The captain cleared his throat; mentally assembled his entire army of words—­horse, foot, artillery, and reserves; put himself at the head; and dashed into action, to carry the moral intrenchments of Society by a general charge.

“Now observe,” he began.  “Here am I, a needy object.  Very good.  Without complicating the question by asking how I come to be in that condition, I will merely inquire whether it is, or is not, the duty of a Christian community to help the needy.  If you say No, you simply shock me; and there is an end of it; if you say Yes, then I beg to ask, Why am I to blame for making a Christian community do its duty?  You may say, Is a careful man who has saved money bound to spend it again on a careless stranger who has saved none?  Why of course he is!  And on what ground, pray?  Good heavens! on the ground that he has got the money, to be sure.  All the world over, the man who has not got the thing, obtains it, on one pretense or another, of the man who has—­and, in nine cases out of ten, the pretense is a false one.  What! your pockets are full, and my pockets are empty; and you refuse to help me?  Sordid wretch! do you think I will allow you to violate the sacred obligations of charity in my person?  I won’t allow you—­I say, distinctly, I won’t allow you.  Those are my principles as a moral agriculturist.  Principles which admit of trickery?  Certainly.  Am I to blame if the field of human sympathy can’t be cultivated in any other way?  Consult my brother agriculturists in the mere farming line—­do they get their crops for the asking?  No! they must circumvent arid Nature exactly as I circumvent sordid Man.  They must plow, and sow, and top-dress, and bottom-dress, and deep-drain, and surface-drain, and all the rest of it.  Why am I to be checked in the vast occupation of deep-draining mankind?  Why am I to be persecuted for habitually exciting the noblest feelings of our common nature?  Infamous!—­I can characterize it by no other word—­infamous!  If I hadn’t confidence in the future, I should despair of humanity—­but I have confidence in the future.  Yes! one of these days (when I am dead and gone), as ideas enlarge and enlightenment progresses, the abstract merits of the profession now called swindling will be recognized.  When that day comes, don’t drag me out of my grave and give me a public funeral; don’t take advantage of my having no voice to raise in my own defense, and insult me by a national statue.  No! do me justice on my tombstone; dash me off, in one masterly sentence, on my epitaph.  Here lies Wragge, embalmed in the tardy recognition of his species:  he plowed, sowed, and reaped his fellow-creatures; and enlightened posterity congratulates him on the uniform excellence of his crops.”

He stopped; not from want of confidence, not from want of words—­purely from want of breath.  “I put it frankly, with a dash of humor,” he said, pleasantly.  “I don’t shock you—­do I?” Weary and heart-sick as she was—­suspicious of others, doubtful of herself—­the extravagant impudence of Captain Wragge’s defense of swindling touched Magdalen’s natural sense of humor, and forced a smile to her lips.  “Is the Yorkshire crop a particularly rich one just at present?” she inquired, meeting him, in her neatly feminine way, with his own weapons.