“I have neither eat nor drank for
“two days—nor have I laid my
“head upon a pillow for a week
“—and I am drenched with the
“snow that falls upon my almost
“naked body—my limbs are almost
“numbed with cold—O relieve me
“for heaven’s sake!”
These words, respirated with tre-
mulous sound, and broken accent,
closed with a sigh the most piteous.
They issued from a creature crouch-
ed up against a door—a female who
had taken shelter from the inclemen-
cy of the night; under the penthouse
of a shop.
The voice of sorrow, though fee-
ble, insinuates its prayers to the
heart, with the subtlety of plaintive
music. I felt mine in perfect unison.
Every nerve vibrated. I had passed
the door, and was going back, when
that cautious old virgin, Prudence,
said, go on.
Turning from the object who had
accosted me, Charity stood still in
front—She laid her hand upon my
breast, and put the following inter-
rogatories to me:
Have you a wife? a sister? a
daughter? a female relation? or a
female friend?
If you have not, remember you
had a mother! remember you are a
man!
While Charity thus urged my
feelings, I involuntarily returned to
the spot where the unhappy girl lay.
There Charity held me fast—and
Prudence stepped to the other side of
the street, to assist a drunken old de-
bauchee, in calling a watchman to
escort him home.
The girl before me was an object
demanding assistance from five out
of the seven works of mercy—she
was hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, and
a stranger.
A short conversation discovered she
was the daughter of an old friend.
It had been the father’s misfortune
to spend his patrimony in the service
of one who paid him with promises.
Disappointment broke his heart—
grief deprived his widow of life—
and seduction robbed his daughter
of her virtue.
There was but one way to admi-
nister relief. I clothed her with my
surtout—brought her to my cham-
bers—roused up my servant—and
insisted on her getting into his bed.
Let us leave her there, and enquire
what is to be done with her.
She is a child that providence has
thrown in my way, and must not be
neglected.
Profession she has none: and if
she had, she wants what the world
calls character—or rather, SHE HAS
THE WORST CHARACTER IN THE
WORLD—SHE IS UNFORTUNATE!
But I will take care of thee, Magdalen.