The Sun.
London, England, 1855-02-05 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

T"'e -Mew conus. No. XVII. By W. M.
Thaokoray ' .
Extraordinary progress has been made by our
novelist in the devetopment of the plot of his pre-
sent narrative, within the compass of the three '
notable chapters hero published. Our dear old
Colonel Thomas Nowcome discovers the villainy,
or rather the little priggish, petty, mean rascality
of Sir Barnes—giving the latter, thereupon, " a bit
of his mind," in the presence of his clerk, Mr.
Bolthy, and. of Uncle Hobson, within the sanctuary
of the unsuspecting back parlour of the great city
banking-house. The whole scene is delightfully
real in every particular, from the Colonel's " Ah !"
of satisfaction, directly Sir Barnes makes his ap-
pearance, up to the climax of the gallant old
trump's outburst ,of indignation. Trump we call
him on the authority of his beloved son Clive, as
uttered by that brave but gentle artist (painter
and glazier, as he is called by Crackenthorpe of
Ours), in the most exquisite little incident re-
counted this month by Mr. Thackeray. The fond
and manly fraternisation. of father and sou, in
Clive's atelier, in the presence of Arthur Pendennis
and George Warrington—when the Colonel lays
his hand on young Clive's shoulder, and stroking
the youth's yellow moustache, asks if Barites really
sent no answer to the challenge : Clive having but
that moment sketched an illustration to those
charming and tender lines of Sir Walter--
"He turned hi■ charger as he spake,
Beside the river shore ;
He gave his bridle rein a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
My dear ! '
Adieu for evermore !"
George and Pendennis trolling cut as the colonel
enters—

" Adieu for evermore,
My dear !
Adieu for evermore !"

It is scarcely possible for any one really "up" in
the story, and alive to the sweet and natural pathos
of Mr. Thackeray, to read without a moistening of
the eyes the result of the colonel's query as he rests
his hand upon his son's shoulder, and smilingly
strokes Clive 's yellow moustache :—"Clive broke
out into a laugh that was almost a sob. He took
both his father's hands. 'My dear, dear old
father,' says, he, what a—what an—old--trump
are ! No wonder Arthur Pendennis adds,
when recounting the eircumstance—" My eyes
were so dim I could hardly see the two men as they
embraced." For they both stand, serene, but
sad at heart, under the shadow of a great home
calamity—lane affaire de ectur—Ethel being the be-
trothed of Princekin, otherwise of the Most Hon.
Fergus Angus Malcolm Mango Rey, twenty-fifth
Earl of Glenlivat and Rossmont, and third Mar-
quis of Farrintosh, is tho peerage of Scotland.
Hobson Newcome thinks it jolly to be uncle to a
marquis. Young Mr. Samuel, his son, is, if pos-
sible, yet more vulgarly elated at the prospect of
so lofty a connexion—young Mr. Sam, of whom
Laura Pendennis could not help saying to her hus-
band, that she thought the said Sam "an odious
little creature." And, by the way, how wonder-
fully our friend Pen wins upon our affections, now
that his conceit and coxcembry are sweetened into
marital wisdom under the womanly influence of
the gentle Laura. Never was such an im-
provement in novel hero from the time when
young Martin Chuzzlewit returned unselfish
from the' wilds of the backwood Paradise.
If we can speak thus, however, of the wifely
influence of Mrs. Arthur Pendennis, what
can we say of the Lady Clara, wife of Sir Barnes
Newcome ? What—but that we dread in her re-
gard a catastrophe in relation to her old "
Jack Belsize, now Lord Highgate. Perhaps the
next number will show whether or not our anxie-
ties in this particular are promatnie. There are
sundry matters in the instalment now before us
yet demanding reference in words of no stinted
commendation. Instance—the entomological sketch
of the character of Sir Barnes Newcom..! (who goes
about his life's business "as a bug crawl;, and
stings, and stinks,") dashed oil with the case and
vigour of a master-band, in that finest speech that
has yet fallen from the lips of the usually too taci-
turn-(Gorge Warrington. Ins lance, like wise, the
confab on horseback, in the park, between our dear
old Colonel and General Sir George Tufto
(surely another. name, if we mistake not, for
General Sir Thomas de Boots), where the padded
warrior says to Colonel Newcome that he re-
torted upon the unexpected poltroonery of
Sir Barnes, by exclaiming "Dash me, sir, if you
don't want me, why the Sash do you send for me,
dash me ?" adding, " A. 22 is your man, Sir Barnes
Newcome." Instance finally; the tragic event re-
corded at the close of the present number, in the
announcement of the sudden death of the witch-
like sister of the late Marquis of Steyne (renowned
in the annals of " Vanity Fair ") ; in other words,
the decease one night, ni her velvets and ermine,