An hour ago I was in Second-Street,
and saw you. I followed you till you entered
the Indian Queen-Tavern. Knowing where
you are, I am now preparing to demand an interview.
I may be disappointed in this hope, and
therefore write you this.
I do not come to upbraid you, to call you to a
legal, or any other account for your actions. I
presume not to weigh your merits. The God of
cquity be your judge. May he be as merciful,
in the hour of retribution, as I am disposed to be.
It is only to inform you that my father is on
the point of perishing with want. You know who
it was that reduced him to this condition. I persuade
myself I shall not appeal to your justice in
vain. Learn of this justice to afford him instant
succour.
You know who it was that took you in, an
houseless wanderer; protected and fostered your
youth, and shared with you his confidence and
his fortune. It is he who now, blind and indigent,
is threatened, by an inexorable landlord,
to be thrust into the street; and who is, at this
moment, without fire and without bread.
He once did you some little service: now he
looks to be compensated. All the retribution he
asks, is to be saved from perishing. Surely you
will not spurn at his claims. Thomas Craig has
done nothing that shews him dcaf to the cries of
distress. He would relieve a dog from such suffering.
Forget that you have known my father in any
character but that of a supplicant for bread. I
promise you that, on this condition, I, also, will
forget it. If you are so far just, you have nothing
to fear. Your property and reputation
shall both be safe. My father knows not of your
being in this city. His enmities are extinct, and
if you comply with this request, he shall know
you only as a benefactor.
