After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private and selectparties, the claims of that estimable woman as regards fashion weresettled, and some of the very greatest and tallest doors in themetropolis were speedily opened to her--doors so great and tall thatthe beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain to enter at them.Dear brethren, let us tremble before those august portals. I fancythem guarded by grooms of the chamber with flaming silver forks withwhich they prong all those who have not the right of the entree. Theysay the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the hall and takes down thenames of the great ones who are admitted to the feasts dies after alittle time. He can't survive the glare of fashion long. It scorcheshim up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that poorimprudent Semele--a giddy moth of a creature who ruined herself byventuring out of her natural atmosphere. Her myth ought to be taken toheart amongst the Tyburnians, the Belgravians--her story, and perhapsBecky's too. Ah, ladies!--ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer if Belgravia isnot a sounding brass and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal. These arevanities. Even these will pass away. And some day or other (but itwill be after our time, thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be nobetter known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts of Babylon,and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as Baker Street, or Tadmor inthe wilderness.

Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker Street? Whatwould not your grandmothers have given to be asked to Lady Hester'sparties in that now decayed mansion? I have dined in it--moi qui vousparle, I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead. As we satsoberly drinking claret there with men of to-day, the spirits of thedeparted came in and took their places round the darksome board. Thepilot who weathered the storm tossed off great bumpers of spiritualport; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a heeltap.Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastly manner, and would not bebehindhand when the noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from underbushy eyebrows, winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce'seyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to know how hisglass went up full to his mouth and came down empty; up to the ceilingwhich was above us only yesterday, and which the great of the past dayshave all looked at. They let the house as a furnished lodging now.Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and lies asleep in thewilderness. Eothen saw her there--not in Baker Street, but in the othersolitude.

It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to liking a little ofit? I should like to know what well-constituted mind, merely because itis transitory, dislikes roast beef? That is a vanity, but may every manwho reads this have a wholesome portion of it through life, I beg:aye, though my readers were five hundred thousand. Sit down, gentlemen,and fall to, with a good hearty appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy,the horse-radish as you like it--don't spare it. Another glass ofwine, Jones, my boy--a little bit of the Sunday side. Yes, let us eatour fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor. And let us makethe best of Becky's aristocratic pleasures likewise--for these too,like all other mortal delights, were but transitory.

The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His Highness the Princeof Peterwaradin took occasion to renew his acquaintance with ColonelCrawley, when they met on the next day at the Club, and to complimentMrs. Crawley in the Ring of Hyde Park with a profound salute of thehat. She and her husband were invited immediately to one of thePrince's small parties at Levant House, then occupied by His Highnessduring the temporary absence from England of its noble proprietor. Shesang after dinner to a very little comite. The Marquis of Steyne waspresent, paternally superintending the progress of his pupil.

At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen and greatestministers that Europe has produced--the Duc de la Jabotiere, thenAmbassador from the Most Christian King, and subsequently Minister tothat monarch. I declare I swell with pride as these august names aretranscribed by my pen, and I think in what brilliant company my dearBecky is moving. She became a constant guest at the French Embassy,where no party was considered to be complete without the presence ofthe charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley. Messieurs de Truffigny (of thePerigord family) and Champignac, both attaches of the Embassy, werestraightway smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel's wife, and bothdeclared, according to the wont of their nation (for who ever yet met aFrenchman, come out of England, that has not left half a dozen familiesmiserable, and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?), both,I say, declared that they were au mieux with the charming MadameRavdonn.

But I doubt the correctness of the assertion. Champignac was very fondof ecarte, and made many parties with the Colonel of evenings, whileBecky was singing to Lord Steyne in the other room; and as forTruffigny, it is a well-known fact that he dared not go to theTravellers', where he owed money to the waiters, and if he had not hadthe Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy young gentleman must havestarved. I doubt, I say, that Becky would have selected either ofthese young men as a person on whom she would bestow her specialregard. They ran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers,went in debt for opera-boxes for her, and made themselves amiable in athousand ways. And they talked English with adorable simplicity, andto the constant amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimicone or other to his face, and compliment him on his advance in theEnglish language with a gravity which never failed to tickle theMarquis, her sardonic old patron. Truffigny gave Briggs a shawl by wayof winning over Becky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of aletter which the simple spinster handed over in public to the person towhom it was addressed, and the composition of which amused everybodywho read it greatly. Lord Steyne read it, everybody but honest Rawdon,to whom it was not necessary to tell everything that passed in thelittle house in May Fair.

Here, before long, Becky received not only "the best" foreigners (asthe phrase is in our noble and admirable society slang), but some ofthe best English people too. I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeedthe least virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest,or the best born, but "the best,"--in a word, people about whom thereis no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-Willis, that Patron Saintof Almack's, the great Lady Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth(she was Lady G. Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry), and thelike. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (her Ladyship is of theKingstreet family, see Debrett and Burke) takes up a person, he or sheis safe. There is no question about them any more. Not that my LadyFitz-Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the contrary, afaded person, fifty-seven years of age, and neither handsome, norwealthy, nor entertaining; but it is agreed on all sides that she is ofthe "best people." Those who go to her are of the best: and from anold grudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her ladyship,then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter of the Prince of Wales'sfavourite, the Earl of Portansherry, had once tried), this great andfamous leader of the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon Crawley;made her a most marked curtsey at the assembly over which she presided;and not only encouraged her son, St. Kitts (his lordship got his placethrough Lord Steyne's interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, butasked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice in the most publicand condescending manner during dinner. The important fact was knownall over London that night. People who had been crying fie about Mrs.Crawley were silent. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord Steyne'sright-hand man, went about everywhere praising her: some who hadhesitated, came forward at once and welcomed her; little Tom Toady, whohad warned Southdown about visiting such an abandoned woman, nowbesought to be introduced to her. In a word, she was admitted to beamong the "best" people. Ah, my beloved readers and brethren, do notenvy poor Becky prematurely--glory like this is said to be fugitive.It is currently reported that even in the very inmost circles, they areno happier than the poor wanderers outside the zone; and Becky, whopenetrated into the very centre of fashion and saw the great George IVface to face, has owned since that there too was Vanity.

We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her career. As Icannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry, although I have a shrewdidea that it is a humbug, so an uninitiated man cannot take uponhimself to portray the great world accurately, and had best keep hisopinions to himself, whatever they are.

Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of this season of her life,when she moved among the very greatest circles of the London fashion.Her success excited, elated, and then bored her. At first nooccupation was more pleasant than to invent and procure (the latter awork of no small trouble and ingenuity, by the way, in a person of Mrs.Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means)--to procure, we say, the prettiestnew dresses and ornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where shewas welcomed by great people; and from the fine dinner parties to fineassemblies, whither the same people came with whom she had been dining,whom she had met the night before, and would see on the morrow--theyoung men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, with the neatestglossy boots and white gloves--the elders portly, brass-buttoned,noble-looking, polite, and prosy--the young ladies blonde, timid, andin pink--the mothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and indiamonds. They talked in English, not in bad French, as they do in thenovels. They talked about each others' houses, and characters, andfamilies--just as the Joneses do about the Smiths. Becky's formeracquaintances hated and envied her; the poor woman herself was yawningin spirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself. "I wouldrather be a parson's wife and teach a Sunday school than this; or asergeant's lady and ride in the regimental waggon; or, oh, how muchgayer it would be to wear spangles and trousers and dance before abooth at a fair."

"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing. She used totell the great man her ennuis and perplexities in her artless way--theyamused him.

"Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer--Master of the Ceremonies--whatdo you call him--the man in the large boots and the uniform, who goesround the ring cracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a militaryfigure. I recollect," Becky continued pensively, "my father took me tosee a show at Brookgreen Fair when I was a child, and when we camehome, I made myself a pair of stilts and danced in the studio to thewonder of all the pupils."

"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.

"I should like to do it now," Becky continued. "How Lady Blinkey wouldopen her eyes, and Lady Grizzel Macbeth would stare! Hush! silence!there is Pasta beginning to sing." Becky always made a point of beingconspicuously polite to the professional ladies and gentlemen whoattended at these aristocratic parties--of following them into thecorners where they sat in silence, and shaking hands with them, andsmiling in the view of all persons. She was an artist herself, as shesaid very truly; there was a frankness and humility in the manner inwhich she acknowledged her origin, which provoked, or disarmed, oramused lookers-on, as the case might be. "How cool that woman is," saidone; "what airs of independence she assumes, where she ought to sitstill and be thankful if anybody speaks to her!" "What an honest andgood-natured soul she is!" said another. "What an artful little minx"said a third. They were all right very likely, but Becky went her ownway, and so fascinated the professional personages that they wouldleave off their sore throats in order to sing at her parties and giveher lessons for nothing.

Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon Street. Manyscores of carriages, with blazing lamps, blocked up the street, to thedisgust of No. 100, who could not rest for the thunder of the knocking,and of 102, who could not sleep for envy. The gigantic footmen whoaccompanied the vehicles were too big to be contained in Becky's littlehall, and were billeted off in the neighbouring public-houses, whence,when they were wanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer. Scoresof the great dandies of London squeezed and trod on each other on thelittle stairs, laughing to find themselves there; and many spotless andsevere ladies of ton were seated in the little drawing-room, listeningto the professional singers, who were singing according to their wont,and as if they wished to blow the windows down. And the day after,there appeared among the fashionable reunions in the Morning Post aparagraph to the following effect:

"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a select party atdinner at their house in May Fair. Their Excellencies the Prince andPrincess of Peterwaradin, H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador(attended by Kibob Bey, dragoman of the mission), the Marquess ofSteyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and Lady Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg,&c. After dinner Mrs. Crawley had an assembly which was attended bythe Duchess (Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchioness ofCheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de Brie, BaronSchapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess of Slingstone, and Lady F.Macadam, Major-General and Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths;Viscount Paddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin, BobachyBahawder," and an &c., which the reader may fill at his pleasurethrough a dozen close lines of small type.

And in her commerce with the great our dear friend showed the samefrankness which distinguished her transactions with the lowly instation. On one occasion, when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was(perhaps rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in the Frenchlanguage with a celebrated tenor singer of that nation, while the LadyGrizzel Macbeth looked over her shoulder scowling at the pair.

"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said, who herself spokethe tongue in an Edinburgh accent most remarkable to hear.

"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting down her eyes. "Itaught it in a school, and my mother was a Frenchwoman."

Lady Grizzel was won by her humility and was mollified towards thelittle woman. She deplored the fatal levelling tendencies of the age,which admitted persons of all classes into the society of theirsuperiors, but her ladyship owned that this one at least was wellbehaved and never forgot her place in life. She was a very good woman:good to the poor; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious. It is not herladyship's fault that she fancies herself better than you and me. Theskirts of her ancestors' garments have been kissed for centuries; it isa thousand years, they say, since the tartans of the head of the familywere embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords and councillors, when thegreat ancestor of the House became King of Scotland.

Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before Becky, and perhapswas not disinclined to her. The younger ladies of the house of Gauntwere also compelled into submission. Once or twice they set people ather, but they failed. The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried a passageof arms with her, but was routed with great slaughter by the intrepidlittle Becky. When attacked sometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting ademure ingenue air, under which she was most dangerous. She said thewickedest things with the most simple unaffected air when in this mood,and would take care artlessly to apologize for her blunders, so thatall the world should know that she had made them.

Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain and trencher-man of myLord Steyne, was caused by the ladies to charge her; and the worthyfellow, leering at his patronesses and giving them a wink, as much asto say, "Now look out for sport," one evening began an assault uponBecky, who was unsuspiciously eating her dinner. The little woman,attacked on a sudden, but never without arms, lighted up in an instant,parried and riposted with a home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tinglewith shame; then she returned to her soup with the most perfect calmand a quiet smile on her face. Wagg's great patron, who gave himdinners and lent him a little money sometimes, and whose election,newspaper, and other jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such asavage glance with the eyes as almost made him sink under the table andburst into tears. He looked piteously at my lord, who never spoke tohim during dinner, and at the ladies, who disowned him. At last Beckyherself took compassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk. Hewas not asked to dinner again for six weeks; and Fiche, my lord'sconfidential man, to whom Wagg naturally paid a good deal of court, wasinstructed to tell him that if he ever dared to say a rude thing toMrs. Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes, Milorwould put every one of his notes of hand into his lawyer's hands andsell him up without mercy. Wagg wept before Fiche and implored hisdear friend to intercede for him. He wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R.C., which appeared in the very next number of the Harum-scarumMagazine, which he conducted. He implored her good-will at partieswhere he met her. He cringed and coaxed Rawdon at the club. He wasallowed to come back to Gaunt House after a while. Becky was alwaysgood to him, always amused, never angry.

His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant (with a seat inparliament and at the dinner table), Mr. Wenham, was much more prudentin his behaviour and opinions than Mr. Wagg. However much he might bedisposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a staunch oldTrue Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-merchant in the north ofEngland), this aide-de-camp of the Marquis never showed any sort ofhostility to the new favourite, but pursued her with stealthykindnesses and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow madeBecky more uneasy than other people's overt hostilities.

How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the entertainmentswith which they treated the polite world was a mystery which gave riseto some conversation at the time, and probably added zest to theselittle festivities. Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley gavehis brother a handsome allowance; if he did, Becky's power over theBaronet must have been extraordinary indeed, and his character greatlychanged in his advanced age. Other parties hinted that it was Becky'shabit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends: going to thisone in tears with an account that there was an execution in the house;falling on her knees to that one and declaring that the whole familymust go to gaol or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could bepaid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to give manyhundreds through these pathetic representations. Young Feltham, of the--th Dragoons (and son of the firm of Tiler and Feltham, hatters andarmy accoutrement makers), and whom the Crawleys introduced intofashionable life, was also cited as one of Becky's victims in thepecuniary way. People declared that she got money from various simplydisposed persons, under pretence of getting them confidentialappointments under Government. Who knows what stories were or were nottold of our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she had hadall the money which she was said to have begged or borrowed or stolen,she might have capitalized and been honest for life, whereas,--but thisis advancing matters.

The truth is, that by economy and good management--by a sparing use ofready money and by paying scarcely anybody--people can manage, for atime at least, to make a great show with very little means: and it isour belief that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were not, afterall was said, very numerous, cost this lady very little more than thewax candles which lighted the walls. Stillbrook and Queen's Crawleysupplied her with game and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellarswere at her disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cookspresided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's order the rarestdelicacies from their own. I protest it is quite shameful in the worldto abuse a simple creature, as people of her time abuse Becky, and Iwarn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her.If every person is to be banished from society who runs into debt andcannot pay--if we are to be peering into everybody's private life,speculating upon their income, and cutting them if we don't approve oftheir expenditure--why, what a howling wilderness and intolerabledwelling Vanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would be against hisneighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of civilizationwould be done away with. We should be quarrelling, abusing, avoidingone another. Our houses would become caverns, and we should go in ragsbecause we cared for nobody. Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't begiven any more. All the tradesmen of the town would be bankrupt. Wine,wax-lights, comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs,Louis-Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and splendidhigh-stepping carriage horses--all the delights of life, I say,--wouldgo to the deuce, if people did but act upon their silly principles andavoid those whom they dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charityand mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough: wemay abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the greatest rascalunhanged--but do we wish to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands whenwe meet. If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dine with him,and we expect he will do the same by us. Thus tradeflourishes--civilization advances; peace is kept; new dresses arewanted for new assemblies every week; and the last year's vintage ofLafitte will remunerate the honest proprietor who reared it.

At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great George was on thethrone and ladies wore gigots and large combs like tortoise-shellshovels in their hair, instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreathswhich are actually in fashion, the manners of the very polite worldwere not, I take it, essentially different from those of the presentday: and their amusements pretty similar. To us, from the outside,gazing over the policeman's shoulders at the bewildering beauties asthey pass into Court or ball, they may seem beings of unearthlysplendour and in the enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by usunattainable. It is to console some of these dissatisfied beings thatwe are narrating our dear Becky's struggles, and triumphs, anddisappointments, of all of which, indeed, as is the case with allpersons of merit, she had her share.

At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades had come among usfrom France, and was considerably in vogue in this country, enablingthe many ladies amongst us who had beauty to display their charms, andthe fewer number who had cleverness to exhibit their wit. My LordSteyne was incited by Becky, who perhaps believed herself endowed withboth the above qualifications, to give an entertainment at Gaunt House,which should include some of these little dramas--and we must takeleave to introduce the reader to this brilliant reunion, and, with amelancholy welcome too, for it will be among the very last of thefashionable entertainments to which it will be our fortune to conducthim.

A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of Gaunt House,was arranged as the charade theatre. It had been so used when GeorgeIII was king; and a picture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant,with his hair in powder and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as it wascalled, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. Addison's tragedy of thatname, performed before their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales, theBishop of Osnaburgh, and Prince William Henry, then children like theactor. One or two of the old properties were drawn out of the garrets,where they had lain ever since, and furbished up anew for the presentfestivities.

Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern traveller, wasmanager of the revels. An Eastern traveller was somebody in thosedays, and the adventurous Bedwin, who had published his quarto andpassed some months under the tents in the desert, was a personage of nosmall importance. In his volume there were several pictures of Sandsin various oriental costumes; and he travelled about with a blackattendant of most unprepossessing appearance, just like another Briande Bois Guilbert. Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, were hailed atGaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.

He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an immense plumeof feathers (the Janizaries were supposed to be still in existence, andthe tarboosh had not as yet displaced the ancient and majestichead-dress of the true believers) was seen couched on a divan, andmaking believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however, for the sakeof the ladies, only a fragrant pastille was allowed to smoke. TheTurkish dignitary yawns and expresses signs of weariness and idleness.He claps his hands and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms,bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt, tall, andhideous. He makes a salaam before my lord the Aga.

A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly. The ladieswhisper to one another. The black slave was given to Bedwin Sands byan Egyptian pasha in exchange for three dozen of Maraschino. He hassewn up ever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them into the Nile.

"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish voluptuary with a waveof his hand. Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant into my lord'spresence; he brings a veiled female with him. He removes the veil. Athrill of applause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth (shewas a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and hair. She is in agorgeous oriental costume; the black braided locks are twined withinnumerable jewels; her dress is covered over with gold piastres. Theodious Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. She fallsdown on her knees and entreats him to restore her to the mountainswhere she was born, and where her Circassian lover is still deploringthe absence of his Zuleikah. No entreaties will move the obdurateHassan. He laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom. Zuleikahcovers her face with her hands and drops down in an attitude of themost beautiful despair. There seems to be no hope for her, when--whenthe Kislar Aga appears.

The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassan receives andplaces on his head the dread firman. A ghastly terror seizes him,while on the Negro's face (it is Mesrour again in another costume)appears a ghastly joy. "Mercy! mercy!" cries the Pasha: while theKislar Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.

The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful weapon. Hassanfrom within bawls out, "First two syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,who is going to act in the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her costume.

The second part of the charade takes place. It is still an Easternscene. Hassan, in another dress, is in an attitude by Zuleikah, who isperfectly reconciled to him. The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful blackslave. It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their headseastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries at hand,the band facetiously plays "The Camels are coming." An enormousEgyptian head figures in the scene. It is a musical one--and, to thesurprise of the oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed byMr. Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like Papageno and theMoorish King in The Magic Flute. "Last two syllables," roars the head.

The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A tall andstalwart man reposes on a couch there. Above him hang his helmet andshield. There is no need for them now. Ilium is down. Iphigenia isslain. Cassandra is a prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (itis Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sack of Iliumor the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andron is asleep in his chamberat Argos. A lamp casts the broad shadow of the sleeping warriorflickering on the wall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in itslight. The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before the statueenters.

Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is that ghastly facelooking out balefully after him from behind the arras? He raises hisdagger to strike the sleeper, who turns in his bed, and opens his broadchest as if for the blow. He cannot strike the noble slumberingchieftain. Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like anapparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hair floats down hershoulders--her face is deadly pale--and her eyes are lighted up with asmile so ghastly that people quake as they look at her.

A tremor ran through the room. "Good God!" somebody said, "it's Mrs.Rawdon Crawley."

Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's hand and advancesto the bed. You see it shining over her head in the glimmer of thelamp, and--and the lamp goes out, with a groan, and all is dark.

The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca performed herpart so well, and with such ghastly truth, that the spectators were alldumb, until, with a burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again,when everybody began to shout applause. "Brava! brava!" old Steyne'sstrident voice was heard roaring over all the rest. "By--, she'd do ittoo," he said between his teeth. The performers were called by thewhole house, which sounded with cries of "Manager! Clytemnestra!"Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classical tunic, but stood inthe background with Aegisthus and others of the performers of thelittle play. Mr. Bedwin Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra. Agreat personage insisted on being presented to the charmingClytemnestra. "Heigh ha? Run him through the body. Marry somebodyelse, hay?" was the apposite remark made by His Royal Highness.

"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part," said Lord Steyne.Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking, and swept the prettiest littlecurtsey ever seen.

Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool dainties, andthe performers disappeared to get ready for the second charade-tableau.

The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted in pantomime,and the performance took place in the following wise:

First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a slouched hat anda staff, a great-coat, and a lantern borrowed from the stables, passedacross the stage bawling out, as if warning the inhabitants of thehour. In the lower window are seen two bagmen playing apparently atthe game of cribbage, over which they yawn much. To them enters onelooking like Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood), which character theyoung gentleman performed to perfection, and divests them of theirlower coverings; and presently Chambermaid (the Right Honourable LordSouthdown) with two candlesticks, and a warming-pan. She ascends tothe upper apartment and warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as aweapon wherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen. She exits.They put on their night-caps and pull down the blinds. Boots comes outand closes the shutters of the ground-floor chamber. You hear himbolting and chaining the door within. All the lights go out. Themusic plays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours. A voice from behind thecurtain says, "First syllable."

Second syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of a sudden. The musicplays the old air from John of Paris, Ah quel plaisir d'etre en voyage.It is the same scene. Between the first and second floors of the houserepresented, you behold a sign on which the Steyne arms are painted.All the bells are ringing all over the house. In the lower apartmentyou see a man with a long slip of paper presenting it to another, whoshakes his fists, threatens and vows that it is monstrous. "Ostler,bring round my gig," cries another at the door. He chucks Chambermaid(the Right Honourable Lord Southdown) under the chin; she seems todeplore his absence, as Calypso did that of that other eminenttraveller Ulysses. Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes with awooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries "Pots" with suchexquisite humour and naturalness that the whole house rings withapplause, and a bouquet is thrown to him. Crack, crack, crack, go thewhips. Landlord, chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just assome distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and theinvisible theatrical manager cries out "Second syllable."

"I think it must be 'Hotel,'" says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards;there is a general laugh at the Captain's cleverness. He is not veryfar from the mark.

While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a nauticalmedley--"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude Boreas," "Rule Britannia," "Inthe Bay of Biscay O!"--some maritime event is about to take place. Aben is heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents, for theshore!" a voice exclaims. People take leave of each other. They pointanxiously as if towards the clouds, which are represented by a darkcurtain, and they nod their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the RightHonourable Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, andhusband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is evidently a ship.

The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a telescope,comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his coat tailsfly about as if in the wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use histelescope, his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowingfresh. The music rises and whistles louder and louder; the mariners goacross the stage staggering, as if the ship was in severe motion. TheSteward (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding sixbasins. He puts one rapidly by Lord Squeams--Lady Squeams, giving apinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts herpocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as for the cabin. Themusic rises up to the wildest pitch of stormy excitement, and the thirdsyllable is concluded.

There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in which Montessu and Nobletused to be famous in those days, and which Mr. Wagg transferred to theEnglish stage as an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilfulwriter, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It was dressed in old Frenchcostume, and little Lord Southdown now appeared admirably attired inthe disguise of an old woman hobbling about the stage with a faultlesscrooked stick.

Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling from asweet pasteboard cottage covered with roses and trellis work."Philomele, Philomele," cries the old woman, and Philomele comes out.

More applause--it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and patches, themost ravissante little Marquise in the world.

She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage with all theinnocence of theatrical youth--she makes a curtsey. Mamma says "Why,child, you are always laughing and singing," and away she goes, with--

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY

The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen: And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.

During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the good-naturedpersonage addressed as Mamma by the singer, and whose large whiskersappeared under her cap, seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternalaffection by embracing the innocent creature who performed thedaughter's part. Every caress was received with loud acclamations oflaughter by the sympathizing audience. At its conclusion (while themusic was performing a symphony as if ever so many birds were warbling)the whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause and bouquetswithout end were showered upon the Nightingale of the evening. LordSteyne's voice of applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale,took the flowers which he threw to her and pressed them to her heartwith the air of a consummate comedian. Lord Steyne was frantic withdelight. His guests' enthusiasm harmonized with his own. Where wasthe beautiful black-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charadehad caused such delight? She was twice as handsome as Becky, but thebrilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed her. All voices were forher. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi de Begnis, people compared her to oneor the other, and agreed with good reason, very likely, that had shebeen an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her. She hadreached her culmination: her voice rose trilling and bright over thestorm of applause, and soared as high and joyful as her triumph. Therewas a ball after the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressedround Becky as the great point of attraction of the evening. The RoyalPersonage declared with an oath that she was perfection, and engagedher again and again in conversation. Little Becky's soul swelled withpride and delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashionbefore her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her everywhere, andscarcely spoke to any one in the room beside, and paid her the mostmarked compliments and attention. She still appeared in her Marquisecostume and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny, Monsieur Le Ducde la Jabotiere's attache; and the Duke, who had all the traditions ofthe ancient court, pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to havebeen a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at Versailles. Only afeeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest sense of duty andpersonal sacrifice prevented his Excellency from dancing with herhimself, and he declared in public that a lady who could talk and dancelike Mrs. Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in Europe. Hewas only consoled when he heard that she was half a Frenchwoman bybirth. "None but a compatriot," his Excellency declared, "could haveperformed that majestic dance in such a way."

Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the Princeof Peterwaradin's cousin and attache. The delighted Prince, havingless retenue than his French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon takinga turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the ball-room withher, scattering the diamonds out of his boot-tassels and hussar jacketuntil his Highness was fairly out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himselfwould have liked to dance with her if that amusement had been thecustom of his country. The company made a circle round her andapplauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet or a Taglioni.Everybody was in ecstacy; and Becky too, you may be sure. She passedby Lady Stunnington with a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gauntand her astonished and mortified sister-in-law--she ecrased all rivalcharmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, and her long hair and greateyes, which had made such an effect at the commencement of theevening--where was she now? Nowhere in the race. She might tear herlong hair and cry her great eyes out, but there was not a person toheed or to deplore the discomfiture.

The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. She was placed at thegrand exclusive table with his Royal Highness the exalted personagebefore mentioned, and the rest of the great guests. She was served ongold plate. She might have had pearls melted into her champagne if sheliked--another Cleopatra--and the potentate of Peterwaradin would havegiven half the brilliants off his jacket for a kind glance from thosedazzling eyes. Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. Theladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver and marked LordSteyne's constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrousinfatuation, a gross insult to ladies of rank. If sarcasm could havekilled, Lady Stunnington would have slain her on the spot.

Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed to separatehis wife farther than ever from him somehow. He thought with a feelingvery like pain how immeasurably she was his superior.

When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men followed her toher carriage, for which the people without bawled, the cry being caughtup by the link-men who were stationed outside the tall gates of GauntHouse, congratulating each person who issued from the gate and hopinghis Lordship had enjoyed this noble party.

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the gate after dueshouting, rattled into the illuminated court-yard and drove up to thecovered way. Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which drove off.Mr. Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered the Colonelthe refreshment of a cigar.

They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many link-boysoutside, and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham. Two personsseparated from the crowd and followed the two gentlemen; and when theyhad walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one of the men cameup and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder, said, "Beg your pardon,Colonel, I vish to speak to you most particular." This gentleman'sacquaintance gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal acab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate of GauntHouse--and the aide-de-camp ran round and placed himself in front ofColonel Crawley.

That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He was in thehands of the bailiffs. He started back, falling against the man whohad first touched him.

"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the man behind said.

"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know hisinterlocutor. "How much is it?"

"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, ChanceryLane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex--"One hundredand sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan."

"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon said--"I'vegot seventy at home."

"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr. Wenham--"Goodnight, my dear fellow."

"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham walked away--and RawdonCrawley finished his cigar as the cab drove under Temple Bar.