LI B HA FLY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVLR.SITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
 S\l32/v/ 
 v. 2,
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 A 
 
 TALE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 BY HENRY SIBDONS. 
 
 Gemmas, marmor, ebur, Tyrrhena sigilla, tabellas, 
 
 Argentum, vestes gaetulo murice tinctas 
 
 Sunt qui non habeant, est qui non curat habere. 
 
 HORAC*, 
 
 Gold, silver, iv'ry, vases sculptur'd high, 
 Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye. 
 There are who have not, — and thank heaven there are 
 Who if they have not, — think not worth their care. 
 
 POPR. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 SEemDon : 
 
 PRINTED FOR RICHARD PHILLIPS, 
 
 No. 71, St. Paul's. 
 
 1804. 
 
 By T. Gilltt, Crowi>-court.
 
 S 113?. AT 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Page 
 i\ VERY short chapter, which maybe either 
 skipped or read, as pleaseth the fancy of the 
 reader, containing hints on digressions, re- 
 flections, moralising, and prosing. "Why an 
 author is like a jockey, and why he had bet- 
 ter read his works to a young woman than 
 an old one. A simile between a novel and 
 a turnpike road, and a promise from the 
 writer E 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The despair of Tibullus ; his application ; the 
 
 reception of it ; he is about to give a strong 
 
 proof of the force of an imitative mind ; is 
 
 diverted from his intentions. A sermon 
 
 a Z for
 
 iV CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 for a young buck. How gratitude may be 
 best shewn. A short explanation. Pic- 
 nics. A prudent wife. Honor among 
 thieves. Happiness between the selfish. 
 Pleasant reflections arising from the viola- 
 tion of the social duties. An old lady 
 killed with a broken heart. A repentance ; 
 a blessing -, a forgiveness ; a birth •, and 
 its effects on the mind of a father - 6 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Miss Martina. A father's fondness ; a mo- 
 ther's schemes ; the girl is sent to school. 
 Reasons for paying attention to old aunts. 
 "Wills.. The young lady brought home 
 again. Maternal anxieties. A family dis- 
 course. Disposal of property, fit for all 
 rich readers. A high-seasoned dialogue ; 
 a daughter's interference — why dangerous. 
 The author gives a good reason for the sale 
 of his work - - - - "37 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 A prudent man over-reached ; a projector j 
 an astrologer. A scheme to make a for- 
 tune *, by what means. Reasons for em- 
 bracing speculations. A great work falli 
 to the ground. A defence of speculators. 
 How a wife bears misfortune. A twinge 
 
 of
 
 CONTENTS-. ^ 
 
 Page 
 
 of conscience j a fear of retribution ; a cau- 
 tious resolve j a daughter's goodness - 59 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The mystery of the good humor of Mrs. 
 Dives explained. Husband-catching-, flirt- 
 ing. A father's objections to man-hunt- 
 ing ; they are over-ruled. An assembly •, 
 a fine lady's morals and manners. Love. 
 Edmund Godolphin, a rich nabob's son, 
 is received as the husband of Martina ; her 
 joy j that of the mother ; the father's ex- 
 planation. Edmund's conduct. Wedding- 
 day fixed ; the news which defers it. A 
 mother's conduct. The despair of two 
 young people - - - 75 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Appearance of the real heir of Governor 
 Godolphin ; his story ; is struck with Mar- 
 tina •, proposals to her mother ; they are 
 accepted ; hears of Edmund's passion •, his 
 conduct thereon. Martina is missing ; her 
 letter. Edmund's appearance j flies in 
 search of his love. The rage of Mrs. 
 Dives ; the agonies of a father - 93 
 
 BOOK
 
 vi contents; 
 
 book rv. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Page 
 
 In which the Author has it all to himself for 
 remarks that those who are eager for the 
 ftory may pass over. The shortest chap- 
 ter in the work - - - 121 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Fraternal love. The decay of a rich man. 
 A bankruptcy; domestic joy ; discord; an 
 exit; faultless monster; creditors; a 
 spunging-house. A retrospect of violated 
 duties. Scenes in a prison. Amusements 
 and consolations for debtors. Retired dis- 
 tress. A female ; odd person described. 
 A generous lawyer. Detainders. An un- 
 expected visitor ; who and what. A scene 
 of an uncommon kind; an exclamation 124 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 An account ; a penitent ; a simile ; a retreat; 
 two simple maxims. A piece of chit-chat 
 between an author and a reader. Ven- 
 geance and pity. An offer ; a reflection ; 
 children and money ; a promise ; a cau- 
 tion ; an escape. The use of a bible A 
 young woman ; a natural child ; the voice 
 
 of ,
 
 CONTENTS* ^Vll 
 
 Page 
 
 of nature ; consolations. Nature the best 
 teacher of philosophy. Debtor and credi- 
 tor. Different sorts of beauty. Why a 
 man should be older than his wife. An 
 appeal - - - - 140 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Why a man may be tolerably generous with- 
 out parting with his last shilling. An agi- 
 tation ; a discovery of an old acquaintance; 
 a meeting ; a reconciliation 5 an introduc- 
 tion ; a 'farmer's jealousy, conviction, and 
 grounds for approbation. Affability and 
 affectation ; illustrious example of the for- 
 mer. Corn j bitter remembrances ; a re- 
 quest — complied with \ a prefatory matter 1 63, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The history of Henry St. Leger begins, which 
 to some may appear very strange, but facts 
 are stubborn things - - x8a 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The life of an author. Infidel writers, A 
 singular institution. Real liberty. A wor- 
 thy clergyman; a method proposed for 
 future exertion \ an introduction ; a gene- 
 ral i his son, daughter ; a romantic young 
 lady. Love busy in every part of a family, 
 
 Folly
 
 VUi CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Folly of despising the good opinion of the 
 world. Diffidence. A knot of perplexi- 
 ties, and sage observations - - 204 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 An honorable elopement ; the cause ex- 
 plained. A mandate ; a compliment 5 fa- 
 mily secrets ; a soldier's wife ; her story ; 
 her gratitude. An examination of a heart; 
 a generous proffer. Reasons for not tak- 
 ing advantage of a young lady's confidence. 
 An agitated family ; a trial ; dark hints ; 
 sly inuendoes — how answered. An accuser 
 confounded. The feelings and expressions 
 of an injured man - - -23© 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 A resolve *, a hint upon duels. Self-defence 
 the law of nature. A card ; a call ; a meet- 
 ing •, an explanation ; a generous way of 
 effacing an injury. Fortitude of a young 
 lady. Love epistle. A father's liberal 
 offer — why rejected. Love not to be sup- 
 plied by politeness. On marriage. A 
 second offer made — refused ; why at last 
 accepted. A visit to a mother - - 257 
 
 VIRTUOUS
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A very short chapter ', which may be either shipped or 
 ready as pleaseth the fancy of the reader — containing 
 fc hi/its on digressions, refeclions, moralising, and 
 prosing — Why an author is like a jockey — and ivhy 
 he had better read his works to a young woman 
 than an old one — A simile between a novel and a 
 turnpike road — and a promise from the writer* 
 
 A LADY of fashion, wit, and beauty,* in 
 her excellent works lately republished, 
 compares the skill of the romance writer, 
 with the ingenuity of the jockey. She 
 
 * The lady alluded to is Lady M. Wortley Mon- 
 tagu. — Vide her Letters. 
 
 Vol. II. B affirms,
 
 2 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 affirms, that all our allegories, our advice 
 to the reader, and various other modes 
 of digression from the main subject mat- 
 ter, are but the mere tricks of a shallow 
 invention, to fill up a book, or what the 
 abovementioned gentlemen (jockies) call 
 getting round. 
 
 " He talks to me that never had a child!' 5 
 Such is the natural exclamation of Con- 
 stance ; a mother drawn in his most ex- 
 quisite stile, by the master hand of Shakes- 
 pear the sublime. " She talks to us, that 
 " never wrote a novel !" would be an ex- 
 clamation equally forcible, and just as na- 
 tural from myself to any lady of the same 
 critical ability. 
 
 It is somewhere said, that a celebrated 
 French author, always read over his works 
 to an old woman, before he would ven- 
 ture to entrust them to the press. 
 
 Now i" have adopted something like the 
 
 same
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY* 3 
 
 same plan, and commit my work chapter 
 by chapter to the inspection of a female ; 
 and though she neither can, nor is over 
 desirous^ to boast the privileges of old age, 
 yet my own partial judgment very much 
 deceives me, if her innate good sense, and 
 natural candour of mind, do not make her 
 a much more proper judge of aworkof/tf/zrj, 
 than any peevish old woman, or snarling 
 critic, (and really they are two animals of 
 the same species, with this exception, that 
 the old woman is more excuseable) can 
 possibly be. 
 
 Now, the reader of my novel, will in 
 one respect be much better off than the 
 peruser of the works submitted to the in- 
 spection of the old gentlewoman ; the 
 French writer having run into liberties 
 shocking to any female mind, young, or 
 old. 
 
 I can say, and truly say with our im- 
 mortal bard, that she, who is destined to 
 B 2 give
 
 4 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 give her daily opinions on the romance 
 now submitted to the public animadver- 
 sion, is equally with the noble sister of 
 Publicola, 
 
 " The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle, 
 " That's curded by the frost from purest snow 9 
 ** And hangs on Dian's Temple." 
 
 Shaklspear's Coriolanus. 
 
 The above mentioned lady is always find- 
 ing fault with the many digressions, I am 
 so fond of making while I am reciting a plain 
 tale. To get rid of these complaints, as 
 well as I can, I have resolved in imitation 
 of an author (whose name it would be the 
 most impudent vanity in me to mention, 
 while I am talking about myself) to dedi- 
 cate a very short chapter, at the beginning 
 of each ensuing book, to the luxury of 
 talking in " propria persona." 
 
 Not, that I mean to promise to tie my- 
 self up from every opportunity of shewing 
 my o\vn sagacity, — No, that is a task too 
 
 trying
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 5 
 
 trying for the most modest of men. Ought 
 it then to be expected from an author ? 
 
 Indeed, however tedious these kinds of 
 digressions and reflections may prove to 
 the reader, they are the tolls, which every 
 traveller is compelled to pay, as he journies 
 through the broad road of a romance ; 
 both the turnpikes of a journey, and the 
 toll gates of a book, may be expensive, and 
 disagreeable, yet still are indispensible to 
 the clearing of obstructions, the removal 
 of difliculties, and the final convenience of 
 the passenger. 
 
 With this apology, for the imposts I 
 have thought fit to levy, I shall conclude 
 this preparatory chapter, at the same time 
 assuring the good natured traveller through 
 my dull volumes, that in future, I will not 
 lay more tribute upon him than is neces- 
 sary to keep my prospects open, and my 
 roads in repair. 
 
 B 3 CHAP-
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 This despair of Tibullus — his application — the recep- 
 tion of it — he is about to give a strong proof of the 
 force of an imitative mind — is diverted from his 
 intentions — A sermon for a young buck — How gra- 
 titude may be best shewn — A short explanation — 
 Pic-nics — J prudent wife — Honor among Thieves , 
 — Happiness between the selfish — Pleasant re- 
 fections arising from the violation of the social duties 
 — /In old lady hilled with a broken heart — A repre- 
 tance — A blessing — A forgiveness — A birth — and 
 '.-id of a Father. 
 
 ON the death of Sir Charles Panther, the 
 despair of poor Tibullus, who had entrust- 
 ed every shilling of his little fortune into 
 the hands of that unhappy young man, 
 rose almost to the height of desperation. 
 lie looked round him, and saw no reed for 
 hope to catch at ; instead of vigorously 
 pursuing a noble profession, which might 
 have conducted him by easy degrees to 
 
 wealth,
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 7 
 
 wealth, to honor, and to fortune — he 
 had wasted his time, in pursuits unconge- 
 nial to his nature ; which had made him 
 ridiculous in their prosecution, and lefc 
 him destitute, now he was no longer able 
 to follow them. — He had been extrava- 
 gant to an excess, to feed his passion for 
 jlne cloathsy and long bills from four several 
 tailors, he knew must soon rise up in ter- 
 rible array against him. 
 
 Appear again amongst the former ac- 
 quaintance of Sir Charles he dared not ; 
 they had always ridiculed him as a clumsy 
 mimic, and in every situation throughout 
 all the affairs of life, any one, who is ruined 
 by thrusting his head into company above 
 his level in the scale of society, loses by 
 his folly the commiseration, which is com- 
 monly bestowed upon misfortune, and 
 becomes the theme for ridicule, instead of 
 pity. — Such a hunted deer was Tibulius 
 when he regained his chamber — his mag- 
 nus Apollo was no more ! — his mind, like 
 B 4 the
 
 8 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 the mechanic operations of a watch, was 
 incapable of performing its functions, now 
 its main spring was taken away \ for the 
 first time during the course of several 
 years, he had an inclination to fly to books 
 for consolation and philosophy. Restless 
 and uneasy he snatched a long neglected 
 Horace from the shelf \ the first lines he 
 read, were 
 
 " O imitatores ! servum pecus ! '* 
 
 He dashed the volume with fury to the 
 ground — the very dead seemed to reproach 
 him with the folly of his conduct. 
 
 His mortifications might have been 
 borne, were they destined to stop here ; 
 but Sir Charles was no sooner buried, 
 than his unfortunate shadow was hunted 
 from place to place, by the importunate 
 creditors of the deceased man of fashion. 
 As he had attended Sir Charles at all his 
 expensive dinners and entertainments, the 
 
 owners
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 9 
 
 owners of the taverns sent him in bills by 
 showers ; and Orestes was never hunted 
 by the furies with more implacable viru- 
 lence, than he was chased all round the 
 town, by these indefatigable duns* 
 
 In the despair of his heart he at last 
 formed the resolution of transmitting a 
 letter to Francis Dives, and the fair Mar- 
 tina ; in which he told them, that to main- 
 tain the honor and credit of their late 
 brother, at his election , he had entrusted 
 him with all his worldly fortune, and did 
 not doubt, but that the sisterly affection 
 of Mrs. Dives, would take care, that nei- 
 ther her brother's honor, nor her brother's 
 friend, should be materially a sufferer by 
 an action of such disinterested friendship : 
 — this note was accompanied with all the 
 bills sent in to him, which formed a large 
 packet, and these also he said he was sure 
 they would take the earliest opportunity 
 of paying off. 
 
 B 5 Tibullus
 
 IO VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 Tibullus was a woeful instance of the 
 presumption of man, in ever making sure 
 of any thing ! The bills came back to him, 
 with an answer to his letter, subscribed 
 Martina Dives. 
 
 Besides the disappointment of a flat re- 
 fusal to repair any of his losses, the poor 
 young man had the mortification of having 
 the denial couched in terms of the most 
 biting: ridicule. She denied that real friend- 
 ship had any thing to do with his attach- 
 ment to her late brother. Vanity alone, 
 she urged, was the sole motive of all his 
 assiduities and attentions. 
 
 " You fed his follies, imitated his dress, 
 " and adopted his manners," said she, 
 " not out of respect to bim 9 but with a 
 " mere selfish view, which tended to raise 
 " admiration to your own character, and 
 " afford improvement to your own person. 
 " You were a mimic, not a friend. A 
 " monkey, when he copies the actions of 
 
 "his
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. II 
 
 * c his keeper, has as just a title to the cha- 
 6 racter of a friend as yourself. You lent 
 c him your money, merely that you might 
 6 have it to say that you had assisted a 
 c man whom no one supposed at that time 
 ' to stand in need of the aid of any one. 
 { You proffered yours, with the idea of 
 c conferring an honour upon yourself- — not 
 ' from the pure wish of rendering an as- 
 6 sistance to him. With regard to the 
 c tavern bills you have sent us in, I can 
 6 only say, I hear from very good autho- 
 ' rity, that in scenes of this kind, you 
 6 were ever one of the very first partakers, 
 c and therefore cannot repine at sharing in 
 c the expence of the amusement : in short, 
 6 Mr. Melford, if complaints are to be ut- 
 c tered on any side, I think the greatest 
 * right of lamentation pertains to myself. 
 c Had my unhappy brother met with no 
 c mimics, flatterers, and parasites, he might 
 ' have wearied in the race of folly, re- 
 ' formed his life, and turned his thoughts 
 B 6 "to
 
 12 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " to pursuits more worthy of himself; and 
 
 " more honorable to his family," 
 
 The last dose was a bitter one ; the words 
 mimic, flatterer, and parasite, made him 
 open his eyes, extend his mouth, and give 
 way to a hundred disagreeable sensations : 
 he, for the first time, perceived that he had 
 been making himself contemptible and ridi- 
 culous, as well as poor and miserable. 
 
 All his amiable qualities had been ob- 
 scured by foppery and affectation ; but his 
 understanding had been formerly vigorous, 
 and his heart was naturally good. 
 
 The contemplation of himself shocked 
 him ; he was a ruined beggar ; involved 
 in debt, difficulty, and dishonor. A pri- 
 son seemed gaping to receive him, and 
 misery collecting her heaviest showers to 
 overwhelm him. He gnashed his teeth, 
 stamped on the ground, furiously smote 
 
 his
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 3 
 
 his forehead, and exclaimed, " Go, ape ! 
 " monkey ! mimic that thou art ! thou 
 " hast degraded the original dignity of thy 
 " character, by copying the vices of a crea- 
 " ture inferior to thyself in every point of 
 " view, and now thou hast no chance of 
 " escaping from beggary and misery, but 
 11 by a desperate imitation of the last most 
 " dreadful action of his life." 
 
 With a mind worked up to frenzy, and 
 fevered by despair, he walked out of his 
 room, resolved to avoid the arrows of ri- 
 dicule, the cries of his creditors, and the 
 future horrors of prisons, debts, and diffi- 
 culties, by the detested crime of suicide. 
 
 He walked onwards till he reached the 
 New River. Several qualms of conscience 
 staggered his purpose by the way ; but he 
 was so totally destitute of any means of 
 prosecuting his studies, or of gaining a 
 livelihood by any human method, that he 
 
 resolved
 
 14 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 resolved to persist in his impious resolu- 
 tions. 
 
 Like some other devoted men, he con- 
 verted his classical knowledge to the very 
 worst purpose to which it can be applied. 
 The examples of Cato, Brutus, Cassius, 
 and a number of the antient self-mur- 
 derers, have had such a mischievous in- 
 fluence on some disordered imaginations, 
 that humanity may, perhaps, be sometimes 
 induced to pause, before it can pronounce 
 whether the preservation of the Roman 
 literature has made sufficient amends for 
 the dreadful mischiefs it has, in these in- 
 stances, been sometimes the unhappy means 
 of instigating and promoting. 
 
 The mind of Tibullus was unfortunately 
 so tempered at this instant, that he for- 
 tified his doubts, and animated his inten- 
 tions, by the contemplation of the above- 
 mentioned examples. 
 
 He
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 5 
 
 He gazed wistfully on the stream be- 
 fore him — a transient gleam of hope shot 
 athwart his mind — but it was suddenly 
 checked by the recollection of his difficul- 
 ties, and a slight glance of Martinas' letter 
 — " It is impossible," said he, and giving 
 a sudden spring, was in a moment flat 
 upon his back, in the precise spot on which 
 he made the effort. 
 
 He felt much surprised to find himself 
 upon the dry land,when he expected to have 
 been in the middle of the river. Lest the 
 reader should fancy that we are running 
 into all the flowery fictions of an antient 
 romance, we shall make all the haste we 
 can to explain this extraordinary circum- 
 stance, which was brought about by mere 
 human agents, and by very natural means, 
 
 A gentleman had observed the disorder- 
 ed manners of this unhappy young man ; 
 and being one of those odd fellows, whom 
 the Roman dramatic poet describes as one 
 
 who
 
 1 6 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 who knowing himself to be a man, considers 
 nothing under the human form as indif- 
 ferent to him, had thought it worth while 
 to vary the direction of a morning stroll, 
 when, by so trifling a sacrifice, he could 
 stand a chance of being of service to a fel- 
 low creature. 
 
 He had walked cautiously behind the 
 young Lawyer, with the intention of 
 watching his motions and scrutinising into 
 his designs. At the moment he was about 
 
 o 
 
 to take the fatal plunge, this worthy old 
 gentleman sprung from behind the railing, 
 caught him by the coat, and as — 
 
 " Non progredi est regret," 
 
 brought him to the very point from which 
 he was in the act of taking the fatal leap. 
 
 When Tibullus recovered from his first 
 surprise, he looked wildly around him, 
 and caught the benevolent features of Peter 
 Hayward. When he recognised the form 
 
 of
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1/ 
 
 of his preserver, the burning flush of shame 
 glowed on his countenance, and he hid his 
 face with his hands. The good man saw 
 the confusion which oppressed him, and 
 taking him kindly by the hand, earnestly 
 conjured him to moderate the vehemence 
 of his feelings, and learning from him the 
 place of his residence, tenderly solicited to 
 be allowed to accompany him to the spot; 
 a request which, after many pressing argu- 
 ments, the faultering Tibullus reluctantly 
 complied with. As they walked home- 
 wards, Hayward heard from the lips of 
 young Melford the whole of his calamitous 
 story; and when he came to weigh his 
 sufferings with his follies, he could not 
 help thinking that his punishment had 
 more than counterbalanced his faults. 
 
 The Lawyer would have bade him adieu 
 at the door of his apartment ; but Hay- 
 ward, dreading some fatal effects from the 
 still agitated state of his mind, insisted 
 upon being allowed to remain with him 
 
 for
 
 1& VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 for half an hour. When he had conversed 
 with him for some time, and perceived 
 that the hurried tumult of his passions 
 began in some degree to subside, he beg- 
 ged leave to say a few words to him, and 
 the desired permission being granted, thus 
 began : 
 
 " When I reflect upon the nature of the 
 " crime I have just prevented you from 
 " committing, I know not whether I have 
 " greater reason to pity you, or to felici- 
 " tate myself. Good Heavens ! Can a ra- 
 " tional being, exalted by his form, and 
 " honoured with intellectual faculties, su- 
 u perior to all the other creatures with 
 " whom he is on every side surrounded, 
 " make so ill a use of his sublime pre-emi- 
 " nence ? The mad bull i the wounded sa* 
 " vage gives himself up to the brutal fury 
 " of his nature, and seeks a relief from 
 w temporary evil, because excluded from all 
 " prospect of any future felicity; but a 
 " man 1 a christian ! fie for shame ! What 
 
 "is
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 9 
 
 " is there in the most trying woes that 
 " can afflict us for the mere point of time 
 " which we are destined to creep through 
 " this insignificant world, which can make 
 4C it worth our while to encounter the pe- 
 " nalties of eternal duration which are pro- 
 " nounced against the sin of suicide ? A 
 " sin which, by its frequency in Great 
 " Britain, has cast an indelible stain upon 
 " a generous nation ! a vice fit for none 
 " but slaves and cowards ! a crime which, 
 " when exterminated from our annals, 
 " will leave us the most virtuous people 
 " on the face of the earth! 
 
 " And you, young man, what excuse can 
 " you form to yourself for such unwor- 
 " thy, such unmanly, such pusillanimous 
 " despair ? Your limbs are strong, your 
 " faculties unimpaired by illness; the world 
 " lies open to your view, you have but to 
 " endeavour to surmount your difficulties, 
 w and the same prospect of comfort and 
 " independence is more within your grasps 
 
 " than
 
 20 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " than that of many who have conquered 
 " their apparent ill fortune without half 
 " your education, half your abilities, half 
 " your good sense. " 
 
 Young Melford coloured, and hung his 
 head : this was the first sermon he had 
 heard for several years, but it did not lose 
 any of its efficacy on that account. The 
 arguments which Hayward had enforced 
 were trite, and such as he had heard urged a 
 hundred times before ; but his manner was 
 impressive, and his eye spoke with more 
 energy than his tongue. Sorrow and dis- 
 appointment, too, the grand softeners of 
 the human heart, had not been without 
 their effect on that of Tibullus : — the pert- 
 ness of his manner was removed, his follies 
 appeared dispersing like vapours before the 
 beams of the invigorating sun, his face as- 
 sumed the turn it had naturally possessed 
 before it had been distorted by the affect- 
 ed graces of servile imitation ; sense and 
 feeling sparkled through the tear-drops in 
 
 his
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. f| 
 
 his eye, and he now looked as respectable 
 and interesting, as he had formerly appear- 
 ed absurd and ludicrous. 
 
 Hay ward inwardly enjoyed this honor- 
 able triumph of feeling and humanity. 
 
 " Rouse, rouse," cried he ; " do not be 
 " guilty of another sin against the goodness 
 " of Providence, in indulging a fruitless 
 " sorrow for faults which are past, and 
 " now can never be recalled ; the manly 
 cc part will be, to repair past errors by fu- 
 " ture amendment. Nay, never shake 
 " your head ; you have talents, I know ; 
 " the means for the exertion of those ta- 
 " lents shall not be wanting. Hencefor- 
 " ward scorn the contracted, narrow arts 
 " of imitation — be the moulder of your own 
 " character ; one manly, bold original mc- 
 " rits more gratitude from all mankind, 
 " than a whole race of servile copyists : 
 " were all men to sit idly down with the 
 
 " ape-
 
 *L2 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 ** ape-Yike contentment of dully walking in 
 " the prescribed circles of their fellows, 
 " the progress of the world would soon be 
 Ci at an end — the distinctions of genius 
 " would cease — men would herd together 
 " like cattle, and corpulence alone confer 
 u superiority. Without a daring devia- 
 u tion from the common track, what be- 
 " nefits had been lost to the world ? The 
 " navigator had still confided to the uncer- 
 " tain guidance of the stars — the compass 
 " had never been discovered— a Columbus 
 " would not have laid open a new world 
 " — a Newton had never been a philoso- 
 " pher, and an Erskine had never poured 
 " the resistless thunders of elocution at a 
 " British bar," 
 
 " Great Heaven I" exclaimed Tibullus, 
 " and are you the man whom I treated 
 " with such levity ? the man whom I con- 
 " sidered as the mere plodding trader ? 
 " who knew nothing beyond the learning 
 
 " of
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 23 
 
 <c of a counting-house ? Every moment 
 " gives me fresh cause for contrition and 
 " confusion." 
 
 cc If you mean to compliment," rejoined 
 the philosophic merchant, " be assured 
 c your encomiums are ill placed; my learn- 
 * ing is but small, and but lately acquired; 
 c what I do know, I owe entirely to that 
 c originality I have been recommending to 
 c you. The early part of my life was 
 c scrupulously devoted to my business. 
 c I have known sorrows and disappoint- 
 6 ments, Mr. Melford, to which your evils 
 ( are comparative trifles — my heart-strings 
 c have been almost cracked ; but, believe 
 c me, I do not mean to upbraid you, when 
 ' I say, I should now most heartily de- 
 ' spise myself had I ever flown, even in 
 ' idea, to self-destruction as a relief. Read- 
 ' ing and religion have been my support 
 c — to do good, my amusement. The me- 
 6 thods I have taken, have, I fancy, ap- 
 S peared very singular to many besides 
 
 " yourself j
 
 24 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " yourself; but he who founds his happi- 
 " ness on the welfare of his fellow-crca- 
 " tures, builds on a foundation much too 
 " steady to be shaken by the giddy breath 
 " of public opinion. But I see the agita- 
 " tions of your mind have much exhaust- 
 " ed you, and I now proceed to the point 
 " whither I wish all my sermonising to 
 " tend/' 
 
 Tibullus bowed, and, was attentive. 
 
 cc I have given you my candid sentiments 
 <c upon the errors of your former conduct 
 " — errors you seem ashamed of, and 
 " therefore it would ill become me to re- 
 '/ peat them. 
 
 " You appear to me to have those re- 
 " quisites which may, with a proper at- 
 " tention, raise you to be an ornament to 
 c f that profession of which you have the 
 " honour of being a member. In the 
 " pocket-book which I now put into your 
 
 " hands,
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 25 
 
 * 4 hands, is the exact sum which, I am well 
 <c informed, you lost by your imprudent 
 " confidence in your friend Sir Martin. 
 " I will say no more with respect to your 
 " future conduct in life, because I would 
 " not convert a favor into a burthen." 
 
 Melford sunk on his knee, laid hold of 
 the hand of his benefactor, and, in a voice 
 almost inarticulate with sobs, begged to 
 know how he could ever requite his good- 
 ness* 
 
 Hayward then told him, that he had two 
 conditions to propose to him, to which, if 
 he consented, he would make him the 
 most satisfactory return. 
 
 The young Lawyer vowed he would 
 abide by them, let them be what they 
 would. 
 
 Hayward told him that he/?™/ stipulated, 
 
 that if ever he grew rich, he would pay 
 
 Vol.IL C him
 
 26 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 him the money again if he was alive; or if 
 not, set it apart for such young men in 
 his profession who might hereafter be con- 
 demned to struerffle with difficulties similar 
 to his own. Secondly, that he was never 
 on any account to mention what he had 
 done for him. He impressed this last 
 charge on his mind by the most serious 
 repetition. 
 
 The gratitude of Tibullus made a recoil 
 at this hard stipulation ; but his benefactor 
 urged the point so very strongly, that Ti- 
 bullus was forced to comply ; and Hay- 
 ward, shaking him by the hand, took his 
 leave— the young man following his pre- 
 server with eyes suffused in drops of gra- 
 titude and wonder. 
 
 As we are aware that there are some 
 men in the world who (judging, we sup- 
 pose, from their own hearts) set it down as 
 a maxim, that there is no such a thing as 
 disinterested goodness ; all these sort of 
 
 men
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 2 J 
 
 men will call my work into question, and 
 say I have been amusing my readers with 
 an unnatural character. I shall not, how- 
 ever, bow to any critic of this description 
 or persuasion, having, in the course of my 
 life, seen many deeds done by several men 
 for the mere love of good, and for nothing 
 else. 
 
 I could name a lady also, who passes her 
 life in actions of benevolence, for which 
 she cannot expect any remuneration on 
 this side the grave. While she exists, I 
 never will allow that any character, which 
 comprehends charity, philanthropy, or ge- 
 nerosity, is at all overcharged, or out of 
 nature. 
 
 We now return to Mr. and Mrs. Dives. 
 The honey-moon passed on without any 
 of those rapturous sensations which are 
 supposed to be the general attendants on 
 the first month after the union of a young 
 couple : it was employed in the burial of 
 C 2 Sir
 
 2 8 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Sir Martin, and the arrangement of their 
 money concerns. The debts of the bride 
 were discharged, and Francis was happy 
 to find that, in this respect, she had be- 
 haved without duplicity or deception — 
 they were mere trifles. He had feared, 
 from her former habits of life, and the 
 great quantity of company she had been 
 accustomed to keep, that he should have 
 many a heavy bill to discharge ; but was 
 most agreeably disappointed, when he 
 found the truth had been very greatly 
 exaggerated by his fears and his prudence. 
 
 She soon let him into a secret, which 
 was at once both new and pleasing to him ; 
 u e. that in London, a fashionable family 
 may make a great figure at very little ex- 
 pence. Cards had been to her a great 
 source of wealth : she had maintained two 
 servants, by allowing them to find these 
 for her company. She had a third, with- 
 out any wages but what her visitors chose 
 to give him ; for which purpose the fel- 
 low
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 29 
 
 low stood like a sentry at the door, to levy 
 contributions on every visitor who left her 
 apartment. 
 
 She always played very high ; and, by 
 assiduous attention, had made herself so 
 much the mistress of every game of chance, 
 that the best hands in the whole pack could 
 seldom prove a counter-match to her skill 
 and dexterity. She had always been sur- 
 rounded with a tribe of the prettiest young 
 women, and the most thoughtless young 
 men that she could collect together ; and, 
 as there are hundreds in the metropolis 
 who would much rather go any where than 
 stay at home, she found no kind of diffi- 
 culty in raising such assemblies. With 
 regard to her living, it had cost her but a 
 trifle, as her men servants were paid by 
 her visitors, and her maids were on board 
 wages. She had been also a great promoter 
 of that convenient and fashionable modern 
 invention, known by the name of Pic-nic. 
 As some readers in the country may be 
 C 3 strangers
 
 30 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 strangers to the fashionable cant words of 
 the capital, a short definition of the term 
 Pic-nic may not be wholly unacceptable. 
 A Pic-nic is an invention by which a man 
 or woman of the haut ton may have the 
 appearance of giving an elegant entertain- 
 ment to their friends, when those friends 
 are at the whole and sole expence. 
 
 Lady Betty, for instance, is to give a 
 Pic-nic \ she invites a dozen people, and 
 every one of them sends an article for sup- 
 per ; of course, when the night comes, 
 twelve elegant articles are placed on the 
 supper-table, without the cost of a shilling 
 to the good lady of the house : for example, 
 Lord George, chickens ; Miss Lynx, pot- 
 ted char ; Mr. Twiddle, pigeon-pye ; Mr. 
 Spindle, jellies \ Mrs. Buckram, a trifle $ 
 Mrs. Snack, tongue ; Mr. Ogleby, macca- 
 roni j Mr. Feeble, oysters, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 r 
 
 My readers will, I hope, by the above 
 example, perceive that, by this kind of 
 
 economical
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 3 1 
 
 economical splendor, a very elegant en- 
 tertainment may not only be served up, 
 but the person, at whose house it is given, 
 may contrive to live well upon the leav- 
 ings for a fortnight after. By these arts, 
 which had been taught her from her ear- 
 liest infancy, had Martina long contrived 
 to fight on with her contracted income, 
 till the success of her deeply laid matrimo- 
 nial projects put a period to the combat. 
 
 Her brother had inherited her father's 
 estate, which had been a very good one, 
 till he brought it into difficulties by his 
 unbounded dissipation ; and becoming a 
 gamester himself, reduced his sister to the 
 level of a female fortune hunter. She had 
 never forgiven his imprudence, though her 
 own circumstances made it convenient to 
 her to connive at it ; as his acquaintance 
 with many rich and foolish young men 
 often brought the gudgeons into play, for 
 whom she had been long baiting her 
 hook. 
 
 C 4 The
 
 J2 'VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 The want of money had made its value 
 double in her eyes, and now she had at- 
 tained it, she resolved to be very prudent 
 in the management of it. 
 
 From such an union, then, we are led 
 to imagine that much domestic happiness 
 would be the necessary consequence ; a si- 
 milarity of tastes being said to be the best 
 and most solid foundation for friendship,- 
 and for love : yet, very unluckily for this 
 new married pair, the effect was not sub- 
 sequent to the cause. The union of the 
 amiable passions, seven times out of ten, 
 produce the most celestial harmony ; but 
 when two tempers of a sordid way of 
 thinking are tied together by indissoluble 
 bonds, the discord must be harsh and 
 grating. That there may be honor among 
 thieves, is an axiom which an attentive pe- 
 rusal of that instructing book, the New- 
 gate Calendar, will bring to the ground ; 
 that there can be a cordial union between 
 selfish souls, is an hypothesis which a short 
 
 rumination
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 33 
 
 rumination on the pages of human life will 
 prove to be equally vain, futile, and de- 
 ceptive. 
 
 The wife had given up a brother who, 
 whatsoever had been his personal failings, 
 was most assuredly the means, agent, and 
 immediate instrument of the g;ood fortune 
 she had attained. The son had abandoned 
 a mother, whose great error had origi- 
 nated in a most extravagant fondness for 
 his person, and a ridiculous indulgence of 
 his foibles : for his sake she had irritated a 
 husband, whom it would have been for 
 her interests to have conciliated ; and ex- 
 posed herself to that poverty, from which 
 it was the duty of the object, for whose 
 welfare it had been incurred, to have im- 
 mediately released her. 
 
 Could such a couple have any real con- 
 fidence in each other ? No ! they had both 
 given proof, that the natural affections of 
 their hearts were subordinate to the love 
 Cj of
 
 34 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 of riches, and that, when money stood in 
 the way, there was no barrier which they 
 would not gladly overleap. To money 
 Francis had sacrificed his friend, the gal- 
 lant, the sincere, the generous St. Leger. 
 Love came like a cherub, in the simple af- 
 fection of the farmer's daughter : he had 
 immolated beauty, truth, and nature at 
 the shrine of avarice. The remembrance 
 of the beauty and tenderness of the un- 
 happy girl he had plunged in shame and 
 ruin, often rushed upon him by day, and 
 disturbed his dreams by night. After 
 having, however, sacrificed thus much to 
 the darling prejudice of his family, he was 
 resolved to enjoy the luxury he had so 
 dearly purchased in its full extent, and, in 
 the hurry of the chace, to banish the idea 
 of St. Leger, his mother, and the farmer's 
 daughter. 
 
 A year now elapsed in this uncomfort- 
 able manner, when two new events took 
 place. The younger Mrs. Dives was brought 
 
 to
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 35 
 
 to bed of a beautiful daughter, the very 
 day the news was brought to her husband, 
 that the elder lady of that name had paid 
 the debt of nature. Grief, seclusion from 
 the world in a small country village, and 
 the painful recollection of the ungrateful 
 treatment she had received at the hands of 
 her son, had thrown her into a deep de- 
 cline. 
 
 During the last weeks of her life, by her 
 contrition, meekness, and penitence, she 
 might have atoned for greater errors than 
 any she had been guilty of during a life 
 more distinguished by follies than by crimes. 
 She blessed her son with her dying breath, 
 forgave him and his wife for all their past 
 unkindness to her, and expired in peace 
 and charity with all mankind. 
 
 Francis was at first affected with the 
 news ; but the birth of his daughter tend- 
 ed to dispel the gloom — the sight of the 
 infant acted as a fresh stimulus to his pre- 
 C 6 vailing
 
 36 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 vailing passion. He had a new object, in 
 the prospect of a family, for the accumula- 
 tion of wealth, and money appeared more 
 desirable than even 
 
 CHAP-
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 37 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Miss Martina — A father's fondness — a mother's 
 schemes — the girl is sent to school — Reasons for 
 paying attention to old aunts — Wills — The young 
 lady brought home again — Maternal anxieties — A 
 family discourse — Disposal of property, fit for all 
 rich readers — A high-seasoned dialogue — A daugh- 
 ter's interference — why dangerous — The author 
 gives a good reason for the sale of his work, 
 
 IT is a more irksome thing to an author, 
 than it can possibly prove to the peruser of 
 his book, to be compelled to make fre- 
 quent addresses to the reader — these inter- 
 ruptions generally tending to deaden any 
 interest the preceding parts of a work may 
 have had the good fortune to have excited. 
 The dramatic writer, by the aid of the di- 
 visions in. his play, the variations of his 
 scenery, and other modes, may express the 
 change of place, and the progression of 
 time 5 whereas the author of a romance 
 
 lias
 
 3? VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 has but one mode, videlicet, that of going 
 on in the old jog trot way, and begging the 
 peruser to consider that so many years 
 have past away. To be as little tedious as 
 possible, be so good as to imagine that the 
 daughter of Francis and his lady has been 
 nursed, praised, fondled, caressed, and 
 taught to read and write ; all which, 
 though in the highest degree entertaining 
 to the father and mother of a child, is un- 
 interesting to every one else, either in the 
 world or in a book. - 
 
 Mrs. Dives and her husband lived for 
 eight years with credit, with coldness, and 
 economy. His mind was turned to such 
 speculations as might increase his wealth, 
 and he knew more about the stocks than 
 even his father had done before him. He 
 was concerned in loans, manufactures, new 
 inventions, and, in short, nothing escaped 
 his vigilant and scrutinising eye from which 
 profit could be extracted. He lent money, 
 bought and sold places, furnished corn and 
 
 cloathing
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 39 
 
 cloathing by contract, imported wines, and 
 exported goods to foreign markets ; yet 
 was he not so lucky as his progenitor had 
 been. The cautious parent of Francis had 
 commenced his operations by slow, but sure 
 degrees ; while the son, with encreased 
 avidity in the same pursuit, like the boy 
 in the fable, often defeated his own designs 
 by too great an eagerness in his accumula- 
 tions. A ship was sometimes lost, a con- 
 tract would not always produce the profit 
 he expected, and a manufactory, which 
 promised a rapid fortune in a few years, 
 sometimes was stifled in its birth, and left 
 him a considerable loser. Whenever any 
 of these accidents chanced to fall upon him, 
 he was gloomy, restless, agitated, and pas- 
 sionate. For his wife he had little of love, 
 and still less of esteem — domestic comfort 
 never consoled him for external disappoint- 
 ments. Hymen, who sometimes descends 
 in lucid robes, and eye-beaming gentleness, 
 to light up the cottage of poverty, comes 
 wrinkled and frowning to the mansion 
 
 where
 
 40 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 where wealth alone is considered as equi- 
 valent to every nuptial joy. Mrs. Dives 
 expected this, and it did not wound her 
 heart, or disturb her peace. She had mar- 
 ried her husband for the sake of his money; 
 and, while he was engaged in that pursuit, 
 she never felt the least desire to see him 
 employed in any other. 
 
 They were nearly of the same age, yet 
 had she taken an idea into her head, which 
 is very prevalent among married women, 
 she felt well assured that she should cutlive 
 her lord and master. What reason the 
 fair sex have to imagine, that they are pe- 
 culiarly favored by nature in the article of 
 longevity, it is rather difficult to divine. It 
 is a melancholy truth, however, that many 
 of them seem solicitous to provide against 
 the death of a man" even before they have 
 lived with him, or have had an opportu- 
 nity of judging whether he is likely to 
 prove an agreeable companion, or the re- 
 verse. Witness in high life -the bonds, 
 
 jointures,
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 4Z 
 
 jointures, pin money, &c. &c. In middling 
 life, the eagerness of ladies to know what 
 their husbands are worthy their delicate 
 hints, that every man ought to make his 
 will', agreeable solicitudes on the pleasant 
 subject of death, and other modest inu- 
 endos, which can never fail of exciting a 
 man's confidence, esteem and affection. 
 
 We must leave it to philosophers to de- 
 cide whether they have any real reason 
 for this supposition in their own favor : 
 but however that may be, Mrs. Dives had 
 certainly taken the notion into her head, 
 and all the treatises which have ever been 
 penned on the instability of human life, 
 could never have dislodged it thence. 
 
 She began at first by hints and gentle in- 
 sinuations, and finding that these had not 
 the desired effect on the reserved and cau- 
 tious temper of her husband, shortly after 
 gave him her sentiments more plainly. 
 
 Francis
 
 4* VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Francis saw her drift, and resolved to 
 amuse her by evasions. He knew, that 
 when he had put pen to paper, he could 
 not easily recall what he had done. His 
 little child too was at once the object of his* 
 affection and his ambition. 
 
 When a woman brings a fortune to her 
 husband, it is rational and proper that she 
 should expect, and that he should make, 
 a disposition of that fortune in her favor 
 to the utmost extent. But Martina had 
 not brought him any thing ; she had no 
 such rational claim upon him ; she had- 
 never even pretended to have any great 
 affection for him, and her anxious care 
 about his money at his death, shewed him' 
 on how precarious a tenure he held her 
 confidence during his life. 
 
 He found too, that unknown to himself 
 she was making a private purse. Trust 
 v/as banished. He resolved to make his 
 daughter his friend as she grew up, and 
 
 by
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 43 
 
 by her means maintain some check on the 
 designs of the mother. 
 
 The blessed consequences of an avari- 
 cious temper were now multiplying around 
 him on all sides. He feared his wife, with- 
 out loving her : he dreaded lest she should 
 engage his servants in schemes against him. 
 He had no friend to whom he could apply 
 for comfort and consolation ; and in the 
 bitterness of his soul would often strike 
 his hand upon his heart, and passionately 
 exclaim, " Oh Henry I oh St. Leger ! dis- 
 " interested, generous companion of my 
 " happier days of childhood — why did I 
 "■ drive my friend, my counsellor, from 
 " my side 2" 
 
 The little Martina, as she grew up, was 
 his only comfort and consolation in these 
 scenes of domestic discord. 
 
 She was a very lovely child ; a circum- 
 stance which, notwithstanding the gravity 
 
 of
 
 44 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 of our remarks with regard to the off- 
 spring of other people, acts strongly on the 
 springs of the affections, when our own 
 happen to be the subject in debate. 
 
 The mother, at a very early age, began 
 to perceive that she had a rival in her 
 youthful daughter. 
 
 She could make every allowance for the 
 affection of the father ; and had his mere 
 affections been all that she considered, she 
 would most certainly, with a true libera- 
 lity, have given up her portion to her 
 child, but there was a property in the case, 
 acd on this head her ideas were very dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 To remove the little favorite from the 
 eyes of her doating father, was the first 
 step to be taken; and by continual wear- 
 ing, perseverance, and persuading her i u i- 
 band's old aunts, the Miss Maringos, (who 
 were doatingly fond of the child) that it 
 
 was
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 45 
 
 was for her real interest to be sent to a 
 boarding-school, she enlisted them on her 
 side, and the business was done. 
 
 The Miss Maringos were the persons to 
 whom Francis had ever behaved with the 
 greatest respect : they had both capital 
 fortunes, which his mother had taught 
 him to look forward to as his own, from 
 the earliest years of his life. They had 
 long bid defiance to both him and the doc- 
 tors, but he comforted himself with reflect- 
 ing, that they could not live for ever, and 
 submitted to their pleasures as naturally 
 as he did to the laws of his country. 
 
 He still stipulated, however, that the 
 child should be sent to a school in the me- 
 tropolis, that he might have the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing her at least once in every 
 week; terms which with some difficulty 
 were at length complied with. 
 
 He delivered her into the hands of her 
 
 precep-
 
 45 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 preceptress, with much of the same kind 
 of wise restrictions which we heard his 
 own mother give to Mr. Twig, in the first 
 chapter of the first volume of this work. 
 
 The removal of the child, however, did 
 very little service to the cause of Mrs. 
 Dives, as the fondness of the father in- 
 creased with every temporary absence ; 
 and when he saw her growing to woman's 
 estate, with simplicity, beauty, sense, and 
 sensibility, he began at last to imagine that 
 he had accumulated wealth to some pur- 
 pose. 
 
 The mother saw her improvements with 
 far different eyes : she was convinced that 
 it was the thoughts of the girl alone which 
 prevented Francis from making such a dis- 
 position of his wealth as suited her wishes. 
 The simplicity of the girl to her seemed 
 art, her sensibility affectation, and her sense 
 hypocrisy. 
 
 These
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 47 
 
 These sentiments she kept, however, 
 xlosely deposited in her own bosom ; she 
 knew that an exposition of her real feel- 
 ings would render her odious to her friends, 
 and those of her husband. To them her 
 mouth was full of disinterested affection 
 and maternal love ; but she laid on the co- 
 louring with a hand so coarse and clumsy, 
 that even Francis perceived it ; and the 
 girl alone 1 who to the form added the good- 
 ness of an angel, was a dupe to her arts. 
 
 Mrs. Dives was now arrived at that 
 time of life, when the bloom may be pro- 
 perly said to be off the peach: — 
 
 " See how this world its votaries rewards; 
 " A youth of folly, an old age of cards," 
 
 began to be applicable to her case. She 
 had pursued no one rational object in her 
 earlier years, and her time now began to 
 hang like a dead weight upon her hands. 
 
 Her husband's pursuit of wealth left her 
 
 much
 
 48 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 much leisure, and that leisure she now de- 
 termined to turn to profit as well as to 
 pleasure. She formed an acquaintance 
 with a set of women as eager after gain as 
 herself: scandal, tea, cards, railing against 
 their husbands, and encouraging each other 
 in their domestic rebellions, filled up 
 
 " Their merry, miserable nigh ." 
 
 Mrs. Dives had, however, the best of 
 these nocturnal orgies. She had not for- 
 got her old tricks, when she had made a 
 figure among the fashionable circles ; and 
 her nightly earnings at the card-table tend- 
 ed, in no trifling degree, to the amplifica- 
 tion of her private purse. 
 
 She had lived in a sphere somewhat 
 above the circle of her present acquaintance, 
 whilst she was regarded as the fashionable 
 sister of the gay Sir Martin Panther. She 
 knew much of the tittle-tattle of former 
 days, and was the presiding oracle of the 
 companies with which she now associated. 
 
 It
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 49 
 
 It is fatiguing and disgusting to dwell so 
 long upon such a character as I am now 
 describing ; but, as most of the incidents 
 in the present volume derive their source 
 from this woman, it is necessary for me to 
 illustrate her character as well as I am able. 
 
 Her husband (who by this time began to 
 entertain sentiments towards her which passed 
 the bounds of mere indifference J went on 
 earning money as fast as he could, and left 
 her to. her own pleasures ; a conduct he 
 pursued without the least disturbance to 
 his tranquillity, as he felt perfectly well as- 
 sured, that she would take every care that 
 her amusements should not ever be expen- 
 sive ones. 
 
 The daughter was brought from school, 
 and nothing could have consoled the mama 
 for this mortifying circumstance, had not 
 the two Miss Maringos most fortunately 
 died at the same time, and left their nephew 
 sole heir to both their properties ; an event 
 Vol. II. D which,
 
 JO VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 which, for some weeks, kept the wife and 
 the husband in tolerable good humor the 
 one with the other* 
 
 The young Martina was always delight- 
 ed when she saw her parents happy. She 
 loved her mother as much as that mother's 
 conduct would allow ; but her father's be- 
 havior to her had stamped an impression on 
 her candid, unaffected mind, which made 
 her fondness to him approach near to idol- 
 atry : this did her no service with the op- 
 posite party. Every mark of affection to 
 the one, the other looked upon as an in- 
 jury to herself, and unluckily the poor girl 
 had no chance of avoiding giving these 
 causes of offence, as she could not help 
 thinking that both her parents were as 
 one ; that it was an impossible thing for 
 them not to have the same affections, the 
 same joys, and the same sorrows. 
 
 A serious quarrel shortly after blew the 
 dead coal to a flame. Mr. Dives returned, 
 
 after
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 51 
 
 after a very prosperous speculation, to his 
 dinner one fine frosty day : his spirits were 
 good, his cheeks rosy, and the quantity he 
 ate would have been better adapted to a 
 ruddy ploughman than to a sickly invalid. 
 
 After dinner was concluded, the young 
 lady retired to her harpsichord in the draw- 
 ing-room above ; and the mama, with se- 
 veral hums and has ! began the following 
 dialogue. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Dives, you make me very 
 *' uneasy." 
 
 <c 
 
 How so, my dear ?" 
 
 " I do not think you take care enough 
 m of your health." 
 
 " My health f 9 
 
 " Yes ; you have looked consumptive 
 
 " for this month past. All my acquaint- 
 
 D 2 " ance 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 JLL/nd/c 1 iDn. nu
 
 5^ VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 -" ance have observed this alteration ia 
 M your appearance." 
 
 " I know all your acquaintance are very, 
 " very good to me. (drily)" 
 
 " It would be a sad thing to me and my 
 " dear, dear child, if any thing should 
 "happen to you -> and you know, Mr. 
 " Dives, no man's life is safe. There was 
 " Mr. Trussel died the other day in a brain 
 " fever, Mr. O'Farrel was thrown out of 
 " his gig not a week ago, and two gentle- 
 " men of Mrs. Watkins's acquaintance 
 cc tumbled down in an apoplectic fit whilst 
 " they were sitting in their arm chairs, 
 " and thinking no more of death than you 
 " do .at this moment." 
 
 " Very comfortable news V* 
 
 u And what would have become of their 
 " widows , if they had not made their wills ? 
 " It is hard, after living elegantly, to be 
 
 " left
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. ^ 
 
 * left at the mercy of lawyers, executors, 
 
 * and strangers ! A man will never die an 
 " hour- sooner because he has signed a piece 
 K of paper, and then a woman's mind is so 
 " comfortable. If- any thing was to iiappen 
 " to you, what do I know of your affairs ? 
 " I should Ttiever be able to find out wlkre 
 M your money is placed, and any knave 
 
 might rob me of my right/ 1 
 
 « 
 
 Francis felt his indignation rising fast at 
 this tedious and whining harangue. 
 
 " A husband, madam," cried he, " should 
 u have the confidence of his wife, and 
 w she ought to think it impossible that he 
 " should act either ungenerously or un- 
 " justly by her." 
 
 " Aye, so your mother thought," rejoin- 
 ed the lady with a malignant sarcastic 
 smile, " and. finely was her confidence re- 
 " warded." 
 
 D 3 " Dam-
 
 54 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " Damnation, madam ! A reproof like 
 " this from your lips is too much for pa- 
 " tience — Did not your avarice — ?" 
 
 ? Avarice ! Mr. Dives/* 
 
 " Aye, avarice, Mrs. Dives L? 
 
 Here both parties fell into a warm dis- 
 pute about the word avarice, modestly 
 owning they might have a great many 
 faults, but obstinately insisting that was 
 not among the number. 
 
 They aggravated each other with a thou- 
 sand opprobrious epithets, till, in the end, 
 Francis told her flatly, that he would not 
 settle one shilling upon her ; that all his 
 money had been acquired by his own in- 
 dustry, and that of his ancestors, and he 
 was resolved to have the uncontrolled ma- 
 nagement of his own affairs. She threw 
 the lowness of his origin in his teeth, and 
 stoutly asserted, that a connection with her 
 
 family
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. $$ 
 
 family had raised that of the Dives to opu- 
 lence and distinction r 
 
 " Zounds I opulence . r " cried the frantic 
 Francis-, W opulence ! Why, what, are ye 
 " mad ? — A sharking woman of fashion, 
 " and a broken down baronet, trepan me 
 " into a contract of marriage, and then 
 M have the auurance to talk about opulence 
 " and obligation !" 
 
 This last blow was too much for the 
 tender heart of the get Ale Mrs. Dives. She 
 sunk, weeping, into a chair, and told Mr. 
 Dives she could have forgiven all his cruel- 
 ties, had he not brought her poor dear 
 dead brother to her mind ; a brother who 
 had always loved, and been loved by her 
 with such unexampled affection. 
 
 The temper of Francis, which was natu- 
 rally cool and sedative, could not endure 
 this last provoking affectation. He pranced 
 up and down the room like a madman, 
 D 4 foaming
 
 $6 VIRTUOUS POVERTY* 
 
 foaming at the mouth, and grinning with 
 passion. 
 
 Martina arrived at a critical moment. 
 She had heard their loud exclamations as 
 she was at her music, and had rushed down 
 in agony of fear to see what was going for- 
 ward. Her attention was first attracted by 
 her mother, who sat sobbing violently on 
 the sofa, She went to her with sorrow in 
 her eye, and affection in her voice ) but 
 this amiable lady rudely pushed her back, 
 and told her to go and whine to her father, 
 hinting, at the same time, that she believed 
 they had laid their heads together to serve 
 her as his mother had been treated. 
 
 This circumstance being a perfect mys- 
 tery to Martina, she knew not what to 
 make of it ; but gazed with wonder and 
 grief on her father* 
 
 He began to explain what had happened-; 
 and his wife,, who could not be urged to 
 
 open
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 5/ 
 
 open her lips through kindness, began to 
 sputter out fifty incoherent sentences from 
 the united impulses of passion and contra- 
 diction. 
 
 It was hard, in this tumult of warring 
 opinions, for poor Martina to distinguish 
 which was right, or who was wrong. In 
 every generous mind there will always be 
 a bias to the weak, or the oppressed. Mar- 
 tina was of this generous class of beings ; 
 and, thouQ-h she miarfit have exnected 
 much greater advantages from taking part 
 with her father, she, on this occasion, 
 thought her mother the person who most 
 stood in need of her aid, and immediately 
 enlisted under her banners* 
 
 The consequence was, that the one 
 thought her ungrateful ', and the other ima- 
 gined her to be hypocritical', and though 
 the disinterested generosity of the conduct 
 she had adopted succeeded in quieting the 
 tempest for the present, the flitter thought 
 D 5 she
 
 58 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 she had not made a very generous return 
 for his fondness ; and the mother was fear- 
 ful of her making herself so amiable in the 
 eyes of every one, that they should think 
 Mr. Dives right in giving up every thing 
 to her happiness and interest : she, there- 
 fore, represented the father and the daugh- 
 ter as in a plot to do her an act of injustice, 
 and, as an ill-natured assertion will seldom 
 want aiders and abettors, the truth of 
 what she advanced met with general credit* 
 Thus had a conduct, which ought to have 
 endeared her to each party, injured Martina 
 in the opinion of both* 
 
 If any parents, who indulge in wrangling 
 before their children, will take the pains 
 to reconsider this anecdote, I am sure that 
 my book, though an humble ', can never 
 with justice be afterwards called an useless 
 one. 
 
 CHAP-
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 59 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A prudent man over-reached — A projector — An astro- 
 loger — A scheme to make a fortune — by 'what means 
 — Reasons for embracing speculations — A great 
 tuork falls to the ground — A defence of speculators 
 — Hoiu a wif bears m is fortune — A twinge of con- 
 science — Afar of retribution — A cautious resolve 
 — A daughter's goodness. 
 
 1 HE resentment in the bosom of the 
 mother of Martina was deep, rooted and 
 firm. 
 
 The anger of Francis lasted but a few- 
 moments : he loved her, if possible, as 
 much as he valued his money. The sight 
 of her tears melted his heart : he kissed 
 her as she wished him good night. Mrs. 
 Dives, too, forced her features into a smile; 
 but it was a smile to betray. Some cir- 
 cumstances, however, were about to occur, 
 D 6 which
 
 66 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 which had a very extraordinary effect on 
 fhe mind of the mama. Her cares and so- 
 licitudes for her daughter, in a few months, 
 equalled that of the most affectionate parent 
 in the universe. 
 
 Mr. Dives, though usually very cauti- 
 ous in his schemes, was at length fatally 
 deceived by a project, which promised to 
 make him one of the richest men in 
 London. 
 
 Accident brought him into an acquaint- 
 ance with a young man of the name of 
 Doublepop. Mr. Doublepop was a man of; 
 some reading, great ingenuity, and inde- 
 fatigable industry.. 
 
 His father had been a worthy and re- 
 spectable watch-maker, and the son had. 
 given early proof of mechanical powers, 
 which had astonished all the artists in the 
 town. He was of a volatile disposition, 
 however j and ? on the death of his parents> 
 
 instead
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 6 1 
 
 instead of attending seriously to a business, 
 which might speedily have raised him to 
 affluence and ease, his mechanical mind 
 (like the gifts of many other persons of genius 
 and capacity when misapplied) eventually ter- 
 minated in his ruin. He gave his mind to 
 nick-nacks and trifles, instead of exerting 
 his powers in compositions of utility. 
 
 He spent many years in forming a small 
 
 gold waggon, in which he harnessed two 
 
 fleas i and made them drag the vehicle over 
 
 a thumb-nail. He constructed a ring-, 
 
 which, by the aid of springs, opened. and 
 
 discovered two fencers fiffhtina:. He form- 
 er o 
 
 ed snuff-boxes with singing-birds, an arti- 
 ficial black-beetle that crawled along a table, 
 and a hundred other curiosities, which 
 ruined- him by the loss of time, as every 
 one was glad to gape at his toys, though 
 few had money enough to spare to purchase 
 them. He became, a bankrupt, and had 
 travelled on foot half over Europe to view 
 foreign manufactories and curiosities, and 
 
 once
 
 2 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 once got himself into a prison, by an at- 
 tempt to make himself master of a process 
 in a work which might have made his own 
 fortune, and been a benefit to his country. 
 He saw all the curiosities in Switzerland ? 
 and, during his residence in one of the 
 Cantons, fell in with a genius congenial to 
 his ownv 
 
 In the house where he lodged was an old 
 man, who gained his living by the making 
 barometers,weather-houses,.thermometers r 
 and a variety of other curiosities. This 
 man had taken it into his head that he had 
 discovered the long^ sought for secret of 
 the transmutation of metals ; he had been 
 formerly a man of very considerable for- 
 tune, which he had entirely made away 
 with by this chimerical project. He still, 
 however, persuaded himself, that if go- 
 vernment would have rendered him the 
 requisite assistance, he should have suc- 
 ceeded in his designs, and astonished all. 
 Europe with this invaluable discovery. 
 
 Doublepop
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY 
 
 63 
 
 Doublepop listened to all his air -bred 
 schemes with attention, as he perceived a 
 great portion of ingenuity mingled with. 
 even the wildest of Ms flights. 
 
 Among many of his projected improve- 
 ments, he at last mentioned one for mak- 
 ing a ship go without sails, and indepen- 
 dent of particular winds, by the aid of a 
 windmill which was to move to any side 
 of the ship, and work by steam. 
 
 This thought struck the fancy of the 
 young mechanic, and he resolved to give 
 it his serious consideration. 
 
 He dwelt for some time on this mode 
 of making a rapid fortune, till, from doubt 
 and anxiety, he began to think that he 
 wished might be accomplished* He studied 
 till his brain began to turn ; formed a small 
 vessel, which, in a very great degree, an- 
 swered his end, and bidding adieu to his 
 friend the astrologer, set off for England 
 
 with
 
 64 VIRTUOUS POVERTT. 
 
 with a full determination to submit his in- 
 estimable model to the Board of Admiralty. 
 He felt so certain of success, that he buik 
 houses, laid. out grounds (in the air), and 
 fancied that his ingenuity and perseverance 
 had at last met with their merited reward. 
 
 When he first came to London, and 
 mentioned his schemes to some of his for- 
 mer acquaintance, they pronounced him 
 mad beyond all power of cure.: yet, as it 
 has been often observed, there is hardly 
 any thing which the English nation will 
 not give credit to, the affair was beginning 
 to make some noise, when it at last reach- 
 ed the ears of Erancis. Dives. 
 
 He at first was incredulous; but the idea 
 of the 'vast sums of money which might be 
 made by such an invention fired his mind, 
 and kept him as much from his rest, as the 
 trophies of a rival are said to have dis- 
 turbed the repose of a Grecian general. 
 He thought, that had all men been sceptical^ 
 
 a- ship
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 65 
 
 a ship had never been launched on the 
 ocean, and the Indies never discovered. 
 " Who," said he to himself, " would, a 
 w few centuries ago, have credited the phe- 
 M nomenon of the balloon, or imagined 
 " that men could gain command of so 
 " light an element as thin air ? yet this has 
 " come to pass, Should the scheme of 
 " this young mechanic prove successful, 
 " what an inundation of wealth must pour 
 " in upon the fortunate patentee? It would 
 " almost equal the riches of the first dis- 
 " coverers of the mines of Potosi 1" 
 
 He went on, working himself up with 
 these big ideas, till he resolved to have a 
 conversation with the projector ; and if he 
 found his schemes at all feasible, to em- 
 brace the happy opportunity before some 
 more fortunate man should snatch it out of 
 his hands. 
 
 He enquired out Doublepop the next 
 day, who, to- convince him he was no. ig- 
 norant
 
 66 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 norant impostor, produced many of hL 
 former mechanical works to the eyes of 
 Francis, who, unused to sights of this de~ 
 scription, almost suspected his new friend 
 of working by the power of magic. 
 
 The model of the ship was at last brought 
 forward, and the delighted merchant en* 
 tered into an agreement with Doubkpop, 
 that he should advance the money for the 
 construction of a man of war, as large a& 
 any in his majesty's service % that when. 
 they obtained the patent ', they should be 
 equal sharers in the profits y and that nei- 
 ther one party nor the other should betray 
 the mechanical secrets of this, more than 
 the philosopher's stone, under a very heavy 
 penalty. 
 
 Before Doublepop could possibly com- 
 mence his plan of operations, it was requi- 
 site that his debts should be paid, that his 
 person might be at liberty — this was will- 
 ingly done. Ground was to be bought 
 
 and
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 6j 
 
 and enclosed from public inspection ; an- 
 other large expence which was chearfully 
 complied with — an immense quantity of 
 workmen, timber, iron, tools, &c. &c. &c. 
 Francis started ; but he was forced to sell 
 out to carry on the scheme. The vessel 
 was at length built ; but from a mistake 
 of one of the workmen in the formation 
 of the steam engine, that and the mill were 
 forced to be pulled to pieces, and the labor 
 and expence of near two years recom- 
 menced with tenfold fury. Francis was 
 half mad j thousands on thousands were 
 by this time expended, and yet he knew 
 not how either to retreat or to proceed. 
 He had told his wife he had entered into 
 a concern, which would enable him to 
 make an immediate and splendid settle- 
 ment upon her, and she began to allow 
 him no rest either by day or by night. He 
 waited in a fever till he should hear that 
 the whole was completed. After the loss 
 of thirty thousand pounds, a letter arrived 
 from Plymouth with an account of the 
 
 finishing
 
 6& VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 finishing of the grand vessel ; — it was from 
 one of the head carpenters^ and was as 
 follows :- 
 
 a To Francis Dives, Esq. 
 " Honored Sir r 
 a Mr. Doublepop's fine plan has all end- 
 " ed in nothing at all ! He looked at the 
 " works last night, said as how he feared 
 " it would never do, and I always was of 
 " the same opinion,, because as how I 
 " thought the thing was impossible. Mr. 
 " Doublepop yesterday embarked in the 
 " ship Neptune, Captain Grig, bound for 
 " Boston.. The bills for the last two thou- 
 " sand five hundred have been due, and 
 " will reach your Honor with the others. 
 " We are all of us very sorry, but we 
 " thinks as how your Honor can't blame 
 " us ; as if the ship could have fetched 
 " her weight in dimonds, we should only 
 " have been paid for our work, and we 
 " have all done our duties, and kept your 
 " Honor's secret. I am, with all the mens
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 69 
 
 *' compliments .to your Honor, your Ho- 
 ^nor's servant to command, 
 
 cc David Darby." 
 
 ■" Please your Honor, will you have her 
 xc towed up to London, or shall we knock 
 " her to pieces, and sell the iron-work and 
 " timber? I assure your Honor she is not 
 " worth the carriage." 
 
 Thus were two-thirds of one fortune 
 left by a father, another bequeathed by 
 two aunts, and a third created from his 
 own industry, in two years swallowed up 
 
 by a p reject ion! 
 
 I shall really feel relieved from a great 
 deal of fatigue and anxiety, when I have 
 come to the close of my recital of this un- 
 fortunate event. I am convinced that 
 there is no part of my long narrative that 
 will be more cavilled at than the circum- 
 stance I have just been relating. Many 
 
 men,
 
 70 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 men, who set themselves up as judges of 
 human nature, will certainly laugh at it as 
 extravagant and improbable; but such 
 things have often deluded, not only an in- 
 dividual, but the collective body of a great 
 and wise nation.* 
 
 Many a man has been injured by specu- 
 lations; and may my hand palsy, before I 
 come to the conclusion of this sentence I 
 am now writing, if I have entertained a 
 single t bought of holding the projector up 
 to ridicule. To increase the comforts, and 
 advance the interests of his family, is alike 
 the sacred duty of the good man, the good 
 father, and the good citizen. In such 
 an honorable endeavor he is to be revered, 
 even where his attempt has failed ; and his 
 relatives are bound to be as grateful for 
 his attempts, as if those efforts had been 
 
 * Vide Smollett's History of England touching 
 the South Sea scheme. 
 
 crowned
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. J I 
 
 crowned with the most brilliant and the 
 most splendid success. He may say with 
 Addison : — 
 
 " 'Tis not in mortals to command success ; 
 4i But we'll do mote, Sempronius, we'll deserve it." 
 
 Cato. 
 
 Many were the struggles the unhappy 
 man had to surmount before he could 
 make up his mind to inform his wife that 
 all his air-bred bubbles were broken ; and 
 that, instead of a handsome fortune, a bare 
 gentility of competence alone had survived 
 the last grand wreck. I think there is 
 hardly a necessity for me to describe how 
 this selfish woman acted on the occasion : 
 tears, and the most bitter revilings, were 
 exhausted on the devoted head of the un- 
 happy Francis. She told him, in an agony, 
 that had she followed her own opinion, 
 and that of her friends, it had been out of 
 his power to have reduced her to that beg- 
 gary (such was the term she gratefully gave 
 to Jive hundred a year which still remained) 
 
 she
 
 y.2 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 she was now, she saw, fated to encounter; 
 that all those friends had blamed her, for 
 -ever allowing him a moment's rest till he 
 had made those settlements on her she 
 had formerly proposed ; that he had now 
 brought a woman of rank and birth to 
 a sweet pass ; that he had made her a men* 
 dicant, and could never hereafter do her 
 justice, even if he was inclined. 
 
 Francis, who had always known her 
 even more elevated than himself at his suc- 
 cesses; was bitterly wounded at this strain 
 of invective against his ill fortune. His 
 thoughts darkened, the ardor of his pur- 
 suit in the race of wealth slackened, and 
 his fortitude forsook him. 
 
 The memory of his past follies rose like 
 tormenting ghosts to his sickly vision. 
 His cruelty to his mother, to Henry St. 
 Leger, to Briarly and his poor daughter, 
 agitated his bosom with shame, with an- 
 guish, and with penitence. He cast up 
 
 his
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 73 
 
 his account of felicity, and found that, in 
 the pursuit of inordinate wealth, he had 
 forfeited every other real good, and had 
 not attained the one he was in search of. 
 In friendship, he had lost a man whom he 
 now thought the world could never match. 
 In marriage, he had slighted innocence, 
 beauty, worth, and feeling ; for pride, ar- 
 rogance, vanity, and all uncharitableness. 
 In this night of disappointment, this dreary 
 waste of despair, one only day-star broke 
 upon the gloom. 
 
 Martina yet remained ; she held fast 
 upon his heart-strings ; for her happiness, 
 for her welfare, he yet resolved to buffet 
 with the waves of life. 
 
 He would sometimes* in his moments of 
 despondency, recollect the awful and im- 
 pressive malediction of the injured Briarly; 
 and now, in the hour of adversity, trem- 
 bling at the thought of moral justice, he 
 shuddered for the purity of his own child. 
 
 Vol. II. E Uc
 
 74 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 He resolved to guard her steps with the 
 most rigid precaution. She had a mind 
 capable of happiness in any situation, and 
 was the only person of the three who felt 
 no kind of regret at the reduction which 
 was about to take place in her father's 
 establishment. 
 
 His house was sold, and they went into 
 furnished lodgings, with only one man, 
 and two maid-servants. 
 
 This was a bitter pill to the mother and 
 the father ; but to the daughter a matter 
 of the most perfect indifference. Besides, 
 too, her mother had lately been more kind 
 than usual to her; lavished many enco- 
 miums on her person, her talents, and her 
 virtues. While the poor girl saw those 
 around her content, her own happiness was 
 her last consideration ; and she could have 
 smiled as placidly in a hut as in a drawing- 
 
 room, 
 
 CHAP-
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 75 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The mystery of the good humor of Mrs. Dives ex* 
 plained — Husband catching-— Flirting — A father's 
 objections to man-hunting — they are overruled — An 
 assembly — A fine ladys morals, and manners — > 
 Love — Edmund Godolphin, a rich nabob's son, is 
 received as the husband of Martina — Her joy — 
 that of the mother — The father's explanation — Ed- 
 mund's conduct — Wedding-day fixed — the news 
 ivhich defers it — A mother s conduct — The despair 
 of two disappointed young people. 
 
 IN my last chapter I mentioned the sud- 
 den kindness of Mrs. Dives to her daughter. 
 As it is my wish to draw consistent cha- 
 racters, it is my duty to explain that the 
 good lady had her motives for this, as well 
 as for every other action of her life. She 
 saw her once great fbrtui z miserably re- 
 duced, and her only study was how to re* 
 pair it. 
 
 E 2 Experience
 
 y6 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Experience had taught her a great many 
 arts and sciences, and, to the eternal mor- 
 tification of her husband, she had been 
 very successful in putting her theory into 
 practice. 
 
 The art of husband-catching had once 
 settled her comfortably for life — she had a 
 great inclination to try the same expe- 
 dient with her daughter ; but the mind of 
 Francis, more liberal than her own, revolt- 
 ed at the idea.' He still loved money, it 
 must be confessed, but he loved his child 
 yet better ; and looked upon having her 
 handed about to be gazed on like a horse 
 to sale, by every ill-bred coxcomb, as little 
 better than a licensed prostitution, and the 
 idea startled the delicacy of his nature. 
 
 Mrs. Dives had no such delicacy in her 
 composition ; she looked on her daughter 
 to be as much a property as a horse, or 
 any other appendage to her establishment. 
 Every one told her Martina was a beautiful 
 
 creature.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 77 
 
 creature, and needed only to be seen to 
 command what sort of a husband she 
 pleased. Company was very open to Mrs. 
 Dives 5 and, against the will of her hus- 
 band, and totally without the knowledge 
 of the unsuspecting girl, she carried her 
 out husband-hunting every evening. 
 
 Martina, who was of a very domestic 
 disposition, would much rather have stayed 
 at home ; but her mother made a point of 
 it, and, since her late losses, she was happy 
 to do any thing which might alleviate her 
 troubles, and contribute to her amusement. 
 
 An assembly, too, was a kind of thing 
 she had never seen before, and the novelty 
 of the scene tended to her diversion. 
 
 Mrs. Dives had renewed acquaintances 
 she had dropped before Martina was born, 
 that she might shew her merchandise in 
 the most fashionable places ; and it was at 
 the house of Lady Catherine Twiddle that 
 E 3 she
 
 yS VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 she commenced her operations for the 
 siege. 
 
 Miss Dives thought she should be sure 
 of meeting good breeding, and seeing good 
 company. The rooms were crowded almost 
 to suffocation. The lady of the house 
 stepped forward on their first appearance, 
 and saluted them with a curtsey down to 
 the ground. She was painted like a Jeze- 
 bel ; and her face, plastered with white 
 and red, bound up the smile she in vain 
 attempted to assume : not a muscle moved, 
 and the fixed glare of her countenance had 
 an effect upon Martina so truly ridiculous, 
 that it was with difficulty she prevented 
 herself from bursting into a loud laugh. 
 The antient dame of quality never had the 
 good breeding to introduce the young 
 stranger to any of the company ; but, after 
 making her dip, waddled away to the 
 other end of the room, and left her ex- 
 tremely aukwardly situated among a mob 
 of people she had never before set eyes on. 
 
 In
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 79 
 
 In this embarrassing situation she clung 
 trembling to her mother's arm, who, eager 
 to shew her, pushed undaunted through 
 the crowd, and heard, with the most com- 
 plete sangfroid, the familiar remarks which 
 startled the delicacy of her inexperienced 
 daughter. 
 
 ** That is the wife and daughter of Mr. 
 " Dives, the rich merchant ! Don't you 
 " think her rather pretty P* 
 
 <* Um — I damned aukward !*! 
 
 A couple of young coxcombs came up 
 and stared them full in the face ; then, re- 
 tiring about half a yard from them, began 
 a loud conversation concerning their taste 
 in dress. 
 
 The poor girl was quite abashed, and 
 
 would willingly have retired ; but mama, 
 
 quite delighted to see her the chief object 
 
 • E 4 of
 
 So 7IRTUOFS POVERTY. 
 
 of attention among the young men, stood 
 her ground as firm as a tower. 
 
 A lady about fifty years of age, but with 
 every appearance of juvenility in her dress 
 and manner, bustled through the groupe, 
 and, advancing to the spot where the mo- 
 ther and the daughter had by this time 
 taken their seats, approached a young gen- 
 tleman, who was attentively employed in 
 devouring all the muffins and cakes upon a 
 waiter which a servant was holding out to 
 him. The lady gave him a hearty slap on 
 the back, and said, with an air of the most 
 easy familiarity " Get out of that." He 
 started up, made her a bow, and twisted 
 his countenance into a grimace composed 
 of a grin, a leer, and a squint ; and filling 
 his two hands with cakes and muffins, 
 gazed on the scene, which was passing be- 
 fore his eyes, with as much indifference, as 
 if to eat, and to stare, had been the sole 
 purposes for which a young man is sent 
 into the world. 
 
 The
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 8 I 
 
 The lady, without waiting for an intro- 
 duction to the daughter, addressed the 
 mother : 
 
 " How d'ye do, my dear Mrs. Dives ? 
 " You don't remember me, but I recollect 
 you very well. I think it is now near 
 twenty years since we first met ; and do 
 you know I have been dying to see you 
 
 " Indeed," thought Martina, " then you 
 " are the hardest person to kill I ever 
 " heard of." 
 
 Though these two dames had only met 
 once, twenty years ago, and that at the 
 house of a third person, they soon found 
 reasons for considering themselves as near 
 and dear friends. 
 
 Mrs. Longlangs (such was the name of 
 this good lady) was a celebrated match- 
 maker. 
 
 E 5 She
 
 82 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 She was pleased to pay a great many 
 compliments to the beauty of Martina, and 
 pronounced that she had only to name 
 the man of her choice, to bring that man 
 prostrate at her feet. 
 
 The delighted Mrs. Dives entered into a 
 strict intimacy with Mrs. Longlangs, who 
 undertook to provide such a husband for 
 her daughter as should be allowed unex- 
 ceptionable on all sides, and by all parties. 
 The morals and manners of fine ladies are, 
 perhaps, subjects too sacred for the vulgar 
 pens of humble novelists, we must there- 
 fore content us with remarking, that, in 
 the games of match-making, and husband- 
 catching, they sometimes proceed to lengths 
 which might make persons, unacquainted 
 with genteel life, equally wonder at their 
 morals and their manners. 
 
 These two ladies had many secret con- 
 sultations, and a variety of private meet- 
 ings. 
 
 At
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 8$ 
 
 A length Mrs. Longlangs came with the 
 glad tidings, that she at last had been lucky 
 enough to meet with a man, who seemed 
 to be the only one in the world who was 
 a fit match for the lovely Martina. By a 
 fit match for Martina, the good Mrs. Long- 
 langs simply meant to say, that it would be 
 an advantageous one for the mother. 
 
 Edmund Godolphin, the son of Gover- 
 nor Godolphin, a rich nabob. in the Indies, 
 was the presumptive heir of the vast pro- 
 perty of his father. He had been sent to 
 England for his education, and was now 
 on the point of returning to India, a hand- 
 some, generous, liberal, noble-minded 
 young man. Mrs. Dives, without the least 
 hesitation, caught at this tempting bait. 
 The young gentleman was introduced to 
 Miss Dives, and subdued by her charms. 
 He had some qualifications, which the girl 
 no sooner saw than she loved ; and Francis, 
 thinking it an advantageous match, though 
 his heart bled at the thought of parting 
 E 6 with
 
 8 4 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 with her, considered it as his duty to com- 
 ply ; more particularly as his unlucky spe- 
 culation with Doublepop had put it out of 
 his power to ever hope to give her that 
 fortune he had vainly flattered himself 
 with the idea of bestowing on her. 
 
 By the consent of all parties, with the 
 exception of the girl herself, Edmund Go- 
 dolphin was received into the family as the 
 man destined to be the husband of the 
 lovely Martina; and Mrs.Longlangs receiv- 
 ed the grateful thanks of all for her inde- 
 fatigable industry in bringing about so 
 happy an event. 
 
 As Godolphin, in addition to the attrac- 
 tions of his fortune, had many personal, 
 and some mental acquirements, he found 
 no great difficulty in gaining the consent 
 of Martina to their union. 
 
 There is said to be a peculiar charm in 
 the number three ; we therefore advise 
 
 every
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 8$ 
 
 every man, addressing the woman of his 
 heart, to try three times, before he con- 
 siders a negative as a positive refusal — it 
 is only giving a lady a fair chance. Every 
 one was joyous ; the mirth of the father 
 was mingled with some sadness at the near 
 prospect of losing his child. The mother, 
 happy to get rid of a rival, an expence, and 
 an incumbrance at the same time^ set no 
 bounds to her festivity. The nuptial ce- 
 remony, by the unanimous consent of all 
 parties, was to take place in a short time ; 
 and nothing could exceed the overstrained 
 attentions of Mrs. Dives to her daughter 
 and her intended. 
 
 Francis, however, who had something 
 manly in his nature, and could not brook 
 the idea of a man's marrying his daughter 
 under the idea of finding her a fortune, 
 and afterwards experiencing a grievous 
 disappointment, determined to set him 
 right in this particular. 
 
 Mrs,
 
 86 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 Mrs. Dives earnestly conjured him not 
 to say anything on the subject ; but re- 
 solving that no one should ever treat his 
 darling as an impostor, he formed the reso- 
 lution of acquainting his intended son-in- 
 law with the whole truth, and this resolve 
 he put into immediate execution. 
 
 Edmund, who never had loved Martina 
 but for herself alone, expressed himself 
 willing to receive the object of his affections 
 without a guinea. 
 
 The father was pleased at his liberality, 
 but admired it in silence ; while mama 
 poured forth a torrent of praise and admi- 
 ration too strained to be of value, and too 
 hyperbolical to be pleasing. 
 
 In a plain tale like this, we are forced to 
 hurry on the action of the fable as rapidly 
 as we can. Were we to interlard every 
 incident we have to' relate with reflections, 
 sentiments, moralisings, and explications, 
 
 we
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY- 87 
 
 we might swell a work to eight or nine 
 volumes, much perchance to our own en- 
 tertainment, but we doubt whether the 
 purchaser would be equally diverted with 
 ourselves. 
 
 Edmund and Martina then were shortly 
 as enamoured and impassioned as two 
 young people could possibly be, and the 
 gentleman often pressed the object of his 
 affections to name the happy day. The 
 daughter referred him to her parents. 
 
 Francis would have left it entirely to the 
 young people ; but there was a cautious 
 policy about mama, which ever deferred 
 coming to a decisive point. She always 
 wished every one connected with her to 
 conceive themselves under obligations to 
 her, and, by putting off a match (herself 
 had courted) from day to day, she ima- 
 gined she should confer a most prodigious 
 favour upon Godolphin, when she at last 
 should deign to signify her consent. 
 
 Godolphin
 
 88 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 Godolphin and Martina, in the mean 
 time, considered themselves as pledged to 
 each other by the most inviolable ties ; and 
 he wrote to India to the nabob, to inform 
 him that, on his return, he should present 
 him with a daughter-in-law. 
 
 The day of marriage was at last named. 
 
 Godolphin, animated with the most 
 glowing anticipations of coming joy, made 
 every requibite preparation for the ensuing 
 ceremony. All was parties, sunshine, and 
 smiles, till one fatal evening Edmund 
 knocked at the door of Mr. Dives. The 
 servant hesitated, but at length owned that 
 the ladies were at home. 
 
 Edmund rushed up stairs, and found 
 Martina pale, her eyes filled with tears, and 
 leaning her head on her hand. When she 
 saw him, she attempted to speak ; but pas- 
 sion choaked her utterance, and she could 
 
 only
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. Bg 
 
 only exclaim, in an inarticulate sob, " Oh 
 " God, Mr. Godolphin I" 
 
 " Mr. Godolphin! — For heaven's sake, 
 " my dear Martina, what has your Edmund 
 •* done to merit so cold an appellation ? 
 " What mean those tears ? Why do you 
 " draw back your hand ? Is not that hand 
 " mine ? mine by every sanction human 
 46 and divine; ratified on earth, and pledged 
 " in Heaven I" 
 
 " In heaven, in heaven !" wildly shriek- 
 ed the poor girl, and rushing out of the 
 room, left Edmund trembling with horror, 
 and transfixed with surprise. 
 
 Mrs. Dives now entered, her brow cloud- 
 ed, and her mouth pursed up. 
 
 Edmund perceived that some fatal secret 
 was about to burst into light, his lip qui- 
 vered, and his knees knocked against each 
 other. 
 
 Mrs.
 
 9<& VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Mrs. Dives commenced the conversation 
 with perfect calmness ; told him she had 
 something to communicate, which, she 
 feared, would much agitate him, but that 
 she was bound to perform her duty. She 
 ended, by informing him that he and her 
 daughter must think of each other no more. 
 
 " Eternal God!" cried the thunder- 
 struck lover — " Am I awake ?. Have I my 
 " senses ¥* 
 
 ** That is a matter of doubt with me, 
 " Mr. Edmund ; but / have* You are not 
 " the person who proposed for my daugh- 
 " ter : the claims which weighed in your 
 u favor are now by right another s. Your 
 M father is no more, and has acknowledged 
 " a son by a marriage prior to his union 
 " with your mother ." 
 
 Edmund clasped his hands in an agony, 
 and exclaimed — " Is this true ? Is it pos- 
 " sible I" 
 
 « You
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 9 1 
 
 " You will find it so, Mr. Edmund. A 
 " gentleman will be with you this evening 
 " who will expound the mystery. Your 
 " elder brother is now in London. I have 
 " seen him, conversed with him, have known 
 " him for years." 
 
 " But, great Heavens ! madam, if this 
 " dreadful truth should be confirmed, must 
 " the sins of the father be visited on the 
 " devoted head of his miserable son ? Mar- 
 " tina is my bride, my — " 
 
 " Hold, Sir ; — remember the contract 
 " fails on your side. You proposed for her 
 u as a man who could make a settlement on 
 " her agreeable to the wishes of her father 
 " and myself; we have writings to that 
 " effect in the house." 
 
 " And my affection '* 
 
 " I do not doubt ; but it is my duty to 
 " guard the welfare of my family. I would 
 
 " not
 
 2 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " not shock you ; but, as the lover of our 
 " daughter, you can never again be re- 
 " ceived under this roof." 
 
 Are you serious ?' 
 Most solemnly so, 
 
 wv 
 
 " Then misery is the portion of Mar. 
 u tina ; and hell has no torments equal to 
 " my — my brain rocks ! — my head turns ! 
 " — Send to me within an hour to tell me 
 " you recall your fatal sentence, or expect 
 " to be racked with horrors, equal, if pos- 
 " sible, to the torments which convulse me 
 " now." 
 
 He darted to the stairs, was from the 
 top to the bottom in a second, and flew 
 raving into the street. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 93 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Appearance of the real heir of Governor Godolphin— 
 His siory — Is struck tvith Martina — Proposals to 
 her mother — they are accepted — Hears of Edmund's 
 passion — his conduct thereon — Martina is missing 
 — Her letter — Edmund's appearance — Flies in 
 search of his love — The rage of Mrs. Dives — The 
 agonies of a father. 
 
 1 HE moment that the fever in his brain 
 subsided, he rushed home to await the ar- 
 rival of the messenger who was to explain 
 the fatal mystery. 
 
 Hope began to dawn upon his mind. 
 His father had ever been accounted a man 
 of the strictest honor, of the most unsul- 
 lied integrity : he had been affectionate to 
 his mother, indulgent to himself. 
 
 He had sent him to London under the 
 
 care
 
 94 Virtuous poverty. 
 
 care of Sandford, his earliest friend, to be 
 educated ; and the sums he had allowed 
 him at college, and since his quitting the 
 university, had been so large, as to put it 
 out of the power of any one to doubt his 
 being the acknowledged heir of an im- 
 mense fortune. 
 
 Sandford, the guide of his youth, was 
 now absent : a rooted consumption had 
 made a voyage to Lisbon necessary for his 
 health. He had never hinted a suspicion 
 of this fatal nature — how did he long for 
 his presence, his advice, and his consola- 
 tion ! 
 
 A knock came at the door — his heart 
 beat quick — his servant announced a name 
 that filled him with gloomy terror—it was 
 that of Donald Garvie, the faithful old 
 Scotch servant of Sandford. " My friend 
 ** then is no more," cried he to himself; 
 " the honest companion of his travels 
 <c comes to inform me that he has perished 
 
 " on
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. (55 
 
 * c on the voyage ; and the only man who 
 u could vindicate the fame of a wronged 
 " father, and the happiness of his wretch- 
 if ed son, lies buried on a foreign land !" 
 
 The entrance of Donald put an end to 
 his conjectures. He bad him not be too 
 agitated, but he came to announce the ar- 
 rival of his master. 
 
 Joy sparkled, in flashes of the most vivid 
 fire, through the animated eyes of Godol- 
 phin : he felt assured of victory, and all 
 his terrors were dispelled. 
 
 The venerable Sandford entered, and he 
 was in an instant locked in the arms of his 
 old friend and guardian. 
 
 Edmund immediately asked to know the 
 cause of his return. Sandford wished to 
 wave the subject till the next morning ; 
 but his young ward, conjuring him as he 
 valued his peace, his happiness, and his 
 
 reason.
 
 g6 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 reason, which were all, that moment , at the 
 issue, to deal explicitly with him. Sand- 
 ford waved his hand to Donald, who, for 
 a moment, gazed wistfully at the young 
 man with eyes suffused in tears; then sigh- 
 ed, bowed, and retired. Edmund rivetted 
 his own countenance on that of Sandford j 
 it spoke volumes. 
 
 He grasped the hand of his guardian, 
 and solemnly conjured him to go on. 
 
 " I have not proceeded farther than 
 " Paris," said he. " I have been detained 
 u there by letters from your father." 
 
 " He lives, then ?" (eagerly J. 
 
 The guardian shook his head, and pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 " He died suddenly ; but, with his dying 
 " breath, committed to my charge a secret. 
 <c My dear Edmund* be a man ! — be firm ! 
 
 " — my
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 97 
 
 u — my fortune is a trifle \ but you shall be 
 " my son." 
 
 Edmund fell before him on his knees 
 in an agony of passion, and begged him, 
 for God's sake, to relieve him from the 
 horrors of doubt by one short word— 
 " Was my father married before he saw 
 " my mother 7" 
 
 " Be collected — he was." 
 
 Edmund tried to be composed. He was 
 on the point of fainting, when a heavy per- 
 spiration, bursting in large beads from his 
 forehead, gave him relief. He wiped the 
 cold drops away with his handkerchief, 
 and then begged his guardian to let him 
 know all the fatal truth at once. 
 
 Sandford put a letter into his hands, 
 and, with many a heavy sigh, he read as 
 follows : 
 
 Vol. II. F « TV*
 
 gS VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " To Charles Sakdeord. 
 '" My frequent attacks tell me, my dear 
 " Charles, that your friend will shortly be 
 " no more. I once thought that I could 
 " have met death as firmly as the recorded 
 " heroes of antiquity. On the subject of 
 " religion we always differed. Attracted 
 u by the tinselled sentiments of atheists 
 " and free-thinkers, / imagined that I had 
 " surmounted prejudices, which the wise 
 " and the good have acknowledged in their 
 " lives , and the daring and the bad have 
 " trembled at in their deaths, I have ne- 
 " glected the moral duties in my life ; and, 
 " I fear, must want the consolations they 
 " can bestow in my death. This letter, my 
 " dear Charles, will be long : it must be 
 " serious— it may probably be the last I 
 " shall ever write to you, and lay it to 
 " your heart. 
 
 <c At school we were one ; the bonds of 
 iQ friendship united our hearts. Our early 
 
 " wishes
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 99 
 
 " wishes were as opposite as our past for- 
 " tunes have since been. You admired the 
 " peaceful virtues, and sighed for the phi- 
 " losophical and dignified life, you have 
 " led with credit to yourself, and dignity 
 " to human nature. You were content 
 "'with your paternal fortune, small as it 
 " was ; and have passed your life with all 
 " the virtue, without the folly, of a hermit, 
 " in the midst of a vicious metropolis. 
 " My fate made me a soldier, and my dar- 
 " ing designs confirmed my father's choice. 
 "You well know that, since my arrival in 
 " India, I have amassed a large fortune: 
 " you have ever paid me the compliment 
 " of supposing, that it could not be gained 
 " by dishonest means. No, by my soul f 
 " — not a guinea in my possession was 
 " ever earned by the groan of a slave, or 
 " the tear of an orphan ! Yet have I crimes 
 "to disclose, which have ever weighed 
 " heavy on my heart — crimes which I have 
 " never dared to hint to you before, be- 
 " cause I knew that you would break off 
 F 2 " every
 
 I.OO VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " every connection with the wretch who 
 " had been base enough to practise them : 
 " I knew they were discordant to your 
 " principles, repugnant to your very nature: 
 " but the same feelings, which made me 
 " dread your resentment ', make me confide 
 " in your justice. Yes, Charles, a solemn 
 " act of justice now remains to be perform- 
 " ed, and I lay myself the victim of ab- 
 " horrence at your feet that this sacred 
 " duty may be fulfilled. 
 
 u On my first joining my regiment, I 
 " became acquainted with a young man of 
 " the name of Lieutenant Melford : we 
 ce were then very young, and kept each 
 " other countenance in every irregularity. 
 " We were quartered at the town of Be- 
 " verly, in Yorkshire, and, at an assembly 
 41 there, both fell desperately in love with 
 u a beautiful female of the name of Jane 
 " Alston. 1 must be brief on this painful 
 " subject, as the bare remembrance shocks 
 " me. She had been left an orphan by her 
 
 " father
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 10 I 
 
 * father (a respectable physician, who had 
 " retired from business), and lived on a 
 <c mere trifle bequeathed her from the 
 " fruits of her parents industry. She was 
 " not above one and twenty, lovely, ten- 
 " der, and virtuous. I found that I was 
 " making some progress in her affections, 
 
 * and once, in a moment of intoxication, 
 " made her a proposal too brutal to be re- 
 " peated. I was repulsed with scorn. The 
 " agonies I afterwards felt were no com-- 
 
 * pensation for the crime T had attempted. 
 " I wished to make her amends, by offer- 
 " ing her an honorable reparation ; but 
 " this I dreaded to put into execution, as 
 " I knew I should forfeit, by such a step, 
 " the connection of an uncle, who was so- 
 " licking the place in India by which I have 
 " since acquired my riches. Perceiving, 
 " however, that Melford had no such 
 u scruples ; and, that I might lose her for 
 " ever, I was worked up by jealousy to an 
 " act which integrity should have suggested. 
 " I proposed a private marriage. She 
 
 F 3 " really
 
 102 VIP.TUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 * c really loved me ; and, though all alive 
 " to genuine purity, cared but little for the 
 <c opinion of the world. She sacrificed all 
 " but her honor to my interests, and we 
 " were privately married. When the cere- 
 " mony was performed, I acquainted Mel- 
 " ford with what I had done : he was 
 " angry for some days, but at length ac- 
 " knowledged that the beauty of the ob- 
 " ject was an apology for the action, and 
 " swore to preserve the secret till the death 
 " of my powerful relative. 
 
 " I shortly after gained my appoint- 
 ** ment, and was compelled to leave my 
 " lovely girl in a state of pregnancy, un- 
 " der the guardianship of Melford. He 
 u removed her to an obscure cottage, where 
 " she died in bringing a boy into the 
 " world. When the news reached me in 
 " India, let me own, with shame, that I 
 " did not much lament the death of my 
 " angel. Ambitious projects had succeed- 
 " ed to the transports of affection, and I 
 
 " wished
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. IC3 
 
 " wished to conceal my former connec- 
 " tions from my friends and all mankind. 
 4C Melford had married ; I sent him a sum 
 " of money, and promised to remit him 
 " further assistance, if he would acknow- 
 " ledge the child as his own. He prevailed 
 " on his wife to countenance this vile 
 " scheme : they took the child from the 
 " ignorant woman where he had been 
 ''nursed, retired into the country for a 
 " few years, and, on their return, easily 
 " passed off my rightful heir as their own 
 " offspring. I went on, heaping wealth 
 " for eighteen years after this : then, like 
 " too many other foolish men, married a 
 " woman young enough to be my daugh- 
 " ter. She conducted herself with pro- 
 " priety, but was every way the inferior 
 " of my first wife. By her I had poor Ed- 
 " mund, who will feel severely the sad 
 " narrative of a father's shame ; but if he 
 - u is the noble youth I trust Charles Sand- 
 " ford has formed him, though he may 
 F 4 " upbraid
 
 *04 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 '" upbraid my memory, he will applaud my 
 "justice" 
 
 " I do, I must" here sobbed out the un- 
 happy young man, who had often stopped 
 to weep, and sighed over this momentous 
 epistle. He struggled, and read on. 
 
 " The reputed parents of my eldest son 
 * died, after giving him an education for 
 " the law ; the expences of which I de- 
 * c frayed. I also remitted him a sum of 
 " money as a fortune, consoling myself 
 " with the idea, that I had thus done my 
 " duty by him. Barbarian that I was! not 
 " to consider that, by denying him the 
 " protecting aid of a parent, I had robbed 
 <c him of one of the most invaluable bless- 
 " ings of humanity ! Oh, Charles ! how 
 " did my heart bleed, when I heard, by 
 *' accident, that my boy, cast on the ocean 
 " of life without rudder or compass, un- 
 " assisted by the watchful anxiety of a fa- 
 
 " ther
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I05 
 
 " ther and mother, had been exposed to 
 " every vice and every villainy ! with a 
 " naturally good understanding, with a 
 " noble heart, but no one to direct their 
 " conduct, had fallen into the nets of fa- 
 " shionable sharpers ! imitated their vices 
 " without feeling them, and made himself 
 " ridiculous, with every qualification to 
 " be an ornament to the world ! from a 
 " generous effort of friendship, led to the 
 " brink of suicide ! no father to snatch 
 " him from the gulf of perdition ! to di- 
 " rect or to console him ! but preserved 
 " from a crime which would have con- 
 " demned his soul to everlasting torments, 
 " by the accidental and providential inter- 
 " ference of a stranger! Oh, horror! hor- 
 " ror ! My agonising conscience convulses 
 u my hand as I write my iniquities ! What 
 " then remains to wipe away the enormity 
 " of my sins ? Justice, only justice. 
 
 " You must seek out the wronged Ti- 
 
 * bullus — in my name implore his pardon, 
 
 F ? " and
 
 J06 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " and obtain his forgiveness. The papers 
 " I convey with this letter, will put him 
 " in possession of my fortune at my death. 
 " Console and comfort my poor Edmund, 
 " who has now no parent left. One thou- 
 c: sand pounds I bequeath him ; it is all my 
 " conscience and my justice will allow me 
 " to do. If his brotbe: is a generous man, 
 " I hope and trust his liberality will supply 
 " the rest. Edmund would not wish his 
 " father to die a robber and a villain. 
 
 " This letter has been written at many 
 " different periods. r i he painful secret is 
 <: at length opened to a friend who has 
 " revered me for. years. Oh, Sandford I 
 " Pity ! pity and forgive me ! My physi- 
 < : cian tells me my complaints will soon be 
 " at a period. I could have wished to have 
 c had you at my bed-side at the aw T ful 
 * s moment ; but how could such a wretch 
 <• have looked upon your honest face ? My 
 " agent will transmit .this letter to you 
 " with all my papers, which you are mo.rt 
 
 " solemnly
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I07 
 
 cc solemnly encharged to convey to Tibul- 
 " lus (when I am no more) with your own 
 " hands. Adieu ! Heaven bless you ! and 
 " inspire you with forgiveness ! May my 
 " sons love, protect, and assist each other; 
 " and may each of them prove a better 
 " man than the dying 
 
 Barbadoes. " Godolphin." 
 
 This letter had been conveyed to Sand- 
 ford ; he found it at Paris with the will 
 and the papers. His love for Edmund, to 
 whom he had been guardian from the days 
 of his childhood, cost him many a struggle; 
 but the call of justice was imperious. He 
 thought Governor Godolphin had been 
 too rigid in his retributions, and that an 
 equal division of his property would have 
 been the fairest mode of satisfying his 
 wounded conscience ; but he knew it to 
 be the nature of man to run into extremes. 
 
 ! He sighed for the frail condition of.hu- 
 _, F 6 inanity,
 
 108 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 manity, but duty was paramount to every 
 other consideration. 
 
 He stayed at Paris some time after the 
 papers, with a letter from the Governor's 
 agent, which announced the death of old 
 Godolphin, had reached him. He then 
 came to London ; had seen Tibullus the 
 evening before ; and now, with an aching 
 heart, communicated the sad news to his 
 ward. 
 
 Language faints under the task of de- 
 scribing the grief and agitation of this un- 
 happy child of sorrow ! Not knowing how 
 to direct to Sandford, whom he had sup- 
 posed on his passage to Lisbon, he had not 
 been able to acquaint his guardian with the 
 story of his love. He had now to inform 
 him of it : a more dreadful task remained 
 behind. 
 
 Tremble, ye seducers! while I relate that, 
 
 agitated
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. IO9 
 
 agitated by the continual delays of Mrs. 
 Dives, his passions inflamed by her unne- 
 cessary and selfish delays, Edmund, in a 
 rash hour, when honor slumbered on its 
 post, and nought but love and tenderness 
 were waking, had taken advantage of the 
 weakness of Martina, and planted the 
 thorns of eternal remorse in her heart and 
 his own ! 
 
 Pause, ye libertines ! on this fatal pas- 
 sage, when ye flatter yourselves with the 
 -weak hope of making future restitution: 
 remember that, when the avenging: demon 
 of guilt tears your heart-strings, the pro- 
 mised retribution may be no longer in 
 your power ! 
 
 " Curse me !" cried Edmund, when he 
 had unfolded the fatal secret. — " If my 
 "father dreaded the anger of Sandford, 
 " what must then become of meV* 
 
 The good man clasped his hands toge- 
 ther
 
 a I O " POVERTY. 
 
 ther in an agar \ oi . orrow. Several mi- 
 serable b it uefore the guar- 
 dian and his ward retired to rest. 
 
 . TibulUiSp the acknowledged heir of Go- 
 dolphin, had, by the kindness of Hay ward, 
 got rid of all his former follies, and attained 
 to honor and distinction at the bar, where 
 he was now a rising example of what ta- 
 lent and perseverance are able to effect in 
 that most truly liberal profession. Here, 
 to his joy and surprise, he was greeted with 
 his unexpected piece of good fortune. 
 
 . Tibullus had often met Martina at public 
 assemblies with her mother, and, pene- 
 trated by her charms, had forgot the in- 
 juries he had formerly suffered from Miss 
 Panther and her brother ; and, eager for 
 an opportunity of observing the irresistible 
 graced and virtues of the daughter, had 
 made overtures of peace to the r,iothcr' 9 
 which had been accepted. 
 
 Though
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. JI] 
 
 Though he was rising in professional 
 emolument, he still knew that his fortune 
 was far short of what the avaricious mind 
 of Mrs. Dives would expect, and deter- 
 mined to struggle on till he could offer 
 such a settlement as he knew would speak 
 with the most prevailing eloquence. 
 
 The unexpected riches, which had now 
 fallen upon him, shortened his labors ; and, 
 with the impetuosity of a lover, he (lew to 
 . Dives, laid open the whole transac- 
 tion, and solicited the hand of Martina two 
 hours after he had received the welcome 
 intelligence. 
 
 The wary mother received him with 
 smiles, complied with his desires, and, in 
 that compliance, laid the scene of all the 
 misery I have been just describing. 
 
 The bait was too tempting even for 
 Francis, and he joined his wife in sternly 
 forbidding his weeping daughter ever more 
 
 to
 
 112 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 to think of the abandoned and unhappy 
 Edmund, 
 
 TibuIIus was revelling in all the fond 
 dreams of successful love and prosperous 
 fortune, when, on his return to his lodg- 
 ings, a servant informed him that a gen- 
 tleman was in his apartment who would 
 take no denial, but had insisted on remain- 
 ing there till his return. 
 
 Shocked at this rudeness, which he sup^ 
 posed to proceed from some ill-mannered 
 client, he walked angrily into his room. 
 
 A figure stood before him which he had 
 not seen for some years. 
 
 His throbbing heart acknowledged the 
 preserver of his life — the author of his 
 prosperity — it was Peter Hay ward ! 
 
 Tibullus asked him, " Why he had been 
 " so long absent, and why thus sudden in 
 " his appearance ?"
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 13 
 
 The old man replied, " that his life was 
 " getting short ; he had no time to lose 
 " in ceremonies ; that he was come to town 
 " on business which concerned none but 
 " himself ; but having by chance met with 
 " Mr. Sandford (a worthy man he had 
 " known many years ago), he had learned 
 " what had passed, and was come to know 
 " how he meant to act by his unhappy 
 " brother ?" 
 
 The lawyer was hurt by his suspicion. 
 * c I will share our father's wealth with 
 " him/' cried he \ his eye beaming with 
 sensibility. 
 
 " 'Tis right — 'tis just — 'tis generous. 
 cc But you have a sacrifice to make more 
 " painful, but more noble — a sacrifice more 
 " trying to the human heart, yet more ho- 
 " norable to the dignity of human reason 
 " than any that imagination can suggest — 
 " in one word, you must resign your pre- 
 " tensions to Martina." 
 
 Tibullus
 
 114 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Tibullus turned pale. 
 
 " You are a guardian, a practiser of the 
 " God-like attributes of law and justice ! 
 " Would you then degrade your sacred 
 " functions, and violate every law human 
 V and divine ? force a young woman to 
 " the most dreadful and lasting perjury? 
 " trample on the sacred codes of nature ? 
 •* She loves your brother, is betrothed to 
 " him. Tibullus, you are my friend, prove 
 " yourself worthy of that title." 
 
 He then unfolded the whole of the fatal 
 history he had heard from Sandford. 
 
 Tibullus hesitated. 
 
 " Can you then," sternly exclaimed 
 Hayward, " hesitate between honor and 
 " infamy ? I have mistaken you ; farewell 
 " for ever." 
 
 He darted an angry look at him, and 
 
 was
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. $I£ 
 
 i 
 
 was making towards the door. Tibullus 
 dropped on his knee, and passionately cried 
 out : — " Stay, Hayward ! — friend of my 
 "woes! — preserver of my life! — more 
 " than father, stay ! — / make, the sacrifice. 
 " Be Martina my brother's, and be Hay* 
 " ward still my father." 
 
 " Thine is the triumph, honor !" shout- 
 eel Hayward, as he pressed him to his 
 bosom. 
 
 Not a moment was lost: the old man 
 hastened to Mrs. Dives, and told her all 
 that had taken place. As the raoney, and 
 not the man 9 was her object, she readily 
 agreed that Edmund should be received 
 again into her family as the intended hus- 
 band of Martina. 
 
 The poor girl had been confined with a 
 brain fever to her chamber, and was so ill, 
 that it was thought necessary to keep the 
 good news from her till her health was re- 
 established.
 
 Il6 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 established. She had talked wildly in her 
 delirium, but her parents were yet igno~ 
 rant of the fatal cause of her malady. 
 
 The good Sandford was entrusted with 
 the care of letting in this day-dawn of joy 
 upon the benighted mind of Edmund. He 
 did it gently, but solemnly. For seduction 
 he had a natural horror, which could not 
 be eradicated by modern philosophers, nor 
 by German dramas. He believed in a just 
 Providence, and knew the vengeance that 
 Providence had denounced on such crimes. 
 
 Edmund listened to him with peniten- 
 tial tears and awful reverence. 
 
 Hay ward soon after conducted his young 
 friend to the presence of his brother. The 
 meeting was affecting. They vowed eter- 
 nal friendship ; and their two grey-headed 
 benefactors wept at the triumph of nature 
 over interest — a triumph splendid as it is 
 rare. 
 
 A few
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. II7 
 
 A few mornings afterwards, in compli- 
 ance with the unwearied solicitations of 
 young Edmund, Hayward consented to 
 accompany him to the house of Francis to 
 enquire after the health of his ill-fated 
 daughter. 
 
 The servant, who opened the door, ap- 
 peared in confusion. A cold chill shot 
 through the heart of the lover — they were 
 shewn into a parlour — hurried steps were 
 heard on the stairs — they were those of 
 Francis. He rushed into the room, pale, 
 wild, and trembling. 
 
 " Oh God," shrieked Edmund, " is she 
 " then dead ?" 
 
 " Worse ! worse ! Oh, much worse ! 
 " My girl last night left my house ; left it 
 " in illness. Her reason had returned — 
 " we thought her well — she knew me — 
 " wept on my hand — pressed her fevered 
 
 " cheek
 
 t i 5 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " cheek to mine — called me her dear fa- 
 " ther — and this itfornirig tfre door was 
 <c found open- — she was gone, no one knows 
 " whither — Oh 5 my girl, my child ! my 
 ** child !" He sunk into a chair and sobbed 
 like an infant. 
 
 All was silent horror. 
 
 The dreadful pause was broke by Mrs. 
 Dives, who rushed into the room with a 
 paper she had ju t found in Martina's room. 
 Her eyes were carting out of her head, 
 and she could not speak for passion. 
 
 No one had power to open the billet but 
 Hayward, who took it with a tremulous 
 hand, and read as follows : 
 
 " TO MY DEAR PARENTS. 
 
 *< Reason has returned, would it had 
 '• never done so ! Oh, Heaven ! I can never 
 " again look you in the face : seek not to 
 
 " trace
 
 K. 
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. ny 
 
 trace my steps. I would die for your 
 happiness ; but indeed, indeed, I can 
 never see you more. God bless youl" 
 
 It was written with a pencil on a leaf 
 of her pocket-book. 
 
 Francis stared wildly around him, and" 
 caught the eye of Godoiphin. The young 
 man dropped on his knee, and stammer- 
 ing out, 
 
 " Curse the seducer of your child !'* 
 
 fainted on the spot. 
 
 When he recovered he was raving ; and 
 it was as much as Hayward and a servant 
 could effect to drag him into a coach. 
 
 " Ill-fated woman," cried Francis, stern- 
 ly regarding his wife, " behold the effects 
 " of your boasted policy 1 Have I then 
 " struggled for wealth and honors for this ? 
 " "What does the sum amount to ? I have 
 
 " broken
 
 120 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " broken the heart of a mother, I have 
 " wedded selfish pride, neglected every so- 
 " cial duty, destroyed every domestic joy 
 " for money, and now I am ( rewarded! 
 " Briarly too ; his curse rings in my ear : 
 " it was prophetic. I now feel in my turn 
 u what it is to have a child seduced : Hea- 
 M ven is just J" 
 
 Mrs. Dives answered with bitterness, 
 rage, and reviling. Francis breathed a 
 groaning prayer for the recovery of his 
 child, and his amiable consort swore she 
 would never see, speak to^ or look at her 
 egain.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 BOOK IP\ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 in winch the Author has it all to himself for remarks y 
 that those who are eager for the story may pass over 
 — The shortest chapter in the work. 
 
 ATTENTION for just two pages and a 
 half, if you please, courteous reader! I 
 had very little of the talk to myself in the 
 last book, and think I may now, with some 
 reason, ask to be heard quietly for a few 
 moments, just while I make a promise. 
 
 In the course of these volumes, I should 
 
 be happy to amuse the reader if I could ; 
 
 Vol. If, G but
 
 122 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 but hitherto I have wished, and to the end 
 of my last chapter I shall still desire to 
 make amusement subservient to a nobler, a 
 greater end. I would aspire to rouse pas- 
 sions in the human heart of a more lasting 
 and superior nature. I would inculcate 
 (through the more amusing medium of a 
 romance) the serious truths — 
 
 " That God isjush 
 
 " That Providence is <wise" 
 
 If thou callest such a design by the name 
 of sermonising, throw away my book ! 
 
 I repeat once more, that I will scatter 
 amusement where I can ; but, in the same 
 time, I will shew avarice, violence, injus* 
 tice, and oppression, in their true colors. 
 
 I solemnly disclaim a personal attack on 
 any real character, man, woman, or child. 
 
 The pictures I draw are taken from the 
 common characters of the world. If any 
 
 one
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 12^ 
 
 one should challenge an unmeant portrait 
 for his own, I can only pity, I can not help 
 him* 
 
 General satire is a skilful surgeon — perso- 
 nal satire is a bungling butcher. 
 
 G 2 CHAP.
 
 1 24 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Fraternal love — The decay of a rich man — A bank- 
 ruptcy — Domestic joy — Discord — An exit — Fault- 
 less monster — Creditors — A spunging-house — A 
 retrospect of violated duties — Scenes in a prison- 
 Amusements and consolations for debtors — Retired 
 distress — A female — Odd person described — A ge- 
 nerous lawyer — Detain ders — An unexpected visitor 
 •"-who and what — A scene of an uncommon kind 
 —An exclamation, 
 
 AT the end of the last book we left young 
 Godolphin in the care of Hay ward, who 
 gave him up to the affectionate attentions 
 of Sandford, and his brother Tibullus, who 
 watched him during his illness with all 
 the zeal of fraternal love. 
 
 The active charity of Hayward demand- 
 manded his presence in the country, and 
 he was well pleased to leave the unhappy 
 young man in such good hands. 
 
 The
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, I 25 
 
 The reader, I hope, will feel the same 
 satisfaction, while we return to the afflict- 
 ed father of the fair fugitive. 
 
 Day after day rolled heavily on, and no 
 news of his lost child arrived to gladden 
 the heart of the miserable Francis. 
 
 He advertised her, and solicited her re- 
 turn in the most affectionate manner, but 
 all in vain! Gloomy doubts, and dismal 
 terrors, laid hold of his disordered imagi- 
 nation. She left his house in a state of 
 illness. Who could tell but that her frenzy 
 had returned, and that she had been urged 
 to self-destruction ? This last idea was too 
 painful, and he felt his own brain wander- 
 ing while he gave way to it. 
 
 He had no consoling friend in his wife 
 to pluck the thorn from his heart. She 
 constantly reviled him with having loved 
 his daughter better than he had ever loved 
 her; and, to augment his domestic discon- 
 G 3 tent,
 
 126 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 tent, his affairs began to fall into decay* 
 He had entered into a large concern in a 
 manufactory, which had been prosperous 
 for many years, and almost made Mrs. 
 Dives amends for his ill fortune with the 
 young projector; but the war, which broke 
 out at that period, reversed the scene : 
 his business fell into decline, he could hard- 
 ly find work for his men, and his agent in 
 Manchester ran away many thousands in 
 arrear. This last fatal blow fell on him a 
 few days after the flight of Martina. A 
 heavy torpor then numbed his faculties, he 
 gave himself up to despair, his wife up- 
 braided his misconduct, and every thing 
 went wrong. 
 
 When the wheel of fortune begins to 
 turn against a man, it turns with incre- 
 dible velocity. Such was the case with the 
 ill-fated Francis. 
 
 In a year after his daughter had quitted 
 him, his name appeared in the Gazette. 
 
 He
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 12J 
 
 He had several creditors who obstinately- 
 refused to sign his certificate, and he lived 
 many months in all the apprehensions of 
 a goal. 
 
 He who, in the hour of distress, has a 
 partner to whom he can communicate his 
 sorrows, and form in her arms a little 
 world of his own, may bid defiance to cala- 
 mities ! The possession of a virtuous heart 
 is a fortress on which misfortune and op- 
 pression may batter in vain ! How bitter 
 the reverse ! when domestic discord poi- 
 sons the fountain of felicity, and aggra- 
 vates the necessary evils of life ! 
 
 This bitterness had Francis in a most 
 pre-eminent degree ! He and Mrs. Dives 
 had no remembrances of past endearments, 
 no recollection of former acts of benevo- 
 lence, no melting retrospection of former 
 gentle, soothing,mutual forbearance! They 
 had much to upbraid, but nothing to com- 
 fort each other with. Ye wedded ones ! in 
 G 4 the
 
 128 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 the hour of prosperity may this sad scent 
 be your warning, not to be neglectful of 
 each other's felicity. Should the hour of 
 distress ever obtrude upon your joys, by 
 looking back on former complacencies, you 
 will tear the rod from the hand of poverty, 
 and pour the day-break on the gloom of 
 the dungeon! Worn with the constant and 
 peevish reproaches of his wife, Francis ea- 
 gerly listened to an affectionate proposal 
 she made him of deserting him in his dis- 
 tresses, and going to reside with her distant 
 relation, the Lady Twiddle, who had kindly 
 offered her an asylum in this wreck of the 
 fortunes of her husband. 
 
 As they met without affection, they 
 parted without tenderness, and the lady 
 was admitted as an humble friend into the 
 mansion of her rich cousin, where, by her 
 servility, adulation, and affected attach- 
 ment to the family into which she had 
 wormed herself, under the most apparent 
 humility she soon became the principal per- 
 sonage
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, I2Q. 
 
 sonage in the house, and governed the 
 whole family according to her own inte- 
 rests and caprices. The reader will be as 
 well pleased as I am to have little more to 
 do with this selfish, unfeeling, hypocritical 
 woman. 
 
 Faultless monsters may be pleasing to 
 the youthful reader; but if they make 
 him look for such characters in real life, 
 they will only mislead his judgment, and 
 lay him open to impositions from design- 
 ing men and women. He who reads a 
 number of volumes filled with perfect an- 
 gels, and mortal demi-gods, may, with as 
 much profit, and more amusement, peruse 
 the productions of Mrs. Bunch, 
 
 There were two of the creditors of Mr. 
 Dives, who were firmly persuaded that he 
 had friends who would rather pay the 
 money for him, than see him exposed to 
 the ignominy of a prison : with this im- 
 pression on their minds, they issued a writ 
 G 5 against.
 
 I30 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 ^against him, and he was conveyed to a 
 spunging-house. 
 
 He himself entertained hopes, that his 
 former acquaintance would not suffer this 
 last indignity to fall upon him ; but, alas ! 
 we may have a thousand acquaintances 
 without one friend ! A friend is a rare jewel 
 in any line of life ; among men in business 
 still more uncommon. It had been an 
 axiom transmitted to Francis by his fa- 
 ther, " that friendship has nothing to do with 
 " trade ;° a cold, callous precept, which 
 has sapped the foundations of honor, cha- 
 rity, and confidence. 
 
 It had been, however, so constantly in 
 the mouth of Francis, that he was more 
 grieved than surprised, when he found his 
 former arguments retorted upon himself. 
 
 The man who, in prosperity, has been 
 deaf to the necessities of others, has little 
 reason to tax the world with ingratitude, 
 
 if
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 131 
 
 if it looks on his difficulties with the same 
 air of indifference with which he himself 
 has stared upon the struggles of his fel- 
 lows :— 
 
 " In these cases, 
 " We still have justice here that we but teach ; 
 " Bloody instructions, which, being taugb f , return 
 " To plague th' inventor: this even-handed justice 
 " Commends the ingredients of ourpoison'd chalice 
 '* To our o<wn lips " Macbeth. 
 
 and such was the case with Francis Dives, 
 no.more the rich man. 
 
 " Had I," said he, " been wise, what 
 a woes had I avoided ? I might have kept 
 " St. Leger by my side, and, whatever 
 " had befallen me, one friend had been 
 " mine ! Had I been a good son, my con- 
 " science had been at rest ! Had I been an 
 " honest man, I had not, could not have 
 " been more poor than I now am ; and 
 " had been possessed of a wife, who, grate- 
 " ful for even an act of justice, would, in- 
 " stead of leaving me in my troubles, have 
 G 6 " lightened
 
 I32 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " lightened the load of my woes by shar- 
 " ing them with me ! Had I been a kind 
 " father, I had preferred the real happiness 
 " of my child to my own interested views; 
 " and, by giving her generously to the man 
 " of her choice, not only shielded her from 
 " sorrow, from shame, and, oh God! most 
 " probably from an untimely grave ! but 
 " had secured to myself a friend, and a 
 " son-in-law, who, in this trying hour, 
 " would have stood boldly forward in my 
 " cause. Fool that I have been! The truly 
 " generous are the wise, the avaricious are 
 " the short-sighted !" 
 
 These reflections came too late, and all 
 his applications proving fruitless, he was 
 lodged in the Fleet prison. A dull lethar- 
 gic melancholy here took fast possession of 
 Iris senses ; all that had passed over his 
 head within the last year seemed as a 
 dream. Ambition, hope, even avarice, the 
 most difficult of all passions to be extin- 
 guished, was dead within his heart : the 
 9 remembrance
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 33 
 
 remembrance of his daughter sometimes 
 roused him from his reverie, but it roused 
 him only to sensations of the most poig- 
 nant anguish. 
 
 He was treated with every lenity the 
 prison would allow of, and, under less me- 
 lancholy circumstances, might have been 
 as chearful as many other of the debtors, 
 who, except the want of liberty, seemed to 
 have every indulgence which could be 
 granted. 
 
 He here saw the great world in minia- 
 ture, as the debtor's side was crowded by 
 men of every rank, profession, and cha- 
 racter. Clubs were established, the glass 
 went jovially round, the bankrupt mer- 
 chant kept his hopes alive by the contem- 
 plation of future airy projects of wealth, 
 and the poet found, in the revision of his 
 own works, that comfortable satisfaction, 
 that complacent pleasure in his writings, 
 which the most diffident of authors must 
 
 feel,
 
 I34 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 feel, though he may sometimes have the 
 sense to keep it to himself. One unhappy- 
 pair alone, like Francis, kept themselves 
 confined to their own apartments. 
 
 A gentleman lived with his wife in the 
 closest retirement. 
 
 They were attended, during the day, by 
 a female of a peculiar figure and descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 Illness had confined the husband to his 
 chamber since the first arrival of Francis, 
 and this faithful domestic came to him 
 every morning, and waited on him with 
 an affectionate assiduity, which gained her 
 the admiration of every one in the prison, 
 as the roughness of her exterior gave but 
 little indication of the innate goodness of 
 her heart. 
 
 She was dressed in a soldier's jacket, 
 and a coarse blue petticoat : her stature 
 
 was
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1$$ 
 
 was robust, but she was well formed : she 
 wore an old hat, under which she display- 
 ed a countenance that seemed to have at- 
 tracted the whole malice of the goddess of 
 ill-luck, one side being marked with large 
 black grains, and the other disfigured by 
 the loss of an eye ; her middle teeth seem- 
 ed to have been violently knocked out, and 
 her nose appeared to have been levelled 
 with her face by the force of some despe- 
 rate blow. Under this uncouth appear- 
 ance lay buried a heart which would have 
 reflected honor on a court, or a ball-room. 
 
 It was well known that her exertions 
 alone had supported the poor gentleman 
 and his lady during his illness. 
 
 The story of this affectionate couple and 
 their servant, excited the interest and cu- 
 riosity of every one in the prison, and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Marlow were the objects of uni- 
 versal esteem and admiration to the whole 
 place. 
 
 The
 
 I$b VIRTUOUS POV£RTY. 
 
 The character which Francis heard of 
 them, inspired him with an eager wish for 
 their acquaintance. Disgusted with the 
 thoughtless levity of the crowd of beings 
 by whom he was surrounded, he longed 
 for the conversation of some rational being 
 — some gentle heart softened by kindred 
 sorrow ! In the hour of wealth he had ne- 
 glected the blessings of friendship, and 
 now began to perceive the value of the 
 treasure he had thus slighted : what would 
 he not now have given to have recalled 
 his conduct to St. Leger ? In this dreary 
 manner he passed his days: no sound of 
 joy struck upon his ear, no comfort enli- 
 vened his heart : he knew no transaction 
 of his fast life on which he could look back 
 with pleasure, and no hope lay in the per- 
 spective to animate him for the future : 
 his slight means were suffering a daily de- 
 crease, and a life of imprisonment was all 
 he had now to expect. Tibv.Ilus Godol- 
 phin generously supplied him with what 
 he stood in need of during his confine- 
 ment,
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 37 
 
 ment, but detainder on detainder came so 
 thick upon him, that it was out of the 
 power of the generous young lawyer, rich 
 as he was, to do more for him. Poor Ed- 
 mund, under the care of Sandford, remain- 
 ed a melancholy maniac. 
 
 One of the turnkeys informed Francis, 
 early one fine morning, that a stranger 
 desired to speak with him. Francis begged 
 he might be admitted. To his shame, 
 grief, and confusion, he beheld the coun- 
 tenance of the much injured Briarly ! His 
 robust features were saddened by sorrow, 
 and furrowed by time. They looked 
 mournfully at each other : the farmer ad- 
 vanced, stretched out his hard hand, and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " Reproach me ! revile me !" cried the 
 agitated Francis. " Oh, Briarly ! Briarly ! 
 " your curse has fallen heavily on my 
 " head, and I have suffered all the woes 
 
 " I brought
 
 I 38 VIRTUOUS POVERTY 
 
 I brought on you : I cannot ask you 
 to pardon me." 
 
 Briarly wiped away the iron tears that 
 rolled down his cheek. " Give me your 
 " hand," said he : " forget and forgive 
 ic is what we all ought to do. I do for- 
 " give thee with all my heart and soul ; 
 " and do thee forgive me ? When I was so 
 " wicked as to curse thee, tliee wast proud y 
 " thee wast rich. Sinner that I am, I did 
 " not mean to curse thy poor child. I was 
 " a wicked wretch for that, and God Al- 
 " mighty has punished me for it ; for, 
 " since I have heard what has happened, 
 " I have never known one happy hour. I 
 " did not pardon thy sins, and how can I 
 " hope that the Lord will ever pardon 
 " ?nine, sinner that I am !" 
 
 This was too much for Francis : he 
 clasped the farmer in his arms, and wept 
 like a child. The warm drops of penitence 
 
 fell
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 39 
 
 fell like rain from his eyes ; and, in this 
 flood of grief, he felt a something more 
 like joy than he had before experienced for 
 many a year. 
 
 Such is guilt-— such is repentance* 
 
 CHAP-
 
 140 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 An account — A penitent— A simile — A retreat — Two 
 simple maxims — A piece of chit-chat between an 
 author and a reader — Vengeance and pity — An offer 
 — A reflection — Children and money — A promise — 
 A caution — An escape — The use of a Bible — A 
 young woman — A natural child — The voice of na- 
 ture — Consolations — Nature the best teacher of 
 philosophy — Debtor and creditor — Different sorts 
 of beauty — Why a man should be older than his 
 wife — An appeal, 
 
 FROM Briarly he learned that, after bring- 
 ing a child into the world, the victim of 
 his perfidy had lived but a few months. 
 
 All endearments had proved fruitless to 
 recommend her to life. Time, which re- 
 conciles the more polished and more let- 
 tered to their vices, had only augmented 
 the sense of shame in her mind : she never 
 
 held
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 141 
 
 held up her head. When her child was 
 born, she commended the infant to the 
 care of the grandfather, but expressed a 
 satisfaction in the prospect of her own dis- 
 solution. An innate rectitude of heart 
 told her, that when the baby grew up, it 
 would be her duty to impress its mind with 
 sentiments of virtue — every lesson must 
 wring her own heart : she died a sincere 
 penitent. The precious charge she had 
 committed to the care of Briarly, had been 
 guarded for eighteen years as a sacred de- 
 posit. Beautiful as her mother, all his 
 cares centered in shielding her from the 
 ills which had destroyed her — in preserv. 
 ing the opening blossom from the piercing 
 blight which had nipped the parent rose 
 upon the stem. 
 
 The history of the fortunes of Briarly, 
 since the denunciation of the curse which 
 had been pronounced on the head of 
 Francis, may be soon related, and is neces- 
 sary to be told. 
 
 Haj ward
 
 t%t virtuous Poverty. 
 
 Hayward had religiously kept the pro- 
 mise he had made to Henry St. Leger, of 
 protecting the farmer and his daughter* 
 He carried them down to Wales, where he 
 settled Briarly in a romantic situation in 
 Caernarvonshire. His skill in farming, with 
 the assistance of his generous friend, soon 
 raised him to every comfort a broken 
 heart was capable of enjoying. Here his 
 daughter was sheltered ; here she died ; 
 here he bred up his grandchild with more 
 than a paternal anxiety. 
 
 It is but justice to the character of 
 Francis to state, that his wounded con- 
 science had often flown him in the face, 
 and that he had made frequent enquiries 
 after the unhappy victim of his perfidy ; 
 but the poor girl had too much real con- 
 trition to wish to see or hear more of him* 
 She had exacted a solemn promise from 
 Hayward never to mention the place of 
 her retreat, and had prevailed on her fa- 
 ther to take the name of Griffith. 
 
 Hayward
 
 "VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 43 
 
 Hay ward, who had resolved that none 
 x>f them should ever have the least occasion 
 for the bounty ', felt no difficulty in conceal- 
 ing the unhappy family from the knowledge 
 of Francis. 
 
 Some affairs had called Briarly to Lon- 
 don. He had greatly improved the arts 
 of agriculture around his farm, and was 
 forced to make a short visit to the metro* 
 polis for some materials of knowledge, by 
 which he hoped to be of service to the la- 
 borious part of the community for many 
 miles round him. Though a very unletter- 
 ed man, he was wise enough to know that 
 it was the duty of every human creature 
 to do as much good as he can, and though 
 his. was an humble province, he was resolved 
 not to neglect it. 
 
 He had suffered too much in the person 
 of a beloved child, not to be wary in leav- 
 ing his grand-daughter without a protector, 
 and therefore brought her up with him. 
 
 The
 
 144 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 The sudden fall of a man so well known 
 as a person of wealth as Francis had for- 
 merly been, was sure of making some 
 noise in the world, and the news reached 
 the ears of Briarly before he had been in 
 the metropolis two days. 
 
 The beautiful maxim of do good for evil, 
 is as simple as it is sublime. A capacity 
 much more dull than was that of an honest 
 farmer, may be capable of discerning this 
 amiable doctrine. 
 
 The Author of our mild relioion has 
 composed his legislations for the unlettered 
 as well as the learned. The peasant, who 
 has been taught these two simple precepts, 
 
 " Do unto others as thou wouldst that others 
 " should do unto thee" and " forgive us our 
 " trespasses, as we forgive them that lave 
 " trespassed against us" has acquired a stock 
 of knowledge adequate to every occasion 
 to which a man can be exposed at any 
 time, and in any situation. 
 
 Reader.
 
 a 
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 45 
 
 Reader. " Pray, Mr. Author, are you 
 writing a novel* or a sermon ? 
 
 Author. <c If I had abilities to write a 
 iC good sermon, I would not waste my time 
 " in a novel ; but, at present, my sermon 
 " is necessary to the facts in question." 
 
 Reader. " I can't see how.** 
 
 Author. " I will tell you, then. The 
 c: two maxims I have just quoted, had been 
 " early impressed on the mind of the far- 
 " mer, as sacred and inviolable duties from 
 " man to man : under a sense of injury, 
 " he had pronounced a heavy curse against 
 cc a fellow-creature. In the blindness of 
 " his passion, he had involved the innocent 
 " as well as the guilty, in the malediction 
 cc he had breathed : a terrible violation of 
 cc another moral duty was superadded to 
 <c his imprecation. 
 
 " The miseries he had so seriously in- 
 Vox. II. II « voked
 
 I46 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " voked upon his enemy were now come 
 '" to pass. Vengeance gave way to pity, 
 " and the christian trembled at the conduct 
 " of the man. Art thou satisfied ? No ! — 
 " but the farmer was : he resolved to ex- 
 " piate his fault. This sermon was neces- 
 " sary to explain the alteration in his sen- 
 " timents. 
 
 " Go thou and do likewise" 
 
 Briarly comforted the fallen man with 
 all that genuine philanthropy of a good 
 mind, which wishes to forget an injury 
 without adverting to the past ; and do a 
 liberal action, without that whine and cant 
 which makes affection suspicious, and bene- 
 volence disgusting. 
 
 He told him, he had saved a handsome 
 sum by ceconomy and industry ; that he 
 was willing to discharge his debt if it lay 
 in his power ; and that his heart and home 
 were at his service. 
 
 Francis
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 47 
 
 Francis was pierced with all the sensa- 
 tions which every man must find upon 
 meeting a friend, when he knows, at the 
 same time, that he has never, by any ac- 
 tion of his life, deserved to have one. 
 
 Briarly heard, with unaffected sorrow, 
 that the debts of Mr. Dives exceeded all his 
 power of relieving him. 
 
 " Let not that afflict you, my worthy* 
 " noble - minded friend," said Francis ; 
 " but you may yet bless me with the sight 
 " of — but, no ! — she must hate, she must 
 " curse me ! ill-fated girl ! She cannot clasp 
 " a father, without embracing the mur- 
 " derer of a mother — how curst a wretch 
 " am I ! Children, the objects of consola- 
 cc tion in every trial, every affliction, to 
 " other men, are bound to hate the sight of 
 " me ! Poor Martina ! Poor Louisa ! Oh, 
 " money, money ! would thou hadst ever 
 " hid thy accursed head in the bowels of 
 " the earth !" 
 
 H 2 He
 
 I/|8 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 He was inarticulate with passion. 
 
 Briarly, affected at this appeal from the 
 heart of a parent, bade him be of comfort. 
 He told him, " that had he remained /-;,/>, 
 " he would never have suffered his daugh- 
 c< ter's child to have known her parent, 
 " and been received on courtesy^ while the 
 " misfortune of her birth might have ex- 
 " posed her to the unfeeling sneers of an 
 " ill-judging world : but that, in his pre- 
 " sent forlorn and disconsolate state, he 
 " should think himself the worst of mon- 
 cc sters, if he detained the daughter from 
 " the arms of a father who stood in so 
 cc much need of her tender attentions." 
 He promised to bring her to him the next 
 morning ; " but bade him collect all his 
 <c fortitude for the interview, as he would 
 " behold in her the living picture of her 
 " much-injured mother. She was of a 
 " timid, delicate nature," he added, " and 
 " it would be as much as he could hope to 
 " effect, to prepare her for so agitating a 
 <; scene." Francis
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 49 
 
 Francis thanked him. He desired but 
 to see her, to shed the tear of repentance 
 in her arms, and then to resign her to the 
 care of the man who had a claim so supe- 
 rior to that of an unnatural father. 
 
 Briarly left him, begging him to com- 
 pose his thoughts for his own sake, and 
 for that of the poor girl. 
 
 The night was past by Francis in sor- 
 row and anxiety. He felt a ray of com- 
 fort break on his clouded mind, when he 
 thought he had still one being who was tied 
 to his heart by the all-powerful cord of 
 nature ! 
 
 But this joy, alas ! was mingled with 
 many a bitter drop of agony. The thought 
 of the child he had lost, conjured up a thou- 
 sand images to his view too painful to be 
 endured : it damped the pleasure he was 
 about to receive from the child he had 
 found, 
 
 II 3 III us
 
 X$0 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Thus every man who makes money his 
 idol sets duty against duty, passion against 
 passion, and raises a tempest in his own 
 bosom which adversity may augment, but 
 prosperity cannot allay ! 
 
 He rose early in the morning, and walk- 
 ed about the yard of the prison in a state 
 of the most restless anxiety. 
 
 A man, muffled in a great coat, ap- 
 proached towards him with folded arms ; 
 his steps were slow and measured, and his 
 whole demeanor pourtrayed a mind ab- 
 sorbed in the most melancholy ideas. 
 
 He advanced towards Francis, looked 
 him in the face ; and then, giving a sudden 
 spring backwards, rushed up the stairs 
 which led to his own apartments with 
 every appearance of agitation and aversion. 
 
 U 'Tis right," said Francis. " The mark 
 " of guilt is set upon my forehead, and 
 
 " man
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 151 
 
 ** man and Heaven desert me ! Have I a 
 " right to complain ? Have I not sacrificed 
 " all the ties of nature and of friends-hip to 
 " the love of money r Did / ever feel any 
 " sentiments of compassion for the suf- 
 " ferers around me while I was in posses- 
 u sion of it ? Can I now blame the world 
 " for following the example I myself have 
 " helped to set it ?— No ! Let me not add 
 " injustice to the black catalogue of my 
 " failings ; I deserve to suffer, and can have 
 " no claim to murmur J" 
 
 He retired to his chamber ; a book lay 
 on his table ; it was a Bible he had brought 
 with him, among a few other old volumes. 
 He opened it, and saw in the first leaf these 
 lines, written by a female hand. 
 
 " The gift of Amelia St. Leger to her 
 " dear Henry, who, while he keeps this 
 " book, will never want a friend." 
 
 " Indeed !" cried Francis, " and hast 
 H 4 " thou
 
 I 52 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 ?' thou bin so many years neglected, in the 
 i4 possession of one who, since the time thy 
 u owner left thee wiih him, has never 
 s * known what is was to have a friend? I 
 u will try thy virtues." 
 
 He read half an hour. The passage he 
 hit upon was from the sublime Book of 
 Job. Tears stole gently down his cheeks, 
 but those tears fell like the dews of morn 
 upon the withering plant of hope in his 
 bosom : he was moved, he was affected, 
 and he was relieved. He wondered at what 
 he had read, as he had always considered 
 the Scripture as a dull, dry book, full of 
 nothing but rigid dogmas and gloomy 
 threats — he found he had been deceived. 
 He felt the assurance of better days as he 
 read, and resolved to despair no more. 
 
 In this calm temperament of his mind 
 he heard a knock at his door. 
 
 His heart fluttered 1 
 
 The
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 53 
 
 The door was opened. 
 
 It was Briarly, who led in a lovely- 
 young woman, blushing and trembling, as 
 with unsteady steps she advanced towards 
 Francis, and threw herself upon her knees 
 before him. 
 
 Briarly averted his face when he heard 
 the deep groan which the penitent father 
 heaved from the bottom of his heart as he 
 fell on her neck. 
 
 " Father i" said Louisa, in a tone sweet 
 as the voice which the virgin seraph hymns 
 on her golden harp when the planets begin 
 their splendid duties. 
 
 The sound thrilled every nerve. " My 
 " injured child 1" was all he had the power 
 to say: sobs and sighs choaked his- ut- 
 terance. 
 
 " Father 1" continued the still kneeling 
 H 5 Louisa*
 
 154 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Louisa, (raising up her two blue eyes, swim- 
 ming in celestial fluid, to his face J — " check 
 " your sorrow for the sake of your poor 
 " Louisa, who is come to love, to honor, 
 " and to comfort you : she will try to 
 " make up the loss of her dear sister. Look 
 " on me, my dear father ! look on me, and 
 " bless me ! Though all the world should 
 " leave you, / will never, never, never 
 " leave you !" 
 
 This forcible appeal to the feelings of a 
 father were seconded by the kind exer- 
 tions of Briarly, who used every effort, in 
 conjunction with his grand-daughter, to 
 compose the troubled spirit of the afflicted 
 Francis. They at length succeeded, and 
 the transports of the father subsided into 
 a fixed melancholy, as he gazed on the an- 
 gelic features of Louisa. 
 
 He saw her mother in every turn of her 
 countenance, and his wounded conscience 
 
 besran to bleed afresh, 
 
 He
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 155 
 
 He was soon, however, recalled to his 
 senses by the generous farmer* who bade 
 him rouse and be a man, and recollect he 
 now had the duty of a father to perform. 
 
 He then told him, that Louisa no sooner 
 heard he was a prisoner, than she earnestly 
 begged to be allowed to wait on him in 
 his prison ; and declared, that all the plea- 
 sures of returning to her home in the 
 country would be destroyed, if she was 
 forced to leave the dear author of her be- 
 ing confined within the gloomy walls of a, 
 wretched prison. 
 
 Were I to paint the look which Francis 
 then gave Louisa, I should only make that 
 expression weak, which imagination alone 
 can form with proper energy.. 
 
 Briarly would not allow his sensations to 
 
 gather sufficient force to overpower him. 
 
 He told him that, in compliance with the 
 
 wishes of Louisa, he had taken a small 
 
 II 6 lodging
 
 156 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 lodging near the prison ; that he and the 
 girl would visit him every day ; that his 
 creditors would soon grow tired of keep- 
 ing a man in prison, when they found that 
 it was quite out of his power to pay them ; 
 that a few months would certainly bring 
 his release, and then they would go down 
 to Wales together. 
 
 Briarly consoled him in a plain, blunt, 
 rational manner, which had more effect 
 upon him than all the jargon of the schools 
 could possibly have afforded. The philo- 
 sopher, in Rasselas, is an excellent type of 
 what general precept can effect in particular 
 sorrow. The philosophy of Briarly, taught 
 by nature, the truest of all philosophers, in- 
 stead of diffusing itself in generals, came 
 home to the immediate circumstances of 
 the man. 
 
 He urged, that he was now approaching 
 with rapid steps to the grave ; that Louisa 
 would then stand in need of a protector, 
 
 to
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1$? 
 
 to shield her from the ills of life ; that the 
 hawk was always hovering to pounce upon 
 the dove, the fox continually on the prowl 
 for prey. 
 
 To whom could his lily of the valley 
 look up for protection so properly as her 
 father ? A parent's arms alone could shel- 
 ter the opening blossom from the ills of 
 life! 
 
 " And yet," thought Francis, " I have 
 seen one blossom nipped !" He could not 
 help, however, listening with something 
 like pleasure to the plans the farmer kept 
 holding out to his future consideration. 
 
 He promised to instruct him in the arts 
 of agriculture, which, he said, he was by 
 no means too old to learn ; and that, with 
 attention, he might not only be able to 
 live comfortably, as be had done, but to 
 leave a little property to his child. The 
 earth, he said, was a good mother, and al- 
 ways
 
 I58 VIRTU" US FOVl B ~'Y. 
 
 ways took care tose children who were 
 
 not neglectful of her. The idea of this 
 pastor; : fife kept the hopes of Francis alive. 
 In the retirement which Briarly had pro- 
 posed, he thought he might attain tranqiul- 
 lity, although he despaired of ever arriving 
 at happiness. He wrote to the most in- 
 flexible of his creditors, and urged the ab- 
 surdity, as well as the barbarity, of con- 
 fining a man in a prison, who could have 
 no possible means of satisfying their de- 
 mands. 
 
 He stated that, in these cases, it was 
 every way more- prudent^ as well as more 
 humane^ to give the debtor a chance of re- 
 trieving his affairs by a future exertion of 
 his abilities, as, if an honest mafi, he would 
 certainly feel himself bound to do justice 
 by men who had dealt so kindly and so 
 honorably to him in his distresses. That, 
 on the other hand, by a persevering rigor 
 in the severity of the law, they only kept 
 a man from being just, even though he 
 
 eagerly
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 59 
 
 eagerly desired to be so, and robbed them- 
 selves of all possibility of future restitution. 
 
 These arguments were not without their 
 effect on some of the creditors of Mr. 
 Dives. There is a more exalted sense of 
 reason and humanity among the generous 
 and mercantile part of the community of 
 Great Britain, than can, in general, be 
 found among any other set of people in the 
 world. Tibullus Godolphin aided Francis 
 with the assistance of his legal abilities, 
 which were daily rising in reputation and 
 request. 
 
 He brought him hopes of gaining over 
 all his creditors in a short time. He was 
 delighted with the blunt sense, feeling, and 
 open candor of old Briarly, whilst the filial 
 piety of Louisa had the most pleasing effect 
 upon his mind. 
 
 The unhappy Martina, the object of his 
 former passion, was what would have 
 
 struck
 
 l60 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 struck the generality of the world as a more 
 perfect beauty. Her stature was above the 
 middle size ; her hair was dark, and her 
 nose of the Roman kind ; her features all 
 strongly marked, and her dark eye had 
 sparkled with more of the vivid flashes 
 than the mild softness of intelligence. 
 
 Louisa Briarly was a beauty of a more 
 feminine kind : the other surprised, but she 
 melted the soul. Her soft blue eyes had 
 more tenderness than fire : she had less of 
 the Cleopatra, less majesty ; but nature 
 had adorned her with graces which, in the: 
 article of personal beauty, more than made, 
 up the deficiency. 
 
 Tibullus was almost old enough to be 
 the father of either of the ladies : he was 
 far from what would be called a handsome 
 man. He was, however, of a thin habit y 
 and the same features which had made him 
 look old at nineteen, made him wear the ap- 
 pearance of youth now he was fast verging 
 upon forty.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 01 
 
 Every one must have observed, that 
 men and women of blooming complections 
 and delicate features more easily receive 
 the stamp of years, than those whom na- 
 ture has distinguished by less pleasing but 
 more perdurable countenances. 
 
 A man of forty may, without much va- 
 nity, aspire to the hand of a woman not 
 more than half his age, and it has some- 
 times proved for the happiness of both 
 parties when this difference has taken place, 
 Female beauty makes its appearance at an 
 early age, and, with the exception of a few 
 instances, vanishes at the period of manly 
 prime. He who, at a very early stage, 
 marries a woman of his own standing, 
 runs the risk of having: an old wife : we 
 therefore contend, that a young woman 
 consults her real interests, when she chooses 
 a husband who has the advantage of her 
 in point of years. She shall then charm 
 with her beauty, till the age of her consort 
 shall teach him to admire her for more 
 
 solid
 
 l6z VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 solid qualifications. She will then stand a 
 chance of uniting her fortunes to those of 
 a man whom experience has taught how 
 to select, and who will admire in her vir- 
 tues the wisdom of the choice he has made! 
 She will find, in addition to the mere 
 lover, the counsellor, the protector, and 
 the friend. 
 
 I have said thus much, lest the reader 
 should be disgusted with Tibullus for fix- 
 ing his affections on tzvo such very young 
 women. 
 
 If my reader is about three and twenty* 
 he will think my remarks very foolish : 
 should he chance to be between nine and 
 thirty and five and forty, he may probably 
 say, — " the fellow has some sense in thi$! yi 
 
 Whether I am right or wrong in my 
 position, certain it is that Tibullus did look 
 with an eye of favor on the simple, youth- 
 ful beauties of poor Louisa Briarly. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. l6t 
 
 J 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Why a man may be tolerably generous without parting 
 with his last shilling — A?i agitation — A discovery 
 of an old acquaintance — A meeting — A reconcilia- 
 tion- — An introduction — A farmer' 's jealousy — Con- 
 viction — and grounds for approbation — Affability 
 and affectation — Illustrious example of the former — 
 Corn — bitter remembrances-— A request— complied 
 with — A prefatory matter, 
 
 WHEN Tibullus discovered that this in- 
 teresting young creature was the sister of 
 the woman to whom he had formerly of- 
 fered his hand, he began to redouble his 
 exertions in favor of her father : for cer- 
 tain it is, let the nature of a man be ever 
 so generous, there are some natural pas- 
 sions in the human breast which operate 
 as powerful stimuli on benevolent as well as 
 selfish minds ; and we have somewhere, in 
 the setting out of this work, had occasion 
 
 to.
 
 164 VIRTUOtfS POVJZRTY. 
 
 to remark 9 that love is one of the affect! 
 which may be classed under this head. 
 
 It may be supposed, then, that Tibullus 
 would immediately have discharged the debts 
 of the father, and led his blushing bride to 
 the hymeneal altar ; and were we recording 
 a mere romance, it would be a very easy,, as 
 well as a very pleasant way of dispatching 
 the business at a blow* 
 
 But Tibullus was neither a Don Quixotte 
 nor an Amadis de Gaul : he had no taste 
 for love in a cottage* 
 
 Let it be remembered, that he had al- 
 ready made over the half 'of his fortune to 
 his brother Edmund. A man may be a 
 very liberal character, though he does not 
 allow himself to be utterly rained by his 
 liberality. Should he pay the debts of Mr. 
 Dives, his own fortune, he knew, would 
 be so contracted, as to disable him from 
 maintaining any woman in that sphere in 
 
 which
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 65 
 
 which the world would now naturally ex- 
 pect a wife of his should move. I have 
 certainly said that he was advancing fast in 
 his profession, but he had still much to do. 
 
 There are few men like Mr. Er e, 
 
 whose talents are so stupendous as to strike 
 with a glance, and carry conviction in 
 every sentence. A man may have great 
 talents, and yet be contented to rank far 
 inferior to men whose abilities have seldom 
 been equalled and never surpassed ! 
 
 He resolved, therefore, to endeavor to 
 extricate him by his professional exertions, 
 before he dropped a hint of the passion by 
 which he was inspired. 
 
 There are some people who never think 
 a man can give enough^ while he has a shil- 
 ling left to give ! such people may accuse 
 the lawyer of selfishness : I can only state 
 matters as they are. Perhaps his cautions 
 
 might
 
 I 66 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 might be very sordid — I only wish to have 
 it granted that they were very natural. 
 
 Francis began to be reconciled to his 
 fate. Louisa spent the whole, and the far- 
 mer most fart, of the day with him. His 
 daughter soothed his mind by reading the 
 Bible to him. 
 
 Reader, do not be frightened, I am not 
 going to bore thee with another long ho- 
 mily on the virtues of the Scripture. I 
 shall only say that it was of great use in 
 the present instance; and if thou shouldst 
 ever be afflicted with a grief thou'thinkst 
 incurable, try it. Thou hast done thus 
 much for some quack's nostrum, which 
 has promised an alleviation of corporeal suf- 
 fering ; in a mental paroxysm it may be 
 worth the experiment. 
 
 As they were sitting one morning ab- 
 sorbed in conversation, the old farmer 
 
 burst
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 167 
 
 burst into the room. He appeared much 
 disturbed : he sat down breathless on a 
 chair, and, clasping his trembling hands to- 
 gether, exclaimed — " Thank God ! thank 
 *.* God ! I have long searched for him, and 
 *' now I have seen him, I have found himi" 
 
 " Seen who, dear grandfather ?" 
 
 " My friend i— your mother's friend-!— 
 *' your father's ! — every one's !" 
 
 " Hayward ?" interrogated Francis. 
 
 " No, not Hayward — Heaven bless him ! 
 " — the man I mean is " 
 
 " Who ?" exclaimed Dives, almost faint- 
 ing with expectation. 
 
 " Henry St. Leger." 
 
 " St. Leger — Gracious Providence!— 
 " When ? how ? where f" 
 
 Briarly
 
 1 68 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Briarly then told him, that as he came 
 into the prison, he observed a man talking 
 to the governor in a very earnest manner. 
 
 He thought he recollected his counte- 
 nance, and advanced eagerly towards him. 
 The stranger turned full upon him — it was 
 St. Leger ! Illness and time had made sad 
 ravages on his countenance, but the bene- 
 volent eye, the manly air remained. 
 
 The emotions of Briarly checked his ut- 
 terance : he was for some time before lie 
 could faintly exclaim — " Mr. Henry 1" — 
 
 The stranrer G*ave him a look, which 
 forbad the pronunciation of his name, and 
 told him he would speak to him in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Then asking the governor if he was 
 sure there were no letters for him, received 
 an answer in the negative, and bowed. 
 
 " Good-
 
 sigh. 
 
 virtuous Poverty* 169 
 
 Good morning, Sir/' said he, with a 
 
 a 
 
 I am rejoiced to see you better, Mr* 
 Marlow," replied the governor, and left 
 him with Briarly* 
 
 " I perceive you know me," said St* 
 Leger ; " but, as you have not the look of 
 " a villain, I am sure you do not wish to 
 " convert that knowledge to the prejudice 
 " of an innocent man : for, God knows, I 
 ** am innocent, though unfortunate i" 
 
 " You unfortunate ? You, Mr. St. Leger ? 
 " the poor man's friend ! Then, who has 
 " right to expect happiness in this wor^ld ?" 
 
 Briarly then made himself known to 
 him, and his new found friend expressed 
 the warmest satisfaction at this unexpected 
 rencontre. 
 
 When he heard of the misfortunes of 
 Vol* II. I his
 
 I JO VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 his former affluent friend and school-fellow, 
 his feelings were very strong. 
 
 He informed the old man, that he had 
 lived so secluded, for many particular rea- 
 sons, since his first entrance into the pri- 
 son, that he knew nothing of his fellow- 
 debtors ; that a severe illness had confined 
 him to his own apartment since the period 
 when Francis must have arrived there ; 
 and that he had endeavoured so earnestly 
 to shun the sight of every one, that he could 
 not be at all surprised at what had taken 
 place. 
 
 Briarly was earnest to know his reasons 
 for adopting a mode of conduct so myste- 
 rious ; but he only replied, by saying, " It 
 " was a long story" and then eagerly en- 
 quired after the health of his old compa- 
 nion. All censure of his conduct was sup- 
 pressed in pity for his sufferings. His error, 
 he said, had been fatal to ??mny, but had 
 been more than expiated by the sorrows 
 that had fallen upon him.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. IJl 
 
 Briarly then expressed a hope, that re- 
 sentment for former injuries would not act 
 as a preventive to his reconciliation with a 
 man who had been humbled by adversity. 
 
 St. Leger smilingly replied, that the far- 
 mer had set him too good an example of 
 christian forbearance to make such a ques- 
 tion at all necessary : that he had ever 
 loved his old play-mate, and lamented the 
 errors that had clouded his good qualities; 
 and, had he known that he had been so 
 rudely afflicted by calamity, he would have 
 sought him out, and used every method to 
 soften the pressure of the heavy stroke 
 which had fallen upon him. 
 
 They parted, and the farmer came in 
 haste to Francis, to inform him of what 
 had taken place. 
 
 Sorrow tries the heart, and makes it 
 easy for the impression of gentle percep- 
 tions ! 
 
 I 2 Th-
 
 XJ1 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 The forsaken Dives felt many emotions 
 of shame at the thought of meeting a man 
 to whom he had behaved in so unworthy 
 a manner ; but the recollection of his 
 open heart and generous disposition, made 
 him confident that he had every thing to 
 hope, and nothing to fear, from the manly, 
 the liberal St. Leger. 
 
 Briarly was dispatched to bring him to 
 his arms. 
 
 When Henry entered the apartment, 
 Francis was struck with his meagre appear- 
 ance : poverty was written with a legible 
 hand on every feature of his face. 
 
 The friends advanced to each other with 
 swimming eyes. Francis averted his head, 
 as he grasped the yet fevered hand of St. 
 Leger. Henry clasped it with all the warm 
 energy of his youthful friendship. The image 
 of early scenes rushed on the fancy of both, 
 and they fell into the arms of each other. 
 
 Francis
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1J$ 
 
 Francis would have faltered out a kind 
 of apology, had not his friend prevented 
 him by an impassioned look, and the far- 
 mer vehemently exclaimed — " No speech!- 
 " fying ; forget and forgive— and God for- 
 " give us all." 
 
 A number of tender enquiries now took 
 place on cither part, and Henry promised 
 to introduced his Cecilia to the acquaint- 
 ance of Louisa. 
 
 M You have been married, then ?" said 
 Francis. 
 
 " I have," answered Henry, " and to an 
 " angel, who has supported my fainting 
 " spirits in every struggle, every toil, and 
 " every difficulty : has cheered me in po- 
 " verty, in danger, in beggary, and pri- 
 
 " / have a wife, too" rejoined the heart- 
 
 stung Francis, " who made my prosper- 
 
 I 3 " ous
 
 174 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " ous days bitter, and deserted me in my 
 " troubles." 
 
 St. Le^er begged him to brood no more 
 over his troubles, but to raise his hopes to 
 future and to happier days. He assured 
 him that every man was exposed to trials, 
 and that the attribute of humanity was to 
 bear those evils with fortrtude. 
 
 They had much interesting conversa- 
 tion ; and Henry, on his departure, pro- 
 mised to bring Mrs. St. Leger in the even- 
 ing. She was a woman, beautiful and in- 
 teresting in her appearance : a kind of 
 cheerful sadness sate upon her placid coun- 
 tenance. Her dress was neat and elegant, 
 although it was very evident that she had 
 been hardly put to it to preserve that air 
 of good-breeding and gentility, which was 
 yet more evident in her manner than in her 
 habit. 
 
 There are some women whom no decora- 
 tions
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I J$ 
 
 tions can make look fashionable ; so, vice 
 versa, there are others whose innate supe- 
 riority even rags cannot hide or conceal. 
 Such a woman was Cecilia, the wife of 
 Henry. 
 
 When the first compliments were passed : 
 > — " Perhaps you have forgot, my love," 
 said St. Leger, " that you and my old 
 " friend Francis are relations?" 
 
 Francis stared. Henry then informed 
 him that the lady, who now stood before 
 him, was the daughter of Montauban, and 
 his interesting Ladyj (the amiable couple 
 mentioned in the beginning of this work.) 
 
 This was the identical woman to whom 
 the mother of Francis had once formed 
 the idea of uniting her son. Francis well 
 remembered, that such a scheme had been 
 in agitation ; and when he compared his 
 own wife with the exalted character his 
 friend had just given him of this amiable 
 I 4 and
 
 Ij6 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 and lovely creature, he felt a transient pang 
 resembling the torments of envy. He soon 
 had justice, however, to smother the emo- 
 tion, and to set down this in the catalogue 
 of numberless blessings he had sacrificed at 
 the shrine of avarice. 
 
 Eriarly (who had, ever since the first fatal 
 miscarriage of his daughter, looked on all rich 
 or great people as the decided enemies of the 
 poor J, at the mention of a lord's daughter, 
 hemmed out two or three loud coughs, 
 very expressive of the ideas he had im- 
 bibed ; and gave a look at his grandchild, 
 which seemed to say — " What d'ye think 
 " of that, now ? Could a lord's daughter 
 " beat that*" 
 
 But when he saw Cecilia taking every 
 notice of his darling, encouraging her ti- 
 midity with the most graceful attention y 
 and delighted with every thing she said 
 and did, he stared around him, began ta 
 feel his own insignificance, and to acknow- 
 ledge
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 77 
 
 ledge the superiority of the person he was 
 prepared to dislike. 
 
 Such is the triumph sense, good-breed- 
 ing, and condescension will always obtain 
 over hearts much more impenetrable than 
 was that of Briarly I 
 
 By condescension, I do not mean the uni- 
 versal grin, and the ape-like grimaces, 
 which some men of fashion put on to con- 
 vince persons, often times their understand- 
 ings, that they do them the favor of look- 
 ing upon them as fellow-creatures ! a com- 
 pliment the man of sense and independ- 
 ence would decline rather than accept : I 
 do not mean, I say, this meretricious, bas • 
 tard affability, but the genuine ore.. 
 
 Look at your King, ye glimmering rush 
 lights ! There view the best and greatest 
 man in his dominions setting you the 
 bright example : condescending with dig- 
 nity, making his inferiors love while they 
 I 5, respect
 
 lyS VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 respect him — a bold, exalted, manly model 
 for all ranks ! 
 
 The farmer listened to Cecilia till he be- 
 gan to have the highest opinion of her. 
 She talked of corn, and what the poor had 
 suffered. At the mention of corn, pre- 
 suming on his knowledge in that article, 
 Briarly chimed in with the conversation. 
 
 He found that Mrs. St.Lescer knew more 
 of rural affairs than any farmer's wife in 
 Wales ; and he now pronounced her, in 
 his own mind, to be the most clever woman 
 he had ever met with in the whole course 
 of hb life. 
 
 In this amiable society the mind of 
 Francis began to resume its tone. He en- 
 dured his evils with patience ; and had it 
 not been for the bitter remembrance of the 
 poor girl he had lost, might have, perhaps, 
 attained to a philosophic tranquillity, which 
 would have most probably rendered him 
 
 more
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 179 
 
 more really happy than he had ever been 
 in his days of vanity and ambition. 
 
 But here he could not 
 
 " Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 
 «' Rase out the written troubles of the brain; 
 «' Nor, with some sweet oblivious antidote, 
 " Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff 
 " That weighs upon the heart." Shakespe ar. 
 
 No friendly art, no one effort of kind- 
 ness, on the part of St. Leger, was left un- 
 essayed to chase away these sombre clouds. 
 
 FrancV, had expressed a wish that he 
 would relate the history of his fortunes 
 since he had parted from him in anger at 
 his father's house. 
 
 Henry at length complied with his re- 
 quest ; at first assuring him that what he 
 had to deliver was, in some parts, so ro- 
 mantic, that he should be ashamed to dis- 
 close them to any one but the friends there 
 assembled ; yet they knew him well, and 
 16 he
 
 I So VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 he flattered himself they entertained so 
 firm an opinion of his integrity and vera- 
 city, that he should speak with boldness 
 and with confidence. 
 
 My history, added he, may perhaps tend 
 to beguile some of the tedious hours of 
 our confinement, and prevent you from 
 fixing your thoughts too- steadfastly upon 
 objects of a melancholy nature* 
 
 Several mornings were taken up with 
 the recital of the story we are now about 
 to relate. ' 
 
 Briarly and Louisa listened with atten- 
 tion and with interest. Francis often in- 
 terrupted him with lamentations on his 
 own misconduct, which had exposed his 
 friend to a life of trial and trouble ; but, 
 as such interruptions would only confuse 
 the mind of the reader, and break the 
 thread of the story, we shall give the ad- 
 ventures of Henry St. Leger from a ma- 
 nuscript
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY* 1 8 £ 
 
 nuscript in his own hand writing, put to- 
 gether from his farmer memorandums,, 
 for his amusement. 
 
 The writer, or rather the collector, 
 of the events recorded in this history, will 
 find the method proposed more easy to 
 himself, and hopes that it will prove equally 
 palatable to the taste of his readers* 
 
 CHAP-
 
 3 8 i. VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The History of Henry St. Leger begins, ivhich to 
 some may appear very strange ; but facts are stub- 
 born things. 
 
 I WISH not to reproach you, my dear 
 Francis, when I tell you that, when I left 
 you last, I made a resolution of never more 
 beholding your face.* I did not at that 
 time suspect that the rich, the fortunate 
 Dives, could ever possibly stand in need of 
 the assistance of the forlorn and destitute 
 Henry St. Leger ! 
 
 I ever thought fortune fickle and preca- 
 rious ; beneath the solicitude of a rational 
 man. I am now convinced, by daily expe- 
 rience, that the judgment I formed was a 
 
 * The commencement of this narrative is added 
 to the MS. found in St. Leger's hand writing. 
 
 true
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 83 
 
 and although the path I have 
 chalked out for myself has not led me to 
 ■perfect happiness, I am almost persuaded 
 that it has conducted me to something as 
 near it as human imperfection will admit of. 
 
 When I left you, I flew to my dear 
 mother, to pay her a short and filial visit, 
 in which I might convince her that the up- 
 right lessons of early integrity she had be- 
 stowed on my youthful mind had been 
 deeply impressed on my heart. 
 
 She approved my conduct in every par- 
 ticular, and, as I cannot give her exact ex- 
 pressions, without tearing open the wounds 
 of an afflicted and penitent friend, I can 
 only say, the sentiments which flowed from 
 her lips were such as might have been fore- 
 seen and expected from the exalted charac- 
 ter of Amelia St. Leger. 
 
 Ill health had compelled her to retire 
 from her school, and 6he now resided 
 
 in
 
 184 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 in a small mansion on a common, several 
 miles from the town, on a little stipend she 
 had saved from her virtuous and indus- 
 trious efforts. 
 
 With her I consented to sojourn for a 
 few weeks, till chance should settle some 
 mode of future exertion, as I resolved, for 
 the time to come, to depend on my own 
 efforts for any hopes of advancement in the 
 w T orld, and never more to demean the dig- 
 nity of my character, by hanging, like the 
 useless ivy, round the trunk of patronage. 
 
 I determined to rely on my capacities 
 aIor:e, as my protectors through what was 
 left of a life already shamefully mispent on 
 attending the kindness of the rich and the 
 great. 
 
 While I remained with my mother, a. 
 letter reached her, signed Peter Haywardy 
 declaring his former respect to both he* 
 late husband and father* and requesting 
 
 her
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 185 
 
 her to give any intelligence concerning me 
 she was mistress of, as he, and several other 
 friends, had the warmest disposition in the 
 world to advance my fortunes and pro- 
 mote my interests, 
 
 A certain fine writer has elegantly ob- 
 served, that the shepherd of Virgil went in 
 search of a patron, and found him a native 
 of the rocks. 
 
 I therefore earnestly conjured; my mo- 
 ther to evade the kind enquiries that were 
 made after, and leave me to the indulgence 
 of the turn my mind had taken. 
 
 I was resolved, in future, to owe an ob- 
 ligation to no one earthly being, and rather 
 earn my daily bread at the plough, than 
 live in expectation of favors without one 
 claim from merit, or depend on another for 
 that support which Providence has enabled 
 every man to procure for himself. 
 
 My
 
 1 86 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 My dear mother argued this point with 
 me with all that energetic good sense for 
 which she was so eminently conspicuous. 
 She persuaded me, after many promises , 
 threats, and tears, to take twenty guineas; 
 and, with this supply, I tenderly embraced 
 her, and gave her my sacred word, that if 
 Heaven should favor the honest indentions 
 of my heart, she should see me again at 
 the first dawn of hope and fortune. 
 
 She asked me what I intended, and whi- 
 ther I was going ? These questions I could 
 not answer, as I was at that moment my- 
 self in ignorance of what was to become 
 of me. 
 
 " The world was all before me where to choose, 
 "And Providence my guide." 
 
 I resolved, if I prospered in my struggles 
 for independence, to return and share my 
 every shilling with her. Should poverty 
 overtake me,, said I, why should I twine 
 like a noxious weed round my parent stern, 
 
 and
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1 87 
 
 and bow the flower to the ground I was 
 formed by nature to support ! she has 
 merely enough for herself. While she 
 thinks I am in want, her generous heart 
 will never be at rest, till, by little and 
 little, she has stripped herself of all her 
 comforts to support my idleness ! Would 
 it be manly in me to allow of this, while 
 health runs in my veins, and youth braces 
 my nerves ? perish the selfish thought ! 
 
 I resolved, then, that she should hear of 
 me no more, till my industrious persever- 
 ance had reversed the scene, and enabled 
 me to confer ', instead of receiving favors* 
 
 I was now as well off as my valued and 
 respected father had been before me: I 
 could begin the world with a stock of spot- 
 less honor, of unquestionable integrity. 
 Oh, dear mother ! sadly sweet, gently 
 soothing, is the sacred sorrow which per- 
 vades my heart, whenever I have occasion 
 to name these exalted, these beloved, these 
 much regretted parents !
 
 lb 5 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 The lessons conveyed to my early youth 
 by her persuasive lips, have been my shield 
 in adversity, my preservers in temptation, 
 my consolations in poverty ! If departed 
 spirits of the just, the pious, and the good, 
 are permitted, in a better world, to look 
 down on the actions of those who once 
 were dear to them here below, thy gentle 
 shade has hovered over the head of thy 
 son, spread thy protecting mantle in the 
 hour of danger and temptation, and guard- 
 ed him from vice* the only real evil of this 
 world ! 
 
 I left her sad, but soothed.. 
 
 In London I had not been known to 
 many ; and, living chiefly in the house of 
 Mr. Dives, I thought that, by changing 
 my name, and residing in a different quar- 
 ter of the town, I might escape detection, 
 and live free from observation. I adopted 
 the name of Marlow, took a small lodging, 
 and resolved to make an essay of my lite- 
 rary talents in the capacity of an author.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVLRTV. 189 
 
 I had often amused myself in making a 
 version of Horace's Satires, and had trans- 
 lated two of the most beautiful of Ovid's 
 Epistles : I mean those of Oenone to Paris, 
 and Medea to Jason ; the first being, in my 
 humble judgment, a most finished example 
 of the pathetic, and the last a specimen of 
 the true sublime. 
 
 With these materials I waited on a book- 
 seller ; he looked at my epistles in the first 
 place. 
 
 I acknowledged, upon my mended judg- 
 ment, that I now think they were extreme- 
 ly bad ; but that is more than he could 
 possibly have known at the time, for, 
 without looking at them, he plainly told 
 me they would never pay the price of 
 paper. 
 
 I then told him that I had some satirical 
 pieces. 
 
 His
 
 190 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 His eye brightened up at this intelli- 
 gence ; but the name of Horace, in the 
 title page, had the same effect upon him as 
 physic upon a boy (who has made illness a 
 pretence for idleness) at a school. 
 
 He shook his head, and told me these 
 works would never produce salt to my 
 meals ; but that, if I would bring him a 
 satire, highly peppered with abuse of cer- 
 tain great people, he might then perhaps 
 have something to say to me. 
 
 I knew the characters he pointed out to 
 be persons eminently great and good, and 
 expressed my surprise that he should be 
 ignorant of their worth and value. 
 
 He assured me this was by no means the 
 case : he knew their merits as well any 
 man alive. 
 
 " Good God! is it possible?" 
 
 " You
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I9I 
 
 " You are young, Sir ! When you have 
 U been long enough an author to know 
 " your trade, you will learn that abuse sells 
 " much better than eulogium : — no man 
 " pays his money to see a person -praised" 
 
 I was warm in the defence of the cha- 
 racter I had adopted ; and, as I always 
 esteemed a literary man as one of the most 
 exalted and dignified beings in the scale of 
 society, I felt my cheek burn with indig- 
 nation at hearing the sacred functions of 
 genius thus tarnished and reduced. I 
 urged, that to lash general vices, to expose 
 corruption, to tear the mask from the 
 visage of pretended patriotism, and gibbet 
 the sons of rapine and oppression, was in- 
 deed a calling worthy the thunder-bran- 
 dishing hand of the gigantic genius of 
 satire ; but that, to attack vice and virtue 
 with undiscriminating rancor, to plant a 
 thorn in the bosom of an honest man, to 
 betray the confidence of families, and ruin 
 the honest efforts of individuals, was to 
 
 assume
 
 192 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 assume a character which, like Nero's, 
 oueht to be hunted from the face of the 
 earth while livings and held up to the exe- 
 cration of posterity when no more. 
 
 The bookseller gravely shook his head, 
 said I was perfectly right, and that his own 
 conscience often gave him many twinges 
 when he published a work of the nature I 
 had been describing. He observed, how- 
 ever, that while the world was ill-natured, 
 and wicked enough to encourage this gene- 
 ral rage for malice and detraction, a man 
 in business had much difficulty in keeping 
 his hands out of this disagreeable branch 
 of his function. 
 
 I assured him, that I would much rather 
 beg my daily bread from door to door, 
 than put one morsel into my mouth which 
 was earned by any means so infamous and 
 dishonorable ; and that if I ever owed my 
 existence to ways so base and unmanly, I 
 should all the rest of my life look upon a 
 
 scavenger
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY- 193 
 
 :nger as my superior, inasmuch as, 
 though he meddled every day with dirty 
 work, his filth was of prejudice to no one 
 but himself* 
 
 The profession of a bookseller is one 
 which demands the respect and gratitude of 
 society, and when all is said and done, the 
 arguments which my new friend had urged 
 were certainly not without their weight. 
 While scandal and detraction are encou- 
 raged by the world, it is the fault of the 
 ivorld that we have so many libels pouring 
 upon us from all quarters. 
 
 He then asked me if I had any objection 
 
 to translate, 
 
 I freely replied, that I was driven to the 
 necessity of writing for bread, and that I 
 had no inclination to shun any means of 
 earning my meal by any honest way. 
 
 lie then invited me to dine with him, 
 Vol. TL K and
 
 194 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 -and I met many men like myself, who had 
 every morning " to provide for the day 
 " which was to pass over their heads.' 5 
 
 I had a portion of work given me, in 
 which I could neither evince my fancy, nor 
 exert my imagination. Sometimes I passed 
 a week in preparing sheets for a new edi- 
 tion of a Dictionary ; sometimes in correct- 
 ing a Frenchman's bad English for a new 
 Grammar ; sometimes in forming an in- 
 elegant history into questions and answers. 
 The worst of all drudges is a literary 
 drudge. The pay I reaped from labors 
 of this mechanical nature was small, nor 
 could I of course expect it to be greater. 
 
 I kept life and soul tdgetiier with diffi- 
 culty; but, as I neither violated my pri- 
 vate nor my moral character, I tugged at 
 the oar, and was contented with my lot. 
 
 I sometimes, at my leisure hours, at- 
 tempted to divert mvself with essays of a 
 
 more
 
 ' I RTUOUS POVERTY. 1 95 
 
 more lively species. I have preserved but 
 one of them, and the natural vanity of an 
 author induces me to insert it in this place-. 
 
 I do not think the thoughts are brilliant, 
 or the language remarkably impressive ; 
 the idea is however (to the best of my know- 
 ledge J nouvclle, and in more skilful hands 
 might not have been wholly unentertaining. 
 
 A conversation had taken place at my 
 friend the bookseller's (who gave me and my 
 brother authors a very acceptable dinner every 
 Sunday), concerning the vulgarisms and 
 different dialects in London, and the pre- 
 lincial towns in England. 
 
 It rested on my mind, and when I went 
 home, I formed a trifling jeu d y £sprit. It 
 was called 
 
 THE COMBATS OF THE ALPHABET: 
 Or, the Origin cf Provincial Dialects. 
 
 A great many years ago, in those days 
 K 2 of
 
 I96 \ I RTUOUS PO VE R TV. 
 
 of learning which, alas ! are fled, like so- 
 lemn visions, never to return, at least if 
 we may presume to judge from present 
 appearances, a very violent warfare broke 
 out among the Letters which compose 
 the English alphabet. Many very ingeni- 
 ous and fabulous accounts are given of the 
 origin of this quarrel, and, if we were not 
 pinched for time and room, we should, in 
 imitation of many of our comical brother 
 historians, set our poor brains to work, and 
 produce a number of marvellous tales 
 which every body will allow to be very 
 pretty, though nobody will allow that they 
 are very true. 
 
 The grand foundation, then, of this con- 
 test, originated in the partiality of many 
 celebrated authors and orators of the day 
 to particular and favorite letters, in ex- 
 punging some, and thrusting others in vio- 
 lently by the head and shoulders, without 
 the least apparent symptom of necessity or 
 provocation. 
 
 The
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 197 
 
 The injured letters thinking themselves 
 a very respectable corps, rose, vi et armis, 
 against this formidable attack on their 
 credit and validity* 
 
 The war I am about to describe will 
 have an evident advantage over many other 
 recorded contests^ 
 
 For instance* the war of Troy, the battles 
 of the frogs and mice* and the combats of 
 the cranes and the pigmies, may (be it 
 spoken with all due reverence) be termed 
 poetical wars: now, my war is literal, in 
 every sense of the word. 
 
 In this contest, the ever renowned great 
 A was the most formidable leader of one 
 party, and the truly magnanimous great 
 II was the most distinguished hero in the 
 ranks of the enemy. 
 
 Both these v/arriors had suffered many 
 
 hardships, having been most barbarously 
 
 K 3 hacked
 
 1 98 , VIRTUOUS POVERTY^ 
 
 hacked and mangled by the different on 
 of the day : besides this, they were spurred 
 on by daily and violent encroachments on 
 the rights of each other. Their several 
 partisans were equally violent and vindic- 
 tive ; each side contemptuously rejecting 
 or adding its favorite or neglected letter. 
 
 For instance, if the animal or building 
 of their several names were to be mention- 
 ed, the enemy of H would talk of his crse, 
 or his Giise, and so forth. 
 
 In some particular circumstances (as is 
 pretty much the case among the leaders of 
 all parties and factions) there were a set of 
 men who did not scruple to drop a small 
 portion of their H—onesty ! 
 
 The admirers of II, equally vigilant on 
 the other side, would always repair any 
 loss or damage he sustained this way, by 
 placing him before his antagonist without 
 rhyme or reason — they were resolved to 
 
 have
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. I 99 
 
 have their Il-oxcn, their H-altars, and their 
 H-ornaments.- 
 
 V and W stood exactly in the same pre- 
 dicament, They were subalterns in thd 
 two opposite factions, and, like two noisy 
 little Hies, were so fond of their finery, and 
 so jealous of each other, that the whole 
 army was pestered with their janglings. 
 
 V, partial to himself (as these in the army 
 who have the least pretensions are most apt t$ 
 be J, was always asking W, V-y he V-as so 
 foolish to compare with him, V-en he knew 
 
 it Y-as all in vain ? 
 
 . W had his reply ready, and would often 
 answer that it was W-ery W-exatious, 
 but that W-irtue would W-anquish : that 
 V was a W-ik W-arlet, and as sour as 
 W-inegar. 
 
 U, another inveterate enemy to great A, 
 
 took every opportunity of stepping into 
 
 K 4 his
 
 2 GO VI R T U V S PO VE & T if* 
 
 his place, and perpetually talking oi 
 veng-a~nce and his defi z/-nce, 
 
 E and R, a couple of turbulent leti 
 like pert swaggerers as they were 5 when- 
 ever they could thrust their noses in any 
 place, never had the good manners to wait 
 tor an invitation^ and propriety was very 
 much shocked at the improp-zt>ieiy of their 
 conduct, 
 
 U, during the whole war, continued to 
 make stolen marches on the naked 
 of A and I, because, he said, he was cert-0-n 
 they were two vill-a-ns. 
 
 The modern orators (amious as they were, 
 ■ the aid of all the author s, to put an end 
 to these perplexing disputes), instead of ap- 
 peas'mg, added fresh fuel to the f. 
 discord ; each letter insisting that he could 
 produce an equal number of authorities in 
 his favor, to those his antagonist boasted 
 himself able to bring forward. 
 
 The
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 201 
 
 The ladies divided their favors so impar- 
 tially among them all, one day adopting one 
 side, and changing their minds the next, 
 that most learned philosophers were inade- 
 quate to name the parties they either coun- 
 tenanced or rejected. 
 
 The more fashionable, the more were 
 both sexes in confusion ; but the critics in- 
 creased that confusion into a " confusion 
 " worse confound." 
 
 Now, I should not describe my battle 
 like a great scholar, if I" did not lug in a 
 number of gods and goddesses.- It is the fa- 
 shion to introduce these gentlefolks into 
 the epic stile of writing, and it is of much 
 use to us modern authors for two good 
 reasons. 
 
 i st. It has been done so often, that it 
 costs little labour and no invention. 2dly, 
 and with us a very material point, it fills up. 
 
 K 5 Well
 
 202 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Well, then, the gods and goddesses be- 
 gan wrangling and lighting like so many 
 devils. Envy, Malice, and Spleen, were di- 
 vided between both parties : Wisdom was for 
 neither. 
 
 Jove, weary of this jar about nothing, 
 called a council of all the wits and critics 
 in heaven. 
 
 He flatly told the wits they were a pack 
 of fools : they murmured ; but Truth, touch- 
 ing them with her wand, confirmed the 
 decree. He pronounced the same sentence 
 against the critics, who immediately began 
 to revenge themselves, by finding fault 
 with his works, maintaining he knew no- 
 thing of what was the effect of his own in- 
 vention, that light was darkness, and dark- 
 ness light. 
 
 Jove enraged, told them they were as 
 pert as jackdaws, as vain as peacocks, and 
 as stupid as owls. 
 
 Truth
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 20J 
 
 Truth cried, amen ! 
 
 He then sentenced the rebellious critics 
 to tear each other to pieces : they immedi- 
 ately fell eagerly to work, and have con- 
 tinued the practice to the present day. 
 
 As for the contending letters, they were 
 sent into banishment to various provinces , 
 where they have remained ever since, and 
 established a wide extended empire of pro- 
 vincial barbarism* 
 
 K 6 CHAP,
 
 204 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The life of an author- — Infidel writers — A singula) 
 institution— Real liberty — A worthy clergyman — 
 A method proposed for future exertion — An intro- 
 duction — A general — his son — daughter — A -roman- 
 tic young lady — Love busy in every part of afa- 
 ■'■; — Folly cf despi'ing the good opinion of the 
 •Id — Diffidence — A knot of perplexi 
 sa?e observations. 
 
 xHE specimen I have given will, most 
 probably, remove all surprise at my ill suc- 
 cess in the capacity of an author : for live 
 painful years did I tug at this literary oar. 
 
 I struggled with want, frequently with 
 distress, and often with hunger ; but, 
 thank God ! though I never penned a line 
 which could improve my fortune, or ad- 
 vance my fame, I never committed a single 
 sentence which could possibly shock the 
 
 purity
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY, 205 
 
 purity of any woman, or injure the feelings 
 of any man. I never made a novel a ve- 
 hicle for obscenity r , nor a poem a stalking- 
 horse for abuse. 
 
 I often wished to change my lot for 
 scenes more diversified than the dull mo- 
 notonous sphere of action to which I was 
 condemned. Fate might, to this hour, 
 have chained me down to my pen, had not 
 an accident taken place which snatched me 
 from obscurity, and hurried me down a 
 torrent of action, whose rapidity will, I 
 hope, in some measure, make up for the 
 torpor which then composed the silent 
 tenor of my life — a torpor more painful to 
 me, who then felt its stagnating effects on 
 the active energy of the human powers* 
 than any description can possibly convey 
 to the hearer or peruser of my life ! 
 
 As I was one day standing conversing 
 with my friend the bookseller, in his shop, 
 ?n old clergyman came in with a manu- 
 script
 
 2q6 virtuous poverty. 
 
 script sermon he wished to have printed. 
 He eyed me with attention and with inte- 
 rest, whispered the bookseller, smiled, and 
 departed. 
 
 My friend told me he was a man much 
 beloved in his parish, which was one of the 
 best about London : that he was chaplain 
 
 to the benevolent Lord LI , who had 
 
 distinguished his merits and his virtues, 
 when misfortune had placed him very low 
 in the world. 
 
 Lie was a firm and steady enemy to the 
 iniidel writers, who had lately been so stu- 
 dious to tear the cordial cup of hope from 
 the hands of the poor and the afflicted, and, 
 by arraigning the truths of religion, in- 
 crease their miseries in this world, without 
 allowing them the alleviating consolation 
 of a pious confidence in a better. 
 
 Many of these shallow philosophers had 
 lately been stalking abroad, diffusing dark- 
 ness
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 207 
 
 ness and scepticism, trying to shake the 
 faith of nations, and convulse the peace of 
 kingdoms. 
 
 Many real philosophers had started up, 
 and virtuous Watson at their head, had 
 held the shining shield of truth so close to 
 the eyes of the pretended illumines, that 
 the owls of false science retired, overpower- 
 ed with the blaze. 
 
 To counteract their fatal pamphlets, 
 which, though brushed away like flimsy 
 cobwebs by the hand of genuine philosophy, 
 were specious and seductive to the unin- 
 formed multitude, there were many who, 
 with the true spirit of philanthropy, pub- 
 lished antidotes against the poison of infi- 
 delity, and had them distributed at their 
 own expence among the poor and unin- 
 formed : — a practice to which a great peo- 
 ple is, perhaps, at this very moment, in- 
 debted for its welfare. 
 
 Among
 
 208 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Among these genuine sons of real learn- 
 ing was the reverend man who had just 
 quitted the shop 
 
 The bookseller told me he made many 
 enquiries about me 9 and begged the favor 
 of my company to breakfast with him the 
 next morning. I of course was proud to 
 have an opportunity of paying my respects 
 to so great and good a character, and en- 
 quired the name of the person who did me 
 bo much honor. It was Hawthornden — a 
 man who was once a poor curate near the 
 farm where my father resided, and had 
 poured the first dawnings of instruction 
 upon my infant mind. I thought I could 
 form some faint traces of the worthy tutor 
 of my youth, and I longed to congratulate 
 him on the success of his talents and his 
 virtues. 
 
 I waited on him, at his apartments, the 
 next morning : they were simple, but ele- 
 gant, and told me that the owner had at- 
 tained
 
 v'IRTUOUS POVERTY* 200, 
 
 tained competency^ not riches* He received 
 me with the cordial welcome of good sense, 
 joined to good breeding : told me he re- 
 cognised me in the bookseller's shop ; but, 
 hearing him address me by the name of 
 Mario w, did not then chuse to make him- 
 self known to me* He paid a very elegant 
 compliment to my father and mother, and 
 finished by declaring* that he could not 
 suspect the son of such parents of e> 
 any thing unworthy their respectable name, 
 and doubted not but that my for 
 
 changing it were good and proper ones. 
 
 I laid these reasons before him, and was 
 happy enough to receive the sanction of 
 his approval. 
 
 He then gave me a brief account of his 
 history, which may be told in a very niw 
 words. After he had been dislodged by the 
 worthless Mr. Pheezer, he came to London, 
 and did duty for anyone who would employ 
 him. He was fortunate enough to preach 
 
 before
 
 2IO VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 before the chapFaiii of the elegant Lord 
 and Lady H— , who, pleased with the sim- 
 plicity of his style and composition, and 
 standing in need of a curate, gave him the 
 situation. On the death of this worthy 
 man, Lord and Lady H — -, consulting the 
 real happiness c£ their parishioners more 
 than any temporal consideration) gave the 
 vacant living to the curate. 
 
 He had pleased them by his assiduous at- 
 tention to an institution formed by Lord 
 and Lady H — , which, for its singularity 
 and utility, deserves to be mentioned. 
 
 Instead of the usual method of alms- 
 giving, which sometimes only confirms 
 idleness and promotes drunkenness, Lord 
 and Lady H — appropriated an annual sum 
 to be given to the best and most industri- 
 ous wife, son, husband, father, and daugh- 
 ter, in their parish, and this truly honor- 
 able distinction was to be bestowed by the 
 judgment of the clergyman. 
 
 The
 
 VIRTUOUS PO VE R-T Y, lit 
 
 The zeal of Hawthomdeit, in this wise 
 and generous institution, had met with its 
 proper reward. While English nobility is 
 thus employed in the encouragement of 
 virtuous poverty, the people would be as 
 foolish^ as they would be ungrateful, if they 
 wished for that chimerical equality which 
 has ruined both the honor and prosperity 
 of a neighboring kingdom ! 
 
 The situation of Hawthornden was com- 
 for table. Though not rich, he was re- 
 spected by the rich ; although not great, 
 the great valued him ; the poor loved him j 
 all ranks esteemed him. 
 
 He seemed eager to do something in my 
 behalf, and told me, he thought he had it 
 in his power to point out a path for me, in 
 my literary capacity, more pleasing than 
 the dull drudgery in which I was at present 
 immersed. I thanked him, and promised 
 to wait on him the next day. 
 
 He
 
 212 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 He met me with the smile of benevu 
 lence at this interview, and told me had 
 succeeded to the utmost of his wishes. 
 
 General Grandford had a son, who was 
 shortly to join his regiment. The general 
 had a commission to bestow on any man, 
 like myself* a superior to his boy in point 
 of age, and endowed with my qualifica- 
 tions for a guide, a friend, and an in- 
 structor. The young gentleman was of an 
 amiable disposition, and he doubted not 
 but that the situation would be of equal 
 advantage to both. 
 
 The idea of a patron immediately re- 
 curred to my mind, and I told Hawthorn- 
 den that a life of independent poverty 
 would be to me a state of luxury, com- 
 pared with any thing like subserviency or 
 subjection. 
 
 He convinced me, that the impetuosity 
 of my disposition was here likely to lead 
 
 me
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 2Ij 
 
 me into a very great error : that I was not; 
 to be the servant, but the instructor of 
 young Grandford : that I was not to be 
 provided for by the father as an object of 
 charity, but as a person who was about to 
 render him the greatest favor that one 
 man could bestow upon another : that, in 
 all respects, I was to be looked upon as the 
 equaled Frederic Grandford; and in some 
 w'as to be considered as his superior : that 
 the assistance it was in my power to re. 
 must be more than any I could ever re- 
 ceive. These arguments had their weight. 
 
 The life of a soldier was what I always 
 desired : in the present situation of affairs, 
 the sword appeared a more honorable em- 
 ployment than the pen. I yielded to the 
 pressing solicitations of Hawthornden, and 
 was by him conducted to the house of 
 General Grandford. 
 
 The General received me with a polish- 
 ed, manly politeness, which dispelled my 
 
 doubts,
 
 214 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 doubts, and confirmed my confidence. 
 From what Hawthornden had said of my 
 own character, he was prepared, he said, to 
 receive me. His father, too, had known 
 my grandfather ; had revered his virtues, 
 and lamented his fate. 
 
 The younger brother of a noble family, 
 the General himself had inherited no por- 
 tion but his sword and his abilities : na- 
 ture and education, therefore, had made 
 him above the selfish considerations which 
 actuate the majority of mankind. He 
 honored the force of genius, and revered 
 the sublimity of talent. I felt that we met 
 on fair ground ; my mind was free as air; 
 I was unshackled by ideas of dependence. 
 This man is a friend, said I to myself: he 
 is mors than a patron. 
 
 He rung the bell, and enquired if his 
 son was at home. Being answered in the 
 
 affirmative, he desired the man to inform 
 his master that he wished to see him. 
 
 Frederic
 
 VI RT UOU S PQVE RT Y. 2 1 5 
 
 Frederic Grandford made his appear- 
 ance : he seemed a few years younger 
 than myself. His air was military, his step 
 commanding, and his eye impregnate with 
 fire and passion. 
 
 The father introduced me, and told him 
 I was the person Mr. rlawthornden had 
 done him the favor of introducing to his 
 family. " Mr. Marlow," said he, " has 
 Ci had the goodness to promise to under- 
 " take the care of you ; and, as you value 
 " my future favor. I command you to love 
 " and respect hjift*" 
 
 The young man, in an eager tone, then 
 told mc, he felt such an injunction unne- 
 cessary, as his heart already spoke before 
 his father had pronounced his will. 
 
 At the earnest request of the General, I 
 promised to come to him the next day, 
 when, he said, an apartment should be 
 prepared for mc. 
 
 I quitted
 
 2L0 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 I quitted the house with the venerable 
 Hawthornden, and expressed my thanks 
 for the liberal introduction he had given 
 
 me. 
 
 He then told me, I should most probably 
 reside a year or two in the family of the 
 General, before myself and Frederic start- 
 ed on the plains of military glory. I pro- 
 mised to execute my part of the generous 
 compact he had made for me with steady 
 zeal, and unshaken fidelity 
 
 I felt that the care of a young man, of 
 Grandford's age, was a serious undertaking. 
 He appeared, however, of an open, manly 
 nature. I resolved to make his real good 
 my study, and, with such motives for my 
 guide, I thought I could not fail of con- 
 ducting him to the broad paths of recti- 
 tude and integrity. 
 
 I thanked my worthy friend, the book- 
 r, for all his past acts of kindness to 
 
 me t
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 21 J 
 
 me : actions of friendship which had often 
 stood much in stead, but at the same time 
 frankly owned, I hailed my release from 
 the drudgery of writing and book-making 
 as the dawn of returning freedom. 
 
 A slave of every description is to be 
 pitied, but none more so than the slave to 
 writing for his bread. 
 
 I was received into the family of the 
 General with quite as much attention and 
 respect as if I had been the brother of Frede- 
 ric ; a name by which he desired the young 
 man, and his sister Augusta, to call me. 
 
 Augusta Grandford, a name dear, re- 
 gretted, and respected, was then about 
 sixteen. 
 
 Her person was as romantic as her mind: 
 she was tall, but yet delicate ; command, 
 ing, but still feminine. Her eye beamed 
 with sense, with sentiment, and with sen- 
 
 Vol. II. L sibilitv.
 
 £1=8 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 sibility. Had she lived in the days of chi- 
 valry, she would have been the companion 
 of some generous knight, whose toils she 
 would have participated, whose dangers 
 she would have shared. She took so much 
 true delight in this seductive species of 
 reading, that her mind, thoughts, and ac- 
 tions, were biassed by her favorite studies, 
 and her imagination sometimes wandered 
 in a fatal delirium, which all her (other- 
 wise) good sense could not repress. 
 
 With her I first saw my dearest Cecilia. 
 The distresses of her family had reached 
 the ear of the generous Augusta, and when 
 the death of their parents had left her and 
 her brother destitute, she not only took 
 Cecilia under the protection of her father's 
 roof, but made interest with the General 
 to have the young man, then about my 
 own age. provided for in the army. 
 
 To see Augusta, and not to feel interested 
 for her, would have been difficult. 
 
 1 can-
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 219 
 
 I candidly own, that my dearest Cecilia 
 did not inspire me with what is called love 
 at first sight. Time made it necessary for 
 me to discover those virtues by slow de- 
 grees, which, once known, no time can ever 
 eradicate or efface from my mind. 
 
 I found young Frederic almost every 
 thing that I could wish. We read toge- 
 ther, and he soon knew (very easily pos- 
 sible) as much as myself. 
 
 The father expressed himself pleased, 
 and grateful for the pains I was taking. 
 
 After five years of penury and mortifi- 
 cation, I now passed twelve happy months 
 in all the luxuries of learned leisure and 
 manly independence. The two young ladies 
 added to the interest and elegance of the 
 scene. I have r,aid that at first love was 
 never concerned in my sentiments of either; 
 but the liberality of my dear Cecilia has 
 always forgiven me, when I have avowed 
 L 2 the
 
 2 20 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 the more bold and prominent features in 
 the character of Augusta first attracted my 
 
 attention. 
 
 Her love and enthusiasm towards the 
 books of romance, and the records of chi- 
 valry, had given her mind a cast, which 
 made her an object of immediate notice. 
 Whoever has read the life of Don Quixotte, 
 may have felt a momentary pang amid the 
 pleasure he was receiving, for the mourn- 
 ful wreck of a splendid mind. Whoever 
 knew Augusta Grandford, must have felt 
 a more real sorrow : generous and exalted 
 ideas had crowded her mind, till reason al- 
 most yielded to the vigorous impressions 
 of imagination. She was open as day, and 
 never concealed one thought. 
 
 Young Montauban sometimes called on 
 his sister Cecilia, and warm with gratitude 
 to his generous patroness, he thought her 
 the first of human beings. 
 
 In
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. Ill 
 
 In the mind of Augusta there was a sen- 
 timent which always tended to her own 
 infelicity. There are certain virtues, like 
 certain vices, which ought to be restrained. 
 A carelessness of the good opinion of the 
 world mav be reckoned among: these. 
 
 Augusta knew her own heart was right, 
 and yet would often so act, as to make the 
 friends of her father as much shocked at 
 her behavior, as if every principle of her 
 actions had been wrong* She despised 
 public prejudice as she called it ; and, in this 
 romantic idea, she resolved to do as she 
 pleased, and to act unbiassed by the senti- 
 ments of general opinion. 
 
 This is an error which has proved fatal 
 to many women really amiable and en- 
 gaging. 
 
 It is not only necessary to fo correct, 
 
 but to seem so. I am now, and have been 
 
 many years, a married man.- I consider 
 
 L 3 my
 
 222 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 my honor concerned in the manner my 
 wife conducts herself in the company she 
 keeps. A woman may have the virtues of 
 Lucretia or Cornelia; yet, if she is careless 
 of herself, and acts as if she knew no 
 discrimination between right and wrong, 
 such a woman must not, cannot, be the 
 intimate of my family. Virtue must be as 
 decided in its actions as its principles. She 
 who is unblemished, must shew it by her 
 conduct : appearances may be secondary con- 
 siderations, but they are necessary ones. 
 She who slights them, may keep the pri- 
 vate consolations of her own heart ; but 
 she must not be angry with the world, 
 who, judging from external circumstances, 
 cannot think the foundation stedfast, where 
 the exteriors are unstable. 
 
 On this rock Augusta split. I know 
 myself right (she would say to Cecilia, when 
 her graver friend, in the sincerity of her heart, 
 wished to warn her of the dangers by which 
 she was encompassed), and let the world 
 
 think
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 2 2J 
 
 think of me as they will. The world did 
 take the liberty of noticing her behavior, 
 and, as good nature is seldom the reigning 
 foible of the day, many strange construc- 
 tions were put upon her conduct. 
 
 Cecilia was uneasy at the repeated visits 
 of her brother. She saw that the familiar 
 and undisguised benevolence of Augusta 
 had put notions into his mind, which 
 might, in future, be fatal to his quiet and 
 his honor. 
 
 She saw nothing like passion in the par- 
 tiality of Augusta to Lieutenant Montau- 
 ban. She perceived that her generous soul 
 had been delighted by the power of ren- 
 dering him a service ; but at the same 
 time felt conscious, that she would be 
 equally pleased in the opportunity of con- 
 tributing to the felicity of any living being. 
 Her brother in the fire of youth, and blind- 
 ed by a sincere attachment, saw the matter 
 with different eyes. He wished Augusta 
 L 4 to
 
 124 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 to love him, and he readily persuaded him- 
 self to fancy that she did so. 
 
 Cecilia was very much shocked at this 
 mutual mistake. She felt for her brother's 
 happiness ; but she felt in an equal degree 
 for the honor of her friend and bene- 
 factress. She thought that scandal, and 
 busy curiosity (which began to be prevalent 
 among the female friends of the Grand ford 
 family, in consequence of the visits of the Lieu- 
 tenant), would be a very ungrateful way 
 of returning the generous favors which 
 had been heaped, both on herself and her 
 brother, by the bountiful hand of the li- 
 beral Augusta. 
 
 She told her brother her opinions ; but 
 what are the cold lessons of prudence to 
 an impassioned young man ? 
 
 She frankly hinted to her lovely pa- 
 troness, that it might injure her with the 
 world, and create suspicion in the mind of 
 
 •some
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. V 22J 
 
 some man in future honored with her af- 
 fections, should she thus let an imprudent 
 generosity of temper allow her to sanction 
 the visits of a young man situated as her 
 brother then was. 
 
 I thank my dear Cecilia for her counsel, 
 was the reply ; but, " while I know my- 
 " self right, the world is very welcome to 
 " think me in the wrong." 
 
 With this extraordinary, yet amiable 
 young woman, I passed several hours in 
 the day. We read history together : Ce- 
 cilia and her brother were generally present. 
 
 I had not much vanity ; yet, from an 
 expression which sometimes stole from the 
 speaking eyes of Augusta, I could not help 
 thinking that I was by no means indifferent 
 to her. 
 
 This discovery gave me no pleasure : on 
 L 5 the
 
 226 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 the contrary, it inspired me with the ut- 
 most uneasiness and disquietude. 
 
 To be introduced to a family on the 
 most generous, the most liberal terms; to 
 reward that generosity by artifice ; to re- 
 pay that liberality by deceit ; to steal the 
 gem when the key of the casket was put 
 into my possession, seemed the height of 
 baseness. 
 
 I have been often surprised that, in a 
 country where the penal laws are vigorous 
 to an extreme, a capital punishment has 
 not been adjudged to this most infamous 
 breach of trust.* 
 
 * The author feels very well satisfied, that the ge- 
 neral tenor of this work will convince every one 
 that he means no insidious attack upon the laws of 
 h • country by this remark : he has endeavored to 
 shew that he considers them superior to those of any 
 other nation in the world. On this subject, his opi- 
 nion is founded on that of a great lawyer and a 
 great writer.— Vide Judce Blackstone. 
 
 Many
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 2 2/ 
 
 Many a fellow has been brought to the 
 gallows for stealing an old watch, or an 
 old piece of plate, merely (/'/ has often been- 
 the case) because it belongs to a family. 
 Ousrht not a man's daughter to beheld in- 
 violable for the same reason ? 
 
 If I steal an heiress I am liable to be. 
 hanged ; and is not the daughter of a poor 
 man as sacred to her own parents, as an 
 heiress ever could have been to hers? 
 
 A theft of this nature is in any shape. 
 equally inexcusable ; and the robber de- 
 serves to be hanged, much more than many 
 a wretch who has suffered that fate for. 
 crimes which have been urged on by hun- 
 ger and distress. Such, thank Heaven! 
 were my notions; and such, I am persuad- 
 ed, must be the sentiments of every honest 
 man. Of all the mean methods of m 
 ing money, fortune-hunting is the worst. 
 
 Young Montauban perceived that I was 
 L 6 the
 
 2 28 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 the favorite object of Augusta's attention, 
 and the painful thought hurried him to 
 madness. 
 
 My young charge, Frederic, in the mean 
 time, had fallen most passionately in love 
 with Cecilia. I found myself surrounded, 
 on every side, by a labyrinth of perplexi- 
 ties from which it was difficult to escape. 
 I stood high in the opinion of the General: 
 to attempt a deception on him, I consi- 
 dered as an act of the most monstrous and 
 detestable ingratitude. The son had en- 
 trusted me with his passion, under restric- 
 tions I knew not how to violate. The 
 daughter. said nothing, it is true; but her 
 eye spoke in a language which, with all 
 tny timidity, it was impossible to misunder- 
 stand. The idea of practising on the af- 
 fections of the daughter of the generous 
 General was so shocking to my nature, 
 that, had I known how to have done it, I 
 would have immediately mentioned my 
 fears, and given the father the alarm j but 
 
 the
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 229 
 
 the manners of Augusta, from her con- 
 tempt of the opinions of the world, had 
 always been so free, that I dreaded lest I 
 should have mistaken a candor of charac- 
 ter, displayed to others perhaps as well as 
 myself, for the dictates of love and passion. 
 The fear of making myself ridiculous kept 
 me silent. 
 
 A woman, careless of the opinions of the 
 world, often exposes herself, and all who 
 are connected with her, to a thousand dis- 
 agreeable mistakes and perplexities. 
 
 She may be thought in love with a man 
 for whom she does not care a straw : she 
 may give hopes to those who, but for her 
 indiscriminate kindness, might have smo- 
 thered passion in its birth : she may be ac- 
 cused of falsehood she never practised, con- 
 demned for encouragements she never meant 
 to give, and, with the best intentions in 
 the world, be hated as wjilt, and condemned 
 as an hypocrite* 
 
 CHAP-
 
 230 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 An honorable eloppnmi — the cause explained — A man- 
 date — A compliment — Family secrets — A soldier s 
 nvife — her story — her gratitude — An examination 
 of a heart — A generous proffer — Reasons for not 
 taking an advantage of a young lady's confidence — 
 ' An agitated family- — A trial — Dark hints — Sly 
 ■ inuendoi — how answered — An accuser confounded 
 ■ — The feelings and expressions of an injured man. 
 
 IMPRESSED with these sentiments of dif- 
 fidence and delicacy, I wished that every- 
 day which intervened between that of my 
 joining my regiment with Frederic was 
 the last. 
 
 Above a year had glided away in calm 
 pleasure, and now the ocean was ruffled. 
 I saw that young Grandford was wearing 
 inwardly with an unrequited passion for 
 Cecilia. Fie had divulged his flame, but 
 
 found
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 23 I 
 
 found her cold : she conjured him to talk 
 to her of love no more : she had been re- 
 ceived into the house of the father by the 
 generous friendship of the sister. To in- 
 veigle the heir of so inestimable a family 
 into a match with an orphan like herself, 
 would, she thought, be ungrateful, unge- 
 nerous, and unjust. 
 
 She knew that such a connection must 
 heap sorrow on the head of the father, and 
 that even her husband, who must imagine 
 that money had tempted her to the viola- 
 tion of one duty, might, in future, justly 
 suspect that all the rest were subservient to 
 her interest. She knew that, in destroy- 
 ing her self-esteem, she must give up a 
 treasure which no splendor could recom- 
 pence, no wealth could purchase. Frederic 
 admired her the more for this conduct, 
 and secret sorrow consumed his heart. 
 
 The brother of Cecilia, unmoved by the 
 noble precepts and example of his sister, 
 
 gave
 
 232 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 gave way to the vehemence of his soul, 
 and still aspired to the hand of his own 
 and his sister's patroness. 
 
 I must do him the justice to aver, on 
 my word of honor, that I do not think the 
 fortune of Augusta, which was consider- 
 able, had the least weight in the mind of 
 young Montauban. 
 
 In this knot of perplexities I was not 
 without my share. 
 
 I beheld Augusta daily growing more 
 particular in her attentions to me. She 
 consulted me on every subject ; she seem- 
 ed eager for my opinion upon every inci- 
 dent in her life. I did all in my power to 
 avoid a confidence so aukward to my feel- 
 ings ; but, undaunted by my coldness, she 
 pressed forwards with invincible persever- 
 ance, and silence was impracticable. 
 
 YoULg Montauban, irritated by delays, 
 
 and
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 233 
 
 and unable to enlist his sister under his 
 banners, determined to write a letter to 
 Augusta declaratory of his love, and be- 
 seeching her to have compassion on the 
 flame which secretly consumed him. 
 
 Cecilia, shocked at a proceeding which 
 appeared to carry the air of so much sel- 
 fishness in its principles, threw herself 
 upon her knees before him, and conjured 
 him, by all their former affection, to give 
 up a design which, whether prosperous or 
 unsuccessful in its issue, must overwhelm 
 them both with shame and confusion. 
 The young man told her he was steadfastly 
 fixed to write the letter the next morning. 
 
 Cecilia dried her eyes. The epistle ar- 
 rived ; Augusta read it with signs of com- 
 placency and emotion. She immediately 
 enquired for Cecilia t a servant appeared, 
 who brought intelligence that Miss Mon- 
 tauban had rose early in the morning, had 
 been employed two hours in packing, and 
 
 had
 
 234 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 had called for a coach : when it came to 
 the door, she ordered her bundles to be 
 put in. She then gave a letter and a 
 packet to be delivered to Miss Grandford ; 
 and, with many tears, bid the coachman 
 drive towards the Park. The surprised 
 Augusta broke open the seal, and read the 
 ensuing 
 
 Litter. 
 
 " Adieu, my ever beloved, ever dear 
 " x^ugusta. I fly you, because I could 
 " never bear to have vou think me selfish 
 " or ungrateful ; and I am sure you must 
 * c think me both, when you receive the pro- 
 *'* posal my brother is determined to make 
 " you. I have wept ; I have pleaded in 
 " vain : I know no other way to shew my 
 " shame and confusion at his conduct, 
 " but by flying from the hospitable roof 
 " of your father. I have another reason, 
 " too, for this step : your brother, my 
 " dear Augusta, has made me proposals of 
 " an honorable nature. How unfortunate 
 
 " that
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 235 
 
 " that a young man and woman, preserved 
 " by the exalted humanity of your family 
 " from beggary and poverty, should be 
 " the means of giving so much uneasiness 
 cc to their benefactors ! For the good of 
 " every one ; for my own, for yours, your 
 u father's and your brother's, I must with- 
 " draw. Fear not for me, I have an 
 " asylum. Adieu, my dear Augusta, I 
 " have made a sacrifice to honor, and I am 
 " now sure you will always love your 
 
 " Cecilia." 
 
 cc Noble girl !" cried Augusta. 
 
 " Noble girl !" said my heart, " she has 
 " sacrificed fortune to integrity ; and may 
 " she, wherever she goes, meet the re- 
 u munerating blessings of a satisfied con- 
 " science." 
 
 This letter was delivered before break- 
 fast. The General and his son were dress- 
 ing. When they came down, the son 
 
 looked
 
 236 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 looked at the spot where Cecilia had been 
 used to sit with glances of eagerness and 
 anxiety : he watched the opening and 
 shutting of the door with visible signs of 
 perturbation and emotion. 
 
 When the gentlemen retired, I would' 
 have accompanied young Grandford tothe 
 reading-room ; but his sister, who never 
 spoke by hints or whispers, desired me to 
 stay, as she had something to say to me of 
 a very peculiar nature* 
 
 She delivered this mandate in a tone of 
 voice so firm and impressive, that it was 
 impossible to refuse obedience, and I re- 
 mained where I was. 
 
 The father and brother w r ere so much 
 accustomed to this singular freedom in her 
 manner, that they took no notice of this 
 appeal, but left us to ourselves. I saw 
 that many various passions were struggling 
 in the mind of Augusta : her cheek glow- 
 
 cd,
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 2$J 
 
 ed, her bosom heaved, she seemed con- 
 vulsed by contending passions ; at length, 
 as if by some violent effort, she gained the 
 power of utterance. 
 
 u I know the generosity of your mind, 
 " Mr. St. Leger," said she : " I admire it, 
 " and must now put it still farther to the 
 " test. I am sure the generous frankness 
 " of a woman, who confides in it, will 
 " never meet with an ill return from a 
 M heart which I believe stored with every 
 " virtue." 
 
 I could only blush and bow. 
 
 " Henry St. Leger shall know every se- 
 " cret spring of my mind. I will not en- 
 " join you to confidence, because the mere 
 " suspicion would be unfounded, unjust, 
 " and injurious : but, before I say any 
 " thing with regard to myself, it is quite 
 " necessary that I should explain every cir- 
 " cumstance relating to the young man 
 
 " who
 
 238 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " who this morning made me a very seri- 
 
 V ous proposal. I have to lament his rash- 
 C£ ness, as it has robbed me of a friend in 
 " his sister, of the most refined sense, and 
 " (as you must be convinced, from the 
 " letter I read to you before breakfast) of 
 " the most exquisite and exalted sensi- 
 « bility. 
 
 " To recover this partner of my heart, 
 u and again pillow her head on the bosom 
 " of friendship, must be my first study: 
 " when my own mind shall be at that state 
 " of peace, to which it has now for some 
 u months past been an utter stranger — 
 " Oh, Henry ! — but whither am I wan- 
 " dering ? 
 
 cc My father, as you have heard from 
 " our common friend, Mr. Hawthornden, 
 " had many difficulties to struggle with on 
 " his first outset in life. The parents of 
 " Montauban and Cecilia were, like him, 
 " noble and poor ; but, like him, success 
 
 " did
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 239 
 
 " did not crown their efforts — they died, 
 " and left their two children destitute on 
 " the wide world. The wife of a poor 
 " soldier snatched up these orphans of 
 " Providence, and, by her hard labor, main- 
 " tained them, and prevented their coming 
 " upon the parish. The name of this be- 
 " nevolent woman was Jane Wildfire : she 
 " is still alive, and subsists on a small pen- 
 " sion allowed her by my father. 
 
 " The husband of Cecilia's mother had, 
 " at one time, been a fellow-soldier of my 
 " father's. He was captain of the com- 
 " pany to which Wildfire belonged. 
 
 " The man was an excellent soldier, but 
 " too much addicted to the fatal error of 
 " drinking. In his cups he insulted his 
 " commander, and was sentenced to re* 
 " ceive two hundred lashes. The wife, who 
 " followed in the baggage-waggon, and 
 " shared all his fortunes, cast herself at the 
 " feet of Montauban, and implored his in* 
 
 " tercession :
 
 24° VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " tercession : he interfered, and succeeded : 
 " her gratitude knew no bounds. 
 
 " In the time of the American war this 
 " woman saved my father's life, and he 
 " settled the annual allowance she still re- 
 " ceives upon her. On this stipend she 
 " snatched away the two orphans, and 
 " maintained them for several weeks as 
 " well as she was able. 
 
 " This affecting incident reached the ears 
 " of the General. 
 
 " Touched with the gratitude of this 
 " poor creature, and ashamed to reflect 
 " that the children of a man of rank, a 
 44 gentleman, and a soldier, should owe 
 " their existence to the laborious piety of 
 " the wife of a poor private, he desired her 
 " to bring the children to him. Charmed 
 " with the beauty of the little ones, he 
 " brought them to me. I was delighted 
 " with my two play -fellows, and entreated 
 
 " my
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 24I 
 
 <c my father to let them remain with me; 
 " a request he readily complied with, and I 
 " have always regarded them as equal ob- 
 " jects of my favor and affection with my 
 " own brother. 
 
 " It was resolved that the young man 
 c c should drop that memory of his ances- 
 < c tors which, without a fortune to support 
 " it, would only be the means of encum- 
 " bering and distressing him. He was 
 " brought up a soldier, and if ever fate 
 -" should crown him with wealth, he may 
 " resume the honors of his family." 
 
 Augusta continued to state, that Cecilia 
 had been bred as her sister ; that her ge- 
 nerous independence of mind had more 
 than made amends for all the favors that 
 had been conferred upon her by the Grand- 
 ford family. 
 
 Augusta owned that she had often 
 
 shielded her from the malice of the world 
 
 Vol. II, M by
 
 242 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 by her advice and counsels, which she had 
 ever delivered without servility and with- 
 out insolence. 
 
 She had refused many offers from per- 
 sons of rank and riches, who had frequent- 
 ed her father's house, and been struck with 
 her accomplishments, considering marri- 
 age for interest as little better than a legal 
 fraud. Miss Grandford summed up her 
 character by a declaration, that if she was 
 called upon to pronounce whom she 
 thought the woman in the world who did 
 most honor to her sex, she should not he- 
 sitate a moment in naming Cecilia Mon- 
 tauban. 
 
 This amiable friend (she said) had often 
 censured her for a sentiment of indifference 
 she had early imbibed, and never made 
 any scruple of professing a carelessness of 
 the opinion of the world. 
 
 That, knowing she meant no barm, she 
 
 had
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY* 243 
 
 had always been perfectly easy as to what 
 was said or thought of her ; had dressed 
 as she liked; been intimate with such young 
 men as either amused her by their accom- 
 plishments, or informed her by their con- 
 versation. She knew she had been often 
 censured ; but had ever despised the cen- 
 sure she felt conscious she did not merit* 
 This error, she said, had, she feared, mis- 
 led young Montauban. She had certainly 
 shewn him much attention, but meant no 
 more, by any preference given to him, than 
 by a mark of tenderness bestowed on a bro- 
 ther. She confessed that, in some other in- 
 stances, she had, by her frank manner, been 
 the means of misleading two very worthy 
 characters, and making them, she feared, 
 extremely unhappy. She was sorry for 
 this, she said, and had, she believed, been 
 blamed by the w r orldj but what w r as the 
 world to her ? She felt conscious of her 
 own innocence, and had no right to make 
 a sacrifice of her happiness to the prejudice 
 of mankind. 
 
 M 2 "I have
 
 244 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " I have taken up thus much of your 
 " time, Mr. St. Leger," said she, " that you 
 " might know the simple, undisguised, 
 " and unsophisticated character of the wo- 
 " man who is now addressing you. I wish 
 " you to see my whole soul : I would not 
 " conceal an error even of my thoughts* I 
 " have been as candid as I possibly could 
 " be, and I hope I have not attempted to 
 " hide or cloak one single imperfection of 
 " my nature. The letter I have received 
 " this morning has made it necessary for 
 " me to be explicit to every one. This 
 " day is to bring my fate to a crisis, and 
 " the decision rests with you. By the bounty 
 " of my godmother I am left sole mistress 
 9 of twelve hundred a year ; on my death 
 " it reverts to her family, in case I die un- 
 " married : they are rich enough, and I 
 " shall do them no injustice by bestowing 
 " my heart and hand wherever I think fit. 
 " I avow to you, Mr. St. Leger, that you 
 " are the only man I ever saw, in the 
 " course of my whole life, who could have 
 
 " made
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 245 
 
 " made me wish to resign that happy ii- 
 " berty I have so many years enjoyed. I 
 " always imagined that a woman, on the 
 " day of her nuptials, gave up her charter- 
 " ed liberty to a being, in the intellectual 
 " scale, no higher than herself : you clone 
 " have had power to convince me to the 
 iC contrary. I know your disinterested 
 " mind ; and know too that, acting from 
 " the energies of that mind, if you felt the 
 ** warmest friendship and attachment to a 
 " woman of fortune, that fortune would 
 " be a bar to her happiness, as you shrink 
 " from selfishness, as you shrink from dis- 
 " honor ; but you must not expect to be 
 " the only generous person in the world : 
 " this hand, this fortune, is at your disposal. 
 " I beg you will not distress me by an im- 
 -" mediate answer, but take a week's const* 
 " deration before you give me your reply* 
 " I am going out of town for a few days : 
 " think, reflect, and however you decide, 
 " my opinion of you must continue eter- 
 " nally the same. 
 
 M 3 "I must
 
 2^6 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " 1 must assure you, that you are the 
 " only person whose sentiments / ever yet 
 " valued. You may think I have violently 
 " overleaped the delicacy of my sex in 
 * £ making these strong overtures ; yet you 
 " would find, could you read my heart, 
 ^ that its sentiments are like your own, 
 " generous, candid, and sincere.* 
 
 " I have frankly told you that, in the 
 " common intercourse with the world, I 
 " have preferred the sanctity of truth to 
 
 * The compliments St. Leger pays himself in this 
 narrative, may, on the first blush, give some symp- 
 toms of the vanity and conceit of a young man. 
 Let it be remembered, however, that his story was 
 drawn out at an advanced period of life, when vanity 
 and conceit were past. It was dene for his own 
 -amusemeut; nor did he ever mean it for the public 
 eye. In the story told to his fellow-prisoner and old 
 school-fellow, Francis Dives, many of these tender 
 particulars were left out; but the papers of St.Legsr 
 falling accidentally into my hands, I thought they 
 would be more explanatory than any intelligence 
 which could be gained by oral communication.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 247 
 
 ** every other earthly consideration. How, 
 " then, must I despise myself, should I not 
 " practise the same undisguised integrity 
 " with the man to whom I would be in- 
 " debted for a life of unbounded confidence: 
 " from whom I would have no secrets : 
 " whose hearty whose thoughts, whose 
 " joys, hopes, griefs, disappointments and 
 " fears, 1 would have in perfect unison with 
 " my own* 39 
 
 I looked at Augusta as she left me. She 
 was in tears ; but the rays of animation, 
 which beamed through the moisture in her 
 eyes, gave her an appearance almost super- 
 natural. 
 
 I was thunderstruck with what had 
 passed. " Great Heaven !" cried I, " what 
 " a composition of error and rectitude ! 
 £ She scorns the good opinion of the world, 
 " and has made herself the object of public 
 " censure, with exalted talents, and splendid 
 " virtues, sufficient in number to make 
 U. M 4 "her
 
 24§ VIRTUOUS POVLRTV, 
 
 " her the theme of general reverence and 
 " admiration /" 
 
 The task imposed on mc was painful y 
 but, as I shall answer for my conduct at 
 the day of judgment, I was not a moment 
 balancing the scales ! 
 
 Cecilia had set me an example I hope I 
 did not need. I felt I had not that affec- 
 tion for Augusta which she had for me. 
 She was generous; ought I to be otherwise? 
 Could mines of wealth repay a man for be- 
 ing a thief in a double sense of the word ? 
 Was I to repay the goodness of the General 
 by meanly stealing his daughter ? Was I to 
 reward that daughter's generosity, by pre- 
 senting her, instead of the warm generous 
 heart she expected, with one mean, callous, 
 selfish, and unworthy ? Who can perpetrate 
 such double injustice, and calmly lay his 
 head upon his pillow ? 
 
 Augusta left town, and I determined to 
 
 address
 
 -VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 249 
 
 address my letter to her in a day after her 
 departure. 
 
 T flattered myself I had acted so rigidly 
 in the exertion of my duties, that heaven 
 and man would approve my conduct — let 
 the former satisfy every one — the senti- 
 ments of the latter are frequently erroneous, 
 and always immaterial \ comparatively placed 
 against evident dishonor. 
 
 A hurricane blew in a few hours on all 
 sides, and I was involved in a quarrel with 
 three men towards whom I had acted in a 
 manner which set my own heart perfectly 
 at rest. 
 
 The daughter of the General had ac- 
 quainted her father with what had passed 
 before she left town, and, on her knces r 
 had implored him not to oppose her wishes. 
 
 He had stifled his sensations before her; 
 
 but no sooner had she taken her departure 
 
 M 5 than
 
 250 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 than he acquainted the son with her con- 
 fession, and the smothered flame broke 
 out. 
 
 The passions of the boy, too, were ag- 
 gravated, by a circumstance which did not 
 reach my ears till some time afterwards. 
 
 The maid, who attended Cecilia, had 
 acquainted him that his suit had not been 
 rejected from any extraordinary sense of 
 honor in the mind of that lady, but from a 
 preference she entertained for me. To con- 
 vince him, she produced a picture which 
 she had found by touching a concealed 
 spring in the bureau of Cecilia's dressing- 
 room. 
 
 My head was correctly delineated on a 
 large sheet of paper. Frederic immediately 
 imagined me guilty of the greatest perfidy 
 and ingratitude : he caught the alarm, and 
 supposed I had been capable of seducing 
 and concealing Cecilia, while I was at the 
 
 same
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 25 J 
 
 same time basely insinuating myself into 
 the good graces of his sister. 
 
 Frederic conveyed this intelligence to 
 young Montauban, who, distracted at the 
 preference given me by Augusta, and not 
 knowing what to make of the sudden 
 flight of Cecilia, was equally divided be- 
 tween love, revenge, and jealousy. 
 
 Even the worthy General, though a 
 man of philosophical temper and sedate 
 mind, was so shocked at these strong pre- 
 sumptions in my disfavor, that his irritated 
 sensibility led him to a promptitude of de- 
 cision .against me, which he had hitherto 
 always constantly blamed and assiduously 
 avoided. 
 
 I observed the cold looks of all the par* 
 ties, and was at first a little disconcerted 
 when I met them at dinner, and saw them 
 whispering, looking at me, and shaking 
 their^ heads. The " mums abeneus" the 
 M 6 " merit
 
 252 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " mens sibi conscia recti" came, however, to 
 my aid, and I determined to persevere in 
 my usual independence and ease in conver- 
 sation, till some charge should give me an 
 opportunity of proving my innocence be- 
 yond all doubt. When the glasses were 
 put on the table, the General brought up 
 the subject. 
 
 " Any news of your sister, Montauban I" 
 
 All eyes were turned on me. 
 
 " None." 
 
 u Very extraordinary Y* 
 
 Another look from every one. 
 
 " It is indeed," said I; " but wherever 
 " she is„ she is so good that she must be 
 " safe : Providence can never forsake her." 
 
 " I hope she is good'* — slowly, said the 
 brother.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 2$$ 
 
 Another look. 
 
 " Very extraordinary," thought I to 
 myself. 
 
 The General then told a story of a young 
 man who had been received into a family, 
 treated like a friend, a son, and a brother: 
 — " And how do you think, gentlemen, he 
 " returned all these favors?" said old Grand- 
 ford, at the end of his speech. 
 
 They gave their opinions. 
 
 " You are silent, Mr.. St. Leger," con- 
 tinued the General. " How do you think 
 m he ought to have behaved i" 
 
 " Not," replied I, " with a slavish sub- 
 M mission to an unjust suspicion. If he 
 " was received on the manly terms of 
 " giving instruction, and being paid the 
 " value of his talents, he ought to have 
 " spoken and acted with the confidence of 
 " a gentleman, and the integrity of a man"
 
 254 VIRTUOUS POVERTY 
 
 « 
 
 Suppose," cried the brother of Cecilia, 
 he practised on the generous confidence 
 of a young " 
 
 " Forbear," cried I, sternly ; " let no 
 ct man provoke me to prove the action the 
 " General insinuates, possible" 
 
 I looked young Montauban full in the 
 face — he blushed — my eye oppressed him 
 — he seemed conscious that, in attacking 
 my fault, he had been guilty of a ^^con- 
 demnation. He knew not, then, that I was 
 acquainted with the letters that had been 
 so recently exchanged. 
 
 The General looked astonished. 
 
 Frederic alone, eaten up by anger and re- 
 venge, started up and made a plain charge 
 against me. 
 
 When he had finished his indictment, 
 old Grandford said not a word ; but his 
 
 mournful
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 255 
 
 mournful ajnd expressive look seemed, in 
 dumb eloquence, to put the question — » 
 " Guilty or not guilty ?" 
 
 I started from my chair. 
 
 " I once resolved," cried I, " never more 
 " to have a patron, and I have reason to 
 " curse the hour I broke that resolution. 
 " Who are they who dare arraign an honest 
 " man like a criminal ? Let the suspicious 
 " speak out ! I will not degrade myself be- 
 " low my accusers, by answering to dark 
 " hints and unmanly cross questions. I 
 " have given more than 1 have received. 
 " I can return to that situation where Mr. 
 " Hawthornden first found me, where 
 " any man may find me who doubts my 
 " honor." 
 
 " Stay ?" said the General. 
 
 " I will perish first ; nor will I ever call 
 " any man present again by the name of 
 
 " friend
 
 2$6 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " friend, till he has repaired the injury he 
 ** has done ma by the most submissive apo- 
 " logy." 
 
 I looked round fiercely, and darted out 
 of the room. 
 
 CHAP-
 
 virtuous Poverty, if; 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A resolve — A hint upon duels — Self-defence the law 
 of nature — A card — A call — A meeting — An ex- 
 planation — A generous way of effacing an injury— 
 Fortitude of a young lady — Love epistle — A father 's 
 liberal offer — why rejected — Love not to be supplied 
 by politeness — On marriage — A second offer made 
 — refused— Why at last accepted — A visit to a 
 mother* 
 
 IN the agonies of my heart I flew to the 
 worthy Hawthornden, told him all that 
 had happened, thanked him for the interest 
 he had taken in my affairs, but swore that 
 worlds should not bribe me to remain lon- 
 ger under the roof of a man who had sus- 
 pected my honesty and wounded my honor. 
 
 He
 
 2$S VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 He did all he could to pacify me, but 
 every effort he could exert was vain : my 
 pride had taken the alarm, and to soothe 
 it was impossible. I expected the next 
 morning to hear from one of the young 
 gentlemen : duels had always been the ob- 
 jects of my abhorrence. 
 
 These irrational appeals to blood and 
 chance I ever looked upon as decisions 
 more adapted to the brutality of animals 
 than to the reason of men. 
 
 In the present instance, however, honor 
 and infamy were trembling in the scales. 
 I never wished to be forward in the display 
 of my courage ; but life appealed a burthen 
 if I was to support it under the stigma of 
 cowardice. Safe in the reflections of an ap- 
 proving conscience, it was by no means re- 
 quisite to my peace to seek the life of any 
 man ; but self-defence being a law written 
 by the hand of nature^ upon the heart of 
 
 every
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 2$(J 
 
 every living creature, while I was resolved 
 not to seek, my mind was at the same time 
 made up not to shun, any kind of trial to 
 which my adversaries might think proper 
 to expose me. 
 
 Hawthornden found, from the irritabi- 
 lity of my manner, that the sword might 
 probably be the absurd decision of the mis- 
 takes in question, he argued with all the 
 virtuous energies of a divine, a man, and 
 a philosopher. 
 
 He exacted a solemn promise from me 
 that I would not take any steps till three 
 days had given me time for reason and re- 
 flection. 
 
 I consented without hesitation to this 
 suspension of all the angry passions, and 
 made him promise, in return, not to de- 
 grade my character, by going with any 
 explanations in my favor to the family of 
 
 the
 
 l6o VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 the General. Should I ever descend to 
 expostulation, after the rude and ungentle- 
 manly manner in which I had been treat- 
 ed, I told him I should not act up to that 
 dignity of character it had ever been my 
 boast to deserve and to maintain* 
 
 Two days passed away in silence. On 
 the morning of the third I received a note 
 from the benevolent Hawthornden, re- 
 questing that I would do him the favor of 
 a call. 
 
 I waited on him immediately, and the 
 first object which presented itself to my 
 view was General Grandford. 
 
 He advanced towards me with an air of 
 kindness, mingled with dignity and regret. 
 
 " I have done you a very flagrant in- 
 " justice, Mr. St. Leger," said he ; " and 
 " even should I be so fortunate as to re- 
 
 " ceive
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 26l 
 
 u ceive your forgiveness, I do not think I 
 " ever shall regain my own." 
 
 I caught him by the hand, and begged 
 him to say no more, as I now again ac- 
 knowledged the best friend I had in the 
 world — the father of my youth. 
 
 He then acknowledged that the circum- 
 stances against me had been so strong, that 
 he had erroneously listened to the sugges- 
 tions of two hot-headed young men, and 
 joined in censure of a conduct which he 
 was pleased to call the most disinte- 
 rested, generous, and heroic, which had 
 ever come within the sphere of his know- 
 ledge. 
 
 Her brother had written to Augusta, 
 who was on a visit to a female friend at 
 Bath, to inform her of the transactions 
 which had just taken place. The epistle 
 was a bitter one, and roused her sensitive 
 
 nerves
 
 ibl VIRTUOUS POVERTV. 
 
 nerves to such a pitch, that she immedi* 
 ately hired a chaise, and arrived at her fa- 
 ther's door the next morning. 
 
 She found the whole family at break- 
 fast. 
 
 I was the topic of their conversation, 
 and the object of their reviling. 
 
 The storm was renewed upon her ap- 
 pearance. The father was bitter, the bro- 
 ther loud, and young Montauban sat burst- 
 ing with passion, and vehemently beating 
 the ground with his feet. 
 
 Augusta regarded the two young men 
 with a smile of the most ineffable con- 
 tempt. When you look into your own 
 hearts (said the lovely and romantic enthusiast), 
 do you find all there so narrow, so selfish, 
 and so contracted, that ye cannot conceive 
 the bold and godlike flight of an exalted 
 
 soul?
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 263 
 
 soul ? Is money such a deity, that ye fancy 
 all mankind like yourselves, prostrate be- 
 fore the golden idol ? I glory in convincing 
 you that characters still exist, great and 
 good as those you have so often ridiculed 
 me for admiring in my favorite books ! 
 Read that letter, and when next you see 
 the man you have so hastily condemned, 
 study some reparation to the wounded 
 feelings of a noble heart. 
 
 She threw the letter on the table, and 
 the General read it aloud. 
 
 To Miss Augusta Grandford. 
 
 ** The liberal proposal made of your 
 *' hand and fortune would be ill requited 
 " by mystery or duplicity on my part. 
 
 " I thank you, madam, and shall endeavor 
 " to return the high honor you have done 
 
 " me
 
 264 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 " me by respectful gratitude and sacred 
 " silence. Never could I look your family 
 " in the face, after taking such an advan- 
 " tage of a liberal young lady. I owe a 
 " thousand obligations to the General, and, 
 " while life warms my heart, no considera- 
 " tion could move me to draw down 
 " his displeasure by the most trifling ac- 
 " tion. 
 
 " You think too well of me, revered, 
 w valued Augusta ! For my honor, for your 
 " own peace, never think more of me but 
 " as a sincere friend to your father : in. 
 " elude me in the number of your most 
 " sincere well-wishers. If my presence will, 
 " after this letter, occasion the least con- 
 " fusion to your delicacy^ give the word, 
 " and I will instantly withdraw from your 
 " noble father's hospitable roof. 
 
 " Think me your friend ; but think 
 " me no more. I must always revere you, 
 
 " and
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 265 
 
 " and shall count it a high prerogative to 
 " sign myself, 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 " Your most respectful, 
 
 " most obedient, 
 
 " and very humble servant, 
 
 To Miss Grandford, « HENRY St. L.EGER." 
 
 Post-Office, Bath. 
 
 The General informed Hawthornden 
 that this letter had its proper effect on the 
 heart and mind of every one except his 
 son, who was savage in the excess towards 
 his sister, and behaved so ill to his father, 
 that he had been forced to forbid him his 
 presence. 
 
 The fiend of jealousy had twisted his 
 iron claws into the very heart-strings 
 of Frederic, and excruciated him to mad- 
 ness. 
 
 Vol. IT. N The
 
 266 VIRTUOUS TOVERTY. 
 
 The General, from some expressions 
 which escaped him in the torrents of his 
 fury, had discovered the unhappy passion 
 of his son for the amiable and absent Ce- 
 cilia. He told me that my honor could 
 never hereafter be doubted by any ?nan, and 
 therefore earnestly requested me to inform 
 him, whether I entertained any serious 
 thoughts towards her, or was at all ac- 
 quainted with the place of her conceal- 
 ment ? I assured him that I had never had 
 an idea of the one, and was totally in igno* 
 ranee of the other. 
 
 " Enough," cried the generous veteran. 
 " You have removed the only impediment 
 " to an action of justice, which both your 
 " character and conduct now demands at 
 '5 my hands. The wrong I did you was 
 " great, and such ought to be my repara- 
 " tion. 
 
 " You know the fortune of my daugh- 
 
 * ter.
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 267 
 
 M ten She is the sole arbitress of her 
 *f own fate, and very few men would, like 
 " you. my young friend, have consulted the 
 " wishes or authority of a parent ^ where they 
 *' could neither impede their interests nor 
 " prevent the gratification of their desires. 
 " Both you and my child have acted with 
 ft an exalted liberality towards each other, 
 " and I should wish not to be behind band 
 " in the triumph of the scene ; I give you, 
 " therefore, my full consent." 
 
 I was silent : both the father and Haw- 
 thornden were much surprised at my taci- 
 turnity, and looked at each other as if ab- 
 sorbed in wonder at what was to come 
 next. 
 
 I kissed the hand of Gfandford, and 
 told him my language was inadequate to 
 the expression of my wonder, my admira- 
 tion, and my gratitude. His offer was one, 
 I said, that I must ever remember with 
 N 2 the
 
 268 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 the most tender recollections ; but I had 
 many motives with induced me to decline 
 it. 
 
 As a brother, I added, I should always 
 love and esteem the generous Augusta; but 
 that he and his daughter must forgive me, 
 when I owned that I did not find those per- 
 ceptions in my bosom which would make 
 it just, fair, or honorable in me to present 
 myself to her in the character of a lover or 
 a husband. 
 
 At this distance of time I cannot write 
 down the many compliments the old gen- 
 tleman heaped upon me, for what he was 
 pleased to call, this unexampled effort of 
 inflexible integrity and unconquerable ge- 
 nerosity. 
 
 I hope there are many of the present 
 race of young men who will not see my 
 conduct in so strong a point of view, nor 
 
 set
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 269 
 
 set me down as a hero, merely because I 
 did not act like a rascal. 
 
 I felt that, whenever I married, love 
 must be the principal requisited. I esteem- 
 ed Augusta, I respected, I admired her ; 
 yet passion was out of the question. Re- 
 spect, esteem, and admiration are fine 
 sounding terms, between friends they are 
 ail that is in the least degree necessary i 
 but in a husband and a wife they are cold 
 substitutes, and though they may create 
 good manners, they will rarely produce 
 love. 
 
 I do not mean to compose an Essay oa 
 the Passions; yet, to explain my senti- 
 ments and account for my conduct, I am 
 forced to be diffuse ; and however philo- 
 sophers and moralists may decide against 
 my axiom, I declare it as my opinion, that 
 though respect and esteem are componenf 
 parts of love, without the animating prin- 
 >: 3 ciple,
 
 2/0 
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 ciple, the soul of the passion, they frequent- 
 ly amount to little more than a mere caput 
 mortuum. 
 
 I say thus much, because there are many 
 in the world who, after pledging their 
 faith to a woman at the altar, and thus 
 giving themselves a legal title to her money, 
 lands, and tenements, console themselves 
 with the idea, that they behave with polite- 
 ness to their wives. Now, if a lady can be 
 contented with mere politeness, she may 
 enjoy all the advantages which good breed- 
 ing can afford her, and yet remain mistress 
 of her fortune at the same time. 
 
 A fellow with little head and no heart 
 -may so conduct himself by a set of me- 
 chanical rules, collected from worthless 
 ■men 9 and worthless writers ', as to be called 
 u The politest man ! the best bred husband 
 * in the world, miss !" but if he has sworn 
 to love his wife he is perjured. He had no 
 
 right
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 2/1 
 
 right to marry her, unless he was per- 
 suaded at the time, that he had all the re- 
 quisite affection for her which his vow de- 
 manded. A woman may break her heart 
 while he is practising all the monkey an- 
 tics of affected politeness, that he may not 
 appear an absolute savage ; and if she dies of 
 grief, he is as much her murderer as if he 
 had broke her neck ! These were my ar- 
 guments, these were my motives, for re- 
 fusing the hand and fortune of Augusta 
 Grandford, when I had the consent of her 
 father to the taking possession of the one 
 and the other. 
 
 I must add, too, that the conduct of 
 young Frederic both shocked and. disgust- 
 ed me \ I felt conscious that I had done 
 my duty to the youth in the strictest sense 
 of the word. He had every right to ima- 
 gine me superior to equivocation, and the 
 mean arts of falsehood. But what will 
 not jealousy effect? 
 
 Hawthomden
 
 272 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 Hawthornden and the General were 
 both lavish in their praises. The latter 
 made me an offer of immediately sending 
 me in the military capacity to India. 
 
 I thanked him for his kindness, but de- 
 clined his bounty, 
 
 I was resolved to return to my friend 
 the Bookseller, and again drudge at 
 the desk for my subsistence; an argu- 
 ment, however, was used, which prevailed 
 over all my scruples, and it would have 
 been selfish to have resisted it. While I 
 remained in England the wounds of Au- 
 gusta were daily liable to be torn open : 
 should I quit the country, she might soothe 
 her sorrows, her mind would stand some 
 chance of recovering its tone, and other 
 pursuits, other objects, by gentle degrees 
 wean her from her melancholy. To this 
 I consented, 
 
 Hawthornden
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 273 
 
 Hawthornden made me promise to live 
 with him while I remained in England, 
 and I consented to be indebted to him for 
 what was absolutely necessary for my equip- 
 ment. 
 
 One shilling beyond this I would not 
 suffer him to proceed. 
 
 I have said before, I had made up my 
 mind not to burthen my poor mother : I 
 resolved, however, to pay her a visit be- 
 fore I quitted the country, but had con- 
 sented to be obliged to Hawthornden, 
 whom I knew I could at some time or 
 other repay y rather than take that from 
 her comforts which I knew she would ne- 
 ver allow me to return. 
 
 I went to spend some months with hex- 
 previous to my voyage, and my heart was 
 cheared to find her equally pleased with 
 my motives, my principles, and my con- 
 duct.
 
 274 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 
 
 duct. Indeed they were all founded on 
 the broad basis of rectitude, and could 
 not help being pleasing to a mind where 
 truth and honor were native and un- 
 shaken* 
 
 Sad was our last embrace : I left her, 
 set sail from the Thames* the voyage was 
 prosperous, and now behold me in the ca- 
 pacity of a soldier, scorching under an 
 Indian sun; yet kept still in spirits by the 
 novelty of the scene, and the hope of 
 yet being one day able to repay the exalted 
 goodness of my mother. 
 
 I soon found, however, that though z 
 soldier's life had been my proudest wish, 
 that wish, like all other human prospects, 
 when attained, lost its value. The mono- 
 tony of it in time became insupport- 
 able. 
 
 To describe the years I passed in the same 
 
 unvaried
 
 VIRTUOUS POVERTY. 1J$ 
 
 unvaried circle would be dull to others, 
 laborious to myself. 
 
 I prayed for days of more variety. 
 
 Alas! my prayer was heard! scenes ra- 
 pid, painful, and trying, were destined to 
 be my lot, in comparison of which all I 
 had hitherto seen or acted were trifling 
 and uninteresting. 
 
 3BND 0? THE SECOND VOLUME, 
 
 T. Giilet, Printer, CaewD-court, Fleet-streef.
 
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