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

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

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

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

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

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamentations, and
various sounds of misery; but it was very different. The prisoners
seemed all employed in one common design, that of forgetting thought in
merriment or clamour. I was apprized of the usual perquisite required
upon these occasions, and immediately complied with the demand, though
the little money I had was very near being all exhausted. This was
immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison soon was filled
with riot, laughter, and prophaneness.

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

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

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

I thanked him, professing my surprize at finding such humanity in a gaol
in misfortunes; adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, 'That the
sage ancient seemed to understand the value of company in affliction,
when he said, Ton kosman aire, ei dos ton etairon; and in fact,'
continued I, 'what is the World if it affords only solitude?'

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

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

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

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

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

We were now prevented from further conversation, by the arrival of the
gaoler's servants, who came to call over the 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
cloaths 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 tranquility till morning.

The next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom I found in
tears at my bed-side. The gloomy strength of every thing about us, it
seems, had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them
I had never slept with greater tranquility, and next enquired after
my eldest daughter, who was not among them. They informed me that
yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had encreased 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 the family in, as near the prison
as conveniently could be found. He obeyed; but could only find one
apartment, which was hired at a small expence, for his mother and
sisters, the gaoler with humanity consenting to let him and his two
little brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore 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 any where 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 declining sister's
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 full 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 sate 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 prophane; because
they got nothing by it, but 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 greatest, who, after robbing an house, runs to the thieftakers 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 thieftaker 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
hopes of making a reformation here; for it had ever been my opinion,
that no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to
the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. When
I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my apartment, where my wife
had prepared a frugal meal, while Mr Jenkinson begged leave to add his
dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to
express it of my conversation. He had not yet seen my family, for as
they came to my apartment by a door in the narrow 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.

'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
great comfort to have this little family about you.'

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

'I am afraid then, sir,' cried he, 'that I am in some measure culpable;
for I think I see here (looking at my son 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 ribband in your hair, that allured me. But no
disparagement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my
time; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have been too many for
me at last.'

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

'Not much of either,' returned Mr Jenkinson. 'Those relations which
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 not 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 slapt his forehead,
as if he had hit upon something material, and took his leave, saying he
would try what could be done.

The next morning I communicated to my wife and children the scheme I had
planned of reforming the prisoners, which they received with universal
disapprobation, alledging 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 council 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 gulph, 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
dextrously 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
groupe 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
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, tumultous 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.

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 shewn a disregard for the life of another.
Against such, all nature arises 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, no more than
to take it away, as it is not his own. And beside, the compact is
inadequate, and would be set aside even in a court of modern equity, as
there is a great penalty for a very trifling convenience, since it is
far better that two men should live, than that one man should ride.
But a compact that is false between two men, is equally so between an
hundred, or an 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, scarce 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 shew 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 a 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.

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 molded
every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was
tense, and a fatal paleness sate upon her cheek.

'I am glad to see thee, my dear,' 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
chearful child, and we yet may 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 tho' the world may look upon your offence
with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of
guilt. My dear, I am no way 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 was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one
child alone, and she the only one who had offended me. 'Beside,' added
he, 'I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and
wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match which
you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy.'

'Sir,' replied I, 'you are 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 an
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
every thing 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 thank'd 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.

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety, to know what
reception my letter might meet with; but in the mean time was frequently
solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain
here, and every hour received 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 sate by me, and while I was stretched on my straw, read to me by
turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But my daughter's
health declined faster than mine; every message from her contributed
to encrease my apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning after I had
written the letter which was sent to Sir William Thornhill, I was
alarmed with an account that she was speechless. Now it was, that
confinement was truly painful to me; my soul was bursting from its
prison to be near the 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, pappa,' cried the
eldest, 'and why then are you sorry for her? I wish I were an angel
out of this frightful place, if my pappa were with me.' 'Yes,' added
my youngest darling, 'Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than
this, and there are none but good people there, and the people here are
very bad.'

Mr Jenkinson interupted their harmless prattle, by observing that now my
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 exprest
it, to which I signed my name. My son was employed to carry the letter
to Mr Thornhill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went,
and in about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had some
difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants
were 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 stept 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 an 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 encrease my afflictions by your
own, what though no submissions can turn our severe master, tho' he has
doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost
a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children
when I shall be no more.' 'We have indeed lost,' returned she, 'a
darling child. My Sophia, my dearest, is gone, snatched from us, carried
off by ruffians!'

'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
stopt. Upon which, a well drest man, but not Mr Thornhill, stepping
out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the
postillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment.

'Now,' cried I, 'the sum of my misery is made up, nor is it in the power
of any thing on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left! not
to leave 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 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, chearful, 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!'

'And are you sure of all this,' cried my wife, 'are you sure that
nothing ill has befallen my boy?'--'Nothing indeed, madam,' returned
my son, 'you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest
pleasure; and if any thing can procure you comfort, I am sure that
will.' 'But are you sure,' still 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 be to him that
directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest.' 'Woman,' cried
I, 'thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might
have been more severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulph hast thou escaped,
that would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin. Providence,
indeed, has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved
that son to be the father and protector of my children when I shall be
away. How unjustly did I complain of being stript of every 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 fire-side at home. My fancy draws that
harmless groupe 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 encreased respect upon repeating it. I danced
last night with Lady G-, and could I forget you know whom, I might be
perhaps 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 they are
two arrant little baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent
passion with them: yet still, I know not how, tho' 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 supporter of his widowed
mother, and the father of these two babes, which is all the patrimony I
can now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence from the temptations
of want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour.' I had scarce
said these words, when a noise, like that of a tumult, seemed to proceed
from the prison below; it died away soon after, and a clanking of
fetters was heard along the passage that led to my apartment. The keeper
of the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded and fettered
with the heaviest irons. I looked with 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 find thee thus. Wounded! Fettered! Is this
thy happiness! Is this the manner you return to me! O that this sight
could break my heart at once and let me die!'

'Where, Sir, is your fortitude,' returned my son with an intrepid voice.
'I must suffer, my life is forfeited, and let them take it.'

I tried to restrain my passions 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 his dispatching
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.'

'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 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 according to my
direction, for they loved to hear my council, 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.

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 shew 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
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 an higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and
preparing it for another abode. When the good man leaves the body and is
all a glorious mind, he will find he has been making himself a heaven of
happiness here, while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated
by his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he has
anticipated the vengeance of 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 every where 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 encreases 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 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, without
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 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 shews 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 sooth 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 then
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 shew the horrors of the place, those shackles that tyranny has
imposed, or crime made necessary; when I survey these emaciated looks,
and hear those groans, O my friends, what a glorious exchange would
heaven be for these. To fly through regions unconfined as air, to
bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carrol over endless hymns
of praise, to have no master to threaten or insult us, but the form of
goodness himself for ever in our eyes, when I think of these things,
death becomes the messenger of very glad tidings; when I think of these
things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support; when I think
of these things, what is there in life worth having; when I think of
these things, what is there that should not be spurned away: kings in
their palaces should groan for such 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 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 burthen laid by heaven upon us, and though
death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks the
weary traveller with the view, and like his horizon, still 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 on our
sufferings below; when we shall be surrounded with all our friends, or
such as deserved our friendship; when our bliss shall be unutterable,
and still, to crown all, unending.

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 revisit 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 sate 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 stopt at
a neighbouring village for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to
town. He had scarce delivered this news, when the gaoler came with looks
of haste and pleasure, to inform me, that my daughter was found. Moses
came running in a moment after, crying out that his sister Sophy was
below and coming up with our old friend Mr Burchell.

Just as he delivered this news my dearest girl entered, and with looks
almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a transport of affection.
Her mother's tears and silence also shewed her pleasure.--'Here,
pappa,' 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 now
find us in; and we are now very different from what you last saw us. You
were ever our friend: we have long discovered our errors with regard
to you, and repented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then
received at my hands I am almost ashamed to behold your face; yet I hope
you'll 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 hast thou been relieved,
or who the ruffians were who 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 mean time the ruffian himself used every art to hinder me from
crying out: he flattered and threatened by turns, and swore that if I
continued but silent, he intended no harm. In the mean time I had broken
the canvas that he had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at some
distance but your old friend Mr Burchell, walking along with his usual
swiftness, with the great stick for which we used so much to ridicule
him. As soon as we came within 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 bid the postillion stop; but the boy
took no notice, but drove on with still greater speed. I now thought he
could never overtake us, when in less than a minute I saw Mr Burchell
come running up by the side of the horses, and with one blow knock the
postillion to the ground. The horses when he was fallen soon stopt of
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 at this time come out
myself, willing to assist my deliverer; but he soon returned to me in
triumph. The postillion, 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 chear 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 recompence she is yours, if you can stoop to an
alliance with a family so poor as mine, take her, obtain her consent, as
I know you have her heart, and you have mine. And let me tell you, Sir,
that I give you no small treasure, she has been celebrated for beauty
it is true, but that is not my meaning, I give you up a treasure in her
mind.'

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

'If your present objection,' replied I, 'be meant as an evasion of my
offer, I desist: but I know no man so worthy to deserve her as you; and
if I could give 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 tho' in a prison, asserted he was
never better disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made his appearance
with preparations for dinner, a table was lent us by the gaoler, who
seemed remarkably assiduous, the wine was disposed in order, and two
very well-drest dishes were brought in.

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 chearful,
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 that 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 mean time, asked me
if my son's name were George, to which replying in the affirmative,
he still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the 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 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 any thing 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 still a greater, which is the
good man that comes to relieve it. After he had regarded my son for some
time with a superior air, 'I again find,' said he, 'unthinking boy, that
the same crime--' But here he was interrupted by one of the gaoler's
servants, who came to 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 a duelist 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 alledges 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.'

He took the letter, and hastily read it over. 'This,' says he, 'though
not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his fault, as induces me
to forgive him. And now, Sir,' continued he, kindly taking my son by
the hand, 'I see you are surprised at finding me here; but I have often
visited prisons upon 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 that courts could not give, from the
amusing simplicity around his fire-side. My nephew has been apprized
of my intentions of coming here, and I find 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 the personage whom we had so long entertained as an
harmless amusing companion was no other than the celebrated Sir William
Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarce any were strangers.
The poor Mr Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune and great
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 audaciously threw out, these jokes, Sir, I fear can never be
forgiven.'

'My dear good lady,' returned he with a smile, 'if you had your joke, I
had my answer: I'll leave it to all the company if mine were not as
good as yours. To say the truth, I know no body whom I am disposed to
be angry with at present but the fellow who so frighted 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 can't be positive; yet now I recollect
he had a large mark over one of his eye-brows.' '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
out-ran 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 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,' reply'd the gaoler, 'I know Sir William Thornhill well, and
every body that knows any thing of him, will desire to know more of
him.'--'Well then,' said the Baronet, 'my request is, that you will
permit this man and two of your servants to go upon a message by my
authority, and as I am in the commission of the peace, I undertake to
secure you.'--'Your promise is 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 dispatched in
search 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 eat very heartily, as they had got that morning but a very
scanty breakfast.

We now sate down to dinner, which was almost cold; but previously, my
arm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a prescription, for he
had made the study of physic his amusement, and was more than moderately
skilled in the profession: this being sent to an apothecary who lived in
the place, my arm was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief.
We were waited upon at dinner by the gaoler himself, who was willing to
do our guest all the 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.

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

'Is it possible, Sir,' interrupted his nephew, 'that my uncle could
object that as a crime which his repeated 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 offence, 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.'

'He cannot contradict a single 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 gaoler's two
servants now called off our attention, who entered, haling in a tall
man, very genteelly drest, 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 back with terror. His face became
pale with conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn; but Jenkinson,
who perceived his design, stopt him--'What, 'Squire,' cried he, 'are you
ashamed of your two old 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
cloaths 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 mean time, 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 not
legal evidence to detain him.'

Upon this, Mr Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated that two
such abandoned wretches might not be admitted as evidences 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 drest up in
his cloaths in company together?' 'Yes, please your honour,' cried the
butler, 'a thousand times: he was the man that always brought him
his ladies.'--'How,' interrupted young Mr Thornhill, 'this to my
face!'--'Yes,' replied the butler, 'or to any man's face. To tell you
a truth, Master Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked you, and
I don't care if I tell you now a piece of my mind.'--'Now then,' cried
Jenkinson, 'tell his honour whether you know any thing of me.'--'I can't
say,' replied the butler, 'that I know much good of you. The night
that gentleman's daughter was 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 me, and I confess it to my confusion.'

'Good heavens!' exclaimed the 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 next day to have been married to Mr Thornhill. Nothing
could equal her surprize 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 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 surprize 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 cloathed 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 courage to face his betrayer.
And give me leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an escape from
the embraces of such a monster.'

'O goodness,' cried the lovely girl, 'how have I been deceived! Mr
Thornhill informed me for certain that this gentleman's eldest son,
Captain Primrose, was gone off to America with his new married lady.'

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

'Good heavens!' cried Miss Wilmot, 'how very near have I been to the
brink of ruin! But how great is my pleasure to have escaped it! Ten
thousand falsehoods has this gentleman told me! He had at last art
enough to persuade me that my promise to the only man I esteemed was no
longer binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was
taught to detest one equally brave and generous!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I am surprised,' said the Baronet, 'what the fellow can intend by this.
Some low piece of humour I suppose!'--'Perhaps, Sir,' replied I, 'he may
have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes
this gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one more
artful than the rest has been found able to deceive him. When we
consider what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with
anguish the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into their
families, it would not surprise me if some one of them--Amazement! Do I
see my lost daughter! Do I hold her! It is, it is my life, my happiness.
I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee--and still thou
shalt live to bless me.'--The warmest transports of the fondest lover
were not greater than mine when I saw him introduce my child, and held
my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. 'And
art thou returned to me, my darling,' cried I, 'to be my comfort in
age!'--'That she is,' cried Jenkinson, 'and make much of her, for she
is your own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole
room, let the other be who she will. And as for you 'Squire, as sure
as you stand there this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to
convince you that I speak nothing but truth, here is the licence by
which you were married together.'--So saying, he put the licence into
the Baronet's hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every respect.
'And now, gentlemen,' continued he, I find you are surprised at all
this; but a few words will explain the difficulty. That there 'Squire
of renown, for whom I have a great friendship, but that's between
ourselves, as often employed me in doing odd little things for him.
Among the rest, he commissioned me to procure him a false licence and
a false priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was very
much his friend, what did I do but went and got a true licence and a
true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth could make them.
Perhaps you'll think it was generosity that made me do all this. But no.
To my shame I confess it, my only design was to keep the licence and
let the 'Squire know that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought
proper, and so make him come down whenever I wanted money.' A burst of
pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy reached even to
the common room, where the prisoners themselves sympathized,

  --And shook their chains
  In transport and rude harmony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The family walks with the vicar and the officer towards prison, followed by fifty of the county's poorest parishioners, who are sad and angry to see their curate taken. When the parishioners grows angry enough to assault the officer, the vicar rebukes them, and they fall back. The travel is slow, largely owing to the vicar's injuries from the fire. Eventually, they arrive at an inn near the prison, where the family stays while the vicar and officer continue to prison. When the vicar arrives there, he is surprised to find the prisoners engaged in revelry and merriment. He generously purchases more liquor for them, and the party continues. At the party, the vicar sits alone until a young, friendly man offers him some blankets for the night. The vicar enjoys conversing with this intelligent person until he recognizes some of the man's ideas, and pieces together that it is the scoundrel Ephraim Jenkinson. Ephraim offers profuse apologies for previously cheating the vicar, noting that his sins have caught up to him and landed him in prison. The vicar forgives him, and notes that Ephraim looks much younger than he did before. Ephraim then explains that he has several disguises that allow him to look younger or older at will. Chapter XXVI The next day, the vicar's family visits him. They have rented rooms in the area for the girls, while the boys are allowed to stay in the prison with him. Olivia does not join the family, as she has taken ill. The vicar instructs his family on how they will weather this situation: Sophia must take care of her sister, Deborah must care for him, Moses must find work to support the family, and the young boys must read to the vicar. Over the next days, the prisoners prove themselves a rather lewd and raucous bunch, so the vicar decides to reform them. He delivers an impromptu sermon about good behavior in the common room, and the prisoners actually respond well to it. That night, when the family returns for dinner, they welcome Jenkinson to join them. Though he is friendly towards the boys and admiring of Sophia, Moses is bothered when he recognizes the criminal's voice and remembers the spectacles con. However, he accepts Jenkinson's sincere apologies. Jenkinson then asks the vicar how he ended up in the prison, and the older man tells his story. When the story finishes, Jenkinson suddenly runs out of the room, strangely saying he will soon find a solution. Chapter XXVII The vicar continues with his plan to reign in the debauchery of the inmates, hoping to bring them closer to God. For a few days, they make fun of him for his sanctimony, but eventually come to respect and appreciate him. He also devises plans to make their situation more comfortable, such as assigning them little jobs and instituting rewards for good behavior. By the end of a fortnight, he "had formed them into something social and humane, and had the pleasure of regarding as a legislator" . One day, he gives a speech about how the best way to reform a state is by encouraging virtue rather than by harshly punishing vice. That way, men would be encouraged to improve society, rather than learning to disdain it. Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXVIII Olivia visits her father, and he is struck by the terrible change in her appearance. She begs him to submit to Squire Thornhill, but he refuses to implicitly condone the way he treated her. Jenkinson overhears their conversation, and questions the vicar about his reasons for refusal. The vicar explains that he could never approve of Thornhill's marriage to Arabella, since he believes the man has already given his hand to Olivia. Jenkinson then suggests he write to Sir William Thornhill, to explain the nephew's conduct. Agreeing, the vicar sends the message and waits anxiously for a reply. The vicar's health, meanwhile, is suffering, due to both distress and his burnt arm. Jenkinson brings even more terrible news: Olivia has died from her heartbreak. Beaten, the vicar dismisses his pride and agrees to submit to Squire Thornhill. However, his message of acquiescence is refused. The squire had intercepted the vicar's message to his uncle, and now wishes only ill to the older man. Right after the vicar receives the squire's reply, a distraught Deborah arrives with the terrible news that Sophia has been snatched away by ruffians in a post-chaise. The villain did not appear to be Squire Thornhill. A few minutes later, Moses arrives with a letter from George, bearing good news. Deborah is relieved to receive this message, noting that it means George must not have received a letter she sent him, asking him to avenge Olivia's shame upon Squire Thornhill. Though the vicar is incensed that she attempted to prompt violence, he too is relieved that the letter did not reach George. Together, they read George's letter, which expresses great contentment with his post. The vicar earnestly thanks God for his son's safety and happiness, but is minutes later distraught when a bloody prisoner is brought to his cell. It is George, bound in chains for having attempted to attack the squire. After calming his father down, George tells his story: before he reached the squire, four of that man's servants beat him senseless and then had him arrested. Feeling guilty, George asks his father for some advice on fortitude, and the vicar decides to deliver that advice to the whole prison population. Chapter XXIX The vicar delivers his sermon to the prison. He argues that life is built more on suffering than on happiness, which is why religion is important. Religion promises greater rewards to the poor and unhappy than it does to the happy, since the former will better appreciate the joys of heaven once they arrive. He ends by begging his audience to take comfort in their situation, since impending death will bring ultimate bliss with it. Chapter XXX Chapter XXX Soon afterwards, the vicar learns that Sophia has been recovered. Mr. Burchell brings Sophia to the prison, and the vicar apologizes to that man for his false accusations. Mr. Burchell forgives him, explaining that he was not at liberty to correct the vicar's otherwise understandable assumptions about his character. Sophia tells her story. She was walking innocently one day and then was suddenly snatched up. Luckily, she saw Mr. Burchell through the coach window, and screamed for help. Though he was able to stop the coach, the villains escaped. The relieved vicar offer Sophia's hand to Mr. Burchell, who reminds the vicar that he has no money to offer. The vicar dismisses the concern, insisting that Burchell is a worthy man. Though he makes no promise one way or the other, Mr. Burchell then orders refreshments from the inn to be brought to the family. The vicar is sad to tell Sophia about her brother. Overhearing the story, Mr. Burchell asks if the young man's name is George. When George enters the room, he and Mr. Burchell recognize one another, and George seems ashamed. Before they can speak in depth, however, a prison servant enters with news that a man in a coach has arrived and expects to see Mr. Burchell. The latter sends word that he will arrive soon, and then confronts George about trying to attack Squire Thornhill. The vicar intervenes to offer the letter George received from Deborah. Though Mr. Burchell still considers the attack a crime, he admits the letter does offer some justification. Then, to the family's surprise, Mr. Burchell reveals that he is truly Sir William Thornhill. Everyone is overjoyed and shocked, though Sophia seems a bit disconcerted to discover that her love is so far above her station. Deborah begs forgiveness for having once spoken so coarsely to him, but Mr. Burchell dismisses her concern. Sophia is asked to describe her captor, and Jenkinson recognizes the description as belonging to Timothy Baxter. With Sir William's blessing, Jenkinson convinces the jailor to grant him two men with which to apprehend Baxter. Sir William, having medical experience, then prescribes a medicine to help alleviate the vicar's arm pain. The jail servant reappears, now identifying the man in the coach as Squire Thornhill, who wishes to be seen. Sir William agrees. Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXI Squire Thornhill enters, and refuses to answer to any accusations. He denies having seduced Olivia, and insists that the vicar has been jailed for a legitimate offense. Faced with a lack of evidence, Sir William can accuse his nephew of nothing except for a lack of mercy. When Jenkinson and the two servants return with Baxter, however, the squire shrinks back in alarm. Jenkinson identifies himself and Baxter as the squire's criminal accomplices, and notes that Baxter has confessed to having kidnapped Sophia so that the squire could then pretend to rescue her and thereby gain her confidence in hopes of seducing her as he did Olivia. The squire calls upon his servants to defend him, but they realize he is now powerless, and confess their dislike for him. They also offer further proof of his insidious behavior, and Sir William laments the "viper I have been fostering in my bosom" . He then demands George be released, and promises to settle all affairs before the magistrate. At that moment, Miss Arabella Wilmot and her father arrive. They were in town preparing for the wedding the next day, and saw little Bill Primrose playing. He told them of his father's plight, and they have come to visit. The vicar muses on the nature of coincidences and "how many seeming accidents must unite before we can be clothed and fed" . Sir William tells Arabella the truth about Squire Thornhill, and she is overjoyed to be released from such a villain. She further confesses that she has always loved George, but that the squire lied to her by sending George away and then convincing her he had left to marry someone else. When the family presents George, who has by this time has cleaned up and dressed in his regimentals, she pronounces her love for him. The squire, now incensed, then reveals that he no longer needs his uncle's protection or fortune, since he has already signed the contract ensuring him the Wilmot fortune. Whether or not he marries Arabella, she now lacks control of her dowry. Despite this distressing news, the lovers are unfazed. Mr. Wilmot panics a bit, but Sir William rebukes him for valuing money over his daughter's happiness and salvation from such a rascal. Jenkinson then inquires whether the contract would be valid if the squire was already married. Startled, Sir William insists that a previous marriage would negate any contract. Jenkinson then reveals that though the squire asked him to create a false marriage license for the ceremony with Olivia, he had actually obtained a real license, hoping to one day use it to blackmail the squire. Therefore, Olivia and the Squire were actually married, and the contract for the Wilmot fortune negated. Suddenly, Olivia herself arrives. It turns out that Jenkinson had lied about her death in hopes that it would inspire the vicar to submit to Squire Thornhill and thereby be released from prison, where he would otherwise surely die from his wounds. The squire's fate now solidified, he drops to his knees and begs mercy before his uncle, who promises him a meager allowance and nothing more. After the squire leaves, everyone rejoices in their happiness. Only Sophia remains distressed, and is doubly saddened when Sir Williams asks whether she would like to marry Jenkinson, a handsome young man of character. When she refuses, he jokingly notes that she must then marry him. He then earnestly admits he has never met a woman who loved him for himself , and that he is rapturous to have met such a beautiful woman like her. Everyone prepares to retire to the inn next door, and Sir William and Arabella leave some money for the grateful inmates. Later than night, alone, the vicar pours his heart out to God in thankful prayers. Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXII The vicar soon learns that his own fortune has been recovered from the merchant who stole it. He personally marries Sophia to Sir William and then Arabella to George. He then throws an elegant feast for them, and his many parishioners arrive to congratulate him. The vicar also mentions what he knows about Squire Thornhill. The man lives alone with a relative, and is trying to learn the French horn. The vicar ends his narrative by remarking that "I now had nothing on this side of the grave to wish for, all my cares were over, my pleasure was unspeakable. It now remained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former submission in adversity" .