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his cousin's disadvantage; and pursuing with constant slander and cruelty one of the very best of men. She rose and left the table in great tribulation—she went to her room and wrote a letter to her uncle, blistered with tears, in which she besought him not to come to Neweome.—Perhaps she went and looked at the apartments which she had adorned and prepared for his reception. It was for him and for his company that she was eager. She had met no one so generous and gentle, so honest and unselfish, until she had seen him.

Lady Ann knew the ways of women very well; and when Ethel that night, still in great indignation and scorn against Barnes, announced that she had written a letter to her uncle, begging the ColoneT not to come at Christmas, Ethel's mother soothed the wounded girl, and treated her with peculiar gentleness and affection; and she wisely gave Mr. Barnes to understand, that if he wished to bring about that very attachment, the idea of which made him so angry, he could use no better means than those which he chose to employ at present, of constantly abusing and insulting poor Clive, and awakening Ethel's sympathies by mere opposition. And Ethel's sad little letter was extracted from the post-bag: and her mother brought it to her, sealed, in her own room, where the young lady burned it: being easily brought by Lady Ann's quiet remonstrances to perceive that it was best no allusion should take place to the silly dispute which had occurred that evening; and that Clive and his father should come for the Christmas holidays, if they were so minded. But when they came, there was no Ethel at Neweome. She was gone on a visit to her sick aunt, Lady Julia. Colonel Neweome passed the holidays sadly without his young favorite, and Clive consoled himself by knocking down pheasants with Sir Brian's keepers: and increased his cousin's attachment for him by breaking the knees of Bame's favorite mare out hunting. It was a dreary entertainment; father and son were glad enough to get away from it, and to return to their own humbler quarters in London.

Thomas Neweome had now been for three years in the possession of that felicity which his soul longed after; and had any friend of his asked him if he was happy, he would have answered in the affirmative no doubt, and protested that he was in the enjoyment of every thing a reasonable man could desire. And yet, in spite of his happiness, his honest face grew more melancholy: his loose clothes hung only the looser on his lean limbs: he ate his meals without appetite: his nights were restless: and he would sit for hours silent in the midst of his family, so that Mr. Binnic first began jocularly to surmise that Tom was crossed in love; then seriously to think that his health was suffering, and that a doctor should be called to sec him; and at last to agree that idleness was not good for the Colonel, and that he missed the military occupation to which he had been for so many years accustomed.

The Colonel insisted that he was perfectly happy and contented. What could he want more

than he had—the society of his son, for the present; and a prospect of quiet for his declining days? Binnic vowed that his friend's days had no business to decline as yet; that a sober man of fifty ought to be at his best; and that Newcome had grown older in three years in Europe, than in a quarter of a century in the East—all which statements were true, though the Colonel persisted in denying them.

He was very restless. He was always finding business in distant quarters of England. He must go visit Tom Barker who was settled in Devonshire, or Harry Johnson who had retired and was living in Wales. He surprised Mrs. Honeyman by the frequency of his visits to Brighton, and always came away much improved in health by the sea air, and by constant riding with the harriers there. He appeared at Bath and at Cheltenham, where, as we know, there arc many old Indians. Mr. Binnic was not indisposed to accompany him on some of these jaunts—" provided," the Civilian said, "you don't take young Hopeful, who is much better without us; and let us two old fogies enjoy ourselves together."

Clive was not sorry to be left alone. The father knew that only too well. The young man had occupations, ideas, associates, in whom the elder could take no interest. Sitting below in his blank, cheerless bedroom, Neweome could hear the lad and his friends talking, singing, and making merry, overhead. Something would be said in Clive's well-known tones, and a roar of laughter would proceed from the youthful company. They had all sorts of tricks, by-word*, waggeries, of which the father could not understand the jest nor the secret. He longed to share in it, but the party would be hushed if he went in to join it—and he would come away sad at heart, to think that his presence should be a signal for silence among them; and that his son could not be merry in his company.

We must not quarrel with Clive and Clive's friends, because they could not joke and be free in the presence of the worthy gentleman. If they hushed when he came in, Thomas Neweome's sad face would seem to look round—appealing to one after another of them, and asking, "why don't you go on laughing?" A company of old comrades shall be merry and laughing together, and the entrance of a single youngster will stop the conversation—and if men of middle age feel this restraint with our juniors, the young ones surely have a right to be silent before their elders. The boys are always mum under the eyes of the usher. There is scarce any parent, however friendly or tender with his children, but must feel sometimes that they have thoughts which are not his or hers -, and wishes and secrets quite beyond the parental control: and, as people are vain, long after they are fathers, ay, or grandfathers, and not seldom fancy that mere personal desire of domination is overweening anxiety and love for their family; no doubt that common outcry against thankless children might often be shown to prove, not that the son is disobedient, but the father too exacting. When a mother (as fond mothers often will) vows that she knows every thought in her daughter's heart, I think she pretends to know a great deal too much ;—nor can there be a wholesomer task for the elders, as our young subjects grow up, naturally demanding liberty and citizen's rights, than for us gracefully to abdicate our sovereign pretensions and claims of absolute control. There's many a family chief who governs wisely and gently, who is loth to give the power up when he should. Ah, be sure, it is not youth alone that has need to learn humility! By their very virtues, and the purity of their lives, many good parents create flatterers for themselves, and so live in the midst of a filial court of parasites— and seldom without a pang of unwillingness, and often not at all, will they consent to forego their autocracy, and exchange the tribute they have been won't to exact of love and obedience for the willing offering of love and freedom.

Our good Colonel was not of the tyrannous, but of the loving order of fathers: and having fixed his whole heart upon this darling youth, his son, was punished, as I suppose such worldly and selfish love ought to be 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 daresay, could have passed a satisfactory examination in Balzae, 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 traveling 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 favorite, Dr. Johnson, talked admirably, but did not write English: that young Keats was a genius to be estimated in future days with young Raphacl: 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 CEnone; 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 Traveler, or Doctor Johnson's Imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal 1 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 sat 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 Neweome 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 bo 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 pillara rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its vast and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made stedfast and immovable;
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight'—et ceetera—

what do you think of a critic who says those lines arc finer than any thing Shakspeare ever wrote!" A dim consciousness of danger for Clive, a terror that his son had got into the society of hereties 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 particularize 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 tho table, and on the other scomed him as a madman —nor could Neweome comprehend a word of their jargon. Some sense their 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 sec 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 6 xat i) Uat/sr/c Koi To dXqdee. 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 color 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 Neweome; "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 worshiped, 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 wom 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 In4 announced to the club, that Tom Neweome was in love: then he thought it was not Tom's heart but his liver that was offected, and recommended bluepill. O thou fond fool! who art thou, to know any man's heart save thine alone! Wherefore i made, and do feathers grow, but that j' The instinct that bids you love ie young ones to seek a tree a mate of their own. As if Thomas Newby 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 latch-key (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 hopo 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 Neweome 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 humor. "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, •bout a certain young lady, who had succeeded (after I know not how many predecessors) to the place of pnma-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 any thing wrong. I daresay 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. Candor. Clive was doing no more than your own son will do, when he is eighteen or nineteen yoars old, himself—if he is a lad of any spirit and a worthy son of so charming a lady as yourself.



Mr. Cuve, 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 Barry Rowe at obe," the young Hebrew read out; " Lady Baughton at obe, dadsig 1 By eyes! what a tip-top swell you're a gettid to be, Neweome! I guess this is a different sort of business to the hops at old Levison's, where you first learned the polka; Vol. IX.—No. 49.—E

and where we had to pay a shilling a glass for

"Wc had to pay! You never paid any thing, Moss," cries Clive, laughing; and indeed the negus imbibed by Mr. Moss did not cost that prudent young fellow a penny.

"Well, well; I supposo at these swell parties you ave as buch champade as i like," continues I "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 forus, 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 Neweome has become!" says Mr. Moss to an old companion, another of dive's fellow-students' "I saw him riding in the Park with the Earl of Kew, and Captain Belsize, and a whole lot of 'em—/ 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 dont keep a precious good look out."


"Neweome 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 bestnatured 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 Neweome to go on together, I should like to know V

"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 Honorable 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 1 or what do I care *" cries the young artist, stamping the heel of Iiis blucher on the pavement. "When I was sick in that confounded Clipstone-street, I know the Colonel came to see me, and Neweome, 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 . . Ss

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 daresay, was good-natured too. And when young Moss appeared at the billiurd-room ih.it night, it was evident that Hicks had told the story; for the Wardour-strect youth was saluted with a roar of queries, "How about that two pound three that Hicks owes you f

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 tho 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 Neweome

followed painting or any other pursuit: and t hough Clive saw many of his school-fellows 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 his 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. Grindly, 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 Newoome to see the new studio, with its tall centre window, and its curtains, and carved wardrobes, china jars, pieces of armor, 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 housekeys 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 Neweome walked away into the next room for a minute or two, and came back wiping his mustache with his handkerchief, and still holding the key in the other hand. He spoke about some trivial subject when he rcturn

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