n was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sou.

"'Tis very true," said I, "'tis very true--and Heaven be their resource
who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock of which, I
fear, is no way sufficient for the many _great claims_ which are hourly
made upon it."

As I pronounced the words _great claims_, he gave a single glance with
his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic--I felt the full force of
the appeal. "I acknowledge it," said I, "a coarse habit, and that but
once in three years, with meagre diet--are no great matters; and the
true point of pity is, as they can be earn'd in the world with so little
industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a
fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the
infirm; and had you been of the _order of mercy_, instead of the order
of St. Francis, poor as I am," continued I, pointing at my portmanteau,
"full cheerfully should it have been open'd to you, for the ransom of
the unfortunate"--the monk made me a bow--"but of all others," resumed
I, "the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first rights;
and I have left thousands in distress upon our own shore." The monk gave
a cordial wave with his head, as much as to say, "No doubt, there is
misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our
convent." "But we distinguish," said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve
of his tunic, "we distinguish, my good father! betwixt those who wish
only to eat the bread of their own labour--and those who eat the bread
of other people's, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it
in sloth and ignorance, _for the love of God_."

The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass'd across
his cheeks, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her
resentments in him; he showed none, but press'd both his hands with
resignation upon his breast and retired.

My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. "Psha!" said I, with an
air of carelessness, but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I
had utter'd crowded back into my imagination. I reflected, I had no
right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; I consider'd his grey
hairs--his courteous figure seem'd to re-enter and gently ask me what
injury he had done me? And why I could use him thus? I would have given
twenty livres for an advocate--I have behaved very ill, said I, within
myself; but I have only just set ou