CHAPTER V.

"S'il est vrai qu'on puisse allier le succès dans le monde avec la vertu, ce que pour moi je ne crois pas, je suis sûr au moins qu'il n'y a pour cela d'autre route que celle qu'il avait prise."

ROUSSEAU.

HARDY returned to his lodgings well contented with his success. He was to have a a month's trial; and, if found equal to the situation, a regular engagement afterwards at seventy pounds a year. This he looked upon as already certain. Indeed, there was no reason why he should not do so. He wrote a good hand; his knowledge of arithmetic was perfect; he had been initiated by Mr. Aveley into the mysteries of book

keeping; and, he could depend upon himself for attention, industry, perseverance and honesty. Wondrous self-dependence !-But he had had no cause for the too curious reasonings of the Danish Prince; could not yet have discovered that "to be honest as the world goes, is to be one man picked out of a thousand." And none of the subtle susceptibilities of the French philosopher had turned him to speculations on his own heart, tending to the suspicion that virtue could not be united with success in the world. On the contrary, he believed with his nation generally, that success in the world was a decided proof of virtue. For my part, I am free to confess that want of success I do not hold to be any proof of virtue, and this opinion I entertain, with a firm belief in Rousseau's doctrine also.

But my early friend, Hardy, possessed the inductive faculty in greater perfection than I, and his belief was no doubt, the best. From this time, he appeared disposed to

exercise his reasoning powers on facts and realities. The youthful mind is often tormented by the questions, What are good, evil, truth? What is necessity? What is freedom?-But these he now summarily dismissed. He checked them by the coachman's logic-" hain't every man a driving of himself? Can't he drive as he likes?"— And, this kind of ethics was good, very good, as far as it went. He liked it the better that it seemed to coincide with what Mr. Aveley had said, "that men were so framed that they must act from the conviction of free-agency."-But he forgot much that Mr. Aveley also said immediately afterwards on religion, and its immutable laws, in connexion with the subject.

To return to the little events of this time, so pregnant with the future, yet apparently so unimportant-for, what can be less important than a poor clerk's getting a paltry situation, and settling in very cheap lodgings in a great town where he knows no one?

He went back to his humble abode satisfied with what he had done for himself. A porter followed him with Ned's chest of clothes, and his other effects sent off from the ship. Perhaps, although he believed his brother to be dead, he had never felt with reality that he was so, until he found himself alone, in his new home with the chest placed beside him. Its lid was thrown open, and he was now the only living being privileged to look into, not only the secrets of the outward life of the honest sailor, but into his heart-mysteries. There appeared among the clothes letters in a female hand. Crumpled and worn, they had been often read, and had been thrust in there hurriedly when prying eyes were on their reader. Benjamin closed the chest-he felt almost the hysterica passio in his throat.But he was a man-he mastered it-locked the chest and put away all his brother's things, determining to look over them at another time.

Just then his landlady came in to ask if he would have tea. He had purchased some tea and sugar for himself; and, she having provided him with some bread and butter and a candle, he sat down to his solitary meal. His thoughts very naturally in such circumstances reverted to all that he had left in his former home; but, notwithstanding the dinginess of his room and the meagreness of the tea-table fare, compared with his uncle's, he felt no regret at the change which he had made. Since Ned had left Woreham, the place had been dull and spiritless-he could not wish to be there again, yet something whispered him that he was scarcely just to the relative who had brought him up from six years old.

John Hardy, an industrious old bachelor, of extremely reserved and quiet habits, received his two nephews, Edward and Benjamin, into his house on the death of their parents. He was a tanner by trade, and in the village in which he lived, he was