him. Little Clara is so like her
unhappy mother in a thousand ways and actions, that I am shocked often;
and see my brother starting back and turning his head away, as if
suddenly wounded. I have heard the most deplorable accounts of Lord and
Lady Highgate. Oh, dearest friend and sister!-save you, I think I scarce
know any one that is happy in the world: I trust you may continue so-you
who impart your goodness and kindness to all who come near you-you
in whose sweet serene happiness I am thankful to be allowed to repose
sometimes. You are the island in the desert, Laura! and the birds sing
there, and the fountain flows; and we come and repose by you for a
little while, and to-morrow the march begins again, and the toil, and
the struggle, and the desert. Good-bye, fountain! Whisper kisses to my
dearest little ones from their affectionate Aunt Ethel.

"A friend of his, a Mr. Warrington, has spoken against us several times
with extraordinary ability, as Barnes owns. Do you know Mr. W.? He wrote
a dreadful article in the Independent, about the last poor lecture,
which was indeed sad, sentimental, commonplace: and the critique is
terribly comical. I could not help laughing, remembering some passages
in it, when Barnes mentioned it: and my brother became so angry! They
have put up a dreadful caricature of B. in Newcome: and my brother says
he did it, but I hope not. It is very droll, though: he used to make
them very funnily. I am glad he has spirits for it. Good-bye again.--E.
N."

"He says he did it!" cries Mr. Pendennis, laying the letter down.
"Barnes Newcome would scarcely caricature himself, my dear?"

"'He' often means--means Clive--I think," says Mrs. Pendennis, in an
offhand manner.

"Oh! he means Clive, does he, Laura?"

"Yes--and you mean goose, Mr. Pendennis!" that saucy lady replies.

It must have been about the very time when this letter was written, that
a critical conversation occurred between Clive and his father, of which
the lad did not inform me until much later days; as was the case--the
reader has been more than once begged to believe--with many other
portions of this biography.

One night the Colonel, having come home from a round of electioneering
visits, not half satisfied with himself; exceedingly annoyed (much more
than he cared to own) with the impudence of some rude fellows at the
public-houses, who had interrupted his fine speeches with odious
hiccups and familiar jeers, was seated bro