F. B., who was now very great about City affairs, discoursed about

stocks and companies with immense learning, and gave me to understand

that he had transacted one or two little operations in Capel Court on

his own account, with great present, and still larger prospective,

advantages to himself. It is a fact that Mr. Ridley was paid, and that

F. B.’s costume, though still eccentric, was comfortable, cleanly, and

variegated. He occupied the apartments once tenanted by the amiable

Honeyman. He lived in ease and comfort there. “You don’t suppose,” says

he, “that the wretched stipend I draw from the _Pall Mall Gazette_

enables me to maintain this kind of thing? F. B., sir, has a station in

the world; F. B. moves among moneyers and City nobs, and eats cabobs

with wealthy nabobs. He may marry, sir, and settle in life.” We

cordially wished every worldly prosperity to the brave F. B.

Happening to descry him one day in the Park, I remarked that his

countenance wore an ominous and tragic appearance, which seemed to

deepen as he neared me. I thought he had been toying affably with a

nursery-maid the moment before, who stood with some of her little

charges watching the yachts upon the Serpentine. Howbeit, espying my

approach, F. B. strode away from the maiden and her innocent

companions, and advanced to greet his old acquaintance, enveloping his

face with shades of funereal gloom.

“Yon were the children of my good friend Colonel Huckaback of the

Bombay Marines! Alas! unconscious of their doom, the little infants

play. I was watching them at their sports. There is a pleasing young

woman in attendance upon the poor children. They were sailing their

little boats upon the Serpentine; racing and laughing, and making

merry; and as I looked on, Master Hastings Huckaback’s boat went down!

_Absit omen_, Pendennis! I was moved by the circumstance. F. B. hopes

that the child’s father’s argosy may not meet with shipwreck!”

“You mean the little yellow-faced man whom we met at Colonel

Newcome’s?” says Mr. Pendennis.

“I do, sir,” growled F. B. “You know that he is a brother director with

our Colonel in the Bundelcund Bank?”

“Gracious Heavens!” I cried, in sincere anxiety, “nothin has happened,

I hope, to the Bundelcund Bank?”

“No,” answers the other, “nothing has happened, the good ship is safe,

sir, as yet. But she has narrowly escaped a great danger, Pendennis,”

cries F. B., gripping my arm with great energy, “there was a traitor in

her crew—she has weathered the storm nobly—who would have sent her on

the rocks, sir, who would have scuttled her at midnight.”

“Pray drop your nautical metaphors, and tell me what you mean,” cries

F. B.’s companion, and Bayham continued his narration.

“Were you in the least conversant with City affairs,” he said, “or did

you deign to visit the spot where merchants mostly congregate, you

would have heard the story, which was over the whole City yesterday,

and spread dismay from Threadneedle Street to Leadenhall. The story is,

that the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome, yesterday refused

acceptance of thirty thousand pounds’ worth of bills of the Bundelcund

Banking Company of India.

“The news came like a thunderclap upon the London Board of Directors,

who had received no notice of the intentions of Hobson Brothers, and

caused a dreadful panic amongst the shareholders of the concern. The

board-room was besieged by colonels and captains, widows and orphans;

within an hour after protest of bills were taken up, and you will see,

in the City article of the _Globe_ this very evening, an announcement

that henceforward the house of Baines and Jolly, of Job Court, will

meet engagements of the Bundelcund Banking Company of India, being

provided with ample funds to do honour to every possible liability of

that Company. But the shares fell, sir, in consequence of the panic. I

hope they will rally. I trust and believe they will rally. For our good

Colonel’s sake and that of his friends, for the sake of the innocent

children sporting by the Serpentine yonder.

“I had my suspicions when they gave that testimonial,” said F. B. “In

my experience of life, sir, I always feel rather shy about

testimonials, and when a party gets one, somehow look out to hear of

his smashing the next month. _Absit omen!_ I will say again. I like not

the going down of yonder little yacht.”

The _Globe_ sure enough contained a paragraph that evening announcing

the occurrence which Mr. Bayham had described, and the temporary panic

which it had occasioned, and containing an advertisement stating that

Messrs. Baines and Jolly would henceforth act as agents of the Indian

Company. Legal proceedings were presently threatened by the solicitors

of the Company against the banking firm which had caused so much

mischief. Mr. Hobson Newcome was absent abroad when the circumstance

took place, and it was known that the protest of the bills was solely

attributable to his nephew and partner. But after the break between the

two firms, there was a rupture between Hobson’s family and Colonel

Newcome. The exasperated Colonel vowed that his brother and his nephew

were traitors alike, and would have no further dealings with one or the

other. Even poor innocent Sam Newcome, coming up to London from Oxford,

where he had been plucked, and offering a hand to Clive, was frowned

away by our Colonel, who spoke in terms of great displeasure to his son

for taking the least notice of the young traitor.

Our Colonel was changed, changed in his heart, changed in his whole

demeanour towards the world, and above all towards his son, for whom he

had made so many kind sacrifices in his old days. We have said how,

ever since Clive’s marriage, a tacit strife had been growing up between

father and son. The boy’s evident unhappiness was like a reproach to

his father. His very silence angered the old man. His want of

confidence daily chafed and annoyed him. At the head of a large

fortune, which he rightly persisted in spending, he felt angry with

himself because he could not enjoy it, angry with his son, who should

have helped him in the administration of his new estate, and who was

but a listless, useless member of the little confederacy, a living

protest against all the schemes of the good man’s past life. The

catastrophe in the City again brought father and son together somewhat,

and the vindictiveness of both was roused by Barnes’s treason. Time was

when the Colonel himself would have viewed his kinsman more charitably,

but fate and circumstance had angered that originally friendly and

gentle disposition; hate and suspicion had mastered him, and if it

cannot be said that his new life had changed him, at least it had

brought out faults for which there had hitherto been no occasion, and

qualities latent before. Do we know ourselves, or what good or evil

circumstance may bring from us? Did Cain know, as he and his younger

brother played round their mother’s knee, that the little hand which

caressed Abel should one day grow larger, and seize a brand to slay

him? Thrice fortunate he, to whom circumstance is made easy: whom fate

visits with gentle trial, and kindly Heaven keeps out of temptation.

In the stage which the family feud now reached, and which the

biographer of the Newcomes is bound to describe, there is one gentle

moralist who gives her sentence decidedly against Clive’s father;

whilst on the other hand a rough philosopher and friend of mine, whose

opinions used to have some weight with me, stoutly declares that they

were right. “War and justice are good things,” says George Warrington,

rattling his clenched fist on the table. “I maintain them, and the

common sense of the world maintains them, against the preaching of all

the Honeymans that ever puled from the pulpit. I have not the least

objection in life to a rogue being hung. When a scoundrel is whipped I

am pleased, and say, serve him right. If any gentleman will horsewhip

Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet, I shall not be shocked, but, on the

contrary, go home and order an extra mutton-chop for dinner.”

“Ah! revenge is wrong, Pen,” pleads the other counsellor.

“Let alone that the wisest and best of all Judges has condemned it. It

blackens the hearts of men. It distorts their views of right. It sets

them to devise evil. It causes them to think unjustly of others. It is

not the noblest return for injury, not even the bravest way of meeting

it. The greatest courage is to bear persecution, not to answer when you

are reviled, and when wrong has been done you to forgive. I am sorry

for what you call the Colonel’s triumph and his enemy’s humiliation.

Let Barnes be as odious as you will, he ought never to have humiliated

Ethel’s brother; but he is weak. Other gentlemen as well are weak, Mr.

Pen, although you are so much cleverer than women. I have no patience

with the Colonel, and I beg you to tell him, whether he asks you or not

that he has lost my good graces, and that I for one will not huzzah at

what his friends and flatterers call his triumphs, and that I don’t

think in this instance he has acted like the dear Colonel, and the good

Colonel, and the good Christian that I once thought him.”

We must now tell what the Colonel and Clive had been doing, and what

caused two such different opinions respecting their conduct from the

two critics just named. The refusal of the London Banking House to

accept the bills of the Great Indian Company of course affected very

much the credit of that Company in this country. Sedative announcements

were issued by the Directors in London; brilliant accounts of the

Company’s affairs abroad were published; proof incontrovertible was

given that the B. B. C. was never in so flourishing a state as at that

time when Hobson Brothers had refused its drafts; there could be no

question that the Company had received a severe wound and was deeply if

not vitally injured by the conduct of the London firm.

The propensity to sell out became quite epidemic amongst the

shareholders. Everybody was anxious to realise. Why, out of the thirty

names inscribed on poor Mrs. Clive’s cocoa-nut tree no less than twenty

deserters might be mentioned, or at least who would desert could they

find an opportunity of doing so with arms and baggage. Wrathfully the

good Colonel scratched the names of those faithless ones out of his

daughter’s visiting-book: haughtily he met them in the street; to

desert the B. B. C. at the hour of peril was, in his idea, like

applying for leave of absence on the eve of an action. He would not see

that the question was not one of sentiment at all, but of chances and

arithmetic; he would not hear with patience of men quitting the ship,

as he called it. “They may go, sir,” says he, “but let them never more

be officers of mine.” With scorn and indignation he paid off one or two

timid friends, who were anxious to fly, and purchased their shares out

of his own pocket. But his purse was not long enough for this kind of

amusement. What money he had was invested in the Company already, and

his name further pledged for meeting the engagements from which their

late London bankers had withdrawn.

Those gentlemen, in the meanwhile, spoke of their differences with the

Indian Bank as quite natural, and laughed at the absurd charges of

personal hostility which poor Thomas Newcome publicly preferred. “Here

is a hot-headed old Indian dragoon,” says Sir Barnes, “who knows no

more about business than I do about cavalry tactics or Hindostanee; who

gets into a partnership along with other dragoons and Indian wiseacres,

with some uncommonly wily old native practitioners; and they pay great

dividends, and they set up a bank. Of course we will do these people’s

business as long as we are covered, but I have always told their

manager that we would run no risks whatever, and close the account the

very moment it did not suit us to keep it: and so we parted company six

weeks ago, since when there has been a panic in the Company, a panic

which has been increased by Colonel Newcome’s absurd swagger and folly.

He says I am his enemy; enemy indeed! So I am in private life, but what

has that to do with business? In business, begad, there are no friends

and no enemies at all. I leave all my sentiment on the other side of

Temple Bar.”

So Thomas Newcome, and Clive the son of Thomas, had wrath in their

hearts against Barnes, their kinsman, and desired to be revenged upon

him, and were eager after his undoing, and longed for an opportunity

when they might meet him and overcome him, and put him to shame.

When men are in this frame of mind, a certain personage is said always

to be at hand to help them and give them occasion for indulging in

their pretty little passion. What is sheer hate seems to the individual

entertaining the sentiment so like indignant virtue, that he often

indulges in the propensity to the full, nay, lauds himself for the

exercise of it. I am sure if Thomas Newcome in his present desire for

retaliation against Barnes, had known the real nature of his sentiments

towards that worthy, his conduct would have been different, and we

should have heard of no such active hostilities as ensued.

CHAPTER LXV.

In which Mrs. Clive comes into her Fortune

Speaking of the affairs of B. B. C., Sir Barnes Newcome always took

care to maintain his candid surprise relating to the proceedings of

that Company. He set about evil reports against it! He endeavour to do

it a wrong—absurd! If a friend were to ask him (and it was quite

curious what a number did manage to ask him) whether he thought the

Company was an advantageous investment, of course he would give an

answer. He could not say conscientiously he thought so—never once had

said so—in the time of their connexion, which had been formed solely

with a view of obliging his amiable uncle. It was a quarrelsome

Company; a dragoon Company; a Company of gentlemen accustomed to

gunpowder, and fed on mulligatawny. He, forsooth, be hostile to it!

There were some Companies that required no enemies at all, and would be

pretty sure to go to the deuce their own way.

Thus, and with this amiable candour, spake Barnes, about a commercial

speculation, the merits of which he had a right to canvass as well as

any other citizen. As for Uncle Hobson, his conduct was characterised

by a timidity which one would scarcely have expected from a gentleman

of his florid, jolly countenance, active habits, and generally manly

demeanour. He kept away from the cocoa-nut feast, as we have seen: he

protested privily to the Colonel that his private goodwill continued

undiminished but he was deeply grieved at the B. B. C. affair, which

took place while he was on the Continent—confound the Continent, my

wife would go—and which was entirely without his cognisance. The

Colonel received his brother’s excuses, first with awful bows and

ceremony, and finally with laughter. “My good Hobson,” said he, with

the most insufferable kindness, “of course you intended to be friendly;

of course the affair was done without your knowledge. We understand

that sort of thing. London bankers have no hearts—for these last fifty

years past that I have known you and your brother, and my amiable

nephew, the present commanding officer, has there been anything in your

conduct that has led me to suppose you had?” and herewith Colonel

Newcome burst out into a laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear.

Worthy Hobson took his hat, and walked away, brushing it round and

round, and looking very confused. The Colonel strode after him

downstairs, and made him an awful bow at the hall door. Never again did

Hobson Newcome set foot in that Tyburnian mansion.

During the whole of that season of the testimonial the cocoa-nut

figured in an extraordinary number of banquets. The Colonel’s

hospitalities were more profuse than ever, and Mrs. Clive’s toilettes

more brilliant. Clive, in his confidential conversations with his

friends, was very dismal and gloomy. When I asked City news of our

well-informed friend F. B., I am sorry to say, his countenance became

funereal. The B. B. C. shares, which had been at an immense premium

twelve months since, were now slowly falling, falling.

“I wish,” said Mr. Sherrick to me, “the Colonel would realise, even

now, like that Mr. Ratray who has just come out of the ship, and

brought a hundred thousand pounds with him.”

“Come out of the ship! You little know the Colonel, Mr. Sherrick, if

you think he will ever do that.”

Mr. Ratray, though he had returned to Europe, gave the most cheering

accounts of the B. B. C. It was in the most flourishing state. Shares

sure to get up again. He had sold out entirely on account of his liver.

Must come home—the doctor said so.

Some months afterwards, another director, Mr. Hedges, came home. Both

of these gentlemen, as we know, entertained the fashionable world, got

seats in Parliament, purchased places in the country, and were greatly

respected. Mr. Hedges came out, but his wealthy partner, Mr. M’Gaspey,

entered into the B. B. C. The entry of Mr. M’Gaspey into the affairs of

the Company did not seem to produce very great excitement in England.

The shares slowly fell. However, there was a prodigious indigo crop.

The London manager was in perfect good-humour. In spite of this and

that, of defections, of unpleasantries, of unfavourable whispers, and

doubtful friends—Thomas Newcome kept his head high, and his face was

always kind and smiling, except when certain family enemies were

mentioned, and he frowned like Jove in anger.

We have seen how very fond little Rosey was of her mamma, of her uncle,

James Binnie, and now of her papa, as she affectionately styled Thomas

Newcome. This affection, I am sure, the two gentlemen returned with all

their hearts, and but that they were much too generous and

simple-minded to entertain such a feeling, it may be wondered that the

two good old boys were not a little jealous of one another. Howbeit it

does not appear that they entertained such a feeling; at least it never

interrupted the kindly friendship between them, and Clive was regarded

in the light of a son by both of them, and each contented himself with

his moiety of the smiling little girl’s affection.

As long as they were with her, the truth is, little Mrs. Clive was very

fond of people, very docile, obedient, easily pleased, brisk, kind, and

good-humoured. She charmed her two old friends with little songs,

little smiles,—little kind offices, little caresses; and having

administered Thomas Newcome’s cigar to him in the daintiest, prettiest

way, she would trip off to drive with James Binnie, or sit at his

dinner, if he was indisposed, and be as gay, neat-handed, watchful, and

attentive a child as any old gentleman could desire.

She did not seem to be very sorry to part with mamma, a want of feeling

which that lady bitterly deplored in her subsequent conversation with

her friends about Mrs. Clive Newcome. Possibly there were reasons why

Rosey should not be very much vexed at quitting mamma; but surely she

might have dropped a little tear as she took leave of kind, good old

James Binnie. Not she. The gentleman’s voice faltered, but hers did not

in the least. She kissed him on the face, all smiles, blushes, and

happiness, and tripped into the railway carriage with her husband and

father-in-law, leaving the poor old uncle very sad. Our women said, I

know not why, that little Rosey had no heart at all. Women are

accustomed to give such opinions respecting the wives of their newly

married friends. I am bound to add (and I do so during Mr. Clive

Newcome’s absence from England, otherwise I should not like to venture

upon the statement), that some men concur with the ladies’ opinion of

Mrs. Clive. For instance, Captains Goby and Hoby declare that her

treatment of the latter, her encouragement, and desertion of him when

Clive made his proposals, were shameful.

At this time Rosey was in a pupillary state. A good, obedient little

girl, her duty was to obey the wishes of her dear mamma. How show her

sense of virtue and obedience better than by promptly and cheerfully

obeying mamma, and at the orders of that experienced Campaigner, giving

up Bobby Hoby, and going to England to a fine house, to be presented at

Court, to have all sorts of pleasure with a handsome young husband and

a kind father-in-law by her side? No wonder Rosey was not in a very

active state of grief at parting from Uncle James. He strove to console

himself with these considerations when he had returned to the empty

house, where she had danced, and smiled, and warbled; and he looked at

the chair she sat in; and at the great mirror which had so often

reflected her fresh pretty face;—the great callous mirror, which now

only framed upon its shining sheet the turban, and the ringlets, and

the plump person, and the resolute smile of the old Campaigner.

After that parting with her uncle at the Brussels railway, Rosey never

again beheld him. He passed into the Campaigner’s keeping, from which

alone he was rescued by the summons of pallid death. He met that

summons like a philosopher; rejected rather testily all the mortuary

consolations which his nephew-in-law, Josey’s husband, thought proper

to bring to his bedside; and uttered opinions which scandalised that

divine. But as he left Mrs. M’Craw only 500 pounds, thrice that sum to

his sister, and the remainder of his property to his beloved niece,

Rosa Mackenzie, now Rosa Newcome, let us trust that Mr. M’Craw, hurt

and angry at the ill-favour shown to his wife, his third young wife,

his best-beloved Josey, at the impatience with which the deceased had

always received his, Mr. M’Craw’s, own sermons;—let us hope, I say,

that the reverend gentleman was mistaken in his views respecting the

present position of Mr. James Binnie’s soul; and that Heaven may have

some regions yet accessible to James, which Mr. M’Craw’s intellect has

not yet explored. Look, gentlemen! Does a week pass without the

announcement of the discovery of a new comet in the sky, a new star in

the heaven, twinkling dimly out of a yet farther distance, and only now

becoming visible to human ken though existent for ever and ever? So let

us hope divine truths may be shining, and regions of light and love

extant, which Geneva glasses cannot yet perceive, and are beyond the

focus of Roman telescopes.

I think Clive and the Colonel were more affected by the news of James’s

death than Rosey, concerning whose wonderful strength of mind good

Thomas Newcome discoursed to my Laura and me, when, fancying that my

friend’s wife needed comfort and consolation, Mrs. Pendennis went to

visit her. “Of course we shall have no more parties this year,” sighed

Rosey. She looked very pretty in her black dress. Clive, in his hearty

way, said a hundred kind feeling things about the departed friend.

Thomas Newcome’s recollections of him, and regret, were no less tender

and sincere. “See,” says he, “how that dear child’s sense of duty makes

her hide her feelings! Her grief is most deep, but she wears a calm

countenance. I see her looking sad in private, but I no sooner speak

than she smiles.” “I think,” said Laura, as we came away, “that Colonel

Newcome performs all the courtship part in the marriage, and Clive,

poor Clive, though he spoke very nobly and generously about Mr. Binnie,

I am sure it is not his old friend’s death merely, which makes him so

unhappy.”

Poor Clive, by right of his wife, was now rich Clive; the little lady

having inherited from her kind relative no inconsiderable sum of money.

In a very early part of this story, mention has been made of a small

sum producing one hundred pounds a year, which Clive’s father had made

over to the lad when he sent him from India. This little sum Mr. Clive

had settled upon his wife before his marriage, being indeed all he had

of his own; for the famous bank shares which his father presented to

him, were only made over formally when the young man came to London

after his marriage, and at the paternal request and order appeared as a

most inefficient director of the B. B. C. Now Mrs. Newcome, of her

inheritance, possessed not only B. B. C. shares, but moneys in bank,

and shares in East India Stock, so that Clive in the right of his wife

had a seat in the assembly of East India shareholders, and a voice in

the election of directors of that famous company. I promise you Mrs.

Clive was a personage of no little importance. She carried her little

head with an aplomb and gravity which amused some of us. F. B. bent his

most respectfully down before her; she sent him on messages, and

deigned to ask him to dinner. He once more wore a cheerful countenance;

the clouds which gathered o’er the sun of Newcome were in the bosom of

the ocean buried, Bayham said, by James Binnie’s brilliant behaviour to

his niece.

Clive was a proprietor of East India Stock, and had a vote in electing

the directors of that Company; and who so fit to be a director of his

affairs as Thomas Newcome, Esq., Companion of the Bath, and so long a

distinguished officer in its army? To hold this position of director,

used, up to very late days, to be the natural ambition of many East

Indian gentlemen. Colonel Newcome had often thought of offering himself

as a candidate, and now openly placed himself on the lists, and

publicly announced his intention. His interest was rather powerful

through the Indian bank, of which he was a director, and many of the

shareholders of which were proprietors of the East India Company. To

have a director of the B. B. C. also a member of the parliament in

Leadenhall Street, would naturally be beneficial to the former

institution. Thomas Newcome’s prospectuses were issued accordingly, and

his canvass received with tolerable favour.

Within a very short time another candidate appeared in the field—a

retired Bombay lawyer, of considerable repute and large means—and at

the head of this gentleman’s committee appeared the names of Hobson

Brothers and Newcome, very formidable personages at the East India

House, with which the bank of Hobson Brothers have had dealings for

half a century past, and where the old lady, who founded or

consolidated that family, had had three stars before her own venerable

name, which had descended upon her son Sir Brian, and her grandson, Sir

Barnes.

War was thus openly declared between Thomas Newcome and his nephew. The

canvass on both sides was very hot and eager. The number of promises

was pretty equal. The election was not to come off yet for a while; for

aspirants to the honourable office of director used to announce their

wishes years before they could be fulfilled, and returned again and

again to the contest before they finally won it. Howbeit, the Colonel’s

prospects were very fair, and a prodigious indigo crop came in to

favour the B. B. C., with the most brilliant report from the board at

Calcutta. The shares, still somewhat sluggish, rose again, the

Colonel’s hopes with them, and the courage of gentlemen at home who had

invested their money in the transaction.

We were sitting one day round the Colonel’s dinner-table; it was not

one of the cocoa-nut-tree days; that emblem was locked up in the

butler’s pantry, and only beheld the lamps on occasions of state. It

was a snug family party in the early part of the year, when scarcely

anybody was in town; only George Warrington, and F. B., and Mr. and

Mrs. Pendennis; and the ladies having retired, we were having such a

talk as we used to enjoy in quiet old days, before marriages and cares

and divisions had separated us.

F. B. led the conversation. The Colonel received his remarks with great

gravity, and thought him an instructive personage. Others considered

him rather as amusing than instructive, and so his eloquence was

generally welcome. The canvass for the directorship was talked over.

The improved affairs of a certain great Banking Company, which shall be

nameless, but one which F. B. would take the liberty to state, would,

in his opinion, for ever unite the mother country to our great Indian

possessions;—the prosperity of this great Company was enthusiastically

drunk by Mr. Bayham in some of the very best claret. The conduct of the

enemies of that Company was characterised in terms of bitter, but not

undeserved, satire. F. B. rather liked to air his oratory, and

neglected few opportunities for making speeches after dinners.

The Colonel admired his voice and sentiments not the less, perhaps,

because the latter were highly laudatory of the good man. And not from

interest, at least, as far as he himself knew—not from any mean or

selfish motives, did F. B. speak. He called Colonel Newcome his friend,

his benefactor: kissed the hem of his garment: he wished fervently that

he could have been the Colonel’s son: he expressed, repeatedly, a

desire that some one would speak ill of the Colonel, so that he, F. B.,

might have the opportunity of polishing that individual off in about

two seconds. He covered the Colonel with all his heart; nor is any

gentleman proof altogether against this constant regard and devotion

from another.

The Colonel used to wag his head wisely, and say Mr. Bayham’s

suggestions were often exceedingly valuable, as indeed the fact was,

though his conduct was no more of a piece with his opinions than those

of some other folks occasionally are.

“What the Colonel ought to do, sir, to help him in the direction,” says

F. B., “is to get into Parliament. The House of Commons would aid him

into the Court of Directors, and the Court of Directors would help him

in the House of Commons.”

“Most wisely said,” says Warrington.

The Colonel declined. “I have long had the House of Commons in my eye,”

he said; “but not for me. I wanted my boy to go there. It would be a

proud day for me if I could see him there.”

“I can’t speak,” says Clive, from his end of the table. “I don’t

understand about parties, like F. B. here.”

“I believe I do know a thing or two,” Mr. Bayham here interposes.

“And politics do not interest me in the least,” Clive sighs out,

drawing pictures with his fork on his napkin, and not heeding the

other’s interruption.

“I wish I knew what would interest him,” his father whispers to me, who

happened to be at his side. “He never cares to be out of his

painting-room; and he doesn’t seem to be very happy even in there. I

wish to God, Pen, I knew what had come over the boy.” I thought I knew;

but what was the use of telling, now there was no remedy?

“A dissolution is expected every day,” continued F. B. “The papers are

full of it. Ministers cannot go on with this majority—cannot possibly

go on, sir. I have it on the best authority; and men who are anxious

about their seats are writing to their constituents, or are subscribing

at missionary meetings, or are gone down to lecturing at Athenæums, and

that sort of thing.”

Here Warrington burst out into a laughter much louder than the occasion

of the speech of F. B. seemed to warrant; and the Colonel, turning

round with some dignity, asked the cause of George’s amusement.

“What do you think your darling, Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, has been

doing during the recess?” cries Warrington. “I had a letter this

morning, from my liberal and punctual employer, Thomas Potts, Esquire,

of the _Newcome Independent_, who states, in language scarcely

respectful, that Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome is trying to come the

religious dodge, as Mr. Potts calls it. He professes to be stricken

down by grief on account of late family circumstances; wears black, and

puts on the most piteous aspect, and asks ministers of various

denominations to tea with him; and the last announcement is the most

stupendous of all. Stop, I have it in my greatcoat;” and, ringing the

bell, George orders a servant to bring him a newspaper from his

great-coat pocket. “Here it is, actually in print,” Warrington

continues, and reads to us:—“‘Newcome Athenæum. 1, for the benefit of

the Newcome Orphan Children’s Home, and 2, for the benefit of the

Newcome Soup Association, without distinction of denomination. Sir

Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., proposes to give two lectures, on Friday

the 23rd, and Friday the 30th, instant. No. 1, The Poetry of Childhood:

Doctor Watts, Mrs. Barbauld, Jane Taylor, No. 2, The Poetry of

Womanhood, and the Affections: Mrs. Hemans, L. E. L. Threepence will be

charged at the doors, which will go to the use of the above two

admirable Societies.’ Potts wants me to go down and hear him. He has an

eye to business. He has had a quarrel with Sir Barnes, and wants me to

go down and hear him, and smash him, he kindly says. Let us go down,

Clive. You shall draw your cousin as you have drawn his villainous

little mug a hundred times before; and I will do the smashing part, and

we will have some fun out of the transaction.”

“Besides, Florac will be in the country; going to Rosebury is a journey

worth the taking, I can tell you; and we have old Mrs. Mason to go and

see, who sighs after you, Colonel. My wife went to see her,” remarks

Mr. Pendennis, “and——”

“And Miss Newcome, I know,” says the Colonel.

“She is away at Brighton, with her little charges, for sea air. My wife

heard from her to-day.”

“Oh, indeed. Mrs. Pendennis corresponds with her?” says our host,

darkling under his eyebrows; and, at this moment, my neighbour, F. B.,

is kind enough to scrunch my foot under the table with the weight of

his heel, as much as to warn me, by an appeal to my own corns, to avoid

treading on so delicate a subject in that house. “Yes,” said I, in

spite, perhaps in consequence, of this interruption. “My wife does

correspond with Miss Ethel, who is a noble creature, and whom those who

know her know how to love and admire. She is very much changed since

you knew her, Colonel Newcome; since the misfortunes in Sir Barnes’s

family, and the differences between you and him. Very much changed and

very much improved. Ask my wife about her, who knows her most

intimately, and hears from her constantly.”

“Very likely, very likely,” cried the Colonel, hurriedly, “I hope she

is improved, with all my heart. I am sure there was room for it.

Gentlemen, shall we go up to the ladies and have some coffee?” And

herewith the colloquy ended, and the party ascended to the

drawing-room.

The party ascended to the drawing-room, where no doubt both the ladies

were pleased by the invasion which ended their talk. My wife and the

Colonel talked apart, and I saw the latter looking gloomy, and the

former pleading very eagerly, and using a great deal of action, as the

little hands are wont to do, when the mistress’s heart is very much

moved. I was sure she was pleading Ethel’s cause with her uncle.

So indeed she was. And Mr. George, too, knew what her thoughts were.

“Look at her!” he said to me. “Don’t you see what she is doing? She

believes in that girl whom you all said Clive took a fancy to before he

married his present little placid wife; a nice little simple creature,

who is worth a dozen Ethels.”

“Simple certainly,” says Mr. P., with a shrug of the shoulders.

“A simpleton of twenty is better than a roue of twenty. It is better

not to have thought at all, than to have thought such things as must go

through a girl’s mind whose life is passed in jilting and being jilted;

whose eyes, as soon as they are opened, are turned to the main chance,

and are taught to leer at earl, to languish at a marquis, and to grow

blind before a commoner. I don’t know much about fashionable life.

Heaven help us (you young Brummell! I see the reproach in your face!)

Why, sir, it absolutely appears to me as if this little hop-o’-my-thumb

of a creature has begun to give herself airs since her marriage and her

carriage. Do you know, I rather thought she patronised me? Are all

women spoiled by their contact with the world, and their bloom rubbed

off in the market? I know one who seems to me to remain pure! to be

sure, I only know her, and this little person, and Mrs. Flanagan our

laundress, and my sisters at home, who don’t count. But that Miss

Newcome to whom once you introduced me? Oh, the cockatrice! only that

poison don’t affect your wife, the other would kill her. I hope the

Colonel will not believe a word which Laura says.” And my wife’s

_tête-à-tête_ with our host coming to an end about this time, Mr.

Warrington in high spirits goes up to the ladies, recapitulates the

news of Barnes’s lecture, recites “How doth the little busy bee,” and

gives a quasi-satirical comment upon that well-known poem, which

bewilders Mrs. Clive, until, set on by the laughter of the rest of the

audience, she laughs very freely at that odd man, and calls him “you

droll satirical creature you!” and says “she never was so much amused

in her life. Were you, Mrs. Pendennis?”

Meanwhile Clive, who has been sitting apart moodily biting his nails,

not listening to F. B.’s remarks, has broken into a laugh once or

twice, and gone to a writing-book, on which, whilst George is still

disserting, Clive is drawing.

At the end of the other’s speech, F. B. goes up to the draughtsman,

looks over his shoulder, makes one or two violent efforts as of inward

convulsion, and finally explodes in an enormous guffaw. “It’s capital!

By Jove, it’s capital! Sir Barnes would never dare to face his

constituents with that picture of him hung up in Newcome!”

And F. B. holds up the drawing, at which we all laugh except Laura. As

for the Colonel, he paces up and down the room, holding the sketch

close to his eyes, holding it away from him, patting it, clapping his

son delightedly on the shoulder. “Capital! capital! We’ll have the

picture printed, by Jove, sir; show vice its own image; and shame the

viper in his own nest, sir. That’s what we will.”

Mrs. Pendennis came away with rather a heavy heart from this party. She

chose to interest herself about the right or wrong of her friends; and

her mind was disturbed by the Colonel’s vindictive spirit. On the

subsequent day we had occasion to visit our friend J. J. (who was

completing the sweetest little picture, No. 263 in the Exhibition,

“Portrait of a Lady and Child”), and we found that Clive had been with

the painter that morning likewise; and that J. J. was acquainted with

his scheme. That he did not approve of it we could read in the artist’s

grave countenance. “Nor does Clive approve of it either!” cried Ridley,

with greater eagerness than he usually displayed, and more openness

than he was accustomed to exhibit in judging unfavourably of his

friends.

“Among them they have taken him away from his art,” Ridley said. “They

don’t understand him when he talks about it; they despise him for

pursuing it. Why should I wonder at that? my parents despised it too,

and my father was not a grand gentleman like the Colonel, Mrs.

Pendennis. Ah! why did the Colonel ever grow rich? Why had not Clive to

work for his bread as have? He would have done something that was

worthy of him then; now his time must be spent in dancing attendance at

balls land operas, and yawning at City board-rooms. They call that

business: they think he is idling when he comes here, poor fellow! As

if life was long enough for our art; and the best labour we can give,

good enough for it! He went away groaning this morning, and quite

saddened in spirits. The Colonel wants to set up himself for

Parliament, or to set Clive up; but he says he won’t. I hope he won’t;

do not you, Mrs. Pendennis?”

The painter turned as he spoke; and the bright northern light which

fell upon the sitter’s head was intercepted, and lighted up his own as

he addressed us. Out of that bright light looked his pale thoughtful

face, and long locks and eager brown eyes. The palette on his arm was a

great shield painted of many colours: he carried his mall-stick and a

sheaf of brushes along with the weapons of his glorious but harmless

war. With these he achieves conquests, wherein none are wounded save

the envious: with that he shelters him against how much idleness,

ambition, temptations! Occupied over that consoling work, idle thoughts

cannot gain mastery over him: selfish wishes or desires are kept at

bay. Art is truth: and truth is religion: and its study and practice a

daily work of pious duty. What are the world’s struggles, brawls,

successes, to that calm recluse pursuing his calling? See, twinkling in

the darkness round his chamber, numberless beautiful trophies of the

graceful victories which he has won:—sweet flowers of fancy reared by

him:—kind shapes of beauty which he has devised and moulded. The world

enters into the artist’s studio, and scornfully bids him a price for

his genius, or makes dull pretence to admire it. What know you of his

art? You cannot read the alphabet of that sacred book, good old Thomas

Newcome! What can you tell of its glories, joys, secrets, consolations?

Between his two best-beloved mistresses, poor Clive’s luckless father

somehow interposes; and with sorrowful, even angry protests. In place

of Art the Colonel brings him a ledger; and in lieu of first love,

shows him Rosey.

No wonder that Clive hangs his head; rebels sometimes, desponds always:

he has positively determined to refuse to stand for Newcome, Ridley

says. Laura is glad of his refusal, and begins to think of him once

more as of the Clive of old days.

CHAPTER LXVI.

In which the Colonel and the Newcome Athenæum are both lectured

At breakfast with his family, on the morning after the little

entertainment to which we were bidden, in the last chapter, Colonel

Newcome was full of the projected invasion of Barnes’s territories, and

delighted to think that there was an opportunity of at last humiliating

that rascal.

“Clive does not think he is a rascal at all, papa,” cries Rosey, from

behind her tea-urn; “that is, you said you thought papa judged him too

harshly; you know you did, this morning!” And from her husband’s angry

glances, she flies to his father’s for protection. Those were even

fiercer than Clive’s. Revenge flashed from beneath Thomas Newcome’s

grizzled eyebrows, and glanced in the direction where Clive sat. Then

the Colonel’s face flushed up, and he cast his eyes down towards his

tea-cup, which he lifted with a trembling hand. The father and son

loved each other so, that each was afraid of the other. A war between

two such men is dreadful; pretty little pink-faced Rosey, in a sweet

little morning cap and ribbons, her pretty little fingers twinkling

with a score of rings, sat simpering before her silver tea-urn, which

reflected her pretty little pink baby face. Little artless creature!

what did she know of the dreadful wounds which her little words

inflicted in the one generous breast and the other?

“My boy’s heart is gone from me,” thinks poor Thomas Newcome; “our

family is insulted, our enterprises ruined, by that traitor, and my son

is not even angry! he does not care for the success of our plans—for

the honour of our name even; I make him a position of which any young

man in England might be proud, and Clive scarcely deigns to accept it.”

“My wife appeals to my father,” thinks poor Clive; “it is from him she

asks counsel, and not from me. Be it about the ribbon in her cap, or

any other transaction in our lives, she takes her colour from his

opinion, and goes to him for advice, and I have to wait till it is

given, and conform myself to it. If I differ from the dear old father,

I wound him; if I yield up my opinion, as I do always, it is with a bad

grace, and I wound him still. With the best intentions in the world,

what a slave’s life it is that he has made for me!”

“How interested you are in your papers!” resumes the sprightly nosey.

“What can you find in those horrid politics?” Both gentlemen are

looking at their papers with all their might, and no doubt cannot see

one single word which those brilliant and witty leading articles

contain.

“Clive is like you, Rosey,” says the Colonel, laying his paper down,

“and does not care for politics.”

“He only cares for pictures, papa,” says Mrs. Clive. “He would not

drive with me yesterday in the Park, but spent hours in his room, while

you were toiling in the City, poor papa!—spent hours painting a horrid

beggar-man dressed up as a monk. And this morning, he got up quite

early, quite early, and has been out ever so long, and only came in for

breakfast just now! just before the bell rung.”

“I like a ride before breakfast,” says Clive.

“A ride! I know where you have been, sir! He goes away morning after

morning, to that little Mr. Ridley’s—his chums, papa, and he comes back

with his hands all over horrid paint. He did this morning; you know you

did, Clive.”

“I did not keep any one waiting, Rosa,” says Clive. “I like to have two

or three hours at my painting when I can spare time.” Indeed, the poor

fellow used so to run away of summer meetings for Ridley’s

instructions, and gallop home again, so as to be in time for the family

meal.

“Yes,” cries Rosey, tossing up the cap and ribbons, “he gets up so

early in the morning, that at night he falls asleep after dinner; very

pleasant and polite, isn’t he, papa?”

“I am up betimes too, my dear,” says the Colonel (many and many a time

he must have heard Clive as he left the house); “I have a great many

letters to write, affairs of the greatest importance to examine and

conduct. Mr. Betts from the City is often with me for hours before I

come down to your breakfast-table. A man who has the affairs of such a

great bank as ours to look to, must be up with the lark. We are all

early risers in India.”

“You dear kind papa!” says little Rosey, with unfeigned admiration; and

she puts out one of the plump white little jewelled hands, and pats the

lean brown paw of the Colonel which is nearest to her.

“Is Ridley’s picture getting on well, Clive?” asks the Colonel, trying

to interest himself about Ridley and his picture.

“Very well; it is beautiful; he has sold it for a great price; they

must make him an Academician next year,” replies Clive.

“A most industrious and meritorious young man; he deserves every honour

that may happen to him,” says the old soldier. “Rosa, my dear, it is

time that you should ask Mr. Ridley to dinner, and Mr. Smee, and some

of those gentlemen. We will drive this afternoon and see your

portrait.”

“Clive does not go to sleep after dinner when Mr. Ridley comes here,”

cries Rosa.

“No; I think it is my turn then,” says the Colonel, with a glance of

kindness. The anger has disappeared from under his brows; at that

moment the menaced battle is postponed.

“And yet I know that it must come,” says poor Clive, telling me the

story as he hangs on my arm, and we pace through the Park. “The Colonel

and I are walking on a mine, and that poor little wife of mine is

perpetually flinging little shells to fire it. I sometimes wish it were

blown up, and I were done for, Pen. I don’t think my widow would break

her heart about me. No; I have no right to say that; it’s a shame to

say that; she tries her very best to please me, poor little dear. It’s

the fault of my temper, perhaps, that she can’t. But they neither

understand me, don’t you see? the Colonel can’t help thinking I am a

degraded being, because I am fond of painting. Still, dear old boy, he

patronises Ridley; a man of genius, whom those sentries ought to

salute, by Jove, sir, when he passes. Ridley patronised by an old

officer of Indian dragoons, a little bit of a Rosey, and a fellow who

is not fit to lay his palette for him! I want sometimes to ask J. J.’s

pardon, after the Colonel has been talking to him in his confounded

condescending way, uttering some awful bosh about the fine arts. Rosey

follows him, and trips round J. J.’s studio, and pretends to admire,

and says, ‘How soft; how sweet!’ recalling some of mamma-in-law’s

dreadful expressions, which make me shudder when I hear them. If my

poor old father had a confidant into whose arm he could hook his own,

and whom he could pester with his family griefs as I do you, the dear

old boy would have his dreary story to tell too. I hate banks, bankers,

Bundelcund, indigo, cotton, and the whole business. I go to that

confounded board, and never hear one syllable that the fellows are

talking about. I sit there because he wishes me to sit there; don’t you

think he sees that my heart is out of the business; that I would rather

be at home in my painting-room? We don’t understand each other, but we

feel each other, as it were by instinct. Each thinks in his own way,

but knows what the other is thinking. We fight mute battles, don’t you

see, and, our thoughts, though we don’t express them, are perceptible

to one another, and come out from our eyes, or pass out from us

somehow, and meet, and fight, and strike, and wound.”

Of course Clive’s confidant saw how sore and unhappy the poor fellow

was, and commiserated his fatal but natural condition. The little ills

of life are the hardest to bear, as we all very well know. What would

the possession of a hundred thousand a year, or fame, and the applause

of one’s countrymen, or the loveliest and best-beloved woman,—of any

glory, and happiness, or good-fortune avail to a gentleman, for

instance, who was allowed to enjoy them only with the condition of

wearing a shoe with a couple of nails or sharp pebbles inside it? All

fame and happiness would disappear, and plunge down that shoe. All life

would rankle round those little nails. I strove, by such philosophic

sedatives as confidants are wont to apply on these occasions, to soothe

my poor friend’s anger and pain; and I dare say the little nails hurt

the patient just as much as before.

Clive pursued his lugubrious talk through the Park, and continued it as

far as the modest-furnished house which we then occupied in the Pimlico

region. It so happened that the Colonel and Mrs. Clive also called upon

us that day, and found this culprit in Laura’s drawing-room, when they

entered it, descending out of that splendid barouche in which we have

already shown Mrs. Clive to the public.

“He has not been here for months before; nor have you Rosa; nor have

you, Colonel; though we have smothered our indignation, and been to

dine with you, and to call, ever so many times!” cries Laura.

The Colonel pleaded his business engagements; Rosa, that little woman

of the world, had a thousand calls to make, and who knows how much to

do? since she came out. She had been to fetch papa, at Bays’s, and the

porter had told the Colonel that Mr. Clive and Mr. Pendennis had just

left the club together.

“Clive scarcely ever drives with me,” says Rosa; “papa almost always

does.”

“Rosey’s is such a swell carriage, that I feel ashamed,” says Clive.

“I don’t understand you young men. I don’t see why you need be ashamed

to go on the Course with your wife in her carriage, Clive,” remarks the

Colonel.

“The Course! the Course is at Calcutta, papa!” cries Rosey. “_We_ drive

in the Park.”

“We have a park at Barrackpore too, my dear,” says papa.

“And he calls his grooms saices! He said he was going to send away a

saice for being tipsy, and I did not know in the least what he could

mean, Laura!”

“Mr. Newcome! you must go and drive on the Course with Rosa now; and

the Colonel must sit and talk with me, whom he has not been to see for

such a long time.” Clive presently went off in state by Rosey’s side,

and then Laura showed Colonel Newcome his beautiful white Cashmere

shawl round a successor of that little person who had first been

wrapped in that web, now a stout young gentleman whose noise could be

clearly heard in the upper regions.

“I wish you could come down with us, Arthur, upon our electioneering

visit.”

“That of which you were talking last night? Are you bent upon it?”

“Yes, I am determined on it.”

Laura heard a child’s cry at this moment, and left the room with a

parting glance at her husband, who in fact had talked over the matter

with Mrs. Pendennis, and agreed with her in opinion.

As the Colonel had opened the question, I ventured to make a respectful

remonstrance against the scheme. Vindictiveness on the part of a man so

simple and generous, so fair and noble in all his dealings as Thomas

Newcome, appeared in my mind unworthy of him. Surely his kinsman had

sorrow and humiliation enough already at home. Barnes’s further

punishment, we thought, might be left to time, to remorse, to the Judge

of right and wrong; Who better understands than we can do, our causes

and temptations towards evil actions, Who reserves the sentence for His

own tribunal. But when angered, the best of us mistake our own motives,

as we do those of the enemy who inflames us. What may be private

revenge, we take to be indignant virtue and just revolt against wrong.

The Colonel would not hear of counsels of moderation, such as I bore

him from a sweet Christian pleader. “Remorse!” he cried out with a

laugh, “that villain will never feel it until he is tied up and whipped

at the cart’s tail! Time change that rogue! Unless he is wholesomely

punished, he will grow a greater scoundrel every year. I am inclined to

think, sir,” says he, his honest brows darkling as he looked towards

me, “that you too are spoiled by this wicked world, and these

heartless, fashionable, fine people. You wish to live well with the

enemy, and with us too, Pendennis. It can’t be. He who is not with us

is against us. I very much fear, sir, that the women, the women, you

understand, have been talking you over. Do not let us speak any more

about this subject, for I don’t wish that my son, and my son’s old

friend, should have a quarrel.” His face became red, his voice quivered

with agitation, and he looked with glances which I was pained to behold

in those kind old eyes: not because his wrath and suspicion visited

myself, but because an impartial witness, nay, a friend to Thomas

Newcome in that family quarrel, I grieved to think that a generous

heart was led astray, and to see a good man do wrong. So with no more

thanks for his interference than a man usually gets who meddles in

domestic strifes, the present luckless advocate ceased pleading.

To be sure, the Colonel and Clive had other advisers, who did not take

the peaceful side. George Warrington was one of these; he was for war

_à l’outrance_ with Barnes Newcome; for keeping no terms with such a

villain. He found a pleasure in hunting him, and whipping him. “Barnes

ought to be punished,” George said, “for his poor wife’s misfortune; it

was Barnes’s infernal cruelty, wickedness, selfishness, which had

driven her into misery and wrong.” Mr. Warrington went down to Newcome,

and was present at that lecture whereof mention has been made in a

previous chapter. I am afraid his behaviour was very indecorous; he

laughed at the pathetic allusions of the respected Member for Newcome;

he sneered at the sublime passages; he wrote an awful critique in the

_Newcome Independent_ two days after, whereof the irony was so subtle,

that half the readers of the paper mistook his grave scorn for respect,

and his gibes for praise.

Clive, his father, and Frederick Bayham, their faithful aide-de-camp,

were at Newcome likewise when Sir Barnes’s oration was delivered. At

first it was given out at Newcome that the Colonel visited the place

for the purpose of seeing his dear old friend and pensioner, Mrs.

Mason, who was now not long to enjoy his bounty, and so old, as

scarcely to know her benefactor. Only after her sleep, or when the sun

warmed her and the old wine with which he supplied her, was the good

old woman able to recognise her Colonel. She mingled father and son

together in her mind. A lady who now often came in to her, thought she

was wandering in her talk, when the poor old woman spoke of a visit she

had had from her boy; and then the attendant told Miss Newcome that

such a visit had actually taken place, and that but yesterday Clive and

his father had been in that room, and occupied the chair where she sat.

“The young lady was taken quite ill, and seemed ready to faint almost,”

Mrs. Mason’s servant and spokeswoman told Colonel Newcome when that

gentleman arrived shortly after Ethel’s departure, to see his old

nurse. “Indeed! he was very sorry.” The maid told many stories about

Miss Newcome’s goodness and charity; how she was constantly visiting

the poor now; how she was for ever engaged in good works for the young,

the sick, and the aged. She had had a dreadful misfortune in love; she

was going to be married to a young marquis; richer even than Prince de

Moncontour down at Rosebury; but it was all broke off on account of

that dreadful affair at the Hall.

Was she very good to the poor? did she come often to see her

grandfather’s old friend? it was no more than she ought “to do,”

Colonel Newcome said; without, however, thinking fit to tell his

informant that he had himself met his niece Ethel, five minutes before

he had entered Mrs. Mason’s door.

The poor thing was in discourse with Mr. Harris, the surgeon, and

talking (as best she might, for no doubt the news which she had just

heard had agitated her), talking about blankets, and arrowroot, wine,

and medicaments for her poor, when she saw her uncle coming towards

her. She tottered a step or two forwards to meet him; held both her

hands out, and called his name; but he looked her sternly in the face,

took off his hat and bowed, and passed on. He did not think fit to

mention the meeting even to his son, Clive; but we may be sure Mr.

Harris, the surgeon, spoke of the circumstance that night after the

lecture, at the club, where a crowd of gentlemen were gathered

together, smoking their cigars, and enjoying themselves according to

their custom, and discussing Sir Barnes Newcome’s performance.

According to established usage in such cases, our esteemed

representative was received by the committee of the Newcome Athenæum,

assembled in their committee-room, and thence marshalled by the

chairman and vice-chairman to his rostrum in the lecture-hall, round

about which the magnates of the institution and the notabilities of the

town were rallied on this public occasion. The Baronet came in some

state from his own house, arriving at Newcome in his carriage with four

horses, accompanied by my lady his mother, and Miss Ethel his beautiful

sister, who now was mistress at the Hall. His little girl was

brought—five years old now; she sate on her aunt’s knee, and slept

during a greater part of the performance. A fine bustle, we may be

sure, was made on the introduction of these personages to their

reserved seats on the platform, where they sate encompassed by others

of the great ladies of Newcome, to whom they and the lecturer were

especially gracious at this season. Was not Parliament about to be

dissolved, and were not the folks at Newcome Park particularly civil at

that interesting period? So Barnes Newcome mounts his pulpit, bows

round to the crowded assembly in acknowledgment of their buzz of

applause or recognition, passes his lily-white pocket-handkerchief

across his thin lips, and dashes off into his lecture about Mrs. Hemans

and the poetry of the affections. A public man, a commercial man as we

well know, yet his heart is in his home, and his joy in his affections;

the presence of this immense assembly here this evening; of the

industrious capitalists; of the intelligent middle class; of the pride

and mainstay of England, the operatives of Newcome; these, surrounded

by their wives and their children (a graceful bow to the bonnets to the

right of the platform), show that they too have hearts to feel, and

homes to cherish; that they, too, feel the love of women, the innocence

of children, the love of song! Our lecturer then makes a distinction

between man’s poetry and woman’s poetry, charging considerably in

favour of the latter. We show that to appeal to the affections is after

all the true office of the bard; to decorate the homely threshold, to

wreathe flowers round the domestic hearth, the delightful duty of the

Christian singer. We glance at Mrs. Hemans’s biography, and state where

she was born, and under what circumstances she must have at first, etc.

etc. Is this a correct account of Sir Barnes Newcome’s lecture? I was

not present, and did not read the report. Very likely the above may be

a reminiscence of that mock lecture which Warrington delivered in

anticipation of the Baronet’s oration.

After he had read for about five minutes, it was remarked the Baronet

suddenly stopped and became exceedingly confused over his manuscript:

betaking himself to his auxiliary glass of water before he resumed his

discourse, which for a long time was languid, low, and disturbed in

tone. This period of disturbance, no doubt, must have occurred when Sir

Barnes saw before him F. Bayham and Warrington seated in the

amphitheatre; and, by the side of those fierce scornful countenances,

Clive Newcome’s pale face.

Clive Newcome was not looking at Barnes. His eyes were fixed upon the

lady seated not far from the lecturer—upon Ethel, with her arm round

her little niece’s shoulder, and her thick black ringlets drooping down

over a face paler than Clive’s own.

Of course she knew that Clive was present. She was aware of him as she

entered the hall; saw him at the very first moment; saw nothing but

him, I dare say, though her eyes were shut and her head was turned now

towards her mother, and now bent down on the little niece’s golden

curls. And the past and its dear histories, and youth and its hopes and

passions, and tones and looks for ever echoing in the heart, and

present in the memory—these, no doubt, poor Clive saw and heard as he

looked across the great gulf of time, and parting, and grief, and

beheld the woman he had loved for many years. There she sits; the same,

but changed: as gone from him as if she were dead; departed indeed into

another sphere, and entered into a kind of death. If there is no love

more in yonder heart, it is but a corpse unburied. Strew round it the

flowers of youth. Wash it with tears of passion. Wrap it and envelop it

with fond devotion. Break heart, and fling yourself on the bier, and

kiss her cold lips and press her hand! It falls back dead on the cold

breast again. The beautiful lips have never a blush or a smile. Cover

them and lay them in the ground, and so take thy hatband off, good

friend, and go to thy business. Do you suppose you are the only man who

has had to attend such a funeral? You will find some men smiling and at

work the day after. Some come to the grave now and again out of the

world, and say a brief prayer, and a “God bless her!” With some men,

she gone, and her viduous mansion your heart to let, her successor, the

new occupant, poking in all the drawers and corners, and cupboards of

the tenement, finds her miniature and some of her dusty old letters

hidden away somewhere, and says—Was this the face he admired so? Why,

allowing even for the painter’s flattery, it is quite ordinary, and the

eyes certainly do not look straight. Are these the letters you thought

so charming? Well, upon my word, I never read anything more commonplace

in my life! See, here’s a line half blotted out. Oh, I suppose she was

crying then—some of her tears, idle tears—Hark, there is Barnes

Newcome’s eloquence still plapping on like water from a cistern—and our

thoughts, where have they wandered? far away from the lecture—as far

away as Clive’s almost. And now the fountain ceases to trickle; the

mouth from which issued that cool and limpid flux ceases to smile; the

figure is seen to bow and retire; a buzz, a hum, a whisper, a scuffle,

a meeting of bonnets and wagging of feathers and rustling of silks

ensues. “Thank you! delightful, I am sure!” “I really was quite

overcome;” “Excellent;” “So much obliged,” are rapid phrases heard

amongst the polite on the platform. While down below, “Yaw! quite

enough of _that;_” “Mary Jane, cover your throat up, and don’t kitch

cold, and don’t push me, please, sir;” “’Arry! coom along and ’av’ a

pint a ale,” etc., are the remarks heard, or perhaps not heard, by

Clive Newcome, as he watches at the private entrance of the Athenæum,

where Sir Barnes’s carriage is waiting with its flaming lamps, and

domestics in state liveries. One of them comes out of the building

bearing the little girl in his arms, and lays her in the carriage. Then

Sir Barnes, and Lady Anne, and the Mayor; then Ethel issues forth, and

as she passes under the lamps, beholds Clive’s face as pale and sad as

her own.

Shall we go visit the lodge-gates of Newcome Park the moon shining on

their carving? Is there any pleasure in walking by miles of grey

paling, and endless palisades of firs? Oh, you fool, what do you hope

to see behind that curtain? Absurd fugitive, whither would you run? Can

you burst the tether of fate: and is not poor dear little Rosey

Mackenzie sitting yonder waiting for you by the stake? Go home, sir;

and don’t catch cold. So Mr. Clive returns to the King’s Arms, and goes

up to his bedroom, and he hears Mr. F. Bayham’s deep voice as he passes

by the Boscawen Room, where the Jolly Britons are as usual assembled.

CHAPTER LXVII.

Newcome and Liberty

We have said that the Baronet’s lecture was discussed in the midnight

senate assembled at the King’s Arms, where Mr. Tom Potts showed the

orator no mercy. The senate of the King’s Arms was hostile to Sir

Barnes Newcome. Many other Newcomites besides were savage and inclined

to revolt against the representative of their borough. As these

patriots met over their cups, and over the bumper of friendship uttered

the sentiments of freedom, they had often asked of one another, where

should a man be found to rid Newcome of its dictator? Generous hearts

writhed under the oppression: patriotic eyes scowled when Barnes

Newcome went by: with fine satire, Tom Potts at Brown the hatter’s

shop, who made the hats for Sir Barnes Newcome’s domestics, proposed to

take one of the beavers—a gold-laced one with a cockade and a cord—and

set it up in the market-place and bid all Newcome come bow to it, as to

the hat of Gessler. “Don’t you think, Potts,” says F. Bayham, who of

course was admitted into the King’s Arms club, and ornamented that

assembly by his presence and discourse, “Don’t you think the Colonel

would make a good William Tell to combat against that Gessler?” Ha!

Proposal received with acclamation—eagerly adopted by Charles Tucker,

Esq., Attorney-at-Law, who would not have the slightest objection to

conduct Colonel Newcome’s, or any other gentleman’s electioneering

business in Newcome or elsewhere.

Like those three gentlemen in the plays and pictures of William Tell,

who conspire under the moon, calling upon liberty and resolving to

elect Tell as their especial champion—like Arnold, Melchthal, and

Werner—Tom Potts, Fred Bayham, and Charles Tucker, Esqs., conspired

round a punch-bowl, and determined that Thomas Newcome should be

requested to free his country. A deputation from the electors of

Newcome, that is to say, these very gentlemen waited on the Colonel in

his apartment the very next morning, and set before him the state of

the borough; Barnes Newcome’s tyranny, under which it groaned; and the

yearning of all honest men to be free from that usurpation. Thomas

Newcome received the deputation with great solemnity and politeness,

crossed his legs, folded his arms, smoked his cheroot, and listened

moat decorously, as now Potts, now Tucker, expounded to him; Bayham

giving the benefit of his emphatic “hear, hear,” to their statements,

and explaining dubious phrases to the Colonel in the most affable

manner.

Whatever the conspirators had to say against Barnes, Colonel Newcome

was only too ready to believe. He had made up his mind that that

criminal ought to be punished and exposed. The lawyer’s covert

innuendoes, who was ready to insinuate any amount of evil against

Barnes which could safely be uttered, were by no means strong enough

for Thomas Newcome. “‘Sharp practice! exceedingly alive to his own

interests—reported violence of temper and tenacity of money’—say

swindling at once, sir—say falsehood and rapacity—say cruelty and

avarice,” cries the Colonel. “I believe, upon my honour and conscience,

that unfortunate young man to be guilty of every one of those crimes.”

Mr. Bayham remarks to Mr. Potts that our friend the Colonel, when he

does utter an opinion, takes care that there shall be no mistake about

it.

“And I took care there should be no mistake before I uttered it at all,

Bayham!” cries F. B.’s patron. “As long as I was in any doubt about

this young man, I gave the criminal the benefit of it, as a man who

admires our glorious constitution should do, and kept my own counsel,

sir.”

“At least,” remarks Mr. Tucker, “enough is proven to show that Sir

Barnes Newcome Newcome, Baronet, is scarce a fit person to represent

this great borough in Parliament.”

“Represent Newcome in Parliament! It is a disgrace to that noble

institution the English House of Commons, that Barnes Newcome should

sit in it. A man whose word you cannot trust; a man stained with every

private crime. What right has he to sit in the assembly of the

legislators of the land, sir?” cries the Colonel, waving his hand as if

addressing a chamber of deputies.

“You are for upholding the House of Commons?” inquires the lawyer.

“Of course, sir, of course.”

“And for increasing the franchise, Colonel Newcome, I should hope?”

continues Mr. Tucker.

“Every man who can read and write ought to have a vote, sir; that is my

opinion!” cries the Colonel.

“He’s a Liberal to the backbone,” says Potts to Tucker.

“To the backbone!” responds Tucker to Potts. “The Colonel will do for

us, Potts.”

“We want such a man, Tucker; the _Independent_ has been crying out for

such a man for years past. We ought to have a Liberal as second

representative of this great town—not a sneaking half-and-half

Ministerialist like Sir Barnes, a fellow with one leg in the Carlton

and the other in Brookes’s. Old Mr. Bunce we can’t touch. His place is

safe; he is a good man of business: we can’t meddle with Mr. Bunce—I

know that, who know the feeling of the country pretty well.”

“Pretty well! Better than any man in Newcome, Potts!” cries Mr. Tucker.

“But a good man like the Colonel,—a good Liberal like the Colonel,—a

man who goes in for household suffrage——”

“Certainly, gentlemen.”

“And the general great Liberal principles—we know, of course—such a man

would assuredly have a chance against Sir Barnes Newcome at the coming

election! could we find such a man! a real friend of the people!”

“I know a friend of the people if ever there was one,” F. Bayham

interposes.

“A man of wealth, station, experience; a man who has fought for his

country; a man who is beloved in this place as you are, Colonel

Newcome: for your goodness is known, sir—_You_ are not ashamed of your

origin, and there is not a Newcomite old or young, but knows how

admirably good you have been to your old friend, Mrs.—Mrs.

What-d’-you-call’-em.”

“Mrs. Mason,” from F. B.

“Mrs. Mason. If such a man as you, sir, would consent to put himself in

nomination at the next election, every true Liberal in this place would

rush to support you; and crush the oligarchy who rides over the

liberties of this borough!”

“Something of this sort, gentlemen, I own to you had crossed my mind,”

Thomas Newcome remarked. “When I saw that disgrace to my name, and the

name of my father’s birthplace, representing the borough in Parliament,

I thought for the credit of the town and the family, the Member for

Newcome at least might be an honest man. I am an old soldier; have

passed all my life in India; and am little conversant with affairs at

home” (cries of “You are, you are”). “I hoped that my son, Mr. Clive

Newcome, might have been found qualified to contest this borough

against his unworthy cousin, and possibly to sit as your representative

in Parliament. The wealth I have had the good fortune to amass will

descend to him naturally, and at no very distant period of time, for I

am nearly seventy years of age, gentlemen.”

The gentlemen are astonished at this statement.

“But,” resumed the Colonel; “my son Clive, as my friend Bayham knows,

and to my own regret and mortification, as I don’t care to confess to

you, declares he has no interest or desire in politics, or for public

distinction—prefers his own pursuits—and even these I fear do not

absorb him—declines the offer which I made him, to present himself in

opposition to Sir Barnes Newcome. It becomes men in a certain station,

as I think, to assert that station; and though a few years back I never

should have thought of public life at all, and proposed to end my days

in quiet as a retired dragoon officer, since—since it has pleased

Heaven to increase very greatly my pecuniary means, to place me, as a

director and manager of an important banking company, in a station of

great public responsibility, I and my brother-directors have thought it

but right that one of us should sit in Parliament, if possible, and I

am not a man to shirk from that or from any other duty.”

“Colonel, will you attend a meeting of electors which we will call, and

say as much to them and as well?” cries Mr. Potts. “Shall I put an

announcement in my paper to the effect that you are ready to come

forward?”

“I am prepared to do so, my good sir.”

And presently this solemn palaver ended.

Besides the critical article upon the Baronet’s lecture, of which Mr.

Warrington was the author, there appeared in the leading columns of the

ensuing number of Mr. Potts’ _Independent_, some remarks of a very

smashing or hostile nature, against the Member for Newcome. “This

gentleman has shown such talent in the lecturing business,” the

_Independent_ said, “that it is a great pity he should not withdraw

himself from politics, and cultivate what all Newcome knows are the

arts which he understands best; namely, poetry and the domestic

affections. The performance of our talented representative last night

was so pathetic as to bring tears into the eyes of several of our fair

friends. We have heard, but never believed until now, that Sir Barnes

Newcome possessed such a genius _for making women cry_. Last week we

had the talented Miss Noakes, from Slowcome, reading Milton to us; how

far superior was the eloquence of Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart.,

even to that of the celebrated jestress! Bets were freely offered in

the room last night that Sir Barnes would _beat any woman_,—bets which

were not taken, as we scarcely need say, so well do our citizens

appreciate the character of our excellent, our admirable

representative.—Let the Baronet stick to his lectures, and let Newcome

relieve him of his political occupations. He is not fit for them, he is

too sentimental a man for us; the men of Newcome want a sound practical

person; the Liberals of Newcome have a desire to be represented. When

we elected Sir Barnes, he talked liberally enough, and we thought he

would do, but you see the honourable Baronet is so poetical! we ought

to have known that, and not to have believed him. Let us have a

straightforward gentleman. If not a man of words, at least let us have

a practical man. If not a man of eloquence, one at any rate whose word

we can trust, and we can’t trust Sir Barnes Newcome’s; we have tried

him, and we can’t really. Last night when the ladies were crying, we

could not for the souls of us help laughing. We hope we know how to

conduct ourselves as gentlemen. We trust we did not interrupt the

harmony of the evening; but Sir Barnes Newcome, prating about children

and virtue, and affection and poetry, this is really too strong.

“The _Independent_, faithful to its name, and ever actuated by

principles of honour, has been, as our thousands of readers know,

disposed to give Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., a fair trial. When

he came forward after his father’s death, we believed in his pledges

and promises, as a retrencher and reformer, and we stuck by him. Is

there any man in Newcome, except, perhaps, our twaddling old

contemporary the _Sentinel_, who believes in Sir B. N. any more? We say

no, and we now give the readers of the _Independent_, and the electors

of this borough, fair notice, that when the dissolution of Parliament

takes place, a good man, a true man, a man of experience, no dangerous

Radical, or brawling tap orator—Mr. Hicks’s friends well understand

whom we mean—but a gentleman of Liberal principles, well-won wealth,

and deserved station and honour, will ask the electors of Newcome

whether they are, or are not discontented with their present unworthy

Member. The _Independent_ for one, says, we know good men of your

family, we know in it men who would do honour to any name; but you, Sir

Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., we trust no more.”

In the electioneering matter, which had occasioned my unlucky

interference, and that subsequent little coolness upon the good

Colonel’s part, Clive Newcome had himself shown that the scheme was not

to his liking; had then submitted as his custom was: and doing so with

a bad grace, as also was to be expected, had got little thanks for his

obedience. Thomas Newcome was hurt at his son’s faint-heartedness, and

of course little Rosey was displeased at his hanging back. He set off

in his father’s train, a silent, unwilling partisan. Thomas Newcome had

the leisure to survey Clive’s glum face opposite to him during the

whole of their journey, and to chew his mustachios, and brood upon his

wrath and wrongs. His life had been a sacrifice for that boy! What

darling schemes had he not formed in his behalf, and how superciliously

did Clive meet his projects! The Colonel could not see the harm of

which he had himself been the author. Had he not done everything in

mortal’s power for his son’s happiness, and how many young men in

England were there with such advantages as this moody, discontented,

spoiled boy? As Clive backed out of the contest, of course his father

urged it only the more vehemently. Clive slunk away from committees and

canvassing, and lounged about the Newcome manufactories, whilst his

father, with anger and bitterness in his heart, remained at the post of

honour, as he called it, bent upon overcoming his enemy and carrying

his point against Barnes Newcome. “If Paris will not fight, sir,” the

Colonel said, with a sad look following his son, “Priam must.” Good old

Priam believed his cause to be a perfectly just one, and that duty and

his honour called upon him to draw the sword. So there was difference

between Thomas Newcome and Clive his son. I protest it is with pain and

reluctance I have to write that the good old man was in error—that

there was a wrong-doer, and that Atticus was he.

Atticus, be it remembered, thought himself compelled by the very best

motives. Thomas Newcome, the Indian banker, was at war with Barnes, the

English banker. The latter had commenced the hostilities by a sudden

and cowardly act of treason. There were private wrongs to envenom the

contest, but it was the mercantile quarrel on which the Colonel chose

to set his declaration of war. Barnes’s first dastardly blow had

occasioned it, and his uncle was determined to carry it through. This I

have said was also George Warrington’s judgment, who, in the ensuing

struggle between Sir Barnes and his uncle, acted as a very warm and

efficient partisan of the latter. “Kinsmanship!” says George, “what has

old Tom Newcome ever had from his kinsman but cowardice and treachery?

If Barnes had held up his finger, the young one might have been happy;

if he could have effected it, the Colonel and his bank would have been

ruined. I am for war, and for seeing the old boy in Parliament. He

knows no more about politics than I do about dancing the polka; but

there are five hundred wiseacres in that assembly who know no more than

he does, and an honest man taking his seat there, in place of a

confounded little rogue, at least makes a change for the better.”

I dare say Thomas Newcome, Esq. would by no means have concurred in the

above estimate of his political knowledge, and thought himself as well

informed as another. He used to speak with the greatest gravity about

our constitution as the pride and envy of the world, though he

surprised you as much by the latitudinarian reforms, which he was eager

to press forward, as by the most singular old Tory opinions which he

advocated on other occasions. He was for having every man to vote;

every poor man to labour short time and get high wages; every poor

curate to be paid double or treble; every bishop to be docked of his

salary, and dismissed from the House of Lords. But he was a staunch

admirer of that assembly, and a supporter of the rights of the Crown.

He was for sweeping off taxes from the poor, and as money must be

raised to carry on government, he opined that the rich should pay. He

uttered all these opinions with the greatest gravity and emphasis,

before a large assembly of electors, and others convened in the Newcome

Town Hall, amid the roars of applause of the non-electors, and the

bewilderment and consternation of Mr. Potts, of the _Independent_, who

had represented the Colonel in his paper as a safe and steady reformer.

Of course the _Sentinel_ showed him up as a most dangerous radical, a

sepoy republican, and so forth, to the wrath and indignation of Colonel

Newcome. He a republican! he scorned the name! He would die as he had

bled many a time for his sovereign. He an enemy of our beloved Church!

He esteemed and honoured it, as he hated and abhorred the superstitions

of Rome. (Yells, from the Irish in the crowd.) He an enemy of the House

of Lords! He held it to be the safeguard of the constitution and the

legitimate prize of our most illustrious, naval, military,

and—and—legal heroes (ironical cheers). He repelled with scorn the

dastard attacks of the journal which had assailed him; he asked, laying

his hands on his heart, if as a gentleman, an officer bearing Her

Majesty’s commission, he could be guilty of a desire to subvert her

empire and to insult the dignity of her crown?

After this second speech at the Town Hall, it was asserted by a

considerable party in Newcome, that Old Tom (as the mob familiarly

called him) was a Tory, while an equal number averred that he was a

Radical. Mr. Potts tried to reconcile his statements, a work in which I

should think the talented editor of the _Independent_ had no little

difficulty. “He knows nothing about it,” poor Clive said with a sigh;

“his politics are all sentiment and kindness; he will have the poor man

paid double wages, and does not remember that the employer would be

ruined: you have heard him, Pen, talking in this way at his own table,

but when he comes out armed _cap-à-pied_, and careers against windmills

in public, don’t you see that as Don Quixote’s son I had rather the

dear brave old gentleman was at home?”

So this _fainéant_ took but little part in the electioneering doings,

holding moodily aloof from the meetings, and councils, and

public-houses, where his father’s partisans were assembled.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

A Letter and a Reconciliation

Miss Ethel Newcome to Mrs. Pendennis:

“Dearest Laura,—I have not written to you for many weeks past. There

have been some things too trivial, and some too sad, to write about;

some things I know I shall write of if I begin, and yet that I know I

had best leave; for of what good is looking to the past now? Why vex

you or myself by reverting to it? Does not every day bring its own duty

and task, and are these not enough to occupy one? What a fright you

must have had with my little goddaughter! Thank heaven she is well now,

and restored to you. You and your husband I know do not think it

essential, but I do, _most essential_, and am very grateful that she

was taken to church before her illness.

“Is Mr. Pendennis proceeding with his canvass? I try and avoid a

certain subject, but it _will_ come. You know who is canvassing against

us here. My poor uncle has met with very considerable success amongst

the lower classes. He makes them rambling speeches at which my brother

and his friends laugh, but which the people applaud. I saw him only

yesterday, on the balcony of the King’s Arms, speaking to a great mob,

who were cheering vociferously below. I had met him before. He would

not even stop and give his Ethel of old days his hand. I would have

given him I don’t know what, for one kiss, for one kind word; but he

passed on and would not answer me. He thinks me—what the world thinks

me, worldly and heartless; what I _was_. But at least, dear Laura, you

know that I always truly loved _him_, and do now, although he is our

enemy, though he believes and utters the most cruel things against

Barnes, though he says that Barnes Newcome, my father’s son, my

brother, Laura, is not an honest man. Hard, selfish, worldly, I own my

poor brother to be, and pray Heaven to amend him; but dishonest! and to

be so maligned by the person one loves best in the world! This is a

hard trial. I pray a proud heart may be bettered by it.

“And I have seen my cousin; once at a lecture which poor Barnes gave,

and who seemed very much disturbed on perceiving Clive; once afterwards

at good old Mrs. Mason’s, whom I have always continued to visit for

uncle’s sake. The poor old woman, whose wits are very nearly gone, held

both our hands, and asked when we were going to be married? and

laughed, poor old thing! I cried out to her that Mr. Clive had a wife

at home, a young dear wife, I said. He gave a dreadful sort of laugh,

and turned away into the window. He looks terribly ill, pale, and

oldened.

“I asked him a great deal about his wife, whom I remember a very

pretty, sweet-looking girl indeed, at my Aunt Hobson’s, but with a not

agreeable mother as I thought then. He answered me by monosyllables,

appeared as though he would speak, and then became silent. I am pained,

and yet glad that I saw him, I said, not very distinctly, I dare say,

that I hoped the difference between Barnes and uncle would not

extinguish his regard for mamma and me, who have always loved him; when

I said loved him, he give one of his bitter laughs again; and so he did

when I said I hoped his wife was well. You never would tell me much

about Mrs. Newcome; and I fear she does not make my cousin happy. And

yet this marriage was of my uncle’s making: another of the unfortunate

marriages in our family. I am glad that I paused in time, before the

commission of that sin; I strive my best, and to amend my temper, my

inexperience, my shortcomings, and try to be the mother of my poor

brother’s children. But Barnes has never forgiven me my refusal of Lord

Farintosh. He is of the world still, Laura. Nor must we deal too

harshly with people of his nature, who cannot perhaps comprehend a

world beyond. I remember in old days, when we were travelling on the

Rhine, in the happiest days of my whole life, I used to hear Clive and

his friend Mr. Ridley, talk of art and of nature in a way that I could

not understand at first, but came to comprehend better as my cousin

taught me; and since then, I see pictures, landscapes, and flowers,

with quite different eyes, and beautiful secrets as it were, of which I

had no idea before. The secret of all secrets, the secret of the other

life, and the better world beyond ours, may not this be unrevealed to

some? I pray for them all, dearest Laura, for those nearest and dearest

to me, that the truth may lighten their darkness, and Heaven’s great

mercy defend them in the perils and dangers of their night.

“My boy at Sandhurst has done very well indeed; and Egbert, I am happy

to say, thinks of taking orders; he has been very moderate at College.

Not so Alfred; but the Guards are a sadly dangerous school for a young

man; I have promised to pay his debts, and he is to exchange into the

line. Mamma is coming to us at Christmas with Alice; my sister is very

pretty indeed, I think, and I am rejoiced she is to marry young Mr.

Mumford, who has a tolerable living, and who has been attached to her

ever since he was a boy at Rugby School.

“Little Barnes comes on bravely with his Latin; and Mr. Whitestock, _a

most excellent and valuable_ person in this place, where there is so

much Romanism and Dissent, speaks highly of him. Little Clara is so

like her unhappy mother in a thousand ways and actions, that I am

shocked often; and see my brother starting back and turning his head

away, as if suddenly wounded. I have heard the most deplorable accounts

of Lord and Lady Highgate. Oh, dearest friend and sister!-save you, I

think I scarce know any one that is happy in the world: I trust you may

continue so-you who impart your goodness and kindness to all who come

near you-you in whose sweet serene happiness I am thankful to be

allowed to repose sometimes. You are the island in the desert, Laura!

and the birds sing there, and the fountain flows; and we come and

repose by you for a little while, and to-morrow the march begins again,

and the toil, and the struggle, and the desert. Good-bye, fountain!

Whisper kisses to my dearest little ones from their affectionate Aunt

Ethel.

“A friend of his, a Mr. Warrington, has spoken against us several times

with extraordinary ability, as Barnes owns. Do you know Mr. W.? He

wrote a dreadful article in the _Independent_, about the last poor

lecture, which was indeed sad, sentimental, commonplace: and the

critique is terribly comical. I could not help laughing, remembering

some passages in it, when Barnes mentioned it: and my brother became so

angry! They have put up a dreadful caricature of B. in Newcome: and my

brother says he did it, but I hope not. It is very droll, though: he

used to make them very funnily. I am glad he has spirits for it.

Good-bye again.—E. N.”

“He says he did it!” cries Mr. Pendennis, laying the letter down.

“Barnes Newcome would scarcely caricature himself, my dear?”

“‘He’ often means—means Clive—I think,” says Mrs. Pendennis, in an

offhand manner.

“Oh! he means Clive, does he, Laura?”

“Yes—and you mean goose, Mr. Pendennis!” that saucy lady replies.

It must have been about the very time when this letter was written,

that a critical conversation occurred between Clive and his father, of

which the lad did not inform me until much later days; as was the

case—the reader has been more than once begged to believe—with many

other portions of this biography.

One night the Colonel, having come home from a round of electioneering

visits, not half satisfied with himself; exceedingly annoyed (much more

than he cared to own) with the impudence of some rude fellows at the

public-houses, who had interrupted his fine speeches with odious

hiccups and familiar jeers, was seated brooding over his cheroot by the

chimney-fire; friend F. B. (of whose companionship his patron was

occasionally tired) finding much better amusement with the Jolly

Britons in the Boscawen Room below. The Colonel, as an electioneering

business, had made his appearance in the club. But that ancient Roman

warrior had frightened those simple Britons. His manners were too awful

for them: so were Clive’s, who visited them also under Mr. Pott’s

introduction; but the two gentlemen, each being full of care and

personal annoyance at the time, acted like wet blankets upon the

Britons—whereas F. B. warmed them and cheered them, affably partook of

their meals with them, and graciously shared their cups. So the Colonel

was alone, listening to the far-off roar of the Britons’ choruses by an

expiring fire, as he sate by a glass of cold negus and the ashes of his

cigar.

I dare say he may have been thinking that his fire was well-nigh

out,—his cup of the dregs, his pipe little more now than dust and

ashes—when Clive, candle in hand, came into their sitting-room.

As each saw the other’s face, it was so very sad and worn and pale,

that the young man started back; and the elder, with quite the

tenderness of old days, cried, “God bless me, my boy, how ill you look!

Come and warm yourself—look, the fire’s out. Have something, Clivy!”

For months past they had not had a really kind word. The tender old

voice smote upon Clive, and he burst into sudden tears. They rained

upon his father’s trembling old brown hand, and stooped down and kissed

it.

“You look very ill too, father,” says Clive.

“Ill? not I!” cries the father, still keeping the boy’s hand under both

his own on the mantelpiece. “Such a battered old fellow as I am has a

right to look the worse for wear; but you, boy; why do you look so

pale?”

“I have seen a ghost, father,” Clive answered. Thomas, however, looked

alarmed and inquisitive as though the boy was wandering in his mind.

“The ghost of my youth, father, the ghost of my happiness, and the best

days of my life,” groaned out the young man. “I saw Ethel to-day. I

went to see Sarah Mason, and she was there.”

“I had seen her, but I did not speak of her,” said the father. “I

thought it was best not to mention her to you, my poor boy. And are—are

you fond of her still, Clive?”

“Still! once means always in these things, father, doesn’t it? Once

means to-day, and yesterday, and forever and ever.”

“Nay, my boy, you mustn’t talk to me so, or even to yourself so. You

have the dearest little wife at home, a dear little wife and child.”

“You had a son, and have been kind enough to him, God knows. _You_ had

a wife: but that doesn’t prevent other—other thoughts. Do you know you

never spoke twice in your life about my mother? You didn’t care for

her.”

“I—I did my duty by her; I denied her nothing. I scarcely ever had a

word with her, and I did my best to make her happy,” interposed the

Colonel.

“I know, but your heart was with the other. So is mine. It’s fatal; it

runs in the family, father.”

The boy looked so ineffably wretched that the father’s heart melted

still more. “I did my best, Clive,” the Colonel gasped out. “I went to

that villain Barnes and offered him to settle every shilling I was

worth on you—I did—you didn’t know that—I’d kill myself for your sake,

Clivy. What’s an old fellow worth living for? I can live upon a crust

and a cigar. I don’t care about a carriage, and only go in it to please

Rosey. I wanted to give up all for you, but he played me false, that

scoundrel cheated us both; he did, and so did Ethel.”

“No, sir; I may have thought so in my rage once, but I know better now.

She was the victim and not the agent. Did Madame de Florac play _you_

false when she married her husband? It was her fate, and she underwent

it. We all bow to it, we are in the track and the car passes over us.

You know it does, father.” The Colonel was a fatalist: he had often

advanced this Oriental creed in his simple discourses with his son and

Clive’s friends.

“Besides,” Clive went on, “Ethel does not care for me. She received me

to-day quite coldly, and held her hand out as if we had only parted

last year. I suppose she likes that marquis who jilted her—God bless

her! How shall we know what wins the hearts of women? She has mine.

There was my Fate. Praise be to Allah! It is over.”

“But there’s that villain who injured you. His isn’t over yet,” cried

the Colonel, clenching his trembling hand.

“Ah, father! Let us leave him to Allah too! Suppose Madame de Florac

had a brother who insulted you. You know you wouldn’t have revenged

yourself. You would have wounded her in striking him.”

“You called out Barnes yourself, boy,” cried the father.

“That was for another cause, and not for my quarrel. And how do you

know I intended to fire? By Jove, I was so miserable then that an ounce

of lead would have done me little harm!”

The father saw the son’s mind more clearly than he had ever done

hitherto. They had scarcely ever talked upon that subject which the

Colonel found was so deeply fixed in Clive’s heart. He thought of his

own early days, and how he had suffered, and beheld his son before him

racked with the same cruel pangs of enduring grief. And he began to own

that he had pressed him too hastily in his marriage; and to make an

allowance for an unhappiness of which he had in part been the cause.

“Mashallah! Clive, my boy,” said the old man, “what is done is done.”

“Let us break up our camp before this place, and not go to war with

Barnes, father,” said Clive. “Let us have peace—and forgive him if we

can.”

“And retreat before this scoundrel, Clive?”

“What is a victory over such a fellow? One gives a chimney-sweep the

wall, father.”

“I say again—What is done is done. I have promised to meet him at the

hustings, and I will. I think it is best: and you are right: and you

act like a high-minded gentleman—and my dear old boy—not to meddle in

the quarrel—though I didn’t think so—and the difference gave me a great

deal of pain—and so did what Pendennis said—and I’m wrong—and thank God

I am wrong—and God bless you, my own boy!” the Colonel cried out in a

burst of emotion; and the two went to their bedrooms together, and were

happier as they shook hands at the doors of their adjoining chambers

than they had been for many a long day and year.

CHAPTER LXIX.

The Election

Having thus given his challenge, reconnoitred the enemy, and pledged

himself to do battle at the ensuing election, our Colonel took leave of

the town of Newcome, and returned to his banking affairs in London. His

departure was as that of a great public personage; the gentlemen of the

Committee followed him obsequiously down to the train. “Quick,” bawls

out Mr. Potts to Mr. Brown, the station-master, “Quick, Mr. Brown, a

carriage for Colonel Newcome!” Half a dozen hats are taken off as he

enters into the carriage, F. Bayham and his servant after him, with

portfolios, umbrellas, shawls, despatch-boxes. Clive was not there to

act as his father’s aide-de-camp. After their conversation together the

young man had returned to Mrs. Clive and his other duties in life.

It has been said that Mr. Pendennis was in the country, engaged in a

pursuit exactly similar to that which occupied Colonel Newcome. The

menaced dissolution of Parliament did not take place so soon as we

expected. The Ministry still hung together, and by consequence, Sir

Barnes Newcome kept the seat in the House of Commons, from which his

elder kinsman was eager to oust him. Away from London, and having but

few correspondents, save on affairs of business, I heard little of

Clive and the Colonel, save an occasional puff of one of Colonel

Newcome’s entertainments in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, to which journal

F. Bayham still condescended to contribute; and a satisfactory

announcement in a certain part of that paper, that on such a day, in

Hyde Park Gardens, Mrs. Clive Newcome had presented her husband with a

son. Clive wrote to me presently, to inform me of the circumstance,

stating at the same time, with but moderate gratification on his own

part, that the Campaigner, Mrs. Newcome’s mamma, had upon this second

occasion made a second lodgment in her daughter’s house and bedchamber,

and showed herself affably disposed to forget the little unpleasantries

which had clouded over the sunshine of her former visit.

Laura, with a smile of some humour, said she thought now would be the

time when, if Clive could be spared from his bank, he might pay us that

visit at Fairoaks which had been due so long, and hinted that change of

air and a temporary absence from Mrs. Mackenzie might be agreeable to

my old friend.

It was, on the contrary, Mr. Pendennis’s opinion that his wife artfully

chose that period of time when little Rosey was, perforce, kept at home

and occupied with her delightful maternal duties, to invite Clive to

see us. Mrs. Laura frankly owned that she liked our Clive better

without his wife than with her, and never ceased to regret that pretty

Rosey had not bestowed her little hand upon Captain Hoby, as she had

been very well disposed at one time to do. Against all marriages of

interest this sentimental Laura never failed to utter indignant

protests; and Clive’s had been a marriage of interest, a marriage made

up by the old people, a marriage which the young man had only yielded

out of good-nature and obedience. She would apostrophise her

unconscious young ones, and inform those innocent babies that _they_

should never be made to marry except for love, never—an announcement

which was received with perfect indifference by little Arthur on his

rocking-horse, and little Helen smiling and crowing in her mother’s

lap.

So Clive came down to us, careworn in appearance, but very pleased and

happy, he said, to stay for a while with the friends of his youth. We

showed him our modest rural lions; we got him such sport and company as

our quiet neighbourhood afforded, we gave him fishing in the Brawl, and

Laura in her pony-chaise drove him to Baymouth, and to Clavering Park

and town, and visit the famous cathedral at Chatteris, where she was

pleased to recount certain incidents of her husband’s youth.

Clive laughed at my wife’s stories; he pleased himself in our home; he

played with our children, with whom he had became a great favourite; he

was happier, he told me with a sigh, than he had been for many a day.

His gentle hostess echoed the sigh of the poor young fellow. She was

sure that his pleasure was only transitory, and was convinced that many

deep cares weighed upon his mind.

Ere long my old schoolfellow made me sundry confessions, which showed

that Laura’s surmises were correct. About his domestic affairs he did

not treat much; the little boy was said to be a very fine little boy;

the ladies had taken entire possession of him. “I can’t stand Mrs.

Mackenzie any longer, I own,” says Clive; “but how resist a wife at

such a moment? Rosa was sure she would die, unless her mother came to

her, and of course we invited Mrs. Mack. This time she is all smiles

and politeness with the Colonel: the last quarrel is laid upon me, and

in so far I am easy, as the old folks get on pretty well together.” To

me, considering these things, it was clear that Mr. Clive Newcome was

but a very secondary personage indeed in his father’s new fine house

which he inhabited, and in which the poor Colonel had hoped they were

to live such a happy family.

But it was about Clive Newcome’s pecuniary affairs that I felt the most

disquiet when he came to explain these to me. The Colonel’s capital and

that considerable sum which Mrs. Clive had inherited from her good old

uncle, were all involved in a common stock, of which Colonel Newcome

took the management. “The governor understands business so well, you

see,” says Clive; “is a most remarkable head for accounts: he must have

inherited that from my grandfather, you know, who made his own fortune:

all the Newcomes are good at accounts, except me, a poor useless devil

who knows nothing but to paint a picture, and who can’t even do that.”

He cuts off the head of a thistle as he speaks, bites his tawny

mustachios, plunges his hands into his pockets and his soul into

reverie.

“You don’t mean to say,” asks Mr. Pendennis, “that your wife’s fortune

has not been settled upon herself?”

“Of course it has been settled upon herself; that is, it is entirely

her own—you know the Colonel has managed all the business, he

understands it better than we do.”

“Do you say that your wife’s money is not vested in the hands of

trustees, and for her benefit?”

“My father is one of the trustees. I tell you he manages the whole

thing. What is his property is mine and ever has been; and I might draw

upon him as much as I liked: and you know it’s five times as great as

my wife’s. What is his is ours, and what is ours is his, of course; for

instance, the India Stock, which poor Uncle James left, that now stands

in the Colonel’s name. He wants to be a Director: he will be at the

next election—he must have a certain quantity of India Stock, don’t you

see?”

“My dear fellow, is there then no settlement made upon your wife at

all?”

“You needn’t look so frightened,” says Clive. “I made a settlement on

her: with all my worldly goods I did her endow three thousand three

hundred and thirty-three pounds six and eightpence, which my father

sent over from India to my uncle, years ago, when I came home.”

I might well indeed be aghast at this news, and had yet further

intelligence from Clive, which by no means contributed to lessen my

anxiety. This worthy old Colonel, who fancied himself to be so clever a

man of business, chose to conduct it in utter ignorance and defiance of

law. If anything happened to the Bundelcund Bank, it was clear that not

only every shilling of his own property, but every farthing bequeathed

to Rosa Mackenzie would be lost; only his retiring pension, which was

luckily considerable, and the hundred pounds a year which Clive had

settled on his wife, would be saved out of the ruin.

And now Clive confided to me his own serious doubts and misgivings

regarding the prosperity of the Bank itself. He did not know why, but

he could not help fancying that things were going wrong. Those partners

who had come home, having sold out of the Bank, and living in England

so splendidly, why had they quitted it? The Colonel said it was a proof

of the prosperity of the company, that so many gentlemen were enriched

who had taken shares in it. “But when I asked my father,” Clive

continued, “why he did not himself withdraw, the dear old Colonel’s

countenance fell: he told me such things were not to be done every day;

and ended, as usual, by saying that I do not understand anything about

business. No more I do: that is the truth. I hate the whole concern,

Pen! I hate that great tawdry house in which we live; and those

fearfully stupid parties:—Oh, how I wish we were back in Fitzroy

Square! But who can recall bygones, Arthur; or wrong steps in life? We

must make the best of to-day, and to-morrow must take care of itself.

‘Poor little child!’ I could not help thinking, as I took it crying in

my arms the other day, ‘what has life in store for you, my poor weeping

baby?’ My mother-in-law cried out that I should drop the baby, and that

only the Colonel knew how to hold it. My wife called from her bed; the

nurse dashed up and scolded me; and they drove me out of the room

amongst them. By Jove, Pen, I laugh when some of my friends

congratulate me on my good fortune! I am not quite the father of my own

child, nor the husband of my own wife, nor even the master of my own

easel. I am managed for, don’t you see? boarded, lodged, and done for.

And here is the man they call happy. Happy! Oh!!! Why had I not your

strength of mind; and why did I ever leave my art, my mistress?”

And herewith the poor lad fell to chopping thistles again; and quitted

Fairoaks shortly, leaving his friends there very much disquieted about

his prospects, actual and future.

The expected dissolution of Parliament came at length. All the country

papers in England teemed with electioneering addresses; and the country

was in a flutter with particoloured ribbons. Colonel Thomas Newcome,

pursuant to his promise, offered himself to the independent electors of

Newcome in the Liberal journal of the family town, whilst Sir Barnes

Newcome, Bart., addressed himself to his old and tried friends, and

called upon the friends of the constitution to rally round him, in the

Conservative print. The addresses of our friend were sent to us at

Fairoaks by the Colonel’s indefatigable aide-de-camp, Mr. Frederick

Bayham. During the period which had elapsed since the Colonel’s last

canvassing visit and the issuing of the writs now daily expected for

the new Parliament, many things of great importance had occurred in

Thomas Newcome’s family—events which were kept secret from his

biographer, who was, at this period also, pretty entirely occupied with

his own affairs. These, however, are not the present subject of this

history, which has Newcome for its business, and the parties engaged in

the family quarrel there.

There were four candidates in the field for the representation of that

borough. That old and tried member of Parliament, Mr. Bunce, was

considered to be secure; and the Baronet’s seat was thought to be

pretty safe on account of his influence in the place. Nevertheless,

Thomas Newcome’s supporters were confident for their champion, and that

when the parties came to the poll, the extreme Liberals of the borough

would divide their votes between him and the fourth candidate, the

uncompromising Radical, Mr. Barker.

In due time the Colonel and his staff arrived at Newcome, and resumed

the active canvass which they had commenced some months previously.

Clive was not in his father’s suite this time, nor Mr. Warrington,

whose engagements took him elsewhere. The lawyer, the editor of the

_Independent_, and F. B., were the Colonel’s chief men. His

headquarters (which F. B. liked very well) were at the hotel where we

last saw him, and whence issuing with his aide-de-camp at his heels,

the Colonel went round to canvass personally, according to his promise,

every free and independent elector of the borough. Barnes too was

canvassing eagerly on his side, and was most affable and active; the

two parties would often meet nose to nose in the same street, and their

retainers exchange looks of defiance. With Mr. Potts of the

_Independent_, a big man, on his left; with Mr. Frederick, a still

bigger man, on his right; his own trusty bamboo cane in his hand,

before which poor Barnes had shrunk abashed ere now, Colonel Newcome

had commonly the best of these street encounters, and frowned his

nephew Barnes, and Barnes’s staff, off the pavement. With the

non-electors the Colonel was a decided favourite; the boys invariably

hurrayed him; whereas they jeered and uttered ironical cries after poor

Barnes, asking, “Who beat his wife? Who drove his children to the

workhouse?” and other unkind personal questions. The man upon whom the

libertine Barnes had inflicted so cruel an injury in his early days,

was now the Baronet’s bitterest enemy. He assailed him with curses and

threats when they met, and leagued his brother-workmen against him. The

wretched Sir Barnes owned with contrition that the sins of his youth

pursued him; his enemy scoffed at the idea of Barnes’s repentance; he

was not moved at the grief, the punishment in his own family, the

humiliation and remorse which the repentant prodigal piteously pleaded.

No man was louder in his cries of _mea culpa_ than Barnes: no man

professed a more edifying repentance. He was hat in hand to every

black-coat, established or dissenting. Repentance was to his interest,

to be sure, but yet let us hope it was sincere. There is some

hypocrisy, of which one does not like even to entertain the thought;

especially that awful falsehood which trades with divine truth, and

takes the name of Heaven in vain.

The Roebuck Inn at Newcome stands in the market-place, directly facing

the King’s Arms, where, as we know, Colonel Newcome and uncompromising

toleration held their headquarters. Immense banners of blue and yellow

floated from every window of the King’s Arms, and decorated the balcony

from which the Colonel and the assistants were in the habit of

addressing the multitude. Fiddlers and trumpeters, arrayed in his

colours, paraded the town and enlivened it with their melodious

strains. Other trumpeters and fiddlers, bearing the true-blue cockades

and colours of Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart., would encounter the Colonel’s

musicians, on which occasions of meeting, it is to be feared, small

harmony was produced. They banged each other with their brazen

instruments. The warlike drummers thumped each other’s heads in lieu of

the professional sheepskin. The townboys and street-blackguards

rejoiced in these combats, and exhibited their valour on one side or

the other. The Colonel had to pay a long bill for broken brass when he

settled the little accounts of the election.

In after times, F. B. was pleased to describe the circumstances of a

contest in which he bore a most distinguished part. It was F. B.’s

opinion that his private eloquence brought over many waverers to the

Colonel’s side, and converted numbers of the benighted followers of Sir

Barnes Newcome. Bayham’s voice was indeed magnificent, and could be

heard from the King’s Arm’s balcony above the shout and roar of the

multitude, the gongs and bugles of the opposition bands. He was

untiring in his oratory—undaunted in the presence of the crowds below.

He was immensely popular, F. B. Whether he laid his hand upon his broad

chest, took off his hat and waved it, or pressed his blue and yellow

ribbons to his bosom, the crowd shouted, “Hurra: silence! bravo! Bayham

for ever!” “They would have carried me in triumph,” said F. B.; “if I

had but the necessary qualification I might be member for Newcome this

day or any other I chose.”

I am afraid in this conduct of the Colonel’s election Mr. Bayham

resorted to acts of which his principal certainly would disapprove, and

engaged auxiliaries whose alliance was scarcely creditable. Whose was

the hand which flung the potato which struck Sir Barnes Newcome, Bart.,

on the nose as he was haranguing the people from the Roebuck? How came

it that whenever Sir Barnes and his friends essayed to speak, such an

awful yelling and groaning took place in the crowd below, that the

words of those feeble orators were inaudible? Who smashed all the front

windows of the Roebuck? Colonel Newcome had not words to express his

indignation at proceedings so unfair. When Sir Barnes and staff were

hustled in the market-place and most outrageously shoved, jeered, and

jolted, the Colonel from the King’s Arms organised a rapid sally, which

he himself headed with his bamboo cane; cut out Sir Barnes and his

followers from the hands of the mob, and addressed those ruffians in a

noble speech, of which bamboo-cane—Englishman—shame—fair-play, were the

most emphatic expressions. The mob cheered Old Tom as they called

him—they made way for Sir Barnes, who shrunk pale and shuddering back

into his hotel again—who always persisted in saying that that old

villain of a dragoon had planned both the assault and the rescue.

“When the dregs of the people—the scum of the rabble, sir, banded

together by the myrmidons of Sir Barnes Newcome, attacked us at the

King’s Arms, and smashed ninety-six pounds’ worth of glass at one

volley, besides knocking off the gold unicorn head and the tail of the

British lion; it was fine, sir,” F. B. said, “to see how the Colonel

came forward, and the coolness of the old boy in the midst of the

action. He stood there in front, sir, with his old hat off, never so

much as once bobbing his old head, and I think he spoke rather better

under fire than he did when there was no danger. Between ourselves, he

ain’t much of a speaker, the old Colonel; he hems and haws, and repeats

himself a good deal. He hasn’t the gift of natural eloquence which some

men have, Pendennis. You should have heard my speech, sir, on the

Thursday in the Town Hall—that was something like a speech. Potts was

jealous of it, and always reported me most shamefully.”

In spite of his respectful behaviour to the gentlemen in black coats,

his soup-tickets and his flannel-tickets, his own pathetic lectures and

his sedulous attendance at other folk’s sermons, poor Barnes could not

keep up his credit with the serious interest at Newcome, and the

meeting-houses and their respective pastors and frequenters turned

their backs upon him. The case against him was too flagrant: his enemy,

the factory-man, worked it with an extraordinary skill, malice, and

pertinacity. Not a single man, woman, or child in Newcome but was made

acquainted with Sir Barnes’s early peccadillo. Ribald ballads were

howled through the streets describing his sin, and his deserved

punishment. For very shame, the reverend dissenting gentlemen were

obliged to refrain from voting for him; such as ventured, believing in

the sincerity of his repentance, to give him their voices, were yelled

away from the polling-places. A very great number who would have been

his friends, were compelled to bow to decency and public opinion, and

supported the Colonel.

Hooted away from the hustings, and the public places whence the rival

candidates addressed the free and independent electors, this wretched

and persecuted Sir Barnes invited his friends and supporters to meet

him at the Athenæum Room—scene of his previous eloquent performances.

But, though this apartment was defended by tickets, the people burst

into it; and Nemesis, in the shape of the persevering factory-man,

appeared before the scared Sir Barnes and his puzzled committee. The

man stood up and bearded the pale Baronet. He had a good cause, and was

in truth a far better master of debate than our banking friend, being a

great speaker amongst his brother-operatives, by whom political

questions are discussed, and the conduct of political men examined,

with a ceaseless interest and with an ardour and eloquence which are

often unknown in what is called superior society. This man and his

friends round about him fiercely silenced the clamour of “Turn him

out,” with which his first appearance was assailed by Sir Barnes’s

hangers-on. He said, in the name of justice he would speak up; if they

were fathers of families and loved their wives and daughters he dared

them to refuse him a hearing. Did they love their wives and their

children? it was a shame that they should take such a man as that

yonder for their representative in Parliament. But the greatest

sensation he made was when, in the middle of his speech, after

inveighing against Barnes’s cruelty and parental ingratitude, he asked,

“Where were Barnes’s children?” and actually thrust forward two, to the

amazement of the committee and the ghastly astonishment of the guilty

Baronet himself.