"Great God!" cried I; "then she _had_ killed M. de Fosseux!!!"
THE SPENDTHRIFT'S DAUGHTER. IN SIX CHAPTERS.
"Frugality is a virtue which will contribute continually and most essentially to your comfort. Without it, it is impossible that you should do well; and we know not how much, or how soon, it may be needed."
So writes Southey to his son, Cuthbert, just then starting at Oxford.
The proposition might have been expanded from the particular to the universal. Southey might have said, that in no condition of life, from that of her who sitteth upon the throne, to that of the handmaiden who grindeth behind the mill, can frugality--in other words, system and self-denial as regards the expenditure of money--be dispensed with. Self-denial and diligent attention in the management of this great talent are necessary in all.
No one of the gifts of Providence appears to the casual observer to be bestowed with less regard to individual merit than wealth. It would almost seem, as an old divine has written, as if God would mark his contempt of mere material riches by the hands into which he suffers them to fall. Although, fall where they will, and on whom they will, one thing is certain;--that they will prove but a delusive snare to those who know not how to order them;--when to husband, and when to spare; when to spend, or when to bestow.
These reflections arose from a story with which, not long ago, I became acquainted. A common tale enough--one among a thousand illustrations of what Butler affirms to be the indispensable condition upon which it has pleased our Creator that we should hold our being:--that of controlling our own actions; either by prudence to pass our days in ease and quiet; or, by rashness, ungoverned passion, wilfulness, or negligence, to make ourselves miserable.
He is sitting on the bottom stone of a magnificent flight of steps, which lead up to a handsome door, situated in the centre of a large many-windowed house, which, fronted with handsome iron rails round the area, is built of fine brick, and ornamented with abundance of stone-work, in cornices and architraves. This house stands in one of the best streets in the neighborhood of Grosvenor Square.
He is clothed in garments that once were fashionable; but now are discolored with much wear and long exposure to wind and weather; so much so, that, in several places, they are falling into tatters. His face--the features of which are very finely cut, and still bear the traces of a once very remarkable beauty--is wan, attenuated, and begrimed with dust, dirt, and neglect. His eyes are haggard; his hair dusty and dishevelled--his beard ragged and untrimmed.