consequence? They had a quarrel with Sir Thomas Newcome's own son, a
harum-scarum lad, who ran away, and then was sent to India; and, between
ourselves, Mr. Hobson and Mr. Brian both, the present Baronet, though at
home they were as mum as Quakers at a meeting, used to go out on the sly,
sir, and be off to the play, sir, and sowed their wild oats like any
other young men, sir, like any other young men. Law bless me, once, as I
was going away from the Haymarket, if I didn't see Mr. Hobson coming out
of the Opera, in tights and an opera-hat, sir, like 'Froggy would wooing
go,' of a Saturday-night, too, when his ma thought him safe in bed in the
City! I warrant he hadn't his opera-hat on when he went to chapel with
her ladyship the next morning--that very morning, as sure as my name's
John Giles.
"When the old lady was gone, Mr. Hobson had no need of any more
humbugging, but took his pleasure freely. Fighting, tandems,
four-in-hand, anything. He and his brother--his elder brother by a
quarter of an hour--were always very good friends; but after Mr. Brian
married, and there was only court-cards at his table, Mr. Hobson couldn't
stand it. They weren't of his suit, he said; and for some time he said he
wasn't a marrying man--quite the contrary; but we all come to our fate,
you know, and his time came as mine did. You know we married sisters? It
was thought a fine match for Polly Smith, when she married the great Mr.
Newcome; but I doubt whether my old woman at home hasn't had the best of
it, after all; and if ever you come Bernard Street way on a Sunday, about
six o'clock, and would like a slice of beef and a glass of port, I hope
you'll come and see us."
Do not let us be too angry with Colonel Newcome's two most respectable
brothers, if for some years they neglected their Indian relative, or held
him in slight esteem. Their mother never pardoned him, or at least by any
actual words admitted his restoration to favour. For many years, as far
as they knew, poor Tom was an unrepentant prodigal, wallowing in bad
company, and cut off from all respectable sympathy. Their father had
never had the courage to acquaint them with his more true, and kind, and
charitable version of Tom's story. So he passed at home for no better
than a black sheep; his marriage with a penniless young lady did not tend
to raise him in the esteem of his relatives at Clapham; it was not until
he was a widower, until he had been mentioned several times in the
Gazette for distinguished military service, until they began to speak
very well of him in Leadenhall Street, where the representatives of
Hobson Brothers were of course East India proprietors, and until he
remitted considerable sums of money to England, that the bankers his
brethren began to be reconciled to him.
I say, do not let us be hard upon them. No people are so ready to give a
man a bad name as his own kinsfolk; and having made him that present,
they are ever most unwilling to take it back again. If they give him
nothing else in the days of his difficulty, he may be sure of their pity,
and that he is held up as an example to his young cousins to avoid. If he
loses his money they call him poor fellow, and point morals out of him.
If he falls among thieves, the respectable Pharisees of his race turn
their heads aside and leave him penniless and bleeding. They clap him on
the back kindly enough when he returns, after shipwreck, with money in
his pocket. How naturally Joseph's brothers made salaams to him, and
admired him, and did him honour, when they found the poor outcast a prime
minister, and worth ever so much money! Surely human nature is not much
altered since the days of those primeval Jews. We would not thrust
brother Joseph down a well and sell him bodily, but--but if he has
scrambled out of a well of his own digging, and got out of his early
bondage into renown and credit, at least we applaud him and respect him,
and are proud of Joseph as a member of the family.
Little Clive was the innocent and lucky object upon whom the increasing
affection of the Newcomes for their Indian brother was exhibited. When he
was first brought home a sickly child, consigned to his maternal aunt,
the kind old maiden lady at Brighton, Hobson Brothers scarce took any
notice of the little man, but left him to the entire superintendence of his
own family. Then there came a large remittance from his father, and the
child was asked by Uncle Newcome at Christmas. Then his father's name was
mentioned in general orders, and Uncle Hobson asked little Clive at
meeting the brothers at a grand dinner at the Albion, given by the Court
of Directors to his late Excellency, spoke to the bankers about that most
distinguished officer their relative; and Mrs. Hobson drove over to see
his aunt, where the boy was; gave him a sovereign out of her purse, and
advised strongly that he should be sent to Timpany's along wit her own
boy. Then Clive went from one uncle's house to another; and was liked at
both; and much preferred ponies to ride, going out after rabbits with the
keeper, money in his pocket (charge to the debit of Lieut.-Col. T.
Newcome), and clothes from the London tailor, to the homely quarters and
conversation of poor kind old Aunt Honeyman at Brighton. Clive's uncles
were not unkind; they liked each other; their wives, who hated each
other, united in liking Clive when they knew him, and petting the wayward
handsome boy: they were only pursuing the way of the world, which huzzas
all prosperity, and turns away from misfortune as from some contagious
disease. Indeed, how can we see a man's brilliant qualities if he is what
we call in the shade?
The gentlemen, Clive's uncles, who had their affairs to mind during the
day, society and the family to occupy them of evenings and holidays,
treated their young kinsman, the Indian Colonel's son, as other wealthy
British uncles treat other young kinsmen. They received him in his
vacations kindly enough. They tipped him when he went to school; when he
had the hooping-cough, a confidential young clerk went round by way of
Grey Friars Square to ask after him; the sea being recommended to him,
Mrs. Newcome gave him change of air in Sussex, and transferred him to his
maternal aunt at Brighton. Then it was bonjour. As the lodge-gates closed
upon him, Mrs. Newcome's heart shut up too and confined itself within the
firs, laurels, and palings which bound the home precincts. Had not she
her own children and affairs? her brood of fowls, her Sunday-school, her
melon-beds, her rose-garden, her quarrel with the parson, etc., to attend
to? Mr. Newcome, arriving on a Saturday night; hears he is gone, says
"Oh!" and begins to ask about the new gravel-walk along the cliff, and
whether it is completed, and if the China pig fattens kindly upon the new
feed.
Clive, in the avuncular gig, is driven over the downs to Brighton to his
maternal aunt there; and there he is a king. He has the best bedroom,
Uncle Honeyman turning out for him sweetbreads fo
r dinner; no end of jam
for breakfast; excuses from church on the plea of delicate health; his
aunt's maid to see him to bed; his aunt to come smiling in when he rings
his bell of a morning. He is made much of, and coaxed, and dandled and
fondled, as if he were a young duke. So he is to Miss Honeyman. He is the
son of Colonel Newcome, C.B., who sends her shawls, ivory chessmen,
scented sandalwood workboxes and kincob scarfs; who, as she tells Martha
the maid, has fifty servants in India; at which Martha constantly
exclaims, "Lor', mum, what can he do with 'em, mum?" who, when in
consequence of her misfortunes she resolved on taking a house at
Brighton, and letting part of the same furnished, sent her an order for a
hundred pounds towards the expenses thereof; who gave Mr. Honeyman, her
brother, a much larger sum of money at the period of his calamity. Is it
gratitude for past favours? is it desire for more? is it vanity of
relationship? is it love for the dead sister--or tender regard for her
offspring which makes Mrs. Martha Honeyman so fond of her nephew? I never
could count how many causes went to produce any given effect or action in
a person's life, and have been for my own part many a time quite misled
in my own case, fancying some grand, some magnanimous, some virtuous
reason, for an act of which I was proud, when lo! some pert little
satirical monitor springs up inwardly, upsetting the fond humbug which I
was cherishing--the peacock's tail wherein my absurd vanity had clad
itself--and says, "Away with this boasting! I am the cause of your
virtue, my lad. You are pleased that yesterday at dinner you refrained
from the dry champagne? My name is Worldly Prudence, not Self-denial, and
I caused you to refrain. You are pleased because you gave a guinea to
Diddler? I am Laziness, not Generosity, which inspired you. You hug
yourself because you resisted other temptation? Coward! it was because
you dared not run the risk of the wrong. Out with your peacock's plumage!
not altogether black." In a word, Aunt Honeyman was a kind soul, and such
was the splendour of Clive's father, of his gifts, his generosity, his
military services, and companionship of the battles, that the lad did
really appear a young duke to her. And Mrs. Newcome was not unkind: and
if Clive had been really a young duke, I am sure he would have had the
best bedroom at Marble Hill, and not one of the far-off little rooms in
the boys' wing; I am sure he would have had jellies and Charlottes
Russes, instead of mere broth, chicken, and batter-pudding, as fell to
his lot; and when he was gone (in the carriage, mind you, not in the gig
driven by a groom), I am sure Mrs. Newcome would have written a letter
that night to Her Grace the Duchess Dowager his mamma, full of praise of
the dear child, his graciousness, his beauty, and his wit, and declaring
that she must love him henceforth and for ever after as a son of her own.
You toss down the page with scorn, and say, "It is not true. Human nature
is not so bad as this cynic would have it to be. You would make no
difference between the rich and the poor." Be it so. You would not. But
own that your next-door neighbour would. Nor is this, dear madam,
addressed to you; no, no, we are not so rude as to talk about you to your
face; but if we may not speak of the lady who has just left the room,
what is to become of conversation and society?
We forbear to describe the meeting between the Colonel and his son--the
pretty boy from whom he had parted more than seven years before with such
pangs of heart; and of whom he had thought ever since with such a
constant longing affection. Half an hour after the father left the boy,
and in his grief and loneliness was rowing back to shore, Clive was at
play with a dozen of other children on the sunny deck of the ship. When
two bells rang for their dinner, they were all hurrying to the cuddy
table, and busy over their meal. What a sad repast their parents had that
day! How their hearts followed the careless young ones home across the
great ocean! Mothers' prayers go with them. Strong men, alone on their
knees, with streaming eyes and broken accents, implore Heaven for those
little ones, who were prattling at their sides but a few hours since.
Long after they are gone, careless and happy, recollections of the sweet
past rise up and smite those who remain: the flowers they had planted in
their little gardens, the toys they played with, the little vacant cribs
they slept in as fathers' eyes looked blessings down on them. Most of us
who have passed a couple of score of years in the world, have had such
sights as these to move us. And those who have will think none the worse
of my worthy Colonel for his tender and faithful heart.
With that fidelity which was an instinct of his nature, this brave man
thought ever of his absent child, and longed after him. He never forsook
the native servants and nurses who had had charge of the child, but
endowed them with money sufficient (and indeed little was wanted by
people of that frugal race) to make all their future lives comfortable.
No friends went to Europe, nor ship departed, but Newcome sent presents
and remembrances to the boy, and costly tokens of his love and thanks to
all who were kind to his son. What a strange pathos seems to me to
accompany all our Indian story! Besides that official history which fills
Gazettes, and embroiders banners with names of victory; which gives
moralists and enemies cause to cry out at English rapine; and enables
patriots to boast of invincible British valour--besides the splendour and
conquest, the wealth and glory, the crowned ambition, the conquered
danger, the vast prize, and the blood freely shed in winning it--should
not one remember the tears, too? Besides the lives of myriads of British
men, conquering on a hundred fields, from Plassey to Meanee, and bathing
them cruore nostro: think of the women, and the tribute which they
perforce must pay to those victorious achievements. Scarce a soldier goes
to yonder shores but leaves a home and grief in it behind him. The lords
of the subject province find wives there; but their children cannot live
on the soil. The parents bring their children to the shore, and part from
them. The family must be broken up--keep the flowers of your home beyond
a certain time, and the sickening buds wither and die. In America it is
from the breast of a poor slave that a child is taken. In India it is
from the wife, and from under the palace, of a splendid proconsul.
The experience of this grief made Newcome's naturally kind heart only the
more tender, and hence he had a weakness for children which made him the
laughing-stock of old maids, old bachelors, and sensible persons; but the
darling of all nurseries, to whose little inhabitants he was uniformly
kind: were they the collectors' progeny in their palanquins, or the
sergeants' children tumbling about the cantonment, or the dusky little
heathens in the huts of his servants round his gate.
&n
bsp; It is known that there is no part of the world where ladies are more
fascinating than in British India. Perhaps the warmth of the sun kindles
flames in the hearts of both sexes, which would probably beat quite
coolly in their native air: else why should Miss Brown be engaged ten
days after her landing at Calcutta? or why should Miss Smith have half a
dozen proposals before she has been a week at the station? And it is not
only bachelors on whom the young ladies confer their affections; they
will take widowers without any difficulty; and a man so generally liked
as Major Newcome, with such a good character, with a private fortune of
his own, so chivalrous, generous, good-looking, eligible in a word, you
may be sure would have found a wife easily enough, had he any mind for
replacing the late Mrs. Casey.
The Colonel, as has been stated, had an Indian chum or companion, with
whom he shared his lodgings; and from many jocular remarks of this latter
gentleman (who loved good jokes, and uttered not a few) I could gather
that the honest widower Colonel Newcome had been often tempted to alter
his condition, and that the Indian ladies had tried numberless attacks
upon his bereaved heart, and devised endless schemes of carrying it by
assault, treason, or other mode of capture. Mrs. Casey (his defunct wife)
had overcome it by sheer pity and helplessness. He had found her so
friendless, that he took her into the vacant place, and installed her
there as he would have received a traveller into his bungalow. He divided
his meal with her, and made her welcome to his best. "I believe Tom
Newcome married her," sly Mr. Binnie used to say, "in order that he might
have permission to pay her milliner's bills;" and in this way he was
amply gratified until the day of her death. A feeble miniature of the
lady, with yellow ringlets and a guitar, hung over the mantelpiece of the
Colonel's bedchamber, where I have often seen that work of art; and
subsequently, when he and Mr. Binnie took a house, there was hung up in
the spare bedroom a companion portrait to the miniature--that of the
Colonel's predecessor, Jack Casey, who in life used to fling plates at
his Emma's head, and who perished from a fatal attachment to the bottle.
I am inclined to think that Colonel Newcome was not much cast down by the
loss of his wife, and that they lived but indifferently together. Clive
used to say in his artless way that his father scarcely ever mentioned
his mother's name; and no doubt the union was not happy, although Newcome
continued piously to acknowledge it, long after death had brought it to a
termination, by constant benefactions and remembrances to the departed
lady's kindred.
Those widows or virgins who endeavoured to fill Emma's place found the
door of Newcombe's heart fast and barred, and assailed it in vain. Miss
Billing sat down before it with her piano, and, as the Colonel was a
practitioner on the flute, hoped to make all life one harmonious duet
with him; but she played her most brilliant sonatas and variations in
vain; and, as everybody knows, subsequently carried her grand piano to
Lieutenant and Adjutant Hodgkin's house, whose name she now bears. The
lovely widow Wilkins, with two darling little children, stopped at
Newcome's hospitable house, on her way to Calcutta; and it was thought
she might never leave it; but her kind host, as was his wont, crammed her
children with presents and good things, consoled and entertained the fair
widow, and one morning, after she had remained three months at the
station, the Colonel's palanquins and bearers made their appearance, and
Elvira Wilkins went away weeping as a widow should. Why did she abuse
Newcome ever after at Calcutta, Bath, Cheltenham, and wherever she went,
calling him selfish, pompous, Quixotic, and a Bahawder? I could mention
half a dozen other names of ladies of most respectable families connected
with Leadenhall Street, who, according to Colonel Newcome's chum--that