If there is any exhibition in all Vanity Fair which Satire andSentiment can visit arm in arm together; where you light on thestrangest contrasts laughable and tearful: where you may be gentle andpathetic, or savage and cynical with perfect propriety: it is at one ofthose public assemblies, a crowd of which are advertised every day inthe last page of the Times newspaper, and over which the late Mr.George Robins used to preside with so much dignity. There are very fewLondon people, as I fancy, who have not attended at these meetings, andall with a taste for moralizing must have thought, with a sensation andinterest not a little startling and queer, of the day when their turnshall come too, and Mr. Hammerdown will sell by the orders of Diogenes'assignees, or will be instructed by the executors, to offer to publiccompetition, the library, furniture, plate, wardrobe, and choice cellarof wines of Epicurus deceased.

Even with the most selfish disposition, the Vanity Fairian, as hewitnesses this sordid part of the obsequies of a departed friend, can'tbut feel some sympathies and regret. My Lord Dives's remains are in thefamily vault: the statuaries are cutting an inscription veraciouslycommemorating his virtues, and the sorrows of his heir, who isdisposing of his goods. What guest at Dives's table can pass thefamiliar house without a sigh?--the familiar house of which the lightsused to shine so cheerfully at seven o'clock, of which the hall-doorsopened so readily, of which the obsequious servants, as you passed upthe comfortable stair, sounded your name from landing to landing, untilit reached the apartment where jolly old Dives welcomed his friends!What a number of them he had; and what a noble way of entertainingthem. How witty people used to be here who were morose when they gotout of the door; and how courteous and friendly men who slandered andhated each other everywhere else! He was pompous, but with such a cookwhat would one not swallow? he was rather dull, perhaps, but would notsuch wine make any conversation pleasant? We must get some of hisBurgundy at any price, the mourners cry at his club. "I got this boxat old Dives's sale," Pincher says, handing it round, "one of LouisXV's mistresses--pretty thing, is it not?--sweet miniature," and theytalk of the way in which young Dives is dissipating his fortune.

How changed the house is, though! The front is patched over withbills, setting forth the particulars of the furniture in staringcapitals. They have hung a shred of carpet out of an upstairswindow--a half dozen of porters are lounging on the dirty steps--thehall swarms with dingy guests of oriental countenance, who thrustprinted cards into your hand, and offer to bid. Old women and amateurshave invaded the upper apartments, pinching the bed-curtains, pokinginto the feathers, shampooing the mattresses, and clapping the wardrobedrawers to and fro. Enterprising young housekeepers are measuring thelooking-glasses and hangings to see if they will suit the new menage(Snob will brag for years that he has purchased this or that at Dives'ssale), and Mr. Hammerdown is sitting on the great mahoganydining-tables, in the dining-room below, waving the ivory hammer, andemploying all the artifices of eloquence, enthusiasm, entreaty, reason,despair; shouting to his people; satirizing Mr. Davids for hissluggishness; inspiriting Mr. Moss into action; imploring, commanding,bellowing, until down comes the hammer like fate, and we pass to thenext lot. O Dives, who would ever have thought, as we sat round thebroad table sparkling with plate and spotless linen, to have seen sucha dish at the head of it as that roaring auctioneer?

It was rather late in the sale. The excellent drawing-room furnitureby the best makers; the rare and famous wines selected, regardless ofcost, and with the well-known taste of the purchaser; the rich andcomplete set of family plate had been sold on the previous days.Certain of the best wines (which all had a great character amongamateurs in the neighbourhood) had been purchased for his master, whoknew them very well, by the butler of our friend John Osborne, Esquire,of Russell Square. A small portion of the most useful articles of theplate had been bought by some young stockbrokers from the City. Andnow the public being invited to the purchase of minor objects, ithappened that the orator on the table was expatiating on the merits ofa picture, which he sought to recommend to his audience: it was by nomeans so select or numerous a company as had attended the previous daysof the auction.

"No. 369," roared Mr. Hammerdown. "Portrait of a gentleman on anelephant. Who'll bid for the gentleman on the elephant? Lift up thepicture, Blowman, and let the company examine this lot." A long, pale,military-looking gentleman, seated demurely at the mahogany table,could not help grinning as this valuable lot was shown by Mr. Blowman."Turn the elephant to the Captain, Blowman. What shall we say, sir,for the elephant?" but the Captain, blushing in a very hurried anddiscomfited manner, turned away his head.

"Shall we say twenty guineas for this work of art?--fifteen, five, nameyour own price. The gentleman without the elephant is worth fivepound."

"I wonder it ain't come down with him," said a professional wag, "he'sanyhow a precious big one"; at which (for the elephant-rider wasrepresented as of a very stout figure) there was a general giggle inthe room.

"Don't be trying to deprecate the value of the lot, Mr. Moss," Mr.Hammerdown said; "let the company examine it as a work of art--theattitude of the gallant animal quite according to natur'; the gentlemanin a nankeen jacket, his gun in his hand, is going to the chase; in thedistance a banyhann tree and a pagody, most likely resemblances of someinteresting spot in our famous Eastern possessions. How much for thislot? Come, gentlemen, don't keep me here all day."

Some one bid five shillings, at which the military gentleman lookedtowards the quarter from which this splendid offer had come, and theresaw another officer with a young lady on his arm, who both appeared tobe highly amused with the scene, and to whom, finally, this lot wasknocked down for half a guinea. He at the table looked more surprisedand discomposed than ever when he spied this pair, and his head sankinto his military collar, and he turned his back upon them, so as toavoid them altogether.

Of all the other articles which Mr. Hammerdown had the honour to offerfor public competition that day it is not our purpose to make mention,save of one only, a little square piano, which came down from the upperregions of the house (the state grand piano having been disposed ofpreviously); this the young lady tried with a rapid and skilful hand(making the officer blush and start again), and for it, when its turncame, her agent began to bid.

But there was an opposition here. The Hebrew aide-de-camp in theservice of the officer at the table bid against the Hebrew gentlemanemployed by the elephant purchasers, and a brisk battle ensued overthis little piano, the combatants being greatly encouraged by Mr.Hammerdown.

At last, when the competition had been prolonged for some time, theelephant captain and lady desisted from the race; and the hammer comingdown, the auctioneer said:--"Mr. Lewis, twenty-five," and Mr. Lewis'schief thus became the proprietor of the little square piano. Havingeffected the purchase, he sate up as if he was greatly relieved, andthe unsuccessful competitors catching a glimpse of him at this moment,the lady said to her friend,

"Why, Rawdon, it's Captain Dobbin."

I suppose Becky was discontented with the new piano her husband hadhired for her, or perhaps the proprietors of that instrument hadfetched it away, declining farther credit, or perhaps she had aparticular attachment for the one which she had just tried to purchase,recollecting it in old days, when she used to play upon it, in thelittle sitting-room of our dear Amelia Sedley.

The sale was at the old house in Russell Square, where we passed someevenings together at the beginning of this story. Good old John Sedleywas a ruined man. His name had been proclaimed as a defaulter on theStock Exchange, and his bankruptcy and commercial extermination hadfollowed. Mr. Osborne's butler came to buy some of the famous portwine to transfer to the cellars over the way. As for one dozenwell-manufactured silver spoons and forks at per oz., and one dozendessert ditto ditto, there were three young stockbrokers (Messrs. Dale,Spiggot, and Dale, of Threadneedle Street, indeed), who, having haddealings with the old man, and kindnesses from him in days when he waskind to everybody with whom he dealt, sent this little spar out of thewreck with their love to good Mrs. Sedley; and with respect to thepiano, as it had been Amelia's, and as she might miss it and want onenow, and as Captain William Dobbin could no more play upon it than hecould dance on the tight rope, it is probable that he did not purchasethe instrument for his own use.

In a word, it arrived that evening at a wonderful small cottage in astreet leading from the Fulham Road--one of those streets which havethe finest romantic names--(this was called St. Adelaide Villas,Anna-Maria Road West), where the houses look like baby-houses; wherethe people, looking out of the first-floor windows, must infallibly, asyou think, sit with their feet in the parlours; where the shrubs in thelittle gardens in front bloom with a perennial display of littlechildren's pinafores, little red socks, caps, &c. (polyandriapolygynia); whence you hear the sound of jingling spinets and womensinging; where little porter pots hang on the railings sunningthemselves; whither of evenings you see City clerks padding wearily:here it was that Mr. Clapp, the clerk of Mr. Sedley, had his domicile,and in this asylum the good old gentleman hid his head with his wifeand daughter when the crash came.

Jos Sedley had acted as a man of his disposition would, when theannouncement of the family misfortune reached him. He did not come toLondon, but he wrote to his mother to draw upon his agents for whatevermoney was wanted, so that his kind broken-spirited old parents had nopresent poverty to fear. This done, Jos went on at the boarding-houseat Cheltenham pretty much as before. He drove his curricle; he drankhis claret; he played his rubber; he told his Indian stories, and theIrish widow consoled and flattered him as usual. His present of money,needful as it was, made little impression on his parents; and I haveheard Amelia say that the first day on which she saw her father lift uphis head after the failure was on the receipt of the packet of forksand spoons with the young stockbrokers' love, over which he burst outcrying like a child, being greatly more affected than even his wife, towhom the present was addressed. Edward Dale, the junior of the house,who purchased the spoons for the firm, was, in fact, very sweet uponAmelia, and offered for her in spite of all. He married Miss LouisaCutts (daughter of Higham and Cutts, the eminent cornfactors) with ahandsome fortune in 1820; and is now living in splendour, and with anumerous family, at his elegant villa, Muswell Hill. But we must notlet the recollections of this good fellow cause us to diverge from theprincipal history.

I hope the reader has much too good an opinion of Captain and Mrs.Crawley to suppose that they ever would have dreamed of paying a visitto so remote a district as Bloomsbury, if they thought the family whomthey proposed to honour with a visit were not merely out of fashion,but out of money, and could be serviceable to them in no possiblemanner. Rebecca was entirely surprised at the sight of the comfortableold house where she had met with no small kindness, ransacked bybrokers and bargainers, and its quiet family treasures given up topublic desecration and plunder. A month after her flight, she hadbethought her of Amelia, and Rawdon, with a horse-laugh, had expresseda perfect willingness to see young George Osborne again. "He's a veryagreeable acquaintance, Beck," the wag added. "I'd like to sell himanother horse, Beck. I'd like to play a few more games at billiardswith him. He'd be what I call useful just now, Mrs. C.--ha, ha!" bywhich sort of speech it is not to be supposed that Rawdon Crawley had adeliberate desire to cheat Mr. Osborne at play, but only wished to takethat fair advantage of him which almost every sporting gentleman inVanity Fair considers to be his due from his neighbour.

The old aunt was long in "coming-to." A month had elapsed. Rawdon wasdenied the door by Mr. Bowls; his servants could not get a lodgment inthe house at Park Lane; his letters were sent back unopened. MissCrawley never stirred out--she was unwell--and Mrs. Bute remained stilland never left her. Crawley and his wife both of them augured evilfrom the continued presence of Mrs. Bute.

"Gad, I begin to perceive now why she was always bringing us togetherat Queen's Crawley," Rawdon said.

"What an artful little woman!" ejaculated Rebecca.

"Well, I don't regret it, if you don't," the Captain cried, still in anamorous rapture with his wife, who rewarded him with a kiss by way ofreply, and was indeed not a little gratified by the generous confidenceof her husband.

"If he had but a little more brains," she thought to herself, "I mightmake something of him"; but she never let him perceive the opinion shehad of him; listened with indefatigable complacency to his stories ofthe stable and the mess; laughed at all his jokes; felt the greatestinterest in Jack Spatterdash, whose cab-horse had come down, and BobMartingale, who had been taken up in a gambling-house, and TomCinqbars, who was going to ride the steeplechase. When he came home shewas alert and happy: when he went out she pressed him to go: when hestayed at home, she played and sang for him, made him good drinks,superintended his dinner, warmed his slippers, and steeped his soul incomfort. The best of women (I have heard my grandmother say) arehypocrites. We don't know how much they hide from us: how watchfulthey are when they seem most artless and confidential: how often thosefrank smiles which they wear so easily, are traps to cajole or elude ordisarm--I don't mean in your mere coquettes, but your domestic models,and paragons of female virtue. Who has not seen a woman hide thedulness of a stupid husband, or coax the fury of a savage one? Weaccept this amiable slavishness, and praise a woman for it: we callthis pretty treachery truth. A good housewife is of necessity ahumbug; and Cornelia's husband was hoodwinked, as Potiphar was--only ina different way.

By these attentions, that veteran rake, Rawdon Crawley, found himselfconverted into a very happy and submissive married man. His formerhaunts knew him not. They asked about him once or twice at his clubs,but did not miss him much: in those booths of Vanity Fair people seldomdo miss each other. His secluded wife ever smiling and cheerful, hislittle comfortable lodgings, snug meals, and homely evenings, had allthe charms of novelty and secrecy. The marriage was not yet declaredto the world, or published in the Morning Post. All his creditorswould have come rushing on him in a body, had they known that he wasunited to a woman without fortune. "My relations won't cry fie uponme," Becky said, with rather a bitter laugh; and she was quitecontented to wait until the old aunt should be reconciled, before sheclaimed her place in society. So she lived at Brompton, and meanwhilesaw no one, or only those few of her husband's male companions who wereadmitted into her little dining-room. These were all charmed with her.The little dinners, the laughing and chatting, the music afterwards,delighted all who participated in these enjoyments. Major Martingalenever thought about asking to see the marriage licence, CaptainCinqbars was perfectly enchanted with her skill in making punch. Andyoung Lieutenant Spatterdash (who was fond of piquet, and whom Crawleywould often invite) was evidently and quickly smitten by Mrs. Crawley;but her own circumspection and modesty never forsook her for a moment,and Crawley's reputation as a fire-eating and jealous warrior was afurther and complete defence to his little wife.

There are gentlemen of very good blood and fashion in this city, whonever have entered a lady's drawing-room; so that though RawdonCrawley's marriage might be talked about in his county, where, ofcourse, Mrs. Bute had spread the news, in London it was doubted, or notheeded, or not talked about at all. He lived comfortably on credit.He had a large capital of debts, which laid out judiciously, will carrya man along for many years, and on which certain men about towncontrive to live a hundred times better than even men with ready moneycan do. Indeed who is there that walks London streets, but can pointout a half-dozen of men riding by him splendidly, while he is on foot,courted by fashion, bowed into their carriages by tradesmen, denyingthemselves nothing, and living on who knows what? We see JackThriftless prancing in the park, or darting in his brougham down PallMall: we eat his dinners served on his miraculous plate. "How did thisbegin," we say, "or where will it end?" "My dear fellow," I heard Jackonce say, "I owe money in every capital in Europe." The end must comesome day, but in the meantime Jack thrives as much as ever; people areglad enough to shake him by the hand, ignore the little dark storiesthat are whispered every now and then against him, and pronounce him agood-natured, jovial, reckless fellow.

Truth obliges us to confess that Rebecca had married a gentleman ofthis order. Everything was plentiful in his house but ready money, ofwhich their menage pretty early felt the want; and reading the Gazetteone day, and coming upon the announcement of "Lieutenant G. Osborne tobe Captain by purchase, vice Smith, who exchanges," Rawdon uttered thatsentiment regarding Amelia's lover, which ended in the visit to RussellSquare.

When Rawdon and his wife wished to communicate with Captain Dobbin atthe sale, and to know particulars of the catastrophe which had befallenRebecca's old acquaintances, the Captain had vanished; and suchinformation as they got was from a stray porter or broker at theauction.

"Look at them with their hooked beaks," Becky said, getting into thebuggy, her picture under her arm, in great glee. "They're likevultures after a battle."

"Don't know. Never was in action, my dear. Ask Martingale; he was inSpain, aide-de-camp to General Blazes."

"He was a very kind old man, Mr. Sedley," Rebecca said; "I'm reallysorry he's gone wrong."

"O stockbrokers--bankrupts--used to it, you know," Rawdon replied,cutting a fly off the horse's ear.

"I wish we could have afforded some of the plate, Rawdon," the wifecontinued sentimentally. "Five-and-twenty guineas was monstrously dearfor that little piano. We chose it at Broadwood's for Amelia, when shecame from school. It only cost five-and-thirty then."

"What-d'-ye-call'em--'Osborne,' will cry off now, I suppose, since thefamily is smashed. How cut up your pretty little friend will be; hey,Becky?"

"I daresay she'll recover it," Becky said with a smile--and they droveon and talked about something else.