No More Learning

"Well, sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, "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 leave a helpless family 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 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 increase my afflictions by your own?
What though no submission can turn our severe master, though 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! "

"How, madam! " cried my fellow-prisoner, "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 prisoners' wives, who was present, and came in with her, gave us a
more distinct account: 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 pair drove up to them, and instantly
stopped. Upon which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping
out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the
postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment. "

"Now," cried I, "the sum of my miseries is made up; nor is it in the
power of anything on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left!
not to leave me one! The monster! The child that was next my heart! She
had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. 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 her 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 interval of satisfaction, for I have a letter from my brother
George. " "What of him, child? " interrupted I. "Does he know 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, cheerful, and
happy. His letter brings nothing but good news: he is the favourite of
his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that
becomes vacant. "

"But 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 anything can procure you comfort, I am sure that will. "
"But are you sure," still repeated she, "that the letter is from
himself, and that he is really so happy? " "Yes, madam," replied he, "it
is certainly 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 miscarried. 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 bitterness 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 to Him who
directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest. "

[Illustration:

"_What! not one left! not to leave me one!
The monster! _"—_p. _ 140.
]


"Woman," cried I, "thou hast done very ill, and at another time my
reproaches might have been more severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulf hast
thou escaped, that would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin!
Providence, indeed, 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 stripped of every
comfort, when still I hear that he is happy, and insensible of our
afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and to
protect his brothers and sisters! But what sisters has he left? He has
no sisters now: they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone! "
"Father," interrupted my son, "I beg you will give me leave to read this
letter: I know it will please you. " Upon which, with my permission, he
read as follows:—

"HONOURED SIR,

"I have called off my imagination a few moments from the pleasures that
surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing—the
dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that harmless group as
listening to every line of this with great composure. I view those faces
with delight, which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or
distress. But whatever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will
be some addition to it to hear that I am perfectly pleased with my
situation, and every way happy here.

"Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the kingdom; the
colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes me with him to all
companies where he is acquainted, and, after my first visit, I generally
find myself received with increased respect upon repeating it. I danced
last night with Lady G——, and, could I forget you know whom, I might
perhaps be successful. But it is my fate still to remember others, while
I am myself forgotten by most of my absent friends; and in this number I
fear, sir, that I must consider you, for I have long expected the
pleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia, too,
promised to write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them that they
are two arrant little baggages, and that I am at this moment in a most
violent passion with them—yet still, I know not how, though I want to
bluster a little, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then
tell them, sir, that after all I love them affectionately; and be
assured of my ever remaining

"YOUR DUTIFUL SON. "


"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 support 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 scarcely
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 compassion upon 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! fettered! Is this
thy happiness! Is this the manner you return to me! Oh that this sight
would break my heart at once, and let me die! "

"Where, sir, is your fortitude? " returned my son, with an intrepid
voice; "I must suffer; my life is forfeited, and let them take it. "

I tried to restrain my passion for a few minutes 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 moment that I
thought thee blest, and prayed 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 lived to see this day; to see my
children 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!
forgetful 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 shortly be my portion. "

"My child, you must not die! I am sure no offence of thine can deserve
so 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. When I
received my mother's letter from home, I immediately 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 despatching four of
his domestics to seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, and I
fear desperately; but the rest made me their prisoner. The coward is
determined to put the law in execution against me; the proofs are
undeniable: I have sent a challenge, and as I am the first aggressor
upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But you have often charmed
me with your lessons of fortitude; let me now, sir, find them in your
example. "

"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 ascent, for we will take our flight together. I now
see and am convinced you can expect no pardon here, and I can only
exhort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where we both shall
shortly answer. But let us not be niggardly in our exhortations, 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 against the wall. The prisoners assembled
themselves according to my directions, for they loved to hear my
counsel; my son and his mother supported me on either side; I looked and
saw that none were wanting, and then addressed them with the following
exhortation.




_CHAPTER XXIX. _

_The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated
with regard to the happy and the miserable here below,
that, from the nature of pleasure
and pain, the wretched must be repaid the balance of their
sufferings in the life hereafter. _


"My friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, when I reflect on the
distribution of good and evil here below, I find that much has been
given man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine
the whole world, we shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing
left to wish for: but we daily see thousands who by suicide show us they
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 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 curiosity, satisfied
with granting us motives to consolation.

[Illustration:

"_The prisoners assembled themselves according
to my directions, for they loved to hear my counsel. _"—_p. _ 144.
]


"In this situation man has called in the friendly assistance of
philosophy; and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to console him,
has given him the aid of religion. 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 miseries 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 religion comforts in
a 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 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 miserable, it is very consoling to
think that there is a place of rest. Thus, to the fortunate, 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
rewards to the unhappy. The sick, the naked, the houseless, the
heavy-laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in our
sacred law. The Author of our religion everywhere professes Himself the
wretch's friend; and, unlike the false ones of this world, bestows all
His caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as
partiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it. But they never
reflect, that it is not in the power even of Heaven itself to make the
offer of unceasing 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 increases what they already possess. To the latter, it is a
double advantage; for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards them
with heavenly bliss hereafter.

"But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor than to the
rich; for as it thus makes the life after death more desirable, so it
smooths the passage there. The wretched have had a long familiarity with
every face of terror. The man of sorrow lays himself quietly down, with
no possessions to regret, 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 new breach that death opens in the constitution,
nature kindly covers with insensibility.

"Thus Providence has given to 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 raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned
as an addition to his happiness, that he had once been wretched, and now
was comforted; 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 philosophy could never do:
it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the happy 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 knowing what it was once
to be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity hereafter; 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 intenseness.

"These are, therefore, the consolations which the wretched have peculiar
to themselves, 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. To declaim on the temporal advantages
they enjoy is only repeating what none either 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 soothe the wants of nature, can
give elastic sweetness to the dank vapour of a dungeon, or ease to the
throbbings of a broken 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,
indeed, of all men the most miserable. When I look round these gloomy
walls, made to terrify as well as to confine us; this light, that only
serves to show 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; Oh, 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 carol 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 advantages; 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 a 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 older 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 burden 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 the horizon, flies before him, yet
the time will certainly and shortly come when we shall cease from our
toil; when the luxurious great ones of the world shall no more tread us
to the earth; when we shall think with pleasure of 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. "




_CHAPTER XXX. _

_Happier prospects begin to appear. —Let us be inflexible,
and fortune will at last change in our favour. _


When I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, the gaoler, who
was one of the most humane of his profession, 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 visit me every morning. I thanked him for his clemency, and
grasping my boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the great
duty that was before him.

I again therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones sat by my
bedside reading, when Mr. Jenkinson entering, informed me that there was
news of my daughter; for that she was seen by a person about two hours
before in a strange gentleman's company, and that they had stopped at a
neighbouring village for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to
town. He had scarcely delivered his 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.

[Illustration:

"_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. _"—_p. _ 150.
]


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 showed her pleasure.

"Here, papa," cried the charming girl, "here is the brave man to whom I
owe my delivery; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted 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 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 almost ashamed to behold your face; yet I hope you
will forgive me, as I was deceived by a base, ungenerous wretch, who,
under the mask of friendship, has undone me. "

"It is impossible," replied Mr. Burchell, "that I should forgive you, as
you never 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 thou hast been relieved,
or who the ruffians were that carried thee away? "

"Indeed, sir," replied she, "as to the villain who carried me off I am
yet ignorant. For as my mamma and I were walking out, he came behind us,
and almost before I could call for help forced me into the post-chaise,
and in an instant the horses drove away.
I met several on the road to
whom I cried out for assistance, but they disregarded my entreaties. In
the meantime the ruffian himself used every art to hinder me from crying
out: he flattered and threatened me by turns, and swore that, if I
continued but silent, he intended no harm. In the meantime 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 hearing, I called out to him by name, and
entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations several times, upon
which, with a very loud voice, he bade the postilion 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 knocked the
postilion to the ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped of
themselves, and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths and menaces, drew
his sword, and 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 by this time come out
myself, willing to assist my deliverer; but he soon returned to me in
triumph. The postilion, who was recovered, 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 along, so that he at
last excited Mr. Burchell'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 welcomes. Though our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are
ready to receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my
girl, if you think her a recompense, 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 a treasure in
her mind. "

"But I suppose, sir," cried Mr. Burchell, "that you are apprised 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 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 dozen of
their best wine, and some cordials for me; adding, with a smile, that he
would stretch a little for once; and, though 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-dressed dishes were brought in.

My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's melancholy
situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the
relation. But it was in vain that I attempted to appear cheerful; the
circumstances of my unfortunate son broke through all efforts to
dissemble; so that I was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating
his misfortunes, and wishing he might be permitted to share with us in
this little interval of satisfaction. After my guests were recovered
from the consternation 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 submission. 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 meantime, asked me
if my son's name was George; to which replying in the affirmative, he
still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the 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 friendship—he deserves our warmest gratitude. "

My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and still
continued fixed at a 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 astonishment; till our guest at last
perceived himself to be known, and assuming all his native dignity,
desired my son to come forward. Never before had I seen anything so
truly majestic as the air he assumed upon this occasion. The greatest
object in the universe, says a certain philosopher, is a good man
struggling with adversity; yet there is a still 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 inform 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 for which you once had my reproof, and for which the law is
now preparing its justest punishments. You imagine, perhaps, that a
contempt for your own life gives you a right to take that of another:
but where, sir, is the difference between the duellist, who hazards a
life of no value, and the murderer, who acts with greater security? Is
it any diminution of the gamester's fraud, when he alleges that he has
staked a counter? "

"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 bitterness of her resentment required him, upon her blessing, to
avenge her quarrel. Here, sir, is the letter which will serve to
convince you of her imprudence, and diminish his guilt. "

[Illustration:

_"What, Bill, you chubby rogue! " cried he,
"do you remember your old friend Burchell? "_—_p. _ 155.
]


He took the letter, and hastily read it over. "This," said 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 occasions less interesting. I am now come to see
justice done a worthy man, for whom I have the most sincere esteem. I
have long been a disguised spectator of thy father's benevolence. I have
at his little dwelling enjoyed respect uncontaminated by flattery, and
have received that happiness which courts could not give, from the
amusing simplicity round his fireside. My nephew has been apprised of my
intention of coming here, and I find he is arrived: it would be wronging
him and you to condemn him without examination; if 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 that the personage whom we had so long entertained as a
harmless, amusing companion, was no other than the celebrated Sir
William Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarcely any were
strangers. The poor Mr. Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune
and great interest, to whom senates listened with applause, and whom
party heard with conviction; who was the friend of his country, 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 distance to which he was
removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears.

"Ah, sir," cried my wife, with a piteous 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 so audaciously threw out—these, 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 nobody whom I am disposed to be
angry with at present, but the fellow who so frightened my little girl
here! I had not even time to examine the rascal's person, so as to
describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear,
whether you should know him again? "

"Indeed, sir," replied she, "I cannot be positive; yet, now I recollect,
he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows. " "I ask pardon, madam,"
interrupted Jenkinson, 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," continued 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 outran me, which
is what I thought few men in the kingdom could have done. " "Please your
honour," cried Jenkinson, "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 at this moment. 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
farthest. " Upon this the gaoler was called, who instantly appearing, Sir
William demanded if he knew him. "Yes, please your honour," replied the
gaoler, "I know Sir William Thornhill well; and everybody that knows
anything 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
sufficient," 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 despatched in
pursuit of Timothy 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 his familiarity, but the worthy man prevented her; and taking
the child, all ragged 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 fellows ate very heartily, as they had got that morning but a very
scanty breakfast.

We now sat 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 honour 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 honour; with which
request the baronet complied, and desired Mr. Thornhill to be
introduced.




_CHAPTER XXXI. _

_Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest. _


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 recompense for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into 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 should
object that as a crime which his repeated instructions alone have
persuaded me to avoid? "

"Your rebuke," cried Sir William, "is just: you have acted in this
instance prudently 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 of public amusement; thus, what was levity
scandal called by a harsher name, and it was reported that I had
debauched her. I waited on her father in person, willing to clear the
thing to his satisfaction, 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
entirely 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 injustice in pursuing the most legal means of
redress. "

"If this," cried Sir William, "be as you have stated it, there is
nothing unpardonable in your offences; and though your conduct might
have been more generous in not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed
by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable. "

[Illustration:

_"And I hope," said his nephew, "that
the rest of my conduct will not be found
to deserve censure. "_—_p. _ 156.
]


"He cannot contradict a singular particular," 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 forgive this gentleman every
other offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem 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; one of my
servants has been wounded dangerously; 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
already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty? I hope that good Sir
William will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a child; I am sure
he is, and never 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 persists——" But the appearance of Jenkinson and the gaolers two
servants now called off our attention, who entered hauling in a tall
man, very genteelly dressed, and answering the description already given
of the ruffian who had carried off my daughter. "Here," cried Jenkinson,
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 in custody, he seemed to shrink backward with terror. His face
became pale with conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn; but
Jenkinson, who perceived his design, stopped him. "What, squire! " cried
he, "are you ashamed of your two old acquaintances, 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. This is the gentleman reported to be so dangerously wounded; he
declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put him upon this affair;
that he gave him the clothes he now wears to appear like a gentleman,
and furnished him with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between 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 meantime, as if by accident, to her rescue, and that they
should fight awhile, and then he was to run off, by which Mr. Thornhill
would have the better opportunity of gaining her affections himself
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
bosom! 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 no
legal evidence to detain him. "

Upon this, Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated that two
such abandoned wretches might not be admitted as evidence against him,
but that his servants should be examined. "Your servants! " 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 dressed up in
his clothes 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 honour whether you know anything of me. " "I can't say,"
replied the butler, "that I know much good of you. The night that
gentleman's daughter was deluded to our house, you were one of them. "
"So then," cried Sir William, "I find you have brought a very fine
witness to prove your innocence; thou stain to humanity! to associate
with such wretches! But," continuing his examination, "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 himself undertook that business; but he
brought the priest that pretended to marry them. "

"It is but too true," cried Jenkinson; "I cannot deny it; that was the
employment assigned to me, and I confess it to my confusion. "

"Good Heavens! " exclaimed the worthy baronet, "how every new discovery
of his villainy 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. Entreat her to come in. Where is she? "

"Ah, sir! " said I, "that question stings me to the heart. I was once
indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries——" Another interruption
here prevented me; for who should make her appearance but Miss Arabella
Wilmot, who was the next day to have been married to Mr. Thornhill.
Nothing could equal her surprise at seeing Sir William and his nephew
here before her; for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that
she and the old gentleman, her father, were passing through the town on
their way to her aunt's, who had insisted that her nuptials with Mr.
Thornhill 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 ignorant of young Mr. Thornhill's being
the cause. Though her father made several remonstrances on the
impropriety of her 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 surprised us at a juncture so unexpected.

Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental meetings,
which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon
some extraordinary occasion. 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 clothed or fed! The peasant must
be disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill the
merchant's sail, or numbers must want the usual supply.

We all continued silent for some moments, 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. Thornhill," cried she to the squire, who she
supposed was come here to succour and not to oppress us, "I take it a
little unkindly that you should come here without me, or never inform me
of the situation of a family so dear to us both: you know I should take
as much pleasure in contributing to the relief of my reverend 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! " cried Sir William, interrupting her:
"no, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him, madam,
as complete 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 the courage to face her
betrayer! And give me leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an
escape from the embraces of such a monster. "

[Illustration:

"_We had now, therefore, the satisfaction
of seeing them fly into each other's arms
in a transport. _"—_p. _ 164.