Besides these honest folks at the Hall (whose simplicity and sweet

rural purity surely show the advantage of a country life over a town

one), we must introduce the reader to their relatives and neighbours at

the Rectory, Bute Crawley and his wife.

The Reverend Bute Crawley was a tall, stately, jolly, shovel-hatted

man, far more popular in his county than the Baronet his brother. At

college he pulled stroke-oar in the Christchurch boat, and had thrashed

all the best bruisers of the "town." He carried his taste for boxing

and athletic exercises into private life; there was not a fight within

twenty miles at which he was not present, nor a race, nor a coursing

match, nor a regatta, nor a ball, nor an election, nor a visitation

dinner, nor indeed a good dinner in the whole county, but he found

means to attend it. You might see his bay mare and gig-lamps a score

of miles away from his Rectory House, whenever there was any

dinner-party at Fuddleston, or at Roxby, or at Wapshot Hall, or at the

great lords of the county, with all of whom he was intimate. He had a

fine voice; sang "A southerly wind and a cloudy sky"; and gave the

"whoop" in chorus with general applause. He rode to hounds in a

pepper-and-salt frock, and was one of the best fishermen in the county.

Mrs. Crawley, the rector's wife, was a smart little body, who wrote

this worthy divine's sermons. Being of a domestic turn, and keeping

the house a great deal with her daughters, she ruled absolutely within

the Rectory, wisely giving her husband full liberty without. He was

welcome to come and go, and dine abroad as many days as his fancy

dictated, for Mrs. Crawley was a saving woman and knew the price of

port wine. Ever since Mrs. Bute carried off the young Rector of

Queen's Crawley (she was of a good family, daughter of the late

Lieut.-Colonel Hector McTavish, and she and her mother played for Bute

and won him at Harrowgate), she had been a prudent and thrifty wife to

him. In spite of her care, however, he was always in debt. It took

him at least ten years to pay off his college bills contracted during

his father's lifetime. In the year 179-, when he was just clear of

these incumbrances, he gave the odds of 100 to 1 (in twenties) against

Kangaroo, who won the Derby. The Rector was obliged to take up the

money at a ruinous interest, and had been struggling ever since. His

sister helped him with a hundred now and then, but of course his great

hope was in her death--when "hang it" (as he would say), "Matilda must

leave me half her money."

So that the Baronet and his brother had every reason which two brothers

possibly can have for being by the ears. Sir Pitt had had the better

of Bute in innumerable family transactions. Young Pitt not only did

not hunt, but set up a meeting house under his uncle's very nose.

Rawdon, it was known, was to come in for the bulk of Miss Crawley's

property. These money transactions--these speculations in life and

death--these silent battles for reversionary spoil--make brothers very

loving towards each other in Vanity Fair. I, for my part, have known a

five-pound note to interpose and knock up a half century's attachment

between two brethren; and can't but admire, as I think what a fine and

durable thing Love is among worldly people.




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