28. 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 moulded every feature to alarm me. Her
temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat 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
cheerful, child, and we may yet 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 though 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 fellowprisoner, 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.
"Besides," added he, "I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct the
union of man and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent
to a match you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy."
"Sir," replied I, "you are unacquainted with the
man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no
submission I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am
told that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than last year,
died for want. But though my submission and approbation could transfer
me from hence to the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, yet I
would grant neither; as something whispers me that it would be giving a
sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of
his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should
be the basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting
asunder those who wish for a union. No, villain as he is, I should then
wish him married, to prevent the consequences of his future
debaucheries. But now should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to
sign an instrument which must send my child to the grave, merely to
avoid a prison myself: and thus, to escape one pang, break my child's
heart with a thousand?"
He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid
observing that he feared my daughter's life was already too much
wasted to keep me long a prisoner. "However," continued he, "though
you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to
laying your case before the uncle, who has the first character in the
kingdom for 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, in three days you shall have an
answer." I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about complying;
but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had been laid out that
morning in provisions; however, 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 meantime 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
favorite 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, sat 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 increase 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 cry, for I was now too old to weep. "And is not my
sister an angel now, papa?" cried the eldest, "and why, then, are you
sorry for her? I wish I were an angel out of this frightful place, if my
papa 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 interrupted 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 not
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 expressed 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
stepped 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 a helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will
not be utterly forsaken; some friends, 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, it why will you thus increase my afflictions by
your own! What though no submission can turn our severe master,
though 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 daugh
ter, 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 stopped. Upon which, a
well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my
daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the postilion drive on,
so that they were out of sight in a moment.
"Now," cried I, "the sum of my miseries 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, endeavored 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 of our misery? I hope my boy is exempt from
any part of what his wretched family suffers!"
"Yes, sir," returned he, "he is perfectly gay, cheerful and happy.
His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the favorite 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 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 favorable here. By the last letter I wrote my
son, which was in the bitterest of anger, I desired him, upon his
mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done
to 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 gulf 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 stripped 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 his letter; I know it will please you." Upon which, with
my permission, he read as follows:
"HONORED 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 fireside at home. My fancy draws
that harmless group as listening to every line of this with great com
posure. 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 increased 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,
though I want to bluster a little, my heart is respondent only to softer
emotions. Then, tell them, sir, that, after all, I love them affection
ately, 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 honor!" I
had
scarcely said these words when a noise like that of
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 behold
thee thus? Wounded! fettered! Is this thy happiness? Is this the manner
you return to me? Oh that this sight could break my heart at once, and
let me die!"
"Where, sir, is your fortitude?" returned my son, with 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. "Oh, my boy, my heart
weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it! In the moment
that I thought thee blessed, 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 a
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 honor, and sent him an
order to meet me, which he answered not in person, but by 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 themselves according to my directions, for they
loved to hear my counsel; 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.
