The Newcomes

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

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 hea

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.

ders 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

ustice 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 go

ing, 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

long before his sire appeared), the Colonel whirled away in his cab to the City to shake hands with his broth

nce — 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

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 hunt

aria 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, today’s Wednesday; tomorrow 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

ather disturbed at this reception. “After his

ant ’em in the drawing-room. Send him to dine with the children on Sunday, if you like, and come along down wi

I had rather pass Saturday and Sunday with him, if you

elling the hedges, and looking at the crops coming up, and passing the Sunday in quiet.” And his own tastes b

smiling. “I can’t give you any tiger-shooting, but I’ll promise you that you shall fi

be at Newcome before the winter. I shall be

ur race. I believe the Newcomes were there before the Conqueror. It was but a village in our grandfather’

nel. “I am going down t

, with the exception of Barnes. Barnes, this is your uncle Colonel Thomas N

n the parlour, and returned Colonel Newcome’s greeting with a smiling acknowledgment of his own. “Very happy to see you, I’m sure,

ne relation asked him to dinner next Monday, and another invited him to shoot pheasants at Christmas. Here w

ys the Colonel, biting his nails; “I kn

should thing it must be in India

h a grin. “It seems to me yo

Bombay? I recollect his saying, at Lady Featherstone’s, one dooced hot night, as it seemed to us; I recklect his saying that h

mate fate of Sir Thomas de Boots, which we trust may n

shing to make the conversation more interesting to the newly arrived Colonel. “H

r of Sarah Mason?

er did,” the B

word, I don’t think I ev

of yours — at least by marriage. She is my aunt or cousin — I used to call her aunt

ear on your account — don’t you know, brother? Look to Colonel Newcome’s account — I recollect th

s my mother’s cousin too and very lucky was my mother to have such a servant, or to have a

horse, how he came down sometimes, “I am sure it does you very great credit,” gasped the cou

olonel growled out. His face was blushing; he was quite angry

e delighted if he can be serviceable to you — I am nailed to this counter all the morning, and to the House of Commons all night; — I will be with you in one moment, Mr. Quilter. Good-bye, my dear Colonel. How well India has agreed with you! how young you look! the hot wi

says the

or me whenever y

elder brother, and thoug

ne boy, Clive — good morning:” and the Baronet was gone, and his bald head might presently be seen a

ther he should go. “Drive! a — oh — ah — damme, drive me anywhere away from this place!” was all he could say; and very likely the cabman thought he was a disappointed debtor who had asked in vai

Barnes perusing the paper. “My revered uncle seems to have brought ba

ill call upon him tomorrow morning. Do everything you can to make him comfortable. Whom would he like to meet at dinner? I will ask some of th

e to meet Mrs. Mason of all things. A venerable washerwoman, I dar

do. Colonel Newcome’s affection for his old nurse does him the

his trousers, and is seemingly unacquainted with gloves. If he had died in India, would my late aunt have had to perish on a funeral pile?” Here Mr. Quilter, entering with a heap of bills, put an end to these sarcastic remarks, and

wiftly, with his neat umbrella. As he passed Charing Cross on his way westwards, his little boots trailed slowly over the pavement, his head hung languid (bending lower still, and smili

pacing up and down St. James’s Street. Cabmen on the stand are regaling with beer. Gentlemen with grooms behind them pass towards the Park. Great dowager barouches roll along emblazoned with coronets, and driven by coachmen in silvery wigs. Wistf

race Fogey. “He and the muffin-man generall

n’t been in India, by dash — he should have been blackballed twenty times over, by dash.” Only Sir Th

chievous little devil,” says g

ttle to amuse you

r. How-dy-do, Barney?” (Enter Barnes Newcome.) “How are the Three per Cents, you little beggar? I wish you’d do m

nt raillery. “I say, Barney, your name’s Barney, and you’re a banker. You

ned for it.” (Captain the Honourable Charles Heavyside is a member of the legislature, and eminent in the House for asin

growls Sir de Boots, sw

ays Horace Fogey, who has been in the diplomatic ser

ks Barney. “Ain’t it al

how well she looks — that movement of Runjeet-Singh on Peshawur: that fleet on the Irrawaddy. It looks dooci

old fool never lived: a dashed old psalm-singing, blundering

trary.” In fact, Sir de Boots in his youth used to sing with the Duke of York, and

dia again, and knowing how strong the Newcomes are in Leadenhall Street, he thinks it nec

ng to buy him a pair of gloves, number fourteen — and I want a tailor for him — not a young man’s tailor. Fogey’s tailor rath

Bengal Cavalry, your uncle

ey, you come; you know you like a good dinner. You don’t know anything against my un

it wouldn’t hurt you. He’s an odd man; they call him Do

do you wish I should be more like him? I d

d soldier. “Because he’s one of the kindest fellows; because he gives himself no da

vyside, as the indignant General walks away gobbling an

teach me billiards, and I’ll give him fifteen in twenty and beat his old head off. Why do they let such fellows into clubs? Let’s have a game at piquet till dinner, Heavyside. Hallo! That’s my uncle, that tall man with the mustachios and the short trousers,