Vanity Fair (illustrated)

“Bute Crawley, you are a fool,” said the Rector’s wife scornfully.

“Well, Ma’am, fool or not — and I don’t say, Martha, I’m so clever as you are, I never did. But I won’t meet Rawdon Crawley, that’s flat. I’ll go over to Huddleston, that I will, and see his black greyhound, Mrs. Crawley; and I’ll run Lancelot against him for fifty. By Jove, I will; or against any dog in England. But I won’t meet that beast Rawdon Crawley.”

“Mr. Crawley, you are intoxicated, as usual,” replied his wife. And the next morning, when the Rector woke, and called for small beer, she put him in mind of his promise to visit Sir Huddleston Fuddleston on Saturday, and as he knew he should have a wet night, it was agreed that he might gallop back again in time for church on Sunday morning. Thus it will be seen that the parishioners of Crawley were equally happy in their Squire and in their Rector.

Miss Crawley had not long been established at the Hall before Rebecca’s fascinations had won the heart of that good-natured London rake, as they had of the country i

“Not let Miss Sharp dine at table!” said she to Sir Pitt, who had arranged a di

Of course, after such a peremptory order as this, Miss Sharp, the governess, received commands to dine with the illustrious company below stairs. And when Sir Huddleston had, with great pomp and ceremony, handed Miss Crawley in to di

When the parties were over, and the carriages had rolled away, the insatiable Miss Crawley would say, “Come to my dressing room, Becky, and let us abuse the company” — which, between them, this pair of friends did perfectly. Old Sir Huddleston wheezed a great deal at di

“My dear, you are a perfect trouvaille,” Miss Crawley would say. “I wish you could come to me in London, but I couldn’t make a butt of you as I do of poor Briggs no, no, you little sly creature; you are too clever — Isn’t she, Firkin?”

Mrs. Firkin (who was dressing the very small remnant of hair which remained on Miss Crawley’s pate), flung up her head and said, “I think Miss is very clever,” with the most killing sarcastic air. In fact, Mrs. Firkin had that natural jealousy which is one of the main principles of every honest woman.

After rebuffing Sir Huddleston Fuddleston, Miss Crawley ordered that Rawdon Crawley should lead her in to di

Besides being such a fine religionist, Miss Crawley was, as we have said, an Ultra-liberal in opinions, and always took occasion to express these in the most candid ma

“What is birth, my dear!” she would say to Rebecca — “Look at my brother Pitt; look at the Huddlestons, who have been here since Henry II; look at poor Bute at the parsonage — is any one of them equal to you in intelligence or breeding? Equal to you — they are not even equal to poor dear Briggs, my companion, or Bowls, my butler. You, my love, are a little paragon — positively a little jewel — You have more brains than half the shire — if merit had its reward you ought to be a Duchess — no, there ought to be no duchesses at all — but you ought to have no superior, and I consider you, my love, as my equal in every respect; and — will you put some coals on the fire, my dear; and will you pick this dress of mine, and alter it, you who can do it so well?” So this old philanthropist used to make her equal run of her errands, execute her millinery, and read her to sleep with French novels, every night.

At this time, as some old readers may recollect, the genteel world had been thrown into a considerable state of excitement by two events, which, as the papers say, might give employment to the gentlemen of the long robe. Ensign Shafton had run away with Lady Barbara Fitzurse, the Earl of Bruin’s daughter and heiress; and poor Vere Vane, a gentleman who, up to forty, had maintained a most respectable character and reared a numerous family, suddenly and outrageously left his home, for the sake of Mrs. Rougemont, the actress, who was sixty-five years of age.

“That was the most beautiful part of dear Lord Nelson’s character,” Miss Crawley said. “He went to the deuce for a woman. There must be good in a man who will do that. I adore all impudent matches. — What I like best, is for a nobleman to marry a miller’s daughter, as Lord Flowerdale did — it makes all the women so angry — I wish some great man would run away with you, my dear; I’m sure you’re pretty enough.”

“Two post-boys! — Oh, it would be delightful!” Rebecca owned.

“And what I like next best, is for a poor fellow to run away with a rich girl. I have set my heart on Rawdon ru

“A rich some one, or a poor some one?”

“Why, you goose! Rawdon has not a shilling but what I give him. He is crible de dettes — he must repair his fortunes, and succeed in the world.”

“Is he very clever?” Rebecca asked.

“Clever, my love? — not an idea in the world beyond his horses, and his regiment, and his hunting, and his play; but he must succeed — he’s so delightfully wicked. Don’t you know he has hit a man, and shot an injured father through the hat only? He’s adored in his regiment; and all the young men at Wattier’s and the Cocoa-Tree swear by him.”

When Miss Rebecca Sharp wrote to her beloved friend the account of the little ball at Queen’s Crawley, and the ma