her own children and affairs? her brood of fowls, her Sunday-school, her
melon-beds, her rose-garden, her quarrel with the parson, etc., to attend
to? Mr. Newcome, arriving on a Saturday night; hears he is gone, says
"Oh!" and begins to ask about the new gravel-walk along the cliff, and
whether it is completed, and if the China pig fattens kindly upon the new
feed.

Clive, in the avuncular gig, is driven over the downs to Brighton to his
maternal aunt there; and there he is a king. He has the best bedroom,
Uncle Honeyman turning out for him sweetbreads for dinner; no end of jam
for breakfast; excuses from church on the plea of delicate health; his
aunt's maid to see him to bed; his aunt to come smiling in when he rings
his bell of a morning. He is made much of, and coaxed, and dandled and
fondled, as if he were a young duke. So he is to Miss Honeyman. He is the
son of Colonel Newcome, C.B., who sends her shawls, ivory chessmen,
scented sandalwood workboxes and kincob scarfs; who, as she tells Martha
the maid, has fifty servants in India; at which Martha constantly
exclaims, "Lor', mum, what can he do with 'em, mum?" who, when in
consequence of her misfortunes she resolved on taking a house at
Brighton, and letting part of the same furnished, sent her an order for a
hundred pounds towards the expenses thereof; who gave Mr. Honeyman, her
brother, a much larger sum of money at the period of his calamity. Is it
gratitude for past favours? is it desire for more? is it vanity of
relationship? is it love for the dead sister--or tender regard for her
offspring which makes Mrs. Martha Honeyman so fond of her nephew? I never
could count how many causes went to produce any given effect or action in
a person's life, and have been for my own part many a time quite misled
in my own case, fancying some grand, some magnanimous, some virtuous
reason, for an act of which I was proud, when lo! some pert little
satirical monitor springs up inwardly, upsetting the fond humbug which I