Chapter: Quite a Sentimental Chapter

We must now take leave of Arcadia, and those amiable people practising
the rural virtues there, and travel back to London, to inquire what has
become of Miss Amelia.

"We don't care a fig for her," writes some unknown correspondent with a
pretty little handwriting and a pink seal to her note.  "She is fade and
insipid," and adds some more kind remarks in this strain, which I should
never have repeated at all, but that they are in truth prodigiously
complimentary to the young lady whom they concern.

Has the beloved reader, in his experience of society, never heard
similar remarks by good-natured female friends; who always wonder what
you CAN see in Miss Smith that is so fascinating; or what COULD induce
Major Jones to propose for that silly insignificant simpering Miss
Thompson, who has nothing but her wax-doll face to recommend her? What
is there in a pair of pink cheeks and blue eyes forsooth? these dear
Moralists ask, and hint wisely that the gifts of genius, the
accomplishments of the mind, the mastery of Mangnall's Questions, and a
ladylike knowledge of botany and geology, the knack of making poetry,
the power of rattling sonatas in the Herz-manner, and so forth, are far
more valuable endowments for a female, than those fugitive charms which
a few years will inevitably tarnish.  It is quite edifying to hear
women speculate upon the worthlessness and the duration of beauty.

But though virtue is a much finer thing, and those hapless creatures
who suffer under the misfortune of good looks ought to be continually
put in mind of the fate which awaits them; and though, very likely, the
heroic female character which ladies admire is a more glorious and
beautiful object than the kind, fresh, smiling, artless, tender little
domestic goddess, whom men are inclined to worship--yet the latter and
inferior sort of women must have this consolation--that the men do
admire them after all; and that, in spite of all our kind friends'
warnings and protests, we go on in our desperate error and folly, and
shall to the end of the chapter. Indeed, for my own part, though I have
been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect,
that Miss Brown is an insignificant chit, and Mrs. White has nothing
but her petit minois chiffonne, and Mrs. Black has not a word to say
for herself; yet I know that I have had the most delightful
conversations with Mrs. Black (of course, my dear Madam, they are
inviolable): I see all the men in a cluster round Mrs. White's chair:
all the young fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown; and so I am
tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great
compliment to a woman.

The young ladies in Amelia's society did this for her very
satisfactorily.  For instance, there was scarcely any point upon which
the Misses Osborne, George's sisters, and the Mesdemoiselles Dobbin
agreed so well as in their estimate of her very trifling merits: and
their wonder that their brothers could find any charms in her.  "We are
kind to her," the Misses Osborne said, a pair of fine black-browed
young ladies who had had the best of governesses, masters, and
milliners; and they treated her with such extreme kindness and
condescension, and patronised her so insufferably, that the poor little
thing was in fact perfectly dumb in their presence, and to all outward
appearance as stupid as they thought her.  She made efforts to like
them, as in duty bound, and as sisters of her future husband.  She
passed "long mornings" with them--the most dreary and serious of
forenoons.  She drove out solemnly in their great family coach with
them, and Miss Wirt their governess, that raw-boned Vestal.  They took
her to the ancient concerts by way of a treat, and to the oratorio, and
to St. Paul's to see the charity children, where in such terror was she
of her friends, she almost did not dare be affected by the hymn the
children sang.  Their house was comfortable; their papa's table rich
and handsome; their society solemn and genteel; their self-respect
prodigious; they had the best pew at the Foundling: all their habits
were pompous and orderly, and all their amusements intolerably dull and
decorous. After every one of her visits (and oh how glad she was when
they were over!) Miss Osborne and Miss Maria Osborne, and Miss Wirt,
the vestal governess, asked each other with increased wonder, "What
could George find in that creature?"

How is this? some carping reader exclaims.  How is it that Amelia, who
had such a number of friends at school, and was so beloved there, comes
out into the world and is spurned by her discriminating sex? My dear
sir, there were no men at Miss Pinkerton's establishment except the old
dancing-master; and you would not have had the girls fall out about
HIM? When George, their handsome brother, ran off directly after
breakfast, and dined from home half-a-dozen times a week, no wonder the
neglected sisters felt a little vexation.  When young Bullock (of the
firm of Hulker, Bullock & Co., Bankers, Lombard Street), who had been
making up to Miss Maria the last two seasons, actually asked Amelia to
dance the cotillon, could you expect that the former young lady should
be pleased? And yet she said she was, like an artless forgiving
creature.  "I'm so delighted you like dear Amelia," she said quite
eagerly to Mr. Bullock after the dance.  "She's engaged to my brother
George; there's not much in her, but she's the best-natured and most
unaffected young creature: at home we're all so fond of her." Dear
girl! who can calculate the depth of affection expressed in that
enthusiastic SO?

Miss Wirt and these two affectionate young women so earnestly and
frequently impressed upon George Osborne's mind the enormity of the
sacrifice he was making, and his romantic generosity in throwing
himself away upon Amelia, that I'm not sure but that he really thought
he was one of the most deserving characters in the British army, and
gave himself up to be loved with a good deal of easy resignation.

Somehow, although he left home every morning, as was stated, and dined
abroad six days in the week, when his sisters believed the infatuated
youth to be at Miss Sedley's apron-strings: he was NOT always with
Amelia, whilst the world supposed him at her feet. Certain it is that
on more occasions than one, when Captain Dobbin called to look for his
friend, Miss Osborne (who was very attentive to the Captain, and
anxious to hear his military stories, and to know about the health of
his dear Mamma), would laughingly point to the opposite side of the
square, and say, "Oh, you must go to the Sedleys' to ask for George; WE
never see him from morning till night." At which kind of speech the
Captain would laugh in rather an absurd constrained manner, and turn
off the conversation, like a consummate man of the world, to some topic
of general interest, such as the Opera, the Prince's last ball at
Carlton House, or the weather--that blessing to society.

"What an innocent it is, that pet of yours," Miss Maria would then say
to Miss Jane, upon the Captain's departure.  "Did you see how he
blushed at the mention of poor George on duty?"

"It's a pity Frederick Bullock hadn't some of his modesty, Maria,"
replies the elder sister, with a toss of he head.

"Modesty!  Awkwardness you mean, Jane.  I don't want Frederick to
trample a hole in my muslin frock, as Captain Dobbin did in yours at
Mrs. Perkins'."

"In YOUR frock, he, he!  How could he? Wasn't he dancing with Amelia?"

The fact is, when Captain Dobbin blushed so, and looked so awkward, he
remembered a circumstance of which he did not think it was necessary to
inform the young ladies, viz., that he had been calling at Mr. Sedley's
house already, on the pretence of seeing George, of course, and George
wasn't there, only poor little Amelia, with rather a sad wistful face,
seated near the drawing-room window, who, after some very trifling
stupid talk, ventured to ask, was there any truth in the report that
the regiment was soon to be ordered abroad; and had Captain Dobbin seen
Mr. Osborne that day?

The regiment was not ordered abroad as yet; and Captain Dobbin had not
seen George.  "He was with his sister, most likely," the Captain said.
"Should he go and fetch the truant?"  So she gave him her hand kindly
and gratefully: and he crossed the square; and she waited and waited,
but George never came.

Poor little tender heart! and so it goes on hoping and beating, and
longing and trusting.  You see it is not much of a life to describe.
There is not much of what you call incident in it.  Only one feeling
all day--when will he come? only one thought to sleep and wake upon. I
believe George was playing billiards with Captain Cannon in Swallow
Street at the time when Amelia was asking Captain Dobbin about him; for
George was a jolly sociable fellow, and excellent in all games of skill.

Once, after three days of absence, Miss Amelia put on her bonnet, and
actually invaded the Osborne house. "What! leave our brother to come to
us?" said the young ladies.  "Have you had a quarrel, Amelia? Do tell
us!" No, indeed, there had been no quarrel.  "Who could quarrel with
him?" says she, with her eyes filled with tears. She only came over
to--to see her dear friends; they had not met for so long.  And this
day she was so perfectly stupid and awkward, that the Misses Osborne
and their governess, who stared after her as she went sadly away,
wondered more than ever what George could see in poor little Amelia.

Of course they did.  How was she to bare that timid little heart for
the inspection of those young ladies with their bold black eyes? It was
best that it should shrink and hide itself.  I know the Misses Osborne
were excellent critics of a Cashmere shawl, or a pink satin slip; and
when Miss Turner had hers dyed purple, and made into a spencer; and
when Miss Pickford had her ermine tippet twisted into a muff and
trimmings, I warrant you the changes did not escape the two intelligent
young women before mentioned.  But there are things, look you, of a
finer texture than fur or satin, and all Solomon's glories, and all the
wardrobe of the Queen of Sheba--things whereof the beauty escapes the
eyes of many connoisseurs.  And there are sweet modest little souls on
which you light, fragrant and blooming tenderly in quiet shady places;
and there are garden-ornaments, as big as brass warming-pans, that are
fit to stare the sun itself out of countenance.  Miss Sedley was not of
the sunflower sort; and I say it is out of the rules of all proportion
to draw a violet of the size of a double dahlia.

No, indeed; the life of a good young girl who is in the paternal nest
as yet, can't have many of those thrilling incidents to which the
heroine of romance commonly lays claim.  Snares or shot may take off
the old birds foraging without--hawks may be abroad, from which they
escape or by whom they suffer; but the young ones in the nest have a
pretty comfortable unromantic sort of existence in the down and the
straw, till it comes to their turn, too, to get on the wing. While
Becky Sharp was on her own wing in the country, hopping on all sorts of
twigs, and amid a multiplicity of traps, and pecking up her food quite
harmless and successful, Amelia lay snug in her home of Russell Square;
if she went into the world, it was under the guidance of the elders;
nor did it seem that any evil could befall her or that opulent cheery
comfortable home in which she was affectionately sheltered. Mamma had
her morning duties, and her daily drive, and the delightful round of
visits and shopping which forms the amusement, or the profession as you
may call it, of the rich London lady.  Papa conducted his mysterious
operations in the City--a stirring place in those days, when war was
raging all over Europe, and empires were being staked; when the
"Courier" newspaper had tens of thousands of subscribers; when one day
brought you a battle of Vittoria, another a burning of Moscow, or a
newsman's horn blowing down Russell Square about dinner-time, announced
such a fact as--"Battle of Leipsic--six hundred thousand men
engaged--total defeat of the French--two hundred thousand killed." Old
Sedley once or twice came home with a very grave face; and no wonder,
when such news as this was agitating all the hearts and all the Stocks
of Europe.

Meanwhile matters went on in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, just as if
matters in Europe were not in the least disorganised.  The retreat from
Leipsic made no difference in the number of meals Mr. Sambo took in the
servants' hall; the allies poured into France, and the dinner-bell rang
at five o'clock just as usual.  I don't think poor Amelia cared
anything about Brienne and Montmirail, or was fairly interested in the
war until the abdication of the Emperor; when she clapped her hands and
said prayers--oh, how grateful! and flung herself into George Osborne's
arms with all her soul, to the astonishment of everybody who witnessed
that ebullition of sentiment. The fact is, peace was declared, Europe
was going to be at rest; the Corsican was overthrown, and Lieutenant
Osborne's regiment would not be ordered on service.  That was the way
in which Miss Amelia reasoned.  The fate of Europe was Lieutenant
George Osborne to her.  His dangers being over, she sang Te Deum.  He
was her Europe: her emperor: her allied monarchs and august prince
regent.  He was her sun and moon; and I believe she thought the grand
illumination and ball at the Mansion House, given to the sovereigns,
were especially in honour of George Osborne.

We have talked of shift, self, and poverty, as those dismal instructors
under whom poor Miss Becky Sharp got her education. Now, love was Miss
Amelia Sedley's last tutoress, and it was amazing what progress our
young lady made under that popular teacher.  In the course of fifteen
or eighteen months' daily and constant attention to this eminent
finishing governess, what a deal of secrets Amelia learned, which Miss
Wirt and the black-eyed young ladies over the way, which old Miss
Pinkerton of Chiswick herself, had no cognizance of!  As, indeed, how
should any of those prim and reputable virgins?  With Misses P. and W.
the tender passion is out of the question: I would not dare to breathe
such an idea regarding them.  Miss Maria Osborne, it is true, was
"attached" to Mr. Frederick Augustus Bullock, of the firm of Hulker,
Bullock & Bullock; but hers was a most respectable attachment, and she
would have taken Bullock Senior just the same, her mind being fixed--as
that of a well-bred young woman should be--upon a house in Park Lane, a
country house at Wimbledon, a handsome chariot, and two prodigious tall
horses and footmen, and a fourth of the annual profits of the eminent
firm of Hulker & Bullock, all of which advantages were represented in
the person of Frederick Augustus. Had orange blossoms been invented
then (those touching emblems of female purity imported by us from
France, where people's daughters are universally sold in marriage),
Miss Maria, I say, would have assumed the spotless wreath, and stepped
into the travelling carriage by the side of gouty, old, bald-headed,
bottle-nosed Bullock Senior; and devoted her beautiful existence to his
happiness with perfect modesty--only the old gentleman was married
already; so she bestowed her young affections on the junior partner.
Sweet, blooming, orange flowers!  The other day I saw Miss Trotter
(that was), arrayed in them, trip into the travelling carriage at St.
George's, Hanover Square, and Lord Methuselah hobbled in after. With
what an engaging modesty she pulled down the blinds of the chariot--the
dear innocent!  There were half the carriages of Vanity Fair at the
wedding.

This was not the sort of love that finished Amelia's education; and in
the course of a year turned a good young girl into a good young
woman--to be a good wife presently, when the happy time should come.
This young person (perhaps it was very imprudent in her parents to
encourage her, and abet her in such idolatry and silly romantic ideas)
loved, with all her heart, the young officer in His Majesty's service
with whom we have made a brief acquaintance.  She thought about him the
very first moment on waking; and his was the very last name mentioned
in her prayers.  She never had seen a man so beautiful or so clever:
such a figure on horseback: such a dancer: such a hero in general.
Talk of the Prince's bow! what was it to George's? She had seen Mr.
Brummell, whom everybody praised so.  Compare such a person as that to
her George! Not amongst all the beaux at the Opera (and there were
beaux in those days with actual opera hats) was there any one to equal
him.  He was only good enough to be a fairy prince; and oh, what
magnanimity to stoop to such a humble Cinderella!  Miss Pinkerton would
have tried to check this blind devotion very likely, had she been
Amelia's confidante; but not with much success, depend upon it.  It is
in the nature and instinct of some women.  Some are made to scheme, and
some to love; and I wish any respected bachelor that reads this may
take the sort that best likes him.

While under this overpowering impression, Miss Amelia neglected her
twelve dear friends at Chiswick most cruelly, as such selfish people
commonly will do.  She had but this subject, of course, to think about;
and Miss Saltire was too cold for a confidante, and she couldn't bring
her mind to tell Miss Swartz, the woolly-haired young heiress from St.
Kitt's.  She had little Laura Martin home for the holidays; and my
belief is, she made a confidante of her, and promised that Laura should
come and live with her when she was married, and gave Laura a great
deal of information regarding the passion of love, which must have been
singularly useful and novel to that little person.  Alas, alas!  I fear
poor Emmy had not a well-regulated mind.

What were her parents doing, not to keep this little heart from beating
so fast?  Old Sedley did not seem much to notice matters. He was graver
of late, and his City affairs absorbed him.  Mrs. Sedley was of so easy
and uninquisitive a nature that she wasn't even jealous.  Mr. Jos was
away, being besieged by an Irish widow at Cheltenham.  Amelia had the
house to herself--ah! too much to herself sometimes--not that she ever
doubted; for, to be sure, George must be at the Horse Guards; and he
can't always get leave from Chatham; and he must see his friends and
sisters, and mingle in society when in town (he, such an ornament to
every society!); and when he is with the regiment, he is too tired to
write long letters. I know where she kept that packet she had--and can
steal in and out of her chamber like Iachimo--like Iachimo?  No--that
is a bad part. I will only act Moonshine, and peep harmless into the
bed where faith and beauty and innocence lie dreaming.

But if Osborne's were short and soldierlike letters, it must be
confessed, that were Miss Sedley's letters to Mr. Osborne to be
published, we should have to extend this novel to such a multiplicity
of volumes as not the most sentimental reader could support; that she
not only filled sheets of large paper, but crossed them with the most
astonishing perverseness; that she wrote whole pages out of
poetry-books without the least pity; that she underlined words and
passages with quite a frantic emphasis; and, in fine, gave the usual
tokens of her condition.  She wasn't a heroine. Her letters were full
of repetition.  She wrote rather doubtful grammar sometimes, and in her
verses took all sorts of liberties with the metre.  But oh, mesdames,
if you are not allowed to touch the heart sometimes in spite of syntax,
and are not to be loved until you all know the difference between
trimeter and tetrameter, may all Poetry go to the deuce, and every
schoolmaster perish miserably!

 OK, enough fun with Becky; let's check back in on Amelia. The narrator apologizes that Amelia so super-boring, but argues that this is because she is such a good and nice person. Nice people don't make good heroines of novels, apparently. Amelia doesn't have too much to do in life, since she is rich and protected by her family. She doesn't need to figure out her future like Becky does. She hangs out with George's sisters, who are totally condescending and generally act like rhymes-with-witches to her and to each other. They might be jealous of how much George likes her. The dynamic of Amelia and George's relationship is worked out. She is madly in love with him and worships the ground he walks on. He loves her OK. His sisters tell him he is some kind of martyr for being with her since she is so lame and dumb, and he starts to believe it. Everyone at George's house thinks that when he isn't around he must be with Amelia, but it turns out he actually hangs out with his friends, drinks, shops, and does basically whatever he wants. Amelia writes him long, repetitive, annoyingly sweet letters. He writes her back short, crummy, not particularly nice ones.

