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

I have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou
meritest some gratitude at my hands. Shall I not visit and
endeavor to console thee in thy distress? Let me, at least,
ascertain thy condition, and be the instrument in repairing
the wrongs which thou hast inflicted. Let me gain, from
the contemplation of thy misery, new motives to sincerity
and rectitude.

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

Having inquired for Welbeck, I was conducted through a
dark room, crowded with beds, to a staircase. Never before
had I been in a prison. Never had I smelt so

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noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so begrimed with filth
and misery. The walls and floors were alike squalid and
detestable. It seemed that in this house existence would
be bereaved of all its attractions; and yet those faces,
which could be seen through the obscurity that encompassed
them, were either void of care or distorted with
mirth.

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

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

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

At length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture,
and perceived me in my motionless and gazing attitude.
Recollect in what circumstances we had last parted. Welbeck
had, no doubt, carried away with him, from that

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interview, a firm belief, that I should speedily die. His prognostic,
however, was fated to be contradicted.

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

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

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

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

In speaking thus, I was far from foreseeing the effects
which would be produced on the mind of Welbeck. I was
far from intending to instil into him a belief that Clemenza
was near at hand, and was preparing to enter his apartment;
yet no other images but these would, perhaps, have roused
him from his lethargy, and awakened that attention which I

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wished to awaken. He started up, and gazed fearfully at
the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welbeck put his hands to his head and exclaimed; curses
on thy lips, infernal messenger! Chant elsewhere thy

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rueful ditty! Vanish! if thou wouldst not feel in thy heart
fangs red with blood less guilty than thine.

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

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

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

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

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

This suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the
past. I had confided this man's tale to you. The secrecy

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on which he so fondly leaned, was at an end. Had I acted
culpably or not?

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

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