Then there came a large remittance from his father; and the child was asked by Uncle Newcome at Christmas. Then his father's name was mentioned in general orders; and Uncle Hobson asked little Clive at midsummer. Then Lord H., a late governor-general, coming home, and meeting the brothers at a grand dinner at the Albion, given by the Court of Directors to his late Excellency, spoke to the bankers about that most distinguished officer their relative; and Mrs. Hobson drove over to see his aunt, where the boy was, gave him a sovereign out of her purse, and advised strongly that he should be sent to Timpany's along with her own boy. Then Clive went from one uncle's house to another, and was liked at both; and much preferred ponies to ride, going out after rabbits with the keeper, money in his pocket (charged to the debit of Lieut.-Col. J. Newcome), and clothes from the London tailor, to the homely quarters and conversation of poor kind old Aunt Honeyman at Brighton. Clive's uncles were not unkind; they liked each other. Their wives, who hated each other, united in liking Clive when they knew him, and petting the wayward, handsome boy: they were only pursuing the way of the world, which huzzays all prosperity, and turns away from misfortune as from some contagious disease. Indeed, how can we see a man's brilliant qualities if he is what we call in the shade?

The gentlemen, Clive's uncles, who had their affairs to mind during the day, society and the family to occupy them of evenings and holidays, treated their young kinsman, the Indian Colonel's son, as other wealthy British uncles treat other young kinsmen. They received him in his vacations kindly enough. They tipped him when he went to school. When he had the whooping-cough, a confidential young clerk went round by way of Grey Friars Square to ask after him. The sea being recommended to him, Mrs. Newcome gave him change of air in Sussex, and transferred him to his maternal aunt at Brighton. Then it was bonjour. As the lodge-gates closed upon him, Mrs. Newcome's heart shut up too, and confined itself within the firs, laurels, and palings which bound the home precincts. Had not she 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 sandal-wood work-boxes 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 Miss 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 was cherishing – the peacock's tail wherein my absurd vanity had clad itself – and says, »Away with this boasting! I am the cause of your virtue, my lad. You are pleased that yesterday at dinner you refrained from the dry champagne: my name is Worldly Prudence, not Self-denial, and I caused you to refrain. You are pleased because you gave a guinea to Diddler: I am Laziness, not Generosity, which inspired you. You hug yourself because you resisted other temptation? Coward! it was because you dared not run the risk of the wrong! Out with your peacock's plumage! walk off in the feathers which Nature gave you, and thank Heaven they are not altogether black.« In a word, Aunt Honeyman was a kind soul, and such was the splendour of Clive's father, of his gifts, his generosity, his military services, and Companionship of the Bath, that the lad did really appear a young duke to her. And Mrs.