The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

distinguished company). Colonel Newcome and Mr. Binnie! I drink to the

  health of the Reverend Charles Honeyman, A.M. May we listen to many more

  of his sermons, as well as to that admirable discourse with which I am

  sure he is about to electrify us now. May we profit by his eloquence; and

  cherish in our memories the truths which come mended from his tongue!" He

  ceased; poor Honeyman had to rise on his legs, and gasp out a few

  incoherent remarks in reply. Without a book before him, the Incumbent of

  Lady Whittlesea's Chapel was no prophet, and the truth is he made poor

  work of his oration.

  At the end of it, he, Sir Brian, Colonel Dobbin, and one of the Indian

  gentlemen quitted the room, in spite of the loud outcries of our generous

  host, who insisted that the party should not break up. "Close up,

  gentlemen," called out honest Newcome, "we are not going to part just

  yet. Let me fill your glass, General. You used to have no objection to a

  glass of wine." And he poured out a bumper for his friend, which the old

  campaigner sucked in with fitting gusto. "Who will give us a song?

  Binnie, give us the 'Laird of Cockpen.' It's capital, my dear General.

  Capital," the Colonel whispered to his neighbour.

  Mr. Binnie struck up the "Laird of Cockpen," without, I am bound to say,

  the least reluctance. He bobbed to one man, and he winked to another, and

  he tossed his glass, and gave all the points of his song in a manner

  which did credit to his simplicity and his humour. You haughty

  Southerners little know how a jolly Scotch gentleman can desipere in

  loco, and how he chirrups over his honest cups. I do not say whether it

  was with the song or with Mr. Binnie that we were most amused. It was a

  good commonty, as Christopher Sly says; nor were we sorry when it was

  done.

  Him the first mate succeeded; after which came a song from the redoubted

  F. Bayham, which he sang with a bass voice which Lablache might envy, and

  of which the chorus was frantically sung by the whole company. The cry

  was then for the Colonel; on which Barnes Newcome, who had been drinking

  much, started up with something like an oath, crying, "Oh, I can't stand

  this."

  "Then leave it, confound you!" said young Clive, with fury in his face.

  "If our company is not good for you, why do you come into it?"

  "What's that?" asks Barnes, who was evidently affected by wine. Bayham

  roared "Silence!" and Barnes Newcome, looking round with a tipsy toss of

  the head, finally sate down.

  The Colonel sang, as we have said, with a very high voice, using freely

  the falsetto, after the manner of the tenor singers of his day. He chose

  one of his maritime songs, and got through the first verse very well,

  Barnes wagging his head at the chorus, with a "Bravo!" so offensive that

  Fred Bayham, his neighbour, gripped the young man's arm, and told him to

  hold his confounded tongue.

  The Colonel began his second verse: and here, as will often happen to

  amateur singers, his falsetto broke down. He was not in the least

  annoyed, for I saw him smile very good-naturedly; and he was going to try

  the verse again, when that unlucky Barnes first gave a sort of crowing

  imitation of the song, and then burst into a yell of laughter. Clive

  dashed a glass of wine in his face at the next minute, glass and all; and

  no one who had watched the young man's behaviour was sorry for the

  insult.

  I never saw a kind face express more terror than Colonel Newcome's. He

  started back as if he had himself received the blow from his son.

  "Gracious God!" he cried out. "My boy insult a gentleman at my table!"

  "I'd like to do it again," says Clive, whose whole body was trembling

  with anger.

  "Are you drunk, sir?" shouted his father.

  "The boy served the young fellow right, sir," growled Fred Bayham in his

  deepest voice. "Come along, young man. Stand up straight, and keep a

  civil tongue in your head next time, mind you, when you dine with

  gentlemen. It's easy to see," says Fred, looking round with a knowing

  air, "that this young man hasn't got the usages of society--he's not been

  accustomed to it:" and he led the dandy out.

  Others had meanwhile explained the state of the case to the Colonel--

  including Sir Thomas de Boots, who was highly energetic and delighted

  with Clive's spirit; and some were for having the song to continue; but

  the Colonel, puffing his cigar, said, "No. My pipe is out. I will never

  sing again." So this history will record no more of Thomas Newcome's

  musical performances.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Park Lane

  Clive woke up the next morning to be aware of a racking headache, and, by

  the dim light of his throbbing eyes, to behold his father with solemn

  face at his bed-foot--a reproving conscience to greet his waking.

  "You drank too much wine last night, and disgraced yourself, sir," the

  old soldier said. "You must get up and eat humble pie this morning, my

  boy."

  "Humble what, father?" asked the lad, hardly aware of his words, or the

  scene before him. "Oh, I've got such a headache!"

  "Serve you right, sir. Many a young fellow has had to go on parade in the

  morning, with a headache earned overnight. Drink this water. Now, jump

  up. Now, dash the water well over your head. There you come! Make your

  toilette quickly; and let us be off, and find cousin Barnes before he has

  left home."

  Clive obeyed the paternal orders; dressed himself quickly; and

  descending, found his father smoking his morning cigar in the apartment

  where they had dined the night before, and where the tables still were

  covered with the relics of yesterday's feast--the emptied bottles, the

  blank lamps, the scattered ashes and fruits, the wretched heel-taps that

  have been lying exposed all night to the air. Who does not know the

  aspect of an expired feast?

  "The field of action strewed with the dead, my boy," says Clive's father.

  "See, here's the glass on the floor yet, and a great stain of claret on

  the carpet."

  "Oh, father!" says Clive, hanging his head down, "I know I shouldn't have

  done it. But Barnes Newcome would provoke the patience of Job; and I

  couldn't bear to have my father insulted."

  "I am big enough to fight my own battles, my boy," the Colonel said

  good-naturedly, putting his hand on the lad's damp head. "How your head

  throbs! If Barnes laughed at my singing, depend upon it, sir, there was

  something ridiculous in it, and he laughed because he could not help it.

  If he behaved ill, we should not; and to a man who is eating our salt

  too, and is of our blood."

  "He is ashamed of our blood, father," cries Clive, still indignant.

  "We ought to be ashamed of doing wrong. We must go and ask his pardon.

  Once when I was a young man in India," the father continued very gravely,

  "some hot words passed at mess--not such an insult as that of last night;

  I don't think I could have quite borne that--and people found fault with

  me for forgiving the youngster who had uttered the offensive expressions

  over his wine. Some of my acquaintance sneered at my
courage, and that is

  a hard imputation for a young fellow of spirit to bear. But

  providentially, you see, it was war-time, and very soon after I had the

  good luck to show that I was not a poule mouillee, as the French call it;

  and the man who insulted me, and whom I forgave, became my fastest

  friend, and died by my side--it was poor Jack Cutler--at Argaum. We must

  go and ask Barnes Newcome's pardon, sir, and forgive other people's

  trespasses, my boy, if we hope forgiveness of our own." His voice sank

  down as he spoke, and he bowed his honest head reverently. I have heard

  his son tell the simple story years afterwards, with tears in his eyes.

  Piccadilly was hardly yet awake the next morning, and the sparkling dews

  and the poor homeless vagabonds still had possession of the grass of Hyde

  Park, as the pair walked up to Sir Brian Newcome's house, where the

  shutters were just opening to let in the day. The housemaid, who was

  scrubbing the steps of the house, and washing its trim feet in a manner

  which became such a polite mansion's morning toilet, knew Master Clive,

  and smiled at him from under her blousy curl-papers, admitting the two

  gentlemen into Sir Brian's dining-room, where they proposed to wait until

  Mr. Barnes should appear. There they sate for an hour looking at

  Lawrence's picture of Lady Anne, leaning over a harp, attired in white

  muslin; at Harlowe's portrait of Mrs. Newcome, with her two sons

  simpering at her knees, painted at a time when the Newcome Brothers were

  not the bald-headed, red-whiskered British merchants with whom the reader

  has made acquaintance, but chubby children with hair flowing down their

  backs, and quaint little swallow-tailed jackets and nankeen trousers. A

  splendid portrait of the late Earl of Kew in his peer's robes hangs

  opposite his daughter and her harp. We are writing of George the Fourth's

  reign; I dare say there hung in the room a fine framed print of that

  great sovereign. The chandelier is in a canvas bag; the vast sideboard,

  whereon are erected open frames for the support of Sir Brian Newcome's

  grand silver trays, which on dinner days gleam on that festive board, now

  groans under the weight of Sir Brian's bluebooks. An immense receptacle

  for wine, shaped like a Roman sarcophagus, lurks under the sideboard. Two

  people sitting at that large dining-table must talk very loud so as to

  make themselves heard across those great slabs of mahogany covered with

  damask. The butler and servants who attend at the table take a long time

  walking round it. I picture to myself two persons of ordinary size

  sitting in that great room at that great table, far apart, in neat

  evening costume, sipping a little sherry, silent, genteel, and glum; and

  think the great and wealthy are not always to be envied, and that there

  may be more comfort and happiness in a snug parlour, where you are served

  by a brisk little maid, than in a great dark, dreary dining-hall, where a

  funereal major-domo and a couple of stealthy footmen minister to you

  your mutton-chops. They come and lay the cloth presently, wide as the

  main-sheet of some tall ammiral. A pile of newspapers and letters for the

  master of the house; the Newcome Sentinel, old county paper, moderate

  conservative, in which our worthy townsman and member is praised, his

  benefactions are recorded, and his speeches given at full length; the

  Newcome Independent, in which our precious member is weekly described as

  a ninny, and informed almost every Thursday morning that he is a bloated

  aristocrat, as he munches his dry toast. Heaps of letters, county papers,

  Times and Morning Herald for Sir Brian Newcome; little heaps of letters

  (dinner and soiree cards most of these) and Morning Post for Mr. Barnes.

  Punctually as eight o'clock strikes, that young gentleman comes to

  breakfast; his father will lie yet for another hour; the Baronet's

  prodigious labours in the House of Commons keeping him frequently out of

  bed till sunrise.

  As his cousin entered the room, Clive turned very red, and perhaps a

  faint blush might appear on Barnes's pallid countenance. He came in, a

  handkerchief in one hand, a pamphlet in the other, and both hands being

  thus engaged, he could offer neither to his kinsmen.

  "You are come to breakfast, I hope," he said--calling it "weakfast," and

  pronouncing the words with a most languid drawl--"or, perhaps, you want

  to see my father? He is never out of his room till half-past nine.

  Harper, did Sir Brian come in last night before or after me?" Harper, the

  butler, thinks Sir Brian came in after Mr. Barnes.

  When that functionary had quitted the room, Barnes turned round to his

  uncle in a candid, smiling way, and said, "The fact is, sir, I don't know

  when I came home myself very distinctly, and can't, of course, tell about

  my father. Generally, you know, there are two candles left in the hall,

  you know; and if there are two, you know, I know of course that my father

  is still at the House. But last night, after that capital song you sang,

  hang me if I know what happened to me. I beg your pardon, sir, I'm

  shocked at having been so overtaken. Such a confounded thing doesn't

  happen to me once in ten years. I do trust I didn't do anything rude to

  anybody, for I thought some of your friends the pleasantest fellows I

  ever met in my life; and as for the claret, 'gad, as if I hadn't had

  enough after dinner, I brought a quantity of it away with me on my

  shirt-front and waistcoat!"

  "I beg your pardon, Barnes," Clive said, blushing deeply, "and I'm very

  sorry indeed for what passed; I threw it."

  The Colonel, who had been listening with a queer expression of wonder and

  doubt on his face, here interrupted Mr. Barnes. "It was Clive that--that

  spilled the wine over you last night," Thomas Newcome said; "the young

  rascal had drunk a great deal too much wine, and had neither the use of

  his head nor his hands, and this morning I have given him a lecture, and

  he has come to ask your pardon for his clumsiness; and if you have

  forgotten your share in the night's transaction, I hope you have

  forgotten his, and will accept his hand and his apology."

  "Apology: There's no apology," cries Barnes, holding out a couple of

  fingers of his hand, but looking towards the Colonel. "I don't know what

  happened any more than the dead. Did we have a row? Were there any

  glasses broken? The best way in such cases is to sweep 'em up. We can't

  mend them."

  The Colonel said gravely--"that he was thankful to find that the

  disturbance of the night before had no worse result." He pulled the tail

  of Clive's coat, when that unlucky young blunderer was about to trouble

  his cousin with indiscreet questions or explanations, and checked his

  talk. "The other night you saw an old man in drink, my boy," he said,

  "and to what shame and degradation the old wretch had brought himself.

  Wine has given you a warning too, which I hope you will remember all your

  life; no one has seen me the worse for drink these forty years, and I

  hope both you young gentlemen will take counsel by an old soldier, who

  fully preaches wha
t he practises, and beseeches you to beware of the

  bottle."

  After quitting their kinsman, the kind Colonel further improved the

  occasion with his son; and told him out of his own experience many

  stories of quarrels, and duels, and wine;--how the wine had occasioned

  the brawls, and the foolish speech overnight the bloody meeting at

  morning; how he had known widows and orphans made by hot words uttered in

  idle orgies: how the truest honour was the manly confession of wrong; and

  the best courage the courage to avoid temptation. The humble-minded

  speaker, whose advice contained the best of all wisdom, that which comes

  from a gentle and reverent spirit, and a pure and generous heart, never

  for once thought of the effect which he might be producing, but uttered

  his simple say according to the truth within him. Indeed, he spoke out

  his mind pretty resolutely on all subjects which moved or interested him;

  and Clive, his son, and his honest chum, Mr. Binnie, who had a great deal

  more reading and much keener intelligence than the Colonel, were amused

  often at his naive opinion about men, or books, or morals. Mr. Clive had

  a very fine natural sense of humour, which played perpetually round his

  father's simple philosophy with kind and smiling comments. Between this

  pair of friends the superiority of wit lay, almost from the very first,

  on the younger man's side; but, on the other hand, Clive felt a tender

  admiration for his father's goodness, a loving delight in contemplating

  his elder's character, which he has never lost, and which in the trials

  of their future life inexpressibly cheered and consoled both of them!

  Beati illi! O man of the world, whose wearied eyes may glance over this

  page, may those who come after you so regard you! O generous boy, who

  read in it, may you have such a friend to trust and cherish in youth, and

  in future days fondly and proudly to remember!

  Some four or five weeks after the quasi-reconciliation between Clive and

  his kinsman, the chief part of Sir Brian Newcome's family were assembled

  at the breakfast-table together, where the meal was taken in common, and

  at the early hour of eight (unless the senator was kept too late in the

  House of Commons overnight); and Lady Anne and her nursery were now

  returned to London again, little Alfred being perfectly set up by a month

  of Brighton air. It was a Thursday morning; on which day of the week, it

  has been said, the Newcome Independent and the Newcome Sentinel both made

  their appearance upon the Baronet's table. The household from above and

  from below; the maids and footmen from the basement; the nurses,

  children, and governesses from the attics; all poured into the room at

  the sound of a certain bell.

  I do not sneer at the purpose for which, at that chiming eight-o'clock

  bell, the household is called together. The urns are hissing, the plate

  is shining; the father of the house, standing up, reads from a gilt book

  for three or four minutes in a measured cadence. The members of the

  family are around the table in an attitude of decent reverence; the

  younger children whisper responses at their mother's knees; the governess

  worships a little apart; the maids and the large footmen are in a cluster

  before their chairs, the upper servants performing their devotion on the

  other side of the sideboard; the nurse whisks about the unconscious

  last-born, and tosses it up and down during the ceremony. I do not sneer

  at that--at the act at which all these people are assembled--it is at the

  rest of the day I marvel; at the rest of the day, and what it brings. At

  the very instant when the voice has ceased speaking and the gilded book

  is shut, the world begins again, and for the next twenty-three hours and

  fifty-seven minutes all that household is given up to it. The servile

  squad rises up and marches away to its basement, whence, should it happen