No More Learning

"Sir," answered he, "you are little acquainted
with the world. I had at that time false hair, and have learned 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 prisoners' 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
clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner; which done, my conductor, who
was civil enough, bade me a good night. After my usual meditations, and
having praised my Heavenly Corrector, I laid myself down, and slept with
the utmost tranquillity until morning.




_CHAPTER XXVI. _

_A reformation in the gaol. —To make laws complete,
they should reward as well as punish. _


The next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom I found in
tears at my bedside. The gloomy appearance of everything about us, it
seems, had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I
had never slept with greater tranquillity, and next inquired after my
eldest daughter, who was not among them. They informed me that
yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was
judged proper to leave her behind. My next care was to send my son to
procure a room or two to lodge my 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 expense 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 prepared
for them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered very
conveniently. 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 anywhere where you are. "

"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 family what they were to do. My
daughter was particularly directed to watch her sister's declining
health; my wife was to attend me; my little boys were to read to me.
"And as for you, my son," continued I, "it is by the labour of your
hands we must all hope to be supported. Your wages as a day-labourer
will be fully sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain 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 family. Prepare then this evening
to look out for work against to-morrow, and bring home every night what
money you earn for our support. "

Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked down to the
common prison, 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 sat for some
time pondering upon the strange infatuation of wretches who, finding all
mankind in open arms against them, were labouring to make themselves a
future and a tremendous enemy.

Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted my own
uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to
attempt to reclaim them. I resolved, therefore, once more to return,
and, in spite of their contempt, to give them my advice, and conquer
them by perseverance. Going therefore among them again, I informed Mr.
Jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated
it to the rest. The proposal 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 debauchery.

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 coughing,
alternately excited laughter. However, 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 exhortation, which was rather
calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I previously observed
that no other motive but their welfare could induce me to this; that I
was their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching. I was
sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane; because they got nothing by
it, and might lose a great deal. "For be assured, my friends," cried I,
("for you are my friends, however the world may disclaim your
friendship,) though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would
not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies calling every
moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find how
scurvily he uses you? He has given you nothing here, you find, but a
mouthful of oaths and an empty belly; and, by the best accounts I have
of him, he will give you nothing that's good hereafter.

"If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elsewhere.
Were it not worth your while, then, just to try how you may like the
usage of another Master, who gives you fair promises, at least, to come
to Him? Surely, my friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must be
the greatest, who, after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for
protection. And yet how are you more wise? You are all seeking comfort
from one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious
being than any thief-taker of them all; for they only decoy and then
hang you; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worst of all, will not
let you loose after the hangman has done. "

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 acquaintance. I therefore
promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually conceived some hope
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 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 passage 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 youngest
daughter, which her pensive air contributed to heighten, and my little
ones did not pass unnoticed.

[Illustration:

_"Alas! doctor," cried he, "these children
are too handsome and too good for such a
place as this. "_—_p. _ 130.
]

"Alas! doctor," cried he, "these children are too handsome and too good
for such a place as this. "

"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-prisoner, "that it must give you a
great comfort to have all 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 Moses) one that I have
injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven. "

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
stockings and the black riband 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
describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, 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 at his journey's end.

"Indeed, I think, from my own experience, that the knowing one is the
silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cunning from my very
childhood; when but seven years old the ladies 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 honest, yet every
one thought me so cunning, that no one would trust me. Thus, I was at
last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever
since, my head throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart
palpitating 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 extricate
my friends. "

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole train of
accidents and follies that had plunged me into my present troubles, and
my utter inability to get free.

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




_CHAPTER XXVII. _

_The same subject continued. _


The next morning I communicated to my wife and children the schemes I
had planned of reforming the prisoners, which they received with
universal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility and impropriety of
it; adding that my endeavours would no way contribute to their
amendment, but might probably disgrace my calling.

"Excuse me," returned I, "these people, however fallen, are still men;
and that is a very good title to my affections. Good counsel rejected
returns to enrich the giver's bosom; and though the instruction 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 opinion, the heart that is
buried in a dungeon 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 gulf, and that will be
great gain; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human
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 going to
begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my
pardon. 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 dexterously displaced one of them, and put an obscene
jest-book of his own in the place. However, I took no notice of all that
this mischievous group of little beings could do, but went on, perfectly
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 succeeded, and in less than six days some were penitent, and all
were attentive.

It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address at thus giving
sensibility 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 between famine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining.
Their only employment was quarrelling among each other, playing at
cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this last mode of idle
industry 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 manufactured, 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 for the punishment of
immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less 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 ferocity into friendship and obedience.

[Illustration:

_Olivia and Sophia leaving the Prison. _
]


And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power would thus
direct the law rather to reformation than severity; that it would seem
convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making
punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead of our present
prisons, which find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches for the
commission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for
the perpetration of thousands, we should see, 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 way to mend a state: nor can I avoid even questioning the validity
of that right which social combinations have assumed of capitally
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 shown a disregard for the life of another.
Against such, all nature rises in arms; but it is not so against him who
steals my property. 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 deprives the other of his horse shall die. But this is a false
compact; because no man has a right to barter his life any more than to
take it away, as it is not his own. And besides, the compact is
inadequate, and would be set aside even in a court of modern equity, as
there is a great penalty for a trifling inconvenience, since it is far
better that two men should live than that one man should ride. But a
compact that is false between two men is equally so between a hundred
and a hundred thousand; for as ten millions of circles can never make a
square, so the united voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest
foundation to falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored
nature says the same thing. Savages that are directed 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 governments, that have the
print of nature still strong upon them, scarcely any crime is held
capital.

It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal laws, which
are in 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
property were become dearer in proportion as it increased—as if the more
enormous our wealth, the more extensive our fears—all our possessions
are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round with gibbets to
scare every invader.

I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, or the
licentiousness of our people, that this country should show more
convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps it
is owing to both; for they mutually produce each other. When by
indiscriminate penal laws a nation beholds the same punishment affixed
to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the
penalty, the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the
crime, and this distinction is the bulwark of all morality. Thus the
multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh
restraints.

It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of contriving new laws
to punish vice, instead of drawing hard the cords of society 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
cannot amend; that a man may see his last crime without dying for it;
and that very little blood will serve to cement our security.




_CHAPTER XXVIII. _

_Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than of virtue
in this life; temporal evils or felicities being regarded
by Heaven as things merely in themselves trifling,
and unworthy its care in the distribution. _


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 communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl
entered my apartment 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 of death seemed to have moulded every
feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and
a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek.

"I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I; "but why this dejection,
Livy? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me to permit
disappointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Be
cheerful, 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 opportunity of sharing that happiness
you promise. 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. Thornhill: it may in
some measure induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in
dying. "

"Never, child! " replied I, "never will I be brought to acknowledge my
daughter a prostitute; for though 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 miserable 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 interview, sensibly enough expostulated upon my obstinacy in
refusing a submission which promised to give me freedom. He observed
that the rest of my family were not to be sacrificed to the peace of one
child alone, and she the only one who had offended me. "Besides," 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 unacquainted 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 approbation 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 she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from any
resentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who wish for a
union. No; villain as he is, I should then wish him married, to prevent
the consequences of his future debaucheries. But now should I not 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 answer, but could not avoid
observing that he feared my daughter's life was already too much wasted
to keep me long a prisoner. "However," continued he, "though you refuse
to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objection to laying your
case before the uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom for
everything that is just and good. I 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 thanked him for
the hint, and instantly set about complying; but I wanted paper, and,
unluckily, all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions:
however, he supplied me.

[Illustration:

"_My children, however, sat by me, and, while
I was stretched on my straw, read to me by turns,
or listened and wept at my instructions. _"—_p. _ 137.
]


For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to know what
reception my letter might meet with; but in the meantime was frequently
solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain
here, and every hour received repeated accounts of the decline of my
daughter'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, 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. My children,
however, sat 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
increase 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 pillow of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her,
to receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to heaven!
Another account came—she was expiring, and yet I was debarred the small
comfort of weeping 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 bade me not to cry, for I was now too
old to weep. "And is not my sister an angel now, papa? " cried the
eldest, "and why then are you sorry for her? I wish I were an angel, out
of this frightful place, if my papa 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 interrupted their harmless prattle, by observing that, now
my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my
family, and attempt to save my own life, which was every day declining
for want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added that it was now
incumbent 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 landlord.

"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 contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parishioner, I hope
one day to present him up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal.
No, sir, I have no resentment now; and though he has taken 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 shall
never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing to approve his
marriage; 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
expressed 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 insolent 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 stepped up in the humblest
manner, and delivered the letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he
said that all submission was now too late and unnecessary; that he had
heard of our application to his uncle, which met with the contempt it
deserved; and, as for the rest, that all future applications should be
directed to his attorney, not to him.
He observed, however, 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-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.