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FOR THE COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER

THE SCRIBBLER.—No. V.

'Tis a sad thing to be without a friend.
To pass to and fro, through a busy crowd and
no eye be caught at your approach; no coun-
tenance expand into smiles, no hand be
stretched forth and while it grasps yours,
be accompanied by the friendly greeting of
“How d'ye.”

Yet this is my case. Every face that I en-
counter on the way, is a strange face to me.
Sometimes I meet the likeness of one I for-
merly knew. My heart leaps with pleasure,
and I look at him more intently than at first,
and as if I hoped that he would speak to me,
and recognize an old acquaintance.

But, alas! he gazes not at me. He pass-
es me without a glance or his glance is cold,
austere and momentary. He knows me not;
what a chilling; what a dreary state is this!
Surely it will not always continue thus. I
have now been three months in the country,
a poor outcast from my native shore! My
sister and I sole remnants of our family!
Orphans, and young. Cast upon a stormy
sea. No sail to waft; No rudder to guide
us.

No one, but our poor and helpless neigh-
bors have any knowledge of us. They pity
us and that is all. I overheard one say, in a
tone at once, compassionate and inquisitive.
—“Poor young people? Who can they be?
What is their support? They seem to know
nobody, and nobody knows, nobody visits
them.”

Perhaps, indeed, it is partly our own fault.
There must be many kind-hearted, generous
and enlightened people in this city. Females
who would acknowledge my sister's excel-
lence a kin to theirs, and men who would
take a youth like me, not destitute of educa-
tion, not utterly unfurnished with useful
knowledge, by the hand, point out to his in-
dustry some road practicable, at least, though
not smooth; invite him to their houses, pre-
sent him to ther wives and daughters as one
not unworthy to be looked upon with kind
regard. People who would be to us the fa-
ther and the mother we have lost.

I always thought it folly to revile our fel-
low men as wanting in humanity. The stock
of charity existing in the world, is inexhaus-
tible. I do not merely mean the stock of
alms, but that beneficence, which adapts its
succour to every one's need; which duly dis-
tinguishes between different wants and dif-
ferent merits, and gives, not merely food to
the hungry, freedom to the slave, and en-
largement to the prisoner, but skill to the ig-
norant, firmness to the fickle and virtue to the
profligate.

So! a stranger! What can he want with
me! He must have mistaken the house, but
let him come in, Jane. We can find him a
chair to sit on while he stays. I will take
the bench.

* * * * * * * * *

Good Heaven! What a reverse in a few
hours! 'Twas a strange incident. Who would
have thought that the publication of these
worthless reveries would have produced this
effect.

A second interview with this herald of
good has just passed, and I take up the pen
to say that I am scribbler no longer. How
true was my assertion of this morning, Jane,
that the world abounds with genuine benefi-
cence!

How he found me out, I wonder, I thought
no one would ever trace “the scribbler” to
his garret. I had even hopes that those who
thought it worth their while to cast away a
thought upon me, would deem me an imagin-
ary being; the work of some creative pen,
whose trade it was to model into new shapes
and compound into new essences, the crude
matter that observation has provided him,
but Mr. T—— was not among the number
of such.

He traced me hither; made enquiries, un-
known to me, respecting mine and my sister's
deportment and condition, of my neighbours
and of him on whose wages for engrossing I
have hitherto lived. Having assured him-
self that his kindness might be properly ex-
erted in this case, he paid me this morning
a visit, introduced himself, and proposed to
me an occupation, suited to my talents and
temper. Such as will make me an inmate
of his house, and secure to me as much inde-
pendence as easily and well-earned wages
can afford.

But what meanwhile is to become of my
sister Jane? Generous man! Yes, I will re
vere thee as my father. You are not very
unlike. The same placid brows and venera-
ble locks distinguish thee as they honored
him.

My friend has brought his sister to visit
mine. Mrs. L. is a widow in affluent and
easy circumstances. She is anxious that my
Jane should live with her; take charge of
her family, and be to her a daughter and a
friend. Our new abodes will both be in this
city, so that my beloved girl and I may see
each other, and ascertain how each fares dai-
ly. And now in this change of fortune, shall
I drop this scribbling or not? But drop it I
must for the present, for my friend has charged
me with a commission which compels my ab-
sence from the city for a while.

My poor scribble could not much have
entertained the world. My aim, indeed,
was different, I took up the pen only to a-
muse myself, to beguile a most irksome and

humiliating life of some of its inquietudes. This
purpose was somewhat answered, and let
not then the candid reader scowl too angrily
upon my petty lucubrations. Not to cen-
sure is, methinks, no great sketch of charity,
and that is all I ask; but that is a boon
which my continuing to write would equita-
bly forfeit, since by the kindness of my new
friend, I no longer need to seek amusement
in scribbling.

So here, reader, I bid thee a grateful and
a long farewell. If I meet with thee again,
thou wilt not recognize, in his glossy hues
and sportive undulations, the creature who
now creeps so sluggishly and so tamely grov-
els. By that time, he will have cast his slough,
and exulting in his new skin, will sparkle
with a tenfold brilliancy.

Must I then lay thee down, pen? I am
loath to part with thee, methinks. Those that
love thee, are slaves to a very potent fascina-
tion. Hard it is to shake off thy spell. It
often holds in spite of reason and discretion,
but in this instance thou scribbling passion,
I will prove a very Lion, to thee, and like a
dew-drop from my mane, shake thee to air.

'Tis done, and I am thy slave no longer.