all which was the solitary offset of "three copies sold;"
leaving as our Henry's _share_ of now certain loss a matter of eighty
pounds: which, between ourselves, was only a very little more than the
whole cost of that untoward publication. Mr. Wormwood hoped to hear from
Mr. Clements at his earliest convenience, as a certain sum was to be
made up on a certain day, and the book-trade never had been at a lower
ebb, and prompt payment would be esteemed a great accommodation,
and--all that stereotyped sort of thing.

Poor Clements--reviled author, ruined lawyer, almost reckless
wight--here was an extinguisher indeed to the morning's brilliant hopes!
What an overwhelming debt to that ill-used couple in their altered
circumstances! How entirely by his own strong effort had he swamped his
legal expectations! Just as a man who cannot swim splashes himself into
certain suffocation; whereas, if he would but lie quite still, he was
certain to have floated on as safe as cork.

Well: to cut a long story short, our unlucky author found that he must
pay, and pay forthwith, or incur a lawyer's bill for his debt to Mr.
Wormwood: so he gave up his Temple garret, sold his books, nicknacks,
and superfluous habiliments, added to the proceeds their forty pounds of
capital, and a neck-chain of Maria's; and, at tremendous sacrifices,
found himself once more out of danger, because out of debt. But it was a
bad prospect truly for the future--ay, and for the present too; a few
pounds left would soon be gone--and then dear Maria's confinement was
approaching, and a hundred wants and needs, little and great:
accordingly, they made all haste to get rid of their suburban dwelling
in the City Road, collected their few valuables remaining, and retreated
with all economical speed to a humble lodging in a cheap back street at
Islington.

That little parlor was a palace of love: in the midst of her deep
sorrow, sweet Maria never failed of her amiable charities--nay, she was
even cheerful, hopeful--happy, and rendering happy: a thousand times a
day had Henry cause to bless his "wedded angel." And, showing his love
by more than words, he resolutely set about another literary enterprise,
anonymous this time for very fear's sake; but Providence saw fit to
bless his efforts with success. He wrote a tragedy, a clever and a good
one too; though '_The Watchman_' did sneer about "modern Shakspeares,"
and '_The Corinthian_,' pouncing on some trifling fault, pound