THE LIFE OF JOHN TRUEMAN.

MANY lives have been written of men famous in the world; the following is the life of a poor day-labourer, hardly known beyond his pariſh. His name was John Trueman. His father was a very honeſt man: but having nothing to live on, except his own labour; he had little to leave his ſon, but his bleſſing, and a good example.

When the old man died, John was a ſervant with farmer Clarke; who took an affection to him from his youth, and treated him like a child. With him he lived nine years, and ſerved him faithfully; having never had any other maſter; for he did not like change. He was always a clever, active lad; never ſpared himſelf; ſerved his maſter as he would have ſerved himſelf; never learned bad words; was always endea⯑vouring, in his ſpare time, to improve him⯑ſelf in reading, and writing; and was ſuch [2]a lover of truth, that I have heard farmer Clarke ſay, he never told him a lye in his life. Whether it made for him or againſt him, (the farmer uſed to ſay,) all came out, juſt as it was. This is a very good property in a young lad; and almoſt a ſure ſign, that he will turn out well.

While John Trueman lived with farmer Clarke, he made a ſtrict friendſhip with one of his fellow-ſervants, whoſe name was An⯑drew Wilkins. Andrew was a good lad; and liked his maſter: but having a quarrel with the carter, who was a ſurly fellow, he left his place, and took on with old Mi⯑chaelſon, the thatcher. He was quiet, ſo⯑ber, and induſtrious; and John and he ſtill kept up their acquaintance; tho they did not often meet together.

In July 1730, farmer Clarke died; and having no children, he left what he had, about 100l. among his relations. He con⯑ſidered John as one of them; and left him 10l.

John was now about twenty-five years of age, and having a few pounds, which he had ſaved, beſides his legacy, he furniſhed a neat little cottage on the ſide of the common; and ſoon afterwards, when he had gotten into good work, married Betty Meadows, a pru⯑dent young woman in the neighbourhood.

A little before this time old Michaelſon died; (poor fellow, he hurt himſelf by a fall [3]from farmer Rickman's barn, which he ne⯑ver got the better of) and Andrew Wilkins getting into all his work, was accounted the beſt thatcher in the Pariſh. He was ſent for to all the barns, and ricks in the neighbour⯑hood, and made a great deal of money. It was he, who thatched the farm houſe at Ne⯑therwood; which was thought to be as good a piece of work as any that could be ſeen in ten pariſhes. John ſtill kept up his friend⯑ſhip with him; but they ſeldom ſaw one another, except on Sundays; when they com⯑monly ſtaid, with two or three other young fellows of the pariſh, to ſing a little after ſervice, (for they were both good ſingers) and in ſummer would ſometimes take a walk together in the evening. The firſt piece of work Andrew did, after he ſet up for himſelf, was thatching John's cottage. He would take nothing for his labour; but John ſoon after gave his little girl (a niece, who lived with him) a prayer book, and a new hat.

In this cottage John brought up a large family, three ſons, and four daughters. Yet he could never be ſaid to have a family of ſeven children on his hands. They were ſoon taught, as they grew up, one above another, to do ſomething for their own main⯑tenance. His wife not only ſpent frugally, what her huſband earned by his labour; but likewiſe added to it by her own ſpinning, and knitting; and that of her daughters. [4]Their money did not go to the grocer's for tea, and ſugar, and butter. They lived hard; but the children were tight, and the cottage neat. If a neighbour came in, Betty ſtill continued her work. She had no time for goſſipping, and tea-drinking. She herſelf rarely went out, except to church; and now, and then to market with a few chickens, or a young gooſe. And yet, if ſhe could be of any uſe to a ſick neighbour, no⯑body was more ready. Many a piece of good advice, ſhe would give her neighbours, when ſhe thought they wanted it: and ſhe had that pleaſant way of giving advice, which always brought it home to the point ſhe aimed at; and yet without giving offence.

One day Mary Roper came in with a new ſcarlet cloak on, bordered very finely with a piece of white catſkin. And, pray, how do you like my new cloak, ſaid ſhe, Betty? I like it very well; ſaid Betty; what might it coſt you? Fifteen ſhillings, ſaid Mary Ro⯑per, which I earned myſelf laſt auguſt, at the Squire's. Betty Trueman, continuing to turn her wheel, began careleſsly to enquire into the price of ſhop-goods—what brown linſey was a yard?—what dowlas?—and how much cloth would make one of her girls a ſhift? When ſhe had gotten all out of poor Mary, ſhe wiſhed; "Now, ſaid ſhe, neigh⯑bour, (ſtopping her wheel,) I'll make free to tell you a piece of my mind. You ſee you [5]have ſpent as much on a cloak, as would have bought nine yards of dowlas, and a good brown linſey cloak beſides, which would have kept you as warm, as this ſcarlet one. If you had been as able as Mrs. Ivyſon, I ſhould have thought it ſuitable, and ſhould have ſaid never a word: but with ſuch fa⯑milies, Mary, and ſuch means, as you and I have, I ſhould have been as much aſhamed of going about the pariſh with a ſcarlet cloak that coſt me fifteen ſhillings, as I ſhould have been of going about with three of my children's ſhirts pinned to my back. Mary Roper, who did not ſee what her neighbour had been driving at, till it came ſuddenly upon her, was very much hurt, and ſaid ſhe would never put on her red cloak again, as long as ſhe lived. She ſhould always think, when people looked at her, that they ſaw three of her children's ſhirts pinned to her back. Nay as to that, ſaid Betty, as it is bought, you had better wear it: but ſuch people as we, Mary, have nothing to do with finery. We ſhould make every penny go as far as it can. Our chief ſhew ſhould be in keeping our children tight, and clean. As to the money's being of our own earn⯑ing, I think nothing of that: for why ſhould not the mother's earnings go to main⯑tain the children, as well as the father's?"

In John Trueman's family every thing, that was earned by the father, the mother, [6]or the children, went all to one common ſtock, and anſwered the beſt end: and though they were oftner than once viſited by ſick⯑neſs (once five of them had the ſmall pox to⯑gether,) yet they always got out of their difficulties themſelves; and never had a ſin⯑gle farthing from the pariſh. In the midſt of all their poverty John always contrived to have twenty or thirty ſhillngs tied up in a bit of rag, againſt a rainy day. Nobody ſhould live upon alms, he uſed to ſay, but people who have loſt the uſe of their hands, and feet.

This worthy man not only ſet his family an example of induſtry; but of every thing elſe, that was good. Nobody ever heard him ſwear an oath. He had been brought up himſelf in the fear of God; and he brought up his family in the ſame way; teaching them to pray morning, and evening, to beg God's bleſſing on each day; and to thank him at night for his mercies. He was ſtrictly honeſt —was gentle, and kind to every body—and was ſo ſober, that I have heard him ſay, he had not been twice in an ale-houſe during his life. He was a great enemy to ale-houſes in general; but eſpecially to pot-houſes ^*. He believed nothing corrupted young lads ſo much; and uſed to ſay, he wiſhed to have it written over the door of every one of them, in large letters, THIS IS THE DEVIL's SCHOOL.

[7]He always deteſted the pot-houſe: but particularly, at this time, he had the affliction to find, that it, and the ale-houſe, had been the ruin of his friend Andrew Wilkins. Andrew had long been one of the ſobereſt fellows in the pariſh; and perhaps might have continued ſo, if he had had his friend John Trueman always at his elbow. He was one evening, againſt his inclination, ſe⯑duced into a pot-houſe. This was the be⯑ginning of all his misfortunes. Once going is a ſtep towards going a ſecond time; and a ſecond time is two ſteps; and leads directly to a third. Poor Andrew took ſeveral; and began to love liquor. Then it was over with him. John Trueman ſaw very little of him; for he ſeldom came to church. He next began to neglect his buſineſs: and it was then that young Simpſon got into the pariſh; and did moſt of the thatching work. After this, poor Andrew began to run into debt. He owed three pounds at the chandler's ſhop; twelve pounds at different ale houſes, and pot-houſes; and ſeven ſhillings at the baker's. During the courſe of all this miſ⯑chief, John Trueman often undertook to ſet him to rights. "Come, my man, he would ſay, pluck up a good courage: leave theſe curſed houſes: ſet heartily to buſineſs; and you may yet do well." Now, and then poor Andrew made a faint endeavour: but he fell back again into his old haunts; till at length [8]his credit being gone, and his debts trouble⯑ſome, he ran off, and left the country.

In the mean time John Trueman increaſed in reputation. He did not want the wicked amuſement of drinking. In ſummer, after his work was over, he generally every day ſpent half an hour, or perhaps an hour, in his little garden—planting his cabbages, and potatoes; hoeing the weeds; and ſowing his beans and peas. His wife alſo perſuaded him to take a little field of a couple of acres behind the houſe, were ſhe kept a cow, which ſhe bought out of the earnings of her ſpinning; and ſhe found it anſwered very well. His garden, which was neatly kept, was one of his chief amuſements: but the employment, in which he took moſt delight, was the inſtruction of his family. Seldom a day paſſed, in which he did not ſpend a part, in teaching them their catechiſm, or hearing them read the bible, or ſome good little book, which the parſon uſed to give them. It was a pleaſing ſight to ſee him ſitting with the younger children, one on each knee; and the elder ſtanding round him. Come, Jemmy, he would ſay to the eldeſt boy, let your little brothers, and ſiſters hear how well you can ſay your book: and then he would make him repeat the creed, the Lord's prayer, or the commandments; and would aſk him ſuch queſtions, as the miniſter uſed commonly to aſk at church. It was very pleaſant alſo to [9]hear John and his family ſinging pſalms on a ſunday evening, which they often did. John had an excellent baſe voice; and among the reſt there were good tenors, and trebles. Indeed John was always thought at church the beſt of the band

He drew out alſo ſeveral texts of ſcripture which he called Chriſt's catechiſm; and made all his children get them by heart. The mi⯑niſter, one day, ſaw them; and ſaid, he could not have choſen them better himſelf. He was ſo well pleaſed with them, that he had them printed out in a book; and made all the children of the pariſh get them by heart. In the end of this account I ſhall give a copy of them.

Above all things this worthy man was cautious never to let his children play idly in the ſtreets on ſundays. They were ſure, he ſaid, to pick up bad words, or ſomething or other, that was wicked. If they were ever ſeen with Bob Webſter, or Jere Rymer, whoſe fathers were breeding them up to the gallows, they were ſure of a whipping. But, in general, they were very good children; and rarely did any thing but what their father and mother allowed. Among other things, he ſtrictly forbad them to go out at night. The devil, he would ſay, takes that opportu⯑nity to lead young lads aſtray: they gene⯑rally begin by going out at nights.

[10]Either John or his wife, went always to church with the elder children. The other ſtayed at home with the younger. No chil⯑dren in the pariſh were ſo well behaved at church, as they. They always looked on their prayer-books; and minded what they were about. They took care alſo, be⯑fore they went into church, not to have oc⯑caſion to go out during the ſervice; which many little children do, and diſturb the con⯑gregation very much. As each of them got to the age of twelve years, their father gave them a prayer-book with gold edges; of which they were always mighty proud.

Thus educated, they not only ſoon became uſeful; but had the choice of the beſt ſer⯑vices in the country. Their father however would ſuffer them only to go where the family was ſober, and regular; and the maſter and miſtreſs ſet a good example. "I have taken a great deal of pains," John would ſay, "with my children; and my re⯑ward is, to ſee them well ſettled. They can all work, I thank God; and are all willing; and I am in no fear of their getting a livelihood any where." This ſpirit in the father gave the children credit and con⯑ſequence. They had no occaſion to ſeek for places, they were always ſought after. Thus when lady Lumley wanted one of John's daughters for a houſemaid; and ſent him [11]word by Mrs. Jackſon, that ſhe had inquired the young woman's character, and liked it very well; John next inquired the character of lady Lumley, and finding ſhe led a looſe ſort of life, playing at cards on ſundays, and keeping bad hours, John made a civil excuſe, and would not let Sally go to her. He choſe rather to let her go to Mrs. Mears, a clergy⯑man's widow, who lived in the next town; tho ſhe gave only four pound wage; and lady Lumley gave ſix.

"You are now my dear child, (ſaid John,) going from your good mother, who has al⯑ways given you the beſt advice. You muſt now adviſe yourſelf. I hope there is no oc⯑caſion to give you any inſtruction about your duty to God, and reading your bible: I ſhall only therefore give you a little about your new way of life. I have endeavoured to get you into a ſober family: but I may be de⯑ceived. If you ſhould find it is not ſo, give me a line; and I'll come over, and adviſe you. But if the family be a good one, as I believe it is, (for I have always heard Mrs. Mears, and the two miſſes well ſpoken of) don't be haſty to leave them; tho you hear of other girls in the neighbourhood, who have leſs work, and higher wage. Work ſeldom hurts a young woman in health: but lazineſs and idleneſs always do. And as to wage, trouble not yourſelf ſo much about that, as about getting a good character. Staying [12]long in a place is creditable. My good father uſed always to ſay; A long ſervice is a good in⯑heritance; and I found his words true. Be⯑ſides, it is more profitable: for by going about from place to place, after greater wage, and being often out of place, you loſe far more than you gain. Look at poor Bet Nixon. That girl has been in ſeven places within theſe two years; and by always trying to better herſelf, ſhe is now become as ragged as a colt. How different was Nancy Sel⯑wood. She lived nine years with good lady Burnaby; and was grown quite into her friend; and I have heard ſay, it coſt the old lady many a tear, when Nancy left her. But when her brother had taken that great farm, and had loſt his wife, every body thought it right in Nancy to go to help him. She would not have left her old miſtreſs for any other place, I dare be bound.

John then gave his daughter ſome advice againſt ſaucineſs, and pertneſs, which he ſaid anſwered no end. If you find, ſaid he, you cannot live happy in your place, continue to do your duty in it, while you do ſtay; and give warning quietly.

Before the girl went to Mrs. Mears, her mother alſo gave her a little advice about dreſs. "Now, Sally, ſaid ſhe, I deſire I may never ſee you follow any of thoſe ſlovenly faſhions, of letting your hair hang in great bags behind, and dangling in curls upon your [13]ſhoulders; and wearing dirty bits of gauſe ruffles, and handkerchiefs, and flapping caps, and bunches of naſty ribbon about your hat. Such things do not become young wo⯑men at ſervice; nor any people in low ſta⯑tions. When you go to church, be always neat, and clean, and tight—at all times you may be tight: and when you buy any thing, let it be plain and good, rather than fine. If you were to come home ſuch a ſlattern figure as Betty Nixon was, when ſhe came from place, I ſhould be quite aſhamed of you."

Nor was it only in his own family, that John was of uſe; he did many a kind action among his neighbours. His friendly diſpo⯑ſition was ſo well known, that wherever there was any diſtreſs, John Trueman was the firſt perſon applied to. Many a day's work he gave up to ſerve a friend. He was conſidered alſo as a very good judge among his neigh⯑bours; and put an end to many a quarrel. Sometimes alſo, though he was one of the moſt peaceable men in the world, he was known to do juſtice in a very ſummary manner himſelf, where the law was tardy; and its ſentence could not eaſily be obtained.

He and his ſons were at hay-cart. The field was full of people, both men and women: and among them was a tall raw-boned fellow, who as they were reſt⯑ing at noon, began to ſwear, and talk [14]obſcenely to the women. One of John's daughters was among them; and John was much hurt with the fellow's impudence; and two or three times rebuked him ſmartly. But though he turned the laugh upon him, he could not make him hold his tongue. On this John getting up very deliberately, and taking his cart-whip, gave the fellow a ſmacking cut round the body. A circular ſtain about his ſhirt, for he was without his jacket, ſhewed how ably and dexterouſly John had applied the laſh. Now, my good fellow, ſaid John, remember never to ſwear, and talk obſcenely again, in company with John Trueman. The fellow ſtarted up in a rage, and ſnatching up a pitchfork, ſwore he would be revenged. Come, come, my man, ſaid John, ſit down quietly, and be civil: I have three ſtrapping lads here, who if you dare lift a finger at their old father, will drag you through yon horſe-pond. Up ſtart⯑ed the three lads in an inſtant, each with a pitchfork in his hand; and the fellow, not chuſing to meddle with the old man, went off muttering, that if there were juſtice to be had either for love, or money, he would have it.

John was a man of ſuch good natural ſenſe, and ſo well informed for a common perſon, that he had always ſomething to ſay that was proper on every occaſion. If he ever heard a lad ſwearing for inſtance; he would [15]tell him, ſwearing was hard work, whatever he might think of it. It was working for the devil without wages. Thou'lt get nothing for thy labour, my lad, he would ſay: and why wouldſt thou do for the devil, what thou would'ſt do for no maſter on earth?—Or if he ſaw him going to the ale-houſe, he would tell him, that a poor lad going into an ale-houſe, always put him in mind of a ſilly fiſh going to drink in a hoop⯑net. It is eaſy to get in; but he does not know how to find his way out again.—Or if he met him going to a horſe-race—a mountebank—a cock-fight—or a conjurer, he had always ſomething ready to ſhew him his folly; and how much better it would be for him to mind his buſineſs.—How good a divine John was, the following little ſtory will ſhew.

He was mowing one day with Richard Willet—a fellow of the pariſh, who was never thought to be over fond of work; and as they were eating their dinner under the hedge, Lord B. came paſt in his coach. Aye now, ſays Willet, there's a man that has ſomething to thank God for. He has no⯑thing to do, but to ride about where he pleaſes; and has a good dinner to go to at noon, and a cup of the beſt. While we, poor hearts, after a hard day's labour, are glad of a bit of cold bacon to our bread, and a drop of ſour beer.

[16]How know you, ſaid Trueman, that my Lord is happier, than you, or I? Is it riding about in a coach, think you, and eat⯑ing a good dinner, that makes a man happy? No, no, Dick, ſomething elſe goes to make a man happy: he muſt have happineſs within. If all be true, as I have heard, my Lord has been deſperate vexed, ever ſince the King turned him out of his place. And as he has diced away moſt of what he had, as I have heard people tell, who have been in London, I ſhould think he has not much happineſs to brag on.—But ſuppoſe my Lord was ever ſo happy, what then? Does that make us more unhappy? I durſt lay a wager, there is as much happineſs in my cottage, as in Bromley-hall.—Beſides, what matters it during the little while we live in this world, whether we are lords, or labourers? Did you ever hear, Dick, how far it is to France, or Scotland? And if you were going to one of thoſe places, would you think it was much, if the road, for half a dozen ſteps —as far as to that gate for inſtance—was bad? Now it is juſt the ſame with regard to this world, and the next. You have heard of eternity I ſuppoſe. It is like a long journey, round and round the world, that will never have an end. Now as cer⯑tain, as you have that knife in your hand, Lord B. and you, and I, have all that jour⯑ney to take alike. We ſhall all travel in [17]the ſame way. And what mighty difference does it make, if he go as far as that gate in a coach, and we on foot? At the gate Lord B. muſt get out of his coach; and we ſhall be all alike. Then happy he, who has done beſt. If we have lived well with our little, and done our duty, as to the Lord, and not unto man, God almighty will reward us, poor as we are, as much as he will reward my Lord, though he ſhould have done what good he could with his better means. Then what will it ſignify how we have gone to the gate? Our buſineſs is to look to the long journey we have to go afterwards.

Thus this good couple lived, reſpected by every body, high, and low. It was a great pleaſure to the Squire's lady, and her daugh⯑ters, to take an evening walk to Betty True⯑man's, which was about a mile and a half from them. They uſed to carry a little tea, and ſugar in their pockets; and were ſure of a piece of good houſehold bread, and a neat pat of butter. Often too they would bring their company with them; and the neigh⯑bours have ſometimes ſeen in a ſummer⯑evening a coach, or two ſtanding at John's door.

About the year 1747 a very diſtreſſing cir⯑cumſtance happened to this worthy family.

Betty Trueman had a brother in Wilt⯑ſhire; who lived very creditably on a little farm on the edge of Marlborough-downs. [18]His wife died, and left him an only ſon; who, as he grew up, proved a great diſtreſs to his father. He would ſettle to nothing. He kept bad company; uſed bad words, and got a habit of drinking. About the be⯑ginning of march John Trueman was in⯑formed of his brother in law's death; and as he was left executor; he took a journey into Wiltſhire, to ſettle his affairs. The moſt difficult thing he had to ſettle was young Tom Meadows, his nephew. What to do he knew not. To leave him, was ruin: to take him among his own young folks, was dangerous. After weighing the matter on all ſides, John thought, (diſtreſſing as it was) he had no choice left, but to take the young man home; and try what he could do with him. John Trueman's man⯑ners were exceedingly pleaſing; and young Meadows had taken a great fancy to him. John had obſerved it; and this was the chief foundation of his hopes; as he thought by kind treatment he might work upon him. He took him home therefore, and determin⯑ed to uſe him in all reſpects like one of his own ſons, while he behaved well. John, knowing that idleneſs is the beginning of all wickedneſs, took him always to work with himſelf. The young man could not help working, when he ſaw his uncle work. By degrees, work became eaſy to him, and he could do a tolerable day's work. John's [19]ſons alſo commonly worked with them: and when they all came home at night, John had always ſome innocent merriment, to make the lads chearful, while ſupper was getting ready. They generally worked by the great; and at the end of the job John divided the money into equal parts; and gave his nephew as much as he took himſelf; tho his work was by no means equal. He took of him likewiſe for his board, juſt the ſame as he took of his own ſons; always telling him, that if he could do better, he was welcome. By treating him in this generous, kind man⯑ner, he daily gained more and more upon him: and the young man himſelf began to find more pleaſure in ſobriety, and induſtry; than in drunkenneſs, and idleneſs. The ex⯑ample alſo of his couſins had great weight with him. He began to be intimate with them; and to be better pleaſed with the innocence, and chearfulneſs of their company, than with the rioting, ſwearing, drinking, and ob⯑ſcenity of his former companions. Not but that he once, or twice broke out— once particularly at the fair, when he met with one of his old friends: and two or three times his uncle heard an oath, and an obſcene jeſt come from him: but as he ſaw that the young man, on the whole, meant to do well, he treated him with great kind⯑neſs; and when he found fault with him, did it like a friend.

[20]Young Meadows had now been about four years with his uncle; and was come of age; when John took an opportunity, one day, to carry him into the fields privately; and thus ſpoke to him. "You know, Tom, you have often heard me ſay, I would do what I could to recover for you what little matters your father left: and every now, and then I told you, I was doing my beſt. I'll now tell you what I have done. After your father's debts were paid, (moſt of which, I find, you occaſioned,) the ſale of his ſtock cleared 97l. 10s. I then endeavoured to get in what was owing to him, particularly that debt of Gray's: and I believe we have done the beſt. We have collected 43l. I have alſo ſold the little tenement near Burnt-wood for 55l. Out of this money good Mr. Webb, whom you remember, and who has done all this buſi⯑neſs for us, charges only 5l. which I thought very little, as lawyer's work, I know, is coſtly. So that you ſee by this account, you are worth 180l. 10s. and ſome little intereſt which we are to receive at Michael⯑mas, for part of it, during the laſt two years, will bring the whole, as you will ſee, to near 200l. John then put the accounts into his nephew's hand; and told him, Mr. Webb deſired, when he had examined [21]them, that he would ſign them. And now, ſaid John, the next queſtion is, what is to be done with all this money?

Many young lads, thus made ſuddenly rich, would have had a hundred ſchemes at once. Young Meadows had but one. He was now thoroughly reformed; and as tho⯑roughly convinced of his uncle's care and kindneſs. He was a ſenſible lad; and clearly ſaw, how kind a part his uncle had acted. He told him therefore how much obliged he was to him for ſaving him, and his little fortune from deſtruction; and if he would be ſo good as adviſe him what to do, he would leave the management of every thing to him. Why then, ſaid John, I think you are yet too young to know what to do with it yourſelf. You had better put it out to uſe; and let it increaſe for a few years. In five or ſix it will increaſe 50l. and you will then be grown as many years wiſer; and may either turn it to farming; or what you like better. This advice was taken; and John got the money well put out by Mr. Webb's means. But before this was done, Tom Meadows, who was a generous-hearted young fellow, wiſhed to make ſome preſents to his couſins, in gratitude to his uncle for having ſaved his little affairs from ruin. But John [22]would hear of nothing on that head; telling his nephew,

In about half a dozen years, a good, little farm in the neighbourhood offering; and Meadows ſtill continuing his love for huſbandry-buſineſs, his uncle perſuaded him to take it; and aſſiſted him with his advice in ſtocking, and managing it. Young Mea⯑dows was ſkilful, induſtrious, and careful. His ſkill taught him what was beſt: his in⯑duſtry performed what his ſkill pointed out; and his care preſerved, what his induſtry pro⯑cured. From ſkill, induſtry, and care every thing may be expected. Every thing there⯑fore throve under ſuch management; and the little farm produced more than many farms of double the rent. His uncle ſoon adviſed him to add to it, by taking more land; but at the ſame time told him, that a little farm well managed, was better than a large one neglected.

But here I muſt mention an affair, which made a great change in his life. He had had from his earlieſt youth a great regard for a farmer's daughter in his father's neigh⯑bourhood. She too had obſerved it, and had no diſlike to him, (for he was a pleaſing, good natured fellow,) but ſhe [23]heard all her friends ſpeak of him, as ſo bad, and idle in all his behaviour, that ſhe never allowed herſelf to think favourably of him. Afterwards, when ſhe heard from all hands how clever, and worthy a young fellow Tom Meadows was grown, it gave her great plea⯑ſure; tho ſhe did not know for what parti⯑cular reaſon. Of this young woman Tom Meadows began now to think, when he found himſelf in a condition to maintain a wife with credit: and he intruſted his faith⯑ful uncle with his ſecret.

This was rather a little diſappointment to John, who ſecretly hoped, that young Meadows would perhaps have married one of his daughters. He would not however allow the thought to take a moment's poſ⯑ſeſſion of him; but immediately told his nephew, he had always heard Nancy Free⯑man mightily praiſed. But as you have not ſeen her, ſaid he, for ſome time, you may now think different when you do ſee her: or perhaps ſhe may be engaged. I would ad⯑viſe you therefore to ſay nothing at preſent; but go, and viſit your aunt Grace. There, ſaid John, you will ſee how the land lies; and may act accordingly.

Young Meadows followed his uncle's ad⯑vice. He paid a viſit to his aunt Grace; and finding the land lay very well, he mentioned his wiſhes firſt to farmer Freeman; and then to his daughter. The farmer had no ob⯑jection: [24]and the young woman gave him no denial;—only ſhe wiſhed for a little time to conſider about it. Tom however plainly ſaw he had an intereſt in her affections. So a ſecond viſit to his aunt Grace brought mat⯑ters to a concluſion; and he came home with the happy tidings, that the 20th of the next month was fixed for the day.

But God almighty leads us to happineſs in his own way. The things of this world do not always happen according to our wiſhes, and expectations: and this ſhould prevent our ſetting our hearts upon them. It hap⯑pened ſo on this occaſion. While young Meadows was fitting up his farm-houſe neatly for his bride, he received a letter by the poſt on friday, informing him, that ſhe had been ſeized with a fever the ſunday before, and was then lying ſpeechleſs. He immediately mounted his horſe, and riding all night, got juſt in time to receive an affectionate look, and farewell ſmile, which ſhot through his heart with a thouſand ten⯑der feelings, never afterwards forgotten. He ſaw her at ten o'clock. At twelve ſhe was a corpſe.

This melancholy event gave a new turn to the mind of young Meadows. At firſt all was horror, and confuſion around him. His chearful fields, were ſolitary waſtes: the ſunſhine of heaven was a diſtreſſing gloom. The darkneſs of night was more [25]pleaſant to him, than the light of the ſun. He thought not about his buſineſs; but walked among the lanes, and hedges, avoid⯑ing his very workmen; and afraid to ſpeak to any body he met. Even his uncle's family he ſhunned.

By degrees however his mind became more calm. His temper, which was na⯑turally lively, in a few years recovered at times a little of it's chearfulneſs. His good-nature began to flow, as uſual, to every body around him; and he could join in innocent amuſements. The ſettled bent of his diſpoſition however became ſerious, and religious. He often uſed to make a compariſon between the wretched creature he once was, given up to drinking, and debauchery; and the ſober, innocent life he now led. And with regard to the great affliction he had met with, he could now even think of that with ſatisfaction. He would ſay, tho it was bitter to him at the time, yet it had befallen him through a kind Providence. She was taken to God's mercy, he doubted not; and inſtead of the many diſtreſſes ſhe might have met with in this world, was changed into a happy being. While he himſelf, had ſeen in a thouſand inſtances of what advantage his afflictions had been to him. His wicked heart want⯑ed thoroughly to be ſubdued; and, nothing but ſo great an affliction as this had been, [26]could have done it effectually. God al⯑mighty had now, he hoped, thoroughly wrought his converſion. He had long ſeen the folly of wickedneſs: he now ſaw the hap⯑pineſs of religion.

With theſe thoughts the manner of his life agreed. He ſeldom went from home. He employed his time on the buſineſs of his farm; and his leiſure on reading the bible, and other good books. His family was an example to all farmers. He was kind to his ſervants, and workmen; and took care to have them well-inſtructed. In none of his fields an oath, or a lewd jeſt was ever heard. As he was much among his labourers, he had a conſtant eye over them. Every ſunday he carried them with him to church; and took care, that the lads went regularly to hear the catechiſm explained; which he thought was much fitter for them, than for mere children, who could underſtand but little of what they were told.

He never again had any thoughts of marriage. He had always two or three of the grand-children of his good uncle with him, whom he called his nephews, and nieces; and bad them call him uncle, a name he liked to hear. But, for ſome reaſon or other, little Nancy was his great favourite; and always lived with him. Nancy fed the poultry, and took care of the pet-lambs; and as ſhe grew up, had the [27]charge of the dairy. He always expreſſed the greateſt regard for his uncle; and uſed to ſhew it to all his relations. His uncle, he would often ſay, was the great means, un⯑der God, of ſaving him from deſtruction.

Thus I have put together what particulars I could find of this worthy man. Many of them happened, after that part of John True⯑man's life, in which I have placed them, but I thought it was beſt to put them all down together.

Whether farmer Meadows is now alive, I know not. The laſt account I heard of him was from one of his neighbours, at Wey⯑hill-fair; who ſaid, he was alive, and hearty; and one of the beſt men in England. I re⯑member that was the man's expreſſion. But this is now at leaſt ſeven years ago; and if he be ſtill alive, he muſt be advancing to⯑wards old-age. But it is time now to return to John Trueman.

In the year 1765, James Ivyſon died; who was out-door ſteward, or bailiff to the Squire; and overlooked his workmen and cattle. Every body ſaid, the Squire would appoint John Trueman in his room; becauſe they thought he was the fitteſt for it. But the Squire was then at his eſtate in Norfolk; and nobody knew any thing more for a fort⯑night; when a letter came by the poſt from the Squire to Mr. Trim, his honour's attor⯑ney, [28]deſiring him to get John Trueman to look after his affairs, till his return; when he ſhould ſatisfy him for his trouble. After the Squire came home, nothing more was ſaid. The Squire however ordered the Wood-houſe cottage to be fitted up very neatly, and fur⯑niſhed. Then people began to change their minds, and think it was for the young man, whom the Squire had brought with him out of Norfolk; and who, it was ſaid, was going to marry madam's maid. But Mr. Trim told farmer Weeks at the veſtry, that he ſtill believed John Trueman was the man; though the Squire, who commonly kept his thoughts to himſelf, had ſaid nothing certain to him.

However ſo it was: for when all was finiſhed at the cottage, in about two months, the Squire ſent for John Trueman into his library; and bidding him ſit down, began by telling him, he had always had a very good opinion of him; which compliment John returned by telling the Squire, in the frank⯑neſs of his heart, that he had always had the ſame of him. Well, ſaid the Squire, I value your good opinion, John, more than that of many a man, who wears a better coat: but I did not ſend for you now, that we ſhould compliment one another; but to talk about buſineſs. I think, ſaid he, my honeſt neighbour, you are now too old to work. I hope, Sir, ſaid John, your ho⯑nour's tenant, farmer Weeks, did not tell [29]you ſo: I have worked with him, off and on, theſe fifteen years; and I hope I can do a tolerabliſh day's work yet. No, no, ſaid the Squire, Weeks did not tell it me; I ſpeak only from the pariſh-regiſter: I ſhould gueſs you are now about ſixty. Your honour gueſſes very well, ſaid Trueman. Laſt Whitſun-tueſday I entered into my ſixty-firſt year. The Squire then aſked John what he made of his work by the year; for he un⯑derſtood that he, and his ſons generally worked by the great? Pleaſe your honour, ſaid Trueman, I always made enough to live on: but I never kept any count. Well, ſaid the Squire, to cut the matter ſhort, you know ſomething by this time of my buſi⯑neſs; and I know ſomething of your abili⯑ties to manage it; have you any objection to take poſſeſſion of the Wood-houſe cottage, and ſupply Ivyſon's room? I ſhall allow you fifty pounds a year, and ſome other little per⯑quiſites.—Objection! Sir, ſaid Trueman, what objection can I have? But, I think, your honour ought to have objection thus to ſaddle yourſelf with an old man, juſt off his work.—Why you contradict yourſelf, John, ſaid the Squire ſmiling: you told me juſt now, that farmer Weeks would tell me a different ſtory. However, continued he, it is of no conſequence; for it is not the uſe of your hands that I want, but of your head. I do not want you to work yourſelf; [30]but to ſee that other people work. As I have a great many labourers about me, I want a good eye over them: and if I am not miſtaken, you have both ſpirit, and ho⯑neſty to do the fair thing by them, and me. —My wife alſo tells me, that nobody makes better butter, than Betty Trueman. She wiſhes therefore to place her over the dairy, and poultry. Some conſideration alſo ſhall be had for that. One of her daughters, I think, lives with her; ſhe may ſtill continue to do ſo; and I will pay her wages, as your wife's ſervant. And as for your ſons, if you can employ them all about the grounds, I ſhall be glad; for I am told, there are not better working lads in the pariſh.

Trueman felt more for all this goodneſs, than he could well utter. The Squire how⯑ever underſtood by his looks, what was in his heart. In ſhort, it was agreed, before they parted, that John ſhould take imme⯑diate poſſeſſion of the Wood-houſe cottage; which was a neat, thatched, brick building, conſiſting of four good rooms, and out⯑houſes; ſurrounded on three ſides by a large oak-wood, from which it had it's name, and open in front to a meadow, with a ſtream at the bottom, and a fine view into the country beyond it.

On the evening after this converſation, John called ſuch of his children together, as were at home, and told them all that had [31]paſſed—how kind God had been to him— and that, next to God, their beſt ſervices were due to the good Squire. I always had a ſecret truſt, ſaid John, that God, who is the poor labourer's trueſt friend, would never for⯑ſake me in my old age; nor ſuffer me to be a burthen to the pariſh.

John then told them, that though people commonly bequeathed their goods at their death, he choſe to bequeath his in his life⯑time: for he had now, he ſaid, no more oc⯑caſion for them. The good Squire had pro⯑vided for all his wants. He then produced his little ſtock among them—his cow—his pigs—his poultry—and houſehold furniture. Every one was to chuſe in order; and the mother was to chuſe for the three daughters, who were out at ſervice. It happened how⯑ever, in this family diſtribution, that the youngeſt came off the beſt; for the eldeſt refuſed to take the beſt things, leſt they ſhould injure the younger. The cow was left to the laſt. Well, ſays John, ſince none of you will take the cow, if you are all wil⯑ling, we'll give her to Tom; for he is the only one among you, who is married, and has a family; and milk will be more uſeful there, than any where elſe. This propoſal pleaſed them all, but Tom; who would not accept the cow on any account. The diſ⯑pute however was at laſt ended by giving her to Tom's eldeſt ſon, John, a little chuffy [32]boy, who was juſt old enough to be taught to ſay "Tank you, granfar, for Cherry."

But the goods, which the old man prized moſt, were not yet diſpoſed of. Theſe were his tools. There was not a man in the pariſh, who had ſo complete a ſet of tools of every kind as John Trueman. He kept them all in the niceſt order; and uſed to call them his hands; and would thank God for giving him ſo many hands, that if one ſhould be diſabled, he might uſe another. The only thing, in which John ever ſhewed any backwardneſs in aſſiſting a neighbour, was in lending him a tool. But he had often ſuffered for his good-nature; and found no⯑body ſo exact about tools as he was him⯑ſelf; nor that ſhewed the care for them, which he thought a good tool deſerved. Theſe tools he diſtributed among his ſons— a ſcythe, and a couple of bill-books to one— a couple of ſpades, and a pickax to another; beſtowing at the ſame time ſome commenda⯑tion on each tool; and telling his ſons, that theſe tools, under God, had been the ſupport of them all—and that he who did not value his tool, ſeldom cared much about his work.

John having thus diſpoſed of his goods, had nothing now left, but to ſettle his family. Tom, the ſecond ſon, who was married, was put into immediate poſſeſſion of his father's old habitation. The eldeſt, and youngeſt, John propoſed to take with him to the Wood⯑houſe [33]cottage, as ſoon as they could hand⯑ſomely leave their maſter; for they both worked with the ſame farmer. Jenny, of courſe, went with her mother.—Thus theſe pious parents found themſelves happily pro⯑vided for in their old age, by the bleſſing of God; who never forſakes his religious ſer⯑vants; but always in ſome way ſupports them. John uſed often to ſay, God was the poor man's only friend. The rich may take comfort, if they can find any, in their riches, and pleaſures; but the poor man, he would ſay, has nothing to depend on, but God. It is his buſineſs therefore certainly to make God his friend.

John having now ſettled his affairs, took poſſeſſion of his cottage, and new employ⯑ment: and that he might make the better appearance, he laid aſide his old working jacket, and wore every day his beſt coat; which had ſerved him nine years for a ſun⯑day's coat; and had been every week carefully laid by in the cheſt. He now bought a new one for ſundays. His wiſe alſo laid aſide her linſey gown; and, except when ſhe was about ſome dirty work, put on always her camblet one.

John lived in his new employment twenty two years; and the Squire was ſo well pleaſed with him, that he was often heard to ſay, if he had had him ten years before, he ſhould not only have had his work better done; but ſhould have ſaved many a pound: [34]for tho James Ivyſon was always reputed, and was in fact, a very honeſt man, yet he had not that ſpirit, and commanding way with him, of keeping people to their work, which John had. And yet John was beloved by all the labourers; for he was always doing good turns to one, or another with the Squire; and plainly ſhewed that he did not want to get all favour to himſelf. Indeed he was continually applying to the Squire, or his Lady, not only for the labourers; but for any of the pariſh, whom he thought pro⯑per objects. The Squire, and his Lady were the friends of the poor, and always ready to incourage his applications; well knowing both his honeſty, and his judgment. John's rule was, to ſpeak to the Squire about the men; and to his Lady about the women, and children.

The Squire generally after breakfaſt, took a walk among his workmen; and after he and John had talked over the buſi⯑neſs of the day, John took that opportunity to introduce his other buſineſs. Poor Tim Jenkins, pleaſe your honour, ſaid John to him one day, has got into a ſad ſcrape. The poor lad works with farmer Sykes, and had been ſent by his maſter with a gun to terrify the rooks from the corn; when a hare popt out, and Tim, ſilly lad, could not help ſhooting at her, and unluckily killed her. Juſt as he was taking her up, who ſhould [35]come riding down the lane, but Sir Thomas's ſteward. He took down Tim's name, and told him he ſhould hear from Sir Thomas by and by; and the poor lad hears, that Mr. Trim has orders to proceed againſt him; ſo I fear he will get into ſome miſchief, (for Sir Thomas, your honour knows, is young and hot,) unleſs you will be pleaſed to write a bit of a note to pacify him: I know he will re⯑fuſe your honour nothing: and the poor lad is in a world of trouble for what he has done. He never was a poacher in all his life; and I dare be bound, he will never do ſuch another thing again.—The Squire promiſed to write a note that evening to Sir Thomas; and was going away, when John called his attention again. Sir, ſaid he, I have another little matter to mention. Robin Napper bought yeſterday, at farmer Ayles's ſale, a ſcore of weathers; which he intends to fat: but as I think his lands are not yet ready for them, I adviſed him, if your honour has no objection, to let them go a few weeks, in your honour's rough grounds about Mill⯑pond. I'll take care they ſhall do no miſ⯑chief. To this alſo the Squire conſented; and left John very happy in having got a pardon for poor Tim, and the rough grounds for his friend Robin.

The Lady he uſed to take about the time, when ſhe went to ſee her poultry, which was generally about eleven o'clock. She [36]had ſomething of humour about her, and uſed to ſay, ſhe never ſaw John look ſilly, but when he had ſome requeſt to make. Whenever ſhe ſaw him with that particular face on, as ſhe called it, ſhe knew at once what he intended to ſay; and without wait⯑ing for his requeſt, would aſk, Well, Mr. Trueman, what's gone wrong now? I heard her aſk him this queſtion one day, when John, making one of his ſideling bows, anſwered, No great matter gone wrong, Madam, but poor little Roſe Smith, that fine little girl you took ſo much notice of, when you went out of church the ſunday before laſt, has burnt her leg very ſadly; and old dame Plaſket has done what ſhe can for her; but it grows worſe. Poor Smith, I fear, can hardly raiſe money enough to pay a doctor; ſo I thought, Madam, I would mention the thing to you, if you would let me ſend Mr. Morley to her.—In all theſe requeſts it was hard to ſay, whether the aſker, the giver, or the receiver was more gratified.

As John was kind to all the labourers, he was equally attentive to the Squire's buſineſs. He kept the people to their work; but with⯑out any over-bearing temper: tho it was the more difficult, as he was now placed over many of his old companions. Nobody gave him more trouble, than one Willet, who was always at a looſe end. Why now, [37]Dicky, John would ſay to him, ſuppoſe the Squire ſhould ſnip you off a ſhilling or two, from your wages on ſaturday-night, would not you ſay he cheated you? And is it not juſt the ſame, if you ſnip him off an hour or two a day from his work; which you may eaſily do by working as if you were not in earneſt? If the Squire's work be too hard for you, you had better go ſomewhere elſe: but while you receive honeſt pay, do, my man, earn it honeſtly. — Willet ſoon after took his advice, and went where he was not ſo cloſely looked after. Nobody was a better judge of work, than John. He put nothing hard upon the labourers. At the ſame time, none of the idle fellows cared much to work under him.

But idleneſs was not the only thing John uſed to complain of among the workmen; he was often hurt with a little, dirty, mean, envious temper, which he found among them. If ever he did any of them a good turn with the Squire, he was ſure to hear, from one, or another, ſomething bad of the perſon he had aſſiſted; which was as much as to ſay, the informer thought he deſerved a favour better himſelf. Tho the truth ſome⯑times came out on theſe occaſions; yet John was very backward in believing the reports of malice, and envy. He generally lent a deaf ear to them; and inſtead of liſtening, would turn another way; and bid one of the men meaſure that ditch, whether it was ſo wide [38]as it ſhould be: or make that part of the drain a little deeper.

While John was, one day, directing ſome workmen near the great road, he was much affected by a circumſtance he met with. A cart came by, with a poor old man in it, who ſeemed but juſt alive. Pray, maſter, ſaid the carter, be ſo good as to tell me the way to your poor-houſe. What have you got for us there, ſaid John? A poor ſtrolling fellow, ſaid the carter, who has been hopping about all the pariſhes of our county, with one leg; and being taken ill in ours, we had him examined, and find he belongs to you; and as we would not rob you of ſuch pre⯑cious ſtuff, we have brought him to you again.

While the fellow was making theſe low jokes, John thought he diſcovered in the poor wretch ſomething of the features of his old friend Andrew Wilkins, tho he had not now either ſeen, or heard of him, theſe fifteen years. He aſked the carter his name; for the man himſelf ſeemed ſpeechleſs. The fellow ſaid he could not tell: but on looking into his order; His honour's name, ſaid he, is An⯑drew Wilkins, knight of the beggars, if you know ſuch a gentleman. John's heart was too full to anſwer the fellow's inhumanity as it deſerved. He told him he would take the charge of the poor man himſelf: but the carter ſaying, he durſt not ſhove him out any [39]where, but as the order directed, John went with him to the poor-houſe, where he ſaw Andrew laid up comfortably: but he was too far gone to take any refreſhment; and died that night.

John did not fail, the next day, to give the young fellows, who had ſeen what had paſſed, a lecture on the ſubject. "That poor fel⯑low, ſaid he, whom you ſaw brought to the poor-houſe yeſterday, was, formerly one of the clevereſt lads in this pariſh. I ſuppoſe hardly any of you, except Jonathan, can re⯑member much of him. You remember, Jonathan, what a clever lad he was. A more ſober, quiet, honeſt, diligent fellow God never put breath into. He was the beſt thatcher in all theſe parts. Where I made one ſhilling, he made two; and might have done as well as any man in the country. But the devil, and bad company put it into his head, to go to the ale-houſe. One ſup of beer drew on another; and that made him reliſh a third: and when he began to like it, all was over with him. So you ſee, my lads, it is not always beginning well, that keeps us right. A man may be ruined at any time of his life, without his own care, and the grace of God to follow it. Whatever you do, my lads, keep from theſe bad houſes. It will never be well, till the green graſs grows in the path-way to all the ale-houſes, and pot⯑houſes in the country."

[40]John himſelf took great pains to carry his labourers another way. Of one thing he made a point, which was to have them all aſſemble, every ſunday morning, and go with him to church; except ſuch as had large fa⯑milies, who ſtayed at home every other ſun⯑day, that their wives might take their turns: and, generally every Eaſter, they all appeared at the ſacrament. In about a year, John had brought them into ſuch regular habits, that it was pleaſing to ſee ſo many people together ſo orderly. The Squire had ſeldom fewer, than thirty, or forty men at work. They were chiefly employed in draining, fencing, and improving a large tract of common, which had been taken in by act of Parlia⯑ment; and which the Squire was dividing into farms.

About the beginning of february, in the year 1787, John Trueman was taken ill of a ſort of pleuritic diſorder, which it was thought he had brought on by expoſing him⯑ſelf too much to the cold eaſt winds. At firſt his head ran continually on his buſineſs. He could get no ſleep. He was ſure Wat Nixon would not ſink the drain deep enough: for there was a great ſoak of water, he ſaid, in that place, and a ſhallow drain would ſig⯑nify nothing. But the Squire aſſured him, he himſelf had ſeen the drain; and that it, and every thing elſe, were going on very well. The Squire then gave poſitive orders, [41]that nobody, on any account, ſhould ſpeak a word to him about buſineſs.

By degrees the good, old man became compoſed; and all worldly thoughts ſubſided. No hope of his recovery remained. The evening before he died, the Squire ſaw him for the laſt time. He took him by the hand, and aſked him; How he felt himſelf? John ſaid nothing; but gave him a look ſo full of tenderneſs, affection, and heavenly feeling, that I heard the Squire ſay, he would freely give a hundred guineas to have that look ex⯑actly taken down in a picture—It ſet all the world at a diſtance. I remember that was the Squire's expreſſion.

The ſame evening John ſaw alſo, for the laſt time, his children, and grand-children; and bleſſing them all ſent them to their reſt. His wife alone, who would not leave him, ſat by him in ſilent ſorrow; and between eleven, and twelve, he went off in a quiet, compoſed ſleep, with his hand locked in hers. He died in the eighty-ſecond or eighty-third year of his age, equally regretted by the Squire—the whole body of workmen—and all who knew him. He was carried to his grave by ſix of his grand-children, each about ſeventeen or eighteen years of age. "Well, younkers, (ſaid the clergyman to them, at the grave-ſide, after the ſervice was over,) you have now followed your good old grand-father to his grave. I hope you will all en⯑deavour [42]to follow him a little farther. He was a good chriſtian, and an example to us all." The poor lads wiped their gliſtening eyes with their coat-ſleeves, and black gloves; and ſaid nothing: but their hearts glowed within them; and each thought he would do his beſt to be like his grand-father.

The old man was buried on the north ſide of the church, near the yew-tree; and the Squire placed a handſome ſtone over his grave, with an inſcription to his memory.

His wife died about ſix months after, equally beloved, and regretted; and was bu⯑ried by his ſide.

After the death of John Trueman, the Squire appointed his eldeſt ſon James to ſuc⯑ceed him; who having had a better educa⯑tion, than his father; and having been brought more into the world, became a man of more conſequence: and was very lately, on the death of Mr. Woodcock, appointed the Squire's principal manager of all his eſtates, both in Hampſhire, and in Norfolk, with a ſalary, for living, and travelling charges, of two hundred a year, and a good houſe to live in. Having been more among gentlemen he ſoon got their manners; and always ſat at the Squire's table; except when he had any lords, or other great company with him. Yet he ſtill preſerved his father's ſimplicity of behaviour, changing only his honeſt bluntneſs into a little more civility, [43]and politeneſs.—But as Mr. James True⯑man is ſtill alive, I fear to ſay any thing, which, if theſe papers ſhould get into his hands, might offend his modeſty.

THE LIFE OF RICHARD ATKINS.

BEFORE I begin the life of Richard Atkins, I muſt beg the reader's pardon for a little impoſition I put upon him, with regard to his name. In the firſt edition of this work, I called him Richard Worthleſs. But many people, who had been in thoſe parts, ſaid they knew no ſuch perſon; and began to doubt the truth of the whole ſtory. I am thus obliged therefore to put down his real name, which was Richard Atkins. In⯑deed I was unwilling to put it down at firſt, becauſe there are two or three in this pariſh, and perhaps more in other pariſhes, of the name of Atkins, who are very good people; and I was afraid of giving them offence. I know few better men any where, than Ed⯑ward Atkins of Leaſide; and I never heard any thing bad of Jonathan at the mill; ex⯑cept the ſtory, that farmer Hollis uſed to [48]tell; which nobody believed, as he had a quar⯑rel with the miller.

I muſt alſo deſire the reader will excuſe my calling him the ſon of a ſhoemaker; where⯑as in fact, his father was a tailor. But I did this, (for the ſame reaſon, as I changed his name,) the better to conceal him; leſt I ſhould give offence.

But now leſt the reader ſhould think I have impoſed upon him in other things, as well as in theſe, I deſired the church-wardens, and overſeers to certify the truth of the fol⯑lowing account, to which they had no ob⯑jection. I have therefore put down their cer⯑tificate.

WE, whoſe names are hereunto ſubſcribed, having read the following account of Richard Atkins, ſon of tailor Atkins; and having known the ſaid Richard Atkins from a boy, do hereby certify and declare, that we do be⯑lieve the ſaid account to be a true, and faith⯑ful one; as witneſs our hands,

• JAMES MAJENDIE
• RICHARD HOPKINS

• WILLIAM SOAM
• ROB^T. TWENTYMAN

[49]RICHARD ATKINS was the ſon of a drunken tailor, who might have had all the buſineſs of the pariſh; if he had not loved the ale-houſe better than his work.

The man, who neglects his buſineſs, will alſo neglect his family. Young Atkins there⯑fore was left to pick up all the vices, he could find: and as he was an apt ſcholar, he made a quick progreſs. He learned to ſwear about the time he learned to ſpeak. Even his father thought he began to ſwear too early; and has been heard to ſay, "D—n you, Dick, if I hear you ſwear again, I'll lay this ſtick over your ſhoulders." But the vice, to which he was moſt addicted in his child-hood, was lying. Nobody could believe a word he ſaid: and he ſoon loſt the name of Dick Atkins; and was known in the pariſh by the name of lying Dick.—But I ſhall give ſuch particulars of his life in order, as I have been able to collect; that I may ſet him up as an example for others to avoid.

As far as I can find, he was at firſt in⯑tended for his father's buſineſs: but the fa⯑ther's drunkenneſs ſoon brought the buſi⯑neſs ſo low, that it could not furniſh em⯑ployment either for the one, or the other. This, it muſt be owned, was a great miſ⯑fortune to the lad; and not of his own bring⯑ing on: but a ſober, ſteady youth would [50]have met with friends, who, in ſuch circum⯑ſtances would have relieved, and aſſiſted him. Lying Dick never deſerved a friend. From the firſt he ſhewed a bad diſpoſition. Good boys remember the rule they have been taught; and never to do to others, what they would not like to have done to themſelves: but bad boys find a pleaſure in doing miſ⯑chief. Dick Atkins was never better pleaſed, than when he could play a miſchievous trick. He liked to throw filth privately on the cloaths of paſſengers—to ſhew cruelty to birds, and beetles—to tie ears of corn to⯑gether in a path-way through a field, to trip people up in the dark—or to knock down a young duck, or a chicken.—But he once ſeverely paid for a piece of miſchief of this kind. He met, one day, on the road, a blind beggar led by a dog; and cutting the ſtring, had great pleaſure in ſeeing the poor blind man grope about, on the loſs of his faithful companion. This was ſeen at a little diſtance by an honeſt farmer on horſeback, who appeared to take no no⯑tice, till he came to the ſpot; when ſuddenly jumping off his horſe, he ſeized poor Dick by the collar, and gave him ſuch a horſe⯑whipping, as he did not forget for ſome months after. He then made him kneel down in the dirt, and aſk the beggar's par⯑don; and then pull off his own garters, and tie the dog up again.

[51]But God Almighty, who is kind even to the unthankful, and unworthy, and throws opportunities of doing well in their way, if they would uſe them, threw opportunities in the way of this wicked youth.

He was about fifteen years of age, when his father died. His mother, and two daugh⯑ters were carried by the pariſh-officers to the poor-houſe: but a good lady in the place, hearing that Dick, tho an idle vagabond, was old enough to get his bread; and wiſhing out of mere compaſſion to put him into a way of doing well, if he choſe it, ſent for him; and having cloathed him, placed him under her gardener. Here he might have done very well; and recovered all he had loſt: but his mind ran on nothing but wickedneſs. The gardener however being a rough man, kept him in ſome kind of order by the help of a hazel wand: but he ſcarce ever durſt truſt him out of his ſight; or ſet him about any thing, that required the leaſt care. Dick generally did as much miſchief, as he did good; and nothing could have kept him ſo long in his place, but the great deſire his good miſtreſs had to reclaim him. Many a time ſhe ſent for him into the parlour, on complaints from the gardener. Sometimes ſhe would threaten him,—ſometimes ſhe would give him kind admonitions—and ſome⯑times when he had done any thing, that had the leaſt appearance of care, and goodneſs, ſhe [52]would give him ſix-pence, or a ſhilling, to encourage him. But all was to no purpoſe; his mind was bent on nothing, but wicked⯑neſs. After keeping him therefore three years; and forgiving him almoſt as many faults, as he had ſpent days in the houſe, ſhe was obliged to ſend him off at laſt, on his pilfering grapes through ſome panes of glaſs, which he had broken in the hot-houſe.

As the manner, in which he was found out, may be a good caution to all thieviſh lads, I ſhall relate it. It had long been his practice to pilfer fruits of different kinds, and ſell them at the next market by the aſſiſtance of Tom Flinch, who had been bound a pariſh apprentice to a neighbouring gar⯑dener. Flinch always ſold them as his maſ⯑ter's; ſo the theft paſſed off very well. But after they began to deal in hot-houſe grapes, Flinch found himſelf ſuſpected, as it was thought his maſter's hot-houſe could not pro⯑duce any ſo fine. He reſolved therefore in time to drop the trade. He had a quarrel alſo with Dick, who ſwore he had cheated him: and the thing was true enough; for tho they had agreed to ſhare the profits of their plunder equally together, Flinch, who was the older, and more cunning knave, never gave him more than two-pence in the ſhilling. Flinch however had too much ſpi⯑rit to be called a cheat by a thieviſh lad, and determined to be revenged. So he wrote [53]the gardener a ſcrawling letter, without a name, telling him how he might catch the thief, who had ſtolen his grapes. If he would knock gently three times, on wedneſday evening at nine o'clock, at the little trap⯑door, through which bark uſed to be thrown in, the door would open, and a hand with grapes would come out. The gardener did as he was inſtructed. He knocked three times gently at the trap-door; when it flew open; and a hand puſhed out, with a large bunch of grapes; accompanied with a low voice, Is all ſafe? The gardener inſtantly ſeizing the hand, cryed out with a voice like thunder, Yes, all's ſafe now. He then took a cord out of his pocket, which he had pro⯑vided for the purpoſe; and tying the hand tight to a ſtaple in the wall, he went round to diſcover the owner of it.

And now, while the gardener is going round, let me take the opportunity of giving young people, who find themſelves diſhoneſt⯑ly inclined, a little advice. In the firſt place, I would adviſe them to think better of it, and be honeſt: for thieving is a very dan⯑gerous trade; and is generally ſooner or later found out. But if they will not take this part of my advice, and are determined to continue to thieve, let me next adviſe them to be very cautious, whom they take in as partners of their trade: for this partner muſt at any rate be a knave; and a knave is a [54]fellow, on whom they can have no ſecuri⯑ty. I dare ſay this is good advice, becauſe theſe were the very reflections, which poor Dick made, as he ſtood in wo [...]ul plight, with his arm ſtretched through the hole, and pinned to the wall, expecting every moment the gardener's coming round. He wiſhed, in the firſt place, he had never touched the grapes; and in the ſecond, that he had never truſted ſuch a wicked raſcal as Tom Flinch.

Poor Dick had juſt time to make theſe reflections, when he heard the gardener's foot coming briſkly up the gravel-walk: The gardener knew well enough, what fox he had caught: but pretending, in the dark, not to know, he took the advantage of a bundle of hazel wands, which were ſtand⯑ing againſt the wall for tying up flowers; and ſhivered ſeveral of them in pieces upon the different parts of Dick's body, as he writhed, and twiſted every part towards him; crying out, at every blow, Who are you, you thief? Who are you? ſpeak; you dog, ſpeak: I'll make you ſpeak: Dick ſcreamed loud enough to be heard half a mile off: but the gardener ſtill con⯑tinued laying on; and crying out, Speak, you dog, ſpeak: I'll make you ſpeak. Turn the other ſide, you raſcal, you'll twiſt your arm off. In ſhort he gave Dick a moſt ſevere beating; and did it on this [55]principle, that as he knew his good miſ⯑treſs's lenity, he was deſirous of execu⯑tion firſt, and of ſentence afterwards. He was not however ſatisfied with what he had done; but begged his miſtreſs to let him carry Dick before the juſtice. There will be no living, madam, ſaid he, if ſuch var⯑min is not properly catechized ^*.

His miſtreſs however did not care to car⯑ry him before a juſtice; in which I think ſhe was wrong: for a ſecond puniſhment would have done him no hurt; and might have tended perhaps to give his thieving hands another direction. However ſhe deſpaired now of doing him any good, and turned him out of her ſervice.

As the reader is made a little acquainted with Tom Flinch, he may be curious per⯑haps to know what became of him. His hiſtory is very ſhort: tho it was not con⯑cluded till two years after this time.

Dick, in hopes of appeaſing the gar⯑dener, while he was belabouring him, gave up his friend Flinch, as the beginner of all his wickedneſs. This, by the way, was a great lie; for at the fair (where ge⯑nerally there is as much bad, as good car⯑ried on) Dick firſt met Flinch; and in⯑ticed him to join with him in robbing his [56]miſtreſs's garden, and ſelling the fruit. Before this, as far as I can find, Flinch was an honeſt lad. The gardener however took no notice of Dick's confeſſion; but went on with the work of correction. Some days after, however, meeting Flinch in the road; Hark you, my lad, ſaid he, come here. Flinch came trembling. The gardener then taking him aſide, told him what Dick had ſaid. Now tho I partly believe from ſome circumſtances, added the gardener, that the thing may be true: yet, as I never could believe a word that lying raſcal ſaid, I hope it may be falſe. How⯑ever, whether it be true, or falſe, I ſhall take no farther notice, nor bring you into any trouble.—So take care, and be an honeſt lad.—This advice, or rather the fright he had received, had ſuch an effect on Flinch, that he kept honeſt for three months.

The itch of thieving however came upon him again; and he began by half-pennies, and pennies to cheat his maſter in fruit; which he ſold to ſervants, and others, who, he knew, would buy it without aſking queſtions. This is a very ſhameful, and wicked practice; for ſuch people not only join in the cheat, by purchaſing at an under⯑price, what they know muſt therefore be ſtolen; but they encourage, and bring up thieves. This was the caſe at preſent. [57]Incouraged by ſuch people Flinch went on. At length however he began to be ſuſ⯑pected; and his maſter marking ſome fruit, and finding it gone, had little doubt what hands had taken it. He made in⯑quiry privately at market, and at the houſes of his cuſtomers; and found, that Flinch had often ſold fruit, on thoſe days, when he knew he had ſent him out only with garden-ſtuff. Nothing more remained, but to endeavour to catch him in the fact, without ſeeming to ſuſpect him. Ac⯑cordingly one day, as Flinch was going to market with a baſket of peas, his maſter called him back: Hark you, Tom, ſaid he, have I not often forbid you to carry the baſket ſo full? You ſcatter half of them by the road; and people ſay there is not good meaſure. Take a larger baſket. Fetch that, which ſtands in the entry. Tom, after many ſhuffles, was obliged to fetch it; and his maſter turning the peas into it, behold! from the bottom came tumbling out grapes, peaches, and plumbs. Flinch, in great terror, was beginning to frame a lie, when his maſter ſeizing him by the collar, gave him a terrible ſhake, and ſtifled the lie in his throat. You raſ⯑cal, ſaid he, this trade has been carrying on theſe ſeveral months. I have long ſuſ⯑pected you: and now I have caught you. [58]Flinch was then given into the cuſtody of a conſtable—committed to bridewell—car⯑ried before a bench of juſtices—and ſen⯑tenced to be whipt through the town: which ſentence his maſter took care to have executed with ſufficient ſeverity.—This chaſtiſement made Flinch an honeſt lad— that is, it made his hands honeſt: but in his heart he was as great a knave as ever. He went back to his place; but his maſter had now taken ſuch a thorough diſlike to him, that he was determined, if poſſible, to get rid of him. While he was taking meaſures for this purpoſe with the pariſh⯑officers, Flinch, who liked his maſter as little, as his maſter liked him, reſolved to ſave all farther trouble on this head, and to run off. What haſtened this determination, was the jibing he continually met with from the lads in the town, when he went with his baſket. One would aſk him, If he had time to count the laſhes, while Smith was whipping him? Another would aſk, If his back was got well yet? and a third would tell him, he might be aſhamed of rearing ſo loud for a few ſcratches.

Flinch therefore being determined to leave his maſter, made up a little bundle of his things privately; and taking the day before him, went off early on monday morning, before his maſter was ſtirring. [59]He needed not to have been at ſo much pains to go off privately; for his maſter never thought him worth inquiring after.

Flinch took the road into Somerſetſhire. Here he found the people juſt beginning harveſt; and offering himſelf to a farmer, as the weather was catching, he got work. After the harveſt was over, he ſtill con⯑tinued with his maſter, in the room of a ſick lad. As his character was not known in this part of the country, he might now have done very well. He had another op⯑portunity. God often gives wicked people opportunities to repent; but they chuſe ra⯑ther to liſten to the devil. It happened ſo on this occaſion. Flinch had not been here long, before the devil put wicked thoughts into his head: and inſtead of driving them out, his own bad inclinations joined with them, and he forgot all the good reſolu⯑tions he made after his whipping; and the opportunity, which God had now given him of living again with credit.—But I will not ſtop the ſtory of Dick Atkins by telling all the wicked tricks of Flinch— how he cheated one of his fellow ſervants of half a crown—how he ſtole ſome linen from farmer Rogers's wife—and how he picked up a ſilver-ſpoon at Mr. Boothby's, where he had gone upon an errand. I ſhall juſt mention the thing, which brought him at laſt to the gallows. He had not yet [60]been found out, ſo like all other ſinners, he went from bad to worſe.

Flinch, it ſeems, had learned to write; which is a very good thing to thoſe, who make a right uſe of it: but ill-diſpoſed lads turn every thing to bad. If they learn to read; they read only bad books: if they learn to write, it makes them only more miſchievous. Good lads make uſe of writing to inquire after their friends; and let them know, they are doing well them⯑ſelves. But Flinch made a different uſe of his writing. The devil put it into his head to write a threatening letter to farmer Rogers, without a name, to get five guineas from him. The letter was as follows; as I copied it out of a newſpaper, where it was put down.

Flinch perhaps did not know, that writ⯑ing a threatening letter without a name, is a hanging-matter; which in fact it is, if it can be proved. He knew however, he intended to rob farmer Rogers of five guineas; and that he deſerved to be hanged for that.

[61]Farmer Rogers, who was a timorous man, was much terrified with this letter, and determined not to ſtir abroad on any account. But the next day, the exciſeman calling upon him, Rogers ſhewed him the letter. Poh! ſaid the exciſeman, it is only the trick of ſome cowardly raſcal— never trouble your head with it. Let us try however, if we can catch him. Leave the matter to me. So Mr. Jackſon took Tom Rogers with him, the farmer's eldeſt ſon; and together they contrived a box, in which they fixed the lock of a gun; tying to the trigger a purſe with a few half-pence in it. They then filled the box with gun⯑powder; and put all together carefully un⯑der the blue ſtone, as the letter directed. They then went to a houſe at a diſtance, which overlooked the blue ſtone; and re⯑lieving each other by turns, they waited for the exploſion. The firſt night nothing happened: but the ſecond night, about twelve o'clock, they ſaw, and heard the exploſion. They immediately ran out; and found the poor miſerable Flinch on the ſpot in a moſt deplorable condition. His face was all over black, and bloody—he was quite blind—and his right hand all ſcarified. The next day he was examined before a juſtice, and ſent to Exeter jail; for the fact was committed juſt within the borders of Devonſhire. At the next aſ⯑ſizes, [62]he was tried. The felony being plainly proved, he was found guilty, con⯑demned, and executed on that day three weeks. The jail-ſurgeon ſaid, he believed he could never have got his eyes again, if he had lived fifty years. The night before he was executed, he confeſſed all his wick⯑edneſs to the clergyman, who attended the priſoners—the linen he had ſtolen—the half-crown—the ſilver-ſpoon; and ſeveral other things: but he ſaid, the firſt perſon that put any wickedneſs into his head, was a gardener's lad, whom he had been for⯑merly acquainted with, whoſe name was Dick Atkins.

One thing I had almoſt forgotten to mention. When Flinch went firſt into Somerfetſhire, he changed his name. I have heard what name he went by; but as I am not quite ſure, I forbear to mention it, as I ſhould be very ſorry to ſay any thing that was not quite true. Indeed I only mention the thing at all, leſt ſome, or other looking into the jail-books at Ex⯑eter, and not finding the name of Thomas Flinch, hanged at ſuch a time, might ſuſ⯑pect the whole ſtory to be an untruth. But Flinch was certainly hanged at Exeter; tho he was hanged by a different name.

Having diſpatched Flinch, let us now look after his friend Dick Atkins; whom [63]we left juſt turned out of the ſervice of his good old miſtreſs, for ſtealing grapes.

Dick had now the world to begin again. His good miſtreſs had given him five ſhil⯑lings to ſubliſt on, till he could get into work; with which Dick contrived to get five times drunk. She had given him alſo a ſpade, and a mattock. Theſe he pawned to repeat his favourite pleaſure a ſixth time.

Being now reduced to neceſſity, he was obliged to take up his own tools, at the ex⯑pence of paying a penny a day out of his earnings, for the uſe of them, and work for the farmers. Nobody could work bet⯑ter, when he pleaſed: but Dick had no call, but mere neceſſity. Few therefore cared to employ ſo idle a fellow, when they could help it.

In the mean time his vices, which in⯑creaſed with his years, began to make larger demands upon him. He had learned early to ſwear, to pilfer, and to drink; but he had now attained his twentieth year; and ſought after other pleaſures. He be⯑gan to frequent bad houſes—to get ac⯑quainted with abandoned women—to at⯑tend cock-fights—and to gamble at fairs, and horſe-races. Theſe were expenſive pleaſures; and made a larger demand upon him, than his labour could furniſh. In his child hood he had been called lying [64]Dick; becauſe lying was the moſt conſpi⯑cuous part of his character. But now he might have been called drunken Dick—or lewd Dick—or thieving Dick—or any other wicked name, that could be thought of.

Among the places, which this abandoned youth chiefly frequented, was a notorious pot-houſe on the edge of a common. The woman who kept it was a vile proſtitute. This houſe was frequented by all the thieves, cock-fighters, poachers, horſe-racers, pick⯑pockets, and ſmugglers, in the country: and tho Dick learned few new vices among them; yet he learned to practiſe his old ones in a more ſhameleſs, and open man⯑ner. Something new however he was ſtill learning. He learned ſeveral new and more horrid oaths, than he had known be⯑fore: he learned ſeveral ſhifts, and tricks, to ſcreen himſelf; and draw in the un⯑wary: he learned alſo the art, and myſ⯑tery of ſmuggling, and of night-poaching, neither of which he had yet practiſed.

Among the wicked wretches who fre⯑quented this houſe, one of the moſt wicked, was blear-eyed Ned, the ſmuggler. This fellow, as the moſt wicked, was of courſe the moſt agreeable to Dick. They formed a great intimacy together; and were ſcarce ever ſeparate. Among other pieces of in⯑ſtruction, which Dick received from this fellow, one was, that it was always better [65]to have the appearance of ſome buſineſs; than to have none at all—that he himſelf had been bred a ſawyer; that he ſeldom in⯑deed worked at his buſineſs; but that he was always the leſs ſuſpected from having one.

This advice to undertake a buſineſs, which required no work, was very agree⯑able to Dick. So he became a ſawyer, and joined in partnerſhip with blear-eyed Ned.

Of all buſineſſes, that of a ſawyer is beſt ſuited to an idle fellow: for tho a ſawyer may make a great deal of money, if he be induſtrious, as many do; yet no buſineſs furniſhes ſo many notable excuſes for idle⯑neſs. The partner may be ill; or he may be out of the way: for as the ſawyers work in partnerſhip, there are the excuſes of two men, inſtead of one, to avail themſelves of, The ſaw too may be out of order, which is an inſtrument, that is not ſo eaſily re⯑paired.

Beſides the occupation of a ſawyer, Dick had others. He broke horſes for gentle⯑men; which furniſhed him with an oppor⯑tunity of riding about the country; and calling where he knew there was the beſt beer. He ſmuggled alſo a little with his friend blear-eyed Ned. But poaching was the buſineſs he took moſt delight in. He knew well how to catch game of every kind. [66]As this was a buſineſs he liked, he made a great proficiency in it. No man knew better how to lay ſnares for the hare, or the woodcock; or to take at once a whole covey of partridges, or pheaſants, as they crept through a hole in the hedge. He dealt a little in veniſon alſo. Williamſon, the moſt noted deer-ſtealer in the foreſt, uſed to ſay, There was not a better fellow for the purpoſe in the whole country, than Dick Atkins, if he would give his mind to it. In fact he did give his mind to it; but hav⯑ing once nearly been ſent to jail for deer⯑ſtealing, he was rather ſhy of the buſineſs, and thought poaching a ſafer employment.

In theſe occupations Dick made no diſ⯑tinction of days: only that in general he ſpent his ſundays either at the pot-houſe, or the ale-houſe—commonly at the former; for there he met ſome or other of his vile companions: and as the pot-houſe was more out of the way, they could drink, and roar, and play at nine-pins, and ſwear, and curſe, and wager, and blaſpheme, with leſs obſervation. As to the church, neither his father, nor his mother ever ſet him an ex⯑ample of going there; and he had now ſo long neglected it, that he might ſay, as another wicked drinking fellow once ſaid, he had almoſt forgotten what the inſide of a church was made of.

[67]Having thus taken a view of Dick Atkins as a ſingle man, let us next ſee him in a married ſtate.

At a farm-houſe in the pariſh, to which Atkins belonged, lived a young woman, of the name of Molly Somers. She was the only child of an honeſt farmer; and her parents dying young, ſhe had been very properly brought up by her uncle John, a very worthy man, who took her father's little farm on his death. By the care, and kindneſs of this relation, her ſmall for⯑tune, which was about ſeventy pounds, was increaſed, when ſhe came of age, to near a hundred. He charged her nothing for her board, and cloathed her beſides, on condition of her being uſeful in the family: and as Molly was a well-diſpoſed girl, they lived together in this way very happily; and both her uncle and aunt were as fond of her, as they were of their own children.

On this girl, or rather on her fortune; Dick Atkins had fixed his eyes. It was ſome time before ſhe took the leaſt notice of him. However by degrees it was whiſ⯑pered about the pariſh, that Dick Atkins kept company with Molly Somers; and the thing came to her uncle's ears.

Why, Molly, ſaid he, it ſurely cannot be true, that you have any thoughts of marrying Dick Atkins?—Molly ſaid no⯑thing.—You [68]muſt certainly, Molly, con⯑tinued her uncle, do as you pleaſe: I can lay no reſtraint upon you: I only warn you, that if you do marry him, you are a ruined woman. Such another idle raſcal does not live in this, or in the next pariſh to it. What hope can you have of a fel⯑low, who follows no buſineſs; and is drunk almoſt every day of his life? I have ſeen many of theſe idle raſcals in my time; and I never ſaw one of them, that ever came to good.

In the morning Molly told her uncle ſhe had been thinking of what he had ſaid; and would take his advice. Accordingly the next time ſhe ſaw Dick, ſhe told him ſhe had heard he was a drinking fellow; and as ſhe did not like drinking fellows, he need trouble his head no more about her.

Ah! Molly, ſaid Dick, I ſuppoſe un⯑cle John has been telling you all theſe fine ſtories of me. But has not you the ſenſe to ſee the rights ont? You are very uſeful to uncle; and he would be very ſorry to loſe you. And beſides he would not wiſh you to marry, becauſe he hopes your fortune will go to his children.

This ſtruck poor Molly with the ir⯑reſiſtible force of truth. She knew well [69]that part of what Dick had ſaid, was true; and ſhe concluded that all the reſt was true alſo. She now ſaw clearly, that it was not in pure friendſhip, that her uncle had given her ſo much good advice; and from this moment ſhe looked upon him as leſs ſincere than he pretended. Of courſe Dick's intereſt prevailed, as the uncle's leſſened; and the affair went on as briſkly as ever.

Well, Molly, ſaid her uncle to her, ſince I cannot prevail on you in one thing, let me prevail on you in another. Let me intreat you not to marry, till your money is ſettled upon yourſelf, and at your own diſpoſal; ſo that if the worſt comes, you may at leaſt have ſomething to depend on.

Molly thought this advice extremely good; and promiſed to take it. The next day therefore ſhe mentioned to Dick. Ah! Molly, ſaid Dick, this is another fetch of uncle's to ſtop our marriage. He knows well enough I cannot marry without money. I never wiſhes to deceive nobody: and I'll tell you, Molly, all the rights. I has been wild formerly—the worſe luck. But ſince I got acquainted with you, nobody never ſeed me in liquor; no nor never ſhall. It is true, I has no money; but I can work as well as any body in the pariſh. What I wiſhes to do, is to take old Burnaby's farm; and you knows, Molly, one muſt have a few pounds to ſtock it. You ſhall [70]have little Lucy Porter for your maid: and there we ſhall live as happy as the day is long.—But I pray you, Molly, let us make an end of this buſineſs ſoon; that uncle may not make any more delays.

All this appeared ſo fair, and honeſt, and reaſonable to poor Molly, who had a gene⯑rous heart, that it overturned at once all her uncle's advice; and the very firſt ac⯑count he had, after this, of the ſteps ſhe meant to take, was from the miniſter at church, who publiſhed the banns of Mar⯑riage between Richard Atkins, and Mary Somers, both of this pariſh. This caſt a damp on all the congregation; for they all loved poor Molly, and ſaw ſhe was a ruined woman.

Well, Molly, ſaid her uncle, when he came from charch, I find you will take neither one part of my advice, nor the other. The miniſter has juſt been aſking, if any body knew any cauſe or juſt impediment againſt your marriage? I have told you, Molly, many cauſes and juſt impediments againſt it: but if you will not think ſo yourſelf, no⯑body elſe can think for you. I have now done with ſpeaking on the ſubject; and heartily wiſh you may find this change turn out to your happineſs.—I fear it much.

Poor Molly ſoon found her uncle's fears too well grounded. Her marriage turned out, as every body expected it would do. [71]When Dick had gotten her money, he had gotten all he wanted. He had no intention of taking a farm. He carried her to a wretched cottage, almoſt naked of every neceſſary. The very thatch was ſo bad, that the rain trickled through in many places. But with regard to himſelf he ſpared no ex⯑pence. The firſt thing he did was to buy a horſe; a new ſaddle; a pair of neat buck⯑ſkin breeches; a pair of tight new boots; and bright ſteel ſpurs, with the longeſt ſhanks he could get. He was ſeldom at home, which was poor Molly's chief comfort; for when he was at home, he was generally drunk; and attended by ſome of his vile companions. At theſe times ſhe was obliged to ſee ſuch horrid ſcenes of wickedneſs; and to hear ſuch dreadful oaths, imprecations, and obſceni [...]y, that her heart ſunk within her; and ſhe wiſhed herſelf dead an hun⯑dred times. Dick took great offence at her mallan chollic humours, as he called them; and told her, he would never have married her, if he had known, ſhe had been ſuch a miſerable ſoul. Poor Molly could anſwer him only with floods of tears—or with deep ſighs, when her heart was too big for ſuch a vent. When ſhe was in her ſullens, as Dick would call theſe fits of deſpondency, he would ſometimes beat her; and once, or twice, he turned her out of doors; and told her, when ſhe had done blubbering, ſhe [72]might come in. Once, poor creature! ſhe ſat all night in the cart-houſe. His beha⯑viour was ſo ſhocking, that the neighbours interfered; and complained to the juſtice, which poor Molly herſelf never would have done. The juſtice ſent for Dick, and gave him ſo ſevere a reprimand, that for the future he refrained from beating her; but in all other reſpects, his behaviour was as brutal as ever.

In the midſt of his wickedneſs Dick was ſeized with a violent fever. He had been at a cock-fight, where he got drunk; and falling from his horſe at night, he rolled into a wet ditch, and lay there till the morning, when he was found, and carried home almoſt dead. It cannot be ſuppoſed, that his wife had much affection for him: but duty ſup⯑plied the room of affection. His diſorder increaſed; and her attention increaſed with it. For ſeveral nights her cloaths were never off; and the little neceſſaries ſhe got for him, ſhe was obliged to procure by ſelling ſomething or other, ſhe could ill ſpare. But his blood was in ſuch a cor⯑rupted ſtate by a conſtant courſe of drunken⯑neſs, that the doctor ſaid from the firſt, there was but little hope of his recovery. Often when his fever ran high, he was almoſt raving mad; and his poor wife was obliged to get two or three of the neigh⯑bours to hold him down. In theſe fits he [73]would utter ſuch dreadful things, as ter⯑rified all around him. Ah, poor ſoul, ſaid Tom Davis, I would not have thy con⯑ſcience in me for fifty pound. At inter⯑vals however he was in his ſenſes; but he was then in as dreadful a ſtate. If ever he dropped aſleep for a moment; he ſtarted, as if he had ſeen ſomething terrible: and once or twice ſtaring wildly about him, he aſked, Where it was? His wife bid him lie quiet, and told him there was nothing. But he cried out, He ſaw it as plainly, as he did her. What he ſaw nobody could tell: but it was plain, as Tom Davis ſaid, that his guilty conſcience had taken hold of him.

One day when he was in a more com⯑poſed ſtate, his wife aſked him, If he would like to ſee the miniſter? to which he conſented. The miniſter came; and ſitting down on a chair by his bed ſide, Well, Richard, ſaid he, how do you feel yourſelf?—Very bad, ſir, very bad indeed. —I fear you are, ſaid the miniſter: but what is your particular complaint?—I am all over bad, inſide, and outſide.—I ſup⯑poſe you mean by that, ſaid the miniſter, that you think your ſoul, and body both in a bad ſtate. You have, no doubt, led a very wicked life; and if all be true, that I have heard, have been a very grievous ſin⯑ner.—Too true, ſir, ſaid Dick, too true; [74]the worſe luck. Mother Pitman's houſe has been the ruination of me.—Mother Pitman's houſe, ſaid the miniſter, may be bad enough; and I believe it is. But mo⯑ther Pitman's houſe is no excuſe for you. Nobody forced you into it. It was your own doing. Well-diſpoſed lads never go near mother Pitman's houſe; nor any other houſe, which they know is a wicked one; and will lead them into ſin. But there is another houſe, Richard, which I believe you never went near; and that is, the houſe of God. If you had frequented that houſe, as much as you did mother Pit⯑man's, it is probable you would not have been lying now in all this diſtreſs both in⯑ſide, and outſide.—Here Dick, laying his hand on his head, (as an acute pain ſhot through it), cried out, O God! O God!— Aye, Richard, ſaid the miniſter, (when the poor wretch was a little compoſed,) the wickedeſt people cry out upon God in their extremities. And this ſhews, that all peo⯑ple naturally think God is their beſt friend in their diſtreſſes. If they would call upon him, as earneſtly in their health, as they do in their ſickneſs, how happy would it be for them!—I hope, ſir, ſaid Dick, that I have ſuffered ſo much in this world, that God will be marciful to me in the next.— And then he mentioned ſome confuſed ac⯑count he had heard of Jeſus Chriſt's carry⯑ing [75]a thief to heaven, becauſe he had been crucified for his ſins.—I know of no ſuch doctrine in ſcripture, ſaid the miniſter, as that he who is puniſhed in this world, ſhall for that reaſon eſcape puniſhment in the next. We know of no ground to ex⯑pect ſalvation, but by leading good lives, and truſting in the merits of Chriſt to atone for our repented ſins—and the only re⯑pentance we know of, conſiſts in a change of our hearts as well as our lives. But I have heard other ſinners, Richard, beſides you, lay great ſtreſs on ſhe thief on the croſs: but we have not the leaſt reaſon to ſuppoſe, he was ſaved becauſe he was pu⯑niſhed in this world; but becauſe that was the firſt opportunity he had of knowing his duty, and acknowledging his bleſſed Sa⯑viour. But it is a different caſe, Richard, with thoſe who live in a chriſtian country. They have many opportunities. God gives us opportunities, Richard; and it is our part to make uſe of them. He has given you many. Every ſunday you had an op⯑portunity. What an opportunity you loſt, when you lived with your good old miſtreſs at Grove-place! What an opportunity you loſt, when you married this virtuous young woman, whom you have made ſo miſerable! I ſay not theſe things to add to your diſtreſs: but this is not a time for ſelf-deceit; and I want to convince you, [76]that all the wickedneſs you have been guilty of, has ariſen more from your own wicked ſelf; and the neglect of thoſe opportuni⯑ties, which God had given you; than from mother Pitman's houſe, or your bad com⯑panions, who would never have ſought you, if you had not firſt ſought them. All you can do now, is to have a deep ſenſe of your own wickedneſs—to pray to God to forgive you through Chriſt—and to make ſincere reſolutions, that if it ſhould pleaſe God to raiſe you up again, you will throughly change both your heart and life.

Contrary to the opinion of all people Dick recovered. The miniſter, on this occaſion, came to him again; and put him in mind of this farther great opportunity, which God had now given him. If this was neglected, he warned him of what the ſcripture ſaid of thoſe wicked perſons, whoſe latter end was worſe than the begin⯑ning. Dick promiſed every thing the mi⯑niſter wiſhed—he would take up entirely a new life—nobody ſhould ever ſee him drunk again—nor ſhould hear him ſwear: but he would keep his church; and mind his work; and take care of his family.

One ſhould have thought that all this would have been a ſufficient warning to this unhappy profligate—at leaſt for ſome time. Poor Molly hoped it, and began to raiſe her ſpirits. But alas it turned out [77]otherwiſe. Let all young people take warning of this, and tremble. When they once get habits of wickedneſs, it is a dread⯑ful conſideration, but it is a very true one, that they hardly ever leave them off. And though they may nor go ſuch great lengths of wickedneſs, as Dick Atkins did (few people indeed do) they may be very bad, and yet far ſhort of him. Beſides, when they get once into the train of wickedneſs, it is impoſſible to ſay how far they may go. Let them take warning then from this un⯑happy young man, who had formed all theſe dreadful habits of wickedneſs before he was twenty-eight years of age.

By the time this vile young fellow had recovered his ſtrength, all his wicked ha⯑bits began again to appear: he forgot all his good reſolutions; and all the miniſter had ſaid to him; and as if he had been loſing time by his illneſs, he appeared as if determined to make it all up. He got again among his old companions; he drank, he ſwore, he ranted, he roared; and out did the worſt of them in wicked⯑neſs; making good what the miniſter told him, that if he did not grow better, his latter end would be worſe than the beginning: for it is never the way of wickedneſs to keep at a ſtand. His wife, as uſual, was the object of his reſentment on all occa⯑ſions, when any thing diſpleaſed him. [78]She was always at hand for him to curſe, as the cauſe of every miſchief.

Thus they lived together about four years, and had in that time two children. No⯑thing could equal the diſtreſſes of poor Molly and her family. He would do no⯑thing; and ſhe could do nothing. She was naturally of a meek diſpoſition; and was now become ſo ſpiritleſs, and broken-hearted, that ſhe could do little more than crawl about the houſe, like a perſon half dead. Then would Dick curſe her for a lazy jade. It was impoſſible, he would tell her, for him to maintain the family alone, if ſhe would do nothing. If it had not been for her, and her brats, he could have maintained himſelf well enough. Poor Molly never gave him a word of anſwer; but ſat leaning over the table, reſt⯑ing her head upon her right arm, and ſtroking the heads of her children, who ſtood at her knee, perhaps crying for food. Her uncle was her only comfort; and in⯑deed her only ſupport; for if it had not been for him, ſhe, and her family, muſt have ſtarved. But all that he could do was privately to do a kind thing, now and then, for her. For when a woman has ruined herſelf by an imprudent marriage, ſhe has put it out of the power of any body to aſſiſt her effectually. It is impoſſible to ſeparate her intereſt from her huſband's: ſo that [79]whatever is done for ber, is done to ſup⯑port extravagance, and wickedneſs. Young women therefore cannot be too careful in keeping company with young men. They may very eaſily be deceived. They are inexperienced themſelves; and had much better take the advice of their fathers and uncles, and other friends, than follow blindly their own fancies.—Let poor Molly's example be a warning to them.

After ſuffering five years for her impru⯑dence, and folly, it pleaſed God at length to releaſe her. She was worn down by her afflictions; and being reduced to a mere ſhadow, could ſupport nature no longer. Her uncle was with her at her death; whom ſhe tenderly thanked for all his kindneſs. She was perfectly calm, and reſigned—ſhe bleſſed God that her deliverance was ſo near—and ſaid ſhe had not been ſo happy ſince the fatal day, as ſhe called it. A tear ſtarted in her eye, as ſhe looked at her poor children, who were both aſleep on the ſame bed, on which ſhe lay expiring. Poor little wretches! ſaid ſhe, I hope God will provide for you!—Oh! how I wiſh this ſleep—but I will not ſay what I was going to ſay, for fear it ſhould be wicked. —Then turning to her uncle, ſhe ſaid, I dare not aſk you to have an eye to my poor children!—But let me be buried near the place where you will be buried; and juſt [80]write over my grave, Here lies one who was deceived in marriage, and died of a broken heart: but do not put down my name.— Such was the end of an unfortunate young woman, who was every way qualified to have made a married ſtate a comfort to herſelf, and every one connected with her; if ſhe had only acted with prudence!—One fatal ſtep ruined her!

The melancholy event of his wife's death, of which Dick was as much the cauſe as if he had ſhot her through the head with a piſtol, had not the leaſt effect on him. He left his children to thoſe who choſe to take care of them; and continued his pleaſures. The pariſh-officers calling a veſtry, got an order from the juſtices to take him up. Dick hearing of it, or at leaſt ſuſpecting it, left the country. What became of him, was long unknown. Some ſaid he had been hanged at Glouceſter for ſtealing a horſe. But it appeared afterwards that the fellow, who was hanged at Gloceſter, was another raſcal of his name. Others who knew his face well, ſaid they had ſeen him in one of the hulks at Woolwich. But that too was a miſtake; and theſe reports only ſhewed what people thought he de⯑ſerved. At laſt however the true account, and all the particulars of his death, came to light. They were brought by a ſailor, one John Patterſon, who came to ſee [81]his aunt, Mary Green. The account was this.

After Dick left the country, he went to ſea with ſome ſmugglers: but in their way from France, they were purſued by a cut⯑ter. When the cutter came up with them, they were imprudent enough to fire, and killed one of her men. The cutter how⯑ever ſoon overpowered, and took them, and put all their hands in irons. Dick, who was wounded in the leg, and two others, wounded alſo, were ſet on ſhore, in a wild part of the country, on the coaſt of Lincolnſhire; and put under the care of an officer of the cuſtoms, who happened to be going his rounds in thoſe parts. He could find no better place to put them into, than an old boat-houſe on the beach, where they were laid on a bundle of ſea⯑weed. There was no furgeon nearer than Wainfleet, which was above twenty miles from the place. The officer therefore thinking they were not worth the trouble of ſending ſo far, put them into the hands of a black-ſmith, who was a ſort of far⯑rier; telling him they did not want any great matters of ſurgery: Only get them well enough, ſaid he, to be hanged, that is all we want. Two of them were deſperately wounded, and died, one that afternoon, the other the next morning: but Dick, though diſabled by a hurt in his foot, might [82]have done well, if he had been carefully looked after. The black-ſmith came every day, after he had done his work, and dreſſed his wound, as well as he could, and brought him ſomething to eat and drink. But as there was a diſpute about burying the dead bodies, they were not removed till they became inſufferably offenſive. Theſe dead bodies, and his own guilty thoughts, were the only company which poor Dick had for ſeveral days. Such company, ſuch neglect, ſuch a ſurgeon, ſo hot a ſeaſon, (for it was in the middle of a ſultry auguſt) together with the very corrupt ſtate of his blood, it may be imagined, did not con⯑tribute to the cure of his wound. Neither, I ſuppoſe, did the reflection, that as ſoon as he got well enough, he ſhould certainly be hanged. His wound ſoon began to mortify, and grow ulcerous; in which caſe the black-ſmith had only to cut away every night, the putrid fleſh, which had cor⯑rupted in the day. The coarſe inſtru⯑ment, with which this daily buſineſs was performed, and the rough hand which performed it, put the wretched patient to intolerable pain. Patterſon ſaid, he heard his ſcreams, though he was in a veſſel, near a quarter of mile from the ſhore. As the wound was in his foot, it was long before the mortification ſeized the vital parts: but all his right leg and thigh were now [83]ſo putrid, and horridly offenſive, that the black-ſmith declared, who would, might attend him, he could do it no longer. Se⯑venteen days from his landing he lay in this ſhocking condition, before his miſer⯑able life was ended. What his dying agony, and deſpairing thoughts were, no⯑body could tell, as he ſpent all his dreadful hours by himſelf. All that Patterſon knew farther, was, that when the farrier came one evening to give him a little food, he found him dead; and convulſed in ſo dreadful a way, and his features ſo terribly diſtorted, that he ſaid, he believed the devil was in the fellow, for he did not think a human body could by any natural means ſuffer ſuch diſtortion.

About the time of Dick's death, his ſiſter Nan alſo died; who had been as miſerable a wretch as he had been. As Dick had ruined his wife, ſhe had ruined her huſ⯑band. In ſearching the pariſh where Dick lived, for ſome farther particulars of his life, I found ſome, which related to his ſiſter Nan; and I hope the reader will think, they are worth relating, as an ex⯑ample to others.

[84]After the father's death, the widow and two daughters were carried, as was ſaid, to the poor-houſe; where the elder died. Nan was the younger, and ſoon began to ſhew herſelf to be one of the moſt forward, impudent, naſty, lying, lazy girls of the place. She had a down-caſt look, which made ſome people believe her to be modeſt; but it was only ſullenneſs, in which ſhe abounded. At the age of thirteen, ſhe was put out as a pariſh apprentice, and had the good fortune to get into a place, where her maſter and miſtreſs were well diſpoſed to be kind to her, and give her good in⯑ſtruction. But, like her brother Dick, ſhe did not improve the opportunies God gave her. As ſhe grew older, ſhe grew worſe.

Her maſter would often ſay, Conſider, Nanny, that every thing has its beginning; and among other things, wickedneſs. The devil firſt tempts young people to little ſins. When they have gotten this leſſon perfectly, he proceeds to tempt them to greater.—But ſuch good advice, and much more, was thrown away upon Nan. Every year added ſomething to her wick⯑edneſs. She grew more lazy, more inſo⯑lent, more a liar, and more impudent. If any of her acquaintance adviſed her to behave better to her maſter and miſtreſs, ſhe would d—mn them both.—What did [85]ſhe care for them. She was but a pariſh prentice, and could not be worſe than ſhe was—they might turn her away, if they liked. At length her behaviour became ſo bad, that it plainly appeared ſhe wanted to force them to turn her away; which at laſt they did, being able to keep her no longer.

Thus with very little money, without character, without friends, poor Nan was left to the wide world. She did not how⯑ever find that pleaſure from liberty which ſhe expected. She ſoon grew tired of do⯑ing nothing: for young people are much miſtaken, if they think idleneſs is the means of happineſs. None can enjoy true happineſs, but by doing their duty in that ſtation, whatever it is, in which God hath placed them.—But Nan's being unhappy herſelf would have been of leſs conſequence, if ſhe had not been a peſt to others. She was a nuiſance wherever ſhe came; and was the ruin of ſeveral poor lads about the country; who were fooliſh enough to liſten to her.

Among others, there was a young fellow, whoſe name was Harry Philipſon. He worked with farmer Hopkins; and was as good a lad as any in the country. He was very diligent; and his maſter was very fond of him; and could put more truſt in him, than in any lad about the houſe. He never [86]went to the ale-houſe—never uſed a bad word—went conſtantly to church—had a good coat for ſundays; and allowed his poor mother a ſhilling a week out of his wages. But this wicked woman ruined him.

He had been at the fair, where his chief errand was, to buy his mother a cheeſe, and a pair of warm ſtockings. He had done his buſineſs—had ſent away his goods by his maſter's waggon, and was himſelf returning quietly home; pleaſing himſelf with carrying his mother the ſtockings, which he knew ſhe wanted, but did not expect. At the town end he met ſome young fellows of his ac⯑quaintance, dringing at a barrel of beer ^†. They were joyous and merry, and began to laugh at Harry for ſneaking out of the fair, without affording himſelf a drop of beer like a man; but buying a halfpenny worth of gingerbread, like a child. In ſhort, they overcame his modeſty by laughing at him; and he took his mug and ſat down amongſt them. This was the beginning of all his misfortunes. He who will do one thing againſt his reaſon, will do another. John Trueman would have acted in a different way. If they had laughed at him for ſneak⯑ing out of the fair, without a drop of liquor, he would have laughed at them again, and [87]told them, he ſhould hear perhaps the next morning, that they had not been able to get out of the fair in any way. Or if he could have thought of nothing to ſay to them, he would have cried, Good night to you, my lads, good night to you; and have left them. Poor Philipſon, with all his goodneſs of heart, had not ſo much reſolution. He was taken in; and ſat drinking among them, till he had drunk far more than he ought.

As he was returning home through the fields, in the duſk of the evening, he met Nan Atkins, who was prowling about, on purpoſe to way-lay ſome or other, whom ſhe might accidentally meet from the fair: for her only livelihood now was the money ſhe got from the young fellows, whom ſhe en⯑ſnared. Here Philipſon's firſt fatal inter⯑courſe began with this wicked, abandoned woman; which continued to go on, partly through her threatenings, and partly through her arts. If Philipſon had had the full uſe of his reaſon, when he firſt met her, he might have ſeen the wickedneſs, and bad conſe⯑quences of ſuch an acquaintance; and might have eſcaped. But liquor had put the fear of God out of his mind; and he was now drawn ſo far into her ſnares, that he knew not how to get out. In the mean time he became quite an altered man. He uſed to make ſhuffling excuſes to his maſter for neglecting his buſineſs. He learned bad words from his [88]bad companion. Inſtead of going to church on ſundays, he uſed to prowl about the foreſt with Nan. All the money he could earn ſhe got from him. His poor mother uſed to wonder what was the matter with Harry. He never came near her; and ſhe had not received a farthing from him for ſeveral weeks.

Nan had now lived ſeven or eight months in this vagabond way, when the pariſh offi⯑cers made it neceſſary for her either to go to Bridewell, or to chooſe which of her lovers (for ſhe had all the idle young fellows of the country after her) ſhe would take for a huſ⯑band. She fixed at length on poor Philip⯑ſon; and threatened him into a marriage.

She was now a married woman; and if ſhe had repented of her ſins, and changed her heart and life, and done her duty as ſhe ought, ſhe might yet have done well. Her huſband had always been an induſtrious young fellow, and though ſhe had of late corrupted him, yet he was ſtill well diſpoſed, if ſhe had done her part. She too had good hands; and might have been a prudent wiſe, and a uſeful woman, if ſhe had pleaſed. But all theſe opportunities, which God put in her power, ſhe threw behind her.

On his marriage with this bad woman, Harry took a little cottage among a few houſes that ſtood by the common field. He ſtill worked with his old maſter, farmer Hopkins; [89]and determined to make up for his loſt time. But he ſoon found how unequally he was matched. When he came home from his day's work, inſtead of finding a bit of victuals; a clean fire-ſide; and a chearful look, he would find his door perhaps locked; and Nan gone, nobody could tell where; or perhaps he would find her drinking tea with two or three huſ⯑ſeys, as naſty, as idle, and as wicked, as her⯑ſelf; and eating up perhaps the only remains of victuals in the houſe. Harry would ſit down, and looking about him, would aſk, if ſhe had not got a bit of victuals for his ſupper? Nan would perhaps d—n him; and bid him look into the cup-board. If there was any thing there, he might take it: if not, ſhe could not get victuals without money. Sometimes alſo Harry would ſee a bit of a naſty gauze cap; or a yard of ribbon; or a tawdry hat lying about. In ſhort, all the money which he got at work, and which ſhe continued to get from him, went either in eating, or in buying finery. The poor fellow got little of it himſelf; and a poor, miſerable, neglected child, ſtill leſs.

All this hurt poor Harry the more; be⯑cauſe when he went into Robin Jones's cot⯑tage, which was next to his, he ſaw every thing neat, and comfortable. Robin had three children; and though he had no more to live on than Philipſon, yet Betty Jones [90]always kept them neat, and tight; their heads were always clean, and well combed; their hands and faces waſhed; and their poor little coats were never ragged, though they were patched with clouts of twenty different co⯑lours: they always however looked roſy, and healthy; and every body ſaw at once that their mother took great care of them.—The houſe too was as clean as the children. Both the tables ſhined like a looking glaſs: the chairs were well rubbed; and the dreſſer always clean ſcowered with white ſand. On the ſhelves ſtood half a dozen bright pewter plates; and as many earthen plates. Two of them indeed were broken; but as they ſtood on the broken parts, they looked nearly as well as the others. They were meant only for ſhew; for beneath them ſtood a row of well-ſcowered wooden platters, which the family eat off. There were ſeveral pots alſo, and pans, and bowls, and wooden ſpoons, all ranged in proper order; and all clean. But the beſt piece of furniture was a clock, which ſtood in the corner, oppoſite the door. They had bought it ſoon after they began houſe⯑keeping, at madam Stephens's ſale. It was that clock which ſtood in the ſervant's hall. On one ſide of the clock, hung a picture of the king, in a fine red coat, laced with gold, and a crown upon his head. On the other ſide hung the queen, in a purple gown, with a crown likewiſe. Many ballads alſo hung [91]about in ſeveral places; but all neatly paſted to the wall. In the corner, by the ſide of the clock, ſtood a broom, which was never weary, tho ſomewhat worn out, with ſweeping. If the children, or the pig, or the dog, brought in the leaſt dirt, up it got, and ſwept all into the hearth in a moment. Poor Philipſon would come into this neat cottage in an evening, when he was locked out of his own, and would find his neighbour Robin ſitting down to a meſs of warm broth, or a bit of hot bacon, and greens: Ah! Robin, Robin, he would ſay, how happy a man ſhould I be, if my dame was like your's: but I got wrong at firſt, God forgive me! and I have ſuffered for it ever ſince. From looking into ſuch a cottage as this, when Harry went into his own, he was ſtruck to the heart. There he ſaw every thing ſlovenly and dirty. The table was always ſwimming with ſome naſty ſlop. There was never a chair to ſit down on: the little things which Harry had got into his houſe on their marriage, were all broken, or deſtroyed.

All that poor Harry could do, to bring his wife to a better mind, he attempted. He coaxed her, and treated her kindly. Why now, Nanny, he would ſay, cannot you keep your houſe as clean, and neat, as Betty Jones keeps her's? Don't you think, there would be more comfort, and happineſs in it? You know, Nanny, I bring you home all I [92]earn; and one might expect a little comfort for it. But one can hardly ſit down, or lay one's hat on a table, without getting into ſome naſtineſs. If Nan happened to be in better temper, ſhe would tell him, he was not ſo clean, that he needed to fear a little dirt. Or if ſhe was in a bad temper, which was com⯑monly the caſe, ſhe would d—n him, (with which language ſhe generally began her ſpeeches) and bid him go to Bet Jones's, if he liked being there ſo well.—All attempts to reclaim her were however in vain. She grew worſe, inſtead of better; and confounded and ruined every thing. Poor Harry, in the mean time, could not even buy a jacket for himſelf; but went about, one of the raggedeſt poor fellows in the pariſh.—Some of the neighbours uſed to ſay, that Nan drank. How that was, I do not know. She came to dram⯑ming afterwards; but I do not find that ſhe had yet begun.

Poor Harry was at length, however, quite tired out. He could bear her wicked ways, and ill uſage no longer. Inſtead therefore of giving her all he earned at the week's end, and coming home in an evening, he kept his money in his pocket, giving her only a part; and went to the alehouſe, when he came from his work.

This was certainly making bad worſe. Young fellows cannot be too careful before they marry: but when they are ill married, they [93]muſt bear it as an evil they have brought on themſelves; and muſt make the beſt of it.— Harry's new way of life, of courſe, was the cauſe of new miſery. While he brought Nan all he earned to lay out on herſelf, things did not come to the worſt. But when ſhe was put to allowance, and felt herſelf pinched, ſhe raged like a wild beaſt. Not that I blame Harry for putting her thus to allowance: all I blame him for, was ſpending his money at the ale-houſe: for drinking never did any man good; or made him happier in whatever way he was miſerable. If he drink for comfort, he never finds it. When he is drunk, it is true, he does not feel the miſery he wiſhed to forget: but when he is ſober again, his miſery is increaſed. It happened ſo on this occaſion. Harry's cottage, which was wretched before, became now a ſcene of horror. Whenever he came home, Nan attacked him with all the virulence of foul language, which generally ended in blows. Harry only defended him⯑ſelf, if he had any remains of reaſon left: but ſometimes he was quite drunk; and would then give her a ſound drubbing. Many a time the neighbourhood was alarmed with cries of murder; and he has been found by the neigh⯑bours perhaps holding her back by her hair; or ſhe ſtanding over him with a butcher's knife, ſwearing a thouſand horrid oaths, that ſhe would ſtick it into him: while the poor child was ſcreaming with terror; and ready to [94]fall into fits. In one of theſe horrid encounters they both ſuffered great damage. Harry loſt an eye by the edge of an iron candleſtick, which Nan threw at his head; and ſhe, in the ſcuffle, fell againſt the corner of a table, and received a very bad bruiſe upon her breaſt. All the neighbours however pitied poor Harry; and ſome adviſed him to go to a juſtice, and ſwear the peace againſt her. But Harry would not conſent.

One day however, as he was lamenting his misfortunes to his neighbour Robin Jones; I think verily, ſaid Robin, if you will follow my advice, we can mend her, if we can⯑not cure her. So he mentioned the ſcheme he had in his head to Harry, who approved it. Well then, ſaid Robin, the next time ſhe is obſtropulous, only go to the door, and whiſtle.

An opportunity ſoon happened. Nan was obſtropulous the next morning. It was Sa⯑turday; and as Harry was going out to work, Nan began by calling him a louſy villain, and threatened with an oath to beat out his brains, if he did not bring home all the money he received for his week's pay. Harry ſeeing the ſtorm beginning to riſe, ſtepped to the door, and whiſtled. Robin, who knew the ſign, inſtantly came in with a good cord in his hand. They then ſeized poor Nan by her arms; and having pinioned her, tied her tight to an old elbow-chair; [95]and then faſtened the chair to the wall. Now, ſays Harry, I'll leave you there, Nan⯑ny, to cool a little. So he carried the child to Betty Jones, locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went to his work. Nan yelled terribly: but as all the neighbour⯑hood knew the cauſe, and came to the win⯑dow only to laugh at her; ſhe was tired at laſt with ſcreaming for the entertainment of her neighbours, and ſat ſullen. Harry ſeldom came from his work, till the evening; but on this occaſion he came home at breakfaſt time. Well, Nanny, ſaid he, if you will pro⯑miſe to be good, I'll looſe you, and you ſhall have ſome victuals. Nan was ſullen. She would not ſpeak; but only ſpit at him, and made faces. Juſt as you like, ſaid he, Nan⯑ny: ſo he locked the door again, and went to his work.

At dinner-time he returned. Nan had then found the uſe of her ſpeech: but only to abuſe him for a curſed villain, intending, as ſhe ſuppoſed, to ſtarve her to death. Many of the neighbours coming in, and mocking her; Harry was inclined to let her looſe. But Robin Jones whiſpered him in the ear, You fool, if you do, we have done no good yet. So Harry contented himſelf with ſay⯑ing; All the neighbours, Nanny, can witneſs, that I offer to let you looſe, and give you victuals, if you will only promiſe to be good. —How can you make her promiſe any ſuch [96]thing, ſaid Jenny Sloper; we all know what a quiet, good creature ſhe has always been; and what a wicked fellow you have been to her. Never fear, Nan, we'll bear witneſs for you.—I have often heard, ſaid Nanny Bates, of being bound to peace, and good behaviour; but I never ſaw it till now.—But neither the kind ſpeeches of her huſband, nor the taunts of her neighbours, had any effect on Nan. She ſat ſullen, and only ſpit at them, or made faces. So Harry locked up the door once more; and went to his work. When he returned at night, Nan continued ſtill un⯑tractable. He offered to looſe her. He of⯑fered her victuals. She was quite ſullen. So he ſat quietly down to his ſupper; and between every mouthful aſking her delibe⯑rately, if ſhe would be good? or, what pleaſure ſhe could take in being ſo obſtropu⯑lous? he made an end of his meal; and taking the candle to go up ſtairs, Well, Nan⯑ny, ſaid he, good night to you; I am ſorry you will not behave better.—He had deter⯑mined however at any rate not to keep her tied up all night: but juſt to try this one more expedient. Nan however not knowing his intention, and fearing the worſt, was at length ſubdued; and as he was going up ſtairs, called out; You may looſe me, if you will. Harry, who had not heard ſo meek a note from her a long time, came down, and aſked her, if ſhe intended now to be good? On re⯑ceiving [97]a milder anſwer, than he expected, he immediately looſed her. Nan burſt into a flood of tears, in a ſort of hyſteric fit; and Harry was terribly afraid he had gone too far. However, after taking a little victuals, and drink, ſhe recovered: but was very ſul⯑len, and ſaid little or nothing.

The next morning, when Harry went to his work, Nan went to juſtice Wilſon, and made oath of the uſage ſhe had ſuffered. Sir Thomas was very angry; he had never heard of ſuch a thing before; and reſolved to make an example of poor Harry. So he ap⯑pointed ten o'clock the next morning to in⯑quire into the matter, and ordered ſeveral of the neighbours to attend. But when he had found out all the truth, he changed his mind; and told Nan, he did not much like inter⯑fering between man, and wife; and adviſed her huſband, and her to make the matter up. Sir Thomas however called Harry privately; and told him, It was very true, his wife had given him great provocation; but ſtill, ſaid he, I do not approve the method you took. You had better have brought your complaint to me; and I would have bound her over: and if ſhe could not have found bail, as I ſup⯑poſe ſhe could not, I ſhould have ſent her to Bridewell. There are ſeparate cells now, in which bad people are kept, without being allowed to ſpeak to any body. Theſe places ſoon bring them to reaſon. Harry pro⯑miſed [98]Sir Thomas, he never would tie her up again; but begged his worſhip would be ſo good, as not to mention his having found fault with him.

It was a fortunate thing however for Harry, that Nan went to the juſtice; for ſhe now found there was no remedy: and though ſhe continued ſtill very bad—neglected her huſ⯑band—her child, and her houſe; yet ſhe never broke out into that violence of temper, which ſhe uſed to do. If ever any thing of that kind appeared, Harry quieted her imme⯑diately by going to the door, and threatening to whiſtle for Robin Jones.

But though Nan was better as to the vio⯑lence of her temper, yet there are ſo many kinds of wickedneſs, which bad people run into, that they are never at a loſs. It was about this time, I believe, that Nan took to drinking. I have heard, that ſhe was given to it before: but from the beſt accounts I can gather, I rather think, as I have already ob⯑ſerved, ſhe did not take to it till now. In bad men this vice begins often in early youth: but in women, I believe, it ſeldom appears ſo early.

At a little lonely houſe on the edge of the common, lived Bet Webſter, a vile huſſey, who kept a pot-houſe. Here Nan uſed re⯑gularly to go, ſometimes taking her child, and ſometimes locking it up; and here ſhe uſed to carry whatever ſhe could get, to [99]pawn. A pot of beer, or a glaſs of gin, Nan thought the greateſt comfort which the world could afford. But as the continuance of this pleaſure grew too expenſive for her, ſhe con⯑ceived the deſign of ſetting up a pot-houſe herſelf. Harry was much againſt it. He told her, he never knew a pot-houſe come to good; and had known three or four of them broken up within theſe two years. How⯑ever, for peace and quietneſs ſake, he at length conſented. So with the firſt money they earned, they bought a couple of caſks— two or three mugs—a little malt—a ſmall firking of gin, of the ſmugglers; and two or three glaſſes with only ſhanks, which they got cheap, and which ſtood as well upon their mouths; as if they had had bottoms. The houſe being thus furniſhed as a pot⯑houſe, was preſently frequented by all the roaring, idle, drinking, ſwearing fellows in the neighbourhood. In this ſhocking way of life Nan continued two months, and was a great nuiſance to the neighbourhood. The gentle⯑men, the farmers, and the tradeſmen, all complained, that their ſervants, and ap⯑prentices, were corrupted. At length the matter came to ſuch an height, that ſpies were ſet upon the houſe; and an information on oath laid before Sir Thomas Wilſon. Harry was fined five pounds; and was obliged to pay it by ſelling a cow and a little foreſt mare, which his late uncle Robert had juſt [100]left him ^*. This affair hurt him very much; and the more, as he had always been againſt their ſelling liquor. He had now loſt ten times as much by it, as he had ever gained.

But Nan could not much longer have car⯑ried on her buſineſs, if this ſtop had not been put to it. The miſchief ſhe did herſelf, when in the violence of her temper, ſhe fell againſt the edge of a table, began now to ſhew it⯑ſelf. It was a very ugly bruiſe; and had [...]ong been black, inflamed, and painful: but it now through neglect began to mortify, and became cancerous. Her conſtant gin-drink⯑ing too, had heated her blood to ſuch a de⯑gree, as to make the evil much worſe. Thus do we continually bring misfortunes and miſ⯑chiefs on ourſelves, which the goodneſs of God would never have brought upon us! Her pains, (poor wretch!) became intoler⯑able. She had no reſt either by day or night; and her ſtench was ſuch, that nobody could bear to come near her. Amongſt all her diſtreſſes, her bad conſcience was not the leaſt. Many a time ſhe thought how happy ſhe might have been, if ſhe had acted as ſhe ought. But all was now over. The pariſh⯑doctor [101]told her, he could do nothing more for her; and ſhe muſt expect to die in a little time. She would have prayed to God; but ſhe had never prayed in all her life; and knew not how to begin. She was afraid to ſend for the miniſter, whoſe face ſhe hardly knew. Her huſband did all he could for her, though ſhe had deſerved ſo little at his hands: but nothing could eaſe her pains, which ſhot through her body: and nothing could eaſe her conſcience, which ſhot through her mind. She lived about ſix weeks in this miſerable way; and when ſhe died, every one thought a nuiſance was removed from the earth.

After her death, Harry, who had ſeen ſuch a dreadful example before him, took up a new life. He left off drinking. Nobody ever ſaw him again at the ale-houſe. He got his ſiſter Jenny, who lived with farmer Styles, to take care of his houſe, and child. It is ſurpriſing how that poor little wretch had ſurvived all the ill uſage it had received from its mother: but ſomehow or other, through the kind hand of Providence, it had grown up to be ſix years of age. It was yet too young to have learned a bad example from its mother: and its father, and aunt, now ſet it a very good one. Harry had a pair of good hands, and was very induſ⯑trious—made a great deal of money—ſpent it all at home, as he ſhould do; and having [102]paid a ſevere price for the folly and wicked⯑neſs of his youth, in being connected with that bad woman, he once more ſaw happy days through the bleſſing of God—and was an example of that great truth, (which he would often acknowledge,) that wickedneſs always brings its own puniſhment with it, even in this world; and that the pooreſt man may be as happy as the richeſt, if he will only uſe ſuch means as God hath put in his power.