The Newcomes

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

  eighteenpence 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, his life is so 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 chirping soul; not a moody poet avoiding

  mankind for the better company of his own great thoughts, but a jolly

  little chap who has an aptitude for painting brocade gowns, a bit 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

  whiskeradoes. They open oysters with their yataghans, toast muffins on

  their rapiers, and fill their Venice glasses with half-and-half. If they

  have money in their lean purses, be sure they have a friend to share it.

  What innocent gaiety, what jovial suppers on threadbare cloths, and

  wonderful songs after; what pathos, merriment, humour does not a man

  enjoy who frequents their company! Mr. Clive Newcome, who has long since

  shaved his beard, who has become a family man, and has seen the world in

  a thousand different phases, avers that his life as an art-student at

  home and abroad was the pleasantest part of his whole existence. It may

  not be more amusing in the telling than the chronicle of a feast, or the

  accurate report of two lovers' conversation; but the biographer, having

  brought his hero to the 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 regle, under the eminent Mr. Gandish, of Soho.

  It was that well-known portrait-painter, Alfred Smee, Esq., R.A., who

  recommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome, one day when the two gentlemen

  met at dinner at Lady Anne 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 her nymph-like form, and give her figure fresh graces.

  He also of course drew Alfred and the nursery in general, Aunt Anne and

  the Blenheim spaniels, and Mr. Kuhn and his earrings, 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 bat, 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 only charmed with Clive's skill as an

  artist, but thought his head would be an admirable one to paint. Such a

  rich complexion, such fine turns in his hair! such eyes! to see real blue

  eyes was so rare nowadays! And the Colonel too, if the Colonel would but

  give him a few sittings, the grey 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

  grey 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 this conversation was held, James Binnie hinted that the

  Academician 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 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 hurrayed Sir Thomas,

  as, arrayed in gold and scarlet, he sate 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, pa!" cries Clive: "Gandish is worth the whole world.

  Come and be an art-student. You'll find such jolly fellows there! Gandish

  calls it hart-student, and says, 'Hars est celare Hartem'--by Jove he

  does! He treated us to a little Latin, as he brought out a cake and a

  bottle of wine, you know."

  "The governor was splendid, sir. He wore gloves: you know he only puts

  them on on parade days; and turned out 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 picture,' Gandish goes on. 'But I never could get my price for

  it; and here it hangs in my own room. Igh art won't do in this country,

  Colonel--it's a melancholy fact.'

  "'High art! I should think it is high art!' whispers old Smee; 'fourteen

  feet high, at least!" And then out loud he says 'The picture has very

  fine points in it, Gandish, as you say. Foreshortening of that arm,

  capital! That red drapery carried off into the right of the picture very

  skilfully managed!'

  "'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 Betsey 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. '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 1816.'

  "'No, pa, not '16,' 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, when I was a student of the Academy, and

  said to me, 'Young man, stick to the antique. There's nothing like it.'

  Those were 'is very words. If you do me the favour to walk into the

  Hatrium, you'll remark my great pictures also from English istry. An

  English historical painter, sir, should be employed chiefly in English

  istry. That's what I would have done. Why ain't there temples for us,

  where the people might read their history at a glance, and without

  knowing how to read? Why is my 'Alfred' 'anging up in this 'all? Because

  there is no patronage for a man who devotes himself to Igh art. You know

  the anecdote, Colonel? King Alfred flying from the Danes, took refuge in

  a neaterd's 'ut. The rustic's wife told him to bake a cake, and the

  fugitive sovering set down to his ignoble task, and forgetting it in the

  cares of state, let the cake burn, on which the woman struck him. The

  moment chose is when she is lifting her 'and to deliver the blow. The

  king 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 istry, 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 1814, Colonel, in its glory--the

  'Laocoon'--my friend Gibson's 'Nymth,' 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

  Rigby, for my dear old governor has promised to pay for J. J. too, you

  know. 'Mr. Chivers is the senior pupil and 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 longa. Vita brevis, et linea recta brevissima est. This

  way, Colonel, down these steps, across the courtyard, to my own studio.

  There, gentlemen,'--and pulling aside a curtain, Gandish says 'There!'"

  "And what was the masterpiece behind it?" we ask of Clive, after we have

  done laughing at his imitation.

  "Hand round the hat, J. J.!" cries Clive. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, pay

  your money. Now walk in, for the 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

  lick-spittles, and using epithets still more vulgar, Clive slipped off

  his fine silk-sleeved coat in an instant, invited Mr. M'Collop into the

  back-yard, instructed him in a science which the lad himself had acquired

  at Grey Friars, and administered two black eyes to Sandy, which prevented

  the young artist from seeing for some days after the head of the