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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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Outside View of Colonel Newcome's Rooms
Room in Which Colonel Newcome Died
Washhouse Court - Grey Friars
Cloister of Chapel - Grey Friars
Interior of Chapel at Grey Friars
Smithfield Market

St. Bartholomew's the Great

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Jermyn Street

Berkeley Square

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St. George's Church, Hanover Square

The Reform Club .

Covent Garden Market, with Portico of St. Paul's

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INTRODUCTION

HE first and only time I saw him was in Baltimore, when I was seventeen years old.

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He and Mr. John P. Kennedy, a friend of my father, strolled one Saturday afternoon into the Mercantile Library where we boys were reading.

"Look!" came from a tangle of legs and arms bunched up in an adjoining easy chair. "That's the Mr. Thackeray who is lecturing here."

My glance followed a directing finger, and rested on a tall, rather ungraceful figure, topped by a massive head framed about by a fringe of whitish hair, short, fuzzy whiskers, crumply collar and black stock. Out of a pink face peered two sharp inquiring eyes, these framed again by the dark rims of a pair of heavy spectacles, which, from my point of sight, became two distinct dots in the round of the same pink face. The portrait of Horace Greeley widely published during his Presidential campaign - the one all throat-whiskers and spectacles - has always recalled to my mind this flash glimpse of the great author whom I afterward learned to revere.

As I grew older and began to know him and his work the better, this early snapshot caught upon one of the many

millions of films stored away in some one of my brain cells - became the central figure about which were grouped a series of other portraits quite as real: Red-faced, rakish, shabby-looking Captain Costigan, with his hat cocked very much over one ear; Major Pendennis, that snob of snobs, scrupulously neat in his checked cravat, double gold eyeglasses, buff waistcoat and spotless linen, as he sat in his club opening his mail, or as he appeared with a yellow face, a bristly beard, and a wig out of curl after the dreary night spent in the mail-coach, when he went to save his scapegrace of a nephew from the clutches of the Fotheringay; Becky Sharp, in brilliant full toilette, her fingers and breast flashing with the jewels the Marquis of Steyne had given her, and the old scoundrel himself in silk stockings and kneebreeches, the ribbon of the Garter across his chest; Warrington, Clive, and the unspeakable Campaigner; and last, and best beloved of all, the pale, thoughtful face of dear Colonel Newcome, his black frock-coat, close-buttoned about his slim waistline.

Yes! I have seen and known them all, each and every one. I must admit that owing to the long lapse of years, and the absence of any such corroborative physiognomies as Mr. Greeley's, some of the negatives may be slightly blurred, but enough is left of the old films for me to distinguish the originals. More than that, I am willing to make oath that I have seen the Colonel himself in the flesh — not once, but dozens of times.

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I will even maintain that he is still alive; for I called on him during my last visit to London, when these accompanying sketches were made. Though I failed, owing to

unfortunate and unforeseen circumstances, to find him at home, he having "just stepped out," his associates, or successors, or whatever else you choose to call them, were within reach and showed me all over the place.

Unfortunately, too, Becky, Clive, and the others had "just stepped out" - an unaccountable thing to me, for they had had no notice of my coming. I had only conformed to the etiquette demanded abroad — that is, I had made the first call and the rebuff, if you choose to consider it so, was therefore the more regrettable. And yet I was not affronted. I know that some day they will return my courtesy, every one of them, and the man with the fine head and pink face, whom I saw when a boy, will bring them. Whether to my lodgings, or my house, or my library, I cannot now say, but to some one of the places in which I happen to be; and they will keep on coming no fear of that long as I can see to read.

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That I should have headed my visiting list with the name of the Colonel can surprise nobody. I was at my hotel in Jermyn Street, at the time, with my friend Jules, and as London is a big place, and the people I wanted to see were scattered from the Tower to Smithfield, to say nothing of Kensington and the neighbourhood round about, walking was out of the question.

"Call a taxi, porter," I said.

He called it. That is, he stepped out, bareheaded, on the narrow sidewalk, blew a whistle which sounded like a policeman summoning aid, and up dashed a green and yellow comfort, the match of which does not exist the world over - and there are thousands just like it in London.

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