Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than of virtue in
this life. Temporal evils or felicities being regarded by heaven as
things merely in themselves trifling and unworthy its care in the
distribution.
I had now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since my
arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see
her. Having communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the
poor girl entered my apartment, leaning on her sister’s arm. The change
which I saw in her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that
once resided there were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have
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.