The Newcomes

  Lady Kew bids her daughter take a pen and write:--"Monsieur le Mauvais

  Sujet,--Gentlemen who wish to take the sea air in private, or to avoid

  their relations, had best go to other places than Brighton, where their

  names are printed in the newspapers. If you are not drowned in a pozzo--"

  "Mamma!" interposes the secretary.

  "--in a pozzo-profondo, you will please come to dine with two old women,

  at half-past seven. You may bring Mr. Belsize, and must tell us a hundred

  stories.--Yours, etc., 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 clear little brick. And as for Miss Ethel----"

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

  "Ethel is a brick, and Alfred is a trump, I think you say," remarks Lady

  Kew, nodding approval; "and Barnes is a snob. This is very satisfactory

  to know."

  "We met the children out to-day," cries the enthusiastic Kew, "as I was

  driving Jack in the drag, and I got out and talked to 'em."

  "Governess an uncommonly nice woman--oldish, but--I beg your pardon, Lady

  Julia," cries the 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 Frank would have been Lord Kew," continued the young

  Earl, with a quiet smile. "What an escape for him! The horses ran away--

  ever so far--and I thought the carriage must upset. The poor little boy,

  who has lost his pluck in the fever, began to cry; but that young girl,

  though she was as white as a sheet, never gave up for a moment, and sate

  in her place like a man. We met nothing, luckily; and I pulled the horses

  in after a mile or two, and I drove 'em into Brighton as quiet as if I

  had been driving a hearse. And that little trump of an Ethel, what do you

  think she said? She said, 'I was not frightened, but you must not tell

  mamma.' My aunt, it appears, was in a dreadful commotion--I ought to have

  thought of that."

  "Lady Anne is a ridiculous old dear. I beg your pardon, Lady Kew," here

  breaks in Jack the apologiser.

  "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 peur.' And then he

  made me and Jack a low bow, and stalked into the lodgings."

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

  "We went up and made our peace with my aunt, and were presented in form

  to the Colonel and his youthful cub."

  "As fine a fellow as ever I saw: and as fine a boy as ever I saw," cries

  Jack Belsize. "The young chap is a great hand at drawing--upon my life

  the best drawings I ever saw. And he was making a picture for little

  What-d'you-call-'em. And Miss Newcome was looking over them. And Lady

  Anne pointed out the group to me, and said how pretty it was. She is

  uncommonly sentimental, you know, Lady Anne."

  "My daughter Anne 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.

  CHAPTER XI

  At Mrs. Ridley's

  Saint Peter of Alcantara, as I have read in a life of St. Theresa,

  informed that devout lady that he had passed forty years of his life

  sleeping only an hour and a half each day; his 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, briars,

  mud, sharp stones (picking out the very worst places, let us trust, with

  his downcast eyes), under the bitter snow, or the drifting rain, or the

  scorching sunshine--I fancy Saint Peter of Alcantara, and contrast him

  with such a personage as the Incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's Chapel,

  Mayfair.

  His hermitage is situated in Walpole Street, let us say, on the second

&nbs
p; 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 Mayfair 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 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--penwipers--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 devo-teapot 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

  chimneypiece 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. "Ob, dear Mr. Honeyman," writes

  Blanche, "what a sermon that was! I cannot go to bed to-night without

  thanking you for it." "Do, do, dear Mr. Honeyman," writes Beatrice, "lend

  me that delightful sermon. And can you come and drink tea with me and

  Selina, and my aunt? Papa and mamma dine out, but you 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 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," etc. "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 headquarters 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 and 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 artificial flowers and fresh

  bonnets; as there is a buzz and cackle all around regarding the sermon;

  as carriages drive off; as lady-dowagers walk home; as prayer-books and

  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

 
hermitage--where have we placed it?--in Walpole Street. I wish St. Pedro

  of Alcantara could have some of that shoulder of mutton with the baked

  potatoes, and a drink of that frothing beer. See, yonder trots little

  Lord Dozeley, who has been asleep for an hour with his head against the

  wood, like St. Pedro of Alcantara.

  An East Indian gentleman and his son wait until the whole chapel is

  clear, and survey Lady Whittlesea's monument at their leisure, and other

  hideous slabs erected in memory of defunct frequenters of the chapel.

  Whose was that face which Colonel Newcome thought he recognised--that of

  a stout man who came down from the organ-gallery? Could it be Broff the

  bass singer, who delivered the "Red Cross Knight" with such applause at

  the Cave of Melody, and who has been singing in this place? There are

  some chapels in London, where, the function over, one almost expects to

  see the sextons put brown hollands over the pews and galleries, as they

  do at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.

  The writer of these veracious pages was once walking through a splendid

  English palace, standing amidst parks and gardens, than which none more

  magnificent has been seen since the days of Aladdin, in company with a

  melancholy friend, who viewed all things darkly through his gloomy eyes.

  The housekeeper, 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 seared

  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 an one; and ever after, when I have thought of the splendid

  castle towering in the midst of shady trees, under which the dappled deer

  are browsing; of the terraces gleaming with statues, and bright with a

  hundred thousand flowers; of the bridges and shining fountains and rivers

  wherein the castle windows reflect their festive gleams, when the halls

  are filled with happy feasters, and over the darkling woods comes the

  sound of music;--always, I say, when I think of Castle Bluebeard:--it is

  to think of that dark little closet, which I know is there, and which the

  lordly owner opens shuddering--after midnight--when he is sleepless and

  must go unlock it, when the palace is hushed, when beauties are sleeping

  around him unconscious, and revellers are at rest. O Mrs. Housekeeper:

  all the other keys hast thou: but that key thou hast not!

  Have we not all such closets, my jolly friend, as well as the noble

  Marquis of Carabas? At night, when all the house is asleep but you, don't

  you get up and peep into yours? When you in your turn are slumbering, up

  gets Mrs. Brown from your side, steals 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! 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