The Newcomes | Page 5

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
honest 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 naturally 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 mustachios, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently 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
mustachios 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?"
It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, 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 Smithfield. 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 Smile."
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 mustachios, and came up to the table where we sate,
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 themselves (their eyes rolling over their glasses
towards 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 towards 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 dare say I
blushed, for I had been comparing him to the admirable 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