CHAP. I.

AFTER we had ſupped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to ſend a couple of her footmen for my ſon's baggage, which he at firſt ſeemed to decline; but upon her preſſing the requeſt, he was obliged to inform her, that a ſtick and a wallet were all the moveable things upon this earth that he could boaſt of. ‘"Why, aye my ſon,"’ cried I, ‘"you left me but poor, and poor I find you are come back; and yet I make no doubt you have ſeen a great deal of the world."’—‘"Yes, Sir,"’ replied my ſon, ‘"but travel⯑ling after fortune, is not the way to ſe⯑cure [2] her; and, indeed, of late, I have deſiſted from the purſuit."’—‘"I fancy, Sir,"’ cried Mrs. Arnold, ‘"that the ac⯑count of your adventures would be amu⯑ſing: the firſt part of them I have often heard from my niece; but could the company prevail for the reſt, it would be an additional obligation."’—‘"Madam,"’ replied my ſon,

‘"Well ſaid, my boy,"’ cried I, ‘"and what ſubject did you treat upon? I hope you did not paſs over the importance of Hierardical monogamy. But I inter⯑rupt, go on; you publiſhed your para⯑doxes; well, and what did the learned world ſay to your paradoxes?"’

[7] ‘"Sir,"’ replied my ſon,"

[9] ‘"Bleſs us, George,"’ cried I, ‘"and is that the employment of poets now! Do men of their exalted talents thus ſtoop to beggary! Can they ſo far diſgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praiſe for bread?"’

‘"O no, Sir,"’ returned he,

[12] ‘"What did you ſay, George?"’ inter⯑rupted I. ‘"Thornhill, was not that his name? It can certainly be no other than my landlord."’—‘"Bleſs me,"’ cried Mrs. Arnold, ‘"is Mr. Thornhill ſo near a neighbour of yours? He has long been a friend in our family, and we expect a viſit from him ſhortly."’

‘"My friend's firſt care,"’ continued my ſon,

‘"My patience,"’ continued my ſon,

CHAP. II.

MY ſon's account was too long to be delivered at once, the firſt part of it was begun that night, and he was conclu⯑ding the reſt after dinner the next day, when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equi⯑page at the door ſeemed to make a pauſe in the general ſatisfaction. The but⯑ler, who was now become my friend in the family, informed me with a whiſper, that the 'Squire had already made ſome over⯑tures to Miſs Wilmot, and that her aunt and uncle ſeemed highly to approve the [36] match. Upon Mr. Thornhill's entering, he ſeemed, at ſeeing my ſon and me, to ſtart back; but I readily imputed that to ſurprize, and not diſpleaſure. However, upon our advancing to ſalute him, he re⯑turned our greeting with the moſt appa⯑rent candour; and after a ſhort time, his preſence ſeemed only to encreaſe the gene⯑ral good humour.

After tea he called me aſide, to enquire after my daughter; but upon my informing him that my enquiry was unſucceſsful, he ſeemed greatly ſurpriſed; adding, that he had been ſince frequently at my houſe, in order to comfort the reſt of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He then aſked if I had communicated her misfor⯑tune to Miſs Wilmot, or my ſon; and up⯑on my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence and precaution, deſiring me by all means to keep it a ſecret: ‘"For at beſt,"’ cried he, ‘"it is but divulging one's own infamy; [37] and perhaps Miſs Livy may not be ſo guilty as we all imagine."’ We were here interrupted by a ſervant, who came to aſk the 'Squire in, to ſtand up at country dances; ſo that he left me quite pleaſed with the in⯑tereſt he ſeemed to take in my concerns. His addreſſes, however, to Miſs Wilmot, were too obvious to be miſtaken; and yet ſhe ſeemed not perfectly pleaſed, but bore them rather in compliance to the will of her aunt, than from real inclination. I had even the ſatis⯑faction to ſee her laviſh ſome kind looks upon my unfortunate ſon, which the other could neither extort by his fortune nor aſ⯑ſiduity. Mr. Thornhill's ſeeming compoſure, however, not a little ſurpriſed me: we had now continued here a week, at the preſſing inſtances of Mr. Arnold; but each day the more tenderneſs Miſs Wilmot ſhewed my ſon, Mr. Thornhill's friendſhip ſeemed pro⯑portionably to encreaſe for him.

[38] He had formerly made us the moſt kind aſſurances of uſing his intereſt to ſerve the family; but now his generoſity was not con⯑fined to promiſes alone: the morning I de⯑ſigned for my departure, Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real pleaſure to inform me of a piece of ſervice he had done for his friend George. This was nothing leſs than his having procured him an enſign's commiſſion in one of the regiments that was going to the Weſt Indies, for which he had promiſed but one hundred pounds, his intereſt having been ſufficient to get an abatement of the other two. ‘"As for this trifling piece of ſervice,"’ continued the young gentleman, ‘"I deſire no other reward but the pleaſure of having ſerved my friend; and as for the hundred pound to be paid, if you are unable to raiſe it yourſelves, I will advance it, and you ſhall repay me at your leiſure."’ This was a favour we wanted words to ex⯑preſs our ſenſe of: I readily therefore gave my bond for the money, and teſtified [39] as much gratitude as if I never intended to pay.

George was to depart for town the next day to ſecure his commiſſion, in purſuance of his generous patron's directions, who judged it highly expedient to uſe diſpatch, leſt in the mean time another ſhould ſtep in with more advantageous propoſals. The next morning, therefore, our young ſoldier was early prepared for his departure, and ſeemed the only perſon among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and miſtreſs, for Miſs Wilmot actually loved him, he was leaving behind, any way damped his ſpirits. After he had taken leave of the reſt of the company, I gave him all I had, my bleſſing. ‘"And now, my boy,"’ cried I, ‘"thou art going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather fought for his ſa⯑cred king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and immitate [40] him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk⯑land. Go, my boy, and if you fall, tho' diſtant, expoſed and unwept by thoſe that love you, the moſt precious tears are thoſe with which heaven bedews the un⯑buried head of a ſoldier."’

The next morning I took leave of the good family, that had been kind enough to entertain me ſo long, not without ſeveral expreſſions of gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the en⯑joyment of all that happineſs which afflu⯑ence and good breeding procure, and re⯑turned towards home, deſpairing of ever finding my daughter more, but ſending a ſigh to heaven to ſpare and to forgive her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired an horſe to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myſelf with the hopes of ſoon ſeeing all I held deareſt upon earth. But the night [41] coming on, I put up at a little public-houſe by the road-ſide, and aſked for the land⯑lord's company over a pint of wine. We ſate beſide his kitchen fire, which was the beſt room in the houſe, and chatted on po⯑litics and the news of the country. We happened, among other topics, to talk of young 'Squire Thornhill, whom the hoſt aſ⯑ſured me was hated as much as an uncle of his, who ſometimes came down to the country, was loved. He went on to obſerve, that he made it his whole ſtudy to betray the daugh⯑ters of ſuch as received him to their houſes, and after a fortnight or three weeks poſſeſſion, he turned them out unrewarded and aban⯑doned to the world. As we continued our diſcourſe in this manner, his wife, who had been out to get change, returned, and per⯑ceiving that her huſband was enjoying a pleaſure in which ſhe was not a ſharer, ſhe aſked him, in an angry tone, what he did there, to which he only replied in an ironi⯑cal way, by drinking her health. ‘"Mr. [42] Symmonds,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"you uſe me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer. Here three parts of the buſineſs is left for me to do, and the fourth left unfiniſhed; while you do nothing but ſoak with the gueſts all day long, whereas if a ſpoon⯑ful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop."’ I now found what ſhe would be at, and immediately poured her out a glaſs, which ſhe received with a curteſy, and drinking towards my good health, ‘"Sir,"’ reſumed ſhe, ‘"it is not ſo much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but one cannot help it, when the houſe is going out of the win⯑dows. If the cuſtomers or gueſts are to be dunned, all the burthen lies upon my back, he'd as lief eat that glaſs as budge after them himſelf. There now above ſtairs, we have a young woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don't believe ſhe has got any money by her over-civility. I am certain [43] ſhe is very ſlow of payment, and I wiſh ſhe were put in mind of it."’—‘"What ſignifies minding her,"’ cried the hoſt, ‘"if ſhe be ſlow, ſhe is ſure."’—‘"I don't know that,"’ replied the wife; ‘"but I know that I am ſure ſhe has been here a fort⯑night, and we have not yet ſeen the croſs of her money."’—‘"I ſuppoſe, my dear,"’ cried he, ‘"we ſhall have it all in a lump."’—‘"In a lump!"’ cried the other, ‘"I hope we may get it any way; and that I am reſolved we ſhall this very night, or out ſhe tramps, bag and bag⯑gage."’—‘"Conſider, my dear,"’ cried the huſband, ‘"ſhe is a gentlewoman, and deſerves more reſpect."’—‘"As for the matter of that,"’ returned the hoſteſs, ‘"gentle or ſimple, out ſhe ſhall pack with a ſaſſarara. Gentry may be good things where they take; but for my part I ne⯑ver ſaw much good of them at the ſign of the Harrow."’—Thus ſaying, ſhe ran up a narrow flight of ſtairs, that went from the kit⯑chen [44] to a room over-head, and I ſoon perceiv⯑ed by the loudneſs of her voice, and the bit⯑terneſs of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonſtrances very diſtinctly: ‘"Out I ſay, pack out this moment, tramp thou infa⯑mous ſtrumpet, or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the better for this three months. What! you trumpery, to come and take up an honeſt houſe, without croſs or coin to bleſs yourſelf with; come along I ſay."’—‘"O dear madam,"’ cried the ſtranger, ‘"pity me, pity a poor abandoned creature for one night, and death will ſoon do the reſt."’—I inſtant⯑ly knew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to her reſcue, while the woman was dragging her along by the hair, and caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms.—‘"Welcome, any way welcome, my deareſt loſt one, my treaſure, to your poor old father's boſom. Tho' the vici⯑ous forfake thee, there is yet one in the [45] world that will never forſake thee; tho' thou hadſt ten thouſand crimes to an⯑ſwer for, he will forget them all."’—‘"O my own dear’—for minutes ſhe could no more—‘my own deareſt good papa! Could angels be kinder! How do I de⯑ſerve ſo much! The villain, I hate him and myſelf, to be a reproach to ſuch good⯑neſs. You can't forgive me. I know you cannot."’—‘"Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee! Only re⯑pent, and we both ſhall yet be happy. We ſhall ſee many pleaſant days yet, my Olivia!"’—‘"Ah! never, ſir, never. The reſt of my wretched life muſt be in⯑famy abroad and ſhame at home. But, alas! papa, you look much paler than you uſed to do. Could ſuch a thing as I am give you ſo much uneaſineſs? Sure you have too much wiſdom to take the miſeries of my guilt upon yourſelf."’—‘"Our wiſdom, young woman,"’ replied I.—‘"Ah, why ſo cold a name, papa?"’ [46] cried ſhe. ‘"This is the firſt time you ever called me by ſo cold a name."’—‘"I aſk pardon, my darling,"’ returned I; ‘"but I was going to obſerve, that wiſdom makes but a ſlow defence againſt trou⯑ble, though at laſt a ſure one."’

The landlady now returned to know if we did not chuſe a more genteel apartment, to which aſſenting, we were ſhewn a room, where we could converſe more freely. After we had talked ourſelves into ſome degree of tranquillity, I could not avoid deſiring ſome account of the gra⯑dations that led to her preſent wretched ſi⯑tuation. ‘"That villain, ſir,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"from the firſt day of our meeting made me honourable, though private, propoſals."’

‘"Villain indeed,"’ cried I; ‘"and yet it in ſome meaſure ſurprizes me, how a perſon of Mr. Burchell's good ſenſe and ſeeming honour could be guilty of ſuch deliberate baſeneſs, and thus ſtep into a family to undo it."’

[47] ‘"My dear papa,"’ returned my daugh⯑ter, ‘"you labour under a ſtrange miſtake, Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive me. Inſtead of that he took every op⯑portunity of privately admoniſhing me againſt the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, whom now I find was even worſe than he repreſented him."’—‘"Mr. Thornhill,"’ in⯑terrupted I, ‘"can it be?"’—‘"Yes, Sir,"’ returned ſhe, ‘"it was Mr. Thornhill who ſe⯑duced me, who employed the two ladies, as he called them, but who, in fact, were abandoned women of the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to Lon⯑don. Their artifices, you may remember would have certainly ſucceeded, but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed thoſe reproaches at them, which we all appli⯑ed to ourſelves. How he came to have ſo much influence as to defeat their in⯑tentions, ſtill remains a ſecret to me; but I am convinced he was ever our warmeſt ſincereſt friend."’

[48] ‘"You amaze me, my dear,"’ cried I; ‘"but now I find my firſt ſuſpicions of Mr. Thornhill's baſeneſs were too well grounded: but he can triumph in ſecu⯑rity; for he is rich and we are poor. But tell me, my child, ſure it was no ſmall temptation that could thus oblite⯑rate all the impreſſions of ſuch an edu⯑cation, and ſo virtuous a diſpoſition as thine."’

‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ replied ſhe, ‘"he owes all his triumph to the deſire I had of making him, and not myſelf, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our marriage, which was privately performed by a popiſh prieſt, was no way binding, and that I had nothing to truſt to but his honour."’ ‘"What,"’ interrupted I, ‘"and were you indeed married by a prieſt, and in or⯑ders?"’—‘"Indeed, Sir, we were,"’ re⯑plied ſhe, ‘"though we were both ſworn to conceal his name."’—‘"Why then, my [49] child, come to my arms again, and now you are a thouſand times more welcome than before; for you are now his wife to all intents and purpoſes; nor can all the laws of man, tho' written upon tables of adamant, leſſen the force of that ſa⯑cred connexion."’

‘"Alas, Papa,"’ replied ſhe, ‘"you are but little acquainted with his villainies: he has been married already, by the ſame prieſt, to ſix or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned."’

‘"Has he ſo?"’ cried I, ‘"then we muſt hang the prieſt, and you ſhall inform againſt him to-morrow."’—‘"But Sir,"’ returned ſhe, ‘"will that be right, when I am ſworn to ſe⯑crecy?"’—‘"My dear,"’ I replied, ‘"if you have made ſuch a promiſe, I cannot, nor will not, tempt you to break it. Even tho' it may benefit the public, you muſt not in⯑form againſt him. In all human inſtitu⯑tions [50] a ſmaller evil is allowed to procure a greater good; as in politics, a province may be given away to ſecure a kingdom; in medicine, a limb may be lopt off, to preſerve the body. But in religion the law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, my child, is right: for otherwiſe, if we commit a ſmaller evil, to procure a greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expec⯑tation of contingent advantage. And though the advantage ſhould certainly follow, yet the interval between commiſ⯑ſion and advantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in which we are called away to anſwer for the things we have done, and the volume of human actions is cloſed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear, go on."’

‘"The very next morning,"’ continued ſhe,

‘"Have patience, my child,"’ cried I, ‘"and I hope things will yet be better. Take ſome repoſe to-night, and to-mor⯑row [53] I'll carry you home to your mother and the reſt of the family, from whom you will receive a kind reception. Poor woman, this has gone to her heart: but ſhe loves you ſtill, Olivia, and will for⯑get it."’

CHAP. III.

THE next morning I took my daugh⯑ter behind me, and ſet out on my return home. As we travelled along, I ſtrove, by every perſuaſion, to calm her ſorrows and fears, and to arm her with reſo⯑lution to bear the preſence of her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the proſpect of a fine country, through which we paſſed, to obſerve how much kin⯑der heaven was to us, than we were to each other, and that the misfortunes of nature's making were very few. I aſſured her, that ſhe ſhould never perceive any change in [56] my affections, and that during my life, which yet might be long, ſhe might depend upon a guardian and an inſtructor. I armed her againſt the cenſures of the world, ſhew⯑ed her that books were ſweet unreproach⯑ing companions to the miſerable, and that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would teach us to endure it.

The hired horſe that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by the way, within about five miles from my houſe, and as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to come for her, accompanied by my daughter So⯑phia, early the next morning. It was night before we reached our appointed ſtage: however, after ſeeing her provided with a decent apartment, and having ordered the hoſteſs to prepare proper refreſhments, I kiſſed her, and proceeded towards home. My heart caught new ſenſations of pleaſure [57] the nearer I approached that peaceful manſion. As a bird that has been fright⯑ed from its neſt, my affections out-went my haſte, and hovered round my little fire-ſide, with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to ſay, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's tender em⯑brace, and ſmiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but ſlowly, the night wained apace. The labourers of the day were all retired to reſt; the lights were out in every cottage; no ſounds were heard but of the ſhrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog, at hollow diſtance. I approach⯑ed my little abode of pleaſure, and before I was within a furlong of the place, our honeſt maſtiff came running to welcome me.

It was now near mid-night that I came to knock at my door: all was ſtill and ſi⯑lent: my heart dilated with unutterable hap⯑pineſs, [58] when, to my amazement, the houſe was burſting out in a blaze of fire, and every apperture was red with conflagration! I gave a loud convulſive outcry, and fell upon the pavement inſenſible. This alarm⯑ed my ſon, who perceiving the flames, in⯑ſtantly waked my wife and daughter, and all running out, naked, and wild with ap⯑prehenſion, recalled me to life with their anguiſh. But it was only to objects of new terror; for the flames had, by this time, caught the roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family ſtood, with ſilent agony, looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my two little ones; but they were not to be ſeen. O miſery! ‘"Where,"’ cried I, ‘"where are my little ones?"’—‘"They are burnt to death in the flames,"’ ſays my wife calmly, ‘"and I will die with them."’—That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were juſt awak⯑ed [59] by the fire, and nothing could have ſtopped me. ‘"Where, where, are my children?"’ cried I, ruſhing through the flames, and burſting the door of the cham⯑ber in which they were confined, ‘"Where are my little ones?"’—‘"Here, dear papa, here we are,"’ cried they together, while the flames were juſt catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and ſnatched them through the fire as faſt as poſſible, while juſt as I was got out, the roof ſunk in. ‘"Now,"’ cried I, holding up my children, ‘"now let the flames burn on, and all my poſſeſſions periſh. Here they are, I have ſaved my treaſure. Here, my deareſt, here are our treaſures, and we ſhall yet be happy."’ We kiſſed our little darlings a thouſand times, they claſped us round the neck, and ſeemed to ſhare our tranſports, while their mother laughed and wept by turns.

[60] I now ſtood a calm ſpectator of the flames, and after ſome time, began to per⯑ceive that my arm to the ſhoulder was ſcorched in a terrible manner. It was there⯑fore out of my power to give my ſon any aſſiſtance, either in attempting to fave our goods, or preventing the flames ſpreading to our corn. By this time, the neighbours were alarmed, and came running to our aſſiſtance; but all they could do was to ſtand, like us, ſpectators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I had reſerved for my daughters fortunes, were entirely conſumed, except a box, with ſome papers, that ſtood in the kitchen, and two or three things more of little conſequence, which my ſon brought away in the begin⯑ning. The neighbours contributed, how⯑ever, what they could to lighten our diſtreſs. They brought us cloaths, and furniſhed one of our out-houſes with kitchen utenſils; ſo that by day-light we had another, tho' a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My honeſt next [61] neighbour, and his children, were not the leaſt aſſiduous in providing us with every thing neceſſary, and offering what ever conſolation untutored benevolence could ſuggeſt.

When the fears of my family had ſub⯑ſided, curioſity to know the cauſe of my long ſtay began to take place; having therefore informed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the recep⯑tion of our loſt one, and tho' we had no⯑thing but wretchedneſs now to impart, yet to procure her a welcome to what we had. This taſk would have been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being una⯑able to go for my poor child myſelf, as my arm now grew very painful, I ſent my ſon and daughter, who ſoon returned, ſupport⯑ing the wretched delinquent, who had not courage to look up at her mother, whom [62] no inſtructions of mine could perſuade to a perfect reconciliation; for women have a much ſtronger ſenſe of female error than men. ‘"Ah, madam,"’ cried her mother, ‘"this is but a poor place you are come to after ſo much finery. My daughter So⯑phy and I can afford but little enter⯑tainment to perſons who have kept com⯑pany only with people of diſtinction. Yes, Miſs Livy, your poor father and I have ſuffered very much of late; but I hope heaven will forgive you."’—During this reception, the unhappy victim ſtood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to re⯑ply; but I could not continue a ſilent ſpec⯑tator of her diſtreſs, wherefore aſſuming a degree of ſeverity in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with inſtant ſub⯑miſſion, ‘"I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once for all: I have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; her return to duty demands the revival of our tenderneſs. The [63] real hardſhips of life are now coming faſt upon us, let us not therefore encreaſe them by diſſention among each other. If we live harmoniouſly together, we may yet be contented, as there are enough of us here to ſhut out the cenſuring world, and keep each other in countenance. The kind⯑neſs of heaven is promiſed to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we are aſſured, is much more pleaſed to view a repentant ſinner, than many perſons who have ſupported a courſe of undeviating rectitude. And this is right; for that ſingle effort by which we ſtop ſhort in the down-hill path to perdition, is itſelf a greater exertion of virtue, than an hundred acts of juſ⯑tice."’

CHAP. IV.

SOME aſſiduity was now required to make our preſent abode as convenient as poſſible, and we were ſoon again qualified to enjoy our former ſerenity. Being diſ⯑abled myſelf from aſſiſting my ſon in our uſual occupations, I read to my family from the few books that were ſaved, and particu⯑larly from ſuch, as, by amuſing the imagi⯑nation, contributed to eaſe the heart. Our good neighbours too came every day with the kindeſt condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to aſſiſt at repairing my former dwelling. Honeſt farmer Wil⯑liams [66] was not laſt among theſe viſitors; but heartily offered his friendſhip. He would even have renewed his addreſſes to my daughter; but ſhe rejected them in ſuch a manner as totally repreſt his future ſoli⯑citations. Her grief ſeemed formed for continuing, and ſhe was the only perſon of our little ſociety that a week did not reſtore to chearfulneſs. She now loſt that un⯑bluſhing innocence which once taught her to reſpect herſelf, and to ſeek pleaſure by pleaſing. Anxeity now had taken ſtrong poſ⯑ſeſſion of her mind, her beauty began to be impaired with her conſtitution, and neglect ſtill more contributed to diminiſh it. Every tender epithet beſtowed on her ſiſter brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her eye; and as one vice, tho' cured, almoſt ever plants others where it has been, ſo her former guilt, tho' driven out by repentance, left jealouſy and envy behind. I ſtrove a thouſand ways to leſſen her care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for her's, [67] collecting ſuch amuſing paſſages of hiſtory, as a ſtrong memory and ſome reading could ſuggeſt. ‘"Our happineſs, my dear,"’ I would ſay,

In this manner I would attempt to amuſe my daughter; but ſhe liſtened with divided attention; for her own misfortunes engroſſed [71] the pity ſhe once had for thoſe of another, and nothing gave her eaſe. In company ſhe dreaded contempt; and in ſolitude ſhe only found anxiety. Such was the colour of her wretchedneſs, when we received certain in⯑formation, that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miſs Wilmot, for whom I always ſuſpected he had a real paſſion, tho' he took every opportunity before me to expreſs his contempt both of her perſon and fortune. This news only ſerved to en⯑creaſe poor Olivia's affliction; ſuch a fla⯑grant breach of fidelity, was more than her courage could ſupport. I was reſolved, however, to get more certain information, and to defeat, if poſſible, the completion of his deſigns, by ſending my ſon to old Mr. Wilmot's, with inſtructions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miſs Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thornhill's conduct in my family. My ſon went, in purſuance of my directions, and in three days returned, aſſuring us of the truth of [72] the acount; but that he had found it im⯑poſſible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and Miſs Wilmot were viſiting round the country. They were to be married, he ſaid, in a few days, having appeared toge⯑ther at church the Sunday before he was there, in great ſplendour, the bride attended by ſix young ladies dreſt in white, and he by as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole country with re⯑joicing, and they uſually rode out together in the grandeſt equipage that had been ſeen in the country for many years. All the friends of both families, he ſaid, were there, particularly the 'Squire's uncle, Sir William Thornhill, who bore ſo good a character. He added, that nothing but mirth and feaſting were going forward; that all the country praiſed the young bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine perſon, and that they were immenſely fond of each other; concluding, that he [73] could not help thinking Mr. Thorn⯑hill one of the moſt happy men in the world.

‘"Why let him if he can,"’ returned I: ‘"but, my ſon, obſerve this bed of ſtraw, and unſheltering roof; thoſe mouldering walls, and humid floor; my wretched body thus diſabled by fire, and my children weeping round me for bread; you have come home, my child, to all this, yet here, even here, you ſee a man that would not for a thouſand worlds exchange ſitu⯑ations. O, my children, if you could but learn to commune with your own hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you would little re⯑gard the elegance and ſplendours of the worthleſs. Almoſt all men have been taught to call life a paſſage, and them⯑ſelves the travellers. The ſimilitude [74] ſtill may be improved when we ob⯑ſerve that the good are joyful and ſerene, like travellers that are going towards home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile."’

My compaſſion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new diſaſter, inter⯑rupted what I had farther to obſerve. I bade her mother ſupport her, and after a ſhort time ſhe recovered. She appeared from this time more calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of reſolution: but ap⯑pearances deceived me; for her tranquility was the langour of over-wrought reſentment. A ſupply of proviſions, charitably ſent us by my kind pariſhioners, ſeemed to diffuſe chearfulneſs amongſt the reſt of the fa⯑mily, nor was I diſpleaſed at ſeeing them once more ſprightly and at eaſe. It would have been unjuſt to damp their [75] ſatisfactions, merely to condole with re⯑ſolute melancholy, or to burthen them with a ſadneſs they did not feel. Once more, therefore, the tale went round and the ſong was demanded, and chearfulneſs con⯑deſcended to hover round our little habi⯑tation.

CHAP. V.

THE next morning the ſun aroſe with peculiar warmth for the ſeaſon; ſo that we agreed to breakfaſt together at the honey-ſuckle bank: where, while we ſate, my youngeſt daughter, at my requeſt, joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. It was here my poor Oli⯑via firſt met her ſeducer, and every object ſerved to recall her ſadneſs. But that me⯑lancholy, which is excited by objects of pleaſure, or inſpired by ſounds of harmony, ſooths the heart inſtead of corroding it. Her mother too, upon this occaſion, felt a pleaſing diſtreſs, and wept, and loved her [78] daughter as before. ‘"Do, my pretty Oli⯑via,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"let us have that little melancholy air your pappa was ſo fond of, your ſiſter Sophy has already obliged us. Do child, it will pleaſe your old father."’ She complied in a manner ſo exquiſitely pathetic as moved me.

As ſhe was concluding the laſt ſtanza, to which an interruption in her voice from ſorrow gave peculiar ſoftneſs, the appear⯑ance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at a diſ⯑tance alarmed us all, but particularly en⯑creaſed [79] the uneaſineſs of my eldeſt daughter, who, deſirous of ſhunning her betrayer, re⯑turned to the houſe with her ſiſter. In a few minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making up to the place where I was ſtill ſitting, enquired after my health with his uſual air of familiarity. ‘"Sir,"’ replied I, ‘"your preſent aſſurance only ſerves to aggravate the baſeneſs of your charac⯑ter; and there was a time when I would have chaſtiſed your inſolence, for preſum⯑ing thus to appear before me. But now you are ſafe; for age has cooled my paſſions, and my calling reſtrains them."’

‘"I vow, my dear ſir,"’ returned he, ‘"I am amazed at all this; nor can I under⯑ſtand what it means! I hope you don't think your daughter's late excurſion with me had any thing criminal in it."’

[80] ‘"Go,"’ cried I, ‘"thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and every way a lyar; but your meanneſs ſecures you from my anger! Yet ſir, I am deſcended from a family that would not have borne this! And ſo, thou vile thing, to gra⯑tify a momentary paſſion, thou haſt made one poor creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but honour for their portion."’

‘"If ſhe or you,"’ returned he, ‘"are re⯑ſolved to be miſerable, I cannot help it. But you may ſtill be happy; and what⯑ever opinion you may have formed of me, you ſhall ever find me ready to con⯑tribute to it. We can readily marry her to another, and what is more, ſhe may keep her lover beſide; for I proteſt I ſhall ever continue to have a true regard for her."’

[81] I found all my paſſions awakened at this new degrading propoſal; for though the mind may often be calm under great inju⯑ries, little villainy can at any time get with⯑in the ſoul, and ſting it into rage.—‘"Avoid my ſight, thou reptile,"’ cried I, ‘"nor continue to inſult me with thy pre⯑ſence. Were my brave ſon at home, he would not ſuffer this; but I am old, and diſabled, and every way undone."’

‘"I find,"’ cried he, ‘"you are bent up⯑on obliging me to talk in an harſher manner than I intended. But as I have ſhewn you what may be hoped from my friendſhip, it may not be improper to repreſent what may be the conſequences of my reſentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has heen transfer⯑red, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent the courſe of juſtice, except by paying the money myſelf, which, as I have been at ſome expences lately, pre⯑vious [82] to my intended marriage, it is not ſo eaſy to be done. And then my ſteward talks of driving for the rent: it is certain he knows his duty; for I never trouble myſelf with affairs of that nature. Yet ſtill I could wiſh to ſerve you, and even to have you and your daughter preſent at my marriage, which is ſhortly to be ſo⯑lemnized with Miſs Wilmot; it is even the requeſt of my charming Arabella herſelf, whom I hope you will not re⯑fuſe."’

‘"Mr. Thornhill,"’ replied I, ‘"hear me once for all: as to your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will conſent to; and though your friendſhip could raiſe me to a throne, or your re⯑ſentment ſink me to the grave, yet would I deſpiſe both. Thou haſt once wofully, irreparably, deceived me. I repoſed my heart upon thine honour, and have found its baſeneſs. Never [83] more, therefore, expect friendſhip from me. Go, and poſſeſs what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health, and pleaſure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, diſeaſe, and ſorrow. Yet hum⯑bled as I am, ſhall my heart ſtill vindi⯑cate its dignity, and though thou haſt my forgiveneſs, thou ſhalt ever have my contempt."’

‘"If ſo,"’ returned he, ‘"depend upon it you ſhall feel the effects of this inſo⯑lence, and we ſhall ſhortly ſee which is the fitteſt object of ſcorn, you or me."’—Upon which he departed abruptly.

My wife and ſon, who were preſent at this interview, ſeemed terrified with the ap⯑prehenſion. My daughters alſo, finding that he was gone, came out to be informed of the reſult of our conference, which, when known, alarmed them not leſs than the reſt. But as to myſelf, I diſregarded [84] the utmoſt ſtretch of his malevolence: he had already ſtruck the blow, and now I ſtood prepared to repel every new ef⯑fort. Like one of thoſe inſtruments uſed in the art of war, which, however thrown, ſtill preſents a point to receive the enemy.

We ſoon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain; for the very next day his ſteward came to demand my annual rent, which, by the train of accidents al⯑ready related, I was unable to pay. The conſequence of my incapacity was his dri⯑ving my cattle that evening, and their be⯑ing appraiſed and ſold the next day for leſs than half their value. My wife and children now therefore entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather than incur certain deſtruction. They even begged of me to admit his viſits once more, and uſed all their little eloquence to paint the calami⯑ties I was going to endure. The terrors of [85] a priſon, in ſo rigorous a ſeaſon as the pre⯑ſent, with the danger that threatened my health from the late accident that happened by the fire. But I continued inflexible.

‘"Why, my treaſures,"’ cried I, ‘"why will you thus attempt to perſuade me to the thing that is not right! My duty has taught me to forgive him; but my conſcience will not permit me to ap⯑prove. Would you have me applaud to the world what my heart muſt internally condemn? Would you have me tamely ſit down and flatter our infamous be⯑trayer; and to avoid a priſon continual⯑ly ſuffer the more galling bonds of men⯑tal confinement! No, never. If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right, and wherever we are thrown, we can ſtill retire to a charming apartment, and look round our [86] own hearts with intrepidity and with pleaſure!"’

In this manner we ſpent that evening. Early the next morning, as the ſnow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my ſon was employed in clearing it away, and opening a paſſage before the door. He had not been thus engaged long, when he came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two ſtrangers, whom he knew to be officers of juſtice, were making to⯑wards the houſe.

Juſt as he ſpoke they came in, and ap⯑proaching the bed where I lay, after previ⯑ouſly informing me of their employment and buſineſs, made me their priſoner, bid⯑ding me prepare to go with them to the county gaol, which was eleven miles off.

‘"My friends,"’ ſaid I, ‘"this is ſevere weather on which you have come to [87] take me to a priſon; and it is particu⯑larly unfortunate at this time, as one of my arms has lately been burnt in a ter⯑rible manner, and it has thrown me into a ſlight fever, and I want cloaths to co⯑ver me, and I am now too weak and and old to walk far in ſuch deep ſnow: but if it muſt be ſo, I'll try to obey you."’

I then turned to my wife and chil⯑dren, and directed them to get toge⯑ther what few things were left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving this place. I entreated them to be expeditious, and deſired my ſon to aſſiſt his elder ſiſter, who, from a conſciouſneſs that ſhe was the cauſe of all our calamities, was fallen, and had loſt anguiſh in inſenſibility. I encouraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, claſped our affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her boſom in ſilence, dreading to [88] look round at the ſtrangers. In the mean time my youngeſt daughter prepared for our departure, and as ſhe received ſeveral hints to uſe diſpatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart.

CHAP. VI.

WE ſet forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, and walked on ſlowly. My eldeſt daughter being enfee⯑bled by a ſlow fever, which had begun for ſome days to undermine her conſtitu⯑tion, one of the officers, who had an horſe, kindly took her behind him; for even theſe men cannot entirely diveſt them⯑ſelves of humanity. My ſon led one of the little ones by the hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngeſt girl, whoſe tears fell not for her own but my diſtreſſes.

[90] We were now got from my late dwel⯑ling about two miles, when we ſaw a crowd running and ſhouting behind us, conſiſting of about fifty of my pooreſt pa⯑riſhioners. Theſe, with dreadful impreca⯑tions, ſoon ſeized upon the two officers of juſtice, and ſwearing they would never ſee their miniſter go to gaol while they had a drop of blood to ſhed in his defence, were going to uſe them with great ſeverity. The conſequence might have been fatal, had I not immediately interpoſed, and with ſome difficulty reſcued the officers from the hands of the enraged multitude. My chil⯑dren, who looked upon my delivery now as certain, appeared tranſported with joy, and were incapable of containing their rap⯑tures. But they were ſoon undeceived, up⯑on hearing me addreſs the poor deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to do me ſervice.

[91] ‘"What! my friends,"’ cried I, ‘"and is this the way you love me! Is this the manner you obey the inſtructions I have given you from the pulpit! Thus to fly in the face of juſtice, and bring down ruin on yourſelves and me! Which is your ringleader? Shew me the man that has thus ſeduced you. As ſure as he lives he ſhall feel my reſentment. Alas! my dear deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to your coun⯑try, and to me. I ſhall yet perhaps one day ſee you in greater felicity here, and contribute to make your lives more hap⯑py. But let it at leaſt be my comfort when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one here ſhall be wanting."’

They now ſeemed all repentance, and melting into tears, came one after the other to bid me farewell. I ſhook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my bleſſing, proceeded forward without meeting any [92] farther interruption. Some hours before night we reached the town, or rather vil⯑lage; for it conſiſted but of a few mean houſes, having loſt all its former opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient ſupe⯑riority but the gaol.

Upon entering, we put up at an inn, where we had ſuch refreſhments as could moſt readily be procured, and I ſupped with my family with my uſual chearfulneſs. Af⯑ter ſeeing them properly accommodated for that night, I next attended the ſheriff's of⯑ficers to the priſon, which had formerly been built for the purpoſes of war, and conſiſted of one large apartment, ſtrongly grated, and paved with ſtone, common to both felons and debtors at certain hours in the four and twenty. Beſides this, every priſoner had a ſeparate cell, where he was locked in for the night.

I expected upon my entrance to find no⯑thing but lamentations, and various ſounds [93] of miſery; but it was very different. The pri⯑ſoners ſeemed all employed in one common deſign, that of forgetting thought in merri⯑ment or clamour. I was apprized of the uſual perquiſite required upon theſe occa⯑ſions, and immediately complied with the demand, though the little money I had was very near being all exhauſted. This was immediately ſent away for liquor, and the whole priſon ſoon was filled with riot, laughter, and prophaneneſs.

‘"How,"’ cried I to myſelf, ‘"ſhall men ſo very wicked be chearful, and ſhall I be melancholy! I feel only the ſame confinement with them, and I think I have more reaſon to be happy."’

With ſuch reflections I laboured to be⯑come chearful; but chearfulneſs was never yet produced by effort, which is itſelf pain⯑ful. As I was ſitting therefore in a corner of the gaol, in a penſive poſture, one of [94] my fellow priſoners came up, and ſitting by me, entered into converſation. It was my conſtant rule in life never to avoid the converſation of any man who ſeemed to de⯑ſire it: for if good, I might profit by his inſtruction; if bad, he might be aſſiſted by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of ſtrong unlettered ſenſe; but a thorough knowledge of the world, as it is called, or, more properly ſpeaking, of human nature on the wrong ſide. He aſked me if I had taken care to provide myfelf with a bed, which was a circumſtance I had never once at⯑tended to.

‘"That's unfortunate,"’ cried he, ‘"as you are allowed here nothing but ſtraw, and your apartment is very large and cold. However you ſeem to be ſome⯑thing of a gentleman, and as I have been one myſelf in my time, part of my bed-cloaths are heartily at your ſervice."’

[95] I thanked him, profeſſing my ſurprize at finding ſuch humanity in a gaol in misfor⯑tunes; adding, to let him ſee that I was a ſcholar, ‘"That the ſage ancient ſeemed to underſtand the value of company in afflic⯑tion, when he ſaid, Ton koſmon aire, ei⯑dos ton etairon; and in fact,"’ continued I, ‘"what is the World if it affords only ſoli⯑tude?"’

‘"You talk of the world, Sir,"’ returned my fellow priſoner; ‘"the world is in its dotage, and yet the coſmogony or creation of the world has puzzled the philoſophers of every age. What a medly of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the world. Sanconiathon, Manetho, Beroſus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it in vain. The latter has theſe words, Anar⯑chon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which im⯑plies’—‘"I aſk pardon, Sir,"’ cried I, ‘"for interrupting ſo much learning; but I think I have heard all this before. [96] Have I not had the pleaſure of once ſeeing you at Welbridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim Jenkinſon?"’ At this demand he only ſighed. ‘"I ſuppoſe you muſt recollect,"’ reſumed I, ‘"one Doctor Primroſe, from whom you bought a horſe."’

He now at once recollected me; for the gloomineſs of the place and the approach⯑ing night had prevented his diſtinguiſhing my features before.—‘"Yes, Sir,"’ return⯑ed Mr. Jenkinſon, ‘"I remember you per⯑fectly well I bought an horſe, but for⯑got to pay for him. Your neighbour Flamborough is the only proſecutor I am any way afraid of at the next aſſizes: for he intends to ſwear poſitively againſt me as a coiner. I am heartily ſorry, Sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any man; for you ſee,"’ continued he, ſhewing his ſhackles, ‘"what my tricks have brought me to."’

[97] ‘"Well, ſir,"’ replied I, ‘"your kindneſs in offering me aſſiſtance, when you could expect no return, ſhall be repaid with my endeavours to ſoften or totally ſup⯑preſs Mr. Flamborough's evidence, and I will ſend my ſon to him for that pur⯑poſe the firſt opportunity; nor do I in the leaſt doubt but he will comply with my requeſt, and as to my own evidence, you need be under no uneaſineſs about that."’

‘"Well, ſir,"’ cried he, ‘"all the return I can make ſhall be yours. You ſhall have more than half my bed-cloaths to night, and I'll take care to ſtand your friend in the priſon, where I think I have ſome influence."’

I thanked him, and could not avoid be⯑ing ſurpriſed at the preſent youthful change in his aſpect; for at the time I had ſeen him before he appeared at leaſt ſixty.—‘"Sir,"’ [98] anſwered he, ‘"you are little acquainted with the world; I had at that time falſe hair, and have learnt the art of counterfeiting every age from ſeventeen to ſeventy. Ah ſir, had I but beſtowed half the pains in learning a trade, that I have in learning to be a ſcoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day. But rogue as I am, ſtill I may be your friend, and that perhaps when you leaſt expect it."’

We were now prevented from further converſation, by the arrival of the gaoler's ſervants, who came to call over the priſo⯑ners names, and lock up for the night. A fellow alſo, with a bundle of ſtraw for my bed attended, who led me along a dark narrow paſſage into a room paved like the common priſon, and in one corner of this I ſpread my bed, and the cloaths given me by my fellow priſoner; which done, [99] my conductor, who was civil enough, bade me a good-night. After my uſual medi⯑tations, and having praiſed my heaven⯑ly corrector, I laid myſelf down and ſlept with the utmoſt tranquility till morning.

CHAP. VII.

THE next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom I found in tears at my bed-ſide. The gloomy ſtrength of every thing about us, it ſeems, had daunted them. I gently rebuked their ſorrow, aſ⯑ſuring them I had never ſlept with greater tranquility, and next enquired after my eldeſt daughter, who was not among them. They informed me that yeſterday's uneaſi⯑neſs and fatigue had encreaſed her fever, and it was judged proper to leave her be⯑hind. My next care was to ſend my ſon to procure a room or two to lodge the [102] family in, as near the priſon as conveniently could be found. He obeyed; but could only find one apartment, which was hired at a ſmall expence, for his mother and ſiſters, the gaoler with humanity conſenting to let him and his two little brothers lie in the priſon with me. A bed was therefore pre⯑pared for them in a corner of the room, which I thought anſwered very convenient⯑ly. I was willing however previouſly to know whether my little children choſe to lie in a place which ſeemed to fright them upon entrance.

‘"Well,"’ cried I, ‘"my good boys, how do you like your bed? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears."’

‘"No, papa,"’ ſays Dick, ‘"I am not afraid to lie any where where you are."’

[103] ‘"And I,"’ ſays Bill, who was yet but four years old, ‘"love every place beſt that my papa is in."’

After this, I allotted to each of the fa⯑mily what they were to do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her de⯑clining ſiſter's health; my wife was to at⯑tend me; my little boys were to read to me: ‘"And as for you, my ſon,"’ continu⯑ed I, ‘"it is by the labour of your hands we muſt all hope to be ſupported. Your wages, as a day-labourer, will be full ſufficient, with proper frugality, to main⯑tain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art now ſixteen years old, and haſt ſtrength, and it was given thee, my ſon, for very uſeful purpoſes; for it muſt ſave from famine your helpleſs parents and fa⯑mily. Prepare then this evening to look out for work againſt to-morrow, and bring home every night what money you earn, for our ſupport."’

[104] Having thus inſtructed him, and ſettled the reſt, I walked down to the common pri⯑ſon, where I could enjoy more air and room. But I was not long there when the execrations, lewdneſs, and brutality that invaded me on every ſide, drove me back to my apartment again. Here I ſate for ſome time, pondering upon the ſtrange in⯑fatuation of wretches, who finding all man⯑kind in open arms againſt them, were, however, labouring to make themſelves a future and a tremendous enemy.

Their inſenſibility excited my higheſt com⯑paſſion, and blotted my own uneaſineſs a while from my mind. It even appeared as a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I reſolved therefore once more to return, and in ſpite of their con⯑tempt to give them my advice, and conquer them by perſeverance. Going therefore among them again, I informed Mr. Jenkin⯑ſon of my deſign, at which he laughed, [105] but communicated it to the reſt. The pro⯑poſal was received with the greateſt good⯑humour, as it promiſed to afford a new fund of entertainment to perſons who had now no other reſource for mirth, but what could be derived from ridicule or debau⯑chery.

I therefore read them a portion of the ſervice with a loud unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the occaſion. Lewd whiſpers, groans of contrition burleſqued, winking and cough⯑ing, alternately excited laughter. Howe⯑ver, I continued with my natural ſolemnity to read on, ſenſible that what I did might amend ſome, but could itſelf receive no contamination from any.

After reading, I entered upon my ex⯑hortation, which was rather calculated at firſt to amuſe them than to reprove. I previ⯑ouſly obſerved, that no other motive but [106] their welfare could induce me to this; that I was their fellow priſoner, and now gained nothing by preaching. I was ſorry, I ſaid, to hear them ſo very prophane; becauſe they got nothing by it, but might loſe a great deal: ‘"For be aſſured, my friends,"’ cried I,

When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my audience, ſome of whom came and ſhook me by the hand, ſwearing that I was a very honeſt fellow, and that they deſired my further acquain⯑tance. I therefore promiſed to repeat my lecture next day, and actually conceived [108] ſome hopes of making a reformation here; for it had ever been my opinion, that no man was paſt the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to the ſhafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. When I had thus ſatisfied my mind, I went back to my apartment, where my wife had prepared a frugal meal, while Mr. Jenkinson begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleaſure, as he was kind enough to expreſs it, of my converſation. He had not yet ſeen my family, for as they came to my apartment by a door in the narrow paſ⯑ſage, already deſcribed, by this means they avoided the common priſon. Jenkinſon at the firſt interview therefore ſeemed not a little ſtruck with the beauty of my young⯑eſt daughter, which her penſive air con⯑tributed to heighten, and my little ones did not paſs unnoticed.

‘"Alas, Doctor,"’ cried he, ‘"theſe chil⯑dren are too handſome and too good for ſuch a place as this!"’

[109] ‘"Why, Mr. Jenkinſon,"’ replied I, ‘"thank heaven my children are pretty tolerable in morals, and if they be good, it matters little for the reſt."’

‘"I fancy, ſir,"’ returned my fellow pri⯑ſoner, ‘"that it muſt give you great com⯑fort to have this little family about you."’

‘"A comfort, Mr. Jenkinſon,"’ replied I, ‘"yes it is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them for all the world; for they can make a dungeon ſeem a palace. There is but one way in this life of wounding my happineſs, and that is by injuring them."’

‘"I am afraid then, ſir,"’ cried he, ‘"that I am in ſome meaſure culpable; for I think I ſee here’ (looking at my ſon Mo⯑ſes) ‘"one that I have injured, and by whom I wiſh to be forgiven."’

[110] My ſon immediately recollected his voice and features, though he had before ſeen him in diſguiſe, and taking him by the hand, with a ſmile forgave him. ‘"Yet,"’ continued he, ‘"I can't help wondering at what you could ſee in my face, to think me a proper mark for deception."’

‘"My dear ſir,"’ returned the other, ‘"it was not your face, but your white ſtock⯑ings and the black ribband in your hair, that allured me. But no diſparagement to your parts, I have deceived wiſer men than you in my time; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at laſt."’

‘"I ſuppoſe,"’ cried my ſon, ‘"that the narrative of ſuch a life as yours muſt be extremely inſtructive and amuſing."’

‘"Not much of either,"’ returned Mr. Jenkinſon. ‘"Thoſe relations which de⯑ſcribe [111] the tricks and vices only of man⯑kind, by increaſing our ſuſpicion in life, retard our ſucceſs. The traveller that diſtruſts every perſon he meets, and turns back upon the appearance of every man that looks like a robber, ſeldom arrives in time to his journey's end."’

‘"Indeed I think from my own experi⯑ence I may ſay, that the knowing one is the ſillieſt fellow under the ſun. I was thought cunning from my very child⯑hood; when but ſeven years old the la⯑dies would ſay that I was a perfect little man; at fourteen I knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies; at twenty, though I was perfectly ho⯑neſt, yet every one thought me ſo cun⯑ning, that not one would truſt me. Thus I was at laſt obliged to turn ſhar⯑per in my own defence, and have lived ever ſince, my head throbbing with [112] ſchemes to deceive, and my heart pal⯑pitating with fears of detection."’

‘"I uſed often to laugh at your honeſt ſimple neighbour Flamborough, and one way or another generally cheated him once a year. Yet ſtill the honeſt man went forward without ſuſpicion, and grew rich, while I ſtill continued trickſy and cunning, and was poor, without the conſolation of being honeſt."’

‘"However,"’ continued he, ‘"let me know your caſe, and what has brought you here; perhaps though I have not ſkill to avoid a gaol myſelf, I may ex⯑tricate my friends."’

In compliance with his curioſity, I in⯑formed him of the whole train of acci⯑dents and follies that had plunged me into my preſent troubles, and my utter in⯑abilty to get free.

[113] After hearing my ſtory, and pauſing ſome minutes, he ſlapt his forehead, as if he had hit upon ſomething material, and took his leave, ſaying he would try what could be done.

CHAP. VIII.

THE next morning I communicated to my wife and children the ſcheme I had planned of reforming the priſoners, which they received with univerſal diſap⯑probation, alledging the impoſſibility and impropriety of it; adding, that my endea⯑vours would no way contribute to their a⯑mendment, but might probably diſgrace my calling.

‘"Excuſe me,"’ returned I, ‘"theſe peo⯑ple, however fallen, are ſtill men, and that is a very good title to my affections. Good council rejected returns to enrich [116] the giver's boſom; and though the in⯑ſtruction I communicate may not mend them, yet it will aſſuredly mend myſelf. If theſe wretches, my children, were princes, there would be thouſands ready to offer their miniſtry; but, in my opini⯑on, the heart that is buried in a dun⯑geon is as precious as that ſeated upon a throne. Yes, my treaſures, if I can mend them I will; perhaps they will not all deſpiſe me. Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulph, and that will be great gain; for is there up⯑on earth a gem ſo precious as the hu⯑man ſoul?"’

Thus ſaying, I left them, and deſcended to the common priſon, where I found the priſoners very merry, expecting my arrival; and each prepared with ſome gaol trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as I was go⯑ing to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then aſked my pardon. [117] A ſecond, who ſtood at ſome diſtance, had a knack of ſpitting through his teeth, which fell in ſhowers upon my book. A third would cry amen in ſuch an affected tone as gave the reſt great delight. A fourth had ſlily picked my pocket of my ſpectacles. But there was one whoſe trick gave more univerſal pleaſure than all the reſt; for obſerving the manner in which I had diſpoſed my books on the table before me, he very dextrouſly diſplaced one of them, and put an obſcene jeſt-book of his own in the place. However I took no no⯑tice of all that this miſchievous groupe of little beings could do; but went on, per⯑fectly ſenſible that what was ridiculous in my attempt, would excite mirth only the firſt or ſecond time, while what was ſerious would be permanent. My deſign ſucceed⯑ed, and in leſs than ſix days ſome were pe⯑nitent, and all attentive.

[118] It was now that I applauded my perſe⯑verance and addreſs, at thus giving ſenſibi⯑lity to wretches diveſted of every moral feeling, and now began to think of doing them temporal ſervices alſo, by rendering their ſituation ſomewhat more comfortable. Their time had hitherto been divided be⯑tween famine and exceſs, tumultous riot and bitter repining. Their only employ⯑ment was quarrelling among each other, playing cribbage, and cutting tobacco ſtop⯑pers. From this laſt mode of idle induſ⯑try I took the hint of ſetting ſuch as choſe to work at cutting pegs for tobacconiſts and ſhoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a general ſubſcription, and when manu⯑factured, ſold by my appointment; ſo that each earned ſomething every day: a trifle indeed, but ſufficient to maintain him.

I did not ſtop here, but inſtituted fines or the puniſhment of immorality, and re⯑wards for peculiar induſtry. Thus in leſs [119] than a fortnight I had formed them into ſomething ſocial and humane, and had the pleaſure of regarding myſelf as a legiſlator, who had brought men from their native fe⯑rocity into friendſhip and obedience.

And it were highly to be wiſhed, that legiſlative power would thus direct the law rather to reformation than ſeverity. That it would appear convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making pu⯑niſhments familiar, but formidable. In⯑ſtead of our preſent priſons, which find or make men guilty, which encloſe wretches for the commiſſion of one crime, and re⯑turn them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetuation of thouſands; it were to be wiſhed we had, as in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and ſolitude, where the accuſed might be attended by ſuch as could give them repentance if guilty, or new motives to virtue if innocent. And this, but not the increaſing puniſhments, is the [120] way to mend a ſtate: nor can I avoid even queſtioning the validity of that right which ſocial combinations have aſſumed of capi⯑tally puniſhing offences of a ſlight nature. In caſes of murder their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of ſelf-defence, to cut off that man who has ſhewn a diſregard for the life of another. Againſt ſuch, all nature riſes in arms; but it is not ſo againſt him who ſteals my pro⯑perty. Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, as by that the horſe he ſteals is as much his property as mine. If then I have any right, it muſt be from a compact made between us, that he who de⯑prives the other of his horſe ſhall die. But this is a falſe compact; becauſe no man has a right to barter his life, no more than to take it away, as it is not his own. And next the compact is inadequate, and would be ſet aſide even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling convenience, ſince it is far better [121] that two men ſhould live, than that one man ſhould ride. But a compact that is falſe between two men, is equally ſo be⯑tween an hundred, or an hundred thou⯑ſand; for as ten millions of circles can ne⯑ver make a ſquare, ſo the united voice of myriads cannot lend the ſmalleſt founda⯑tion to falſehood. It is thus that reaſon ſpeaks, and untutored nature ſays the ſame thing. Savages that are directed nearly by natural law alone are very tender of the lives of each other; they ſeldom ſhed blood but to retaliate former cruelty.

Our Saxon anceſtors, fierce as they were in war, had but few executions in times of peace; and in all commencing govern⯑ments that have the print of nature ſtill ſtrong upon them, ſcarce any crime is held capital.

It is among the citizens of a reſined community that penal laws, which are in [122] the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while it grows older, ſeems to acquire the moroſeneſs of age; and as if our poſſeſſions were become dear⯑er in proportion as they increaſed, as if the more enormous our wealth, the more ex⯑tenſive our fears, our poſſeſſions are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round with gibbets to ſcare every in⯑vader.

Whether is it from the number of our penal laws, or the licentiouſneſs of our peo⯑ple, that this country ſhould ſhew more convicts in a year, than half the domini⯑ons of Europe united? Perhaps it is ow⯑ing to both; for they mutually produce each other. When by indiſcriminate pe⯑nal laws a nation beholds the ſame puniſh⯑ment affixed to diſſimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no diſtinction in the penal⯑ty, the people are led to loſe all ſenſe of diſ⯑tinction in the crime, and this diſtinction is [123] the bulwark of all morality: thus the mul⯑titude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for freſh reſtraints.

It were to be wiſhed then that power, in⯑ſtead of contriving new laws to puniſh vice, inſtead of drawing hard the cords of ſoci⯑ety till a convulſion come to burſt them, inſtead of cutting away wretches as uſeleſs, before we have tried their utility, inſtead of converting correction into vengeance, it were to be wiſhed that we tried the reſtrictive arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the tyrant of the people. We ſhould then find that creatures, whoſe ſouls are held as droſs, only wanted the hand of a refiner; we ſhould then find that wretches, now ſtuck up for long tortures, leſt luxury ſhould feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, ſerve to ſinew the ſtate in times of danger; that, as their faces are like ours, their hearts are ſo too; that few minds are ſo baſe as that perſeverance [124] cannot amend; that a man may ſee his laſt crime without dying for it; and that very little blood will ſerve to cement our ſecu⯑rity.

CHAP. IX.

I Had now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not ſince my arrival been viſited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to ſee her. Having com⯑municated my wiſhes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl entered my apart⯑ment, leaning on her ſiſter's arm. The change which I ſaw in her countenance ſtruck me. The numberleſs graces that once reſided there were now fled, and the hand [126] of death ſeemed to have molded every fea⯑ture to alarm me. Her temples were ſunk, her forehead was tenſe, and a fatal paleneſs ſate upon her cheek.

‘"I am glad to ſee thee, my dear,"’ cri⯑ed I; ‘"but why this dejection Livy? I hope, my love, you have too great a re⯑gard for me, to permit diſappointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Be chearful child, and we may yet ſee happier days."’

‘"You have ever, ſir,"’ replied ſhe, ‘"been kind to me, and it adds to my pain that I ſhall never have an opportu⯑nity of ſharing that happineſs you pro⯑miſe. Happineſs, I fear, is no longer reſerved for me here; and I long to be rid of a place where I have only found diſtreſs. Indeed, ſir, I wiſh you would make a proper ſubmiſſion to Mr. Thorn⯑hill; [127] it may, in ſome meaſure, induce him to pity you, and it will give me re⯑lief in dying."’

‘"Never, child,"’ replied I, ‘"I never ſhall be brought to acknowledge my daughter a proſtitute; for tho' the world may look upon your offence with ſcorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way mi⯑ſerable in this place, however diſmal it may ſeem, and be aſſured that while you continue to bleſs me by living, he ſhall never have my conſent to make you more wretched by marrying another."’

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow priſoner, who was by at this inter⯑view, ſenſibly enough expoſtulated upon my obſtinacy, in refuſing a ſubmiſſion, which promiſed to give me freedom. He obſerv⯑ed, that the reſt of my family was not to be ſacrificed to the peace of one child [128] alone, and ſhe the only one who had of⯑fended me. ‘"Beſide,"’ added he, ‘"I don't know if it be juſt thus to obſtruct the union of man and wife, which you do at preſent, by refuſing to conſent to a match which you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy."’

‘"Sir,"’ replied I, ‘"you are unac⯑quainted with the man that oppreſſes us. I am very ſenſible that no ſubmiſſion I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than laſt year, died for want. But though my ſubmiſſion and ap⯑probation could transfer me from hence, to the moſt beautiful apartment he is poſſeſſed of; yet I would grant neither, as ſomething whiſpers me that it would be giving a ſanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his ſhall ever be legal in my eye. Were [129] ſhe removed, indeed, I ſhould be the baſeſt of men, from any reſentment of my own, to attempt putting aſunder thoſe who wiſh for an union. No, vil⯑lain as he is, I could then wiſh him married, to prevent the conſequences of his future debaucheries. But ſhould I not now be the moſt cruel of all fathers, to ſign an Inſtrument which muſt ſend my child to the grave, merely to avoid a priſon myſelf; and thus to eſcape one pang, break my child's heart with a thouſand?"’

He acquieſced in the juſtice of this an⯑ſwer, but could not avoid obſerving, that he feared my daughter's life was already too much waſted to keep me long a pri⯑ſoner. ‘"However, continued he, though you refuſe to ſubmit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying your caſe before the uncle, who has the firſt character in the kingdom for every thing that is juſt and good. I [130] would adviſe you to ſend him a letter by the poſt, intimating all his nephew's ill uſage, and my life for it that in three days you ſhall have an anſwer."’ I thank'd him for the hint, and inſtantly fet about complying; but I wanted paper, and un⯑luckily all our money had been laid out that morning in proviſions, however he ſupplied me.

For the three enſuing days I was in a ſtate of anxiety, to know what reception my letter might meet with; but in the mean time was frequently ſolicited by my wife to ſubmit to any conditions rather than remain here, and every hour received repea⯑ted accounts of the decline of my daugh⯑ter's health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I received no anſwer to my letter: the complaints of a ſtranger againſt a favourite nephew, were no way likely to ſucceed; ſo that theſe hopes ſoon vaniſhed like all my former. My mind, [131] however, ſtill ſupported itſelf though confinement and bad air began to make a viſible alteration in my health, and my arm that had ſuffered in the fire, grew worſe. But my children ſtill ſate by me, and while I was ſtretched on my ſtraw, read to me by turns, or liſtened and wept at my inſtructions. But my daughter's health declined faſter than mine; every meſſage from her contributed to encreaſe my apprehenſions and pain. The fifth morning after I had written the letter which was ſent to ſir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that ſhe was ſpeechleſs. Now it was, that confinement was truly painful to me; my ſoul was burſting from its priſon to be near the pil⯑low of my child, to comfort, to ſtrengthen her, to receive her laſt wiſhes, and teach her ſoul the way to heaven! Another ac⯑count came. She was expiring, and yet I was debarred the ſmall comfort of weep⯑ing [132] by her. My fellow priſoner, ſome time after, came with the laſt account. He bade me be patient. She was dead!—The next morning he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now my only companions, who were uſing all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They entreated to read to me, and bid me not to cry, for I was now too old to weep. ‘"And is not my ſiſter an angel, now, pappa,"’ cried the eldeſt, ‘"and why then are you ſorry for her? I wiſh I were an angel out of this frightful place, if my pappa were with me"’ ‘"Yes,"’ added my youngeſt darling, ‘"Heaven, where my ſiſter is, is a finer place than this, and there are none but good people there, and the people here are very bad."’

Mr. Jenkinſon interupted their harmleſs prattle, by obſerving that now my daugh⯑ter was no more, I ſhould ſeriouſly think of the reſt of my family, and attempt to [133] ſave my own life, which was every day de⯑clining, for want of neceſſaries and whole⯑ſome air. He added, that it was now in⯑cumbent on me to ſacrifice any pride or reſentment of my own, to the welfare of thoſe who depended on me for ſupport; and that I was now, both by reaſon and juſtice, obliged to try to reconcile my land⯑lord.

‘"Heaven be praiſed,"’ replied I, ‘"there is no pride left me now, I ſhould deteſt my own heart if I ſaw either pride or reſentment lurking there. On the con⯑trary, as my oppreſſor has been once my pariſhioner, I hope one day to pre⯑ſent him up an unpolluted ſoul at the eternal tribunal. No, ſir, I have no reſentment now, and though he has ta⯑ken from me what I held dearer than all his treaſures, though he has wrung my heart, for I am ſick almoſt to fainting, very ſick, my fellow priſoner, yet that [134] ſhall never inſpire me with vengeance. I am now willing to approve his mar⯑riage, and if this ſubmiſſion can do him any pleaſure, let him know, that if I have done him any injury, I am ſorry for it."’ Mr. Jenkinſon took pen and ink, and wrote down my ſubmiſſion nearly as I have expreſt it, to which I ſigned my name, My ſon was employed to carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his ſeat in the country. He went, and in about ſix hours returned with a verbal anſwer. He had ſome difficulty, he ſaid, to get a ſight of his landlord, as the ſervants were in⯑ſolent and ſuſpicious; but he accidentally ſaw him as he was going out upon buſineſs, preparing for his marriage, which was to be in three days. He continued to inform us, that he ſtept up in the humbleſt manner, and delivered the letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he ſaid that all ſub⯑miſſion was now too late and unneceſſary; that he had heard of our application to his [135] uncle, which met with the contempt it deſerved; and as for the reſt, that all future applications ſhould be directed to his at⯑torney, not to him. He obſerved, how⯑ever, that as he had a very good opinion of the diſcretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the moſt agreeable interceſſors.

‘"Well, ſir,"’ ſaid I to my fellow pri⯑ſoner, ‘"you now diſcover the temper of the man that oppreſſes me. He can at once be facetious and cruel; but let him uſe me as he will, I ſhall ſoon be free, in ſpite of all his bolts to reſtrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I approach it: this expectation cheers my afflictions, and though I ſhall leave an helpleſs fa⯑mily of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly forſaken; ſome friend, perhaps, will be found to aſſiſt them for the ſake of their poor father, and ſome [136] may charitably relieve them for the ſake of their heavenly father."’

Juſt as I ſpoke, my wife, whom I had not ſeen that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable to ſpeak. ‘"Why, my love,"’ cried I, ‘"why will you thus encreaſe my afflic⯑tion by your own, what though no ſub⯑miſſions can turn our ſevere maſter, tho' he has doomed me to die in this place of wretchedneſs, and though we have loſt a darling child, yet ſtill you will find comfort in your other children when I ſhall be no more."’ ‘"We have indeed loſt,"’ returned ſhe, ‘"a darling child. My Sophia, my deareſt, is gone, ſnatched from us, carried off by ruffians!"’

[137] ‘"How, madam,"’ cried my fellow pri⯑ſoner, ‘"miſs Sophia carried off by villains, ſure it cannot be?"’

She could only anſwer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of the pri⯑ſoner's wives, who was preſent, and came in with her, gave us a more diſtinct ac⯑count: ſhe informed us that as my wife, my daughter, and herſelf, were taking a walk together on the great road a little way out of the village, a poſt - chaiſe and four drove up to them and inſtantly ſtopt. Upon which, a well dreſt man, but not Mr. Thornhill, ſtepping out, claſped my daughter round the waiſt, and forcing her in, bid the poſtillion drive on, ſo that they were out of ſight in a moment.

‘"Now,"’ cried I, ‘"the ſum of my mi⯑ſeries is made up, nor is it in the power of any thing on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left! not to leave [138] me one! the monſter! the child that was next my heart! ſhe had the beauty of an angel, and almoſt the wiſdom of an an⯑gel. But ſupport that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one!"’—‘"Alas! my huſband,’ ſaid my wife, ‘"you ſeem to want comfort even more than I. Our diſtreſſes are great; but I could bear this and more, if I ſaw you but eaſy. They may take away my children and all the world, if they leave me but you."’

My Son, who was preſent, endeavoured to moderate our grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might ſtill have reaſon to be thankful.—‘"My child,"’ cried I, ‘"look round the world, and ſee if there be any happineſs left me now. Is not every ray of comfort ſhut out; while all our bright proſpects only lie beyond the grave!"’—‘"My dear father,"’ returned he, ‘"I hope there is ſtill ſomething that will give you an in⯑terval [139] of ſatisfaction; for I have a let⯑ter from my brother George"’—‘"What of him, child,"’ interrupted I, ‘"does he know of our miſery. I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family ſuffers?"’—‘"Yes, ſir,"’ returned he, ‘"he is perfectly gay, chearful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the fa⯑vourite of his colonel, who promiſes to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant!"’

‘"And are you ſure of all this,"’ cried my wife, ‘"are you ſure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?"’—‘"Nothing indeed, madam,"’ returned my ſon, ‘"you ſhall ſee the letter, which will give you the higheſt pleaſure; and if any thing can procure you comfort, I am ſure that will."’ ‘"But are you ſure,"’ ſtill re⯑peated ſhe, ‘"that the letter is from him⯑ſelf, and that he is really ſo happy?’— [140] ‘Yes, Madam,"’ replied he, ‘"it is cer⯑tainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the ſupport of our family!"’—‘"Then I thank providence,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"that my laſt letter to him has miſcar⯑ried."’ ‘"Yes, my dear,"’ continued ſhe," turning to me, ‘"I will now confeſs that though the hand of heaven is ſore upon us in other inſtances, it has been favourable here. By the laſt letter I wrote my ſon, which was in the bitter⯑neſs of anger, I deſired him, upon his mother's bleſſing, and if he had the heart of a man, to ſee juſtice done his father and ſiſter, and avenge our cauſe. But thanks be to him that directs all things, it has miſcarried, and I am at reſt."’ ‘"Woman,"’ cried I ‘"thou haſt done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might have been more ſevere. Oh! what a tremendous gulph haſt thou eſcaped, that would have buried both thee and him in endleſs ruin. Providence, indeed, [141] has here been kinder to us than we to ourſelves. It has reſerved that ſon to be the father and protector of my children when I ſhall be away. How unjuſtly did I complain of being ſtript of every com⯑fort, when ſtill I hear that he is happy and inſenſible of our afflictions; ſtill kept in reſerve to ſupport his widowed mo⯑ther, to protect his brothers and ſiſters. But what ſiſters has he left, he has no ſiſ⯑ters now, they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone."’—‘"Father,"’ interupted my ſon, ‘"I beg you will give me leave to read his letter, I know it will pleaſe you."’ Upon which, with my permiſſion, he read as follows:[142]

[144] ‘"In all our miſeries,"’ cried I, ‘"what thanks have we not to return, that one at leaſt of our family is exempted from what we ſuffer. Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy to be the ſupporter of his widowed mother, and the father of theſe two babes, which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence from the temptations of want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour."’ I had ſcarce ſaid theſe words, when a noiſe, like that of a tumult, ſeemed to proceed from the priſon below; it died away ſoon after, and a clanking of fetters was heard along the paſſage that led to my apartment. The keeper of the priſon entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded and fettered with the heavieſt irons. I looked with com⯑paſſion on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror when I found it was my own ſon.—‘"My George! My George! and do I behold thee thus. Wounded! [145] Fettered! Is this thy happineſs! Is this the manner you return to me! O that this ſight could break my heart at once and let me die!"’

‘"Where, Sir, is your fortitude,"’ return⯑ed my ſon with an intrepid voice. ‘"I muſt ſuffer, my life is forfeited, and let them take it; it is my laſt happineſs that I have committed no murder, tho' I have loſt all hopes of pardon."’

I tried to reſtrain my paſſions for a few mi⯑nutes in ſilence, but I thought I ſhould have died with the effort—‘"O my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the mo⯑ment that I thought thee bleſt, and pray⯑ed for thy ſafety, to behold thee thus again! Chained, wounded. And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a very old man, and have [146] lived to ſee this day. To ſee my chil⯑dren all untimely falling about me, while I continue a wretched ſurvivor in the midſt of ruin! May all the curſes that ever ſunk a ſoul fall heavy upon the murderer of my children. May he live, like me, to ſee—"’

‘"Hold, Sir,"’ replied my ſon, ‘"or I ſhall bluſh for thee. How, Sir, forget⯑ful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the juſtice of heaven, and fling thoſe curſes upward that muſt ſoon deſcend to cruſh thy own grey head with deſtruction! No, Sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I muſt ſhortly ſuffer, to arm me with hope and reſolution, to give me courage to drink of that bitterneſs which muſt ſhort⯑ly be my portion."’

‘"My child, you muſt not die: I am ſure no offence of thine can deſerve ſo [147] vile a puniſhment. My George could never be guilty of any crime to make his anceſtors aſhamed of him."’

‘"Mine, Sir,"’ returned my ſon, ‘"is, I fear, an unpardonable one. I have ſent a challenge, and that is death by a late act of parliament. When I received my mother's letter from home, I immediate⯑ly came down, determined to puniſh the betrayer of our honour, and ſent him an order to meet me, which he anſwered, not in perſon, but by his diſpatching four of his domeſtics to ſeize me. I wound⯑ed one, but the reſt made me their pri⯑ſoner. The coward is determined to put the law in execution againſt me, the proofs are undeniable, and as I am the firſt tranſgreſſor upon the ſtatute, I ſee no hopes of pardon. But you have of⯑ten charmed me with the leſſons of forti⯑tude, let me now, Sir, find them in your example."’

[148] ‘"And, my ſon, you ſhall find them. I am now raiſed above this world, and all the pleaſures it can produce. From this moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my ſon, I will point out the way, and my ſoul ſhall guide yours in the aſ⯑cent, for we will take our flight together. I now ſee and am convinced you can ex⯑pect no pardon here, and I can only ex⯑hort you to ſeek it at that greateſt tribu⯑nal where we both ſhall ſhortly anſwer. But let us not be niggardly in our exhor⯑tation, but let all our fellow priſoners have a ſhare: good gaoler let them be permitted to ſtand here, while I attempt to improve them."’ Thus ſaying, I made an effort to riſe from my ſtraw, but wanted ſtrength, and was able only to recline a⯑gainſt the wall. The priſoners aſſembled according to my directions, for they loved [149] to hear my council, my ſon and his mother ſupported me on either ſide, I looked and ſaw that none were wanting, and then ad⯑dreſſed them with the following exhorta⯑tion.

CHAP. X.

MY friends, my children, and fellow ſufferers, when I reflect on the di⯑ſtribution of good and evil here below, I find that much has been given man to en⯑joy, yet ſtill more to ſuffer. Though we ſhould examine the whole world, we ſhall not find one man ſo happy as to have no⯑thing left to wiſh for; but we daily ſee thouſands who by ſuicide ſhew us they [152] have nothing left to hope. In this life then it appears that we cannot be entirely bleſt; but yet we may be completely miſerable!

Why man ſhould thus feel pain, why our wretchedneſs ſhould be requiſite in the formation of univerſal felicity, why, when all other ſyſtems are made perfect only by the perfection of their ſubordinate parts, the great ſyſtem ſhould require for its perfection, parts that are not only ſubordinate to others, but imperfect in themſelves? Theſe are queſtions that never can be explained, and might be uſeleſs if known. On this ſubject providence has thought fit to elude our cu⯑rioſity, ſatisfied with granting us motives to conſolation.

In this ſituation, man has called in the friendly aſſiſtance of philoſophy, and hea⯑ven ſeeing the incapacity of that to conſole him, has given him the aid of religion. [153] The conſolations of philoſophy are very amuſing, but often fallacious. It tells us that life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy them; and on the other hand, that though we unavoidably have mi⯑ſeries here, life is ſhort, and they will ſoon be over. Thus do theſe conſolations deſtroy each other; for if life is a place of comfort, its ſhortneſs muſt be miſery, and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus philoſophy is weak; but religi⯑on comforts in an higher ſtrain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and preparing it for another abode. When the good man leaves the body and is all a glorious mind, he will find he has been making himſelf a heaven of happineſs here, while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated by his vices, ſhrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of [154] heaven. To religion then we muſt hold in every circumſtance of life for our trueſt comfort; for if already we are happy, it is a pleaſure to think that we can make that happineſs unending, and if we are miſera⯑ble, it is very conſoling to think that there is a place of reſt. Thus to the fortu⯑nate religion holds out a continuance of bliſs, to the wretched a change from pain.

But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promiſed peculiar reward to the unhappy; the ſick, the naked, the houſeleſs, the heavy-laden, and the priſoner, have ever moſt frequent promiſes in our ſa⯑cred law. The author of our religion every where profeſſes himſelf the wretch's friend, and unlike the falſe ones of this world, beſtows all his careſſes upon the for⯑lorn. The unthinking have cenſured this as partiality, as a preference with⯑out [155] merit to deſerve it. But they never re⯑flect that it is not in the power even of heaven itſelf to make the offer of unceaſ⯑ing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the miſerable. To the firſt eternity is but a ſingle bleſſing, ſince at moſt it but encreaſes what they already poſſeſs. To the latter it is a double advantage; for it dimi⯑niſhes their pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliſs hereafter.

But providence is in another reſpect kind⯑er to the poor than the rich; for as it thus makes the life after death more deſirable, ſo it ſmooths the paſſage there. The wretch⯑ed have long familiarity with every face of terror. The man of ſorrows lays himſelf quietly down, he has no poſſeſſions to re⯑gret, and but few ties to ſtop his departure: he feels only nature's pang in the final ſeparation, and this is no way greater than he has often fainted under before; for after a certain degree of pain, every [156] new breach that death opens in the con⯑ſtitution, nature kindly covers with inſenſi⯑bility.

Thus providence has given the wretched two advantages over the happy in this life, greater felicity in dying, and in heaven all that ſuperiority of pleaſure which ariſes from contraſted enjoyment. And this ſuperiority, my friends, is no ſmall advantage, and ſeems to be one of the pleaſures of the poor man in the parable; for though he was already in heaven, and felt all the rap⯑tures it could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition to his happineſs, that he had once been wretched and now was comfort⯑ed, that he had known what it was to be miſerable, and now felt what it was to be happy.

Thus, my friends, you ſee religion does what philſophy could never do: it ſhews the equal dealings of heaven to the happy [157] and the unhappy, and levels all human enjoyments to nearly the ſame ſtandard. It gives to both rich and poor the ſame happineſs hereafter, and equal hopes to aſpire after it; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleaſure here, the poor have the endleſs ſatisfaction of know⯑ing what it was once to be miſerable, when crowned with endleſs felicity here⯑after; and even though this ſhould be called a ſmall advantage, yet being an eternal one, it muſt make up by duration what the temporal happineſs of the great may have exceeded by in⯑tenſeneſs.

Theſe are therefore the conſolations which the wretched have peculiar to them⯑ſelves, and in which they are above the reſt of mankind; in other reſpects they are below them. They who would know the miſeries of the poor muſt ſee life and endure it. [158] To declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy, is only repeating what none ei⯑ther believe or practiſe. The men who have the neceſſaries of living are not poor, and they who want them muſt be miſerable. Yes, my friends, we muſt be miſerable. No vain efforts of a refined imagination can ſooth the wants of nature, can give elaſtic ſweetneſs to the dank vapour of a dungeon, or eaſe to the throbbings of a woe-worn heart. Let the philoſopher from his couch of ſoftneſs tell us that we can reſiſt all theſe. Alas! the effort by which we reſiſt them is ſtill the greateſt pain! Death is ſlight, and any man may ſuſtain it; but torments are dreadful, and theſe no man can endure.

To us then, my friends, the promiſes of happineſs in heaven ſhould be peculiarly dear; for if our reward be in this life alone, we are then indeed of all men the moſt miſerable. [159] When I look round theſe gloomy walls, made to terrify, as well as to confine us; this light that only ſerves to ſhew the horrors of the place, thoſe ſhackles that tyranny has impoſed, or crime made neceſſary; when I ſurvey theſe emaciated looks, and hear thoſe groans, O my friends, what a glorious exchange would heaven be for theſe. To fly through regions unconfined as air, to baſk in the ſunſhine of eternal bliſs, to carrol over endleſs hymns of praiſe, to have no maſter to threaten or inſult us, but the form of goodneſs himſelf for ever in our eyes, when I think of theſe things, death becomes the meſſenger of very glad tidings; when I think of theſe things, his ſharpeſt arrow becomes the ſtaff of my ſupport; when I think of theſe things, what is there in life worth having; when I think of theſe things, what is there that ſhould not be ſpurned away: kings in their palaces ſhould groan for ſuch advan⯑tages; [160] but we, humbled as we are, ſhould yearn for them.

And ſhall theſe things be ours? Ours they will certainly be if we but try for them; and what is a comfort, we are ſhut out from many temptations that would retard our purſuit. Only let us try for them, and they will certainly be ours, and what is ſtill a comfort, ſhortly too; for if we look back on paſt life, it appears but a very ſhort ſpan, and whatever we may think of the reſt of life, it will yet be found of leſs duration; as we grow ol⯑der, the days ſeem to grow ſhorter, and our intimacy with time, ever leſſens the perception of his ſtay. Then let us take comfort now, for we ſhall ſoon be at our journey's end; we ſhall ſoon lay down the heavy burthen laid by heaven upon us, and though death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and like his [161] horizon, ſtill flies before him; yet the time will certainly and ſhortly come, when we ſhall ceaſe from our toil; when the lux⯑urious great ones of the world ſhall no more tread us to the earth; when we ſhall think with pleaſure on our ſufferings below; when we ſhall be ſurrounded with all our friends, or ſuch as deſerved our friendſhip; when our bliſs ſhall be unutterable, and ſtill, to crown all, unending.

CHAP. XI.

WHEN I had thus finiſhed and my au⯑dience was retired, the gaoler, who was one of the moſt humane of his pro⯑feſſion, hoped I would not be diſpleaſed, as what he did was but his duty, obſerving that he muſt be obliged to remove my ſon into a ſtronger cell, but that he ſhould be permitted to reviſit me every morning. I thanked him for his clemency, and graſp⯑ing my boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that was be⯑fore him.

[164] I again, therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones ſate by my bedſide read⯑ing, when Mr. Jenkinſon entering, inform⯑ed me that there was news of my daugh⯑ter; for that ſhe was ſeen by a perſon about two hours before in a ſtrange gentleman's company, and that they had ſtopt at a neighbouring village for refreſhment, and ſeemed as if returning to town. He had ſcarce delivered this news, when the gaoler came with looks of haſte and pleaſure, to inform me, that my daughter was found. Moſes came running in a moment after, crying out that his ſiſter Sophy was below and coming up with our old friend Mr. Burchell.

Juſt as he delivered this news my deareſt girl entered, and with looks almoſt wild with pleaſure, ran to kiſs me in a tranſport of affection. Her mother's tears and ſilence alſo ſhewed her pleaſure.—‘"Here, pappa,"’ [165] cried the charming girl, ‘"here is the brave man to whom I owe my delivery; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am indebt⯑ed for my happineſs and ſafety—"’ A kiſs from Mr. Burchell, whoſe pleaſure ſeemed even greater than hers, interrupted what ſhe was going to add.

‘"Ah, Mr. Burchell,"’ cried I, ‘"this is but a wretched habitation you now find us in; and we are now very different from what you laſt ſaw us. You were ever our friend: we have long diſcovered our errors with regard to you, and repented of our ingratitude. After the vile uſage you then received at my hands, I am al⯑moſt aſhamed to behold your face; yet I hope you'll forgive me, as I was de⯑ceived by a baſe ungenerous wretch, who, under the maſk of friendſhip, has un⯑done me."’

‘"It is impoſſible,"’ replied Mr. Burchell. ‘"that I ſhould forgive you, as you never [166] deſerved my reſentment. I partly ſaw your deluſion then, and as it was out of my power to reſtrain, I could only pity it!"’

‘"It was ever my conjecture,"’ cried I, ‘"that your mind was noble; but now I find it ſo. But tell me, my dear child, how haſt thou been relieved, or who the ruffians were who carried thee away?"’

‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ replied ſhe, ‘"as to the villain who brought me off, I am yet ig⯑nor ut. For as my mamma and I were walking out, he came behind us, and almoſt before I could call for help, for⯑ced me into the poſt-chaiſe, and in an in⯑ſtant the horſes drove away. I met ſe⯑veral on the road, to whom I cried out for aſſiſtance; but they diſregarded my entreaties. In the mean time the ruffian himſelf uſed every art to hinder me from crying out: he flattered and threatened [167] by turns, and ſwore that if I continued but ſilent, he intended no harm. In the mean time I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, and whom ſhould I perceive at ſome diſtance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, walking along with his uſual ſwiftneſs, with the great ſtick for which we uſed ſo much to ridicule him. As ſoon as we came within hear⯑ing, I called out to him by name, and entreated his help. I repeated my ex⯑clamations ſeveral times, upon which, with a very loud voice, he bid the poſ⯑tillion ſtop; but the boy took no notice, but drove on with ſtill greater ſpeed. I now thought he could never overtake us, when in leſs than a minute I ſaw Mr. Burchell come running up by the ſide of the horſes, and with one blow knock the poſtillion to the ground. The horſes when he was fallen ſoon ſtopt of them⯑ſelves, and the ruffian ſtepping out, with oaths and menaces drew his ſword, and [168] ordered him at his peril to retire; but Mr. Burchell running up, ſhivered his ſword to pieces, and then purſued him for near a quarter of a mile; but he made his eſcape. I was at this time come out myſelf, willing to aſſiſt my de⯑liverer; but he ſoon returned to me in triumph. The poſtillion, who was re⯑covered, was going to make his eſcape too; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril to mount again, and drive back to town. Finding it impoſſible to reſiſt, he reluctantly complied, though the wound he had received ſeemed, to me at leaſt, to be dangerous. He continued to complain of the pain as we drove a⯑long, ſo that he at laſt excited Mr. Bur⯑chell's compaſſion, who, at my requeſt, exchanged him for another at an inn where we called on our return."’

‘"Welcome then,"’ cried I, ‘"my child, and thou her gallant deliverer, a thouſand [169] welcomes. Though our chear is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready to re⯑ceive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my girl, if you think her a recompence ſhe is yours, if you can ſtoop to an alliance with a family ſo poor as mine, take her, obtain her conſent, as I know you have her heart, and you have mine. And let me tell you, Sir, that I give you no ſmall treaſure, ſhe has been celebrated for beauty it is true, but that is not my meaning, I give you up a treaſure in her mind."’

‘"But I ſuppoſe, Sir,"’ cried Mr. Burchell, ‘"that you are apprized of my circumſtances, and of my incapacity to ſupport her as ſhe deſerves?"’

‘"If your preſent objection,"’ replied I, ‘"be meant as an evaſion of my offer, I deſiſt: but I know no man ſo worthy to deſerve her as you; and if I could give [170] her thouſands, and thouſands ſought her from me, yet my honeſt brave Burchell ſhould be my deareſt choice."’

To all this his ſilence alone ſeemed to give a mortifying refuſal, and without the leaſt reply to my offer, he demanded if we could not be furniſhed with refreſhments from the next inn, to which being anſwered in the affirmative, he ordered them to ſend in the beſt dinner that could be provided upon ſuch ſhort notice. He beſpoke alſo a do⯑zen of their beſt wine; and ſome cordials for me. Adding, with a ſmile, that he would ſtretch a little for once, and tho' in a priſon, aſſerted he was never better diſpoſed to be merry. The waiter ſoon made his appearance with preparations for dinner, a table was lent us by the gaoler, who ſeemed remarkably aſſiduous, the wine was diſpoſed in order, and two very well⯑dreſt diſhes were brought in.

[171] My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's melancholy ſituation, and we all ſeemed unwilling to damp her chearful⯑neſs by the relation. But it was in vain that I attempted to appear chearful, the cir⯑cumſtances of my unfortunate ſon broke through all efforts to diſſemble; ſo that I I was at laſt obliged to damp our mirth by relating his misfortunes, and wiſhing that he might be permitted to ſhare with us in this little interval of ſatisfaction. After my gueſts were recovered from the conſterna⯑tion my account had produced, I requeſted alſo that Mr. Jenkinſon, a fellow priſoner, might be admitted, and the gaoler granted my requeſt with an air of unuſual ſubmiſ⯑ſion. The clanking of my ſon's irons was no ſooner heard along the paſſage, than his ſiſter ran impatiently to meet him; while Mr. Burchell, in the mean time, aſked me if my ſon's name were George, to which replying in the affirmative, he ſtill continued ſilent. As ſoon as my boy entered the [172] room, I could perceive he regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of aſtoniſhment and reverence. ‘"Come on,"’ cried I, ‘"my ſon, though we are fallen very low, yet providence has been pleaſed to grant us ſome ſmall relaxation from pain. Thy ſiſter is reſtored to us, and there is her deliverer: to that brave man it is that I am indebted for yet having a daughter, give him, my boy, the hand of friend⯑ſhip, he deſerves our warmeſt grati⯑tude."’

My ſon ſeemed all this while regardleſs of what I ſaid, and ſtill continued fixed at reſpectful diſtance.—‘"My dear brother,"’ cried his ſiſter, ‘"why don't you thank my good deliverer; the brave ſhould ever love each other."’

He ſtill continued his ſilence and aſto⯑niſhment, till our gueſt at laſt perceived himſelf to be known, and aſſuming all his [173] native dignity, deſired my ſon to come for⯑ward. Never before had I ſeen any thing ſo truly majeſtic as the air he aſſumed up⯑on this occaſion. The greateſt object in the univerſe, ſays a certain philoſopher, is a good man ſtruggling with adverſity; yet there is ſtill a greater, which is the good man that comes to relieve it. After he had regarded my ſon for ſome time with a ſuperior air, ‘"I again find,'’ ſaid he, ‘"unthinking boy, that the ſame crime"’ But here he was interrupted by one of the gaoler's ſervants, who came to in⯑form us that a perſon of diſtinction, who had driven into town with a chariot and ſeveral attendants, ſent his reſpects to the gentleman that was with us, and begged to know when he ſhould think proper to be waited upon.—‘"Bid the fellow wait,"’ cried our gueſt, ‘"till I ſhall have leiſure to receive him;"’ and then turning to my ſon, ‘"I again find, Sir,"’ proceeded he, ‘"that you are guilty of the ſame offence [174] for which you once had my reproof, and for which the law is now preparing its juſteſt puniſhments. You imagine, per⯑haps, that a contempt for your own life, gives you a right to take that of ano⯑ther: but where, Sir, is the difference between a dueliſt who hazards a life of no value, and the murderer who acts with greater ſecurity? Is it any dimi⯑nution of the gameſter's fraud when he alledges that he has ſtaked a coun⯑ter?"’

‘"Alas, Sir,"’ cried I, ‘"whoever you are, pity the poor miſguided creature; for what he has done was in obedience to a deluded mother, who in the bitter⯑neſs of her reſentment required him up⯑on her bleſſing to avenge her quarrel. Here, Sir, is the letter, which will ſerve to convince you of her imprudence and diminiſh his guilt."’

[175] He took the letter, and haſtily read it o⯑ver. ‘"This,"’ ſays he, ‘"though not a perfect excuſe, is ſuch a palliation of his fault, as induces me to forgive him. And now, Sir,"’ continued he, kindly taking my ſon by the hand, ‘"I ſee you are ſurpriſed at finding me here; but I have often viſited priſons upon occa⯑ſions leſs intereſting. I am now come to ſee juſtice done a worthy man, for whom I have the moſt ſincere e⯑ſteem. I have long been a diſ⯑guiſed ſpectator of thy father's bene⯑volence. I have at his little dwelling enjoyed reſpect uncontaminated by flat⯑tery, and have received that happineſs that courts could not give, from the amu⯑ſing ſimplicity round his fire-ſide. My nephew has been apprized of my inten⯑tions of coming here, and I find is ar⯑rived; it would be wronging him and you to condemn him without examination: if [176] there be injury, there ſhall be redreſs; and this I may ſay without boaſting, that none have ever taxed the injuſtice of Sir William Thornhill."’

We now found the perſonage whom we had ſo long entertained as an harmleſs a⯑muſing companion was no other than the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whoſe virtues and ſingularities ſcarce any were ſtrangers. The poor Mr. Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune and great in⯑tereſt, to whom ſenates liſtened with ap⯑plauſe, and whom party heard with con⯑viction; who was the friend of his coun⯑try, but loyal to his king. My poor wife recollecting her former familiarity, ſeemed to ſhrink with apprehenſion; but Sophia, who a few moments before thought him her own, now perceiving the immenſe diſ⯑tance to which he was removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears.

[177] ‘"Ah, Sir,"’ cried my wife, with a pi⯑teous aſpect, ‘"how is it poſſible that I can ever have your forgiveneſs; the ſlights you received from me the laſt time I had the honour of ſeeing you at our houſe, and the jokes which I audaciouſly threw out, theſe jokes, Sir, I fear can never be forgiven."’

‘"My dear good lady,"’ returned he with a ſmile, ‘"if you had your joke, I had my anſwer: I'll leave it to all the company if mine were not as good as yours. To ſay the truth, I know no body whom I am diſ⯑poſed to be angry with at preſent but the fellow who ſo frighted my little girl here. I had not even time to examine the raſ⯑cal's perſon ſo as to deſcribe him in an ad⯑vertiſement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you ſhould know him again?"’

‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ replied ſhe, ‘"I can't be poſitive; yet now I recollect he had [178] a large mark over one of his eye-brows."’ ‘"I aſk pardon, madam,"’ interrupted Jen⯑kinſon, who was by, ‘"but be ſo good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair?"’—‘"Yes, I think ſo,"’ cried Sophia.—‘"And did your honour,"’ conti⯑nued he, turning to Sir William, ‘"obſerve the length of his legs?"’—‘"I can't be ſure of their length,"’ cried the Baronet, ‘"but I am convinced of their ſwiftneſs; for he out-ran me, which is what I thought few men in the kingdom could have done."’—‘"Pleaſe your honour,"’ cried Jen⯑kinſon, ‘"I know the man: it is certainly the ſame; the beſt runner in England; he has beaten Pinwire of Newcaſtle, Timothy Baxter is his name, I know him perfectly, and the very place of his retreat this mo⯑ment. If your honour will bid Mr. Gaoler let two of his men go with me, I'll engage to produce him to you in an hour at far⯑theſt."’ Upon this the gaoler was called, who inſtantly appearing, Sir William de⯑manded [179] if he knew him. ‘"Yes, pleaſe your honour,"’ reply'd the gaoler, ‘"I know Sir William Thornhill well, and every body that knows any thing of him, will deſire to know more of him."’—‘"Well then,"’ ſaid the Baronet, ‘"my requeſt is, that you will permit this man and two of your ſervants to go upon a meſſage by my authority, and as I am in the commiſſion of the peace, I undertake to ſecure you."’—‘"Your promiſe is ſuf⯑ficient,"’ replied the other, ‘"and you may at a minute's warning ſend them over England whenever your honour thinks fit."’

In purſuance of the gaoler's compliance, Jenkinſon was diſpatched in ſearch of Ti⯑mothy Baxter, while we were amuſed with the aſſiduity of our youngeſt boy Bill, who had juſt come in and climbed up to Sir William's neck in order to kiſs him. His mother was immediately going to chaſtiſe [180] his familiarity, but the worthy man pre⯑vented her; and taking the child, all rag⯑ged as he was, upon his knee, ‘"What, Bill, you chubby rogue,"’ cried he, ‘"do you remember your old friend Burchell; and Dick too, my honeſt veteran, are you here, you ſhall find I have not forgot you."’ So ſaying, he gave each a large piece of gingerbread, which the poor fel⯑lows eat very heartily, as they had got that morning but a very ſcanty breakfaſt.

We now ſate down to dinner, which was almoſt cold; but previouſly, my arm ſtill continuing painful, Sir William wrote a preſcription, for he had made the ſtudy of phyſic his amuſement, and was more than moderately ſkilled in the profeſſion: this being ſent to an apothecary who lived in the place, my arm was dreſſed, and I found almoſt inſtantaneous relief. We were waited upon at dinner by the gaoler himſelf, who was willing to do our gueſt all the ho⯑nour [181] in his power. But before we had well dined, another meſſage was brought from his nephew, deſiring permiſſion to appear, in order to vindicate his innocence and ho⯑nour, with which requeſt the Baronet com⯑plied, and deſired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced.

CHAP. XII.

MR. Thornhill made his entrance with a ſmile, which he ſeldom wanted, and was going to embrace his uncle, which the other repulſed with an air of diſdain. ‘"No fawning, Sir, at preſent,"’ cried the Baronet, with a look of ſeverity, ‘"the only way to my heart is by the road of honour; but here I only ſee complicated inſtances of falſehood, cowardice, and oppreſſion. How is it, Sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you profeſſed a friendſhip, is uſed thus hardly? His daughter vilely ſeduced, as a recompence [184] for his hoſpitality, and he himſelf thrown into a priſon perhaps but for reſenting the inſult? His ſon too, whom you feared to face as a man—"’

‘"Is it poſſible, Sir,"’ interrupted his nephew, ‘"that my uncle could object that as a crime which his repeated inſtruc⯑tions alone have perſuaded me to avoid."’

‘"Your rebuke,"’ cried Sir William ‘"is juſt; you have acted in this inſtance pru⯑dently and well, though not quite as your father would have done: my brother indeed was the ſoul of honour; but thou—yes you have acted in this inſtance perfectly right, and it has my warmeſt approbation."’

‘"And I hope,"’ ſaid his nephew, ‘"that the reſt of my conduct will not be found to deſerve cenſure. I appeared, Sir, with this gentleman's daughter at ſome places [185] of public amuſement; thus what was le⯑vity, ſcandal called by a harſher name, and it was reported that I had debauch⯑ed her. I waited on her father in per⯑ſon, willing to clear the thing to his ſa⯑tisfaction, and he received me only with inſult and abuſe. As for the reſt, with regard to his being here, my attorney and ſteward can beſt inform you, as I commit the management of buſineſs en⯑tirely to them. If he has contracted debts and is unwilling or even unable to pay them, it is their buſineſs to proceed in this manner, and I ſee no hardſhip or in⯑juſtice in purſuing the moſt legal means of redreſs."’

‘"If this,"’ cried Sir William, ‘"be as you have ſtated it, there is nothing un⯑pardonable in your offence, and though your conduct might have been more ge⯑nerous in not ſuffering this gentleman to be oppreſſed by ſubordinate tyranny, yet it has been at leaſt equitable."’

[186] ‘"He cannot contradict a ſingle particu⯑lar,"’ replied the 'Squire, ‘"I defy him to do ſo, and ſeveral of my ſervants are ready to atteſt what I ſay. Thus, Sir,"’ continued he, finding that I was ſilent, for in fact I could not contradict him, ‘"thus, Sir, my own innocence is vindicated; but though at your entreaty I am ready to for⯑give this gentleman every other offence, yet his attempts to leſſen me in your e⯑ſteem, excite a reſentment that I cannot govern. And this too at a time when his ſon was actually preparing to take away my life; this, I ſay, was ſuch guilt, that I am determined to let the law take its courſe. I have here the challenge that was ſent me and two witneſſes to prove it; and even though my uncle himſelf ſhould diſſuade me, which I know he will not, yet I will ſee public juſtice done, and he ſhall ſuffer for it."’

‘"Thou monſter,"’ cried my wife, ‘"haſt thou not had vengeance enough al⯑ready, [187] but muſt my poor boy feel thy cruelty. I hope that good Sir William will protect us, for my ſon is as inno⯑cent as a child; I am ſure he is, and ne⯑ver did harm to man."’

‘"Madam,"’ replied the good man, ‘"your wiſhes for his ſafety are not greater than mine; but I am ſorry to find his guilt too plain; and if my nephew per⯑ſiſts—"’But the appearance of Jen⯑kinſon and the gaoler's two ſervants now called off our attention, who entered, haling in a tall man, very genteelly dreſt, and anſwering the deſcription al⯑ready given of the ruffian who had carried off my daughter—‘"Here,"’ cried Jen⯑kinſon, pulling him in, ‘"here we have him, and if ever there was a candidate for tyburn, this is one."’

The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the priſoner, and Jenkinſon, who had him [188] in cuſtody, he ſeemed to ſhrink back with terror. His face became pale with conſci⯑ous guilt, and he would have withdrawn; but Jenkinſon, who perceived his deſign, ſtopt him—‘"What, 'Squire,"’ cried he, ‘"are you aſhamed of your two old acquain⯑tances, Jenkinſon and Baxter: but this is the way that all great men forget their friends, though I am reſolved we will not forget you. Our priſoner, pleaſe your honour,"’ continued he, turning to Sir William, ‘"has already confeſſed all. He declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who firſt put him upon this affair, that he gave him the cloaths he now wears to appear like a gentleman, and furniſhed him with the poſt-chaiſe. The plan was laid be⯑tween them that he ſhould carry off the young lady to a place of ſafety, and that there he ſhould threaten and terrify her; but Mr. Thornhill was to come in in the mean time, as if by accident, to her reſcue, and that they ſhould fight awhile [189] and then he was to run off, by which Mr. Thornhill would have the better op⯑portunity of gaining her affections him⯑ſelf under the character of her defender."’

Sir William remembered the coat to have been frequently worn by his nephew, and all the reſt the priſoner himſelf confirmed by a more circumſtantial account; concluding, that Mr. Thornhill had often declared to him that he was in love with both ſiſters at the ſame time.

‘"Heavens,"’ cried Sir William, ‘"what a viper have I been foſtering in my bo⯑ſom! And ſo fond of public juſtice too as he ſeemed to be. But he ſhall have it; ſecure him, Mr. Gaoler—yet hold, I fear there is not legal evidence to de⯑tain him."’

Upon this, Mr. Thornhill, with the ut⯑moſt humility, entreated that two ſuch a⯑bandoned wretches might not be admitted [190] as evidences againſt him, but that his ſer⯑vants ſhould be examined.—‘"Your ſer⯑vants,"’ replied Sir William, ‘"wretch, call them yours no longer: but come let us hear what thoſe fellows have to ſay, let his butler be called."’

When the butler was introduced, he ſoon perceived by his former maſter's looks that all his power was now over. ‘"Tell me,"’ cried Sir William ſternly, ‘"have you ever ſeen your maſter and that fellow dreſt up in his cloaths in company together?"’ ‘"Yes, pleaſe your honour,"’ cried the butler, ‘"a thouſand times: he was the man that always brought him his ladies."’—‘"How,"’ interrupted young Mr. Thornhill, ‘"this to my face!"’—‘"Yes,"’ replied the butler, ‘"or to any man's face. To tell you a truth, Maſter Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked you, and I don't care if I tell you now a piece of my mind."’—‘"Now then,"’ cried Jenkinſon, ‘"tell his [191] honour whether you know any thing of me."’—‘"I can't ſay,"’ replied the butler, ‘"that I know much good of you. The night that gentleman's daughter was de⯑luded to our houſe, you were one of them."’—‘"So then,"’ cried Sir William, ‘"I find you have brought a very fine wit⯑neſs to prove your innocence: thou ſtain to humanity! to aſſociate with ſuch wretches!"’ (But continuing his exami⯑nation) ‘"You tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the perſon who brought him this old gentleman's daughter."’—‘"No, pleaſe your honour,"’ replied the butler, ‘"he did not bring her, for the 'Squire him⯑ſelf undertook that buſineſs; but he brought the prieſt that pretended to marry them."’—‘"It is but too true,"’ cried Jen⯑kinſon, ‘"I cannot deny it, that was the employment aſſigned me, and I confeſs it to my confuſion."’

‘"Good heavens!"’ exclaimed the Baronet, ‘"how every new diſcovery of his villainy [192] alarms me. All his guilt is now too plain, and I find his preſent proſecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice and revenge; at my requeſt, Mr. Gaoler, ſet this young officer, now your priſoner, free, and truſt to me for the conſequences. I'll make it my buſineſs to ſet the affair in a proper light to my friend the magiſtrate who has committed him. But where is the unfortunate young lady herſelf: let her appear to confront this wretch, I long to know by what arts he has ſeduced her honour. Entreat her to come in. Where is ſhe?"’

‘"Ah, Sir,"’ ſaid I, ‘"that queſtion ſtings me to the heart: I was once indeed hap⯑py in a daughter, but her miſeries—"’Another interruption here prevented me; for who ſhould make her appearance but Miſs Arabella Wilmot, who was next day to have been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing could equal her ſurprize at ſeeing [193] Sir William and his nephew here before her; for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that ſhe and the old gentle⯑man her father were paſſing through the town, on their way to her aunt's, who had inſiſted that her nuptials with Mr. Thorn⯑hill ſhould be conſummated at her houſe; but ſtopping for refreſhment, they put up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was there from the window that the young lady happened to obſerve one of my little boys playing in the ſtreet, and inſtantly ſending a footman to bring the child to her, ſhe learnt from him ſome account of our misfortunes; but was ſtill kept igno⯑rant of young Mr. Thornhill's being the cauſe. Though her father made ſeveral remonſtrances on the impropriety of going to a priſon to viſit us, yet they were ineffectual; ſhe deſired the child to conduct her, which he did, and it was thus ſhe ſur⯑priſed us at a juncture ſo unexpected.

[194] Nor can I go on, without a reflection on thoſe accidental meetings, which, though they happen every day, ſeldom excite our ſurprize but upon ſome extraordinary occa⯑ſion. To what a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleaſure and convenience of our lives. How many ſeeming accidents muſt unite before we can be cloathed or fed. The peaſant muſt be diſpoſed to la⯑bour, the ſhower muſt fall, the wind fill the merchant's ſail, or numbers muſt want the uſual ſupply.

We all continued ſilent for ſome mo⯑ments, while my charming pupil, which was the name I generally gave this young lady, united in her looks compaſſion and aſtoniſhment, which gave new finiſhings to her beauty. ‘"Indeed, my dear Mr. Thorn⯑hill,"’ cried ſhe to the 'Squire, who ſhe ſuppoſed was come here to ſuccour and not to oppreſs us. ‘"I take it a little un⯑kindly that you ſhould come here with⯑out [195] me, or never inform me of the ſitu⯑ation of a family ſo dear to us both: you know I ſhould take as much pleaſure in contributing to the relief of my reve⯑rend old maſter here, whom I ſhall ever eſteem, as you can. But I find that, like your uncle, you take a pleaſure in doing good in ſecret."’

‘"He find pleaſure in doing good!"’ cri⯑ed Sir William, interrupting her. ‘"No, my dear, his pleaſures are as baſe as he is. You ſee in him, madam, as com⯑plete a villain as ever diſgraced humanity. A wretch, who after having deluded this poor man's daughter, after plotting againſt the innocence of her ſiſter, has thrown the father into priſon, and the eldeſt ſon into fetters, becauſe he had courage to face his betrayer. And give me leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an eſcape from the embraces of ſuch a monſter."’

[196] ‘"O goodneſs,"’ cried the lovely girl, ‘"how have I been deceived! Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain that this gentle⯑man's eldeſt ſon, Captain Primroſe, was gone off to America with his new-married lady."’

‘"My ſweeteſt miſs,"’ cried my wife, ‘"he has told you nothing but falſe⯑hoods. My ſon George never left the kingdom, nor never was married. Tho' you have forſaken him, he has al⯑ways loved you too well to think of any body elſe; and I have heard him ſay he would die a batchellor for your ſake."’ She then proceeded to expatiate upon the ſincerity of her ſon's paſſion, ſhe ſet his duel with Mr. Thornhill in a proper light, from thence ſhe made a rapid digreſſion to the 'Squire's debaucheries, his pretended marri⯑ages, and ended with a moſt inſulting pic⯑ture of his cowardice.

[197] ‘"Good heavens!"’ cried Miſs Wilmot, ‘"how very near have, I been to the brink of ruin! But how great is my pleaſure to have eſcaped it! Ten thouſand falſe⯑hoods has this gentleman told me! He had at laſt art enough to perſuade me that my promiſe to the only man I eſteemed was no longer binding, ſince he had been un⯑faithful. By his falſehoods I was taught to deteſt one equally brave and gene⯑rous!"’

But by this time my ſon was freed from the incumbrances of juſtice. Mr. Jenkin⯑ſon alſo, who had acted as his valet de chambre, had dreſſed up his hair, and fur⯑niſhed him with whatever was neceſſary to make a genteel appearance. He now there⯑fore entered, handſomely dreſt in his re⯑gimentals, and, without vanity, (for I am above it) he appeared as handſome a fellow as ever wore a military dreſs. [198] As he entered, he made Miſs Wilmot a mo⯑deſt and diſtant bow, for he was not as yet acquainted with the change which the eloquence of his mother had wrought in his favour. But no decorums could re⯑ſtrain the impatience of his bluſhing miſ⯑treſs to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to diſcover the real ſenſations of her heart for having forgotten her former promiſe and having ſuffered herſelf to be deluded by an impoſtor. My ſon appeared amazed at her condeſcenſion, and could ſcarce believe it real.—‘"Sure, madam,"’ cried he, ‘"this is but deluſion! I can ne⯑ver have merited this! To be bleſt thus is to be too happy."’—‘"No, Sir,"’ re⯑plied ſhe, ‘"I have been deceived, baſely deceived, elſe nothing could have ever made me unjuſt to my promiſe. You know my friendſhip, you have long known it; but forget what I have done, and as you once had my warmeſt vows of [199] conſtancy, you ſhall now have them repeated; and be aſſured that if your Arabella cannot be yours, ſhe ſhall never be another's."’—‘"And no other's you ſhall be,"’ cried Sir William, ‘"if I have any influence with your father."’

This hint was ſufficient for my ſon Moſes, who immediately flew to the inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of eve⯑ry circumſtance that had happened. But in the mean time the 'Squire perceiving that he was on every ſide undone, now finding that no hopes were left from flattery or diſſimulation, concluded that his wiſeſt way would be to turn and face his purſuers. Thus laying aſide all ſhame, he appeared the open hardy villain. ‘"I find then,"’ cried he, ‘"that I am to expect no juſtice here; but I am reſolved it ſhall be done me. You ſhall know, Sir,"’ turning to Sir William, ‘"I am no [200] longer a poor dependant upon your fa⯑vours. I ſcorn them. Nothing can keep Miſs Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank her father's aſſiduity, is pretty large. The articles, and a bond for her fortune, are ſigned, and ſafe in my poſ⯑ſeſſion. It was her fortune, not her per⯑ſon, that induced me to wiſh for this match, and poſſeſſed of the one, let whoſe will take the other."’

This was an alarming blow, Sir Willi⯑am was ſenſible of the juſtice of his claims, for he had been inſtrumental in drawing up the marriage articles himſelf. Miſs Wil⯑mot therefore perceiving that her fortune was irretrievably loſt, turning to my ſon, ſhe aſked if the loſs of fortune could leſſen her value to him. ‘"Though fortune,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"is out of my power, at leaſt I have my hand to give."’

[201] ‘"And that, madam,"’ cried her real lover, ‘"was indeed all that you ever had to give; at leaſt all that I ever thought worth the acceptance. And I now proteſt, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of fortune this moment encreaſes my pleaſure, as it ſerves to convince my ſweet girl of my ſincerity."’

Mr. Wilmot now entering, he ſeemed not a little pleaſed at the danger his daugh⯑ter had juſt eſcaped, and readily conſented to a diſſolution of the match. But finding that her fortune, which was ſecured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing could exceed his diſappointment. He now ſaw that his money muſt all go to enrich one who had no fortune of his own. He could bear his being a raſcal; but to want an equivalent to his daughter's fortune was wormwood. He ſate therefore for ſome minutes employed in the moſt mortifying ſpeculations, till Sir William attempted to [202] leſſen his anxiety.—‘"I muſt confeſs, Sir,"’ cried he, ‘"that your preſent diſappoint⯑ment does not entirely diſpleaſe me. Your immoderate paſſion for wealth is now juſtly puniſhed. But tho' the young lady cannot be rich, ſhe has ſtill a com⯑petence ſufficient to give content. Here you ſee an honeſt young ſoldier, who is wil⯑ling to take her without fortune; they have long loved each other, and for the friendſhip I bear his father, my intereſt ſhall not be wanting for his promotion. Leave then that ambition which diſap⯑points you, and for once admit hap⯑happineſs which courts your acceptance."’

‘"Sir William,"’ replied the old gentle⯑man, ‘"be aſſured I never yet forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If ſhe ſtill continues to love this young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. There is ſtill, thank heaven, ſome fortune left, and your promiſe will make it [203] ſomething more. Only let my old friend here (meaning me) give me a promiſe of ſettling ſix thouſand pounds upon my girl, if ever he ſhould come to his fortune, and I am ready this night to be the firſt to join them toge⯑ther."’

As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readi⯑ly gave a promiſe of making the ſettle⯑ment he required, which, to one who had ſuch little expectations as I, was no great favour. We had now therefore the ſatiſ⯑faction of ſeeing them fly into each other's arms in a tranſport. ‘"After all my misfor⯑tunes,"’ cried my ſon George, ‘"to be thus rewarded! Sure this is more than I could ever have preſumed to hope for. To be poſſeſſed of all that's good, and after ſuch an interval of pain! My warmeſt wiſhes could never riſe ſo high!"’—‘"Yes, my George,"’ returned his [204] lovely bride, ‘"now let the wretch take my fortune; ſince you are happy without it ſo am I. O what an exchange have I made from the baſeſt of men to the deareſt beſt!—Let him enjoy our fortune, I now can be happy even in indigence."’—‘"And I promiſe you,"’ cried the 'Squire, with a malicious grin, ‘"that I ſhall be very happy with what you deſpiſe."’—‘"Hold, hold, Sir,"’ cried Jenkinſon, ‘"there are two words to that bargain. As for that lady's fortune, Sir, you ſhall never touch a ſingle ſtiver of it. Pray your honour,"’ continued he to Sir William," ‘can the 'Squire have this lady's fortune if he be married to ano⯑ther?"’—‘"How can you make ſuch a ſimple demand,"’ replied the Baronet, ‘"undoubtedly he cannot."’—‘"I am ſorry for that,"’ cried Jenkinſon; ‘"for as this gentleman and I have been old fellow ſporters, I have a friendſhip for him. But I muſt declare, well as I love him, that his contract is not worth a tobacco [205] ſtopper, for he is married already."’—‘"You lie, like a raſcal,"’ returned the 'Squire, who ſeemed rouzed by this inſult, ‘"I never was legally married to any wo⯑man."’—‘"Indeed, begging your honour's pardon,"’ replied the other, ‘"you were; and I hope you will ſhew a proper re⯑turn of friendſhip to your own honeſt Jenkinſon, who brings you a wife, and if the company reſtrains their curioſity a few minutes, they ſhall ſee her."’—So ſaying he went off with his uſual celerity, and left us all unable to form any proba⯑ble conjecture as to his deſign.—‘"Ay let him go,"’ cried the 'Squire, ‘"whatever elſe I may have done I defy him there. I am too old now to be frightened with ſquibs."’

‘"I am ſurpriſed,"’ ſaid the Baronet, ‘"what the fellow can intend by this. Some low piece of humour I ſuppoſe!"’—‘"Perhaps, Sir,"’ replied I, ‘"he may have [206] a more ſerious meaning. For when we reflect on the various ſchemes this gen⯑tleman laid to ſeduce innocence, perhaps ſome one more artful than the reſt has been found able to deceive him. When we conſider what numbers he has ru⯑ined, how many parents now feel with anguiſh the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into their families, it would not ſurpriſe me if ſome one of them—Amazement! Do I ſee my loſt daugh⯑ter! Do I hold her! It is, it is my life, my happineſs. I thought thee loſt, my Olivia, yet ſtill I hold thee—and ſtill ſhalt thou live to bleſs me."’—The warmeſt tranſ⯑ports of the fondeſt lover were not great⯑er than mine when I ſaw him introduce my child, and held my daughter in my arms, whoſe ſilence only ſpoke her raptures. ‘"And art thou returned to me, my dar⯑ling,"’ cried I, ‘"to be my comfort in age!"’—‘"That ſhe is,"’ cried Jenkinſon, ‘"and make much of her, for ſhe is your [207] own honourable child, and as honeſt a woman as any in the whole room, let the other be who ſhe will. And as for you 'Squire, as ſure as you ſtand there this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to convince you that I ſpeak no⯑thing but truth, here is the licence by which you were married together."’—So ſaying, he put the licence into the Ba⯑ronet's hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every reſpect. ‘"And now, gen⯑tlemen,"’ continued he, ‘"I find you are ſurpriſed at all this; but a few words will explain the difficulty. That there 'Squire of renown, for whom I have a great friendſhip, but that's between ourſelves, has often employed me in doing odd lit⯑tle things for him. Among the reſt, he commiſſioned me to procure him a falſe licence and a falſe prieſt, in order to de⯑ceive this young lady. But as I was very much his friend, what did I do but went and got a true licence and a true prieſt, [208] and married them both as faſt as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you'll think it was generoſity that made me do all this. But no. To my ſhame I confeſs it, my only deſign was to keep the licence and let the 'Squire know that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, and ſo make him come down whenever I wanted money."’ A burſt of pleaſure now ſeemed to fill the whole apart⯑ment; our joy reached even to the com⯑mon room, where the priſoners themſelves ſympathized,

Happineſs expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's cheek ſeemed fluſhed with pleaſure. To be thus reſtored to reputa⯑tion, to friends and fortune at once, was a rapture ſufficient to ſtop the progreſs of de⯑cay and reſtore former health and vivacity. But perhaps among all there was not one [209] who felt ſincerer pleaſure than I. Still holding the dear-loved child in my arms, I aſked my heart if theſe tranſports were not deluſion. ‘How could you,"’ cried I, turn⯑ing to Mr. Jenkinſon, ‘"how could you add to my miſeries by the ſtory of her death! But it matters not, my pleaſure at finding her again, is more than a recom⯑pence for the pain."’

‘"As to your queſtion,"’ replied Jenkin⯑ſon, ‘"that is eaſily anſwered. I thought the only probable means of freeing you from priſon, was by ſubmitting to the 'Squire, and conſenting to his marriage with the other young lady. But theſe you had vowed never to grant while your daughter was living, there was therefore no other method to bring things to bear but by perſuading you that ſhe was dead. I prevailed on your wiſe to join in the de⯑ceit, and we have not had a fit oppor⯑tunity of undeceiving you till now."’

[210] In the whole aſſembly now there only ap⯑peared two faces that did not glow with tranſport. Mr. Thornhill's aſſurance had entirely forſaken him: he now ſaw the gulph of infamy and want before him, and trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing miſery implored compaſ⯑ſion. Sir William was going to ſpurn him away, but at my requeſt he raiſed him, and after pauſing a few moments, ‘"Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude,"’ cried he, ‘"de⯑ſerve no tenderneſs; yet thou ſhalt not be entirely forſaken, a bare competence ſhall be ſupplied, to ſupport the wants of life, but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, ſhall be put in poſ⯑ſeſſion of a third part of that fortune which once was thine, and from her ten⯑derneſs alone thou art to expect any extraordinary ſupplies for the future."’ He was going to expreſs his gratitude for ſuch kindneſs in a ſet ſpeech; but the [211] Baronet prevented him by bidding him not aggravate his meanneſs, which was already but too apparent. He ordered him at the ſame time to be gone, and from all his for⯑mer domeſtics to chuſe one ſuch as he ſhould think proper, which was all that ſhould be granted to attend him.

As ſoon as he left us, Sir William very politely ſtept up to his new niece with a a ſmile, and wiſhed her joy. His example was followed by Miſs Wilmot and her fa⯑ther; my wife too kiſſed her daughter with much affection, as, to uſe her own expreſſion, ſhe was now made an honeſt woman of. So⯑phia and Moſes followed in turn, and even our benefactor Jenkinſon deſired to be ad⯑mitted to that honour. Our ſatisfaction ſeemed ſcarce capable of increaſe. Sir Wil⯑liam, whoſe greateſt pleaſure was in doing good, now looked round with a counte⯑nance open as the ſun, and ſaw nothing but joy in the looks of all except that of [212] my daughter Sophia, who, for ſome rea⯑ſons we could not comprehend, did not ſeem perfectly ſatisfied. ‘"I think now,"’ cried he, with a ſmile, ‘"that all the com⯑pany, except one or two, ſeem perfectly happy. There only remains an act of juſtice for me to do. You are ſenſible, Sir,"’ continued he, turning to me, ‘"of the obligations we both owe Mr. Jenkinſon for his late aſſiduity in detecting a ſcoun⯑drel. It is but juſt we ſhould both re⯑ward him for it. Your youngeſt daugh⯑ter, Miſs Sophia, will, I am ſure, make him very happy, and he ſhall have from me five hundred pounds as her fortune, and upon this I am ſure they can live very comfortably together. Come, Miſs Sophia, what ſay you to this match of my making? Will you have him?"’—My poor girl ſeemed almoſt ſinking into her mother's arms at the hideous propoſal.—‘"Have him, Sir!"’ cried ſhe faintly. ‘"No, Sir, never."’—‘What,"’ cried he again, [213] ‘"not have Mr. Jenkinſon, your benefactor, an handſome young fellow, with five hun⯑dred pounds and good expectations!"’—‘"I beg, Sir,"’ returned ſhe, ſcarce able to ſpeak, ‘"that you'll deſiſt, and not make me ſo very wretched."’—‘"Was ever ſuch obſtinacy known,"’ cried he again, ‘"to refuſe a man whom the family has ſuch infinite obligations to, who has preſerved your ſiſter. What not have him!"’—‘"No, Sir, never,"’ replied ſhe, angrily, ‘"I'd ſooner die firſt."’—‘"If that be the caſe then,"’ cried he, ‘"if you will not have him—I think I muſt have you myſelf."’ And ſo ſaying, he caught her to his breaſt with ardour. ‘"My love⯑lieſt, my moſt ſenſible of girls,"’ cried he, ‘"how could you ever think your own Bur⯑chell could deceive you, or that Sir Wil⯑liam Thornhill could ever ceaſe to admire a miſtreſs that loved him for himſelf a⯑lone? I have for ſome years ſought for a woman, who a ſtranger to my fortune [214] could think that I had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even amongſt the pert and the ugly, how great at laſt muſt be my rapture to have made a conqueſt over ſuch ſenſe and ſuch hea⯑venly beauty."’ Then turning to Jen⯑kinſon, ‘"As I cannot, Sir, part with this young lady myſelf, for ſhe has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the re⯑compence I can make is to give you her fortune, and you may call upon my ſtew⯑ard to-morrow for five hundred pounds."’ Thus we had all our compliments to re⯑peat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the ſame round of ceremony that her ſiſters had done before. In the mean time Sir Willi⯑am's gentleman appeared to tell us that the equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, where every thing was prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and left thoſe gloomy manſions of ſorrow. The generous Baronet ordered forty pounds to be diſtributed among the priſoners, and [215] Mr. Wilmot, induced by his example, gave half that ſum. We were received be⯑low by the ſhouts of the villagers, and I ſaw and ſhook by the hand two or three of my honeſt pariſhioners, who were among the number. They attended us to our inn, where a ſumptuous entertainment was pro⯑vided, and coarſer proviſions diſtributed in great quantities among the populace.

After ſupper, as my ſpirits were exhauſted by the alternation of pleaſure and pain which they had ſuſtained during the day, I aſked permiſſion to withdraw, and leaving the company in the midſt of their mirth, as ſoon as I found myſelf alone, I poured out my heart in gratitude to the giver of joy as well as of ſorrow, and then ſlept undiſturbed till morning.

CHAP. XIII.

THE next morning as ſoon as I awaked I found my eldeſt ſon ſitting by my bedſide, who came to encreaſe my joy with another turn of fortune in my favour. Firſt having releaſed me from the ſettlement that I had made the day before in his favour, he let me know that my merchant who had failed in town was arreſted at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to a much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My boy's generoſity pleaſed me almoſt as much as this unlooked for good fortune. But I had ſome doubts whether I [218] ought in juſtice to accept his offer. While I was pondering upon this, Sir William en⯑tered the room, to whom I communicated my doubts. His opinion was, that as my ſon was already poſſeſſed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his offer without any heſitation. His buſineſs, however, was to inform me that as he had the night before ſent for the licences, and ex⯑pected them every hour, he hoped that I would not refuſe my aſſiſtance in making all the company happy that morning. A footman entered while we were ſpeaking, to tell us that the meſſenger was returned, and as I was by this time ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as merry as afflu⯑ence and innocence could make them. How⯑ever, as they were now preparing for a very ſolemn ceremony, their laughter entirely diſ⯑pleaſed me. I told them of the grave, becom⯑ing and ſublime deportment they ſhould aſ⯑ſume upon this myſtical occaſion, and read them two homilies and a theſis of my own [219] compoſing, in order to prepare them. Yet they ſtill ſeemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we were going along to church, to which I led the way, all gra⯑vity had quite forſaken them, and I was of⯑ten tempted to turn back in indignation. In church a new dilemma aroſe, which pro⯑miſed no eaſy ſolution. This was, which couple ſhould be married firſt; my ſon's bride warmly inſiſted, that Lady Thornhill, (that was to be) ſhould take the lead; but this the other refuſed with equal ardour, proteſting ſhe would not be guilty of ſuch rudeneſs for the world. The argument was ſupported for ſome time between both with equal obſtinacy and good breeding. But as I ſtood all this time with my book ready, I was at laſt quite tired of the conteſt, and ſhutting it, ‘"I perceive,"’ cried I, ‘"that none of you have a mind to be married, and I think we had as good go back again; for I ſuppoſe [220] there will be no buſineſs done here to⯑day."’—This at once reduced them to reaſon. The Baronet and his Lady were firſt married, and then my ſon and his lovely partner.

I had previouſly that morning given orders that a coach ſhould be ſent for my honeſt neighbour Flamborough and his family, by which means, upon our return to the inn, we had the pleaſure of finding the two Miſs Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. Jenkinſon gave his hand to the eldeſt, and my ſon Mo⯑ſes led up the other; (and I have ſince found that he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my conſent and bounty he ſhall have whenever he thinks proper to demand them.) We were no ſooner re⯑turned to the inn, but numbers of my pa⯑riſhioners, hearing of my ſucceſs, came to congratulate me, but among the reſt were thoſe who roſe to reſcue me, and whom [221] I formerly rebuked with ſuch ſharpneſs. I told the ſtory to Sir William, my ſon-in-law, who went out and reproved them with great ſeverity; but finding them quite diſ⯑heartened by his harſh reproof, he gave them half a guinea a piece to drink his health and raiſe their dejected ſpirits.

Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, which was dreſt by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And it may not be improper to obſerve with reſpect to that gentleman, that he now reſides in quality of companion at a relation's houſe, being very well liked and ſeldom ſitting at the ſide-table, except when there is no room at the other; for they make no ſtranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up in keep⯑ing his relation, who is a little melancholy, in ſpirits, and in learning to blow the French-horn. My eldeſt daughter, however, ſtill remembers him with regret; and ſhe has [222] even told me, though I make a great ſecret of it, that when he reforms ſhe may be brought to relent. But to return, for I am not apt to digreſs thus, when we were to ſit down to dinner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The queſtion was whether my eldeſt daughter, as being a matron, ſhould not ſit above the two young brides, but the debate was cut ſhort by my ſon George, who propoſed, that the company ſhould ſit indiſcriminately, every gentleman by his lady, This was re⯑ceived with great approbation by all, ex⯑cepting my wife, who I could perceive was not perfectly ſatisfied, as ſhe expected to have had the pleaſure of ſitting at the head of the table and carving all the meat for all the company. But notwithſtanding this, it is impoſſible to deſcribe our good hu⯑mour. I can't ſay whether we had more wit amongſt us now than uſual; but I am certain we had more laughing, which an⯑ſwered the end as well. One jeſt I parti⯑cularly [223] remember, old Mr. Wilmot drink⯑ing to Moſes, whoſe head was turned ano⯑ther way, my ſon replied, ‘"Madam, I thank you."’ Upon which the old gen⯑tleman, winking upon the reſt of the com⯑pany, obſerved that he was thinking of his miſtreſs. At which jeſt I thought the two miſs Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. As ſoon as dinner was over, according to my old cuſtom, I re⯑queſted that the table might be taken away, to have the pleaſure of ſeeing all my fa⯑mily aſſembled once more by a chearful fire-ſide. My two little ones ſat upon each knee, the reſt of the company by their partners. I had nothing now on this ſide of the grave to wiſh for, all my cares were over, my pleaſure was unſpeak⯑able. It now only remained that my grati⯑tude in good fortune ſhould exceed my for⯑mer ſubmiſſion in adverſity.