His was, his biographer affirms, "a
tender and a faithful heart." In him paternity and maternity met,
which is a conjunction we have not given heed to as we ought in
thinking on the heart. Motherhood is in the best fatherhood. Not long
since I met a minister who, on my mentioning a black and scrawny
village, said, with lovelit face and ringing, jubilant voice, "O yes,
that is where my boy was born!" How true hearts do remember! And
Colonel Newcome loved his son with such sweet and wide fidelity as
makes the heart covet him for father. All those days of separation
from his son, he thought of him "with such a constant longing
affection." And his joy on seeing his son once more is the joy of one
getting home to heaven. "To ask a blessing on his boy was as natural
to him as to wake with the sunrise, or to go to rest when the day is
over. His first and last thought was always the child." He expects
good of people, will say no ill of any, can not understand Sir Brian
Newcome's frigid reception, and is hurt by it as by a poisoned arrow
shot by the hill tribes in far India; he can not tolerate foul thought
or speech, burns hot with righteous wrath against Captain Costigan when
he sings a vile song, thundering, "Silence!" "'We ought to be ashamed
of doing wrong. We must forgive other people's trespasses if we hope
forgiveness of our own.' His voice sunk low as he spoke, and he bowed
his honest head reverently." How unostentatious his bravery, and
riches puffed him up not a trifle! How alert to love, how open to
enjoyment, how young his heart and how pure! What simplicity and what
grave courtesy, particularly to women! How wide those windows of his
soul open toward heaven! How magnanimous, how sad his face and heart,
how sensitive his nature, to any lack of love on dear Clive's part!
Though to his own heart he will not admit such lack exists, sitting
above in his cheerless room, listening to his son's merry-making, that
son glad to be left free of his father's presence,--how bravely he bore
poverty when financial ruin came, not missing wealth for himself, but
for him he loved, and how he grieved for those who had lost through
him! He was not faultless. Men are not often that; but his anger rose
from his heart. His indignation was for those he loved. We can see
him now, as if he lived among us yet. His honest, melancholy face; his
loose clothes hanging on his loose limbs; sitting silent, with his sad
eyes;