There, sir, you may rest assured you see a moral man. Never mind his rags, for you must know that young men, morality, and fine linen, seldom go together in this world, where fathers invite libertines to their houses, where mothers welcome the attentions paid to their daughters by noted debauchees, and where young maidens themselves prefer a smile from wealthy licentiousness to a nod from virtuous poverty. Though he is neither Godwardly nor manwardly crooked, which should secure him esteem in a world of such great pretence to excellence, he has sufficiently experienced that virtue, when contrasted only with its present social rewards, is but an “empty name, a phantom, an abject slave, exposed to the insults of fortune,” as the dying Roman Stoic has declared. He has been tempted enough, but relying upon the self-approval which has never abandoned him, this has only made him a more shining example. I proclaim to you, upon better authority than my own, that there is a resting place provided for the troubled, and that men like he will inherit it. Thanks, thought Peter, for the happy prospect of adding another to the names in my little volume. [Here it must be explained that Peter had long kept a small book, in which he had written the names of all whom he personally encountered during his life, and who, he supposed, might stand a respectable chance of profiting by the exchange of worlds to be made at their last gasp; but thus far he had occasion to call it into requisition only on three several occasions. The third time, however, having discovered his own deception, he used it to amend by erasing one of the names previously registered there.]