The Newcomes

of the hero of this tale, but of the hero’s fathe

h interesting: to the parent who nursed him; to the fond wife or child mayhap afterwards who loves him; to himself always and supremely — whatever may be his actual prosperity or ill-fortune, his present age, illness, difficulties, renown, or disappointments, the dawn of his life still shines brightly for him, the early

st circuit with my Lord Chief Justice on the bench, than the newly breeched infant in the Petties with a senior boy in a tailed coat. As we “knew each other at home,” as our school phrase was, and our families being somewhat acquainted, Newcome’s maternal uncle, the Rev. Charles Honeyman (the highly gifted preacher, and incumbent of Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel, Denmark Street, Mayfair), when he brought the child, after the

, and Marblehead, Sussex, and Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome and Park Lane, “whom to name,” says Mr. Honeyman, with the fluent eloquence with which he decorated the commonest circumstances of life, “is to designate two of the merchant princes of the wealthiest city the world has ever known; and one, if not two, of the leaders of that aristocracy which rallies round the throne of the most eleg

himself with raspberry-tarts. “You must not spend all that money, sir, which your uncle gave you,” s

off his mouth, and said, “It don’t m

rogation used to be, when a new boy came to the school, “What’s

me two; Aunt Hobson gave me one — no, Aunt Hobson gave me thirty shillings; Uncle Newcome gave me three pound; and Aunt Anne gave me one pound five; and Aunt Honey

senior boy, smiling at the

be called Boadicea, only uncle wouldn’t; and there’s Barnes and Egbert and little Alfred; only he don’t count, he’s quite a b

Egbert?” asks th

under boys were different at that time; the little fellows coming out of their hall half an hour before the Fifth and Sixth Forms; and many a time I used to find my little blue jacket in waiting, with his honest square face, and white hair, and bright blue eyes, and I knew that he was come to draw on his bank. Ere long one of the pretty blue eyes was shut up, and a fine black one substituted

bless you to the brave little man, who remained a while at the

man occupying chambers in the Temple, when our re

d to see Clive again, or at any rate to renew my acquaintance with the indignant East Indian warrior who had quitted our company in such a huff. Breakfast, ho

pied on the night previous, and was smoking a cigar over the Times newspaper. How many young men in the Temple smoke a cigar after breakfast as they read the Times? My friend and companion of those days, and a

visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted his bronzed countenance, as he too looked round the old room with its dingy curtains and pri

conduct of that tipsy old Captain — what is his name? — was so abominable, that I could not bear that Clive should be any longer in the same room with him, and I went off without saying

guest went on. “I know your writings very well. Clive

ned, is a fond abbreviation for Smithfield, near to which great mart of mutton and oxen our school is situated

read your romance of Walter Lorraine in my boa

e budgerows; and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks of Jumna

her. She is one of the most dashing women in all India. She was delighted with your work; and I can t

rsue them, though he has got the postchaise at the door, because Tim O’Toole has hidden his wooden leg! By Jove, it’s cap

ke the young man down from time to time, Colonel Newcome. Other

,” say

rk?” asks Mr. Warrington, wi

and parties in the Pall Mall Gazette, the fellows used to say you were at every one of them, and you see, I thought y

g fame and immortality, sir? Think of Dr. Johnson, what a genius he had, and where did he live? In apartments that, I daresay, were no better than these, which, I am sure, gentlemen, are most cheerful and pleasant,” says the Colonel, thinking he had offended us. “One of the great pleasures and delights which I had proposed to myself on coming home was to be allowed to have the honour of meeting with men of learning and genius, with wits, poets, and historians, if I may be so fortunate; and of benefiting by their conversation. I left England too young to have that privilege. In my father’s house money was thought of

t more intimate acquaintance with him, though I knew he had distinguished himself in twenty actions, he never could be bro

f my Latin from Grey Friars;” and he quoted sentences from the Latin Grammar, apropos of a hundred events of common life, and with perfect simplicity and satisfaction to himself. Besides the above-named books, the Spectator, Don Quixote, and Sir Charles Grandison formed a p

heaven, have I told more than three lies in my life — I kept my own counsel; I say, she took it herself to read one evening; and read on gravely — for she had no more idea of a joke than I have of Hebrew — until she came to the part about Lady B—— and Joseph Andrews; and then she shut the book, sir; and you should have seen the look she gave me! I own I burst out a-laughing, for I was a wild young rebel, sir. But she was in the right, sir, and I was in the wrong. A book, sir, that tells the story of a parcel of servants, of a pack of footmen and ladies’-maids fuddling in alehouses! Do you suppose I want to know what my kitmutgars and cousomahs are doing? I am as littl

ana; and it was by the arrival of Larkins, my clerk, that his apostrophe to Tom Jones was interrupted; he, Larkins, taking care

eave some time before, having business which called him away, and le

’s man,” sa

oy to bid him call again. Young Larkins

is orders is not to go

“Tell him I have no money in th

ssumed an appearance of the most dolorous sympathy. Nevertheless, as wit

m Jones. But I forgot that I need not speak. The great and good Dr. Johnson has

tor, “and that is no small praise. He says that Mr. Fielding was of

did not. But what am I talking of, wasting your valuable time? No more smoke, thank you. I must away into the City, but would not pass the Temple without calling on you, and thanking my boy’s old protector. You w

on, or rather oration of his father’s, started up and took leave, beseeching me, at th

e knocker of our door was again agitated, and the Colo

liberty. I have left the boy in the court. I know the fate of men of letters and genius: when we were here just now, there came a single knock — a demand — that, that you did not seem to be momentarily able to meet. Now do, do pardon the liberty, and let me be

ness, “my dun was but the washerwoman’s boy, and Mrs. Brett is in my debt

mily, my

some of mine in hand now. I am almost sorry that I am not in want, in order that I might have the pleasure of receiving a kindnes