Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley, Russell Square, London.(Free.--Pitt Crawley.)

MY DEAREST, SWEETEST AMELIA,

With what mingled joy and sorrow do I take up the pen to write to mydearest friend! Oh, what a change between to-day and yesterday! Now Iam friendless and alone; yesterday I was at home, in the sweet companyof a sister, whom I shall ever, ever cherish!

I will not tell you in what tears and sadness I passed the fatal nightin which I separated from you. YOU went on Tuesday to joy andhappiness, with your mother and YOUR DEVOTED YOUNG SOLDIER by yourside; and I thought of you all night, dancing at the Perkins's, theprettiest, I am sure, of all the young ladies at the Ball. I wasbrought by the groom in the old carriage to Sir Pitt Crawley's townhouse, where, after John the groom had behaved most rudely andinsolently to me (alas! 'twas safe to insult poverty and misfortune!),I was given over to Sir P.'s care, and made to pass the night in an oldgloomy bed, and by the side of a horrid gloomy old charwoman, who keepsthe house. I did not sleep one single wink the whole night.

Sir Pitt is not what we silly girls, when we used to read Cecilia atChiswick, imagined a baronet must have been. Anything, indeed, lesslike Lord Orville cannot be imagined. Fancy an old, stumpy, short,vulgar, and very dirty man, in old clothes and shabby old gaiters, whosmokes a horrid pipe, and cooks his own horrid supper in a saucepan.He speaks with a country accent, and swore a great deal at the oldcharwoman, at the hackney coachman who drove us to the inn where thecoach went from, and on which I made the journey OUTSIDE FOR THEGREATER PART OF THE WAY.

I was awakened at daybreak by the charwoman, and having arrived at theinn, was at first placed inside the coach. But, when we got to a placecalled Leakington, where the rain began to fall very heavily--will youbelieve it?--I was forced to come outside; for Sir Pitt is a proprietorof the coach, and as a passenger came at Mudbury, who wanted an insideplace, I was obliged to go outside in the rain, where, however, a younggentleman from Cambridge College sheltered me very kindly in one of hisseveral great coats.

This gentleman and the guard seemed to know Sir Pitt very well, andlaughed at him a great deal. They both agreed in calling him an oldscrew; which means a very stingy, avaricious person. He never givesany money to anybody, they said (and this meanness I hate); and theyoung gentleman made me remark that we drove very slow for the last twostages on the road, because Sir Pitt was on the box, and because he isproprietor of the horses for this part of the journey. "But won't Iflog 'em on to Squashmore, when I take the ribbons?" said the youngCantab. "And sarve 'em right, Master Jack," said the guard. When Icomprehended the meaning of this phrase, and that Master Jack intendedto drive the rest of the way, and revenge himself on Sir Pitt's horses,of course I laughed too.

A carriage and four splendid horses, covered with armorial bearings,however, awaited us at Mudbury, four miles from Queen's Crawley, and wemade our entrance to the baronet's park in state. There is a fineavenue of a mile long leading to the house, and the woman at thelodge-gate (over the pillars of which are a serpent and a dove, thesupporters of the Crawley arms), made us a number of curtsies as sheflung open the old iron carved doors, which are something like those atodious Chiswick.

"There's an avenue," said Sir Pitt, "a mile long. There's six thousandpound of timber in them there trees. Do you call that nothing?" Hepronounced avenue--EVENUE, and nothing--NOTHINK, so droll; and he had aMr. Hodson, his hind from Mudbury, into the carriage with him, and theytalked about distraining, and selling up, and draining and subsoiling,and a great deal about tenants and farming--much more than I couldunderstand. Sam Miles had been caught poaching, and Peter Bailey hadgone to the workhouse at last. "Serve him right," said Sir Pitt; "himand his family has been cheating me on that farm these hundred andfifty years." Some old tenant, I suppose, who could not pay his rent.Sir Pitt might have said "he and his family," to be sure; but richbaronets do not need to be careful about grammar, as poor governessesmust be.

As we passed, I remarked a beautiful church-spire rising above some oldelms in the park; and before them, in the midst of a lawn, and someouthouses, an old red house with tall chimneys covered with ivy, andthe windows shining in the sun. "Is that your church, sir?" I said.

"Yes, hang it," (said Sir Pitt, only he used, dear, A MUCH WICKEDERWORD); "how's Buty, Hodson? Buty's my brother Bute, my dear--my brotherthe parson. Buty and the Beast I call him, ha, ha!"

Hodson laughed too, and then looking more grave and nodding his head,said, "I'm afraid he's better, Sir Pitt. He was out on his ponyyesterday, looking at our corn."

"Looking after his tithes, hang'un (only he used the same wicked word).Will brandy and water never kill him? He's as tough as oldwhatdyecallum--old Methusalem."

Mr. Hodson laughed again. "The young men is home from college. They'vewhopped John Scroggins till he's well nigh dead."

"Whop my second keeper!" roared out Sir Pitt.

"He was on the parson's ground, sir," replied Mr. Hodson; and Sir Pittin a fury swore that if he ever caught 'em poaching on his ground, he'dtransport 'em, by the lord he would. However, he said, "I've sold thepresentation of the living, Hodson; none of that breed shall get it, Iwar'nt"; and Mr. Hodson said he was quite right: and I have no doubtfrom this that the two brothers are at variance--as brothers often are,and sisters too. Don't you remember the two Miss Scratchleys atChiswick, how they used always to fight and quarrel--and Mary Box, howshe was always thumping Louisa?

Presently, seeing two little boys gathering sticks in the wood, Mr.Hodson jumped out of the carriage, at Sir Pitt's order, and rushed uponthem with his whip. "Pitch into 'em, Hodson," roared the baronet;"flog their little souls out, and bring 'em up to the house, thevagabonds; I'll commit 'em as sure as my name's Pitt." And presently weheard Mr. Hodson's whip cracking on the shoulders of the poor littleblubbering wretches, and Sir Pitt, seeing that the malefactors were incustody, drove on to the hall.

All the servants were ready to meet us, and . . .

Here, my dear, I was interrupted last night by a dreadful thumping atmy door: and who do you think it was? Sir Pitt Crawley in his night-capand dressing-gown, such a figure! As I shrank away from such a visitor,he came forward and seized my candle. "No candles after eleveno'clock, Miss Becky," said he. "Go to bed in the dark, you prettylittle hussy" (that is what he called me), "and unless you wish me tocome for the candle every night, mind and be in bed at eleven." Andwith this, he and Mr. Horrocks the butler went off laughing. You maybe sure I shall not encourage any more of their visits. They let loosetwo immense bloodhounds at night, which all last night were yelling andhowling at the moon. "I call the dog Gorer," said Sir Pitt; "he'skilled a man that dog has, and is master of a bull, and the mother Iused to call Flora; but now I calls her Aroarer, for she's too old tobite. Haw, haw!"

Before the house of Queen's Crawley, which is an odious old-fashionedred brick mansion, with tall chimneys and gables of the style of QueenBess, there is a terrace flanked by the family dove and serpent, and onwhich the great hall-door opens. And oh, my dear, the great hall I amsure is as big and as glum as the great hall in the dear castle ofUdolpho. It has a large fireplace, in which we might put half MissPinkerton's school, and the grate is big enough to roast an ox at thevery least. Round the room hang I don't know how many generations ofCrawleys, some with beards and ruffs, some with huge wigs and toesturned out, some dressed in long straight stays and gowns that look asstiff as towers, and some with long ringlets, and oh, my dear! scarcelyany stays at all. At one end of the hall is the great staircase all inblack oak, as dismal as may be, and on either side are tall doors withstags' heads over them, leading to the billiard-room and the library,and the great yellow saloon and the morning-rooms. I think there areat least twenty bedrooms on the first floor; one of them has the bed inwhich Queen Elizabeth slept; and I have been taken by my new pupilsthrough all these fine apartments this morning. They are not renderedless gloomy, I promise you, by having the shutters always shut; andthere is scarce one of the apartments, but when the light was let intoit, I expected to see a ghost in the room. We have a schoolroom on thesecond floor, with my bedroom leading into it on one side, and that ofthe young ladies on the other. Then there are Mr. Pitt'sapartments--Mr. Crawley, he is called--the eldest son, and Mr. RawdonCrawley's rooms--he is an officer like SOMEBODY, and away with hisregiment. There is no want of room I assure you. You might lodge allthe people in Russell Square in the house, I think, and have space tospare.

Half an hour after our arrival, the great dinner-bell was rung, and Icame down with my two pupils (they are very thin insignificant littlechits of ten and eight years old). I came down in your dear muslingown (about which that odious Mrs. Pinner was so rude, because you gaveit me); for I am to be treated as one of the family, except on companydays, when the young ladies and I are to dine upstairs.

Well, the great dinner-bell rang, and we all assembled in the littledrawing-room where my Lady Crawley sits. She is the second LadyCrawley, and mother of the young ladies. She was an ironmonger'sdaughter, and her marriage was thought a great match. She looks as ifshe had been handsome once, and her eyes are always weeping for theloss of her beauty. She is pale and meagre and high-shouldered, andhas not a word to say for herself, evidently. Her stepson Mr. Crawley,was likewise in the room. He was in full dress, as pompous as anundertaker. He is pale, thin, ugly, silent; he has thin legs, nochest, hay-coloured whiskers, and straw-coloured hair. He is the verypicture of his sainted mother over the mantelpiece--Griselda of thenoble house of Binkie.

"This is the new governess, Mr. Crawley," said Lady Crawley, comingforward and taking my hand. "Miss Sharp."

"O!" said Mr. Crawley, and pushed his head once forward and began againto read a great pamphlet with which he was busy.

"I hope you will be kind to my girls," said Lady Crawley, with her pinkeyes always full of tears.

"Law, Ma, of course she will," said the eldest: and I saw at a glancethat I need not be afraid of THAT woman. "My lady is served," says thebutler in black, in an immense white shirt-frill, that looked as if ithad been one of the Queen Elizabeth's ruffs depicted in the hall; andso, taking Mr. Crawley's arm, she led the way to the dining-room,whither I followed with my little pupils in each hand.

Sir Pitt was already in the room with a silver jug. He had just beento the cellar, and was in full dress too; that is, he had taken hisgaiters off, and showed his little dumpy legs in black worstedstockings. The sideboard was covered with glistening old plate--oldcups, both gold and silver; old salvers and cruet-stands, like Rundelland Bridge's shop. Everything on the table was in silver too, and twofootmen, with red hair and canary-coloured liveries, stood on eitherside of the sideboard.

Mr. Crawley said a long grace, and Sir Pitt said amen, and the greatsilver dish-covers were removed.

"What have we for dinner, Betsy?" said the Baronet.

"Mutton broth, I believe, Sir Pitt," answered Lady Crawley.

"Mouton aux navets," added the butler gravely (pronounce, if youplease, moutongonavvy); "and the soup is potage de mouton al'Ecossaise. The side-dishes contain pommes de terre au naturel, andchoufleur a l'eau."

"Mutton's mutton," said the Baronet, "and a devilish good thing. WhatSHIP was it, Horrocks, and when did you kill?" "One of the black-facedScotch, Sir Pitt: we killed on Thursday.

"Who took any?"

"Steel, of Mudbury, took the saddle and two legs, Sir Pitt; but he saysthe last was too young and confounded woolly, Sir Pitt."

"Will you take some potage, Miss ah--Miss Blunt? said Mr. Crawley.

"Capital Scotch broth, my dear," said Sir Pitt, "though they call it bya French name."

"I believe it is the custom, sir, in decent society," said Mr. Crawley,haughtily, "to call the dish as I have called it"; and it was served tous on silver soup plates by the footmen in the canary coats, with themouton aux navets. Then "ale and water" were brought, and served to usyoung ladies in wine-glasses. I am not a judge of ale, but I can saywith a clear conscience I prefer water.

While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt took occasion to ask whathad become of the shoulders of the mutton.

"I believe they were eaten in the servants' hall," said my lady, humbly.

"They was, my lady," said Horrocks, "and precious little else we getthere neither."

Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh, and continued his conversation withMr. Horrocks. "That there little black pig of the Kent sow's breedmust be uncommon fat now."

"It's not quite busting, Sir Pitt," said the butler with the gravestair, at which Sir Pitt, and with him the young ladies, this time, beganto laugh violently.

"Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley," said Mr. Crawley, "your laughterstrikes me as being exceedingly out of place."

"Never mind, my lord," said the Baronet, "we'll try the porker onSaturday. Kill un on Saturday morning, John Horrocks. Miss Sharpadores pork, don't you, Miss Sharp?"

And I think this is all the conversation that I remember at dinner.When the repast was concluded a jug of hot water was placed before SirPitt, with a case-bottle containing, I believe, rum. Mr. Horrocksserved myself and my pupils with three little glasses of wine, and abumper was poured out for my lady. When we retired, she took from herwork-drawer an enormous interminable piece of knitting; the youngladies began to play at cribbage with a dirty pack of cards. We hadbut one candle lighted, but it was in a magnificent old silvercandlestick, and after a very few questions from my lady, I had mychoice of amusement between a volume of sermons, and a pamphlet on thecorn-laws, which Mr. Crawley had been reading before dinner.

So we sat for an hour until steps were heard.

"Put away the cards, girls," cried my lady, in a great tremor; "putdown Mr. Crawley's books, Miss Sharp"; and these orders had beenscarcely obeyed, when Mr. Crawley entered the room.

"We will resume yesterday's discourse, young ladies," said he, "and youshall each read a page by turns; so that Miss a--Miss Short may have anopportunity of hearing you"; and the poor girls began to spell a longdismal sermon delivered at Bethesda Chapel, Liverpool, on behalf of themission for the Chickasaw Indians. Was it not a charming evening?

At ten the servants were told to call Sir Pitt and the household toprayers. Sir Pitt came in first, very much flushed, and ratherunsteady in his gait; and after him the butler, the canaries, Mr.Crawley's man, three other men, smelling very much of the stable, andfour women, one of whom, I remarked, was very much overdressed, and whoflung me a look of great scorn as she plumped down on her knees.

After Mr. Crawley had done haranguing and expounding, we received ourcandles, and then we went to bed; and then I was disturbed in mywriting, as I have described to my dearest sweetest Amelia.

Good night. A thousand, thousand, thousand kisses!

Saturday.--This morning, at five, I heard the shrieking of the littleblack pig. Rose and Violet introduced me to it yesterday; and to thestables, and to the kennel, and to the gardener, who was picking fruitto send to market, and from whom they begged hard a bunch of hot-housegrapes; but he said that Sir Pitt had numbered every "Man Jack" ofthem, and it would be as much as his place was worth to give any away.The darling girls caught a colt in a paddock, and asked me if I wouldride, and began to ride themselves, when the groom, coming with horridoaths, drove them away.

Lady Crawley is always knitting the worsted. Sir Pitt is always tipsy,every night; and, I believe, sits with Horrocks, the butler. Mr.Crawley always reads sermons in the evening, and in the morning islocked up in his study, or else rides to Mudbury, on county business,or to Squashmore, where he preaches, on Wednesdays and Fridays, to thetenants there.

A hundred thousand grateful loves to your dear papa and mamma. Is yourpoor brother recovered of his rack-punch? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! How menshould beware of wicked punch!

Ever and ever thine own REBECCA

Everything considered, I think it is quite as well for our dear AmeliaSedley, in Russell Square, that Miss Sharp and she are parted. Rebeccais a droll funny creature, to be sure; and those descriptions of thepoor lady weeping for the loss of her beauty, and the gentleman "withhay-coloured whiskers and straw-coloured hair," are very smart,doubtless, and show a great knowledge of the world. That she might,when on her knees, have been thinking of something better than MissHorrocks's ribbons, has possibly struck both of us. But my kind readerwill please to remember that this history has "Vanity Fair" for atitle, and that Vanity Fair is a very vain, wicked, foolish place, fullof all sorts of humbugs and falsenesses and pretensions. And while themoralist, who is holding forth on the cover ( an accurate portrait ofyour humble servant), professes to wear neither gown nor bands, butonly the very same long-eared livery in which his congregation isarrayed: yet, look you, one is bound to speak the truth as far as oneknows it, whether one mounts a cap and bells or a shovel hat; and adeal of disagreeable matter must come out in the course of such anundertaking.

I have heard a brother of the story-telling trade, at Naples, preachingto a pack of good-for-nothing honest lazy fellows by the sea-shore,work himself up into such a rage and passion with some of the villainswhose wicked deeds he was describing and inventing, that the audiencecould not resist it; and they and the poet together would burst outinto a roar of oaths and execrations against the fictitious monster ofthe tale, so that the hat went round, and the bajocchi tumbled into it,in the midst of a perfect storm of sympathy.

At the little Paris theatres, on the other hand, you will not only hearthe people yelling out "Ah gredin! Ah monstre:" and cursing the tyrantof the play from the boxes; but the actors themselves positively refuseto play the wicked parts, such as those of infames Anglais, brutalCossacks, and what not, and prefer to appear at a smaller salary, intheir real characters as loyal Frenchmen. I set the two stories oneagainst the other, so that you may see that it is not from meremercenary motives that the present performer is desirous to show up andtrounce his villains; but because he has a sincere hatred of them,which he cannot keep down, and which must find a vent in suitable abuseand bad language.

I warn my "kyind friends," then, that I am going to tell a story ofharrowing villainy and complicated--but, as I trust, intenselyinteresting--crime. My rascals are no milk-and-water rascals, Ipromise you. When we come to the proper places we won't spare finelanguage--No, no! But when we are going over the quiet country we mustperforce be calm. A tempest in a slop-basin is absurd. We willreserve that sort of thing for the mighty ocean and the lonelymidnight. The present Chapter is very mild. Others--But we will notanticipate THOSE.

And, as we bring our characters forward, I will ask leave, as a man anda brother, not only to introduce them, but occasionally to step downfrom the platform, and talk about them: if they are good and kindly, tolove them and shake them by the hand: if they are silly, to laugh atthem confidentially in the reader's sleeve: if they are wicked andheartless, to abuse them in the strongest terms which politeness admitsof.

Otherwise you might fancy it was I who was sneering at the practice ofdevotion, which Miss Sharp finds so ridiculous; that it was I wholaughed good-humouredly at the reeling old Silenus of abaronet--whereas the laughter comes from one who has no reverenceexcept for prosperity, and no eye for anything beyond success. Suchpeople there are living and flourishing in the world--Faithless,Hopeless, Charityless: let us have at them, dear friends, with mightand main. Some there are, and very successful too, mere quacks andfools: and it was to combat and expose such as those, no doubt, thatLaughter was made.