Page images
PDF
EPUB

ty, that it is no wonder if I should, once in my life, eat one bitter melon from your hands.' This generous answer so struck the master, that, the history says, he gave him his liberty. With such submissive sentiments, my friend, should man receive his portion of sufferings from God, from whom he receives so many blessings. You in particular have received 'much good at the hand of God; shall you not receive evil also?'

66

'O, Mr. Worthy!" said Bragwell, "this blow is too heavy for me; I cannot survive this shock; I do not desire it; I only wish to die." "We are very apt to talk most of dying, when we are least fit for it," said Worthy. "This is not the language of that submission which makes us prepare for death, but of that despair which makes us out of humor with life. O, Mr. Bragwell! you are indeed disappointed of the grand ends which made life so delightful to you; but till your heart is humbled, till you are brought to a serious conviction of sin, till you are brought to see what is the true end of life, you can have no hope in death. You think you have no business on earth, because those for whose sake you too eagerly heaped up riches, are no more. But is there not, under the canopy of heaven, some afflicted being whom you may yet relieve, some modest merit which you may bring forward, some helpless creature you may save by your advice, some perishing Christian you may sustain by your wealth? When you have no sins of your own to repent of, no mercies of God to be thankful for, no miseries of others to relieve, then, and not till then, I consent you should sink down in despair, and call on death to relieve you."

Mr. Worthy attended his afflicted friend to the funeral of his unhappy daughter and her babe. The solemn service; the committing his late gay and beautiful daughter to darkness, to worms, and to corruption;-the sight of the dead infant, for whose sake he had resumed all his schemes of vanity and covetousness, when he thought he had got the better of them ;-the melancholy conviction, that all human prosperity ends in ashes to ashes and dust to dust, had brought down Mr. Bragwell's self-sufficient and haughty soul into something of that humble frame in which Mr. Worthy had wished to see it. As soon as they returned home, he was beginning to seize the favorable moment for fixing these serious impressions, when they were unseasonably interrupted by the parish officer, who came to ask Mr. Bragwell what he was to do with a poor dying woman, who was travelling the country with her child, and was taken in a fit under the church-yard wall. "At first they thought she was dead,"

66

said the man," but finding she still breathed, they have carried her into the work-house till she could give some account of herself." Mr. Bragwell was impatient at the interruption, which was indeed unseasonable, and told the man he was at that time too much overcome by sorrow to attend to business, but he would give him an answer to-morrow. “But, my friend," said Mr. Worthy, "the poor woman may die to-night; your mind is indeed not in a frame for worldly business, but there is no sorrow too great to forbid our attending the calls of duty. An act of Christian charity will not disturb, but improve the seriousness of your spirit; and though you cannot dry your own tears, God may, in great mercy, permit you to dry those of another. This may be one of those occasions for which I told you life was worth keeping. Do let us see this woman." Bragwell was not in a state either to consent or refuse, and his friend drew him to the work-house, about the door of which stood a crowd of people. "She is not dead," said one; "she moves her head." "But she wants air," said all of them; while they all, according to custom, pushed so close upon her that it was impossible she should get any. A fine boy, of two or three years old, stood by her, crying, Mammy is dead, mammy is starved." Mr. Worthy made up to the poor woman, holding his friend by the arm in order to give her air, he untied a large black bonnet, which hid her face; when Mr. Bragwell, at that moment casting his eyes on her, saw in this poor stranger the face of his own runaway daughter, Mrs. Incle. He groaned, but could not speak; and as he was turning away to conceal his anguish, the little boy fondly caught hold of his hand, lisping out,-"O stay, and give mammy some bread! His heart yearned towards the child; he grasped his little hand in his, while he sorrowfully said to Mr. Worthy, "It is too much; send away the people. It is my dear naughty child; 'my punishment is greater than I can bear." Mr. Worthy desired the people to go, and leave the stranger to them; but, by this time, she was no stranger to any of them. Pale and meagre as was her face, and poor and shabby as was her dress, the proud and flaunting Miss Polly Bragwell was easily known by every one present. They went away, but with the mean revenge of little minds, they paid themselves by abuse, for all the airs and insolence they had once endured from her. "Pride must have a fall," said one: "I remember when she was too good to speak to a poor body," said anoth"Where are her flounces and furbelows now? It is come home to her at last: her child looks as if he would be glad of the worst bit she formerly denied us."

er:

[ocr errors]

In the mean time, Mr. Bragwell had sunk into an old wicker chair which stood behind, and groaned out, "Lord, forgive my hard heart! Lord, subdue my proud heart! 'create a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me!'" This was perhaps the first word of genuine prayer he had ever offered up in his whole life. Worthy overheard it, and in his heart rejoiced; but this was not a time for talking, but doing. He asked Bragwell what was to be done with the unfortunate woman, who now seemed to recover fast; but she did not see them, for they were behind. She embraced her boy, and faintly said, "My child, what shall we do? I will arise and go to my father, and say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee.' This was a joyful sound to Mr. Worthy, who was inclined to hope that her heart might be as much changed for the better, as her circumstances were altered for the worse; and he valued the goods of fortune so little, and contrition of soul so much, that he began to think the change on the whole might be a happy one. The boy then sprung from his mother, and ran to Bragwell, saying, "Do be good to mammy." Mrs. Incle, looking round, now perceived her father; she fell at his feet, saying, "O, forgive your guilty child, and save your innocent one from starving!" Bragwell sunk down by her, and prayed God to forgive both her and himself in terms of genuine sorrow. To hear words of real penitence and heartfelt prayer from this once high-minded father and vain daughter, was music to Worthy's ears, who thought this moment of outward misery was the only joyful one he had ever spent in the Bragwell family.

He was resolved not to interfere, but to let the father's own feelings work out the way in which he was to act.

Bragwell said nothing, but slowly led to his own house, holding the little boy by the hand, and pointing to Worthy to assist the feeble steps of his daughter, who once more entered her father's doors: but the dread of seeing her mother quite overpowered her. Mrs. Bragwell's heart was not changed, but sorrow had weakened her powers of resistance; and she rather suffered her daughter to come in, than gave her a kind reception. She was more astonished than pleased; and even in this trying moment, was more disgusted with the little boy's mean clothes, than delighted with his rosy face. As soon as she was a little recovered, Mr. Bragwell desired his daughter to tell him how she happened to be at that place just at that time.

PART VII.

Mrs. Incle's Story.

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

on.

66

[ocr errors]

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

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

"How shall I own," continued Mrs. Incle, "that all this goodness could not soften my heart? for God had not yet touched it. I received all their kindness as a favor done to them; and thought them sufficiently rewarded for their attentions by the rank and merit of their daughter-in-law. When my father brought me home any little dainty which he could pick up, and my mother kindly dressed it for me, I would not condescend to eat it with them, but devoured it sullenly in my little garret alone; suffering them to fetch and carry every thing I wanted. As my haughty behavior was not likely to gain their affection, it was plain they did not love me; and as I had no notion that there were any other motives to good actions but fondness or self-interest, I was puzzled to know what could make them so kind to me; for of the powerful and constraining law of Christian charity I was quite ignorant. To cheat the weary hours, I looked about for some books, and found, among a few others of the same cast, Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul. But all those sort of books were addressed to sinners; now, as I knew I was not a sinner, I threw them away in disgust. Indeed, they were ill-suited to a taste formed by plays and novels, to which reading I chiefly trace my ruin; for, vain as I was, I should never have been guilty of so wild a step as to run away, had not my heart been tainted and my imagination inflamed by those pernicious books.

"At length my little George was born. This added to the burden I had brought on this poor family, but it did not diminish their kindness, and we continued to share their scanty fare without any upbraiding on their part, or any gratitude on mine. Even this poor baby did not soften my heart; I wept over him indeed day and night, but they were tears of despair: I was always idle, and wasted those hours in sinful murmurs at his fate, which I should have employed in trying to maintain him. Hardship, grief, and impatience at length brought on a fever. Death seemed now at hand, and I felt a gloomy satisfaction in the thought of being rid of my miseries, to which I fear was added a sullen joy, to think that you, sir, and my mother, would be plagued to hear of my death when it would be too late; and in this your grief, I anticipated a gloomy sort of revenge. But it pleased my merciful God not to let me thus perish in my sins. My poor mother-in-law sent for a good clergyman, who pointed out to

« PreviousContinue »