―170―

The SCRIBBLER. —No. 5.

'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 ap-
proach; no countenance 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 encounter on the way, is a strange face
to me. Sometimes I meet the likeness
of one I formerly 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 re-
cognize an old acquaintance.

But, alas! he gazes not at me. He
passes 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 out-
cast from my native shore! My sister
and I sole remnants of our family! Or-
phans, and young. Cast upon a stormy
sea. No sail to waft; No rudder to
guide us.

No one but our poor and helpless
neighbours have any knowledge of us.
They pity us and that is all. I over

heard one say, in a tone at once, com-
passionate and inquisitive. —“Poor
young people? Who can they be?
What is their support? They seem to
know nobody, and nobody knows, no-
body visits them.”

Perhaps, indeed, it is partly our own
fault. There must be many kind-heart-
ed, generous and enlightened people in
this city. Females, who would ac-
knowledge my sister's excellence 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 industry some road practicable, at
least, though not smooth; invite him to
their houses, present him to their wives
and daughters as one not unworthy to
be looked upon with kind regard. Peo-
ple who would be to us the father and
mother we have lost.

I always thought it folly to revile our
fellow men as wanting in humanity. —
The stock of charity existing in the
world, is inexhaustible. I do not mere-
ly mean the stock of alms, but that be-
neficence, which adapts its succour to
every one's need; which duly distin-
guishes between different wants and dif-
ferent merits, and gives, not mere food
to the hungry, freedom to the slave,
and enlargement to the prisoner, but
skill to the ignorant, 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 pub-
lication 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 beneficence!

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 imaginary 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 pro-
vided him, but Mr. T—was not
among the number of such.

He traced me hither; made enquir-
ies, unknown to me, respecting mine
and my sister's deportment and condi-
tion, of my neighbours and of him on
whose wages for engrossing I have hith-
erto lived. Having assured himself
that his kindness might be properly ex-
erted in this case, he paid me this morn-
ing a visit, introduced himself, and pro-
posed 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 independence as easily
and well-earned wages can afford.

But what meanwhile is to become of
my sister Jane? Generous man! Yes, I
will revere thee as my father. You are
not very unlike. The same placid
brows and venerable locks distinguish
thee as they honoured 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 be-
loved girl and I may see each other, and
ascertain how each fares daily. 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 absence 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 amuse 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 censure
is, methinks, no great sketch of charity
and that is all I ask; but that is a boon
which my continuing to write would
equitably forfeit, since by the kindness
of my new friend, I no longer need to
seek amusement in scribbling.

―171―

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 slug-
gishly and so tamely grovels. 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. —
These that love thee, are slaves to a
very potent fascination. 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.