For now, though willing with the worst to act,
He wanted powers for an important fact;
And while he felt as lawless spirits feel,
His hand was palsied, and he couldn't steal.
By these rejected, is their lot so strange,
So low! that he could suffer by the change?
Yes! the new station as a fall we judge,
He now became the harlots' humble drudge,
Their drudge in common: they combined to save
Awhile from starving their submissive slave;
For now his spirit left him, and his pride,
His scorn, his rancour, and resentment died;
Few were his feelings. but the keenest these,
The rage of hunger, and the sigh for ease;
He who abused indulgence, now became

By want subservient, and by misery tame;

A slave, he begg'd forbearance; bent with pain,
He shunn'd the blow,-"Ah! strike me not again."
Thus was he found: the master of a hoy
Saw the sad wretch whom he had known a boy;
At first in doubt, but Frederick laid aside
All shame, and humbly for his aid applied:
He, tamed and smitten with the storms gone by,
Look'd for compassion through one living eye,
And stretch'd th' unpalsied hand: the seaman felt
His honest heart with gentle pity melt,

And his small boon with cheerful frankness dealt;
Then made enquiries of th' unhappy youth,

Who told, nor shame forbade him, all the truth. "Young Frederick Thompson, to a chandler's

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shop

By harlots order'd and afraid to stop!

"What! our good merchants favourite to be seen "In state so loathsome and in dress so mean ?”.

So thought the seaman as he bade adieu, And, when in port, related all he knew.

But time was lost, enquiry came too late, Those whom he served knew nothing of his fate; No! they had seized on what the sailor gave, Nor bore resistance from their abject slave; The spoil obtain'd, they cast him from the door, Robb'd, beaten, hungry, pain'd, diseased, and poor. Then nature, pointing to the only spot Which still had comfort for so dire a lot, Although so feeble, led him on the way, And hope look'd forward to a happier day : He thought, poor prodigal! a father yet His woes would pity and his crimes forget; Nor had he brother who with speech severe Would check the pity or refrain the tear: A lighter spirit in his bosom rose,

As near the road he sought an hour's repose.

And there he found it: he had left the town, But buildings yet were scatter'd up and down; To one of these, half-ruin'd and half-built, Was traced this child of wretchedness and guilt; There, on the remnant of a beggar's vest, Thrown by in scorn, the sufferer sought for rest; There was this scene of vice and wo to close, And there the wretched body found repose. (1)

(1) The Letter on Itinerant Players will to some appear too harshly written, their profligacy exaggerated, and their distresses magnified; but though the respectability of a part of these people may give us a more favourable view of the whole body; though some actors be sober, and some

managers prudent; still there is vice and misery left, more than sufficient to justify my description. But, if I could find only one woman who (passing forty years on many stages, and sustaining many principal characters) laments in her unrespected old age, that there was no workhouse to which she could legally sue for admission; if I could produce only one female, seduced upon the boards, and starved in her lodging, compelled by her poverty to sing, and by her sufferings to weep, without any prospect but misery, or any consolation but death; if I could exhibit only one youth who sought refuge from parental authority in the licentious freedom of a wandering company; yet, with three such examples, I should feel myself justified in the account I have given :-but such characters and sufferings are common, and there are few of these societies which could not show members of this description. To some, indeed, the life has its satisfactions: they never expected to be free from labour, and their present kind they think is light: they have no delicate ideas of shame, and therefore duns and hisses give them no other pain than what arises from the fear of not being trusted, joined with the apprehension that they may have nothing to subsist upon except their credit.

THE BOROUGH.

LETTER XIII.

THE ALMS-HOUSE AND TRUSTEES.

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. — POPE.

There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pool,
And do a wilful stillness entertain:
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion,
As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle,
"And when I ope my lips let no dog bark."

Merchant of Venice.

Sum felix; quis enim neget? felixque manebo;
Hoc quoque quis dubitet? Tutum me copia fecit.