The melancholy inspired by this separation from one who
was not only my best, but my sole friend, was not dissipated
like other afflictions of youth, by the lapse of a few months.
Being accompanied with absolute uncertainty as to his condition
and place of residence, it produced the same effect
that his death would have done. This melancholy, though
no variety of scene could have effaced it, was, no doubt,
aggravated by the cheerless solitude in which I was placed.
The rustic life was wholly unsuitable to my temper and
taste. My active mind panted for a nobler and wider
sphere of action; and after enduring the inconveniences of
my sequestered situation for some time, I, at length, bound
myself apprentice to a watchmaker in the city. My genius
was always turned towards mechanics, and I could imagine
no art more respectable or profitable than this.

Shortly after my removal to this city, I became acquainted
with a young man by the name of Wilmot. There were
many points of resemblance between us. We were equally
fond of study and reflection, and the same literary pursuits
happened to engage our passions. Hence a cordial and
incessant intercourse took place between us.

I suppose you know nothing of Wilmot. Yet possibly
you have heard something of the family. They were of
no small note in Delaware. Not natives of the country.
The father was an emigrant, who brought a daughter and
this son with him, when children, from Europe. He purchased
a delightful place on the Brandywine, built a house,
laid out gardens, and passed a merry life among horses, dogs,
and boon companions. He died, at length, by a fall from
his horse, when his daughter Mary was sixteen years of age,
and the son four or five years younger.

These children had been trained up in the most luxurious
manner. The girl had been her own mistress, and the
mistress of her father's purse, from a very early age. All
the prejudices and expectations of an heiress were early and
deeply imbibed by her; and her father's character had
hindered her from forming any affectionate or useful friends
of her own sex, while those who called themselves his friends
were either merely jovial companions or cunning creditors.
It very soon appeared that Wilmot's fortune had lasted just
as long as his life. House, and land, and stock, were sold by

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

auction, to discharge his numerous debts, and nothing but a
surplus on the sale of the furniture remained to the heirs.

Mary, after a recluse and affluent education, was thus
left, at the inexperienced age of sixteen, friendless and forlorn,
to find the means of subsistence for herself and her
brother, in her own ingenuity and industry. It cannot be
supposed that she escaped all the obvious and enervating
effects of such an education. Her pride was sorely wounded
by this reverse, but nature had furnished her with a vigorous
mind, which made it impossible for her to sink, either into
meanness or despair. She was not wise enough to endure
poverty and straitened accommodations, and a toilsome
calling, with serenity; but she was strenuous enough to adopt
the best means for repairing the ills that oppressed her.

She retired, with the wreck of her father's property, from
the scene in which she had been accustomed to appear with
a splendor no longer hers. Her sensibility found consolation
in living obscure and unknown. For this end, she
removed to this city, took cheap lodgings in the suburbs,
and reduced all her expenses to the most frugal standard.
With the money she brought with her, she placed her brother
at a reputable grammar school; and her acquaintance, by
very slow degrees, extending beyond her own roof among
the good and considerate part of the community, she acquired,
by the exercise of the needle, a slender provision for herself
and her brother.

The boy was a noble and generous spirit, and endowed with
an ardent thirst of knowledge. He made a rapid progress
in his learning, and at the age of sixteen, became usher in the
school in which he had been trained. He was smitten with
the charms of literature; and greatly to his sister's disappointment
and vexation, refused to engage in any of those
professions which lead to riches and honor. He adopted
certain antiquated and unfashionable notions about the “grandeur
of retreat,” “honorable poverty,” a studious life, and
the dignity of imparting knowledge to others. The desk, bar,
and pulpit, had no attractions for him. This, no doubt, partly
arose from youthful timidity and self diffidence, and age might
have insensibly changed his views.

My intercourse with Wilmot introduced me, of course, to
the knowledge of his sister. I usually met him at her

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

lodgings. Sundays and all our evenings were spent together;
and as Mary had few or no visitants, on her own account,
she was nearly on the same footing of domestic familiarity
with me, as with her brother.

She was much older than I. Humiliation and anxiety
had deeply preyed on her constitution, which had never been
florid or robust, and made still less that small portion of
external grace or beauty, which nature had conferred upon
her. Dignity, however, was conspicuous in her deportment,
and intelligence glowed in her delicate and pliant features.
Her manners were extremely mild, her voice soft and musical,
and her conversation full of originality and wisdom. The
high place to which she admitted me in her esteem, and the
pleasure she took in my company, demanded my esteem and
gratitude in return. In a short time, she took place of her
brother in my confidence and veneration.

I never loved Mary Wilmot. Disparity of age, the dignity
and sedateness of her carriage, and perhaps the want of personal
attractions, inspired me with a sentiment very different
from love. Yet there was no sacrifice of inclination which I
would not cheerfully have made, in the cause of her happiness.
Though union with her could not give me the raptures
that fortunate love is said to produce, it was impossible to
find them with another while she was miserable.

I had no experience of the passions. I knew, and conversed
with no woman but Mary, and imagined that no
human being possessed equal excellences. I had no counter
longing to contend with; and, to say truth, did not suspect
that my regard for any woman, could possibly be carried further
than what I felt for her.

Mary's knowledge of the heart, the persuasion of her
own defects, or her refined conception of the passions, made
her less sanguine and impetuous. Her love was to be indisputably
requited by a love as fervent, before she would permit
herself to indulge in hopes of felicity, or allow me to esteem,
in her, my future wife. Our mutual situation by no means
justified marriage. Secure and regular means of subsistence
were wanting, as I had, somewhat indiscreetly, bound myself
to serve a parsimonious master, for a much longer period
than was requisite to make me a proficient in my art.

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

Meanwhile, there subsisted between us the most affectionate
and cordial intercourse, such as was worthy of her love,
and my boundless esteem.

As long as the possibility of marriage was distant, this
discord of feelings was of less moment. A very great
misfortune, however, seemed to have brought it, for a time,
very near. Wilmot embarked on the river, in an evil hour,
and the boat being upset by a gust of wind, was drowned.
The brother and sister tenderly loved each other, and this
calamity was long and deeply deplored by the survivor.
One unexpected good, however, grew out of this event.
Wilmot was found to be credited in the bank of P. for so
large a sum as five thousand dollars.

You will judge of the surprise produced by such a discovery,
when I tell you that this credit appeared to have
been given above two years before Wilmot's death; that we,
his constant and intimate associates, had never heard the
slightest intimation of his possessing any thing beyond the
scanty income of his school; that his expenses continued,
till the day of his death, perfectly conformable to the known
amount of this wretched income; and that no documents
could be found among his papers, throwing any light on the
mystery.

I shall not recount the ten thousand fruitless conjectures
that were formed to account for this circumstance. None
was more probable than that Wilmot held this money for
another. Mary was particularly confident of the truth of
this conclusion, though to me it was not unembarrassed with
difficulties, for why was no written evidence, no memorandum
or letter, to be found respecting the trust? and why did
he maintain so obstinate a silence on the subject to us, to
whom he was accustomed to communicate every action and
every thought?

We endeavored to recollect Wilmot's conversation and
deportment, at the time this money was deposited by him,
in his own name, in the bank. This clue seemed to lead to
some discovery. I well remembered a thoughtfulness, at that
period, not usual in my friend, and a certain conversation,
that took place between us, on the propriety of living on the
bounty of others, when able to maintain ourselves by our own
industry. I short, I was extremely willing to conclude that

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

this money had been a present to Wilmot, from some paternal
friend of his family, or, perhaps, some kinsman from a distance.
At all events, as this sum had lain undisturbed in
the bank for two years, I saw no reason why it should not
be applied to the purpose of subsistence, by his sister, to
whom it now fully belonged.

It was difficult to overcome her scruples. At length she
determined to use as small a part as her necessities could
dispense with, and to leave the rest untouched for half a year
longer, when, if no claimant appeared, she might use it with
less scruple. This half year of precaution expired, and
nobody appeared to dispute her right.

She now became extremely anxious to divide this sum,
gratuitously, with me. To me, the only obstacle to marriage
was, the want of property. This obstacle, if Mary Wilmot
consented to bestow her hand where her heart had long
reposed, would be removed. It was difficult, however, to
persuade her to accept a man on whom she doated; but
who, though urgent in his proffers, was not so deeply in love
as herself. At length, she consented to be mine, provided,
at the end of another half year, I should continue equally
desirous of the gift.

At this time I was become my own master, and having
placed Mary in a safe and rural asylum at Abingdon, I paid
a visit of a few weeks to my uncle near Hatfield. I had
been here scarcely a fortnight, when, one evening, a stranger
whom I had formerly known in my boyish days, as the son
of a neighboring farmer, paid me a visit. This person had
been abroad for several years, on mercantile adventures,
in Europe and the West Indies. He had just returned,
and after various ineffectual inquiries after Wilmot, with
whom he had formerly been in habits of confidence, he had
come to me, in the prosecution of the same search.

After various preliminaries, he made me acquainted with
the purpose of his search. The substance of his story was
this;—After toiling for wealth, during several years, in different
ports of the Mediterranean, he at length acquired
what he deemed sufficient for frugal subsistence in America.
His property he partly invested in a ship and her cargo,
and partly in a bill of exchange for five thousand dollars.

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

This bill he transmitted to his friend Wilmot, with directions
to reserve the proceeds till his arrival. He embarked,
meanwhile, in his own vessel, sending, at the same time,
directions to his wife, who was then at Glasgow, to meet him
in America.

Unfortunately the ship was wrecked on the coast of
Africa; the cargo was plundered or destroyed by the savage
natives, and he, and a few survivors, were subjected to innumerable
hardships, and the danger of perpetual servitude.
From this he was delivered by the agents of the United
States, in consequence of a treaty being ratified between us
and the government of Algiers. Morton was among the
miserable wretches whose chains were broken on that occasion,
and he had just touched the shore of his native country.

His attention was naturally directed, in the first place, to
the fate of the property transmitted to Wilmot. Wilmot, he
heard, died suddenly. Wilmot's sister, his only known relation,
was gone, nobody could tell whither. The merchant
on whom his bills had been drawn, was partner in a Hamburgh
house, to which he had lately returned. The ships in
which he sent his letters had safely arrived. His bills had
never been protested at any of the notaries, but all the written
evidences of this transaction, that had remained in his own
hands, had been buried, with his other property, in the
waves.

After some suspense, and much inquiry, he was directed
to me, as the dearest friend of Wilmot, and the intended
husband of his sister.

You will see, my friend, that the mystery which perplexed
us so long, was now at an end. The coincidence between
the sum remitted, and that in our possession, and between
the time of the probable receipt of the bills, and that of the
deposit made by Wilmot at the bank, left me in no doubt
as to the true owner of the money.

I explained to Morton, with the utmost clearness and
simplicity, every particular relative to this affair. I acknowledged
the plausibility of his claim; assured him of
Miss Wilmot's readiness, and even eagerness, to do him justice,
and promised to furnish him, on his return to Philadelphia,
with a letter, introducing him to my friend. We
parted.

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

This was a most heavy and unlooked for disappointment
of all our schemes of happiness. My heart bled with compassion
for the forlorn and destitute Mary. To be thus
rescued from obscurity and penury, merely to have these
evils augmented by the bitterness of disappointment, was
a hard lot.

I was just emancipated from my servitude. I was perfectly
skilled in my art, but mere skill might supply myself
with scanty bread, without enabling me to support a family.
For that end, credit to procure a house, and the means of
purchasing tools and materials, were necessary; but I knew
not which way to look for them.

My nearest relation was my uncle Walter, who had taken
me and my sisters, in our infancy, into his protection, and had
maintained the girls ever since. His whole property, however,
was a small farm, whose profits were barely sufficient
to defray the current expenses of his family. At his death,
this asylum would be lost to us, as his son, who would then
become the occupant, had always avowed the most malignant
envy and rancorous aversion to us. As my uncle was
old, and of a feeble constitution, and as the girls were still
young and helpless, I had abundant theme on my own account,
for uneasy meditation. To these reflections were
added the miseries, which this reverse of fortune would
bring down upon the woman whom I prized beyond all the
world.

One day, while deeply immersed in such contemplations
as these, and musefully and mournfully pacing up and down
the piazza of the inn at Hatfield, a chaise came briskly up
to the door and stopped. I lifted my eyes, and beheld,
alighting from it, a venerable figure, in whom I instantly
recognised my friend and benefactor, Mr. Howard. The
recognition was not more sudden on my side than on his,
though a few years, at my age, were sufficient to produce
great changes in personal appearance. Surprise and joy
nearly deprived me of my senses, when he took me in his
arms and saluted me in the most paternal manner. We
entered the house, and as soon as I regained my breath, I
gave utterance to my transports, in the most extravagant
terms.

After the first emotion had subsided, he informed me that

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

the sole object of his present journey to Hatfield was a meeting
with me. He had just arrived, with a wife and daughter,
in America, where he designed to pass the rest of his
days. It was his anxious hope to find me well and in my
former situation, as he was now able to take the care of providing
for me into his own hands. He inquired minutely into
my history since we parted. I could not immediately
conquer my reserve, on that subject nearest my heart; but
in other respects, I was perfectly explicit.

My narrative seemed not to displease him, and he condescended
in his turn, to give me some insight into his own
condition. I now discovered that he was sprung from the
younger branch of a family, at once ancient and noble. He
received an education more befitting his birth than his fortune;
and had, by a thoughtless and dissipated life, wasted
his small patrimony. This misfortune had contributed to
tame his spirit, to open his eyes on the folly of his past conduct,
and to direct him in the choice of more rational pursuits.

He was early distinguished by the favorable regards of a
lady of great beauty and accomplishments. This blessing
he did not prize as he ought. Though his devotion to Clara
Lisle was fervent, he suffered the giddiness of youth, and the
fascinations of pleasure, to draw him aside from the path of
his true interest. Her regard for him made her overlook
many of his foibles, and induced her to try various means to
restore him to virtue and discretion. These efforts met
with various success, till at length, some flagrant and unexpected
deviation, contrary to promises, and in defiance of
her warnings, caused a breach between them that was irreparable.

The head of the nobler branch of Mr. Howard's family
was a cousin, a man of excellent, though not of shining character.
He had long been my friend's competitor for the
favor of Miss Lisle. The lady's friends were his strenuous
advocates, and used every expedient of argument or authority,
to subdue her prepossessions for another. None of these had
any influence, while my friend afforded her any hopes of his
reformation. His rashness and folly having, at length, extinguished
these hopes, she complied, after much reluctance
and delay, with the wishes of her family.

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

This event, communicated by the lady herself in a letter
to my friend, in which her motives were candidly stated,
and the most pathetic admonitions were employed to point
out the errors of his conduct, effected an immediate reformation.
The blessing which he neglected or slighted, when
within his reach, now acquired inestimable value. His regrets
and remorses were very keen, and terminated in a resolution
to convert the wreck of his fortune into an annuity,
and retire for the rest of his life to America. This income,
though small, was sufficient, economically managed, to
maintain him decently, at such a village as Hatfield.

His residence here, at a distance from ancient companions,
and from all the usual incitements to extravagance,
completed, in a few years, a thorough change in his character.
He became, as I have formerly described him, temperate,
studious, gentle, and sedate. The irksomeness of solitude
was somewhat relieved by his acquaintance with me,
and by the efforts which his growing kindness for poor
Philip induced him to make for improving and befriending
the lad. These efforts he imagined to be crowned with remarkable
success, and gradually concentred all his social
feelings in affection for me. He resolved to be a father to
me while living, and to leave his few moveables, all he
had to leave, to me, at his death.

These prospects were somewhat disturbed by intelligence
from home, that his cousin was dead.

Eighteen years absence from his native country, and from
Miss Lisle, had greatly strengthened his attachment to his
present abode, but had not effaced all the impressions of his
youth. The recollection of that lady's charms, her fidelity
to him, in spite of the opposition of her family, and of his
own demerits, her generous efforts to extricate him from his
difficulties, which even proceeded so far, as to pay, indirectly,
and through the agency of others, a debt for which he had
been arrested, always filled his heart with tenderness and
veneration. These thoughts produced habitual seriousness,
gratitude to this benefactor, an ardent zeal to fulfil her hopes
by the dignity of his future deportment; but was not attended
with any anger or regret at her compliance with the prudent
wishes of her family, and her choice of one infinitely
more worthy than himself. At this he sincerely rejoiced,

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

and felt a pang, at the news of that interruption to her felicity,
occasioned by her husband's death.

This event, however, came gradually to be viewed with
somewhat different emotions. He began to reflect, that a
tenderness so fervent as was once cherished for him, was not
likely to be totally extinguished, by any thing but death.
His cousin, though a man of worth, had been accepted from
the impulse of generosity and pity, and not from that of love.
She had been contented, and perhaps happy in her union
with him; but, if her first passion was extinct, he imagined
there would be found no very great difficulty in reviving it.
Both were still in the prime of life, being under thirty eight
years of age.

The correspondence so long suspended, was now renewed
between them; and Mr. Howard, with altered views,
and renovated hopes, now embarked for that country which
he had believed himself to have for ever abjured. This new
state of his affairs by no means lessened his attachment to
the fortunate youth, who had been for eight years the sole
companion of his retirement; while his own destiny was unaccomplished,
he thought it proper to forbear exciting any
hopes in me. Should his darling purpose be defeated, he
meant immediately to return. Should he meet with success,
and his present views, as to the preference due to America,
as a place of abode, continued, he meant to exert his influence
with the elder and younger Clara, for his cousin had
left behind him one child, a daughter, now in the bloom of
youth, to induce them to emigrate. In every case, however,
he was resolved the farmer-boy should not be forgotten.

His projects were crowned, though not immediately, with
all the success to be desired. The pair, whom so many
years, and so wide an interval had severed, were now united,
and the picture which Mr. Howard drew of the American
climate and society, obtained his wife's consent to cross the
ocean.

“My dear Philip,” said Mr. Howard to me, after relating
these particulars, “I have a pleasure in this meeting with
you, that I cannot describe. You are the son, not of my instincts,
but of my affections and my reason. Formerly I
gave you my advice, my instructions, and company, only because
I had nothing more to give. Now I am rich, and will

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

take care that you shall never be again exposed to the
chances of poverty. Though opulent, I do not mean to be
idle. He that knows the true use of riches, never can be
rich enough; but my occupation will leave me leisure enough
for enjoyment; and you, who will share my labor, shall pantake
liberally of the profit. For this end, I mean to admit
you as an inseparable member of my family, and to place
you, in every respect, on the footing of my son.

“My family consists of my wife and her daughter. The
latter is now twenty three, and you will be able to form a
just conception of her person and mind, when I tell you, that
in both respects, she is exactly what her mother was at her
age. There is one particular, indeed, in which the resemblance
is most striking. She estimates the characters of
others, not by the specious but delusive considerations of
fortune or birth, but by the intrinsic qualities of heart and
head. In her marriage choice, which yet remains to be
made, she will forget ancestry and patrimony, and think only
of the morals and understanding of the object. Hitherto,
her affections have been wholly free, but”—here Mr. Howard
fixed his eyes with much intenseness and significance, on
my countenance—“her parents will neither be grieved nor
surprised, if, after a residence of some time under the same
roof with her brother Philip, she should no longer be able to
boast her freedom in that respect. If ever circumstances
should arise to put my sincerity to the test, you shall never
find me backward to convince you that I practise no equivocations
and reserves, and prescribe no limitations or conditions,
when I grant you the privilege of calling me father.

“My stay with you at present must be short. I am going,
on business of importance, to Virginia. I shall call here on
my return, which I expect will be soon, and take you with
me to New York, where I purpose to reside for some time.
The interval may be useful to you, in settling and arranging
your little matters, and equipping yourself for your journey.”

Such, my friend, was the result of this meeting with Mr.
Howard. Every thing connected with this event was so abrupt
and unexpected, that my mind was a scene of hurry and
confusion, till his departure, next morning, left me at liberty
to think on what had past. He left me with marks of the
most tender affection, with particular advice in what manner

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

to adjust my affairs, and with a promise of acquainting me by
letter with all his motions.

I waited with some impatience for Mr. Howard's return.
Many things had dropped from him, in our short interview,
on which I had now leisure to reflect. His views, with regard
to me, could not fail to delight my youthful fancy. I
was dazzled and enchanted by the prospect which he set before
me, of entering on a new and more dignified existence,
of partaking the society of beings like Mrs. Howard and her
daughter, and of aiding him in the promotion of great and
useful purposes.

One intimation, however, had escaped him, which filled
me with anxious meditations. The young Clara was the
companion of his voyage hither. She had landed on this
shore. To her presence and domestic intercourse, I was
about to be introduced, and I was allowed to solicit her
love. He was willing to bestow her upon me, and had,
without doubt, gained the concurrence of her mother in this
scheme. It was thus he meant to insure the felicity, and
establish the fortune of his pupil.

There is somewhat in the advantages of birth and rank,
in the habit of viewing objects through the medium of books,
that gives a sacred obscurity, a mysterious elevation, to
human beings. I had been familiar with the names nobility
and royality, but the things themselves had ever been shrouded
in an awe creating darkness. Their distance had likewise
produced an interval, which I imagined impossible for me to
overpass. They were objects to be viewed, like the Divinity,
from afar. The only sentiments which they could excite,
were reverence and wonder. That I should ever pass the
mound which separated my residence and my condition from
theirs, was utterly incredible.

The ideas annexed to the term peasant are wholly inapplicable
to the tillers of ground in America; but our notions
are the offspring more of the books we read, than of any other
of our external circumstances. Our books are almost wholly
the productions of Europe, and the prejudices which infect
us are derived chiefly from this source. These prejudices
may be somewhat rectified by age, and by converse with the
world, but they flourish in full vigor in youthful minds, reared
in seclusion and privacy, and undisciplined by intercourse

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

with various classes of mankind. In me, they possessed an
unusual degree of strength. My words were selected and
defined according to foreign usages, and my notions of dignity
were modelled on a scale, which the revolution has completely
taken away. I could never forget that my condition was
that of a peasant, and in spite of reflection, I was the slave
of those sentiments of self contempt and humiliation, which
pertain to that condition elsewhere, through chimerical and
visionary on the western side of the Atlantic.

My ambition of dignity and fortune grew out of this supposed
inferiority of rank. Experience had taught me, how
slender are the genuine wants of a human being, and made
me estimate, at their true value, the blessings of competence,
and fixed property. Our fears are always proportioned to
our hopes, and what is ardently desired, appears, when
placed within our reach, to be an illusion designed to torment
us. We are inclined to question the reality of that
which our foresight had never suggested as near, though
our wishes had perpetually hovered around it.

When the death of Wilmot put his sister in possession of
a sum of money, which, when converted into land, would
procure her and the man whom her affection had distinguished,
a domain of four or five hundred fertile acres, my
emotions I cannot describe. Many would be less affected
in passing from a fisherman's hovel to the throne of an opulent
nation. It so much surpassed the ordinary bounds of
my foresight and even of my wishes, that, for a time, I was
fain to think myself in one of my usual walking dreams.
My doubts were dispelled only by the repetition of the same
impressions, and by the lapse of time. I gradually became
familiarized to the change, and by frequently revolving its
benefits and consequences, raised the tenor of my ordinary
sensations to the level, as it were, of my new condition.

From this unwonted height, Morton's reappearance had
thrown us down to our original obscurity. But now my
old preceptor had started up before me, and, like my good
genius, had brought with him gifts immeasurable, and surpassing
belief. They existed till now, in another hemisphere;
they occupied an elevation in the social scale, to which I
could scarcely raise my eyes; yet they were now within a

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

short journey of my dwelling. I was going to be ushered
into their presence; but my privilege was not to be circumscribed
by any sober limits. This heiress of opulence and
splendor, this child of fortune, and appropriator of elegance
and grace, and beauty, was proffered to me as a wife!

I reflected on the education which I had received from
Mr. Howard; his affection for me, which had been unlimited;
his relation to his wife's daughter, and the authority
and respect which that relation, as well as his personal
qualities, produced. I reflected on the futility of titular
distinction; on the capriciousness of wealth, and its independence
of all real merit, in the possessor; but still I
could not retain but for a moment, the confidence and self
respect which flowed from these thoughts. I was still nothing
more than an obscure clown, whose life had been spent
in the barnyard and cornfield, and to whose level, it was
impossible for a being, qualified and educated like Clara,
ever to descend.

You must not imagine, however, that this descent was
desired by me. I was bound, by every tie of honor, though
not of affection, to Mary Wilmot. Incited by compassion
and by gratitude, I had plighted my vows to her, and had
formed no wish or expectation of revoking them. These
vows were to be completed in a few months, by marriage;
but this event, by the unfortunate, though seasonable and
equitable claim of Morton, was placed at an uncertain distance.
Marriage, while both of us were poor, would be an
act of the utmost indiscretion.

What, however, was taken away by Morton, might, I
fondly conceived, be restored to us by the generosity of Mr.
Howard. It was not, indeed, perfectly agreeable to the dictates
of my pride, to receive fortune as the boon of any one;
but I had always been accustomed to regard Mr. Howard
more as my father than teacher, and it seemed as if I had
a natural right to every gift which was needful to my happiness,
and which was in his power to bestow.

Mary and her claims on me, were, indeed, unknown to
my friend. He had no reason to be particularly interested
in her fate; and her claims interfered with those schemes
which he had apparently formed, with relation to Clara and
myself. How, I asked, might he regard her claims? In

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

what light would he consider that engagement of the understanding,
rather than of the heart, into which I had entered?
How far would he esteem it proper to adhere to it; and
what efforts might he make to dissolve it?

Various incidents had hindered me from thoroughly explaining
to him my situation, during his short stay at Hatfield;
but I resolved to seize the opportunity of our next meeting,
and by a frank disclosure, to put an end to all my doubts.
Meanwhile, I employed the interval of his absence, in giving
an account of all these events to Mary, and impatiently
waited the arrival of a letter. The period of my friend's
absence was nearly expired, and the hourly expectation of
his return prevented me from visiting Mary in person. Instead
of his coming, however, I at length received a letter
from him in these terms.

Richmond, Nov. 11.

“I shall not call on you at Hatfield. I am weary of traversing
hills and dales; and my detention in Virginia being
longer than I expected, shall go on board a vessel in this
port, bound for New York. Contract, in my name, with
your old friend, for the present accommodation of the girls,
and repair to New York as soon as possible. Search out
No. —, Broadway. If I am not there to embrace you,
inquire for my wife or daughter, and mention your name.
Make haste; the women long to see a youth in whose education
I had so large a share; and be sure, by your deportment,
not to discredit your instructer, and belie my good
report.

Being, by this letter, relieved from the necessity of staying
longer at Hatfield, I prepared to visit my friend at Abingdon.
Some six or seven days had elapsed since my messenger
had left with her my last letter, and I had not since heard
from her. I had been enjoined to repair to New York with
expedition, but I could not omit the present occasion of an
interview with Mary. Morton's claim would produce an
essential change in her condition, and I was desirous of
discussing with her the validity of this claim, and the consequences
of admitting it.

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

I had not seen Morton since his first visit. I now, in my
way to Abingdon, called at his father's house.

The old man appeared at the door.

His son had visited and staid with him a few days, but
had afterwards returned to the city. He had gone thither
to settle some affairs, and had promised to come back in a
few weeks. He knew not in what affairs he was engaged—
could not tell how far he had succeeded, or whereabouts in
the city he resided.

I proceeded to Abingdon, not without some expectation
of Morton's having already accomplished his wishes, and
persuaded my friend to refund the money; and yet, in a
case of such importance, I could not easily believe that my
concurrence, or at least my advice, would be dispensed with.

I went to her lodgings as soon as I arrived. I had procured
her a pleasant abode, at the house of a lady who was
nearly allied to my uncle, and where the benefits of decent
and affectionate society could be enjoyed without leaving her
apartments. Mrs. Bordley was apprized of the connexion
which subsisted between her inmate and me, and had contracted
and expressed much affection for her guest. On
inquiring for Miss Wilmot of her hostess, she betrayed some
surprise.

“Mary Wilmot?” she answered; “that is a strange question
from you; surely you know she is not here.”

“Not here!” cried I, somewhat startled; “what has
become of her?”

“You do not know then that she has left us for good and
all?”

“No, indeed; not a syllable of any such design has
reached me; but wither has she gone?”

“That is more than I can say. If you are uninformed
on that head, it cannot be expected that I should be in the
secret. I only know, that three days ago she told me of her
intention to change her lodgings, and she did so accordingly,
yesterday morning at sunrise.”

“But what was her motive? What cause of dislike did
she express to this house? I expected she would remain
here, till she changed it for a house of her own.”

“Why indeed, that may be actually the case now, for she
went away with a very spruce young gentleman, in his

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

chaise. But that cannot be. Poor creature! She was in
no state for so joyous a thing as matrimony. She was very
feeble; nay, she was quite ill; she had scarcely left her
bed during five days before, and with difficulty got out of it,
and dressed herself, when the chaise called for her. She
would eat nothing, notwithstanding all my persuasion, and
the pains I took to prepare some light nice thing, such as a
weak stomach could bear. When she told me she meant
to leave my house, I was as much surprised as you, and inquired
what had offended or displeased her in my behaviour.
She assured me that she had been entirely satisfied, and that
her motives for leaving me had no connexion with my deportment.
There was a necessity for going, though she could
not explain to me what it was. I ventured to ask where she
designed to go, but she avoided answering me for some time;
and when I repeated the question, she said she could not
describe her new lodgings—she knew not in what spot she
was destined to take up her rest—and confessed that there
were the most cogent reasons for her silence on that head.
I mentioned the coldness of the weather, and her own ill
health; but she answered, that no option had been left her,
and that she must go, if it were even necessary to carry her
from her bed to the carriage. All this, as you may well
suppose, was strange; and I renewed my questions and
entreaties, but she gave me no satisfaction, and persisted
in her resolutions. Accordingly, on Thursday morning, a
chaise stopped at the door, took her in, with a small trunk,
and hastened away.”

I was confounded and perplexed at this tale. No event
was less expected than this. No intimation had even been
dropped by Mary, that created the least suspicion of this
design. She had left, as Mrs. Bordley proceeded to inform
me, all her furniture, without direction to whom, or in
what manner to dispose of it, and yet had said that she
never designed to return. The gentleman with whom she
departed was unknown to Mrs. Bordley, and had stopt so
short a time, as not to suffer her to obtain, by remarks or
interrogatories, any gratification of her curiosity.

Having ineffectually put a score of questions to Mrs. Bordley,
I entered the deserted apartments. The keys of closets

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

and drawers no where appeared, though the furniture was
arranged as usual. Inquiring of my companion for these—

“Aye,” said she, “I had almost forgotten. The last
thing she said before the chair left the door, holding out a
bunch of keys to me, was, `Give these to—' there her voice
faltered, and I observed the tears flow. I received the
keys, and though she went away without ending her sentence,
I took for granted it was you she meant.”

I eageily seized the keys, and hoped, by their assistance,
to find a clue to this labyrinth. I opened the closets and
drawers and turned over their contents, but found no paper
which would give me the intelligence I wanted. No script
of any kind appeared; nothing but a few sheets, and the
like cumbrous furniture. A writing desk stood near the
wall, but blank paper, wafers, and quills, were all that it
contained. I desisted, at length, from my unprofitable
labor, and once more renewed my inquiries of Mrs. Bordley.

She described the dress and form of the young man who
attended the fugitive. I could not at first recognize in her
description any one whom I knew. His appearance bespoke
him to be a citizen, and he seemed to have arrived from the
city, as well as to return thither. She dwelt with particular
emphasis on the graces of the youth, and frequently
insinuated that a new gallant had supplanted the old.

For some time, I was deaf to these surmises; but, at
length, they insensibly revived in my fancy, and acquired
strength. I began to account for appearances so as to justify
my suspicion. She had not informed me of her motions;
but that might arise from compunction and shame.
There might even be something illicit in this new connexion,
to which necessity might have impelled her. The claims of
Morton were made known to her by me, but possibly they
had been previously imparted by himself. To shun that
poverty to which this discovery would again reduce her, she
listened to the offers of one, whose opulence was able to
relieve her wants.

The notion that her conduct was culpable, vanished in a
moment, and I abhorred myself for harboring it. I remembered
all the proofs of a pure and exalted mind, impatient
of contempt and poverty, but shrinking with infinitely

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

more reluctance from vice and turpitude, which she had
given. I called to mind her treatment of a man, by name
Sedley, who had formerly solicited her love, and this remembrance
gave birth to a new conjecture, which subsequent
reflection only tended to confirm.

Sedley had contracted a passion for Mary six or eight
years ago. He was a man of excellent morals, and heir to
a great fortune. He had patrimony in his own possession, and
had much to hope for from his parents. These parents
hated and reviled the object of their son's affections, merely
because she was poor, and their happiness seemed to depend
on his renouncing her. To this he would never consent,
and Mary might long ago have removed all the evils
of her situation, had she been willing to accept Sedley's
offers; but though she had the highest esteem for his virtues,
and gratitude for his preference, her heart was another's.
Besides, her notions of duty were unusually scrupulous.
Her poverty had only made her more watchful against any
encroachments on her dignity, and she disdained to enter a
family, who thought themselves degraded by her alliance.

Sedley was a vehement spirit. Opposition whetted, rather
than blunted his zeal; and Mary's conduct, while it
heightened his admiration and respect, gave new edge to
his desires. The youth, whom she loved, did not admit a
mutual affection, and his poverty would have set marriage at
a hopeless distance, even if it had been conceived. Sedley,
therefore, believed himself the only one capable of
truly promoting her happiness, and persisted in courting her
favor longer and with more constancy, than might have been
expected from his ardent feelings and versatile age.

I need not repeat that Mary's affections were mine. To
Sedley, therefore, I was the object of aversion and fear, and
there never took place between us intercourse sufficient
to subdue his prejudices. After her brother's death, marriage
was resolved upon between us, and Sedley slackened
the ardor of his pursuit. Still, however, he would not abjure
her society.

Some secret revolution, perhaps, had been wrought in the
mind of my friend. Her consent to marriage had been
extorted by me, for she was almost equally averse to marriage
with one by whom she was not loved with that warmth

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

which she thought her due, as with one who possessed every
title to preference but her love. These scruples had been
laid aside, in consideration of the benefit which her brother's
death, by giving her property, enabled her to confer upon
me, who was destitute. This benefit it was no longer in
her power to confer. She would consider herself as severed
from me for ever, and in this state a renewal of Sedley's
importunities might subdue her reluctance. On comparing
Mrs. Bordley's description of the voice, features, garb, and
carriage of Mary's attendant, with those of Sedley, I fancied
I discovered a strong resemblance between them. Some
other coincidences, which came to light in the course of the
day, made me certain as to the person of her companion.
It was Sedley himself.

I was willing to gain all the knowledge of this affair which
was within my reach. Sedley's usual place of abode was
his father's house in Virginia, but he chiefly passed his time
in Philadelphia, where he resided with his sister, who was a
lady of great merit, and left, by her husband's death, in opulent
circumstances. This lady had made frequent overtures
of friendship to Mary, but these had, for the most part, been
declined. This reserve was not wholly free from pride.
A mistaken sensibility made her shun those occasions for
contempt or insult, which might occur in her intercourse
with the rich. The relation in which she stood to Sedley
was another impediment. A just regard for his happiness
compelled her to exclude herself as much as possible from
his company. The kindness of Mrs. Valentine had not
been diverted by these scruples and reserves, and some intercourse
had taken place between them before Mary's retirement
to Abingdon.

This change of views in my friend had given me much
disquiet, but some reflection convinced me that it was a
cause of rejoicing rather than regret. Wedlock had been
desired by me, more from zeal for the happiness of another,
than for my own. I had lamented that destiny which made
the affections of three persons merely the instruments of
their misery, and had exerted my influence to give a new
direction to my friend's passions. This undertaking was no
less delicate than arduous, and no wonder, that in hands so
unskilful as mine, the attempt should fail. I could not be

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

much displeased that this end was effected, though I was
somewhat mortified on finding that she did not deem me
worthy of being apprized of her schemes. I reflected, however,
that this information might only be delayed; and imagined
a thousand plausible reasons which might induce her
to postpone intelligence so unexpected, if not disagreeable
to me.

Next morning I repaired to the city, and to Mrs. Valentine's
house. I inquired of a female servant for Miss Wilmot,
but was told that she had been there, a few hours, on
the preceding Thursday, and had then gone, in company
with her mistress and Mr. Sedley, to New York. No time
had been fixed for their return, but Mrs. Valentine had said
that her absence might last for six or eight months. The
steward, who might afford me more information, was out of
town.

Thus my conjectures were confirmed; and having no
reason for further delay, I immediately set out in the same
road. My thoughts, disembarrassed from all engagements
with Mary, persuaded of her union with Sedley, and convinced
that this union would more promote her happiness
than any other event, I returned without reluctance to Clara
Howard. I was impatient to compare those vague and glittering
conceptions which hovered in my fancy, with the
truth; therefore adopted the swiftest conveyance, and arrived,
in the evening of the same day, at Powle's Hook ferry.

My excursions had hitherto been short and rare, and the
stage on which I was now entering, abounded with novelty
and grandeur. The second city in our country was familiar
to my fancy by description; but my ideas were disjointed
and crude, and my attention was busy in searching,
in the objects that presented themselves, for similitudes
which were seldom to be met with. A sort of tremulous,
but pleasing astonishment, overwhelmed me, while I gazed
through the twilight, on the river and the city on the further
shore. My sensations of solemn and glowing expectation
chiefly flowed from the foresight of the circumstances in
which I was preparing to place myself.

Men exist more for the future than the present. Our
being is never so intense and vivid, if I may so speak, as
when we are on the eve of some anticipated revolution,

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

momentous to our happiness. Our attention is attracted by
every incident that brings us nearer to the change, and we
are busy in marking the agreement between objects as they
rise before us, and our previous imaginations. Thus it was
with me. My palpitations increased as I drew near the
house to which I had been directed, and I could scarcely
govern my emotions sufficiently to inquire of the servant
who appeared to my summons, for Mrs. Howard.

I was ushered into a lighted parlor, and presently a lady
entered. She bore no marks of having passed the middle
age, and her countenance exhibited the union of fortitude
and sweetness. Her air was full of dignity and condescension.
Methought I wanted no other assurance but that
which the sight of her conveyed, that this was the wife of
my friend.

I was thrown, by her entrance, into some confusion, and
was at a loss in what manner to announce myself. The
moment she caught a distinct glance of my figure, her features
expanded into a smile, and offering her hand, she exclaimed—

“Ahah! This, without doubt, is the young friend, whom
we have so anxiously looked for. Your name is Philip
Stanley, and as such I welcome you, with the tenderness of
a mother, to this home.”—Turning to a servant who followed
her, she continued, “Call Clara hither. Tell her that
a friend has arrived.”

Before I had time to comment on this abrupt reception,
the door was again opened. A nymph, robed with the
most graceful simplicity, entered, and advancing towards
me, offered me her hand.

“Here,” said the elder lady, “is the son and brother,
whom Mr. Howard promised to procure for us. Welcome
him, my girl, as such.”

Lifting her eyes from the floor, and casting on me bashful
but affectionate looks, the young lady said, in a half
whisper, “He is truly welcome”—and again offered the
hand which, confounded and embarrassed as I at first was,
I had declined to accept. Now, however, I was less backward.

An unaffected and sprightly conversation followed, that
tended to banish those timidities which were too

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

apparent in my deportment. Mrs. Howard entered into a gay
and almost humorous description of my person, such as she
had received before my arrival, and remarked the differences
between the picture and the original, intermingling
questions, which, compelling me to open my lips in answer
to them, helped me to get rid of my awkwardness. Presently
supper was prepared, and despatched with the utmost
cheerfulness.

My astonishment and rapture were unspeakable. Such
condescension and familiarity, surpassing all my fondest imaginations,
from beings invested with such dazzling superiority,
almost intoxicated my senses. My answers were disadvantageous
to myself, for they were made in such a tumult and
delirium of emotions, that they could not fail of being incoherent
or silly.

Gradually these raptures subsided, and I acted and spoke
with more sobriety and confidence. I had leisure also to
survey the features of my friends. Seated at opposite sides
of the table, with lights above and around us, every lineament
and gesture were distinctly seen. It was difficult to
say which person was the most lovely. The bloom and
glossiness of youth had, indeed, disappeared in the elder,
but the ruddy tints and the smoothness of health, joined to
the most pathetic and intelligent expression, set the mother
on a level, even in personal attractions, with the daughter.
No music was ever more thrilling than the tones of Clara.
They sunk deeply into my heart, while her eyes, casually
turned on me, and beaming with complacency, contributed
still more to enchant me.

In a few days, the effects of novelty gradually disappearing,
I began to find myself at home. Mr. Howard's arrival,
and the cordiality of his behavior, contributed still more to
place me at ease. Those employments he designed for me
now occurred. They generally engrossed the half of each
day. They were light, despatched without toil or anxiety,
and conduced, in innumerable ways, to my pleasure and
improvement. They introduced me to men of different
professions and characters, called forth my ingenuity and
knowledge, and supplied powerful
incitements to new studies
and inquiries.

At noon, the day's business was usually dismissed, and

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

the afternoon and evening were devoted to intellectual and
social occupations. These were generally partaken by the
ladies, and visits were received and paid so rarely, as to
form no interruption to domestic pleasures. Collected around
the fire, and busied in music, or books, or discourse, the
hours flew away with unheeded rapidity. The contrast
which this scene bore to my past life perpetually recurred to
my reflections, and added new and inexpressible charms to
that security and elegance by which I was at present surrounded.

Clara was the companion of my serious and my sportive
hours. I found, in her character, simplicity and tenderness,
united to powerful intellects. The name of children was
often conferred upon us by my friend and his wife; all
advances to familiarity and confidence between us were
encouraged; our little plans of walking or studying together
were sanctioned by smiles of approbation; and their happiness
was evidently imperfect while ours was suspended or
postponed.

In this intercourse there was nothing to hinder the growth
of that sentiment, which is so congenial with virtuous and
youthful bosoms. My chief delight was in sharing the
society and performing offices of kindness for Clara; and
this delight the frankness of her nature readily shewed to be
mutual. Love was not avowed or solicited, and did not
frequently recur, in an undisguised shape, to my thoughts.
My desires seemed to be limited to her presence, and to
participating her occupations and amusements. Satisfied in
like manner with this, no marks of impatience or anxiety
were ever betrayed by her, but in my absence.

The fulness of content which I now experienced did not
totally exclude the remembrance of Mary. I had heard
and seen nothing of Morton since my departure from Hatfield.
The only way of accounting for this, was to suppose
that Mary and he had met, and that the former, persuaded
of the equity of his claim, had resigned to him the money
which he had remitted to her brother.

The silence which she had observed, involved me in the
deepest perplexity. I spared no pains to discover Mrs. Valentine's
residence, but my pains were fruitless. My

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

inquiries rendered it certain that, at least, no such person resided
in New York.

Thus occupied, the winter passed away. On a mild, but
blustering evening in March, I happened to be walking, in
company with Clara, on the battery. I chanced, after some
time, to spy before me, coming in an opposite direction, the
man whose fate had engaged so much of my attention. It
was Morton himself. On seeing me, he betrayed much
satisfaction, but no surprise. We greeted each other affectionately.
Observing that he eyed my companion with particular
earnestness, I introduced him to her.

This meeting was highly desirable, as I hoped to collect
from it an explication of what had hitherto been a source of
perplexity. I likewise marked a cheerfulness in my friend's
deportment, which shewed that some favorable change had
taken place. He seemed no less anxious than I for a confidential
interview; and an appointment of a meeting on the
same evening was accordingly made.

Having conducted Clara home, I hastened to the place
appointed. I was forthwith ushered into a parlor, where
Morton was found in company with a lady of graceful and
pensive mien, with a smiling babe in her arms, to whom he
introduced me as to his wife. This incident confirmed my
favorable prognostics, and I waited, with impatience, till the
lady's departure removed all constraint from our conversation.

In a short time she left us alone. “I congratulate you,”
said I, “on your reunion with your family, but cannot help
expressing my surprise that you never favored me with a
second visit, or gave me any intelligence of your good fortune.”

He apologized for his neglect, by saying, that the arrival
of his wife and daughter, in New York, obliged him, shortly
after our interview, to hasten to this city, where successive
engagements had detained him till now. He was, nevertheless,
extremely desirous of a meeting, and intended, as soon
as pleasant weather should return, to go to Hatfield, on purpose
to see me. This meeting, however, had fortunately
occurred to preclude the necessity of that journey. He
then inquired into the health of Miss Wilmot, and her

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

present situation. “I was anxious to see her,” he continued,
“on account of that affair, on which we conversed at our
last meeting. As her brother's friend, I was, likewise, desirous
of seeing her, and tendering her any service in my
power, but when taking measures to bring about an interview,
I received a letter from my wife, who, to my infinite
surprise and satisfaction, had embarked for America, and
arrived safely at New York. My eagerness to see my
family made me postpone this interview for the present, and
one engagement has since so rapidly succeeded another,
that I have never been at leisure to execute this design.”

“What,” said I, “has no meeting taken place between
Mary Wilmot and you? Has she not restored the money
you claimed?”

“Surely,” replied he, “you cannot be ignorant that I
have never received it. I doubted whether I ought to receive
it, even if my title were good. It was chiefly to become
acquainted with her, that I looked for her, and my good
fortune has since enabled me to dispense with any thing
else. The property, left by her brother, may rightfully
belong to her, notwithstanding present appearances. At
any rate, her possessions shall be unmolested by me.”

He then proceeded to inform me, that his wife's parents
being deceived by his long silence, and the intelligence of
his shipwreck, into the opinion of his death, had relented,
and settled an independent and liberal pension on their
daughter, on condition of her choosing some abode at a distance
from them. She proposed to retire, with her child, to
some neat and rural abode in Cornwall, and was on the point
of executing this design, when letters were received from
her husband, at Algiers, which assured her of his safety, and
requested her to embark for America, where it was his intention
to meet her. She had instantly changed her plans,
and selling her annuity on good terms, had transported herself
and her property to New York, where her husband
being apprized of her arrival, hastened to join her.

“Thus,” continued Morton, “you have, in my destiny, a
striking instance of the folly of despair. My shipwreck,
and my long absence, in circumstances which hindered all
intercourse between me and my family, were the most propitious
events that could have happened. Nothing but the

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

belief of my death, and the consequent distresses of my wife,
could have softened the animosity of her parents. Her disobedience,
they thought, had been amply punished, and fate
having taken from me the power of receiving any advantage
from their gift, they consented to make her future life secure,
at least, from want.

“It was also lucky, that their returning affection stopped
just where it did. Their resentment was still so powerful as
to make them refuse to see her, and to annex to their gift, the
stern condition of residing at a distance from them. Hence
she was enabled to embark for America, without detecting
their mistake, as to my death. They carefully shut their
ears against all intelligence of her condition, whether direct
or indirect, and will probably pass their lives in ignorance of
that, which, if known, would only revive their upbraidings
and regrets.

“I am not sorry for the hardships I have endured. They
are not unpleasing to remembrance, and serve to brighten and
endear the enjoyments of my present state, by contrast with
former sufferings. I have enough for the kind of life which
I prefer to all others, and have no desire to enlarge my stock.
Meanwhile, I am anxious for the welfare of Miss Wilmot, and
shall rejoice in having been, though undesignedly, the means
of her prosperity.

“I heard, in Philadelphia, that a marriage was on foot between
her and you. I flattered myself, when I met you this
evening, that your companion was her, and secretly congrantulated
you on the possession of so much gracefulness and
beauty. In this, it seems, I was partly mistaken. This is a
person very different from Mary Wilmot; but a friend, whom
I met, shortly after parting from you, and to whom I described
her, assured me that this was the object of your
choice. Pray, what has become of Miss Wilmot?”

I frankly confessed to him my ignorance of her condition,
and related what had formerly been the relation between her
and me. I expressed my surprise at finding that she was
still in possession of the money, after the representations I
had made; and at the silence she had so long observed.

When I recollected in what manner, and in whose company,
she had left Abingdon, I could not shut out some doubts,
as to her integrity. She was, indeed, mistress of her own

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

actions, and Sedley was not unworthy of her choice; but her
neglect of my letter, and her keeping this money, were suspicious
accompaniments. This belief was too painful to attain
my ready acquiescence, and I occasionally consoled
myself, by imagining her conduct to proceed from some misapprehension,
on the one or other part. Mrs. Valentine's
reputation was unspotted, and under her guardianship, it was
scarcely possible for any injury to approach my friend's person
or morals.

My anxiety to discover the truth was now increased. After
being so long accustomed to partake her cares, and
watch over her safety, I could not endure this profound ignorance.
I was even uncertain as to her existence. It was
impossible but that my friendship would be of some benefit.
My sympathy could not fail to alleviate her sorrow, or enhance
her prosperity.

But what means had I of removing this painful obscurity?
I knew not which way to look for her. My discoveries
must be wholly fortuitous.

Notwithstanding my own enjoyments, I allowed the image
of Mary Wilmot to intrude into my thoughts too frequently.
Some change in my temper was discerned by Clara, and
she inquired into the cause. At first, I was deterred by indefinite
scruples, from unfolding the cause, but some reflection
shewed me I was wrong, in so long concealing from her
a transaction of this moment. I therefore seized a favorable
opportunity, and recounted all the incidents of my life, connected
with this poor fugitive.

When I began, however, I was not aware of the embarrassments
which I was preparing to suffer and inflict. We
used to sit up much longer than our friends, and after they
had retired to repose, taking their places on the sofa, allowed
the embers to die gradually away, while we poured forth,
unrestrained, the effusions of the moment. It was on one of
these occasions that, after a short preface, I began my story.
I detailed the origin of my intercourse with Miss Wilmot, the
discovery of her passion for me, the contest between that
passion and my indifference on one side, and the claims and
solicitations of Sedley on the other. I was listened to with
the deepest emotion. Curiosity enabled her to stifle it for
some time; but when I came to the events of Wilmot's

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death, the discovery of his property, and the consequent
agreement to marry, she was able to endure the recital no
longer. She burst into tears, and articulated with difficulty.—
“Enough, my friend, I know the rest—I know what you
would say. Your melancholy is explained, and I see that
my fate is fixed in eternal misery.”

I was at once shocked, astonished, and delighted, by the
discovery which was thus made, and made haste, by recounting
subsequent transactions, to correct her error. She
did not draw the same inferences from the flight and silence
of the girl, or drew them with less confidence than I. She
was not consoled by my avowals of passion for herself, and
declared that she considered my previous contract as inviolable.
Nothing could absolve me from it, but the absolute
renunciation of Miss Wilmot herself.

I considered the silence and disappearance of Mary as a
sufficient renunciation of her claims, and once more dwelt
upon the scruples and objections which she had formerly
raised to our alliance, which had been, imperfectly, and for
a time, removed by the death of her brother, and which
Morton's arrival had restored to their original strength.
Some regard, likewise, was due to my own felicity, and to
that of one whose happiness deserved to be as zealously
promoted as that of the fugitive. It was true, that I had
tendered vows to Miss Wilmot, which my understanding,
and not my heart—which gratitude, and not affection, had
dictated. This tender, in the circumstances in which I was
then placed, was necessary and proper; but these circumstances
had now changed. My offer had been tacitly rejected.
Not only my love, but my friendship, had been
slighted and despised. My affections had never been devoted
to another, and the sacrifice of inclination was limited
to myself. This indifference, however, existed no more.
It was supplanted by a genuine and ardent attachment for
one in all respects more worthy. I was willing to hope that
this attachment was mutual. Fortune, and her parents, and
and her own heart, were all propitious to my love; and to
stifle and thwart it, for the sake of one who had abjured
my society and my friendship—who renounced my proffered
hand, and cancelled all my promises—who had possibly

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made herself unworthy of my esteem, by the forfeiture of
honor itself, or more probably had given up all her claims
on my justice and compassion, by accepting another, would
be, in the highest degree, absurd and unjustifiable.

These arguments wrought no effect upon Clara. It was
her duty, she answered, to contend with selfish regards, and
to judge of the feelings of others by her own. Whatever
reluctance she might experience in resigning me to another,
in whatever degree she might thwart the wishes and schemes
of her parents, it was her duty to resign me, and she should
derive more satisfaction from disinterested, than from selfish
conduct. She would not attempt to disguise her feelings
and wishes, and extenuate the sacrifice she was called on to
make, but she had no doubt as to what was right, and her
resolution to adhere to it would be immoveable.

This resolution, and this inflexibility, were wholly unexpected.
I was astonished and mortified; and having exhausted
all my arguments in vain, gave way to some degree
of acrimony and complaint, as if I were capriciously treated.
At one time, I had thoughts of calling her parents to my aid,
and explaining to them my situation with regard to Mary,
and soliciting them to exert their authority in my behalf with
Clara.

A deep and incurable sadness now appeared in my friend,
and strong, though unostentatious, proofs were daily afforded,
that an exquisite sense of justice had dictated her deportment,
and that she had laid upon herself a task to which
her fortitude was scarcely equal. It appeared to me the
highest cruelty to aggravate the difficulty of this task, by enlisting
against her those whose authority she most revered,
and whose happiness she was most desirous of promoting.

My eagerness to trace Miss Wilmot to her retreat, to find
out her condition, and make her, if possible, my advocate
with Clara, was increased by this unhappy resolution. I began
to mediate anew upon the best means of effecting this.
I blamed myself for having so long failed to employ all the
means in my power, and resolved to begin my search without
delay. Clara, whose conclusions respecting Miss Wilmot's
motives were far more charitable than mine, was no
less earnest in inciting me to this pursuit. She believed
Miss Wilmot's conduct to have been consistent with integrity,

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that it flowed from a generous but erroneous self-denial, and
that the re-establishment of intercourse between us would
terminate in the happiness of both.

The incidents formerly related had made it certain that
Miss Wilmot had flown away in company with Sedley.
Sedley's patrimony and fixed abode were in Virginia.
There, it was most probable, that he and the fugitive would
be found. There, at least, should Sedley have abandoned
his ancient residence, was it most likely that the means of
tracing his footsteps would be found. Mary, if not at present
in his company, or in that of his sister, had not perhaps
concealed her asylum from them, and might be discovered
by their means. Fortunately, Mr. Howard had engagements
at Richmond, which would shortly require his own
presence, or that of one in whom he could confide. He
had mentioned this necessity in my presence, in such a way
as shewed that he would not be unwilling to transfer his
business to me. Hitherto I had been unwilling to relinquish
my present situation; but now I begged to be entrusted with
his commission, as it agreed with my own projects.

In a few days I set out upon this journey. Passing necessarily
at no great distance from Hatfield, I took that opportunity
of visiting my uncle and sisters. You may imagine
my surprise on finding, at my uncle's house, a letter for me,
from Mary, which had arrived there just after my departure,
in the preceding autumn, and had lain, during the whole
winter, neglected and forgotten, in a drawer.

This letter was worthy of my friend's generous and indignant
spirit, and fully accounted for her flight from Abingdon.
She was determined to separate herself from me, to die in
some obscure recess, whither I should never be able to trace
her, and thus to remove every obstacle in the way of my
pretensions to one, younger, lovelier, and richer than herself.
In this letter was inclosed an order for the money, which, as
I had taught her too hastily to believe, belonged to another.

I believe you know that I am not a selfish or unfeeling
wretch. What but the deepest regret could I feel at the
ignorance in which I had so long been kept of her destiny;
what but vehement impatience to discover the place of her
retreat, and persuade her to accept my vows, or, at least, to
take back the money to which Morton's title was not yet

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

proved, which would save her at least from the horrors of that
penury she was so little qualified to endure, and to which,
for more than six inclement months, she had been, through
unhappy misapprehensions, subjected?

In this mood I hastened to this city, but my heroism
quickly evaporated. I felt no abatement of my eagerness
to benefit the unhappy fugitive, by finding her, counselling
her, consoling her, repossessing her of the means of easy, if
not of affluent subsistence; but more than this, I felt myself
incapable of offering. I knew full well, that, when acquainted
with the whole truth, she never would accept me as her's;
but I despaired of gaining any thing with respect to Clara,
by that rejection. I despaired of ever lighting again on Miss
Wilmot. Besides, my pride was piqued and wounded by
resolutions that appeared to me absurd—to arise from prejudiced
views and a narrow heart—from unreasonable regards
bestowed upon one, of whose merits she had no direct
knowledge, and blameable indifference to another, whom
she had abundant reasons to love.

The letters that passed between us only tended to convince
me that she was implacable, and I left the city of Philadelphia
with a secret determination of never returning. I resolved
to solicit Mr. Howard's permission to accompany some
surveyors employed by him, who were to pass immediately
into the western country. By this means, I hoped to shake
off fetters that were now become badges of misery and
ignominy.

The wisdom of man, when employed upon the future,
is incessantly taught its own weakness. Had an angel
whispered me, as I mounted the stage for Baltimore, that I
should go no farther on that journey than Schuylkill, and
that, without any new argument or effort on my part, Clara
would, of her own accord, call me back to her and to happiness,
I should no doubt have discredited the intimation.
Yet such was the event.

In order to rescue a drowning passenger, I leaped into the
river. The weather being bleak and unwholesome, I was
seized, shortly after my coming out, with a fever, which
reduced me, in a very few days, to the brink of the grave.
Now was the solicitude of my Clara awakened. When in
danger of losing me for ever, she discovered the weakness

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of her scruples, and effectually recalled me to life, by entreating
me to live for her sake.

I have not yet perfectly recovered my usual health. I
am unfit for business or for travelling; and standing in need
of some amusement which will relieve, without fatiguing my
attention, I called to mind your claims on me, and determined
to give you the account you desired.

When I received your letter, informing me of your design
to meet me in New York, I was utterly dispirited and miserable.
My design of coming southward, I knew, would
prevent an immediate meeting with you, and as I had then
conceived the project of a journey to the western waters,
I imagined that we should never have another meeting.

Now, my friend, my prospects are brighter, and I hope to
greet you the moment of your arrival in New York. I
shall go thither as soon as I am able. I shall never repose
till my happiness with Clara is put beyond the power of man
to defeat.

But, alas! what has become of Mary Wilmot. Heaven
grant that she be safe. While unacquainted with her destiny,
my happiness will never be complete; day and night I torment
myself with fruitless conjectures about her. Yet she
went away with Sedley, a man of honor, and her lover, and
with his sister, whose integrity cannot be questioned. With
these she cannot be in danger, or in poverty. This reflection
consoles me.

I long to see you my friend. I hope to be of some service
to you. You will see, by this long detail, that fortune has
been kind to me. Indeed, when I take a view of the events
of the last year, I cannot find language for my wonder, my
blessings are so numerous and exorbitant, my merits so
slender.

I wish thee patience to carry thee to the end of this long
letter.

To Philip Stanley.
New York, April 28.

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

Why don't you come home, my love? Are you not quite
well? Tell me when; the day, the hour, when I may
expect you. I will put new elegance into my garb; new
health into my cheeks; new light, new love, new joy into
my eyes, against that happy hour.

Would to Heaven I were with you. I represented to my
father what an excellent nurse I should prove, but he would
not suffer me to accompany him. I have a good mind to
steal away to you, even now; but are you not already quite
well? Yes, you are; or, very soon will be. Time and
care are all that are required to make you so.

But, poor Mary—Does not your heart, my Philip, bleed
for poor Mary? Can I rob her of so precious a good;
bereave her of the gem of which she has so long been in
secure possession? Can I riot in bliss, and deck myself in
bridal ornaments, while she lives pining in dreary solitude,
carrying to the grave a heart broken by the contumelies of
the world; the horrors of indigence and neglect; and chiefly
by the desertion of him on whom she doated?

Do I not know what it is to love? Cannot I easily imagine
what it is to bear about an unrequited passion? Have
I not known, from infancy, the pleasures of affluence and
homage? Cannot I conceive the mortifications to one thus
bred up, of poverty and labor? Indeed, my friend, I conceive
them so justly, that till Mary is discovered, and has
either been found happy, or been made happy, no selfish
gratification whatever can insure my peace.

I should not thus be deeply interested for a mere stranger.
I know your Mary. Your details, full of honesty and candor,
have made me thoroughly acquainted with her. You have
given me, in the picture of her life, the amplest picture of a
human being that I ever was allowed to survey. Her virtue,
my friend, has been tried. Not without foibles, for which she
was indebted to her education; but her signal excellence
lies in having, in spite of a pernicious education, so few faults.

My friend, you must find her. As you value my

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

happiness, you must. Nay, as you value my love. If your zeal
did not lead you to move heaven and earth in her cause,
you would be, in my eyes, a wretch. Nay, if you did not—
But I am straying from the path. I must not think of her,
least my admiration and my pity for her get the better of my
love for you.

Pray, make haste and be well, that you may make as
happy as she can be, your devoted

To Clara Howard.
Philadelphia, April, 30.

I will never yield to you, my friend, in zeal for one whom
I reverence and love so much as Mary Wilmot. How I
adore your generous, your noble spirit! While limited to
the real good of that girl; while zealous to confer happiness
on her, without an equivalent injury to others, I applaud,
and will strive to emulate your generosity.

An incident has just occurred, that seems to promise some
intelligence concerning her. It has made me very uneasy.
I am afraid she is not happy. I am afraid she is—is not
happy; I mean, I fear she is—unhappy. But I know not
what I would say. I am bewildered—by my terrors on her
account. Let me tell you what I have heard. Judge for
yourself. Unhappy the hour that I wrote the last letter
from Hatfield. Yet who could imagine that the intelligence
contained in it would suggest so rash, so precipitate a flight!

This Sedley, whose fidelity, whose honor I have so often
applauded, is, I am afraid, a miscreant—a villain. Mary—
the very thought takes away my breath—is, I fear, a lost,
undone creature.

Yet how?—Such a fall surely was impossible. Mary
Wilmot, whose whole life has been exposed to my view—
whom I have seen in the most unguarded moments—whose
indifference to Sedley—whose unconquerable aversion to
his most honorable and flattering offers I have so often

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

witnessed, could not forget herself. Her dignity—I will
not believe it.

But what am I saying? Let me recollect myself, and
lay distinctly before you the cause of my apprehensions.

This morning, being disengaged, and the air mild, instead
of going on with this letter, I stole abroad to enjoy the sweet
breath of heaven. My feet carried me unawares to the
door of the house in which I formerly passed a servitude of
three years. My old master, Watkins, of time measuring
memory, has been some time dead. The widow turned
her stock into revenue, and now lives at her ease. Though
not eminently good, she is far from being a bad woman.
She never behaved otherwise than kindly to “Philip Sobersides,”
as she used to call me, and I felt somewhat like gratitude,
which would not let me pass the door. So I called
to see the old dame.

I found her by a close-stove in the parlor, knitting a blue
stocking—“Lack a day!” said she, “why, as I's a living
soul, this is our Philip!”

After the usual congratulations and inquiries were made,
she proceeded—“Why, what a fine story is this, Philip,
that we hear of you?—Why, they say you've grown a rich
man's son, and are going to be married to a fine rich great
lady, from some other country.”

I avoided a direct answer. She continued—“Ah! dear
me, we all thought you were going to be married to poor
Molly Wilmot, the mantuamaker—Nay, for the matter o'
that, my poor dear man, I remember, said as how, that if so
be we'd wait a year or so, we should see things turn up so,
that you and her should be married already, at that time;
and that, I remember, was just as your time was up. But
Molly (with a very significant air this was said) has carried
her goods to a much worse market, it seems.”

“Why, know you any thing of Miss Wilmot?”

“Why, I don't know but as I does. I doesn't know
much to her advantage though, you may depend, Philip.”

I was startled—“What do you know of her?—Tell me,
I beseech you, all you know.”

“Why, I don't know much, not I; but Peggy, my nurse,
said something or other about her, yesterday. She drank
tea with me—”

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