I am glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far upon its journey.
What remains of my story may be despatched 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 parlour, where an interview had formerly
taken place between us.
Having arrived, I began, though somewhat unseasonably, 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 a 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 modelling 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."
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 unfavourable 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 favour to entreat, and no petition to
offer, but that you will suffer me to clear up those mistakes which you
have harboured 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. Certainty, 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.
"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
favourite gestures and attitudes were faithfully described.
I had gone but a little way in my story, when the effects were visible
in her demeanour 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 suspicious 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 inquiries 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."
"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 honour, who is now languishing in poverty, weeping over
the lifeless remains of her babe, 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 on 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
deed 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?"
"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 despatched 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 struggle has disappeared forever. Think on the gulf that is
already gaping to swallow her. This is no time to hesitate and falter. 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 show 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
irremediable? She is a mother, but not a wife. How came she thus? Is her
being Welbeck'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?"
"Oh, 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, 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 Mrs. Fielding at her lodgings. Inquiry 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 control 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 to rescue a fellow-creature from
indigence and infamy and vice? Surely she will. She 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 Mrs.
Fielding, from her superfluity, will supply the means. Clemenza shall
owe life and honour 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 intrust 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 a 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 a one as you, with your education
and address, may possibly have passed all your life in a 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 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 molestation 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 engaged 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 unfavourable
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,
showing 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 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. The account of her employments, of her resignation to
the ill fate of the brother whom she loves, proves that they are."
My eyes were riveted to her countenance and person. I felt
uncontrollable 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 endeavour to convince him that his good opinion is
not misplaced."
There now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in which this young
woman showed a mind vigorous from exercise and unembarrassed by care.
She affected 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 demeanour emboldened me, at length, to inquire 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 shown;
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 favour 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 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 a one 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 saw 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.
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 styled 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 chaise in which she had come to the city,
that I too incautiously complied.
"You are a stranger to me, and I am unacquainted 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
unfavourable 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 demeanour, 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?"
"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 dishonoured and her fortune embezzled."
"But she still lives. She is not turned into the street. She is not
destitute of home."
"But what a home!"
"Such as she may choose to remain in."
"She cannot choose it. She must not choose 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 will 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 harbouring 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 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 a 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 negotiation," 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 show, 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 labour
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.