of my education, and how eagerly did I grasp at her lessons of experience; how anxiously did she pour on my youthful heart a love for all that was truly good and truly great; above all things, she taught me to honour virtue, and to cling to that unerring and protecting Providence which never utterly abandons those who ultimately confide in its goodness. 666 Poverty will assail you, my Rosalvie,' uttered she, when the little means I now have to support you are gone; temptation on temptation will crowd on your alarmed and virtuous mind, but resist them, my child, and you will ever repose in security and peace; manfully bear up against the tide of worldly evils which will afflict you when I shall cease to exist; eat the bread of industry, and it will be sweet, though ever so little; curse not your mother, for still she is your mother, though she has eternally disgraced you! yet do not curse her, but never commune with her: pray for her repentance, and should you meet with her in this vale of tears, accept nothing from her hands, the bread she eats would choke you-'tis the wages of sin, and stained with dishonour.' "Mr. Trelawney, it was the last counsel that my dear grandmother ever gave me, for soon she fled to meet the reward of all her exemplary virtues and trials of fortitude, in a better world, where happiness is certain, and no sorrow ever dwells. In fine, Sir, I buried my poor grandmother, and no sooner were her remains deposited in the earth, than I retired into the country with the little that this dear and venerable relative had left me, and in the humblest industry I passed many years; but, alas, my labour failed when I had a wife and two children to support, for, inspired by the genius of my grandmother, I attempted to become an author-and then I starved." "I do not doubt it, my good Sir," cried Trelawney; "it is the surest road to poverty in the whole created world,—you could not have made choice of a more starving profession, or one that so ill repays its labourers.” "Yet my grandmother lived by it," cried Mr. De Valmont. "True, my dear Sir," cried Mr. Trelawney, "but these are not the days of your grandmother: she lived in times when talent gave respect, and even honours, to those who possessed it; in these days (they call them enlightened ones, but I must beg leave to contradict the false assertion) talents very rarely gain a friend." "Alas, Sir, I found it so," cried Mr. De Valmont; "I brought my wife and children to London, the great and universal mart for all conditions of men; I placed them in an obscure lodging, and began my authorship." "And where did it end?" cried Mr. Trelawney, “and in what manner did the gentlemen of the sheets receive your early labours ?” "They treated me with rudeness," answered Mr. De Valmont, "often with brutality; which when I resented, they laughed at me." "Certainly, it is their interest; it keeps authors down, and their consequence up. However, let us no longer converse on so painful a subject,—are your wife and children yet in London?” my "Yes, Sir," answered Mr. De Valmont, the tears again starting to his eyes, "and by mere accident I find that- -that mother is here also; but how she has obtained a knowledge of you I need not wonder, she often visits the musical repository at the late Mr. P.'s in Bond Street, where the card of Lady Honoria Belmont was left by your son, and I received a letter, intimtaing that if Mr. De Valmont called there, he would hear of something to his advantage. I availed myself of this opportunity, Sir, as soon as possible, and conversed with the present proprietor. He assured me, with a sincerity that I could not doubt, of your benevolent inquiries about me; and I am come, such as I am, before you, telling you a tale of truth and misery. I have no doubt that it was my mother who wrote, but I cannot be certain, never having seen her handwriting. Mr. Trelawney immediately rang the bell, and desired that some refreshments might be brought in, of which he kindly bade Mr. De Valmont to partake; but he ate but little, and drank still less, often exclaiming, "My Fanny-my Fanny expects me." "Nor shall she be disappointed in her expectations," cried Mr. Trelawney; "compose yourself,-take a glass of wine,-leave me a card of your address, and this evening my son and I will visit you and your afflicted family, with such means of relief, Mr. De Val mont, as I hope will enable you to provide for yourself and children. You know I am a father and a husband myself, and I should feel unworthy of being either, if I did not most truly commiserate your situation. Lady Honoria Belmont is at present in Scotland, but that is of little moment, for I will take upon myself to do exactly what she would have done had she been here. She reveres the memory of Madame De Valmont, and so do I; and never do I bless the hand that has made me wealthy so infinitely as when it gives me the means of helping those whom it has also made poor. Accept the enclosed for a present supply of your immediate necessities, Mr. De Valmont, and in the evening you shall behold me at the appointed time." "Will you take another glass of wine, Mr. De Valmont ?" cried Tanjore, pouring it out, and handing it to him with such an expression of warm benevolence seated on his countenance, that De Valmont, as he arose to take his leave, could not articulate a sentence, for his heart was too full; but his silence was far more expressive to both father and son, and at his departure Trelawney exclaimed, "Poor fellow! he is now going home to his wife and children, no doubt rejoiced with the hope of consoling them, and procuring them the means of comfort. See, my boy, we are not all happy in this wide world's theatre! Here is talent, industry, youth, and doubtless virtue, but still there is poverty, which scatters thorns even on the pillow of love, and blights all its blossoms, even till they wither and die." "Ah, no, father, but they will not perish," cried Tanjore: "love will not perish, even though poverty chills the flower that it cherishes, yet it cannot eternally destroy it." 66 "But it may freeze it," cried Trelawney; you never felt the chill of poverty-'tis a bitter blast." "And have you, father ?—yet you have loved, and would you not have done so if you had been poor likewise?" "Your question is very natural, my boy," cried Mr. Trelawney, " and I will answer it after we have visited De Valmont, and further relieved the wants of him and his suffering little family." CHAPTER XXVIII. "Hard is his lot, who, here by fortune plac'd, "For we who live to please, must please to live." MR. TRELAWNEY, accompanied by Tanjore, set out at an early hour from his residence in Berkeley Square in search of the obscure dwelling of Mr. De Valmont. We say in search, because, though he had left a very clear direction on the card which he had laid on the table, yet they had certainly some difficulty in finding out his wretched abode, for wretched it was beyond description, at a corner of a miserable dirty court leading into Exeter Street, near the Strand. A fat squabby woman, with a remarkably red face, stood at the entrance of this miserable-looking hovel, whose gay attire (for she was dressed in all the colours of the rainbow) by no means agreed with the poverty of the mansion, and of whom Mr. Trelawney now inquired for Mr. De Valmont; to which she replied, having first very particularly surveyed the elegant dress of Mr. Trelawney, and the fine handsome figure and face of Tanjore Trelawney, with peculiar symptoms of complacency and satisfaction,— 66 Why, Sir, I am only a lodger in this here house, and knows but very little of that there person you inquires for, because as how, you see, we gets our bread very differently. Mrs. Muggins, who keeps this here lodging-house, says he writes books; but, lauk a mercy! it's but a poor starving trade, so I never troubled my head to ax no more questions about him. Now I gets my living by Her volubility was now immediately put a final stop to, by Mr. Trelawney abruptly exclaiming, 66 I do not want to know, Madam, what you get your living by, nor did I ask you by what means Mr. De Valmont got his; I only wished to know if such a person resided in the house,-you have answered that question, and I am exceedingly obliged to you." With these words, Mr. Trelawney and Tanjore immediately proceeded up the narrow staircase, leaving the red-faced lady at the bottom of it, to make what comments she liked best on their abrupt mode of quitting her; but they were almost instantly perceived by De Valmont himself, who, in silence, conducted them to a small apartment at the back part of the house, which, though miserably supplied with furniture, was perfectly clean. There were but two chairs and a small stool, besides the cradle, in which a lovely infant was sleeping, and a fine little boy about four years of age was sitting on the stool, close to his mother, Mrs. De Valmont, (for such she was,) who rose at the entrance of Mr. Trelawney, and curtsied respectfully to him and Tanjore, and two chairs were immediately brought from the adjoining apartment by De Valmont for their accommodation. Meanwhile, Mr. Trelawney had addressed Mrs. De Valmont in the kindest and most condescending manner that was possible. 66 "I beg you will be seated, Madam," uttered he, " and do not disturb your infant, which is now enjoying such sweet repose; meanwhile I will amuse myself with this fine little fellow, who looks as if he should like to scrape some acquaintance with me ;" and Mr. Trelawney immediately drew the child towards him, and said, "What is your name, my little hero?" "Rosalvie," answered he," and when I am a good boy, mother calls me her dear Rosalvie, and kisses me.” "Indeed!” cried Mr. Trelawney," but I hope you are always a good boy." "No, not always," said the child; "sometimes I cry for bread and butter, and mother cries too, when she has none to give me." There are moments when we blush at our poverty, although conscious that it is no crime, and this speech of little Rosalvie's brought a colour into the fair cheeks of Mrs. De Valmont, bright as the roseat tints of morning, and which, quickly fading, left no traces of vermillion there, but a crystal drop, that flowed unbidden from her azure eyes. But what were the feelings of the amiable Trelawney, himself a father and a husband? Let us inquire, as he bent over the little flaxen-curled head of the beauteous boy, who had told a tale of truth |