by T. S. Arthur
An Extract From
Married Life, Its Shadows and Sunshine
"I KNOW a young lady who will suit you exactly."
"It's a fact. She is just the thing."
"Is she rich?"
"Worth some fifty thousand dollars."
"Are you sure?"
"Certainly. Her father died about a year ago, and she was his only
child. Her mother has been dead many years. The old man was well off,
and his daughter received all of his property, and, as she is of age,
she has it all under her own control."
"Is she handsome?"
"Just so-so. But that don't matter a great deal. Gold is beautiful"
"Exactly. And intelligent?"
"I've seen smarter girls. But that's all the better, you know."
"Yes. Well now, who is she? That's the next question."
"Her name is Margaretta Riston, and she is now living with an old
aunt in Sycamore street."
"Are you acquainted?"
"Then be kind enough to introduce me forthwith. I must make a
conquest of some rich heiress soon, or I shall have to run away, or
petition for the benefit of the Insolvent Law."
"To-night, if you choose."
"Very well—let it be to-night. There is no time to be lost."
"Suppose she won't accept you?"
"She must. I'm as good-looking a fellow as you'll find in a dozen;
and I flatter myself that I have a smooth tongue in my head."
"Well, success to you, I say! But look here, Smith: if you succeed,
I shall expect a premium."
"There'll be no difficulty about that, Perkins. But let me secure
the prize first; and then say how much you'll want. You'll not find
me the man to forget a friend."
"I'm sure of that," responded the other, laughing.
And then the friends shook each other's hands heartily, promising,
as they parted, to meet early in the evening, preparatory to visiting
"You would not have me suspicious of every young man who visits
me!" said Margaretta Riston, in reply to a remark made by her aunt, on
the same evening that the two young men had proposed calling on her.
"I would rather have you suspicious, or, rather, exceedingly
watchful, than to be altogether off of your guard. Many dangers beset
the path of a rich young girl like you. There are, and I am sorry to
say it, too many young men in society, who are mere
money-hunters—young men who would marry an heiress during the first
hour of their acquaintance, and marry her, of course, only for her
"I can hardly credit it, aunt. And I am sure that no young men of
my acquaintance are so selfish and mercenary!"
"In that assumption lies a fatal error, believe me, my dear niece!
Too many, alas! too many young girls have vainly imagined, as you do
now, that, though there might be men of base characters in society,
none such were of their acquaintances. These have awakened from their
fatal error with the sad consciousness that they had become victims to
their fond infidelity. Rather suspect all until you have convincing
evidence to the contrary, than remain unguarded until it is too late."
"But don't you see, aunt, how in this case I would do wrong to
sincere and honest minds? And I cannot bear the thought of doing
wrong to any one."
"You do no wrong to any one, my niece, in with-holding full
confidence until there is evidence that full confidence may be safely
bestowed. In the present evil state of the world, involving, as it
does, so much of false appearance, hypocrisy, and selfish motive, it
is absolutely necessary, especially with one in your situation, to
withhold all confidence, until there is unquestionable proof of
"There is at least one young man, who visits here, that I think is
above such mean suspicions," Margaretta said.
"So I think," the aunt replied.
"Whom do you mean, aunt?"
"I mean Thomas Fielding."
"Thomas Fielding! Well, he may be; but—"
"But what, Margaretta?"
"Oh, nothing, aunt. But I do not like Mr. Fielding so very much."
"Why not, child?"
"I can hardly tell. But there is no character about him."
"No character! Really, Margaretta, you surprise me. There is more
character and principle about him than about any young man who comes
to this house."
"I cannot think so, aunt. He is too tame, prosy, and old-fashioned
"Whom then did you mean?" the aunt asked, with an expression of
concern in her tones.
"Why, Mr. Perkins, to be sure."
The aunt shook her head.
"I am afraid, Margaretta, that Mr. Perkins is a man of few
principles, but thoroughly selfish ones."
"How strangely you talk, aunt! Why, he is any thing but a selfish
man. I am sure he is the most gentlemanly, thoughtful, and polite man
that visits here. He is much more attentive to others, in company,
than Mr. Fielding; and that, I am sure, indicates a kinder regard for
"Not always, Margaretta. It may sometimes indicate a cold-hearted,
calm assurance, assumed for selfish ends; while its opposite may be
from a natural reserve or timidity of character."
"But you don't mean to say, surely, that Mr. Perkins is such a one
as you intimate?"
"If I am correct in my observation, he is all that I have
insinuated. In a word, he is, in my opinion, a mere money-hunter."
"I am sure, aunt, he is not so constant in his attentions as he was
some time, ago; and, if he were merely a money-hunter, he would not,
of course, abate those attentions."
"No—not unless he had discovered a richer prize."
"Indeed, aunt, you wrong him."
"I should be sorry to do so, Margaretta. But I do not form my
opinions hastily. I try to look close before I come to conclusions.
But I have stronger testimony than my own observations."
"What is that?"
"Why, I heard this morning that he is to be married in a few weeks
to Harriet Pomeroy."
"Indeed, you must be mistaken, aunt," said Margaretta, suddenly
rising to her feet.
"I presume not," was the quiet reply. "My information came almost
The entrance of visitors now interrupted the conversation.
"Permit me to introduce my very particular friend, Mr. Smith," said
the individual about whom the aunt and her niece were conversing, as
he entered the handsome parlour of Mrs. Riston.
Mr. Smith and Mr. Perkins were, of course, received with great
affability by Margaretta, who concealed the impression made upon her
mind by the piece of information just conveyed by her aunt.
As for Mrs. Riston, she was studiedly polite, but gave the young
men no very apparent encouragement. An hour soon passed away, and then
the visitors retired.
"Well, Smith, what do you think of her?" asked Perkins, as the two
gained the street.
"You're sure she's worth fifty thousand dollars?"
"Oh, yes. There's no mistake about that."
"But how do you know? This is a matter about which there
should be no mistake."
"I got a friend to examine the transfer books of the bank where the
stock is. Will that satisfy you?"
"You did? And pray why did you do that?"
"A strange question! but I'll tell you, as you seem dull. I had a
notion of her myself."
"And why did you get out of the notion?"
"Because I saw another whom I liked better."
"She was richer, I suppose."
"How can you insinuate such a thing?" And Perkins laughed in a low,
"Ah, I perceive. Well, how much is she worth?"
"About a hundred thousand."
"Are you sure of her?"
"Certainly! The thing's all settled."
"You're a lucky dog, Perkins! But see here, what did you mean by
the premium you talked of for bringing about a match between me and
"Oh, as to that, I was only jesting. But you haven't told me how
you like the young lady yet."
"Oh, she'll do, I reckon," said Smith, tossing his head half
"Do you think you can secure her?"
"Easily enough. But then I must get her away as often as possible
from that old Cerberus of an aunt. I didn't like her looks at all."
"That's clear. Well, she must be wide awake if I commence playing
against her in real earnest. I can win any girl's affections that I
"You have a pretty fair conceit of yourself, I see."
"I wouldn't give a cent for a man that hadn't. The fact is,
Perkins, these girls have but one end in view, and that is to get
married. They know that they have to wait to be asked, and, trembling
in fear lest they shall not get another offer, they are always ready
to jump eagerly at the first."
"Pretty true, I believe. But, Smith, don't you think Margaretta
quite a fair specimen of a girl?"
"Oh, yes. And I have no doubt that I shall love her well enough, if
she don't attempt to put on airs, and throw up to me that she was
rich, and I poor. I'll never stand that."
"She'll not be so foolish, I presume."
"She'd better not, I can tell her, if she doesn't wish to get into
hot water." And the young man laughed at his own half-in-earnest
"He's a very agreeable young man, isn't he, aunt?" said Margaretta,
after the two young men had gone away.
"Who? Mr. Smith, as Mr. Perkins called him?"
"He has a smooth enough tongue, if that is any recommendation; but
I do not like him. Indeed, he is far more disagreeable to me than his
very particular friend, Mr. Perkins."
"Oh, aunt, how can you talk so! I'm sure he was very agreeable. At
least, I thought so."
"That was because he flattered you so cleverly."
"How can you insinuate such a thing, aunt? Surely I am not
so weak and vain as to be imposed upon and beguiled by a flatterer!"
"Some men understand how to flatter very ingeniously; and, to me,
Mr. Smith seemed peculiarly adept in the art. He managed it so
adroitly as to give it all the effect, without its being apparent to
the subject of his experiments."
"Indeed, aunt, you are mistaken. I despise a flatterer as much as
you do. But I am sure that I saw nothing like flattery about Mr.
"I am sorry that you did not, Margaretta. But take my advice, and
be on your guard. That man's motives in coming to see you, believe me,
are not the purest in the world."
"You are far too suspicious, aunt; I am sure you are."
"Perhaps I have had cause. At any rate, Margaretta, I have lived
longer in, and seen much more of the world than you have, and I ought
to have a clearer perception of character. For your own sake, then,
try and confide in my judgment."
"I ought to confide in your judgment, aunt, I know; but I cannot
see as you do in this particular instance."
"Then you ought rather to suspect the correctness of your own
observation, when it leads to conclusions so utterly opposed to
To this Margaretta did not reply. It seemed too much like giving up
her own rationality to assent to it, and she did not wish to pain her
aunt by objections.
On the next evening, a quiet, intelligent, and modest-looking young
man called in, and spent an hour or two with Margaretta and her aunt.
He did not present so imposing and showy an exterior as did Mr. Smith,
but his conversation had in it far more substance and real common
sense. After he had retired, Margaretta said—
"Well, it is no use; I cannot take any pleasure in the society of
"Why not, my dear?" asked the aunt.
"Oh, I don't know; but he is so dull and prosy."
"I am sure he don't seem dull to me, Margaretta. He doesn't talk a
great deal, it is true; but, then, what he does say is characterized
by good sense, and evinces a discriminating mind."
"But don't you think, aunt, that my money has some influence in
bringing him here?" And Margaretta looked up archly into her aunt's
"It may have, for aught I can tell. We cannot see the motives of
any one. But I should be inclined to think that money would have
little influence with Thomas Fielding, were not every thing else in
agreement. He is, I think, a man of fixed and genuine principles."
"No doubt, aunt. But, still, I can't relish his society. And if I
can't, I can't."
"Very true. If you can't enjoy his company, why you can't. But it
cannot be, certainly, from any want, on his part, of gentlemanly
manners, or kind attentions to you."
"No; but, then, he is so dull. I should die if I had no other
"Indeed, my child," Aunt Riston said, in a serious tone," you ought
to make the effort to esteem and relish the society of those who have
evidently some stability of character, and whose conversation has in
it the evidence of mature observation, combined with sound and
virtuous principles, more than you do the flippant nonsense of mere
ladies' men, or selfish, unprincipled fortune-hunters."
"Indeed, aunt, you are too severe on my favourites!" And Margaretta
But to her aunt there was something sad in the sound of that laugh.
It seemed like the knell of long and fondly cherished hopes.
"What do you think of Margaretta Riston, Mary?" asked Thomas
Fielding of his sister, on the next evening after the visit just
"Why do you ask so seriously, brother?" the sister said, looking
into his face, with a smile playing about her lips.
"For a serious reason, sister. Can you guess what it is?"
"Perhaps so, and therefore I will not tax your modesty so far as to
make you confess it."
"Very well, Mary. And now answer my question. What do you think of
"I know nothing against her, brother."
"Nothing against her! Don't you know any thing in her favour?"
"Well, perhaps I do. She is said to be worth some fifty thousand
"Nonsense, Mary! What do I care about her fifty thousand dollars?
Don't you know any thing else in her favour?"
"Why, yes, brother. As long as you seem so serious about the
matter, I think Margaretta a fine girl. She is amiable in
disposition—is well educated—tolerably good-looking, and, I think,
"Yes. Certainly there is nothing extraordinary about her."
"No, of course not."
"Well, brother, what next?"
"Why, simply, Mary, I like Margaretta very much. The oftener I see
her, the more am I drawn towards her. To tell the plain, homely
truth, I love her."
"And don't care any thing about her fifty thousand dollars?"
"No Mary, I don't think I do. Indeed, if I know my own feelings, I
would rather she were not worth a dollar."
"And why so, Thomas?"
"Because, I fear the perverting influence of wealth on her mind. I
am afraid her position will give her false views of life. I wish to
marry for a wife—not for money. I can make money
"Still, Thomas, Margaretta is, I think, an innocent-minded, good
girl. I do not see that she has been much warped by her position."
"So she seems to me, and I am glad that my sister's observation
corroborates my own. And now, Mary, do you think I have any thing to
"Certainly, I do."
"But why do you think so?"
"Because Margaretta must have good sense enough to see that you are
a man of correct principles, and an affectionate disposition."
"Still, she may not see in me that which interests her sufficiently
to induce her to marry me."
"That is true. But I don't believe you have any thing to fear."
"I cannot help fearing, Mary, for the simple reason, that I find my
affections so much interested. A disappointment would be attended
with extreme pain."
"Then I would end suspense at once."
"I will. To-morrow evening I will declare my feelings."
It was about nine o'clock on the next evening, while Mary Fielding
sat reading by the centre-table, that her brother entered hastily,
and threw himself upon the sofa, a deep sigh escaping him as he did
"What ails you, Thomas?" inquired his sister, rising and
But he made no reply.
"Tell me, what ails you, Thomas?" Mary urged, taking his hand
"I have been to see Margaretta," the brother at length replied, in
as calm a voice as he could assume.
"And she has not, surely, declined your offer?"
"She has, and with what appeared to me an intimation that I loved
her money, perhaps, better than herself."
"Surely not, brother!"
"To me it seemed so. Certainly she treated lightly my declaration,
and almost jested with me."
The sister stood silent for some moments, and then said—
"The woman who could thus jest with you, Thomas, is unworthy of
"So I am trying to convince myself. But the trial is a deeply
And painful it proved for many weeks afterwards. But, finally, he
was enabled to rise above his feelings
In the mean time, Mr. Smith had wooed the heiress successfully,
and, in doing so, his own heart had become interested, or, at least,
he deceived himself into the belief that such was the case. He no
longer jested, as he had done at first, about her money, nor
declared, even to his friend Perkins, how strong an influence it had
upon his affections. More serious thoughts of marriage had caused
these selfish motives to retire out of sight and acknowledgment; but
still they existed and still ruled his actions.
The aunt, when Margaretta made known to her that the young man had
offered himself, was pained beyond measure, particularly as it was
evident that her niece favoured the suitor.
"Indeed, Margaretta," said she, earnestly, "he is not worthy of
"You judge him harshly, aunt," the niece replied. "I know him to be
all that either of us could wish for."
"But how do you know, Margaretta?"
"I have observed him closely, and am sure that, I cannot be
deceived in him."
"Alas! my child, if you know nothing beyond your own observation,
you are far more ignorant than you suppose. Be guided, then, by
me—trust more to my observation than your own. He is not the man to
make you happy! Let me urge you, then, to keep him at a distance."
"I should do injustice to my own feelings, aunt, and to my own
sense of right, were I to do so. In a word, and to speak out plainly,
he offered himself last evening, and I accepted him!"
"Rash girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Riston, lifting her hands in
astonishment and pain, "how could you thus deceive your best friend?
How so sadly deceive yourself?"
"Do not distress yourself so, aunt. You have mistaken the character
of Mr. Smith. He is, in every way, a different man from what you
think him. He is altogether worthy of my regard and your confidence.
I do not wish to deceive you, aunt; but you set yourself so
resolutely against Mr. Smith from the first that I could not make up
my mind to brave your opposition to a step which I was fully
convinced it was right for me to take."
"Ah, Margaretta! You know not what you are doing. Marriage is a far
more serious matter than you seem to think it. Look around among your
young acquaintances, and see how many have wedded unhappily. And why?
Because marriages were rushed into from a fond impulse, vainly
imagined to be true affection. But no true affection can exist where
there is not a mutual knowledge of character and qualities of mind.
Now what do you know, really, about Mr. Smith? What does he know about
you? Why, nothing! I want no stronger evidence of his unworthy
motives, than the fact of his having offered himself after a three
weeks' acquaintance. What could he know of you in that time? Surely
not enough to be able to determine whether you would make him a
suitable wife or not—enough, perhaps, to be satisfied of the amount
of your wealth."
"You are unjust towards Mr. Smith," said Margaretta, half
"Not half so unjust as he is towards you. But surely, my niece, you
will reconsider this whole matter, and take full time to reflect."
"I cannot reconsider, aunt. My word is passed, and I would suffer
any thing rather than break my word."
"You will suffer your heart to be broken, if you do not."
"Time will prove that!" and Margaretta tossed her head with a kind
of mock defiance.
"Have you fixed your wedding day?" the aunt asked after a few
"Not yet. But Mr. Smith wants to be married in three weeks."
"In three weeks!"
"Yes; but I told him that I could not get ready within a month."
"A month! Surely you are not going to act so precipitately?"
"I cannot see the use of waiting, aunt, when we are engaged and all
ready. And I can easily get ready in a month."
To this the aunt did not reply. She felt that it would be useless.
After this, Mr. Smith was a regular daily and evening visitor. He
perceived, of course, the unfavourable light in which the aunt viewed
him, and in consequence set himself to work to break down her
prejudices. He was kind and attentive to her on all occasions, and
studied her peculiar views and feelings, so as to adapt himself to
her. But the old lady had seen too much of the world, and was too
close an observer to be deceived. Still she found silent acquiescence
her only course of action.
At the end of the month from the day of their engagement Margaretta
Riston was a happy young bride.
One week after their marriage, Mr. Smith entered the room of his
friend Mr. Perkins, with a pale, agitated countenance.
"What in the world has happened, Smith?" the friend asked, in
"Haven't you heard the news?"
"No. What news?"
"The United States Bank has failed!"
"It is true. And every dollar of Margaretta's money is locked up
"Really that is dreadful! I would sell the stock immediately for
what it will bring, if I were you."
"So I wish to. But neither my wife nor her aunt are willing. And so
soon after our marriage I do not like to use positive measures."
"But the case is urgent. Delay may sweep from you every dollar."
"So I fear. What shall I do then? To have the prize in hand, and
find it thus suddenly escaping, is enough to drive me mad!"
"Sell in spite of them. That's my advice."
And the half crazy young fortune-hunter hurried away. In a few
minutes after, he entered the room where sat his wife and her aunt in
gloomy and oppressed silence.
"The best thing we can do, Margaretta, I am satisfied, is to sell,"
he said, taking a chair beside his wife. "The stock is falling every
hour, and it is the opinion of competent judges that it will not be
worth five dollars in a week."
"And other competent judges are of a very different opinion,"
replied the aunt. "Mr. Day, who was Margaretta's guardian, has just
been here, and says that we must not sell by any means; that after
the panic is over the stock will go up again. The bank, he assures
us, is fully able to meet every dollar, and still have a large
surplus. It would be folly then to sell, especially when there is no
urgent demand for the money."
"There is more urgent demand than you know of," Mr. Smith said to
himself with bitter emphasis. He added aloud,—
"Mr. Day may know something about the matter; but I am sure he is
mistaken in the calculation he makes. It is said this morning, by
those who know, that the assets of the bank are principally in
worthless stocks, and that the shareholders will never get a cent. My
advice, then, is to sell immediately; a bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush."
But both the wife and aunt objected; and so soon after marriage he
felt that positive opposition would come with a bad grace.
Steadily day after day, the stock went down, down, down—and day
after day Mr. Smith persisted in having it sold. The fact was, duns
now met him at every turn, and it was with the utmost difficulty that
he could prevent his wife and her aunt from guessing at the nature of
the many calls of his "particular friends." Money he must have, or he
could not keep out of prison long, and the only chance for his
obtaining money was in the sale of his wife's stock. But at the rates
for which it was now selling, the whole proceeds would not cover the
claims against him. At last, when the stock had fallen to twenty
dollars, Mrs. Smith yielded to her husband's earnest persuasions, and
handed him over the certificates of her stock, that he might dispose
of them to the best possible advantage.
"Mr. Smith is late in coming home to his dinner," the aunt said,
looking at the timepiece.
The young wife lifted her head from her hand, with a sigh, and
"Yes, he is rather late."
"I wonder what keeps him so!" the old lady remarked, about five
minutes after, breaking the oppressive silence.
"I'm sure I cannot tell. I gave him my certificates of stock to
sell this morning."
"You did? I am afraid that was wrong, Margaretta."
"I'm sure I cannot tell whether it is or not, aunt. But I've had no
peace about them, night nor day, since the bank failed."
There was bitterness in the tone of Margaretta's voice, that
touched the feelings of her aunt, and tended to confirm her worst
fears. But she could not, now, speak out plainly, as she had felt
constrained to do before marriage, and therefore did not reply.
For more than an hour did the two women wait for the return of Mr.
Smith, and then they went through the form of sitting down to the
dinner-table. But few mouthfuls of food passed the lips of either of
Hour after hour moved slowly by, but still the husband of
Margaretta appeared not; and when the twilight fell, it came with a
strange uncertain fear to the heart of the young wife.
"What can keep him so late, aunt?" she said, anxiously, as
the lights were brought in.
"Indeed, my child, I cannot tell. I hope that nothing is wrong."
"Wrong, aunt? What can be wrong?" and Margaretta looked her aunt
eagerly and inquiringly in the face.
"I am sure, my child, I do not know. Something unusual must detain
him, and I only hope that something may be evil neither to him nor
Again there was a deep and painful silence—painful at least to one
heart, trembling with an undefinable sensation of fear.
"There he is!" ejaculated Margaretta springing to her feet, as the
bell rang, and hurrying to the door before the servant had time to
"Here is a letter for Mrs. Smith," said a stranger, handing her a
sealed note, and then withdrawing quickly.
It was with difficulty that the young wife could totter back to the
parlour, where she seated herself by the table, and with trembling
hands broke the seal of the letter that had been given her. Her eyes
soon took in the brief words it contained. They were as follow:—
"Farewell, Margaretta! We shall, perhaps, never meet again! Think
of me as one altogether unworthy of you. I have wronged you—sadly
wronged you, I know—but I have been driven on by a kind of evil
necessity to do what I have done. Forget me! Farewell!"
This note bore neither date nor signature, but the characters in
which it was written were too well known to be mistaken.
Mrs. Riston saw the fearful change that passed over the face of her
niece as she read the note, and went quickly up to her. She was in
time to save her from falling to the floor. All through the night she
lay in a state of insensibility, and it was weeks before she seemed to
take even the slightest interest in any thing that was going on around
It was about three o'clock of the day that Mr. Smith got possession
of the certificates of deposit, that he entered the room of his
friend, Perkins. He looked agitated and irresolute.
"Well, Smith, how are you?" his friend said. "Have you sold that
"Indeed! So you have triumphed over your wife's scruples.
Well—what did you get for it?"
"Only eight thousand dollars."
"That was a shameful sacrifice!"
"Indeed it was. And it puts me into a terrible difficulty."
"What is that?"
"Why, I owe at least that sum; and I cannot stay here unless it is
"That is bad."
"Out of the fifty thousand I could have squared up, and it would
not have been felt. But I cannot use the whole eight thousand, and
look Margaretta and her aunt in the face again. And if I don't pay my
debts, you see, to prison I must go."
"You are in a narrow place, truly. Well, what are you going to do?"
"A question more easily asked than answered. Among my debts are
about, four thousand dollars that must be paid whether or no."
"They are debts of honour!"
"Ah, indeed! that is bad. You will have to settle them."
"Of course!" Then, in a loud and emphatic whisper, he said—
"And I have settled them!"
"Indeed! Well, what next? How will you account to your wife for the
"Account to my wife!" and as he said this, he ground his teeth
together, while his lip curled. "Don't talk to me in that way,
Perkins, and cause me to hate the woman I have deceived and injured!"
"But what are you going to do, Smith?"
"I am going to clear out with the balance of the money in my
pocket. I can't stay here, that's settled; and I'm not going away
penniless, that's certain. Margaretta's old aunt has money enough, and
can take care of her—so she's provided for. And I've no doubt but
that she'll be happier without me than with me."
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere down South."
"At four o'clock this afternoon."
"Well, success to you. There are some rich widows in the Southern
country, you know."
"I understand; but I'm rather sick of these operations. They are a
little uncertain. But good-bye, and may you have better luck than
your friend Smith."
"Good-bye." And the two young men shook hands cordially and parted.
At four o'clock Mr. Smith left for Baltimore—not the happiest man
in the cars by a great deal.
Since that day the confiding young creature who had thrown all into
the scale for him has neither seen him nor heard from him. To her the
light of life seems fled for ever. Her face is very pale, and wears an
expression of heart-touching misery. She is rarely seen abroad. Poor
creature! In her one sad error, what a lifetime of sorrow has been
Of all conditions in life, that of the young heiress, with her
money in her own right, is peculiarly dangerous. The truly worthy
shrink often from a tender of their affection, for fear their motives
may be thought interested; while the mercenary push forward, and by
well-directed flattery, that does not seem like flattery, win the
prize they cannot appreciate.
There are such base wretches in society. Let those who most need to
fear them be on their guard.
It is now but a few weeks since Thomas Fielding, who was despised
and rejected by Margaretta, married a sweet girl in every way worthy
of him. She is not rich in worldly goods, but she is rich in virtuous
principles. The former Fielding does not need; but the latter he can
cherish "as a holy prize."