The Newcomes | Page 7

six copies, and do me the favour to
bring them to-morrow when you come to dinner."
And now Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volunteer a song,
what was our amazement when the simple Colonel offered to sing
himself, at which the room applauded vociferously; whilst 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 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 flourishes 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 sincere 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 naivete
and kindness of the placid and simple gentleman.
Great Hoskins, placed on high, amidst 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," says 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
honour. "I have not heard that song," he was kind enough to say, "better
performed since Mr. Incledon sung it. He was a great singer, sir, and I
may say, in the words of our immortal Shakspeare, 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 afterwards, 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.
Whilst 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
hiccup 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
neighbour the Colonel; "was a Captain in the army. We call him the
General. Captain Costigan, will you take something 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 horrid 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 repertoire,
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