woke up at the dawn wondering, as the coach
passed through the pleasant green roads of Bromley. The good gentleman
consigned the little chap to his uncle, Dr. Cox, Bloomsbury Square,
before he went to his own quarters, and then on the errand on which his
fond heart was bent.

He had written to his brothers from Portsmouth, announcing his arrival,
and three words to Clive, conveying the same intelligence. The letter
was served to the boy along with one bowl of tea and one buttered roll,
of eighty such which were distributed to fourscore other boys, boarders
of the same house with our young friend. How the lad's face must have
flushed, and his eyes brightened, when he read the news! When the master
of the house, the Rev. Mr. Popkinson, came into the long-room, with a
good-natured face, and said, "Newcome, you're wanted," he knows who is
come. He does not heed that notorious bruiser, Old Hodge, who roars out,
"Confound you, Newcome: I'll give it you for upsetting your tea over
my new trousers." He runs to the room where the stranger is waiting for
him. We will shut the door, if you please, upon that scene.

If Clive had not been as fine and handsome a young lad as any in that
school or country, no doubt his fond father would have been just as well
pleased, and endowed him with a hundred fanciful graces; but in truth,
in looks and manners he was every thing which his parent could desire;
and I hope the artist who illustrates this work will take care to do
justice to his portrait. Mr. Clive himself, let that painter be assured,
will not be too well pleased if his countenance and figure do not
receive proper attention. He is not yet endowed with those splendid
mustachios and whiskers which he has himself subsequently depicted, but
he is the picture of health, strength, activity, and good-humour. He
has a good forehead, shaded with a quantity of waving light hair; a
complexion which ladies might envy; a mouth which seems accustomed to
laughing; and a pair of blue eyes that sparkle with intelligence and
frank kindness. No wonder the pleased father cannot refrain from looking
at him. He is, in a word, just such a youth as has a right to be the
hero of a novel.

The bell rings for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in cap
and gown, comes in to shake Colonel Newcome by the hand, and to say he
supposes it's to be a holiday for Newcome that day. He does not say a
word about Clive's scrape of the day before, and that awful