This must have interested His Majesty, very deeply. Poor James had then
enough of care. If he had possessed the hands of Briareus, they would have
been full already. In less than four months, after the date of this
letter, William of Orange had landed at Torbay, Nov. 5, 1688, and the last
days of the last of the Stuarts were at hand.
If Miss Bungs were living, even that inexorable hater of all
fortune-hunters would admit, that the punishment of Sir Samuel Morland was
sufficient for his crimes. Few will pretend, that his sufferings were more
than he deserved. A more exact retribution cannot well be imagined. It was
his intention to apply "_L4000 ready money_," belonging to "_a very
vertuous, pious, and sweet disposition'd lady_," to the payment of his
pre-contracted debts. Instead of effecting this honorable purpose, he
becomes the husband of a low-born strumpet, who is not worth a shilling,
and for whose debts, contracted before, as well as after marriage, he is
liable; for the law decrees, that a man takes his wife and her
circumstances together.
There are few individuals, of either sex, however constitutionally grave,
who have not a little merriment to spare, for such happy contingencies as
these. Retributive justice seldom descends, more gracefully, or more
deservedly, or more to universal acceptance, upon the crafty heads of
unprincipled projectors. For all, that may befall him, the fortune-hunter
has little to expect, from male or female sympathy. The scolding
tongue--those bewitching tresses, nocturnally deposited on the
bedpost--those teeth of pearly brilliancy, which Keep or Tucker could so
readily identify--the perpetual look of distrust--the espionage of
jealousy--these and all other _tormina domestica_ are the allotments of
the fortune-hunter, by immemorial prescription, and without the slightest
sympathy, from man or woman.
The case of Sir Samuel Morland is a valuable precedent, on account of his
station in society, and the auto-biographical character of the narrative.
But there are very few of us, who have not the record of some similar
catastrophe, within the compass of our knowledge, though, probably, of a
less aggravated type.
There is a pleasant legend, in the humbler relations of life, to which I
have listened, in earlier days, and which illustrates the principle,
involved in these remarks. Molly Moodey was an excellent cook, in the
family of an avaricious old widower, whose god was mammon, and who had
been deterred, by the expensiveness of the proceeding, from taking a
second goddess.
The only sentiment, in any way resembling the tender passion, which had
ever been awakened, in the bosom of Molly Moodey, was a passion for
lotteries.
She gave such of her waking hours, as were not devoted to roasting and
boiling, to the calculation of chances, and her sleeping hours to the
dreaming of dreams, about L20,000: and by certain combinations, she had
come to the conclusion, that No. 26,666 was the fortunate number, in the
great scheme, then presented to the public.
Molly avowed her purpose, and demanded her wages, which, after severely
berating her, for her folly, were handed over, and the identical ticket
was bought. With the hope of being the first to inform her, after the
drawing, that her ticket was a blank, her old master noted down the
number, in his tablets.
In about seven weeks after this occurrence, the old gentleman, while
reading the newspaper, in one of the public offices, came upon the
following notice--"HIGHEST PRIZE! L20,000. No. 26,666 the fortunate
number, sold at our fortunate office, in one entire ticket, SKINNER,
KETCHUM, & CLUTCH, and will be paid to the lucky proprietor, after the
27th current."
The old gentleman took out his tablets; compared the numbers; wiped his
spectacles; collated the numbers again; resorted to the lottery office;
and, upon inquiry there, became satisfied, that Molly Moodey had actually
drawn L20,000.
A new code of sensations came over the spirit of his dreams. He hastened
home, oppressed by the heat and his emotions. He bade Molly lay aside her
mop, and attend him in the parlor, as he had something of importance to
communicate.--"Molly," said he, after closing the doors--"I find a partner
absolutely necessary to my happiness. Let me be brief. I am not the man to
make a fool of myself, by marrying a young flirt. I have known you, Molly,
for many years. You have what I prize above all things in a wife, solid,
substantial qualifications. Will you have me?"
Taken thus by surprise, she gave a striking evidence of her
self-possession, by requesting leave of absence, for a moment, to remove a
kettle of fat, which she was trying out, lest it should boil over. She
soon came back, and turned her eye--she had but one--with great respect,
upon her old master--said something of the difference of their
stations--and consented.
The old gentleman's attachment for Molly appeared to be very
extraordinary. Until the wedding-day, which was an unusually early one, he
would not suffer her to be out of his sight. The day came--they were
married. On their way from church--"Molly," said the bridegroom,
"whereabouts is your ticket, with that fortunate number?"--"Oh," she
replied, "when I came to think of it, I saw, that you were right. I
thought, 'twas quite likely it would draw a blank. Crust, the baker,
offered me what I gave for it, and a sheet of bunns, to boot, and I let
him have it, three weeks ago."--"Good God," exclaimed the poor old
gentleman--"L20,000 for a sheet of bunns!"
The shock was too much for his reason; and, in less than six weeks, Molly
was a widow. She attended him, with great fidelity, to the last moment;
and his dying words were engraven upon her heart--"_Twenty thousand pounds
for a sheet of bunns!_"