GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
Mr. Bragwell was so much afflicted at the disgraceful marriage of
his daughter, who ran off with Timothy Incle, the strolling player,
that he never fully recovered his spirits. His cheerfulness, which
had arisen from a high opinion of himself, had been confirmed by a
constant flow of uninterrupted success; and that is a sort of
cheerfulness which is very liable to be impaired, because it lies at
the mercy of every accident and cross event in life. But though his
pride was now disappointed, his misfortunes had not taught him any
humility, because he had not discovered that they were caused by his
own fault; nor had he acquired any patience or submission, because
he had not learned that all afflictions come from the hand of God,
to awaken us to a deep sense of our sins, and to draw off our
hearts from the perishing vanities of this life. Besides, Mr.
Bragwell was one of those people who, if they would be thought to
bear with tolerable submission such trials as appear to be sent more
immediately from Providence, yet think they have a sort of right to
rebel at every misfortune which befalls them through the fault of a
fellow-creature; as if our fellow-creatures were not the agents and
instruments by which Providence often sees fit to try or to punish
us.
In answer to his heavy complaints, Mr. Worthy wrote him a letter in
which he expatiated on the injustice of our impatience, and on the
folly of our vindicating ourselves from guilt in the distinctions we
make between those trials which seem to come more immediately from
God, and those which proceed directly from the faults of our
fellow-creatures. "Sickness, losses, and death, we think," continued
he, "we dare not openly rebel against; while we fancy we are quite
justified in giving loose to our violence when we suffer by the hand
of the oppressor, the unkindness of the friend, or the disobedience
of the child. But this is one of the delusions of our blinded
hearts. Ingratitude, unkindness, calumny, are permitted to assail us
by the same power who cuts off 'the desire of our eyes at a stroke.'
The friend who betrays us, and the daughter who deceives us, are
instruments for our chastisement, sent by the same purifying hand
who orders a fit of sickness to weaken our bodies, or a storm to
destroy our crop, or a fire to burn down our house. And we must look
for the same remedy in the one case as in the other; I mean prayer
and a deep submission to the will of God. We must leave off looking
at second causes, and look more at Him who sets them in action. We
must try to find out the meaning of the Providence, and hardly dare
pray to be delivered from it till it has accomplished in us the end
for which it was sent."
His imprudent daughter Bragwell would not be brought to see or
forgive, nor was the degrading name of Mrs. Incle ever allowed to be
pronounced in his hearing. He had loved her with an excessive and
undue affection, and while she gratified his vanity by her beauty
and finery, he deemed her faults of little consequence; but when she
disappointed his ambition by a disgraceful marriage, all his natural
affection only served to increase his resentment. Yet, though he
regretted her crime less than his own mortification, he never ceased
in secret to lament her loss. She soon found out she was undone, and
wrote in a strain of bitter repentance to ask him for forgiveness.
She owned that her husband, whom she had supposed to be a man of
fashion in disguise, was a low person in distressed circumstances.
She implored that her father, though he refused to give her husband
that fortune for which alone it was now too plain he married her,
would at least allow her some subsistence; for that Mr. Incle was
much in debt, and, she feared, in danger of a jail.
The father's heart was half melted at this account, and his
affection was for a time awakened; but Mrs. Bragwell opposed his
sending her any assistance. She always made it a point of duty never
to forgive; for, she said, it only encouraged those who had done
wrong once to do worse next time. For her part she had never yet
been guilty of so mean and pitiful a weakness as to forgive any one;
for to pardon an injury always showed either want of spirit to feel
it, or want of power to resent it. She was resolved she would never
squander the money for which she worked early and late, on a baggage
who had thrown herself away on a beggar, while she had a daughter
single, who might yet raise her family by a great match. I am sorry
to say that Mrs. Bragwell's anger was not owing to the undutifulness
of the daughter, or the worthlessness of the husband; poverty was
in her eyes the grand crime. The doctrine of forgiveness, as a
religious principle, made no more a part of Mr. Bragwell's system
than of his wife's; but in natural feeling, particularly for this
offending daughter, he much exceeded her.
In a few months the youngest Miss Bragwell desired leave to return
home from Mr. Worthy's. She had, indeed, only consented to go
thither as a less evil of the two, than staying in her father's
house after her sister's elopement. But the sobriety and simplicity
of Mr. Worthy's family were irksome to her. Habits of vanity and
idleness were become so rooted in her mind, that any degree of
restraint was a burden; and though she was outwardly civil, it was
easy to see that she longed to get away. She resolved, however, to
profit by her sister's faults; and made her parents easy by assuring
them she would never throw herself away on a _man who was worth
nothing_. Encouraged by these promises, which her parents thought
included the whole sum and substance of human wisdom, and which was
all, they said, they could in reason expect, her father allowed her
to come home.
Mr. Worthy, who accompanied her, found Mr. Bragwell gloomy and
dejected. As his house was no longer a scene of vanity and
festivity, Mr. Bragwell tried to make himself and his friend believe
that he was grown religious; whereas he was only become
discontented. As he had always fancied that piety was a melancholy,
gloomy thing, and as he felt his own mind really gloomy, he was
willing to think that he was growing pious. He had, indeed, gone
more constantly to church, and had taken less pleasure in feasting
and cards, and now and then read a chapter in the Bible; but all
this was because his spirits were low, and not because his heart was
changed. The outward actions were more regular, but the inward man
was the same. The forms of religion were resorted to as a painful
duty; but this only added to his misery, while he was utterly
ignorant of its spirit and power. He still, however, reserved
religion as a loathsome medicine, to which he feared he must have
recourse at last, and of which he even now considered every
abstinence from pleasure, or every exercise of piety as a bitter
dose. His health also was impaired, so that his friend found him in
a pitiable state, neither able to receive pleasure from the world,
which he so dearly loved, nor from religion, which he so greatly
feared. He expected to have been much commended by Mr. Worthy for
the change in his way of life; but Worthy, who saw that the
alteration was only owing to the loss of animal spirits, and to the
casual absence of temptation, was cautious of flattering him too
much. "I thought, Mr. Worthy," said he, "to have received some
comfort from you. I was told, too, that religion was full of
comfort, but I do not much find it." "You were told the truth,"
replied Worthy; "religion is full of comfort, but you must first be
brought into a state fit to receive it before it can become so; you
must be brought to a deep and humbling sense of sin. To give you
comfort while you are puffed up with high thoughts of yourself,
would be to give you a strong cordial in a high fever. Religion
keeps back her cordials till the patient is lowered and
emptied--emptied of self, Mr. Bragwell. If you had a wound, it must
be examined and cleansed, ay, and probed too, before it would be
safe to put on a healing plaster. Curing it to the outward eye,
while it was corrupt at bottom, would only bring on a mortification,
and you would be a dead man, while you trusted that the plaster was
curing you. You must be, indeed, a Christian before you can be
entitled to the comforts of Christianity."
"I am a Christian," said Mr. Bragwell; "many of my friends are
Christians, but I do not see as it has done us much good."
"Christianity itself," answered Worthy, "can not make us good,
unless it be applied to our hearts. Christian privileges will not
make us Christians, unless we make use of them. On that shelf I see
stands your medicine. The doctor orders you to take it. _Have_ you
taken it?" "Yes," replied Bragwell. "Are you the better for it?"
said Worthy. "I think I am," he replied. "But," added Mr. Worthy,
"are you the better because the doctor has ordered it merely, or
because you have also taken it?" "What a foolish question," cried
Bragwell; "why to be sure the doctor might be the best doctor, and
his physic the best physic in the world; but if it stood forever on
the shelf, I could not expect to be cured by it. My doctor is not a
mountebank. He does not pretend to cure by a charm. The physic is
good, and as it suits my case, though it is bitter, I take it."
"You have now," said Mr. Worthy, "explained undesignedly the reason
why religion does so little good in the world. It is not a
mountebank; it does not work by a charm; but it offers to cure your
worst corruptions by wholesome, though sometimes bitter
prescriptions. But you will not take them; you will not apply to God
with the same earnest desire to be healed with which you apply to
your doctor; you will not confess your sins to one as honestly as
you tell your symptoms to the other, nor read your Bible with the
same faith and submission with which you take your medicine. In
reading it, however, you must take care not to apply to yourself the
comforts which are not suited to your case. You must, by the grace
of God, be brought into a condition to be entitled to the promises,
before you can expect the comfort of them. Conviction is not
conversion; that worldly discontent, which is the effect of worldly
disappointment, is not that _godly sorrow which worketh repentance_.
Besides, while you have been pursuing all the gratifications of the
world, do not complain that you have not all the comforts of
religion too. Could you live in the full enjoyment of both, the
_Bible would not be true_."
_Bragwell._ Well, sir, but I do a good action sometimes; and God,
who knows he did not make us perfect, will accept it, and for the
sake of my good actions will forgive my faults.
_Worthy._ Depend upon it, God will never forgive your sins for the
sake of your virtues. There is no commutation tax there. But he will
forgive them on your sincere repentance for the sake of Jesus
Christ. Goodness is not a single act to be done; so that a man can
say, I have achieved it, and the thing is over; but it is a habit
that is to be constantly maintained; it is a continual struggle with
the opposite vice. No man must reckon himself good for any thing he
has already done; though he may consider it as an evidence that he
is in the right way, if he feels a constant disposition to resist
every evil temper. But every Christian grace will always find work
enough; and he must not fancy that because he has conquered once,
his virtue may now sit down and take a holiday.
_Bragwell._ But I thought we Christians need not be watchful against
sin; because Christ, as you so often tell me, died for sinners.
_Worthy._ Do not deceive yourself: the evangelical doctrines, while
they so highly exalt a Saviour, do not diminish the heinousness of
sin, they rather magnify it. Do not comfort yourself by extenuation
or mitigation of sin; but by repentance toward God, and faith in our
Lord Jesus Christ. It is not by diminishing or denying your debt;
but by confessing it, by owning that you have nothing to pay, that
forgiveness is to be hoped.
_Bragwell._ I don't understand you. You want to have me as good as a
saint, and as penitent as a sinner at the same time.
_Worthy._ I expect of every real Christian, that is, every real
penitent, that he should labor to get his heart and life impressed
with the stamp of the gospel. I expect to see him aiming at a
conformity in spirit and in practice to the will of God in Jesus
Christ. I expect to see him gradually attaining toward the entire
change from his natural self. When I see a man at constant war with
those several pursuits and tempers which are with peculiar propriety
termed _worldly_, it is a plain proof to me that the change must
have passed on him which the gospel emphatically terms becoming "a
new man."
_Bragwell._ I hope then I am altered enough to please you. I am sure
affliction has made such a change in me, that my best friends hardly
know me to be the same man.
_Worthy._ That is not the change I mean. 'Tis true, from a merry man
you have become a gloomy man; but that is because you have been
disappointed in your schemes: the principle remains unaltered. A
great match for your single daughter would at once restore all the
spirits you have lost by the imprudence of your married one. The
change the gospel requires is of quite another cast: it is having "a
new heart and a right spirit;" it is being "God's workmanship;" it
is being "created anew in Christ Jesus unto good works;" it is
becoming "new creatures;" it is "old things being done away, and all
things made new;" it is by so "learning the truth as it is in
Jesus--to the putting off the old man, and putting on the new, which
after God is created in righteousness and true holiness;" it is by
"partaking of the divine nature." Pray observe, Mr. Bragwell, these
are not my words, nor words picked out of any fanatical book; they
are the words of that gospel you profess to believe; it is not a new
doctrine, it is as old as our religion itself. Though I can not but
observe, that men are more reluctant in believing, more averse to
adopting this doctrine than almost any other: and indeed I do not
wonder at it; for there is perhaps no one which so attacks
corruption in its strongholds; no one which so thoroughly prohibits
a lazy Christian from uniting a life of sinful indulgence with an
outward profession of piety.
Bragwell now seemed resolved to set about the matter in earnest; but
he resolved in his own strength: he never thought of applying for
assistance to the Fountain of Wisdom; to Him who giveth might to
them who have no strength. Unluckily the very day Mr. Worthy took
leave, there happened to be a grand ball at the next town, on
account of the assizes. An assize-ball, courteous reader! is a scene
to which gentlemen and ladies periodically resort to celebrate the
crimes and calamities of their fellow-creatures, by dancing and
music, and to divert themselves with feasting and drinking, while
unhappy wretches are receiving sentence of death.
To this ball Miss Bragwell went, dressed out with a double portion
of finery, pouring out on her head, in addition to her own
ornaments, the whole band-box of feathers, beads, and flowers, her
sister had left behind her. While she was at the ball her father
formed many plans of religious reformation; he talked of lessening
his business, that he might have more leisure for devotion; though
not _just now_, while the markets were so high; and then he began to
think of sending a handsome subscription to the Infirmary; though,
on second thoughts he concluded that he needed not be in a _hurry_,
but might as well leave it in his will; though to _give_, and
_repent_, and _reform_, were three things he was bent upon. But when
his daughter came home at night so happy and so fine! and telling
how she had danced with Squire Squeeze, the great corn contractor,
and how many fine things he had said to her, Mr. Bragwell felt the
old spirit of the world return in its full force. A marriage with
Mr. Dashall Squeeze, the contractor, was beyond his hopes; for Mr.
Squeeze was supposed from a very low beginning to have got rich
during the war.
As for Mr. Squeeze, he had picked up as much of the history of his
partner between the dances as he desired; he was convinced there
would be no money wanting; for Miss Bragwell, who was now looked on
as an only child, must needs be a great fortune, and Mr. Squeeze was
too much used to advantageous contracts to let this slip. As he was
gaudily dressed, and possessed all the arts of vulgar flattery, Miss
Bragwell eagerly caught at his proposal to wait on her father next
day. Squeeze was quite a man after Bragwell's own heart, a genius at
getting money, a fine dashing fellow at spending it. He told his
wife that this was the very sort of man for his daughter; for he got
money like a Jew and spent it like a prince; but whether it was
fairly got or wisely spent, he was too much a man of the world to
inquire. Mrs. Bragwell was not so run away with by appearances but
that she desired her husband to be careful, and make himself quite
sure it was the right Mr. Squeeze, and no impostor. But being
assured by her husband that Betsy would certainly keep her carriage,
she never gave herself one thought with what sort of a man she was
to ride in it. To have one of her daughters drive in her own coach,
filled up all her ideas of human happiness, and drove the other
daughter quite out of her head. The marriage was celebrated with
great splendor, and Mr. and Mrs. Squeeze set off for London, where
they had taken a house.
Mr. Bragwell now tried to forget that he had any other daughter; and
if some thoughts of the resolutions he had made of entering on a
more religious course would sometimes force themselves upon him,
they were put off, like the repentance of Felix, _to a more
convenient season_; and finding he was likely to have a grandchild,
he became more worldly and more ambitious than ever; thinking this
a just pretense for adding house to house, and field to field. And
there is no stratagem by which men more fatally deceive themselves,
than when they make even unborn children a pretense for that rapine,
or that hoarding, of which their own covetousness is the true
motive. Whenever he ventured to write to Mr. Worthy about the
wealth, the gayety, and the grandeur of Mr. and Mrs. Squeeze, that
faithful friend honestly reminded him of the vanity and uncertainty
of worldly greatness, and the error he had been guilty of in
marrying his daughter before he had taken time to inquire into the
real character of the man, saying, that he could not help foreboding
that the happiness of a match made at a ball might have an untimely
end.
Notwithstanding Mr. Bragwell had paid down a larger fortune than was
prudent, for fear Mr. Squeeze should fly off, yet he was surprised
to receive very soon a pressing letter from him, desiring him to
advance a considerable sum, as he had the offer of an advantageous
purchase, which he must lose for want of money. Bragwell was
staggered, and refused to comply; but his wife told him he must not
be shabby to such a gentleman as Squire Squeeze; for that she heard
on all sides such accounts of their grandeur, their feasts, their
carriages, and their liveries, that she and her husband ought even
to deny themselves comforts to oblige such a generous son, who did
all this in honor of their daughter; besides, if he did not send the
money soon, they might be obliged to lay down their coach, and then
she would never be able to show her face again. At length Mr.
Bragwell lent him the money on his bond; he knew Squeeze's income
was large; for he had carefully inquired into this particular, and
for the rest he took his word. Mrs. Squeeze also got great presents
from her mother, by representing to her how expensively they were
forced to live to keep up their credit, and what honor she was
conferring on the family of the Bragwell's, by spending their money
in such grand company. Among many other letters she wrote her the
following:
"TO MRS. BRAGWELL.
"You can't imagine, dear, mother, how charmingly we live. I lie
a-bed almost all day, and am up all night; but it is never dark,
for all that, for we burn such numbers of candles all at once,
that the sun would be of no use at all in London. Then I am so
happy; for we are never quiet a moment, Sundays or working-days;
nay, I should not know which was which, only that we have most
pleasure on a Sunday; because it is the only day on which people
have nothing to do but to divert themselves. Then the great
folks are all so kind, and so good; they have not a bit of
pride, for they will come and eat and drink, and win my money,
just as if I was their equal; and if I have got but a cold, they
are so very unhappy that they send to know how I do; and though
I suppose they can't rest till the footman has told them, yet
they are so polite, that if I have been dying they seem to have
forgotten it the next time we meet, and not to know but they
have seen me the day before. Oh! they are true friends; and for
ever smiling, and so fond of one another, that they like to meet
and enjoy one another's company by hundreds, and always think
the more the merrier. I shall never be tired of such a
delightful life.
"Your dutiful daughter,
"BETSY SQUEEZE."
The style of her letters, however, altered in a few months. She
owned that though things went on gayer and grander than ever, yet
she hardly ever saw her husband, except her house was full of
company, and cards or dancing was going on; that he was often so
busy abroad he could not come home all night; that he always
borrowed the money her mother sent her when he was going out on this
nightly business; and that the last time she had asked _him_ for
money he cursed and swore, and bid her apply to the old farmer and
his rib, who were made of money. This letter Mrs. Bragwell concealed
from her husband.
At length, on some change in public affairs, Mr. Squeeze, who had
made an overcharge of some thousand pounds in one article, lost his
contract; he was found to owe a large debt to government, and his
accounts must be made up immediately. This was impossible; he had
not only spent his large income, without making any provision for
his family, but had contracted heavy debts by gaming and other
vices. His creditors poured in upon him. He wrote to Bragwell to
borrow another sum; but without hinting at the loss of his contract.
These repeated demands made Bragwell so uneasy, that instead of
sending him the money, he resolved to go himself secretly to London,
and judge by his own eyes how things were going on, as his mind
strangely misgave him. He got to Mr. Squeeze's house about eleven at
night, and knocked gently, concluding that they must be gone to bed.
But what was his astonishment to find the hall was full of men; he
pushed through in spite of them, though to his great surprise they
insisted on knowing his name, saying they must carry it to their
lady. This affronted him; he refused, saying, "It is not because I
am ashamed of my name, it will pass for thousands in any market in
the west of England. Is this your London manners, not to let a man
of my credit in without knowing his name indeed!" What was his
amazement to see every room as full of card-tables and of fine
gentlemen and ladies as it would hold. All was so light, and so gay,
and so festive, and so grand, that he reproached himself for his
suspicions, thought nothing too good for them, and resolved secretly
to give Squeeze another five hundred pounds to help to keep up so
much grandeur and happiness. At length seeing a footman he knew, he
asked him where were his master and mistress, for he could not pick
them out among the company; or rather his ideas became so confused
with the splendor of the scene, that he did not know whether they
were there or not. The man said, that his master had just sent for
his lady up stairs, and he believed that he was not well. Mr.
Bragwell said he would go up himself and look for his daughter, as
he could not speak so freely to her before all that company.
He went up, knocked at the chamber door, and its not being opened,
made him push it with some violence. He heard a bustling noise
within, and again made a fruitless attempt to open the door. At this
the noise increased, and Mr. Bragwell was struck to the heart at the
sound of a pistol from within. He now kicked so violently against
the door that it burst open, when the first sight he saw was his
daughter falling to the ground in a fit, and Mr. Squeeze dying by a
shot from a pistol which was dropping out of his hand. Mr. Bragwell
was not the only person whom the sound of the pistol had alarmed.
The servants, the company, all heard it, and all ran up to the scene
of horror. Those who had the best of the game took care to bring up
their tricks in their hands, having had the prudence to leave the
very few who could be trusted, to watch the stakes, while those who
had the prospect of losing profiled by the confusion, and threw up
their cards. All was dismay and terror. Some ran for a surgeon,
others examined the dying man; some removed Mrs. Squeeze to her bed,
while poor Bragwell could neither see, nor hear, nor do any thing.
One of the company took up a letter which lay open upon the table,
and was addressed to him; they read it, hoping it might explain the
horrid mystery. It was as follows:
"TO MR. BRAGWELL.
"Sir--Fetch home your daughter; I have ruined her, myself, and
the child to which she every hour expects to be a mother. I have
lost my contracts. My debts are immense. You refuse me money; I
must die then; but I will die like a man of spirit. They wait to
take me to prison; I have two executions in my house; but I have
ten card-tables in it. I would die as I have lived. I invited
all this company, and have drank hard since dinner to get primed
for this dreadful deed. My wife refuses to write to you for
another thousand, and she must take the consequences. _Vanity_
has been my ruin; it has caused all my crimes. Whoever is
resolved to live beyond his income is liable to every sin. He
can never say to himself, Thus far shalt thou go and no further.
Vanity led me to commit acts of rapine, that I might live in
splendor; vanity makes me commit self-murder, because I will not
live in poverty. The new philosophy says that death is an
eternal sleep; but the new philosophy lies. Do you take heed; it
is too late for me: the dreadful gulf yawns to swallow me; I
plunge into perdition: there is no repentance in the grave, no
hope in hell.
"Yours, etc.
"DASHALL SQUEEZE."
The dead body was removed, and Mr. Bragwell remaining almost without
speech or motion, the company began to think of retiring, much out
of humor at having their party so disagreeably broken up: they
comforted themselves however, that it was so _early_ (for it was now
scarcely twelve) they could finish their evening at another party or
two; so completely do habits of _pleasure_, as it is called, harden
the heart, and steel it not only against virtuous impressions, but
against natural feelings! Now it was, that those who had nightly
rioted at the expense of these wretched people, were the first to
abuse them. Not an offer of assistance was made to this poor forlorn
woman; not a word of kindness or of pity; nothing but censure was
now heard, "Why must these upstarts ape people of quality?" though
as long as these upstarts could feast them, their vulgarity and
their bad character had never been produced against them. "As long
as thou dost well unto thyself, men shall speak good of thee." One
guest who, unluckily, had no other house to go to, coolly said, as
he walked off, "Squeeze might as well have put off shooting himself
till morning. It was monstrously provoking that he could not wait an
hour or two."
As every thing in the house was seized Mr. Bragwell prevailed on his
miserable daughter, weak as she was, next morning to set out with
him to the country. His acquaintance with polite life was short, but
he had seen a great deal in a little time. They had a slow and sad
journey. In about a week, Mrs. Squeeze lay-in of a dead child; she
herself languished a few days, and then died; and the afflicted
parents saw the two darling objects of their ambition, for whose
sakes they had made _too much haste to be rich_, carried to the land
where all things are forgotten. Mrs. Bragwell's grief, like her
other passions, was extravagant; and poor Bragwell's sorrow was
rendered so bitter by self-reproach, that he would have quite sunk
under it, had he not thought of his old expedient in distress, that
of sending for Mr. Worthy to comfort him.
It was Mr. Worthy's way, to warn people of those misfortunes which
he saw their faults must needs bring on them; but not to reproach or
desert them when the misfortunes came. He had never been near
Bragwell during the short but flourishing reign of the Squeezes: for
he knew that prosperity made the ears deaf and the heart hard to
counsel; but as soon as he heard his friend was in trouble, he set
out to go to him. Bragwell burst into a violent fit of tears when he
saw him, and when he could speak, said, "This trial is more than I
can bear." Mr. Worthy kindly took him by the hand, and when he was a
little composed, said, "I will tell you a short story. There was in
ancient times a famous man who was a slave. His master, who was very
good to him, one day gave him a bitter melon, and made him eat it:
he ate it up without one word of complaint. 'How was it possible,'
said the master, 'for you to eat so very nauseous and disagreeable a
fruit?' The slave replied, 'My good master, I have received so many
favors from your bounty, that it is no wonder if I should once in my
life eat one bitter melon from your hands.' This generous answer so
struck the master, that the history says he gave him his liberty.
With such submissive sentiments, my friend, should man receive his
portion of sufferings from God, from whom he receives so many
blessings. You in particular have received 'much good at the hand of
God, shall you not receive evil also?'"
"O! Mr. Worthy!" said Bragwell, "this blow is too heavy for me, I
can not survive this shock: I do not desire it, I only wish to die."
"We are very apt to talk most of dying when we are least fit for
it," said Worthy. "This is not the language of that submission which
makes us prepare for death; but of that despair which makes us out
of humor with life. O! Mr. Bragwell! you are indeed disappointed of
the grand ends which made life so delightful to you; but till your
heart is humbled, till you are brought to a serious conviction of
sin, till you are brought to see what is the true end of life, you
can have no hope in death. You think you have no business on earth,
because those for whose sake you too eagerly heaped up riches are no
more. But is there not under the canopy of heaven some afflicted
being whom you may yet relieve, some modest merit which you may
bring forward, some helpless creature you may save by your advice,
some perishing Christian you may sustain by your wealth? When you
have no sins of your own to repent of, no mercies of God to be
thankful for, no miseries of others to relieve, then, and not till
then, I consent you should sink down in despair, and call on death
to relieve you."
Mr. Worthy attended his afflicted friend to the funeral of his
unhappy daughter and her babe. The solemn service, the committing
his late gay and beautiful daughter to darkness, to worms, and to
corruption; the sight of the dead infant, for whose sake he had
resumed all his schemes of vanity and covetousness, when he thought
he had got the better of them; the melancholy conviction that all
human prosperity ends in _ashes to ashes, and dust to dust_, had
brought down Mr. Bragwell's self-sufficient and haughty soul into
something of that humble frame in which Mr. Worthy had wished to see
it. As soon as they returned home, he was beginning to seize the
favorable moment for fixing these serious impressions, when they
were unseasonably interrupted by the parish officer, who came to ask
Mr. Bragwell what he was to do with a poor dying woman who was
traveling the country with her child, and was taken in a fit under
the church-yard wall? "At first they thought she was dead," said the
man, "but finding she still breathed, they have carried her into the
work-house till she could give some account of herself."
Mr. Bragwell was impatient at the interruption, which was, indeed,
unseasonable, and told the man that he was at that time too much
overcome by sorrow to attend to business, but he would give him an
answer to-morrow. "But, my friend," said Mr. Worthy, "the poor woman
may die to-night; your mind is indeed not in a frame for worldly
business; but there is no sorrow too great to forbid our attending
the calls of duty. An act of Christian charity will not disturb, but
improve the seriousness of your spirit; and though you can not dry
your own tears, God may in great mercy permit you to dry those of
another. This may be one of those occasions for which I told you
life was worth keeping. Do let us see this woman." Bragwell was not
in a state either to consent or refuse, and his friend drew him to
the work-house, about the door of which stood a crowd of people.
"She is not dead," said one, "she moves her head." "But she wants
air," said all of them, while they all, according to custom, pushed
so close upon her that it was impossible she could get any. A fine
boy of two or three years old stood by her, crying, "Mammy is dead,
mammy is starved." Mr. Worthy made up to the poor woman, holding his
friend by the arm; in order to give her air he untied a large black
bonnet which hid her face, when Mr. Bragwell, at that moment casting
his eyes on her saw in this poor stranger the face of his own
runaway daughter, Mrs. Incle. He groaned, but could not speak; and
as he was turning away to conceal his anguish, the little boy fondly
caught hold of his hand, lisping out, "O stay and give mammy some
bread." His heart yearned toward the child; he grasped his little
hand in his, while he sorrowfully said to Mr. Worthy, "It is too
much, send away the people. It is my dear naughty child; '_my
punishment is greater than I can bear_.'" Mr. Worthy desired the
people to go and leave the stranger to them; but by this time she
was no stranger to any of them. Pale and meager as was her face, and
poor and shabby as was her dress, the proud and flaunting Miss Polly
Bragwell was easily known by every one present. They went away, but
with the mean revenge of little minds, they paid themselves by
abuse, for all the airs and insolence they had once endured from
her. "Pride must have a fall," said one, "I remember when she was
too good to speak to a poor body," said another. "Where are her
flounces and furbelows now? It is come home to her at last; her
child looks as if he would be glad of the worst bit she formerly
denied us."
In the mean time Mr. Bragwell had sunk into an old wicker chair
which stood behind, and groaned out, "Lord, forgive my hard heart!
Lord, subdue my proud heart; _create a clean heart, O God! and renew
a right spirit within me_." These were perhaps the first words of
genuine prayer he had ever offered up in his whole life. Worthy
overheard it, and in his heart rejoiced; but this was not a time for
talking, but doing. He asked Bragwell what was to be done with the
unfortunate woman, who now seemed to recover fast, but she did not
see them, for they were behind. She embraced her boy, and faintly
said, "My child, what shall we do? _I will arise and go to my
father, and say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and
before thee._" This was a joyful sound to Mr. Worthy, who was
inclined to hope that her heart might be as much changed for the
better as her circumstances were altered for the worse; and he
valued the goods of fortune so little, and contrition of soul so
much, that he began to think the change on the whole might be a
happy one. The boy then sprung from his mother, and ran to Bragwell,
saying, "Do be good to mammy." Mrs. Incle looking round, now
perceived her father; she fell at his feet, saying, "O forgive your
guilty child, and save your innocent one from starving." Bragwell
sunk down by her, and prayed God to forgive both her and himself, in
terms of genuine sorrow. To hear words of real penitence and
heart-felt prayer from this once high-minded father and vain
daughter, was music to Worthy's ears, who thought this moment of
outward misery was the only joyful one he had ever spent in the
Bragwell family.
He was resolved not to interfere, but to let the father's own
feelings work out the way into which he was to act.
Bragwell said nothing, but slowly led to his own house, holding the
little boy by the hand, and pointing to Worthy to assist the feeble
steps of his daughter, who once more entered her father's doors; but
the dread of seeing her mother quite overpowered her. Mrs. Bragwells
heart was not changed, but sorrow had weakened her powers of
resistance; and she rather suffered her daughter to come in, than
gave her a kind reception. She was more astonished than pleased; and
even in this trying moment, was more disgusted with the little boy's
mean clothes, than delighted with his rosy face. As soon as she was
a little recovered, Mr. Bragwell desired his daughter to tell him
how she happened to be at that place at that time.
In a weak voice she began: "My tale, sir, is short, but mournful."
Now, I am very sorry that my readers must wait for this short, but
mournful tale, a little longer.