Again, there was the little French chevalier opposite, who gave lessons in his native tongue at various schools in the neighbourhood, and who might be heard in his apartment of nights playing tremulous old gavottes and minuets on a wheezy old fiddle. Whenever this powdered and courteous old man, who never missed a Sunday at the convent chapel at Hammersmith, and who was in all respects, thoughts, conduct, and bearing utterly unlike the bearded savages of his nation, who curse perfidious Albion, and scowl at you from over their cigars, in the Quadrant arcades at the present day--whenever the old Chevalier de Talonrouge spoke of Mistress Osborne, he would first finish his pinch of snuff, flick away the remaining particles of dust with a graceful wave of his hand, gather up his fingers again into a bunch, and, bringing them up to his mouth, blow them open with a kiss, exclaiming, Ah! la divine creature! He vowed and protested that when Amelia walked in the Brompton Lanes flowers grew in profusion under her feet. He called little Georgy Cupid, and asked him news of Venus, his mamma; and told the astonished Betty Flanagan that she was one of the Graces, and the favourite attendant of the Reine des Amours.

Again, there was the little French chevalier opposite, who gave lessons in French at various schools, at night playing tremulous gavottes on a wheezy old fiddle. Whenever this courteous old man spoke of Mistress Osborne, he would gather his fingers into a bunch, and blow them open with a kiss, exclaiming, Ah! la divine creature! He vowed that when Amelia walked, flowers grew under her feet. He called Georgy Cupid, and asked him news of Venus, his mamma.


Instances might be multiplied of this easily gained and unconscious popularity. Did not Mr. Binny, the mild and genteel curate of the district chapel, which the family attended, call assiduously upon the widow, dandle the little boy on his knee, and offer to teach him Latin, to the anger of the elderly virgin, his sister, who kept house for him? "There is nothing in her, Beilby," the latter lady would say. "When she comes to tea here she does not speak a word during the whole evening. She is but a poor lackadaisical creature, and it is my belief has no heart at all. It is only her pretty face which all you gentlemen admire so. Miss Grits, who has five thousand pounds, and expectations besides, has twice as much character, and is a thousand times more agreeable to my taste; and if she were good-looking I know that you would think her perfection."

And did not Mr. Binny, the mild curate of the chapel, call assiduously upon the widow, dandle the little boy on his knee, and offer to teach him Latin, to the anger of his sister, who kept house for him?
"There is nothing in her, Beilby," his sister would say. "When she comes to tea she does not speak a word. She is a poor lackadaisical creature, and it is only her pretty face which you gentlemen admire so."

Chapter 38: A Family in a Very Small Way


Very likely Miss Binny was right to a great extent. It IS the pretty face which creates sympathy in the hearts of men, those wicked rogues. A woman may possess the wisdom and chastity of Minerva, and we give no heed to her, if she has a plain face. What folly will not a pair of bright eyes make pardonable? What dulness may not red lips and sweet accents render pleasant? And so, with their usual sense of justice, ladies argue that because a woman is handsome, therefore she is a fool. O ladies, ladies! there are some of you who are neither handsome nor wise.

Very likely Miss Binny was right. It is the pretty face which creates sympathy in the hearts of men. A woman may possess the wisdom of Minerva, and we give no heed to her, if she is plain. And so, with their usual sense of justice, ladies argue that because a woman is handsome, therefore she is a fool. O ladies, ladies! there are some of you who are neither handsome nor wise.


These are but trivial incidents to recount in the life of our heroine. Her tale does not deal in wonders, as the gentle reader has already no doubt perceived; and if a journal had been kept of her proceedings during the seven years after the birth of her son, there would be found few incidents more remarkable in it than that of the measles, recorded in the foregoing page. Yes, one day, and greatly to her wonder, the Reverend Mr. Binny, just mentioned, asked her to change her name of Osborne for his own; when, with deep blushes and tears in her eyes and voice, she thanked him for his regard for her, expressed gratitude for his attentions to her and to her poor little boy, but said that she never, never could think of any but--but the husband whom she had lost.

These are but trivial incidents. During the seven years after the birth of Amelia's son, the most notable event that occurred to her was Georgy's measles. And one day, greatly to her wonder, the Reverend Mr. Binny asked her to marry him. With deep blushes and tears in her eyes, she thanked him, but said that she never could think of any but the husband whom she had lost.


On the twenty-fifth of April, and the eighteenth of June, the days of marriage and widowhood, she kept her room entirely, consecrating them (and we do not know how many hours of solitary night-thought, her little boy sleeping in his crib by her bedside) to the memory of that departed friend. During the day she was more active. She had to teach George to read and to write and a little to draw. She read books, in order that she might tell him stories from them. As his eyes opened and his mind expanded under the influence of the outward nature round about him, she taught the child, to the best of her humble power, to acknowledge the Maker of all, and every night and every morning he and she--(in that awful and touching communion which I think must bring a thrill to the heart of every man who witnesses or who remembers it)--the mother and the little boy--prayed to Our Father together, the mother pleading with all her gentle heart, the child lisping after her as she spoke. And each time they prayed to God to bless dear Papa, as if he were alive and in the room with them. To wash and dress this young gentleman--to take him for a run of the mornings, before breakfast, and the retreat of grandpapa for "business"--to make for him the most wonderful and ingenious dresses, for which end the thrifty widow cut up and altered every available little bit of finery which she possessed out of her wardrobe during her marriage--for Mrs. Osborne herself (greatly to her mother's vexation, who preferred fine clothes, especially since her misfortunes) always wore a black gown and a straw bonnet with a black ribbon--occupied her many hours of the day. Others she had to spare, at the service of her mother and her old father. She had taken the pains to learn, and used to play cribbage with this gentleman on the nights when he did not go to his club. She sang for him when he was so minded, and it was a good sign, for he invariably fell into a comfortable sleep during the music. She wrote out his numerous memorials, letters, prospectuses, and projects. It was in her handwriting that most of the old gentleman's former acquaintances were informed that he had become an agent for the Black Diamond and Anti-Cinder Coal Company and could supply his friends and the public with the best coals at --s. per chaldron. All he did was to sign the circulars with his flourish and signature, and direct them in a shaky, clerklike hand. One of these papers was sent to Major Dobbin,--Regt., care of Messrs. Cox and Greenwood; but the Major being in Madras at the time, had no particular call for coals. He knew, though, the hand which had written the prospectus. Good God! what would he not have given to hold it in his own! A second prospectus came out, informing the Major that J. Sedley and Company, having established agencies at Oporto, Bordeaux, and St. Mary's, were enabled to offer to their friends and the public generally the finest and most celebrated growths of ports, sherries, and claret wines at reasonable prices and under extraordinary advantages. Acting upon this hint, Dobbin furiously canvassed the governor, the commander-in-chief, the judges, the regiments, and everybody whom he knew in the Presidency, and sent home to Sedley and Co. orders for wine which perfectly astonished Mr. Sedley and Mr. Clapp, who was the Co. in the business. But no more orders came after that first burst of good fortune, on which poor old Sedley was about to build a house in the City, a regiment of clerks, a dock to himself, and correspondents all over the world. The old gentleman's former taste in wine had gone: the curses of the mess-room assailed Major Dobbin for the vile drinks he had been the means of introducing there; and he bought back a great quantity of the wine and sold it at public outcry, at an enormous loss to himself. As for Jos, who was by this time promoted to a seat at the Revenue Board at Calcutta, he was wild with rage when the post brought him out a bundle of these Bacchanalian prospectuses, with a private note from his father, telling Jos that his senior counted upon him in this enterprise, and had consigned a quantity of select wines to him, as per invoice, drawing bills upon him for the amount of the same. Jos, who would no more have it supposed that his father, Jos Sedley's father, of the Board of Revenue, was a wine merchant asking for orders, than that he was Jack Ketch, refused the bills with scorn, wrote back contumeliously to the old gentleman, bidding him to mind his own affairs; and the protested paper coming back, Sedley and Co. had to take it up, with the profits which they had made out of the Madras venture, and with a little portion of Emmy's savings.

On the twenty-fifth of April, and the eighteenth of June, the days of her marriage and widowhood, she kept to her room. On other days she was more active, teaching George to read, write and draw. She taught the child, to the best of her humble power, to acknowledge the Maker of all, and every night and morning they prayed together, asking God to bless dear Papa, as if he were in the room.
To wash and dress this young gentleman - to take him for a run in the mornings - to make him the most ingenious outfits, for which the thrifty widow cut up every bit of finery she possessed - occupied her many hours of the day. Others she spent at the service of her parents. She played cribbage with her father, and sang for him; she wrote out his letters, prospectuses, and projects. It was in her handwriting that the old gentleman's acquaintances were informed that he had become an agent for the Anti-Cinder Coal Company and could supply the public with the best coals.
One of these papers was sent to Major Dobbin, through his agents; but the Major, being in Madras at the time, had no call for coals. He knew, though, the hand which had written the prospectus. Good God! what would he not have given to hold it in his own!
A second prospectus followed, informing the Major that J. Sedley and Company offered to their friends and the public the finest ports, sherries, and claret wines at reasonable prices. Dobbin furiously canvassed the governor, the commander-in-chief, the regiments, and everybody he knew, and sent home to Sedley and Co. orders for wine which perfectly astonished Mr. Sedley and Mr. Clapp, who was the Co. in the business. But no more orders came after that first burst of good fortune. The curses of the mess-room assailed Major Dobbin for the vile drinks he had introduced; and he bought back a great quantity of the wine, at an enormous loss to himself.
As for Jos, who had been promoted to the Revenue Board at Calcutta, he was wild with rage when the post brought him a bundle of these prospectuses, with a note from his father telling Jos that he had consigned a quantity of select wines to him, as per invoice, asking for payment. Jos refused the bills with scorn, and wrote back bidding the old gentleman to mind his own affairs. Sedley and Co. had to pay for the order with the profits which they had made from Madras, and with some of Emmy's savings.


Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, there had been five hundred pounds, as her husband's executor stated, left in the agent's hands at the time of Osborne's demise, which sum, as George's guardian, Dobbin proposed to put out at 8 per cent in an Indian house of agency. Mr. Sedley, who thought the Major had some roguish intentions of his own about the money, was strongly against this plan; and he went to the agents to protest personally against the employment of the money in question, when he learned, to his surprise, that there had been no such sum in their hands, that all the late Captain's assets did not amount to a hundred pounds, and that the five hundred pounds in question must be a separate sum, of which Major Dobbin knew the particulars. More than ever convinced that there was some roguery, old Sedley pursued the Major. As his daughter's nearest friend, he demanded with a high hand a statement of the late Captain's accounts. Dobbin's stammering, blushing, and awkwardness added to the other's convictions that he had a rogue to deal with, and in a majestic tone he told that officer a piece of his mind, as he called it, simply stating his belief that the Major was unlawfully detaining his late son-in-law's money.

Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, there had been five hundred pounds, left in the agent's hands at Osborne's death, which Dobbin, as George's guardian, proposed to invest at 8 per cent in an Indian house of agency. Mr. Sedley, who thought the Major had some roguish intentions about the money, went to the agents to protest; and he learned, to his surprise, that the late Captain had not left anywhere near five hundred pounds, and that it must be a separate sum, of which Major Dobbin knew the details. Old Sedley pursued the Major and demanded a statement of the late Captain's accounts. Dobbin's stammering, blushing, and awkwardness added to the other's convictions that he had a rogue to deal with, and in a majestic tone he stated his belief that the Major was unlawfully keeping his late son-in-law's money.


Dobbin at this lost all patience, and if his accuser had not been so old and so broken, a quarrel might have ensued between them at the Slaughters' Coffee-house, in a box of which place of entertainment the gentlemen had their colloquy. "Come upstairs, sir," lisped out the Major. "I insist on your coming up the stairs, and I will show which is the injured party, poor George or I"; and, dragging the old gentleman up to his bedroom, he produced from his desk Osborne's accounts, and a bundle of IOU's which the latter had given, who, to do him justice, was always ready to give an IOU. "He paid his bills in England," Dobbin added, "but he had not a hundred pounds in the world when he fell. I and one or two of his brother officers made up the little sum, which was all that we could spare, and you dare tell us that we are trying to cheat the widow and the orphan." Sedley was very contrite and humbled, though the fact is that William Dobbin had told a great falsehood to the old gentleman; having himself given every shilling of the money, having buried his friend, and paid all the fees and charges incident upon the calamity and removal of poor Amelia.

Dobbin at this lost all patience, and if his accuser had not been so old and so broken, a quarrel might have ensued.
"Come upstairs, sir," said the Major, "and I will show which is the injured party, poor George or I." Dragging the old gentleman up to his room, he produced Osborne's accounts, and a bundle of IOU's which George had given. "He paid his bills in England," Dobbin said, "but he had not a hundred pounds in the world when he fell. I and one or two of his brother officers made up the little sum, which was all that we could spare, and you dare tell us that we are trying to cheat the widow and the orphan."
Sedley was very contrite, though in fact William Dobbin had told him a great falsehood; having himself given every shilling of the money.


About these expenses old Osborne had never given himself any trouble to think, nor any other relative of Amelia, nor Amelia herself, indeed. She trusted to Major Dobbin as an accountant, took his somewhat confused calculations for granted, and never once suspected how much she was in his debt.

Amelia herself had never given any thought to all this. She trusted to Major Dobbin as an accountant, took his somewhat confused calculations for granted, and never suspected how much she was in his debt.


Twice or thrice in the year, according to her promise, she wrote him letters to Madras, letters all about little Georgy. How he treasured these papers! Whenever Amelia wrote he answered, and not until then. But he sent over endless remembrances of himself to his godson and to her. He ordered and sent a box of scarfs and a grand ivory set of chess-men from China. The pawns were little green and white men, with real swords and shields; the knights were on horseback, the castles were on the backs of elephants. "Mrs. Mango's own set at the Pineries was not so fine," Mr. Pestler remarked. These chess-men were the delight of Georgy's life, who printed his first letter in acknowledgement of this gift of his godpapa. He sent over preserves and pickles, which latter the young gentleman tried surreptitiously in the sideboard and half-killed himself with eating. He thought it was a judgement upon him for stealing, they were so hot. Emmy wrote a comical little account of this mishap to the Major: it pleased him to think that her spirits were rallying and that she could be merry sometimes now. He sent over a pair of shawls, a white one for her and a black one with palm-leaves for her mother, and a pair of red scarfs, as winter wrappers, for old Mr. Sedley and George. The shawls were worth fifty guineas apiece at the very least, as Mrs. Sedley knew. She wore hers in state at church at Brompton, and was congratulated by her female friends upon the splendid acquisition. Emmy's, too, became prettily her modest black gown. "What a pity it is she won't think of him!" Mrs. Sedley remarked to Mrs. Clapp and to all her friends of Brompton. "Jos never sent us such presents, I am sure, and grudges us everything. It is evident that the Major is over head and ears in love with her; and yet, whenever I so much as hint it, she turns red and begins to cry and goes and sits upstairs with her miniature. I'm sick of that miniature. I wish we had never seen those odious purse-proud Osbornes."

Twice or thrice a year, as promised, she wrote him letters, all about little Georgy. How he treasured them! Whenever Amelia wrote he answered, and not until then. But he sent over endless gifts to his godson and to her: a box of scarfs and a grand ivory set of chess-men from China, with real swords and shields, and the castles on the backs of elephants. These chess-men delighted Georgy, who wrote his first letter in acknowledgement of this gift. Dobbin sent over preserves and pickles, which Georgy tried surreptitiously and half-killed himself with eating, they were so hot. Emmy wrote a comical little account of this mishap to the Major: it pleased him to think that she could be merry sometimes now. He sent over a pair of shawls, a white one for her and a black one with palm-leaves for her mother, worth fifty guineas apiece at the very least, as Mrs. Sedley knew. She wore hers in state to church, and was congratulated by her female friends.
"What a pity it is she won't think of him!" Mrs. Sedley remarked to Mrs. Clapp. "Jos never sent us such presents, and grudges us everything. The Major is clearly head over heels in love with her; and yet, whenever I hint it, she begins to cry and goes and sits upstairs with her miniature. I'm sick of that miniature. I wish we had never seen those odious Osbornes."


Amidst such humble scenes and associates George's early youth was passed, and the boy grew up delicate, sensitive, imperious, woman-bred--domineering the gentle mother whom he loved with passionate affection. He ruled all the rest of the little world round about him. As he grew, the elders were amazed at his haughty manner and his constant likeness to his father. He asked questions about everything, as inquiring youth will do. The profundity of his remarks and interrogatories astonished his old grandfather, who perfectly bored the club at the tavern with stories about the little lad's learning and genius. He suffered his grandmother with a good-humoured indifference. The small circle round about him believed that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the earth. Georgy inherited his father's pride, and perhaps thought they were not wrong.

Amidst such humble scenes George's early youth was passed. The boy grew up delicate, sensitive, imperious, woman-bred - domineering his gentle mother and ruling the rest of the little world around him. The elders were amazed at his haughty manner and his likeness to his father. He asked questions about everything, astonishing his old grandfather; the small circle about Georgy believed that the boy had no equal upon the earth. Georgy inherited his father's pride, and perhaps thought they were not wrong.


When he grew to be about six years old, Dobbin began to write to him very much. The Major wanted to hear that Georgy was going to a school and hoped he would acquit himself with credit there: or would he have a good tutor at home? It was time that he should begin to learn; and his godfather and guardian hinted that he hoped to be allowed to defray the charges of the boy's education, which would fall heavily upon his mother's straitened income. The Major, in a word, was always thinking about Amelia and her little boy, and by orders to his agents kept the latter provided with picture-books, paint-boxes, desks, and all conceivable implements of amusement and instruction. Three days before George's sixth birthday a gentleman in a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove up to Mr. Sedley's house and asked to see Master George Osborne: it was Mr. Woolsey, military tailor, of Conduit Street, who came at the Major's order to measure the young gentleman for a suit of clothes. He had had the honour of making for the Captain, the young gentleman's father. Sometimes, too, and by the Major's desire no doubt, his sisters, the Misses Dobbin, would call in the family carriage to take Amelia and the little boy to drive if they were so inclined. The patronage and kindness of these ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia, but she bore it meekly enough, for her nature was to yield; and, besides, the carriage and its splendours gave little Georgy immense pleasure. The ladies begged occasionally that the child might pass a day with them, and he was always glad to go to that fine garden-house at Denmark Hill, where they lived, and where there were such fine grapes in the hot-houses and peaches on the walls.

When he was about six, Dobbin began to write to him. The Major wanted to hear that Georgy was going to school: or would he have a good tutor at home? It was time that he should begin to learn; and Dobbin hinted that he hoped to be allowed to pay for the boy's education.
The Major, in a word, was always thinking about Amelia and her little boy, and through his agents sent him picture-books, paint-boxes and desks. Three days before George's sixth birthday a gentleman in a gig drove up to Mr. Sedley's house and asked to see Master George Osborne: it was a military tailor, who came at the Major's order to measure the young gentleman for a suit.
Sometimes, too, by the Major's desire no doubt, his sisters would call in the family carriage to take Amelia and the little boy for a drive. This kind patronage was very uncomfortable to Amelia, but she bore it meekly, and the carriage and its splendours gave little Georgy immense pleasure. The ladies begged occasionally that the child might pass a day with them, and he was always glad to go to their fine house, where there were grapes in the hot-houses and peaches on the walls.


One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news which they were SURE would delight her--something VERY interesting about their dear William.

One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news which they were sure would delight her, about their dear William.


"What was it: was he coming home?" she asked with pleasure beaming in her eyes.

"What was it: was he coming home?" she asked with pleasure.


"Oh, no--not the least--but they had very good reason to believe that dear William was about to be married--and to a relation of a very dear friend of Amelia's--to Miss Glorvina O'Dowd, Sir Michael O'Dowd's sister, who had gone out to join Lady O'Dowd at Madras--a very beautiful and accomplished girl, everybody said."

"Oh, no - but they had good reason to believe that dear William was about to be married - and to a relation of a very dear friend of Amelia's - to Miss Glorvina O'Dowd, who had gone out to join Lady O'Dowd - a very beautiful and accomplished girl, everybody said."


Amelia said "Oh!" Amelia was very VERY happy indeed. But she supposed Glorvina could not be like her old acquaintance, who was most kind--but--but she was very happy indeed. And by some impulse of which I cannot explain the meaning, she took George in her arms and kissed him with an extraordinary tenderness. Her eyes were quite moist when she put the child down; and she scarcely spoke a word during the whole of the drive--though she was so very happy indeed.

Amelia said "Oh!" She was very happy, although - but she was very happy indeed. She took George in her arms and kissed him, and her eyes were quite moist when she put the child down. She scarcely spoke a word during the drive - though she was so very happy indeed.


While the present century was in its teens, and on one sunshiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton's academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour. A black servant, who reposed on the box beside the fat coachman, uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss Pinkerton's shining brass plate, and as he pulled the bell at least a score of young heads were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the stately old brick house. Nay, the acute observer might have recognized the little red nose of good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising over some geranium pots in the window of that lady's own drawing-room.

Early in this nineteenth century, on a sunshiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton's academy for young ladies on Chiswick Mall a large coach, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig. A black servant, who sat on the box beside the coachman, uncurled his legs as the coach drew up opposite Miss Pinkerton's, and when he rang the bell twenty young heads were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the stately old house. Amongst them was good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton, looking from the window of her drawing-room.


"It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. "Sambo, the black servant, has just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new red waistcoat."

"It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. "Sambo has just rung the bell."


"Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima?" asked Miss Pinkerton herself, that majestic lady; the Semiramis of Hammersmith, the friend of Doctor Johnson, the correspondent of Mrs. Chapone herself.

"Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima?" asked Miss Pinkerton, that majestic lady; queen of Hammersmith, and friend of Doctor Johnson.


"The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister," replied Miss Jemima; "we have made her a bow-pot."

"The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister," replied Miss Jemima. "We have made her a bunch of flowers."


"Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel."


"Well, a booky as big almost as a haystack; I have put up two bottles of the gillyflower water for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making it, in Amelia's box."

"Well, a booky almost as big as a haystack."


"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's account. This is it, is it? Very good--ninety-three pounds, four shillings. Be kind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal this billet which I have written to his lady."

"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's account? Is this it? Ninety-three pounds, four shillings. Please address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and seal this letter which I have written to his lady."


In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration as would have been a letter from a sovereign. Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or when they were about to be married, and once, when poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to the parents of her pupils; and it was Jemima's opinion that if anything could console Mrs. Birch for her daughter's loss, it would be that pious and eloquent composition in which Miss Pinkerton announced the event.

In Miss Jemima's eyes a signed letter from her sister, Miss Pinkerton, was an object of deep veneration. Only when her pupils left the school, or when they were about to be married, and once when poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to the parents of her pupils. Jemima thought that if anything could console Mrs. Birch for her daughter's loss, it would be that pious and eloquent letter in which Miss Pinkerton announced her death.


In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to the following effect:--

In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's letter went thus:


MADAM,--After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honour and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished and refined circle. Those virtues which characterize the young English gentlewoman, those accomplishments which become her birth and station, will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose INDUSTRY and OBEDIENCE have endeared her to her instructors, and whose delightful sweetness of temper has charmed her AGED and her YOUTHFUL companions.

Madam, - After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honour and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their refined circle. Those virtues and accomplishments which characterize the young English gentlewoman will not be found lacking in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose INDUSTRY and OBEDIENCE have endeared her to her instructors, and whose delightful sweetness of temper has charmed her AGED and YOUTHFUL companions.


In music, in dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery and needlework, she will be found to have realized her friends' fondest wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and a careful and undeviating use of the backboard, for four hours daily during the next three years, is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of that dignified DEPORTMENT AND CARRIAGE, so requisite for every young lady of FASHION.

In music, in dancing, in writing, in every variety of needlework, she will realize her friends' fondest wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and an undeviating use of the backboard, for four hours daily during the next three years, is recommended for that dignified DEPORTMENT so requisite for every young lady of FASHION.


In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be found worthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the presence of THE GREAT LEXICOGRAPHER, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs. Chapone. In leaving the Mall, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who has the honour to subscribe herself,

In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be found worthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the presence of THE GREAT LEXICOGRAPHER Dr Johnson. In leaving us, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her head-mistress, who has the honour to subscribe herself,


Madam, Your most obliged humble servant, BARBARA PINKERTON


P.S.--Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly requested that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days. The family of distinction with whom she is engaged, desire to avail themselves of her services as soon as possible.

P.S. Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly requested that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days. The family with whom she is engaged wish to avail themselves of her services as soon as possible.


This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name, and Miss Sedley's, in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's Dictionary--the interesting work which she invariably presented to her scholars, on their departure from the Mall. On the cover was inserted a copy of "Lines addressed to a young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school, at the Mall; by the late revered Doctor Samuel Johnson." In fact, the Lexicographer's name was always on the lips of this majestic woman, and a visit he had paid to her was the cause of her reputation and her fortune.

Next Miss Pinkerton wrote her own name, and Miss Sedley's, in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's Dictionary - the work which she always presented to her scholars on their departure. On the cover was a copy of "Lines addressed to a young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school, by the late revered Doctor Samuel Johnson." In fact, the Lexicographer's name was always on Miss Pinkerton's lips, and a visit he had once paid to her was the cause of her reputation and her fortune.


Being commanded by her elder sister to get "the Dictionary" from the cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book from the receptacle in question. When Miss Pinkerton had finished the inscription in the first, Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid air, handed her the second.

Being commanded by her elder sister to get "the Dictionary" from the cupboard, Miss Jemima had taken out two copies of the book. When Miss Pinkerton had finished writing in the first, Jemima timidly handed her the second.


"For whom is this, Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinkerton, with awful coldness.

"For whom is this?" said Miss Pinkerton, with awful coldness.


"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing over her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister. "For Becky Sharp: she's going too."

"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling and blushing. "She's going too."


"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never venture to take such a liberty in future."

"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are you in your senses? Replace the Dictionary in the closet, and never take such a liberty again."


"Well, sister, it's only two-and-ninepence, and poor Becky will be miserable if she don't get one."


"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," said Miss Pinkerton. And so venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off, exceedingly flurried and nervous.

"Send Miss Amelia Sedley instantly to me," said Miss Pinkerton. Not daring to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off, exceedingly flurried and nervous.


Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of some wealth; whereas Miss Sharp was an articled pupil, for whom Miss Pinkerton had done, as she thought, quite enough, without conferring upon her at parting the high honour of the Dixonary.

Miss Sedley's papa was a wealthy merchant in London; whereas Miss Sharp was an articled pupil, working as an assistant teacher. For her, Miss Pinkerton thought she had done quite enough, without giving her the honour of the Dictionary.


Although schoolmistresses' letters are to be trusted no more nor less than churchyard epitaphs; yet, as it sometimes happens that a person departs this life who is really deserving of all the praises the stone cutter carves over his bones; who IS a good Christian, a good parent, child, wife, or husband; who actually DOES leave a disconsolate family to mourn his loss; so in academies of the male and female sex it occurs every now and then that the pupil is fully worthy of the praises bestowed by the disinterested instructor. Now, Miss Amelia Sedley was a young lady of this singular species; and deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had many charming qualities which that pompous old Minerva of a woman could not see, from the differences of rank and age between her pupil and herself.

Although schoolmistresses' letters are to be trusted no more than churchyard epitaphs, yet sometimes a person is really deserving of all the praises carved on his gravestone; and so in academies, every now and then a pupil is fully worthy of the praises bestowed by their teacher. Miss Amelia Sedley was a young lady of this sort. She deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had many charming qualities which that pompous old woman could not see.


For she could not only sing like a lark, or a Mrs. Billington, and dance like Hillisberg or Parisot; and embroider beautifully; and spell as well as a Dixonary itself; but she had such a kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own, as won the love of everybody who came near her, from Minerva herself down to the poor girl in the scullery, and the one-eyed tart-woman's daughter, who was permitted to vend her wares once a week to the young ladies in the Mall. She had twelve intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four young ladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her; high and mighty Miss Saltire (Lord Dexter's granddaughter) allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss Swartz, the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitt's, on the day Amelia went away, she was in such a passion of tears that they were obliged to send for Dr. Floss, and half tipsify her with salvolatile. Miss Pinkerton's attachment was, as may be supposed from the high position and eminent virtues of that lady, calm and dignified; but Miss Jemima had already whimpered several times at the idea of Amelia's departure; and, but for fear of her sister, would have gone off in downright hysterics, like the heiress (who paid double) of St. Kitt's. Such luxury of grief, however, is only allowed to parlour-boarders. Honest Jemima had all the bills, and the washing, and the mending, and the puddings, and the plate and crockery, and the servants to superintend. But why speak about her? It is probable that we shall not hear of her again from this moment to the end of time, and that when the great filigree iron gates are once closed on her, she and her awful sister will never issue therefrom into this little world of history.

For she could not only sing like a lark, dance, embroider beautifully, and spell as well as a Dictionary; but she had such a kindly, smiling, tender, generous heart, as won the love of everybody who came near her, right down to the poor girl in the scullery. She had twelve intimate friends out of the twenty-four young ladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her; high and mighty Miss Saltire allowed that she was genteel; and as for Miss Swartz, the rich mulatto from St. Kitt's, when Amelia went away, she was in a passion of tears.
Miss Jemima had already whimpered several times at the idea of Amelia's departure; and, but for fear of her sister, would have had downright hysterics. Such luxury of grief, however, is only allowed to parlour-boarders. Honest Jemima had all the bills, and the washing, and the mending, and the puddings, and the crockery, and the servants to superintend. But why speak about her? We shall probably not hear of her again from this moment to the end of time.


But as we are to see a great deal of Amelia, there is no harm in saying, at the outset of our acquaintance, that she was a dear little creature; and a great mercy it is, both in life and in novels, which (and the latter especially) abound in villains of the most sombre sort, that we are to have for a constant companion so guileless and good-natured a person. As she is not a heroine, there is no need to describe her person; indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short than otherwise, and her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a heroine; but her face blushed with rosy health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, and she had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the brightest and honestest good-humour, except indeed when they filled with tears, and that was a great deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a dead canary-bird; or over a mouse, that the cat haply had seized upon; or over the end of a novel, were it ever so stupid; and as for saying an unkind word to her, were any persons hard-hearted enough to do so--why, so much the worse for them. Even Miss Pinkerton, that austere and godlike woman, ceased scolding her after the first time, and though she no more comprehended sensibility than she did Algebra, gave all masters and teachers particular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost gentleness, as harsh treatment was injurious to her.

But as we are to see a great deal of Amelia, there is no harm in saying at the outset that she was a dear little creature; and a great mercy it is, both in life and in novels, to have so guileless and good-natured a companion.
As she is not a heroine, there is no need to describe her looks. Indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short, and her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a heroine; but her face blushed with rosy health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, and her eyes sparkled with bright good-humour, except when they filled with tears, and that was a great deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a dead canary-bird, or the end of a novel, even a stupid one. If anybody were so hard-hearted as to say an unkind word to her, so much the worse for them. Even the austere Miss Pinkerton ceased scolding her after the first time, and gave all the teachers particular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost gentleness.


So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs of laughing and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled how to act. She was glad to go home, and yet most woefully sad at leaving school. For three days before, little Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about like a little dog. She had to make and receive at least fourteen presents--to make fourteen solemn promises of writing every week: "Send my letters under cover to my grandpapa, the Earl of Dexter," said Miss Saltire (who, by the way, was rather shabby). "Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear darling," said the impetuous and woolly-headed, but generous and affectionate Miss Swartz; and the orphan little Laura Martin (who was just in round-hand), took her friend's hand and said, looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, when I write to you I shall call you Mamma." All which details, I have no doubt, JONES, who reads this book at his Club, will pronounce to be excessively foolish, trivial, twaddling, and ultra-sentimental. Yes; I can see Jones at this minute (rather flushed with his joint of mutton and half pint of wine), taking out his pencil and scoring under the words "foolish, twaddling," &c., and adding to them his own remark of "QUITE TRUE." Well, he is a lofty man of genius, and admires the great and heroic in life and novels; and so had better take warning and go elsewhere.

When the day of departure came, Miss Sedley was glad to go home, and yet woefully sad at leaving school. For three days before, little Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about like a dog. She had to make and receive fourteen presents - to make fourteen solemn promises of writing every week.
"Write every day, you dear darling," said the impetuous but affectionate Miss Swartz; and Laura Martin took her hand and said wistfully, "Amelia, when I write to you I shall call you Mamma." All of which details, no doubt Jones, who reads this book at his Club, will pronounce to be excessively foolish, trivial, twaddling, and ultra-sentimental. Well, he is a lofty man of genius, and admires the great and heroic; and so he had better take warning and go elsewhere.


Well, then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, and bonnet-boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. Sambo in the carriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old cow's-skin trunk with Miss Sharp's card neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered by Sambo with a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding sneer--the hour for parting came; and the grief of that moment was considerably lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton addressed to her pupil. Not that the parting speech caused Amelia to philosophise, or that it armed her in any way with a calmness, the result of argument; but it was intolerably dull, pompous, and tedious; and having the fear of her schoolmistress greatly before her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture, in her presence, to give way to any ebullitions of private grief. A seed-cake and a bottle of wine were produced in the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions of the visits of parents, and these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley was at liberty to depart.

Well, then. Miss Sedley's flowers, presents, trunks, and bonnet-boxes were arranged by Mr. Sambo in the carriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old trunk with Miss Sharp's card nailed to it. The grief of parting was considerably lessened by the speech which Miss Pinkerton addressed to her pupil, and which was intolerably dull. A seed-cake and a bottle of wine were produced in the drawing-room; and after these refreshments, Miss Sedley was at liberty to depart.


"You'll go in and say good-by to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said Miss Jemima to a young lady of whom nobody took any notice, and who was coming downstairs with her own bandbox.

"You'll go in and say goodbye to Miss Pinkerton, Becky?" said Miss Jemima to a young lady of whom nobody took any notice, who was coming downstairs with her own bandbox.


"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of Miss Jemima; and the latter having knocked at the door, and receiving permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French, and with a perfect accent, "Mademoiselle, je viens vous faire mes adieux."

"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, much to the wonder of Miss Jemima. Miss Sharp entered Miss Pinkerton's room in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French, with a perfect accent, "Mademoiselle, je viens vous faire mes adieux."


Miss Pinkerton did not understand French; she only directed those who did: but biting her lips and throwing up her venerable and Roman-nosed head (on the top of which figured a large and solemn turban), she said, "Miss Sharp, I wish you a good morning." As the Hammersmith Semiramis spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu, and to give Miss Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand which was left out for that purpose.

Miss Pinkerton did not understand French; but throwing up her turbaned head, she said, "Miss Sharp, I wish you a good morning." She majestically waved one hand, both by way of adieu, and to allow Miss Sharp an opportunity of shaking it.


Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile and bow, and quite declined to accept the proffered honour; on which Semiramis tossed up her turban more indignantly than ever. In fact, it was a little battle between the young lady and the old one, and the latter was worsted. "Heaven bless you, my child," said she, embracing Amelia, and scowling the while over the girl's shoulder at Miss Sharp. "Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in great alarm, and the drawing-room door closed upon them for ever.

Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile and bow, and Miss Pinkerton tossed up her turban more indignantly than ever. It was a little battle between the young lady and the old one, and the latter was worsted.
"Heaven bless you, my child," said she, embracing Amelia, and scowling over the girl's shoulder at Miss Sharp.
"Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in alarm, and the drawing-room door closed upon them.


Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All the servants were there in the hall--all the dear friends--all the young ladies--the dancing-master who had just arrived; and there was such a scuffling, and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical YOOPS of Miss Swartz, the parlour-boarder, from her room, as no pen can depict, and as the tender heart would fain pass over. The embracing was over; they parted--that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving HER.

Then came the parting with the young ladies. There was such a hugging, and kissing, and crying, as no pen can depict. The embracing was over; they parted - that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before. Nobody cried at leaving her.


Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door on his young weeping mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage. "Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.

Sambo slammed the carriage door on his young weeping mistress, and sprang up behind the carriage.
"Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.


"It's some sandwiches, my dear," said she to Amelia. "You may be hungry, you know; and Becky, Becky Sharp, here's a book for you that my sister--that is, I--Johnson's Dixonary, you know; you mustn't leave us without that. Good-by. Drive on, coachman. God bless you!"

"It's some sandwiches, my dear," said she to Amelia. "You may be hungry, you know; and Becky Sharp, here's a book for you that my sister - that is, I - Johnson's Dictionary, you know; you mustn't leave us without that. Good-bye. God bless you!"


And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion.


But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp put her pale face out of the window and actually flung the book back into the garden.

But, lo! as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp put her pale face out of the window and flung the book back into the garden.


This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. "Well, I never"--said she--"what an audacious"--Emotion prevented her from completing either sentence. The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang for the dancing lesson. The world is before the two young ladies; and so, farewell to Chiswick Mall.

Jemima almost fainted with terror. "Well, I never," said she; "what an audacious-" Emotion prevented her from finishing.
The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed. The world is before the two young ladies; and so, farewell to Chiswick Mall.


Our Major had rendered himself so popular on board the Ramchunder that when he and Mr. Sedley descended into the welcome shore-boat which was to take them from the ship, the whole crew, men and officers, the great Captain Bragg himself leading off, gave three cheers for Major Dobbin, who blushed very much and ducked his head in token of thanks. Jos, who very likely thought the cheers were for himself, took off his gold-laced cap and waved it majestically to his friends, and they were pulled to shore and landed with great dignity at the pier, whence they proceeded to the Royal George Hotel.

Our Major had made himself so popular on board that when he and Mr. Sedley left the ship, the whole crew gave three cheers for Major Dobbin, who blushed and ducked his head in thanks. Jos, thinking the cheers were for himself, took off his gold-laced cap and waved it majestically. They landed with great dignity at the pier, and proceeded to the Royal George Hotel.


Although the sight of that magnificent round of beef, and the silver tankard suggestive of real British home-brewed ale and porter, which perennially greet the eyes of the traveller returning from foreign parts who enters the coffee-room of the George, are so invigorating and delightful that a man entering such a comfortable snug homely English inn might well like to stop some days there, yet Dobbin began to talk about a post-chaise instantly, and was no sooner at Southampton than he wished to be on the road to London. Jos, however, would not hear of moving that evening. Why was he to pass a night in a post-chaise instead of a great large undulating downy feather-bed which was there ready to replace the horrid little narrow crib in which the portly Bengal gentleman had been confined during the voyage? He could not think of moving till his baggage was cleared, or of travelling until he could do so with his chillum. So the Major was forced to wait over that night, and dispatched a letter to his family announcing his arrival, entreating from Jos a promise to write to his own friends. Jos promised, but didn't keep his promise. The Captain, the surgeon, and one or two passengers came and dined with our two gentlemen at the inn, Jos exerting himself in a sumptuous way in ordering the dinner and promising to go to town the next day with the Major. The landlord said it did his eyes good to see Mr. Sedley take off his first pint of porter. If I had time and dared to enter into digressions, I would write a chapter about that first pint of porter drunk upon English ground. Ah, how good it is! It is worth-while to leave home for a year, just to enjoy that one draught.

There, although the sight of a magnificent round of beef and a silver tankard of real British home-brewed ale greeted their delighted eyes, yet Dobbin began instantly to talk about a post-chaise, and wished to be on the road to London. Jos, however, would not hear of moving that evening. Why pass a night in a post-chaise instead of a downy feather-bed?
So the Major was forced to wait over that night, and wrote to his family announcing his arrival. Jos promised to write to his own family, but didn't. He ordered a sumptuous dinner; the landlord said it did him good to see Mr. Sedley drink off his first pint of porter.


Major Dobbin made his appearance the next morning very neatly shaved and dressed, according to his wont. Indeed, it was so early in the morning that nobody was up in the house except that wonderful Boots of an inn who never seems to want sleep; and the Major could hear the snores of the various inmates of the house roaring through the corridors as he creaked about in those dim passages. Then the sleepless Boots went shirking round from door to door, gathering up at each the Bluchers, Wellingtons, Oxonians, which stood outside. Then Jos's native servant arose and began to get ready his master's ponderous dressing apparatus and prepare his hookah; then the maidservants got up, and meeting the dark man in the passages, shrieked, and mistook him for the devil. He and Dobbin stumbled over their pails in the passages as they were scouring the decks of the Royal George. When the first unshorn waiter appeared and unbarred the door of the inn, the Major thought that the time for departure was arrived, and ordered a post-chaise to be fetched instantly, that they might set off.

Next morning Major Dobbin was neatly shaved and dressed so early that nobody was up in the house except the Boots. The Major could hear snores roaring through the corridors as he creaked about. The sleepless Boots went from door to door, gathering up the footwear which stood outside each one. Then Jos's native servant arose and began to get ready his master's ponderous dressing apparatus and prepare his hookah; then the maidservants got up. When the first waiter appeared and unbarred the door of the inn, the Major ordered a post-chaise to be fetched instantly, so that they might set off.


He then directed his steps to Mr. Sedley's room and opened the curtains of the great large family bed wherein Mr. Jos was snoring. "Come, up! Sedley," the Major said, "it's time to be off; the chaise will be at the door in half an hour."

He went to Mr. Sedley's room, saying, "Wake up, Sedley! the chaise will be at the door in half an hour."


Jos growled from under the counterpane to know what the time was; but when he at last extorted from the blushing Major (who never told fibs, however they might be to his advantage) what was the real hour of the morning, he broke out into a volley of bad language, which we will not repeat here, but by which he gave Dobbin to understand that he would jeopardy his soul if he got up at that moment, that the Major might go and be hanged, that he would not travel with Dobbin, and that it was most unkind and ungentlemanlike to disturb a man out of his sleep in that way; on which the discomfited Major was obliged to retreat, leaving Jos to resume his interrupted slumbers.

Jos growled from under the counterpane, and gave Dobbin to understand that he might go and be hanged, that Jos would not travel with him, and that it was most ungentlemanlike to disturb a man out of his sleep in that way; on which the Major was obliged to retreat.


The chaise came up presently, and the Major would wait no longer.

The chaise soon came up, and he could wait no longer.


If he had been an English nobleman travelling on a pleasure tour, or a newspaper courier bearing dispatches (government messages are generally carried much more quietly), he could not have travelled more quickly. The post-boys wondered at the fees he flung amongst them. How happy and green the country looked as the chaise whirled rapidly from mile-stone to mile-stone, through neat country towns where landlords came out to welcome him with smiles and bows; by pretty roadside inns, where the signs hung on the elms, and horses and waggoners were drinking under the chequered shadow of the trees; by old halls and parks; rustic hamlets clustered round ancient grey churches--and through the charming friendly English landscape. Is there any in the world like it? To a traveller returning home it looks so kind--it seems to shake hands with you as you pass through it. Well, Major Dobbin passed through all this from Southampton to London, and without noting much beyond the milestones along the road. You see he was so eager to see his parents at Camberwell.

If he had been a newspaper courier bearing dispatches, he could not have travelled more quickly. The post-boys wondered at the fees he flung amongst them. How happy and green the country looked as the chaise whirled rapidly from mile-stone to mile-stone; past pretty roadside inns, where the signs hung on the elms, and horses and waggoners were drinking under the trees; by old halls and parks; by rustic hamlets clustered round ancient grey churches - through the charming friendly English landscape. Is there any in the world like it? Well, Major Dobbin passed through all this without noticing it.


He grudged the time lost between Piccadilly and his old haunt at the Slaughters', whither he drove faithfully. Long years had passed since he saw it last, since he and George, as young men, had enjoyed many a feast, and held many a revel there. He had now passed into the stage of old-fellow-hood. His hair was grizzled, and many a passion and feeling of his youth had grown grey in that interval. There, however, stood the old waiter at the door, in the same greasy black suit, with the same double chin and flaccid face, with the same huge bunch of seals at his fob, rattling his money in his pockets as before, and receiving the Major as if he had gone away only a week ago. "Put the Major's things in twenty-three, that's his room," John said, exhibiting not the least surprise. "Roast fowl for your dinner, I suppose. You ain't got married? They said you was married--the Scotch surgeon of yours was here. No, it was Captain Humby of the thirty-third, as was quartered with the --th in Injee. Like any warm water? What do you come in a chay for--ain't the coach good enough?" And with this, the faithful waiter, who knew and remembered every officer who used the house, and with whom ten years were but as yesterday, led the way up to Dobbin's old room, where stood the great moreen bed, and the shabby carpet, a thought more dingy, and all the old black furniture covered with faded chintz, just as the Major recollected them in his youth.

He drove first to his old haunt at the Slaughters. Long years had passed since he saw it last; since he and George, as young men, had enjoyed many a feast there. However, the old waiter stood at the door in the same greasy black suit, receiving the Major as if he had gone away only a week ago.
"Put the Major's things in twenty-three, that's his room," said John. "Roast fowl for your dinner, I suppose. You ain't got married? Like any warm water?" And with this, the faithful waiter, with whom ten years were but as yesterday, led the way up to Dobbin's old room.


He remembered George pacing up and down the room, and biting his nails, and swearing that the Governor must come round, and that if he didn't, he didn't care a straw, on the day before he was married. He could fancy him walking in, banging the door of Dobbin's room, and his own hard by--

The Major remembered George pacing up and down in here, and biting his nails, the day before he was married.


"You ain't got young," John said, calmly surveying his friend of former days.


Dobbin laughed. "Ten years and a fever don't make a man young, John," he said. "It is you that are always young--no, you are always old."


"What became of Captain Osborne's widow?" John said. "Fine young fellow that. Lord, how he used to spend his money. He never came back after that day he was marched from here. He owes me three pound at this minute. Look here, I have it in my book. 'April 10, 1815, Captain Osborne: 3 pounds.' I wonder whether his father would pay me," and so saying, John of the Slaughters' pulled out the very morocco pocket-book in which he had noted his loan to the Captain, upon a greasy faded page still extant, with many other scrawled memoranda regarding the bygone frequenters of the house.

"What became of Captain Osborne's widow?" John said. "Fine young fellow, that. Lord, how he used to spend his money. He owes me three pound at this minute."


Having inducted his customer into the room, John retired with perfect calmness; and Major Dobbin, not without a blush and a grin at his own absurdity, chose out of his kit the very smartest and most becoming civil costume he possessed, and laughed at his own tanned face and grey hair, as he surveyed them in the dreary little toilet-glass on the dressing-table.

John then retired; and Major Dobbin, with a grin at his own absurdity, chose the very smartest costume he possessed, and laughed at his own tanned face and grey hair in the mirror.


"I'm glad old John didn't forget me," he thought. "She'll know me, too, I hope." And he sallied out of the inn, bending his steps once more in the direction of Brompton.

"I'm glad old John didn't forget me," he thought. "She'll know me, too, I hope." And he left the inn, making towards Brompton.


Every minute incident of his last meeting with Amelia was present to the constant man's mind as he walked towards her house. The arch and the Achilles statue were up since he had last been in Piccadilly; a hundred changes had occurred which his eye and mind vaguely noted. He began to tremble as he walked up the lane from Brompton, that well-remembered lane leading to the street where she lived. Was she going to be married or not? If he were to meet her with the little boy--Good God, what should he do? He saw a woman coming to him with a child of five years old--was that she? He began to shake at the mere possibility. When he came up to the row of houses, at last, where she lived, and to the gate, he caught hold of it and paused. He might have heard the thumping of his own heart. "May God Almighty bless her, whatever has happened," he thought to himself. "Psha! she may be gone from here," he said and went in through the gate.

Every minute of his last meeting with Amelia was in his mind as he walked towards her house. A hundred changes had occurred which he vaguely noticed. He began to tremble as he walked up the well-remembered lane from Brompton to the street where she lived.
Was she going to be married or not? If he were to meet her with the little boy - what should he do? He saw a woman coming towards him with a child of five - was that she? He began to shake at the mere possibility. When he came to her gate at last, he caught hold of it and paused, his heart thumping.
"May God bless her, whatever has happened," he thought. "Psha! she may be gone from here." He went in through the gate.


The window of the parlour which she used to occupy was open, and there were no inmates in the room. The Major thought he recognized the piano, though, with the picture over it, as it used to be in former days, and his perturbations were renewed. Mr. Clapp's brass plate was still on the door, at the knocker of which Dobbin performed a summons.

The parlour window was open, and there was no-one in the room. The Major thought he recognized the piano, though. He knocked on the door.


A buxom-looking lass of sixteen, with bright eyes and purple cheeks, came to answer the knock and looked hard at the Major as he leant back against the little porch.

A buxom-looking lass of sixteen, with bright eyes, answered the knock and looked hard at the Major.


He was as pale as a ghost and could hardly falter out the words--"Does Mrs. Osborne live here?"

He was as pale as a ghost and could hardly falter out - "Does Mrs. Osborne live here?"


She looked him hard in the face for a moment--and then turning white too--said, "Lord bless me--it's Major Dobbin." She held out both her hands shaking--"Don't you remember me?" she said. "I used to call you Major Sugarplums." On which, and I believe it was for the first time that he ever so conducted himself in his life, the Major took the girl in his arms and kissed her. She began to laugh and cry hysterically, and calling out "Ma, Pa!" with all her voice, brought up those worthy people, who had already been surveying the Major from the casement of the ornamental kitchen, and were astonished to find their daughter in the little passage in the embrace of a great tall man in a blue frock-coat and white duck trousers.

"Lord bless me - it's Major Dobbin." She held out both her hands. "Don't you remember me? Polly Clapp. I used to call you Major Sugarplums."
On which, and I believe it was for the first time that he ever so conducted himself in his life, the Major took the girl in his arms and kissed her. She began to laugh and cry hysterically, and calling out "Ma, Pa!" brought up those worthy people, who were astonished to find their daughter in the little passage in the embrace of a great tall man in a blue frock-coat.


"I'm an old friend," he said--not without blushing though. "Don't you remember me, Mrs. Clapp, and those good cakes you used to make for tea? Don't you recollect me, Clapp? I'm George's godfather, and just come back from India." A great shaking of hands ensued--Mrs. Clapp was greatly affected and delighted; she called upon heaven to interpose a vast many times in that passage.

"I'm an old friend," he said, blushing. "Don't you remember me, Mrs. Clapp, and those good cakes you used to make for tea? I'm George's godfather, just come back from India." A great shaking of hands followed.


The landlord and landlady of the house led the worthy Major into the Sedleys' room (whereof he remembered every single article of furniture, from the old brass ornamented piano, once a natty little instrument, Stothard maker, to the screens and the alabaster miniature tombstone, in the midst of which ticked Mr. Sedley's gold watch), and there, as he sat down in the lodger's vacant arm-chair, the father, the mother, and the daughter, with a thousand ejaculatory breaks in the narrative, informed Major Dobbin of what we know already, but of particulars in Amelia's history of which he was not aware--namely of Mrs. Sedley's death, of George's reconcilement with his grandfather Osborne, of the way in which the widow took on at leaving him, and of other particulars of her life. Twice or thrice he was going to ask about the marriage question, but his heart failed him. He did not care to lay it bare to these people. Finally, he was informed that Mrs. O. was gone to walk with her pa in Kensington Gardens, whither she always went with the old gentleman (who was very weak and peevish now, and led her a sad life, though she behaved to him like an angel, to be sure), of a fine afternoon, after dinner.

The landlord and landlady led the worthy Major into the Sedleys' room (whereof he remembered every single article of furniture), and there, as he sat down, they informed Major Dobbin of events in Amelia's history of which he was not aware - namely Mrs. Sedley's death, George's reconcilement with his grandfather Osborne, the widow's sorrow at leaving him, and other details. He was going to ask about the marriage question, but his heart failed him. Finally, he was informed that Mrs. O. was gone to walk in Kensington Gardens with her pa, who was very weak and peevish now, and led her a sad life, though she behaved to him like an angel.


"I'm very much pressed for time," the Major said, "and have business to-night of importance. I should like to see Mrs. Osborne tho'. Suppose Miss Polly would come with me and show me the way?"

"I'm very much pressed for time," the Major said, "but I should like to see Mrs. Osborne. Suppose Miss Polly would show me the way?"


Miss Polly was charmed and astonished at this proposal. She knew the way. She would show Major Dobbin. She had often been with Mr. Sedley when Mrs. O. was gone--was gone Russell Square way--and knew the bench where he liked to sit. She bounced away to her apartment and appeared presently in her best bonnet and her mamma's yellow shawl and large pebble brooch, of which she assumed the loan in order to make herself a worthy companion for the Major.

Miss Polly was charmed. She bounced away to her apartment and appeared presently in her best bonnet and her mamma's yellow shawl to make herself a worthy companion for the Major.


That officer, then, in his blue frock-coat and buckskin gloves, gave the young lady his arm, and they walked away very gaily. He was glad to have a friend at hand for the scene which he dreaded somehow. He asked a thousand more questions from his companion about Amelia: his kind heart grieved to think that she should have had to part with her son. How did she bear it? Did she see him often? Was Mr. Sedley pretty comfortable now in a worldly point of view? Polly answered all these questions of Major Sugarplums to the very best of her power.

He gave the young lady his arm, and they walked away very gaily. He was glad to have a friend at hand for the scene which he dreaded somehow. He asked a thousand more questions about Amelia, and Polly answered Major Sugarplums to the very best of her power.


And in the midst of their walk an incident occurred which, though very simple in its nature, was productive of the greatest delight to Major Dobbin. A pale young man with feeble whiskers and a stiff white neckcloth came walking down the lane, en sandwich--having a lady, that is, on each arm. One was a tall and commanding middle-aged female, with features and a complexion similar to those of the clergyman of the Church of England by whose side she marched, and the other a stunted little woman with a dark face, ornamented by a fine new bonnet and white ribbons, and in a smart pelisse, with a rich gold watch in the midst of her person. The gentleman, pinioned as he was by these two ladies, carried further a parasol, shawl, and basket, so that his arms were entirely engaged, and of course he was unable to touch his hat in acknowledgement of the curtsey with which Miss Mary Clapp greeted him.

In the midst of their walk an incident occurred which, though very simple, gave the Major great delight. A pale young man with feeble whiskers came walking down the lane with a lady on each arm. One was a tall and commanding middle-aged female, and the other a stunted little woman with a dark face. The gentleman carried a parasol, shawl, and basket, so that his arms were entirely engaged, and he was unable to touch his hat when Miss Polly Clapp greeted him.


He merely bowed his head in reply to her salutation, which the two ladies returned with a patronizing air, and at the same time looking severely at the individual in the blue coat and bamboo cane who accompanied Miss Polly.

He merely bowed his head, while the two ladies looked severe.


"Who's that?" asked the Major, amused by the group, and after he had made way for the three to pass up the lane. Mary looked at him rather roguishly.

"Who's that?" asked the Major, amused by the group. Polly looked at him rather roguishly.


"That is our curate, the Reverend Mr. Binny (a twitch from Major Dobbin), and his sister Miss B. Lord bless us, how she did use to worret us at Sunday-school; and the other lady, the little one with a cast in her eye and the handsome watch, is Mrs. Binny--Miss Grits that was; her pa was a grocer, and kept the Little Original Gold Tea Pot in Kensington Gravel Pits. They were married last month, and are just come back from Margate. She's five thousand pound to her fortune; but her and Miss B., who made the match, have quarrelled already."

"That is our curate, the Reverend Mr. Binny" (a twitch from Major Dobbin) "and his sister Miss B; and the other lady, the little one with a cast in her eye, is Mrs. Binny - Miss Grits that was; her pa was a grocer, and they were married last month, but her and Miss B. have quarrelled already."


If the Major had twitched before, he started now, and slapped the bamboo on the ground with an emphasis which made Miss Clapp cry, "Law," and laugh too. He stood for a moment, silent, with open mouth, looking after the retreating young couple, while Miss Mary told their history; but he did not hear beyond the announcement of the reverend gentleman's marriage; his head was swimming with felicity. After this rencontre he began to walk double quick towards the place of his destination--and yet they were too soon (for he was in a great tremor at the idea of a meeting for which he had been longing any time these ten years)--through the Brompton lanes, and entering at the little old portal in Kensington Garden wall.

The Major stood silent while Miss Polly told this history; but his head was swimming with happiness. He began to walk double quick towards his destination - yet he was in a great tremor as they entered the old portal in Kensington Garden wall.


"There they are," said Miss Polly, and she felt him again start back on her arm. She was a confidante at once of the whole business. She knew the story as well as if she had read it in one of her favourite novel-books--Fatherless Fanny, or the Scottish Chiefs.

"There they are," said Miss Polly, and she felt him again start back on her arm. She understood the whole business.


"Suppose you were to run on and tell her," the Major said. Polly ran forward, her yellow shawl streaming in the breeze.

"Suppose you run on and tell her," the Major said. Polly ran forward, her yellow shawl streaming in the breeze.


Old Sedley was seated on a bench, his handkerchief placed over his knees, prattling away, according to his wont, with some old story about old times to which Amelia had listened and awarded a patient smile many a time before. She could of late think of her own affairs, and smile or make other marks of recognition of her father's stories, scarcely hearing a word of the old man's tales. As Mary came bouncing along, and Amelia caught sight of her, she started up from her bench. Her first thought was that something had happened to Georgy, but the sight of the messenger's eager and happy face dissipated that fear in the timorous mother's bosom.

Old Sedley was seated on a bench, prattling away as usual, while Amelia listened with a patient smile, scarcely hearing a word. As Polly came bouncing along, Amelia started up. Her first thought was that something had happened to Georgy, but the sight of the messenger's eager face dissipated that fear.


"News! News!" cried the emissary of Major Dobbin. "He's come! He's come!"


"Who is come?" said Emmy, still thinking of her son.


"Look there," answered Miss Clapp, turning round and pointing; in which direction Amelia looking, saw Dobbin's lean figure and long shadow stalking across the grass. Amelia started in her turn, blushed up, and, of course, began to cry. At all this simple little creature's fetes, the grandes eaux were accustomed to play. He looked at her--oh, how fondly--as she came running towards him, her hands before her, ready to give them to him. She wasn't changed. She was a little pale, a little stouter in figure. Her eyes were the same, the kind trustful eyes. There were scarce three lines of silver in her soft brown hair. She gave him both her hands as she looked up flushing and smiling through her tears into his honest homely face. He took the two little hands between his two and held them there. He was speechless for a moment. Why did he not take her in his arms and swear that he would never leave her? She must have yielded: she could not but have obeyed him.

"Look there," answered Miss Clapp, pointing; and Amelia saw Dobbin's lean figure and long shadow stalking across the grass. Amelia started in her turn, blushed up, and, of course, began to cry. He looked at her - oh, how fondly - as she came running towards him, her hands held out to him. She wasn't changed. She was a little pale, a little stouter. Her eyes were the same kind trustful eyes. There were scarce three lines of silver in her soft brown hair.
She gave him both her hands as she looked up flushing and smiling through her tears into his honest homely face. He took the two little hands between his own, speechless for a moment. Why did he not take her in his arms and swear that he would never leave her? She must have yielded.


"I--I've another arrival to announce," he said after a pause.

"I - I've another arrival to announce," he said after a pause.


"Mrs. Dobbin?" Amelia said, making a movement back--why didn't he speak?

"Mrs. Dobbin?" Amelia said, making a movement back. Why didn't he declare himself?


"No," he said, letting her hands go: "Who has told you those lies? I mean, your brother Jos came in the same ship with me, and is come home to make you all happy."

"No," he said, letting her hands go: "Who has told you those lies? I mean your brother Jos, who is come home with me to make you all happy."


"Papa, Papa!" Emmy cried out, "here are news! My brother is in England. He is come to take care of you. Here is Major Dobbin."

"Papa, Papa!" Emmy cried, "My brother is in England! He is come to take care of you. Here is Major Dobbin."


Mr. Sedley started up, shaking a great deal and gathering up his thoughts. Then he stepped forward and made an old-fashioned bow to the Major, whom he called Mr. Dobbin, and hoped his worthy father, Sir William, was quite well. He proposed to call upon Sir William, who had done him the honour of a visit a short time ago. Sir William had not called upon the old gentleman for eight years--it was that visit he was thinking of returning.

Mr. Sedley stepped forward and made an old-fashioned bow to the Major, and hoped his worthy father, Sir William, was quite well. He proposed to call upon Sir William, who had visited him a short time ago. Sir William had not called upon the old gentleman for eight years.


"He is very much shaken," Emmy whispered as Dobbin went up and cordially shook hands with the old man.

"He is very much shaken," Emmy whispered as Dobbin shook hands with the old man.


Although he had such particular business in London that evening, the Major consented to forego it upon Mr. Sedley's invitation to him to come home and partake of tea. Amelia put her arm under that of her young friend with the yellow shawl and headed the party on their return homewards, so that Mr. Sedley fell to Dobbin's share. The old man walked very slowly and told a number of ancient histories about himself and his poor Bessy, his former prosperity, and his bankruptcy. His thoughts, as is usual with failing old men, were quite in former times. The present, with the exception of the one catastrophe which he felt, he knew little about. The Major was glad to let him talk on. His eyes were fixed upon the figure in front of him--the dear little figure always present to his imagination and in his prayers, and visiting his dreams wakeful or slumbering.

Although he had such particular business in London that evening, the Major took up Mr. Sedley's invitation to come home for tea. Amelia put her arm under Polly's on their return home, so that Mr. Sedley fell to Dobbin's share. The old man walked very slowly and told a number of ancient histories about himself and his former prosperity. The Major was glad to let him talk on. His eyes were fixed upon the figure in front of him - the dear little figure always present in his thoughts and dreams.


Amelia was very happy, smiling, and active all that evening, performing her duties as hostess of the little entertainment with the utmost grace and propriety, as Dobbin thought. His eyes followed her about as they sat in the twilight. How many a time had he longed for that moment and thought of her far away under hot winds and in weary marches, gentle and happy, kindly ministering to the wants of old age, and decorating poverty with sweet submission--as he saw her now. I do not say that his taste was the highest, or that it is the duty of great intellects to be content with a bread-and-butter paradise, such as sufficed our simple old friend; but his desires were of this sort, whether for good or bad, and, with Amelia to help him, he was as ready to drink as many cups of tea as Doctor Johnson.

Amelia was very happy, smiling and active all that evening, performing her duties as hostess with the utmost grace, Dobbin thought. His eyes followed her about as they sat in the twilight. How many a time had he longed for that moment, and thought of her far away under hot winds and in weary marches, gentle and happy as he saw her now.
With Amelia to help him, he was ready to drink as many cups of tea as Doctor Johnson, and


Amelia seeing this propensity, laughingly encouraged it and looked exceedingly roguish as she administered to him cup after cup. It is true she did not know that the Major had had no dinner and that the cloth was laid for him at the Slaughters', and a plate laid thereon to mark that the table was retained, in that very box in which the Major and George had sat many a time carousing, when she was a child just come home from Miss Pinkerton's school.

Amelia laughingly poured him cup after cup. She did not know that the Major had had no dinner and that the table was laid for him at the Slaughters'.


The first thing Mrs. Osborne showed the Major was Georgy's miniature, for which she ran upstairs on her arrival at home. It was not half handsome enough of course for the boy, but wasn't it noble of him to think of bringing it to his mother? Whilst her papa was awake she did not talk much about Georgy. To hear about Mr. Osborne and Russell Square was not agreeable to the old man, who very likely was unconscious that he had been living for some months past mainly on the bounty of his richer rival, and lost his temper if allusion was made to the other.

The first thing Mrs. Osborne had showed the Major was Georgy's miniature. It was not half handsome enough, of course, but wasn't it noble of Georgy to think of it for her? Whilst her papa was awake she did not talk much about Georgy, for old Sedley did not like to hear about Mr. Osborne and Russell Square. He did now know that for some months he had been living on his rival's bounty, and lost his temper if Osborne was mentioned.


Dobbin told him all, and a little more perhaps than all, that had happened on board the Ramchunder, and exaggerated Jos's benevolent dispositions towards his father and resolution to make him comfortable in his old days. The truth is that during the voyage the Major had impressed this duty most strongly upon his fellow-passenger and extorted promises from him that he would take charge of his sister and her child. He soothed Jos's irritation with regard to the bills which the old gentleman had drawn upon him, gave a laughing account of his own sufferings on the same score and of the famous consignment of wine with which the old man had favoured him, and brought Mr. Jos, who was by no means an ill-natured person when well-pleased and moderately flattered, to a very good state of feeling regarding his relatives in Europe.

Dobbin told them all that had happened on board the ship, and exaggerated Jos's benevolent wishes for his father. The truth is that during the voyage the Major had impressed this duty most strongly upon his fellow-passenger, soothing Jos's irritation about the bills which the old gentleman had drawn upon him, and bringing Mr. Jos to a good state of feeling about his relatives.


And in fine I am ashamed to say that the Major stretched the truth so far as to tell old Mr. Sedley that it was mainly a desire to see his parent which brought Jos once more to Europe.

The Major stretched the truth so far as to tell old Mr. Sedley that it was mainly a desire to see his father which brought Jos home.


At his accustomed hour Mr. Sedley began to doze in his chair, and then it was Amelia's opportunity to commence her conversation, which she did with great eagerness--it related exclusively to Georgy. She did not talk at all about her own sufferings at breaking from him, for indeed, this worthy woman, though she was half-killed by the separation from the child, yet thought it was very wicked in her to repine at losing him; but everything concerning him, his virtues, talents, and prospects, she poured out. She described his angelic beauty; narrated a hundred instances of his generosity and greatness of mind whilst living with her; how a Royal Duchess had stopped and admired him in Kensington Gardens; how splendidly he was cared for now, and how he had a groom and a pony; what quickness and cleverness he had, and what a prodigiously well-read and delightful person the Reverend Lawrence Veal was, George's master. "He knows EVERYTHING," Amelia said. "He has the most delightful parties. You who are so learned yourself, and have read so much, and are so clever and accomplished--don't shake your head and say no--HE always used to say you were--you will be charmed with Mr. Veal's parties. The last Tuesday in every month. He says there is no place in the bar or the senate that Georgy may not aspire to. Look here," and she went to the piano-drawer and drew out a theme of Georgy's composition. This great effort of genius, which is still in the possession of George's mother, is as follows:

When Mr. Sedley began to doze in his chair, it was Amelia's opportunity to talk, which she did with great eagerness - all about Georgy. She did not talk at all about her own sufferings; but everything concerning him, his virtues, talents, and prospects, she poured out. She described his angelic beauty; a hundred instances of his generosity; how a Royal Duchess had stopped and admired him in Kensington Gardens; how splendidly he was cared for now, with a groom and a pony; how clever he was, and what a well-read teacher he had in the Reverend Veal.
"He knows everything," Amelia said. "He has the most delightful parties. You who are so learned yourself - don't shake your head - he always used to say you were - you will be charmed with Mr. Veal's parties. He says there is no place that Georgy may not aspire to. Look here," and she went to the piano-drawer and took out a composition by Georgy, as follows:


On Selfishness--Of all the vices which degrade the human character, Selfishness is the most odious and contemptible. An undue love of Self leads to the most monstrous crimes and occasions the greatest misfortunes both in States and Families. As a selfish man will impoverish his family and often bring them to ruin, so a selfish king brings ruin on his people and often plunges them into war.

On Selfishness - Of all the vices which degrade the human character, Selfishness is the most odious and contemptible. An undue love of Self leads to the most monstrous crimes and occasions the greatest misfortunes both in States and Families. As a selfish man will impoverish his family and often bring them to ruin, so a selfish king brings ruin on his people and often plunges them into war.


Example: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer, occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks--muri Achaiois alge etheke--(Hom. Il. A. 2). The selfishness of the late Napoleon Bonaparte occasioned innumerable wars in Europe and caused him to perish, himself, in a miserable island--that of Saint Helena in the Atlantic Ocean.

Example: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer, occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks - - (Hom. Il. A. 2). The selfishness of the late Napoleon Bonaparte occasioned wars in Europe and caused him to perish himself, in the miserable island of Saint Helena in the Atlantic Ocean.


We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own interest and ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others as well as our own.


George S. Osborne Athene House, 24 April, 1827


"Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting Greek too, at his age," the delighted mother said. "Oh, William," she added, holding out her hand to the Major, "what a treasure Heaven has given me in that boy! He is the comfort of my life--and he is the image of--of him that's gone!"

"Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting Greek, at his age," the delighted mother said. "What a treasure Heaven has given me! He is the comfort of my life - and the image of - of him that's gone!"


"Ought I to be angry with her for being faithful to him?" William thought. "Ought I to be jealous of my friend in the grave, or hurt that such a heart as Amelia's can love only once and for ever? Oh, George, George, how little you knew the prize you had, though." This sentiment passed rapidly through William's mind as he was holding Amelia's hand, whilst the handkerchief was veiling her eyes.

"Ought I to be angry with her for being faithful to him?" William thought. "Ought I to be jealous of my friend in the grave, or feel hurt that Amelia's heart can love only once and forever? Oh, George, how little you knew the prize you had."


"Dear friend," she said, pressing the hand which held hers, "how good, how kind you always have been to me! See! Papa is stirring. You will go and see Georgy tomorrow, won't you?"

"Dear friend," she said, pressing his hand, "how good you have always been to me! Papa is stirring. You will go and see Georgy tomorrow, won't you?"


"Not to-morrow," said poor old Dobbin. "I have business." He did not like to own that he had not as yet been to his parents' and his dear sister Anne--a remissness for which I am sure every well-regulated person will blame the Major. And presently he took his leave, leaving his address behind him for Jos, against the latter's arrival. And so the first day was over, and he had seen her.

"Not tomorrow," said poor Dobbin. "I have business." He had not yet been to visit his parents and his sisters. Presently he took his leave; and so the first day was over, and he had seen her.


When he got back to the Slaughters', the roast fowl was of course cold, in which condition he ate it for supper. And knowing what early hours his family kept, and that it would be needless to disturb their slumbers at so late an hour, it is on record, that Major Dobbin treated himself to half-price at the Haymarket Theatre that evening, where let us hope he enjoyed himself.


The heir of Crawley arrived at home, in due time, after this catastrophe, and henceforth may be said to have reigned in Queen's Crawley. For though the old Baronet survived many months, he never recovered the use of his intellect or his speech completely, and the government of the estate devolved upon his elder son. In a strange condition Pitt found it. Sir Pitt was always buying and mortgaging; he had twenty men of business, and quarrels with each; quarrels with all his tenants, and lawsuits with them; lawsuits with the lawyers; lawsuits with the Mining and Dock Companies in which he was proprietor; and with every person with whom he had business. To unravel these difficulties and to set the estate clear was a task worthy of the orderly and persevering diplomatist of Pumpernickel, and he set himself to work with prodigious assiduity. His whole family, of course, was transported to Queen's Crawley, whither Lady Southdown, of course, came too; and she set about converting the parish under the Rector's nose, and brought down her irregular clergy to the dismay of the angry Mrs Bute. Sir Pitt had concluded no bargain for the sale of the living of Queen's Crawley; when it should drop, her Ladyship proposed to take the patronage into her own hands and present a young protege to the Rectory, on which subject the diplomatic Pitt said nothing.

Though the old Baronet survived many months, he never completely recovered the use of his intellect or his speech. The estate was governed by his elder son.
In a strange condition Pitt found it. Old Sir Pitt was always buying and mortgaging; he had twenty men of business, and quarrels with each. He had lawsuits with all his tenants, his lawyers, the Mining and Dock Companies in which he had a share, and with every person with whom he had business. To unravel these difficulties was a task worthy of the orderly Pitt, and he set to work. His whole family moved to Queen's Crawley, and Lady Southdown came too, bringing her irregular clergy, to the dismay of the angry Mrs. Bute.

Chapter 40: In Which Becky Is Recognized by the Family


Mrs. Bute's intentions with regard to Miss Betsy Horrocks were not carried into effect, and she paid no visit to Southampton Gaol. She and her father left the Hall when the latter took possession of the Crawley Arms in the village, of which he had got a lease from Sir Pitt. The ex-butler had obtained a small freehold there likewise, which gave him a vote for the borough. The Rector had another of these votes, and these and four others formed the representative body which returned the two members for Queen's Crawley.

Mrs. Bute's threats to Miss Betsy Horrocks were not carried out. Betsy's father took over the Crawley Arms in the village, of which he had got a lease from Sir Pitt. He had obtained a small freehold there likewise, which gave him a vote for the borough. The Rector had another of these votes, and these and four others formed the electorate which returned the two Members of Parliament for Queen's Crawley.


There was a show of courtesy kept up between the Rectory and the Hall ladies, between the younger ones at least, for Mrs. Bute and Lady Southdown never could meet without battles, and gradually ceased seeing each other. Her Ladyship kept her room when the ladies from the Rectory visited their cousins at the Hall. Perhaps Mr. Pitt was not very much displeased at these occasional absences of his mamma-in-law. He believed the Binkie family to be the greatest and wisest and most interesting in the world, and her Ladyship and his aunt had long held ascendency over him; but sometimes he felt that she commanded him too much. To be considered young was complimentary, doubtless, but at six-and-forty to be treated as a boy was sometimes mortifying. Lady Jane yielded up everything, however, to her mother. She was only fond of her children in private, and it was lucky for her that Lady Southdown's multifarious business, her conferences with ministers, and her correspondence with all the missionaries of Africa, Asia, and Australasia, &c., occupied the venerable Countess a great deal, so that she had but little time to devote to her granddaughter, the little Matilda, and her grandson, Master Pitt Crawley. The latter was a feeble child, and it was only by prodigious quantities of calomel that Lady Southdown was able to keep him in life at all.

There was a show of courtesy kept up between the Rectory and the Hall ladies; between the younger ones at least, for Mrs. Bute and Lady Southdown could never meet without battles. Lady Southdown kept to her room when the ladies from the Rectory visited. Perhaps Mr. Pitt was not displeased at these occasional absences of his mamma-in-law. Sometimes she commanded him too much; to be treated as a boy at forty-six was mortifying. Lady Jane yielded up everything to her mother. It was lucky for her that Lady Southdown's meetings with ministers and correspondence with missionaries so occupied her that she had little time to devote to her grandchildren.


As for Sir Pitt he retired into those very apartments where Lady Crawley had been previously extinguished, and here was tended by Miss Hester, the girl upon her promotion, with constant care and assiduity. What love, what fidelity, what constancy is there equal to that of a nurse with good wages? They smooth pillows; and make arrowroot; they get up at nights; they bear complaints and querulousness; they see the sun shining out of doors and don't want to go abroad; they sleep on arm-chairs and eat their meals in solitude; they pass long long evenings doing nothing, watching the embers, and the patient's drink simmering in the jug; they read the weekly paper the whole week through; and Law's Serious Call or the Whole Duty of Man suffices them for literature for the year--and we quarrel with them because, when their relations come to see them once a week, a little gin is smuggled in in their linen basket. Ladies, what man's love is there that would stand a year's nursing of the object of his affection? Whereas a nurse will stand by you for ten pounds a quarter, and we think her too highly paid. At least Mr. Crawley grumbled a good deal about paying half as much to Miss Hester for her constant attendance upon the Baronet his father.

As for old Sir Pitt, he retired into those same rooms where Lady Crawley had lived, and was tended by Miss Hester with constant care. What love, what fidelity is there equal to that of a nurse with good wages? They get up at nights; they bear complaints; they see the sun shining and don't want to go out; they sleep on armchairs and eat their meals in solitude; they pass long long evenings doing nothing.