At last Becky's kindness and attention to the chief of her husband's

family were destined to meet with an exceeding great reward, a reward

which, though certainly somewhat unsubstantial, the little woman

coveted with greater eagerness than more positive benefits. If she did

not wish to lead a virtuous life, at least she desired to enjoy a

character for virtue, and we know that no lady in the genteel world can

possess this desideratum, until she has put on a train and feathers and

has been presented to her Sovereign at Court. From that august

interview they come out stamped as honest women. The Lord Chamberlain

gives them a certificate of virtue. And as dubious goods or letters

are passed through an oven at quarantine, sprinkled with aromatic

vinegar, and then pronounced clean, many a lady, whose reputation would

be doubtful otherwise and liable to give infection, passes through the

wholesome ordeal of the Royal presence and issues from it free from all

taint.

It might be very well for my Lady Bareacres, my Lady Tufto, Mrs. Bute

Crawley in the country, and other ladies who had come into contact with

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley to cry fie at the idea of the odious little

adventuress making her curtsey before the Sovereign, and to declare

that, if dear good Queen Charlotte had been alive, she never would have

admitted such an extremely ill-regulated personage into her chaste

drawing-room. But when we consider that it was the First Gentleman in

Europe in whose high presence Mrs. Rawdon passed her examination, and

as it were, took her degree in reputation, it surely must be flat

disloyalty to doubt any more about her virtue. I, for my part, look

back with love and awe to that Great Character in history. Ah, what a

high and noble appreciation of Gentlewomanhood there must have been in

Vanity Fair, when that revered and august being was invested, by the

universal acclaim of the refined and educated portion of this empire,

with the title of Premier Gentilhomme of his Kingdom. Do you remember,

dear M--, oh friend of my youth, how one blissful night five-and-twenty

years since, the "Hypocrite" being acted, Elliston being manager,

Dowton and Liston performers, two boys had leave from their loyal

masters to go out from Slaughter-House School where they were educated

and to appear on Drury Lane stage, amongst a crowd which assembled

there to greet the king. THE KING? There he was. Beefeaters were

before the august box; the Marquis of Steyne (Lord of the Powder

Closet) and other great officers of state were behind the chair on

which he sat, HE sat--florid of face, portly of person, covered with

orders, and in a rich curling head of hair--how we sang God save him!

How the house rocked and shouted with that magnificent music. How they

cheered, and cried, and waved handkerchiefs. Ladies wept; mothers

clasped their children; some fainted with emotion. People were

suffocated in the pit, shrieks and groans rising up amidst the writhing

and shouting mass there of his people who were, and indeed showed

themselves almost to be, ready to die for him. Yes, we saw him. Fate

cannot deprive us of THAT. Others have seen Napoleon. Some few still

exist who have beheld Frederick the Great, Doctor Johnson, Marie

Antoinette, &c.--be it our reasonable boast to our children, that we

saw George the Good, the Magnificent, the Great.




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