"The finest young fellow in the regiment," he continued. "Not a braver or handsomer officer in the army; and such a charming wife! How you would like her! how you will like her when you know her, Miss Osborne." The young lady thought the actual moment had arrived, and that Dobbin's nervousness which now came on and was visible in many twitchings of his face, in his manner of beating the ground with his great feet, in the rapid buttoning and unbuttoning of his frock-coat, &c.--Miss Osborne, I say, thought that when he had given himself a little air, he would unbosom himself entirely, and prepared eagerly to listen. And the clock, in the altar on which Iphigenia was situated, beginning, after a preparatory convulsion, to toll twelve, the mere tolling seemed as if it would last until one--so prolonged was the knell to the anxious spinster.
"But it's not about marriage that I came to speak--that is that marriage--that is--no, I mean--my dear Miss Osborne, it's about our dear friend George," Dobbin said.

"The finest young fellow in the regiment," he continued, encouraged. "Not a braver or handsomer officer in the army; and such a charming wife! How you would like her! You will when you know her, Miss Osborne."
The young lady thought the actual moment had arrived, and prepared eagerly to listen.
"But it's not about marriage that I came to speak - that is - no, I mean - my dear Miss Osborne, it's about our dear friend George," Dobbin said.


"About George?" she said in a tone so discomfited that Maria and Miss Wirt laughed at the other side of the door, and even that abandoned wretch of a Dobbin felt inclined to smile himself; for he was not altogether unconscious of the state of affairs: George having often bantered him gracefully and said, "Hang it, Will, why don't you take old Jane? She'll have you if you ask her. I'll bet you five to two she will."

"About George?" she said in a tone so discomfited that Maria and Miss Wirt laughed at the other side of the door, and even Dobbin felt inclined to smile; for he was aware of the state of affairs.

Chapter 23: Captain Dobbin Proceeds on His Canvass


"Yes, about George, then," he continued. "There has been a difference between him and Mr. Osborne. And I regard him so much--for you know we have been like brothers--that I hope and pray the quarrel may be settled. We must go abroad, Miss Osborne. We may be ordered off at a day's warning. Who knows what may happen in the campaign? Don't be agitated, dear Miss Osborne; and those two at least should part friends."

"Yes, about George," he continued. "There has been a difference between him and Mr. Osborne. I regard him so highly that I hope the quarrel may be settled. We may be ordered abroad at a day's warning. Who knows what may happen in the campaign? Don't be agitated, dear Miss Osborne; but those two at least should part friends."


"There has been no quarrel, Captain Dobbin, except a little usual scene with Papa," the lady said. "We are expecting George back daily. What Papa wanted was only for his good. He has but to come back, and I'm sure all will be well; and dear Rhoda, who went away from here in sad sad anger, I know will forgive him. Woman forgives but too readily, Captain."
"Such an angel as YOU I am sure would," Mr. Dobbin said, with atrocious astuteness. "And no man can pardon himself for giving a woman pain. What would you feel, if a man were faithless to you?"
"I should perish--I should throw myself out of window--I should take poison--I should pine and die. I know I should," Miss cried, who had nevertheless gone through one or two affairs of the heart without any idea of suicide.

"There has been no quarrel, Captain Dobbin, except a little scene with Papa," the lady said. "We are expecting George back daily. What Papa wanted was only for his good. He has only to come back, and all will be well; and dear Miss Swartz, who went away from here in sad anger, I know will forgive him. Woman forgives but too readily, Captain."
"Such an angel as you I am sure would," Mr. Dobbin said, with atrocious astuteness. "What would you feel, if a man were faithless to you?"
"I should perish - I should take poison - I should pine and die," Miss cried, who had nevertheless gone through one or two affairs of the heart without any idea of suicide.


"And there are others," Dobbin continued, "as true and as kind-hearted as yourself. I'm not speaking about the West Indian heiress, Miss Osborne, but about a poor girl whom George once loved, and who was bred from her childhood to think of nobody but him. I've seen her in her poverty uncomplaining, broken-hearted, without a fault. It is of Miss Sedley I speak. Dear Miss Osborne, can your generous heart quarrel with your brother for being faithful to her? Could his own conscience ever forgive him if he deserted her? Be her friend--she always loved you--and--and I am come here charged by George to tell you that he holds his engagement to her as the most sacred duty he has; and to entreat you, at least, to be on his side."
When any strong emotion took possession of Mr. Dobbin, and after the first word or two of hesitation, he could speak with perfect fluency, and it was evident that his eloquence on this occasion made some impression upon the lady whom he addressed.

"And there are others," Dobbin continued, "as true as yourself. I'm talking about a poor girl whom George once loved, and who was bred from her childhood to think of nobody but him. I've seen her in her poverty uncomplaining, broken-hearted, without a fault. It is of Miss Sedley I speak. Dear Miss Osborne, can your generous heart quarrel with your brother for being faithful to her? Could his own conscience ever forgive him if he deserted her? Be her friend. I am come here charged by George to tell you that he holds his engagement to her as sacred; and to entreat you to be on his side."
When any strong emotion possessed Mr. Dobbin, he could speak with eloquence, and this made some impression upon the lady.


"Well," said she, "this is--most surprising--most painful--most extraordinary--what will Papa say?--that George should fling away such a superb establishment as was offered to him but at any rate he has found a very brave champion in you, Captain Dobbin. It is of no use, however," she continued, after a pause; "I feel for poor Miss Sedley, most certainly--most sincerely, you know. We never thought the match a good one, though we were always very kind to her here--very. But Papa will never consent, I am sure. And a well brought up young woman, you know--with a well-regulated mind, must--George must give her up, dear Captain Dobbin, indeed he must."

"Well," said she, "this is most surprising - most painful - what will Papa say? But at any rate George has found a very brave champion in you, Captain Dobbin. It is of no use, however," she continued, after a pause; "I feel for poor Miss Sedley. We were always very kind to her here. But Papa will never consent, I am sure. George must give her up, dear Captain Dobbin, indeed he must."


"Ought a man to give up the woman he loved, just when misfortune befell her?" Dobbin said, holding out his hand. "Dear Miss Osborne, is this the counsel I hear from you? My dear young lady! you must befriend her. He can't give her up. He must not give her up. Would a man, think you, give YOU up if you were poor?"

"Ought a man to give up the woman he loved, just when misfortune befell her?" Dobbin said, holding out his hand. "Dear Miss Osborne, is this the counsel I hear from you? My dear young lady! He must not give her up. Would a man, think you, give you up if you were poor?"


This adroit question touched the heart of Miss Jane Osborne not a little. "I don't know whether we poor girls ought to believe what you men say, Captain," she said. "There is that in woman's tenderness which induces her to believe too easily. I'm afraid you are cruel, cruel deceivers,"--and Dobbin certainly thought he felt a pressure of the hand which Miss Osborne had extended to him.
He dropped it in some alarm. "Deceivers!" said he. "No, dear Miss Osborne, all men are not; your brother is not; George has loved Amelia Sedley ever since they were children; no wealth would make him marry any but her. Ought he to forsake her? Would you counsel him to do so?"

This adroit question touched the heart of Miss Jane Osborne. "I don't know whether we poor girls ought to believe what you men say, Captain," she said. "I'm afraid you are cruel, cruel deceivers." Dobbin thought he felt a pressure of her hand, and dropped it in some alarm.
"Deceivers!" said he. "No, dear Miss Osborne, not all men are; your brother is not. George has loved Amelia ever since they were children. Ought he to forsake her? Would you tell him to do so?"


What could Miss Jane say to such a question, and with her own peculiar views? She could not answer it, so she parried it by saying, "Well, if you are not a deceiver, at least you are very romantic"; and Captain William let this observation pass without challenge.
At length when, by the help of farther polite speeches, he deemed that Miss Osborne was sufficiently prepared to receive the whole news, he poured it into her ear. "George could not give up Amelia--George was married to her"--and then he related the circumstances of the marriage as we know them already: how the poor girl would have died had not her lover kept his faith: how Old Sedley had refused all consent to the match, and a licence had been got: and Jos Sedley had come from Cheltenham to give away the bride: how they had gone to Brighton in Jos's chariot-and-four to pass the honeymoon: and how George counted on his dear kind sisters to befriend him with their father, as women--so true and tender as they were--assuredly would do. And so, asking permission (readily granted) to see her again, and rightly conjecturing that the news he had brought would be told in the next five minutes to the other ladies, Captain Dobbin made his bow and took his leave.

How could Miss Jane answer such a question? She parried it by saying, "Well, if you are not a deceiver, at least you are very romantic," and Captain William let that pass without challenge.
When he judged that Miss Osborne was sufficiently prepared to hear the whole news, he poured it out. "George was married to Amelia" - and then he related the circumstances of the marriage; how they had gone to Brighton in Jos's chariot for the honeymoon: and how George counted on his dear kind sisters to befriend him with their father, as true and tender women would do. And so, asking permission (readily granted) to see her again, and rightly guessing that the news would be told in the next five minutes to the other ladies, Captain Dobbin bowed and took his leave.


He was scarcely out of the house, when Miss Maria and Miss Wirt rushed in to Miss Osborne, and the whole wonderful secret was imparted to them by that lady. To do them justice, neither of the sisters was very much displeased. There is something about a runaway match with which few ladies can be seriously angry, and Amelia rather rose in their estimation, from the spirit which she had displayed in consenting to the union. As they debated the story, and prattled about it, and wondered what Papa would do and say, came a loud knock, as of an avenging thunder-clap, at the door, which made these conspirators start. It must be Papa, they thought. But it was not he. It was only Mr. Frederick Bullock, who had come from the City according to appointment, to conduct the ladies to a flower-show.

He was scarcely out of the house, when Miss Maria and Miss Wirt rushed in to Miss Osborne, and learnt the whole wonderful secret from her. To do them justice, neither of the sisters was very much displeased. There is something about a runaway match with which few ladies can be seriously angry, and Amelia rather rose in their estimation. As they prattled about the story, and wondered what Papa would say, there was a loud knock, which made them start. But it was only Mr. Frederick Bullock, who had come to conduct the ladies to a flower-show.


This gentleman, as may be imagined, was not kept long in ignorance of the secret. But his face, when he heard it, showed an amazement which was very different to that look of sentimental wonder which the countenances of the sisters wore. Mr. Bullock was a man of the world, and a junior partner of a wealthy firm. He knew what money was, and the value of it: and a delightful throb of expectation lighted up his little eyes, and caused him to smile on his Maria, as he thought that by this piece of folly of Mr. George's she might be worth thirty thousand pounds more than he had ever hoped to get with her.
"Gad! Jane," said he, surveying even the elder sister with some interest, "Eels will be sorry he cried off. You may be a fifty thousand pounder yet."

This gentleman was soon told the secret. His amazement was very different to the sentimental wonder of the sisters. Mr. Bullock was a man of the world, and a junior partner of a wealthy firm. He knew what money was: and a delightful throb of expectation lit up his little eyes, and caused him to smile on his Maria, as he thought that by Mr. George's folly she might be worth thirty thousand pounds more than he had hoped.
"Gad! Jane," said he, surveying even the elder sister with some interest, "you may be a fifty thousand pounder yet."


The sisters had never thought of the money question up to that moment, but Fred Bullock bantered them with graceful gaiety about it during their forenoon's excursion; and they had risen not a little in their own esteem by the time when, the morning amusement over, they drove back to dinner. And do not let my respected reader exclaim against this selfishness as unnatural. It was but this present morning, as he rode on the omnibus from Richmond; while it changed horses, this present chronicler, being on the roof, marked three little children playing in a puddle below, very dirty, and friendly, and happy. To these three presently came another little one. "POLLY," says she, "YOUR SISTER'S GOT A PENNY." At which the children got up from the puddle instantly, and ran off to pay their court to Peggy. And as the omnibus drove off I saw Peggy with the infantine procession at her tail, marching with great dignity towards the stall of a neighbouring lollipop-woman.

The sisters had never thought of the money up to that moment, but Fred Bullock bantered them with graceful gaiety during their outing; and they had risen in their own esteem by the time they drove back to dinner.
This was only natural. Why, only this morning, when the omnibus I rode on stopped to change horses, I noticed three little children playing in a puddle, very dirty and friendly. Another little one came along. "POLLY," says she, "YOUR SISTER'S GOT A PENNY." At which the children got up from the puddle instantly, and ran off to pay their court to Peggy. And as the omnibus drove off I saw Peggy with the infant procession at her tail, marching with great dignity towards a lollipop stall.


Love may be felt for any young lady endowed with such qualities as Miss Swartz possessed; and a great dream of ambition entered into old Mr. Osborne's soul, which she was to realize. He encouraged, with the utmost enthusiasm and friendliness, his daughters' amiable attachment to the young heiress, and protested that it gave him the sincerest pleasure as a father to see the love of his girls so well disposed.
"You won't find," he would say to Miss Rhoda, "that splendour and rank to which you are accustomed at the West End, my dear Miss, at our humble mansion in Russell Square. My daughters are plain, disinterested girls, but their hearts are in the right place, and they've conceived an attachment for you which does them honour--I say, which does them honour. I'm a plain, simple, humble British merchant--an honest one, as my respected friends Hulker and Bullock will vouch, who were the correspondents of your late lamented father. You'll find us a united, simple, happy, and I think I may say respected, family--a plain table, a plain people, but a warm welcome, my dear Miss Rhoda--Rhoda, let me say, for my heart warms to you, it does really. I'm a frank man, and I like you. A glass of Champagne! Hicks, Champagne to Miss Swartz."

Old Mr. Osborne had a great ambition, and encouraged his daughters' friendship with Miss Swartz enthusiastically.
"You won't find that splendour to which you are accustomed," he would say to Miss Rhoda Swartz, "at our humble mansion in Russell Square. My daughters are plain, disinterested girls, but their hearts are in the right place, and their affection for you does them honour. I'm a plain, humble British merchant; but you'll find us a united, simple, happy, and I think I may say respected family - a plain table, a plain people, but a warm welcome, my dear Miss Rhoda. A glass of Champagne! Hicks, Champagne for Miss Swartz."


There is little doubt that old Osborne believed all he said, and that the girls were quite earnest in their protestations of affection for Miss Swartz. People in Vanity Fair fasten on to rich folks quite naturally. If the simplest people are disposed to look not a little kindly on great Prosperity (for I defy any member of the British public to say that the notion of Wealth has not something awful and pleasing to him; and you, if you are told that the man next you at dinner has got half a million, not to look at him with a certain interest)--if the simple look benevolently on money, how much more do your old worldlings regard it! Their affections rush out to meet and welcome money. Their kind sentiments awaken spontaneously towards the interesting possessors of it. I know some respectable people who don't consider themselves at liberty to indulge in friendship for any individual who has not a certain competency, or place in society. They give a loose to their feelings on proper occasions. And the proof is, that the major part of the Osborne family, who had not, in fifteen years, been able to get up a hearty regard for Amelia Sedley, became as fond of Miss Swartz in the course of a single evening as the most romantic advocate of friendship at first sight could desire.

There is little doubt that old Osborne believed all he said, and that the girls were quite earnest in protesting their love for Miss Swartz. People in Vanity Fair fasten on to rich folks quite naturally. Their affections rush out to meet and welcome money. The Osborne family, who had not, in fifteen years, been able to get up a regard for Amelia Sedley, became as fond of Miss Swartz during a single evening as the most romantic reader could desire.


What a match for George she'd be (the sisters and Miss Wirt agreed), and how much better than that insignificant little Amelia! Such a dashing young fellow as he is, with his good looks, rank, and accomplishments, would be the very husband for her. Visions of balls in Portland Place, presentations at Court, and introductions to half the peerage, filled the minds of the young ladies; who talked of nothing but George and his grand acquaintances to their beloved new friend.

What a match for George she'd be (the sisters and Miss Wirt agreed), and how much better than that insignificant little Amelia! He would make her such a dashing husband. Visions of balls in Portland Place, presentations at Court, and introductions to half the peerage, filled the minds of the young ladies.


Old Osborne thought she would be a great match, too, for his son. He should leave the army; he should go into Parliament; he should cut a figure in the fashion and in the state. His blood boiled with honest British exultation, as he saw the name of Osborne ennobled in the person of his son, and thought that he might be the progenitor of a glorious line of baronets. He worked in the City and on 'Change, until he knew everything relating to the fortune of the heiress, how her money was placed, and where her estates lay. Young Fred Bullock, one of his chief informants, would have liked to make a bid for her himself (it was so the young banker expressed it), only he was booked to Maria Osborne. But not being able to secure her as a wife, the disinterested Fred quite approved of her as a sister-in-law. "Let George cut in directly and win her," was his advice. "Strike while the iron's hot, you know--while she's fresh to the town: in a few weeks some d---- fellow from the West End will come in with a title and a rotten rent-roll and cut all us City men out, as Lord Fitzrufus did last year with Miss Grogram, who was actually engaged to Podder, of Podder & Brown's. The sooner it is done the better, Mr. Osborne; them's my sentiments," the wag said; though, when Osborne had left the bank parlour, Mr. Bullock remembered Amelia, and what a pretty girl she was, and how attached to George Osborne; and he gave up at least ten seconds of his valuable time to regretting the misfortune which had befallen that unlucky young woman.
While thus George Osborne's good feelings, and his good friend and genius, Dobbin, were carrying back the truant to Amelia's feet, George's parent and sisters were arranging this splendid match for him, which they never dreamed he would resist.

Old Osborne thought she would be a great match for his son. He should leave the army; he should go into Parliament. With honest British exultation, he saw the name of Osborne ennobled in his son's person, and thought that he might be the first of a glorious line of baronets. Through working in the City, he knew everything about the heiress's fortune and where her estates lay. Young Fred Bullock, one of his informants, would have liked to make a bid for her himself, only he was booked to Maria Osborne. But not being able to secure her as a wife, Fred quite approved of her as a sister-in-law.
"Let George cut in directly and win her," was his advice. "Strike while the iron's hot, you know - while she's fresh to the town: in a few weeks some fellow from the West End will come in with a title and cut us City men out. The sooner the better, Mr. Osborne," Mr. Bullock said; though later, he remembered Amelia, and how pretty she was, and how attached to George Osborne; and he gave up at least ten seconds of his valuable time to regretting her misfortune.
So while George Osborne's good feelings, and his good friend Dobbin, were carrying back the truant to Amelia, his father and sisters were arranging this splendid match for him, which they never dreamed he would resist.


When the elder Osborne gave what he called "a hint," there was no possibility for the most obtuse to mistake his meaning. He called kicking a footman downstairs a hint to the latter to leave his service. With his usual frankness and delicacy he told Mrs. Haggistoun that he would give her a cheque for five thousand pounds on the day his son was married to her ward; and called that proposal a hint, and considered it a very dexterous piece of diplomacy. He gave George finally such another hint regarding the heiress; and ordered him to marry her out of hand, as he would have ordered his butler to draw a cork, or his clerk to write a letter.
This imperative hint disturbed George a good deal. He was in the very first enthusiasm and delight of his second courtship of Amelia, which was inexpressibly sweet to him. The contrast of her manners and appearance with those of the heiress, made the idea of a union with the latter appear doubly ludicrous and odious. Carriages and opera-boxes, thought he; fancy being seen in them by the side of such a mahogany charmer as that! Add to all that the junior Osborne was quite as obstinate as the senior: when he wanted a thing, quite as firm in his resolution to get it; and quite as violent when angered, as his father in his most stern moments.

When the elder Osborne gave what he called "a hint," there was no possibility of mistaking his meaning. He called kicking a footman downstairs a hint to leave his service. With his usual frankness and delicacy he told Mrs. Haggistoun that he would give her five thousand pounds on the day his son was married to her ward; and considered that proposal a great piece of diplomacy. He gave George another hint about the heiress; and ordered him to marry her, as he would have ordered his butler to draw a cork, or his clerk to write a letter.
This order disturbed George a good deal. He was in his second courtship of Amelia, which was inexpressibly sweet to him. The contrast of her manners and appearance with those of the heiress made the idea of a union with the latter appear ludicrous. Fancy being seen by the side of such a mahogany charmer as that! he thought. And he was quite as obstinate as his father, and quite as violent when angered.


On the first day when his father formally gave him the hint that he was to place his affections at Miss Swartz's feet, George temporised with the old gentleman. "You should have thought of the matter sooner, sir," he said. "It can't be done now, when we're expecting every day to go on foreign service. Wait till my return, if I do return"; and then he represented, that the time when the regiment was daily expecting to quit England, was exceedingly ill-chosen: that the few days or weeks during which they were still to remain at home, must be devoted to business and not to love-making: time enough for that when he came home with his majority; "for, I promise you," said he, with a satisfied air, "that one way or other you shall read the name of George Osborne in the Gazette."
The father's reply to this was founded upon the information which he had got in the City: that the West End chaps would infallibly catch hold of the heiress if any delay took place: that if he didn't marry Miss S., he might at least have an engagement in writing, to come into effect when he returned to England; and that a man who could get ten thousand a year by staying at home, was a fool to risk his life abroad.
"So that you would have me shown up as a coward, sir, and our name dishonoured for the sake of Miss Swartz's money," George interposed.

When his father first gave him the hint about Miss Swartz, George put him off.
"You should have thought of the matter sooner, sir," he said. "It can't be done now, when we're expecting every day to go on foreign service. Wait till my return, if I do return." He argued that the time for marriage was when he came home with his promotion; "for, I promise you," said he, with a satisfied air, "that one way or other you shall read the name of George Osborne in the Gazette."
The father replied that the West End chaps would catch the heiress if any delay took place: that if he didn't marry Miss S., he might at least have an engagement in writing; and that a man who could get ten thousand a year by staying at home, was a fool to risk his life abroad.
"So you would have me shown up as a coward, sir, and our name dishonoured for the sake of Miss Swartz's money," George interposed.


This remark staggered the old gentleman; but as he had to reply to it, and as his mind was nevertheless made up, he said, "You will dine here to-morrow, sir, and every day Miss Swartz comes, you will be here to pay your respects to her. If you want for money, call upon Mr. Chopper." Thus a new obstacle was in George's way, to interfere with his plans regarding Amelia; and about which he and Dobbin had more than one confidential consultation. His friend's opinion respecting the line of conduct which he ought to pursue, we know already. And as for Osborne, when he was once bent on a thing, a fresh obstacle or two only rendered him the more resolute.

This remark staggered the old gentleman; but his mind was made up. He said, "You will dine here tomorrow, sir, and every day Miss Swartz comes, you will be here to pay your respects to her. If you need money, call upon Mr. Chopper." Thus a new obstacle was in George's way: but it only made him the more resolute.


The dark object of the conspiracy into which the chiefs of the Osborne family had entered, was quite ignorant of all their plans regarding her (which, strange to say, her friend and chaperon did not divulge), and, taking all the young ladies' flattery for genuine sentiment, and being, as we have before had occasion to show, of a very warm and impetuous nature, responded to their affection with quite a tropical ardour. And if the truth may be told, I dare say that she too had some selfish attraction in the Russell Square house; and in a word, thought George Osborne a very nice young man. His whiskers had made an impression upon her, on the very first night she beheld them at the ball at Messrs. Hulkers; and, as we know, she was not the first woman who had been charmed by them. George had an air at once swaggering and melancholy, languid and fierce. He looked like a man who had passions, secrets, and private harrowing griefs and adventures. His voice was rich and deep. He would say it was a warm evening, or ask his partner to take an ice, with a tone as sad and confidential as if he were breaking her mother's death to her, or preluding a declaration of love. He trampled over all the young bucks of his father's circle, and was the hero among those third-rate men. Some few sneered at him and hated him. Some, like Dobbin, fanatically admired him.

Miss Swartz herself was quite ignorant of all these plans for her (which, strange to say, her chaperone did not divulge). She took the Misses Osbornes' flattery for genuine feeling, and being of a very warm and impetuous nature, responded to their affection ardently.
And I dare say that she thought George Osborne a very nice young man. His whiskers had made an impression upon her, on the first night she beheld them at the ball. George had an air at once swaggering and melancholy, languid and fierce. He looked like a man with passions, secrets, and private harrowing griefs and adventures. His voice was rich and deep. He would say it was a warm evening with a tone as sad and confidential as a declaration of love. He trampled over all the young bucks of his father's circle. A few sneered at him; some, like Dobbin, fanatically admired him.


And his whiskers had begun to do their work, and to curl themselves round the affections of Miss Swartz.
Whenever there was a chance of meeting him in Russell Square, that simple and good-natured young woman was quite in a flurry to see her dear Misses Osborne. She went to great expenses in new gowns, and bracelets, and bonnets, and in prodigious feathers. She adorned her person with her utmost skill to please the Conqueror, and exhibited all her simple accomplishments to win his favour. The girls would ask her, with the greatest gravity, for a little music, and she would sing her three songs and play her two little pieces as often as ever they asked, and with an always increasing pleasure to herself. During these delectable entertainments, Miss Wirt and the chaperon sate by, and conned over the peerage, and talked about the nobility.
The day after George had his hint from his father, and a short time before the hour of dinner, he was lolling upon a sofa in the drawing-room in a very becoming and perfectly natural attitude of melancholy. He had been, at his father's request, to Mr. Chopper in the City (the old gentleman, though he gave great sums to his son, would never specify any fixed allowance for him, and rewarded him only as he was in the humour). He had then been to pass three hours with Amelia, his dear little Amelia, at Fulham; and he came home to find his sisters spread in starched muslin in the drawing-room, the dowagers cackling in the background, and honest Swartz in her favourite amber-coloured satin, with turquoise bracelets, countless rings, flowers, feathers, and all sorts of tags and gimcracks, about as elegantly decorated as a she chimney-sweep on May-day.

And his whiskers had begun to curl themselves round the affections of Miss Swartz.
Whenever there was a chance of meeting him, that good-natured young woman was quite in a flurry to see her dear Misses Osborne. She went to great expense in new gowns, bracelets, bonnets and feathers, adorning herself with her utmost skill to please him. The girls would ask her for a little music, and she would sing her three songs and play her two pieces, while Miss Wirt and the chaperone sat by.
The day after George had his hint from his father, he was lolling upon a sofa before dinner in a very becoming attitude of melancholy. He had been, at his father's request, to Mr. Chopper in the City. He had then passed three hours with his dear little Amelia, at Fulham; and he came home to find his sisters in starched muslin in the drawing-room, the dowagers cackling in the background, and honest Swartz in her favourite amber-coloured satin, with turquoise bracelets, countless rings, flowers and feathers, about as elegantly decorated as a chimney-sweep on May-day.


The girls, after vain attempts to engage him in conversation, talked about fashions and the last drawing-room until he was perfectly sick of their chatter. He contrasted their behaviour with little Emmy's--their shrill voices with her tender ringing tones; their attitudes and their elbows and their starch, with her humble soft movements and modest graces. Poor Swartz was seated in a place where Emmy had been accustomed to sit. Her bejewelled hands lay sprawling in her amber satin lap. Her tags and ear-rings twinkled, and her big eyes rolled about. She was doing nothing with perfect contentment, and thinking herself charming. Anything so becoming as the satin the sisters had never seen.
"Dammy," George said to a confidential friend, "she looked like a China doll, which has nothing to do all day but to grin and wag its head. By Jove, Will, it was all I I could do to prevent myself from throwing the sofa-cushion at her." He restrained that exhibition of sentiment, however.

The girls talked about fashions until he was perfectly sick of their chatter. He contrasted their behaviour with little Emmy's - their shrill voices with her tender tones; their attitudes and starch with her soft movements and modest graces. Poor Swartz was seated where Emmy used to sit. Her bejewelled hands lay sprawling in her amber satin lap. Her ear-rings twinkled, and her big eyes rolled about. She was doing nothing with perfect contentment, and thinking herself charming.
"Damme," George said to a confidential friend, "she looked like a China doll, which has nothing to do all day but to grin and wag its head. It was all I could do to prevent myself from throwing the sofa-cushion at her." He restrained himself, however.


The sisters began to play the Battle of Prague. "Stop that d---- thing," George howled out in a fury from the sofa. "It makes me mad. You play us something, Miss Swartz, do. Sing something, anything but the Battle of Prague."
"Shall I sing 'Blue Eyed Mary' or the air from the Cabinet?" Miss Swartz asked.
"That sweet thing from the Cabinet," the sisters said.
"We've had that," replied the misanthrope on the sofa.

The sisters began to play the Battle of Prague at the piano.
"Stop that d___ d thing," George howled from the sofa. "It makes me mad. You play us something, Miss Swartz. Sing anything but the Battle of Prague."
"Shall I sing 'Blue Eyed Mary' or the air from the Cabinet?" Miss Swartz asked.
"That sweet thing from the Cabinet," the sisters said.
"We've had that," replied George.


"I can sing 'Fluvy du Tajy,'" Swartz said, in a meek voice, "if I had the words." It was the last of the worthy young woman's collection.
"O, 'Fleuve du Tage,'" Miss Maria cried; "we have the song," and went off to fetch the book in which it was.
Now it happened that this song, then in the height of the fashion, had been given to the young ladies by a young friend of theirs, whose name was on the title, and Miss Swartz, having concluded the ditty with George's applause (for he remembered that it was a favourite of Amelia's), was hoping for an encore perhaps, and fiddling with the leaves of the music, when her eye fell upon the title, and she saw "Amelia Sedley" written in the comer.
"Lor!" cried Miss Swartz, spinning swiftly round on the music-stool, "is it my Amelia? Amelia that was at Miss P.'s at Hammersmith? I know it is. It's her, and-- Tell me about her--where is she?"

"I can sing Fluvy du Tajy," Miss Swartz said meekly, "if I had the words." It was the last of her collection.
"O, 'Fleuve du Tage,'" Miss Maria cried; "we have the song," and she went off to fetch the book it was in.
Now it happened that this song had been given to the young ladies by a friend of theirs, whose name was on the title page, and Miss Swartz saw "Amelia Sedley" written in the comer.
"Lor!" cried Miss Swartz, spinning swiftly round on the music-stool, "is it my Amelia? Amelia that was at Miss P.'s? Tell me about her - where is she?"


"Don't mention her," Miss Maria Osborne said hastily. "Her family has disgraced itself. Her father cheated Papa, and as for her, she is never to be mentioned HERE." This was Miss Maria's return for George's rudeness about the Battle of Prague.
"Are you a friend of Amelia's?" George said, bouncing up. "God bless you for it, Miss Swartz. Don't believe what the girls say. SHE'S not to blame at any rate. She's the best--"

"Don't mention her," Miss Maria Osborne said hastily. "Her family has disgraced itself. Her father cheated Papa, and as for her, she is never to be mentioned here." This was Miss Maria's return for George's rudeness about the Battle of Prague.
"Are you a friend of Amelia's?" George said, bouncing up. "God bless you for it, Miss Swartz. Don't believe what the girls say. She's not to blame at any rate. She's the best-"


"You know you're not to speak about her, George," cried Jane. "Papa forbids it."
"Who's to prevent me?" George cried out. "I will speak of her. I say she's the best, the kindest, the gentlest, the sweetest girl in England; and that, bankrupt or no, my sisters are not fit to hold candles to her. If you like her, go and see her, Miss Swartz; she wants friends now; and I say, God bless everybody who befriends her. Anybody who speaks kindly of her is my friend; anybody who speaks against her is my enemy. Thank you, Miss Swartz"; and he went up and wrung her hand.

"You know you're not to speak about her, George," cried Jane. "Papa forbids it."
"Who's to prevent me?" George cried. "I say she's the best, the kindest, gentlest, sweetest girl in England; and that, bankrupt or no, my sisters are not fit to hold candles to her. Go and see her, Miss Swartz; she needs friends now; and I say, God bless everybody who befriends her. Anybody who speaks kindly of her is my friend. Thank you, Miss Swartz;" and he went up and wrung her hand.


"George! George!" one of the sisters cried imploringly.
"I say," George said fiercely, "I thank everybody who loves Amelia Sed--" He stopped. Old Osborne was in the room with a face livid with rage, and eyes like hot coals.
Though George had stopped in his sentence, yet, his blood being up, he was not to be cowed by all the generations of Osborne; rallying instantly, he replied to the bullying look of his father, with another so indicative of resolution and defiance that the elder man quailed in his turn, and looked away. He felt that the tussle was coming. "Mrs. Haggistoun, let me take you down to dinner," he said. "Give your arm to Miss Swartz, George," and they marched.
"Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we've been engaged almost all our lives," Osborne said to his partner; and during all the dinner, George rattled on with a volubility which surprised himself, and made his father doubly nervous for the fight which was to take place as soon as the ladies were gone.

"George! George!" the sisters cried imploringly.
"I say," George said fiercely, "I thank everybody who loves Amelia Sed-" He stopped. Old Osborne was in the room with a face livid with rage, and eyes like hot coals.
Though George had stopped, yet his blood was up. He was not to be cowed; rallying instantly, he replied to the bullying frown of his father with a look so resolute and defiant that the elder man quailed and turned away.
"Mrs. Haggistoun, let me take you down to dinner," he said. "Give your arm to Miss Swartz, George," and they marched.
"Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we've been engaged almost all our lives," Osborne said to his partner; and during the dinner, he rattled on with a volubility which made his father nervous about the fight which was to take place once the ladies were gone.


The difference between the pair was, that while the father was violent and a bully, the son had thrice the nerve and courage of the parent, and could not merely make an attack, but resist it; and finding that the moment was now come when the contest between him and his father was to be decided, he took his dinner with perfect coolness and appetite before the engagement began. Old Osborne, on the contrary, was nervous, and drank much. He floundered in his conversation with the ladies, his neighbours: George's coolness only rendering him more angry. It made him half mad to see the calm way in which George, flapping his napkin, and with a swaggering bow, opened the door for the ladies to leave the room; and filling himself a glass of wine, smacked it, and looked his father full in the face, as if to say, "Gentlemen of the Guard, fire first." The old man also took a supply of ammunition, but his decanter clinked against the glass as he tried to fill it.
After giving a great heave, and with a purple choking face, he then began. "How dare you, sir, mention that person's name before Miss Swartz to-day, in my drawing-room? I ask you, sir, how dare you do it?"
"Stop, sir," says George, "don't say dare, sir. Dare isn't a word to be used to a Captain in the British Army."

The difference between the pair was that while the father was a violent bully, the son had three times his courage. He could not merely make an attack, but resist it; and he took his dinner with perfect coolness.
Old Osborne, on the contrary, was nervous, and drank much. He floundered in his conversation with the ladies, George's coolness only making him more angry. It made him half mad to see the calm way in which George, with a swaggering bow, opened the door for the ladies to leave the room; and filling himself a glass of wine, looked his father full in the face, as if to say, "Fire first." The old man also took a supply of ammunition, but his decanter clinked against the glass as he tried to fill it.
With a purple choking face, he then began. "How dare you, sir, mention that person's name before Miss Swartz, in my drawing-room? How dare you do it?"
"Stop, sir," says George, "don't say dare, sir. Dare isn't a word to be used to a Captain in the British Army."


"I shall say what I like to my son, sir. I can cut him off with a shilling if I like. I can make him a beggar if I like. I WILL say what I like," the elder said.
"I'm a gentleman though I AM your son, sir," George answered haughtily. "Any communications which you have to make to me, or any orders which you may please to give, I beg may be couched in that kind of language which I am accustomed to hear."
Whenever the lad assumed his haughty manner, it always created either great awe or great irritation in the parent. Old Osborne stood in secret terror of his son as a better gentleman than himself; and perhaps my readers may have remarked in their experience of this Vanity Fair of ours, that there is no character which a low-minded man so much mistrusts as that of a gentleman.

"I shall say what I like to my son, sir. I can cut him off with a shilling if I like. I can make him a beggar if I like," the elder said.
"I'm a gentleman though I am your son, sir," George answered haughtily. "Any communications which you have to make to me, or any orders which you may please to give, I beg may be couched in that kind of language which I am accustomed to hear."
Whenever the lad assumed his haughty manner, it always created either great awe or great irritation in the parent. Old Osborne stood in secret terror of his son as a better gentleman than himself; and in Vanity Fair, there is no character which a low-minded man so much mistrusts as that of a gentleman.


"My father didn't give me the education you have had, nor the advantages you have had, nor the money you have had. If I had kept the company SOME FOLKS have had through MY MEANS, perhaps my son wouldn't have any reason to brag, sir, of his SUPERIORITY and WEST END AIRS (these words were uttered in the elder Osborne's most sarcastic tones). But it wasn't considered the part of a gentleman, in MY time, for a man to insult his father. If I'd done any such thing, mine would have kicked me downstairs, sir."
"I never insulted you, sir. I said I begged you to remember your son was a gentleman as well as yourself. I know very well that you give me plenty of money," said George (fingering a bundle of notes which he had got in the morning from Mr. Chopper). "You tell it me often enough, sir. There's no fear of my forgetting it."

"My father didn't give me the education you have had, nor your advantages or money. If I had kept the company some folks have had through my means, perhaps my son wouldn't have any reason to brag, sir, of his superiority. But it wasn't considered gentlemanly, in my time, for a man to insult his father. If I'd done any such thing, mine would have kicked me downstairs, sir."
"I never insulted you, sir. I said I begged you to remember your son was a gentleman as well as yourself. I know very well that you give me plenty of money," said George. "You tell me often enough, sir. There's no fear of my forgetting it."


"I wish you'd remember other things as well, sir," the sire answered. "I wish you'd remember that in this house--so long as you choose to HONOUR it with your COMPANY, Captain--I'm the master, and that name, and that that--that you--that I say--"
"That what, sir?" George asked, with scarcely a sneer, filling another glass of claret.
"----!" burst out his father with a screaming oath--"that the name of those Sedleys never be mentioned here, sir--not one of the whole damned lot of 'em, sir."

"I wish you'd remember other things as well, sir," his father answered. "I wish you'd remember that in this house - so long as you choose to honour it with your company - I'm the master, and that name - that you - that-"
"That what, sir?" George asked, filling another glass of claret.
"--!" burst out his father with a screaming oath. "That the name of those Sedleys never be mentioned here, sir - not one of the whole damned lot of 'em."


"It wasn't I, sir, that introduced Miss Sedley's name. It was my sisters who spoke ill of her to Miss Swartz; and by Jove I'll defend her wherever I go. Nobody shall speak lightly of that name in my presence. Our family has done her quite enough injury already, I think, and may leave off reviling her now she's down. I'll shoot any man but you who says a word against her."
"Go on, sir, go on," the old gentleman said, his eyes starting out of his head.

"It wasn't I, sir, that introduced Miss Sedley's name. It was my sisters who spoke ill of her to Miss Swartz; and by Jove, I'll defend her wherever I go. Nobody shall speak lightly of her in my presence. Our family has done her quite enough injury already, I think, and may stop reviling her. I'll shoot any man but you who says a word against her."
"Go on, sir, go on," the old gentleman said, his eyes starting out of his head.


"Go on about what, sir? about the way in which we've treated that angel of a girl? Who told me to love her? It was your doing. I might have chosen elsewhere, and looked higher, perhaps, than your society: but I obeyed you. And now that her heart's mine you give me orders to fling it away, and punish her, kill her perhaps--for the faults of other people. It's a shame, by Heavens," said George, working himself up into passion and enthusiasm as he proceeded, "to play at fast and loose with a young girl's affections--and with such an angel as that--one so superior to the people amongst whom she lived, that she might have excited envy, only she was so good and gentle, that it's a wonder anybody dared to hate her. If I desert her, sir, do you suppose she forgets me?"

"Go on about what, sir? about the way in which we've treated that angel of a girl? Who told me to love her? It was you. I might have chosen elsewhere, and looked higher: but I obeyed you. And now that her heart's mine you give me orders to fling it away, and punish her, kill her perhaps - for other people's faults. It's a shame, by Heavens," said George, working himself up into a passion, "to play fast and loose with a young girl's affections - and with such an angel as that - so superior, so good and gentle. If I desert her, sir, do you suppose she forgets me?"


"I ain't going to have any of this dam sentimental nonsense and humbug here, sir," the father cried out. "There shall be no beggar-marriages in my family. If you choose to fling away eight thousand a year, which you may have for the asking, you may do it: but by Jove you take your pack and walk out of this house, sir. Will you do as I tell you, once for all, sir, or will you not?"
"Marry that mulatto woman?" George said, pulling up his shirt-collars. "I don't like the colour, sir. Ask the black that sweeps opposite Fleet Market, sir. I'm not going to marry a Hottentot Venus."
Mr. Osborne pulled frantically at the cord by which he was accustomed to summon the butler when he wanted wine--and almost black in the face, ordered that functionary to call a coach for Captain Osborne.

"I ain't going to have any of this dam sentimental nonsense and humbug here, sir," the father cried out. "There shall be no beggar-marriages in my family. If you choose to fling away the chance of eight thousand a year, you may do it: but you will walk out of this house, sir. Will you do as I tell you, or will you not?"
"Marry that mulatto woman?" George said. "I don't like the colour, sir. I'm not going to marry a Hottentot Venus."
Mr. Osborne pulled frantically at the bell-cord, and almost black in the face, ordered the butler to call a coach for Captain Osborne.


"I've done it," said George, coming into the Slaughters' an hour afterwards, looking very pale.
"What, my boy?" says Dobbin.
George told what had passed between his father and himself.
"I'll marry her to-morrow," he said with an oath. "I love her more every day, Dobbin."

"I've done it," said George, coming into the Slaughters' Coffee-house an hour afterwards, looking very pale.
"What, my boy?" said Dobbin. George told what had passed between his father and himself.
"I'll marry her tomorrow," he said with an oath. "I love her more every day, Dobbin."


The above everyday events had occurred, and a few weeks had passed, when on one fine morning, Parliament being over, the summer advanced, and all the good company in London about to quit that city for their annual tour in search of pleasure or health, the Batavier steamboat left the Tower-stairs laden with a goodly company of English fugitives. The quarter-deck awnings were up, and the benches and gangways crowded with scores of rosy children, bustling nursemaids; ladies in the prettiest pink bonnets and summer dresses; gentlemen in travelling caps and linen-jackets, whose mustachios had just begun to sprout for the ensuing tour; and stout trim old veterans with starched neckcloths and neat-brushed hats, such as have invaded Europe any time since the conclusion of the war, and carry the national Goddem into every city of the Continent. The congregation of hat-boxes, and Bramah desks, and dressing-cases was prodigious. There were jaunty young Cambridge-men travelling with their tutor, and going for a reading excursion to Nonnenwerth or Konigswinter; there were Irish gentlemen, with the most dashing whiskers and jewellery, talking about horses incessantly, and prodigiously polite to the young ladies on board, whom, on the contrary, the Cambridge lads and their pale-faced tutor avoided with maiden coyness; there were old Pall Mall loungers bound for Ems and Wiesbaden and a course of waters to clear off the dinners of the season, and a little roulette and trente-et-quarante to keep the excitement going; there was old Methuselah, who had married his young wife, with Captain Papillon of the Guards holding her parasol and guide-books; there was young May who was carrying off his bride on a pleasure tour (Mrs. Winter that was, and who had been at school with May's grandmother); there was Sir John and my Lady with a dozen children, and corresponding nursemaids; and the great grandee Bareacres family that sat by themselves near the wheel, stared at everybody, and spoke to no one. Their carriages, emblazoned with coronets and heaped with shining imperials, were on the foredeck, locked in with a dozen more such vehicles: it was difficult to pass in and out amongst them; and the poor inmates of the fore-cabin had scarcely any space for locomotion. These consisted of a few magnificently attired gentlemen from Houndsditch, who brought their own provisions, and could have bought half the gay people in the grand saloon; a few honest fellows with mustachios and portfolios, who set to sketching before they had been half an hour on board; one or two French femmes de chambre who began to be dreadfully ill by the time the boat had passed Greenwich; a groom or two who lounged in the neighbourhood of the horse-boxes under their charge, or leaned over the side by the paddle-wheels, and talked about who was good for the Leger, and what they stood to win or lose for the Goodwood cup.

One fine morning a few weeks later, the Batavier steamboat left the Tower of London laden with English fugitives. The benches and gangways were crowded with rosy children and bustling nursemaids; ladies in the prettiest bonnets and summer dresses; gentlemen in linen-jackets; and stout, trim old veterans. There were jaunty young Cambridge students travelling with their tutor; there were Irish gentlemen with the most dashing whiskers, talking about horses incessantly, and prodigiously polite to the young ladies on board; there was old Methuselah beside his new young wife, with Captain Papillon of the Guards holding her parasol and guide-books; there was young May carrying off his bride who had been at school with his grandmother.
There was the great Bareacres family that sat by themselves, stared at everybody, and spoke to no-one. Their carriages, emblazoned with coronets, were on the foredeck, locked in with a dozen more vehicles. It was difficult to pass in and out amongst them; and the poor inmates of the fore-cabin had scarcely any space to move. These consisted of a few magnificently dressed gentlemen from Houndsditch; several honest fellows with portfolios, who began sketching within half an hour; and some French maids who were ill before the boat had passed Greenwich. A groom or two lounged around the horse-boxes and talked about the races.


All the couriers, when they had done plunging about the ship and had settled their various masters in the cabins or on the deck, congregated together and began to chatter and smoke; the Hebrew gentlemen joining them and looking at the carriages. There was Sir John's great carriage that would hold thirteen people; my Lord Methuselah's carriage, my Lord Bareacres' chariot, britzska, and fourgon, that anybody might pay for who liked. It was a wonder how my Lord got the ready money to pay for the expenses of the journey. The Hebrew gentlemen knew how he got it. They knew what money his Lordship had in his pocket at that instant, and what interest he paid for it, and who gave it him. Finally there was a very neat, handsome travelling carriage, about which the gentlemen speculated.
"A qui cette voiture la?" said one gentleman-courier with a large morocco money-bag and ear-rings to another with ear-rings and a large morocco money-bag.
"C'est a Kirsch je bense--je l'ai vu toute a l'heure--qui brenoit des sangviches dans la voiture," said the courier in a fine German French.

Amongst these vehicles was a very neat, handsome travelling carriage.
"Whose is that?" asked one gentleman


Kirsch emerging presently from the neighbourhood of the hold, where he had been bellowing instructions intermingled with polyglot oaths to the ship's men engaged in secreting the passengers' luggage, came to give an account of himself to his brother interpreters. He informed them that the carriage belonged to a Nabob from Calcutta and Jamaica enormously rich, and with whom he was engaged to travel; and at this moment a young gentleman who had been warned off the bridge between the paddle-boxes, and who had dropped thence on to the roof of Lord Methuselah's carriage, from which he made his way over other carriages and imperials until he had clambered on to his own, descended thence and through the window into the body of the carriage, to the applause of the couriers looking on.
"Nous allons avoir une belle traversee, Monsieur George," said the courier with a grin, as he lifted his gold-laced cap.
"D---- your French," said the young gentleman, "where's the biscuits, ay?" Whereupon Kirsch answered him in the English language or in such an imitation of it as he could command--for though he was familiar with all languages, Mr. Kirsch was not acquainted with a single one, and spoke all with indifferent volubility and incorrectness.
The imperious young gentleman who gobbled the biscuits (and indeed it was time to refresh himself, for he had breakfasted at Richmond full three hours before) was our young friend George Osborne. Uncle Jos and his mamma were on the quarter-deck with a gentleman of whom they used to see a good deal, and the four were about to make a summer tour.

, and was told that it belonged to a Nabob from Calcutta, who was enormously rich. At this moment a young gentleman, who had been warned off the bridge, dropped from there to the roof of a carriage, clambered over the other roofs until he reached this travelling carriage, and descended through the window into it.
The young gentleman was our friend George Osborne. Uncle Jos and his mamma were on the quarter-deck with Dobbin, and they were about to make a summer tour.


Jos was seated at that moment on deck under the awning, and pretty nearly opposite to the Earl of Bareacres and his family, whose proceedings absorbed the Bengalee almost entirely. Both the noble couple looked rather younger than in the eventful year '15, when Jos remembered to have seen them at Brussels (indeed, he always gave out in India that he was intimately acquainted with them). Lady Bareacres' hair, which was then dark, was now a beautiful golden auburn, whereas Lord Bareacres' whiskers, formerly red, were at present of a rich black with purple and green reflections in the light. But changed as they were, the movements of the noble pair occupied Jos's mind entirely. The presence of a Lord fascinated him, and he could look at nothing else.
"Those people seem to interest you a good deal," said Dobbin, laughing and watching him. Amelia too laughed. She was in a straw bonnet with black ribbons, and otherwise dressed in mourning, but the little bustle and holiday of the journey pleased and excited her, and she looked particularly happy.
"What a heavenly day!" Emmy said and added, with great originality, "I hope we shall have a calm passage."

Jos was seated at that moment on deck, nearly opposite the Earl of Bareacres and his family, whose proceedings absorbed him. Both the noble couple looked rather younger than in the eventful year 1815, when Jos remembered seeing them at Brussels. Lady Bareacres' hair, which was then dark, was now a beautiful auburn, whereas Lord Bareacres' whiskers, formerly red, were a rich black with purple and green reflections in the light. The presence of a Lord fascinated Jos, and he could look at nothing else.
"Those people seem to interest you a good deal," said Dobbin, laughing. Amelia laughed too. She was dressed in mourning, but the little bustle of the journey excited her, and she looked particularly happy.
"What a heavenly day!" she said and added, with great originality, "I hope we shall have a calm passage."


Jos waved his hand, scornfully glancing at the same time under his eyelids at the great folks opposite. "If you had made the voyages we have," he said, "you wouldn't much care about the weather." But nevertheless, traveller as he was, he passed the night direfully sick in his carriage, where his courier tended him with brandy-and-water and every luxury.
In due time this happy party landed at the quays of Rotterdam, whence they were transported by another steamer to the city of Cologne. Here the carriage and the family took to the shore, and Jos was not a little gratified to see his arrival announced in the Cologne newspapers as "Herr Graf Lord von Sedley nebst Begleitung aus London." He had his court dress with him; he had insisted that Dobbin should bring his regimental paraphernalia; he announced that it was his intention to be presented at some foreign courts, and pay his respects to the Sovereigns of the countries which he honoured with a visit.
Wherever the party stopped, and an opportunity was offered, Mr. Jos left his own card and the Major's upon "Our Minister." It was with great difficulty that he could be restrained from putting on his cocked hat and tights to wait upon the English consul at the Free City of Judenstadt, when that hospitable functionary asked our travellers to dinner. He kept a journal of his voyage and noted elaborately the defects or excellences of the various inns at which he put up, and of the wines and dishes of which he partook.

Jos waved his hand. "If you had made the voyages we have," he said, "you wouldn't care about the weather." But nevertheless, he passed the night direfully sick in his carriage, where his servant tended him with brandy-and-water.
In due time this happy party landed at Rotterdam, and were transported by steamer to Cologne. Here Jos was gratified to see his arrival announced in the Cologne newspapers. He had his court dress with him; he had insisted that Dobbin should bring his regimental uniform, and announced that he intended to be presented at some foreign courts, and pay his respects to the Sovereigns of the countries which he honoured with a visit.
Wherever the party stopped, Mr. Jos left his own card and the Major's with the English consul; it was with great difficulty that he could be restrained from putting on his cocked hat and tights to do so. He kept a journal of his voyage and noted elaborately the defects or excellences of the various inns at which he put up, and of the wines and dishes there.


As for Emmy, she was very happy and pleased. Dobbin used to carry about for her her stool and sketch-book, and admired the drawings of the good-natured little artist as they never had been admired before. She sat upon steamers' decks and drew crags and castles, or she mounted upon donkeys and ascended to ancient robber-towers, attended by her two aides-de-camp, Georgy and Dobbin. She laughed, and the Major did too, at his droll figure on donkey-back, with his long legs touching the ground. He was the interpreter for the party; having a good military knowledge of the German language, and he and the delighted George fought the campaigns of the Rhine and the Palatinate. In the course of a few weeks, and by assiduously conversing with Herr Kirsch on the box of the carriage, Georgy made prodigious advance in the knowledge of High Dutch, and could talk to hotel waiters and postilions in a way that charmed his mother and amused his guardian.

As for Emmy, she was very happy and pleased. Dobbin used to carry about her stool and sketch-book, and admired her drawings as they had never been admired before. She sat upon steamers' decks and drew crags and castles, or she mounted upon donkeys and ascended to ancient robber-towers, with Georgy and Dobbin. She laughed, and the Major did too, at his droll figure on donkey-back, with his long legs touching the ground. He was the party's interpreter, having a good military knowledge of the German language. Over a few weeks, Georgy made prodigious advances in German, and could talk to waiters in a way that charmed his mother and amused his guardian.


Mr. Jos did not much engage in the afternoon excursions of his fellow-travellers. He slept a good deal after dinner, or basked in the arbours of the pleasant inn-gardens. Pleasant Rhine gardens! Fair scenes of peace and sunshine--noble purple mountains, whose crests are reflected in the magnificent stream--who has ever seen you that has not a grateful memory of those scenes of friendly repose and beauty? To lay down the pen and even to think of that beautiful Rhineland makes one happy. At this time of summer evening, the cows are trooping down from the hills, lowing and with their bells tinkling, to the old town, with its old moats, and gates, and spires, and chestnut-trees, with long blue shadows stretching over the grass; the sky and the river below flame in crimson and gold; and the moon is already out, looking pale towards the sunset. The sun sinks behind the great castle-crested mountains, the night falls suddenly, the river grows darker and darker, lights quiver in it from the windows in the old ramparts, and twinkle peacefully in the villages under the hills on the opposite shore.

Mr. Jos did not join in their afternoon excursions. He slept a good deal after dinner, or basked in the inn-gardens. Pleasant Rhine gardens! Fair scenes of peace and sunshine - noble purple mountains, reflected in the magnificent stream - who that has ever seen you, does not have a grateful memory of your beauty? To lay down the pen and think of Rhineland makes one happy. On a summer evening, the cows are trooping down from the hills, their bells tinkling, to the old town, with its moats, spires, and chestnut-trees. Long blue shadows stretch over the grass, and the sky and the river flame in crimson and gold. The sun sinks behind the great castle-crested mountains; the river grows darker and darker. Lights quiver from the windows in the old ramparts, and twinkle peacefully in the villages under the hills.


So Jos used to go to sleep a good deal with his bandanna over his face and be very comfortable, and read all the English news, and every word of Galignani's admirable newspaper (may the blessings of all Englishmen who have ever been abroad rest on the founders and proprietors of that piratical print! ) and whether he woke or slept, his friends did not very much miss him. Yes, they were very happy. They went to the opera often of evenings--to those snug, unassuming, dear old operas in the German towns, where the noblesse sits and cries, and knits stockings on the one side, over against the bourgeoisie on the other; and His Transparency the Duke and his Transparent family, all very fat and good-natured, come and occupy the great box in the middle; and the pit is full of the most elegant slim-waisted officers with straw-coloured mustachios, and twopence a day on full pay. Here it was that Emmy found her delight, and was introduced for the first time to the wonders of Mozart and Cimarosa. The Major's musical taste has been before alluded to, and his performances on the flute commended. But perhaps the chief pleasure he had in these operas was in watching Emmy's rapture while listening to them. A new world of love and beauty broke upon her when she was introduced to those divine compositions; this lady had the keenest and finest sensibility, and how could she be indifferent when she heard Mozart? The tender parts of "Don Juan" awakened in her raptures so exquisite that she would ask herself when she went to say her prayers of a night whether it was not wicked to feel so much delight as that with which "Vedrai Carino" and "Batti Batti" filled her gentle little bosom? But the Major, whom she consulted upon this head, as her theological adviser (and who himself had a pious and reverent soul), said that for his part, every beauty of art or nature made him thankful as well as happy, and that the pleasure to be had in listening to fine music, as in looking at the stars in the sky, or at a beautiful landscape or picture, was a benefit for which we might thank Heaven as sincerely as for any other worldly blessing.

So Jos used to sleep a good deal with his bandanna over his face, and read all the English news, and his friends did not much miss him. Yes, they were very happy. They went to the opera often - to those unassuming, dear old operas in the German towns. Here Emmy was introduced for the first time to the wonders of Mozart. The Major was musical, but his chief pleasure in these operas was in watching Emmy's rapture. A new world of love and beauty broke upon her; how could she be indifferent when she heard Mozart?
She wondered when she prayed whether it was not wicked to feel so much delight at music? The Major, whom she consulted, said that for his part, every beauty of art or nature made him grateful, and that the pleasure to be had in fine music or a beautiful landscape or picture, was something for which we might thank Heaven.


And in reply to some faint objections of Mrs. Amelia's (taken from certain theological works like the Washerwoman of Finchley Common and others of that school, with which Mrs. Osborne had been furnished during her life at Brompton) he told her an Eastern fable of the Owl who thought that the sunshine was unbearable for the eyes and that the Nightingale was a most overrated bird. "It is one's nature to sing and the other's to hoot," he said, laughing, "and with such a sweet voice as you have yourself, you must belong to the Bulbul faction."
I like to dwell upon this period of her life and to think that she was cheerful and happy. You see, she has not had too much of that sort of existence as yet, and has not fallen in the way of means to educate her tastes or her intelligence. She has been domineered over hitherto by vulgar intellects. It is the lot of many a woman. And as every one of the dear sex is the rival of the rest of her kind, timidity passes for folly in their charitable judgments; and gentleness for dulness; and silence--which is but timid denial of the unwelcome assertion of ruling folks, and tacit protestantism--above all, finds no mercy at the hands of the female Inquisition. Thus, my dear and civilized reader, if you and I were to find ourselves this evening in a society of greengrocers, let us say, it is probable that our conversation would not be brilliant; if, on the other hand, a greengrocer should find himself at your refined and polite tea-table, where everybody was saying witty things, and everybody of fashion and repute tearing her friends to pieces in the most delightful manner, it is possible that the stranger would not be very talkative and by no means interesting or interested.

I like to dwell upon this period of Amelia's life and to think that she was cheerful and happy. You see, she has not had too much of that sort of existence yet, nor has she had the chance to educate her tastes or her intelligence. She has been domineered over by vulgar intellects. It is the lot of many a woman.


And it must be remembered that this poor lady had never met a gentleman in her life until this present moment. Perhaps these are rarer personages than some of us think for. Which of us can point out many such in his circle--men whose aims are generous, whose truth is constant, and not only constant in its kind but elevated in its degree; whose want of meanness makes them simple; who can look the world honestly in the face with an equal manly sympathy for the great and the small? We all know a hundred whose coats are very well made, and a score who have excellent manners, and one or two happy beings who are what they call in the inner circles, and have shot into the very centre and bull's-eye of the fashion; but of gentlemen how many? Let us take a little scrap of paper and each make out his list.

And it must be remembered that this poor lady had never met a gentleman in her life until this present moment. Perhaps these are rarer people than we think. Which of us can point out many such - men who are generous and constant; whose lack of meanness makes them simple; who have an honest manly sympathy for great and small alike? We all know a hundred whose coats are very well made, and a score who have excellent manners, and one or two happy beings who are in the inner circles, the very bull's-eye of fashion; but how many are gentlemen?


My friend the Major I write, without any doubt, in mine. He had very long legs, a yellow face, and a slight lisp, which at first was rather ridiculous. But his thoughts were just, his brains were fairly good, his life was honest and pure, and his heart warm and humble. He certainly had very large hands and feet, which the two George Osbornes used to caricature and laugh at; and their jeers and laughter perhaps led poor little Emmy astray as to his worth. But have we not all been misled about our heroes and changed our opinions a hundred times? Emmy, in this happy time, found that hers underwent a very great change in respect of the merits of the Major.

The Major was one, without any doubt. He had very long legs, a yellow face, and a slight lisp. But his thoughts were just, his life was honest and pure, and his heart warm and humble. He certainly had very large hands and feet, which the two George Osbornes used to laugh at; and their jeers perhaps led poor little Emmy astray as to his worth. But have we not all been misled about our heroes and changed our opinions? Emmy, in this happy time, found that hers underwent a very great change about the merits of the Major.


Perhaps it was the happiest time of both their lives, indeed, if they did but know it--and who does? Which of us can point out and say that was the culmination--that was the summit of human joy? But at all events, this couple were very decently contented, and enjoyed as pleasant a summer tour as any pair that left England that year. Georgy was always present at the play, but it was the Major who put Emmy's shawl on after the entertainment; and in the walks and excursions the young lad would be on ahead, and up a tower-stair or a tree, whilst the soberer couple were below, the Major smoking his cigar with great placidity and constancy, whilst Emmy sketched the site or the ruin. It was on this very tour that I, the present writer of a history of which every word is true, had the pleasure to see them first and to make their acquaintance.

Perhaps it was the happiest time of both their lives, indeed, if they did but know it. At all events, this couple were very decently contented. Georgy was always present; in their walks he would be on ahead, and up a tower-stair or a tree, whilst the soberer couple were below, the Major smoking his cigar, whilst Emmy sketched. It was on this very tour that I had the pleasure to make their acquaintance.


It was at the little comfortable Ducal town of Pumpernickel (that very place where Sir Pitt Crawley had been so distinguished as an attache; but that was in early early days, and before the news of the Battle of Austerlitz sent all the English diplomatists in Germany to the right about) that I first saw Colonel Dobbin and his party. They had arrived with the carriage and courier at the Erbprinz Hotel, the best of the town, and the whole party dined at the table d'hote. Everybody remarked the majesty of Jos and the knowing way in which he sipped, or rather sucked, the Johannisberger, which he ordered for dinner. The little boy, too, we observed, had a famous appetite, and consumed schinken, and braten, and kartoffeln, and cranberry jam, and salad, and pudding, and roast fowls, and sweetmeats, with a gallantry that did honour to his nation. After about fifteen dishes, he concluded the repast with dessert, some of which he even carried out of doors, for some young gentlemen at table, amused with his coolness and gallant free-and-easy manner, induced him to pocket a handful of macaroons, which he discussed on his way to the theatre, whither everybody went in the cheery social little German place. The lady in black, the boy's mamma, laughed and blushed, and looked exceedingly pleased and shy as the dinner went on, and at the various feats and instances of espieglerie on the part of her son. The Colonel--for so he became very soon afterwards--I remember joked the boy with a great deal of grave fun, pointing out dishes which he hadn't tried, and entreating him not to baulk his appetite, but to have a second supply of this or that.

It was at the little town of Pumpernickel that I first saw Colonel Dobbin and his party. They had arrived at the Erbprinz Hotel, the best in town, and were dining there. Everybody remarked the majesty of Jos and the knowing way in which he ate his dinner. The little boy, too, had a great appetite, and consumed pudding, roast fowls, and sweetmeats, with a gallantry that did honour to his nation. The lady in black, the boy's mamma, laughed and blushed, and looked exceedingly pleased and shy. The Major - or Colonel, as he became very soon afterwards - joked gravely with the boy, pointing out dishes which he hadn't tried.


It was what they call a gast-rolle night at the Royal Grand Ducal Pumpernickelisch Hof--or Court theatre--and Madame Schroeder Devrient, then in the bloom of her beauty and genius, performed the part of the heroine in the wonderful opera of Fidelio. From our places in the stalls we could see our four friends of the table d'hote in the loge which Schwendler of the Erbprinz kept for his best guests, and I could not help remarking the effect which the magnificent actress and music produced upon Mrs. Osborne, for so we heard the stout gentleman in the mustachios call her. During the astonishing Chorus of the Prisoners, over which the delightful voice of the actress rose and soared in the most ravishing harmony, the English lady's face wore such an expression of wonder and delight that it struck even little Fipps, the blase attache, who drawled out, as he fixed his glass upon her, "Gayd, it really does one good to see a woman caypable of that stayt of excaytement." And in the Prison Scene, where Fidelio, rushing to her husband, cries, "Nichts, nichts, mein Florestan," she fairly lost herself and covered her face with her handkerchief. Every woman in the house was snivelling at the time, but I suppose it was because it was predestined that I was to write this particular lady's memoirs that I remarked her.
The next day they gave another piece of Beethoven, Die Schlacht bei Vittoria. Malbrook is introduced at the beginning of the performance, as indicative of the brisk advance of the French army. Then come drums, trumpets, thunders of artillery, and groans of the dying, and at last, in a grand triumphal swell, "God Save the King" is performed.

They went on to the Grand Theatre, where Madame Devrient, then in the bloom of her beauty and genius, sang in the wonderful opera of Fidelio. From our places in the stalls we could see our four friends from the hotel, and I could not help noticing the effect which the magnificent, soaring music produced upon Mrs. Osborne; her face wore an expression of wonder and delight.
The next day there was another performance of Beethoven, Die Schlacht bei Vittoria. After drums, trumpets, thunders of artillery, and groans of the dying, at last, in a grand triumphal swell, comes "God Save the King."


There may have been a score of Englishmen in the house, but at the burst of that beloved and well-known music, every one of them, we young fellows in the stalls, Sir John and Lady Bullminster (who had taken a house at Pumpernickel for the education of their nine children), the fat gentleman with the mustachios, the long Major in white duck trousers, and the lady with the little boy upon whom he was so sweet, even Kirsch, the courier in the gallery, stood bolt upright in their places and proclaimed themselves to be members of the dear old British nation. As for Tapeworm, the Charge d'Affaires, he rose up in his box and bowed and simpered, as if he would represent the whole empire. Tapeworm was nephew and heir of old Marshal Tiptoff, who has been introduced in this story as General Tiptoff, just before Waterloo, who was Colonel of the --th regiment in which Major Dobbin served, and who died in this year full of honours, and of an aspic of plovers' eggs; when the regiment was graciously given by his Majesty to Colonel Sir Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B. who had commanded it in many glorious fields.
Tapeworm must have met with Colonel Dobbin at the house of the Colonel's Colonel, the Marshal, for he recognized him on this night at the theatre, and with the utmost condescension, his Majesty's minister came over from his own box and publicly shook hands with his new-found friend.
"Look at that infernal sly-boots of a Tapeworm," Fipps whispered, examining his chief from the stalls. "Wherever there's a pretty woman he always twists himself in." And I wonder what were diplomatists made for but for that?
"Have I the honour of addressing myself to Mrs. Dobbin?" asked the Secretary with a most insinuating grin.

At the burst of that beloved and well-known music, every English person in the house - we young fellows in the stalls, the fat gentleman and the long Major, and the lady with the little boy, stood bolt upright. As for Lord Tapeworm, the Charge d'Affaires, he rose up in his box and bowed and simpered, as if he represented the whole empire. Tapeworm was nephew of old Marshall Tiptoff, who had once been Colonel of the regiment in which Major Dobbin served.
Tapeworm must have met Dobbin at the Marshall's house, for he condescended to come over from his own box and publicly shook hands with him.
"Have I the honour of addressing myself to Mrs. Dobbin?" he asked with an insinuating grin.


Georgy burst out laughing and said, "By Jove, that was a good 'un." Emmy and the Major blushed: we saw them from the stalls.
"This lady is Mrs. George Osborne," said the Major, "and this is her brother, Mr. Sedley, a distinguished officer of the Bengal Civil Service: permit me to introduce him to your lordship."
My lord nearly sent Jos off his legs with the most fascinating smile. "Are you going to stop in Pumpernickel?" he said. "It is a dull place, but we want some nice people, and we would try and make it SO agreeable to you. Mr.--Ahum--Mrs.--Oho. I shall do myself the honour of calling upon you to-morrow at your inn." And he went away with a Parthian grin and glance which he thought must finish Mrs. Osborne completely.

Georgy burst out laughing. Emmy and the Major blushed.
"This lady is Mrs. George Osborne," said the Major, "and this is her brother, Mr. Sedley, a distinguished officer of the Bengal Civil Service."
My lord gave Jos the most fascinating smile. "Are you going to stop in Pumpernickel?" he said. "It is a dull place, but we would try and make it agreeable to you. I shall do myself the honour of calling upon you tomorrow at your inn." And he went away with a glance which he thought must finish Mrs. Osborne completely.


The performance over, the young fellows lounged about the lobbies, and we saw the society take its departure. The Duchess Dowager went off in her jingling old coach, attended by two faithful and withered old maids of honour, and a little snuffy spindle-shanked gentleman in waiting, in a brown jasey and a green coat covered with orders--of which the star and the grand yellow cordon of the order of St. Michael of Pumpernickel were most conspicuous. The drums rolled, the guards saluted, and the old carriage drove away.
Then came his Transparency the Duke and Transparent family, with his great officers of state and household. He bowed serenely to everybody. And amid the saluting of the guards and the flaring of the torches of the running footmen, clad in scarlet, the Transparent carriages drove away to the old Ducal schloss, with its towers and pinacles standing on the schlossberg. Everybody in Pumpernickel knew everybody. No sooner was a foreigner seen there than the Minister of Foreign Affairs, or some other great or small officer of state, went round to the Erbprinz and found out the name of the new arrival.

After the performance, the young fellows lounged about the lobbies, and saw the society leave.


We watched them, too, out of the theatre. Tapeworm had just walked off, enveloped in his cloak, with which his gigantic chasseur was always in attendance, and looking as much as possible like Don Juan. The Prime Minister's lady had just squeezed herself into her sedan, and her daughter, the charming Ida, had put on her calash and clogs; when the English party came out, the boy yawning drearily, the Major taking great pains in keeping the shawl over Mrs. Osborne's head, and Mr. Sedley looking grand, with a crush opera-hat on one side of his head and his hand in the stomach of a voluminous white waistcoat. We took off our hats to our acquaintances of the table d'hote, and the lady, in return, presented us with a little smile and a curtsey, for which everybody might be thankful.
The carriage from the inn, under the superintendence of the bustling Mr. Kirsch, was in waiting to convey the party; but the fat man said he would walk and smoke his cigar on his way homewards, so the other three, with nods and smiles to us, went without Mr. Sedley, Kirsch, with the cigar case, following in his master's wake.
We all walked together and talked to the stout gentleman about the agremens of the place. It was very agreeable for the English. There were shooting-parties and battues; there was a plenty of balls and entertainments at the hospitable Court; the society was generally good; the theatre excellent; and the living cheap.

Tapeworm walked off enveloped in his cloak, looking as much as possible like Don Juan. The Prime Minister's lady had just squeezed herself into her sedan, when the English group came out, the boy yawning, the Major carefully keeping the shawl over Mrs. Osborne's head, and Mr. Sedley looking grand. We took off our hats to them, and the lady gave us a little smile and a curtsey.
The carriage from the inn was waiting for them; but the fat man said he would walk and smoke his cigar on his way home, so the other three went without him.
We walked with the stout gentleman and talked about the advantages of the place. It was very agreeable; there were shooting-parties, balls and entertainments; the society was good; the theatre excellent; and the living cheap.


"And our Minister seems a most delightful and affable person," our new friend said. "With such a representative, and--and a good medical man, I can fancy the place to be most eligible. Good-night, gentlemen." And Jos creaked up the stairs to bedward, followed by Kirsch with a flambeau. We rather hoped that nice-looking woman would be induced to stay some time in the town.

"And our Minister seems a most affable person," our new friend said. "With a good medical man, I can fancy the place to be most eligible. Good-night, gentlemen." And Jos creaked up the stairs. We rather hoped that nice-looking woman would be induced to stay some time in the town.


Cuff's fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected issue of that contest, will long be remembered by every man who was educated at Dr. Swishtail's famous school. The latter Youth (who used to be called Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin, and by many other names indicative of puerile contempt) was the quietest, the clumsiest, and, as it seemed, the dullest of all Dr. Swishtail's young gentlemen. His parent was a grocer in the city: and it was bruited abroad that he was admitted into Dr. Swishtail's academy upon what are called "mutual principles"--that is to say, the expenses of his board and schooling were defrayed by his father in goods, not money; and he stood there--most at the bottom of the school--in his scraggy corduroys and jacket, through the seams of which his great big bones were bursting--as the representative of so many pounds of tea, candles, sugar, mottled-soap, plums (of which a very mild proportion was supplied for the puddings of the establishment), and other commodities. A dreadful day it was for young Dobbin when one of the youngsters of the school, having run into the town upon a poaching excursion for hardbake and polonies, espied the cart of Dobbin & Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, Thames Street, London, at the Doctor's door, discharging a cargo of the wares in which the firm dealt.
Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were frightful, and merciless against him. "Hullo, Dobbin," one wag would say, "here's good news in the paper. Sugars is ris', my boy." Another would set a sum--"If a pound of mutton-candles cost sevenpence-halfpenny, how much must Dobbin cost?" and a roar would follow from all the circle of young knaves, usher and all, who rightly considered that the selling of goods by retail is a shameful and infamous practice, meriting the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen.

Cuff's fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected result, will long be remembered by every man who was educated at Dr. Swishtail's famous school.
Dobbin (who used to be called Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-up Dobbin, and other contemptuous names) was the quietest, clumsiest, and, it seemed, the dullest of Dr. Swishtail's pupils. His father was a grocer: and it was rumoured that his board and schooling were paid for in goods, not money. He stood there in his scraggy corduroys and jacket, with his great bones bursting through the seams, as the representative of so many pounds of tea, candles, sugar, soap and other commodities. A dreadful day it was for young Dobbin when one of the boys espied the cart of Dobbin & Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, at the Doctor's door, unloading its wares.
Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were merciless. "Hullo, Dobbin," one wag would say, "here's good news in the paper. Sugar is ris', my boy." Another would ask: "If a pound of mutton-candles costs sevenpence-halfpenny, how much must Dobbin cost?" and a roar would follow from the circle of young knaves, who rightly considered that the selling of goods is a shameful practice, deserving the scorn of all real gentlemen.


"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said in private to the little boy who had brought down the storm upon him. At which the latter replied haughtily, "My father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage"; and Mr. William Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse in the playground, where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sadness and woe. Who amongst us is there that does not recollect similar hours of bitter, bitter childish grief? Who feels injustice; who shrinks before a slight; who has a sense of wrong so acute, and so glowing a gratitude for kindness, as a generous boy? and how many of those gentle souls do you degrade, estrange, torture, for the sake of a little loose arithmetic, and miserable dog-latin?

"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said in private to the little boy who had brought down the storm upon him.
At which the latter replied haughtily, "My father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage"; and William Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse in the playground, in the bitterest sadness and woe. Who does not recollect similar hours of childish grief? Who feels injustice so acutely as a generous boy? and how many of those gentle souls do you degrade and torture, for the sake of a little arithmetic and dog-latin?


Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the rudiments of the above language, as they are propounded in that wonderful book the Eton Latin Grammar, was compelled to remain among the very last of Doctor Swishtail's scholars, and was "taken down" continually by little fellows with pink faces and pinafores when he marched up with the lower form, a giant amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied look, his dog's-eared primer, and his tight corduroys. High and low, all made fun of him. They sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were. They cut his bed-strings. They upset buckets and benches, so that he might break his shins over them, which he never failed to do. They sent him parcels, which, when opened, were found to contain the paternal soap and candles. There was no little fellow but had his jeer and joke at Dobbin; and he bore everything quite patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable.

Now, William Dobbin, from his inability to learn Latin, was compelled to remain in the lower form, with little pink-faced fellows; a giant amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied look, his dog-eared primer, and his corduroys. All made fun of him. They cut his bed-strings. They left buckets for him to break his shins over. They sent him parcels, which, when opened, were found to contain the paternal soap and candles. Dobbin bore everything patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable.


Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the Swishtail Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town-boys. Ponies used to come for him to ride home on Saturdays. He had his top-boots in his room, in which he used to hunt in the holidays. He had a gold repeater: and took snuff like the Doctor. He had been to the Opera, and knew the merits of the principal actors, preferring Mr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could knock you off forty Latin verses in an hour. He could make French poetry. What else didn't he know, or couldn't he do?

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the Swishtail School. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town-boys. Ponies were brought for him to ride home on Saturdays. He had a gold repeater watch: and took snuff like the Doctor. He had been to the Opera, and could knock you off forty Latin verses in an hour. What couldn't he do?


They said even the Doctor himself was afraid of him.
Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects, and bullied them, with splendid superiority. This one blacked his shoes: that toasted his bread, others would fag out, and give him balls at cricket during whole summer afternoons. "Figs" was the fellow whom he despised most, and with whom, though always abusing him, and sneering at him, he scarcely ever condescended to hold personal communication.
One day in private, the two young gentlemen had had a difference. Figs, alone in the schoolroom, was blundering over a home letter; when Cuff, entering, bade him go upon some message, of which tarts were probably the subject.
"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter."

They said even the Doctor himself was afraid of him.
Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects, and bullied them with splendid superiority. They blacked his shoes, toasted his bread, and gave him balls at cricket during whole summer afternoons. Dobbin, or "Figs," was the fellow whom he despised most, although he scarcely ever condescended to speak to him.
One day, Dobbin, alone in the schoolroom, was blundering over a letter home; when Cuff, entering, bade him go upon some errand.
"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter."


"You CAN'T?" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (in which many words were scratched out, many were mis-spelt, on which had been spent I don't know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for the poor fellow was writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she was a grocer's wife, and lived in a back parlour in Thames Street). "You CAN'T?" says Mr. Cuff: "I should like to know why, pray? Can't you write to old Mother Figs to-morrow?"
"Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench very nervous.
"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school.
"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman readth letterth."

"You can't?" says Mr. Cuff, picking up the letter (in which many words were scratched out or mis-spelt, with much labour and tears; for the poor fellow was writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she was a grocer's wife.) "Can't you write to old Mother Figs tomorrow?"
"Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench very nervous.
"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school.
"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman readth letterth."


"Well, NOW will you go?" says the other.
"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll THMASH you," roars out Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked, that Mr. Cuff paused, turned down his coat sleeves again, put his hands into his pockets, and walked away with a sneer. But he never meddled personally with the grocer's boy after that; though we must do him the justice to say he always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt behind his back.
Some time after this interview, it happened that Mr. Cuff, on a sunshiny afternoon, was in the neighbourhood of poor William Dobbin, who was lying under a tree in the playground, spelling over a favourite copy of the Arabian Nights which he had apart from the rest of the school, who were pursuing their various sports--quite lonely, and almost happy. If people would but leave children to themselves; if teachers would cease to bully them; if parents would not insist upon directing their thoughts, and dominating their feelings--those feelings and thoughts which are a mystery to all (for how much do you and I know of each other, of our children, of our fathers, of our neighbour, and how far more beautiful and sacred are the thoughts of the poor lad or girl whom you govern likely to be, than those of the dull and world-corrupted person who rules him?)--if, I say, parents and masters would leave their children alone a little more, small harm would accrue, although a less quantity of as in praesenti might be acquired.
Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, and was away with Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley of Diamonds, or with Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Peribanou in that delightful cavern where the Prince found her, and whither we should all like to make a tour; when shrill cries, as of a little fellow weeping, woke up his pleasant reverie; and looking up, he saw Cuff before him, belabouring a little boy.

"Well, NOW will you go?" says the other.
"No, I won't. Don't strike me, or I'll THMASH you," roars out Dobbin, looking so wicked that Mr. Cuff paused, put his hands into his pockets, and walked away with a sneer. But he never meddled with the grocer's boy after that; though he spoke of Dobbin with contempt behind his back.
Some time after this, it happened that Mr. Cuff, on a sunshiny afternoon, was near poor William Dobbin, who was lying under a tree in the playground, looking at a favourite copy of the Arabian Nights while the rest of the school were pursuing various sports. He was quite lonely, and almost happy. He had for once forgotten the world, and was away with Sinbad the Sailor, when the shrill cries of a little fellow weeping woke up his pleasant reverie. Looking up, he saw Cuff belabouring a little boy.