Vanity_Fair.PDF

1848

William Makepeace Thackeray

Vanity Fair. A Novel Without a Hero.

By William Makepeace Thackeray. With Illustrations on Steel and Wood by the Author

London

Bradbury and Evans 1848 First published in monthly instalments between Jan 1847-Jun 1848

xvi, 624 p.

Preliminaries omitted

B. W. PROCTER

THIS STORY IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

BEFORE THE CURTAIN.

As the Manager of the Performance sits before the curtain on the boards, and looks into the Fair, a feeling of profound

melancholy comes over him in his survey of the bustling place. There is a great quantity of eating and drinking, making love

and jilting, laughing and the contrary, smoking, cheating, fighting, dancing, and fiddling: there are bullies pushing about, bucks

ogling the women, knaves picking pockets, policemen on the look-out, quacks (other quacks, plague take them!) bawling in

front of their booths, and yokels looking up at the tinselled dancers and poor old rouged tumblers, while the light-fingered folk

are operating upon their pockets behind. Yes, this is Vanity Fair ; not a moral place certainly; nor a merry one, though very

noisy. Look at the faces of the actors and buffoons when they come off from their business; and Tom Fool washing the paint

off his cheeks before he sits down to dinner with his wife and the little Jack Puddings behind the canvass. The curtain will be

up presently, and he will be turning over head and heels, and crying, "How are you?"

A man with a reflective turn of mind, walking through

[p. viii]

an exhibition of this sort, will not be oppressed, I take it, by his own or other people's hilarity. An episode of humour or

kindness touches and amuses him here and there;—a pretty child looking at a gingerbread stall; a pretty girl blushing whilst her

lover talks to her and chooses her fairing; poor Tom Fool, yonder behind the waggon, mumbling his bone with the honest

family which lives by his tumbling;—but the general impression is one more melancholy than mirthful. When you come home,

you sit down, in a sober, contemplative, not uncharitable frame of mind, and apply yourself to your books or your business.

I have no other moral than this to tag to the present story of "Vanity Fair." Some people consider Fairs immoral altogether,

and eschew such, with their servants and families: perhaps they are right. But persons who think otherwise and are of a lazy, or

a benevolent, or a sarcastic mood, may perhaps like to step in for half an hour and look at the performances. There are scenes

of all sorts; some dreadful combats, some grand and lofty horse-riding, some scenes of high life, and some of very middling

indeed; some love making for the sentimental, and some light comic business: the whole accompanied by appropriate scenery,

and brilliantly illuminated with the Author's own candles.

What more has the Manager of the Performance to say?— To acknowledge the kindness with which it has been received in

all the principal towns of England through which the Show has passed, and where it has been most favourably noticed by the

respected conductors of the Public Press, and by the Nobility and Gentry. He is proud to think that his Puppets have given

satisfaction to the very best company in this empire.

[p. ix]

The famous little Becky Puppet has been pronounced to be uncommonly flexible in the joints and lively on the wire: the

Amelia Doll, though it has had a smaller circle of admirers, has yet been carved and dressed with the greatest care by the artist:

the Dobbin Figure, though apparently clumsy, yet dances in a very amusing and natural manner: the Little Boys' Dance has

been liked by some; and please to remark the richly dressed figure of the Wicked Nobleman, on which no expense has been

spared, and which Old Nick will fetch away at the end of this singular performance.

And with this, and a profound bow to his patrons, the Manager retires, and the curtain rises.

London , June 28, 1848.

[p. 1]

CHAPTER I.

CHISWICK MALL.

W HILE the present century was in its teens, and on one sun-shiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss

Pinkerton's academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven

by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour. A black servant, who reposed on the box

beside the fat coachman, uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss Pinkerton's shining brass

plate, and as he pulled the bell, at least a score of young heads were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the stately old

brick house. Nay, the acute observer might have recognised the little red nose of good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself,

rising over some geranium-pots in the window of that lady's own drawing-room.

William Makepeace T HACKERAY : Vanity Fair

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

has a new red waistcoat."

"Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima?" asked Miss

Pinkerton herself, that majestic lady: the Semiramis of Hammersmith, the friend of Doctor Johnson, the correspondent of Mrs.

Chapone herself.

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

[p. 2]

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

"Well, a booky as big almost as a hay-stack; I have put up two bottles of the gillyflower-water for Mrs. Sedley, and the

receipt for making it, in Amelia's box."

"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's account. This is it, is it? Very good—ninety-three

pounds, four shillings. Be kind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal this billet which I have written to his

lady."

In Miss Jemima's eyes of an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration, as would

have been a letter from a sovereign. Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or when they were about to be married,

and once, when poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to the parents of her

pupils; and it was Jemima's opinion that if anything could console Mrs. Birch for her daughter's loss, it would be that pious and

eloquent composition in which Miss Pinkerton announced the event.

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

"The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18—.

" Madam ,—After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honour and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to

her parents,

[p. 3]

as a young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished and refined circle. Those virtues which characterise

the young English gentlewoman, those accomplishments which become her birth and station, will not be found wanting in the

amiable Miss Sedley, whose industry and obedience have endeared her to her instructors, and whose delightful sweetness of

temper has charmed her aged and her youthful companions.

"In music, in dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery and needle-work, she will be found to have realised

her friends' fondest wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and a careful and undeviating use of the backboard,

for four hours daily during the next three years, is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of that dignified deportment

and carriage, so requisite for every young lady of fashion.

"In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be found worthy of an establishment which has been honoured

by the presence of The Great Lexicographer, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs. Chapone. In leaving the Mall, Miss

Amelia carries with her the hearts of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who has the honour to

subscribe herself,

"Madam,

"Your most obliged humble servant,

" Barbara Pinkerton ."

"P. S. Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly requested that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not

exceed ten days. The family of distinction with whom she is engaged, desire to avail themselves of her services as soon as

possible."

This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name, and Miss Sedley's, in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's

Dictionary—the interesting work which she invariably presented to her scholars, on their departure from the Mall. On the

cover was inserted a copy of "Lines addressed to a young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school, at the Mall; by the late

revered Doctor Samuel Johnson." In fact, the Lexicographer's name was always on the lips of this majestic woman, and a visit

he had paid to her was the cause of her reputation and her fortune.

Being commanded by her elder sister to get "the Dictionary" from the cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of

the book from the receptacle in question. When Miss Pinkerton had finished the inscription in the first, Jemima, with rather a

dubious and timid air, handed her the second.

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

"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing over her withered face and neck, as she turned

her back on her sister. "For Becky Sharp: she's going too."

"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the

closet, and never venture to take such a liberty in future."

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

[p. 4]

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

off, exceedingly flurried and nervous.

Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of some wealth; whereas Miss Sharp was an articled pupil, for

whom Miss Pinkerton had done, as she thought, quite enough, without conferring upon her at parting, the high honour of the

Dixonary.

Although Schoolmistresses' letters are to be trusted no more nor less than churchyard epitaphs; yet, as it sometimes happens

that a person departs this life, who is really deserving of all the praises the stone-cutter carves over his bones; who is a good

William Makepeace T HACKERAY : Vanity Fair

Christian, a good parent, child, wife or husband; who actually does leave a disconsolate family to mourn his loss; so in

academies of the male and female sex it occurs every now and then, that the pupil is fully worthy of the praises bestowed by

the disinterested instructor. Now, Miss Amelia Sedley was a young lady of this singular species; and deserved not only all that

Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had many charming qualities which that pompous old Minerva of a woman could not see,

from the differences of rank and age between her pupil and herself.

For she could not only sing like a lark, or a Mrs. Billington, and dance like Hillisberg or Parisot; and embroider beautifully;

and spell as well as the Dixonary itself; but she had such a kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own, as won

the love of everybody who came near her, from Minerva herself down to the poor girl in the scullery, and the one-eyed

tartwoman's daughter, who was permitted to vend her wares once a week to the young ladies in the Mall. She had twelve

intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four young ladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her: high and

mighty Miss Saltire (Lord Dexter's grand-daughter) allowed that her figure was genteel: and as for Miss Swartz, the rich

woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitt's, on the day Amelia went away, she was in such a passion of tears, that they were obliged

to send for Dr. Floss, and half tipsify her with salvolatile. Miss Pinkerton's attachment was, as may be supposed, from the high

position and eminent virtues of that lady, calm and dignified; but Miss Jemima had already blubbered several times at the idea

of Amelia's departure; and, but for fear of her sister, would have gone off in downright hysterics, like the heiress (who paid

double) of St. Kitt's. Such luxury of grief, however, is only allowed to parlour-boarders. Honest Jemima had all the bills, and

the washing, and the mending, and the puddings, and the plate and crockery, and the servants to superintend. But why speak

about her? It is probable that we shall not hear of her again from this moment to the end of time, and that when the great

filligree iron gates are once closed on her, she and her awful sister will never issue therefrom into this little world of history.

But as we are to see a great deal of Amelia, there is no harm in saying at the outset of our acquaintance, that she was one of

the best and dearest creatures that ever lived; and a great mercy it is, both in life and in novels, which (and the latter especially)

abound in villains of the most sombre sort, that we are to have for a constant companion, so guileless

[p. 5]

and good-natured a person. As she is not a heroine, there is no need to describe her person; indeed I am afraid that her nose

was rather short than otherwise, and her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a heroine; but her face blushed with rosy

health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, and she had a pair of eyes, which sparkled with the brightest and honestest

good-humour, except indeed when they filled with tears, and that was a great deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a

dead canary-bird, or over a mouse, that the cat haply had seized upon, or over the end of a novel, were it ever so stupid; and as

for saying an unkind word to her, were any one hard-hearted enough to do so,— why, so much the worse for them. Even Miss

Pinkerton, that austere and god-like woman, ceased scolding her after the first time, and though she no more comprehended

sensibility than she did Algebra, gave all masters and teachers particular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost gentleness,

as harsh treatment was injurious to her.

So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs of laughing and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled

how to act. She was glad to go home, and yet most wofully sad at leaving school. For three days before, little Laura Martin, the

orphan, followed her about, like a little dog. She had to make and receive at least fourteen presents,—to make fourteen solemn

promises of writing every week: "Send my letters under cover to my grandpapa, the Earl of Dexter," said Miss Saltire (who, by

the way was rather shabby): "Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear darling," said the impetuous and woolly-

headed, but generous and affectionate Miss Swartz; and little Laura Martin (who was just in round hand) took her friend's hand

and said, looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, when I write to you I shall call you Mamma." All which details, I have no

doubt, Jones , who reads this book at his Club,

[p. 6]

will pronounce to be excessively foolish, trivial, twaddling, and ultra-sentimental. Yes; I can see Jones at this minute (rather

flushed with his joint of mutton and half-pint of wine), taking out his pencil and scoring under the words "foolish, twaddling,"

&c., and adding to them his own remark of "quite true." Well, he is a lofty man of genius, and admires the great and heroic in

life and novels; and so had better take warning and go elsewhere.

Well, then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, and bonnetboxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr.

Sambo in the carriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old cow's-skin trunk with Miss Sharp's card neatly nailed

upon it, which was delivered by Sambo with a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding sneer—the hour for

parting came; and the grief of that moment was considerably lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton

addressed to her pupil. Not that the parting speech caused Amelia to philosophise, or that it armed her in any way with a

calmness, the result of argument; but it was intolerably dull, pompous, and tedious; and having the fear of her schoolmistress

greatly before her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture, in her presence, to give way to any ebullitions of private grief. A seed-

cake and a bottle of wine were produced in the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions of the visit of parents, and these

refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley was at liberty to depart.

"You'll go in and say good by to Miss Pinkerton, Becky?" said Miss Jemima to a young lady of whom nobody took any

notice, and who was coming down stairs with her own bandbox.

"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of Miss Jemima; and the latter having knocked at the

door, and receiving permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French, and with a

perfect accent, "Mademoiselle, je viens vous faire mes adieux."

"Miss Pinkerton did not understand French; she only directed those who did: but biting her lips and throwing up her

venerable and Roman-nosed head, (on the top of which figured a large and solemn turban,) she said, "Miss Sharp, I wish you a

good morning." As the Hammersmith Semiramis spoke, she waved one hand both by way of adieu, and to give Miss Sharp an

opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand which was left out for that purpose.

William Makepeace T HACKERAY : Vanity Fair

Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile and bow, and quite declined to accept the proffered honour;

on which Semiramis tossed up her turban more indignantly than ever. In fact, it was a little battle between the young lady and

the old one, and the latter was worsted. "Heaven bless you, my child," said she, embracing Amelia, and scowling the while

over the girl's shoulder at Miss Sharp. "Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in great alarm,

and the drawing-room door closed upon them for ever.

Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All the servants were there in the hall—all the dear

friends—all the young ladies—the dancing-master who had just arrived; and there was such a scuffling, and hugging, and

kissing, and crying, with the hysterical yoops

[p. 7]

of Miss Swartz, the parlour-boarder, from her room, as no pen can depict, and as the tender heart would fain pass over. The

embracing was over; they parted—that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage

some minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving her.

Sambo of the bandy-legs slammed the carriage-door on his young weeping mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage.

"Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.

"It's some sandwiches, my dear," said she to Amelia. "You may be hungry, you know; and Becky, Becky Sharp, here's a

book for you that my sister—that is, I,—Johnson's Dixonary, you know; you mustn't leave us without that. Good by. Drive on,

coachman. God bless you!"

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

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

into the garden.

This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. "Well, I never,"— said she—"what an audacious"—Emotion prevented her

from completing either sentence. The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang for the dancing lesson.

The world is before the two young ladies; and so, farewell to Chiswick Mall.

[p. 8]

CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH MISS SHARP AND MISS SEDLEY PREPARE TO OPEN THE CAMPAIGN.

W HEN Miss Sharp had performed the heroical act mentioned in the last chapter, and had seen the Dixonary flying over the

pavement of the little garden, fall at length at the feet of the astonished Miss Jemima, the young lady's countenance, which had

before worn an almost livid look of hatred, assumed a smile that perhaps was scarcely more agreeable, and she sank back in

the carriage in an easy frame of mind, saying,—"So much for the Dixonary; and, thank God, I'm out of Chiswick."

Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the act of defiance as Miss Jemima had been; for, consider, it was but one minute that

she had left school, and the impressions of six years are not got over in that space of time. Nay, with some persons those awes

and terrors of youth last for ever and ever. I know, for instance, an old gentleman of sixty-eight, who said to me one morning at

breakfast, with a very agitated countenance, "I dreamed last night that I was flogged by Dr. Raine." Fancy had carried him

back only fifty years in the course of that evening. Dr. Raine and his rod were just as awful to him in his heart, then, at sixty-

eight, as they had been at thirteen. If the Doctor, with a large birch, had appeared bedily to him, even at the age of threescore

and eight, and had said in awful voice, "Boy, take down your pant—?" Well, well, Miss Sedley was exceedingly alarmed at

this act of insubordination.

"How could you do so, Rebecca?" at last she said, after a pause.

"Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and order me back to the black-hole?" said Rebecca, laughing.

"No: but—"

"I hate the whole house," continued Miss Sharp, in a fury. "I hope I may never set eyes on it again. I wish it were in the

bottom of the Thames, I do; and if Miss Pinkerton were there, I wouldn't pick her out, that I wouldn't. O how I should like to

see her floating in the water yonder, turban and all, with her train streaming after her, and her nose like the beak of a wherry."

"Hush!" cried Miss Sedley.

"Why, will the black footman tell tales?" cried Miss Rebecca, laughing. "He may go back and tell Miss Pinkerton that I

hate her with all my soul; and I wish he would; and I wish I had a means of proving it too. For two years I have only had

insults and outrage from her. I have been treated worse than any servant in the kitchen. I have never had a friend or a kind

word, except from you. I have been made to tend the little girls

[p. 9]

in the lower schoolroom, and to talk French to the misses, until I grew sick of my mother-tongue. But that talking French to

Miss Pinkerton was capital fun, wasn't it? She doesn't know a word of French, and was too proud to confess it. I believe it was

that which made her part with me; and so thank Heaven for French. Vive la France! Vive l' Empereur! Vive Bonaparte!"

"O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!" cried Miss Sedley; for this was the greatest blasphemy Rebecca had as yet uttered; and

in those days, in England, to say "Long live Bonaparte!" was as much as to say "Long live Lucifer!" "How can you—how dare

you have such wicked, revengeful thoughts?"

"Revenge may be wicked, but it's-natural," answered Miss Rebecca. "I'm no angel." And, to say the truth, she certainly was

not.

For it may be remarked in the course of this little conversation (which took place as the coach rolled along lazily by the

river side) that though Miss Rebecca Sharp has twice had occasion to thank Heaven, it has been, in the first place, for ridding

her of some person whom she hated, and secondly, for enabling her to bring her enemies to some sort of perplexity or

William Makepeace T HACKERAY : Vanity Fair

confusion; neither of which are very amiable motives for religious gratitude, or such as would be put forward by persons of a

kind and placable disposition. Miss Rebecca was not, then, in the least kind or placable. All the world used her ill, said this

young misanthropist (or misogynist, for of the world of men she can be pronounced as yet to have had but little experience),

and we may be pretty certain that the persons of either sex whom all the world treats ill, deserve entirely the treatment they get.

The world is a looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at it, and it will in turn look

sourly upon you: laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly kind companion; and so let all young persons take their choice. This is

certain, that if the world neglected Miss Sharp, she never was known to have done a good action in behalf of anybody; nor can

it be expected that twenty-four young ladies should all be as amiable as the heroine of this work, Miss Sedley (whom we have

selected for the very reason that she was the best-natured of all, otherwise what on earth was to have prevented us from putting

up Miss Swartz, or Miss Crump, or Miss Hopkins, as heroine in her place?) it could not be expected that every one should be

of the humble and gentle temper of Miss Amelia Sedley; should take every opportunity to vanquish Rebecca's hard-

heartedness and ill-humour; and, by a thousand kind words and offices, overcome, for once at least, her hostility to her kind.

Miss Sharp's father was an artist, and in that quality had given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a

clever man; a pleasant companion; a careless student; had a great propensity for running into debt, and a partiality for the

tavern. When he was drunk, he used to beat his wife and daughter; and the next morning, with a headache, he used to rail at the

world for its neglect of his genius, and abuse, with a good deal of cleverness, and sometimes with perfect reason, the fools, his

brother painters. As it was with the utmost difficulty that he could keep himself, and as he owed money for a mile round Soho,

where he lived, he

[p. 10]

thought to better his circumstances by marrying a young woman of the French nation, who was by profession an opera-girl.

The humble calling of her female parent. Miss Sharp never alluded to, but used to state subsequently that the Entrechats were a

noble family of Gascony, and took great pride in her descent from them. And curious it is, that as she advanced in life this

young lady's ancestors increased in rank and splendour.

Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, and her daughter spoke French with purity and a Parisian accent. It

was in those days rather a rare accomplishment, and led to her engagement with the orthodox Miss Pinkerton. For her mother

being dead, and her father finding himself not likely to recover, after his third attack of delirium tremens, wrote a manly and

pathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to her protection, and so descended to the grave, after two

bailiffs had quarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was seventeen when she came to Chiswick, and was bound over as an articled

pupil, her duties being to talk French, as we have seen, and her privileges to live cost free; and, with a few guineas a year, to

gather scraps of knowledge from the professors who attended the school.

She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and with eyes habitually cast down: when they looked up they were

very large, odd, and attractive; so attractive, that the Reverend Mr. Crisp, fresh from Oxford, and curate to the Vicar of

Chiswick, the Reverend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in love with Miss Sharp; being shot dead by a glance of her eyes which was fired

all the way across Chiswick Church from the school-pew to the reading-desk. This infatuated young man used sometimes to

take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to whom he had been presented by his mamma, and actually proposed something like marriage in

an intercepted note, which the one-eyed applewoman was charged to deliver. Mrs. Crisp was summoned from Buxton, and

abruptly carried off her darling boy; but the idea, even, of such an eagle in the Chiswick dovecot caused a great flutter in the

breast of Miss Pinkerton, who would have sent away Miss Sharp, but that she was bound to her under a forfeit, and who never

could thoroughly believe the young lady's protestations that she had never exchanged a single word with Mr. Crisp, except

under her own eyes on the two occasions when she had met him at tea.

By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had

the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she talked to, and turned away from her father's door; many a tradesman had

she coaxed and wheedled into good-humour, and into the granting of one meal more. She sate commonly with her father, who

was very proud of her wit, and heard the talk of many of his wild companions—often but ill suited for a girl to hear. But she

never had been a girl, she said; she had been a woman since she was eight years old. O why did Miss Pinkerton let such a

dangerous bird into her cage?

The fact is, the old lady thought Rebecca to be the meekest creature in the world, so admirably, on the occasions when her

father brought her to Chiswick, used Rebecca to perform the part of the ingénue. She thought her a modest and innocent little

child; and only a year before the arrangement

[p. 11]

by which Rebecca had been admitted into her house, and when Rebecca was sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton majestically,

and with a little speech, made her a present of a doll—which was, by the way, the confiscated property of Miss Swindle,

discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school-hours. How the father and daughter laughed as they trudged home together after

the evening party, (it was on the occasion of the speeches, when all the professors were invited,) and how Miss Pinkerton

would have raged had she seen the caricature of herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to make out of her doll! She

used to go through dialogues with it; it formed the delight of Newman Street, Gerard Street, and the artists' quarter: and the

young painters, when they came to take their gin-and-water with their lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial senior, used regularly to

ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home: she was well known to them, poor soul! as Mr. Lawrence or President West. Once

she had the honour to pass a few days at Chiswick; after which she brought back Jemima, and erected another doll as Miss

Jemmy; for though that honest creature had made and given her jelly and cake enough for three children, and a seven-shilling

piece at parting, the girl's sense of ridicule was far

[p. 12]

stronger than her gratitude, and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her sister.

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