own, mattresses
explored, every bone in bed dislocated and washed as soon as a lodger
took his departure. And as for cribbing meat or sugar, Sally might
occasionally abstract a lump or two, or pop a veal-cutlet into her mouth
while bringing the dishes downstairs:--Sallies would--giddy creatures
bred in workhouses; but Hannah might be entrusted with untold gold and
uncorked brandy; and Miss Honeyman would as soon think of cutting a
slice off Hannah's nose and devouring it, as of poaching on her lodgers'
mutton. The best mutton-broth, the best veal-cutlets, the best necks of
mutton and French beans, the best fried fish and plumpest partridges, in
all Brighton, were to be had at Miss Honeyman's--and for her favourites
the best Indian curry and rice, coming from a distinguished relative, at
present an officer in Bengal. But very few were admitted to this mark of
Miss Honeyman's confidence. If a family did not go to church they were
not in favour: if they went to a Dissenting meeting she had no opinion
of them at all. Once there came to her house a quiet Staffordshire
family who ate no meat on Fridays, and whom Miss Honeyman pitied as
belonging to the Romish superstition; but when they were visited by two
corpulent gentlemen in black, one of whom wore a purple underwaistcoat,
before whom the Staffordshire lady absolutely sank down on her knees as
he went into the drawing-room,--Miss Honeyman sternly gave warning to
these idolaters. She would have no Jesuits in her premises. She showed
Hannah the picture in Howell's Medulla of the martyrs burning at
Smithfield: who said, "Lord bless you, mum," and hoped it was a long
time ago. She called on the curate: and many and many a time, for years
after, pointed out to her friends, and sometimes to her lodgers, the
spot on the carpet where the poor benighted creature had knelt down.
So she went on, respected by all her friends, by all her tradesmen, by
herself not a little, talking of her previous "misfortunes" with amusing
equanimity; as if her father's parsonage-house had been a palace of
splendour, and the one-horse chaise (with the lamps for evenings) from
which she had descended, a noble equipage. "But I know it is for the
best, Clive," she would say to her nephew in describing those grandeurs,
"and, thank heaven, can be resigned in that station in life to which it
has pleased God to call me."

The good lady was called the Duchess by her fellow-tradesfolk in the
square in which sh