nce 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 ceili