That of these two luminaries so much of their irradiations are suffered from time to time to shine down upon us, as he, whose infinite wisdom which dispenses everything in exact weight and measure, knows will just serve to light us on our way in this night of our obscurity; so that your reverences and worships now find out, nor is it a moment longer in my power to conceal it from you, That the fervent wish in your behalf with which I set out, was no more than the first insinuating _How d'ye_ of a caressing prefacer, stifling his reader, as a lover sometimes does a coy mistress, into silence. For alas! could this effusion of light have been as easily procured, as the exordium wished it --I tremble to think how many thousands for it, of benighted travellers (in the learned sciences at least) must have groped and blundered on in the dark, all the nights of their lives----running their heads against posts, and knocking out their brains without ever getting to their journies end; ----some falling with their noses perpendicularly into sinks----others horizontally with their tails into kennels. Here one half of a learned profession tilting full but against the other half of it, and then tumbling and rolling one over the other in the dirt like hogs. --Here the brethren of another profession, who should have run in opposition to each other, flying on the contrary like a flock of wild geese, all in a row the same way. --What confusion! --what mistakes! ----fiddlers and painters judging by their eyes and ears--admirable! --trusting to the passions excited--in an air sung, or a story painted to the heart----instead of measuring them by a quadrant.

That just so much wit and judgment shines down on us as is allowed by God, whose infinite wisdom dispenses everything in exact measure, and who knows how much will light us on our way in this night of our obscurity.
So I can no longer conceal from you, that the fervent wish in your behalf with which I set out, was no more than the first insinuating How d'ye of a caressing prefacer, stifling his reader, as a lover sometimes does a coy mistress, into silence.
For alas! If only this light could be so easily procured - I tremble to think how many thousands of benighted travellers (in the learned sciences at least) must have blundered on in the dark, running their heads against posts, and knocking out their brains; some falling with their noses into sinks - others with their tails into kennels. Here is one half of a learned profession tilting against the other half, and tumbling over one other in the dirt like hogs.
- Here are the brethren of another profession, who should have opposed each other, flying on the contrary like a flock of wild geese, all the same way. - What confusion! what mistakes! Here are fiddlers and painters judging tunes and pictures by their eyes and ears instead of measuring by a quadrant.


In the fore-ground of this picture, a _statesman_ turning the political wheel, like a brute, the wrong way round----_against_ the stream of corruption--by Heaven! ----instead of _with_ it.
In this corner, a son of the divine _Esculapius_, writing a book against predestination; perhaps worse--feeling his patient's pulse, instead of his apothecary's----a brother of the Faculty in the back-ground upon his knees in tears--drawing the curtains of a mangled victim to beg his forgiveness; --offering a fee--instead of taking one.
In that spacious HALL, a coalition of the gown, from all the bars of it, driving a damn'd, dirty, vexatious cause before them, with all their might and main, the wrong way! ----kicking it _out_ of the great doors, instead of _in_----and with such fury in their looks, and such a degree of inveteracy in their manner of kicking it, as if the laws had been originally made for the peace and preservation of mankind: ----perhaps a more enormous mistake committed by them still------a litigated point fairly hung up; ------for instance, Whether _John o'Nokes_ his nose could stand in _Tom o'Stiles_ his face, without a trespass, or not--rashly determined by them in five-and-twenty minutes, which, with the cautious pros and cons required in so intricate a proceeding, might have taken up as many months----and if carried on upon a military plan, as your honours know an ACTION should be, with all the stratagems practicable therein, ------such as feints, ----forced marches, ----surprizes----ambuscades----mask-batteries, and a thousand other strokes of generalship, which consist in catching at all advantages on both sides------might reasonably have lasted them as many years, finding food and raiment all that term for a centumvirate of the profession.
As for the Clergy ------No----if I say a word against them, I'll be shot. ----I have no desire; --and besides, if I had --I durst not for my soul touch upon the subject----with such weak nerves and spirits, and in the condition I am in at present, 'twould be as much as my life was worth, to deject and contrist myself with so bad and melancholy an account--and therefore 'tis safer to draw a curtain across, and hasten from it, as fast as I can, to the main and principal point I have undertaken to clear up----and that is, How it comes to pass, that your men of least _wit_ are reported to be men of most judgment. ----But mark --I say, _reported to be_--for it is no more, my dear Sirs, than a report, and which, like twenty others taken up every day upon trust, I maintain to be a vile and a malicious report into the bargain.
This by the help of the observation already premised, and I hope already weighed and perpended by your reverences and worships, I shall forthwith make appear.

Here is a statesman turning the political wheel the wrong way, against the stream of corruption - by Heaven! - instead of with it.
Over there is a surgeon feeling his patient's pulse, instead of his apothecary's - or upon his knees in tears, begging the forgiveness of a mangled victim, - offering a fee instead of taking one.
In that spacious Hall, a coalition of lawyers, driving a damned, dirty, vexatious cause before them, the wrong way! kicking it out of the great doors, instead of in, almost as if the laws had been made for the peace of mankind; and moreover, settling a paltry dispute in five-and-twenty minutes, which might have taken up as many months - or have even lasted years, providing food all that time for a hundred lawyers.
As for the Clergy - No, if I say a word against them, I'll be shot. I dare not for my soul touch upon the subject. In the nervous condition I am in, 'tis safer to draw a curtain across the melancholy account, and hasten from it, as fast as I can, to my main point - and that is, how it happens that your men of least wit are reported to be men of most judgment. But mark - I say, reported; for it is no more than a report, and a vile and a malicious one into the bargain.
This I shall forthwith make appear.


I hate set dissertations----and above all things in the world, 'tis one of the silliest things in one of them, to darken your hypothesis by placing a number of tall, opake words, one before another, in a right line, betwixt your own and your reader's conception--when in all likelihood, if you had looked about, you might have seen something standing, or hanging up, which would have cleared the point at once-- "for what hindrance, hurt, or harm doth the laudable desire of knowledge bring to any man, if even from a sot, a pot, a fool, a stool, a winter-mittain, a truckle for a pully, the lid of a goldsmith's crucible, an oil bottle, an old slipper, or a cane chair?" --I am this moment sitting upon one. Will you give me leave to illustrate this affair of wit and judgment, by the two knobs on the top of the back of it? --they are fastened on, you see, with two pegs stuck slightly into two gimlet-holes, and will place what I have to say in so clear a light, as to let you see through the drift and meaning of my whole preface, as plainly as if every point and particle of it was made up of sun-beams.
I enter now directly upon the point.
--Here stands _wit_--and there stands _judgment_, close beside it, just like the two knobs I'm speaking of, upon the back of this self-same chair on which I am sitting.
--You see, they are the highest and most ornamental parts of its _frame_--as wit and judgment are of _ours_--and like them too, indubitably both made and fitted to go together, in order, as we say in all such cases of duplicated embellishments--------_to answer one another_.

I hate set dissertations - and 'tis one of the silliest things in 'em, to darken your hypothesis by placing a number of tall, opaque words betwixt your own and your reader's idea - when in all likelihood, if you had looked about, you might have seen something which would have cleared the point at once.
"For what harm doth the desire of knowledge bring to any man, if even from a sot, a pot, a fool, a stool, an oil bottle, an old slipper, or a cane chair?" - I am this moment sitting upon one. Will you let me illustrate this affair of wit and judgment, by the two knobs on the back of it? They are fastened on, you see, with two pegs stuck into two holes, and will place what I have to say in so clear a light, as to let you see the meaning of my whole preface, as plainly as if it was made of sun-beams.
I enter now directly upon the point.
Here stands wit and there stands judgment beside it, just like the two knobs I'm speaking of, upon the back of this same chair.
You see, they are the highest and most ornamental parts of its frame - as wit and judgment are of ours; and are made to go together, in order - as we say in such cases of embellishment - to 'answer one another'.


Now for the sake of an experiment, and for the clearer illustrating this matter--let us for a moment take off one of these two curious ornaments (I care not which) from the point or pinnacle of the chair it now stands on--nay, don't laugh at it, --but did you ever see, in the whole course of your lives, such a ridiculous business as this has made of it? --Why, 'tis as miserable a sight as a sow with one ear; and there is just as much sense and symmetry in the one as in the other: ----do----pray, get off your seats only to take a view of it. ----Now would any man who valued his character a straw, have turned a piece of work out of his hand in such a condition? --nay, lay your hands upon your hearts, and answer this plain question, Whether this one single knob, which now stands here like a blockhead by itself, can serve any purpose upon earth, but to put one in mind of the want of the other? --and let me farther ask, in case the chair was your own, if you would not in your consciences think, rather than be as it is, that it would be ten times better without any knob at all?
Now these two knobs------or top ornaments of the mind of man, which crown the whole entablature----being, as I said, wit and judgment, which of all others, as I have proved it, are the most needful----the most priz'd--the most calamitous to be without, and consequently the hardest to come at--for all these reasons put together, there is not a mortal among us, so destitute of a love of good fame or feeding----or so ignorant of what will do him good therein--who does not wish and stedfastly resolve in his own mind, to be, or to be thought at least, master of the one or the other, and indeed of both of them, if the thing seems any way feasible, or likely to be brought to pass.
Now your graver gentry having little or no kind of chance in aiming at the one--unless they laid hold of the other, ----pray what do you think would become of them? ----Why, Sirs, in spite of all their _gravities_, they must e'en have been contented to have gone with their insides naked----this was not to be borne, but by an effort of philosophy not to be supposed in the case we are upon----so that no one could well have been angry with them, had they been satisfied with what little they could have snatched up and secreted under their cloaks and great perriwigs, had they not raised a _hue_ and _cry_ at the same time against the lawful owners.
I need not tell your worships, that this was done with so much cunning and artifice----that the great _Locke_, who was seldom outwitted by false sounds------was nevertheless bubbled here. The cry, it seems, was so deep and solemn a one, and what with the help of great wigs, grave faces, and other implements of deceit, was rendered so general a one against the _poor wits_ in this matter, that the philosopher himself was deceived by it--it was his glory to free the world from the lumber of a thousand vulgar errors; ----but this was not of the number; so that instead of sitting down coolly, as such a philosopher should have done, to have examined the matter of fact before he philosophised upon it----on the contrary he took the fact for granted, and so joined in with the cry, and halloo'd it as boisterously as the rest.

Now, for the clearer illustration of this matter, let us take off one of these two curious ornaments (I care not which) from the chair. Nay, don't laugh - but did you ever see such a ridiculous business as this has made of it? Why, 'tis as miserable a sight as a sow with one ear. Would any self-respecting craftsman turn out a piece of work in such a condition?
Nay, answer me this question: whether this one single knob, which now stands here like a blockhead by itself, can serve any purpose but to remind one of the lack of the other? Would it not be ten times better without any knob at all?
Now these two knobs being, as I said, wit and judgment, which as I have proved, are most needful, and hard to come at - there is not a mortal among us who does not wish to be, or to be thought at least, master of them both.
Now your graver gentry having little or no chance in aiming at the one unless they had the other - pray what do you think would become of them? Why, Sirs, in spite of all their gravities, their only recourse would be to snatch up and secrete what they could under their cloaks and great periwigs; raising a hue and cry at the same time against the lawful owners.
I need not tell your worships, that even the great Locke was tricked by this means. With the help of vast wigs and grave faces, their deep and solemn cry deceived the philosopher. Instead of sitting down coolly to examine the matter, he took the fact for granted, and joined in the cry as boisterously as the rest.


This has been made the _Magna Charta_ of stupidity ever since----but your reverences plainly see, it has been obtained in such a manner, that the title to it is not worth a groat: ----which by the bye is one of the many and vile impositions which gravity and grave folks have to answer for hereafter.
As for great wigs, upon which I may be thought to have spoken my mind too freely ------I beg leave to qualify whatever has been unguardedly said to their dispraise or prejudice, by one general declaration ----That I have no abhorrence whatever, nor do I detest and abjure either great wigs or long beards, any farther than when I see they are bespoke and let grow on purpose to carry on this self-same imposture--for any purpose----peace be with them! --[-->] mark only ----I write not for them.

As for great wigs, upon which I may have spoken my mind too freely - I declare that I do not detest either great wigs or long beards, except when I see them grown on purpose to carry on this imposture. Peace be with them! mark only - I write not for them.


We do not claim to rank among the military novelists. Our place is with the non-combatants. When the decks are cleared for action we go below and wait meekly. We should only be in the way of the manoeuvres that the gallant fellows are performing overhead. We shall go no farther with the --th than to the city gate: and leaving Major O'Dowd to his duty, come back to the Major's wife, and the ladies and the baggage.
Now the Major and his lady, who had not been invited to the ball at which in our last chapter other of our friends figured, had much more time to take their wholesome natural rest in bed, than was accorded to people who wished to enjoy pleasure as well as to do duty. "It's my belief, Peggy, my dear," said he, as he placidly pulled his nightcap over his ears, "that there will be such a ball danced in a day or two as some of 'em has never heard the chune of"; and he was much more happy to retire to rest after partaking of a quiet tumbler, than to figure at any other sort of amusement. Peggy, for her part, would have liked to have shown her turban and bird of paradise at the ball, but for the information which her husband had given her, and which made her very grave.

We do not claim to rank among the military novelists. Our place is with the non-combatants. When the decks are cleared for action we go below and wait meekly. We shall go no farther with the regiment than to the city gate: and leaving Major O'Dowd there, come back to the Major's wife.
The Major and his lady, who had not been invited to the ball, had more time to rest.
"It's my belief, Peggy, my dear," said he, as he placidly pulled on his nightcap, "that there will be such a ball danced in a day or two as some of 'em has never seen.


"I'd like ye wake me about half an hour before the assembly beats," the Major said to his lady. "Call me at half-past one, Peggy dear, and see me things is ready. May be I'll not come back to breakfast, Mrs. O'D." With which words, which signified his opinion that the regiment would march the next morning, the Major ceased talking, and fell asleep.
Mrs. O'Dowd, the good housewife, arrayed in curl papers and a camisole, felt that her duty was to act, and not to sleep, at this juncture. "Time enough for that," she said, "when Mick's gone"; and so she packed his travelling valise ready for the march, brushed his cloak, his cap, and other warlike habiliments, set them out in order for him; and stowed away in the cloak pockets a light package of portable refreshments, and a wicker-covered flask or pocket-pistol, containing near a pint of a remarkably sound Cognac brandy, of which she and the Major approved very much; and as soon as the hands of the "repayther" pointed to half-past one, and its interior arrangements (it had a tone quite equal to a cathaydral, its fair owner considered) knelled forth that fatal hour, Mrs. O'Dowd woke up her Major, and had as comfortable a cup of coffee prepared for him as any made that morning in Brussels. And who is there will deny that this worthy lady's preparations betokened affection as much as the fits of tears and hysterics by which more sensitive females exhibited their love, and that their partaking of this coffee, which they drank together while the bugles were sounding the turn-out and the drums beating in the various quarters of the town, was not more useful and to the purpose than the outpouring of any mere sentiment could be? The consequence was, that the Major appeared on parade quite trim, fresh, and alert, his well-shaved rosy countenance, as he sate on horseback, giving cheerfulness and confidence to the whole corps. All the officers saluted her when the regiment marched by the balcony on which this brave woman stood, and waved them a cheer as they passed; and I daresay it was not from want of courage, but from a sense of female delicacy and propriety, that she refrained from leading the gallant--th personally into action.

Call me at half-past one, Peggy dear, and see me things is ready." With which words, the Major fell asleep.
Mrs. O'Dowd, the good housewife, arrayed in curl papers and a camisole, did not sleep. She packed his travelling bag ready for the march, brushed his cloak and other uniform, and set them out in order; and stowed away in the cloak pockets a package of refreshments, and a flask containing a pint of good Cognac brandy. At half past one she woke up her Major, and had a comfortable cup of coffee prepared for him.
And who will deny that this worthy lady's preparations showed just as much affection as the tears and hysterics of more sensitive females - and that drinking coffee together while the bugles were sounding and the drums beating, was more useful than any outpouring of sentiment could be? In consequence, the Major appeared on parade quite trim, fresh, and alert, his rosy face giving confidence to the troops. When the regiment marched by the balcony on which this brave woman stood to wave, the officers saluted her; and I daresay she would have liked to lead them personally into action.


On Sundays, and at periods of a solemn nature, Mrs. O'Dowd used to read with great gravity out of a large volume of her uncle the Dean's sermons. It had been of great comfort to her on board the transport as they were coming home, and were very nearly wrecked, on their return from the West Indies. After the regiment's departure she betook herself to this volume for meditation; perhaps she did not understand much of what she was reading, and her thoughts were elsewhere: but the sleep project, with poor Mick's nightcap there on the pillow, was quite a vain one. So it is in the world. Jack or Donald marches away to glory with his knapsack on his shoulder, stepping out briskly to the tune of "The Girl I Left Behind Me." It is she who remains and suffers--and has the leisure to think, and brood, and remember.

On Sundays, and at solemn times, Mrs. O'Dowd used to read with great gravity out of a large volume of her uncle the Dean's sermons. She now opened this volume; perhaps she did not understand much of what she was reading, but any effort to sleep was in vain. Thus Jack or Donald marches away to glory, stepping out briskly to the tune of "The Girl I Left Behind Me." It is she who remains and suffers - and has leisure to brood, and remember.


Knowing how useless regrets are, and how the indulgence of sentiment only serves to make people more miserable, Mrs. Rebecca wisely determined to give way to no vain feelings of sorrow, and bore the parting from her husband with quite a Spartan equanimity. Indeed Captain Rawdon himself was much more affected at the leave-taking than the resolute little woman to whom he bade farewell. She had mastered this rude coarse nature; and he loved and worshipped her with all his faculties of regard and admiration. In all his life he had never been so happy, as, during the past few months, his wife had made him. All former delights of turf, mess, hunting-field, and gambling-table; all previous loves and courtships of milliners, opera-dancers, and the like easy triumphs of the clumsy military Adonis, were quite insipid when compared to the lawful matrimonial pleasures which of late he had enjoyed. She had known perpetually how to divert him; and he had found his house and her society a thousand times more pleasant than any place or company which he had ever frequented from his childhood until now. And he cursed his past follies and extravagances, and bemoaned his vast outlying debts above all, which must remain for ever as obstacles to prevent his wife's advancement in the world. He had often groaned over these in midnight conversations with Rebecca, although as a bachelor they had never given him any disquiet. He himself was struck with this phenomenon. "Hang it," he would say (or perhaps use a still stronger expression out of his simple vocabulary), "before I was married I didn't care what bills I put my name to, and so long as Moses would wait or Levy would renew for three months, I kept on never minding.

Knowing how useless regrets are, Mrs. Rebecca wisely determined not to give way to sorrow, and bore the parting from her husband with equanimity. Indeed Captain Rawdon was much more affected than she was. She had mastered this rude coarse nature; and he loved and worshipped her. In all his life he had never been so happy as during the past few months. All former delights of turf, mess, hunting-field, and gambling-table - all previous loves and courtships were quite insipid when compared to the matrimonial pleasures he had lately enjoyed. She had known how to divert him; and he had found his house a thousand times more pleasant than any other place. And he cursed his past extravagances and vast debts, which must stand in the way of his wife's advancement. He had often groaned over these in midnight conversations with Rebecca, although as a bachelor they had never bothered him.


But since I'm married, except renewing, of course, I give you my honour I've not touched a bit of stamped paper."
Rebecca always knew how to conjure away these moods of melancholy. "Why, my stupid love," she would say, "we have not done with your aunt yet. If she fails us, isn't there what you call the Gazette? or, stop, when your uncle Bute's life drops, I have another scheme. The living has always belonged to the younger brother, and why shouldn't you sell out and go into the Church?" The idea of this conversion set Rawdon into roars of laughter: you might have heard the explosion through the hotel at midnight, and the haw-haws of the great dragoon's voice. General Tufto heard him from his quarters on the first floor above them; and Rebecca acted the scene with great spirit, and preached Rawdon's first sermon, to the immense delight of the General at breakfast.

Rebecca always knew how to conjure away these moods of melancholy. "Why, my stupid love," she would say, "we have not done with your aunt yet. Or when your uncle Bute dies, I have another scheme. The living has always belonged to the younger brother, and why shouldn't you sell out and go into the Church?"
This idea set Rawdon into roars of laughter, which General Tufto could hear on the first floor above them; and at breakfast Rebecca acted the scene, and preached Rawdon's first sermon, to the General's immense delight.


But these were mere by-gone days and talk. When the final news arrived that the campaign was opened, and the troops were to march, Rawdon's gravity became such that Becky rallied him about it in a manner which rather hurt the feelings of the Guardsman. "You don't suppose I'm afraid, Becky, I should think," he said, with a tremor in his voice. "But I'm a pretty good mark for a shot, and you see if it brings me down, why I leave one and perhaps two behind me whom I should wish to provide for, as I brought 'em into the scrape. It is no laughing matter that, Mrs. C., anyways."
Rebecca by a hundred caresses and kind words tried to soothe the feelings of the wounded lover. It was only when her vivacity and sense of humour got the better of this sprightly creature (as they would do under most circumstances of life indeed) that she would break out with her satire, but she could soon put on a demure face. "Dearest love," she said, "do you suppose I feel nothing?" and hastily dashing something from her eyes, she looked up in her husband's face with a smile.

But these were bygone days. When the news arrived that the troops were to march, Becky rallied Rawdon about his gravity in a manner which rather hurt his feelings.
"It's not that I'm afraid, Becky," he said, with a tremor in his voice. "But if I fall, I leave one and perhaps two behind me whom I should wish to provide for, as I brought 'em into the scrape."
Rebecca tried to soothe his wounded feelings. "Dearest love, do you suppose I feel nothing?" Hastily dashing something from her eyes, she smiled up at her husband.


"Look here," said he. "If I drop, let us see what there is for you. I have had a pretty good run of luck here, and here's two hundred and thirty pounds. I have got ten Napoleons in my pocket. That is as much as I shall want; for the General pays everything like a prince; and if I'm hit, why you know I cost nothing. Don't cry, little woman; I may live to vex you yet. Well, I shan't take either of my horses, but shall ride the General's grey charger: it's cheaper, and I told him mine was lame. If I'm done, those two ought to fetch you something. Grigg offered ninety for the mare yesterday, before this confounded news came, and like a fool I wouldn't let her go under the two o's. Bullfinch will fetch his price any day, only you'd better sell him in this country, because the dealers have so many bills of mine, and so I'd rather he shouldn't go back to England.

"Look here," said he. "If I drop, let us see what there is for you. I've had a pretty good run of luck, and here's two hundred and thirty pounds. I have ten Napoleons in my pocket. That is as much as I shall want; for the General pays everything; and if I'm hit, I cost nothing. Don't cry, little woman; I may live to vex you yet. Well, I shan't take either of my horses, but shall ride the General's grey charger: those two ought to fetch you something. Grigg offered ninety for the mare yesterday, and like a fool I wouldn't sell.


Your little mare the General gave you will fetch something, and there's no d--d livery stable bills here as there are in London," Rawdon added, with a laugh. "There's that dressing-case cost me two hundred--that is, I owe two for it; and the gold tops and bottles must be worth thirty or forty. Please to put THAT up the spout, ma'am, with my pins, and rings, and watch and chain, and things. They cost a precious lot of money. Miss Crawley, I know, paid a hundred down for the chain and ticker. Gold tops and bottles, indeed! dammy, I'm sorry I didn't take more now. Edwards pressed on me a silver-gilt boot-jack, and I might have had a dressing-case fitted up with a silver warming-pan, and a service of plate. But we must make the best of what we've got, Becky, you know."

And there's the little mare the General gave you," Rawdon added. "That dressing-case cost me two hundred - that is, I owe two hundred for it; and the gold tops must be worth forty. My pins, and rings, and watch cost a precious lot of money. Miss Crawley paid a hundred for the ticker. We must make the best of what we've got, Becky, you know."


And so, making his last dispositions, Captain Crawley, who had seldom thought about anything but himself, until the last few months of his life, when Love had obtained the mastery over the dragoon, went through the various items of his little catalogue of effects, striving to see how they might be turned into money for his wife's benefit, in case any accident should befall him. He pleased himself by noting down with a pencil, in his big schoolboy handwriting, the various items of his portable property which might be sold for his widow's advantage as, for example, "My double-barril by Manton, say 40 guineas; my driving cloak, lined with sable fur, 50 pounds; my duelling pistols in rosewood case (same which I shot Captain Marker), 20 pounds; my regulation saddle-holsters and housings; my Laurie ditto," and so forth, over all of which articles he made Rebecca the mistress.
Faithful to his plan of economy, the Captain dressed himself in his oldest and shabbiest uniform and epaulets, leaving the newest behind, under his wife's (or it might be his widow's) guardianship. And this famous dandy of Windsor and Hyde Park went off on his campaign with a kit as modest as that of a sergeant, and with something like a prayer on his lips for the woman he was leaving. He took her up from the ground, and held her in his arms for a minute, tight pressed against his strong-beating heart. His face was purple and his eyes dim, as he put her down and left her. He rode by his General's side, and smoked his cigar in silence as they hastened after the troops of the General's brigade, which preceded them; and it was not until they were some miles on their way that he left off twirling his moustache and broke silence.

And so Captain Crawley, who had seldom thought about anything but himself, until Love had mastered him, went through his effects, striving to see how they might be turned into money for his wife, if any accident should befall him. He wrote them down, in his big schoolboy handwriting:
"My double-barril by Manton, 40 guineas; my driving cloak, lined with sable fur, 50 pounds; my duelling pistols in rosewood case (same which I shot Captain Marker), 20 pounds;" and so forth.
Faithful to his plan, the Captain dressed in his oldest uniform, leaving the newest behind. And this famous dandy went off on his campaign with a kit as modest as a sergeant's, and with something like a prayer on his lips for the woman he was leaving. He took her up, and held her in his arms for a minute, tight pressed against his strong-beating heart. His eyes were dim as he put her down and left her. He rode by his General's side, and was silent for some miles.


And Rebecca, as we have said, wisely determined not to give way to unavailing sentimentality on her husband's departure. She waved him an adieu from the window, and stood there for a moment looking out after he was gone. The cathedral towers and the full gables of the quaint old houses were just beginning to blush in the sunrise. There had been no rest for her that night. She was still in her pretty ball-dress, her fair hair hanging somewhat out of curl on her neck, and the circles round her eyes dark with watching. "What a fright I seem," she said, examining herself in the glass, "and how pale this pink makes one look!" So she divested herself of this pink raiment; in doing which a note fell out from her corsage, which she picked up with a smile, and locked into her dressing-box. And then she put her bouquet of the ball into a glass of water, and went to bed, and slept very comfortably.
The town was quite quiet when she woke up at ten o'clock, and partook of coffee, very requisite and comforting after the exhaustion and grief of the morning's occurrences.

And Rebecca wisely determined not to give way to sentimentality on her husband's departure. She waved to him from the window, and stood for a moment looking out after he was gone. The cathedral towers were just beginning to blush in the sunrise. There had been no rest for her that night. She was still in her pretty ball-dress, with dark circles round her eyes.
"What a fright I look!" she said, examining herself in the glass. So she took off her pink dress; in doing which a note fell out from her corsage. She picked it up with a smile, and locked it into her dressing-box. Then she went to bed, and slept very comfortably.
The town was quiet when she woke up at ten o'clock.


This meal over, she resumed honest Rawdon's calculations of the night previous, and surveyed her position. Should the worst befall, all things considered, she was pretty well to do. There were her own trinkets and trousseau, in addition to those which her husband had left behind. Rawdon's generosity, when they were first married, has already been described and lauded. Besides these, and the little mare, the General, her slave and worshipper, had made her many very handsome presents, in the shape of cashmere shawls bought at the auction of a bankrupt French general's lady, and numerous tributes from the jewellers' shops, all of which betokened her admirer's taste and wealth. As for "tickers," as poor Rawdon called watches, her apartments were alive with their clicking. For, happening to mention one night that hers, which Rawdon had given to her, was of English workmanship, and went ill, on the very next morning there came to her a little bijou marked Leroy, with a chain and cover charmingly set with turquoises, and another signed Brequet, which was covered with pearls, and yet scarcely bigger than a half-crown. General Tufto had bought one, and Captain Osborne had gallantly presented the other. Mrs. Osborne had no watch, though, to do George justice, she might have had one for the asking, and the Honourable Mrs. Tufto in England had an old instrument of her mother's that might have served for the plate-warming pan which Rawdon talked about. If Messrs. Howell and James were to publish a list of the purchasers of all the trinkets which they sell, how surprised would some families be: and if all these ornaments went to gentlemen's lawful wives and daughters, what a profusion of jewellery there would be exhibited in the genteelest homes of Vanity Fair!

She resumed Rawdon's calculations of the night before; should the worst happen, she was pretty well to do. There were her own trinkets, as well as her husband's things. Rawdon had been generous to her; and the General, her slave and worshipper, had made her many handsome presents of cashmere shawls and jewellery.
As for "tickers," as poor Rawdon called watches, her apartments were alive with their clicking. For when she happened to mention one night that hers was not working, next morning there came to her a little watch charmingly set with turquoises, and another covered with pearls. General Tufto had bought one, and Captain Osborne had gallantly presented the other.


Every calculation made of these valuables Mrs. Rebecca found, not without a pungent feeling of triumph and self-satisfaction, that should circumstances occur, she might reckon on six or seven hundred pounds at the very least, to begin the world with; and she passed the morning disposing, ordering, looking out, and locking up her properties in the most agreeable manner. Among the notes in Rawdon's pocket-book was a draft for twenty pounds on Osborne's banker. This made her think about Mrs. Osborne. "I will go and get the draft cashed," she said, "and pay a visit afterwards to poor little Emmy." If this is a novel without a hero, at least let us lay claim to a heroine. No man in the British army which has marched away, not the great Duke himself, could be more cool or collected in the presence of doubts and difficulties, than the indomitable little aide-de-camp's wife.
And there was another of our acquaintances who was also to be left behind, a non-combatant, and whose emotions and behaviour we have therefore a right to know. This was our friend the ex-collector of Boggley Wollah, whose rest was broken, like other people's, by the sounding of the bugles in the early morning. Being a great sleeper, and fond of his bed, it is possible he would have snoozed on until his usual hour of rising in the forenoon, in spite of all the drums, bugles, and bagpipes in the British army, but for an interruption, which did not come from George Osborne, who shared Jos's quarters with him, and was as usual occupied too much with his own affairs or with grief at parting with his wife, to think of taking leave of his slumbering brother-in-law--it was not George, we say, who interposed between Jos Sedley and sleep, but Captain Dobbin, who came and roused him up, insisting on shaking hands with him before his departure.
"Very kind of you," said Jos, yawning, and wishing the Captain at the deuce.

So Mrs. Rebecca found she might reckon on six or seven hundred pounds at the very least; and she passed an agreeable morning ordering and locking up her property. In Rawdon's pocket-book was a draft for twenty pounds on Osborne's banker. This made her think about Mrs. Osborne.
"I will go and get this cashed," she said, "and pay a visit afterwards to poor little Emmy." If this is a novel without a hero, at least let us lay claim to a heroine. No man in the British army, not the great Duke himself, could be more cool or collected in the presence of doubts and difficulties, than this indomitable little woman.
And there was another non-combatant, whose emotions we have a right to know. This was our friend the ex-collector of Boggley Wollah, who was woken by the sounding of the bugles in the early morning, and by Captain Dobbin, who insisted on shaking hands with him before his departure.
"Very kind of you," said Jos, yawning, and wishing the Captain at the deuce.


"I--I didn't like to go off without saying good-bye, you know," Dobbin said in a very incoherent manner; "because you know some of us mayn't come back again, and I like to see you all well, and--and that sort of thing, you know."
"What do you mean?" Jos asked, rubbing his eyes. The Captain did not in the least hear him or look at the stout gentleman in the nightcap, about whom he professed to have such a tender interest. The hypocrite was looking and listening with all his might in the direction of George's apartments, striding about the room, upsetting the chairs, beating the tattoo, biting his nails, and showing other signs of great inward emotion.
Jos had always had rather a mean opinion of the Captain, and now began to think his courage was somewhat equivocal. "What is it I can do for you, Dobbin?" he said, in a sarcastic tone.

"I - I didn't like to go off without saying good-bye," Dobbin said in an incoherent manner; "because you know some of us mayn't come back again, and - that sort of thing, you know."
"What do you mean?" Jos asked, rubbing his eyes. The Captain did not hear him, for he was looking in the direction of George's apartments, biting his nails, and showing signs of great inward emotion.
Jos had always had rather a mean opinion of the Captain, and now began to think his courage was failing.
"What can I do for you, Dobbin?" he said, in a sarcastic tone.


"I tell you what you can do," the Captain replied, coming up to the bed; "we march in a quarter of an hour, Sedley, and neither George nor I may ever come back. Mind you, you are not to stir from this town until you ascertain how things go. You are to stay here and watch over your sister, and comfort her, and see that no harm comes to her. If anything happens to George, remember she has no one but you in the world to look to. If it goes wrong with the army, you'll see her safe back to England; and you will promise me on your word that you will never desert her. I know you won't: as far as money goes, you were always free enough with that. Do you want any? I mean, have you enough gold to take you back to England in case of a misfortune?"
"Sir," said Jos, majestically, "when I want money, I know where to ask for it. And as for my sister, you needn't tell me how I ought to behave to her."

"We march in a quarter of an hour," the Captain replied; "and neither George nor I may ever come back. Mind, do not stir from this town until you see how things go. Stay here and make sure no harm comes to your sister. If anything happens to George, remember she has no-one but you in the world to look to. If it goes wrong with the army, see her safe back to England; and promise me that you will never desert her. I know you won't. Have you enough gold to return to England in case of a misfortune?"
"Sir," said Jos, majestically, "when I want money, I know where to ask for it. And as for my sister, you needn't tell me how I ought to behave to her."


"You speak like a man of spirit, Jos," the other answered good-naturedly, "and I am glad that George can leave her in such good hands. So I may give him your word of honour, may I, that in case of extremity you will stand by her?"
"Of course, of course," answered Mr. Jos, whose generosity in money matters Dobbin estimated quite correctly.
"And you'll see her safe out of Brussels in the event of a defeat?"
"A defeat! D---- it, sir, it's impossible. Don't try and frighten ME," the hero cried from his bed; and Dobbin's mind was thus perfectly set at ease now that Jos had spoken out so resolutely respecting his conduct to his sister. "At least," thought the Captain, "there will be a retreat secured for her in case the worst should ensue."

"You speak like a man of spirit, Jos," the other answered good-naturedly, "and I am glad that George can leave her in such good hands. So I may give him your word that you will stand by her?"
"Of course, of course," answered Mr. Jos.
"And you'll see her safe out of Brussels in the event of a defeat?"
"A defeat! D___ it, sir, it's impossible. Don't try and frighten me," the hero cried.
Dobbin's mind was thus set at ease.


If Captain Dobbin expected to get any personal comfort and satisfaction from having one more view of Amelia before the regiment marched away, his selfishness was punished just as such odious egotism deserved to be. The door of Jos's bedroom opened into the sitting-room which was common to the family party, and opposite this door was that of Amelia's chamber. The bugles had wakened everybody: there was no use in concealment now. George's servant was packing in this room: Osborne coming in and out of the contiguous bedroom, flinging to the man such articles as he thought fit to carry on the campaign. And presently Dobbin had the opportunity which his heart coveted, and he got sight of Amelia's face once more. But what a face it was! So white, so wild and despair-stricken, that the remembrance of it haunted him afterwards like a crime, and the sight smote him with inexpressible pangs of longing and pity.

But if he expected to get any personal comfort from having one more view of Amelia before marching away, his selfishness was punished. Opposite Jos's door was that of Amelia's chamber. The bugles had wakened everybody: Osborne was coming in and out of the bedroom, with articles for packing.
And then Dobbin got a sight of Amelia's face once more. But what a face! So white, so wild and despair-stricken, that the remembrance of it haunted him afterwards like a crime, and the sight smote him with inexpressible pity.


She was wrapped in a white morning dress, her hair falling on her shoulders, and her large eyes fixed and without light. By way of helping on the preparations for the departure, and showing that she too could be useful at a moment so critical, this poor soul had taken up a sash of George's from the drawers whereon it lay, and followed him to and fro with the sash in her hand, looking on mutely as his packing proceeded. She came out and stood, leaning at the wall, holding this sash against her bosom, from which the heavy net of crimson dropped like a large stain of blood. Our gentle-hearted Captain felt a guilty shock as he looked at her. "Good God," thought he, "and is it grief like this I dared to pry into?" And there was no help: no means to soothe and comfort this helpless, speechless misery. He stood for a moment and looked at her, powerless and torn with pity, as a parent regards an infant in pain.
At last, George took Emmy's hand, and led her back into the bedroom, from whence he came out alone. The parting had taken place in that moment, and he was gone.

She was wrapped in a white morning dress, her hair falling on her shoulders, and her large eyes fixed and without light. The poor soul had taken up a sash of George's, and followed him to and fro with it in her hand, looking on mutely as his packing proceeded. She leant on the wall, holding this sash against her bosom, from which the heavy net of crimson dropped like blood. Our gentle-hearted Captain felt a guilty shock as he looked at her.
"Good God," thought he, "and is it this grief I dared to pry into?" And there was no way to soothe her helpless misery. He stood for a moment and looked at her, powerless and torn with pity, as a parent regards an infant in pain.
At last George took Emmy's hand, and led her back into the bedroom. They parted in that moment, and he was gone.


"Thank Heaven that is over," George thought, bounding down the stair, his sword under his arm, as he ran swiftly to the alarm ground, where the regiment was mustered, and whither trooped men and officers hurrying from their billets; his pulse was throbbing and his cheeks flushed: the great game of war was going to be played, and he one of the players. What a fierce excitement of doubt, hope, and pleasure! What tremendous hazards of loss or gain! What were all the games of chance he had ever played compared to this one? Into all contests requiring athletic skill and courage, the young man, from his boyhood upwards, had flung himself with all his might. The champion of his school and his regiment, the bravos of his companions had followed him everywhere; from the boys' cricket-match to the garrison-races, he had won a hundred of triumphs; and wherever he went women and men had admired and envied him. What qualities are there for which a man gets so speedy a return of applause, as those of bodily superiority, activity, and valour? Time out of mind strength and courage have been the theme of bards and romances; and from the story of Troy down to to-day, poetry has always chosen a soldier for a hero. I wonder is it because men are cowards in heart that they admire bravery so much, and place military valour so far beyond every other quality for reward and worship?

"Thank Heaven that is over," George thought, bounding down the stairs, his sword under his arm, as he ran swiftly to where the regiment was mustering. His pulse was throbbing and his cheeks flushed: the great game of war was going to be played. What a fierce excitement of doubt, hope, and pleasure! What were all the games of chance he had ever played compared to this?
The young man had flung himself into all athletic contests from his boyhood. From the boys' cricket-match to the garrison-races, he had won a hundred triumphs. Strength and courage have always been the theme of bards; and from the story of Troy down to today, poetry has chosen a soldier for a hero. I wonder is it because men are cowards in heart that they admire bravery so much, and place military valour so far beyond every other quality?


So, at the sound of that stirring call to battle, George jumped away from the gentle arms in which he had been dallying; not without a feeling of shame (although his wife's hold on him had been but feeble), that he should have been detained there so long. The same feeling of eagerness and excitement was amongst all those friends of his of whom we have had occasional glimpses, from the stout senior Major, who led the regiment into action, to little Stubble, the Ensign, who was to bear its colours on that day.
The sun was just rising as the march began--it was a gallant sight--the band led the column, playing the regimental march--then came the Major in command, riding upon Pyramus, his stout charger--then marched the grenadiers, their Captain at their head; in the centre were the colours, borne by the senior and junior Ensigns--then George came marching at the head of his company. He looked up, and smiled at Amelia, and passed on; and even the sound of the music died away.

So, at the sound of that stirring call to battle, George jumped away from his wife's gentle arms with a feeling of shame that he had stayed there so long. The same eagerness and excitement was felt by his friends, from the stout Major to little Ensign Stubble.
The sun was just rising as the march began. It was a gallant sight - the band led the column, then came the Major in command, riding upon Pyramus; then marched the grenadiers, their Captain at their head. In the centre were the colours, borne by Stubble and the senior Ensigns - then George came marching at the head of his company. He looked up and smiled at Amelia, and passed on; and the sound of the music died away.


The day after the meeting at the play-table, Jos had himself arrayed with unusual care and splendour, and without thinking it necessary to say a word to any member of his family regarding the occurrences of the previous night, or asking for their company in his walk, he sallied forth at an early hour, and was presently seen making inquiries at the door of the Elephant Hotel. In consequence of the fetes the house was full of company, the tables in the street were already surrounded by persons smoking and drinking the national small-beer, the public rooms were in a cloud of smoke, and Mr. Jos having, in his pompous way, and with his clumsy German, made inquiries for the person of whom he was in search, was directed to the very top of the house, above the first-floor rooms where some travelling pedlars had lived, and were exhibiting their jewellery and brocades; above the second-floor apartments occupied by the etat major of the gambling firm; above the third-floor rooms, tenanted by the band of renowned Bohemian vaulters and tumblers; and so on to the little cabins of the roof, where, among students, bagmen, small tradesmen, and country-folks come in for the festival, Becky had found a little nest--as dirty a little refuge as ever beauty lay hid in.
Becky liked the life. She was at home with everybody in the place, pedlars, punters, tumblers, students and all. She was of a wild, roving nature, inherited from father and mother, who were both Bohemians, by taste and circumstance; if a lord was not by, she would talk to his courier with the greatest pleasure; the din, the stir, the drink, the smoke, the tattle of the Hebrew pedlars, the solemn, braggart ways of the poor tumblers, the sournois talk of the gambling-table officials, the songs and swagger of the students, and the general buzz and hum of the place had pleased and tickled the little woman, even when her luck was down and she had not wherewithal to pay her bill. How pleasant was all the bustle to her now that her purse was full of the money which little Georgy had won for her the night before!
As Jos came creaking and puffing up the final stairs, and was speechless when he got to the landing, and began to wipe his face and then to look for No. 92, the room where he was directed to seek for the person he wanted, the door of the opposite chamber, No. 90, was open, and a student, in jack-boots and a dirty schlafrock, was lying on the bed smoking a long pipe; whilst another student in long yellow hair and a braided coat, exceeding smart and dirty too, was actually on his knees at No. 92, bawling through the keyhole supplications to the person within.

The day after the meeting at the play-table, Jos arrayed himself with unusual care and splendour. Without saying a word to any of his family about the events of the previous night, he went out early, and made for the Elephant Hotel. Because of the festivities, the hotel was full. Mr. Jos made inquiries in clumsy German, and was directed to the very top of the house, past the rooms where travelling pedlars, tumblers, bagmen, students and small tradesmen lived. Here Becky had a little nest - as dirty a little refuge as ever beauty lay hid in.
Becky liked the life. She was at home with pedlars, tumblers, students and all. She had inherited a wild, roving nature: the din, the stir, the drink, the smoke, the songs and swagger of the students, and the general buzz and hum of the place pleased the little woman, even when her luck was down and she could not pay her bill. How pleasant was the bustle to her now that her purse was full of the money which little Georgy had won for her the night before!
As Jos came creaking and puffing up the final stairs, and began to wipe his face and look for No. 92, the door of the opposite chamber, No. 90, was open. A student was lying on the bed smoking a long pipe; whilst another student in long yellow hair and a braided coat was actually on his knees at No. 92, bawling through the keyhole.


"Go away," said a well-known voice, which made Jos thrill, "I expect somebody; I expect my grandpapa. He mustn't see you there."
"Angel Englanderinn!" bellowed the kneeling student with the whity-brown ringlets and the large finger-ring, "do take compassion upon us. Make an appointment. Dine with me and Fritz at the inn in the park. We will have roast pheasants and porter, plum-pudding and French wine. We shall die if you don't."
"That we will," said the young nobleman on the bed; and this colloquy Jos overheard, though he did not comprehend it, for the reason that he had never studied the language in which it was carried on.
"Newmero kattervang dooze, si vous plait," Jos said in his grandest manner, when he was able to speak.

"Go away," said a well-known voice from within, which made Jos thrill. "I am expecting somebody; my grandpapa. He mustn't see you there."
"Angel Englanderinn!" bellowed the kneeling student, "do dine with us at the inn in the park. We will have roast pheasants and porter. We shall die if you don't."
"That we will," said the young nobleman on the bed. Jos overheard all this, though he did not understand the German they spoke.


"Quater fang tooce!" said the student, starting up, and he bounced into his own room, where he locked the door, and where Jos heard him laughing with his comrade on the bed.
The gentleman from Bengal was standing, disconcerted by this incident, when the door of the 92 opened of itself and Becky's little head peeped out full of archness and mischief. She lighted on Jos. "It's you," she said, coming out. "How I have been waiting for you! Stop! not yet--in one minute you shall come in." In that instant she put a rouge-pot, a brandy bottle, and a plate of broken meat into the bed, gave one smooth to her hair, and finally let in her visitor.

As he approached, the student started up, and bounced into his own room, where Jos heard him laughing with his comrade.
Jos was standing disconcerted when the door of 92 opened and Becky's little head peeped out full of archness and mischief.
"It's you," she said, coming out. "How I have been waiting for you! Stop! not yet - in one minute you shall come in." In that instant she put a rouge-pot, a brandy bottle, and a plate of broken meat into the bed, smoothed her hair, and finally let in her visitor.


She had, by way of morning robe, a pink domino, a trifle faded and soiled, and marked here and there with pomaturn; but her arms shone out from the loose sleeves of the dress very white and fair, and it was tied round her little waist so as not ill to set off the trim little figure of the wearer. She led Jos by the hand into her garret. "Come in," she said. "Come and talk to me. Sit yonder on the chair"; and she gave the civilian's hand a little squeeze and laughingly placed him upon it. As for herself, she placed herself on the bed--not on the bottle and plate, you may be sure--on which Jos might have reposed, had he chosen that seat; and so there she sat and talked with her old admirer. "How little years have changed you," she said with a look of tender interest. "I should have known you anywhere. What a comfort it is amongst strangers to see once more the frank honest face of an old friend!"

She wore a pink domino, a trifle faded and soiled; but her arms shone out from the loose sleeves very white and fair, and it was tied round her waist so as to set off her trim little figure. She led Jos by the hand into her garret.
"Come in," she said. "Come and talk to me. Sit yonder on the chair;" and she gave his hand a little squeeze. She placed herself on the bed - not on the bottle and plate, you may be sure - and there she sat and talked with her old admirer.
"How little the years have changed you," she said with a look of tender interest. "I should have known you anywhere. What a comfort it is amongst strangers to see once more the frank honest face of an old friend!"


The frank honest face, to tell the truth, at this moment bore any expression but one of openness and honesty: it was, on the contrary, much perturbed and puzzled in look. Jos was surveying the queer little apartment in which he found his old flame. One of her gowns hung over the bed, another depending from a hook of the door; her bonnet obscured half the looking-glass, on which, too, lay the prettiest little pair of bronze boots; a French novel was on the table by the bedside, with a candle, not of wax. Becky thought of popping that into the bed too, but she only put in the little paper night-cap with which she had put the candle out on going to sleep.
"I should have known you anywhere," she continued; "a woman never forgets some things. And you were the first man I ever--I ever saw."
"Was I really?" said Jos. "God bless my soul, you--you don't say so."

The frank honest face, to tell the truth, at this moment bore any expression but one of openness and honesty: it was, on the contrary, much perturbed. Jos was surveying the queer little apartment in which he found his old flame. One of her gowns hung over the bed, with another on the hook of the door; her bonnet obscured half the looking-glass, on which lay the prettiest little pair of bronze boots; a French novel was on the bedside table.
"I should have known you anywhere," she continued; "a woman never forgets some things. And you were the first man I ever - I ever saw."
"Was I really?" said Jos. "God bless my soul, you don't say so."


"When I came with your sister from Chiswick, I was scarcely more than a child," Becky said. "How is that, dear love? Oh, her husband was a sad wicked man, and of course it was of me that the poor dear was jealous. As if I cared about him, heigho! when there was somebody--but no--don't let us talk of old times"; and she passed her handkerchief with the tattered lace across her eyelids.

"When I came with your sister from Chiswick, I was scarcely more than a child," Becky said. "How is that dear girl? Oh, her husband was a sad wicked man, and the poor dear was jealous of me. As if I cared about him! when there was somebody - but no - don't let us talk of old times." She passed her handkerchief of tattered lace across her eyelids.


"Is not this a strange place," she continued, "for a woman, who has lived in a very different world too, to be found in? I have had so many griefs and wrongs, Joseph Sedley; I have been made to suffer so cruelly that I am almost made mad sometimes. I can't stay still in any place, but wander about always restless and unhappy. All my friends have been false to me--all. There is no such thing as an honest man in the world. I was the truest wife that ever lived, though I married my husband out of pique, because somebody else--but never mind that. I was true, and he trampled upon me and deserted me. I was the fondest mother. I had but one child, one darling, one hope, one joy, which I held to my heart with a mother's affection, which was my life, my prayer, my--my blessing; and they--they tore it from me--tore it from me"; and she put her hand to her heart with a passionate gesture of despair, burying her face for a moment on the bed.

"Is not this a strange place," she continued, "for a woman who has lived in a very different world? I have had so many griefs and wrongs, Joseph Sedley; I have been made to suffer so cruelly that I can't stay still in any place, but wander about restless and unhappy. All my friends have been false to me - all. There is no such thing as an honest man in the world. I was the truest wife that ever lived, though I married my husband out of pique, because somebody else - but never mind that. I was true to my husband, and he trampled upon me and deserted me. I was the fondest mother to my darling child, my hope and joy; and they - they tore it from me." She put her hand to her heart with a passionate gesture of despair, burying her face for a moment on the bed.


The brandy-bottle inside clinked up against the plate which held the cold sausage. Both were moved, no doubt, by the exhibition of so much grief. Max and Fritz were at the door, listening with wonder to Mrs. Becky's sobs and cries. Jos, too, was a good deal frightened and affected at seeing his old flame in this condition. And she began, forthwith, to tell her story--a tale so neat, simple, and artless that it was quite evident from hearing her that if ever there was a white-robed angel escaped from heaven to be subject to the infernal machinations and villainy of fiends here below, that spotless being--that miserable unsullied martyr, was present on the bed before Jos--on the bed, sitting on the brandy-bottle.
They had a very long, amicable, and confidential talk there, in the course of which Jos Sedley was somehow made aware (but in a manner that did not in the least scare or offend him) that Becky's heart had first learned to beat at his enchanting presence; that George Osborne had certainly paid an unjustifiable court to HER, which might account for Amelia's jealousy and their little rupture; but that Becky never gave the least encouragement to the unfortunate officer, and that she had never ceased to think about Jos from the very first day she had seen him, though, of course, her duties as a married woman were paramount--duties which she had always preserved, and would, to her dying day, or until the proverbially bad climate in which Colonel Crawley was living should release her from a yoke which his cruelty had rendered odious to her.

The brandy-bottle inside clinked up against the plate. Both were moved, no doubt, by her grief. Jos was a good deal frightened and affected at seeing her in this condition. She began to tell her story - a tale so neat, simple, and artless that it was quite evident that a white-robed angel escaped from heaven was before Jos - on the bed, sitting on the brandy-bottle.
They had a very long, amicable and confidential talk, during which Jos Sedley was somehow made aware that Becky's heart had first learned to beat at his enchanting presence; that George Osborne had certainly paid court to Becky, but that she never gave him the least encouragement, and that she had never ceased to think about Jos from the very first day she had seen him, though, of course, her duties as a married woman were paramount - duties which she would preserve to her dying day, or until the bad climate in which Colonel Crawley was living should release her from a marriage that his cruelty had made odious.


Jos went away, convinced that she was the most virtuous, as she was one of the most fascinating of women, and revolving in his mind all sorts of benevolent schemes for her welfare. Her persecutions ought to be ended: she ought to return to the society of which she was an ornament. He would see what ought to be done. She must quit that place and take a quiet lodging. Amelia must come and see her and befriend her. He would go and settle about it, and consult with the Major. She wept tears of heart-felt gratitude as she parted from him, and pressed his hand as the gallant stout gentleman stooped down to kiss hers.
So Becky bowed Jos out of her little garret with as much grace as if it was a palace of which she did the honours; and that heavy gentleman having disappeared down the stairs, Max and Fritz came out of their hole, pipe in mouth, and she amused herself by mimicking Jos to them as she munched her cold bread and sausage and took draughts of her favourite brandy-and-water.
Jos walked over to Dobbin's lodgings with great solemnity and there imparted to him the affecting history with which he had just been made acquainted, without, however, mentioning the play business of the night before. And the two gentlemen were laying their heads together and consulting as to the best means of being useful to Mrs. Becky, while she was finishing her interrupted dejeuner a la fourchette.

Jos went away convinced that she was the most virtuous and fascinating of women, and considering all sorts of benevolent schemes for her welfare. She ought to return to society. She must quit that place and take a quiet lodging. Amelia must come and befriend her. He would go and see to it, and consult with the Major. She wept tears of heart-felt gratitude as she parted from him, and the gallant stout gentleman stooped to kiss her hand.
So Becky bowed Jos out of her little garret with as much grace as if it was a palace; and when he had disappeared down the stairs, the students came out of their hole, and she amused herself by mimicking Jos to them as she munched her cold bread and sausage and drank her favourite brandy-and-water.
Jos walked over to Dobbin's lodgings and there solemnly told him Becky's affecting history, without, however, mentioning the business of the night before. And the two gentlemen laid their heads together and consulted about how to be useful to Mrs. Becky.


How was it that she had come to that little town? How was it that she had no friends and was wandering about alone? Little boys at school are taught in their earliest Latin book that the path of Avernus is very easy of descent. Let us skip over the interval in the history of her downward progress. She was not worse now than she had been in the days of her prosperity--only a little down on her luck.
As for Mrs. Amelia, she was a woman of such a soft and foolish disposition that when she heard of anybody unhappy, her heart straightway melted towards the sufferer; and as she had never thought or done anything mortally guilty herself, she had not that abhorrence for wickedness which distinguishes moralists much more knowing. If she spoiled everybody who came near her with kindness and compliments--if she begged pardon of all her servants for troubling them to answer the bell--if she apologized to a shopboy who showed her a piece of silk, or made a curtsey to a street-sweeper with a complimentary remark upon the elegant state of his crossing--and she was almost capable of every one of these follies--the notion that an old acquaintance was miserable was sure to soften her heart; nor would she hear of anybody's being deservedly unhappy. A world under such legislation as hers would not be a very orderly place of abode; but there are not many women, at least not of the rulers, who are of her sort. This lady, I believe, would have abolished all gaols, punishments, handcuffs, whippings, poverty, sickness, hunger, in the world, and was such a mean-spirited creature that--we are obliged to confess it--she could even forget a mortal injury.

As for Mrs. Amelia, she was a woman of such a soft and foolish disposition that when she heard of anybody unhappy, her heart straightway melted. If she begged pardon of all her servants for troubling them to answer the bell - and apologized to a shopboy who showed her a piece of silk - the idea that an old acquaintance was miserable was sure to soften her heart.


When the Major heard from Jos of the sentimental adventure which had just befallen the latter, he was not, it must be owned, nearly as much interested as the gentleman from Bengal. On the contrary, his excitement was quite the reverse from a pleasurable one; he made use of a brief but improper expression regarding a poor woman in distress, saying, in fact, "The little minx, has she come to light again?" He never had had the slightest liking for her, but had heartily mistrusted her from the very first moment when her green eyes had looked at, and turned away from, his own.

When the Major heard from Jos of his sentimental adventure, he was not, it must be confessed, nearly as much pleased and interested as Joseph was. On the contrary, he said, "The little minx, has she come to light again?" He had never liked Becky, but had mistrusted her from the very first moment when her green eyes had looked at, and turned away from, his own.


"That little devil brings mischief wherever she goes," the Major said disrespectfully. "Who knows what sort of life she has been leading? And what business has she here abroad and alone? Don't tell me about persecutors and enemies; an honest woman always has friends and never is separated from her family. Why has she left her husband? He may have been disreputable and wicked, as you say. He always was. I remember the confounded blackleg and the way in which he used to cheat and hoodwink poor George. Wasn't there a scandal about their separation? I think I heard something," cried out Major Dobbin, who did not care much about gossip, and whom Jos tried in vain to convince that Mrs. Becky was in all respects a most injured and virtuous female.

"That little devil brings mischief wherever she goes," the Major said disrespectfully. "Who knows what sort of life she has been leading? And what business has she here alone? Don't tell me about enemies; an honest woman always has friends. Why has she left her husband? I remember the way in which the confounded blackleg used to cheat poor George. Wasn't there a scandal about their separation? I think I heard something." Jos tried in vain to convince him that Becky was an injured and virtuous female.


"Well, well; let's ask Mrs. George," said that arch-diplomatist of a Major. "Only let us go and consult her. I suppose you will allow that she is a good judge at any rate, and knows what is right in such matters."
"Hm! Emmy is very well," said Jos, who did not happen to be in love with his sister.
"Very well? By Gad, sir, she's the finest lady I ever met in my life," bounced out the Major. "I say at once, let us go and ask her if this woman ought to be visited or not--I will be content with her verdict." Now this odious, artful rogue of a Major was thinking in his own mind that he was sure of his case. Emmy, he remembered, was at one time cruelly and deservedly jealous of Rebecca, never mentioned her name but with a shrinking and terror--a jealous woman never forgives, thought Dobbin: and so the pair went across the street to Mrs. George's house, where she was contentedly warbling at a music lesson with Madame Strumpff.

"Well, well; let's ask Mrs. George," said the Major. "Let us go and consult her. She knows what is right in such matters."
"Hm! Emmy is all very well," said Jos, who did not happen to be in love with his sister.
"Very well? By Gad, sir, she's the finest lady I ever met in my life," bounced out the Major. "Let us ask her if this woman ought to be visited or not - I will be content with her verdict." The artful Major was thinking that Emmy had been deservedly jealous of Rebecca, never mentioning her name but with shrinking and terror. And a jealous woman never forgives, thought Dobbin: so they went to ask her.


When that lady took her leave, Jos opened the business with his usual pomp of words. "Amelia, my dear," said he, "I have just had the most extraordinary--yes--God bless my soul! the most extraordinary adventure--an old friend--yes, a most interesting old friend of yours, and I may say in old times, has just arrived here, and I should like you to see her."
"Her!" said Amelia, "who is it? Major Dobbin, if you please not to break my scissors." The Major was twirling them round by the little chain from which they sometimes hung to their lady's waist, and was thereby endangering his own eye.
"It is a woman whom I dislike very much," said the Major, doggedly, "and whom you have no cause to love."
"It is Rebecca, I'm sure it is Rebecca," Amelia said, blushing and being very much agitated.

"Amelia, my dear," said Jos, "I have had the most extraordinary adventure - a most interesting old friend of yours has just arrived here, and I should like you to see her."
"Who is it?" said Amelia.
"It is a woman whom I dislike very much," said the Major doggedly, "and whom you have no cause to love."
"It is Rebecca, I'm sure it is Rebecca," Amelia said, blushing.


"You are right; you always are," Dobbin answered. Brussels, Waterloo, old, old times, griefs, pangs, remembrances, rushed back into Amelia's gentle heart and caused a cruel agitation there.
"Don't let me see her," Emmy continued. "I couldn't see her."
"I told you so," Dobbin said to Jos.
"She is very unhappy, and--and that sort of thing," Jos urged. "She is very poor and unprotected, and has been ill--exceedingly ill--and that scoundrel of a husband has deserted her."
"Ah!" said Amelia.

"You are right," Dobbin answered. Brussels, Waterloo, old griefs and memories rushed back into Amelia's gentle heart.
"Don't let me see her," she said. "I couldn't see her."
"I told you so," Dobbin said to Jos.
"She is very unhappy, and - and that sort of thing," Jos urged. "She is poor and unprotected, and has been ill - and that scoundrel of a husband has deserted her."
"Ah!" said Amelia.


"She hasn't a friend in the world," Jos went on, not undexterously, "and she said she thought she might trust in you. She's so miserable, Emmy. She has been almost mad with grief. Her story quite affected me--'pon my word and honour, it did--never was such a cruel persecution borne so angelically, I may say. Her family has been most cruel to her."
"Poor creature!" Amelia said.

"She hasn't a friend in the world," Jos went on, "and she said she thought she might trust in you. She's so miserable, Emmy. She has been almost mad with grief. Her story quite affected me, upon my honour - her family has been most cruel to her."
"Poor creature!" Amelia said.


"And if she can get no friend, she says she thinks she'll die," Jos proceeded in a low tremulous voice. "God bless my soul! do you know that she tried to kill herself? She carries laudanum with her--I saw the bottle in her room--such a miserable little room--at a third-rate house, the Elephant, up in the roof at the top of all. I went there."
This did not seem to affect Emmy. She even smiled a little. Perhaps she figured Jos to herself panting up the stair.

"And if she has no friend, she thinks she'll die," Jos proceeded in a low tremulous voice. "God bless my soul! do you know that she tried to kill herself? I saw a bottle of laudanum in her room - such a miserable little room - at a third-rate house, the Elephant, up in the roof."
This did not seem to affect Emmy.


"She's beside herself with grief," he resumed. "The agonies that woman has endured are quite frightful to hear of. She had a little boy, of the same age as Georgy."
"Yes, yes, I think I remember," Emmy remarked. "Well?"
"The most beautiful child ever seen," Jos said, who was very fat, and easily moved, and had been touched by the story Becky told; "a perfect angel, who adored his mother. The ruffians tore him shrieking out of her arms, and have never allowed him to see her."
"Dear Joseph," Emmy cried out, starting up at once, "let us go and see her this minute." And she ran into her adjoining bedchamber, tied on her bonnet in a flutter, came out with her shawl on her arm, and ordered Dobbin to follow.

"She's beside herself with grief," Jos resumed. "Her agonies are quite frightful. She had a little boy, the same age as Georgy."
"Yes, I remember," Emmy remarked. "Well?"
"The most beautiful child ever seen," Jos said; "a perfect angel, who adored his mother. The ruffians tore him shrieking out of her arms, and have never allowed him to see her."
"Dear Joseph," Emmy cried out, starting up at once, "let us go and see her this minute." And she ran into her room, fetched her bonnet and shawl, and ordered Dobbin to follow.


He went and put her shawl--it was a white cashmere, consigned to her by the Major himself from India--over her shoulders. He saw there was nothing for it but to obey, and she put her hand into his arm, and they went away.
"It is number 92, up four pair of stairs," Jos said, perhaps not very willing to ascend the steps again; but he placed himself in the window of his drawing-room, which commands the place on which the Elephant stands, and saw the pair marching through the market.
It was as well that Becky saw them too from her garret, for she and the two students were chattering and laughing there; they had been joking about the appearance of Becky's grandpapa--whose arrival and departure they had witnessed--but she had time to dismiss them, and have her little room clear before the landlord of the Elephant, who knew that Mrs. Osborne was a great favourite at the Serene Court, and respected her accordingly, led the way up the stairs to the roof story, encouraging Miladi and the Herr Major as they achieved the ascent.
"Gracious lady, gracious lady!" said the landlord, knocking at Becky's door; he had called her Madame the day before, and was by no means courteous to her.
"Who is it?" Becky said, putting out her head, and she gave a little scream. There stood Emmy in a tremble, and Dobbin, the tall Major, with his cane.

He saw there was nothing for it but to obey.
"It is number 92, up four flights of stairs," Jos said, not very willing to ascend the steps again; but he stood in his drawing-room, and watched the pair marching through the market.
It was as well that Becky saw them too from her garret, where she and the students were chattering and laughing about the appearance of her grandpapa. She had time to dismiss them before the landlord of the Elephant led Amelia up the stairs to her room.
"Gracious lady!" said the landlord, knocking at Becky's door; he had not been so courteous the day before.
"Who is it?" Becky said, putting out her head, and she gave a little scream. There stood Emmy in a tremble, and Dobbin with his cane.


He stood still watching, and very much interested at the scene; but Emmy sprang forward with open arms towards Rebecca, and forgave her at that moment, and embraced her and kissed her with all her heart. Ah, poor wretch, when was your lip pressed before by such pure kisses?

He stood watching, and very much interested; but Emmy sprang forward with open arms, and forgave Rebecca at that moment, and embraced her with all her heart. Ah, poor wretch, when was your lip ever pressed by such pure kisses?


About this time there drove up to an exceedingly snug and well-appointed house in Park Lane, a travelling chariot with a lozenge on the panels, a discontented female in a green veil and crimped curls on the rumble, and a large and confidential man on the box. It was the equipage of our friend Miss Crawley, returning from Hants. The carriage windows were shut; the fat spaniel, whose head and tongue ordinarily lolled out of one of them, reposed on the lap of the discontented female. When the vehicle stopped, a large round bundle of shawls was taken out of the carriage by the aid of various domestics and a young lady who accompanied the heap of cloaks. That bundle contained Miss Crawley, who was conveyed upstairs forthwith, and put into a bed and chamber warmed properly as for the reception of an invalid. Messengers went off for her physician and medical man. They came, consulted, prescribed, vanished. The young companion of Miss Crawley, at the conclusion of their interview, came in to receive their instructions, and administered those antiphlogistic medicines which the eminent men ordered.

About this time, there drove up to a well-appointed house in Park Lane a carriage with a discontented female in a green veil on the outside seat, and a large confidential man on the box. The carriage belonged to Miss Crawley, returning from Hampshire. Its windows were shut; the fat spaniel sat on the lap of the discontented female.
When the vehicle stopped, a large round bundle of shawls was removed from it by servants and a young lady. That bundle contained Miss Crawley, who was taken upstairs, and put into a bed warmed for the reception of an invalid. Messengers went off for her medical men. They came, consulted, prescribed, vanished. Miss Crawley's young companion came in to receive their instructions, and gave her medicines for fever which the doctors ordered.


Captain Crawley of the Life Guards rode up from Knightsbridge Barracks the next day; his black charger pawed the straw before his invalid aunt's door. He was most affectionate in his inquiries regarding that amiable relative. There seemed to be much source of apprehension. He found Miss Crawley's maid (the discontented female) unusually sulky and despondent; he found Miss Briggs, her dame de compagnie, in tears alone in the drawing-room. She had hastened home, hearing of her beloved friend's illness. She wished to fly to her couch, that couch which she, Briggs, had so often smoothed in the hour of sickness. She was denied admission to Miss Crawley's apartment. A stranger was administering her medicines--a stranger from the country--an odious Miss ... --tears choked the utterance of the dame de compagnie, and she buried her crushed affections and her poor old red nose in her pocket handkerchief.
Rawdon Crawley sent up his name by the sulky femme de chambre, and Miss Crawley's new companion, coming tripping down from the sick-room, put a little hand into his as he stepped forward eagerly to meet her, gave a glance of great scorn at the bewildered Briggs, and beckoning the young Guardsman out of the back drawing-room, led him downstairs into that now desolate dining-parlour, where so many a good dinner had been celebrated.

Captain Crawley of the Life Guards rode up from Knightsbridge Barracks the next day on his black charger. He was most affectionate in his inquiries about his aunt. He found Miss Crawley's maid (the discontented female) unusually sulky; he found Miss Briggs, her paid companion, in tears because she was denied admission to Miss Crawley's room. A stranger was giving her medicines - an odious Miss - tears choked her words, and she buried her red nose in her handkerchief.
Rawdon Crawley sent up his name. Miss Crawley's new companion, tripping down from the sick-room, put a little hand into his as he stepped forward eagerly to meet her. With a scornful glance at Briggs, she led the young guardsman into the empty dining-parlour.


Here these two talked for ten minutes, discussing, no doubt, the symptoms of the old invalid above stairs; at the end of which period the parlour bell was rung briskly, and answered on that instant by Mr. Bowls, Miss Crawley's large confidential butler (who, indeed, happened to be at the keyhole during the most part of the interview); and the Captain coming out, curling his mustachios, mounted the black charger pawing among the straw, to the admiration of the little blackguard boys collected in the street. He looked in at the dining-room window, managing his horse, which curvetted and capered beautifully--for one instant the young person might be seen at the window, when her figure vanished, and, doubtless, she went upstairs again to resume the affecting duties of benevolence.
Who could this young woman be, I wonder? That evening a little dinner for two persons was laid in the dining-room--when Mrs. Firkin, the lady's maid, pushed into her mistress's apartment, and bustled about there during the vacancy occasioned by the departure of the new nurse--and the latter and Miss Briggs sat down to the neat little meal.
Briggs was so much choked by emotion that she could hardly take a morsel of meat. The young person carved a fowl with the utmost delicacy, and asked so distinctly for egg-sauce, that poor Briggs, before whom that delicious condiment was placed, started, made a great clattering with the ladle, and once more fell back in the most gushing hysterical state.
"Had you not better give Miss Briggs a glass of wine?" said the person to Mr. Bowls, the large confidential man. He did so. Briggs seized it mechanically, gasped it down convulsively, moaned a little, and began to play with the chicken on her plate.

Here these two talked for ten minutes, discussing, no doubt, the symptoms of the old invalid above stairs. Then the Captain came out, curling his mustachios, and mounted the black charger, to the admiration of the little boys in the street. He looked in at the dining-room window: for one instant the young person was seen, before she went upstairs again to resume her caring duties.
Who could this young woman be, I wonder? That evening a dinner for two was laid in the dining-room; and after Mrs. Firkin, the lady's maid, pushed into her mistress's room, the new nurse and Miss Briggs sat down to their meal.
Briggs was so choked by emotion that she could hardly eat. The young person delicately carved a fowl, and asked so distinctly for egg-sauce, that poor Briggs started, made a great clattering with the ladle, and fell back in a hysterical state.
"Had you not better give Miss Briggs a glass of wine?" said the person to Mr. Bowls, the large confidential man, who was the butler. Briggs seized the glass, gulped it down convulsively, moaned, and began to play with the chicken on her plate.


"I think we shall be able to help each other," said the person with great suavity: "and shall have no need of Mr. Bowls's kind services. Mr. Bowls, if you please, we will ring when we want you." He went downstairs, where, by the way, he vented the most horrid curses upon the unoffending footman, his subordinate.
"It is a pity you take on so, Miss Briggs," the young lady said, with a cool, slightly sarcastic, air.
"My dearest friend is so ill, and wo-o-on't see me," gurgled out Briggs in an agony of renewed grief.

"I think we have no further need of Mr. Bowls's kind services," said the person suavely. "Mr. Bowls, we will ring when we want you."
Once he had left, she added with a cool, slightly sarcastic air, "It is a pity you take on so, Miss Briggs."
"My dearest friend is so ill, and wo-o-on't see me," gurgled Briggs in an agony of grief.


"She's not very ill any more. Console yourself, dear Miss Briggs. She has only overeaten herself--that is all. She is greatly better. She will soon be quite restored again. She is weak from being cupped and from medical treatment, but she will rally immediately. Pray console yourself, and take a little more wine."

"She's not very ill any more. Console yourself, dear Miss Briggs. She has only overeaten. She will soon be better. Pray console yourself, and take a little more wine."


"But why, why won't she see me again?" Miss Briggs bleated out. "Oh, Matilda, Matilda, after three-and-twenty years' tenderness! is this the return to your poor, poor Arabella?"
"Don't cry too much, poor Arabella," the other said (with ever so little of a grin); "she only won't see you, because she says you don't nurse her as well as I do. It's no pleasure to me to sit up all night. I wish you might do it instead."
"Have I not tended that dear couch for years?" Arabella said, "and now--"

"But why won't she see me?" Miss Briggs bleated. "Oh, Matilda, after three-and-twenty years' tenderness! is this the return to your poor Arabella?"
"Don't cry too much, poor Arabella," the other said; "she only won't see you, because she says you don't nurse her as well as I do. It's no pleasure to me to sit up all night. I wish you might do it instead."
"Have I not tended that dear couch for years?" Arabella said, "and now-"


"Now she prefers somebody else. Well, sick people have these fancies, and must be humoured. When she's well I shall go."
"Never, never," Arabella exclaimed, madly inhaling her salts-bottle.

"Now she prefers somebody else. Well, sick people must be humoured. When she's well I shall go."
"Never, never," Arabella exclaimed, madly inhaling her smelling-salts.


"Never be well or never go, Miss Briggs?" the other said, with the same provoking good-nature. "Pooh--she will be well in a fortnight, when I shall go back to my little pupils at Queen's Crawley, and to their mother, who is a great deal more sick than our friend. You need not be jealous about me, my dear Miss Briggs. I am a poor little girl without any friends, or any harm in me. I don't want to supplant you in Miss Crawley's good graces. She will forget me a week after I am gone: and her affection for you has been the work of years. Give me a little wine if you please, my dear Miss Briggs, and let us be friends. I'm sure I want friends."

"Never be well or never go, Miss Briggs? Pooh - she will be well in a fortnight, and I shall go back to my pupils at Queen's Crawley, and to their mother, who is a great deal more sick than our friend. You need not be jealous, my dear Miss Briggs. I am a poor little harmless girl without any friends. I don't want to replace you. Miss Crawley will forget me a week after I am gone: and her affection for you has been the work of years. Give me a little wine, please, my dear Miss Briggs, and let us be friends. I'm sure I need friends."


The placable and soft-hearted Briggs speechlessly pushed out her hand at this appeal; but she felt the desertion most keenly for all that, and bitterly, bitterly moaned the fickleness of her Matilda. At the end of half an hour, the meal over, Miss Rebecca Sharp (for such, astonishing to state, is the name of her who has been described ingeniously as "the person" hitherto), went upstairs again to her patient's rooms, from which, with the most engaging politeness, she eliminated poor Firkin. "Thank you, Mrs. Firkin, that will quite do; how nicely you make it! I will ring when anything is wanted." "Thank you"; and Firkin came downstairs in a tempest of jealousy, only the more dangerous because she was forced to confine it in her own bosom.
Could it be the tempest which, as she passed the landing of the first floor, blew open the drawing-room door? No; it was stealthily opened by the hand of Briggs. Briggs had been on the watch. Briggs too well heard the creaking Firkin descend the stairs, and the clink of the spoon and gruel-basin the neglected female carried.

The soft-hearted Briggs speechlessly pushed out her hand at this appeal; but she felt the desertion keenly for all that, and bitterly moaned the fickleness of her Matilda. At the end of the meal, Miss Rebecca Sharp (for such, astonishingly, is the name of the nurse) went upstairs again to her patient's rooms, from which she politely eliminated poor Firkin.
"Thank you, that will do; I will ring when anything is wanted."
Firkin came downstairs in a tempest of jealousy. As she passed the first floor landing, Briggs, who had been on the watch for her, opened the door.


"Well, Firkin?" says she, as the other entered the apartment. "Well, Jane?"
"Wuss and wuss, Miss B.," Firkin said, wagging her head.
"Is she not better then?"
"She never spoke but once, and I asked her if she felt a little more easy, and she told me to hold my stupid tongue. Oh, Miss B., I never thought to have seen this day!" And the water-works again began to play.

"Well, Firkin?" said she.
"Wuss and wuss, Miss B.," Firkin said, wagging her head.
"Is she not better then?"
"She only spoke once, when she told me to hold my stupid tongue. Oh, Miss B., I never thought to have seen this day!"


"What sort of a person is this Miss Sharp, Firkin? I little thought, while enjoying my Christmas revels in the elegant home of my firm friends, the Reverend Lionel Delamere and his amiable lady, to find a stranger had taken my place in the affections of my dearest, my still dearest Matilda!" Miss Briggs, it will be seen by her language, was of a literary and sentimental turn, and had once published a volume of poems--"Trills of the Nightingale"--by subscription.
"Miss B., they are all infatyated about that young woman," Firkin replied. "Sir Pitt wouldn't have let her go, but he daredn't refuse Miss Crawley anything. Mrs. Bute at the Rectory jist as bad--never happy out of her sight. The Capting quite wild about her. Mr. Crawley mortial jealous. Since Miss C. was took ill, she won't have nobody near her but Miss Sharp, I can't tell for where nor for why; and I think somethink has bewidged everybody."

"What sort of a person is this Miss Sharp, Firkin? I little thought to find a stranger had taken my place in the affections of my dearest, my still dearest Matilda!" Miss Briggs was of a literary and sentimental turn, and had once published a volume of poems - "Trills of the Nightingale."
"They are all infatyated about that young woman," Firkin replied. "Sir Pitt wouldn't have let her go, but he daredn't refuse Miss Crawley. Mrs. Bute at the Rectory jist as bad. The Capting quite wild about her. Mr. Crawley mortal jealous. Since Miss C. was took ill, she won't have nobody near her but Miss Sharp, I can't tell for why. I think somethink has bewidged everybody."


Rebecca passed that night in constant watching upon Miss Crawley; the next night the old lady slept so comfortably, that Rebecca had time for several hours' comfortable repose herself on the sofa, at the foot of her patroness's bed; very soon, Miss Crawley was so well that she sat up and laughed heartily at a perfect imitation of Miss Briggs and her grief, which Rebecca described to her. Briggs' weeping snuffle, and her manner of using the handkerchief, were so completely rendered that Miss Crawley became quite cheerful, to the admiration of the doctors when they visited her, who usually found this worthy woman of the world, when the least sickness attacked her, under the most abject depression and terror of death.
Captain Crawley came every day, and received bulletins from Miss Rebecca respecting his aunt's health. This improved so rapidly, that poor Briggs was allowed to see her patroness; and persons with tender hearts may imagine the smothered emotions of that sentimental female, and the affecting nature of the interview.
Miss Crawley liked to have Briggs in a good deal soon. Rebecca used to mimic her to her face with the most admirable gravity, thereby rendering the imitation doubly piquant to her worthy patroness.

Rebecca passed that night watching over Miss Crawley. The next night the old lady slept comfortably, so that Rebecca had several hours' rest on the sofa at the foot of the bed. Very soon, Miss Crawley was so well that she sat up and laughed at Rebecca's imitation of Miss Briggs and her weeping sniffle. Miss Crawley became quite cheerful, to the admiration of her doctors, who usually found her depressed by the least sickness, and in the most abject terror of death.
Captain Crawley came every day, and received bulletins from Miss Rebecca about his aunt's health. Poor Briggs was allowed to see her patroness; and soon Miss Crawley liked to have Briggs in a good deal, for Rebecca used to mimic her with the most admirable gravity.