The Newcomes

The Newcomes

William Makepeace Thackeray

The Overture—After which the Curtain rises upon a Drinking Chorus

A crow, who had flown away with a cheese from a dairy-window, sate perched on a tree looking down at a great big frog in a pool underneath him. The frog’s hideous large eyes were goggling out of his head in a manner which appeared quite ridiculous to the old blackamoor, who

watched the splay-footed slimy wretch with that peculiar grim humour belonging to crows. Not far from the frog a fat ox was browsing; whilst a few lambs frisked about the meadow, or nibbled the grass and

buttercups there.

Who should come in to the farther end of the field but a wolf? He was so cunningly dressed up in sheep’s clothing, that the very lambs did not know Master Wolf; nay, one of them, whose dam the wolf had just eaten, after which he had thrown her skin over his shoulders, ran up

innocently towards the devouring monster, mistaking him for her mamma.

“He, he!” says a fox, sneaking round the hedge-paling, over which the

tree grew, whereupon the crow was perched looking down on the frog, who was staring with his goggle eyes fit to burst with envy, and croaking abuse at the ox. “How absurd those lambs are! Yonder silly little knock-kneed baah-ling does not know the old wolf dressed in the sheep’s

fleece. He is the same old rogue who gobbled up little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother for lunch, and swallowed little Red Riding Hood for

supper. _Tirez la bobinette et la chevillette cherra_. He, he!”

An owl that was hidden in the hollow of the tree woke up. “Oho, Master Fox,” says she, “I cannot see you, but I smell you! If some folks like

lambs, other folks like geese,” says the owl.

“And your ladyship is fond of mice,” says the fox.

“The Chinese eat them,” says the owl, “and I have read that they are

very fond of dogs,” continued the old lady.

“I wish they would exterminate every cur of them off the face of the

earth,” said the fox.

“And I have also read, in works of travel, that the French eat frogs,”

continued the owl. “Aha, my friend Crapaud! are you there? That was a

very pretty concert we sang together last night!”

“If the French devour my brethren, the English eat beef,” croaked out

the frog,—“great, big, brutal, bellowing oxen.”

“Ho, whoo!” says the owl, “I have heard that the English are

toad-eaters too!”

“But who ever heard of them eating an owl or a fox, madam?” says

Reynard, “or their sitting down and taking a crow to pick?” adds the polite rogue, with a bow to the old crow who was perched above them with the cheese in his mouth. “We are privileged animals, all of us; at

least, we never furnish dishes for the odious orgies of man.”

“I am the bird of wisdom,” says the owl; “I was the companion of Pallas

Minerva: I am frequently represented in the Egyptian monuments.”

“I have seen you over the British barn-doors,” said the fox, with a

grin. “You have a deal of scholarship, Mrs. Owl. I know a thing or two myself; but am, I confess it, no scholar—a mere man of the world—a

fellow that lives by his wits—a mere country gentleman.”

“You sneer at scholarship,” continues the owl, with a sneer on her

venerable face. “I read a good deal of a night.”

“When I am engaged deciphering the cocks and hens at roost,” says the

fox.

“It’s a pity for all that you can’t read; that board nailed over my

head would give you some information.”

“What does it say?” says the fox.

“I can’t spell in the daylight,” answered the owl; and, giving a yawn,

went back to sleep till evening in the hollow of her tree.

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 Newcome snuggling by my side, his father opposite, to whom, after a

minute or two of conversation, I presented my three college friends.

“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 halfdozen 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,