tailors called at a man's lodgings to dazzle him with cards of fancy
waistcoats; when it seemed necessary to purchase a grand silver
dressing-case, so as to be ready for the beard which was not yet born (as
yearling brides provide lace caps, and work rich clothes, for the
expected darling); when to ride in the Park on a ten-shilling hack seemed
to be the height of fashionable enjoyment, and to splash your college
tutor as you were driving down Regent Street in a hired cab the triumph
of satire; when the acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of
Trinity at the Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with
King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin of Trinity
Hall (who was with his family in Bloomsbury Square), to dine at the
Piazza, go to the play and see Braham in Fra Diavolo, and end the frolic
evening by partaking of supper and a song at the "Cave of Harmony."--It
was in the days of my 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 those
honest 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
glee-singing led us to the "Cave of Harmony," then kept by the celebrated
Hoskins, among whose friends we were proud to count.
We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never failed to greet
us with a kind nod; and John the waiter made room for us near the
President of the convivial meeting. We knew the three admirable
glee-singers, and many a time they partook of brandy-and-water at our
expense. One of us gave his call dinner at Hoskins's, and a merry time we
had of it. Where are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night? Do you warble
your songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black
Avernus?
The goes of stout, the "Chough and Crow," the welsh-rabbit, the
"Red-Cross Knight," the hot brandy-and-water (the brown, the strong!),
the "Bloom is on the Rye" (the bloom isn't on the rye any more!)--the
song and the cup, in a word, passed round merrily; and, I daresay, the
songs and bumpers were encored. It happened that there was a very small
attendance at the "Cave" that night, and we were all more sociable and
friendly because the company was select. The songs were chiefly of the
sentimental class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I
speak.
There came into the "Cave" a gentleman with a lean brown face and long
black mustachios, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a stranger
to the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. He was
pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling for
sherry-and-water, he listened to the music, and twirled his mustachios
with great enthusiasm.
At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, bounded
across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and, blushing, said,
"Don't you know me?"
It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had not seen for six
years, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright blue
eyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy.
"What the deuce brings you here?" said I.
He laughed and looked roguish. "My father--that's my father--would come.
He's just come back from India. He says all the wits used to come here,--
Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris, Colonel Hanger, Professor Porson. I told
him your name, and that 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 Smile."
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 called upon the gents to give their
orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr. Bellew about to sing a
song.
Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me. I dare say I
blushed, for I had been comparing him to the admirable Harley in the
Critic, and had christened him Don Ferolo Whiskerandos.
He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant, and with a cordiality
so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away ashamed, and gave
place to a feeling much more respectful and friendly. In youth, you see,
one is touched by kindness. A man of the world may, of course, be
grateful or not as he chooses.
"I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, "to my boy. And whoever is
kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me to sit down by you? and may
I beg you to try my cheroots?" We were friends in a minute--young Newcome
snuggling by my side, his father opposite, to whom, after a minute or two
of conversation, I presented my three college friends.
"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says the Colonel. "Are
there any celebrated persons in the room? I have been five-and-thirty
years from home, and want to see all that is to be seen."
King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was on the point of pulling
some dreadful long-bow, and pointing out a halfdozen of people in the
room, as R. and H. and L., etc., the most celebrated wits of that day;
but I cut King's shins under the table, and got the fellow to hold his
tongue.
"Maxima debetur pueris," says Jones (a fellow of very kind feeling, who
has gone into the Church since), and, writing on 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 Co
lonel, 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, etc. The Colonel was charmed with each feat, and joined
delighted with the chorus--"Ritolderol ritolderol ritolderolderay" (bis).
And when, coming to the Colonel himself, he burst out--
"A military gent I see--And while his face I scan,
I think you'll all agree with me--He came from Hindostan.
And by his side sits laughing free--A youth with curly head,
I think you'll all agree with me--That he was best in bed.
Ritolderol," etc.
--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 shirt-collar,
"and perhaps the day will come when the world will do me justice,--may I
put down your hhonoured name for my book of poems?"
"Of course, my dear sir," says the enthusiastic Colonel; "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 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, I need not say, backed our friend,
delighted to see him come out of his queer scrape so triumphantly. The
Colonel bowed and smiled with very pleasant good-nature at our plaudits.
It was like Dr. Primrose preaching his sermon in the prison. There was
something touching in the naivete and kindness of the placid and simple
gentleman.
Great Hoskins, placed on high, amidst the tuneful choir, was pleased to
signify his approbation, and gave his guest's health in his usual
dignified manner. "I am much obliged to you, sir," says Mr. Hoskins; "the
room ought to be much obliged to you: I drink your 'ealth and song, sir;"
and he bowed to the Colonel politely over his glass of brandy-and-water,
of which he absorbed a little in his customer's 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 serve me right too. Lord! Lord! how the time
passes!" He drank off his sherry-and-water, and fell back in his chair;
we could see he was thinking about his youth--the golden time--the happy,
the bright, the unforgotten. I was myself nearly two-and-twenty years of
age at that period, and felt as old as, ay, older than the Colonel.
Whilst he was singing his ballad, there had walked, or rather reeled,
into the room, a gentleman in a military frock-coat and duck trousers of
dubious hue, with whose name and person some of my readers are perhaps
already acquainted. In fact it was my friend Captain Costigan, in his
usual 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 some
thing to drink?"
"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 prime songs, began his
music.
The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or saying,
selected one of the most outrageous performances of his repertoire, fired
off a tipsy howl by way of overture, and away he went. At the end of the
second verse the Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, seizing his
stick, and looking as ferocious as though he had been going to do battle
with a Pindaree.
"Silence!" he roared out.
"Hear, hear!" cried certain wags at a farther table. "Go on, Costigan!"
said others.
"Go on!" cries the Colonel, in his high voice trembling with anger. "Does
any gentleman say 'Go On?' Does any man who has a wife and sisters, or
children at home, say 'Go on' to such disgusting ribaldry as this? Do you
dare, sir, to call yourself a gentleman, and to say that you hold the
King's commission, and to sit down 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 and 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 bacchanalians, 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.
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