In Italy I never thought about it; I sometimes felt
sorry for a beggar, but never quite believed in poverty as an actual
state; it merely seemed a rather disreputable but picturesque
profession. Here in England I have come face to face with
destitution; with hunger, labour, sweat, and barren joylessness. My
first thought was that money might set all this straight; I made
Uncle George laugh by seriously suggesting that I should give of my
superfluity to every cottage. Most people here visit the poor; I
went with Aunt Caroline at first and saw it all. I soon gave it up.
I cannot walk boldly into free human beings' homes and poke my nose
into their privacy; I cannot speak to them of the Lord's will and
persuade them that all is for the best. I can only give them money.
Little Mrs. Dobb, the rector's wife, thanked me with tears in her
eyes for a sum I placed in her hands yesterday. They say she does a
great deal of good, and if my money and her religion can work
together, by all means let it be so.
Meanwhile I ask myself every day: What is the use of Emilia
Fletcher? I really cannot see why I ever was born; my perceptions
are keen, but keener than my capabilities.
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