I have been deeply affected, my Cecilia, within these two days. If it had not been in my power to relieve the distress I have been a witness to, how unhappy would it have made me!
I was stepping out of my chariot yesterday morning, when a young woman who stood at my door, in an old linnen gown, presented to me a little band-box, open and filled with artificial flowers; she spoke not, but the silent anguish in her looks drew my attention. She seemed about eighteen, and very pretty. As an appearance of industry I think doubles the claim which the poor have to our compassion, I took out of her box a small sprig of jessamin, very naturally imitated, and asked the young woman if she made those flowers herself.
She modestly replied, she did. And cannot you, child, said I, find any one who would give you constant employment in this way to prevent your wandering about in the streets to dispose of your work?
She answered, Yes, Madam, but I have a poor decrepid father in jail, who cannot be without my assistance. I live with him, and only come out once a week to sell my flowers. I might go to service, but he would die if I were to leave him. Her gentle speech, her youth, and the unaffected tender sorrow that appeared in her face, when she spoke of her father, touched me to the heart.
I bade her come in, and taking her into the parlour, was desirous to ask her some questions.
You look, said I, as if you had not been bred in poverty; pray what is your father?
She blushed, and with down-cast eyes replied, A clergyman, Madam.
A clergyman, I repeated, what misfortunes (for such I must suppose they were) drove him to the distressed situation you mention?
It was a misfortune, Madam, and not any crime, answered the girl, with tears in her eyes; my father is as good a man as ever was born.
I asked his name, and she told me it was Price.