The Newcomes

as a delassement after the fatigues incident on this great work), when he

  saw it, after a month's interval, declared the thing was rubbish, and

  massacred Britons, Malays, Dragoons, Artillery and all.

  "Hotel de la Terrasse, Rue de Rivoli,

  "April 27--May 1, 183-.

  "My Dear Pendennis--You said I might write you a line from Paris; and if

  you find in my correspondence any valuable hints for the Pall Mall

  Gazette, you are welcome to use them gratis. Now I am here, I wonder I

  have never been here before, and that I have seen the Dieppe packet a

  thousand times at Brighton pier without thinking of going on board her.

  We had a rough little passage to Boulogne. We went into action as we

  cleared Dover pier--when the first gun was fired, and a stout old lady

  was carried off by a steward to the cabin; half a dozen more dropped

  immediately, and the crew bustled about, bringing basins for the wounded.

  The Colonel smiled as he saw them fall. 'I'm an old sailor,' says he to a

  gentleman on board. 'I was coming home, sir, and we had plenty of rough

  weather on the voyage, I never thought of being unwell. My boy here, who

  made the voyage twelve years ago last May, may have lost his sea-legs;

  but for me, sir--' Here a great wave dashed over the three of us; and

  would you believe it? in five minutes after, the dear old governor was as

  ill as all the rest of the passengers. When we arrived, we went through a

  line of ropes to the custom-house, with a crowd of snobs jeering at us on

  each side; and then were carried off by a bawling commissioner to an

  hotel, where the Colonel, who speaks French beautifully, you know, told

  the waiter to get us a petit dejeuner soigne; on which the fellow,

  grinning, said, a 'nice fried sole, sir,--nice mutton-chop, sir,' in

  regular Temple Bar English; and brought us Harvey sauce with the chops,

  and the last Bell's Life to amuse us after our luncheon. I wondered if

  all the Frenchmen read Bell's Life, and if all the inns smell so of

  brandy-and-water!

  "We walked out to see the town, which I dare say you know, and therefore

  shan't describe. We saw some good studies of fishwomen with bare legs,

  and remarked that the soldiers were very dumpy and small. We were glad

  when the time came to set off by the diligence; and having the coupe to

  ourselves, made a very comfortable journey to Paris. It was jolly to hear

  the postillions crying to their horses, and the bells of the team, and to

  feel ourselves really in France. We took in provender at Abbeville and

  Amiens, and were comfortably landed here after about six-and-twenty hours

  of coaching. Didn't I get up the next morning and have a good walk in the

  Tuileries! The chestnuts were out, and the statues all shining, and all

  the windows of the palace in a blaze. It looks big enough for the king of

  the giants to live in. How grand it is! I like the barbarous splendour of

  the architecture, and the ornaments profuse and enormous with which it is

  overladen. Think of Louis XVI. with a thousand gentlemen at his back, and

  a mob of yelling ruffians in front of him, giving up his crown without a

  fight for it; leaving his friends to be butchered, and himself sneaking

  into prison! No end of little children were skipping and playing in the

  sunshiny walks, with dresses as bright and cheeks as red as the flowers

  and roses in the parterres. I couldn't help thinking of Barbaroux and his

  bloody pikemen swarming in the gardens, and fancied the Swiss in the

  windows yonder; where they were to be slaughtered when the King had

  turned his back. What a great man that Carlyle is! I have read the battle

  in his History so often, that I knew it before I had seen it. Our windows

  look out on the obelisk where the guillotine stood. The Colonel doesn't

  admire Carlyle. He says Mrs. Graham's Letters from Paris are excellent,

  and we bought Scott's Visit to Paris, and Paris Re-visited, and read them

  in the diligence. They are famous good reading; but the Palais Royal is

  very much altered since Scott's time: no end of handsome shops; I went

  there directly,--the same night we arrived, when the Colonel went to bed.

  But there is none of the fun going on which Scott describes. The laquais

  de place says Charles X. put an end to it all.

  "Next morning the governor had letters to deliver after breakfast, and

  left me at the Louvre door. I shall come and live here, I think. I feel

  as if I never want to go away. I had not been ten minutes in the place

  before I fell in love with the most beautiful creature the world has ever

  seen. She was standing silent and majestic in the centre of one of the

  rooms of the statue-gallery; and the very first glimpse of her struck one

  breathless with the sense of her beauty. I could not see the colour of

  her eyes and hair exactly, but the latter is light, and the eyes I should

  think are grey. Her complexion is of a beautiful warm marble tinge. She

  is not a clever woman, evidently; I do not think she laughs or talks

  much--she seems too lazy to do more than smile. She is only beautiful.

  This divine creature has lost an arm, which has been cut off at the

  shoulder, but she looks none the less lovely for the accident. She maybe

  some two-and-thirty years old; and she was born about two thousand years

  ago. Her name is the Venus of Milo. O Victrix! O lucky Paris! (I don't

  mean this present Lutetia, but Priam's son.) How could he give the apple

  to any else but this enslaver--this joy of gods and men? at whose benign

  presence the flowers spring up, and the smiling ocean sparkles, and the

  soft skies beam with serene light! I wish we might sacrifice. I would

  bring a spotless kid, snowy-coated, and a pair of doves and a jar of

  honey--yea, honey from Morel's in Piccadilly, thyme-flavoured, narbonian,

  and we would acknowledge the Sovereign Loveliness, and adjure the Divine

  Aphrodite. Did you ever see my pretty young cousin, Miss Newcome, Sir

  Brian's daughter? She has a great look of the huntress Diana. It is

  sometimes too proud and too cold for me. The blare of those horns is too

  shrill and the rapid pursuit through bush and bramble too daring. O thou

  generous Venus! O thou beautiful bountiful calm! At thy soft feet let me

  kneel--on cushions of Tyrian purple. Don't show this to Warrington,

  please: I never thought when I began that Pegasus was going to run away

  with me.

  "I wish I had read Greek a little more at school: it's too late at my

  age; I shall be nineteen soon, and have got my own business; but when we

  return I think I shall try and read it with Cribs. What have I been

  doing, spending six months over a picture of sepoys and dragoons cutting

  each other's throats? Art ought not to be a fever. It ought to be a calm;

  not a screaming bull-fight or a battle of gladiators, but a temple for

  placid contemplation, rapt worship, stately rhythmic ceremony, and music

  solemn and tender. I shall take down my Snyders and Rubens when I get

  home; and turn quietist. To think I have spent weeks in depicting bony

  life-guardsmen delivering cut one, or Saint George, and painting black

  beggars off a crossing!

  "What a grand thing it is to
think of half a mile of pictures at the

  Louvre! Not but that there are a score under the old pepper-boxes in

  Trafalgar Square as fine as the best here. I don't care for any Raphael

  here, as much as our own St. Catharine. There is nothing more grand.

  Could the Pyramids of Egypt or the Colossus of Rhodes be greater than our

  Sebastian? and for our Bacchus and Ariadne, you cannot beat the best you

  know. But if we have fine jewels, here there are whole sets of them:

  there are kings and all their splendid courts round about them. J. J. and

  I must come and live here. Oh, such portraits of Titian! Oh, such swells

  by Vandyke! I'm sure he must have been as fine a gentleman as any he

  painted! It's a shame they haven't got a Sir Joshua or two. At a feast of

  painters he has a right to a place, and at the high table too. Do you

  remember Tom Rogers, of Gandish's? He used to come to my rooms--my other

  rooms in the Square. Tom is here with a fine carrotty beard, and a velvet

  jacket, cut open at the sleeves, to show that Tom has a shirt. I dare say

  it was clean last Sunday. He has not learned French yet, but pretends to

  have forgotten English; and promises to introduce me to a set of the

  French artists his camarades. There seems to be a scarcity of soap among

  these young fellows; and I think I shall cut off my mustachios; only

  Warrington will have nothing to laugh at when I come home.

  "The Colonel and I went to dine at the Cafe de Paris, and afterwards to

  the opera. Ask for huitres de Marenne when you dine here. We dined with a

  tremendous French swell, the Vicomte de Florac, officier d'ordonnance to

  one of the princes, and son of some old friends of my father's. They are

  of very high birth, but very poor. He will be a duke when his cousin, the

  Duc d'Ivry, dies. His father is quite old. The vicomte was born in

  England. He pointed out to us no end of famous people at the opera--a few

  of the Fauxbourg St. Germain, and ever so many of the present people:--M.

  Thiers, and Count Mole, and Georges Sand, and Victor Hugo, and Jules

  Janin--I forget half their names. And yesterday we went to see his

  mother, Madame de Florac. I suppose she was an old flame of the

  Colonel's, for their meeting was uncommonly ceremonious and tender. It

  was like an elderly Sir Charles Grandison saluting a middle-aged Miss

  Byron. And only fancy! the Colonel has been here once before since his

  return to England! It must have been last year, when he was away for ten

  days, whilst I was painting that rubbishing picture of the Black Prince

  waiting on King John. Madame de F. is a very grand lady, and must have

  been a great beauty in her time. There are two pictures by Gerard in her

  salon--of her and M. de Florac. M. de Florac, old swell, powder, thick

  eyebrows, hooked nose; no end of stars, ribbons, and embroidery. Madame

  also in the dress of the Empire--pensive, beautiful, black velvet, and a

  look something like my cousin's. She wore a little old-fashioned brooch

  yesterday, and said, 'Voila, la reconnoissez-vous? Last year when you

  were here, it was in the country;' and she smiled at him: and the dear

  old boy gave a sort of groan and dropped his head in his hand. I know

  what it is. I've gone through it myself. I kept for six months an absurd

  ribbon of that infernal little flirt Fanny Freeman. Don't you remember

  how angry I was when you abused her?

  "'Your father and I knew each other when we were children, my friend,'

  the Countess said to me (in the sweetest French accent). He was looking

  into the garden of the house where they live, in the Rue Saint Dominique.

  'You must come and see me often, always. You remind me of him,' and she

  added, with a very sweet kind smile, 'Do you like best to think that he

  was better-looking than you, or that you excel him?' I said I should like

  to be like him. But who is? There are cleverer fellows, I dare say; but

  where is there such a good one? I wonder whether he was very fond of

  Madame de Florac? The old Count does not show. He is quite old, and wears

  a pigtail. We saw it bobbing over his garden chair. He lets the upper

  part of his house; Major-General the Honourable Zeno F. Pokey, of

  Cincinnati, U.S., lives in it. We saw Mrs. Pokey's carriage in the court,

  and her footmen smoking cigars there; a tottering old man with feeble

  legs, as old as old Count de Florac, seemed to be the only domestic who

  waited on the family below.

  "Madame de Florac and my father talked about my profession. The Countess

  said it was a belle carriere. The Colonel said it was better than the

  army. 'Ah oui, monsieur,' says she very sadly. And then he said, 'that

  presently I should very likely come to study at Paris, when he knew there

  would be a kind friend to watch over son garcon.'

  "'But you will be here to watch over him yourself, mon ami?' says the

  French lady.

  "Father shook his head. 'I shall very probably have to go back to India,'

  he said. 'My furlough is expired. I am now taking my extra leave. If I

  can get my promotion, I need not return. Without that I cannot afford to

  live in Europe. But my absence in all probability will be but very

  short,' he said. 'And Clive is old enough now to go on without me.'

  "Is this the reason why father has been so gloomy for some months past? I

  thought it might have been some of my follies which made him

  uncomfortable; and you know I have been trying my best to amend--I have

  not half such a tailor's bill this year as last. I owe scarcely anything.

  I have paid off Moss every halfpenny for his confounded rings and

  gimcracks. I asked father about this melancholy news as we walked away

  from Madame de Florac.

  "He is not near so rich as we thought. Since he has been at home he says

  he has spent greatly more than his income, and is quite angry at his own

  extravagance. At first he thought he might have retired from the army

  altogether; but after three years at home, he finds he cannot live upon

  his income. When he gets his promotion as full Colonel, he will be

  entitled to a thousand a year; that, and what he has invested in India,

  and a little in this country, will be plenty for both of us. He never

  seems to think of my making money by my profession. Why, suppose I sell

  the 'Battle of Assaye' for 500 pounds? that will be enough to carry me on

  ever so long, without dipping into the purse of the dear old father.

  "The Viscount de Florac called to dine with us. The Colonel said he did

  not care about going out: and so the Viscount and I went together. Trois

  Freres Provencaux--he ordered the dinner and of course I paid. Then we

  went to a little theatre, and he took me behind the scenes--such a queer

  place! We went to the loge of Mademoiselle Fine who acted the part of 'Le

  petit Tambour,' in which she sings a famous song with a drum. He asked

  her and several literary fellows to supper at the Cafe Anglais. And I

  came home ever so late, and lost twenty napoleons at a game called

  bouillotte. It was all the change out of a twenty-pound note which dear

  old Binnie gave me before we set out, with a quotation out of Horace, you

  know, about Neque tu choreas sperne
puer. O me! how guilty I felt as I

  walked home at ever so much o'clock to the Hotel de la Terrasse, and

  sneaked into our apartment! But the Colonel was sound asleep. His dear

  old boots stood sentries at his bedroom door, and I slunk into mine as

  silently as I could.

  "P.S.--Wednesday.--There's just one scrap of paper left. I have got J.

  J.'s letter. He has been to the private view of the Academy (so that his

  own picture is in), and the 'Battle of Assaye' is refused. Smee told him

  it was too big. I dare say it's very bad. I'm glad I'm away, and the

  fellows are not condoling with me.

  "Please go and see Mr. Binnie. He has come to grief. He rode the

  Colonel's horse; came down on the pavement and wrenched his leg, and I'm

  afraid the grey's. Please look at his legs; we can't understand John's

  report of them. He, I mean Mr. B., was going to Scotland to see his

  relations when the accident happened. You know he has always been going

  to Scotland to see his relations. He makes light of the business, and

  says the Colonel is not to think of coming to him: and I don't want to go

  back just yet, to see all the fellows from Gandish's and the Life

  Academy, and have them grinning at my misfortune.

  "The governor would send his regards, I dare say, but he is out, and I am

  always yours affectionately, Clive Newcome."

  "P.S.--He tipped me himself this morning; isn't he a kind, dear old

  fellow?"

  Arthur Pendennis, Esq., to Clive Newcome, Esq.

  "'Pall Mall Gazette,' Journal of Politics, Literature and Fashion, 225

  Catherine Street, Strand,

  "Dear Clive--I regret very much for Fred Bayham's sake (who has lately

  taken the responsible office of Fine Arts Critic for the P. G.) that your

  extensive picture of the 'Battle of Assaye' has not found a place in the

  Royal Academy Exhibition. F. B. is at least fifteen shillings out of

  pocket by its rejection, as he had prepared a flaming eulogium of your

  work, which of course is so much waste paper in consequence of this

  calamity. Never mind. Courage, my son. The Duke of Wellington you know

  was best back at Seringapatam before he succeeded at Assaye. I hope you

  will fight other battles, and that fortune in future years will be more

  favourable to you. The town does not talk very much of your discomfiture.

  You see the parliamentary debates are very interesting just now, and

  somehow the 'Battle of Assaye' did not seem to excite the public mind.

  "I have been to Fitzroy Square; both to the stables and the house. The

  Houyhnhnm's legs are very well; the horse slipped on his side and not on

  his knees, and has received no sort of injury. Not so Mr. Binnie; his

  ankle is much wrenched and inflamed. He must keep his sofa for many days,

  perhaps weeks. But you know he is a very cheerful philosopher, and

  endures the evils of life with much equanimity. His sister has come to

  him. I don't know whether that may be considered as a consolation of his

  evil or an aggravation of it. You know he uses the sarcastic method in

  his talk, and it was difficult to understand from him whether he was

  pleased or bored by the embraces of his relative. She was an infant when

  he last beheld her, on his departure to India. She is now (to speak with

  respect) a very brisk, plump, pretty little widow; having, seemingly,

  recovered from her grief at the death of her husband, Captain Mackenzie

  in the West Indies. Mr. Binnie was just on the point of visiting his

  relatives, who reside at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh, when he met with

  the fatal accident which prevented his visit to his native shores. His

  account of his misfortune and his lonely condition was so pathetic that

  Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter put themselves into the Edinburgh

  steamer, and rushed to console his sofa. They occupy your bedroom and

  sitting-room, which latter Mrs. Mackenzie says no longer smells of