MR. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy happened to meet laſt year at Weyhill-Fair. They were glad to ſee each other as they had but ſeldom met of Jate; Mr. Bragwell having removed ſome years before from Mr. Worthy's neighbourhood, to a diſtant village where he had bought an eſtate.

[2] Mr. Bragwell was a ſubſtantial Farmer and Grazier. He had riſen in the world by what worldly men call a run of good fortune. He had alſo been a man of great induſtry; that is, he had paid a diligent and conſtant attention to his own intereſt. He underſtood buſineſs, and had a knack of turning almoſt every thing to his own advantage. He had that ſort of ſenſe, which good men call cunning, and knaves call wiſdom. He was too prudent ever to do any thing ſo wrong that the law could take hold of him; yet he was not over ſcrupulous about the morality of an action, when the proſpect of enriching him⯑ſelf by it was very great, and the chance of hurt⯑ing his character was ſmall. The corn he ſent home to his cuſtomers was not always quite ſo good as the ſamples he had produced at market, and he now and then forgot to name ſome capital blemiſh in the horſes he ſold at fair. He ſcorned to be guilty of the petty frauds of cheating in weights and meaſures, for he thought that was a beggarly ſin; but he valued himſelf on his ſkill in making a bargain, and fancied it ſhewed his knowledge of the world to take advantage of the ignorance of a dealer.

It was his conſtant rule to undervalue every thing he was about to buy, and to overvalue every thing he was about to ſell; but as he prided himſelf on his character he avoided every thing that was very ſhameful, ſo that he was conſidered merely as a hard dealer, and a keen hand at a bargain. Now and then, when he had [3] been caught in puſhing his own advantage too far, he contrived to get out of the ſcrape by turning the whole into a jeſt, ſaying it was a good take in, a rare joke, and that he had only a mind to divert himſelf with the folly of his neighbour who could be ſo eaſily impoſed on.

Mr. Bragwell had one favourite maxim, namely, that a man's ſucceſs in life was a ſure proof of his wiſdom; and that all failure and misfortune was the conſequence of a man's own folly. As this opinion was firſt taken up by him from vanity and ignorance; ſo it was more and more confirmed by his own proſperity. He ſaw that he himſelf had ſucceeded greatly without either money or education to begin with, and he therefore now deſpiſed every man, however excellent his character or talents might be, who had not had the ſame ſucceſs in life. His natural diſpoſition was not particularly bad, but pro⯑ſperity had hardened his heart. He made his own progreſs in life the rule by which the con⯑duct of all other men was to be judged, without any allowance for their peculiar diſadvantages, or the viſitations of Providence. He thought, for his part, that every man of ſenſe could command ſucceſs on his undertakings, and controul and diſpoſe the events of his own life.

But though he conſidered thoſe who had leſs ſucceſs than himſelf, as no better than fools, yet he did not extend this opinion to Mr. Worthy, whom he looked upon not only as a good but wiſe man. They had been bred up when chil⯑dren [4] in the ſame houſe, but with this difference, that Worthy was the nephew of the maſter, and Bragwell the ſon of the ſervant.

Bragwell's father had been ploughman in the family of Mr. Worthy's uncle, a ſenſible man, who farmed a ſmall eſtate of his own, and who having no children, bred up young Worthy as his ſon, inſtructed him in the buſineſs of huſ⯑bandry, and at his death left him his eſtate. The father of Worthy was a pious clergyman who lived with his brother the farmer, in order to help out a narrow income. He had beſtowed much pains on the inſtruction of his ſon, and uſed fre⯑quently to repeat to him a ſaying which he had picked up in a book written by one of the greateſt men in this country,—that there were two things with which every man ought to be acquainted, RELIGION AND HIS OWN BUSINESS. While he therefore took care that his ſon ſhould be made an excellent Farmer, he filled up his leiſure hours in improving his mind; ſo that young Worthy had read more good books and underſtood them better than moſt men in his ſtation. His read⯑ing however had been chiefly confined to huſ⯑bandry and divinity, the two ſubjects which were of the moſt immediate importance to him.

The reader will ſee by this time that Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy were likely to be as oppoſite to each other as two men could well be, who were nearly of the ſame age and condition, and who were neither of them without credit in the world. Bragwell indeed made far the greater [5] figure, for he liked to cut a daſh, as he called it. And while it was the ſtudy of Worthy to conform to his ſtation, and to ſet a good example to thoſe about him, it was the delight of Bragwell to vie in his way of life with men of larger fortune. He did not ſee how much this vanity raiſed the envy of his inferiors, the ill-will of his equals, and the contempt of his betters.

His wife was a notable ſtirring woman, but vain, violent, and ambitious; very ignorant, and very high-minded. She had married Bragwell before he was worth a ſhilling, and as ſhe had brought him a good deal of money, ſhe thought herſelf the grand cauſe of his riſing in the world, and thence took occaſion to govern him moſt completely. Whenever he ventured to oppoſe her ſhe took care to put him in mind that he owed every thing to her, that had it not been for her he might ſtill have been ſtumping after a plow-tail, or ſerving hogs in old Worthy's farm⯑yard, but that it was ſhe who had made a gen⯑tleman of him. In order to ſet about making him a gentleman ſhe had begun by teazing him till he had turned away all his poor relations who worked in the farm. She next drew him off from keeping company with his old acquaint⯑ance, and at lad perſuaded him to remove from the place where he had got his money. Poor woman! ſhe had not ſenſe and virtue enough to ſee how honourable it is for a man to raiſe him⯑ſelf in the world by fair means, and then to help forward his poor relations and friends; engaging [6] their ſervices by his kindneſs, and endeavouring to keep want out of the family.

Mrs. Bragwell was an excellent miſtreſs, ac⯑cording to her own notions of excellence, for no one could ſay that ſhe ever loſt an opportunity of ſcolding a ſervant, or was ever guilty of the weak⯑neſs of overlooking a fault. Towards her two daughters her behaviour was far otherwiſe. In them ſhe could ſee nothing but perfections; but her extravagant fondneſs for theſe girls was full as much owing to pride as to affection. She was bent on making a family, and having found out that ſhe was too ignorant, and too much trained to the habits of getting money, ever to hope to make a figure herſelf, ſhe looked to her daughters as the perſons who were to raiſe the family of Bragwells; and in this hope ſhe fooliſhly ſub⯑mitted to any drudgery for their ſakes, and bore every kind of impertinence from them.

The firſt wiſh of her heart was to ſet them above their neighbours; for ſhe uſed to ſay, what was the uſe of having ſubſtance, if her daughters might not carry themſelves above girls who had nothing? To do her juſtice, ſhe herſelf would be about early and late to ſee that the buſineſs of the houſe was not neglected. She had been bred to great induſtry, and continued to work when it was no longer neceſſary, both from early habit, and the deſire of heaping up money for her daughters. Yet her whole notion of gentility was, that it conſiſted in being rich and idle; and though ſhe was willing to be a drudge herſelf, ſhe [7] reſolved to make her daughters gentlewomen on this principle. To be well dreſſed and to do nothing, or nothing which is of any uſe, was what ſhe fancied diſtinguiſhed people in genteel life. And this is too common a notion of a fine education among ſome people. They do not eſteem things by their uſe, but by their ſhew. They eſtimate the value of their children's edu⯑cation by the money it coſts, and not by the knowledge and goodneſs it beſtows. People of this ſtamp often take a pride in the expence of learning, inſtead of taking pleaſure in the ad⯑vantages of it. And the ſilly vanity of letting others ſee that they can afford any thing, often ſets parents on letting their daughters learn not only things of no uſe, but things which may be really hurtful in their ſituation; either by ſetting them above their proper duties, or by taking up their time in a way inconſiſtent with them.

Mrs. Bragwell ſent her daughters to a boarding ſchool, where ſhe inſtructed them to hold up their heads as high as any body; to have more ſpirit than to be put upon by any one; never to be pitiful about money, but rather to ſhew that they could ſpend with the beſt; to keep company with the richeſt girls in the ſchool, and to make no acquaintance with Farmers Daughters.

They came home at the uſual age of leaving ſchool, with a large portion of vanity grafted on their native ignorance. The vanity was added, but the ignorance was not taken away. Of Re⯑ligion they could not poſſibly learn any thing, [8] ſince none was taught, for at that place it was conſidered as a part of education which belonged only to Charity Schools. Of knowledge they got juſt enough to laugh at their fond parents ruſtic manners and vulgar language, and juſt enough taſte to deſpiſe and ridicule every girl who was not as vainly dreſſed as themſelves.

The mother had been comforting herſelf for the heavy expence of their bringing up, by look⯑ing forward to the pleaſure of ſeeing them be⯑came fine ladies, and to the pride of marrying them above their ſtation.

Their father hoped alſo that they would be a comfort to him both in ſickneſs and in health. He had had no learning himſelf, and could write but poorly, and owed what ſkill he had in figures to his natural turn for buſineſs. He hoped that his daughters, after all the money he had ſpent on them, would now write his letters and keep his accounts. And as he was now and then laid up with a fit of the gout, he was enjoy⯑ing the proſpect of having two affectionate chil⯑dren to nurſe him.

When they came home, however, he had the mortification to find, that though he had two ſmart ſhowy ladies to viſit him, he had neither dutiful daughters to nurſe him, nor faithful ſtew⯑ards to keep his books, nor prudent children to manage his houſe. They neither ſoothed him by kindneſs when he was ſick, nor helped him when he was buſy. They thought the maid might take care of him in the gout as ſhe did [9] before. And as to their ſkill in cyphering he ſoon found, to his coſt, that though they knew how to ſpend both Pounds, Shillings, and Pence, yet they did not know ſo well how to caſt them up.

Mrs. Bragwell one day being very buſy in pre⯑paring a great dinner for the neighbours, ven⯑tured to requeſt her daughters to aſſiſt in making the paſtry. They aſked her ſcornfully, whether ſhe had ſent them to Boarding School to learn to cook; and added, that they ſuppoſed ſhe would expect them next to make puddings for the hay⯑makers. So ſaying they coolly marched off to their muſic. When the mother found her girls were too polite to be of any uſe, ſhe would take comfort in obſerving how her parlour was ſet out with their Fillagree and Flowers, their Embroi⯑dery and Cut paper. They ſpent the morning in bed, the noon in dreſſing, the evening at the Spinnet, and the night in reading Novels.

With all theſe fine qualifications it is eaſy to ſuppoſe, that as they deſpiſed their ſober duties, they no leſs deſpiſed their plain neighbours. When they could not get to a horſe race, a petty ball, or a ſtrolling play, with ſome company as idle and as ſmart as themſelves, they were driven for amuſement to the Circulating-Library. Jack, the plow-boy, on whom they had now put a livery jacket, was employed half his time in trotting backwards and forwards with the moſt wretched traſh the little neighbouring book ſhop could furniſh. The choice was often left to Jack, [10] who could not read, but who had general orders to bring all the new things, and a great many of them.

Things were in this ſtate, or rather growing world, for idleneſs and vanity are never at a ſtand; when theſe two wealthy farmers, Brag⯑well and Worthy, met at Weyhill Fare, as was ſaid before. After many hearty ſalutations had paſſed between them, it was agreed that Mr. Bragwell ſhould ſpend the next day with his old friend, whoſe houſe was not many miles diſtant. Bragwell invited himſelf in the following man⯑ner: —We have not had a comfortable day's chat for years, ſaid he, and as I am to look at a drove of lean beaſts in your neighbourhood, I will take a bed at your houſe, and we will paſs the evening in debating as we uſed to do. You know I al⯑ways loved a bit of an argument, and am reck⯑oned not to make the worſt figure at our club: I had not, to be ſure, ſuch good learning as you had, becauſe your father was a parſon, and you got it for nothing; but I can bear my part pretty well for all that. When any man talks to me about his learning, I aſk if it has helped him to get a good eſtate; if he ſays no, then I would not give him a ruſh for it; for of what uſe is all the learning in the world if it does not make a man rich? But as I was ſaying, I will come and ſee you to-morrow; but now don't let your wife put herſelf into a fuſs for me. Don't alter your own plain way, for I am not proud I [11] aſſure you, nor above my old friends, though I thank GOD I am pretty well in the world.

To all this flouriſhing ſpeech Mr. Worthy coolly anſwered, that certainly worldly proſperity ought never to make any man proud, ſince it is GOD who giveth ſtrength to get riches, and with⯑out his bleſſing, 'tis in vain to riſe up early and to eat the bread of carefulneſs.

About the middle of the next day Mr. Brag⯑well reached Mr. Worthy's neat and pleaſant dwelling. He found every thing in it the re⯑verſe of his own. It had not ſo many ornaments, but it had more comforts. And when he ſaw his friend's good old faſhioned arm chair in a warm corner, he gave a ſigh to think how his own had been baniſhed to make room for his daughter's Piano Forte. Inſtead of made flowers in glaſs caſes, and a tea cheſt and ſcreen too fine to be uſed, which he ſaw at home, and about which he was cautioned, and ſcolded as often as he came near them, he ſaw a neat ſhelf of good books for the ſervice of the family, and a ſmall medicine cheſt for the benefit of the poor.

Mrs. Worthy and her daughters had prepared a plain but neat and good dinner. The tarts were ſo excellent that Bragwell felt a ſecret kind of regret that his own daughters were too genteel to do any thing ſo very uſeful. Indeed he had been always unwilling to believe that any thing which was very proper and very neceſſary, could be ſo extremely vulgar and unbecoming as his daughters were always declaring it to be. And [12] his late experience of the little comfort he found at home, inclined him now ſtill more ſtrongly to ſuſpect that things were not ſo right as he had been made to ſuppoſe. But it was in vain to ſpeak; for his daughters conſtantly ſtopped his mouth by a favourite ſaying of theirs, better be out of the world than out of the faſhion.

Soon after dinner the women went out to their ſeveral employments, and Mr. Worthy being left alone with his gueſt the following diſcourſe took place.

You have a couple of ſober pretty looking girls, Worthy; but I wonder they don't tiff off a little more. Why my girls have as much fat and flour on their heads as would half maintain my reapers in ſuet pudding.

Mr. Bragwell, in the management of my family, I don't conſider what I might afford only, though that is one great point; but I conſider alſo what is needful and becoming in a man of my ſtation, for there are ſo many uſeful ways of laying out money, that I feel as if it were a ſin to ſpend one unneceſſary ſhilling. Having had the bleſſing of a good education myſelf, I have been able to give the like advantage to my daughters. One of the beſt leſſons I have taught them is, to know themſelves; and one proof that they have learnt this leſſon is, that they are not above any of the duties of their ſtation. They read and write well, and when my eyes are bad, they keep my accounts in a very pretty manner. If I had put them to learn what you call genteel [13] things, theſe might either have been of no uſe to them, and ſo both time and money might have been thrown away; or they might have proved worſe than nothing to them by leading them into wrong notions, and wrong company. Though we don't wiſh them to do the laborious parts of the dairy work; yet they always aſſiſt their mother in the management of it. As to their appearance, they are every day nearly as you ſee them now, and on Sundays they are very neatly dreſſed, but it is always in a decent and modeſt way. There are no lappets, fringes, furbelows, and tawdry ornaments, fluttering about among my cheeſe and butter. And I ſhould feel no vanity but much mortification if a ſtranger ſeeing Farmer Worthy's daughters at Church, ſhould aſk who thoſe fine ladies were.

Now I own I ſhould like to have ſuch a queſtion aſked concerning my daughters. I like to make people ſtare and envy. It makes one feel one-ſelf ſomebody. But as to yourſelf, to be ſure you beſt know what you can afford. And indeed there is ſome difference between your daughters and the Miſs Bragwells.

For my part, before I engage in any expence, I always aſk myſelf theſe two ſhort queſtions, Firſt, Can I afford it?—Secondly, Is it proper for me?

Do you ſo? Now I own I aſk myſelf but one. For if I find I can afford it, I take care to make it proper for me. If I can pay [14] for a thing, no one has a right to hinder me from having it.

Certainly. But a man's own pru⯑dence and ſenſe of duty, ought to prevent him from doing an improper thing, as effectually as if there were ſomebody to hinder him.

Now I think a man is a fool who is hindered from having any thing he has a mind to; unleſs, indeed, he is in want of money to pay for it; I'm no friend to debt. A poor man muſt want on.

But I hope my children have learnt not to want any thing which is not proper for them. They are very induſtrious, they attend to buſineſs all day; and in the evening they ſit down to their work and a good book. I think they live in the fear of GOD. I truſt they are humble and pious, and I am ſure they ſeem cheerful and happy. If I am ſick, it is pleaſant to ſee them diſpute which ſhall wait upon me, for they ſay the maid cannot do it ſo tenderly as themſelves.—

This part of the diſcourſe ſtaggered Bragwell. Vain as he was, he could not help feeling what a difference a religious and a worldly education made on the heart, and how much the former regulated even the natural temper. Another thing which ſurpriſed him was, that theſe girls, living a life of domeſtic piety, without any public diverſions, ſhould be ſo very cheerful and happy; while his own daughters who were never contradicted, and were indulged with con⯑tinual [15] amuſements, were always ſullen and ill-tempered. That they who are more humoured ſhould be leſs grateful and leſs happy, diſturbed him much. He envied Worthy the tenderneſs of his children, though he would not own it, but turned it off thus.

But my girls are too ſmart to make mopes of, that is the truth. Though ours is ſuch a lonely village, 'tis wonderful to ſee how ſoon they get the faſhions. What with the de⯑ſcriptions in the Magazines, and the pictures in the Pocket Books, they have them in a twinkling, and out-do their patterns all to nothing. I uſed to take in the County Journal, becauſe it was uſeful enough to ſee how Oats went, the time of high water, and the price of Stocks. But when my ladies came home forſooth, I was ſoon wheedled out of that, and forced to take a Lon⯑don paper, that tells a deal about caps and fea⯑thers, and all the trumpery of the quality. When I want to know what Hops are a bag, they are ſnatching the paper to ſee what violet ſoap is a pound. And as to the dairy, they never care how Cow's milk goes, as long as they can get ſome ſtuff which they call Milk of Roſes.

But do your daughters never read?

Read! I believe they do too. Why our Jack, the Plow-boy, ſpends half his time in going to a ſhop in our Market town, where they let out books to read with marble covers. And they ſell paper with all manner of colours on the edges, and gim-cracks, and powder-puffs, and [16] waſh-balls, and cards without any pips, and every thing in the world that's genteel and of no uſe. 'Twas but t'other day I met Jack with a baſket full of theſe books, ſo having ſome time to ſpare, I ſat down to ſee a little what they were about.

Well, I hope you there found what was likely to improve your daughters, and teach them the true uſe of time.

O as to that, you are pretty much out. I could make neither head nor tail of it. It was neither fiſh, fleſh, nor good red-herring. It was all about my Lord, and Sir Harry, and the Captain. But I never met with ſuch non-ſenſical fellows in my life. Their talk was no more like that of my old landlord, who was a Lord you know, nor the Captain of our fen⯑cibles, than chalk is like cheeſe. I was fairly taken in at firſt, and began to think I had got hold of a godly book, for there was a deal about hope and deſpair, and heaven, and Angels, and torments, and everlaſting happineſs. But when I got a little on, I found there was no meaning in all theſe words, or, if any, 'twas a bad meaning. Miſery perhaps only meant a diſappointment about a bit of a letter: and ever⯑laſting happineſs meant two people talking non⯑ſenſe together for five minutes. In ſhort, I never met with ſuch a pack of lies. The people talk ſuch gibberiſh as no folks in their ſober ſenſes ever did talk; and the things that happen to them are not like the things that ever happen to [17] any of my acquaintance. They are at home one minute, and beyond ſea the next. Beggars to⯑day, and Lords to-morrow. Waiting maids in the morning, and Ducheſſes at night. You and I, Maſter Worthy, have worked hard many years, and think it very well to have ſcraped a trifle of money together, you a few hundreds, I ſuppoſe, and I a few thouſands. But one would think every man in theſe books had the Bank of England in his ſcrutoire. Then there's ano⯑ther thing which I never met with in true life. We think it pretty well, you know, if one has got one thing, and another has got another. I'll tell you how I mean. You are reckoned ſenſible, our Parſon is learned, the Squire is rich, I am rather generous, one of your daugh⯑ters is pretty, and both mine are genteel. But in theſe books, (except here and there one, whom they make worſe than Satan himſelf) every man and woman's child of them, are all wiſe, and witty, and generous, and rich, and handſome, and genteel; and all to the laſt de⯑gree. Nobody is middling, or good in one thing, and bad in another, like my live acquaint⯑ance; but 'tis all up to the ſkies, or down to the dirt. I had rather read Tom Hickathrift, or Jack the Giant Killer, a thouſand times.

You have found out, Mr. Bragwell, that many of theſe books are ridiculous; I will go farther, and ſay, that to me they appear wicked alſo. And I ſhould account the reading of them a great miſchief, eſpecially to people in [18] middling and low life, if I only took into the account the great loſs of time ſuch reading cauſes, and the averſion it leaves behind for what is more ſerious and ſolid. But this, though a bad part, is not the worſt. Theſe books give falſe views of human life. They teach a contempt for humble and domeſtic duties; for induſtry, frugality, and retirement. Want of youth and beauty, is conſidered in them as ridiculous. Plain people, like you and me, are objects of contempt. Parental authority is ſet at nought. Nay, plots and contrivances againſt parents, and guardians, fill half the volumes. They conſider love as the great buſineſs of human life, and even teach that it is impoſſible to be regulated or reſtrained, and to the indulgence of this paſſion every duty is therefore ſacrificed A country life, with a kind mother, or a ſober aunt, is deſcribed as a ſtate of intolerable miſery. And one would be apt to fancy, from their painting, that a good country houſe is a priſon, and a worthy father the gaoler. Vice is ſet off with every ornament which can make it pleaſing and amiable; while virtue and piety are made ridi⯑culous by tacking to them ſomething that is ſilly, or abſurd. Crimes, which would be conſidered as hanging matter at the Old Bailey, are here made to take the appearance of virtue, by being mixed with ſome wild flight of unnatural generoſity. Thoſe crying ſins, ADULTERY, GAMING, DUELS, and SELF-MURDER, are made ſo familiar, and the wickedneſs of them is [19] ſo diſguiſed, that even innocent girls get to loſe their abhorrence, and to talk with complacency of things which ſhould not be ſo much as named by them.

I ſhould not have ſaid ſo much on this miſ⯑chief (continued Mr. Worthy,) from which I dare ſay, great folks fancy people in our ſtation are ſafe enough, if I did not know, and lament that this corrupt reading is now got down even among ſome of the loweſt claſs. And it is an evil which is ſpreading every day. Poor induſ⯑trious girls, who get their bread by the needle, or the loom, ſpend half the night in liſtening to theſe books. Thus the labour of one girl is loſt, and the minds of the reſt are corrupted; for though their hands are employed in honeſt in⯑duſtry, which might help to preſerve them from a life of ſin, yet their hearts are at that very time polluted by ſcenes and deſcriptions which are too likely to plunge them into it. And I think I don't go too far, when I ſay, that the vain and ſhewy manner in which young women who have to work for their bread, have taken to dreſs themſelves, added to the poiſon they draw from theſe books, contribute together to bring them to deſtruction, more than almoſt any other cauſe. Now tell me, don't you think theſe vile books will hurt your daughters?

Why I do think they are grown full of ſchemes and contrivances and whiſpers, that's the truth on't. Every thing is a ſecret. They always ſeem to be on the look-out for [20] ſomething, and when nothing comes on't, then they are ſulky and diſappointed. They will not keep company with their equals. They deſpiſe trade and farming, and I own, I'm for the ſtuff. I ſhould not like for them to marry any, but a man of ſubſtance, if he was ever ſo ſmart. Now they will hardly fit down with a ſubſtantial country dealer. But if they hear of a recruiting party in our Market Town, on goes the finery—off they are. Some flimſy excuſe is patched up. They want ſomething at the book ſhop, or the milli⯑ner's, becauſe I ſuppoſe there is a chance that ſome Jack-a-napes of an Enſign may be there buying ſticking-plaiſter. In ſhort I do grow a little uneaſy, for I ſhould not like to ſee all I have ſaved thrown away on a knapſack.

So ſaying they both roſe, and walked out to view the farm. Mr. Bragwell affected greatly to admire the good order of every thing he ſaw; but never forgot to compare it with ſomething larger and handſomer or better of his own. It was eaſy to ſee that ſelf was his ſtandard of per⯑fection in every thing. All he poſſeſſed gained ſome increaſed value in his eyes from being his; and in ſurveying the property of his friend, he derived food for his vanity, from things which ſeemed leaſt likely to raiſe it. Every appear⯑ance of comfort, of ſucceſs, of merit, in any thing which belonged to Mr. Worthy, led him to ſpeak of ſome ſuperior advantage of his own, of the ſame kind. And it was clear that the chief part of the ſatisfaction he felt in walking over the farm [21] of his friend, was cauſed by thinking how much larger his own was.

Mr. Worthy who felt a kindneſs for him, which all his vanity could not cure, was on the watch how to turn their talk to ſome uſeful point. And whenever people reſolve to go into company with this view, it is commonly their own fault if ſome opportunity of turning it to account does not offer.

He ſaw Bragwell was intoxicated with pride, and undone by proſperity, and that his family was in the high-road to ruin. He thought that if ſome means could be found to open his eyes on his own character, to which he was now totally blind, it might be of the utmoſt ſervice to him. The more Mr. Worthy reflected, the more he wiſhed to undertake this kind office. He was not ſure that Mr. Bragwell would bear it, but he was very ſure it was his duty to attempt it. Mr. Worthy was very humble, and very candid, and he had great patience and forbearance with the faults of others. He felt no pride at having eſcaped the ſame errors himſelf, for he knew who it was had made them to differ. He remembered that God had given him many advantages, a pious father, and a religious education; this made him humble under a ſenſe of his own ſins, and charitable towards the ſins of others, who had not the ſame privileges.

Juſt as he was going to try to enter into a very ſerious converſation with his gueſt, he was ſtop⯑ped by the appearance of his daughter, who told [22] them ſupper was ready.—This interruption obliges me to break off alſo, and I ſhall reſerve what follows to the next month, when I promiſe to give my readers the ſecond part of this Hiſtory.

PART II.

MY readers may remember that the firſt part of this hiſtory concluded with a walk taken by Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy over the grounds of the latter, in which walk Mr. Bragwell, though he ſeemed to admire, took care to lower every thing he ſaw, by comparing it with ſome⯑thing better which he had of his own. Soon after ſupper Mrs. Worthy left the room with her daughters, at her huſband's deſire; for it was his intention to ſpeak more plainly to Bragwell than was likely to be agreeable to him to hear before others.

The two farmers being ſeated at their little table, each in a handſome old-faſhioned great chair, Bragwell began.

It is a great comfort, neighbour Worthy, at a certain time of life, to be got above the world; my notion is, that a man ſhould labour hard the firſt part of his days, and that he may then ſit down and enjoy himſelf for the remainder. Now though I hate boaſting, yet as you are my oldeſt [23] friend I am about to open my heart to you. Let me tell you then I reckon I have worked as hard as any man in my time, and that I now begin to think I have a right to indulge a little. I have got my money with a good character, and I mean to ſpend it with credit. I pay every one his own, I ſet a good example, I keep to my church, I ſerve God, I honour the king, and I obey the laws of the land.

This is doing a great deal indeed, replied Mr. Worthy; but, added he, I doubt that more goes to the making up all theſe duties than men are commonly aware of. Suppoſe then that you and I talk the matter over coolly, we have the evening before us. What if we ſit down together as two friends, and examine one another.

Bragwell, who loved argument, and who was not a little vain both of his ſenſe and his mora⯑lity, accepted the challenge, and gave his word that he would take in good part any thing that ſhould be ſaid to him. Worthy was about to proceed when Bragwell interrupted him for a moment, by ſaying,—But ſtop, friend, before we begin I wiſh you would remember that we have had a long walk, and I want a little re⯑freſhment; have you no liquor that is ſtronger than this cyder? I am afraid it will give me a ſit of the gout.

Mr. Worthy immediately produced a bottle of wine, and another of ſpirits, ſaying, that though he drank neither ſpirits nor even wine [24] himſelf, yet his wife always kept a little each as a proviſion in caſe of ſickneſs or a [...] ⯑cidents.

Farmer Bragwell preferred the brandy, a [...] began to taſte it. Why, ſaid he, this is no bett [...] than Engliſh, I always uſe foreign myſelf. bought this for foreign, ſaid Mr. Worthy. No▪ no, it is Engliſh ſpirits, I aſſure you, but I c [...] put you into a way to get foreign nearly as che [...] as Engliſh. Mr. Worthy replied that he thoug [...] that was impoſſible.

O no, there are ways and means—a word to the wiſe—there is an acquaintance o [...] mine that lives upon the ſouth coaſt—you a [...] a particular friend, and I will get you a gallon ſo a trifle.

Not if it be ſmuggled Mr. Bragwell though I ſhould get it for ſix-pence a bottle.—Aſk no queſtions, ſaid the other, I never ſay any⯑thing to any one, and who is the wiſer?—And [...] this is your way of obeying the laws of the land ſaid Mr. Worthy,—here is a fine ſpecimen o [...] your morality.

Come, come, don't make a fu [...] about trifles. If every one did it indeed it would be another thing, but as to my getting a drop of good brandy cheap, why that can't hurt the revenue much.

Pray Mr. Bragwell what ſhould you think of a man who would dip his hand into a bag and take out a few guineas?

Think! why I think that he ſhould [...] hanged to be ſure.

But ſuppoſe that bag ſtood in the [...]ng's treaſury?

In the king's treaſury! worſe and [...]orſe! What, rob the king's treaſury! Well, hope the robber will be taken up and executed, [...]r I ſuppoſe we ſhall all be taxed to pay the [...]amage.

Very true. If one man takes money [...]ut of the treaſury, others muſt be obliged to pay [...]e more into it; but what think you if the fel⯑ [...]w ſhould be found to have ſtopped ſome money [...] its way to the treaſury, inſtead of taking it out [...]f the bag after it got there?

Guilty, Mr. Worthy; it is all the [...]ame in my opinion. If I was a juryman, I ſhould [...]ay guilty, death.

Hark ye Mr. Bragwell, he that deals in ſmuggled brandy, is the man who takes to himſelf the king's money in its way to the trea⯑ſury, and he as much robs the government as if he dipt his hands into a bag of guineas in the treaſury chamber. It comes to the ſame thing exactly. Here Bragwell ſeemed a little offended. —What, Mr. Worthy, do you pretend to ſay I am not an honeſt man becauſe I like to get my brandy as cheap as I can? and becauſe I like to ſave a ſhilling to my family? Sir, I re⯑peat it, I do my duty to God and my neigh⯑bour. I ſay the Lord's Prayer moſt days, I go to church on Sundays, I repeat my Creed, and [26] keep the Ten Commandments, and though I may now and then get a little brandy cheap, yet upon the whole, I will venture to ſay, I do as much as can be expected of any man.

Come then, ſince you ſay you keep the commandments, you cannot be offended if I aſk you whether you underſtand them.

To be ſure I do. I dare ſay I do: look'ee Mr. Worthy, I don't pretend to much reading, I was not bred to it as you were. If my father had been a parſon, I fancy I ſhould have made as good a figure as ſome other folks, but I hope good ſenſe and a good heart may teach a man his duty without much ſcholar⯑ſhip.

To come to the point let us now go through the ten commandments, and let us take along with us thoſe explanations of them which our Saviour gave us in his ſermon on the mount.

Sermon on the mount! why the ten commandments are in the 20th chapter of Exodus. Come, come, Mr. Worthy, I know where to find the commandments as well as you do, for it happens that I am church-warden, and I can ſee from the altar piece where the ten com⯑mandments are without your telling me, for my pew directly faces it.

But I adviſe you to read the ſermon on the mount, that you may ſee the full meaning of them.

What do you want to make me believe that there are two ways of keeping the commandments?

No; but there may be two ways of underſtanding them.

Well; I am not afraid to be put to the proof; I defy any man to ſay I do not keep at leaſt all the four firſt that are on the left ſide of the altar-piece.

If you can prove that, I ſhall be more ready to believe you obſerve thoſe of the other table; for he who does his duty to God, will be likely to do his duty to his neighbour alſo.

What! do you think that I ſerve two Gods? Do you think then that I make graven images, and worſhip ſtocks or ſtones? Do you take me for a Papiſt or an Idolator?

Don't triumph quite ſo ſoon, maſter Bragwell. Pray is there nothing in the world you prefer to God, and thus make an idol of? Do you not love your money, or your lands, or your crops, or your cattle, or your own will, and your own way, rather better than you love God? Do you never think of theſe with more pleaſure than you think of Him, and follow them more eagerly than your religious duty?

O there's nothing about that in the 20th Chapter of Exodus.

But Jeſus Chriſt has ſaid, "He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me." Now it is certainly a man's duty to love his father and mother, nay it would be wicked not to love them, and yet we muſt not love even theſe more than our Creator and [28] our Saviour. Well I think on this principle your heart pleads guilty to the breach of the firſt and ſecond commandments, let us proceed to the third.

That is about ſwearing, is it not? Mr. Worthy, who had obſerved Bragwell guilty of much profaneneſs in uſing the name of his Maker, (though all ſuch offenſive words have been avoided in writing this hiſtory) now told him that he had been waiting the whole day for an opportunity to reprove him for his frequent breach of the third commandment.

Good L—d, I break the third command⯑ment, ſaid Bragwell, no indeed hardly ever. I once uſed to ſwear a little to be ſure, but I vow to G—d I never do it now, except now and then, when I happen to be in a paſſion: and in ſuch a caſe, why good G—d you know the ſin is with thoſe who provoke me, and not with me; but upon my ſoul I don't think I have ſworn an oath theſe three months, no not I faith, as I hope to be ſaved.

And yet you have broken this holy law no leſs than five or ſix times in the laſt ſpeech you have made.

Lord bleſs me! Sure you miſtake. Good heavens, Mr. Worthy, I call G—d to witneſs, I have neither curſed nor ſwore ſince I have been in the houſe.

Mr. Bragwell, this is the way in which many who call themſelves very good ſort of people deceive themſelves. What! is it no [29] profanation of the name of God to uſe it lightly, [...]reverently, and familiarly as you have done? Our Saviour has not only told us not to ſwear by [...]he immediate name of God, but he has ſaid, [...] ſwear not at all, neither by heaven nor by the [...]arth," and in order to prevent our inventing [...]ny other irreligious exclamations or expreſſions, [...]e has even added, "but let your communica⯑tion be yea, yea, and nay, nay, for whatſoever is more than this ſimple affirmation and denial cometh of evil."

Well, well, I m'uſt take a little more care I believe: I vow to heaven I did not know there had been ſo much harm in it; but my daughters ſeldom ſpeak without uſing ſome of theſe words, and yet they wanted to make me believe the other day that it is monſtrous vulgar to ſwear.

Women, even gentlewomen, who ought to correct this evil habit in their fathers, and huſbands, and children, are too apt to en⯑courage it by their own practice. And indeed they betray the profaneneſs of their own minds alſo by it, for none, who truly venerate the holy name of God, can either profane it in this manner themſelves, or hear others do ſo without being exceedingly pained at it.

Well, ſince you are ſo hard upon me, I believe I muſt e'en give up this point—ſo let us paſs on to the next, and here I tread upon ſure ground, for as ſharp as you are upon me, you cant accuſe me of being a ſabbath-breaker, [30] ſince I go to church every Sunday of my life, unleſs on ſome very extraordinary occaſion.

For thoſe occaſions the goſpel allows, by ſaying, "the ſabbath was made for man and not man for the ſabbath." Our own ſickneſs, or attending on the ſickneſs of others, are lawful impediments.

Yes, and I am now and then obliged to look at a drove of beaſts, or to go a journey, or to take ſome medicine, or perhaps ſome friend may call upon me, or it may be very cold, or very hot, or very rainy.

Poor excuſes, Mr. Bragwell; I am afraid theſe will not paſs on the day of judgment. But how is the reſt of your Sunday ſpent?

O why, I aſſure you, I often go to church in the afternoon alſo, and even if I am ever ſo ſleepy.

And ſo you finiſh your nap at church, I ſuppoſe.

Why as to that, to be ſure we do contrive to have ſomething a little nicer than common for dinner on a Sunday; in conſequence of which one eats, you know, a little more than ordinary; and having nothing to do on that day, one has more leiſure to take a chearful glaſs; and all theſe things will make one a little heavy you know.

And don't you take a little ride in the morning, and look at your ſheep when the weather is good, and ſo fill your mind juſt before you go to church with thoughts of them; and [31] when you come away again don't you ſettle an account, or write a few letters of buſineſs?

I can't ſay but I do, but that is nothing to any body, as long as I ſet a good example by keeping to my church.

And how do you paſs your Sunday evenings?

My wife and daughters go a viſit⯑ing of a Sunday afternoon. My daughters are glad to get out at any rate, and as to my wife, ſhe ſays, that being ready dreſſed it is a pity to loſe the opportunity, beſides it ſaves her time on a week day; ſo then you ſee I have it all my own way, and when I have got rid of the ladies, who are ready to faint at the ſmell of tobacco, I can venture to ſmoak a pipe, and drink a ſober glaſs of punch with half a dozen friends.

Which punch being made of ſmug⯑gled brandy, and drank on the Lord's day, in very vain, as well as profane and worldly com⯑pany, you are enabled to break both the law of God, and that of your country at a ſtroke: and I ſuppoſe when you are got together, you ſpeak of your cattle, or of your crops, after which per⯑haps you talk over a few of your neighbours' faults, and then you brag a little of your own wealth, or your own achievements.

Why you ſeem to know us ſo well, that any one would think you had been ſitting behind the curtain, and yet you are a little miſ⯑taken too, for I think we have hardly ſaid a word [32] for ſeveral of our laſt Sundays on any thing but politics.

And do you find that you much improve your Chriſtian charity by that ſubject?

Why to be ſure we do quarrel 'till we are very near fighting, that is the worſt on't.

And then you call names, and ſwear a little I ſuppoſe.

Why when one is contradicted and put in a paſſion you know, fleſh and blood can't bear it.

And when all your friends are gone home, what becomes of the reſt of the evening?

That is juſt as it happens, ſome⯑times I read the newſpaper; and as one is gene⯑rally moſt tired on the days one does nothing, I go to bed earlier than on other days, that I may be more fit to get up to my buſineſs the next morning.

So you ſhorten Sunday as much as you can, by cutting off a bit at both ends, I ſup⯑poſe; for I take it for granted, you lie a little later in the morning.

Come, come. We ſhan't get through the whole ten to-night if you ſtand ſnubbing one at this rate. You may paſs over the fifth, for my father and mother have been dead ſince I was a boy, ſo I am clear of that ſcrape.

There are, however, many relative duties in that commandment; unkindneſs to all kindred is forbidden.

O, if you mean my turning off my nephew Tom, the plowboy, you muſt not blame me for that, it was all my wife's fault. He was as good a lad as ever lived to be ſure, and my own brother's ſon, but my wife could not bear [...]at a boy in a carter's frock ſhould be about [...]e houſe, calling her aunt. We quarrelled like dog and cat about it; and when he was turned away we did not ſpeak for a week.

Which was a freſh breach of the commandment; a worthy nephew turned out of [...]oors, and a wife not ſpoken to for a week, [...]e no very convincing proofs of your obſervance of the fifth commandment.

Well, I long to come to the ſixth, for you don't think I commit murder I hope.

I am not ſure of that.

What kill any body?

Why the laws of the land indeed, and the diſgrace attending it, are almoſt enough to keep any man from actual murder; let me aſk, however, do you never give way to unjuſt anger, and paſſion, and revenge? as for inſtance, do you never feel your reſentment kindle againſt ſome of the politicians who contradict you on a Sunday night? and do you never puſh your animoſity againſt ſomebody that has affronted you, further than the occaſion will juſtify?

Hark'ee, Mr. Worthy, I am a man of ſubſtance, and nobody ſhall offend me without my being even with him. So as to in⯑juring a man, if he affronts me firſt, there's nothing but good reaſon in that.

Very well! only bear in mind that you wilfully break this commandment, whether you abuſe your ſervant, are angry at your wife, watch for a moment to revenge an injury on your neighbour, or even wreak your paſſion on a harmleſs beaſt; for you have then the ſeeds of murder working in your breaſt; and if there were no law, no gibbet to check you, and no fear of diſgrace neither, I am not ſure where you would ſtop.

Why, Mr. Worthy, you have a ſtrange way of explaining the commandments, ſo you ſet me down for a murderer, merely be⯑cauſe I bear hatred to a man who has done me a hurt, and am glad to do him a like injury in my turn.—I am ſure I ſhould want ſpirit if I did not.

I go by the ſcripture rule, which ſays, "he that hateth his brother is a murderer," and again, "love your enemies, bleſs them that curſe you, and pray for them that deſpitefully uſe you and perſecute you." Beſides, Mr. Brag⯑well, you made it a part of your boaſt that you ſaid the Lord's Prayer every day, wherein you pray to God to forgive you your treſpaſſes as you forgive them that treſpaſs againſt you.—If therefore you do not forgive them that treſpaſs againſt you, in that caſe, you pray daily that your own treſpaſſes may never be forgiven.

Well, come let us make haſte and get through theſe commandments. The next is, "Thou ſhalt not commit adultery," thank God neither I nor my family can be ſaid to break the ſeventh commandment.

Here again, remember how Chriſt himſelf hath ſaid, "whoſo looketh on a woman to luſt after her, hath already committed adul⯑tery with her in his heart." Theſe are no far⯑ [...]etched expreſſions of mine, Mr. Bragwell, they are the words of Jeſus Chriſt. I hope you will not charge him with having carried things too far, for if you do, you charge him with being miſtaken in the religion he taught, and this can only be accounted for, by ſuppoſing him an im⯑poſtor.

Why, upon my word, Mr. Wor⯑thy, I don't like theſe ſayings of his, which you quote upon me ſo often, and that is the truth of it, and I can't ſay I feel much diſpoſed to believe them.

I hope you believe in Jeſus Chriſt. I hope you believe that creed of yours, which you alſo boaſted of your repeating ſo regularly.

Well, well. I'll believe any thing you ſay rather than ſtand quarrelling with you.

I hope then, you will allow, that ſince it is committing adultery to look at a wo⯑man with even an irregular thought, it follows from the ſame rule, that all immodeſt dreſs in your daughters, or indecent jeſts and double meanings in yourſelf; all looſe ſongs or novels; and all diverſions alſo which have a like dan⯑gerous tendency, are forbidden by the ſeventh commandment; for it is moſt plain from what Chriſt has ſaid, that it takes in not only the act but the inclination, the deſire, the indulged [36] imagination; the act is only the laſt and higheſt degree of any ſin, the topmoſt round as it were of a ladder, to which all the lower rounds are only as ſo many ſteps and ſtages.

Strict indeed, Mr. Worthy, but let us go on to the next; you won't pretend to ſay I ſteal. Mr. Bragwell, I truſt, was never known to rob on the highway, to break open his neighbour's houſe, or to uſe falſe weights or meaſures.

No, nor have you ever been under any temptation to do it, and yet there are a thouſand ways of breaking the eighth command⯑ment beſides actual ſtealing; for inſtance, do you never hide the faults of the goods you fell, and heighten the faults of thoſe you buy? Do you never take advantage of an ignorant dealer, and aſk more for a thing than it is worth? Do you never turn the diſtreſſed circumſtances of a man, who has ſomething to ſell, to your own unfair benefit, and thus act as unjuſtly by him as if you had ſtolen? Do you never cut off a ſhilling from a workman's wages, under a pretence which your conſcience can't juſtify? Do you never paſs off an unſound horſe, for a ſound one? Do you never conceal the real rent of your eſtate from the overſeers, and thereby rob the poor-rates of their legal due?

Pooh! theſe things are done every day. I ſhan't go to ſet up for being better than my neighbours in theſe ſort of things; theſe little matters will paſs muſter.—I don't ſet up for a [37] reformer.—If I am as good as the reſt of my neighbours, no man can call me to account; I'm not worſe, I truſt, and I don't pretend to be better.

You muſt be tried hereafter at the bar of God, and not by a jury of your fellow-creatures; and the ſcriptures are given us, in order to ſhew by what rule we ſhall be judged. How many or how ſew do as you do, is quite aſide from the queſtion; Jeſus Chriſt has even told us to ſtrive to enter in at the ſtrait gate, ſo that we ought rather to take fright, from our being like the common run of people, than to take comfort from our being ſo.

Come, I don't like all this cloſe work—it makes a man feel I don't know how—I don't find myſelf ſo happy as I did—I don't like this fiſhing in troubled waters—I'm as merry as a grig when I let theſe things alone—I'm glad we are got to the ninth. But I ſuppoſe I ſhall be lugged in there too, head and ſhoulders. Any one who did not know me, would really think I was a great ſinner, by your way of putting things; I dont bear falſe witneſs however.

You mean, I ſuppoſe, you would not ſwear a man's life away falſely before a ma⯑giſtrate, but do you take equal care not to ſlan⯑der or backbite him? Do you never repreſent a good action of a man you have quarrelled with as if it were a bad one? or do you never make a bad one worſe than it is, by your manner of telling it? even when you invent no falſe cir⯑cumſtance, [38] do you never give ſuch a colour, to thoſe you relate, as to leave a falſe impreſſion on the mind of the hearers? Do you never twiſt a ſtory ſo as to make it tell a little better for your⯑ſelf, and a little worſe for your neighbour, than truth and juſtice warrant?

Why, as to that matter, all this is only natural.

Aye, much too natural to be right, I doubt. Well, now we are got to the laſt of the commandments.

Yes, I have run the gauntlet finely through them all; you will bring me in guilty here I ſuppoſe, for the pleaſure of going through with it, for you condemn without judge or jury, maſter Worthy.

The culprit, I think, has hitherto pleaded guilty to the evidence brought againſt him. The tenth commandment, however, goes to the root and principle of evil, it dives to the bottom of things; this command checks the firſt riſing of ſin in the heart, teaches us to ſtrangle it in the birth as it were, before it breaks out in thoſe acts which are forbidden; as for inſtance, every man covets before he proceeds to ſteal, nay, many covet who dare not ſteal, leſt they ſhould ſuffer for it.

Why, lookee, Mr. Worthy, I don't underſtand theſe new faſhioned explana⯑tions; one ſhould not have a grain of ſheer good⯑neſs left, if every thing one does is to be frittered away at this rate; I am not, I own, quite ſo [39] good as I thought, but if what you ſay were true, I ſhould be ſo miſerable, I ſhould not know what to do with myſelf. Why, I tell you, all the world may be ſaid to break the command⯑ments at this rate.

Very true. All the world, and I myſelf alſo, are but too apt to break them, if not in the letter, at leaſt in the ſpirit of them. Why then all the world are (as the ſcripture expreſſes it) "guilty before God." And if guilty, they ſhould own they are guilty, and not ſtand up and juſtify themſelves as you do, Mr. Bragwell.

Well, according to my notion, I am a very honeſt man, and honeſty is the ſum and ſubſtance of all religion, ſay I.

All truth, honeſty, juſtice, order, and obedience, grow out of the chriſtian reli⯑gion. The true chriſtian acts, at all times, and on all occaſions, from the pure and ſpiritual principle of love to God; on this principle, he is upright in his dealings, true to his word, kind to the poor, helpful to the oppreſſed. In ſhort, if he truly loves God, he muſt do juſtice, and can't help loving mercy. Chriſtianity is a uni⯑form conſiſtent thing. It does not allow us to make up for the breach of one part of GOD'S law, by our ſtrictneſs in obſerving another. There is no ſponge in one duty, that can wipe out the ſpot of another ſin.

Well, but at this rate, I ſhould be always puzzling and blundering, and ſhould [40] never know for certain whether I was right or nor, whereas I am now quite ſatisfied with my⯑ſelf, and have no doubts to torment me.

One way of knowing whether we really deſire to obey the whole law of God is this; when we find we have as great a regard to that part of it, the breach of which does not touch our own intereſt, as to that part which does. For inſtance, a man robs me; I am in a violent paſſion with him, and when it is ſaid to me, doeſt thou well to be angry? I anſwer, I do well. Thou ſhalt not ſteal is a law of GOD, and this fellow has broken that law. Aye, but ſays conſcience, 'tis thy own property which is in queſtion.—He has broken thy hedge—he has ſtolen thy ſheep—he has taken, thy purſe. Art thou therefore ſure whether it is his violation of thy property, or of GOD's law, which provokes thee? I will put a ſecond caſe—I hear another ſwear moſt grievouſly; or I meet him coming drunk out of an alehouſe; or I find him ſinging a looſe, profane ſong. If I am not as much grieved for this blaſphemer, or this drunkard, as I was for the robber; if I do not take the ſame pains to bring him to a ſenſe of his ſin, which I did to bring the robber to juſtice, "how dwelleth the love of GOD in me?" Is it not clear that I value my own ſheep more than God's command⯑ments? That I prize my purſe more than I love my Maker? In ſhort, whenever I find out that I am more jealous for my own property than for God's law; more careful about my own reputa⯑tion [41] on than his honour, I always ſuſpect I am [...]ot upon wrong ground, and that even my right [...]ctions are not proceeding from a right principle.

Why what in the world would you [...]ave me do?

You muſt confeſs that your ſins are [...]ns. You muſt not merely call them ſins, while you ſee no guilt in them; but you muſt confeſs them ſo us to hate and deteſt them; ſo [...]s to be habitually humbled under the ſenſe of [...]hem; ſo as to truſt for ſalvation not in your freedom from them, but in the mercy of a Sa⯑viour; and ſo as to make it the chief buſineſs of your life to contend againſt them, and in the main to forſake them. And remember that if you ſeek for a deceitful gaiety, rather than a well grounded cheerfulneſs; if you prefer a falſe ſecurity to final ſafety, and now go away to your cattle and your farm, and diſmiſs the ſubject from your thoughts left it ſhould make you un⯑eaſy; I am not ſure that this ſimple diſcourſe may not appear againſt you at the day of ac⯑count, as a freſh proof that you "loved dark⯑neſs rather than light," and ſo increaſe your con⯑demnation.

Mr. Bragwell was more affected than he cared to own. He went to bed with leſs ſpirits and more humility than uſual. He did not how⯑ever care to let Mr. Worthy ſee the impreſſion which it had made upon him; but at parting next morning, he ſhook him by the hand more [42] cordially than uſual, and made him promiſe to return his viſit in a ſhort time.

What beſel Mr. Bragwell and his family on his going home, may, perhaps, make the ſubject of a future hiſtory. Z.

PART III.

MR. BRAGWELL, when he returned home from his viſit to Mr. Worthy, as recorded in the Second Part of this Hiſtory, found that he was not quite ſo happy as he had formerly been. The diſcourſes of Mr. Worthy had broken in not a little on his comfort. And he began to ſuſpect that he was not ſo completely in the right as his vanity had led him to believe. He ſeemed alſo to feel leſs ſatisfacton in the idle gentility of his own daughters, ſince he had been witneſs to the ſimplicity, modeſty, and uſefulneſs of thoſe of Mr. Worthy. And he could not help ſeeing that the vulgar violence of his wiſe did not pro⯑duce ſo much family happineſs at home, as the humble piety and quiet diligence of Mrs. Wor⯑thy produced in the houſe of his friend.

Happy would it have been for Mr. Bragwell, if he had followed up thoſe new convictions of his own mind, which would have led him to ſtruggle againſt the power of evil principles in himſelf, and to have controuled the force of evil [43] [...]abits in his family. But his convictions were [...]ſt ſtrong enough to make him uneaſy under is errors, without driving him to reform them. The ſlight impreſſion ſoon wore off, and he fell [...]ack into his old practices. Still his eſteem for Mr. Worthy was not at all abated by the plain [...]ealing of that honeſt friend. It is true he [...]readed his piercing eye. He felt that his ex⯑ample held out a conſtant reproof to himſelf. Yet ſuch is the force of early affection and rooted [...]everence, that he longed to ſee him at his houſe. This deſire, indeed, as is commonly the caſe, was made up of mixed motives. He wiſhed for he pleaſure of his friend's company; he longed for that favorite triumph of a vulgar mind, an opportunity of ſhewing him his riches; and he thought it would raiſe his credit in the world, to have a man of Mr. Worthy's character at his houſe.

Mr. Bragwell, it is true, ſtill went on with the ſame eagerneſs in gaining money, and the ſame oftentation in ſpending it. But though he was as covetous as ever, he was not quite ſo ſure that it was right to be ſo. While he was actually engaged abroad indeed, in tranſactions with his dealers, he was not very ſcrupulous about the means by which he got his money; and while he was indulging in feſtivity with his friends at home, he was eaſy enough as to the manner in which he ſpent it. But a man can neither be making bargains, nor making feaſts always; there muſt be ſome intervals between theſe two [44] great objects for which worldly men may be ſaid to live; and in ſome of theſe intervals the moſt worldly form, perhaps, ſome random pians of amendment. And though many a one may ſay in the fullneſs of enjoyment, "Soul, take thine eaſe, eat, drink, and be merry;" yet hardly any man, perhaps, allows himſelf to ſay, even in the moſt ſecret moments, I will never retire from buſineſs—I will never repent—I will never think of death—Eternity ſhall never come into my thoughts. The moſt that ſuch an one pro⯑bably ventures to ſay is, I need not repent yet; I will continue ſuch a ſin a little longer; it will be time enough to think on the next world when I am no longer ſit for the buſineſs or the pleaſures of this.

Such was the caſe with Bragwell. He ſet up in his own mind a general diſtant ſort of reſolu⯑tion, that ſome years hence, when he ſhould be a few years older, and a few thouſands richer; when a ſew more of his preſent ſchemes ſhould be compleated, he would then think of altering his courſe of life. He would then certainly ſet about ſpending a religious old age; he would reform ſome practices in his dealings, or perhaps quit buſineſs intirely; he would think about reading good books, and when he had com⯑pleated ſuch and ſuch a purchaſe, he would even begin to give ſomething to the poor, but at preſent he really had little to ſpare for charity. The very reaſon why he ſhould have given more, was juſt the cauſe he aſſigned for not giving at [45] all, namely, the hardneſs of the times. The true, grand ſource of charity, ſelf-denial, never came into his head. Spend leſs that you may ſave more, he would have thought a ſhrewd maxim enough. But ſpend leſs that you may ſpare more, never entered into his book of Proverbs.

At length the time came when Mr. Worthy had promiſed to return his viſit. It was indeed a little haſtened by the notice that Mr. Bragwell would have, in the courſe of the week, a piece of land to ſell by auction; and though Mr. Wor⯑thy believed the price was likely to be above his pocket, yet he knew it was an occaſion which would be likely to bring the principal Farmers of that neighbourhood together, ſome of whom he wanted to meet. And it was on this occa⯑ſion that Mr. Bragwell prided himſelf, that he ſhould ſhew his neighbour's ſo ſenſible a man as his dear friend Mr. Worthy.

Worthy arrived at his friend's houſe on the Saturday, time enough to ſee the houſe, and garden, and grounds of Mr. Bragwell by day⯑light. He ſaw with pleaſure (for he had a warm and generous heart) thoſe evident ſigns of his friend's proſperity, but as he was a man of a ſobber mind, and was a moſt exact dealer in truth, he never allowed his tongue the licence of immodeſt commendation, which he uſed to ſay eicher favoured of flattery or envy. Indeed he never rated mere worldly things ſo highly as to beſtow upon them undue praiſe. His calm ap⯑probation [46] probation ſomewhat diſappointed the vanity of Mr. Bragwell, who could not help ſecretly ſuſ⯑pecting that his friend, as good a man as he was, was not quite free from envy. He felt, however, very much inclined to forgive this jealouſy, which he feared the ſight of his ample property, and handſome habitation, muſt natu⯑rally awaken in the mind of a man whole own poſſeſſions were ſo inferior. He practiſed the uſual trick of ordinary and vulgar minds, that of pretending himſelf to find ſome fault with thoſe things which were particularly deſerving praiſe, when he found Worthy diſpoſed to paſs them over in ſilence.

When they came in to ſupper, he affected to talk of the comforts of Mr. Worthy's little par⯑lour, by way of calling his attention to his own large one. He repeated the word ſnug, as ap⯑plied to every thing at Mr. Worthy's, with the plain deſign to make compariſons favourable to his own more ample domains. He contrived, as he paſſed by to his chair, by a ſeeming acci⯑dent, to puſh open the door of a large beauſet in the parlour, in which all the finery was moſt oftentatiouſly ſet out to view. He protected, with a look of ſatisfaction which belied his words, that for his part he did not care a farthing for all this trumpery; and then ſmiling and rubbing his hands, added with an air of no ſmall importance, what a good thing it is, though for people of ſubſtance, that the tax on plate is taken off. You are a happy man, Mr. Worthy, you do [47] not feel theſe things; tax or no tax it is all the ſame to you. He took care during this ſpeech, by a caſt of his eye, to direct Mr. Worthy's at⯑tention to a great profuſion of the brighteſt cups, ſalvers and tankards, and other ſhining orna⯑ments, which crowded the beauſet. Mr. Wor⯑thy gravely anſwered; Mr. Bragwell, it was in⯑deed a tax which could not affect ſo plain a man as myſelf, but as it fell on a mere luxury, and therefore could not hurt the poor, I was always ſorry that it could not be made productive enough to be continued. A man in my middling ſitua⯑tion, who is contented with a good glaſs of beer, poured from a handſome earthen mug, the glaſs, the mug, and the beer, all of Engliſh manufac⯑ture, will be but little diſturbed at taxes on plate or on wine; but he will regret, as I do, that many of theſe taxes are ſo much evaded, that new taxes are continually brought on to make up the deficiencies of the old.

During ſupper the young ladies ſat in diſdain⯑ful ſilence, not deigning to beſtow the ſmalleſt civility on ſo plain a man as Mr. Worthy. They left the room with their Mamma as ſoon as poſſi⯑ble, being impatient to get away to ridicule their father's friend at full liberty.

The Dance; or, the Chriſtmas Merry-making.

As ſoon as they were gone, Mr. Worthy aſked Bragwell how his family comforts ſtood, and how his daughters, who, he ſaid, were really [48] fine young women, went on. O, as to that, replied Bragwell, pretty much like other men's handſome daughters, I ſuppoſe, that is, worſe and worſe. I really begin to apprehend that their fantaſtical notions have gained ſuch a head, that after all the money I have ſcraped together, I ſhall never get them well married. Betſy has juſt loſt as good an offer as any girl could deſire, young Wilſon, an honeſt, ſubſtantial grazier as any in the county. He not only knows every thing proper for his ſtation, but is pleaſing in his behaviour, and a pretty ſcholar into the bar⯑gain; he reads hiſtory books and voyages, of a winter's evening, to his infirm father, inſtead of going to the card aſſembly in our town; he neither likes drinking nor ſporting, and is a ſort of favourite with our Parſon, becauſe he takes in the weekly numbers of a fine Bible with Cuts, and ſubſcribes to the Sunday School, and makes a fuſs about helping the poor, theſe dear times, as they call them, but I think they are good times for us, Mr. Worthy. Well, for all this, Betſy only deſpiſed him, and laughed at him; but as he is both handſome and rich, I thought ſhe might come round at laſt; and ſo I invited him to come and ſtay a day or two at Chriſtmas, when we have always a little ſort of merry-making here. But it would not do. He ſcorned to talk that palavering ſtuff which ſhe has been uſed to in the marble covered books I told you of. He told her, indeed, that it would be the happineſs of his heart to live with her, which I own I [49] thought was as much as could be expected of any man. But Miſs had no notion of marrying one who was only deſirous of living with her. No, no, forſooth, her lover muſt declare him⯑ſelf ready to die for her, which honeſt Wilſon was not ſuch a fool as to offer to do. In the afternoon, however, he got a little into her fa⯑vour by making out a Rebus or two, in the Lady's Diary, and ſhe condeſcended to ſay, ſhe did not think Mr. Wilſon had been ſo good a ſcholar; but he ſoon ſpoilt all again. We had a bit of a hop in the evening. The young man, though he had not much taſte for thoſe ſort of gambols, yet thought he could ſoot it a little in the old-faſhioned way. So he aſked Betſy to be his partner. But when he aſked what dance they ſhould call, Miſs drew up her head, and in a ſtrange gibberiſh, ſaid ſhe ſhould dance nothing but a Menuct de la Cour, and ordered him to call it; Wilſon ſtared, and honeſtly told her ſhe muſt call it herſelf, for he could neither ſpell nor pro⯑nounce ſuch outlandiſh words. I burſt out a laughing, and told him I ſuppoſed it was ſome⯑thing like queſtions and commands, and if ſo, that was much merrier than dancing. Seeing her partner ſtanding ſtock ſtill and not knowing how to get out of the ſcrape, the girl began by herſelf, and fell to ſwimming, and ſinking, and ca⯑pering, and flouriſhing, and poſturing, for all the world juſt like the man on the ſlack rope at our fair. But ſeeing Wilſon ſtanding like a ſtuck pig, and we all laughing at her, ſhe reſolved to [50] wreak her malice upon him; ſo, with a look of rage and diſdain, ſhe adviſed him to go down country bumkin, with the dairy maid, who would make a much fitter partner, as well as wiſe, for him, than ſhe could do. I am quite of your mind, Miſs, ſaid he, with more ſpirit than I thought was in him; you may make a good partner for a dance, but you would make a ſad one to go through life with. I will take my leave of you, Miſs, with this ſhort ſtory. I had lately a pretty large concern in hay-job⯑bing, which took me to London. I waited a good while in the Hay-market for my dealer, and, to paſs away the time, I ſtepped into a ſort of ſinging play-houſe there, where I was grieved to the heart to ſee young women painted and dizened out, and capering away juſt as you have been doing. I thought it bad enough in them, and wondered, the quality could be entertained with ſuch indecent mummery. But little did I think to meet with the ſame paint, ſinery, and tricks, in a farm houſe. I will never marry a woman who deſpiſes me, nor the ſtation in which I ſhould place her, and ſo I take my leave.—Poor girl, how ſhe was provoked! to be pub⯑licly refuſed, and turned off, as it were, by a grazier! But it was of uſe to ſome of the other girls, who have not held up their heads quite ſo high ſince, nor painted quite ſo red, but have condeſcended to ſpeak to their equals.

But how I run on! I forget it is Saturday night, and that I ought to be paying my work⯑men, who are all waiting for me without.

[51] Saturday Night; or the Workmens' Wages.

As ſoon as Mr. Bragwell had done paying his men, Mr. Worthy ſaid to him, I have made it a habit, and I hope not an unprofitable one, of trying to turn to ſome moral uſe, not only all the events of daily life, but all the employments of it too. And though it occurs ſo often, I hardly know one that ſets me a thinking more ſeriouſly than the ordinary buſineſs you have been juſt diſ⯑charging. Aye, ſaid Bragwell, it ſets me think⯑ing too, and ſeriouſly, as you ſay, when I ob⯑ſerve how much the price of wages is increaſed. Yes, yes, you are ready enough to think of that, ſaid Worthy, but you ſay not a word of how much the value of your land is increaſed, and that the more you pay, the more you can afford to pay. But the thoughts I ſpoke of are quite of another caſt. When I call in my labourers, on a Saturday night, to pay them, it often brings to my mind the great and general day of ac⯑count, when I, and you, and all of us, ſhall be called to our grand and awful reckoning, when we ſhall go to receive our wages, maſter and ſer⯑vants, farmer and labourer. When I ſee that one of my men has failed of the wages he ſhould have received, becauſe he has been idling at a fair; another has loſt a day by a drinking bout, a third confeſſes that, though he had taſk work, and might have earned ſtill more, yet he has been careleſs, and has not his full pay to receive; [52] this, I ſay, ſometimes ſets me on thinking whether I alſo have made the moſt of my time. And when I come to pay even the more diligent who have worked all the week; when I reflect that even theſe have done no more than it was their duty to do, I cannot help ſaying to myſelf, night is come; Saturday night is come. No re⯑pentance, or diligence on the part of theſe poor men can now make a bad week's work good. This week is gone into eternity. To-morrow is the ſeaſon of reſt; working time is over. My life alſo will ſoon be ſwallowed up in eternity; ſoon the ſpace allotted me for diligence, for labour, will be over. Soon will the grand queſtion be aſked, "What haſt thou done? Didſt thou uſe thy working days to the end for which they were given?" With ſome ſuch thoughts I commonly go to bed, and they help to quicken me to a keener diligence for the next week.

Some account of a Sunday in Mr. Bragwell's Family.

Mr. Worthy had been for ſo many years uſed to the ſober ways of his own well-ordered family, that he greatly diſliked to paſs a Sunday in any houſe of which Religion was not the go⯑verning principle. Indeed, he commonly or⯑dered his affairs, and regulated his journies with an eye to this object. To paſs a Sunday in an irreligious family, ſaid he, is always un⯑pleaſant, often unſafe. I ſeldom find I can do [53] them any good, and they may perhaps do me ſome harm. At leaſt, I am giving a ſanction to their manner of paſſing it, if I paſs it in the ſame manner. If I reprove them, I ſubject myſelf to the charge of ſingularity, and of being "righteous over much;" if I do not reprove them, I confirm and ſtrengthen them in evil. And whether I reprove them or not, I certainly partake of their guilt if I ſpend it as they do.

He had, however, ſo ſtrong a deſire to be uſe⯑ful to Mr. Bragwell, that he at length deter⯑mined to break through his common practice, and paſs the Sunday at his houſe. Mr. Worthy was ſurpriſed to find that though the church bell was going, the breakfaſt was not ready, and expreſſed his wonder how this ſhould be the caſe in ſo in⯑duſtrious a family. Bragwell made ſome auk⯑ward excuſes. He ſaid his wife worked her ſer⯑vants fo hard all the week, that even ſhe, as notable as ſhe was, a little relaxed from the ſtrict⯑neſs of her demands on Sunday mornings; and he owned that in a general way, no one was up early enough for church. He confeſſed that his wife commonly ſpent the morning in making puddings, pies, and cakes, to laſt through the week, as Sunday was the only leiſure time ſhe and her maids had. Mr. Worthy ſoon ſaw an uncommon buſtle in the houſe. All hands were buſy. It was nothing but baking and boiling, and frying, and roaſting, and running, and ſcold⯑ing, and eating. The boy was kept from church to clean the plate, the man to gather the fruit, [54] the miſtreſs to make the cheeſe cakes, the maids to dreſs the dinner, and the young ladies to dreſs themſelves.

The truth was, Mrs. Bragwell, who had heard much of the order and good management of Mr. Worthy's family, but who looked down with diſ⯑dain upon them as far leſs rich than herſelf, was reſolved to indulge her vanity on the preſent oc⯑caſion. She was determined to be even with Mrs. Worthy, in whole praiſes Bragwell had been ſo loud, and felt no ſmall pleaſure in the hope of making her gueſt uneaſy, when he ſhould be ſtruck with the diſplay both of her ſkill and her wealth. Mr. Worthy was indeed ſtruck to be⯑hold as large a dinner as he had been uſed to ſee at a Juſtice's meeting. He, whoſe frugal and pious wife had accuſtomed him only to ſuch a plain Sunday's dinner as could be dreſſed with⯑out keeping any one from church, when he ſur⯑veyed the loaded table of his friend, inſtead of feeling that envy which theſe grand preparations were meant to raiſe, felt nothing but diſguſt at the vanity of his friend's wife, mixed with much thankfulneſs for the piety of his own.

After having made the dinner wait a long time, the Miſs Bragwells marched in, dreſſed as if they were going to the Aſſize-Ball; they looked very ſcornful at having been ſo hurried; though they had been dreſſing ever ſince they got up, and their fond father, when he ſaw them ſo fine, forgave all their impertinence, and caſt an eye of triumph on Mr. Worthy, who felt he had [55] never loved his own humble daughters ſo well as at that moment.

In the afternoon the whole party went to church. To do them juſtice, it was indeed their common practice once a day, when the weather was good, and the road was neither duſty nor dirty, when the Miniſter did not begin too early, when the young ladies had not been diſappointed of their new bonnets on the Saturday night, and when they had no ſmart company in the houſe who rather wiſhed to ſtay at home. When this laſt was the caſe, which, to ſay the truth, hap⯑pened pretty often, it was thought a piece of good manners to conform to the humour of the gueſts. Mr. Bragwell had this day forborne to aſk any of his uſual company, well knowing that their vain and worldly converſation would only ſerve to draw on him ſome new reprimand from his friend.

Mrs. Bragwell and her daughters picked up, as uſual, a good deal of acquaintance at church. Many compliments paſſed, and much of the news of the week was retailed before the ſervice began. They waited with impatience for the reading the leſſons as a licenſed ſeaſon for whiſ⯑pering, and the ſubject begun during the leſſons, was finiſhed while they were ſinging. The young ladies made an appointment for the after⯑noon with a friend in the next pew, while their Mamma took the opportunity of enquiring the character of a dairy maid, which ſhe obſerved [56] with a compliment to her own good manage⯑ment, would ſave time on a week-day.

Mr. Worthy, who found himſelf quite in a new world, returned home with his friend alone. In the evening he ventured to aſk Bragwell, if he did not, on a Sunday night, at leaſt, make it a cuſtom to read and pray with his family. Brag⯑well told him, he was ſorry to ſay he had no fa⯑mily at home, elſe he ſhould like to do it for the ſake of example. But as his ſervants worked hard all the week, his wife was of opinion that they ſhould then have a little holiday. Mr. Worthy preſſed it home upon him, whether the utter neglect of his ſervants' principles was not likely to make a heavy article in his final account: and aſked him if he did not believe that the too general liberty of meeting together, jaunting, and diverting themſelves, on Sunday evenings, was not often found to produce the worſt effects on the morals of ſervants, and the good order of families ? I put it to your conſcience, ſaid he, Mr. Bragwell, whether Sunday, which was meant as a bleſſing and a benefit, is not, as it is commonly kept, turned into the moſt miſchiev⯑ous part of the week, by the ſelfiſh kindneſs of maſters, who, not daring to ſet their ſervants about any public work, allot them that day to follow their own devices, that they themſelves may with more rigour refuſe them a little in⯑dulgence and a reaſonable holiday in the work⯑ing part of the week, which a good ſervant has now and then a fair right to expect. Thoſe [57] maſters who will give them half, or all the Lord's day, will not ſpare them a ſingle hour of a working day. Their work muſt be done; God's work may be let alone.

Mr. Bragwell owned that Sunday had pro⯑duced many miſchiefs in his own family. That the young men and maids, having no eye upon them, frequently went to improper places with other ſervants, turned adriſt like themſelves. That in theſe parties the poor girls were too frequently led aſtray, and the men got to public houſes, and fives playing. But it was none of his buſineſs to watch them. His family only did as others do; indeed it was his wife's con⯑cern; and as ſhe was ſo good a manager on other days, that ſhe would not ſpare them an hour to viſit a ſick father or mother, it would be hard, ſhe ſaid, if they might not have Sunday afternoon to themſelves, and ſhe could not blame them for making the moſt of it. Indeed, ſhe was ſo indulgent in this particular, that ſhe often excuſed the men from going to church that they might ſerve the beaſts, and the maids that they might get the milking done before the holiday part of the evening came on. She would not indeed hear of any competition between doing her work and taking their pleaſure;. but when the difference lay between their going to church and taking their peaſure, he muſt ſay that for his wife, ſhe always inclined to the good-natured ſide of the queſtion. She is ſtrict enough in keeping them ſober, becauſe drunkenneſs is a [58] coſtly ſin; and to do her juſtice, ſhe does not care how little they ſin at her expence.

Well, ſaid Mr. Worthy, I always like to examine both ſides fairly, and to ſee the different effects of oppoſite practices; now, which plan produces the greateſt ſhare of comfort to the maſter, and of profit to the ſervants in the long run? Your ſervants, 'tis likely, are very much attached to you; and very fond of living where they get their own way in ſo great a point.

O, as to that, replied Bragwell, you are quite out. My houſe is a ſcene of diſcord, mutiny, and diſcontent. And thoug there is not a bet⯑ter manager in England than my wife, yet ſhe is always changing her ſervants, ſo that every quarter-day is a ſort of gaol-delivery at my houſe; and when they go off, as they often do, at a moment's warning, to own the truth, I often give them money privately, that they may not carry my wife before the Juſtice to get their wages.

I ſee, ſaid Mr. Worthy, that all your worldly compliances do not procure you even worldly happineſs. As to my own family, I take care to let them ſee that their pleaſure is bound up with their duty, and that what they may call my ſtrictneſs, has nothing in view but their ſafety and happineſs. By this means, I com⯑monly gain their love as well as ſecure their obedience. I know, that with all my care, I am liable to be diſappointed, "from the corruption that is in the world through ſin." But when⯑ever this happens, ſo far from encouraging me in [59] remiſſeneſs, it only ſerves to quicken my zeal. If, by God's bleſſing, my ſervant turns out a good Chriſtian, I have been an humble inſtru⯑ment in his hand of ſaving a ſoul committed to my charge.

Mrs. Bragwell came home, but brought only one of her daughters with her, the other, ſhe ſaid, had given them the ſlip, and was gone with a young friend, and would not return for a day or two. Mr. Bragwell was greatly diſpleaſed; as he knew that young friend had but a ſlight character, and kept bad acquaintances. Mrs. Bragwell came in, all hurry and buſtle, ſaying, if her family did not go to bed with the Lamb on Sundays, when they had nothing to do, how could they riſe with the Lark on Mondays, when ſo much was to be done.

Mr. Worthy had this night much matter for reflexion. We need not, ſaid he, go into the great world to look for diſſipation and vanity. We can find both in a farm houſe. As for me and my houſe, continued he, we will ſerve the Lord every day, but eſpecially on Sundays. It is the day which the Lord hath made: hath made for himſelf; we will rejoice in it and conſider the religious uſe of it not only as a duty but as a privilege.

The next morning Mr. Bragwell and his friend ſet out early for the Golden Lion. What paſſed on this little journey, my readers ſhall hear next month.

PART IV.

IT was mentioned in the laſt part of this Hiſtory, that the chief reaſon which had drawn Mr. Worthy to viſit his friend juſt at the preſent time, was, that Mr. Bragwell had a ſmall eſtate to ſell by auction. Mr. Worthy, though he did not think he ſhould be a bidder, wiſhed to be preſent, as he had buſineſs to ſettle with one or two perſons, who were expected at the Golden Lion on that day, and he had put off his viſit till he had ſeen the ſale advertiſed in the County Paper.

Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy ſet out early on the Monday morning, on their way to the Golden Lion, a ſmall inn, in a neighbouring market town. As they had time before them, they had agreed to ride ſlowly, that they might converſe on ſome uſeful ſubject; but here, as uſual, they had two opinions about the ſame thing. Mr. Bragwell's notion of an uſeful ſub⯑ject was, ſomething by which money was to be got, and a good bargain ſtruck. Mr. Worthy was no leſs a man of buſineſs than his friend. His ſchemes were wiſe, and his calculations juſt his reputation for integrity and good ſenſe made him the common judge and umpire in his neigh⯑bours affairs, while no one paid a more exact attention to every tranſaction of his own. But [61] the buſineſs of getting money was not with him the firſt, much leſs was it the whole concern of the day. Every morning when he roſe, he re⯑membered that he had a Maker to worſhip, as well as a family to maintain. Religion, however, never made him neglect buſineſs, though it ſometimes led him to poſtpone it. He uſed to ſay, no man had any reaſon to expect God's bleſſing through the day who did not aſk it in the morning; nor was he likely to ſpend the day in the fear of God, who did not begin it with his worſhip. But he had not the leſs ſenſe, ſpirit, and activity, when he was among men abroad, becauſe he had firſt ſerved God at home.

As theſe two Farmers rode along, Mr. Worthy took occaſion, from the fineneſs of the day, and the beauty of the country through which they paſſed, to turn the diſcourſe to the goodneſs of God, and our infinite obligations to him. He knew that the tranſition from thankſgiving to prayer would be natural and eaſy, and he there⯑fore ſlid, by degrees, into that important ſubject: and he obſerved, that ſecret prayer was a duty of univerſal obligation, which every man had it in his power to fulfil; and which he ſeriouſly be⯑lieved was the ground-work of all religious prac⯑tice, and of all devout affections.

Mr. Bragwell felt conſcious that he was very negligent and irregular in the performance of this duty; indeed, he conſidered it as a mere cere⯑mony, or at leaſt, as a duty which might give way to the ſlighteſt temptation of drowſineſs at [62] night, or of buſineſs in the morning. As he knew he did not live in the conſcientious per⯑formance of this practice, he tried to ward off the ſubject, knowing what a home way his friend had of putting things. After ſome evaſion, he at laſt ſaid, he certainly thought private prayer a good cuſtom, eſpecially for people who have time; and thoſe who were ſick, or old, or out of buſineſs, could not do better; but that for his part, he believed much of theſe ſort of things was not expected from men in active life.

I ſhould think, Mr. Bragwell, that thoſe who are moſt expoſed to temptation ſtand moſt in need of prayer; now there are few, methinks, who are more expoſed to temptation than men in buſineſs, for thoſe muſt be in moſt danger, at leaſt, from the world, who have moſt to do with it. And if this be true, ought we not to prepare ourſelves in the cloſet for the trials of the market, the field, and the ſhop? It is but putting on our armour before we go out to battle.

For my part, I think example is the whole of religion, and if the maſter of a family is orderly, and regular, and goes to church, he does every thing which can be required of him, and no one has a right to call him to account for any thing more.

Give me leave to ſay, Mr. Bragwell, that highly as I rate a good example, ſtill I muſt ſet a good principle above it. I know I muſt keep good order indeed, for the ſake of others; [63] but I muſt keep a good conſcience for my own ſake. To God I owe ſecret piety, I muſt there⯑fore pray to him in private.—To my family I owe a chriſtian example, and for that, among other reaſons, I muſt not fail to go to church.

You are talking, Mr. Worthy, as if I were an enemy to Chriſtianity. Sir, I am no Heathen. Sir, I belong to the Church; I go to Church; I always drink proſperity to the Church. You yourſelf, as ſtrict as you are, in never miſſing it twice a day, are not a warmer friend to the Church than I am.

That is to ſay, you know its value as an inſtitution, but you do not ſeem to know that a man may be very irreligious under the beſt religious inſtitutions; and that even the moſt excellent of them are but means of being religious, and are no more religion itſelf than brick and mortar are prayers and thankſgivings. I ſhall never think, however high their profeſſion, and even however regular their attendance, that thoſe men truly reſpect the Church, who bring home little of that religion which is taught in it into their own families, or their own hearts; or, who make the whole of Chriſtianity to conſiſt in their attendance there. Excuſe me, Mr. Brag⯑well.

Mr. Worthy, I am perſuaded that religion is quite a proper thing for the poor; and I don't think that the multitude can ever be kept in order without it; and I am a ſort of [64] a politician you know. We muſt have bits, and bridles, and reſtraints for the vulgar.

Your opinion is very juſt, as far as it goes, but it does not go far enough, ſince it does not go to the root of the evil, for while you value yourſelf on the ſoundneſs of this principle as a politician, I wiſh you alſo to ſee the reaſon of it as a Chriſtian; depend upon it, if religion be good for the community at large, it is equally good for every family; and what is right for a family is equally right for each individual in it. You have therefore yourſelf brought the moſt unanſwerable argument why you ought to be re⯑ligious yourſelf, by aſking how we ſhall keep others in order without religion. For, believe me, Mr. Bragwell, there is no particular clauſe to except you in the Goſpel. There are no ex⯑ceptions there in favour of any one claſs of men. The ſame reſtraints which are neceſſary for the people at large are equally neceſſary for men of every order, high and low, rich and poor, bond and free, learned and ignorant. If Jeſus Chriſt died for no particular rank, claſs, or community, there is no one rank, claſs, or communion, exempt from the obedience to his laws enjoined by the Goſpel. May I aſk you, Mr. Bragwell, what is your reaſon for going to Church?

Sir, I am ſhocked at your queſtion. How can I avoid doing a thing ſo cuſtomary and ſo creditable? Not go to Church, indeed! What do you take me for, Mr. Worthy? I am afraid you ſuſpect me to be a Papiſt, or a Hea⯑then, [65] or of ſome religion or other that is not what it ſhould be.

If a foreigner were to hear how violently one ſet of Chriſtians in this country often ſpeak againſt another, how earneſt would he ſuppoſe us all to be in religious matters: and how aſtoniſhed to diſcover that many a man has perhaps little other proof to give of the ſincerity of his own religion, except the violence with which he hates the religion of another party. It is not irreligion which ſuch men hate; but the religion of the man, or the party, whom they are ſet againſt: now hatred is certainly no part of the religion of the Goſpel. Well, you have told me why you go to Church; now pray tell me, why do you confeſs there on your bended knees every Sunday, that "you have erred and ſtrayed from God's ways?" "that there is no health in you?" "that you have done what you ought not to do?" "and that you are a miſerable ſinner?"

Becauſe it is in the Common Prayer Book, to be ſure, a book which I have heard you yourſelf ſay was written by wiſe and good men, the pillars of the Proteſtant Church.

But have you no other reaſon?

No, I can't ſay I have.

When you repeat that excellent form of confeſſion, do you really feel that you are a miſerable ſinner?

No, I can't ſay I do. But that is no objection to my repeating it, becauſe it may ſuit the caſe of many who are ſo. I ſuppoſe the [66] good Doctors who drew it up, intended that part for wicked people only, ſuch as drunkards, and thieves, and murderers; for I imagine they could not well contrive to make the ſame prayer quire ſuit an honeſt man and a rogue; and ſo I ſup⯑poſe they thought it ſafer to make a good man repeat a prayer which ſuited a rogue, than to make a rogue repeat a prayer which ſuited a good man; and you know it is ſo cuſtomary for every body to repeat the general confeſſion, that it can't hurt the credit of the moſt reſpectable perſons, though every reſpectable perſon muſt know they have no particular concern in it.

Depend upon it, Mr. Bragwell, thoſe good Doctors you ſpeak of, were not quite of your opinion; they really thought that what you call honeſt men, were grievous ſinners in a certain ſenſe, and that the beſt of us ſtand in need of making that humble confeſſion. Mr. Bragwell, do you believe in the fall of Adam?

To be ſure I do, and a ſad thing for Adam it was; why, it is in the Bible, is it not? It is one of the prettieſt chapters in Ge⯑neſis. Don't you believe it, Mr. Worthy?

Yes, truly I do. But I don't believe it merely becauſe I read it in Geneſis; though I know, indeed, that I am bound to believe every part of the word of God. But I have ſtill an additional reaſon for believing in the fall of the firſt man.

Have you, indeed? Now, I can't gueſs what that can be.

Why, my own obſervation of what is within myſelf teaches me to believe it. It is not only the third chapter of Geneſis which convinces me of the truth of the fall, but alſo the ſinful inclinations which I find in my own heart correſponding with it. This is one of thoſe leading truths of Chriſtianity of which I can never doubt a moment; firſt, becauſe it is abundantly expreſſed or implied in Scripture; and next, becauſe the conſciouſneſs of the evil nature I carry about with me confirms the doctrine beyond all doubt. Beſides, is it not ſaid in Scripture, that by one man ſin entered into the world, and that "all we, like ſheep, have gone aſtray; that by one man's diſ⯑obedience many were made ſinners;" and ſo again in twenty more places that I could tell you of?

Well; I never thought of this. But is not this a very melancholy ſort of doctrine, Mr. Worthy?

It is melancholy, indeed, if we ſtop here. But while we are deploring this ſad truth, let us take comfort from another, that "As in Adam all die, ſo in Chriſt ſhall all be made alive."

Yes; I remember I thought thoſe very fine words, when I heard them ſaid over my poor father's grave. But as it was in the Burial of the Dead, I did not think of taking it to myſelf; for I was then young and hearty, and in little danger of dying, and I have been [68] ſo buſy ever ſince, that I have hardly had time to think of it.

And yet the ſervice pronounced at the burial of all who die, is a ſolemn admonition to all who live. It is there ſaid, as indeed the Scripture ſays alſo, "I am the reſurrection and the life; whoſoever believeth in me ſhall never die, but I will raiſe him up at the laſt day." Now do you think you believe in Chriſt, Mr. Brag⯑well?

To be ſure I do; why you are always fancying me an Atheiſt.

In order to believe in Chriſt, we muſt believe firſt in our own guilt and our own unworthineſs; and when we do this we ſhall ſee the uſe of a Saviour, and not till then.

Why, all this is a new way of talk⯑ing. I can't ſay I ever meddled with ſuch ſub⯑jects before in my life. But now, what do you adviſe a man to do upon your plan of Religion?

Why, all this leads me back to the ground from which we ſet out, I mean the duty of prayer; for if we believe that we have an evil nature within us, and that we ſtand in need of God's grace to help us, and a Saviour to redeem us, we ſhall be led of courſe to pray for what we ſo much need; and without this conviction we ſhall not be led to pray.

Well; but don't you think, Mr. Worthy, that you good folks who make ſo much of prayer, have lower notions than we have of the wiſdom of the Almighty? You think he [69] wants to be informed of the things you tell him; whereas, I take it for granted, that he knows them already, and that, being ſo good as he is, he will give me every thing he ſees fit to give me, without my aſking it.

God, indeed, who knows all things, knows what we want before we aſk him; but ſtill has he not ſaid, that "with prayer and ſuppli⯑cation we muſt make known our requeſts unto him?" Prayer is the way in which God hath ſaid that his favour muſt be ſought. It is the chan⯑nel through which he hath declared it is his ſove⯑reign will and pleaſure that his bleſſings ſhould be conveyed to us. What aſcends up in prayer deſcends again to us in bleſſings. It is like the rain which juſt now fell, and which had been drawn up from the ground in vapours to the clouds before it deſcended from them to the earth in that re⯑freſhing ſhower. Beſides, prayer has a good effect: on our minds; it tends to excite a right diſpoſition towards God in us, and to keep up a conſtant ſenſe of our dependance. But above all, it is the way to get the good things we want. "Aſk," ſays the Scripture, "and ye ſhall re⯑ceive."

Now that is the very thing which I was going to deny. For the truth is, men do not always get what they aſk; I believe if I could get a good crop for aſking it, I ſhould pray oftener than I do.

Sometimes, Mr. Bragwell, men "aſk and receive not, becauſe they aſk amiſs." They [70] aſk worldly bleſſings, perhaps, when they ſhould aſk ſpiritual ones. Now the latter, which are the good things I ſpoke of, are always granted to thoſe who pray to God for them, though the former are not. I have obſerved in the caſe of ſome worldly things I have ſought for, that the grant of my prayer would have cauſed the miſery of my life; ſo that God equally conſults our good in what he withholds, and in what he be⯑ſtows.

And yet you continue to pray on, I ſuppoſe?

Certainly; but then I try to mend as to the object of my prayers. I pray for God's bleſſing and favour, which is better than riches.

You ſeem very earneſt on this ſub⯑ject.

To cut the matter ſhort; I aſk then, whether prayer is not poſitively commanded in the Goſpel? When this is the caſe, we can never diſpute about the neceſſity or the duty of a thing, as we may when there is no ſuch com⯑mand. Here, however, let me juſt add alſo, that a man's prayers may be turned to no ſmall uſe in the way of diſcovering to him whatever is amiſs in his life.

How ſo, Mr. Worthy?

Why, ſuppoſe now, you were to try yourſelf by turning into the ſhape of a prayer every practice in which you allow yourſelf. For inſtance, let the prayer in the morning be a ſort of preparation for the deeds of the day, and the [71] prayer at night a ſort of obſervation on thoſe deeds. You, Mr. Bragwell, I ſuſpect, are a little inclined to covetouſneſs; excuſe me, Sir. Now ſuppoſe after you have been during a whole day a little too eager to get rich, ſuppoſe, I ſay, you were to try how it would ſound to beg of God at night on your knees, to give you ſtill more money, though you have already ſo much that you know not what to do with it. Suppoſe you were to pray in the morning, "O Lord, give me more riches, though thoſe I have are a ſnare and a temptation to me;" and aſk him in the ſame ſolemn manner to bleſs all the graſp⯑ing means you intend to make uſe of in the day, to add to your ſubſtance?

Mr. Worthy, I have no patience with you for thinking I could be ſo wicked.

Hear me out, Mr. Bragwell; you turned your good nephew, Tom Broad, out of doors, you know; you owned to me it was an act of injuſtice. Now ſuppoſe on the morning of your doing ſo you had begged of God in a ſolemn act of prayer, to proſper the deed of cruelty and oppreſſion, which you intended to commit that day. I ſee you are ſhocked at the thought of ſuch a prayer. Well, then, would not hearty prayer have kept you from commit⯑ting that wicked action? In ſhort, what a life muſt that be, no act of which you dare beg God to proſper and bleſs. If once you can bring yourſelf to believe that it is your bounden duty to pray for God's bleſſing on your day's work, [72] you will certainly grow careful about paſſing ſuch a day as you may ſafely aſk his bleſſing upon. The remark may be carried to ſports, diverſions, company. A man, who once takes up the ſe⯑rious uſe of prayer, will ſoon find himſelf obliged to abſtain from ſuch diverſions, occupations, and ſocieties, as he cannot reaſonably deſire that God will bleſs to him; and thus he will ſee himſelf compelled to leave off either the practice or the prayer. Now, Mr. Bragwell, I need not aſk you which of the two he that is a real Chriſtian will give up, ſinning or praying.

Mr. Bragwell began to feel that he had not the beſt of the argument, and was afraid he was making no great figure in the eyes of his friend. Luckily, however, he was relieved from the dif⯑ficulty into which the neceſſity of making ſome anſwer muſt have brought him, by finding they were come to the end of their little journey: and he never beheld the Bunch of Grapes, which decorated the Sign of the Golden Lion, with more real ſatisfaction.

I refer my readers for the tranſactions at the Golden Lion, and for the ſad Adventures, which afterwards beſel Mr. Bragwell's family, to the Fifth Part of the Hiſtory of the Two Wealthy Farmers.

PART V. Bragwell in a Paſſion at hearing of his Daughter's Marriage.

MR. BRAGWELL and Mr. Worthy alighted at the Golden Lion. It was market-day: the inn, the yard, the town, was all alive. Mr. Bragwell was quite in his element. Money, company, and good cheer, always ſet his ſpirits afloat. He felt himſelf the principal man in the ſcene. He had three great objects in view, the ſale of his land, the letting Mr. Worthy ſee how [74] much he was looked up to by ſo many ſubſtantial people, and the ſhewing theſe people what a wiſe man his moſt intimate friend, Mr. Worthy, was. It was his way to try to borrow a little credit from every perſon, and every thing he was connected with, and by that credit to advance his intereſt and increaſe his wealth.

The Farmers met in a large room, and while they were tranſacting their various concerns, thoſe whoſe purſuits were the ſame, naturally herded together. The Tanners were drawn to one corner, by the common intereſt which they took in bark and hides. A uſeful debate was carrying on at another little table, whether the practice of ſowing wheat or of planting it were moſt profitable. Another ſet were diſputing whether horſes or oxen were beſt for plows. Thoſe who were con⯑cerned in Canals, ſought the company of other Canallers; while ſome, who were intereſted in the new bill for Incloſures, wiſely looked out for ſuch as knew moſt about waſte lands.

Mr. Worthy was pleaſed with all theſe ſub⯑jects, and picked up ſomething uſeful on each. It was a ſaying of his, that moſt men underſtood ſome one thing, and that he who was wiſe would try to learn from every man ſomething on the ſubject he beſt knew; but Mr. Worthy made a further uſe of the whole. What a pity is it, ſaid he, that Chriſtians are not as deſirous to turn their time to good account as men of buſineſs are! When ſhall we ſee religious perſons as anxious to derive profit from the experience of [75] others, as theſe Farmers? When ſhall we ſee them as eager to turn their time to good account? While I approve theſe men for not being ſlothful in buſineſs, let me improve the hint, by being alſo ſervent in ſpirit.

Shewing how much wiſer the children of this generation are than the children of light.

When the hurry was a little over, Mr. Brag⯑well took a turn on the Bowling-green. Mr. Worthy followed him, to aſk why the ſale of the eſtate was not brought forward. Let the Auc⯑tioneer proceed to buſineſs, ſaid he; the com⯑pany will be glad to get home by day-light. I ſpeak moſtly with a view to others, for I do, not think of being a purchaſer myſelf.—I know it, ſaid Bragwell, or I would not be ſuch a fool as to let the cat out of the bag. But is it really poſſible (proceeded he, with a ſmile of contempt) that you ſhould think I will ſell my eſtate before dinner? Mr. Worthy, you are a clever man at books, and ſuch things; and perhaps can make out an account on paper in a handſomer manner than I can; but I never found much was to be got by fine writing. As to figures, I can carry enough of them in my head to add, divide, and multiply, more money than your learning will ever give you the fingering of. You may beat me at a book, but you are a very child at a bar⯑gain. Sell my land before dinner, indeed!

Mr. Worthy was puzzled to gueſs how a man was to ſhew more wiſdom by ſelling a piece of ground at one hour than at another, and deſired [76] an explanation. Bragwell felt rather more con⯑tempt for his underſtanding than he had ever done before. Look'ee, Mr. Worthy, ſaid he, I do not know that knowledge is of any uſe to a man unleſs he has ſenſe enough to turn it to account. Men are my books, Mr. Worthy, and it is by reading, ſpelling, and putting them together to good purpoſe, that I have got up in the world. I ſhall give you a proof of this to-day. Theſe Farmers are moſt of them come to the Lion with a view of purchaſing this bit of land of mine, if they ſhould like the bargain. Now, as you know a thing can't be any great bargain both to the buyer and the ſeller too, to them and to me, it becomes me, as a man of ſenſe, who has the good of his family at heart, to ſecure the bargain to myſelf. I would not cheat any man, Sir, but I think it fair enough to turn his weakneſs to my own advantage; there is no law againſt that, you know; and this is the uſe of one man's having more ſenſe than another. So, whenever I have a bit of land to ſell, I always give a handſome dinner, with plenty of punch and ſtrong beer. We fill up the morning with other buſineſs, and I carefully keep back any talk about the purchaſe till we have dined. At dinner we have, of courſe, a bit of politics. This puts moſt of us into a paſſion, and you know anger is thirſty. Beſides, "Church and King," naturally bring on a good many other toaſts. Now, as I am Maſter of the Feaſt, you know, it would be ſhabby in me to ſave my liquor, ſo I puſh about the glaſs one [77] way, and the tankard the other, till all my com⯑pany are as merry as kings. Every man is de⯑lighted to ſee what a fine hearty fellow he has to deal with, and Mr. Bragwell receives a thouſand compliments. By this time they have gained as much in good humour as they have loſt in ſober judgment, and this is the proper moment for ſetting the Auctioneer to work, and this I commonly do to ſuch good purpoſe, that I go home with my purſe a ſcore or two of pounds heavier than if they had not been warmed by their dinner. In the morning men are cool and ſuſpicious, and have all their wits about them; but a chearful glaſs cures all diſtruſt. And, what is lucky, I add to my credit as well as my pocket, and get more praiſe for my dinner, than blame for my bargain.

Mr. Worthy was ſtruck with the abſurd vanity which could tempt a man to own himſelf guilty of an unfair action for the ſake of ſhewing his wiſdom. He was beginning to expreſs his diſ⯑approbation, when they were told dinner was on table. They went in, and were ſoon ſeated. All was mirth and good cheer. Every body agreed that no one gave ſuch hearty dinners as Mr. Bragwell. Nothing was pitiful where he was Maſter of the Feaſt. Bragwell, who looked with pleaſure on the excellent dinner before him, and enjoyed the good account to which he ſhould turn it, heard their praiſes with delight, and caſt an eye on Worthy, as much as to ſay, Who is the wiſe man now? Having a mind, for his own [78] credit, to make his friend talk, he turned to him, ſaying, Mr. Worthy, I believe no people in the world enjoy life more than men of our claſs. We have money and power, we live on the fat of the land, and have as good a right to gentility as the beſt.

As to gentility, Mr. Bragwell, replied Wor⯑thy, I am not ſure that this is among the wiſeſt of our pretenſions. But I will ſay, that ours is a creditable and reſpectable buſineſs. In ancient times, Farming was the employment of Princes and Patriarchs; and, now-a-days, an honeſt humane, ſenſible, Engliſh yeoman, I will be bold to ſay, is not only a very uſeful, but an honourable character. But then, he muſt not merely think of enjoying life, as you call it, but he muſt think of living up to the great ends for which he was ſent into the world. A Wealthy Farmer not only has it in his power to live well, but to do much good. He is not only the fa⯑ther of his own family, but of his workmen, his dependants, and the poor at large, eſpecially in theſe hard times. He has it in his power to raiſe into credit all the pariſh offices which have fallen into diſrepute, by getting into bad hands; and he can convert, what have been falſely thought mean offices, into very important ones, by his juſt and Chriſtian-like manner of filling them. An up⯑right juryman, a conſcientious Conſtable, a hu⯑mane Overſeer, an independent Elector, an active Superintendant of a Work-houſe, a juſt Arbitrator in public diſputes, a kind Counſellor [79] in private troubles; ſuch a one, I ſay, fills up a ſtation in ſociety no leſs neceſſary; and, as far as it reaches, ſcarcely leſs important than that of a Magiſtrate, a Sheriff of a County, or even a Member of Parliament. That can never be a ſlight or a degrading office, on which the hap⯑pineſs of a whole pariſh may depend.

Bragwell, who thought the good ſenſe of his friend reflected credit on himſelf, encouraged Worthy to go on, but he did it in his own vain way. Aye, very true, Mr. Worthy ſaid he, you are right; a leading man in our claſs ought to be looked up to as an example, as you ſay; in order to which, he ſhould do things handſomely and liberally, and not grudge himſelf, or his friends, any thing, caſting an eye of complacency on the good dinner he had provided. True, re⯑plied Mr. Worthy, he ſhould be an example of ſimplicity, ſobriety, and plainneſs of manners. But he will do well, added he, not to affect a frothy gentility, which will ſet but clumſily upon him. If he has money, let him ſpend prudently, lay up moderately for his children, and give libe⯑rally to the poor. But let him rather ſeek to dignify his own ſtation, by his virtues, than to get above it by his vanity. If he acts thus, then, as long as this country laſts, a Farmer of England will be looked upon as one of its moſt valuable members; nay more, by this conduct he may contribute to make England laſt the longer. The riches of the Farmer, corn and cattle, are the true riches of a nation; but let [80] him remember, that though corn and cattle en⯑rich a country, nothing but juſtice integrity, and religion, can preſerve it.

Young Wilſon, the worthy grazier, whom Miſs Bragwell had turned off becauſe he did not underſtand French dances, thanked Mr. Worthy for what he had ſaid, and hoped he ſhould be the better for it as long as he lived, and deſired his leave to be better acquainted. Moſt of the others declared they had never heard a finer ſpeech, and then, as is uſual, proceeded to ſhew the good effect it had on them, by looſe conver⯑ſation, hard drinking, and whatever could coun⯑teract all that Worthy had ſaid.

Mr. Worthy was much concerned to hear Mr. Bragwell, after dinner, whiſper to the waiter, to put leſs and leſs water into every freſh bowl of punch.—This was his way; if the time they had to ſit was long, then the punch was to be weaker, as he ſaw no good in waſting money to make it ſtronger than the time required. But if time preſſed, then the ſtrength was to be encreaſed in due proportion, as a ſmall quantity muſt then intoxicate them as much in a ſhort time as would be required of a greater quantity had the time been longer. This was one of Mr. Bragwell's nice calculations, and this was the ſort of ſkill on which he ſo much valued himſelf.

At length the gueſts were properly primed for buſineſs; juſt in that convenient ſtage of intoxi⯑cation which makes men warm and raſh, yet keeps ſhort of that abſolute drunkenneſs, which [81] diſqualifies for buſineſs. The Auctioneer ſet to work. All were bidders, and, if poſſible, all would have been purchaſers, ſo happily had the feaſt and the punch operated. They bid on with a ſtill increaſing ſpirit, till they had got ſo much above the value of the land, that Bragwell, with a wink and a whiſper, ſaid, Who would ſell his land faſting? Eh! Worthy? At length the eſtate was knocked down, at a price very far above its worth.

As ſoon as it was ſold, Bragwell again ſaid ſoftly to Worthy, Five from fifty, and there re⯑main forty five. The dinner and drink won't coſt me five pounds, and I have got fifty more than the land was worth. Spend a ſhilling to gain a pound, this is what I call practical Arith⯑metic, Mr. Worthy.

Mr. Worthy was glad to get out of this ſcene; and ſeeing that his friend was quite ſober, he re⯑ſolved, as they rode home, to deal plainly with him. Bragwell had found out, among his cal⯑culations, that there were ſome ſins which could only be committed, by a prudent man, one at a time. For inſtance, he knew that a man could not well get rich, and get drunk, at the ſame moment, ſo that he uſed to practice one firſt, and the other after; but he had found out that ſome vices made very good company together; thus, while he had watched himſelf in drinking, leſt he ſhould become as unfit to ſell, as his gueſts were to buy, he had indulged, without meaſure, in the good dinner he had provided. Mr. Wor⯑thy, [82] I ſay, ſeeing him able to bear reaſon, re⯑buked him for this day's proceedings, with ſome ſeverity, Bragwell bore his reproofs with that ſort of patience which ariſes from an opinion of one's own wiſdom, and a recent fluſh of proſ⯑perity. He behaved with that gay, good hu⯑mour which grows out of vanity and good luck. You are too ſqueamiſh, Mr. Worthy, ſaid he, I have done nothing diſcreditable. Theſe men came with their eyes open. There is no com⯑pulſion uſed. They are free to bid, or to let it alone. I make them welcome, and I ſhall not be thought a bit the worſe of by them, to-mor⯑row, when they are ſober. Others do it beſides me, and I ſhall never be aſhamed of any thing, as long as I have cuſtom on my ſide.

I am ſorry, Mr. Bragwell, to hear you ſupport ſuch practices by ſuch arguments. There is not, perhaps, a more dangerous ſnare to the ſouls of men than is to be found in that word CUSTOM. It is a word invented to recon⯑cile corruption with credit, and ſin with ſafety. But no cuſtom, no faſhion, no combination of men, to ſet up a falſe ſtandard, can ever make a wrong action right. That a thing is often done, is ſo far from a proof of its being right, that it is the very reaſon which will ſet a thinking man to inquire if it be not really wrong, leſt he ſhould be following "a multitude to do evil." Right is right, though only one man in a thouſand pur⯑ſues it, and wrong will be for ever wrong, though it be the allowed practice of the other nine hun⯑dred [83] and ninety-nine. If this ſhameful cuſtom is really common, which I can hardly believe, that is a freſh reaſon why a conſcientious man ſhould ſet his face againſt it. And I muſt go ſo far as to ſay, (you will excuſe me, Mr. Bragwell,) that I ſee no great difference, in the eye of con⯑ſcience, whatever there may be in the eye of law, between your making a man firſt loſe his reaſon, and then getting fifty guineas out of his pocket, becauſe he has loſt it; and your picking the fifty guineas out of his pocket, if you had met him dead drunk in his way home to-night. Nay, he who meets a man already drunk and robs him, commits but one ſin, while he who makes him drunk firſt, that he may rob him afterwards, commits two.

Bragwell gravely replied, Mr. Worthy, while I have the practice of people of credit to ſupport me, and the law of the land to protect me, I ſee no reaſon to be aſhamed of any thing I do.—Mr. Bragwell, anſwered Worthy, a truly honeſt man is not always looking ſharp about him, to ſee how far cuſtom and the law will bear him out; if he be honeſt on principle he will conſult the law of his conſcience, and if he be a Chriſtian, he will conſult the written law of God.

Notwithſtanding this rebuff, Mr. Bragwell got home in high ſpirits, for no arguments could hinder him from feeling that he had the fifty guineas in his purſe. As ſoon as he came in, he gaily threw the money he had received on the table, and deſired his wife to lock it up. Inſtead [84] of receiving it with her uſual ſatisfaction, ſhe burſt into a violent fit of paſſion, and threw it back to him. You may keep your caſh yourſelf, ſaid ſhe. It is all over: we want no more money. You are a ruined man! A wicked creature, ſcraping and working as we have done for her! Bragwell trembled, but durſt not aſk what he dreaded to hear. His wiſe ſpared him the trouble, by crying out, as ſoon as her rage per⯑mitted, Polly is gone off! Poor Bragwell's heart ſunk within him; he grew ſick and giddy, and as his wife's rage ſwallowed up her grief, ſo, in his grief, he almoſt forgot his anger. The purſe fell from his hand, and he caſt a look of anguiſh upon it, finding, for the firſt time, that money could not relieve his miſery.

Mr. Worthy, who, though much concerned, was leſs diſcompoſed, now called to mind, that the young lady had not returned with her mother and ſiſter the night before: he begged Mrs. Bragwell to explain this ſad ſtory. She, inſtead of ſoothing her huſband, fell to reproaching him. It is all your fault, ſaid ſhe, you were a fool for your pains. If I had had my way, the girls never would have kept company with any but men of ſubſtance, and then they could not have been ruined. Mrs. Bragwell, ſaid Mr. Worthy, if ſhe has choſen a bad man, it would be ſtill a misfortune, even though he had been rich. O, that would alter the caſe, ſaid ſhe; a fat ſorrow is better than a lean one. But to marry a beggar! there is no ſin like that. Here Miſs Betſy, who [85] ſtood ſullenly by, put in a word, and ſaid, her ſiſter, however, had not diſgraced herſelf by having married a Farmer or a Tradeſman, ſhe had, at leaſt, made choice of a Gentleman. What marriage! what Gentleman! cried the afflicted father. Tell me the worſt! He was now informed that his darling daughter was gone off with a ſtrolling player, who had been acting in the neighbouring villages lately. Miſs Betſy again put in, ſaying, he was no ſtroller, but a gentleman in diſguiſe, who only acted for his own diverſion. Does he ſo? ſaid the now furi⯑ous Bragwell, then he ſhall be tranſported for mine. At this moment a letter was brought him from his new ſon-in-law, who deſired his leave to wait upon him, and implore his forgiveneſs. He owned he had been ſhopman to a haber⯑daſher, but thinking his perſon and talents ought not to be thrown away upon trade, and being alſo a little behind hand, he had taken to the ſtage with a view of making his fortune. That he had married Miſs Bragwell entirely for love, and was ſorry to mention ſo paltry a thing as money, which he deſpiſed, but that his wants were preſſing; his landlord, to whom he was in debt, having been ſo vulgar as to threaten to ſend him to priſon. He ended with ſaying, I have been obliged to ſhock your daughter's deli⯑cacy, by confeſſing my unlucky real name; I believe I owe part of my ſucceſs with her to my having aſſumed that of Auguſtus Frederic Theo⯑doſius. She is inconſolable at this confeſſion, [86] which, as you are now my father, I muſt alſo make to you, and ſubſcribe myſelf with many bluſhes, by the vulgar name of your dutiful ſon, TIMOTHY INCLE.

O, cried the afflicted father, as he tore the let⯑ter in a rage, Miſs Bragwell married to a ſtrol⯑ling actor! How ſhall I bear it? Why, I would not bear it at all, cried the enraged mother, I would never ſee her, I would never forgive her. I would let her ſtarve at one corner of the barn, while that raſcal, with all thoſe Pagan, Popiſh, names, was ranting away at the other. Nay, ſaid Miſs Betſy, if he is only a ſhopman, and if his name be really Timothy Incle, I would never forgive her neither. But who would have thought it by his looks, and by his monſtrous genteel behaviour? no, he never can have ſo vulgar a name.

Come, come, ſaid Mr. Worthy, were he really an honeſt haberdaſher, I ſhould think there was no other harm done, except the diſobedience of the thing. Mr. Bragwell, this is no time to blame you, or hardly to reaſon with you. I feel for you ſincerely. I ought not, perhaps, juſt at preſent, to reproach you for the miſtaken manner in which you have bred up your daugh⯑ters, as your error has brought its puniſhment along with it. You now ſee, becauſe you now feel the evil of a falſe education. It has ruined your daughter; your whole plan unavoidably led to ſome ſuch end. The large ſums you ſpent to qualify them, as you thought, for a high ſta⯑tion, [87] could do them nothing but harm, while your habits of life properly confined them to company of a lower ſtation. While they were better dreſt than the daughters of the firſt gentry, they were worſe taught, as to real knowledge, than the daughters of your plowmen. Their vanity has been raiſed by exceſſive finery, and kept alive by exceſſive flattery. Every evil temper has been foſtered by indulgence. Their pride has never been controuled; their ſelf-will has never been ſubdued. Their idleneſs has laid them open to every temptation, and their abun⯑dance has enabled them to gratify every deſire. Their time, that precious talent, has been en⯑tirely waſted. Every thing they have been taught to do is of no uſe, while they are utterly unac⯑quainted with all which they ought to have known. I deplore Miſs Polly's falſe ſtep. That ſhe ſhould have married a run-away ſhopman, turned ſtroller, I truly lament. But, for what huſband was ſhe qualified? For the wife of a Farmer ſhe was too idle. For the wife of a Tradeſman ſhe was too expenſive. For the wife of a Gentleman ſhe was too ignorant. You yourſelf was moſt to blame. You expected her to act wiſely, though you never taught her that fear of God which is the beginning of wiſdom. I owe it to you, as a friend, and to myſelf as a Chriſtian, to declare, that your practices in the common tranſactions of life, as well as your preſent misfortune, are almoſt the natural con⯑ſequences [88] of thoſe falſe principles, which I pro⯑teſted againſt when you were at my houſe^*.

Mrs. Bragwell attempted ſeveral times to in⯑terrupt Mr. Worthy, but her huſband would not permit it. He felt the force of all his friend ſaid, and encouraged him to proceed. Mr. Worthy thus went on. It grieves me to ſay how much your own indiſcretion has contributed even to bring on your preſent misfortune. You gave your countenance to this very company of ſtrol⯑lers, though you knew they are acting in defiance to the laws of the land, to ſay no worſe. They go from town to town, and from barn to barn, ſtripping the poor of their money, the young of their innocence, and all of their time. Do you remember with how much pride you told me that you had beſpoke The Bold Stroke for a Wife, for the benefit of this very Mr. Frederic Theo⯑doſius? To this pernicious ribaldry you not only carried your own family, but waſted I know not how much money in treating your workmen's wives and children, in theſe hard times too, when they have ſcarcely bread to eat, or a ſhoe on their feet. And all this only that you might have the abſurd pleaſure of ſeeing thoſe flattering words, By Deſire of Mr. Bragwell, ſtuck up in Print at the Public-houſe, on the Blackſmith's ſhed, at the Turnpike-gate, and on the Barn-door.

Mr. Bragwell acknowledged that his friend's rebuke was but too juſt, and he looked ſo very [89] contrite as to raiſe the pity of Mr. Worthy, who, in a mild voice, thus went on. What I have ſaid is not ſo much to reproach you with the ruin of one daughter, as from a deſire to ſave the other. Let Miſs Betſy go home with me. I do not undertake to be her gaoler, but I will be her friend. She will find in my daughters kind com⯑panions, and in my wife a prudent guide. I know ſhe will diſlike us at firſt, but I do not deſpair in time of convincing her that a ſober, humble, uſeful, pious life, is as neceſſary to make us happy on earth, as it is to fit us for heaven.

Poor Miſs Betſy, though ſhe declared it would be frightful dull, and monſtrous vulgar, and diſmal melancholy, yet was ſhe ſo terrified at the diſcontent and grumbling which ſhe would have to endure at home, that ſhe ſullenly conſented. She had none of that filial tenderneſs which led her to wiſh to ſtay and ſooth and comfort her afflicted father. All ſhe thought about was to get out of the way of her mother's ill humour, and to carry ſo much finery with her as to fill the Miſs Worthies with envy and reſpect. Poor girl! She did not know that envy was a feeling they never indulged; and that fine cloaths was the laſt thing to draw their reſpect. Mr. Worthy took her home next day. When they reached his houſe, they found there young Wilſon, Miſs Betſy's old admirer. She was much pleaſed at this, and reſolved to treat him well. But her good or ill treatment now ſignified but little. This young Grazier reverenced Mr. Worthy's [90] character, and ever ſince he had met him at the Lion, had been thinking what a happineſs it would be to marry a young woman bred up by ſuch a father. He had heard much of the modeſty and diſcretion of both the daughters, but his incli⯑nation now determined him in favour of the elder.

Mr. Worthy, who knew him to be a young man of good ſenſe and ſound principles, allowed him to become a viſitor at his houſe, but deferred his conſent to the marriage till he knew him more thoroughly. Mr. Wilſon, from what he ſaw of the domeſtic piety of this family, improved daily both in the knowledge and practice of religion, and Mr. Worthy ſoon formed him into a moſt valua⯑ble character. During this time Miſs Bragwell's hopes had revived, but though ſhe appeared in a new dreſs almoſt every day, ſhe had the mortifica⯑tion of being beheld with great indifference by one whom ſhe had always ſecretly liked. Mr. Wilſon married before her face a girl who was greatly her inferior in fortune, perſon, and appearance, but who was humble, frugal, meek, and pious. Miſs Bragwell now ſtrongly felt the truth of what Mr. Wilſon had once told her, that a woman may make an excellent partner for a dance, who would make a very bad one for life.

Hitherto Mr. Bragwell and his daughters had only learnt to regret their folly and vanity, as it had produced them mortification in this life; whether they were ever brought to a more ſerious ſenſe of their errors, may be ſeen in a future part of this hiſtory.

PART VI.

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 chearfulneſs, which had ariſen from an high opi⯑nion of himſelf, had been confirmed by a con⯑ſtant flow of uninterrupted ſucceſs; and that is a ſort of chearfulneſs 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 ſub⯑miſſion, becauſe he had not learnt that all afflic⯑tions 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, even 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 befals 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. [92] This imprudent daughter, Bragwell would not be brought to ſee or forgive, nor was the de⯑grading 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 diſ⯑graceful marriage, all his natural affection only ſerved to increaſe his reſentment. Yet, though he regretted her crime leſs than his own morti⯑fication, 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 his forgiveneſs. She owned that her huſband, whom ſhe had ſuppoſed to be a man of faſhion in diſ⯑guiſe, was a low perſon in diſtreſſed circum⯑ſtances. She implored that her father, though he refuſed to give her huſband that fortune for which alone it was now too plain he had married her, would at leaſt allow her ſome ſubſiſtence, for that Mr. Incle was much in debt, and ſhe feared in danger of a gaol. The father's heart was half melted at this account, and his affec⯑tion was for a time awakened. But Mrs. Brag⯑well 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 ſhewed either [93] 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 had worked early and late, on a baggage who had thrown herſelf away on a beggar, while ſhe had a daugh⯑ter ſingle who might 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, parti⯑cularly for this offending daughter, he much exceeded her.

In a few months, the youngeſt Miſs Bragwell deſired leave to return home from Mr. Wor⯑thy'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 burthen; 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 never would throw herſelf away on a man who was worth nothing. Encouraged by theſe promiſes, which were all that her parents thought they [94] 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 feſti⯑vity, 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 melan⯑choly 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 be⯑cauſe 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 pain⯑ful duty; but this only added to his miſery, while he was utterly ignorant of its ſpirit and its power. He ſtill, however, reſerved religion as a loath⯑ſome medicine, to which he feared he muſt have recourſe at laſt, and of which he even now con⯑ſidered 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 plea⯑ſure from the world, which he ſo dearly loved, nor from religion which he ſo greatly feared. He expected to have been much commended by Worthy for the change in his way of life; but [95] 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 more 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, Reli⯑gion 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 cor⯑dials till the patient is lowered and emptied; emptied of ſelf, Mr. Bragwell. If you had a wound, it muſt be examined and cleanſed, aye, and probed too, before it would be ſafe to put on a healing plaiſter. 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 plaiſter was curing you. You muſt be, indeed, a Chriſtian, before you can be entitled to the comforts of Chriſtianity.—I am a Chriſtian, ſaid Brag⯑well, many of my friends are Chriſtians, but I do not ſee it has done us much good.—Chriſ⯑tianity itſelf, anſwered Worthy, cannot 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 [96] 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 Worthy, are you the better be⯑cauſe the doctor has ordered it merely, or becauſe you have alſo taken it?—What a fool⯑iſh 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 for ever 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 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 offers to cure your worſt corruptions by wholeſome, though ſometimes bitter preſcrip⯑tions. 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 the one as ho⯑neſtly as you tell your ſymptoms to the other, nor read your Bible with the ſame faith and ſub⯑miſſion 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 en⯑titled to the promiſes, before you can expect the [97] comfort of them. Conviction is not conver⯑ſion; 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 he true.

Bragwell now ſeemed reſolved to ſet about the matter in earnſet, but he reſolved in his own ſtrength; and, 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 is a ſcene to which gen⯑tlemen and ladies periodically reſort to celebrate the crimes and calamities of their fellow-crea⯑tures by dancing and muſic, and to divert them⯑ſelves 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 own head the whole band-box of feathers 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 he need not be in a hurry, but leave [98] it in his will; but to give, and repent, and re⯑form, 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 hope, 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 he was too much uſed to advantage⯑ous contracts to let this ſlip. As he was gaudily dreſſed, and poſſeſſed all the arts of vulgar flat⯑tery, Miſs Bragwell eagerly caught at his pro⯑poſal 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 ſhe deſired her huſband to be careful and quite ſure that it was the right Mr. Squeeze, and no impoſtor. But being aſſured that Betſey would [99] certainly keep her carriage, ſhe never gave her⯑ſelf one thought with what ſort of 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. The marriage was celebrated with great ſplendor, and Mr. and Mrs. Squeeze ſet off for London, where they had 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 them⯑ſelves upon him, they were put off, like the re⯑pentance of Felix, to a more convenient ſeaſon; and finding he was likely to have a grandchild, he be⯑came more worldly and ambitious than ever, thinking this a juſt pretence for adding houſe to houſe, and field to field; and there is no ſtrata⯑gem by which men more deceive themſelves than when they make even unborn children a pretence for that rapine, or that hoarding, of which their own covetouſneſs is the true motive. When⯑ever he ventured to write to Mr. Worthy about the wealth, the gaiety, 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 end. Notwithſtanding, Mr. Bragwell had paid down a larger fortune than [100] 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 honour of their daughter; beſides, if he did not ſend the money ſoon, they might be obliged to lay down their coach, and then ſhe ſhould never be able to ſhew 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 enquired into this particular, and for the reſt he took his word. Mrs. Squeeze alſo got great preſents from her mother, by repre⯑ſenting to her how expenſively they were forced to live to keep up their credit, and what honour 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:—

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 [102] going on; that he was often ſo buſy he could not come 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 con⯑tract; he was found to owe a large debt to go⯑vernment, 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 repeat⯑ed demands made Bragwell ſo uneaſy, that in⯑ſtead offending 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 needs 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. This affronted him: he refuſed, ſaying; I'am not aſhamed of my name, [103] it will paſs for thouſands in any market in the Weſt of England. Is this your London man⯑ners, 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 were ſo confuſed with the ſplendour 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 and 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 found 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. [104] Squeeze dying by a ſhot from a piſtol which was dropping out of his hand. Mr. Bragwell was not the only perſon whom the found of the piſtol had alarmed. The ſervants, the company, all heard it, and all ran up to this 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 a proſpect of loſing, profitted by the confuſion and threw up their cards. All was diſmay and terror. Some ran for a ſurgeon, others examined the dying man, while ſome re⯑moved 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, addreſſed to him, they read it, hoping it might explain the horrid myſtery. It was as follows:

The dead body was removed, and Mr. Brag⯑well remaining almoſt without ſpeech, or motion, the company began to think of retiring, much out of humour at having their party ſo diſagree⯑ably broken up; they comforted themſelves, however, that as it were 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 expence of thoſe [106] 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 thoſe 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 the morning. It was mon⯑ſtrous 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 for 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 a 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 for⯑gotten. 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 quite have ſunk under it, had he not thought of his old expedient in diſtreſs, that [107] 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 Squeeze's; for he knew that proſperity made the ears deaf, and the heart hard to good 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 bade him eat it; he eat 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 favours 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 ſuffer⯑ings from God, from whom he receives ſo many bleſſings. You in particular have received much [108] 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 cannot ſurvive this ſhock. I do not deſire it, I only deſire 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 pre⯑pare for death, but of that deſpair which makes us out of humour 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 [109] and beautiful daughter to darkneſs, to worms, and to corruption, the ſight of the dead infant, for whoſe ſake he had reſumed ail his ſchemes of vanity and covetouſneſs, when he thought he had got the better of them, the melancholy convic⯑tion that all human proſperity ends in 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 fa⯑vourable moment for fixing theſe ſerious im⯑preſſions, when they were unſeaſonably inter⯑rupted by the pariſh officer, who came to aſk Mr. Bragwell what he was to do with a poor dying woman who was travelling 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 workhouſe till ſhe could give ſome account of herſelf. Mr. Brag⯑well was impatient at the interruption, which was indeed unſeaſonable, and told the man 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 for⯑bid our attending the calls of duty. An act of chriſtian charity will not diſturb but improve the ſeriouſneſs of your ſpirit, and though you [110] cannot 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 content or refuſe, and his friend drew him to the workhouſe, 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 they all, while they all, according to cuſtom, puſhed ſo cloſe upon her that it was impoſſible ſhe ſhould 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 run-away 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 towards the child, he graſped his little hand in his, while he ſorrow⯑fully 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 meagre as was her face, and poor and ſhabby as was her [111] dreſs, the proud and flaunting Miſs Polly Brag⯑well 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 her 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 in 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." This was perhaps the firſt word of genuine prayer he had ever offered up in his whole life. Worthy overheard it, and his heart rejoiced, but this was not a time for talking, but doing. He aſked Bragwell what was to be done with the unfortu⯑nate 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 hea⯑ven and before thee. This was a joyful ſound to Mr. Worthy, who began 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 contri⯑tion of ſoul ſo much, that he began to think the [112] 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 fa⯑ther 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 inter⯑fere, but to let the father's own feelings work out the way in which he was to act. Bragwell ſaid nothing, but ſlowly led to his own houſe, hold⯑ing 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. Bragwell's 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 cloaths, than delighted with his roſy face. As ſoon as ſhe was a little recovered, Mr. Brag⯑well deſired his daughter to tell him how ſhe hap⯑pened to be at that place juſt at that time.

[113] 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 mourn⯑ful tale, till next month.

PART VII.

I LEFT your houſe, my dear father, ſaid Mrs. Incle, with a heart full of vain triumph. I had no doubt but my huſband was a great man who had 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 diſappoint⯑ment. I have found that change of circum⯑ſtances does not change the heart, till God is pleaſed to do it. My misfortunes only taught me to rebel more againſt him. I thought God 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 a fair. He was always taunting me for that gentility on which I ſo much valued [114] 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 burthen 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 ſloop 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 labour, yet I was welcome to ſhare their hard fare, for they truſted that God who ſent mouths would ſend meat alſo. They gave me a ſmall room in their cottage, and 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 leſt thee to ſtarve.

How ſhall I own, continued Mrs. Incle, that all this goodneſs could not ſoften my heart, for God had not yet touched it. I received all their kindneſs as a favour done to them. When my [115] 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 gar⯑ret alone, ſuffering them to fetch and carry every thing I wanted. As my haughty behaviour 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 other 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 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 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 burthen I had brought on this poor family, but it did not diminiſh their kindneſs, and we continued to ſhare their ſcanty fare with⯑out any upbraiding on their part, or any grati⯑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 [116] always idle, and waſted thoſe hours in ſinful murmurs at his fate, which I ſhould have em⯑ployed 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 an⯑ticipated a gloomy ſort of revenge. But it pleaſed my merciful God not to let me thus periſh in my ſins. My poor mother-in-law ſent for a good clergyman, who pointed out to me 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 God, who is ſometimes pleaſed to magnify his own glory in awakening thoſe who are dead in treſ⯑paſſes 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 God, 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 found. Inſtead of reproaching Providence, or blaming my pa⯑rents, or abuſing my huſband, I now learnt to condemn myſelf, to adore that God who had not cut me off in my ignorance, to pray for par⯑don for the paſt, and grace for the time to come. [117] I now deſired to ſubmit to penury and hunger in this world, ſo that I might but live in the fear of God here, and enjoy his favour in the world to come. I now learnt 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-igno⯑rance, 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 reli⯑gion in the heart, even after it 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 learnt how to pour out the fulneſs of my heart, while in the Goſpel I rejoiced to ſee what great things God had done for my ſoul.

I now took down once more from the ſhelf Doctridge'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 that the unbeliever, the ſelfiſh, the proud, the worldly-minded, all, in ſhort, who live without God 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 [118] through all his courſe; his firſt awakening, his convictions, repentance, joys, ſorrows, back⯑ſliding, and recovery, deſpondency, and delight, to a triumphant death-bed; and God 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 God may bleſs it to you as He has done to me.

When I was able to come down, I paſſed 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 paſſed them in reading the Bible with theſe good folks. This was their refreſhing cordial after a weary day, which ſweetened the pains of want and age. I one day expreſſed my ſurprize that my unfor⯑tunate huſband, the ſon of ſuch pious parents, ſhould have turned out ſo ill: the poor old man ſaid with tears, I fear we have been guilty of the ſin of Eli; our love was of the wrong ſort. Alas! like him, we honoured our ſon more than God, and God has ſmitten us for it. We ſhewed him what was right, but through a falſe indul⯑gence, we did not correct him for what was wrong. We were blind to his faults. He was a handſome boy, with ſprightly parts; we took [119] too much delight in thoſe outward things. He ſoon got above our management, and became vain, idle, and extravagant, and when we ſought to reſtrain him, it was then too late. We humbled ourſelves before God; but he was pleaſed to make our ſin become its own puniſh⯑ment. Timothy grew worſe and worſe; till he was forced to abſcond for a miſdemeanor; after which we never ſaw him, but have heard of him changing from one idle way of life to an⯑other, unſtable as water: he has been a foot⯑man, a ſoldier, a ſhopman, and a ſtrolling after. With deep ſorrow we trace back his vices to our ungoverned fondneſs; that lively and ſharp wit, by which he has been able to carry on ſuch a variety of wild ſchemes, might, if we had uſed him to reproof in his youth, have enabled him to have done great ſervice for God and his coun⯑try. But our flattery made him wiſe in his own conceit; and there is more hope of a fool than of him. We indulged our own vanity, and have deſtroyed his ſoul.

Here Mr. Worthy ſtopped Mrs. Incle, ſay⯑ing, that whenever he heard it lamented that the children of pious parents often turned out ſo ill, he could not help thinking that there muſt be frequently ſomething of this ſort of error in the bringing them up: he knew, indeed, ſome in⯑ſtances to the contrary, in which the beſt means had failed; but he believed, that from Eli the prieſt, to Incle the labourer, more than half the failures of this ſort might be traced to ſome miſ⯑take, [120] take, or vanity, or bad judgment, or ſinful in⯑dulgence in the parents.

I now looked about, continued Mrs. Incle, in order to ſee in what way I could aſſiſt my poor mother, regretting more heartily than ſhe did, that I knew no one thing that was of any uſe. I was ſo deſirous of humbling myſelf before God and her, that I offered even to try to waſh. —You waſh! exclaimed Bragwell, ſtarting up with great emotion, Heaven forbid that with ſuch a fortune and education, Miſs Bragwell ſhould be ſeen at a waſhing-tub. This vain father, who could bear to hear of her diſtreſſes and her ſins, could not bear to hear of her waſh⯑ing. Mr. Worthy ſtopped him, ſaying, As to her fortune, you know, you refuſed to give her any; and, as to her education, you ſee it had not taught her how to do any thing better. I am ſorry you do not ſee, in tin's inſtance, the beauty of Chriſtian humility. For my own part, I ſet a greater value on ſuch an active proof of it, than on a whole volume of profeſ⯑ſions. Mr. Bragwell did not quite underſtand this, and Mrs. Incle went on. What to do to get a penny I knew not. Making of fillagree, or fringe, or card-purſes, or cutting out paper, or dancing and ſinging, was of no uſe in our village. The ſhopkeeper, indeed, would have taken me, if I had known any thing of accounts; and the clergyman could have got me a nur⯑ſery-maid's place, if I could have done good plain-work. I made ſome aukward attempts to [121] learn to ſpin and knit, when my mother's wheel or knitting lay by, but I ſpoilt both through my ignorance. At laſt I luckily thought upon the fine netting I uſed to make for my trimmings, and it ſtruck me that I might turn this to ſome little account. I procured ſome twine, and worked early and late to make nets for fiſher⯑men, and cabbage-nets. I was ſo pleaſed that I had at laſt found an opportunity to ſhew my good-will by this mean work, that I regretted my little George was not big enough to contri⯑bute his ſhare to our ſupport by travelling about to ſell my nets.

Cabbage-nets! exclaimed Bragwell; there is no bearing this.—Cabbage-nets! My grandſon hawk cabbage-nets! How could you think of ſuch a ſcandalous thing?—Sir, ſaid Mrs. Incle mildly, I am now convinced that nothing is ſcandalous which is not wicked. Beſides, we were in want; and neceſſity, as well as piety, would have reconciled me to this mean trade. Mr. Bragwell groaned, and bade her go on.

In the mean time, my little George grew a fine boy; and I adored the goodneſs of God, who, in the ſweetneſs of maternal love, had given me a reward for many ſufferings. In⯑ſtead of indulging a gloomy diſtruſt about the fate of this child, I now reſigned him to the will of God. Inſtead of lamenting, becauſe he was not likely to be rich, I was reſolved to bring him up with ſuch notions as might make him contented to be poor. I thought, if I could [122] ſubdue all vanity and ſelfiſhneſs in him, I ſhould make him a happier man than if I had thouſands to beſtow on him; and I truſted, that I ſhould be rewarded for every painful act of preſent ſelf⯑denial, by the future virtue and happineſs of my child. Can you believe it, my dear father, my days now paſt not unhappily? I worked hard all day, and that alone is a ſource of happineſs beyond what the idle can gueſs. After my child was aſleep at night, I read a chapter in the Bible to my parents, whoſe eyes now began to fail them. We then thanked God over our frugal ſupper of potatoes, and talked over the holy men of old, the faints, and the martyrs, who would have thought our homely fare a luxury. We compared our peace, and liberty, and ſafety, with their bonds, and impriſonment, and tortures; and ſhould have been aſhamed of a murmur. We then joined in prayer, in which my abſent parents and my huſband were never forgotten, and went to reſt in charity with the whole world, and at peace in our own ſouls.

Oh! my forgiving child! interrupted Mr. Bragwell, ſobbing, and didſt thou really pray for thy unnatural father, and lie down in reſt and peace? Then, let me tell thee, thou waſt better off than thy mother and I were.—But no more of this; go on.

Whether my father-in-law had worked be⯑yond his ſtrength, in order to ſupport me and my child, I know not, but he was taken dan⯑gerouſly ill. While he lay in this ſtate, we re⯑ceived [123] an account that my huſband was dead in the Weſt-Indies of the yellow fever, which has carried off ſuch numbers of our countrymen; we all wept together, and prayed that his awful death might quicken us in preparing for our own. This ſhock, joined to the fatigue of nurſing her ſick huſband, ſoon brought my poor mother to death's door. I nurſed them both, and felt a ſatisfaction in giving them all I had to beſtow, my attendance, my tears, and my prayers. I, who was once ſo nice and ſo proud, ſo diſdainful in the midſt of plenty, and ſo im⯑patient under the ſmalleſt inconvenience, was now enabled to glorify God by my activity and my ſubmiſſion. Though the ſorrows of my heart were enlarged, I caſt my burthen on him who cares for the weary and heavy laden. After having watched by theſe poor people the whole night, I ſat down to breakfaſt on my dry cruſt and coarſe diſh of tea, without a murmur; my greateſt grief was, left I ſhould bring away the infection to my dear boy. I prayed to know what it was my duty to do between my dying parents, and my helpleſs child. To take care of the ſick and aged, ſeemed to be my duty. So I offered up my child to him who is the father of the fatherleſs, and he ſpared him to me.

The chearful piety with which theſe good people breathed their laſt, proved to me, that the temper of mind with which the pious poor commonly meet death, is the grand compen⯑ſation [124] made them by Providence for all the hard⯑ſhips of their inferior condition. If they have had few joys and comforts in life already, and have ſtill fewer hopes in ſtore, is not all fully made up to them by their being enabled to leave this world with ſtronger deſires of heaven, and without thoſe bitter regrets after the good things of this life, which add to the dying tortures of the worldly rich? To the forlorn and deſtitute death is not terrible, as it is to him who ſits at eaſe in his poſſeſſions, and who fears that this night his ſoul ſhall be required of him.

Mr. Bragwell felt this remark more deeply than his daughter meant he ſhould. He wept and bade her proceed.

I followed my departed parents to the ſame grave, and wept over them, but not as one who had no hope. They had neither houſes nor lands to leave me, but they left me their Bible, their bleſſing, and their example, of which I humbly truſt I ſhall feel the benefits when all the riches of this world ſhall have an end. Their few effects, conſiſting of ſome poor houſehold goods, and ſome working-tools, hardly ſufficed to pay their funeral expences. I was ſoon attacked with the ſame fever, and ſaw myſelf, as I thought, dying the ſecond time; my danger was the ſame, but my views were changed. I now ſaw eter⯑nity in a more awful light than I had done be⯑fore, when I wickedly thought death might be gloomily called upon as a refuge from every common trouble. Though I had ſtill reaſon to [125] be humbled on account of my ſin, yet, through the grace of God, I ſaw death ſhipped of his ſting, and robbed of his terrors, through him, who loved me, and had given himſelf for me; and in the extremity of pain, my ſoul rejoiced in God my Saviour.

I recovered, however, and was chiefly ſup⯑ported by the kind clergyman's charity. When I felt myſelf nouriſhed and cheered by a little tea or broth, which he daily ſent me from his own ſlender proviſion, my heart ſmote me, to think how I had daily ſat down at home to a plentiful dinner, without any ſenſe of thankful⯑neſs for my own abundance, or without enquir⯑ing whether my poor ſick neighbours were ſtarv⯑ing; and I ſorrowfully remembered, that what my poor ſiſter and I uſed to waſte through dain⯑tineſs, would now have comfortably fed myſelf and child. Believe me, my dear mother, a la⯑bouring man, who has been brought low by a fever, might often be reſtored to his work ſome weeks ſooner, if on his recovery he was nou⯑riſhed and ſtrengthened by a good bit from a far⯑mer's table. Leſs than is often thrown to a favourite ſpaniel would ſuffice, ſo that the ex⯑pence would be almoſt nothing to the giver, while to the receiver it would bring health, and ſtrength, and comfort.

By the time I was tolerably recovered, I was forced to leave the houſe. I had no human proſpect of ſubſiſtence. I humbly aſked of God to direct my ſteps, and to give me entire obe⯑dience [126] to his will. I then caſt my eyes mourn⯑fully on my child, and though prayer had re⯑lieved my heart of a load which without it would have been intolerable; my tears flowed faſt, while I cried out in the bitterneſs of my ſoul, How many hired ſervants of my father have bread enough, and to ſpare, and I periſh with hunger. This text appeared a kind of anſwer to my prayer, and gave me courage to make one more attempt to ſoften you in my favour. I reſolved to ſet out directly to find you, to confeſs my diſobedience, and to beg a ſcanty pittance, with which I and my child might be meanly ſupported in ſome diſtant country, where we ſhould not diſgrace our more happy relations. We ſet out and tra⯑velled as faſt as my weak health and poor George's little feet and ragged ſhoes would permit. I brought a little bundle of ſuch work and neceſ⯑ſaries as I had left, by ſelling which we ſubſiſted on the road.—I hope, interrupted Bragwell, there were no cabbage-nets in it?—At leaſt, ſaid her mother, I hope you did not ſell them near home.—No; I had none left, ſaid Mrs. Incle, or I ſhould have done it. I got many a liſt in a waggon for my child and my bundle, which was a great relief to me. And here I cannot help ſaying, I wiſh drivers would not be too hard in their demands, if they help a poor ſick tra⯑veller on a mile or two; it proves a great relief to weary bodies and naked feet; and ſuch little cheap chanties may be conſidered as the cup of cold water, which, if given on right grounds, [127] ſhall not loſe its reward. Here Bragwell ſighed, to think that when mounted on his fine bay mare, or driving his neat chaiſe, it had never once croſſed his mind that the poor way-worn foot traveller was not equally at his eaſe, or that ſhoes were a neceſſary accommodation. Thoſe who want nothing are apt to forget how many there are who want every thing.—Mrs. Incle went on: I got to this village about ſeven this evening, and while I ſat on the church-yard wall to reſt and meditate how I ſhould make myſelf known at home, I ſaw a funeral; I enquired whoſe it was, and learnt it was my ſiſter's. This was too much for me. I ſunk down in a fit, and knew nothing that happened to me from that moment, till I found myſelf in the workhouſe with my father and Mr. Worthy.

Here Mrs. Incle ſtopped. Grief, ſhame, pride, and remorſe, had quite overcome Mr. Bragwell. He wept like a child; and ſaid, he hoped his daughter would pray for him, for that he was not in a condition to pray for himſelf, though he found nothing elſe could give him any com⯑fort. His deep dejection brought on a fit of ſickneſs: O! ſaid he, I now begin to feel an ex⯑preſſion in the ſacrament which I uſed to repeat without thinking it had any meaning, the re⯑membrance of my ſins is grievous, the burthen of them is intolerable. O, it is awful to think what a ſinner a man may be, and yet retain a decent character! How many thouſands are in my condition, taking to themſelves all the credit of [128] their proſperity, inſtead of giving God the glory! Heaping up riches to their hurt, inſtead of deal⯑ing their bread to the hungry. O, let thoſe who hear of the Bragwell family, never ſay that vanity is a little ſin. In me it has been the fruitful pa⯑rent of a thouſand ſins, ſelfiſhneſs, hardneſs of heart, forgetfulneſs of God. In one of my ſons vanity was the cauſe of rapine, injuſtice, extra⯑vagance, ruin, ſelf-murder. Both my daugh⯑ters were undone by vanity, though it only wore the more harmleſs ſhape of dreſs, idleneſs, and diſſipation. The huſband of my daughter Incle it deſtroyed, by leading him to live above his ſtation, and to deſpiſe labour. Vanity enſnared the ſouls even of his pious parents; for while it led them to wiſh to ſee their ſon in a better con⯑dition, it led them to allow him ſuch indulgences as were unfit for his own. O, you who hear of us, humble yourſelves under the mighty hand of God; reſiſt high thoughts; let every imagi⯑nation be brought into obedience to the Son of God. If you ſet a value on finery, look into that grave; behold the mouldering body of my Betſy, who now ſays to Corruption, thou art my father, and to the worm thou art my mother and my ſiſter. Look at the bloody and brainleſs head of her huſband. O, Mr. Worthy, how does Pro⯑vidence mock at human foreſight! I have been greedy of gain, that the ſon of Mr. Squeeze might be a great man; he is dead; while the child of Timothy Incle, whom I had doomed to beggary, will be my heir. Mr. Worthy, to you I com⯑mit [129] this boy's education; teach him to value his immortal ſoul more, and the good things of this life leſs, than I have done. Bring him up in the fear of God, and in the government of his paſ⯑ſions. Teach him that unbelief and pride are at the root of all ſin. I have found this to my coſt. I truſted in my riches; I ſaid, to-morrow ſhall be as this day, and more abundant. I did not re⯑member that for all theſe things God would bring me to judgment. I am not ſure that I believed in a judgment.

Bragwell at length grew better, but he never recovered his ſpirits. The conduit of Mrs. Incle through life was that of an humble Chriſ⯑tian. She ſold all her ſiſter's finery, which her father had given her, and gave the money to the poor, ſaying, it did not become one who profeſſd penitence, to return to the gaieties of life. Mr. Bragwell did not oppoſe this not that he had fully acquired a juſt notion of the ſelf-denying ſpirit of religion, but having a head not very clear at making diſtinctions, he was never able, after the ſight of Squeeze's mangled body, to think of gaiety and grandeur, without thinking at the ſame time, of a piſtol and bloody brains, for, as his firſt introduction into gay life had preſented him with all theſe objects at one view, he never afterwards could ſeparate them in his mind. He even kept his fine beauſet of plate aways ſhut, becauſe it brought to his mind the grand unpaid-for ſideboard that he had ſeen laid out for. Mr. Squeeze's ſupper, to the re⯑membrance [130] of which he could not help tacking debts, priſons, executions, and ſelf-murder.

Mr. Bragwell's heart had been ſo buried in the love of the world, and evil habits were become ſo rooted in him, that the progreſs he made in religion was very ſlow; yet he earneſtly prayed and ſtruggled againſt vanity; and when his un⯑feeling wife declared ſhe could not love the boy unleſs he was called by their name inſtead of Incle, Mr. Bragwell would never conſent, ſaying, he ſtood in need of every help againſt pride. He alſo got the letter which Squeeze wrote juſt before he ſhot himſelf framed and glazed; this he hung up in his chamber, and made it a rule to go and read it as often as he found his heart diſpoſed to VANITY.