It was in the days of my youth, when, having been to the play with some young fellows of my own age, we became naturally hungry at twelve o’clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rarebits and good old glee singing led us to the “Cave of Harmony,” then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, among whose friends we were proud to count.

It happened that there was a very small attendance at the “cave” that night, and we were all more sociable and friendly because the company was select.  The songs were chiefly of the sentimental class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I speak.

There came into the “cave” a gentleman with a lean brown face and long black mustachios, and evidently a stranger to the place.  At least he had not visited it for a long time.  He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the music and twirled his mustachios with great enthusiasm.

At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, ran to me with his hands out, and, blushing, said, “Don’t you know me?”

It was little Newcome, my schoolfellow, whom I had not seen for six years, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright blue eyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy.

“What the deuce brings you here?” said I.

He laughed and looked roguish.  “My father—­that’s my father—­would come.  He’s just come back from India.  He says all the wits used to come here.  I told him your name, and that you used to be very kind to me when I first went to Smithfield.  I’ve left now:  I’m to have a private tutor.”

Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome’s father, strode across the room to the table where we sat, and held out his hand to me.

“I have heard of your kindness, sir,” says he, “to my boy.  And whoever is kind to him is kind to me.  Will you allow me to sit down by you? and may I beg of you to try my cheroots.”

We were friends in a minute—­young Newcome snuggling by my side, and his father opposite.

It was worth a guinea to see the simple Colonel, and his delight at the music.  He became quite excited over his sherry-and-water.  He joined in all the choruses with an exceedingly sweet voice; and when Hoskins sang (as he did admirably) “The Old English Gentleman,” and described the death of that venerable aristocrat, tears trickled down the honest warrior’s cheek.

And now Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volunteer a song, what was our amazement when the simple Colonel offered to sing himself.  Poor Clive Newcome blushed as red as a peony, and I thought what my own sensations would have been if, in that place, my own uncle Major Pendennis had suddenly proposed to exert his lyrical powers.

The Colonel selected the ditty of “Wapping Old Stairs,” and gave his heart and soul to the simple ballad.  When the song was over, Clive held up his head too, and looked round with surprise and pleasure in his eyes.  The Colonel bowed and smiled with good nature at our plaudits.  “I learnt that song forty years ago,” he said, turning round to his boy.  “I used to slip out from Grey Friars to hear it.  Lord!  Lord! how the time passes!”