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 G.o.d, 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 "G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sistance 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 a.s.sizes. An a.s.size-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 a.s.sured 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 h.o.a.rding, 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 pa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l.

"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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.sions, 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 G.o.d, from whom he receives so many blessings. You in particular have received 'much good at the hand of G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d! 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 circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sist 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.

PART VII.

MRS. INCLE'S STORY.

"I left your house, dear father," said Mrs. Incle, "with a heart full of vain triumph. I had no doubt but my husband was a great man, who put on that disguise to obtain my hand. Judge, then, what I felt to find that he was a needy impostor, who wanted my money, but did not care for me. This discovery, though it mortified, did not humble me. I had neither affection to bear with the man who had deceived me, nor religion to improve by the disappointment. I have found that change of circ.u.mstances does not change the heart, till G.o.d is pleased to do it. My misfortune only taught me to rebel more against him. I thought G.o.d unjust; I accused my father, I was envious of my sister, I hated my husband; but never once did I blame myself.

"My husband picked up a wretched subsistence by joining himself to any low scheme of idle pleasure that was going on. He would follow a mountebank, carry a dice-box, or fiddle at the fair. He was always taunting me for that gentility on which I so much valued myself. 'If I had married a poor working girl,' said he, 'she could now have got her bread; but a fine lady without money is a disgrace to herself, a burden to her husband, and a plague to society.' Every trial which affection might have made lighter, we doubled by animosity; at length my husband was detected in using false dice; he fought with his accuser, both were seized by a press-gang, and sent to sea. I was now left to the wide world; and miserable as I had thought myself before, I soon found there were higher degrees of misery. I was near my time, without bread for myself, or hope for my child. I set out on foot in search of the village where I had heard my husband say his friends lived. It was a severe trial to my proud heart to stoop to those low people; but hunger is not delicate, and I was near perishing. My husband's parents received me kindly, saying, that though they had nothing but what they earned by their labor, yet I was welcome to share their hard fare; for they trusted that G.o.d who sent mouths would send meat also. They gave me a small room in their cottage, and furnished me with many necessaries, which they denied themselves."

"O! my child!" interrupted Bragwell, "every word cuts me to the heart. These poor people gladly gave thee of their little, while thy rich parents left thee to starve."

"How shall I own," continued Mrs. Incle, "that all this goodness could not soften my heart; for G.o.d had not yet touched it. I received all their kindness as a favor done to them; and thought them sufficiently rewarded for their attentions by the rank and merit of their daughter-in-law. When my father brought me home any little dainty which he could pick up, and my mother kindly dressed it for me, I would not condescend to eat it with them, but devoured it sullenly in my little garret alone, suffering them to fetch and carry every thing I wanted. As my haughty behavior was not likely to gain their affection, it was plain they did not love me; and as I had no notion that there were any motives to good actions but fondness, or self-interest, I was puzzled to know what could make them so kind to me; for of the powerful and constraining law of Christian charity I was quite ignorant. To cheat the weary hours, I looked about for some books, and found, among a few others of the same cast, 'Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul.'

But all those sort of books were addressed to _sinners_; now as I knew I was not a sinner, I threw them away in disgust. Indeed, they were ill suited to a taste formed by plays and novels, to which reading I chiefly trace my ruin; for, vain as I was, I should never have been guilty of so wild a step as to run away, had not my heart been tainted and my imagination inflamed by those pernicious books.

"At length my little George was born. This added to the burden I had brought on this poor family, but it did not diminish their kindness, and we continued to share their scanty fare without any upbraiding on their part, or any grat.i.tude on mine. Even this poor baby did not soften my heart; I wept over him, indeed, day and night, but they were tears of despair; I was always idle, and wasted those hours in sinful murmurs at his fate, which I should have employed in trying to maintain him. Hardship, grief, and impatience, at length brought on a fever. Death seemed now at hand, and I felt a gloomy satisfaction in the thought of being rid of my miseries, to which I fear was added a sullen joy, to think that you, sir, and my mother, would be plagued to hear of my death when it would be too late; and in this your grief I antic.i.p.ated a gloomy sort of revenge. But it pleased my merciful G.o.d not to let me thus perish in my sins. My poor mother-in-law sent for a good clergyman, who pointed out the danger of dying in that hard and unconverted state, so forcibly, that I shuddered to find on what a dreadful precipice I stood. He prayed with me and for me so earnestly, that at length G.o.d, who is sometimes pleased to magnify his own glory in awakening those who are dead in trespa.s.ses and sins, was pleased of his free grace, to open my blind eyes, and soften my stony heart. I saw myself a sinner, and prayed to be delivered from the wrath of G.o.d, in comparison of which the poverty and disgrace I now suffered appeared as nothing. To a soul convinced of sin, the news of a Redeemer was a joyful sound. Instead of reproaching Providence, or blaming my parents, or abusing my husband, I now learned to condemn myself, to adore that G.o.d who had not cut me off in my ignorance, to pray for pardon for the past, and grace for the time to come. I now desired to submit to penury and hunger, so that I might but live in the fear of G.o.d in this world, and enjoy his favor in the next. I now learned to compare my present light sufferings, the consequence of my own sin, with those bitter sufferings of my Saviour, which he endured for my sake, and I was ashamed of murmuring. But self-ignorance, conceit, and vanity were so rooted in me, that my progress was very gradual, and I had the sorrow to feel how much the power of long bad habits keeps down the growth of religion in the heart, even after the principle itself has begun to take root. I was so ignorant of divine things, that I hardly knew words to frame a prayer; but when I got acquainted with the Psalms, I there learned how to pour out the fullness of my heart, while in the gospel I rejoiced to see what great things G.o.d had done for my soul.

"I now took down once more from the shelf 'Doddridge's Rise and Progress;' and oh! with what new eyes did I read it! I now saw clearly, that not only the thief and the drunkard, the murderer and the adulterer are sinners, for that I knew before! but I found out that the unbeliever, the selfish, the proud, the worldly-minded, all, in short, who live without G.o.d in the world, are sinners. I did not now apply the reproofs I met with to my husband, or my father, or other people, as I used to do; but brought them home to myself. In this book I traced, with strong emotions and close self-application, the sinner through all his course; his first awakening, his convictions, repentance, joys, sorrows, backsliding, and recovering, despondency, and delight, to a triumphant death-bed; and G.o.d was pleased to make it a chief instrument in bringing me to himself. Here it is," continued Mrs. Incle, untying her little bundle, and taking out a book; "accept it, my dear father, and I will pray that G.o.d may bless it to you, as He has done to me.

"When I was able to come down, I pa.s.sed my time with these good old people, and soon won their affection. I was surprised to find they had very good sense, which I never had thought poor people could have; but, indeed, worldly persons do not know how much religion, while it mends the heart, enlightens the understanding also. I now regretted the evenings I had wasted in my solitary garret, when I might have pa.s.sed them in reading the Bible with these good folks.