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

How know I that her debasement is not already complete
and irremediable? She is a mother, but not a wife. How
came she thus? Is her being Welbeck's prostitute no proof
of her guilt?

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

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

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

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

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

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

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

I must reflect upon it.—Tomorrow—

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

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

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

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

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the like indiscretion. And pray, what benevolent scheme
would you propose to her?

Has she property? Is she rich?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have told me plausible stories of yourself and of this
Clemenza. I cannot say that I disbelieve them, but I
know the ways of the world too well to bestow implicit faith
so easily. You are an extraordinary young man. You
may possibly be honest. Such a one as you, with your
education and address, may possibly have passed all your

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

life in a hovel; but it is scarcely credible, let me tell you.
I believe most of the facts respecting my nephew, because
my knowledge of him before his flight, would enable me to
detect your falsehood; but there must be other proofs besides
an innocent brow and a voluble tongue, to make me
give full credit to your pretensions.

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

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

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

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

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

Agreeably to this direction, I called, an hour ago, at your
lodgings. I found you not. I hope you will permit me to

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

call once more. When shall I expect to meet you at
home?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in
which this young woman shewed a mind vigorous from exercise
and unembarrassed by care. She affected no concealment
of her own condition, of her wants, or her comforts.
She laid no stress upon misfortunes, but contrived

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to deduce some beneficial consequence to herself, and some
motive for gratitude to Heaven, from every wayward incident
that had befallen her.

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

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

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

How much is the debt?

Four hundred dollars.

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

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

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

But there is another passion which you would find it
somewhat harder to subdue, and that is his vengeance. He
thinks himself wronged, and imprisons my brother, not to
enforce payment, but to inflict misery. If you could

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

persuade him, that there is no hardship in imprisonment, you
would speedily gain the victory; but that could not be attempted
consistently with truth. In proportion to my brother's
suffering is his gratification.

You draw an odious and almost incredible portrait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You met me lately, in a situation, sir, on which I look
back with trembling and shame, but not with any self-condemnation.
I was led into it without any fault, unless a
too hasty confidence may be styled a fault. I had known
Mrs. Villars in England, where she lived with an untainted

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

reputation, at least; and the sight of my countrywoman, in
a foreign land, awakened emotions, in the indulgence of
which I did not imagine there was either any guilt or any
danger. She invited me to see her at her house with so
much urgency and warmth, and solicited me to take a place
immediately in a chaise in which she had come to the city,
that I too incautiously complied.

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

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

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

And will you comply with them?

In what manner can I serve her?

By giving her the means of living.

Does she not possess them already?

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

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

But what a home?

Such as she may choose to remain in.

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

But how shall she be persuaded to a change?

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

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

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

Certainly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

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

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

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