The EMBARRASSMENT.
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I am hungry, mamma, &longs;aid Harriet.
Could you procure us a little bread and milk,
&longs;aid I, to the young woman.
We have none in the hou&longs;e, Sir, &longs;he replied,
vi&longs;ibly embarra&longs;&longs;ed; and it is above two miles to
another cottage.
The young man turned pale as a&longs;hes.
Give me my money, mother, &longs;aid the boy, and
I will go and buy &longs;ome.
She he&longs;itated, and the boy proceeded.
I think it is time we had &longs;ome breakfa&longs;t—I am
&longs;ure I am hungry—and &longs;o are you—I heard you
&longs;ay &longs;o, or I &longs;hould not have begged of the gentlefolks.
He will di&longs;cover our poverty, &longs;aid the father,
forcing a &longs;mile.—The mother turned from us
and wept.
Pardon me, Madam, &longs;aid Emma, if I a&longs;k the
cau&longs;e of your tears—it is not curio&longs;ity, but a wi&longs;h
to &longs;erve you occa&longs;ions the que&longs;tion.
Pride and poverty, replied the young man, struggling
to &longs;uppre&longs;s his emotions.
Will this relieve you, &longs;aid I, offering him a few
guineas.—
Though I am almo&longs;t &longs;tarving, &longs;aid he, I feel
more angui&longs;h than &longs;atisfaction at the offer; nor
would I accept it but for my wife and children.
It is extraordinary that there is &longs;uch an innate
pride implanted in the mind of &longs;ome men that they
are a&longs;hamed of poverty, though it was entailed
upon them by unavoidable misfortunes; and I am
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certain that people of this ca&longs;t, in receiving favours,
though perhaps tho&longs;e favours rai&longs;e them from
a &longs;tate of penury to plenty, feel a larger &longs;hare of
pain than plea&longs;ure—the noble mind is always
pained when labouring under the weight of obligations.
Now, &longs;hame upon the world for occa&longs;ioning
this—were it not that there is greater re&longs;pect paid
to the gilded equipage, glaring liveries, and embroidered
cloaths, than to the poor atom of clay
that is attended by all this pomp, a man would never
blu&longs;h at poverty when it was attended by honor
and virtue.
I do not mean hereditary honor, I mean a nobleness
of &longs;oul, an elevation of &longs;entiment, an integrity
of heart, that would rather bear the laugh of the
world for keeping within the &longs;trict rules of oeconomy
than &longs;uffer a trade&longs;man's bill to go unpaid, or
a fellow creature to want &longs;u&longs;tenance.
A man of real honor will not always draw his
&longs;word at every trivial offence; but he ever &longs;tands
forth the undaunted champion of innocence and
virtue—he al&longs;o holds his friend's wife or daughter
as &longs;acred, regards them with e&longs;teem, and treats
them with re&longs;pect.
The modern man of honor is quite a different
creature; he mu&longs;t have his plea&longs;ures whether he
can afford to pay for them or not; he will &longs;teal his
friend's fortune at the gaming table; debauch his
wife, or en&longs;nare his daughter, and then run him
through the body by way of reparation.
And, what is hereditary, honor?—A word of
pompous &longs;ound—a toy—a plaything—a pretty bauble
for children of twenty, thirty, aye, up to an
hundred years of age.
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I have &longs;een tho&longs;e great babies as plea&longs;ed with enumerating
the titles of their ance&longs;tors, as an infant
has been with a new rattle, or a jack in the box.
Sir, my forefathers were Earls, or Dukes, or
Princes.—Sir, I have noble blood in my veins,
which has flowed uncontaminated through twenty
generations.
Yes, Sir, but your ance&longs;tors were cruel, or unju&longs;t,
or ambitious, or avaricious, or proud, or revengeful.—
But they were Earls, or Dukes, or Princes.—
That is the convincing argument; and my Lord
&longs;its down perfectly contented with the reflection
that he is right honorable by birth, and never gives
him&longs;elf the trouble to perform one honorable action
during the whole cour&longs;e of his life.
And, pray what has this to do with the cottagers.
Faith I don't know that it has the lea&longs;t connection
with them; but I never can pre&longs;cribe rules for
my pen, any more than I can confine my thoughts
to one &longs;ingle object.—To write &longs;traight forward, is
like an hackney hor&longs;e that, &longs;etting out from the fir&longs;t
&longs;tage, continues in the beaten track till he arrives
at the end of his journey—for my part I hate &longs;uch
in&longs;ipid travelling; mine is a journey of plea&longs;ure,
and I will turn out of the road as often as I plea&longs;e
totake a view of any thing amu&longs;ing or entertaining.
Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1793], The inquisitor, or, Invisible rambler, volume 3 (William Gibbons, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf324v3].
