Chapter LXI: In Which Two Lights are Put Out

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　There came a day when the round of decorous pleasuresand solemn gaieties in which Mr. Jos Sedley's familyindulged was interrupted by an event which happens inmost houses. As you ascend the staircase of your housefrom the drawing towards the bedroom floors, you mayhave remarked a little arch in the wall right before you,which at once gives light to the stair which leads fromthe second story to the third (where the nursery andservants' chambers commonly are) and serves foranother purpose of utility, of which the undertaker's mencan give you a notion. They rest the coffins upon thatarch, or pass them through it so as not to disturb in anyunseemly manner the cold tenant slumbering within theblack ark.

　　That second-floor arch in a London house, looking upand down the well of the staircase and commanding themain thoroughfare by which the inhabitants are passing;by which cook lurks down before daylight to scour herpots and pans in the kitchen; by which young masterstealthily ascends, having left his boots in the hall, andlet himself in after dawn from a jolly night at the Club;down which miss comes rustling in fresh ribbons andspreading muslins, brilliant and beautiful, and preparedfor conquest and the ball; or Master Tommy slides,preferring the banisters for a mode of conveyance, anddisdaining danger and the stair; down which the mother isfondly carried smiling in her strong husband's arms, ashe steps steadily step by step, and followed by the monthlynurse, on the day when the medical man has pronouncedthat the charming patient may go downstairs;up which John lurks to bed, yawning, with a sputteringtallow candle, and to gather up before sunrise the bootswhich are awaiting him in the passages--that stair, up ordown which babies are carried, old people are helped,guests are marshalled to the ball, the parson walks to thechristening, the doctor to the sick-room, and theundertaker's men to the upper floor--what a memento of Life,Death, and Vanity it is--that arch and stair--if youchoose to consider it, and sit on the landing, looking upand down the well! The doctor will come up to us toofor the last time there, my friend in motley. The nursewill look in at the curtains, and you take no notice--andthen she will fling open the windows for a little and let inthe air. Then they will pull down all the front blinds of thehouse and live in the back rooms--then they will sendfor the lawyer and other men in black, &c. Your comedyand mine will have been played then, and we shall beremoved, oh, how far, from the trumpets, and the shouting,and the posture-making. If we are gentlefolks theywill put hatchments over our late domicile, with giltcherubim, and mottoes stating that there is "Quiet inHeaven." Your son will new furnish the house, orperhaps let it, and go into a more modern quarter; yourname will be among the "Members Deceased" in thelists of your clubs next year. However much you may bemourned, your widow will like to have her weeds neatlymade--the cook will send or come up to ask aboutdinner--the survivor will soon bear to look at your pictureover the mantelpiece, which will presently be deposedfrom the place of honour, to make way for the portrait ofthe son who reigns.

　　Which of the dead are most tenderly and passionatelydeplored? Those who love the survivors the least, Ibelieve. The death of a child occasions a passion of griefand frantic tears, such as your end, brother reader, willnever inspire. The death of an infant which scarce knewyou, which a week's absence from you would have causedto forget you, will strike you down more than the loss ofyour closest friend, or your first-born son--a man grownlike yourself, with children of his own. We may be harshand stern with Judah and Simeon--our love and pity gushout for Benjamin, the little one. And if you are old, assome reader of this may be or shall be old and rich, orold and poor--you may one day be thinking for yourself--"These people are very good round about me, butthey won't grieve too much when I am gone. I am veryrich, and they want my inheritance--or very poor, andthey are tired of supporting me."

　　The period of mourning for Mrs. Sedley's death wasonly just concluded, and Jos scarcely had had time tocast off his black and appear in the splendid waistcoatswhich he loved, when it became evident to those aboutMr. Sedley that another event was at hand, and that theold man was about to go seek for his wife in the dark landwhither she had preceded him. "The state of my father'shealth," Jos Sedley solemnly remarked at the Club,"prevents me from giving any large parties this season: but ifyou will come in quietly at half-past six, Chutney, myboy, and fake a homely dinner with one or two of theold set--I shall be always glad to see you." So Jos andhis acquaintances dined and drank their claret amongthemselves in silence, whilst the sands of life wererunning out in the old man's glass upstairs. The velvet-footedbutler brought them their wine, and they composedthemselves to a rubber after dinner, at which Major Dobbinwould sometimes come and take a hand; and Mrs.Osborne would occasionally descend, when her patientabove was settled for the night, and had commenced oneof those lightly troubled slumbers which visit the pillowof old age.

　　The old man clung to his daughter during thissickness. He would take his broths and medicines fromscarcely any other hand. To tend him became almost thesole business of her life. Her bed was placed close by thedoor which opened into his chamber, and she was aliveat the slightest noise or disturbance from the couch ofthe querulous invalid. Though, to do him justice, he layawake many an hour, silent and without stirring,unwilling to awaken his kind and vigilant nurse.

　　He loved his daughter with more fondness now,perhaps, than ever he had done since the days of herchildhood. In the discharge of gentle offices and kind filialduties, this simple creature shone most especially. "Shewalks into the room as silently as a sunbeam," Mr.Dobbin thought as he saw her passing in and out from herfather's room, a cheerful sweetness lighting up her faceas she moved to and fro, graceful and noiseless. Whenwomen are brooding over their children, or busied in asick-room, who has not seen in their faces those sweetangelic beams of love and pity?

　　A secret feud of some years' standing was thushealed, and with a tacit reconciliation. In these lasthours, and touched by her love and goodness, the oldman forgot all his grief against her, and wrongs whichhe and his wife had many a long night debated: how shehad given up everything for her boy; how she wascareless of her parents in their old age and misfortune, andonly thought of the child; how absurdly and foolishly,impiously indeed, she took on when George wasremoved from her. Old Sedley forgot these charges as hewas making up his last account, and did justice to thegentle and uncomplaining little martyr. One night whenshe stole into his room, she found him awake, when thebroken old man made his confession. "Oh, Emmy, I'vebeen thinking we were very unkind and unjust to you,"he said and put out his cold and feeble hand to her. Sheknelt down and prayed by his bedside, as he did too,having still hold of her hand. When our turn comes, friend,may we have such company in our prayers!

　　Perhaps as he was lying awake then, his life may havepassed before him--his early hopeful struggles, his manlysuccesses and prosperity, his downfall in his decliningyears, and his present helpless condition--no chance ofrevenge against Fortune, which had had the better ofhim--neither name nor money to bequeath--a spent-out,bootless life of defeat and disappointment, and theend here! Which, I wonder, brother reader, is the betterlot, to die prosperous and famous, or poor anddisappointed? To have, and to be forced to yield; or tosink out of life, having played and lost the game? Thatmust be a strange feeling, when a day of our life comesand we say, "To-morrow, success or failure won'tmatter much, and the sun will rise, and all the myriads ofmankind go to their work or their pleasure as usual, butI shall be out of the turmoil."

　　So there came one morning and sunrise when all theworld got up and set about its various works andpleasures, with the exception of old John Sedley, who was notto fight with fortune, or to hope or scheme any more,but to go and take up a quiet and utterly unknownresidence in a churchyard at Brompton by the side ofhis old wife.

　　Major Dobbin, Jos, and Georgy followed his remainsto the grave, in a black cloth coach. Jos came onpurpose from the Star and Garter at Richmond, whither heretreated after the deplorable event. He did not careto remain in the house, with the--under the circumstances,you understand. But Emmy stayed and did herduty as usual. She was bowed down by no especial grief,and rather solemn than sorrowful. She prayed that herown end might be as calm and painless, and thoughtwith trust and reverence of the words which she hadheard from her father during his illness, indicative of hisfaith, his resignation, and his future hope.

　　Yes, I think that will be the better ending of the two,after all. Suppose you are particularly rich and well-to-do and say on that last day, "I am very rich; I amtolerably well known; I have lived all my life in the bestsociety, and thank Heaven, come of a most respectablefamily. I have served my King and country with honour.I was in Parliament for several years, where, I may say,my speeches were listened to and pretty well received.I don't owe any man a shilling: on the contrary, I lentmy old college friend, Jack Lazarus, fifty pounds, for whichmy executors will not press him. I leave my daughterswith ten thousand pounds apiece--very good portionsfor girls; I bequeath my plate and furniture, my house inBaker Street, with a handsome jointure, to my widow forher life; and my landed property, besides money in thefunds, and my cellar of well-selected wine in Baker Street,to my son. I leave twenty pound a year to my valet; andI defy any man after I have gone to find anything againstmy character." Or suppose, on the other hand, yourswan sings quite a different sort of dirge and you say,"I am a poor blighted, disappointed old fellow, and havemade an utter failure through life. I was not endowedeither with brains or with good fortune, and confessthat I have committed a hundred mistakes and blunders.I own to having forgotten my duty many a time. I can'tpay what I owe. On my last bed I lie utterly helplessand humble, and I pray forgiveness for my weakness andthrow myself, with a contrite heart, at the feet of theDivine Mercy." Which of these two speeches, thinkyou, would be the best oration for your own funeral?Old Sedley made the last; and in that humble frame ofmind, and holding by the hand of his daughter, life anddisappointment and vanity sank away from under him.

　　"You see," said old Osborne to George, "what comesof merit, and industry, and judicious speculations, andthat. Look at me and my banker's account. Look at yourpoor Grandfather Sedley and his failure. And yet he wasa better man than I was, this day twenty years--a betterman, I should say, by ten thousand pound."

　　Beyond these people and Mr. Clapp's family, whocame over from Brompton to pay a visit of condolence,not a single soul alive ever cared a penny piece aboutold John Sedley, or remembered the existence of such aperson.

　　When old Osborne first heard from his friend ColonelBuckler (as little Georgy had already informed us) howdistinguished an officer Major Dobbin was, he exhibiteda great deal of scornful incredulity and expressed hissurprise how ever such a feller as that should possesseither brains or reputation. But he heard of the Major'sfame from various members of his society. Sir WilliamDobbin had a great opinion of his son and narratedmany stories illustrative of the Major's learning, valour,and estimation in the world's opinion. Finally, his nameappeared in the lists of one or two great parties of thenobility, and this circumstance had a prodigious effectupon the old aristocrat of Russell Square.

　　The Major's position, as guardian to Georgy, whosepossession had been ceded to his grandfather, renderedsome meetings between the two gentlemen inevitable;and it was in one of these that old Osborne, a keen manof business, looking into the Major's accounts with hisward and the boy's mother, got a hint, which staggeredhim very much, and at once pained and pleased him,that it was out of William Dobbin's own pocket that apart of the fund had been supplied upon which thepoor widow and the child had subsisted.

　　When pressed upon the point, Dobbin, who could nottell lies, blushed and stammered a good deal and finallyconfessed. "The marriage," he said (at which hisinterlocutor's face grew dark) "was very much my doing. Ithought my poor friend had gone so far that retreat fromhis engagement would have been dishonour to him anddeath to Mrs. Osborne, and I could do no less, when shewas left without resources, than give what money I couldspare to maintain her."

　　"Major D.," Mr. Osborne said, looking hard at him andturning very red too--"you did me a great injury; butgive me leave to tell you, sir, you are an honest feller.There's my hand, sir, though I little thought that myflesh and blood was living on you--" and the pair shookhands, with great confusion on Major Dobbin's part, thusfound out in his act of charitable hypocrisy.

　　He strove to soften the old man and reconcile himtowards his son's memory. "He was such a noble fellow,"he said, "that all of us loved him, and would have doneanything for him. I, as a young man in those days, wasflattered beyond measure by his preference for me, andwas more pleased to be seen in his company than inthat of the Commander-in-Chief. I never saw his equalfor pluck and daring and all the qualities of a soldier";and Dobbin told the old father as many stories as hecould remember regarding the gallantry and achievementsof his son. "And Georgy is so like him," theMajor added.

　　"He's so like him that he makes me tremble sometimes,"the grandfather said.

　　On one or two evenings the Major came to dine withMr. Osborne (it was during the time of the sickness ofMr. Sedley), and as the two sat together in the eveningafter dinner, all their talk was about the departed hero.The father boasted about him according to his wont,glorifying himself in recounting his son's feats andgallantry, but his mood was at any rate better and morecharitable than that in which he had been disposed untilnow to regard the poor fellow; and the Christian heart ofthe kind Major was pleased at these symptoms ofreturning peace and good-will. On the second evening oldOsborne called Dobbin William, just as he used to do atthe time when Dobbin and George were boys together,and the honest gentleman was pleased by that mark ofreconciliation .

　　On the next day at breakfast, when Miss Osborne,with the asperity of her age and character, ventured tomake some remark reflecting slightingly upon the Major'sappearance or behaviour--the master of the houseinterrupted her. "You'd have been glad enough to git himfor yourself, Miss O. But them grapes are sour. Ha! ha!Major William is a fine feller."

　　"That he is, Grandpapa," said Georgy approvingly;and going up close to the old gentleman, he took a holdof his large grey whiskers, and laughed in his facegood-humouredly, and kissed him. And he told the story atnight to his mother, who fully agreed with the boy."Indeed he is," she said. "Your dear father always said so.He is one of the best and most upright of men." Dobbinhappened to drop in very soon after this conversation,which made Amelia blush perhaps, and the youngscapegrace increased the confusion by telling Dobbinthe other part of the story. "I say, Dob," he said, "there'ssuch an uncommon nice girl wants to marry you. She'splenty of tin; she wears a front; and she scolds theservants from morning till night." "Who is it?" askedDobbin.

　　"It's Aunt O.," the boy answered. "Grandpapa saidso. And I say, Dob, how prime it would be to have youfor my uncle." Old Sedley's quavering voice from thenext room at this moment weakly called for Amelia, andthe laughing ended.

　　That old Osborne's mind was changing was pretty clear.He asked George about his uncle sometimes, and laughedat the boy's imitation of the way in which Jos said"God-bless-my-soul" and gobbled his soup. Then he said,"It's not respectful, sir, of you younkers to be imitating ofyour relations. Miss O., when you go out adrivingto-day, leave my card upon Mr. Sedley, do you hear?There's no quarrel betwigst me and him anyhow."

　　The card was returned, and Jos and the Major wereasked to dinner--to a dinner the most splendid andstupid that perhaps ever Mr. Osborne gave; every inchof the family plate was exhibited, and the best companywas asked. Mr. Sedley took down Miss O. to dinner,and she was very gracious to him; whereas shehardly spoke to the Major, who sat apart from her, andby the side of Mr. Osborne, very timid. Jos said, withgreat solemnity, it was the best turtle soup he had evertasted in his life, and asked Mr. Osborne where he got hisMadeira.

　　"It is some of Sedley's wine," whispered the butler tohis master. "I've had it a long time, and paid a goodfigure for it, too," Mr. Osborne said aloud to his guest,and then whispered to his right-hand neighbour howhe had got it "at the old chap's sale."

　　More than once he asked the Major about--about Mrs.George Osborne--a theme on which the Major could bevery eloquent when he chose. He told Mr. Osborne ofher sufferings--of her passionate attachment to herhusband, whose memory she worshipped still--of the tenderand dutiful manner in which she had supported herparents, and given up her boy, when it seemed to her herduty to do so. "You don't know what she endured, sir,"said honest Dobbin with a tremor in his voice, "and Ihope and trust you will be reconciled to her. If shetook your son away from you, she gave hers to you;and however much you loved your George, depend on it,she loved hers ten times more."

　　"By God, you are a good feller, sir," was all Mr. Os-borne said. It had never struck him that the widow wouldfeel any pain at parting from the boy, or that his havinga fine fortune could grieve her. A reconciliation wasannounced as speedy and inevitable, and Amelia's heartalready began to beat at the notion of the awful meetingwith George's father.

　　It was never, however, destined to take place. OldSedley's lingering illness and death supervened, afterwhich a meeting was for some time impossible. Thatcatastrophe and other events may have worked upon Mr.Osborne. He was much shaken of late, and aged, and hismind was working inwardly. He had sent for his lawyers,and probably changed something in his will. The medicalman who looked in pronounced him shaky, agitated, andtalked of a little blood and the seaside; but he tookneither of these remedies.

　　One day when he should have come down to breakfast,his servant missing him, went into his dressing-roomand found him lying at the foot of the dressing-table in afit. Miss Osborne was apprised; the doctors were sentfor; Georgy stopped away from school; the bleedersand cuppers came. Osborne partially regained cognizance,but never could speak again, though he trieddreadfully once or twice, and in four days he died. Thedoctors went down, and the undertaker's men went upthe stairs, and all the shutters were shut towards thegarden in Russell Square. Bullock rushed from the Cityin a hurry. "How much money had he left to that boy?Not half, surely? Surely share and share alike betweenthe three?" It was an agitating moment.

　　What was it that poor old man tried once or twicein vain to say? I hope it was that he wanted to seeAmelia and be reconciled before he left the world to onedear and faithful wife of his son: it was most likelythat, for his will showed that the hatred which he hadso long cherished had gone out of his heart.

　　They found in the pocket of his dressing-gown theletter with the great red seal which George had writtenhim from Waterloo. He had looked at the other paperstoo, relative to his son, for the key of the box in whichhe kept them was also in his pocket, and it was foundthe seals and envelopes had been broken--very likely onthe night before the seizure--when the butler had takenhim tea into his study, and found him reading in thegreat red family Bible.

　　When the will was opened, it was found that half theproperty was left to George, and the remainder betweenthe two sisters. Mr. Bullock to continue, for their jointbenefit, the affairs of the commercial house, or to go out,as he thought fit. An annuity of five hundred pounds,chargeable on George's property, was left to his mother,"the widow of my beloved son, George Osborne," whowas to resume the guardianship of the boy.

　　"Major William Dobbin, my beloved son's friend," wasappointed executor; "and as out of his kindness andbounty, and with his own private funds, he maintainedmy grandson and my son's widow, when they wereotherwise without means of support" (the testator went onto say) "I hereby thank him heartily for his love andregard for them, and beseech him to accept such a sumas may be sufficient to purchase his commission as aLieutenant-Colonel, or to be disposed of in any way hemay think fit."

　　When Amelia heard that her father-in-law wasreconciled to her, her heart melted, and she was gratefulfor the fortune left to her. But when she heard howGeorgy was restored to her, and knew how and bywhom, and how it was William's bounty that supportedher in poverty, how it was William who gave her herhusband and her son--oh, then she sank on her knees,and prayed for blessings on that constant and kind heart;she bowed down and humbled herself, and kissed thefeet, as it were, of that beautiful and generous affection.

　　And gratitude was all that she had to pay back forsuch admirable devotion and benefits--only gratitude! Ifshe thought of any other return, the image of Georgestood up out of the grave and said, "You are mine,and mine only, now and forever."

　　William knew her feelings: had he not passed hiswhole life in divining them?

　　When the nature of Mr. Osborne's will became knownto the world, it was edifying to remark how Mrs. GeorgeOsborne rose in the estimation of the people forming hercircle of acquaintance. The servants of Jos's establishment,who used to question her humble orders and saythey would "ask Master" whether or not they could obey,never thought now of that sort of appeal. The cookforgot to sneer at her shabby old gowns (which, indeed,were quite eclipsed by that lady's finery when she wasdressed to go to church of a Sunday evening), the othersno longer grumbled at the sound of her bell, or delayedto answer that summons. The coachman, who grumbledthat his 'osses should be brought out and hiscarriage made into an hospital for that old feller andMrs. O., drove her with the utmost alacrity now, andtrembling lest he should be superseded by Mr. Osborne'scoachman, asked "what them there Russell Squarecoachmen knew about town, and whether they was fit to siton a box before a lady?" Jos's friends, male and female,suddenly became interested about Emmy, and cardsof condolence multiplied on her hall table. Jos himself,who had looked on her as a good-natured harmlesspauper, to whom it was his duty to give victuals andshelter, paid her and the rich little boy, his nephew, thegreatest respect--was anxious that she should havechange and amusement after her troubles and trials,"poor dear girl"--and began to appear at the breakfast-table, and most particularly to ask how she would liketo dispose of the day.

　　In her capacity of guardian to Georgy, she, with theconsent of the Major, her fellow-trustee, begged MissOsborne to live in the Russell Square house as long asever she chose to dwell there; but that lady, with thanks,declared that she never could think of remaining alonein that melancholy mansion, and departed in deep mourningto Cheltenham, with a couple of her old domestics.The rest were liberally paid and dismissed, the faithfulold butler, whom Mrs. Osborne proposed to retain,resigning and preferring to invest his savings in a public-house, where, let us hope, he was not unprosperous.Miss Osborne not choosing to live in Russell Square, Mrs.Osborne also, after consultation, declined to occupy thegloomy old mansion there. The house was dismantled;the rich furniture and effects, the awful chandeliers anddreary blank mirrors packed away and hidden, the richrosewood drawing-room suite was muffled in straw, thecarpets were rolled up and corded, the small selectlibrary of well-bound books was stowed into two wine-chests, and the whole paraphernalia rolled away inseveral enormous vans to the Pantechnicon, where theywere to lie until Georgy's majority. And the great heavydark plate-chests went off to Messrs. Stumpy and Rowdy,to lie in the cellars of those eminent bankers until thesame period should arrive.

　　One day Emmy, with George in her hand and clad indeep sables, went to visit the deserted mansion which shehad not entered since she was a girl. The place in frontwas littered with straw where the vans had been ladenand rolled off. They went into the great blank rooms, thewalls of which bore the marks where the pictures andmirrors had hung. Then they went up the great blankstone staircases into the upper rooms, into that wheregrandpapa died, as George said in a whisper, and thenhigher still into George's own room. The boy was stillclinging by her side, but she thought of another besideshim. She knew that it had been his father's room as wellas his own.

　　She went up to one of the open windows (one ofthose at which she used to gaze with a sick heart whenthe child was first taken from her), and thence as shelooked out she could see, over the trees of Russell Square,the old house in which she herself was born, and whereshe had passed so many happy days of sacred youth.They all came back to her, the pleasant holidays,the kind faces, the careless, joyful past times, and thelong pains and trials that had since cast her down.She thought of these and of the man who had been herconstant protector, her good genius, her sole benefactor,her tender and generous friend.

　　"Look here, Mother," said Georgy, "here's a G.O.scratched on the glass with a diamond, I never saw itbefore, I never did it."

　　"It was your father's room long before you were born,George," she said, and she blushed as she kissed theboy.

　　She was very silent as they drove back to Richmond,where they had taken a temporary house: where thesmiling lawyers used to come bustling over to see her (andwe may be sure noted the visit in the bill): and where ofcourse there was a room for Major Dobbin too, whorode over frequently, having much business to transacton behalf of his little ward.

　　Georgy at this time was removed from Mr. Veal's onan unlimited holiday, and that gentleman was engagedto prepare an inscription for a fine marble slab, to beplaced up in the Foundling under the monument ofCaptain George Osborne.

　　The female Bullock, aunt of Georgy, althoughdespoiled by that little monster of one-half of the sumwhich she expected from her father, nevertheless showedher charitableness of spirit by being reconciled to themother and the boy. Roehampton is not far fromRichmond, and one day the chariot, with the golden bullocksemblazoned on the panels, and the flaccid children within,drove to Amelia's house at Richmond; and the Bullockfamily made an irruption into the garden, where Ameliawas reading a book, Jos was in an arbour placidlydipping strawberries into wine, and the Major in one ofhis Indian jackets was giving a back to Georgy, whochose to jump over him. He went over his head andbounded into the little advance of Bullocks, withimmense black bows in their hats, and huge black sashes,accompanying their mourning mamma.

　　"He is just of the age for Rosa," the fond parentthought, and glanced towards that dear child, anunwholesome little miss of seven years of age.

　　"Rosa, go and kiss your dear cousin," Mrs. Fredericksaid. "Don't you know me, George? I am your aunt."

　　"I know you well enough," George said; "but I don'tlike kissing, please"; and he retreated from the obedientcaresses of his cousin.

　　"Take me to your dear mamma, you droll child," Mrs.Frederick said, and those ladies accordingly met, afteran absence of more than fifteen years. During Emmy'scares and poverty the other had never once thoughtabout coming to see her, but now that she was decentlyprosperous in the world, her sister-in-law came to her asa matter of course.

　　So did numbers more. Our old friend, Miss Swartz, andher husband came thundering over from Hampton Court,with flaming yellow liveries, and was as impetuously fondof Amelia as ever. Miss Swartz would have liked heralways if she could have seen her. One must do her thatjustice. But, que voulez vous?--in this vast town onehas not the time to go and seek one's friends; if theydrop out of the rank they disappear, and we march onwithout them. Who is ever missed in Vanity Fair?

　　But so, in a word, and before the period of grief forMr. Osborne's death had subsided, Emmy found herselfin the centre of a very genteel circle indeed, themembers of which could not conceive that anybodybelonging to it was not very lucky. There was scarce oneof the ladies that hadn't a relation a Peer, though thehusband might be a drysalter in the City. Some of theladies were very blue and well informed, reading Mrs.Somerville and frequenting the Royal Institution; otherswere severe and Evangelical, and held by Exeter Hall.Emmy, it must be owned, found herself entirely at a loss inthe midst of their clavers, and suffered woefully on theone or two occasions on which she was compelled toaccept Mrs. Frederick Bullock's hospitalities. That ladypersisted in patronizing her and determined most graciouslyto form her. She found Amelia's milliners for her andregulated her household and her manners. She droveover constantly from Roehampton and entertained herfriend with faint fashionable fiddle-faddle and feebleCourt slip-slop. Jos liked to hear it, but the Major usedto go off growling at the appearance of this woman, withher twopenny gentility. He went to sleep under FrederickBullock's bald head, after dinner, at one of the banker'sbest parties (Fred was still anxious that the balance ofthe Osborne property should be transferred from Stumpyand Rowdy's to them), and whilst Amelia, who did notknow Latin, or who wrote the last crack article in theEdinburgh, and did not in the least deplore, orotherwise, Mr. Peel's late extraordinary tergiversation on thefatal Catholic Relief Bill, sat dumb amongst the ladies inthe grand drawing-room, looking out upon velvet lawns,trim gravel walks, and glistening hot-houses.

　　"She seems good-natured but insipid," said Mrs.Rowdy; "that Major seems to be particularly epris."

　　"She wants ton sadly," said Mrs. Hollyock. "My dearcreature, you never will be able to form her."

　　"She is dreadfully ignorant or indifferent," said Mrs.Glowry with a voice as if from the grave, and a sadshake of the head and turban. "I asked her if she thoughtthat it was in 1836, according to Mr. Jowls, or in 1839,according to Mr. Wapshot, that the Pope was to fall:and she said--'Poor Pope! I hope not--What has hedone?' "

　　"She is my brother's widow, my dear friends," Mrs.Frederick replied, "and as such I think we're all bound togive her every attention and instruction on entering intothe world. You may fancy there can be no mercenarymotives in those whose disappointments are well known."

　　"That poor dear Mrs. Bullock," said Rowdy to Hollyock,as they drove away together--"she is always schemingand managing. She wants Mrs. Osborne's accountto be taken from our house to hers--and the way inwhich she coaxes that boy and makes him sit by thatblear-eyed little Rosa is perfectly ridiculous."

　　"I wish Glowry was choked with her Man of Sin andher Battle of Armageddon," cried the other, and thecarriage rolled away over Putney Bridge.

　　But this sort of society was too cruelly genteel forEmmy, and all jumped for joy when a foreign tour wasproposed.