obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised to give me freedom. He observed, that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only one who had of fended 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 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 objections 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, supplied me.

For the three ensuing days I was state of anxiety to know what recept my letter might meet with; but in meantime was frequently solicited by wife to submit to any conditions rather ti remain here, and every hour receiv repeated accounts of the decline of daughter's health. The third day and fourth arrived, but I received no answ to my letter: the complaints of a strang against a favourite nephew were no w likely to succeed; so that these hopes so vanished like all my former. My min however, still supported itself, thou confinement and bad air began to make visible alteration in my health, and my a that had suffered in the fire grew wor My children, however, sat by me, a while I was stretched on my straw, re to me by turns, or listened and wept at instructions. But my daughter's heal declined faster than mine: every messa from her contributed to increase my a prehensions and pain. The fifth morni after I had written the letter which w sent to Sir William Thornhill, I w alarmed with an account that she w speechless. Now it was that confineme was truly painful to me; my soul w bursting from its prison to be near the p low of my child, to comfort, to strength her, to receive her last wishes, and tea her soul the way to Heaven! Anoth account came: she was expiring, and y I was debarred the small comfort of wee ing by her. My fellow-prisoner, son time after, came with the last accoun He bade me be patient : she was dead!The next morning he returned, and four me with my two little ones, now my on companions, who were using all their inn cent efforts to comfort me. They entreat to read to me, and bade me not to cry, f I was now too old to weep. "And is n my sister an angel, now, papa?" cried t eldest; " and why, then, are you sorry f her? I wish I were an angel out of th frightful place, if my papa were with me

"Yes," added my youngest darlin Heaven, where my sister is, is a fin place than this, and there are none b good people there, and the people he are very bad."

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmle

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 our grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful. "My child," cried I, "look round the world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave?"-"My dear father," returned he, 'I hope there is still something that will give you an 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 va

cant.

“And are you sure of all this?" cried my wife ; are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?"-"Nothing, indeed, madam," returned my son; 'you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure; and if 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 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 ther's blessing, and if he had the heart man, to see justice done his father and

sister, and avenge our cause. But, thank be to Him that directs all things, it h miscarried, and I am at rest."-"Woman cried I, "thou hast done very ill, and, another time, my reproaches might ha been more severe. Oh! what a treme dous gulf hast thou escaped, that woul have buried both thee and him in endles ruin! Providence, indeed, has here bee kinder to us than we to ourselves. It ha reserved that son to be the father and pro tector of my children when I shall be away How unjustly did I complain of bein stripped of every comfort, when still I hea that he is happy, and insensible of ou afflictions; still kept in reserve to suppor his widowed mother, and to protect hi brothers and sisters! But what sisters ha he left? He has no sisters now: they ar all gone, robbed from me, and I am un done."-" Father," interrupted my son "I beg you will give me leave to read thi letter-I know it will please you." Upor which, with my permission, he read a follows:

I viev

HONOURED SIR,-I have called off my imagination a few moments from the plea sures that surround me, to fix it upon ob jects that are still more pleasing,-the dea little fireside at home. My fancy draw that harmless group, as listening to ever line of this with great composure. those faces with delight, which never fei the deforming hand of ambition or distress But, whatever your happiness may be a 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 i not to leave the kingdom. The colonel who professes himself my friend, takes m with him to all companies where he i acquainted, and, after my first visit I generally find myself received with increased respect upon repeating it. danced last night with Lady G-, and could I forget you know whom, I migh be perhaps successful. But it is my fat still to remember others, while I am mysel forgotten by most of my absent friends and in this number, I fear, sir, that I mus consider you; for I have long expected th pleasure of a letter from home, to n

"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 safer? 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 scarce said these words, when a noise like that of a tumult semed to proceed from the prison below: ittei away soon after, and a clanking of fers was heard along the passage that led to my apartment. The keeper of the ps entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the heaviest I looked with compassion on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror, when I found it was my own son. "My George! my George! and do I bethee thus? Wounded-fettered! Is the thy happiness? is this the manner you pear to me? Oh that this sight could heart at once, and let me die!" Where, sir, is your fortitude?" returned y son, with an intrepid voice. "I must fer; my life is forfeited, and let them take it."

break

my

I tried to restrain my passions for a few tes in silence, but I thought I should have died with the effort.-"Oh, my boy, y heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I Cannot, cannot help it. In the moment I thought thee blest, and prayed for fly safety, to behold thee thus again! Chained-wounded; and yet the death of youthful is happy. But I am old, a very man, and have lived to see this day! To my children all untimely falling about 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 transgressor 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."

Yes, my

"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. 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 exhortation, 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 Ime 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 fellowsufferers, 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.

"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 pla of comfort, its shortness must be mise and if it be long, our griefs are protracte Thus philosophy is weak; but religi comforts in a higher strain. Man is he it tells us, fitting up his mind, and pr paring it for another abode. When t good man leaves the body, and is all glorious mind, he will find he has be making himself a heaven of happine here; while the wretch that has be maimed and contaminated by his vice shrinks from his body with terror, a finds that he has anticipated the vengean of Heaven. To religion, then, we mu hold, in every circumstance of life, for o truest comfort: for if already we are happ it is a pleasure to think that we can mal that happiness unending; and if we a miserable, it is very consoling to thin that there is a place of rest. Thus, to th fortunate, religion holds out a continuan of bliss; to the wretched, a change fro pain.

"But though religion is very kind to a men, it has promised peculiar rewards the unhappy: the sick, the naked, th houseless, the heavy laden, and the p soner, have ever most frequent promises our sacred law. The Author of our religio everywhere professes himself the wretch friend, and, unlike the false ones of th world, bestows all his caresses upon t forlorn. The unthinking have censurt this as partiality, as a preference witho merit to deserve it. But they never reflec that it is not in the power even of Heav itself to make the offer of unceasing felici as great a gift to the happy as to miserable. To the first, eternity is bu single blessing, since at most it but creases what they already possess. the latter, it is a double advantag for it diminishes their pain here, a rewards them with heavenly bliss he after.

"But Providence is in another resp kinder to the poor than to the rich; as it thus makes the life after death m desirable, so it smoothes the passage the The wretched have had a long familiar with every face of terror. The man sorrows lays himself quietly down, with possessions to regret, and but few ties