“And Kew’s too—famous likeness! I say, Newcome, if you have ’em printed the whole brigade’ll subscribe. Make your fortune, see if you won’t,” cries Toppleton.
“He’s such a heavy swell, he don’t want to make his fortune,” ejaculates Butts.
“Butts, old boy, he’ll paint you for nothing, and send you to the Exhibition, where some widow will fall in love with you, and you shall be put as frontispiece for the ‘Book of Beauty,’ by Jove,” cries another military satirist—to whom Butts:
“You hold your tongue, you old Saracen’s Head; they’re going to have you done on the bear’s-grease pots. I say, I suppose Jack’s all right now. When did he write to you last, Cracky?”
“He wrote from Palermo—a most jolly letter from him and Kew. He hasn’t touched a card for nine months; is going to give up play. So is Frank, too, grown quite a good boy. So will you, too, Butts, you old miscreant, repent of your sins, pay your debts, and do something handsome for that poor deluded milliner in Albany Street. Jack says Kew’s mother has written over to Lord Highgate a beautiful letter—and the old boy’s relenting, and they’ll come together again—Jack’s eldest son now, you know. Bore for Lady Susan only having girls.”
“Not a bore for Jack, though,” cries another. And what a good fellow Jack was; and what a trump Kew is; how famously he stuck by him: went to see him in prison and paid him out! and what good fellows we all are, in general, became the subject of the conversation, the latter part of which took place in the smoking-room of the Regent’s Park Barracks, then occupied by that regiment of Life Guards of which Lord Kew and Mr. Belsize had been members. Both were still fondly remembered by their companions; and it was because Belsize had spoken very warmly of Clive’s friendliness to him that Jack’s friend the gallant Crackthorpe had been interested in our hero, and found an opportunity of making his acquaintance.
With these frank and pleasant young men Clive soon formed a considerable intimacy: and if any of his older and peaceful friends chanced to take their afternoon airing in the Park, and survey the horsemen there, we might have the pleasure of beholding Mr. Newcome in Rotten Row, riding side by side with other dandies who had mustachios blonde or jet, who wore flowers in their buttons (themselves being flowers of spring), who rode magnificent thoroughbred horses, scarcely touching their stirrups with the tips of their varnished boots, and who kissed the most beautiful primrose-coloured kid gloves to lovely ladies passing them in the Ride. Clive drew portraits of half the officers of the Life Guards Green; and was appointed painter in ordinary to that distinguished corps. His likeness of the Colonel would make you die with laughing: his picture of the Surgeon was voted a masterpiece. He drew the men in the saddle, in the stable, in their flannel dresses, sweeping their flashing swords about, receiving lancers, repelling infantry,—nay, cutting—a sheep in two, as some of the warriors are known to be able to do at one stroke. Detachments of Life Guardsmen made their appearance in Charlotte Street, which was not very distant from their barracks; the most splendid cabs were seen prancing before his door; and curly-whiskered youths, of aristocratic appearance, smoking cigars out of his painting-room window. How many times did Clive’s next-door neighbour, little Mr Finch, the miniature-painter, run to peep through his parlour blinds, hoping that a sitter was coming, and “a carriage-party” driving up! What wrath Mr. Scowler, A.R.A., was in, because a young hop-o’-my-thumb dandy, who wore gold chains and his collars turned down, should spoil the trade and draw portraits for nothing! Why did none of the young men come to Scowler? Scowler was obliged to own that Mr. Newcome had considerable talent, and a good knack at catching a likeness. He could not paint a bit, to be sure, but his heads in black-and-white were really tolerable; his sketches of horses very vigorous and lifelike. Mr. Gandish said if Clive would come for three or four years into his academy he could make something of him. Mr. Smee shook his head, and said he was afraid, that kind of loose, desultory study, that keeping of aristocratic company, was anything but favourable to a young artist—Smee, who would walk five miles to attend an evening party of ever so little a great man!
CHAPTER XLIV.
In which Mr. Charles Honeyman appears in an Amiable Light
Mr. Frederick Bayham waited at Fitzroy Square while Clive was yet talking with his friends there, and favoured that gentleman with his company home to the usual smoky refreshment. Clive always rejoiced in F. B.’s society, whether he was in a sportive mood, or, as now, in a solemn and didactic vein. F. B. had been more than ordinarily majestic all the evening. “I dare say you find me a good deal altered, Clive,” he remarked; “I am a good deal altered. Since that good Samaritan, your kind father, had compassion on a poor fellow fallen among thieves (though I don’t say, mind you, he was much better than his company), F. B. has mended some of his ways. I am trying a course of industry, sir. Powers, perhaps naturally great, have been neglected over the wine-cup and the die. I am beginning to feel my way; and my chiefs yonder, who have just walked home with their cigars in their mouths, and without as much as saying, F. B., my boy, shall we go to the Haunt and have a cool lobster and a glass of table-beer,—which they certainly do not consider themselves to be,—I say, sir, the Politician and the Literary Critic” (there was a most sarcastic emphasis laid on these phrases, characterising Messrs. Warrington and Pendennis) “may find that there is a humble contributor to the Pall Mall Gazette, whose name, may be, the amateur shall one day reckon even higher than their own. Mr. Warrington I do not say so much—he is an able man, sir, an able man;—but there is that about your exceedin self-satisfied friend, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, which—well, well—let time show. You did not—get the—hem—paper at Rome and Naples, I suppose?”
“Forbidden by the Inquisition,” says Clive, delighted; “and at Naples the king furious against it.”