"I did not pack my trunk; another suitor, One twice as rich as Dudley, kindled hopes Anew in my poor mother's breast; and so Susan was kept at school another season, And I was put upon the course once more, My training perfect and my harness new!
"Who could object to Arthur Pennington? Son of a wealthy manufacturer, A type he was of English adolescence, Trained by harmonious culture to the fulness Of all that Nature had supplied; a person That did not lack one manly grace; a mind Which took the mould that social pressure gave, Without one protest native to itself. In the accepted, the conventional, He looked for Truth, nor ever had a doubt Whether she might not hide in some deep well Rather than flaunt her modest purity In dusty highways. With my disposition To challenge all that human dogmatism Imperious would impose upon my thought, What pretty yoke-fellows for life should we, Arthur and I, have been! Misled by hopes Which were inspired too fondly by my mother, He, too, proposed, and was of course rejected.
"Then the storm broke! The cup of my offences Was overflowed at last. Now must I go-- Go, where she cared not; only disappear From her domain; she washed her hands of me! Hundreds of pounds had been invested in me,-- My dresses, jewelry, and entertainments,-- And here was the result! But no more money, From her, must I expect; my father's income Had not for years been equal to his outlays. Any day he might be compelled to change His style of living; all had been kept up For the advantage of myself and sisters; And here was all the gratitude I showed!
"This time my mother was in earnest; so Now must I lay my plans to go at once. Whither? to seek a transient home with one Of my own married sisters? Ah! the thought Of being dependent galled me like a spur. No! go to work,--a voice within me said: Think of the many thousands of your sex Who, young and giddy, not equipped like you, Are thrown upon the world to battle with it As best they may! Now try your closet virtue; See if your theory can stand the proof,-- If trial will not warp your sense of right. When Poverty shall dog your every step, And at your scanty or unwholesome meal Sit down, or with you, in your thin attire, Go shivering home at night from ill-paid toil,-- Then see if you can keep your feet from straying; Then choose as only Conscience bids you choose!