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gentleman of Cambridge who had lately published two volumes of verses, might take rank with the greatest poets of all. Doctor Johnson not write English! Lord Byron not one of the greatest poets of the world! Sir Walter a poet of the second order! Mr. Pope attacked for inferiority and want of imagination; Mr. Keats and this young Mr. Tennyson of Cambridge, the chief of modern poetic literature ! What were these new dicta, which Mr. Warrington delivered with a puff of tobacco-smoke; to which Mr. Honeyman blandly assented, and Clive listened with pleasure? Such opinions were not of the Colonel's time. He tried in vain to construe “ Enone," and to make sense of “Lamia.” Ulysses he could understand; but what were these prodigious laudations bestowed on it? And that reverence for Mr. Wordsworth, what did it mean? Had he not written “ Peter Bell," and been turned into deserved ridicule by all the reviews ? Was that dreary “ Excursion" to be compared to Goldsmith's “ Traveller," or Doctor Johnson's "Imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal ?" If the young men told the truth, where had been the truth in his own young days, and in what ignorance had our forefathers been brought up? Mr. Addison was only an elegant essayist and shallow trifler! All these opinions were openly uttered over the Colonel's claret, as he and Mr. Binnie sat wondering at the speakers, who were knocking the gods of their youth about their ears. To Binnie the shock was not so great; the hard-headed Scotchman had read Hume in his college days, and sneered at some of the gods even at that early time. But with Newcome, the admiration for the literature of the last century was an article of belief, and the incredulity of the young men seemed rank blasphemy. “You will be sneering at Shakspeare next," he said : and was silenced, though not better pleased, when his youthful guests told him, that Dr. Goldsmith sneered at him too; that Dr. Johnson did not understand him; and that Congreve, in his own day and afterwards, was considered to be, in some points, Shakspeare's superior. " What do you think a man's criticism is worth, sir," cries Mr. Warrington, “who says those lines of Mr. Congreve about a church

• How reverend is the face of yon tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its vast and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made stedfast and immovable;
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight'-et cætera-

what do you think of a critic who says those lines are finer than anything Shakspeare ever wrote?” A dim consciousness of danger for Clive, a terror that his son had got into the society of heretics and unbelievers, came over the Colonel; and then presently, as was the wont with his modest soul, a gentle sense of humility. He was in the wrong, perhaps, and these younger men were right. Who was he, to set up his judgment against men of letters, educated at College ? It was better that Clive should follow them than him, who had had but a brief schooling, and that neglected, and who had not the original genius of his son's brilliant companions. We particularise these talks, and the little incidental mortifications which one of the best of men endured, not because the conversations are worth the remembering or recording, but because they presently very materially influenced his own and his son's future history.

In the midst of the artists and their talk the poor Colonel was equally in the dark. They assaulted this academician and that; laughed at Mr. Haydon, or sneered at Mr. Eastlake, or the contrary ; deified Mr. Turner on one side of the table, and on the other scorned him as a madman ; nor could Newcome comprehend a word of their jargon. Some sense there must be in their conversation : Clive joined eagerly in it and took one side or another. But what was all this rapture about a snuffy brown picture called Titian, this delight in three flabby nymphs by Rubens, and so forth ? As for the vaunted Antique, and the Elgin marbles-it might be that that battered torso was a miracle, and that broken-nosed bust a perfect beauty. He tried and tried to see that they were. He went away privily and worked at the National Gallery with a catalogue, and passed hours in the Museum before the ancient statues, desperately praying to comprehend them, and puzzled before them as he remembered he was puzzled before the Greek rudiments, as a child, when he cried over ó, kai ý đandrs, kai å noés. Whereas, when Clive came to look at these same things, his eyes would lighten up with pleasure, and his cheeks flush with enthusiasm. He seemed to drink in colour as he would a feast of wine. Before the statues he would wave his finger, following the line of grace, and burst into ejaculations of delight and admiration. “Why can't I love the things which he loves ?” thought Newcome ; " why am I blind to the beauties which he admires so much; and am I unable to comprehend what he evidently understands at his young age ?”

So, as he thought what vain egotistical hopes he used to form about the boy when he was away in India-how in his plans for the happy future, Clive was to be always at his side ; how they were to read, work, play, think, be merry togetherma sickening and humiiiating sense of the reality came over him, and he sadly contrasted it with the former fond anticipations. Together they were, yet he was alone still. His thoughts were not the boy's, and his affections rewarded but with a part of the young man's heart. Very likely other lovers have suffered equally. Many a man and woman have been incensed and worshipped, and have shown no more feeling than is to be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in St. Peter's, of which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits, and will sit eternally, prim and cold. As the young man grew, it seemed to the father as if each day separated them more and more. He himself became more melancholy and silent. His friend the Civilian marked the ennui, and commented on it in his laughing way. Sometimes he announced to the club that Tom Newcome was in love; then he thought it was not Tom's heart but his liver that was affected, and recommended blue pill. O thou fond fool! who art thou, to know any man's heart save thine alone? Wherefore were wings made and do feathers grow, but that birds should fly? The instinct that bids you love your nest, leads the young ones to seek a tree and a mate of their own. As if Thomas Newcome, by poring over poems or pictures ever so much, could read them with Clive's eyes !-as if by sitting mum over his wine, but watching till the lad came home with his. latch-key (when the Colonel crept back to his own room in his stockings), by prodigal bounties, by stealthy affection, by any schemes or prayers, he could hope to remain first in his son's heart!

One day going into Clive's study, where the lad was so deeply engaged that he did not hear the father's steps advancing, Thomas Newcome found his son, pencil in hand, poring over a paper, which, blushing, he thrust hastily into his breast-pocket, as soon as he saw his visitor. The father was deeply smitten and mortified. “I-I am sorry you have any secrets from me, Clive," he gasped out at length.

The boy's face lighted up with humour. “Here it is, father, if you would like to see :"_and he pulled out a paper which contained neither more nor less than a copy of very flowery verses about a certain young lady, who had succeeded (after I know not how many predecessors) to the place of prima donna assoluta in Clive's heart. And be pleased, madam, not to be too eager with your censure, and fancy that Mr. Clive or his Chronicler would insinuate anything wrong. I daresay you felt a flame or two before you were married yourself; and that the Captain or the Curate, and the interesting young foreigner with whom you danced, caused your heart to beat, before you bestowed that treasure on Mr. Candour. Clive was doing no more than your own son will do when he is eighteen or nineteen years old himself-if he is a lad of any spirit, and a worthy son of so charming a lady as yourself.

CHAPTER XXII.

DESCRIBES A VISIT TO PARIS; WITH ACCIDENTS AND INCIDENTS

IN LONDON.

TR. CLIVE, as we have said, had now begun to make acquaintIV ances of his own; and the chimney-glass in his study was decorated with such a number of cards of invitation, as made his ex-fellow student of Gandish's, young Moss, when admitted into that sanctum, stare with respectful astonishment. “ Lady Bary Rowe at obe," the young Hebrew read out; “ Lady Baughton at obe, dadsig! By eyes! what a tip-top swell you're a gettid to be, Newcome! I guess this is a different sort of business to the hops at old Levison's, where you first learned the polka; and where we had to pay a shilling a glass for negus!”

We had to pay! You never paid anything, Moss," cries Clive, laughing; and indeed the negus imbibed by Mr. Moss did not cost that prudent young fellow a penny.

“Well, well; I suppose at these swell parties you ’ave as buch champade as ever you like," continues Moss. “Lady Kicklebury at obe-small early party. Why, I declare you know the whole peerage ? I say, if any of these swells want a little tip-top lace, a real bargain, or diamonds, you know, you might put in a word for us, and do us a good turn."

“Give me some of your cards," says Clive; “ I can distribute them about at the balls I go to. But you must treat my friends better than you serve me. Those cigars which you sent me were abominable, Moss; the groom in the stable won't smoke them."

“What á regular swell that Newcome has become!” says Mr. Moss to an old companion, another of Clive's fellow-students: “I saw him riding in the Park with the Earl of Kew, and Captain Belsize, and a whole lot of 'em-I know 'em all-and he'd hardly nod to me. I'll have a horse next Sunday, and then I'll see whether he'll cut me or not. Confound his airs ! For all he's such a count, I know he's got an aunt who lets lodgings at Brighton, and an uncle who'll be preaching in the Bench if he don't keep a precious good look-out.”

“Newcome is not a bit of a count," answers Moss's companion, indignantly. “He don't care a straw whether a fellow's poor or rich; and he comes up to my room just as willingly as he would go to a Duke's. He is always trying to do a friend a good turn. He draws. the figure capitally: he looks proud, but he isn't, and is the bestnatured fellow I ever saw."

“He ain't been in our place this eighteen months," says Mr. Moss. “ I know that.”

“ Because when he came you were always screwing him with some bargain or other," cried the intrepid Hicks, Mr. Moss's companion for the moment. “He said he couldn't afford to know you: you never let him out of your house without a pin, or a box of eau-de-Cologne, or a bundle of cigars. And when you cut the arts for the shop, how were you and Newcome to go on together, I should like to know ?"

“I know a relative of his who comes to our 'ouse every three months, to renew a little bill,” says Mr. Moss, with a grin:“ and I know this, if I go to the Earl of Kew in the Albany, or the Honourable Captain Belsize, Knightsbridge Barracks, they let me in soon enough. I'm told his father ain't got much money."

" How the deuce should I know? or what do I care?" cries the young artist, stamping the heel of his blucher on the pavement. “When I was sick in that confounded Clipstone Street, I know the Colonel came to see me, and Newcome too, day after day, and night after night. And when I was getting well, they sent me wine and jelly, and all sorts of jolly things. I should like to know how often you came to see me, Moss, and what you did for a fellow ?"

“Well, I kep' away because I thought you wouldn't like to be reminded of that two pound three you owe me, Hicks; that's why I kep away," says Mr. Moss, who, I daresay, was good-natured too. And when young Moss appeared at the billiard-room that night, it wasevident that Hicks had told the story; for the Wardour Street youth was saluted with a roar of queries, "How about that two pound three that Hicks owes you ?”

The artless conversation of the two youths will enable us to understand how our hero's life was speeding. Connected in one way or another with persons in all ranks, it never entered his head to be ashamed of the profession which he had chosen. People in the great world did not in the least trouble themselves regarding him, or care to know whether Mr. Clive Newcome followed painting or any other pursuit; and though Clive saw many of his schoolfellows in the world, these entering into the army, others talking with delight of college, and its pleasures or studies; yet, having made up his mind that art was his calling, he refused to quit her for any other mistress, and plied his easel very stoutly. He passed through the course of study prescribed by Mr. Gandish, and drew every cast and statue in that gentleman's studio. Grindley, his tutor, getting a curacy, Clive didi

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