The reader will remember, that we left Sir Samuel Morland, in deep distress, his eyes, to use his own words, in the letter to Pepys, blinded by a flood of tears. Of all fortune-hunters he was the most unfortunate, who have recorded, with their own hands, the history of their own most wretched adventures. Instead of marrying a “vertuous, pious, and sweet disposition’d lady, with £500 per ann. in land, and £4000 in ready money, with plate, jewels, &c.,” he found himself in silken bonds, with a coachman’s daughter, “not worth a shilling,” who, nine months before, had been introduced to a new code of sensations, by giving birth to a child, whose father was of that problematical species, which the law terms putative.

I have promised to lay before the reader two additional letters, from Sir Samuel Morland, to Pepys, on the subject of his difficulties with Lady Morland. Here they are: the first will be found, in Pepys’ Diary, vol. v. page 329.

“17 May, 1688. Sir: Being of late unable to go abroad, by reason of my lame hip”—no wonder he was hipped—“which gives me great pain, besides that it would not be safe for me, at present, because of that strumpet’s”—Lady Morland’s—“debts, I take the boldness to entreat you, that, according to your wonted favors, of the same kind, you will be pleased, at the next opportunity, to give the King this following account.”

“A little before Christmas last, being informed, that she was willing, for a sum of money, to confess in open court a precontract with Mr. Cheek, and being at the same time assured, both by hir and my own lawyers, that such a confession would be sufficient for a sentence of nullity, I did deposit the money, and accordingly a day of tryall was appoynted; but after the cause had been pleaded, I was privately assured, that the Judge was not at all satisfyd with such a confession of hers, as to be sufficient ground for him to null the marriage, and so that design came to nothing.”

“Then I was advised to treat with her, and give her a present sum and a future maintenance, she giving me sufficient security never to trouble mee more; but her demands were so high, I could not consent to them.”

“After this she sent me a very submissive letter, by her own advocate. I was advised, both by several private friends, and some eminent divines, to take her home, and a day of treaty was appoynted for an accommodation.”

“In the interim, a certain gentleman came on purpose, to my house, to assure me that I was taking a snake into my bosome, forasmuch as she had for six months last past, to his certain knowledge, been kept by, and cohabited with Sir Gilb. Gerrard, as his wife, &c. Upon which making further enquiry, that gentleman furnishing me with some witnesses, and I having found out others, I am this term endeavoring to prove adultery against her, and so to obteyn a divorce, which is the present condition of your most humble and faithful servant,

Samuel Morland.”

It was fortunate, that Sir Samuel, whose naÏvetÉ and rascality are most amusingly mingled, did not take the “snake into his bosome,” notwithstanding the advice of those “eminent divines,” whose counsel is almost ever too celestial, for the practical occasions of the present world.

The issue of Sir Samuel’s fatal plunge into the abyss of matrimony, in pursuit of “£500 per annum in land and £4000 in ready money,” and of all that befell the Lady Morland, until she lost her title, is recorded, in the third and last letter to Pepys, in vol. v., page 330.

“19 July, 1688. Sir: I once more begg you to give yourself the trouble of acquainting His Majesty that upon Munday last, after many hott disputes between the Doctors of the Civil Law, the sentence of divorce was solemnly pronounced in open Court against that strumpet”—Lady Morland—“for living in adultery with Sir Gilbert Gerrard, for six months last past; so that now, unless shee appeal, for which the law allows her 15 days, I am freed from her for life, and all that I have to do, for the future, will bee to gett clear of her debts, which she has contracted from the day of marriage to the time of sentence, which is like to give me no small trouble, besides the charge, for severall months in the Chancery. And till I gett cleared of these debts, I shall bee little better than a prisoner in my own house. Sir, believing it my duty to give His Majesty this account of myselfe and of my proceedings, and having no other friend to do it for mee, I hope you will forgive the trouble thus given you, by, yours, &c.,

S. Morland.”

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 “£4000 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 £20,000: 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! £20,000. 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 £20,000.

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—“£20,000 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!”

How true to reality are the gay words of Tom Moore—

“In wedlock a species of lottery lies,
Where in blanks and in prizes we deal.”