University of Virginia Library

I received your kind letter of November last, in
which you congratulated me on my happy asylum—alas,
my dear brother! this proves how little you know of the
world—much better, had it pleased Divine Providence,
that I had followed my parents to the grave! Much better
for me, had I been destitute of those advantages, to
which alone, perhaps, I owe my present distress. But
I will try and compose myself, if it be possible, for the
purpose of acquainting you with the principal incidents
which have happened to me of late.

“For six months after you left me, the Simpsons behaved
toward me with all the attention I had a right to
expect; the substance of which I communicated to you,
in a letter, to which your last was an answer; but since
then they have proved themselves traitors of the blackest
die.

“I should have apprised you sooner of their conduct,
and that of their accomplice, Hunter, the son of the
wretch who broke the hearts of my parents; but knowing
your temper I did not wish to involve you in a quarrel
that might cost you your life, (my last and only stay)
but could not undo the past. No, to that God to whom
vengeance belongs let us leave them.

“Notwithstanding the overstrained politeness of the
Simpsons, I could discern from the first a great degree
of pride and contempt towards me, particularly when
any of the young gentlemen of the neighbourhood would
call to spend a leisure hour of an evening. It sometimes
happened that these young men would prefer my
company and conversation to that of the Simpsons (God
knows I would gladly have dispensed with the honour.)

On those occasions, I could perceive their sly significant
looks, the contemptuous nods and whispers.—When the
gentlemen would retire I was called the belle—“no
beaux for them—we stand no chance where Mary is!”
All this I could have borne, but the hateful addresses of
young Simpson were insupportable. Being tutored to
this by his sisters. I could get no peace for him;
he would intrude into my chamber, and take such liberties
that I had resolved to quit the house. For several
days I had kept myself locked up in my room, to avoid
this detested coxcomb, scarcely taking the necessary
sustenance, and whenever I left the chamber for this
purpose, I was sure to meet with insults from the sisters,
and impertinence from the brother.

“Oh, miss is very coy sometimes, if it were such
a one, or such a one, she would be more condescending.”

“Though I bore this usage in silence, yet my heart
was full of grief, and my eyes with tears.

“One evening while I was deliberating where I should
go, or what I should do, I heard the family sitting down
to supper without taking the least notice of me! I had
not been insulted so often as to be callous to this fresh indignity.

“After the clattering of knives and forks had ceased,
I walked down stairs for a candle and a glass of water.
In passing through the supper-room, from which the
company had not withdrawn. I discovered several gentlemen
of my acquaintance, who saluted me as I passed
on to the closet, which contained the candles.

“I returned their salute with a silent bow, without seating
myself or being invited to do so; and as I returned I
discovered the son of our old enemy, (Hunter) amongst
the number of guests, with his eyes bent on me. I averted
my face from the group as quick as possible, and withdrew
to my chamber with a trembling step and beating
heart.

“I heard the girls gigling a forced laugh behind me,
poor souls! how truly low they appeared in my eyes at
that instant.—I need not tell you how I spent the night;
my dear Charles will enter too readily into my feelings:

I resolved, however, that it should be the last day I would
spend in the house.

“The next morning before breakfast I stepped across
the street to a Mr. F—'s, with whom I had a slight
acquaintance, and begged him to aid me “in procuring
another lodging, or house to board at, until my brother
would either come or send for me, saying that I could not
be happy at Mr. Simpson's.”

“He appeared surprised, and asked me what was the
matter. I replied, “that my reasons I wished to conceal,
at least until the arrival of my brother; that I had
few friends in the place, and wished to say as little about
the family as possible; that it was a question he could
not expect me to answer, and that if he felt disposed to
aid me, it were well; if not, I would intrude no longer
upon him. I was much hurt that he met my confidence
with such cold indifference.”

“He said he would see about it, but at present he could
not think of any place that would suit me. He and his
family were sitting at breakfast; they invited me to sit
down with them, but I could not, although I had eaten
nothing since the preceding morning. After breakfast
he took his hat and walked out; I imagined he was gone
to engage a place for me, and resolved to await his return.

He returned in about a half an hour, but I discovered
from his countenance that he had done nothing for me —
Not wishing to protract my visit any longer, I asked
him if he had succeeded.

“He replied that he had not tried, as he had had a
great deal of business of his own to attend. I did not
wait to hear the end of the sentence, but left the house,
surmising what I afterwards found to be true, “that he
had been to Simpson's, and they had prejudiced him
against me.”

The Miss Simpsons had been in the habit of borrowing
money of me, until they had nearly deprived me of all
that you gave me at parting—at length I was constrained
to deny them; indeed, I had but very little left. I
know you will blame me for this part of my conduct, but
my dear brother you little know the sacrifices a poor

friendless female is compelled to make, to secure tolerable
treatment from a brutish world. I now resolved to
demand my money, as well as my necklace and rings,
which I had lent the girls to show out at balls and other
public places. Accordingly, when I returned to their
house, I walked to the young ladies' parlour, and there
I beheld again the hated Hunter in close conversation
with them. Telling Clarissa, the oldest, that I wished
to speak with her, she got up and came towards me. On
getting beyond the hearing of those in the parlour, I was
going to speak, when I heard the old lady say,

“I wonder where her ladyship has been gossiping
last evening and this morning; she has not been either
to tea or breakfast.”

Advancing a step or two in that direction whence the
voice proceeded, I replied,

“If you mean me, madam, I was in my chamber last
night. I did not come to tea because I was not sent for;
I have been abroad this morning, but I don't consider
myself accountable to you for my conduct.”

I then turned to Miss Simpson and told her I was in
want of money, and would be glad if she could return
the trifle I had loaned her.

“Oh dear, is that what you wanted?—Indeed, you
might have saved yourself the trouble, for I haven't got
any money; indeed, I never thought of such a trifle
since.”

She was walking off, when I addressed her again:

“You say very true, madam, when you call the money
I lent you a trifle; but I am in want even of that trifle.”

Finding that she continued to proceed without paying
further attention to me, I followed her up.

“Well, madam, let me have my necklace and rings
which I lent you some time since.”

“I know nothing about your old rings or your necklace;
ask Matilda about them. I haven't time to be
standing here all day—I've something else to do.” At
the same time she had two of the rings on her fingers.

“The old lady now appeared—“Ma, don't you think
she has the assurance to claim these rings that you
know pa bought for me at the auction two years ago.”

“Why, really these are fine doings; indeed, miss,
you'll take the command of the house next. I wish Mr.
Simpson were at home, to know what's to be done, I'm
sorry he ever took you into the house.”

“Yes, I wish pa was here—he'd turn her out of doors.”

“You may seek another home,” rejoined the mother:
“fine doings indeed—I'll have no such doings about my
house.”

“Madam,” said I, “I lent your daughters money
and jewels; I am in want of them, and I now demand
them; and as for leaving your house, I intended to do so
very shortly.”

“Get out of my house; begone this instant, you impudent
wretch, nor dare to repeat your lies.”

“Yes, indeed mama, she is the biggest liar in the
world.”

“I turned away from them and walking up stairs, locked
up my things in my trunk, walked down stairs again,
and without saying a word to the family, left the house.
I remember gaining the street, and a giddiness in my
head, but no more! When I recovered my senses, I
found myself in a strange house, and two ladies (God I
hope will reward them) were standing by me, one with
hartshorn in her hand, the other with a glass of wine.
To their kind enquiries I gave satisfactory answers,
concealing nothing but the name of the people who had
treated me so cruelly. On telling them how long it had
been since I had eaten any thing, toast and tea were prepared
for me in a few minutes.

“After eating I felt quite restored. Mrs. Cary (that
was the lady's name) said she happened to be standing
in the door and seeing a gentleman running apparently as
fast as he could, she stepped out to see what was the
matter. On observing me extended on the pavement,
she likewise ran, telling Martha (her daughter) to bring
the hartshorn. This gentleman and herself brought me
into her house, where I soon recovered.

“This widow lady (for a widow she is) has offered me
an asylum in her house. She is indigent, but humanity
itself; she has one child only, a daughter, but she is a
treasure; she is an angel in human shape.

“In the evening as we were sitting down to tea, a gentle
rap was heard at the door: it was opened by Martha,
and a gentleman entered the parlour.

“I beg pardon, ladies, for intruding: but I came to
see how this young lady is.”

“Was it to you, sir,” said I, “that I am so much indebted?”

He made no answer, except by a modest bow.

I thanked him as I ought, and told him I had a brother
who would be proud to acknowledge the obligation,
should he ever be so happy as to see him.

The gentleman said he hoped I would command him
in any thing; that his name was Dupon, and that he
hoped I would honour him with my confidence. He took
a cup of tea, and after chatting with us an hour or two,
departed.

Next morning I sent for my trunks, and endeavoured
to be happy. The third evening after this, as Martha
and myself were sitting at work, a little boy came in
and handing me a paper disappeared. It ran in these
words: “A stranger at No. — has a message from Miss
Burlington's brother. He is confined, otherwise he
would have done himself the pleasure of waiting upon
her.”

I flew to the place, enquired for the stranger, who was
`up in a chamber.' “Show me the way,” said I. Upon
entering the room, I found no one. I turned to come
out, when a man rushed in, and the door locked on the
outside! It was Hunter! I shrieked as loud as I was
able. At that instant a voice exclaimed on the outside,

“Villain, desist, and open the door this instant.”

“The key is on the outside,” said I.

“There is no key here.”

“Then break the door down.”

“If he does, I'll blow him to h—l,” said the ruffian
Hunter.

The door flew open and I made my escape.

“Run up stairs, for God's sake, or murder will be
done,” said I to two gentlemen whom I saw on gaining
the street.

My re-appearance, so sudden, and with looks so pale,

alarmed Mrs. Cary and her sympathizing daughter. I
told them what had happened, and resolved never to go
out alone again. It is unnecessary for me to make any
comments on my situation; you must think what I feel;
you must pity me; you must succour me; fly to me as
quick as possible, my dear Charles.

When I became sufficiently composed we sat down to
supper, and my dear brother, who should enter but my
kind deliverer Dupon.

“Do not be alarmed, ladies, I came to see how Miss
Burlington was, and reproach her for not waiting to
thank me this evening.”

He had several drops of blood on his bosom, which he
endeavoured to conceal, and his face was much bruised.
That I thanked him you are sure, but what are thanks
when put in competition with his life and my safety?
Heaven has certainly appointed him my guardian angel.
He informed us that he apprehended some mischief from
a partial discovery of the plot in the morning, while sitting
in a reading room. As he was reading a newspaper
he overheard two men (who sat near him) conversing
earnestly in a low voice; a few words only of the subject
caught his ear, viz: No. — in —street at sunset—Burlington
and I'll be revenged.

He knew the house to be ours from referring to a memorandum
he made in his pocket book upon the day on
which he carried me to it out of the street, and hearing
my name pronounced, he mistrusted some evil. I hovered
near your dwelling, said he, the whole of the afternoon,
taking care to be armed. I saw a boy go into
the house at the time mentioned, and shortly after saw
you come out of it and walk very fast up the street. I
followed you at a short distance, keeping my eye upon
you—I was close at your heels when you entered the
house. I entered it almost at the same instant, and heard
the direction given to you to walk up stairs. I was so
close behind you that I heard the door shut and the key
turn, and gained the door the moment you shrieked out
for help. I met an elderly female near the door, and
had I known at the moment it was her who carried off
the key, I would have sacrificed her upon the spot. I

began to shiver the door with all my strength, when the
old woman soon ran to me with the key, and you made
your escape. I was so much enraged with the ruffian
that I should have shot him dead on the spot, had the
old woman not caught my arm; the moment he discovered
this, he flew at me and attempted to wrest the pistol
out of my hand, but finding the attempt fruitless, he
struck me on the face, whilst I was engaged in shaking
off the old woman. The moment he struck me. I kicked
him down, and as he attempted to rise I kicked him again
on the nose, and the blood gushing out I got a few drops
on my vest. Just as I gave him the second kick, two
gentlemen ran into the room and separated us. Hunter
(that is his name) is committed, and I am held to bail—I
expect to be acquitted if I could prevail on myself to
have the testimony of Miss—

Before he finished the sentence I interrupted him, saying
that nothing would give me more pleasure than to
attend his trial.

I shall not conclude this, until the trial is over, which
is to-morrow at ten o'clock. From the description he
gave us of the other man, it must have been young
Simpson.

The trial is over—Dupon is acquitted and Hunter committed
for further investigation. The old woman, who
it appears, kept a house of suspicious character, has likewise
been taken up. I shall expect you soon. Your
very distressed sister.

What has become of you? Have you forgot your
Mary? Are you alive? Oh, for heaven's sake send me
but one line, but one word—I ask no more. But it is in
vain—you cannot be living—what has become of Wilson?
has he too forgot me? Alas then, I have no friend!
ye cannot both be dead!—but I will cease to complain—
Oh that God would take me to himself! There was but
two—but no matter—and yet I cannot think that if living,
you would forget me. My last letter you never answered—I
heeded that not, as I expected to see yourself.
I looked not for a letter, but I looked in vain for either.

This is the last I shall trouble you with; I shall ask no
more for help, where no help is to be found.

In my last I disclosed enough to move a brother's affection;
to move a brother's pity; to awaken a brother's
honour. But my once, and ever dear Charles, that disclosure
was only the beginning of sorrows. Though I
despair of aid from you, yet it will relieve my oppressed
heart, to pour out its feelings, whether you regard them
or not.

Taking up my calamitous story where I left off in my
last letter to you, I continued to reside with Mrs. Cary
better than three months; during which time the family
was often visited by Dupon, and sometimes by other
young gentlemen of his, and Mrs. Cary's acquaintance.
Dupon in his various visits it appeared, had declared
himself an admirer of Miss Martha. But I pass over
things of no consequence, to those which ought to concern
a brother deeply for a suffering sister. Briefly
then, the Simpsons I suspect (for I have given myself to
trouble to trace it up) reported that Mrs. Cary kept a
house of equivocal character—that is in a better way,
and not upon so general or notorious a plan as such houses
are kept. Dupon lay under suspicions with Mrs.
Cary. This report was long in circulation before its innocent
subjects had the least knowledge of it. Whether
Dupon had any intimation of it or not must remain a
matter of conjecture, as he left the country—certain it
is, that he for some time before his departure, was less
frequent in his visits, and appeared thoughtful, and more
distant than upon our first acquaintance. He left this
place suddenly for the West Indies, where it seems he
had some important business to transact. Whether this
change in his behaviour, towards the family of Mrs.
Cary, was the effect of distrust, or proceeded from a desire
to avoid giving grounds for suspicion is equally
doubtful.

Before his departure he gave Mrs. Cary a draft for
five hundred dollars. This act of benevolence proved
a source of overwhelming distress to us all. Her drawing
the money was proof, strong as holy writ, of her
guilt; it confirmed the report, and poor Mrs. Cary, as

innocent as an angel, was now stigmatized the worst of
characters. But I will try to use some connection.—A
few mornings after she drew the money, as we were sitting
down to breakfast, Mr. — who owned the
house she lived in, came in—he refused to be seated; but
in a very peremptory manner bid her quit his house, adding
that he had rented it to another person; that he desired
no such person as she was to live in a house of his
or so near to that in which his family resided—to be
plain with you, madam, I shall suffer no such people to
live near me!

“This address was like a clap of thunder; the cup
dropped from Mrs. Cary's hand—

“What is that you say sir? such persons live near
you—as he turned his back upon her with a contemptuous
“good morning ladies.”

It having struck me instantly that I was the cause of
this unmerited reproach, I sprang after him, caught
him by the breast of his coat, and implored him in a flood
of tears to tell me what Mrs. Cary was accused of—my
dear sir, tell me, I live with her, it concerns me.

“He interrupted me with “begone you viper—you
would seduce me too,” pushing me roughly from him.—
I got into the house, I know not how.

“What did he say?” enquired Martha, as I entered
the door.

“Give me my bonnet, Martha,” said her mother
with great composure, though as pale as death.

“Dear madam,” said I, “do take some refreshment
before you walk, you have eat nothing yet,” pouring out
a cup of tea for her as I spoke.

“No Mary my child, none to-day, I cannot—”

“I entreated her, but she gently pushed the cup from
her. While Martha was putting on her bonnet and
shawl, I approached her with a glass of wine, spilling
great part of it, with my trembling hands—“Drink
this, then,” said I, “or you will faint in the street.”

“That would never do,” said she, taking the wine—
“Dupon is not here to aid—me.”

“She then stepped into the street and was absent, perhaps,
an hour. While she was gone Martha and myself

indulged in mutual condolence, suggesting a thousand
conjectures—my suspicion, however, fastened on
the Simpsons.

“When Mrs. Cary returned she threw herself into a
chair, and burst into a flood of tears! Martha sat down
by her, drying her own eyes and endeavouring to comfort
her mother. I walked the floor in a state of distraction,
calling on the Almighty to defend the innocent
hapless widow. I bewailed my hard fate in being the
cause of such bitter distress; I remonstrated with him,
that he did not rather let it all fall on me; I called aloud
upon you—Oh, my brother, how cheerfully I would
have met death at that moment!

“When Mrs. Cary's grief had somewhat subsided, I
threw myself on a chair before her, and taking her
hands in mine—“I am the unfortunate wretch, madam,
that has brought this distress upon you, my dear mother,
for you are more than mother to me—can you ever
forgive me? do you not repent your kindness towards
me?”

“Forgive you, child? you are guilty of no fault; but
my children we must leave this place. No, Mary, if it
were to do again, I would act the same part which I
have—”

“She was interrupted by a knocking at the door; I
opened it and a woman entered whom I had often seen at
Simpsons, and had marked her as an ignorant, vain,
steel-hearted gossip, always retailing scandal. She
had called twice or three times at Mrs. Cary's since I
had made it my home.

“Hey day,” says she, “what's the matter?”

“None of us making her an answer, she stayed but a
short time. She was, no doubt, sent by the Simpsons,
who wished to enjoy our distress.

“Mrs. Cary then went on to relate, that in the first
place she went to see a Mr. — whom she had always
considered in the light of a friend—he was not at home,
he had set out the preceding day for Philadelphia. Not
wishing to mention her distress to his wife, she left the
house, and on her return called to see a Mrs. Jones, a
poor but humble friend, who had received many marks

of Mrs. Cary's bounty, and always appeared what she
really was, grateful and sincere. To her Mrs. Cary
related the shocking incident of the morning, and begged
Mrs. Jones if she knew any thing respecting it,
that she would conceal nothing from her.

“Mrs. Jones then related to her what I have already
observed above—that Mrs. Cary carried on a guilty
commerce with a chosen few, that she had taken into her
house a young woman of suspicious character; that Dupon
was one of her favourite paramours; that she had
heard young Simpson say—“By G—d Miss needn't a
made such a demned fuss when Hunter—! Oh, virtue,
thrice empty name!” Can you stand this, Charles?
can you suffer your orphan sister's reputation to be blasted
thus? I do not ask you, I would not have you risk your
safety in a quarrel with these wretches—No, but I would
have you take me away from here.

“I pass over three weeks, which were weeks of suffering
indeed! Although I suffered on a double account,
yet I lost my own griefs in my assiduity to console the
afflicted Mrs. Cary and her daughter, whom it was evident
incurred this reproach on my account.

“Mrs. Cary resolved to remove to Philadelphia, an
old acquaintance of her father whom she knew in better
days, lived in that city—he had written many friendly
letters to her, inviting her to come and reside there.—
She proposed taking me with her if I wished to go, and
share her fortune, let it be what it might. “Yes, madam,
said I, thanking her, I will never forsake you.” Our
clothes were packed up; the day was set for our departure.

“In the mean time I determined to make one more effort
to obtain my dear departed mother's necklace from
the Simpsons. The money I cared nothing about; but
to leave Boston without the necklace, was like tearing
the heart out of my body. I plucked up resolution enough
to sit down and write to old Mr. Simpson, who, to do
him justice, is not a bad man, if it were not for the subjection
in which he is held by his wife.

“I disclosed the whole business, which had hitherto
been kept a secret from him. Mrs. Jones, the friend of

Mrs. Cary, undertook to deliver the letter. I informed
Mr. Simpson that I was about to leave Boston, and that
the money his daughters borrowed of me they were welcome
to keep; but the necklace and rings I must have,
as they were all that remained to me of my dear mother.

“Mrs. Jones said, when the old gentleman read the
letter, he was very angry, and commanded them to send
the jewels.

“It is,” said he, “a darnation shame to detain any
thing belonging to her.”

“By Ned,” said young Simpson, “that's a pretty
high move.”

“The old woman joined with him, “she is an impudent
liar; Clarissa bought the necklace from her, she
gave her another for it, and a pea-green silk dress, as
good as new.”

“Yes, indeed papa, that is the truth, I wish I had
mine back again.”

“But the money—what did you want?”

“She's a lying slut.”

“Mrs. Jones said they all fell on the old man—Finally,
Charles, not to trouble you further, I had to
leave Boston without them.

“The day arrived when we were to leave Boston—
our trunks were in the front room—we had breakfasted
—Mrs. Cary had put on her bonnet to go and pay the
rent, and deliver up the keys of the house; but an officer
stepped in and seized the trunks; Mrs. Cary now paid
to him the rent, and also his fee.

“Nothing remained for us but to set out as soon as
possible. Our trunks were conveyed on board—I sent
Betsey, the only domestic Mrs. Cary had, and who determined
not to forsake us, for a bottle of wine; we left
out three glasses for the purpose of taking something to
enable us to walk to the vessel.

“Mrs. Jones was with us—the wine came—we took
a glass round—not a word was uttered. We walked
along silent and slow. Mrs. Jones, the only kind friend
we had, walked with us. I am now on board.—Mrs.
Jones takes this to the Post-Office.