The Newcomes

Good night, we must not stand chattering here any more. Heaven bless you,

  my darling! Those are the Colonel's windows! Look, he is smoking on his

  balcony--that must be 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 Anne a genius for sewing buttons and making puddens?'--puddens

  he pronounced it. Goodnight, my own love. Blessings, blessings, on my

  Ethel!"

  The Colonel from his balcony saw the slim figure of the retreating girl,

  and looked fondly after her: and as the smoke of his cigar floated in the

  air, he formed a fine castle in it, whereof Clive was lord, and that

  pretty Ethel, lady. "What a frank, generous, bright young creature is

  yonder!" thought he. "How cheery and gay she is; how good to Miss

  Honeyman, to whom she behaved with just the respect that was the old

  lady's due--how affectionate with her brothers and sisters! What a sweet

  voice she has! What a pretty little white hand it is! When she gave it

  me, it looked like a little white bird lying in mine. I must wear gloves,

  by Jove I must, and my coat is old-fashioned, as Binnie says; what a fine

  match might be made between that child and Clive! She reminds me of a

  pair of eyes I haven't seen these forty years. I would like to have Clive

  married to her; to see him out of the scrapes and dangers that young

  fellows encounter, and safe with such a sweet girl as that. If God had so

  willed it, I might have been happy myself, and could have made a woman

  happy. But the Fates were against me. I should like to see Clive happy,

  and then say Nunc dimittis. I 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

  bedchamber, and is retiring when the Colonel calls after him:

  "I say, Kean, is that blue coat of mine very old?"

  "Uncommon white about the seams, Colonel," says the man.

  "Is it older than other people's coats?"--Kean is obliged gravely to

  confess that the Colonel's coat is very queer.

  "Get me another coat, then--see that I don't do anything or wear anything

  unusual. I have been so long out of Europe, that I don't know the customs

  here, and am not above learning."

  Kean retires, vowing that his master is an old trump; which opinion he

  had already expressed to Mr. Kuhn, Lady Hanne's man, over a long potation

  which those two gentlemen had taken together. And, as all of us, in one

  way or another, are subject to this domestic criticism, from which not

  the most exalted can escape, I say, lucky is the man whose servants speak

  well of him.

  CHAPTER XVI

  In which Mr. Sherrick lets his House in Fitzroy Square

  In spite of the sneers of the Newcome Independent, and the Colonel's

  unlucky visit to his nurse's native place, he still 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 that took the children

  to Astley's but Uncle Newcome? I saw him there in the midst of a cluster

  of these little people, all children together. He laughed delighted at

  Mr. Merryman's jokes in the ring. He beheld the Battle of Waterloo with

  breathless interest, and was amazed--amazed, by Jove, sir--at the

  prodigious likeness of the principal actor to the Emperor 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 honest hands; young

  Masters Alfred and Edward clapping and hurrahing 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 you in your own early time, and go off on the very

  first fine day and tip your nephew at school!

  The Colonel's organ of benevolence was so large, that he would have liked

  to administer bounties to the young folks his nephews and nieces in

  Bryanstone Square, as well as to their cousins in Park Lane; but Mrs.

  Newcome was a 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 parentis; because he was as a child to me, and I to him as a mother.

  I indulged him more than my own. I loved him with a true maternal

  tenderness. Then he was happy to come to our house: then perhaps Park

  Lane was not so often open to him as Bryanstone Square: but I make no

  allusions. Then he did not go six times to another house for once that he

  came to mine. He was a simple, confiding, generous boy, was not dazzled

  by worldly rank or titles of splendour. He could not find these in

  Bryanstone Square. A merchant's wife, a country lawyer's daughter--I

  could not be expected to have my humble board surrounded by titled

  aristocracy; I would not if I could. I love my own family too well; I am

  too honest, too simple,--let me own it at once, Colonel Newcome, too

  proud! And now, now his father has come to England, and I have resigned

  him, and he meets with no titled aristocrats at my house, and he does not

  come here any more."

  Tears rolled out of her little eyes as she spoke, and she covered her

  round 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 Currey Baughton, Major-General and Mrs. Hooker,

  Colonel Newcome, and Mr. Horace Fogey. Afterwards her ladyship had an

  assembly, which was attended by, etc. etc.

  This catalogue of illustrious names had been read by Mr. 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 Anne 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 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 Anne has

  her party. You take your line--Lady Anne takes her line. You are a

  superior woman, my dear Polly; every one knows that. I'm a plain country

  farmer, I am. As long as you are happy, I am happy too. The people you

  get to dine here may talk Greek or algebra for what I care. By Jove, my

  dear, I think you can hold your own with the best of them."

  "I have 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 to you,

  my dear. Here comes my horses. I say, I wish you'd call on Lady Anne

  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.

  120 Fitzroy Square, which his brother, the Colonel, had taken in

  conjunction with that Indian friend of his, Mr. Binnie. Shrewd old cock,

  Mr. Binnie. Has brought home a good bit of money from India. Is looking

  out for safe investments. Has been introduced to Newcome Brothers. Mr.

  Newcome thinks very well of the Colonel's friend.

  The house is vast, but, it must be owned, melancholy. 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 birthplace, and

  Grigson her paternal name), and an outlaw at the suit of Samuel Sherrick:

  that Mr. Sherrick whose wine-vaults undermine Lady Whittlesea's Chapel

  where the eloquent 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 over them. Kean for the Colonel and his son; a

  smart boy with boots for Mr. Binnie; Mrs. Kean to cook and keep house,

  with a couple of maids under her. The Colonel, himself, was great at

  making hash mutton, hot-pot, curry, and pillau. What cosy pipes did we

  not smoke in the dining-room, in the drawing-room, or where we would!

  What pleasant evenings did we not have with Mr Binnie's books and

  Schiedam! Then there were the solemn state dinners, at most of which the

  writer of this biography had a corner.

  Clive had a tutor--Cirindey 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. Kean's 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. He should have drawn the pictures for this book, but that he no

  longer condescends to make sketches. Young Ridley was his daily friend

  now; and Grindley, his classics and mathematics over in the morning, and

  the ride with father over, this pair of young men would constantly attend

  Gandish's Drawing Academy, where, to be sure, Ridley passed many hours at

  work on his art, before his young friend and patron could be spared from

  his books to his pencil.

  "Oh," says Clive, "if you talk to him now about those early days, it was a

  jolly time! I do not believe there was any young fellow in London so

  happy." And there hangs up in his painting-room now, a head, painted at

  one sitting, of a man rather bald, with hair touched with grey, with a

  large moustache, and a sweet mouth half smiling beneath it, and

  melancholy eyes; and Clive shows that portrait of their grandfather to

  his children, and tells them that the whole world never saw a nobler

  gentleman.

  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 linkboys 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 bedrooms--

  bedrooms where Lady Betty has had her hair powdered, and where the

  painter's north-light now takes possession of the place which her