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For the Weekly Magazine.

or, memoirs of the year 1793.

[Continued from page 230.]

I ROSE at the dawn, and without
asking or bestowing a blessing, sallied
forth into the high road to the city
which passed near the house. I left
nothing behind, the loss of which I
regretted. I had purchased most of
my own books with the product of
my own separate industry, and their
number being, of course, small, I
had, by incessant application, gotten
the whole of them by rote. They
had ceased, therefore, to be of any
further use. I left them, without
reluctance, to the fate for which I
knew them to be reserved, that of
affording food and habitation to mice.

I trod this unwonted path with all
the fearlessness of youth. In spite of
the motives to despondency and ap-
prehension, incident to my state, my
heels were light and my heart joyous.
“Now,” said I, “I am mounted
into man. I must build a name and
a fortune for myself. Strange if this
intellect and these hands will not sup-
ply me with an honest livelihood.
I will try the city in the first place;
but if that should fail, resources are
still left to me. I will resume my
post in the corn-field and threshing-
floor, to which I shall always have
access, and where I shall always be

I had proceeded some miles on my
journey, when I began to feel the
inroads of hunger. I might have
stopped at any farm house, and have
breakfasted for nothing. It was pru-
dent to husband, with the utmost
care, my slender stock; but I felt
reluctance to beg as long as I had
the means of buying, and I imagined
that coarse bread and a little milk
would cost little even at a tavern,
when any farmer was willing to be-
stow them for nothing. My resolu-
tion was farther influenced by the
appearance of a sign-post. What
excuse could I make for begging a
breakfast with an inn at hand and
silver in my pocket?

I stopped accordingly and break-
fasted. The landlord was remarkably
attentive and obliging, but his bread
was stale, his milk four, and his
cheefe the greenest imaginable. I
disdained to animadvert on these de-
fects, naturally supposing that his
house could furnish no better.

Having finished my meal, I put,
without speaking, one of my pieces
into his hand. This deportment I
conceived to be highly becoming,
and to indicate a liberal and manly
spirit. I always regarded with con-
tempt a scrupulous maker of bargains.
He received the money with a com-
plaisant obeisance. “Right,” said
he. “Just the money, Sir. You
are on foot, Sir. A pleasant way of
travelling, Sir. I wish you a good

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day, Sir.”—So saying he walked

This proceeding was wholly un-
expected. I conceived myself enti-
tled to at least three-fourths of it in
change. The first impulse was to
call him back, and contest the equity
of his demand, but a moment's re-
flection shewed me the absurdity of
such conduct. I resumed my journey
with spirits somewhat depressed. I
have heard of voyagers and wanderers
in deserts who were willing to give
a casket of gems for a cup of cold
water. I had not supposed my own
condition to be, in any respect, simi-
lar; yet I had just given one third
of my estate for a breakfast.

I stopped at noon at another inn.
I had counted on purchasing a dinner
for the same price, since I meant to
content myself with the same fare.
A large company was just sitting
down to a smoking banquet. The
landlord invited me to join them. I
took my place at the table, but was
furnished with bread and milk. Be-
ing prepared to depart, I took him
aside. “What is to pay?” said I.—
“Did you drink any thing, Sir?”—
“Certainly. I drank the milk which
was furnished.”—“But any liquors,

He deliberated a moment and then
assuming an air of disinterestedness,
“'Tis our custom to charge dinner
and club, but as you drank nothing,
we'll let the club go. A mere din-
ner is half-a-dollar, Sir.”

He had no leisure to attend to my
fluctuations. After debating with
myself on what was to be done, I
concluded that compliance was best,
and leaving the money at the bar,
resumed my way.

I had not performed more than
half my journey, yet my purse was
entirely exhausted. This was a spe-
cimen of the cost incurred by living
at an inn. If I entered the city, a
tavern must, at least for some time,
be my abode, but I had not a far-
thing remaining to defray my charges.
My father had formerly entertained

a boarder for a dollar per week, and,
in a case of need, I was willing to
subsist upon coarser fare, and lie on
an harder bed than those with which
our guest had been supplied. These
facts had been the foundation of my
negligence on this occasion.

What was now to be done? To
return to my paternal mansion was
impossible. To relinquish my design
of entering the city and to seek a
temporary asylum, if not permanent
employment, at some one of the
plantations, within view, was the
most obvious expedient. These deli-
berations did not slacken my pace.
I was almost unmindful of my way,
when I found I had passed Schuylkill
at the upper bridge. I was now
within the precincts of the city and
night was hastening. It behoved me
to come to a speedy decision.

Suddenly I recollected that I had
not paid the customary toll at the
bridge: neither had I money where-
with to pay it. A demand of pay-
ment would have suddenly arrested
my progress; and so slight an incident
would have precluded that wonderful
destiny to which I was reserved. The
obstacle that would have hindered
my advance, now prevented my re-
turn. Scrupulous honesty did not
require me to turn back and awaken
the vigilance of the toll-gatherer.
I had nothing to pay, and by re-
turning I should only double my
debt. “Let it stand,” said I, “where
it does. All that honour enjoins is
to pay when I am able.”

I adhered to the cross ways, till
I reached Market street. Night had
fallen, and a triple row of lamps pre-
sented a spectacle enchanting and new.
My personal cares were, for a time,
lost in the tumultuous sensations with
which I was now engrossed. I had
never visited the city at this hour.
When my last visit was paid I was a
mere child. The novelty which en-
vironed every object was, therefore,
nearly absolute. I proceeded with
more cautious steps, but was still ab-
forbed in attention to passing objects.

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I reached the market-house, and en-
tering it, indulged myself in new
delight and new wonder.

I need not remark that our ideas
of magnificence and splendour are
merely comparative; yet you may
be prompted to smile when I tell you
that, in walking through this avenue,
I for a moment conceived myself
transported to the hall “pendent
with many a row of starry lamps and
blazing crescents fed by naphtha and
asphaltos.” That this transition
from my homely and quiet retreat,
had been effected in so few hours,
wore the aspect of miracle or magic.

I proceeded from one of these
buildings to another, till I reached
their termination in Front street.
Here my progress was checked, and
I sought repose to my weary limbs
by seating myself on a stall. No
wonder some fatigue was felt by me,
accustomed as I was to strenuous ex-
ertions, since, exclusive of the minutes
spent at breakfast and dinner, I had
travelled fifteen hours and forty-five

I began now to reflect, with some
earnestness, on my condition. I was
a stranger, friendless, and moneyless.
I was unable to purchase food and
shelter, and was wholly unused to
the business of begging. Hunger
was the only serious inconvenience to
which I was immediately exposed.
I had no objection to spend the night
in the spot where I then sat. I had
no fear that my visions would be
troubled by the officers of police. It
was no crime to be without a home;
but how should I supply my present
cravings and the cravings of to-

At length it occurred to me that
one of our country neighbours was
probably at this time in the city.
He kept a store as well as cultivated
a farm. He was a plain and well
meaning man, and should I be so
fortunate as to meet him, his superior
knowledge of the city might be of
essential benefit to me in my present
forlorn circumstances. His genero-

fity might likewise induce him to
lend me so much as would purchase
one meal. I had formed the reso-
lution to leave the city next day and
was astonished at the folly that had
led me into it; but, meanwhile, my
physical wants must be supplied.

Where should I look for this man?
In the course of conversation I recol-
lected him to have referred to the
place of his temporary abode. It
was an inn, but the sign or the name
of the keeper, for some time with-
stood all my efforts to recall them.

At length I lighted on the last.
It was Lesher's tavern. I immedi-
ately set out in search of it. After
many enquiries I at last arrived at
the door. I was preparing to enter
the house when I perceived that my
bundle was gone. I had left it on
the stall where I had been sitting.
People were perpetually passing to
and fro. It was scarcely possible not
to have been noticed. No one that
observed it would fail to make it his
prey. Yet it was of too much value
to me, to allow me to be governed
by a bare probability. I resolved to
lose not a moment in returning.

With some difficulty I retraced
my steps, but the bundle had disap-
peared. The clothes were, in them-
selves, of small value, but they con-
stituted the whole of my wardrobe;
and I now reflected that they were
capable of being transmuted, by the
pawn or sale of them, into food.
There were other wretches as indi-
gent as I was, and I consoled myself
by thinking that my shirts and stock-
ings might furnish a seasonable co-
vering to their nakedness; but there
was a relique concealed within this
bundle, the loss of which could
scarcely be endured by me. It was
the portrait of a young man who
died three years ago at my father's
house, drawn by his own hand.

He was discovered one morning in
the orchard with many marks of in-
sanity upon him. His air and dress
bespoke some elevation of rank and
fortune. My mother's compassion

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was excited, and, as his singularities
were harmless, an asylum was afford-
ed him, though he was unable to pay
for it. He was constantly declaim-
ing in an incoherent manner, about
some mistress who had proved faith-
less. His speeches seemed, however,
like the rantings of an actor, to be
rehearsed by rote, or for the sake of
exercise. He was totally careless of
his person and health, and by re-
peated negligences of this kind, at
last contracted a fever of which he
speedily died. The name which he
assumed was Clavering.

He gave no distinct account of his
family, but stated in loose terms that
they were residents in England, high
born and wealthy. That they had
denied him the woman whom he
loved and banished him to America
under penalty of death if he should
dare to return, and that they had
refused him all means of subsistence
in a foreign land. He predicted, in
his wild and declamatory way, his
own death. He was very skilful at
the pencil and drew this portrait a
short time before his dissolution, pre-
sented it to me, and charged me to
preserve it in remembrance of him.
My mother loved the youth because
he was amiable and unfortunate, and
chiefly because she fancied a very
powerful resemblance between his
countenance and mine. I was too
young to build affection on any ra-
tional foundation. I loved him, for
whatever reason, with an ardour
unusual at my age, and which this
portrait had contributed to prolong
and to cherish.

In thus finally leaving my home,
I was careful not to leave this picture
behind. I wrapt it in paper in which
a few elegiac stanzas were inscribed
in my own hand and with my utmost
elegance of penmanship. I then
placed it in a leathern case, which,
for greater security, was deposited in
the centre of my bundle. It will
occur to you, perhaps, that it would
be safer in some fold or pocket of the
clothes which I wore. I was of a

different opinion and was now to
endure the penalty of my error.

It was in vain to heap execrations
on my negligence, or to consume the
little strength left to me in regrets.
I returned once more to the tavern
and made enquiries for Mr. Capper,
the person whom I have just men-
tioned as my father's neighbour. I
was informed that Capper was now
in town; that he had lodged, on the
last-night, at this house; that he had
expected to do the same to-night,
but a gentleman had called ten mi-
nutes ago, whose invitation to lodge
with him to-night had been accepted.
They had just gone out together.
Who, I asked, was the gentleman?
The landlord had no knowledge of
him: He knew neither his place of
abode nor his name… Was Mr. Capper
expected to return hither in the morn-
ing?—No, he had heard the stranger
propose to Mr. Capper to go with him
into the country to-morrow, and Mr.
Capper, he believed, had assented.

This disappointment was peculiarly
severe. I had lost, by my own neg-
ligence, the only opportunity that
would offer of meeting my friend.
Had even the recollection of my loss
been postponed for three minutes, I
should have entered the house, and a
meeting would have been secured.
I could discover no other expedient
to obviate the present evil. My heart
began now, for the first time, to
droop. I looked back, with name-
less emotions, on the days of my in-
fancy. I called up the image of my
mother. I reflected on the infatu-
ation of my surviving parent, and the
usurpation of the detestable Betty
with horror. I viewed myself as the
most calamitous and desolate of hu-
man beings.

At this time I was sitting in the
common room. There were others
in the same apartment, lounging, or
whistling, or singing. I noticed
them not, but leaning my head upon
my hand, I delivered myself up to
painful and intense meditation. From
this I was roused by some one placing

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himself on the bench near me and
addressing me thus: “Pray Sir, if
you will excuse me, who was the
person whom you were looking for
just now? Perhaps I can give you
the information you want. If I can,
you will be very welcome to it.”—
I fixed my eyes with some eagerness
on the person that spoke. He was a
young man, expensively and fashion-
ably dressed, whose mien was con-
siderably prepossessing, and whose
countenance bespoke some portion of
discernment. I described to him the
man whom I sought. “I am in
search of the same man myself,”
said he, “but I expect to meet him
here. He may lodge elsewhere, but
he promised to meet me here at half
after nine. I have no doubt he will
fulfil his promise, so that you will
meet the gentleman.”

I was highly gratified by this in-
formation, and thanked my informant
with some degree of warmth. My
gratitude he did not notice but con-
tinued: “In order to beguile expec-
tation, I have ordered supper: Will
you do me the favour to partake
with me, unless indeed you have
supped already?” I was obliged,
somewhat awkwardly, to decline his
invitation, conscious as I was that
the means of payment were not in
my power. He continued however
to urge my compliance, till at length
it was, though reluctantly, yielded.
My chief motive was the certainty
of seeing Capper.

My new acquaintance was exceed-
ingly conversible, but his conversa-
tion was chiefly characterized by
frankness and good humour. My
reserves gradually diminished, and
I ventured to inform him, in general
terms, of my former condition and
present views. He listened to my
details with seeming attention, and
commented on them with some judi-
ciousness. His statements, however,
tended to discourage me from re-
maining in the city.

Meanwhile the hour passed and
Capper did not appear. I noticed

this circumstance to him with no
little solicitude. He said that possi-
bly he might have forgotten or ne-
glected his engagement. His affair
was not of the highest importance,
and might be readily postponed to a
future opportunity. He perceived
that my vivacity was greatly damped
by this intelligence. He importuned
me to disclose the cause. He made
himself very merry with my distress,
when it was at length discovered.
As to the expence of supper, I had
partaken of it at his invitation, he
therefore should of course be charged
with it. As to lodging, he had a
chamber and a bed which he would
insist upon my sharing with him.

My faculties were thus kept upon
the stretch of wonder. Every new
act of kindness in this man surpassed
the fondest expectation that I had
formed. I saw no reason why I
should be treated with benevolence.
I should have acted in the same man-
ner if placed in the same circum-
stances; yet it appeared incongruous
and inexplicable. I know whence my
ideas of human nature were derived.
They certainly were not the offspring
of my own feelings. These would
have taught me that interest and duty
were blended in every act of gene-

I did not come into the world
without my scruples and suspicions.
I was more apt to impute kindnesses
to sinister and hidden than to obvious
and laudable motives. I paused to
reflect upon the possible designs of
this person. What end could be
served by this behaviour? I was no
subject of violence or fraud. I had
neither trinket nor coin to stimulate
the treachery of others. What was
offered was merely lodging for the
night. Was this an act of such
transcendent disinterestedness as to
be incredible? My garb was meaner
than that of my companion, but my
intellectual accomplishments were at
least upon a level with his. Why
should he be supposed to be insensible
to my claims upon his kindness. I

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was a youth, destitute of experience,
money, and friends; but I was not
devoid of all mental and personal en-
dowments. That my merit should be
discovered, even on such slender in-
tercourse, had surely nothing in it
that shocked belief.

While I was thus deliberating,
my new friend was earnest in his so-
licitations for my company. He re-
marked my hesitation but ascribed it
to a wrong cause. “Come,” said he,
“I can guess your objections and can
obviate them. You are afraid of
being ushered into company; and
people who have passed their lives
like you have a wonderful antipathy
to strange faces; but this is bed-time
with our family, so that we can defer
your introduction to them till to-
morrow. We may go to our cham-
ber without being seen by any but

I had not been aware of this cir-
cumstance. My reluctance flowed
from a different cause, but now that
the inconveniences of ceremony were
mentioned, they appeared to me of
considerable weight. I was well
pleased that they should thus be
avoided, and consented to go along
with him.

We passed several streets and
turned several corners. At last we
turned into a kind of court which
seemed to be chiefly occupied by
stables. “We will go,” said he,
“by the back way into the house.
We shall thus save ourselves the ne-
cessity of entering the parlour, where
some of the family may still be.”

My companion was as talkative
as ever, but said nothing from which
I could gather any knowledge of the
number, character, and condition of
his family.

[To be continued.]

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