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Warner - World's Best Literature - v25 - Tas to Tur
Dobbin had been called away, and was whispering deep
in conversation with the general of the division, his friend, and
had not seen this last parting. George went away then with the
bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there lay a note,
coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's eye caught
it at once: she had been used to deal with notes in early life. She
put out her hand and took the nosegay. He saw by her eyes as
they met, that she was aware what she should find there. Her
husband hurried her away, still too intent upon his own thoughts,
seemingly, to take note of any marks of recognition which might
pass between his friend and his wife. These were, however, but
trifling. Rebecca gave George her hand with one of her usual
quick knowing glances, and made a curtsy and walked away.
George bowed over the hand; said nothing in reply to a remark
of Crawley's,-did not hear it even, his brain was so throbbing
with triumph and excitement; and allowed them to go away
without a word.
## p. 14695 (#269) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14695
His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet scene. It
was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca's request to
get her her scarf and flowers,—it was no more than he had
done twenty times before in the course of the last few days; but
now it was too much for her. "William," she said, suddenly
clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, "you've always been very
kind to me: I'm-I'm not well. Take me home. " She did not
know she called him by his Christian name, as George was accus-
tomed to do. He went away with her quickly. Her lodgings
were hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without,
where everything seemed to be more astir than even in the ball-
room within.
George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife
up on his return from the parties which he frequented, so she
went straight to bed now; but although she did not sleep, and
although the din and clatter and the galloping of horsemen was
incessant, she never heard any of these noises, having quite other
disturbances to keep her awake.
Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play
table and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Every-
thing succeeds with me to-night," he said. But his luck at play
even did not cure him of his restlessness; and he started up after
a while, pocketing his winnings, and went off to a buffet, where
he drank off many bumpers of wine.
Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laughing
loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been
to the card tables to look there for his friend. Dobbin looked as
pale and grave as his comrade was flushed and jovial.
"Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The duke's wine
is famous. Give me
some more, you sir;" and he held out a
trembling glass for the liquor.
"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely: "don't drink. "
"Drink there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up
your lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you. "
Dobbin went up and whispered something to him; at which
George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass,
clapped it on the table, and walked away speedily on his friend's
arm. "The enemy has passed the Sambre," William said, "and
our left is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in
three hours. "
## p. 14696 (#270) ##########################################
14696
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at
the news so long looked for, so sudden when it came. What
were love and intrigue now? He thought about a thousand
things but these in his rapid walk to his quarters: his past life
and future chances- the fate which might be before him- the
wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be about
to part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone! and that
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the
tender and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!
-
He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks
he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and
reckless he had been! Should any mischance befall him, what
was then left for her? How unworthy he was of her! Why had
he married her? He was not fit for marriage. Why had he
disobeyed his father, who had been always so generous to him?
Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish regret filled his
heart. He sate down and wrote to his father, remembering what
he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight a duel.
Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell letter.
He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how
he had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kind-
nesses which the stern old man had done him.
He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she
lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that
she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters from the ball, he
had found his regimental servant already making preparations for
his departure: the man had understood his signal to be still, and
these arrangements were very quickly and silently made. Should
he go in and wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her
brother to break the news of departure to her? He went in to
look at her once again
She had been awake when he first entered her room, but
had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should
not seem to reproach him. But when he had returned, so soon
after herself, too,- this timid little heart had felt more at ease;
and turning towards him as he stept softly out of the room, she
had fallen into a light sleep. George came in and looked at her
again, entering still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could
see her sweet, pale face: the purple eyelids were fringed and
## p. 14697 (#271) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14697
closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside the
coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender,
and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with
crime! Heart-stained and shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's
foot and looked at the sleeping girl. How dared he- who was
he, to pray for one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her!
He came to the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft
hand, lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly
towards the gentle pale face.
Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped
down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said, with a sob fit
to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She
was awake, poor soul-and to what? At that moment a bugle
from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken
up through the town; and 'midst the drums of the infantry, and
the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.
All our friends took their share and fought like men in the
great field.
All day long, whilst the women were praying ten
miles away, the lines of the dauntless English infantry were
receiving and repelling the furious charges of the French horse-
men. Guns which were heard at Brussels were plowing up their
ranks, and comrades falling, and the resolute survivors closing
in. Towards evening the attack of the French, repeated and
resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury. They had other foes
besides the British to engage, or were preparing for a final on-
set. It came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard marched
up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the
English from the height which they had maintained all day;
and spite of all, unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which
hurled death from the English line, the dark rolling column.
pressed on and up the hill. It seemed almost to crest the emi-
nence, when it began to wave and falter. Then it stopped, still
facing the shot. Then at last the English troops rushed from
the post from which no enemy had been able to dislodge them,
and the Guard turned and fled.
No more firing was heard at Brussels-the pursuit rolled
miles away.
Darkness came down on the field and city: and
Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face,
dead, with a bullet through his heart.
## p. 14698 (#272) ##########################################
14698
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
BECKY ADMIRES HER HUSBAND
From Vanity Fair'
RA
AWDON [just let out of the debtors' prison] walked home
rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night. He ran across the
streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length
came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back
and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The
drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said
that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the
light from the rooms on his pale face.
He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He
could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball
dress in which he had been captured the night before. He went
silently up the stairs, leaning against the banisters at the stair-
head. Nobody was stirring in the house besides: all the servants
had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within- laughter
and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the
night before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava! " It was
Lord Steyne's.
Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a
dinner was laid out, and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging
over the sofa on which Becky sate. The wretched woman was in
a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her fingers sparkling
with bracelets and rings; and the brilliants on her breast which
Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing
over it to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as
she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next instant
she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome her husband;
and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in
his looks.
He too attempted a laugh-and came forward holding out
his hand. "What, come back! How d' ye do, Crawley? " he said,
the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin at the
intruder.
There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling
herself before him. "I am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before
God, I am innocent. " She clung hold of his coat, of his hands;
her own were all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles.
"I am innocent. - Say I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne.
## p. 14699 (#273) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14699
He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furi-
ous with the wife as with the husband. "You innocent, damn
you! " he screamed out. "You innocent! Why, every trinket
you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you
thousands of pounds which this fellow has spent, and for which
he has sold you. Innocent, by ! You're as innocent as your
mother the ballet-girl, and your husband the bully. Don't think
to frighten me as you have done others. Make way, sir, and let
me pass;" and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and with flame in
his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched
upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other would
give way.
But Rawdon Crawley, springing out, seized him by the neck-
cloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and bent under his
arm. "You lie, you dog! " said Rawdon. "You lie, you coward
and villain! " And he struck the peer twice over the face with
his open hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was
all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trem-
bling before him. She admired her husband, strong, brave, and
victorious.
"Come here," he said. She came up at once.
"Take off those things. " She began, trembling, pulling the
jewels from her arms and the rings from her shaking fingers,
and held them all in a heap, quivering and looking up at him.
"Throw them down," he said, and she dropped them. He tore
the diamond ornament out of her breast, and flung it at Lord
Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar
to his dying day.
"Come up-stairs," Rawdon said to his wife. "Don't kill
me, Rawdon," she said. — He laughed savagely. "I want to see
if that man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he
given you any? "
"No," said Rebecca; "that is->
"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they went out
together.
Rebecca gave him all the keys but one; and she was in hopes
that he would not have remarked the absence of that. It be-
longed to the little desk which Amelia had given her in early
days, and which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung
open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery
of their contents here and there, and at last he found the desk.
## p. 14700 (#274) ##########################################
14700
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The woman was forced to open it. It contained papers, love-
letters many years old-all sorts of small trinkets and woman's
memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with bank-notes.
Some of these were dated ten years back, too; and one was quite
a fresh one,—a note for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne
had given her.
"Did he give you this? " Rawdon said.
"Yes," Rebecca answered.
"I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said (for day had dawned
again, and many hours had passed in this search); "and I will
pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some of the debts.
You will let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You
might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this:
I have always shared with you. "
And he left her without an-
"I am innocent," said Becky.
other word.
What were her thoughts when he left her? She remained
for hours after he was gone, the sunshine pouring into the
room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the bed's edge. The drawers
were all opened and their contents scattered about,- dresses and
feathers, scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying
in a wreck. Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown
was torn where Rawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of it.
She heard him go down-stairs a few minutes after he left her,
and the door slamming and closing on him. She knew he would
never come back. He was gone forever. Would he kill himself?
she thought; - not until after he had met Lord Steyne. She
thought of her long past life, and all the dismal incidents of it.
Ah, how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely, and profitless!
Should she take laudanum and end it, too-have done with all
hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French maid found.
her in this position,- sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins.
with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman was her accom-
plice and in Steyne's pay. "Mon Dieu, madame, what has hap-
pened? " she asked.
What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She said not;
but who could tell what was truth which came from those lips;
or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure? All her lies and
her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and
genius had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the cur-
tains, and with some entreaty and show of kindness, persuaded
## p. 14701 (#275) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14701
her mistress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below and
gathered up the trinkets which had been lying on the floor since
Rebecca dropped them there at her husband's orders, and Lord
Steyne went away.
COLONEL NEWCOME IN THE CAVE OF HARMONY
From The Newcomes >
THE
HERE was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter
than it appears to do in this latter half of the nineteenth
century; when the zest of life was certainly keener; when
tavern wines seemed to be delicious, and tavern dinners the per-
fection of cookery; when the perusal of novels was productive of
immense delight, and the monthly advent of magazine-day was
hailed as an exciting holiday; when to know Thompson, who had
written a magazine article, was an honor and a privilege, and to
see Brown, the author of the last romance, in the flesh, and act-
ually walking in the Park with his umbrella and Mrs. Brown, was
an event remarkable, and to the end of life to be perfectly well
remembered; when the women of this world were a thousand
times more beautiful than those of the present time, and the
houris of the theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, that to
see them was to set the heart in motion, and to see them again
was to struggle for half an hour previously at the door of the
pit; when tailors called at a man's lodgings to dazzle him with
cards of fancy waistcoats; when it seemed necessary to purchase
a grand silver dressing-case, so as to be ready for the beard
which was not yet born (as yearling brides provide lace caps, and
work rich clothes, for the expected darling); when to ride in the
Park on a ten-shilling hack seemed to be the height of fashion-
able enjoyment, and to splash your college tutor as you were
driving down Regent Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire;
when the acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of Trinity
at the Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with
King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin
of Trinity Hall (who was with his family in Bloomsbury Square)
to dine at the Piazza, go to the play and see Braham in 'Fra
Diavolo,' and end the frolic evening by partaking of supper and
a song at the Cave of Harmony. It was in the days of my own
## p. 14702 (#276) ##########################################
14702
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
youth then that I met one or two of the characters who are to
figure in this history; and whom I must ask leave to accompany
for a short while, and until, familiarized with the public, they
can make their own way. As I recall them the roses bloom
again, and the nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer.
Going to the play then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in
those merry days, with some young fellows of my own age;
having listened delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of
operas, and laughed enthusiastically at the farce, we became nat-
urally hungry at twelve o'clock at night, and a desire for Welsh
rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the Cave of Harmony,
then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, among whose friends we
were proud to count.
We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never
failed to greet us with a kind nod; and John, the waiter, made
room for us near the president of the convivial meeting. We
knew the three admirable glee-singers, and many a time they
partook of brandy-and-water at our expense. One of us gave his
call dinner at Hoskins's, and a merry time we had of it. Where
are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night! Do you warble your
songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black
Avernus?
The goes of stout, The Chough and Crow,' the Welsh rabbit,
the 'Red-Cross Knight,' the hot brandy-and-water, (the brown,
the strong! ) the Bloom is on the Rye,' (the bloom isn't on the
rye any more! )-the song and the cup, in a word, passed round
merrily, and I daresay the songs and bumpers were encored. It
happened that there was a very small attendance at the Cave that
night, and we were all more sociable and friendly because the
company was select. The songs were chiefly of the sentimental
class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I
speak.
There came into the Cave a gentleman with a lean brown face
and long black mustaches, dressed in very loose clothes, and evi-
dently a stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for
a long time. He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in
his company; and calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the
music, and twirled his mustaches with great enthusiasm.
At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the
table, bounded across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and
blushing, said, "Don't you know me? "
## p. 14703 (#277) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14703
It was little Newcome, my schoolfellow, whom I had not seen
for six years; grown a fine, tall young stripling now, with the
same bright blue eyes which I remembered when he was quite a
little boy.
"What the deuce brings you here? " said I.
He laughed, and looked roguish. "My father- that's my
father would come. He's just come back from India. He says
all the wits used to come here,- Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris,
Colonel Hanger, Professor Porson. I told him your name, and
that you used to be very kind to me when I first went to Smith-
field. I've left now; I'm to have a private tutor. I say, I've
got such a jolly pony! It's better fun than old Smiffle. "
Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, pointing to
a waiter to follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode
across the room, twirling his mustaches, and came up to the
table where we sat, making a salutation with his hat in a very
stately and polite manner, so that Hoskins himself was, as it
were, obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured among them-
selves (their eyes rolling over their glasses toward one another as
they sucked brandy-and-water); and that mischievous little wag,
little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just come in), began to
mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers after the manner of
the stranger, and flapping about his pocket handkerchief in the
most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by sternly
looking toward Nadab; and at the same time called upon the
gents to give their orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr.
Bellew about to sing a song.
Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me. I
daresay I blushed; for I had been comparing him to the admi-
rable Harley in 'The Critic,' and had christened him Don Ferolo
Whiskerandos.
―
He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant; and with
a cordiality so simple and sincere that my laughter shrank away
ashamed, and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and
friendly. In youth, you see, one is touched by kindness. A man
of the world may of course be grateful or not, as he chooses.
"I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, "to my boy.
And whoever is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me
to sit down by you? and may I beg you to try my cheroots? "
We were friends in a minute-young Newcome snuggling by my
side, his father opposite,- to whom, after a minute or two of
conversation, I presented my three college friends.
## p. 14704 (#278) ##########################################
14704
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says the
colonel. "Are there any celebrated persons in the room? I have
been five-and-thirty years from home, and want to see all that is
to be seen. "
King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was on the
point of pulling some dreadful long-bow, and pointing out a half-
dozen of people in the room as R and H and L———,
etc. , the most celebrated wits of that day; but I cut King's shins
under the table, and got the fellow to hold his tongue.
"Maxima debetur pueris," says Jones (a fellow of very kind
feeling, who has gone into the Church since); and writing on
his card to Hoskins, hinted to him that a boy was in the room,
and a gentleman who was quite a greenhorn, hence that the songs
had better be carefully selected.
And so they were. A lady's school might have come in, and
but for the smell of the cigars and brandy-and-water have taken
no harm by what happened. Why should it not always be so?
If there are any Caves of Harmony now, I warrant Messieurs
the landlords their interests would be better consulted by keeping
their singers within bounds. The very greatest scamps like pretty
songs, and are melted by them; so are honest people. It was
worth a guinea to see the simple colonel, and his delight at the
music. He forgot all about the distinguished wits whom he had
expected to see, in his ravishment over the glees.
"I say, Clive, this is delightful. This is better than your
aunt's concert with all the Squallinis, hey? I shall come here
often. Landlord, may I venture to ask those gentlemen if they
will take any refreshments? What are their names? " (to one
of his neighbors) "I was scarcely allowed to hear any singing
before I went out, except an oratorio, where I fell asleep; but
this, by George, is as fine as Incledon! " He became quite excited
over his sherry-and-water: "I'm sorry to see you, gentlemen,
drinking brandy-pawnee," says he. "It plays the deuce with
our young men in India. " He joined in all the choruses with
an exceedingly sweet voice. He laughed at the Derby Ram so
that it did one good to hear him; and when Hoskins sang (as
he did admirably) the 'Old English Gentleman,' and described
in measured cadence the death of that venerable aristocrat, tears
trickled down the honest warrior's cheek, while he held out his
hand to Hoskins and said, "Thank you, sir, for that song: it is
an honor to human nature. " On which Hoskins began to cry
too.
―――――――
## p. 14705 (#279) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14705
And now young Nadab, having been cautioned, commenced
one of those surprising feats of improvisation with which he
used to charm audiences. He took us all off, and had rhymes
pat about all the principal persons in the room: King's pins
(which he wore very splendidly), Martin's red waistcoat, etc. The
colonel was charmed with each feat, and joined delighted with
the chorus-Ritolderolritolderol ritolderolderay (bis). And when,
coming to the colonel himself, he burst out,-
A military gent I see - and while his face I scan,
I think you'll all agree with me he came from Hindostan :
And by his side sits laughing free- a youth with curly head;
I think you'll all agree with me- that he was best in bed.
Ritolderol, etc. ,-
-
-
―――――
the colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped his
son, young Clive, on the shoulder. "Hear what he says of you,
sir? Clive, best be off to bed, my boy-ho, ho! No, no. We
know a trick worth two of that. 'We won't go home till morn-
ing, till daylight does appear. ' Why should we? Why shouldn't
my boy have innocent pleasure? I was allowed none when I
was a young chap, and the severity was nearly the ruin of me.
I must go and speak with that young man -the most astonishing
thing I ever heard in my life. What's his name? Mr. Nadab?
Mr. Nadab, sir, you have delighted me. May I make so free as
to ask you to come and dine with me to-morrow at six. Colonel
Newcome, if you please, Nerot's Hotel, Clifford Street.
I am
always proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, and
you are one, or my name is not Newcome. "
"Sir, you do me Hhonor," says Mr. Nadab, pulling up his shirt
collar, "and perhaps the day will come when the world will do
me justice: may I put down your hhonored name for my book
of poems? "
"Of course, my dear sir," says the enthusiastic colonel: "I'll
send them all over India. Put me down for six copies, and do
me the favor to bring them to-morrow when you come to din-
ner. "
And now, Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volun-
teer a song, what was our amazement when the simple Colonel
offered to sing himself, at which the room applauded vociferously;
while methought poor Clive Newcome hung down his head and
blushed as red as a peony. I felt for the young lad; and thought
what my own sensations would have been, if in that place, my
XXV-920
## p. 14706 (#280) ##########################################
14706
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
own uncle, Major Pendennis, had suddenly proposed to exert his
lyrical powers.
The Colonel selected the ditty of Wapping Old Stairs' (a
ballad so sweet and touching that surely any English poet might
be proud to be the father of it); and he sang this quaint and
charming old song in an exceedingly pleasant voice, with flour-
ishes and roulades in the old Incledon manner, which has pretty
nearly passed away. The singer gave his heart and soul to the
simple ballad, and delivered Molly's gentle appeal so pathetically
that even the professional gentlemen hummed and buzzed a sin-
cere applause; and some wags who were inclined to jeer at the
beginning of the performance, clinked their glasses and rapped
their sticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the song
was over, Clive held up his head too; after the shock of the first
verse, looked round with surprise and pleasure in his eyes: and
we, I need not say, backed our friend, delighted to see him come
out of his queer scrape so triumphantly. The colonel bowed
and smiled with very pleasant good-nature at our plaudits. It
was like Dr. Primrose preaching his sermon in the prison. There
was something touching in the naïveté and kindness of the placid
and simple gentleman.
Great Hoskins, placed on high amid the tuneful choir, was
pleased to signify his approbation, and gave his guest's health in
his usual dignified manner. "I am much obliged to you, sir,"
said Mr. Hoskins; "the room ought to be much obliged to you,
I drink your 'ealth and song, sir;" and he bowed to the colonel
politely over his glass of brandy-and-water, of which he absorbed
a little in his customer's honor. "I have not heard that song,"
he was kind enough to say, "better performed since Mr. Incle-
don sung it. He was a great singer, sir, and I may say, in the
words of our immortal Shakespeare, that, 'take him for all in all,
we shall not look upon his like again. ""
The colonel blushed in his turn, and turning round to his
boy with an arch smile, said, "I learnt it from Incledon. I
used to slip out from Grey Friars to hear him, Heaven bless me,
forty years ago; and I used to be flogged afterward, and serve.
me right too. Lord! Lord! how the time passes! " He drank off
his sherry-and-water, and fell back in his chair: we could see
he was thinking about his youth-the golden time, the happy,
the bright, the unforgotten. I was myself nearly two-and-twenty
years of age at that period, and felt as old as,-ay, older than
the colonel.
## p. 14707 (#281) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14707
While he was singing his ballad, there had walked, or rather
reeled, into the room, a gentleman in a military frock-coat and
duck trousers of dubious hue, with whose name and person some
of my readers are perhaps already acquainted. In fact, it was
my friend Captain Costigan, in his usual condition at this hour.
of the night.
Holding on by various tables, the captain had sidled up,
without accident to himself or any of the jugs and glasses round
about him, to the table where we sat, and had taken his place
near the writer, his old acquaintance. He warbled the refrain of
the colonel's song, not inharmoniously; and saluted its pathetic
conclusion with a subdued hiccough, and a plentiful effusion of
tears. "Bedad it is a beautiful song," says he, "and many a
time I heard poor Harry Incledon sing it. "
"He's a great character," whispered that unlucky King of
Corpus to his neighbor the colonel; "was a captain in the army.
We call him the General. Captain Costigan, will you take some-
thing to drink? »
"Bedad I will," says the captain, “and I'll sing ye a song tu. ”
And having procured a glass of whisky-and-water from the
passing waiter, the poor old man-settling his face into a hor-
rid grin, and leering as he was wont when he gave what he called
one of his prime songs-began his music.
The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or
saying, selected one of the most outrageous performances of his
répertoire, fired off a tipsy howl by way of overture, and away
he went. At the end of the second verse the colonel started
up, clapping on his hat, seizing his stick, and looking as fero-
cious as though he had been going to do battle with a Pindaree.
"Silence! " he roared out.
"Hear, hear! " cried certain wags at a farther table. "Go on,
Costigan," said others.
"Go on! " cries the colonel in his high voice, trembling with
anger. "Does any gentleman say 'Go on'? Does any man who
has a wife and sisters, or children at home, say 'Go on' to such
disgusting ribaldry as this? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a
gentleman, and to say that you hold the king's commission, and
to sit down among Christians and men of honor, and defile the
ears of young boys with this wicked baiderdash! "
"Why do you bring young boys here, old boy! " cries a voice
of the malcontents.
## p. 14708 (#282) ##########################################
14708
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society of
gentlemen," cried out the indignant Colonel. "Because I never
could have believed that Englishmen could meet together and
allow a man, and an old man, so to disgrace himself. For shame,
you old wretch! Go home to your bed, you hoary old sinner!
And for my part, I'm not sorry that my son should see, for
once in his life, to what shame and degradation and dishonor,
drunkenness and whisky may bring a man. Never mind the
change, sir! curse the change! " says the colonel, facing the
amazed waiter: "keep it till you see me in this place again;
which will be never-by George, never! " And shouldering his
stick, and scowling round at the company of scared bacchanalians,
the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him.
Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the
company looked still more foolish.
"Aussi que diable venait-il faire dans cette galère? »* says
King of Corpus to Jones of Trinity: and Jones gave a shrug of
his shoulders which were smarting, perhaps; for that uplifted
cane of the colonel's had somehow fallen on the back of every
man in the room.
―――――
COLONEL NEWCOME'S DEATH.
From The Newcomes'
LIVE, and the boy sometimes with him, used to go daily to
Grey Friars, where the colonel still lay ill. After some
days the fever which had attacked him left him; but left
him so weak and enfeebled that he could only go from his bed
to the chair by his fireside. The season was exceedingly bitter;
the chamber which he inhabited was warm and spacious: it was
considered unadvisable to move him until he had attained greater
strength and till warmer weather. The medical men of the House
hoped he might rally in spring. My friend Dr. Goodenough.
came to him; he hoped too, but not with a hopeful face. A
chamber, luckily vacant, hard by the colonel's, was assigned to
his friends, where we sat when we were too many for him.
Besides his customary attendant, he had two dear and watchful
nurses, who were almost always with him,- Ethel, and Madame
de Florac who had passed many a faithful year by an old man's
*«But what the devil did he come to a place like this for? »
## p. 14709 (#283) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14709
bedside; who would have come, as to a work of religion, to any
sick couch, much more to this one, where he lay for whose life
she would once gladly have given her own.
But our colonel, we all were obliged to acknowledge, was no
more our friend of old days. He knew us again, and was good
to every one round him, as his wont was; especially, when Boy
came his old eyes lighted up with simple happiness, and with
eager trembling hands he would seek under his bedclothes, or
the pockets of his dressing-gown, for toys or cakes, which he
had caused to be purchased for his grandson. There was a little
laughing, red-cheeked, white-headed gown-boy of the school, to
whom the old man had taken a great fancy. One of the symp-
toms of his returning consciousness and recovery, as we hoped,
was his calling for this child, who pleased our friend by his arch-
ness and merry ways; and who, to the old gentleman's unfailing
delight, used to call him "Codd Colonel. " "Tell little F— that
Codd Colonel wants to see him;" and the little gown-boy was
brought to him: and the colonel would listen to him for hours,
and hear all about his lessons and his play; and prattle, almost
as childishly, about Dr. Raine and his own early school-days.
The boys of the school, it must be said, had heard the noble.
old gentleman's touching history, and had all got to know and
love him. They came every day to hear news of him; sent him
in books and papers to amuse him; and some benevolent young
souls God's blessing on all honest boys, say I-painted theat-
rical characters and sent them in to Codd Colonel's grandson.
The little fellow was made free of gown-boys, and once came
thence to his grandfather in a little gown, which delighted the
old man hugely. Boy said he would like to be a little gown-
boy; and I make no doubt, when he is old enough, his father will
get him that post, and put him under the tuition of my friend
Dr. Senior.
So weeks passed away, during which our dear old friend still
remained with us. His mind was gone at intervals, but would
rally feebly; and with his consciousness returned his love, his
simplicity, his sweetness. He would talk French with Madame
de Florac; at which time his memory appeared to awaken with
surprising vividness, his cheek flushed, and he was a youth again,
-
a youth all love and hope,—a stricken old man, with a beard
as white as snow covering the noble careworn face. At such
times he called her by her Christian name of Léonore; he
## p. 14710 (#284) ##########################################
14710
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
addressed courtly old words of regard and kindness to the aged
lady; anon he wandered in his talk, and spoke to her as if they
still were young. Now, as in those early days, his heart was
pure; no anger remained in it; no guile tainted it: only peace
and good-will dwelt in it.
Rosey's death had seemed to shock him for a while when
the unconscious little boy spoke of it. Before that circumstance,
Clive had even forborne to wear mourning, lest the news should
agitate his father. The colonel remained silent and was very
much disturbed all that day, but he never appeared to com-
prehend the fact quite; and once or twice afterward asked why
she did not come to see him? She was prevented, he supposed-
she was prevented, he said, with a look of terror; - he never
once otherwise alluded to that unlucky tyrant of his household
who had made his last years so unhappy.
The circumstance of Clive's legacy he never understood; but
more than once spoke of Barnes to Ethel, and sent his compli-
ments to him, and said he should like to shake him by the hand.
Barnes Newcome never once offered to touch that honored hand,
though his sister bore her uncle's message to him. They came
often from Bryanstone Square; Mrs. Hobson even offered to sit
with the colonel, and read to him, and brought him books for
his improvement. But her presence disturbed him; he cared not
for her books: the two nurses whom he loved faithfully watched
him; and my wife and I were admitted to him sometimes, both
of whom he honored with regard and recognition. As for F. B. ,
in order to be near his colonel, did not that good fellow take up
his lodgings in Cistercian Lane, at the Red Cow?
in conversation with the general of the division, his friend, and
had not seen this last parting. George went away then with the
bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there lay a note,
coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's eye caught
it at once: she had been used to deal with notes in early life. She
put out her hand and took the nosegay. He saw by her eyes as
they met, that she was aware what she should find there. Her
husband hurried her away, still too intent upon his own thoughts,
seemingly, to take note of any marks of recognition which might
pass between his friend and his wife. These were, however, but
trifling. Rebecca gave George her hand with one of her usual
quick knowing glances, and made a curtsy and walked away.
George bowed over the hand; said nothing in reply to a remark
of Crawley's,-did not hear it even, his brain was so throbbing
with triumph and excitement; and allowed them to go away
without a word.
## p. 14695 (#269) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14695
His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet scene. It
was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca's request to
get her her scarf and flowers,—it was no more than he had
done twenty times before in the course of the last few days; but
now it was too much for her. "William," she said, suddenly
clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, "you've always been very
kind to me: I'm-I'm not well. Take me home. " She did not
know she called him by his Christian name, as George was accus-
tomed to do. He went away with her quickly. Her lodgings
were hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without,
where everything seemed to be more astir than even in the ball-
room within.
George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife
up on his return from the parties which he frequented, so she
went straight to bed now; but although she did not sleep, and
although the din and clatter and the galloping of horsemen was
incessant, she never heard any of these noises, having quite other
disturbances to keep her awake.
Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play
table and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Every-
thing succeeds with me to-night," he said. But his luck at play
even did not cure him of his restlessness; and he started up after
a while, pocketing his winnings, and went off to a buffet, where
he drank off many bumpers of wine.
Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laughing
loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been
to the card tables to look there for his friend. Dobbin looked as
pale and grave as his comrade was flushed and jovial.
"Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The duke's wine
is famous. Give me
some more, you sir;" and he held out a
trembling glass for the liquor.
"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely: "don't drink. "
"Drink there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up
your lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you. "
Dobbin went up and whispered something to him; at which
George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass,
clapped it on the table, and walked away speedily on his friend's
arm. "The enemy has passed the Sambre," William said, "and
our left is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in
three hours. "
## p. 14696 (#270) ##########################################
14696
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at
the news so long looked for, so sudden when it came. What
were love and intrigue now? He thought about a thousand
things but these in his rapid walk to his quarters: his past life
and future chances- the fate which might be before him- the
wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be about
to part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone! and that
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the
tender and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!
-
He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks
he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and
reckless he had been! Should any mischance befall him, what
was then left for her? How unworthy he was of her! Why had
he married her? He was not fit for marriage. Why had he
disobeyed his father, who had been always so generous to him?
Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish regret filled his
heart. He sate down and wrote to his father, remembering what
he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight a duel.
Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell letter.
He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how
he had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kind-
nesses which the stern old man had done him.
He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she
lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that
she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters from the ball, he
had found his regimental servant already making preparations for
his departure: the man had understood his signal to be still, and
these arrangements were very quickly and silently made. Should
he go in and wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her
brother to break the news of departure to her? He went in to
look at her once again
She had been awake when he first entered her room, but
had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should
not seem to reproach him. But when he had returned, so soon
after herself, too,- this timid little heart had felt more at ease;
and turning towards him as he stept softly out of the room, she
had fallen into a light sleep. George came in and looked at her
again, entering still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could
see her sweet, pale face: the purple eyelids were fringed and
## p. 14697 (#271) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14697
closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside the
coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender,
and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with
crime! Heart-stained and shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's
foot and looked at the sleeping girl. How dared he- who was
he, to pray for one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her!
He came to the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft
hand, lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly
towards the gentle pale face.
Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped
down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said, with a sob fit
to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She
was awake, poor soul-and to what? At that moment a bugle
from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken
up through the town; and 'midst the drums of the infantry, and
the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.
All our friends took their share and fought like men in the
great field.
All day long, whilst the women were praying ten
miles away, the lines of the dauntless English infantry were
receiving and repelling the furious charges of the French horse-
men. Guns which were heard at Brussels were plowing up their
ranks, and comrades falling, and the resolute survivors closing
in. Towards evening the attack of the French, repeated and
resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury. They had other foes
besides the British to engage, or were preparing for a final on-
set. It came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard marched
up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the
English from the height which they had maintained all day;
and spite of all, unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which
hurled death from the English line, the dark rolling column.
pressed on and up the hill. It seemed almost to crest the emi-
nence, when it began to wave and falter. Then it stopped, still
facing the shot. Then at last the English troops rushed from
the post from which no enemy had been able to dislodge them,
and the Guard turned and fled.
No more firing was heard at Brussels-the pursuit rolled
miles away.
Darkness came down on the field and city: and
Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face,
dead, with a bullet through his heart.
## p. 14698 (#272) ##########################################
14698
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
BECKY ADMIRES HER HUSBAND
From Vanity Fair'
RA
AWDON [just let out of the debtors' prison] walked home
rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night. He ran across the
streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length
came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back
and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The
drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said
that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the
light from the rooms on his pale face.
He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He
could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball
dress in which he had been captured the night before. He went
silently up the stairs, leaning against the banisters at the stair-
head. Nobody was stirring in the house besides: all the servants
had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within- laughter
and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the
night before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava! " It was
Lord Steyne's.
Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a
dinner was laid out, and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging
over the sofa on which Becky sate. The wretched woman was in
a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her fingers sparkling
with bracelets and rings; and the brilliants on her breast which
Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing
over it to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as
she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next instant
she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome her husband;
and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in
his looks.
He too attempted a laugh-and came forward holding out
his hand. "What, come back! How d' ye do, Crawley? " he said,
the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin at the
intruder.
There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling
herself before him. "I am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before
God, I am innocent. " She clung hold of his coat, of his hands;
her own were all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles.
"I am innocent. - Say I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne.
## p. 14699 (#273) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14699
He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furi-
ous with the wife as with the husband. "You innocent, damn
you! " he screamed out. "You innocent! Why, every trinket
you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you
thousands of pounds which this fellow has spent, and for which
he has sold you. Innocent, by ! You're as innocent as your
mother the ballet-girl, and your husband the bully. Don't think
to frighten me as you have done others. Make way, sir, and let
me pass;" and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and with flame in
his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched
upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other would
give way.
But Rawdon Crawley, springing out, seized him by the neck-
cloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and bent under his
arm. "You lie, you dog! " said Rawdon. "You lie, you coward
and villain! " And he struck the peer twice over the face with
his open hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was
all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trem-
bling before him. She admired her husband, strong, brave, and
victorious.
"Come here," he said. She came up at once.
"Take off those things. " She began, trembling, pulling the
jewels from her arms and the rings from her shaking fingers,
and held them all in a heap, quivering and looking up at him.
"Throw them down," he said, and she dropped them. He tore
the diamond ornament out of her breast, and flung it at Lord
Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar
to his dying day.
"Come up-stairs," Rawdon said to his wife. "Don't kill
me, Rawdon," she said. — He laughed savagely. "I want to see
if that man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he
given you any? "
"No," said Rebecca; "that is->
"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they went out
together.
Rebecca gave him all the keys but one; and she was in hopes
that he would not have remarked the absence of that. It be-
longed to the little desk which Amelia had given her in early
days, and which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung
open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery
of their contents here and there, and at last he found the desk.
## p. 14700 (#274) ##########################################
14700
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The woman was forced to open it. It contained papers, love-
letters many years old-all sorts of small trinkets and woman's
memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with bank-notes.
Some of these were dated ten years back, too; and one was quite
a fresh one,—a note for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne
had given her.
"Did he give you this? " Rawdon said.
"Yes," Rebecca answered.
"I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said (for day had dawned
again, and many hours had passed in this search); "and I will
pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some of the debts.
You will let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You
might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this:
I have always shared with you. "
And he left her without an-
"I am innocent," said Becky.
other word.
What were her thoughts when he left her? She remained
for hours after he was gone, the sunshine pouring into the
room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the bed's edge. The drawers
were all opened and their contents scattered about,- dresses and
feathers, scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying
in a wreck. Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown
was torn where Rawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of it.
She heard him go down-stairs a few minutes after he left her,
and the door slamming and closing on him. She knew he would
never come back. He was gone forever. Would he kill himself?
she thought; - not until after he had met Lord Steyne. She
thought of her long past life, and all the dismal incidents of it.
Ah, how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely, and profitless!
Should she take laudanum and end it, too-have done with all
hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French maid found.
her in this position,- sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins.
with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman was her accom-
plice and in Steyne's pay. "Mon Dieu, madame, what has hap-
pened? " she asked.
What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She said not;
but who could tell what was truth which came from those lips;
or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure? All her lies and
her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and
genius had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the cur-
tains, and with some entreaty and show of kindness, persuaded
## p. 14701 (#275) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14701
her mistress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below and
gathered up the trinkets which had been lying on the floor since
Rebecca dropped them there at her husband's orders, and Lord
Steyne went away.
COLONEL NEWCOME IN THE CAVE OF HARMONY
From The Newcomes >
THE
HERE was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter
than it appears to do in this latter half of the nineteenth
century; when the zest of life was certainly keener; when
tavern wines seemed to be delicious, and tavern dinners the per-
fection of cookery; when the perusal of novels was productive of
immense delight, and the monthly advent of magazine-day was
hailed as an exciting holiday; when to know Thompson, who had
written a magazine article, was an honor and a privilege, and to
see Brown, the author of the last romance, in the flesh, and act-
ually walking in the Park with his umbrella and Mrs. Brown, was
an event remarkable, and to the end of life to be perfectly well
remembered; when the women of this world were a thousand
times more beautiful than those of the present time, and the
houris of the theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, that to
see them was to set the heart in motion, and to see them again
was to struggle for half an hour previously at the door of the
pit; when tailors called at a man's lodgings to dazzle him with
cards of fancy waistcoats; when it seemed necessary to purchase
a grand silver dressing-case, so as to be ready for the beard
which was not yet born (as yearling brides provide lace caps, and
work rich clothes, for the expected darling); when to ride in the
Park on a ten-shilling hack seemed to be the height of fashion-
able enjoyment, and to splash your college tutor as you were
driving down Regent Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire;
when the acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of Trinity
at the Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with
King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin
of Trinity Hall (who was with his family in Bloomsbury Square)
to dine at the Piazza, go to the play and see Braham in 'Fra
Diavolo,' and end the frolic evening by partaking of supper and
a song at the Cave of Harmony. It was in the days of my own
## p. 14702 (#276) ##########################################
14702
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
youth then that I met one or two of the characters who are to
figure in this history; and whom I must ask leave to accompany
for a short while, and until, familiarized with the public, they
can make their own way. As I recall them the roses bloom
again, and the nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer.
Going to the play then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in
those merry days, with some young fellows of my own age;
having listened delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of
operas, and laughed enthusiastically at the farce, we became nat-
urally hungry at twelve o'clock at night, and a desire for Welsh
rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the Cave of Harmony,
then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, among whose friends we
were proud to count.
We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never
failed to greet us with a kind nod; and John, the waiter, made
room for us near the president of the convivial meeting. We
knew the three admirable glee-singers, and many a time they
partook of brandy-and-water at our expense. One of us gave his
call dinner at Hoskins's, and a merry time we had of it. Where
are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night! Do you warble your
songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black
Avernus?
The goes of stout, The Chough and Crow,' the Welsh rabbit,
the 'Red-Cross Knight,' the hot brandy-and-water, (the brown,
the strong! ) the Bloom is on the Rye,' (the bloom isn't on the
rye any more! )-the song and the cup, in a word, passed round
merrily, and I daresay the songs and bumpers were encored. It
happened that there was a very small attendance at the Cave that
night, and we were all more sociable and friendly because the
company was select. The songs were chiefly of the sentimental
class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I
speak.
There came into the Cave a gentleman with a lean brown face
and long black mustaches, dressed in very loose clothes, and evi-
dently a stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for
a long time. He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in
his company; and calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the
music, and twirled his mustaches with great enthusiasm.
At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the
table, bounded across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and
blushing, said, "Don't you know me? "
## p. 14703 (#277) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14703
It was little Newcome, my schoolfellow, whom I had not seen
for six years; grown a fine, tall young stripling now, with the
same bright blue eyes which I remembered when he was quite a
little boy.
"What the deuce brings you here? " said I.
He laughed, and looked roguish. "My father- that's my
father would come. He's just come back from India. He says
all the wits used to come here,- Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris,
Colonel Hanger, Professor Porson. I told him your name, and
that you used to be very kind to me when I first went to Smith-
field. I've left now; I'm to have a private tutor. I say, I've
got such a jolly pony! It's better fun than old Smiffle. "
Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, pointing to
a waiter to follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode
across the room, twirling his mustaches, and came up to the
table where we sat, making a salutation with his hat in a very
stately and polite manner, so that Hoskins himself was, as it
were, obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured among them-
selves (their eyes rolling over their glasses toward one another as
they sucked brandy-and-water); and that mischievous little wag,
little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just come in), began to
mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers after the manner of
the stranger, and flapping about his pocket handkerchief in the
most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by sternly
looking toward Nadab; and at the same time called upon the
gents to give their orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr.
Bellew about to sing a song.
Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me. I
daresay I blushed; for I had been comparing him to the admi-
rable Harley in 'The Critic,' and had christened him Don Ferolo
Whiskerandos.
―
He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant; and with
a cordiality so simple and sincere that my laughter shrank away
ashamed, and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and
friendly. In youth, you see, one is touched by kindness. A man
of the world may of course be grateful or not, as he chooses.
"I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, "to my boy.
And whoever is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me
to sit down by you? and may I beg you to try my cheroots? "
We were friends in a minute-young Newcome snuggling by my
side, his father opposite,- to whom, after a minute or two of
conversation, I presented my three college friends.
## p. 14704 (#278) ##########################################
14704
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says the
colonel. "Are there any celebrated persons in the room? I have
been five-and-thirty years from home, and want to see all that is
to be seen. "
King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was on the
point of pulling some dreadful long-bow, and pointing out a half-
dozen of people in the room as R and H and L———,
etc. , the most celebrated wits of that day; but I cut King's shins
under the table, and got the fellow to hold his tongue.
"Maxima debetur pueris," says Jones (a fellow of very kind
feeling, who has gone into the Church since); and writing on
his card to Hoskins, hinted to him that a boy was in the room,
and a gentleman who was quite a greenhorn, hence that the songs
had better be carefully selected.
And so they were. A lady's school might have come in, and
but for the smell of the cigars and brandy-and-water have taken
no harm by what happened. Why should it not always be so?
If there are any Caves of Harmony now, I warrant Messieurs
the landlords their interests would be better consulted by keeping
their singers within bounds. The very greatest scamps like pretty
songs, and are melted by them; so are honest people. It was
worth a guinea to see the simple colonel, and his delight at the
music. He forgot all about the distinguished wits whom he had
expected to see, in his ravishment over the glees.
"I say, Clive, this is delightful. This is better than your
aunt's concert with all the Squallinis, hey? I shall come here
often. Landlord, may I venture to ask those gentlemen if they
will take any refreshments? What are their names? " (to one
of his neighbors) "I was scarcely allowed to hear any singing
before I went out, except an oratorio, where I fell asleep; but
this, by George, is as fine as Incledon! " He became quite excited
over his sherry-and-water: "I'm sorry to see you, gentlemen,
drinking brandy-pawnee," says he. "It plays the deuce with
our young men in India. " He joined in all the choruses with
an exceedingly sweet voice. He laughed at the Derby Ram so
that it did one good to hear him; and when Hoskins sang (as
he did admirably) the 'Old English Gentleman,' and described
in measured cadence the death of that venerable aristocrat, tears
trickled down the honest warrior's cheek, while he held out his
hand to Hoskins and said, "Thank you, sir, for that song: it is
an honor to human nature. " On which Hoskins began to cry
too.
―――――――
## p. 14705 (#279) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14705
And now young Nadab, having been cautioned, commenced
one of those surprising feats of improvisation with which he
used to charm audiences. He took us all off, and had rhymes
pat about all the principal persons in the room: King's pins
(which he wore very splendidly), Martin's red waistcoat, etc. The
colonel was charmed with each feat, and joined delighted with
the chorus-Ritolderolritolderol ritolderolderay (bis). And when,
coming to the colonel himself, he burst out,-
A military gent I see - and while his face I scan,
I think you'll all agree with me he came from Hindostan :
And by his side sits laughing free- a youth with curly head;
I think you'll all agree with me- that he was best in bed.
Ritolderol, etc. ,-
-
-
―――――
the colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped his
son, young Clive, on the shoulder. "Hear what he says of you,
sir? Clive, best be off to bed, my boy-ho, ho! No, no. We
know a trick worth two of that. 'We won't go home till morn-
ing, till daylight does appear. ' Why should we? Why shouldn't
my boy have innocent pleasure? I was allowed none when I
was a young chap, and the severity was nearly the ruin of me.
I must go and speak with that young man -the most astonishing
thing I ever heard in my life. What's his name? Mr. Nadab?
Mr. Nadab, sir, you have delighted me. May I make so free as
to ask you to come and dine with me to-morrow at six. Colonel
Newcome, if you please, Nerot's Hotel, Clifford Street.
I am
always proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, and
you are one, or my name is not Newcome. "
"Sir, you do me Hhonor," says Mr. Nadab, pulling up his shirt
collar, "and perhaps the day will come when the world will do
me justice: may I put down your hhonored name for my book
of poems? "
"Of course, my dear sir," says the enthusiastic colonel: "I'll
send them all over India. Put me down for six copies, and do
me the favor to bring them to-morrow when you come to din-
ner. "
And now, Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volun-
teer a song, what was our amazement when the simple Colonel
offered to sing himself, at which the room applauded vociferously;
while methought poor Clive Newcome hung down his head and
blushed as red as a peony. I felt for the young lad; and thought
what my own sensations would have been, if in that place, my
XXV-920
## p. 14706 (#280) ##########################################
14706
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
own uncle, Major Pendennis, had suddenly proposed to exert his
lyrical powers.
The Colonel selected the ditty of Wapping Old Stairs' (a
ballad so sweet and touching that surely any English poet might
be proud to be the father of it); and he sang this quaint and
charming old song in an exceedingly pleasant voice, with flour-
ishes and roulades in the old Incledon manner, which has pretty
nearly passed away. The singer gave his heart and soul to the
simple ballad, and delivered Molly's gentle appeal so pathetically
that even the professional gentlemen hummed and buzzed a sin-
cere applause; and some wags who were inclined to jeer at the
beginning of the performance, clinked their glasses and rapped
their sticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the song
was over, Clive held up his head too; after the shock of the first
verse, looked round with surprise and pleasure in his eyes: and
we, I need not say, backed our friend, delighted to see him come
out of his queer scrape so triumphantly. The colonel bowed
and smiled with very pleasant good-nature at our plaudits. It
was like Dr. Primrose preaching his sermon in the prison. There
was something touching in the naïveté and kindness of the placid
and simple gentleman.
Great Hoskins, placed on high amid the tuneful choir, was
pleased to signify his approbation, and gave his guest's health in
his usual dignified manner. "I am much obliged to you, sir,"
said Mr. Hoskins; "the room ought to be much obliged to you,
I drink your 'ealth and song, sir;" and he bowed to the colonel
politely over his glass of brandy-and-water, of which he absorbed
a little in his customer's honor. "I have not heard that song,"
he was kind enough to say, "better performed since Mr. Incle-
don sung it. He was a great singer, sir, and I may say, in the
words of our immortal Shakespeare, that, 'take him for all in all,
we shall not look upon his like again. ""
The colonel blushed in his turn, and turning round to his
boy with an arch smile, said, "I learnt it from Incledon. I
used to slip out from Grey Friars to hear him, Heaven bless me,
forty years ago; and I used to be flogged afterward, and serve.
me right too. Lord! Lord! how the time passes! " He drank off
his sherry-and-water, and fell back in his chair: we could see
he was thinking about his youth-the golden time, the happy,
the bright, the unforgotten. I was myself nearly two-and-twenty
years of age at that period, and felt as old as,-ay, older than
the colonel.
## p. 14707 (#281) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14707
While he was singing his ballad, there had walked, or rather
reeled, into the room, a gentleman in a military frock-coat and
duck trousers of dubious hue, with whose name and person some
of my readers are perhaps already acquainted. In fact, it was
my friend Captain Costigan, in his usual condition at this hour.
of the night.
Holding on by various tables, the captain had sidled up,
without accident to himself or any of the jugs and glasses round
about him, to the table where we sat, and had taken his place
near the writer, his old acquaintance. He warbled the refrain of
the colonel's song, not inharmoniously; and saluted its pathetic
conclusion with a subdued hiccough, and a plentiful effusion of
tears. "Bedad it is a beautiful song," says he, "and many a
time I heard poor Harry Incledon sing it. "
"He's a great character," whispered that unlucky King of
Corpus to his neighbor the colonel; "was a captain in the army.
We call him the General. Captain Costigan, will you take some-
thing to drink? »
"Bedad I will," says the captain, “and I'll sing ye a song tu. ”
And having procured a glass of whisky-and-water from the
passing waiter, the poor old man-settling his face into a hor-
rid grin, and leering as he was wont when he gave what he called
one of his prime songs-began his music.
The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or
saying, selected one of the most outrageous performances of his
répertoire, fired off a tipsy howl by way of overture, and away
he went. At the end of the second verse the colonel started
up, clapping on his hat, seizing his stick, and looking as fero-
cious as though he had been going to do battle with a Pindaree.
"Silence! " he roared out.
"Hear, hear! " cried certain wags at a farther table. "Go on,
Costigan," said others.
"Go on! " cries the colonel in his high voice, trembling with
anger. "Does any gentleman say 'Go on'? Does any man who
has a wife and sisters, or children at home, say 'Go on' to such
disgusting ribaldry as this? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a
gentleman, and to say that you hold the king's commission, and
to sit down among Christians and men of honor, and defile the
ears of young boys with this wicked baiderdash! "
"Why do you bring young boys here, old boy! " cries a voice
of the malcontents.
## p. 14708 (#282) ##########################################
14708
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society of
gentlemen," cried out the indignant Colonel. "Because I never
could have believed that Englishmen could meet together and
allow a man, and an old man, so to disgrace himself. For shame,
you old wretch! Go home to your bed, you hoary old sinner!
And for my part, I'm not sorry that my son should see, for
once in his life, to what shame and degradation and dishonor,
drunkenness and whisky may bring a man. Never mind the
change, sir! curse the change! " says the colonel, facing the
amazed waiter: "keep it till you see me in this place again;
which will be never-by George, never! " And shouldering his
stick, and scowling round at the company of scared bacchanalians,
the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him.
Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the
company looked still more foolish.
"Aussi que diable venait-il faire dans cette galère? »* says
King of Corpus to Jones of Trinity: and Jones gave a shrug of
his shoulders which were smarting, perhaps; for that uplifted
cane of the colonel's had somehow fallen on the back of every
man in the room.
―――――
COLONEL NEWCOME'S DEATH.
From The Newcomes'
LIVE, and the boy sometimes with him, used to go daily to
Grey Friars, where the colonel still lay ill. After some
days the fever which had attacked him left him; but left
him so weak and enfeebled that he could only go from his bed
to the chair by his fireside. The season was exceedingly bitter;
the chamber which he inhabited was warm and spacious: it was
considered unadvisable to move him until he had attained greater
strength and till warmer weather. The medical men of the House
hoped he might rally in spring. My friend Dr. Goodenough.
came to him; he hoped too, but not with a hopeful face. A
chamber, luckily vacant, hard by the colonel's, was assigned to
his friends, where we sat when we were too many for him.
Besides his customary attendant, he had two dear and watchful
nurses, who were almost always with him,- Ethel, and Madame
de Florac who had passed many a faithful year by an old man's
*«But what the devil did he come to a place like this for? »
## p. 14709 (#283) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14709
bedside; who would have come, as to a work of religion, to any
sick couch, much more to this one, where he lay for whose life
she would once gladly have given her own.
But our colonel, we all were obliged to acknowledge, was no
more our friend of old days. He knew us again, and was good
to every one round him, as his wont was; especially, when Boy
came his old eyes lighted up with simple happiness, and with
eager trembling hands he would seek under his bedclothes, or
the pockets of his dressing-gown, for toys or cakes, which he
had caused to be purchased for his grandson. There was a little
laughing, red-cheeked, white-headed gown-boy of the school, to
whom the old man had taken a great fancy. One of the symp-
toms of his returning consciousness and recovery, as we hoped,
was his calling for this child, who pleased our friend by his arch-
ness and merry ways; and who, to the old gentleman's unfailing
delight, used to call him "Codd Colonel. " "Tell little F— that
Codd Colonel wants to see him;" and the little gown-boy was
brought to him: and the colonel would listen to him for hours,
and hear all about his lessons and his play; and prattle, almost
as childishly, about Dr. Raine and his own early school-days.
The boys of the school, it must be said, had heard the noble.
old gentleman's touching history, and had all got to know and
love him. They came every day to hear news of him; sent him
in books and papers to amuse him; and some benevolent young
souls God's blessing on all honest boys, say I-painted theat-
rical characters and sent them in to Codd Colonel's grandson.
The little fellow was made free of gown-boys, and once came
thence to his grandfather in a little gown, which delighted the
old man hugely. Boy said he would like to be a little gown-
boy; and I make no doubt, when he is old enough, his father will
get him that post, and put him under the tuition of my friend
Dr. Senior.
So weeks passed away, during which our dear old friend still
remained with us. His mind was gone at intervals, but would
rally feebly; and with his consciousness returned his love, his
simplicity, his sweetness. He would talk French with Madame
de Florac; at which time his memory appeared to awaken with
surprising vividness, his cheek flushed, and he was a youth again,
-
a youth all love and hope,—a stricken old man, with a beard
as white as snow covering the noble careworn face. At such
times he called her by her Christian name of Léonore; he
## p. 14710 (#284) ##########################################
14710
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
addressed courtly old words of regard and kindness to the aged
lady; anon he wandered in his talk, and spoke to her as if they
still were young. Now, as in those early days, his heart was
pure; no anger remained in it; no guile tainted it: only peace
and good-will dwelt in it.
Rosey's death had seemed to shock him for a while when
the unconscious little boy spoke of it. Before that circumstance,
Clive had even forborne to wear mourning, lest the news should
agitate his father. The colonel remained silent and was very
much disturbed all that day, but he never appeared to com-
prehend the fact quite; and once or twice afterward asked why
she did not come to see him? She was prevented, he supposed-
she was prevented, he said, with a look of terror; - he never
once otherwise alluded to that unlucky tyrant of his household
who had made his last years so unhappy.
The circumstance of Clive's legacy he never understood; but
more than once spoke of Barnes to Ethel, and sent his compli-
ments to him, and said he should like to shake him by the hand.
Barnes Newcome never once offered to touch that honored hand,
though his sister bore her uncle's message to him. They came
often from Bryanstone Square; Mrs. Hobson even offered to sit
with the colonel, and read to him, and brought him books for
his improvement. But her presence disturbed him; he cared not
for her books: the two nurses whom he loved faithfully watched
him; and my wife and I were admitted to him sometimes, both
of whom he honored with regard and recognition. As for F. B. ,
in order to be near his colonel, did not that good fellow take up
his lodgings in Cistercian Lane, at the Red Cow?
