hey? You did not mention him in your letters, Lady Ann."
Sir Brian was evidently very much touched by his last attack.
Ethel blushed; it was a curious fact, but there had been no mention
of Clive in the ladies' letters to Sir Brian.
" My dear, we met him by the merest chance, at Bonn, travelling
with a friend of his; and he speaks a little German, and was very,useful to us, and took one of the boys in his britzska the whole way."
" Boys always crowd in a carriage," says Sir Brian; "kick your
shins; always in the way. I remember, when we used to come in,the carriage from Clapham, when we were boys, I used to kick my
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 d'y'do, 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," continues
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 Pulleyn, I believe, is very unwell,
indeed."




THEE.NE WCO MES                     285
"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."
"What do you mean?" says Barnes, looking very serious in anr
instant.
"Easy, my good friend. Not so very loud. It appears, Ethel,
that poor Jack —I know him pretty well, you see, Barnes, and may
call him by what names I like-had been dining to-day with cousin
Clive; he and M. de Florac; 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 a loud
voice.
" I daresay he will, if you ask him," says the other drily; " but not
before ladies. He'd be afraid of frightening them. Poor Jack wasalways as gentle as a lamb before women. I had some talk with the
Frenchman just now," continued Lord Kew gaily, 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 little fou, your friend
Jack. He drank champagne at dinner like an ogre. How is the
charrnan/e Miss Clara?'  Floiac, you see, calls her Miss Clara,
Barnes; the world calls her Lady Clara. You call her Clara. You
happy dog, you."
"I don't see why that infernal young cub of a Clive is always,
meddling in our affairs," cries out Barnes, whose rage was perpetually
being whipped into new outcries.  "Why has he been about thins
house? Why is he here?"
" It is very well for you that he was, Barnes," Lord Kew said.
"The young fellow showed great temper and spirit. There has been
a famous row, but don't be alarmed, it is all over. It is all over,
everybody may go to bed and sleep comfortably. Barnes need not
get up in the 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 charmante Miss Clara."
" As we went out of the house," Lord Kew told Clive, " I said to
Barnes that every word I had uttered upstairs with regard to the
reconciliation was a lie. That Jack Belsize was determined to have
his blood, and was walking under the lime-trees by which we had to
pass with a thundering big stick. You should have seen the state the
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 pistol;




886                   THE NVE WCOMES.
-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'5
apartment."
A great deal of animated business had been transacted during the.two hours subsequent to poor Lady Clara's mishap. Clive and Belsize
had returned to the former's quarters, while gentle J. J. was utilising
the last rays of the sun to tint a sketch which he had made during the:morning. He fled to his own apartment on the arrival of the fiercelooking stranger, whose glaring eyes, pallid looks, shaggy beard, clutched
hands, and incessant gasps and mutterings as he strode up and down,,might well scare a peaceable person. Very terrible must Jack have
looked as he trampled those boards in the growing twilight, anon:stopping to drink another tumbler of champagne, then groaning.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 H'ollande" hard by. The lights
twinkle in the booths under the pretty lime avenues. The hum of
distant voices is heard; the gambling palace is all in a blaze; it is an
assembly-night, and from the doors of the conversation rooms, as they
open and close, escape gusts of 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 NVEWCOOffIS.                     287
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 every booth yonder has a scheme of its own; every star
above shines by itself; and each individual heart of ours goes on,
brightening with its own hopes, burning with its own desires, and,quivering with its own pain.
The reverie is interrupted by the waiter, who announces M. le
Vicomte de Florac, and a third cigar is added to the other two smoky
lights. Belsize is glad to see Florac, 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 relieve the poor fellow's boiling blood
that some one would let a little out. He lays his affair before Florac,
he expects a message from Lord Dorking.
" Comment donc?" cries Florac. " II y avait donc quelque chose!
Cette pauvre petite Miss! Vous voulez tuer le pare, apris avoir
ddlaiss6 la fille? Cherchez d'autres temoins, Monsieur. Le Vicomte
de Florac ne se fait pas complice de telles lachet6s."
"By Heaven," says Jack, sitting up on the bed, with his eyes
glaring, " I have a great mind, Florac, to wring your infernal little
neck, and to fling you out of the window. Is all the world going to
turn against me? I am half mad as it is. If any man dares to think
anything wrong regarding that little angel, or to fancy that she is not
as pure, and as good, and as gentle, and as innocent, by 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 upstairs. 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 over again, and
frighten Lady Clara with your confounded hai.y face? You promised
me you would never see her. You gave your word of honour you
wouldn't, when I gave you the money to go abroad. Hang the money,
I don't mindc that' it was on your promise that you would prowl about
her no more. The Dorkings left London before you came there; they
gave you your innings. They have behaved kindly and fairly enough
to that poor girl. How was she to marry such a bankrupt beggar as




288                 THE NE WCOMES.
you are? What you have done is a shame, Charley Belsize. i tell
you it is unmanly, and cowardly."
"Pst!" says Florac, "numero deux, voilia le mot lache."
"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 honour, and you knocked down Clara Pulleyn
to-day as cruelly as if you had done it with your hand."
With this' rush upon him, and fiery assault of Kew, Belsize was
quite 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 down 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, Florac. 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 Wiesbaden, 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 money,-no end for a poor beggar like me,.
that is; but I couldn't keep away-I couldn't; and if she had been at
the North Pole, by Heavens I would have followed her."
"And so just to look at her, just to give your confounded stupid
eyes two minutes' pleasure, you must bring about all this pain, you
great baby," cries Kew, who was very soft-hearted, and in truth quitetorn himself by the sight of poor Jack's agony.
"Get me to see her for five minutes, Kew," cries the other, griping
his comrade's hand in his; "but for five minutes."
"For shame," cries Lord Kew, shaking away his hand; ">e 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 baulk yourself of the pleasure ofbullying 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 tugging his muistachios, which were of




THE NE WCOMAES.                      289
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 h i3 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 persits in
following her when he has given his word of honour to avoid her, that
such a man is   "
"What, my Lord Kew?" cries Belsize, whose chest began to
heave.
" You know what," answers the other. " You know what a man is
who insults a poor woman, and breaks his word of honour. Consider
the word said, and act upon it as you think fit."
"I owe you'four thousand pounds, Kew," says Belsize, "and I
have got four thousand on the bills, besides four hundred 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 connexions you know, and this
gentleman chooses to insult a lady who is about to become one of our
family."
" C'est bien, milord. Ma foil c'est d'agir en vrai gentilhomme,"
says Florac, 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 Lord Kew.
His purpose was evidently pacific. From Kew he turned to the
great guardsman, and taking him by the coat began to apostrophise
him. "And you, mon gros," says he, " is there no way of calming
this hot blood without a saign~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 Faz6r, you
kill Kiou, you kill Roostere, your Chimene will have a pretty moon of
honey."
"What the devil do you mean about your Chimene and your
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
I9




290                 THE NE WCO MES.
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 Florac in his enthusiasm rushed into his arms, and jumped up
towards his face and proceeded to kiss Jack. A roar of immense
laughter, as he shook the 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 Pnomne when he did not know why." And
now came the moment of the evening, when Clive, according to Lord
Kew's saying, behaved so well and prevented Barnes from incurring a
great 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?
Florac, 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, champagne and sehtzer-water; "bring
champagne and seltzer-water, there is nothing like it." Clive could
not object to this entertainment, which was ordered forthwith, and the
four young men sat down to share it.
Whilst Florac was partaking of his favourite 6crevisses, giving not
only his palate but his hands, his beard, his mustachios 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 gaily rallied
Belsize upon his warlike humour.  "If ze petit pretendu was here,
what would you have done wiz him, Jac? You would croquer'im, like
zis 6crevisse, 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 Newcome 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 Othel 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 wellknown voice swearing at the couriers.  To.his credit be it said he
checked the exclamation which was on his lips, and when he came
back to the table did not announce to Kew or his right-hand neighbour Belsize that his uncle and Barnes had arrived. Belsize, by this
time, had had quite too much wine: when the Viscount went away,




THE NE EWCOMES.                      29
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.




29-  THE NE WCOMSE.
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, flung his windows open, looked out no doubt towards those
other windows in the neighbouring hotel, where he may have fancied
he saw a curtain stirring, drawn by a hand that every hour now he
longed more to press. He turned back into his chamber with a sort
of groan, and surveyed some of the relics of the last night's little
feast, which still remained on the table. There were the champagne
flasks which poor Jack Belsize had emptied; the tall seltzer-water
bottle, from which the gases had issued and mingled with the hot air
of the previous night's talk; glasses with dregs of 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 neighbour J. J.
had been up before him. Clive could hear him singing as was his
wont when the pencil went well, and the colours arranged themselves
to his satisfaction over his peaceful and happy work.
He pulled his own drawing-table to the window, set out his board
and colour-box, filled a great glass from the seltzer-water bottle, drank
some of the vapid liquor, and plunged his brushes in the rest, with
which he began to paint. The work all went wrong. There was no song
for him over his labour; he dashed brush and board aside after a while.
opened his drawers, pulled out his portmanteaus from under the bed,
and fell to packing 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 strawberry-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 caine to me in a vision, and said,'Clive, son of
Thomas, put thy travelling boots on.'"




THE NE VWCOMIES.                     293
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,Jasdrubal."
" The son of Hasdrubal is quite right," his companion answered;
" the sooner we march the better. I have always said it; I will get all
the accounts in. Hannibal has been living like a voluptuous Cartha-,ginian prince. One, two, three champagne bottles! There will be a,deuce of a bill to pay."
" Ah! there wiz 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; and indeed had
he spoken never a word, his growing attachment to his cousin was
not hard to see. A hundred times, and with the glowing language
and feelings of youth, with the fire of his twenty years, with the
ardour of a painter, he had spoken of her and described her. Her
magnanimous simplicity, her courage and lofty scorn, her kindness
towards her little family, her form, her glorious colour of rich carnation
and dazzling white, her queenly grace when quiescent and in motion,
had constantly formed the subjects of this young gentleman's ardent
eulogies. As he looked at a great picture or statue, as the "Venus"
of Milo, calm and deep, unfathomably beautiful as the sea from which
she sprung; as he looked at the 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 enjoyed
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




294                ETHE NE ~WCOIES.
painting-board he would break forth frequently, after his manner, in
which laughter and sentiment were mingled, and roar out with all the
force of his healthy young lungs" 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
Gray.
Very likely Night, the Grey Mentor, had given Clive Newcome the
benefit of his sad counsel. Poor Belsize's agony, and the wretchedness
of the young lady who shared in the desperate passion, may have set
our young man a thinking; and Lord Kew's frankness and courage,
and honour, whereof Clive had been a witness during the night,.
touched his heart with a generous admiration, and manned him for a
trial which he felt was indeed severe. He thought of the dear old.
father ploughing the seas on the way to his duty, and was determined,
by Heaven's help, to do his own. Only three weeks since, when
strolling careless about Bonn, he had lighted upon Ethel and the
laughing group of little cousins, he was a boy as they were, thinking
but of the enjoyment of the day and the sunshine, as careless as those
children. And now the thoughts and passions which had sprung up
in a week or two, had given him an experience such as years do not
always furnish; and our friend was to show, not only that he could
feel love in his heart, but that he could give proof of courage, and selfdenial, and honour.
" Do you remember, J. J.," says he, as boots and breeches went
plunging into the portmanteau, and with immense energy he pummels
down one upon the other, "do you remember (a dig into the snowy
bosom of a dress cambric shirt) my dear old father's only campaign
story of his running away (a frightful blow into the ribs of a waistcoat), running away at Asseer-Ghur?"
" Asseer-What? " says J. J. wondering.
"The siege of Asseer-Ghur!" says Clive, "fought in the eventful
year I803: Lieutenant Newcome, who has very neat legs, let me tell;
you, which also he has imparted to his descendants, had put on a,
new pair of leather breeches, for he likes to go handsomely dressed
into action. His horse was shot, the enemy were upon him, and thegovernor 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 Lieu —
tenant Newcome's duty to do under these circumstances? To remains
alone as he was, his troop having turned about, and to be cut downr
by the Mahratta horsemen —to perish or to run, sir?"
" I know which I should have done," says Ridley.




THE ZE WCOMES.                       295
" Exactly. Lieutenant Newcome adopted that course. His bran
new leather breeches were exceedingly tight, and greatly incommoded
the rapidity of his retreating movement, but he ran away, sir, and
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. I am off. Dip
into the money-bag; pay the people; be generous, J. J., but not too
prodigal. The chamber-maid is ugly, yet let her not want for a crown
to console her at our departure. The waiters have been brisk and
servile, reward the slaves for their labours. Forget not the humble
boots, so shall he bless us when we depart. For artists are gentlemen,
though Ethel does not think so. D —No-God bless her, God bless
her," groans out Clive, cramming his two fists into his eyes. If Ridley
admired him before, he thought none the worse of him now. And
if any generous young fellow in life reads the Fable, which may possibly concern him, let him take a senior's counsel, and remember
that there are perils in our battle, God help us, from which the bravest
had best run away.
Early as the morning yet was, Clive had a visitor, and the door
opened to let in Lord Kew's honest face. 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 couple of
spacious chambers on the second story. " You are an early bird,"
says Kew. " I got up myself in a panic before daylight almost; Jack
was making a deuce of a row in his room, and fit to blow the door out.
I have been coaxing him for this hour; I wish we had thought of
giving him a dose of laudanum last night; if it finished him, poor old
boy, it would do him no harm." And then, laughing, he gave Clive
an account of his interview with Barnes on the previous night. " You
seem to be packing up to go, too," says Lord Kew, with a momentary
glance of humour darting from his keen eyes.  "The weather is
breaking up here, and if you are going to cross the St. Gothard, as
the Newcomes told me, the sooner the better. It's bitter cold over
the mountains in October."
"Very cold," says Clive, biting his nails.
" Post or Vett.? " asks my lord.
"I bought a carriage at Frankfort," says Clive, in an off-hand
manner.
" Hullo!" cries the other, who was perfectly kind, and entirely
frank and pleasant, and showed no difference in his conversation with
men of any degree, except, perhaps, that to his inferiors in station he




296.                THE NE WCOMES.
was a little more polite than to his equals; but who would as soon
have thought of a young artist leaving Baden in a carriage of his own
as of his riding away on a dragon.
" I only gave twenty pounds for the carriage: it's a little light thing:
we are two, a couple of horses carry us and our traps, you know, and
we can stop where we like. I don't depend upon my profession,"
Clive added with a blush. " I made three guineas once, and that is
the only money I ever gained in my life."
"Of course, my dear fellow, have not I been to your father's house?
At that pretty ball, and seen no end of fine people there? We are
young swells. I know that very well. We only paint for pleasure."
" We are artists, and we intend to paint for money, my lord," says
Clive. " Will your lordship give me an order?"
" My lordship serves me right," the other said. " I think, Newcome, as you are going, 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 fearfully 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
pretencc of her infidelity towards him; who came and actually sat
down on the steps of Park Lane with a child on each side of her, and
not their cries and their hunger, but the fear of his own shame and a
dread of a police-court, forced him to give her a maintenance. I never
see the fellow but I loathe him, and long to kick him out of window:
and this man is to marry a noble young lady because, forsooth, he is a
partner in a bank, and heir to seven or eight thousand a year. 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 endure."
" It is not a nice story," said Lord Kew, rolling a cigarette; " Barnes
is not a nice man. I give you that in. You have not heard it talked
about in the family, have you?"




THE NE WCOMES.                       297
"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 angelical temper; but in this matter he has
not been so bad, so very bad as it would seem. The first step is
wrong of course-those factory towns-that sort of thing you knowwell, well, the commencement of the business is a bad one. But he
is not the only sinner in London. He has declared on his honour to
me when the matter was talked about, and he was coming on for election at 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 connexion; he owned it had hung like a millstone round his neck, and
caused him a great deal of remorse annoyance you may call it. He
was immensely cut up about it. I remember, when that fellow was
hanged for murdering a woman, Barnes said he did not wonder at his
having done it. Young men make those connexions in their early
lives, and rue them all their days 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 everything the elders do. He
is a clever fellow. He is witty in his way. When he likes he
can make himself quite agreeable to some people. There has been
no sort of force. You don't suppose young ladies are confined in
dungeons and subject to tortures, do you?  But there is a brood
of Pulleyns at Chanticlere, and old Dorking has nothing to give
them. His daughter accepted Barnes of her own free will, he knowing perfectly well of that previous affair with Jack. The poor devil
bursts into the place yesterday, and the girl drops down in a faint.
She will see Belsize this very day if he likes. I took a note from
Lady Dorking to him at five o'clock this morning.  If he fancies
that there is any constraint put upon 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 froth up with indignation at




298                 THE NE WCOiVES.
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 to he, and very likely
thinks you to be. It depends on the colours in which a fellow is
painted. Our friends and our enemies draw us,-and I often think:
both pictures are like," continued the easy world-philosopher. " You
hate Barnes, and cannot see any good in him. He sees none in you.
There have been tremendous shindies in Park Lane dj5ropos of yourworskip, 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; I like your father, I think be is a noble old
boy: there are those who represented him as a sordid schemer. Give
Mr. Barnes the benefit of common charity, at any rate; and let others
like him, if you do not."
"And as for this romance of love," the young nobleman went on,
kindling as he spoke, and forgetting the slang and colloquialisms with
which we garnish all our conversation-" this fine picture of Jenny
and Jessamy falling in love at first sight, billing and cooing in an
arbour, and retiring to a cottage afterwards to go on cooing and billing
-Psha! 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 lovematches, and see what has been the end of most of them! Love in a
cottage! Who is to pay the landlord for the cottage? Who is to payfor Jenny's tea and cream. and Jessamy's mutton-chops? If he has.
cold mutton, he will quarrel with her. If there is nothing in the cupboard, a pretty meal they make. No, you cry out against people in,
our world making money marriages. Why, kings and queens marry
on the same understanding. My butcher has saved a stockingful of
money, and marries his daughter to a young salesman; Mr. and Mrs.
Salesman prosper in life, and get an alderman's daughter for their son..
My attorney looks out amongst his clients for an eligible husband for
Miss Deeds; sends his son to the bar, into Parliament, where he cuts..




THE NVE WCOMES.                      299
a figure and becomes attorney-general, makes a fortune, has a house
in Belgrave Square, and marries Miss Deeds of the second generation:
to a peer. Do not accuse us of being more sordid than our neighbours. We do but as the world does; and a girl in our society accepts
the best parti which offers itself, just as Miss Chummey, when entreated by two young gentlemen of the order of costermongers, inclines
to the one who rides from market on a moke, rather than to the gentleman who sells his greens from a handbasket."
This tirade, which his lordship delivered with considerable spirit,
was intended, no doubt, to carry a moral for Clive's private hearing;
and which, to do him justice, the youth was not slow to comprehend.
The point was, "Young man, if certain persons of rank choose to
receive you very kindly, who have but a comely face, good manners,
and three or four hundred pounds a year, do not presume upon their
good nature, or indulge in certain ambitious hopes which your vanity
may induce you to form. Sail down the stream with the brass-pots,
Master Earthen-pot, but beware of coming too near! You are a nice,
young man, but there are some prizes which are too good for you, and;
are meant for your betters. And you might as well ask the prime
minister for the next vacant Garter as expect to wear on your breast
such a star as Ethel Newcome."
Before Clive made his accustomed visit to his friends at the hotel
opposite, the last great potentiary had arrived who was to take part
in the family congress of Baden. In place of Ethel's flushing cheeks
and bright-eyes, Clive found, on entering Lady Ann Newcome's
sitting-room, the parchment-covered features and the well-known;
hooked beak of the old Countess of Kew. To support the glances
from beneath the bushy black eyebrows on each side of that promontory was no pleasant matter. The whole family cowered underLady Kew's eyes and nose, and-she ruled by force of them. It was only
Ethel whom these awful features did not utterly subdue and dismay.
Besides Lady Kew, Clive had the pleasure of finding his lordship;
her grandson, Lady Ann and children of various sizes, and Mr. Barnes;
not one of whom was the person whom Clive desired to behold.
The queer glance in Kew's eye directed towards Clive, who 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 nor
wonder Barnes had a hangdog look. But as for Lady Kew, that
veteran diplomatist allowed no signs of discomfiture, or any other
emotion, to display themselves on her ancient countenance. Her




300                  THE NEW  VCO MA i.
bushy eyebrows 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
accosted. A biographer ought to be impartial, yet I own, in a modified
degree, to have partaken of this sentiment. He looked very much
-younger than his actual time of life, and was not of commanding
-stature; but patronised his equals, nay, let us say his betters, so
insufferably, that a common wish for his suppression existed amongst
-many persons in society.
Clive told me of this little circumstance, and I am sorry to say of
his own subsequent ill-behaviour. " We were standing apart from the
ladies," so 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 down on his confounded little varnished toe, and gave it a scrunch which made Mr.
Barnes shriek out one of his loudest oaths."
" D- clumsy —," screamed out Barnes.
Clive said, in a low voice, " I thought you only swore at women,.Barnes."
" It is you that say things before women, Clive," 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 wanting him." And two
of the three young men enjoyed this joke exceedingly. I doubt whether.Barnes Newcome Newcome, Esq., of Newcome, was one of the persons
amused.
"What wickedness are you three boys laughing at?" cries Lady
Ann, perfectly innocent and good-natured; " no good I will be bound.
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




THE. NE WCOMES.                      3O0
was at an end. For she had instantly called her daughter to her, with
whom her ladyship fell a-whispering; and then it was that Clive
retreated from Lady Kew's hand, to fall into Barnes's.
"Clive trod on Barnes's toe," cries out cheery Lord Kew, "and has
hurt Barnes's favourite corn, so that he cannot go out, and is actually
obliged to keep the room. That's what we were laughing at."
" Hem!" growled Lady Kew. She knew to what her grandsonr
alluded. Lord Kew had represented Jack Belsize, anid his thundering
big stick, in the most terrific colours to the family council. The joke
was too good a one not to serve twice.
Lady Ann, in her whispered conversation with the old Countess,
had possibly deprecated her mother's anger towards poor 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; butbut 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 acquaintances
here of which very little good can come. They frequent the gamblingtables, and live with the most disreputable French Viscounts. We
have heard of your goings on, sir.  It is a great pity that Colonel
Newcome did not take you with him to India."
" My dear mamma," cries Lady Ann, " I am sure Clive has been
a very good boy indeed." The old lady's morality put a stop to Clive's
pathetic mood, and he replied with a great deal of spirit, " Dear Lady
Ann, you have been always very good, and kindness is nothing surprising from you; but Lady Kew's advice, which I should not have
ventured to ask, is an unexpected favour; my father knows the extent
of the gambling transactions to which your ladyship was pleased to
allude, and introduced me to the gentleman whose acquaintance you;
don't seem to think eligible."
" My good young man, I think it is time you were off," Lady Kew
said this time with great good-humour; she liked Clive'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 very
great talents-these sketches are really capital."




302                  THE NEWCOMES.
" Is not he very clever, mamma?" said kind Lady Ann, eagerly.
Clive 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 cold operator, who had taken Mr. Clive's case in hand,
now produced her shining knife, and executed the firsf cut with
perfect neatness and precision. " We are come here, as I suppose
you know, Mr. Newcome, upon family matters, and I frankly tell you
that I think, for your own sake, you would be much better away. I
wrote my daughter a great scolding when I heard that you were in
this place."
" But it was by the merest chance, mamma, indeed it was," cries
Lady Ann.
" Of course, by the merest chance, and by the merest chance I
heard of it too. A little bird came and told me at Kissingen. You
have no more sense, Ann, than a goose. I have told you so a hundred
times. Lady Ann requested you to stay, and I, my good young friend,
request you to go away."
"I needed no request," said Clive. "My going, Lady Kew, is
mny own act. I was going without requiring any guide to show me to
the door."
" No doubt you were, and my arrival is the signal for Mr. Newcome's box jour. I am Bogey, and I frighten everybody away. By
the scene which you witnessed yesterday, my good young friend, and
all that painful esclandre on the promenade, you must see how absurd
and dangerous, and wicked-yes, wicked it is for parents to allow
intimacies to spring up between young people which can only lead to
disgrace and unhappiness. Lady Dorking was another good-natured
goose. I had not arrived yesterday ten minutes, when my maid
came running in to tell me of what had occurred on the promenade;
and, tired as I was, I went that instant to Jane Dorking and passed
the evening with her, and that poor little creature to whom 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 Dorkings,) and no wonder she was frightened at the sight of that




'     THE EE  WCOMES.                 303
great coarse tipsy wretch! She is engaged, as you know, to your
connexion, my grandson, Barnes-in all respects a most eligible
union. The rank of life of the parties -suits them to one another.
She is a good young woman, and Barnes has experienced from
persons of another sort such horrors, that he will know the blessing,of domestic virtue. It was high time he should. I say all this in
perfect frankness to you.
"Go back again and play in the garden, little brats " (this to the,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 Ethel to come down; bring her
-down with you. Do you understand?"
The unconscious infants toddle upstairs to their sister; and Lady
Kew blandly says, " Ethel's engagement to my grandson, Lord Kew,
"has long been settled in our family, though these things are best
-not talked about until they are quite determined, you know, my
KLear Mr. Newcome. When we saw you and your father in London,
we heard that you too-that you too were engaged to a young lady,in your own rank of life, a Miss-what was her name?-Miss
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 ladyship's means.of information were, avowed or occult, this biographer has never been
able to ascertain. Very likely Ethel, who in these last three weeks'had been made aware of that interesting circumstance, had announced
it to Lady 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:knowledge. That there were many such I know-skirmishes, sieges,
and general engagements. When we hear the guns, and see the'wounded, we know there has been a fight. Who knows had there
been a battle, royal, and was Miss Newcome having her wounds
-dressed upstairs?
" 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




04                  THTTHE NE WCOMES.
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 Clive's trousers. He took them up gaily, 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 mustachios.
Hie kissed the little hands and faces, and a moment after was gone.
" Qu'as tu," says M. de Florac, meeting him going over the bridge
to his own hotel. " Qu'as tu, mon petit Claive. Est-ce qu'on vient de
t'arracher une dent?"
" C'est qa," 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 catastrophe had occurred. Indeed Mr.
Clive was going a day sooner than he had intended. He woke at
Fribourg the next morning. It was the grand old cathedral he looked
at, not Baden of the pine-clad hills, of the pretty walks and the limetree avenues. Not Baden, the prettiest booth of all Vanity Fair. The
crowds and the music, the gambling-tables, and cadaverous croupiers
and chinking gold, were far out of sight and hearing. There was one
window in the " H6tel 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 history, and Clive, in
truth, had almost forgotten him too. But Jack having his own cares
and business, and having rammed his own carpet-bag, brought it down
without a word, and Clive found him environed in smoke when he
came down to take his place in the little britzska. I wonder whether
the window at the "Hotel de Hollande" saw him go? There are
some curtains behind which no historian, however prying, is allowed
to peep.
"Tiens, le petit part," says Florac of the cigar, who was always




THE NE WCOMEIES.                      305
sauntering. "Yes, we go," says Clive. "There is a fourth place,
Viscount; will you come too?"
"I would love it well," replies Florac,." but I am here in faction.
My cousin and seigneur M. le Duc d'Ivry is coming all the way from
Bagneres de Bigorre. He says he counts on me: —affaires d'etat, mon
cher, affaires d'6tat."
"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 Florac. " As you have a
fourth place I know who had best take it."
"And who is that?" asked the young traveller.
Lord Kew and Barnes Newcome, Esq., came out of the " H6tel
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.
2~0




306                 THE NE WCOMES,
CHAPTER XXXI.
MADAME LA DUCHESSE.
JN one of Clive Newcome's letters from Baden, the young man
described to me, with considerable humour and numerous illustrations as his wont was, a great lady to whom he was presented at
that watering-place by his friend Lord Kew. Lord Kew had travelled
in the East with Monsieur le Duc and Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry —
the prince being an old friend of his lordship's family. He is the" Q"
of Madame d'Ivry's book of travels, " Footprints of the Gazelles, 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 glowing pages.
He persists in saying that he never rescued Madame la Princesse from
any Arabs at all, except from one beggar who was bawling out for
bucksheesh, and whom Kew drove away with a stick. They made
pilgrimages to all the holy places, and a piteous sight it was, said Lord
Kew, to see the old prince in the Jerusalem processions at Easter
pacing with bare feet and a candle. Here Lord Kew separated from
the prince's party. His name does not occur in the last part of the
"Footprints;" which, in truth, are filled full of strange rhapsodies,
adventures which nobody ever saw but the princess, and mystic
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 performs Parisian f5asde-ballet before the gates of monasteries and the cells of anchorites.
She describes, as if she had herself witnessed the catastrophe, the
passage of the Red Sea; and, as if there were no doubt of the transaction, an unhappy love-affair between Pharaoh's eldest son and
Moses's daughter. At Cairo, 4J5ro5os 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'Ivry constantly visits that watering-place. M. le Duc was
not pleased with the book, which was published entirely without his
concurrence, and which he described as one of the ten thousand follies
of Madame la Duchesse.




THE NAE WICOMIES.                      307
This nobleman was five-and-forty years older than his duchess.
France is the country where that sweet Christian institution of
nariages 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 burenaz  de
cozifance, 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  tzude d'avouz, a shop with.a certain clientdle 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 per-centage), or broken off,
and nobody unhappy, and the world none the wiser. The consequences of the system I do not pretend personally to know; but if
the light literature of a country is a reflex of its manners, and French
novels are a picture of French life, a pretty society must that be
into the midst of which the London reader may walk in twelve hours
from this time of perusal, and from which only twenty miles of sea
separate us.
When the old Duke d'Ivry, of the ancient ancient nobility of
France, an emigrant with Artois, a warrior with Conde, an exile
during the reign of the Corsican usurper, a grand prince, a great
nobleman afterwards, though shorn of nineteen-twentieths of his
wealth by the Revolution,-when the Duke d'Ivry lost his two sons,
and his son's son likewise died, as if fate had determined to end the
direct line of that noble house, which had furnished queens to Europe,
and renowned chiefs to the Crusaders-being of an intrepid spirit, the
Duke was ill-disposed to yield to his redoubtable enemy, in spite of,the cruel blows which the latter had inflicted upon him; and when he
was more than sixty years of age, three months before the July
Revolution broke out, a young lady of a sufficient nobility, a virgin of
sixteen, was brought out of. the convent of the Sacre Cceur at Paris,
and married with immense splendour and ceremony to this princely
widower. The most august names signed the book of the civil
marriage. Madame la Dauphine and Madame la Duchesse de Berri
complimented the young bride with royal favours. Her portrait by
Dubufe was in the Exhibition next year: a charming young duchess
-indeed, with black eyes, and black ringlets, pearls on her neck, and
diamonds in her hair, as beautiful as a princess of a fairy tale.
M. d'Ivry, 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 Atridzer the




308                 THE NME WCOMES.
Borbonidae, the Ivrys,-the Browns and Joneses 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 yout
saw him on the Boulevard de Gand, sunning among the youthful
exquisites there, or riding au Bois, with a grace worthy of old
Franconi himself, you would take him for one of the young men, of
whom indeed, up to his marriage, he retained a number of the
graceful follies and amusements, though his manners had a dignity
acquired in the old days of Versailles and the Trianon, which the
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, shortly before
his marriage, just like any other young bachelor: took leave of Phryne
and Aspasie in the coulisses, and proposed to devote himself henceforth to his charming young wife.
The affreux catastrophe of July arrived. The ancient Bourbons
were once more on the road to exile. M. le Duc d'Ivry, who lost his
place at court, his appointments which helped his income very much,
and his peerage, would no more acknowledge the usurper of Neuilly
than him of Elba. The ex-peer retired to his terres. He barricaded.
his house in Paris against all supporters of the citizen king; his,
nearest kinsman, M. de Florac, among the rest, who for his part.
cheerfully took his oath of fidelity, and his seat in Louis Philippe's
house of peers, having indeed been accustomed to swear to all
dynasties for some years past.
In due time Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry gave birth to a child, a,
daughter, whom her noble father received with but small pleasure.
What the Duke desired was an heir to his name, a Prince de Montcontour, to fill the place of the sons and grandsons gone before him to,
join their ancestors in the tomb. No more children, however, blessed
the old Duke's union.  Madame d'Ivry went the round of all the,
watering-places; pilgrimages were tried; vows and gifts to all saints.
supposed to be favourable to the d'Ivry family, or to families in general;.
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 man —
sion of the Faubourg St. Germain, I suppose the Duke and Duchess.
grew tired of one another, as persons who enter into a mariage 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 oneand-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




THE I E WVCOMES.                     309
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 attendant at the
fireside; this assiduous companion who will walk out with you; this
sleepless restless bedfellow.
At first, M. d'Ivry, that well-conserved nobleman who never would
allow.that he was not young, exhibited no sign of doubt regarding his
own youth, except an extreme jealousy and avoidance of all other young
fellows. Very likely Madame la Duchesse may have thought men in
general dyed their hair, wore stays, and had the rheumatism. Coming
out of the convent of the Sacre Cceur, how was the innocent young
lady to know better?  You see, in these marnages de conmvenance,
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 settlements. So
this couple were unhappy, and the Duke and Duchess quarrelled with
one another like the most vulgar pair who ever fought across a table.
In this unhappy state of home affairs, Madame took to literature,
Monsieur to politics. She discovered that she was 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'Ivry, "Les Cris de l'Ame?"
She used to read them to her very intimate friends, in white, with her
hair a good deal down her back. They had some success; Dubufe
having painted her as a Duchess, 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 Boulevard, or Don
Basilio with his great sombrero and shoe-buckles. The old gentleman was breathless and bewildered in following her through all her
vagaries. He was of old France, she of new. What did he know of
the Ecole Romantique and these jeunes gens with their Marie Tudors
and Tours de Nesle, and sanguineous histories of queens who sewed,their lovers into sacks, emperors who had interviews with robber
captains in Charlemagne's tomb, Buridans and Hernanis, and stuff?
Monsieur le Vicomte de Chateaubriand was a man of genius as a
writer, certainly immortal; and M. de Lamartine was a young man
extremely bien fiensant, but, ma foi, give him Crdbillonfils, or a bonne
farce of M. Vad6 to make laugh; for the great sentiments, for the




310                 THE _NEl COMES.
beautiful style, give him M. de Lormian (although Bonapartist) or the
Abb6 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 frelugtuets
are forgotten." After his marriage he frequented the coulisses of the'
Opera no more; but he was a pretty constant attendant at the Th6Atre
FranSais, where you might hear him snoring over the chefs-d'euvres'
of French tragedy.
For some little time after 1830, the Duchesse was as great a Carlist
as her husband could wish; and they conspired together 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 courses in La Vend6e, disguised as a boy
above all. She was persuaded to stay at home, however, and aid the
good cause at Paris; whilst Monsieur le Duc went off to Brittany to
offer his old sword to the mother of his king. But MADAME was
discovered up the chimney at Rennes, and all sorts of things were discovered afterwards. The world said that our silly little Duchess of
Paris was partly the cause of the discovery. Spies were put upon her,
and. to some people she would tell anything. M. le Duc, on paying
his annual visit to august exiles at Goritz, was very badly received';
Madame la Dauphine gave him a sermon. He had an awful quarrel
with Madame la Duchesse on returning to Paris. He provoked
Monsieur le Comte Tiercelin, le beau Tiercelin, an officer of ordonnance of the Duke of Orleans, into a duel, 4propos of a cup of coffee
in a salon; he actually wounded the beau Tiercelin-he sixty-five
years of age! His nephew, M. de Florac, was loud in praise of hiskiinsman's bravery.
That pretty figure and complexion which still appear so captivating
in M. Dubufe's portrait of Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry, have long
existed-it must be owned only in paint. " ye la j5rlflre 2 l'Jzuile,"
the Vicomte de Florac 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 juzions-c'est pour d6fendre sa vertu: when she is in a
devotional mood, she gives up rouge, roast meat, and crinoline, and
fail maigre absolument." To spite the Duke her husband'she took
up with the Vicomte de Florac, and to please herself she cast him
away. She took his brother, the Abb6 de Florac, for a director, and
presently parted from him. "Mon frcre, ce saint homme ne parle
jamais de Madame la Duchesse, maintenant," said the Vicomte. " She




THE N EWCOMES.                       311
must have confessed to him des choses affreuses —oh, oui!-affreuses,
ma parole d'honneur! "
The Duke d'Ivry being archiroyaliste, Madame la Duchesse must
make herself ultra-Philippiste. "Oh, oui! tout ce qu'il.y a de plus
Madarme Adelaide au monde! " cried Florac. "She raffoles of M. le
Regent. She used to keep a fast of the day of the supplice of Philippe
Egalit6, Saint and Martyr. I say used, for to-make to enrage her
husband, and to recall the Abb6 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. l'Abbd 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 Abb6! You
know he has since taken the -Dominican robe. My word of honour'!
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
honour! I desire but the death of Madame la Vicomtesse de Florac,
to marry and range myself!
"After being Royalist, Philippist, Catholic, Huguenot, Madame
d'Ivry must take to Pantheism, to bearded philosophers who believe
in nothing, not even in clean linen, eclecticism, republicanism, what
know I? All her changes have been chronicled by books of her composition.'Les Demons,' poem Catholic; Charles IX. is the hero, and
the demons are shot for the most part at the catastrophe of St. Bartholomew. My good mother, all good Catholic as she is, was startled
by the boldness of this doctrine. Then there came' Une Dragonnade,
par Mme. la Duchesse d'Ivry,' which is all on your side. That was of
the time of the Pasteur Grigou, that one. The last was'Les Dieux
de'chus, pomme en 20 chants, par Mme. la D — d'I.' Guard yourself well from- this Muse! If she takes a fancy to you she will never
leave you alone. If you see her often she will fancy you are in love
with her, and tell her husband. She always tells my uncle-afterwards
-after she has quarrelled with you and grown tired of you! Eh!
being in London once, she had the idea to make herself a Quakre;
wore the costume, consulted a minister of that culte, and quarrelled
with him as of rule. It appears the Quakers do not beat themselves,
otherwise my poor uncle must have paid of his person.
" The'turn of the philosophers then came, the chemists, the natural
historians, what know I? She made a laboratory in her hotel, and
rehearsed poisons like Madame de Brinvilliers-she spent hours in
the Jardin des Plantes. Since she has grown afZreuseizest maizgre
and wears mourning robes, she has taken more than ever to the idea
that she resembles Mary Queen of Scots. She wears a little frill and




31 2                THE NVE WfVCOMJES.
a little cap. Every man she loves, she says, has come to misfortune.
She calls her lodgings Lochleven. Eh! I pity the landlord of Lochleven! She calls ce gros Blackbal, that pillar of estaminets, that
prince of mauvais-ton, her Bothwell; little Mijaud, the poor little
pianist, she iamed her Rizzio; young Lord Greenhorn, who was here
with his governor, a Monsieur of Oxfort, she christened her Darnley,
and the Minister Anglican, her John Knox! The poor man was quite
enchanted! Beware of this haggard Siren, my little Clive!-mistrust
her dangerous song!- Her cave is jonczie with the. bones of her
victims. Be you not one!"
Far from causing Clive to avoid Madame la Duchesse, these cautions
very likely would have made him only the more eager to make her
acquaintance, but that a much nobler attraction drew him elsewhere.
At first, being introduced to Madame d'Ivry's salon, he was pleased
and flattered, and behaved himself 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 compagnie; —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 desertion.
There had been many quarrels between M. d'Ivry and his next of
kin.  Political differences, private differences-a long story.  The
Duke, who had been wild limself, could not pardon the Vicomte de
Florac for being wild. Efforts at reconciliation had been made which
ended unsuccessfully. The Vicomte de Florac 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 Florac 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. d'Ivry amongst the number; and that nobleman was
anxious to return to all Lord Kew's family when they came to France




THE NE WC 0 MES.                     313
the hospitality which he had received himself in England. He still
remembered or professed to remember Lady Kew's beauty. How
many women are there, awful of aspect, at present, of whom the same,pleasing legend is not narrated? It must be true, for do not they
themselves confess it? I know of few things more remarkable or
suggestive of philosophic contemplation than those physical changes.
When the old Duke and the old Countess met together and talked,confidentially, their conversation bloomed into a jargon wonderful to.hear. Old scandals woke up, old naughtinesses rose out of their graves,
and danced, and smirked, and gibbered again, like those wicked nuns
whom Bertram and Robert le Diable evoke from their sepulchres whilst
the bassoon performs a diabolical incantation. The Brighton Pavilion
was tenanted: Ranelagh and the Pantheon swarmed with dancers and
mnasks; 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 ajabot and ailes-de-jigeoln, the old
Countess a hoop, and a cushion on her head. If haply the young folks
came in, the elders modified their recollections, and Lady Kew brought
hlonest old King George and good old ugly Queen Charlotte to the
rescue. Her ladyship was sister of the Marquis of Steyne, and in some
respects resembled that lamented nobleman. Their family had relations in France (Lady Kew had always a pied-A-terre at Paris, a bitter
little scandal-shop, where les bien-i5ensants assembled and retailed
the most awful stories against the reigning dynasty). It was she
-,vho handed over le petit Kiou, when quite a boy, to Monsieur and
Madame d'Ivry, to be lancd into Parisian society. He was treated.as a son of the family by the Duke, one of whose many Christian
lames 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-singing old women and parsons with his mother! Fi donc!
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,




314'THE NAE WCOMES.
and a Bad Passion which tempts you into its arms. Be of easy
minds, good-natured people! Let us disdain surprises and coxzqs-delehdtre for once; and tell those good souls who are interested about
him, that there is a Good Spirit coming to the rescue of our young
Lord Kewn.
Surrounded by her court and royal attendants, La Reine Marie
used graciously to attend the play-table, where luck occasionally
declared itself for and against her Majesty. Her appearance used to
create not a little excitement in the Saloon of Roulette, the game
which she patronized, it being more " fertile of emotions" than the
slower Trente et Quarante. She dreamed of numbers, had favourite
incantations by which to conjure them; noted the figures made by
peels of peaches and so forth, the numbers of houses, on hackneycoaches-was superstitious comme toutes les dcnes 5oe'tiques. She
commonly brought a beautiful agate bonbonniere full of gold pieces
when she played. It was wonderful to see her grimaces; to watch
her behaviour; her appeals to heaven, her delight and despair.
Madame la Baronne de la Cruchecassee played on one side of her,.
Madame la Comtesse de Schlangenbad on the other. When she had
lost all her money her Majesty would condescend to borrow-not
from those ladies:-knowing the royal peculiarity, they never had any
money; they always lost; they swiftly pocketed their winnings and
never left a mass on the table, or quitted it, as courtiers will, when
they saw luck was going against their sovereign. The officers of her
household were Count Punter, a Hanoverian, the Cavaliere Spada,
Captain Blackball of a mysterious English regiment, which might be
any one of the hundred and twenty in the Army List, and other noblemen and gentlemen, Greeks, Russians, and Spaniards. Mr. and Mrs.
Jones (of England)-who had made the princess's acquaintance at
Bagneres (where her lord still remained in the gout) and perseveringly
followed her all the way to Baden —were dazzled by the splendour of
the company in which they found themselves. Miss Jones wrote such
letters to her dearest friend Miss Thompson, Cambridge Square,
London, as caused that young person to crever with envy. Bob Jones,
who had grown a pair of mustachios 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's 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'




THE NE WCOMES.                        315
ecstacy. Every one of her aides-de camp had a bunch of orders at his
button, excepting, of course, poor Jones.
Like all persons who beheld her, when Miss Newcome and her
party made their appearance at Baden, Monsieur de Florac was en.
raptured 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 Florac had but quitted the earth, dont elle fait
l'ornement-I would present myself to the charmante Meess and ride
a steeple-chase with Kiou!" That he should win it the Viscount
never doubted.
When Lady Ann Newcome first appeared in the ball-room at
Baden, Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry begged the Earl of Kew (noire
filleul she called him) to present her to his aunt Miladi and her
charming daughter. " My filleu had not prepared me for so much
grace," she said, turning a look towards Lord Kew, which caused his
lordship some embarrassment. Her kindness and graciousness were
extreme. Her caresses and compliments never ceased all the evening.
She told the mother, and the daughter too, that she had never seen
any one so lovely as Ethel. Whenever she saw Lady Ann's children
in the walks she ran to them (so that Captain Blackball and Count
Punter, A.D.C., were amazed at her tenderness), she etouff'd themwith kisses. What lilies and roses! What lovely little creatures!
What companions for her own Antoinette! " This is your governess,.
Miss Quigli; Mademoiselle, you must let me present you to Miss
O'Grddi, your compatriot, and I hope your children will be always
together." The Irish Protestant governess scowled at the Irish Catholic
-there was a Boyne Water between them.
Little Antoinette, a lonely little girl, was glad to find any companions. " Mamma kisses me on the promenade," she told them in
her artless way. "She never kisses me at home." One day when
Lord Kew with Florac and Clive was playing with the children,
Antoinette said, " Pourquoi ne venez-vous plus chez nous, M. de Kew?
And why does mamma say you are a ZdcAe? 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 Florac a etd bonne pour moi i
Paris aussi-Ah! qu'elle a 6t6 bonne!"
"C'est que les anges aiment bien les petits chdrubins, and my
mother is an angel, seest thou?" cries Florac, kissing her.




3,i6                THE  NEWCOMfES.
"Thy mother is not dead," said little Antoinette, " then why dost
thou cry, my cousin?" And the three spectators were touched by this
little scene and speech.
Lady Ann Newcome received the caresses and compliments of
Madame la Duchesse with marked coldness on the part of one commonly so very good-natured. Ethel's instinct told her that there was
something wrong in this woman, and she shrank from her with haughty
reserve. The girl's conduct was not likely to please the French lady,
but she never relaxed in her smiles and her compliments, her caresses,
and her professions of admiration. She was present when Clara
Pulleyn fell; and, prodigal of cdlineries and consolation, and shawls
and scent-bottles, to the unhappy young lady, she would accompany
her home. She inquired perpetually after the health of cetlle fiauvre
petite Miss Clara. Oh, how she railed against ces Anglaises and
their prudery! Can you fancy her and her circle, the tea-table set in
the twilight that evening, the court assembled, Madame de la Cruchecassee and Madame de Schlangenbad; arid their whiskered humble
servants, Baron Punter and Count Spada, and Marquis Iago, and
Prince lachimo, and worthy Captain Blackball? Can you fancy a
moonlight conclave, and ghouls feasting on the fresh corpse of a
reputation:-the jibes and sarcasms, the laughing and the gnashing
of teeth? How they tear the dainty limbs, and relish the tender
morsels!
"The air of this place is not good for you, believe me, my little
Kew; it is dangerous. Have pressing affairs in England; let your
chateau burn down; or your intendant run away, and pursue him.
Partez, mon petit Kiou; paftez, or evil will come of'it." Such was the
advice which a friend of Lord Kew gave the young nobleman.




THYE NE WCOAIES.                     3I7
CHAPTER XXXII.
BARNES'S COURTSHIP.
THEL 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 not very
much impressed with respect for Lady Clara's mental powers; indeed
we have said that Miss Ethel was rather more prone to attack women
than to admire them, and was a little hard upon the fashionable young
persons of her acquaintance and sex. In after life, care and thought
subdued her pride, and she learned to look at society more goodnaturedly; but at this time and for some years after, she was impatient
of common-place people, and did not choose to conceal her scorn.
Lady Clara was very much afraid of her. Those timid little thoughts,
which would come out, and frisk and gambol with pretty graceful
antics, and advance confidingly at the sound of Jack Belsize's jolly
voice, and nibble crumbs out of his hand, shrank away before Ethel,
severe nymph with the bright eyes, and hid themselves under the
thickets and in the shade. Who has not overheard a simple couple of
girls, or of lovers possibly, pouring out their little hearts, laughing at
their own little jokes, prattling and prattling away unceasingly, until
mamma appears with her awful didactic countenance, or the governess
with her dry moralities, and the colloquy straightway ceases, the
laughter stops, the chirp of the harmless little birds is hushed? Lady
Clara being of a timid nature, stood in as much awe of Ethel as of herfather and mother; whereas her next sister, a brisk young creature of
seventeen, who was of the order of romps or tomboys, was by no.
means afraid of Miss Newcome, and indeed a much greater favourite
with her than her placid elder sister.
Young ladies may have been crossed in love, and have had their'
sufferings, their frantic moments of grief and 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
acquaintance with his groans and his frenzy-rallies from the complaint-eats his dinner very kindly-takes an interest in the next turf




,358                THE NIVEWCOMES.
event, and is found at Newmarket, as usual, bawling out the odds
which he will give or take. Miss has her paroxysm and recoveryMadame Crinoline's new importations from Paris interest the young
creature-she deigns to consider whether pink or blue will become
her most-she conspires with her maid to make the spring morning
dresses answer for the autumn-she resumes her books, piano, and
music (giving up certain songs perhaps that she used to sing)-she
waltzes with the Captain —gets a colour-waltzes longer, better, and
ten times quicker than Lucy, who is dancing with the Major-replies
in an 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.
Clive may not like his cousin Barnes Newcome, and many other
men share in that antipathy, but all ladies do not. It is a fact, that
Barnes, when he likes, can make himself a very pleasant fellow. He
is dreadfully satirical, that is certain; but many persons are amused
by those dreadful satirical young men; and to hear fun made of our
neighbours, even of some of our friends, does not make us very angry.
Barnes is one of the very best waltzers in all society, that is the truth;
whereas it must be confessed Some One Else was very heavy and
slow, his great foot always crushing you, and he 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 oddlooking and distinguished. It is certain he has beautiful small feet
and hands.
He comes every day from the City, drops in, in his quiet unobtrusive way, and drinks tea at five o'clock; always brings a budget
of the funniest stories with him, makes mamma laugh, Clara laugh,
Henrietta, who is in the school-room still, die of laughing. Papa has
the highest opinion of Mr. Newcome as a man of business; if he had
had such a friend in early life his affairs would not be where they now
are, poor dear kind papa! 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 Hussars, bottle-green and silver lace; he speaks
politics so exceedingly well with papa and gentlemen after dinner; he
is a sound Conservative, full of practical good sense and information,
with no dangerous new-fangled ideas, such as young men have. When
poor dear Sir Brian Newcome's health gives way quite, Mr. Newcome




THE NE WCOMES.    $                  I9
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 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 reprobation. A wild prodigal —a disgrace to his order-a son of old Highgate'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 transports of indignation. At the end of
months of unwearied courtship, Mr. Barnes Newcome is honestly
accepted,. and Lady Clara is waiting for him at Baden, not unhappy to
receive him; when walking on the promenade with her father, the
ghost of her dead love suddenly rises before her, and the young lady
faints to the ground.
When Barnes Newcome thinks fit he can be perfectly placable in
his demeanour and delicate in his conduct. What 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 favour, but that she was naturally
moved by the remembrance of the past, and the sudden appearance
which recalled it. "And but that a lady's name should never be
made the subject of dispute between men," Newcome said to Lord
Dorking, with great dignity, " and that Captain Belsize has opportunely
quitted the place, I should certainly have chastised him.  He and
another adventurer, against whom I have had to warn my own family,
have quitted Baden this afternoon. I am glad that both are gone,
Captain Belsize especially; for my temper, my lord, is hot, and I do
not think I should have commanded it."
Lord Kew, when the elder lord informed him of this admirable
speech of Barnes Newcome's, upon whose character, prudence, and
dignity the Earl of Dorking pronounced a ferve-nt 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 selfdenial; the joke of the thundering big stick was nothing to it. Barnes




320                ]T~ZE NTE W/Cd0HE-~S.
Newcome laughed too; he had plenty of humour, Barnes. "I thinkyou might have whopped Jack when he came out from his interview
with the Dorkings," Kew said; 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. Newcome
resumed his dignity; said a joke was a joke, and there was quiteenough of this one; which assertion we may be sure he conscientiously
made.
That meeting and parting between the old lovers passed with a.
great deal of calm and propriety on both sides. Miss's parents of
course were present when Jack at their summons waited upon them
and their daughter, and made his hang-dog bow. My Lord Dorking:
said, (poor Jack, in the anguish of his heart, had poured out the story
to Clive Newcome afterwards,) " Mr. Belsize, I have to apologise for
words which I used in my heat yesterday, and which I recall and
regret, as I am sure you do that there should have been any occasion
for them."
Mr. Belsize, looking at the carpet, said he was very sorry.
Lady Dorking here remarked, that as Captain Belsize was now
at Baden, he might wish to hear from Lady Clara Pulleyn'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 ivish you good-by, Charles Belsize," said mylord, 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 beso 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. Von Finck, who attends most of the polite,
company at Baden, drove ceaselessly about the place that day, with
the real version of the fainting-fit story, about which we may be sure
the wicked and malicious, and the uninitiated, had a hundred absurd
details. Lady Clara ever engaged to Captain Belsize? Fiddle-dedee! 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 doneso thrice in the last week to his knowledge. Lord Dorking had a.
nervous affection of his right arm, and was always shaking his stick.




THE NE MW CO. ES.                    32 I
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 expla.
nations of course had their effect. Wicked tongues were of course
instantaneously silent. People were entirely satisfied; they always
are. The next night being Assembly night, Lady Clara appeared at
the rooms and danced with Lord Kew and Mr. Barnes Newcome.
All the society was as gracious and good-humoured as possible, and
there was no more question of fainting than of burning down the
Conversation-house. But Madame de Cruchecassee, 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'etes qu'une vieilie bute."
Lady Kew was at the rooms, uncommonly gracious. Miss Ethel
took a few turns of the waltz with Lord Kew, but this nymph looked
morefarouchee than upon ordinary days. Bob Jones, who admired her
hugely, asked leave to waltz with her, and entertained her with recollections of Clive Newcome at school. He remembered a fight in
which Clive had been engaged, and recounted that action to Miss
Newcome, who seemed to be interested. He was pleased to deplore
Clive'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 difficult
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 spare Lord Kew, whose good-nature was no shield
against her scorn. The old queen-mother was fairly afraid of her;
she even left off beating Lady Julia when Ethel came in, of course
taking her revenge in the young girl's absence, but trying, 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
-1[




322                 TITE AE WCOGZE S.
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 inflicted. 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-humour.
Lady Kew fancied she understood the cause of this peevishness,
and remonstrated with Miss Ethel. "Shall we write a letter to
Lucerne, and order Dick Tinto back again?" said her ladyship. " Are
you such a fool, Ethel, as to be hankering after that young scapegrace,
and his yellow beard? His drawings are very pretty. Why, I think
he might earn a couple of hundred a year as a teacher, and nothing
would be easier than to break your engagement with Kew, and whistle
the drawing-master back again."
Ethel took up the whole heap of 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 l;im in it. Had.
he money, it would be different. You would receive him, and welcome
him, and hold out your hands to him; but he is only a poor painter,
and we, forsooth, are bankers in the City; and he comes among us on
sufferance, like those concert-singers whom mamma treats with so
much politeness, and who go down and have supper by themselves.
Why should they not be as good as we are?"
"NM. de C  -, my dear, is of a noble family," interposed Lady
Kew; " when he has given up singing and made his fortune, 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 unblushingly
sordid! -We own it, and are proud of it. We barter rank against
money, and money against rank, day after day. Why did you marry
my father to my mother? Was it for his wit? You know he might
have been an angel and you would have scorned him. Your daughter
was bought with papa's money as surely as ever Newcome was. Will
there be no day when this mammon-worship will cease among us? 




THE NE WCO.MES.                     323
"Not in my time or yours, Ethel," the elder said, not unkindly;
perhaps she thought of a day long ago, before she was old herself.
"We are sold," the young girl went on; " we are as much sold as
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 revolt against it more. That poor wretch, that
poor girl whom my brother is to marry, why did she not revolt and
fly? I would, if I loved a man sufficiently, loved him better than the
world, than wealth, than rank, than fine houses and titles,-and I feel
I love these best,-I would give up all to follow him. But what can I
be with my name and my parents? I belong to the world, like all the
rest of my family. It is you who have bred us up; you who are
answerable for us. Why are there no convents, to which we can fly?
You make a fine marriage for me; you provide me with a good husband, a kind soul, not very wise, but very kind; you make me what
you call happy, and I would rather be at the plough like the women
here."
"No, you wouldn't, Ethel," replies the grandmother, dryly. "These
are the fine speeches of school-girls. The showers of rain would
spoil your complexion-you would be perfectly tired in an hour, and
come back to luncheon-you belong to your belongings, my dear,
and are not better than the rest of the world: —very good-looking,
as you know perfectly well, and not very good-tempered. It is lucky
that Kew is. Calm your temper, at least before marriage; such a
prize does not fall to a pretty girl's lot every day. Why, you sent him
away quite scared by your cruelty; and if he is not playing at roulette,
or at billiards, I daresay he is thinking what a little termagant you
are, and that he had best pause while it is yet time. Before I was
married, your poor grandfather never knew I had a temper; of afterdays I say nothing; but trials are good for all of us, and he bore the
like an angel."
Lady Kew, too, on this occasion at least, was admirably goodhumoured. She also when it was necessary could put a restraint on
her temper, and having this match very much to heart, chose to coax
and to soothe her granddaughter rather than to endeavour to scold and
frighten her.
"Why do you desire this marriage so much, grandmamma?" the
girl asked. "My cousin is not very much in love,-at least I should:fancy not," she added, blushing. " I am bound to own Lord Kew is
not in the least eager, and I think if you were to tell him to wait for
five years, he would be quite willing. Why should you be so very
anxious?"
" Why, my dear? Because I think young ladies who want to go




324                  THIE NE WCOMES.
and work in the fields should make hay while the sun shines; because
I think it is high time that Kew should ranger himself; because I aim
sure he will make the best husband, and Ethel the prettiest Countess
in England." And the old lady, seldom exhibiting any signs of
affection, looked at her granddaughter very fondly. From her Ethel
looked up into the glass, which very likely repeated on its shining face
the truth her elder had just uttered. Shall we quarrel with the girl for
that dazzling reflection; for owning that charming truth, and submitting
to the conscious triumph? Give her her part of vanity, of youth, of
desire to rule and be admired. Meanwhile Mr. Clive's drawings have
been crackling in the fire-place at her feet, and the last spark of that
combustion is twinkling out unheeded.




2E'V' E WCOME S.                    325
CHAPTER XXXIII.
LADY KEW AT THE CONGRESS.
9XTHEN Lady Kew heard that Madame d'Ivry was at Baden, and
Vi was informed at once of the French lady's graciousness
towards the Newcome family, and of her fury against Lord Kew, the,old Countess gave a loose to that energetic temper with which nature
had gifted her; a temper which she tied up sometimes and kept from
barking and biting; but which when unmuzzled was an animal of
whom all her ladyship's family had a just apprehension. Not one of
them but in his or her time had been wounded, lacerated, tumbled,over, otherwise frightened or injured by this unruly brute. The
cowards brought it sops and patted it; the prudent gave it a clear
berth, and walked round so as not to meet it; but woe be to those of
the family who had to bring the meal, and prepare the litter, and
(to speak respectfully) share the kennel with Lady Kew's " Black
Dog!" Surely a -fine furious temper, if accompanied with a certain
magnanimity and bravery which often go together with it, is one of
the most precious and fortunate gifts with which a gentleman or lady
can be endowed. A person always ready to fight is certain of the
greatest consideration amongst his or her family circle. The lazy
grow tired of contending with him; the timid coax and flatter him;
and as almost every one is timid or lazy, a bad-tempered man is sure
to have his own way. It is he who commands, and all the others
obey. If he is a gourmand he has what he likes for dinner; and the
tastes of all the rest are subservient to him. She (we playfully transfer
the gender, as a bad temper is of both sexes) has the place which she
likes best in the drawing-room; nor do her parents, nor her brothers
and sisters, venture to take her favourite chair. If she wants to go to
a party, mamma will dress herself in spite of her headache; and papa,
*who hates those dreadful soir6es, will go upstairs after dinner and put
on his poor old white neckcloth, though he has been toiling at chambers all day, and must be there early in the morning —he will go out
with her, we say,'and stay for the cotillon. If the family are taking
their tour in the summer, it is she who ordains whither they shall go,
and when they shall stop. If he comes home late, the dinner is kept
for him, and not one dares to say a word though ever so hungry. If
he is in a good humour, how every one frisks about and is happy!




326                 THE N~E WCONMES.
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 or not. Our wives go to the milliner's and
send us the bill, and we pay it; our John finishes reading the newspaper before he answers our bell and brings it to us; 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 muchmore quickly than other people's, because they know we are goodnatured; and our servants go out whenever they like, and openly havetheir friends to supper in the kitchen. When Lady Kew said, Sic volo,
sic jubeo, I promise you few persons 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 surrounding neighbours perforce
engaged in the quarrel. This was unluckily the case in the present
instance. Lady Kew, unaccustomed to have her will questioned at
home, liked to impose it abroad. She judged the persons around her
with great freedom of speech. Her opinions were quoted, as people's
sayings will be; and if she made bitter speeches, depend on it they
lost nothing in the carrying. She was furious against Madame la,
Duchesse d'Ivry, and exploded in various companies whenever that
lady's name was mentioned. " Why was she not with her husband?
Why was the poor old Duke left to his gout, and this woman trailing
through the country with her vagabond court of billiard-markers at:
her heels? She to call herself Mary Queen of Scots, forsooth! —well,
she merited the title in some respects, though she had not murdered
her husband as yet. Ah! I should like to be Queen Elizabeth if the
Duchess is Queen of Scots!" 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 princes, counts, and noblemen in her court, designated;
as billiard-markers by the old Countess, returned the latter's compliments with pretty speeches of their own. Seandals were dug up
respecting her ladyship, so old that one would have thought them forgotten these forty years,-so old that they happened before most of the
lN ewcomes now extant were born, and surely, therefore, are out of the
province of this contemporary biography. Lady Kew was indignant,




THE N EWCOME S.                      327
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 weak and goodnatured, that if a highwayman stopped you, you would say,'Thank
you, sir,' as you gave him your purse: yes, and if Mrs. Macheath
caYed 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 us behind our backs,
and began to tear their eyes out as soon as we set ours on them, what
a life it would be, and when should we have any quiet? Backbiting
is all fair 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 dear friends take their leave, and then comes our
turn. My back is at my neighbour's service; as soon as that is turned
let him make what 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 gotup smile, for company.
Here was Lady Kew's mistake. She wanted, for some reason, to
drive Madame d'Ivry 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 Duc 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'Ivry's health. Monsieur le Duc at his age is not disposed to travel.
You, dear Miladi, are more happy in being always able to retain the
go  des voyages /!'




328                 THE NEW WCO.SES.'I come to my family, my dear Duchess!"
"How charmed they must be to possess you! Miladi Ann, you
must be inexpressibly consoled by the presence of a mother so tender!
Permit me to present Madame la Comtesse de la Cruchecarsse 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 KewI. D!.) you not see the resemblance to Milor? These ladies have enjoyed the hospitalities-the
splendours of Gaunt House. They were of those famous routs of
which. the charming Mistress Crawley, la s6nillante Becki, made
part! How sad the Hotel de Gaunt must be under the present circumstances! Have you heard, Miladi, of the charming Mistress Becki?
Monsieur le Duc describes her as the most shirituelle Englishwoman
he ever met." The Queen of Scots turns and whispers her lady of
honour, and shrugs and taps her forehead. Lady Kew knows that
Madame d'Ivry speaks of her nephew, the present Lord Steyne, who
is not in is 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 Monsieur 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 gracieusetd 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 endeavouring to put an end to this colloquy.
"English women, madam! I speak not for you. You are kind;
you-you are too soft, dear Lady Ann, for a persecutor."
The counsels of the worldly woman who governed and directed
that branch. ot the Newcome family of whom it is our business to
speak now for a little while, bore other results than those which the




TILE NE WVCO.EES.                   329
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 the throne of Spain (founding thereby
the present revered dynasty of that country,) did he expect to peril
his own, and brihg all Europe about his royal ears? Could a late
King of France, eager for the advantageous establishment of one of
his darling sons, and anxious to procure a beautiful Spanish princess,
with a crown and kingdom in reversion, for the simple and obedient
youth, ever suppose that the welfare of his whole august race and
reign would be upset by that smart speculation? We take only the
most noble examples to illustrate the conduct of such a noble old
personage as her ladyship of Kew, who brought a prodigious deal of
trouble upon some of the innocent members of her family, whom, no
doubt, she thought to better in life by her experienced guidance' and
undoubted worldly wisdom. We may be as deep as Jesuits, know the
world ever so well, lay the best-ordered plans and the profoundest
combinations, and, by a certain not unnatural turn of fate, we, and our
plans and combinations, are sent flying before the wind. We may
be as wise as Louis Philippe, that many-counselled Ulysses whom the
respectable world admired so; and after years of patient scheming,
and prodigies of skill, after coaxing, wheedling, doubling, bullying
wisdom, behold yet stronger powers interpose-and schemes, and
skill and violence, are nought.
Frank and Ethel, Lady Kew's grandchildren, were both the obedient subjects of this ancient despot: this imperious old Louis XIV. in
a black 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 mdnage, the generous
young colts were hard to break. Ethel, at this time, was especially
stubborn in training, rebellious to the whip, and wild under harness;
and the way in which Lady Kew managed her won the admiration of
her family: for it was a maxim among these folks that no one could
-manage Ethel but Lady Kew. Barnes said no one could manage his
sister but his grandmother. He couldn't, that was certain. Mamma
never tried, and, indeed, was so good-natured, that rather than ride the
filly, she would put the saddle on her own back and let the filly ride
lher; no, there was no one but her ladyship capable of managing that
girl, Barnes owned, who held Lady Kew in much respect and awe.
"If the tightest hand were not kept on her, there's no knowing what
she mightn't do," said her brother. "Ethel Newcome, by Jove, is
capable of running away with the writing-master."
After poor Jack Belsize's mishap and departure, Barnes's own bride
showed no spirit at all, save one of placid contentment. She came
at call and instantly, and went through whatever paces her owner




330                 THE N~E W'COMES.
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 humour
which distinguished the young officer, " I'd rather dance with her than
marry her-by a doosid long score-I don't envy you that part of the
business, Kew, my boy." Lord Kew did not set himself up as a person
to be envied. He thought his cousin beautiful: and with his grandmother, that she would make a very handsome countess, and he
thought the money which Lady Kew would give or leave to the young
couple a very welcome addition to his means.
On the next night, when there was a ball at the room, Miss Ethel,
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 beholders. She icrasd'd all other beauties by her appearance; so
much so that Madame d'Ivry's court could not but look, the men in
admiration, the women in dislike, at this dazzling young creature.
None of the countesses, duchesses, princesses, Russ, Spanish, Italian,
were so fine or so handsome. There were some New York ladies at
Baden as there are everywhere else in Europe now. Not even these
were more magnificent than Miss Ethel. General Jeremiah J. Bung's
lady owned that Miss Newcome was fit to appear in any party in 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 Newcome. All
our acquaintances were of one mind. Mr. Jones of England pronounced her stunning; the admirable Captain Blackball examined
her points with the skill of an amateur, and described them with
agreeable frankness. Lord Rooster was charmed as he surveyed her,
and complimented his late companion in arms on the possession of
such a paragon. Only Lord Kew was not delighted-nor did Miss




THitE NE   CO. IES.                  331
Ethel mean that he should be. She looked as splerdid as Cinderella
in the prince's palace. But what need for all this splendour? 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 Varietes going to a supper
at the " Trois Freres." " It was Mademoiselle Mabille en habit de
cour," Madame d'Ivry remarked to Madame Schlangenbad. Barnes,
who, with his bride-elect for a partner, made a vis-.-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 schoolgirl 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'Ivry, of exasperating
old Lady Kew, and of annoying the young nobleman to whom Miss
Ethel was engaged. The girl seemed to take a pleasure in defying all
three: a something embittered her alike against her friends and her
enemies. The old dowager chafed and vented her wrath upon Lady
Ann and Barnes. Ethel kept the ball alive by herself almost. She
refused to go home, declining hints and commands alike. She was.
engaged for ever so many dances more. Not dance with Count
Punter? it would be rude to leave him after promising him. Not.
waltz with Captain Blackball? He was not a proper partner for her.
Why then did Kew know him? Lord Kew walked and talked with
Captain Blackball every day. Was she to be so proud as not to know
Lord Kew's friends? She greeted the Captain with a most fascinating
smile as he came up whilst the controversy was pending, and ended it
by whirling round the room in his arms.
Madame, d'Ivry viewed with such pleasure as might be expected the
defection of her adherents, and the triumph of her youthful rival, who
seemed to grow more beautiful with each waltz, so that the other
dancers paused to look at her, the men breaking out in enthusiasm,
the reluctant women being forced to join in the applause. 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 herself as a most reckless and intrepid
young flirt, using her eyes with the most consummate effect, chattering,
with astounding gaiety, prodigal of smiles, gracious thanks and killing
glances. What wicked spirit moved her? Perhaps had she knowna
the mischief she was doing, she would have continued it still




332                 THE NE P7COME&S
The sight of this wilfulness and levity smote poor Lord Kew's heart
with cruel pangs of mortification. The easy young nobleman had
passed many a year of his life in all sorts of wild company. The
chazumiere 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.
Duplicity he could not understand: ill-temper shocked him: wilfulness
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
honour their husbands; to cherish their children. Ethel's laugh woke
him up from one of these simple reveries very likely, and then she
swept round the ball-room rapidly to the brazen notes of the orchestra.
He 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'Ivry remarked his tribulation and gloomy face, though she
took no pleasure at his discomfiture, knowing that Ethel's behaviour
caused it.
In plays and novels, and I daresay in real life too sometimes,
when the wanton heroine chooses to exert her powers of fascination
and to flirt with Sir Harry or the Captain, the hero, in a pique, goes,off and makes love to somebody else: both acknowledge their folly
after a while, shake hands, and are reconciled, and the curtain drops
or the volume ends. But there are some people too noble and simple
for these amorous' scenes and smirking artifices. When 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 wais
not design so much as girlish mischief and high spirits; and that if
young men have their frolics, sow their wild oats, and enjoy their
pleasure, young women may be permitted sometimes their more harmless vagaries of gaiety, and sportive outbreaks of wilful humour.
When she- consented to go home at length, Lord Kew brought
Miss Newcome's little white cloak for her, (under the hood of which
her glossy curls, her blushing cheeks, and bright eyes looked 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 salutation he received with a grave bow;




THE NE-WCOMES.                       333
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 displeasure. What were balls made for but that people should
dance? She a flirt? She displease Lord Kew? If she chose to
dance, she would dance; she had no idea of his giving himself airs:
besides it was such fun taking away the gentlemen of Mary Queen of
Scots' court from her: such capital fun! So she went to bed, singing
and performing wonderful roulades as she lighted her candle and
retired to her room. She had had such a jolly evening! such famous
fun, and, I daresay, (but how shall a novelist penetrate these mysteries?)
when her chamber-door was closed, she scolded her maid and was as
cross as two sticks. You see there come moments of sorrow after the
most brilliant victories; and you conquer and rout the enemy utterly,
and then regret that you fought.




334                 TILE NE WCOME&S
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE END OF THE CONGRESS OF BADEN.
ENTION  has been made of an elderly young person from
Ireland, engaged by Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry, as companion and teacher of English for her little daughter. When Miss
O'Grady, as she did some time afterwards, quitted Madame d'Ivry's
family, she spoke with great freedom regarding the behaviour of that
duchess, and recounted horrors which she, the latter, had committed.
A number of the most terrific anecdotes issued from the lips of the
indignant Miss, whose volubility Lord Kew was obliged to check, not
choosing that his countess, with whom he was paying a bridal visit to
Paris, should hear such dreadful legends.  It was there that Miss
O'Grady, finding herself in misfortune, and reading of Lord Kew's
arrival at the "H6tel Bristol," waited upon his lordship and the
Countess of Kew, begging them to take tickets in a raffle for an
invaluable ivory writing-desk, sole relic of her former prosperity, which
the proposed to give her friends the chance of acquiring: in fact,
Miss O'Grady lived for some years on the produce of repeated raffles
for this beautiful desk; many religious ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain taking an interest in her misfortunes, and alleviating them by
the simple lottery system.  Protestants as well as Catholics were
permitted to take shares in Miss O'Grady's raffles; and Lord Kewv,
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 little timely




THE N~E WC OM -ES.                   335
warning about the impropriety of flirtations; above all, with such men
as are to be found at watering-places, persons who are never seen
elsewhere in society. "Remark the peculiarities of Kew's temper,
who never flies into a passion like you and me, my dear," said the old
lady (being determined to be particularly gracious and cautious);
" when once angry he remains so, and is so obstinate that it is almost
impossible to coax him into good humour. It is much better, my love,
to be like us," continued the old lady, "to fly out in a rage and have it
over, but que voulez-vozs.? 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 mdlzager Lord Kew's susceptibilities, as she valued her,own future comfort in life, as well as the happiness of a most amiable
man, of whom, if properly managed, Ethel might make what she
pleased. We have said Lady Kew managed everybody, and that most
of the members of her family allowed themselves to be managed by
her ladyship.
Ethel, who had permitted her 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 many and many
a time, that Clive Newcome was not a fit companion for us; warned
me against his bad courses, and painted him as extravagant, unprincipled, I don't know how bad. I-low bad! I know how good he
is; how upright, generous, and truth-telling: though there was not a
day until lately, that Barnes did not make some wicked story against
him, —Barnes, who, I believe, is bad himself, like —like other young
men. Yes, I am sure, there was something about Barnes in that




336                  THE NE WE COES.
newspaper which my father took away from me. And you come anct
you lift up your hands and shake your head, because I dance with one
gentleman or another. You tell me I am wrong; mamma has told me
so this morning. Barnes, of course, has told me so, and you bring
me Frank as a pattern, and tell me to love and honour and obey,him!!
Look here," and she drew out a paper and put it into Lady Kew's
hands. "Here is Kew's history, and I believe it is true; yes, I am
sure it is true."
The old dowager lifted her eyeglass to her black eyebrow, and read
a paper written in English, and bearing no signature, in which many
circumstances of Lord Kew's life were narrated for poor 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 d'Ivry's name
was not mentioned in this list, and Lady Kew felt sure that the outrage
came from her.
With real ardour Lady Kew sought to defend her grandson from
some of the attacks here made against him; and showed Ethel that
the person who could use such means of calumniating him, would not
scruple to resort to falsehood in order to effect her purpose.
"Her purpose," cries Ethel. "How do you know it is a woman?
Lady Kew lapsed into generalities. She thought the handwriting was
a woman's-at least it was not likely that a man should think of
addressing an anonymous letter to a young lady, and so wreaking his
hatred upon Lord Kew. " Besides Frank has had no rivals-except
-except one young gentleman who has carried his paint-boxes to
Italy," says Lady Kew. "You don't think your dear Colonel's son
would leave such a piece of mischief behind him? You must act,.
my dear," continued her ladyship, " as if this letter had never been
written at all: the person who wrote it no doubt will watch you. Of
course we are too proud to allow him to see that we are wounded;.
and pray, pray do not think of letting poor Frank know a word about
this horrid 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 little hesitation, "your
caution comes too late, Lord Kew has seen the letter."
"You fool," screamed the old lady, "you were not so mad as to
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 ladyship 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




THE NE WCOMES.                     337
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."
"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 the interview. " He was perfectly polite in his
language. He did not call me a fool or use a single other bad name.
He was good enough to advise me and to make such virtuous pretty
speeches, that if he had been a bishop he could not have 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. Will you be pleased to
xing the bell and order my carriage? I congratulate you on having
performed a most charming morning's work."
Ethel made her grandmother a very stately curtsey. I pity Lady
Julia's condition when her mother reached home.
All who know Lord Kew may be pretty sure that in that unlucky
interview with Ethel, to which the young lady 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 acquaintances of whom his own experience
had taught him the dangerous character. He knew Madame d'Ivry
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. Onily her high spirit was
22




338                 THE  NVE   COMES.
in perpetual revolt at this time against the bondage in which her family
strove to keep her. The very worldly advantages of the position which
they 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
tenmper indulged in. No doubt she saw the justice of Lord Kew's
reproofs. That self-consciousness was not likely to add to her good
humour. No doubt she was sorry for having shown Lord 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 at once stopped
by this terrible assault on himself. The letter had been put in the
Baden post-box, and so had come to its destination. It was in a
disguised handwriting. Lord Kew could form no idea even of the
sex of the scribe. He put the envelope in his pocket, when Ethel's
back was turned. He examined the paper when he left her. He
could make little of the superscription or of the wafer which had
served to close the note. He did not choose to caution Ethel as to
whether she should 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




THE NEW'COMES.                      339
said? bending her head, "and I am captious and wicked." He felt
the hot tear blotting on his hand from his cousin's downcast eyes.
He kissed her little hand. Lady Ann, who was in the room with
her children when these few words passed between the two in a very
low tone-thought it was a reconciliation.  Ethel knew it was a
renunciation on Kew's part-she never liked him so much as at that:moment. The young man was too modest and simple to guess himself 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 the ferinier des jeux at Baden beneficently 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 entertainments of the season: a dozen
or more of them had subscribed the funds, and we may be sure
Lord Kew's name was at the head of the list, as it was of any list,
of any scheme, whether of charity or fun. The English were invited,
and the Russians were invited; the Spaniards and Italians, Poles,
Prussians, and Hebrews; all the motley frequenters of the place, and
the warriors in the Duke of Baden's army. Unlimited supper was
set in the restaurant. The dancing-room glittered with extra lights,
and a profusion of cut-paper flowers decorated the festive scene.
Everybody was present: those crowds with whom our story has
nothing to do, and those two or three groups-of persons who enact
minor or greater parts in it. Madame d'Ivry came in a dress of
stupendous splendour, even more brilliant than that in which Miss
Ethel had figured at the last assembly. If the Duchess intended
to ecraser Miss Newcome by the superior magnificence of her toilet,
she was disappointed. Miss Newcome wore a plain white frock on
the occasion, and resumed, Madame d'Ivry said, her role of ingntcue
for that night.
During the brief season in which gentlemen enjoyed the favour
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 entertain



340                 THE NE WCO  E S.
ments in the course of the forenoon; so this lady with her platonic
lovers went through the complete dramatic course,- tragedies of
jealousy, pantomimes 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 Duc? 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 repeated.
Those Greenwich performers who appear in the theatrical pieces
above-mentioned, make a great deal more noise than your'stationary
tragedians; and if they have to denounce a villain, to declare a
passion, or to threaten an enemy, they roar, stamp, shake their fists,
and brandish their sabres, so that every man who sees the play has
surely a full pennyworth for his penny. Thus Madame la Duchesse
d'Ivry perhaps a little exaggerated her heroines' parts; liking to strike
her audiences quickly, and also to change them often. Like good
performers, she flung herself heart and soul into the business of the
stage, and was what she acted. She was Phedre, and if, in the. first
part of the play, she was uncommonly tender to Hippolyte, in the
second she hated him furiously. She was Medea, and if Jason was
voaage, woe to Creusa! Perhaps our poor Lord Kew had taken the
first character in a performance with Madame d'Ivry; for his behaviour
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 Europe,-when his relatives scorned Madame
d'Ivry, —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 so:7 droll at Paris,
where he had gone through the usual course of pleasures and studies
of the young inhabitants of the Latin Quarter. He had at one time
exalted.republican opinions, and had fired his shot with distinction at
St. MWri. He was a poet of some little note-a book of his lyrics,.
"' Les Rales d'un Asphyxi6," having made a sensation at the time of
their appearance. He drank great quantities of absinthe of a morning, smoked incessantly, played roulette whenever he could get a few
pieces, contributed to a small journal, and was especially great in his
hatred of l'iufame Angleterre. Delenda est Carthago was tattooed
beneath his shirt-sleeve. Fifine and Clarisse, young milliners of the




THE  ME WV COMES.                    341
*students district, had punctured this terrible motto on his manly right
arm. Le ldoj5ard, emblem of England, was his aversion; he shook
his fist at the caged monster in the Garden of Plants. He desired to
have " Here lies an enemy of England" engraved upon his early tomb.
He was skilled at billiards and dominoes, adroit in the use of arms,
of unquestionable 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'Ivry, 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. Cabasse. Cabasse had married a noble in the revolutionary
times; and the son at Paris called himself Victor Cabasse de Castillonnes; then Victor C. de Castillonnes; then M. de Castillonnes. One
of the followers of the Black Prince had insulted a lady of the house
of Castillonnes, when the English were lords of Guienne; hence our
friend's wrath against the Leopard. He had written, and afterwards
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 blanchefille, of course, died of hopeless love for
the conquering Frenchman, her father's murderer. The paper in which
the feuilleton appeared, died at the sixth number of the story. The
theatre of the Boulevard refused the drama; so the author's rage
against l'infame Albion was yet unappeased. On beholding Miss
Newcome, Victor had fancied a resemblance between her and Agnes
de Calverley, the blanche Miss of his novel and drama, and cast an
eye of favour upon the young creature. He even composed verses in
her honour (for I presume that the "Miss Betti" and the Princess
Crimhilde of the poems which he subsequently published, were no
other than Miss Newcome, and the Duchess, her rival). He had been
one of the lucky gentlemen who had danced with Ethel on the previous
evening. On the occasion of the ball, he came to her with a highflown compliment, and a request to be once more allowed to waltz
with- her-a request to which he expected a favourable answer,
thinking, no doubt, that his wit, his powers of conversation, and the
oamor fui 2fambait dans son regard, had had their effect upon
the charming Meess. Perhaps he had a copy of the very verses in
his breast-pocket, with which he intended to complete his work of
fascination. For her sake alone, he had been heard to say, that he
would enter into a truce with England, and forget the hereditary
wrongs of his race.




342                 THE IVE WVCO.ES.
But the blanche Miss on this evening declined to waltz with him,.
His compliments were not of the least avail. He retired with them,
and his unuttered verses in his crumpled bosom. Miss Newcome only
danced in one quadrille with Lord Kew, and left the party quite early,,
to the despair of many of the bachelors, who lost the fairest ornament
of their ball.
Lord Kew, however, had been seen walking with her in public,.
and particularly attentive to her during her brief appearance in the
ball-room; and the old Dowager, who regularly attended all places of
amusement, and was at twenty parties and six dinners the week before
she died, thought fit to be particularly gracious to Madame d'Ivry
upon this evening, and, far from shunning the Duchesse's presence
or being rude to her, as on former occasions, was entirely smiling and
good-humoured. Lady Kew, too, thought there had been a reconciliation between Ethel and her cousin. Lady Ann had given her
mother some account of the handshaking. Kew's walk with Ethel,
the quadrille which she had danced with him alone, induced the elder
lady to believe that matters had been made up between the young.
people.
So, by way of showing the Duchesse that her little shot of the
morning had failed in its effect, as Frank left the room with his cousin,Lady Kew gaily hinted, " that the young earl was aux petits soins with,
Miss Ethel; that she was sure her old friend, the Duc d'Ivry, 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 edifying.
She was charmed to hear that Lord Kew loved veal; there were some
who thought that meat rather insipid." A waltzer came to claim her
hand at this moment; and as she twirled round the room upon that
gentleman's arm, wafting odours 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'Ivry had delivered in the
morning.
Mr. Barnes, and his elect bride, had also appeared, danced, and
disappeared. Lady Kew soon followed her young ones; and the ball
went on very gaily, in spite of the absence of these respectable
personages.
Being one of the managers of the entertainment, Lord Kewreturned to it after conducting Lady Ann and her daughter to their




THE NE  COIMES.                      343
carriage, and now danced with great vigour, and with his usual kindness selecting those ladies whom other waltzers rejected, because
they were too old, or too plain, or too stout, or what not. But he
did not ask Madame d'Ivry to dance.  He could condescend to
dissemble so far as to hide the pain which he felt; but did not care
to engage in that more advanced hypocrisy of friendship, which,
for her part, his old grandmother had not shown the least scruple
in assuming.
Amongst other partners, my lord selected that intrepid waltzer,
the Grdfin von Gumpelheim, who, in spite of her age, size, and
large family, never lost a chance of enjoying her favourite recreation.
"Look with what a camel my lord waltzes," said M. Victor to Madame
d'Ivry, whose slim waist he had the honour of embracing to the same
music. "What man but an Englishman would ever select such a
dromedary?"
"Avant de se marier," said Madame d'Ivry, " il faut avouer que
my lord se permet d'enormes distractions."
"My lord marries himself! And when and whom?" cries the
Duchesse's partner.
" Miss Newcome. Do you not approve of his choice? I thought
the eyes of Stenio " (the Duchesse called M. Victor, Stenio,) "looked
with some favour upon that little person. She is handsome, even
very handsome. Is it not so often in life, Stenio? Are not youth and
innocence (I give Miss Ethel the compliment of her innocence, now
surtout that the little painter is dismissed)-are we not cast into the
arms of jaded rou6s? 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 chamber, played among the flowers
which I cherished, warbled with the birds that I loved. But it quitted
me at the door of the world, Stenio. It folded its white wings and
veiled its radiant face! In return for my young love, they gave me —
sixty years, the dregs of a selfish heart, egotism cowering over its 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,




344                 THE NEWCOi.ES.
" dansons et oublions;" and Stenio's arm once more surrounded her
fairy waist, (she called herself a fairy; other ladies canec her a sKeleton;) and they whirled away in the waltz again: and presently she
and Stenio came bumping up against the stalwart Lord Kew and the
ponderous Madame de Gumpelheim, as a wherry dashes against the
oaken ribs of a steamer.
The little couple did not fall; they were struck on to a neighbouring
bench, luckily: but there was a laugh at the expense of Stenio and the
Queen of Scots —and Lord Kew, settling his panting partner on to a
seat, came up to make excuses for his awkwardness to the lady who
had been its victim. At the laugh produced by the catastrophe, the
Duchesse's eyes gleamed with anger.
" M. de Castillonnes," she said, to her partner, " have you had any
quarrel with that Englishman?"
" With ce Milor? But no," said Stenio.
"- He did it on purpose. There has been no day but his family
has insulted me! " 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 trds maladroit, Monsieur," says Stenio, curling his
moustache. " C'est bien le mot, Monsieur."
"Also, I make my excuses to Madame la Duchesse, which I hope
she will receive," said Lord Kew. The Duchesse shrugged her
shoulders and sunk her head.
"When one does not know how to dance, one ought not to dancer
continued the Duchesse's knight.
" Monsieur is very good to give me lessons in dancing," said
Lord Kew.'Any lessons which you please, Milor I " cries 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 Florac, who was standing by and witnessed the scene. "Is he simply bete, or is he poltron as well? I
believe him to be both."
"Silence, Victor!" cried Florac, seizing his arm, and drawing him
away. "You know me, and that I am neither one nor the other.
Believe my word, that my Lord Kew wants neither courage nor wit! "
"Will you be my witness, Florac? " continues the other.
"To take him your excuses? yes. It is you who have insulted —-*
"Yes, parbleu, I have insulted!" says the Gascon.




THE NE WCOMES.                       345
"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 murh the better for me!" cried the Southron. " I shall
have the honour of meeting a gallant man; and there will be two on
the field."
"They are making a tool of you, my poor Gascon," said M. de
Florac, who saw Madame d'Ivry'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'Ivry, 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 filleul! I hope you think nothing of the rudeness 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 flamberge au vent.
What would the charming Miss Ethel say, if she heard of the
dispute?"
" Indeed there is no reason why she should hear of it," said Lord
Kew,'" unless some obliging friend should communicate it to her."
" Communicate it to her —the poor dear! who would be so cruel as
to give her pain?" asked the innocent Duchesse. "' Why do you look
at me so, Frank?"
"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 Duc, 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
si-you have wit!". And she led back Lord Kew, rather amazed himself at what he was doing, into the ball-room; so that the goodnatured people who were there, and who beheld them dancing, could
not refrain from clapping their hands at the sight of this couple.




346                  THE NE WYCOIMES.
The Duchess danced as if she was bitten by that Neapolitan,
spider which, according to the legend, is such a wonderful danceincentor. She would have the music quicker and quicker. She sank
on Kew's arm, and clung on his support. She poured out all the light
of her languishing eyes into his face. Their glances rather confused
than charmed him. But the bystanders were pleased; they thought it
so good-hearted of the Duchesse, after the little quarrel, to make a
public avowal of reconciliation!
Lord Rooster looking on, at the entrance of the dancing-room, over
Monsieur de Florac's shoulder, said, "It's all right! She's a clipper to
dance, the little Duchess."
" The viper!" said Florac, "how she writhes!"
"I suppose that business with the Frenchman is all over," says
Lord Rooster. " Confounded piece of nonsense."
" You believe it finished? We shall see  " said Florac, 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 Florac. " You are all pale. You were best
in bed, mon garqon! "
" 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 honour they should re-establish it
for this woman."
" There is one in the next room," said Kew, with a laugh. " Come,
Vicomte, let us try our fortune," and he walked back into the playroom.
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. Florac 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 Florac went back to the
dancing-room, leaving his maise under Kew's charge. He always found
his heaps increased; indeed the worthy Vicomte wanted a turn of luck
in his favour. On one occasion he returned with a grave face, saying
to Lord Rooster, " She has the other one in hand. We are going to
see." " Trente-six encor! et rouge gagne," cried the croupier with his
nasal tone.  Monsieur de Florac's pockets overflowed with double




THE NE WCOMES.                       347
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'Ivry 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 mustachio.
" Fi, Monsieur, que vous sentez le tabac! je vous le, defends,
entendez-vous, Monsieur?"
"Pourtant, I have seen the day when Madame la Duchesse did
not disdain a cigar," said Victor. "If the odour incommodes, permit
that I retire."
" And you also would quit me, Stenio? Do you think I did not
mark your eyes towards Miss Newcome? your anger whon 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, " 1;
am not the master."
"You are a very rebellious slave, Monsieur," continues the lady,
with a pretty nzouze, and a glance of the large eyes artfully brightened
by her rouge. " Suppose-suppose I danced with M. de Kew, not for
his sake-heaven knows to dance with him is not a pleasure-but for
yours. Suppose I do not want a foolish quarrel to proceed. Suppose
I know that he is ni sot ni poltron as you pretend. I overheard you,
sir, talking with one of the basest of men, my good cousin, M. de
Florac: but it is not of him I speak. Suppose I know the Comte
de Kew to be a man, cold and insolent, ill-bred, and grossier, as the
men of his nation are-but one who lacks no courage-one who is
terrible when roused; might I have no occasion to fear, not for him,
but —-"
"But for me! Ah Marie! Ah Madame. Believe you that a
man of my blood will yield a foot to any Englishman? Do you know




34.8                THE ANEWCOMES.
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
beholding him I said to myself, I hate you; think whether I love him
better after having seen him as I did but now, Madame?" Also, but
this Victor did not say, he thought Kew had laughed at him at the
beginning of the evening, when the blanche Miss had refused to dance
with him.
" Ah, Victor, it is not him, but you that I would save," said the
Duchesse. And the people round about, and the Duchesse 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 Duchesse's party, where our Gascon friend had not a
seat. But being one of the managers of the entertainment, his lordship went about from table to table, seeing that the guests at each
lacked nothing. He supposed, too, that the dispute with the Gascon
had possibly come to an end; at any rate, disagreeable as the other's
speech had been, he had resolved to put up with it, not having the
least inclination to drink the Frenchman's blood, or to part with his
own on so absurd a quarrel. He asked people, in his good-natured
way, to drink wine with him; and catching M. Victor's eye scowling
at him from a distant table, he sent a waiter with a champagne bottle
to his late opponent, and lifted his glass as a friendly challenge. The
waiter carried the message to M. Victor, who, when he heard it,
turned up his glass, and folded his arms in a stately manner. "M.
de Castillonnes dit qu'il refuse, Milor," said the waiter, rather scared.
" He charged me to bring that message to Milor." Florac ran across
to the angry Gascon. It was not while at Madame d'Ivry's table
that Lord Kew sent his challenge and received his reply; his duties,as steward had carried him away from that pretty early.
Meanwhile the glimmering dawn peered into the windows of the
refreshmrent-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




THE I'E WCOYMES.                     349
sleepless German waiters still bringing fresh supplies of drink. Lord
Kew gave the Duchesse d'Ivry 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.
Florac, in the meanwhile, had seized his compatriot, who had drunk
champagne copiously with others, if not with Kew, and was in vain
endeavouring to make him hear reason. The Gascon was furious; he
vowed that Lord Kew had struck him. " By the tomb of my mother,"
he bellowed, "I swear I will have his blood!" Lord Rooster was
bawling out-" D — him, carry him to bed, and shut him up;" which
remarks Victor did not understand, or two victims would doubtless
have been sacrificed on his mamma's mausoleum.
When Kew came back (as he was only too sure to do), the little
Gascon rushed forward with a glove in his hand, and. having an
audience of smokers round about him, made a furious speech about
England, leopards, cowardice, insolent islanders, and Napoleon at
St. Helena; and demanded reason for Kew's conduct during the night.
As he spoke, he advanced towards Lord Kew, glove in hand, and lifted
it as if he was actually going to strike.
" There is no need for further words," said Lord Kew, taking his
cigar out of his mouth. " If you don't drop that glove, upon my word
I will pitch you out of the window. " Ha!... Pick the man up,
somebody. You'll bear witness, gentlemen, I couldn't help myself.
If he wants me in the morning, he knows where to find me."
" I declare that my Lord Kew has acted with great forbearance,.
and under the most brutal provocation-the most brutal provocation,.
entendez-vous, M. Cabasse?" cried out M. de Florac, 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," Florac cried sadly, as
they both walked away with Lord Kew; " I wish that first blood was.
all- that was to be shed in this quarrel."
"Gaw! how he did go down!" cried 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 jpede
clau2do. It was with all his heart the contrite young man said " God




350                 THE NLE W1CO~ME$.
forgive me." He would take what was to foliow 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 Jaigers,) waited upon him upon the
part of M. de Castillonnes and the Earl of Kew, who had referred him
to the Viscount to arrange matters for a meeting between them. As
the meeting must take place out of the Baden territory, and they ought
to move before the police prevented them, the Count proposed that
they should at once make for France; where, as it was an affair of
honour, 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 fourand-twenty hours at least. On the next day none of them returned;
and on the day after, the family heard that Lord Kew had met with
rather a dangerous accident; but all the town knew he had been shot
by M. de Castillonnes on one of the islands on the Rhine, opposite
Kehl, where he was now lying.




THE.NEWCOffMES.                      35I
CHAPTER XXXV.
ACROSS THE ALPS.
OUR discursive muse must now take her place in the little britzska
in which Clive Newcome 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 Baden, to the gate of Milan, he describes
as beautiful; and doubtless, the delightful scenes through which the
young man went, had their effect in soothing any private annoyances
with which his journey commenced. The aspect of nature, in that
fortunate route which he took, is so noble and cheering, that our
private affairs and troubles shrink away abashed before that serene
splendour. 0 sweet peaceful scene of azure lake and snow-crowned
mountain, so wonderfully lovely is your aspect, that it seems like
heaven almost, and as if grief and care could not enter it! 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 Ridley still for a
companion. Many of us, young or middle-aged, have felt that delightful shock which the first sight of the great city inspires. There is one
other place of which the view strikes one with an emotion even greater
than that with which we look at Rome, where Augustus was reigning
when He saw the day, whose 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 affairs and his companions at this period of his life. Nor, if the gracious reader expects to




352                  THE NE WCOMES.
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 carry our insular habits with us. We have a little
England at Paris, a little England at Munich, Dresden, everywhere.
Our friend is an Englishman, and did at Rome as the English do.
There was the polite English society, the society that flocks to see
the 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-lieutenants' 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 Belgravia; has its club, its hunt, and its Hyde
Park on the Pincio: and there is the other little English world, the
broad-hatted, long-bearded; velvet-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 honour
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
painters seem one and all to reject, preferring to depict their quack
brigands, Contadini, Pifferari, and the like, because Thompson painted
them before Jones, and Jones before Thompson, and so on, backwards
into time. There were the children at play, the women huddled round
the steps of the open doorways, in the kindly Roman winter; grim,
portentous old hags, such as Michael Angelo painted, draped in




THE N'E WCOIES.                      353
majestic raggery; mothers and swarming bambins; slouching countrymen, dark of beard and noble of countenance, posed in superb attitudes,
lazy, tattered, and majestic. There came the red troops, the black
troops, the blue troops of the army of priests; the snuffy regiments of
capuchins, grave and grotesque; the trim French abbes; my lord the
bishop, with his footman (those wonderful footmen); my lord the cardinal, in his ramshackle coach and his two, nay three, footmen behind
him; flunkeys that look as if they had been dressed by the costumier
of a British pantomime; coach with prodigious 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 what is
grand to some persons' eyes appears grotesque to others; and for certain sceptical persons, that step, which we have heard of, between the
sublime and the ridiculous, is not visible.
" I wish it were not so," writes Clive, in one of the letters wherein
he usedto 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 lig~ht and splendour celestial, and, of course,
straightway converted him. My friend bade me look at the picture,
and, kneeling down beside me, I know prayed with all his honest
heart that the truth might shine down upon me too; but I saw no
glimpse of heaven at all, I saw but a poor picture, an altar with blinking
candles, a church hung with tawdry strips of red and white calico.
The good, kind W-  went away, humbly saying'that such might
have happened again if heaven so willed it.' I could not but feel a
kindness and admiration for the good man. I know his works are
made to square with his faith, that he dines on a crust, lives as chastely
as a hermit, and gives his all to the poor.
"Our friend J. J., very different to myself in so many respects, so
superior in all, is immensely touched by these ceremonies.  They
seem to answer to some spiritual want of his nature, and he comes
away satisfied as from a feast, where- I have only found vacancy. Of
course our first pilgrimage was to St. Peter's. What a walk! Under
what noble shadows does one pass; how great and liberal the houses
are, with generous casements and courts, and great grey portals which
giants might get through and keep their turbans on. Why, the houses
are twice as tall as Lamb Court itself; and over them hangs a noble
dinge, a venerable mouldy splendour. Over the solemn portals are
ancient mystic escutcheons-vast shields of princes and cardinals,
such as Ariosto's knights might take down; and every figure about
them is a picture by himself. At every turn there is a temple; in
every court a brawling fountain. Besides the people of the streets and
23




354                  THE  IVE' WCO/MES.
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, noiselessly seated under
archways, or lurking in courts and gardens. And then, besides these
defunct ones, of whom these old figures may be said to be the corpses,
there is the reigning family, a countless carved hierarchy of angels,
saints, confessors of the latter dynasty which has conquered the court
of Jove. I say, Pen, I wish Warrington would write the history of the'Last of the Pagans.' Did you never have a sympathy for them as
the monks came rushing into their temples, kicking down their poor
altars, smashing the fair calm faces of their gods, and sending their
vestals a-flying? They are always preaching here about the persecution of the Christians. Are n6t the churches full of martyrs with
choppers iii 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
across Tiber all in action; their great wings seem clanking, their
marble garments clapping; St. Michael, descending upon the Fiend,
has been caught and bronzified just as he lighted on the Castle of
St. Angelo: his enemy doubtless fell crushing through the roof and so
downwards. He is as natural as blank verse-that bronze angel-.set, rhythmic, grandiose. You'll see, some day or other, he's a great
sonnet, sir, I'm  sure of that.  Milton wrote in bronze: I am sure
Virgil polished off his'Georgics' in marble-sweet calm  shapes!
exquisite harmonies of line! As for the'/Eneid;' that, sir, I consider 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 grey 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
overawes, that facade is supportable. You advance towards itthrough, oh, such a noble court! with fountains flashing up to meet
the sunbeams; and right and left of you two sweeping half-crescents.
of great columns; but you pass by the courtiers and up to the steps of




THE IVE WCOMIES.                     3S.
the throne, and the dome seems to disappear behlind 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 Protestant, must feel
a pang at thinking, that he and his countrymen are insulated from
European Christendom.  An ocean separates us.  From one shore
or the other one can see the neighbour cliffs on clear days i 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 common-places,of Protestant satire. Lo! yonder inscription, which blazes round the
4dome of the temple, so great and glorious it looks like heaven almost,
and as if the words were written in stars, it proclaims to all the world
that this is Peter, and on this rock the Church shall be built, against
which Hell shall not prevail. Unider 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 commissioners of heaven, here holding their
court a hundred years hence, shall authoritatively announce their
beatification. The signs of their power shall not be wanting. They
heal the sick, open the eyes of the blind, cause the lame to walk to-day
as they did eighteen centuries ago. Are there not crowds ready to
bear witness to their wonders? 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 friari
whose bones are already beginning to work miracles, who has been the
disciple of another whom the Church has just proclaimed a saint,hand in hand they hold by one another till the line is lost up in
heaven. Come, friend, let us acknowledge this, and go and kiss the
toe of St. Peter. Alas! there's the Channel always between us; and
we no more believe in the miracles of St. Thomas of Canterbury, than
that the bones of his Grace John Bird, who sits in St. Thomas's chair
presently, will work wondrous cures in the year 2,000: that his statue
will speak, or his portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence will 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,




356                  TH'IE AE NEWCOMYES.
relics exposed for adoration, columns draped, altars illuminated,.
incense smoking, organs pealing, and boxes of piping soprani, Swiss
guards with slashed breeches and fringed halberts;-between us and.
all this splendour of old-world ceremony, there's an ocean flowing:
and yonder old statue of Peter might have been Jupiter again, surrounded by a procession of flamens and augurs, and Augustus as
Pontifex Maximus, to inspect the sacrifices,-and my feelings at the
spectacle had been, doubtless, pretty much the same.
" Shall I utter any more heresies? I am an unbeliever in Raphael's'Transfiguration'-the scream of that devil-possessed boy, in the
lower part of the figure of eight (a stolen boy too), jars the whole
music of the composition. On Michael Angelo'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 days of the Olympian dynasty, the subdued Titan rebels had been
set to ornament a palace for Jove, they would have brought in some
such tremendous work; or suppose that Michael descended to the
Shades, and brought up this picture out of the halls of Limbo? I like
a thousand and a thousand times better to think of Raphael's loving
spirit. As he looked at women and children, his beautiful face must
have shone like sunshine; his kind hand must have caressed thesweet figures as he formed them. If I protest against the"' Transfiguration,' and refuse to worship at that altar before which so many
generations have knelt, there are hundreds of others which I salute
thankfully. It is not so much in the set harangues (to take another
metaphor) as in the daily tones and talk that his voice is so delicious.
Sweet poetry and music, and tender hymns drop from him: he lifts
his pencil, and something 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 grey paper, or a little fresco, bearing
his mark-and over all the brawl and the throng you recognise his
sweet presence.'I would like to have been Giulio Romano,' J. J.
says (who does not care for Giulio's pictures),'because then I would
have been Raphael's favourite pupil. We agreed that we would rather
have seen him and William Shakspeare, than all the men we ever
read of. Fancy poisoning a fellow out of envy-as Spagnoletto did!
There are some men whose admiration takes that bilious shape..
There's a fellow in our mess at the' Lepre,' a clever enough fellow
too-and not a bad fellow to the poor. He was a 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




THE iVE WCOM2IES.                   357
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 company! Every
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 olWvoWal ns rraat 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'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' Caff6 Greco' over the way. Mezzocaldo 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 various nations have their
assigned quarters, and we drink our coffee and strong waters, and
abuse Guido, or Rubens, or Bernini selonz les goz/ts, 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; and capital when you have
got no others.  M'Collop is here: he made a great figure at a
cardinal's reception in the tartan of the M'Collop. He is splendid
at the tomb of the Stuarts, and wanted to cleave Haggard down
to the chine with his claymore for saying that Charles Edward was
often drunk.
"Some of us have our breakfasts at the' Caffi Greco' 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 hlasn't blacked our
boots and has got our breakfast, Terribile the valet-de-chambre 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 shepherdboys, and now is a grown man and ready as a warrior, a pifferaro, a
capuchin, or what you will.
"After the coffee and the'Caffi  Greco' 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




358                 THE-/ ArE WCOMfES.
fun than the tea-party fun too. Jack Screwby has a night once a weel
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 flatter myself some of the London dandies who are
passing the winter here, prefer the cigars and humble liquors which we
dispense, to tea and Miss Fitch's performance on the pianoforte.
" What is that I read in Galizgani about Lord K- and an affair
of honour 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 I am, should anything happen to the best of good fellows. A
great friend of Lord Kew's, Jack Belsize commonly called, came with
us from Baden through Switzerland, and we left him at Milan.. I see
by-the paper that his elder brother is dead, and so poor Jack will be a
great man some day. I wish the chance had happened sooner if it
was to befall at all. So my amiable cousin, Barnes Newcome Newcome, Esq., has married my Lady Clara Pulleyn; 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 Newcome. 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 thias
winter and the next. J. J. has done a famous picture, and if I send a
couple home, you'll give them a notice in the Pall Mall Gazette-won't
you?-for the sake of old times and yours affectionately
"CLIVE NEWCOMIE."




T1IE NE WCOM~ES.                    359
CHAPTER XXXVI.
IN WIHICHI M. DE FLORAC IS PROMOTED.
H OWEVER much Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry 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 appeared; by no means delighted
with his wife's behaviour, nay, visited her with his very sternest displeasure. Miss O'Grady, the Duchess's companion, and her little
girl's instructress, at this time resigned her functions in the Ivry
family; it is possible that in the recriminations consequent upon the
governess's dismissal, the Miss Irlandaise, in whom the family had
put so much confidence, divulged stories unfavourable to her patroness,
and caused the indignation of the Duke her husband.  Between
Florac 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 out for fresh pistols, and proposed
to engage Castillonnes, when his gallant principal fell; and though a
second duel was luckily averted as murderous and needless, M. de
Florac never hesitated afterwards, and in all companies, to denounce
with the utmost virulence the instigator and the champion of the
odious original quarrel. He vowed that the Duchess had shot Ze ietit
Kioz as effectually as if she had herself fired the pistol at his breast.
Murderer, poisoner, Brinvilliers, a hundred more such epithets he used
against his kinswoman, regretting that the good old. times were pastthat 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 English family.
When the Duke took his wife into the country, Florac never hesitated
to say that to live with her was dangerous for the old man, and to cry
out to his friends of the Boulevards 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




36o                 THE NE/WCOVMES.
many most respectable. husbands help to kill their wives-how many
respectable wives aid in sending their husbands to Hades? The wife
of a chimney-sweep or a journeyman butcher comes shuddering before
a police magistrate-her 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 publichouse-to evil courses-to neglecting his business-to the gin-bottleto deliriunm tremtens-to perdition. Bow Street, and policemen, and
the newspaper reporters, have cognizance and a certain jurisdiction
over these vulgar matrimonial crimes; but in politer company how
many murderous assaults are there by husband or wife —where the
woman is not felled by the actual fist, 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, she has to bear up and to be stricken down and to rise to her
feet again, under fresh daily strokes of torture; where the husband,
fond and faithful, has to suffer slights, coldness, insult, desertion, his
children sneered away from their love for him, his friends driven from
his door by jealousy, his happiness strangled, his whole life embittered,
poisoned, destroyed! If you were acquainted with the history of every
family in your street, don't you know that in two or three of the houses
there such tragedies have been playing? Is not the young mistress of
number 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 jewels on his wife's neck, and the
carriage out of which she ogles Lothario in the park? The fate under
which man or woman falls, blow of brutal tyranny, heartless desertion,
weight of domestic care too heavy to bear-are not blows such as
these constantly striking people down? In. this long parenthesis we
are wandering ever so far away from M. le Duc and Madame la
Duchesse d'Ivry,. and from the vivacious Florac's statement regarding
his kinsman, that that woman will kill him.
There is this at least to be said, that if the Duc d'Ivry did die he
was a very old gentleman, and had been a great viveur for at least
three-score years of his life. As Prince de Montcontour in his father's
time before the Revolution, during the Emigration, even after the
Restoration, M. le Duc had veczt with an extraordinary vitality. He
had gone through good and bad fortune: extreme poverty, display
and splendour, affairs of love, affairs of honour, and of one disease or
another a man must die at the end. After the Baden business-and
he had 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 Florac, with




THEL  NE EWCOIES.                    36r
whom and with whose family in these latter days the old chief of the
house effected a complete reconciliation. The Duke was now for ever
coming to Madame de Florac; he poured all his wrongs and griefs
into her ear with garrulous senile eagerness. " That little Duchesse is
a Medde, 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 H6tel 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, monl 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 d'Ivry, it might have been expected that that
poetess would have dashed off a few more cris de I'dme, 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 convent. It was
only when she left Madame de Florac that she used to cry; and when
urged by that good lady to exhibit a little decorous sentiment in
writing to her mamma, Antoinette would ask, in her artless way,
"" Pourquoi? Mamma used 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, ohz oui,
she gave me tapes! I cry no more; she has so much made to cry
M. le Duc, that it is quite enough of one in a family." So Madame la
Duchesse d'Ivry did not weep, even in print, for the loss of her pretty
little Antoinette; besides, she was engaged, at that time, by other
sentimental occupations. A young grazier of their neighbouring town,
of an aspiring 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 rendered 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 suternez 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 18-, than appeared round about
St. George's, Hanover Square, in the beautiful month of June suc



362                 THE NE WCOM/IES.
ceeding that September when so many of our friends the Newcomes,
were assembled at Baden. Those flaunting carriages, powdered and'
favoured footmen, were in attendance upon members of the Newcome
family and their connexions, 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 otournal, as well as in the Newcomne Sentinel and Indei5endent,
and the Dorking Intellzgencer and Chanticlere 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 all the other persons engaged in the ceremony. It was performed
by the Right Honourable and Right Reverend Viscount Gallowglass,
Bishop of Ballyshannon, brother-in-law to the bride, assisted by the
Honourable and Reverend Hercules O'Grady, his lordship's Chaplain,
and the Reverend John Bulders, Rector of St. Mary's, Newcome.
Then follow the names of all the nobility who were present, and of
the noble and distinguished personages who signed the book. Then
comes an account of the principal dresses, chefs-d'ceuvre of Madame
Crinoline; of the bride's coronal of brilliants, supplied by Messrs.
Morr and Stortimer; of the veil of priceless Chantilly lace, the gift of
the Dowager Countess of Kew. Then there is a description of the
wedding-breakfast at the house of the bride's noble parents, and of the
cake, decorated by Messrs. Gunter with the most delicious taste and
the sweetest hymeneal allusions.
NIo mention was made by the fashionable chronicler of a slight
disturbance which occurred at St. George's, and which, indeed, was
out of the province of such a genteel purveyor of news. Before the
marriage service began, a woman of vulgar appearance and disorderly
aspect, accompanied by two scared children who took no part in the
disorder occasioned by their mother's proceeding, except by their tearsand outcries to augment the disquiet, made her appearance in one of
the pews of the church, was noticed there by persons in the vestry, was
requested to retire by a beadle, and was finally induced to quit the
sacred precincts of the building by the very strongest persuasion of a
couple of policemen; X and Y laughed at one another, and nodded
their heads knowingly as the poor wretch with her whimpering 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. Delacy (as this lady chose to be called,) had quitted this
temple of Hymen.  She slunk through the throng of emblazoned




THE IrvE WCO0MES.                    363
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-decamp in blue. I daresay her little history was discussed at many a
dinner-table that day in the basement stpry 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 circumstance with funny comments; although theivforning Post, in describing this affair in high life, naturally omitted
all mention of such low people as Mrs. Delacy and her children.
Those people who knew the noble families whose union had been,
celebrated by such a profusion of grandees, fine equipages, and foot —
men, brass-bands, brilliant toilettes, and wedding favours, asked how
it was that Lord Kew did not assist at Barnes Newcome's marriage;
other persons in society inquired waggishly why Jack Belsize was not
present to give Lady Clara away.
As for Jack Belsize, his clubs had not been ornamented by his
presence for a year past. It was said he had broken the bank at
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 succession to the title and
estates of Highgate, many folks said it was a pity little Barney's
marriage had taken place so soon.  Lord Kew was not present,
because Kew was still abroad; he had had a gambling duel with a
Frenchman, and a narrow squeak for his life. He had turned Roman.
Catholic, some men said; others vowed that he had joirted 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 theold 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 Montcontour, the Duc
d'Ivry's son, but he died at Paris before the revolution of'30: one or
two of the oldsters at Bays's, Major Pendennis, General Tufto, old
Cackleby-the old fogies in a word-remembered the Duke of Ivry
when he was here during the Emigration, and when he was called
Prince de 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 by that young woman whom he married, and who led him.
such a life. Who was this present Montcontour?




364                 THE NE WCOMrES.
He was a gentleman to whom the reader has already been pre-,sented, though, when we lately saw him at Baden, he did not enjoy so
-magnificent a title. Early in the year of Barnes Newcome's marriage,
there came to England, and to our modest apartment in the Temple,,a gentleman bringing a letter of recommendation from our dear young
Clive, who said that the bearer, the Vicomte de Florac, was a great
friend of his, 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 (where, ma foi, the
little whites bailes elicited his profound satisfaction); in a word, did
our best to honour that bill which our young Clive had drawn upon
us. We considered the young one in the light of a nephew of our own;
we took a pride in him, and were fond of him; and as for the Colonel,,did we not love and honour him-would we not do our utmost in behalf
of any stranger who came recommended to us by Thomas Newcome's
good word? So Florac was straightway admitted to our companionship. We showed him the town, and some of the modest pleasures,thereof; we introduced him to the " Haunt," and astonished him by
the company which he met there. Between Brent's "Deserter" and
Mark Wilder's " Garryowen,' Florac sangTiens, voici ma pipe, voila. mon bri-quet;
Et quand la Tulipe fait le noir tra-jet
Que tu sois la seule dans le regi-ment
Avec la brfile-gueule, 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 Florac
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 favour 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 fingers, in token of his
admiration for the lovely widow; he pronounced her again more
pretty than her daughter, and paid her a thousand compliments, which
she received with exceeding good-humour. If the Vicomte gave us to
understand presently that 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 unfavourable to the character
or constancy of the before-mentioned ladies must be inferred from,M. de Florac's speech; his firm conviction being that no woman could




THE NE IWCOMES.                      365
pass many hours in his society without danger to her subsequent
peace of mind.
For some little time we had no reason to suspect that our French
friend was not particularly well furnished with the current coin of the
realm. Without mnaking any show of wealth, he would, at first, cheerfully engage in our little parties; his lodgings in the neighbourhood of
Leicester Square, though dingy, were such as many noble foreign
exiles have inhabited. It was not until he refused to join some pleasure
trip which we of Lamb Court proposed, honestly confessing his poverty,
that we were made aware of the Vicomte's little temporary calamity;
and, as we became more intimate with him, he acquainted 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 Bouillote and
Mademoiselle Atala, of the Varie'tes, (zne ogresse, mon cher! who,
devours thirty of our young men every year in her cavern, in the Rue
de Breda!) had declared against him, and the poor Vicomte's pockets
were almost empty when he came to London.
He was amiably 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 threeand-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 Varietes. He would then (in conversation)
introduce us to Madame de Florac, nie 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 pecuniary aid. He disappeared at dinner-time into the mysterious
purlieus of Leicester Square, and dark ordinaries 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 honour to salute me,
is a coiffeur of the most celebrated; he forms the delices of our tabled'h6te.' Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur!' We are friends, though not
of the same opinion. Monsieur is a republican of the most distinguished; conspirator of profession, and at this time engaged in constructing an infernal machine to the address of his Majesty Louis
Philippe, King of the French. Who is my friend with the scarlet




366                 THE ANE WCCOM1iES.
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'h6te."
Warrington vowed that the company of Florac's friends would be
infinitely more amusing than the noblest society ever chronicled in
the Morninzg Post; but we were neither sufficiently familiar with the
French language to make. conversation in that tongue as pleasant to
us as talking in our own; and so were content with Florac'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 gentlemanlike, and he draped himself in his poverty with the grace of a Spanish
grandee. It must be confessed, that the grandee loved the estaminet
where he could play billiards with the. first comer; that he had a
passion for the gambling-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 ncnannt's impertinence or familiarity as haughtily as his
noble ancestors ever did at the Louvre, at Marli, or Versailles. He
declined to obtenzeiSrer to his landlady's request to pay his rent, but he
refused with a dignity which struck the woman with awe; and,King
Alfred, over the celebrated muffin (on which Gandish and other
painters have exercised their genius), could not have looked more
noble than Florac 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'h6te had grown too
dear for him.
As we know from Gandish's work, that better times were in store
for the wandering monarch, and that the officers came acquainting
him that his people demanded his presence 2 granzds cris, when of
course King Alfred laid down the toasting-fork and resumed the
sceptre; so in the case of Florac, two humble gentlemen, inhabitants
of Lamb Court, and members of the Upper Temple, had the good
luck to be the heralds as it were, nay indeed the occasion of the rising
fortunes of the Prince de Montcontour. Florac had informed us of
the death of his cousin the Duc d'Ivry, by whose demise the Vicomte's
father, the old Count de Florac, 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




THE NE W~CO.EES.                    357
appurtenances, had been lopped off by the Revolution. " Monsieur le
Comte," Florac says," has not wished to change his name at his age;
he has shrugged his old shoulder, and said it was not the trouble to
make to engrave a new card; and for me," the philosophical Vicomte
added, " of what good shall be a title of prince in the position where I
find myself?" It is wonderful for us who inhabit a country where
rank is worshipped with so admirable a reverence, to think that there
are many gentlemen in France who actually have authentic titles and
do not choose to bear them.
Mr. George Warrington was hugely amused with this notion of
Florac's ranks and dignities. The idea of the Prince purchasing penny
cigars; of the Prince mildly expostulating with his landlady regarding
the rent; of his punting for half-crowns at a neighbouring hell in Air
Street, whither the poor gentleman desperately ran when he had money
in his pocket, tickled George's sense of humour. 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 down the river, he pointed out
to Florac the very window in the Tower where the captive Duke of
Orieans used to sit when he was an inhabitant of that fortress. At
Greenwich, which palace Florac informed us was built by Queen.Elizabeth, George showed the very spot where Raleigh laid his cloak
down to enable her Majesty to step over a puddle. In a word he
mystified M. de Florac: such was Mr. Warrington's reprehensible
spirit.
It happened that Mr. Barnes Newcome came to dine at Greenwich
on the same day when our little party took place. He had come down
to meet Rooster and one or two other noble friends whose names' he
took care to give us, cursing them, at the same time, for having
thrown him over. Having missed his own company, Mr. Barnes condescended to join ours, Warrington gravely. thanking him for the great
honour which he conferred upon us by volunteering to take a place at
our table. Barnes drank freely and was good enough to resume his
acquaintance with Monsieur de Florac, 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




368                 THIE.NE WtCO'ES.
unloosed and each man talked gaily, George Warrington feelingly
thanked Barnes, in a little mock speech, for his great kindness ill
noticing us, presenting him at the same time to Florac 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.
Florac, 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 favourable than those which the young gentleman generally
emitted respecting gentlemen whose backs were turned. He had
known a little of Florac the year before, at Baden: he had been
mixed up with Kew in that confounded row in which Kew was hit;
he was an adventurer, a pauper, a blackleg, a regular Greek; he had
heard Florac 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 fora gentleman to drinkk!-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? Florac's family is one of the noblest and most
ancient in Europe. It is more ancient than your illustrious friend the
barber-surgeon; it was illustrious before the house, ay, or the pagoda
of Kew was in existence." And he went on to describe how Florac,
by the demise of his kinsman, 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 descriptions of
Florac's good qualities, high birth, and considerable patrimony;
Barnes looked quite amazed and scared at these announcements,.
then laughed and declared once more that Warrington was chaffing
him.
" As sure as the Black Prince was lord of Acquitaine-as sure as
the English were masters of Bordeaux-and why did we ever lose the
country?" cries George, filling himself a bumper,-" every word I have
said about Florac is true;" and Florac coming in at this juncture,
having just finished his cigar, George turned round and made him a




THE NE WCOMES.                       369
fine speech in the French language, in which he lauded his constancy
and good humour under evil fortune, paid him two or three more
cordial compliments, and finished by drinking another great bumper to
his good health.
Florac 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 Newcome ever showed his pale face in Lombard Street." George War.
rington never bragged about his pedigree except under certain influences. I am inclined to think that on this occasion he really did
find the claret very good.
" You don't mean to say," says Barnes, addressing Florac in
French, on which he piqued himself, " que vous avez un tel manche i
votre nom, et que vous ne l'usez pas?"
Florac shrugged his shoulders; he at first did not understand that
familiar figure of English speech, or what was meant by " having a
handle to your name." " Montcontour cannot dine better than Florac,"
he said. " Florac has two louis in his pocket, and'Montcontour exactly
forty shillings. Florac's proprietor will ask Montcontour to-morrow
for five weeks' rent; and as for Florac's friends, my dear, they will
burst out laughing to Montcontour's nose!" "How droll you English
are! " this acute French observer afterwards said, laughing and recalling
the incident. " Did you not see how that little Barnes, as soon as he
knew my title of Prince, changed his manner and became all respect
towards me?" This, indeed, Monsieur de Florac'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 his brougham, and was ready to
set him down anywhere that he wished in town.
"Bah!" says Florac; "we came by the steamer, and I prefer the
pgniboal."  But the hospitable Barnes nevertheless called upon Florac
the next day. And now, having partially explained how the Prince de
Montcontour was present at Mr. Barnes Newcome's wedding, let us,
show how it was that Barnes's first-cousin, the Earl of Kew, did not
attend that ceremony.
24a




370                 THE NE WCOMLS.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
RETURNS TO LORD KEW.
W    E 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 public acts and
insult of the morning, the maddened Frenchman went to it convinced
that his antagonist had wilfully outraged him, eager to show his bravery
upon the body of an Englishman, and as ptoud as if he had been going
into actual war. That commandment, the sixth in our decalogue,
which forbids the doing of murder, and the injunction which directly
follows on the same table, have been repealed by a very great number
of Frenchmen for many years past; and to take the neighbour's wife,
and his life subsequently, has not been an uncommon practice with
the politest people in the world. Castillonnes had no idea but that
he was going to the field of honour; stood with an undaunted scowl
before his enemy's pistol; and discharged his own and brought down
his opponent with a grim satisfaction, and a comfortable conviction
afterwards that he had acted en galan/ homme. " It was well for this
Milor that he fell at the first shot, my dear," the exemplary young
Frenchman remarked; " a second might have been yet more fatal to
him; ordinarily I am sure of my couz;, and you conceive that in an
affair so grave it was absolutely necessary that one or other should
remain on the ground."' Nay, should M. de Kew recover from his
wound, it was M. de Castillonnes' intention to propose a second encounter between himself and that nobleman. It had been Lord Kew's
determination never to fire upon his opponent, a confession which he
made not to his second, poor scared Lord Rooster, who bore the young
Earl to Kehl, but to sorhe of his nearest relatives, who happened fortunately to be not far from him when he received his wound, and who
came with all the eagerness of love to watch by his bed-side.
We have said that Lord Kew's mother, Lady Walham, and her
second son were staying at Hombourg, when the 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




THE NE WCOMES.                       37r
herself could only produce the wrath, pain, and humiliation which
their coming together always occasioned. It was Lord Kew 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, dear," he said, " and you know I never would have
fired upon the poor Frenchman." The fond mother allowed no sign
of terror or grief to appear upon her face, so as to disturb her first-born
and darling;- but, no doubt, she prayed by his side as 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-prayerrepentance, 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 world, and its ambition and
vanities, where 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
revolt. It is hard to convince a woman perfectly pure in her life and
intentions, ready to die if need were for her own faith, having absolute




372                  THE NVE WCOMES.
confidence in the instruction of her teachers, that she and they (withall their sermons) may be doing harm. When the young catechist
yawns over his reverence's discourse, who knows but it is the doctor's
vanity which is enraged, and not heaven which is offended? It may
have been, in the differences which took place between her son and
her, the good Lady Walham never could comprehend the lad's side of
the argument; or how his protestantism against her doctrines should;:
exhioit itself on the turf, the gaming-table, or the stage of the operahouse; and thus, but for the misfortune under which poor Kew nowlay 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 surgeon's dealings with his wounds;.
the widowed woman had an opportunity to admire with an exquisite
thankfulness the generous goodness of -her son; and, in those hours,
those sacred hours passed in her own chamber, of prayers, fears,
hopes, recollections, and passionate maternal love, wrestling with fate
for her darling's life, no doubt the humbled creature came to acknow
ledge that her own course regarding him had been wrong; and, even
more for herself than for him, implored 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 accident which had befallen
poor Kew. Lady Kew broke out in wrath and indignation. We
may be sure the Duchesse d'Ivry 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'Ivry. The message was not delivered properly, or the person for
whom it was intended did not choose to understand it, for presently,.
as the Countess was hobbling across the walk on her. way to her
daughter's residence, she met the Duchesse d'Ivry, who saluted her
with a demure curtsey and a commonplace expression of condolence.
The Queen of Scots was surrounded by the chief part of her court,.
saving, of course, MM. Castillonnes and Punter, absent on service.
"We were speaking of this deplorable affair," said Madame d'Ivry,
(which indeed was the truth, although she said it). " How we pity
you, Madame!"  Blackball and Loder, Cruchecassde and Schlangenbad, assumed sympathetic countenances.
Trembling on her cane, the old Countess-glared out upon Madame
d'Ivry —" I pray you, Madame," she said in French, "never again toc




-THE  NE WCO0MES.                    373
address me the word. If I had, like you, assassins in my pay, I
would have you killed; do you hear me?" and she hobbled on her'way. The household to which she went was in terrible agitation; the
kind Lady Ann frightened beyond measure, poor Ethel full of dread,
and feeling guilty almost as if she had been the cause, as indeed she
was the occasion, of Kew's misfortune. And the family had further
-cause of alarm from the shock which the news had given to Sir Brian.
It has been said that he had had illnesses of late which caused his
friends much anxiety. He had passed two months at Aix-la-Chapelle,,his physicians dreading a paralytic attack; and Madame d'Ivry'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?"
" No, there had been no fresh bulletin from Kehl; but two hours
since Sir Brian Newcome had had a paralytic seizure."
"Is he very bad?"
"No," says Dr. Finck, "he is not very bad."
"How inconsolable M. Barnes will be!" said the Duchesse,
shrugging her haggard shoulders.  Whereas the fact was that
Mr. Barnes retained perfect presence of mind under both of the
misfortunes which had befallen his family. Two days afterwards the
Duchesse's husband arrived himself, when we may presume that
exemplary woman was too much engaged with her own affairs to be
able to be interested about the doings of other people. With 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
Newcome.
During all this period of their father's misfortune no sister of:charity could have been more tender, active, cheerful, and watchful
than Miss Ethel. She had to wear a kind face and exhibit no anxiety
when occasionally the feeble invalid made inquiries regarding poor
Kew at Baden; to catch the phrases as they came from him; to




374                T7ltE NE WCOMES.
acquiesce, or not to deny, when. Sir Brian talked of the marriagesboth 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 ladyindeed, only add to her doubts and pain.
She had told none of her friends as yet of those last words of
Kew's, which she interpreted as a farewell on the young nobleman's
part. Had she told them they very likely would not have understood..
Kew's meaning as she did, and persisted in thinking that the two were.
reconciled. At any rate, whilst he and her father were still lying
stricken by the blows which had prostrated them both, all questions
of love and marriage had been put aside. Did she love him? She
felt such a kind pity for his misfortune, such an admiration for his
generous gallantry, such a remorse for her own wayward conduct and
cruel behaviour towards this most honest, and kindly, and affectionate
gentleman, that the sum of regard which she could bestow upon him
might surely be said to amount to love. For such a union as that
contemplated between them, perhaps for any marriage, no greater
degree of attachment was necessary as the common cement. Warm.
friendship and thorough esteem and confidence (I do not say that our
young lady calculated in this matter-of-fact way) are safe properties
invested in the prudent marriage stock, multiplying and bearing an,
increasing value with every year. Many a young couple of spendthrifts,
get through their capital of passion in the first twelve months, 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 cupboard is empty, and
the firm of Damon and Phyllis insolvent!
Miss Newcome, we say, without doubt, did not make her calculations in this debtor and creditor fashion; it was only the gentlemen of that family who went to Lombard Street. But suppose she
thought that regard, and esteem, and affection being sufficient, she
could joyfully and with almost all her heart bring such a portion to
Lord Kew; that her harshness towards him as contrasted with his.
-own generosity, and above all with his present pain, infinitely touched
her; and suppose she fancied that there was another person in the
world to whom, did fates permit, she could offer not esteem, affection,
pity only, -but something ten thousand times more precious? We
are not in 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




THE NEW COMES.                      37V
moves on his errands, administers his potions, and watches his sleep,
thinks of Clive absent and unhappy, of Kew wounded and in danger,
she must have subject enough of thought and pain. - Little wonder
that her cheeks are pale and her eyes look red; she has her cares
to endure now in the world, and her burden to bear in it, and somehow she feels she is alone, since that day when poor Clive's carriage
drove away.
In a mood of more than ordinary depression and weakness Lady
Kew must have found her granddaughter upon one of the few occasions
after the double mishap, when Ethel and her elder were together. Sir
Brian's illness, as it may be imagined, affected a lady very slightly
who was of an age when these calamities occasion but small disquiet,
and who, having survived her own father, her husband, her son, and
witnessed their lordships' 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 Barnes Newcome
himself could await that event more philosophically. So, finding Ethel
in this melancholy mood, Lady Kew thought a drive in the fresh air
would be of service to her, and, Sir Brian happening to be asleep,
carried the young girl away in her barouche.
They talked about Lord Kew, of whom the accounts were encouraging, and who is mending in spite of his silly mother and her
medicines, "and as soon as he is able to move we must go and fetch
him, my dear," Lady Kew graciously said, "before that foolish woman
has made a Methodist of him. He is always led by the woman who
is nearest him, and I know one who will make of him just the best
little husband in England." Before they had come to this delicate
point the lady and her grandchild had talked Kew's character over,
the girl, you may be sure, having spoken feelingly and eloquently
about his kindness and courage, and many admirable qualities. She
kindled when she heard the report of his behaviour at the commencement of the fracas with M. de Castillonnes, his great forbearance and
good-nature, and his resolution and magnanimity when the moment of
collision came.
But when Lady Kew arrived at that period of her discourse in
which she stated that Kew would make the best little husband in
England, poor Ethel's eyes filled with tears; we must remember that
her high spirit was worn down by watching and much varied anxiety,
and then she confessed that there had been no reconciliation, as all
the family fancied, between Frank and herself-on the contrary, a
parting, which she understood to be final; and she owned that her
conduct towards her cousin had been most captious and cruel, and that
she could not expect they should ever again come together. Lady




376                 THE ANE WCOIMES.
Kew, who hated sick beds and surgeons, except for herself, who hated
her daughter-in-law above all, was greatly annoyed at the news which
Ethel gave her; made light of it, however, and was quite confident
that a very few words from her would place matters on their old footing, and determined on forthwith setting out for Kehl. She would
have carried Ethel with her, but that the poor Baronet with cries and
moans insisted on retaining his nurse, and Ethel's grandmother was
left to undertake this mission by herself, the girl remaining behind
acquiescent, not unwilling, owning openly a great regard and esteem
for Kew, and the wrong which she had done him, feeling secretly a
sentiment which she had best smother. She had received a letter from
that other person, and answered it with her mother's cognisance, but
about this little affair neither Lady Ann nor her daughter happened to
say a word to the manager of the whole family.




THE NEWCOME'.:                       377
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
IN WHICH LADY KEW LEAVES HIS LORDSHIP QUITE CONVALESCENT.
I MMEDIATELY after Lord Kew's wound, and as it was necessary
to apprise 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 favourably, and that his hurt was
trifling. The fever had set in, and the young patient was lying in
great danger, as most of the laggards at Baden knew, when his friends
there were set at ease by this 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, showed her sympathy by sending couriers, and
repeatedly issuing orders to have news of Kew. Sick beds scared her
away invariably. When illness befel a member of her family she
hastily retreated from before the sufferer, showing her agitation of mind,
however, by excessive ill-humour to all the others within her reach.
A fortnight passed, a ball had been found and extracted, the fever
was over, the wound was progressing favourably, the patient advancing
towards convalescence, and the mother, with her child once more
under her wing, happier than she had been for seven years past, during
which her young prodigal had been running the thoughtless career of
which he himself was weary, and which had occasioned the 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 exquisite, 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




378                  THE NAE WCOMES.
amused him no mole; 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
wonder this simple, kindly, modest, and courageous soul thought
seriously 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, accounts
of whose seizure, of course, had been despatched to the Kehl party,
and to lament that a worldly man as he was should have such an
affliction, so near the grave and so little prepared for it. Here honest
Kew, however, held out. "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 every day: I'm
sure has led a hundred times better life than I have, poor old Sir
Brian. I often have thought, mother, that though our side was wrong,
yours could not be altogether right, because I remember how my tutor,
and Mr. Bonner, and Dr. Laud, when they used to come down to us.
at Kewbury, used to make themselves so unhappy about other people."
So the widow withdrew her unhappiness about Sir Brian; she wasquite glad to hope for the best regarding that invalid.




THE NE WCOiMES.                      379
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 mending health, all Lady Walham's hours were
passed in thankful and delighted occupation. George Barnes kept
the Newcomes acquainted with the state of his brother's health.
The skilful surgeon from Strasbourg reported daily better and better
of him, and the little family were living in great peace and contentment, with one subject of dread, however, hanging over the mother of
the two young men, the arrival of Lady Kew, the fierce old mother-inlaw 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 fringed with alders, the vast yellow
fields behind them, the great avenue of poplars stretching away to the
Alsatian city, and its purple minster yonder. Good Lady Walham
was for improving the shining hour by reading amusing extracts from
her favourite volumes, gentle anecdotes of Chinese and Hottentot converts, and incidents from missionary travel. George Barnes, a wily
young diplomatist, insinuated Galigzani, and hinted that Kew might
like a novel; and a profane work called "Oliver Twist" having
appeared about this time, which'George read out to his family with
admirable emphasis, it is a fact that Lady Walham became so interested'
in the parish-boy's progress, that she took his history into her bedroom
(where it was discovered, under Blatherwick's "Voice from Mesopotamia," by her ladyship's maid), and that Kew laughed so immensely
at Mr. Bumble, the Beadle, as to endanger the reopening of his wound.
While, one day, they were so harmlessly and pleasantly occupied,.
a great whacking of whips, blowing of horns, and whirring of wheels
was heard in the street without. The wheels stopped at their hotel
gate; Lady Walham started up; ran through the garden-door, closing.
it behind her; and divined justly who had arrived. The landlord was
bowing; the courier pushing about; waiters in attendance; one ofthem, coming up to pale-faced Lady Walham, said, " Her Excellency
the Frau Grdifin von Kew is even now absteiging."
" Will you be good enough to walk into our salon, Lady Kew?"
said the daughter-in-law, stepping forward and opening the door of
that apartment.  The countess, leaning on her staff, entered that
darkened -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




380                  THE iVE WCOMES.
~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 shrunk 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 Walham only rang the bell. "I don't speak
German; and have never been on any floor of the house but this.
Your servant had better see to your room, Lady Kew.  That next
is mine; and I keep the door, which you are trying, locked on the
other side."
"And I suppose Frank is locked up there!" cried the old lady,
"with a basin of gruel and a book of Watts's hymns." A servant
entered at this moment, answering Lady Walham's summons. " Peacock, the Countess of Kew says that she proposes to stay here this
evening. Please to ask the landlord to show her ladyship rooms,"
said Lady Walham; and by this time she had thought of a reply to
Lady Kew's last kind speech.
" If my son were locked up in my room, madam, his mother is
surely the best nurse for him. Why did you not come to him three
weeks sooner, when there was 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.
c" But at least it is better than some to which you introduced my
son," continued Lady Kew's daughter-in-law, gathering force and
wrath as she spoke. " Your ladyship may think lightly of me, but
you can hardly think so ill of me as of the Duchesse d'Ivry, I should
suppose, to whom you sent my boy, to form him, you said; about
whom, when I remonstrated-for though I live out of the world I
hear-of it sometimes-you were pleased to tell me that I was a prude
and a fool. It is you I thank for separating my child from me-yes,
you-for so many years of my life; and for bringing me to him when;he was bleeding and almost a corpse, but that God preserved him
to the widow's prayers; -and you, you were by, and never came
near him."
"I-I did not come to see you-or-or-for this kind of scene,
Lady Walham," muttered the other. Lady Kew was accustomed to




THE AE WCOMES.                       38I
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
flung herself into George Barnes's arms, fainting with an hysteric
burst of tears.
"You had best get a strait-waistcoat for your mother, George
Barnes," Lady Kew said, scorn and hatred in her face. (If she 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 not 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
rooms upstairs?  Here is the landlord to conduct your ladyship.
Frank will be quite ready to receive you when you come down. I
am sure I need not beg of your kindness 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 engaged in
showing the Countess of Kew the apartments above, spent an agreeable time with her Excellency the Frau Grdifin von Kew. She must
have had better luck 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 behind her, and her man's eyes and face looked Blitz and Donnerwetter; but their mistress's features wore that pleased look which
they assumed when she had been satisfactorily punishing somebody.




382                 THE NE WCOMES.
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 deserve 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 I shall be very comfortable.
The Dodsburys stopped here, I see, by the travellers' book-quite,right, instead 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 am sure I wonder
how I have got through it all. Doctor Finck 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 Duc 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 principles, 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 has sat
up with 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; 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 creature," 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."
c Bier-. Frank!" Lady Kew smiled (in her supernatural way)




THE NAE WCOMES.                      383
almost as much as her portrait, by Harlowe, as you may see it at
Kewbury to this very day. She is represented seated before an easel,
painting a miniature of her son, Lord Walham.
"I wrote to her on the subject of the last conversation we had
together," Frank resumed, in rather a timid voice, " the day before
my accident. Perhaps she did not tell you, ma'am, of what passed
between us. We had had a quarrel; one of many. 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 I told her, that
if she loved me she never would have showed it me ~ without any other
words of reproof I bade her farewell. It was not much, the showing
that letter; but it was enough. In twenty differences we have had
together she had been unjust and captious, cruel towards me, and too.eager, as I thought, for other people's admiration. Had she loved me,
it seemed to me Ethel would have shown less vanity and- better temper.
What was I to expect in life afterwards from a girl who before her,marriage used me so? Neither she nor I could be happy. She could
be gentle enough, and kind, and anxious to please any man whom she
loves, God bless her! As for me, I suppose, I'm not worthy of so
much talent and beauty, so we both understood that that was a friendly
farewell; and as I have been lying on my bed yonder, thinking, perhaps,
I never might leave it, or if I did, that I should like to lead a different
sort of life to that which ended in sending me there, my resolve of last
month was only confirmed. God forbid that she and I should lead the
lives of some folks we know; that Ethel should marry without love,
perhaps to fall into it afterwards; and that I, after this awful warning
I have had, should be tempted back into that dreary life I was leading.
It was wicked, ma'am, I knew it was; many and many a day I used
to say so to myself, and longed to get rid of it. I am a poor weak
devil, I know, I am only too easily led into temptation, and I should
only make matters worse if I married a woman who cares for the world
more than for me, and would not make me happy at home."
"Ethel care for the world! " gasped out Lady Kew, "a most artless,
simple, affectionate creature; my dear Frank she   "
He interrupted her, as a blush came rushing over his pale face.' Ah!" said he, " if I had been the painter, and young 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 diplomatist,
walking away to the window with a choking voice. As for grandmamma at the end of this little speech and scene, her ladyship's like



384                 THE ArE WCOVES.
ness to her brother the late revered Lord Steyne was more frightful
than ever.
After a minute's pause, she rose up on her crooked stick, and said,
"I really feel I am unworthy to keep company with so much exquisite
virtue. It will be enhanced, my lord, by the thought of the pecuniary
sacrifice which you are making, for I suppose you know that I have
been hoarding-yes, and saving, and pinching,-denying myself the
necessities of life, in order that my grandson might one day have
enough to support his rank. Go and live and starve in your drearyr
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 morning, and
just had time to get their feed of black bread. I wonder whether they
were the horses Clive and J. J. and Jack Belsize had used when they
passed on their road to Switzerland? Black Care sits behind all sorts
of horses, and gives a trinkgeld to postilions all over the map. A thrill
of triumph mayl be permitted to Lady Walham after her victory over
her mother-in-law. What Christian woman does not like to conquer
another; and if that other were a mother-in-law, would the victory be
less sweet? Husbands and wives both will be pleased that Lady
Walham has had the 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 passage. 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
daresay even Fagin and Miss Nancy failed with the widow, so absorbed
was she with the thoughts of the victory which she had just won. For
the evening service, in which her sons rejoiced her fond heart by joining, she lighted on a psalm which was as a Te Deum after the battle
-the battle of Kehl by Rhine, where Kew's soul, as his mother thought,
was the object of contention between the enemies. I have said, this
book is all about the world, and a respectable family dwelling in it.
It is not a sermon, except where it cannot help itself, and the speaker
pursuing the destiny of his narrative finds such a homily before him.
O friend, in your life and mine, don't we light upon such sermons daily




T'E I      WE  WCOMES.               385
-don't we see at home as well as amongst our neighbours that battle
betwixt Evil and Good? Here on one side is Self and Ambition and
Advancement; and. Right and Love on the other. Which shall we let
to triumph for ourselves-which for our children?
The young men were sitting smoking the vesper cigar. (Frank
would do it, and his mother actually lighted his cigar. for him now
enjoining him straightway after to go to bed.) Kew smoked and
looked at a star shining above in the heaven. " Which is that star?"
he asked: and the 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."
"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.  Now
the Countess is gone, I wonder whether I was right, to give up sixty
thousand pounds and the prettiest girl in London?"
"Shall I take horses and go after her?  My mother's gone to
bed, she won't know," asked George. "Sixty thousand is a lot of
money to lose."
Kew laughed. "If you were to go and tell our grandmother that
I could not live the night-through; and that you would be Lord Kew
in the morning, and your. son, Viscount Walham, I think the Countess
would make up a match between you and the sixty thousand pounds,
and the prettiest girl in England: she would,'by-by Jupiter. I
intend only to swear by the heathen gods now, Georgy.-No, I 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 the market to be knocked down to —I say, I was going
to call that three-year-old Ethelinda.-We must christen her over again
for Tattersalls, Georgy."
A knock is heard through an adjoining door, and a maternal voice
cries, " It is time to go to bed." So the brothers part, and, let us hope,
sleep soundly.
The Countess of Kew, meanwhile, has returned to Baden; where,
though it is midnight when she arrives, and the old lady has had two
long bootless journeys, you will be grieved to hear that she does not
25




386                 THEE VEDIVCOVES.
sleep a single wink. In the morning she hobbles over to the Newcome quarters; and Ethel comes down to her pale and calm. How
is her father? He has had a good night: he is a little better, speaks
more clearly, has a little more the use of his limbs.
" I wish I had had a good night!" groans out the Countess.
" I thought you were going to Lord Kew, at Kehl," remarked her
granddaughter.
"I did go, and returned with wretches who would not bring me
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.
" Because 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'Ivry, 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 separatedyour ladyship must absolutely go and entreat him to give me another
trial! It is too much, grandmamnma. 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




THtE NE WCOM1IL'S.                  387
and doubt, and shame, for me, as my friends have tried to make me
endure. There is my fither'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.
6I am older than your father, and you owe me a little obedience, that
is, if children do owe any obedience to their parents now-a-days. I
don't know. I am an old woman-the world perhaps has changed
since my time; and it is you who ought to command, I daresay, and
we to follow. Perhaps I have been wrong all through life, and in
trying to teach my children to do as I was made to do. God knows
I have had very little comfort from them: whether they did or whether,they didn't. You and Frank I had set my heart on; I loved you out
of all my grandchildren-was it very unnatural that I should wish to
see you together? For that boy I have been saving money these years
past. He flies back to the arms of his mother, who has been pleased
to hate me as only such virtuous people can; who took away my own
son from me; and now his son-towards whom the only fault I ever
committed 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 t Theregive me the little hand. How hot it is! Mine is as cold as a stoneand shakes, doesn't it?- Eh! it was a pretty hand once! What did
Ann-what did your mother say to Frank's letter?"
"I did not show it to her," Ethel answered.
"Let me see it, my dear," whispered Lady Kew, in a coaxing way.
"There it is," said Ethel, pointing to the fire-place, where there lay
some torn fragments and ashes of paper. It was the same fire-place
-at which Clive's sketches had been burned.




388                  THE NE WCO MES.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
AMONGST THE PAINTERS.
W HEN  Clive Newcome comes to be old, no doubt he will re —
member his Roman days as amongst the happiest which fate~
ever awarded him. The simplicity of the student's life there, the
greatness and friendly splendour 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 labour, 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 crosshatching, of stumping, of laying on lights, and what not; the arrangement of colour, and the pleasing operations of glazing and the like, are
labours 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, mathematician, or
divinity scholar, can sing over his volumes, and at the same time
advance with his labour? 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 Academician, shall,
still be found in their rooms, occupied now by fresh painters and.
pictures, telling the youngsters, their successors, what glorious fellows
Jack and Tom were. A poet must retire. to privy places and meditate
his rhymes in secret; a painter can practise his trade in the companyof friends, Your splendid chef d'ecole, a Rubens or a Horace Vernet,




THE NE WICOMES.                      389
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 labour.
Amongst all ranks and degrees of painters assembled at Rome,
Mr. Clive found. companions and friends. The cleverest man was
not the best artist very often: the ablest artist not the best critic nor
the best companion. Many a man could give no account of the
faculty within him, but achieved success because he could not help
it; and did, in an hour and without effort, that which another could
-not effect with half a life's labour. 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 humour, comic
singing, and Cyder-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 colours,.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!
How splendidly Carlo talked of the marqfuis his cousin, and the duke
his intimate friend! How great Federigo was on the subject of his
wrongs from -the Academy at honle, a pack of tradesmen who could
not understand high art, and who had never seen a good picture!
With what haughtiness Augusto swaggered about at Sir John's soir6es,
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. Max, who loves fine dresses and the
carnival so, gave up a costume 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 not got a




390                  THE NEX7CO.MES.
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 mustachios, when we saw him again, and his son told himn
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 soir6es, J. J. lighted his lamp,
and continued his happy labour. 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 before 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 Clive was as!
eager in acknowledging and, admiring his friend's generosity as he was,
in speaking of his genius. His was a fortunate organisation indeed.
Study was his chief amusement. Self-denial came easily to him.
Pleasure, or what is generally called so, had little charm for him. His
ordinary companions were pure and sweet thoughts; his out-door
enjoyment the contemplation of natural beauty; for recreation, the
hundred pleasant dexterities and manipulations of his craft were:
ceaselessly interesting to him: he would draw every knot in an oak.
panel, or every leaf in an orange-tree, smiling, and taking a gaydelight 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 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 professional reasons were
working secretly in the young man's mind, causing hflm to think that
absence from England was the best cure for a malady under which he
secretly laboured. But change of air may cure some si'ck people more.




THE NEW COMES.                       391
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 pleasure, 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 laboured;
and he drew from his models, and he sketched round about everything
that suited his pencil on both sides of Tiber; and he laboured at the
Life Academy of nights-a model himself to 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.C Caff6 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 gaily as the jolliest of
the boys. He was the cock of the whole painting school, the favourite
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 varying 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 Pllnitz, that, a hundred 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 a youth of great personal agility, fitted thereby to the graceful performance of polkas, &c.;
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; 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 placarded: on such a day the Vatican
galleries are open; the next is the feast of Saint so-and-so; on




2 92                TIIE NE WVCO.IWES.
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 fahes of the Popes, with their splendour 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 illumination on Easter-day, as we run when the bell rings to the Bosjesman 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 personally 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 afterwards in the
enormous London round. When Easter is over and everybody is
going away at ROme, you and your neighbour 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 Freeman's' carriage drove away, whose pretty girls
he caught at St. Peter's kissing St. Peter's'toe; as Dick Denby's
family ark appeared with all Denby's sweet young children kissing
farewells 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 depression of spirit. Rome was Rome,
but it was.pleasanter to see it in company; our painters are smoking
still at the " Caff6 Greco," but a societr 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,.ilike, 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
NoveMnber until far into April,'when Easter came, and the glorious gala
with which the Roman Church celebrates that holy season. By this




THE NE/VWCOY-WES.                    393
time Clive's books were full of sketches. Ruins imperial and mediaeval;
peasants and bagpipemen; Passionists with shaven polls; Capuchins
and the equally hairy frequenters of the "Caff6 Greco; " painters of
all nations who resort there; Cardinals and their queer equipages and
attendants; the Holy Father himself (it was Gregory sixteenth 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 beautiful 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
himself authorised to accompany Mr. Clive upon a pleasure trip to
Naples, which the latter deemed necessary after his own tremendous
labours. He for his 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
britzska 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. Ijow the fellows flung their hats up,
and shouted, "Lebewohl," 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 company. His.sketches were pronounced on all hands to be admirable; it was agreed
that if he chose he might do anything.
So with promises of a speedy return they left behind them the
noble city, which all love who once have seen it, and of which we think
afterwards ever with the kindness and the regard of home. They,dashed across the Campagna and over 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 Diavolb's Terracina at
Covent Garden, as J. J. was distressed to remark,) and so, galloping
onwards through a hundred ancient cities that crumble on the shores.ofthe beautiful Mediterranean, behold, on the second day, 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 five 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 his Capua which he had left-how many months-years it seemed
ago. Front Capua to Naples is a fine straight road, and our travellers
were landed at the latter place at supper-time; where, if they had




394                  THE NE WVCO.IAES.
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 Clivethe 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 skirting 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 every
spring; this city and scene of Naples were so much to Clive's liking
that I have a letter from him dated a couple of days after the young
man's arrival, in which he announces his intention of staying there
for ever, 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 he says to die and be buried there even would be quite a
treat, so charming 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 presently 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 hundred times. It was that little
letter from Ethel, in reply to his 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
melancholy; 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; 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 telltale face, Clive?"
"It is over; but when a man has once, you know, gone through an




THE NE WCOM~&ES.                      395
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 it 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 expressions is elegant,
J. J., the sentiments is most correct. All the little t's is most properly
crossed, and all the little i'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 spellingbook story, the good boy received a plum-cake for writing. Perhaps
you weren't educated 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 to this
young lady. " Dear old father! " and he apostrophized the letter. "I
beg your pardon, sir; Miss Newcome requested five minutes' conversation, and I was obliged, from politeness, you know, to receive.
There's nothing between us; nothing but what's most correct, upon
my honour 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 comfort
to me. I seem to hear you as I read them. I can't but think that
this, the modern and natural style, is a great progress upon the oldfashioned manner of my day, when we used to begin to our fathers,
"Honoured Father," or even " Honoured 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 honoured'
in those days than now-a-days. I know one who had rather be trusted
than honoured; and you may call me what you please, so as you do that.
"'It is not only to me your letters give pleasure. Last week I
took yours from Baden Baden, No. 3, September IS, into Calcutta,.
and could not help showing it at Government House, where I dined.
Your sketch of the old Russian Princess and her little boy, gambling,
was capital. Colonel Buckmaster, Lord Bagwigs 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 howr you had given it over. I
very much fear some of the young rogues are at dice and brandypawnee before tiffin. What you say of young Ridley, I take curz
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 dear Ethel's hand in your letter.
I write her a long letter by this mail.
"' If Paul de Florac in any way resembles his mother, between you
and him there ought to be a very warm regard. I knew her when P




396                  THE  VNE- WCOMES.
was'd boy, long before you were born or thought of; and in wandering
S'orty 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 grey. So it will
be the turn of you young folks, come eight more lustres, and your
heads will be bald like mine, or grey like Madame de Florac's, and
bending over the ground where we are -lying in quiet. I understand
from you that young Paul is not in very flourishing circumstances. If
he still is in need, mind and be his banker, and I 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 about 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.
"' 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. Verboum sqa. 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 lakh 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 haughtily, as I recollect doing this very gentleman at
your uncle Newcome's in Bryanston 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 moneyed 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 verrons. Several of my friends are longing
-to have a finger 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 draughts 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 dilassement: but if you chose to be
a weaver, like my grandfather, I should not say you nay. Don't stint




THE NE WCOIES.                       39?
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 save, if you were to save too. So, and as you know as
well as I what our means are, in every 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 father's fond
remembrances to Madame la Comtesse de Florac.  I don't say
remember me to my brother; as I write Brian by this mail. Adieu;.
mon fils! je t'embrasse!-and am always my Clive's affectionate
father,                                            T. N."'
" Isn't he a noble old trump? " That point had been settled by theyoung men any time these three years. And now Mr. J. J. remarked
that when Clive 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 Clive, "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, thePsyche 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 Clive, looking up at the great knotted 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 overby this time, and I may write to her as the CSuntess of Kew." Thecustode 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, dashed his hand
across his foreh'ead with a groan, and walked away from before the
graven image of the huge Strongman, who had himself been made
such a fool by women.




398                 THE INE WCOOMES.
"My father wants me to go and see James and Madame de Florac,"
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. " 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.
Not 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, ajuztd 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 indulging his vein for caricature, was 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 grey
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 family resided in a neighbouring hotel on the
Chiafa at Naples, and that very evening, on returning from the Pompeian excursion, the two painters were invited to take 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 Walham was alarmed. Had not Kew been in the East




THE' ArE WCOMES.                     399
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 Castellamard; 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 sate till one o'clock in the morning, when the latter
returned to his hotel. Not one of those fine parties at Paestum, Sicily,
&c., 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 sketchbook 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.




400                 THE, N1E WCOMVES.
CHAPTER XL.
RETURNS FROM ROME TO PALL MALL.
NE morning in the month of July, when there was actually sun —
shine in Lamb Court, and the two gentlemen who occupied the,
third-floor chambers there in partnership were engaged, as theircustom was, over their pipes, their manuscripts, and their Times
newspaper, behold a fresh sunshine burst into their room in the
person of young Clive, with a bronzed face, and a yellow beard and
mustachios, 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 latter's 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 bed-room, eager to:
get a nod of recognition from him, and bestow a smile of welcome
upon everybody's favourite, Clive.
In two minutes an arm-chair full of magazines, slips of copy, and
books for review, was emptied over the neighbouring 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; pretty Miss Rosey was very well, thank you; and
Mrs. Mack?  Wasn't Mrs. Mackenzie delighted to behold him?
"Come, sir, on your honour 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! yWe described that ceremony to him,.




THE NEWCOE~S.                      40I
and announced the promotion of his friend, Florac, now our friend
also, Director of the Great Anglo-Gallic Railway, the Prince de Montcontour. Then Clive told us of his deeds 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, J. J.
was going to be a stunner. We turned with pride and satisfaction to
that very number of the Pall Mall Gazette, which the youth had flung
at us, and showed him a fine article by F. Bayham, Esq., in which
the picture sent home by J. J. was enthusiastically 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 neighbour 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 and
Baines, at the house in Fog Court, must have been very satisfactory;
Clive came out of the parlour with a radiant countenance. " Do you
want any money, old boy?" says he; "the dear old governor has
placed a jolly sum to my account, and Mr. Baines 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 investment in another. Nothing could be more civil; how
uncommonly kind and friendly everybody is in London. Everybody! "
Then bestowing ourselves in a Hansom cab, which had probably just
deposited some other capitalist in the City, we made for the West End
of the town, where Mr. Clive had some important 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 cheque-book,
page I of which he bestowed on the delighted artist. From Mr. B.'s
shop to Mr. Truefitt's is but a step. Our young friend was induced to
enter the hairdresser's, and leave behind him a great portion of the
flowing locks and the yellow beard which he had brought with him
from Rome. With his mustachios he could not be induced to part;
painters and cavalry officers having a right to those decorations. And
26




402                 THE N/EWCO0MES.
why should not this young fellow wear smart clothes, and a smart
mustachio, 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 for grey 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 Florac, 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 the Titan in livery.
" Come that I present you, my friends," our good little Frenchman
exclaimed, " to Madame la-to my wife! " We entered the drawingroom; 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, ze'e Higg, of Manchester. 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 Florac to me. I wondered which
of the firm of Newcome had taken that office upon him.
"Now 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 ve 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.
"6hall 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 Newcome. Lady Clara
is a sweet dear thing, and her pa and ma 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




TY,-E NE WCOMES.                      403
very slowly. In life we are in death, Mr. Newcome! Isn't it sad to
think of him, in the midst of all his splendour 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 Florac 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 characters, 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
lembroidery, 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 reappearance of the gigantic footman, calling out " Mr.'Oneyman," in a loud voice, and preceding that
divine into the room.
"C'est le Directeur.  Venez fumer dans ma chambre, Pen,"
growled Florac, as Honeyman came sliding over the carpet, his
elegant smile changing to a blush when he beheld Clive, his nephew,
seated by the Princess's side. This, then, was the uncle who had
spoken about Clive and his father to Madame de Florac. Cha les
seemed in the best condition. He held out two bran-new lavendercoloured kid gloves to shake hands with his dear Clive; Florac and
Mr. Pendennis vanished out of the room as he appeared, so that no
precise account can be given of this affecting interview.
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




404                 THE NE WCOMES.
Assyrian chariots-was in waiting, and I 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 parlour 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 habsent ever since the marriage simminery last,
week," the footman, who had accompanied the party to Baden,
informed Clive, when he opened the door and recognised that gentleman.  "Sir Brian pretty well, thank you, sir.  The family was at
Brighting. That is, Miss Newcome is in London staying with her
grandmammar 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 number 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 mischance. 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 beholding his
young Clive; the youth, obedient to his father's injunction, had
hastened to Fitzroy Square immediately after taking 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 Clive strangely on 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 James somewhat resembled, and of whose
philosophy our Scottish friend was an admiring scholar. The Colonel
gone, James would have arguments 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 clergy



THE NEWCOMFS.                        40o
man. James, like many other sceptics, 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 Honeyman 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 gentleman 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; seeming 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 day after day with a dull, handsome woman opposite; to
have to answer her speeches about the weather, housekeeping, and
what not; to smile appropriately 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 smiling 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 breakfast, 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 humour, 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




406                  THE ATE WCOMiES.
he sat down at breakfast, and she levelled commonpl.ces at her
dearest James, her dearest 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," sayssimple Hobson, " never would do to' have every woman as clever as
you are, Maria. Women would have it all their own way then."
Maria, as her custom was, thanked God for being so virtuous and
clever, and graciously admitted Mrs. and Miss Mackenzie into the
circle of adorers of that supreme virtue and talent. Mr. Newcome
took little Rosey and her mother to some parties. When any took
place in Bryanston Square, they were generally allowed to come to tea.
When on the second day of his arrival the dutiful Clive went to.
dine with Mr. James, the ladies, in spite of their raptures 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 Bryanston Square. The Princess had ordered
such and such things at the jeweller's-the Princess would take rank
over an English Earl's daughter —over Lady Ann Newcome for,
instance. " 0 dear! I wish the Prince and Princess were smothered in
the Tower," growled James Binnie; "since you have got acquainted
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 honour 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 darling's little hand. " I wonder I had
not thought of it myself."




THE NE WCOVMES.                      407
" 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
you 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 alwsays thinking of othersalways!"
Clive 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.
"But we have improved the claret, Clive, my boy!" whispers
Uncle James. " 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 Rummun Loll, and to have got into a
capital good thing with this Bundelcund Bank. They speak famously
of it at Hanover Square, and I see the Hrtrkaru quotes the shares at
a premium already."
Clive did not know anything about the Bundelcund 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?




40o8                THIvE,AE WCOMES.
CHAPTER XLI
AN OLD STORY.
1VANY of Clive'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 purchased 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 favourably vt (as
the Major happened 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 Kew 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, bien 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 rzunion. At first he was too shy to tell what the state
of the case was, and took nobody into his confidence regarding his
little tendre.
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 neighbourhood; and frequenting the opera-a waste of
time which one would never have expected in a youth of his nurture.
At length a certain observer of human nature remarking his state,
rightly conjectured that he must be in love, and taxed him with the
soft impeachment-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, and 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




THE NE WCOMES.                       409
-kindle again with new ardour. He was wild to see her. He dashed
off from Naples instantly on receiving the news that she was free. He
had been ten days in London without getting a glimpse of her.
" That Mrs. Mackenzie 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 miserable 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. I For a while at least, I think almost
every man or woman is interesting when in love.I 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 Hopkins is seated, to whom the stupid grinning Bump-:kins thinks he is making himself agreeable. Yonder sits Miss Fanny
distraile, 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, captain, with your twaddle!-Proceed, my
reverend friend, with your smirking common-places! 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
cday! How different an interest, I say, has a meeting of people 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 bearable to a man-to be an actor in one of
those sentimental performances above hinted at; or to be a spectator
and watch it. But as for the mere dessuts de caries-would not an armchair 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 private advantage. And many a night until daylight did




410                  THE NE WCO.IES.
appear has poor Clive stamped his chamber or my own, poqring his
story out to me, his griefs and raptures; recalling, in his wild young'
way, recollections of Ethel's sayings and doings; uttering 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 endeavoured 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 favourite
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
daughter, 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 suffering 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 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 Crackthorpe?  Where is Fobsby,
the young Baronet of the North? My dear fellow, when those twogirls come into a room now, they make no more sensation than you orI.  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 Bustington'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




THE NE WCOMVES.                      411
will marry Miss Newcome to the best man. If a richer and better,arti 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 nian
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 probable 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 upbut 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 Fair market to be taken away by the best bidder. Can yolvt
count purses with Sultan Farintosh? Can you compete, even, with
Sir John Fobsby of the North? What I say is wicked and worldly,
is it? So it is: but it is true, as true as Tattersall's-as true as Cir —
cassia 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 honour! 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 wasreceived 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




.412               rTHE NE ~VCO2MES.
was announced, and our young gentleman rose to take his leave, and'had the pleasure of seeing the most noble Peer, Marquis of Farintosh
and 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 befel 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 honour 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, welcomed 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 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 splendid; 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 Princess'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 distinguishes his lordship. Ethel seemed to be carrying
the stack of flowers which the Marquis had sent to her. The noble
Bustington (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 cqmpliment 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 insignificance, and had to put up with the conversa-,tion and attentions of second-rate men, belonging to second-rate 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,




THE NE WCOVES.                       4I1
had not Lady Fareham told him Miss Newcome 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 election. 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 splendid Bustingtons, informing them, with
a superb manner, that she wished to speak to her cousin-that handsome young man with the light mustachio yonder.
" Do you know many people? This is your first appearance 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 bewildered.
"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 conversation,'"
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."
" 4Where? " asked Ethel.
"I saw Lord Kew there."  Ethel was smiling with all her might,
and kissing her hand 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? HIow glad




414                  THE VE WCOMES.
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, bitterly;' impossible."
Ethel looked once more. Her present mood and desire was to
treat Clive as a chit, as a young fellow without consequence —a
thirteenth younger brother.  But in his looks and behaviour 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. Everybody 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 that I should wound your sensibility, Ethel! It is,
as you say, rmy 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 of the
-family? Mr. Belsize, through this marriage, has the honour 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 honour
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 opportunity," that when a man comes a thousand miles to see you, and shake your'
hand, you should give it him a little more cordially 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 vouchsafed 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




THE NE WCOMES.                       4I5
innocent young swells; and he continued looking as if he would like
to knock a dozen of their heads together. " Am I keeping Miss Newcome's admirers fromn her?"
" That is not for me to say," she said, quite gently. He was; but
to see him angry did not displease Miss Newcome.
"That young man who came for you just now," Clive 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 any door at which you
knocked?" she said, looking up into his face as simply and kindly as
of old. She whirled round the dancing-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 colour 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 fias
seul. She nodded a " thank you" to Clive. 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 je le veux, gave an arm to her grandmother, and walked
off, saucily protecting her.
Clive's friend had been looking on observingly and curiously 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, except 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 two hundred and eighty a year, with five
pound more next year, would be enough for them to keep house on?




416                  THE NE WCO,0MES'.
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. I have never seen anything like her eyes; they send me wild-wild," says Tandy-(slapping
his waistcoat under Temple Bar)-" but a more audacious little flirt
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 dancer
The waltz over, I congratulated him on his own performance. His
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; 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 conversation 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 infallibly 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 flirt. She can't help her
nature. She tries to vanquish every one who comes near her. She is
a little out of breath from waltzing, and so she pretends to be listening
to poor Bustington, who is out of breath too, but puffs 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.




THE NVEW COMES.                      417
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 Newconle and the Countess of Kew had departed.
INo further communication appeared to take place between the
cousins that evening. I think it was Captain 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, wrappers, &c., on which her ladyship's coronet
and initials are emblazoned. Clive may have made a movement
as if to step forward, but a single finger from Miss Newcome warned
him back.
Clive and his two friends in Lamb Court had made an engagement
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 Honeyman, and begged to recall his
promise to us. Saturday is a holiday with gentlemen of our profession. We had invited F. Bayham, 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 London 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 Sunday 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 soirdes and a ball? And
that relations should travel together, the young lady being protected
by her femme-de-chambre; that surely, as every one must allow, was
perfectly right and proper.
That a biographer should profess to know everything which passes,
even in a confidential talk in a first-class carriage between two lovers,
seems perfectly absurd; not that grave historians do not pretend to the
same wonderful degree of knowledge-reporting meetings of 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 present writer will pledge his known character for veracity is, that on
27




418                 STHE NE WCOMES.
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 the femme-dechambre, 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 coupd 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 eiris of the Miss Freemans
at Rome; and that afterwards you were so wonderfully attentive to the
third Miss Baliol? 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 Fornarina 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-coloured 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."
" 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
Baliol, I mean."
" We will talk about whichever you please. Which shall we begin
to pull to pieces?" says Clive. You see, to be in this 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.
t" I know of a number of things,"' says the bonnet, nodding with
ambrosial curls.




THE NEWCOiMES.                      419
" And you would not answer the second letter I wrote to you? 
"We were in great perplexity. One cannot be always answering
*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 Fareham's the other evening that I was going to see
papa at Brighton to-day, I never for one moment thought of seeing yoz
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
sick people and children. Every man has his profession, and you
yours, as you would have it. We are so nearly allied that we maywe may like each other like brother and sister almost. I don't know
what Barnes would say if he heard me? Wherever 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 conditions, 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."
"I know what I wish would happen now," said Clive,-they were
going screaming through a tunnel.
"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 wonder the lady's-maid was
frightened i but the daylight came streaming in, and all poor Clive's
wishes of rolling and rolling on for ever 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 Clive held out the three ot




A420               ETHE NE WCOMES.
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 Clive, 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! " Clive
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 altogether
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 go on
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 gentleman 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?




THE NE WCOMES.                           41 
CHAPTER XLII.
INJURED  INNOCENCE.
FROM CLiVE NEWCOME, ESQ., TO LIEUT.-COL. NEWCOME, C.B.
"Brig/htan, rune 12, 18-.
6s M /Y 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 parlour at Brighton, where you ate your last dinner
before embarking for India. I found your splendid remittance on calling ia
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. Florac is'in England, but he has no need of your kindness. Only think! he is Prince
de Montcontour now, the second title of the Duc d'Ivry's family; and M. le
Comte de Florac is Duc d'Ivry in consequence of the demise of t'other old
gentleman. I believe the late duke's wife shortened his life. Oh, what a
woman I! 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 between 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 mare 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, of whom he spoke most kindly and generausly, 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. 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.
"Well, when we were at Baden in September last, and E. and I wrote
those letters in common to you, I daresay you can fancy what my feelings
might have been towards such a beautiful young creature, who has a hundred




422                    THIE NE WCOM3ES.
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 — 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 Baliols and the Miss Freemans; but when Kew told
me at Naples of what had happened, there was straightway afresh 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 upstairs with one aunt, whilst the other
lets lodgings 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 Ethet;
goes about to a dozen parties every week with old L.ady 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 received me with a scolding. Uncle*
Charles seems to be in very good condition again. I saw him in full clerical
feather at Madame de Montcontour's, a good-natured body who drops her h's,.
though Florac is not aware of their absence. Pendennis and Warrington, I
know, would send you their best regards. Pen is conceited, but much kinderin reality than he has the air of being. Fred Bayham 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, 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 Bryanston Square, and Mrs.
Mack is always citing Aunt Hobson as the most superior of women, in whichk
opinion, I daresay, Aunt Hobson concurs.
"Good-by, my dearest father; my sheet is full; I wish I could 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. N."
In fact, when Mr. Clive appeared at Steyne- Gardens stepping 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 a most engaging smile on his countenance,
walked over to breakfast from  his hotel, Miss Honeyman would.




THE NE WCOMES.                       423
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
Mrs. 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?" cries Mr. Clive. " 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 along to? 
" Did'ee do ut really now, Master Clive?" cries Mrs. Honeyman's
attendant, grinning with the utmost good humour. " 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'em." 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 behaviour to Clive the
next morning you may now understand the cause.




424                 THEE NEWCOMES.
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 Clive'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;'and can be a Marchioness any day, and will be
a Marchioness.  Marry a painter, indeed!' Mrs. Pincott says:'Trimmer, I'm surprised at your impidence.' So, my dear, I got
angry at that," Clive'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 upstairs,' says I,' who
has gruel and dines upon doctor's stuff, then Mrs. Pincott,' says I,
my name isn't what it is,' says I. Those were my very words, Master
Clive, my dear; and then Mrs. PinLott 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 humour,
gavre an imitation of the town lady's manner.
At this juncture Miss Honeyman re-entered the parlour, arrayed
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
down 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
honour, Miss Ethel is as innocent as you are."
" Innocent or not, this house is not intended for assignations,
Clive! As long as Sir Brian Newcome lodges here, you will be
pleased to keep away from it, sir; and though 1 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 railway-carriages;




THE ].TE WtCO.M~E S'.                425
-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 in 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!" 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 goodnatured in escorting Ethel down," Lady Ann said.' H'm I my lady," says Miss Honeyman, perking her head up in
her collar. Clive did not know whether to laugh 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 muchsounding 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 perfectly good-natured as




426                 THE NEWCO.MES.
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 aad 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 Clive's own father, when he was a
boy, in a manner which interested the young man and Ethel. " 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 Commons. the City,
had little interest for him. All the children went up and shook himn
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
profound 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 children dined very heartily.
The infantile meal had not been long concluded, when servants
announced "the Marquis of Farintosh;" and that nobleman made
his appearance to pay his respects to Miss Newcome and Lady Ann.
He brought the very last news of the very last party in London, where
"Really, upon my honour, 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 honour, 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 honour. It was quite a quiet thing. Lady Merriborough 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 NewCome 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."




THE  ATE  COMES.                      427
Lady Ann said, " Sir Brian's bad state of health prevented her
from going out this season, or receiving at home."
"It don't prevent your mother from going out, though," continued
my lord. "Upon my honour, I think unless she got two or three
things 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 honour. Last night I know she was at ever so
many places. She dined at the Bloxams', for I was there. Then she
said she was going to sit with old Mrs. Crackthorpe, 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 oni
to Lady Hawkstone's, where I heard her say she had been at the-at the
Flowerdales', 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, " Whothe 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 daresay 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 himself with the stranger,
and preferred looking at his own handsome 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 do," Miss
Newcome said, gravely. " I think late hours, and smoking, and going
to that horrid Platt's, where I daresay you go —— "
" Go? Don't I? But don't call it horrid; really, now, don't call
it horrid!" cried the noble Marquis.




428                 THE NE WCOMES.
"Well —something has made you look far from well. You know
how very well Lord Farintosh 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 honour, 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.
" 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.
"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 daresay-I confess I don't understand that sort of thing," says
his lordship. "Don't, upon my honour. There's Odo Carton, always
making those caricatures-I don't understand'em. You'll come up to
town to-morrow, won't you? And you're goin' to Lady H'm's, and to
H'm and H'm'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 favour? Lady Innishowen is your aunt?
"Of course she is my aunt."
"Will you be so very good as to get a card foi 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 mustachios
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; "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




THE NE WVCOMVES.                     429
bursting out laughing presently as he was engaged in conversation
with Miss Ethel on the balcony, Clive thought, very likely with.
justice, "He is making fun of my mustachios.  Confound 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 Farintosh seemed inclined to prolqng his visit,
and his company was exceedingly disagreeable to Clive, the latter took
his departure 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 gtle-l-tOte with the beautiful Ethel.
Clive's disgust was considerable when he came to dinner at length,
and found Lord Farintosh likewise invited, and sprawling in the
drawing-room. His hopes of a tOe-l-thte were over.  Ethel and
Lady Ann and my lord talked, as all people will, about their rnutual
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 Newcotne 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. If two gossips in Aunt
Honeyman's parlour had talked over the 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.
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 chef d'oauvre of Miss Honeyman, for which she had seen him absolutely cry in his childhood, the good Hannah was alarmed.
" Law, Master Clive I " 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
Airs. 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




430                 THE NEWCOMES.
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.
"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 honour! did you make'em, Lady Ann?" asked my lord.
"The Queen of Hearts made tarts!" cried out Miss Newcome,
rather eagerly, and blushing somewhat.
" My good old aunt, Miss Honeyman, made this one," Clive would
go on to say.
" Mr. 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 were all these? Such may have
been his lordship's doubts and queries. Whatever his cogitations
were, he did not give utterance 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 any 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; 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 Newcome uttering all
sorts of odd little paradoxes, firing 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




THE.NE WCOMLES.                     43t
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 presently 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 honour,"
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 gentlemen 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 meantime was taking leave of Miss Newcome.
"Pray, pray," said his lordship, " don't throw me over at Lady
Innishowen's. You know I hate balls, and never go to'em, except
when you go. I hate dancing, I do,'pon my honour."
"Thank you," said Miss Newcome, with a curtsey.
"Except with one person-only one person, upon my honour. I'll
remember and get the invitation for your friend. And if you would:but try that mare, I give you my honour 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 honour."
" When I come to London perhaps you may trot her out," said
Miss Ethel, giving him her hand and a fine smile.
Clive came up biting his lips. " I suppose you don't condescend'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, " 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 countrvy-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.




432                STHE NE WCOMES.
But he did not choose to obey this order. "a Good-night," he said.
"i Before I go I must shake hands with my aunt downstairs." And he
was gone, following close upon Lord Farintosh, who I daresay thought,
"Why the deuce can't he shake hands with his aunt up here?" and
when Clive entered Miss Honeyman's back parlour, making a bow to
the young nobleman, my lord went away more perplexed than ever;
and the next day told his friends at White's what uncommonly queer
people those Newcomes were. " I give you my honour 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 NE WCOMES.                       433
CHAPTER XLIII.
RETURNS TO SOME OLD FRIENDS.
THE haggard youth burst into my chambers, in the Temple, on the
very next morning, and confided to me the story which has been
iust 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 railroad."
" Hang it," says Clive, turning very red, " I wanted to pass just
under her windows, and if I saw her, aot 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 morning? "
" I tell you what she does with me," continues Mr. Clive. " 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-youz 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."
"Women are like that, my ingenuous youth," says Clive's counsellor.
"I won't stand it. Z won't be made a fool of!" he continues.
"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 muzzle to
wear in the dog-days. Bow! wow!" says Mr. Pendennis.
(At this noise Mr. Warrington puts his head in from the neigh28




4344                 THE NE WCOLMES.
bouring bed-chamber, 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 mzust 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 have borrowed that from you, Pen, old
boy. That puzzles her: that would beat her if I could but go on
with it. But there comes a tone of her sweet voice, a look out of
those killing grey 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 honour, 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 mustachios 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 Clive'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,'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?"
"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 Clive,
with another blush. " They can read it in our looks fast enough; and
rwhat 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




THE NE WCOMVES.                      4.35
not seem to have made a very good marriage, and that the lady would:have been much happier 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 thoughtthought 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;HIoneyman!"
"The Circassian beauties don't sell under so many thousand
purses," remarked Mr. Pendennis. " If there's a beauty in a wellregulated 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 dulcimer 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
Clive, 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 to the neck, &c. &c. &c. A frequenter of his
studio might see a whole gallery of Ethels there represented: when
Mrs. Mackenzie visited that place, and remarked one face and figure
repeated on a hundred canvases and papers, grey, white, and brown,
I believe she was told that the original was a famous Roman model,,from whom Clive had studied a great deal during his residence in
Italy; on which Mrs. Mack gave it as her opinion that Clive was a
sad wicked young fellow. The widow thought rather the better of
him for being a sad wicked young fellow; and as for Miss Rosey, she,




436                 THE NE WCOMES.
of course, was of mamma's way of thinking. Rosey went through.
the world constantly smiling at whatever occurred. She was good —
humoured through the dreariest long evenings at the most stupid
parties; sat good-humouredly for hours at Shoolbred's whilst mamma
was making purchases; heard good-humouredly those old old stories
of her mother's day after day; bore an hour's joking or an hour's
scolding with equal good humour; and whatever had been the occurrences of her simple day, whether there was sunshine or cloudy weather,
or flashes of lightning and bursts of rain, 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 Mackenzie a dashing,.
lively, agreeable woman: he used to receive her stories about Cheltenham, the colonies, the balls at Government House, the observations
which the Bishop made, and the peculiar attention of the Chief Justice
to Mrs. Major MacShane, with the Major's uneasy behaviour-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 Mac S. 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. Pendennis 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 and said,
" Law, mamma! "-not one sign of good humour, not one ghost of a
smile,-made its apparition on Clive's dxeary face. He painted imaginary
portraits with a strawberry-stalk; he looked into his water-glass as
though he would plunge and drown there; and Bayham 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




THE N:E PWCOM~1ES.                   437
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
wvorks. 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."
" You, 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
ability. John Ridley sent a hundred pounds over to his father, the
other day, who funded it in his son's name. And Ridley told the story
to Lord Todmorden, when the venerable nobleman 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 part of
his youthful amusement) that F. B. was the son of a gentleman of
most ancient family and vast landed possessions, 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
distingzud -man-reminding her, indeed, of General Hopkirk, who commanded in Canada. And she bade Rosey sing for Mr. Bayham, who.was in a rapture at the young lady's performances, and said no wonder




438                 THE NE W'COMES.
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 andc
overcome at this novel compliment.  Meanwhile 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 friend.
"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 Mackenzie-an almost unheard-of effort on
George's part.
" I wonder whether it is every 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 business and paint his pictures? Because
his father wishes it —and the old Nabob yonder, who seems a kindlydisposed, easy-going old Heathen philosopher. Here's a pretty little
girl; 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 lzsus nalurac is she! I never spoke to a woman of fashion,,
thank my stars-I don't know the nature 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 NE WVCO.VES.                     439
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 myself; nor would it be proper to make you signs
out of the window. But you must call for all that: grandmamma
may become more good-humoured; or if you don't come she may
suspect 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 neighbouring garden
of Berkeley Square, whence the policeman might carry to the stationhouse the corpse of the survivor,-Lady Kew would bow to him with
perfect graciousness; on other nights her ladyship would pass and no
more recognise 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 see her?  If Clive
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 were little quiet dinners made for
him, before the opera, before going to the play, upon a half-dozen
occasions, when some of the old old Kew port was brought out of the
cellar, where cobwebs 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, Farintosh's kinsman and admirer, who were of no consequence, or old Fred Tiddler, whose wife was an invalid, and who
was always ready at a moment's notice? Crackthorpe once went to
one of these dinners, but that young soldier being a frank and highspirited youth, abused the entertainment and declined more of them.
"I tell you what I was wanted for," the Captain told his mess and
Clive 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




440o                 THE ATE WCOIES.
downstairs 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 Cousine-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 Mary, or Miss Lucy, or Miss Ethel, saving your
presence, will no more look at us, than my dog will look at a bit of
bread when I offer 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)-" that you
won't, no more than any of your sex.. Why, do you suppose, if Jack's
eldest brother had been dead-Barebones Belsize they used to call him
(I don't believe he was a bad fellow, though he was fond of psalmsinging)-do you suppose that Lady Clara would have looked at that
cock-tail Barney Newcome? Beg your pardon, if he's your cousinbut a more odious little snob I never saw."
" I give you up Barnes," said Clive, laughing; " anybody may shy
at him and I shan'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 Crackthorpe, 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 you, 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 honour-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'11 subscribe. Make your fortune, see
if you won't," cries Toppleton.
"He's such a heavy swell; he don't want to make his fortune,"
ejaculates Butts.




THE NE WCOMES.                      441
" 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 Highgate a beautiful letterand the old boy's relenting, and they'll come together again-Jack's
eldest son now, you know. Bore for Lady Susan only having girls."
" Not a bore for Jack, though," cries another. And what a good
fellow Jack was; and what a trump Kew is; and 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, we might have the pleasure of beholding Mr. Newcome
in Rotten Row, riding side by side with other dandies, who had mustachios 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-coloured 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-Guardsmen made
their appearance in Charlotte Street, which was not very distant from




442                 THE  NE NETCOMES.
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 neighbour, little Mr. Finch, the miniature-painter, run to
peep through his parlour-blinds, hoping that a sitter was coming, and
"a carriage party" driving up! What wrath Mr. Scowler, A.R.A.,
was in, because a young hop-o'-my-thumb 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 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 aristocratic
company, was anything but favourable to a young artist —Smee, who
would walk five miles to attend an evening-party of ever so little a
great man!




THLE NE WCOMES.                      443
CHAPTER XLIV.
IN WHICH'MIR. CHARLES HONEYMAN APPEARS IN AN AMIABLE
LIGHT.
M4 R. FREDERICK  BAYHAM waited at Fitzroy Square while,
Clive was yet talking with his friends there, and favoured that'
gentleman with his company home to the usual smoky refreshment.
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 ana
beginning to feel my way; and my chiefs yonder, who have just walkecd
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 Pall Mall 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; but there is that about your exceedingly 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.




4,44                THE NVE IWCOAIES.
"So much the worse for you, my young friend. Not that I mean
to judge any other fellow harshly-I mean any other fellow sinner
harshly-or that I mean that those Pulpit Pencillings 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 received many interesting letters, chiefly
from females, about the Pencillings. Some complain that their favourite,preachers are slighted; others applaud because the. clergymen they sit
under are supported by F. B. I 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.
"Famous is hardly the word. One who scoffs at everything-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 suppose 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 front parlour, which
I now occupy, vice Miss Cann promoted, I have written the Pencillings- scarcely allowing a drop of refreshment, except under
extreme exhaustion, to pass my lips. Pendennis laughs at the Pencillings. He wants to stop them; and says they bore the public.-I
don't want to think a man is jealous, who was himself the cause of my
engagement at the P. i~i. G.,-perhaps my powers were not developed
then."
" Pen thinks he writes better now than when he began," remarked
Clive; " I have heard him say so."
"His opinion of his own writings is high, whatever their date. Mine,
sir, are only just coming into notice. They begin to know F. B., sir,
in the sacred edifices of his metropolitan city. I saw the Bishop of
London looking at me last Sunday week, and am sure his Chaplain
whispered him,'It's Mr. Bayham, my lord, nephew of your lordship's
right reverend brother, the Lord Bishop of Bullock-smithy.' And last




THE NE WCO.VIES.                    445
Sunday being at church-at Saint Mungo the Martyr's, Rev. S. Sawders
-by Wednesday I got in a female hand-Mrs. Sawders's, no doubtthe biography of the Incumbent of St. Mungo; an account of his early
virtues; a copy of his poems; and a hint that he was the gentleman
destined for the vacant Deanery.
" Ridley is not the only man I have helped in this world," F. B..
continued. " Perhaps I should blush to own it —I do blush: but I
feel the ties of early acquaintance, and I own that I have puffed your
uncle, Charles Honeyman, most tremendously. It was partly for the
sake of the Ridleys and the tick he owes'em: partly for old times'
sake.  Sir, are you aware that things are greatly changed with
Charles Honeyman, and that the poor F. B. has very likely made his
fortune?"
"I am delighted to hear it," cried Clive; " and how, F. B., have
you wrought this miracle?"
"By common sense and enterprise, lad-by a knowledge of the
world and a benevolent disposition. You'll see Lady Whittlesea's
chapel bears a very different aspect now. That miscreant Sherrick
owns that he owes me a turn, and has sent me a few dozen of winewithout any stamped paper on my part in return-as an acknowledgment of my service. It chanced, sir, soon after your departure for
Italy, that going to his private residence respecting a little bill to which
a heedless friend had put his hand, Sherrick invited me to partake of
tea in the bosom of his family. I was thirsty-having walked in from'Jack Straw's Castle,' at Hampstead, where poor Kitely and I had
been taking a chop-and accepted the proffered entertainment. The
ladies of the family gave us music after the domestic muffin-and then,
sir, a great idea occurred to me. You know how magnificently Miss
Sherrick and the mother sing? 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 ignoramus.
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 prevent'em, by Jingo? Your singingboys 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




446                  THE NE WCOMES.
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 sermons 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 honour!"
" Tell what, F. B.?" says Clive.
" I 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 Honourable Phelim O'Curragh, Lord Scullabogue's son, made
speeches. Two or three respectable families (your aunt, Mrs. Whatd'you-call-'em Newcome 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, 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 F. B. has 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 attended 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 odour of millefleurs rustled by them as Charles Honeyman,
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




TEIE NE WCM0lES.                     447
fine example of florid church decoration. Now the scarf was trimmed
down to be as narrow as your neckcloth, 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 substance, 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 manner, 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
musical 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 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 discourse, 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 splendour 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 colours? So Clive
looked under all the bonnets, and presently spied old Lady Kew's
face, as grim and yellow as her brass knocker, and by it Ethel's beau



448                 THE NE WrCO0$ES.
teous 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 degree towards the ground. Ethel
had recognised 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's equipage had disappeared,
and Lady Canterton's was stopping 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. Newcome, 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 Honourable
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 Newcome?"
Mr. Clive made bows to the ladies, who acknowledged him by
graceful curtsies.  Miss Sherrick was always looking to the vestrydoor.
"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 that is 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. Newcome, 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.




THE -V EW CO-FES.                    449
" 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 is now pressing.
"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.
" Wie had a loss more than ten years ago," whispers Sherrick 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 diamond 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 handsome Julia?
"Thursday, now make it Thursday, if Mr. H. is disengaged.
Come along, girls, for the flies bites the ponies when they're a 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 1" 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. Donz' 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 come to see it up in
this place, sir, the old man was mad, I give you my word! His son
s-9




4.50o                THEE NE WCO MES.
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 rich.
Did you ever hear of me screwing? No, I spend my money like a
man. How those girls are a goin' on about their music with Honeyman. I don't let'em sing in the evening, or him do duty more than
once a day; and you can calc'late 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 those 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 frizzling 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 Ridleys' affection
for him.
Clive remarked, with a smile, the Pall Mall Gazette upon a sidetable, 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, conscious 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 Newcome family, surely 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 visiting 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 tantrums for her sake," remarks Mr. Binnie.
" Oh, uncle! " says little Rosey, and the old gentleman stopped her
remonstrances with a kiss,




THE AINEWCO7ES.                      45 r
"Yes," says he, "your mother does have tantrums, Miss; and
though you never complain, there's no reason why I 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-humouredly. 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 candour.
"Quasty peecoly Rosiny," says James, in a fine Scotch Italian," e
la piu bella, la piui cara ragazza; ma la mawdry 6 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 language,
Rosey!  It's just the Lenguy Toscawny in Bocky 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 MVIr.
Sherrick's handsome villa, at the door of which the three beheld the
Rev. Charles Honeyman stepping out of a neat brougham.
The drawing-room contained several pictures of Mrs. Sherrick
when she was in the theatrical line, Smee's portrait of her, " which
was never half handsome enough for my Betsy," Sherrick said indig.nantly, the print of her in Artaxerxes, with her signature as Elizabetlh




452                 THE  iVEWYCOMES.
Folthorpe (not in truth a fine specimen of caligraphy), the testimonial
presented to her on the conclusion of the triumphal season of i8-, 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 coveted 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 " St. Botibol of Islington " and " St. Willibald of Bareacres," with pictures of those
confessors. Then there was the " Legend of Margery 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 Sermons, delivered at
Lady Whittlesea'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 Montcontour 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 anddown 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 *" 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
father surprised at the idea of his being in such company, Sherrick
said, " 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




THE NE UCOMES.                       453
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 splendour,
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 accompaniment of
little snores to the singers and the piano. But Rosey was delighted
with the performance, and Sherrick remarked 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 succeed
better with her than with my round face, Mr. Newcome."
"Mr. /that?" cries Clive.
" Well, Clive, 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? " he 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 Fitzroy Square.
Clive made a famous likeness of Miss Sherrick, with which Mr.
Sherrick was delighted, and so was Mr. Honeyman, who happened to
call upon his nephew once or twice when the ladies happened to be
sitting. Then Clive 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




454                  THE IVEWCOMES.
portrait, which again was not quite so successful. One Monday, theSherricks and Honeyman too happened to call to see the picture of"
Rosey, who trotted over with her uncle to Clive's studio, and they all
had a great laugh at a paragraph in the Pall 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 awakening 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 XIV.'s time, they adopted
the religion of that persecuting monarch. We sincerely trust that the
present heir of the house of Ivry will see fit to return to the creed which
his forefathers so unfortunately abjured."
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. Theyliked 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 pretender for Miss
Sherrick? "
Binnie burst into a loud guffaw, and cried out, "0  vanitas vanitawtum!" Rosey laughed too.
" I don't think it any joke at all," said Clive.
" Why, you stupid lad, don't you see it is Charles Honeyman 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.




THE NE WCOMES.                       455
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 going 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." Then as he entered Mr. Butts's
room, where these gentlemen wele 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 resolutely
that all the world should be able to look on and speculate whether
her game would be run down by that staunch toothless old pursuerthat is an amusing sport, isn't it? and affords 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 position. To break her heart in silence for Tompkins, 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 strong 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 circumstances), Ethel
should be deposed at this very sentence.
But a novelist must go on with his heroine, as a man with his




456                  THE  IVE ICOMlES.
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," alabarddros turned out, drums beat, cannons
fired, and people saluted Isabella Segunda, who was no better than
the humblest washerwoman of her subjects. Are we much better
than our neighbours? 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, 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; he will strive to
win honours 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 commenced life at any
rate with noble views and generous schemes, from which weakness,
idleness, passion, or overpowering hostile fortune have 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 blooming 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, Crcesus 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




THE N EWCO.MES.                      457
bargains at hucksters' stalls, you shall find a young beauty, who was
a child in the school-room a year since, as wise and knowing as the
old practitioners on that exchange; as economical of her smiles, as
dexterous in keeping back or producing her beautiful wares, as skilful
in setting one bidder against another, as keen as the smartest merchant in Vanity Fair.
If the young gentlemen 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 nrever tell their love, but let
concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on their damask cheeks;
others again must be not always thinking, but talking about the darling
object. So it was not very long before Captain Crackthorpe was
taken into Clive's confidence, 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 hopes of success, putting to him, in their downright phrase-.ology, 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 Crackthorpe, 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 beaz-monde, where he had the gratification of
meeting his charmer. Ethel was surprised and pleased; and Lady
Kew surprised and angry, at meeting Clive Newcome at these fashionable houses; the girl herself was touched very likely at his pertinacity
in following her. As there was no actual feud between them, she
icould 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 entertainments! 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




458                 THE.NE WT7COMES.
very well known as a good-natured handsome 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 fondness 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
daresay 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 coincidence. Surmises, why not?
You who know the world, know very well that if you see Mrs. So-andso's name in the list of people at an entertainment, on looking down
the list you will presently be sure to come on Mr. What-d'you-call-'em's.
If Lord and Lady Blank, of Suchandsuch Castle, received a distinguished circle (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 so 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 open 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 wornan 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 manceuvres, 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 ordt.rs, a most
imperious, irresistible, managing old woman, who exacted everybody's
obedience, and managed everybody's business in her family. Lady
Ann Newcome 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 anybody'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.




TitTh NE'COM  ES.                    459
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 he would live with his grandmother anywhere sheliked 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 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 or 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 niet in Paris, whither he went in the Easter of the ensuing
year, having worked to some good purpose through the winter, and.
despatched, as on 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 favourable 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 recognising in the miniature room,
No, I246, " Portrait of an Officer,"-viz., Augustus Butts, Esq., of the
Life Guards Green; and " Portrait of the Rev. Charles Honeyman,"
No. I272. Miss Sherrick the hangers refused; Mr. Binnie, Clive had:
spoiled, as usual, in the painting; the chalk heads, however, before



46o                 IHE NEWCOIVE&S:
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 with such
prodigious energy as to make his friends themselves sometimes
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 occupied 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 Farintosh made great progress under this artist, and that he
danced very much better in his third season than in the first and
second 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 s6me of the
phrases which his young professor had taught to him. People even
wvent so far as to say that the Marquis was an awkward and dull young
man, of the very worst manners.
Whereas the young Clive Newcome —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 Florac,
-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 "Hotel de Florac," and received society
there. The French people did not understand what bad English she
-talked, though they comprehended Lord Farintosh's French blunders.
"Monsieur 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 Meess?'You must be proud to possess *such a nephew, Madame!" says
another French lady to the Countess of Kew (who, you may be sure,




THE NIEW COMES.                       465
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 cousins have been three minutes
together in Madame de Florac's salon, she sees that Clive is in love
with Ethel Newcome. She takes the boy's hand and says, "'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, tender 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, deplores us for ever, 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 immortal! 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 Newcome.




.~l45j2              THE NVEWCOMES.
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE HOTEL DE FLORAC.
INCE the death of the Duc d'Ivry, the husband of Mary Queen of
J Scots, the Comte de Florac, who is now the legitimate owner of
the ducal title, does not choose to bear it, but continues to be known
in the world by his old name. The old Count's world is very small.
His doctor, and his director, who comes daily to play his game of
picquet; his daughter's children, who amuse him by their laughter,
and play round his chair in the garden of his hotel; his faithful wife,
and one or two 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 religionism of
the new school. After going to hear his son preach through Lent at
Notre Dame, where the Abb6 de Florac gathered a great congregation,
the old Count came away quite puzzled at his son's declamations.
" I do not understand your new priests," he says: " I knew my son
had become a Cordelier; I went to hear him, and found he was a
Jacobin. Let me make my salut in quiet, my good LUonore. My
director answers for me, and plays a game at 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 acquaintances to help him to
pass the evening. The rest of the hotel he gives up to his son, the
Vicomte de Florac, and Madame la Princesse de Montcontour, his
daughter-in-law.
When Florac has told his friends of the Club why it is he has
assumed a new title-as a means of reconciliation (a reconciliation all
philosophical, my friends) with his wife, nzde Higg of Manchester, who
adores titles like all Anglaises, and has recently made a great succession, everybody 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
General, 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 bed



THE NE WCO.MES.                      463,chamber, which, to her terror, she is obliged to open of receptionevenings, 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 Revolution, might have reposed in. Opposite that
looking-glass, between 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 Newcome" (the
minister whom, in early days, Miss Higg used to sit under) " say if
they was browt into this room! " But there is no question of Mr. Jowls
and Mr. Humper, excellent dissenting divines, who preached to Miss
Higg, being brought into the Princesse de Montcontour's boudoir.
That paragraph, respecting a conversion in high life, which F. B.
in his enthusiasm inserted in the Pall Mall Gazette, caused no small
excitement in the Florac family. The Florac family read the Pall Mall.Gazette, knowing that Clive's friends were engaged in that periodical.
WChen Madame de Florac, who did not often read newspapers, happened to cast her eye upon that poetic paragraph of F. B.'s, you may
fancy with what a panic it filled 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 absence, she would
have hastened to London to rescue her son out of that perdition. She
sent for her younger son, who undertook the embassy; and the Prince
and Princesse de Montcontour, in their hotel at London, were one day
surprised by the visit of the Abb6 de Florac.
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 Protestantism, the Abbe wrote
home the most encouraging accounts of his sister-in-law's precious dispositions. He had communications with Madame de Montcontour's
Anglican director, a man of not powerful mind, wrote M. l'Abb,
-though of considerable repute for eloquence in his sect. The good




464                 THE NE WCOMES.
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
"H6tel de Florac" at Paris: perhaps the Abb6 tempted the worthy
lady by pictures of the many pleasures and advantages she would enjoy
in that capital. She was presented 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 Higg's neighbour, the member for Newcome, Sir Brian Newcome, Bart., was too ill to act as Higg's sponsor before Majesty; 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 young 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 Newcomes were very civil to the Lancashire
party, and entertained them splendidly at dinner. I believe Mrs. and
Mr. Hobson themselves went to court this year, the latter in a deputylieutenant'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 disagreeable 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-Continental 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 Florac out of his dirty lodgings.
in Leicester Square, and sent the Prince of Montcontour back to his
worthy middle-aged wife again. The disagreeable dissenting days
were over. A briliant young curate of Doctor Bulders, who also wore
long hair, straight waistcoats, and no shirt-collars, had already recon —




THEE  NEE WCOMES.                    465
ciled the Vicomtesse de Florac 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 Manchester
and London, joined the direction of the Anglo-Continental. A brother
had died lately, leaving his money amongst them, and his wealth had
added considerably to Madame de Florac's means; his sister invested
a portion of her capital in the railway in her husband's name. The
shares were at a premium, and gave a good dividend. The Prince
de Montcontour 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 Florac: 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
mustachio. His errors were forgotten: he was bien viet by the Government. He might have had the Embassy Extraordinary to Queen
Pomar6; but the health of Madame la Princesse was delicate. He
paid his wife visits every morning, 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 private 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 reposed.
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 splendours as in
the dirty little lodgings in Leicester 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 " H6tel de Florac?" "There was an
excellent atelier in the pavilion, with a chamber for his servant. No!
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 ennuy6 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 iitzuite. Madame la Princesse is not amusing for a
young man. Come and go when thou wilt, Clive, my garqon, my son;
thy cover is laid. Wilt thou take the portraits of all the family? IHast
thou want of money?  I had at thy age and almost ever since, mon
33




466                 THE NME WCOZVES.
ani;' but now we swim in gold; and when there is a louis 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 her visit to the Comte de Florac; 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
a-d 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 Florac and Lady Kew, of
course, there could be little liking or sympathy. Religion, 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 Florac'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 Florac'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 LUonore de Florac was quite alone. It
seemed as if Heaven had turned away all her children's hearts from
her. Her daily business in lifewas to nurse a selfish old man, into
whose service 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. Mary 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 afflicts." And he points out to her
the agonies of suffering saints of her sex; assures her of their present




THE YVE WC(O IES.                    467
beatitudes and glories; exhorts her to bear her pains with a faith like
theirs; and is empowered to promise her a like reward.
The other matron is not less alone. Her husband and son are
dead, without a tear for either,-to weep was not in Lady Kew's
nature. Her grandson, 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 an'd 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, for ever uneasy and always alone.  She sees people scared
at her coming; is received 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 sh: goes; and trample over dependants and
society, with a grim consciousness that it dislikes her, a rage at its
cowardice, and an unbending will to domineer. 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 Newcome to a young eaglet. Is it not a rare provision of nature (or fiction
of poets, who have their own natural history,) 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 Florac was very interested about Ethel Newcome, and strove in her
modest way to become intimate with her. Miss Newcome and Lady
Kew attended Madame de Montcontour'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 Florac," and was perfectly insolent to
Madame la Princesse every Wednesday evening. Towards Madame
de Florac evcn 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 Florac was " tres grande dame," —" of the sort which is
almost impossible to find now-a-days," Lady Kew said, who thought
she possessed this dignity in her own person. When Madame de
Florac, blushing, asked Ethel to come and see her, Ethel's grandmother consented with the utmost willingness. " She is very ddvote, 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
theology. There is no Roman Catholic harti in Engand or Scotland




468                 THIE NE WCOMES.
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 Florac; 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 compliments 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, grandmamma,-a hump-back, or
a wig and two daughters? I like Madame de Florac; 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 Florac. She was very kind to
Madame de Preville's children, Madame de Florac's grandchildren;
she was gay and gracious with Madame de Montcontour. She went
again and again to the " H6tel de Florac," 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 favour at
St. Petersburg, and who was in disgrace at Schoenbrunn-naturally
did not amuse the lively young person. The goodness of Madame de
Florac'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 Florac'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
ceremonial 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 splendour; and there must surely have been a
number of nimble young royal highnesses who would like to dance




THEL  -/ NE UCOMfES.                 469
with such a beauty as Miss Newcome. The Marquis of Farintosh
had a share in these polite amusements. His English conversation
was not brilliant as yet, although his French 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 handsomer 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 Clive occasionally came to visit the " H6tel de Florac."
At first, with her French education, Madame de Florac 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, les AI~eess walked for entire hours with the young men, made
parties of the fish, 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; "~d 5reuve, that we went to
visit an old relation of the family, who adores Clive and his father."
When Madame de Florac questioned her son about the young Marquis
to whom it was said Ethel was engaged, Florac flouted the idea.
"Engaged! This young Marquis is engaged to the Th6'.tre des
Vari6dts, my mother. He 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 Odalisqzue Obglisque, 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 charming and peerless
young creature! On which, as the others laughed, and his friend
Monsieur Walleye applauded, I dared 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 honour 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 nights, and
at whose door your carriage is to be seen every day, is capable of that
with which you charge her so gaily. These things say themselves,
Monsieur, in the coulisses of the theatre, of women from whom you
learn our language; not of young persons pure and chaste, Monsieur.de Farintosh! Learn to respect your compatriots; to honour youth
and innocence everywhere, Monsieur! and when you forget your



470                  THE An WCOMES.
self, permit one who might be your father to point where you are
wrong."'
" And what did he answer?" asked the Countess.
"I attended myself to a sozujet," replied Florac; "but his reply
*was much more agreeable. The young insulary, 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 whom the name,' cried I,'ought
never to be spoken in these places.' Herewith our little dispute
ended."
So, occasionally, Mr. Clive had the good luck to meet with his
cousin at the " Hotel de Florac," where, I daresay, all the inhabitants
wished he should have his desire regarding this young lady. The
Colonel had talked early to Madame de Florac 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
Florac, 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 " Lonore de Florac'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 Mademoiselle de Blois.
" It is for that that her heart yearns towards thee, that I have felt
myself ertrained towards thee since I saw thee "-Clive momentarily
expected to be kissed again. " Tell thy father that I feel-am touched
by his goodness with an eternal gratitude, and love every one that
loves my mother." As far as wishes went, these two were eager promoters of Clive's little love-affair; and Madame la Princesse became
equally not less willing. Clive's good looks and good-nature had had
their effects upon that good-natured woman, and he was as great a
favourite with her as with her husband. And thus it happened that
when Miss Ethel came to pay her visit, and sate with Madame de
Florac 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 Preville's, not to
Madame de Florac's, and would insist, I have no doubt, that it was
Madame de Pre'ville whom she went to see, (whose husband was a
member of the Chamber of Deputies, a Conseiller d'Etat, or other
French big-wig,) and that she had no idea of going to meet Clive, or
that he was more than a casual acquaintance at the " Hotel de Florac."
There was no part of her conduct in all her life which this lady, when
it was impugned, would defend more strongly than this intimacy at
the " H6tel de Florac." It is not with this I quarrel especially. My




TIBE NEWCOMES.                       471
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 your intimacy with Emma fall off? If your
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 eyes, 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 on your
papa's friends in the nurse's arms by the fascination of your lace frock
and pretty new sash and shoes; when you could just toddle, you practised your arts upon other children in the square, poor little lambki'ns
sporting among the daisies; and nunc in ovilia, rnox in reluctantes
dracones, proceeding from the lambs to reluctant 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 different. The Tomkins's are not quite &c. &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
neighbours!




.472                THE NEWCOMES,
CHAPTER XLVIl.
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 information concerning them, and could supply such a narrative of facts and conversations as is, indeed, not less authentic than the details 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 flourished 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, appearance 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 megatherium of his history.
Suppose then, in the quaint old garden of the " Hotel de Florac,"
two young people are walking up and down in an avenue of limetrees, which are still permitted to grow in that ancient place. In the
centre of that avenue is a fountain, surmounted by a Triton so gray
and moss-eaten, that though he holds his conch to his swelling lips,
curling his tail in the arid basin, his instrument has had a sinecure
for at least fifty years; and did not think fit even to play when the
tBourbons, 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.erron 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




T'HE NEW TVtCOMES.                   473
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 Florac's chair is wheeled by Saint Jean,
his attendant; Madame de Preville's children trot about, and skip,
and play at cache-cache. The R. P. de Florac (when at home) paces
up and down and meditates his sermons; Madame de Florac sadly
walks sometimes to look at her roses; and Clive and Ethel Newcome
are marching up and down; the children, and their bonne, of course,
being there jumping to and fro; and Madame de Florac, having just
been called away to Monsieur le Comte, whose physician 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 neighbouring
Convent Garden," of which they can see the new chapel rising over
the trees.
Clive remarks that "the neighbouring 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
Recamier, and Madame Beauharnais 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."
After some talk about nuns, Ethel says, " There were convents in
England. She often thinks she would like to retire to one; " and she
sighs as if her heart were in that scheme.
Clive, with a laugh, says, " Yes. If you could retire after 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 satisfactory, that
those who are in it never wish for a while to leave it? (She heaves a
sigh and looks down towards a beauntzid new dress of many founces,
which Madame de Flouncival, 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




474                 THE.NE WCOMES.
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 somewhere in Davies Street, leading:
out of Oxford Street into Grosvenor 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 ladyno, 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 seeyou 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
all the grandees I see about, can there be a grander gentleman than
your dear old father? You need not squeeze my hand so.-Those littleimps are look   that has nothing to do with the question. Viens,.
Ldonore! 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 des maisons encore —ou est
bonne Maman?                [Exit little LEONORE down anit  alley.
Ethel. Do you remember when we were children, and you used
to make drawings for us? I have some now that you did —in my
geography book, which I used to read and read with Miss Quigley.
Clive. 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
a bright dress of shot silk, amber, and blue-and I thought you
were like that fairy-princess who came out of the crystal boxbecause —--
Ethel. Because why?
Clive. 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 curtsies. You know whether you are goodlooking 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 orderto please her. I remember when I was so ignorant I did not kno-w
there was any difference in rank between us.
Ethel. Ah. Clive!




THE NE WCOMES.                       475
Clive. 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, forbid 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.
Ldonore! Xavier!
Clive. 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 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 for ever 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 Florac! Little LUonore
is very like you-resembles you very much. My cousin says he longs
to make a drawing of her.
Afadadze de Florac. 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.
(Ex-eunt CLIVE, ETHEL, and Madame DE F. inao the house.




476                 TTHE NE W COME,;S.
CONVERSATION II.-SCENE I.
Miss Nlewcome arrives in Lady Kew's carriage, which enters the court of the
Zitel de Florac.
Saint yean. Mademoiselle-Madame la Comtesse is gone out:
but Madame has charged me to say, that she will be at Lome to the
dinner of M. le Comte, as to the ordinary.
Miss. Newcome. Madame de Pr6ville is at home?
Saint 7ean. Pardon me, Madame is gone out with M. le Baron,
and M. Xavier, and Mademoiselle de Preville. 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 LUonore 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 Vicomtesse is at
home, Monsieur St. Jean?
Saint 7ean. I go to call the people of Madame la Vicomtesse.
[Exit old SAINT JEAN to the carriage: a Lackey comesf resently in
a gorgeous livery, with buttons like little cheeseilates.
The Lackey. The Princess is at home, Miss, and will be most'appy
to see you, Miss. (MIss trzi5s r 5i the great stair; a gentleman out of
livery has come forth to the landing, and introduces her to the apartments of Madame la Princesse.)
The Lackey to the Servants on the box. Good-morning, Thomas.
How d'y' do, old Backystopper?
Backystoifier. How 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. Me 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 wegetable-cart. I was so uncommon scruey!
Who's this a hentering at your pot-coshare? Billy, my fine feller!
Clive Newcome (by the most singular coincidence). Madame la
Princesse?
Lackey. We, Munseer. (He rings a bell; the gentleman in black
ai5h5ears as before on the landing-izlace u5 the stair.)    [Exit CLIVE.
BackystojPer. I say, Bill: is that young chap often a coming about
here? They'd run pretty in a curricle, wouldn't they? Miss N. and
Master N. Quiet, old woman! Jest 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




TE'E E EWCOY/ES.                      477
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 Vcrny, or Mossyer
Gudang?
Backystobiper. They say this young gent is sweet on Miss N.;
which I guess I wish he may get it.
Tommy. He! he! he!
S'ackystofiper. 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.
Tommy. 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. (He lapses into silence.)
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 upstairs 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 upstairs 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's father
-there's my bell.                [Exit Lackey.
Backystoi5j5er. Not a bad chap that. Sports his money very freesings 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 ServatiS.




478                  THE NE WCOMES.
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! " 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 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, C]ive. 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.
Clilze. 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 theim, I miss them. How
I wish I was religious like Madame de Florac: there is no day that
she does not go to church. She is for ever busy with charities, clergymen, conversions; I think the Princess will be brought over ere long
-that dear old Madame de Florac! 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 children, 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 morning after morning. He
calls her.a fool; and seems to take a pride in humiliating her before
company. My poor father has luckily taken 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 I




TH1E NL'EWCOMVES.                    479
who is happy in the world? What a pity Lord Highgate'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 he was quite right;
and grandmamma is even pleased that Lord Highgate 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!
Enter Madame de lont/contour. What are you young folks a talkin'
about-Balls and Operas? When first I was took to the Opera 1 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 grandmamma.
Good-by, Madame de Montcontour; I am so sorry I have not been
able to see dear Madame de Florac. 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 Brie'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 ETl H EL.
As far as we can judge from the above conversation, which we
need not prolong-as the talk between Madame de Montcontour and
Monsieur Clive, after a few complimentary remarks about Ethel, had
nothingc to do with the history of the Newcomes-as far as we can
judge, the above little colloquy took place on Monday, and about
Wednesday, Madame la Comtesse de Florac received a little note from
Clive, in which he said, that one day when she came to the Louvre,
where he was copying, she had admired a picture of a Virgin and
Child, by Sasso Ferrato, since when he had been occupied in making
a water-colour 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 Florac received




N8o                  THE N2E WCOMES.
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'clo, k, by one of those
singular coincidences which, &c. &c., who should come to the " Hotel
de Florac" 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, so much so 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 Florac was trying to make a
match between the young people. Hence arose the words uttered by
the Countess, after awhile, in
CONVERSATION III.
Madame de Florac (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 Igayer our little
meetings will come no more.
Ethel. Is the Abbe de Florac 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 conscience 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
arrangements 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 brilliant, no doubt, I have known; but
such a heart as his, such a faith as his, such a generosity and simplicity as Thomas Newcome's-never'!
Ethel (smiling). Indeed, dear lady, I think with you.
Madame de E. I understand thy smile,'my daughter. I can say
to thee, that when we were children almost, I knew thy good 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
Florac. 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 conve



THE NlEWCOJIES:                        48r
nience, as I was-my heart pities her. And if I love her, as I love
you, I 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 thent. You
smile. I have been nearly fifty years dying-ln'est-ce fias. —and am
here an old woman, complaining 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 seem to bear an hereditary coldness, and do not love their parents as other children do?
They witness our differences and our indifferenlces, hear our recriminations, take one side or the other in our disputes, and are partisans for
father or mother. We force ourselves 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 trembling victim! I speak not for myselfwhatever iray 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 havec
seen it.
Ethel (blushing, and thitkinzg, ierhafis, how she esteems her father,
how her mother, and 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 otherwise than happy. My
mother is the kindest and most affectionate mother, and-,(Here a
nision of Sir Brian alone in his room, and nobody really caring jfor
him so much as his valet, who loves himt to the extent (f fifty founds a
year and perquisites; or, Perhafis, HMiss Cann, who reads to him, and
filays a good deal of evenings, much to Sir Brian's liking-here this
vision, we say, comes, and stops Miss Ethel's sentence).
Madarme de F. Your father, in his infirmity-and yet he is five
years younger than Colonel Newcome-is happy to have 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.
3I




4w82                THE NE WYCOMES.
Etzhel. 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 hasz
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: 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. I 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 " SirBrians " papa, and " Your-ladyships" mamma. With grandmamma I
go to hear a fashionable preacher —Clive's uncle, whose sister lets lodgings at Brighton; such a queer, bustling, pompous, honest old lady.
Do you know that Clive's aunt lets lodgings at Brighton?
Madame de F. My father was an usher in a school. Monsieur de
Florac gave lessons in the emigration. Do you know in what?
Ethel. Oh, the old nobility! that is different, you know. That
Mr. Honeyman is so affected that I have no patience with him!
Madame de F. (weith a szhz). 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 I used to take
long rides with my dear Uncle Newcome; and lie used to tallkto me




THIE N~~E WCOMES.                     483
in his sweet simple way; and he said I reminded him of some one he
once knew.
Madame de F. Who-who was that, Ethel?
Ethel (looking up at Gerard's i.icture of the Countess de Florac?.
What odd dresses you wore in the time of the Empire, Madame de
Florac! How could you ever have such high waists, and such won-derfulfraises! (MADAME DE FLORAC kisses ETHEL. Tableau.)
Enter SAINT JEAN, i5receding a gentleman with a drawing-board
under his arm.
Saint 7ean. Monsieur Claive!              [Exit SAINT JEAN.
Clive. How do you do, Madame la Comtesse?  Mademoiselle,
j'ai l'honneur de vous souhaiter le bon jour.
Madame de F. Do you come from the Louvre?  Have you finished
that beautiful copy, monl ami?
Clive. I have brought it for you. It is not very good. There are
ilways so many /etites demoiselles copying that Sasso Ferrato; and
Lhey 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 —charming!
What shall we give to our painter for his chef-d'ceuvre?
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 ctf the Life
Guards.
Ethel. Mr. Butts-quel nom! Je ne connois aucun M. Butts!
Clive. He has a famous head to draw. They refused Crackthorpe
and-and one or two other heads I sent in.
Ethel (tossing u5i hers). Miss Mackenzie's I suppose!
Clive. Yes, Miss Mackenzie's. It is a sweet little face; too delicate
for my hand though.
Et2hel. So is a wax-doll's a pretty face. Pink cheeks; china-blue
eyes; and hair the colour of old Madame Hempenfeld's-not her last
hair-her last but one. (Sihe goes to a window that looks into the court.)
Clive (to the Countess). Miss Mackenzie speaks more respectfully
of other people's eyes and hair. She thinks there is nobody in the
world to compare to Miss Newcome.
ifadame de F. (aside.) And you, mon ami? This is the last time,
entendez-vous? You must never come here again. If M. le Comte
knew it he never would pardon me. Encore! (He kisses her ladyship2s hand again.)
Cive. A good action gains to be repeated. Miss Newcome, does
the view of the court-yard please you? The old trees and the garden




484                 THE NE WCOMES.
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.
Clizve. That is my brougham. May I carry you anywhere? I himhim by the hour: and I will carry you to the end of the world.
Mliss I. WVhere are you going, Madame de Florac?-to show that
sketch to M. le Comte? Dear me, I don't fancy that M. de Florac
can care for such things! I am sure I have seen many as pretty
on the quays for twenty-five sous. I wonder the carriage is not come
for me.
Clive. You can take mine without my company, as that seems not
to please you.
Afiss 1. 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 Brie-I say, heaven and earth, that is a French
phrase-I arrive there; I find Miss Newcome engaged for almost
every dance, waltzing with M. de Klingenspohr, 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 I 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.
MlAiss N. A fortnight ago you said you were going to London. 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 you-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; and 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
1? Have not I taken your part when you were maligned? In former




THE NE WCOMES.                      485
days when-when Lord Kew asked me, as he had a right to do thenI 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 Newcome 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 angry, that they admire my Ethel-tmy sister, if
you can be no more.
Elel. 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 mustachios best, and order you not
to cut them off again. The young men here wear them. I hardly
knew Charles Beardmore when he arrived from Berlin the other day,
like a sapper and miner. His little sisters cried out, and were quite
frightened 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?
Clive. A man in the army may pretend to anything, n'esf-ce fas.?
He wears a lovely uniform. He may be 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 inthe 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 (mnusing). Barnes would not, perhaps, but papa might even
still, and you have friends who are fond of you.
Clizve. No-no one can help me; and my art, Ethel, is not only
my choice and my love, but my honour 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 colours for him. Nor would my father,
who loves his own profession so, make a good general probably. He
always says so. I thought better of myself when I began as a boy;;and was a conceited youngster, expecting to carry all before me. But




486                 THE NE WCOMES.
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.
Ethel, 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 FarinEthel. 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 simple old father is much
finer thaix all your grandees: his single-mindedness more lofty than all
their boa ing, and haughtiness, 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 grandmamma 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 neve:- be able to ppaint as well as M. Delaroche?
Clive. No-never.
Ethzel, And-and-you will never give up painting?
Clive, No-never. That would be like leaving your friend who
was pool; or deserting your mistress because you were disappointed
about he- money. They do those things in the great world, EtheL
Et2hel (with a sigh). Yes.
Clive. 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 dograding, the pleasures it gives you so wearisome, shameful
even, why does Ethel Newcome 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 for ever to you, to be the father of Ethel's children, and the lord,




THE N7E W~ COfMES.                   487
and master of her life and actions? The proudest woman in the
world consent to bend herself to this ignominy, and own that a coronet
is a bribe sufficient for her honour! 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 slavery.
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.
Et#el. 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.
Clive. I never will 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
surrounded 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? "
Ethtel. 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




488                  THE  NE I VCOM0~ES.
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 de Florac.  (She goes to himn wi/t anxious looks.)
What hast thou, my child? Hast thou spoken?
Clive (very steadily). Yes.
Madame de F. And she loves thee? I know she loves theem
Clivle. You hear the organ of the convent?
Madame de F. Ou'as tu?
Clive. I might as well hope to marry one of the sisters of yonder
convent, dear lady. (He sinks down again, and she kisses him.)
Clive. I never had a mother; but you seem like one.
Maatnze de F. Mon fils  Oh, mon fils!




THE NE WCOMES.                       489
CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN WHICH BENEDICK IS A MARRIED MAN.
W  E 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
routs 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 favourite of the Queen
Mother at Aranjuez; who was smitten with whom at Vienna or
Naples; and the last particulars of the chroniqztes scandaleuses of
Paris and London;-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 disposition! With all his faults
and wickednesses, his follies and his selfishness, there was no moment
when Lady Kew would 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 nurtured 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 recognise her. A few hours
after her arrival, all the vanities of the world were over for him: and:Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet, reigned in his stead. The day after Sir




4.90                 THE NEWCOMZES.
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 services,
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 upholder of our Protestant religion, all who
mknew Barnes Newcome 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 opponent of every
reckless innovation.  In fine, Barnes Newcome's manifesto to the
Electors of Newcome was as authentic a document, 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 Dissenting interest
and the respectable Liberals of the borough wished to set up Samuel
Higg, Esq., against Sir Barnes Newcome; and now it was that
Barnes's civilities of the previous year, aided by Madame de Montcontour's 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 honourable Baronet; and
the candidate from London, whom the Newcome 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 after his father's decease, he sat in Parliament as Member for.
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? Ccelia's
boudoir, who is dead with the daisies over her at Kensal 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.




TYHE NEWCOM~ES.                       491
them: Calista, being a widow, and (to the surprise of everybody whoknew Trimalchio, and enjoyed his famous dinners,) left but very poorly
off, lets the house, and the rich, chaste, and appropriate plannedc
furniture, by Dowbiggin, and the proceeds go to keep her little boysat Eton. The next year, as Mr. Clive Newcome rode by the once
familiar mansion (whence the hatchment had been removed, announcing that there was in Coia Quzies 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 refreshments in the dining-room, the same old Smee9
R.A., (always in the room where the edibles were,) cringing to and
flattering the new occupants; 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 successors 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 occurred in the
lives of the principal actors and the writer of this history. As regards
the latter, it must be stated that the dear old firm of Lamb Court had
been dissolved, the junior member having contracted another partnership. The chronicler of these memoirs was a bachelor no longer. My
wife and I had spent the winter at Rome (favourite 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 of 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 driving 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 otherbeing 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



49 2'lHE NE WCO0lHES.
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 subject 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; "though I begged and prayed him to be faithful
to his profession. He would have done very well in it, in portraitpainting especially. Look here, and here, and here!" said Ridley, producing fine 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 Bundelcund Bank, about which the
Colonel had written to me from India more than a year since, announcing that fortunes were to be made by it, and that he had reserved
shares for me in the company. Laura admired all Clive's sketches
which his affectionate brother artist showed to her, with the exception
of one representing the reader's humble servant; which Mrs. Pendennis
cconsidered 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 laboured at it, we drove
to Fitzroy Square hard by, where I was not displeased to show the
good old hospitable James Binnie the young lady who bore my name.
But here, too, we were disappointed. 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 woman
said she believed the gentleman 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 Jekmyn
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 parlour with that trepidation
which most poor men feel on presenting themselves before City
magnates and capitalists. Mr. Hobson Newcome shook hands most




THE NE WCOMES.                       493
jovially and good-naturedly, congratulated me on my marriage, and
so forth, and presently Sir Barnes Newcome made his appearance, still
wearing 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 l;ied; 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 inbabited the small house which he had occupied immediately after his
marriage: but dwelt in a much more spacious mansion in Belgravia,
where he entertained his friends. Now that he 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 wisps 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 himself 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, with 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 neighbour, 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
HIobson to your humble servant, there was not one but the master of




494                 THIE NE WCOMES.
the house had an agreeable word for him. Even for his cousin SamueI
Newcome, a gawky youth with an eruptive countenance, Barnes had
appropriate words of conversation, and talked about King's College, of
which the lad was an ornament, with the utmost affability. He complimented that institution 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 Pall AIfal Gaze/fe 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 stouter since her marriage; the
change only became her. She was a little silent, but then she had
Uncle Hobson on hler 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 behaviour? 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 Newcome's politeness to
a sheer desire to be well with me. But with Lord Highgate and Clive
the case was different, 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 for ever. 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 Newcome and his wife, which went off very
comfortably. At Chanticlere the Dowager Lady Kew and Miss Newcome 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 direspectfully of her. Nevertheless, VOzuS concevez, when a man of the Marquis's
rank was supposed to look with the eyes of admiration upon a young
lady, Lord Highgate would not think of spoiling sport, and he left
Chanticlere declaring that he was always destined to be unlucky in




THIE NE WCOTMES.                     495
love. When old Lady Kew was obliged to go to Vichy for her lumbago, 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 Newcome came on a
visit to her brother and sister, at whose house we have just had the
honour of seeing her.
When Rooster took his seat in the House of Lords, he was introduced by Highgate and Kew, as Highgate had been introduced 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 dinner 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 Highgate'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 whisper 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.




496                 THE NE HCOMfES.
The Bundelcund Bank, which had been established for four
years, had now grown to be one of the most flourishing commercial
institutions in Bengal. Founded, as the prospectus announced, at
a time when all private credit was shaken by the failure of the
great Agency Houses, of which the downfall had 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 services 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;
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 sittings of the B. B. managing committee that the details
and accounts of these operations could be brought forward. Otherwise
the books of the bank were open to every shareholder; and the ensign
or the young civil servant was at liberty at any time to inspect his own
private account as well as the common ledger. With New 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
occupation 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 Bundelcund
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 Bundelcund 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 fronu\ the copper




THE NE WCOMIES.                     497
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
Bundelcund Banking Company 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,5ool. worth of Bundelcund 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 Bundelcund Bank speculation;
but in these two years I was engaged in matrimonial affairs (having
Clive Newcome, Esq., as my groom's-man on a certain interesting
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.
32




498                 T.IE  PN.E BWCOMES.
CHAPTER XLIX.
CONTAINS AT LEAST SIX MORE COURSES AND TWO DESSERTS.
THE banker's dinner-party over, we returned to our apartments,
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 s'harply 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.".fr. 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 another. 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 daresay 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!




THE NE W         CCO ESS.            499
Mrs. P. We can detect all sorts of things. The inferior animals'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 upstairs 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 New-come 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; 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 vient  fin, a qti salt.
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; where mothers do not love their children; where children
love their nurses best; where men talk what they call gallantry!
Pendennis. What?
Mrs. P. Yes, such as that dreary, languid, pale, bald, cadaverous
fleering 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 Clive's flame, poor Miss Newcome, was brought out today; 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 Clive
looked?
Mrs. P. Lord Highgate was very attentive to Miss Newcome,
was he?
Pendennis. And some years ago, Lord Highgate was breaking his
heart about whom do you think? about Lady Clara Pulleyn, our
-hostess of last night. He was Jack Belsize then, a younger son,




5.oo                THE NE WCUOMES.
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 off with the old love, Laura, and on with the
new. Why do 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 that 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 power that can
extract a word from her. It is true that she is generally in the right;
but that is only the more aggravating. Indeed, 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 honour of
the bride. Clive must needs not be outdone in hospitality; and invited
us and others to a fine feast at the " 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 certain 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 business; 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 farmilng,
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 towards sunset only, we make merry and amuse ourselves. We chat with our pretty neighbour, or survey the young ones
sporting; 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 conditions. 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 ones frisk about, or dance, or sing,
or laugh; or whisper behind curtains in moonlit windows; or shirk
away into the garden, 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




THE NVE WCOMES.                       5or
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 Clive'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 neighbour, 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 matrons who gave the sanction
-of their presence to this bachelor-party. Neither of their husbands
could come to. Clive's little fete; had they not the City and the House
of Commons to attend?  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
conversation, the old gentleman nimbly skipped out of her neighbourhood, 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 neighbour, 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?" said 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
Highgate, and Lady Clara, we had all been sitting there when the.bankeress cut in (in the midst of a very good story I was telling them,
which entertained them very much,) and never ceased talking till I fell,off into a doze. When I roused myself, begad, she was still going on.
Crackthorpe was off, smoking a cigar on the terrace: my Lord and
Lady Clara were nowhere; and you four, with the little painter, were
chatting cozily in another arbour.  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 Banqciere too now.
He! he! he! How could he say he had no carriage to go home in?
He came down in Crackthorpe's cab, whopassed us just now, driving
back young What-d'ye-call the painter."
Thus did the Major discourse, as we returned towards the
City.  I could see in the open carriage which followed -s (Lady




502                  THE  NE WVCOM.ES.
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; 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 Newcome 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 Highgate, 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 disappointments the virtuous lady of Bryanston 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 Mrs. Pendennis
partook at the expense of the most respectable Newcome family.
Although Mrs. Laura here also appeared, and had the place df
honour 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. WVe 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 splendour;
her fat neck was ornamented with jewels, rich bracelets decorated her
arms, and this Bryanston Square Cornelia had likewise her family
jewels distributed round her, priceless male and female Newcome
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,.
vwith ringlets hot and crisp from the tones of a Marylebone hairdresser..




THE' NET WCOMES.                      503
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 arrived,
away they dashed to the windows again, the innocent little dears
crying out, "Here's the Marquis;" and in sadder tones, " Nc, it isn't
the Marquisj' 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, "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 appear 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."
"' Bead, sir," whispers the old Major to me, " intellect may be a
doosid fine thing, but in my opinion a Marquisate and eighteen or
twenty thousand a year-I should say the Farintosh property, with
the Glenlivat estate and the Roy property 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 meayt by chattering about intellect?
Hang me, a Marquis is a Marquis; and Mrs. Newcome 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 countenance,
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 disappointment for you, Miss Newcome: Lord Farintosh.can't. come."
At this, two of the children cry out "Oh! oh!" with such at




504                 THE NE WCO.,VES.
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 Kings 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, gaily. "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 countenance 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.
My wife, being still the bride on this occasion, had the honour of
being led to the dinner-table by our banker and host. Lord Highgate
was reserved for Mrs. Hobson, who, in an engaging 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, Brummel, Lord Steyne, Pea
Green Payne, and so forth. He said the evening was very pleasant,
though some others of the party, as it appeared 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




THE 2E WCOMES.                      505
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 succeeded 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 neighbours 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 dinne:, Arthur, in return for these hospitalities? Greenwich, 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; no, no, hang it! but Barnes Newcome
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 to 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 well-nigh
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
wvoman.




50b                  TIE VEWCO4MES.,
CHAPTER L.
CLIVE IN NEW QUARTERS.
Y wife was much better pleased with Clive than with some of his:lVI 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 throwhimself away and be a painter,.
nzfabi, 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-colour sketches of
good pictures by his own and other hands. He had horses to ride,.
and a liberal purse full of paternal money. Many fine equipages drew
up opposite to his chambers: few artists had such luck as young
Mr. Clive. And above his own chambers were other three which the
young gentleman 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 Bank
"are quite settled. - You shake your head! why? The shares are worth
four times what we gave for them. We are men of fortune, Pen, I
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. Blackmore. Dear
cousin Barnes is for ever asking me to dinner; I might call Lady Clara
Clara if I liked, as Sam Newcome does in Bryanston 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
Bryanston Square, is it? And she praises my cousin Maria to meyou 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,




THE NE WCOMES.                        5o7
Do you know Maria can sing Hungarian and Polish besides your common German, Spanish, and Italian. Those I have at our otzer agents',
Baines & 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 Terrace. But
neither Circe's smiles nor Calypso's blandishments had any effect on
him; his ears were stopped to their music, and his eyes rendered dull
to their charms by those of the flighty young enchantress with whom
my wife had of late made acquaintance.
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 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 parlour-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. Newcome, 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 carry away the obnoxious
garment! How grand F. B. used to be as president of Clive's smokingparty, 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 Academy! 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




50o8                 THE,7NE WCOM ES.
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 caressing his picture all 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 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 foot 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 I 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-a-days 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 grey pony, Newcome. No. 579. Portrait 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 masterpieces. 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 daresay, but then, oh, I
am doing it so badly!"




THE NE WCO.MES.                       509
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 labouring, 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 sweet
kindness and compassion would soothe him in his unhappy 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; perhaps she hid it so as to
vex me and prove the injustice of 4ny suspicions; perhaps, honestly,
she was conquered by the young beauty, 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 untameable 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 subjugated poor Clive. Even the
reluctant Farintosh was compelled 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 hadc
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, ordered him on her errands, accepted
his bouquets and compliments, 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, 1 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!"
"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."




gIo                  EVTHE NEWCOMES.
"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 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 dear,
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
interprets and defines it-if these formed the outward practice of her
life, they were also its constant and secret endeavours and occupation.
She spoke but very seldom of her religion, though it filled her heart
and influenced all her behaviour. Whenever she came to that sacred
subject, her demeanour 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 priceless 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 Newvcome, who rides away, with a staid groom behind her, to her brother's
summer residence, not far distant. Clive 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. I n
the midst of our talk Miss Ethel came among us. She arrived flushed
and j-a high spirits; she rallied Clive upon his gloomy looks; she




THE NE WC'OMES.                      5 I Iz
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. Pen.
dennis, 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 awhile about the young people
left alone in the drawing-room yonder. Laura talked about our 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 neighbourhood. Clavering Park- was taken by some,
delightful 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 bygones 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 on his horse, and rode
away gloomily.
6' Ethel had been crying when I went into the room," Laura after.




5I2                 THE NE WCOMES.
wards told me. "I knew she had; but she looked tip -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 d.eg2ner, which was to take
place that afternoon."
And so Miss Newcome rode away-back amongst the roses andi
the rouges-back amongst the fiddling, flirting, flattery, falseness-and'
Laura's sweet serene face looked after her departing. Mrs. Booth's
was a very grand dejelner. 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 enteredthe hostelry near which I met him, leaving this present chronicier to,
return to his own home.




THE NAE~WCOMES.                      5:3
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 autumnal phenomena; and two horsemen winding up the romantic road which leads
from-from Richmond Bridge to the "Star and Garter." The one
rider is youthful, and has a blonde mustachio: 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 he 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 cottage on Richmond Hill, where a gentleman receives them
with eager welcome. Their steeds are accommodated at a neighbouring 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. Welcome 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 steadfast and
kind as in the early, almost boyish days when we first knew them.
We talk awhile about the Colonel's voyage home, the pleasures 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 abovestairs, 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; 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
33




514                  THE NEWCOM.ES.
Mrs. Hokey, the confidential nurse.  Laura's husband is not so
rapturous; but, let us trust, behaves in a way becoming a man and a
father. We forego the description of his feelings as not pertaining
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 properly 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?
When Sir Charles Grandison stepped up and made his very
beautifullest bow to Miss Byron, I am sure his gracious dignity never
exceeded that of Colonel Newcome's first greeting to Mrs. Pendennis.
Of course from the very moment they beheld one another 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 the red palm-leaves and the border of many
colours. As 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 frequented, and was
more pleased and at home by my wife's fireside 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, honour, &c., these two guilty ones would be silent, or change the
subject of conversation, not caring to admit such an unsympathizing
person as myself into their conspiracy.
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 unsatis.
fied longing left him indifferent to all other objects of previous desire




THE NAE WCOMfIES.    $5
or ambition. The misfortune darkened the sunshine of his spirit, and
clouded the world before his eyes. He passed hours in his paintingroom, 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, he
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 least) does not care a fig about
other people's sentimental perplexities, and is not rapt up heart
and soul in Clive's affairs like his father, whose rest was disturbed if
the boy had a headache, 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 efficacy 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 halfpay, and into an inglorious exile at Brussels, with her sister, the outlaw's wife, by whose bankrupt fireside she was perfectly happy. Miss
Newcome was now her grandmother's companion, and they had been
on a tour of visits in Scotland, and were journeying from countryhouse to country-house about the time when our good Colonel returned
to his native shores.
The Colonel loved his nephew Barnes no better than before 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 Newcome, of the Bundelcund 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 sumptuously 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




56                  THE NTE WCO.MES.
which it always wore when Lady Clara's name was mentioned, aid.
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 colloguing 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 closeted with the young fellow of sixty;
you change the, conversation 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 me,
Miss; what will Richmond, what will society, what will Mrs. Grundy
in general say to such atrocious behaviour?"
" Oh, Pen," says my wife, closing my mouth in a-way which I do not
choose farther to particularise; " 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 desireto 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 Bundelcund Banking Company.
Now this Bundelcund Banking Company, in the Colonel's eyes,
was in reality his son Clive. But for Clive 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 endowedwith all the possible gifts of
fortune. Had he built a palace for Clive, and been informed that a
roc's egg was required to complete the decoration of the edifice, Tom.
Newcome would have travelled to the world's end in search of the
wanting 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 honour 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




THE NE VCOME S.                      5 1 7
the 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 been a soldier now," thought Thomas Newcome, " (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 Newcome artfully invited Barnes, his nephew, to dinner, under pretence 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 & Newcome a great deal of business, was in a most prosperous condition, kept a great balance at the bank, —a balance that
would not be overdrawn, as Sir Barnes Newcome 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 & Newcome. He'spoke upon this subject
with great archness and candour: 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 we 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 honours 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.




g5 I8                SEETHE NE WCOMES.
" 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 about 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 & 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 hble man-upon my word, quite a young man,.
and may marry again, Colonel," replies the nephew fascinatingly.
" 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 neighbour in the country-when will you come:
down to Newcome?-who married a devilish pretty girl, of very good
family, too, Miss Burgeon,'bne of the Devonshire 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 lakhs. 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 bed-room
and my dinner."
" He-he! If your son won't, your nephew will, my dear Colonel!"
says the affable Barnes, smiling sweetly.
"I can give the boy a handsome allowance, you see," resumes.
Thomas Newcome.




THE NEWCOMFS.                        5Iz9
" You can make him a handsome allowance now, and leave him a
good fortune when you die!" says the nephew, in a noble and cou —
rageous manner,-and as if he said Twelve times twelve are a hundred
and forty-four, and you have Sir Barnes Newcome'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. Confound 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 enthusiasm. " T&(
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 encouraged 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 historians 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 Colonel. Highgate seemed uncommonly sweet on
her, and was 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




520                  THE NEWCO.ES.
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 itnever. Could I consult my own wishes, I would at once-I would,
permit me to say, from sheer admiration 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 influence as the head of itan influence which I, I am sure, had most gladly exercised in your
favour. 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
soupirant 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 ot 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.
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




THIE NE WCOMES.                     52r
even off the blinds. The proprietor of the house cowered over a bedcandle and a furtive tea-pot 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.




522                  THE NE WCOMES.
CHAPTER LII.
FAMILY SECRETS.
THE figure cowering over the furtive tea-pot glowered grimly at
- Barnes as he erftered; 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 daresay! You smell of smoke like a courier."
"A foreign capitalist: he would smoke. They will, ma'am. I 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? Newcome is the best place
for her."
"Doctor Bambury thinks she can move in a fortnight. The boy
tas 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 to stay
Christmas there. The way in which you neglect them is shameful, it
is, Barnes."
"Upon my word, ma'am, I propose to manage my own affairs without your ladyship's assistance," cries Barnes, starting 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 pretext; Barkins
might have fetched it from the City in the morning. 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."




THE NE WCOzMES.                      523
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 Newcome. 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 ladyship 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. Your
have treated her dreadfully, sir."
" 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 Belsize 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 dinnerhe 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
brute!- he says he will tell it at my clubs; and threatens personals
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.




5-243                THE NE WCOMIES.
"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 certainly they had not
died a year or two earlier, and left poor Clara and Charles to come:Itogether. You should have married, 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-inlaw 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 bygones had best be bygones, that Highgate
was very sweet upon Ethel now, and that I did not choose to lose such
a good account as his, Kew was very insolent to me; his conduct was
blackguardly, ma'am, quite blackguardly, and you may be sure but for
our relationship I would have called him to   "
Here the talk between Barnes and his ancestress was interrupted
by the appearance of Miss Ethel Newcome, taper in hand, who
~descended from the upper regions enveloped in a shawl.
" 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,
4gallantly. " My dear Ethel, I.never saw you in greater beauty."
"By the light of one bed-room 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 wobegone, 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 Elysdes than in the finest castle in the Highlands. If it
had not been for a blessed quarrel with Fanny Follington, I think I
should have died at Glen Shorthorn. Have you seen mlly 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
eover the web. " Your Colonel is a.galan/t homme. That must be said




THE NE WCOMES.                       525;
of him; and in this does not quite take after the xest of the family.
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 sixtythousand 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 per-centage. 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.  "My father has often talked to me 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 paintpots now, and set up as a gentleman. I suppose they were 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
humiliation?"
"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. W'as 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 grandfather was an apothecary
at Hampton Court, and founded the family by giving a dose of rhubarbl
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?"




526                 THE N'E WCO1IES.
" 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 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 grandmamma, how witty she was and is; what a
reputation she had, how people were afraid of her; and see her nowquite alone."
"I'll see her in the morning quite alone, my dear," says Barnes,
waving a little gloved hand. "By-by! " and his brougham drove away.
While Ethel Newcome had been under her brother's roof, where I and
friend Clive, 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 grandmother,
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-a-tete, 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 Bundelcund Banking Company 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.




THE NE WICOMES.                      527
-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 Drummington on
Saturday. This is Tuesday. Barkins, you will keep the front drawingroom shutters shut, and remember we are not in town, unless Lady
Glenlivat or Lord Fariritosh 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 ladyship'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 awhile 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 capitalists, and in Cornhill behold he meets his
uncle, Colonel Newcome, riding towards the India House, a groom
behind him.
The Colonel springs off his horse, and Barnes greets him in the
blandest manner. " 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




E5.                 S0YTHE NEWCOIIMES.
wishes you know are enlisted in your son's behalf;" cries Barnes,.
gallantly. " Droll place to talk sentiment in-Cornhill, isn't it? But
Ethel, as I 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 travelling
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."
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 
IHow 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 hap pened 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 untrue
to mislead me? The fellow actually went away simpering, and kissing
his hand to me, 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 his own flesh and blood; a young
Judas!" Very sad and bewildered, the Colonel rode towards Rich.
mond, where he was to happen to call on Mrs. Pendennis.




THE NE WCOVMES.                      529
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 servants 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 Honeymoon
Cottage, Richmond, the temporary residence of A. Pendennis, 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 daresay 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, marquishunting 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 record 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 Florac's-I found out all about
Madame de Florac, 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 gaiety 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 tH/e-a-tete with my uncle,
Mr. Pendennis?" cries the young lady to the master of the house, who,
happens to enter. " Of all the men in the world the one I 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 marryagain, 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 m@
34




530                 THE ArE ICOMES.
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 having her own private opinion)-Lady Clara
and my wife-the latter for once gracious to Lady Clara Newcome, in
consideration of the infantine company with which she came to visit
Mrs. Pendennis.
Luncheon was served presently. The carriage of the Newcomes
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 fortune 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 mopinion, 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 gooa
humour, would therefore give him no disagreeable refusal.
Now this gentleman could no more pardon a lie than he 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-lack would have it, that very same evening, at his return to
town, Thomas Newcome 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.




THE iEWCOMVES.                        53''Barnes was writing at a table, and sealing and closing a letter, as he
saw the Colonel enter; he thought he had been a little inattentive
and curt with his uncle in the morning; had remarked, perhaps, the
expression of disapproval on the Colonel's countenance.  He sim-:pered 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 you, and I do hope and trust we shall have a favourable answer
lin a day or two."
"You said her ladyship was in the North, I think?" said the
-Colonel, drily.
" 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'emr in a postscript," said Barnes.
"Confounded liar!" cried the Colonel, mentioning the circumstance 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 correspondence,.and could but peep into that particular letter to his grandmother, I
daresay 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 maintained that her ladyship was still in
the North, enjoying the genial hospitality of Lord Wallsend. That of
coirse 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.
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 waiting? 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.
Hie 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;




532                   THE NEWCOMES.
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?




THE NE WCOMES.                         533
CHAPTER LIII.
IN WHICH KINSMEN FALL OUT.
NiOT the least difficult part of Thomas Newcome's present business
-was to keep from his son all knowledge of the negotiation` 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'dismalhistories of their' own at some time of their
lives, and I conclude 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
iconditidn.
"'A few chapters back and we described the first attack, and Clive's
manful cure: then we had to' indicate the young gentleman's' relapse,
and the noisy exclamations of the'youth under this second doutbredak
of fever.' Calling' him back after she had dis'missed him, and finding
pretext after pretext to' see'him,-why'did'the girl encbiurage' him,
as she certainly did? I'allow; with Mrs. Grundy: and" most moralists,
that, Miss Newcome's conduct in'this matter was highly'reprehensible;,that if she did not intend to marry Clive she should have broken with
him altogether-; that'a virtuous' young woman'of'high' principle, &c.
Z&c.,-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-.Zare' these not to be taken in:account, and to plead as excuses for her behaviour to her-cousin?:The
least unworthy part of her conduct,  some critics -will- say, was: that
desire to see Clive and -be well with him:' as she felt the, greatest:reg~ard for him, the showing it was'not blameable; and-'every flutter
w.vhich she made to escape out of the me'shes 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.
Ina 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 opinions? how their




534                  THE NE WCOMES.
parents locked them up, kept them on bread-and-water, whipped and
tortured them, in order to enforce obedience!-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 amollg.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 personsmost 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 banishment; practise arts-to-please upon him, and
ignore them when rebuked for her coquetry-these are surely occur —
rences so common in young women's history as to call for no special~
censure; and if on these charges Miss Newcome is guilty, is she, of'
all her sex, 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 Newcome.
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 Newcome's noble offer; that though she owned
she had very different views for her granddaughter, Miss Newcome'schoice of course lay with herself. Meanwhile, I.ady 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 ladyship, and
carefully examined the contents of the packet before Eth-lA 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 pursues
"They consider themselves," says he, "above us, forsooth, in thei.



THEE NEWC'OMES.                        535
rank of life (Oh, mercy! what pigmies 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 honourable a man to wish to conduct the affair in any other way. He might
try the influence of his beaux yeux, and run off to Gretna with a girl
who had nothing; but the young lady being wealthy, and his relation, sir, we must be on the point of honour; 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 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 carryng 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 surprised 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 daresay, 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 Newconie's family was absent from London during the
winter. His mother, and his brothers and sisters, his wife and his
two children, were gone to Newcome for Christmas. 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 comedies. " 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 pleasant
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 respecting 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 between him and his uncle had been very brief and cold, since




536                 THE NE WCO M'ES.
the telling of those litle 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 reason 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. 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 distrust 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 Crackthorpe,
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 Knightsbridge" (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 recognition one day as Clive and I were walking
together in Pall Mall. If my lord wanted a quarrel, young Clive was
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




THE,NE WCO MzES.                     537
Belgravian does not perhaps acquire in all the days of her life. Poverty
and necessity force this precociousness on the poor little brat..There
are children who are accomnplished shop-lifters and liars almost as soon
as they can toddle and speak. I daresay 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, considering the amount of flattery some people are crammed.with from
their cradles, they do not grow worse and more selfish than they are.
Our poor little pauper just mentioned is dosed with Daffy's Elixir, and
somehow survives the drug.. Princekin 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 honour. 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 Princeki.n 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; at college he had the tutor
simpering and bowing as he swaggered over the grass-plat; old men
at clubs would make way for him and fawn on him-not your mere




538                  THE NE W COMES.
pique-assiettes and penniless parasites, but most respectable toad —
eaters, fathers of honest families, gentlemen themselves of goodt
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 this 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 fellows 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 handsome 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 fling his
handkerchief to the possessor of these, and place her by his side upon
the Farintosh throne.
At this time there were but two or three young ladies in society
endowed with the necessary qualifications, or who found favour 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
worked by them, and cigar-cases embroidered with his coronet. They
sang to him in cosy boudoirs-mamnla 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 hymns, sweetly looking at him the while mamma whispered




THE NVE WCOM'ES.                         5391
confidentially to him, " What an angel Cecilia is!"  And so forth, andc
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 Marchioness 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 Newcome and his son. Not a word on the subject had:Sir Barnes
mentioned to the Colonel: perhaps not choosing 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 Gazelle a.
paragraph which announced an approaching MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE,
"between a noble young marquis and an accomplished 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, noruntil 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, IO Fev.
"CSo behold you of return, my friend! you quit for ever the sword and
those arid plains where you have passed so many years of your life, separated
from those to whom, at the commencement, you held very nearly. Did it not
seem once as if two hands never could unlock, so closely were they enlaced
together? Ah, mine are old and feeble now; forty years have passed sincethe 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.  Tenez, I do not believe them when they say
there is no meeting for us afterwards, there above. To what, good to haveseen 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 a'l old woman as I am.
M. de Florac 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?'




540                    THE NE WCO.MES.
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! i 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 spiritual, 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' a;J-euse 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, —I 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. It is man, who makes himself so much of this evil and misery,'this slavery, these tears, these crimes, perhaps.
"This marriage of the young Scotch Marquis and the fair 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,' COMTESSE 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 Bryanston.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 practising, and using the globes, and
laying in a store of'ologies, ever since, what a deal they must know!




THE NE WCOMES.                       54 
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 virtuous 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 imo0arlance t izpnart to  himi 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 eminent professors; " that wretched
Frenchwoman, whom you may remember here, Mademoiselle Lenoir,"
Maria remarked parenthetically,' "turned:out Oh' frightfully! She
taught the girls 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
fiendish 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 I have always loved as a son,.
and who avoids me?. Why does not Clive know his cousins? They
are very'different from others of his'kinswomen, 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 twentyfifth 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 Farintosh 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 have heard that some one else was a little O5ris
in that quarter. How does Clive bear the news, my dear Colonel?"




542                  THE 2VE WECOMES.
"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. "1 We don't
change; we remember old times, to us he will ever be welcome! " And
with this confirmation of Madame de Florac's news, Thomas New-,come 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 circumstances 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 Florac's
garden.
Clive's father did not tell his son of his own bootless negotiation
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
Florac'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 Florac last night at her daughter's reception, and she
gave me my dear uncle's messages. Yes, the news is true which you have heard
from Madame de Florac, and in Bryanston 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 London; Barnes
had lied in saying that he delivered the message with which his




THE N~E WCO.MES.                     543
*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. With Ethel's letter in his pocket, he took his way into the
City, penetrated into the unsuspecting back-parlour of Hobson's bank,
and was disappointed 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:-wsaid he was going out to Samuels the diamond
merchant's: going to make his sister some uncommon fine 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 daresay."
While Hobson Newcome made these satiric and facetious remarks,
his half-brother paced up and down the glass parlour, scowling over
the panes into the bank where the busy young clerks sat before their
ledgeris. 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 parlour.
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.




5944                THE NVE WVCOMES.
"Allow me to say, in your presence, that I don't believe one single
word Sir Barnes Newcome says, when he tells me that he is very sorry
for some intelligence he has to communicate. - 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 your tongue, sir;
you shall speak afterwards and tell more lies when I have done-I
made up my mind, I say, that on the very first occasion I would tell
Sir 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 Mwhom 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 Newcome, 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, Barnes 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 statement 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 honour 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 mustachios, 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 prudently 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 qutrarrel. That conviction will make us imagine Barnes still more
comfortable. Hobson Newcome no doubt was rejoiced at Barnes's




THE NE WCOMVES.                          545
discomfiture; he had been insolent and domineering beyond measure
of late to his vulgar good-natured uncle, whereas after the above
interview with the Colonel, he became very humble and quiet in his
demeanour, and for a long, long time never said a rude word. Nay,
I fear, Hobson must have carried an account of the transaction to
IMrs. Hobson and the circle in Bryanston 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:"Colonel Newcome, C. B., private.      Belgrave St. Feb. I5, 18-.
"SIR,-The incredible insolence and violence of your behaviour to-day
(inspired by whatever causes or mistakes of your own,) cannot be'passed
without some comment on my part.  I laid before a firiend 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 unhappily subsisting between us, I can take
no notice of insults for which you knew when you uttered them I could not
call you to account."
" There is some truth in that," said the Colonel. "He couldn't
fight, you know; but then he was such a liar I could not help speaking
my mind."
"I gathered from the brutal language which you thought fit 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 I at once plead guilty. The venerable 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
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 honour as a gentleman, that I gave her the message
35




546                    THE N.4EWCOHMES.
which I promised to deliver from you, and also that T transmitted a letter with.
whicil 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.
guagc 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 convenience; 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. Pendennis
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 grey mustachio. " If you
were to say so and so, and say that I had brought false charges against
you, I should cry mzea crulpa and apologize with all my heart. But as
I have a perfect conviction 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 General 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 Nwas wrong. "The little beggar 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."
" Whl-lat 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 nare's, by 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. cewcome." " 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:" GComre Strert, /altover Square, February 16.
SIR, —Colonel Newcome this morning showed me a letter bearing your
signature, in which you state-t. IThat Colcnel Newcome has uttered calum



THE NE W[1COMES.                         547
nious 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 Newcome has been
guilty of ungentlemanlike conduct, and of cowardice towards you.
" As there can be no reason why woe 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 gentleman of his tried honour and courage, is another wilful and
cowardly falsehood on your part.
" And I hape 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 Newcame, Bart., H.P., &'c."
"What a blunderhead I am!" cries the Colonel, with delight 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 showed 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 straightway.  I recollect he appeared uncommonly brisk at
breakfast the next morning. And so you say, General, the Baronet
did not like the poizel?"
"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 fellow 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,
wi7hen 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
ze.t eyes on him."
W'ell, Newcomle, Sir George resumed, as his mettled cha'rger




548                  THE VE WCOMVES.
suddenly jumped and curvetted, displaying the padded warrior's cavalryseat 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 ColonelY
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 Colonel came in.
It was in the dark February days: we had lighted gas in the studio.
Clive had made a sketch from some favourite 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!"
Fronl 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 mustachio.
" And —ahd 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 awhat an-old-trump you are! " My eyes were so dim I could hardly
see the two men as they embraced.




.2'7tE NE WCOMES.                    549
CHAPTER LIV.
HAS A TRAGICAL ENDING.
rLIVE 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
Nexwcome's shameful and ungentlemanlike conduct applied equally, as
Mr. Clive Newcome very well knew, to himself; that if further insult
was offered, or outrage attempted, Sir Barnes should resort to the
police for protection; that he was about to quit London, and certainly
should not delay his departure on account of Mr. Clive Newcome's
monstrous proceedings; and that he desired to take leave of an odious
subject, as of an individual whom he had striven to treat with kindness, but from whom, from youth upwards, Sir Barnes Newcome had
received nothing but insolence, enmity, and ill-will."
" He is an ill man to offend," remarked Mr. Pendennis. " I don't
-think he has ever forgiven that claret, Clive."
"Pooh! the feud dates from long before that," said Clive; " 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 mny 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. Warrington.
"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




550                  2HE.EW'CO.M ES.
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 busi —
ness with a natural propensity to darkness and evil-as a bug crawls,
and stings, and stinks. I don't suppose the fellow feels any more
remorse than a cat that runs away with a mutton-chop. I recognise
the Evil Spirit, sir, and do honour 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 recognise
the beast? married for rank-could you expect otherwise from him?
invites my Lord Highgate to his house in consideration of his balance
at the bank.-Sir, unless somebody's heel shall crunch him on the way,
there is no height to which this aspiring vermin mayn't crawl. I look
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 honoured 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."
" How should you, O you 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
Newcome IndJependent is my esteemed client. I write leading articles
for his newspaper, and when he was in town last spring he favoured
me with the anecdote; and proposed 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 own part nothing but goodwill towards his brother. " Between
ourselves the young baronet carries matters with rather a high hand




TITE NEWCOMi.ES.                      55'
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 mustachios: " 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 brolght. mne a cheque for my private account,
which of course, he said, could not remain after my quarrel with Barnes.
But the Indian 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 kindness 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 splendour and hospitality 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 diamonds of their own
right. At Lady Arin'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 Viscournt 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




552                  TIHE ATE WCOIES.
and let him off his thrashings.  Poor Mumford! he dismally 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 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 Newcome, 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 honours 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 her crutch, but without a sign of recognition.
"What an awful countenance that old woman has! " 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, it is not good that we should be our husbands' superiors,"
adds Mrs. Laura, with a curtsey.




THE NE WCOIIES.                      55
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, smirking, 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, " H'm,
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 gentleman
bending over her, just in such an attitude as the bride is in Hogarth's
"Marriage i 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 Bryanston
Square, gave also signs of rejoicing at their niece's marriage. They
had a grand banquet followed by a tea, to which latter amusement the
present biographer was invited. Lady Ann, and Lady Kew and her
granddaughter, 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 i" And the amiable youth went off to commune
with others of his parents' guests.
Thus the Newcomes entertained the Farintoshes, and the Farintoshes entertained the Newcomes. And the Dowager Countess of
Kew went from assembly to assembly every evening, and to jewellers
and upholsterers, and dressmakers every morning; and Lord Farintosh
seemed to grow more and more attentive as the happy day approached,




554                  THE  ArE WCOMES.
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; and Smee, R.A., painted her portrait, as a souvenir for mamma when Miss Newcome should be Miss
Newcome no more; and Lady Kew made a will, leaving all she could
leave to her beloved granddaughter, Ethel, daughter of the late Sir
Brian Newcome, 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 parties 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 Marqu'is
of Stevne. 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
say, throughout Europe for her remarkable sense, extraordinary memory,
and brilliant wit.'"




THIE NE WCOIME.            5; 55
CHAPTER LY1
BARNES'S SKELETON CLOSET.
TTHE  demise of Lady Kew of course put a stop for a while to the
matrimonial projects so interesting to the house of Newcome.
Hymen blew his torch out, put it into the cupboard for use on a future
day, and exchanged his garish saffron-coloured' robe for decent temporary mourning. Charles Honeyman improved the occasion at Lady
Whittlesea'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 gentlemen, and pronounce an
elegy over that bedizened box of corruption? 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 blooming 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 honour; 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 century of allotted time, and then be called
away from the giddy notes of, a May Fair fiddle! To have to yicld




556                  THE NEWCO.IMES..your roses too, and then drop out of the bony clutch of your old fingers
a wreath that came from a Parisian band-box! i One fancies around
some graves unseen troops of mourners waiting; many and- many a
poor pensioner trooping to the place; many weeping charities; many
kind actions; many dear friends beloved and deplored, rising up at
the toll of that bell to follow the honoured hearse; dead parents waiting above, and calling, "Come, daughter!" lost children, heaven's
foundlings, hovering 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 different 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
emotion, 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 deceased 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 ceme-tery, the Marquis of Farintosh hastily orders that thing to be taken,off his hat, and returns to town in his brougham, smoking a cigar.
Sir Barnes Newcome rides in the brougham beside Lord Farintosh, as,far 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'MIr. Rood-that other little gentleman in black, who shared the third




THE'IE WCOMES.                      557'
mourning coach along with her ladyship's medtical 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 daresay the deep mourning
habiliments in which the domestics of that establishment appeared
were purchased 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 recompence of five hundred 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 fewmonths, Sir Barnes treated her with a very different regard to that
which he was accustomed 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 defer-,
entially 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 charming 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 Farintosh'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 character andcdisposition of her future mother and sisters-in-law was the subject of
their talk, I could see, from the grave look 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 Newcome'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,.
improved 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




558                  THE  NEW'CO'EJS.
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 before. " I am sure," says clearsighted Mrs. Laura, " she is come out of bravado, and after we went
away yesterday that there were awords 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. Pendennis,
with a smile first, and a sigh afterwards, as she said " poor Clive!"
"Do you ever talk about Clive?" 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 (Clive 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? Laura his wife
certainly understood him, though  upon my conscience the sentence
went no further-for ghe 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 character, that if she has once
determined to conquer any inclination of that sort I am sure she will
master it, and make Lord Farintosh a very good wife."
"Since the Colonel's quarrel with Sir 13arnes," cries Mr. Pendennis,
adverting by a natural transition from Ethel to l-er 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 nlothing 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 Sir 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 il the North of England, and




THE  VE Wi'COM.ES.                   559
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 introduction 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 cheque for ten
times the amount any day: people 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
neighbouring city of SLOWCOME they were putting up a statue to the
Duke or the Queen)-not of such men have I 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 Zntdeendent,
and ---   Batters, Esq., the proprietor of that journal-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 neighbours.
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 indifference make
homes unhappy; that men whom girls are brought to swear to love
and honour are sometimnes 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, defeats, remorses,
sufferings to bear, and dangers to overcome? As you and I, friend,
kneel with our children round about us, prostrate before the Father of
us all, and asking mercy for miserable 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




56o                 THE NE WCOMES.
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 knowledge 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 father's death
had subsided, he made strong attempts to conciliate the principal
persons in the neighbourhood, and to render himself popular in the
borough. He gave handsome entertainments to the townsfolk and to
the county gentry; he tried even to bring those two warring classes
together. He endeavoured to be civil to the Ndewcovme Indetencdent,
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 Bulders
and his curates, He gave a lecture at the " Newcome Athenaeum,"
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 raising; 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 North), to the hospital, the "People's Library,"
the restoration of the rood-screen and the great painted window in
Newcome Old Church (Rev. J. Bulders), and he had to pay in fine a
most awful price for his privilege of sitting in Parliament as representative 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 Newcomites. After she came into
Barnes's hands, a dreadful weight fell upon her. She would smile and
simper, and talk kindly and gaily 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 jibe and an oath, when he lost
patience, and Clara, whimpering, would leave the room. Everybody
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's marriage
was not known in Newcome? His victim had been a Newcome girl1




THE NE WCO.MES.                      56r
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 dashing 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 themr
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 Ne'wcome aristocracy, were not
our attention especially directed to one respectable family.
All Barnes's endeavours at popularity were vain, partly from his
own fault, and partly from the nature of mankind, and of the Newcome
folks especially, whom no single person could possibly conciliate.
Thus, suppose he gave the advertisements to the Indej5endent, the old
Blue paper the Sentinde was very angry: suppose he asked Mr. Hunch,
the Dissenting minister, to bless the tablecloth 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 humbug! 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, countless compliments, and months of grinning good-humour.
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
infernal 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 Newcome was not popular among
them; and while he had enemies on all sides, had sturdy friends not
36




562                 THIE NE WCO.Il ES.
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
Newcome society, and the ladies even more than the men, were uneasy
under his ominous familiarity, and recovered their good-humour 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, nmen 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 persons.
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 quarrels and tears, the company from London, and
all the doings of the folks at Newcome Park were thus known to the
neighbourhood 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 secresy, Mrs. Vidler told to
one or two friends. Sir Barnes and Lady Clara were seen shopping
together very graciously 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 lo'ne," 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




THE NEWCOMES.                          563
have been no deceit in your fond simple little heart could it but have
been given into other keeping. 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 as his neglect; consigned
to cruel usage; to weary loneliness; to bitter, bitter recollections of
the past; suppose her schooled into hypocrisy by tyranny —and then,
quick, let us hire an advocate 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 damages;
and as for the woman-the guilty wretch! —let us lead her out and
stone her.




564                  TIE  NL'E  COMJES.
CHAPTER LVI.
ROSA QUO LOCORUM SERA MORATUR.
CLIVE  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 overpowering chances of the bank. His
last piece, however, gone, our friend rises up from that unlucky table
-beaten at the contest but not broken in spirit. He goes back into
the world again and withdraws from that dangerous excitement; sometimes 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 magnanimous 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, Thomasbelieved no good of him. Every thought or action of his enemy's lifeseemed treason to the worthy Colonel. If Barnes gave a dinner-party,
his uncle was ready to fancy that the banker wanted to poison somebody; if 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
hands-they were all deceitful, sordid, heartless, worldly;-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 hismisfortune: and now Thomas Newcome had the chance of making
that tour with his son which in early days had been such a favourite
iroject with the good man. They travelled Rhineland and Switzerlandi together-they crossed into Italy —went from Milan to Venice



THE NI EWCO FES.                     565
(where Clive saluted the greatest painting in the world-rthe glorious'" Assumption " of Titian)-they went to Trieste, and over the beautiful
Styrian Alps 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 anrother. They were a pattern:pair of English travellers. I daresay 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 gentle-,men have taken the same journey, and with sorrow perhaps as their
silent fellow-traveller. How you remember the places afterwards, 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 dreary pages they would be! In two
or three months our friends saw a number of'men, cities, mountains,
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 established 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 Binnie 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. Was it to Rosey, was it to her mother, the Captain was
most attached? Rosey received him as a godpapa; Mrs. Mackenzie.as a wicked, odious, good-for-nothing, dangerous, delightful 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 insolent 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 Baden, Cheltenham and
Leamington, Paris and Brussels, in company, belonged to the same
club in London-the centre of 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




566                 THE NE WCOMES.
theme of their constant conversation. Goby fifty years old, unattached,
and with dyed mustachios, 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 history 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 wasknown to be most honourable; though more than' middle-aged, he
was cheerful, busy, and kindly; and though the youngsters called him
Old Goby, he bore his years very gaily and handsomely, and I daresay
numbers of ladies besides Mrs. Mackenzie thought him delightful.
Goby's talk and rattle perhaps somewhat 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 occupied
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 minor interest; but on the other hand Clivebeheld these with the greatest pleasure, and painted more than one
dashing piece, 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 portrayed.
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,
Clive's atelier. Many an hour did we pass, and many a ride and walk
did we take together. I observed that Clive never mentioned Miss.
Newcome's name, and Laura and I agreed that it was as well not torecall it. Only once, when we read the death of Lady Glenlivat, Lorcd
Farintosh's mother, in the newspaper, I remember to have said, " I
suppose that marriage will be put off again."
" Qu'est-ce que cela me fait?" says Mr. Clive gloomily, over his;
picture-a cheerful piece representing Count Egmont going to execution; in which I have the honour to figure as a halberdier, Captain
Hoby as the Count-and Captain Goby as the Duke of Alva, looking
out of window.




THE NAE WCOMES.                      567
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 eveningparties, and had the joy of being invited 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 entertainments. M. Newcome fils, as I should judge, was not
the worst-looking man in the room; and, as these young people waltzed
together (in which accomplishment Clive was very much more skilful
than Captain Hoby), I daresay 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 perseveringly behind her daughter's
pretty back: about Rosey's angelic temper; about the compliments
Signor Polonini paid her; about Sir Horace Dash, our Minister,
insisting upon her singing " Batti Batti " over again, and the Archduke
clapping his hands and saying, "Oh, yes!" about Count Vanderslaapen's attentions to her, &c. &c.; but for these constant remarks
of Mrs. Mack's, I am sure no one would have been better pleased with
Miss Rosey's singing and behaviour 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
behaviour 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 hers. 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,
those two old boys, absolutely came into Mrs. Mackenzie's drawingroom with a bouquet apiece for Miss Rosey; and there was a fine
laughing.
" 0 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




568                 2'HE NrE  WCOMES.
them: but when she did, I promise you she looked uncommonly pretty
as she advanced to Colonel Newcome and put that pretty fresh cheek
of hers up to his grizzled mustachio.
"I protest I don't know which of you blushes the most," chuckles
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.
"Scalps!" cries Mrs. Mackenzie,
"Scalps! 0 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; and who used to lie
about the barracks so drunk, and who used to beat his poor little
European wife; and presently Mr. Clive Newcome 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
mustachio, 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, dinner!" 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 under 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 lugubrious
youth.




THE NE WCOMES.                       569
"I think it was a great pity they came to Brussels," says Laura, as
wve 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 handsomely
lodged. They have a good maltre-d'hotel. Their dinners, I am sure,
are excellent; and your child, madam, is as healthy as it possibly
can be."
"Blessed darling l 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.) "I can't help thinking, Arthur, that
Rosey would have been much happier as Mrs. Hoby than she will be
*as Mrs. Newcome."
" Who thinks of her being Mrs. Newcome?"
"Her mother, her uncle, and Clive's father. Since the Colonel'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 faction. He
is very good-natured, frank, honest, and gentlemanlike, Mr. Hoby.
But Uncle 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 Pau, I feel certain Miss Rosey thought Captain Hoby
-very pleasant indeed. She thinks she was attached to Clive formerly,
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 mishap overclouded them!
What a pleasant laugh he has! What a well-built, agile figure it iswhat pluck, and spirit, and honour there is about my young chap! I
don't say he is a genius of the highest order, but he is the staunchest,
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!"




570                 THE  VNE TCOMES.
"I like to hear you speak so," cries Mrs. Laura, very tenderly,
"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," says she, coming back and
snuggling by her husband's side again-" But suppose your favourite
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 daresay he would 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."
"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 conversation becomes impossible; and morning sees us under the grey
London sky, and amid the million of masts in the Thames.




THIE.VE WCO.MES.
CHAPTER LVII.
ROSEBURY AND NEWCOME.
HE friends to whom we were engaged in England were Florac
and his wife, Madame la Princesse de Montcontour, who weredetermined to spend the Christmas holidays at the Princess's countryseat. 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
atmosphere of that place, in a sweet country of rural woodlands; overt
which quiet villages, grey church spires, and ancient gabled farmhouses 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 in that district; 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 New Town Station the road hasbecome 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 Florac 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 hervillage, have had pretty gardens, and won prizes at the Newcome'




54;72              STHE NEW VCO1MES.
flower 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 Florac 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 Florac did well in not trying 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). Madame de Florac
-did well, she said, not to endeavour 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 fellow-student at Saint
Boniface College, Oxbridge, - a rattling, forward, and it must be
*owned, vulgar youth,-asked me whether Florac was not a billiardmarker by 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 Florac was a gentleman 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 Florac family had made for long 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 donkey-man,
with whom they were in the habit of dealing. The ladies were in their
pokiest old head-gear 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




THE NE  COI0ES.                     573
bed-room, and brought out those dresses which they wore at the
dejeriner 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 downstairs, 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 windows, with the three mackerel,
and crying, "Make it sixpence, miss-don't say fippens, ma'am, to a
pore fellow that has a wife and family." So that the young ladies had
to cry —" Impudence!" "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 Florac's
lodge. They went in. They stayed for half-an-hour; the horses
driving round and round the gravel road before 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 Florac, going into the
conservatories, issuing thence with MacWhirter, the gardener, bearing
huge bunches of grapes and large fasces of flowers.; they saw Barnes
talking in the most respectful manner to Madame de Florac; and
when they went downstairs 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
le Florac; 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 Florac
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
Newcome Sentinel and the Newcome 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




5734                THE NE WCOMVES..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 bed-rooms-the Princess's apartment-the Prince's apartmentthe 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 Mrs. Pendennis were
likely to be in very good quarters for their Christmas of I84-.
Tom Potter was so kind as to call on me two days after our 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 organloft 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? " says his Highness. " Ah,
pardon! I forgot, you do not play the billiard the Sunday!"  "Any
other day, Prince, I shall be delighted," says Tom; and squeezed his
Highness's hand tenderly at parting. "Your comrade of college was
he?" asks Florac.  "My dear, what men are these comrades of
college! What men are you English! My word of honour, 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 R6verend
eyed us during the sermon? He regarded us over his book, my word
of honour! "
Madame de Florac 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 Reverend?"
whispered his Highness to me. " I have made eyes at her during the
sermon. They will be of pretty neighbours 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 compliments innumerable, and gave me, I am.sure,
sincere congratulations 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 Florac




THE NE WCOMES.                       575
at this time of his prosperity. We arrived, as this veracious chronicle
has already asserted, on a Saturday evening. We were conducted to
our most comfortable apartments; with crackling fires blazing on the
hearths, and every warmth of welcome. Florac 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 maitred'h6tel, " Frdderic, remember Monsieur is master here! Run before;his 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 ladyfor her angelic infant, and the bonne. None of thy garrison tricks
with that young person, Fr6deric, vieux scdlerat! Garde-toi de la,
Frederic: si non, je t'envoie k Botani Bay; je te traduis devant le Lord
Maire!"
"En Angleterre je me fais Anglais, vois tu, mon ami," continued
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'ouse! 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 embracive, 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 bed-chamber 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 beheld 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 Florac
appeared as a most wonderful Briton indeed! He wore top-boots and
buckskins; and after breakfast, when he went to church, a white greatcoat 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 private 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 steppere




576                 THE NE WCO.ES.
-rode across contri like a good one-was splendid in the huntingfield in his velvet cap and Napoleon boots, and made the Hunt welcome,
at Rosebury, where his good-natured little wife was as kind to the
gentlemen in scarlet as she used to be of old to the stout Dissenting
gentlemen in black, who sang hymns and spake sermons on her lawn.
These folks, scared at the change which had taken place in the littlePrincess'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 benefactions were unceasing,.
and Paul's affability the theme of all praise. The Newcome Itde-.Pendent and the Nllewcome Sentinel both paid him compliments; the
former journal contrasting his behaviour with that of Sir Barnes, their
Member. Florac's pleasure was to drive his Princess with four horses
into Newcome. He called his carriage his " trappe," his " drague."
The street-boys cheered and hurrahed the Prince as he passed through
the town. One haberdasher had a yellew 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 neighbouring house of Newcome, whither my wife accompanied Madame de Montcontour 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 thelodge-gates closed after us. Would we be lords of such a place underthe penalty of living in it? We agreed that the little angle of earth
called Fairoaks was dearer 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 passthrough Gothic dining-rooms, where there was now 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 theconmany of the nurses and children. The blank gloom of the place
had failen 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 weighed upon the woman.
We talked about Ethel's marriage.'She said. it was fixed for the new



THE NEEWCOMVES.                      577
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 grey park, mists lying about the melancholy ornamental waters,
dingy herds of huddled sheep speckling 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 Florac, playing his whip, as the lodgegates 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 Florac 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 Florac 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 beholding
us; he rather retreated from before the Frenchman's advances.
"My dear Jack, my good, my brave'Ighgate! I am delighted
to see you! " Florac continues, regardless of the stranger'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 Florac?" growls the new-comer,
surlily; and was for moving on after this brief salutation; but having
a second thought seemingly, turned back and followed Florac into the
apartment whither our host conducted us. A laz bonne heure! Florac
renewed his cordial greetings to Lord Highgate. " I knew not, mon
bon, what fly had stung you," says he to 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 and friend, the lustre of his reception partially
illuminated me. When the chief was not by, I was treated with
great attention (mingled with a certain degree of familiarity) by my
landlord.
Lord Highgate waited until Mr. Taplow was out of the room; and
37




578                  THE NE WVCOMlELS.
then said to Florac, " Don't call me by my name here, please, Florac,
I am here incog."
"Plait-il," asks Florac, "where is incog.?"  He laughed when
the word was interpreted to him. Lord Highgate had turned to me.
" There was no rudeness, you understand, intended, 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 always 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 honour, 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 landlord asks you, I'm Mr. Harris
-I'm a civil engineer-I'm waiting 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. Pendennis 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? " asks Mr. Pendennis-a query of which the force was so
great as to discomfit and silence our landlord, who retreated to ask
questions concerning Mr. Harris of Florac's grooms.
What was Highgate's business here? Was it mine to know? I
might have suspicions, but should I entertain them, or communicate
them, and had I not best keep them to myself? I exchanged not a
word on the subject of Highgate with Florac, 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 Duchesse d'Ivry as we trotted on; and
then of English manners by way of contrast, of intrigues, elopenlents,




THE NVE ICOMES.                      579
Gretna Grin; &c. &c. "You are a droll nation!" says Florac. "To
make love well, you must absolutely have a chaise-de-poste, and a
scandal afterwards. If our affairs of this kind made themselves on the
grand route, what armies of postilions we should need!"
I held my peace. In that vision of Jack Belsize I saw misery,
guilt, children dishonoured, 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
dire, and had taken leave of our kind entertainers. Then, under her
cross-examination, I own that I told what I had seen-Lord Highgate,
tunder a feigned name, staying at Newcome. It might be nothing.
" Nothing! Gracious heavens! Could not this crime and misery be
stopped?" " It might be too late," Laura's husband said sadly, bending down his head into the fire.
She was silent too for awhile.. I could see she was engaged where
pious women ever will betake themselves in moments 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 of rest.
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 sublime 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. Florac and I did not




5,v                ATHE NE WCOMYES.
talk of it.' We rode out to meet the hounds of a cheery wintermorning: on another day I might have been amused with my hostthe-splendour 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 afterwe 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 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 conservatory,
into which her sitting-room opens.
"'And that a bad spirit came and tore them from you; and droveyou 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
Pmy 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




THE NE WCOMES.                       5,t.ame 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'tehis 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 know he will."
"I think he would, my dearest," I said, "if he but heard the
petitioner." Laura's cheeks were blushing, her eyes brightened, 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 husband 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. BIut' you can write your book, and
still hunt and shoot with our friends here. And Lady Ann Newcome
i-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 housekeeper's room. This Sir Barnes Newcome is a dreadful
creature, Arthur.  I am so glad I loathed him from the very first
mnoment 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
mIle? Oh, who will pack my portmanteau?"




582                    THE NVE fTCOMES.
Florac and the Princess Nere both in desolation when, at dinner;
we announced our resolution to go away-and to our neighbour's at
Newcome? that was more 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 mnany 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 I cannot bear this zmuch longer. But, whatever happens, I shall always remember your goodness, your beautiful goodness
and kindness; and shall worship you as an angel deserves to be worshipped.
Oh, why had I not such a friend earlier! But 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 surprised 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.
"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 Florac that the Newcomes could 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.  "My wife would die without
Bebi," he said. " She becomes quite dangerous about Bebi."  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 Barnes 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 certainly 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 soldc
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 privatei.




THE  ArE WCOMES.                     5 3
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. " I, Barnes, promise to take you, Clara, to love and honour
till death do us part." " I, Clara, promise to take you, Barnes," &c. &c.
Who has not heard the ancient words; and how many of us have
uttered them, knowing them to be untrue: and is there a bishop on
the bench that has not amen'd the humbug in his lawn sleeves and
called a blessing over the kneeling pair of perjurers?
"Does Mr. Harris know of Newcome's return?" Florac asked,
when I acquainted him with this intelligence. " Ce sc&l&rat de Highgate-Va!"
"Does Newcome know that Lord Highgate is here?" I thought
within myself, admiring my wife's faithfulness and simplicity, and trying
to believe with that pure and guileless creature that it was not yet too
late to save the unhappy Lady Clara.
"Mr. Harris had best be warned," I said to Florac; "will you
write him a word, and let us send a messenger to Newcome? "
At first Florac 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 before at Baden, when
scenes enough tragic, enough comical, mafoi, had taken place dproj5os
of thid affair. Why should he meddle with it now?
"Children dishonoured," said I, "honest families made miserable;
for heaven's sake, Florac, 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 innocent 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 Florac 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 Florac,
puffing his cigar. " One sees well that your wife had made you the
sermon. My poor Pendennis! You are henpecked, my pauvre bon!




584                 THE NE VYCOiMES.
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 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 Rosebury, 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 necessary 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
servant 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 Florac, turning round
to me with a laugh. " Make Jenkins to wait five minutes, Robert; I
have to write to a gentleman at the' King's Arms."' And -so saying,
Florac 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. Florac
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 Florac 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 Indeh5endent, Vidler
the apothecary, and other gentlemen, were members.
When we first had occasion to mention that society, it was at an
early stage of this history, long before Clive Newcome's fine mustachio
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 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




THE NEW [ICOMES.                     585
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 making
nmerry, 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. Confound 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;
"4 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 I 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. Potts'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 most harbitrary gent. He had almost choked John after reading the
letter, and John wouldn't stand it; and when John said he supposed
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 pockethandkerchiefs with H. and a coronet."
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.




586                 TFIE NE WCOMI0ES.
W\e 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 recognise him. He then told us of the mishap
which had befallen Florac's letter on the previous night.
"I can't go away now, whatever might have happened previously;
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.
"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; when did they ever 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 Chanticlere, 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 down, 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 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 honour
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




THE NE ICOJlES.                      587
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."
" I est vrai," said Florac, with a shrug, " I comprehend neither the
suicide nor the chaise-de-poste. What will you? I am not yet enough
English, my friend.  We make marriages of convenance in our
country, que diable, and what follows follows; but no scandal afterwards. Do not adopt our institutions a. demi, my friend. Vous ne
me comprenez pas non plus, mon pauvre Jack!"
" There is one.way still, I think," said the third of the speakers
in this scene. "Let Lord Highgate come to Rosebury 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, c'est qa," cries Florac; "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 Florac. " 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 seemingly.
He shook our hands, he said he should never forget our kindness,
never! In truth' the didactic part of our conversation 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.




$88                 THE NE WCO MZES.
CHAPTER LVIII.
" ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE 
THE Fates did not ordain that the plan should succeed which
Lord Highgate's friends had devised for Lady Clara's rescue
or respite. He was bent upon 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 neighbourhood 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 her
children 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 reception of the guests; and spoke tremblingly to the housekeeper as her husband jibed at her. The little
ones had been consigned 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 panicstricken 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 Chanticlere, told Sir
Barnes, in the midst of a conjugal dispute, that her lady might bear




THE NE WCOMES.                       589
his conduct, but she could not, and that 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
hysterical 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 goodhumour; and his letters brought him news which increased Barnes's
fury. 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 servant 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
workpeople brooming away the fallen leaves, &c. So Lady Clara
was up and dressed when her husband went to her room, which lay
at the end of the house, as we have said, the last of a suite of
ancestral halls.
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 mte, Sir Barnes Newcome!" said
James, the mutineer; and knocked down a hand which the infuriated
Baronet raised against him, with an arm that was twice 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.
WVhen 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
from Newcome, where it was the talk of the whole neighbourhood.
Florac and I, as yet ignorant of all that was occurring, met Barnes
near his own lodge-gate riding in the direction of Newcome, as we
were ourselves returning to Rosebury. The Prince de Montcontour,




590                 THE NE WCOME&.
who was driving, affably saluted the Baronet, who gave us a scowling
recognition, and rode on, his groom behind him. " The figure of this
gargon," says Florac, as our acquainfance 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, Florac'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 Florac spoke, that meeting between Barnes.and Highgate actually had taken place-in the open square of New(come, 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. "I
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 pavement. 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, expostulating, 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 Barnes
Newcome 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 factory
people, the paragiraphs in the Newcome papers, the bustle of surgeons
and lawyers, after this. event. Crowds gathered 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




THE NVE WCOMES.                     59g
gathered after the seceders. On the next day, when Barnes Newcome,
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 Newcome.
Barnes's mother and sister Ethel had reached Newcome shortly
before the return of the master of the house. The people there were
in disturbance. Lady Ann and Miss Newcome 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 Newcome had left her husband's house; and a letter was forwarded to him that same evening from my Lord Highgate, informing
Sir Barnes Newcome 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 Newcome 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 necessary 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 Newcome Divorce Bill filled the usual number 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 Newcome's household was told
to the British public. In the previous trial in the Court of Queen's
Bench, how grandly Serjeant Rowland stood up for the rights of
British husbands! with what pathos he depicted the conjugal paradise,
the innocent children prattling round their happy parents, the serpent,
the destroyer, entering into that Belgravian 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 concerned and every




592                  THE NE WCOMES.
institution was knocked about. The disgrace of the peerage, the ruin.
of the monarchy (with a retrospective view of the well-known caseof " Gyges and Candaules"), the monstrosity of the crime, and the
absurdity of the tribunal and 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 afather, 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 proveneglect so outrageous, cruelty so systematic, 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 woman, 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 Rowland and Oliver the battle waged
fiercely that day. Many witnesses were mauled and slain. Out of
that combat scarce anybody 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 Highgate's fault, but of the private peccadilloes of their suborned
footmen 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 measure to Lord
Highgate for his delinquencies! consoled the injured 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 benediction 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 the 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 undiscovered, make room for her, as if her touch were



THE NE Tw TCOMVES.                   593
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, neighbours 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 cottagers round about her, but she fears to visit them lest
they too should scorn her. The clergyman who distributes her charities, 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 at Florence-?
There they can get society, but of what a sort! Our acquaintances of
Baden,-Madame' Schlangenbad, and Madame de Cruchecassde, and
Madame d'Ivry, 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. Their infernal gaiety scares
her more than the solitude at home. No wonder that her husband
does not like home, except for a short while in the hunting season. No
wonder that he is away all day; how can he like a home which she has
made so wretched? In 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 Newcomes.
If Barnes Newcome's children meet yonder solitary lady, do they
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 bankruptcy 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 parent 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 Hymenaee! The bishops, beadles, clergy, pew-openers, and
38




594                  THE NE WCOMES.
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 Babylon's time, but with never a
champion to come to the rescue I




THE NE WCOMIES.                      595
CHAPTER LIX.
IN WHICH ACHILLES LOSES BRISEIS.
LTHOUGH 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 Libyan lion. What he willed
and ordered was law amongst his clan and family. During the period
of his London and Parisian dissipations his poor mother did not.venture to remonstrate 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 gentlemen, 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 carry 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 delighted to honour, those duteous subjects trem-.bled and obeyed; in fact, he thought.that the position of a Marchioness
of Farintosh was under heaven, and before men, so splendid, that, had
he elevated a beggar-maid to that sublime rank, the inferior 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 auigust 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,




596                  THE NrE WCOMES.
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, smoking, jolly parties, and toad-eaters in general,
or might bring into the house favourites of her own. I am sure any
kind-hearted man of the world must feel for the position of these
faithful, doubtful, disconsolate vassals, and have a sympathy for their
rueful looks and demeanour as they eye the splendid preparations 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
dropping in from his bed-room 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 Cl- 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 N-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 P6rigord pie, which the faithful creature is discussing.
"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."
"It'll cut him up awfully when he reads it. Is it in the AMorning
Post? He has the Post in his bed-room. 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 have 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 familiarnay, contemptuous terms with the other two gentlemen.




THE NE WCOMES.                       597' Enough to make any man swear," says Toddy to Henchman; 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, come downstairs; and then,
most probably, would begin swearing 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 compassion 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 Newcomes', 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, because Sir
Barnes ill-treated her friend. What was the name of Coralie's friend,
Hench?"
"How should I 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 he was a friend of:mine. I never said I liked him. Out of respect for the Chief here, l;i




598                 THE N~E WCOJIES.
held my tongue about him, and shall hold my tongue. Have some of
this pat, 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 youcan count on old Frank Henchman-don't you, Malcolm?" And
again he turns away to conceal his gallant sensibility and generous
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 thefault of the Marchioness of Farintosh that her family is not equal to
mine. Besides two others in England and Scotland, 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?"
" No!" shouts the Marquis. "Why should I break 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 infernally? We have talked
this inatter 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 Newcome's daughter?"
"By Jove, you are a good-plucked fellow, Farintosh-give me yourhand, old boy," says Henchman.
" Heh! am I? You would have said, Give me your hand, old boy,
whichever way I determined, Hench! I tell you, I 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 round; and, by Jove
I won't flinch."




THE NE WCOIES.                       599
The justice of Lord Farintosh's views was 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 besought to see her son in terms so
urgent, that the young nobleman 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 honour, a longing desire to possess this young
beauty, and call her his own, or a fierce and profound dislike to being
baulked in any object of his wishes, which actuated the young lord?
Certainly he had borne very philosophically 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 affecting farewell he took leave of the associates of his vie de
_garfon: the speeches made (in both languages), the presents distributed, the tears and hysterics of some of the guests assembled: the
cigar-boxes given over to this friend, the fcrin of diamonds to that,
et caetera, et caetera, et castera. 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 account 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 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 Captain 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 success
in the interview with her son; who, unmoved by the maternal tears,
commands, and entreaties, swore he would marry Miss Newcome,
and that no power on earth should prevent him. "'As if trying to




6oo                    THE NEWCOM.ES.
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 repeated and
improved the delightful theme of our "morning contemporaries;"
after Calypso and Eucharis driving together in the Park, and reconciled now, had kissed their hands 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, and at the theatre where he took his recreation-after
an awful time at breakfast, in which Messrs. Bowman, valet, and
Todhunter and Henchman, 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 herself;
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 handwriting)" Mamma is at this moment in a state of such grief and dismay 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 grateful 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 aandfor ever, from an engagement which he
could nezer think of maintaining with a family so unfortunate as ours. I thank
him with all my heart for his goodness in bearing with my humours so long;
if I have given him pain, as I know 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
bidding 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 happened
to be a neighbour of Miss Newcome's when the family misfortune
occurred, and to whom, in her natural dismay and grief, the young
lady fled for comfort and consolation. " Dearest Mrs. Pendennis,"
wrote Miss Ethel to my wife-" I hear you are at Rosebury; do, do
come to your affectionate E. N."  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 impjortant."  Madame de Montcontour's




THE  ~ MNEWCOMES.                    6ot
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,
ILady 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 disorganization 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 neighbouring 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
Ann remained, where the thoughts of the sufferings she had already
undergone in that house, of Sir. Barnes's cruel behaviour to her at her
last visit, which he had abruptly requested her to shorten, of the
happy days which she had passed as mistress of that house and
wife of the defunct Sir Brian; the sight of that departed 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 remi-,niscences 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
Newcome 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 Newcome.came home, not much hurt in body, but woefully afflicted in temper,
and venting. his wrath upon everybody round about him in that strong
language which he employed when displeased; and under which his




602                  THE,VE IWCO.MES.
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. Indistinct
maledictions growled about Sir Barnes's chair when he beheld 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
assertions 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 Indepfendent, used to say afterwards
that the Baronet was in the direst terror of another 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 nowleft England, and presumed that the differences between them were to,
be settled by their respective lawyers-" infamous behaviour on a par
with the rest of Lord Highgate's villany," 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 Rosebury with
an extraordinary brightness and gaiety in her face and her demeanour.
She pressed Madame de Montcontour's hands with such warmth, she
blushed and looked so handsome, she sang and talked so gaily, that
our host was struck by her behaviour, and paid her husband more
compliments regarding her beauty, amiability, and other good qualities,
than need be set down here. It may be that I like Paul de Florac 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




THE NAE WCOMES.                      603
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 tlie day.
Why should Ethel's refusal of Lord Farintosh have so much elated my
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 never has 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 otherwise, and that she might mend
it. I have read (besides that poem of Goethe of which you are sofond) 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 upw
in a way not very different. What they do they scarcely know to be
wrong. They are educated for the world, and taught to displaytheir 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 beuttered, 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, isemployed 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 nursery and school-room for




604                 THE NE WCOM0fES.
the most part. She was allowed to come to her mother's dressingroom, 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
Nlewcomes used to say.  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!"
"Poor every one!  Did you ask about him, Laura?" said
Mr. Pendennis.
" No; I did not venture. She looked at me out of her downright
eyes, 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 unhappy 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 scoffing
and odious with him. Why, when he was a boy, he used to sneer at
papa openly before us younger ones. Now Harriet admires everything
that Kew says, and that makes her a great deal happier at being with
him.' And then," added Mrs. Pendennis, " Ethel said,' I hope you
respect your husband, Laura: depend on it, you will be happier if
you do.' Was not that a fine discovery of Ethel's, Mr. Pen?
"' Clara's terror of Barnes frightened me when I stayed in the
house,' Ethel went on.'I am sure I 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 marrying 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 cold 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,




THE NVE WCOMES.                      605
wolld break out into a thousand jibes and sarcasms, and point to;
many of our friends who had made love-matches, and were quarreiling
now as fiercely as though they had never loved each other. You
remember that dreadful case in France of the Duc de, who
murdered his duchess? That was a love-match, and I can remember
thesort 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-behaviour."'
"Hush, Laura!  Do you remember where we are?  If the
Princess were to put down all Florac's culpabilities in an album, what
a ledger it would be-as big as Dr. Portman's' Chrysostom! "' 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 grandmamma.t
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 for getting 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 Newcome'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 Montcontourput 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 behaviourof 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. Grandmamma'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.
"' 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




too6                 TIlE NE WCOMAIES.
-some one you know, and whom I shall always love as a brotherreproached 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 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 after 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; 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 flattery? Yes,
flattery, and servility 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 marry, 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 lef 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," Youe won't go away, will
you, Aunt Ethel?" in her sweet voice. And I will stay with her; and
iwill 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; and




THE NEW VCOMEES.                    6o7
when the next day at church the clergyman read the opening words of
the service I thought a peculiar radiance and happiness beamed from
her bright face.
Some subsequent occurrences in the history of this branch of the
Newcome family I am enabled to report from the testimony 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 fervour 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; 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,
demeanour.
Mrs. Pendennis's husband for his part did not attempt to console
Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Baronet. I never professed to have
a halfpennyworth of pity at that gentleman's command. Florac, who
owed Barnes his principality and his present comforts in life, did
make some futile efforts at condolence, but was received by the
Baronet with such fierceness and evident ill-humour, that he did not
care to repeat his visits, and allowed him to vent his curses and
peevishness on his own immediate dependants. 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 stammered 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
humour; and we could not help laughing outright sometimes 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. Warrington's articles," says Mr. Potts. "We have sold no
end of Indepfendents; 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. Penidennis?




c6-.                SETHE NE WCOMES.
Hle arrived at the'Arms' last night; went over to the Park thish
morning, and is gone back to town by the afternoon train."'What had happened between the Marquis of Farintosh and Miss
Newcome I am enabled to know from the report of Miss Newcome's
confidante. On the receipt of that letter of congi 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 Newcome 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 Newcome; nor could the lodge-keeper venture 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; and my wife divined at once who was her visitor.
tady 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 neighbouring 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
hypocritical 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 vers&.
"He is gone!" at length gasps dearest Ethel.
"Pour toujours? poor young man! " sighs dearest Laura. "Was
he very unhappy, Ethel?"
" Hevias more angry," Ethel answers. He had a right to be hurt,
but not to speak as he did. He lost his temper quite at last, and
broke out in the most frantic reproaches. He forgot all respect and
even gentlemanlike behaviour. 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
Farintosh.'
Dearest Laura now pressed for an account of all that had happened,




THE NE W'CO.ES.                     6o09
which may be briefly told as follows. Feeling very 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 engagement. But the affair —the painful circumstance
of Highgate, 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
ihave 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.
Miss Newcome was also much touched by this exhibition of natural'
feeling; and, I daresay, 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 honours 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 happened here,-of the
wretched consequences of interested marriages; 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
39




6ro                 THE NE W'COMES.
to commit that first fatal step of entering into a marriage without —
without the degree of affection which people who take that vow ought
fo 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. " 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 every one of us should be thankful to you-ought I not to
show at least gratitude for so much kindness and honour, 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 misery! 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.
"Humiliated, Ethel? Who's going to humiliate you?  I suppose
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 suppose that your pedigree, which I;know all about, and the Newcome family, with your barber-surgeon to
Edward the Confessor, are equal to —"
-"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?"
" 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 labourer 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, nz'est-cej5as? I never thought that
it would. I should have told you, as it was my duty to tell you all. It




THE NE WCOMES'.                     6Ir
wvas 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 everything-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; nor touch another
-cigar if you like-that is, if you don't like; for I love you so, EthelI do, with all my heart I do!"
"You 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 endeavoured 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 consign 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 long solitude, the misery of her wasted years, —my brother's own
wretchedness and faults aggravated a hundredfold by his unhappy
union with her-I must pause while it is yet time, and recall a promise which I know I should make you unhappy if I 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,' Farintosh, what a fool you are; break off
this match,'-and I wouldn't back out, because I loved you so, by
heaven, and because, 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 falsehood-yes, the




6I2                 TEE VTHE NE VVCOVES.
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 authorises you. Let the rupture of the engagement come from you, my lord. Indeed, indeed, I would spare youl
all the pain I can.  I have done you wrong enough already, Lord,
Farintosh."
And now the Marquis burst forth with tears and imprecations, 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 con —
fidante. Only she generously charged Laura to remember, if ever she.heard the matter talked of in the world, that it was Lord Farintosh'si
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 deserved rebuff; that, after
doing everything in her power to catch the great tar/i, Lord Farintosh,
who had long been tired of her, flung her over, not liking the connexion; and that she was living out of the world now at Newcome,
under the pretence 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.




THE AVEW CO.MES.                     6I3
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 every day; and on the day after Lord Farintosh's abrupt
visit and departure, Sir Barnes, going into Newcome upon his own,unfortunate 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.
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 railway 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. Hizggate's and Farinlosh'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
iBarnes 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




t;T4                   THE NE WCOMffES.
lady, though it did not induce her to prolong her visit to her. friend. As
Laura took leave, she heard Sir Barnes screaming 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 lanfguage. 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 insultinzg
char:ges were made against me; if my friends were not received. He stormed,
he cried, he employed his usual languageZ-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.
" 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 yetL
but imperfectly acquainted with the history of the Newcomes.
And Laura told me-perhaps I had heard before, and forgotten —
that Mrs. Mason was an old nurse and pensioner of the Colonel's, and
how he had been to see her for the sake of old times; and how shewas a great favourite with Ethel; and Laura kissed her little son,.
and was exceedingly bright, cheerful, and hilarious that evening, in
spite of the affliction under which her dear friends at Newcome were.
labouring.
People in country-houses should be exceedingly careful about their
blotting-paper. They should bring their own portfolios 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 portfolio in the next friend's bed-room 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 Hartington, James Street, Buckingham  Gate, London,"
and produced 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 Hartington three months afterwards. In such a book at




THE  NVEW CCO        OSES.           6I5
the club I read, as plainly as you may read this page, a holograph page
of the Right Honourable 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 hundred 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., Montagne de la Cour, Brussels," I read,
in this young woman's handwriting; and asked, turning 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.
"To lace some nightcaps for me, didn't you, my dear? He is such
a fine judge of lace! If I 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 I,
Madam, am a man a bonnet-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 me. He really did. Lady Rockminster
gave rme twenty pounds  " gasps Laura.
" Under pretence of lace, you have been sending over a lovemessage. 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 any letter?" cries Laura; and a laugh
which could afford to be good-humoured (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.




6i6                 THE NE WCOMES.
"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 husband.
"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.  Suppose-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 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 before yesterday; and Laura thought, from the
manner in which Ethel looked at Clive's picture, hanging up in the
parlour of his father's old friend, that she really was very much, &c. &c.
So, the letter being gone,' Mrs. Pendennis is most eager about the
answer to it, and day after day examines the bag, and is provoked
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 Florac is one of the initiated. " These women wish to bacer
a marriage between the belle Miss and le petit Claive," Florac
announces to me. He pays the highest compliments to Miss Newcome's person, as he speaks regarding the marriage. " I continue to
adore your Anglaises," he is pleased to say. "What of freshness,
what of beauty, what roses! And then they are so adorably good!
Go, Pendennis, thou art a happy coqin is " Mr. Pendennis does not
say "No." He has won the twenty-thousand-pound prize; and we
know there are worse than blanks in that lottery.




THE NE WCOMES.                      6I7
CHAPTER LXI.
IN WHICH WE ARE INTRODUCED TO A NEW NEWCO0ME.
N  O answer came to Mrs. Pendennis's letter to Colonel Newcome
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 mentioned 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
husband; and bored the whole house! The punishment of worldlilness 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 removed 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 " Farmer's Magazine!" The breaking of the,engagement with the Marquis of Farintosh was known in Bryanston:Square; and you may be sure interpreted by Mrs. Hobson in the




6i8       TTHE NE WCOVES.
light the most 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. Hobson 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 Marquis takes the very first _retext to break off the
match, and leaves the unfortunate girl for ever!"
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
Clive with every shilling he had in the world, had not Barnes, the
arch-traitor, temporised 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 for ever. 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 certainly, 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 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




THE EE WCOrMl ES.                    6i9
rank and title? But the Judge who sees riot the outward acts merely,
but their causes, and views not the wrong 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 now strike so hard, and, anon, spare so shamelessly.
Our stay with our hospitable friends at Rosebury was perforce
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 messenger was put in ceaseless requisition,.
and his donkey must have been worn off his little legs with trotting
to and fro between 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
honoured him by writing. By some information, received who knows
*how? our host was aware of the intrigue which Mrs. Pendennis was
carrying on; and his little wife almost 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
messenger; or to interpose in such delicate family affairs?
All this while Sir Barnes Newcome, 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 first, 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 Newcome, 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 Newcome,) in the room which had been called my
Lady's own, and in which her husband had locked her, forgetting
that the conservatories were open, through which the hapless woman
had fled. 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 magazines, 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




620                 TSIE NE WCOMES.
ladies bethought them of paying a visit to the neighbouring 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 recollections of her own early time, and,oblivious of yesterday. Thanks to Colonel Newcome's bounty, she
had lived in comfort 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,outline. There were Clive's pictures of himself and his father over
her little mantelpiece, 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 benefactor, 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 Kezialh, 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; 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."
"She has had a letter from the Colonel, Miss," cries out Keziah.
" 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:"ZLondon, Feb. 12, I84-.
"MY DEAR OLD MASON, —I have just heard from a friend of mine who has:been staying in your neighbourhood, that you are well and happy, and that
you have been making inquiries after your young scspggrace, Tom Newcome,
~who is well and happy too, and who proposes to be hatqpier still before any
very long time is over.
" The letter which was written to me about you was sent to me in Belgium,




THE.NE WCO-MES.                        622
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 itfollowed
vme to England.
"I cannot come to Newcome 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 Newcome 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
daughter-in-law, 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
" THOMAS NEWCOME."
Keziah must have thought that there was something between Clive
and my 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. " 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 away, who was still exceedingly overcome.
We could not stay long at Rosebury after that. When 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,




622                 THE NE WCOMES.
CHAPTER LXII.
MR. AND MRS. CLIVE NEWCOME.
THE friendship between Ethel and Laura, which the last narrated
sentimental occurrences had so much increased, subsists very
little impaired up to the present day. A lady with many domestic
interests and increasing family, &c. &c., cannot be supposed to cultivate female intimacies out of doors with that ardour and eagerness
which young spinsters exhibit in their intercourse; but Laura, whose
kind heart first led her to sympathize 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 admiration of late
in the days of her triumphant youthful beauty, of her wayward generous
humour, 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 mentioned 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 reticence; and, if Ethel felt regret and remorse, admire the
dignity of her silence, and the sweet composure of her now changed
and saddened demeanour.
The interchange of letters between the two friends was constant,
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 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




THE NE WCOMVES.                      623
sweetest music under her fingers. When she came to pay us a visit at
Fairoaks some two years afterwards 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
labour 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 himself 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 neighbouring manufacturer whom he next proposed to honour
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 Newcome 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 servants 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 desitable sum of money for his poor dear unfortunate
children.
He professed to think that she was ruining herself for her younger
brothers, whose expenses the young lady was defraying, this one at
college, that in the army, and whose maintenance he thought might
be amply defrayed out of their own little fortunes and his mother's
jointure: and, by ingeniously proving that a vast number of his household expenses were 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 carriagehorses were hers, for what need had he, a miserable bachelor, of anything more than a riding-horse and a brougham? A certain number
of the domestics were hers, and as he could get no scoundrel of his




624                 THE NE WCO.MES.
own to stay with him, he took Miss Newcome'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
year, with her domestic bounties and her charities round about Newcome, which daily increased as she became acquainted with her
indigent neighbours, 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 elsewhere are doing battle together continually, lay down their
arms in its presence and kneel before it; subjugated by that overpowering master. Death, never dying out; hunger always crying;
and children born to it day after day-our young London lady, flying
from the splendours and follies in which her life had been passed,
found herself in the presence of these; threading darkling 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 directed 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. " Oh! 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? 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 favour. 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
friend, or other news is had of him, Laura flies out in her usual tirades
against the world, the horrid wicked selfish world, which spoils everybody 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 t.o, the poor good old




THE NE WCOlIES.                      625
Colonel, was actually in Mrs. Pendennis'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
appeared as pretty, happy, good-humoured a little blushing bride as
eyes need behold, Mrs. Pendennis's reception of her was quite a
curiosity of decorum. " I not receive her well! " cried Laura; " how
on earth would you have me receive her? I talked to her about every —
thing, 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 gentlemen are made to
sport when they bend the knee before their gracious Sovereign.
Warrington roasted poor Clive upon the occasion, and complimented 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 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 quarters, 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.
40




6-65                 THIE NE, WCOMYES.
WVe have been informed already what the Colonel's income was,
and have the gratification of knowing that it was very considerable.
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 upholsterers, painters, carriage-makers, in his
splendid Indian way; presented 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-hi's 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. Newcome purchased
plate and gave banquets in return for these hospitalities. Mrs. Clive
had a neat close carriage for evenings, 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 reclining within; and to behold the stately grace of the old
gentleman 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 the old generals,
and the old colonels, and old fogies, and their ladies and daughters,
would nod and smile out of their carriages 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, I am sure, could be happier than she, but she did not impart
her happiness to her fiiends; 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 pockethandkerchief, with smiling eyes, dimpled cheeks, and golden ringlets!
He would take her hand, or follow her about from group to group,
exchanging 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 Newcome'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




THE NE ~WCOMES.                     627',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 Campaigner 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 splendour in which we now behold him. Many wealthy City men did
homage to him. His brother Hobson, though the Colonel had quarTelled with the chief of the firm, yet remained on amicable terms
with Thomas Newcome, and shared and 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 gentleman, 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 Clive, 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; Clive Newcome hadc
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 worldly
ambitious 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




,628                THE NE WCOMVES.
surely; he would fulfil the wish of his father's heart, and cheer hiskind 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 surprise 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 hand-to the astonishment of Captains Hoby
and Goby when they came to hear of the event. Well, my gallant
young painter and friend of my boyhood! if my wife chooses to be
angry at your marriage, shall her husband not wish you happy?Suppose we had married our first loves, others of us, were we thehappier 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 Newcome 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 ventured to make on behalf of her
friend, were checked by the good Colonel with a stern negation.
IfEthel 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 unfavourable light.  " She was rejected, and
deservedly rejected, by the Marquis of Farintosh," he broke out to me,
once, who was not indeed authorised to tell all I knew regarding 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 favourably,
and indeed greatly esteemed and loved her. " Psha! sir," breaks out
the indignant 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.




THE. iVEW-COMES.                     629
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
heart-pangs; the inheritor of his father's blood, his honesty of nature,
and his 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 fierce 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, "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? Psha! Are you dangling
to sermons, Pen, at your wife's leading-strings? Are you preaching
that cant? There are some injuries that no honest man should
-forgive, and I shall be a rogue on the day I shake hands with that
villain."
" Clive has adopted the Iroquois ethics," says George Warrington,.smoking his pipe sententiously, "'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 Barnes Newcome, Bart., hit his two hostile
kinsmen such a blow, as one might expect from such a quarter.




630                 THE NE WCOMES
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 uttered them inmany public places when Sir Barnes's conduct was brought into question, we may be sure that their talk came to the Baronet's ears, and
did not improve his already angry feeling towards those gentlemen.
For awhile they had the best of the attack. The Colonel routed Barnes
out of his accustomed club at Bays's; where also the gallant Sir George
Tufto expressed himself pretty openly with respect to the poor Baronet's
want of courage: the Colonel had bullied and browbeaten Barnes in.
the parlour of his own bank, and the story was naturally 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 Bundelcund Bank,.
and armed with that terrible bamboo cane.
But though his wife had undeniably run away after notorious illtreatment from her husband; though he had shown two white feathers.
in those unpleasant little affairs with his uncle and cousin; though Sir
Barnes Newcome was certainly neither amiable nor popular in theCity of London, his reputation as a most intelligent man of business.
still stood; the credit 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 his 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 the B. B. C.,
and hoped that although private differences 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
Newcome 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.




TH]E  N'E WCOiVES.                  63I
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
honoured 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 Hobson Brothers, and keep a special care lest that 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 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 Banking Company, which must
be preciously conducted when it appointed him as the guardian and
overseer of its affairs in England, 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 were 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 endeavours, 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 opinions of one and the other, though submitted by
Thomas Newcome duly to his copartners, the managers and London
board of directors of the Bundelcund Banking Company, were overruled by that assembly.
They had their establishment and apartments in the City; they
had their clerks and messengers, their managers' room and boardroom, 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




63,2                 THYE INE WCOYIES.'the affairs of the'B. B. C. properly discussed. These subjects are
mysterious, terrifying, unknoNn to me. I cannot pretend to describe
them. Fred Bayham, I remember, used to be great in his knowledge
of the affairs of the Bundelcund Banking Company. He talked of
cotton, wool, copper, opium, indigo, Singapore, Manilla, China, Calcutta, Australia, with prodigious eloquence and fluency. His conversation was about millions. The most astounding paragraphs used to
appear in the Pall Mall Gazette regarding the annual dinner at Blackwall, which the directors gave, and to which he, 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 kindly 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 Rumour. 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;-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 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 India Company's arms, a Brahmin,
Britannia, 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 17all 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), tigerhunting, palanquins, Juggernaut, elephants, the burning of widows-all




THE NrJE WCOMiES.                      633
+passed before us in F. B.'s splendid oration. He spoke of the products
of the Indian forest, the palm-tree, the cocoa-nut tree, the banyantree. Palms the Colonel had already brought back with him,-the
palms of valour, won in the field of war (cheers). Cocoa-nut trees he
had never seen, though he had heard wonders 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 so bold as to carry on the Eastern metaphor, he
would say, knowing the excellence of the Colonel's claret and the
splendour 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 queer 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
see 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 lookingglasses, so multiplied and arranged as, as it were, to carry you into,the next street. You trod on velvet, pausing with respect in the centre
of the'carpet, where Rosey's cypher was worked in the sweet flowers
which bear her name. What delightful crooked legs the chairs had!
What corner cupboards there were filled with Dresden gimcracks,
which it was a part of this little woman's business in life to purchase!
What etageres, 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-pearl albums, inkstands representing
beasts of the field, priedieu chairs, and wonderful knicknacks 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
procure amusement for his darling, asked whether she would not like
a barrel-organ grinding fifty or sixty favourite pieces, which a bearer,could turn? And he mentioned how Windus, of their regiment, who




634                  TEETHE NE WVCOM~ES.
loved music exceedingly, had a very fine instrument of this kind out to,
Barrackpore in the year I8Io, 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 satellites 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 splendours, 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 favour. But she
did not care for Mrs. Clive, and the Colonel, somehow, grew cool
towards 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 himself contemptuous airs, and to have become
very high and mighty since his marriage. Then there was the great,
numerous, and eminently respectable set, whose names were all registered 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 Fogies. 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 welcome 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, her sister. We made Gandish overeat and overdrink himself
in the supper-room, and Clive cheered him by ordering a full length of
Mirs. Clive Newcome from his distinguished pencil. Never was seen
a grander exhibition of white satin and jewels. Smee, RLA., was
furious at the preference shown to his rival.
We had Sandy M'Collop, too, at the party, who had returned




THE E NE TWCOE. ES.                  3
from Rome, with his red beard, and his picture of the murder of the
Red Comyn, which made but a dim effect in the Octagon Room of
the Ioyal 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 understand that this party was only an
omniurn 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
associates 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 testimonialising his wife,
and many an old comrade growling at his haughtiness and prosperity.
In former days, when his good father recognized the difference
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 happy.  What young man on earth could look for
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 fortune! Could not
Clive, 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 Company; had no interest in its transactions, no heart in its
affairs; went away and galloped his horse alone; or returned' to hiss
painting-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?




t636;THE NE WCOMHES.
>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, darkened 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 gaily 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 acquaintances, stories about this
iball and that concert, practise artless smiles upon him, gentle little
bouderies, tears perhaps, followed 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 straightway 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 wrapping 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
comfortably 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 Newcome's fondest
hopes were disappointed this time; his little grandson lived but to see'the light and leave it: and sadly, sadly, those preparations were put
away, those poor little robes and caps, those delicate muslins and
-cambrics over which many 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 oynzizum gatherurn.
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
Idays, Colonel Newcome had known her. What the Emperor Napoleon




TZIE NE WCOMES.                      637
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 poorlittle Rosey's prostrate body in the dressing-room, were continued in
the drawing-room, resumed with terrible vigour 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 quarrelled 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 afterwards, 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, young creature! Are you all such hypocrites, Mrs.
Pendennis? " and he pulled his mustachios 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 Clive Newcome's mind. Othello-like, he scowled
after that unconscious Cassio as the other passed into the club in his
lacquered boots.




638                  THIE  XNEWCOME.S
CHAPTER  LXItV.
ABSIT OMEN.
T the first of the Blackwall festivals, Hobson Newcome was
present, in spite of the quarrel which had taken place between 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 Bundelcund Bank was not at variance
with its chief house of commission in London; no man drank prosperity to the B. B. C., upon occasion of this festival, with greater
fervour than Hobson Newcome, and the manner in which he just
slightly alluded, in his own little speech of thanks, to the notorious
differences between Colonel Newcome and his nephew, praying that
these might cease some day, and, meanwhile, that the confidence
between the great Indian establishment and its London agents might
never diminish, was appreciated and admired by six-and-thirty gentlemen, all brimful of claret and enthusiasm, and in that happy state of
mind in which men appreciate and admire everything.
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 cocoa-nut tree. As we
travelled homewards in the omnibus, Fred Bayham 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,
cleanly, and variegated. He occupied the apartments once tenanted
by the amiable Honeyman. He lived in ease and comfort there.
"You don't suppose," says he, "that the wretched stipend I draw
from the Pall A/all Gazette enables me to maintain this kind of thing?
F. B., sir, has a station in the world; F. B. moves among moneyers




TIHE  VNEWCO MES.                    639.and City nobs, and eats kabobs 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 hin. one day in the Park, I remarked that his
countenance wore an ominoui 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 advanced to greet his old acquaintance, enveloping
his face with shades of funereal gloom.
"Yon were the children of my good friend Colonel Huckaback,
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 down! Absit omen, Pendennis! I was moved
by the circumstance. F. B. hopes that the child's father's argosy may
3not 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 Bundelcund Bank? "
"Gracious heavens!" I cried, in sincere anxiety, "nothing has
happened, I hope, to the Bundelcund 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."
" 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 Threadneedle 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 Bundelcund Banking Company of India.
" The news. came like a thunderclap upon the London Board of
Directors, who had received no notice of the intentions of Hobson
Brothers, and caused a dreadful panic amongst the shareholders of the




64o                 THIE NVE WCO0.,ES.
concern. The board-room  was besieged by colonels and captain.s,.
widows and orphans; within an hour after protest the bills were takenr
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 Bundelcund Banking Company of India, being provided with ample funds to do honour 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 hissmashing the next month. Absit omen! 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 containing an advertisement stating
that Messrs. Baines & Jolly 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 Newcome 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 ifamily and Colonel Newcome. The exasperated 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 demeanour towards the world, and above all towards his son, forwhom 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 boy's 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 alarge fortune, which he rightly persisted in spending, he felt angry withhimself because he could not enjoy it, angry with his son, who should
have helped him in the administration of his new estate, and who wasbut a listless, useless member of the little confederacy, a living protest




THE NE WCOMES.                       64r
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 himself would have viewed his kinsman more charitably, but fate and circumstance had angered that originally friendly
and gentle 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
slay him? Thrice fortunate he, to whom circumstance is made easy:
whom fate visits with gentle trial, and kindly Heaven keeps out of
temptation.
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," 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 muttonchop for dinner."
"Ah! revenge is wrong, Pen," pleads the other counsellor. c" Let
alone that the wisest and best of all Judges has condemned it. It
blackens the hearts of men. It distorts their views of 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 cleverer 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 will 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
4I




642                 THE NEWCOM'ES.
dear 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;
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 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 realise. 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.
Wrathfully 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 theml
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 differences with
the Indian Bank as quite natural, and laughed at the absurd charges
of personal hostility which poor Thomas Newcome publicly preferred.
"Here is a hot-headed old Indian Dragoon," says Sir Barnes, " who
knows no more about business than I do about cavalry tactics or
Hindostanee; who gets into a partnership along with other dragoons
and Indian wiseacres, with some uncommonly wily 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 always 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




TH'E NE WCCOSE'S.                    643
been a panic in the Company, a panic which has been increased by
Colonel Newcome's absurd swagger 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 desired to be
revenged upon him, and were eager after his undoing, 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 occasion 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 sentiaments towards that worthy, his conduct would have been different, and
we should have heard of no such active hostilities as ensued.




644                 THE NVEWYCOMES.
CHAPTER LXV.
IN WHICI- MRS. CLIVE COMES INTO HER FORTUNE.
IN speaking of the affairs of the B. B. C., Sir Barnes Newcome
always took care to maintain his candid surprise relating to the
proceedings of that Company. He set about evil reports against it!'
He endeavour 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 hethought 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 candour, 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 demeanour. He kept away from the cocoa-nut feast,.
as we have seen; he protested privily to the Colonel that his private
good-will continued undiminished; but he was deeply grieved at the
B. B. C. affair, which took place while he was on the Continent-confound the Continent, my wife would go-and which was entirely with —
out his cognisance. The Colonel received his brother's excuses, first
with awful bows and ceremony, and finally with laughter. " My good
Hobson," said he, with the most insufferable kindness, " of course you
intended to be friendly; of course the affair was done 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 bad?" and herewith Colonel Newcome burst out into a laugh. It
was not a pleasant laugh to hear. Worthy Hobson took his hat, and&




THE  NVE WrCO MIEES.                 645
wvalked away, brushing it round and round, and looking very confused.'The Colonel strode after him downstairs, 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 conversations 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 realize, even
nlow, 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 had returned to Europe, gave the most
cheering accounts of the B. B. C. It was in the most flourishing state.
Shares sure to get up again. He had sold out entirely 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 into the B. B. C. The entry of
Mr. McGaspey into the affairs of the Company did not seem to pro*duce very great excitement in England. The shares slowly fell. How-,ever, there was a prodigious indigo crop. The London manager was
in perfect good-humour. In spite of this and that, of defections, of
unpleasantries, of unfavourable 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 mamma, 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 entertain 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
contented himself with his moiety of the smiling little girl's affection.




646                  THE NE WCOMES.
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-humoured. 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 subsequent 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, blushes, and happiness, and 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 married friends. I
am bound to add (and I do so during Mr. Clive Newcome's absence
from England, otherwise I should not like to venture upon the statement), that some men concur with the ladies' opinion of Mrs. Clive.
For instance, Captains 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;-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 Campaigner's keeping,,
from which alone he was rescued by the summons of pallid deatho.




THE NE WCO.MES.                      647
He met that summons like a philosopher; 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 500oo.,
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-favour 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:-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 for ever and ever? So let us hope divine
truths may be shining, and regions of light and love extant, which
Geneva glasses cannot yet perceive, and are beyond the focus of
Roman telescopes.
I think Clive and the Colonel were more affected by the news of
James's death than Rosey, concerning whose wonderful strength of
mind good Thomas Newcome discoursed to my 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 Newcome'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 Colonel Newcome
performs all the courtship part of the marriage, and Clive, poor Clive,
though he spoke very nobly and generously 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 inconsiderable 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




f648                THE NE WCOMES.
father presented 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, possessed not only B. 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; 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 behaviour to
his niece.
Clive 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 publicly announced his intention.  His interest was
rather powerful 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 naturally be beneficial to
the former institution. Thomas Newcome's prospectuses were issued
accordingly, and his canvass received with tolerable favour.
Within a very short time another candidate appeared in the fielda retired Bombay lawyer, of considerable repute and, large meansand at the head of this gentleman's committee appeared the names of
Hobson Brothers & Newcome, very formidable personages at the
East India Housej 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 was pretty equal. The election was not to come
off yet for a while; for aspirants to the honourable 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.




THE N~E WCOMES.                       649
Howbeit, the Colonel's prospects were very fair, and a prodigious
indigo crop came in to favour the B. B. C. with the most brilliant
report from  the board at Calcutta.  The shares, still somewhat
sluggish, rose again, the Colonel's hopes with them, and the courage of
gentlemen 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. Pendennis; and, the ladies having retired, we were having
such a talk as we used to enjoy in quite old days, before marriages and
cares and divisions had separated us.
F. B. led the conversation. The Colonel received his remarks
with great gravity, and thought him an instructive personage. 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 Company 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 oratory,:and neglected few opportunities 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 regard
and devotion from another.
The Colonel used to wag his head wisely, and. say Mr. Bayham'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
vwould help him in the House of Commons."




650                  THE AtE WCOMES.
" 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."
"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 I knew what would interest him," his father whispers 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 writing to their constituents, or
are subscribing at missionary meetings, or are gone down to lecturing
at Athenaeums, 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 Newcome,
has been doing during the recess?" cries Warrington. "I had a
letter this morning from my liberal and punctual employer, Thomas
Potts, Esquire, of the N2ewcome Indepeandenzt, who states, in language
scarcely respectful, that Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome 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 denominations 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 newspaper
from his great-coat pocket. " Here it is, actually in print," Warrington
continues, and reads to us:-"' Newcome Athenaeum. I. for the
benefit of the Newcome Orphan Children's Home, and 2. for
the benefit of the Newcome Soup Association, without distinction. of
denomination. Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., proposes to
give two lectures, on Friday the 23rd, and Friday the 30oth, instant.




THE NE WCOVME&S.                     651
No. I, The Poetry of Childhood: Doctor Watts, Mrs. Barbauld,.
Jane Taylor.- No. 2, The Poetry of Womanhood, and the Affections:
Mrs. Hemans, L. E. L. Threepence will be charged at the 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. Yout
shall draw your cousin as you have drawn his villanous little mug a
hundred times before; and I will do the smashing part, and we will
have some fun out of the transaction."
" Besides, Florac 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 moment, my neighbour, 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 delicate a subject in that house.
" Yes," said I, in spite, perhaps in consequence, of this interruption.
" My wife does correspond with Miss Ethel, who is a noble creatures
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 between
you and him. Very much changed and very much improved. Ask:
my wife about her, who knows her most intimately, and hears from her
constantly."
"Very likely, 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 drawingroom.
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. " Look at her!" he said to me. "' Don't you see what she is.




~65 2                THE NE WCO.MES.
doing? She believes in that girl whom you all said Clive took a fancy
~to before he married his present little placid wife; a nice little simple
creature, who is worth a dozen Ethels."
" Simple certainly," says Mr. P., with a shrug of the shoulder.
" 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 grow
blind before a commoner. I don't know much about fashionable life.
Heaven help us! (you young Brummel! 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 onze 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 t~le-a-tete 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 bewilders 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 gone 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 except
Laura. As for the Colonel, he paces up and down the room, holding
the sketch close to his eyes, holding it away from him, patting it,
-clapping his son delightedly on the shoulder. "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."




THE NE W/COMES.                      65 3:
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 fdund 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 unfavourably 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 dancing 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 labour we can give, good enough.
for it! He went away groaning this morning, and quite saddened in
spirits. 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,
MVIrs. 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 colours: 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 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 trophies 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




654                  it zrE NE WC01lKES.
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, consolations? Between his two best beloved mistresses, poor Clive's luckless father somehow interposes; and with sorrowful, 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.




THE NEW CO.EfS.                      655
CHAPTER LXVI.
IN WHICH THE COLONEL AND THE NEWCOME ATHENIEUM ARE
BOTH LECTURED.
T 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 Barnes's 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; " that is, you said you thought papa judged
him too harshly; you know you did, this morning! " And from her
husband's angry glances, she flies to his father's for protection. Those
were even fiercer than Clive's. Revenge flashed from beneath Thomas
Newcome'sgrizzled eyebrows, and glanced in the direction where Clive
sat. Then the Colonel's face flushed up, and he cast his eyes down
towards his teacup, 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 New*come; "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 honour 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 colour
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




6P THE AE WCO.MES.
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 politics?"  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. HIe did this
morning: you know you did, Clive."
"': 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 picture.
"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 deserves every
honour that may happen to him," says the old soldier. " Rosey rmy




THE  N.E WCOMES.                     657
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, telling 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 flinging 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;
it's a shame to say that; she tries her very- best to please me, poor
little dear. 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 dragoons, 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 fine
arts. Rosey follows him, and trips round J. J.'s studio, and pretends
to admire, and says,' How soft; how sweet!' recalling some of mammain-law'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, Bundelcund, 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 condition. The
little ills of life are the hardest to bear, as we all very well know.
42




658                 TIHE N~E WCOMES:
What would the possession of a hundred thousand a year, or fame, and
the applause of one's countrymen, or the loveliest and best-beloved
woman,-of any glory, and happiness, or good-fortune, avail to a gentleman, for instance, who was allowed to enjoy them only with the condition of wearing a shoe with a couple of nails or sharp pebbles inside
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 daresay the
little nails hurt the patient just as much as before.
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 drawingroom, 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; 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."
" Rosey'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 carriage, 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 rnust 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 Rosey'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.




1TH E NVE?WCOM E, S.                -659
"I wish you could come down with us, Arthur, upon our 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 room 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. Vindictiveness on the
part of a man so simple and generous, so fair and noble in all his
dealings as Thomas Newcome, appeared in my mind unworthy of him..Surely his kinsman had sorrow and humiliation enough already at
home. Barnes's further punishment, 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,
Lis 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, Pen-:dennis. 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 inter.
ference 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 l'outrance 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 punished," George said, "for his poor




66o                  THE ANEWCOMPES.
wife's misfortune; it was Barnes's infernal cruelty, wickedness, selfishness, which had driven.her into misery and wrong." Mr. Warringtow
went down to Newcome, and was present at that lecture whereof mention has been made in a preceding chapter. I am afraid his behaviour
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 Newcome Inde5enent two days after,
whereof the irony was so subtle, that half the readers of the paper mistook his grave scorn for'respect, and his jibes for praise.
Clive, his father, and Frederick Bayham, their faithful aide-decamp, were at Newc6me 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 dear old friend and.
pensioner, Mrs. Mason, who was now not long to enjoy his bounty, and
so old, as scarcely to. know her benefactor. 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 recognise 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 ser —
vant 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 for ever engaged in good works for the young, the sick,
and the aged. She had had a dreadful misfortune 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 affair at the Hall.
"Was she very good to the poor? did she come often to see hergrandfather's old friend? it was no more than she ought to do," Colonel
Newcome said; without, however, thinking fit 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 surgeon, and.
talkling (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,.




THE NE V0COMES.                      66 
itook 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 themselves according
%to their custom, and discussing Sir Barnes Newcome's performance.
According to established usage in such cases, our esteemed repre-sentative 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 sate'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 gracious at this season. Was not Parliament about to be
dissolved, 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 acknowledgment 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 in-,dustrious capitalists; of the intelligent middle class; of the pride and
mainstay of En'gland, 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; that they, too, feel 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
favour of the latter. We show that to appeal to the affections is after.all the true office of the bard; to decorate the homely threshold, to
wreathe flowers round the domestic hearth, the delightful duty of the,Christian singer. We glance at Mrs. Hemans' biography, and state
where she was born, and under what circumstances she must have at,first, &c. &c. Is this a correct account of Sir Barnes Newcome's lecture?
J was not present, and did not read the report. Very likely the above




6 62                THE  v1AE W~7COMES.
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 disturbance, no doubt, must have
occurred when Sir Barnes saw before him F. Bayham and Warrington.
seated in the amphitheatre: 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; saw him at the very first.moment; saw
nothing but him, I daresay, 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 for ever 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 devotions..
Break heart, and fling yourself on the bier, and kiss her cold lips and.
press her hand! It falls back dead on 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 quiteordinary, 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 halfs




THE iNlE WCOMES.                     663
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 our 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." " Excelle.nt." " 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
mne, 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 building bearing the little girl
in 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
grey 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 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 bed-room, an  he hears Mr. F. Bayham's deep voice as
he passes by the Boscawen Room, where the jolly Britons are as usual
assembled.




664                 THE NE WCOIES.
CHAPTER LXVII.
NEWCOME AND LIBERTY.
E 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 " 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 goldlaced one with a cockade and a cord-and set it up in the marketplace 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 discourse, " 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 slighest objection 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, Esqs., conspired round a punch-bowl, and determined that Thomas Newcome
should be requested to free his country. A deputation from the
electors of Newcome, that 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




THE NE TWCOM.VES.                    665
cheroot, and listened most decorously, as now Potts, now Tucker
expounded to him; Bayham 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 Newcome. "'Sharp practice! exceedingly alive
to his own interests-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 honour
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 constitution 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 fit person 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 New-come 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."
"And for increasing the franchise, Colonel Newcome, 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 Indel5endent has been crying
out for such a man for years past. We ought to have a Liberal as




666                  THE NE UWCOMVES.
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; 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 well! 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 coursesuch 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 asyou are, Colonel
Newcome: for your goodness is known, sir — You are not ashamed of
your origin, and there is not a Newcomite old or young but knowshow admirably good you have been to your old friend, Mrs.-Mrs,
What-d'you-call'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 Newcome at least might be an honest man.
I am an old soldier; have passed all my life in India; and am little
conversant with 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




THEIE EY 3TCOiES'.                   667
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, as I think, to assert that station; and though a few years back
I 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 pecuniary means, to place
me as a director and manager of an important banking company,
in a station of great public responsibility, 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 leading columns
of the ensuing number of Mr. Potts's Independent 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 geniusfor making women cry. Last week
we had the talented Miss Noakes, from 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 admirable representative. Let the Baronet stick to his lectures, and let Newcomerelieve 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 honourable 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




668                 THE NE WVCOIMES.
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. I:ast
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 gentlemnen. 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 IndeMendent, faithful to its name, and ever actuated by.principles of honour, 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 Indejpendent, 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 honour, will ask the
electors of Newcome whether they are or are not discontented with
their present unworthy Member. The Independent, for one, says we
know good men of your family, we know in it men who would do
honour to any name; but you, Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart.,
we trust no more."
In the electioneering matter, which had occasioned my unlucky 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 Newcome had the leisure to survey Clive's glum face opposite to him
during the whole of their journey, and to chew his mustachios, and
brood upon his wrath and wrongs. His life had been a sacrifice for
that boy! What darling schemes had he not formed in his behalf,
and how superciliously did Clive meet his projects! The Colonel
could not see the harm of which he had himself been the author.
Had he not done everything in mortal's power for his son's happiness,
-and how many young men in England were there with such advantages.as this moody, discontented, spoiled boy? As Clive backed out of the




THE NE WCOMES.                       669
contest, of course his father urged it only the more vehemently. Cliveslunk 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 honour, as he called it, bent upon,
overcoming his enemy and carrying his point against Barnes Newcome.
"If Paris will 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 honour 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
carry 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.
"' Kinsmanship!" says George. " What has old Tom Newcome ever
had 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 Parliament. 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 daresay 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 to 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 forward, as by the most singular old Tory
opinions which he advocated on other occasions. He was for havingevery man to vote; every poor man to labour 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




670                  THE.1rE WCOiVE.
the rich should pay. He uttered all these opinions with the greatest
gravity and emphasis, before 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 Indej5endent, 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 republican, and so forth, to the
wrath and indignation of Colonel Newcome. 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! IHe esteemed and
honoured it, as he hated and abhorred the superstitions of Rome.
(Yells from the Irish in the crowd.) lHe an enemy of the House of
Lords! He held it to be the safeguard of the constitution and the
legitimate prize of our most illustrious, naval, military, and-andlegal 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 crown?
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 Independent had no little
difficulty. " He knows nothing about it," poor Clive 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 ca;5-,-hied, 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 fain&ant took but little part in the electioneering doings,
holding moodily aloof from the meetings, and councils, and publichouses, where his father's partisans were assembled.




TSSE NE WCOMESS.                         67
CHAPTER LXVIII.
A  LETTER  AND  A  RECONCILIATION.
Miss Ethel N'ewcome to Mor-s. Pendennis.
" 1EAREST LAURA,-I have not written to you for many weeks past.
LJ 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 heaven she is well now, and restored
to you. You and your husband 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 yesterday, 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 Ethel 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. lie 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, lmy
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 perceiving Clive; 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.




672                     THE NE WCOME]S.
"I asked him a great deal about his wife, whom I remember a very pretty,.
sweet-looking girl indeed, at my Aunt Hobson'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 daresay, that I hoped the'
difference between Barnes and uncle would not extinguish his regard formamma 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. Newcome; and I fear she
does not make my cousin happy. And yet this marriage was of my uncle's.
making: another of the unfortunate marriages in our family. I am glad that
I paused in time, before 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. He is of the world still, Laura. Nor must we'
deal too harshly with people 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 under'stand 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 oftheir night.
"My boy at Sandhurst has done very well indeed; and Egbert, I 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 marry 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 Bariles comes on bravely with his Latin; and Mr. Whitestock, a.
most excellent azd 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 thousand ways and actions, that I am shocked often;.and see my brother starting back and turning his head away, as if suddenlywounded. 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 whosesweet 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; and we come and repose by you for a little while, and




THE NVEWCOMES.                         673
to-morrow the march begins again, and the toil, and the struggle, and the
desert. Good-by, fountain! Whisper kisses to my dearest little ones from
their affectionate AUNT ETHEL.
"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 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 dear!"
"' 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 hiccups 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 ancient Roman warrior had frightened those simple Britons.
His manners were too awful for them: so were Clive's, who visited
them also under Mr. Potts's introduction; but the two gentlemeneach 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 Briton's choruses by an expiring fire, as he sat by a glass of
cold negus and the ashes of his cigar.
I daresay he may have been thinking that his fire was well nigh
43




074                 THE ATE WCOMES.
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.
"Ill? not I!" cries the father, still keeping the boy's hand under
both his own on the mantelpiece. " Such 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 days 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 for ever and ever."
"Nay, my boy, you mustn't talk to me so, or even to yourself so.
You have the dearest 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 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




THE NE EWCOMES.                      675.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."
" No, sir; I may have thought so in my rage once, but I know
better now. She was the victim and not the agent. Did Madame de
Florac play you false when she married her husband? 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 marquis 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 Florac 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 miserable then 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 allowance 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 to war
-with Barnes, father," said Clive. "Let us have peace-and forgive
him if we can."
"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:




676                THE NE WCOMES.
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 to their bed-rooms together, and were happier as they
shook hands at the doors of their adjoining chambers than they ha&
been for many a long day and year.




THE NEWCOMES.                        677
CHAPTER LXIX.
THE ELECTION.
JAVING 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 followed him obsequiously down to
the train. "Quick," bawls out Mr. Potts to Mr. Brown, the stationmaster, "Quick, Mr. Brown, a carriage for Colonel Newcome! " Halfa-dozen hats are taken off as he enters into the carriage, F. Bayham
and his servant after him, with portfolios, umbrellas, shawls, despatchboxes. 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.
It has been said that Mr. Pendennis was in the country, engaged
an 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 kinsman was eager to oust him. Away from London,:elnd having but few correspondents, save on affairs of business, I
heard 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 Newcome had presented her husband
with a son. Clive wrote to me, presently, to inform rife 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 bed-chamber, 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 humour, 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




678                 THE NE WCOMES.
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 wifeartfully chose that period of time when little Rosey was, per force,
kept at home and occupied with her delightful maternal 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 very 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
marriage made up by the old people, a marriage to which the young
man had only yielded out of good-nature and obedience. She would
apostrophize her unconscious young ones, and infdrm 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. We showed him our modest rural lions; we got him such sport
and company as our quiet neighbourhood afforded, we gave him fishing
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 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 V
he played with our children, with whom he became a great favourite;.
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, whichl
showed that Laura's surmises were correct. About his domestic
affairs he did niot treat much; the little boy was said to be a very
fine little boy; the ladies had taken entire possession 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,.




THE NHE WCOMES.                      679
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 management. " The governor understandsbusiness 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 mustachios, 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 pot vested in the hands of
trustees, and for her benefit?"
"My father is one of the trustees.  I tell you he manages the
whole thing. What is his property is mine and ever has 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 stands 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 Bundelcund Bank, it was clear
that not only every shilling of his own property, but every farthing
bequeathed to Rosey Mackenzie would be lost; only his retiring
penssion, which was luckily considerable, and the hundred pounds




G6,9                THE.NE WCQIMES.
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 splendidly, why had they quitted it? The
Colonel said it was a proof of the prosperity of the company, that so
many gentlemen 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. No 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 Fitzroy Square! But who can recall bygones,
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 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
mistress?"
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 particoloured 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 aidede-camp, Mr. Frederick Bayham. During the period which had
elapsed since the Colonel's last canvassing visit and the issuing of the




THE NE WCOMES.                       68I
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 representation of
that borough. That old and tried Member of Parliament, Mr. Bunce,
was considered to be secure; and the Baronet's seat was thought to be
pretty safe on account of his influence in the place. Nevertheless,
Thomas Newcome's supporters 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.
In due 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 Indej5enden/, and F. B., were the Colonel's chief.men. His head-quarters (which F. B. liked very well) were at the
hotel were 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 promise, every free and independent elector of the borough.
Barnes too w'as 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 favourite; 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 mnea
czhia than Barnes: no man professed a more edifying repentance.




6s2                  THE NE WCOMES.
He was hat in hand to every black-coat, established or dissenting.
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; 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 balcony from which the Colonel and
his assistants were in the habit of addressing the multitude. Fiddlers,
and trumpeters, arrayed in his colours, paraded the town and enlivened
it with their melodious strains. Other trumpeters and fiddlers, bearing
the true blue cockades and colours of Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart.,.
would encounter the Colonel's musicians, on which occasions of meeting, it is to be feared, small harmony was produced. ~ 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-blackguards rejoiced in these combats, and exhibited their
valour 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 circumstances 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 "King's Arms"' balcony above the shout.
and roar of the multitude, the gongs and bugles of the opposition
bands. He was untiring in his oratory-undaunted in the presenceof 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 for ever!" "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 orany other I chose."
I am afraid, in his conduct of the Colonel's election, Mr. Bayham
resorted to acts of which his principal certainly would disapprove, and
engaged 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 haranguing 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 in —




THE NE WCOIES.                       68.
audible? Who smashed all the front windows of the "Roebuck?'"
Colonel Newcome had not words to express his indignation at proceedings so unfair. 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 and his
followers from the hands of the mob, and addressed those ruffians in a.
noble speech, of which the bamboo-cane-Englishman-shame-fairplay, were the most emphatic expressions. 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
C6lonel came forward, and the coolness of the old boy in the midst of.
the action. ie 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 was something like a speech. Potts was jealous of it, and always reported me
most shamefully."
In spite of his respectful behaviour 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 interest 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 dissenting
gentlemen were obliged to refrain from voting for him; such as ven-.
tured, believing in the sincerity of his repentance, to give him their
voices, were yelled away from the polling-places. A very great numberl
who would have been his friends, were compelled to bow to decencyand public opinion, and supported the Colonel.




684                  THE AVE WCOMES.
Hooted away from the hustings and the public places whence the
rival candidates addressed the free and independent 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 scared Sir Barnes and his puzzled
committee. 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 discussed, and the conduct of
political men examined, with a ceaseless interest and with an ardour
and eloquence which are often unknown in what is called superior
society. This man and his friends round about him fiercely silenced
the clamour 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 hearing. 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 Par-:iament. 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
astonishment 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 expect from such a fine, high-bred,
white-handed, aristocratic gentleman 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;
c" these children are not-are not   "
The man interrupted him with a bitter laugh.  "C 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. But, at first, he
Jhougiht 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




THE NE WCOMES.                       685
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 Newcome, will you have this man to represent you in
Parliament? " 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 favour.
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 marketplace, 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 colours, 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
honour. Rising up in the carriage, F. B. took off his hat, bade his
men of brass be silent, who were accustomed to bray " See the Conquering Hero comes," whenever the Colonel, or Mr. Bayham, his
brilliant aide-de-camp, made their appearance;-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, thebrave, the kind old Colonel,-why should he say Colonel? why should
he not say Old Tom at once?" (immense roars of 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 Sahib." (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




686                 THE NE WCOM0 ES.
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 agoing 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 you 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
amongst 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 satisfactory 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 l" 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, blushing 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 " opposite, 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 flung at his head: and the horses were
Ibrought, 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 Florac's gratification, gave their second votes to Colonel
Newcome, carrying with them a very great number of electors: we
know that in the present Parliament, Mr. Higg and Mr. Bunce sit for
the Borough of Newcome. 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 strata



THE NEUVCOMES.                       6S?
gems, 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 commenced
the canvass, I can't say to what opinions the poor Colonel did not find
himself committed by the time when the election was over.' The
worthy gentleman felt himself not a little humiliated by what he had
-to say and to 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; 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 honour in tampering
with political opinions, submitting to familiarities, condescending to
stand by whilst his agents solicited vulgar suffrages or uttered claptraps about retrenchment 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 protesting
against that mad election." Indeed, though we little knew what events
were speedily to happen, Laura and I felt very little satisfaction when
the result of the Newcome election was made known to us, and we
found Sir Barnes Newcome third, and Col. Thomas Newcome second
upon the poll.
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."




688                ITHE NE WCOMES.
CHAPTER LXX.
CHILTERN HUNDREDS.
E 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 Newcome, Esq.,
was returned as one of the Members of Parliament for the borough of
Newcome; 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 occasioned 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 formerly been used to. sit under those branches.
Mr. Sherrick and his wife appeared at those parties, at which the proprietor of Lady WVhittlesea'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-name, to "look alive."
He called the Colonel " Newcome" sometimes, and facetiously speculated upon the degree of relationship subsisting between them now
that his daughter was married to Clive's uncle, the Colonel's brotherin-law. Though I daresay 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
Niewcome Honeyman."




THE NE WCOMES.                       689
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. "Sherrick & Co., Wine-Merchants, Walpole Street," was painted upon the vehicle.
"Good heavens! sir, do you get your wine from him?" Clive cried
out to his father, remembering Honeyman's provisions 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 connexion 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 behaviour to the
wine-merchant's wife. The Campaigner had treated this very kind
and harmless, but vulgar woman, with extreme hauteur-had talked
loud during her singing-the beauty of which, to say truth, time had
considerably impaired-had made contemptuous observations regarding her upon more than one occasion. 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
of 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. B. C. was always present-an ominous-looking
man, whose whispers and compliments 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 gaily 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 splendour of Rummun Loll
at Calcutta, who complimented the Colonel on his fine house and
grand dinners with sinister good-humour.  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,
iwith certain members of whom the little man seemed very familiar.
44




69jo                THE NAE WCOMES.
He knew to a shilling how much this lord owed-and how much the
creditors allowed to 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
"I Louisa my dear," his wife, to testify to the day when Viscount Tagrag
dined with them, and Earl Bareacres sent them the pheasants. F. B.,
as sombre and downcast 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 fogies 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
wratch that poor little innocent creature fresh and smiling, attired in
bright colours 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 amarried man, we entered
that place of entertainment, and were greetedby its old landlady and
waitress, and accommodated with a quiet parlour. 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 respecting this unlucky Bundelcund




7HE NE WCOVES.                       69r
Bhinling 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. Frederick Bayham. The great Indian millionaire was in his,
F. B.'s eyes, "a confounded old mahogany-coloured heathen humbug."
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 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 Newcome
myself to Campion and Sherrick about it.  I betray no secretsF. 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. I know the taste of Sherrick's wine well enough.
F. B., sir, fears the Greeks and all the gifts they bring. Confound his
Amontillado! 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 Bundelcund Banking Company, in which our Colonel
has invested every rupee he possesses, solvuntur rup2ees, &c. I disdain,




692                  THE NE WMCOMVES.
for the most part, the tricks and surprises of the novelist's art. Know..
ing, from the very beginning of our story, what was the issue of this
Bundelcund Banking concern, I have scarce had patience to keep my
counsel about it; and whenever I have had occasion to mention the
company, have scarcely been able to refrain from breaking out into
fierce diatribes against that complicated, 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 splendour 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 Bundelcund Bank which we now have to recordQ.
was one only of many similar schemes ending in ruin. About thetime when Thomas Newcome was chaired as Member of Parliament
for the borough of which he bore the name, the great Indian merchant
who was at the head of the Bundelcund 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 Herkaru to
the Pall Mall Gazette the most astounding descriptions of those
Asiatic Nights' Entertainments, of which the very grandest was to^
come off on the night when cholera seized Rummun Loll in its grip?
There was to have been a masquerade outvying all European masquerades in splendour. 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 borrowed money at fearful interest from the B. B. C.
and other banking companies, in order to appear with befitting splendour as knights and noblemen of Henrietta Maria's Court (Henrietta:
Maria, wife of Hastings Hicks, Esq., Sudder Dewanee Adawlut), or
as princes and warriors surrounding the palanquin of Lallah Rookh
(the lovely wife of Hon. Cornwallis Bobus, Member of Council): all
these splendours were there. As carriage after carriage drove up from
Calcutta, they were met at Rummun Loll's. gate by ghastly weeping
servants, who announced their master's decease.
On the next day the Bank at Calcutta was closed, and the day




THE NE WCO.MES.                      693
after, when heavy bills were presented which must be paid, although
iby 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 lakhs then immediately due,
and sixty days afterwards the shutters were closed at No. I75, Lothbury, the London offices of the B. B. C. of India, and 35,000ooo. worth,of their bills refused by their agents, Messrs. Baines, Jolly & Co., of
Fog Court.
When the accounts of that ghastly bankruptcy arrived from
CEalcutta, it was found, of course, that the merchant prince Rummun
Loll owed the B. B. C. twenty-five lakhs of rupees, the value of which
-was scarcely even represented by his respectable signature. It was,found that one of the auditors of the bank, the generally esteemed
Charley Condor (a capital fellow, famous for his good dinners and foi
playing low-comedy characters at the Chowringhee Theatre,) was
indebted to the bank in 9o,ooo0.; and also it was discovered that the
revered Baptist Bellman, Chief Registrar of the Calcutta Tape and
Sealing-Wax Office (a most valuable and powerful amateur preacher
who had converted two natives, and whose serious soire6s were:thronged at Calcutta,) had helped himself to 73,0001. 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 guardian of the children of his widowed sister,
Mrs. Colonel Green, had sold the whole of the late Colonel's property,out of Company's paper and invested it in the bank, which gave a
-high interest, and with bills of which, drawn upon their London corre-.spondents, he had accommodated Mrs. Colonel Green when she took'her departure for Europe with her numerous little family on board the
a4 Burrumpooter."
And now you have the explanation of the title of this chapter, and
know wherefore Thomas Newcome never sat in Parliament. 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 gentlemen with their hats on are
walking about the drawing-rooms, peering into the bed-rooms, weigh-:ing and poising the poor old silver cocoa-nut tree, eyeing the plate and
crystal, thumbing the damask of the curtains, and inspecting ottomans,,mirrors, 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,




694                 THE NE WCOMVES.
and a camel trunk or two which have accompanied him on many anm
Indian march, and his old regulation sword, and that one which the
native officers of his regiment 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 proceedings to us with eyes
full of tears. ".A fellow laughed at me," says 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 Clive-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.




THE NE. CO MES                     695
CHAPTER LXXI.
IN WHICH MRS. CLIVE NEWCOME'S CARRIAGE IS ORDERED.
ALL the friends of the Newcome 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 Newcome's property was involved in the common 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 Letake himself, when the melancholy proceedings
consequent on the bankruptcy were brought to an end. It was shown
that he had been egregiously duped in the transaction; 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 Bayham was the only person whom he admitted. Fred always faithfully insisted upon attending him in and
out of court. J. J. came to me immediately 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 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 lodgings 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; but he would not-though she owned she




696                 THE E.WCOAi0E S.
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, saying 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.
"C 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. " 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 certificate. He passed very different comments on the conduct of
the Manager of the Bank, when that person appeared for examination.
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. imagined,
was the thought that he had been the means of inducing 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 Mr. Smee, R.A., and two or three
Indian officers, friends of his own, who had entered into the speculation on his recommendation. 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 his own
emotion. But what moved the Colonel most of all, was a letter which
came at this time from Honeyman in India, saying that he was doing
well-that of course he knew of his benefactor's misfortune, and that
he sent a remittance which, D. V., should be annual, in payment of his
debt to the Colonel, and his good sister at Brighton. " On receipt of
this letter," said F. B., "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




THE NE TVCOMffEY.                   697
said,' I thank my God Almighty for this!' and he sent the cheque off:to Miss Honeyman by the post that night, sir, every shilling of it; and
he passed his old arm under mine; and we went out to Tom's CoffeeHouse, 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 a Monday morning that those melancholy shutters were
seen over the offices of the Bundelcund Bank in Lothbury, which were
lnot 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 gallant 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, otherwise 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. He had spent it, as usual, in his studio, boudJ
by 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 latest 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 Pall Mall
azetlle of last weeks out of that paper with the droll title, the Bengal
Jflurkarz, 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." " 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 looking on with the melancholy and silent acquies-.cence which had, of late, been his part in the household. The carriage
was announced-the ladies came down-pretty capotes on —the lovely
Campaigner, Goby vowed, looking as young and as handsome as her
daughter, by Jove,-and the hall-door was opened to admit the two




-698                 THE  VE WCOMJEDS.
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, expressedto 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 retire, who was lingering
about the room and sideboard, and only 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 tablecloth with her fan. " Something has happened,
my love," the Colonel said very sadly; "you must show all your
strength of mind, for a great misfortune 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 con.
firmation of the news by the last mail, Clivy my boy."




TIE N.VE T'VCOMlfES.                 t99
"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, mamma, mamma!" 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 thecalamity 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 sacrificed, 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 whom, and she commanded Colonel
Newcome upon that instant, if he was, as he always pretended to be,
an honourable man, to give an account of her blessed darling's pro*.
perty, 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 upstairs, 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 utterance
of mamma's sermon, so loudly that Clive 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 upstairs, 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




700                 THE NE WCOMES.
poor Colonel with a groan of despair-the widow's storm continued,
and above that howling tempest of words rose Mrs. Clive'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 Newcome 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
creditors' benefit; and that his daughter had best immediately leave a
home where she would be certainly subject to humiliation and annoy-ance. " I would have Clive, my boy, take you out of the country, and
-and return to 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. " I
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 encouraged 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
mnow passed, to an extreme terror and desire for instantaneous flight.
They would go that moment-they would wrap that blessed child,up in its shawls-and nurse should take it anywhere-anywhere, poor
ineglected 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
vworld. If my Mack was here, you never had dared to have done this,
Colonel Newcome-no, never. He had his faults-Mackenzie. hadbut he would never have robbed his own children! Come away,




THE INE WI COYES.                   701
Rosey, my blessed love, come let us pack your things, and let usa
go and hide our heads in sorrow somewhere. Ah! didn't I tell you tobeware of all tainters, 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 inl
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 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 prosperity.
" 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 awaySi celeres quatit lennas, you remember what we used to say at Grey
Friars-resigno quce dedit, et imea virtuze me involvo, Probamqusn:azuPeriem sine dole qucero." 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 yhen we sat together and talked of
dear old days.
Thomas Newcome explained to his son the plan which, to his
mind, as he came away from the City after the day's misfortunes, 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 honour," 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.




)02                 THE NE WCOMES.
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 halfyear's dividend, for which you will give an order, please, to Sherrick.
He has been very kind and good, Sherrick. All the servants were
providentially paid last week-there are only the outstanding week's
bills out-we shall manage to meet those, I daresay. 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 compa.ny 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 Bundelcund Banking Company has stopped payment in
India, and our branch here must stop on Monday. -Thank my friends
downstairs 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 thd 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 daresay, round those cheerless nuptial chambers with all their
gaudy fittings; the fine looking-glasses, in which poor Rosey's little
person had been reflected; the silken curtains under which he had
lain by the poor child's side, wakeful 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




2WIE NE WCOMVES.                     703
-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.
"You will take nothing with you, Rosey, but what is strictly necessary. —only two or three of your plainest dresses, and ~what is required for:the boy. What is in this trunk?"  Mrs. Mackenzie stepped forward
and declared, and the nurse vowed upon her honour, and the lady'sImaid asserted really now upon her honour 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. Mackenzie'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 summons, 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 favourite 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, had 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 thle maids
and the mistresses vWas 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 suddenly,
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 tea



704                 THE NE WCOMES.
spoons, baby's gold coral, and a costly crimson velvet-bound copy of
the Hon. Miss Grimstone's 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 bidden to
put his horses to again, and for the last time poor Rosey Newcome
sate in her own carriage, to which the Colonel conducted her with his
courtly old bow, kissing the baby as it slept once more unconsciousin its nurse's embrace, and bestowing a very grave and polite parting
salute upon the Campaigner.
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 honourably; and that a gentle one might
be dealt to those beloved beings for whom his life had been sacrificed
in vain.




THE NE WCOMES.                       7C5
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 never knew man
more mortified than the affectionate J. J., when two of these unlucky
pieces were rejected by the committee 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-five 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 expressions of sincere gratitude,
at the same time begging him directly to forward the money, with our
old friend Thomas Newcome's love, to Mrs. Sarah Mason, at Newcome. 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 Newcome's finances, and hoped that, after
giving up every shilling of his property which was confiscated to the
creditors of the Bank, he had still, from his retiring pension and
military allowances, at least enough reputably 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




/o0                 THE NE WCOiM'.ES.
terribly, he informed me, by Lord Levapnt's insolvency, having had
large money transactions with his lordship. "There's none of them
so good as old Newcome," Mr. Sherrick said with a sigh.'"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 comfortable now. Why dict
he sell away that annuity, Mr. Pendennis? 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 Newcome 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-youz 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,' 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 honour; 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 thle old cock's
money-but it's gone-that and ever so much more-and Lady
Whittlesea'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 Newcome were confirmed. Should
we confer with his wealthy family respecting the Colonel's impoverished
condition? Was his brother Hobson Newcome 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 quondam former friend,
Mr. Higg-who formally declared against Sir Barnes-and who drove
him finally out of the representation of Newcome. From this gentleman it was vain of course for Colonel Newcome'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




THE NE WCOMES.                     707,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 coasts from their windows upon any clear day. Boulogne
was their present abiding place-refuge of how many thousands of,other unfortunate Britons-and to this friendly port I betook myself:speedily, having the address of Colonel Newcome. His quarters 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
ithe bell, but the good-natured French domestic of a neighbouring
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 news-.paper 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
had 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 not.many of them now; Boy and I come and sit here for hours every day.




7o8                 THE NEW COMES.
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 walk 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 timeto return, or Madame would scold.
"Mrs. Mackenzie has rather a short temper," the Colonel said,.
with a gentle smile. " Poor thing, she has had a great deal to bear
in consequence, Pen, of my imprudence. I 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 wasunder the domination 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 yourgenerous bounties in old days. Look, sir, I wear the watch wihich
you gave me when you went to India. Did you not. tell me then tolook 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, thoughthough —he did not finish this sentence, but I could interpret it
without need of its completion. My,wife and the two. ladies of'
Colonel Newcome's family never could be friends, 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.




TEE NE WCOdES.                      709
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 had been compelled
to borrow. How could he do otherwise than meet his engagements?
Thank God, he had Clive's full approval for what he had done-had
communicated the circumstance to his son almost immediately after it:.took place, and that was a comfort to him-an immense comfort.
"For the women are very angry," said the poor Colonel; "you see
they do not understand the laws of honour, 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 favour. 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, only I wish my little girl did not side
with hler mother so entirely, for the loss of her affection gives me pain."
So it was as 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 youand I remember," I added with a laugh, " certain battles royal which
Clive 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 all be so much happier apart? "
"She has a 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 every shilling of Rosey's I7,o0oo., God help me, and with
1,5oo of her mother's. They put their little means together, and they
keep us-me and Clive. 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 251. 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
ecars, 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 Clive-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."




710       o         THE NE W COMES.
I was determined, in spite of prohibitions and Campaigners, to see
my old friend Clive, and insisted on walking back with the Colonel toc
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 whicis
they were reduced: this phrase was uttered with particular emphasis
and a significant 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:
company with that woman, but I wanted to see my dear old Clive, and
gladly accepted his valuable mother-in-law's not disinterested hospitality. She beckoned the Colonel aside; whispered to him, putting.
something into his hand; 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 eagerness 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 tenderness and in the lap of luxurybrought up with every delicacy and 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 herShe was in delicate health-very delicate-ordered cod-liver oil by the
doctor. Heaven knows how he could be paid for those expensive
medicines out of the pittance to which the imnprudence-the most
culpable and designing imprudence, and extravagance, 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. Mackenzie rapidly whispered to me that she knew I had a good
heart-that I had been blessed by Providence with a fine fortune,
which I knew how to keep better than same folks —and 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 contralry"-if I proposed to give'




TIIE NE WCOMES.                      xi
them relief, which was most needful-and for.which a moher'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 belabour me at dinner, so choked and'disgusted me, that I could
hardly swallow the meal, though my poor old friend had been sent out
to purchase a pgtd from the pastrycook'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 conversation, and proposed not to leave me for five
minutes alone with the Colonel, I took leave rather speedily of my
entertainers, leaving a message for Clive, and a Frayer that he would
come and see me at my hotel.




712 I  THEe  NE WCO,1MES.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
IN WHICH BELISARIUS RETURNS FROM EXILE.
J 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, and
which led him to acquiesce in most wishes of his good father, the
young man had gratified the darling desire of the Colonel's heart, and
had 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 Clive, 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 commanded 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 unfortunately —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 honeymoon
had scarce waned, and he and his family sat at home in state and
splendour 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




THE NtEWCOMffES.                    713
each morsel which his poor old father ate-when a vulgar, coarseminded woman pursued with brutal sarcasm and deadly rancour one
of the tenderest and noblest gentlemen in the world-when an ailing
wife, always under some one's domination, received him with helpless
hysterical 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 tyrannise over these
two wretched men! He had never heard the last of that money which
they had sent to Mrs. Mason, Clive said. When the knowledge of the
fact came to the Campaigner's ears, she raised such a storm as almost
killed the poor Colonel, 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 hystericsshe took the outlawed parson to whose church they went, and the
choice society of bankrupt captains, captains' ladies, fugitive stockbrokers' wives, and dingy frequenters of billiard-rooms, and refugees
from the Bench, into her counsels; 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, would 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 gaol, ordered her
son to cut Clive; 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 splendour,
and kindness and honour; this the reward of a noble heart-the tomb
and prison of a gallant warrior who had ridden in twenty battleswhose 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




7J4                 THE NEWCO0MES.
— 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 keenky share. He wondered the old man lived, Clive said. Some'
of the women's taunts and jibes, 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
concern himself; but these reproaches of Mrs. Mackenzie, and some
things which were said to him in the Bankruptcy Court, by one or twos
widows of old friends, who were induced through 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 picture-dealers-pawnbrokers-Jews-Moss, whom you may
remember at Gandish's, and who gave me, for forty-two drawings, I8l.
I brought the money back to Boulogne. It was enough to pay the
doctor, and bury our last poor little dead baby. Tenez, Pen, you must
give me some supper: I have had nothing all day but a ~jain 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 down Hanway Yard. I tried, and I
could not ask him, and I got the I8/. 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 party
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




THE JNE WCOMVES.                       71 i
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 were none-at least none of his, or his father'sr
contracting. " If we were too proud to borrow, and I think we were
wrong, Pen, my dear old boy-I think we were wrong now-at least,
we were too proud to owe. My colourman 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 hastaken a chateau here, and has two flunkies in livery. He has four
daughters, who take advantage of the lessons, and screws ten per cent.
upon the poor colourman'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
outright if poor old Sarah Mason did not get her 5ol. 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 meagredinner at three o'clock, to which I had been invited by the Campaigner; and it was midnight when I walked back with my friend tohis house in the upper town; and all the stars of heaven were shining
cheerily; 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 excellent " Htel
des Bains," it appeared that this town of Boulogne 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 helphim. 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
spacious old house in Queen's Square, Westminster,, where there was,
plenty of room for father and son.  I knew that Laura would bedelighted 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
* I did not know at the time that Mrs. Mackenzie had taken entire superintendence of the family treasury-and that this exemplary woman was putting:
away, as she had done previously, sundry little sums to meet rainy days.




.76                STHE NE WCOMES.
did not breakfast next day until an hour before noon. I had the
coffee-room to myself by chance, and my meal was not yet ended
when the waiter announced a lady to visit Mr. Pendennis, and Mrs.
Mackenzie made her appearance. No signs of care or poverty were
visible in the attire or countenance of the buxom widow. A handsome
bonnet, decorated within with a profusion of poppies, bluebells, and
ears of corn; a jewel on her forehead, not costly, but splendid in
appearance, and glittering artfully over that central spot from which
her wavy chestnut hair 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 glittering
fXings, and a very splendid gold watch and chain, which I remembered,in former days as hanging round poor Rosey's 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 accueil of this lady. She
paid me many handsome compliments about my literary works-.asked most affectionately for dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear chil~dren-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.
I knew what bitter reasons she had to dislike the name of Thomas
Newcome.
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
zfinally their present pressing need. The doctors, the burial, Rosey's
delicate condition, the cost of sweetbreads, calf's-foot jelly, and codliver 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 previous 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, and 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.




THE NE WCOMES.                       717
This direct thrust I gently and smilingly parried by asking Mrs.
Mackenzie whether she supposed a gentleman who had 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 trepidation, the
plan which I had been making overnight; to explain how I thought
that Clive's great talents were wasted at Boulogne, 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 done 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 ofconsiderable 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,
&c.'&c. &c.
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 invitation, 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 both my
plans. I was uncommonly kind, she was sure, to interest myself about
the two gentlemen, and for her blessed Rosey's sake, a fond mother




718                  THE NVE VCO.MES.
thanked me. It was most advisable that Clive should earn some
money by that horrid profession 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
honour to introduce me by name to several dingy acquaintances whom
we met sauntering up the street, and imparting 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 gratitude being pointed out to Rosey, she acquiesced in it straightway-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 possession 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 gentleman 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 mustachio, 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 person,
Pendennis," the Colonel said, with much gravity.
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




THE NEWCOMES.                       719
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 placing it,
the kind shaking hand, on my shoulder. "What is it, Arthur-my
dear boy?" he said, looking wistfully in my face. "No bad news
from home, my 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 commands from
Laura to bring him for a while to stay with us, and, to settle his
business, which I was sure had been wofully mismanaged, and to see
wrhether 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 Boulogne,
where Rosey would miss him-he was sure she would want himbut before the ladies of his family, to whom we presently returned,
Thomas Newcome's resolution was quickly recalled. He agreed to
go, and Clive coming in at this time was 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, trembling,
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."




720                  TITE NE WCOMES.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
IN WHICH CLIVE BEGINS THE WORLD.
E are ending our history, and yet poor Clive is but beginning
WV V the world. He has to earn the bread which he eats henceforth; and, as I saw his labours, his trials, and his disappointments,
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 disappointments 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,
antechambers 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, horses,
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 humour hypochondriacs, to practise a score of
little subsidiary arts in order to make that of healing profitable.
How many many hundreds of pounds has a barrister to sink upon his.
stock in trade before his returns are available? 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 expenses, all to be defrayed before the possible client
makes his appearance, and the chance of fame or competency arrives.
The prizes are great, to be sure, in the law, but what a prodigious sum
the lottery-ticket costs! If a man of letters cannot win, neither does




THE  VE WCOMFES.                     7 21
he risk so much. Let us speak of our trade as we find it, and not be
too eager in calling out for public compassion.
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
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 servant 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, seeing 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
Newcome, one of the proudest men alive, chose to revolt and to be
restive at almost every stage of his training. He had a natural genius
for his art, and had acquired in his desultory 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 browbeat Clive
most fiercely, before he would take fitting lodgings for the execution
of those designs which we had in view for him. " Why 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 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 a 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 printseller in Long Acre who buys my drawings, one with another, at four46




7_22                 iHE NE VCOM2'ES.
teen 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 paperthe 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 Newcome's conversation as he strode up and
down our room after dinner, pulling his mustachio, and dashing his
long yellow hair off 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 behaviour 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 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 letters, 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 having
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.




THE NE WCOMES.                       723
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 extraordinarily 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 knicknacks of his own contriving; 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 astonishing what notice Boy already took of pictures.
lie would have all the genius of his father. Would he had had a
better grandfather than the foolish old man who had ruined all,belonging 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, pleasure, 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 seldom to
Lamb Court, where my dear old friend Warrington still sat in his old
chambers, though our meetings were none the 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 singular and unfortunate in having made no friends. Many
such a reasonable mortal cannot have: our nature, I think, not sufficing
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 friendships, 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,




724                 THE NE WCOMES.
and to do kind offices and devise untiring charities:-so, I would have
you to know, that though Mr. Pendennis was j5arcus suorum cullor el
infrequens, Mrs. Laura found plenty of time to go from Westminster
to Bloomsbury; 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 kindnessbestowing love and followed by blessings. Which would I have,
think you: that priceless crown hymeneal, or the glory of a Tenth:
Edition?
Clive and his father had found not only a model friend in the ladyabove mentioned, but a perfect prize landlady in their'happy lodgings..
In her house, besides those apartments which Mr. Newcome had
originally engaged, were rooms just sufficient to accommodate his wifel
child, and servant, when they should come to him, with a very snug
little upper chamber for the Colonel, close by Boy's nursery, where heliked best to be. " And 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-.
possible. After all, my dear Pen, you know he is married to Rosey
and not to her mamma; and so I think it will be quite best that they
shall have their manage as before."
The cheapness of the lodgings which the prize landlady let, thequantity of neat new furniture which she put in, the consultations which
she had with my wife regarding these supplies, 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 Rosey return to her husband. Every 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,.




'THE NEWCO-MES.                      725
Clive thought far more humbly of his compositions 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 patronRidley, 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 generous 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 remarked that.he seemed still to hesitate about bringing his wife to London.
Upon this Mr. Pendennis observed that some gentlemen were not
Q;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, "Nonsense, for shame,
Arthur! How can you speak so flippantly? Did he not swear before
Heaven to love and cherish her, never to leave her, sir? Is not. his.dzty his duty, sir?" (a most emphatic stamp of the foot.) " 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.RHowland 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 dear?,and we could then have the benefit of the garrison anecdotes and mess
jocularities of your favourite, Captain Goby?"
" I could never bear the horrid man!" cried Mrs. Pendennis. And
how can I tell why she disliked him?
Everything 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 neighbourhood,
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 allegiance 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




726                  THE NE EWCO-MES.
her, say, the half of his wife's income of IOOl 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 or 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 he was by young and old thereand 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 50o. a year to
Mrs. Mackenzie; 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 Newcomebut 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 faithful to him-Miss,
Cann, namely, and honest little Miss Honeyman of Brighton, who,
when she heard of the return to London of her nephew and brother-inlaw, 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 asa babyshe gave them both to understand that she had a little sum at her
bankers' at their disposal-and besought the Colonel to remember 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 honour
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 Newcomies;- for Miss Ethel and her family




THE NrE WCOyMES.                    727
have come to me every year for months, and I 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 hundred 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 continental 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 i-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 breakfast when the fire was opened on both
sides; cried at dinner when fierce assaults took place, in which Clive
had the advantage; 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,




728                 THE.iNE WCOMES.
she never would-no, never! Was not dear Rosey's health already
impaired by the various shocks which she had undergone? 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!) 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 eyesembraces rapidly clutched - laughs - stamps - snorts - from the
dishevelled Campaigner; grinding teeth —livid fury and repeated
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




THE NE WCOM.IES                      729
CHAPTER LXXV.
FOUNDER'S DAY AT GREY FRIARS.'R OSEY 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 tallied over by our little
set. Warrington and F. B. knew of his unhappiness. We three had
strongly opined that the women being together at Boulogne, should:stay there and live there, Clive sending them over pecuniary -aid as his
means permitted. " 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
aln 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 arguments 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 protection; and who should be her natural guardian
save her husband? 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, comfort her, honour her, and keep her in sickness and health?"
"To keep her, yes-but not to keep the Campaigner," cries Mr.
Pendennis. " It is a moral bigamy, Laura, which you advocate, 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 fervour. She agreed
with us that it was a hard lot for Clive to bear. So much the nobler




730                  THE NE WCOMES.
the task, and the fulfilment 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 humour 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 toi
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. " 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 shan'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. Mack." 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. " Temporary! " 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 that worlds would induce
me to stay in a house where I have received such treatmesnt-where,.
after I and my daughter had been robbed of every shilling of our
fortune, we are daily 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 arrange



THE NIE WCOMES.                      73 
ments. It was for this I took the liberty of calling upon 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 afterwards, 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 himn
to think that in happier days and during many years he had been.
enabled to benefit his kind and excellent 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 greatest 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 honour,.
fate decreed poverty, disappointment, 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
meekly, and our evil days, if they should come, with such a resignation
as this good Christian showed.
I forgot to say that our attempts to better Thomas Newcome'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. "Alh! what a good man that is," says Mr. Sherrick with tearsin his eyes, " what a noble fellow, sir. He would die rather than not
pay every farthing 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; by Jove I honour 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 countenance, 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 tole.




732                   THE NE WCOzVES.
Trably well; he had work, scantily paid, it is true, but work sufficient.
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 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 passages,,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 I2th of December, the
Founder's Day, the head gown-boy shall recite a Latin oration, in
praise Fndatoris Nostri, 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 honour. The
boys are already in their seats, with smug fresh. faces, and shining
white collars; the old black-gowned pensioners are on their benches;
-the chapel is lighted, and Founder's Tomb, with its grotesquie carvings,




THE NE WCOMES.                       733
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 blackgowns. Is Codd Ajax alive, you.
wonder?-the Cistercian lads called these old gentlemen Codds, I
know not wherefore-I know not wherefore-but is old Codd Ajax
alive I wonder? or Codd Soldier? or kind old Codd Gentleman, or
has the grave closed over them? A plenty of candles light 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 bygone 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 hear23. 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 bread.
As we came to this verse, I chanced to look up from my book
towards the swarm of black-coated pensioners: and amongst themamongst them-sate 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 almshouse! Here it was ordained that a
life all love, and kindness, and honour, should end! I heard no more
of prayers, and psalms, and sermon, after that. How dared I to be in




734                  THE AE WCOMES.
a place of mark, and he, he yonder among the poor? Oh, pardon,
you noble soul! I ask forgiveness of you for 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 dear,
dear old friend! I ran to him with a warmth and eagerness of
recognition which no doubt showed themselves 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,
wvhen we came to see the old Grey Friars, and visited Captain Scarsdale in his room? —a poor brother like me —an old Peninsular man.
Scarsdale is gone now, sir, and is where the' wicked 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 fellow 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; you
-have always been 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
buildingrtowards 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
drawing of his grandson by Clive.
" You may come and see me here, sir, whenever you like, and 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 nme an example.




THE NE WCOMES.                      735
"That which had caused him most grief and pain," he said, "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.
"4 Mrs. Mackenzie for months past, by her complaints, and-and her
conduct, has made my son and me so miserable-that 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 heaven knows it was myself I deceived. She has great
influence over Rosey. Very few persons can resist that -violent and
headstrong 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
misfortunes, of course-and showed himself most noble and liberal in
his offers of help. I was very much touched by his goodness, 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 downstairs over our bottle of claret-where my old commander-in-chief
would not hear of my plan-we went upstairs 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




7 35                THE NE WC OMES.
paid away every rupee to the creditors, and mortgaged my pensions
and retiring allowances for the same end, that I was a burden upon
Clivy, 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 honourable asylum which my friend could procure 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 she passed for being very
proud and haughty in India-so wrongly are people judged. AndLord 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 hzad 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. I 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 evening, 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 occupation, raid 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 anxious 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.




THE NE WCOMlES.                     737
"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 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 beautiful psalm, Pen, and those verses which you
were reading when you saw him, especially beautiful."
"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,-" and this one, of course,
is included," and thus the discussion closed.
I then fell to a description of Howland Street, and poor Clive,.
whom I had found there over his work. A dubious maid scanned
my appearance rather eagerly when 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,.
" 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 a 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,
47




738                 THE  NE JCOMES.
the wretched father stops in some indifferent speech he was trying to
make. " I can't help myself," he groans out; " 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 calls out,
and dashes upstairs.
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 dut of the Campaigner's hands, with which, and a
flushed face, he presently rushes downstairs, 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 endeavours. " Oh,
you silly papa!" laughs Tommy, too.
The door is flung open, and the red-faced Campaigner appears.
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 appearance. 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. Pendennis!"  She
starts, perceiving me for the first time, and her breast 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?




TEJE NEW, COMES.                     739
CHAPTER LXXVI.
CHRISTMAS AT ROSEBURY.
WV  E have known our friend Florac 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 Florac might sign himself Duc
d'Ivry 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 Florac 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; and, indeed, henceforth laid aside his
splendid attire and his allures as a young man. His waist expanded,
or was no longer confined 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 grey. "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 neighbouring Catholic
chapel at C —- Castle. We had an ecclesiastic or two to dine
with us at Rosebury, one of whom I am inclined to think was Florac's
director.
A reason, perhaps, for Paul's altered demeanour 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 Florac could not have been treated with more profound
courtesy than she now received from her son. I think the humbleminded 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 vigour. As a
man of pleasure, for instance, what more active roud than he? As




740o                CTHE NE WCO0MES.
a jeune hommne, who could be younger, and for a longer time? As a..
country gentleman, or an homme d'a7faires, he insisted upon dressing:
each character with the most rigid accuracy, and an exactitude that
reminded one somewhat of Bouff6, or Ferville, at the play. I wonderwhether, 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 sentiments, but he imparted them to his friends freely, as,
his wont was. He used to weep freely,-quite unrestrained by the
presence of the. domestics, as English sentiment would be; and whenMadame de Florac 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, endeavour 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 theevents which I am at present narrating: my wife, through our kind
friend, Colonel Newcome, had also had the honour of an introduction
to Madame de Florac at Paris; and, on coming to Rosebury for the
Christmas holidays, I found Laura and the children greatly in favour
with the good Countess. She treated her sonfs wife with a perfect
though distant courtesy. She was thankful to Madame de Montcontour.for the latter's great goodness to her son. Familiar with but very few
persons, she could scarcely be intimate with her homely daughter-inlaw. Madame de Montcontour stood in the greatest awe of her; and,.
to do that good lady justice, admired and reverenced Paul's mother
with all her simple heart. In truth, I think almost every one had a.
certain awe of Madame de Florac, 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 demeanour then, nay, her looks and ways at other times;,.-a certain 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; in the affairs.
of the common~ world only a dignified acquiescence, as if her place
was not in it, and her thoughts were in her Home elsewhere;-these
qualities, which we had seen exemplified in another life, Laura and her
husband watched in Madame de Florac, and we loved her because she
was like our mother, I see in such women-the good and pure, the




TItE ArE   VCO.IfES.                 74r
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 favourite. A bond of extreme tenderness 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 how Clive 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 farther 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 assist-.ance. 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 friends), in a kind but very cold letter, had declined to be
beholden to his niece for help.
So I may have remained some days at Rosebury, and the real
position of the two Newcomes was unknown to our friends there,
Christmas Eve was come, and, according to a long-standing promise,
Ethel Newcome 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. Florac did his best to welcome his friends, and strove to




742                 THE NE WCOMi7ES.
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 beautiful.:
though winter was there.
It was only a family meeting, Madame de Florac's widowhood not:
permitting her presence in large companies. Paul sate at his table,
between his mother and Mrs. Pendennis; Mr. Pendennis opposite to,
him, with Ethel and Madame de Montcontour on each side. The fourchildren were placed between these personages, on whom Madame de
Florac looked with her tender glances, and to whose little wants thekindest 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?" hesaid, 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. No mamma oraunt 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 lateto dinner, at all the kindly amusements of the day, at the holly and
mistletoe clustering round the lamps-the mistletoe, under which thegallant Florac, skilled in all British usages, vowed he would have hisprivilege. But the mistletoe was clustered round the lamp, the lampP
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-humour, our host at the:
dessert made us des speechl. 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,'appy as writer of works destined 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 guardianswere about to retreat, when Florac said he had yet a speech, yet a,
toast-and 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 mbre, 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,




THE NE WCOMES.                         743;
need I say what happened to her? When the ladies went away my
heart was opened to my friend Florac, 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 jpreux chevalier, ce parfait gentilhomme!
In a hundred rapid exclamations Florac exhibited his sympathy,
asking of Fate, why such men as he and I were sitting surrounded by
splendours-before golden vases —crowned with flowers-with valets
to kiss our feet-(these were merely figures of speech in which Paul
expressed 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 Florac 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 Florac's, nor his mother's, that the Colonel demeaned himself at
all by accepting that bounty; and I recollect Warrington sharing our
sentiment and trolling out those noble lines of the old poet:" His golden locks Time hath to silver 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 roots, and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
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 degradation to their family. Mrs.
Hobson Newcome, 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 hurnmiiation, this dreadful trial
for the Newcome family, as a warning to them all that they should not




744                 THE NAE WCOYMES.
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
e'rors had confirmed, —the vanity of trusting in all earthly grandeurs!
Thus it was this worthy woman plumed herself, as it were; on her
relatives' misfortunes; and was pleased to think the latter were designed for the special warning and advantage of her private family.
But Mrs. 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 Newcomes.
My talk with Florac 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 festival was over, and had ended
in melancholy-even in weeping. Our hostess sat in her accustomed
seat by her lamp and her work-table; but neglecting her needle, she
was having perpetual recourse to her pocket-handkerchief, and uttering
ejaculations of pity between the intervals of her gushes of tears.
Madame de Florac was in her usual place, her head cast downwards,
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
usadness in Ethel's pale face. Miss Newcome's carriage had been
announced; the attendants had already carried the young ones asleep
to the vehicle; and she was in the act of taking leave. We looked
round at this disturbed party, guessing very likely what the subject of
their talk had been, to which, however, Miss Ethel did not allude;
but, 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 Florac 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 Florac's voice without, crying, "Adieu!" and the wheels of
Miss Newcome's carriage as it drove away.
Our host entered a moment afterwards; and remarkihg, 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




THE NE WT-COIES.                     745
>friend I ever had in the world, Paul," she said; "the first and the best.
He shall not want, shall he, my son?"
No signs of that emotion in which her daughter-in-law had been
indulging were as yet visible in Madame de Florac'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 her, 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 Florac 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 mathematics 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 for.ever talking of India, and the famous deeds of Clive and Lawrence.
His favourite book was a history of India —the " History" of Orme.
" He read it, and I read it also, my daughter," the French lady said,
turning to Ethel; " ah! I may say so after so many years."
Ethel remembered the book as belonging to her grandmother, and
-now in the library at Newcome. Doubtless the same sympathy which
caused me to speak about Thomas Newcome that evening, impelled
my wife likewise. She told her friends, as I had told Florac, all the
Colonel's story; and it was while these good women were under the
impression of the melancholy history, that Florac and his guest found
*them.
Retired to our rooms, Laura and I talked on the same subject
until the clock tolled Christmas, and the neighbouring 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 all those we loved, a blessing of peace
and good-will.




746                 THE NVE WICOMIES.
CHAPTER LXXVII.
THE SHORTEST AND HAPPIEST IN THE WHOLE HISTORY.
N the ensuing Christmas morning I chanced to rise betimes, 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 grey 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 servant, 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 importance had brought her to Rosebury so early.
The news were 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 Florac had been
talking to us about Orme's'India,' I took the volumes from the bookcase, and found this paper. It is in my grandmother's-Mrs. Newcome's-handwriting; I know it quite well; it is dated on the very day
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 dear 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 NE WVCOMVfES                         747
"The Hermitage, March I4, 182-.
"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. Newcome 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 ~Ioo, be given to Lieutenant-Colonel.
Thomas Newcome, my step-son, whose excellent conduct for many years, and:
whose repeated acts of gallantry' in the service of his sovereign, have long
obliterated the just feelings of displeasure with which I could not but view his
early disobedience and misbehaviour, before he quitted England against my will,
and entered the military service.
" I beg you to prepare immediately a codicil to my will, providing for theabove 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 necessary 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.  "Pardon 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, ina 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 to him?  I know what the answer will be.'
"I will go to him this very day, Mr. Pendennis! I will go to mydear, 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 au




748                 THE NEW HCOM1ES.
-errand," I said, kissing her hand. How beautiful she looked! the:;generous colour rose in her face, her voice thrilled with happiness. The
music of Christmas church bells leaped up at this moment with joyful
gratulations; the face of the old house, before which we stood talking,
shone out in the morning sun.
"You will come? thank you! I must run and tell Madame de
Florac," 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 VEW COMES.                       749
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 repaired to my
own solitary residence, which presented but a dreary aspect on that
festive day, I thought I would pay Howland 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. " Hepays 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 hispictures. 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 guineas grew there. He talks the fashions.
to my mother-in-law. My poor wife hangs on every word he saysLook! There is his 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 Doctor
tripping out of his chariot; that Ladies' Delight, who has subsequently
migrated from Bloomsbury to 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! I suppose the Campaigner made a special toilette to receive
her fashionable friend, for that lady, attired in considerable splendour,




750                 THE N'EWCOMES.,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. " 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. Mackenzie, please-and
if you will have the kindness to look by the edorce' 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 Icorchi in the room.
"I want you to stay to dinner. You must'stay, Pen, please," cried
Clive; " 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 something for him. Not 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 Doctor 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 concerning the
family of the Duchess of Clackmannanshire, remembering 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 the
season which made Mrs. Mack and her son-in-law on more than,ordinarily good terms. When, turning to the Campaigner, Clive said
he wished that she could persuade me to stayto dinner, she acquiesced
graciously and at once in that proposal, and vowed that her daughter
would be delighted if I could condescend to eat their humble fare.
" It is not such a dinner as you have seen at her house, with six sidedishes, two flanks, that splendid 6pergne, and the silver dishes top and
bottom; but such as my Rosey has she offers with a willing heart,"
cries the Campaigner.
"And Tom may sit to dinner, mayn't he, grandmamma?" asks
Clive, in a humble voice.




THE ATE WCOVIES.                     75 I
" Oh, if you wish it, sir,"
"His grandfather will like to sit by him," said Clive. " I will go
tout and meet him; he comes through Guildford Street and Russell
Square," says Clive. " Will you walk) Pen?"
"Oh, pray don't let us detain you," says Mrs. Mackenzie, with a
toss of her head: and when she retreated Clive whispered that she
would not want me; for she looked to the roasting of the beef 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, walking 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 portion 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 splendours
during the entertainment, or half as many apologies to me for sitting
down to a table very different 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 Campaigner. Boy, in the
best little words he could muster, asked why grandpapa wore a black
cloak? Clive nudged my foot under the table. 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 situation ought to strengthen
herself. Poor Rosey was always in a situation.




752                 THE  NE WCOMES.
When the cloth was withdrawn, the Colonel bending his head said,
"Thank God for what we have received," so reverently, 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 hive 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 remained,
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 comfortable, and that he
was happy in it. He wished that many others of the old gentlemen)
he said, were as contented as himself, but some of them grumbled
sadly, he owned, and quarrelled with their bread and butter. He, for
his part, had everything 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 every day, 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 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, saying hemust be " in barracks " by ten; and Clive and F. B. went a part of theway with him. I would have followed them, but Clive whispered meto stay and talk to Mrs. Mack, for 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 Clive. retired to.
the studio, where smoking was allowed, and where we brought that
Christmas day to an end.
At the appointed time on the next forenoon I called upon Miss.




THE NE WCOMES,                       753
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 inquired
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, property. 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 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 old 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 so touched by the simple demeanour 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. Newcome regarding his son in India, and had even encouraged Mrs. Newcome in her idea of leaving some token of good-will to
48




,1734               T.IE NVEWCOMES,
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 Newcome 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.
"H'm! And pray why should I tell you what I should do under
the circumstances? " replied the little lawyer. " Upon my word, Miss
Newcome, 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 Newcome 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 ofof being a very warm partisan of your brother's. But candidly, were
his case mine-had I a relation who had called me unpleasant names,
and threatened me I don't know with what, with sword and pistolwho had put me to five or six thousand pounds' expense in contesting
an election which I had loft, —I should give him, I think, no more
than the law obliged me to give him; and that, my dear Miss Newcome, is not one farthing."
" I am very glad you say so," said Miss Newcome, rather to my
astonishment.
" Of course, my dear young lady; and so you need not be alaimed
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
its 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
contents."
"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 saying that he was self-for upbraiding him as I own I
did."
"You called him selfish!-You had words with him-! Such tnings
have happened before, my dear Miss Newcome, in the best-reguiated
families."




THE NE WCOMES.                       755
"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 Newcome, in the library,there, in one of my grandmother's books, I consulted with this gentle*man, 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 may be 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,
vkind, generous uncle!"-and, kindling as she spoke, and with eyes
beaming a bright kindness, and flushing 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, 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 Newcome.
Mr. Luce rose up from his old chair-his worn-out old horse-hair
chair-where he had sat for half a century and listened 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 gentleman 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?"
"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, addressed to Clive New



756                 THE NE WCOMES.
come, 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 honour to the wishes of the late Mrs. Newcome, had placed the
sum of 6,oool. at the bank of Messrs. H. W  -, at the disposal of
Mr. Clive Newcome, of whom Mr. Luce had the honour 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? "
CHAPTER LXXIX.
IN WHICH OLD FRIENDS COME TOGETHER,
7E made the ascent of Snowhill, we passed by the miry pens of
NV \/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 Newcome.
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 separated over the court,
betaking themselves to their chambers. Ethel's arm trembled under
mine as she looked at one and another, 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




THE -AE WCOMES.                      757
there; 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
Newcome 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 issued into the courts;-feeble lights illu-mining a dim, grey, melancholy old scene. Many a career, once bright,
was flickering 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, cabman, to Howland
Street!" The horse was, no doubt, tired, for the journey seemed extraordinarily long: I think neither of us spoke a word on the way.
I ran upstairs 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 communicate
with Colonel Newcome. "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 ft for ladies to hear."  Clive was growl-:ing 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




758                  THE NE WCO.VES.
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," I said, "thinkc
very differently from you; and that he is a better judge than you, or
any one else, of his own honour. We all, who loved him in his prosperity, love and respect him more than ever for the manner in which:
he bears his misfortune. Do you suppose that his noble friend, the
Earl of 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 influence. " 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 toshake 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 good child." The
torture had been too much for that kind old heart: there were times
when Thomas Newcome passed beyond it. What still maddened
Clive, excited his father no more; the pain yonder woman inflicted,
only felled and stupefied him.
As 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,




THE NVEWCOL'E-5S.                    759
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 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 tenderness
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 daresay 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 happiness 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?
XVould he kiss her?  He did so with a very good grace; but when




76o                 SETHE NE WCOMES.
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.
"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 Clive 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 Newcome, whom
people respected because she was rich, but whom she would never
visit; no, never! " An insolent, proud, impertinent thing! Does she
take me for a housemaid?" Mrs. Mackenzie had inquired. "Am  I
dust to be trampled beneath her feet? Am I a dog 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 remembered 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."
"Give 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 am to see a young
lady, sir; and she is coming to make tea for me, and I must speak to




THE NEW'COMES.                       76I
Mrs. Jones to have all things ready —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, two 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 accompanying 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 looking 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 honour," 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: 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
Bundelcund 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 Lawrence ordered the sepoys and
artillery-the sepoys and artillery to halt and defend the convoy
against the Morattoes'-Morattoes 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! there is plenty
of time now," said the good Colonel. " I have 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




762                 THE NE WCOM ES.
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! I 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; when
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 understand.
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 alcang," he whispered hurriedly.
" I should like you to be there, it will keep her tongue quiet." As we
proceeded to the dining-room, I gave the Colonel my arm; and the
good man prattled to me something about Mrs. Mackenzie haiving
taken shares in the Bundelcund 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.




THE IVE W;COIES.                    763
That apartment was occupied by little Boy already seated in his.
high chair, and by the Campaigner only, who stood at the mantelpiece 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 favour
us with his company to dinner again, Clive?" she said, turning toher 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 apoor meal, Mr. Pendennis; and one such as I am not accustomed togive 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
fist down with a thump upon the table. " Mr. Pendennis! you saw
the beef yesterday; eighteen pounds it weighed, and this is what comesup of it! As if there was not already ruin enough in the house! "
1" D- n the beef!" cries out Clive.
"No! no! Thank God for our good dinner! Benedicti 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 pzrepares 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



764                 THE NE WCOMES.
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!" says
Mrs. Mackenzie, taking her purse out.
"Pay me with them suvverings that you have got in it, wrapped up
in paper. See if she haven't, Mr. Newcome," the refractory waitingwoman 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 splendours,-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




THE NVE WrCOMIES.                    765,
silver and gold coin.  "I'm to go, am  I?  I'm  a thief, am  I?"
screamed the girl, clapping her hands. "I 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 I 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 who has spent them, and who 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 sameroof 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 kindest heart in all
the world, you fiend! and see to what a condition 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 what 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; 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 frequent
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,




'766                 THE NE WCOMES.
-" that you and your son-in-law are better apart; and I came to tell him
-to-day of a most fortunate 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 every 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 please, 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. Boy presently fell a-crying: in spite of all the battle
and fury, there was sleep in his eyes.
"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; —and the
old man, whose heart was well nigh as tender and as innocent; and
whose day wias approaching, when he should be drawn to the bosom
of the Eternal Pity.




THE NE tWCOMES.                      767
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 Campaigner 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 bed-room should be got ready for a friend who
accompanied her.
On reaching Howland Street, Clive's door was opened, 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 upstairs
-to Mrs. Newcome's apartment. Mrs. Mackenzie, in a robe-de-chambre
and cap very different from yesterday's, came out eagerly to meet the
-physician on the landing. Ere they. had been a quarter of an hour
together, arrived a cab, which discharged an elderly person with her
band-box 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 neighbouring 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




7T8                  THE NE WCOMES.
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, deserted, and would like todie. 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 resolute 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 daughter after her
own fashion, never forgot her own -vanity or passion, 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 Rosey's fine 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?
" I have to'speak to you for two minutes on important business,
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 Campaigner,
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?"




THE NE WCOCMES.                      769
Here Rosey's voice was heard from the inner apartmnent, 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 Doctor. " 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.1 apprehend, everything will go well."
" Cannot Mrs. Mackeniie leave the house, sir?" I asked.
" Her daughter cries out for her at every moment. Mrs. Mackenzie
is certainly not a judicious nurse, but in Mrs. Newcome'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 tranquillity."
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. " 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
49




770                 THE N.E WCO.MES.
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. He 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 to 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 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 Clive and Ethel seated at each end
of the bed. The poor old man within it was 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 Clive'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 Florac, our guest. Laura
immediately went away to Rosey's house to offer her services 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
iman slept in our nursery that night, and was at play with our young
o'ies on the morrow —happy and unconscious of the fate impending
over his home.
Yet two more days passed, and I had to take two advertisements




THE  VE W1 /f.VME S.                 771
to The Times newspaper on the part of poor Clive. Among the
announcements of Births was printed, " On the 28th, in -Howland
Street, Mrs. Clive 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 day,
and pined, and withered, and perished. There was only one friend
by Clive'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 daresay 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 separated
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 strid-ing 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
property 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 fire-side. The
season was extremely bitter, the chamber which he inhabited was




772                 THE NE WCOOMES.
warm and spacious; it was considered 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, came 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
his customary attendant, he had two dear and watchful nurses, who
were almost always with him-Ethel and Madame de Florac, 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 Colonel."  "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 Florac, at
which time, his memory appeared to awaken with surprising vividness,




THE NE WCO VES.                     773
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 careworn face. At such times he called her by her Christian
name of Ldonore; he addressed courtly old words of regard and kindness to the aged lady; anon he wandered in his talk, and spoke to her
as if 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 circumstance, 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 terror: 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 moie
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 honoured hand, though his sister bore
her uncle's message to him. They came often from Bryanston 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 honoured 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 errors, let us hope, shall be pardoned, quia muzltum 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 awestricken face: and then gathered courage, and tried to amuse him by
telling him how it was a half-holiday, and they were having a cricketmatch with the St. Peter's boys in the green, and Grey Friars was in
and 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




774                 THE NE WCOiMES.
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. I, curre, little white-haired gown-boy! Heaven speed
you, little friend.
After the child had gone, Thomas Newcome began to wander 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 Florac was
there, with my wife and Bayham.
At the look in the woman's countenance Madame de Florac 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 Florac, who was still kneeling; "and just now he said he
wanted Pendenn"- 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 heartrending voice he called out,
"LUonore, Leonore!"  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 Newcome's hands outside the bea 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;
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 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




THE N-E WCOMES.                       775
rather sad heart, Pendennis 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 glimmering?
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 Eurydice, 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 monstrous 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, handsome, 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 follow it? J. J.'s
history, let me confidentially state, has been revealed to me too, and
may be told some of these fine summer months, or Christmas evenings,
when the kind reader has leisure to hear.
What about Sir Barnes Newcome ultimately?  My impression 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 tc little Tommy. I should not be




776                 THE NE WCOMES.
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 tpropos (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 Farintosh the next
week?)-annoying folks are got out of the way; 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; belabours wicked backs with
awful blows, which do not hurt; endows heroines with preternatural
beauty, and creates heroes, who, if ugly sometimes, yet possess a
thousand good qualities, and usually end by being immensely rich;
makes the hero and heroine happy at last, and happy ever after. 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 fare
well with a kind heart.
PARIS, 28 [UNE, 1855.
THE END.
Printed by William Moore & Co.