HERE ended the narrative of Mervyn. Surely its in­cidents were of no common kind. During this season of pestilence, my opportunities of observation had been numerous, and I had not suffered them to pass unim­proved. The occurrences which fell within my own experience bore a general resemblance to those which had just been related, but they did not hinder the latter from striking on my mind with all the force of novelty. They served no end, but as vouchers for the truth of the tale.

Surely the youth had displayed inimitable and heroic qualities. His courage was the growth of benevolence and reason, and not the child of insensibility and the nursling of habit. He had been qualified for the en­counter of gigantic dangers by no laborious education. He stept forth upon the stage, unfurnished, by antici­pation or experience, with the means of security against fraud; and yet, by the aid of pure intentions, had frustrated the wiles of an accomplished and veteran deceiver.

I blessed the chance which placed the youth under my protection. When I reflected on that tissue of nice contingences which led him to my door, and ena­bled me to save from death a being of such rare endow­ments, my heart overflowed with joy, not unmingled [Page 4] with regrets and trepidation. How many have been cut off by this disease, in their career of virtue and their blossom-time of genius! How many deeds of heroism and self-devotion are ravished from existence, and con­signed to hopeless oblivion!

I had saved the life of this youth. This was not the limit of my duty or my power. Could I not render that life profitable to himself and to mankind? The gains of my profession were slender; but these gains were sufficient for his maintainance as well as my own. By residing with me, partaking my instructions, and read­ing my books, he would, in a few years, be fitted for the practice of physic. A science, whose truths are so conducive to the welfare of mankind, and which com­prehends the whole system of nature, could not but gratify a mind so beneficent and strenuous as his.

This scheme occurred to me as soon as the conclu­sion of his tale allowed me to think. I did not imme­diately mention it; since the approbation of my wife, of whose concurrence, however, I entertained no doubt, was previously to be obtained. Dismissing it, for the pre [...]ent, from my thoughts, I reverted to the incidents of his tale.

The lady whom Welbeck had betrayed and deserted, was not unknown to me. I was but too well acquaint­ed with her fate. If she had been single in calamity, her tale would have been listened to with insupportable sympathy; but the frequency of the spectacle of dis­tre [...]s, seems to lessen the compassion with which it is reviewed. Now that those scenes are only remembered, my anguish is greater than when they were witnessed. Then every new day was only a repetition of the disas­ters of the foregoing. My sensibility, if not extin­guished, was blunted; and I gazed upon the compli­cated ills of poverty and sickness with a degree of un­concern, on which I should once have reflected with astonishment.

The fate of Clemenza Lodi was not, perhaps, more sig [...]al than many which have occurred. It threw de­test [...]ble light upon the character of Welbeck, and show­ed [Page 5] him to be more inhuman than the tale of Mervyn had evinced him to be. That man, indeed, [...]as hi­therto imperfectly seen. The time had not come which should fu [...]ly unfold the enormity of his transgre [...]sions and the complexity of his frauds.

There lived in a remote quarter of the city a woman, by name Villars, who passed for the widow of an English officer. Her manners and mode of living were speci [...]. She had three daughters, well trained in the school of fashion, and elegant in person, manners and dress. They had lately arrived from Europe, and for a time, received from their neighbors that respect to which their education and fortune appeared to lay claim.

The fallacy of their pretensions slowly appeared. It began to be suspected that their subsistence was deriv­ed not from pension or patrimony, but from the wages of pollution. Their habitation was clandestinely fre­quented by men who were unfaithful to their secret; one of these was allied to me by ties, which authorized me in watching his steps and detecting his errors, with a view to his reformation. From him I obtained a knowledge of the genuine character of these women.

A man like Welbeck, who was the slave of depraved appetites, could not fail of being quickly satiated with innocence and beauty. Some accident introduced him to the knowledge of this family, and the youngest daughter found him a proper subject on which to exer­cise her artifices. It was to the frequent demands made upon his purse, by this woman, that part of the embarrassments in which Mervyn found him involved, are to be ascribed.

To this circumstance must likewise be imputed his anxiety to transfer to some other the possession of the unhappy stranger. Why he concealed from Mervyn his connection with Lucy Villars, may be easily imagin­ed. His silence, with regard to Clemenza's asylum, will not create surprise, when it it is told that she was placed with Mrs. Villars. On what conditions she was received under this roof, cannot be so readily conjectur­ed. It is obvious, however, to suppose, that advantage [Page 6] was to be taken of her ignorance and weakness, and that they hoped, in time, to make her an associate in their profligate schemes.

The appearance of pestilence, meanwihle, threw them into panick, and they hastened to remove from danger. Mrs. Villars appears to have been a woman of no ordi­nary views. She st [...]oped to the vilest means of a [...]as­sing money; but this money was employed to secure to herself and her daughters the benefits of independence. She purchased the house which she occupied in the city, and a [...]ansion in the environs, well built and splendid­ly furnished. To the latter, she and her family, of which the Italian girl was now a member, retired at the close of July.

I have mentioned that the source of my intelligence was a kinsman, who had been drawn from the paths of sobriety and rectitude, by the impetuosity of youthful passions. He [...] power to confess and deplore, but none to repair his errors. One of these women held him by a spell which he struggled in vain to dissolve, and by which, in spite of resolutions and remo [...]es, he was drawn to her feet, and made to sacrifice to her plea­sure, his reputation and his fortune.

My house was his customary abode during those in­tervals in which he was persuaded to pursue his profes­sion. Some time before the infection began its pro­gress, he had disappeared. No tidings was received of him, till a messenger arrived intreating my assistance. I was conducted to the house of Mrs. Villars, in which I found no one but my kinsman. Here it seems he had immured himself from my enquiries, and on being seized by the reigning malady, had been deserted by the family, who, ere they departed, informed me by a messenger of his condition.

Despondency combined with his disease to destroy him. Before he died, he informed me fully of the character of his betrayers. The late arrival, name and personal condition of Clemenza Lodi were related. Welbeck was not named, but was described in terms, which, combined with the narrative of Mervyn, enabled [Page 7] me to recognize the paramour of Lucy Villars in the man whose crimes had been the principal theme of our discourse.

Mervyn's curio [...]ity was greatly routed when I inti­mated my acquaintance with the fate of Clemenza. In answer to his eager interrogations, I related what I knew. The tale plunged [...] into reverie. Recover­ing, at length, from his thoughtfulness, he spoke.

Her condition is perilous. The poverty of Welbeck will drive him far from her abode. Her profligate protect­ors will entice her or abandon her to ruin. Cannot she be saved?

I know not, answered I, by what means.

The means are obvious. Let her remove to some other dwelling. Let her be apprized of the vices of those who surround her. Let her be intreated to fly. The will need only be inspired, the danger need only be shown, and she is safe, for she will remove beyond its reach.

Thou art an adventurous youth. Who wilt thou find to undertake the office? Who will be persuaded to enter the house of a stranger, seek without an introduc­tion the presence of this girl, tell her that the house she inhabits is an house of prostitution, prevail on her to believe the tale, and persuade her to accompany him? Who will open his house to the fugitive? Whom will you convince that her illicit intercourse with Welbeck, of which the opprobrious tokens cannot be concealed, has not fitted her for the company of prostitutes, and made her unworthy of protection? Who will adopt into their family, a stranger, whose conduct has in­curred infamy, and whose present associates have, no doubt, made her worthy of the curse?

True. These are difficulties which I did not foresee. Must she then perish! Shall not something be done to rescue her from infamy and guilt?

It is neither in your power nor in mine to do any thing.

The lateness of the hour put an end to our conver­sation and summoned us to repose. I seized the first [Page 8] opportunity of imparting to my wife the scheme which had occurred, relative to our guest; with which, as I expected, she readily concurred. In the morning, I mentioned it to Mervyn. I dwelt upon the benefits that adhered to the medical profession, the power which it confers of lightening the distresses of our neighbors, the dignity which popular opinion annexes to it, the avenue which it opens to the acquisition of competence, the freedom from servile cares which attends it, and the means of intellectual gratification with which it supplies us.

As I spoke, his eyes sparkled with joy. Yes, said he with vehemence, I willingly embrace your offer. I accept this benefit, because I know that if my pride should refuse it, I should prove myself less worthy than you think, and give you pain, instead of that pleasure which I am bound to confer. I would enter on the duties and studies of my new profession imme­diately, but somewhat is due to Mr. Hadwin and his daughters. I cannot vanquish my inquietudes respect­ing them, but by returning to Malverton and ascer­taining their state with my own eyes. You know in what circumstances I parted with Wallace and Mr. Hadwin. I am not sure, that either of them ever reached home, or that they did not carry the infection along with them. I now find myself sufficiently strong to perform the journey, and proposed to have acquainted you, at this interview, with my intentions. An hour's delay is superfluous, and I hope you will consent to my setting out immediately. Rural exercise and air, for a week or fortnight, will greatly contribute to my health.

No objection could be made to this scheme. His narrative had excited no common affection in our bo­soms for the Hadwins. His visit could not only in­form us of their true state, but would dispel that anx­iety which they could not but entertain respecting our guest. It was a topic of some surprize that neither Wallace nor Hadwin had returned to the city, with a view to obtain some tidings of their friend. It was [Page 9] more easy to suppose them to have been detained by [...]ome misfortune, than by insensibility or indol [...]nce. In a few minutes Mervyn bade us adieu, and set out upon his journey, promising to acquaint us with the state of affairs, as soon as possible after his arrival. We parted from him with reluctance, and found no consolation but in the prospect of his speedy return.

During his absence, conversation naturally turned upon those topics which were suggested by the narra­tive and deportment of this youth. Different conclu­sions were formed by his two auditors. They had both contracted a deep interest in his welfare, and an ardent curiosity as to those particulars which his unfinished story had left in obscurity. The true character and actual condition of Welbeck, were themes of much [...]p [...] ­culation. Whether he were dead or alive, near or dis­tant from his ancient abode, was a point on which neither Mervyn, nor any of those with whom I had means of intercourse, afforded any information. Whether he had shared the common fate, and had been carried by the collectors of the dead from the highway or the [...]ovel to the pits opened alike for the rich and the poor, the known and the unknown; whether he had escaped to a foreign shore, or were destined to re-appear upon this stage, were questions involved in uncertainty.

The disappearance of Watson would, at a different time, have excited much enquiry and suspicion; but as this had taken place on the e [...]e of the epidemic, his kin­dred and friends would acquiesce, without scruple, in the belief that he had been involved in the general cala­mity, and was to be numbered among the earliest vic­tims. Those of his profession usually resided in the street where the infection began, and wh [...]re its ravages had been most destructive; and this circumstance would corroborate the conclusions of his friends.

I did not perceive any immediate advantage to [...]low from imparting the knowledge I had l [...]tely gained to others. Shortly after Mervyn's departure to Malver­ton, I was visited by Wortley. Enquiring for my guest, I told him that, having recovered his health, he had left [Page 10] my house. He repeated his invectives against the vil­lainy of Welbeck, his suspicions of Mervyn, and his wishes for another interview with the youth. Why had I suffered him to depart, and whither had he gone?

He has gone for a short time into the country. I ex­pect him to return in less than a week, when you will meet with him here as often as you please, for I expect him to take up his abode in this house.

Much astonishment and disapprobation were express­ed by my friend. I hinted that the lad had made disclo­sures to me, which justified my confidence in his integri­ty. These proofs of his honesty were not of a nature to be indiscriminately unfolded. Mervyn had author­i [...]ed me to communicate so much of his story to Wortley, as would serve to vindicate him from the charge of being Welbeck's copartner in fraud; but this end would only [...]e counteracted by an imperfect tale, and the full reci­tal, though it might exculpate Mervyn, might produce inconveniences by which this advantage would be out­weighed.

Wortley, as might be naturally expected, was by no means satisfied with this statement. He suspected that Mervyn was a wily imposter; that he had been trained in the arts of fraud, under an accomplished teacher; that the tale which he had told to me, was a tissue of ingeni­ous and plausible lies; that the mere assertions, how­ever plausible and solemn, of one like him, whose conduct had incurred such strong suspicions, were unworthy of the least credit.

It cannot be denied, continued my friend, that he lived with Welbeck at the time of his elopement; that they disappeared together; that they entered a boat, at Pine-street wharf, at midnight; that this boat was dis­covered by the owner in the possession of a fisherman at Red-bank, who affirmed that he had found it strand­ed near his door, the day succeeding that on which they disappeared. Of all this, I can supply you with incon­testible proof. If, after this proof, you can give credit to his story, I shall think you made of very perverse and credulous materials.

[Page 11]The proof you mention, said I, will only enhance his credibility. All the facts which you have stated, have been admitted by him. They constitute an essential portion of his narrative.

What then is the inference? Are not these evidences of a compact between them? Has he not acknowledged [...] compact in confessing that he knew Welbeck was my debtor; that he was apprized of his flight, but that, (what matchless effrontery!) he had promised secrecy, and would, by no means, betray him? You say he means to return; [...]ut of that I doubt. You will never see his face more. He is too wise to thrust himself again into the noose: but I do not utterly despair of lighting upon Welbeck. Old Thetford, Jamieson and I, have sworn to hunt him through the world. I have strong hopes that he has not strayed far. Some intelligence has late­ly been received, which has enabled us to place our hounds upon the scent. He may double and skulk▪ but if he does not fall into our toils at last, he will have the agility and cunning, as well as the malignity of devils.

The vengeful disposition thus betrayed by Wortley, was not without excuse. The vigor of his days had been spent in acquiring a slender capital: his diligence and honesty had succeeded, and he had lately thought his situation such as to justify marriage with an excellent woman, to whom he had for years been betrothed, but from whom his poverty had hitherto compelled him to live separate. Scarcely had this alliance taken pi [...]ce, and the full career of nuptial enjoyments begun, when his ill fate exposed him to the frauds of Welbeck, and brought him, in one evil hour, to the brink of insolvency.

Jamieson and Thetford, however, were rich, and I had not till now been informed that they had reasons for [...]ursuing Welbeck with peculiar animosity. The latter was the uncle of him whose fate had been related by Mervyn, and was one of those who employed money, not as the medium of traffic, but as in itself a commodi­ty. He had neither wines nor cloths, to transmute into silver. He thought it a tedious process to exchange to day, one hundred dollars for a cask or bale, and to-mor­row [Page 12] exchange the bale or cask for an hundred and ten dollars. It was better to give the hundred for a piece of paper, which, carried forthwith to the money changers, he could procure an hundred twenty-three and three-fourths. In short, this man's coffers were supplied by the despair of honest men and the stratagems of rogues. I did not immediately suspect how this man's prudence and indefatigable attention to his own interest should allow him to become the dupe of Welbeck.

What, said I, is old Thetford's claim upon Welbeck?

It is a claim, he replied, that, if it ever be made good, will doom Welbeck to imprisonment and wholsome la­bor for life.

How? Surely it is nothing more than debt.

Have you not heard? But that is no wonder. Hap­pily you are a stranger to mercantile anxieties and revo­lutions. Your fortune does not rest on a basis which an untoward blast may sweep away, or four strokes of a pen may demolish. That hoary dealer in suspicions was persuaded to put his hand to three notes for eight hundred dollars each. The eight was then dextrously prolonged to eighteen; they were duly deposited in time and place, and the next day Welbeck was credited for fifty-three hundred and seventy-three, which an hour after, were told out to his messenger. Hard to say whe­ther the old man's grief, shame or rage be uppermost. He di [...]dains all comfort but revenge, and that he will procure at any price. Jamieson, who deals in the same stuff with Thetford, was outwitted in the same manner, to the same amount, and on the same day.

This Welbeck must have powers above the common rate of mortals. Grown grey in studying the follies and the stratagems of men, these veterans were overreach­ed. No one pities them. 'Twere well if his artifices had been limited to such, and he had spared the honest and the poor. It is for his injuries to men who have earned their scanty subsistence without forfeiting their probity, that I hate him, and shall exult to see him suf­fer all the rigors of the law. Here Wortley's engage­ments compelled him to take his leave.

WHILE musing upon these facts, I could not but re­flect with astonishment on the narrow escapes which Mervyn's virtue had experienced. I was by no means certain that his fame or his life was exempt from all danger, or that the suspicions which had already been formed respecting him, could possibly be wiped away. Nothing but his own narrative, repeated with that sim­ple but nervous eloquence, which we had witnessed, could rescue him from the most heinous charges. Was there any tribunal that would not acquit him on merely hearing his defence?

Surely the youth was honest. His tale could not be the fruit of invention; and yet, what are the bounds of fraud? Nature has set no limits to the combinations of fancy. A smooth exterior, a show of virtue▪ and a spe­cious tale, are, a thousand times, exhibited in human intercourse by craft and subtlety. Motives are endlessly varied, while actions continue the same; and an acute penetration may not find it hard to select and arrange motives, suited to exempt from censure any action that an human being can commit.

Had I heard Mervyn's story from another, or read it in a book, I might, perhaps, have found it possible to suspect the truth; but, as long as the impression, made by his tones, gestures and looks, remained in my memo­ry, this suspicion was impossible. Wickedness may [Page 14] sometimes be ambiguous, its mask may puzzle the ob­server; our judgment may be made to faulter and fluc­tuate, but the face of Mervyn is the index of an honest mind. Calm or vehement, doubting or confident, it is full of benevolence and candor. He that listens to his words may question their truth, but he that looks upon his countenance when speaking, cannot withhold his saith.

It was possible, however, to find evidence, supporting or confuting his story. I chanced to be acquainted with a family, by name [...], who were natives of that part of the country where his father resided. I paid them a visit, and, after a few preliminaries, mentioned, as if by accident, the name of Mervyn. They immedi­ately recognized this name as belonging to one of their ancient neighbors. The death of the wife and sons, and the seduction of the only daughter by Colvil, with many pathetic incidents connected with the fate of this daugh­ter, were mentioned.

This intelligence induced me to inquire of Mrs. Al­thorpe, a sensible and candid woman, if she were ac­quainted with the recent or present situation of this family.

I cannot say much, she answered, of my own know­ledge. Since my marriage, I am used to spend a few weeks of summer, at my father's, but am less inquisitive than I once was into the concerns of my old neighbors. I recollect, however, when there, last year, during the fever, to have heard that Sawny Mervyn had taken a second wife; that his only son, a youth of eighteen, had thought proper to be highly offended with his father's conduct, and treated the new mistress of the house with insult and contempt. I should not much wonder at this, seeing children are so apt to deem themselves un­justly treated by a second marriage of their parent, but it was hinted that the boy's jealousy and discontent was excited by no common cause. The new mother was not much older than himself, had been a servant of the family, and a criminal intimacy had subsisted be­tween her, while in that condition, and the son. Her [Page 15] marriage with his father was justly accounted by their neighbors, [...] most pro [...]igate and odious transaction. The son, perhaps, had, in such a cas [...], a right to scold, but he ought not to have carried his anger to such ex­tremes as have been imputed to him. He is said to have grinned upon her with contempt, and even to have call­ed her strumpet in the presence of his father and of strangers.

It was impossible for such a family to keep together. Arthur took leave one night to possess h [...]mself of all his father's cash, mount the best horse in his meadow, and clope. For a time, no one knew whither he had gone. At last, one was said to have met with him in the streets of this city, metamorphosed from a rustic lad▪ into a fine gentleman. Nothing could be quicker than this change, for he left the country on a Saturday morning, and was seen in a French frock and silk stock­ings, going into Christ's Church the next day. I sup­pose he kept it up with an high hand, as long as his money lasted.

My father paid us a visit last week, and among other country news, told us than Sawny Mervyn had sold his place. His wife had persuaded him to try his fortune in the Western Country. The price of his hundred acres here would purchase a thousand there, and the man being very gross and ignorant, and withall, quite a sim­pleton, found no difficulty in perceiving that a thousand are ten times more than an hundred. He was not aware that a rood of ground upon Schuylkill is ten fold better than an acre on the Tenessee.

The woman turned out to be an artful profligate. Having sold his ground and gotten his money, he placed it in her keeping, and she, to enjoy it with the more se­curity, ran away to the city; leaving him to prosecute his journey to Kentucky, moneyless and alone. Some­time after, Mr. Althorpe and I were at the play, when he pointed out to me a groupe of females in an upper box, one of whom was no other than Betty Laurence. It was not easy to recognize, in her present gaudy trim, all flaunting with ribbons and shining with trinkets, the [Page 16] same Betty who used to deal out pecks of potatoes and superintend her basket of cantilopes in th [...] Jersey mar­ket, in p [...]ste-board bonnet and linsey petticoat. Her companions were of the infamous class. If Arthur were still in the city, there is no doubt that the mother and [...] might renew the ancient terms of their ac­quaintance.

The old man, thus robbed and betrayed, sought con­solation in the bottle, of which he had been at all times overfo [...]d. He wandered from one tavern to another till his credit was exhausted, and then was sent to jail, where, I believe, he is likely to continue till his death. Such, my friend, is the history of the Mervyns.

What proof, said I, have you of the immoral conduct of the son? of his mistreatment of his mother, and his elopement with his father's horse and money?

I have no proof but the unanimous report of Mervyn's neighbors. Respectable and honest men have affirmed, in my hearing, that they have been present when the boy treated his mother in the way that I have described. I was, besides, once in company with the old man, and heard him bitterly inveigh against his son, and charge him with the fact of stealing his horse and money. I well remember that tears rolled from his eyes while talking on the subject. As to his being seen in the city [...] next day after his elopement, dressed in a most [...] and fashionable manner, I can doubt that as little [...] the rest, for he that saw him was my father, and you who know my father, know what credit is due to his eyes and his word. He had seen Arthur often enough not to be mistaken, and described his appearance with great exactness. The boy is extremely handsome, give him his due; has dark hazle eyes, auburn hair, and very elegant proportions. His air and gate have nothing of the clown in them. Take away his jacket and [...]row [...]rs, and you have as spruce a fellow as over came from dancing-school or college. He is the [...] picture of his mother, and the most perfect contrast to the sturdy legs, squat figure, and broad, unthinking, sheepish face of the father that can be imagined. You [Page 17] must confess that his appearance here is a pretty strong proof of the father's assertions. The money given for these clothes could not possibly have been honestly ac­quired. It is to be presumed that they were bought or stolen, for how else should they have been gotten?

What was this lad's personal deportment during the life of his mother, and before his father's second mar­riage?

Very little to the credit of his heart or his in­tellects. Being the youngest son, the only one who at length survived, and having a powerful resemblance to herself, he became the mother's favorite. His con­stitution was feeble, and he loved to stroll in the woods more than to plow or sow. This idleness was much against the father's inclination and judgment; and, in­deed, it was the foundation of all his vices. When he could be prevailed upon to do any thing it was in a bungling manner, and so as to prove that his thoughts were fixed on any thing except his business. When his assistance was wanted he was never to be found at hand. They were compelled to search for him among the rocks and bushes, and he was generally discovered sauntering along the bank of the river, or lolling in the shade of a tree. This disposition to inactivity and laziness, in so young a man, was very strange. Persons of his age are rarely fond of work, but then they are addicted to company, and sports, and exercises. They ride, or shoot, or frolic; but this being [...]oped away his time in solitude, never associated with other young people, never mounted an horse but when he could not help it, and never fired a gun or angled for a fish in his life. Some people supposed him to be half an idiot, or, at least, not to be in his right mind; and, indeed, his conduct was so very perverse and singular, that I do not wonder: those who accounted for it in this way.

But surely, said I, he had some object of pur­suit. Perhaps he was addicted to books.

Far from it. On the contrary, his aversion to school was as great as his hatred of the plough. He never could get his lessons or bear the least constraint. He was so much indulged by his mother at home, that tasks [Page 18] and discipline of any kind were intolerable. He was a perpetual truant; till the master one day attempting to strike him, he ran out of the room and never entered it more. The mother excused and countenanced his frowardness, and the foolish father was obliged to give way. I do not believe he had two month's schooling in his life.

Perhaps, said I, he preferred studying by him­self, and at liberty. I have known boys endowed with great curiosity and aptitude to learning, who never could endure set tasks, and spurned at the pedagogue and his rod.

I have known such likewise, but this was not one of them. I know not whence he could derive his love of knowledge or the means of acquiring it. The family were totally illiterate. The father was a Scotch pea­sant, whose ignorance was so great that he could not sign his name. His wife, I believe, could read, and might sometimes decypher the figures in an almanac, but that was all. I am apt to think, that the son's ability was not much greater. You might as well look for silver platters or marble tables in his house, as for a book or a pen.

I remember calling at their house one evening in the winter before last. It was intensely cold; and my father, who rode with me, having business with Sawney Mervyn, we stopped a minute at his gate; and, while the two old men were engaged in conversa­tion, I begged leave to warm myself by the kitchen fire. Here, in the chimney-corner, seated on a block, I found Arthur busily engaged in knitting stockings! I thought this a whimsical employment for a young ac­tive man. I told him so, for I wanted to put him to the blush; but he smiled in my face, and answered, without the least discomposure, just as whimsical a busi­ness for a young active woman. Pray, did you never knit a stocking?

Yes; but that was from necessity. Were I of a different sex, or did I possess the strength of a man, I should rather work in my field or study my book.

[Page 19]Rejoice that you are a woman, then, and are at liberty to pursue that which costs least labor and de­mands most skill. You see, though a man, I use your privilege, and prefer knitting yarn to threshing my brain with a book or the barn-floor with a flail.

I wonder, said I contemptuously, you do not put on the petticoat as well as handle the needle.

Do not wonder, he replied: it is because I hate a petticoat incumbrance as much as I love warm f [...]t. Look there (offering the stocking to my in [...]pection) is it not well done?

I did not touch it, but sneeringly said, excellent! I wonder you do not apprentice yourself to a taylor.

He looked at me with an air of ridiculous simplicity and said, how prone the woman is to wonder. You call the work excellent, and yet wonder that I do not make myself a slave to improve my skill! Did you learn needle-work from seven year's squatting on a taylor's board▪ Had you come to me, I would have taught you in a day.

I was taught at school.

And paid your instructor?

To be sure.

'Twas liberty and money thrown away. Send your sister, if you have one, to me, and I will teach her without either rod or wages. Will you?

You have an old and a violent antipathy, I believe, to any thing like a school.

True. It was early and violent. Had not you?

No. I went to school with pleasure; for I thought to read and write were accomplishments of some va­lue.

Indeed? Then I misunderstood you just now. I thought you said, that, had you the strength of a man, you should prefer the plough and the book to the nee­dle. Whence, supposing you a female, I inferred that you had a woman's love for the needle and a fool's ha­tred of books.

My father calling me from without, I now made a motion to go. Stay, continued he with great ear­nestness, [Page 20] throwing aside his knitting apparatus, and beginning in great haste to pull off his stockings. Draw these stockings over your shoes. They will [...]ave your feet from the snow while walking to your horse.

Half angry, and half laughing, I declined the offer. He had drawn them off, however, and holding them in his hand, be persuaded, said he; only lift your feet, and I will slip them on in a trice.

Finding me positive in my refusal, he dropped the stockings; and, without more ado, caught me up in his arms, ru [...]hed out of the room, and, running bare­foot through the snow, set me fairly on my horse. All was done in a moment, and before I had time to reflect on his intentions. He then seized my hand, and, kissing it with great fervor, exclaimed, a thousand thanks to you for not accepting my stockings. You have thereby saved yourself and me the time and toil of draw­ing on and drawing off. Since you have taught me to wonder, let me practice the lesson in wondering at your folly, in wearing worsted shoes and silk stockings at a season like this. Take my counsel, and turn your silk to worsted and your worsted to leather. Then may you hope for warm feet and dry. What! Leave the gate without a blessing on your counsellor?

I spurred my horse into a gallop, glad to escape from [...]o strange a being. I could give you many instances of behaviour equally singular, and which betrayed a mixture of shrewdness and folly, of kindness and im­pudence, which justified, perhaps, the common notion that his intellects were unsound. Nothing was more remarkable than his impenetrability to ridicule and cen­sure. You might revile him for hours, and he would listen to you with invincible composure. To awaken anger or shame in him was impossible. He would an­swer, but in such a way as to show him totally unaware of your true meaning. He would afterwards talk to you with all the smiling affab [...]l [...]ty and freedom of an old friend. Every one [...] him for his idleness and folly, no less conspicuous in his words than his ac­tions; [Page 21] but no one feared him, and few were angry with him, till after the detection of his commerce with Betty, and his inhuman treatment of his father.

Have you good reasons for supposing him to have been illicitly connected with that girl?

Yes. Such as cannot be discredited. It would not be proper for me to state these proofs. Nay, he never denied it. When reminded, on one occasion, of the inference which every impartial person would draw from appearances, he acknowledged, with his usual placid effrontery, that the inference was unavoidable. He even mentioned other concurring and contemporary incidents, which had eluded the observation of his cen­surer, and which added still mo [...]e force to the conclu­sion. He was studious to pa [...]iate the vices of this wo­man as long as he was her only paramour; but after her marriage with his father, the t [...]ne was changed▪ He confessed that she was tiny, notable, industrious; but, then, she was a prostitute. When charged with being instrumental in making her such, and when hid companions dwelt upon the depravity of reviling her for vices which she owed to him: True, he would say, there is depravity and folly in the conduct you describe. Make me out, if you please, to be a villain. What then? I was talking not of myself, but of Betty. Still this woman is a prostitute. If it were I that made her such, with more confidence may I make the charge. But think not that I blame Betty. Place me in her situation, and I should have acted just so. I should have formed just such notions of my interest, and pursued it by the same means. Still, say I, I would fain have a different woman for my father's wife, and the mistress of this family.

THIS conversation was interrupted by a messenger from my wife, who desired my return immediately. I had some hopes of meeting with Mervyn, some days having now elapsed since his parting from us, and not being conscious of any extraordinary motives for de­lay. It was Wortley, however, and not Mervyn, to whom I was called.

My friend came to share with me his suspicions and inquietudes respecting Welbeck and Mervyn. An ac­cident had newly happened which had awakened these suspicions afresh. He desired a patient audience while he explained them to me. These were his words.

To-day a person presented me a letter from a mer­cantile friend at Baltimore. I easily discerned the bearer to be a sea captain. He was a man of sensible and pleasing aspect, and was recommended to my friendship and counsel in the letter which he brought. The letter stated, that a man, by name Amos Watson, by profession a mariner, and a resident at Baltimore, had disappeared in the summer of last year, in a mys­terious and incomprehensible manner. He was known to have arrived in this city from Jamaica, and to have intended an immediate journey to his family, who lived at Baltimore; but he never arrived there, and no trace [Page 23] of his existence has since been discovered. The bear­er had come to investigate, if possible, the secret of his fate, and I was earnestly intreated to afford him all the assistance and advice in my power, in the prose­cution of his search. I expressed my willingness to serve the stranger, whose name was Williams▪ and, after offering him entertainment at my house, which was thankfully accepted, he proceeded to unfold to me the particulars of this affair. His story was this.

On the 20th of last June, I arrived, said he, from the West-Indies, in company with captain Watson. I commanded the ship in which he came as a passenger, his own ship being taken and confiscated by the Eng­lish. We had long lived in habits of strict friendship, and I loved him for his own sake, as well as because he had married my sister. We landed in the morning, and went to dine with Mr. Keysler, since dead, but who then lived in Water-street. He was extremely anx­ [...]ous to visit his family, and having a few commissions to perform in the city, which would not demand more than a couple of hours, he determined to set out next morning in the stage. Meanwhile, I had engage­ments which required me to repair with the utmost ex­pedition to New-York. I was scarcely less anxious than my brother to reach Baltimore, where my friends also reside, but there was an absolute necessity of go­ing eastward. I expected, however, to return hither in three days, and then to follow Watson home. Shortly after dinner we parted; he to execute his com­missions, and I to embark in the mail-stage.

In the time prefixed I returned. I arrived early in the morning, and prepared to depart again at noon. Meanwhile, I called at Keysler's. This is an old ac­quaintance of Watson's and mine; and, in the course of talk, he expressed some surprize that Watson had so precipitately deserted his house. I stated the ne­cessity there was for Wa [...]on's immediate departure southward, and added, [...] no doubt my brother had explained this necessity.

[Page 24]Why, said [...], it is [...] C [...]tain Watson men­tion [...]d his int [...]ntion of leaving [...] early next day; but [...]hen he gave me reason to expect that he would [...] and lo [...]ge with me that night, whereas he has not made his appearanc [...] since. Beside his trunk was brought to my house. This, no doubt, he intended to carry home with him, but here it remains still. It is not likely that in the hu [...]ry of departure his baggage was forgotten. Hence, I inferred that he was still in town, and have been puzzling myself these th [...]ee days with conjectures, as to what is become of him. What surprizes me more is, that, on enquiring among the few friends which he has in this city, I find them as ignorant of his motions as myself. I have not, indeed, been wholly without apprehensions that some accident or other has befallen him.

I was not a little alarmed by this intimation. I went myself, agreeably to Keysler's direction [...], to Wat­son's friends, and made anxious enquiries, but none of them had seen my brother since his arrived. I endea­vored to recollect the commissions which he designed to execute, and, if possible, to trace him to the spot where he last appeared. He had several packets to de­liver, one of which was addressed to Walter Thet­ford. Him, after some enquiry, I found out, but un­luckily he chanced to be in the country. I found, by questioning a clerk who transacted his business in his absence, that a person, who answered the minute de­scription which I gave of Watson, had been there on the day on which I parted with him, and had left papers rela­tive to the capture of one of Thetford's vessels by the English. This was the sum of the information he was able to afford me.

I then applied to three merchants for whom my bro­ther had letters. They all acknowledged the receipt of these letters, but they were delivered through the medium of the post-office.

I was extremely anxious to reach home. Urgent engagements compelled me to go on without delay. I had already exhausted all the means of enquiry within [Page 25] my reach, and was obliged to acquiesce in the belief, that Watson had proceeded homeward at the time ap­pointed, and left, by forgetfulness or accident, his trunk behind him. On examining the books kept at the stage offices, his name no where appeared, and no con­veyance by water had occurred during the last week. Still the only conjecture I could form, was that he had gone homeward.

Arriving at Baltimore, I found that Watson had not yet made his appearance. His wife produced a letter, which, by the post mark, appeared to have been put in­to the office at Philadelphia, on the morning after our arrival, and on which he had designed to commence his journey.. This letter had been written by my brother, in my presence, but I had dissuaded him from sending it, since the same coach that should bear the letter, was likewise to carry himself. I had seen him put it unwa­fered in his pocket-book, but this letter, unaltered in any part, and containing money which he had at first intended to enclose in it, was now conveyed to his wife's hand. In this letter he mentioned his design of setting out for Baltimore, on the twenty-first, yet, on that day the letter itself had been put into the office.

We hoped that a short time would clear up this mys­tery, and bring the fugitive home, but from that day till the present, no atom of intelligence has been received concerning him. The yellow-fever, which quickly fol­lowed, in this city, and my own engagements, have hin­dered me, till now, from coming hither and resuming the search.

My brother was one of the most excellent of men. His wife loved him to distraction, and, together with his children, depended for subsistence upon his efforts. You will not, therefore, be surprized that his disappear­ance excited, in us, the deepest consternation and dis­tress; but I have other, and peculiar reasons for wish­ing to know his fate. I gave him several bills of ex­change on merchants of Baltimore, which I had receiv­ed in payment of my cargo, in order that they might, as soon as possible, be presented and accepted. These [Page 26] have disappeared with the bearer. [...] another circumstance that makes his [...] small value.

There is an English family, who forme [...] [...] Jamaica, and possessed an estate of great value, but who, for some years, have lived in the neighborhood of Baltimore. The head of this family died a year ago, and left a widow and three daughters. The lady tho't it eligible to sell her husband's property in Jamaica, the Island becoming hourly more exposed to the chances of war and revolution, and transfer it to the United States, where she purposes henceforth to reside. Watson had been her husband's friend, and his probity and disinter­estedness being well known, she entrusted him with le­gal powers to sell this estate. This commission was punctually performed, and the purchase money was re­ceived. In order to confer on it the utmost possible se­curity, he rolled up four bills of exchange, drawn upon opulent merchants of London, in a thin sheet of lead, and depositing this roll in a leather [...] girdle, fastened it round his waist, and under his clothes; a second set he gave to me, and a third he dispatched to Mr. Keysler, by a vessel which sailed a few days before him. On our ar­rival in this city, we found that Keysler had received those transmitted to him, and which he had been charg­ed to keep till our arrival. They were now produced, and, together with those which I had carried, were de­livered to Watson. By him they were joined to those in the girdle, which he still wore, conceiving this method of conveyance to be safer than any other, and, at the same time, imagining it needless, in so short a journey as remained to be performed, to resort to other expedi­ents.

The sum which he thus bore about him, was no less than ten thousand pounds sterling. It constituted the whole patrimony of a worthy and excellent family, and the loss of it reduces them to beggary. It is gone with Watson, and whither Watson has gone, it is impossible even to guess.

[Page 27]You may now easily conceive, Sir, the dreadful disas­ters which may be connected with this man's fate, and with what immeasurable anxiety his family and friends have regarded his disappearance. That he is alive, can scarcely be believed, for in what situation could he be placed in which he would not be able and willing to communicate some tidings of his fate to his family?

Our grief has been unspeakably aggravated by the suspicions which Mrs. Maurice and her friends have al­lowed themselves to admit. They do not scruple to in­sinuate, that Watson, tempted by so great a prize, has secretly embarked for England, in order to obtain pay­ment for these bills, and retain the money fo [...] his own use.

No man was more impatient of poverty than Watson, but no man's honesty was more inflexible. He mur­mured at the destiny that compelled him to sacrifice his [...], and risk his life upon the ocean in order to procure the means of subsistence; and all the property which he had spent the best part of his life in collecting, had just been ravished away from him by the English; but if he had yielded to this temptation at any time, it would have been on receiving these bills at Jamaica. Instead of coming hither, it would have been infinitely more easy and convenient to have embarked directly for Lon­don; but none, who thoroughly knew him, can, for a mo­ment, harbor a suspicion of his truth.

If he be dead, and if the bills are not to be recovered, yet, to ascertain this, will, at last, serve to vindicate his character. As long as his fate is unknown, his fame will be loaded with the most flagrant imputations, and if these bills be ever paid in London, these imputations will appear to be justified. If he has been robbed, the robber will make haste to secure the payment, and the Maurices may not unreasonably conclude that the robber was Watson himself." Many other particulars were added by the stranger, to show the extent of the evils flowing from the death of his brother, and the loss of the papers which he carried with him.

[Page 28]I was greatly at a loss, continued Wortley, what directions or advice to afford this man. Keysler, as you know, died early of the pestilence; but Keysler was the only resident in this city with whom Williams had any acquaintance. On mentioning the propriety of preventing the sale of these bills in America, by some public notice, he told me that this caution had been early taken; and I now remembered seeing the adver­tisement, in which the bills had been represented as ha­ving been lost or stolen in this city, and a reward of a thousand dollars was offered to any one who should re­store them. This caution had been published in Sep­tember, in all the trading towns from Portsmouth to Savannah, but had produced no satisfaction.

I accompanied Williams to the mayor's office, in hopes of finding in the records of his proceedings, during the last six months, some traces of Watson, but neither these records nor the memory of the magistrate, afford­ed us any satisfaction. Watson's friends had drawn up, likewise, a description of the person and dress of the fugitive, an account of the incidents attending his dis­appearance, and of the papers which he had in his posses­sion, with the manner in which these papers had been secured. These had been already published in the Southern newspapers, and have been just re-printed in our own. As the former notice had availed nothing, this second expedient was thought necessary to be em­ployed.

After some reflection, it occurred to me that it might be proper to renew the attempt which Williams had made to trace the footsteps of his friend to the moment of his final disappearance. He had pursued Watson to Thetford's, but Thetford himself had not been seen, and he had been contented with the vague information of his clerk. Thetford and his family, including his clerk, had perished, and it seemed as if this source of information was dried up. It was possible, however, that old Thetford might have some knowledge of his nephew's transactions, by which some light might chance to be thrown upon this obscurity. I therefore [Page 29] called on him, but found him utterly unable to afford me the light that I wished. My mention of the packet which Watson had brought to Thetford, containing documents respecting the capture of a certai [...] ship, reminded him of the injuries which he had received from Welbeck, and excited him to renew his menaces and imputations on that wretch▪ Having somewhat ex­hausted this rhetoric, he proceeded to tell me what con­nection there was between the remembrance of his in­juries and the capture of this vessel.

This vessel and its cargo were, in fact, the property of Welbeck. They had been sent to a good market and had been secured by an adequate insurance. The value of this ship and cargo, and the validity of the policy he had taken care to ascertain by means of his two nephews, one of whom had gone out supercargo. This had form­ed his inducement to lend his three notes to Welbeck, in exchange for three other notes, the whole amount of which included the equitable interest of five per cent. per month on his own loan. For the payment of these notes, he by no means relied, as the world foolishly imagined, on the seeming opulence and secret funds of Welbeck. These were illusions too gross to have any influence on him. He was too old a bird to be decoyed into the net by such chaff. No; his nephew, the supercargo, would of course receive the produce of the voyage, and so much of this produce as would pay his debt. He had procured the owner's authority to intercept its passage from the pocket of his nephew to that of Wel­beck. In case of loss, he had obtained a similar secu­rity upon the policy. Jamieson's proceedings had been the same with his own, and no affair in which he had ever engaged, had appeared to be more free from hazard than this. Their calculations, however, though plau­ [...]ible, were defeated. The ship was taken and con­demned, for a cause which rendered the insurance inef­fectual.

I bestowed no time in reflecting on this tissue of ex­tortions and frauds, and on that course of events which to often disconcerts the stratagems of cunning. The [Page 30] names of Welbeck and Watson were thus associated together, and filled my thoughts with restlessness and suspicion. Welbeck was capable of any wickedness. It was possible an interview had happened between these men, and that the fugitive had been someway in­strumental in Watson's fate. These thoughts were mentioned to Williams, whom the name of Welbeck threw into the utmost perturbation. On finding that one of this name had dwelt in this city, and, that he had proved a villain, he instantly admitted the most dreary forebodings.

I have heard, said Williams, the history of this W [...]beck a score of times from my brother. There formerly subsisted a very intimate connection between them. My brother had conferred upon one whom he thought honest, innumerable benefits, but all his benefits had been repaid by the blackest treachery. Welbeck's cha­racter and guilt had often been made the subject of talk between us, but, on these occasions, my brother's placid and patient temper forsook him. His grief for the calamities which had sprung from this man, and his desire of revenge, burst all bounds, and transported him to a pitch of temporary frenzy. I often enquired in what manner he intended to act, if a meeting should take place between them. He answered, that doubtless he should act like a maniac, in defiance of his sober principles, and of the duty which he owed his family.

What, said I, would you stab or pistol him?

No! I was not born for an assassin. I would up­braid him in such terms as the furious moment might suggest, and then challenge him to a meeting, from which either he or I should not part with life. I would allow time for him to make his peace with Heaven, and for me to blast his reputation upon earth, and to make such provision for my possible death, as duty and discretion would prescribe.

Now, nothing is more probable than that Welbeck and my brother have met. Thetford would of course mention his name and interest in the captured ship, and hence the residence of this detested being in this city, [Page 31] would be made known. Their meeting could not take place without some dreadful consequence. I am fear­ful that to that meeting we must impute the disappear­ance of my brother.

HERE was new light thrown upon the character of Welbeck, and new food administered to my suspicions. No conclusion could be more plausible than that which Williams had drawn; but how should it be rendered certain? Walter Thetford, or some of his family, had possibly been witnesses of something, which, added to our previous knowledge, might strengthen or prolong that clue, one end of which seemed now to be put into our hands; but Thetford's father-in-law was the only one of his family, who, by seasonable flight from the city, had escaped the pestilence. To him, who still resided in the country, I repaired with all speed, accompanied by Williams.

The old man being reminded, by a variety of circum­stances, of the incidents of that eventful period, was, at length, enabled to relate that he had been present at the meeting which took place between Watson and his son Walter, when certain packets were delivered by the former, relative, as he quickly understood, to the condemnation of a ship in which Thomas Thetford had gone supercargo. He had noticed some emotion of the stranger, occasioned by his son's mentioning the con­cern which Welbeck had in the vessel. He likewise remembered the stranger's declaring his intention of [Page 33] visiting Welbeck, and requesting Walter to afford him directions to his house.

"Next morning at the breakfast table, continued the old man, I adverted to yesterday's incidents, and asked my son how Welbeck had borne the news of the loss of his ship. He bore it, says Walter, as a man of his wealth ought to bear so trivial a loss. But there was something very strange in his behaviour, says my son, when I mentioned the name of the captain who brought the papers; and when I mentioned the captain's design of paying him a visit, he stared upon me, for a moment, as if he were frighted out of his wits, and then, snatch­ing up his hat, ran furiously out of the house. This was all my son said upon that occasion; but, as I have since heard, it was on that very night, that Welbeck absconded from his creditors."

I have this moment returned from this interview with old Thetford. I come to you, because I thought it possible that Mervyn, agreeably to your expectations, had returned, and I wanted to see the lad once more. My suspicions with regard to him have been confirmed, and a warrant was this day issued for apprehending him as Welbeck's accomplice.

I was startled by this news. My friend, said I, be cau­tious how you act, I beseech you. You know not in what evils you may involve the innocent. Mervyn I know to be blameless; but Welbeck is indeed, a villain. The latter I shall not be sorry to see brought to justice, but the former, instead of meriting punishment, is entitled to rewards.

So you believe, on the mere assertion of the boy, perhaps, his plausible lies might produce the same ef­fect upon me, but I must stay till he thinks proper to exert his skill. The suspicions to which he is exposed will not easily be obviated; but if he has any thing to say in his defence, his judicial examination will afford him the suitable opportunity. Why are you so much afraid to subject his innocence to this test? It was not till you heard his tale, that your own suspicions were removed. Allow me the same privilege of unbe­lief.

[Page 34]But you do me wrong, in deeming me the cause of his apprehension. It is Jamieson and Thetford's work, and they have not proceeded on shadowy surmises and the impulses of mere revenge. Facts have come to light of which you are wholly unaware, and which, when known to you, will conquer even your incredulity as to the guilt of Mervyn.

Facts? Let me know them, I beseech you. If Mer­vyn has deceived me, there is an end to my confidence in human nature. All limits to dissimulation, and all distinctions between vice and virtue will be effaced. No man's word, no force of collateral evidence shall weigh with me an hair.

It was time, replied my friend, that your confidence in smooth features and fluent accents should have ended long ago. Till I gained from my present profession, some knowledge of the world, a knowledge which was not gained in a moment, and has not cost a trifle, I was equally wise in my own conceit; and, in order to decide upon the truth of any one's pretensions, needed only a clear view of his face and a distinct hearing of his words. My folly, in that respect, was only to be cured, how­ever, by my own experience, and I suppose your cre­dulity will yield to no other remedy. These are the facts.

Mrs. Wentworth, the proprietor of the house in which Welbeck lived, has furnished some intelligence respecting Mervyn, whose truth cannot be doubted, and which furnishes the strongest evidence of a conspi­racy between this lad and his employer. It seems, that, some years since, a nephew of this lady left his father's family clandestinely, and has not been heard of since. This nephew was intended to inherit her for­tunes, and her anxieties and enquiries respecting him have been endless and incessant. These, however, have been fruitless. Welbeck, knowing these circum­stances, and being desirous of substituting a girl whom he had moulded for his purpose, in place of the lost youth, in the affections of the lady while living, and in her testament when dead, endeavored to persuade [Page 35] her that the youth had died in some foreign country. For this end, Mervyn was to personate a kinsman of Welbeck who had just arrived from Europe, and who had been a witness of her nephew's death. A story was, no doubt, to be contrived, where truth should be copied with the most exquisite dexterity, and the lady, being prevailed upon to believe the story, the way was cleared for accomplishing the remainder of the plot.

In due time, and after the lady's mind had been artful­ly prepared by Welbeck, the pupil made his appearance; and, in a conversation full of studied ambiguities, as­sured the lady, that her nephew was dead. For the present he declined relating the particulars of his death, and displayed a constancy and intrepidity in resisting her intreaties, that would have been admirable in a better cause. Before she had time to fathom this painful mystery, Welbeck's frauds were in danger of detection, and he and his pupil suddenly disappeared.

While the plot was going forward, there occurred an incident which the plotters had not foreseen or preclud­ed, and which possibly might have created some confu­sion or impediment in their designs. A bundle was found one night in the street, consisting of some coarse clothes, and containing, in the midst of it, the mini­ature portrait of Mrs. Wentworth's nephew. It fell into the hands of one of that lady's friends, who im­mediately dispatched the bundle to her. Mervyn, in his interview with this lady, spied the portrait on the mantle-piece. Led by some freak of fancy, or some web of artifice, he introduced the talk respecting her nephew, by boldly claiming it as his; but, when the mode in which it had been found was mentioned, he was disconcerted and confounded, and precipitately withdrew.

This conduct, and the subsequent flight of the lad, afforded ground enough to question the truth of his intelligence respecting her nephew; but it has since been confuted, in a letter just received from her brother in England. In this letter she is informed, that her nephew had been seen by one who knew him well, in [Page 36] Charleston; that some intercourse took place between the youth and the bearer of the news, in the course of which the latter had persuaded the nephew to return to his family, and that the youth had given some tokens of compliance. The letter-writer, who was father to the fugitive, had written to certain friends at Charles­ton, intreating them to use their influence with the runaway to the same end, and, at any rate, to cherish and protect him. Thus, I hope you will admit that the duplicity of Mervyn is demonstrated.

The facts which you have mentioned, said I, after some pause, partly correspond with Mervyn's story; but the last particular is irreconcileably repugnant to it. Now, for the first time, I begin to feel that my confidence is shaken. I feel my mind bewildered and distracted by the multitude of new discoveries which have just taken place. I want time to revolve them slowly, to weigh them accurately, and to estimate their consequences fully. I am afraid to speak; fearing, that, in the present trouble of my thoughts, I may say something which I may afterwards regret. I want a counsellor; but you, Wortley, are unfit for the office. Your judgment is unfurnished with the same materials; your sufferings have soured your hu­manity and biassed your candor. The only one quali­fied to divide with me these cares, and aid in selecting the best mode of action, is my wife. She is mistress of Mervyn's history; an observer of his conduct during his abode with us; and is hindered, by her education and temper, from deviating into rigor and malevolence. Will you pardon me, therefore, if I defer commenting on your narrative till I have had an opportunity of re­viewing it and comparing it with my knowledge of the lad, collected from himself and from my own observa­tion.

Wortley could not but admit the justice of my re­quest, and after some desultory conversation we parted. I hastened to communicate to my wife the various in­telligence which I had lately received. Mrs. Althorpe's portrait of the Mervyns contained lineaments which [Page 37] the summary detail of Arthur did not enable us fully to comprehend. The treatment which the youth is said to have given to his father; the illicit commerce that subsisted between him and his father's wife; the pil­lage of money and his father's horse, but ill accorded with the tale which we had heard, and disquieted our minds with doubts, though far from dictating our be­lief.

What, however, more deeply absorbed our attention, was the testimony of Williams and of Mrs. Went­worth. That which was mysterious and inscrutable to Wortley and the friends of Watson, was luminous to us. The coincidence between the vague hints, labo­riously collected by these enquirers, and the narrative of Mervyn, afforded the most cogent attestation of the truth of that narrative.

Watson had vanished from all eyes, but the spot where rested his remains was known to us. The girdle spoken of by Williams, would not be suspected to exist by his murderer. It was unmolested, and was doubt­less buried with him. That which was so earnestly sought, and which constituted the subsistence of the Maurices, would probably be found adhering to his body. What conduct was incumbent upon me who possessed this knowledge?

It was just to restore these bills to their true owner; but how could this be done without hazardous processes and tedious disclosures? To whom ought these dis­closures to be made? By what authority or agency could these half-decayed limbs be dug up, and the lost treasure be taken from amidst the horrible corruption in which it was immersed?

This ought not to be the act of a single individual. This act would entangle him in a maze of perils and suspicions, of concealments and evasions, from which he could not hope to escape with his reputation invio­late. The proper method was through the agency of the law. It is to this that Mervyn must submit his con­duct. The story which he told to me he must tell to the world. Suspicions have fixed themselves upon [Page 38] him, which allow him not the privilege of silence and obscurity. While he continued unknown and un­thought of, the publication of his story would only give unnecessary birth to dangers; but now dangers are incurred which it may probably contribute to lessen, if not to remove.

Meanwhile the return of Mervyn to the city was anxiously expected. Day after day passed and no tid­ings were received. I had business of an urgent na­ture which required my presence in Jersey, but which, in the daily expectation of the return of my young friend, I postponed a week longer than rigid discretion allowed. At length I was obliged to comply with the exigence, and left the city, but made such arrange­ments that I should be apprized by my wife of Mer­vyn's return with all practicable expedition.

These arrangements were superfluous, for my busi­ness was dispatched, and my absence at an end, before the youth had given us any tokens of his approach. I now remembered the warnings of Wortley, and his as­sertions that Mervyn had withdrawn himself forever from our view. The event had hitherto unwelcomely coincided with these predictions, and a thousand doubts and misgivings were awakened.

One evening, while preparing to shake off gloomy thoughts by a visit to a friend, some one knocked at my door, and left a billet containing these words: "Dr. Stevens is requested to come immediately to the Debtors' Apartments in Prune Street."

This billet was without signature. The hand-writing was unknown, and the precipitate departure of the bear­er, left me wholly at a loss with respect to the person of the writer, or the end for which my presence was required. This uncertainty only hastened my compli­ance with the summons.

The evening was approaching—a time when the pri­son doors are accustomed to be shut and strangers to be excluded. This furnished an additional reason for [Page 39] dispatch. As I walked swiftly along, I revolved the possible motives that might have prompted this mes­sage. A conjecture was soon formed, which led to apprehension and inquietude.

One of my friends, by name Carlton, was embar­rassed with debts which he was unable to discharge. He had lately been menaced with arrest, by a creditor not accustomed to remit any of his claims. I dreaded that this catastrophe had now happened, and called to mind the anguish with which this untoward incident would overwhelm his family. I knew his incapacity to take away the claim of his creditor by payment, or to soothe him into clemency by supplication.

So prone is the human mind to create for itself dis­tress, that I was not aware of the uncertainty of this evil till I arrived at the prison. I checked myself at the moment when I opened my lips to utter the name of my friend, and was admitted without particulur enqui­ries. I supposed that he by whom I had been sum­moned hither would meet me in the common room.

The apartment was filled with pale faces and wither­ed forms. The marks of negligence and poverty were visible in all; but few betrayed, in their features or gestures, any symptoms of concern on account of their condition. Ferocious gaiety, or stupid indifference, seemed to sit upon every brow. The vapour from an heated stove, mingled with the fumes of beer and tal­low that were spilled upon it, and with the tainted breath of so promiscuous a crowd, loaded the stagnant atmosphere. At my first transition from the cold and pure air without, to this noxious element, I found it difficult to breathe. A moment, however, reconciled me to my situation, and I looked anxiousl [...] round to discover some face which I knew.

Almost every mouth was furnished with a segar, and every hand with a glass of porter. Conversation, car­ried on with much emphasis of tone and gesture, was not wanting. Sundry groupes, in different corners, were beguiling the tedious hours at whist. Others, unemployed, were strolling to and fro, and testified [Page 40] their vacancy of thought and care by humming or whistling a tune.

I fostered the hope, that my prognostics had deceiv­ed me. This hope was strengthened by reflecting that the billet received was written in a different hand from that of my friend. Meanwhile I continued my search. Seated on a bench, silent and aloof from the crowd, his eyes fixed upon the floor, and his face half conceal­ed by his hand, a form was at length discovered which verified all my conjectures and fears. Carlton was he.

My heart drooped, and my tongue faultered, at this sight. I surveyed him for some minutes in silence. At length, approaching the bench on which he sat, I touched his hand and awakened him from his reverie. He looked up. A momentary gleam of joy and sur­pri [...]e was succeeded by a gloom deeper than before.

It was plain that my friend needed consolation. He was governed by an exquisite sensibility to disgrace. He was impatient of constraint. He shrunk, with fastidious abhorrence, from the contact of the vulgar and the profligate. His constitution was delicate and feeble. Impure airs, restraint from exercise, unusual aliment, unwholesome or incommodious accommoda­tions, and perturbed thoughts, were, at any time, suf­ficient to generate disease and to deprive him of life.

To these evils he was now subjected. He had no money wherewith to purchase food. He had been dragged hither in the morning. He had not tasted a a morsel since his entrance. He had not provided a bed on which to lie; or enquired in what room, or with what companions, the night was to be spent.

Fortitude was not among my friend's qualities. He was more prone to shrink from danger than encounter it, and to yield to the flood rather than sustain it; but it is just to observe, that his anguish, on the present occasion, arose not wholly from selfish considerations. His parents were dead, and two sisters were dependent on him for support. One of these was nearly of his own age. The other was scarcely emerged from childhood. There was an intellectual as well as a per­sonal [Page 41] resemblance between my friend and his sisters. They possessed his physical infirmities, his vehement passions, and refinements of taste; and the misery of his condition was tenfold increased, by reflecting on the feelings which would be awakened in them by the knowledge of his state, and the hardships to which the loss of his succour would expose them.

IT was not in my power to release my friend by the payment of his debt; but, by contracting with the keeper of the prison for his board, I could save him from famine; and, by suitable exertions, could pro­cure him lodging as convenient as the time would admit. I could promise to console and protect his sisters, and, by cheerful tones and frequent visits, dispel some part of the evil which encompassed him.

After the first surprize had subsided, he enquired by what accident this meeting had been produced. Con­scious of my incapacity to do him any essential service, and unwilling to make me a partaker in his miseries, he had forborne to inform me of his condition.

This assurance was listened to with some wonder. I showed him the billet. It had not been written by him. He was a stranger to the penmanship. None but the attorney and officer were apprized of his fate. It was obvious to conclude, that this was the interpo­sition of some friend, who, knowing my affection for Carlton, had taken this mysterious method of calling me to his succour.

Conjectures, as to the author and motives of this interposition, were suspended by more urgent consider­ations. [Page 43] I requested an interview with the keeper, and enquired how Carlton could be best accommodated.

He said, that all his rooms were full but one, which, in consequence of the dismission of three persons in the morning, had at present but one tenant. This person had lately arrived, was sick, and had with him, at this time, one of his friends. Carlton might divide the chamber with this person. No doubt his consent would be readily given; though this arrangement, be­ing the best, must take place whether he consented or not.

This consent I resolved immediately to seek, and, for that purpose, desired to be led to the chamber. The door of the apartment was shut. I knocked for admission. It was instantly opened, and I entered. The first person who met my view was—Arthur Mer­vyn.

I started with astonishment. Mervyn's countenance betrayed nothing but satisfaction at the interview. The traces of fatigue and anxiety gave place to ten­derness and joy. It readily occurred to me that Mer­vyn was the writer of the note which I had lately re­ceived. To meet him within these walls, and at this time, was the most remote and undesirable of all con­tingences. The same hour had thus made me acquaint­ed with the kindred and unwelcome sate of two beings whom I most loved.

I had scarcely time to return his embrace, when, taking my hand, he led me to a bed that stood in one corner. There was stretched upon it one whom a se­cond glance enabled me to call by his name, though I had never before seen him. The vivid portrait which Mervyn had drawn was conspicuous in the sunken and haggard visage before me. This face had, indeed, proportions and lines which could never be forgotten or mistaken. Welbeck, when once seen or described, was easily distinguished from the rest of mankind. He had stronger motives than other men for abstaining from guilt, the difficulty of concealment or disguise being tenfold greater in him than in others, by reason [Page 44] of the indelible and eye-attracting marks which nature had set upon him.

He was pallid and emaciated. He did not open his eyes on my entrance. He seemed to be asleep; but, before I had time to exchange glances with Mervyn, or to enquire into the nature of the scene, he awoke. On seeing me he started, and cast a look of upbraiding on my companion. The latter comprehended his emo­tion and endeavored to appease him.

This person, said he, is my friend. He is likewise a physician; and, perceiving your state to require me­dical assistance, I ventured to send for him.

Welbeck replied, in a contemptuous and indignant tone, thou mistakest my condition, boy. My disease lies deeper than his scrutiny will ever reach. I had hoped thou wert gone. Thy importunities are well meant, but they aggravate my miseries.

He now rose from the bed, and continued, in a firm and resolute tone, you are intruders into this apartment. It is mine, and I desire to be left alone.

Mervyn returned, at first, no answer to this address. He was immersed in perplexity. At length, raising his eyes from the floor, he said, my intentions are in­deed honest, and I am grieved that I want the power of persuasion. To-morrow, perhaps, I may reason more cogently with your despair, or your present mood may be changed. To aid my own weakness I will en­treat the assistance of this friend.

These words roused a new spirit in Welbeck. His confusion and anger encreased. His tongue faultered as he exclaimed, good God! what mean you? Head­long and rash as you are, you will not share with this person your knowledge of me?—Here he checked him­self, conscious that the words he had already uttered tended to the very end which he dreaded. This con­sciousness, added to the terror of more ample disclo­sures, which the simplicity and rectitude of Mervyn might prompt him to make, chained up his tongue, and covered him with dismay.

[Page 45]Mervyn was not long in answering—I comprehend your fears and your wishes. I am bound to tell you the truth. To this person your story has already been told. Whatever I have witnessed under your roof, whatever I have heard from your lips, have been faithfully disclos­ed to him.

The countenance of Welbeck now betrayed a mix­ture of incredulity and horror. For a time his utter­ance was stifled by his complicated feelings.

It cannot be. So enormous a deed is beyond thy power. Thy qualities are marvellous. Every new act of thine outstrips the last, and bel [...]es the newest calcu­lations. But this—this perfidy exceeds—This out­rage upon promises, this violation of faith, this blind­ness to the future is incredible. There he stopped; while his looks seemed to call upon Mervyn for a con­tradiction of his first assertion.

I know full well how inexpiably stupid or wicked my act will appear to you, but I will not prevaricate or lie. I repeat, that every thing is known to him. Your birth; your early fortunes; the incidents at Charleston and Wilmington; your treatment of the brother and sister; your interview with Watson, and the fatal issue of that interview—I have told him all, just as it was told to me.

Here the shock that was felt by Welbeck overpow­ered his caution and his strength. He sunk upon the side of the bed. His air was still incredulous, and he continued to gaze upon Mervyn. He spoke in a tone less vehement.

And hast thou then betrayed me? Hast thou shut every avenue to my return to honor? Am I known to be a seducer and assassin? To have meditated all crimes, and to have perpetrated the worst?

Infamy and death are my portion. I know they are reserved for me; but I did not think to receive them at thy hands, that under that innocent guise there lurked a heart treacherous and cruel. But go; leave me to myself. This stroke has exterminated my rem­nant [Page 46] of hope. Leave me to prepare my neck for the halter, and my lips for this last, and bitterest cup.

Mervyn struggled with his tears and replied, all this was foreseen, and all this I was prepared to endure. My friend and I will withdraw, as you wish; but to­morrow I return; not to indicate my faith or my hu­manity; not to make you recant your charges, or for­give the faults which I seem to have committed, but to extricate you from your present evil, or to arm you with fortitude.

So saying he led the way out of the room. I fol­lowed him in silence. The strangeness and abruptness of this scene left me no power to assume a part in it. I looked on with new and indescribable sensations. I reached the street before my recollection was perfectly recovered. I then reflected on the purpose that had led me to Welbeck's chamber. This purpose was yet unaccomplished. I desired Mervyn to linger a mo­ment while I returned into the house. I once more en­quired for the keeper, and told him I should leave to him the province of acquainting Welbeck with the ne­cessity of sharing his apartment with a stranger. I speedily rejoined Mervyn in the street.

I lost no time in requiring an explanation of the scene that I had witnessed. How became you once more the companion of Welbeck? Why did you not inform me by letter of your arrival at Malverton, and of what occurred during your absence? What is the fate of Mr. Hadwin and of Wallace?

Alas! said he, I perceive, that, though I have writ­ten, you have never received my letters. The tale of what has occurred since we parted is long and various. I am not only willing but eager to communicate the story, but this is no suitable place. Have patience till we reach your house. I have involved myself in pe­rils and embarrassments from which I depend upon your counsel and [...] to release me.

I had scarcely reached my own door, when I was overtaken by a servant, whom I knew to belong to the family in which Carlton and his sisters resided. Her [Page 47] message, therefore, was readily guessed. She came, as I expected, to enquire for my friend, who had left his home in the morning with a stranger, and had not yet returned. His absence had occasioned some inqui­etude, and his sister had sent this message to me, to procure what information respecting the cause of his detention I was able to give.

My perplexity hindered me, for some time, from an­swering. I was willing to communicate the painful truth with my own mouth. I saw the necessity of put­ting an end to her suspence, and of preventing the news from reaching her with fallacious aggravations or at an unseasonable time.

I told the messenger, that I had just parted with Mr. Carlton, that he was well, and that I would speedily come and acquaint his sister with the cause of his absence.

Though burning with curiosity respecting Mervyn and Welbeck, I readily postponed its gratification till my visit to Miss Carlton was performed. I had rarely seen this lady; my friendship for her brother, though ardent, having been lately formed, and chiefly matured by interviews at my house. I had designed to intro­duce her to my wife, but various accidents had hindered the execution of my purpose. Now consolation and counsel was more needed than ever, and delay or re­luctance in bestowing it would have been, in an high degree, unpardonable.

I therefore parted with Mervyn, requesting him to await my return, and promisin [...] to perform the engage­ment which compelled me to leave him with the utmost dispatch. On entering M [...]ss Ca [...]lt [...]n's apartment, I assumed an air of as much tranqill [...]ty as possible. I found the lady seated at a desk, with pen in hand and parchment before her. She greeted me with affection­ate dignity, and caught from my countenance that cheerfulness of which on my entrance she was desti­tute.

You come, said she▪ to inform me what has made my brother a truant to-day. Till your message was [Page 48] received I was somewhat anxious. This day he usually spends in rambling through the fields, but so bleak and stormy an atmosphere I suppose would prevent his ex­cursion. I pray, sir, what is it detains him?

To conquer my embarrassment, and introduce the subject by indirect and cautious means, I eluded her question, and casting an eye at the parchment, how now? said I; this is strange employment for a lady. I knew that my friend pursued this trade, and lived by binding fast the bargains which others made, but I knew not that the pen was ever usurped by his sister.

The usurpation was prompted by necessity. My brother's impatient temper and delicate frame unfitted him for this trade. He pursued it with no less reluc­tance than diligence, devoting to the task three nights in the week and the whole of each day. It would long ago have killed him, if I had not bethought myself of sharing his tasks. The pen was irksome and toilsome at first, but use has made it easy, and far more eligible than the needle, which was formerly my only tool.

This arrangement affords my brother opportunities of exercise and recreation, without diminishing our profits; and my time, though not less constantly, is more agreeably, as well as more lucratively, employed than formerly.

I admire your reasoning. By this means provision is made against untoward accidents. If sickness should disable him, you are qualified to pursue the same means of support.

At these words the lady's countenance changed. She put her hand on my arm, and said, in a fluttering and hurried accent, is my brother sick?

No. He is in perfect health. My observation was an harmless one. I am sorry to observe your readiness to draw alarming inferences. If I were to say, that your scheme is useful to supply deficiencies, not only when your brother is disabled by sickness, but when thrown, by some inhuman creditor, into jail, no doubt you would perversely and hastily infer that he is now in prison.

[Page 49]I had scarcely ended the sentence, when the piercing eyes of the lady were anxiously fixed upon mine. Af­ter a moment's pause, she exclaimed—The inference, indeed, is too plain. I know his fate. It has long been foreseen and expected, and I have summoned up my equanimity to meet it. Would to Heaven he may find the calamity as light as I should find it; but I fear his too irritable spirit.

When her fears were confirmed, she started out into no vehemence of exclamation. She quickly suppressed a few tears which would not be withheld, and listened to my narrative of what had lately occurred, with to­kens of gratitude.

Formal consolation was superfluous. Her mind was indeed more fertile than my own in those topics which take away its keenest edge from affliction. She observ­ed that it was far from being the heaviest calamity which might have happened. The creditor was per­haps vincible by arguments and supplications. If these should succeed, the disaster would not only be removed, but that security from future molestation, be gained, to which they had for a long time been strangers.

Should he be obdurate, their state was far from being hopeless. Carlton's situation allowed him to pursue his profession. His gains would be equal, and his ex­pences would not be augmented. By their mutual in­dustry they might hope to amass sufficient to discharge the debt at no very remote period.

What she chiefly dreaded was the pernicious influ­ence of dejection and sedentary labor on her brother's health. Yet this was not to be considered as inevita­ble. Fortitude might be inspired by exhortation and example, and no condition precluded us from every species of bodily exertion. The less inclined he should prove to cultivate the means of deliverance and happi­ness within his reach, the more necessary it became for her to stimulate and fortify his resolution.

If I were captivated by the charms of this lady's person and carriage, my reverence was excited by these proofs of wisdom and energy. I zealously promised to [Page 50] concur with her in every scheme she should adopt for her own or her brother's advantage; and after spending some hours with her, took my leave.

I now regretted the ignorance in which I had hitherto remained respecting this lady. That she was, in an eminent degree, feminine and lovely, was easily disco­vered; but intellectual weakness had been rashly infer­red from external frailty. She was accustomed to shrink from observation, and reserve was mistaken for timidi­ty. I called on Carlton only when numerous engage­ments would allow, and when by some accident, his cus­tomary visits had been intermitted. On those occa­sions, my stay was short, and my attention chiefly con­fined to her brother. I now resolved to atone for my ancient negligence, not only by my own assiduities, but by those of my wife.

On my return home, I found Mervyn and my wife in earnest discourse. I anticipated the shock which the sensibility of the latter would receive from the ti­dings which I had to communicate respecting Carlton. I was unwilling, and yet perceived the necessity, of dis­closing the truth. I desired to bring these women, as soon as possible, to the knowledge of each other, but the necessary prelude to this was an acquaintance with the disaster that had happened.

Scarcely had I entered the room, when Mervyn turned to me and said, with an air of anxiety and im­patience—Pray, my friend, have you any knowledge of Francis Carlton?

The mention of this name by Mervyn, produced some surprize. I acknowledged my acquaintance with him.

Do you know in what situation he now is?

In answer to this question, I stated by what singular means his situation had been made known to me, and the purpose, from the accomplishment of which, I had just returned. I enquired, in my turn, whence originated this question?

He had overheard the name of Carlton in the prison. Two persons were communing in a corner, and accident [Page 51] enabled him to catch this name, though uttered by them in an half whisper, and to discover that the person talked about, had lately been conveyed thither.

This name was not now heard for the first time. It was connected with remembrances that made him anx­ious for the fate of him to whom it belonged. In dis­course with my wife, this name chanced to be again mentioned, and his curiosity was roused afresh. I was willing to communicate all that I knew, but Mervyn's own destiny was too remarkable not to absorb all my attention, and I refused to discuss any other theme till that were fully explained. He postponed his own gra­tification to mine, and consented to relate the incidents that had happened from the moment of our separation till the present.

AT parting with you, my purpose was to reach the abode of the Hadwins as speedily as possible. I tra­velled therefore with diligence. Setting out so early, I expected, though on foot, to reach the end of my journey before noon. The activity of muscles is no obstacle to thought. So far from being inconsistent with intense musing, it is, in my own case, propitious to that state of mind.

Probably no one had stronger motives for ardent me­ditation than I. My second journey to the city was prompted by reasons, and attended by incidents, that seemed to have a present existence. To think upon them, was to view, more deliberately and thoroughly, objects and persons that still hovered in my sight. In­stead of their attributes being already seen, and their consequences at an end, it seemed as if a series of nu­merous years and unintermitted contemplation were re­quisite to comprehend them fully, and bring into exist­ence their most momentous effects.

If men be chiefly distinguished from each other by the modes in which attention is employed, either on external and sensible objects, or merely on abstract ideas and the creatures of reflection, I may justly claim to be enrolled in the second class. My existence is a [Page 53] series of thoughts rather than of motions. Ratiocina­tion and deduction leave my senses unemployed. The fulness of my fancy renders my eye vacant and inac­tive. Sensations do not precede and suggest, but fol­low and are secondary to the acts of my mind.

There was one motive, however, which made me less inattentive to the scene that was continually shifting before and without me than I am wont to be. The loveliest form which I had hitherto seen, was that of Clemenza Lodi. I recalled her condition as I had wit­nessed it, as Welbeck had described, and as you had painted it. The past was without remedy; but the future was, in some degree, within our power to create and to fashion. Her state was probably dangerous. She might already be forlorn, beset with temptation or with anguish; or danger might only be approaching her, and the worst evils be impending ones.

I was ignorant of her state. Could I not remove this ignorance? Would not some benefit redound to her from beneficent and seasonable interposition?

You had mentioned that her abode had lately been with Mrs. Villars, and that this lady still resided in the country. The residence had been sufficiently de­scribed, and I perceived that I was now approaching it. In a short time I spied its painted roof and five chim­nies through an avenue of catalpas.

When opposite the gate which led into this avenue, I paused. It seemed as if this moment were to decide upon the liberty and innocence of this being. In a moment I might place myself before her, ascertain her true condition, and point out to her the path of honor and safety. This opportunity might be the last. Long­er delay might render interposition fruitless.

But Low was I to interpose? I was a stranger to her language, and she was unacquainted with mine. To obtain access to her, it was necessary only to de­mand it. But how should I explain my views and state my wishes when an interview was gained? And what expedient was it in my power to propose?

[Page 54]Now, said I, I perceive the value of that wealth which I have been accustomed to despise. The power of eating and drinking, the nature and limits of exist­ence and physical enjoyment, are not changed or en­larged by the increase of wealth. Our cor [...]oreal and intellectual wants are supplied at little expence; but our own wants are the wants of others, and that which remains, after our own necessities are obviated, it is always easy and just to employ in relieving the neces­sities of others.

There are no superfluities in my store. It is not in my power to supply this unfortunate girl with decent rayment and honest bread. I have no house to which to conduct her. I have no means of securing her from famine and cold.

Yet, though indigent and feeble, I am not destitute of friends and of home. Cannot she be admitted to the same asylum to which I am now going? This thought was sudden and new. The more it was re­volved, the more plausible it seemed. This was not merely the sole expedient, but the best that could have been suggested.

The Hadwins were friendly, hospitable, uns [...]spi­cious. Their board, though simple and uncouth, was wholesome and plenteous. Their residence was seques­tered and obscure, and not obnoxious to impertinent enquiries and malignant animadversion. Their frank and ingenuous temper would make them easy of per­suasion, and their sympathies were prompt and over­flowing.

I am nearly certain, continued I, that they will in­stantly afford protection to this desolate girl. Why shall I not anticipate their consent, and present myself to their embraces and their welcomes in her company?

Slight reflection showed me, that this precipitation was improper. Whether Wallace had ever arrived at Malverton? Whether Mr. Hadwin had escaped in­fection? whether his house were the abode of security and quiet, or a scene of desolation? were questions yet to be determined. The obvious and best proceeding [Page 55] was to hasten forward, to afford the Hadwins, if in distress, the feeble consolations of my friendship; or, if their state were happy, to procure their concurrence to my scheme respecting Clemenza.

Actuated by these considerations, I resumed my journey. Looking forward, I perceived a chaise and horse standing by the left hand fence, at the distance of some hundred yards. This object was not uncom­mon or strange, and, therefore, it was scarcely noticed. When I came near, however, methought I recognized in this carriage the same in which my importunities had procured a seat for the languishing Wallace, in the manner which I have formerly related.

It was a crazy vehicle and old fashioned. When once seen it could scarcely be mistaken or forgotten. The horse was held by his bridle to a post, but the seat was empty. My solicitude with regard to Wallace's destiny, of which he to whom the carriage belonged might possibly afford me some knowledge, made me stop and reflect on what measures it was proper to pur­sue.

The rider could not be at a great distance from this spot. His absence would probably be short. By lin­gering a few minutes an interview might be gained, and the uncertainty and suspence of some hours be thereby precluded. I therefore waited, and the same person whom I had formerly encountered made his appearance, in a short time, from under a copse that skirted the road.

He recognized me with more difficulty than attended my recognition of him. The circumstances, however, of our first meeting were easily recalled to his remem­brance. I eagerly enquired when and where he had parted with the youth who had been, on that occasion, entrusted to his care.

He answered, that, on leaving the city and inhaling the purer air of the fields and woods, Wallace had been, in a wonderful degree, invigorated and refreshed. An instantaneous and total change appeared to have been [Page 56] wrought in him. He no longer languished with fatigue or fear, but became full of gaiety and talk.

The suddenness of this transition; the levity with which he related and commented on his recent dangers and evils, excited the astonishment of his companion, to whom he not only communicated the history of his disease, but imparted many anecdotes of a humorous kind. Some of these my companion repeated. I heard them with regret and dissatisfaction. They betokened a mind vitiated by intercourse with the thoughtless and depraved of both sexes, and particularly with infamous and profligate women.

My companion proceeded to mention, that Wallace's exhiliration lasted but for a short time, and disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. He was seized with deadly sickness, and insisted upon leaving the carriage, whose movements shocked his stomach and head to an insupportable degree. His companion was not void of apprehensions on his own account, but was unwilling to desert him, and endeavored to encourage him. His efforts were vain. Though the nearest house was at the distance of some hundred yards, and though it was probable that the inhabitants of this house would re­fuse to accommodate one in his condition, yet Wal­lace could not be prevailed on to proceed; and, in spite of persuasion and remonstrance, left the carriage and threw himself on the grassy bank beside the road.

This person was not unmindful of the hazard which he incurred by contact with a sick man. He conceived himself to have performed all that was consistent with duty to himself and to his family; and Wallace, per­sisting in affirming that, by attempting to ride farther, he should merely hasten his death, was at length left to his own guidance.

These were unexpected and mournful tidings. I had fondly imagined, that his safety was put beyond the reach of untoward accidents. Now, however, there was reason to suppose him to have perished by a linger­ing and painful disease, rendered fatal by the selfishness [Page 57] of mankind, by the want of seasonable remedies, and exposure to inclement airs. Some uncertainty, how­ever, rested on his fate. It was my duty to remove it, and to carry to the Hadwins no mangled and defective tale. Where, I asked, had Wallace and his companion parted?

It was about three miles further onward. The spot and the house within view from the spot, were accurately described. In this house it was possible that Wallace had sought an asylum, and some intelligence respecting him might be gained from its inhabitants. My infor­mant was journeying to the city, so that we were obliged to separate.

In consequence of this man's description of Wal­lace's deportment, and the proofs of a dissolute and thoughtless temper which he had given, I began to regard his death as an event less deplorable. Such an one was unworthy of a being so devoutly pure, so ar­dent in fidelity and tenderness as Susan Hadwin. If he loved, it was probable that in defiance of his vows, he would seek a different companion. If he adhered to his first engagements, his motives would be sordid, and the disclosure of his latent defects might produce more exquisite misery to his wife, than his premature death or treacherous desertion.

The preservation of this man, was my sole motive for entering the infected city, and subjecting my own life to the hazards, from which my escape may almost be esteemed miraculous. Was not the end dispropor­tioned to the means? Was there arrogance in believing my life a price too great to be given for his?

I was not, indeed, sorry for the past. My purpose was just, and the means which I selected, were the best my limited knowledge applied. My happiness should be drawn from reflection on the equity of my intentions. That these intentions were frustrated by the ignorance of others, or my own, was the consequence of human frailty. Honest purposes, though they may not bestow happiness on others, will, at least, secure it to him who fosters them.

[Page 58]By these reflections my regrets were dissipated, and I prepared to rejoice alike, whether Wallace should be found to have escaped or to have perished. The house to which I had been directed was speedily brought into view. I enquired for the master or mistress of the mansion, and was conducted to a lady of a plain and housewifely appearance.

My curiosity was fully gratified. Wallace, whom my description easily identified, had made his appear­ance at her door on the evening of the day on which he left the city. Thedread of the fever was descanted on with copious and rude eloquence. I supposed her elo­quence on this theme to be designed to apologize to me for her refusing entrance to the sick man. The pero­ration, however, was different. Wallace was admit­ted, and suitable attention paid to his wants.

Happily, the guest had nothing to struggle with but extreme weakness. Repose, nourishing diet, and salubrious airs restored him in a short time to health. He lingered under this roof for three weeks, and then, without any professions of gratitude, or offers of pecu­niary remuneration, or information of the course which he determined to take, he left them.

These facts, added to that which I had previously known, threw no advantageous light upon the character of Wallace. It was obvious to conclude, that he had gone to Malverton, and thither there was nothing to hinder me from following him.

Perhaps, one of my grossest defects is a precipitate temper. I chuse my path suddenly, and pursue it with impetuous expedition. In the present instance, my resolution was conceived with unhesitating zeal, and I walked the faster that I might the sooner execute it. Miss Hadwin deserved to be happy. Love was in her heart the all-absorbing sentiment. A disap­pointment there was a supreme calamity. Depravity and folly must assume the guise of virtue before it can claim her affection. This disguise might be main­tained for a time, but its detection must inevitably come, and the sooner this detection takes place the more beneficial it must prove.

[Page 59]I resolved to unbosom myself, with equal and un­bounded confidence, to Wallace and his mistress. I would chuse for this end not the moment when they were separate, but that in which they were together. My knowledge, and the sources of my knowledge, re­lative to Wallace, should be unfolded to the lady with simplicity and truth. The lover should be present, to confute, to extenuate, or to verify the charges.

During the rest of the day these images occupied the chief place in my thoughts. The road was miry and dark, and my journey proved to be more tedious and fatiguing than I expected. At length, just as the even­ing closed, the well-known habitation appeared in view. Since my departure, winter had visited the world, and the aspect of nature was desolate and dreary. All around this house was vacant, negligent, forlorn. The contrast between these appearances and those which I had noticed on my first approach to it, when the ground and the trees were decked with the luxuriance and vi­vacity of summer, was mournful, and seemed to fore­token ill. My spirits drooped as I noticed the general inactivity and silence.

I entered, without warning, the door that led into the parlour. No face was to be seen or voice heard. The chimney was ornamented, as in summer, with ever­green shrubs. Though it was now the second month of frost and snow, fire did not appear to have been lately kindled on this hearth.

This was a circumstance from which nothing good could be deduced. Had there been those to share its comforts, who had shared them on former years, this was the place and hour at which they commonly assem­bled. A door on one side led, through a narrow en­try, into the kitchen. I opened this door, and passed towards the kitchen.

No one was there but an old man, squatted in the chimney-corner. His face, though wrinkled, denoted undecayed health and an unbending spirit. An home­spun coat, leathern breeches wrinkled with age, and blue yarn hose, were well suited to his lean and shri­velled [Page 60] form. On his right knee was a wooden bowl, which he had just replenished from a pipkin of hasty-pudding still smoaking on the coals▪ and in his left hand a spoon, which he had, at that moment, plunged into a bottle of molasses that stood beside him.

This action was suspended by my entrance. He looked up and exclaimed, hey day! who's this that comes into other people's houses without so much as saying "by your leave?" What's thee business? Who's thee want?

I had never seen this personage before. I supposed it to be some new domestic, and enquired for Mr. Had­win.

Ah! replied he with a sigh, William Hadwin. Is it him thee wants? Poor man! He is gone to rest many days since.

My heart sunk within me at these tidings. Dead, said I, do you mean that he is dead?—This exclama­tion was uttered in a tone of some vehemence. It at­tracted the attention of some one who was standing without, who immediately entered the kitchen. It was Eliza Hadwin. The moment she beheld me she shriek­ed aloud, and, rushing into my arms, fainted away.

The old man dropped his bowl; and, starting from his seat, star [...]d alternately at me and at the breathless girl. My emotion, made up of joy, and sorrow, and surprize, rendered me for a moment powerless as she▪ At length, he said, I understand this. I know who thee is, and will tell her thee's come. So saying he hastily left the room.

IN a short time this gentle girl recovered her senses. She did not withdraw herself from my sustaining arm, but, leaning on my bosom, she resigned herself to pas­sionate weeping. I did not endeavor to check this ef­fusion, believing that its influence would be salutary.

I had not forgotten the thrilling sensibility and art­less graces of this girl. I had not forgotten the scruples which had formerly made me check a passion whose tendency was easily discovered. These new proofs of her affection were, at once, mournful and delightful. The untimely fate of her father and my friend pressed with new force upon my heart, and my tears, in spite of my fortitude, mingled with hers.

The attention of both was presently attracted by a faint scream, which proceeded from above. Immedi­ately tottering footsteps were heard in the passage, and a figure rushed into the room, pale, emaciated, hag­gard, and wild. She cast a piercing glance at me, ut­tered a feeble exclamation, and sunk upon the floor without signs of life.

It was not difficult to comprehend this scene. I now conjectured, what subsequent enquiry confirmed, that the old man had mistaken me for Wallace, and had carried to the elder sister the news of his return. [Page 62] This fatal disappointment of hopes that had nearly been extinct, and which were now so powerfully re­vived, could not be endured by a frame verging to dis­solution.

This object recalled all the energies of Eliza, and engrossed all my solicitude. I lifted the fallen girl in my arms; and, guided by her sister, carried her to her chamber. I had now leisure to contemplate the changes which a few months had made in this lovely frame. I turned away from the spectacle with anguish, but my wandering eyes were recalled by some potent fascina­tion, and fixed in horror upon a form which evinced the last stage of decay. Eliza knelt on one side, and, leaning her face upo [...] the bed, endeavored in vain to smother her sobs. I sat on the other motionless, and holding the passive and withered hand of the sufferer.

I watched with ineffable solicitude the return of life. It returned, at length, but merely to betray symptoms that it would speedily depart forever. For a time my faculties were palsied, and I was made an impotent spectator of the ruin that environed me. This pusil­lanimity quickly gave way to resolutions and reflections better suited to the exigencies of the time.

The first impulse was to summon a physician, but it was evident that the patient had been sinking by slow degrees to this state, and that the last struggle had begun. Nothing remained but to watch her while ex­piring, and perform for her, when dead, the rites of interment. The survivor was capable of consolation and of succour. I went to her and drew her gently into another apartment. The old man, tremulous and wonderstruck, [...]eemed anxious to perform some service. I directed him to kindle a fire in Eliza's chamber. Meanwhile I persuaded my gentle friend to remain in this chamber, and resign to me the performance of every office which her sister's condition required. I sat beside the bed of the dying till the mortal struggle was past.

I perceived that the house had no inhabitant beside the two females and the old man. I went in search of [Page 63] the latter▪ and found him crouched as before, at the kitchen fire, smoaking his pipe. I placed myself on the same bench, and entered into conversation with him.

I gathered from him that he had, for many years, been Mrs. Hadwin's servant. That lately he had culti­vated a small farm in this neighborhood for his own advantage. Stopping one day in October, at the ta­vern, he heard that his old master had lately been in the city, had caught the fever, and after his return had died with it. The moment he became sick, his servants fled from the house, and the neighbors refused to approach it. The task of attending his sick bed, was allotted to his daughters, and it was by their hands that his grave was dug, and his body covered with earth. The same terror of infection existed after his death as before, and these hapless females were deserted by all mankind.

Old Caleb was no sooner informed of these particu­lars, than he hurried to the house, and had since conti­nued in their service. His heart was kind, but it was easily seen that his skill extended only to execute the directions of another. Grief for the death of Wallace, and her father, preyed upon the health of the elder daughter. The younger became her nurse, and Caleb was always at hand to execute any orders, the perform­ance of which was on a level with his understanding. Their neighbors had not withheld their good offices, but they were still terrified and estranged by the phan­toms of pestilence.

During the last week Susan had been too weak to rise from her bed, yet such was the energy communica­ted by the tidings that Wallace was alive, and had re­turned, that she leaped upon her feet and rushed down stairs. How little did that man deserve so strenuous and immortal an affection.

I would not allow myself to ponder on the sufferings of these women. I endeavored to think only of the best expedients for putting an end to these calamities. After a moment's deliberation, I determined to go to an house at some miles distance; the dwelling of one, [Page 64] who, though not exempt from the reigning panic, had shewn more generosity towards these unhappy girls than others. During my former abode in this district, I had ascertained his character, and found him to be compas­sionate and liberal.

Overpowered by fatigue and watching, Susan was no sooner relieved by my presence, of some portion of her [...]ares, than she sunk into profound slumber. I directed Caleb to watch the house till my ret [...]rn, which should be before midnight, and then set out for the dwelling of Mr. Ellis.

The weather was temperate and moist, and rendered the footing of the meadows extremely difficult. The ground that had lately been frozen and covered with snow, was now changed into gullies and pools, and this was no time to be fastidious in the choice of paths. A brook, swelled by the recent thaw, was likewise to be passed. The rail which I had formerly placed over it by way of bridge, had disappeared, and I was obliged to wade through it. At length I approached the house to which I was going.

At so late an hour, farmers and farmer's servants are usually abed, and their threshold is entrusted to their watch-dogs. Two belonged to M [...]. Ellis, whose ferocity and vigilance were truly formidable to a stran­ger, but I hoped that in me they would recognize an old acquaintance, and suffer me to approach. In this I was not mistaken. Though my person could not be distinct­ly seen by star-light, they seemed to scent me from afar, and met me with a thousand caresses.

Approaching the house, I perceived that its tenants were retired to their repose. This I expected, and hastened to awaken Mr. Ellis, by knocking briskly at the door. Presently he looked out of a window above, and in answer to his enquiries, in which impatience at being so unseasonably disturbed, was mingled with anxiety, I told him my name, and entreated him to come down and allow me a few minutes conversation. He speedily dressed himself, and opening the kitchen door, we seated ourselves before the fire.

[Page 65]My appearance was sufficiently adapted to excite his wonder; he had heard of my elopement from the house of Mr. Hadwin, he was a stranger to the motives that prompted my departure, and to the events that had be­fallen me, and no interview was more distant from his ex­pectations than the present. His curiosity was written in his features, but this was no time to gratify his curi­osity. The end that I now had in view, was to procure accommodation for Eliza Hadwin in this man's house. For this purpose it was my duty to describe with sim­plicity and truth, the inconveniences which at present surrounded her, and to relate all that had happened since my arrival.

I perceived that my tale excited his compassion, and I continued with new zeal to paint to him the helpless­ness of this girl. The death of her father and sister left her the property of this farm. Her sex and age disqualified her for superintending the harvest-field and the threshing-floor; and no expedient was left, but to lease the land to another, and, taking up her abode in the family of some kinsman or friend, to subsist, as she might easily do, upon the rent. Meanwhile her conti­nuance in this house was equally useless and dangerous, and I insinuated to my companion the propriety of im­mediately removing her to his own.

Some hesitation and reluctance appeared in him, which I immediately ascribed to an absurd dread of in­fection. I endeavored, by appealing to his reason, as well as to his pity, to conquer this dread. I pointed out the true cause of the death of the elder daugh­ter, and assured him the youngest knew no indispo­sition but that which arose from distress. I offered to save him from any hazard that might attend his ap­proachin [...] the house, by accompanying her hither my­self. All that her safety required was that his doors should not be shut against her when she presented her­self before them.

Still he was fearful and reluctant; and, at length, mentioned that her uncle resided not more than sixteen miles farther; that he was her natural protector, and [Page 66] he dared to say would find no difficulty in admitting her into his house. For his part, there might be reason in what I said, but he could not bring himself to think but that there was still some danger of the fever. It was right to assist people in distress, to be sure; but to risk his own life he did not think to be his duty. He was no relation of the family, and it was the duty of relations to help each other. Her uncle was the pro­per person to assist her, and no doubt he would be as willing as able.

The marks of dubiousness and indecision which ac­companied these words, encouraged me in endeavoring to subdue his scruples. The increase of his aversion to my scheme kept pace with my remonstrances, and he finally declared that he would, on no account, con­sent to it.

Ellis was by no means hard of heart. His determi­nation did not prove the coldness of his charity, but merely the strength of his fears. He was himself an object more of compassion than of anger; and he acted like the man, whose fear of death prompts him to push his companion from the plank which saved him from drowning, but which is unable to sustain both. Find­ing him invincible to my entreaties, I thought upon the expedient which he suggested of seeking the pro­tection of her uncle. It was true, that the loss of pa­rents had rendered her uncle her legal protector. His knowledge of the world; his house, and property, and influence would, perhaps, fit him for this office in a more eminent degree than I was fitted. To seek a dif­ferent asylum might, indeed, be unjust to both, and▪ after some reflection, I not only dismissed the regret which Ellis's refusal had given me, but even thanked him for the intelligence and counsel which he had af­forded me. I took leave of him, and hastened back to Hadwin's.

Eliza, by Caleb's report, was still asleep. There was no urgent necessity for awakening her; but some­thing was forthwith to be done with regard to the un­happy girl that was dead. The proceeding incumbent [Page 67] on us was obvious. All that remained was to dig a grave, and to deposit the remains with as much solem­nity and decency as the time would permit. There were two methods of doing this. I might wait till the next day; till a coffin could be made and conveyed hi­ther; till the woman, whose trade it was to make and put on the habiliments assigned by custom to the dead, could be sought out and hired to attend; till kin­dred, friends, and neighbors could be summoned to the obsequies; till a carriage were provided to remove the body to a burying-ground, belonging to a meeting-house, and five miles distant; till those, whose trade it was to dig graves, had prepared one, within the sa­cred inclosure, for her reception; or, neglecting this toilsome, tedious, and expensive ceremonial, I might seek the grave of Hadwin, and lay the daughter by the side of her parent.

Perhaps I was wrong in my preference of the latter mode. The customs of burial may, in most cases, be in themselves proper. If the customs be absurd, yet it may be generally proper to adhere to them: but, doubtless, there are cases in which it is our duty to omit them. I conceived the present case to be such an one.

The season was bleak and inclement. Much time, labor, and expence would be required to go through the customary rites. There was none but myself to perform these, and I had not the suitable means. The misery of Eliza would only be prolonged by adhering to these forms; and her fortune be needlesly diminish­ed, by the expences unavoidably to be incurred.

After musing upon these ideas for some time, I rose from my seat, and desired Caleb to follow me. We proceeded to an outer shed where farmers' tools used to be kept. I supplied him and myself with a spade, and requested him to lead me to the spot where Mr. Had­win was laid.

He betrayed some hesitation to comply, and appear­ed struck with some degree of alarm, as if my purpose had been to molest, instead of securing, the repose of [Page 68] the dead. I removed his doubts by explaining my in­tentions, but he was scarcely less shocked, on discover­ing the truth, than he had been alarmed by his first suspicions. He stammered out his objections to my scheme. There was but one mode of burial he thought that was decent and proper, and he could not be free to assist me in pursuing any other mode.

Perhaps Caleb's aversion to the scheme might have been easily overcome, but I reflected that a mind like his was at once flexible and obstinate. He might yield to arguments and entreaties, and act by their immedi­ate impulse; but the impulse passed away in a moment, old and habitual convictions were resumed, and his de­viation from the beaten track would be merely produc­tive of compunction. His aid, on the present occa­sion, though of some use, was by no means indispen­sible. I forbore to solicit his concurrence, or even to vanquish the scruples he entertained against directing me to the grave of Hadwin. It was a groundless su­perstition that made one spot more suitable for this pur­pose than another. I desired Caleb, in a mild tone, to return to the kitchen, and leave me to act as I thought proper. I then proceeded to the orchard.

One corner of this field was somewhat above the le­vel of the rest. The tallest tree of the groupe grew there, and there I had formerly placed a bench, and made it my retreat at periods of leisure. It had been recommended by its sequestered situation, its luxuriant verdure, and profound quiet. On one side was a pota­toe field, on the other a melon-patch; and before me, in rows, some hundreds of apple trees. Here I was accustomed to seek the benefits of contemplation, and study the manuscripts of Lodi. A few months had passed since I had last visited this spot. What revolu­tions had since occurred, and how gloomily contrasted was my present purpose with wh [...]t had formerly led me hither!

In this spot I had hastily determined to dig the grave of Susan. The grave was dug. All that I desired was a cavity of sufficient dimensions to receive her. [Page 69] This being made, I returned to the house, lifted the corpse in my arms, and bore it without delay to the spot. Caleb seated in the kitchen, and Eliza asleep in her chamber, were wholly unapprised of my motions. The grave was covered, the spade reposited under the shed, and my seat by the kitchen fire resumed in a time apparently too short for so solemn and momentous a transaction.

I look back upon this incident with emotions not easily described. It seems as if I acted with too much precipitation; as if insensibility, and not reason, had occasioned that clearness of conceptions, and bestowed that firmness of muscles, which I then experienced. I neither trembled nor wavered in my purpose. I bore [...] my arms the being whom I had known and loved, [...]hrough the whistling gale and intense darkness of a winter's night; I heaped earth upon her limbs, and co­vered them from human observation, without fluctua­tions or tremors, though not without feelings that were awful and sublime.

Perhaps some part of my stedfastness was ow [...]g to my late experience, and some minds may be more easily inured to perilous emergencies than others. If reason acquires strength only by the diminution of sensibility, perhaps it is just for sensibility to be diminished.

THE safety of Eliza was the object that now occu­pied my cares. To have slept, after her example, had been most proper, but my uncertainty with regard to her fate, and my desire to conduct her to some other home, kept my thoughts in perpetual motion. I wait­ed with impatience till she should awake and allow me to consult with her on plans for futurity.

Her sleep terminated not till the next day had arisen. Having recovered the remembrance of what had lately happened, she enquired for her sister. She wanted to view once more the face, and kiss the lips, of her be­loved Susan. Some relief to her anguish she expected to derive from this privilege.

When informed of the truth, when convinced that Susan had disappeared forever▪ she broke forth into fresh passion. It seemed as if her loss was not hope­less or compleat as long as she was suffered to behold the face of her friend and to touch her lips. She ac­cused me of acting without warrant and without jus­tice; of defrauding her of her dearest and only conso­lation; and of treating her sister's sacred remains with barbarous indifference and rudeness.

I explained in the gentlest terms the reasons of my conduct. I was not surprized or vexed, that she, at [Page 71] first, treated them as futile, and as heightening my of­fence. Such was the impulse of a grief, which was properly excited by her loss. To be tranquil and sted­fast, in the midst of the usual causes of impetuosity and agony, is either the prerogative of wisdom that sublimes itself above all selfish considerations, or the badge of giddy and unfeeling folly.

[...] torrent was at length exhausted. Upbraiding was at an end; and gratitude, and tenderness, and im­plicit acquiescence in any scheme which my prudence should suggest, succeeded. I mentioned her uncle as one to whom it would be proper, in her present distress, to apply.

She started and betrayed uneasiness at this name. It was evident that she by no means concurred with me in my notions of propriety; that she thought with aversion of seeking her uncle's protection. I requested her to state her objections to this scheme, or [...]o men­tion any other which she thought preferable.

She knew no body. She had not a friend in the world but myself. She had never been out of her fa­ther's house. She had no relation but her uncle Philip, and he—she could not live with him. I must not insist upon her going to his house. It was not the place for her. She should never be happy there.

I was at first, inclined to suspect in my friend some capricious and groundless antipathy. I desired her to explain what in her uncle's character made him so ob­noxious. She refused to be more explicit, and persist­ed in thinking that his house was no suitable abode for her.

Finding her, in this respect, invincible, I sought for some other expedient. Might she not easily be ac­commodated as a boarder in the city, or some village, or in a remote quarter of the country? Ellis, her nearest and most opulent neighbor, had refused to re­ceive her; but there were others who had not his fears. There were others, within the compass of a day's jour­ney, who were strangers to the cause of Hadwin's death; but would it not be culpable to take advantage [Page 72] of that ignorance? Their compliance ought not to be the result of deception.

While thus engaged, the incidents of my late jour­ney recurred to my remembrance, and I asked, is not the honest woman, who entertained Wallace, just such a person as that of whom I am in search? Her treatment of Wallace shews her to be exempt from chimerical fears, proves that she has room in her house for an occasional inmate.

Encouraged by these views, I told my weeping com­panion, that I had recollected a family in which she would be kindly treated; and that, if she chose, we would not lose a moment in repairing thither. Horses, be­longing to the farm, grazed in the meadows, and a couple of these would carry us in a few hours to the place which I had selected for her residence. On her eagerly assenting to this proposal, I enquired in whose care, and in what state, our present habitation should be left.

The father's property now belonged to the daughter. Eliza's mind was quick, active, and sagacious; but her total inexperience gave her sometimes the appearance of folly. She was eager to fly from this house, and to resign herself and her property, without limitation or condition, to my controul. Our intercourse had been short, but she relied on my protection and counsel as absolutely as she had been accustomed to do upon her father's.

She knew not what answer to make to my enquiry. Whatever I pleased to do was the best. What did I think ought to be done?

Ah! thought I, sweet, artless, and simple girl! how wouldst thou have fared, if Heaven had not sent me to thy succour? There are beings in the world who would make a selfish use of thy confidence; who would beguile thee at once of innocence and property. Such am not I. Thy welfare is a precious deposit, and no father or brother could watch over it with more solici­tude than I will do.

[Page 73]I was aware that Mr. Hadwin might have fixed the destination of his property, and the guardianship of his daughters, by will. On suggesting this to my friend, it instantly reminded her of an incident that took place after his last return from the city. He had drawn up his will, and gave it into Susan's possession, who placed it in a drawer, whence it was now taken by my friend.

By this will his property was now found to be be­queathed to his two daughters; and his brother, Philip Hadwin, was named executor, and guardian to his daugh­ters till they should be twenty years old. This name was no sooner heard by my friend, than she exclaimed, in a tone of affright, executor! My uncle! What is that? What power does that give him?

I know not exactly the power of executors. He will, doubtless, have possession of your property till you are twenty years of age. Your person will like­wise be under his care till that time.

Must he decide where I am to live?

He is vested with all the power of a father.

This assurance excited the deepest consternation. She fixed her eyes on the ground, and was lost, for a time, in the deepest reverie. Recovering, at length, she said, with a sigh, what if my father had made no will?

In that case, a guardian could not be dispensed with, but the right of naming him would belong to yourself.

And my uncle would have nothing to do with my affairs?

I am no lawyer, said I; but I presume all authority over your person and property would devolve upon the guardian of your own choice.

Then I am free. Saying this, with a sudden mo­tion, she tore in several pieces the will, which, during this dialogue, she had held in her hand, and threw the fragments into the fire.

No action was more unexpected to me than this. My astonishment hindered me from attempting to res­cue the paper from the flames. It was consumed in a moment. I was at a loss in what manner to regard [Page 74] this sacrifice. It denoted a force of mind little in uni­son with that simplicity and helplessness which this girl had hitherto displayed. It argued the deepest ap­prehensions of mistreatment from her uncle. Whe­ther his conduct had justified this violent antipathy, I had no means of judging. Mr. Hadwin's choice of him, as his executor, was certainly one proof of his in­tegrity.

My abstraction was noticed by Eliza, with visible anxiety. It was plain, that she dreaded the impres­sion which this act of seeming temerity had made upon me. Do not be angry with me, said she; perhaps I have been wrong, but I could not help it. I will have but one guardian and one protector.

The deed was irrevocable. In my present ignorance of the domestic hi [...]tory of the Hadwins, I was unqua­lified to judge how far circumstances might extenuate or justify the act. On both accounts, therefore, it was improper to expatiate upon it.

It was concluded to leave the care of the house to honest Caleb; to fasten closets and drawers, and, car­rying away the money which was found in one of them, and which amounted to no inconsiderable [...]um, to re­pair to the house formerly mentioned. The air was cold; an heavy snow began to fall in the night; the wind blew tempestuously; and we were compelled to confront it.

In leaving her dwelling, in which she had spent her whole life, the unhappy girl gave way afresh to her sorrow. It made her feeble and helpless. When placed upon the horse, she was scarcely able to main­tain her seat. Already chilled by the cold, blinded by the drifting snow, and cut by the blast, all my remon­strances were needed to inspire her with resolution.

I am not accustomed to regard the elements, or suf­fer them to retard or divert me from any design that I have formed. I had overlooked the weak and delicate frame of my companion, and made no account of her being less able to support cold and fatigue than myself. It was not till we had made some progress in our way, [Page 75] that I began to view, in their true light, the obstacles that were to be encountered. I conceived it, how­ever, too late to retreat, and endeavored to push on with speed.

My companion was a skilful rider, but her steed was refractory and unmanageable. She was able, however, to curb his spirit till we had proceeded ten or twelve miles from Malverton. The wind and the cold became too violent to be longer endured, and I resolved to stop at the first house which should present itself to my view, for the sake of refreshment and warmth.

We now entered a wood of some extent, at the ter­mination of which I remembered that a dwelling stood. To pass this wood, therefore, with expedition, was all that remained before we could reach an hospitable asy­lum. I endeavored to sustain, by this information, the sinking spirits of my companion. While busy in conversing with her, a blast of irresistible force twist­ed off the highest branch of a tree before us. It fell in the midst of the road, at the distance of a few feet from her horse's head. Terrified by this accident, the horse started from the path, and, rushing into the wood, in a moment threw himself and his rider on the ground, by encountering the rugged stock of an oak.

I dismounted and flew to her succour. The snow was already dyed with the blood which flowed from some wound in her head, and she lay without sense or motion. My terrors did not hinder me from anxiously searching for the hurt which was received, and ascer­taining the extent of the injury. Her forehead was considerably bruised▪ but, to my unspeakable joy, the blood flowed from the nostrils, and was, therefore, to be regarded as no mortal symptom.

I lifted her in my arms, and looked around me for some means of relief. The house at which I proposed to stop was upwards of a mile distant. I remembered none that was nearer. To place the wounded girl on my own horse, and proceed gently to the house in ques­tion, was the sole expedient; but, at present, she was senseless, and might, on recovering, be too feeble to [...]u [...]tain her own weight.

[Page 76]To recall her to life was my first duty; but I was powerless, or unacquainted with the means. I gazed upon her features, and endeavored, by pressing her in my arms, to inspire her wi [...]h some warmth. I looked towards the road, and listened for the wished-for sound of some carriage that might be prevailed on to stop and receive her. Nothing was more improbable than that either pleasure or business would induce men to en­counter so chilling and vehement a blast. To be light­ed on by some traveller was, therefore, an hopeless event.

Meanwhile, Eliza's swoon continued, and my alarm increased. What effect her half-frozen blood would have in prolonging this condition, or preventing her return to life, awakened the deepest apprehensions. I left the wood, still bearing her in my arms, and re-en­tered the road, from the desire of descrying, as soon as possible, the coming passenger. I looked this way and that, and again listened. Nothing but the sweep­ing blast, rent and falling branches, and snow that fill­ed and obscured the air, were perceivable. Each mo­ment retarded the course of my own blood and stiffened my sinews, and made the state of my companion more desperate. How was I to act? To perish myself or see her perish, was an ignoble fate: courage and activity were still able to avert it. My horse stood near, docile and obsequious; to mount him and to proceed on my way, holding my lifeless burthen in my arms, was all that re­mained.

At this moment my attention was called by several voices, issuing from the wood. It was the note of gai­ety and glee: presently a sleigh, with several persons of both sexes, appeared, in a road which led through the forest into that in which I stood. They moved at a quick pace, but their voices were hushed and they check­ed the speed of their horses on discovering us. No oc­currence was more auspicious than this; for I relied with perfect confidence on the benevolence of these persons, and as soon as they came near, claimed their assistance.

[Page 77]My story was listened to with sympathy, and one of the young men, leaping from the sleigh, assisted me in placing Eliza in the place which he had left. A female, of sweet aspect and engaging manners, insisted upon turning back and hastening to the house, where it seems her father resided, and which the party had just left. I rode after the sleigh, which in a few minutes arrived at the house.

The dwelling was spacious and neat, and a venerable man and woman, alarmed by the quick [...]eturn of the young people, came forth to know the cause. They received their guest with the utmost tenderness, and provided her with all the accommodations which her condition required. Their daughter relinquished the scheme of pleasure in which she had been engaged, and, compelling her companions to depart without her, remained to nurse and console the sick.

A little time shewed that no lasting injury had been suffered. Contusions, more troublesome than danger­ous, and easily curable by such applications as rural and traditional wisdom has discovered, were the only consequences of the fall. My mind, being relieved from apprehensions on this score, had leisure to reflect upon the use which might be made of the present state of things.

When I marked the structure of this house, and the features and deportment of its inhabitants, me­thought I discerned a powerful resemblance between this family and Hadwin's. It seemed as if some be­nignant power had led us hither as to the most suitable asylum that could be obtained; and in order to supply, to the forlorn Eliza, the place of those parents and that sister she had lost, I conceived, that, if their concurrence could be gained, no abode was more suit­able than this. No time was to be lost in gaining this concurrence. The curiosity of our host and hostess, whose name was Curling, speedily afforded me an op­portunity to disclose the history and real situation of my friend. There were no motives to reserve or pre­varication. There was nothing which I did not faith­fully [Page 78] and circumstantially relate. I concluded with stating my wishes that they would admit my friend as a boarder into their house.

The old man was warm in his concurrence. His wife betrayed some scruples; which, however, her hus­band's arguments and mine removed. I did not even suppress the tenor and destruction of the will, and the antipathy which Eliza had conceived for her uncle, and which I declared myself unable to explain. It presently appeared that Mr. Curling had some knowledge of Phi­lip Hadwin, and that the latter had acquired the repute of being obdurate and profligate. He employed all means to accomplish his selfish ends, and would proba­bly endeavor to usurp the property which his brother had left. To provide against his power and his malice would be particularly incumbent on us, and my new friend readily promised his assistance in the measures which we should take to that end.

THE state of my feelings may be easily conceived to consist of mixed, but on the whole, of agreeable sensa­tions. The death of Hadwin and his elder daughter could not be thought upon without keen regrets. These it were useless to indulge, and were outweighed by re­flections on the personal security in which the survivor was now placed. It was hurtful to expend my unpro­fitable cares upon the dead, while there existed one to whom they could be of essential benefit, and in whose happiness they would find an ample compensation.

This happiness, however, was still incomplete. It was still exposed to hazard, and much remained to be done before adequate provision was made against the worst of evils, poverty. I now found that Eliza, being only fifteen years old, stood in need of a guardian, and that the forms of law required that some one should make himself her father's administrator. Mr. Curling being tolerably conversant with these subjects, pointed out the mode to be pursued, and engaged to act on this oc­casion as Eliza's friend.

There was another topic on which my happiness, as well as that of my friend, required us to form some decision. I formerly mentioned, that during my abode at Malver­ton, I had not been insensible to the attractions of this girl. An affection had stolen upon me, for which, it [Page 80] was easily discovered, that I should not have been de­nied a suitable return. My reasons for stifling these emotions, at that time, have been mentioned. It may now be asked, what effect subsequent events had produ­ced on my feelings; and how far partaking and relieving her distresses, had revived a passion which may readily be supposed to have been, at no time, entirely extin­guished.

The impediments which then existed, were removed. Our union would no longer risk the resentment or sorrow of her excellent parent. She had no longer a sister to divide with her the property of the farm, and make what was sufficient for both, when living together, too little for either separately. Her youth and simplicity required, beyond most others, a legal protector, and her happiness was involved in the suc­cess of those hopes which she took no pains to conceal.

As to me, it seemed at first view, as if every incident conspired to determine my choice. Omitting all regard to the happiness of others, my own interest could not fa [...]l to recommend a scheme by which the precious be­nefits of competence and independence might be honest­ly obtained. The excurions of my fancy had some­times carried me beyond the bounds prescribed by my situation, but they were, nevertheless, limited to that field to which I had once some prospect of acquiring a title. All I wanted for the basis of my gaudiest and most dazzling structures, was an hundred acres of plough-land and meadow. Here my spirit of improve­ment, my zeal to invent and apply new maxims of household luxury and convenience, new modes and in­struments of tillage, new arts connected with orchard, garden and cornfield, were supplied with abundant scope. Though the want of these would not benumb my activity, or take away content, the possession would confer exquisite and permanent enjoyments.

My thoughts have ever hovered over the images of wife and children with more delight than over any other images. My fancy was always active on this theme, and its reveries sufficiently extatic and glowing; but [Page 81] since my intercourse with this girl, my scattered visions were collected and concentered. I had now a form and features before me, a sweet and melodious voice vibrated in my ear, my soul was filled, as it were, with her linea­ments and gestures, actions and looks. All ideas, pos­sessing any relation to beauty or sex, appeared to as­sume this shape. They kept an immoveable place in my mind, they diffused around them an ineffable com­placency. Love is merely of value as a prelude to a more tender, intimate and sacred union. Was I not in love, and did I not pant after the irrevocable bonds, the boundless privileges of wedlock?

The question which others might ask, I have asked myself. Was I not in love? I am really at a loss for an answer. There seemed to be irresistible weight in the reasons why I should refuse to marry, and even forbe [...]r to foster love in my friend. I considered my youth, my defective education and my limited views. I had passed from my cottage into the world. I had acquired even in my transient sojourn among the busy haunts of men, more knowledge than the lucubrations and em­ployments of all my previous years had conferred. Hence I might infer the childlike immaturity of my un­derstanding, and the rapid progress I was still capable of making. Was this an age to form an irrevocable con­tract; to chuse the companion of my future life, the associate of my schemes of intellectual and benevolent activity?

I had reason to contemn my own acquisitions; but were not those of Eliza still more slender? Could I rely upon the permanence of her equanimity and her docility to my instructions? What qualities might not time un­fold, and how little was I qualified to estimate the cha­racter of one, whom no vicissitude or hardship had ap­proached before the death of her father? Whose igno­rance was, indeed, great, when it could justly be said even to exceed my own.

Should I mix with the world, enrol myself in different classes of society; be a witness to new scenes▪ might not my modes of judging undergo essential vari­ations? [Page 82] Might I not gain the knowledge of [...] whose virtue was the gift of experience and the grow [...] of knowledge? Who joined to the modesty and charms of woman, the benefits of education, the maturity and steadfastness of age, and with whose character and sen­timents my own would be much more congenial than they could possibly be with the extreme youth, rustic simplicity and mental imperfections of Eliza Hadwi [...]?

To say truth, I was now conscious of a revolution in my mind. I can scarcely assign its true cau [...]. No tokens of it appeared during my late retreat to Malver­ton. Subsequent incidents, perhaps, joined with the influence of meditation, had generated new views. On my first visit to the city, I had met with nothing but scenes of folly, depravity and cunning. No wonder that the images connected with the city, were disastrous and g [...]omy; but my second visit produced somewhat different impressions. Maravigli, Estwick, M [...]dli [...]ote and you, were beings who inspired veneration and love. Your residence appeared to beautify and consecrate this spot, and gave birth to an opinion that if cities are the chosen seats of misery and vice, they are likewise the soil of all the laudable and strenuou [...] productions of mind.

My curiosity and thir [...]t of knowledge had likewi [...]e received a new direction. Book and [...] nature were cold and [...]. Men and the works of m [...]n, were the [...], and our own eyes only could communicate just concep [...]ns of human performances. The influence of manners, pro­fe [...]sion [...] and social in [...]titutions, could be thoro [...]hly known only [...].

Competence, fixed proper [...] and a settled [...]b [...]de, ru­ral occupation [...] [...], were justly to be prized; [...]ut their value [...] their bene­fits fully enjoyed [...] who have tried a [...] [...] and ranks; who have partak [...] of all [...]; and who have vi­ [...]ited different [...]. The next [...] years of my life, should be devot­ed [Page 83] to activity and change: it should be a period of hardship danger and privation: it should be my appren­ticeship to fortitude and wisdom, and be employed to fit me for the tranquil pleasures and steadfast exertions of the remainder of my life.

In consequence of these reflections, I determined to suppress that tenderness which the company of Miss Hadwin produced, to remove any mistakes into which she had fallen, and to put it out of my power to claim from her more than the dues of friendship. All ambigu­ities, in a case like this, and all delays were hurtful. She was not exempt from passion, but this passion I thought was young, and easily extinguished.

In a short time her health was restored, and her grief melted down into a tender melancholy. I chose a suitable moment, when not embarrassed by the presence of others, to reveal my thoughts. My disclosure was ingenuous and perfect. I laid before her the whole train of my thoughts, nearly in the order, though in dif­ferent and more copious terms than those in which I have just explained them to you. I concealed nothing. The impression which her artless lovelines had made upon me at Malverton; my motives for estranging myself from her society; the nature of my present feel­ings with regard to her, and my belief of the state of her heart; the reasonings into which I had entered; the advantages of wedlock and its inconveniences; and, finally, the resolution I had formed of seeking the city, and perhaps, of cr [...]sing the ocean, were minutely de­tailed.

She interrupted me not, but changing looks, blushes, flutterings and sighs, shewed her to be deeply and vari­ously affected by my discourse. I paused for some ob­servation or comment. She seemed conscious of my ex­pectation, but had no power to speak. Overpowered, at length, by her emotions, she burst into tears.

I was at a loss in what manner to construe these symptoms. I waited till her vehemence was some­what subsided, and then said—what think you of my schemes? Your approbation is of some moment: do you approve of them or not?

[Page 84]This question excited some little resentment, and she answered—you have left me nothing to say. Go and be happy: no matter what becomes of me. I hope I shall be able to take care of myself.

The tone in which this was said, had something in it of upbraiding. Your happiness, said I, is too dear to me to leave it in danger. In this house you will not need my protection, but I shall never be so far from you, as to be disabled from hearing how you fared, by letter, and of being active for your good. You have some mo­ney which you must husband well. Any rent from your farm cannot be soon expected; but what you have got, if you remain with Mr. Curling, will pay your board and all other expences for two years: but you must be a good economist. I shall expect, continued I, with a serious smile, a punctual account of all your sayings and doings. I must know how every minute is employed, and every penny is expended, and if I find you erring, I must tell you so in good round terms.

These words did not dissipate the sullenness which her looks had betrayed. She still forebore to look at me, and said—I do not know how I should tell you every thing. You care so little about me that—I should only be troublesome. I am old enough to think and act for myself, and shall advise with no body but myself.

That is true, said I. I shall rejoice to see you in­dependent and free. Consult your own understanding, and act according to its dictates. Nothing more is wanting to make you useful and happy. I am anxious to return to the city; but, if you will allow me, will go first to Malverton, see that things are in due order, and that old Caleb is well. From thence, if you please, I will call at your uncle's, and tell him what has hap­pened. He may, otherwise, entertain pretensions and form views, erroneous in themselves and injurious to you. He may think himself entitled to manage your estate. He may either suppose a will to have been made, or may actually have heard from your father, or from others, of that which you burnt, and in which he was named executor. His boisterous and sordid tem­per [Page 85] may prompt him to seize your house and goods, un­less seasonably apprised of the truth; and, when he knows the truth, he may start into rage, which I shall be more fitted to encounter than you. I am told that anger transforms him into a ferocious madman. Shall I call upon him?

She shuddered at the picture which I had drawn of her uncle's character; but this emotion quickly gave place to self-upbraiding, for the manner in which she had repelled my proffers of service. She melted once more into tears and exclaimed:

I am not worthy of the pains you take for me. I am unfeeling and ungrateful. Why should I think ill of you for despising me, when I despise myself?

You do yourself injustice, my friend. I think I see your most secret thoughts; and these, instead of ex­citing anger or contempt, only awaken compassion and tenderness. You love, and must, therefore, conceive my conduct to be perverse and cruel. I counted on your harboring such thoughts. Time only and reflec­tion will enable you to see my motives in their true light. Hereafter you will recollect my words, and find them sufficient to justify my conduct. You will acknowledge the propriety of my engaging in the cares of the world, before I sit down in retirement and ease.

Ah! how much you mistake me! I admire and approve of your schemes. What angers and distresses me is, that you think me unworthy to partake of your cares and labors; that you regard my company as an obstacle and incumbrance; that assistance and counsel must all proceed from you; and that no scene is fit for me, but what you regard as slothful and inglorious.

Have I not the same claims to be wise, and active, and courageous as you? If I am ignorant and weak, do I not owe it to the same cause that has made you so; and will not the same means which promote your improve­ment be likewise useful to me? You desire to obtain knowledge, by travelling and conversing with many persons, and studying many sciences; but you desire [Page 86] it for yourself alone. Me, you think poor, weak, and contemptible; fit for nothing but to spin and churn. Provided I exist, am screened from the weather, have enough to eat and drink, you are satisfied. As to strengthening my mind and enlarging my knowledge, these things are valuable to you, but on me they are thrown away. I deserve not the gift.

This strain, simple and just as it was, was wholly unexpected. I was surprized and disconcerted. In my previous reasonings I had certainly considered her sex as utterly unfitting her for those scenes and pur­s [...]its, to which I had destined myself. Not a doubt of the validity of my conclusion had insinuated itself; but now my belief was shaken, though it was not sub­verted. I could not deny, that human ignorance was curable by the same means in one sex as in the other; that fortitude and skill was of no less value to one than to the other.

Questionless, my friend was rendered, by her age and inexperience, if not by sex, more helpless and de­pendent than I; but had I not been prone to overrate the difficulties which I should encounter? Had I not [...]eemed unjustly of her constancy and force of mind? Marriage would render her property joint, and would not compel me to take up my abode in the woods, to a [...]ide f [...]r [...]ver in one spot, to shackle my curiosity, or limit my excursions.

But marriage was a contract awful and irrevocable. Was this the woman with whom my reason enjoined me to bl [...]nd my fate, without the power of dissolution? [...] no time unfold qualities in her which I did not at [...] [...]spect, and which would evince an incurable difference in our minds? Would not time lead me to the f [...]t of one who more nearly approached that stand­ard of ideal excellence which poets and romancers had exhibited to my view?

These considerations were powerful and delicate. I knew now in what terms to state them to my compa­nion, so as to preclude the imputation of arrogance or indecorum. It became me, however, to be explicit, [Page 87] and to excite her resentment rather than mislead her judgment. She collected my meaning from a few words, and, interrupting me, said:

How very low is the poor Eliza in your opinion! We are, indeed▪ both too young to be married. May I not see you, and talk with you, without being your wife? May I not share your knowledge, relieve your cares, and enjoy your confidence, as a sister might do? May I not accompany you in your journeys and stu­dies, as one friend accompanies another? My proper­ty may be yours; you may employ it for your benefit and mine; not because you are my husband, but my friend. You are going to the city. Let me go along with you. Let me live where you live. The house that is large enough to hold you, will hold me. The fare that is good enough for you will be luxury to me. Oh! let it be so, will you? You cannot think how studious, how thoughtful, how inquisitive I will be. How tenderly I will nurse you when sick: it is possi­ble you may be sick, you know, and no one in the world will be half so watchful and affectionate as I shall be. Will you let me?

In saying this, her earnestness gave new pathos to her voice. Insensibly she put her face close to mine, and, transported beyond the usual bounds of reserve, by the charms of that picture which her fancy con­templated, she put her lips to my cheek, and repeated, in a melting accent, will you let me?

You, my friends, who have not seen Eliza Hadwin, cannot conceive what effect this entreaty was adapted to produce in me. She has surely the sweetest voice, the most speaking features, and most delicate syme­try, that ever woman possessed. Her guileless sim­plicity and tenderness made her more enchanting. To be the object of devotion to an heart so fervent and pure, was, surely, no common privilege. Thus did she tender me herself; and was not the gift to be received with eagerness and gratitude?

No. I was not so much a stranger to mankind as to acquiesce in this scheme. As my sister or my wife, [Page 88] the world would suffer us to reside under the same roof; t [...] apply, to common use, the same pro [...]erty; and daily to enjoy the company of each other: but she was not my sister, and marriage would be an act of the grossest indiscretion. I explained to her, in few words, the objections to which her project was liable.

Well, then, said she, let me live in the next house, in the neighborhood, or, at least, in the same city. Let me be where I may see you once a day, or once a week, or once a month. Shut me not wholly from your society, and the means of becoming, in time, less ignorant and foolish than I now am.

After a pause, I replied, I love you too well not to comply with this request. Perhaps the city will be as suitable a residence as any other for you, as it will, for some time, be most convenient to me. I shall be bet­ter able to watch over your welfare, and supply you with the means of improvement, when you are within a small distance. At present, you must consent to re­main here, while I visit your uncle, and afterwards go to the city. I shall look out for you a suitable lodg­ing, and inform you when it is found. If you then continue in the same mind, I will come, and, having gained the approbation of Mr. Curling, will conduct you to town. Here ended our dialogue.

THOUGH I had consented to this scheme, I was con­scious that some hazards attended it. I was afraid of calumny, which might trouble the peace or destroy the reputation of my friend. I was afraid of my own weakness, which might be seduced into an indiscreet marriage, by the charms or sufferings of this bewitch­ing creature. I felt that there was no price too dear to save her from slander. A fair fame is of the high­est importance to a young female, and the loss of it but poorly supplied by the testimony of her own con­science. I had reason for tenfold solicitude on this ac­count, since I was her only protector and friend. Hence, I cherished some hopes, that time might change her views, and suggest less dangerous schemes. Mean­while, I was to lose no time in visiting Malverton and Philip Hadwin.

About ten days had elapsed since we had deserted Malverton. These were days of successive storms, and travelling had been rendered inconvenient. The weather was now calm and clear▪ and, early in the morning that ensued the dialogue which I have just related, I set out on horseback.

Honest Caleb was found, eating his breakfast, near­ly in the spot where he had been first discovered. [Page 90] He answered my enquiries by saying, that, two days after our departure, several men had come to the house, one of whom was Philip Hadwin. They had interro­gated him as to the condition of the farm, and the pur­pose of his remaining on it. William Hadwin they knew to have been sometime dead, but where were the girls, his daughters?

Caleb answered that Susy, the eldest, was likewise dead.

These tidings excited astonishment. When died she, and how, and where was she buried?

It happened two days before, and she was buried, he believed, but could not tell where.

Not tell w [...]ere? By whom then was she buried?

Really, he could not tell. Some strange man came there just as [...]he was dying. He went to the room, and when she was dead, took her away, but what he did with the body, was more than he could say, but he had a notion that he buried it. The man staid till the morning, and then went off with Lizzy, leaving him to keep house by himself. He had not seen either of them, nor indeed, a single soul since.

This was all the information that Caleb could afford the visitants. It was so lame and incredible, that they began to charge the man with falsehood, and to threaten him with legal animadversion. Just then, Mr. Ellis enter­ed the house, and being made acquainted with the subject of discourse, told all that he himself knew. He related the midnight visit which I had paid him, explained my former situation in the family, and my disappearance in September. He stated the advice he had given me to carry Eliza to her uncle's, and my promise to comply with his counsel. The uncle declared he had seen no­thing of his niece, and Caleb added, that when she set out, she took the road that led to town.

These hints afforded grounds for much conjecture and suspicion. Ellis now mentioned some intelligence that he had gathered respecting me in a late journey to — It seems I was [...] son of an honest farmer in that quarter, who married a tidy girl of a [Page 91] milk maid, that lived with him. My father had detect­ed me in making some atrocious advances to my mo­ther-in-law, and had turned me out of doors. I did not go off, however, without rifling his drawer of some hundreds of dollars, which he had laid up against a rainy day. I was noted for such pranks, and was hated by all the neighbors for my pride and laziness. It was easy by comparison of circumstances, for Ellis to as­certain that Hadwin's servant Mervyn, was the same against whom such hearty charges were laid.

Previously to this journey, he had heard of me [...] Hadwin, who was loud in praise of my diligence, [...]ob [...] ­ety and modesty. For his part, he had always been cautious of giving countenance to vagrants, that came from nobody knew where, and worked their way with a plausible tongue. He was not surprised to hear it whispered that Betsey Hadwin had fallen in love with the youth, and now, no doubt, he had persuad­ed her to run away with him. The heiress of a fine farm was a prize not to be met with every day.

Philip broke into rage at this news; swore that if it turned out so, his niece should starve upon the town, and that he would take good care to baulk the lad. His brother he well knew had left a will, to which he was executor, and that this will, would in good time, be forth coming. After much talk and ransacking the house, and swearing at his truant niece, he and his com­pany departed, charging Caleb to keep the house and its contents for his use. This was all that Caleb's me­mory had retained of that day's proceedings.

Curling had lately commented on the character of Philip Hadwin. This man was totally unlike his brother, was a noted brawler and bully, a tyrant to his children, a plague to his neighbors, and kept a rendez­vous for drunkards and idlers, at the sign of the Bull's Head, at — He was not destitute of parts, and was no less dreaded for cunning than malignity. He was covetous, and never missed an opportunity of overreaching his neighbor. There was no doubt that his niece's property would be embezzled, should it eve [...] [Page 92] come into his hands, and any power which he might [...] ­tain over her per [...]on, would be exercised to her [...]. His children were tainted with the dissolut [...]ne [...]s of their father, and marriage had not repaired the repu­tation of his daughter [...], or cured them of depravity: this was the man whom I now proposed to visit.

I scarce [...]y need to say that the calumny of Betty Lawrence [...]ve me no unea [...]ness. My father had no doubt been deceived, as well as my father's neighbors, by the arti [...]ices of this woman. I passed among them for a thief and a prof [...]gate, but their error had hitherto been harmless to me. The time might come which should confute the tale, without my efforts. Betty, sooner or later would drop her mask, and afford the antidote to her own poisons, unless some new incident should occur to make [...] ha [...]ten the catastrophe.

I arrived at Hadwin's hou [...]e. I was received with some attention as a guest. I looked among the pimpled visages that filled the p [...]azza, for that of the landlord, but found him in an inner apartment with two or three more, seated round a table. On intimating my wish to speak with him alone▪ the others withdrew.

Hadwin's visage had some traces of resemblance to his brother; but the meel [...], placid air, pale cheeks and slender form of the latter, were powerfully contra [...]ted with the blo [...]ed arrogance, imper [...]s brow and [...] [...]mbs of the former. This man's rage was awaken [...]d by a straw; it impelled him in an instant to oath [...] and [...]ssetings, and m [...]de his life an eternal brawl. The sooner my interview with such a personage should be at an end, [...]. I therefore explained the purpo [...]e of my [...] fully and in as few words as po [...]sible.

You [...] name, Sir, is Philip Hadwin▪ Your brother William▪ of [...], died lately and left two daugh­ters. The [...] only is now alive [...] and I come, commissioned from her, to inform you, that [...] no will of her father's is extant, [...]he i [...] preparing to administer to [...]. As her father's brother▪ he thought you [...].

[Page 93]The change which took place in the countenance of this man, during this address, was remarkable, but not easily described. His cheeks contracted a deeper crim­son, his eyes sparkled, and his face assumed an expres­sion in which curiosity was mingled with rage. He bent forwards and said, in an hoarse and contemptuous tone, pray, is your name Mervyn?

I answered, without hesitation, and as if the ques­tion were wholly unimportant, yes: my name is Mer­vyn.

God damn it! You then are the damn'd rascal—(but permit me to repeat his speech without the oaths, with which it was plentifully interlarded. Not three words were uttered without being garnished with a—God damn it! damnation! I'll be damn'd to hell if—and the like energetic expletives.) You then are the ras­cal that robbed Billy's house; that ran away with the fool his daughter; persuaded her to burn her father's will, and have the hellish impudence to come into this house! But I thank you for it. I was going to look for you—youv'e saved me trouble. I'll settle all ac­counts with you here. Fair and softly, my good lad! If I don't bring you to the gallows—If I let you escape without such a dressing! Damned impudence! Fel­low! I've been at Malverton. I've heard of your tricks: so! finding the will not quite to your mind, knowing that the executor would baulk your schemes, you threw the will into the fire; you robbed the house of all the cash, and made off with the girl!—The old fellow saw it all, and will swear to the truth.

These words created some surprize. I meant not to conceal from this man the tenor and destruction of the will, nor even the measures which his niece had taken or intended to take. What I supposed to be unknown to him, appeared to have been communicated by the talkative Caleb, whose mind was more inquisitive and less sluggish than first appearances had led me to ima­gine. Instead of moping by the kitchen fire, when Eliza and I were conversing in an upper room, it now appeared that he had reconnoitred our proceedings [Page 94] through some key hole or crevice, and had related what he had seen to Hadwin.

Hadwin proceeded to exhaust his rage in oaths and menaces. He frequently clenched his fist, and thrust it in my face, drew it back as if to render his blow more deadly; ran over the same series of exclamations on my impudence and villainy, and talked of the gallows and the whipping-post; enforced each word by the epithets — damnable and hellish—closed each sentence with—and be curst to you!

There was but one mode for me to pursue: all forci­ble opposition to a man of his strength was absurd. It was my province to make his anger confine itself to words, and patiently to wait till the paroxism should end or subside of itself. To effect this purpose, I kept my seat, and carefully excluded from my countenance every indication of timidity and panick on the one hand, and of scorn and defiance on the other. My look and attitude were those of a man who expected harsh words, but who entertained no suspicion that blows would be inflicted.

I was indebted for my safety to an inflexible adherence to this medium. To have strayed, for a moment, to ei­ther side, would have brought upon me his blows. That he did not instantly resort to violence, inspired me with courage, since it depended on myself whether food should be supplied to his passion. Rage must ei­ther progress or decline, and since it was in total want of provocation, it could not fail of gradually subsiding.

My demeanor was calculated to damp the flame, not only by its direct influence, but by diverting his atten­tion from the wrongs which he had received, to the no­velty of my behaviour. The disparity in size and strength between us, was too evident to make him be­lieve that I confided in my sinews for my defence; and since I betrayed neither contempt nor fear, he could not but conclude that I trusted to my own integrity or to his moderation. I seized the first pause in his rhe­torick to enforce this sentiment.

[Page 95]You are angry, Mr. Hadwin, and are loud in your threats, but they do not frighten me. They excite no apprehension or alarm, because I know myself able to convince you that I have not injured you. This is an inn, and I am your guest. I am sure I shall find bet­ter entertainment than blows. Come, continued I, smiling, it is possible that I am not so mischievous a wretch as your fancy paints me. I have no claims up­on your niece but that of friendship, and she is now in the house of an honest man, Mr. Curling, where she proposes to continue as long as is convenient.

It is true that your brother left a will, which his daughter burnt in my presence, because she dreaded the authority which that will gave you, not only over her property, but person. It is true that on leaving the house, she took away the money which was now her own, and which was necessary to subsistence. It is true that I bore her company, and have left her in an honest man's keeping. I am answerable for nothing more. As to you, I meant not to injure you; I advis­ed not the burning of the will. I was a stranger till af­ter that event, to your character. I knew neither good nor ill of you. I came to tell you all this, be­cause, as Eliza's uncle, you had a right to the informa­tion.

So! you come to tell me that she burnt the will, and is going to administer—to what, I beseech you? To her father's property? Aye, I warrant you; but take this along with you, that property is mine; land, house, stock, every thing. All is safe and snug under cover of a mortgage, to which Billy was kind enough to add a bond. One was sued, and the other entered up ▪ a week ago. So that all is safe under my thumb, and the girl may whistle or starve for me. I shall give myself no concern about the strumpet. You thought to get a prize; but, damn me, you've met with your match in me. Phil. Haddin's not so easily choused, I promise you. I intended to give you this news, and a drubbing into the bargain▪ but you may go, and make haste. She burnt the will, did she; be­cause [Page 96] I was named in it—and sent you to tell me so? Good souls! It was kind of you, and I am bound to be thankful. Take her back news of the mortgage; and, as for you, leave my house. You may go scot free this time; but I pledge my word for a sound beat­ing when you next enter these doors. I'll pay it you with interest. Leave my house, I say!

A mortgage, said I, in a low voice, and affecting not to hear his commands, that will be sad news for my friend. Why, sir, you are a fortunate man. Mal­verton is an exce [...]lent spot; well watered and manur­ed; newly and completely fence [...]: not a larger barn in the county: oxen, and horses, and cows in the best order: I never sat eyes on a finer orchard. By my faith, sir, you are a fortunate man. But, pray, what have you for dinner? I am hungry as a wolf. Order me a beef-steak, and some potation or other. The bot­tle there—it is cyder, I take it; pray, push it to this side. Saying this, I stretched out my hand towards the bottle which stood before him.

I con [...]ided in the power of a fearless and sedate man­ner. Methought that as anger was the food of anger, it must unavoidably subside in a contest with equability. This opinion was intuitive, rather than the product of experience, and perhaps, I gave no proof of my sagacity in hazarding my safety on its truth. Hadwin's cha­racter made him dreaded and obeyed by all. He had been accustomed to ready and tremulous submission from men far more brawny and robust than I was, and to find his most vehement menaces and gestures, total­ly ineffectual on a being so slender and diminutive, at once wound up his rage and excited his astonishment. One motion counteracted and suspended the other. He lifted his hand, but delayed to strike. One blow, applied with his usual dexterity, was sufficient to de­stroy me. Though seemingly careless, I was watchful of his motions, and prepared to elude the stroke by shrinking or stooping. Meanwhile, I stretched my hand far enough to seize the bottle, and pouring its contents into a tumbler, put it to my lips.

[Page 97]Come, sir, I drink your health, and wish you speedy possession of Malverton. I have some interest with Eliza, and will prevail on her to forbear all opposition and complaint. Why should she complain? While I live, she shall not be a beggar. No doubt, your claim is legal, and therefore ought to be admitted. What the law gave, the law has taken away. Blessed be the dispensers of law—excellent cyder! open another bot­tle, will you, and I beseech hasten dinner, if you would not see me devour the table.

It was just, perhaps, to conjure up the demon avarice to fight with the demon anger. Reason alone, would, in such a contest, be powerless, but, in truth, I spoke without artifice or disguise. If his claim were legal, opposition would be absurd and pernicious. I meant not to rely upon his own assertions, and would not ac­knowledge the validity of his claim, till I had inspected the deed. Having instituted suits, this was now in a public office, and there the inspection should be made. Meanwhile, no reason could be urged why I should part from him in anger, while his kindred to Eliza, and his title to her property, made it useful to secure his favor. It was possible to obtain a remission of his claims, even when the law enforced them: it would be imprudent at least to diminish the chances of remission by fostering his wrath and provoking his enmity.

What, he exclaimed, in a transport of fury, a [...]'t I master of my own house? Out, I say!

These were harsh terms, but they were not accom­panied by gestures and tones so menacing [...]s those which had before been used. It was plain that the tide, which so lately threatened my destruction, had begun to recede. This encouraged me to persist.

Be not alarmed, my good friend, said I, placid­ly and smiling. A man of your bone need not fear a pigmy like me. I shall scarcely be able to de­throne you in your own castle, with an army of host­lers, tap [...]ters, and cooks at your book. You shall still be master here, provided you use your influence to pro­cure me a dinner.

[Page 98]His acquiescence in a pacific system, was extremely reluctant and gradual. He laid aside one sullen tone and wrathful look after the other; and, at length, consented not only to supply me with a dinner, but to partake of it with me. Nothing was more a topic of surprize to himself, than his forbearance. He knew not how it was. He had never been treated so before. He was not proof against entreaty and submission; but I had neither supplicated nor submitted. The stuff that I was made of was at once damnably tough and devilishly pliant. When he thought of my impudence, in staying in his house after he had bade me leave it, he was tempted to resume his passion. When he reflected on my courage, in making light of his anger, notwith­standing his known impetuosity and my personal infe­riority, [...]e could not withhold his esteem. But my pa­tience under his rebukes, my unalterable equanimity, and my ready consent to the validity of his claims, soothed and propitiated him.

An exemption from blows and abuse was all that I could gain from this man. I told him the truth, with regard to my own history, so far as it was connected with the Hadwins. I exhibited, in affecting colours, the helpless condition of Eliza; but could extort from him nothing but his consent, that, if she chose, she might come and live with him. He would give her victuals and clothes for so much house-work as she was able to do. If she chose to live elsewhere, he promis­ed not to molest her, or intermeddle in her concerns. The house and land were his by law, and he would have them.

It was not my province to revile, or expostulate with him. I stated what measures would be adopted by a man who regarded the interest of others more than his own; who was anxious for the welfare of an innocent girl, connected with him so closely by the ties of kin­dred, and who was destitute of what is called natural friends. If he did not cancel, for her sake, his bond and mortgage, [...]e would, at least, afford her a frugal maintainance. He would extend to her, in all emer­gences, his counsel and protection.

[Page 99]All that, he said, was sheer non [...]ense. He could not sufficiently wonder at my folly, in proposing to him to make a free gift of an hundred rich acres, to a girl too who scarcely knew her right hand from her left; whom the first cunning young rogue, like myself, would chouse out of the whole, and take herself into the bar­gain. But my folly was even surpassed by my impu­dence, since, as the friend of this gi [...]l▪ I was merely petitioning on my own account. I had come to him, whom I never saw before, on whom I had no claim, and who, as I well knew, had reason to think me a sharper, and modestly said—"Here's a girl who has no fortune. I am greatly in want of one. Pray, give her such an estate that you have in your possession. If you do, I'll marry her, and take it into my own hands." I might be thankful that he did not answer such a pe­tition with an horse-whipping. But if he did not give her his estate, he might extend to her, forsooth, his counsel and protection. That I've offered to do, con­tinued he. She may come and live in my house, if she will. She may do some of the family work. I'll dis­charge the chamber-maid to make room for her. Liz­zy, if I remember right, has a pretty face. She can't have a better market for it than as chamber-maid to an inn. If she minds her p's and q's she may make up a handsome sum at the year's end.

I thought it time to break off the conference; and, my dinner being finished, took my leave; leaving be­hind me the character of a queer sort of [...]hap. I speed­ed to the prothonotary's office, which was kept in the village, and quickly ascertained the truth of Hadwin's pretensions. There existed a mortgage, with bond and warrant of attorney, to so great an amount as would swallow up every thing at Malverton. Furnished with these tidings, I prepared, with a droop [...]ng heart, to return to Mr. Curling's.

THIS incident necessarily produced a change in my views with regard to my friend. Her fortune consist­ed of a few hundreds of dollars, which, frugally admi­nistered, might procure decent accommodation in the country. When this was consumed, she must find sub­sistence in tending the big-wheel or the milk-pail, un­less fortune should enable me to place her in a more fa­vorable situation. This state was, in some respects, but little different from that in which she had spent the former part of her life; but, in her father's house, these employments were dignified by being, in some de­gree, voluntary, and relieved by frequent intervals of recreation and leisure. Now they were likely to prove irksome and servile, in consequence of being performed for hire, and imposed by necessity. Equality, parental solicitudes, and sisterly endearments would be wanting to lighten the yoke.

These inconveniences, however, were imaginary. This was the school in which fortitude and independence were to be learned. Habit, and the purity of rural man­ners, would, likewise, create a-new those ties which death had dissolved. The affections of parent and sis­ter would be supplied by the fonder and more rational attachments of friendship. These toils were not de­trimental to beauty or health. What was to be dread­ed [Page 101] from them, was, their tendency to quench the spirit of liberal curiosity; to habituate the person to bodily, rather than intellectual, exertions; to supersede, and create indifference or aversion to the only instruments of rational improvement, the pen and the book.

This evil, however, was at some distance from Eli­za. Her present abode was quiet and serene. Here she might enjoy domestic pleasures and opportunities of mental improvement, for the coming twelvemonth at least. This period would, perhaps, be sufficient for the formation of studious habits. What schemes should be adopted, for this end, would be determined by the destiny to which I myself should be reserved.

My path was already chalked out, and my fancy now pursued it with uncommon pleasure. To reside in your family; to study your profession; to pursue some subordinate or casual mode of industry, by which I might purchase leisure for medical pursuits, for social recreations, and for the study of man­kind on your busy and thronged stage, was the scope of my wishes. This destiny would not hinder punctual correspondence and occasional visits to Eliza. Her pen might be called into action, and her mind be awak­ened by books, and every hour be made to add to her stores of knowledge and enlarge the bounds of her ca­pacity.

I was spiritless and gloomy when I left —, but reflections on my future lot, and just views of the situation of my friend, insensibly restored my cheer­fulness. I arrived at Mr. Curling's in the evening, and hastened to impart to Eliza the issue of my commission. It gave her uneasiness, merely as it frustrated the design, on which she had fondly mused, of residing in the city. She was somewhat consoled by my promises of being her constant correspondent and occasional visitor.

Next morning I set out on my journey hither, on foot. The way was not long; the weather, though cold, was wholesome and serene. My spirits were high, and I saw nothing in the world before me but [Page 102] sunshine and prosperity. I was conscious that my hap­piness depended not on the revolutions of nature or the caprice of man. All without was, indeed, vicissitude and uncertainty; but within my bosom was a centre not to be shaken or removed. My purposes were ho­nest and steadfast. Every sense was the inlet of plea­sure, because it was the avenue to knowledge; and my soul brooded over the world of ideas, and glowed with exultation at the grandeur and beauty of its own creations.

This felicity was too rapturous to be of long dura­tion. I gradually descended from these heights; and the remembrance of past incidents, connected with the images of your family, to which I was returning, fed my thoughts into a different channel. Welbeck and the unhappy girl whom he had betrayed; Mrs. Villars and Wallace were recollected a-new. The views which I had formed, for determining the fate and affording assistance to Clemenza, were recalled. My former resolutions, with regard to her, had been suspended by the uncertainty in which the fate of the Hadwins was, at that time, wrapped. Had it not become necessary wholly to lay aside these resolutions?

That, indeed, was an irksome conclusion. No won­der that I struggled to repel it: that I fostered the doubt whether money was the only instrument of benefit: whether caution, and fortitude, and know­ledge were not the genuine preservatives from evil. Had I not the means in my hands of dispelling her fatal ignorance of Welbeck and of those with whom she resided? Was I not authorized by my previous, though slender, intercourse, to seek her presence?

Suppose I should enter Mrs. Villars' house, desire to be introduced to the lady, accost her with affectionate simplicity, and tell her the truth? Why be anxious to smooth the way; why deal in apologies, circuities and inuend [...]es? All the [...]e are feeble and perverse refine­ments, unworthy of an honest purpose and an erect spirit. To believe her inaccessible to my visit, was [...]b [...]u [...]d. To wait for the perm [...]ssion of those whose in­terest [Page 103] it might be to shut out visitants, was cowardice. This was an infringement of her liberty, which equity and law equally condemned. By what right could she be restrained from intercourse with others? Doors and passages may be between her and me. With a purpose such as mine, no one had a right to close the one or ob­struct the other. Away with cowardly reluctances and clownish scruples, and let me hasten this moment to her dwelling.

Mrs. Villars is the portress of the mansion. She will probably present herself before me, and demand the reason of my visit. What shall I say to her? The truth. To faulter, or equivocate, or dissemble to this woman, would be wicked. Perhaps her character has been misunderstood and maligned. Can I render her a greater service than to apprize her of the aspersions that have rested on it, and afford her the opportunity of vin­dication? Perhaps she is indeed selfish and profligate; the betrayer of youth and the agent of laciviousness. Does she not deserve to know the extent of her errors and the ignominy of her trade? Does she not merit the compassion of the good and the rebukes of the wise? To shrink from the task, would prove me cowardly and unfirm. Thus far, at least, let my courage extend.

Alas! Clemenza is unacquainted with my language. My thoughts cannot make themselves apparent but by words, and to my words she will be able to affix no meaning. Yet is not that an hasty decision? The ver­sion from the dramas of Zeno which I found in her toi­let, was probably hers, and proves her to have a specula­tive knowledge of our tongue. Near half a year has since elapsed, during which she has dwelt with talkers of English, and consequently could not fail to have ac­quired it. This conclusion [...]s somewhat dubious, but experiment will give it certainty.

Hitherto I had strolled along the path at a lingering pace. Time enough, methought, to reach your thresh­old between sun-rise and moonlight, if my way had been three times longer than it was. You were the pleasing phantoms that hovered before me, and beckoned me for­ward. [Page 104] What a total revolution had occurred in the course of a few seconds, for thus long did my reasonings with regard to Clemenza and the Villars require to pass through my understanding, and escape, in half muttered soliloquy, from my lips. My muscles trembled with eagerness, and I bounded forward with impetuosity. I saw nothing but a visto of catalpas, leafless, loaded with icicles, and terminating in four chimneys and a painted roof. My fancy outstripped my footsteps, and was busy in picturing faces and rehearsing dialogues. Presently I reached this new object of my pursuit, darted through the avenue, noticed that some windows of the house were unclosed, drew thence an hasty infer­ence that the house was not without inhabitants, and knocked, quickly and loudly, for admission.

Some one within crept to the door, opened it with seeming caution, and just far enough to allow the face to be seen. It was the timid, pale and unwashed face of a girl who was readily supposed to be a servant, ta­ken from a cottage, and turned into a bringer of wood and water, and a scourer of tubs and trenchers. She waited in timorous silence the delivery of my message. Was Mrs. Villars at home?

No: she was gone to town.

Were any of her daughters within?

She could not tell; she believed—she thought— which did I want? Miss Hetty or Miss Sally?

Let me see Miss Hetty. Saying this, I pushed gent­ly against the door. The girl, half reluctant, yielded way: I entered the passage, and putting my hand on the lock of a door that seemed to lead into a parlour—is Miss Hetty in this room?

No: there was nobody there.

Go call her then. Tell her there is one who wishes to see her on important business. I will wait for her coming in this room. So saying, I opened the door, and entered the apartment, while the girl withdrew to perform my message.

The parlour was spacious and expensively furnished, but an air of negligence and disorder was every where [Page 105] visible. The carpet was wrinkled and unswept; a clock on the table, in a glass frame, so streaked and spotted with dust as scarcely to be transparent, and the index motionless, and pointing at four instead of nine; embers scattered on the marble hearth, and tong [...] lying on the fender with the handle in the ashes; an harpsi­cord, uncovered, one end loaded with scores, tumbled together in a heap, and the other with volumes of no­vels and plays, some on their edges, some on their backs, gaping open by the scorching of their covers; rent; blurred; stained; blotted; dog-eared; tables awry; chairs crouding each other; in short, no object but in­dicated the neglect or ignorance of domestic neatness and economy.

My leisure was employed in surveying these objects, and in listening for the approach of Miss Hetty. Some minutes elapsed, and no one came. A reason for de­lay was easily imagined, and I summoned patience to wait. I opened a book; touched the instrument; surveyed the vases on the mantle-tree; the figures on the hangings, and the print of Apollo and the Sybil, taken from Salvator, and hung over the chimney. I eyed my own shape and garb in the mirror, and asked how my rustic appearance would be regarded by that supercilious and voluptuous being, to whom I was about to present myself.

Presently the latch of the door was softly moved, it opened, and the simpleton, before described, appeared. She spoke, but her voice was so full of hesitation, and so near a whisper, that much attention was needed to make out her words: Miss Hetty was not at home— she was gone to town with her mistiss.

This was a tale not to be credited. How was I to act? She persisted in maintaining the truth of it.— Well then, said I, at length, tell Miss Sally that I wish to speak with her. She will answer my purpose just as well.

Miss Sally was not at home neither. She had gone to town too. They would not be back, she did not know when: not till night, she supposed. It was so indeed, [Page 106] none of them wasn't at home: none but she and Nanny in the kitchen—indeed'n there wasn't.

Go tell Nanny to come here—I will leave my mes­sage with her. She withdrew, but Nanny did not re­ceive the summons, or thought proper not to obey it. All was vacant and still.

My state was singular and critical. It was absurd to prolong it; but to leave the house with my errand unexecuted, would argue imbecility and folly. To as­certain Clemenza's presence in this house, and to gain an interview, were yet in my power. Had I not boasted of my intrepidity in braving denials and commands, when they endeavored to obstruct my passage to this woman? But here were no obstacles nor prohibitions. Suppose the girl had said truth, that the matron and her daughters were absent, and that Nanny and her­self were the only guardians of the mansion. So much the better. My design will not be opposed. I have only to mount the stair, and go from one room to an­other, till I find what I seek.

There was hazard, as well as plausibility, in this scheme. I thought it best once more to endeavor to extort information from the girl, and persuade her to be my guide to whomsoever the house contained. I put my hand to the bell and rung a brisk peal. No one come. I passed into the entry, to the foot of a stair­case, and to a back window. Nobody was within hear­ing or sight.

Once more I reflected on the rectitude of my inten­tions, on the possibility that the girl's assertions might be true, on the benefits of expedition, and of gaining access to the object of my visit without interruption o [...] delay. To these considerations was added a sort of charm, not easily explained, and by no means justifia­ble, produced by the very temerity and hazardness ac­companying this attempt. I thought, with scornful emotions, on the bars and hindrances which pride and caprice, and delusive maxims of decorum, raise in the way of human intercourse. I spurned at these sem­blances and substitutes of honesty, and delighted to [Page 107] shake such fetters into air, and trample such impedi­ments to dust. I wanted to see an human being, in order to promote her happiness. It was doubtful whe­ther she was within twenty paces of the spot where I stood. The doubt was to be solved. How? By ex­amining the space. I forthwith proceeded to examine it. I reached the second story. I approached a door that was closed▪ I knocked: after a pause, a soft voice said, who is there?

The accents were as musical as those of Clemenza, but were in other respects, different. I had no topic to discuss with this person. I answered not, yet he­sitated to withdraw. Presently the same voice was again heard: what is it you want? Why don't you an­swer? Come in!—I complied with the command, and entered the room.

It was deliberation and foresight that led me hither, and not chance or caprice. Hence, instead of being disconcerted or vanquished by the objects that I saw, I was tranquil and firm. My curiosity, however, made me a vigilant observer. Two females, arrayed with voluptuous negligence, in a manner adapted to the ut­most seclusion, and seated in a careless attitude, on a sofa, were now discovered.

Both darted glances at the door. One, who appear­ed to be the youngest, no sooner saw me, than she shrieked, and starting from her seat, betrayed, in the looks which she successively cast upon me, on her­self and on the chamber, whose apparatus was in no less confusion than that of the apartment below, her consciousness of the unseasonableness of this meeting.

The other shrieked likewise, but on her it seemed to be the token of surprize, rather than that of terror. There was, probably, somewhat in my aspect and garb that suggested an apology for this intrusion, as arising from simplicity and mistake. She thought proper, how­ever, to assume the air of one offended, and looking sternely—How now, fellow, said she, what is this? Why come you hither?

This questioner was of mature age, but had not pas­sed [Page 108] the period of attractiveness and grace. All the beauty that nature had bestowed was still retained, but the portion had never been great. What she possessed was so modelled and embellished by such a carriage and dress, as to give it most power over the senses of the gazer. In proportion, however, as it was intended and adapted to captivate those, who know none but physical pleasures, it was qualified to breed distaste and aversion in me.

I am sensible how much error may have lurked in this decision. I had brought with me the belief of their being uncha [...]te; and seized, perhaps, with too much avidity, any appearance that coincided with my prepossessions. Yet the younger by no means inspired the same disgust; though I had no reason to suppose her more unblemished than the elder. Her modesty seemed unaffected, and was by no means satisfied, like that of the elder, with defeating future curiosity. The consciousness of what had already been exposed filled her with confusion, and she would have flown away, if her companion had not detained her by some degree of force. What ails the girl? There's nothing to be frightened at. Fellow! she repeated, what brings you here?

I advanced and stood before them. I looked stead­fastly, but, I believe, with neither effrontery nor an­ger, on the one who addressed me. I spoke in a tone serious and emphatical. I come for the sake of speak­ing to a woman, who formerly resided in this house, and probably resides here still. Her name is Clemenza Lodi. If she be here, I request you to conduct me to her instantly.

Methought I perceived some inquietude, a less impe­rious and more inquisitive air, in this woman, on hear­ing the name of Clemenza. It was momentary, and gave way to peremptory looks. What is your busi­ness with her? And why did you adopt this mode of enquiry? A very extraordinary intrusion! Be good enough to leave the chamber. Any questions proper to be answered, will be answered below.

[Page 109]I meant not to intrude or offend. It was not an idle or impertinent motive that led me hither. I waited be­low for some time after soliciting an audience of you, through the servant. She assured me you were absent, and laid me under the necessity of searching for Cle­menza Lodi myself, and without a guide. I am anx­ious to withdraw, and request merely to be directed to the room which she occupies.

I direct you, replied she in a more resolute t [...]e, to quit the room and the house.

Impossible, madam, I replied, still looking at her earnestly, leave the house without seeing her▪ You might as well enjoin me to pull the Andes on my head! To walk barefoot to Peking! Impossible!

Some solicitude was now mingled with her anger. This is strange insolence! unaccountable behaviour!— be gone from my room! will you compel me to call the gentlemen?

Be not alarmed, said I, with augmented mildness. There was indeed compassion and sorrow at my heart, and these must have somewhat influenced my looks. Be not alarmed—I came to confer a benefit, not to per­petrate an injury. I came not to censure or expostulate with you, but merely to counsel and aid a being [...]hat needs both: all I want is to see her. In this chamber I sought not you, but her. Only lead me to her, or tell me where she is. I will then rid you of my presence.

Will you compel me to call those who will punish this insolence as it deserves?

Dearest madam! I compel you to nothing. I merely supplicate. I would ask you to lead me to these gentlemen, if I did not know that there are none but females in the house. It is you who must receive and comply with my petition. Allow me a moment's in­terview with Clemenza Lodi. Compliance will harm you not, but will benefit her. What is your objec­tion?

This is the strangest proceeding! the most singular conduct! Is this a place fit to parley with you? I warn you of the consequence of staying a moment lon­ger. Depend upon it, you will sorely repent it.

[Page 110]You are obdurate, said I, and turned towards the younger, who listened to this discourse in tremors and panick. I took her hand with an air of humility and reverence. Here, said I, there seems to be purity, innocence and condescension. I took this house to be the temple of voluptuousness. Females, I expected to find in it, but such only as traded in licentious plea­sures: specious, perhaps not destitute of talents, beau­ty and address, but dissolute and wanton; sensual and avaricious; yet, in this countenance and carriage there are tokens of virtue. I am born to be deceived, and the semblance of modesty is readily assumed. Under this veil, perhaps, lurk a tainted heart and depraved appetites. Is it so?

She made me no answer, but somewhat in her looks seemed to evince that my favorable prepossessions were just. I noticed likewise that the alarm of the elder was greatly increased by this address to her compan­ion. The thought suddenly occurred that this girl might be in circumstances not unlike those of Clemen­za Lodi; that she was not apprized of the character of her associates, and might by this meeting be rescued from similar evils.

This suspicion filled me with tumultuous feelings. Clemenza was for a time forgotten. I paid no atten­tion to the looks or demeanor of the elder, but was wholly occupied in gazing on the younger. My anxi­ety to know the truth, gave pathos and energy to my tones, while I spoke:

Who, where, what are you? Do you reside in this house? Are you a sister or daughter in this family, or merely a visitant? Do you know the character, profes­sion and views of your companions? Do you deem them virtuous, or know them to be profligate? Speak! tell me, I beseech you!

The maiden confusion which had just appeared in the countenance of this person, now somewhat abated. She lifted her eyes, and glanced by turns at me and at her who sat by her side. An air of serious astonish­ment overspread her features, and she seemed anxious [Page 111] for me to proceed. The elder, meanwhile, betrayed the utmost alarm, again upbraided my audacity, com­manded me to withdraw, and admonished me of the danger I incurred by lingering.

I noticed not her interference, but again entreated to know of the younger her true state. She had no time to answer me, supposing her not to want the inclination, for every pause was filled by the clamorous importuni­ties and menaces of the other. I began to perceive that my attempts were useless to this end, but the chief, and most estimable purpose, was attainable. It was in my power to state the knowledge I possessed, through your means, of Mrs. Villars and her daugh­ters. This information might be superfluous, since she to whom it was given, might be one of this licentious family. The contrary, however, was not improbable, and my tidings, therefore, might be of the utmost mo­ment to her safety.

A resolute, and even impetuous manner, reduced my incessant interruptor to silence. What I had to say I compressed in a few words, and adhered to perspicuity and candor with the utmost care. I still held the hand that I had taken, and fixed my eyes upon her countenance with a steadfastness that hindered her from lifting her eyes.

I know you not; whether you be dissolute or chaste, I cannot tell. In either case, however, what I am go­ing to say will be useful. Let me faithfully repeat what I have heard. It is mere rumor, and I vouch not for its truth. Rumor as it is, I submit it to your judgment, and hope that it may guide you into paths of innocence and honor.

Mrs. Villars and her three daughters are English women, who supported for a time an unblemished re­putation, but who, at length, were suspected of carry­ing on the trade of prostitution. This secret could not be concealed forever. The profligates who frequented their house, betrayed them. One of them who died under their roof, after they had withdrawn from it into the country, disclosed to his kinsman, who attended his death bed, their genuine character.

[Page 112]The dying man likewise related incidents in which I am deeply concerned. I have been connected with one by name Welbeck. In his house I met an unfortunate girl, who was afterwards removed to Mrs. Villars's. Her name was Clemenza Lodi. Residence in this house, under the controul of a woman like Mrs. Vil­lars and her daughters, must be injurious to her inno­cence, and from this controul I now come to rescue her.

I turned to the elder, and continued: By all that is sacred, I adjure you to tell me whether Clemenza Lodi be under this roof! if she be not, whither has she gone? To know this, I came hither, and any difficulty or re­luctance in answering, will be useless; till an answer be obtained, I will not go hence.

During this speech, anger had been kindling in the bosom of this woman. It now burst upon me in a torrent of opprobrious epithets. I was a villain, a calumniator, a thief. I had lurked about the house, till those whose sex and strength enabled them to cope with me, had gone. I had entered these doors by fraud. I was a wretch, guilty of the last excesses of insolence and insult.

To repel these reproaches, or endure them, was equally useless. The satisfaction that I sought was only to be gained by searching the house. I left the room without speaking. Did I act illegally in passing from one story and one room to another? Did I really de­serve the imputations of rashness and insolence? My behaviour, I well know, was ambiguous and hazardous, and perhaps wanting in discretion, but my motives were unquestionably pure. I aimed at nothing but the rescue of an human creature from distress and disho­nor.

I pretend not to the wisdom of experience and age; to the praise of forethought or subtlety. I chuse the obvious path, and pursue it with headlong expedition. Good intentions, unaided by knowledge, will, perhaps, produce more injury than benefit, and therefore, know­ledge must be gained, but the acquisition is not momen­tary; [Page 113] is not bestowed unasked and untoil'd for: mean­while, we must not be unactive because we are igno­rant. Our good purposes must hurry to performance, whether our knowledge be greater or less.

TO explore the house in this manner was so contrary to ordinary rules, that the design was probably wholly unsuspected by the women whom I had just left. My silence, at parting, might have been ascribed by them to the intimidating influence of invectives and threats. Hence I proceeded in my search without interruption.

Presently I reached a front chamber in the third story. The door was ajar. I entered it on tiptoe. Sitting on a low chair by the fire, I beheld a female figure, dressed in a negligent, but not indecent manner. Her face in the posture in which she sat was only half seen. Its hues were sickly and pale, and in mournful unison with a feeble and emaciated form. Her eyes were fixed upon a babe, that lay stretched upon a pillow at her feet. The child, like its mother, for such she was readily imagined to be, was meagre and cadaverous. Either it was dead, or could not be very distant from death.

The features of Clemenza were easily recognized, though no contrast could be greater, in habit and shape, and complexion, than that which her present bore to her former appearance. All her roses had fad­ed, and her brilliances vanished. Still, however, there was somewhat fitted to awaken the tenderest emotions. There were tokens of incons [...]l [...]ble distress.

[Page 115]Her attention was wholly absorbed by the child. She lifted not her eyes, till I came close to her, and stood before her. When she discovered me, a faint start was perceived. She looked at me for a moment, then putting one spread hand before her eyes, she stretched out the other towards the door, and waving it in silence, as if to admonish me to depart.

This motion, however emphatical, I could not obey. I wished to obtain her attention, but knew not in what words to claim it. I was silent. In a moment she removed her hand from her eyes, and looked at me with new eagerness. Her features bespoke emotions, which, perhaps, flowed from my likeness to her brother, joined with the memory of my connection with Welbeck.

My situation was full of embarrassment. I was by no means certain that my language would be under­stood. I knew not in what light the policy and dissi­mulation of Welbeck might have taught her to regard me. What proposal, conducive to her comfort and her safety, could I make to her?

Once more she covered her eyes, and exclaimed in a feeble voice, go away! be gone!

As if satisfied with this effort, she resumed her atten­tion to her child. She stooped and lifted it in her arms, gazing, meanwhile, on its almost lifeless features with intense anxiety. She crushed it to her bosom, and again looking at me, repeated, go away! go away! be gone!

There was somewhat in the lines of her face, in her tones and gestures, that pierced to my heart. Added to this, was my knowledge of her condition; her friend­lessness; her poverty; the pangs of unrequited love; and her expiring infant. I felt my utterance choaked, and my tears struggling for passage. I turned to the window, and endeavored to regain my tranquillity.

What was it, said I, that brought me hither? The perfidy of Welbeck must surely have long since been discovered. What can I tell her of the Villars which she does not already know, or of which the knowledge will be useful? If their treatment has [...]een just, why [Page 116] should I detract from their merit? If it has been other­wise, their own conduct will have disclosed their genu­ine character. Though voluptuous themselves, it does not follow that they have labored to debase this creature. Though wanton, they may not be inhuman.

I can propose no change in her condition for the bet­ter. Should she be willing to leave this house, whither is it in my power to conduct her? O that I were rich enough to provide food for the hungry, shelter for the housless, and raiment for the naked.

I was roused from these fruitless reflections by the lady, whom some sudden thought induced to place the child in its bed, and rising to come towards me. The utter dejection which her features lately betrayed, was now changed for an air of anxious curiosity. Where, said she, in her broken English, where is Signior Wel­beck?

Alas! returned I, I know not. That question might, I thought, with more propriety be put to you than me.

I know where he be; I fear where he be.

So saying, the deepest sighs burst from her heart. She turned from me, and going to the child, took it again into her lap. Its pale and sunken cheek was quickly wet with the mother's tears, which, as she si­lently hung over it, dropped fast from her eyes.

This demeanor could not but awaken curiosity, while it gave a new turn to my thoughts. I began to suspect that in the tokens which I saw, there was not only distress for her child, but concern for the fate of Welbeck. Know you, said I, where Mr. Welbeck is? Is he alive? Is he near? Is he in calamity?

I do not know if he be alive. He be sick. He be in prison. They will not let me go to him. And— Here her attention and mine was attracted by the in­fant, whose frame, till now motionless, began to be tremulous. Its features sunk into a more ghastly ex­pression. Its breathings were difficult, and every effort to respire produced a convulsion harder than the last.

The mother easily interpreted these tokens. The same mortal struggle seemed to take place in her feature [Page 117] as in those of her child. At length her agony found way in a piercing shriek. The struggle in the infant was past. Hope looked in vain for a new motion in its heart or its eyelids. The lips were closed, and its breath was gone, forever!

The grief which overwhelmed the unhappy parent, was of that outrageous and desperate kind which i [...] wholly incompatible with thinking. A few incoherent motions and screams, that rent the soul, were followed by a deep swoon. She sunk upon the floor, pale and lifeless as her babe.

I need not describe the pangs which much a scene was adapted to produce in me. These were rendered more acute by the helpless and ambiguous situation in which I was placed. I was eager to bestow consolation and succour, but was destitute of all means. I was plunged into uncertainties and doubts. I gazed alternately at the infant and its mother. I sighed. I wept. I even sobbed. I stooped down and took the lifeless hand of the sufferer. I bathed it with my tears, and exclaim­ed, Ill-fated woman! unhappy mother! what shall I do for thy relief? How shall I blunt the edge of this calamity, and rescue thee from new evils?

At this moment the door of the apartment was open­ed, and the youngest of the women whom I had seen be­low, entered. Her looks betrayed the deepest conste [...] ­nation and anxiety. Her eyes in a moment were fixed by the decayed form and the sad features of Clemenza. She shuddered at this spectacle, but was silent. She stood in the midst of the floor, fluctuating and bewildered. I dropped the hand that I was holding, and approached her.

You have come, said I, in good season. I know you not, but will believe you to be good. You have an heart, it may be, not free from corruption, but it is still capa­ble of pity for the miseries of others. You have an hand that refuses not its aid to the unhappy. See; there is an infant dead. There is a mother whom grief has, for a time, deprived of life. She has been oppressed and be­trayed; been robbed of property and reputation—but [Page 118] not of innocence. She is worthy of relief. Have you arms to receive her? Have you sympathy, protection, and a home to bestow upon a forlorn, betrayed and un­happy stranger? I know not what this house is; I sus­pect it to be no better than a brother. I know not what treatment this woman has received. If, when her situ­ation and wants are ascertai [...]ed▪ will you timely [...] wants? Will you rescue her from evils that may attend her continuance here?

She was disconcerted and be wildered by this address. At length she said—All that has happened, all that I have heard and seen is so unexpected, so strange, that I am amazed and distracted. Your behaviour I cannot comprehend, nor your motive for making this address to me. I cannot answer you, except in one respect. If this woman has suffered injury, I have had no part in it. I knew not of her existence, nor her situation till this moment; and whatever protection or assistance she may justly claim, I am both able and willing to bestow. I do not live here, but in the city. I am only an occasional visitant in this house.

What then, I exclaimed, with sparkling eyes and a rapturous accent, you are not profligate; are a strang­er to the manners of this house, and a detester of these manners? Be not a deceiver, I entreat you. I de­pend only on your looks and professions, and these may be dissembled.

These questions, which indeed argued a childish sim­plicity, excited her surprize. She looked at me, un­certain whether I was in earnest or in jest. At length she said, your language is so singular, that I am at a loss how to answer it. I shall take no pains to find out its meaning, but leave you to form conjectures at leisure. Who is this woman, and how can I serve her? After a pause, she continued—I cannot afford her any immediate assistance, and shall not stay a moment longer in this house. There (putting a card in my hand) is my name and place of abode. If you shall have any proposals to make, respecting this woman, I shall be ready to receive them in my own house. So saying, she withdrew.

[Page 119]I looked wistfully after her, but could not but as­sent to her assertion, that her presence here would be more injurious to her than beneficial to Clemenza. She had scarcely gone, when the elder woman entered. There was rage, sullenness, and disappointment in her aspect. These, however, were suspended by the situ­ation in which she discovered the mother and child. It was plain that all the sentiments of woman were not extinguished in her heart. She summoned the servants and seemed preparing to take such measures as the oc­casion prescribed. I now saw the folly of supposing that these measures would be neglected, and that my presence could not essentially contribute to the benefit of the sufferer. Still, however, I lingered in the room, till the infant was covered with a cloth, and the still senseless parent was conveyed into an adjoining chamber. The woman then, as if she had not seen me before, fixed scowling eyes upon me, and exclaim­ed, thief! villain! why do you stay here?

I mean to go, said I, but not till I express my gra­titude and pleasure, at the sight of your attention to this sufferer. You deem me insolent and perverse, but I am not such; and hope that the day will come when I shall convince you of my good intentions.

Begone! interrupted she, in a more angry tone. Be­gone this moment, or I will treat you as a thief. She now drew forth her hand from under her gown, and shewed a pistol. You shall see, she continued, that I will not be insulted with impunity. If you do not va­nish, I will shoot you as a robber.

This woman was far from wanting a force and in­trepidity worthy of a different sex. Her gestures and tones were full of energy. They denoted an haughty and indignant spirit. It was plain that she conceived herself deeply injured by my conduct; and was it abso­lutely certain that her anger was without reason? I had loaded her house with atrocious imputations, and these imputations might be false. I had conceived them upon such evidence as chance had provided, but this evidence, intricate and dubious as human actions and motives are, might be void of truth.

[Page 120]Perhaps, said I, in a sedate tone, I have injured you; I have mistaken your character. You shall not find me less ready to repair, than to perpetrate, this in­jury. My error was without malice, and—

I had not time to finish the sentence, when this rash and enraged woman thrust the pistol close to my head and fired it. I was wholly unaware that her fury would lead her to this excess. It was a sort of mecha­nical impulse that made me raise my hand, and attempt to turn aside the weapon. I did this deliberately and tranquilly, and without conceiving that any thing more was intended by her movement than to intimidate me. To this precaution, however, I was indebted for life. The bullet was diverted from my forehead to my left ear, and made a slight wound upon the surface, from which the blood gushed in a stream.

The loudness of this explosion, and the shock which the ball produced in my brain, sunk me into a momen­tary stupor. I reeled backward, and should have fall­en had not I supported myself against the wall. The sight of my blood instantly restored her reason. Her rage disappeared, and was succeeded by terror and re­morse. She clasped her hands, and exclaimed—Oh! what, what have I done? My frantic passion has de­stroyed me.

I needed no long time to shew me the full extent of the injury which I had suffered and the conduct which it became me to adopt. For a moment I was bewilder­ed and alarmed, but presently perceived that this was an incident more productive of good than of evil. It would teach me caution in contending with the pas­sions of another, and shewed me that there is a limit which the impetuosities of anger will sometimes over­step. Instead of reviling my companion, I addressed myself to her thus:

Be not frighted. You have done me no injury, and I hope will derive instruction from this event. Your rashness had like to have sacrificed the life of one who is your friend, and to have exposed yourself to infamy and death, or, at least, to the pangs of eternal re­morse. [Page 121] Learn, from hence, to curb your passions, and especially to keep at a distance from every mur­derous weapon, on occasions when rage is likely to take place of reason.

I repeat that my motives in entering this house were connected with your happiness as well as that of Cle­menza Lodi. If I have erred, in supposing you the member of a vile and pernicious trade, that error was worthy of being rectified, but violence and invective tend only to confirm it. I am incapable of any pur­pose that is not beneficent; but, in the means that I use and in the evidence on which I proceed, I am lia­ble to a thousand mistakes. Point out to me the road by which I can do you good, and I will cheerfully pur­sue it.

Finding that her fears had been groundless, as to the consequences of her rashness, she renewed, though with less vehemence than before, her imprecations on my intermeddling and audacious folly. I listened till the storm was nearly exhausted, and then, declaring my intention to re-visit the house, if the interest of Clemenza should require it, I resumed my way to the city.

WHY, said I, as I hasted forward, is my fortune so abundant in unforeseen occurrences? Is every man, who leaves his cottage and the impressions of his in­fancy behind him, ushered into such a world of revolu­tions and perils as have trammelled my steps? or, is my scene indebted for variety and change to my pro­pensity to look into other people's concern, and to make their sorrows and their joys mine?

To indulge an adventurous spirit, I left the precincts of the barn-door, enlisted in the service of a stranger, and encountered a thousand dangers to my virtue un­der the disastrous influence of Welbeck. Afterwards my life was set at hazard in the cause of Wallace, and now am I loaded with the province of protecting the helpless Eliza Hadwin and the unfortunate Clemenza. My wishes are fervent, and my powers shall not be inactive in their defence, but how slender are these powers!

In the offers of the unknown lady there is, indeed, some consolation for Clemenza. It must be my busi­ness to lay before my friend Stevens the particulars of what has befallen me, and to entreat his directions how this disconsolate girl may be most effectually succour­ed. It may be wise to take her from her present abode, [Page 123] and place her under some chaste and humane guardian­ship, where she may gradually lose remembrance of her dead infant and her specious betrayer. The bar­rier that severs her from Welbeck must be high as heaven and insuperable as necessity.

But, soft! Talked she not of Welbeck? Said she not that he was in prison and was sick? Poor wretch! I thought thy course was at an end; that the penalty of guilt no longer weighed down thy heart. That thy misdeeds and thy remorses were buried [...]n a com­mon and obscure grave; but it seems too [...]art still alive.

Is it rational to cherish the hope of thy restoration to innocence and peace? Thou art no obdurate cri­minal; hadst thou less virtue, thy compunctions would be less keen. Wert thou deaf to the voice of duty, thy wanderings into guilt and folly would be less fer­tile of anguish. The time will perhaps come, when the measure of thy transgressions and calamities will overflow, and the folly of thy choice will be too con­spicuous to escape thy discernment. Surely, even for such transgressors as thou, there is a salutary power in the precepts of truth and the lessons of experience.

But, thou art imprisoned and art sick. This, per­haps, is the crisis of thy destiny. Indigence and dis­honour were the evils, to shun which thy integrity and peace of mind have been lightly forfeited. Thou hast found that the price was given in vain; that the hol­low and deceitful enjoyments of opulence and dignity were not worth the purchase; and that, frivolous and unsubstantial as they are, the only path that leads to them is that of honesty and diligence. Thou art in prison and art sick; and there is none to cheer thy hour with offices of kindness, or uphold thy fainting courage by the suggestions of good counsel. For such as thou the world has no compassion. Mankind will pursue thee to the grave with execrations. Their cruelty will be justified or palliated, since they know thee not. They are unacquainted with the goadings of thy conscience and the latter retributions which [Page 124] thou art daily suffering: they are full of their own wrongs, and think only of those tokens of exultation and complacency which thou wast studious of assuming in thy intercourse with them. It is I only that tho­roughly know thee, and can rightly estimate thy claims [...] compassion.

I have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou merites some gratitude at my hands. Shall I not vi­sit and e [...]deavor to console thee in thy distress? Let me, at lea [...]t, ascertain thy condition, and be the in­strument in repairing the wrongs which thou hast in­flicted. Let me gain, from contemplation of thy nu­sery, new motives to sincerity and rectitude.

While occupied by these reflections, I entered the city. The thoughts which engrossed my mind related to Welbeck. It is not my custom to defer till to­morrow what can be done to-day. The destiny of man frequently hangs upon the lapse of a minute. I will stop, said I, at the prison; and, since the mo­ment of my arrival may not be indifferent, I will go thither with all possible haste. I did not content my­self with walking, but, regardless of the comments of passengers, hurried along the way at full speed.

Having enquired for Welbeck, I was conducted through a dark room, crouded with beds, to a stair­case. Never before had I been in a prison. Never had I smelt so noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so begrimed with filth and misery. The walls and floors were alike squallid and detestable. It seemed that in this house existence would be bereaved of all its at­tractions; and yet those faces, which could be seen through the obscurity that encompassed them, were either void of care or distorted with mirth.

This, said I, as I followed my conductor, is the re­sidence of Welbeck. What contrasts are these to the repose and splendor, pictured walls, glossy hangings, gilded sofas, mirrors that occupied from cieling to floor, carpets of Taur [...]s, and the spotless and transcendent brilliancy of coverlets and napkins, in thy former dwelling? Here brawling and the shuffling of rude [Page 125] feet are eternal. The air is loaded with the exhala­tions of disease and the fumes of debauchery. Thou art cooped up in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled to share thy narrow cell with some stupid ruffian. Formerly, the breezes were courted by thy lofty win­dows. Aromatic shrubs were scattered on thy hearth. Menials, splendid in apparel, shewed their faces with diffidence in thy apartment, trod lightly on thy marble floor, and suffered not the sanctity of silence to be troubled by a whisper. Thy lamp shot its rays through the transparency of alabaster, and thy fragrant lymph flowed from vases of porcelain. Such were formerly the decorations of thy hall, the embellishments of thy existence; but now—alas!—

We reached a chamber in the second story. My conductor knocked at the door. No one answered. Repeated knocks were unheard or unnoticed by the person within. At length, lifting a latch, we entered together.

The prisoner lay upon the bed, with his face turned from the door. I advanced softly, making a sign to the keeper to withdraw. Welbeck was not asleep, but merely buried in reverie. I was unwilling to disturb his musing, and stood with my eyes fixed upon his form. He appeared unconscious that any one had en­tered.

At length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his pos­ture, and perceived me in my motionless and gazing attitude. Recollect in what circumstances we had last parted. Welbeck had, no doubt, carried away with him, from that interview, a firm belief, that I should speedily die. His prognostic, however, was fated to be contradicted.

His first emotions were those of surprize. These gave place to mortification and rage. After eyeing me for some time, he averted his glances, and that ef­fort which is made to dissipate some obstacle to breath­ing, shewed me that his sensations were of the most excruciating kind. He laid his head upon the pillow, [Page 126] and sunk into his former musing. He disdained, or was unable, to utter a syllable of welcome or con­tempt.

In the opportunity that had been afforded me to view his countenance, I had observed tokens of a kind very different from those which used to be visible. The gloomy and malignant [...] more con [...]picuous. Health had forsaken his [...] taken along with it those flexible parts, which formerly enabled him to cover his secret torments and in [...]idious purposes, beneath a veil of benevolence and cheerfulness. Alas! said I, loud enough for him to hear me, here is a monument of ruin. Despair and mischievous passions are too deeply rooted in this heart for me to tear them away.

These expressions did not escape his notice. He turned once more and cast sullen looks upon me. There was somewhat in his eyes that made me sh [...]dder. They denoted that his reverie was not that of grief, but of madness. I continued, in a less steadfast voice than before:

Unhappy Clemenza! I have performed thy message. I have visited him that is sick and in prison. Thou hadst cause for anguish and terror, even greater cause than thou imaginedst. Would to God that thou wouldst be contented with the report which I shall make; that thy misguided tenderness would consent to leave him to his destiny, would suffer him to die alone; but that is a forbearance which no eloquence that I possess will induce thee to practise. Thou must come, and witness for thyself.

In speaking thus, I was far from foreseeing the effects which would be produced on the mind of Welbeck. I was far from intending to instil into him a belief that Clemenza was near at hand, and was preparing to en­ter his apartment: yet no other images but these would, perhaps, have roused him from his lethargy, and aw [...]k­ened that attention which I wished to awaken. He started up, and gazed fearfully at the door.

What! he cried. What! Is she here? Ye pow­ers, that have scattered woes in my path, spare me the [Page 127] sight of her! But from this agony I will rescue my­self. The moment she appears I will pluck out the [...]e eyes and dash them at her feet.

So saying, he gazed with augmented eagerness upon the door. His hands were lifted to his head, as if rea­dy to execute his frantic purpose. I seized his arm, and besought him to lay aside his terror, for that Cle­menza was far distant. She had no intention, and be­sides was unabl [...], to visit him.

Then I am respited. I breathe again. No; keep her from a prison. Drag her to the wheel or to the scaffold; mangle her with stripes; torture her with famine; strangle her child before her face, and cast it to the hungry dogs that are bowling at the gate; but —keep her from a prison. Never let her eater the [...]e doors.—There he stopped; his eyes being fixed on the floor, and his thoughts once more buried in reverie. I resumed:

She is occupied with other griefs than those con­nected with the fate of Welbeck. She is not unmind­ful of you: she kn [...]ws you to be sick and in prison [...]; and I came to do for you whatever office your condi­tion might require, and I came at her suggestion. She, alas! has full employment for her tears in watering the grave of her child.

He started. What! dead? Say you that the child is dead?

It is dead. I witnessed its death. I saw it expise in the arms of its mother; that mother whom I for­merly met under your roof blooming and gay, but whom calamity has tarnished and withered. I saw her in the rayment of poverty, under an [...]ccursed roof; desolate; alone; unsolaced by the countenance or sym­pathy of human beings; approached only by those who mock at her distress, set snares for her innocence, and push her to infamy. I saw her leaning over the face of her dying babe.

Welbeck put his hands to his head and exclaimed: curses on thy lips, infernal messenger! Ch [...]t el [...] ­where thy rueful ditty! Vanish! if thou wouldst not [Page 128] feel in thy heart fangs red with blood less guilty than thine.

Till this moment the uproar in Welbeck's mind ap­peared to hinder him from distinctly recognizing his visitant. Now it seemed as if the incidents of our last interview suddenly sprung up in his remembrance.

What! This is the villain that rifled my cabinet, the maker of my poverty and of all the evils which it has since engendered! That has led me to a prison! Execrable fool! you are the author of the scene that you describe▪ and of horrors without number and name. To whatever crimes I have been urged since that in­terview, and the fit of madness that made you destroy my property, they spring from your act; they flowed from necessity, which, had you held your hand at that fateful moment, would never have existed.

How dare you thrust yourself upon my privacy? Why am I not alone? Fly! and let my miseries want, at least, the aggravation of beholding their author. My eyes loathe the sight of thee! My heart would suffocate thee with its own bitterness! Begone!

I know not, I answered, why innocence should tremble at the ravings of a lunatic; why it should be overwhelmed by unmerited reproaches! Why it should not deplore the errors of its foe, labor to correct those errors, and—

Thank thy fate, youth, that my hands are tied up by my scorn; thank thy fate that no weapon is within reach. Much has passed since I saw thee, and I am a new man. I am no longer inconstant and cowardly. I have no motives but contempt to hinder me from ex­piating the wrongs which thou hast done me in thy blood. I disdain to take thy life. Go; and let thy fidelity, at least, to the confidence which I have placed in thee, be inviolate. Thou hast done me harm enough, but canst do, if thou wilt, still more. Thou canst be­tray the secrets that are lodged in thy bosom, and rob me of the comfort of reflecting that my guilt is known but to one among the living.

[Page 129]This suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the past. I had confided this man's tale to you. The secrecy, on which he so fondly leaned, was at an end. Had I acted culpably or not?

But why should I ruminate, with anguish and doubt, upon the past? The future was within my power, and the road of my duty was too plain to be mistaken. I would disclose to Welbeck the truth, and cheerfully encounter every consequence. I would summon my friend to my aid, and take his counsel in the critical emergency in which I was placed. I ought not to rely upon myself alone in my efforts to benefit this being, when another was so near whose discernment, and be­nevolence, and knowledge of mankind, and power of affording relief were far superior to mine.

Influenced by these thoughts, I left the apartment without speaking; and, procuring pen and paper▪ dis­patched to you the billet which brought about our meet­ing.

MERVYN'S auditors allowed no pause in their atten­tion to this story. Having ended, a deep silence took place. The clock which stood upon the mantle, had sounded twice the customary larum, but had not been heard by us. It was now struck a third time. It was one. Our guest appeared somewhat startled [...] this sig­nal, and looked, with a mournful sort of earnestness, at the clock. There was an air of inquietude about him, which I had never observed in an equal degree before.

I was not without much curiosity respecting other incidents than those which had just been related by him; but after so much fatigue as he had undergone, I thought it improper to prolong the conversation.

Come, said I, my friend, let us to bed. This is a drowsy time, and after so much exercise of mind and body, you cannot but need some repose. Much has happened in your absence, which is proper to be known to you, but our discourse will be best defe [...]red till to­morrow. I will come into your chamber by day-dawn, and unfold to you my particular.

Nay, said he, withdraw not on my account. If I go to my chamber, it will not be to sleep, but to medi­tate, especially after your assurance that something of moment has occurred in my absence. My thoughts, [Page 131] independently of any cause of sorrow or fear, have re­ceived an impulse which solitude and darkness will not stop. It is impossible to know too much for our safety and integrity, or to know it too soon. What has hap­pened?

I did not hesitate to comply with his request, for it was not difficult to conceive that, however tired the limbs might be, the adventures of this day would not be easily expelled from the memory at night. I told him the substance of the conversation with Mrs. Al­thorpe. He smiled at these parts of the narrative which related to himself; but when his father's depra­vity and poverty were mentioned, he melted into tears.

Poor wretch! I that knew thee in thy better days, might have easily divined this consequence. I foresaw thy poverty and degradation in the same hour that I left thy roof. My soul drooped at the prospect; but I said, it cannot be prevented, and this reflection was an antidote to grief, but now that thy ruin is complete, it seems as if some of it were imputable to me, who for­sook thee when the succour and counsel of a son were most needed. Thou art ignorant and vicious, but thou art my father still. I see that the sufferings of a bet­ter man than thou art would less afflict me than thine. Perhaps it is still in my power to restore thy liberty and good name, and yet—that is a fond wish. Thou art past the age when the ignorance and groveling habits of a human being are susceptible of cure—There he stopt, and after a gloomy pause, continued:

I am not surprized or afflicted at the misconceptions of my neighbors, with relation to my own character. Men must judge from what they see: they must build their conclusions on their knowledge. I never saw in the rebukes of my neighbors, any thing but laudable abhorrence of vice. They were not eager to blame, to collect materials of censure rather than of praise. It was not me whom they hated and despised. It was the phantom that passed under my name, which existed only in their imagination, and which was worthy of all their scorn and all their enmity.

[Page 132]What I appeared to be in their eyes, was as much the object of my own disapprobation as of theirs. Their reproaches only evinced the rectitude of their decisions, as well as of my own. I drew from them new motives to complacency. They fortified my perseverance in the path which I had chosen as best; they raised me higher in my own esteem; they hightened the claims of the reproachers themselves to my respect and my gratitude.

They thought me slothful, incurious, destitute of knowledge, and of all thirst of knowledge, insolent and profligate. They say that in the treatment of my fa­ther, I have been ungrateful and inhuman. I have stolen his property, and deserted him in his calamity. Therefore they hate and revile me. It is well: I love them for these proofs of their discernment and integri­ty. Their indignation at wrong is the truest test of their virtue.

It is true that they mistake me, but that arises from the circumstances of our mutual situation. They ex­amined what was exposed to their view: they grasped at what was placed within their reach. To decide con­trary to appearances; to judge from what they know not, would prove them to be brutish and not rational, would make their decision of no worth, and render them, in their turn, objects of neglect and con­tempt.

It is true that I hated school; that I sought occa­sions of absence, and finally, on being struck by the master, determined to enter his presence no more. I loved to leap, to run, to swim, to climb trees, and to clamber up rocks, to shroud myself in thickets, and stroll among woods, to obey the impulse of the moment, and to prate or be silent, just as my humor prompted me. All this I loved more than to go to and fro in the same path, and at stated hours, to look off and on a book, to read just as much, and of such a kind, to stand up and be seated, just as another thought proper to di­rect. I hated to be classed, cribbed, rebuked and ferul­ed at the pleasure of one, who, as it seemed to me, [Page 133] knew no guide in his rewards but caprice, and no prompter in his punishments but passion.

It is true that I took up the spade and the hoe as rarely, and for as short a time, as possible. I prefer­red to ramble in the forest and loiter on the hill: per­petually to change the scene; to scrutinize the endless variety of objects; to compare one leaf and pebble with another; to pursue those trains of thought which their resemblances and differences suggested; to en­quire what it was that gave them this place, structure, and form, were more agreeable employments than plowing and threshing.

My father could well afford to hire labor. What my age and my constitution enabled me to do could be done by a sturdy boy, in half the time, with half the toil, and with none of the reluctance. The boy was a bond servant, and the cost of his clothing and food was next to nothing. True it is, that my service would have saved him even this expence, but my mo­tives for declining the effort were not hastily weighed or superficially examined. The [...]e were my motives:

My frame was delicate and feeble. Exposure to wet blasts and vertical suns was sure to make me sick. My father was insensible to this consequence; and no degree of diligence would please him, but that which would destroy my health. My health was dearer to my mother than to me. She was more anxious to exempt me from possible injuries than reason justified; but anxious she was, and I could not save her from anxi­ety, but by almost wholly abstaining from labor. I thought her peace of mind was of some value, and that, if the inclination of either of my parents must be gratified at the expence of the other, the preference was due to the woman who bore me; who nursed me in disease; who watched over my safety with incessant tenderness; whose life and whose peace were involved in mine. I should have deemed myself brutish and obdurately wicked to have loaded her with fears and cares merely to smooth the brow of a froward old man, whose avarice called on me to sacrifice my ease and my [Page 134] health, and who shifted to other shoulders the province of sustaining me when sick, and of mourning for me when dead.

I likewise believed, that it became me to reflect up­on the influence of my decision on my own happiness; and to weigh the profits flowing to my father from my labor, against the benefits of mental exercise, the pleasures of the woods and streams, healthful sensa­tions, and the luxury of musing. The pecuniary pro­fit was petty and contemptible. It obviated no neces­sity. It purchased no rational enjoyment. It merely provoked, by furnishing the means of indulgence, an appetite from which my father was not exempt. It cherished the seeds of depravity in him, and lessened the little stock of happiness belonging to my mother.

I did not detain you long, my friends, in pourtray­ing my parents, and recounting domestic incidents, when I first told you my story. What had no connection with the history of Welbeck and with the part that I have acted upon this stage, I thought it proper to omit. My omission was likewise prompted by other reasons. My mind is ennervated and feeble like my body. I cannot look upon the sufferings of those I love with­out exquisite pain. I cannot steel my heart by the force of reason, and by submission to necessity; and, therefore, too frequently employ the cowardly expe­dient of endeavoring to forget what I cannot remem­ber without agony.

I told you that my father was sober and industrious by habit, but habit is not uniform. There were inter­vals when his plodding and tame spirit gave place to the malice and fury of a demon. Liquors were not sought by him, but he could not withstand entreaty, and a potion that produced no effect upon others chang­ed him into a maniac.

I told you that I had a sister, whom the arts of a villain destroyed. Alas! the work of her destruction was left unfinished by him. The blows and contume­lies of a misjudging and implacable parent, who scru­pled not to thrust her, with her new-born infant, out [Page 135] of doors; the curses and taunts of unnatural brothers left her no alternative but death—But I must not think of this; I must not think of the wrongs which my mother endured in the person of her only and dar­ling daughter.

My brothers were the copyists of the father, whom they resembled in temper and person. My mother doated on her own image in her daughter and in me. This daughter was ravished from her by self-violence, and her other children by disease. I only remained to appropriate her affections and fulfil her hopes. This alone had furnished a sufficient reason why I should be careful of my health and my life, but my father's cha­racter supplied me with a motive infinitely more cogent.

It is almost incredible, but, nevertheless, true, that the only being whose presence and remonstrances had any influence on my father, at moments when his rea­son was extinct, was myself. As to my personal strength, it was nothing; yet my mother's person was rescued from brutal violence: he was checked, in the midst of his ferocious career, by a single look or excla­mation from me. The fear of my rebukes had even some influence in enabling him to resist temptation. If I entered the tavern, at the moment when he was lifting the glass to his lips, I never weighed the injunc­tions of decorum, but, snatching the vessel from his hand, I threw it on the ground. I was not deterred by the presence of others; and their censures, on my want of filial respect and duty, were listened to with uncon­cern. I chose not to justify myself by expatiating on domestic miseries, and by calling down that pity on my mother, which I knew would only have increased her distress.

The world regarded my deportment as insolent and perverse to a degree of insanity. To deny my father an indulgence which they thought harmless, and which, indeed, was harmless in its influence on other men; to interfere thus publicly with his social enjoyments, and expose him to mortification and shame, was loudly condemned; but my duty to my mother debarred me [Page 136] from eluding this censure on the only terms on which it could have been eluded. Now it has ceased to be ne­cessary to conceal what passed in domestic retirements, and I should willingly confess the truth before any audience.

At first my father imagined, that threats and blows would intimidate his monitor. In this he was mistak­en, and the detection of this mistake impressed him with an involuntary reverence for me, which set bounds to those excesses which disdained any other controul. Hence, I derived new motiv [...] for cherishing a life which was useful, in so many ways, to my mother.

My condition is now changed. I am no longer on that field to which the law, as well as reason, must ac­knowledge that I had some right, while there was any in my father. I must hazard my life, if need be, in the pursuit of the means of honest subsistence. I ne­ver spared myself while in the service of Mr. Hadwin; and, at a more inclement season, should probably have incurred some hazard by my diligence.

These were the motives of my idleness—for, my abstaining from the common toils of the farm passed by that name among my neighbors; though, in truth, my time was far from being wholly unoccupied by ma­nual employments, but these required less exertion of body or mind, or were more connected with intellec­tual efforts. They were pursued in the seclusion of my chamber or the recesses of a wood. I did not la­bor to conceal them, but neither was I anxious to at­tract notice. It was sufficient that the censure of my neighbors was unmerited, to make me regard it with indifference.

I sought not the society of persons of my own age, not from sullen or unsociable habits, but merely be­cause those around me were totally unlike myself. Their tastes and occupations were incompatible with mine. In my few books, in my pen, in the vegetable and animal existences around me, I found companions who adapted their visits and intercourse to my con­venience [Page 137] and caprice, and with whom I was never tired of communing.

I was not unaware of the opinion which my neigh­bors had formed of my being improperly connected with Betty Lawrence. I am not sorry that I fell into com­pany with that girl. Her intercourse has instructed me in what some would think [...]mpossible to be attain­ed by one who had never haunted the impure recesses of licentiousness in a city. The knowledge▪ which re­sidence in this town for ten years gave her audacious and inquisitive spirit, she imparted to me. Her cha­racter, profligate and artful, libidinous and impudent, and made up of the impressions which a city life had produced on her coarse but active mind, was open to my study, and I studied it.

I scarcely know how to repel the charge of illicit conduct, and to depict the exact species of intercourse subsisting between us. I always treated her with free­dom, and sometimes with gaiety. I had no motives to reserve. I was so formed that a creature like her had no power over my senses. That species of temptation adapted to entice me from the true path, was widely different from the artifices of Betty. There was no point at which it was possible for her to get possession of my fancy. I watched her while she practised all her tricks and blandishments, just as I regarded a simi­lar deportment in the animal salax igna [...]umque who inhabits the stye. I made efforts to pursue my obser­vations unembarrassed; but my efforts were made, not to restrain desire, but to suppress disgust. The diffi­culty lay, not in withholding my caresses, but in for­bearing to repulse her with rage.

Deco [...]um, indeed, was not outraged, and all limits were not overstept, at once. Dubious advances were employed; but, when found unavailing, were displac­ed by more shameless and direct proceedings. She was too little versed in human nature to see that her last expedient was always worse than the preceding; and that, in proportion as she lost sight of decency, she multiplied the obstacles to her success.

[Page 138]Betty had many enticements in person and air. She was ruddy, smooth, and plump. To these she added —I must not say what, for it is strange to what lengths a woman destitute of modesty will sometimes go. But all her artifices availing her not at all in the contest with my insensibilities, she resorted to extremes which it would serve no good purpose to describe in this au­dience. They produced not the consequences she wish­ed, but they produced another which was by no means displeasing to her. An incident one night occurred, from which a sagacious observer deduced the existence of an intrigue. It was useless to attempt to rectify his mistake, by explaining appearances, in a manner consistent with my innocence. This mode of explica­tion implied a continence in me which he denied to be possible. The standard of possibilities, especially in vice and virtue, is fashioned by most men after their own character. A tempta [...]on which this judge of human nature knew that he was unable to r [...]sist, he sagely concluded to be irresistible by any other man, and quickly established the belief among my neighbors, that the woman who married the father had been pros­tituted to the son. Though I never admitted the truth of this aspersion, I believe it useless to deny, because no one would credit my denial, and because I had no power to disprove it.

WHAT other enquiries were to be resolved by our young friend, we were now, at this late hour, obliged to postpone till the morrow. I shall pass over the re­flections which a story like this would naturally suggest, and hasten to our next interview.

After breakfast next morning, the subject of last night's conversation was renewed. I told him that something had occurred in his absence, in relation to Mrs. Wentworth and her nephew, that had perplexed us not a little. My information is obtained, continu­ed I, from Wortley; and it is nothing less, than that young Clavering, Mrs. Wentworth's nephew, is, at this time, actually alive.

Surprise, but none of the embarrassment of guilt, appeared in his countenance at these tidings. He looked at me as if desirous that I should proceed.

It seems, added I, that a letter was lately received by this lady from the father of Clavering, who is now in Europe. This letter reports that this son was lately met with in Charleston, and relates the means which old Mr. Clavering had used to prevail upon his son to return home; means, of the success of which he en­tertained well grounded hopes. What think you?

[Page 140]I can only reject it, said he, after some pause, as un­true. The father's correspondent may have been de­ceived. The father may have been deceived, or the fa­ther may conceive it necessary to deceive the aunt, or some other supposition, as to the source of the error, may be true; but an error it surely is. Clavering is not alive. I know the chamber where he died, and the withered pine under which he lies buried.

If she be deceived, said I, it will be impossible to rectify her error.

I hope not. An honest front and a straight story will be sufficient.

How do you mean to act?

Visit her without doubt, and tell her the truth. My tale will be too circumstantial and consistent to permit her to disbelieve.

She will not hearken to you. She is too strongly prepossessed against you to admit you even to an hear­ing.

She cannot help it. Unless she lock her door against me, or stuff her ears with wool, she must hear me. Her prepossessions are reasonable, but are easily re­moved by telling the truth. Why does she suspect me of artifice? Because I seemed to be allied to Wel­beck, and because I disguised the truth. That she thinks ill of me is not her fault, but my misfortune; and, happily for me, a misfortune easily removed.

Then you will try to see her.

I will see her, and the sooner the better. I will see her to-day; this morning; as soon as I have seen Welbeck, whom I shall immediately visit in his pri­son.

There are other embarrassments and dangers of which you are not aware. Welbeck is pursued by many persons whom he has defrauded of large sums. By these persons you are deemed an accomplice in his guilt, and a warrant is already in the hands of officers for arresting you wherever you are found.

In what way, said Mervyn, sedately, do they ima­gine me a partaker of his crime?

[Page 141]I know not. You lived with him. You fled with him. You aided and connived at his escape.

Are these crimes?

I believe not, but they subject you to suspicion.

To arrest and to punishment?

To detention for a while, perhaps. But these alone cannot expose you to punishment.

I thought so. Then I have nothing to fear.

You have imprisonment and obloquy, at least, to dread.

True; but they cannot be avoided but by my exile and skulking out of sight—evils infinitely more formi­dable. I shall, therefore, not avoid them. The soon­er my conduct be subjected to scrutiny, the better. Will you go with me to Welbeck?

I will go with you.

Enquiring for Welbeck of the keeper of the prison, we were informed that he was in his own apartment very sick. The physician, attending the prison, had been called, but the prisoner had preserved an obsti­nate and scornful silence; and had neither explained his condition, nor consented to accept any aid.

We now went, alone, into his apartment. His sensibility seemed fast ebbing, yet an emotion of joy was visible in his eyes at the appearance of Mervyn. He seemed likewise to recognize in me his late visit­ant, and made no objection to my entrance.

How are you this morning? said Arthur, seating himself on the bed-side, and taking his hand. The sick man was scarcely able to articulate his reply—I shall soon be well. I have longed to see you. I want to leave with you a few words. He now cast his languid eyes on me. You are his friend, he continued. You know all. You may stay.—

There now succeeded a long pause, during which he closed his eyes, and resigned himself as if to an oblivion of all thought. His pulse under my hand was scarcely perceptible. From this in some minutes he recovered, and fixing his eyes on Mervyn, resumed, in a broken and feeble accent:

[Page 142]Clemenza! You have seen her. Weeks ago, I left her in an accursed house: yet she has not been mis­treated. Neglected and abandoned indeed, but not mistreated. Save her Mervyn. Comfort her. Awa­ken charity for her sake.

I cannot tell you what has happened. The tale would be too long—too mournful. Yet, in justice to the living, I must tell you something. My woes and my crimes will be buried with me. Some of them, but not all.

Ere this, I should have been many leagues upon the ocean, had not a newspaper fallen into my hands while on the eve of embarkation. By that I learned that a treasure was buried with the remains of the ill-fated Watson. I was destitute. I was unjust enough to wish to make this treasure my own. Prone to think I was forgotten, or numbered with the victims of pesti­lence, I ventured to return under a careless disguise. I penetrated to the vaults of that deserted dwelling by night. I dug up the bones of my friend, and found the girdle and its valuable contents, according to the accu­rate description that I had read.

I hastened back with my prize to Baltimore, but my evil destiny overtook me at last. I was recognized by emissaries of Jamieson, arrested and brought hither, and here shall I consummate my fate and defeat the rage of my creditors by death. But first—

Here Welbeck stretched out his left hand to Mer­vyn, and, after some reluctance, shewed a roll of lead.

Receive this, said he. In the use of it, be guided by your honesty and by the same advertisement that fur­nished me the clue by which to recover it. That being secured, the world and I will part forever. Withdraw, for your presence can help me nothing.

We were unwilling to comply with his injunction, and continued some longer time in his chamber, but our kind intent availed nothing. He quickly relapsed into insensibility, from which he recovered not again, but next day expired. Such, in the flower of his age, was the fate of Thomas Welbeck.

[Page 143]Whatever interest I might feel in accompanying the progress of my young friend, a sudden and unforeseen emergency compelled me again to leave the city. A kinsman, to whom I was bound by many obligations, was suffering a lingering disease, and imagining, with some reason, his dissolution to be not far distant, he be­sought my company and my assistance, to sooth, at least, the agonies of his last hour. I was anxious to clear up the mysteries which Arthur's conduct had produced, and to shield him, if possible, from the evils which I feared awaited him. It was impossible, how­ever, to decline the invitation of my kinsman, as his resi­dence was not a day's journey from the city. I was obliged to content myself with occasional information, imparted by Mervyn's letters, or those of my wife.

Meanwhile, on leaving the prison, I hasted to inform Mervyn of the true nature of the scene which had just passed. By this extraordinary occurrence, the pro­perty of the Maurices was now in honest hands. Welbeck, stimulated by selfish motives, had done that which any other person would have found encompassed with formidable dangers and difficulties. How this at­tempt was suggested or executed, he had not informed us, nor was it desirable to know. It was sufficient that the means of restoring their own to a destitute and meritorious family, were now in our possession.

Having returned home, I unfolded to Mervyn all the particulars respecting Williams and the Maurices, which I had lately learned from Wortley. He listened with deep attention, and my story being finished, he said: In this small compass, then, is the patrimony and subsistence of a numerous family. To restore it to them is the obvious proceeding—but how? Where do they abide?

Williams and Watson's wife live in Baltimore, and the Maurices live near that town. The advertisements alluded to by Wortley, and which are to be found in any newspaper, will inform us; but first, are we sure that any or all of these bills are contained in this covering?

[Page 144]The lead was now unrolled, and the bills which Wil­liams had described, were found inclosed. Nothing ap­peared to be deficient. Of this, however, we were scarcely qualified to judge. Those that were the pro­perty of Williams might not be entire, and what would be the consequence of presenting them to him, if any had been embezzled by Welbeck?

This difficulty was obviated by Mervyn, who observ­ed that the advertisement, describing these bills, would afford us ample information on this head. Having found out where the Maurices and Mrs. Watson live, nothing remains but to visit them, and put an end, as far as lies in my power, to their inquietudes.

What! Would you go to Baltimore?

Certainly. Can any other expedient be proper? How shall I otherwise insure the safe conveyance of these papers?

You may send them by post.

But why not go myself?

I can hardly tell, unless your appearance on such an errand, may be suspected likely to involve you in em­barrassments.

What embarrassments? If they receive their own, ought they not to be satisfied?

The enquiry will naturally be made as to the manner of gaining possession of these papers. They were lately in the hands of Watson, but Watson has disap­peared. Suspicions are awake respecting the cause of his disappearance. These suspicions are connected with Welbeck, and Welbeck's connection with you is not unknown.

These are evils, but I see not how an ingenuous and open conduct is adapted to increase these evils. If they come, I must endure them.

I believe your decision is right. No one is so skilful an advocate in a cause, as he whose cause it is. I rely upon your skill and address, and shall leave you to pursue your own way. I must leave you for a time, but shall expect to be punctually informed of all that passes. With this agreement we parted, and I hastened to perform my intended journey.

I AM glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far upon its journey. What remains of my story may be dispatched in a trice. I have just now some vacant hours, which might possibly be more usefully employ­ed, but not in an easier manner or more pleasant. So, let me carry on thy thread.

First, let me mention the resolutions I had formed at the time I parted with my friend. I had several ob­jects in view. One was a conference with Mrs. Went­worth: another was an interview with her whom I met with at Villars's. My heart melted when I thought upon the desolate condition of Clemenza, and deter­mined me to direct my first efforts for her relief. For this end I was to visit the female who had given me a direction to her house. The name of this person is Achsa Fielding, and she lived, according to her own direction, at No. 40, Walnut-street.

I went thither without delay. She was not at home. Having gained information from the servant, as to when she might be found, I proceeded to Mrs. Went­worth's. In going thither my mind was deeply occu­pied in meditation; and, with my usual carelessness of forms, I entered the house and made my way to the [Page 146] parlour, where an interview had formerly taken place between us.

Having arrived, I began, though somewhat un [...]ea­sonably, to reflect upon the topics with which I should introduce my conversation, and particularly the man­ner in which I should introduce myself. I had opened doors without warning, and traversed passages without being noticed. This had arisen from my thoughtless­ness. There was no one within hearing or sight. What was next to be done? Should I not return softly to the outer door, and summon the servant by knocking?

Preparing to do this, I heard a footstep in the en­try which suspended my design. I stood in the mid­dle of the floor, attentive to these movements, when presently the door opened, and there entered the apart­ment Mrs. Wentworth herself! She came, as it seem­ed, without expectation of finding any one there. When, therefore, the figure of a man caught her va­grant attention, she started and cast an hasty look to­wards me.

Pray! (in a peremptory tone) how came you here, sir? and what is your business?

Neither arrogance, on the one hand; nor humility, upon the other, had any part in modesting my deport­ment. I came not to deprecate anger, or exult over distress. I answered, therefore, distinctly, firmly, and erectly.

I came to see you, madam, and converse with you▪ but, being busy with other thoughts, I forgot to knock at the door. No evil was intended by my negligence, though propriety has certainly not been observed. Will you pardon this intrusion, and condescend to grant me your attention?

To what? What have you to say to me? I know you only as the accomplice of a villain in an attempt to deceive me. There is nothing to justify your coming hither, and I desire you to leave the house with as lit­tle ceremony as you entered it.

[Page 147]My eyes were lowered at this rebuke, yet I did not obey the command. Your treatment of me, madam, is such as I appear to you to deserve. Appearances are unfavorable to me, but those appearances are false. I have concurred in no plot against your reputation or your fortune. I have told you nothing but the truth. I came hither to promote no selfish or sinister purpose. I have no favor [...]o entreat, and no petition to offer, but that you will suffer me to clear up those mistakes which you have harbored respecting me.

I am poor. I am destitute of fame and of kindred. I have nothing to console me in obscurity and indi­gence, but the approbation of my own heart and the good opinion of those who know me as I am. The good may be led to despise and condemn me. Their aversion and scorn shall not make me unhappy; but it is my interest and my duty to rectify their error if I can. I regard your character with esteem. You have been mistaken in condemning me as a liar and impostor, and I came to remove this mistake. I came, if not to procure your esteem, at least, to take away hatred and suspicion.

But this is not all my purpose. You are in an error in relation not only to my character, but to the situa­tion of your nephew Clavering. I formerly told you, that I saw him die; that I assisted at his burial; but my tale was incoherent and imperfect, and you have since received intelligence to which you think proper to trust, and which assures you that he is still living. All I now ask is your attention, while I relate the par­ticulars of my knowledge.

Proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no va­lue in your eyes, but the fate of your nephew ought to be known to you. Certaintly, on this head, may be of much importance to your happiness, and to the re­gulation of your future conduct. To hear me patient­ly can do you no injury, and may benefit you much. Will you permit me to go on?

During this address, little abatement of resentment and scorn was visible in my companion.

[Page 148]I will hear you, she replied. Your invention may amuse if it does not edify. But, I pray you, let your story be short.

I was obliged to be content with this ungraceful concession, and proceeded to begin my narration. I described the situation of my father's dwelling. I mentioned the year, month, day, and hour of her ne­phew's appearance among us. I expatiated minutely on his form, features, dress, sound of his voice, and repeated his words. His favorite gestures and atti­tudes were faithfully described.

I had gone but a little way in my story, when the effects were visible in her demeanor which I expected from it. Her knowledge of the youth, and of the time and manner of his disappearance, made it im­possible for me, with so minute a narrative, to impose upon her credulity. Every word, every incident re­lated, attested my truth, by their agreement with what she herself previously knew.

Her suspicions and angry watchfulness was quickly exchanged for downcast looks, and stealing tears, and sighs difficultly repressed. Meanwhile, I did not pause, but described the treatment he received from my mo­ther's tenderness, his occupations, the freaks of his insanity, and, finally, the circumstances of his death and funeral.

Thence I hastened to the circumstances which brought me to the city; which placed me in the ser­vice of Welbeck, and obliged me to perform so am­biguous a part in her presence. I left no difficulty to be solved and no question unanticipated.

I have now finished my story, I continued, and ac­complished my design in coming hither. Whether I have vindicated my integrity from your suspicions, I know not. I have done what in me lay to remove your error; and, in that, have done my duty.— What more remains? Any enquiries you are pleased to make, I am ready to answer. If there be none to make, I will comply with your former commands, and leave the house with as little ceremony as I entered it.

[Page 149]Your story, she replied, has been unexpected. I be­lieve it fully, and am sorry for the hard thoughts which past appearances have made me entertain concerning you.

Here she sunk into mournful silence. The informa­tion, she at length resumed, which I have received from another quarter respecting that unfortunate youth, as­tonishes and perplexes me. It is inconsistent with your story, but it must be founded on some mistake, which I am, at present, unable to unravel. Welbeck, whose connection has been so unfortunate to you—

Unfortunate! Dear Madam! How unfortunate? It has done away a part of my ignorance of the world in which I live. It has led me to the situation in which I am now placed. It has introduced me to the know­ledge of many good people. It has made me the wit­ness and the subject of many acts of beneficence and generosity. My knowledge of Welbeck has been use­ful to me. It has enabled me to be useful to others. I look back upon that allotment of my destiny which first led me to his door, with gratitude and pleasure.

Would to Heaven, continued I, somewhat changing my tone, intercourse with Welbeck had been as harm­less to all others as it has been to me: that no injury to fortune and fame, and innocence and life, had been incurred by others greater than has fallen upon my head. There is one being, whose connection with him has not been utterly dissimilar in its origin and circumstances to mine, though the catastrophe has, indeed, been widely and mournfully different.

And yet, within this moment, a thought has occur­red from which I derive some consolation and some hope. You, dear madam, are rich. These spacious apartments, this plentiful accommodation are yours. You have enough for your own gratification and conve­nience, and somewhat to spare. Will you take to your protecting arms, to your hospitable roof, an unhappy girl whom the arts of Welbeck have robbed of fortune, reputation and honor, who is now languishing in po­verty, weeping over the lifeless remains of her babe, [Page 150] surrounded by the agents of vice, and trembling on the verge of infamy?

What can this mean? replied the lady. Of whom do you speak?

You shall know her. You shall be apprized of her claims to your compassion. Her story, as far as is known to me, I will faithfully repeat to you. She is a stranger; an Italian; her name is Clemenza Lodi.—

Clemenza Lodi! Good Heaven! exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth; why, surely—it cannot be. And yet— Is it possible that you are that person?

I do not comprehend you, madam.

A friend has related a transaction of a strange sort. It is scarcely an hour since she told it me. The name of Clemenza Lodi was mentioned in it, and a young man of most singular deportment was described.—But tell me how you were engaged on Thursday morning?

I was coming to this city from a distance. I stopped ten minutes at the house of—

Mrs. Villars?

The same. Perhaps you know her and her character. Perhaps you can confirm or rectify my present opinions concerning her. It is there that the unfortunate Cle­menza abides. It is thence that I wish her to be spee­dily removed.

I have heard of you; of your conduct upon that oc­casion.

Of me? answered I eagerly. Do you know that woman? So saying, I produced the card which I had received from her, and in which her name was written.

I know her well. She is my countrywoman and my friend.

Your friend? Then she is good—she is innocent— she is generous. Will she be a sister, a protectress to Clemenza? Will you exhort her to a dead of charity? Will you be, yourself, an example of beneficence? Di­rect me to Miss Fielding, I beseech you. I have called on her already, but in vain, and there is no time to be lost.

Why are you so precipitate? What would you do?

[Page 151]Take her away from that house instantly—bring her hither—place her under your protection—give her Mrs. Wentworth for a counsellor—a friend—a mother. Shall I do this? Shall I hie thither to-day, this very hour—now? Give me your consent, and she shall be with you before noon.

By no means, replied she, with earnestness. You are too hasty. An affair of so much importance can­not be dispatched in a moment. There are many diffi­culties and doubts to be first removed.

Let them be reserved for the future. Withhold not your helping hand till the struggler has disappeared for­ever. Think on the gulph that is already gaping to swallow her. This is no time to hesitate and faulter. I will tell you her story, but not now; we will post­pone it till to-morrow; and first secure her from im­pending evils. She shall tell it you herself. In an hour I will bring her hither, and she herself shall recount to you her sorrows. Will you let me?

Your behaviour is extraordinary. I can scarcely tell whether this simplicity be real or affected. One would think that your common sense would shew you the im­propriety of your request. To admit under my roof a woman, notoriously dishonoured, and from an infamous house—

My dearest madam! How can you reflect upon the situation without irresistible pity? I see that you are thoroughly aware of her past calamity and her present danger. Do not these urge you to make haste to her relief? Can any lot be more deplorable than hers? Can any state be more perilous? Poverty is not the only evil that oppresses, or that threatens her. The scorn of the world▪ and her own compunction, the death of the fruit of her error and the witness of her shame, are not the worst. She is exposed to the temptations of the profli­gate; while she remains with Mrs. Villars, her infamy accumulates; her further debasement is facilitated; her return to reputation and to virtue is obstructed by new bars.

How know I that her debasement is not already com­plete and irremidable? She is a mother but not a wife. [Page 152] How came she thus? Is her being Welb [...]ck's prostitute no proof of her guilt?

Alas! I know not. I believe her not very culpable; I know her to be unfortunate; to have been robbed and betrayed. You are a stranger to her history. I am myself imperfectly acquainted with it.

But let me tell you the little that I know. Perhaps my narrative may cause you to think of her as I do.

She did not object to this proposal, and I immediate­ly recounted all that I had gained from my own obser­vations, or from Welbeck himself, respecting this for­lorn girl. Having finished my narrative, I proceeded thus:—

Can you hesitate to employ that power which was gi­ven you for good ends, to rescue this sufferer? Take her to your home; to your bosom; to your confidence. Keep aloof those temptations which beset her in her present situation. Restore her to that purity which her desolate condition, her ignorance; her misplaced grati­tude and the artifices of a skilful dissembler, have de­stroyed, if it be destroyed; for how know we under what circumstances her ruin was accomplished? With what pretences or appearances, or promises she was won to compliance?

True. I confess my ignorance; but ought not that ignorance to be removed before she makes a part of my family?

O no! It may be afterwards removed. It cannot be removed before. By bringing her hither you shield her, at least, from future and possible evils. Here you can watch her conduct and sift her sentiments conve­niently and at leisure. Should she prove worthy of your charity, how justly may you congratulate yourself on your seasonable efforts in her cause? If she prove un­worthy, you may then demean yourself according to her demerits.

I must reflect upon it.—To-morrow—

Let me prevail on you to admit her at once, and without delay. This very moment may be the critical one. To-day, we may exert ourselves with success, [Page 153] but to-morrow, all our efforts may be fruitless. Why fluctuate, why linger, when so much good may be done, and no evil can possibly be incurred? It requires but a word from you; you need not move a finger. Your house is large. You have chambers vacant and conve­nient. Consent only that your door shall not be barred against her; that you will treat her with civility; to carry your kindness into effect; to persuade her to at­tend me hither and to place herself in your care, shall be my province.

These, and many similar entreaties and reasonings, were ineffectual. Her general disposition was kind, but she was unaccustomed to strenuous or sudden exertions. To admit the persuasions of such an advo­cate to so uncommon a scheme as that of sharing her house with a creature, thus previously unknown to her, thus loaded with suspicion and with obloquy, was not possible.

I at last forbore importunity, and requested her to tell me when I might expect to meet with Miss Field­ing at her lodgings? Enquiry was made to what end I sought an interview? I made no secret of my purpose.

Are you mad, young man? she exclaimed. Mrs. Fielding has already been egregiously imprudent. On the faith of an ancient slight acquaintance with Mrs. Villars in Europe, she suffered herself to be decoyed into a visit. Instead of taking warning by numerous tokens of the real character of that woman, in her be­haviour, and in that of her visitants, she consented to remain there one night. The next morning took place that astonishing interview with you which she has since described to me. She is now warned against the like in­discretion. And pray, what benevolent scheme would you propose to her?

Has she property? Is she rich?

She is. Unhappily, perhaps, for her, she is absolute mistress of her fortune, and has neither guardian nor parent to controul her in the use of it.

Has she virtue? Does she know the value of affluence and a fair fame? And will not she devote a few dollars [Page 154] to rescue a fellow-creature from indigence and in famy and vice? Surely she will. S. will hazard nothing by the boon. I will be her almoner. I will provide the wretch­ed stranger with food and raiment and dwelling, I will pay for all, if Miss Fielding, from her superfluity will sup­ply the means. Clemenza shall owe life and honor to your friend, till I am able to supply the needful sum from my own stock.

While thus speaking, my companion gazed at me with steadfastness—I know not what to make of you. Your language and ideas are those of a lunatic. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Fielding?

Yes. I have seen her two days ago, and she has in­vited me to see her again.

And on the strength of this acquaintance, you expect to be her almoner? To be the medium of her charity▪

I desire to save her trouble; to make charity as light and easy as possible. 'Twill be better if she perform those offices herself. 'Twill redound more to the credit of her reason and her virtue. But I solicit her benigni­ty only in the cause of Clemenza. For her only do I wish at present to call forth her generosity and pity.

And do you imagine she will entrust her money to one of your age and sex, whom she knows so imperfect­ly, to administer to the wants of one whom she found in such an house as Mrs. Villars's? She never will. She mentioned her imprudent engagement to meet you, but she is now warned against the folly of such confidence.

You have told me plausible stories of yourself and of this Clemenza. I cannot say that I disbelieve them, but I know the ways of the world too well to bestow im­plicit faith so easily. You are an extraordinary young man. You may possibly be honest. Such an one as you, with your education and address, may possibly have passed all your life in an hovel; but it is scarcely credible, let me tell you. I believe most of the facts respecting my nephew, because my knowledge of him before his flight, would enable me to detect your false­hood; but there must be other proofs besides an [Page 155] innocent brow and a voluble tongue, to make me give full credit to your pretensions.

I have no claim upon Welbeck which can embarrass you. On that score, you are free from any mo [...]estation from me or my friends. I have suspected you of being an accomplice in some vile plot, and am now inclined to acquit you, but that is all that you must expect from me, till your character be established by other means than your own assertions. I am egaged at present, and must therefore request you to put an end to your visit.

This strain was much unlike the strain which pre­ceded it. I imagined, by the mildness of her tone and manners, that her unfavorable prepossessions were re­moved, but they seemed to have suddenly regained their pristine force. I was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected change. I stood for a minute silent and ir­resolute.

Just then a knock was heard at the door, and present­ly entered that very female whom I had met with at Villars's. I caught her figure as I glanced through the window. Mrs. Wentworth darted at me many significant glances, which commanded me to withdraw; but with this object in view, it was impossible.

As soon as she entered, her eyes were fixed upon me. Certain recollections naturally occurred at that mo­ment, and made her cheeks glow. Some confusion reigned for a moment, but was quickly dissipated. She did not notice me, but exchanged salutations with her friend.

All this while I stood near the window, in a situation not a little painful. Certain tremors which I had not been accustomed to feel, and which seemed to possess a mystical relation to the visitant, disabled me at once from taking my leave, or from performing any useful purpose by staying. At length, struggling for compo­sure, I approached her, and shewing her the card she had given me, said:—

Agreeably to this direction, I called, an hour ago, at your lodgings. I found you not. I hope you will per­mit [Page 156] me to call once more. When shall I expect to meet you at home?

Her eyes were cast on the floor. A kind of indirect attention was fixed on Mrs. Wentworth, serving to in­timidate and check her. At length she said, in an irre­solute voice, I shall be at home this evening.

And this evening, replied I, I will call to see you. So saying, I left the house.

This interval was tedious; but was to be endured with equanimity. I was impatient to be gone to Balti­more, and hoped to be able to set out by the dawn of next day. Meanwhile, I was necessarily to perform some­thing with respect to Clemenza.

After dinner I accompanied Mrs. Stevens to visit Miss Carlton. I was eager to see a woman who could bear adversity in the manner which my friend had de­scribed.

She met us at the door of her apartment. Her seri­ousness was not abated by her smiles of affability and welcome.—"My friend!" whispered I, "How truly lovely is this Miss Carlton! Are the heart and the in­telligence within worthy of these features?"

"Yes, they are. Your account of her employments; of her resignation to the ill fate of the brother whom she loves, proves that they are."

My eyes were rivetted to her countenance and person. I felt uncontroulable eagerness to speak to her, and to gain her good opinion.

You must know this young man, my dear Miss Carl­ton, said my friend, looking at me: He is my husband's friend, and professes a great desire to be yours. You must not treat him as a mere stranger, for he knows your character and situation already, as well as that of your brother.

She looked at me with benignity.—I accept his friend­ship willingly and gratefully, and shall endeavor to convince him that his good opinion is not misplaced.

There now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in which this young woman shewed a mind vigorous from exercise and unembarrassed by care. She affected [Page 157] no concealment of her own condition, of her wants, or her comforts. She laid no stress upon misfortunes, but contrived to deduce some beneficial consequence to her­self, and some motive for gratitude to Heaven, from every wayward incident that had befallen her.

This demeanor emboldened me, at length, to enquire into the cause of her brother's imprisonment, and the nature of his debt.

She answered frankly and without hesitation. It is a debt of his father's, for which he made himself re­sponsible during his father's life. The act was gene­rous but imprudent, as the event has shewn; though, at the time, the unhappy effects could not be foreseen.

My father, continued she, was arrested by his cre­ditor, at a time when the calmness and comforts of his own dwelling were necessary to his health. The cre­ditor was obdurate, and would release him upon no condition but that of receiving a bond from my bro­ther, by which he engaged to pay the debt at several successive times and in small portions. All these in­stalments were discharged with great difficulty indeed, but with sufficient punctuality, except the last, to which my brother's earnings were not adequate.

How much is the debt?

Four hundred dollars.

And is the state of the creditor such as to make the loss of four hundred dollars of more importance to him than the loss of liberty to your brother?

She answered, smiling, that is a very abstract view of things. On such a question, you and I might, per­haps, easily decide in favor of my brother; but would there not be some danger of deciding partially? His conduct is a proof of his decision, and there is no pow­er to change it.

Will not argument change it? Methinks in so plain a case I should be able to convince him. You say he is rich and childless. His annual income is ten times more than this sum. Your brother cannot pay the debt while in prison; whereas, if at liberty, he [Page 158] might slowly and finally discharge it. If his humanity would not yield, his avarice might be brought to ac­quiesce.

But there is another passion which you would find it somewhat harder to subdue, and that is his vengeance. He thinks himself wronged, and imprisons my brother, not to enforce payment, but to inflict misery. If you could persuade him, that there is no hardship in impri­sonment, you would speedily gain the victory; but that could not be attempted consistently with truth. In proportion to my brother's suffering is his gratifica­tion.

You draw an odious and almost incredible portrait.

And yet such an one as would serve for the likeness of almost every second man we meet.

And is such your opinion of mankind? Your expe­rience must surely have been of a rueful tenor to justi­fy such hard thoughts of the rest of your species.

By no means. It has been what those whose situ­ation disables them from looking further than the sur­face of things, would regard as unfortunate; but if my goods and evils were equitably balanced, the for­mer would be the weightiest. I have found kindness and goodness in great numbers, but have likewise met prejudice and rancor in many. My opinion of Farqu­har is not lightly taken up. I have seen him yester­day, and the nature of his motives in the treatment of my brother was plain enough.

Here this topic was succeeded by others, and the conversation ceased not till the hour had arrived on which I had preconcerted to visit Mrs. Fielding. I left my two friends for this purpose.

I was admitted to Mrs. Fielding's presence without scruple or difficulty. There were two females in her company, and one of the other sex, well dressed, el­derly, and sedate persons. Their discourse turned up­on political topics, with which, as you know, I have but slight acquaintance. They talked of fleets and ar­mies, of Robespierre and Pitt, of whom I had only a newspaper knowledge.

[Page 159]In a short time the women rose, and, huddling on their cloaks, disappeared, in company with the gentle­man. Being thus left alone with Mrs. Fielding, some embarrassment was mutually betrayed. With much hesitation, which, however, gradually disappeared, my companion, at length, began the conversation.

You met me lately, in a situation, sir, on which I look back with trembling and shame, but not with any self-condemnation. I was led into it without any fault, unless a too hasty confidence may be stiled a fault. I had known Mrs. Villars in England, where she lived with an untainted reputation, at least; and the sight of my countrywoman, in a foreign land, awak­ened emotions, in the indulgence of which I did not imagine there was either any guilt or any danger. She invited me to see her at her house with so much ur­gency and warmth, and solicited me to take a place im­mediately in a chaice in which she had come to the city, that I too incautiously complied.

You are a stranger to me, and I am unacqainted with your character. What little I have seen of your deport­ment, and what little I have lately heard concerning you from Mrs. Wentworth, do not produce unfavorable impressions; but the apology I have made was due to my own reputation, and should have been offered to you whatever your character had been. There she stopped.

I came not hither, said I, to receive an apology. Your demeanor, on our first interview, shielded you sufficiently from any suspicions or surmises that I could form. What you have now mentioned was likewise mentioned by your friend, and was fully believed upon her authority. My purpose, in coming, related not to you but to another. I desired merely to inter­est your generosity and justice on behalf of one, whose destitute and dangerous condition may lay claim to your compassion and your succour.

I comprehend you, said she, with an air of some perplexity. I know the claims of that person.

And will you comply with them?

[Page 160]In what manner can I serve her?

By giving her the means of living.

Does she not possess them already?

She is destitute. Her dependence was wholly placed upon one that is dead, by whom her person was disho­nored and her fortune embezzled.

But she still lives. She is not turned into the street. She is not destitute of home.

But what an home?

Such as she may chuse to remain in.

She cannot chuse it. She must not chuse it. She remains through ignorance, or through the incapacity of leaving it.

But how shall she be persuaded to a change?

I will persuade her. I will fully explain her situa­tion. I will supply her with a new home.

You would persuade her to go with you, and to live at a home of your providing, and on your bounty?

Certainly.

Would that change be worthy of a cautious person? Would it benefit her reputation? Would it prove her love of independence?

My purposes are good. I know not why she should suspect them. But I am only anxious to be the in­strument. Let her be indebted to one of her own sex, of unquestionable reputation. Admit her into this house. Invite her to your arms. Cherish and console her as your sister.

Before I am convinced that she deserves it? And even then, what regard shall I, young, unmarried, in­dependent, affluent, pay to my own reputation in har­boring a woman in these circumstances?

But you need not act yourself. Make me your agent and almoner. Only supply her with the means of sub­sistence through me.

Would you have me act a clandestine part? Hold meetings with one of your sex, and give him money for a purpose which I must hide from the world? Is it worth while to be a dissembler and impostor? And will not such conduct incur more dangerous surmises [Page 161] and suspicions, than would arise from acting openly and directly? You will forgive me for reminding you likewise, that it is particularly incumbent upon those in my situation, to be circumspect in their intercourse with men and with strangers. This is the second time that I have seen you. My knowledge of you is ex­tremely dubious and imperfect, and such as would make the conduct you prescribe to me, in an high degree, rash and culpable. You must not, therefore, expect me to pursue it.

These words were delivered with an air of firmness and dignity. I was not insensible to the truth of her representations. I confess, said I, what you have said makes me doubt the propriety of my proposal: yet I would fain be of service to her. Cannot you point out some practicable method?

She was silent and thoughtful, and seemed indisposed to answer my question.

I had set my heart upon success in this negociation, continued I, and could not imagine any obstacle to its success; but I find my ignorance of the world's ways much greater than I had previously expected. You de­fraud yourself of all the happiness redounding from the act of making others happy. You sacrifice substance to shew, and are more anxious to prevent unjust asper­sions from lighting on yourself, than to rescue a fel­low-creature from guilt and infamy.

You are rich, and abound in all the conveniences and luxuries of life. A small portion of your superfluity would obviate the wants of a being not less worthy than yourself. It is not avarice or aversion to labor that makes you withhold your hand. It is dread of the sneers and surmises of malevolence and ignorance.

I will not urge you further at present. Your deter­mination to be wise should not be hasty. Think upon the subject calmly and sedately, and form your reso­lution in the course of three days. At the end of that period I will visit you again. So saying, and without waiting for comment or answer, I withdrew.

I MOUNTED the stage-coach at day-break the next day, in company with a sallow Frenchman from Saint Domingo, his fiddle-case, an ape, and two female blacks. The Frenchman, after passing the suburbs, took out his violin and amused himself with humming to his own tweedle-tweedle. The monkey now and then mounched an apple, which was given to him from a basket by the blacks, who gazed with stupid wonder, and an exclamatory La! La! upon the passing scene­ry; or chattered to each other in a sort of open-mouth­ed, half-articulate, monotonous, and sing-song jargon.

The man looked seldom either on this side or that; and spoke only to rebuke the frolicks of the monkey, with a Tenez! Dominique! Prenez garde! Diable noir!

As to me my thought was busy in a thousand ways. I sometimes gazed at the faces of my four companions, and endeavored to discern the differences and same­nesses between them. I took an exact account of the features, proportions, looks, and gestures of the mon­key, the Congolese, and the Creole-Gaul. I compared them together, and examined them apart. I looked at them in a thousand different points of view, and pursued, untired and unsatiated, those trains of reflec­tions [Page 163] which began at each change of tone, feature, and attitude.

I marked the country as it successively arose before me, and found endless employment in examining the shape and substance of the fence, the barn and the cottage, the aspect of earth and of heaven. How great are the pleasures of health and of mental acti­vity.

My chief occupation, however, related to the scenes into which I was about to enter. My imaginations were, of course, crude and inadequate; and I found an uncommon gratification in comparing realities, as they successively occurred, with the pictures which my wayward fancy had [...].

I will not describe my dreams. My proper task is to relate the truth. Neither shall I dwell upon the images suggested by the condition of the country through which I passed. I will confine myself to mentioning the transactions connected with the purpose of my journey.

I reached Baltimore at night. I was not so fa­tigued, but that I could ramble through the town. I intended, at present, merely the gratification of a stranger's curiosity. My visit to Mrs. Watson and her brother I designed should take place on the mor­row. The evening of my arrival I deemed an unsea­sonable time.

While roving about, however, it occurred to me, that it might not be impolitic to find the way to their habitation even now. My purposes of general curi­osity would equally be served whichever way my steps were bent; and, to trace the path to their dwelling, would save me the trouble of enquiries and interroga­tions to-morrow.

When I looked forward to an interview with the wife of Watson, and to the subject which would be necessa­rily discussed at that interview, I felt a trembling and misgiving at my heart. Surely, thought I, it will be­come me to exercise immeasurable circumspection and [Page 164] address; and yet how little are these adapted to the impetuosity and candor of my nature.

How am I to introduce myself? What am I to tell her? That I was a sort of witness to the murder of her husband? That I received from the hand of his assassin the letter which I afterwards transmitted to her? and, from the same hands, the bills contained in his girdle?

How will she start and look aghast? What suspi­cions will she harbor? What enquiries shall be made of me? How shall they be disarmed and eluded, or answered? Deep consideration will be necessary be­fore I trust myself to such an interview. The coming night shall be devoted to reflection upon this subject.

From these thoughts I proceed [...]d to enquiries for the street mentioned in the advertisement, where Mrs. Watson was said to reside. The street, and, at length, the habitation, was found. Having reached a station opposite, I paused and surveyed the mansion. It was a wooden edifice of two stories; humble, but neat. You ascended to the door by several stone steps. Of the two lower windows, the shutters of one were closed, but those of the other were open. Though late in the evening, there was no appearance of light or fire within.

Beside the house was a painted fence, through which was a gate leading to the back of the building. Guid­ed by the impulse of the moment, I crossed the street to the gate, and, lifting the latch, entered the paved alley, on one side of which was a paled fence, and on the other the house, looking through two windows in­to the alley.

The first window was dark like those in front; but at the second a light was discernible. I approach­ed it, and, looking through, beheld a plain but neat apartment, in which parlour, kitchen, and nursery seemed to be united. A fire burnt cheerfully in the chimney, over which was a tea-kettle. On the hearth sat a smiling and playful cherub of a boy, tossing [Page 165] something to a black girl who sat opposite, and whose innocent and regular features wanted only a different hue to make them beautiful. Near it, in a rocking-chair, with a sleeping babe in her lap, sat a female figure in plain but neat and becoming attire. Her pos­ture permitted half her face to be seen, and saved me from any danger of being observed.

This countenance was full of sweetness and benig­nity, but the sadness that veiled its lustre was pro­found. Her eyes were now fixed upon the fire and were moist with the tears of remembrance, while she sung, in low and scarcely audible strains, an artless lullaby.

This spectacle exercised a strange power over my feelings. While occupied in meditating on the fea­tures of the mother, I was unaware of my conspicu­ous situation. The black girl having occasion to change her situation, in order to reach the ball which was thrown at her, unluckily caught a glance of my figure through the glass. In a tone of half surprise and half terror she cried out—O! see dare! a man!

I was tempted to draw suddenly back, but a second thought shewed me the impropriety of departing thus abruptly, and leaving behind me some alarm. I felt a sort of necessity for apologizing for my intrusion into these precincts, and hastened to a door that led into the same apartment. I knocked. A voice somewhat confused bade me enter. It was not till I opened the door and entered the room, that I fully saw in what embarrassments I had incautiously involved myself.

I could scarcely obtain sufficient courage to speak, and gave a confused assent to the question—"Have you business with me, sir?" She offered me a chair, and I sat down. She put the child, not yet awakened, into the arms of the black, who kissed it and rocked it in her arms with great satisfaction, and, resuming her seat, looked at me with inquisitiveness mingled with complacency.

After a moment's pause, I said—I was directed to this house as the abode of Mr. Ephraim Williams. Can he be seen, madam?

[Page 166]He is not in town at present. If you will leave a message with me, I will punctually deliver it.

The thought suddenly occurred, whether any more was needful than merely to leave the bills suitably en­closed, as they already were, in a pacquet. Thus all painful explanations might be avoided, and I might have reason to congratulate myself on his seasonable absence. Actuated by these thoughts, I drew forth the pacquet, and put it into her hand, saying, I will leave this in your possession, and must earnestly re­quest you to keep it safe until you can deliver it into his own hands.

Scarcely had I said this before new suggestions oc­curred. Was it right to act in this clandestine and mysterious manner? Should I leave these persons in uncertainty respecting the fate of an husband and a brother? What perplexities, misunderstandings, and suspences might not grow out of this uncertainty; and ought they not to be precluded at any hazard to my own safety or good name?

These sentiments made me involuntarily stretch forth my hand to retake the pacquet. This gesture, and other significances in my manners, joined to a trembling consciousness in herself, filled my compa­nion with all the tokens of confusion and fear. She alternately looked at me and at the paper. Her trepi­dation increased, and she grew pale. These emotions were counteracted by a strong effort.

At length she said f [...]lteringly, I will take good care of them, and will give them to my brother.

She rose and placed them in a drawer, after which she resumed her seat.

On this occasion all my wariness forsook me. I cannot explain why my perplexity and the trouble of my thot's were greater upon this than upon similar occasions. However it be, I was incapable of speaking, and fixed my eyes upon the floor. A sort of electrical sympa­thy pervaded my companion, and terror and anguish were strongly manifested in the glances which she sometimes stole at me. We seemed fully to under­stand each other without the aid of words.

[Page 167]This imbecility could not last long. I gradually recovered my composure and collected my scattered thoughts. I looked at her with seriousness, and stead­fastly spoke—Are you the wife of Amos Watson?

She started.—I am, indeed. Why do you ask? Do you know any thing of —? There her voice failed.

I replied with quickness, yes. I am fully acquaint­ed with his destiny.

Good God! she exclaimed in a paroxysm of surprize, and bend [...]ng eagerly forward, my husband is then alive. This pacquet is from him. Where is he? When have you seen him?

'Tis a long time since.

But where, where is he now? Is he well? Will he return to me?

Never▪

Merciful Heaven! looking upwards and clasping her hands, I thank thee at least for his life! But why has he forsaken me? Why will he not return?

For a good reason, said I with augmented solemni­ty, he will never return to thee. Long ago was he laid in the cold grave.

She shrieked; and, at the next moment, sunk in a swoon upon the floor. I was alarmed. The two children shrieked, and ran about the room terrified and un­knowing what they did. I was overwhelmed with somewhat like terror, yet I involuntarily raised the mother in my arms, and cast about for the means of recalling her from this [...]it.

Time to effect this had not clapsed, when several persons, apparently Mrs. Watson's neighbors, and raised by the outcries of the girls, hastily entered the room. They looked at me with mingled surprize and suspicion; but my attitude, being that not of an in­jurer but helper; my countenance, which shewed the pleasure their entrance, at this critical moment, af­forded me; and my words, in which I besought their assistance, and explained, in some degree, and briefly, the cause of those appearances, removed their ill thoughts.

[Page 168]Presently, the unhappy woman, being carried by the new-comers into a bed-room adjoining, recovered her sensibility. I only waited for this. I had done my part. More information would be useless to her, and not to be given by me, at least, in the present audi­ence, without embarrassment and peril. I suddenly determined to withdraw, and this, the attention of the company being otherwise engaged, I did without no­tice. I returned to my inn, and shut myself up in my chamber. Such was the change which, undesign­ed, unforeseen, an half an hour had wrought in my situ­ation. My cautious projects and perished in their con­ception. That which I had deemed so arduous, to re­quire such circumspect approaches, such well concert­ed speeches, was done.

I had started up before this woman as if from the pores of the ground. I had vanished with the same celerity, but had left her in possession of proofs suffi­cient that I was neither spectre nor demon. I will visit her, said I, again. I will see her brother, and know the full effect of my disclosure. I will tell them all that I myself know. Ignorance would be no less injurious to them than to myself; but, first, I will see the Maurices.

NEXT morning I arose betimes, and equipped myself without delay. I had eight or ten miles to walk, so far from the town being the residence of these people; and I forthwith repaired to their dwelling. The per­sons whom I desired to see were known to me only by name, and by their place of abode. It was a mother and her three daughters to whom I now carried the means not only of competence but riches; means which they, no doubt, had long ago despaired of re­gaining, and which, among all possible messengers, one of my age and guise would be the least suspected of being able to restore.

I arrived, through intricate ways, at eleven o'clock, at the house of Mrs. Maurice. It was a neat dwell­ing, in a very fanciful and rustic style, in the bosom of a valley, which, when decorated by the verdure and blos­soms of the coming season, must possess many charms. At present it was naked and dreary.

As I approached it, through a long avenue, I ob­served two female figures, walking arm-in-arm and slowly to and fro, in the path in which I now was. These, said I, are daughters of the family. Graceful, well-dressed, fashionable girls they seem at this distance. May they be deserving of the good tidings [Page 170] which I bring.—Seeing them turn towards the house, I mended my pace, that I might overtake them and re­quest their introduction of me to their mother.

As I more nearly approached, they again turned; and, perceiving me, they stood as if in expectation of my message. I went up to them.

A single glance, cast at each, made me suspect that they were not sisters; but, somewhat to my disap­pointment, there was nothing highly prepossessing in the countenance of either. They were what is every day met with, though less embellished by brilliant drapery and turban, in markets and streets. An air, somewhat haughty, somewhat supercilious, lessened still more their attractions. These defects, however, were nothing to me.

I enquired, of her that seemed to be the elder of the two, for Mrs. Maurice.

She is indisposed, was the cold reply.

That is unfortunate. Is it not possible to see her?

No—with still more gravity.

I was somewhat at a loss how to proceed. A pause ensued. At length, the same lady resumed—What's your business? You can leave your message with me.

With no body but her. If she be not very indis­posed—

She is very indiposed, interrupted she peevishly. If you cannot leave your message, you may take it back again, for she must not be disturbed.

This was a singular reception. I was disconcerted and silent. I knew not what to say. Perhaps, I at last observed, some other time—

No, with increasing heat, no other time. She is more likely to be worse than better. Come, Betsy, said she, taking hold of her companion's arm; and, hieing into the house, shut the door after her, and dis­appeared. I stood, at the bottom of the steps, con­founded at such strange and unexpected treatment. I could not withdraw till my purpose was accomplished. After a moment's pause, I stepped to the door, and [Page 171] pulled the bell. A Negro came, of a very unpropi­tious aspect, and opening the door, looked at me in si­lence. To my question, was Mrs. Maurice to be seen? he made some answer, in a jargon which I could not understand; but his words were immediately [...] ­lowed by an unseen pe [...]n within the house—Mr [...] ▪ Maurice can't be seen by any body. Come in, Cato, and shut the door. This injunction was obeyed by Cato without ceremony.

Here was a dilemma! I came with ten thousand pounds in my hands, to bestow freely on these people, and such was the treatment I received. I must adopt, said I, a new mode.

I lifted the latch, without a second warning, and, Cato having disappeared, went into a room, the door of which chanced to be open, on my right hand. I found within the two females whom I had accosted in the portico. I now addressed myself to the younger— This intrusion, when I have explained the reason of it, will, I hope, be forgiven. I [...]—

Yes, interrupted the other, with a countenance suf­fu [...]ed by indignation, I know very well whom you come from, and what it is that prompts this insolence, but your employer shall see that we have not sunk so low as he imagines. Cato! [...]ob! I say.

My employer, madam! I see you labor under some great mistake. I have no employer. I come from a great distance. I come to bring intelligence of the utmost importance to your family. I come to benefit and not to injure you.

By this time, Bob and Cato, two sturdy blacks, en­tered the room. Turn this person, said the imperious lady, regardless of my explanations, out of the house. Don't you hear me? she continued, observing that they looked one upon the other and hesitated.

Surely, madam, said I, you are precipitate. You are treating like an enemy one who will prove himself your mother's best friend.

Will you leave the house? she exclaimed, quite be­side herself with anger. Villains! why don't you do as I bid you?

[Page 172]The blacks looked upon each other, as if waiting for an example. Their habitual deference for every thing white, no doubt, held their hands from what they regarded as a profanation. At last Bob said, in a whining, beseeching tone—Why, missee, massa buc­kra wanna go for doo, dan he wanna go fo' wee.

The lady now burst into tears of rage. She held out her hand, menacingly. Will you leave the house?

Not willingly, said I, in a mild tone. I came too far to return with the business that brought me unper­formed. I am persuaded, madam, you mistake my character and my views. I have a message to deliver your mother which deeply concerns her and your hap­piness, if you are her daughter. I merely wished to see her, and leave with her a piece of important news; news in which her fortune is deeply interested.

These words had a wonderful effect upon the young lady. Her anger was checked. Good God! she ex­claimed, are you Watson?

No: I am only Watson's representative, and come to do all that Watson could do if he were present.

She was now importunate to know my business.

My business lies with Mrs. Maurice. Advertise­ments, which I have seen, direct me to her, and to this house, and to her only shall I deliver my mes­sage.

Perhaps, said she, with a face of apology, I have mistaken you. Mrs. Maurice is my mother. She is really indisposed, but I can stand in her place on this occasion.

You cannot represent her in this instance. If I cannot have access to her now, I must go; and shall return when you are willing to grant it.

Nay, replied she, she is not, perhaps, so very sick but that—I will go, and see if she will admit you— So saying, she left me for three minutes; and return­ing said, her mother wished to see me.

I followed up stairs, at her request; and, entering an ill-furnished chamber, found, seated in an arm-chair, a lady seemingly in years, pale and visibly in­firm. [Page 173] The lines of her countenance were far from laying claim to my reverence. It was too much like the daughter's

She looked at me, at my entrance, with great eager­ness, and said, in a sharp tone, pray, friend, [...]hat is it you want with-me? Make haste; tell your story, and begone.

My story is a short one, and easily told. Amos Watson was your agent in Jamaica. He sold an es­tate belonging to you, and received the money.

He did, said she, attempting ineffectually to rise from her seat, and her eyes beaming with a signifi­cance that sho [...]ked me—He did, the villain, and pur­loined the money, to the ruin of me and my daughters. But if there be justice on earth it will overtake him. I trust, I shall have the pleasure one day—I hope to hear he's hanged. Well, but go on, friend. He did sell it, I tell you.

He sold it for ten thousand pounds, I resumed, and invested this sum in bills of exchange. Watson is dead. These bills came into my hands. I was lately informed, by the public papers, who were the real owners, and have come from Philadelphia with no other view than to restore them to you. There they are, continued I, placing them in her lap, entire and untouched.

She seized the papers, and looked at me and at her daughter, by turns, with an air of one suddenly be­wildered. She seemed speechless, and growing sud­denly more ghastly pale, leaned her head back upon the chair. The daughter screamed, and hastened to sup­port the languid parent, who difficultly articulated— O! I am sick; sick to death. Put me on the bed.

I was astonished and affrighted at this scene. Some of the domestics, of both colours, entered, and gazed at me with suprize. Involuntarily I withdrew, and returned to the room below into which I had first en­tered, and which I now found deserted.

I was for some time at a loss to guess at the cause of these appearances. At length it occurred to me, [Page 174] that joy was the source of the sickness that had seized Mrs. Maurice. The abrupt recovery of what had probably been deemed irretrievable, would naturally produce this effect upon a mind of a certain texture.

I was deliberating, whether to stay or go, when the daughter entered the room, and, after expressing some surprize at seeing me, whom she supposed to have retired, told me that her mother wished to see me again before my departure. In this request there was no kindness. All was cold, supercilious, and sullen. I obeyed the summons without speaking.

I found Mrs. Maurice seated in her arm-chair, much in her former guise. Without desiring me to be seated, or relaxing ought in her asperity of looks and tones—Pray, friend, how did you come by these pa­pers?

I assure you, madam, they were honestly come by, answered I, sedately and with half a smile; but, if the whole is there that was missing, the mode and time in which they came to me is matter of concern only to myself. Is there any deficiency?

I'm not sure. I don't know much of these matters. There may be less. I dare say there is. I shall know that [...]oon. I expect a friend of mine every minute who will look them over. I don't doubt you can give a good account of yourself.

I doubt not but I can—to those who have a right to demand it. In this case, curiosity must be very urgent indeed, before I shall consent to gratify it.

You must know this is a suspicious case. Watson, to be sure, embezzled the money: to be sure, you are his accomplice.

Certainly, said I, my conduct, on this occasion, proves that. What I have brought to you, of my own accord; what I have restored to you, fully and uncon­ditionally, it is plain Watson embezzled, and that I was aiding in the fraud. To restore what was never [...]tolen always betrays the thief. To give what might he kept without suspicion, is, without doubt, arrant [Page 175] knavery.—To be serious, madam, in coming thus far, for this purpose, I have done enough; and must now bid you farewel.

Nay, don't go [...]. I have something more to say to you. My friend I'm sure will be here presently. There he is, noticing a peal upon the bell. Polly, go down, and see if that's Mr. Somers. If it is, bring him up. The daughter went.

I walked to the window absorbed in my own reflec­tions. I was disappointed and dejected. The scene before me was the unpleasing reverse of all that my fancy, while coming hither, had foreboded. I ex­pected to find virtuous indigence and sorrow lifted, by my means, to affluence and exultation. I expected to witness the tears of gratitude and the caresses of af­fection. What had I found? Nothing but sordid­ness, stupidity, and illiberal suspicion.

The daughter staid much longer than the mother's patience could endure. She knocked against the floor with her heel. A servant came up.—Where's Polly, you slut? It was not you, hussey, that I wanted. It was her.

She is talking in the parlour with a gentleman.

Mr. Somers, I suppose; hay! fool! Run with my compliments to him, wench. Tell him, please walk up.

It is not Mr. Somers, ma'am.

No! Who then, saucebox? What gentleman can have any thing to do with Polly?

I don't know, ma'am.

Who said you did, impertinence? Run, and tell her I want her this instant.

The summons was not delivered, or Polly did not think proper to obey it. Full ten minutes of thought­ful silence on my part, and of muttered vexation and impatience on that of the old lady, elapsed before Pol­ly's entrance. As soon as she appeared, the mother began to complain bitterly of her inattention and neg­lect; but Polly, taking no notice of her, addressed [Page 176] herself to me, and told me, that a gentleman below wished to see me. I hastened down, and found a stran­ger, of a plain appearance, in the parlour. His aspect was liberal and ingenuous; and I quickly collected from his discourse, that this was the brother-in-law of Watson, and the companion of his last voyage.

MY eyes sparkled with pleasure at this unexpected interview, and I willingly confessed my desire to com­municate all the knowledge of his brother's destiny which I possessed. He told me, that, returning late to Baltimore on the last evening, he found his sister in much agitation and distress, which, after a time, she explained to him. She likewise put the pacquets I had left into his hands.

I leave you to imagine, continued he, my surprize and curiosity at this discovery. I was, of course, im­patient to see the bearer of such extraordinary tidings. This morning, enquiring for one of your appearance at the taverns, I was, at length, informed of your arrival yesterday in the stage; of your going out alone in the evening; of your subsequent return; and of your early departure this morning. Accidentally I lighted on your footsteps; and, by suitable enquiries on the road, have finally traced you hither.

You told my sister her husband was dead. You left with her papers that were probably in his possession at the time of his death. I understand from Miss Mau­rice that the bills belonging to her mother, have just been delivered to her. I presume you have no objec­tion to clear up this mystery.

[Page 178]To you I am anxious to unfold every thing. At this moment, or at any time, but the sooner, the more a­greeable to me, I will do it.

This, said he, looking around him, is no place; there is an inn not an hundred yards from this gate, where I have left my horse; will you go thither? I readily consented, and calling for a private apartment, I laid before this man every incident of my life connected with Welbeck and Watson; my full, circumstantial and explicit story, appeared to remove every doubt which he might have entertained of my integrity.

In Williams, I found a plain good man, of a temper confiding and affectionate. My narration being finished, he expressed, by unaffected tokens, his wonder and his grief on account of Watson's destiny. To my enqui­ries, which were made with frankness and fervor, re­specting his own and his sister's condition, he said, that the situation of both was deplorable till the reco­very of this property. They had been saved from ut­ter ruin, from beggary and a jail, only by the genero­sity and lenity of his creditors, who did not suffer the suspicious circumstances attending Watson's disappear­ance to outweigh former proofs of his probity. They had never relinquished the hopes of receiving some tid­ings of their kinsman.

I related what had just passed in the house of Mrs. Maurice, and requested to know from him the history and character of this family.

They have treated you, he answered, exactly as any one who knew them would have predicted. The mo­ther is narrow, ignorant, bigotted, and avaricious. The eldest daughter, whom you saw, resembles the old lady in many things. Age, indeed, may render the similitude complete. At present, pride and ill-humor are her chief characteristics.

The youngest daughter has nothing in mind or per­son in common with her family. Where they are ir­rascible, she is patient; where they are imperious, she is humble; where they are covetous, she is liberal; where they are ignorant and indolent, she is studious [Page 179] and skilful. It is rare, indeed, to find a young lady more amiable than Miss Fanny Maurice, or who has had more crosses and afflictions to sustain.

The eldest daughter always extorted the supply of her wants, from her parents, by threats and importu­nities; but the younger could never be prevailed upon to employ the same means, and, hence, she suffered inconveniences which, to any other girl, born to an equal rank, would have been, to the last degree, hu­miliating and vexatious. To her they only afforded new opportunities for the display of her most shining virtues—fortitude and charity. No instance of their sordidness or tyranny ever stole a murmur from her. For what they had given, existence and a virtuous education, she said they were entitled to gratitude. What they withheld was their own, in the use of which they were not accountable to her. She was not asham­ed to owe her subsistence to her own industry, and was only held, by the pride of her family—in this instance their pride was equal to their avarice—from seeking out some lucrative kind of employment. Since the shock which their fortune sustained, by Watson's disappear­ance, she has been permitted to pursue this plan, and she now teaches music in Baltimore for a living. No one, however, in the highest rank, can be more gene­rally respected and caressed than she is.

But will not the recovery of this money make a fa­vorable change in her condition?

I can hardly tell; but I am inclined to think it will not. It will not change her mother's character. Her pride may be awakened anew, and she may oblige Miss Fanny to relinquish her new profession, and that will be a change to be deplored.

What good has been done, then, by restoring this money?

If pleasure be good, you must have conferred a great deal on the Maurices; upon the mother and two of the daughters, at least. The only pleasure, indeed, which their natures can receive. It is less than if you had raised them from absolute indigence, which has [Page 180] not been the case, since they had wherewithal to live upon beside their Jamaica property. But how, conti­nued Williams, suddenly recollecting himself, have you claimed the reward promised to him who should re­store these bills?

What reward?

No less than a thousand dollars. It was publicly promised under the hands of Mrs. Maurice and of Hem­ming, her husband's executor.

Really, said I, that circumstance escaped my at­tention, and I wonder that it did; but is it too late to repair the evil?

Then you have no scruple to accept the reward?

Certainly not. Could you suspect me of so strange a punctilio as that?

Yes; but I know not why. The story you have just finished taught me to expect some unreasonable re­finement upon that head.—To be hired, to be bribed to do our duty is supposed by some to be degrading.

This is no such bribe to me. I should have acted just as I have done, had no recompence been promised. In truth, this has been my conduct, for I never once thought of the reward; but now that you remind me of it, I would gladly see it bestowed. To fulfil their engagements, in this respect, is no more than justice in the Maurices. To one, in my condition, the mo­ney will be highly useful. If these people were poor, or generous and worthy, or if I myself were already rich, I might less repine at their withholding it; but, things being as they are with them and with me, it would, I think, be gross injustice in them to withhold, and in me to refuse.

That injustice, said Williams, will, on their part, I fear, be committed. 'Tis pity you first applied to Mrs. Maurice. Nothing can be expected from her avarice, unless it be wrested from her by a lawsuit.

That is a force which I shall never apply.

Had you gone first to Hemming's, you might, I think, have looked for payment. He is not a mean [Page 181] man. A thousand dollars he must know is not much to give for forty thousand. Perhaps, indeed, it may not yet be too late. I am well known to him, and if you please, will attend you to him in the evening, and state your claim.

I thankfully accepted this offer, and went with him accordingly. I found that Hemmings had been with Mrs. Maurice in the course of the day; had received from her intelligence of this transaction, and had enter­tained the expectation of a visit from me for this very purpose.

While Williams explained to him the nature of my claim, he scanned me with great intentness. His aus­tere and inflexible brow, afforded me little room to hope for success, and this hopelessness was confirmed by his silence and perplexity, when Williams had made an end.

To be sure, said he, after some pause, the contract was explicit. To be sure, the conditions on Mr. Mer­vyn's side have been performed. Certain it is, the bills are entire and complete, but Mrs. Maurice will not consent to do her part, and Mrs. Maurice, to whom the papers were presented, is the person, by whom, ac­cording to the terms of the contract, the reward must be paid.

But Mrs. Maurice, you know, sir, may be legally compelled to pay, said Williams.

Perhaps she may; but I tell you plainly, that she ne­ver will do the thing without compulsion. Legal pro­cess, however, in this case, will have other inconve­niences besides delay. Some curiosity will naturally be excited, as to the history of these papers. Watson disappeared a twelve month ago. Who can avoid asking, where have these papers been deposited all this while, and how came this person in possession of them?

That kind of curiosity, said I, is natural and lauda­ble, and gladly would I gratify it. Disclosure or con­cealment in that case, however, would no wise affect my present claim. Whether a bond, legally executed, shall be paid, does not depend upon determining whether [Page 182] the payer is fondest of boiled mutton or roast beef. Truth, in the first case, has no connection with truth in the second. So far from eluding this curiosity; so far from studying concealment, I am anxious to pub­lish the truth.

You are right, to be sure, said Hemmings. Curio­sity is a natural, but only an incidental consequence in this case. I have no reason for desiring that it should be an unpleasant consequence to you.

Well, sir, said Williams, you think that Arthur Mervyn has no remedy in this case but the law.

Mrs. Maurice, to be sure, will never pay but on compulsion. Mervyn should have known his own in­terest better. While his left hand was stretched out to give, his right should have been held forth to receive. As it is, he must be contented with the aid of law. Any attorney will prosecute on condition of receiving half the sum when recovered.

We now rose to take our leave, when, Hemmings desiring us to pause a moment, said, to be sure, in the utmost strictness of the terms of our promise, the re­ward was to be paid by the person who received the pa­pers; but it must be owned that your claim, at any rate, is equitable: I have money of the deceased Mr. Maurice in my hands. These very bills are now in my possession. I will therefore pay you your due, and take the consequences of an act of justice on myself. I was prepared for you. Sign that receipt, and there is a check for the amount.

THIS unexpected and agreeable decision was accom­panied by an invitation to supper, at which we were treated by our host with much affability and kindness. Finding me the author of Williams's good fortune, as well as Mrs. Maurice's, and being assured by the for­mer of his entire conviction of the rectitude of my conduct, he laid aside all reserve and distance with re­gard to me. He enquired into my prospects and wish­es, and professed his willingness to serve me.

I dealt with equal unreserve and frankness. I am poor, said I▪ Money for my very expences hither, I have borrowed from a friend, to whom I am, in other respects, much indebted, and whom I expect to com­pensate only by gratitude and future services.

In coming hither, I expected only an increase of my debts; to sink still deeper into poverty; but happily the issue has made me rich. This hour has given me com­petence, at least.

What! call you a thousand dollars competence?

More than competence. I call it an abundance. My own ingenuity, while I enjoy health, will enable me to live. This I regard as a fund, first to pay my debts, and next to supply deficiencies occasioned by un­toward accidents or ill health, during the ensuing three or four years, at least.

[Page 184]We parted with this new acquaintance at a late hour, and I accepted Williams's invitation to pass the time I should spend at Baltimore, under his sister's roof. There were several motives for prolonging this stay. What I had heard of Miss Fanny Maurice, excited strong wishes to be personally acquainted with her. This young lady was affectionately attached to Mrs. Watson, by whose means my wishes were easily ac­complished.

I never was in habits of reserve, even with those whom I had no reason to esteem. With those who claimed my admiration and affection, it was impossible to be incommunicative. Before the end of my second interview, both these women were mistresses of every momentous incident of my life, and of the whole chain of my feelings and opinions, in relation to every sub­ject, and particularly in relation to themselves. Every topic disconnected with these, is comparatively lifeless and inert.

I found it easy to win their attention, and to render them communicative in their turn. As full disclosures as I had made without condition or request, my enqui­ries and example easily obtained from Mrs. Watson and Miss Maurice. The former related every event of her youth, and the circumstances leading to her marriage. She depicted the character of her husband, and the whole train of suspences and inquietudes occasioned by his disappearance. The latter did not hide from me her opinions upon any important subject, and made me thoroughly acquainted with her actual situation.

This intercourse was strangely fascinating. My heart was buoyed up by a kind of intoxication. I now found myself exalted to my genial element, and began to taste the delights of existence. In the intercourse of ingenious and sympathetic minds, I found a pleasure which I had not previously conceived.

The time flew swiftly away, and a fortnight passed almost before I was aware that a day had gone by. I did not forget the friends whom I had left behind, but maintained a punctual correspondence with Stevens, to whom I imparted all occurrences.

[Page 185]The recovery of my friend's kinsman, allowed him in a few days to return home. His first object was the consolation and relief of Carlton, whom, with much difficulty, he persuaded to take advantage of the laws in favor of insolvent debtors. Carlton's only debt was owing to his uncle, and by rendering up every species of property, except his clothes and the implements of his trade, he obtained a full discharge. In conjunction with his sister, he once more assumed the pen, and be­ing no longer burthened with debts he was unable to discharge, he resumed, together with his pen, his cheerfulness. Their mutual industry was sufficient for their decent and moderate subsistence.

The chief reason for my hasty return, was my anxi­ety respecting Clemenza Lodi. This reason was remo­ved by the activity and benevolence of my friend. He paid this unfortunate stranger a visit at Mrs. Villars's. Access was easily obtained, and he found her sunk in­to the deepest melancholy. The recent loss of her child, the death of Welbeck, of which she was soon apprized, her total dependence upon those with whom she was placed, who, however, had always treated her without barbarity or indecorum, were the calamities that weighed down her spirit.

My friend easily engaged her confidence and grati­tude, and prevailed upon her to take refuge under his own roof. Mrs. Wentworth's scruples, as well as those of Mrs. Fielding, were removed by his argu­ments and entreaties, and they consented to take upon themselves, and divide between them, the care of her subsistence and happiness. They condescended to ex­press much curiosity respecting me, and some interest in my welfare, and promised to receive me on my re­turn, on the footing of a friend.

With some reluctance, I at length bade my new friends farewel, and returned to Philadelphia. No­thing remained, before I should enter on my projected scheme of study and employment, under the guidance of Stephens, but to examine the situation of Eliza Hadwin with my own eyes, and if possible, to extri­cate my father from his unfortunate situation.

[Page 186]My father's state had given me the deepest concern. I figured to myself his condition, besotted by brutal ap­petites, reduced to beggary, shut up in a noisome prison, and condemned to that society which must foster all his depraved propensities. I revolved various schemes for his relief. A few hundreds would take him from pri­son, but how should he be afterwards disposed of? How should he be cured of his indolent habits? How should he be screened from the contagion of vicious society? By what means, consistently with my own wants, and the claims of others, should I secure to him an accept­able subsistence?

Exhortation and example were vain. Nothing but restraint would keep him at a distance from the haunts of brawling and debauchery. The want of money would be no obstacle to prodigality and waste. Credit would be resorted to as long as it would answer his de­mand. When that failed, he would once more be thrown into a prison; the same means to extricate him would be to be repeated, and money be thus put into the pockets of the most worthless of mankind, the agents of drunkenness and blasphemy, without any permanent advantage to my father, the principal object of my charity.

Though unable to fix on any plausible mode of pro­ceeding, I determined, at least, to discover his present condition. Perhaps, something might suggest itself, upon the spot, suited to my purpose. Without delay I proceeded to the village of Newtown, and alighting at the door of the prison, enquired for my father.

Sawny Mervyn you want, I suppose, said the keeper. Poor fellow! He came into limbo in a crazy condition, and has been a burthen on my hands ever since. After lingering along for some time, he was at last kind enough to give us the slip. It is just a week since he drank his last pint—and died.

I was greatly shocked at this intelligence. It was some time before my reason came to my aid, and shew­ed me that this was an event, on the whole, and on a disinterested and dispassionate view, not unfortunate. [Page 187] The keeper knew not my relation to the deceased, and readily recounted the behaviour of the prisoner and the circumstances of his last hours.

I shall not repeat the narrative. It is useless to keep alive the sad remembrance. He was now beyond the reach of my charity or pity; and since reflection could answer no beneficial end to him, it was my duty to di­vert my thoughts into different channels, and live hence­forth for my own happiness and that of those who were within the sphere of my influence.

I was now alone in the world, so far as the total want of kindred creates solitude. Not one of my blood, nor even of my name, were to be found in this quarter of the world. Of my mother's kindred I knew nothing. So far as friendship or service might be claimed from them, to me they had no existence. I was destitute of all those benefits which flow from kindred, in relation to protection, advice or property. My inheritance was nothing. Not a single relique or trinket in my posses­sion constituted a memorial of my family. The scenes of my childish and juvenile days were dreary and deso­late. The fields which I was wont to traverse, the room in which I was born, retained no traces of the past. They were the property and residence of strangers, who knew nothing of the former tenants, and who, as I was now told, had hastened to new-model and transform every thing within and without the habitation.

These images filled me with melancholy, which, how­ever, disappeared in proportion as I approached the abode of my beloved girl. Absence had endeared the image of my Bess—I loved to call her so—to my soul. I could not think of her without a melting softness at my heart, and tears in which pain and pleasure were unac­countably mingled. As I approached Curling's house, I strained my sight, in hopes of distinguishing her form through the evening dusk.

I had told her of my purpose, by letter. She expect­ed my approach at this hour, and was stationed, with a heart throbbing with impatience, at the road side, near the gate. As soon as I alighted, she rushed into my arms.

[Page 188]I found my sweet friend less blithsome and contented than I wished. Her situation, in spite of the parental and sisterly regards which she received from the Cur­lings, was mournful and dreary to her imagination. Ru­ral business was irksome, and insufficient to fill up her time. Her life was tiresome, and uniform and heavy.

I ventured to blame her discontent, and pointed out the advantages of her situation. Whence, said I, can these dissatisfactions and repinings arise?

I cannot tell, said she; I don't know how it is with me. I am always sorrowful and thoughtful. Perhaps, I think too much of my poor father and of Susan, and yet that can't be it neither, for I think of them but sel­dom; not half as much as I ought, perhaps. I think of nobody almost, but you. Instead of minding my business, or chatting and laughing with Peggy Curling, I love to get by myself—to read, over and over, your letters, or to think how you are employed just then, and how happy I should be if I were in Fanny Maurice's place.

But it is all over now; this visit rewards me for every thing. I wonder how I could ever be sullen or mopeful. I will behave better, indeed I will, and be always, as now, a most happy girl.

The greater part of three days was spent in the soci­ety of my friend, in listening to her relation of all that had happened during my absence, and in commu­nicating, in my turn, every incident which had befallen myself. After this I once more returned to the city.

I NOW set about carrying my plan of life into effect. I began with ardent zeal and unwearied diligence the career of medical study. I bespoke the counsels and instructions of my friend; attended him on his pro­fessional visits▪ and acted, in all practicable cases, as his substitute. I found this application of time more pleasurable than I had imagined. My mind gladly ex­panded itself, as it were, for the reception of new ideas. My curiosity grew more eager, in proportion as it was supplied with food, and every day added strength to the assurance that I was no insignificant and worthless be­ing; that I was destined to be something in this scene of existence, and might sometime lay claim to the gra­titude and homage of my fellow-men.

I was far from being, however, monopolized by these pursuits. I was formed on purpose for the gra­tification of social intercourse. To love and to be loved; to exchange hearts, and mingle sentiments with all the virtuous and amiable, whom my good for­tune had placed within the circuit of my knowledge, I always esteemed my highest enjoyment and my chief duty.

Carlton and his sister, Mrs. Wentworth and Achsa Fielding, were my most valuable associates beyond [Page 190] my own family. With all these my correspondence was frequent and unreserved, but chiefly with the lat­tar. This lady had dignity and independence, a gene­rous and enlightened spirit beyond what her education had taught me to expect. She was circumspect and cau­tious in her deportment, and was not prompt to make ad­vances or accept them. She withheld her esteem and confidence until she had full proof of their being de­served.

I am not sure that her treatment of me was fully con­formable to her rules. My manners, indeed, as she once told me, she had never met with in another. Ordinary rules were so totally overlooked in my behaviour, that it seemed impossible for any one who knew me to ad­here to them. No option was left but to admit my claims to friendship and confidence, instantly, or to re­ject them altogether.

I was not conscious of this singularity. The inter­nal and undiscovered character of another, weighed no­thing with me in the question, whether they should be treated with frankness or reserve. I felt no scruple on any occasion, to disclose every feeling and every event. Any one who could listen, found me willing to talk. Every talker found me willing to listen. Every one had my sympathy and kindness, without claiming it, but I claimed the kindness and sympathy of every one.

Achsa Fielding's countenance bespoke, I thought, a mind worthy to be known and to be loved. The first moment I engaged her attention, I told her so. I relat­ed the little story of my family, spread out before her all my reasonings and determinations, my notions of right and wrong, my fears and wishes. All this was done with sincerity and fervor, with gestures, actions and looks, in which I felt as if my whole soul was visible. Her superior age, sedateness and prudence, gave my de­portment a filial freedom and affection, and I was fond of calling her " mamma."

I particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear country girl; painted her form and countenance; re­counted our dialogues, and related all my schemes for [Page 191] making her wise and good and happy. On these occa­sions my friend would listen to me with the mutest at­tention. I shewed her the letters I received, and offer­ed her for her perusal, those which I wrote in answer, be­fore they were sealed and sent.

On these occasions she would look by turns on my face and away from me. A varying hue would play upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller than was com­mon of meaning.

Such and such, I once said, are my notions; now what do you think?

Think! emphatically, and turning somewhat aside, she answered, that you are the most— strange of human creatures.

But tell me, I resumed, following and searching her averted eyes, am I right; would you do thus? Can you help me to improve my girl? I wish you knew the be­witching little creature. How would that heart over­flow with affection and with gratitude towards you. She should be your daughter. No—you are too near­ly of an age for that. A sister: her elder sister you should be. That, when there is no other relation, includes them all. Fond sisters you would be, and I the fond brother of you both.

My eyes glistened as I spoke. In truth, I am in that respect, a mere wom [...]n. My friend was more power­fully moved. After a momentary struggle, she burst into tears.

Good Heaven! said I, what ails you? Are you not well?

Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from which she quickly recovered—it was folly to be thus affected. Some [...]hing ailed me I believe, but it is past— But come; you [...]nt some lines of finishing the de­scription of the [...] in La Cepide.

True. And I [...]ave twenty minutes to spare. Poor Franks is very ill indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. We'll read till then.

Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement past my time; not without some hues, occasionally of a [Page 192] darker tinct. My heart was now and then detected in sighing. This occurred when my thoughts glanced at the poor Eliza, and measured, as it were, the inter­val between us. We are too— too far apart, thought I.

The best solace on these occasions was the company of Mrs. Fielding; her music, her discourse, or some book which she set me to rehearsing to her. One even­ing, when preparing to pay her a visit, I received the following letter from my Bess.

THE reading of this letter, though it made me mourn­ful, did not hinder me from paying the visit I intended. My friend noticed my discomposure.

What, Arthur, thou art quite the "penseroso" to night. Come, let me cheer thee with a song. Thou shalt have thy favorite ditty:—She stepped to the in­strument, and with more than airy lightness, touched and sung:

Her music, though blithsome and aerial, was not sufficient for the end. My cheerfulness would not re­turn even at her bidding. She again noticed my se­dateness, and enquired into the cause.

This girl of mine, said I, has infected me with her own sadness. There is a letter I have just received —she took it and began to read.

Meanwhile, I placed myself before her, and fixed my eyes steadfastly upon her features. There is no book in which I read with more pleasure, than the face of woman. That is generally more full of meaning, and of better meaning too▪ than the hard and inflexible line­aments of man, and this woman's face has no parallel.

[Page 197]She read it with visible emotion. Having gone through it, she did not lift her eye from the paper, but continued silent, as if buried in thought. After some time, for I would not interrupt the pause, she address­ed me thus:

This girl seems to be very anxious to be with you.

As much as I am that she should be so.—My friend's countenance betrayed some perplexity. As soon as I perceived it, I said, why are you thus grave? Some little confusion appeared as if she would not have her gravity discovered. There again, said I, new tokens in your face, my good mamma, of something which you will not mention. Yet, sooth to say, this is not your first perplexity. I have noticed it before, and wonder­ed. It happens only when my Bess is introduced. Something in relation to her it must be, but what I cannot imagine. Why does her name, particularly, make you thoughtful; disturbed; dejected?—There now—but I must know the reason. You don't agree with me in my notions of this girl, I fear, and you will not disclose your thoughts.

By this time, she had gained her usual composure, and without noticing my comments on her looks, said: Since you are both of one mind, why does she not leave the country?

That cannot be, I believe. Mrs. Stevens says it would be disreputable. I am no proficient in etiquette, and must, therefore, in affairs of this kind, be guided by those who are. But would to Heaven, I were truly her father or brother. Then all difficulties would be done away.

Can you seriously wish that?

Why no. I believe it would be more rational to wish that the world would suffer me to act the fatherly or brotherly part, without the relationship.

And is that the only part you wish to act towards this girl?

Certainly, the only part.

You surprize me. Have you not confessed your love for her?

[Page 198]I do love her. There is nothing upon earth more dear to me than my Bess.

But love is of different kinds. She was loved by her father—

Less than by me. He was a good man, but not of lively feelings. Besides, he had another daughter, and they shared his love between them, but she has no sis­ter to share my love. Calamity too, has endeared her to me; I am all her consolation, dependence and hope, and nothing, surely, can induce me to abandon her.

Her reliance upon you, for happiness, replied my friend, with a sigh, is plain enough.

It is: but why that sigh? And yet I understand it. It remonstrates with me on my incapacity for her sup­port. I know it well, but it is wrong to be cast down. I have youth, health and spirits, and ought not to des­pair of living for my own benefit and hers; but you sigh again, and it is impossible to keep my courage when you sigh. Do tell me what you mean by it?

You partly guessed the cause. She trusts to you for happiness, but I somewhat suspect she trusts in vain.

In vain! I beseech you tell me why you think so.

You say you love her—why then not make her your wife?

My wife! Surely her extreme youth, and my desti­tute condition, will account for that.

She is fifteen: the age of delicate fervor; of inarti­ficial love, and suitable enough for marriage. As to your condition, you may live more easily together than apart. She has no false taste or perverse desires to gratify. She has been trained in simple modes and ha­bits. Besides, that objection can be removed another way. But are these all your objections?

Her youth I object to, merely in connection with her mind. She is too little improved to be my wife. She wants that solidity of mind; that maturity of intelli­gence which ten years more may possibly give her, but which she cannot have at this age.

You are a very prudential youth; then you are wil­ling to wait ten years for a wife?

[Page 199]Does that follow? Because my Bess will not be qua­lified for wedlock, in less time, does it follow that I must wait for her?

I spoke on the supposition that you loved her.

And that is true; but love is satisfied with studying her happiness as her father or brother. Some years hence, perhaps in half a year, for this passion, called wedded, or marriage-wishing love, is of sudden growth, my mind may change, and nothing may content me but to have Bess for my wife. Yet I do not expect it.

Then you are determined against marriage with this girl.

Of course; until that love comes which I feel not now; but which, no doubt, will come, when Bess has had the benefit of five or eight years more, unless pre­viously excited by another.

All this is strange, Arthur. I have heretofore sup­posed that you actually loved (I mean with the marri­riage-see [...]ing passion) your Bess.

I believe I once did; but it happened at a time when marriage was improper; in the life of her father and sister, and when I had never known in what female ex­cellence consisted. Since that time my happier lot has cast me among women so far above Eliza Hadwin; so far above, and so widely different from any thing which time is likely to make her, that I own, nothing appears more unlikely than that I shall ever love her.

Are you not a little capricious in that respect, my good friend? You have praised your Bess as rich in na­tural endowments; as having an artless purity and rec­titude of mind, which somewhat supersedes the use of formal education; as being full of sweetness and ten­derness, and in her person a very angel of loveliness.

All that is true. I never saw features and shape so delicately beautiful; I never knew so young a mind so quick sighted and so firm; but, nevertheless, she is not the creature whom I would call my wife. My bo­som slave; counsellor; friend; the mother; the pat­tern; the tutress of my children must be a different creature.

[Page 200]But what are the attributes of this desirable which Bess wants?

Every thing she wants. Age, capacity, acquire­ments, person, features, hair, complexion, all, all are different from this girl's.

And pray of what kind may they be?

I cannot pourtray them in words—but yes, I can:— The creature whom I shall worship:—it sounds oddly, but, I verily believe, the sentiment which I shall feel for my wife, will be more a kin to worship than any thing else. I shall never love, but such a creature as I now image to myself, and such a creature will de­serve, or almost deserve, worship—but this creature, I was going to say, must be the exact counterpart, my good mamma—of yourself.

This was said very earnestly, and with eyes and man­ners that fully expressed my earnestness: perhaps my expressions were unwittingly strong and emphatic, for she started and blushed, but the cause of her discom­posure, whatever it was, was quickly removed, and she said:

Poor Bess! This will be sad news to thee!

Heaven forbid! said I, of what moment can my opinions be to her?

Strange questioner that thou art. Thou knowest that her gentle heart is touched with love. See how it shews itself in the tender and inimitable strain of this epistle. Does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you?

It does so, and I love, beyond expression, the sweet girl; but my love is in some inconceivable way, differ­ent from the passion which that other creature will pro­duce. She is no stranger to my thoughts. I will im­part every thought over and over to her. I question not but I shall make her happy without forfeiting my own.

Would marriage with her, be a forfeiture of your happiness?

Not absolutely, or forever, I believe. I love her company. Her absence for a long time is irksome. I [Page 201] cannot express the delight with which I see and hear her. To mark her features, beaming with vivacity▪ playful in her pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle; always musically voluble; al­ways sweetly tender, or artlessly intelligent—and this you will say is the dearest privilege of marriage: and so it is; and dearly should I prize it; and yet, I fear my heart would droop as often as that other image should occur to my fancy. For then, you know, it would oc­cur as something never to be possessed by me.

Now this image might, indeed, seldom occur. The intervals, at least, would be serene. It would be my interest to prolong these intervals as much as possible, and my endeavors to this end, would, no doubt, have some effect. Besides, the bitterness of this reflection would be lessened by contemplating, at the same time, the happiness of my beloved girl.

I should likewise have to remember, that to continue unmarried, would not necessarily secure me the posses­sion of the other good—

But these reflections, my friend (broke she in upon me) are of as much force to induce you to marry, as to reconcile you to marriage already contracted.

Perhaps they are. Assuredly, I have not a hope that the fancied excellence will ever be mine. Such happi­ness is not the lot of humanity, and is, least of all, within my reach.

Your diffidence, replied my friend, in a timorous ac­cent, has not many examples; but your character, without doubt, is all your own, possessing all and disclaiming all, is, in few words, your picture.

I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever shall be happy to that degree which I have imagined. Think you I shall ever meet with an exact copy of yourself!

Unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with many better. Your Bess, in personals, is, beyond mea­sure, my superior, and in mind, allowing for difference in years, quite as much so.

[Page 202]But that, returned I, with quickness and fervor, is not the object. The very counterpart of you I want; neither worse nor better, nor different in any thing. Just such form, such features, such hues. Just that melting voice, and above all, the same habits of think­ing and conversing. In thought, word and deed; gesture, look and form, that rare and precious creature whom I shall love, must be your resemblance. Your—

Have done with these comparisons, interrupted she, in some hurry, and let us return to the country girl, thy Bess.

You once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of yours as my sister. Do you know what the duties of a sister are?

They imply no more kindness or affection than you already feel toward my Bess. Are you not her sister?

I ought to have been so. I ought to have been proud of the relation you ascribe to me, but I have not performed any of its duties. I blush to think upon the coldness and perverseness of my heart. With such means as I possess, of giving happiness to others, I have been thoughtless and inactive to a strange degree; perhaps, however, it is not yet too late. Are you still willing to invest me with all the rights of an elder sis­ter over this girl? And will she consent, think you?

Certainly, she will; she has.

Then the first act of sistership, will be to take her from the country; from persons on whose kindness she has no natural claim, whose manners and characters are unlike her own, and with whom no improvement can be expected, and bring her back to her sister's house and bosom, to provide for her subsistence and education, and watch over her happiness.

I will not be a nominal sister. I will not be a sister by halves. All the rights of that relation I will have, or none. As for you, you have claims upon her, on which I must be permitted to judge, as becomes the el­der sister, who, by the loss of all other relations, must occupy the place, possess the rights, and fulfil the duties of father, mother and brother.

[Page 203]She has now arrived at an age, when longer to remain in a cold and churlish soil, will stunt her growth and wither her blossoms. We must hasten to transplant her to a genial element, and a garden well enclosed. Hav­ing so long neglected this charming plant, it becomes me henceforth to take her wholly to myself.

And now, for it is no longer in her or your power to take back the gift, since she is fully mine▪ I will charge you with the office of conducting her hither. I grant it to you as a favor. Will you go?

Go! I will fly! I exclaimed, in an extacy of joy, on pinions swifter than the wind. Not the lingering of an instant will I bear. Look! one, two, three—thirty minutes after nine. I will reach Curling's gate by the morn's dawn. I will put my girl into a chaise, and by noon, she shall throw herself into the arms of her sis­ter. But first, shall I not, in some way, manifest my gratitude?

My senses were bewildered, and I knew not what I did. I intended to kneel, as to my mother or my dei­ty, but, instead of that, I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her lips fervently. I staid not to discover the effects of this insanity, but left the room and the house, and calling for a moment at Stevens's, left word with the servant, my friend being gone abroad, that I should not return till the morrow.

Never was a lighter heart, a gaiety more overflow­ing, and more buoyant than mine. All cold from a boisterous night, at a chilly season, all weariness from a rugged and miry road, were charmed away. I might have ridden, but I could not brook delay, even the de­lay of enquiring for and equipping an horse. I might thus have saved myself fatigue, and have lost no time, but my mind was in too great a tumult for deliberation and forecast. I saw nothing but the image of my girl, whom my tidings would render happy.

The way was longer than my fond imagination had foreseen. I did not reach Curling's till an hour after sun-rise. The distance was full thirty-five miles. As I hastened up the green lane leading to the house, I [Page 204] spied my Bess passing through a covered way, between the dwelling and kitchen. I caught her eye. She stopped and held up her hands, and then ran into my arms.

What means my girl? Why this catching of the breath? Why this sobbing? Look at me my love. It is Arthur, he who has treated you with forgetfulness, neglect and cruelty.

O! do not, she replied, hiding her face with her hand. One single reproach, added to my own, will kill me. That foolish, wicked letter—I could tear my fingers for writing it.

But, said I, I will kiss them—and put them to my lips. They have told me the wishes of my girl. They have enabled me to gratify her wishes. I have come to carry thee this very moment to town.

Lord bless me, Arthur—said she, lost in a sweet confusion, and her cheeks, always glowing, glowing still more deeply—indeed, I did not mean—I meant only—I will stay here—I would rather stay—

It grieves me to hear that, said I, with earnestness, I thought I was studying our mutual happiness.

It grieves you? Don't say so. I would not grieve you for the world—but, indeed, indeed, it is too soon. Such a girl as I, am not yet fit to—live in your city. Again she hid her glowing face in my bosom.

Sweet consciousness! Heavenly innocence! thought I; may Achsa's conjectures prove false!—You have mistaken my design, for I do not intend to carry you to town with such a view as you have hinted—but merely to place you with a beloved friend; with Ach­sa Fielding, of whom already you know so much, where we shall enjoy each other's company without re­straint or intermission.

I then proceeded to disclose to her the plan suggest­ed by my friend, and to explain all the consequences that would flow from it. I need not say that she as­sented to the scheme. She was all rapture and grati­tude. Preparations for departure were easily and speedi­ly made. I hired a chaise of a neighboring farmer, [Page 205] and, according to my promise, by noon the same day, delivered the timid and bashful girl into the arms of her new sister.

She was received with the utmost tenderness, not on­ly by Mrs. Fielding, but by all my friends. Her af­fectionate heart was encouraged to pour forth all its feeling as into the bosom of a mother. She was rein­spired with confidence. Her want of experience was supplied by the gentlest admonitions and instructions. In every plan for her improvement, suggested by her new mamma, for she never called her by any other name, she engaged with docility and eagerness; and her behaviour and her progress exceeded the most san­guine hopes that I had formed, as to the softness of her temper and the acuteness of her genius.

Those graces which a polished education, and inter­course with the better classes of society, are adapted to give, my girl possessed, in some degree, by a native and intuitive refinement and sagacity of mind. All that was to be obtained from actual observation and in­struction, was obtained without difficulty; and in a short time, nothing but the affectionate simplicity and unperverted feelings of the country girl, bespoke the original condition.—

What art so busy about, Arthur? Always at thy pen of late. Come, I must know the fruit of all this toil and all this meditation. I am determined to scrape acquaintance with Haller and Lineus. I will begin this very day. All one's friends you know should be our's. Love has made many a patient, and let me see if it cannot, in my case, make a physician. But first, what is all this writing about?

Mrs. Wentworth has put me upon a strange task— not disagreeable, however, but such as I should, per­haps, have declined, had not the absence of my Bess, and her mamma, made the time hang somewhat heavy. I have, oftener than once, and far more cir­cumstantially than now, told her my adventures, but she is not satisfied. She wants a written narrative, for some purpose which she tells me she will disclose to me hereafter.

[Page 206]Luckily, my friend Stevens has saved me more than half the trouble. He has done me the favor to com­pile much of my history with his own hand. I cannot imagine what could prompt him to so wearisome an un­dertaking; but he says that adventures and a destiny so sin­gular as mine, ought not to be abandoned to forgetfulness like any vulgar and every-day existence. Besides, when he wrote it, he suspected that it might be necessary to the safety of my reputation and my life, from the con­sequences of my connection with Welbeck. Time has annihilated that danger. All enmities and all suspi­cions are buried with that ill-fated wretch. Wortley has been won by my behaviour, and confides in my inte­grity now as much as he formerly suspected it. I am glad, however, that the task was performed. It has saved me a world of writing. I had only to take up the broken thread, and bring it down to the period of my present happiness, and this was done, just as you tripped along the entry this morning.

To bed, my friend, it is late, and this delicate frame is not half so able to encounter fatigue as a youth spent in the hay-field and the dairy might have been expected to be.

I will, but let me take these sheets along with me. I will read them, that I am determined, before I sleep, and watch if you have told the whole truth.

Do so, if you please; but remember one thing. Mrs. Wentworth requested me to write not as if it were de­signed for her perusal, but for those who have no pre­vious knowledge of her or of me. 'Twas an odd re­quest. I cannot imagine what she means by it, but she never acts without good reason, and I have done so. And now withdraw, my dear, and farewel.

MOVE on, my quill! wait not for my guidance. Re-animated with thy master's spirit, all-airy light! An hey day rapture! A mounting impulse sways him: lifts him from the earth.

I must, cost what it will, rein in this upward pull­ing, forward-urging—what shall I call it? But there are times, and now is one of them, when words are poor.

It will not do—Down this hill, up that steep; thro' this thicket, over that hedge—I have labored to fa­tigue myself: To reconcile me to repose; to lolling on a sofa; to poring over a book, to any thing that might win for my heart a respite from these throbs; to deceive me into a few tolerable moments of forgetfulness.

Let me see: they tell me this is Monday night. Only three days yet to come! If thus restless to day; if my heart thus bounds till its mansion scarcely can hold it, what must be my state to morrow! What next day! What as the hour hastens on; as the sun de­scends; as my hand touches her in sign of wedded unity, of love without interval; of concord without end.

I must quell these tumults. They will disable me else. They will wear out all my strength. They will [Page 208] drain away life itself. But who could have thought! So soon! Not three months since I first set eyes upon her. Not three weeks since our plighted love, and only three days to terminate suspense and give me all.

I must compel myself to quiet: to leep. I must find some refuge from anticipations so excruciating. All extremes are agonies. A joy like this is too big for this narrow tenement. I must thrust it forth; I must bar and bolt it out for a time, or these frail walls will burst asunder. The pen is a pacifyer. It checks the mind's career; it circumscribes her wanderings. It traces out, and compels us to adhere to one path. It ever was my friend. Often it h [...]s blunted my vexa­tions; hushed my stormy passions; turned my peevish­ness to soothing; my fierce revenge to heart-dissolv­ing pity.

Perhaps it will befriend me now. It may temper my impetuous wishes; lull my intoxication: and render my happiness supportable: And, indeed, it has pro­duced partly this effect already. My blood, within the few minutes thus employed, flows with less destruc­tive rapidity. My thoughts range themselves in less disorder—And now that the conquest is effected, what shall I say? I must continue at the pen, or shall im­mediately relapse.

What shall I say? Let me look back upon the steps that led me hither. Let me recount preliminaries. I cannot do better.

And first as to Achsa Fielding—to describe this woman.

To recount, in brief, so much of her history as has come to my knowledge, will best account for that zeal, almost to idolatry, with which she has, ever since I thoroughly knew her, been regarded by me.

Never saw I one to whom the term lovely more truly belonged: And yet, in stature she is too low; in com­plection, dark and almost sallow; and her eyes, though black and of piercing lustre, has a cast, which I cannot well explain. It lessens without destroying their lustre and their force to charm; but all personal defects are [Page 209] outweighed by her heart and her intellect. There is the secret of her power to entrance the soul of the lis­tener and beholder. It is not only when she sings that her utterance is musical. It is not only when the occa­sion is urgent and the topic momentous that her elo­quence is rich and flowing. They are always so.

I had vowed to love her and serve her, and been her frequent visitant, long before I was acquainted with her past life. I had casually picked up some intelli­gence, from others, or from her own remarks. I knew very soon that she was English by birth, and had been only a year and an half in America; that she had scarcely passed her twenty-fifth year, and was still em­bellished with all the graces of youth; that she had been a wife; but was uninformed whether the knot had been untied by death or divorce: That she possess­ed considerable, and even splendid fortune; but the exact amount, and all beside these particulars, were unknown to me till some time after our acquaintance was begun.

One evening, she had been talking very earnestly on the influence annexed, in Great Britain, to birth, and had given me some examples of this influence. Mean­while, my eyes were fixed steadfastly on hers. The peculiarity in their expression never before affected me so strongly. A vague resemblance to something seen elsewhere, on the same day, occurred, and occasioned me to exclaim, suddenly in a pause of her discourse—

As I live, my good mamma, those eyes of yours have told me a secret. I almost think they spoke to me; and I am not less amazed at the strangeness than at the distinctness of their story.

And pry'thee what have they said?

Perhaps I was mistaken. I might have been deceived by a fancied voice, or have confounded one word with another near akin to it; but let me die, if I did not think they said that you were— a Jew.

At this sound, her features were instantly veiled with the deepest sorrow and confusion. She put her hand to her eyes, the tears started and she sobbed. My sur­prise [Page 210] at this effect of my words, was equal to my con­trition. I besought her to pardon me, for having thus unknowingly, alarmed and grieved her.

After she had regained some composure, she said, you have not offended, Arthur. Your surmise was just and natural▪ and could not always have escaped you. Connected with that word are many sources of anguish, which time has not, and never will, dry up; and the less I think of past events, the less will my peace be dis­turbed. I was desirous that you should know nothing of me, but what you see; nothing but the present and the future, merely that no allusions might occur in our conversation, which will call up sorrows and regrets that will avail nothing.

I now perceive the folly of endeav [...]ring to keep you in ignorance, and shall therefore, once for all, inform you of what has befallen me, that your enquiries and suggestions may be made, and fully satisfied at once, and your curiosity have no motive for calling back my thoughts to what I ardently desire to bury in ob­livion.

My father was indeed a jew, and one of the most opulent of his nation in London. A Portuguese by birth, but came to London when a boy. He had few of the moral or external qualities of jews. For I sup­pose there is some justice in the obloquy that follows them so closely. He was frugal without meanness, and cautious in his dealings, without extortion. I need not fear to say this, for it was the general voice.

Me, an only child, and of course, the darling of my parents, they trained up in the most liberal manner. My education was purely English. I learned the same things and of the same masters with my neighbors. Ex­cept frequenting their church and repeating their creed, and partaking of the same food, I saw no difference be­tween them and me. Hence I grew more indifferent, perhaps, than was proper to the distinctions of religion. They were never enforced upon me. No pains were taken to fill me with scruples and antipathies. They never stood, as I may say, upon the threshold: They [Page 211] were often thought upon but were vague, and easily eluded or forgotten.

Hence it was that my heart too readily admitted im­pressions, that more zeal and more parental caution would have saved me from. They could scarcely be avoided, as my society was wholly English; and my youth, my education and my father's wealth made me an object of much attention. And the same causes that lulled to sleep my own watchfulness, had the same effect upon that of others. To regret or to praise this remissness, is now too late. Certain it is, that my des­tiny, and not a happy destiny, was fixed by it.

The fruit of this remissness was a passion for one, who fully returned it. Almost as young as I, who was only sixteen; he knew as little as myself, what obsta­cles the difference of our births was likely to raise be­tween us. His father, Sir Ralph Fielding, a man no­bly born, high in office, splendidly allied, could not be expected to consent to the marriage of his eldest son, in such green youth, to the daughter of an alien, a Por­tuguese, a Jew; but these impediments were not seen by my ignorance, and were overlooked by the youth's passion.

But strange to tell, what common prudence would have so confidently predicted, did not happen. Sir Ralph had a numerous family, likely to be still more so▪ had but slender patrimony: the income of his of­fices nearly made up his all. The young man was head­strong, impetuous, and would probably disregard the inclinations of his family. Yet the father would not consent but on one condition, that of my admission to the English church.

No very strenuous opposition to these terms could be expected from me. At so thoughtless an age, with an education so unfavorable to religious impressions; sway­ed likewise, by the strongest of human passions; made somewhat impatient by the company I kept, of the dis­repute and scorn to which the Jewish nation are every where condemned, I could not be expected to be very averse to the scheme.

[Page 212]My fear [...], as to what my father's decision would be, were soon at an end. He loved his child too well to thwart her wishes in so essential a point. Finding in me no scruples, no unwillingness, he thought it absurd to be scrupulous for me. My own heart having abjured my religion, it was absurd to make any difficulty about a formal renunciation. These were his avowed reasons for concurrence, but time shewed that he had probably other reasons, founded, indeed, in his regard for my happiness, but such, as if they had been known, would p [...]o [...]ably have strengthened into invincible, the reluc­tance of my lover's family.

No marriage was ever attended with happier pre­sages. The numerous relations of my husband, ad­mitted me with the utmost cordiality, among them My father's tenderness was unabated by this change, and those humiliations to which I had before been exposed, were now no more; and every tie was strengthened, at the end of a year, by the feelings of a mother. I had need, indeed, to know a season of happiness, that I might be fitted to endure the sad reverses that succeed­ed. One after the other my disasters came, each one more heavy than the last, and in such swift succession, that they hardly left me time to breathe.

I had scarcely left my chamber, I had scarcely reco­vered my usual health, and was able to pre [...]s with true fervor, the new and precious gift to my bosom, when melancholy tidings came—I was in the country, at the seat of my father-in-law, when the messenger arrived.

A shocking tale it was! and told abruptly, with every unpitying aggravation. I hinted to you once, my father's death. The kind of death—O! my friend! It was horrible. He was then a placid venerable old man; though many symptoms of disquiet had long before been discovered by my mother's watchful tenderness. Yet none could suspect him capable of such a d [...]d; for none, so carefully had he conducted his affairs, sus­pected the havock that mischance had made of his pro­perty.

[Page 213]I, that had so much reason to love my father—I will leave you to imagine how I was affected by a catastro­phe so dreadful, so unlooked-for. Much less could I suspect the cause of his despair; yet he had foreseen his ruin before my marriage; had resolved to defer it for his daughter's and his wife's sake, as long as possi­ble, but had still determined not to survive the day that should reduce him to indigence. The desperate act was thus preconcerted—thus deliberate.

The true state of his affairs was laid open by his death. The failure of great mercantile houses at Frankfort and Liege was the cause of his disasters. Thus were my prospects shut in. That wealth, which no doubt, furnished the chief inducement with my hus­band's family to concur in his choice, was now suddenly exchanged for poverty.

Bred up, as I had been, in pomp and luxury; con­scious that my wealth was my chief security from the contempt of the proud and bigotted, and my chief title to the station to which I had been raised, and which I the more delighted in because it enabled me to confer so great obligations on my husband. What reverse could be harder than this, and how much bitterness was added by it to the grief, occasioned by the violent end of my father!

Yet, loss of fortune, though it mortified my pride, did not prove my worst calamity. Perhaps it was scarcely to be ranked with evils, since it furnished a touchstone by which my husband's affections were to be tried; especially as the issue of the trial was auspi­cious; for my misfortune seemed only to heighten the interest which my character had made for me in the hearts of all that knew me. The paternal regards of Sir Ralph had always been tender, but that tenderness seemed now to be redoubled.

New events made this consolation still more neces­sary. My unhappy mother!—She was nearer to the dreadful scene when it happened. Had no surviving object to beguile her sorrow; was rendered, by long habit, more dependent upon fortune th [...]n her child.

[Page 214]A melancholy always mute was the first effect upon my mother. Nothing could charm her eye, or her ear. Sweet sounds that she once loved, and especially when her darling child was the warbler, were heard no longer. How, with streaming eyes, have I sat and watched the dear lady, and endeavored to catch her eye, to rouse her attention!—But I must not think of these things.

But even this distress was little in comparison with what was to come. A frenzy thus mute, motionless and vacant, was succeeded by fits, talkative, outrage­ous, requiring incessant superintendance, restraint, and even violence.

Why led you me thus back to my sad remembrances? Excuse me for the present. I will tell you the rest some other time; to-morrow.

To-morrow, accordingly, my friend resumed her story.

Let me now make an end, said she, of my mournful narrative, and never, I charge you, do any thing to re­vive it again.

Deep as was my despondency, occasioned by these calamities, I was not destitute of some joy. My hus­band and my child were lovely and affectionate. In their caresses, in their welfare, I found peace; and might still have found it, had there not been—But why should I open afresh, wounds which time has imper­fectly closed? But the story must have sometime been told to you, and the sooner it is told and dismissed to forgetfulness, the better.

My ill fate led me into company with a woman too well known in the idle and dissipated circles. Her character was not unknown to me. There was no­thing in her features or air to obviate disadvantageous prepossessions. I sought not her intercourse; I rather shunned it, as unpleasing and discreditable, but she would not be repulsed. Self invited, she made herself my frequent guest; took unsolicited part in my con­cerns; did me many kind offices; and, at length, in spite of my counter inclination, won upon my sympa­thy and gratitude.

[Page 215]No one in the world, did I fondly think, had I less reason to fear than Mrs. Waring. Her character ex­cited not the slightest apprehension for my own safety. She was upwards of forty, no wise remarkable for grace or beauty; tawdry in her dress; accustomed to render more conspicuous the traces of age by her at­tempts to hide them; the mother of a numerous fami­ly, with a mind but slenderly cultivated; always care­ful too to save appearances; studiously preserving dis­tance with my husband, and he, like myself, enduring, rather than wishing her society. What could I fear from the arts of such an one?

But alas! the woman had consummate address.— Patience too, that nothing could tire. Watchfulness that none could detect. Insinuation the wiliest and most subtle. Thus wound she herself into my affec­tions, by an unexampled perseverance in seeming kind­ness; by tender confidence; by artful glo [...]ses of past misconduct; by self-rebukes and feigned contritions.

Never were strata [...]e [...]s so intricate, dissimulation so profound! But still, that such an one should seduce my husband; young; generous; ambitious; impatient of contumely and reproach, and surely not indifferent; before this fatal intercourse, not indifferent to his wife and child!—Yet, so it was!

I saw his discontents; his struggles; I heard him curse this woman, and the more deeply for my attempts, unconscious as I was of her machinations, to reconcile them to each other, to do away what seemed a cause­less indignation, or antipathy against her. How little I suspected the nature of the conflict in his heart, be­tween a new passion and the claims of pride; of con­science and of humanity; the claims of a child and a wife; a wife already in affliction, and placing all that yet remained of happiness, in the firmness of his vir­tue; in the continuance of his love; a wife, at the very hour of his meditated flight, full of terrors at the near approach of an event, whose agonies demand a double share of an husband's supporting; encouraging love—

[Page 216]Good Heaven! For what evils are some of thy crea­tures reserved! Resignation to thy decree, in the last, and most cruel distress, was, indeed, an hard task.

He was gone. Some unavoidable engagement call­ing him to Hamburgh was pleaded. Yet to leave me at such an hour! I dared not upbraid, nor object. The tale was so specious! The fortunes of a friend depended on his punctual journey. The falsehood of his story too soon made itself known. He was gone, in compa­ny with his detested paramour!

Yet, though my vigilance was easily deceived, it was not so with others. A creditor, who had his bond for three thousand pounds, pursued, and arrested him at Harwich. He was thrown into prison, but his com­panion, let me, at least, say that in her praise, would not desert him. She took lod [...]ing near the place of his confinement, and saw him daily. Tha [...], had she not done it, and had my personal condition allowed, should have been my province.

Indignation and grief hastened the painful crisis with me. I did not weep that the second fruit of this un­happy union saw not the light. I wept only that this hour of agony, was not, to its unfortunate mother, the last.

I felt not anger; I had nothing but compassion for Fielding. Gladly would I have recalled him to my arms and to virtue: I wrote, adjuring him by all our past joys, to return; vowing only gratitude for his new affection, and claiming only the recompence of see­ing him restored to his family; to liberty; to reputa­tion.

But alas! Fielding had a good, but a proud, heart. He looked upon his error with remorse; with self-de­testation, and with the fatal belief that it could not be retrieved; shame made him withstand all my reason­ings and persuasions, and in the hurry of his feelings, he made solemn vows that he would, in the moment of restored liberty, abjure his country and his family for­ever. He bore indignantly the yoke of his new at­tachment, but he strove in vain to shake it off. Her [Page 217] behaviour, always yielding, doating, supplicative, pre­served him in her fetters. Though upbraided, spurned and banished from his presence, she would not leave him, but by new efforts and new artifices, soothed, ap­peased, and won again, and kept his tenderness.

What my entreaties were unable to effect, his father could not hope to accomplish. He offered to take him from prison; the creditor offered to cancel the bond, if he would return to me; but this condition he refus­ed. All his kindred, and one who had been his bosom friend from childhood, joined in beseeching his compli­ance with these conditions; but his pride, his dread of my merited reproaches; the merits and dissuasions of his new companion, whose sacrifices for his sake had not been small, were obstacles which nothing could subdue.

Far, indeed, was I from imposing these conditions. I waited only till, by certain arrangements, I could gather enough to pay his debts, to enable him to execute his vow; empty would have been my claims to his af­fection, if I could have suffered, with the means of his deliverance in my hands, my husband to remain a mo­ment in prison.

The remains of my father's vast fortune, was a join­ture of a thousand pounds a year, settled on my mother, and after her death, on me. My mother's helpless con­dition put this revenue into my disposal. By this means was I enabled, without the knowledge of my father-in-law, or my husband, to purchase the debt, and dismiss him from prison. He set out instantly, in company with his paramour, to France.

When somewhat recovered from the shock of this calamity, I took up my abode with my mother. What she had was enough, as you, perhaps, will think, for plentiful subsistence, but to us, with habits of a dif­ferent kind, it was little better than poverty. That reflection, my father's memory, my mother's deplorable state, which every year grew worse, and the late mis­fortune, were the chief companions of my thoughts.

[Page 218]The dear child, whose smiles were uninterrupted by his mother's afflictions, was some consolation in my soli­tude. To his instruction and to my mother's wants, all my hours were devoted. I was sometimes not without the hope of better days. Full as my mind was of Field­ing's merits, convinced by former proofs of his ardent and generous spirit, I trusted that time and reflec­tion would destroy that spell by which he was now bound.

For some time, the progress of these reflections was not known. In leaving England, Fielding dropped all correspondence and connection with his native country. He parted with the woman [...], leaving no trace behind him by which she might follow him, as she wished to do. She never returned to England, but di­ed a twelve month afterwards in Switzerland.

As to me, I had only to muse day and night upon [...]he possible [...]stiny of this beloved fugitive. His in­censed father cared not for him. He had cast him out of his paternal affections, ceased to make enquiries res­pecting him, and even wished never to hear of him again. My boy succeeded to my husband's place in his grand-father's affections, and in the hopes and views of the family; and his mother wanted nothing which their compassionate and respectful love could bestow.

Three long and tedious years passed away, and no tidings were received. Whether he were living or dead, nobody could tell. At length, an English tra­veller, going out of the customary road from Italy, met with Fielding, in a town in the Venaissin. His man­ners, habit and language▪ had become French. He seemed unwilling to be recognized by an old acquaint­ance, but not being able to avoid this, and becoming gradually familiar, he informed the traveller of many particulars in his present situation. It appeared that he had made himself useful to a neighboring Seigneur, in whose chateau he had long lived on the footing of a brother. France he had resolved to make his future country, and among other changes for that end, he had laid aside his English name, and taken that of his pa­tron, [Page 219] which was Perrin. He had endeavored to com­pensate himself for all other privations, by devoting himself to rural amusements and to study.

He carefully shunned all enquiries respecting me, but when my name was mentioned by his friend, who knew well all that had happened, and my general wel­fare, together with that of his son, asserted, he shewed deep sensibility, and even consented that I should be made acquainted with his situation.

I cannot describe the effect of this intelligence on me. My hopes of bringing him back to me, were sud­denly revived. I wrote him a letter, in which I poured forth my whole heart; but his answer contained avow­als of [...] his former resolutions, to which time had only made his adherence more easy. A second and third letter were written, and an offer made to follow him to his retreat, and share his exile; but all my efforts availed nothing. He solemnly and repeatedly re­nounced all the claims of an husband over me, and ab­solved me from every obligation as a wife.

His part in this correspondence, was performed with­out harshness or contempt. A strange mixture there was of pathos and indifference; of tenderness and re­solution. Hence I continually derived hope, which time, however, brought no nearer to certainty.

At the opening of the revolution, the name of Perrin appeared among the deputies to the constituent assem­bly, for the district in which he resided. He had thus succeeded in gaining all the rights of a French citizen; and the hopes of his [...] became almost extinct: but that, and every other hope, respecting him, has since been totally extinguished by his marriage with Mar­guerite D'Almont, a young lady of great merit and fortune, and a native of Avignon.

A long period of suspence was now at an end, and left me in a state almost as full of anguish as that which our first separation produced. My sorrows were in­creased by my mother's death, and this incident freeing me from those restraints upon my motions which before existed, I determined to come to America.

[Page 220]My son was now eight years old, and his grandfa­ther claiming the province of his instruction, I was persuaded to part with him, that he might be sent to a distant school. Thus was another tie removed, and in spite of the well meant importunities of my friends, I persisted in my scheme of crossing the ocean.

I could not help, at this part of her narration, ex­pressing my surprise, that any motives were strong enough to recommend this scheme.

It was certainly a freak of despair. A few months would, perhaps, have allayed the fresh grief, and recon­ciled me to my situation; but I would not pause or de­liberate. My scheme was opposed by my friends, with great earnestness. During my voyage, affrighted by the dangers which surrounded me, and to which I was wholly unused, I heartily repented of my resolution; but now, methinks, I have reason to rejoice at my per­severance. I have come into a scene and society so new, I have had so many claims made upon my inge­nuity and fortitude, that my mind has been diverted in some degree from former sorrows. There are even times when I wholly forget them, and catch myself in­dulging in cheerful reveries.

I have often reflected with surprise on the nature of my own mind. It is eight years since my father's vio­lent death. How few of my hours since that period, have been blessed with serenity! How many nights and days, in hateful and lingering succession, have been bathed in tears and tormented with regrets! That I am still alive with so many causes of death, and with such a slow consuming malady, is surely to be wonder­ed at.

I believe the worst foes of man, at least of men in grief, are solitude and idleness. The same eternally occurring round of objects, feeds his disease, and the effects of mere vacancy and uniformity, is sometimes mistaken for those of grief. Yes, I am glad I came to America. My relations are importunate for my return, and till lately, I had some thoughts of it; but I think now, I shall stay where I am, for the rest of my days.

[Page 221]Since I arrived, I am become more of a student than I used to be. I always loved literature, but never, till of late, had a mind enough at ease, to read with advan­tage. I now find pleasure in the occupation which I never expected to find.

You see in what manner I live. The letters which I brought secured me a flattering reception from the best people in your coun [...]ry; but scenes of gay resort had nothing to attract me, and I quickly withdrew to that seclusion in which you now find me. Here, always at leisure, and mistress of every laudable means of grati­fication, I am not without the belief of serene days yet to come.

I now ventured to enquire what were her latest tid­ings of her husband.

At the opening of the revolution, I told you he be­came a champion of the people. By his zeal and his ef­forts he acquired such importance as to be deputed to the National Assembly. In this post he was the adher­ent of violent measures, till the subversion of monar­chy; and then, when too late for his safety, he checked his career.

And what has since become of him?

She sighed deeply. You were yesterday reading a list of the proscribed under Robespierre. I checked you. I had good reason. But this subject grows too painful, let us change it.

Some time after I ventured to renew this topic; and discovered that Fielding, under his new name of Perrin d'Almont, was among the outlawed deputies of last year ^*, and had been slain in resisting the officers, sent to arrest him. My friend had been informed that his wife Philippine d'Almont, whom she had reason to believe, a woman of great merit, had eluded persecu­tion, and taken refuge in some part of America. She had made various attempts, but in vain, to find out her retreat. Ah! said I, you must commission me to find her. I will hunt her through the continent from Pe­nobscot to Savanna. I will not leave a nook un­searched.

NONE will be surprized, that to a woman thus unfor­tunate and thus deserving, my heart willingly render­ed up all its sympathies; that as I partook of all her grief, I hailed, with equal delight, those omens of feli­city which now, at length, seemed to play in her fancy.

I saw her often, as often as my engagements would permit, and oftener than I allowed myself to visit any other. In this I was partly selfish. So much enter­tainment, so much of the best instruction did her con­versation afford me, that I never had enough of it.

Her experience had been so much larger than mine, and so wholly different, and she possessed such unbounded facility of recounting all she had seen and felt, and ab­solute sincerity and unreserve in this respect, were so fully established between us, that I can imagine nothing equally instructive and delightful with her conversation.

Books are cold, jejune, vexatious in their sparingness of information at one time, and their impertinent lo­quacity at another. Besides, all they chuse to give, they give at once; they allow no questions; offer no further explanations, and bend not to the caprices of our curiosity. They talk to us behind a screen. Their tone is lifeless and monotonous. They charm not our attention by mute significances of gesture and looks. [Page 223] They spread no light upon their meaning by cadences and emphasis and pause.

How different was Mrs. Fielding's discourse! So versatile; so bending to the changes of occasion; so obsequious to my curiosity, and so abundant in that very knowledge in which I was most deficient, and on which I set the most value, the knowledge of the human heart; of society as it existed in another world, more abundant in the varieties of customs and characters, [...]han I had ever had the power to witness.

Partly selfish I have said my motives were, but not wholly so, as long as I saw that my friend derived plea­sure, in her turn, from my company. Not that I could add directly to her knowledge or pleasure, but that expansion of heart, that ease of utterance and flow of ideas which always were occasioned by my ap­proach, were sources of true pleasure of which she had been long deprived, and for which her privation had gi­ven her a higher relish than ever.

She lived in great affluence and independence, but made use of her privileges of fortune chiefly to secure to herself the command of her own time. She had been long ago tired and disgusted with the dull and fulsome uniformity and parade of the play-house and ball-room. Formal visits were endured as mortifications and pe­nances, by which the delights of privacy and friendly intercourse were by contrast increased. Music she loved, but never sought it in place of public resort, or from the skill [...] mercenary performers, and books were not the least of her pleasures.

As to me, I was wax in her hand. Without design and without effort, I was always of that form she wished me to assume. My own happiness became a secondary passion, and her gratification the great end of my being. When with her, I thought not of myself. I had scarcely a separate or independent existence, since my senses were occupied by her, and my mind was full of those ideas which her discourse communicated. To meditate on her looks and words, and to pursue the means suggested by my own thoughts, or by her, con­ducive, in any way, to her good, was all my business.

[Page 224]What a fate, said I, at the conclusion of one of our interviews, has been yours. But, thank Heaven, the storm has disappeared before the age of sensibility has gone past, and without drying up every source of hap­piness. You are still young: all your powers unim­paired; rich in the compassion and esteem of the world; wholly independent of the claims and caprices of oth­ers; amply supplied with that mean of usefulness, called money; wise in that experience which [...] ad­versity can give. Past evils and sufferings, if i [...]c [...] ­red and endured without guilt, if called to view with­out remorse, make up the materials of present joy. They cheer our most dreary hours with the whispered accents of "well done," and they heighten our plea­sures into somewhat of celestial brilliancy, by furnish­ing a deep, a ruefully deep contrast.

From this moment, I will cease to weep for you. I will call you the happiest of women. I will share with you your happiness by witnessing it—but that shall not content me. I must someway contribute to it. Tell me how I shall serve you? What can I do to make you happier? Poor am I in every thing but zeal, but still I may do something. What—pray tell me what can I do?

She looked at me with sweet and solemn significance. What it was exactly, I could not divine, yet I was strangely affected by it. It was but a glance, instantly withdrawn. She made me no answer.

You must not be silent; you must tell me what I can do for you. Hitherto I have done nothing. All the service is on your side. Your conversation has been my study, a delightful study, but the profit has only been mine. Tell me how I can be grateful—my voice and manner, I believe, seldom belye my feelings. At this time, I had almost done what a second thought made me suspect to be unauthorized. Yet I cannot tell why. My heart had nothing in it but reverence and admiration. Was she not the substitute of my lost mamma. Would I not have clasped that beloved shade? Yet the two beings were not just the same, or [Page 225] I should not, as now, have checked myself, and only pressed her hand to my lips.

Tell me, repeated I, what can I do to serve you? I read to you a little now, and you are pleased with my reading. I copy for you when you want the time. I guide the reins for you when you chuse to ride. Hum­ble offices, indeed, though, perhaps, all that a raw youth like me can do for you; but I can be still more assiduous. I can read several hours in the day, instead of one. I can write ten times as much as now.

Are you not my lost mamma come back again? And yet, not exactly her, I think. Something different; something better, I believe, if that be possible. At any rate, methinks I would be wholly yours. I shall be impatient and uneasy till every act, every thought, every minute, someway does you good.

How! said I—her eye stil averted, seemed to hold back the tear with difficulty, and she made a motion as if to rise—have I grieved you? Have I been impor­tunate? Forgive me if I have offended you.

Her eyes now overflowed without restraint. She ar­ticulated with difficulty—Tears are too prompt with me of late; but they did not upbraid you. Pain has often caused them to flow, but now it—is— pleasure.

What an heart must yours be, I resumed. When sus­ceptible of such pleasures, what pangs must formerly have rent it!—But you are not displeased, you say, with my importunate zeal. You will accept me as your own in every thing. Direct me: prescribe to me. There must be something in which I can be of still more use to you: some way in which I can be wholly yours—

Wholly mine! she repeated, in a smothered voice, and rising—leave me, Arthur. It is too late for you to be here. It was wrong to stay so late.

I have been wrong, but how too late! I entered but this moment. It is twilight still: Is it not?

No—it is almost twelve. You have been here a long four hours; short ones, I would rather say—but indeed you must go.

[Page 226]What made me so thoughtless of the time! But I will go, yet not till you forgive me. I approached her with a confidence, and for a purpose at which, upon re­flection, I am not a little surprized, but the being cal­led Mervyn is not the same in her company and in that of another. What is the difference, and whence comes it? Her words and looks engross me. My mind wants room for any other object. But why enquire whence the difference? The superiority of her merits and at­tractions to all those whom I knew, would surely account for my fervor. Indifference, if I felt it, would be the only just occasion of wonder.

The hour was, indeed too late, and I hastened home. Stevens was waiting my return with some anxiety. I apologized for my delay, and recounted to him what had just passed. He listened with more than usual inter­est. When I had finished,

Mervyn, said he, you seem not to be aware of your present situation. From what you now tell me, and from what you have formerly told me, one thing seems very plain to me.

Pry'thee, what is it?

Eliza Hadwin—do you wish—could you bear to see her the wife of another?

Five years hence I will answer you. Then my an­swer may be—"No: I wish her only to he mine." Till then, I wish her only to be my pupil, my ward, my sister▪

But these are remote considerations: they are bars to marriage, but not to love. Would it not molest and disquiet you to observe in her a passion for another?

It would, but only on her own account: not on mine. At a suitable age it is very likely I may love her, because, it is likely, if she holds on in her present career, she will then be worthy, but, at present, though I would die to ensure her happiness, I have no wish to ensure it by marriage with her.

Is there no other whom you love?

No. There is one worthier than all others: one whom I wish the woman who shall be my wife to re­semble in all things.

[Page 227]And who is this model?

You know I can only mean Achsa Fielding.

If you love her likeness, why not love herself?

I felt my heart leap.—What a thougt is that! Love her I do as I love my God; as I love virtue. To love her in another sense, would brand me for a lunatic.

To love her as a woman, then, appears to you an act of folly.

In me it would be worse than folly. 'Twould be frenzy.

And why?

Why? Really, my friend, you astonish me. Nay, you startle me—for a question like that implies a doubt in you whether I have not actually harbored the tho't.

No, said he, smiling, presumtuous though you be, you have not, to be sure, reached so high a pitch. But still, though I think you innocent of so heinous an offence, there is no harm in asking why you might not love her, and even seek her for a wife.

Achsa Fielding my wife! Good Heaven!—The very sound threw my soul into unconquerable tumults.— Take care, my friend, continued I, in beseeching ac­cents, you may do me more injury than you conceive, by even starting such a thought.

True, said he, as long as such obstacles exist to your success; so many incurable objections; for instance, she is six years older than you—

That is an advantage. Her age is what it ought to be.

But she has been a wife and mother already.

That is likewise an advantage. She has wisdom, because she has experience. Her sensibilities are stron­ger, because they have been exercised and chastened. Her first marriage was unfortunate. The purer is the felicity she will taste in a second! If her second choice be propitious, the greater her tenderness and gratitude.

But she is a foreigner: independent of controul, and rich.

All which, are blessings to herself and to him for whom her hand is reserved; especially if like me, he is indigent.

[Page 228]But then she is unsightly as a night-hag, tawney as a moor, the eye of a gypsey, low in stature, contemp­tibly diminutive, scarcely bulk enough to cast a sha­dow as she walks, less luxuriance than a char [...]ed log, [...]ewer elasticities than a sheet pebble.

Hush! hush! blasphemer!—and I put my hand be­fore his mouth—have I not told you that in mind, per­son and condition, she is the type after which my ena­mored fancy has modelled my wife.

O ho! Then the objection does not lie with you. It lies with her, it seems. She can find nothing in you to esteem! And pray, for what faults do you think she would reject you?

I cannot tell. That she can ever balance for a mo­ment, on such a question, is incredible. Me! me! That Achsa Fielding should think of me!

Incredible, indeed! You who are loathsome in your person, an ideot in your understanding, a villain in your morals! deformed! withered! vain, stupid and malig­nant. That such an one should chuse you for an idol!

Pray, my friend, said I, anxiously, jest not. What mean you by an hint of this kind?

I will not jest then, but will soberly enquire, what faults are they which make this lady's choice of you so incredible? You are younger than she, though no one, who merely observed your manners, and heard you talk, would take you to be under thirty. You are poor; are these impediments?

I should think not. I have heard her reason with admirable eloquence, against the vain distinctions of property and nation and rank. They were once of mo­ment in her eyes; but the sufferings, humiliations and reflections of years, have cured her of the folly. Her nation has suffered too much by the inhuman antipa­thies of religious and political faction; she, herself, has felt so often the contumelies of the rich, the high-born, and the bigotted, that—

Pry'thee then, what dost imagine her obje [...]tions to be?

[Page 229]Why—I don't know. The thought was so aspir­ing; to call her my wife, was an height of bliss; the very far-off view of which made my head dizzy.

An height, however, to attain which you suppose only her consent, her love, to be necessary?

Without doubt, her love is indispensible.

Sit down, Arthur, and let us no longer treat this matter lightly. I clearly see the importance of this moment to this lady's happiness and yours. It is plain that you love this woman. How could you help it? A brilliant skin is not her's; nor elegant proportions▪ nor majestic stature; yet no creature had ever more power to bewitch. Her manners have grace and dig­nity that flow from exquisite feeling, delicate taste, and the quickest and keenest penetration. She has the wisdom of men and of books. Her sympathies are en­forced by reason, and her charities regulated by know­ledge. She has a woman's age, fortune more than you wish, and a spotless fame. How could you fail to love her?

You, who are her chosen friend, who partake her pleasures, and share her employments, on whom she almost exclusively bestows her society and confidence, and to whom she thus affords the strongest of all indi­rect proofs of impassioned esteem. How could you, with all that firmness to love, joined with all that dis­cernment of her excellence, how could you escape the enchantment?

You have not thought of marriage. You have not suspected your love. From the purity of your mind, from the idolatry with which this woman has inspired you, you have imaged no delight beyond that of enjoy­ing her society as you now do, and have never fostered an hope beyond this privilege.

How quickly would this tranquillity vanish, and the true state of your heart be evinced, if a rival should en­ter the scene and be entertained with preference; then would the seal be removed, the spell be broken, and you would awaken to terror and to anguish.

[Page 230]Of this, however, there is no danger. Your passion is not felt by you alone. From her treatment of you, your diffidence disables you from seeing, but nothing can be clearer to me than, that she loves you.

I started on my feet. A flush of scorching heat flowed to every part of my frame. My temples began to throb like my heart. I was half delirious, and my delirium was strangely compounded of fear and hope, of delight and of terror.

What have you done, my friend? You have over­turned my peace of mind. Till now the image of this woman has been followed by complacency and sober rapture; but your words have dashed the scene with dismay and confusion. You have raised up wishes and dreams and doubts, which possess me in spite of my rea­son, in spite of a thousand proofs.

Good God! You say she loves; loves me! me, a boy in age; bred in clownish ignorance; scarcely ushered into the world; more than childishly unlearned and raw; a barn-door simpleton; a plow-tail, kitchen-hearth, turnip-hoeing novice! She, thus splendidly endowed; thus allied to nobles; thus gifted with arts, and adorned with graces; that she should chuse me, me for the partner of her fortune; her affections; and her life! It cannot be. Yet, if it were; if your gues­ses should—prove—Oaf! madman! To indulge so fa­tal a chimera! So rash a dream!

My friend! my friend! I feel that you have done me an irreparable injury. I can never more look her in the face. I can never more frequent her society. These new thoughts will beset and torment me. My disquiet will chain up my tongue. That overflowing gratitude; that innocent joy▪ unconscious of offence, and knowing no restraint, which have hitherto been my titles to her favor, will fly from my features and manners. I shall be anxious▪ vacant and unhappy in her presence. I shall dread to look at her, or to open [...]y lips lest my mad and unhallowed ambition should betray itself.

[Page 231]Well, replied Stevens, this scene is quite new. I could almost find it in my heart to pity you. I did not expect this; and yet from my knowledge of your cha­racter, I ought, perhaps, to have foreseen it. This is a necessary part of the drama. A joyous certainty, on these occasions, must always be preceded by suspenses and doubts, and the close will be joyous in proportion as the preludes are excruciating. Go to bed, my good friend, and think of this. Time and a few more inter­views with Mrs. Fielding, will, I doubt not, set all to rights.

I WENT to my chamber, but what different sensations did I carry into it, from those with which I had left it a few hours before. I stretched myself on the mattress and put out the light; but the swarm of new images that rushed on my mind, set me again instantly in mo­tion. All was rapid, vague and undefined, wearying and distracting my attention. I was roused as by a di­vine voice, that said:—"Sleep no more: Mervyn shall sleep no more."

What chiefly occupied me was a nameless sort of terror. What shall I compare it to? Methinks, that one falling from a tree, overhanging a torrent, plunged into the whirling eddy, and gasping and struggling while he sinks to rise no more, would feel just as I did then. Nay, some such image actually possessed me. Such was one of my reveries, in which suddenly I stretched my hand, and caught the arm of a chair. This act called me back to reason, or rather gave my soul opportunity to roam into a new track equally wild.

Was it the abruptness of this vision that thus con­founded me! was it a latent error in my moral consti­tution, which this new conjuncture drew forth into in­fluence? These were all the tokens of a mind lost to [Page 233] itself; bewildered; unhinged; plunged into a drear insanity.

Nothing less could have prompted so phantastically —for midnight as it was, my chamber's solitude was not to be supported. After a few turns across the floor, I left the room, and the house. I walked with­out design and in an hurried pace. I posted straight to the house of Mrs. Fielding. I lifted the latch, but the door did not open. It was, no doubt, locked.

How comes this, said I, and looked around me. The hour and occasion were unthought of. Habitu­ated to this path, I had taken it spontaneously. How comes this? repeated I. Locked upon me! but I will summon them, I warrant me—and rung the bell, not timidly or slightly, but with violence. Some one has­tened from above. I saw the glimmer of a candle through the key-hole.

Strange, thought I, a candle at noon day!—The door was opened, and my poor Bess, robed in a careless and a hasty manner, appeared. She started at sight of me▪ but merely because she did not, in a moment, re­cognize me.—Ah! Arthur, is it you? Come in. My mamma has wanted you these two hours. I was just going to dispatch Philip to tell you to come.

Lead me to her, said I.

She led the way into the parlor.—"Wait a moment here: I will tell her you are come"—and she tripped away.

Presently a step was heard. The door opened again, and then entered a man. He was tall, elegant, sedate to a degree of sadness: Something in his dress and as­pect that bespoke the foreigner; the Frenchman.

What, said he, mildly, is your business with my wife? She cannot see you instantly, and has sent me to receive your commands.

Your wife! I want Mrs. Fielding.

True; and Mrs. Fielding is my wife. Thank Hea­ven I have come in time to discover her, and claim her as such.

[Page 234]I started back. I shuddered. My joints slackened, and I stretched my hand to catch something by which I might be saved from sinking on the floor. Meanwhile, Fielding changed his countenance into rage and fury. He called me villain! bad me avaunt! and drew a shining steel from his bosom, with which he stabbed me to the heart. I sunk upon the floor, and all, for a time, was darkness and oblivion! At length, I re­turned as it were to life. I opened my eyes. The mists disappeared, and I found myself stretched upon the bed in my own chamber. I remembered the fatal blow I had received. I put my hand upon my breast; the spot where the dagger entered. There were no traces of a wound. All was perfect and entire. Some miracle had made me whole.

I raised myself up. I re-examined my body. All around me was hushed, till a voice from the pavement below, proclaimed that it was "past three o'clock."

What, said I, has all this miserable pageantry, this midnight wandering, and this ominous interview, been no more than— a dream!

It may be proper to mention, in explanation of this scene, and to shew the thorough perturbation of my mind, during this night, intelligence gained some days after from Eliza. She said, that about two o'clock, on this night, she was roused by a violent ringing of the bell. She was startled by so unseasonable a summons. She slept in a chamber adjoining Mrs. Fielding's, and hesitated whether she should alarm her friend, but the summons not being repeated, she had determined to forbear.

Added to this, was the report of Mrs. Stevens, who, on the same night, about half an hour after I and her husband had retired, imagined that she heard the street-door opened and shut, but this being followed by no other consequence, she supposed herself mistaken. I have little doubt, that, in my feverish and troubled sleep, I actually went forth, posted to the house of Mrs. Fielding, rung for admission, and shortly after, returned to my own apartment.

[Page 235]This confusion of mind was somewhat allayed by the return of light. It gave way to more uniform, but not less rueful and despondent perceptions. The image of Achsa filled my fancy, but it was the harbinger of nothing but humiliation and sorrow. To outroot the conviction of my own unworthiness, to persuade myself that I was regarded with the tenderness that Stevens had ascribed to her, that the discovery of my thoughts would not excite her anger and grief, I felt to be im­possible.

In this state of mind, I could not see her. To de­clare my feelings would produce indignation and an­guish; to hide them from her scrutiny was not in my power: yet, what would she think of my estranging myself from her society? What expedient could I ho­nestly adopt to justify my absence, and what employ­ments could I substitute for those precious hours hitherto devoted to her.

This afternoon, thought I, she has been invited to spend at Stedman's country house on Schuylkill. She consented to go, and I was to accompany her. I am fit only for solitude. My behaviour, in her presence, will be enigmatical, capricious and morose. I must not go: Yet, what will she think of my failure? Not to go will be injurious and suspicious.

I was undetermined. The appointed hour arrived. I stood at my chamber window, torn by variety of pur­poses, and swayed alternately by repugnant arguments. I several times went to the door of my apartment, and put my foot upon the first step of the stair-case, but as often paused, reconsidered and returned to my room.

In these fluctuations the hour passed. No messen­ger arrived from Mrs. Fielding, enquiring into the cause of my delay. Was she offended at my negligence? Was she sick and disabled from going, or had she changed her mind? I now remember her parting words at our last interview. Were they not suscepti­ble of two constructions? She said my visit was too long, and bad me begone. Did she suspect my pre­sumption, and is she determined thus to punish me?

[Page 236]This terror added anew to all my former anxieties. It was impossible to rest in this suspense. I would go to her. I would lay before her all the anguish of my heart: I would not spare myself, She shall not re­proach me more severely than I will reproach myself. I will hear my sentence from her own lips, and promise unlimited submission to the doom of separation and ex­ile, which she will pronounce.

I went forthwith to her house. The drawing-room and summer-house was empty. I summoned Philip the footman—his mistress was gone to Mr. Sedman's.

How?—To Stedman's?—In whose company?

Miss Stedman and her brother called for her in the carriage, and persuaded her to go with them.

Now my heart sunk, indeed! Miss Stedman's bro­ther! A youth, forward, gallant and gay! Flushed with prosperity, and just returned from Europe, with all the confidence of age, and all the ornaments of edu­cation! She has gone with him, though pre-engaged to me! Poor Arthur, how art thou despised!

This information only heightened my impatience. I went away, but returned in the evening. I waited till eleven, but she came not back. I cannot justly paint the interval that passed till next morning. It was void of sleep. On leaving her house, I wandered into the fields. Every moment increased my impatience. She will probably spend the morrow at Stedman's, said I, and possibly the next day. Why should I wait for her return? Why not seek her there, and rid myself at once of this agonizing suspense? Why not go thither now? This night, wherever I spend it, will be unac­quainted with repose. I will go, it is already near twelve, and the distance is more than eight miles. I will hover near the house till morning▪ and then, as early as possible, demand an interview.

I was well acquainted with Stedman's Villa, having formerly been there with Mrs. Fielding. I quickly en­tered its precincts. I went close to the house; looked mournfully at every window. At one of them a light was to be seen, and I took various stations to discover, [Page 237] if possible, the persons within. Methought once I caught a glimpse of a female, whom my fancy easily imagined to be Achsa. I sat down upon the lawn, some hundred feet from the house, and opposite the window whence the light proceeded. I watched it, till at length some one came to the window, lifted it, and leaning on her arms, continued to look out.

The preceding day had been a very sultry one; the night, as usual after such a day, and the fall of a vio­lent shower, was delightfully serene and pleasant. Where I stood, was enlightened by the moon. Whe­ther she saw me or not, I could hardly tell, or whether she distinguished any thing but a human figure.

Without reflecting on what was due to decorum and punctilio, I immediately drew near the house. I quick­ly perceived that her attention was fixed. Neither of us spoke, till I had placed myself directly under her; I then opened my lips, without knowing in what manner to address her. She spoke first, and in a startled and anxious voice—

Who is that?

Arthur Mervyn: he that was two days ago your friend.

Mervyn! What is it that brings you here at this hour? What is the matter? What has happened? Is any body sick?

All is safe—all are in good health.

What then do you come hither for at such an hour?

I meant not to disturb you: I meant not to be seen.

Good Heavens! How you frighten me. What can be the reason of so strange—

Be not alarmed. I meant to hover near the house till morning, that I might see you as early as possi­ble.

For what purpose?

I will tell you when we meet, and let that be at five o'clock; the sun will then be risen; in the cedar grove under the bank; till when, farewel.

Having said this, I prevented all expostulation, by turning the angle of the house, and hastening towards [Page 238] the shore of the river. I roved about the grove that I have mentioned. In one part of it is a rustic seat and table, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and an intervening eminence, from the view of those in the house. This I designed to be the closing scene of my destiny.

Presently, I left this spot and wandered upward through embarrassed and obscure paths, starting forward or checking my pace, according as my way­ward meditations governed me. Shall I describe my thoughts?—Impossible! It was certainly a tempo­rary loss of reason; nothing less than madness could lead into such devious tracts, drag me down to so hope­less, helpless, panickful a depth, and drag me down so suddenly; lay waste, as at a signal, all my flourishing structures, and reduce them in a moment to a scene of confusion and horror.

What did I fear? What did I hope? What did I de­sign? I cannot tell; my glooms were to retire with the night. The point to which every tumultuous feel­ing was linked, was the coming interview with Achsa. That was the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. Here was the sealing and ratification of my doom.

I rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled upward till I reached the edge of a considerable preci­pice; I laid me down at my length upon the rock, whose cold and hard surface I pressed with my bared and throb­bing breast. I leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes upon the water and wept—plentifully; but why?

May this be my heart's last beat, if I can tell why.

I had wandered so far from Stedman's, that when roused by the light, I had some miles to walk before I could reach the place of meeting. Achsa was already there. I slid down the rock above, and appeared before her. Well might she be startled at my wild and abrupt appearance.

I placed myself, without uttering a word, upon a seat opposite to her, the table between, and crossing my arms upon the table, leaned my head upon them, while my face was turned towards and my eyes fixed up­on hers, I seemed to have lost the power and the incli­nation to speak.

[Page 239]She regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity; after examining my looks, every emotion was swallowed up in terrified sorrow. For God's sake!—what does all this mean? Why am I called to this place? What ti­dings, what fearful tidings do you bring?

I did not change my posture or speak. What, she resumed, could inspire all this woe? Keep me not in this suspense, Arthur; these looks and this silence shocks and afflicts me too much.

Afflict you? said I, at last: I come to tell you, what, now that I am here, I cannot tell—there I stopped.

Say what, I entreat you. You seem to be very un­happy—such a change—from yesterday!

Yes! From yesterday: all then was a joyous calm, and now all is—but then I knew not my infamy, my guilt—

What words are these, and from you Arthur? Guilt is to you impossible. If purity is to be found on earth, it is lodged in your heart. What have you done?

I have dared—how little you expect the extent of my daring. That such as I should look upwards with this ambition.

I now stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, looked earnestly in her face—I come only to be­seech your pardon. To tell you my crime, and then disappear forever; but first let me see if there be any omen of forgiveness. Your looks—they are kind; heavenly; compassionate still. I will trust them, I believe: and yet—letting go her hands, and turning away—This offence is beyond the reach even of your mercy.

How beyond measure these words and this deport­ment distress me! Let me know the worst; I cannot bear to be thus perplexed.

Why, said I, turning quickly round, and again tak­ing her hands, that Mervyn, whom you have honored and confided in, and blessed with your sweet regards, has been—

What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his virtue, I am sure. What else has he been?

[Page 240]This Mervyn has imagined, has dared—Will you forgive him?

Forgive you what? Why don't you speak? Keep not my soul in this suspense.

He has dared—But do not think that I am he. Con­tinue to look as now, and reserve your killing glances, the vengeance of those eyes as for one that is absent. —Why, what—You weep, then, at last. That is a propitious sign. When pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then should the suppliant approach. Now, in confidence of pardon, I will tell you: This Mervyn, not content with all you have hitherto granted him, has dared—to love you; nay, to think of you, as of his wife!

Her eye sunk beneath mine, and disengaging her hands, covered her face with them.

I see my fate, said I, in a tone of despair. Too well did I predict the effect of this confession; but I will go— and unforgiven.

She now partly uncovered her face. The hand with­drawn from her cheek, was stretched towards me. She looked at me.

Arthur! I do forgive thee.—With what accents was this uttered! With what looks! The cheek that was before pale with terror, was now crimsoned over by a different emotion, and delight swam in her eye.

Could I mistake? My doubts, my new-born fears made me tremble, while I took the offered hand.

Surely—faultered I, I am not—I cannot be—so blessed.

There was no need of words. The hand that I held, was sufficiently eloquent. She was still silent.

Surely, said I, my senses deceive me. A bliss like this cannot be reserved for me. Tell me, once more —set my doubting heart at rest.—

She now gave herself to my arms—I have not words —Let your own heart tell you, you have made your Achsa—

At this moment, a voice from without, it was Miss Stedman's, called—Mrs. Fielding! where are you?

[Page 241]My friend started up, and in a hasty voice, bade me begone! You must not be seen by this giddy girl. Come hither this evening, as if by my appointment, and I will return with you.—She left me in a kind of trance. I was immoveable. My reverie was too de­licious;—but let me not attempt the picture. If I can convey no image of my state, previous to this inter­view, my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the reach of my powers to describe.

Agreeably to the commands of my mistress, I has­tened away, evading paths which might expose me to observation. I speedily made my friends partake of my joy, and passed the day in a state of solemn but con­fused rapture. I did not accurately pourtray the vari­ous parts of my felicity. The whole rushed upon my soul at once. My conceptions were too rapid, and too comprehensive to be distinct.

I went to Stedman's in the evening. I found in the accents and looks of my Achsa new assurances that all which had lately past, was more than a dream. She made excuses for leaving the Stedmans sooner than ordinary, and was accompanied to the city by her friend. We dropped Mrs. Fielding at her own house, and thither, after accompanying Miss Stedman to her own home, I returned, upon the wings of tremulous impatience.—

Now could I repeat every word of every conversa­tion that has since taken place between us; but why should I do that on paper? Indeed it could not be done. All is of equal value, and all could not be comprized but in many volumes. There needs nothing more deeply to imprint it on my memory; and while thus reviewing the past, I should be iniquitously neglecting the present. What is given to the pen, would be taken from her; and that, indeed, would be—but no need of saying what it would be, since it is impossible.

I merely write to allay these tumults which our ne­cessary separation produces; to aid me in calling up a little patience, till the time arrives, when our persons, like our minds, shall be united forever. That time— [Page 242] may nothing happen to prevent—but nothing can hap­pen. But why this ominous misgiving just now? My love has infected me with these unworthy terrors, for she has them too.

This morning I was relating my dream to her. She started, and grew pale. A sad silence ensued the cheerfulness that had reigned before—why thus deject­ed, my friend?

I hate your dream. It is a horrid thought. Would to God it had never occurred to you.

Why surely place no confidence in dreams.

I know not where to place confidence; not in my present promises of joy—and she wept. I endeavored to soothe or console her. Why, I asked, did she weep.

My heart is sore. Former disappointments were so heavy; the hopes which were blasted, were so like my present ones, that the dread of a like result, will in­trude upon my thoughts. And now your dream! In­deed, I know not what to do. I believe I ought still to retract—ought, at least, to postpone an act so irre­vocable.

Now was I obliged again to go over in my catalogue of arguments to induce her to confirm her propitious resolution to be mine within the week. I, at last, suc­ceeded, even in restoring her serenity and beguiling her fears by dwelling on our future happiness.

Our houshold, while we staid in America—in a year or two we hie to Europe—should be thus composed. Fidelity and skill and pure morals, should be sought out, and enticed, by generous recompences, into our domes­tic service. Duties should be light and regular.—Such and such should be our amusements and employments abroad and at home, and would not this be true happi­ness?

O yes—If it may be so.

It shall be so; but this is but the humble outline of the scene; something is still to be added to complete our felicity.

What more can be added?

[Page 243]What more? Can Achsa ask what more? She who has not been only a wife—

But why am I indulging this pen-prattle? The hour she fixed for my return to her is come, and now take thyself away, quill. Lie there, snug in thy leathern case, till I call for thee, and that will not be very soon. I believe I will abjure thy company till all is settled with my love. Yes: I will abjure thee, so let this be thy last office, till Mervyn has been made the happiest of men.