id Sir Gervas, with a darkening face. 'I
have, as I said, done Mortimer some turns which he might remember,
though it did not become me to remind him of them. This Mistress
Butterworth is mine old wet-nurse, and it hath been the custom of the
family to provide for her. I could not bear the thought that in the ruin
of my fortune she should lose the paltry guinea or so a week which stood
between her and hunger. My only request to Mortimer, therefore, made on
the score of old friendship, was that he should continue this pittance,
I promising that should I prosper I would return whatever he should
disburse. The mean-hearted villain wrung my hand and swore that it
should be so. How vile a thing is human nature, Clarke! For the sake of
this paltry sum he, a rich man, hath broken his pledge, and left this
poor woman to starve. But he shall answer to me for it. He thinks that
I am on the Atlantic. If I march back to London with these brave boys
I shall disturb the tenor of his sainted existence. Meanwhile I shall
trust to sun-dials, and off goes my watch to Mother Butterworth. Bless
her ample bosoms! I have tried many liquors, but I dare bet that the
first was the most healthy. But how of your own letters? You have been
frowning and smiling like an April day.'

'There is one from my father, with a few words attached from my mother,'
said I. 'The second is from an old friend of mine, Zachariah Palmer, the
village carpenter. The third is from Solomon Sprent, a retired seaman,
for whom I have an affection and respect.'

'You have a rare trio of newsmen. I would I knew your father, Clarke, he
must, from what you say, be a stout bit of British oak. I spoke even now
of your knowing little of the world, but indeed it may be that in your
village you can see mankind without the varnish, and so come to learn
more of the good of human nature. Varnish or none, the bad will ever
peep through. Now this carpenter and seaman show themselves no doubt for
what they are. A man might know my friends of the court for a lifetime,
and never come upon their real selves, nor would it perhaps repay the
search when you had come across it. Sink me, but I wax philosophical,
which is the old refuge of the ruined man. Give me a tub, and I shall
set up in the Piazza of Covent Garden, and be the Diogenes of London. I
would not be wealthy again, Micah! How goes the old lilt?--

"Our money shall never indite us
Or drag us to Goldsmith Hall