The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

wicked Mr. Binnie--had all conspired more or less to give Clive Newcome a

  stepmother.

  But he had had an unlucky experience in his own case; and thought within

  himself, "No, I won't give Clive a stepmother. As Heaven has taken his

  own mother from him, why, I must try to be father and mother too to the

  lad." He kept the child as long as ever the climate would allow of his

  remaining, and then sent him home. Then his aim was to save money for the

  youngster. He was of a nature so uncontrollably generous, that to be sure

  he spent five rupees where another would save them, and make a fine show

  besides; but it is not a man's gifts or hospitalities that generally

  injure his fortune. It is on themselves that prodigals spend most. And as

  Newcome had no personal extravagances, and the smallest selfish wants;

  could live almost as frugally as a Hindoo; kept his horses not to race

  but to ride; wore his old clothes and uniforms until they were the

  laughter of his regiment; did not care for show, and had no longer an

  extravagant wife; he managed to lay by considerably out of his liberal

  allowances, and to find himself and Clive growing richer every year.

  "When Clive has had five or six years at school"--that was his scheme--

  "he will be a fine scholar, and have at least as much classical learning

  as a gentleman in the world need possess. Then I will go to England, and

  we will pass three or four years together, in which he will learn to be

  intimate with me, and, I hope, to like me. I shall be his pupil for Latin

  and Greek, and try and make up for lost time. I know there is nothing

  like a knowledge of the classics to give a man good breeding--Ingenuas

  didicisse fideliter artes emollunt mores, nec sinuisse feros. I shall be

  able to help him with my knowledge of the world, and to keep him out of

  the way of sharpers and a pack of rogues who commonly infest young men. I

  will make myself his companion, and pretend to no superiority; for,

  indeed, isn't he my superior? Of course he is, with his advantages. He

  hasn't been an idle young scamp as I was. And we will travel together,

  first through England, Scotland, and Ireland, for every man should know

  his own country, and then we will make the grand tour. Then, by the time

  he is eighteen, he will be able to choose his profession. He can go into

  the army, and emulate the glorious man after whom I named him; or if he

  prefers the church, or the law, they are open to him; and when he goes to

  the university, by which time I shall be in all probability a

  major-general, I can come back to India for a few years, and return by

  the time he has a wife and a home for his old father; or if I die I shall

  have done the best for him, and my boy will be left with the best

  education, a tolerable small fortune, and the blessing of his old

  father."

  Such were the plans of our kind schemer. How fondly he dwelt on them, how

  affectionately he wrote of them to his boy! How he read books of travels

  and looked over the maps of Europe! and said, "Rome, sir, glorious Rome;

  it won't be very long, Major, before my boy and I see the Colosseum, and

  kiss the Pope's toe. We shall go up the Rhine to Switzerland, and over

  the Simplon, the work of the great Napoleon. By Jove, sir, think of the

  Turks before Vienna, and Sobieski clearing eighty thousand of 'em off the

  face of the earth! How my boy will rejoice in the picture-galleries

  there, and in Prince Eugene's prints! You know, I suppose, that Prince

  Eugene, one of the greatest generals in the world, was also one of the

  greatest lovers of the fine arts. Ingenuas didicisse, hey, Doctor! you

  know the rest,--emollunt mores nec----"

  "Emollunt mores! Colonel," says Doctor McTaggart, who perhaps was too

  canny to correct the commanding officer's Latin. "Don't ye noo that

  Prence Eugene was about as savage a Turrk as iver was? Have ye niver rad

  the mimores of the Prants de Leen?"

  "Well, he was a great cavalry officer," answers the Colonel, "and he left

  a great collection of prints--that you know. How Clive will delight in

  them! The boy's talent for drawing is wonderful, sir, wonderful. He sent

  me a picture of our old school--the very actual thing, sir; the

  cloisters, the school, the head gown-boy going in with the rods, and the

  Doctor himself. It would make you die of laughing!"

  He regaled the ladies of the regiment with Clive's letters, and those of

  Miss Honeyman, which contained an account of the boy. He even bored some

  of his bearers with this prattle; and sporting young men would give or

  take odds that the Colonel would mention Clive's name, once before five

  minutes, three times in ten minutes, twenty-five times in the course of

  dinner, and so on. But they who laughed at the Colonel laughed very

  kindly; and everybody who knew him, loved him; everybody, that is, who

  loved modesty, and generosity, and honour.

  At last the happy time came for which the kind father had been longing

  more passionately than any prisoner for liberty, or schoolboy for

  holiday. Colonel Newcome has taken leave of his regiment, leaving Major

  Tomkinson, nothing loth, in command. He has travelled to Calcutta; and

  the Commander-in-Chief, in general orders, has announced that in giving

  to Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Newcome, C.B., of the Bengal Cavalry, leave

  for the first time, after no less than thirty-four years' absence from

  home, "he (Sir George Hustler) cannot refrain from expressing his sense

  of the great and meritorious services of this most distinguished officer,

  who has left his regiment in a state of the highest discipline and

  efficiency." And now the ship has sailed, the voyage is over, and once

  more, after so many long years, the honest soldier's foot is on his

  native shore.

  CHAPTER VI

  Newcome Brothers

  Besides his own boy, whom he worshipped, this kind Colonel had a score,

  at least, of adopted children, to whom he chose to stand in the light of

  a father. He was for ever whirling away in postchaises to this school and

  that, to see Jack Brown's boys, of the Cavalry; or Mrs. Smith's girls, of

  the Civil Service; or poor Tom Hicks's orphan, who had nobody to look

  after him now that the cholera had carried off Tom, and his wife too. On

  board the ship in which he returned from Calcutta were a dozen of little

  children, of both sexes, some of whom he actually escorted to their

  friends before he visited his own; and though his heart was longing for

  his boy at Grey Friars. The children at the schools seen, and largely

  rewarded out of his bounty (his loose white trousers had great pockets,

  always heavy with gold and silver, which he jingled when he was not

  pulling his mustachios--to see the way in which he tipped children made

  one almost long to be a boy again); and when he had visited Miss

  Pinkerton's establishment, or Doctor Ramshorn's adjoining academy at

  Chiswick, and seen little Tom Davis or little Fanny Holmes the honest

  fellow would come home and write off straightway a long letter to Tom's

  or Fanny's parents, far away in the Indian country, whose hearts he made

  happy by his accounts of
their children, as he had delighted the children

  themselves by his affection and bounty. All the apple- and orange-women

  (especially such as had babies as well as lollipops at their stalls), all

  the street-sweepers on the road between Nerot's and the Oriental, knew

  him, and were his pensioners. His brothers in Threadneedle Street cast up

  their eyes at the cheques which he drew.

  One of the little people of whom the kind Newcome had taken charge

  luckily dwelt near Portsmouth; and when the faithful Colonel consigned

  Miss Fipps to her grandmother, Mrs. Admiral Fipps, at Southampton, Miss

  Fipps clung to her guardian, and with tears and howls was torn away from

  him. Not until her maiden aunts had consoled her with strawberries, which

  she never before had tasted, was the little Indian comforted for the

  departure of her dear Colonel. Master Cox, Tom Cox's boy, of the Native

  Infantry, had to be carried asleep from the "George" to the mail that

  night. Master Cox woke up at the dawn wondering, as the coach passed

  through the pleasant green roads of Bromley. The good gentleman consigned

  the little chap to his uncle, Dr. Cox, Bloomsbury Square, before he went

  to his own quarters, and then on the errand on which his fond heart was

  bent.

  He had written to his brothers from Portsmouth, announcing his arrival,

  and three words to Clive, conveying the same intelligence. The letter was

  served to the boy along with one bowl of tea and one buttered roll, of

  eighty such which were distributed to fourscore other boys, boarders of

  the same house with our young friend. How the lad's face must have

  flushed, and his eyes brightened, when he read the news! When the master

  of the house, the Rev. Mr. Popkinson, came into the long-room, with a

  good-natured face, and said, "Newcome, you're wanted," he knows who is

  come. He does not heed that notorious bruiser, Old Hodge, who roars out,

  "Confound you, Newcome: I'll give it you for upsetting your tea over my

  new trousers." He runs to the room where the stranger is waiting for him.

  We will shut the door, if you please, upon that scene.

  If Clive had not been as fine and handsome a young lad as any in that

  school or country, no doubt his fond father would have been just as well

  pleased, and endowed him with a hundred fanciful graces; but in truth, in

  looks and manners he was every thing which his parent could desire; and I

  hope the artist who illustrates this work will take care to do justice to

  his portrait. Mr. Clive himself, let that painter be assured, will not be

  too well pleased if his countenance and figure do not receive proper

  attention. He is not yet endowed with those splendid mustachios and

  whiskers which he has himself subsequently depicted, but he is the

  picture of health, strength, activity, and good-humour. He has a good

  forehead, shaded with a quantity of waving light hair; a complexion which

  ladies might envy; a mouth which seems accustomed to laughing; and a pair

  of blue eyes that sparkle with intelligence and frank kindness. No wonder

  the pleased father cannot refrain from looking at him. He is, in a word,

  just such a youth as has a right to be the hero of a novel.

  The bell rings for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in cap and

  gown, comes in to shake Colonel Newcome by the hand, and to say he

  supposes it's to be a holiday for Newcome that day. He does not say a

  word about Clive's scrape of the day before, and that awful row in the

  bedrooms, where the lad and three others were discovered making a supper

  off a pork-pie and two bottles of prime old port from the Red Cow

  public-house in Grey Friars Lane. When the bell has done ringing, and all

  these busy little bees have swarmed into their hive, there is a solitude

  in the place. The Colonel and his son walked the playground together,

  that gravelly flat, as destitute of herbage as the Arabian desert, but,

  nevertheless, in the language of the place called the green. They walk

  the green, and they pace the cloisters, and Clive shows his father his

  own name of Thomas Newcome carved upon one of the arches forty years ago.

  As they talk, the boy gives sidelong glances at his new friend, and

  wonders at the Colonel's loose trousers, long mustachios, and yellow

  face. He looks very odd, Clive thinks, very odd and very kind, and he

  looks like a gentleman, every inch of him:--not like Martin's father, who

  came to see his son lately in high-lows, and a shocking bad hat, and

  actually flung coppers amongst the boys for a scramble. He bursts out

  a-laughing at the exquisitely ludicrous idea of a gentleman of his

  fashion scrambling for coppers.

  And now, enjoining the boy to be ready against his return (and you may be

  sure Mr. Clive was on the look-out long before his sire appeared), the

  Colonel whirled away in his cab to the City to shake hands with his

  brothers, whom he had not seen since they were demure little men in blue

  jackets, under charge of a serious tutor.

  He rushed through the clerks and the banking-house, he broke into the

  parlour where the lords of the establishment were seated. He astonished

  those trim quiet gentlemen by the warmth of his greeting, by the vigour

  of his hand-shake, and the loud high tones of his voice, which penetrated

  the glass walls of the parlour, and might actually be heard by the busy

  clerks in the hall without. He knew Brian from Hobson at once--that

  unlucky little accident in the go-cart having left its mark for ever on

  the nose of Sir Brian Newcome, the elder of the twins. Sir Brian had a

  bald head and light hair, a short whisker cut to his cheek, a buff

  waistcoat, very neat boots and hands. He looked like the "Portrait of a

  Gentleman" at the Exhibition, as the worthy is represented: dignified in

  attitude, bland, smiling, and statesmanlike, sitting at a table unsealing

  letters, with a despatch-box and a silver inkstand before him, a column

  and a scarlet curtain behind, and a park in the distance, with a great

  thunderstorm lowering in the sky. Such a portrait, in fact, hangs over

  the great sideboard at Newcome to this day, and above the three great

  silver waiters, which the gratitude of as many Companies has presented to

  their respected director and chairman.

  In face, Hobson Newcome, Esq., was like his elder brother, but was more

  portly in person. He allowed his red whiskers to grow wherever nature had

  planted them, on his cheeks and under his chin. He wore thick shoes with

  nails in them, or natty round-toed boots, with tight trousers and a

  single strap. He affected the country gentleman in his appearance. His

  hat had a broad brim, and the ample pockets of his cut-away coat were

  never destitute of agricultural produce, samples of beans or corn, which

  he used to bite and chew even on 'Change, or a whip-lash, or balls for

  horses: in fine, he was a good old country gentleman. If it was fine in

  Threadneedle Street, he would say it was good weather for the hay; if it

  rained, the country wanted rain; if it was frosty, "No hunting to-day,

  Tomkins, my boy," and so forth. As he rode from Bryanstone Square to the

  City you would take
him--and he was pleased to be so taken--for a jolly

  country squire. He was a better man of business than his more solemn and

  stately brother, at whom he laughed in his jocular way; and he said

  rightly, that a gentleman must get up very early in the morning who

  wanted to take him in.

  The Colonel breaks into the sanctum of these worthy gentlemen; and each

  receives him in a manner consonant with his peculiar nature. Sir Brian

  regretted that Lady Anne was away from London, being at Brighton with the

  children, who were all ill of the measles. Hobson said, "Maria can't

  treat you to such good company as my lady could give you, but when will

  you take a day and come and dine with us? Let's see, to-day's Wednesday;

  to-morrow we've a party. No, we're engaged." He meant that his table was

  full, and that he did not care to crowd it; but there was no use in

  imparting this circumstance to the Colonel. "Friday, we dine at Judge

  Budge's--queer name, Judge Budge, ain't it? Saturday, I'm going down to

  Marblehead, to look after the hay. Come on Monday, Tom, and I'll

  introduce you to the missus and the young 'uns."

  "I will bring Clive," says Colonel Newcome, rather disturbed at this

  reception. "After his illness my sister-in-law was very kind to him."

  "No, hang it, don't bring boys; there's no good in boys; they stop the

  talk downstairs, and the ladies don't want 'em in the drawing-room. Send

  him to dine with the children on Sunday, if you like, and come along down

  with me to Marblehead, and I'll show you such a crop of hay as will make

  your eyes open. Are you fond of farming?"

  "I have not seen my boy for years," says the Colonel; "I had rather pass

  Saturday and Sunday with him, if you please, and some day we will go to

  Marblehead together."

  "Well, an offer's an offer. I don't know any pleasanter thing than

  getting out of this confounded City and smelling the hedges, and looking

  at the crops coming up, and passing the Sunday in quiet." And his own

  tastes being thus agricultural, the honest gentleman thought that

  everybody else must delight in the same recreation.

  "In the winter, I hope we shall see you at Newcome," says the elder

  brother, blandly smiling. "I can't give you any tiger-shooting, but I'll

  promise you that you shall find plenty of pheasants in our jungle," and

  he laughed very gently at this mild sally.

  The Colonel gave him a queer look. "I shall be at Newcome before the

  winter. I shall be there, please God, before many days are over."

  "Indeed!" says the Baronet, with an air of great surprise. "You are going

  down to look at the cradle of our race. I believe the Newcomes were there

  before the Conqueror. It was but a village in our grandfather's time, and

  it is an immense flourishing town now, for which I hope to get--I expect

  to get--a charter."

  "Do you?" says the Colonel. "I am going down there to see a relation."

  "A relation! What relatives have we there?" cries the Baronet. "My

  children, with the exception of Barnes. Barnes, this is your uncle

  Colonel Thomas Newcome. I have great pleasure, brother, in introducing

  you to my eldest son."

  A fair-haired young gentleman, languid and pale, and arrayed in the very

  height of fashion, made his appearance at this juncture in the parlour,

  and returned Colonel Newcome's greeting with a smiling acknowledgment of

  his own. "Very happy to see you, I'm sure," said the young man. "You find

  London very much changed since you were here? Very good time to come--the

  very full of the season."

  Poor Thomas Newcome was quite abashed by this strange reception. Here was

  a man, hungry for affection, and one relation asked him to dinner next

  Monday, and another invited him to shoot pheasants at Christmas. Here was

  a beardless young sprig, who patronised him, and vouchsafed to ask him