The Newcomes

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 lighter sort; and, I dare say,

  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 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 Oenone, 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 sate 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 Doctor 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 steadfast and immovable;

  Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe

  And terror on my aching sight'--et caetera

  what 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 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 o kai hae

  alaethaes kai to alaethaes. 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 form about the

  boy when he was away in India--how in his plans for the happy future,

  Clive was to be always at his side; how they were to read, work, play,

  think, be merry together--a sickening and humiliating 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 has been incensed and worshipped, and has 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. O 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 latchkey

  (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

  prima-donna assoluta in 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 dare say 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. Candour. 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 yourself.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Describes a Visit to Paris; with Accidents and Incidents in London

  Mr. 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 bush 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 preaching 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 whether a fellow's poor or rich; and he comes up

  to my room just as willingly as he would go to a duke's. He is always

  trying to do a friend a good turn. He draws the figure capitally: he

  looks proud, but he isn't, and is the best-natured 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 some bargain 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 I 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 dare say, was good-natured too. And when young Moss appeared

  at the billiard-room that night, it was evident 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 art was his calling, he refused to quit her

  for any other mistress, and plied hi
s 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 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 the young

  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 a historical painter,

  I shall condescend to do a few portraits, 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 moustache 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 further

  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 Ellinor (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 a historical painter, deeming that

  the highest branch of art; and declining (except for preparatory studies)

  to operate on any but the largest canvasses. He painted a prodigious

  battle-piece of Assaye, with General Wellesley at the head of the 19th

  Dragoons charging the Mahratta Artillery, and sabring them at their guns.

  A piece of ordnance was dragged into the back-yard, and the Colonel's

  stud put into requisition to supply 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 masterpiece 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,