"No; I think not."
"You would be a fool if you did. Probably, after all, you'll think better of your uncles' proposal and go into the Church."
"A singular regeneration must take place in my whole inner and outer man before I do that. A good clergyman is one of the best of men."
"Indeed! Do you think so?" interrupted Hunsden, scoffingly.
"I do, and no mistake. But I have not the peculiar points which go to make a good clergyman; and rather than adopt a profession for which I have no vocation, I would endure extremities of hardship from poverty."
"You're a mighty difficult customer to suit. You won't be a tradesman or a parson; you can't be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a gentleman, because you've no money. I'd recommend you to travel."
"What! without money?"
"You must travel in search of money, man. You can speak French--with a vile English accent, no doubt--still, you can speak it. Go on to the Continent, and see what will turn up for you there."
"God knows I should like to go!" exclaimed I with involuntary ardour.
"Go: what the deuce hinders you? You may get to Brussels, for instance, for five or six pounds, if you know how to manage with economy."
"Necessity would teach me if I didn't."
"Go, then, and let your wits make a way for you when you get there. I know Brussels almost as well as I know X----, and I am sure it would suit such a one as you better than London."
"But occupation, Mr. Hunsden! I must go where occupation is to be had; and how could I get recommendation, or introduction, or employment at Brussels?"
"There speaks the organ of caution. You hate to advance a step before you know every inch of the way. You haven't a sheet of paper and a pen-and-ink?"
"I hope so," and I produced writing materials with alacrity; for I guessed what he was going to do. He sat down, wrote a few lines, folded, sealed, and addressed a letter, and held it out to me.
"There, Prudence, there's a pioneer to hew down the first rough difficulties of your path. I know well enough, lad, you are not one of those who will run their neck into a noose without seeing how they are to get it out again, and you're right there. A reckless man is my aversion, and nothing should ever persuade me to meddle with the concerns of such a one. Those who are reckless for themselves are generally ten times more so for their friends."