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Produced by Tapio Riikonen.

THE NEWCOMES

Memoirs of a most Respectable Family

Edited by Arthur Pendennis, Esq.

by William Makepeace Thackeray

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
I The Overture--After which the Curtain rises upon a Drinking
Chorus
II Colonel Newcome's Wild Oats
III Colonel Newcome's Letter-box
IV In which the Author and the Hero resume their Acquaintance
V Clive's Uncles
VI Newcome Brothers
VII In which Mr. Clive's School-days are over
VIII Mrs. Newcome at Home (a Small Early Party)
IX Miss Honeyman's
X Ethel and her Relations
XI At Mrs. Ridley's
XII In which Everybody is asked to Dinner
XIII In which Thomas Newcome sings his last Song
XIV Park Lane
XV The Old Ladies
XVI In which Mr. Sherrick lets his House in Fitzroy Square
XVII A School of Art
XVIII New Companions
XIX The colonel at Home
XX Contains more Particulars of the Colonel and his Brethren
XXI Is Sentimental, but Short
XXII Describes a Visit to Paris; with Accidents and Incidents
in London
XXIII In which we hear a Soprano and a Contralto
XXIV In which the Newcome Brothers once more meet together in Unity
XXV Is passed in a Public-house
XXVI In which Colonel Newcome's Horses are sold
XXVII Youth and Sunshine
XXVIII In which Clive begins to see the World
XXIX In which Barnes comes a-Wooing
XXX A Retreat
XXXI Madame la Duchesse
XXXII Barnes's Courtship
XXXIII Lady Kew at the Congress
XXXIV The End of the Congress of Baden
XXXV Across the Alps
XXXVI In which M. de Florac is promoted
XXXVII Returns to Lord Kew
XXXVIII In which Lady Kew leaves his Lordship quite Convalescent
XXXIX Amongst the Painters
XL Returns from Rome to Pall Mall
XLI An Old Story
XLII Injured Innocence
XLIII Returns to some Old Friends
XLIV In which Mr. Charles Honeyman appears in an amiable light
XLV A Stag of Ten
XLVI The Hotel de Florac
XLVII Contains two or three Acts of a little Comedy
XLVIII In which Benedick is a Married Man
XLIX Contains at least Six more Courses and Two Desserts
L Clive in New Quarters
LI An Old Friend
LII Family Secrets
LIII In which Kinsmen fall out
LIV Has a Tragical Ending
LV Barnes's Skeleton Closet
LVI Rosa quo locorum sera moratur
LVII Rosebury and Newcome
LVIII "One more Unfortunate"
LIX In which Achilles loses Briseis
LX In which we write to the Colonel
LXI In which we are introduced to a new Newcome
LXII Mr. and Mrs. Clive Newcome
LXIII Mrs. Clive at Home
LXIV Absit Omen
LXV In which Mrs. Clive comes into her Fortune
LXVI In which the Colonel and the Newcome Athenaeum are both Lectured
LXVII Newcome and Liberty
LXVIII A Letter and a Reconciliation
LXIX The Election
LXX Chiltern Hundreds
LXXI In which Mrs. Clive Newcome's Carriage is ordered
LXXII Belisarius
LXXIII In which Belisarius returns from Exile
LXXIV In which Clive begins the World
LXXV Founder's Day at Grey Friars
LXXVI Christmas at Rosebury
LXXVII The Shortest and Happiest in the whole History
LXXVIII In which the Author goes on a Pleasant Errand
LXII In which Old Friends come together
LXXX In which the Colonel says "Adsum" when his Name is called

THE NEWCOMES

CHAPTER I

The Overture--After which the Curtain rises upon a Drinking Chorus

A crow, who had flown away with a cheese from a dairy-window, sate
perched on a tree looking down at a great big frog in a pool underneath
him. The frog's hideous large eyes were goggling out of his head in a
manner which appeared quite ridiculous to the old blackamoor, who watched
the splay-footed slimy wretch with that peculiar grim humour belonging to
crows. Not far from the frog a fat ox was browsing; whilst a few lambs
frisked about the meadow, or nibbled the grass and buttercups there.

Who should come in to the farther end of the field but a wolf? He was so
cunningly dressed up in sheep's clothing, that the very lambs did not
know Master Wolf; nay, one of them, whose dam the wolf had just eaten,
after which he had thrown her skin over his shoulders, ran up innocently
towards the devouring monster, mistaking him for her mamma.

"He, he!" says a fox, sneaking round the hedge-paling, over which the
tree grew, whereupon the crow was perched looking down on the frog, who
was staring with his goggle eyes fit to burst with envy, and croaking
abuse at the ox. "How absurd those lambs are! Yonder silly little
knock-kneed baah-ling does not know the old wolf dressed in the sheep's
fleece. He is the same old rogue who gobbled up little Red Riding Hood's
grandmother for lunch, and swallowed little Red Riding Hood for supper.
Tirez la bobinette et la chevillette cherra. He, he!"

An owl that was hidden in the hollow of the tree woke up. "Oho, Master
Fox," says she, "I cannot see you, but I smell you! If some folks like
lambs, other folks like geese," says the owl.

"And your ladyship is fond of mice," says the fox.

"The Chinese eat them," says the owl, "and I have read that they are very
fond of dogs," continued the old lady.

"I wish they would exterminate every cur of them off the face of the
earth," said the fox.

"And I have also read, in works of travel, that the French eat frogs,"
continued the owl. "Aha, my friend Crapaud! are you there? That was a
very pretty concert we sang together last night!"

"If the French devour my brethren, the English eat beef," croaked out the
frog,--"great, big, brutal, bellowing oxen."

"Ho, whoo!" says the owl, "I have heard that the English are toad-eaters
too!"

"But who ever heard of them eating an owl or a fox, madam?" says
Reynard, "or their sitting down and taking a crow to pick?" adds the
polite rogue, with a bow to the old crow who was perched above them with
the cheese in his mouth. "We are privileged animals, all of us; at least,
we never furnish dishes for the odious orgies of man."

"I am the bird of wisdom," says the owl; "I was the companion of Pallas
Minerva: I am frequently represented in the Egyptian monuments."

"I have seen you over the British barn-doors," said the fox, with a grin.
"You have a deal of scholarship, Mrs. Owl. I know a thing or two myself;
but am, I confess it, no scholar--a mere man of the world--a fellow that
lives by his wits--a mere country gentleman."

"You sneer at scholarship," continues the owl, with a sneer on her
venerable face. "I read a good deal of a night."

"When I am engaged deciphering the cocks and hens at roost," says the
fox.

"It's a pity for all that you can't read; that board nailed over my head
would give you some information."

"What does it say?" says the fox.

"I can't spell in the daylight," answered the owl; and, giving a yawn,
went back to sleep till evening in the hollow of her tree.

"A fig for her hieroglyphics!" said the fox, looking up at the crow in
the tree. "What airs our slow neighbour gives herself! She pretends to
all the wisdom; whereas, your reverences, the crows, are endowed with
gifts far superior to these benighted old big-wigs of owls, who blink in
the darkness, and call their hooting singing. How noble it is to hear a
chorus of crows! There are twenty-four brethren of the Order of St.
Corvinus, who have builded themselves a convent near a wood which I
frequent; what a droning and a chanting they keep up! I protest their
reverences' singing is nothing to yours! You sing so deliciously in
parts, do for the love of harmony favour me with a solo!"

While this conversation was going on, the ox was thumping the grass; the
frog was eyeing him in such a rage at his superior proportions, that he
would have spurted venom at him if he could, and that he would have
burst, only that is impossible, from sheer envy; the little lambkin was
lying unsuspiciously at the side of the wolf in fleecy hosiery, who did
not as yet molest her, being replenished with the mutton her mamma. But
now the wolf's eyes began to glare, and his sharp white teeth to show,
and he rose up with a growl, and began to think he should like lamb for
supper.

"What large eyes you have got!" bleated out the lamb, with rather a timid
look.

"The better to see you with, my dear."

"What large teeth you have got!"

"The better to----"

At this moment such a terrific yell filled the field, that all its
inhabitants started with terror. It was from a donkey, who had somehow
got a lion's skin, and now came in at the hedge, pursued by some men and
boys with sticks and guns.

When the wolf in sheep's clothing heard the bellow of the ass in the
lion's skin, fancying that the monarch of the forest was near, he ran
away as fast as his disguise would let him. When the ox heard the noise
he dashed round the meadow-ditch, and with one trample of his hoof
squashed the frog who had been abusing him. When the crow saw the people
with guns coming, he instantly dropped the cheese out of his mouth, and
took to wing. When the fox saw the cheese drop, he immediately made a
jump at it (for he knew the donkey's voice, and that his asinine bray was
not a bit like his royal master's roar), and making for the cheese, fell
into a steel trap, which snapped off his tail; without which he was
obliged to go into the world, pretending, forsooth, that it was the
fashion not to wear tails any more; and that the fox-party were better
without 'em.

Meanwhile, a boy with a stick came up, and belaboured Master Donkey until
he roared louder than ever. The wolf, with the sheep's clothing draggling
about his legs, could not run fast, and was detected and shot by one of
the men. The blind old owl, whirring out of the hollow tree, quite amazed
at the disturbance, flounced into the face of a ploughboy, who knocked
her down with a pitchfork. The butcher came and quietly led off the ox
and the lamb; and the farmer, finding the fox's brush in the trap, hung
it up over his mantelpiece, and always bragged that he had been in at his
death.

"What a farrago of old fables is this! What a dressing up in old
clothes!" says the critic. (I think I see such a one--a Solomon that sits
in judgment over us authors and chops up our children.) "As sure as I am
just and wise, modest, learned, and religious, so surely I have read
something very like this stuff and nonsense about jackasses and foxes
before. That wolf in sheep's clothing?--do I not know him? That fox
discoursing with the crow?--have I not previously heard of him? Yes, in
Lafontaine's fables: let us get the Dictionary and the Fable and the
Biographie Universelle, article Lafontaine, and confound the impostor."

"Then in what a contemptuous way," may Solomon go on to remark, "does
this author speak of human nature! There is scarce one of these
characters he represents but is a villain. The fox is a flatterer; the
frog is an emblem of impotence and envy; the wolf in sheep's clothing a
bloodthirsty hypocrite, wearing the garb of innocence; the ass in the
lion's skin a quack trying to terrify, by assuming the appearance of a
forest monarch (does the writer, writhing under merited castigation, mean
to sneer at critics in this character? We laugh at the impertinent
comparison); the ox, a stupid commonplace; the only innocent being in the
writer's (stolen) apologue is a fool--the idiotic lamb, who does not know
his own mother!" And then the critic, if in a virtuous mood, may indulge
in some fine writing regarding the holy beauteousness of maternal
affection.

Why not? If authors sneer, it is the critic's business to sneer at them
for sneering. He must pretend to be their superior, or who would care
about his opinion? And his livelihood is to find fault. Besides, he is
right sometimes; and the stories he reads, and the characters drawn in
them, are old, sure enough. What stories are new? All types of all
characters march through all fables: tremblers and boasters; victims and
bullies; dupes and knaves; long-eared Neddies, giving themselves leonine
airs; Tartuffes wearing virtuous clothing; lovers and their trials, their
blindness, their folly and constancy. With the very first page of the
human story do not love and lies too begin? So the tales were told ages
before Aesop; and asses under lions' manes roared in Hebrew; and sly
foxes flattered in Etruscan; and wolves in sheep's clothing gnashed their
teeth in Sanskrit, no doubt. The sun shines to-day as he did when he
first began shining; and the birds in the tree overhead, while I am
writing, sing very much the same note they have sung ever since there
were finches. Nay, since last he besought good-natured friends to listen
once a month to his talking, a friend of the writer has seen the New
World, and found the (featherless) birds there exceedingly like their
brethren of Europe. There may be nothing new under and including the sun;
but it looks fresh every morning, and we rise with it to toil, hope,
scheme, laugh, struggle, love, suffer, until the night comes and quiet.
And then will wake Morrow and the eyes that look on it; and so da capo.

This, then, is to be a story, may it please you, in which jackdaws will
wear peacocks' feathers, and awaken the just ridicule of the peacocks; in
which, while every justice is done to the peacocks themselves, the
splendour of their plumage, the gorgeousness of their dazzling necks, and
the magnificence of their tails, exception will yet be taken to the
absurdity of their rickety strut, and the foolish discord of their pert
squeaking; in which lions in love will have their claws pared by sly
virgins; in which rogues will sometimes triumph, and honest folks, let us
hope, come by their own; in which there will be black crape and white
favours; in which there will be tears under orange-flower wreaths, and
jokes in mourning-coaches; in which there will be dinners of herbs with
contentment and without, and banquets of stalled oxen where there is care
and hatred--ay, and kindness and friendship too, along with the feast. It
does not follow that all men are honest because they are poor; and I have
known some who were friendly and generous, although they had plenty of
money. There are some great landlords who do not grind down their
tenants; there are actually bishops who are not hypocrites; there are
liberal men even among the Whigs, and the Radicals themselves are not all
aristocrats at heart. But who ever heard of giving the Moral before the
Fable? Children are only led to accept the one after their delectation
over the other: let us take care lest our readers skip both; and so let
us bring them on quickly--our wolves and lambs, our foxes and lions, our
roaring donkeys, our billing ringdoves, our motherly partlets, and
crowing chanticleers.

There was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter than it appears
to do in this latter half of the nineteenth century; when the zest of
life was certainly keener; when tavern wines seemed to be delicious, and
tavern dinners the perfection of cookery; when the perusal of novels was
productive of immense delight, and the monthly advent of magazine-day was
hailed as an exciting holiday; when to know Thompson, who had written a
magazine-article, was an honour and a privilege; and to see Brown, the
author of the last romance, in the flesh, and actually walking in the
Park with his umbrella and Mrs. Brown, was an event remarkable, and to
the end of life to be perfectly well remembered; when the women of this
world were a thousand times more beautiful than those of the present
time; and the houris of the theatres especially so ravishing and angelic,
that to see them was to set the heart in motion, and to see them again
was to struggle for half an hour previously at the door of the pit; when
tailors called at a man's lodgings to dazzle him with cards of fancy
waistcoats; when it seemed necessary to purchase a grand silver
dressing-case, so as to be ready for the beard which was not yet born (as
yearling brides provide lace caps, and work rich clothes, for the
expected darling); when to ride in the Park on a ten-shilling hack seemed
to be the height of fashionable enjoyment, and to splash your college
tutor as you were driving down Regent Street in a hired cab the triumph
of satire; when the acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of
Trinity at the Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with
King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin of Trinity
Hall (who was with his family in Bloomsbury Square), to dine at the
Piazza, go to the play and see Braham in Fra Diavolo, and end the frolic
evening by partaking of supper and a song at the "Cave of Harmony."--It
was in the days of my own youth, then, that I met one or two of the
characters who are to figure in this history, and whom I must ask leave
to accompany for a short while, and until, familiarised with the public,
they can make their own way. As I recall them the roses bloom again, and
the nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer.

Going to the play, then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in those
honest days, with some young fellows of my own age, having listened
delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of operas, and laughed
enthusiastically at the farce, we became naturally hungry at twelve
o'clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rabbits and good old
glee-singing led us to the "Cave of Harmony," then kept by the celebrated
Hoskins, among whose friends we were proud to count.

We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never failed to greet
us with a kind nod; and John the waiter made room for us near the
President of the convivial meeting. We knew the three admirable
glee-singers, and many a time they partook of brandy-and-water at our
expense. One of us gave his call dinner at Hoskins's, and a merry time we
had of it. Where are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night? Do you warble
your songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black
Avernus?

The goes of stout, the "Chough and Crow," the welsh-rabbit, the
"Red-Cross Knight," the hot brandy-and-water (the brown, the strong!),
the "Bloom is on the Rye" (the bloom isn't on the rye any more!)--the
song and the cup, in a word, passed round merrily; and, I daresay, the
songs and bumpers were encored. It happened that there was a very small
attendance at the "Cave" that night, and we were all more sociable and
friendly because the company was select. The songs were chiefly of the
sentimental class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I
speak.

There came into the "Cave" a gentleman with a lean brown face and long
black mustachios, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a stranger
to the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. He was
pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling for
sherry-and-water, he listened to the music, and twirled his mustachios
with great enthusiasm.

At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, bounded
across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and, blushing, said,
"Don't you know me?"

It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had not seen for six
years, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright blue
eyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy.

"What the deuce brings you here?" said I.

He laughed and looked roguish. "My father--that's my father--would come.
He's just come back from India. He says all the wits used to come here,--
Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris, Colonel Hanger, Professor Porson. I told
him your name, and that you used to be very kind to me when I first went
to Smithfield. I've left now; I'm to have a private tutor. I say, I've
got such a jolly pony. It's better fun than old Smile."

Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, pointing to a waiter to
follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode across the room
twirling his mustachios, and came up to the table where we sate, making a
salutation with his hat in a very stately and polite manner, so that
Hoskins himself was, as it were, obliged to bow; the glee-singers
murmured among themselves (their eyes rolling over their glasses towards
one another as they sucked brandy-and water), and that mischievous little
wag, little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just come in), began to
mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers, after the manner of the
stranger, and flapping about his pocket-handkerchief in the most
ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by sternly looking
towards Nadab, and at the same time called upon the gents to give their
orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr. Bellew about to sing a
song.

Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me. I dare say I
blushed, for I had been comparing him to the admirable Harley in the
Critic, and had christened him Don Ferolo Whiskerandos.

He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant, and with a cordiality
so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away ashamed, and gave
place to a feeling much more respectful and friendly. In youth, you see,
one is touched by kindness. A man of the world may, of course, be
grateful or not as he chooses.

"I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, "to my boy. And whoever is
kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me to sit down by you? and may
I beg you to try my cheroots?" We were friends in a minute--young Newcome
snuggling by my side, his father opposite, to whom, after a minute or two
of conversation, I presented my three college friends.

"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says the Colonel. "Are
there any celebrated persons in the room? I have been five-and-thirty
years from home, and want to see all that is to be seen."

King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was on the point of pulling
some dreadful long-bow, and pointing out a halfdozen of people in the
room, as R. and H. and L., etc., the most celebrated wits of that day;
but I cut King's shins under the table, and got the fellow to hold his
tongue.

"Maxima debetur pueris," says Jones (a fellow of very kind feeling, who
has gone into the Church since), and, writing on his card to Hoskins,
hinted to him that a boy was in the room, and a gentleman, who was quite
a greenhorn: hence that the songs had better be carefully selected.

And so they were. A ladies' school might have come in, and, but for the
smell of the cigars and brandy-and-water, have taken no harm by what
happened. Why should it not always be so? If there are any "Caves of
Harmony" now, I warrant Messieurs the landlords, their interests would be
better consulted by keeping their singers within bounds. The very
greatest scamps like pretty songs, and are melted by them; so are honest
people. It was worth a guinea to see the simple Colonel, and his delight
at the music. He forgot all about the distinguished wits whom he had
expected to see in his ravishment over the glees.

"I say, Clive, this is delightful. This is better than your aunt's
concert with all the Squallinis, hey? I shall come here often. Landlord,
may I venture to ask those gentlemen if they will take any refreshment?
What are their names?" (to one of his neighbours). "I was scarcely
allowed to hear any singing before I went out, except an oratorio, where
I fell asleep; but this, by George, is as fine as Incledon!" He became
quite excited over his sherry-and-water-("I'm sorry to see you,
gentlemen, drinking brandy-pawnee," says he; "it plays the deuce with our
young men in India.") He joined in all the choruses with an exceedingly
sweet voice. He laughed at "The Derby Ram" so that it did you good to
hear him; and when Hoskins sang (as he did admirably) "The Old English
Gentleman," and described, in measured cadence, the death of that
venerable aristocrat, tears trickled down the honest warrior's cheek,
while he held out his hand to Hoskins and said, "Thank you, sir, for that
song; it is an honour to human nature." On which Hoskins began to cry
too.

And now young Nadab, having been cautioned, commenced one of those
surprising feats of improvisation with which he used to charm audiences.
He took us all off, and had rhymes pat about all the principal persons in
the room: King's pins (which he wore very splendid), Martin's red
waistcoat, etc. The Colonel was charmed with each feat, and joined
delighted with the chorus--"Ritolderol ritolderol ritolderolderay" (bis).
And when, coming to the Colonel himself, he burst out--

"A military gent I see--And while his face I scan,
I think you'll all agree with me--He came from Hindostan.
And by his side sits laughing free--A youth with curly head,
I think you'll all agree with me--That he was best in bed.
Ritolderol," etc.

--the Colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped his son, young
Clive, on the shoulder. "Hear what he says of you, sir? Clive, best be
off to bed, my boy--ho, ho! No, no. We know a trick worth two of that.
'We won't go home till morning, till daylight does appear.' Why should
we? Why shouldn't my boy have innocent pleasure? I was allowed none when
I was a young chap, and the severity was nearly the ruin of me. I must go
and speak with that young man--the most astonishing thing I ever heard in
my life. What's his name? Mr. Nadab? Mr. Nadab, sir, you have delighted
me. May I make so free as to ask you to come and dine with me to-morrow
at six? Colonel Newcome, if you please, Nerot's Hotel, Clifford Street. I
am always proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, and you are
one, or my name is not Newcome!"