"literature has been the favourite object of my pursuit, my recreation
in leisure, and my hope in employment. My propensity to it, indeed, has
been so ungovernable, that I may properly call it the source of my
several miscarriages throughout life. It was the bar to my preferment,
for it gave me a distaste to other studies; it was the cause of my
unsteadiness in all my undertakings, because to all I preferred it. It
has sunk me to distress, it has involved me in difficulties; it has
brought me to the brink of ruin by making me neglect the means of
living, yet never, till now, did I discern it might itself be my
support."

"I am heartily glad, Sir," said Cecilia, "your various enterprizes and
struggles have at length ended in a project which promises you so much
satisfaction. But you will surely suffer your sister and your mother to
partake of it? for who is there that your prosperity will make so
happy?"

"You do them infinite honour, madam, by taking any interest in their
affairs; but to own to you the truth, what to me appears prosperity,
will to them wear another aspect. They have looked forward to my
elevation with expectations the most improbable, and thought everything
within my grasp, with a simplicity incredible. But though their hopes
were absurd, I am pained by their disappointment, and I have not
courage to meet their tears, which I am sure will not be spared when
they see me."

"'Tis from tenderness, then," said Cecilia, half smiling, "that you are
cruel, and from affection to your friends that you make them believe
you have forgotten them?"