The Muse, whoever she be, who presides over this Comic History must nowdescend from the genteel heights in which she has been soaring and havethe goodness to drop down upon the lowly roof of John Sedley atBrompton, and describe what events are taking place there. Here, too,in this humble tenement, live care, and distrust, and dismay. Mrs.Clapp in the kitchen is grumbling in secret to her husband about therent, and urging the good fellow to rebel against his old friend andpatron and his present lodger. Mrs. Sedley has ceased to visit herlandlady in the lower regions now, and indeed is in a position topatronize Mrs. Clapp no longer. How can one be condescending to a ladyto whom one owes a matter of forty pounds, and who is perpetuallythrowing out hints for the money? The Irish maidservant has not alteredin the least in her kind and respectful behaviour; but Mrs. Sedleyfancies that she is growing insolent and ungrateful, and, as the guiltythief who fears each bush an officer, sees threatening innuendoes andhints of capture in all the girl's speeches and answers. Miss Clapp,grown quite a young woman now, is declared by the soured old lady to bean unbearable and impudent little minx. Why Amelia can be so fond ofher, or have her in her room so much, or walk out with her soconstantly, Mrs. Sedley cannot conceive. The bitterness of poverty haspoisoned the life of the once cheerful and kindly woman. She isthankless for Amelia's constant and gentle bearing towards her; carpsat her for her efforts at kindness or service; rails at her for hersilly pride in her child and her neglect of her parents. Georgy'shouse is not a very lively one since Uncle Jos's annuity has beenwithdrawn and the little family are almost upon famine diet.

Amelia thinks, and thinks, and racks her brain, to find some means ofincreasing the small pittance upon which the household is starving.Can she give lessons in anything? paint card-racks? do fine work? Shefinds that women are working hard, and better than she can, fortwopence a day. She buys a couple of begilt Bristol boards at theFancy Stationer's and paints her very best upon them--a shepherd witha red waistcoat on one, and a pink face smiling in the midst of apencil landscape--a shepherdess on the other, crossing a little bridge,with a little dog, nicely shaded. The man of the Fancy Repository andBrompton Emporium of Fine Arts (of whom she bought the screens, vainlyhoping that he would repurchase them when ornamented by her hand) canhardly hide the sneer with which he examines these feeble works of art.He looks askance at the lady who waits in the shop, and ties up thecards again in their envelope of whitey-brown paper, and hands them tothe poor widow and Miss Clapp, who had never seen such beautiful thingsin her life, and had been quite confident that the man must give atleast two guineas for the screens. They try at other shops in theinterior of London, with faint sickening hopes. "Don't want 'em," saysone. "Be off," says another fiercely. Three-and-sixpence has beenspent in vain--the screens retire to Miss Clapp's bedroom, whopersists in thinking them lovely.

She writes out a little card in her neatest hand, and after longthought and labour of composition, in which the public is informed that"A Lady who has some time at her disposal, wishes to undertake theeducation of some little girls, whom she would instruct in English, inFrench, in Geography, in History, and in Music--address A. O., at Mr.Brown's"; and she confides the card to the gentleman of the Fine ArtRepository, who consents to allow it to lie upon the counter, where itgrows dingy and fly-blown. Amelia passes the door wistfully many atime, in hopes that Mr. Brown will have some news to give her, but henever beckons her in. When she goes to make little purchases, there isno news for her. Poor simple lady, tender and weak--how are you tobattle with the struggling violent world?

She grows daily more care-worn and sad, fixing upon her child alarmedeyes, whereof the little boy cannot interpret the expression. Shestarts up of a night and peeps into his room stealthily, to see that heis sleeping and not stolen away. She sleeps but little now. Aconstant thought and terror is haunting her. How she weeps and praysin the long silent nights--how she tries to hide from herself thethought which will return to her, that she ought to part with the boy,that she is the only barrier between him and prosperity. She can't,she can't. Not now, at least. Some other day. Oh! it is too hard tothink of and to bear.

A thought comes over her which makes her blush and turn fromherself--her parents might keep the annuity--the curate would marry herand give a home to her and the boy. But George's picture and dearestmemory are there to rebuke her. Shame and love say no to thesacrifice. She shrinks from it as from something unholy, and suchthoughts never found a resting-place in that pure and gentle bosom.

The combat, which we describe in a sentence or two, lasted for manyweeks in poor Amelia's heart, during which she had no confidante;indeed, she could never have one, as she would not allow to herself thepossibility of yielding, though she was giving way daily before theenemy with whom she had to battle. One truth after another wasmarshalling itself silently against her and keeping its ground. Povertyand misery for all, want and degradation for her parents, injustice tothe boy--one by one the outworks of the little citadel were taken, inwhich the poor soul passionately guarded her only love and treasure.

At the beginning of the struggle, she had written off a letter oftender supplication to her brother at Calcutta, imploring him not towithdraw the support which he had granted to their parents and paintingin terms of artless pathos their lonely and hapless condition. She didnot know the truth of the matter. The payment of Jos's annuity wasstill regular, but it was a money-lender in the City who was receivingit: old Sedley had sold it for a sum of money wherewith to prosecutehis bootless schemes. Emmy was calculating eagerly the time that wouldelapse before the letter would arrive and be answered. She had writtendown the date in her pocket-book of the day when she dispatched it. Toher son's guardian, the good Major at Madras, she had not communicatedany of her griefs and perplexities. She had not written to him sinceshe wrote to congratulate him on his approaching marriage. She thoughtwith sickening despondency, that that friend--the only one, the one whohad felt such a regard for her--was fallen away.

One day, when things had come to a very bad pass--when the creditorswere pressing, the mother in hysteric grief, the father in more thanusual gloom, the inmates of the family avoiding each other, eachsecretly oppressed with his private unhappiness and notion ofwrong--the father and daughter happened to be left alone together, andAmelia thought to comfort her father by telling him what she had done.She had written to Joseph--an answer must come in three or four months.He was always generous, though careless. He could not refuse, when heknew how straitened were the circumstances of his parents.

Then the poor old gentleman revealed the whole truth to her--that hisson was still paying the annuity, which his own imprudence had flungaway. He had not dared to tell it sooner. He thought Amelia's ghastlyand terrified look, when, with a trembling, miserable voice he made theconfession, conveyed reproaches to him for his concealment. "Ah!" saidhe with quivering lips and turning away, "you despise your old fathernow!"

"Oh, papa! it is not that," Amelia cried out, falling on his neck andkissing him many times. "You are always good and kind. You did it forthe best. It is not for the money--it is--my God! my God! have mercyupon me, and give me strength to bear this trial"; and she kissed himagain wildly and went away.

Still the father did not know what that explanation meant, and theburst of anguish with which the poor girl left him. It was that shewas conquered. The sentence was passed. The child must go fromher--to others--to forget her. Her heart and her treasure--her joy,hope, love, worship--her God, almost! She must give him up, andthen--and then she would go to George, and they would watch over thechild and wait for him until he came to them in Heaven.

She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did, and went out towalk in the lanes by which George used to come back from school, andwhere she was in the habit of going on his return to meet the boy. Itwas May, a half-holiday. The leaves were all coming out, the weatherwas brilliant; the boy came running to her flushed with health,singing, his bundle of school-books hanging by a thong. There he was.Both her arms were round him. No, it was impossible. They could not begoing to part. "What is the matter, Mother?" said he; "you look verypale."

"Nothing, my child," she said and stooped down and kissed him.

That night Amelia made the boy read the story of Samuel to her, and howHannah, his mother, having weaned him, brought him to Eli the HighPriest to minister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitudewhich Hannah sang, and which says, who it is who maketh poor and makethrich, and bringeth low and exalteth--how the poor shall be raised upout of the dust, and how, in his own might, no man shall be strong.Then he read how Samuel's mother made him a little coat and brought itto him from year to year when she came up to offer the yearlysacrifice. And then, in her sweet simple way, George's mother madecommentaries to the boy upon this affecting story. How Hannah, thoughshe loved her son so much, yet gave him up because of her vow. And howshe must always have thought of him as she sat at home, far away,making the little coat; and Samuel, she was sure, never forgot hismother; and how happy she must have been as the time came (and theyears pass away very quick) when she should see her boy and how goodand wise he had grown. This little sermon she spoke with a gentlesolemn voice, and dry eyes, until she came to the account of theirmeeting--then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tender heartoverflowed, and taking the boy to her breast, she rocked him in herarms and wept silently over him in a sainted agony of tears.

Her mind being made up, the widow began to take such measures as seemedright to her for advancing the end which she proposed. One day, MissOsborne, in Russell Square (Amelia had not written the name or numberof the house for ten years--her youth, her early story came back to heras she wrote the superscription) one day Miss Osborne got a letter fromAmelia which made her blush very much and look towards her father,sitting glooming in his place at the other end of the table.

In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which had induced her tochange her mind respecting her boy. Her father had met with freshmisfortunes which had entirely ruined him. Her own pittance was sosmall that it would barely enable her to support her parents and wouldnot suffice to give George the advantages which were his due. Great asher sufferings would be at parting with him she would, by God's help,endure them for the boy's sake. She knew that those to whom he wasgoing would do all in their power to make him happy. She described hisdisposition, such as she fancied it--quick and impatient of control orharshness, easily to be moved by love and kindness. In a postscript,she stipulated that she should have a written agreement, that sheshould see the child as often as she wished--she could not part withhim under any other terms.

"What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" old Osborne said, when witha tremulous eager voice Miss Osborne read him the letter. "Reg'larstarved out, hey? Ha, ha! I knew she would." He tried to keep hisdignity and to read his paper as usual--but he could not follow it. Hechuckled and swore to himself behind the sheet.

At last he flung it down and, scowling at his daughter, as his wontwas, went out of the room into his study adjoining, from whence hepresently returned with a key. He flung it to Miss Osborne.

"Get the room over mine--his room that was--ready," he said. "Yes,sir," his daughter replied in a tremble. It was George's room. It hadnot been opened for more than ten years. Some of his clothes, papers,handkerchiefs, whips and caps, fishing-rods and sporting gear, werestill there. An Army list of 1814, with his name written on the cover;a little dictionary he was wont to use in writing; and the Bible hismother had given him, were on the mantelpiece, with a pair of spurs anda dried inkstand covered with the dust of ten years. Ah! since thatink was wet, what days and people had passed away! The writing-book,still on the table, was blotted with his hand.

Miss Osborne was much affected when she first entered this room withthe servants under her. She sank quite pale on the little bed. "Thisis blessed news, m'am--indeed, m'am," the housekeeper said; "and thegood old times is returning, m'am. The dear little feller, to be sure,m'am; how happy he will be! But some folks in May Fair, m'am, will owehim a grudge, m'am"; and she clicked back the bolt which held thewindow-sash and let the air into the chamber.

"You had better send that woman some money," Mr. Osborne said, beforehe went out. "She shan't want for nothing. Send her a hundred pound."

"And I'll go and see her to-morrow?" Miss Osborne asked.

"That's your look out. She don't come in here, mind. No, by ------,not for all the money in London. But she mustn't want now. So lookout, and get things right." With which brief speeches Mr. Osborne tookleave of his daughter and went on his accustomed way into the City.

"Here, Papa, is some money," Amelia said that night, kissing the oldman, her father, and putting a bill for a hundred pounds into hishands. "And--and, Mamma, don't be harsh with Georgy. He--he is notgoing to stop with us long." She could say nothing more, and walkedaway silently to her room. Let us close it upon her prayers and hersorrow. I think we had best speak little about so much love and grief.

Miss Osborne came the next day, according to the promise contained inher note, and saw Amelia. The meeting between them was friendly. Alook and a few words from Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that, withregard to this woman at least, there need be no fear lest she shouldtake the first place in her son's affection. She was cold, sensible,not unkind. The mother had not been so well pleased, perhaps, had therival been better looking, younger, more affectionate, warmer-hearted.Miss Osborne, on the other hand, thought of old times and memories andcould not but be touched with the poor mother's pitiful situation. Shewas conquered, and laying down her arms, as it were, she humblysubmitted. That day they arranged together the preliminaries of thetreaty of capitulation.

George was kept from school the next day, and saw his aunt. Amelialeft them alone together and went to her room. She was trying theseparation--as that poor gentle Lady Jane Grey felt the edge of the axethat was to come down and sever her slender life. Days were passed inparleys, visits, preparations. The widow broke the matter to Georgywith great caution; she looked to see him very much affected by theintelligence. He was rather elated than otherwise, and the poor womanturned sadly away. He bragged about the news that day to the boys atschool; told them how he was going to live with his grandpapa hisfather's father, not the one who comes here sometimes; and that hewould be very rich, and have a carriage, and a pony, and go to a muchfiner school, and when he was rich he would buy Leader's pencil-caseand pay the tart-woman. The boy was the image of his father, as hisfond mother thought.

Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dear Amelia's sake, to gothrough the story of George's last days at home.

At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little humble packetscontaining tokens of love and remembrance were ready and disposed inthe hall long since--George was in his new suit, for which the tailorhad come previously to measure him. He had sprung up with the sun andput on the new clothes, his mother hearing him from the room close by,in which she had been lying, in speechless grief and watching. Daysbefore she had been making preparations for the end, purchasing littlestores for the boy's use, marking his books and linen, talking with himand preparing him for the change--fondly fancying that he neededpreparation.

So that he had change, what cared he? He was longing for it. By athousand eager declarations as to what he would do, when he went tolive with his grandfather, he had shown the poor widow how little theidea of parting had cast him down. "He would come and see his mammaoften on the pony," he said. "He would come and fetch her in thecarriage; they would drive in the park, and she should have everythingshe wanted." The poor mother was fain to content herself with theseselfish demonstrations of attachment, and tried to convince herself howsincerely her son loved her. He must love her. All children were so:a little anxious for novelty, and--no, not selfish, but self-willed.Her child must have his enjoyments and ambition in the world. Sheherself, by her own selfishness and imprudent love for him had deniedhim his just rights and pleasures hitherto.

I know few things more affecting than that timorous debasement andself-humiliation of a woman. How she owns that it is she and not theman who is guilty; how she takes all the faults on her side; how shecourts in a manner punishment for the wrongs which she has notcommitted and persists in shielding the real culprit! It is those whoinjure women who get the most kindness from them--they are born timidand tyrants and maltreat those who are humblest before them.

So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent misery for her son'sdeparture, and had passed many and many a long solitary hour in makingpreparations for the end. George stood by his mother, watching herarrangements without the least concern. Tears had fallen into hisboxes; passages had been scored in his favourite books; old toys,relics, treasures had been hoarded away for him, and packed withstrange neatness and care--and of all these things the boy took nonote. The child goes away smiling as the mother breaks her heart. Byheavens it is pitiful, the bootless love of women for children inVanity Fair.

A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia's life isconsummated. No angel has intervened. The child is sacrificed andoffered up to fate, and the widow is quite alone.

The boy comes to see her often, to be sure. He rides on a pony with acoachman behind him, to the delight of his old grandfather, Sedley, whowalks proudly down the lane by his side. She sees him, but he is nother boy any more. Why, he rides to see the boys at the little school,too, and to show off before them his new wealth and splendour. In twodays he has adopted a slightly imperious air and patronizing manner.He was born to command, his mother thinks, as his father was before him.

It is fine weather now. Of evenings on the days when he does not come,she takes a long walk into London--yes, as far as Russell Square, andrests on the stone by the railing of the garden opposite Mr. Osborne'shouse. It is so pleasant and cool. She can look up and see thedrawing-room windows illuminated, and, at about nine o'clock, thechamber in the upper story where Georgy sleeps. She knows--he has toldher. She prays there as the light goes out, prays with an humbleheart, and walks home shrinking and silent. She is very tired when shecomes home. Perhaps she will sleep the better for that long wearywalk, and she may dream about Georgy.

One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell Square, at somedistance from Mr. Osborne's house (she could see it from a distancethough) when all the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and George and hisaunt came out to go to church; a little sweep asked for charity, andthe footman, who carried the books, tried to drive him away; but Georgystopped and gave him money. May God's blessing be on the boy! Emmyran round the square and, coming up to the sweep, gave him her mitetoo. All the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and she followed them untilshe came to the Foundling Church, into which she went. There she satin a place whence she could see the head of the boy under his father'stombstone. Many hundred fresh children's voices rose up there and sanghymns to the Father Beneficent, and little George's soul thrilled withdelight at the burst of glorious psalmody. His mother could not seehim for awhile, through the mist that dimmed her eyes.