My wishes are fervent, and my powers shall not
be inactive in their defence; but how slender are these powers! "In the offers of the unknown lady there is, indeed, some consolation
for Clemenza. It must be my business to lay before my friend Stevens the
particulars of what has befallen me, and to entreat his directions how
this disconsolate girl may be most effectually succoured. It may be wise
to take her from her present abode, and place her under some chaste and
humane guardianship, where she may gradually lose remembrance of her
dead infant and her specious betrayer. The barrier that severs her from
Welbeck must be high as heaven and insuperable as necessity. "But, soft! Talked she not of Welbeck? Said she not that he was in
prison and was sick? Poor wretch! I thought thy course was at an end;
that the penalty of guilt no longer weighed down thy heart; that thy
misdeeds and thy remorses were buried in a common and obscure grave; but
it seems thou art still alive. "Is it rational to cherish the hope of thy restoration to innocence and
peace? Thou art no obdurate criminal; hadst thou less virtue, thy
compunctions would be less keen. Wert thou deaf to the voice of duty,
thy wanderings into guilt and folly would be less fertile of anguish. The time will perhaps come, when the measure of thy transgressions and
calamities will overflow, and the folly of thy choice will be too
conspicuous to escape thy discernment. Surely, even for such
transgressors as thou, there is a salutary power in the precepts of
truth and the lessons of experience. "But thou art imprisoned and art sick. This, perhaps, is the crisis of
thy destiny. Indigence and dishonour were the evils to shun which thy
integrity and peace of mind have been lightly forfeited. Thou hast found
that the price was given in vain; that the hollow and deceitful
enjoyments of opulence and dignity were not worth the purchase; and
that, frivolous and unsubstantial as they are, the only path that leads
to them is that of honesty and diligence. Thou art in prison and art
sick; and there is none to cheer thy hour with offices of kindness, or
uphold thy fainting courage by the suggestions of good counsel. For such
as thou the world has no compassion. Mankind will pursue thee to the
grave with execrations. Their cruelty will be justified or palliated,
since they know thee not. They are unacquainted with the goadings of thy
conscience and the bitter retributions which thou art daily suffering. They are full of their own wrongs, and think only of those tokens of
exultation and complacency which thou wast studious of assuming in thy
intercourse with them. It is I only that thoroughly know thee and can
rightly estimate thy claims to compassion. "I have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou meritest some
gratitude at my hands. Shall I not visit and endeavour to console thee
in thy distress? Let me, at least, ascertain thy condition, and be the
instrument in repairing the wrongs which thou hast inflicted. Let me
gain, from the contemplation of thy misery, new motives to sincerity and
rectitude." While occupied by these reflections, I entered the city. The thoughts
which engrossed my mind related to Welbeck. It is not my custom to defer
till to-morrow what can be done to-day. The destiny of man frequently
hangs upon the lapse of a minute. "I will stop," said I, "at the prison;
and, since the moment of my arrival may not be indifferent, I will go
thither with all possible haste." I did not content myself with walking,
but, regardless of the comments of passengers, hurried along the way at
full speed. Having inquired for Welbeck, I was conducted through a dark room,
crowded with beds, to a staircase. Never before had I been in a prison. Never had I smelt so noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so begrimed
with filth and misery. The walls and floors were alike squalid and
detestable. It seemed that in this house existence would be bereaved of
all its attractions; and yet those faces, which could be seen through
the obscurity that encompassed them, were either void of care or
distorted with mirth. "This," said I, as I followed my conductor, "is the residence of
Welbeck. What contrasts are these to the repose and splendour, pictured
walls, glossy hangings, gilded sofas, mirrors that occupied from ceiling
to floor, carpets of Tauris, and the spotless and transcendent
brilliancy of coverlets and napkins, in thy former dwelling! Here
brawling and the shuffling of rude feet are eternal. The air is loaded
with the exhalations of disease and the fumes of debauchery. Thou art
cooped up in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled to share thy narrow
cell with some stupid ruffian. Formerly, the breezes were courted by thy
lofty windows. Aromatic shrubs were scattered on thy hearth. Menials,
splendid in apparel, showed their faces with diffidence in thy
apartment, trod lightly on thy marble floor, and suffered not the
sanctity of silence to be troubled by a whisper. Thy lamp shot its rays
through the transparency of alabaster, and thy fragrant lymph flowed
from vases of porcelain. Such were formerly the decorations of thy
hall, the embellishments of thy existence; but now--alas!----"

We reached a chamber in the second story. My conductor knocked at the
door. No one answered. Repeated knocks were unheard or unnoticed by the
person within. At length, lifting a latch, we entered together. The prisoner lay upon the bed, with his face turned from the door. I
advanced softly, making a sign to the keeper to withdraw. Welbeck was
not asleep, but merely buried in reverie. I was unwilling to disturb his
musing, and stood with my eyes fixed upon his form. He appeared
unconscious that any one had entered. At length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture, and perceived
me in my motionless and gazing attitude. Recollect in what circumstances
we had last parted. Welbeck had, no doubt, carried away with him from
that interview a firm belief that I should speedily die. His prognostic,
however, was fated to be contradicted. His first emotions were those of surprise. These gave place to
mortification and rage. After eyeing me for some time, he averted his
glances, and that effort which is made to dissipate some obstacle to
breathing showed me that his sensations were of the most excruciating
kind. He laid his head upon the pillow, and sunk into his former musing. He disdained, or was unable, to utter a syllable of welcome or contempt. In the opportunity that had been afforded me to view his countenance, I
had observed tokens of a kind very different from those which used to be
visible. The gloomy and malignant were more conspicuous. Health had
forsaken his cheeks, and taken along with it those flexible parts which
formerly enabled him to cover his secret torments and insidious purposes
beneath a veil of benevolence and cheerfulness. "Alas!" said I, loud
enough for him to hear me, "here is a monument of ruin.